It’s a day on the calendar. That’s all it means To someone who has no home and nowhere to go. And it means nothing also to someone like me Whose contempt for most humans sometimes one can see. It’s a day for a break from the bountiful flow Of societal cues that have made us machines.
It’s a day to be thankful. That much I’ll admit. Yet, that is true for every day that I exist. It’s peculiar to put aside one day a year For engaging in thankfulness, some out of fear That if they don’t partake, they will hardly be missed. Among culture and family, one must commit.
I am thankful that God has shown me a new day Full of wonder, excitement and joy unsurpassed. I’d be thankful too, had I not lived through the night. There’s a time for my leaving this world and its plight. I am thankful my time here is not meant to last. Have a blessed Thanksgiving, my heart does obey.
It’s been dry here for ages. The land is so parched. And the trees are all wilting. The grass has turned gray. That is what I don’t want. That is all clear to see. Why I do want the rain is much clearer to me. As I separate out my desire in this way, To the tune of alignment my soul will have marched.
Why I do want the rain is because it does good To all that which it drenches in lavish supply. It does soak the ground well and makes healthy the soil. If I think in the negative, I’m sure to spoil Any chance of it raining for me lest I try A divining type stick made of magical wood.
I can’t talk about how bad the drought is today Then expect that some rain will come. That makes no sense. I must accept the day, though it’s hot as can be And stay focused on gratitude most heartfully. I will gather momentum considered immense. Then, I am the rainmaker who cherishes play.
“Have Engine – Will Poet” shall be my motto. When it comes right down to it, it’s one with some tread. As I travel this highway, my ride must be smooth. When my word road is bumpy, how can my work soothe? I require Full License in trust that I’m read Like a bird at its leisure with some place to go.
I’ve a License Poetic to prove I may drive My machine in whatever way I judge to be Beneficial in getting up just enough speed But not so much that reading becomes a hard deed. I am easy to read, and I cruise radar free. Way ahead of departure, I’m good to arrive.
There’s no Highway Patrol for the poet in me. They say it’s not my day job. I’m too small a fish. I have not earned my letters for poetic arts. Thus, I don’t have the right to endear people’s hearts. So, I’m wild on my highway. I do as I wish. I can poet my ass off and do it with glee.
Have I spent enough time with my sick self today? Seems I’ve used a reserved word from DSM twelve. Some will tell me I’m sick by the things that I write. They’ve a right to be right. I will give them no fight. I shall keep on creating. My true heart will delve Into all that I must be. I’m structured that way.
There’s a time for believing I’m worth every bit Of the life force and consciousness focused through me. That time is, as always, always, and I’m sure That if I took the time to make sure I’m secure I would freefall through life like the leaf from the tree. Life’s momentum is fated so I cannot quit.
Yes, I spent time with self today, searching my soul Not for reason of purpose or conscience remorse But for meaning in how I relate to this day. Did I learn anything new and have fun at play? That is nobody’s business except mine, of course. Yet my sharing it with you is part of my goal.
I’m one cat who is lovesick. My heart is in tune Well to your heart’s desires, whatever they be. Though I sing like a sick wheel and play pretty bad I am having the best time that I’ve ever had Pouring my heart before you and for all to see That I am at my best when I’m touched by the moon.
I’m in love with my loving. Not so much with you Though you happen to be at my center of gaze. I’m in love with my living and being carefree. There’s one purpose to living, and that is to be. Then whatever ensues will enlighten my days. I can share that with you but I can’t say, “I do.”
There are no strings attached to our living the bliss Of communing in harmony throughout our years. I do like you somewhat. Let’s just see how it plays. What will come of our joining, our hearts will appraise. May we forge our way forward and conquer our fears. We’ll begin such a journey upon our first kiss.
Early Christians torched lambs as a sign of respect. None was meant for the lamb, though. It was God’s alone. We’ve since ceased burning creatures we’ve butchered at stake. We have stopped killing witches because of that snake. There are numerous habits that we have outgrown. It makes sense that we’ve done so. Our path is correct.
We are creatures of customs and quaint ritual. I remember the frankincense when I was young. And the Mass sung in Latin was such an affair. It was all very mystical. None can compare To a High Mass where congregants feel they’re among Heaven’s angels and all known as spiritual.
