Decided she'd climb a five metre ladder
Thirteen rungs up! Busting ! She's got a full bladder
peed from way above ground
some ants they got drowned
Job done she's feeling much gladder
The ladder leans
against the apple tree
with a kind of trust~
wood resting on wood,
both patient.
I climb a few rungs
and see the world
from a slightly higher honesty.
God is playing pinball between the rungs of a double helix.
Silver balls of randomness and eternity, laying roughened paths onto the blackness,
tilted... "Uncertainty".
In the velvet ink of a cosmic sea,
Where the stars are stitched by destiny,
A Mantis rises from the garden floor,
To walk through a golden, celestial door.
?She is the Madonna, the chosen prize,
With the weight of the future in her eyes.
Not of Earth, yet born of its loam,
Searching the stars for a spiritual home.
A conqueror comes from a throne of chrome,
Kang seeks to claim what he cannot own.
While Rama-Tut watches the timelines spin,
Waiting for the godhood to begin.
A ghost in the wires, a silver shade,
The Swordsman’s debt is finally paid.
Through the Cotati, life blooms anew,
In a forest of emerald and starlight hue.
?The Prophecy Fulfilled
?She is the bridge between the leaf and the soul,
Making the fractured universe whole.
From the Avengers’ hearth to the Kree-Skrull fire,
She climbs the rungs of a heavenly pyre.
?No longer a pawn in a temporal game,
She whispers a secret, a holy name.
The Celestial Messiah is ready to rise,
Under the gaze of her empathic eyes.
?A myth written in panels, a legend in bold,
The greatest story the galaxy told
The Archer: branded in the skies
With fading beauty and mind’s rust,
Yet the light is far; the route unwise.
I climb on hope; cracked rungs hold true
But winds whip me into hurt dust—
Shamed! I rise to start my climb anew.
Pocket-Gazes
Night depressed—
black spirits, spiders,
demanding, retorting,
an empty vessel, titanic with trauma.
A downturned smile, flagellate,
disillusioned, demoted, disinterested—
dystopian dysmorphia.
Dolls.
Masks.
Spills.
Blood.
Oxygen.
Water.
Decaying. Degrading. Devolving.
Despair, disaster, disappointment—
disappear.
The lexicon collapses inward,
a ladder whose rungs only fall.
Sand sighs. Water shifts.
Hands disembodied.
Faces detached,
checked out.
I flail,
a swimmer drowning in a teaspoon.
Watermelon empathy—
bloated, barren.
A clock face melting, Dalí’s sky.
I am Picasso’s fractured mouth.
I am Van Gogh’s shell-ear,
smashed on the rocks.
Amy Winehouse cries, hollow,
vodka-veined, restrained
inside a music box.
Maya’s muteness.
Florence’s failure.
Mary Seacole’s poverty.
Nightingale’s lamp guttering.
Angelou’s song stilled.
Seacole’s hands trembling empty.
Yet outward—
instead of inward,
instead of into my pocket-gazes—
there might be,
just might be,
a shimmer of stardust,
a touch of moonlight.
Hope, a dot of light
in a cavern of dark.
And yet,
it illuminates the sky.
Life’s a ladder swaying high.
Dice are spinning wild, across the sky.
Some rolls lift me to the sun.
Others drop me, the snake has won.
Still I climb, to what fate may bend—
I’ll play this game until the end.
Ladders rise and snakes descend.
Turn the board and toss again.
Every throw’s a twist of chance,
rise or fall in fortune’s dance.
To rung or coil, I take the spin—
I'm scared; I'm waiting to step in.
Some rungs blaze like golden fire.
Pull me closer, lift me higher.
Some snakes grin with painted eyes.
Drag me down from stolen skies.
Yet even from the ground below,
I’ll roll again; Up I'll to go.
Every square’s a story told.
Every roll for young and old.
Some will break and some will bear.
Some will vanish into the air.
But still I play, for in this game.
Every drop and climb's the same.
Life’s a ladder swaying high.
Dice are spinning wild, across the sky.
Some rolls lift me to the sun.
Others drop me, the snake has won.
Still I climb, to what fate may bend—
I’ll play this game until the end.
My God is the God of broken ladders,
many rungs are missing
and I don’t have the skill to mend them.
My usual recourse for the unfixed
is to pen a poem about the
imperfect beauty of the
unfinished and damaged.
