The problem with other men is not
their lack of income but the wrong
handling of what they just earn,
buying things that they don't
really need. It leads
to severe drought,
bankruptcy,
and failed
dreams.
I watched as the bee glided in and out of tiny buds collecting their treasure. I stood back in contemplation should I remove this tall proud plant that I considered a weed to be extracted.
Garden growing free
Appreciation of life
Honey for my soul
yet it was something else
something we never knew
we'd hear or understand
conceptions with the sorting's
conceived thru togetherness
her beleifs were that dividing hers from mine
would create a togetherness
from her need of mine and hers
rituals without conception
concepts without realism
confussed from the lies
she alows herself to beleive
concepts of being right
when she's wrong
that her body might remedy from
one night, what havoc she's caused
over months of resistance
sing ye thou bassoon
from the Bass Cleft Essay Session Series,
Ecstasy and Beau-dikka: "rumps of a raging sea"
they Barest Oboe!
Mocking Boudicca from the
Bassoons in the stream. A story by
Wisswonn Dinner: Dessert Andherlove
let your reed vibrate the beauty
that each tone is heard and song to
listen that she will speak
than sing that she wishes
her bassoon heard
Why is this world so wasteful and mad
Where things are done that are so sad
It is time to wake up to these terrible things
And make a pact for what righteous brings
Secret and stole away in the dark of the night
Will usually mean that it is not at all right
Go now and make your call for judgement against sin
If you do it you will be surprised how many join in.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Wander only, to know loyalty
Exceptions made, only when suitable
Friends preferred, to a claimed "love"
An agreement, reliant on incentive.
Awaiting completion, to go unnoticed
A stair ahead, never looking back
Interest lost, through individualism
Conversations exhaustive, kisses dutiful.
Interactions, emotively devoid
Restraint exercised, a week to conquer
Erratic moods, an excuse to behold
A trapped hand, pushing for release.
Pleas to voice, answered with time
A dream promised, only to be forgotten.
2014
Another Christmas done
And it was wonderful
But now it’s sad, gone
Stomach still is full
And the day is bright
Complete
But something’s wrong
Been out for 3 Christmases
And I can’t quite
Keep my **** together
The lighting, it was over-bright
a house on a wasteful decay
a thief's knife bathed in white moon light
The LIGHTING, it was OVER-BRIGHT!
bathing now in blood in clear fright
of the very thief in gross display
The LIGHTING, it was over-bright
a...house...on a WASTEFUL....decay
Mysteries trapped in false understanding which,
Are often the questions that go unanswered in the pursuit of happiness.
Only wisdom prevents the downfall of the human spirit.
Knowing when something or someone may at any given period of time,
May vanish, going undiscovered to the naked eye.
The disappearance mires the spirit of the one searching in grime.
It draws every bit of togetherness from its surrounding resonance.
Trying to reform what was lost, never to be returned.
Our packaging is simply wrong
To hold things in place, safe and strong
The plastic hugs tight
The cardboard you fight
To open these products takes long!
And when you are done, you will see
The thing you had purchased might be
As small as your thumb
While you face the sum
Of valueless outer debris!
Though this is just one type of waste
We could conquer this one with haste
Sell all products bare
No double-wrapped care
See tons of sales garbage erased!
Whistling wind
wrestling with withered leaves
on the cocoa farm
Lifting debris does not pay
I plead thee
go to our leaders' hearts
blow down their stony ramparts
Sitting here thinking
wasting time
is that all I am?
holding back my tears
like you never held my hand.
Being stupid one more time
on another not to be mine
my tears go unshed
words that can't be unsaid
Splintered heart
that he's tearing apart
crying again
as I have since then
Can't ignore the pain
can't hide it's stain
it's already to late
just can't concentrate
On work or study
to you
am I no more
than a waste of time?
It all started so well-life that is, under the cloudy rainy skies, under the clear blue skies.
The masters had gone-hope bekoned-now we could do it ourselves, so we taught; we, the
renaissance generation.
But alas, we tried too much, too soon. And before we knew it, the skies had turned crimsom red-
red from the blood of the fallen that the earth had taken.
We also lost our innonence because we taught we were ready and could do it better.
Realised we were not. But really the wasted generation? No, was the answer.
Or the lost generation? No, again. Maybe, the wasteful generation.
C herish Y our T ime, A dolescence Y earned.
H ope O ur E nergy, D isillusions E arned.
I nnocence U pheld, E very U nification A djourned.
L ustful T houghts, N o L ove R eturned.
D evoted H earts S trengthen, T earfully S purned .
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