Archive | March 2016

To Unlock An Ibis

Many issues with giblets folks think are secure
May find resolution though not in the courts.
The bowels of the bird can be put through the grind
By anyone with enough intent to find
Some info on bad guys and all their cohorts.
The Ibis, though diddled, its heart remains pure.

I don’t have an Ibis; I’m not in the groove
By choice or by happenstance – I don’t know which.
Had I plenty of reason to make a bird call
I would soon forget I had reason at all.
To peer up the bird’s niche with such ease and no glitch
Is to render it egg faced with not much to prove.

The Ibis has had its rear end poked into.
But it will survive and won’t just fly away.
Some features come standard with woman and man.
Among them we handle whatever we can.
The smart ass in a pocket could lead you astray
As feds feeling frisky form out of the blue.

Now Demystified

Half past half past
Is still one quarter ’til
When passed for a whole past
With less time to kill

Gravitational Wave

Can black holes dance the jig?  Astrophysics says so.
Political science may say they cannot, yet
Sometimes it’s a tango performed on the air,
And others, a salsa consumed in much flair.
Whereas each school of thought knows the other’s a lot,
The War of the Stars generates what we know

Today as a wave front of tremendous power.
It ripples the minds of the populous swirl
Of the lesser, light beings caught up in the dance.
As above; so below,’ seems an apt circumstance.
Gravitational Wave sets a nation to twirl,
Keeping up day by day, and then hour by hour.

Some wise man ago knew that it would be proved…
All those massive events – some most grave and intense,
Do send out their vibes which can warp one’s space-time.
For big stars it’s ok, but for us, it’s a crime.
If I am caught red handed, I’ll plead self-defense.
Because proof has become us, we are then moved.

The Point Not Taken

Two separate beings converged into one,
I stand astonished.  Which choice is clear to me?
My one self sees that its life someday is done.
My broader self knows that all has just begun.
I’m a soul in a briefcase hand carried most casually.

Though born to wonder… to share what I feel,
Sometimes I wander; I’m lost along the way.
To know what is not just as well as what is real
Is to know that one may have something to reveal.
But to share it, indeed, I’ll put off for another day.

I know by now that I’ve been here before
At this same juncture.  The sign before my face
Now reads rather oddly as life does at its core.
The next time around, will I even up the score?
The true self knows every journey is one of grace.

Wellbeing knows all who travel aground.
The signs are plenty and placed along each way.
If I just yield, then my bounty will abound.
I’ll know my worth, and I’ll speak without a sound.
Perhaps then some may hear what I have to say.

Global Warning

There’s a consciousness keeping this marble in place
As it spins on its axis and circles its star.
It’s been doing that eons before man arrived.
It’s astounding how much we believe what’s contrived.
The force who created it all knows by far
How to maintain its temperature through ‘random grace.’

It seems to make sense; we’re an untidy bunch
And we’ve grazed every grassland like wild wildebeest
But we haven’t thrown enough dirt in the air
That it forms its own orbit and makes its home there.
Who would know why the heat in the air has increased?
Those with harsh, toxic outlooks and minds out to lunch.

A few men from this world have now romped on its moon.
‘Not a boner for science for all that it’s worth
But the few families running this word as we know
Would just as soon see all the rest of us go
To heaven knows where… surely off of their earth.
Yes, the temperature’s rising. Whose soul is immune?

Honoring the Inner Being

The roadway in life, though rugged and smooth
Can often get potholed when etched by the rains
So, the vehicle’s sturdy – this too the road bears.
It is built for abuse, and it knows no one cares.
‘Heavy rubber to road, people go to great pains
To move about swiftly with no need to soothe…

…The ‘Baby On Board’ who does need some attention…
The self’s inner child floating free at the wheel
Is aware of all motion by way of its wave.
In his dream, he knows that there’s no one to save.
If he wakes, the illusion becomes the real deal.
The ‘driver’ distracted then claims note of mention.

We don’t need to keep our eyes dead on the road.
If we do then we’ll drift into sleep like the child.
Focus is all that’s required to move.
Though blind we may seem we are locked in the groove
On the roadway of life where the baby has smiled
And has kept the race going in cruise control mode.

It’s nice to be hungry when eating a meal

It's nice to be hungry when eating a meal.

A blessing it is to give thanks for a meal
As to have what’s not tasty be tossed to the side.
Our gratitude is to the beast and the plant.
Their life force supporting our own they do grant.
When we’re young and with all those five senses applied
A bit may be eaten, much to mom’s appeal.

We may hunger for wealth; we may lust after glory
And that’s all well and good if what’s wanted’s not yet.
Getting juices to flowing means talking about
Whatever that makes one’s heart stand up and shout.
If done well, this attitude you’ll not regret
Because then you’ll have realized a well-rehearsed story.

I may fancy a salad of tossed verbal greens
From the Garden maintained on the plot of my soul.
I prepare and may share with no hint of abash.
Very little at hand ever goes in the trash.
And as time marches forward, my meal takes its toll
In pursuit of Digestion for all that that means.

Damaging Goods

If a hairy green zit falls upon someone’s face
And there’s no one to judge it, then does it exist?
The playground at recess is so commonplace.
We do not need teachers; it’s part of our race
And the urge to find scapegoats we cannot resist.
A brunt of us bear this syndrome of disgrace.

