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Amitav Radiance Jul 2014
Honey bee collects nectar
Honeycombs with honey
Intruders get stung
Honey still tastes sweet
Ian Cairns Feb 2014
It was a Wednesday
The September weather impersonated summertime shine
But my eyes were barbed wire to the shimmer
Twisted and tied shut to the summer
Refusing to adjust to the glow
I entered that classroom alone
An intruder
I thought we were all intruders there
Social Work 1140- Minority Perspectives
Peacefully confined to the classroom blackboard
Caged up reality for protected heads to understand
We all sat situated in straight lines
Staring at chalk too bright to comprehend
Silent minds creating the kind of noiselessness only known to tiptoe
We all tiptoed there
Wiggled into tiny seats small enough for suffering
Yet large enough for complacency
The pseudo-summer heat peaking through the curtains
Draped over certain advantages we dare not speak
We all closed our eyes in unison
Wondered when the suffering began
Wondered when the wondering would end
Avoiding chalkboard glares and awkward eye contact
But the chalkboard glares started staring contests
And the eye contact was too awkward to ignore now
I was a sophomore
I wore freight train headlights
I was a trojan warhorse in broad daylight
I was an intruder there

My professor excused our intruderness upon her entrance
Transforming foolishness to fuel the mood
She must be an intruder too
It was noon
And this room of undercover drummers
Marching to different tunes was nothing new for her
She saw the truth in us
Stared the vulnerability away
Spread sunlight sanctuaries through our brains
Our eyes no longer wandering through oblivion
Wondering when the wondering would end
It all began when she said
I think it's time we all open our eyes
We looked confused
Eyes expanding to bite size balloons
Placing helium time bombs at the foot of her news
I stared at the fuse
And she stared at our staring daring us to make the next move
But we refused
Cause it was barely noon
And that's too soon for collective movements
No time for any inch of improvement
We all refused to move
Thankfully she resumed
I want you to look around this room
And understand one thing
Your story is the only proof you bring here
The only sword you swing here
And this is no home for fresh bruises
We are all safe in this room


I sat there in silence
I've always been an overabundance of riches
A treasure chest filled to the brim
But in this moment my gold is good for nothing
My sword is null and void
Skull and crossbones to understanding
My Excalibur belongs permanently stuck in stone
I never opened my eyes that way before
Only saw what I assumed was true
My once royal empire collapsed around my desk
Tears dropped like fallen gemstones crashing the class discussion
I sat there in silence
I sat there alone
Refused to tell my story
Refused to feel so low
It's a tough pill to swallow
Acknowledging you have lived with privilege your entire life
So I sit here in silence
Choking on my silver spoon
Looking for the way to say
I don't want to be an intruder anymore
Sitting at my little desk
cluttered up with nothing real
so it looks like I have work
a little heater on my feet
epitome of luxury - warm feet
how time drags away today
so much behind to do at home
alone inside this little room
where photos line the wall
with other people’s happy day
would it be sacrilege
to ever put a sad pose
in the frame that
held such shining joy
≈≈≈
another wall is cabinets
with everything that
I might need for anything
but where is the band-aid
for today and the
cure-all for tomorrow
as I sit and wish that I was gone
to any place but here
≈≈≈
narcolepsy goose-steps in
battalions of its troops-
a war I must not lose
I cannot leave and
beat retreat
I must stand firm and fight
until the razor
hands of time
cut through the bars
that keep me here
unwilling but required
≈≈≈
for I support the camping trip
that we call daily life and there
are hungry mouths to feed
with names like heat and light and
shelter from the winter
they bring their cousins
food and clothes and
go juice for the car
to stand in line
on my front porch
with hands outstretched
demanding
≈≈≈
sometimes I muse
on what would happen
if i just turned out the lights
and locked the door
against intruders
and tap danced away
would there be a net
to catch me
if i jump too high
or dance along
the precipice
without my contact lenses
≈≈≈
now I recall
the words my mother said
when I would dream out loud
“wish in one hand
spit in the other
and see which one
gets full first”
good ole hillbilly philosophy
≈≈≈
so here I stay with a frozen clock
an antique desk
with a vase of crimson
bougainvillea I snipped
off the hedge
across the parking lot
I must have flowers
on my desk and
in my home
my very soul demands it
but never if I buy them
it requires the vaunted
ingenuity my mother
preached to me  
to keep the vases full
≈≈≈
what ceramic vase
 would I fit in
I’m neither rose
nor orchid
would I be
a whole bouquet
or just a single daisy
silliness to ponder
fourteen kinds of nonsense
≈≈≈
still the pen
stays wedded
to my finger
not yet done
with nonsense rambling
though I’ve said
most everything
I need to say
≈≈≈
I’m over half the
way to freedom
looking for a coin
to buy away
the final hundred minutes
will it be the radio
a game of solitaire
or just more
claptrap from this pen
≈≈≈
the usual fall back
crossword puzzle
points up my aphasia
and I’m in no mood
to face humiliation
once again
≈≈≈
how slowly can I nibble on
the sandwich
left from lunch and still the time
procrastinates
my mind at last is blank
And now is the acceptance
I can’t scribble on forever
it’s time to
put away the pen
and hide this diatribe
out of the public eye
And head at last for home.
                ljm
I have to put in 20 hrs. a week at my church office whether there's anything for me to do or not.  All the real work gets done from my home office phone and computer, but I have to leave that behind to satisfy the 20/20 requirement.  Stupidity unequaled.Christian
Such a busy day at work I remember
must have been last November.
It was a happy evening with my wife
a late dinner no tension or strife.
A glass or two of our favourite wine
and the *** was truly divine.

Falling asleep at around midnight
leaving on the bedside light.
Outside a heavy frost began to lay
no need to get up Saturday.
Something aroused me it was bang
followed by a clang!

Fearful it was intruders in our house
certainly not a noisy mouse.
I picked up a baseball bat by the bed
quietly on the landing with dread.
As a hooded figure came up the stairs
eye to eye glares!

In the dim light I saw their arm swing
then in my shoulder a sting!
At that time not realising I'd been stabbed
the burglar I grabbed.
But they broke away instinctively I swung
stupidly I bit my tongue!

With an unknown strength I suddenly found
a hard object I did pound.
The wooded bat vibrated in my shaking fist
down the stairs we fell with a twist!
I heard distant screams muffled shouting
my sanity I was doubting!

Footsteps then running out of the door
a body below me on the floor!
Realising the bat was still in my hand
would the authorities understand?
I was arrested for attacking the intruder
the questions getting cruder!

By my actions treated like the privacy invader
accused of murdering the raider!
Just a man protecting his home dwelling
the truth I tried telling.
A terrible experience I could not forget
the future of eternal regret!

After weeks of worry the charges were withdrawn
it can't alter memories now torn!

