Tag Archive | philosophical commentary

Political Asylum

TheMagicRealsit.com

Read between what she says. She is smarter than he
Even as his political prisoner there
In the White House where she’s not been captive before.
She can’t speak and act freely. So many keep score
Of how she behaves constantly. Life isn’t fair.
The attention placed on her is more than should be.

And she knows that, so what in the world could she say?
Indeed how should she say it and keep it on point
Without letting us know the details of her pain?
She has married a monster who drives her insane.
It is prudent to chill at some mental health joint
When locked into a circumstance one can’t betray.

Her stark message is for him. It’s to him she speaks.
Though we are present bystanders in their conflict.
This has nothing to do with the children she met.
I believe she does care and can feel some regret.
She cares not anymore how her actions predict
Freedom through dissolution. That’s all that she seeks.

Helping Girls Find Their Voice

TheMagicRealist.com

She has found her heart’s dream helping girls find their voice
Through theater that’s youth driven and well performed.
Many girls she has taken to faraway lands.
Through her efforts she ensures that each understands
Fresh young women’s mystique reminds the uninformed
That all women and men are deserving of choice.

We each choose gloom or happiness, so we are free
Not to look for love outside ourselves on our way
Toward the next new beginning, but to look within
For our value and honor. With self we begin
To be ever receptive and willing to play.
In a world of diversity I want to be.

We have not heard girls’ voices enough. Is this so?
May the answer be found in the way we all feel?
All things come by attraction, and hardly, by force.
There is only one actor, and that is our Source.
We will never come to a world that is ideal
And without every young voice, our progress is slow.

The School System

TheMagicRealist.com

All God’s children need schooling. We’ve made it the law.
Education provides an opportunity
To bump up against people of various views,
And to find one’s own balance among favored clues.
It’s a functioning system, though arguably.
And for most, there are many conclusions to draw.

Parent, student and child can be on the same page.
It’s a matter of knowing we are all in school.
We each teach one another alignment or not
With the Source of wellbeing we may have forgot.
This, the most trusted lesson, can be the best tool
For maintaining one’s balance upon the life stage.

She may say, “Mom, I’m out of here; I’ve had enough!”
As she rampages on in her righteous disgust.
Just remind her it’s OK to quit school and go,
But wherever she goes, her contempt is in tow.
When lessons become meaningless, it’s best to trust
In one’s Source’s curriculum and better stuff.

Fear Is Just Guidance

TheMagicRealist.com

Often times I am not in the receiving mode.
If wellbeing is plentiful, why do I fear
That something could go wrong in the blink of an eye?
Fear is part of my makeup. Should I wonder why?
It’s by habit I contemplate outlook austere
When in truth much blessing is upon me bestowed.

 It’s my own conscious thinking preventing the flow
Of the grace that abounds. I need but let it in.
To relax and then quiet the mind is the way,
Or release into slumber until the next day,
Or direct my thoughts consciously but from within.
I’m afraid of creating from that which I know.

I could see fear as guidance toward more clarity.
I may seek out acceptance in every wrong place.
Sometimes utter wellbeing looks like a fan club,
But all fans fan themselves. And that’s really the rub.
Love is fear inside outward if I will embrace
All of it as a prelude to prosperity.

Moving Past the Experience

TheMagicRealist.com

It is easy for us but not so for the harmed,
Who are too young to understand what’s going on,
To move on past rejection and psychic abuse.
Why not round them up, brand them and then let them loose?
There is no point in asking where conscience has gone,
As it baffles our leader why folks are alarmed.

It’s an Alice in Wonderland tale but surreal.
Either side of the rabbit hole is a strange place
To the other. A brown Alice forced through it will
Be processed or perhaps not. She knows not the drill.
Time may dampen some pain, but it will not erase
What impressions the children have. Are they ideal?

Rabbit holes have no bottom – those this nation makes.
They are seen as deterrent in nature and form.
Tiny eyes won’t remember alternative facts.
They will recall a nation conceived of bad acts
Perpetrated upon them amid a hate storm.
In some time, we’ll know the full brunt of our mistakes.

A Brief Analysis of Some Old Woman’s Fart

TheMagicRealist.com

How does consciousness come forth from putrid bowel gas?
Or perhaps it’s not consciousness – just the effect
Of untold generations of bigoted hate
Justified by religion and blessed by the state?
If convincingly human, it should get respect.
But the cloud it excretes is as foul from its ass.

Many things that are solid indeed have a face.
And some liquids reflect faces, having no choice.
But a repugnant smell has become a faced fart
To make good air not breathable and to depart
From what most know as justice. It thinks we’ve no voice
And its policies stink. It’s an utter disgrace.

This smell wants to fit well in its old woman’s purse
Along with other stale odors of the sick past.
Take her arm, little manhood. Your mama says so.
Were you ripped from your mother some eons ago,
You might now have some backbone. This bullshit can’t last.
Your contrived little crisis can only get worse.

One can’t stomp on a fart as one would a cockroach.
It does have some advantages through its disguise
Of something somewhat human, enough to convince
Most the members of congress as most of them wince.
Someday soon we’ll have fresh air. We will organize.
Your abuse of God’s atmosphere summons reproach.

