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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: poetry

Siren Song

23 Sunday Jan 2022

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 44 Comments

Tags

Con Game, Democracy, Dictatorship, poem, poetry, truth, USA

Photo by Min Thein on Pexels.com

Listen to my siren song!

Everyone! Look over here! Look over here! 

I’ll say who makes your life so badly suck!

You need to know who takes your share.

No, no, NO! Don’t ever look over there! 

Don’t see the rich who pay no tax!

Don’t ever, ever look at facts!

Photo by Julius Silver on Pexels.com

Listen to my siren song!

Engage your rage!

I’ll build your cage!

I will help you cop a feel!

I will teach you how to steal!

I will tell you who is wrong!

Just listen to my siren song!

Photo by Mau00ebl BALLAND on Pexels.com

A pain in the ass to think it through!

And, there’s no need; believe my creed! 

I’ll show you now a real good time! 

What I do cannot be crime! 

See my flag of “FREEDOM!” red?

I must care a lot! Just like I said!

If it’s all just part of my rant

What more to do? You can’t! 

Photo by Denniz Futalan on Pexels.com

Just listen to my siren song!

Hate the people not like you.

Hate the folks of different hue.

Hate the folks who eat strange things.

Hate everyone I tell you to!

A different accent, different song, 

I’ll teach you that these things are wrong! 

Give me the power to fix it all.

Democracy’s no longer cool!

Once it’s gone we’ll have a ball!

(Oh, my God, you’re easy to fool!)

Photo by BROTE studio on Pexels.com

By twenty thirty, air’ll be dirty. 

By twenty forty, water too. 

But what care we

For ecology?!

A habitable world’s for liberal wussies! 

Caring for others is just for pussies! 

Just listen to my siren song!

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

I’ll get rich if you send me money!

If we kill the bees, eat plastic honey!

It’s just as good; I can’t be wrong!

Just listen to my siren song! 

Legitimate voters vote for me! 

That’s the way to victory!

We’ll have a country white as snow!

And if I steal, you’ll never know!

A perfect system for all who matter.

And that’s just me so I’ll get fatter!

Just listen to my siren song! 

You can’t go wrong; my lie’s so strong! 

Just listen to my siren song! 

Just listen to my siren song!

Just listen to my siren song. 

And when your freedom’s finally dead.

Don’t worry at all your pretty head. 

If you can’t eat or pay the rents

I might just let you live in tents. 

Just listen to my siren song! 

Just listen to my siren song!

Photo by David Cassolato on Pexels.com


You’ll never have to think again!

You’ll never have to right a wrong!

You need not care if sins are sin. 

You’ll become my little puppet.

I’ll open a tube; you’ll go up it.

Jump on command and drink what I say;

Don’t think at all beyond today. 

Just listen to my siren song. 

Such tasty Kool-aid can’t be wrong!

Don’t take a look at history! 

Just swallow my miracle mystery! 

Just follow my nice little siren song. 

Photo by Leonid Danilov on Pexels.com

Your life’s now mine! And, how divine!

You listened to my siren song. 

I own your brain; you’ll need no spine. 

That spark divine was such a pain; 

You had to take responsibility. 

So much easier when I own your brain.

No need to feed your creativity. 

You only need to sing my siren song. 

Every day from morn till night.

And if you ever come to see it’s wrong? 

My troops will come and douse your light. 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Don’t go thinking far ahead.

You shouldn’t care if you’re live or dead.

So long as you can help me rule! 

You deserve to play the fool.

And keep on singing my siren song. 

Insisting that you’re never wrong.

Dwelling on the sound of every word. 

You play the clown; all thought abjured. 

Singing still my siren song. 

Just listen to my siren song. 

You’ll soon believe that right is wrong.

You’ll soon believe that weak is strong. 

Listen to my siren song.

—————

Trumpism is a new religion

Essays on America: Wednesday

Absolute is not just a vodka

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

Essays on America: The Update Problem

The Ailing King of Agitate

Plans for us; some GRUesome

Where does your loyalty lie?

My cousin Bobby.

Come back to the light

Orange Mar-Mal-Made

15 Saturday Jan 2022

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

poem, poetry, satire

Photo by Izaac Elms on Pexels.com

He cheats on tax; destroys lives.

He lies on tape and cheats on wives.

The smartest man there ever was!

His brain is filled with orange fuzz

He tells the truth like no-one does!

Photo by Anna Tarazevich on Pexels.com

He’s the one I love to follow

‘Cause inside his soul is hollow.

He cheats his donors, owners, wives.

He likes to bully; ruin lives.

