The remains of the day
stain a quarrelous sky.
Bales of barley and hay
languish, kindling dry.
Soon, a thunderous cloud —
all it needs is a spark —
rumbles, boastful, and proud,
sending sparrow and lark
into spiralous swarms
as they search for escape
from the mother of storms,
and I stand, mouth agape…
Will a purply arch
crash to strike me at last?
April leaves on the march.
May too, soon becomes past.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
I check the label: Perishable Good.
Surprising, their apparent need to say it.
I would have thought it plainly understood,
without the need to outwardly convey it,
that Good is precious. Breakable and fragile.
That barring extraordinary care -
and let us face it, few of us that agile,
that diligent and careful, as it were -
Yes, barring that, it's surely meant to perish,
disintegrate to ashes and to dust,
no matter that you claim to love and cherish
and honor and admire it. You must
do more than simply package it for travel…
Or risk whatever good it does, unravel.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
What's my luggage, you ask?
Of course, Louis Vuitton.
I've accomplished my task.
Time to pass the baton.
And do what, you might ask, and go where?
If I rock, it won't be in a chair.
Author notes: image from Facebook
When I am staring at the ceiling
as it stares back in shades of black
and needles me, once more, with feeling...
What is it, friend? What do you lack?
Why can't you have some peace and quiet?
Why is your mind a storm, a riot,
a jumble of half-written songs,
of slights, accumulated wrongs,
and all demanding your attention?
What must I do so that my mind,
however stubborn and unkind,
relents, forgives, forgets to mention,
the thing that's keeping me awake?
I should have had that piece of cake.
I huff and puff to generate
a meme to seem supreme
It's rough and tough -- hope not too late
to dream and scheme on theme.
When the years press you down
and the aches that add up
put a frown on your face
do not fret, do not stop
and eschew any talk
that it sucks to get old
As the old proverb says…
Fortune favors the bald
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
I bring ya a tale of the Möbius stripper.
As handy with Euclid as she’s with a zipper,
and furthermore, since she’s got nothing to hide,
she’d show perfect strangers her only good side.
She, sadly, got caught in a lovers’ triangle.
Obliged, by her nature, to twist and entangle,
and having no options — she knew this was wrong
she found a new job and now serves as a thong
Author notes: Image generated by author prompt to GPT
If I could just get rid of "chuckled"
the reader laughing on his own…
These latest edits that I've tackled
(and I'll admit, I'm in the zone)
I'm getting rid of "heard" and "listen"
and any sun that doesn't glisten,
no more of "saw" or "thought" or "felt".
With all of that under my belt
will I succeed? No lack of trying
but then remember that a "knew"
just like a "nodded", be they few,
will keep the editor from buying,
and so continue what I must.
If I could just get rid of "just."
When I cavort around the town
I often look for love.
But ask a lady: "Are you down?
"We fit like hand and glove!"
and you're as likely to receive
a whupping as a slap.
So I, although I've much to give
have almost given up
Confined to rubbing the old lamp --
It, frankly, has been years,
hand spasms up -- a wicked cramp --
A genie, though, appears.
He says: My friend, you need not fret
I know the Kama Sutra
and lest you have any regret
best know: I'm gender neutral
"Hold on!" I say. That tired trope,
you owe me certain wishes
and he is like: if there is soap
I'll also wash the dishes
"But wait!" I say and glance around
to search for an escape
and he says: oh, look what I found
and shows -- I swear -- a grape
Well, let's just say I was afraid
I thought I knew my tastes,
and though -- like all -- can use an aid,
I'm more for waspy waists.
I banished him, this genie friend.
I dare not see such sport!
And promise, for a happy end
to happily cavort
https://makebestmusic.com/shared-music-new/5a96f297-8d6b-47a3-b28b-66a11c81b64c
When I am tortured by the dentist,
and at the least, like twice a year,
I wish I hadn’t been apprenticed
to, of all things, a chocolatier.
Alas, sweet tooth, you've cost me dearly,
in both deductible, and clearly
in pain and suffering to boot.
Oh well, at least it’s not my foot.
That aforementioned, sad affliction,
is what the textbook would call gout,
and let there be no shred of doubt,
as to my chocolate addiction,
but to withdraw from meat and wine…
And then pretend that all is fine?
It’s lots of things, but fine, it isn’t,
this desecration of my flesh.
The whole thing loosely reminiscent —
I claim no birthing in a creche —
to, after serving out your mission,
return… but only on condition
of being put up on the cross.
You will return, so no big loss.
Return, refreshed and resurrected,
If you behave and cease all sin.
One doesn’t know where to begin.
A steroid shot — right where affected —
And you return to walk again.
Mouth open, dentist says. Say when.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT
As wisdoms go, conventional’s the worst.
Best dress it up as ancient. That does better.
Uncommon — when delivered and dispersed
by graying talking heads who claim: Unfetter
your shallow thinking from its rigid past
and benefit from our well-hidden knowledge.
They grow alarmed, increasingly aghast,
when challenged on the benefits of college…
Collect them, all these wisdoms, each a pearl,
and worthy of its own consideration,
then string the set together, to unfurl,
depending on a given situation,
and offer one, as needed, to a fool
The wise already have it, as a rule.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
What's art? It's Plato's shadows on the wall.
Go, touch it - It's a snake in Eden's garden.
Or maybe it's a leaf before the fall.
An executed man receives a pardon.
What's art? It isn't suffering or pain.
It's rather a disease, a kind of vector
that's able, through its subterfuge, to gain,
bypassing any shielding or deflector,
a channel to your very inner self
and transfer its concealed, mimetic cargo
from where it sits. A wall, a frame, a shelf.
No matter any sanction or embargo
that you may put on empathy and care.
That's art. And you will see it. If you dare.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini