tangled
ensnared by doubt
trussed in hesitation
we add layered complexity
baffling
plain truth
simplicity
when clarity takes hold
it peels away layers to reach
the pith
Here I come to save the day!
That means that Mighty Mouse is on his way!
This theme song delighted us in the sixties, we knew what to expect
Our Super hero began flying toward us, starting out as tiny speck.
When he got closer, we began to cheer and shout.
We knew someone was going to get the wrath of his clout.
He took us to exotic locals like Switzerland, Holland and Italy.
Sometimes he would bring prehistoric times into our TV.
No matter where Mighty Mouse went, he saved the day.
With this super mouse, villains did not dare try to play.
He pounded and pummeled them and trussed them up too.
Watching these bullies get what they deserved never made me blue.
The cold, so cold ground
Binding and pulling
And holding me down
Embraced by the crypt
Confined and restrained
And life’s breath stripped
Stygian inked
Such stifling dark
And soul’s light extinct
I find myself here
Trussed by death’s grave
Without hope, just fear
In the cold, cold ground
Decayed and corrupt
Neath my burial mound
Really Mommy? The annoyed preteen kitty cat said.
I am trussed up and there are antlers on my head.
Do not fuss said Mama Cat or you can be the tree.
Stuck with a blinking star and tinsel scratchy to thee.
In toiling times
the resilient state
of self-discipline
connects conscience
with perennial precept
in the algorithm of being
with ego abandoned
the meaning of life
measured emotionally
with essence quotient
of inspiring insight
defines the transcendence
of enigmatic existence
harmoniously enshrined
within the latent
human distillate.
Buoyant beyond
the storm of strife
convivial calmness
flows flawless
with composed current
of sensuous sentiment
submerging surge
of lavish love
and
embalming empathy
spread suffused
with optimistic opulence
on restored shore
of serene soul
unwavering mind
trussed secured
with scrupulous roots
of sanctified psyche
the thwarting thrust
of negative sensitivity
fades in sanguine air
blows away
the base instincts
in the wisdom wind
of ethical acuity.
With moral fiber
of positive passion
consciously creative
innovative mind
weaves the tapestry
of timeless acumen
embedded enmeshed
within motionless motif
of inner bliss
in the frame
of placating prudence
the art of living
manifests magnificently
the masterpiece.
I cannot face a whole turkey
for when I see the leg sticks
trussed up in the air
it is undignified
and reminds me
there will be no more running days
no more flirting days
no more chasing dancing courting days
for this particular fowl
I prefer to purchase a turkey breast
knowing that you can live without a breast
it makes me feel less like a killer
more civilized somehow
as I push the corpse into the turkey bag.
There are killings,
suffocation in gullet
hell holes, decapitations
by mandibles stalking in shadows,
death pits at the bottom
of slippery throated flowers
and racked on a web,
a struggling moth
slowly turning into soup.
My garden is a slaughter
field littered with the leftovers
from deadly feasts.
And the victims….what
of their inaudible cries,
the screams broadcast
on wavelengths beyond
my ear. Do they plead
for mercy, feel pain
register in whatever
rudimentary brain animates
their brief lives.
Help me ! Please help me !
does the moth cry,
feeling the spiders fangs
penetrate and pump poison
into its trussed body.
Or do I give such
small life undue significance
affording it compassion
when it should be exempt.
But where's the line ?
Size ?
Its propensity for domestication,
its rank on an arbitrary scale ?
The perfumed beauty
of a single flower diverts
the senses and disconnects
attention to the suffering
of small things.
We are blissfully unaware.
Does anyone hear them,
does anyone care,
or does life's little screams
fall into an uncaring nothingness
and if so, then what of our own.
I prayed for peace
No prayers were heard
I wondered if God existed
Their hands turned red
Lots of blood on the ground
I wondered whose blood was
The world of today is rumbustious
Their behavior is quiet obvious
It's every humans' right to do as they "please"
Who am I to restrict them from satisfaction of their desires?
My hands are trussed
We are lost with no direction like a wind
We are at the deepest point
Of which we can't simply make a knot
For us to never get misled
By our cold hearts that are devious
Unable to forgive each other and bury the hatchet
We have buried ourselves inside
Inside we are dying with regret,outside we care less
We live to set an example,be aware of the actions
We need peace within ourselves
The blood shed is enough
We still need to live altogether
Be peaceful like a dove,find peace planetary
Your presence
is a fluttering in the throb of my pulse.
