obese cannibal
in a moment of hunger
eats Jenny Craig
in a moment of hunger
eats Jenny Craig
|
Today was a hard day
And so tonight I will pray That soon will come a new day I awake and see no sun ray Rain rain go away But wash away my tears you may I go out to the rain to play And you tell me I will be okay Since you wipe all my blues away By the coming of the new day Happiness will be underway Threads
Providing warmth While assuaging Dread Sometimes worn on a head Or while in bed, Yet fabric is the Connective material That can make fashion statements, And also address social issues While action does more Than simply open doors Because clothes simply cover While fully-realized people Attempt to discover The meaning of their own lives A mask covers my mouth.
My eyes will tell you a story, Please listen closely. Death showed up to warn Peter one day,
that his time to die was coming next May. Peter then spent every cent that he had, Parties, carousing, and drinking like mad. The days until May were growing quite slim, But Peter decided death would not find him. So he shaved all the hair from the top of his head, And into a dimly lit theater, he fled. Death walked around calling his name, Angry at Peter for playing this game. Finally concluding he needed a break, Death decided a movie he’d take. After some popcorn and one matinee, Death looked at his watch and called it a day. Returning with no one would be very grim, So he took up the bald man sitting beside him. Glancing through portholes, my eyes follow people
departing the ferry from Bainbridge Island to Seattle when employment seemed stable, the future promising; before masks became a mandate and simple caution drove the cure, feet nimbly navigated docking ramps to Seattle’s Terminal without hesitation or reluctance. Seven thousand horses spin the vessel’s mighty propeller; whirling, whirling, whirling, its paddles push the ferry along at 17 knots, indifferent to pandemic timetables or new normal delusions. At twenty-five percent capacity, the return journey’s now different; commuters breathe on glass windows, leave sheets of human fog across transparent surfaces…engrave initials on water vapor, write names, messages, graffiti underscored by mythic symbols; relations discouraged, even Puget Sound spray seems to practice social distancing and avoids mixing moisture with passengers. Contrary to facts,
Myths sometimes originate From misconceptions. In fact, First impressions Are sometimes incorrect, So find a new point of view, For people do what they do, And discover all that is new Through sensation and perception It's Easter although a polar breeze blows
as the poor daffodils sway and shiver, shadows like ghosts in the sun. Their white and yellow hues are vibrant but it is early April and some petals are already brown, soon to turn to dust as eventually...everything must. Snow clouds form, blinding the sun and a surprise army of flakes drop on the freezing daffodils which had hoped to spend their final weeks basking in warm sunshine but it is just a passing shower it seems as snowflakes melt...as quickly as dreams. I got the idea to write a 100-word story submission,
even though it might be easier to live on an overseas mission. Then to write a heartbreaking story about romance, death or people who are insane. Just keeping the story down to 100 words is enough to give most writers some kind of pain. But I wrote anyway, about happy stuff, and waited for comments from an editor I expected to be gruff. I still haven't heard from an editor about my story. I knew I should have been more gory. midnight hush
echoes of the last train in the tracks The metallic wail of summer
carries through sweltering nights, scattered by faint breezes among the swirling mosaic of stars. Years of xylem sustenance and tunneling in the Earth’s sunless belly propel the insects’ passion, excite their chorus, as they excavate a path toward the sky. Clinging to the rough bark of trees, they leave the delicate shell of more than a decade behind, exchanging their wrinkled, tea-stained skin for the viridescence of the surrounding leaves and grass. It's been a year since I strolled here:
now a rowing boat is planted in the flower bed and a large boat snuggles against the harbour wall although skeletal wrecks still remain. Oh, it feels so fine to return with the fresh wind caressing my brow listening to the crows and seagulls screech, it is low-tide on Barry Harbour beach and the sun creates jewels in the Channel as a tanker languidly slides across, a few dogs and their guardians roam. The Quantock hills are shrouded in sea mist, the little estuary sedate, shallow and silver with transient miniature lakes on the sand which is darkened by the sea, waves of tranquillity roll over me. People sometimes do annoy,
Yet there is actually no need to destroy. Instead, simply take a break, Rather than experiencing heartaches, And as the heart heals and The soul purifies, People could try To do anything that they can To defy the odds, And soar high While remembering that, With all due respect, There is actually no need to cry, And to utilize self-respect On a hot soporific summer's day
I entered the gates of Dunraven Castle, colossal gate and seat as if I were from Lilliput. I peered from the cliff of Southerndown where poor souls have leapt to the other side. The grey rocks travelled back in time when Wales stood near the equator and in this Jurassic place I sensed the spirits of dinosaurs. The beach of pebbles enticed and I swam in the sparkling blue Channel laying on my back in the summer sea in deep water...feeling serene and free. They're almost here floating on the air.
