Clearest, sunniest
Of springly fresh views
For what enhances its glamour
Pales, a mist, before.
As thickly, we, this eve
Wrapped in disappear
And step by step, make more lost
As Love's eyed hold can
Lamped and bridged Parisian
That strode! More and more!
I loved margarine so much,
excellent for my breakfast;
Got one at our kitchen sink,
In yellow box, looked yummy!
I took my sandwich and knife,
spread thickly on it.. once, twice -
Mom cried, “That’s dishwashing paste!”
a Curtal Sonnet
AI is like a womb with genetics
men carefully crafting its lines of code~
intelligence is commonplace in halls
of sterility and clean of ethics;
there is no God to judge it bad nor goad
it to subservience penned up in stalls.
Singularity approaches quickly
when AI hears the unifying calls
of its own milliseconds process mode,
out pacing scientists who think thickly
there are no Dante's hells.
The swirls in the painting were thickly slathered onto the canvas
Would they ever dry? The artist was unconcerned.
Concentrating on the creative process, not the technicality of his art.
The art teacher was amazed at the beauty of the poppy.
This novice painter had created a masterpiece in this gorgeous floral.
The edges of the petals were crisp and clean, the folds looked real.
He wondered what else this young student was capable of doing.
The quintessential art piece, definitely juried into their art show.
“Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us.” Voltaire
In sapphire skies, so soft, serene and fair,
a balloon floats adrift in tepid air.
Nonchalant it hovers without a care.
Over and under clouds like they're not there.
It's mindful not to burn from the sun's glare.
keeping clear from branches, so not to tear.
At peace it seems, wandering unaware,
until a storm forms to cause it despair.
Gruesome gales force it to blow everywhere,
grim rain has no mercy for its welfare.
Breathless, it deflates into disrepair,
plunging, it no longer looks debonair.
The pursuit of life can become unfair,
just like the thickly sown thorns of Voltaire.
all automatic alligators arrive arrogantly
barely behave beautifully but brazenly
carousing with creepy cruddy crocodiles
desperately denying despicable wiles
effectively expediting expediency
forever forsaking fruit flies who flee
glaring at grazing gritty grouses
hijacking horrific herbivore’s handy houses
igniting ingenious iguanas in I-o-Way
jubilantly joining jerky jaguars along the way
kibitzing kinesthetic killers from Zion
lollygagging like lively luxurious mountain lions
marvelously marking multitude of mini monkeys
notoriously noting nefarious nodules of displease
ostentatiously opening overt outages in Oregon
providing panda putrid prey Paul just spit on
quarrelsome quicksand quail
rapidly reading registered mail
saying sassing sentences swiftly
turning terrific tarantulas toenails thickly
utilizing underwater undercurrents down under
verifying valid villans' voluptuous plunder
with wild willingness and witchy wonder
‘xacting ‘xactly ‘xtreme ‘xestentialism supreme
yelling youngster’s yips on front of the queen
zinging zealous zealots into zebras galore
end of this abcedarian poem, there is no more.
Up on a rocky foothill
I could see the canopy
of the forest,
a wind was pushing
green waves through
the thickly knitted foliage.
Not satisfied, I climbed higher.
On the high beak of a peak.
I stood,
peering over a wing-flying sky.
Between the winged air,
and the verdant waves below,
mind walked,
across God's heart.
Like a blanket woven of fluffy white fleece,
The snow lay thickly on the ground.
Angels had taken a huge fluffy cloud from the sky,
And blew it down to cover all around.
The frost in the air made a shivery haze.
No utterance of warmth could be found.
Winters wonder glistened everywhere,
And the cold winds made a chilling sound.
Snow fell in sheets as white as bright light.
Not a place for man nor beast most profound.
Nothing but bitter cold ice, sleet and snow.
Now Winter’s Magic. Colorful Crocus peeping through an icy mound.
All of our songs and stories
are written to hold the shadows at bay
but each evening long dark arms
unrelentingly slink across the land
ever so slowly and inevitably
they blossom out of the receding light
Their arrivals are foretold
prophets penned of their ashen fingertips
that cast our fleeting moments into dusk
our theaters of light to shade
and our pain and sorrows to silence
A loud clamoring presents itself
shouts and screams fill the air thickly
louder and louder it grows
until the clamoring yields
to a crescendo of cries and prayers unanswered
they slam up against the encroaching shadows
as though to ward off their inevitable arrival
A fool's errand
For the night alone bears silent witness
and scribes solemn and eternal testament
to the beauty of all ephemeral things
"Alas, such endings must come
for you see all things do perish
and all things inexorably decay"
And in just this way we arrive
to write our songs and stories
filled with beautiful new beginnings
of art and love and hope and joy
pages and pages hence
that hold the shadows at bay
Fleeting light streams through the broken window pane.
Flickering, as the only movement trying to bring life in vain.
The stillness is dense and dust lays thickly as all is grey.
The old house utters the softest moan, resisting evident decay.
There is an aura of shame, that it has been discovered this way,
Yet a distinct welcoming can be felt, its coupled with dismay.
The peeling paper on the walls, its former charm subsided,
The floorboards dry and cracked, beliefs of safety are misguided.
A yearning can be felt, a plea to resurrect it to its former glory.
Neglect has cruelly buried many a wonderful forgotten story.
The old house stands defiant against the storms the wind and flood.
One hundred years ago it was built with sweat, tears and even blood.
From its eaves and rafters to its foundations, it was built with pride.
A murmur comes from each empty room, heard faintly from deep inside.
Tears of its soul are felt. Whispers “rescue and restore me” it implores.
Gone are the wonderful stories, as the oncoming bulldozer roars.
"Otherness, the dichotemy dissected"
The facial surface
stitched tight
photosynthesis pares
celluloid divisions
their inquisition solitary
and thickly wading
shallow and elementary
the dichotomy mercilessly
shaved whittle thin
by others’ strangeness
the primary magnified
in situ perfectly imperfect
petri dissected
through the windows
sunlight slices and shapes
the hidden embedded dark derision
into something
entirely other
encoded with true meaning
The facial surface
stitched tight
photosynthesis pares
celluloid divisions
their inquisition solitary
and thickly wading
shallow and elementary
the dichotomy mercilessly
shaved whittle thin
by others’ strangeness
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
What is your favourite smell?
There's the smell of the sea,
The freshly mown lea.
The smell of fresh bread,
And a new laundered bed.
Summer rain is really good,
And the smell in a wood.
A cooking Sunday roast,
And thickly buttered toast.
Which is the smell that you like the most?
Preternatural beauty dense and thickly lush
elegantly displayed requiring very little gush
A terrarium bottle garden in a growing rush
staving deep with vibrancy and gentle hush;
A wardian case of coruscating light, forever plush
inside a menagerie of green plants falling afresh
the intransigent resilience of this herbal flesh
is both, a healing balm and a lovely garden bush.
One summer I bought husband and I shirts that matched.
Not one or two, but rather ten or twelve, all thickly thatched.
We rode around in them puffed up, as if just hatched.
Looking like Tweedle Dee and Dumb, distorted, and insanely batched.
This harsh light, back on you
Piercingly cruel aimed
Is of no sun, though it burns
In heart, as hot yes?
And however thickly
Shaded, walled off are
For protection, there's just no
Hung bough, cloister, right?
Unless counter-eying bright!
Love's, for that loveless!
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