Lessons

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The more costly the watch the freer the time

The louder the song the looser the rhyme

Turn on the light half the world’s dark

Smell the gas we see with a spark

Life in a bubble called atmosphere

Poking holes without a care

Drink deep from fragile stemmed glass

Candlelit dreams with time to pass

To guess and be wrong a zero gain bet

The higher the proof the more wrong we get

To prove the proof a wasted equation

Pens against bombs can never be won

Words in the air unheard over fuss

Numbers on paper not to discuss

Lessons of life shared by all; never stand, never fall

Never swim, never sink, never thirst, never drink

Always bright much unseen, blind to details in-between

Never laugh, never weep, never dive unless it’s deep

Never leap in the melting caps ice

A lesson we can never learn twice

The End

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Choices

Colors abound, many unseen

Warm, cold and in between

Good, neutral or just plain mean

Perfectly flat or ultra-high sheen

 

Blackness paints the hue of night

Shades of gray fill the light

Morning comes all is bright

Gaze the sun all is white

 

Breathe deep, share the haste

Air fresh or full of waste

Seas of warmth or frigid ice

Hairs of decision some with lice

 

A spectrum of options everyday

Wheels and dials all have their say

Black or white, shades of gray

But choose we must somehow, some way.

 

The End

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Two to One

Too few natives, too many a chief

Too few police, too many a thief

Too much sun, too little rain

Too much tan, too little grain

 

Too few balls, too many sports

Too many yachts, too few ports

Too few hearths, too many homes

Too much warmth under too few domes

 

Too many shakes, too few hugs

Too little trust, too many bugs

Too little love, too much hate

Too little planning, too much fate

 

Too much running, too little soul

Too much waste, too small a hole

Too many pages, too few to conserve

Too many titles too few deserve

 

Too many thinkers, too little thought

Too many lies, too little truth sought

Too much war, too little gain

Too little peace, too much pain

 

Too many arms, too few fists

Too few battles won to list

Too little time, too much to lose

Two choices remain – which one do you choose?

 

 

The End                                          sck081314

In the Shadow of Windmill Cottage

Behold this welcome image,
where a hill rises from a bay.
There a tiny sheltered village lay,
in the shadow of Windmill Cottage.
Pleasant breeze’s most every day.

Sails from afar spill their goodwill.
From their nets sea treasures abound.
Farms thrive above on fertile ground.
Good fortune trickles down the hill.
Sea birds fill the air with sound.

Ancient timbers shade from lofty stage.
Labored grain grows upward at the season’s rate.
Winds howl, warmth’s aglow on the hill-top grate.
Flour flows freely down from Windmill Cottage.
Where nature’s breath spins the wheel of a poets estate.

He attends happily to familiar chores.
Quarterly ledgers bulge beneath waistcoat fair,
a quarterly journey to the bankers’ lair.
His shadow alone opens Main Street doors.
Harvest moon will guide homeward the fortunate heir.

Dusk creeps up as day slips by.
Must avoid the many scrupulous gaze,
modest and ordered with nothing ablaze.
In the shadows inhibitions die.
A visit with strangers, heads all a daze.

Journeys end in darkness where hill meets bay.
Tufted coaches dash the posh up to their inns.
Others huddle by fire pits drinking homemade gins.
The trades of the night swap those of day.
Church bells echo, atoning for their sins.

He’s just another hazy face on the wooden shores.
Where the day’s death lingers and ships bells ring.
Taverns fill, ale flows and drunken sailors sing.
Fiddles play and jigs are had on the dirty floors.
Habitual killers all, Oh what joy they bring.

Few will stay, most homeward bound.
Some laugh loudly while others cry.
Some will fight, some will die.
In search of peace to be found,
in the deep or endless sky.

Faceless comfort fills empty space.
Men with silver are sick for a day.
Boys with gold suffer years away.
Moonlit romance lingers on perfumed lace.
Then life’s anew beyond the tiny bay.

