If you are struck by the thunder of torment,
the lightning lancet of distress shears your heart,
nonchalant you may resolve relaxed to never cry.
Solace sprouting from the compassion of someone dear,
bearing your load of anguish,
may melt the mists of your mind, sworn to never dissolve,
surge at unexpected touch,
and flow silently in the torrents of tears,
underscore never say never recognizes life’s fluidity
in the rational refusal to fold future in finality.
She opens her eyes at dawn,
Finding a moment of peace
Before the day is drawn.
Noise of life soon intrudes
To underscore futile busyness
Like improvised etudes.
I canceled my doctor’s appointment
The second time, due to the snow.
It’s to check on my eyes
But to no one’s surprise,
The predictions say I shouldn’t go.
It’s not an emergency visit,
But now I will be overdue.
I wanted things checked
But the blizzard’s effect
Is to underscore what is taboo,
Which is venture outside when the weather
May have whiteout conditions or worse.
I could trip on the ice
So I’ll follow advice
And stay home since the forecast’s adverse.
Maybe third time’s the charm will prove worthy
And on my next appointment, I’ll show.
Until then I’ll give in;
Mother Nature will win
And from home I’ll watch blizzard winds blow.
In a Paul Simon song
Called “Old Friends,” an exchange
Mentions how being 70’s
“Terribly strange.”
When he wrote those lyrics,
Let me underscore,
Simon’s age was, believe it
Or not, 24.
Most folks in their 20’s
Or decades way past,
Have no clue just how long
Their own vigor may last
Since we, each of us, age
At a different pace.
Some may carry their youth;
Others don’t hold a trace.
Yet Paul got one thing right,
For we must rearrange
Thoughts of “old” as we age
And it’s terribly strange.
Going nowhere in circles,
at 0.9 km/h with no stops in-between,
32 numbered capsules,
except (superstitiously) 'unlucky' thirteen.
George Ferris is the name
of the man to be cursed,
for it's he who's to blame,
as his was the first.
On the skyline, towering over the town,
the city's pageantry and history,
a blot, a blemish built, an affront to the Crown,
an as yet unsolved mystery,
as to why, despoiling the view,
and to underscore that which I deplore,
England's most popular tourist attraction,
is now the London Eyesore!
“A crimson sky breaks the distant shore”-
a perfect picture view that seems unreal;
the red and golden highlights underscore
God's beautiful and mystical reveal.
The water's edge reflects this lovely scene-
a double gift that soothes my tired soul
with rhythm in the ripples- and between,
the shimmering whitecaps complete His goal.
Such peaceful moments are the awesome prize
to grant me pleasure at this long day's end;
with artistry before these sleepy eyes
on God's amazing nature- I attend.
Oh, crimson sky, I'm lost in your sweet peace
no artist can outdo this work of art.
My thankfulness for beauty, I release
as your amazing canvas warms my heart.
We are much alone when old,
after lifetimes of accompaniment,
of tacit support and connection
from our friends and peers.
Must I now label as mental failing
sometime strange behaviors I exhibit?
These are a consequence of long living,
result in my speaking to the air, to myself and
to my beloved pets. No one else is around.
This becomes habitual. I explain that it is
only to retain my sanity, ability to speak,
to think, to hone skills of artful conversation,
of facile verbal composition.
Although silence may be soothing
or oppressive, calming or profoundly
disturbing, pets are a great comfort --
though they sometimes underscore
and magnify lack of human interaction.
Loneliness is a sad consequence
of aging, intensifying losses, magnifying
declining mental agility, dulling consciousness
of changes in behavior. To fill empty hours,
to calm fears, to feel at peace, welcome
the company and affection of pets.
Treat them as deserving beloved ones.
We should protect, support, preserve them.
They are as central to our lives
as we are to theirs.
If in his time the mechanism had existed, would he have written even more?
Would all his neighbors believe him mad? As he watched beauty succumb to deaths door
His ethos words impress; insanity only when possessing exquisite levels of horror
Incessantly; even more incessant rapping comes sanity from the walls, halls, ceiling, and floor
A split vision of a blackbird, he saw halves, though hearing nothing worthy of suffering I wager he'd underscore
So I ponder clearly on nights far less dreary, a legacy expanded if Edgar could've had a typewriter
Robert Sherriff, Australian Poet, Author, Singer, Actor, American Historian, Photographer
Robert Sherriff - Political Landscape
The political landscape is ever-evolving, and the events of January 12th, 2025, underscore that even seasoned politicians can falter. For Trump, future achievements will hinge on adopting innovative approaches, emphasizing meaningful policies, and promoting unity over division.
