Poor dog, yard bound to do as she pleases,
to find fun in dull times such as these-es,
with a dramatic paw wave,
became a hunter so brave,
as she stamped out her victims, the bees-es.
We are finite creations in an ever-expanding universe,
Kissed by the calcified stardust of epochs gone by.
Seized by trepidation and insecurities that stagger our growth,
Engrossed by a yearning to fit into societals manufactured boxes
Which consume creativity and individuality.
Incapacitated by force-fed paranoia,
Tormenting our artificially pristine panoramas with mangled wraiths —
Regurgitated pleasantries scribbled upon mass-produced pulp,
Courage stamped out by mass hysteria.
Revolving chains shackle dying hearts turning to stone;
Humanity hardens while heaven becomes further out of reach.
For every action has, even if unintentional, consequences.
We have silenced our own tongues,
Watched in desensitised horror as the world burns,
And now we stand frozen
As the earth cleanses itself of our parasitic invasion.
Lavish me not with any parting gifts
when I die
Give me no long goodbye speeches
with flowery words
I demand an eulogy of silence
Extol not my memory,
for I am just a mere mortal with feet of clay
now turning to dust
Bury me with no honors,
raise not the banner of celebration
To joyously lift up my life
on the day I'm to be lowered into the ground
is such cruel irony
Laugh and give gleeful shouts if you must,
if this brings comfort to your soul
Easing your fears,
as the procession of my casket marches
to the hymnal of the worms
Death is the last reproach,
the breath of life stamped out
Sin in the end wins ...
of this, there can be no doubt
Look away from the mourning tears and baleful cries,
and mark the final abdication of life
with the covering of the eyes
When I was a boy I had a coin collection.
Each one a prime example of its type,
Worth well beyond the face value
Their small differences and minor flaws
Raising them in the eye of the collector.
In the beginning, God engraved a die with His image,
And stamped out Adam and Eve, the first ‘proof set’.
Thousands of generations later
We’re still made from that same original mold.
We each have the same face value – one human being,
But the Great Collector values us for our flaws,
And our differences.
Life isn’t fair
Legions lament,
Noting there’s no equal share.
Some have the wealth of dreams.
Some have little to spare,
Fated to fail it seems.
But if life were fair
What makes us unique
Would grant us no reason to care.
We’d be cookie cutter clones
Stamped out in a row.
You could be me, and I you.
This life is fairer than we want to know.
Down where the Camelia blossoms blood red
In the heart of winter, when others rest
Poverty is stamped out and all are fed
And red-breasted Robin has flown the nest
Few left to struggle with a cold winter
And family farms have disappeared from view
None left to tend the fires' dying embers
No inheritance left for children to accrue
Will the Robins reappear bringing spring
A rebirth of values and self-esteem
Planted fields whose great harvest brings
A wealth of values, wisdom that beams
Poverty still planted where blossoms red
Values disappeared, disrespect bred
Sonnet: With 10 syllable count and rhyme
scheme: abab, cdcd, efef, gg
Called an English sonnet....
I am evil while she is good,
She knows but keeps it in.
I persuade the truth away,
Causing her to sin.
I don’t want to make her stray,
But she is ever certain,
That I would never get her lost,
Because she is my twin.
Little does she know that I
Am a less than perfect soul.
I do not want her to take my route
Falling short of all her goals.
Good twin, bad twin
Right twin, wrong twin
Does it matter anyway?
I think I know which one am I
Thanks to our mothers’ say.
In a shadow all my life
I refuse to be stamped out.
Always walking one step behind,
Don’t you care what I’m about?
As the rain falls and the drums beat the suns rays dampen and the sounds of battle quell.
The sword sheath and the heart turns to mourning of the fallen.
Those still standing sway from the weight upon their heart as they see how their friends were torn apart.
Like bark stripped from timber with the ease of melting snow.
The hopes and dreams of many stamped out.
No curse or prayer bringing them back.
Long ago men stood a breast.
Stock and trade varied man to man.
All would make a stand.
Only a few would remain.
No sacrifice in vain.
In the struggle to stay sane.
Memories bled through and home was the only happy thought.
A stone house was met by few and charred remains for others.
A land ravaged by hate and pain.
Monuments raised to praise those who fell.
Although none were needed for the world remembers.
And the world is the one that pays.
The World Remains.
When I was a child,
about 5-6 years old,
a friend and I found a lighter,
between us a plan evolved.
We ran straight to our sandpit,
grabbing everything that would burn,
we stacked it up high and lit it,
together we had turns.
We danced around the fire,
we created it on our own,
but it wasn't big enough,
so we found other things to burn.
Excited by the flames,
as they danced about,
but there was a lot of smoke,
we hoped we wouldn't get caught.
Mum never saw our vision,
as she came tearing down,
She stamped out out fire,
smack us both to the ground.
We were grounded for a month,
which wasn't much fun,
play with fire you get burnt,
took a while to understand that pun.
M.Mahauariki © 2008
so sterile the keys as they
punch, knock out their given slots,
each standing upright in line
like good roman soldiers do.
as resolute as stone icons
formidable yet acceptable
in all the lower 48.
times new roman......
times new roman........
me to death, crucify me
with each roman letter
because i happen to be
an odd character.
one not easily read or recognized.
i am old norse.
i am latin children parading
slowing across the page.
i am the tragic king painted
in rich iconic gold leaf.
i cant be bound in a book
i cant be put on a memo.
i don't fit in your mailbox, keyboard,
rubber stamped out font.
i am unique.
i am a character.
Familiarity, the bridgework of intent,
as common measures rise, or bring dissent,
I plead my virtue, cave to my insight
the road aspiring network asks invite!
Ah, but familiar were the sound of love,
that too would perish, as the listening's groove
would leave aspiring, my own heart the louvre,
so far from thee, condition not to brood!
And that desires framework is intrude
as almost all my ploys and plots extrude,
some deepening, like reliving's interlude
is in the separation longing's mood!
And as I miss you, not as duly good,
but in a faked response exchanging feud
If we that once did not feel understood,
away from thee, the measures now are prude!
And I do love thee more, from knowing's clued
and devious of time still pray resume
were but a moment's chance, thy trust be proved,
I tender mine in searching trials renewed!
It is this, giving up, our lives are nude
and that which wears our time, but function's cold,
what e'er the causing costs, I ask improve,
If I could love thee once, be not removed!
The edge of all regret, dysfunction hued
should stay beneath my feet . . . stamped out construed!
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