Coming close to curfew, keep count the flock
as they kick and kink over the picket
Rescind to limber my pick, remit the vigil
for I commit and sit vigilant awith
Dismiss the abyss, as I shall not remiss
and I leave you with this...
Emotions sit no straight to meditate,
They look for an emergency exit,
What’s sane and sound gets caught in a Zen state,
Seeks profane whilst a safety valve’s remit.
Raised on a diet of good behavior,
What sane nigh prude do but ponder and brood?
Being quicksilver and nigh cavalier,
But not crude, vaults profane in words plain nude.
This is no way to wield vandalism
Of verbal brand way bit a wounding kind,
Profane words ventilate wrath with wisdom
To bring back lost balance of a sane mind--
A fair device to open up floodgates
That cools raw rage and pre-storm peace creates.
______________________________
Sonnet (tongue-in-cheek) | 18.12.2025 | profane, peace, sage, words
Note: The part - III follows.
A harvest moon shown so brightly last night
Joy filled my spirit when I saw it
A huge round golden ball in my line of sight
This morn the opposite, fog hid sun's light
To it, I could just totally submit
A harvest moon shown so brightly last night
Only one more night of supermoon's delight
Then it will slowly begin to remit
That huge round golden ball in my line of sight
Each year the harvest moon I lovingly cite
It is such a touching time in its orbit
A harvest moon which shown so brightly last night
How many more harvest moons awesome light
Will I be allowed to see with God's permit
That huge round golden ball in my line of sight
God gives life, makes His children's birthright
I'm so glad He let me see just a tidbit of
The harvest moon shown so brightly last night
A huge round golden ball in my sight
Not for a contest, just seeing if I could still write one
Enigmatically stubborn to style, the coif
Some days it can be easily pulled off
Other days it requires an exorcism
Like Zoolander it can look like ‘Magnum’
Hides my receding hairline like a charm
Sophistication to my head’s yardarm
Its antidote is a very windy day
Requiring heavy doses of hairspray
When it works my lady wants to stroke it
I recoil in fear, making her remit
For a single finger can ruin it
It’s a fickle angel to babysit
wandering past the same tree twice—
would remit that one was lost,
but like a book,
maybe it’s the one you picked up again that you never finished,
but why didn’t you finish it the first time?
for what you seek lies past the spine,
but a great story should not captivate solely at its
departure,
for leaving one to sit through pain for a happy ending
is delusion.
I swore I'd turn and back away,
Resist the call, from the lurking flay.
For the life of me, I could not allay the stay!
Before me lay a morsel, a mere tit bit.
A taste I took, another, another, but could not scoff remit,
For the life of me, I could not help it!
I told myself to turn away, to quell the surge.
To resist the temptation with a denial's purge.
For the life of me, I could not resist the urge!
Danger lurked, the danger warning plain to see
Alas, the hurt to me was not meant to be.
For the life of me, I could not flee!
For the life of me, I couldn’t figure it out.
Why was my will so weak, and prone to doubt?
That my life was so worthless, such a sellout!
New York times and Washington post, better watch
The reports in the columns you host, keep within any
Remit, for the wokesters wish to poke' specially those in
The big-house, who'll treat as serious any old joke'
Don't be tilting at thir windmills, or landing any clouts'
Being negative on e v's like 'just asking about? How
They go real dead in winter, blow a fuse in deeper floods'
Keep burning on' though fire brigade extinguishers run out
How their weight causes pot-holes how they belt hard other
Cars, that they're becoming liabiltys in the world
And here; both near and far.! Far be it from you to truth tell
Just remain within the lies..Keep on massaging those figures.'
All those 'old lockdown blighs' cause you really don't matter
Or your families and friends, you bury the corpses and
Press freedom.' even the intents.' You'll be part of the problem'
And you'll pay so very dear, when they draw up all the rules
Then you'll know.. 'you once; were free' free to save many
People and countries..The many lands you have sold out..You'll
Be colouring the pavements, fir there your talent you will tout.'
Summon your demons, devils, and wraiths,
visit moments of hurt and loss.
Replay what might have been, wrestle with regrets,
Do “if only” scenes haunt your past?
I follow the faint ribbon of sand on Mackinac Island,
lined with sugar maple tree, aspen and lilac.
Wild lilly of the valley, its fragrant musk, from dusk to dawn,
clings to lichen and headstone,
in the old cemetery at the end of Lime Kiln Road.
I am as ghostly as the local specters.
The fine young military boy,
eyes wild and strange,
wandering across the old rifle range,
striving to collect his remit.