The Remedy for Chronic Dipstick Drip

TheMagicRealist.com

Well maintained is the auto whose partner is versed
In the art of the oil check while at the pit stop.
If one has a good engine, one keeps it in shape.
He will not take a chance on a narrow escape.
The most versatile tool for garage or workshop
Is one’s dipstick, because if it’s not, he is cursed.

A sure thing about engine oil is it gets hot
To the touch – certainly if examined by hand.
So the stick is an interface withstanding heat.
Nothing else in the toolbox will ever compete
With the dipstick’s performance when adequately manned.
The engine who receives one may wish it had not.

But the graduate stick tends to drip when it’s dipped.
One should leave the thing in there while oil settles down.
Engine hygiene is paramount when checking oil.
If it is taken lightly, one welcomes turmoil.
Wipe it off, and if doing so brings on a frown,
Know that oil, in its essence, remains nondescript.

Longer Life Span

TheMagicRealist.com

I would hate to hang out here for hundreds of years.
That’s a game for elite folk to feather their dreams.
All the rest of us think we would love to remain
Yet the more we compete, the less we can attain.
As technology favors our fool-hearted schemes,
Do we keep our souls stagnant because of our fears?

I’m an eternal being, therefore I know change
Has to be quintessential to such a lifestyle.
I’m designed to spend some time here. Not too damned long.
With each moment that passes something could go wrong.
I entered into contract to stay for a while.
To lock down in this fishbowl would be worse than strange.

Nature knows the recycling gig inside out.
She’s been at it for eons. She’s got it down pat.
We may point to some old text at folks who lived long.
Common sense – not faith – tells me that this must be wrong.
People counted years strangely back then, and that’s that!
I will exit this carnival ride with no doubt.

Is It Just Coincidence?

TheMagicRealist.com

Am I here through my own fault or is it by chance
Or coincidence catered toward seeing my end?
I respond as I do to what guidance I know.
As my spirit directs me, with passion I go.
Why I find myself captive I can’t comprehend.
I alone am to blame for this odd circumstance.

Is the law of attraction in action with me?
Now, I know that there is such a thing. Here I am
Trapped in my own believing that I am carefree
To go after what seems wholesome as I can see.
Hindsight gives me authority to give a damn
About where I embark conscientiously.

How I got myself in this mess is rendered moot.
Time to ponder the answer becomes ever less.
So, it’s ever more sensible to let it be.
There’s no viable outcome that I clearly see.
I am fodder for nature’s digestive process.
Rendezvous with coincidence is absolute.

Contrast and Suffering

TheMaicRealist.com

It has happened and will happen someday to me.
From stardust I became and therefore must return.
I know contrast and suffering as I await
Either nothingness, hell, or the bright pearly gate.
Existence is phenomenal, rigid and stern.
While I’m here, I’m surviving while striving to be.

I must live through the contrast as I carry on.
Each next phase of a long journey can’t be undone.
I can’t turn off my sorrow. It has not a switch.
There’s no way that this moment my soul can enrich.
But I do have the choice to have some hope or none.
Only one will be helpful toward seeing the dawn.

This is true too of agony. I make the choice.
It is easy to suffer when well I know how.
It’s become a bad habit to suffer in vain.
In the depth of my sorrow I have much to gain.
When I agonize, that means I do not allow
What my higher self knows. There is room to rejoice.

There’s a lesson in grieving repeated each day
And each portion thereof throughout all the wide earth.
There are times interlaced deep with memories dear
To the heart and the consciousness dampened by fear.
There’s a death sentence waiting for every new birth.
Those who aren’t here before us have not gone away.

My Guidance System

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s the tale of two selves in a package complete
With identical minds whose thoughts can be the same.
When they are the same, I feel I could kiss the sky.
When they’re not, I feel hopeless. I won’t even try
To see clearly. My feelings do truly proclaim
How much both sets of thoughts get along or compete.

Every self has a higher self and an ego.
Each can think independently of the same thing.
When the ego demands that the bastard should die,
What the higher self thinks is, “Here, love should apply.”
This divergence in thinking within self will bring
On an ultimate gutwrench and maybe some woe.

Myself has a comparator to tell me when
My thoughts start to depart from my highlighted route.
When that happens, I feel bad. That’s simple enough.
As I indulge the ego by playing it tough,
I am locked on the course of eternal dispute.
When my guidance reprograms, I begin again.

A Fresh Coat of Nice

TheMagicRealist.com

Would a Fresh Coat of Nice cover well what’s gone wrong?
Or can such a condition be simply rolled on?
Nice should never be left sealed and on the top shelf
Where no one can achieve it, not even oneself.
There is infinite Nice. It can never be gone.
I may emulate toughness, but it’s a sad song.

Like the soil, somewhat fertile, yet dry to the bone,
Is the surface so thirsty for richness to drink.
Why not lay it on thickly to well saturate
All the areas that have been marred by our hate?
Would I think that our species is missing some link?
Everything is in order. We’re just chaos prone.

Mega gallons of Nice can be sold at no price
As it comes about freely by anyone’s choice.
We apply it in many ways. It matters not
How newness is recovered, and darkness forgot.
When the people pour Nice in one colorful voice,
We may paint ourselves pleasantly toward paradise.

