I love seeing the pretty white flying dove.
Men with cameras
Sit and wait for the sunsets
Poets see all day
The joy of growing mold.
Squirrels would watch.
Birds would tweet.
My old bread,
They would seek!
Even dogs would come by,
When letting the moldy bread freebees sailing in the sky.
Haven't seen much molding bread,
Usually, the mold means its dead!
Eating toast with butter,
Smearing on some peanut butter.
The seeded grainy bread doesn't have room to spread.
Used to see lovely green mold,
Before the store said it was too old!
Now the bread keeps for weeks,
Beats out the dog food for moldy treats.
Is there something in it?
Fights off mold before it grows.
Can keep on going for a month,
Must be the seeds that hides a bunch.
Or perhaps my eyes are growing old,
Now I just can't see growing mold.
Take a long look at your life
no matter its length of years
whether that be short or long
look at how significant its sphere
Make your life like a movie
what would your part be to play?
a starring role or just a bystander
being humble or arrogant, would you say
Thinking aloud about your life
starting from your first day of birth
moving through all life's stages
laugh or cry for all your worth
Look ahead to your future days
no matter how many you've got
make them full of technicolour
remember the good you've been taught
Now make your trailer appealing
so many would want to come and see
be thankful and grateful for all of life
it's yours to live to be free!
(Reflecting on one's life and pondering it as a movie.)
Although our universe seems
To be mostly wide open space,
Is it actually an entity
With a personality and face?
All golden,
All glowing,
All seeing,
All knowing.
I have weird eyes.
Like wires that connect.
Blinking at the same time as being painful.
Eating too much.
With weird, starving eyes.
Eyelashes gripping.
Pupils which are tingling.
Eyes everywhere.
Just eyes and no body.
Just eyes.
Grappling eyes.
That's what mental illness is.
The eyes.
That’s what anxiety acts like.
Caving in, horrible, weird,
Eyes.
L-ook
I-nto
L-ife's
I-nner
B-eauty,
E-specially
T-he
H-eart's
L-anguage,
A-llowing
S-oul
T-o
U-nderstand
A-ll
©bfa050125
Monocrostic (Birthday of Lilibeth B. Lastua)
When I look at the sky or at the ocean from the beach
I cannot lie, it makes me wanna stand up and preach
And when I look at the flowers as the insects scurry about
In all of my hours, I have never had a doubt
His Creation is so vast yet so individually unique
Yet time doesn’t last slipping away, even as I speak
Look out your window, just take a look outside
And I’m sure you’ll see what can never be denied
And when the stars come out the crickets so quick to orchestrate
The geese continue their route
never early, never late
With the ants building below my dog looks into my eyes
As if he wanted to show that even he does too realize
Oh my Lord is so great. How could others not see
But it’s never too late if you realize you want to be free
Just look at His Creation from the seen to the unseen
And if you too can’t contain your elation then you know exactly what I mean
equality
arises seeing
that nothing
is arising
interweaving
may suggest that
the separation
interwoven
is the immediacy
of a dance step
wood grains
seem as suggestion
of time past
a map claimed as
years and seasons
of eternity
emergence
from or into
darkness
is the stuff of
stories
which avoids the
inconvenience of
spontaneity
Physicists may say,
'Random is not truly random,
it only appears to be,'
but another theory goes,
(according to me)
'Not so when playing games of chance,'
(and I have done the sums)
for this experiment logic states,
'The odds in favour are 5 to 1.'
As I spy with my little eye,
seeing spots and counting dots
on a regular die,
(these don't go to 11)
the 2 opposing sides,
of which there are 6, total 7.
So throw the bones or toss the dice,
whichever way you slice 'em,
when you're done having fun,
in all, the pips on a single die number 21.
And the line at the bottom...
roll 'em if you got 'em!
Today I’m grateful for understanding it is within our power
to see every child as a different and beautiful kind of flower
And if onto every flower…our love we equally bestow…
imagine the beautiful garden…all that love will grow.
J-oyful
E-yes
R-emarkably
R-emember
E-very
M-emory
Y-our
M-ind
I-s
L-osing,
L-etting
E-verything
R-eappear
©bfa042425
Monocrostic (Birthday of Jerremy A. Miller)
An ask of mine needs urgent sating
I don’t mean to blashpeme or be rude
But when God was done and dusted creating
And he looked and saw that “it was good”
What was he looking at?
Were his eyes glued to the Andes
As the little mountains popped up like warts
Or was it trained on the Ganges
As it snaked its way through the flats
Did his breath flutter at the Siberian mirror
(I know, I know he doesn’t need the air)
Did he find the aye-aye queerer
Than the way we all find it here
Maybe it was the American cays
Strung on like beads of gems and pearls
Or the Himalayas defiant in the breeze
That whipped itself in maelstrom swirls
Or was it the terrestrial layout
Brown meat between white bread
And vegetables, like a chef’s takeout
Hamburger with the perfect spread
Was it just one point, or was it the other
Or volcanic glory, of Etna and Kea
Please, anyone, come help out a brother
I mean look at the Andaman Sea
One secret wish; to truly see
And understand just as he could
What he saw, that unbridled natural beauty
And cry out too “Damn! It is good!”
From my English cottage
I can see America.
Éire sings, as it labors in my field of vision,
it's drunk on nostalgia as usual.
A great sail-winged albatross
glides across from one eye to the other.
The trip to Ohio
is a drawn-out unmusical note in a leaky
squeeze box.
From my Midwest window I can see
the top of a Walmart roof,
it has a beauty all of its own.
Morning and evening,
snow white seagulls fly in from Atlantis,
a dreaming place that only appears
when the sun perches upon
puffy eyelids.
In a twilit garden
(a place where paper roses
wrestle with living thorns),
time circles
seeking its way past another day.
The days hitchhike on my shoulder, I must travel
across the luna surface of my mind.
One deep breath should be enough
to push me just beyond the city dump.
Years gone by, you'd almost forgotten,
as you feel the days grow old and tired,
you're bones ache, and you're feeling rotten,
when, once again, you feel life's fire.
The two of you have been through a lot.
Long ago you were torn asunder,
but you loved each other, which can't be bought,
'neath the bridge, lot's of water, under.
An occasion of pleasure or pain,
something you wouldn't know in advance,
a birth or funeral in the rain,
or possibly only happenstance,
there is no pleasure, so great as when
you see a dear old friend again,
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