The Foureyed Poet.
I can only imagine intruders entering my home then attacking me! In defence striking out and killing them! The Foureyed Poet
shadesoflost Jan 2014
I want to be there when it's 4 AM
and your chest can no longer withstand the weight
of the demons that no one else can see
and you can no longer push them back
long enough to breathe
and the exhales smell of ***** and misery
when your very own fingernails
betray your palms
with blood that looks like it's not even your own
I will bandage your hands
and hold them gently until the demons leave

and when you are afraid
of your own reflection
I will hide all the mirrors
and sit by your side with the lights off and
run my fingers through your hair
as if untangling your hair
could untangle the knots you have inside

I will wait for you
I will not groan when it's three in the morning
and you stumble out of bed
to go sit under the streetlight in the rain
and I will wait inside
with tea in your favorite mug
when you say you must go alone

when your eyes are vacant;
a winter house
with no footprints in the snow
and newspapers piling up in the driveway
the lights left on to scare away intruders
I will be there when you come back

I just need to know you'll come back
Jesibell arz Jul 2015
Just me and you, no-one else sees sparks in our eyes. feeling is so radiant, our rays is touching the sky.. as soon as we decide to really show our love for eachother, their are always intruders trying to bother; With thier filthy looks of hatred desire, i sometimes think they wish we would just die in fire. Why so much hate? We would never know, we should of kept it between us stayed  on the low...
     Intruders are disrespectful beings, never caring about feelings; changing by the season's realizing they dont have much meaning. So they come up with a plan scheming, i guess that's thier only thing to believe in. Ruining our lovely passion. Or shall i say trying to ruin our lovely passion, with dishonest rumors that me and you know are not true; so we just laugh go for the ride and stick it through..
Intruders vs us thats a debate between the majority population, I just know our intruders was put on regulation..
One way or another thier is always that one person that cant mind their own ******* business. Or that one person thats not happy so wants to ruin yours.
sabrina flowers Jul 2017
I've never been good at
Being touched.

Though the fingers
Of endless suitors
Have traced incomparable
Lines of affection,
They all stroke
The same wounds.

New hands feel like
Recycled lullabies,
Humming promises
Of a new melody,
Singing a remedy for
My impassivity.

Whether words fall
Passionate or
Fearful,
Endearment lines my lips
With an expiration
Long enough to convince me,
But short enough to leave me.

Reminding me:
The disintegration of
Indifference
Remains
My prerequisite
For destruction.

So before you
Touch me with
Promises of a new
Orchestration,
I'm already marking the
Days until you leave.

Because my skin
Is tired of
Intruders hidden
Behind momentary
Infatuation.

So keep your hands to yourself.
stéphane noir Aug 2014
you are beautiful.
you are tragically beautiful.
you are notre dame
at night.
you are the eiffel tower
amidst bombshells.
you are the house of commons
and the house of lords.
you are the lone beam
standing after Katrina.
you are the one baby sea turtle
who makes it off the beach.
you are the dark side of the moon.
you are the patch of sand
struck by lightning.
you are the remains discovered
after the plane goes down.
you're a smooth puddle in a parking lot.
you are the creaky stair
that warns of intruders.
you are all of the red skittles.
you are Job 3:14.
Bardo Oct 2022
I dreamt that I'd awoken in my house
But all was not the same, was not as it should
  be
There was a strangeness to things, an
  unfamiliarity
Myself too, I felt different, felt very small like
  a little child (like I'd been shrunk somehow),
Felt very vulnerable and exposed, without
  support, all alone
As I stood there in the hall, the shadows
  falling about me
I could see that it was still dark outside
It was very quiet and there was this big full
  moon shining,
Down by the road, at my gate, I could see that
  there was a car or van parked
As I watched, suddenly I heard the sound of doors opening and then being slammed shut
Then I saw these two dark figures emerging, proceeding up the driveway toward my
  house
A terrible fear gripped me, I felt a great
  danger approaching
These two men, these shadowy figures
They meant no good, of that I was sure
They were unwanted, coming at this crazy
  hour,
Standing there in the shadows, all I knew
  was they mustn't see me
If they saw me I knew I was lost,
It was then that I noticed the inside door, it
  wasn't locked
So I got down and on all fours started to crawl across the floor (so I wouldn't be seen)
But it was hard, so hard, my limbs they were
  so slow, so heavy
They would hardly obey me... I could hardly
  drag
What was wrong... what was wrong with
  me!!! I thought,
Through sheer force of will I finally made it
And reaching my hand up I turned the ****
  that would lock the door
I heaved a sigh of relief and lay back against
  the now locked door
It was only then that I noticed another
  bedroom door was ajar
If they stood outside the bedroom window
  they'd be able to see a bit into the hall
But I realized, it was too late... too late now
They'd probably be at the window by now
And they'd be bound to see me trying to close
  the door
They'd be standing there right now with their
  cold sharp impassive faces
Dripping cruelty and menace
Staring in, souless like mannequins
Their icy looks that'd freeze your soul
Like a Medusa turn you to stone.
So I could only sit there listening...listening
  with my back to the inside door
Afraid almost to breathe
Just listening for the next sound
The next thing to happen.
I have a fascination with my nightmares which I've always gotten a lot of.  They can be quite inspirational by times.  Poem for Halloween.
SP Blackwell Mar 2013
I am sitting on a broken branch

under the drug addled canopy of insecurities and lies.

I am feeling the steady sway of an oxycontin daze.

Walking slowly through a ketamine daydream that pulls at my core

like a phantom puppet master controlling my limbs.

It crashes into my brain like the breaking waves on the shore.

Breathing in nicotine filtered filth as I wait to catch a breath of fresh air.

Lungs filled with recycled tar that prevents me from gasping.

In darkened corners where lies sleep and rumors are hidden,

I wait.

I dance on a tightrope between conscious and subconscious

that is held by reality and dreams.

Dark sunglasses on to avoid

the blinding stinging light of what is real.

Mirrored glasses are reflecting the reflections back at intruders.

Deflecting glances, shifty eyes, and dilated pupils

searching for a focus point of truth  

in a neon technicoloured blur of hypocrisy.

The background blaring horns blended with a steady bass line

mimics my heartbeat.

Thump thump. Thump thump.

The fading noises pass quickly,

highlighted with insults and curses of hate and gossip

that are forgotten before you can make them out.

Spun truths turned into lies

intermixed with resin

left from yesterday.

The litter paved streets break under my heels.

Click clack. Click clack.

Broken and cracked

like the false promises

And hopes

And dreams

of those who have walked here before.

The monotonous pace is repeated

only pausing to notice the gum under the stiletto

that fails to hold her in place

as she runs towards the wet cement that has replaced

another sheet of cracked concrete.

The wet cement that has covered another lie

in order to show the simplicity of fake appearances.

A reminder of how easy it is to replace and mask

the hate filled holes that get trampled on.

The flicker of hope is suddenly unseen

like the street light lined alley that is now dark.

The stench of garbage, decay, and rotting flesh

is mixed with expensive perfume, sweat, make-up, and spilled *****.

Garbage cans are filled with the leftovers of last night.

A *** stained dress with no owner draws no attention

as the sound of snapping latex is muffled

by the screams of ecstasy that rapidly fade

like the fleeting feeling of MDMA.

Thick white ****** fluid oozes out like human glue

in an attempt to mend the lack of connection.

Strangers intertwined in hasty conversations

waiting for human contact to forget

that they are in dark alleys.

To forget

that they live in dark places

where no one lays down wet cement.

The distorted reality of alleys deceive passer bys

into thinking that they are not menacing

has been weaved like a web by street sweepers and garbage men.

The pressing sense of the need to avoid the sweepers

is unsaid but felt.

They falsely clean what will always be *****.

The *** filled backstreets yearn for love

like the treacherous woman guarding its corner.

Daddy issue lined dresses are asking to be undone

just like her lost innocence that can never be mended.

The issues and clothing that can never be fixed

abandoned on top of garbage cans for someone else to pick up.

Patches of dead grass are left

untended, unwatered, and unwanted

waiting to be replaced by wet cement.

Wet cement that soon enough will crack and break

under the heavy heated pressure of the stomping heels

of lost Girls in a desolate city.

Blood trickled trails are left behind

that have dried into the cigarette lined streets that lead nowhere.

The injured egos of men are left to linger at back doors

that will never be opened.

******* induced insanity whirls around a flurry

of whispers and paranoia wanting to here the Truth

between the spewed anger and rage of the low toned hushed voices

that wish not to be heard.

Whiskey hinted murmurs pressing on the sidewalk cracks

knowing that they will never be heard.

Looking into the dark where

Truth will never be seen.

