Everyone’s political
anti critical
right by the rights
now wrongly divisional
Giving up the literal
power unconditional
Narratives are narrowly
focused on disparity
comparatively ignorant
to actual reality
You’ll never change the past
try to understand it better
Don’t look passed what made it past
its not your own endeavour
advantages that you now have your ancestors didn’t
branching out from beginnings to a global vision
colonies were empires and empires were common
the way that people were back then has long since been forgotten
so don’t skip over history the path we all come from
everybody’s owed something we need to move along
Even the best rainy days
are days I'd
rather skip over—
or at least, until
the weather lifts
its somber lazy haze.
Often, my eyes won't open
on overcast days,
when the daylight dims to dull.
There's so little to be
excited about.
So I lie in for a moment or two—
that ends up stretching,
to many more moments
in a mantra softly hummed and drummed—
So I fall back asleep-
the pitter patter of rain,
the dreary streaks down the window panes
become a slow pendulum
swinging back and forth,
back and forth,
an hypnotic metronome in tired eyes,
lulling me to nod off,
slipping under its spelled sighs.
I dream of Sunshine!
I sneak a peak
at 'The End'!
Where the weather,
suits my clothes!
Where the whether,
suits my close!
Skip-skip-skip
like a cd
that stops playing once it hits
track number nine
current mindset is one of which
I can't skip over.
I'm reading my life through these
lyrics
Humming to the melody of my own heart.
beating anxieties being featured in a listless motion
remixing into a sadness few summers have known
An oasis? Is it imagination?
Maybe desert Frustration?
Here is it there is it fair to share
This tiny bit of paradise in the
Heat hot blistering sun is this
Summer season or just very very
Hot? There is the stream I think
It seams as it might be a Raging
River. No. It is an oasis. Grand
I say nature commands it! But
The desert the sand. Oh never
Mind. Come have a quench of
Thirst. Let your senses skip over
The desolate. Here is salvation.
Savor it. In the middle of a blazing
Waste land? Fall to your knees and
Experience this pleasure. Drink
Be thankful to BE! Have liquid of
Life! Yeah. There theeere you sea
You sea? It is LIFE saving! The
Savior a DREAM in the midst of
Hot heat waving reality? Nameful
Wondrous pleasant present for
Desert wanderers. Aaaah taste of
DEATH no more! Just liveable life
In the breath of non existence!
Fresh! Yeees! Drink drink be greatful!
We are worthy! Are we NOT? IN
THIS PLACE TIME FORGOT?
"My dear skipping stone," I gently asked.
"What tales lie within your flitting flight,
As you tippy-toe skip over the water so fast?"
What lessons can you tell us, Oh shiny one so bright?"
"Well firstly, it's in the shape of stone."
The skipper's learned response began.
"Choose a flat smooth one, from the wet river zone,
Where smooth stones have collected in the skidpan."
"The next trick is the way you grip the disk."
"Curl your index finger around it, lock it with your thumb."
"Then you're ready for the deft wrist flick,
which will ensure a skip, skip, skip outcome."
"Like everything, it takes practice to get it right."
"A smooth calm water surface helps a lot,
as waves can smite your stone with such delight."
"Gobbling stones is the wave's unfair, cheap shot"
"Life is like a skipping stone's pace."
"A clutch of fleeting moments, a flip of flings in the sun."
"Embrace each leap with joy and grace."
"For skipping time, like ripples, is all too soon done."
With that, the skipping stone grew still,
Its wisdom etched within my being.
The stone sank gently into the water with all its skill,
Revealed to everyone and given true meaning.
Departed poems in a gray post-dated heaven
clatter wings together like hens in a jailers coop.
Words never die, they bury themselves in
heaps of dry leaves, distant laughter scatters
the sadly said.
Muse-makers wear plastic rainhats
that flutter like bats in the sunlight.
Words have to be tied together
or they sink alone in an empty fish bowl.
Japanese girls in designer Nike's
skip over words completely and we all hear.
Silk flowers in China teacups sail a deep blue ink.
The poets speak in tie-dyed riddles,
in dribbles between the loosely connected.
Atop a mountain, goats bray,
love-sick donkeys harken with their heavy hearts.
Legions of cock-hatted rhymers are born again
to confuse the world with their simplistic sounds.
Writing for all the long dead letters
is an art for baby fingers and painted opera singers.
Undertakers gather; their electronic ankle-beepers
sing within freshly dug sonnets and odes.
The deceased travel on, spinning a gray language,
they are silk moths weaving tinsel rainbows
that by chance
speak words still wet from closed lips.
gotta hurry, little time for chatter
not on-deck, always the current batter
pendulum swinging at a hastened pace
as if existence were a non-stop race
skip over letters go straight for the words
type of education most find absurd
continue to grind no matter how stressed
pushing onward, no need to stop and rest
haunted by thoughts, being chased by the past
knowing that nothing here ever long lasts
forever shifting gears without a clutch
as if evolution were in a rush
armed with statistics most find mind-numbing
crashing head-on into what's forthcoming
If I could go ...
Wind, go with me
If I could go ...
