Told God man In Genesis One

Him He created in form of His

Not when asked as how He did

Thought He fit in Genesis Two

To tell He used the dust for that

But to change tack after that,

So in time Muhammad told

Made Jibrail recite him

In the name of One who makes

Man on earth from clot of blood,

Failed as he then to enquire

Wherefrom He gets all that blood

And since God hath sealed His mouth

Knows not man the true roots of his.



I wasn’t poor, being not rich 

Life was fine, thanks to hope 

All that changed, owing to muse, 

With one ‘novel’ passion pure

Affairs I had, twelve of them 

Unknown to the lovers of books,

Cold-shouldered by publishing folk 

Manuscripts those twelve make pillows 

In my bed to cause nightmares,

With hope dead, I can’t dream

Now I’m poor, robbed of hope. 


This was penned before I placed the 'twelve' in the public domain as free ebooks  


For every tear 
My soul fades away 
And words are a spear 
Killing with no delay.

I feel so broken and diminished 
While no one cares 
I am angry, undone, and finished 
While no one listens cries 
In the dark of the night 
And yet, I dare to fight.

Steal my joy 
I am a toy of pain 
A soul to eradicate 
I feel now so plain.

I wished that more and more 
I could be straightforward 
To tell the world my words are a door 
To protect my feelings from the sword 
The spoken words can hurt with no delay
While my dreams and desire to stay 
Stays by nothing but the thread 
While you forget all I said 
So far...


At the foot of a castle in the gilded, setting sun,

In the warm and fragrant air of a summerʼs belvedere,

Through a deep, dense forest a river did run

Winnowing through the trees, azure hued and clear.

And in the languorous night, when stars appeared like wines,

As harbingers of autumn, in the dusky, turquoise sky

A maiden of regalia, from epochs long gone by

Walked out upon the terrace, gazing at the pines.

Her flowing, black mane was lovely, long and fair

And her royal gaze was of the sacred night

When songbirds sang in the sad moonlight

Above the many fountains, rising in the square.

John Lars Zwerenz

Countless things put together make us who we are

Perhaps what we’ve learned or things seen near and far

True or false learned from numerous varied sources

Or perhaps something seen travelling many courses


It has been my great pleasure to see some special lands

Majestic mountain vistas, Alberta’s haunting badlands

The vastness of the prairie with horizon never reached

The power of the ocean from a shell strewn beach


I’ve crossed giant rivers, walked beside the babbling brook

Seen the best and worst of nature seldom pictured in a book

The crags of mountain passes, topped by winter’s sparkling load

Miles and miles of wheat the sun and rain has turned to gold.


Acres and acres of deep green peas, topped by the pink of bloom.

Offset in midst of summer with bright yellow canola bloom

A patch-work quilt from nature and the work of many hands

Laid out in squares and diamonds across a great productive land.


The history of Bedford Basin, Louisbourg, Queenston Heights

Twenty four hours of daylight, mysterious northern lights

Beaver pelts to England to make all kinds of hats

And each spring the best of sugar boiled from Maple sap.


A strong beautiful stallion, head high, nostrils flared,

Eyes full of fire and danger as he guards his heard of mares

Several hundred cattle grazing the luscious grass

Or bedded in the shade to let the hot day pass.


Hundreds of pictures we catalogue as we go passing by

Let the good ones erase the bad, or at least let them try

Some of it we saw and some of it we learned.

Some good and some bad but somehow always earned.


There’s always strife and woe, you don’t need to hunt it up

Forget it, let it lay. You know there’s the rub

You may hate this or that but it’s all part of the way

You became who you are; what you are today.



Things that make you

Stop and smile

Focus and pause

A little while

What captures your eye

And makes you look

What grabs your soul

And sets the hook

Passions we have

We can’t ignore

To what we’re driven

We must explore

Chef in the kitchen

Begins to cook

Feels like the bishop

That got the rook

A builder steps back

Admires the house

Proud as a cat

That caught the mouse

The musician plays

And performs the song

To which the crowds

Sing along

We all have gifts

It’s only fair

They benefit others

And we must share

Some are inherent

Others unique

Most take work

To hone technique

We live our lives

The way we must

It’s vital our compass

Collects no dust

I pull myself out of their indifference 

God is laughing at their missing conscience... 

