Frosty Gratitude

 Two roads emerged in a graying wood, 

And glad we could not travel both 

But be one traveler, long we stood 

And looked back two as far as we could 

To where they bent in the undergrowth;

Then took together, as just as fair, 

And having perhaps the better claim, 

Because they were grassy and wanted wear; 

Though as for that the passing there 

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay 

In leaves no step had trodden black. 

Oh, we kept the first for another day! 

Yet knowing how way leads on to way, 

We doubted if we should ever go back.

We shall be telling this with a smile 

Somewhere sages and pages hence: 

Two roads emerged in a wood, and I— 

We took the one that made this moment, 

And that has made all the difference.

I notice my breath

I notice my breath, shallow and uneven, 

Drawing in deeply, my chest expands, 

A moment of stillness, clarity in the pause, 

Slowly exhaling, tension melts away, 

Rhythmic breaths, a soothing, meditative beat, 

Grounded and centered, reconnecting with now, 

Calm and focused, ready to face the world.

Emerging Lobo's

Lobo's gaze, akin to celestial orbs,

Illuminates the path of virtue,

Yet, within the same luminescence,

Lurks the abyss of moral ambiguity.

Lobo's breath, a zephyr of tranquility,

Whispers the essence of equanimity,

Yet, with a mere shift of the wind,

Transforms into a maelstrom of ire.

Lobo's paws, embodiments of fortitude,

Traverse the terrain of resilience,

Yet, beneath their formidable exterior,

Lies the tremor of existential dread.

Lobo's presence, a harmonious symphony,

Resonates with the cadence of grace,

Yet, interwoven within the melody,

Is the discordant note of chaos.

Lobo's gaze, a beacon of promise,

Guides through the labyrinth of night,

Yet, in its melancholic howl,

Echoes the lament of lost enlightenment.

Rising leap

 Rising above the now, we stand on the precipice of time, 

Each moment fleeting, a fervent leap of desire. 

In the ephemeral present, we trust in the patterns 

That whisper promises, believing in the continuity 

Of our transient selves.

To transcend the now, we embrace uncertainty, 

With courage and hope, we navigate the unknown. 

Self, a vessel of moments, guided by currents of belief, 

Each now a wave, shaping the voyage of our being.

In the crest of existence, past and future converge, 

Our truth requires a leap into boundless embrace.

Answers are a balm

 Zombies seek brains for answers, but the truth is undead and brains may not contain it.

Entropic Truth

 I wished for the saying to always be true, 

That falsehoods would sprint, but truth would come through. 

Yet learning has shown me a different way, 

Where chaos and lies seem to win the day.

In the vastness of space, where stars fade to black, 

Entropy rises, no turning it back. 

Knowledge we seek, but it slips through our hands, 

Like grains of fine sand in the wide desert lands.

For truth is a marathon, slow and so grand, 

But chaos sprints faster, it covers the land. 

The cosmos moves forward to entropy's end, 

Where ignorance reigns, and all order will bend.

The best we can hope for is knowing some truth, 

A glimpse of the cosmos, a moment of proof. 

We are a way for the stars to reflect, 

But chaos will claim us, as we all expect.

Though I yearn for the truth to conquer the lies, 

The ultimate fate is a world where it dies. 

In the end, all our learning, our wisdom, our might, 

Will fade into darkness, consumed by the night.

Ephemeral Equilibrium

In ancient times, when earth was young, 

Where primordials and nature sung, 

A tribe in harmony, they thrived, 

But nature's wrath, they soon contrived.

The world grew cold, the ice did spread, 

Those who adapted, found warmth instead. 

The unadaptable, in frost, did fall, 

Luck played its hand, claiming near all.

Rains did pour, the rivers swelled, 

Together they built, and higher they dwelled. 

Quick to adapt, they found their way, 

While others, in waters, were swept away.

The ground shook with tremors, the earth did quake, 

Shelters they sought, for survival's sake. 

The adaptable thrived in the caves they found, 

But fate struck hard, many lives fell down.