The constant beat of narcotic users searching

for salvation in pre-packed bags of white powder,

digging for redemption in empty bottles of multi-colored pills.

Screaming through the silence,

They are not heard.

The desperation can be heard through the whining moans

of the junkies that are tethered to addiction.

The over whelming sound of

Want and Need and Lust

move through the streets like the overflowing gutter water.

Heartbeats are replaced with the impatient pacing of

her stilettos waiting for her pain to cease.

Stilettos stomping on broken dreams

waiting to cross broken streets.

She gazes at the other side as if it is different.

Stilettos tapping on the street

waiting for the firm grasp of a sweaty hand to distract her from reality.

Waiting to be touched

And grabbed

And ******

                                              In hopes that love will arise from ****** ****** encounter with

strange men in uncomfortable places.

Clothes are feverishly removed with the promise of

flesh on flesh enveloped in a hazy cloud of body heat

that warns off the internal coldness.

Heavy breath and touch and kiss release chemicals

to replace the drug depleted emptiness.

The rhythmic sound of rubbing flesh mingles with

the moaning of the streets.

It fuses with the short lived pleasure laden moans of

lonely people and un-climatic *******.

Awkward silences are brief as the sound of her heels owns the street.

Click clack. Click clack.

The sound of stilettos on cement hurriedly walking away when there is

no longer a need for his body heat.

That unmistakable click clack click clack

on uneven, *****, dangerous streets.

Red lipstick smeared stains are the only trace of her that is.

That is the only trace of me that is left.

Click clack steady on the street.

Steady like mimicking bass line

Click clack heartbeat.

The crunch of broken glass under the stiletto

echoes her broken dreams.

Click clack.

Head held high never looking at the ground as she walks forward.

Click clack. Click clack.

Click clack.

The urban mud of

Wet cement goes

Squish!

under her stiletto.



V.Mata
The Fence

A wooden fence once surrounded my home
Which I had hoped would keep out all intruders-
It was the fence my father had built
Years before his passing

Alive always inside a world of my own
I had built myself a different sort of fence-
One made of spoken words and angry gestures
That would ward away intruders I believed were always out to harm me.

A wooden fence can simply be sawed or broken down
When one is motivated to do so
And locks to their gates can be opened with a key
Therefore a wooden fence most likely will not shut the world out.

My own fence has shut the real world out
My soul and spirit are protected.
My special fence keeps me sheltered from the world outside
And is built from barbed wire of my imagination.

My mother and my father have passed away years ago-
They shall never become part of my private world –
It was not my wish that they would have ever been, as
They were forever trying to break down that fence that guarded my castle in the sky.

Now I am living in a different place in time-
Far from the wooden fence surrounding what was once my family’s home
Life is safer and not as threatening now
But I still with caution carry with me that extraordinary fence of my dreams.

Someday I hope that I can find that phantasmal key
That key that would unlock the gate to that protective fence of mine-
So that I could step out side, if only for a brief moment-
And hopefully learn that the real world is not a place to fear.

I hope that one day I shall awaken to a rainbow on my horizon
And that fence I have hidden behind for all the days of my life
Shall vanish as did the wooden fence had after so many years-
And I can find new freedom while I give thanks that I no longer have to be afraid.

Claudia Krizay
Mikayla McGarvey Apr 2017
You have become an all to familiar presence in my life. From the wave of incompetence that often washes over me as soon as I wake up, to the heavy ache that nuzzles itself beside me as I sleep – you are the unwanted intruders that force themselves into the comfort of my being.  You haunt me with my own thoughts, and use my fears and insecurities against me.  Time and time again you feed me lies by telling me that I am not worthy  - that I am not good enough for success or deserving of love.  Sometimes you even tease me by leaving for a short while, giving me a small glimpse of freedom - only to quickly return with new and more powerful tricks up your sleeve.

Together you are the dichotomy that makes it absolutely impossible to get through even the most remedial of tasks.  Anxiety, you keep me awake at night by preying on my paranoia, causing me to obsess over every stupid mistake I have ever made, and reminding me of all the things that I have not done.  All the while, Depression you cast your cloud upon me by keeping me in bed all day, and telling me that nothing matters anyway.  This unrelenting battle in my mind puts me in a state of frantic melancholy – constantly sending me to the brink of madness.  Learning to understand how to live with you is like learning how to live in a body that is not mine.

You are the wildfire that will stop at nothing to destroy every sign of life within its path, and I am the blackened remnant of a forest.  Gasping for breath in oxygen depleted air – I desperately cling onto the slightest bit of life I can find.  I fight to gain control over this insanity.  I will not let you win.

I will not let you win because you do not get to define how I live.  You seek to **** quietly and without notice but I will no longer sit in silence.  I will speak up, because I am tired of feeling trapped within the confines of my own mind. I am tired of putting on this happy face, and pretending like I am okay.  


But you know what?

It is in those moments where you make me feel helpless that I will continue to push forward and fight, because no matter how tight your grasp, how loud your screams, or how hard your scratches may be, I know that I am growing.  Just like the flowers die in Winter and learn to bloom again with Spring, my soul is learning how to rejuvenate amidst this storm.

It is in those moments when I begin to retreat back into the darkness of isolation, where despite my cries for help, I find familiarity in pushing away those around me -that I will write and I will create. I will expose your haunting thoughts, and the debilitating lies that you feed me because contrary to how you make me feel, I am NOT alone in this.

It is in those moments when I start to feel myself slipping into your fatal complacency, when I feel suffocated by the inner workings of my own brain that I will CHOOSE to be joyful. I will CHOOSE to be inspired rather than to be defeated.  I will CHOOSE to be kind to myself. I will CHOOSE to love on those around me, and I will CHOOSE to put my hope and my identity in my God.  

I know that it won’t be easy, and I know that some days will be harder than others, but it is in this simple declaration where a new page will be turned. This is me reclaiming my body, my mind, and my spirit.  This is me CHOOSING to no longer be a prisoner to you.  This is me beginning to set myself free.
Iqra Sheikh May 2017
It was the door, it was my mind.
My heart is bounding, my voice became blinding.
My jaw is the numbest
No one, not even the rain could've heard me.
Could I have even spoken to myself?
I tried, I tried, I swear I tried.
My voice was not loud enough.
I became aimless.
All I hear is the silence, it is so loud and eager.
My ears tingle with static, my tongue hides in fear.
The shutting of my eyes hurt, it's almost unbelievable how awake I was.
I can not close my eyes
K Balachandran Jul 2013
A forest adventure-we didn't plan it that way at all,
the call of the wild prompted us, is all I can now guess
hand in hand in to the woods we ventured like two possessed,
magical, it felt, we soon disappeared, from the eyes of curious intruders.

erogenous scent of damp earth, after the first sprinkling of monsoon clouds,
pepped up our interest in hunting mushrooms
popping up everywhere, like fragments of white clouds descended,
we pulled out, egg shaped mushrooms that came in to our view
the frenzy we fell in to,  possessed us in total,
after all we we are also young and hot blooded,

We competed like hounds in hot pursuit,
ran, collided with each other, fell down,
with a gentle thud, upon each other.
She did lay flat, face down on my chest,
I smelt,musk on her neck a slow intoxicant
and mushrooms hidden in her both armpits,
which I pursued and found out,we were getting hot,
in pursuit of each other's secrets.
the world, we had forgotten completely for long!!

