Sitting in the park at dusk,

high heels pinching my wide feet,

my dress slightly wadded and lumpy

beneath my padded derriere.

My bra like a strait jacket

its protrusions grazing my

untrained arms at every move.

The wig sweaty and hot,

the musk of my

perfume sticky sweet,

wanting so badly to

adjust a non-public area,

but it would not be ladylike.

Two hours pass in purgatory

hard slats stretched

under a much harder slut,

posing in a nap-like state,

a wo-mannequin

propped for display.

Then the bushes crackle,

just to the left of

my clip-on earring.

Long manicured, bright

red fingertips

reach for the hidden 44 magnum,

slipping its thick barrel between

the juncture of my

damn tight stockings.

The moment draws near,

then a grimy, overly hairy hand

clamps over my painted lips,

as the scum-bucket

behind me whispers,

"Don't scream, Don't move,

or I'll cut ya."

I freeze in my

sweat-stained costume,

as he works his way around me,

and allow him to

take my right hand,

and place it on his

swollen need.

It was just becoming

a large part of his night

under his grease-stained jeans.

His right hand holds a knife

loosely against my neck,

as he commands

me to unzip him,

His eyes close in ecstasy

as I grip him tight

through the cloth,

my disgust curling in my gut,

vomit rising like a barometer

in my dry throat.

Then quickly my

44 magnum rises,

like the smoothly oiled shaft

of a machine recently turned on,

and it explodes, crotch level

into his suddenly

shriveling manhood.

He collapses with a scream

of sheer agony as I quickly

kick off my high heels

and drive one into

his left eye.

Then I dash for my car,

noting that no one else is around,

in this place that's lately

been labeled "Predator Park."

I drive to the cemetery

where my wife's remains remain,

brutally raped just months ago

while jogging in that park,

and then sadly,

she committed suicide.

I bury the gun

deep in the fresh dirt

of her recent grave...

smoothing it over carefully,

and planting several

geraniums over top.

Then it's home,

to a sleep that has

long eluded me,

after washing off the stench

of a maggot squashed and

burning my female accouterments

in the wood stove of my den.

Next week I'll prepare again,

for some more poetic justice,

in the freshly painted face

of a woman being scorned.

Vengeance is mine

( 0 0 )

\ ^ /

||||

Incredible music composed

& played by Chris Bright-(c)-2023

Lyrics & vocals written & sung by

Matthew F. Blowers III-(c)-2023 at:

Art~Whimsically Yours Studio

Photo credit to: unsplash.com

Nourishment.

I was the frozen water

that thawed into

absolutely nothing......

before that i was an icicle

that became cyclical.

Alas I did not know

as I dissipated,

that my essence

fed eight flowers,

and a sixty foot

patch of grass.

It quenched some

parched worms thirst,

and caused an acorn

to germinate,

which will someday

be a mighty oak.

Some of me added to the well,

that a family nearby drinks from.

as they savor each drop

of fresh water served

Several ounces evaporated

and became new snow,

protecting the roots

of a fruit tree....

that would serve

abundant peaches

in the spring

Portions of me

became part of a cloud,

that sparked the

imagination of a poet,

and 760 dandelions

will launch white puffs

this spring because

I became liquid.

I became liquid.

Plus eighteen winter

birds sipped

my cool refreshment,

before I vanished

into mother earth.

pecking through

the ice to find

the sweetness that

tasted so nice.

I am that ice that

truly became something

Cherish every drop

of water as it falls

beside your head

there are places

on this planet

where all chance of

water is dead

I am that water

I become the

beauty around you

it should astound you

because....

"Every little thing

we do or say,

can affect the world even

if we think it means nothing."

from the saline tinged

drop of a tear

to the bubbling stream

so crystal clear....

I am part of that water

and I am proud.

