Little fella draw me a poem that you witness in the sky
The left pupil an hour before that succumbs to sleepy Frye.
The poem declares not to linger in mourning, "I didn't die!"
My father was a hero in my metaphor, he still roams
yet I ponder, what could be the absolute actual tone?
Must be the same tarry, must be same seminary had a shift
and the seamstress is still decided not to finish any of those undone!
a puddle of rainwater I used to reign upon is still a flash flood aftermath
and you know, you do not make sense sometimes with coping and mood question at all!
He still helps you there and you still feel blessed that even with you in your unwholesome intact
you are happening outside of the body that did cut nails with a nail clipper just yesterday
Life is a voice note on occasions sometimes whence you are a line away, anyway, anyhow!
Lost and floundering in an unwholesome fog,
time stood still as if in a freeze-framed mental log;
roiling clouds swirled and hovered beneath the sun,
tangerine streaks sketched on the horizon.
Amazing was this view, and it calmed my fear.
Watching in slow motion, all became so clear;
it was the scribbling of an angel child,
one whose imagination ran wild.
Melting heavenly crayons were streaked and blotched;
they began to take on depth as I stood and watched.
Oh, how they lit up the landscape so!
I love this child, don't want him to go!
Simplicity's wonder all aglow in style,
I think I shall stay here and just watch for a while.
Perhaps there's a lesson here for me,
if I open my eyes to beauty.
Summer churn, welcome home, come along, come, please come
along , (this morn)
With your unwholesome breath blown away a far the fragile, and
ailing, (a struggling croon )
Age old garbage may have mercy to egress
Old memory, forgotten lyric history,oblivious
Tearful dew sparkling now, may dry up in ease
Wiping out a shame, curing a mayhem , shiver
Burn saliently to season the pure suntanned believer
O muse and the cues! Dry up your soggy feel
Come and play around your flute of the ending zeal
To tear the old labyrinth of mystic away, (weaving the renewed
churn. )
Tempest foamy waves ahoy!
Tempest foamy waves ahoy, Tempest foamy waves ahoy!
Churning the entropy of the unwholesome sky, ricocheting a greet of the everlasting eternally
a glow to enlighten, to pace in unbending, muse and her seven clues!
hence forth, cradling my cosmic lantern, the sun and the stars
To brim a splash, overpouring synopsis
the depth of the churn and the chime, dancing duo to intertwine, sonorous a flight upon my ever-longing yarning soul, she!
They pierce the unwelcoming night,
perserving eyes that receive nothing
but an unwholesome darkness,
hot accelerated breath scorches the
freezing air, as it penetrates
in entirety her raffish body while a
shivering anatomy provokes an age
of innocence, yet a stark awareness
of life’s tribulations, as she tucks in
her scarf, fastens her top button
before impetuously walking off into
the shadows to confront her next trick.
© Harry J Horsman 2022
I can’t put myself out there
Emotionally, you know
The heart is really the most fragile thing
Like a fine china cup
Outside, where it’s cold and windy
And hateful and unwholesome
Spiteful and too bright
I don’t want to be chipped more than I’ve healed
I’m in this cupboard
Safe.
So my heart is Anxious. Anticipating. Angry that no one has come
Calm. Controlled. Cinched in place
I’ve succeeded in keeping hell out
But now heaven can’t come in
They tell me I’m obsessed with you.
That makes it sound like something bad--
As if breathing were some twee fetish for oxygen,
Or eating, an unwholesome food-fixation.
Can being compelled by bonds so sweet be wrong,
Or happiness be held a noisome thing?
If this is slavery, then joy must be my chains,
My manacles your gentle smile, your kiss.
We gladly bend our necks to yokes so fair
When favored with the servitude of love!
July 2, 2019
This little poem was written for the "Slave to love" contest, but was not considered good enough to place. Ah, well, chacun a son gout, I guess. I must confess I am pleased with it, notwithstanding.
Sometimes, having some only, can be irksome.
For many lonesome folk like being alone,
fearsome foes can be feeble foibles,
a lithesome limb can lie limp through lethargy,
being cumbersome can be troublesome,
the meddlesome can be quarrelsome,
the awesome can be astonishingly awful,
the fulsome can be disgusting in gluttony,
and the flavorsome often leave a lingering taint.
So getting only some, to winsome, at least,
often leaves one unwholesome, worrisome,
wearisome and unfulfilled, unsated.
For some only, is never enough some.
Verse 1
No two paths the same, in this complex game
There are journeys that cannot be understood
To have loved and lost, at no greater cost
The unwholesome rightly turned around for good
Chorus
This is our picture perfect, yeah
This is our picture perfect, oh yeah
With untangled rods, against the odds, we’re an undivided team
There’s no mystery or disharmony, rising from our history
For the past is gone, I am focused on, beginnings forthcoming
Well beyond the bridge, this journey is unfolding
Verse 2
As the head of home, to have raised my own
The higher guidance, which I can depend
Yet with true love found, purposed middle ground
Two hearts that have become a perfect blend
Chorus
Bridge
Let’s reach beyond the sky
With a magnitude of love set to defy
Let’s gaze beyond the stars
Of a distance travelling forever far
This is our picture perfect
Chorus
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©?