Silent Assed Letters

TheMagicRealist.com

If an actor is silent, why put him on stage?
I have heard of non-speaking parts. That’s not the point.
A good actor can get away with using mime
And may get more across to folks in much less time.
If performers don’t speak, their silence will anoint
The observer’s attention so that he’ll engage.

Let that bring us to letters… the ones that go mute
For a seemingly small set of words that are used.
Silent letters are assy. In fact, they’re a pain,
Though I’ve digested them with the ultra-mundane.
Almost half of the alphabet has been excused
Of a voice in some words. Are they there to be cute?

Well, they aren’t that adorable. Parsley they are
On a plate of potatoes and succulent meat,
Cast aside as the meal is completed, and then,
gathered up with the rubbish to not be again.
All the words that have placeholders playing discrete
Would do quite well without them, and they’d leave no scar.

A Reality Experiment

TheMagicRealist.com

What we can but perceive is a scant few percent
Of the whole of reality, science believes.
So, the ninety some missing, yet meshed with the few,
May suggest we’re important… the universe too.
All the stars that we can see are like scattered leaves
On a vast lawn of darkness seemingly content.

The dark matter, dark energy and other stuff
That the mind cannot fathom yet numbers can prove,
Keep this 3D world going and being so real.
I’m a creature who knows this world because I feel.
When one feels with the mind, one makes energy move.
The Great Whole will deliver ‘til one’s had enough.

This toe dip into consciousness is brought to us
By the ones we can’t see now because we are here
In this space within non-space and time within time.
Was I sent here because I’ve committed some crime?
I came much by my own will to navigate fear.
When I feel satisfaction, I’ve much to discuss.

Everything is of spirit. No substance is real.
All we know is of consciousness and nothing more.
All was thought into being and is kept in place
By the thoughts of the whole of us that we embrace.
This world is an illusion. Do we know what for?
In our spiritual growth, we must learn how to feel.

Schizodemic Panphrenic

TheMagicRealist.com

If a cornflake-shaped elbow scab got up to sing
And you heard it and saw it while others did not,
Would you think you were crazy? Or would you believe
What is real is whatever the self does perceive?
It would trigger a movement bypassing the squat
If that happen to me. I would drop everything!

 In this space, we agree upon things that we know.
We create a strong framework for what we believe.
There’s a fringe always outside the relative norm.
It is not of their nature nor wish to conform.
They may think that the world has a trick up its sleeve.
I would say they’re correct, but I’ve no proof to show.

If this lucid hallucination is for real,
Then there are things that happen that others can’t see.
There are stories spun off from the stories made up,
And as people believe them, they drink from the cup
Of righteous self-deception. I’d hope to be free
To believe as I wish and to feel as I feel.

Tapped Any Ass Lately?

TheMagicRealist.com

David Attenborough sometimes speaks of wild ass
As they cross some huge landmass in mass migration.
All the ass he has tapped are grateful he’s done so.
The man has done some fine work to let us all know
That the tapping of ass is not done just for fun.
It can be educational and done with class.

No good ass is a dumbass, nor is he so smart
That his goodness will save his ass from being caught
Without cover when taking it while lying down.
The best ass is one who knows his way around town.
And the ass who is smartest will not have a thought
Of blind hatred toward women. It’s not in his heart.

As our pieces of ass became pieces of eight
All across the world landscape through eons of time,
Has respect for the feminine taken a dive?
Common sense says without it we will not survive.
I will pray that salvation is not a far climb.
No Old Pig in a silk suit has room to berate.

Annoyed with People

TheMagicRealist.com

What could be raunchier than a rat-licked excuse
Isolated yet taunted by daily routine?
I would rid quid pro quota of note, and I would
Rid the world of its people, that is, if I could.
Sometimes anger is much greater than can be seen,
And most others would see it all as self-abuse.

How do I get myself out of such a hot spot?
I must know how I got here, then see where to go.
This world has much to offer, both wanted and not.
Either fear or desire will reveal what I’ve got
And I do have a choice in the matter, I know.
People aren’t out to get me. There is no big plot.

Everything is a microcosm of the whole,
From the tiniest particle to things immense.
Within each there exists every other, then some,
Along with sharp dichotomy to overcome.
To consult inner guidance does make perfect sense.
I’d much rather be wrong than be without a soul.

What’s Up With ‘Won’t?’

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

There’s a surplus of ‘won’t’ but there is no ‘wo not.’
Why did no one explain this, when I was in school,
That there isn’t a ‘wo,’ really? It’s just a growth
From a disjointed history. Were they not both,
‘Will’ and ‘Not,’ as a pair, solved by judicial rule,
Then perhaps each raw litigant would have no plot.

How does ‘will’ become ‘wo?’ That’s what I’d like to know
Not that it makes a difference. I could get by
Without reaching the bottom of this inquiry.
How the ruling for ‘won’t’ was reached I’d like to see.
Who has judged this contraction the right one, and why?
Did some scene in a courtroom take place long ago?

In Old English, the verb ‘willan’ meant ‘wish’ or ‘will.’
It was ‘will’ in the present and ‘wold’ in the past (?)
Over centuries, too many forms of the two
Were used widely. Versions appeared out of the blue.
Some folks tried the word ‘willn’t.’ That shit didn’t last.
That is why frigging English is such a damned pill.

