Thursday, March 9, 2017

The Kindness of a Coney

He came to our world, fluff of a bun
blue and white and dwarf so we were told.
A child of the gray, Nature's misfit
born of a lineage we didn't understand.

A bun in demand, no easter white with the
passive red eyes, our bun won our hearts
in his whorl of grey disguise. He opened our eyes.

A passion for touch in his new bunny found,
and his fertility thrust to his newness profound.
He captured our hearts and proffered his soul
to our way of life that no mortal could mould.

A kind yet feisty bunny we welcomed to our fold.

A true and kindred spirit whose name can't be sold.

He taught us the meaning of unconditional love, that
enjoys in pleasures that dare to be bold and out of the
mold of human decay. That's not the bunny way.

He lived to endure us in our human schemes and never
set judgement to our human memes, but taught to joy
in the simplest of means, like blueberries in the morning
and lettuces at noon, a carrot at dinner and some
 cookies between... amidst the necessary hay with fresh
water at the beginning of the day.

No matter our course and however it was coarse, he was
our navigator for better or worse. We prevailed through a
kind Coney's sail. He could never be unkind but he wasn't
ever blind to our Love, cataracts don't detract from love.

Love is blind. It is not unkind.

Laid to a peaceful and beautiful rest, I think our beloved
Coney knew best. The sun shines bright from the dark of the
night and we're here to share whatever we can spare, it's the art of
dare to a kindness that's in the air... the water, the earth, the fire...
the spirit that we share. A coney taught unconditional love,
and died in loving grace of his lair. His mom, just had to share.

Monday, February 27, 2017

I pine for the opine

Now where is that past in jest?
Axed the split mind of a mental
neuron's behest. Corpus callosum?

The fine devide, the brain-child
of a clever disguise or languissement?

I was told there is great power in pinecones,
so i learned to opine from a cone in a grapevine.

Apropo to stomps some grape, in sport
it's just agape... the highest sort of love
man to god and god to man. I'm agape.

I feel a mental rape. Where's my rapier?

I want to whine, i'll take more wine so
that i may indulge to opine my opinion...

who's voice is just a minion. How cute and clever.

Whatever.

I miss what i lost through the fault of my own
where divisions were carved on an ancient stone.
The blood long dried and the aurochs are gone.

If I knew old opinions would last, I would opine
to an unknown upper class, and be a silent lass.

Silently i suffer to silence the sword, I give my word
it is not small task to quiet the cast of opine.

Does dead words like trees leave a shadow behind?

or a memory of a fleeting linger, a scent of pine.

O pine of mine... the last cast of the trigger finger.






Monday, February 13, 2017

The Event... wah happened?

With all the tawdry bullship that ever came to mount,
for all the lonely weirdos upon a wishing fount,
a penny for your thoughts and a dollar for your soul...
hells's bells have found you out as the story stork unfolds,
or unfurls... hey, who would throw swine at pearls?

The snake is herding up the sheep, he sends his venom
while you sleep and by the dawn's most early hour
you forget your dreams to a poisonous tower... of lies.

Yea but... but what?

Heads with brains are scratching where, beliefs rule hearts made unaware
that all is well at the wishing well, but they lie in secret for insider intel.

It's just a program. Waiting for a channel change, you cannot do it for
it hasn't a name that knows yours. Unless you charge your mission to the stars.
It's just a money game. No one is laughing (hardy har har)

So the "event" has come and then it's gone, there was no fanfare or even a song.
Made up from rights that came out wrong, who could blame one for holding
fast to a memory of a fleeting past of happiness? Was it really just discontented winter's sappiness?

 A sticky situation at best, a trick of traders from the fall of jest.

When all is said and all is done, when numbers and science add to a
spooky one and righteous religions have sprung out their faith to a race
to save the human face... Face it. Summer is coming to those whose plan, is
the winning over of the curious man or ma'am. Woo-man or She-devil is battling with axes while working hard and paying taxes. To Whom? Is it the man in the moon peddling gloom and doom?

The game or "event" is over, and guess as
you might... no one has won. Wasn't that fun?

If you dangle a carrot to a downcast donkey will it continue to follow?

It's a plausible plausibility that this "one" will never swallow.

Carrion.







Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Liar, lyer... pants on fire.

Oh I know the liars in their jest,
are tidily doing what they know best.

Some are skilled and smooth as silk,
stoking the auger of the other's ilk
while boring the cavern's of ancient ties
and secretly stowing the past with lies.

The All Knowing spies.

And then there are the blatant ones
who promise their lies with skull and bones.
Arrrgh, the jaunty pirate lives and speaks
in the tongues of what his mate hand seeks.

Let sleeping dogs lie... we can shear them

as we're in cahoots with their spies. Later Vader.

