“INSPIRATION!” a poem, a.k.a.: “The Basement Story!” March 25, 2019 (Moon-day)
Skin touching skin touching skin touching skin! I am just crazy! for-you! LET ME IN! I-just -wanna-be-CLOSER than I can recall, Ever-being-with-anyone, Spring-Summer-or-Fall!
I-was-trapped-in-The-Basement, when-this-maiden-approached!!! She locketh-ed the door, then I THINK that SHE “coached,” ME IN THE WAYS OF SUBTLE(?) ROMANCE! She sat next to me and she said: “Wanna dance?”* And-“HAVE-YOU-EVER BEEN T H I S-CLOSE – TO-A-GIRL BEFORE?”
(uncomfortably long pause)
I-was-so-shy, my-eyes-dropped-to-the-floor!! BUT, SUDDENLY, INSPIRATION WHISPERED TO ME, That-I-should-say: (whisper) “YES,” but-then, un-ex-pect-ed-ly, Get REAL CLOSE, with skin touching skin! “BUT-I’VE-NEVER-BEEN-‘T H I S’-CLOSE!” Then-The-Maid-let-me-in! Into HER HEART!*** She-was: my-sweet-dream-come-true, But, now, Dear Friends, here is a-moral for you!
A MORAL-to-the-story! about INSPIRATION, [Even-if-all-your-friends-applaud “your in-itiation!”] For: “YOU CAN-BE-TRICKED WHEN INSPIRATION IMPELS, YOU TO GET CLOSE!” Can-you hear wedding bells? Ding-a-ling-ding-a-ling, SKIN TOUCHING SKIN! Lovely, pregnant-mamas, in “the basements of sin,” Like to entice – all-the-boys with their “wares!” INSPIRATION-MIGHT-“STRIKE!” But-is-it the-answer-to-your-prayers!?
* – or it could have been: “I-like-your-pants!”** ** – PANTS: perhaps what I was wearing – OR – the sounds I was making! It’s unclear! *** – Well, for gosh sakes, what else would it be? mmm?
“AMY SCHUMER IS PREGNANT!” a poem a.k.a.: “The Queen of Banter Wants Us To All Reason Together, i.e.: Vomit More Often!” March 16, 2019 (Saturday)
My hero is Amy! She has hyperemesis!* Let’s all just vomit-a-lot! It doesn’t have to be your nemesis! ANAL -ysis! “Come, let us reason together,” says The Lord of The Dead! “There can always be supplement – to what has been said!!”
“For there can be NO REST – in the analytical life!” This is from Sweet ISIS!! said-Osiris,** about-his-wife!
“Much discussion wearies the body and mind!” Thus, say-eth The Bible – in [The Book of] [H]ECC.*** you will find! No wisdom of any worth urges ANAL – Ysis upon this Earth! Indeed, ANAL Isis – will raise her most beautiful head, Which is a “hydra-ic nightmare” it’s been said! For The Hydra**** will multiply itself without end; EACH HEAD A DISCUSSION – It’s an anal-ytic[al] trend!
IF you wish to avoid FOREVER – anal Isis and Inspection, Just establish PARAMETERS! Then, Isis can-not escape detection, For, if limited, she will quickly seek her ‘sisters,’ Lilah and Kaylie! and They’ll talk – ABOUT MISTERS, About the “evil men” who never gave them more! They will GOSSIP! GOSSIP! that – is their “score!”
And, in gossiping and coffee shop banter, they’ll continue all day, “Throwing up stuff!” “That’s ‘quality living?!’ “ But, Baby!-There’s H Ecc. k to pay! 🙂 -Long live “The Queen of Banter,” whose cousin Chuck is a senator from New York!
* – a condition in which a person throws up a lot, especially when pregnant! ** – Osiris inherited “The Kingdom” in the Atum, during the season of Ra, Ra, Ra! His Queen Isis ruled at his side, but she was never as “nutty” as Osiris’ sister The Sky Goddess!! Now, THERE was a real NUT! [Yeah, her name was Nut!] ***- Ecclesiastes 12:12 et al **** – a mythological creature who has heads that will multiple endlessly, as you cut them off – one by one, two by two – She [They] -was [were] -a-nightmare- on-The-Ark, for Noah and his crew!