Earth is Spirit As Well as the angels who dwell In that other world where we’ll return to someday. All things are of spirit. There’s nothing that’s not. There’s no call for my feeling that I don’t have squat. I have spirit to play with and put on display. I take notice that I’m a well-fed infidel.
There are two or more gathered. It could be in grace Or in consort with cunning in weaving a spell. Many people united can become perplexed With that ‘chicken or egg’ thing and which will come next. That lame argument is a façade with a smell. It was implemented to keep fools in their place.
People are much like chickens. We scratch and we peck At that which is below us, as we judge it so. As we gather together, we make such a fuss Over just about anything meaningless, thus Most the worms we’re consuming will not make us grow. Social clusters are often a pain in the neck.
I am not xenophobic. I cuck with a few Of my species because alone I’d not survive. Each one pecks in one’s own way. There’s no reason why One should peck like another. No rules here apply Except those of the cosmos wherein we may thrive As we had well intended when we were brand new.
Dear Diary, what a long day it has been. I spent time with some children, but that part was short. Since I’m older, I take social duties to heart Although, what I would teach kids is how to take part In their own self-becoming. I’d fully support What their true hearts desire again and again.
It’s adults who are headaches. Our spirits are dull When it comes to most anything. What can we teach To the little ones who are much closer to truth? We could turn off the bible and study our youth For a little while until we are what we preach. Life is not my migraine. It’s a point to the skull.
It’s been all about finding some honor today. And that seems somewhat meaningless even to me As this long day recesses. I am an adult. I behave like a child. That is not an insult. Most adults I know couldn’t hold shit to a tree. What I learn most from most children is how to play.
Who enjoys a good puzzle? I think we all do. It is good therapy for the indigent mind. I don’t make life a riddle. It is on its own. I can complicate matters, but what I am shown Is a whole world of images, some ill-defined, But all reflecting all that reflects all that’s true.
There is manifold evidence life is a bore If I trick myself into believing it’s true. I could turn on devices and get them to share What we most have in common that we can compare. But devices turn off just like real people do. Life’s a game and a puzzle obsessed with a score.
I can’t stimulate others to what rings my bell. That’s a matter of free will I’m doomed to respect. If this world knew about me, you’d be in my case. You would find somethings on me to cause me disgrace. My most valued reflections of life are suspect To the mirrors of scrutiny I know too well.
One can speak kinds of nasty by number or face Or by what makes the innards convulse for a blast. One can sit side by side on the toilet with friends Who, of like mind, are never caught wearing ‘depends.’ Stoolers would be for seniors who tend to outlast Most their body parts, as if they’ve won a lost race.
I’d hang out at a Stoolers with those of my kind Just to get a good dump on, and speak of it some. There are those who would listen and tell me their tales Of their challenges where constipation prevails… Either that or of issues that make the mind numb. Social Shitting, at present, may be hard to find.
I’m a stay-at-home shitter by nature, I guess. Would I mind sharing details of intimacy Among people who are always glad that I came? I’d not mind crapping with them, but don’t know my name. I’m for Stoolers, and some old folks might well agree That a place for group crapping would mitigate stress.
Poles unlike can repel as this picture will tell: One kind heart made for loving; one mean one for war. We behave on all spectrums we feel may make sense. Our magnetic reactions are our chief defense. We are bipolar creatures who strive to be more Than our natures can handle at times, but we’re well.
Are we well on our way to whoever we are Without knowing the heart’s place in living life well? The invisible flux lines we claim as our force Can bring us true alignment or steer us off course. At the seam of life’s structure is where I can dwell… Where extremes in my makeup are never too far.
Unlike poles do attract, as a matter of fact. My perceptive comparisons are just a way To make sense of the magnetic soup I swim in. Although noble a task, the task is to begin Living life to its fullest with focus on play. It’s a whole different thing, though, when like poles attract.
Though it’s e before i when i comes before r And between d and w, weirdness can be Found in any arrangement of words as they’re played. Broken down into letters, our words seem to aid In describing what’s otherwise quite hard to see. Making magic of words is my best game by far.
With perceptions approximate, how can one know Without language how closely we get to what’s real? We don’t grunt at each other as matter of course. We can talk our way through things without using force. But, too often, we lose track of how people feel. Words may offer to us a firm platform to grow.
