how white chocolate stole my heart

i don’t know what the Swiss put in their chocolates, but when i bite into a Lindt ball of white chocolate, my mind is convinced it has achieved an unforseen enlightenment just short of a standard heavenly bliss. Of course, i might also wax poetic about the sensuality of biting into a Rocher Hazelnut creme, but perhaps it is better for me to keep this post platonic. After all, children might be present while you are reading this…

chocolate is not a substitute for love…and though i might long for another Lindt ball, my mouth, like my heart, feels a bit empty. the snow is threatening to come and bury me in, so i must remain here in a chocolate-less house, deprived of the feelings of love.

yes, white chocolate stole my heart

you knew…it was a sneaky little trick

yes, you advertised it all too well

you knew…i would finish it much too quick…

and so i sit alone, alone…alas, my chocolate is nowhere near! how shall i get through the night, without this white chocolate…so scrumptious, so dear?

bottle-collected briste

if they knew…

the limbs torn from within

sinews ripped apart, dream after dream

bone after bone, flesh after flesh,

and never to join

never in care-

for care does not disappoint

and tenderness is a touching that lasts.

the tune goes on and on and on

from the strawberry angel taken from me

to the one that never saw it coming till too late-

you thought you had me played like a piano

each tear coming, as you ran your fingers down those keys-

you thought you had an ending for my song.

but no one knew

the king of Rejected,

the one Women disposed,

the one always hurt,

would wait for a word from beyond-

on the night air, beside the moon

at the back of the North Wind-

to come take these tears

bottle-collected briste:

these moments awake

year after year, night after night,

broken-glass brokenness

away!

Briste (Irish)- (BRISH-dee) Broken, (implying) Brokenness

the fade will come suddenly

there’s a sickly tree outside my window

struggling against the sky

with fingernails scraping the wires.

stringing vines climb the poles,

poke plants lean against these

while the deer wander away

finding pasture in thick grass; 

a sunset never showing

the fade will come suddenly tonight.

all along the mountainside

in the foggy mountain dew

in the taste of a mourn

slipping between the heather

like clouds between the sun.

choked upon as mentioned

hindsight years ago

now among the climbers

cheeks and tears aglow.

we will part from the past

upon these upward trail gashes

those tales beneath our boots

digging deeper in the fastness.

and all along the mountainside

her flowers weave more wonders

how can I sweep in panoramas

without putting the past asunder?

How do I love thee? Let me count the glaze

We face a growing problem in The West. An increasingly disturbing range of bulging behemoths spend reckless days before computerized game devices, munching on the joys of high fructose corn syrup, powdered sugar, and genetically modified substances.

Even the United States Military is awash in an epidemic of mastodon-sized munchkins trying to get inside the lean, mean, fighting machine. If recruiters are having trouble finding fit individuals among the epidemic of rotundity, the nation that once thought of itself as “the leaders of the free world,” might just become the leaders of the largest obesity bloc in the world.

Recently, a publication insisted that recent data from reliable sources, claims that Mexico is now the mas grande gordo nation on earth. I’m a bit skeptical about that, but if true, it would prove that exports from the United States do have some effect on the wonderful people of Mexico. Alas, it must also mean that the donut invasion of Mexico is complete, with remarkable success.

I have personally experienced the wonders of overindulgence in the powdery realm (There is nothing like working in a donut factory and getting to take all-you-can-carry bags of day old donuts home for the freezer, and the rest of the growing clann). So, in remembrance of those days, and in honor of the mastodonian growth of our local populace, I have penned a most wonderfully bad bit of poetry for the occasion.

O, how do I love thee?

Let me count the glaze…

waft so gently, waft so softly

O, waft, stuffed filled

with creme,

through the air, through the store

with a grand passion supreme-

O Donut, Sweet Donut,

For thee, I do declare

I owe you my happiness

for the dark chocolate eclair.

In your wax paper bags

In your cardboard boxes galore

you tempt me so tenderly

like waves crashing on the shore

let me drown’d in your aroma

let me dance on floured floor

O Donut, Sweet Donut,

Tis only you I adore.

