So said the marionette, that gaslighters sow madness and chaos in your life, and when you become obstreperous, they blameshift it, so like the curling pokes of the apothecary's in plague-ridden Europe, that like the weapon goes elsewhere, so too does the wherewithal. Like gilded streams forsaken for brighter skies that unravel ever so slightly as the marionette sighs, and lamped up the glow of the sun, to prop up the firmament for one last gungho.
he stalked his prey
stealthily and steadily
keeping himself not in the shadows
right out in front
because people are used to seeing him
so much that he is invisible
he has the catbird seat
the opportunity, the initiative
and the wherewithal
a serial killer
no one suspects
“Hi Dad,” I say.
He waves.
When it is that freedom is taken from our lives
And is replaced by tyranny that so totally deprives
Our rights to freely speak or be a dissident
Or question the authority from which it has been sent
‘Tis then we must come forward and take a righteous stand
To quell the tyrants’ dictates: Remove the things they’ve planned
Our country’s sinking rapidly, of that there is no doubt
We must work until we put the tyrants out!
Indictments here; indictments there, that’s how it’s all begun
But there must be many more, before our job is done
And when we have completed this necessary task
We’ll hold our heads on high, and then it is we ask:
“Were we the ones who took a stand to right the freedoms’ wronged?”
And are we in the company of those who have belonged
To America, our country, and still Founding Fathers bless
With wisdom and wherewithal to make the answer: YES.
Dear, can’t you recall
how we’d thought our love would grow?
Your touch would enthrall
me through long days; moon’s warm glow -
Where did summer’s solstice go?
How will I ever find the wherewithal
to hold on through each coming lonely night?
My heart is hollow now, but holds no light,
and autumn’s sky too soon will cast its pall.
Abounding love and sun are gone. How small
will be the days to come. How much less bright!
How will I ever find the wherewithal
to hold on through each coming lonely night?
In fragrant blush of June, to garden wall
I’d run, your sunflower smile in my sight.
How can I stop my mind from taking flight -
so lost in thought of when we had it all;
how will I ever find the wherewithal?
On the far edge of the world there are
fanatics of many minds and religions.
They have uninteresting histories,
jejune existences, and distorted ideas of nature.
Some are belligerent, felony-friendly foreigners.
I’ve never given them a single thought,
because they are nothing to me.
They’re insignificant—living curiosities
and I grant them no more sympathy
than I would a flock of wild birds.
Of course, I’d never wish to harm wild birds
unless they had the wherewithal to attack me,
in inimitable, Hitchcock style.
.
.
Songs for this:
Kashmir by by Toni Jevicky
Bring Me to Silence (Audiotree Live) by Fievel Is Glauque
.
.
felony-friendly = terrorist or crime adjacent
“You got the goldfish interview, as asked?”
“I did, sir, but he lacked the wherewithal
to answer me coherently, I fear.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? The fishing section
is looking pretty thin. You showed up masked?”
“Of course I did. That goldfish flu’s no joke.
He said he’s scared of casual infection.”
“Your killer question, then? Your master stroke?”
“What is the capital of Senegal?
My curver, that one: it’s my knuckle-ball.”
“You got a cogent answer?” “Nowhere near.
He knew, he said, but couldn’t now recall.”
“His love life? Did you ask?” “He yelled, objection!
He said, that’s why he hates newspaper folk.”
“But that’s the very thing with which you’re tasked –
to get the sexy stuff! You think he’s *****?”
“He said he’d tell me after taking coke.
It seemed to me a little circumspection
might do the trick.” “Unmitigated gall
is what I call it. What I want to hear
is, if he’s in that witness thing – protection.”
“I got the feeling he was trying to stall –
I probed him, but he had no recollection.”