My dear friend, the Weirdwordnick and I are a team. We together bend logic as far as we can. I look after my letter tree. He makes the words And makes sure that our letters aren’t eaten by birds. He comes up with some weird ones but not weirder than Ones that I care to give him, sometimes in a stream.
How this past year has been can be put into words: Yellow buttery bleak and red necks gone ablaze. Some who thought we’d get better still think that we are. Yet, we’ve got something bitter. That’s swamp change by far! Through commanding by Twitter, we’ve entered a phase Where the media lead us like innocent herds.
“I just cannot believe it’s not better by now,” Say the ones who had trumpeted triumph in hope That the swamp would come clean again, like long ago, And that coal mines will flourish. Great pride we will show To the world’s many nations whose leaders don’t grope. Things are still pretty cheesy, but not from a cow.
Things are better for me, but no credit goes to Anyone who holds office and squirts on its walls. I am better because my true self lets me know. As I keep on improving my mood, I’ll outgrow My propensity to grab the bull by the balls. I can churn my own butter well, as many do.
A gigantic turntable exists in the sky. It is called the ecliptic. It is the sun’s path That outlines its circumference in such a way That it marks off twelve slices in polar array. It becomes not a hard task to learn all the math That is needed to figure out where planets lie.
Seems it is both or neither a science nor art Though its practice dates back to the dawning of time. Those who think it is folly are set in their ways. With the scientist’s method, sometimes progress stays On the cusp of discovery, stuck in mid climb. Yet the mind and the heart are not lightyears apart.
The Celestial Susan is put into place As a piece of a clockwork in sync with the ways Of behaviors of people according to when And where time introduced them to this life again. Our precise correlations can awe and amaze. We are live on a turntable nestled in space.
Gosh – Darn it! This clump of clay turned out a mess. I have done nothing with it yet, but just the same I can’t put my hands in it. They might well get stuck. Then I’d have to do something with it. I’d have luck If it turned out to be something that brought me fame. But I’m too damned afraid to go through the process.
When I first plop my clay down with audible splat Should I stand back and judge how my work has turned out? I think not. That’s the easiest way to give in To the notion that I don’t know where to begin. I shall get my hands dirty. That’s all it’s about. I can’t call this a work of art yet. It’s not that.
I can mold this dense clay of my life as it spins On its axis completely through touch of my hand. If my hand becomes idle, my fine work may fall. Yet, that’s never a tragedy. And, above all, It’s no reason for hanging my head in the sand. When I mold my own clay of life, everyone wins.
Can my now take on substance and gather some moss As it rolls onward free of no will of its own? As I speak the word ‘now,’ am I speaking what’s true? Because as I speak nowness, each now become new. Can I pinpoint this now moment that can be known By my feeling it only? I am at no loss.
The tall peak of my now is the top of a wave With some level of low grass delighting my base. Right on top of the peak is the surfer I know Who can balance upon now and ride with the flow Of the now that seems ever to stay in one place. Every moment one savors is easy to save.
My best now begins not as I warm up the scope Of the mind with controls that can sharpen the view Of the signal that lets me know I am still here. That the signal is present, my vision is clear. I can ride this great pulse of life all the way through. Where my soul is well centered, there’s no need for hope.
It’s a Flaming Petutia. Minutia fulfills All desires the human mind idle can bare. Though the fragrance is earthy, true colors do bloom As a function of how much the mind will consume With the purpose of sorting out what one can share With some others in hopes it may trigger some thrills.
The Petutia, a sphincter with petals unique, Can release, as it opens, what lies under foot. It is not to be looked at. It’s grosser than hell! There’s no flower quite like it. How does it compel One to while away blissful with feelings well put In a fine floating boat that is headed down creek?
It is done by my knowing the world makes no sense Except for the ones who have found a good space In a field gone prolific in manifold smell. I partake in whatever will ring my heart’s bell And will make life a fresh one immune to disgrace Every moment, in light of no need for defense.
It’s no fun! I am done with my didgeridoo. It turns out it’s a nightmare carved from a tree branch. Though there are those who play it and do it quite well I do better with gut gas. All nearby can tell. Both our blowing could trigger a fine avalanche In a world where such things can come out of the blue.
