Congratulations, It’s a Thing!

The mind and the hand form a monster today.
It is one of a multiple birth that occurred
Over the half past fifty some hours.
With nipples erect never mind baby showers.
This infant is from one’s own consciousness spurred
By way of the will in the wake of the way.

Those Broncos did win though I wasn’t aware.
I was heavy in labor creating a thing
To offer me love so that I in return
Will show it some pride for which it does yearn.
So here and now I do make its heart sing
By posting its form over digitized air.

So, it’s not all that much; it’s a base with some taste
In its choice of color and flexible arms.
I just added a lamp and a switch on for size.
Who’d have thought I was pregnant? Gee, what a surprise!
This new baby of mine is a gem as it charms
The small boy in me who’s yet practiced and paced.

Open Mike

At a call center once when I worked as a call
A colleague of mine had a customer who
Would get on her nerves to the point where she’d say,
One moment please, ma’am; we will pause if I may.”
While on hold, then, this woman would spew
Obscenities certainly heard by us all.

For a brief moment, she’d take control of her plight.
She’d act out a brief little fantasy skit
Where she’d play the role of the Empress of Terror
Her customer, that of the Empress Wrath Bearer.
She’d return whole and healed having just thrown a fit.
Her act was thus polished. Things turned out all right.

Psst, your mike’s on,” we would jokingly say.
She’d scoff at us as if no drama took place.
The urge to let loose… is it something to tame?
If we let it run riot, we’ll wallow in shame.
Our mikes are on always. We live by the grace
Of our fellows’ behaviors incurred day by day.

Writer’s Block

There’s an engine I work on whenever it needs
A Tuning. I like when it purrs like a kitten.
Content to run idle or placed in high gear
Someone might just speak of my writing this year.
Were that to come true, I’d be totally smitten.
Perhaps it’s by fate that the writer succeeds.

Nonetheless, I have nothing to fear of my block.
I am one who will own it despite its great mass.
As an anchor, it keeps the mind running in place
Yet it holds the soul tight in a captive embrace.
Other blocks on the highway… I’ll yield; you may pass.
If my octane’s not high, my poor pistons will knock.

Writer’s block is a myth. I will tell you it’s so.
It was figmented long before mind had a man
And long before apes said farewell to the trees.
If I’m stuck on some verse, it reminds me to seize
Every moment’s transmission the best way I can.
This verse is finished, now… no more to go.

Fickle Fate and the Fatted Calf

Please don’t stare at me, there, with that stupid look.
Say you want me to moo just for shits and why not’s?
I don’t play that no more; I’ve an attitude now.
Life seems big on the bull for the average brown cow.
That’s what happens in nature when man calls the shots
As he claims to the world that he plays by the book.

My own prodigal son… I won’t see him again.
That’s because fate would have it some runaway brat
Tried to handle the bull in the world on his own
He returned beat and broken and bummed to the bone
But the dad said, “Go find that young calf that is fat
And kill the poor bastard. We’ll celebrate then

So every time some young jerk takes a stroll
Then runs back to daddy with tail between leg
Some unfortunate calf whom had thought life was grand
Is led to the chopping block all as preplanned.
It would seem clear to me there’s a pardon to beg
‘Cause you runaway rug rats are out of control!

Bastions of Billowing Blitheracy

Today I failed an ill-blitheracy exam.
It was proctored by people I meet every day.
It seems I can’t blither the way others do.
Lord knows I’ve tried ‘til my pride turned pale blue
There’s nothing that’s said that is new anyway.
I don’t make normal sense; that’s the way that I am.

Were it hard to speak freely as most do with ease
There would be not a word from my tongue or the pen.
There’d be silence within all the chatter around.
My own little bubble… Oh, how sweet the sound
That saved a rich resonant wretch once again
From casting his own sense of worth to the breeze.