Lavinia will watch the tall grass grow
Instinctively she gently mocks the rain and wind
yet admire the moorhens
as the sunlight hoovers amongst the rivers side
She will circumference the moon
and ask you no questions why
reclusive to herself
she espy no tomorrows on the wherewithal
I have neither the time, wherewithal or energy to find myself again
Lost in the bowels of my hovel, I am too exhausted to begin the hunt
Piles of clothing, empty boxes, bags of junk, have immobilized me
If I was younger, if I had more energy, if I had more time.
Excuses keep me immobile, immovable, in a sloth-like state
How did this place get to be such a hoarder’s nightmare?
My breathing is difficult in coming, I feel sick most of the time
The real me died a long time ago, under this disgusting meat suit
I am too sick, my arthritis is kicking in, I can feel my asthma
More excuses, I stop writing, I stop painting, I sit in a recliner
Clicking a TV remote over and over and over
Binge watching TV shows that put me to sleep
After my nap, I might begin, I think, but I do not
I am lost, in the bowels of inertia and lethargic apathy.
The new me is no go-getter, more of a me-loser.
If I do not want to lose myself completely, I had better change.
If age is a constant then daydreams and nightmares
will cease to exist when the best of life is achieved
as maturity stabilizes at a level of immaturity favors
the innocence in confidence-mired ill-retrieved
those hopelessly enwrapped by rhetorical triggers
stemmed by the proposer amongst the ill-believed
'tis liken a heist at gunpoint to corner those regretters
to have brains (methinks) to cusps their mind deceived
and churned their souls to enter their relievers
and entertain the premature notion that they conceived
participants to ascertain the wherewithal of achievers
better or best consciously the line of inquiry perceived
to mull over and enter the zone as one of the leavers
to post with the best, to the winners be my best-wished.
She's freer now
she spends her time
on the wherewithal
Through the bastions of yesterday
she prays for brighter days
She wrote me a letter
questions of sand
a matter of the heart
reposes a promise
comet like she smiles
Through concrete glades
a vetch on the hill
she is restoring yellow
Yesterday a false dream was raised
It called for love
but through the shadows
the wherewithal changed
our fate was shamed
the new errant improbability
of guess work to welcome the bridle
This sap wells its tears
joined the race
little pilgrim forever lost in the sunset
of mans hope
asking if it is right
A thousand bird songs
We awake
selling a lantern of hope
the dawn decides
the wherewithal
melting mountains
fly me around
Life is a tricolour horse
Love is a knock hold rose
smelt gladly
You've seen the sunlight
now you mask your pride
Friends tell you where to go
Keep on a straight line
peaceful shades of green
strides past you
There's a commuter strip demur
back to cover hes read his Daily Mail
the burglued fox languishes
Making sense of the passing years
Lost in a wherewithal
Is it time to change ?
to purify your soul
or cry to the wind?
I see you from the heights of a pine.
I get trippy-dizzy
with you beneath me.
I’m that dandelion
all alone, talking on the telephone,
wondering where
you’ve been - to Everest or a deserted
island.
I’m in the boat. You’re on the shore.
Can’t find the wherewithal
oars. You fell an oak
to bridge
the gap. Generations lapse.
You climb the Christmas tree
to grab the star, find
a trippy-dizzy angel
in the midst of her repertoire.
I hang
an ornament around your neck.
You put a ring on my finger.
We fall through the ages,
winging it through each branch.
Written: November 09, 2023
________________________________________
An allegedly assured affix
distracted by wistfulness
to assess arousal of anguish,
wherewithal shadows tackle by day
amidst thick mist, in propinquity dry wells.
carrying a titian heartbreak on my shoulder.
a gentle regret that is not a zenith dread;
brocade as taffeta, a bluesy lullaby.
spun from gentle yarns; weaved.
Striving to scale a sibilant soil surface
toward porous roots of sequoia
trapped by the force of gravity.
allow only tangerine tears to flow
from my sorrow.
Getting into the quagmire.
in quest of one's fortitude.
whilst waiting for syzygy perigee,
to occur on perihelion.
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