I THINK: THE VENGEFUL, TRICKY GOD’S THE ONE WHO GIVES US “METH,”
AND PHARMACEUTICAL DRUGS – AND PROMISES OF HEAVEN,
AND HAPPY EVER AFTER, WITH RACE CARS, EVER “REVV-IN’ –
MAKING LOTS OF NOISE AND FUMES! COMPETING! CRASH-N-BURNIN’ –
SAYIN’ LOTS OF LONG, LONG PRAYERS! AND REALLY – OVER-LEARNIN’!
STICK-TO-YOUR-DIET; BE-SURE TO EAT “CLEAN,”
WHEN “CLEAN” DON’T EXIST, AND-CENSORS-CALL: “OBSCENE!” EVERYTHING! THAT-MAKES-YOU – FEEL-[EVEN]- A-LITTLE-BIT-GOOD!
I think The God -you’re-worshiping ‘s “A Devil,” and(s)he-obviously would,
“OF COURSE! I KNOW!” a poem February 15, 2019 – Freya’s Day
OF COURSE! We all know – Some folks – like to [just] DISAGREE, And say: “Trump’s stupid!” and “The Mystic Poet don’t-see, That-throwing-money-at-a-fence is a foolish idea, AND-WHY-IS-“THE-POET”-SUPPORTING-TRUMP! “Mama Mia!” But – NO! (pause) I’ve said – that I neither support nor hate, Trump-OR-ANYONE [else]! I just think: THE FATE, OF EVERYONE – IS: TO-DO THE BEST THEY CAN! For-even-if-there’s-no-GOD-in-“Heaven,” it-appears-that-every-(wo)man, Must do what they do – WITH-a-somewhat-STEADY-TREAD, And – as-we-all- meekly!? go-off-to-bed, We-COULD-all say-a-prayer – f o r doing what we feel, Is THE BEST WE CAN – and-that-way, the keel, On-OUR SHIP-OF-FOOLS – might do the trick, And HELP-to-steer – the weak – lame – and sick!*
After-this-morning’s-speech – IT LOOKS LIKE TRUMP-IS STANDING-“FIRM!” Drug cartels – will-simply just have-to-learn, THAT A NATIONAL EMERGENCY – is what they’ll see, To-try-and-halt this “invasion”- which-they-facilitate “measura-bly!”
“Invasion of drugs – and-gangs,” our President does say; “ Will be DEALT WITH – in every possible way, THAT MIGHT BE EFFECTIVE!” Well, we’ll have to wait and see, What the future holds – for you and me!!! Of course, there’s this “silly” poetry – (I-hope its [relatively] clear:) There-are-many-IFs-ANDs-and-BUTs – and many a tear, Shed by people impacted-by drugs and guns, And THE BORDER PATROL – RUNS AND RUNS, To try to do their job – of stopping “crime,” From spreading [further] HERE! Trump says, “IT’S TIME, THAT-WE TAKE A STAND AND HALT THAT SPREAD, OF DRUGS AND GANGS – for MANY-who-are-DEAD!”
Children – and spouses – called: “ANGEL MOM’S,” Are-grieving! (pause) For them – I OFFER BRAHMS!** A LULLABY – for dead-family-members, Whose ashes might-be-at-The Border – and-perhaps-THE-EMBERS, From-fires that are burned there at night, [By border agents – to have the sight, To see those sneaking – INTO HERE, To carry drugs and guns and beer,] COMINGLE-AS-ONE: Ashes – and-Embers; Each ANGEL FAMILY, of course, remembers, Those-who-have-been-lost – AND A FENCE M I G H T WORK, So Trump stands firm – like Captain Kirk, Of the U – S – S “Enterprise!” Yes!-Some-readers-may-have-some-surprise, THAT I OFFER A PRAYER – FOR TRUMP AND ALL, Of-the-United-States – and I’d-also call, On-all who HAVE WILL – to-tell drug dealers, And “people-slave-traders” – and soul-less(?) stealers, To-declare: “We’re-doing-our-best – AND TRUMP IS TOO, TO DEAL WITH DEATH AND LIFE!” – and – YOU!