We didn't see evening light melt and
darkness spread stealthily over the woods
that engages the robust body of the night,
from the rendezvous, of these secret lovers,
we sneaked out and saw lighted torches,
approach us from all four directions.

they zeroed in on us,"Who goes there?"
a harsh voice asked,
"This, do you know, is the holy grove,
of mother goddess, strictly  watched
for not to be get desecrated
by people who seek some sort of adventure,
such an act never goes unpunished,
we'll search you and find what you did"

We held out mushrooms before them,
and I saw each face turning  a lotus!
"where did you get this,? Oh! so much!,
Those are so rare and any one is able to pluck it,
only if mother goddess is pleased"

And then we realized this,
in that forbidden sacred wood,
between us a miracle has happened!
that pleased the mother goddess
of the woods,  the blessed presence,
aren't we then  the chosen ones?







,
Lexi Cairns Dec 2015
You have been told that rapists were men in black hoodies
hidden in twisting shadows and dark alleyways.
****** offenders were always leering old men in rags;
never blonde haired and blue eyed and always smiling-
not once did you think to question the intentions
of his warm and familiar fingertips.
When you find yourself locked in his claws
and he tells you
that you must want it
don’t be a tease.
Look at what you’re wearing.
A sliver of skin mistaken for an invitation.
Do not be surprised when your mother
also asks you what you were wearing-
but do not forget.
Remember this for the next time.
You will also try to convince yourself that you asked him to,
but the scars on your sister
and the tribe of women with cut out tongues and pleading eyes
who stare back at you from your reflection
tell another story.
Tell your mother that no matter how many flowers she throws over the mass grave
she cannot hide the stench of rotting corpses,
do not pretend that you are okay when you feel all the lights inside of you begin to shut off
because your body has grown tired of sounding alarms and raising knives
against intruders who wield toxic gas and atomic bombs.
You have been taught to hold your tongue and to smile like nothing is wrong
but now your mouth is filled with your own bite marks and it is hard to hide the blood.
You should not have to.
Your words can crumble empires
and redeem centuries of trauma embedded in bleeding wombs.
It is time you used them to stand up for yourself.
This is a poem I wrote for my creative writing course at school and is a revised version of one of the spoken word pieces I posted here previously.
onlylovepoetry Apr 2019
don’t leave me!
(the leaving is in the writing)

she whispers in his ear,
after they’ve climbed into bed,
their tiring bodies both embraced,
soft sunken into, by, a familiar mattress,
after a sophisticates city night out seeing stars,
stars, human and astral,
city lights dusk heightened the vocal sparking,
singers singing songs of love from
radio days long ago

don’t leave me

she intones, a prayerful demand,
equally a command and a begging behest,
puzzling what prompted this pressed request,
spoken with urgency born in her breast

don’t leave me
drifting off and into his thin place,
but tugged back by this cri du coeur,
unsponsored and unwarranted,
nothing recalled that justly provoked,
a statement topping of anguish and fear

don’t leave me
he repeats in a rising questioning inflecting
puzzling riddling unbefitting a mellow-toning sleepy ingredient,
whatever do you mean, I leave you only
to dream, to purify, refresh and deep rest reset,
and return come morning with new poems,
what angst comes to stir this asking,
delaying my adventure to nightly restoration?

don’t leave me
repeated and repeated, dressed in urgency,
for I see the little things,
the wavering walk, the slowing of the thinking,
the walls, black n’ blue, whining about your into bumping,
the instant eagerness with which your body accepts
your voyage to dream places where
one goes and gone and must go unaccompanied,
some who are chosen and some who choose, not to return

don’t leave me
for the signs are ample, a certain weariness
dresses your face and crowns thy graying mane,
the slight labored breathing from steps once
bounded and leapt, the seeing and the hearing,
each slightly weakening, two orchestral instruments,
together off key and lessened in their triumphal vigor,
these words of mine, a royal guard,
keep them in your dreams

don’t leave me
minor missteps in the elongated negated of dying gracefully,
my tuning forks are sensitized,
and any slowing motion
both visible and hearable, and filed under inevitable

I will not leave you tonight,
my body warming as per usual,
your cold feet intruders indicate it’s you have left
for your own nightly visitors, occasional terrors,
you’ve woken me from my allotted sleep hours,
many poems now retrieving and in need of scribing,
while the fingertip digit flys across the digital keyboard,

I am more alive than I have ever been;
the leaving is in the writing,
each poem a steppingstone,

but the poems come fast and furious,
sometimes two at a time, the muses are bemused,
the prognosis is for thousands more and warn:

do not wear out your olive oil anointed forefinger,
the lubricated pointer of the way, wherein is contained

through that index
finger,
your body of works in the
“yet to arrive, yet untaxed filling station,”,
must be seen to fruition,
for it is only then that,
only love poetry
is ready for long lasting
eternal realization





5:36am 12th April, two thousand nineteen
I'm sat on my ranch, shotgun in hand
Swinging on the bench
I know they're coming tonight
The intruders and their dreadful stench
They've terrorised my family
And made me a paranoid man
Well now I'm making a stand
Cause now I know I can
The air starts getting colder
And the shadows slowly appear
They are very far away at present
But soon they will be near
I hear the snarl of the biggest one
The little ones start to growl
Tonight their in for a shock
I'm not going to throw in the towel
With a stern and angry voice
I shout to them loud and clear
'You'll never hurt us again'
Gone is all my fear
Now they are in my sights
And I lift my shotgun to aim
Slowly then bang bang
I put an end to their game
The yelping hurts my ears
And the moans carry in the air
But the big still keeps coming
With a wild and dangerous stare
Again I take my aim
Bang and I watch it drop
I go back indoors
Finally I've made it stop
Early the next morning
I set out to burn each one
But its me who gets the shock
As their bodies have all now gone
Haley Lana Sep 2020
My lover has a scar
Just above her hipbone;
It's not a small ****,
a forgotten accident.
They're words -
Straight lines she etched
Deliberately,
Slowly,
Painfully.

I trace my fingers softly,
Not to wake my love,
But I can't soften their bite.
Words of cruel warning,
An order, imperative.
Commanding, even faded,
Echo a silent scream.

They mock me, mock us,
For they still have a hold:
She is only half mine.
They hurt me, cold,
Like unblinking eyes,
Knowing that she stares back
Every day.

I barely brush them,
Intruders on soft skin,
Indelible scripture
Of darkness within.

And they keep whispering:
don't eat.
25.09.2020.
Kendall Mallon Jan 2014
§
Battle of New Britain

Lieutenant Jim G Paulos led elements
of G Company in a savage counterattack
that ousted the intruders supported
by Lieutenant James R Mallon’s improvised
platoon of H/11, which remained
to help man casualty-depleted line.

Improvise (OED):
One: to compose on spur
of the moment; to utter
or perform extempore

two: to bring about or get up
on the spur of the moment;
to provide for the occasion

Three: […] hence to do anything
On the spur of the moment

Improvised platoon
Df James R Mallon:

When most of your platoon
lies dead in the pumice sands
of the South Pacific-Japanese
bushido bullets tear flesh and spirit
out of the corporeal—husks of limp
limbs you fought to defend and they you
Japanese mortar fire, machine and small-gun fire
fifteen yards in advance of the wire
how do you bring about or get up
the courage to grab whoever—
the nearest marine
talk through ears drums burst by mortar succeeding shockwaves
forget for the time the men
you spent months training
sipping beers in Australia
laughing over bar stool drunken jokes
men you shared your dreams about after
away from the mosquitoes
away from the constant moisture
rain rain rain day and night
soaking through fatigues through skin through bone
never enough sun to dry out
air already saturated
sweat or seawater—it is all the same
now you must find new men—men you have seen,
but do not know the same as your own platoon
their life and yours in each others hands
alone in a group of stranger-brothers
always faithful
keep composure in the face
your buddy’s entrails pouring into the pumice sand
hence to do anything
on the spur kicked into your side
to block what no man should ever be asked to see
and do what you can in the moment
to save your division from enemy fire.

