On some winter day
I’d be flying high
Through the pale of grey
To the bluer sky
Never liked the height
Flying frightens me
Bring be back the sight
Of the land and sea
Of the Chilterns plain
Stretching out below
From the window pane
Of the room I know
And the rain keeps wetting
Your shirts on the line
Isn’t it upsetting
How the day goes by..
Seek out videos posted by Ronald
Bernard..'' Ronald who??? i hear you think
He's just an ex illuminati banker..Later an
Anti lucifarian, a supporter who lifts more
Of the cover, on what was once hid. So
Poetry soupers, i offer a mike to you..
There is much written on here of love,
Peace; and harmony..So i trust you will
Come through.! All blessings in
advance. ( PS ) I believe at this time the reported
Suicide? Of former banker Simon Andriez has
Occured also involved in lucifarian money moving
And witness of epsteins circle of activity.'
Let no light get unshone.
Let know voice get unheard.
Let no soul get unmoved.
Let no heart not see the silly genius
Of Bob Newhart.
Let all good organic being find a way
To our own joined great truth.
Like finding it funny to hear two
Daryls introduced one after another.
Several male colleagues in a work meeting
Each competent and able
In walks the angry little boss man
Yelling at them “ today….you need to put your balls on the table”!!
Ewwww…..”what a thought”!
Some problems
Cannot be solved with money
Do not have a clear cause
Do not hide behind words
Some problems
Appear out of nowhere
They live right where we do
Like furniture or crockery
On the table or in the sideboard
Or like the view from the window
On a clear day, or at dawn
When winter sets in
Summer days will be frozen
In the photo archive of years gone by
Memories will flood back
And there are no problems
Some problems, fortunately
Disappear of their own accord
Without anyone’s involvement
Like snowflakes melting in the air.
Some day the wind will
blow our direction
Breeze at a wonderful pace
No that finally we won the race
We took our time and space
Obligation to fill
But now is time to fulfill
Our togetherness fits the bill
As the wind blows by
and carries us above
Some day are vows will be said
Never a doubt in our heads
Nothing to fear or dread
In our time and space
The waiting was not fun
we missed some time in
the sunshine of the summer
But falls blooms with lovely weather
And carries us above
As i in reverie..Recall life scenes' like taxis
And trams, amid myriad dreams, of people
Who want to build a valid life, learn others.
Make inventions, and relish challenges though
They are rife.' I think on builders.? As i look and
See; a carpenter working, industriously, i see
Him draw with pencil, and slide along his saw
I note the sawdust falling, to be swept
aside ' I hear snatches of conversation
The odd word comes clear, yet not real informative
To my ear..I muse on the sawing, and know its
All around world, people striving some doing whats
Best.' Guiding the blind, unravelling many a mess
I think of all i have seen from lifes first breath to its
Last' sense and idiocy.. political farce' as i watch a
Carpenter plying His saw, i see much reason in
Many of lifes actions.? Yet never a good reason, or results ever from or' for
Any type of war.'
Some say
when one dies
there is nothing
no more seen and felt
nothing left behind
gone all the
memory
travel
fits of dreams
inspiring beams
one has chased
through imagined dimensions
if not to capture
at least, then, to experience
and chronicle
poems transcribe a soul’s
patterns of ascent and falls
as a crystal gazed to read
the electrics enclosed alive,
conduits of senses that
spark and fly seeming into
an alternate freedom beckoning --
Everywhere I look
I see no example of nothing --
to the contrary, see
the little becoming the large
the solid becoming the mist
yet breathable, so to speak
replenishing,
(transformed into)
(reformed of)
accountable deaths becoming new
resurrections – even space
and time with forward
and back markers, nothing
lost entirely just replaced --
juxtaposed….
If I will then be nothing
show me one example!
Perhaps I will believe….
Even the vacuum
speaks the substance
of emptiness....writes its hidden
language
upon our blank pages....
It's amazing how I resist change,
not all whispered promises are sublime;
they can make somebody cringe;
it's that poet who struggles for a rhyme.
Tricksters have a word for everyting
to cover up their embarrassing schemes;
I keep away from fakers who sugaroat dreams
with believable words that hide cheating.
Making me guess is the strangest suspense,
it's a selfish way to love yourself
and not care for anyone else;
shouldn't you hold me and love me to death?
Some tricksters have a word for everything
to over up their embarrassing schemes;
I keep away from fakers who sugarcoat dreams
with believable words that hide cheating.
I've been down the road of pretentiousness,
I expected but I got kicked in the ass;
that's how tricksters get what they want,
in the long run, they fail and remain defiant.
Fairy tales were written to make one dream,
did reality reveal their meaning with pretentious theme?
I read them with boyish curiosity, they brought a gleam,
not enough to make me jump up and scream.
Some nights she can write about anything
Her imagination simply takes wing
On other nights, she cannot
~ She’s a poet, not a robot
Some men are really upset
Because women are not
Taking their bull cramp
Anymore, some women
Are choosing to be alone
Or choosing their careers
Than to take a man's BS
This is why they're constantly
Attacking women, from abortion
To wanting women not to
Be able to vote, or get a divorce
Love and respect goes a long way
Now that I’m sixty years old,
I need two things
To survive another day,
My Bible and some black coffee,
Would I add some cognac?
Writing is not that important,
I have to walk every day,
To treat my diabetes,
Now that I’m sixty years old,
I like to smell the roses, mauve ones,
Thinking of my dear sisters,
I need two things,
My Bible and some black coffee.
Maintenant, que j’ai soixante ans,
J’ai besoin de deux choses
Pour survivre un autre jour,
Ma Bible et du café noir,
Ajouterais je du cognac ?
Écrire n’est pas si important,
Je dois marcher chaque jour,
Pour soigner mon diabète,
Maintenant que j’ai soixante ans,
J’aime sentir les roses, mauves,
Penser à mes chères sœurs,
J’ai besoin de deux choses,
Ma Bible et du café noir.
Underdog had his sweet Polly.
The Canadian Mounty had his Nell.
Edgar Allan Poe was jolly
till Annabel Lee went to Hell.
Poets, make spells,
And good poets, make them well
Enough, that you might
Come, to understand
Your Self
Better than
You, could ever tell.
The hymn like the hum
but the hum silent to some
One spreads like them both
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