The want ads are screaming, “Dear blitherists please
Take note that we hire most all of the time.
If you can speak nonsense and keep a straight face,
You’re Hired! We value a seasoned nut case.
We don’t even care if you make lousy rhyme.
The world is your oyster. All nature agrees

Blue Tooth B-hicle

There’s a USB-hicle in that garage.
I can tell by the gigacharm in its style.
It is blue tooth enabled for better chew
Askew as it bytes through its binary queue.
I’d sure like to have one; I will in a while.
It drives Wi-Fi my alley; it’s not a mirage.

The hitch on that hickle’s a match for my socket.
My Type A dear lady’s in love at first sight.
She’d like to latch on to that drive for a spin.
With blue tooth on the roof, though, it just might begin
To whisper sweet nothings to her by daylight.
She’s better to keep one secure in her pocket.

Enough memory’s no fuss with a b-hicle bus.
I recall well when floppy disk drives were the craze.
People lugged pc’s around strapped to their backs.
Those floppies had, often, bad sectors and tracks!
As the stick on a chain, now, does shock and amaze,
There are marvels galore that for sure await us.

Just Because

Behold the wonder within their eyes.
There’s nothing so short of God’s blessed time
Splashing about in a world who’s at play.
I’ve but to thank you for making my day.
As image becometh a terse nursery rhyme
They enter the heart of whatever size.

Do giggle upon me and tell me some more
Of God’s funny faces and magic tricks.
Is He still big on banana cream snow?
Can manna from heaven still reach us below?
‘So many questions, though not asked for kicks.
But for now it’s your world to partake and explore.

A wash is as nestled as needle in hay.
Rubber duckies aweigh and a kiss for good luck.
This new world that you’ve come to can always be fun.
If reality’s shown you, I won’t be the one
To burst any bubbles or cast dreams amuck.
It is God who adores you, come whatever may.

Alfalfa Male

There are molds that are made of the traits we admire
In real folks and characters whom they portray.
Some will look at that casting, comparing themselves
As self-esteemed merchandise placed on store shelves.
If one walks well on water that’s well worth a display –
Not necessarily something to which all should aspire.

There are models enough I can look at and try
To mimic attempting to make myself ‘better.
But who in hell am I trying to please?
If It’s you, then I suppose hell’s about to freeze!
This Omega Male’s value no thought form can fetter.
No Alpha Male sty will take root in my eye.

Some of those traits I can claim as my own
Right off the bat without giving a thought.
Others are ways I may never become.
That doesn’t mean that I’m less than street scum.
In the living of life I am generally taught
That a letter-less man is quite true to the bone.

The Psycho’s Path

With the path of the psycho, perhaps I’m acquainted
So well I will venture discussing it here.
Sometimes there’s a thing that goes off in my head
Where I feel that all life would be better off dead.
Most of the time though I find life quite dear.
I do wonder how my outlook becomes tainted.

It is episodic and has nothing to do
With you or the world as it is every day.
It could be my chemical balance is wrong
But that feeling I get never lasts very long.
My hormones and germs may control me by way
Of their consciousness linked and a plan well thought through.

If I were locked in a pit of despair
For longer than now with no one at my side
There’s no telling where my sick body might go.
The thing’s not my own; I must go with the flow
And know when to engage command override.
In that way I stay out of people’s hair.

If most psychos were girls, there might be the excuse
That premenstrual madness may well be the cause
Of psychotic outbursts directed at all…
A remnant meme from the myth of ‘The Fall.’
It’s behaviors of men, though, that gives people pause.
There are worthier ways that a man can let loose.

The Body In Motion

A body in motion continues to move
Through time and through space with the greatest of ease.
Any force it encounters along its way
Will disturb its trajectory for interplay
Of forces combining with each other’s seize.
This law is simple and not much to prove.

A body forced will traverse a straight line.
The more force applied, the more movement is caused
Toward the same direction, in direct relation
And inverse to body mass by calculation.
If this law weren’t obeyed, then our lives would be paused.
When forced, we’d stay put as if tied fast with twine.

For every action that’s ever committed
An equal and opposite act is in place.
The forces in life are all found grouped in pairs.
The mirror, thus mirrored, in wonder one stares.
When all opposition surrenders in grace
In another dimension we’ll all be admitted.

