Hear-tell, that one beamy night,
so very long ago,
an angel with wings of light
held the thought of creation in
a glow – with angel might held
up, this vision bright, long before
a rooster-crow, long before a sun
to show – long before green things
had reason to grow.
Gods were contemplating destiny
Long before a Cosmos set free
Long before earth was given sight
Long before the firmament, right
With all of time yet no one knew
What an earth should do --
Create man in our image?
For Popeye we will have spinach?
For the Jews Machanayim, a scrimmage?
For the Christians give them a Christ?
For Italians pizza by the slice?
Thus made a world was new
When man had his first interview
(and all the Gods said, Magnifique
~ Adieu)
Left oblivious an indeterminable number
To eternally prosper or fatally blunder --
Trying to make One Dollar out of 15 Cents
I stretch pennies like they're doing y.oga,
Flip nickels like a circus act, coupons like it's hand-to-hand scrimmage.
And pray over price tags like scriptures.
My wallet stays demure, my hustle stays loud-
Broke- girl alchemy in flow turning crumbs in
Whole-meal miracles til my cents holler for mercy.
Creation…brings aggravation,
what I’m plinking…can’t match what I’m thinking.
It’s this way…since our early days,
sad to say; but I’ll keep going.
What I see…lives only in me,
can’t come out…wants to, but not allowed,
hear it plain…what I make to play,
ain’t the same; but I’ll keep going.
The details…I try to no avail,
share what’s clear…make it all appear,
always fails…what I write down seems pale,
gnash and wail; but I’ll keep going.
His image…our work just a scrimmage,
not the game…that’s well beyond our brains,
has to be…full force we can’t see,
beyond me; but I’ll keep going.
And I bet…most folks will forget,
roll their eyes…he thinks he’s worth our time,
or they blast…it seems a thankless task,
makes you crash; but I’ll keep going.
What is true…we can’t do it for you,
always there…can drive some to despair,
never ends…something now comes again,
cannot mend, if I don’t keep going…
Forward motion is caught by the ref,
obviously not following the maestro.
On the line of scrimmage ready to go,
too quick with that jump from their spot.
Barrels of ambition elbows will rub,
a return for a touchdown fill my quota!
Lighting up a Jumbotron with control,
like a boss threw a perfect spiral ball.
Sitting on my hands in the nosebleeds
entranced by every move they make.
All I want is a touchdown extravaganza,
so don’t get sloppy. No interceptions.
On the road or with an at home scenario?
Never doubt the power of the 12th man.
Why should we bleakly tread alone?
We know our paths are peril-prone.
Come dear, let's travel together.
Let's dare to face each rough weather.
Should we not shun from arrogance?
Shouldn't we hold our elegance?
Shouldn't games have lines of scrimmage?
Shouldn't we loathe our false image?
Our fates, like sea-depths, are unknown.
Yet, we have our lone moral zone.
Though our voyage seems to be far
Let's, with hope, look to the polestar.
I’ll always feel this way. Love can’t be love
which alters where it alteration finds:
my driver, she – no matter how she grinds
my gears. I’d hardly term it, hand-and-glove:
it’s much more like a scrimmage, push-and-shove.
Relationships there are, of many kinds:
but whether pigs-with-lipstick, Golden Hinds,
one party is below, and one above:
one partner is the hawk, and one the dove.
If she’s the cheese, I am the humble rinds.
No matter where this crazy freeway winds,
there’s one thing that I’m always certain of:
a meeting (or collision?) of the minds:
a bedroom where we never draw the blinds.
Was it a clash, a scrimmage or an attack?
The warrior was speechless; his name was Max
Did they carry armor? Did they throw you down?
Did it happen in the woods or in London town?
Were they wearing colors? Did they have banners too?
Were they booted up or did they wear a tennis shoe?
Did they wear crowns or hats? Did they carry shields?
Max ran off screaming toward Wrigley Fields.
Was it an argument
A scrimmage
A scuffle
A hair-pulling jaw-slugging fight
Or an all-out brawl?
Let’s ask the three dead people down the hall.
many sins Trump did tout
from temple first thrown out
ugly words would shout
we knew from the start
Trump was never very smart
he would break our heart
on Trump saw blemish
back of truck put Biden image
with play and scrimmage
of Trump we were prey
reading Bible when we pray
for sins he must pay
detected Trump vice
he never was very nice
women would entice
whipped and liked to lash
windows supporters would smash
threw trump in the trash
Trump had been a twit
we knew he was a nitwit
when having a fit
when Trump played a toon
sounded like a big baboon
should leave office soon
we told trump ten four
not want around anymore
had thrown out the door
A poor, wayfaring man of grief,
May struggle as it seems,
To walk the road of disbelief,
And snuggle with his dreams.
Although alone and feeling low,
He does his very best,
To edify the ones who know,
The meaning of his quest.
Although he soars above the crowd,
To catch the morning sun,
He hides behind the glory cloud,
Until his day is done.
He cannot see how love survives,
Without a single soul,
And so he strives to make our lives,
A diamond in the coal.
His story is the glory,
Of the Father and the Son,
Our role is mandatory,
For the battle to be won.
He may not shine this image,
By the lineage of his tree,
And yet, the line of scrimmage,
Is the courage people see.
He may not race to set the pace,
Of those who plant the sod,
And yet, his place deserves the space,
That tribulation trod.
A poor, wayfaring man of grief,
Is not so bad to me,
He celebrates a pure belief,
In love and honesty.
He radiates the rainbow,
In the afterglow above,
The steady flow of those who know,
The colors of his love.
The story of his sadness,
Is the madness we embrace,
The glory of his gladness,
Is the human in our race.
Kids are creative, made in God's image;
we parents are just coaches on this earth.
God has prepared for them lines of scrimmage;
kids are creative.
Kids demonstrate a great challenge at birth.
We take pride; their "great"ness we envisage
forgetting their Creator grants them girth.
We focus on our lines of lineage
and give God small credit for their real worth.
Is that why they rebel in alienage?
Kids are creative.
Least of lustful lives
We'll never divide
That's the limit to the scrimmage
We live the hype
We live in love
We strive with effortless pride
Pick up that stride
And fly beyond the limit
Be limitless fearless and fly
Axis of my mind, body, thoughts, feelings,
Fears, emotions, passions, friendly dealings;
My spirit incorporates each feature,
Of my being as an earthly creature...!
Thinks, feels, motivates, manipulates,
It stands above all predetermined fates;
Life, resolve, awareness and thought pattern,
All preserved in its purview for certain...!
Created in God's likeness and image,
Within undergoes awful scrimmage;
The atman enlivening the body,
Are you in my lungs? Or in heart noddy...?
Whatever it might be; or however;
The times resurrect sometimes or never;
Spirit lives on; will live; like sap in leaves;
Joy fills the heart of anyone believes...!
17 September 2022
The Human Spirit Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
a scream
a shriek
a slap
a smack
a giggle
a screech
another scream
their teenage children roll their eyes and turn up their music.
Parent’s Friday Night scrimmage commences, heading toward amorous.
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