Incredible music composed

& played by Chris Bright-(c)-2023

Lyrics & vocals written & sung by

Matthew F. Blowers III-(c)-2023 at:

Art~Whimsically Yours Studio

Photo credit to: unsplash.com

All by My Heart

is where she stays

attached like glue

her fervent gaze

will feed my needs

through all my days

and all my nights

in so many ways

all by my heart

and mine by hers

it's the truest love

I must conur

in our tiny cottage,

filled with the warm glow

of inspiration burning,

and candles casting shadows

on parchment begging strokes

of that precious ink from think.

In my large and cozy armchair,

with a freshly brewed cup of java,

as my faithful dog is napping

in a perfect night, star-filled

and balmy just beyond the open door.

My lover reading over my shoulder

in between her sips of tea,

passion still wet in her eyes,

from that room just down the hall.

All by My Heart

is where she stays

attached like glue

her fervent gaze

will feed my needs

through all my days

and all my nights

in so many ways

all by my heart

and mine by heres

it's the truest love

I must concur

A belly full of fine cuisine,

a pencil sharper that I am at times,

and a tiny muse nestled in my ear,

whispering sweet somethings

that will appear as

perfect poems or songs

but it's so nice just

to be at home

All those special things that

I have so grown to love,

that wait for me each eve

when day is at long last done,

with eager, hungry anticipation....

She settles down

all by my heart

and i settle down by hers

It's a perfect love

I must concur

It's a perfect love

I must concur

all by my heart.

Incredible music composed

& played by Chris Bright-(c)-2023

lyrics & vocals written & sung by

matthew F. Blowers III-(c)-2023 at:

Art~Whimsically Yours Studio

Photo credit to: unsplash.com

Sometimes it seems

the world is full of bullies

who delight in

treating others cruelly

projecting their own insecurities

and lack of self esteem

on those who they deem weaker

which makes them feel stronger

about their nasty selves

But for those

who are bullied

After a while,

a smile becomes bent

twisted by force

into a facade.

A sad way to simply cope,

against any sharp, cruel points

that are hurled in anger

against one's dart board skin.

as they clinch under a bullies eye.

Their eyes no longer bleed tears,

hearts are shed of all hope,

and shoulder's hunch like

Quasimodo on an arthritic day.

They have no way to

make the bullies pay

it isn't in their make up

it's not part of their instinct

All around us souls tremble

under fingerpainted smiles,

scuttling mouselike

past confrontations.

Conditioned by past suffering

to avoid standing up to

the bullies who inhabit all walks

and vicious trips through life.

How sad that we as humans

must have verbal punching bags

to vent our own insecurities on,

the fat lady, the geek,

the homely, the disfigured,

the racially different person,

the gay, the insecure

and the weak.

And sometimes those

who are bullied

are driven so far

over the brink

that they choose to inflict

a far more awful form

of bullying back

enhancing their courage

with a gun

and then the bullies

become victims

as they are removed

from society

because karma

in the long run

it always comes

back around to

rectify wrongs done.

Hell must be a

house of mirrors,

wherein those who abused,

see endless reflections

of their hideous flaws

made visibly apparent,

as demons poke, mock,

and torture them

in eternal agony

beyond all imagination.

beyond all imagination

as they suffer the endless

slow blues of hell's

endless eternities.

Marvelous music composed &

played by-Chris Bright-(c)-2023

Lyrics & Vocals written & sung by

Matthew F. Blowers III-(c)-2023 at:

Art~Whimsically Yours Studio

photo credit to: unsplash.com

The instrumental version of

this song can be heard at:

https://soundcloud.com/chris-bright-330943118/slow-blue-121423-852-pm-1

True love waits,

till blue love's fade,

with blissful kisses,

that end charades,

the parades of losers,

who've led you on,

the tirades of abusers,

in the cold gray dawn.

True love comes

with surety,

no leftover crumbs,

just purity,

most often found

in maturity,

saving those bound

for obscurity.

True love stays

through thick and thin,

it seeks new ways

to change what's been,

for one who prays,

it brings a grin,

of joy at knowing

love "can" win.

