Thus, do I write of simpler things
Of missing buttons, knotted strings
Of mystery when the doorbell rings
For I have seen the snowman fail
To answer long forgotten mail
Crazed pumpkin faces slowly scowl
As quickly fades the midnight howl
I write of fingers new to mittens
The tempting lure of purring kittens
Of threadbare shirts and tattered jeans
Of baby steps, of living’s themes
For soup is better when it’s slurped
And babies happier when burped
I write of ripples, not of waves
Of what one gives, not what one saves
I seed the edges of the soul
For loneliness makes no one whole
And dare not peek over my shoulder
For I am aging not growing older
John G. Lawless
©7/28/2026
Hollow hand led shallow world your
grave you dug for me.
To keep in sleep.
When deep within your hole I live,
and breath.
Then die again once more each day, I am.
Must I see, the tearing yes, give in to pain,
that bore the best, too him, I am your grave,
lest I forget your life within my sun, it's blinded eye.
You must be his lifer and you her padded cell.
I see denial in us all, each living death can't sell.
If I see enough and how you made me feel,
each then and now your past you make again.
Now I can not touch your robe of black,
it's hem I always felt, such was it once my friend.
While beating others as a child, you knew I ran away.
Organizing pain of they whom were like I, now dead.
Even now in death, you know they have no name.
That white washed house in Florida knew but pain.
Arthur G. Dozier School for Boys
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
sturdy foundations shake
mountains look down on the storm ~
silent grace blooms bright
The dead know nothing of the moon’s cold grace,
Nor how it spills like milk upon the sea;
They do not ache for touch, nor dream of faces lost in each word.
Their hands are folded like unanswered prayers,
Their lips forget the shape of your name,
And time—soft tyrant—has no rule on them.
I envy them their silence, cruel, dark and deep,
Yet fear the peace that knows no pulse, no sound of the sweat we leave in the ground.
The roses on their graves still blush with heat,
While those hearts below lie colder than stone.
If love could raise them, I would tear the veil—
But what if they no longer cared to rise?
What if the dead have learned what was said —
That hope is only hunger within the tail end,
And memory, a serpent eating light?
I think they rest because they’ve ceased to dream,
And that, perhaps, is mercy’s final work of art.
And thus comes the flame.
Nothing belongs to you more
than your dreams.
my parents have taught me well
to survive when they are dead and gone
and now that they are I must live my life
in a way that would make them proud of me
whatever work- I give it my all
I try to live in the moment and enjoy living
for I am on this earth but for a short time
the grave waits whispering my name
the teachings of the nuns still heard
and I am proud of that each day
the teachings of God drilled into me
giving me tranquility, kindness, and humility
I have a gentle spirit and use my wisdom
and knowledge well
The vision of beauty is crucial.
By maintaining this ability,
human beings do not age!
Travel is not a right
But a privilege, thus spoke Zarathustra
In his most late incarnation
Travelling is tied with applying
But it’s more than ridiculous to ask for privileges.
Especially since the answer is known.
Zarathustra's commodity is hate
I'm not tempted to support his drama
Let those who agree to pay
Have the privilege.
Though, according to Zarathustra's logic
The right to privilege is not legalised
Kneel down, travellers
Someday you'll be pitied
You’ll get the right to buy
The burning date for the bus tour
To the most privilaged holy places
There you may take some selfies
Get the table to eat outside
The same instant meal
That you can have in your hometown
At half a price
Afterwards you’ll get the AI reminders
Sort of “remember that day?”
-When I was young, I thought
that money was the most important thing
in the world. Today, I'm sure. !!!
There is a fair measure in things
there is a middle ground in everything
there must be order even in the mess
est modus in rebus
Nihilism,
write thirteen beautiful lines,
the longest one in the merriam-webster
Cosmos and cosmic,
Lunar eclipse and Aurora Borealis,
milky way and the interstellar
Synecdoche,
you and I are no good
to linger longer with the charm in an alternative essay
The round trip home
is often the loneliest deadly, a painstaking pain, humble
to tone down a possessive aimless, of little or no mayhem, subtle
mascara, eloquence and dropping gets a lot of sounds for the sounding clay
and I drop the course
Underneath the moonlit night, they gather even for the balcony light and sing
those impeccable songs, one after another
What is a good read line for a mystic moon?
a mundane, a seamstress or your song! Soaring high at midnight to fly along the moon!
Keep this simple, you are giggling beside you, and you are fixing the econo cap too, a croon!
This is late, and thus long!
Thus said Shakespeare
" in poetry nothing is created
everything is copied "
PS. Thus he was known, he said
that in a certain way he plagiarized verses, because
everything had already been thought before
by someone else...
He only sees reason
In those who sing with him
The same song.
He disagrees with what you say
And does not defend you but applauds
Your right to say stupid WORDS...
“Pure hearts take from God permission ~
To feel in heart, bliss ignition”
~ quote by poet
We know yet deny, each breath’s new
It’s a gift from God, we abuse
For we follow not, our heart’s muse
Where’s our childlike heart, pure like dew
When we were born, our soul was pure
Why then now are our steps unsure
Trapped in form, we’re caged in this zoo
Walking as though we’re in a daze
Lost and bewildered in life’s maze
We’re desperate for a breakthrough
It seems ego’s broken love’s link
No wonder then, we sink, we sink
Show us God; nothing less will do
With the pulse of bliss magnetism
Set aflame this mind-body prism
We know yet deny, each breath’s new
Where’s our childlike heart, pure like dew
Trapped in form, we’re caged in this zoo
We’re desperate for a breakthrough
Show us God; nothing less will do
Where lies the fulcrum of a sneeze
Or for that matter, flow of breath
And joy graced by love’s healing meth
Who’s most enlivened by the breeze
Is it the skin, mind or the heart
As bliss is added to soul’s cart
When will we wake up and unfreeze
Free from clutches of our ego
By simply choosing to forgo
How may our cravings we release
Save by melding with the vast void
No longer by thought forms decoyed
What’s the path to ascend with ease
Is it in symbols or in space
To touch God and feel His embrace
Where lies the fulcrum of a sneeze
Who’s most enlivened by the breeze
When will we wake up and unfreeze
How may our cravings we release
What’s the path to ascend with ease
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