In the quagmire ooze of daily trudge,
where the mire of monotony
clings cold, congealed in sorrow,
it takes only a spark of inspiration,
to transform an ordinary morsel
into a shimmering taste of sheer joy.
Echoes that entices, suffices.
I carry my sample bag handy,
stocked with my pet peeves in reverse.
Tiny things that you take time
to notice, and create space for,
that bring gemstones of joy shining:
The smell of rain, with storm's first drops.
The wispy waft of coffee, freshly brewed.
A rare bird sighted or heard, out of season.
A few chords of a beloved song.
Warm socks from the dryer.
A wink, glace, a tiny half-backed smile.
First touch of warm hands.
Fresh bread from the oven.
Noticing my things I placed in extraordinary ways.
A doodle scribbled on my notepad
Inspiring word or phrases recorded.
Doing things at half-speed, to spool like honey.
In all these little ways on long days
these echoes entice, suffice.
For the blessed fruits of the blessed tree of life’s being,
Persecution and crucifixion have their time in life’s seasons;
Their demise coming with seasons of resurrection and ascension:-
Seasoning of life from Genesis to Revelations, has its time;
Let us ever be mindful that we’re fruits of God’s balboa tree of life,
With a quartet of years to sow and cultivate our seeds of justice:-
Thus, it’s time to get plowing and uprooting unjust seeds
Sown in the God given riverside just soil of His trees;
Indeed, as faithful garden balboa trees of God given life,
May we be in the blooming of ripe fruits His coming justice:-
May our plow sheds be ever fully stocked with tools of courage
And faithful determination, cultivating us with God sent liberation:-
And while trials and tribulations may endure for grueling nights,
Let us be bearers of fruitful mornings;
Indeed, let us be as the fruiting sun in joyous dawning liberation,
And let bigotry be as a waning moon:-
The Poisoned Apple sent to me,
Drives me crazy!
Stocked with futility.
One page after another,
Makes my heart flutter!
"Continue," it says.
The screen glowing bright.
I do.
Only to see,
"ID not accepted,"
Again!
Time to revise,
The tempest inside!
Before the Apple begins its ride.
Out the window,
With no place to hide.
Our
Hostess
Committee,
comprised mostly
of women, makes sure
the kitchen is stocked with
supplies, arranges and serves
meals for major church events and
bereaved families. Last, we clean up.
We serve cheerfully, for we feel honored.
Sweet corn has been harvested, garden picked clean
Breezy mornings now, ruffling the cat’s fur
Front porch stocked with pumpkins and gourds
School is starting, new clothes are being bought
Last year’s backpacks are thrown into a bonfire
Grandma is taking the grandchildren shopping for new
Football games have begun in earnest, fans frenzied
Cool September, you are as welcome as any month ever is
Family has to start practicing getting up early
Bus will be picking the children up at seven o’four
Mom and Dad explain high school to their freshman
Silly because fifteen-year-olds know everything
A carapace of courage
Lies buried in the hills.
A library of wisdom
Stocked with empty pages,
Erased for all the ages.
A husk of special skills
And verbal vitality
Dad, juggernaut at rest.
Yes, I did once,
press my nose against a window,
my eyes wide and bright with wishes.
The shops back then
were fully stocked with the world,
they offered portable chunks of it,
mountain ranges, great rivers
and cities,
stores hung them from hooks
like high hopes.
Of course, I was impressed, what kid
wouldn't be?
Snice then, I have carried home
most of the world,
it lives undisturbed,
in a shoe box somewhere in my garage,
I never feel the need
to open it.
Nose pressed against window glass,
small backyard sparrows
capture all of my attention now.
the stillness of the cabin is always the first thing I notice
Feeling like Thoreau, I approach her with an uplifted heart.
Knowing I will be replenished, refreshed and restored.
My faith returns in full force after a few hours in this quietude.
In the distance I hear my favorite hooting, from a gray owl.
She has been filling these woods with her approval for years.
The cabin is ready for me, stocked with notebooks and pens.
There is a cot on the corner if I need her. I am too excited to sleep!