True love sets

the lonely free,

it calms the frets

of what will be,

without regrets

just harmony,

true lovers get

dreams meant to be.

t6rue lovers get

dreams meant to be

So wait for true love,

and in time,

you'll find someone

and say be mine,

by chasing it

you'll fall behind,

till it catches you

with love divine.

till it catches you

with love divine

true love waits till

blue love's fade.

Marvelous music composed &

played by-Chris bright-(c)-2023

Lyrics & Vocals written & sung by

Matthew F. Blowers III-(c)-2023 at:

Art~Whimsoica;ly yours Studio

photo credit to: unsp[lash.com

The instrumental version of this song can be heard at: https://soundcloud.com/chris-bright-330943118/first-thoughts-122923-1125-pm

I searched in vain for so long

for the fountain of youth,

often chasing endless promises

of vitality renewed

capped in fat jars,

glass bottles and tubes.

But Age is ever

so heartless,

wrinkling even

one's smile,

we slip into

its grasp unaware,

of the deterioration

that's daily occurring,

till the mirror

becomes our tattletale,

exposing our flaws.

But no surgery for me,

with my skin stretched

tight like saran wrap

to hide life's leftovers.

oh, no, no, no, no......

Acceptance was the first step

that I took one spring morning,

while watching my tiny son,

leaping nimbly at play,

it was then that I realized,

that the fountain of youth,

only streams from men's loins,

and lies fallow for nine months,

in the wells of their lovely women.

Till it's sprayed with placenta,

in a burst of pink flesh,

then true youth re-emerges

in a small carbon copy,

of what we all once were.

of what we all once were

Youth is passed to our children,

thus we must fade away,

to make room for their dancing

in the fountains of youth,

live vicariously through them,

find lost years in their smiles,

and drink deeply with fervor,

all the beauty they share.

The fountain of youth is in our children.

Stellar Music composed &

Played by-Chris Bright (c)-2023

Lyrics & vocals written & sung by

Matthew F. Blowers III-(c)-2023 at:

Art~Whimsically Yours Studio

Photo Credit to: unsplash.com

Bon Voyage!

Each season offers

travelers a porthole,

with clear views of

what is approaching

as we sail onward

through time and space,

on our great mother-ship

"Earth," resplendent,

taking leaves with

bright colored confetti,

as we set off through

September's voyage.

Soon we're tossed on

the whitecaps of winter,

seeking shelter in the

hold of our cabins

as bitter winds howl,

the cold is titanic,

as the turbulent ice

storms relentless,

slow our journey

to the tropics to come.

We seek harbor in

the warm clime of April,

lush and verdant as

its sweet flowers bloom,

drinking deep from

fresh springs of rainwater,

children dance in

the music of May,

as we bask in the

rebirth of joy.

Then we're off for

long needed vacations,

to a place that mimes

Earth's equator,

on an island that runs

three months long,

where we'll nap in

the hammocks of June,

as blue skies grace

July and we sunbathe,

till August of hot air

bids us swim,

in the aqua bright

waters of summer,

savoring life in

this vast paradise.

Far too soon we'll

again make a passage,

sealing portholes

to October's chill,

shedding festive bright

colors from bare limbs,

for warm sweaters

as we head into storms,

in a cycle of travel

quite endless,

captured yearly in

the windows of time.

captured yearly in

the windows of time....

"Bon Voyage!"

Splendid music composed and

played by Chris Bright-(c)-2023

lyrics and vocals written and sung

by Matthew F. Blowers III-(c)- 2023

at Art~Whimsically Yours studio

Photo credit to: unsplash dot com

https://soundcloud.com/chris-bright-330943118/these-flowers-are-for-you-81123-945-pm-1

April May dance Until June

April's golden tresses

grace willow trees

and bless forsythia tips

near my mountain porch,

my heavenly perch.

My dog catches zzzz's

paws moving to

squirrelly-cued dreams,

as melted snow rushes

faster to the river

flowing towards the

valleys below.

And on this mountaintop

clouds almost

touch my world

misting pastures,

while a rainbow

bends to color

their gray and

white canvas.

