When I raise my thoughts from the dead,
All become coloring beauties to my bedspread.
No one exist without a quirk:
Raising bloody craziness that irk,
Moulding new happy home-- an artwork;
Not only Innocent people do jerk.
To win; some envy, some criticize
And not only politicians politicize,
But I don't Know of what is it to actualize--
Reasons people stand to antagonize.
Conversation with myself is a boost;
To be belittled to such a roost--
It must have not been of spruced,
Yet doesn't need to be deduced!
The best bird's improvised nest:
Is in God's centered mind contents digest.
(Isthmus)
It was all about a grim,
Foggy, smoggy, old Thursday night
In Hithergreen,
London’s belching south,
Below Europe’s icy, dark trees and
In the silence of grieving mornings . . .
Bulbous clouds bleeding with strained oomph
Would stir the ingravescence of patented ills.
The trains always come railing!
Railing loud and silly
Like heathen bandits with no shame.
But before such mornings,
A half-distilled liquored, low-brewed
Evening caused me tears
When I chopped onions.
A spruced up harlot was coming to dinner
By the way!
Oh, yes, from London’s bleached Soho,
Venue for awesome sex.
I may have forgotten to tell you, brother,
But through the insistence on cutting further deep,
There it stood!
Ilse Koch!
An old character!
She piled up arms against ashen flesh,
Fomenting tears to rain down on the faces of many.
And with each stare,
I asked for permission to be laconic
Just to preserve the dews
Of the heated stove near the chimney of an
Age-battered window of a grey, frazzled winter night.
I’m a slap-dash person;
That is just the way I roll,
For when I start a project,
Ending quickly is my goal.
I rarely measure things; instead
I look and take a guess,
So underneath each picture hung,
The wall’s a hole-filled mess.
Today I fixed a cabinet
Which needed to be spruced.
I’d ordered paint and liners
For the shelves to give a boost.
I emptied all the contents,
Wiped things down and dipped the brush.
I didn’t sand, just slapped that paint
Like always, in a rush.
I waited half an hour,
‘Til the cabinet felt dry,
Then lined the shelves, replaced the food
And I’m not gonna lie…
It’s far from perfect, but it’s clean
And though it’s not quite new,
To assemble one fresh from a box
I really hate to do.
So in my slap-dash fashion
I’ve fulfilled my latest task.
If you wonder if I’m feeling proud,
You shouldn’t have to ask.
Hillbilly VP JD Vance
Surely hails from bad circumstance
Though spruced up by Yale
He acts much too male
To hide the wee lance in his pants
Note: Many other misogynists share this issue (DT, EM, 19 year-old college drop out Rye Country Day School wimp "Big Balls", etc).
Soon a time to repent will come
When winter captures the west,
East will summer then enjoy
No matter; season comes to quest.
Forty-five days to advent time
When all prepare for Christmas chime.
Then in the wilderness a voice will shout
‘Prepare ye the way of the Lord’,
Are we ready to prepare our lives or shall
We be busy with our own record:
Whose cake is best, dressed and spruced
From the stalls of styles reduced?
Are we busy, souls to clean and dress
Preparing in our heart a fresh room
Or with an outfitter spending hours
To look the best in hair and plume?
Then with decorating our lounge and stair
We are busy, but not for our spirit care.
‘Prepare ye the way of the Lord’
May just be a distant cry,
For we are all busy doing things
Not actually knowing the reason why.
Let’s for once, open our ears to the Word
And contemplate on our Saviour’s birth.
the old mill reposes in the middle of the peppered autumn trees
spruced up under the jurisdiction of golden, yellow, red, maples
the scene cannot be captured in a photograph, it is soul searing
My throat clogs up and I gasp, full of childhood memories
I sit at the edge and watch the revolving spokes of the water wheel
the mini falls splash and dance at my feet; I inhale the scent of the woods
September has never felt so welcoming and loving
Tears dance in my eyes, as I am overcome with nostalgia and hope.
The last time I was here I thought I knew about the world
Traveling for the last thirty years proved that I knew nothing
Forgetting the feel of this sanctuary, of my roots
I give praise to God that He allowed me to return home.
