S imply stated
T his life's complicated
U ncertainties abound
C aught in volatility
K nowing not what's next
I'd like to write poetry like Billy the Bard,
But I cannot understand it,
It's too complicated and hard,
The "THEE THOW and THINE sounds so poetic,
And extremely eloquent too
It makes simple rhyme sound pathetic,
If that is all you are able to do.
I sometimes fantasise
That "The Bard" I see,
We are sitting together,
Drinking cups of tea.
We found it hard to communicate,
Or enunciate, you see.
I would like to write poetry like him,
And perhaps he would like to write poetry like me.
A squirrel who once was all-day hustle-run
discovered spring had hung a swing nearby.
He eyed it first as something strange and fun,
then hopped aboard to give the breeze a try.
The branches rocked him in a gentle arc,
a cradle made of sunlight, leaves, and ease.
He closed his eyes, forgetting he was stark
addicted to the rush of busy trees.
Soon all his twitchy habits slipped away~
the frantic stash, the darting here and there.
He let the swing decide the pace of the day,
a mellow rhythm floating through the air.
And now he’s learned what wiser creatures know:
Sometimes, you simply sway and let life slow.
I am but a paltry pebble
washed upon the lakeshore.
A tumbled piece of agate.
Simply that and nothing more.
I am but a mere grain of sand
raised from the seabed floor,
sodden from an ocean wave.
Simply that and nothing more.
I am but an insignificant human,
a dinky speck of dust; an eyesore
fleetingly alive upon the Earth.
Simply that and nothing more.
How weak I feel, that I’ve lived, breathed, and died for you for so many years. You, who were simply a boy. You died to a life in my path and lived and breathed for the innocent, the lovely, the mesmerizing. And yet I could not think less of you for it. I, who was simply a girl.
(“Dark Pool Nebula 3”, 2011, original oil)
To rest the mind completely
Must be simple.
I know because I see my dogs doing it
All the time,
But for me it’s a different story.
My story enjoys plot twists and turns
The kind that keep me up at night
Turning the pages
Of memory and what ifs.
But within that busy mind
I yearn for resolution, for simply letting go
Like a dog, warm and contented
In its master’s lap.
The problem with us though,
Beside thinking we are the masters
Of our convoluted stories,
Is not knowing who our True Master is.
Answers come easily and resound tritely.
Confidence, and that warm lap contentment,
On the other hand,
Comes hard won.
(11/25/25)
The British Rail saying,
'See it, say it, sorted,'
is so annoying
it should be aborted.
Travelers, from abroad,
are befuddled then bemused,
when first by this phrase
their ears are abused.
But the worst is yet to come...
it sounds like, 'Sort it,'
over the tannoy
and must be fixed by he who caught it.
I ja ja ja juh just
Wanna let everyone na na na nuh know
Wuh wuh wuh what I’ve learns...
Fph fph fph fuh faith is grace fph fph fph ful and
Na na na nuh not earned.
Miming my bamboo fph fph fph fishing pole,
I rig the hook with a wuh wuh wuh worm.
I ka ka ka kuh cast up ma ma ma muh my line
Into Heaven...
Wuh wuh wuh wuh wondering
The time away and
Pa pa pa puh pondering...
What kind of fph fph fph fph fph fuh fish
Will take da bub bub bub buh
Bait?
.
she kept star'n at me
therefore
i walk'd with swift
visage unto visage
visage 'to visage
She did not fall—
She flowed.
From the breathless stars to the edge of form,
She shimmered between sound and silence,
Becoming light before becoming skin.
She walked the void barefoot,
Carving paths in places the sky forgot,
Speaking in colors the earth hadn’t learned to see.
She was music before voice,
Fire before flame,
Knowing before name.
In lives long buried in salt and smoke,
She healed the wounded with her own undoing—
A silent saint
A veiled oracle
A soul made of soft rebellion.
But in this life, she said:
“No more cages.”
Not of vows.
Not of perfection.
Not of others’ hands or gods or fears.
This time, she comes as herself.
Untamed. Unfolding.
The cosmic tide in human breath.
She dances where lines dissolve.
She speaks when the wind can’t.
She touches the sacred and names it ordinary.
She dares to be seen,
even when her voice shakes with memory.
Because this world?
It is not her prison.
It is her paintbrush.
And she—
She is the dream reborn
The priestess unveiled
The storm and the stillness
She is what happens
when a star remembers
that it is also a woman.
Men judge other men
Not by their motivations
But by their actions
Who writes history
It's written by survivors
No one else is left
In a person's life
What can be worse than old age
The alternative
A man becomes old
When his past regrets start to
Take the place of dreams
Hypocrisy is
In its way a pillar of
Civilization
Childhood is over
When a door that's left ajar
Lets the future in
simply not two
yes but
not appears as two~
It doesn't matter how I pray.
Don't need any fancy words to say.
God already knows what's in our heart.
All you and I need to do is start.
I tell Him how I really feel.
Or what part of my body that I need healed.
I ask forgiveness for things I've done wrong.
The Sins in my life that do not belong.
When I do not know what to say.
I say what I'm thinking anyway.
Even times I do not have a clue.
God knows it all, He created you.
Sometimes I'll read a Psalm and will say.
"God please help me in this very same way!"
As for any Church that charges for Prayer.
For me it's a red flag that saying "BEWARE!"
Jesus never once said "compensate Me!"
He healed and preached. He did it for free.
In 2 Corinthians 9 they were "ASKED" to give.
So that poor church members had a means to live.
Don't trust everything the modern Church may say.
Pray and ask God to show you the true way!
"Every enigmatic environment enlists enlightened emotions" Quote by The Poet
Spectacular silvery spangled, star studded sky, so serene.
Under universal utterances uniquely unabashed, unseen.
Wildest wind wails when weakened, was welcomed warm weather.
Trees towering, trying to triumphantly touch together.
Serendipitous splendor soothes soulful scenes.
Gracefully groomed, growing greens.
Lustrous light looms, lasting like lingering lanterns.
Youthful yellowing, yet yesterday yearns.
Moonbeams meander, mesmerized midst melting moments.
Extraterrestrial elements enlist exponents.
Frenzied fireflies flutter, fulfilling fanciful florescent flashes.
Sparkling, swishing splashes.
Sycamores sway sweetly, so subdued, sounds softly sweep.
Calm clarity closely causes comfort, combinations creep.
Sporadically straying, sadly sets sorrow so steep.
You love me,
but somewhere along the way,
I couldn’t keep up, couldn’t stay,
your words stopped meaning what they once did,
and I felt lost in what we hid.
You gave me all, I couldn’t give back,
I thought I was ready, but I lost track.
I tried to make it work, tried to find the key,
but the truth was clear it wasn’t meant to be.
And though I wanted it to work,
we didn’t plan, we didn’t see,
I loved you, but I couldn’t stay,
so I had to turn away.
I loved you.
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