I went to the best of schools,
where no one tolerated fools,
Lots of facts were stuffed in my head.
Yellow River was a book I read,
You don't believe me? It's true - really.
I was influenced by I.P. Freely.
I am your friend —
I did not knock —
I waited till your Door was wide
Enough for Trust —
I brought no Crown —
Nor Argument —
I carried only Quiet Thought
And Time’s Consent —
Your Mind — so clear —
Unarmored — free
Of clanging Ego’s Iron Name —
Walked out with Me —
We spoke in Books —
And measured Air —
With Lines that knew how much they meant
But not despair —
I kept you from the Granite Rooms
Where Silence wears a Gavel’s Face —
By standing still —
And letting Patience pass for Grace —
The Judge — who once weighed my Fear —
Now weighs the Years —
And finds no Regret remains —
Where his Mercy — kept me Free
You would emerge —
Refined — composed —
As if the Storm had taught your Coat
How to be closed —
Extremely well Read —
You greet a Line
As one greets Homar — not to impress —
But to belong —
So take my Hand —
Not as a Guide —
But as the Friend who knew you first —
And stayed — beside —
For Intelligence — when free of Pride —
Needs only this —
A Mind — a Book —
And one true Friend —
My mother and her lovers
After my mother divorced my father, who
I faintly remember, but for his cruel remark to my mother
pointing at me, saying, "Whose son is he?"
She threw him out
Over the years, she had several lovers, most of them
moved in, which made sense, they were working
class and had no proper home
So they stayed for a while and contributed to
the overall expenses, but I suspected that she
got bored with them, they had no, unlike my mother
who was well read, nothing to say
She was an ardent communist and blamed our
The political system leaves many in poverty
When she was in her fifties, she met a man who had
a house he inherited from his parents
For many years, they had a good life, but nothing
lasts forever, he died, and his mother is not easy to
Being around was left with few visitors
Her life had been hard; two of her children
died young, and the youngest one preferred to
live in another country, struggling with problems
caused by his childhood
I regret I'm not well read,
I could have been a judge. Instead,
I stand upon my head,
and while I may get a laugh,
you are the better man by half.
If you've a yen
(it's not zen)
you may bet your bottom dollar
while integrating yin yang cosmology
Chinese philosopher and scholar
Dong Zhongshu
(good old you know who)
favoured heaven worship results
over and above traditional cults
altho' a man well-read
he often wrote instead
yet to avoid confusion
knowingly said, 'Jump to assumption,
arrive wrong conclusion.'
Some say...Walt Whitman's the poet's champ!
His works were well read, by dim oil lamp.
But, oh so long winded,
Those words never ended...
Woe, ritual champ of reader's cramp
Neighborhood Gossip
He walks all alone and does evil things,
quietly making puppets walk without strings.
He's the only one who emerged from the wreck.
When you sleep, he'll stab you in the neck.
Am I Wiser Now?
I wanted to know what it all meant
so I visited the Asian continent.
Am I wiser now, back in my hometown?
I have jet lag and walk upside down.
Life Mission
The doctor gave me a slap and shook my head,
until he had fully scrambled my brain.
The nurse gave me a diaper and the doctor said,
"You've got eighty years to unscramble it again."
Unimpressed
He's well known and he's well read,
but I wouldn't be misled.
Even lettuce has a head.
Bee Orientation
Welcome, friend, to the hive
It's true, no one gets out alive,
but, before you're done,
you'll have lots of fun.
I see demons
I see ghosts
Staring at me from the bedposts
Gargoyles of grotesquery
Statues of misanthropy
The Prince of darkness has come for me
There's evil in this room
I can smell the sulfur in his perfume
A fiendish foray into Axe body spray
Wedded with used ashtray
Trade name The Devil's Bouquet
Why me why me ?
why today?
Because poets die tragically?
Remember Shelley drowned at sea
Where's your humanity?
In the voice of a late night disc jockey
A silky deadpan delivery
"I lost it the day the world began.
You may have heard not my game plan.
God made Adam and Eve
I made beggars and thieves.
See Milton Book Ten
Are you not well read?
The blood immediately drained from my head.
Beg pardon what was that you said?
I'll have you know I'm quite literate
I have a ing doctorate!