§
Cyclops Black Eyes

One summer e’ening drunk to hell
He stood there nearly lifeless
A gal sat in the corner
And it’s how are ye ma’am and what’s yer name
And would ye like a drink?
She looked at him, he at her
All she could do was accept one

And rovin’ a rovin’ a rovin’ she’ll go
Through his pair of blue eyes

She knew not the pumice beaches and streams
Sometimes walking sometime crawling
amongst blood and death ‘neath a screaming sky
Where Cyclops black eyes waited for him
Was it birds whistling in the trees?
Always the Cyclops black eyes waiting for them
So they give the wind a talkin’

And a rovin’ a rovin’ a rovin’ he’ll go
Away from those Cyclops black eyes

And the arms and legs of other men
Were scattered all around
Some cursed, some prayed, some prayed then cursed
Then prayed and bled some more
All he could see were Cyclops black eyes looking at him

No Cyclops black eyes waiting for her
And a rovin’ a rovin’ a rovin’ she’ll go
And never know what saw his pair of blue eyes

Could she forsee in that pair of blue eyes
Decades he’d spend drunk to hell?
Sometimes walking sometime crawling
Rovin’ and rovin’ away from those Cyclops black eyes

§
Colt 1911**

I was nineteen when I learned
my Dad his father’s Colt 1911 pistol

when Dad was young he
and his brother found
the gun—hidden in the rafters
of the cinderblock basement
their father built; magazine bullets and pistol
on one rafter—separate, except
the bullets lived in the magazine

my dad and uncle, like any
young boy, were fascinated
by the pistol; though too young
to feel and know the power
and danger in the cold blue metal

when their father and mother were
away—home alone they snuck
to the hand-laid basement
reached around the rafters
through years of dust and darkness
feeling for the colt and mag
scrape-click-pop—ca-chick
round in the chamber—“freeze!”

so played boyhood fantasies
cowboys & Indians
cops & robbers
with a lethal toy


so my dad kept it a secret
locked in a tarnished steel box
locked through the trigger guard
magazine separate
four silver, dimpled, bullets rolled round between
their queue and releaser

I was struck by the weight—heavier than I expected—I felt the years of use polished into the wood grips—thick hand grease sweat blood humidity sand saltwater gun oil mud tears life saved and taken.
At the bottom of the wood grips ticked notches deep in the grain—both sides—different numbers; “What are these?” I asked running my finger across the nocth-ticks feeling their depths their absence consciously carved with his next best tool—kabar: workhorse that can baton through five inch diameter logs, machete through two-finger branches, dig a hole to burrow while machinegun fire mows down jungle; easy to sharpen, keeps an edge; full tang to hammer temples or tent posts

“I don’t know; the only thing we have is the lore.”

fI counted seven
the number the magazine carries
eight total, if you have one in the chamber

You have to commit to fire
a 1911, the cliché: don’t pull
the trigger—squeeze
is how the 1911 fires—a button
fits the crotch of the thumb and index finger
opposite the trigger on the handle;
to unleash the hammer then
lead, squeeze the two—firm
tight at the target; no shot fired
by accident—no Marvins with the 1911.
I am trying a new form of poetry called 'documentary poetry'. This is the story of my grandfather who fought five campaigns in the Pacific Theatre of WWII for the United State Marine Corps. (This is a work in progress)
tread Oct 2010
When I look out from the smudged and cracked windows of home,
I know there's no place quite the same as right here;
No place I could find that quite catches my ear,
And no place quite the same that can swallow my fears,
To the depths of this heated and comfortable box,
In which I am protected by numerous locks,
From intruders and bandits,
Salesmen and clerks;
I am the legal intruder,
And for me, that's what works.

Yet I'm here when, in fact, I am meant to be there;
Not far from my home,
I'm meant to be learning whats fair.

I am meant to be learning what's right and what's wrong,
Yet 6 hours of my time a day seems quite long,
To be spending on verbs, nouns and pronouns,
On algebra, fractions, and abnormal word sounds.

This life is not theirs; this life is all mine,
Such an old and used system would appear to be right,
Yet I beg to differ, as revolution now squeaks,
To push through the systems cracks and cause leaks,
In which free-thinking filters the words of the old,
Who believe themselves better, for they're trained and so bold.

When I look to society, what is it I see?
Is it a throng of a thousand people who seem to be free?
Not quite, yet at the same time, that seems quite close,
They are free in a box, in which authority is the host.

"Civilization has to be defended against the individual,
And its regulations, institutions and commands are directed to that task."
*
Quite an obvious command,
And it seems that at last,
Man is learning to embrace what they each see as free;
And it does not simply stop at being free to simply be,
It goes beyond such in mind, matter, soul, and in trust;
For it is the systems denial,
Towards which I lust.

The institutions, and nations,
Corporations, news stations,
Stateism, classism, all attempt to control,
Who I am, what I do, where I go, who I meet;
They tell me to relax, and just take a quick seat;
Yet I know what I want from life is free feet,
To be who I am,
And take all the heat.
To do what I do,
And ignore what's 'elite.'
To go where I go,
And control, as such, my feet.
To meet who I meet,
And next to them, take a seat.

I am not a name,
And I am not a number.
I am always awake in my mind,
As I slumber.
*Quote from Sigmund Freud; The Future of an Illusion (1928)
Fheyra May 2020
A mutated earthling—
From an elitist experiment—
Burst with thorns and limbs,— yet too little to be seen,— That struck mines— Into landslides.

Through and through,— to species and things
A coast to coast hunter— that becomes a Gremlin *******,— and thrilled by a prophet, foretold—
"A ditty hatband to put in flute,— is a note of sphere bullets."

For the meantime, hear the Chieftain's announcement:
"The folly is the naked; as the prudent is the masked—
No one should be phlegmatic in this game,—
For all of you should be sensitive— Unless, if you want to be an elsewhere's feast
Do not act— like a pearl with a great price!"

Soldiers cluttered in passageways,— For Pirates are Ubiquitous thieves
An assemble of frontiers hosed and geared— of wrought bodies— with uncertain prone.

In this war, together—
Barricades of water and bricks— Our chances to be unleashed,— From a long concealment,— To be sooner conquerors of intruders' exile.
Covid-19 is a current situation in all countries. The prevalence of this disease has an uknown end, but with our discipline, and the brave hearts of our front liners, together we will be free.
Emeka Mokeme Aug 2018
On chain they did put me,
******* to the burglary protector,
handcuffed and battered.
Tortured and meant to be broken.
Poisoned but survived.
Marked for assassination,
and shot twice,
bullets flying around,
resilient and unflinching,
was ready to confront them.
Dead or alive I must choose one.
Must find a way out of this mess,
to escape was on my mind,
but how do I get out of here without
jeopardizing the lives of my family.
Courage summoned I revert to plan B,
the art of fighting without fighting.
Intelligence and wisdom must come into play.
Must outwit them to survive.
Cunning and craftiness must be used,
the uncanny ways of the spirit is amazing.
Become like water,
be flexible,
Yielding but still immovable.
Stealth in action but remain like the firefly.
Understanding their intent
and misdirected anger,
their aggression towards me was contained.
Tranquilized and overpowered,
their capture became imminent for
i am more than a conquerer,
for the greater one lives in me.
Today I stand here to testify of that victory against
the intruders and assassins with a grateful heart.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
How I escaped from the Kidnappers and assassins. Wounded but I survived.
Maple Mathers May 2016
​​     I was ten years old when I wrote it.
One lone sentence. A sentence that would become my mantra; the sentence that defines my existence.

I wish I were dead.

I first wrote it in my journal. Then a couple days later, I wrote it again. Then again. And again and again and again. Until eventually, the pages had all been claimed. Each line on each page reiterated one phrase – I wish I were dead.

