When she turned 
her back on me
and walked away,
it became my prison.
I had gotten so into her
that there was
no chance for escape.

I was not alone,
for she was a
form of a succu-bus,
transporting the souls
of all who fell
beneath her charms.

Mostly in bars which
is where we ended up
permanently,
but behind them.

She never ever
removed her blouse,
but little did I suspect
that she was the warden
of my future dreams,
and I was just another inmate.

Her devious mind is closed
to any chance of us
breaking free of her,
her rib cage titanium,
the demons build them well.

She carries the corpses
of four in here
and several more about to,
the stench is overwhelming,
but after a while it dissipates.

Sadly another poor soul
inserted the key
to his living hell,
she's gained ten pounds,
and is making room
for his life sentence.

God help us
if she ever gets pregnant,
no doubt the baby
will feed on us!






Art~Whimsically Yours Studio-(C)-2024
collab & photo credits to: suno & me

In The Belly Of The Beast. by-Matthew F. Blowers III

The Mathematics of Hope

For every bad person,
there are twenty good ones,
feeding the hungry,
teaching the uneducated,

millions of caring 
loving parents
raising God fearing children,
missionaries reaching 
out in Sudan,
with little help from 
the indifferent world,
poets crying out in voices
of angst and hope,
scientists working on 
genetics to cure,
environmentalist struggling 
to save the planet,
and God will give 
us a perfect world,
when we are free of this one,
and there will be no 
bad people in heaven.

Our goal is to make 
our surrounding areas
as peaceful and loving as we can,
like pieces of a puzzle
it can create a lovely picture,
in unlimited areas,
but evil has stolen,
so many of the pieces
that leave this world incomplete.
that is the legacy of man,
and those who seek 
evil will find it in the end,
in the bubbling lava 
and scalding pits
of a demon's paradise forever.







Art~Whimsically Yours Studio-(C)-20254
collab & photo credits to: me & suno

The Mathematics Of Hope

There are doors
in back street alleys
and in derelict structures,
that sorrow passes through daily,
where tragedy is ever prevailing,
Hunger squats on a
second floor walkup,
tiny soul silently wailing
on a filthy blood-stained mattress,
as a smidgen of malnourished life,
sucks a dribble of breast flow
from her crack addicted mother,
whom she may never grow to know.

Drunks lie in the basement
of the old Five and dime store,
closed twenty years now,
snoring through an alcoholic haze,
in various poses of stupor,
waiting for dawn to break
then staggering out in a daze,
so they can beg a dime from
enough folks that pass them daily,
to buy a fifth and later drift
on liquid dreams of better lives,
grateful when oblivion finally arrives.


Joe beats his wife
on the third level
of the butcher shop,
giving a hard-fisted thanks
in a quick short chop,
for her burning his precious toast,
he never could control his angst.
she wipes the blood off,
drops two more wheat down,
and prays the toaster
doesn't stick again,
while softly cursing
her choice of men.

Mary breaks her last
heart pill into quarters,
stretching what should have been
a one a day into four,
sips some tea from
a bag used six times before,
and stares at the three triangles,
between her and the floor,
Meanwhile fluids
fill her ankles
as the failure of
the bush health plan
slowly kills her.
in her world where
only the bill's sure.

Susie goes dumpster diving
behind the "All You Can Eat"..
Chinese joint,
she's an Iraqi war veteran,
so horribly burned, and scarred
from an I.E.D. that left flesh charred,
no one will dare hire her,
and who'd have the nerve to fire her,
so she spends her nights
sucking crab juice
from mulched leftovers,
and eating soggy eggrolls
weary of the public's disregard,
she lives life hard,
in a large cardboard box,
she calls her home,
once a hero,
now just a bum
all alone.

There are doors in back alleyways,
and in derelict structures,
that lead  straight to
the ruins of mankind,
because most men towards
kindness are disinclined
so the poor and rejected remain
tucked out of sight,
way out of mind,
as out front, strolling sidewalks
the better off, are better off
staying clear of all
of those left without any luck
who gaze with envy through
dusty paned windows
to the crowds passing
and at the well-to-do massings
in the brightly lit streets below,
going to places they'll never know.





Art~Whimsically Yours Studio-(C)-2024
collab & photo credits to: me & suno

In Cloistered Shadows They Struggle.

In that summer that 
wasn't anymore,
in the mode of her 
exit, front seat,
right side for her, 
but so wrong for me.

She became a 
passenger northbound,
sad face bathed in 
the August sun,
the taste of her petulant lips,
still fresh on my own,

she couldn't look at me,
without tears welling up,
in those lovely liquid eyes,
so she sat chin up,
and stared at the paradise
where we'd spent 
our summer love,

as the taillights vanished
down the long dirt road,
she turned back once
with a sad wave,
a kiss  blown
and then she was gone.

I never saw her again.
Sometimes when I am
lost in the vast
extremes of lonely,
I am back on 
that dirt road,
just under the 
shade of the trees,
sharing that last 
kiss so tender,
eyes closed, 
heart aching
for more than fate 
could ever grant.

Summer Love.

Back seat dreams
fill her contemplative mind
as lives go by in a blur,
just a young girl
still waiting on dreams 
to be made real
as in realizations
She sees the world as
a kaleidoscope of poetry,
the stubby old man hobbling
down fifth avenue, 
a modern day troll,
the little girl on the corner
with an oversize lollipop
just a fairy with a magic wand,
She wishes that the wand
would make her drive less bland,
then between yawns and
a blinking railroad crossing
A cute guy on a Schwinn
becomes her next husband,
and at the tail end of a long train,
she's still kissing him,
and then the tracks are crossed,
the rumble bumple of its rails
bringing her back to the drab.
But soon she is home,
as her old familiar room
encases her in a secured box,
that her mind escapes from
every once in a while,
as she composes a poem
she is still there in a 
time warp of her youth
now faded.......
as an old lady 
in the care of a nursing home
living out her literary dreams
that will become
forever unrealized.
such is life.





