People portray their lives for your entertainment
on television, Claiming superiority and you nod in agreement.
He announces, “Screen my calls from behind these icy brick barriers,”
Saying, “Step closer, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.”
One more medical invoice, another legal fee,
Yet another alluring but inexpensive excitement.
You know you adore him,
When you decide to include him in your testament, but
Who’s going to redeem your souls?
When it’s time for the flowers,
Who’s going to redeem your souls?
After all the falsehoods you’ve spun, my friend,
And who’s going to redeem your souls,
If you refuse to save yours?
We attempt to trick them, hustle them,
Even curse them.
The police are seeking someone
To crack down on Orleans Avenue.
Another day, another dollar,
Another conflict, another tower
Erected where the homeless once resided.
So we send our prayers to as many deities
As there are varieties of flowers,
Yet we consider religion an ally.
We’re so consumed with saving our souls,
Fearing divine retribution,
That we neglect to start living, but
Who’s going to redeem your souls?
When it comes to the destitute,
Who’s going to redeem your souls?
After all the untruths you’ve delivered, my friend,
And who’s going to redeem your souls,
If you refuse to save yours?
Some are walking, some are conversing,
Some are stalking their prey.
You have social security,
But it doesn’t cover your expenses.
There are cravings to satisfy,
And mouths to feed,
So you negotiate with evil,
But you’re safe for now.
Claim that you love them,
Take their wealth and make a run,
And declare, “It was a lovely time, darling,
But it was just one of those fleeting moments.”
Those affairs, those ties you need to sever,
So step onto the streets, ladies, and work your hardest.
Who’s going to redeem your soul?
When it’s weighed down with burdens,
Who’s going to redeem your souls?
After all the falsehoods you’ve spun, my friend,
And who’s going to redeem your soul,
If you won’t save yours?
Let me tell you about it,
Bide your time, simply bide your time.
THIS IS HUMANITY PLAYING FOOLISH GAMES
LIFE’S FOOLISH GAMES
Oh, let me weave a tapestry of verse,
Where nature’s creatures dance and converse.
The pigeons, graceful in the meadow’s sway,
In flight, they flutter, free to play.
The game, nocturnal, swift and sly,
Seeks solace beneath the starry sky.
The water creatures, bound by liquid chains,
Yearn for freedom, where liberty remains.
And behold, the butterflies so fair,
The last of their kind, delicate and rare.
Even they, like others, thirst for a taste,
Yearning for droplets in this arid waste.
But oh, to dissolve with that wandering cloud,
Blessed by freshness, where dreams are allowed.
To exhale amidst violets, damp and sweet,
Awakening the woods, a fragrant retreat.
In this realm of nature’s vibrant hues,
Where life’s essence mingles and imbues.
Let us find solace, our spirits set free,
As we blend with the world’s grand tapestry.
:: 06.04.2023 ::
In Name Called Love
From celestial realms, I descend in glory,
Apollo, the radiant, I weave this story.
With words that burn and verses that blaze,
I shall compose the greatest poem that amazes.
In golden chariot, across heavens I ride,
A fiery muse ignites my heart’s pride.
With boundless ardor and artistic might,
I’ll sculpt a masterpiece with words so bright.
Oh, muse of epic tales and lofty dreams,
Grant me the power to soar in heavenly streams.
Let the heavens tremble and earth be still,
As my words, like arrows, strike with skill.
I’ll paint the skies with hues of cosmic art,
Unveiling secrets of the human heart.
In every line, emotions shall dance,
The tapestry of life, I shall enhance.
I’ll sing of love, both gentle and fierce,
Of whispered promises and passions that pierce.
Through longing sighs and tender embraces,
I’ll capture the essence of divine graces.
The wonders of nature, I’ll eloquently unfold,
Mountains majestic, and rivers untold.
From dawn’s first light to twilight’s embrace,
The beauty of creation, I’ll forever chase.
I’ll traverse the realms of myth and lore,
Unraveling mysteries like never before.
Heroes will rise, their valor untamed,
Their names forever engraved, never to be maimed.
From the depths of sorrow to the zenith of glee,
My verses shall flow like the mighty sea.
Through life’s triumphs and sorrows that wail,
I’ll breathe solace into every despairing tale.
