treading inwards indicates an
embrace of valour
knowing one is held ——
a journey strewn with jagged edges
unknown detours
once on a straight narrow path
turnarounds disappear
jungles untamed appear
lame sometimes becomes our resolve
though forging beyond crags or rags
one cannot sag or lag _____
perseverance becomes no severance
seventh heaven with salvation usurps
starvation
luminosity at end of slog holds steady
in solitude we need make no haste
knowingness, as Heart’s compass
keep us safe
hazards or hurdles cannot curdle
an inward journey ~
Spirit of destined fate never late
turns burnished key into Home to be
w i t h i n is
M A J E S T Y
Black widow, thy fabled mark.
Through a knothole seen.
Moonlight, light path after dark.
Glitch the gangrel green.
Flickering flame, wax candle's gleam.
How to extinguish?
Air. Snuff out. Cut off the stream.
Cover up the dish.
Hellfire, bloom. O woodland, burn.
Ghost, hide in the leaves.
Pain, approval, taciturn.
He who loves, soon grieves.
Life, red ruins. Fain, fast fade.
Silent is the shade.
O for those who were played, glade?
Blighted, bound, bombed, bade.
Will-o-the-wisp, deep the bog.
Follow where it goes?
Light, thy beauty. Slick the slog.
Carrion for the crows.
Tiger in the tall grass?
He's waiting for a meal.
O young suitor, lass? Best pass.
Never shall ye heal.
Vicious viper, poison pit.
Well, we should have quit.
Firefly, how to keep lit? Flit.
Otherwise get bit.
Slit throat, O anodyne? Helped?
Seemed like he had died.
Holluschickie, how you yelped.
Children, woe betide...
Photon, poison. Photograph.
Fates and Furies, laugh.
Engrave, O my epitaph.
Chart a graph, you chaff.
Hated are the sights around!
All done poor and bad.
Holy ground, surround? Unsound.
That will make them sad.
Garbage rich and decent poor.
Rhythm, rock and roll.
Summoned, system? Are you sure?
Opinion, thy poll.
Competition? But from who?
Faces turning blue?
Hopes of you? Will these accrue?
Fondue, thy stew! Through.
Boredom. How the hours fly.
Time, you do math hard.
Lately I feel desert dry.
Fried in lard? Pulled, card.
Wisdom. Suffering, you rang?
Bite, O boomerang.
Stories told in slang? Taste, tang?
Gone out with a bang.
Clang! O prison gate, why wait?
Wasted lands, be home!
Staggered gait? I've come in late?
Wife out on the loam!
Foam in mouth, O rabid dog?
Slaver, how you burst!
Waterlog? High hog, thy slog!
Came in last and worst...
The Old Black Dog. Dave Taylor.
It refuses to die, this old black dog.
Matted and lame but on misery he thrives.
Makes existence, seem one, long, slog.
How long `till it curls up and dies.
Even on days, when in line with the shame.
Of feeling downcast, and pitiful.
Just wishing there was other, than my mind to blame.
And soothing words, prove far from helpful.
When malicious whispers, in cold tones say.
“Face the truth, you are UNTERMENSCHEN!!!!”
And dark forces, hold me in sway.
The lone host, of their ill attentions.
The triumph for me is to stay in the fight.
Wait out the dark, and know it won`t stay.
Hold hard for the sun, to illumine my sight.
And cast myself into the fray!!!!
The dog may bark, but it`s lost its bite.
And I can take, it`s toothless grin.
Knowing in the end, all shall be right.
If I don`t allow the black dog in.
He trekked life's seemingly endless slog,
and engaged cruel fate in a dialog.
He would measure and evaluate,
and conclude his luck was not so great,
until a raven, crow, or other bird,
said fate had the very last word.
Death knell we must quell
Asian fans under the spell
What's the point pray tell
Ground hog day must fell
T20 slog locked in a cell
Same same endless well
Lame game ring the bell
Or the IPL will just swell
Kills where Tests do dwell
Not a green verdant dell
Obnoxious & noxious smell
Glam Instagram sham we yell
Scam in tawdry bawdry shell
Just all about well sell sell sell
Warm welcome to IPL HELL!
We inhale
the damp, decay fell detail
through the sucking, muddy bog
slog
To pursue
the path of ancient horseshoe
and riding warrior's brood luck
muck.