He’ll cheat and rant and scream and rave;

That has to show he’s big and brave! 

He’s never ever fought a battle, 

He’d have to drop his favorite rattle.

He shows me how I have to be:

Ingesting bleach and drinking pee.

The smartest man there’ll ever be! 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

His butt is made of solid gold! 

Everyone should join his fold! 

He is the Christ reborn! Foretold!

I’ll send him cash; I’ll pawn my stash!

I know what’s what; I’m never rash!

I know he’s not a con! Oh my!

He’s victimized by FBI!

The FDA, the EPA, 

The NSA, and CIA, 

All are out to get this guy!

Once he’s king we’ll have free beer.

And open season on anyone queer

Or one with eyes of different slant,

Or one who doesn’t love his rant.

Or one who doesn’t love his lies

Or one who won’t eat baby flies. 

In fact, it seems, that all must die

But that’ll be worth it to save his lie!

He’s such a winner he cannot lose. 

He’ll give us gold & bullion and booze! 

I’ll send him each and every dime,

‘Cause now at last it’s Putin’s time.

————

Essays on America: My Cousin Bobby

Where does your loyalty lie?

The Ailing King of Agitate

Essays on America: Wednesday

Happy Talk Lies

Come back to the Light!

Guernica

Imagine all the people

 

We’re all in this together

30 Thursday Dec 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

community, cooperation, Democracy, earth, green, nature, peace, poem, poetry, society

We’re all in this together.

Each and every one. 

Oh, my God, it can’t be true. 

Perhaps for me, but not for you! 

You’re too black or brown or yellow!

I’m just an ordinary fellow! 

You’re too gay or straight or mellow!

You even eat that apple jello! 

We’re all in this together.

Each and every one.

Old & young and in-between;

The ever-seen and never-seen.

Oh, my God, it can’t be true. 

Perhaps for me, but not for you! 

You’re too fat or skinny or too tall!

Perhaps you’re short and way too small! 

We’re all in this together.

Each and every one.

Into games or sports of every sport.

Even tall and short and every sort.



Oh, my God, it can’t be true. 

Perhaps for me, but not for you! 

You’re too shallow, smart, or kind;

Too lame or sick or different mind. 

We’re all in this together.

Each and every one.

We’re all in this together.

Each and every one.


Take a glance join the dance

The Watershed Virus

The only “them” that counts is all of us

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Stoned Soup

Three Blind Mice

Absolute is not just a Vodka

Fire and Ice

The “All for me” Bee

Life Will Find a Way

Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

The “All for me!” Bee

21 Tuesday Dec 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

bee, bees, greed, poem, poetry

A fuzzy buzzy honey bee

Is just as happy as can be.

He rests inside a flower head.

What a lovely bower bed! 

The bees had learned to be quite wise 

At least, that’s what I do surmise

For in their bee-ish sort of way.

The bees alive and thrive each day.

For fifty million years survive.

They’ve helped the flowers live and thrive.

But then one day it came to be

A very different sort of bee.

And he proclaimed: “It’s not our lot

To help the flowers; that’s just rot!

And if you’re careful you can see 

We can still keep making honey.

There’s no need to help the rose.

Do they help us? I don’t suppose!”

This long-tongued rogue had so convinced

A new behavior soon evinced. 

The bees avoided pollination 

But gathered stuff for beehive nation. 

Yet all went well or so it seemed 

The bees still thrived and they still dreamed. 

They feasted well in winter’s cold. 

So happy with their new plan bold. 

The sunny spring arrived at last. 

The flowers though no longer massed.

“Each bee for themselves is right! 

Who cares no rose? We’ll fight!

We’ll sting, not sing, you’ll see

We’ll all do well if you give me all your honey!”

The roses gone; no bees to thrive. 

The roses gone; no bees survive.

For greed is poison just like snake. 

And only a fool would follow a fake.


Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

Myths of the Veritas: Three Blind Mice

Myths of the Veritas: Stoned Soup

The Ailing King of Agitate

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Where does your loyalty lie?

Essays on America: The Update Problem

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

Essays on America: Wednesday

Absolute is not just a vodka

The Loud Defense of Untenable Positions

At Least he’s our monster

The Isle of Right

Author Page on Amazon

Life Will Find a Way

20 Monday Dec 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 28 Comments

Tags

dance, diversity, evolution, life, love, poem, poetry, tree, variety

Say. 

Let’s say:

That there’s a way.

A way.

Life will find a way. 

(It always does).

Life will find a way.

And so too

Will you. 

Indeed.

Each seed will lead

To a thousand more.

An ocean shore. 

The beach will reach and each upon the beach

Again will try to reach and dance with ebb and dance with flow.