Since I can’t write
May as well read
And sponsor a contest
For free poetry
Hope you will enter
If it’s your desire
Maybe you’ll find
Words that inspire
The contest is for
20 lines or less no more
I hope it’ll be fun
And not a chore
Power in the Tongue
Is the contest name
Write away for fun
Poets do your thang
New poems only
Don’t forget to explain
In your words not phony
Don’t use your name
I’m enjoying rhyme
But you don’t have to
The style is yours to design
Good luck to all of you
~ The Magnificent Mouse ~
Fiction
A minuscule, humble mouse
wrote much poetry.
Her eyes, so very tired, she
almost could not see.
Each day, mouse scribbled out
her heart’s melodious song.
For five years she did this,for
hours, far, far too long!.
Her poetry, she hoped, people
would hopefully like.
That was her mistake, this all
too trusting, poet-tyke.
She fell ill, quite weak and lost
her will to write.
She felt great peace now and
bright, inner mouse might.
Mouseland, her country,was made
great fun of too.
She was proud of that poetry land.
under her sparkling,lyrical, shoes.
So mouse gave up writing where
her ideas were not wanted.
In her new home, she was well read,
accepted, and her joy was undaunted!
5/15/2024
I look up to you
With the child in me,
A child that knows no wrong.
I look up to see some comfort somewhere,
that solely in wisdom belong.
They say that teachers are all, so very good.
So long as they can see the child;
That hides behind the glaring sun,
And senses no worth in chide.
That figures not what’s right or wrong
And basks in unreal pride.
Why do you take things that can be
Solved in a matter of time?
Why do you complain, times so often
With sometimes no reason nor rhyme?
Why don’t you see that the child in me
Is yet to grow as old,
As can be said to struggle for long
Well read and matured and bold?
I belong to you, do try understand.
Do please no laugh at my faults!
For the womb that gave me birth in time
Has the semblance with the one that's yours!
They all think me more than I am
Must be these songs I sing again and again
Even I’m starting to believe in them
I wish I could start this life over again
Till then I’ll forget these feelings ever happened
Erase these visions from my mind
Perfectly balanced, well read with a killers aim
I die a little with every empty footprint leading to my past
That I can find
Till then I will remember all
Who have touched my soul
Watching them come and go then me moving on
With heavy legs I will keep marching on thru my past
In the end none of me will have ever mattered
Except in my scattered memories
As I only have today for short time longer
This soul within please be kind to me
Down the dirt road of the old farm village,
where the sun sinks low, casting long shadows,
each weathered cottage tells its silent tale.
Creaking porch swings, paint chipped and peeling,
invite a rest for those with stories to share,
as the wind rustles through the ancient oaks.
Narrow lanes, worn smooth by generations,
beckon with memories etched in cobblestone,
and the town square, a hub of quiet gatherings.
Hens cluck in backyards, scratching for stories,
their feathers worn like the pages of a well-read book,
while the blacksmith's hammer rings a rhythmic echo.
Chimneys exhale fragrant whispers of hearth and home,
as the church steeple, a sentinel to the passing years,
marks time with a soft tolling that lingers in the air.
Children's laughter, a lively brook, meanders,
through meadows where wildflowers nod in agreement,
and elders, leaning on picket fences, share the day's musings.
In this old farm village, where time moves slow,
shadows dance on the worn planks of the general store,
and the river, a quiet confidant, mirrors the stories untold.
Nicorates warned me about you
not so much with words
more in dubiety,
a clairaudient hesitation
imagine an experienced woodworm
widely travelled and well read
making peace with a cluttered desk top
within which it now dwells
keeping it right, advised
that's kind of it, really
suffice to say, Nicorates is rarely wrong
His heart would flutter, so in love was he.
She was smart, well-read, and a great beauty
So under the moon, on his bended knee,
He pleaded with her, "Will you marry me?"
The answer, "yes", he was relieved to hear,
Then they both decided the time next year.
"But your diamond takes longer, true, I fear."
He rued the remark that saddened his dear.
"Oh, it will be shipped to you by and by.
'Bout ten years", he said, for he could not lie.
"It's a rare red diamond that I did buy,
And lodged in an asteroid in the sky."
"When the rock flies near to our planet's place,
We will send up a rocket to its face,
So we can dig out the gems from its base,
And you will wear a ring from outer space".
Sub Categories
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