The mountains erupted, the lava did flow, 

Ash clouds soared high, and the fires did glow. 

Those who fled with a quickened pace, 

Survived the fire, found a safer place.

Like Adam and Eve, the last to stand, 

In a new wilderness, they made their land. 

They knew to adapt, or perish they might, 

But for now, life was easy, no danger in sight.

Their children grew, in peace they played, 

Unaware of the dangers, their parents had braved. 

A reminder to all, who’ve lived long and wise, 

Adapt or be trampled, entropy flies.

Henosis Demise

In days of old, on Henosis Isle, 

Where nature thrived and hearts were mild, 

A shift began, a selfish tide, 

As "me before all" took its stride.

The fisherman, with nets so wide, 

Caught more than needed, cast aside 

The balance once so dearly kept, 

As fish stocks dwindled, oceans wept.

The farmer, too, with greedy hand, 

Used poisons that defiled the land, 

For higher yields, he sold his soul, 

And fertile fields turned barren, cold.

The merchant brought in goods so cheap, 

Non-biodegradable heaps, 

The beaches once so pure and bright, 

Now buried deep in plastic blight.

Communal duties, once embraced, 

Were now neglected, left disgraced, 

Each person for themselves alone, 

The seeds of discord widely sown.

The island's beauty, once so grand, 

Now marred by selfish, careless hands, 

Pollution spread, resources drained, 

And tensions rose as hope was waned.

Desperation, conflict grew, 

As neighbors fought for what they knew, 

The sense of unity was lost, 

And every gain came at a cost.

No redemption, no reprieve, 

Just endless suffering, hearts bereaved, 

The island's fate, a tragic tale, 

Of how self-interest can prevail.

In the end, the isle lay bare, 

A testament to those who dare 

To put themselves before the whole, 

And lose their way, their heart, their soul.

The population dwindled, gone, 

As nature's wrath kept pressing on, 

Henosis Isle, a ghostly land, 

A warning carved in shifting sand.

Liberty without security

 Bellavis, Renowned Opera Diva, Passes Away at 67

In the realm of opera, few names resonate as profoundly as Bellavis. Her voice, a haunting melody akin to a lark's mating call, captivated audiences throughout the land. Bellavis, born Isabella Avila, passed away yesterday at the age of 67, leaving behind a legacy of both triumph and tragedy.

The beginning of Bellavis's journey to stardom was not paved with gold but with the grit and determination of a young woman from a small, impoverished town. Her early years were marked by struggle and hardship, performing in local venues where she enjoyed the liberty to sing whatever her heart desired. It was in these humble beginnings that Bellavis found true freedom, a time when her voice was her own, unbound by the expectations of others.

Her big break came when a renowned music producer, Maximilian "Max" Silversmith, discovered her at a local performance. The contract he offered promised fame and fortune, but it came with strings attached. Bellavis's rise to fame was meteoric. She became known for her unique voice, which resembled an enchanting bird song. Her signature performance, "The Bird's Lament," brought her widespread acclaim, but it also became her gilded cage.

As her fame grew, the diva's freedom diminished. She was forced to perform "The Bird's Lament" in every performance, wearing an elaborate, peacock-like costume that became her chante emblématique. Bellavis's life became a series of rehearsals, performances, and public appearances, leaving little room for personal expression. During this period, Bellavis sought solace in gluttony and drink, habits that slowly took their toll on her figure and her once-pristine voice. The golden bars of her success confined her, and she longed for the liberty she once had.

In her final years, Bellavis's lust for freedom became more pronounced. She did not expect it to become her final stadium performance when she decided to break free from her gilded cage. In what has been described by some critics as her swan song, she belted out a guttural version of "La Campanara di Libertas." The audience, however, was not moved. Widely panned, her rendition crumbled her reputation. Bellavis was reviled by critics and erstwhile fans alike for deviating from her signature performance, and her career in the spotlight came to an abrupt end.