They’ll pray and speak their good intentions 

They’ll eat your soul with their knife and vengeance 

And we need a miracle to get out of this war 

His conscience gone and they called him soldier 

He pushed them out beyond their borders 

He gave his love for lustful murder 

He won their lives saved his confessions 

And we need a miracle to get out of this one 

He spoke to devils in tall buildings 

They praised him high for all his winnings

Their lives had drained into his laughter 

His graves are foolish for his collection 

There is no miracle to get out of this one 

On their graves lies their discretion 

Their souls are chained and lost direction 

He collects their bones with good intention 

And he lives on without detection 

And he trusts a miracle will get him out of this one 

He'll dig your grave if it makes a difference.... 

He is life,
A great, mystical tree,
Symbolic in nature,
Eternally free.
She is root,
Hidden, deep below,
With a foundation enduring,
She is a mystery to know.
Combined is the essence of Him.
Revealed is the depth of love Divine,
Captured, perfectly, over a history of time.
Good and bad,
Back to their own identity.
As it was in the garden,
The One tree of serenity.

Alice in Wonderland is a popular much-read fable

A novel, written in 1865 about a seven-year-old girl

One maniacal scene is a tea party with a large table

Some misfits seated sipping tea in the underworld


Who came up with the idea to name the girl Alice?

Does her name symbolize the innocence of a child?

Although she was curiously devoid of guile or malice

There’s hate, violence, and cruelty wantonly profiled


A story of schizophrenic behavior full of poppycock

Supposedly interpreted from a child’s point of view

We perceive sweet Alice as the new kid on the block

They are receptive, and Wonderland is a pass-through


Abused birds, a drug-addicted larva, and a fast-talking rabbit

The oddest of human-acting creatures one could ever imagine

Queen of Hearts, obsessed with beheadings, an annoying habit

Reveals her sociopathic behavior, mental state, and lack of decorum


The novel Alice in Wonderland’s set of rules is hard to expound

Alice is the heroine in the earth’s underbelly among deviants

That the adventure unfolds in the controversial underground

Exposing a child to twisted behavior is ludicrous and militant


Willow by the Bay (For beautiful, Lucy, lost to breast cancer) by D.B. Coulson 

Once upon a glorious day in the deepest part of Spring, I, Mother Earth, gave birth to a precious, tiny thing.

Upon the banks of the gentle river flowing the young willow grew, and I, well knowing, began with all my heart to sing. 

The slender beauty of my daughter with grace and charm as she grew taller, brightened each day in the world I love.

She danced and played through so many years, as my heart filled with love, my eyes with tears, as my lovely willow danced with the wind above. 

“Do you always churn, leap and travel, as a mystery to unravel?” She asked of the river one day.

“Oh yes, Ms. Willow, I must keep moving. my gentle sounds I hope are soothing to you, Ms. Willow, so graceful, above the bay.” 

“Ms. Willow, I wish to let you know that as I gently toss and flow I tell of the stately willow by the bay.

From forests deep, to raging rivers, the song I simply must deliver is of the lovely willow by the bay.” 

My modest Willow seemed so flattered, again my heart pitter pattered at these words spoken to her by the river that day.

Her gentle, sweet, flowing motion in the wind purveyed the notion of the most stately creature by the bay. 

I do my best to be a mother to tend to and try to hover to keep my children out of harm’s way. But alas the soulless scourge of night brings horrid storms and vengeful blight and spreads its wrath in a vile and cunning way.

Many times, a child of life is victim to this vengeful strife and so, the fate of my willow by the bay.

The scorn unleashed by this devil was so dire and at such a level my strong but gentle willow was taken from the bay.

 The river smashed its raging tears with thunder and loathsome fear as it roared through the forest and the bay.

My forest creatures felt the darkness brought by this devil, so vile and heartless, who takes the most beautiful of life away.

 The shining light has left the forest and yet the river moves before us, flowing for yet another day.