Ninety five degrees
standing poolside
on the wooden patio
in the backyard
orange Androsia print apron
hugging my torso
propane grill
propelling fumes
hot as a steamroom
at a suana
Tendered rib eyed
and porterhouse steaks
seasoned in high salt
like abstract paintings
brushed in A1 sauce
and finally
a side of
friench fried potatoes
spruced in liquid tomatoes
from the essence of my garden
served to my darling party guests
with a golden heart of culinary perfection
The coffee shops stand by the canal
Beautiful scenery and in flannels
All spruced up to put on the show
How wealthy they are we don't need to know
Behind the wall is a back street ginnel
With bins and rubish and people making a nickel
Some even sleep along this dark dank place
Hiding away from the human race
But those on the wealthy side do not see
The man off huts **** on extacy
Those behind the wall can but imagine
What it would be like in that fashion
They can just make ends meet
But on suburbia side its a place to eat meat
Have fine wines and no worries at all
Oblivious of those behind the wall
When dawn drifts into enchanted meadows
I flow in the dreams to where the sun glows
prepares for lark sounds tethered to thistles
sprout winged feathers distinguished initials
daybreak cast expressed suppressions idles
a desired forenoon plaything thumbs fiddles
precedence ground noteworthy work matter
gleaning harvest spread the light of laughter
pigment spectrum goldenrod noon stretcher
spruced grasslands lemony sliding fetch her
droopy starlight strands dusk ruddy runner
sweetly evening brushed purplish lavender
midnight maiden bid moonwalkers strangely
twilight tone-down twinkle moon pies lightly
#5
In K-5, K-8 or K-12 is drained
the curiosity from eager brains
Then off to college most folks go
where Truth is disseminated from Moscow
A nursing home's a spruced-up jail
from which residents would love to bail ...
In between, we're on the job every day
where we're overworked and underpaid
National Poetry Day is over
Over two hours on the stage.
That's one hellova long time
For one of my advancing age.
This is the Poetry city.
The talent just abounds,
Mixing in the bars and pubs
With open mic music sounds.
They spruced up the Centre
Just for this event
(I sometimes worry at the wisdom
Of where the money went)
When they've replaced the paving
The barriers are all gone
When the renovation crews
Have finished and moved on
Bring in your Year of Culture,
Next year, 2017
Catering for the minority
Ignoring thriving local scene.
But when the Culture Vultures
Have departed as if they'd never been
In the pubs and clubs and bars
We'll still have our living culture scene.
With the streets are all repaired and
We're again northern backwater place
I'll be in the pub
A smile still on my face.
And I'll listen to the music,
Hear the spoken word,
Much of it as good or better
Than any City of Culture heard,
And I'll see the performance list
Every available spot full,
And think look what you've missed
In this Poetry City of Hull.
This is my city
Chugging quietly away:
A City of northern Culture
Every single vibrant day
Upon arrival Forest Antler Ghost of the Oaks shook the leaves
She tweaked some of the mosses, so they were a bit springier
She gave love to the woodland violets and mushrooms
The north wind and the oaks always sensed her arrival.
They spruced themselves up a bit; the faeries were unsure
They felt something but were not able to fully see her.
The elves brownies and forest imps figured it out first,
mayhap due to their close affinity with woods.
Bluebird…pretty little bluebird, see
all the budding Spring…beautiful
chiming of melody and spruced up
leaves, shiny and thriving, dewdrop
tingling. Bluebird, come and see -
give us a sweet twiddle dee dee.
It’s Spring so alive with canopy skies
and the happiness thriving with seeds
springing up - buttercup daffodils,
roses, posies, forsythia and black-eyed
susans, crocus, hyacinth and phlox.
Bluebird in layers of colorless feathers,
who would know, the magic wand
of light twinkles about and catches
our eyes, whether blue, black, brown
green or blue — all weather hues.
Bluebird…pretty little bluebird…see!
3/28/2022
I sit rolled in a corner
Almost forgotten
Quietly ignored
Crimson velveteen tufts
Densely packed
Underlay visible
Obscuring the majesty
Only ever ceremoniously unfurled
When dignitaries visit
The streets I cover
Usually covered in dust
Dirty and dank
Freshly cleaned
To impress and fool
In the fetid air
The tang of fresh paint
Dingy corners spruced
The homeless ushered away
Children beautifully laundered
Flowers lavishly garlanded
Overflowing bins emptied
So when I am laid out
And smart soles
Tread on my blushing fibres
The illusion is complete
And with my presence
The bare truth hidden
Fleetingly…
Till they have gone
And I am rolled away
Then in my absence
The putrid decay
Of real life resumes
Imagination reminds me of things I dare not remember
No idea if they happened or not
Certainly not swirling in pinks and oranges
the way I wanted things to do, amid black and white stripes
I was a modern era woman who adores the mixing of dots and stipes
No one does that! Until they did, famous designers, shaking us up.
Showing us that absolute means nothing. I adore everything sixties.
Memory brings me things I know probably did not happen
But they are spruced up and more exciting now and enthusiasm sells.
I gloss them over, and use psychedelic paint, and play them in my mind.
Satisfied with them.
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