Getting Past Fear

TheMagicRealist.com

Going through some transitions… Is that not the norm?
I keep changing directions throughout the process.
Contrast gives me some clarity, but I feel lost,
Then I fear I must find myself at any cost.
Can you give me advice so that I feel fear less?
What I need is to unleash the will to transform.

Only knee jerk responses have I had so far
Along each path I’ve taken. All lead to nowhere.
All I know is that I tread a vast wilderness.
I perceive only shadows sometimes, I confess.
I would love to find meaning which I would then share
With all those who will have it. I’d be not a star.

Am I safe in believing that fear is my friend
Even when I’m so fearful that death seems the way
To short circuit existence to end the deep pain?
Any fool with a conscience knows that is insane.
If my fear has some meaning, perhaps it’s to play
A big part in my growth that my soul may ascend.

It’s A Good Life

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a Good life, America. Don’t say it’s not.
We owe all to the monster who treats us so well.
Nowhere else in our long history have we seen
Such a Wonderful tyrant. Don’t say that he’s mean.
We should all give him praise now, while under his spell.
If we make the child angry, we could risk a lot.

He had some friends to play with. He wished them away.
With the point of a finger he orders his wrath.
It is Good that he does this, though. He can’t do wrong.
If you cannot agree, then you do not belong!
He is Brilliant, and simply a fine psychopath.
Everyday is a Great day. What else could we say?

It was nice in the old time when souls weren’t at stake
And when truth was a constant, along with respect.
But this monster won’t know that. No power has he
To read even his own thoughts, as one can well see.
This sick child of a man will do harm if unchecked.
We have met our own darkness. Will we come awake?

Sedentarium

TheMagicRealist.com

If you got off that lard ass and did some real work
And perhaps breathed some fresh air, would that put a dent
In the thick glass protecting you from the outside
Where reality charbroils what isn’t deep fried?
When the body betrays you, will you then repent?
Get yourself a new lifestyle, you beleaguered jerk!

Everyone needs their bottom line. I understand.
I’ve flipped my share of burgers and scrubbed a few floors.
I could vegetate in a cube from nine ‘til five
But within a few decades, I’d not be alive.
Some communion with nature the spirit adores.
Step outside that cramped office and step on some land.

Incomplete is the life filled with too much to do
And no time to recover from doing too much.
A byproduct of industry life has become.
Sedentaria settle beside the sick slum.
Virtual is the workforce who is not in touch
With some deep sense of meaning for not just a few.

Feeling Some Fear

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m a bundle of energy poised on eggshells
In the midst of a ruckus where I have no place
To live out my agenda. And to my surprise,
What I think becomes manifest before my eyes.
It is through my resistance that I may embrace
Not the most favored outcome where my true heart dwells.

I came here for experience – not to lay low.
Life is chock full of balls of yarn and time to play.
I will trip on some soul-nip whenever I can.
I’m consumed in awareness since my life began.
I don’t want to grow up to be some beast of prey.
I’m someone else among you who’s willing to grow.

I may be a tad skittish. I do play my part
In the scenes that are relevant and make most sense
For a drama conflagrated live upon stage.
I have but to perceive well, then fully engage
All the grace I’ve amassed. Surely that is immense.
Although somewhat unnerving, fear is a fresh start.

Oil and Water

TheMagicRealist.com

Oil and Water don’t mix well. What else should I know?
North and South never ended their all out race war?
Jews and Arabs will always be blood enemies?
Blacks and Whites can’t be equal? That’s not how God sees?
I guest star in a rerun. I’ve been here before.
I am black, and I know it. Gosh! Who tells me so?

Is it you who reminds me, Miss Trash, on your rant?
It’s not looks… rather actions that define a man
Or a woman. One could ask if you’re either one.
A sick child will spew rancor and do it for fun.
If you could have a TV show based on the klan,
You might want not a black boss. I’d think just a scant.

So, a popular loud mouth with off-the-wall views
About just about everything barring the dark,
Crafts a base learning moment. I’m smack back in school.
You ignored the one voice that plead, “Shut your mouth, fool!”
With your teaching credential, you have made your mark.
It’s a shame that the others must now pay your dues.

My Awareness of What Is

TheMagicRealist.com

My awareness of what is can keep myself stuck
On the roadway of life. It is hard to get past
All the sameness. Sometimes I can’t hear myself think.
My acquaintance with boredom could drive me to drink.
I detest holding patterns. How long will this last?
Since this happens to me, does it make my life suck?

I can tolerate traffic when we’re not in cars.
People seem to be not as quick to flip the bird.
Behind metal and glass, one might feel he kicks ass,
But in person, if you raise your fist, he will pass.
While on roadways, some nice folks are easily stirred
To brute force confrontation – but not while in bars.

Keep the mind off the hear and now, and on the road.
Do not look through the side windows at what is passed.
What’s ahead becomes now in the blink of an eye.
And what’s now becomes past fast. No one can deny.
I have tons of awareness – enough to outlast
Any standstill in life where I need not be towed.

Is It Something You’ll Say?

TheMagicRealist.com

Is it something you’ll say that will put you away
Through asylum, impeachment or natural cause?
Is it something that you may have already said
To someone who is wired or sleeps in your bed?
You’ve become a fine screwup. You deserve applause
Before you have completed you very last day.

