Worry:
Taking energy from today,
To think about tomorrow,
A sort of twisted way to pray,
For calamity and sorrow.
Hope:
Taking energy from today,
Wishing for better tomorrow,
A slightly more positive way,
But still energy you borrow.
Conclusion:
Hope is worry in sheep’s clothing,
Discontented positive spin,
Forget what tomorrow will bring,
Live fully the day that you’re in!
Clean sheets are ready,
But the cat has other plans,
Bed is occupied.
Nectarines, pulverized.
In the food processor.
Boiled hard with sugar,
Lemon juice, and pectin.
Become an amber gold liquid.
Quickly into jars it goes.
Each lid twisted tightly.
Soon they begin to seal.
And each little pop,
Fills me with delight..
Pop! Ahhh….
Nectarine marmalade.
It’s the hate that I find so staggering,
The deep, blind, and passionate, gripping hate.
How does a person get to that dark place?
Driven to slaughter members of their race.
Yes, their race. For truth is there’s only one.
Not political correctness, but fact.
Not wishful thinking, but plain simple truth.
What mind-numbing fear stops that getting through?
We fight for freedom of speech, at what cost?
Is there something we’re missing? Something lost?
There are few freedoms that are inherent,
Perhaps that’s the thing that we’ve come to see,
They are all linked to responsibility,
That much becomes more and more apparent.
Believe many things, I’ll go along, but,
I’ll not grant the right for you to be wrong,
About this, this irrefutable fact,
We are one, one human tribe, one pact,
Divided by nation and circumstance,
Colour and race thrust upon us by chance,
That truth must bind, ironclad, forged in fire,
Extinguish the hate and raise ourselves higher,
All social tools choose a line to draw,
All institutions and forces of law,
Take persons and groups who just want to hate,
Bring them into the light and educate,
Walk the walk, talk the talk of inclusion,
No tolerance for any exclusion,
No exceptions for religion or faith,
The prime belief is we’re one human race,
Our peace and prosperity both depend,
On learning that we were made to transcend.
Why, Mr. Breivik,
Why, oh, why,
Why did all of those,
Children have to die?
I know that you hate us,
Us immigrant scum.
Despise and berate us,
Since we continue to try,
To threaten your culture,
And your way of life.
We’re vultures and also,
Blood-sucking parasites.
I’m not Norwegian,
So therefore I’m scum,
Who must live in a filthy
Disgusting old slum.
I get it. It’s cool.
Go right on believing,
We’re sucking you dry,
If it makes you feel good,
And your hate justified.
It’s okay to hate us.
Not against any rules,
But, why, Mr. Breivik,
Why so needlessly cruel?
They were children,
Who only just,
Started high school.
So, why, Mr. Breivik,
Why, oh, why?
Why did all of those,
Children have to die?
Dancing crabs, lizards, foliage unreal,
Mind numbing heat, so that sweat is all you feel,
Water and wind lending brief relief to steal,
Workers smiling wide; on the side they cut a deal,
Trying to improve their own situation,
Hunting for a peso, or any contribution,
From the many tourists soaked,
In rum-drenched absolution,
Is this the vision Ché sought,
When he fought The Revolution?
On the esteemed behalf,
Of everyone here,
On this, the start,
Of your fortieth year,
Have a happy day!
Dear tentacled one,
Full of friends,
And drinks, and cake,
And fun!
These are your roots.
She said: your family.
And I stare at them.
Until my eyes burn,
From lack of blinking.
Stare at the faces,
Black and white smiles,
In the old photograph.
Frozen long ago,
In a moment in time.
These people are long dead.
Gone before I was born,
And yet, they feel
Strangely alive,
As if across distance
They have travelled,
And across time.
It seems so improbable.
How could they be dead,
And yet alive?
Here, but not here?
And suddenly,
I understand why.
I am alive.
And I am here.
And I am them.
Do I have a soul?
I do not know.
We cannot know such things.
But I’d like to think,
It is not me,
But my soul,
That rhymes and sings.
The source of all my pain.
Is difficult to explain.
It comes from many places.
Fills up my empty spaces.
That’s why I hide here often,
Inside my invisible coffin.
There is nothing but nothing here.
Nothing to see, nothing to fear,
Nothing to do and nothing to say,
I just lie here quietly and decay.
Random Misanthrope 