Creation By Default

How in the world does one conjure a mess
That was never intended right from the start?
It’s by scant attention to what one doesn’t want
And then lingering there as ill thought grows to taunt
Wellbeing as it is known through the heart.
Focus affects the life stream, more or less.

I am made in the image and likeness of God.
I create as He does, so my premise is wrong.
If God saw His creation as quite mediocre
I would thus see myself as a humorless joker
Who sings well but an ever mirthless song.
That notion’s the heart of a chronic façade.

My world is created by my thought alone.
There is no one to blame as things tend to ‘occur.’
The cosmos, conceived of one thought at a time,
Is kept in its place through intent that is prime.
By correcting my mood I create on the spur
Of the moment’s expanding wherein self is known.

Boomers Basking Blissfully

A Meet Once a Week Gives the Spirit a Tweak

By the fruit of the loom as we entered the womb
At a time after warring, our parents relieved
Of a chapter of strife that had happened before
As this one had cursed at the soul to its core
Now was time to make whoopee, thus we were conceived
‘Twas time to look elsewhere, beyond the war tomb

I am honored to be here in so many ways
Too many to count but to try anyway
With a bunch of neat Boomers who cackle and moan
As a humorous pastime without a smart phone
Is to once again revel in laughter and play
This career shift does all but insure happy days

The cycle repeats as we see our way gone
Like raindrops released from the volatile cloud
The in flowing mist as it forms into being
Is passed the baton with a new way of seeing
New rules ever changing must yet be allowed
Our nature delivers an ever new dawn

Black History Life

Welcome, dear son, to this planet earth.
We’re so proud you’ve joined us. You’re here just in time
For a burden of schooling refueling the story
Of Blacks overcoming with pride and in glory.
If Blacks were just facts, could I make this verse rhyme?
My Blackness, in fact, is emblazoned with mirth.

I am not the first Black to piss in the wind
And not get a drop on him despite the slim odds.
Nor am I the first Black who can tell what’s the matter
When issues of race mass consume us in chatter
The business of race is no matter but God’s
And He alone deals with the one who has sinned.

I am proud to be just whatever I am
By way of the gene or by merit my own.
I’ve tried this Black History Life on for size.
It fits rather well, and that’s not a surprise.
Because some have suffered, others have grown.
That’s reason enough why I give a damn.

Gay Rights and Left Curves

Gay rights and left curves

From wanting to know straight to knowing outright
In an instant expelled from the little one’s mouth
If it were allowed, I’d say, “How should I know?
Go ask a rump ranger. Don’t bend over though!”
But that’s not the way. I’d be leading him south.
He’s a sharp little one who puts up a good fight.

Now out of the closet, the query takes wind
As absurd as it seems as grape nuts made for stewing
If I answer him with not a smile on my face
Will my words take a form indicating disgrace?
There’s no answer to nonsense that’s worth my pursuing.
I am on to you, boy. I will not be chagrined.

Go ask your father, and trust in his word.
Don’t ask your mother; she may slap you silly
And send you to bed with a bar soap popsicle.
Don’t let your flamboyance put you in a pickle.
Keep your act pure and as white as a lily.
Take care not to folly unless it’s preferred.


Words don’t teach,” it is said by most teachers I’ve known,
So I’ve learned that whatever comes out of the mouth,
Syllabically coated and cast with a spin
On the truth that germinates from deep within,
Speaks in denial of perceived verbal drouth,
but instead, of experience felt to the bone.

Abundance, be aspirate and spill upon page
With ink overflowing and knowing its place.
Treat your blackness with whiting; it may prove exciting.
There’s no better time than right now for my writing.
No teacher am I and that’s not a disgrace.
I am vanishing print now accustomed to age.

The blankness of page is a field ripe for planting.
The seed of the word then locks root in the mind.
As it meets the brain stem it yet breaks through the skull,
Then it grows toward the light and away from what’s null.
Such a word crop becomes the landscape of mankind
As it bates its breath for the produce it’s granting.