Although I was merely a fourth grader, this was no passing phrase (get it?). Ten years separate me from that lone sentence, yet I am ready as ever.

​I wish I were dead. I wish I were dead. I WISH I WERE DEAD.

​This is how I feel six days out of seven.
I can no longer count the number of failed attempts, the static loony-bin trips, the hospital hopping routine – a process I’ve memorized verbatim.

Can’t say how many times I’ve survived these garbage disposals for the insane.

You’d think if I really wanted to die, I’d be dead already. Yet, in a bizarre manner, not even the Grim Reaper wants me. I’ve consumed rat poison and lived, rolled my mom’s car and escaped without a scratch, tumbled from heights so high, yet – here I am.

One night, last summer, I mixed molly with coke with ****** with so much liquor – because liquor is quicker – thinking for certain I’d orchestrated my demise. Some of my friends were squatting in this foreclosed house, so there was no electricity, and I spent hours playing Sims with some girl in the dark.

Eventually, my computer died – but I didn’t.

The list goes on.

On this list, there’s one night I’ll never forget; an attempt that far outweighs the others. A night I’ll forever regret. The night I came face to face with the grim reaper, for the first and only time, and somehow turned away.

This is how it went.



​     The Last Supper was comprised of 150 assorted pills, and some secondhand Jack Daniels.

I ate alone. I’d exchanged dining hall for bathroom; chair for bathtub. I held one lone utensil – a razor blade – nestled safely in my hand. Cradling the blade like a child who found the cookie jar – the way my boyfriend worshiped a fresh syringe of ******; I snuggled that sacred utensil.

I failed to savor this Last Supper – for dine and dash would more appropriately summarize my actions. I ravaged the meal as a stray dog would raw meat. Gagging and choking, whilst feeling nothing at all.

All those pills, that jack, I poured into a jar and chugged like a freshman in college. (Get it?) The most unconventional supper you ever did see.

My makeshift chair filled slowly with water like concrete – and soon I’d be buried alive. So I squeezed the razor tight, pretending it was a loved one’s hand instead.

​Yet – nothing happened.

I considered my lone utensil – the blade – then laughed, and threw it aside. How high school of me – a time when I confused my wrist with a cutting-board. Oh, silly me; my insides could do the work without external additions.

​However, the nausea hit before I’d relinquished consciousness. I feared I would toss my cookies – ones stolen from the cookie jar – before they could toss me.

​An important factor to note is this was not my house. It belonged to my boyfriend’s aunt. And although she was not home – he was. Earlier, I’d thrown a knife at his head and told him I was glad Morgan died, to ensure he’d leave me be, but now I was bored and nauseous and so I got up and left the Last Supper to pursue a bad cliché I just died in your arms tonight.
​ What happened next is not important – I’ll fast-forward to what is.

The first to come was a young girl.
​She wore her blonde hair in two braids. Her tiny body, adorned in a loose, blue dress. Her feet were sheathed in neat white socks beneath modest, black slippers; slippers that matched her headband. A headband to cradle her mind.

​Her existence stupefied mine – for I knew at once who she was. And I was terrified.

This girl was coasting her eighth birthday. A birthday she’d never reach.

And yet – she was as wise as I am thin; far wiser than my nineteen-year-old self. She never spoke, but there was no need. Everyone talks, but seldom is speech genuine. Only in actions can we find the truth.

I’d waited my whole life for her. My true, beloved best friend. A girl as imaginary as could be.

Alison Wonderland.

Unfortunately, she had no intention of staying. She had no interest in my world; she’d only come to take me to hers. She’d come to take me away. Far away. Away so far I could never return.

This time – finally – I’d be gone for good.

My whole life I’d waited; now, she’d finally come. Not to join my life. She’d come to watch me die.

We both knew my lifespan would hardly outlast the hour.

Collapsed within a shower, I floundered for words. Separated from her by a mere pane of glass. She was so close. And yet, I was far from happy – I’d nearly surpassed hyperventilation. Literally stunned to death.

This beautiful angel maintained composure, however; unaltered by my frigid welcome. An unwavering smile illustrated her entire physic, whilst she offered her hand to mine – arm outstretched and waiting.

The ultimate invitation.

However, we were not alone. Not two, but three souls occupied this bathroom. The bathroom of my Last Supper.

On my side of the glass was a man. A man I knew. A man I loved. A man whose manhood was verified by little more than age – 25. Whilst numbers generally distinguish between childhood, adolescence, or adulthood, he was much more a boy than a man. His maturity – vastly negated by defining characteristics. You see, this 25-year-old boy was also a pathological liar, a sociopath, and a ****** addict. He was the stranger your mommy warned you not to talk to – and he was my boyfriend.

My boyfriend, our third addition, was christened Daniel no-middle-name Rodden. An alias more accurately spelled Rotten – which I knew, but refused to accept. So instead, he was just Danny.

Anyways.

I surrendered consciousness slowly. I was crumpled, trembling and mumbling, grappling to sit up or speak.

With all my strength I pointed, terrified and confused, at Alison.

“How is she here?” I wanted to scream. “How’d she get in? What’s happening?”

“What are you talking about?” Danny’s voice wondered. “There’s no one out there. I promise I promise.”

He must have been blind. For Alison remained, hand outstretched, waiting and waiting.

However, Danny Rotten and Alison Wonderland could not see each other. Nor could they hear or feel one another. They existed within uncorrelated dimensions. They were, in fact, entirely irrelevant to one another, compromised by one single factor. Me. Because not only was I physically dying – directly between them (monkey in the middle?) – my consciousness floundered amidst their two wonderlands.

But this was temporary, for we all knew I had less than an hour to make a choice; a life with this toxic boy, or a death with this loving girl. Death, which I’d coveted since I was ten. This decision could not be undone; I could not keep them both.

I never took this hand I was offered – Alison Wonderland’s – I clung to Danny instead. A decision I’ll forever regret. But I had yet to meet the Grimm Reaper.

Somehow, I’d been transported back into the bathtub. I sat back at the table of my Last Supper. Only, this time, I was not to dine alone.
I remember Danny’s face – if only for a split second – covering mine. His handsome, Spanish features contorted in fear; even mussed and wet, his dark hair swam across his forehead with graceful finesse.

On his face I’d never seen such emotion, nor will I ever again.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I lost sight of that face. I knew he was speaking, perhaps even yelling, his physic – inches from my own. But then, the stampede arrived, trampling him whole.

Empty handed, Alison might have left. But this evaded me.

For into the room poured innumerable intruders. My ghostly escort, it would appear. Some spoke to me, some avoided. Some set up a poker game in the corner – waiting on my choice – whilst others conjured chairs like rabbits from a hat. Chairs they set up around this bathtub. Enveloped in bodies, my Final Supper had become a banquet of sorts. Danny tried to hand me a bucket, to throw up my poison, but I was so weak I couldn’t have held it had I wanted to.

Out of all these people – souls I presumed dead – I recognized only two faces.

Preston and Henry. Two boys I knew – and although ****** addicts, they were alive and well. Not ghosts like the rest. However, within the next two weeks those two would both overdose and nearly die.

Coincidence? I think not. Yet, I digress.  

That was when he appeared, for above the bathtub stood a window. Outside that window, I glimpsed a man. A man I’d been chasing since I was ten.

Mister Grimm. I remember not his attire, nor any defining details, only the expression on his face as his eyes singed my own. Complete and utter hatred and malice, with fatal intentions. He looked to me as his arch nemesis – and had I invited him in, he would have given me what I’d always wanted. I knew this to be true.

I knew also that, although Alison had appeared to be the defining choice, she was not. This man was. And in that pivotal moment, I began to scream.

I screamed for Danny – to make this Grimm go away, to tell him to leave.

