Six Days of Blissful Truths

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Six days of bliss: a period
of happy thoughts of a bright future
not expected, and not experienced
for, well, six whole years.

Six days of bliss: a period
of rural ramblings
among zebra cows, dotted ponds
and the Lady of the Lake
enkindling love a new essence.

Six days of bliss: a period
of positive poetry, bouncing
off ceilings needing paint
and assertive thoughts ruling.

Six days of bliss: a period
of signing up to — not abandoning
everyone and everything
too painful to consider.

Six days of bliss: a period
of a new following: welcome friend!
to this land I hope to cultivate,
enriching my own soil
and yours.

Six days of bliss: a period
that had to end in fire and fury,
rural life shelved and supposedly
only meant for guys and gals
of the gilded ages.

Six days of bliss: a period
I’ll try to cherish in thought
and mind as the leaves crumble
and fall penetrates a mind
once bent on survival.

Backstrokes in a Field of Green

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I’d rather die alone

in fields of green,
alone bar a blue sky
with soaring larks above,
alone with only wasps
buzzing idly by,
alone among the dying dead
that all had felt that living
was swell —

than alone in a tired concrete jungle
surrounded by stiffs in shepherd’s clothing,
tired townspeople presenting
through rosy glasses views
I would rather they did not
so stubbornly support.

I’d rather die alone in fields of green,
with dotted ponds scattered round
like tears from a goddess —
euphoric.

One Keypad to Rule Them All

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The student of lifelong learning
found themself lost and confused,
typing on the phone app keypad
incongruous to typing on the phone call keypad
— separate keypads in a mind
where the two ought to share the same life,
not separate
not one to make the call
not one to run the call
but one keypad
to rule them all.

Pockets Lines With Gold

By -

The People cheered and bowed

their heads in anxious awe,

as gods decreed that now!

with eighteen centuries passed,

no more the need to sit

in rows by rows be bound,

henceforth the iron hand

go soft on wills of man

to lure the dark side’s fiends

across the universe —

with pockets lined with gold.

The Night Was Still…

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The night was still,
a pervasive fog
lingered, footsteps
running swiftly away
bodes foul play —
only the subtitle
gave it away.

The Four Leaf Clover

By -

 

crossroads, the basic belief

carry only four options

veer to the left

steer to the right

head straight on

into

the unknown

or

return

from

whence

you

came,

 

but beyond the basic belief lies

like little diamonds dancing

in the autumn breeze

across a pastoral pond

— the truth of infinite possibilities.

Hugging Cows as the Sun Sets

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Is this the road ahead,

hugging cows

as the sun slowly sets on a world

in slow motion,

a road without tarmac or white lines

yet inhabited

by souls

that found

their homes

in the slow lane.

A crossroad indeed

where little lakes play

between mighty mountains,

valleys echo the silence of moths

and crows circle

above a self

at a loss.

Calling Time on Tristesse

By -

You 🫤 at my calling it “word art”
and “wart” ~~~ you said

{in jest I hope}

was like giving hope of life still
in a piglet roasting on a spit

. {please explain}

why Maris Piper surely is a fake
when Piper Morris is a babe
on Tinder.

{please explain}

the passage of time
and my calling

the bluff.

Ascension, and the Age of Shadows

By -

Ascension — to go slow
towards a grey pale ceiling
high above a land that borne us
into the physical,

on a thin thread resembling life
we hoist ourselves — adagio
heavenwards
sans following,

expecting neither new likes
nor nasty notes posted
on the flagpole
of life,

we find ourselves atop
by an unpolished crown
of imagined gilded beauty
alone,

the glum ceiling broods
upon the fate of days
and comets to follow
as we await the storms
and the age of shadows.

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