FEW-Democrats [and some Republicans!] – seem-to-have any-love- or-will, To-offer-a-better-solution! So, let’s [try-to] LOVE until, Tomorrow – or next week month or-year! LET’S LOVE – TO- CLEAR-AWAY EVER TEAR!
For, whether Trump-is-“right,” or Trump-is-“wrong,” LET’S DO OUR BEST – AND SING T H I S SONG:
To-[Johannes]-Brahms’ “Lullaby,” for-those-LOST-LOVED-ONES, Taken-from “this life,” by drugs and/or guns!
And-let’s support each zealous [border patrol] agent who runs![to-catch-a-thief] To-hope-that-Don, GETS A STRONG FENCE UP – for-securing-[against-an]-“evil”-Juan!***
* – and WE ALL ARE! 🙂 -Whoa! ** – THE Brahms’ “Lullaby!” *** – like Juan Garcia Abrego, still alive at 74, a former Mexican drug lord – or Juan Nepomucena Guerra, “The Drug Cartel God Father,” who passed away in 2001 [at the age of 85], founder of “The Gulf Cartel!”
Editor: mydaz.blog is not affiliated with Any Political Party Or Any Man Made Religion Mystic Poet will report Or write verse With grace, Truth and Humanity Supporting the Law of man Fair, without self Judgement Peace 🕊
“LITTLE WITCH!” a poem in the series “Mr. & Mrs. Cuddly Poo!” [M.M.C.P.] a.k.a.: “Mrs. Cuddly Is A Good Witch, Cleaning, Healing & Feeding The World!” February 11, 2019 (Monday)
My-Little-Witch! Little-Fairy-Witch! with-a-little-broom – and-little-arms; She’s gonna sweep – The Whole World up, with-a-lot-of-Love-&-Charms! And do it – oh, so whimsically – one-dirt-“crumb” at a time: She’ll sing and dance, as she sweeps – and-even-recite-a-rhyme: “Sweep-ie, sweep-ie, dust and dirt; I-love-to-clean and-be-so-pert, But-I-don’t-disturb – webs-in-the-corners, where-spider-babies-dwell, And-I’m-not-afraid – of ‘under-the-rug,” where-dusty-demons-from-Hell, Might-come-and-demand (pause) me-to-stop because-of-my-“commotion;” I’ll serve them cookies-and-candy-canes – and-even apply some lotion, And magic salve upon their wounds, To stop the bleeding – for-those silly goons! They-think they-can-scare-me, but I’M IMMUNE, From spooky goblins -in-my-little-room! You see, I know-their-tricks! Tricks o’ “The Spooking Trade!” They-are more afraid of me – because-life-is-a-parade, And-the-more-you-see-it as A CHARADE, The-less-scary-it-is! You-just-need-to-“upgrade,” And promise-always to-be-kind-not-cruel, ‘Cause a mean-kinda-fellow is-never-very-“cool,” Thinking-he-can-bully-and-scare little, witchy- MOI! I-just-laugh – and-skip-along, with-my- dear pa-pa, With Mr. Cuddly – I like-being-his POO, And I’ll always protect him – from all of you, ‘Cause-I-“got-your-number!” Don’t [you dare] make-him-feel-bad! You-better-watch-out for me – DON’T-MESS-WITH-MY-“DAD!” Or -I’ll-bop-you – and-twist-on your-snooty-poopy-nose, And squirt you all over – with my “magic hose,” Until-you’re-so-wet! You’ll be cryin’ for help! Don’t-make-me-do-it! For I’m a little whelp, With a big-ol’-box o’ spells that just won’t quit! And-I-can-quench-The-World’s-hunger, from just-my-little-teat!
(1) [BAND AID: Do they know it’s Christmas?: 1984]
Time out of mind I have stood
Fronting the frost and the sun,
That the dream of the world might endure,
And the goodly will be done.
Did the hand of the builder guess,
As he laid me stone by stone,
A heart in the granite lurked,
Patient and fond as his own?
Lovers have leaned on me
Under the summer moon,
And mowers laughed in my shade
In the harvest heat at noon.
Children roving the fields
With early flowers in spring,
Old men turning to look,
When they heard a blue-bird sing,
Have seen me a thousand times
Standing here in the sun,
Yet never a moment dreamed
Whose likeness they gazed upon.