When you can’t love yourself

When you can’t love yourself

and can’t seem to grasp

not the world at large

but the window before you-

find a safe little place

for some supernatural space

and wait for the appearance

of God.

In the wee hours

In the wee hours

in those last strains of night-music

I can feel the tempest turn

like a swerving vehicle taken from the path

of an oncoming deluge.

in these wee hours

solace sings her song

and I will sing my dreams

once again.

The Prez is my shepherd

When leaders abandon righteousness, exchanging it for the law of sin- that nation, hypocritically appealing to God, will neither stand in the place of blessing, nor be spared from the judgment of God. But those who trust in the Lord, who surrender their hearts at His throne, will step through the fire, refined, and walk where no man nor woman can stop them, for the Lord is the One who gives the blessing, not some man or woman.

Those who do not seek God, who cling to The Hope, who worship at the Idol of a man or image built on lies and deception, who relish in his skin color-will sing a song of want, of lack, and of defeat- in the end.

I can hear that “o’ gospel song,” singin’ loud and clear across the land…from the sofas of people collectin’ big checks from the government while those caught on welfare try to escape the trap…while the greedy get richer and the average citizen struggles to keep from falling through the cracks…while the chorus of deceitfulness slams smut across the front of our monitors…small devices…and even the very institutions claiming to promote peace and goodwill toward men and women…

…and still, the simpleheaded sing…

The Prez is my shepherd,

I shall always be in want.

He maketh me to lie down on filthy sheets

He leadeth me beside crumbling streets

He restoreth my soup kitchen bowl.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of fear

Thou art with me.

Thy spies and thy staff they stalk me.

Surely wickedness and depression shall follow me

all the days of thy reign…

and I shall live forever

in the house on the hill…

with no care,

no thought,

and no future.

The time to wake up is now…you’ve been conned.

An Ode To My Stalker, while I cannot sleep…

In the absurdity of things, I have found some rather immature stalker tracing my whereabouts, for what purpose I know not, other than for a strange amusement. I am not famous, do not drive a Lexus, nor have a big house on the hill (although said stalker might  find solace in such a place as the house on the hill). It is with partial amusement, and partial caffeine-overload, that I begin a nice little poem, more in the style of Mister Seuss than Mister Shakespeare. Please be assured I am most likely not speaking of you, since 90.99999999% of the people reading my posts are…well, likely normal people….or at least don’t want to know what I brush my teeth with at night…

It is strange, you see-

to follow after me.

I am not so tall, nor so wide

so I can always go into the bushes to hide.

but- you follow me here and follow me there

what purpose is this, that I should care?

my socks are not green

nor my hair turning white

I cannot discern why you would so delight

in knowing my weight and especially my height

and what dental products I have on my shelves

and what I think of hobbits and certainly of elves

it makes no sense, it doesn’t compute

I thought you were sane and a bit more astute.

But now that I know how your mind is quite muddled

I stand on my head, entirely befuddled…

and nearly asleep, finally.

another number

burning eyes in the alleyway of pain

can almost feel the sorrow of pelting rain

plastic bags washed up against the broken brick

gnarled hand and coat and walking stick

grasping a rail to break free from crippleness

fallen face the plastic card of hopelessness

groaning steam from ‘neath covered grate,

the old man waking in angel’s arms too late:

another number

in the endless wall of shame

another number

where the ending is the same.

This only part of the poem I originally published on here. It was published, but part of it disappeared.

This poem is simply about having compassion- nothing at all revolutionary. I am not venting about Obama, Islam, fascists, Christianity, or anything else that makes some people censor other people. My hope is that you will read it and dwell on it and remember those in our cities throughout the world- not the USA only- who fall through the cracks because there are too many people only looking to satisfy their selfishness. I trust you will not find this offensive. If you do, please leave me a comment saying so. I do not intende to offend anyone, I intend to perusade others to be more compassionate.