The robin roosts
In thick thickets
Feeds on worms
And quick crickets
The raven hunts
From thick pickets
Feeds on mice
Thru stick snickets
The wren's hidden
In thick thickets
Robs robin
Of quick crickets
Another night of frayed nerves like an unraveled thread
Sleep eludes me once more as I fidget on wrinkled sheets
I'm annoyed at the pensive thoughts roving in my head
as I hear the increasing rhythm echoing in my heartbeats
The candle flame is still burning with a soft golden glow
If only my eyes would close that I might sleep until dawn,
I would rise and welcome the warmth of sunlight's flow,
open shuttered windows where drapes are tightly drawn
Somehow, I must navigate through each turbulent night
and find a threshold to cross where I can find some peace.
Even shadows are asleep beyond the flickering candlelight
Would that I could find tranquility in that kind of release.
It continues in these times of quiet hours of early morn
when with sleep deprived eyes, I pick up my pen and write
rhyming verse after verse in which I chastise and I scorn
my infernal, internal nemesis that robs me of sleep at night
How creeps the dark where life was brightly lit
when he who once mighty is idly damned -
to watch destroyed an energy and wit
makes concealed and sad a life long and grand.
Where the acquisitions of yesteryear
become a puzzle piece and not a whole,
where atrophy on each new day impair
the bravest heart! The old sense! The lost soul!
I have seen the inconsolable grace
and pride which inherit the living haze -
that robs all memory without a trace
kept more sedentary in mortal malaise.
When my time draws nigh I pray of the twain
that body and mind this soul still remain.
Written: April 2005
tv watching wears me out
steals my energy
eliminates my day
robs me of myself
I sit mesmerized hour after hour
as if I am a puppet without a hand
after a bit I feel one with my recliner
reluctant to live a real life
my tv people are my gods
sometimes I move to the couch
where the droning puts me instantly to sleep
reinforcing my depression
I have a secret I cannot tell you
A deed that once done I cannot undo
But one that as long as I do not issue
I do not truly have, I understand, too.
I swallow, every once and then
I say, time and time again
But not to the one for whom I yearn.
I hold you, in my arms and admire
Your familiar eyes that inspire
Something foreign in me, a certain fire.
And then there is your scent that in every hour
Invades me like a vine,
But is there a more welcome guest than a flower
Unlike any flower, perhaps divine.
But wholly aware, I am
That even angels kill, and ruthlessly slam,
Sometimes unaware.
So I hope it does not turn dire.
It is not your beauty alone that captures me entire.
For there is your soul that robs me
Of every wrong, and enrobes me
In garments of gold, without wanting
To cast a mold, which I honestly always found daunting.
I witnessed it whenever it escaped you
In a prodigious brilliance or a silly laugh,
It never failed to make me pause before I continue.
I do not know how you could be,
Nor why your demons dance with me.
But I can tell you,
I have never loved one like you.
Where are those green soils
That we used to dig
Waves in every pore
In soft moonlit hours
And plant sapling of choice
Ecstatic earth trembled
Do you remember
How soft earth it was
And that pond in the middle
We would plunge our bucket
And lift it filled with water
The clock yielding
cherry blossoms
Time is a dacoit
The Huns and Vandals
It robs us of our roses
It plunders our jewellery
Destructs our construction
Not just cruelly, ruthlessly
Time itself is ever present
With its indestructible two arrows
Aha, what a dense green it was
And what a tree it yielded
Sonnet under green light
Of the ephemeral glowworms
Silence Isn’t Always Golden
Silence can be golden . . .
when it’s chosen,
when it’s peaceful,
when it’s rooted in wisdom.
But silence imposed by circumstance?
Silence born of trauma,
stigmatization,
or oppression?
Silence that keeps you from saying what is right?
No.
That silence is not golden.
It’s a cage.
A wound.
A theft.
When silence is forced . . .
by shame,
fear,
or injustice; it doesn’t protect.
It erases.
It robs the world of truth,
of healing,
of transformation.
Selah.
So, say I: speak. Even if your voice shakes.
Even if the world isn’t ready.
Even if silence feels safer.
Because your voice
might be the light someone else
needs to find their way out.
Selah.