Ah, when will ye understand,
Mortals who strive and plod,—
Who rests on this old gray wall
Lays a hand on the shoulder of God!
When all the stars are sown
Across the night-blue space,
With the immense unknown,
In silence face to face.
We stand in speechless awe
While Beauty marches by,
And wonder at the Law
Which wears such majesty.
How small a thing is man
In all that world-sown vast,
That he should hope or plan
Or dream his dream could last!
O doubter of the light,
Confused by fear and wrong,
Lean on the heart of night
And let love make thee strong!
The Good that is the True
Is clothed with Beauty still.
Lo, in their tent of blue,
The stars above the hill!
In a still room at hush of dawn,
My Love and I lay side by side
And heard the roaming forest wind
Stir in the paling autumn-tide.
I watched her earth-brown eyes grow glad
Because the round day was so fair;
While memories of reluctant night
Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair.
Outside, a yellow maple tree,
Shifting upon the silvery blue
With tiny multitudinous sound,
Rustled to let the sunlight through.
The livelong day the elvish leaves
Danced with their shadows on the floor;
And the lost children of the wind
Went straying homeward by our door.
And all the swarthy afternoon
We watched the great deliberate sun
Walk through the crimsoned hazy world,
Counting his hilltops one by one.
Then as the purple twilight came
And touched the vines along our eaves,
Another Shadow stood without
And gloomed the dancing of the leaves.
The silence fell on my Love’s lips;
Her great brown eyes were veiled and sad
With pondering some maze of dream,
Through all the splendid year was glad.
Restless and vague as a gray wind
Her heart had grown, she knew not why.
But hurrying to the open door,
Against the verge of western sky
I saw retreating on the hills,
Looming and sinister and black,
The stealthy figure swift and huge
Of One who strode and looked not back.
I like the old house tolerably well,
Where I must dwell
Like a familiar gnome;
And yet I never shall feel quite at home.
I love to roam.
Day after day I loiter and explore
From door to door;
So many treasures lure
The curious mind. What histories obscure
They must immure!
I hardly know which room I care for best;
This fronting west,
With the strange hills in view,
Where the great sun goes,—where I may go too,
When my lease is through,—
Or this one for the morning and the east,
Where a man may feast
His eyes on looming sails,
And be the first to catch their foreign hails
Or spy their bales
Then the pale summer twilights towards the pole!
It thrills my soul
With wonder and delight,
When gold-green shadows walk the world at night,
So still, so bright.
There at the window many a time of year,
Strange faces peer,
Solemn though not unkind,
Their wits in search of something left behind
Time out of mind;
As if they once had lived here, and stole back
To the window crack
For a peep which seems to say,
“Good fortune, brother, in your house of clay!”
And then, “Good day!”
I hear their footsteps on the gravel walk,
Their scraps of talk,
And hurrying after, reach
Only the crazy sea-drone of the beach
In endless speech.
And often when the autumn noons are still,
By swale and hill
I see their gipsy signs,
Trespassing somewhere on my border lines;
With what designs?
I forth afoot; but when I reach the place,
Hardly a trace,
Save the soft purple haze
Of smouldering camp-fires, any hint betrays
Who went these ways.
Or tatters of pale aster blue, descried
By the roadside,
Reveal whither they fled;
Or the swamp maples, here and there a shred
Of Indian red.
But most of all, the marvellous tapestry
Where such strange things are rife,
Fancies of beasts and flowers, and love and strife,
Woven to the life;
Degraded shapes and splendid seraph forms,
And teeming swarms
Of creatures gauzy dim
That cloud the dusk, and painted fish that swim,
At the weaver’s whim;
And wonderful birds that wheel and hang in the air;
And beings with hair,
And moving eyes in the face,
And white bone teeth and hideous grins, who race
From place to place;
They build great temples to their John-a-nod,
And fume and plod
To deck themselves with gold,
And paint themselves like chattels to be sold,
Then turn to mould.
Sometimes they seem almost as real as I;
I hear them sigh;
I see them bow with grief,
Or dance for joy like any aspen leaf;
But that is brief.
They have mad wars and phantom marriages;
Nor seem to guess
There are dimensions still,
Beyond thought’s reach, though not beyond love’s will,
For soul to fill.
