Time flies like a fiery peregrine.
Infinity takes its bronze sweetened time.
Seeing all with the opaque eye of an aged terrapin.
Time is a tambourine -it has little mercy.
It'll wake you from your sweetened sleep.
Infinity is the fluted Buddha of compassion.
A shaman of other-worldly things.
In between lies a wizard placing souls in a crystal ball.
Shaking out the nightmare from their dreams.
The well-intentioned walk the earth searching for the key.
To unlock the treasure chest to life's grand mystery.
Some take the Ayahuasca path into other realms.
To forever mince the ego within its iron shell.
One trip brings a crystal forest of angels.
The other, the fractal mind of mechanical elves.
A carnival ride into a slanted room of mirrors.
Where seekers are seen forever searching for the self.
Jesus, the pristine, forgotten upon a restless throne.
Rehearsing parchment lines for the final scene...
The immaculate firefly, forever gently guiding.
The faithful along the long-ragged path to back home.
My love for you is like a crashing plane:
exhilarating pace, without control:
you’re equatorial around the pole.
Why meet my sunshine with torrential rain?
My heart is Dealey Plaza, you’re on Main.
I often think destruction is your goal -
you seem to me a well-intentioned troll.
Profundities, once uttered, are inane:
your utterances, colourfully drab,
are tart as custard, sweet as succotash:
your slow-burn humour, like a smash-and-grab,
resembles credit cards. I’ll stick to cash.
No self-respecting homeless hermit-crab
would ever trade with you. You’re feebly rash.
Way Way
Well Intentioned
Wicked-ness
Is SomehoW
Way Way
W O R S E
-Gray Squirrel
09-22-2024
hey math tutor, I need help.
kids with questions - five at once!
multitasking, aging, geezer.
too much, too much, who needs help?
tasks need doing, people are waiting.
computers, phones, even TVs
are mind-boggling electro-monstrosities
gotta be there, gonna be late
car breaks down again, why now?
did I hurt her feelings or maybe his?
what is she expecting, anyway, and when?
I must improve my mindreading.
to prove myself I must work harder -
give a hundred ten percent
where am I gonna get that extra ten?
lose some sleep? borrow some money?
hey, buddy back off, that ain't funny.
hey mister, watch your step.
I'm a walking time bomb razor
time for me to go ballistic.
maybe I just got pushed too far.
whoa - time out.
kids got 18 years to learn.
they will be ok.
which of those tasks need doing?
which of those things can wait?
I think the world still spins without me.
my friends know i'm well intentioned
things will work out - it's ok.
I don't have to prove myself.
hey, buddy, nice to see you.
it sure is a beautiful day.
O to be a poet!
What must I do?
Need special rhymes
I pursue…
perhaps elegant forms
transcending more common,
like Midas touch
words golden~ a poet’s Mammon!
O when will an artist get honored
due – afford even a stove without a hand
operated flue; companion after companion
in wraps, out the door, shouting,
a chilling~ I love you...but I’m Through!
Unable to fill her stomach enough
with elegant phrases, with grand sketches
on pages, while her less
enamored friends render their prosperous
soulmates lavish praises: hooked up with
lawyers and doctors, learned researchers,
doing battle with nature’s debilitating curses --
politicians…? O Well, no one’s perfect
while everyone agreeing, the dedicated
artist, is such a well-intentioned, thoughtful bloke
the irate landlord shaking his head, again bemoaning
I know...late with the rent, still broke….
Somebody should start digging,
a big hole, we need a big hole.
Big enough for 300 babies, 300 children,
300 young women,
300 old women
300 fighting men, 300 just talking men.
300 charging horses and riders,
300 retreating riderless horses,
300 peace workers, 300 idiots,
300 hundred nurses and doctors,
300 politicians, 300 martyrs.
It will be an underground city,
just for Samura, Trojans, cherups, devils and angels.
We will call that subterrain metropolis:
WELL INTENTIONED.
We will plant Red Poppies and White Day Lilis
upon that covered-in mound.
On Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays
we will pray for all of the slaughtered,
read from the book of the dead,
each week,
redefining the meaning of innocence.
She is the CHW and we need to fear her more than Rum the Gun.
I hear she eats chickens by the handful, this is said by everyone.
Does CHW stand for anything special? I asked my informed host.
Corpulent hog witch, said the well intentioned gossipy ghost.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To a dog, an empty hand's cause
even a well-intentioned one
flinches an involuntary jaw..
your neighbor's just the same.
Have you grown leery the open palm?
wearied away as your brother's keeper.
Not responsible to his good name
nor good will as guarded trustee
over your godchildren.
No blame to you, good sir
or madam-
No right or wrong
by royal decree
monastic or fiduciary..
nor heavy handed scepter
to wield
relinquished or relished
as monarchal beneficiary.
Just the same, I
in fealty or name
skeptically question
right from wrong..
guilty as charged
all the day long.
Often what I read and I see,
some people scare me
put in my brother's shoes
I probably would too.