Life will find a way — 

A way to learn and love and grow. 

Life is ever clever 

Even ever cleverer. 

And you will also flow and grow.

Photo by Andru00e9 Ulyssesdesalis on Pexels.com

Life will find a way — 

A way to harness the light of the sun.

A way to swim in all the seas. 

A way to crawl upon the land. 

A way to burrow into sand. 

A way to be and to expand.

Photo by Pia on Pexels.com


Life will find a way — 

And so too,

Will you.

Life will find a way — 

To live a thousand years. 

To generate tears.

To glow in the dark 

To growl and sing and roar and bark.

To see and hear and smell and feel. 

And that, my friends is just the first reel! 

Life will find a way. 

It’s what life does. 

Life will find a way. 

So too will you. 

You are of that marvelous tree of life 

That’s struggled through four billion years of strife. 

You are of that same tough stuff. 

That makes the shark; 

That makes the oak; 

Let’s eagles soar;

Let’s lions roar;

Makes mountains of coral; 

Gardens glow floral; 

Choirs sing choral 

Warblers and whales

Crickets and cranes. 

Marvelous medley of life:

A myriad of shapes

In millions of sizes.

Surprises! 

Life atop peaks!

Life in the deeps!

Life in the desert.

Jungles of life 

In tangles of vines.

Surprises!

Life will find a way. 

It’s what life does.

Life will find a way.

And you will too. 

Life will find a way. 

And so too, my friend, will you. 

———–

Life is a dance

Dance a whirling while or three

Take a glance; join the dance

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Ah Wilderness

The Forest

Oh Tannenbaum

Author Page on Amazon

Oh, Tannenbaum!

14 Tuesday Dec 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Christmas, poem, poetry, sestina

It is the season to be jolly, right? 

And life itself rejoices that the night

Will not grow endless, but will ebb at last.

Though winter winds may freeze, we’ll garnish tree. 

We’re warm inside recalling Christmas past.

The wheels of sun and stars: infinity. 

Imagine back to near Infinity.

Our ancient mothers’ guesses turned out right:

What seemed like end of life at last was past.

As sun began to warm the endless night;

As leaves again will promise filling tree;

Though snowflakes fall, we know they will not last.

So long ago we first learned hope would last

Beyond the cold that seemed infinity.

Perhaps we learned our hope from winter’s tree.

Perhaps the rhythm of our breathing, right?

Or kenned the wheel in daily death of Night?

And, everything that seemed forever … passed.

Yet, now we like to think our past has passed.

Attention’s but a moment not to last.

Pandemic seems like dark and endless night;

The politics of hate — infinity.

But life has always been a struggle. Right?

Let’s take our inspiration from the Tree.

The endless hope of Life’s great Tree.

A Tree who learns from all its moments past.

To seek the truth is always brave and right.

And only Death insists that first is last;

Or worships nil as gold Infinity.

We sing our songs of love to brighten Night.

We use the truth to beautify the Night.

We dance; we sing; we decorate the Tree.

We laugh; we celebrate Infinity.

We tell our tales of hope till night has passed.

To spite the cold, we give our gift at last. 

We all know fair and truth and love are right.

We Love Infinity; and Love the Night.

We work for what is Right and Love Life’s Tree.

We learn from all that’s passed. Let Christmas last!

———–

Author Page on Amazon

The Impossible

Peace

Camelot is in your heart

Imagine all the people

Roar ocean roar

Take a glance, join the dance

The forest

Ah Wilderness

Stoned Soup

The only them that counts is all of us

Come back to the light

Brick By Brick

12 Sunday Dec 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

bunker, CivilWar, Defense, hermit, hope, poem, poetry, war

Brick by brick.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Pexels.com

Brick by brick, brick by brick.

I built my plastic kevlar house.

I knew I had to insulate myself.

Photo by Thang Cao on Pexels.com

To make it strong, impenetrable, 

I avoided windows, glass of any kind.

No way to break in; no way in at all. 

Photo by ShonEjai on Pexels.com

I painted blue each and every room.
Uniformity is cost-effective, after all.
I knit an outer shell for camouflage. 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

In my attic: electronics spread galore!
To warn of approaching enemies.
I spent my days staring at orange LCDs.

Photo by Marina Hinic on Pexels.com

Ever vigilant for each and every breach, 

“Safe at last; safe at last,” I told myself. 

This is how I spent those endless days.

Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com



“Safe at last; safe at last,” I muttered.
I thought at last, I’d venture out
I tried to usher courage to my heart.

