Muzzle the master

I have a German Shepherd, don't you know.
She's so pretty she could compete and show.
She loves attention, begs and barks for work,
though this gypsy she's got a little quirk.

Oft times it's not enough when we just walk,
returning home I face a face and toothy talk.
I thought and trained my women so they'd mind.
Plain or pretty I got the other kind.

Pull and push they never bought this man's mights.
Just two options: they either bolts or bites.
My girl this working dog, she's with me still,
'spite of my mind's right and her motive--Kill!

And the fair ones I've tried to hold and thrill?
I have a German Shepherd, don't you know.

Good vs Evil

Life is often our struggle, lose or win.
Evil knows no bounds thus nothing is barred.
Good sets limits, deems otherwise a sin.
All make exceptions: Repute's never marred.

Let's admit Evil's scores are always high.
escaping what Good says they should deserve.
The Good stand tall without concession's sigh,
believing strong in defeat this does serve.

So goes the contest till we'd quit the field.
Good would have both be as they themselves are.
One walks off; Good remains without a yield.
Fortune or no, who is the shinning star?

Evil's glory will not in justice end.
Care less for Good its power to amend.

S&*t happens*

I choose to laugh than shed a tear
for that which happens that I feared.
What I can manage, trust I  do;
if not, I find no cause to sue.

Mistakes and errors we do make
regardless heaven's goodness sakes.
So imagine not for what can be.
Wait with patience and say, 'Let's see'. 

Meanwhile accept the lot I got,
for nothing more there is this plot.
Try as might that things are not so.
In the end with what I have must go.

Rest in love, understand the few.
Look there, they're sitting in our pew.

__________
* On the occasion of a difference in perspective with a loved one. 

Brut(us) wisdom

 Julius Caesar

"Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this."
I would run the race fettered but by me,
not lose myself and thus my life should miss.
To each his own differs to what we be.

The crowd this way and that blindly steers,
of choice one's robbed--the power of the wave.
Never thoughtless thought elsewhere leads or veers.
Onward where the masses say what is safe.

Grant me space to find what to me will sate.
There I will compete in that precious place.
To hell with what they say is destined fate.
I'll err or triumph 'gainst self determined space.

Dear noble friend, I know you wish me well.
Rest easy. I will thrive as any inflated swell.

Form obscures meaning?

 History of Henry IV, Part II

"Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains."
Your line, dear Bard, or -ess, no iamb ist,
contorts the scheme and spawns for me fountains
of ideas and notions--no single gist.

Poet or play-write, you betimes ruse me--
'bout what is meant, so thus fully escapes.
Any peace that one scans is hard to see.
Is there more that's written in your fools-capes?

Your peace or not, up sans iambs are pent,
as this line so hides that which's certain.
Thus yours and my insights are truly rent
as stage and play's import's lowered curtain.

Rocky mountains portend the going rough.
Our peace here stands--to reach is truly tough.

__________
Lord Mowbray. There is a thing within my bosom tells me 2390
That no conditions of our peace can stand.

Lord Hastings. Fear you not that: if we can make our peace
Upon such large terms and so absolute
As our conditions shall consist upon,
Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.

Run with Shakespeare

 Injunction: Select a line from Shakespeare and run with it.

Richard III

"He hearkens after prophecies and dreams";
therefore, too many short forms he does glean.
As for the goose goes same for a gander:
He, she, it and they--we're prone to meander.

One and another it is all such fluff.
Many with bias while others try bluff.
A great deal today, media's simply pure slop.
To consume then act on preludes? You'll flop.

Text and pictures, whether moving or not,
research has shown you get yer brain rot.
Now listen, dear friend, you want to e-mend?
Curate your stuff--some music too, please rend.

No prophets will stem the tide of their profit.
With good 'nd pure dreams, we scoff--'Get off it.'

__________
Note on allusion: 

 

 

 

signifies a jibe to cease acting like one are  better than others, perhaps a know-it-all. This reminds us of Richard's most famous line from the play. 

