I’ve no defense for your delusions;
You always justify your lies.
Your words & actions contradict so much;
That tears are always in my eyes.
In lacking confidence you lose stature;
So you're worrying needlessly;
It’s your own temper that betrays you;
So please stop accusing me.
Passion shadows insecurities;
Love needs compromise & trust.
When invaded by jealous, selfishness;
It leaves a you & me… No Us.
Death Bed Poetry: Dylan Thomas
Alcohol and co-dependence make poor conspirators
Delivering more a life driven by inquisitors
Dylan Thomas poet and drinker
Part time lover and full-time thinker
In fading health and across the sea
He gathered himself for one last spree
The White Horse Tavern welcomed the man
And there he started his final stand
"I've had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record!"
Alcohol, pneumonia, and Doctor Feltenstein were more than he could afford
Caitlin flew in to remark, "Is the bloody man dead yet?"
Comatose and failing, the bard was not quite there yet.
Still and silent, and lying abed
A few hours later and Dylan was dead
having gone "Gentle into that good night"
with no further words and such little fight.
Thus, the end of our Welsh poet Dylan
a bit of a rogue but not such a villain
who now learns Death does have dominion
in spite of the bard's differing opinion.
You came in quiet, steady hands
like Vivien Thomas in a crowded room
studying the pieces I thought were lost
tracing the cracks no one else could see.
Your words were gentle, your laugh a balm
mending what others left in pieces
stitch by stitch, you held my brokenness
turning fear into something soft and whole.
You didn’t rush me, didn’t try to fix too fast
just knew how to let the hurt breathe
and slowly, I felt my heart remember
how to trust, how to beat again.
Now every pulse carries your touch
a quiet miracle I never saw coming
my heart healed, my soul steady
all because you knew how to stay.
a friend told me
it was highly recommended
but then maybe everything is?
i met friends for drinks during the day
i read poetry on the bus
and the combination of this
and seeing a fistfight in the middle of the road
pure exuberance
mr. toad at the wheel
i looked up penguin's top one-hundred novels ever
chocolate beer crafted in berkshire
and reading one after another intoxicated
i will rearrange penguin's list
depending on how far i get lost in them
sitting at the kitchen table - tanked.
do not go gentle into that good race
Tired muscles should burn and ache by race’s end
Run, run against the slowing of your pace
Try not to get scared, scariest stories
I was just in my room, socking it. That’s when Larry and the creature, and they pickled my chilli dog, and that’s when Larry. I was driving in my Bergen truck, drunk, that’s when I saw a deer, I was later pulled over for DUI and killing a deer. Asgore. Once Diddy diddled my diddle he did. James?
I am grateful for the words on Thomas Paine…
whose words, like me, are a little old and time-worn…
but convey every parents’ dream from the time our children are born.
It is a dream we parents have…a dream that will never cease:
‘I prefer peace.
But if trouble must come let it come in my time
So that my children can live in peace.’
Admirable
Tough
Lots of energy
Abrasive
Sunset
Trusting
Hardworking
Original
Mature-ish
Accommodating
Sociable
Balanced
Ultimate edition
Candid
Healthy
Abundant
Non-nonchalant
Agile
Neighborly
mountains white
bathed in the light
of sunset bright
dusk lingers
sun's fingers
are joy bringers
humble homes
with tent-like domes
shine like chromes
nestled here
where nature's near
spreads tranquil cheer
pine trees tall
heeding winter's call
rustle in the squall
a river flows nearby
gurgling waters sigh
lingering dusk catches my eye
and reminds me of...
... God on high
a perfect
place
a peaceful
space
for a time of
reverent renewal
a moment of silence
to refuel
the trees
soften the light
creating harmonies
of shadows and hues bright
fragrant floral aromas
float in the air
in this small sanctum
of solitude fair
birds sing happily
in the trees
as if a church choir
praising God with ease
thanking Him for the
grace given
to this little
garden of heaven
look and listen and
allow His presence
to fill our hearts
in its small world essence
the gazebo of prayer
helps connect with Providence
a beacon for all of us
in providing guidance
a shelter, a haven
a refuge, a retreat
getting lost in this gazebo
where my God I greet
let me find
let me stay
in this wonderful
hideaway
where the murmur of
waters rushing gently
is ablaze with flowers
hued differently
and the scene bathed
in a silvery light
a vision of Eden
unspoiled and bright
the mystery and wonder
of God's creation
the rich variety
of nature's formation
where I am
fed
where I am
led
beside waters
calm
where peace
is a balm
He restores
my soul
and makes me
whole
I feel
refreshed
and totally
blessed
beside
waters still
God
shows me
His will
Where beauty
meets passion
the scarlet
of compassion
the emblem
of love
of heart's greatest
emotion thereof
God's trampled
red rose
a messenger of hope
He chose
sacrificed His child
in a world
sin beguiled
thorns on His head
the Rose
of Sharon bled
divine love seen
His blood red
washed us clean
His child reborn
no more stung
by sin thorn
my soul
now glows
inspired by
the perfect
red
rose
Edison
most of us think electric light bulb
it took him 10, 000 recorded tries
that is 9, 999 failures
but he did it.
Edison
did you know he also invented the motion picture camera?
in 1892?
he had such an amazing mind
I have no idea how many failures he had before he got it right.
He was a persistent genius.
Edison
(HIM)-->Thomas J. Hanks tells me don't make a scene,
My blest poetry will make true my dream,
Here's your first check for starters,
Contract to sign--FROM HUSTLERS!<--(Me)
church--witty--no vulgar--sex magazine.
In Dylan Thomas's word play is read,
That hunched houses, blind as moles, are spread,
Like covers, feather-downed,
To hush and muffle any sound,
The moon dares make, sneaking overhead.
Town named 'Bugger All' backwards, parades
Its hang-over from late night charades,
Not a voice can be heard,
Not a breath, not a word,
As the moonlight creeps in, wearing shades.
In Under Milk Wood it's black as black.
It's crow-black, bluesy black, harking back,
To times long gone, dispelled,
When tiny towns were spelled,
For one to reconsider its quack.
Seas are fishing boat bobbled to rage.
Boys dream bad, on jolly roger stage.
Shops in mourning do moan.
Dumbfound town folks do groan.
Too late cock, morning's long up on page.
Related Poems