Beside the beaten track
The woodpecker went tapping on,
To the bird that's like a piece of wood.
The soldier bird got very cross -- it wasn't her;
The spurwing plover had to stab with a spur:
The jackass laughed,
I take to stripping bark.
Then all the birds for miles around came in to lend a hand;
They perched upon a broken limb as thick as they could stand,
And just as old man eaglehawk prepared to have his say
A portion of the broken limb got up and flew away.
The boobook owl -- he squats himself along a broken limb,
And pokes his beak up like a stick;
Can you tell which is boobook owl and which is broken bough.
his nest a bunch of sticks across a fork;
A cuckoo wouldn't use his nest, but what's the odds to him --
A bird that tries to imitate a piece of leaning limb!"
(Blackout of Camouflage by Andrew Barton Paterson)
The dark castle, walls of stone, iron gates,
squats, defiantly, upon a low hill,
bracing against the storms of gods and men
of which it weathered many, and survived
as have the lords who live and lived within.
Two centuries, masters of all they see
power over those souls without the walls;
those within in their ermined purple robes.
But should they ever look beyond those walls;
which ne’er they do, for they do turn to fools;
they would observe the people build a fort.
Ragtag people, a simple wooden fort,
but it will grow, one day surround the lords,
the masters, owners of their wretched lives;
slowly choke them until they all do starve.
I have no ass
My back goes right into my legs
If I didnt have a belt my pants would fall
Its genetic
My dad also has no ass
I would have never known
if someone didnt point it out
I thought I had one before
who looks at their own butt?
I tried to do squats daily
but it didnt help
Implants arent my thing
I am not gangster
my pants just lay like that
There is no cushion to support my pants
No bump
No rump
Just flat backside.
They called the "Buff Boy" to clear my table.
He winked, said I'm ready, willing, and able!
I was eating kumquats after a couple squats,
And ran screaming back home to my wife Mable!
The following week, I was doing some curls,
On the Thigh Master, was some pretty girls.
Their nostrils flaring, cuz they caught me staring,
I must have looked like a swine casting pearls.
After that, those long walks to the gym were over!
Get a new hobby, Mable said, ambition drove her.
Wasn't no conductor, so became an instructor,
Now, I own that damn gym, walking in tall clover!
As the sun goes west of my school building
day's tiring trying work starts to windup
ears tremble mildly to hear school bell ring
Joy quickens to brush away lesser thing
My own loving heart herds me back to home
With spring in steps I tenderly pick up
flowers, fruits, bread, milk, vegetables and rice
on way thoughts are refreshingly nice
After the crossing I take the right turn
my footsteps are heard to the only one
rushes to greet me, running recklessly
I just kneel to receive my dog Duffy
He tripples like horse when he has made a mess
welcomed me to house strewn with paper bits,
plants separated from root, mud and pots
I transcend the limits of silent thoughts
I put bag, box down. I clear the chaos,
In time everything is in order, with
selfless, humble love Duffy squats Zazen
Life begins anew, world brightens again
It is conscious love that brings peace and bliss
only Mindful thoughts brings placidity
to care and be cared truly is blessing
Only Love and trust keeps one's world spinning
It only hurts until you cry.
The slammed door quietens,
your baby eyes grow old,
in the dark, where no one sees
or cares.
"Life!" She said,
"You blink and it's still there,
waiting for your next move."
'Keep going!" Say’s the shopkeeper,
of your worn-down wares,
and you wonder is he,
a digitally created memory,
your ancestors sewed,
into your dreams.
The bedpan has been warmed.
A nurse throws up into a toilet bowl.
Father comes back,
catches you singing,
in your boxed-in bedroom.
slams your ears.
with wall-busting words.
"Cut!" The Director shouts.
The camera's keep rolling,
A movie now squats,
in an empty room - waiting,
for more directions.
The hurt has crawled back,
into its featherbed,
where mice still nibble
last year’s leftover straw.
.