Perhaps it is something that’s not in plain sight…
A conglomerate guessing at one’s inner soul
By others. God bless them, but they’re not in touch
With their own souls. That’s why they gossip so much.
We misfits are ripe in the rigmarole
Of jumping through hoops just to prove we’re alright.

When a ‘third person singular’ greets with a smile
Do you glance at the booger escaped from his nose
Then think, “What an asshole; he’s fit to be shot!”?
Do you pull him aside and care whether or not
Some other might catch you in unworthy pose?
Hold a mirror to self. You may find it worthwhile.

A Virgo’s Signature Is Usually Legible

TheMagicRealist.comThe body must move just as well as the mind.
Idle hands and sheer boredom will lead me to ill.
If I lie in bed lazy past break of daylight
I’ll be hard pressed to craft a good dream for tonight.
I’ve a fondness for logic as well as free will.
With the mind as a map anything I can find.

I am prone to walk barefoot in my special wood.
The Path is the Mother Earth and the life force of green.
And as bright as its ending, its journey’s the way
Of divine light through living my life day by day.
The world trapped in a looking glass is what I’ve seen
So, much less than much more is what’s now understood.

A most practical one and adaptive to change,
I master the meek minuscule, mired and mundane.
If I have enough detail, I’m given great wealth.
I work best in the background; my credit is stealth.
As the blueness of sky and the freshness of rain
I’m at home in a world I can well rearrange.

A Fiddler’s Duck

Who would care how a fiddler does with his thing
Whether out in plain view or behind the closed door?
If he did play the ‘organ’ we’d call him as such.
Other than strings, he won’t fiddle with much.
Though his thinging is bringing him love life galore
His heart lingers warm with a duck under wing.

A fluffy young ducky with wobbly feet –
A remnant of Easter and kids’ sticky fingers,
Detoured from tradition, this ducky’s in luck.
A kind hearted fiddler’s a bang worth a buck,
But his love for his duck is the one that will linger.
The thing peeps as he’s playing. He thinks that is neat.

You will rarely find his duck running amuck
As the critter is certain he’s found a good home.
He was gifted once, then was gifted some more.
He knows a duck giver’s no one to adore.
People getting these ducks give them free space to roam.
The question is: Who gives a fiddler’s duck?

Faith and the Fixerman

How ya doin’ there, ma’am? Is there something that’s broke?
Point me to it; I’ll take a look at the thing.
Any job I can handle; I’m your Fixerman.
I’ve a toolbox of smarts gathered since I began
Giving service to folks and that makes my heart sing.
Things can’t be that bad; I don’t smell any smoke.

I’ll just tweak on this gizmo and see what it does.
Now, if it tweaks back, then the problem is found!
If it does something silly, I’ll have just a clue
And from there perhaps I’ll know what else I can do.
If it draws a deep breath then emits a shrill sound
I’ll call in a musician to play just because.

I can field strip a flabbergast down to the floor
Then bang its belligerent being back whole.
I’m all about service, ma’am… No need to fear.
I’ll finish this job if it takes me all year.
I may have to move in and be mate to your soul.
Why not give it a thought since I’ve been here before?


We don’t call them funerals and haven’t since when…
Our departed are happy as we should all be.
Life’s a woe upon blessing and grace mixed with pain.
Their time dwelt among us… Our loss is God’s gain.
We believe that all people will someday be free
When we dwell in the home of Our Father again.

We are ‘home’ on this earth for a brief little while.
We are made of the earth as the gingerbread shack
In a made believe land where sharp contrast abounds
With the purest of music and God awful sounds.
We have faith in our Lord and know He has our back.
When we leave this dear earth we will do it in style.

The service is much for us, and that we know.
When we cheer our freed loved ones whom now have moved on
We moan and we wail from the pit of our hearts.
There’s no stammering, stuttering, stares or false starts.
Living deep in our souls it still seems that they’re gone.
Our tradition has changed little since long ago.

Children of an Elder God

My Supremeness! I must have dosed off for a spell.
What day of Creation…? Where did I leave off?
Seems the kids are begetting much faster than mold.
When I said, “Guys, be fruitful,” I guess you were sold
On spreading like wildfire spurred by the quaff
And running ‘round rampantly raising up hell.

Now that I did not create, little ones.
I remember that much, so ask nothing of Me
About sickness, or pain, or displeasure or doubt
Because love and abundance is what I’m about.
Go ahead and be fruity, but do it with glee.
You are here for a good time, My daughters and sons!

My grayness of beard and My whiteness of face
Is folly, dear children, conceived in your minds.
You may note that I’m single – a stay at home Dad.
‘Been around since forever, and more, I might add.
You may flourish and partake of fruit of all kinds.
The Garden’s for all folks no matter what race.

Correctness Politicale

Correctness Politicale

An Insurance Enabler am I – not a thief.
I procure valued merchandise usually by night.
When I stir up some trouble, the system improves.
In a big way, I’m why the economy moves.
You could call me a crook, but you wouldn’t be right.
Take care with your mind; I may snare your belief!

A Reliable Fictitian am I – not a liar.
The choiceness of wording’s the key to it all.
With mouth shot from the hip, too much truth is revealed
So a blither of bombast does make a good shield.
The slicker words are the more minds that will fall
In line with my thinking. There’s no goal that’s higher.

Of the many of genre of funny there are
Political Correctness does tickle me most.
No humor so dry in its gross understatement
Does cause of the heart, the mind’s sole re-abatement.
Every con man’s an artist with hot air to boast.
A silver tonged devil’s the winner by far.