Just God finger-painting Spring

for all of us to see

Summer slowly ascends

slopes below me

bearing the scent

of honeysuckle and

devil's paintbrush.

While I remain a

speck of flesh

just a pigment

of imagination

on God's incredible palette,

My mind trying to

capture his marvels

with some ink and a refill

and a scribbling hand

trying to pinpoint

all this beauty

on this pounded,

ground up remnants

of some trees

I've never climbed.

trying to wax poetic

on a sunny day

scratching ink in

furious scribbles

on these pounded,

ground up remnants

0f some trees

I've never climbed

I've never climbed

Superior music composed

& played by Chris Bright-(c)-2023

Lyrics & vocals written & sung by

Matthew F. Blowers III-(c)-2023 at:

Art~Whimsically Yours Studio

photo credit to: my collection-(c)-2023

Author notes:

Written by a cabin I used to frequent

when I needed escape from the world at large,

Things seem much smaller on a mountaintop,

as far as the world's troubles go.

Spectacular music composed

& played by Chris Bright-(c)-2023

Lyrics & vocals written & sung by

Matthew F. Blowers III-(c)-2023 at:

Art~Whimsically Yours Studio

photo credit to: unsplash.com

A Tale from The Cinders Of Ella.

https://soundcloud.com/chris-bright-330943118/it-isnt-promised-112623-710-am

Wheelchair-bound

yet she dances

over to the mirror,

because he'll

be here soon

to take her

for a long walk

in the moonlight.

She slips into her

most elegant crystal

glass beaded shoes,

which really just are

a pair of wrinkled,

soiled peds

beside her bed

She applies a bright

ruby sheen to

her full lips,

yet the chap-stick

comes out clear

upon the cracked,

dry, food-stained

flesh protrusions

over her wrinkled maw.

The future isn't

promised to any of us

to be beautiful

it just is what it is

She strokes the

l o n g eyelashes

with ebony to highlight

her pale blue eyes,

each still holding onto

the dreams of youth....

But sadly, it is only her

arthritic fingers

pulling at the

sticky residues of

too much sleep

and too many meds.

The mirror holds

an addled reflection

of what she was

and will be no more.

But her weak

cataract eyes

refuse to see

the real truth.

In the drab corner

of a nursing facility

that doesn't facilitate anything

that she really needs

except her next breath

But she knows he's coming

and he'll be there soon

Thus her bald head

gleams in the sharp

fluorescent light as,

the aging woman

combs her hair.

that is no longer there

Just going through

the motions of what

used to be

something of such beauty

sitting all alone

in a nursing home

saddened to the bone

https://soundcloud.com/chris-bright-330943118/good-for-you-9123-704-pm

I've found that beef cattle

are so hard to face,

alone in a pasture

head to head one on one.

I think it's their big liquid

eyes with that gaze

looking sadly contented,

as they chew all that grows,

into recycled cud.

I guess it's just knowing

that they're eating their way

to a date with a hammer,

to become my hamburger

food I've grown up to to love,

countless times at Mc'Donald's

pigging out on the remnants,

of some distant relation

ancestor to this bovine,

who is staring me down.

standing there staring me down...down

But my guilt it is fleeting

as I turn to depart,

this expendable resource

that tastes oh, so darn good,

so it's off to a drive-thru

to dampen the hunger,

that came on me quite sudden

in my walk cross this farm.

And the furthest thing now

from my mind is remorse,

at this poor, simple creature

cause I'm having a cow,

with lettuce, and tomatoes

pickles, ketchup...and cheese,

on a hot, toasted bun.......

"Could you pass the salt, please??"

I could never be a vegetarian

my hunger would gnaw at me

as i nibbled on broccoli,

and some carrots and peas

Spectacular music composed

& played by Chris Bright-(c)-2023

Lyrics & vocals written & sung by

Matthew F. Blowers III-(c)-2023 at:

Art~Whimsically Yours Studio

photo credit to: unsplash.com