'twixt the
Spruce's sluggish
draped 'bout hern
already clothed
she squats
to engage the
living
'neath next
it's girth
i headed unto mine
and her's
headed for
spirited
poetic prattle
'bout she and
the nymph's
pima's soft
caressing
her's
Sit-ups, planks, and crunches
My push-ups done in bunches
Deep heavy squats from the rack
Deadlifts are good for my back
Just pumping up my biceps
And cutting up my triceps
I'm sweating harder each day
So I look sharp when I play
his lean equine face with dust-brown eyes
defines hardship
a gaunt frame
undernourished
he squats on city pavement
there in the crook of his neck and shoulder
a white bird
cradled, stroked
cooing
"I bought the dove with my can money when the pet store
closed."
he shakes his can of coins at me like keys jingling
at locked doors
a delicate coarseness
this vagabond
human haven
for a white dove
something sacred
that's he's obliged to care for
that spikes sustainable
refractive light at how we view others
cut by luck decomposing
as sunlight squeezes into city hatchways
into stories we don't own
into a soiled world that sometimes
falls away like hands from a piano
Poem composed July 3, 2023
Another day at the gym,
Pumping iron for the swell.
Aching muscles feeling grim,
As I put myself through hell.
Boneless chicken that I bake,
Egg whites keep me lean.
Protein powders in a shake,
With a dose of creatine.
Heavy squats inflate the quads,
Bench presses for my pecs.
Arm curls to increase the odds,
In the mirror just to flex.
Pull-ups will expand the lats,
Back with snatch and grabs.
Cutting out excessive fats,
And crunches for my abs.
Stretching to protect my calves,
Dumbbells for bulging traps.
Smearing on more greasy salves,
For running more than twenty laps.
After many hours dripping sweat,
My daily workout finally done.
Don't you know I won't regret,
While basking in the blazing sun.
sitting indian style underwater
learning to breathe easier
when i float back up,
she greets me with a smile that is all her own
she squats down to kiss me
i smile and pull her back for another
two people who once loathed each other finding common ground in love
God Knows Chemistry Proper
watching her sway to sheena easton's 'morning train (9 to 5)
making cheesy tuna pasta, texas toast, and a salad for us
holding back tears for missing what i missed for all those years
wholly thankful for personal growth and maturation
my heart so full of love in ways so wonderfully unexpected
her smiling back at me with a love so refreshingly obvious
two people now noticing that life is what we make it in sincerity's wisdom
God Knows Chemisty Proper
This feathered comedian
sits perched on a suburban fence
scanning for what crawls the ground
or pokes a careless head up to break
the surface of a backyard pond,
stropps its beak to clean off
the leftovers from its last kill,
lifts its head and laughs.
But there is no frivolity trumpeting
from its throat, only a triumphant
boast, a warning to all held
in the cross hairs of its sight
that it owns this acre.
A rush of blood lifts a sudden
flare of wings and powers
a plunging terror towards
the unwary.
Then, bloated,
it squats on a high branch
with its blunt head motionless,
eyes locked in a meditative stare.
It cares little for the honour it has
in the hierarchy of native species,
or that its laugh is almost elevated
to the status of the National prayer.
Note.
The Kookaburra is a bird belonging
to the Kingfisher family and is endemic
to Australia, particularly the east coast.
It is celebrated for its distinctive
laughing call. In a way the Kookaburra
symbolises the irreverent side to
the National character.
The wind rustles leaves against his dirty ankles.
His focus is three feet to the front at the ground.
Oversize clothes hang from his frame.
A patina of ground in dirt and grime covers a slouchy hat.
Trickles over his out thrusting grey hairs, lacquering his outer garments.
No one stops.
No one asks if he needs help.
Very few look his way.
Suddenly he stops and squats next to the road.
Drawing pictures only he can see.
Erasing the dust and drawing again.
No one notices as they pass by.
A man swallowed Jello shots
Then fell on some cooking pots
He was burnt and scolded
He fell against the wall
Looked like he was doing some squats
Divin' Deep down there's guttural
gurgles and burbles
Jivin' in the respirator.
I dive deeper, still deeper
than I've ever been before.
The seabed is littered
with littoral lie-there's
just layin' about,
praying to be picked up
by some swim-on-buy kid like me.
It's a jalopy junk yard down there.
Old shells long discarded by hermit crabs
looking for joyrides in new digs
and sporty convertible squats in RV's.
Shells discarded are great do-uppers
for crabs putting on weight.
No one is homeless down here,
for all shells discarded,
are reborn to after-lives
decreed indeed by need
in Davy Jones' Locker.
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