What a great inspiration for a story. The most amazing part of the Christmas Peace, as it's called is that both sides did start shooting again the next day and that the insanity didn't even end with the end of that war. The attempts to 'hold Germany responsible' grew into an even bigger war in WWII.
Could this current demand to 'hold China responsible' for COVID-19 grow into proof that humans are incapable of learning from their mistakes?
You have touched on a point of view that we hear little about. Your observation of less crime Is a good case in point. There are also fewer automobile accidents and accidental injuries in restaurant parking lots are now a thing of the past.
This delightful yarn has hit the mark
"I saw it on TV" was just a lark
three hundred words or less to tell the tale
and yet you left the culprits our of jail.
A well-turned story of a know-it-all
who's learned a lesson he'll always recall
It happens in these tales so short and full
that one reveals imagination wild.
'That work to do, it's all a bunch of bull.'
The forty winks are done. Sleep's been defiled.
With tenderness, he snuggles with the cat,
unaware at all it's time to go.
Dawn grasps the chance and shows you where it's at
and all those things that you already know.
Without the least regret, he's flunked the test.
'I'll fix that screen when sometime is all set.
Right now, to get some sleep would be the best.'
Then conscience smiled and says 'You wanta bet?
He climbs up off his soft and silken bed
And went about his tasks-- a thing to dread
A cautionary tale, we cannot win
This author shows us how to bear the deed
and spreads the salt of wisdom from within
to shake a bit of grace and fill the need
The battle though, is hardly in the bag,
as domineering voices join the foe.
They spread the word of man and wave the flag
to challenge every bit of what we know
Luke, John or Mark would roll within his grave
to see corruption capturing the Word
We see oppression rule, with much to crave)
more sour notes to come, or so I've heard.
As the Keeper of the Faith, you've held the line
The word of God lives on and will do fine
A writer's skilled obsession with the word,
can turn a moment's madness to a flood.
Once Ginger's arty notions have been heard,
we wait for Jane to staunch the flow of blood.
The 'free-born artist' seems a noble breed
and struggles to impose her iron will.
An artist (like the rest of us) must feed,
or all those arty whims will all fall still.
Will make You Laugh, the wordsmiths with resolve,
shows Jane without a job or a whim
but still with many problems left to solve,
and now, she finds her budget be trim.
This yarn could go most anywhere from here.
We know these characters will bring us cheer.
One day aboard the site, this soul,
has grabbed the oars and given quite a tug
to show a new perspective to the role,
of shining light into the holes we’ve dug.
But buried ‘mongst the tidbits where they fall,
are truths we know we should have seen before.
They shine like beacons gleaming on the wall,
of artifacts that we've been searching for.
In love, when one is buried in so deep,
and leaps forth grasping for a gem,
we know there's very little chance to reap
the joy we speak and think we find in them.
Perhaps the verse that floated from your mind,
contains one which another soul will find.
It seems sometimes that dreams will search the soul,
for truths we’ve hidden underneath the rug.
As though they’re bent on ramping up the role,
bestowed on us by lifelong holes we’ve dug.
But buried ‘mongst the bits we recall,
are often truths we’ve never seen before,
which shine like beacons gleaming on the wall,
of artifacts that we’ve been searching for.
In truth, I’ve found my own reflection here,
leaping forth to grasp that moment’s gem,
left there to germinate so you could reap
the joy of finding even one of them.
Perhaps with self-to-self in mind,
there'll be another here for me to find.
It isn’t very often that we see
An ode to something lowly and so dull.
And yet without it, we would never be
here celebrating things we'd like to cull.
You point to every boring sleep-inducing spree,
engaged in by backer and keeper.
I smile, to knowing it won't be me,
on Reddit 'til I face the Reaper.
No nits to be picked with this verse
Its points are delivered quite well
The viewpoint could hardly be worse.
With views though, one can never tell.
The net is absorbing what’s said,
If boring or dull or just dead.
It happens in these tales relayed in verse
that one reveals imagination wild.
'Hear me once' a plea like nothing worse.
The secret lost, cold and beguiled
With tenderness, she tries to find a way,
unaware at all of moonlight's play.
She grasped at clouds and promptly ruined her day
her foot now firmly on hell's bottom rung.
The Deaf Man nibbles closer to the bone.
Does that mean he'll be chomping through my soul
destroying secrets hidden all alone?
It seems he's bent on ramping up the role,
bestowed on me by lifelong holes we’ve dug.
But buried ‘mongst the bits I don't recall,
are half-truths that I’ve never seen before,
which shine like beacons gleaming on the wall,
of artifacts that I’ve been searching for.
In truth, it’s here, with faith built-in so deep,
I find the source of every moment's gem,
the soundless poet left so I could reap
the joy in finding even one of them.
Perhaps this verse left floating in my mind,
is one of many here for me to find.
The eight-line stanzas firmly grab my muse
with sanity now hanging by a thread.
And yet, as many other poets choose,
I give my muse a rest from what is said
You paint with brushes broad, right through the fog,
no broken crayons scattered on the floor,
just brilliant phrases peeking from the smog,
as sanity defines the guarded score.
Those cups of noble height hold all that stuff,
with all those old clichés still holding true.
Deep down, we know that that will be enough,
to chase the poor man's doubts from what I do.
My muse now needs that rest or something worse,
for here, SeanFear is not deprived of verse.
The decent story idea, but the lack of a problem and resolution is problematic.
At the beginning, the brothers sit to discuss their situation. At the end, one of the brothers has revealed his plans. Nothing has changed.
In the middle, we find this confusing sentence: Jasper glance bounced about the room, rubbing his mouth as he stared out a window, to their side, into the backyard as their children played together.
Perhaps Jasper's glanced bounced about the room? That might be okay, but his glance can't rub his mouth, and it can't do it while staring out a window.
At the end, nothing has changed.
This could be the beginning of a story, but it needs some work.
This tribute to the famous Man in Black,
is like a move to bring poor Elvis back.
We take another look at all that stuff
we've heard and read and know it's not enough.
l walk among screaming mass and cringe.
For all the guitar squeals in music’s name,
it’s time to hold a weekend’s listening binge,
of all those oldies which are not same
I hear that some folks like these modern boys
But all I hear is loud obnoxious noise.
While Johnny spent his life out on the floor,
His best just doesn't cut it anymore.'
The rose he chose has wilted and decayed.
And fits right in with all the games he played.
Pandora grabs imagination's pull
and shows a path to hell not seen before.
The evil Octad's crystal cup is full
with all-time bread, that seems, may offer more
But, even though that evil deed is done
and death is dealt with no resisting hand
her flock seeks hope and finds that there is none,
but exultation glows throughout the land.
A need to slay the lamb jumps to the fore,
as Hermes plays the role of loving dad,
with no regrets at all for so much gore,
and nothing left from past times that he's had
Bob County grabs Pandora by the nose,
and shows us how this wild version goes.
The EasternWindow glows with rising hope
as early morning grabs for its control.
Where stands the trust, if following a rope.
Contrition hangs its head to claim the role.
We see the crumbled scraps of blatant fear
all scattered on the trail to moving on
and know we've dropped the ball to what we hear.
Are all our dreams just myths, of what we've won?
No purity in vows we should have kept,
above all else, clean up that foul reward.
Upon your knees, deflect the tears you've wept.
Reclaim the path your conscience set you t'ward.
While selfless king may be her rightful claim,
such actions on hope won't make is so.
It's only truth, in deed and in the name,
which turn the sod and let the flowers grow.
Unfailing love without the hidden strings
will sweep away the scraps and what that brings.
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