Running across the sky
And find my way
I would go tonight
Running, running
Against the wind
If I have to ...
Then leap onto it
And let it carry me
The rest of the way
It knows the way ...
It knows more
Than I ever will
Wind, go with me
Not against me
Help me to
Jump the clouds
And skip over stars
Trip over thunder
Fall with the rain
Let me slide
Down a rainbow
And land next to
Where I belong
If that is all
I needed to do
To find my way
I would go ...
Running across the sky
If I could go ...
Wind, go with me
Some pages in my story
Are too painful for me to write
So I skip over certain chapters
And edit parts of my own life
I justify my actions
By pretending to forget
I can lie to a piece of paper
But I'm still burdened with regret
It's impossible to change things
No matter how hard I pray
Memories tied to emotions
Don't just go away
I can't forget how I felt
Both broken and complete
Hurting and healing
My puzzle deserves every piece
But the detachment I feel
From periods of my life
Makes my character hard to read
And true stories hard to write
I am not good at critiques. I am better at praise.
I like almost every poem. I want to elevate and raise.
Reading poems is a hobby that makes me feel good.
I know I should critique. As if that I could!
I have barely been writing poetry myself, for just a couple of weeks.
I know when I got my feet wet, people gave me all kinds of tweaks.
People were ever so kind, no matter how silly my rants.
Critiquing a poet? I am afraid that this fits in with my can'ts.
I do not feel knowledgeable enough about poetry yet.
So I will have to stick with what I know, which is to praise every pet.
The poems I do not understand, the ones over my head so tall,
I simply skip over, and do not comment at all.
I am not good at critiques. I am better at praise.
It has served me quite well, all these poem-reading days.
Reading poems is terrific, it gives me ideas galore.
If you need critiques from me, you are barking at the wrong door.
23
See the plastic friends float down the river
Bits of flotsam and jetsam in the damn way
Of fresh flowing clear water polluting it
By their rancid presence what they do
You do not do the same to them
For you are pure and free of them
Except their shadow in your mind
It's fine for they make you stronger
Focusing your laser gun on their bodies
Watching the light skip over the water
Sizzling their remains when it catches
Bodies water you laser river life
It goes on and on the war battle event
This is the 23rd Century Police State
Trying to recapture a time that's passed
is like trying to slow the flow of a river
with nothing but your hands;
it's an impossible task.
For many of my generation,
our youth seemed less hectic,
with fewer social and political problems.
But time tends to skip over bad experiences,
highlighting more favorable recollections,
filtered through an emotional sieve.
What was true of those good old days,
is that we viewed them through the eyes of youth.
And as we age, we mentally dig up
treasured gems time buried in our past
and enthusiastically restore their shine in our minds.
But they are less a representation
of an era lost to time,
and more a reflection
on our days of innocence.
The allure of revisiting bygone times,
is akin to buying a cup of cold lemonade
from the local stand set up by the neighborhood kids;
somewhat tart, and yet refreshing,
with a sweet aftertaste.
I am about to leave camp in the thunder
If lightning strikes me it will be a blunder
My quills are bent, the ink well is dry
This being my last poem, I know you won’t cry.
No need to create a book jacket for my book
People wouldn’t take the time to look,
I’ll leave out the year it was printed
People would skip over pages and be contented.
Although writing provided me with a rewarding fulfillment
My styles and skills were less than diligent,
I shed some light for you to see
Enjoy what you do and be happy like me.
Thank you to those who read my books!
You learn how to overcome adversities
Conquering goals, becoming steadfast
Enjoy the achievement to which you strived for
A fragrant vagrant isn't a bad thing it is wise to fill a dolly bag with silver coins. Drooping dressing doopy doggy draperies draped. Cabal cable carnage. How not so idyllic. And a two ton carriage of bees could never really do the twisting dance at a disco. Such is the heavyweight marathon. Stomp swim. Stomp stamp. Wow. Naivety varies amongst tidally adjusted soldier fauna. And be very wary of verification in a smoking tent. Tuna bubbles in a sandstone kebab. The all knowing grape warbles a systematic song of carbon brushes. Oh how the cushion swings with delight. An opposite apothecary of courteous van's. Archaically archived histories are unjustified in tones but mutational racks of fleas can form fresh ground and a format is neither a rock or a deity so therefore skip over fifty nine petals with agility. Erotically placed erosion of a salad dish with slippery large leaf legs. Hahahaha. Dreamy dandelions dangling doves. Clapping custard covering carpets. Xxxx combustion xxxx hahah xxxx
if these walls could talk would I feel embarrassment from the stories they could tell?
within me if these windows could truly see would they close their blinds for every time I was given a farewell?
if these floors could hold would I spend more time picking up tears from the corners where I hid?
I started to glance over every object in my room and begin to question "why" in the reasons we live.
every move made is priceless , there is no button to replay . I could never ask someone to put their feelings on pause.
observing how stones can skip over the face of a lake as nature whispers-
without reason ,how can you ever understand cause?
how can you understand what goes hand-in-hand if you never tried to hold on to something or someone you love?
nature said - give a man everything he needs and then wants and its still not enough.
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