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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: poetry

Life Will Find a Way

20 Monday Dec 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 38 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

≈ 33 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

≈ 7 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

Happy Diwali

04 Thursday Nov 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

poetry

It may not be your duty

To celebrate the beauty;

But it sure is lots of fun

To color everyone;

Be kind; remind the mind

There’s more than daily grind.

There’s a rainbow just for you

In everything you do.

Celebration isn’t folly.

Smile and be jolly!

#HappyDiwali


——————-



Corn on the Cob

Author Page on Amazon

The Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

The Blue Sapphire

All that Glitters

Drumbeat: Spoiled Feet Fill the Street

28 Thursday Oct 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Democracy, Dictatorship, fascism, poem, poetry, politics, USA

Photo by Min Thein on Pexels.com

Listen — noisy proud boys bleat

While parading down the street.

You can hear the drumming beat

Beast brutality of feet.

Stomping out, stamping out

With that military shout. 

What’s it all about? I doubt

Anyone could match their lout.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

So it matters not at all 

If you take your eyes from ball. 

Heed the ruthless animal!

Live an endless carnival!

Photo by Leonid Danilov on Pexels.com

You won’t have enough to eat.

You won’t have the cash for heat.

You won’t have a fair compete

You won’t have a chance to greet. 

Photo by Denniz Futalan on Pexels.com

One will have a nice surprise. 

One will eat up all the pies. 

One will say who lives and dies.

Photo by Julius Silver on Pexels.com

Everything is wrapped in lies.

Love dick-taters made of poo? 

Lordy, folk, just get a clue! 

Oligarchs don’t care for you! 

Think! Dear Buckaroo and Think!

Cages for all ages. Think!

Blink your life away for fink? 

Cover lies with screams and wink?

Every part of life would shrink. 

Soulless, heartless, artless, ballyhoo;

Concrete, steel, mindless crew;

None will fairly earn their due. 

Life in hues of black and blue.  

Listen to the pound of boots!

In with Putin in cahoots!

We must see:  ’Tis death at roots. 

All it does: – It kills and loots. 

Who would trade the dance of life?

March of war; and march of death;

March of hate; and march of strife?

We will fight as long as breath:

Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

Cancer always loses in the end. 

Light will let us cleave and mend. 

Sunset goldens rose.

Essays on America: Wednesday

The Invisibility Cloak of Habit

Essays on America: The Update Problem

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

The Only Them that Counts is All of Us

Absolute is not just a vodka

What about the butter dish

Essays on America: My cousin Bobby

Where does your loyalty lie?

Essays on America: Happy Talk Lies

Fascism Leads to Chaos

Cancer Always Loses in the End

Guernica

04 Monday Oct 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 63 Comments

Tags

poem, poetry

Something there is that doesn’t love a “Civil War.”

(As though War could ever be Civil.)

Photo by Leonid Danilov on Pexels.com

And, speaking of Love…

Love, of course, is a major casualty of war. 

For every person killed, there are friends and families 

Who suffer the pain of loves lost as well. 

Check your local listings … 

There may be a “friends and family” discount! 

Truth!



And, speaking of truth…

“Truth is the first casualty of war.”

So they say. 

And, what do liars hope to gain by war?

I think they like to say: 

“Truth is the first casualty of war” 

To excuse

Lies. 

“This is war! Of course, we lie!” 

But you see, that is just exactly the delicious irony. 

War doesn’t kill truth. 

No, not at all.

War doesn’t kill truth. 

Truth remains truth. 

The earth still revolves around the sun

No matter how many you kill who say so.


And, COVID? 

It kills people just as dead no matter how many liars scream

Or how loudly they scream,

That it’s just a bad dream.

What dies is not truth, but honesty. 

The aggressors tell lies to start the wars.

The defenders tell lies to escape the aggressors. 

And, meanwhile…

All the time-energy-money that could have gone to 

Discover more truth

To save lives

To make lives richer

That energy-work-thought is directed instead to killing other human beings. 

Human beings. 

Soldiers. 

Among others. 

Because, as you probably know, 

(But maybe were conveniently trying to forget),

It isn’t only soldiers who die in war. 

As though twenty million soldiers were not enough,

WWII killed forty million civilians too. 

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

You may know some civilians yourself: 

Grandmothers, toddlers, babies, mothers, nurses, 

Oh, look, there’s one now!

A guy putting gas in his car.

A fit-looking woman jogging.

Oh, look! There’s another — two actually.

A grandmother, I’d say, pushing her granddaughter in a stroller. 

Photo by Mikhail Nilov on Pexels.com

It’s so hard to count the dead accurately

And, God knows, we need to know accurately. 

Did only a little over 600,000 Americans die in our Civil War?

Or was it really more like 750,000? 

We really need to know. 

After all, if it is merely 618,000 dead, 

What’s the big deal? 

“In Flanders Field the poppies blow

Between the crosses row on row.” 

“Between the crosses.” 

Nice line, that. 

Enough! Enough! 

No more “Golden Rule”

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

A rule that’s meant for your grandpa’s time!

A modern rhyme

Much more sublime 

Would keep the label but 

Cut out and then replace the gut: 

Photo by Dmitry Demidov on Pexels.com


“Do unto others to maximize the profit!”

What matter if we come to kill 

All the sneetches

On all the world’s beaches?


Our ROI will top the sky!
And I will be the richest guy!
Even into space I’ll fly!

Photo by Anna Tarazevich on Pexels.com

——————————-

The buzzing of the liar’s lies, 

Will be replaced by flocking flies, 

Humanity, they’ll maggotize. 

I think the trees won’t be surprised.

It is the fate hypothesized.

Our greedy branch grew oversized.

Yet Fate can turn upon a dime.
We need not slide into the slime.
Nor worship sin, corruption, crime.

Take a minute; take a day.

Take the time to love and play.

Just let the hateful — slip away. 

In Flanders Field the Poppies blow

They have a message: “Let us grow.”

Enough of war. Let heart love glow.

Enough of lies. Help truth to flow.

And, be sure to see Guernica.

——————

The Isle of Right

Come Together Right Now

Imagine All the People

Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

Myths of the Veritas: Stoned Soup

Author Page on Amazon

The Quinquagenarian

22 Wednesday Sep 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

bicycle, biking, birthday, cycling, poem, poetry, riding

(A birthday wish for a friend whose birthday is Saturday and he likes to bike).

Fertile fields will flit right by

Piston legs and open road.

Circles much like earth inscribe. 

Energetic coast and glide

Sprint with ease and wind swept face

Speedy grace; easy race.

Wheels of whirl and whirling wheels

Much like flying, so it feels!

(To those of Smokeless Flying Tribe).

Virginia Reel – toe to heel

Once more, Earth’s orbit serves as goad

To celebrate the cyclist’s high! 


Life is a dance

To see the earth in vast expanse

Roar, Ocean, Roar

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