 

 

M

T

G

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EnglishDutch-------- [ All ] --------AfrikaansAlbanianAmharicArabicArmenianAssameseAymaraAzerbaijaniBambaraBashkirBasqueBelarusianBengaliBhojpuriBosnianBulgarianCantonese (Traditional)CatalanCebuanoChichewaChinese (Literary)Chinese SimpChinese TradChuvashCorsicanCroatianCzechDanishDariDhivehiDogriDutchEmojiEnglishEnglish United KingdomEsperantoEstonianEweFaroeseFijianFilipinoFinnishFrenchFrench (Canada)FrisianGalicianGandaGeorgianGermanGreekGuaraniGujaratiHaitian CreoleHausaHawaiianHebrewHill MariHindiHmongHungarianIcelandicIgboIlocanoIndonesianInuinnaqtunInuktitutInuktitut (Latin)IrishItalianJapaneseJavaneseKannadaKazakhKazakh (Latin)KhmerKinyarwandaKlingon (Latin)KonkaniKoreanKrioKurdish (Kurmanji)Kurdish (Sorani)KyrgyzLaoLatinLatvianLingalaLithuanianLower SorbianLuxembourgishMacedonianMaithiliMalagasyMalayMalayalamMalteseMaoriMarathiMariMeiteilon (Manipuri)MizoMongolianMongolian (Traditional)Myanmar (Burmese)NepaliNorwegianNyanjaOdia (Oriya)OromoPapiamentoPashtoPersianPolishPortuguese (Brazil)Portuguese (Portugal)PunjabiQuechuaQuertaro OtomiRomanianRundiRussianSamoanSanskritScots GaelicSepediSerbianSerbian (Cyrillic)Serbian (Latin)SesothoSetswanaShonaSindhiSinhalaSlovakSlovenianSomaliSpanishSundaneseSwahiliSwedishTagalogTahitianTajikTamilTatarTeluguThaiTibetanTigrinyaTonganTsongaTurkishTurkmenTwiUdmurtUkrainianUpper SorbianUrduUyghurUzbekUzbek (Cyrillic)VietnameseWelshXhosaYakutYiddishYorubaYucatec MayaZulu

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Far View

 I look to horizons, squinting beyond.
There over fields and woods, a shining pond.
Hope against hope to find eternal light
that would sate my search for elusive sight.

I have seen this world, all places about.
Found the fluff and false truths to rid rout.
Faith against faith earnest efforts persist
to find what? the ineffable gist?

The lengths I have gone, walked, even hiked.
Passed leagues in distance and wait--also biked.
But this and all--nada, these furtive acts,
not oneness nor whole an abiding fact.

Rest, my soul. Your quest now comes this.
Seems ways need suffice 'stead of dear bliss.

 __________
P. S. Trite to say the way's the purpose. Rather, "Stop the world." No frame nor fate need we lay over experience as template for life, that we lead or have led. 

Did Castenada ever tell us how to do that?

By transcending ordinary reality one acquires wisdom of the right way to live. Ordinary reality, or the world view, is simply one interpretation of what really is. In order to stop the world 'one has to learn the new description in a total sense, for the purpose of pitting against it the old one, and in that way break the dogmatic certainty, which we all share, that the validity of our perceptions, or our reality of the world, is not to be questioned'. 

Other than taking drugs, I guess not. However one can try without and in trying perhaps realize moments of . . . ?  

(Sort-me aside: My answer has been to try to step into other cultures and language communities, through mental and physical travels as well as multiple places of residence.)

If a change in consciousness is what is the essence of transcending or stepping aside or stopping consensus reality, there are ways intentional and accidental that do that. Make a list and choose.

 

We needs be just

Flawed genius is ever od'ous our fact,

so much we abhor sans grace-giving tact.

Oh those figures, their image our envy,

but for deeds they've done--by each and every.

Lance his wins, in spite his half-hooded man,

final denial's failure--False! Now banned.