Oh, Apollo, God of the lyrical verse,
In this grand ode, let all beings immerse.
May my words ignite a celestial fire,
And inspire generations with divine desire.
So, let the words cascade like a heavenly choir,
In this symphony of beauty, I’ll never tire.
For I, Apollo, the god of inspired art,
Shall etch this poem upon the human heart.
With unwavering spirit and limitless reign,
I gift the world my greatest poem, unchained.
:: 06.03.2023 ::
CHARLES BUKOWSKI’S SPIRIT SPEAKING
In the gritty details, where souls collide,
Beauty’s an extraordinary beast to ride.
Couldn’t beat that truth, so I fought on,
Wrestling with thoughts, tears streaming strong.
I ground those tears, every damn notion,
In the arena of my relentless devotion.
Sought meaning, dug deep in my mind’s dirt,
Struggled through the trenches, not one to skirt.
Yeah, it’s the soul’s nitty-gritty, the raw affair,
That makes beauty shine, I swear and declare.
In every scar, every gritty fragment I found,
A damn extraordinary tale would resound.
That universal truth, it had me pinned,
But I brawled and bled, wouldn’t let it win.
Tears and thoughts, a cacophony in my head,
Bukowski-style, I fought till they bled.
So take those tears, let ’em soak the page,
Unleash ’em, ignite the poet’s raging rage.
Embrace the details, don’t shy from the brawl,
For it’s in the fight, we find beauty’s call.
Yeah, let this poem bear the Bukowski mark,
With grit and truth, a poetic spark.
In the trenches, amid the tears that flow,
Discover extraordinary beauty, don’t let it go.
BEAUTIFUL WORDS
Abyssopelagic reminds my heart
of lost love at sea
/diaphanous without light\
breaking white and black keys
making melliflouous
waves ~~~~
\meeting quadrivium.
the world of beautiful words.
:: 06.02.2023 ::
Ode to Nothing
When I believe in love that
may never cease to be
the man I am has become me
Before the night has waxed
Before the candle leans forth
I hold upon the temple
a heart who made me my own
grassy knoll sleeps of love
and scents of nature’s romance
is when I feel complete
I have tasted the elixir
of faery power — the unreflected
love of my own happiness
to be just to be
to love and nothingness
is quite the feeling in life
BRAVEST OF WRITER DRINK PROSE
Oh, dearest seeker of linguistic lore,
With ardor I embark on this poetic chore.
In a symphony of syllables, I shall impart
The marvels of English pronunciation, an intricate art.
Listen closely, Jenny, as I guide your way,
Through a labyrinth of sounds that often sway.
I’ll weave a tapestry of words, both bleak and bright,
And together we shall venture into this poetic night.
Corps and corpse, horse and worse,
A quartet of phonetic universe.
Your mind, Jenny, shall dance in dizzying delight,
As I unravel the mysteries, unveiling them to light.
A tear may fall from your sparkling eye,
And a delicate dress may rend with a sigh.
But fear not, for my devotion is true,
I shall suffer alongside you, as this journey ensues.
Now, let us compare heart, beard, and heard,
A triad of words that seem absurd.
Dies and diet, lord and word,
Sword and sward, with caution they must be heard.
Britain, retain, oh mind the way they’re written,
Let not their spelling leave you smitten.
And worry not, I shall not pester you so,
With words like plaque and ague, which bring much woe.
But heed my counsel, speak with utmost care,
For break and steak differ from bleak and streak.
Cloven, oven, how and low,
Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.
Devoid of trickery, I enunciate,
Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore, oh so great.
Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,
Exiles, similes, and reviles.
Scholar, vicar, and the lingering cigar,
Solar, mica, war, and journeys afar.
Anemone, Balmoral, a touch of grace,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel, embrace.
Gertrude, German, wind, and thoughts so kind,
Scene, Melpomene, the tapestry of mankind.
Billet does not rhyme with the ballet’s sway,
Nor bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet’s display.
Blood and flood, they do not align with food,
Mould does not echo should and would.
Viscous, viscount, load, and broad,
Toward, forward, reward, let their harmony applaud.
And when your pronunciation rings clear,
Croquet, a game of leisure, let it appear.
Rounded, wounded, grieve, and sieve,
Friend and fiend, alive and live.