Photo by Min Thein on Pexels.com



I had misplaced the key; destroyed Feng Sui.
I couldn’t find the slightest hint of door.
Doors can so easily get unhinged … like me.

Photo by Colour Creation on Pexels.com

I had — had I— forgotten to carve one?
So, now I must begin again. I must unbuild.
Brick by brick. But I cannot find the tools. 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I’ve built a prison meant for fools.

Designed by excellent, redundant rules.

My tears, my tears, begin to lake in pools. 

Photo by Sourav Mishra on Pexels.com

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Brick by brick. 


How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

The Watershed Virus

Absolute is not just a vodka

The Bubble People

Ah Wilderness

Author Page on Amazon

Fish Have No Word for “Water”

11 Saturday Dec 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 22 Comments

Tags

pantoum, poem, poetry, war

Photo by Aneta Foubu00edkovu00e1 on Pexels.com

They had long lost the word for war.
Along with so much more.
The reptile brain (alive and well)
Transformed green Eden into orange hell.

Along with so much more:
Libraries, friends, gardens and such.
Green Eden charred to fiery hell.
It had seemed so easy once upon a time.



Survival. Now. Seeds they sow, row on row.
Along with so much more.
Bullets spent; home-made tent.
Green Eden charred to orange hell.

Photo by Tim Erben on Pexels.com



So much mud! A desperate thud.
Survival now: “Reality Show.”

They had long ago lost the word for war.
Bullets spent. A home of tent. 

Every day it seemed to rain.
So much mud! A desperate thug
Had reigned: ineptitude on full parade.
They had lost the word; they had lost the word for war. 


Absolute is not just a vodka

Trumpism is a new religion

Happy Talk Lies

Try the Truth

A lot is not a little

Author page on Amazon

The Cancelled Flight to Crazytown

11 Saturday Dec 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

chaos, COVID19, Democracy, insurrection, pandemic, poem, poetry, sonnet

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The station splayed a crazy random “plan”

With Omicron disheveling every port.

Has “Tree of Life” lost patience with mere man?

They say that “Politics is only sport.”

Only Sport.

Photo by Denniz Futalan on Pexels.com

It’s JFK reborn to Dallas place!

It’s “Carpe Pussy!” who’s become our God.

You can’t come in. I can’t disease displace.

The touch once smooth and warm is cold as cod.

Cold as Cod.

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com



Though every flight is cancelled, we are here.

But JFK is nowhere to be seen.

We tore the Truth itself; it seemed so dear.

Uprooted once again to land unseen.

Land Unseen.

Photo by Trace Hudson on Pexels.com



And now we live in constant flux and change.

As airports melt. Mosaics of crazy strange.

Crazy Strange. 


The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Watershed Virus

Essays on America: Wednesdays

Essays on America: My Cousin Bobby

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

Essays on America: The Update Problem

Toddlerhood Nation

The Loud Defense of Untenable Positions

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

That Cold Walk Home

Stoned Soup

Three Blind Mice

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Author Page on Amazon

245

26 Friday Nov 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

America, Democracy, poem, poetry, USA

Two hundred and forty five

Years 

And millions of patriot tears

That’s how long there has been American democracy 

Is it too much to ask

If you want to install a dictator, wow

Is it too much to ask 

That you set yourself a task

To find out how you’d really feel

Photo by Denniz Futalan on Pexels.com

Live for a year in Pyongyang or Moscow

You could see how you would you feel

When power seals every deal

And truth means nothing 

And merit means nothing

And everyone lives in suspicion of everyone 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

And even sweet love is slathered in salt

Who does what and fingers find fault

Not an exercise in doing better

An exercise only in pointing a finger

After each swallow the bitter will linger

Photo by Aneta Foubu00edkovu00e1 on Pexels.com

Such as these 

Laugh at destroying trees

Care nothing for generations yet to come

It simplifies life – that much is true 

Freedom of choice is taken from you

A regimen, no acumen, and you become a cog

Step out of line, you’re beaten like a dog

No matter how stupid the rule

You lick it up like drool

Come back after just one year 

Oh, wait, that’s right

You can’t come near

People can’t leave dictatorship you see

Photo by Cameron Casey on Pexels.com

Everyone would follow the light 

Eschew dictatorship 

Embrace democracy

Poor old cruel dictator would be all alone 

Unable to work, he’d soon be skinless bone

No slaves to heed his lie-filled drone 

All would honor the two four five

Do well to honor the two four five

Keep the dream alive 

Help the nation thrive 

And honor the two four five

Absolute is not just a vodka

The Stopping Rule

The Update Problem

The Orange Man

Stoned Soup

Three Blind Mice

Author Page on Amazon

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