Sharing much common thread,
In this moment they’re brothers all.
Whale lamps flicker on sooty wall,
making friends while breaking bread.
All await the Bosun’s call.

In a corner where shadows overlap,
the poet searches for his light.
Here the day’s brew flows all night.
Safe for now from his hilltop trap,
layers of darkness, out of sight.

Behold this most unwelcome image.
The seat no more where the poet presides,
now in his shadow a filthy little demon hides.
Return not quenched to Windmill Cottage –
And wait again for the new moon tides?

Lonely candle spews depth on a lonely face.
Unseen pests sing their unwanted song,
the scent of time ticking long.
His travels must be many, all left a trace.
In the darkness our senses are strong.

His hat brim low to hide the shame.
The poet stutters with utter surprise.
The traveler snickers, doesn’t rise.
With sideways glance he asks the poet’s name.
Honestly answered by the fear in his eyes.

When after long hesitation a hasty reply –
“A traveler like you” was all that he said.
But after some ale the silence was dead.
Yard by yard many distant words fly.
Palettes grow with faces shaded red.

Cider was next and followed by rum.
The traveler’s tales – all told in prose.
The wetter the lips the faster it flows.
He’s hated by most, loved by some.
That’s how a traveler’s life often goes.

The poet proud – a rather long fellow.
The traveler meek – a short poet by name.
So many ports traveled they all looked the same.
His heart pumped blue, the poet gay and mellow.
Opposite sides of a coin, no one is to blame.

“With little time to hone a craft –
with a draft from an open door.
To close then return no-more.
To open then evermore – the draft.
Spirits gone, gone the craft – nevermore.”

“What dribble do you speak my friend?”
The poet inquired in disgusted tone.
“The dribble I think when thirsty and alone.”
The traveler quipped with message to send.
“I’ll tell you another, that’s my own.”

Silent words are never heard –
The voiceless poet stuttered.
Repeated babble muttered.
His rhymes always sputtered.
More mindless words would be absurd.

The air he breathed was glutted.
His helm so poorly ruddered,
his shirts all heavily buttered.
From his many toasts self-uttered.
His mind is so free and uncluttered.

His weaknesses many but unobserved.
Blinded to the Reaper’s shadow – deserved.
Soon the voiceless poet will be unheard.
Then blissful quiet on his paths wandered.
His silence welcome  – forever heard.

Drunken rabble roared with delight.
The poet withered belittled.
The traveler’s attention fizzled.
When laudanum’s sipped out of sight.
The poet escaped most grizzled.

Out of the dark into the night –
bellowing air; cold, wet and starless.
His poisoned lips know no finesse.
His state of mind out of time – not right.
The poet’s mind wanders aimless.

While the traveler tucked snugly in his bunk,
with help from many new joyous fan.
All loved the howls of this traveled wild-man.
His tales make perfect sense – drunk.
The favorite carried and a silent poet ran.

His boot heels clack on cobble slick.
The poet stumbles upward with achy head.
While his stallion slumbers atop golden bed.
If only to have aid from his gilt throat-ed stick.
This shadowy path he may be found dead.

The wind that is my fortune is slowly killing me.
This hill of heritage too high for me to climb,
with forceful push from the hands of time.
Drawing me back to a frigid sea –
my misery oh-so great – it is oh-so sublime.

Head tucked low, bottom up always slow.
Darkness wanes to purples then red.
Day is born, horrors of the night soon dead.
Hands and knees bloodied and bruised – falls of woe.
Alas the bodies of servants to guide to downy bed.

Winter behind, graven plans regress,
fevered sleep past, shadows of death dawdle.
Summer awaits, the poet’s lessons dwindle.
His magnum opus went off to press.
Journey’s soon to Main Street for praise to guzzle.

Surveying high atop his magnificent mount,
the poet exclaimed “behold this welcome image”
Deceived by the bustle – not he the homage.
But a tome by a worldly traveler, no doubt –
“In the Shadow of Windmill Cottage”

The End

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Salivating

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Magicians, Beauticians or a nuclear technician;
Waiters all are we in this timely transition,
waiting from birth for sublime justification,
resting eternally with cosmic salvation.

