Tim Miner's Musings

Credit: Pixabay My attitude is Celibate, I have avowed to Silence; Speak no vile, say all good, Say it all in prayer. Cut out my heart of vain feels To let light filter into The voids; Illuminate. Cloistered my ego into an attic, The self and the shelves. Committed to love, leave, to live. Draped my being in a habit Feels better to be, in the World, Not being of it. In my silent hermitage To interact with it; To live in its midst. Hurry, Take me to the monas tery.

Credit: Pixabay Screeches, blaring horns, rambling vehicular traffic Frightens, I have seen many a crushes, careless; Car and body mangled. Flesh minced, all and gory. Senseless. Seen homes, shops razed; reduced to ashes and cinder. A people weeded out, dispossessed of their lands by cabal developers; Faceless privates they are called, Shameless. Great churches with graying walls of truth Thick, round masonry and domed Reverberating with choirs of politicians Gyrating around altars and tithe barns, maleficent. And in public squares singing deceitful refrains and party lies, How low can we sink, fealty? Lo and behold, brother, The reprehensible Fire of greed that burns tons of smokeless anthracite coals; Pillages public coffers, bleeding our small economic strength away. Betrayal! The streets we walk, the grounds we till are Imbrued in blood. Bloodbaths of people thine hands slit Their throats. Innocents whose Massacres are sc

Photo credits: Pixabay Cold, a cold carrel Shelves crammed With creased cookbooks Squares, chalk lines and wood chisels Tools for his craft In too tiny a space. Cold, a cold cradle Cast in steel, cold, metallic cold Rocking the carpenter’s yearling To sleep after his daily sip Of crusty cream cheese Cheeky, chortling And in his childish rage Hurls his china cup To chase imaginary spooks His world, a blissful place Cold, a cold corridor Walls choked Up with faded carpets chipped At corners on racks they cling to Matless and wood chippings for his pillow The carpenter crumples his beddings And tucks his son, he cuddles his joy He can feel his heart pace Cold, a cold lone chair Rickety, reminiscent Braced on the curving wall Of his shanty Next to his workbench Where he hammers timber to shape A litany of laments, a flood of Whys?! The unfair world Failed relationships, crumbling business Leaking shack, he drown