Against the back drop of green leaf copses, dulcet bird chirp, and bubbling pavement fountains,
that dawning from the azure blue sky a silken whisper,
to follow street signs on my route to work with ample gusto and much verve,
each metal
pointer to destination a micro mirror on its surround,
stoic indicator of direction, that upright unique urban compass,
clustered by behemoth scenic grandeur at its mint spring zenith,
and surging throngs who sashay in brisk step patterns so diverse yet firmly focussed,
as I am whilst counting on that reference point, that fixed point usher,
that deep-dyed friend at each crossroad safe in the knowledge of arrival,
and in tandem with a spotless day’s heroic toil in bright prospect,
how symbolic are these pathway guide rails to one who warms to flagship growth,
in its august transit on foot slog pitfall strewn road of expertism,
pole mounted emblems, silent sentry solid, detail for me on daily passage.
Do or die got to perform in the eye of the storm
Noise from the boys remember we did deport
Another loss 3 nought a new boss will be sought
The depravity of gravity the reality of this sport
Big Ben’s men finally hold court our Last Resort
Insult beaten twice has the Bazball loon cult lost its spice
Starc’s legend hewn from chumps stumps in clumps strewn
Shredded in the dreaded Ashes vice Last Throw of the Dice
Bogged down in a twit pit will be flogged if we just slog
Stokes spoke about going for broke showing a bit of dog
Aussie boon.. Over the Moon In the Clover lagoon
The Barmy Army will still croon their afternoon tune
As another buffoon’s marooned OZ media swoon
Sucking on their silver spoon our Last Chance Saloon
Last ditch on the pitch must bewitch this is High Noon
The grueling skies are darkened now
as heavy clouds clutch barren ground
through thickened fog there lies a bog
a silent menace, foreboding grog.
Yet now, against my wiser will
I slog, to view the slimy pit
that locks the suffocating water tight
no ripples flow, no fresh respite.
A strange attraction draws me in
to meld within this cursed lip of spite
it carries me down and out of sight
to solemn end, to depth of night.
The summer’s end’s approaching;
The sun will later rise.
A darker morn’s encroaching
On those lovely early skies.
With most classrooms getting ready,
Parents stock up on supplies,
As the days march, slow and steady,
Towards where autumn’s in disguise.
Soon the leaves will lose their greening
And the temps will start to dip.
Oh, to fall my soul is leaning,
As my slog becomes a skip.
ICHABOD THE TURTLE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once was a snapping turtle named Ichabod,
An intrepid soul, his legs lightning rods.
Rabbits, he outpaced, left them confused,
And with his speed, they were not amused.
Oh how all the other turtles did applaud!
“You run like a Greek god!” they said agog.
“Why do you have the running ethic of a slog?”
With a laugh and a sigh,
He'd say, "I’ll tell you why.
I’m just here for the snacks, those delicious frogs.”
A thirst for walking shoes tightens ankle bones –
it would be sure enough a miracle
if for at least one morning
I could parachute out of my own inner attic
to make a soft landing into
lighter than air sneakers.
Alas this world is overrun with footnotes,
warnings that we are not to take anything at all
for granted.
Amazing how some days
allot me just enough time
to recall, that I am not yet,
or may never be,
Bonafide.
The spiritual path is rocky and narrow,
agile mountain goats get ahead of us,
as we slog behind
picking up their leavings,
each dropping a footnote an*
that the race we have been losing for years
may be already over.
If (by any chance),
I have any wisdom left to me,
I would vehemently caution all:
for God’s sake
to always read the small print -
*
Demagogue not pedagogue
Aghast & agog
Perfidious insidious fog
Reeks of the past
Slog through the smog
Musk seeks to flog
Earth & its serfs
Downed & drowned
In his dystopian bog
Even starry nights
Elon’s neon satellites
Seedier media perch
Utter nutter besmirch
Thriving in the gutter
Conniving depriving church
Vex "X" & Tech T-Rex hex
Or next bogus Rogan
Bogan slogans prevails
Alpha male tales derails
Sod the planet’s scars
Cruise trips to Mars
Odd bod driverless cars
Spawn a fake Tarantino
Remake.."Musk till Dawn"
Devil may care lair..
Loads of lies..skies chock a block
With spies...all eyes on the prize
Everyone Everything Everywhere dies
Let's not parley with gnarly snarly
Musk...takes the mickey & the bicky
In the dock for running amok
Time guys he did finally own up
To being as grown up..
As a Farley’s Rusk (a British biscuit/bicky for a wee kiddy)
The window holds no joy anymore
There's no need for knocks on my door
My time, my hesitation subsides
Life's true mystery, no longer hides
My bed is my jail, my cage today
My reason to be, I miss lay
My thoughts dull, my memories fog
I reach for them, so tired of the slog
Each day, each hour one and the same
I'm not bitter as I am glad I came
But my bed is my jail, my cage today
My reason to be, I mislay
So is it my time? My call to above
Will God send my key with a dove
Releasing my body from my soul
To begin my rise, my final stroll
I left my bed no jail, no cage today
For those left behind now, I love and pray.
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