The Drunk.

© Reg Smythe, The Daily Mirror and DMG.

“Home sweet home you call it?

I’ll give you home sweet home.

You arrive back here gone midnight

You poisionous little gnome!”

“I’ve had a drink, a couple,

maybe three or more,

I’ve come home to my loving wife

Who’s been waiting by the door.”

“Loving wife you call me?

I’ll give you loving wife!

I’ll wack you with my rolling pin

You epitamy of lowlife!”

“My sweet, my blossom, angel.

No need to be so cross.

Just a few drinks with the boys,

Then back home to the boss.”

“ The boss? The boss? You call me.

I’ll show you who’s the boss!

I’m not just blooming angry,

I’m very, very cross!

You said you’d be in time for tea

And then you’d walk the dog

Instead it’s way past bedtime,

Making me the pedagogue.”

“My little angel of desire,

Why do you treat me so?

You know you love me dearly,

It’s something we both know.”

“To bed with you, to bed I say,

Your love I can’t resist.

You know I love you through and through

Even if your Brahms and Liszt!”

© joseph r mason 2020

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Brown Circles on the Grass

Brown circles on the grass mark the place of landing.

Flat and trodden down where they milled around.

They come at night, stay a while,

then disappear as if they had never been.

Leaving the brown circles of dead grass

and the smell of fuel hanging in the air,

testament to them being here.

They don’t look odd, they look and sound like us,

dress like us, talk like us.

I wonder where they came from.

I wonder where they will be going next.

They’ll be back next summer.

When the fair comes to town.

© joseph r mason 2020

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The true tree of life.

cross dawn dusk landscape

There is a tree that brings you life,

That takes your worries, takes your strife.

A tree that’s known by many names,

Forgives your sin and takes your blames.

The tree that’s in Golgotha set,

That takes away all we regret.

 

And that’s the only tree of life,

The one that sorts your afterlife.

I speak of course of Calvary’s tree

Where someone died for you, for me.

He’d done no wrong to call his own.

And now he sits on heavenly throne.

 

And on this tree, shaped to a cross,

Paid for my shame, my sin and dross.

There Jesus died, my pain endured,

There my sickness and pain were cured.

Give thanks to him, my sin he took.

If you don’t believe me, read the book.

 

©joseph r mason 2020

Revelation 22:14 NIV

Blessed are those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and may go through the gates into the city.

John 3:16 NIV

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

Pingback: https://tinyurl.com/y4jbvskv

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Seasons

Golden trees of many a hue

Crisp cold mornings, skys so blue

Awake, awake oh winters frost

Pretending now that summers lost

The wind is up, to quite a squall

As summer transitions to into fall.

Not over yet, it’s only near

We’re hardly through another year

September comes, October goes

We long so much for winter snows

Soon be Christmas the elves all say

Best prepare old Santa’s sleigh.

Then Christmas comes, and then it’s gone

To the old, old year we say, “so long”

As new year comes and new year goes

It’s then the frost will bite our toes

Then winter changes into spring

We wonder what this summer’ll bring.

©joseph r mason 2020

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An English Dawn.

The owl ceases his haunting hoot,

Fluffs his feathers to sleep,

Locking in the heat,

His day is done.

The dim light of dawn rises over a misty morn,

Stars gently fade to nothing

Returning in the dullness of evening,

Switching on in a sequence known only to their maker.


Passerine birds awake the dawn.

Robins and wrens start the day,

Great tits follow soon,

then the chiffchaff

and the blackcap.

Blackbirds and thrushes follow on.

The orchestra of the morning works to a crescendo of sound.

Then, as the sun pushes its first fingers of light

Into the chill of the morning.


Silence.


Save for the sway of trees,

The rushing of a brook,

The scamper of rabbits.

The snap of a twig underfoot.

Dryads and Hamadryads come out, come to me.

Is it just the russell of leaves?

Or do the really trees sing?

As night meets day.


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gods – (small ‘g’).

Not one of my better missives or even near to good. But try to enjoy. All CONSTRUCTIVE criticism welcome.

August comes from the Latin word augustus, meaning “consecrated” or “venerable,” which in turn is related to the Latin augur, meaning “consecrated by augury” or “auspicious.” In 8 B.C. the Roman Senate honored Augustus Caesar, the first Roman emperor, by changing the name of their month Sextilis to Augustus

August by nature, he strode the palace floors.

Revered by all, feared by most, yet sad beyond his strength.

Ruler of the known world but not of his own.

Troubled and tormented by fear and guilt.