And some I call my friends, and make believe
Their spirits grieve,
Brood, and rejoice with mine;
I talk to them in phrases quaint and fine
Over the wine;
I tell them all my secrets; touch their hands;
Perhaps. How hard he tries
To speak! And yet those glorious mild eyes,
His best replies!
I even have my cronies, one or two,
My cherished few.
But ah, they do not stay!
For the sun fades them and they pass away,
As I grow gray.
Yet while they last how actual they seem!
Their faces beam;
I give them all their names,
Bertram and Gilbert, Louis, Frank and James,
Each with his aims;
One thinks he is a poet, and writes verse
His friends rehearse;
Another is full of law;
A third sees pictures which his hand can draw
Without a flaw.
Strangest of all, they never rest. Day long
They shift and throng,
Moved by invisible will,
Like a great breath which puffs across my sill,
And then is still;
It shakes my lovely manikins on the wall;
Squall after squall,
Gust upon crowding gust,
It sweeps them willy nilly like blown dust
With glory or lust.
It is the world-ghost, the time-spirit, come
None knows wherefrom,
The viewless draughty tide
And wash of being. I hear it yaw and glide,
And then subside,
Along these ghostly corridors and halls
Like faint footfalls;
The hangings stir in the air;
And when I start and challenge, “Who goes there?”
It answers, “Where?”
The wail and sob and moan of the sea’s dirge,
Its plangor and surge;
The awful biting sough
Of drifted snows along some arctic bluff,
That veer and luff,
And have the vacant boding human cry,
As they go by;—
Is it a banished soul
Dredging the dark like a distracted mole
Under a knoll?
Like some invisible henchman old and gray,
Day after day
I hear it come and go,
With stealthy swift unmeaning to and fro,
Ceaseless and daft and terrible and blind,
Like a lost mind.
I often chill with fear
When I bethink me, What if it should peer
At my shoulder here!
Perchance he drives the merry-go-round whose track
Is the zodiac;
His name is No-man’s-friend;
And his gabbling parrot-talk has neither trend,
Beginning, nor end.
A prince of madness too, I’d cry, “A rat!”
And lunge thereat,—
Let out at one swift thrust
The cunning arch-delusion of the dust
I so mistrust,
But that I fear I should disclose a face
Wearing the trace
Of my own human guise,
Piteous, unharmful, loving, sad, and wise
With the speaking eyes.
I would the house were rid of his grim pranks,
Moaning from banks
Of pine trees in the moon,
Startling the silence like a demoniac loon
At dead of noon.
Or whispering his fool-talk to the leaves
About my eaves.
And yet how can I know
‘T is not a happy Ariel masking so
In mocking woe?
Then with a little broken laugh I say,
The curtain where he grinned
(My feverish sight thought) like a sin unsinned,
“Only the wind!”
Yet often too he steals so softly by.
With half a sigh,
I deem he must be mild,
Fair as a woman, gentle as a child,
And forest wild.
Passing the door where an old wind-harp swings,
With its five strings,
Contrived long years ago
By my first predecessor bent to show
His handcraft so,
He lay his fingers on the aeolian wire,
As a core of fire
Is laid upon the blast
To kindle and glow and fill the purple vast
Of dark at last.
Weird wise, and low, piercing and keen and glad,
Or dim and sad
As a forgotten strain
Born when the broken legions of the rain
Swept through the plain—
He plays, like some dread veiled mysteriarch,
Lighting the dark,
Bidding the spring grow warm,
The gendering merge and loosing of spirit in form,
Peace out of storm.
For music is the sacrament of love;
He broods above
The virgin silence, till
She yields for rapture shuddering, yearning still
To his sweet will.
I hear him sing, “Your harp is like a mesh,
Woven of flesh
And spread within the shoal
Of life, where runs the tide-race of the soul
In my control.
“Though my wild way may ruin what it bends,
It makes amends
To the frail downy clocks,
Telling their seed a secret that unlocks
The granite rocks.
“The womb of silence to the crave of sound
Is heaven unfound,
Till I, to soothe and slake
Being’s most utter and imperious ache,
Bid rhythm awake.
“If with such agonies of bliss, my kin,
I enter in
Your prison house of sense,
With what a joyous freed intelligence
I shall go hence.”