Through heat of summer to deep December the thought of her shall greatly linger as our cherished thoughts begin to play.                

 Gracefully, always moving with a style so svelte and soothing as she flowed through life from day to day.

The rivers flow seems never ending yet the dream my mind keeps sending is of the beautiful willow by the bay.

My loving and cherished willow by the bay.

 d.b. coulson     (May of 1999)



My window looks at a fairy tree.

Its branches bend and twist.

Its leaves are whispering with glee,

Its hоllow makes a whistle.

A little river under the tree

Is running through the fog.

And a marvelous song amazes me

Performed by a tiny frog.





I love the poem and the rhymes

anyone who knows how to write beautifully

all poets and their poems

all the verses in the poem are worded

all the love poured into them.


The one who knows how to write a verse

his soul breathes with love

he knows to love from the bottom of his soul,

and the one who knows how to read, to listen

he knows well that in the poem there is the soul.


The one who does not have a soul, he can't,

doesn't know, he is not able to understand

the poem and its rhyme, that soul in the verse.

The one doesn't know either to kiss or to love,

he only knows how to inflict pain.


Each poet is a special character

he is the owner of sincere love.

He writes a poem in the air with his soul,

with the verses embraces tenderly and kindly

and sends messages boldly and quietly.


If each of us knows

to awaken in himself the poet of one

it would be better for everyone in the world

everyone would live life with a poem

they would never hate anyone.




I wish often to have wings

to be free as a bird

to fly somewhere far, far away

that I bathe in the clouds for a long time

before landing in various fields

before I fall so I crash.


There are borders to everyone

but not for birds, especially migratory birds.

Wherever the bird wishes and goes

its wings are a symbol of freedom.

And bird feathers long for the flight

so the bird travels the world.

It knows well that on earth

many of them are its danger

that's why it flies and flies.


The bird is happy only while flying

either alone or with a flock.

It doesn’t matter if it’s winter or summer

all it cares about is flying.

That's why I would be a bird

that there are no limits for me,

to enjoy freedom, to be high up

that I'm not within reach to those down

who would catch and break me.


I dream this often and I forget

that I have no wings, that I'm not a bird,

that I'm an ordinary man nailed to the ground

and that is why I flee to my dreams and

fantasize to my heart's content.

When I finally wake up,

when a new day appears in front of my eyes

I know that I have no wings,

that in my heart I am a traveler

but I need someone else to be my companion.



You get used to breathing as soon as you're born,

you get used to your mother, your father...

You get used to being loved and you love,

and later you pray for a handful of attention,

for a sweet look and nothing more.


Out of habit, almost every morning, 

that no one hears, you suffer and pray:

Stop by sometimes in the days of youth

surprise me and love me as tenderly as ever,

look at me caress at least sometimes!


Let this love become a habit

this morning, today, and tomorrow

get used to it, loneliness is both mine and yours

we have not been one for a long time

and we could be together again!


Find the calmness in your daily tasks
Find the work that fulfils you
Find the passion that keeps you alive
Find the friends who relax you
Find the serenity from nature sounds
Find the beauty in flowers and butterflies
Find the faith to trust yourself
Find the strength against difficult situations
Find the wisdom to handle negative people
Finding yourself helps you find your universe
And the kingdom of heaven that's inside you
Smile and greet at people you pass by
It will build a positive attitude
Laugh your heart out if it's funny
It will keep you young
Play a sport you enjoy
It will give you stamina and good health
Follow your creativity with a passion
It keeps you happy and upbeat
Be grateful for your job or business
It gives you an income and security
Love and bond with your family
They give you a sense of belonging
Appreciate and be loyal to your friends
They will be there after everyone's left
Have deep faith in yourself
It will keep you going over vales and hills


My poem the restaurant buffoon English version https://youtu.be/3RYbGxo_354

مَطْعَمُ بَافُونْ

وَ سُكَّرًا يَبِيعُنِي بِيَاسَمِينِ الْكَلِمَاتِ وَ قَلْبُهُ فِي حَلْقِهِ فَسْفَاسُ