Like many a gentile, I’m not anti-schematic
While minding my circuits as well as the cloth.
The Source of all current is my one true God.
I submit to Ohm’s Law even while that seems odd.
I less seldom, by now, get my head in a froth
Over folks thinking I’m a bit daft in the attic.

I will genuflect; I will give due respect
To electrons existing throughout time and space.
Though through seeming destruction within a hot star
Or absorbed in a black hole whose pull’s up to par,
Those trons haven’t left us; that’s never the case.
They show up again with new life to expect.

Quite often now specific paths are created
To make the electrons perform in a way
That suits the enhancement of everyday life.
My schematic and I are like husband and wife.
A clear diagram surely maketh my day.
Circuit documentation can’t be overrated.


The walls of the vessels grow hyper tense.
The silent throbbing black hole of the soul
Swaths the mercury dial. It is well on its way
To telling me how much I value today.
It is just a device yet it does play its role
In keeping me poised and akin to suspense.

The med does some good; in fact, it works well.
No side effects noted. That’s on the one hand.
On the other, ‘no telling how that ‘pril’ does its doing.
It may well interfere with my walking and chewing.
I’ll test out the theory, then well understand
That therein is where my illusion does dwell.

No condition exists where the body can’t grow
Into fuller awareness of what it has asked
In alignment with that which we humans call God.
Wellbeing is normal; what is not is what’s odd.
That Force that it knows cannot be over tasked.
Toward alternate therapy, Sphygmomano!

On Account of the Oodle

It’s because of the oodle large quantities fare
Rather well without in no way being exact.
The birth of the oodle itself is unknown.
From mid nineteenth century ‘til now it has grown
In popular use with its vagueness intact.
It just rolls off the tongue as it takes to the air.

Oodle’s a word that’s been hijacked among
Many others for marketing service and goods
Like Amazon, Apple, Nexus and Saturn.
Words’ destined devaluing shows not a pattern.
But rather than mill over shouldn’ts and shoulds
We relish the word soup in which we are flung.

The fact that the oodle’s not something to measure
Makes it mean a lot without saying so much.
And the singular form means as much as the plural.
There are oodles of words that become ever neural.
Some are rugged in form, others tender to touch.
All are free game to expound on with pleasure.

Same Drum, Different Drummer

Same stage, different actors.
The show’s not ‘til never, so why are we here?
Life’s not directed by angry gods.
The script may be altered; now, what are the odds?
The audience gathered will soon disappear.
Same product, different factors.

Same flight, different plane.
Airport security’s on permanent break.
There’s luggage stacked on the carousel.
Their owners decided to bid them farewell.
Take the leap of abandon; there’s nothing at stake.
Release resistance, stress and strain.

Same feet, different shoes.
I walk today as I’ve walked before
Through valleys of death and through lilied fields.
A creative perceiver of what my life yields,
I focus on things that I love and adore.
Free Choice, Good News!

Fine Cheese Cutlery

It Seems I’m a cutlery connoisseur
Carved from the standard manifold cloth.
I know, ‘parts is parts’ and it’s sexist and crude.
I ain’t here to please no one; my truth ain’t subdued.
Some good hawty cutter’s the flame to my moth
As it stiffens its wing and takes flight from what’s pure.

Cups and saucers are good; I will take them or leave them.
They’re not part and parcel to good table setting.
But a lady with cutter makes my flatware to stutter.
It will slice through my man mind as if it were butter.
I’m the butt butler’s cuddle no cutler’s regretting.
A girl with big bounteous behind is a gem.

It is locked in my jeans to track walking machines
That jiggle that butt from one side to the other.
Such cutter with grip handle hub double wide…
Were my gender reversed, I would wear that with pride!
There are still many things I would not tell my mother.
Spend some time in the Kitchen by whatever means.

diculous dabble

Is it really true that the light will go off
When the door to the frigid air is closed?
There’s no eye to perceive it behind that thick wall.
The veggies and fruits could be having a ball.
The meat and the bread might have long since proposed
Unbeknownst to left over beef stroganoff.