Hissing like the glide of silk
A python curls upon my throat
It’s not his fault that he was born to kill
The blueing of my skin makes me a ghost
It’s not his fault that he was made to kill
Why is it when I part my lips
A little bird is born and flies
The python wishes he was born with wings
He forced it out, now robs it of the sky
He wishes he was made to fly
It was my friend, the biting wind
Caressing, rosing up my face
Red apples in my cheeks like I’m a kid
A dying dog sits patiently and waits
Excited to be euthanized and skinned
A wound so fresh that it still bleeds
Three bony fingers dig inside
The carpet splattered scarlet red with beads
My gore’s a jewel I get to wear with pride
You take and take till it’s not longer mine
The passive, gray fruit of your eye
When it’s on me, it’s like it speaks
My fruits are green therefore they don’t reply
Your words are like a puzzle, missing piece
Should be a joke but sounds more like a lie
There’s something silly in it all
In stealing words from children
When you decide to put them in your art
My presence is in plain sight, hidden
But you will always know I played a part
Bondage of lies from the enemy. A thief who robs your spirit of true blessings.
Chains of sin that bind you to your own demise and leaves you bare and undefined, weakened to nothing.
Blinded to see the truth that will set you free. The road is narrowing and ending, Wake up ! see the light. See before you fall off to complete nothingness and darkness.
Spiritual light. Shining its light for you to see. The time to see is now! Only through Jesus’ blood can we be whole and free.
In the name of Jesus open your eyes and see. Let his blood break your chains of bondage. Let in Jesus to truly set you free. The only true way maker, miracle worker, and bondage breaker. Come to the healing Father in Jesus name Amen.
Opaqueness transcends past despairs mainstream,
Brando wouldst cry whence heart parts, my desire,
Wit or witout, parleys saved, reigned supreme,
Self-secured, needless watch, aloof—steel beam,
Perch in want, puffed huffed girth lurks torment’s dire,
Opaqueness transcends past despairs mainstream,
Purpled robs thee of thy true color scheme,
Gray’s an area, right or wrong, prior,
Wit or witout, parleys saved, reigned supreme,
Budgie’s tales of my gamut’s length, extreme,
Dicky-bird, thou art my wordless flyer,
Opaqueness transcends past despairs mainstream,
Ne’er will the pair meet, sums nature’s pipe dream,
Empty nestles remembrances retire,
Wit or witout, parleys saved, reigned supreme,
Decisions abandon ruse quips redeem,
Eager claimed as death mounts, lingers satire,
Opaqueness transcends past despairs mainstream,
Wit or witout, parleys saved, reigned supreme.
Perfection sharpens thy tongue ere thy teeth,
closed door finds a thief’s presence,
oiled talents wear a lifetime,
advocate guilt giving way to the lure,
review robs the core
I am that I am
a thief, soulless, yet art I occupied.
When the muse leaves, his quill runs dry;
then joyful songs, sweet poetry,
drain from his pen, though write he try,
as hollow strains lack symmetry.
How then to woo the Muse once more?
Her treason robs him of his art.
What offerings, what gifts, might restore
against the whims of a Muse's heart?
But love is mild, and then patient:
love waits, with no pose or pretense.
His heart still burns incandescent
for her. To restore her, no expense
will be spared. And though she feels distant,
his constant heart will break her whim.
She'll not remain, forever transient,
but turn her radiant face to him.
It doesn't break in noisily
It slips quietly like the morning breeze
Not to loot gold nor money
But love, health and youth.
Unlike a thief you can fight or see
Time robs you unnoticed
Until you look back
And realize what's gone
It moves unseen, with hands so sly
Turning our today to a faint goodbye
And only when memory aches and grieves
We know what time, the thief, retrieves.
For long I worked in varied jobs,
Fending from bosses their dead lobs.
Retired, I find it tough
Getting not a day off
From new boss-- no more like doorknobs
Who demands, better learn
Your daily bread to earn,
Stern, she chases, all my peace robs.
But too late to regret
For having lost the bet,
Me, a harness horse oft called cobs.
________________________
Happenings | 20.08.2025 | humour, husband, horse
The hegemony of height
gets too much.
The city robs me of the horizon
and hides it behind towering
cathedrals of concrete and glass.
Even trees conspire to fill
the gaps and extend their
leafy reach to obscure the sky.
I long for uninterrupted distance,
horizontal vistas of the open sea
and the flat, unfenced expanses
of the inland with its views
to infinity. Something in me
seeks wide spaces, craves
room to breathe, imagines
sparse outback plains punctuated
only by the height
of dust devils wandering
the vastness that stretches there,
lifting up the silence
in spiralling columns of prayer.
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