You bit off a big chunk. Is it too much for you
Given apprenticeship with the art of your deal?
‘Lock Her Up!’ …did I hear you say? What about now?
If you both did some time maybe that would allow
Such a railroaded nation to finally heal.
Why not find a way out? That’s the right thing to do.

You said once, a frail woman would need lots of rest
If she took on high office. Your humor is fine.
You’re no pillar of strength. Your base will see the light
Through the long-darkened tunnel grow ever more bright.
When your girl child is threatened, you will then resign.
The nation will recover. It’s all for the best.

I Get What I Expect

TheMagicRealist.com

I can know that my thought is where I left it last.
Once I notice that, I can do something with it.
I can score a few points if I make that my goal.
Much of life is like tossing a ball through a hole.
I create not by thinking it out as I sit.
When the thought has become me, I hold it steadfast.

I would like such to happen. This is the best start.
Because when I identify what I prefer
I’ll become a vibrational match to the same.
It’s the sure way that I know to sharpen my game.
When aware of how I feel, no thought can occur
That would bring about failure. That is playing smart.

As I move about mindfully, awkward in form
While I dribble the game piece and stake out my turn,
Most of what can but happen will not be by chance.
When I stare at that hoop, I’m in pure thought expanse.
If I don’t make it this time, that’s no one’s concern
But my own. Other players don’t weather my storm.

Anticipating Bad News

(no caption)

When an unhappy end meets a journey begun,
It’s as if I’ve been punched by life in the gut hard.
I can’t see others’ issues. I only see mine,
Yet, if anyone asks, I will tell them I’m fine.
When momentum has gathered, I can’t disregard
The full wave of discomfort within me homespun.

But has anything ended? No lead shoe has dropped.
It may be that my outlook has taken a dive
Due to things I’ve been looking at and taking in,
Knowing full well that taking in filth is a sin.
Destination awaits with no drill to arrive.
As I regain some focus, I cannot be stopped.

There are big things and small taking place everywhere.
I’ve no need to experience all that is known.
Someone may drop a bombshell. The earth may explode.
That would be less severe than content overload.
I’ll stay informed of self. Throughout life it has shown
That there are many things of which I should not care.

Allow and Receive

TheMagicRealist.com

If I want to be able to write with sheer ease,
The desire is the kick start. I need nothing more.
As the rock who has mastered much moss on his hill,
A vast ocean of words has succumbed to my will.
I Allow and Receive them, then get a downpour.
When I want words to flow well, the cosmos agrees.

If I tried hard to do this, would it turn out well?
No! would be the right answer. I must be turned on
And receptive, allowing, tuned in and prepared
To download what is helpful and easily shared.
There’s a source all-inclusive who gives us the dawn
And the darkness, who whispers what then I must tell.

When it seems that it’s easy, sometimes it sounds weird,
Then I question myself and get in my own way.
I could keep in mind I am the author, in that,
Spirit speaks its mind through me without sounding flat.
On occasion it seems I’ll have something to say
That is of my own spirit, though not to be feared.

Cut A Senior Some Slack!

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s too much touchy-feely, this techie phone thing.
I don’t hear a damned dial tone. How do I make calls?
When I swipe, it will beep. When I tap, it taps back.
When it vibrates, I feel I should give it a whack!
For something so inanimate, it sure has balls.
This thing gives me a headache. I can’t hear it ring.

Now, I’m sure my kids hate me. This thing is my proof.
Had they given me nothing, there would have been doubt.
But they gave me a smartphone, insisting that I
Need to get with the program. I gave it my try.
Things are so frigging tiny. I can’t sort them out.
I am ready to toss this thing from a high roof.

Does this thing make life easy? It gets on my nerves.
I get calls and a lot more than I’ll ever need.
Is it fun keeping seniors locked out of your club?
When your time comes around, you’ll be given the snub.
With each new generation, the old must concede.
Careful clearing of leaves is how nature preserves.

A Derivative Integrity

TheMagicRealist.com

Factual and intuitive linked in embrace,
The derivative function will give us the speed
On an average – an instantaneous look.
With velocity constant, the function will cook.
If or when it collapses, there may be the need
To start over in some other relevant space.

What we know to be integral is of the whole.
We can generalize to find area there.
As the limit approaches some well deserved end
We may find in the numbers our very best friend.
Yet, of course, there are those who would simply not care
That some geek may be into it heart, mind and soul.

Integral and derivative objects are those
At the basis of calculus and of much more.
Intermixed in a matrix that nature provides,
They exist to enthrall us and serve as our guides.
They are sometimes a puzzle but never a chore.
It would be quite a trick to apply them to prose.

God Hangs Out in The Strangest of Places

TheMagicRealist.com

Many men will find God somewhere near a girl’s butt
And it might as well happen since God’s everywhere.
Among butts, He’s not hiding. He’s out in plain view
Taking pride in His fine work and blessing it too
They’re designed so that young men will put their eyes there.
And they might end up finding there, heaven knows what.

Place that butt on a platter of silver or gold.
Put it up on a pedestal. Let it perform.
To stir up some excitement, they fashion their walk.
And it matters the least bit that others may balk.
I appreciate girl butts. I’d hope that’s the norm.
As I take notice of them, I’ll never grow old.

Women’s butts are a blessing. They need no disguise
Nor a statute of censorship to keep us tame.
They’re released into nature that we may be sure
That all notice God’s handiwork, sacred and pure.
Staring at that butt package is part of the game
And a helpful distraction for those who are wise.