Telling my story makes it real
Brings it into existence
What I thought I knew
What I know now
Wasn’t real
No matter how
Well intentioned
Well thought out
How much more a child
Silenced by something real
Something dark
So dark that
Reality is eclipsed
But what if hope
Like light
Can't be extinguished
What if imagination
Expression
Incarnates home, self
A knowledge that creeps through
The surface
What I want isn’t a dream
Not a vision of what isn’t
But what I’ve seen
In my mind’s eye
My heart’s memory
What I hear isn’t invention
A tune I know
Projected in another setting
In a voice too small
To be heard
To be ignored
What if the faith of a child
Is a light that darkness
Cannot comprehend
Cannot overcome
For two weeks, at all hours, I watched FIFA games
Familiarizing myself with all the players' names
But I won't be viewing the World Cup anymore
after the favored U. S. team was unable to score
Too much drama was promoted, so it would seem
over not singing the National Anthem, but I'd deem
their focus was on winning, as I think it should be
and not on patriotic agendas, "My country tis of thee."
A penguin (mascot) waddles so he can't play football
If he had tried, he'd have stumbled and taken a fall
Not once did I hear his name, Tazunis, mentioned
I don't think that slight of him was well intentioned
The U.S. team was defeated by Sweden in overtime
Their goalie, Zecira Musovic, played a game sublime
Time after time her heroic efforts prevented a score
No goals had been made, but the game was not a bore
U.S. women won the first tourney game by one goal
but wouldn't "Do it Again" and lost their favorite role
They didn't play, "Beyond Greatness," not even close
It was time they fly home and to Australia say, "Adios."
The lost doll was soon replaced
by the kind stranger, poker faced,
who said the doll looks not the same,
having changed both face and name
but may yet be by the child recognised,
by its touch tender and smile undisguised
and so by this well intentioned tale spun,
the lost doll and child again became one,
for what was relevant was spirit, not form,
embrace of innocence, beauteous and warm.
A scarlet tanager sits primly on the rail
Of the new fence erected near the meadow,
He eyes me stroll as I take in every detail
The path to the woodland is rather narrow,
Infrequently used, it is rapidly overgrowing
I am brushing against the yellow yarrow,
As hottest of summer is fast approaching
The meadowland has nary a cooling shadow.
Happily, I note the salt lick has disappeared
I hope its purposes were well-intentioned,
Certainly not as the hunter’s ploy, I feared
In a previous post, I am sure I mentioned.
I feel the coolness of the pleasant breeze
As I approach the edge of the tree line
Where meadow gives way to aspen trees,
And further on, a stand of taller pine.
I shall follow the trail through the wood
To the river which I can faintly hear, ahead
Where I saw a huge buck in full manhood,
And I have seen signs of where he bed.
It is a good two-mile hike, not exhausting
But I stop to examine new growth along
And for moments to reflect, I am pausing,
I’m encouraged by the tanager’s song.
Written June 18, 2022
Scriptures speak to us in riddles
Relying upon esoteric symbols
They may be well intentioned
But it’s time this truth is mentioned
That addressing mind, invoking fear
Guilt of imagined sin begins to sear
Plunging our mind in deep confusion
Spontaneity lost, fearing retribution
Something’s rotten in the religious setup
For unless soma nectar flows into our cup
We feel incomplete and shortchanged
Separated from source, from love estranged
Ceasing thinking, abandoning all knowing
In stillness feeling, gentle breeze flowing
We embrace and release each life impulse
Consciousness expands, everywhere at once
Divine entwined, one with the universe
Having vaporised, there’s nothing to rehearse
Bliss throbs within, ignites our central vein
In fullness of rapture, we are free from stain
Undoubtedly senses five and mind have their use
Yet is not overindulgence in illusion akin to abuse
The inner polarities of our sentience are dormant
Yet it’s from within that sparks, the bliss current
It matters not ancient words etched on stones
If it’s real, we must feel it deep within our bones
31-March-2022
Strand by strand
Piece by piece
Your calico house
Slowly. Then quickly. Unwinds, unravels.
Once your palace, your bastion,
surrounded by the trilling of birdsong
And the deep humming of the earth
It is empty now, and threadbare
We try flames and quiet vigil
Prayers, hopes, guttural desperate desires
Whispered to the weighty confidences of your pillows
That once held that beloved head of yours
Through the dark night
Nothing, no thing,
Can consecrate your carefully carved out dreams
Nor a well intentioned paw or a stray’s cast off hair
Can melt, pray, scratch, stitch, join them back together
Into what you once took joy in
It is lost. As you are.
The loom now lies cracked and creaking
Scrap in the wind
Under gums and smoke and billowing sky
People seem to take to me
and like me
Something i do not or can't
understand
However well intentioned be that
even based on pitty and sorry
As personally i myself
Can not abide the thought of
my own company
As i think and speak of only thing's
that steal the will to live
And could make a divorce willing
to give her cheating no good ex
a second chance
I hate the sound of my own
voice so much so
I'd rather cut all the grass in
central park in a mid- winter
blizzard with a pair of scissor
Wearing nothing but high heels
and crotchless women's undies
If i was the last person left on
planet earth i'd plug my ears
and take a wow of silence
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.