A Question Not

To be or not to be is not
a question when you spirit got.
The seed of corn will be a lot.
In being not, though, but in wraith,
believing is to live by faith.

Better Safe Than Sorry

Keep watch against the endless sea
which always tries to overwhelm
the land and leave it senselessly
to jealousy a realm.

It will come unexpectedly,
it will a wastrel leave and you,
by plants and creatures history,
will know not what to do.

The sea no answer has to that,
returning to its own format
it leaves your grounds laid waste and flat
and you with that to look at.

Perhaps God given. Maybe not.
God made the land to get along
with rain and waters pure. You got
to look out for the sad song!

Perhaps a beach precisely it,
or cliffs, to make your point. Not vain
your pain: You must protect your wit.
Or else you get insane.

By The River Tyne

The river Tyne run dark and great
and it was being very late.
Left on the shore by everyone,
she dreamt about the passing done.

The stars were acting innocent.
The moon in well known orbit went,
decisive not, not fixed, not false,
but undertaking, dead, or else.

The skies were absent now and then,
which meant they had no will of when.
The air was dry and warm and fresh
and she was certainly just flesh.

It was a perfect night. No strength
could ever make up for its length.
She should have passed the river Tyne.
But she could not just cross that line.

Circumcision

As circumcised, one had no role to play.
One would quite openly be to the day
an innocent, with no motif to hide.
And God, vehement, would be on one's side.
But manicure alone is not enough.
By manicure alone one still was tough.

Demand

They want you to obey
instead of being right.
The fifty shades of grey
is neither black nor white.

They want you to obey
the power not complete.
Be black and white, I say,
the power, and be sweet!

Friend To Me

A friend will give you light
to make you feel all right.
A friend will give you rain
to drink, to ease your pain.

A friend will be the sky
and show his power by.
And if he cannot be
he is no friend to me.

I Will Be Damned

I will be damned, the reason why
I question if I dare to be.
A baby born the being by,
I think it through, so carefully.

But as the fruit tree, once a tree,
so wonderful, for certain fine,
I dare to set my nature free!
The fruit of mine will turn to wine!

In Action

By knowledge and by labour we
see to it fruit is coming free.
Of leaves and fruit the fruit is first.
We focus on the proper burst.

She is a fruit tree, and her man
is husband, doing what he can.
By greenish she appears, at first.
Though, fruit will from the fruit tree burst.

She is a fruit tree, and her son
will prosper in the glowing sun.
And those are lovely, those are fine,
who want the sap to turn to wine.

Through day and night, through wind and rain,
she will create and feel the pain
which is for creativity
to feel, when not insanity.

The flowers spring, the tree looks good.
The root is steadfast, understood.
The leaves are given to show fears.
Though, left to rain is to show tears.

And suddenly, the fruit is ripe.
It cannot be of any type,
Though good it is if by its root.
One should see through the being cute.

It Makes Us Fear

Police cars black and white once was.
And reassuring, safe, that was.
Police cars coloured make us fear
policemen possibly are dear.

And also ferries black and white
once was, to make the passing right.
The ferry coloured makes us fear
that destinies by chance appear.

Looking Back

I learned it, in my younger days,
that they were not desired, ways
of mine and that I was a nought.
They bullied me to make that thought.

They always put me down to earth.
They always made me lick the dirt.
I was a child and learned a lot.
I learned no way I power got.

I should have been by adults taught
to see myself in battle fought
by evil mob against The Lord
and that I points of glory scored.

Perhaps I then would be a kind
of resource, being so assigned.
Now I am special, on my own,
alone by God, a chance blown.

Of course

You will not be a growth which in
the autumn loses pith and grin.
That is your judgement, when alone
you think it best to be a stone.

And it is true, to be correct
should not be triggering respect.
But look at trees which fruit produce!
A fruit tree is not quite at use.

And, even the small flower free
will nectar give to busy bee.
Perhaps the flower does not strive.
Though, in a way it is alive.

The thing is, green to be is it
by which a being will be fit
to Jesus Christ, in life The Lord.
The green is what He will afford.

There is no recognition of
stone dead in any Christian, know.
Stone dead is what the boring is.
One has no sympathy for this.

There is no life in being dead.
Stone dead you have in fact no head.
Stone dead unable is to love.
Unable stone dead is to grow.

Reliability

It is much better to be quit
than living life by being fit.
The cherry tree will loose its bloom.
Life is most fun when making it.

Life is most fun to any whom
by fall is not a scary doom.
Be like the cherry and assume
for you in God there is a room.