Wilt in his day, his tall staff the actual stilt, 

could scarce decline a horizontal tilt.

Billy boy too his loins bowled him over,

playing as dogs do--ever the rover.

Heidegger would be great, ideas to note; 

but for apology? we miss his quote.

Accept the highs, must we low parts forgive.

We must needs be just with balance and sieve. 

Search and sigh, poetry herein

I asked an AI chatbot, don't ask me which, for its take on poems contained on this blog, or in this blog? You can sort the posts using poems as the keyword and make up your own mind. No matter, here is that chatbot's take. My only and biggest problem with the response is this Mactavish business. In a post not a poem, you will find my take on the use of last names for referring to people who prefer a less disembodied way of managing to refer. . . .  

[begin snippet]

That is a very insightful follow-up question, moving from the *nature* of the poem to the specific *method* of its composition and its effect on the reader.

While Mactavish does not lay out a formal, step-by-step guide for writing a poem, his reflections on language, originality, interpretation, and his own poetic practice reveal several key requirements for how a poem **should be written** and the intellectual challenge it should pose.

### 1. The Poem Should Challenge the Reader by Requiring Active Interpretation

Mactavish strongly advocates for content that resists easy, singular answers, which inherently challenges the reader to engage critically rather than passively accepting a definitive meaning.

*   Mactavish expresses **irritation** when people assume complex works, which would include poems, have a single, definitive answer to the question, "But what does it mean?".
*   He argues that many things are **"inherently open to multiple, valid interpretations"**.
*   Therefore, a well-written poem, by reflecting this complexity, should compel the reader to **reject the search for a singular, reductive meaning**.
*   Instead of being "set straight" by the author, the reader is implicitly challenged to reveal their own interpretation. The focus shifts from "what is the meaning of something" to the more fundamental question: **"What is the meaning of knowing?"**.

This method of writing means the poem should be **ambiguous enough** to sustain diverse perspectives and acknowledge the limits of absolute knowledge.

### 2. The Poem Must Contain Unique Human Originality

Regarding the creative process, Mactavish emphasizes that the poem must be rooted in the unique voice and specific, unconventional input of the human writer, especially when technology is involved.

*   When using an AI engine to generate lyrics, Mactavish found the initial, competence-based result "not original enough".
*   To make the work truly "original," the poem must be **infused with the author’s personal flair and often humorous, unconventional lyrics** (such as those he provided for the "Handmade Soap" song).
*   The AI serves as a tool, but the **human input and unique creative vision** are necessary to "elevate the output beyond mere competence".

### 3. The Poem Should Embrace Complexity and Resist Simplification

Mactavish suggests that poetry, like philosophical reflection, often deals with "interiors" (inner experiences or complex concepts) that cannot be fully captured by conventional language.

*   A poem can address concepts that **"escape the words we know and use"**.
*   In the face of these linguistic limitations, the poet has alternatives that inform the writing:
    *   **Silence** (for experiences like grief).
    *   **Inventing or Re-purposing Words** (for complex philosophical ideas, like Heidegger's philosophy).
    *   **Asking Unanswerable Questions**. This suggests the poem should be written in a way that acknowledges and perhaps even embraces the inherent mystery and limits of comprehension.

### 4. The Poem's Language Should Prioritize Intentionality over Idiom

While Mactavish is focused on language teaching principles, his stance against the generalized teaching of complex idioms, sayings, and metaphors (SIMs) provides insight into his writing preference for clarity of *intent*, especially in communication meant for diverse audiences.

*   For global communication, the primary aim is **"high and ready understand-ability"**.
*   He advocates for focusing on **"simple, plain meaning"** over the display of "colorful enhancements" or "provincialisms".
*   When Mactavish used a British saying for the title of his own novel, he had to **research and find it** because he wasn't familiar with it, underscoring that specialized language requires deliberate context.