Art~Whimsically Yours Studio-(C)-2024
collab & photo credits to: me & suno

An Extra Ordinary Trip Revisited.

The Ultimate Voice Mail.
It came in a strange black box,
that appeared out of nowhere,
right next to another box 
I'd cherished that sat on 
my mantle for so long, since 1997.

Its unexplainable presence
piqued my curiosity,
and so I opened it carefully
a bit leery of its contents.
Suddenly a warmth
overwhelmed me as a voice
emitted from within
that said,

"I just wanted you to know,
how much I love you,
it's very nice here,
I am doing fine, and I 
have prepared a room
just for you the next 
time we are together."

Then I felt a soft kiss 
on my cheek,
as I closed the lid, 
and sat in shock
in the chair behind me.

You see, it was my 
precious Mom
who was taken 
so suddenly,
sending me a message 
from beyond,
left lying next to
her cremated remains.

It was the
ultimate voice mail.

When I opened it again,
there was only silence,
much like what I'd endured
since death claimed her.

I wiped a tear, and smiled
my heart relieved, as I
placed this precious voice-box,
next to the ashes
of what was no more.






Art~Whimsically Yours Studio-(c)-2024
collab & photo credits to: me & suno

The Ultimate Voice Mail.

Velvety hammer
Be still my pounding heart,
you deafen me
when I am near her,
you send my senses reeling,
almost breathless......
I cannot speak.
I fear you might
just rollover,
spasm and die,
were I to ever kiss her.

Practice some calmness,
oh, velvety hammer,
at banging my sternum,
I fear she might hear you,
and if I ever
actually meet her,
please do not be a met-ronome,
tick-tock -tick- tock- tick
lest we  attempt to talk,
and your actions tick her off.

Also on the same note,
your increased activity
sends far too much of
a volume of blood,
to places it shouldn't
when I am around her.
How untidy I look with
my shirt pulled out,
and that funny walk
you force on me.

So please,
be still my pounding heart,
a casual lub-dub lub-dub,
will do just fine.

Save the drama for when she is,
truly, at long last in my arms,
then flail away in there,
let her know how much I care,
let her feel how much she moves me.





Art~Whimsically Yours Studio=(C)-2024
collab & Photo credits to: me & suno

Velvety Hammer (Cover)-by Matthew F. Blowers III

Loneliness is a scab.
that we pick at incessantly,
because it is easier to bleed,
than to simply inhabit a
dried up, loveless husk.

Scars are road maps
etched in our flesh,
that should guide us back
to truer paths of love
without detours
and dead ends.

Needy flesh is a coat,
our souls are forced to wear,
for quite a interminable time,
far too often as strait jackets,
that binds us to solitude,
sealing the wings that
would let our spirits soar,
across waves of possibilities
left immobile.

Love is a band-aid,
dressed with soothing balms,
softening the scabs,
hiding the scars,
and letting us shrug off
our coats of needy flesh,
to bathe in the rapture
of two souls set free
in one timeless flight
to heavenly bliss.




Art~Whimsically Yours Studio-(C)-2024
collab & photo credits to: me & suno

Two Emotionally Divorced People Living In The Same House. by- Matthew F. Blowers III

A long time back
when I was young
and life was trouble free
I lived upon a happy block
of kids and willow trees.

It wasn't much to look at
but we loved it just the same
and though some 
people called it slums
we never felt the shame.

In wintertime our 
un-gloved hands
we covered with 
some socks,
in summertime it 
was such fun
to frolic in a box.

Pretty Danielle Nousek
was the first love of my life,
how oft' I prayed to Jesus
that she'd someday be my wife.

We used to laugh at poverty
she'd smile, enrich my day,
and though of love we seldom spoke
I knew she cared someway.

We'd sit and talk of good times
our problems we would share,
and though we never ever kissed
in dreams her lips were there.

But people who lived better said,
Our "Briardale" patch of town,
those shabby homes in which we lived
must somehow be torn down.

And so upon a summer day
we had to move away,
from all our friends and bid farewell,
to where we loved to play.

Dani stood upon her porch
and sadly waved goodbye
as sunlight cast a diamond gleam
on the teardrops in her eyes.

So now I cherish every day
and treasure every friend
lest some day soon in grief I find
I've lost it all again.






Art~Whimsically Yours Studio-(C)-2024
collab & photo credits to: me & suno & Dani

When Poor Was A Treasure Lost.  by- Matthew F. Blowers III

Somewhere just after
the second bridge of
a song that spoke
of separate hearts,
my eyes spanned the room
and captured yours,
in a suspension of
space and time.
An interlude of beauty
stretched tight
between your lovely
glance and mine.

Instinct took
over my fingerboard
and all of my frets vanished
as I considered the possibilities
of spending many long hours
enraptured in your gaze.

Some kind of warm
tangible feelings
stretched across
the orchestra pit,
a recognition of
the huge gap
of loneliness
we both shared,
and then you smiled.

No bridgework
by even the
finest of engineers
in all of the world
could ever hope to match
the sweet enticement 
of that perfect bend.

Later in the
greenroom you appeared
at a roadies request,
and we snuggled, extended
between two chairs,
fingers interlaced tightly,
eyes at first pleading
and then closing,
as our lips dissolved
the distance
that solitude brings,
with exquisite kisses.





Art~Whimsically Yours Studio-(C)-2024
collab & photo credit to: Me & suno

In The Belly Of The Beast. by-Matthew F. Blowers III

Matthew Blowers

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