Symbolism

A man will not be foreign to
the thought of women making true.
But either, know, the man will feel
the tower working or the peal.

From having life God one will ban.
The whoremonger is not a man
the way the woman is his sight.
The symbolism be a light!

The Meaning of Life

Good morning! May your day be nice,
your joy be true, your laughter wise,
as you address what’s there to do
and make things better, make anew!

One can discuss what is the true
life’s meaning, though, it has to do
with finding it, dependent on
what so far is the made and done.

With every sunrise, hope ignites,
a canvas fresh, with endless sights.
Embrace the moments, let them flow,
in kindness shared, let your heart grow.

We take each day as each day comes.
More worry should not bother homes
than what there is to see and mind
as way to go, as we do find.

Together we can face the trade,
as laughter dances, shadows fade.
Do greet the dawn with open arms.
For life's a journey, rich with charms.

Tomorrow make so it, the way,
permitted is by yesterday.
Direction make, deny the ill,
the way to go permit your will.

The Order of Life

In gardens vast, where blossoms sunlight meet,
a wealth of colours, each to eye a treat.
The rose, with velvet petals, stands so proud,
yet daisies dance, their laughter light and loud.

The lilac sways with whispers soft and sweet,
while tulips blaze in hues that can’t be beat.
Each flower holds a beauty of its own.
Yet in their company, their charms are shown.

But who can choose which bloom deserves the crown?
In nature’s hand, all petals wear a gown.
Together, flowers form a tapestry,
a symphony of hues for all to see.

So, let them thrive in harmony and grace,
for every bloom has earned its cherished place.
So, let them dance, in every vibrant throng,
for beauty lies where they all do belong.

In every garden, love’s truth is revealed.
No single flower stands alone, concealed.
And it is when we make of such a kind
we will think that the better we will find.

The Present

I look upon a star tonight.
At Christmas Eve. I do, all right.
And pleasant hope I get by it.
It gives the feeling I am lit
to make a difference having fun.
I will give life to Christ, The Son!

I will give life to Christ, The Lord.
So charity I will afford.
My mission clear was born tonight,
my vision clear made by the light:
That star increases light on earth.
For certain I will be of worth!

Thank God I know just what to do.
I will be some, I will be true.
Thank God I am to marvel at,
that star right now explaining that.
That star is mine. My son in mind.
The Son – The Christ – he is of kind!

The Rising of A Ballade

I think I want to write a short huitain.
Of what I do not know. But I will try.
By God my effort will not be in vain.
By faith in Christ, The Son. Not in the guy
but in my right hands urge, the reason why
The Lord can judge and deem. My love, I know.
I do believe in it. It will not die,
says God, the wonderwork of hawk and dove.

I think the love of Jesus will sustain
the life of one more verse. So I apply
the urge to make this number two. Again
I want The Lord, my love, to certify
the love for me. I am the mother, nigh.
The Son is this huitain. Of mine the love.
And you may wonder what it means to fly,
says God, the wonderwork of hawk and dove.

And if the two huitains I do enchain
I only need a third. Of course I try
to make one. See, the poem will detain
if by The Lord. The Lord will occupy.
The Son, my love, who I do versify.
By faith in Him, in Christ. My faith is how
He comes to life. The Son. Exemplify,
says God, the wonderwork of hawk and dove.

Prince, you do like the look of my refrain.
The Christ, The Lord, The Son I satisfy.
The faith of our fathers must pertain,
says God, the wonderwork of hawk and dove.

The Thing Is

The one to Jesus dear
is to the world to fear.
The world is full of shit
and is afraid of it.

Deny, then, your despair
averted, cleaning air,
and think about, a bit,
to whom you will be fit.

To The Coltsfoot

Dear coltsfoot! You are not the most
distinguished plant the cultures host.
Though, you are strong, and lovely too,
the way you first and foremost do.

You take the step as soon as snow
has melted. You do start the show.
Your courage is magnificent.
There is not much encouragement.

And ugly you are not at all!
Perhaps you are not all that tall.
But your indecent, yellow crown
I happily would call my own!

By petals bright, by sunlit cheer,
emerging bold, you reappear.
In meadows wide, where shadows fade,
you dance in light, seem unafraid.

So here’s to you, dear coltsfoot bright,
of hope a symbol, spring a light.
In every spot I see your grace
your message is, life is to face.

Way To Go

Real artists will not famous be.
They live and work expectantly
to honour which will never come.
They will not suit and so be some.

Reaction is what they express.
And nothing living can be less
attractive than the being so.
But really, that is way to go.