Two or too provoking thoughts
A safe place i write of and at
We both travel throught
And in the invisible line
I am not found
The civil rights protests
Doth though forge ahead
Inside the building as I?
Outside of poverty, all night
The watching of blind
The picket lines of before
Your grocery and your store
Am i stored in place as safe?
Tolerant to entrance and cake?
To check out the freedom
Taking home no reading
Behind you i must climb aboard
Slaveries vessel ever toward
Another defeat beneath the heels
Furious and patience rarely fields
Inner city, inner doctor
Slumming transpiring caustically talking
Duality’s diagram to read and reflect
A lens and inspection, mapping intuition
In the war, in the cold, leading quietly
Awaiting snow
The crane’s lurking plunge
Hello in painting spunge
Again, once more, my defeat
For yours
My Road
By: Miracle Man
9/26/2024
My road in life, by choice, I have traveled,
without any vision of where it might end.
Many miles were smooth, some were graveled,
with unforeseen things I had to contend.
But early on my miles began to turn sour,
and while young in years I became perplexed.
Without reason I found myself looking glower,
not understanding why I was feeling so vexed.
But then one day, still seeking an answer,
and spending many days just slumming.
At twenty-eight I was told that I had cancer,
and I couldn’t fathom what was forthcoming.
I felt like a hitcher on the highway thumbing,
I accepted Jesus’ hand and gave him control.
Faith became mile one on my road to becoming,
I embraced for my life, God’s long desired goal.
Was 28 when Born Again, 85 now.
Thank you Jesus
O’er March 14 pie crusts we kissed
On 4/20 joints we could twist
It’s hardly slumming
When your date's coming
May the 4th be with you for this tryst
Christmas day seemed to always land on a Sunday, when I was a miss.
Weird, but church is what I always remember every single Christmas
We would wake up too early, and get sent rapidly back to bed.
Our parents took no nonsense from any of us, their rules in lead.
We were told when we could come out, not one minute before.
We did not have seventeen presents, or hundreds of them galore.
We usually had three or four presents apiece, this was not grandma’s house.
The cookies left out for Santa had been nibbled, as if there had been a mouse.
We tore open the wrapping and got something we never saw coming.
This was before TV showed us what was valuable, or what was slumming.
We liked whatever it was, or at least pretended to like it.
For to do anything else would have caused a huge parental fit.
We thanked our parents, and helped set the breakfast table.
We had to call our great aunts Dorothy and Miss Mable.
To say thank you for the hand-knitted stuff they sent to us.
They loved hearing from us we gave them such a big fuss!
Someday
(I’ll Tell You How I Really Feel)
Miracle Man
October 27, 2023
Protesters are cowards who get things by force,
they scream and holler until voices are hoarse.
They game our system while burning our flag,
swiftly doing their thing, no time to lollygag.
Many current protesters are illegally here,
and to our rule of law they refuse to adhere.
It pains me to see what America’s becoming,
they should be exiled back to their slumming.
We move toward socialism at a rapid gait,
those here illegally we should quickly relocate.
Politicians allow entry just for their vote,
once change comes America won’t stay afloat.
We allow many in, who openly want to kill us,
but closing the border congress will not discuss.
Some bring their flags and cling to old ways,
looters steal from our stores and then set ablaze.
Protests force change in the absence of backbone,
sometimes, even leading to a riot full blown.
Most are thinned skinned and set in our ways,
but I love this country and pray for better days.
when we will see wokes when Trump had lusted
they mentioned to folks he would never be trusted
that was all a hoax with him were disgusted
a point must have missed when on top of that
many women he had kissed Trump dumber than doormat
should cease and desist has head full of fat
facts up were summing while trump was a crook
Trump on course slumming would decide to write a book
knew what was coming up whole world had shook
heard about docket we had heard that they
which was quick as a rocket we did see trump on display
had put in pocket on gray hair put some spray
fingers were way too short all over and done
when he would play a sport when all of us he did stun
even if in court put Trump in a pun
A Villanelle by Jelsr
Junebug couldn't stop thinking about the hood the house
It was just so slumming and urban
Never had he known anything so robust
That morning, Junebug was shocked by loss
He had to calm himself with a cross
Andy couldn't stop thinking about the house
Later, Taten was spooked by a townhouse
He tried to focus on a herein
Never had he known anything so in-house
Junebug tried to distract him with a penthouse
Said his mind had become too interurban
Taten couldn't stop thinking about the pit-bull eating rotten souse
Hood rats playN dominos
Wild cats in the trash cans crunching Doritos
Come to find out they were both under the influence
Homeless living in a crack-house
2/10/2023
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
One Man’s Opinion
(Take From Some, Give To Others)
Written: by Miracle Man
9/11/2021
For those who are wealthy, many show disdain,
talk of income redistribution drives me insane.