Lying in wait for a future incarnation,
floating high with delicious damnation,
blatantly we borrow for ageless hibernation.
But the past is now for a next generation.

~*~
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Sharing

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People that yell have nothing to say.

People who yawn sleep all day.

People who sniff also smell.

Preachers of lies go to hell.

`

Thieves take for their greed.

The meek give when in need.

The globe’s split by distant light.

Half is day. Half is night.

`

Half is X. Half is Y.

Thunder booms in forever sky.

Drowning reason with buoyant screams.

Pushed and pulled to all extremes.

`

Hiding behind a glass veneer.

The mirror see’s we all don’t share.

But share we must our only place.

For life’s reflection, not a race.

`

The End

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Guns, Gods & Greed

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Sowing a hideous seed, nourished with gas dug from our past.

Shoot first ask questions last. But hurry they’re going fast.

Guns, gods and greed

Suckled breast corporate laced, plastic faces our world graced.

We share with all what we waste from our piles made of haste.

Winner takes all, just make the call. Man is big the earth small.

Enemies don’t grieve, faith does not deceive.

Much to achieve, just believe.

Guns, gods and greed

The seed grown, seeds of their own, on the wind they’ll be blown.

 Or from our hands they’ll be thrown all to cast the final stone.

Spreading death, division and despair – when thrice comes to bear.

The end may be near, a warning shot we’ll never hear.

But never fear.

Guns, gods and greed

Raise our arms to the skies, pop goes the fireflies.

Screams drown out the cries.

Close your eyes daylight dies, truth within, outside lies.

We laugh at others strife. Define who’s to be a wife.

Skewer the peace with our knife.

But soon we’ll all be saved – from life.

Guns, gods and greed

The  End

Steve Kittell 2014

If Jesus had a gun

If Jesus had a gun there’d be no Christianity.

If Jesus had a say he’d end this insanity.

But if you choose to play this deadly game.

Choose when “shall not” and “might not” are the same?

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But maker if there be will decide who won.

Prizes to be: peace or the heat of the sun.

To not fear is to fear not the end.

To fear is to violently defend.

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Some will kill with vigor.

Some hesitate to pull the trigger.

But a trigger’s pulled either way,

Just another death, another day.

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This loss of life is no one’s gain.

To lose ourselves with altered brain,

Strap on our cloaks of invincibility.

Defy the bonds of sensibility.

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Children pass and mothers cry.

The bad guy’s always the other guy.

But math doesn’t lie,

Too many people die.

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There’s some that do, some that don’t.

There’s some that will, some that won’t.

Can there be willingness without desire?

Lines too thin burn easily in fire.

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If Jesus had a second shot,

Would he take it? –  I think not.

I’ll end this quiz with a wish – not long,

For those of you that pray. –  Pray I’m wrong. .

The End

 

 

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Details

The devil’s in the details
There’s enough to fill a book
Good or bad become a blur
The higher up you look

Faith adorned upon the sleeve
Or chained around a throat
Taking solace in salvation
While giving little note

Somewhere writ “thou shalt not kill”
This would seem to say it all
They’re simple words to live by
If only we’d heed the call

Or pick and choose words to use
Suffice to make a pennant
Rally around on sacred ground
Then rent it to a tenant

Swaddled in our presentation
Is a tolerance for damnation
Defending of a man-made notion
Is this vast imagined nation

With a patting of backs
Preserving of merit
We share the rounds
To spread the tenet

With finite time defining sin
Demanding of others penance
Then timeless regurgitations
Refining of the conscience

These details are the devil
There’s never enough to please
Yet bad and good become more clear
The deeper down one sees