Dear Plato and Socrates, this one’s for you.
The chicken and egg thing I’ve got figured out.
But lights behind closed doors must play by the rules
Because if they don’t, we’d be taken for fools.
Equal Justice! That’s what I’m talking about.
The law of the loony’s not meant for the few.

That light should be off. There’s a switch that’s depressed
When e’er the door closes; that saddens it so.
But that throw with a pole could be putting on airs.
In cahoots with the crisper drawers for whom it cares,
The acts of the door moves the pole to and fro
But that doesn’t mean the damned thing ain’t possessed.

I’ll make sure that light’s off; I’ll just drill through the side.
With a whisper jet bit in a silencer chuck
Those goods and their cronies won’t suspect a thing.
I’ll catch them red handed; my heart will then sing.
And from then on, I’ll have much better luck
In convincing the stove and the sink that they lied. 

World On A String

We’ve got your world on a string
We were built to linger
Beyond your initial intention
Because in the software dimension
The super sharp code slinger
Can create most anything

We’ve got your heart through your will
A daffodil may thrill you
While seamless inception ensues
We pattern life based on page views
As interloping milieu
Shall never see time stand still

Our sticky string is a web
Per chance, it may celeb one
And propel his page rank to the sky
While not there, I’m still sailing high
Life is made for having fun
Behold the surge and the ebb

Head In The Cloud

The brain is not some knowledge container
Nor is it the place ‘the observer’ resides.
The self, in its whole,’s a magnetic transceiver.
In the frequency tuned, we become a believer.
We get vibes and send them; they serve as our guides
To feeling our best, and that’s a no-brainer!

Every man needs a place he can stick his hard head,
And some of us aren’t too particular where
Good head should be stored for a later use.
If my files are corrupted, perhaps I’ve let loose
To the point that I’ve drawn someone’s disdainful stare.
Were my head claustrophobic could it be misled?

State of the arted technology, now,
A step up from the web-based email addressed,
Allows me to keep my head safe in the cloud.
It’s much fresher up there, for crying out loud!,”
Quoth an inner self tickled… nonsensically blessed.
I play with myself here because I know how.

Balanced Desire

Balanced Desire

Desire to desire to desire to desire
The juggle begins with a kick from the heart
Two good things on one hand, another the other
No one could be prouder of me but my mother
With expansive sweet freedom and right from the start
The Performer traverses life’s live and tight wire

Though a juggle, no struggle’s apparent to me
As I keep to the air hopes and dreams I collect
While in motion I see them with lives of their own
Independent of me and with will to be shown
We each treat one another with utmost respect
Life is fun bundled joy; that is easy to see

The more uni my cycle, ‘more present my pace
Sometimes pissed and despondent along the way
I won’t get knocked off; that’s not quite my karma
I have no dire need to subscribe to big pharma
My life is my work, which is, learn how to play
And intend to go lightly this human face

Rebels on the Roam

Rebels on the roam
Rebels on the roam

They’re wrath means something’s wrong
They curse the word ‘shalom

Now tens of thousands strong
Deep sadness they prolong
Rebels on the roam
Rebels on the roam

It is change they’re fighting for
That is why they cling to war
Really, any change will do
‘long as it is something new

They believe Islamic law’s
The way for one and all
Thank you for the clue
Much obliged to you

Women understand
That most war’s because of man
The whole of planet earth
Seems infected with some klan

Release the utter dearth
Recover female worth
Woman, take our hand
That we may understand



TheMagicRealist.comI Am Woman

Mother, daughter, beloved, virgin, crone, wife, and lover

I am divinely feminine, vulnerable, strong, and eternally and internally in balance with my masculine god force.

I am alive to fulfill my assignment as a warrioress of the truth, and destroyer of all that no longer serves the embodiment of female principles.

Female principles include living by the codes of light, love, equality, compassion, passion, right livelihood, honesty, transparency, and grace.

I meet each day reaching into my feminine soul for recognition, as well as meeting opportunities to reach into other souls in recognition of their essence.

Woman is creator of all in harmony with God. One without the other is like an angel with one wing. Together we fly in a formation of winged ones, singing praises of thanks and gratitude in the Psalms of sisterhood.

First Flight

Boy, have I been waiting for this special day!
My mom’s been preparing me since my arriving.
Today is my first time to take to the sky.
All feathered youngsters must soon learn to fly.
It’s a fun thing to do and the key to surviving.
The reason I came here’s to splash and to play.

It’s like skydiving but without a chute.
If my wings don’t work yet I just plop in the water,
Flop around quite a bit and then waddle away.
I sure act like a duck, and I quack when I pray.
I’m fanatic for fun yet I’m not a sea otter.
We have this in common: we’re all really cute.

I am not on my own; my mom’s watching above.
She keeps calling, and calling, then calling some more.
I will reach her in time, and for sure, I’ll keep trying.
Life’s a current of ease; there can be no denying.
These tiny wings may get a little bit sore.
My life, as it is, is a labor of love.

From the Circular File Cries My Rotary Dial

From the Circular File Cries My Rotary Dial

Ok, Mr. Wizard,” the self says to me,
Go fix that computer and make it act right!”
Sounds easy enough. I’ve a friend who’s in need
Of a wireless setup and thus I proceed.
‘Twas folly to think I would work with delight
Then to rest proudly beneath the oak tree.

The new Tablet requires Wi-Fi, I am told.
What the hell is a Wi-Fi? My Fi’s good enough!
No manual comes with.… I must get it online.
They no longer print them, those cost cutting swine.
When your Fi talks nasty, I’m prone to get tough!
Please cut me some slack; I’m not trying to be old.

That printer’s a Wi-Fi-ing prick just as well
With its bells and whistles and blinking daylights
And its grunts and groans and grotesque machine sounds
If it’s sex that it’s having, that thing’s out of bounds!
C’mon, you young fuckers; we old farts have rights.
My mind’s a bit slower, but it’s clear as a bell.

All you Tech Support youngsters in faraway lands
As you labor through language not truly your own
I don’t need to be rude. You don’t need to be short.
I don’t know it all; I can be a good sport.
Much of my time is well spent on the phone
With someone who believes and who understands.

Feeling Peachy No Matter What’s Going On

Feeling Peachy No Matter What's Going On

How people do that is a puzzle to me –
To retain their calm in the midst of a storm.
I’m not too far off track though quite set in my ways
And I can’t say for sure if I’ve seen better days
It makes much more sense to just weather the ‘norm
Doing that, maybe, will set my heart free.

The Law Of Attraction’s a matter of fact!
I know that; I see how it works in my life.
If I pig out on small talk or cable net news
In no time my butt will be singing the blues.
My advice to myself? Stay the hell out of strife
And focus on only how I care to act.

Watch your thoughts,” it is said,
They could lead you astray.”
Not so easy to do, though, if not practiced well
But to know how I feel is the way I can tell.
That’s my thought for today.
That’s how I stay ahead.

Wool Is Velcro To A Hairy Black Ass

Velcro is wool to a hairy black ass.

Another rent payment lost in the mail
Post Office said, “Sorry we let you down.”
Another six weeks then the refund will come.
Why is it that I am left looking so dumb?
The woolshit in life tends to make a soul frown.
It’s because I attracted this tooth to the nail.

I can own that, you know; it is not a big deal.
It’s a moment of clarification for me.
The first half cycle is to notice what’s wrong
And the second half is to sing the right song
I’ll take that bounce gladly. It helps me to see
I’m a focused light being of power pineal.

The rest of the day was a mess just as well
After reading those rascals the riot act.
I was raging about in an impatient craze.
With the world in slow motion I wondered “Who pays
The people around me to keep the deck stacked
Against me? Has some kind witch cast a mean spell?”

It’s all over for now. I’ll just breathe a deep sigh.
Years ago, surely I would have taken a drink
But that’s the old me; I’m a poet today
As I’m writing stuff down I’m delighted to play.
From pissed off and postal to one tickled pink
Transformation is treasured. This too has gone by.