#lloydbloom

Deception’s Appearance

It seems that Islam is not that Which Islam is supposed to be, By every “if” and “and” or “but” Islam appears not what we see.

Because it is a “Faith of Peace”, That its apologists make clear, In spite of how attacks increase, (To make it otherwise appear)

Appearances though seem to be Deceptive, and we won’t believe What, on its face, we all can see, So that instead we make believe.

The Uncalled-For Chore

A cleaning woman, on her way, Came by a house she broke into In doing her housework for pay, (As dishes in the sink she’d do)

And coffee pots to be washed out As well as mopping up the floors; So, she would potter roundabout By doing sundry cleaning chores.

And having done it all, unasked, When finishing her cleaning up, The lady, who was multi-tasked, Made coffee she drank in a cup.

She’d made the bill and left that on The kitchen table which she signed And when upon her way she’d gone She left her phone-number behind.

The owners of the house returned, And found how she had broken in To leave a bill of what she earned, Albeit—asked—she had not been—

The Baby-Boomers’s Song

I was a baby-boomer when The soldier coming home from war Received a happy welcome then, A wife or sweetheart he came for.

A mother or a sister fought The tears back long before she shed And all the consolation sought Was found back at the old homestead.

It was a generation that Had seen the worst that war could show, Companions fallen in combat They went where angels fear to go;

And some were prisoners of war Interned in concentration camps, The wives and mothers they came for In windows lit up burning lamps.

And I was of their offspring too, Before I even came out by The passage that all babies do, A twinkle in my father’s eye;

For all the suffering and woe That folks endure there is an aim So that when they confront a foe It’s clarity to which they came.

That generation was made great By what it was they would endure; Hard is the way and straight the gate For purgatory become pure;

Corner of Forsyth & Grand

When I look down for feeling so And see the ground in front of me Inside this puddle here below Reflected sky is what I see.

Where are the people that I knew That aren’t around anymore? Where is it, they have all gone to, The people I am looking for?

I can’t find them around about Me, though they certainly exist; The ones I could not do without, The people close to me I missed.

And yet, I know they are still there, Wherever there has got to be, Some place for them, if anywhere, Which has to be inside of me.

If sight was given us to see The question after all is then Who might the giver of it be? The benefactor of all men;

For if there’s reason to believe That nothing is without design Then we are able to perceive That the intention is divine;

Occurrences are not by chance Without direction and intent, That we can see for, at a glance, We are not here by accident;

A friend of mine declares that he Reads nothing that he hasn’t read First in the Times, so, he can see That it’s as true as it’s been said.

Now, he’s someone so sure about The NY Times he’d have to swear That everything in it, no doubt, Has to be true, since it is there.

I wouldn’t ask him how he knows The NY Times is always right, For all his statement really shows Is, if it tells him black is white,