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 883° 
badwords
Stained are teeth, and fingers yellow,
Softly whispered lies we keep.
Smoke unfurls in breath so mellow,
Promising but sinking deep.

Coiling tendrils, soft and clever,
Lull the mind in fleeting grace.
Cinder ghosts that warm, yet sever,
Leave their embers on the face.

Every spark—a pledge unwinding,
Every drag—a weight we bear.
Sworn to comfort, yet confining,
Clinging to a thinning air.
Nicotine is a tightly structured, lyrical poem that explores the tension between fleeting comforts and the greater aspirations we often neglect. Using nicotine as both a literal and metaphorical device, the poem examines the small indulgences we cling to—despite knowing their cost—drawing a parallel to the broader human tendency to accept self-deception for the sake of temporary relief.

Through vivid imagery of smoke, stained fingers, and fading embers, the poem evokes a sense of quiet resignation, underscoring the slow erosion of will beneath a comforting but insidious habit. The rhythmic AB meter reinforces the hypnotic cycle of desire and consequence, mirroring the way these comforts lull us into complacency.

At its core, Nicotine is a confrontation—a mirror held up to our daily rationalizations, asking whether we truly seek change or merely the illusion of control. The introspective tone invites readers to reflect on their own vices, however small, and consider what they may be sacrificing in the name of fleeting ease.
 707° 
Nat Lipstadt
Oliver Sacks passed away today, August 30, 2015
He asked the best questions
and never stopped seeking ever better answers.
Perhaps now, richer, he has them,
but this world is surely a poorer place indeed.

by N. Lipstadt
~~~

"And now, weak, short of breath, my once-firm muscles melted away by cancer, I find my thoughts, increasingly, not on the supernatural or spiritual, but on what is meant by living a good and worthwhile life — achieving a sense of peace within oneself. I find my thoughts drifting to the Sabbath, the day of rest, the seventh day of the week, and perhaps the seventh day of one’s life as well, when one can feel that one’s work is done, and one may, in good conscience, rest."

Oliver Sacks


I hope you read the entire essay at the URL below.

~~~
humble humble,
mine own own muse~jester
self-mocking, calling me out,
giving oneself the *******,
who you?

indeed,
you, the greater fool,
utilizing, thriving on self-contemptuous thoughts,
you are no Oliver Sacks,
what are you doing
messing with his essaying?

go back to being
a standardized human,
spilling the detritus of thine mortal coil,
that employs you as a full time slave,
a scab-working seven day affair,
is that not sufficient?

you,
in your sixth
decaying-decades-day,
forsook the ancient Sabbath long ago,
keeping it for ****** rest,
cheaply tired from the liturgy of
straitjacketing of do's and dont's
of excruciating detail,
that put only distance tween
you and your
essential spiritual oils

Sacks invades directly my eye's clouded storage,
now, two brains cross-wired,
histories,
his story, my story,
all too familiar,
almost indecently similar

here I am,
nearer my god than thee,
on this Sabbath day
of my ancestors,
(a hand-me-down gift to the world's conceptual heritage sites)
working hard,
as an everyday day laborer,
looking for work on street corners,
busy busy searching my conscience,
angel wrestling,
sacked
by questions -

when is
one’s work done,
and when,
when may one,
in good conscience,
rest?


this poetry writing, is it not work too?

work,
a violation of the Sabbath commandment,^
even if it is of no great matter,
for by now,
this lifelong dialogue internal
this contradictory poetic dialectic
which has yet to justify the emotive words
final or finished,
is a seven days of the week affair,
undeserving of a day of rest

~~~

as I essay out this Sabbath working poem,
in a place of beauteous, natural calm,
it's so easy to agree with the
passing schooners,
all whispering,
via genteel southern breezes,

later, not sooner,

no need to decide, let it ride,
answers will come,
perhaps, all on their own,
perhaps, all on that day
when you're within
hailing distance,
in a flailing,
failing-voice-recognition way,
of the shores of the
Isle of Surcease

the answers will come
contemporaneously,
when you have leave to
exorcise from your calendar,
Siri's spouting, inexorable,
pop-up perpetual reminder
that today's first thing
on your
to do list is:

"live a life  of
good and worthwhile"**

for then,
you will have all the answers
for the Oliver questions
that need perpetual asking



Finis
~~~

