Jumbled…a poem of ???

ask blackboard chalk board chalkboard
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

JUMBLED
In the catacombs of ostensible faults,
I find I am lost in incongruous thoughts.
Who, what, when, where and why?
Was that a squirrel I saw from the corner of my eye?

The numbers I know, but right now can’t recall.
What was the name of the guy I just met in the hall?
This weekend I’ll grill up some steaks and some chops.
This ringing in my ears never ever stops.

It seems I’m supposed to do something tonight.
Did you hear about Josh winning the MMA fight?
We need to think of a birthday gift soon.
Maybe Saturday we can kayak sometime around noon.

I must remember to go wash the car.
Hey, let’s go grab a beer from the brewery bar.
I wish I’d remember to polish my shoes.
My brother said the lure he used was chartreuse.

I’m so sick and tired of the political talks.
Dang, it’s annoying when that stupid bird squawks.
Did someone quit at the office today?
Goodnight, my love and sweet dreams, I pray!

Canterbury…a tale/poem

person walking on road between trees
Photo by Rene Asmussen on Pexels.com

CANTERBURY

Aye, tis in my beloved Kent,

That this obsession did begin.

Moreover, in salacious Canterbury,

If me observations are to be met with truth.

Obtuse, you may be, and as a casual observer too, but, oh, not I.

With me own eyes have I seen the dastardly fiend.

And, tis fair to note, that which has no name cannot be.

But, no!  I say it can and is, even as I script my tale.

As I walked by the foggy Thames, there within its estuary,

Twas then befell upon me eyes the hellish scene,

Shared in this story I now recite to thee.

Steadily, did I hold in my position.

Steady hands were not.

Prickly-haired, frozen there, as I stood upon that spot.

Ascended, floating above the bog,

As if a puff of smoke.

Eyes were staring from that fog,

Caused me then to choke.

Dare I make the slightest sound,

Or move my head or feet.

Mortified my thoughts if found,

Mesmerized and steep.

Though here I stand before you,

As I whisper of my affair.

Surely, in this venue,

Yours will think me yarn an err.

Whilst true, I cannot validate,

What me eyes did spy that day.

I ask you be dispassionate,

To the words that I do say.

No, tis easy to read in your eyes,

My story resonates not in truism.

Lest I end now, my words, not lies,

Plain to see, your thoughts of yahooism.

The Mask…a poem in truth

greyscale photo of masks on a stick
Photo by Ghost Presenter on Pexels.com

THE MASK

The mask it makes life easy.

But don’t believe it is your friend.

It hides the inner beauty…

Yeah, and all you are within.

The mask it is a fortune told

That never will come true.

The world through colored glasses…

No, the mask is not for you.

Be who you are and meant to be.

Don’t ever let that go.

Allow the sunshine in your life,

To release your inner glow.

You’re not them, and they’re not you.

Originals, are we all.

The mask will cause you greater loss,

The further that you fall.

So, learn to see that one of a kind,

That God bestowed on you.

And, go and throw the mask away,

And live this life in truth.

Pillow Fight…a short, silly, fun song

Pillow Fight

https://goo.gl/images/W1e5HQ

PILLOW FIGHT

 

Now, I don’t mind us fightin’ time to time

No, I mind what silly words are said

It’s good to clear the mind

And it’s good to clear the head

 

So if the urge is coming on

Then get it off your chest

Cause fightin’ time to time can be the best

 

We’ll have a pillow fight or two

Feathers flying ‘round the room

Bedspread on the floor with crumpled sheets

And when the fightin’s finally through

I’ve got my lovin’ arms ‘round you

Lying out of breath and cheek to cheek

Yeah sometimes the fighting’s good for you and me

 

Now baby if you’re looking for a fight

It may be morning, noon or night

You know where to find me and you know just what to do

Come on let’s have a pillow fight or two

 

We’ll have a pillow fight or two

Feathers flying ‘round the room

Bedspread on the floor with crumpled sheets

And when the fightin’s finally through

I’ve got my lovin’ arms ‘round you

Lying out of breath and cheek to cheek

Yeah sometimes the fighting’s good for you and me

 

We’ll have a pillow fight or two

Feathers flying ‘round the room

Bedspread on the floor with crumpled sheets

And when the fightin’s finally through

I’ve got my lovin’ arms ‘round you

Lying out of breath and cheek to cheek

Yeah sometimes the fightin’s good for you and me

The Path…a poem

forest during dawn
Photo by Anton Atanasov on Pexels.com

THE PATH

Tread lightly, and do not allow this moment of discontent to disturb your path.

Whisper, and prohibit the elements of sorrow from submerging you into submission.

Keep a vigilant watch over that which can subdue you into cathartic memoriam.

Stay heartened that you may traverse the light and spurn the dark’s pursuance.

Breathe in all kindness and goodness in lieu of maliciousness and anthropomorphism.

Heighten your senses, and protect the value of your being, whilst keeping on high guard.

Seek not perfection but rather the idea of a forthwith pursuance thereto.

Castigate, with great haste, all malevolent subsistence within your soul.

Embrace your mortality with inner-kinship fondness, lest you abandon your father.

This game afoot has drawn many finish lines, so heed progress until that final hour.

Tread lightly, and do not allow this moment of discontent to disturb your path.

The Devil is Beating His Wife… a poem

island during golden hour and upcoming storm
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

THE DEVIL IS BEATING HIS WIFE

Even as the storm clouds were brewing on the horizon the sun refused to give up its glory.

Even as the precipitation came down in buckets, raining cats, and dogs, the sun refused to give up its glory.

Even as the lightning traversed the sky in the distance to dance in a blaze of light the sun refused to give up its glory.

Even as the thunder rolled across the plain echoing against a backdrop of angry, nimbus clouds the sun refused to give up its glory.

You see, on days like this, it is said that the devil is beating his wife!

An Old Rusty Shovel…a poem

Old rusty shovel

AN OLD RUSTY SHOVEL

There is an old rusty shovel standing out by the shed,

Casually, leaning there against the wall.

I’ve seen it through the years and have used it time and again,

To dig the holes for planting vegetables.

It isn’t quite as sturdy as I remembered it to be,

When I was still in my younger years.

Yeah, grandpa used to use it, and in so teaching me,

How to sow seeds in the garden and be prepared.

The stories it could tell and the memories it could share,

Of a man who every season prepped his grounds.

Even thru the hard times when perhaps, filled with despair,

Would patiently wait for better days to come around.

And though it’s rough around the edges, like its owner used to be,

It never failed to honor through the tasks.

Worn down over decades in its performance, unfailingly,

Another year, another hole, another mask.

I cannot help but smile as even now in this reflection

Of just how long that simple shovel has been around.

And as goosebumps settle down I think of grandpa with affection,

For what once was his – is now mine – to pass on down.