Payment for the murder he did not commit.
Or darling Miss Biddle, only eight years old.
They handed her Mama her green Christmas coat.
Drowned when the ice cracked, no-one saw.
Lost in a snowstorm on the island of Mackinac.
Ghosts are so practical. They wander, they howl,
always in the same place, always the same sound.
Patient in time eternal, that their fate will dissolve or resolve.
My earthly body moves through life,
restless in my quest to change the past.
Spirits moan, I am not lost.
I close my eyes and dance with my ghosts.
Matthew Hendy lived centuries ago
a non-conformist minister in England
although Welsh-born lived across the border
lived 51 years made true Christian stand
His greatest piece of work by far
whole Bible commentary is so excellent
covers six volumes in every detail
this exposition was heaven-sent
It's agreeable to remit of scripture
being sold, strong and understanding
not based on vain speculation
practical with depth but never too demanding
Another gem from his gifted hand
is his book 'a method of prayer'
has great insights on praying
that helps believers to always share
Matthew Henry's words still speak today
to all who faithfully study his writings
such blessings they receive in full
thanks be to God for this gem he brings
(One of my favorite writers is Matthew Henry who has written a marvelous Bible commentary, so this is written to highlight him and his writings.)
I am not a Poet
I know this fact true and full well
In the orthodox conventional literal way
As I am not able to use set standard form
So what I write
Therefore does not conform
So I agree wholeheartedly not disagree
Technically I am not a Poet
All I am is simply someone who
Likes to write and comment about things
That don't necessarily fit any set remit
But yet I still want to have a go
So I end up having to encroach
And impose and join in other ways
And blur the lines and rules of engagement
Because although I may not be a poet
1 thing I can admit is this
I suffer through my words
Like any tortured Poet would
As to me writing is more about
Exposure of one's true self soul and heart
Than a form of compliance to an art
If that stifles my openness and integrity
And does not keep my demons at bay
Rather lets them lie in wait
And my silence further leads onto
Yet more inevitable tortured mistakes
Thoughts regurgitated though repugnant,
coil of self loathing tightens its noose,
venal thoughts a fragmented whisper,
to sabotage, undermine, disrupt,
one’s frail ego under siege,
wounded whisper n as barbed wire plume,
internal bleeding one must staunch,
if only gumption triumphed,
vacuous a notion one brazenly floats,
inane virus of the mordant gibe,
its origin welded to an anonymity,
so vast in its remit,
defying bold attempt at confrontation,
acid laden cut deep within,
over trivial and flimsy oversight,
imagined stain, partial blind slip,
transgression not worthy of indictment,
court proceeding deep welt juror,
nodding in consensual conspiracy,
wounded mutter, wounded sibilant sigh,
homespun crime against oneself
When they heard it screamed a 'Damn it!'
One of them had dared to submit
That Charles, Incurable Hermit,
Chair their forthcoming First Summit
"I'm not shocked, his own dad Hermit:
Why wouldn't he such views permit?"
More screams of 'Bull !' and 'Damn it!'
Didn't George reckon that summit.
To hermits is outside their remit
Not like to a kin cash remit
And face a life of self-limit...
I let it slip away, that final day-
with judging soon to come, it waited there.
This prize I'd captured in my special way
went flying instantly into the air.
I'd held it in my heart for a long time-
until my mind reworked it, as should be.
My interaction led my soul to climb
beyond the vision that had come to me.
What would become of my creative task-
would it be rated as I wished it might?
This question stirred inside as I would ask-
was it not worthy on the judgment site?
My poem- win or fail- did not remit;
I let it slip away- deleted it.
April 28, 2023
Contest: I Let It Slip Away
Sponsor: John Lawless
TRADITION
observed
unchallenged
so
prosaic
in
recollection
a remit
of
vivid
memories
wit
pleasure
in vogue
the
fall
in
perspective
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
Haven't got time to repay your debts
Haven't got time to remit and accept
And definitely don't have time to kill
Don't have time to wander or wonder
Don't have time to fear
Haven't got time to fumble it's not a game
These there's no ball here
Almost got time to say I'm sorry
Almost got time to rejoice with you in your pain
Haven't got time to bother you don't bring time to the game
Ain't got time to worry
Barely got time to leave And get time for no song to fruit
But tomorrow there's a pit in the rain
Time belongs to no one and no one belongs to time
How often are we depleted
And are we the changes in the seasons that we define we bring
Old time be a reason are we the reason for the change
For when we cry and we pour out all are we
dispensing sorrows repented rain
8/7/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2022
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