A Box by Any Other Juke

TheMagicRealist.com

Is there need for refinement of relevant speech
When it comes to discerning the way of the dance?
Often people are juking when there is no tune.
They may pop and go weasel from midnight ‘til noon.
It’s not done much in daytime. There would be the chance
That the yellow box has not much in it to teach.

Yet it need not be yellow like some submarine.
Give it any fun color, one vibrant and bright.
All the music inside it is plug nickel free.
Who would argue that that’s not the way it should be?
Take your shoes off and park them for juke bug delight.
Don’t expect the expected and already seen.

We are out on the town on a big ballroom floor.
Some of us are quite clumsy. Some dance very well.
While the music is playing, we all do our best
Or at least suffer through it in well-tempered jest.
If I trip on the dance floor, just ring a loud bell
So that all will take notice and ask me for more.

A Festival of Appreciation

TheMagicRealist.com

For the sheer joy abounding throughout all the earth,
(There’s a lot more of it than of anything not.)
There is reason to celebrate and carry on
In a spirit of caring. We rely upon
Each and everyone of us to earn what is sought.
Though we’re not in the sixties, it’s time for rebirth.

Clear desire, no resistance… connection is made
To the source that is in us all wanting to live
And to love at full throttle, unfettered and wild
In the way that is merriest as with the child.
Deep inside us all, there is volition to give
Towards the health of the planet. Can this be delayed?

It need not be elaborate… even world wide
In the sense that it’s organized down to detail.
We can party in private with family and friends.
Will it spread epidemically? That all depends.
When we celebrate more, then good tidings prevail
So that current events can be taken in stride.

Holy Trinity

TheMagicRealist.com

An aquatic triangle, nearby and revered
As the Godhead, confounding and hard to know well,
Is my faith such a mystery for me to know
For the purpose of being persuaded to go
By the way of the masses who cannot rebel?
It is said that divine wrath should ever be feared.

Deity equilateral isn’t by choice,
Nor is it by the fate of chance cast by the breeze.
It’s a God well-constructed and fashioned to be
Both a philosophic and discrete remedy
For the disease of living life as one may please.
So, wherein are we given reason to rejoice?

It is in Holy Trinity that I may be
All the am that I am as my father is now…
And the spirit among us is certainly real.
I can know what is true by the way that I feel.
To engage daily living requires no vow
Nor the risk I could ever be sent back to sea.

True Satisfaction

TheMagicRealist.com

We enjoy co-creating. One reason we’re here
Is to mingle with others and make life a dream.
We are certain our lives here are meant to feel good.
It’s amazing most people don’t know this and should.
We have but to feel satisfied and not extreme
About making dreams happen, lest they disappear.

Being more and more satisfied in being more
Is the way that we tweak and mold as we create.
We create with much pleasure if we so decide.
Nothing can separate us, not even our pride.
When in true satisfaction we feel that it’s fate,
We embrace not the will nor the time to keep score.

Find oneself in reception, then one will find peace.
Not a thing on earth matters if we’re satisfied.
When it’s good, it gets better. When bad, it’s a gift
From the cosmos reminding us we need to shift.
Happily ever after cannot be denied
To true heart’s satisfaction. One’s faith will increase.

A Most Ignorant Clam

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t you know who I am? I’m the ignorant clam.
I’m the one who goes pigshit to offer his love.
There’s a blindness in kindness, a blissfulness too.
I’m attractive, I know, because I’m a good screw.
I may sink to your level. You’ll rise not above
Your most well practiced habit to not give a damn.

Yours is alien speech to me. Mine is to you.
If we all talk in circles we get to no point.
If I try to build for you, then you tear it down
As if made by a jackass, why wouldn’t I frown.
I’d have given up then, as there’s naught to anoint,
Yet, I confound my error with much more to do.

My fine work is a treasure – or was, I should say.
Too much time, sweat and intent went into the prize
Before it was allowed to completion in grace.
It seems beasts that I deal with have spit in my face.
Yet another life lesson… I thought I was wise.
Yet, the older I get, I get dumber by day.

Routine Colon

TheMagicRealist.com

Just a plain routine colon is who we have here
And grossly unremarkable, to say the least.
We’ve no polyps to probe nor no fissures to fuse.
I am sure that the patient will find that good news.
But to we, he’s a healthy unfettered young beast,
When our job is to learn to make stuff disappear.

This benign seeming waste tube has nothing to teach.
It’s just too frigging faultless. The textbooks, in awe,
Would accept this wholeheartedly and with delight.
As my students you will study stuff that ain’t right.
Within any perfection, we’ll learn to find flaw.
Then we’ll bombard the patient with intricate speech.

If you know one who has one that’s kicking his ass,
Do a full workup on him, then send his ass here.
If he’s got something nasty, we’ll make sure you know
And throughout the semester, our knowledge will grow.
We maintain that good medicine is based in fear.
We’ll instill that in you through the tests you must pass.

Let He Who Is with Faith Cast the Next Sin

TheMagicRealist.com

Blast you bad baby butchers! You will burn in Hell!
And as God as my witness I pray it to be.
God designed women’s bodies just as he did land.
Everything that’s worthwhile comes about by man’s hand.
And if man says the bodies of women aren’t free
Then its gospel. There’s no place for reason to dwell.

