(Sung to the tune of that great old hymn 'All Things Bright and Beautiful')
(Chorus)
All things bright and beautiful
All nations great and small
All lands bombed to smithereens
Look better with a mall.
I am a man of good looks
Talent and fine taste
If your lands have some minerals
They will not go to waste.
(Chorus)
Don’t let my makeup fool you
And my comments may appal
But when it comes to doing deals
I will Trump them all.
(Chorus)
I only want to help others
To protect and to serve
If I make lots of money
It’s just what I deserve.
(Chorus)
How I remember lazy Saturdays
at grandma's house. It always was a treat -
and after carefree time at childhood play,
I would come in, tuckered, hungry, and beat -
and what was Grandma cooking all that time?
her patented, dependable, grand feast -
from pots and pans, savory steam would climb.
and just in time, us kids would take our seats.
for roast beef, mashed potatoes, and string beans,
salad, cranberry sauce, and buttered rolls.
Then my stomach would burst to smithereens,
from homemade pie and ice-cream served in bowls.
I recall each and every happy day,
and Grandma would have wanted it that way.
She was an everyday type of girl,
but had a Shirley Temple kind of curl.
The last thing that I can recall
is her can of kerosine and her doll,
and now I'm burned to smithereens
by a girl not even in her teens.
I wrote a poem, but don't know what it means.
Its mystery is what the reader gleans.
Now, its meaning is infused,
unless the reader is confused,
and the poem is blown to smithereens.
It must have been made
and rejected
in times grinding gears –
a knobby irregularity,
a leftover of smelt and dross.
This is all there is
a gobbet of oven clinker,
but behind it I sense cracked teeth,
soot seared across burnt eyeglasses,
blackened bones,
for after the gas came the flames.
Here it is,
a fragment long convulsed
from its own incineration,
an irregular rake-off, smithereens
dragged across a blind stone floor.
This tittle of slag once had to fit something
the rough rim of an iron door perhaps
behind which an old furnace
still cools in faraway minds.
A ferrous chip chiseled from a gulag,
or a souvenir from an SS campfire meet.
There is always something left
after the unthinkable,
always some spicule of irregularity,
detritus to explain or confound
as we toss it back into the fire again.
I want to buy a wardrobe,
And in it I place my name
In the top left corner
Of its darkest spot.
I want to buy a wardrobe
And in it put a billion chambers,
To keep my name safe
From vultures aimed
To pounce tiger like
And tear it into pieces.
I want to hide my name,
From the sadistic and narcissistic
Individuals aimed to put a show
And from it their fame
Grows
Heart hurt to smithereens.
I want to hide my name,
In the many chambers
Of my wardrobe
Made of finest of steel
And many padlocks
To shield it from scavengers sharp claws
Stinking hold of its skin.
The name I want to hide,
Is bleeding with a fire
That does not burn
Busy on Kabale streets
Sweeping the floor clean
And babbling on all town walls
Of a native
That ashames the kin
And the nation at large
I want to hide my name.
I want to buy a wardrobe,
And in it I lay my name
In the top right corner
Of its brightest spot.
And only then,
Will My name be free...
he calls me a name
I stomp his foot
she calls me a name
I pick up my hammer
smash her to smithereens
Her mistake?
standing on my last nerve
after a day of name-calling
prison for life?
worth it.
Time speeds up,
I slow down.
In my pain,
I started to drown.
I flew so HIGH,
With no fear.
The consequences
Were severe.
I ended up here
All alone.
With no place
To call my own.
Lived my life,
Doing time.
My eyes were open,
But I Was blind.
I remember
yesterday.
I know there is
A price to pay.
I have no clue
About tomorrow.
If I need it,
I have to borrow.
My body is broke,
My head screams.
My life shattered
to Smithereens.
How did time
Pass me by?
When I was flying,
Oh, so high.
Turbo1904 ?
Never at rest, ever restive
like shifting sands of the desert,
my mind is
a labyrinth of quagmires and booby traps,
you step on it
and you’ll either be sucked in
or blown to smithereens…
Going in is a child’s play
Coming out—
A gauntlet run!
Planting a seed of deceit to escape the blame,
Even the blind could see the trick in that dance.
Tangled deep in the web of truth-coloured falsehoods,
Dodgy as a broken glass that reflects beauty.
Only the trueness of its heart sees clear the truth~
Giving its forked tongue some time to rue its regret.
Care nor love enough to make a pet dog a pet.
Attention to fakeness won't turn it to truth.
Nothing but pure honesty makes truth a belief~
That deceit has only a few nights of good rest,
Before the truth shatters it into smithereens,
Ensuring lies don’t last beyond dawn’s first crow.
Only truth-coated innuendoes could fool so much,
Unless the ears that hear are clogged with thick wax~
Rolling out deceit as though not meant to deceive;
Pretending it wasn’t intended to sound absurd,
Ensuring that its belief was clouded by lies,
That made a lifeless toy believe it was a pet.
It’s hubris, I suppose, down in my soul,
To think the ends will justify all means.
And thinking that all rules are drab and dull
I end up being blown to smithereens.
But truly I know what is for the best!
Thus, whispers little demons in my ears.
Consider it a type of sacred quest
And follow your own heart and not your fears!
If it can at all be done then it should.
Don’t worry about any consequence.
After all, it’s for mankind’s greater good!
How science lacks in good old common sense.
What keeps me safe in not crossing that line?
God’s good grace and the ghost of Frankenstein.
Her smile shattered by the sadistic.
Eve became a statistic.
The serpent tied the sling.
Claustrophobic catastrophe - frail wing.
Her bundle of joys
blown to smithereens, her angel boys.
Hey everyone
A new job I got
From none other
Than Tanks-A-Lot
We build large tanks
Two everyday
And that is how
We earn our pay
Hey everyone
We’re going to ship
Thirty two tanks
At ten mill a clip
So let’s give it
Our very best shot
Courtesy of
Tanks-A-Lot
Hey everyone
Now we can play
Here come the tanks
From the USA
Let’s rush them out
To the front line
Those Tanks-A-Lot
Are sure looking fine
---------
Hey everyone
Those new machines
Just blew my house
To smithereens
Along with my neighbors
Now all in a mess
How did they do it
Tanks-A-Lot, I guess
Hey everyone
They’ve blown our town
Into rubble
Everything’s down
What did we do, are
We ‘X-marks the spot’
Thanks a lot
Tanks-A-Lot
-------------
They’re just bulls-eyes
To raise money on
Money that’s borrowed
To blow up their town
Each dollar borrowed
Profits big shots
Then they spend it
On Tanks-A-Lot
Interest is owed
Money is made
Out of thin air
It’s a charade
That’s dirty business
Making people rot
To profit the top
And Tanks-A-Lot
An orison to hope
Shattered into smithereens
Its keened tongues and teeth gnash and lament
A despairful cry of a cutthroat womb.
Cacophonies cry out
Cellos and violins bow, inexorable and unforgiving
Until then, of their finale the southern bells will ring;
A testimony that God has returned.
Savior of humanity,
Entwine us with arms that bleed
For those arms' warmth and nurture
Extricates us from a demise with a lamenting dissonance.
"I came to the conclusion that unrealized hopes, even small ones, were always wrenching."
~ Nicholas Sparks
when follicles don't rupture
heart does, bit by broken bit
pieces of withholden dreams
shattering, eyes leaking pain
the agony is immense
soul tears that linger unwiped
babies remain dreams for now
unrealised realities
hopes dashed into smithereens
fractured frame of frozen mind
is this called long-suffering?
stillness... the wait continues
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