As our country grows weaker each passing day,
we encourage those who can’t make their way.
A socialist nation were too fast becoming,
numerous won’t work and spend days slumming.
Many choose assistance, given their druthers,
but believe in sharing, what belongs to others.
I can’t relate to what being wealthy would be like
but I don’t resent the rich.
They create the jobs that sustain the rest of us,
and for this I’m thankful and have been blessed.
Tom
unusual worker
the placid mundane run when they see her coming
berserker
off the wall weird
office great but now we’re slumming
so smeared
she’s flawed
quickly dumbing
odd
unusual worker
office great but now we're slumming
odd
Written 9-9-2020
Contest: Let’s Minichu on Bizarre Poetry Contetst
Sponsor: Mohan Chutani
Madame Catherine with her bouffant so big and mighty
She wears her blue silk frock and pantaloons with attitude all righty
We see her in the garden, putting on airs, for she is the queen.
If you do not believe me, look at the butterflies give her their sheen.
Madame Catherine is too prim and proper to use a litter box, no slumming.
We have to carry her to her boudoir where she uses indoor plumbing.
We think she is amazing, our darling cat, who puts on airs each and every day.
As she wanders around the garden, we marvel at her bustle that doth sway.
She is an amazing creature, ready to date, but wait, she will not be easy to win.
For she has confidence galore and her attitude is as high and mighty as all sin.
Madame Catherine, do you mind if we call you Madame Cat, if we know you well?
Not at all, she purrs delightfully. Off with their heads; I will send them all to hell.
Suggestible me
I had ended up in a country with a strange pub culture
and obsession with the class which I found restrictive.
No posh pubs if the working class and not slumming it
if you were middle class, and the rich lived in Bermuda.
I was full of terror and uncertainty this world was
not of my liking to get through the day I drank a lot
mainly at home or in the park.
My new wife said I was an alcoholic and a nice man
from AA came and took me to a meeting where people
sat around a table talking about themselves and how much
they had suffered, while I am just getting out, was a full
of the terror of agoraphobia.
I suddenly had many friends, but they were mates only
as long as I went to their meeting, that over time became
repetitive like reading the same book a hundred times.
I stopped going to their gatherings went to the library instead
and spent happy days reading, but lost my friends.
Finally, after a nervous breakdown, I got much help from
a psychologist to confront my fears.
But I was never at ease in this country I left and is blessed
in Portugal where no one knows my name.
On dogs phony antlers are tied
So unhappy Blossom will hide
When she sees them coming
She’d rather go slumming
At landfills she spends the Yuletide
And she’s not alone in her fear
Surrounded by many a peer
Midst trash each dog cowers
On ice in snow showers
Refusing to dress like reindeer
*Written December 8, 2018
For Tania's "Funny Reindeer" contest
I wish I could let you see how empty I feel.
I don't hate myself, I hate the way I don't like myself.
This has not been an exclusive experience.
You could start a club.
I have been living the same pattern for years.
Everything and nothing changes.
I don't think I know how to be someone's someone.
The pressure to be there, when I'm barely there myself.
You are amazing.
I feel I burden you with my presence.
Slumming it to deal with my e.
I hate the way I make you feel.
All I've ever wanted you to be is happy.
You have great ****. I think about them more than I care to admit.
You are one of the most impressive people I've ever met.
You're an asset to logic and mankind.
You make me believe souls exist, yours is supermassive.
I don't think I could ever articulate how sorry I feel.
You’re such a nasty bugger,
You slumming, scheming lout,
No conscience or misgiving,
No arguing about!
And when next time I see you,
Sucking on the poor, I’ll give to
You no quarter, you shameless
Writhing whore.
To you people are just profits,
You stinking rotten rat,
I’d love to squash your laurels
With my old ash cricket bat!
Drugs are for the sick, not
For pockets to be lined,
To be in this type of business,
You really must be kind
So take your profit margins
And income streams and like,
And point yourself at nearest cliff
While tied on to your bike
HURRAH!
Awake in a nightmare dream,
reality can't keep pace.
And like Munch's painting, "The Scream,"
anxiety warps my face.
Rank smells announce my coming;
roaming the land of the blind.
For folks reduced to slumming,
stink of sweat and piss; combined.
Draped in garbage-bin fashion;
I strut about ten feet tall.
And yet, dirty and ashen,
I'm invisible to all.
Victim of hypocrisy;
they treat me like backstreet trash.
And despite democracy,
all rights are tethered to cash.
I'm more a myth, mired in doubt,
kept out of mind, out of sight.
For a whisper cannot shout,
and a ghost evades the light.
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