Ivy, privy, famous, clamor’s song,
Enamor rhymes with hammer, strong.
River, rival, tomb, bomb, and comb,
Doll and roll, some and home, find their home.
Stranger, anger, a subtle difference found,
Devour, clangor, their rhymes astound.
Souls and foul, haunt and aunt,
Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant.
Shoes, goes, does, let them gracefully flow,
Finger, singer, ginger, linger, in succession they show.
Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge, and gauge,
Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.
Query, very, they don’t mirror each other,
Fury and bury, neither do they smother.
Dost, lost, post, doth, cloth, and loth,
Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath.
Seemingly small, these differences stand,
Actual and victual, hand in hand.
Refer and deafer, they part ways,
Feoffer, zephyr, a gentle breeze conveys.
Mint, pint…
:: 06.01.2023 ::
BIFURCATED EXPRESSIONS
(in the form of a little sonnet)
In realms unseen, where dreams and truth entwine,
A sonnet born, in mystic verses wrapped,
Abstract surrealism finds its roots divine,
Within this cosmic dance of words entrapped.
In boundless thoughts, iambic beats prevail,
Oh sonnet, vessel of the surreal plane,
Moonlight’s silver veil reveals the tale,
Within your grasp, release from worldly chains.
Through tangled threads, our spirits take to flight,
Portal to the poet’s boundless soul,
In sonnet’s arms, surrealism alight,
Let magic thrive, forever keep it whole.
In realms unseen, where dreams and truth combine,
A sonnet’s power, everlasting sign.
:: 06.01.2023 ::
THE VOICE AGAINST REDDIT’S POETRY RULES
In shadows’ grasp, poetry fades,
As tyranny’s hand its touch pervades.
Words silenced, whispers repressed,
Art’s beauty robbed, hearts distressed.
Authoritarian terror tightens its grip,
Constraining thoughts, freedoms slip.
Verses wilt, ink runs dry,
Imagination caged, creativity denied.
But even amidst the darkest of days,
Resistance thrives, in subtle ways.
Poetry’s spirit, resilient and bold,
Defies oppression, its power untold.
For art, in its essence, can never be tamed,
Its whispers of truth, forever unchained.
In defiance of terror, it will rise anew,
Inspiring hearts, reminding what’s true.
So let us stand firm, united in rhyme,
Against oppression, one stanza at a time.
For poetry’s soul, a beacon of light,
Shall prevail over darkness, shining bright.
:: 05.26.2023 ::
The Eye’s Smile
The eye’s smile is a window into this Heart
Imperfectly held
Have not those who know — a poet is concealed
within the walls of solid words
for fear it be torn down
:: 0.24.2023 ::
Poet’s Notes:
- The Eye’s Smile: A poet would consider this as the soul’s way of expressing itself. The eye’s smile might stand for the inner emotions, thoughts, and soul of a person, which they might not otherwise express verbally. A Jungian perspective would also suggest that the ‘eye’s smile’ represents the conscious aspect of an individual – what is seen on the surface.
- A Window into this Heart: This phrase suggests a pathway to deeper, more intimate emotions or truths. Both a Nobel laureate poet and Carl Jung would appreciate this sentiment. A poet might interpret this as the capacity of art (in this case, poetry) to reveal the innermost feelings of the human heart. Jung, who believed in the concept of individual and collective unconscious, would interpret this as the possibility to access deeper layers of the psyche, beyond the surface level that is immediately visible.
- Imperfectly Held: This line might be understood by a poet as the human inability to perfectly contain or express emotions. Jung might see this as an acknowledgment of the imperfect nature of our conscious awareness, and the constant tension between our conscious self and the unconscious.
- A poet is concealed within the walls of solid words: A poet would interpret this as the idea that a poet’s true essence and spirit are hidden within the poetry they create. Poetry is often seen as a construction, a ‘solid’ creation made of words that both express and hide the poet’s true self. From a Jungian perspective, this could relate to the idea of the ‘persona’ – the mask or role that we present to the world – being used to conceal the true self.
- For fear it be torn down: Both a poet and Jung would recognize the fear of vulnerability inherent in this line. The poet fears that their true self may be exposed or misunderstood through their work, while Jung might relate this to the fear of confronting and integrating the shadow aspect of the psyche, which can be a difficult and fear-inducing process.
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