^ "Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor, and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the LORD your God. On it you shall not do any work, you, or your son, or your daughter, your male servant, or your female servant, or your livestock, or the sojourner who is within your gates."
~~~

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/16/opinion/sunday/ol­iver-sacks-sabbath.html

~~~
Aug. 15, 2015
Shelter Island
for Ursula,
who I think of whenever
I read this
 672° 
jdmaraccini
Lost in a world that is broken, hiding from any fascination tonight
Watching you through fading light, hidden joy farthest from sight
You are not like the others who masquerade smiles and deceit
This world is vile and unworthy; a festering blight of selfish intrigue
Please believe me when I say you are not alone; you're just like me
Beautifully unhinged, with every word you bleed
JDMaraccini
2021
 590° 
Nat Lipstadt
so you write a lot,
pouring entire waking existences,
current n' prior,
into a long and crafted 'pistles,
and pixels

and you got jive pride
and then, the poem,
you worked so hard for,
ups and dies
gets a few middling fingers of reads,
dying on a vining of
Juliet's pseudo poisoning elixir,
no big deal, happens all the time

but here's what's wielding & weirdly wilding:

A poetpourri.
of newly found co-inhabitors,
from around the universe,
from places unpronounceable,
unlike Venus & Mars, (very poet-popular)
and from previously places were
never or seldom was heard a
discouraging word, igniting a
rewarded mutuality of a
following up embracing


par example;

Tirunelveli
Poland
Lisbon
Cyprus
Bihar
Uruguay
Ankara
Vienna
Albania
Tanzania
India
Bangladesh
New Zealand/Australia
Soldotna (Alaska)
plus Texas, West Va., Ohio, and other exotica, like
Nowhere

what a blessing!

Blessed art Thou o Lord,
that permits the miracle that my integers
of 0 & 1
can be translated into such
varied exotica, in harmony,
thus permitting this discovery of
never visited oceans and landfalls
of poetry never heretofore to join as
one.

Aman.

<>
nml
 534° 
onlylovepoetry
on account of you:

she says: do you know you often smile when, day dream dozing?

me says: on account of you

she says: c’mon sweet talking man, ain’t gonna fall for that hooey!

me says: hooey, phooey, on account of you

she says: nah, you writing poetry, no fooling me no more!

me says: on account of you

she says: I bet you got one of your girl friends singing to you, through
those wireless earbuds, doncha? who is it this time? a Sara or Joni?


me says: on account of you.

she says: you think big shot, you can multitask b.s. me? doing three things
at the same time!


me says: on account of you

she says: on account of you, I’m seriously ******, you don’t tell me anymore
sweet lies and alibis, probably writing an ode to one of your poetry gf babes!