I’ve a didgeridoo as a gift from a friend. He is not from down under but from across town. Might he have some agreement with them on the side? Does he think I might learn how to play once I’ve tried? Well, I’ve tried it enough times to put the thing down. There’s just too much hard work and ill will to transcend.
So, I’m Didgeri Donewith. I did what I did Thinking I’d have the patience to do as those do Who have talent for getting good sound to come out Of a tube wholly hollow. I’m left with no doubt That my lungs need no workout. My didgeridoo Done did all that it needs to. It now will be hid.
It’s a fact we spend much of our time in some queue. Though we seem to be busy, we’re standing in line. It is so unproductive to waste so much time While we’re being held captive. No moment is prime When there’s no movement forward – no sense of a sign That my prison will free me for more things to do.
Does it seem to be moving? I can’t really tell. The Illusion of movement can play with the mind. Where in the world else but in non-moving lines Can the mind shut down gracefully as it resigns Itself to the reality that I’m confined In a life situation a half tier from hell?
Like most relics, lines have evolved at a slow rate Notwithstanding their increasing length over time. We are Stonehenge-like creatures when frozen in place. When I’m loose in a mindscape, I feel no disgrace. I should zone out as my time seems not worth a dime. Life is much more worth living than having to wait.
Bring that water to boil one degree at a time Over centuries. That ought to get me to cook. I am fat, dumb and happy, but I tend to squeal When I feel I’m not getting a fair and square deal. You, the chef, satisfy me. I won’t take a look At what’s happening to me. I’m feeling sublime.
Love the pills that you’re giving me? Maybe you should. They are ripping my cells apart. My mind as well. And they’re making you rich beyond anyone’s dreams. I’m a pig in a blanket of filth, so it seems. We, the three hundred million-fold, can’t seem to tell If we’re being well-porked and if that’s to our good.
Does my better self-see things the way that I do? Surely Not! It’s a view that it knows has no truth. So, it’s up to my lesser self to find a way To find positive aspects to brighten my day. I prefer to be self-controlled and in my youth. Although life can affect me, I’m not in its stew.
Mother Earth’s skin is gorgeous. She cares for it well. She does not use cosmetics, cold creams or the like. But she’s beautiful as people see her from space. She’s a greenish blue marble with such a clear face. And she does what she needs to do, should disease strike. She can get people moving like bats out of hell.
We The People are ones who infect her fine skin And cause blisters and blemishes through disregard For her womanhood. We treat her like an old bitch. Yet we’re willing to rape her so some may get rich. When her face gets too dirty and too deeply scarred She will wipe herself clean so new life can begin.
The Earth’s skin is an organ – the largest of all. That’s in terms of her surface where all life takes place. As we help care for her skin as we do our own She may see us as not a disease overgrown. All the damage done to her, she well can erase. She’ll get rid of us too, and it seems it’s her call.
My life path doesn’t run me nor walk me at all. It is not like a treadmill where I can pass by The same scenery, never to see something new… Where the mind needs fine earbuds to see the path through. Life is not like a chore I must do or I’ll die. It’s the way that I walk or run, and sometimes crawl.
Sometimes things on my path seem to follow along Like lost puppies, or butterflies or disturbed bees. They are just on my path. I could leave them behind. They will not come around again if I’m inclined To look forward and outward with care to the breeze. That’s a path I can follow. That’s where I belong.
When my life is a treadmill, it just does not work, Though there’s plenty of effort and movement and sweat And the heart and lungs pump like there’s no end in sight. But that doesn’t quite get it. I’m nowhere despite All the hard work I’m doing, though I don’t regret Inner growth as a byproduct and a nice perk.
It’s a parallel gaming. There’s shit going on That we can’t know enough about. There’s just too much. Airplanes going through buildings cannot make them fall. As you watch it again, demolition is all That is clear in the mind. We are eager to clutch Onto whatever game plan is meant for the pawn.
Yes, there is some world order that is being planned But it’s been going on since the Church game board came. There are steep hierarchical ladders and chutes Woven into life’s fabric and up through our roots. Games we think we are playing are not quite the same As that of the few ones with the world underhand.
We could just mind our own business. Maybe that way We’d disrupt the game process by not feeding hype. The news media, big pharma, ‘organized’ crime And so many more game boards will wither with time. These are times that are turbulent and fully ripe For an ultimate game playing toward our doomsday.