It is Springtime
when the sparkle of sun
lights up
the stage
where the frogs
commence glorious practice.
I stand unknown to their singing.
I would sing myself. But they are baritones!
My soprano is mute.
Deep and in tune with the day
they cannot be out of tune
while Mother Nature smiles approvingly.
There’s nothing to do or say
it’s no one’s birthday today
no one’ll come out to play
there’ll be no presents or cake
there’re no party favors to take
‘cause it’s nobody’s birthday today
No party games to play
no piñata’s gonna sway
no ice cream, cream soda, candy
no pretzels, nuts, no pecan sandy
it’s no one’s birthday here today
I’m gonna go home right a way
‘cause I no longer wanna stay
I’ll go home and read a book
figure out something I can cook
until it’s someone’s birthday someday
Indigestion from too many French desserts: the wrath of crepes
I’m a self-starting engine
But I’m running on empty
Gasping for some fumes
Solitary without a choice
Sentenced to house arrest
Isolated with no helping hand
With a sociopath in charge
Incompetence is his recipe
Brewing malignant neglect
Extended to those suffering
With greed the sole ingredient
Thin the herd-rule the world
I postulate that I still can believe
The only thing the world
Needs is more love
Yet we go out of our
Way to hurt and destroy
The people that matter the most,
Yet we think we are
The dominant species
Who think know what love is,
If we truly did would we destroy it?
That black and white TV, police dogs,
night sticks, and fire hoses. 1963.
Birmingham scared this child viewer.
Now with the remote in my hand,
in full-color black dogs pull
on leashes held by corporate security.
Up the chain of command someone cried
havoc at the oil fields. Let loose
corporate dogs to draw blood
for black oil money. Scare
the people with treaty rights.
Tell them oil drives, not ancient bones,
nor sacred waters, nor wind prayers.
Only rights of passage
of petroleum.
Handlers ignore the bones
dogs might understand.
People stand up, hope
never to be bitten again.
More at http://triciaknoll.com.
The bed of river
sands
civilization dead
only the steadfast climbing
of pillars, relics of an ancient
past, steps leading to an
arcade
capturing history in
moments of transgression.
The sea winds by,
couples sit on a bench
loving,
History creeps in timelessness
I watch in upper Assam
temples a carnival of ceremony
a park where they worshipped Lord Shiva,
all along the river meanders,
so does history.
Dedicated to my best Romanian friend, Vasile.
I bloom, I glow…
I smile. I am happy…
I am charmed by your
beautiful soul.
On a clear night
I should see the moon full silver
in a sky shot by moonbeams,
Not greyed by a smoky mist
and dust clouds rising from the ruins.
I should see a black, black sky,
Not bright from the orange glow
from the fires of hell on earth
Which send sparks high enough
to compete with the stars,
the pinpoint moonbeam spangles,
Not beamed by lasers.
I should hear the silence
in the depth of the black night,
not the explosive cacophony
bought by the masters of war
and the silent screams
buried in the rubble.
I should hear people talking in the street
and the music and laughter of the night.
I should see them walking home
to feel firm flesh loving and soft
unsplintered and unblemished by shrapnel,
unbroken by the metal-clad monsters
masquerading as humanity and
wrapping themselves in the uniforms
of thousand year old myths
dressed up as history.
These should be my rights,
But they aren’t.
I have no rights,
Nor do you.
Only what they give us,
the men of the flags,
temporally.
More at https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com.
They ponder and wonder about
The impossible, always
Thinking about the unanswered
Questions, always doubting,
Sitting in silence, seeing all,
Saying nothing, just listening
To the quietness of life,
Attempting to understand
The realities of our vain
Existence, pondering,
Wondering, looking
For answers to
Non-existent
Questions.
Open up that bottle of Barola
for the wedding of Mike and Lola
I should just stick to Coca-Cola
is this stuff butter or is it Mazola
Grandma spent her own mazoola
cookin her famous pasta fazoola
at the reception let’s all dance a hula
the couple plan to move to Missouila
Val-der-ree, val-der-ra
chechanee, chechnee’ya
check-nee-aha-ha-ha-ha-ha
my nap snack’s going back