Life grew bland, banal, other B words
she said I need to gather a troupe
of like-minded sufferers
set up some auditions, form
a select band
we'll workshop the basics
characters, costumes
And then we'll act out the rest of our lives together
no need for cameras
or an audience
call it pure theatre
oh the dramas we will have
No it won't be any stranger than
singing in the parlour for friends
without a microphone, a paying crowd
you can call it the folk tradition
My Inner voice told me to respect
Universal Moral Values always
at each step of journey, precise perfect.
Truth will guide my path in glory and glaze.
This principle was blessed by my Dad
and has been stored in the core of my heart
That’s the firm pivot on which I can stand
and proceed at ease from the very start.
My inner voice told be to act right,
always behaving courageous.
Aiming justice, I am ready to fight.
Not religious but righteous.
I don't pray to rescue me from crisis
but ask for inherent strength to confront.
In barren desert I must find oasis.
Not to mourn for past , but to look at front.
My Inner voice told me to lend hand
to the needy and sufferers at best,
also to send juniors this errand,
to be followed by generation : Next.
Addressing me, Dear Dear, My Dear !
How could I wonder, what you are?
Simple an advice , can you hear ?
Take care of yourself : Am I clear ?
Lesson in preparatory :
Serve others , it's mandatory
to place in top category
and throughout life to carry.
Have courage to act righteous
with selflessness ! Oblivious.
Keep fit yourself to help others.
Lend helping hand to sufferers.
Self confidence is your pivot
Dynamism is your pilot.
Honesty is sail of your boat
Take bricks of truth to build your fort.
Already you have reached last phase
Now to leave all whims and craze,
as death is stepping to erase
your involvements and golden days.
This is a call to all sufferers
hanging themselves in their own arms
apart from the one they desire
tired of nights sleeping alone
restless in grave prisons of the
place they would rather be,
whispering wishes and psalms to the
silence of walls that will never speak.
Seeking out their most beloved unknowns
that which they do not know outside of sleep,
the reason for their itch to stay in bed
for its ease to dream and play on nocturnal grounds
away from emptiness of waking
when time is occupied by working and despair and drinking.
An escape to care and to be cared for unconditionally
from the depths of a majestic heart,
that reciprocates the true yearning
between two divine animals
to frolic and escape the solitude
of the malnourished zoo of the world.
I am sorry to the ones
Who never had a chance
No love nor opportunities
Due to circumstance
I am sorry to the unheard
The unseen, the forsaken
The forgotten, the disregarded
The ones from which life has only taken
I am sorry to the neglected
The mistreated, the ostracised
The abandoned, the rejected
Where love and nurture were never prioritised
I am sorry to the lost and lonely
The ones in turmoil and pain
The sufferers, the fearful
The ones with who sorrow reigns
I am sorry for all the bleakness and helplessness
The unfairness, hurt, cruelty that many endure and face
“It is never right nor fair”
Life can be an unkind and unjust place
From my heart …..I am truly sorry!
A good man of great stature
A presence so strong
Head of a company, head of the family
The place he belonged
Now he sits in a care home
A toy cat cradled in his arms
Imprisoned in his own mind
Void of worry or harm
Life is a blessing that is true
Yet is tainted with such a sad side
Like the sufferers of devastating dementia
Victims of the Long Goodbye!
Time is too slow
for the anxious sufferers...
Too quick for the fearful.
A flash for the greedy
and celebratory acolytes,
further than a penalty,
for those who lose it...
For those who live in love,
is always immortal
and infinite...!
i posted this poem and got a hundred instant hits ~ my wrist’s sore
next time i need self inflation ~ i’ll tap my muse and beg a bit more
and carpal tunnel sufferers out there ~ these monokus don’t ignore
LIFE IS A SONG
Life is beautiful, life is precious.
Make life lovable and marvelous.
Meet challenge of life being righteous.
Every step of life must be gracious.
Optimistic zeal to run gorgeous.
Devotion on action ! Oblivious.
Love and compassion to make life glorious.
To fight for justice simultaneous.