Our wide-open eyes collide
with a zealous sexual urgency.
Your body heat
swirls beneath my skin
as we wrestle with fierce passions.
We are clasped in the hasp
of a thankful ardor,
saturated and pulled
with pleasure-trussed
stirrings.
That was then;
that was when young people
were not so young.
Now I take my ese
watch songbirds
come to the garden feeder,
count sparrows
as they bathe in a glittering puddle.
There are many paths to arousal,
nowadays I take the slow way,
hold your aging hand
enjoying the love-making
of this year’s youthful squirrels
as they chase each other
in the trembling tee-tops.
The evening arrives gently
ushers us to rest
within those timeless arms
that the well acquainted
always have for each other.
I live in rooms
housed in the interior,
some just small
cells cut into bone,
spaces barely big enough
to fit a soul.
Others offer more
with sweeping views
of oceans, mountains, waterfalls
spilling endlessly over
sun drenched escarpments
and long corridors leading
to nowhere and everywhere
with mirrors splitting the mind
into light.
There are rooms groaning
under the weight of books,
learnings spun like sticky webs
that hold me trussed up
like prey. Heavens caught
in words and given wings
to float across time,
monuments brushed
by immortality and symphonies
so moving as to be
a breath away from pain.
Then there are
dark places with no windows
or doors, musty chambers
for the fallen and racks
stretched across nights where
a Grand Inquisitor exacts
confessions and sentences
the condemned to hell.
A lifetime has been spent inside
these rooms of my own making,
looking out onto a world set
by seasons which have
slowly seeped through
and worn away the walls
of my home.
From a mountain's crested height
I'm free of dread without fright,
since I grew wings to take flight,
'cross oceans I soar.
Aviator, flying high,
gravity, I can defy.
Great crashing waves I descry
o'er the ocean's shore.
Swiftly, I can flit and glide
like ebb and flow of the tide.
Never shall I be denied
hearing oceans roar.
A nest of twigs is my home
where I can view waves of foam.
Never again shall I roam
from oceans I adore.
Land lubbing is not for me.
My heart and soul agree.
Feathery, I choose to be,
I've oceans to explore.
I shall beseech, if I must,
to remain with my wings trussed.
Flying serves my wanderlust
for oceans and more.
************************
April 11, 2022
Tall Tales 2 Contest
Sponsored by Jeff Kyser
You flutter in my pulse
like a small bird,
open wide-eyes
beneath my skin.
We are clasped in the hasp
of an opening and closing,
saturated and indentured
to pleasure-trussed
stirrings.
Hunting angels illuminate
our tongues and fingertips.
If we move too far
from each other
our flesh goes blind.
Gratitude is not enough
we endow each moment
to reverence.
Neighborhoods burned. Riots laid them to waste
The world is tense with racial dissension
Judgement by color leaves an acrid taste
But God offers hope through intervention
He created us with skin, dark and fair
No one has the right to question His plan
We should ask for tolerance through prayer;
and accede that we are the race of man
On God, we should rely with faith and trust
Because living in dread and constant fear
will end with more hardships and a life trussed
and shackled by things we should hold most dear
We stand on the threshold of tomorrow ~
Better without prejudice and sorrow
September 6th 2020
A Better Tomorrow
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Each new person is a gift
Some wrapped in shiny foil paper
Tidied up with ribbons and bows
Others trussed inside brown paper
Restricted by an extra tight string
That chafes them, tearing into their souls
The challenge is easy.
All we have to do to fully enjoy them
Is to coax them or cajole them out of their wrappers
As we get to know them
They will either open up to reveal their truths
Or they will crawl into a corner and hide
Some will come out hissing and spitting
Angry that you want to know them at all
These are the ones who need love the most.
If you can scale their walls
Infusing friendship, understanding and love
You will have a forever-friend who will never leave
Trussed up in his armor the owl king led his army to victories
In battles up and down the Barbary Coast, and then some.
His reputation preceded him, as ruthless as he appeared to be.
In actuality, he was a kind and noble owl, who gave mercy.
Often, but with strings attached, so others would fear him.
Being feared went wing in wing with being powerful, which he adored.
Lady owls lined up to get a glimpse of this heroic king
Who paraded in their dreams even before they met him.
His deeds were sung by the bards around campfires,
In the dead of night, as the owl maidens sat in their treetops
Listening with their companion owls, who were as intrigued
As they were jealous of Langonbeak, the notorious owl king.
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