They walk in spotless, pointed shoes, through burned fields
hands in front, folded in prayer.
Their talk drips honey, over the graves they dug themselves.
calling it mercy.
They are artisans of fog,
blurring horizons with smoke and mirrors.
Every wound they make is a misunderstanding,
blamed on the victims of their attacks.
They weave fig-leaf halos out of denials,
as snakes unwind and recoil in the grass.
Their smiles are taut, righteous, and rehearsed
eyes gleaming with the confidence of a practiced con.
They speak of love, but leave heart-shaped tattoos,
as mementos and curios in their wake.
To face them is to stand before a mirror,
that swears blind your reflection never existed.
They fear no reckoning.
For the wrongs are always someone else’s.
Their smugness is deaf, dumb, and blind,
born of sacred, frozen certainty,
worn like virtue naked on face and sleeve.
They polish ashes and call them grace,
reclaiming the fire for yet another fight.
They dress the wound, deny the blame,
their forgiveness ever lame—
in virtuous disdain.
Our pain is not your entertainment
We don't exist purely for your amusement
My skin is not a costume
Don't treat us like we are some display In a showroom
We won't apologise for our presence
We will walk in every room with our heads up
Our silence our greatest weapon
It honours our intelligence
Your biggest flaw is your smugness
Our existence is your weakness
No wonder you try to demean us
Our afro is not an invitation
Your hands don't get to ruin hours of preparation
It is not for your exploration
And no we won't explain why it's so sacred
You dont get to be racist
But be in awe of our self made creation
We are proud of our blackness
You dont get to witness our greatness
Or be a part of our self celebration
Especially when you spent all your life on hating us
You dont deserve us
Nor our forgiveness
I held the leash like it was sacred,
I warned that she spooked easy.
He knelt down slowly, extended his hand
like a priest offering sacrament
to a god built from nerves and ribs.
He said good girl too fast.
She bit down to the bone,
drained the smugness from his face—
he earned it, the wound. The scar
would preach a gospel he'd finally believe in.
Now, when he reaches for warmth,
it's with permission. His hand flinches
even when it's safe. The nerves
didn’t come back right, fireworks
in reverse: a cold bloom,
then nothing good.
Still—
there’s a kind of comfort
in knowing how easily a creature
can taste the air and understand
they're not safe,
sense they're being lied to.
And now, I should say,
Beware—
I'm a lot like that.
How is it, that we find beauty, yet another sees ugliness?
I think it festers in a place of dark, deep, inner
smugness!
Humilty is a great sign in any God made human.
Plowing through life with hatred~is the downfall of many
A great man, or vain woman!
God runs the world or don’t we know that?
As a soldier dies,blood running out of his hat.
And you believe penning ipoetry is better than that?
Tell me…..where is your empty heart at?
Flat and frozen, like a winter key, under an iced door mat.
1/1/2025
Went to the ROM last weekend
The Royal Ontario Museum
An absolute and total eye opener for sure
We, with our sophisticated smugness
With our feeling of superiority
Emboldened by today's amazing technological
Need to stop and take a look back
At the achievements of these artisans
From centuries gone by
Of generations with totally amazing skills
Without the aid of of today's modern technology
To help them in their endeavours
Just their hands and their inventive minds
The results of which were astounding
I stood there in awe
It was a totally mind blowing experience
Everyone needs to take a break and look back
It makes us realize what great achievements
The human mind has always been capable of
It was a jaw dropping experience!
Blue, white, and gold
Are kaleidoscopic shades
That mirror shades from elixir
Out into the wide, blue ocean
Where the waves that rock
The mix that falls from the sky,
Whirling into stunning stain
That even a rainbow might grudge
Gorgeous blush dance with smugness.
A man can fail many times, but he isn't a failure until he begins to blame somebody else.
John Burroughs
bursts of anger once ruined me,
my hopes and dreams, fear and doubt stole,
leaving pain as deep as the sea,
blame the shadows shrouding my soul.
pride, the pleasure of vain conceit,
ruined the truth that did console,
more smugness than love could defeat,
blame the shadows shrouding my soul.
ego preyed on my soft yearnings,
dimming the light that made me whole,
masking warmth with lavish earnings,
blame the shadows shrouding my soul.
tempting me were life’s possessions,
felt like greed had taken control,
selfishness brought bleak impressions,
blame the shadows shrouding my soul.
still, I had only me to blame,
fighting my pride, knowing my goal,
when I failed, feeling so much shame,
blame the shadows shrouding my soul.
Smugness in human behaviour
Is such an unappealing trait
A smug word ,a smug smile
Only provokes hate
If a smug superior attitude
Is all you offer and deliver
Zip your mouth and lock it
And throw the key in the river!!
Went to the ROM last weekend
The Royal Ontario Museum
An absolute and total eye opener for sure
We with our sophisticated smugness
With our feeling of superiority
Emboldened by today's amazing technology
Need to stop and take a look back
At the achievements of these artisans
From centuries gone by
Of generations with totally amazing skills
Without the aid of of today's technology
To help them in their endeavours
Just their hands and their inventive minds
The results of which were astounding
I stood there in awe
It was a totally mind blowing experience
Everyone needs to take a break and look back
It makes us realize what great things
The human mind has always been capable of
It was a jaw dropping experience!