I am much aware of the previous records you read
Both bearing my mark and my seal
Carried no good, stocked with vile and deceit
But I urge you brothers and sisters
To think harder, coz I’ve been penning for your good
Whatever that spooned you, whichever way you were spooked,
Am back in a new hood
With goodies deep in my cortex, ready to vortex
Complex truth into digestible pieces
Thousand papers and folders, all addressed in
Love, sincerity and in peace
I am conversant with my said forced sense
Out of baseless and disarrayed script
I bear this title out of personal merit
Coz I waited for their approval and credit
And dismayed I was by their verdict
Thousand mistakes recalled in my name
The scandalous seat that I chose to tame
Some said by default, some by floating innuendo
But self-conclave justified my crescendo
Your commitment to my letters
Will my critics’ faction clear
As dignity I behest, all the hiatus I’ll bridge
To just overt my intentions and loud scream my point
That my penning is not by simony
But morphing from Real to Pope Benedict
Tucked away in dad’s back closet,
Stocked with polishes and such;
Dad would let us boys come work,
And learn to earn a buck.
He taught us work had dividends,
If we would put the effort in.
Come days, or nights or weekends
We’d shine them up for him.
He didn’t pay us what we’re worth,
Or offer “bonus” pay;
But there we learned initiative,
That drives our lives today.
I remember when he taught me,
About colors, soles and buffing.
Then He’d spit into the tins
I’d scoff and thought: “He’s bluffing!”
In reflecting dad, I’m thankful…
For little jobs like shoe shines.
You gave our lives a “polish”
Beyond your quarters and your dimes.
If I could, I’d take your shoes right now
And polish every one.
To let you know my love and thanks
For ways you raised good sons.
By Shoe Shine Son #3
Poetry is intended for restlessness,
too much sweetness drives away poetry...
You can be pregnant with ideas,
stocked with what is benefit and write
emotionally without stoppage,
but the unusual metaphor is missing...
to the one that outlines the poetry...
Behold, the singing of joyful countries
it's sad...
The singing of sad countries is content...
There then lies the poetry that reflects
what the soul does not sight...
Poetry is not sympathetic text
in pretty words that appear
always full of emotions... and with
melodramatic sweetness... lack the
high-sounding that the Greeks call Beauty,
when the imagery that materializes the mystery is lacking,
only through metaphor or metonymy,
it subverts the original meaning,
gaining in breadth and beauty...
That and poem with poetry...
The word has to come dressed as a party
the poetry is dressed in the real fantasy
that the figure of speech contains...
Poetry is immaterial...!
She's there when you don't want her
bossing you around
But when you really need her
she's just flown out-of-town
She's quite opinionated
you wouldn't call her shy
When you haven't asked her
she's apt to criticize
She visits every summer
arriving with no warning
Thinking she'll surprise you
at two or so in the morning
She's full of idiosyncracies
despises all your pets
Be sure to serve her turtle soup
keep her stocked with cigarettes
This year though is different
she's not leaving for ten weeks
Good thing you're God-fearing
you'll just turn the other cheek
From Eden to the outhouse
in just a few thousand years
blooming weapons of mass extinction
from the seeds of our many gifts..
A volley of nuclear warheads is coming
within a generation or so
the wealthy and powerful will sashay
to heated bunkers-stocked with tomorrow...
While above, the serfs break dance
like ants in a boiling water bath.
There'll be no Jesus balm to sooth their nuclear rash,
Eden forever poisoned by the oily ego of man.
My door is decked with holly and pine,
The larder’s stocked with fancy food and wine.
Tiny lights twinkle on bannister and tree,
Dozens of cookies to bake, if there’s time free.
Knitting needles flash for each gift,
Presents need wrapping, but my spirits lift,
As I look forward to visitors sharing
This season of love and caring.
Corny old movies to see,
Golden retriever cards sent to me.
Dog cookies and jerky too I’ll bake,
For my goldies to greedily take.
Singing with joy old carols,
Especially if peace they herald.
Holiday parties at friends’ homes,
Catching up with others an excuse to roam.
But after the hubbub a chance to relax,
Wine and pellet stove a soothing anticlimax.
A good book awaits on summer paddling fun,
‘Twill transport me to the season of sun.
So here’s wishing you such happy fun,
Once the bustling about is done.
May love and joy fill your holiday season,
Fond memories made for any reason.
MRT 12-21-15
5 DUI and they finally took your license away.. permanently
you did 4 weekends in jail but were still allowed to work.
Amazingly, your still driving to work.
You brag about how much you drink
show me pictures of your refrigerator
that's stocked with exotic beers.
you still deny your drinking problem
but your a black out drunk with black out logic.
Does somebody have to die for you to kill your ego.
You've had 5 chances at redemption,
and still haven't absorbed the lesson.
Your victims wont be given a second chance.
Society doesn't need you
you need to be stopped
please somebody stop Mr. Black Out.
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