The tale goes on for many years as the kids
lie bleating year after year. A pack of lies is
the belief that is dear to the goat of the past
and all of his seers... tiny little puppets
who don't mean a thing, just sad little egos
who forgot how to sing... lyers are leading.

Somewhere out in a white streamer sky,
a lyre is waiting for clouds to roll by.
The fire is burning, and chaos is churning
but the meek are waiting for the perfect sigh.

It's the cusp of burning pants that needs to burn dry.

Is it a lyre or harp that meek angels will play?
(or a tiny voice that will sing this away).


Friday, January 20, 2017

One last trumpet blast

Oh, the angels of heaven will have their way
to encourage yet, another uninspiring day.
We have a new chieftain, must to a many dismay.

I watched and i saw the new sworn king, who was
brought to the servants as the news-worn changeling.

He was true to his word to the broken dishearted,
no kinds words for those of the dearly departed.
A give back to those who believed in him, a song
of the patriot that lives within, "I know the evil ones
and they are not your kin. I'm here to lead you out
of their sin." A final trumpet blast, to a cheap and
tawdry past.

Well, if the seventh seal is broken and what comes next, is
there a new found chapter in a broken old text... who is the dragon
to be chained at the ocean? and where are the children who
rise out of devotion? Revelry is the revealer of mockery.

I want to be fair and i want to be kind...
it's all a fine matter to time out of mind.

So the first time I heard of a president, was when
I was five, in a schoolyard, with crying mothers
lamenting a loss... what is a president I asked, (at a loss)?

"He is like the king of our country," a kind mom sobbed.
I was in the midst of a brutalized mob. At home it was worse,
for no dinner was served, there was TV coverage of a veil of tears,
from a child's salute to the hearse of flagged coffin... more fears. Ohhh,
a president was
not some local resident.

Maybe after all these years, with ginned up hopes and veils of fears...
a president will take over the reins and with his rhetoric of patriot
claims, will set new records with his gains...
a young heart will be watching, to see if this king remains.

Or if the seventh seal prophecy reclaims... a dragon at the bottom of the sea,
bounded in chains... New uncertainty is a light unrestrained... (said the lamprey).

Hope is a dream of our Unity. We shall see.
Hope for the best for humane sanity.



Tuesday, December 27, 2016

The false light of hope

So I talked with my jailor the other day, bout the false
light of hope in a round a bout way. And he told me so
plainly and dear to my heart, you've been doomed my dear
from the very first start... of yer life. You changeling of a past
full of strife.

dogma is the magma of gods... who wield those swords
to rusty old cods, piece of what could have been, if only
gods were made of men. (ahem, I'm a woman in case your not noticing)
When? A dynasty of past comes into play, karma as dogma will
have it's say. Here, here! says the jester who would not sleep, electrified
body of benevolent sheep. I sing a song upon a tuff of a spider's dream
whose weave is enough. Life is tough.

Stringy, and mushy, or sullenly flat, the woman in the kitchen knows about that.

Cooking and baking is all she can do, but ah, the sworn secrets she once did know, are a swirling and curling the lines she once drew. A stick figure man
on the flat-land it seems, the poised little figure on a promise of dreams.

Do not throw pearls to swine, said the rhythm to rhyme. It will all come out
in the wash in a matter of time... my good man. Man-kind? Ha!

So in new age decollage, the tearing away of a moldy fromage, comes the trumpets of what was when, when the peasants have admitted their sin.
And the cycle begins again, to seekers of the armageddon, or to the martyr's
of what might have been. All hope has been lost and what is the cost?

The merry-go-round goes round again. Cheers, says the tiny tim.

If you thought that a Savior could curry your favor...
well, you would be right again. Ain't no sin.

Take a deep breath, and find it within.

Save your... whatever. Now that's a worthy endeavor.

(practical, but not very clever)



Monday, November 21, 2016

The Irvings are Un-nerving...

Seeing with the heart is un-nerving from the start,
when the brain is encased in a pumpkin head.
A jackal lantern will view the world from a logical
conclusion, as the collusives all said. A propo, here's
the world that you think you know. Huh? Say what?
Is it so?

In a linear way we are doomed as the apocalypists say,
we must retreat to the past of a better day and, oh,
by the way, there is this thing called a plausibility
that will get in the way. It's a tower of structure with
mirrors and smoke, leaden windows squared off with
sighs that will choke... a poor believer in a frock coat.

Ichabod, crane your neck when you wake from the winkle,
cider house rules when society tinkles, the wisest of all from
your Tarry-town, where men can ride when no one's around.

Those Irvings are un-nerving, but one thing is sure
if you read 'em you weep for the surely insecure.

A scary world, where the strong of heart is the one to adore.
Oh and meany, you read, and weep, and un-nerve some more.