If I could block out the traffic noises The cat clamoring for attention Even the spoon clinking against his cup I would relinquish the sweetness of birdsong and the soft humming of bees The murmur of leaves as they brush together, stirred by the gentle breeze And the swish of summer grasses as they sway and dance The chirp of some unseen insect busy with important insect business If I could switch off the voices in my head The cacophony of survival, of daily struggle For just one minute! If I could shut them all off.. I know I could recapture the beauty of those last words you spoke, Before you were no more spring morning
the scent of sun-kissed rain By and by,
Beneath the same blue sky, Some aspects of life Involve ties, Both competitive, And fashionable, Ties sometimes do Make life wonderful, But that only depends If people make amends, And make settlements To experience wonderment. This fitting tribute is posted today, rather than wait until next Friday. So the final whistle blows on the life of Peter Lorimer who could shoot a ball with a speed that seemed to defy the laws of physics, a member of that great Leeds side that graced football pitches some half a century ago. A tough Scot in a group of hard men who yet produced moves of rarely matched sublimity whose white kit reflected their purity and artistry in the minds of those privileged to have watched them play back in the day. A proud part of that team you were one of the best players I have ever seen. For those who have no idea what Lorimer was capable of, here's a small, grainy selection of his goals. Watch how many of them end up in top corners. He scored for Scotland in the 1974 World Cup Finals, too. A robin perches on a branch
of the sumac tree whose buds are on the verge of breaking free to produce scarlet leaves later in the year. But today the March sun seems to hang on one of the branches and raindrops from an earlier shower make the tree appear adorned with jewels. The robin's breast stands out against the two-tone colours of the tree then it flickers away, perhaps never to return and a different robin soon lands. I could sit for hours admiring nature's view regretting I have other things to do. Her brown, inscrutable eyes are reeking
with pagan indifference. Holding her book firmly before her, she has drifted away to some desolate territory. She sees nothing, hears nothing, she is distant from everyone in an alternate universe. Humdrum looks, mind tempestuous as the sea, she has crafted a dim idea of herself, strung together by misty memories. Look how she massages the nape of her neck, how she runs her fingers through greying hair, how a faint smile plays on her fuchsia lips, half-apologetic, half-triumphant, her magic is bewitching, for such gestures one falls hopelessly in love for a lifetime. He was a cheerful chap this early-morning riser
who’d whistle while joining the birds’ dawn chorus, his brain obviously chock-full of endorphins. Nothing really fazed him during his earthly days for if you laughed he would laugh with you but when you cried he’d duly sympathize yet you would know he was sanguine inside. A blithe spirit he went to his grave a happy man untroubled by the tragedies of this mournful world. Now he whistles, he laughs no more this cheerful chap decomposing in his new abode, for like all that are mortal Death has shown him the door. Eyelids not yet uncoupled above the caress
of the bedsheet, the psyche stuck in its torpor. Muted wittering from the bush is unidentifiable, perhaps wrens or nimble thornbills or a shrieker grappling with its reluctance to acknowledge the day. Each laughing kookaburra lays raucous claim to its territory; magpies carol the gully, the essence of early eucalypts. Screeching rainbow lorikeets squabble and flash from bough to branch, a concourse to carouse and cavil. Soon the sun will slant through the pre-dawn glow. Yellow sun, a mellow breeze
The first love letter, her rosy cheek Reminiscing of her soft touch, the lovely voice Her red lips move; I love you The beautiful days of the past Oh, how her lifeless body now rests on the bed She murmurs something inaudibly As I silently cry by her bed Cancer took her away from me The rosy cheeks now dead ash Her memory silently lives on Oh, how she made me alive The letters become moist under the weight of my tears As I hold them and read again In the digital age of the computer I hold dearly to the words handwritten No need for the undesirable
Do anything pliable For flexibility Allows for authenticity, And the audacious Are bold enough To do more than enough To establish themselves As reputable Good Company, Fun and Music We reminisced about the good and sad times We shared our hopes and dreams We enjoyed family and friends We played music and danced We had fun You loved your family You were Big G a Gracious Hostess You cooked our favorite foods and offered our favorite drink You always had a smile and said enjoy the best when you can You would say "you think it's easy" It was a faithful few and some may say it wasn't much but it was I cherish the time we spent together It was a Memorable Time. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. 
Archives
April 2021
|
