It was a wonder,
How could people live so short sighted?
Until a walk outside among them revealed,
That their compulsions had chased away the stars.
When you're surrounded by lights within arm's reach -
And every urge is reciprocated ten-fold,
Then how could you ever, in your wildest desires -
Possibly expect to shoot for the sky?
Indeed there are many good poems, here in rhyme and in
Prose.' In Haiku and Senryu ' Acrostic; who knows.? Also
There are some who, write comments while 'holding their own
Nose' we can think what we want.' We can write as we will!
Should there be a directive.? If so let it be of truth drawn
And out of (good-will) is there censorship.? Among the body.?
Not the hosts of this site.' Egregious evil should be negated
That is only right.' Yet to bring air to a subject be it soiled
Laundry.? Or foul capers.? Is the first step to health that
Must be addressed.' On screen or paper.' Who works here
Art? In the bright blaze of light.' Who would illuminate minds?
Be it by day or by the night.? Has reality no bearing? Or currency
To some minds? ( I read of good intentions ) yet some of the writers may as well be blind.' No one admits to censoring
Yet to cancel.? Its seems is sublime.' Those indeed get to pardon
Their own short-sighted-ness' moving along one un-democratic block at
A time.'
I'm sorry, Father
Of being short sighted
I don't know that I am
Wretched, poor, naked in your sight
I forget that I have a soul
I am wallowing in my carnality
I forget in my memory that you are God
That everything in me is yours
Thank you for my failure
In that I remember you
In that I was awaken
With my mistakes, my being weak
And there, I am walking again
In your path of righteousness
Thank you for reminding me
Thank you for the correcting me
Thank you for your grace and mercy
Thank you for loving my soul.
O Master, I laid all my burdens before you
I set all my pains, joys, and dreams at your feet
Surrendered them all for the chance to adore you
That we might be joined in communion so sweet
I gave you my life, which you gladly accepted
Desiring all my devotion and praise
You claimed me—no part of myself was excepted
That Your perfect plan might ordain all my days
I yielded myself to a life of abandon
To follow my Shepherd wherever You lead
You captured my heart by your grace and affection
I truly believe You are all that I need
But now, in my hour of trial, I falter
I see I am weak, and am losing control
I cry as my gift is consumed on Your altar
Becoming short-sighted, forget I the goal
Did I not yield freely my life to your lordship?
Did I not desire Your altar’s pure flame?
I chose to surrender, no matter the hardship
And yes, my intentions today are the same
I gave my gift freely; my life is to serve You
You rule o’er my heart and my life still today
Yes, there at Your throne I gave everything to You
I shall not take back that which I gave away
Trump should be defeated with truth and democracy
Not with weapons and zealous filled idiocy
Crooks, a young terrorist and short-sighted halfwit
Who sealed Fredonia’s fate and everyone who lives in it
Yalda’s fate that gods, angels, and men can’t outwit
Soon the shouts of people will make the land quake and split
Even if Crooks succeeded in his aim and made it
It would have made Trump into a martyr and spectre
Who even without that gold bold eagle sceptre
Would have his cold presence cover all of Fredonia
And make Fredonia burst into red and blue fire
And another man possessed by the phantom of zeal
Would arise from the ashes and makes Trump’s will real
Wanting blindly, even good
Seldom have few understood
Is ineffective
If one's doing's misdirected
Be the gentle heart well-guided
Not with eyes that are short-sighted
But mindful and wide
Else be intention misapplied
Promises
Empty echoes
Of a lover’s
Short sighted vision
Forever
An unfathomable goal
Enshrined
In the ecstasy
Of Love’s whimsy
Kept
Together
In Loves “castle keep”
Protected
Cherished
Defended
Freed
In tear-soaked agony
Cursing
The brevity
Of forever
Butter the toast, butter knife, bread.
blue plate, no sunlight, short-sighted blue night,
electric rings of silence.
Breakfast is slow,
not that hungry but there is honey
and I am lonesome in a tired body.
Soon, hands will press the tabletop,
will rise up, push up to lace-up walking shoes,
enter the coming light
that unsteady, unready light
with its slippery yo-yo gleams,
enter it all; the concrete hills,
the leaf and branch, the cast-up legs
of the still twitching,
the buoyant tumbling of the living,
the pumped-up throats
of the starry-eyed singers,
enter it fully, growing less unlikely,
enter myself as an unrepentant prodigal son
returning home.
Today we went to the zoo,
clouds scud high and the sky was blue.