Danny did. And when I next looked up, the man was no more. Gone, too, was everyone else. I took Danny’s bucket, hurled, and knew no more.

This is one night I’ll never forget; an attempt that far outweighs the others. The night I came face to face with the grim reaper, for the first and only time, and somehow turned away. A night I’ll forever regret. Sometimes, however, I wonder if it was not mister Grim I was looking at, but Danny’s reflection: the monster he soon became.

Or, perhaps, it was not a male I saw in that window.

Perhaps, It was myself.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)

BEST SUICIDE EVER. Just saying.

Also, fun fact. Danny's now in prison under 3 felony accounts of ****** relations with a minor. I was the only one who came to his trial several weeks ago. His lawyer asked me to testify in his defense. What fell from my mouth was, "I don't want to have to lie..."

Hahaha.
Sydney Victoria Aug 2012
As The Second Hand Clicks,
On A Scarred Clock's Face,
The Days Become Shorter,
Breaths Become Abrupt And Shallow

Brittle Leaves,
Crumble Under Quiet Feet,
And **** Branches,
Give Intruders A Silent Kiss
Words Not Even Spoken,
Are Hushed By The Wind

The Cold Air,
Soothes The Stars,
Making Them Looked Refreshed,
Allowing Them To Glitter,
In Glassy Green Eyes

The Atmosphere,
Begins To Thin Out,
Comets Dive,
Though The Surface,
Like Dolphins,
But They Hold An Impossible Promise,
A Wish,
A Secret
A Star Dangles From Her Neck,
A Wish,
A Promise

What Does Autumn Hold?
What Does Winter?
Spring?
Summer?
Will I Be Able To Curl Up In Loving Arms?
Or Will I Be Curling Up In The Snow?
As The Seasons Change, Shall I?
As Summer Dwindles Into Autumn,
Shall I Change With The Seasons?
Shall I Become Brittled, And Weak,
Like The Autumn Leaves,
Or The Decreasing Sunlight?
Or Shall I Bloom Like The Stars,
In Winter's Night Sky
Everyone Is So Good At Poetry On Here, I Feel Like An Amiture... I Am Open For Constructive Critism
st64 Dec 2013
standing at water's edge
good-bye, momma - I'll always love your straight-face discipline
goodbye, poppa - whose handsomeness I never knew nor saw




nobody'll see me camp out alone on the common
tiny-tent to keep my limbs from cramping morning-mist
maybe some stray-mutt to be (f)ears to intruders
perked-up coffee in tin-***
and baked-beans from a tin, I'll share my bounty
with the dog and bramble-bush




I'm not afraid if the dark
   which waits in timely-blocks
   never overwhelms
I'll meet that sky at midnight and greet the stars in bloom
   their twinkling-smiles will warm my eyes
   and scoop away all lone thoughts
I'll siphon inspiration from the sighs of flora
   inaudible yet felt
I'll huddle not away from any lesson
             *even second-hand





my weapon will be prayer
mouth-***** tests the waters
sends a tentative trill into heightened-silence
      rippling on surface
      embracing the dark
Joe felt that God was there.. the boss
fussing over all his creation
yet, he felt alone on the pier that day
with not one soul..
        to stop the tides from swallowing his tired-life
        to love the gauche-grit inside his gifted-cage
        to hear the silent-scream of fretless-agony
        to sense the dripped-disparity of favour
turning face upwards and smelling fresh sea-salt
he closed his eyes so slowly
and let the wind rip it away from him..




nobody had heard him play Bach on his guitar
finest poignant tone
all the suites and minuets in glory to the one
    yet among the many passing, there was one listener
    a quiet boy whose senses touched celestial-note
most mothers warned their children to stay away from Joe
save this lad to inherit misunderstood genius-scribbles
as Joe's blue book held more than just music of old-siècle
to be legacy in the talent-hand of open-heart apprentice



and my penciled-in landscape grows incisors
from the sharpness of your colour
as I camouflage my strained-song
in seeming-vibrancy of words
merely purloined from the deepest
of
your quiet-sighs



S T - 20 December 2013
so much of brilliance remains undiscovered.. shine on, you crazy-diamond :)
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
I’ve been inside my head for all my life, listening to the voice within, trying to make peace with silent demons lying in wait.

These intruders remain, unwanted and uninvited,
wishing and praying for someone to banish them from my dreams.

Fearful moments spent hiding in dreams, amusing no one,
wondering, waiting and watching for weakness.

Brief glimpses of hope, wishing away the moments, days, weeks and years until now waiting, watching for life to come and sweep me away.

Living to die and dieing to live, making my way through this life.
Treading through too many souls for me to see my way,

Could you be the hope sent to free me from past haunts, my love, my all?
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Mahdi Dn Mar 2015
Inflicting games upon your life
Infusing illusions of war
All senses replaced
With pure hatred

And these pointless joys
To **** your unreal foes
So falsely
They seem real
Yet so clear
This is...a calamity to feel!

And that's when you get threatened
To attack your land
Everything goes just as planned...


Controlling minds to reach the goals
Money talks, souls blight
These are all defined
Before you walk this earth
No care, no sympathy
No peace, no unity
None are known
In this life that we own

When you get threatened to attack your land
Everything goes just as planned
You won't give a f * * k, you hate the rulers
But seems you love being ***** by intruders!


Hold your mind in your own hands
Take care of your own kind
Take the control of your conduct
Slavery must destruct
Prove the world, both immature and old
These hearts are not cold
There's a difference, we have some sense
And we'll try to...reach the grace

**When you get threatened to attack your land
Everything goes just as planned
You won't give a f * * k, you hate the rulers
But seems you love being ***** by intruders!
Lyrics from the song The Game by Chaos Descent.

Written by Mahdi Monstrosity Dn,  
Special thanks goes to Sana Bareghi and Kevin Basir for their helpful ideas.
From the depression of the distances with respect to the horizontal and the planes that separated them from the surface, below the references that came against, single sediment had been destined towards the high eminence, before the fossal of megatons of aldehyde below the bilges of the final base, where the seventh rings of the goat ibex were perforated, all in the antipode of the Constellation of Capricornus; where the goats were enraptured in the binary of Wonthelimar, behind the floods of absorption that took the Diadocos far from where they should never have left, in order to extrasolar wishes and never to come. From the node of the supreme and poked aldehyde of the horn of Amalthea, with the bizarre analogy of Zeus and Wonthelimar, both mammals with milk from goat's udders, one from goat from Mount Ida and the other from Aldaine in the Alps, with milk from ibex and In the face of Amalthea that appeared in the fossal, all the Seleucid generals had already vanished, starting from the Viper Typhon, who in the retracting sub-mythology of Capricornus was transmigrated to Wonthelimar, swollen with the aldehyde transmuted into this alcohol and into the udder milk of the Ibix that He lactored, while they were all carried away as in the chambers of Auschwitz, in distant lanterns and lamps of the Calypso that he dismissed them, leaving them with the escorts of the ibex or goatfish in laudable stratagems, which vanished them away from their desires from a new polis or Nostos Patrída, sprinkling them with goatskin and flourishing essences of the kashmar of Zeus' nurse; Amaltheum or Amalthea.