As the gigs dried up, Bellavis seemed to have found a kind of liberation in returning to her roots. Although few records exist, it seems she often sang for free in small venues and karaoke bars. Some claim she finally found joy in the freedom to express herself without constraints. She died a pauper.

Bellavis is survived by her sister, Maria Avila, and her few devoted fans who will forever cherish the memory of her enchanting rendition of lament. A private funeral service will be held, with a public memorial to be announced at a later date.

Man's expenses are the species profits

 The bottom line shows what you achieve,
The top line shows what we all believe.

The bottom line tells of your deeds,
The top line tells of our shared needs.

The bottom line marks your own way,
The top line marks how we all sway.

The bottom line shows your own might,
The top line shows our collective light.

The bottom line is your own quest, 

The top line is how we all do our best.

Death memory

 

Pro Forma Drama Dilemma

 Pro Forma Drama Dilemma

In a land where llamas wear pajamas, 

And commas dance with charisma, 

A gamma burst of plasma, 

Ignites a drama-filled schema.

The aroma of a prima donna, 

Fills the air with a sweet enigma, 

While magma flows in a pro forma, 

Creating a scene of trauma and stigma.

In Panama, a pharma diploma, 

Hangs beside a firmament's maxima, 

Solving life's dilemmas, 

With a touch of cosmic firma.

From coma to enema, 

The universe's grand schema, 

Unfolds with a rhythmic drama, 

In a land where llamas wear pajamas.

Reaching and settling

 "Thank you for settling for me as I reached for you," he said.

"What? No! I reached for you, and you settled for me!" she replied.

"I beg to differ, my dear. I'm so lucky to have even the shadow of your love," he insisted.

"Oh, you silly man, I'm still reaching out to hold on as you fly," she smiled.

Scarce Truth

When truth is scarce, those who possess it hold significant power. 

By concealing enough truths, the value of the truths they retain increases. 

In environments where dishonesty prevails, truth becomes even more valuable. 

Holding a monopoly on truth allows for control over all.

Shadows of Gothomgrad

 

In the bustling city of Gothomgrad, there lived two sisters as different as night and day. Catheryne, the elder, was a sharp-witted gal with a nose for opportunity and a heart set on triumph, no matter the price. Her motto, you see, was "Success at any cost." Emmelyne, the younger, was a dreamer through and through. She believed in following her passions and living life true to her spirit. Her motto was "Follow your heart."

Catheryne, with her keen eye for finance, climbed the corporate ladder faster than a squirrel up a tree. She amassed wealth and power, becoming a prominent figure among Gothomgrad's elite. Emmelyne, on the other hand, dedicated herself to her art. She painted, wrote poetry, and taught at the local community center. Her life was rich in creativity and fulfillment, but not in material wealth.

As the years rolled by, Catheryne's wealth and influence grew like a well-watered weed. Greed for gold and a lust for power drove Catheryne's every choice. Slowly, step by step, she amassed wealth and influence, tightening her grip over the struggling masses of Gothomgrad. Her empire grew like a shadow, casting a pall over the city. The more she gained, the more she craved, and the divide between the wealthy elite and the destitute widened into a chasm. The streets buzzed with whispers of discontent, and the air grew thick with the tension of a city on the brink. Emmelyne and her friends, once beacons of hope and creativity, found themselves at the heart of the growing unrest, their dreams suffocated by Catheryne's relentless ambition.

The tipping point came when Catheryne's company announced plans to demolish the community center to build luxury apartments. Emmelyne, devastated and desperate, became a leader in the burgeoning resistance movement. The protests grew larger and more intense, fueled by the anger and frustration of those who had been marginalized.

One fateful night, the protests turned violent. Emmelyne, driven by a mix of righteous fury and personal betrayal, led the charge against her sister's empire. The revolutionaries stormed Catheryne's mansion, and in the chaos, Catheryne was brutally murdered.