me says: on account of you, can’t count no more, how many love poems in my lifetime written, and this one too, going out to you, charged to my tab, you babe,
are my account, my accountant, my accounting....
 476° 
Nat Lipstadt
In the end, where is the courage?
~~~~~~

a festering poem~notion
that can not be kept down,
in the making, long,
in the scrivening, short

even the simplest life,
the most ordinary,
cannot ever avoid the question,
where is the courage?

this journey, near complete,
packages delivered, dust and mud,
a canvas of the well worn, conceded and deeded,
nearly done, in the corner almost all that's needed,
a scrawled illegible, encircled set of initials

but never mind that,
for that doesn't obviate, or explicate,
what is important, no matter where and when
you are GPS dotted on your particular travelogue,
the quest, the question that does not come or e'er go,
but permanent, like the dimple, given at birth,
where is the courage?

threescore and more and therefore puzzling,
what matters now this solution in need of resolution?
this easy to provide the clarification notification,
perhaps you are young and the future looming large,
courage in ample supply, for when and where
life requires resuscitation, even enunciation,
you easy answer, here, within,
below the surface, just underneath,
at the ready, in service, a call awaiting when asked,
where is the courage?

the sword of mine so oft drawn and bloodied,
my exploits, I unashamed, but yet new war cries recirculate
and they call out "give us the veterans,"
whose courage spoke of and tale recorded,
let them lead us once again to succor and success!

they cannot know or be told,
my chain mail armour, my heart's amour,
rusted and weakened, and battle memories
too well recalled give me not wells to draw upon,
but wells to be drowned in, fears of fear of it,
it cannot be done again, the supply all drawn down,
the well overused and dry, history revisionists
cannot bring back what once was just by asking,
where is the courage?

the temple in Jerusalem sacked and burnt,
but the Israelites returned and rebuilt,
in ages and days when miracles were a dime a dozen,
no one could not imagine exile permanent,
but it came and lasted but tho many,
ceased to believe, a hardy few knew the answer,
when the the quest, the question that does not come or go,
was flaunted both to and by the fearful, the tired~souled,
where is the courage?

here, within, but this time dig much deeper,
under grime and desultory historic rhyme, it be buried,
just sip and sup of it, but a taste will reignite hope hopefully,
of
what is only dormant, but never gone complete,
that is what they whisper, in my one good ear,
but I know better, tho eyes dimmed,
my heart replies, the inky dark answer
that I hate but recognize as truth,
when it inquires
where is the courage?*

what matters where,
when, when,
there is no choice,
you know what to choose,
choose the pretense in hopes
that the muscle memory will return,
and restore what was once yours,
and must be yours, yet again
and if you fail,
fail well
for that will be you at the last, and the
lasting medal of courage tendered
Nessun dorma, None shall sleep.
This I know all too well,
you cannot leave or retire from the struggle
We call life, and
Tho my chin upon my chest weary rests,
Nonetheless, it my fingers under yours,
Under you chin, raising it up,
For that is what I have left,
That is what I do.

Feb. 3, 2014
 394° 
Agnes de Lods
I overflow, I absorb,
I push, I retreat — and then
I pour it out.
I gave myself names,
So, I took on forms,
Types, meanings,
Traits I had never worn before —
Unlikely mutations.
The end was
The Beginning of Everything.

II
I materialized,
Threading time and space onto myself.
I exploded,
Giving birth and dying —
In multiverses.

III
I budded through fractals,
Creating illogical gravities.
Where there was supposed to be no life —
Angular feelings emerged,
Flattened stars,
Ellipsoidal planets...

Until Human Beings appeared.

IV
Then everything changed.
They began to put me in boxes
Shouting with anger:
“My Faith!”
“Your Philosophy!”

And yet I am everything:
Existence in non-existence,
A colorful flash,
Undulating silence,
A sigh that screams.

V
Drink me,
Eat me piece by piece,
Discover me — but don't defend yourself
Against denial,
Consequences
And mistakes
When you see a wall in front of you.

VI
Don't take yourself away —
Because YOU ARE
Also, in that
In which you sink

Your Gaze

Your Hearing

Your Thoughts.
 230° 
guy scutellaro
eyes on the pavement,
the tiny architectects
of sky bound prayers.

the children draw dreams
with chalk-stained hands
on the cracked concrete,
flowers, and sky bound birds,
and home and stars and rainbows.

a shimmer of light on stone.

will the chalk bleed before the bloom?
 227° 
Germaine
“…and i could write
i could write so good and well

scary ghost stories

and the voices that made you yell

whispers in the scary dark
makes you wanna scream

fogginess in the park
a nightmare-ish dream”
 200° 
city of flips
not one,
but many, for the transitional
is everywhere about, the sun