وَ نَادِلَاتٌ عَادِيَاتٌ لِكُلِّ دَاعٍ وَ فَطِيرَةُ الْبٍيتْزَا بَهَارُهَا قُلْقَاسُ

هًذَا طِحَالٌ بِالشُكُلَاطَةِ مَخْبُوزٌ وَ بَسْكَوِيتٌ حَشْوُهُ بَانْكِرِيَاسُ

كُلُّ الْأَطْبَاقِ تَذَوَّقْتُ هُنَا إِلَّا هَذَا صَنَعَتْهُ أَضُنُّهَا الْهُونْدُورَاسُ

وَ لِي فَمٌ عَلَى مِصْراَعَيْهِ وَ خُشَامٌ يَشْرَبَانٍ الْعَصِيرَ فِنْطَاسُ

غَدَوْتُ شُحَيْمَاناً وَ بَاعَةُ الشَّحْمِ مَعْطَبَةٌ لِجَمْعِ الْمَالِ أَحْلَاسُ

حَوَارِيَّاتٌ يَتَغَامَزْنَ بِطَانَةً بُهْلُولٌ المَطْعَمِ ذُو بَطْنٍ وَ سَمِينْ

خَفَافِيشُ المَتَاجِرِ لِلْدَمِّ شَارِبَةً مَصَّاصَةً لِرَوَاتِبِ الْمَسَاكِينْ

رَأَيْتُ الْمَقاَهِيَ وَالْغَوَانِيَ بِالْمَالِ يَفِضْنَ وَجَيْبِيَ يَقْطُرُ الْأَنِينْ

وَ تَسْقُطُ شَوَارِبِي وَ بَعْدَهَا كِرْشِي وَ تَسّقُطُ أَوْرَاقُ الْيَاسَمِينْ

يَا مَطْعَمَ الْبَافُونِ هَجْرُكَ عَصَبْصَبُ لَعَمْرِي شَمَّةٌ مِنَ نِيكُوتِينْ

طَبِيبٌ مَغْنَاطِيسٍ بِلَيْلٍ وَ بِالنَّهَارِ آخَرُ يَقِيسُ أَعْدَادَ التَمَارِينْ

فِي لَيَالٍ ثَلَاثٍ كِيلُوغَرَامَاتٍ عَشْرًا شَحُمْتُ فِي كُلِّ لَيْلَةٍ

 ( ثَلَاثًا فَاصِلَ ثَلَاثٍ وَ ثَلَاثِينْ ثَلَاثٍ وَ ثَلَاثِينْ...)

My poem the restaurant buffoon English version


The restaurant's buffoon

Malodorous his heart, but he sells with jasmin words all the sugar to me;

Waitresses are running towards every fatty pizza order for thee;

This is a spleen stuffed with chocolate and that is a pancreas with honey;

Indeed I tried all dishes here except this one, made in honduras, oversea;

My open wide mouth and nose drink sweet juice, bowls of wee;

I became fat,  those sugar sellers are only slaves to the golden money;

Waitress whispers and laughs: "the buffoon has a gigantic belly" ;

The vampire apes are sucking poor's blood, are sucking my salary;

Their cup of cash runneth over and my cup is leaking bankruptcy;

They plucked my mustache, my belly is hanging over my knee;

Oh! Buffoon's restaurant ! Without your sweet addiction, I can't be;

Since I fell in love with you I have not slept, I've had magnetic therapy;

In three days' love I've had ten more kilos,  everyday

(Three Point thirty-three ,thirty-three, thirty-three, thirty-three, thirty-three…)

Remark: 3,3333333333...( weight increase will never end like the unstoppable decimals)


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Book Of The Day

Latest Poem

Told God man In Genesis One

Him He created in form of His

Not when asked as how He did

Thought He fit in Genesis Two

To tell He used the dust for that

But to change tack after that,

So in time Muhammad told

Made Jibrail recite him

In the name of One who makes

Man on earth from clot of blood,

Failed as he then to enquire

Wherefrom He gets all that blood

And since God hath sealed His mouth

Knows not man the true roots of his.


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