‘The Big Maybe’ and ‘God Said’ and ‘Birds Applles and Kisses’ – Poems

The Big MaybeThe best word I've ever heardwasmaybe!Maybe: is what man really livesby.A 'yes,' beforehand, is seldomknownA maybe, is a story untold.Thus,I cannot say 'yes,' then.And to be quite frankI don't have enough of themleft, to

The Big Maybe

The best word I’ve ever heard

Maybe: is what man really lives

A ‘yes,’ beforehand, is seldom

A maybe, is a story untold.

I cannot say ‘yes,’ then.

And to be quite frank
I don’t have enough of them

left, to waste:
So the best I can do, is:

Give you a big “maybe!”

#842 9/2005

“God says: “Retribution?”

And God said:
“I will give them foreknowledge.”

(And He did.)
“And the power to slay”

(And He did.)
(And God created earth, the way
He would have liked it, if He was a man)
And God said:
“He kills all the game; he pollutes
the woods, rivers: ravages the
meadows and ruins the skies

(with no crime or guilt).”
And then man sees its outcome,
And blames God for not looking out
Of his porthole in the sky:
and fixing it.
And God says:
“So be it.”

#843 9/2005

Birds, Apples and Kisses

Who’s the dedicatee of my new amusing
Poem? Newly polished with coarse?
You, my reader; for you feel my stanzas:
lines possess some substance.
Yes oh yesthe lone American!
That great multistanza poem of ages
So take this poem, this mere drop,
whatever it may be worthand
Patron reader let it survive at least
An hour, a day, a week!

Ah! the birds: how I wish I could
sport with them, as they do with one
Anotherthey are as welcome to me
as fresh red apples are to the tree
that gave them birthnow fallen;
free to the ground, like the birds;
so very long, knotted to a branch, and
the branch to the torso of the tree.

A to już wiesz?  Your-7-days-program-to-Stress-management

There are the wicked dead! the rotten
Apples. Ah yes! The wicked birds
Pickers, picking out eyelids: now sore
and swollen, red like applesweeping red.
Black-marrow in its core: only hell can
devour these apples: Hell with its evil.

Leaf-mended trees, touched by Hell
they whisper softy into the foliage for help.
‘Whose apex are we?’ they cry.
Beckoned to the breeze, but followed
By Hells windit’s always that way.
Unending evil mixed with God-sent,
Kisses. I lost count long ago of the good
and rotten apples on my apple tree,
Satan farting on: some: protagonist
Jest demonic beings running wild.

Give me a thousand kisses I pray.
Or a hundred may do; I can shuffle the
Figures: lose count again: fact is,
I’d like to know how many kisses I need,
to bring the birds back. A curious figure
indeed; perhaps, equal to all those stars
in the silent night. Once the evil tongue
(full of mischief) comes, arrives: the tree
of life: the apples need the sky to rain
with kisses on its leafy faceconceivably
it’s all too late. Perhaps I’m fortunate, surely
happier than nature?

#841 9/2005

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