find my Dorian Grey
somewhat sorrier, greyer
and as night follows day
and reprieve follows prayer
find the face that once was
can't be found on the canvas
having never found Oz
though no longer in Kansas
gone, the bluster of youth
I've replaced it with caution
wrinkles tarnish my truth
sickness ravages motion
should have known that the portrait
would turn out this bad
this is what it was for
you might say I've been had
Carnivorous relationships, like those
established between predator and prey,
that prey would understandably oppose
had Nature given it the proper sway,
but as it is required to persevere,
pretending all is well and all is equal,
and try as best it can to sound sincere,
while hoping to do better in the sequel.
What of its other, its significant?
Its predator, let us assume a lion.
Does it complain or grumble, does it rant,
since it is not the one that must be dying?
Apparently it doesn't give a damn,
and advertises: lion, seeking lamb.
A watercolor struggles with a rose.
Can't fully grasp its thorny disposition.
Its fragrance -- so, so easy for a nose,
won't pose -- and the resulting composition
feels sterile, more a postcard on a shelf,
a washed-out, antiseptic-looking copy,
than a reflection of its truer self,
no different than a tulip or a poppy.
What's needed then? A sharper, finer line?
A better brush with tempera? Acrylic?
To grant your rose a touch of the divine,
replace the blissful, pastoral, idyllic,
with chaos, life unmitigated, raw,
and then step back, and let your flowers grow.
In age-old Vienna, Budapest and Prague,
where emperors once sought to be immortal,
and time dilates, proceeding with a lag --
it's offering the visitor a portal:
One step and you are in the medieval;
another, and you're back into the fray,
beware the tourist traps -- the staff is civil,
but if you aren't buying, please make way.
These cities, once so arrogant and proud,
their empire long dismantled and forsaken,
relying on their bones to get a crowd,
succeeding, hardly any road not taken,
while promising: you ain't seen nothing yet,
and weren't we great once? Please don't forget.
like fallen angels, they're abandoning their host
their crimson color marks the depth of their betrayals
they've fled, forsaking both their duty and their post
allowed the breeze to put the wind behind their sails
and carried downward, some while seeking greener grass
while others, shameless, always destined for the bottom
do not attempt to hide their joy that summer passed
unroll the scarlet, blood-red carpet, here comes autumn
if life was like a graphic novel
each scene in anime-style print
no need to labor to unravel
some hidden meaning, nor to squint
in search of deeper revelations.
The simple plot won't try your patience
The ugly plain, and good and bad,
while neither's willing to be had,
each knows its role in the endeavor,
and will perform as if on cue,
as if it knows just what to do.
The bad, though nothing if not clever,
will always lose out in the end.
And good will win. Good is your friend.
she loves them, yes she does, fear not
the daisy, the forget-me-not
the dandelion, daffodil
she'll sit and stare at them, sit still
think of wildflowers in green grass
and all futures yet to pass
Author notes: image from facebook
The page remains intentionally blank,
still full of possibility and danger,
still unafraid of influence and rank,
and ready to show kindness to a stranger.
An empty slate that's eager to receive,
to demonstrate how flexible, how pliant,
in service of the worldly or naive.
Its destiny: subservient? Defiant?
Will it become a missive to the world?
A pamphlet, a brochure, a call to action?
An ancient scroll that's yet to be unfurled?
A witty and insightful, clever caption?
Will it remain unflinching, unafraid?
Start typing, and the choices have been made.
If love is blind, then I be eagle eyed,
and savor every flaw and imperfection;
an appetite that cannot be denied.
Where love would hug and cuddle for affection,
I'd calculate, and while I lie in wait,
imagine the calamities befalling
the target, let its sad and sorry state,
my raison d'etre, dedicated calling,
wash over me, a soothing, calm effect,
a salve, a balm-like nourishing sensation.
Reality, though, tends to interject,
and lest my scheming perish in gestation,
refocus on the target once again.
For worse, at least according to my plan
cat ladies rule as the dog ladies bristle
some will consider the cat a dog whistle
but perish the thought, cats ignore your commands
and keep their claws in if you follow their plans
Author notes: image from author prompt to GPT
If God is love and love is blind, no wonder,
that we are in the mess that we are in.
No need then to pontificate, nor ponder,
nor blame -- how unoriginal -- our sin,
since it is all on him. What good forgiveness,
what purpose to the sparing of the rod --
and not that this is any of our business,
it's him who runs the show, as he's the god,
but still.-- why the appearance of a trial?
It's evident no jury of our peers
could offer any more than a denial,
descending, as expected, on deaf ears.
If God is love, and love is blind in kind,
be kind as well, there's still time to rewind.
seen it all and been it all
had cigarettes and alcohol
and through it all, she's had a ball
while never ceasing to enthrall
Author notes: image from facebook