Be prompt to lend your hand to sufferers.
Your help and service sure to get bonus.
Self confidence is pivot ! Obvious.
Not you and me ! We are for all of us.
Propel dynamic life : Be valorous.
Self sacrifice not superfluous.
Life is a song to sing mellifluous
on note of truth tuning melodious.
Lyrics of song to show petals of lotus.
Song of life not solo ! Sing in chorus.
Early morning delivers birdsong joys,
as the darkness is swept away by God.
Undulations for my ears, sonorous
and dear, over and over - I ponder
small bodies with feathers, noteworthy songs.
Why does their cadence console us each day
as the sunrise breaks forth with cheeriness?
How awfully sad that the night dwellers sleep!
They douse their ears with flammable liquid.
I weep for soused sufferers who miss out!
I spied the church steeple, with a “caw, caw.”
I bet those crows are there each day to greet
those seeking the inner doors of its peace.
Who notices but I, the poetess?
Who cares at all if crows speak well of us?
We need intimacy with ourselves
to be able to listen
the soul of the sufferers...
The bleating of the suffering lamb,
understand the pain of those who cry,
hear the laments of the wretched,
read the good book thought
that proves the divine wonder,
so we can read ourselves
and dialogue with the silence
to reach fullness of being
divine creature...!
Located in the perfect place
Filed in transparent drawer
Unruly impediments erased
Facets interact free of flaw
Seamless system clockwork
Methods remain meticulous
Design drawn up by a doctor
Considered, inconspicuous
Routine guides a room's tidy
Itemising verbatim shelves
Briefcase organised abiding
Data struck upon first delve
Packed in precise patterns
Utility is readily predicted
Shipshape sailing on satin
Scurvy sufferers evicted
Fold exposes name brand
Recognised categorically
Regular overhauls planned
Excess viewed as slovenly
Upkeep travels compact
In zipped compartments
Disarray tends to detract
Regimented requirements
8th of **** April
Faint flame emergent from neurotransmitters.
The brain, a torch arranging patterns of awareness,
patterns of recall, encounters, adventures, and ordeals.
Covert consciousness realized in coma patients,
detected in vegetative invalids by the analyzers
of EEGs, the probers of the mind.
Bedridden with no signs of life,
These sufferers were long thought braindead.
The only question; when to withdraw life support.
But our deepest traces do often linger with immobility.
Our hardly perceptible scintillas send measurable signals.
They offer no bodily changes, no responses to cues.
They never give themselves away in behaviors.
Yet, science now knows them as genuine.
Are these the souls and ghosts felt by our ancestors?
Are these the wraiths and apparitions feared
by so many?
Created from the temporal, assembled from
life, is their structure entirely in the mind?
Maybe part of their energy resides in other realms,
places in and out of which they drift at our death.
Accepted for publication: The Opiate Journal, spring 2023
A field full of lovely black-eyed susans
A patch of ground I must view from afar,
For my allergies flare at the intrusions
My sinuses start burning like fire.
My eyes erupt in uncontrollable tears,
The nasal passages completely plug up,
I feel like my head is about to explode
I’ll have a miserable allergic flare-up.
Ragweed causes a similar reaction
Whenever I am near it, sight unseen,
So, I have learned to avoid these plants
Allergy sufferers will know what I mean!
Written June 17, 2022
Preparing The Lips for repeated groans
And The Heart for as many moans,
Left long in it one’s contacting phone:
“To whom it concerns I’m pitiably alone!”
Suffering never was a stepping stone
To our Remote-Controlled Throne,
For all its merits steadily overblown
And at Non-sufferers readily thrown …
Some bit Suffering releases in The Grown
With the doggedness he’d sown:
The often insupportable lighter,
The Rather Darker, Much Brighter
Tasked legs that no longer totter
A furnace now cooler that was hotter.
Still, The Never Ceasing Suffering
Keeps Singular Pain Offering
And as a spring board
The Regionally Broad.
Faster advancing The Dish-Washing American
Than A Nigerian Mover of filled Jerry can.
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