~*~

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Need

The more we have, the more we need

The more we want the more the greed

Living lives consumed consuming

Conned into debt for things amusing

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Day by day we run in place

Tracks grow longer on our face

The wheels of commerce set the pace

Rolling over this human race

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Blinded by labels to make us feel

Sculpted by images to make us real

In the darkness all are blind

Disappearing piece of mind

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To dwell in a time lush and green

The futures blight not yet seen

Waters’ pure cascading clean

Paths uncluttered, bodies lean

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Family and friends share to survive

Living life to be alive

Preserving futures, planting seed

Thus is all we really need

~*~

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Morning Triku #63

Too Little Rhyme ~

Life is Poetry

Some is good and some is bad

Most we’ll never see

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Forever’s Never Last ~

Our writing is the

Exercise that forces us

To live fitfully

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Con-Tent ~

Home’s where our stuff’s stored

A store is where our stuff’s bought

Bought’s where our heart’s sold

~*~

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Steal this Poem

G’head punk, make my day

Steal this poem as you may

I’ll write another, take that one too

Then I’ll pen prose, making fun of you

 *

Take from me, indulge your greed

Plagiarism, the affirmation we need

Don’t you worry I’ll rhyme some more

I’ve infinite topics to explore

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But you, my friend, only do one thing

You’re a one note wonder, that can’t even sing

While creators create, both good and bad

A thief’s life will always and only be sad

~*~

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Hot or Heavy

Intellectual intercourse, screwing with my brain

In and out, in and out, it’s driving me insane

Mingle, tingle, fiddle and wrangle

Contortions of thought in an obtuse angle

 ~

Choose your philosophy from the six-o’clock news

Share the cheers of winners, without deadly dues

Think what you want, do as they say

Lie and be trampled or kneel and pray

 ~

Feel the salt slide down your throat

Maybe it’s time for a bigger boat

Faster cars or super-sonic jet

All’s to lose when time’s the bet

 ~

Spew some truth, take your chance

Or sit and wait and never dance

You’ll never know how far to go

When life’s an illusion, just a TV show

 ~*~

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Can I Haz Tomorrow?

My cat had a vision the other day

Of a future, not long away

She stood on the moon

Gazed into the gloom

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Where once a planet spun

Fresh air, naps and scratches, oh what fun

Food abounds for every taste

Till wolves overcame and all was a waste

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Wars were fought over piles of trash

And our once cozy home now a ball of ash

~

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Jester’s Throne

 

Prancing ponies in harlequin suits

Powdered faces, bells on their boots

Marionettes merrily masquerade as men

Pretty puppets pulled to be pushed again

 ~

The muses of muses paid to amuse

Chuckling clowns cry, just to confuse

Jugglers juggling, jingling our nerves

Swallowers’ swallowing for the point it serves

 ~

Pachyderms poked and packed with their trunks

With those no-stripe types, the most potent of skunks

They waddle, wander and wade through the nights

Into the big-top with big spotty spot lights

 ~

Tall tents risen, stakes struck down

The political circus has blown into town

Steaks tossed at beasts to keep at bay

The world’s greatest show will start any day

 ~

Food and fun and games for all

Prizes awarded if you heed their call

Applause not denied in a beauty contest

While the leaders with rings always do best

 ~

Just step right up and you’ll decide

Who’s to stay and who we hide

Take a chance and chance a win

Winner takes all – let the show begin!

~*~

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Growth of Plight

Engines of plight will grind to a stop

When bloated guts belly flop

Diving high in their oils last drop

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Autos will stall – jets will fall

Ships adrift with no ports of call

Life consumed by engines sprawl

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We’ll burn our peat and our coal

Scavenge twigs when no logs roll

Burn our atoms and homes of ole

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Hope burns rockets for us to roam

In glittered shells, blazing chrome

Turning pages to ash that was our tome

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Oceans slick with humans last trace.

Now directionless vessels adrift in space

Motionless, still hurrying – to keep the pace

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Escaping history that was our own

Journey unneeded to a vast unknown

Civilizations die when greed is grown

*

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