You were made to make babies. The bible says so.
Fertile land can’t take cover. It takes what it gets.
If it gets stomped and spat upon, that’s no one’s bad.
Lowly soil can well take it and learn to be sad.
Jesus Christ was no woman. You have no regrets
That would come to outdo his. This too you should know.

Many Christians are righteous in will to spew blame
Like selective airborne fodder trapped in the throat.
If it’s hocked out in violence, there’s some hell to pay.
Like hypocrisy, it should be washed clean away.
Latent violent tendencies too often denote
Something deeper afoot that no goodness can name.

Harvest Humans

TheMagicRealist.com

Toward a shortage of mother meat blindly we trek
With respect for the science. Reliance upon
Quantum leaping achievements to solve world crises
May result in our being grown and picked from trees.
Of the pungent most processes e’er to see dawn
Is soil spermatization to see what the heck.

If Subgeo Infiltro Zygotization
Comes before we are ready, it may come to pass
That we’ll treat one another much worse than our fruit.
One might juice his poor brother or chop off his root,
Though it’s no longer needed for tapping that ass.
Men may masturbate into the grass in sheer fun.

They’ve been freezing the eggs. And for what? A new day
In some post Armageddon where life is laid waste?
Maybe that’s an idea that does make some sense
Since, apparently, no major growth will commence
As our mores remain so unwomanly based.
What we think can make fertile much of what we say.

Get Some Taurus In Uranus

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s an anus in Taurus. Just whose would it be
As Uranus encircles our sun on its path?
For the next seven years we’ll have earth on our minds,
In our hearts, through our veins and in news of all kinds.
We may see the bull tear down and release its wrath.
Could Uranus detain us? No fool would agree.

It is here to surprise us. Uranus, at best,
Introduces keen insight with radical change.
And through Taurus it could mean concern for the land.
We are not the earth’s owners. This we’ll understand.
We’ll become more collective and welcome the strange.
Rights for humans and beasts shall be fully expressed.

Land and money and resources, water as well,
Will see vast innovation creatively so.
We’ll remain well in touch. Electronics will thrive.
We’ll know sustainability keeps us alive.
That the earth is a china shop people should know.
We could trigger demise like a bull out of hell.

Psychotoxic Horrendosol

TheMagicRealist.com

Toxic radiation comes in many a form.
Our economy ensures that we get the best.
We get most from devices and some from our friends.
Were we not to get any, the detox would cleanse
The sick psyche. It seems though that we are obsessed
With excitement and drama. This is an old norm.

Psychotoxic Horrendosol is used a lot.
It has properties fully resistant to change.
When it’s mixed well with meaning, it makes life stand still.
People’s programmed behaviors then become the will
Of the toxin producers. Is this sounding strange?
Then perhaps I’m affected when I had thought not.

Take that UHDTV and seal it in lead.
Ship it off to Siberia. Then breathe a sigh.
Your toxicity levels will decrease in turn.
You will have less concern and be eager to learn.
If content is addictive, then boredom is why.
That is why I’m a poet. What more can be said?

No One’s Bible Is Libel

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t ask me to read scripture. I’d keep a straight face
Out of programmed politeness, but way before long
I would burst out in laughter, and that would be bad –
Not for me but for others who’d thought I had had
Quite enough drummed into me with upbringing strong.
I am doomed to find humor in most any place.

It’s the way people talked then that tickles me so.
They would think ours is funny, that is, I would hope
That our difference in time and space is a clue
To how vastly divergent we must be in view.
We will hang ourselves righteously with enough rope
Fed to us through a dark hole from so long ago.

It’s a humorous story. Don’t take thou my land…
I shall smite thee my wrath… Woe betide thee this day!

Lord, I know it ain’t Shakespeare, but give me a break!
At least half a page turner would keep me awake.
As I’m laughing my ass off, do know it’s my way.
I mean no disrespect. I hope all understand.

Ichabodra, The Crane Unattainted

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a shame Ichabodra does not rhyme with stork.
Otherwise, she’d be easy, like Sunday at dawn.
She’s unshown to us, though, and that is by design.
One who would write about her would have to define
A worse person than Ichabod. Could such be spawned?
Ichabodra is thickened like tough salted pork.

Every human vice known, Ichabod knows it well.
But his counterpart gender-wise cares not the least.
She’s a figment of my mind, so she is benign.
Nowhere near Sleepy Hollow would she find divine.
Rings of sausage to her is no sensible feast.
And her temperament, at worst, is nothing to quell.

She’s escaped from calamitous scapegoatish prose
Represented as satire of concurrent style.
Ichabodra deserves not a page in a book
That is of the same title. That Crane has a hook
Well intended to keep women down for a while.
I can find Ichabodra wherever she goes.

Parts Is Parts

TheMagicRealist.com

Parts Is Parts and can sometimes be born of the arts.
They’re the roles that the actors take when they have work.
Many parts are well played by performers of class.
When they come to be known, much moolah they amass.
Wealth and fame are but two; they earn many a perk.
When they’re good, they evoke feelings deep in our hearts.

Many wholes made of parts are aware that they are,
Like soul mates through eternity locked in embrace.
All the parts of all wholes have a consciousness too,
In acknowledgement that there is much work to do
To maintain healthy functioning by our own grace.
We have taken a leap. Have we reached all that far?

What is different is integral to the whole.
Where integrity differs, the function evolves.
Every part of a function works best with the rest.
There’s no sense in determining which part is best.
Parts Is Parts is a puzzle that no human solves.
Our survival in partnership may be our goal.

The Standard Not Cased

TheMagicRealist.com

The Standard Not Cased – A professional term,
Somewhat militaristic sounding to lay ears.
We all know what is standard. We’ve learned it from birth.
Our dominion is sacred and good for the earth.
We are Monarch! That’s how it most surely appears.
Why is it that our fine standard makes others squirm?

Ours is red, white and blue. Others… blue, white and red.
There’s a handful of colors each nation may use.
We can’t run out of colors. They can’t go away.
We hijack them to standardize what we must say.
We do give up our freedoms as we dare to choose
Metamorphosis raging at full steam ahead.

So, the Standard Not Cased are the colors unfurled
And released from protection from weather and wear.
I salute them, in general. Orders I take
From my inner self only. Why live not awake?
Today’s sentry is willing to notice and care
That our standard may not be the best in the world.

Barcode Overload

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s too much information – that naked barcode.
It behaves like the butt crack. To me it looks gross.
Everything on earth has one – perhaps the moon too.
And like assholes, opinions and bad humor (eew!),
That machine-crafted zebra mark is bellicose
In a manner that messes with me when it’s showed.

Everywhere I will see them, like peeping Tom’s eyes.
Hanging out at the corners of labels they hide
Unassuming to most. But they give me the creeps.
They may thrive on immodesty, but not for keeps.
I do cover them forthwith with paint well applied.
I just don’t like to scan them. To me it’s unwise.

Is the growth of the barcode because of the growth
Of our species-specific domain, as it were?
We are plenty in number and things that we do.
We need means to keep track of all that we accrue.
Though they’re God awful nasty and too oft’ occur,
They’re a sight for the digital dimwit or both.

Abuse of the Mirror

TheMagicRealist.com

We have nary the need for a mirror task force
Nor police to keep all mirrors safe from abuse.
When the flat shiny surface encounters a face
That may cause it to vomit pea soup everyplace,
It will mimic that faithfully without excuse.
Either beauty or ugliness it will endorse.

If I frown at the mirror, it will not smile back.
The least strict of realities would not allow
What I put out to come back as other than me.
Both a thing and its image, indeed, must agree.
Past and future are not seen. I only see now.
If I see not the present, I see only lack.

I am made of the mirror, as it is of me.
Particles of existence are common to all,
And are conscious, responding to those of their kind.
Not a single one ever has been mis-assigned.
There’s no sense of illusion within the eyeball.
My self-image, it would seem, is who I must be.

Feeling Satisfied in The Thought

TheMagicRealist.com

I have been meditating, in fact, quite a lot.
Now that I’ve got the hang of it, what is it worth?
I get signs I don’t follow. Where is my belief?
With my best persevering, why do I find grief?
Meditation may start with the moment of birth.
Could I nestle each segment in fragrance of thought?

Am I looking for trust or belief in the path?
Or can I just be happy as thought takes on form?
Would my thinking too much about finding my way
Then preclude my advancing? Not likely, I pray.
The path yields me not always the grandest brainstorm
Nor serenity born of the kind aftermath.

Satisfaction this moment is all that I need.
Not a proof, nor belief or a hint of a clue
Is of import this moment. I’ll just breath a sigh.
My, how good that one felt. I do love flying high.
To delight in this moment is all I need do.
Feeling satisfied in the thought is feeling freed.

Every Princess’s Dream

TheMagicRealist.com

What do little girls dream of? Why would a man care?
Were not women once little with bigness of heart
And with hopes made of magic, fulfilling delights?
What suspense all-consuming awakes her at nights?
If I knew every answer, would that make me smart?
I would be but her subject. I’m quite happy there.

We are caught up in pageantry. That’s just my take.
I would wonder what legacy should be passed on.
Little girls all have beauty and talent and grace.
We exalt competition. We make babies face
Early on a malignant dependence upon
Other people’s approval. And much of it’s fake.

Every Princess’s Dream is to know she is love
Of the purest variety e’er to be known.
She would dream that all grownups would know this as well.
Every little girl’s magic will cast a love spell.
We have lived out our lives. We should leave theirs alone.
Every little girl’s dream is a gift from above.

Adult Onset Nativity

TheMagicRealist.com

Were I born yesterday, things would make much more sense.
As it is, I arrived here before my own time.
In the meantime I’m given some room to explore
This life chamber around me that I should adore.
Is it wrong that I’m learning stuff way past my prime
As my time to be born consumes me with suspense?

In some ways, I’m brand new here. With each rising sun,
I’m essentially nuanced to wipe a clean slate
In the morning before any drama begins.
It is nobody’s business who died for my sins.
If I dropped dead this moment, who’d care if it’s fate?
If there’s needed a young heart, might I be the one?

 Neither exit nor entry certificate states
Where I fall short of worthiness and due respect.
Hopefully, an old bundle delivered anew
Can provide entertainment, if but for a few.
I would not discontinue this due to neglect.
Both the mother and baby have intertwined fates.