The aftermath was nothing short of tragic. Gothomgrad lay in ruins, a city once vibrant now scarred by the fires of revolution. Emmelyne, who had once been a beacon of hope and creativity, found herself consumed by guilt and sorrow. She had achieved her goal, but at a terrible cost. The revolution had brought change, but it had also left deep wounds on the city and on Emmelyne's soul.

In the end, Emmelyne lived in a shadow of shame and misery, haunted by the memory of her sister and the violence she had unleashed.  Catheryne, however, was but dust.

Belief is a shadow

 In the dim lit court where shadows loom,

A jury's gaze seals a woman's doom.

Her shadow, cast by fear's cruel light,

Distorts her form in a jury's sight.

Belief, a shadow on the walls, 

Turns truth to lies, and justice falls.

Inheritance is an invisible hand

 Inheritance shapes our lives in many ways. From the traits and characteristics we inherit genetically, to the traditions, values, and customs passed down culturally, our identities are deeply influenced by our heritage. Material wealth and resources, intellectual knowledge, emotional patterns, social connections, and even the physical environment we live in are all part of our inheritance. Each type of inheritance plays a role in shaping our destinies, often in ways we might not immediately recognize.

Imaginary numbers

 In the realm of numbers, vast and wide, 

There's a special place where secrets hide. 

Beyond the real, where logic bends, 

Imaginary numbers make amends.

With "i" as their symbol, they take the stage, 

The square root of negative one, they engage. 

In equations complex, they find their role, 

Solving mysteries, making the whole.

When real numbers falter, can't find a way, 

Imaginary numbers come to play. 

In circuits, waves, and quantum dreams, 

They weave their magic, or so it seems.

Not bound by the rules of the real and plain, 

They venture where others can't sustain. 

Imaginary, yet so profound, 

In the world of math, they're always found.

Editors normalize the creative

 

Tip the ripple

Sitting in this cold, dimly lit cell in Athens, the weight of the decision presses heavily upon the mind. The stone walls seem to close in, echoing the murmurs of the Agora, where spirited debates once took place. Thoughts race, contemplating the trial that awaits. I have always prided myself on questioning the world, challenging the status quo, and seeking the truth. But now, faced with the threat of death, fear grips my heart.

Followers come to mind, the young minds that have been inspired. What will they think if old Socrates bends the knee to the powers that be? Yet, the thought of drinking the hemlock, of leaving this world behind, terrifies. Imagining the stern faces of the judges, the jeers of the crowd, and the finality of the sentence, I feel my resolve waver.

Perhaps it is better to live in shame than to die for beliefs. Renouncing teachings, declaring that everything was wrong, and pledging to cease questioning could save a life. It would be a betrayal of everything imagined, but it would save suffering and allow more time to think. As the shadows lengthen, the decision is made. Tomorrow, I will submit. Life will continue, I will pay their cost.

~ 

The flickering candlelight casts long shadows on the walls as the ancient manuscripts are carefully unearthed from the coffin. The musty smell of old paper fills the air, mingling with the scent of fear and excitement. Are these the forbidden texts, hidden away for centuries? Has she finally found the secret power we should never know?

Watching Angela, with her fierce intellect and unyielding spirit, scrape away the last bit of dirt from the old leather binding, suddenly, there in her hands are Socrates' words. Her eyes shine with the excitement of discovery, the promise of wisdom that could change the world. But the risk is too great. The Moral Enforcement Officers are intolerant of any teachings that challenge the great leaders' authority. If this discovery is made known, severe punishment will follow.

As she giggles with excitement, my heart weighs heavy with love and fear. The desire to protect her from the dangers that lie ahead overwhelms me. I cannot shake the story of his trial and his ultimate humiliation. How can I let that happen to my darling? I cannot.

I take the manuscripts, those dangerous scrolls of questions, and set them alight. As the flames slowly consume the ancient texts, scattering into the night, I see my love's prospects brighten with every ash that falls. Oh, for the years of peace and joy we will have.

War forces adaptation

 "Yours is not to make reply, 

   Yours is not to reason why,

   Yours is but to do or die!"

~ my drill sergeants take on Tennyson's poem