heats, but the fall chill negates,
the animals sense the change,
knowing instinctively that soon,
soon enough, the land will be
of humans almost denuded, and
they may go forth, about, their
reclaimed land, writing their own,
history, their own stories and their
own poetry, and the treaty between
nature, living creatures, earth,
and once more,
their national Day of Interdependence,
will be freely celebrated...
 170° 
Kiki Dresden
Infidelity (noun) \ ˌin-fə-ˈdel-ət-ē \
Betrayal of a vow. Or whispered otherwise, the first time Coyote tasted the salt of my wrist, when lightning seemed to have waited to arrive. Grandmother would call it shadow-marriage, the reminder that paper rings and courthouse oaths cannot bind the spirit. It flowers soft and fragrant, sweet as mesquite after rain.

Myth (noun) \ ˈmith \
A traditional story, especially one natural or social phenomena. Or in another tongue, to be called Inanna while pulling my hair back, as if the goddess herself had crawled from shadow to breathe on his neck. I laugh because I’m no goddess- just a woman with cracked nails and unpaid bills. Still, myth enters flesh like fever, and we burn until the walls drip with story.

Body (noun) \ ˈbä-dē \
The physical vessel. Or in another telling, the altar on which every promise is tested. My body knows what paper cannot: the way desire bruises, the way grief leaves its thumbprint. Flesh remembers long after the mind has lied itself clean.

Eros (noun) \ ˈer-ˌäs \
Passionate love. Or spoken otherwise, a hunger that follows me like a stray through desert parking lots, its tongue bright with need. Eros offers scraps, sometimes nothing, and still I remain, hollow with wanting, certain one day I will eat from his palm. He is no child, he comes like a jackal-god- wild, luminous, not easily bound.

Pulchritude (noun) \ ˈpəl-krə-ˌtüd \
Beauty. Or carried on another breath, the ache. I see him sketching a body not mine, tracing hips that could belong to any girl at the bus stop. I know beauty is a weapon sharpened against me. Still, in his eyes I find fragments- cheekbones my father gave me, hair dark as my mother’s shame- briefly holy, before the mirror cuts again.

Unravel (verb) \ ˌən-ˈra-vəl \
To come undone. Or in another telling, the way every thread between us shivers like a web in prairie wind- fragile, trembling, already near to breaking. Spider Grandmother whispers that love weaves and unweaves in the same breath. The art lies in knowing when to let the strands snap, and when to hold fast, even as your hands begin to bleed.
 144° 
Nunu
a moth mistook my lamp
for the moon,
and broke itself
believing
the light was love.
ive always found moths melancholic. perhaps they embody the essence of delusion that we cling onto.
 133° 
Brooke
to be loved is to be consumed,
you give your whole
entire
person
to another soul
you become fully captivated by them
no matter what they do
you will always remain theirs
your heart only beating for one other
you take the risk
and the reward.
 114° 
bitter lover
i got a note in my locker,
from my ex
he's obsessed with me,
but not in the way i want
he thinks that i'm still his,
but i've found someone new
he kept trying to talk to me
but i've made my point clear
i've moved on
and i'm not thinking of him at all
 113° 
Dr Peter Lim
Don't bring me
any flower
too soon
it will wither-

only this
you need remember
bring me your heart
this love shall last forever -

I'm poor
but a scholar
for you I'll write
the sweetest love-letter-

your charm
glows brighter
as I lie down
in my gentle slumber
 112° 
Amanda Felice
taunted by a paralyzing moment
I had borrowed
a gift so fleeting
a small fragment
of human warmth
disrupted every sense
disarmed my defenses
I’ll take it, this once
the memory, this, mine
 107° 
Courtney Hawkins
feeling alone in a crowded
room and then I found you
two people hand and hand
fighting the powers that be
A lone flame become stronger,
you are my one and only, the
light at the end of my tunnel,
and I hope you'll be the
death of me.
 102° 
Caits
he saw me
7 years later
with natural curls
some uneven tan lines
and a smile that finally fit

we did not exchange words
but a little look
a glance of acknowledgement

his smile was the same
the same hollow around his eyes
just a new ring on his finger

and that little look
had us acknowledging both of us survived
but only one seemed to thrive
 101° 
Jon Sawyer
Today's times,
are a spiritual person's reminder,
that without suffering,
there is no growth in Wisdom.
2025-08-30 - A muse on Wisdom.
 100° 
Katie Stenner
i
give
          you
                  all
                        of
                             me
all of my love
all of my humor
all of my looks
all of my interests
all of me
                               you
                        give
                   me
          some
      of
you
some of your humor
not much of your love
some of your interests
not much of your looks
some of you

and I would still give all of me
all of everything
all of anything
all of anyone
for that some of you again.