Therefore, a Mactavish poem might be written using language that is direct enough to convey its complex philosophical *intent*, even if the overall meaning remains open to interpretation. The challenge comes from the *idea* rather than the obscurity of the language itself.

In short, Mactavish believes a poem is successful if it is an act of **original, intentional human creation** that uses language to explore complexity, forcing the reader to engage not just with the words, but with their own fundamental understanding of truth and meaning. It is less a challenge of decoding stylistic flourishes, and more a challenge of **philosophical interrogation**.

[end snippet] 

Hmmm . . .  

escape or Dare*

t'would have you know this rash's my bashful blush
'bout romance story's tale their courtly love
it takes me from this day's harsh gnash to rush 
fit for minds to hide, nature's sweet soft glove

day's din my ears do hear our woes and pain
nights bring the -mare I while while hours wake
the gentle'r soul this world can't stand the strain
for the all-hell we wreck and can't forsake

we commit inhumane to humans mean
may kindness sweet among our peoples reign
the milk too spoiled to save to reap the cream
beyond the confines of the known, Dare deign

or 'scape in breach ideal romantic's zone
so's embrace the hope of those deeds we'd own

__________

* Why bury one's head in works of romantic love. 

Thanks for lunchs*

On my 80th, surprised by CZ family and friends,
young and old in Prague and Liberec, Czechia.

I promised the very moon,
but to reach up and touch it
was much beyond what I could.

So I decided now, soon,
to fix my ideas that fit,
and send to you what I would.

An imperfect little thing.
A bit of light in this dark.
Kindness mixed with our munchies.

Know that all words they do sing,
our thoughts do hit their mark--
Love from thee plus two lunches!

I know words are not so much,
in your life, with your renown.
Just the same--to me they count.

Because every byte is such.
Let not troubles get  you  down.
Climb those mountains that you mount.

Each moment's, ah, our treasure,
worth much in no small degree.
See heaven, life worth living.

I thank you for your measure,
best above life's stormy seas.
You, your love, your forgiving.

Meaning, youth and joy for me.
My wish for thee the same . . . will always be.

__________

* Translated by DeepL here into CS, so not my fault.

˘ / X 5 X 14 = _____t*

Revised: 12.10.25**

Today I heard him sing a song so sweet,
it made my eyes to tear and then I sighed.
But his he stared at her his joy a treat.
To me it was in truth to woe my stride.

For what to me of love she now seemed lost,
though yet I have my past our love to view.
Upon my soul I had my time with cost:
I miss the one I failed her soul to sue.

She was as she he did today give due.
His looks in rhyme he voiced with lace to thrill.
And I to self retreat poor words imbue.
My blame, insane, though yes, just now do spill.

Yet we must treasure joys we had they'll soothe.
Or love our past that love from ill we'll lose.

__________
* A little song for her who was the one.
** The first version confused the persona speaking with me/writer (hack). (That person and sentiment was not me.) This revision can be taken either way, persona-me or persona-imagined. Better, but that mixed metaphor is still troublesome at about "the ninth line [which] initiates what is called the "turn", or "volta", [signaling] the move from proposition to resolution", per https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonnet.

One as tother

I wooed the women with words I'd written.

Most ignored such fluff, but some were smitten.

Not with true me as such did they so swoon,

but what struck them their resonating tune.

Funny this what we deem and so perceive,

given just what inside does gnash and seethe.

The outside other--first and last apart.

Our world is mine, my own deceit's deft art.

Would be that in two we both one had made, 

could greet and meet in Eden's peace sweet glade.

It is not to be for us, you nor me,

for me I am trapped, oh, on self same knee.

The world's out there, the universal rules:

Nature makes these our matches kind or cruel.

Illusions suffice when we're with others;

for want or need illudes one as tother.

That is as it is before each life starts.

Fate our mom wields the riddle--nature's part.

I can but blindly meet what's in your mind.

Know that's not me in there--that him is thine.

No salve nor 'Save us!' comes, this truth be told,

for we are as when young then and now grown old.

