Mikeyaw's blog: "Wow Lots Of Poetry!"

"The Walk of Death I Walk!"

I have started just a spark, only vision as sound pounded did abound.
Not that I did not be before as I never noticed, I had, and even not bad.
As I wondered if at galactic war, I woke to fear and another face of front.

Still the stone of carve and marks that cause one scares, play they upon.
As years and marks have past a scare, now carves and maker starts me.
To see if all is all and what should be, be...then to death like life I maybe.

So to walk ant not to see, all that math and reason, such things mean to me.
I think that many as if a period could be are now lessoning, while lessoning.
This step it seem to me not of the walk that's long, I walk a walk but no you.

Come see me darkness, seeming not to be...if only vanquish, not back to thee.
If all of it seems squirming, lost to sense, see it so seamy; "walk of death I walk."
Logic and numbers and all the gains and yields it will all become you and death.

To beat the simple logic it is best to take what it offers, never refuse death, friend.
Even if you must and to the mountain joke, at least you see the ant hill, death is?
The walk of death I walk has perfect Logic step and if you don't agree then death!

By Michael J. Pinger  5/17/08 


And It Still Don't Amaze Me!

So it looks all well and still it don't amaze me, nor the pipe and tree.
As if a breeze broke a thread and yet so much the needle has spoken.
It never could amaze me, how bare branches be, missing all their sees.

And if I ever walked it...a song and not much to do or view by three.
Is it seems, so far gone, pump, fire and the sort, wino, blanket falling.
And it still don't amaze me as the cup and bowl are thrown out a door.

It will make a few more pokes and better; know it never lash, fires fast.
So much it reflects so dimly met, hardly needing view a dummy crying.
It never could amaze me, the things they always missing, never needing.

There isn't even many, who could make the loop, much less make thread.
A little piece of cotton; let the birds make your bed, left to think about it.
And it still don't amaze me as the cup, bowl go down at the closing door.

By Michael J. Pinger 5/30/08


And the Ball Bounces Off the Wall!

Just so much and in a prison only few would understand.
Oh, the devils, all his cousins and for so few dollars too.
And the ball bounces off the walls, knowing no one calls.

So the cruel and incomplete come and if I even try to run,
Oh, they hang below and just about knowing less, see it so.
Even after offer, a man canned, no one knows their reason.

So it goes and time wells; the basement crawl, all offered.
Oh, they choose a victim so long ago, veggie won't let go.
And the ball bounces off the walls, knowing no one calls.

Yes, they get away as the balance for a side; pump, fool.
And now I will only sit, just knowing what was so given.
And the ball bounces off the walls, knowing no one calls.

By Michael J. Pinger 6/1/08
 

Make It Fly Then, Let Them Try!
( Much Less the Fork and Tong, Honor!)
( The Tumblers Gourd!)

And jail is set, all the bars beholding, breath and a lash.
The Crow soon crumbles as the crutch and crotch, crunch.
The spoon soon and now then be forced to fly buns an balls.

I hear it is nice there key, no one wonders even knots anymore.
By cold toy the "La La To" and no wet calling, but to draw again.
Lowered sack old cow, no wood would do and only arm pit sore.

But, done so nice, so never scorned bob and stab if a hero ever had,
Does come calling, there is still the crow and crush as vanish appear.
The key and lock but still must be the honor dear, her sweet memory.

By Michael J Pinger 6/1/08



My how they die!

Like simple embers on the fire bed, all looking in and dying.
Like they never heard the priest; much less, knew the dripping,
Nor the grease and for the veggie, all the roots they never see.

My how they die as I suffer and take on last breath, then rise.
And all the colors they steep in as the last word a final prize;
Soon so distant as I rise, standing naked to the sky and whole.

Still I as so transfixed remember ashes dying quick yet trying.
And now so home by setting bowl a tumbler set, work digest
Is left by quest as not a word of inner sphere, ash of rest dead.

My how they die and never rise, they hold no word, no real life.
My how they come and sit beside as breath of life, notice pride
And so do stare, Sphere me if you must; still I’m death, fire trust.     

By Michael J. Pinger 6/06/08     



           

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