Cacophony of liquored lips
would underscore the room
That cafe bar that I recall
an adolescent’s doom
Yet not of age to then partake
of alcohol’s delight
For pizza, I remember well
indulgence of the night
My friend and I would wait inside
for carry-out to go
We’d sneak a look at follied fun
at things we’d come to know
And while we sat as patient boys
piano banged the eve
A white haired gal of eighty three
would play until we’d leave
She’d ragtime with a mighty blow
her keyboard full of cheer
We’d see her timely reach around
to grab her stein of beer
Then off with pizza undertow
Leone’s special taste
To watch the TV “Monster Fest”
with not a bite to waste
Wanted that first kiss submerging my lips.
Snow White’s open carriage embracing life.
Underscore of green eyes, seized by the sea.
At the lap of waves, over my deck, a song.
Snow White’s open carriage embracing life.
The death of innocence engulfed in Him.
At the lap of waves, over my deck, a song
springs forth like a fountain, mellifluous.
The death of innocence engulfed in Him,
Carried in ebb and flow, and rhythm of rapture.
Springs forth like a fountain, mellifluous,
The impending peak of a soulful harmony.
Carried in ebb and flow, and rhythm of rapture.
Colors explode, like bubbles, as mood crests -
The impending peak of a soulful harmony.
The softness of liquid smoothing out a pebble.
Colors explode, like bubbles, as mood crests.
Underscore of green eyes, seized by the sea.
Gentleness of liquid smoothing out a pebble.
Wanted that first kiss submerging my lips.
Kind of Blue…
Slinking into a still hue of blues
Haunting trumpets dart in and out
Like taxi horns in freeloading traffic
And cling like silk onto full figured rifs
When winsome modal notes wear sleek cobalt
Where soulbeats throb from smoky bars
Blue moods of so what
Sway like humid lovers on rainy nights
To the clink of ice in shot glasses
And afterhours shades of whisky, sweat and old scotch -
Smooth as muted cool
Luxurious tracks of indigo distilled intimacy
Stretch without strict resolutions
Improv exhales unashamed sketches
Of empty barstools and empty arms
As modes of blue undress into serendipity
When newborn sounds wrap limbs around
Old scores of stale melodic staves
Steady bass lines underscore mellow beats
Unperturbed ruminating pulse,
Slow percussive murmurs
Like rhythmic subways of all blues slow walking
With mystic measures of ebb and neap attraction -
A perpetual kiss slides slow into a kind of blue.
deeper and deeper still
still my heart
that cannot fathom
that cannot reach
Your depths
i cannot breathe
eye-level of the seas
higher and higher still
still my heart
that cannot fathom
that cannot reach
Your heights
i cannot touch
the sun on tippy toes
still my heart
keep my soul
deeper and deeper
higher and higher
where breaths are not needed
where the heart stops beating
where the Spirit is living
with ponderous wonderment
of the inkling You gift -
my open hands feel the weight
of Your mighty and gentle palms
You underscore them in embrace -
i dance in the transcendent space
Wounded whisper,
Bleeding heart,
Crouching soul,
Forlorn hope.
She’s in troubled waters,
She sails across tempestuous seas,
Dawn chauffeurs the unknown,
She journeys through precarious days.
Her cries fall on unconcerned ears,
They don’t see her travails,
They're inconsiderate of her plight,
The elements underscore the unseen.
Our hands have sculpted her pathway,
Our desires have painted her portrait,
Her tomorrow is overcast,
Her midnight approaches,
Our changed ways will
harbinger her sunshine.
May 22, 2023.
This or That, Vol 18 Poetry Contest,
Edward Ibe.
Bowling is what I do during Spring time
And swim hundred feet touching the sea floor
Flexing like a gymnast, swing overtime
Holding my breath, a bowler underscore
Bowls of clear blue waters I play for more
Bowling pins like needles for life I strike
Bowling and swimming, sports for life I like
Don't swim too deep without an oxygen tank...
Life is precious to keep as waters know no rank!
(Prosebite)
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