Emails sent

. . . to a brother who doesn't want me to sing "Happy Birthday".
    
Thu, Apr 15, 2021, 8:30 AM
    
Today is the birthday for Tav,
who every young chick he would have.
But when he grew old,
they started to scold:
Hey, on it your hand and more salve!

Thu, Apr 15, 2021, 8:27 AM

This day is a day to remember,
an event for one special member.
But I do not refer
to that thing in your fur!
Your sister's is in September.

Thu, Apr 15, 2021, 8:25 AM

The past is the past let it be,
for nothing's to be done you see.
Enjoy the moments this day--
A birthday say what? Hey!
Celebrate with us then we're three.

Thu, Apr 15, 2021, 8:24 AM

The future is not ours to see.
The wise wait and just let it be.
Now if fester you must,
you'll grow older and rust.
Shut the fuck up--with joy agree.

Thu, Apr 15, 2021, 8:24 AM

With my brother--like no other,
he worries he's like our mother.
But I can say with word firm,
(know I ain't like no weak worm!)
each is their own . . . want no druther.

---

and to my sister, and I also sang that silly song

How old you are (2019)

matters little after that last stage
when we embrace the day it comes--
thankful for this one more
when we rise, stretch
and greet the sun.

Miles and miles now:
full and empty,
triumphs and challenges,
sights seen and not . . .
people here now gone.

Know we had never imagined treasures,
along our ways in spite of wants
we wanted and futures we had to have.

With this date and day and age
and with these -stones,
we set all aside--
ah, much behind if less ahead.

These help us let go the grasp and grape--
For this day's sun and light.

Yes, as much a birth-day as another granted.
Count it too among thy expanding fullness.
Enjoy the life of smiles thus moments grateful.

We let go the rest
to die for the sun and light,
and time afforded.

Madness at the Movies

 Dr. James has writ a book.
Mad in movies is the hook.
Worth yer time--take good a look.

Fun to learn with care a read,
self and other see in deed.
First a trigger is a seed.

Plus art from artist divide.
Set intentions well aside.
Art and act as such betide.

There are worlds that hide a crook.
Psyche's realms'll show their nook.
Mere opinion we'll not brook.

Read this book 'nd you'd be wise.
And view the films with yer eyes.
Weigh the ills thru actors' guise.
Be ye but common​ like in size,
or take ​these things to scholarize.
Gems're here to mizerize.

Grab these and take, I su pose,
our dear doctor's friendly prose.
It's as with wine use yer nose.
He weaves the words as he goes--
film-world glitter, and our woes.
But for god, one's fate there flows.

Caution: context be your guide--
no facile fact Jim lets it slide.
Each chapter and end abide.
We come to calm with the tide.
Take the stock: we've had a ride.

Madness at the Movies--Go!
Now will Jim to write some mo?
Of course, with this we hope​ so.
Now at wit's end and our love,
whether not Jim says nope​.

​Ah.

Forgive, forget, forgo with a shove--
all the dog'ral like this above.

As is your sway

She sat swiping across the screen,
I stood behind, I think unseen.

Fashions flickered before her eyes,
no thing her peerage would despise.

Saw her off to catch her train . . .
hurtful to judge her un-arraigned.

I could wisely wax profound
that she was shallow unbound.

We just give seconds to know
one's unique whole self then go.

Most her moments are unseen,
never swiped on our mind's screen.

Oh, the impotent didact:
Ne'er a subject enacts our tack.

Imperfect is all our lot;
wise words out and there they rot.

Live and let live mantra be.
Yes that girl--she's . . . eye candy.

Just a blip along life's way,
enjoy or not as is your sway.

Hurt none now, they come and go . . .
loud and silent deeds we sow.

Standing at the corner

I wonder, looking at me:

Do they expect I shall be

their image fixed of this street?

Such to minds privy discreet?

It can be other surmise. 

Thus alone, I'm no way wise,

able to guess or to know

the looks that goad us to glow.