I need no more to guess the weaver’s name,
Nor ask his aim,
Who hung each hall and room
With swarthy-tinged vermilion upon gloom;
I know that loom.
Give me a little space and time enough,
From ravelings rough
I could revive, reweave,
A fabric of beauty art might well believe
Were past retrieve.
O men and women in that rich design,
Dew-tenuous and free,
A tone of the infinite wind-themes of the sea,
Borne in to me,
Reveals how you were woven to the might
Of shadow and light.
You are the dream of One
Who loves to haunt and yet appears to shun
My door in the sun;
As the white roving sea tern fleck and skim
The morning’s rim;
Or the dark thrushes clear
Their flutes of music leisurely and sheer,
Then hush to hear.
I know him when the last red brands of day
And when the vernal showers
Bring back the heart to all my valley flowers
In the soft hours.
O hand of mine and brain of mine, be yours,
While time endures,
To acquiesce and learn!
For what we best may dare and drudge and yearn,
Let soul discern.
So, fellows, we shall reach the gusty gate,
Early or late,
And part without remorse,
A cadence dying down unto its source
In music’s course;
You to the perfect rhythms of flowers and birds,
Colors and words,
The heart-beats of the earth,
To be remoulded always of one worth
From birth to birth;
I to the broken rhythm of thought and man,
The sweep and span
Of memory and hope
About the orbit where they still must grope
For wider scope,
To be through thousand springs restored, renewed,
With love imbrued,
With increments of will
Made strong, perceiving unattainment still
From each new skill.
Always the flawless beauty, always the chord
Of the Overword,
Dominant, pleading, sure,
No truth too small to save and make endure.
No good too poor!
And since no mortal can at last disdain
That sweet refrain,
But lets go strife and care,
Borne like a strain of bird notes on the air,
The wind knows where;
Some quiet April evening soft and strange,
When comes the change
No spirit can deplore,
I shall be one with all I was before,
In death once more.
“WHIMSICAL!” a poem, in “The Mr. & Mrs. Cuddly Poo” series! a.k.a.: “A Love Note Scribbled & Left On The Kitchen Table By Mr. Cuddly Poo Before Going Into The Dark Woods, To Gather Wild Berries & Nuts For The Evening Meal!” Sat. (02/09/19)
“YOU AND BAD POETRY ARE ALWAYS ON MY MIND!” a poem 02/04/2019 (Monday morning!) [The Mystic Poet Tumblr site has been awarded the 2018 Golden Poetic Raspberry Award (known simply as: The Poo-Razzie) for “Worst Poetic Conceptions Ever!” We of “The Mystic Poet” site are heartily thankful for this honor and pledge to do even worse!
“They are similar words, with similar rhyme, With a similar style – all of the time, And similar lines, about the same old stuff, And similar rhythm! WE’VE JUST HAD ENOUGH, Of your uncreative ob-ser-vations, Your-PLETHORA*- of conster-nations, Your lamenting – endlessly -about this and that, With no real solution! You’re just like a gnat, Flitting around – with no real worth, Sucking my air, on our planet Earth!”
So! I got me a job! as a GUARD, At The Border! It wasn’t too hard! Trump was pleased – that I had a gun, And, when-I-wasn’t-busy-shooting “wetbacks” on-the-run, Or sweating a lot, in the afternoon sun, I sang little ditties – and it was fun! UNTIL! Trump came by – and cursed my singing: “I just don’t like it! Buzzards-you’re-bring, Because they think that something dying down here; Your vocal shrieking-is unpleasantly clear!” So, he took my uniform – took all my gear, And I wandered in the desert, for less than a year! I ENCOUNTERED THE DEVIL, WHO HIMSELF IS A POET!! She’s pretty good, I think, but no one will ever know it! I met Him in (the) HEAT, near a Border Town, She was a real clever gal – kinda like a s – x – clown! “I was banished here!! by Heaven Above, For penning poetry, about passion and Love!” “Well, me-too!” said I; “The-World’s-kinda-un-poetic!” “Yeah! Well, a lot o’ folks can be boring! That gives me a head-ach’!”
Animal beings are not objects to be owned or used. Animal beings do not exist to serve human beings. Animals should have the right to their own lives, to their own families, and to be free in the natural world the way nature intended.