Oh, light bulb foreseen by our God
Save us all from darkness’ rod
You are our Saviour as foretold
In prophecy by ancients bold.
We will worship you at night
When sunken is the sun so bright.
We’ll watch TV and Kindle fire
No more to play shall we aspire.
We’ll wear ourselves out watching screens,
As from a can we eat baked beans
We’ll send for pizzas with our phones
With which we never feel alone.
We might talk to our partner dear
Though texting them is easier.
We see the neon street lights gleam
Where once we saw the moon’s cold beams
And in bed we read our books
With a kindle or a nook
We put beneath out pillows fair
Iphones which we long to hear
Can one have too much new light?
From technology, some take flight
For gone are seasons, and their fruit
As our computer we reboot.
New potatoes all year round
Avocados once quite rare
Now are seem ‘most everywhere.
Melons, grapes and fresh green peas
As the birds sing, life’s a breeze.
Oh light bulbs, fluorescent tubes
Electric candle, light is cubed.
We thank you for extended days
Maybe we’ll find time for prayers.
God is great in mystery
No light bulb can help us see.
In silence, darkness, meditate
Wonder what will be our fate.
As retribution for our wrongs
Satan stabs us with his prongs
He needs no more light in hell
The fiery furnace cooks as well.

In order to be happy, you must write,
On paper with a pen and bottled ink,
A hundred villanelles about your plight

If you use  thesauri, keep it tight,
For too much intellect will make men think
In order to be happy, you must write

Don’t use Latin phrases, just emote.
Here and there insert a proper link
To a hundred villanelles about your plight

Never check for errors what you wrote.
Wash your hair twice daily in green quink.
In order to be happy, you must  float

If you’re wise then soon you’ll see the Light.
Stare at it and ask it how it ranks
A hundred villanelles about your plight

Once I was  so fat, my hair was lank
It still is but I don’t care a plonk
In order to be funny, you must write,
A hundred villanelles and then take flight.

All the men who help me on the bus
Will  get a big surprise one day quite soon
If I dress like Brigitte Macron does

I cannot wear the heels but have hair mousse.
To bare my knees would be a shock and crime
Distressing  men who help me on the bus

I have  red culottes, blonde hair to muss
Chanel soap and all  the French perfumes
Should I dress like Brigitte Macron does?

I  need no underpinnings and  no fuss
“Brazilian” waxes  make me  swear and fume
Disturbing  men who help me on the bus

Once my legs were thin  like blades of grass
My hair was blonde, my bosom caused men gloom
Would I dress like Brigitte Macron does?

My eyes were blue, they lured  men to their doom,
For all I did was make them  clean my rooms.
All the men who help me on the bus
Will cry  off if I dress like Brigitte Macron does

Loneliness, the word’s not strong enough
For widows and their masculine counterparts.
Ripped in half, that’s more the phrase; like, tough.

No arms left now, that never will rebuff.
No eager lips to whispering love impart
Loneliness, the word’s not strong enough

People say, of course, the going’s rough
The coming’s gone and nothing shall gestate
Ripped in half, that’s more the phrase; like, tough.

Never more to share cartoons and laughs.
Never more to be a chosen mate
Loneliness, the word’s not wrong enough.

Did we know the heart of what we had?
Did we learn the art of love too late?
Ripped in half, that’s more the phrase; like, tough.

You have gone and closed is the gate
In mad ball,  I roll with love and hate
Loneliness, the word’s not strong enough
Ripped in half, that’s more the phrase; like, tough.

 

 

 

 

 

The humid heat is here for the first time
Conplaining people gossip as they wait
The clouds have shadows, wonder where is mine.

Late spring  stutters just before it’s gone
The rosebuds cluster near my garden gate
The humid heat is here for the first time

We can’t see our shadows, they’re behind
Our flaws and faults combine as if to mate
The clouds have shadows; wonder where is mine.

Do I want to see my shadow’s crimes?
Can it be I’ve left it far too late?
The humid heat is here for the first time

 

To change perceptions is an act divine
For when we see, we open Heaven’s gates
The clouds have shadows; wonder where is mine.

Virtue and perception correlate
New perceptions’ cause internal gales
The humid heat is here for the first time
Light and shade, our longings are sublime