Verse 1
To go beyond comparison, no place to overplay
The potter of unique design, brought new life to the clay
Unwholesome talk, within my walk, of that I will release
I’m truly made in your image, I am your masterpiece
Chorus
Formed by your hand, beautiful and wonderfully made
Knowing who I am, honouring the life you gave
You have made a mark of victory
To partake in your plan
I present a unique offering
To the voice I understand
I am wonderfully made
Verse 2
Authentic worth, embrace your word, perspective unabridged
To liberate and so create my spiritual heritage
To this effect, I will protect your standard of measure
Your love endures, unconditional, of that I will treasure
Chorus
Bridge
Guided by your hand, to direct my sphere of service
Knowing who I am, created with a purpose
With a chorus of praise, my song is made new
I will dwell in the essence, of a godly point of view
Chorus
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©?
https://m.soundcloud.com/user-921599710/the-flood
Populated land of plenty
Yet hearts brimming with sin,
Dishonourable thoughts, unwholesome deeds
Blessings, provision, no gratitude thereof
The young mirrored such ways
Distaste all around, high and low, near and far
Preoccupied souls, distractions abound
Within such surroundings, righteousness remained
The remembrance of Noah, a passing of days, instructions foretold
An unfolding promise, destruction of old
A time for renewal, a solid ark to build
Call forth the chosen, the chosen are few
Gather your wives and sons, animals two by two
Close the door, seek refuge no more
Waters shall arise, raging torrents, streams will flow
Forty days and forty nights
Water-covered earth, send a raven to and fro
Send a dove for resting place
Imminent return, a week of wait
A second return, an olive leaf
Of such relief, the flood had ceased
A beautiful becoming, land again
An open door
An offer of sacrifice upon the altar
A promise on high
Rainbow sky
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
At our home, in Rio and Rome, let morning come
In tattered twilight twin towers tumbling down
Beech Birch Banyan Neem being brought down
Your moon pales in homeless premonition
Let our madness calm, let morning come
Dark too much cumbersome let morning come
On the bank of Tigris a little boy plans to take up the guns
To no end, for no rose. Let morning come
Our habits, our rabbits, make them less unwholesome
Through the lattices in the wall, let morning come
________________________________________________________
18/9/2016
Note: Neem is a tree in the Mahogany family native to Indian subcontinent.
Bah! Humbug! Halloween is Humbug!
By Elton Camp
Most holidays from pagan rites did arise
In the case of Halloween, it’s no surprise
It glorifies the macabre and even the dead
That alone is actually quite enough said
“But for the little kids it is just a fun day”
Is what so many will likely protest and say
But is that the type of “fun” that kids need
A night devoted to most insatiable greed?
On their insistent demand of “Trick or treat,”
People give them unwholesome things to eat
Perhaps it may be a sicko psycho out there
Who has a bit of poison that he can share
And this in a child’s mind might well stick
Vandalism’s okay if you just call it a trick
This wrong by the parents can be controlled
Kids won’t do it if the reasons they’re told
To mother Pearl with roses
Who loves not lies nor poses
Dislikes neighbors that’s nosy
Likes good weather that’s rosy
Mom is a very good cook
Cooks from scratch not from a book
In cookbooks she never looks
Cook’s lessons she never took
Momma Pearl now eighty three
Hoes her own garden you see
Has her own freedom to be
An amazing Cherokee
Bothered not by who you are
She still chauffeur’s her own car
Believes work, we all must bear
Works for elderly health care
Believes, healthy, wealthy and wise
Means, living life without disguise
Loves not neighbor’s unwholesome lies
But help’s him remove from his guise
Her motto, don’t you be cheated
Living character defeated
With a love that is depleted
A change in your life is needed
This poem I give, mother Pearl
To thee your rose, while in this world
You’ve never been a party girl
Desired not give the world a whirl
Hester Pearl’s rose, not of this world!
For: My Own Living Mother
Sponsored by: Rambling Poet
Placed # 11
Aching as the dim light awakens me.
If only hearts were larger than the mind.
Bleeding for what will never be.
At days end, wrenched to pieces that are key
To having sweet release from what I find.
Aching as the dim light awakens me.
Stained, my love unfit with appetency;
Seeking sweet release; faltered faith in mind.
Bleeding for what will never be.
Dancing in the fire of illicit plea;
willfully chastised for pretending blind.
Aching as the dim light awakens me.
Bound by chafing chains, perpetually;
Suffering, by my hand, for that which binds.
Bleeding for what will never be.
Beating through the ache, marked to set me free;
Quelled by unwholesome thoughts and intertwined.
Aching as the dim light awakens me.
Torturing every fiber of my being;
Stabbing with ferocity redesigned.
Bleeding for what will never be.
Faint, and dying still, mind and heart agree;
Forever bound within these chains I’ll be.
Aching as the dim light awakens me.
Bleeding for what will never be.
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