I wait, wandering in lies:

What's in the light or their eyes,

that wordless passing must sate?

Stay here and wait for my mate.

Yet of s/he or me inside 

would out but never betide?

Go away

[This effort was inspired by what my granddaughter said, or perhaps Lola herself in early 2025. The word-salad is not addressed to anyone, nor is it autobiographical.*]

"I love you. Go 'way," she said ta the dog.
Which route me out of a sleepy, dense fog.
The meaning we thought (Hold. Tarry a pace.):
That which was missing is only a space.
Away as she said it takes err us to:
"Look. See. It fits it like slipper or shoe."
Well, self-styled indie, don't think as said thus:
festers a blister with poisonous pus.
Rather to let live and let things here be.
All is and happens--it is not about thee.
It is you AND me, embrace us now love,
towards that path, the way--that best fitting glove.

Only by that way there to discover
birth and destiny's true nature's mother.
Suckle the nectar that feeds each other.

The command's to aim with true surety.
Treasure's there--yes, in our twos' unity.
The world is all one; no need we atone,
if we read at one. No grievous misdeed
damns us now or then, nor decent our seed.
We are always on path, adult and child,
no age or birthday, hmm, just a bit wild.
We by ourselves we can love without shame,
'cause believe it from this, life is a game
to play; enjoy is the sense without sin.
Love is the way that gives living a grin.

__________

* I take that back in whole or in part, that is that "[This] word-salad is not addressed to anyone, nor is it autobiographical." For my thoughts on same, I will keep my own council. Any advice expressed above is an index finger pointing somewhere with the thumb clearly pointing right back at me.

No (more) B. S.

New Year's resolutions gets a bad rap,
'cause January's end opens the gap.
What energy was when first they was made,
gives way to things now duty-new evade.

A resolve's difficult to keep on track
with all life's diverts sure keep full the sack.
Not just that but most we useless do prove.
Hard it is to keep good 'nd true our groove.

So come it will when at this first month's end,
I'll keep resolve, dismiss the dross and rend
all that stuff that begs us tend, and please spend,
and asks to bend an ear, 'Be sure attend.'

I'll up and say, 'Look at me, this to see:
Better to live and just let my self be.'
Most or all that crap takes our precious time,
Must avoid all these matters for sublime.

Thus I'll have my days my own. Off, flip it.
Live the good life; best ignore (more) B. S.

Happy as a lark, singing

I gave this prompt to an AI engine: "Pavla makes handmade soap doing business as Natural Bohemia." The result was not original enough, but quite nice, well done.

But to make the work my or more original, I gave the engine my lyrics, below, for a song called "Handmade Soap".

Pavla works from morn 'til nite

to bring you scents your bod's delight.

She's Nat'ral Bohem, her love's handmade.

But recipes radical fail the grade.

Powers pure prevent the new invade.

TutiFruity soap was a seller--

now outlawed 'cause soap's not yeller.

Best for all is virgin's oil.

It's passed all tests others spoiled.

NB's got a new one she calls Elvis

for washing nether parts of yer pelvis.

Then there's one called bad Basorka,*

which colors sport of killer orca.

Wash with it; it smells of musk.

You'll seduce shy ones seeking lust.

Then we have the Mandala one,

to bring your spirits quiet fun.

One sapone its mask's gray rock--

surprise that salt's its building block.

Oils fer lips for kissing moods-- 

fresh at midnight, or your mystic brood.

Refrain

Oh a lip oil, here's her Bloody Mary,

promises sex with those that tarry.

More and more could she say.

Better see what's what o'er that way.

Refrain

Oh a lip oil, here's her Bloody Mary,

promises sex with those that tarry.

More and more could she say.

Better see what's what o'er that way.

Want to hear it? Mostly fluff as you can see, but with a little music and a nice voice, it came out quite well, and caused yours truly to bend over in stitches.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Qf-NNMSTuh87XzLlpvaF3BifpjL6tKy5/view?usp=drive_link

__________

* basorka = witch