About which he knew not either why or how.

His problematic mind anathematic to his own.

In dreams he saw only what he dreaded.

The gods of Rome were powerless to abate.

What power can come from him who is not there.

Sacrifices to your empty deities bring no healing.

Waxing moons supposedly bring spiritual hope,

Waning  again like unrequited love on a distant shore,

White sand running through your fingers like the days of life.

No hope was found, no pity lost on mortal man.

Jupiter, supreme ruler of the gods, Juno his queen,

“Surely I am a god, does not Rome worship me?”

“Woe to you Minerva and Neptune, fake deities of Rome”

“Venus and Mars, you are planets not gods like me.”

“Apollo, son of Jupiter, loose your arrow and slay your father,

Thought he does not exist, but then, nor you.”

And so he curses every useless god he knows in hope of finding peace.

But no, each non-existent deity curses him back in incredulity.

How dare he say we don’t endure, just because we ……………..

There is no god save one.

Save one,

Save one.

He died

He lives.

©joseph r mason 2020

Photo by Michael Giugliano on Pexels.com

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What if?

I don’t normally write rap, but this is my first attempt. I hope you like it.

If white was black and black was white,
If light was dark and dark was light,
How different the world would be.
Not only for you, but also for me.

But what if colour did not exist.
No such thing as a white racist.
If we were all the same,
Would that be such a shame?

What if, when we were girls and boys,
No guns, no dolls, just neutral toys.
Would we all grow up the same?
Would our life be rather lame?

What if we all lived in harmony?
There is no you, there is no me.
Would that be really tragic?
Or would it be, just magic?

©️ joseph r mason 2020

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Eugi’s Weekly Prompt “Magic” July 27, 2020

Beautiful, Broken Creatures (new poem)

There are too many truths here not to reblog.

Broken People

“Some days, some hours, we soar.
Hawks, eagles, miles above sea level, worshiping the splendor below.
The wind lashing around us, we are boundless…complete…

Other times we bleed – dreadful children,
scraping our way through a field of shattered glass and dreams.

Yet we carry on, feigning normalcy;
actors, playing the part assigned to us by the others,

All the while perishing.

All the while feeling as if we’re unique to desperation.

Can no one feel the tears?
Can no one see our heartbreak?
Has no one the same perception of hopelessness we possess?

Hanging in the eternal balance,
somewhere between life and death,

We watch the years tick-tick-tick by,
soul gradually unburdening itself from skeleton,
ever so gently, as mortality snakes in.

Frantic, we grasp the nearest olive branch,
be it friend or foe,
cleaving to any veneer of chance.

As water sashays through our fingers, though,
we frightfully…

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Who is my Neighbour?

Picture is Connecticut 10th grader Sarah Harrison’s Doodle, “A Peaceful Future”

Who is my neighbour, do they live next door?
What if they’re ugly, or drunk or a whore?
What if they really are just not like us?
Quiet, refined, not making a fuss.

Who is my neighbour? Not just in my street,
Surely my neighbour is all whom I meet.
They’re black, they are white, they are straight, they are gay
They’re the every day folk, that I meet every day.

I shall not judge them and they’ll not judge me.
They’re my brothers, my sisters, and all should be free.
My neighbours, they cover the face of this earth,
So I’ll love and respect them for all they are worth.

But one day there will be a reckoning for all,
Black, white and ugly, the big and the small.
On that day, a sorting, the wheat from the chaff,
And then the down trodden will have the last laugh.
The wheat go to heaven, the chaff down to hell,
You’d best love your neighbour or you’ll go down as well.

Penned for Eugenie’s weekly prompt. https://amanpan.com/2020/07/20/eugis-weekly-prompt-neighbors-july-20-2020/

DailyVerses.net

A Poet’s Story: The End

This is not one of my poems, I have reblogged this because it is so beautiful. Please read slowly and aloud listening to each phrase, it may move you to tears, or it may not. Look up the poet and follow her work. She’s has some really fantastic pieces.

MarianaDynasty

Ever thought?
How sin caused by pleasure,
Can cause so much pain after.
And that pain my mind could not contain
And my heart bled with loss
It’s because my king added to it
Because he left me..
With no sun and without a son
I had no love, no consolation

Photo obtained from Google

So I discovered another pen
Bleeding with ink, not indelible one this time
And a paper to bleed on
I adopted poetry as my daughter
She was free, yet came at a cost
So cheap, yet carrying a value unmatched
And here we are, talking to you, sharing us.
We hope you hold on, as we sail with you
On this journey that never ends

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