Mum,sis and me filed in the queue,
Gran and Gramps waited too.
Giant giraffes,six metres tall,
looked over a stable stall.
Short sighted rhinos with a keen sense of smell,
hippos wallowing in a mud-filled well.
Asian elephants lifting logs,
leaving the crowd all agog.
Gorillas foraging fancy free,
penguins 'catching' fish for tea.
Free to roam,bok and antelope,
sea lions leaping over a rope.
Amazing scenes to recall and digest,
picnic places to eat and rest.
Gift shop,ices and more besides,
entertainment diverse and wide.
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
Our rosy love grew fast to bloom,
Burnt in the heatwave of desire -
Young and impervious to doom -
Out-lusted, nothing to admire.
We spurned our tender love, my rose;
Its lustre faded, petals dried,
Fast beating hearts, now hollow, froze -
Nothing but thorns lodged deep inside.
Short-sighted sweet impromptu love!
Strong lasting roots grow underground -
Well nurtured is the rose we have -
And now it blossoms lifetime-round!
March 20, 2023
We need heroes
(Our youth are afraid)
By Michelle Morris
08/03/2023
We need heroes
We need them every day
We need them to live
Not die as we pray
Our youth are afraid
And it's understandable
We are not being leaders
We are not being brave
Those in power are short sighted
They're looking at getting richer
Making decisions from their egos
Not considering anyone's future
We need heroes
We need them in every sphere
Across the world we inhabit
Across cultures and belief systems
For true heroes are prepared to sacrifice
They give everything for the greater good
They put themselves on the line
To save people and livelihoods
We need to raise the bar
We need to do what's right
Make the tough decisions
To save future lives
© Michelle Morris, 2023
You will just have to teach yourself
one poor female victim at a time
for kissing is a dangerous occupation
for adolescents and virgins.
Angles and shapes have to be factored in
at lightning speed
before the plunge is undertaken.
The neck must be adjusted to height and
the trajectory of the pursed lips meet
as a natural occurrence
like two butterfly wings
brushing each other in flight.
On first dates
short-sighted rhino clashes
must be avoided at all cost.
Noses and teeth
will always get in the way somehow
just a fact.
In time, with much trial and error
the young will get the hang of it
and it's rather nice
in an often sloppy sort of way.
Eventually tongues are employed
in strange animalistic tasks
that they were never designed for
but in the heat of the moment
eating is often mistaken for kissing.
Go forth confidently then
you young men, but always remember
"though a kiss might be gentle
and oh so elemental
diamonds are a girl's best friend."
Bill Dyer
Here lies the crisp remains of Chef Bill Dyer
Tumbled head first into a deep fat fryer.
Carlos De Rava
The statue on this grave is of Carlos De Rava
Fell in taking pictures of fast flowing lava.
Alfred. J. Clark
Buried in this grave is the left foot of Alfred. J. Clark
It was all they could find when they cut open a shark.
Joe
In this grave lies poor Joe who was very short sighted
Stick of dynamite instead of a cigar was what he ignited.
David. T. Murrey
In this crypt is just the head of David. T. Murrey
No one attended his funeral because he had no-body.
Jonathan Cass
The mirth you can hear in this grave is of Jonathan Cass
Was smoking a cigarette whilst making laughing gas.
Written on 20th November 2022
Soaring and swaying over craggy hills
How I long to be the mighty eagle.
Best when my strong wings stretch
And gliding, searching for food
To feed the miniscule fledglings.
After verdant resurrection, green leaves
Come to life, yet birds hide from
His majestic lofty strong eagle.
Pity the small ones could not stop
Their mellifluous lark-like songs.
Unfortunately small rodents are short sighted.
Along the placid lake rodents friskily run
In and out of the sedges. Food is now near.
This morning is dangerously close to truth.
The sunlight is in bold print,
the figurative blocked out in black and white.
The under-brain
(that sleepy chameleon with diamond eyes),
blinks at a high-rise concrete reality,
eschews poetry for a stark reportage.
The summer blooms and hummingbirds
are not wooden, yet their picturesque
mien and dress
belong in a less brazen realism.
Nothing much flies in more subjective skies.
Beneath an introspective sea
just a few fanciful thought-threads
dangle loosely from misty metaphyseal squids.
The mind must turn to arcane myths
for unobjectified mysticism,
however a short-sighted ground hog
dismisses these inner reflections
as it eats an existential
bright red geranium.
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