and we never even dated
 96° 
Lola Sparks
I believe in the story.
Not fate.
Not prophecy.
But the raw, uncut story of my life—
written in blood,
in silence,
in the suffering I cannot escape.

Life strikes.
Life gives.
Always both.
Always with a price.

I am a tree—
rooted in pain,
stretching toward a sky
that has never answered me.

And still,
I persist.
Each year as my leaves desert me,
I cling to this ever-spinning coil—
with cool pleasure,
with sharp pain,
trusting I might survive another fall,
to be woken
by another living spring.

The world is broken.
But I remain.

When the pyre comes for me,
its bones will be my bones.
My ribs will crack like dry timber,
my marrow will hiss and spit—
oil feeding the flame.
I will burn by my own fire,
the source and the sacrifice,
fuel and funeral together.
Every splinter of bone,
every ember of flesh,
rising as smoke
to prove I lived,
to prove I expired.

Because I have walked the unknown road.
I have swallowed its dust,
bled in its silence,
and I have come back with this:

I believe in the story.
And the story—
is me.
 95° 
Julie
I only write
When mind is blank
My words will come
When there’s no fun
Inside they come
print begun
It’s only then
I write my pun
 87° 
Lillith
"Don’t hurt her
She’s the one person here undeserving of pain
Not now, not ever, certainly not like this"
(shut up.)
5 days later
you left as though i was nothing
it hurts, I'm hurt, i hate you,
(i'd let you come back if you wanted)
you turned to your ex and told her
(the day you slammed the door
with my hand lodged firmly in it)
you hated being mad at each other
the way you asked her not to hurt me
then hurt me more than anything
Bundle my light.
I shine from dust
of ancient explosions
full of Helios.

The glass magnifies
my temperament
with wine
of lions.

My light
fortifies my
position.

I reflect
upon your fragile
skin.
 83° 
kevin
Created circuitry and improved
Improved evolutions possibilty
A vaporizer
An adult freedom
Can't arrest that commodity broker

Song to play?

Tennessee, uh, Tennessee

It a cure for obsessive compulsive disorders

Paris my sister , you disobedient
 81° 
LL
I have within me
a thousand year's worth of want —
and an empty bed
2025/120
 77° 
somedumbbitch
How can I unmake indignant hands,
rolled, into fists?
If I kiss the fingers, will they unfold,
like celestial doors,
and beckon me in?
If I traverse your lifeline,
with softened eyes, and lips,
will we time skip,
Into a time, and place,
that's better, than this?

Even in thunder,
you dwell
at the center, of me.

I wonder,
would you melt...
with my hand, on your cheek.
 73° 
Julie Grenness
I take this time to meditate,
Your kindness I appreciate,
Your love arrived, not too late,
Lamplight on, open that gate,
Souls transcend, don't hesitate,
Admire your wisdom, so can wait,
Golden fires we ere escalate,
Breathless, our afterglow state,
Until we fade, spirits to abate......
Feedback welcome.
 72° 
AUSTIN
the addiction
of
the high
was
sweet nectar

the music
was
a
vision of
glistening water

the fantasy
so real
it was
toes in the sand
 69° 
Anonymouse
Really

Was it worth the pain
to break free from the wooden, fragile door
That sealed you
But did it?

Did it seal you
Or were your eyes too blind to see
That the key was in front of you
Yet you choose to break down the very door

that kept you from realizing
that it was never meant to be broken
It was never meant to be opened
It was never meant to be seen
It was never meant to be an obstacle

yet to keep you from the wretched,
cruel world.

really?
Tried working with a different approach with this poem. I'm just trying to make sure that each poem has their own charm to it.
 68° 
Byeol Writing
You are the one who
could hurt me so much,
because you are the only one
I ever loved that much.
 66° 
Igpt
Lurking in the dark,
Where do I go — now, now?
Demons cross the pathways,
No escape, it’s tragic.

Is my life dignified,
Or only dark?
Like an eclipse,
Falling outside the heart.

It’s warmth —
but it burns,
Burns me into ashes,
Always.

I define,
yet can’t define —
It’s complicated,
All around me.

Ooh child, don’t cry,
It’s darkness that bluffs outside.
I hold your hand when no light,
Incidence.

Why seek  celestial? None will appear —
Only darkness sprouts near.
For filth, the mud suits better still…
Now go, my son — to hell, to hell,
it's hell all here
 64° 
nova
"We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light."
 62° 
aldo kraas
I know that I will love
Living my life every day
I know that I will suffered
With my sickness
I know that I need to go
Early to bed every
Single nigh
I know that I am not looking forward
To die
 62° 
yelhsa
i’m scared and i hate
that i don’t know what comes next
all i ever wanted was to be seen
to be understood
i showed too much
i said too much
i feel like everyone knows me
am i that predictable
maybe the mask i wear
is becoming worn out
i can’t hide myself
i can’t hide the real feelings
the ones that have me scared
i can’t even say
a lie
you got what u wanted
this is to me
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