Wobble chops in 99, was driving cars and doing fine'
He'd was in 'top gear' where his sweaters looked drear
On a roll, he was always really; ready to talk and stroll
Smugness poured out of him, he may be deaf from his own din
Also discontent I saw' he changed loyaltys as a revolving door
Rover built the 75, it was easy on the eye, orders just began to fly
A solid build the people liked, time for old wobble chops to strike.!
Its like a doctors car he groaned, him all grimace and stone dead tone
Causing orders to dry up quick, bashing British Jeremy thick.'
Clarkson you should have been banned' pushing rover into quicksand
Causing so many jobs to die, pompous twit are you satisfied.?
You get to have a life review when you die -
or so I am told.
The hope of a do-over has me living here still
on this tiny blue planet on the far edge of nowhere,
with the thought of endless second chances.
Supposedly, when the movie of my life
plays out its going to be critiqued,
It will be hard to look away,
to hum quietly to myself
during the embarrassing stuff
pretending it wasn’t me,
just some bad actor, in a B-movie.
Of course I will play down the good,
smugness can take you only so far.
Meanwhile my search for God continues.
Perhaps he is a ghost in my movie,
perhaps the Creator wrote the script,
meaning again – not my fault.
I hope I get a chance to self-edit,
to cut out the boring, the mediocre,
the addictive crap,
erasing forever the jerk and the fool.
I don’t know why
all those heart-busting tragedies,
had to be recorded,
I’m more suited to light comedy.
I want that ghostwriter of my story
to admit he exaggerated,
to confess that I was never really there
in that long-winded plot;
that I was the sole audience
in his empty theater
detached from the muddle of a life,
a play that he deliberately screwed up
just to make me look bad.
I was told to write a poem,
but that's not how it works.
A poem has to write itself,
one cannot force the words..
This seems like contradiction,
but really it is not.
As when I began to think about it
the words came on the spot..
You can't make me write a poem,
it'll happen in its time.
Don't think that you've succeeded
at pulling out a rhyme.
Let me wipe off that expression
of smugness from your face.
This will never happen again,
poems have their time and place..
Poetry is not a given,
even with a muse.
Words have their own freedom
to happen as they choose.
So offer me a topic
for my next poetic verse.
And I'll show you once again
that no one forces words..
In with a bang out with a whimper
An American story reminiscent of old,
Brashness and vigor, street smart and temper,
Rising to greatness then collapsing stone-cold.
How could this happen in this day and age,
Have we not learned from lessons long taught,
But there lies the moral, we gave him the stage,
His victory gifted, neither stolen nor bought.
The reasons were many, the anger profound,
The swamp and it's dwellers entitled and deaf,
Their smugness alone caused Trump to be crowned,
With neither side listening, as each out of breath.
But what of the Media, greedy and loud,
They built up the story their coffers to fill,
This great institution at one time so proud
Debasing core standards their audience to thrill.
What next may we ask, back to the same?
Politicians grandstanding, jostling for power,
Caring little for action, just personal fame,
Riding the airways, seizing the hour.
Enough of this folly, time to unite,
Reason and truth need blossom anew,
Our democracy young, our future still bright,
Faith in our system we must now renew.
Truth be told,
Wise words used appropriately
Given down through the ages
Speak of truth, knowledge and wisdom.
Just like light shining through
Beveled glass reveals the
True colors of the prism,
So too will be the truth we see
When we heed the words
Of He who has Risen.
Reality checks and balances
Sarcastic speech
From mouths of fools
Who only seek to degrade
And destroy all that is good.
Putting pieces in their places
Wiping smugness from
Self-righteous faces.
Truth be told,
Mindsets need changing
Lives need rearranging
Morals and values need
Reassessment to avoid
Total conflict and resentment
Amongst one another.
Narrow is the lit pathway
With guidelines to follow but
To change course will lead to
A broader path of uncertainty.
Yet all in all one thing remains
The only way to the truth
Is through the light.
If you don’t want to be left
You have to get right.
Truth be told.
©1/6/20 JJS
White Van Man
White van driver, he couldn’t give a damn
Oh how I wish that he would scram
From lofty heights he owns the road
He’s deft at signs sure to forebode
With cell in hand intent on chat
He swears at the driver wearing a hat
Coursing a path that’s bumper to bumper
Behind the woman, oh how he could thump her
His high sided vehicle sways this way and that
He’ll be there soon with foot down flat
He’s king of the motorway’s third lane
He’d love to shunt and scare, be a right bane
But to him his driving feels quite lame
He’s white van driver who feels no shame
A hotheaded madcap who loves to race
Carrying a smugness all over his face
When home he parks to own the street
Along with others, its quite a fleet
In the morn, he rises with the lark
Returning faithfully after its dark
He’s white van driver, he does what he likes
He tells his neighbours to get on their bikes
His majestic status is sure to be noted
Carrying an image to which he’s devoted
So white van man, you don’t give a damn
But I tell you squarely that you’re a right sham
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