Breakfast is just for seating two,
there's another broken stool
propped up against a wall -
a silent testament
to 'found poetry' that needs
only a missing meaning.
I am not useless,
my wife says I am not useless,
but she never suggests furniture
that comes as a flat pack anymore,
and she often asks more adept visitors
to bring their own tools.
My God is a God of broken rungs,
I shall keep striving to fix them,
keep my toolbelt greased,
as I hammer images and metaphor
together
with yet more split nails.
Dreams cast about
as the moon climbs her rungs
By the first light of dawn
~ yield to the sun
Yes
It's rungs
May be covered in rust
But commit to the climb
To learn how to trust
Yes
You'll fall
Again and again
Caught by the arms
Of a very old friend
Yes
You'll be put
Back at the start
A journey to the place
Where you're never apart
Yes
Your hands
Will be battered and bruised
Take solace in a fate
You surely didn't choose
Yes
This climb
Has no real end
But neither does the truth
For which we ascend
I breathe poetry into my lungs,
It is my lifeline,
Together, we have climbed many rungs,
'tis a great pastime!
I breathe poetry out to the world,
It is my message,
My thoughts in rhymes and verses unfurled
on the written page!
I breathe poetry into my veins,
It refreshes me,
I pen it down in rhythmic refrains,
'tis my muse's plea!
I breathe poetry out to the earth,
It is my musing,
I etch it in paper for it's worth
someone's perusing!
I breathe poetry into my blood,
It keeps me alive,
I cannot stem it when feelings flood,
It helps my mind thrive!
My first test in what we shared
too easy and too perfectly paired.
The part of us that is immortal
ran holding hands through a portal,
quick to stumble and trespass upon
a duplex that kept the blinds drawn.
Your covenant before my time,
had me pray for that exception of mine,
but my ladder to Heaven with rungs of hope
couldn’t bear the weight of sin—no matter the slope.
So no from scripture to your mother,
from every hand we were to suffer,
fools bound in a tortured trust,
nothing was going to change the unjust.
Given the faith and a mind to discern,
but my wicked heart still welcomes your memory's return.
Its pulse echoes a buried refrain,
the hook on the end of a chain
will dangle this dream forever,
a rearview horizon’s tether
from our last day—these thirty years,
ghosts recite testaments of tears,
for it was only I or they, that cared.
I never found again, that shared.
Am I light or dispersed star
Scatter or straight to all earthly uneven
Whether the stray comet to unfollow
Chaos or chord to sundry upheavals
Mortal cry pebbles the enshrined path
Luminious moon guide where gleam
Wise that turn to sightless wanderer
Eternal furnace alloy even those flak
Whip of whims encage all beacons
Noble deeds dacay ,utterly numb
Trying our morale in turbulence of time
Comforts or clutter of needs ,indefinite
Men walk towards golden or grey gates
Surrender in mounting rungs and ropes
Dreams shatters like lifeless dunes
Homeless sands beneath benevolent sun
Arrays of aim pierce like pungent arrows
Win or wane for fit to survive in moor world
Featherless souls in sheer free fall;
Can there be ceaseless outbound fountain?
That fearless and frisk in favors
Solo my spirit sway all silos earth bring
Let mind sleeps sight on alpine snow
The genial breeze to free and glow
Altar the heart with care to unrest
Torch of mankind ablaze with brave
Holy human share blessings that unbent
Wish the nourishing rain to furtile and flow
Generous greats render and row.
He hates the sun
when it rains
he slithers to the lake side
gazing at his reflection
still he smiles
attention is after all attention
he soaks it all in
a fool who fools no one
they all now see
snakes love ladders
he will never slither to the top
its simply to much fun
playing with the ladders rungs
forget all those silly raindrops
this snake has been caught and hung
. . . is everywhere,
an eternal, yet distant land.
Stretching to the highest peaks,
along the way to beach sand.
It's home to the mansion
and mole-hill, in addition to the man-cave.
With residents enjoying knighthood,
while they patiently await the next knave.
With many routes to travel,
the journey is both near and far.
Since it's not about the mileage,
or if you even own a car.
It's more about one's vision,
and their desire to achieve.
Climbing rungs upon a ladder,
over hardships they relieve.
The paths that are undertaken,
may not always be the easiest ones.
As they can often present some danger,
though seldom require any guns.
So when they hear that door a knockin',
it's important to answer it quick.
Because it won't go on forever,
and empty hands can make you sick.
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