A beggar grabbed my hand and cried for some spare change.
At first, I offered him a sweet memory of food or a tasteless sip of divine water, but he asked for money.
I had a heavy coin and gave it to him.
I wondered why he took only the money, and when he saw it, he immediately placed it in a different spot.
I asked why.
I offered you food and water—you rejected both, and now you hide the coin.
He said it was the most different one, and if he didn’t hide it, other people would start accusing him that the coin was wrong, that it shouldn’t be used—because its print was different, because its color didn’t match theirs.
There is music in the silence, in the rest of unheard notes. That is where I hold my breath. Where the universe spins out its code for me to read. I watch as the unfallen sky reveals her mystery. Language unfolds in choreography, dancing between each blink of intention.
But I have questions
If time is not real, then what are we?
Poison and the cure, she screams at crashing volumes. No one sees.
I lay in the soporific sequel, turning over in the concavity of restlessness. Trials of the past collide with warm static forming variations of need. They are all tied to strings. She strums them with shades of night. The unfallen sky weeps. No one is listening.
Stress cannibalizes stones hungry for frailty but each is weighted in expectation. High caloric bites of the unknown. Bitter tones of perceived reality. The answer is in everything we devour. In the stillness of cognition yet all we do is eat.
The mother feeds
The mother weeps
Begging for her witness
As they all sleep soundly in her suffering
Barked with nature's firm hope,
Branches of nature's strong faith,
Sappers of nature's sweet love:-
Embers of crucufixion,
Leaves of reesurrection borne:-
Roots bearing tribulations:
Trunking annunciation:-
Living and dying,
juxtaposed realities;
life's cradles and graves:-
The Symbolic Life
Nine years old
And picking candy
Off the shelf at Woolworth.
Two Tootsie rolls, and
A Rolo, then a bite off of
A wax bottle filled with sugar.
Forty nine years old,
And picking candy out of
My medicine bottle,
Two Oxycodones,
And a Morphine,
And bite off a Valium.
Once envoys carried messages, betwixt those Royal thrones of Kings.
Scrolls of vellum parchments, all bearing wax insignia, impressed with signet rings.
These symbols of authenticity, made safe passage, through far flung foreign fields.
Where chivalry of gallant knights gave sanctuary, armed with swords and shields.
While Kings and Queens spoke of those deeds, by proclamation, made them law.
Preventing bloodshed needlessly, upon battlefields of war.
Once, candle flames on red wax, and signet rings, were used in days gone by.
Now those documents of state are stamped, by die and counter die.
Where independance from the past, the President holds sway.
This National Symbol of the United States, hangs proudly on display.
Just a guide post along your way
One of many. You will see every day
Meant to guide you as you pass on by
Words of wisdom to help you fly
A guide post standing there alone
One of many. That will shown
On whatever path you take
Whatever choice you make
There to help you get further along
Not meant to lead you wrong
Little bits of wisdom gathered along the way
What direction you should stay
Leading to where and to whom you should be
All these passing signs you did see
Meant to show the way as you pass on by
While through this life you try to fly
Of your life they are just a part
Of any journey you will ever start
Head them well
The way, they will always tell
Symbolic Hearts
After falling in love with a tart
He said: ”I’ll send her a symbolic heart”
His friends quite perplexed
Cried: “you’re oversexed”
Don’t do it who knows what you’ll start.
John G. Lawless
©1/24/2023
snowstorm related
she drowned trying to glide across the lake
violets are thrown in the center
her favorite perfume still lingers in the air
i remember her transistor radio
i remember her potable 8 track player
i remember her walkman
i remember her thingaamabobetta to play 45s on
my favorite was her hidden collection of vintage 78s
rainstorm worn
she drowned while trying to float while breathless under the lake
lilacs are thrown leftmost symbolizing her specially talented hand
here decorated wheelchair is now a landmark of upliftment
i remember her collection of needles
i remember her muilfaceted threads and yarns
i remember her 'brown sugar drawings'
i remember her baby blue sewing machine
my favorite was here hidden collection of vintage quilts
the Mostly Appreciated Parts were the pleasure of their company's inspiration
i sit indian style in loving memory of Them Both.....
exploration
of the sensually
accessible
in
visual
phenomena
parallel picture
planes
of the totality
of life
attentive vital
explorations
imagined
refractions
rippling
foaming
frescoes
of
melancholy
paradise
made comprehensible
seeking harmony
concentrated&
focused
dream visions
of
inspiration
unparalleled
in
boldness
heightened
to the
point
of ecstasy
SYMBOLIC FLOWER OF SPRING
cherry blossoms bloom
in spring time, breathtaking sight
of pale pink flowers
11/7/20 Any Nature Inspired Haiku Tania Kitchin PS Poem Syllable Counter
Forlorn Love – A Red Rose Dead
Love oft finds its symbolic meaning in
the beauty and grandeur of the red rose.
This symbolic meaning reflects as well
the true meaning of love shared by two.
The magic and real passion of love itself
forms the chemistry that bonds two lovers.
The wondrous nature of love fires emotions as
it touches the depth of the human soul replete.
The innate beauty of a red rose is an image that
compels star-crossed lovers so smitten by love.
Alas, when a romantic love over time becomes a
forlorn love, its red rose image withers and dies.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
December 12, 2018 (Lyric)
The sun vanishes over the horizon,
Leaving tear drops of light in the sky.
I watch it sink -
Solemnly,
Sadly,
Somberly -
Past the mountains.
Daylight is your face.
I am in the dark now,
Trying to thrive
While you are not here.
Your glow is addicting -
It kisses my skin
And caresses my hair
In bright strokes of light.
When you return to me,
My days are filled
With joy and laughter.
When you leave me,
My nights are lonely and dark.
I wish I could spend
All of my hours
With you, but you leave me
For the other side of the earth
To bring light to other people.
You are my sun,
And I know I am your sun too.
I miss you, my sun.
Please come back to me.
Blackened cubes of naturality stomache across the pains of a million screaming faces
Crushed by the weight of two ton pound horsehell and drowned in the unthoughtfulness of the moon's cruel disregard towards the emotions of the ground-up grime of the Earth.
Her circular orbit brings punishment towards the agony and despair of crying mothers
Wailing and screaming all day but her arrogance mutes all.
Selfish. Unjustified. No one hears the cries of undeserved gnashing and torture
Day after day, she slams and beats down her unrelenting eternal rage upon them.
Nothing to save them. Nothing can fire bring upon their release.
The Earth is temporary. The Moon is forever.
Even after the fire she will continue on in her rage. The sources forced to suffer
her eternal beatings even after the rest of time and time on again.
Screaming and crying and grieving for the rest of eternity.
No death. Just the sweet eternal bliss of immortality.
(Originally Written 3/21/2019)
You ask me pointed questions
about where I stand,
as if a statement
makes a difference.
How much assistance
does the homeless veteran receive
when someone says
“I care?”
Do words of support
fill the empty stomach
of the child sitting
in an empty kitchen?
Does a Facebook post
with dramatic picture
heat a cold apartment,
while the landlord saves money?
I’ll ignore your persistent inquiries
for symbolic gestures.
Not be diverted
from doing what I do to help.
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