The Iberian rings from the medrones in advance reached the two final ring nodes, here Wonthelimar intimidated them with an accurate adjacent bleat of the kashmar that rubbed their back, before the newest and last lux of Amalthea that vanished into herbaceous fruits that always He carried the barefoot medron with him, to start with the antlers dumbbells and re-transport them defeated to the species of snake that frightened the pastoral god Pan who shepherded, and then he submerged in the water after becoming Capricornus Ibex Fish. Being aware of this and of those who refused to continue listening, Ibics rings were unleashed until the seventh medron, feeding back with Wonthelimar who ad libitum created Venus in triads of Zeus. Wonthelimar and Amalthea were remote in the eighth and ninth medron of the antlers, they appropriated to each the portion of the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, and of the thirteenth Shemot so that their dualities and fumes from the unbreathable fossa would remain under the possessed surface of the pendular property balance and positive-negative gender correspondence. Right here Amalthea transmuted her mercy to save the world with her lactation of syrup and honey that was not in short supply, and that was extrapolated into a future abundance of food and nectar, making up for crusts that were uneven in average terms. From this bezel, both beings of the goat genome contributed to the pole of goodness for each one at the end of the benevolent cuirassiers of prospering, and not from the opposite that would lead them, even though they were dissimilar causes, towards a retrograde event that was not a consequence of the becoming of the plagues, and of the malignancy that does not flourish with the Shemot of the Parasha, to agree and lavish themselves on blessed virtues or deliberate wicked ones.

The meaning of a relative synchronic and factotum coexisting does not redeem the disintegration of an existential relativism in Skalá, the Hexagonal Primogeniture from one of its angular visions, metaphysically transfers from its temporary contingencies after its arrival on Patmos, while the temporary Seleucid temporality vanishes, It was affirmed from a contradiction since its truth was distended in the arena of Skalá not implying being welcomed, rather it was victimized by the absurd political dimorphism in a meta spiritual state, abdicating its dispersed retrospective, and now contemplating a compromise of the Hellenic genre, to gradually rebuke the virtues of their banners, twice as good for the purpose of reinforcing the will to accede, and not perish in the attempt to lead Alexander the Great. The criticism of founding the memories are of a revived past where it was not, marking the anthropological fact and false truth judgment, in meaning and contradiction in the polarity of both axiomatic genres, but that is saved when quantifying in who has to defend himself, if seeks to abrogate itself, in the entity that is characterized by induction and attraction of egonies and not of exo-egonies, thus describing it in the theme of "Do not support egos that recriminate other characters of frustration and empowerment of a Vernarthian logic split into Vern-narth. Vern has etymology of Bern or Bern olive tree of Gethsemane and narth of the ordinal scale that speculates its nickname in millions of northern sections of its origin, which subsumes the truth and the criterion of apocalyptic parapsychology, re-life of quantum historicity of the metaphysical and sub-block. -Mythological of Vernarth in his identical.

Everything seemed a strange self-annulment from a clear and understandable limit, but Wonthelimar rose to the surface of the Állos kósmos, finding himself in atmospheres of truth and reality of a Cantabile, who decided about the horse Kanti coming with him towing him from the Erebo de Chauvet Bilocated. As a musical and festive ending, he received them on the upper plate of the happened gestures, where a cabaletta rendered parts of a Cantabrian aria, in sulfurous and remorseful cavatina married with the cross emotions of a finale who sponsored expressions and festive Templar tales, with the descendants of Zeus or minor children, or grandchildren after this had to give him milk and honey but with báchkoi. Among the couplets that received him, some came about the smoke of terror that was confused with the dustbin of a Cavallo or horse acclaimed Kanti, with gasping bustling from a cardex, containing all the repertoires of a cantabile if this scene were to be repeated in The same epic allusion, and in random consequences, that go after a cavalcade that is not abstracted in real characters, but more in conformity with the well-deserved place of epic imaginative beings or in the operatic psychotropic of a duet, which would go flagellating in individuality and in each which is not content from another section of the Cantabrian.

The Universality of emotion and feeling is a tragic Parodo emulating voices of all those who sing from a cantabile galloping in their voices to the beat of the heart in some, and at the same time chanting stanzas and antistrophe in reverse epic and tragic lines, for the purposes of the coliseum that diametrically obstructs the Hellenic choir, which is attached to the intervention of the Hexagonal Primogeniture that was already beginning to rise in height, and in the prayers of Saint John, the Apostle and Prochorus from the captaincy and the ode that would begin to stanza, from the west to this and the antistrophe would follow with Vernarth, Wonthelimar and Alexander the Great from east to west. Ad libitum of their enjoyments, they were eating Greek snacks or Katogorias on the way in bases of Almonds, cinnamon, olive oil, sugar, and sweet wine that they carried on their backs in Rhytas shaped like the horns of Zeus and the Ibix of Wonthelimar, which the same Procorus carried on his golden back. The meaning is affirmed as a meaningless infringement of laws of temporality, and truthfulness at the expense of short evidence, and of facts that vanish in the light haze of causalism and not of effectism, when the adjective or noun is made of a strong verb in the Metabasis and in the imprecations that Vernarth gave.

Vernarth's metabasis: “the verse and the adjective will be subsidized by the noun in the construction of Állos Kosmo Megarón, from where mathematics will immaterially explain sap suckers under the noun in liquid milk of the color white and of the high nutritional value in female lactated, and of mammals to feed their goats or ibex. The soul of this prerogative implies that the verb will be to promote species rather than a nutritious milky elixir for Zeus, and the candor of his **** will tend to the bipedal or quadruped subject self-procreating from a Milky Specie. (Milky species).  Being ****** into milk by self-procreating snitches. Vernarth says (give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!)

Amalthea in rituals and relics from prospects of demigods was purposely cordoning them off in Mycenaean deities, from a contemporary Westerner comforting them near a hippocampus; with signs of ibex Capricornus, rapt at the nymph that spoke from Mount Ida in Crete and that she made congruent with the constellation of Capricornus, more precisely in the Cornucopia making this heraldry of Wonthelimar with Fortune, Abundance, Occasion, Liberality, Prudence and Joy. In a woman sitting on a throne, a young nymph with a flower crown, a naked woman with one foot on a wheel and the other unstable, a woman with sunken eyes and an aquiline nose dressed in white, two faces from the past and future, a woman happy with the exuberance of the Cornucopia with children and a palm leaf. Being the abundance that in serial Amalthea bordered all the ladies in different esoteric and Mycenaean prosperity, constantly shining with radiations on the present in the Unicorn Ibix, which Zeus left after breaking its antlers, unleashing kindness and plethora in fruit buds, and vegetables that were appropriated in the Fortune of Wonthelimar reissuing what in their domains they can do, and now in Patmos with its Cornupia being transferred from that liquefied shaft honey and milk cultivated with attributes of herbs contributing to the leisure, peace, and relaxation of the cosmic world that ascended in Wonthelimar as Ibix in advance of Capricornus, from where the Auriga always broke into his expeditions with a trajectory towards the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, where he brought it from the Capella Star for the femurs of the Diplodocuses who seconded Drestnia to watch over the hydraulic pits of the Koumeterium from Messolonghi, before traveling to Tangier.

The entire herd went back to an ancient promontory that was halfway up the mound towards the black styes or abscesses, in the central intuition of the fossa that began to dissipate towards their backs. Amalthea extends into the Állos Kósmos, which came in zoomorphic receptacles collecting the announced blood of the animals that flowed in black planks from the vortex of the fossal, towards the liminal or transitory sleeper of the fossal that oozed acetosities of the Aldehyde to be transmigrated after the bilocation of the Chauvet cavern. All wore willow halos on the crowns or diadems of their caps, including the proliferation of phantasmagoric Allies that went in rows from 780 to 680 BC. C., with fortunes of the Cornucopia that arched in magical arches due to the dissociative changes of the universe, as well as the circumstantial creed of some omnipotence that will cause emotional transgenerational transgression, in the rain vessels that they made fall from the Ombrio de Zeus, in a daily latticework closing the spaces, and only leaving for some intruders and onlookers to see his flashing Astrepé. Right here the diádoc fossal vanished, when it rose above the horizontal that poured into the Chronic Vernagrams of parapsychological personalities of ingenuity classicism and in Astro-concomitance, which would rethink everything that is past and future from a Vernagram, which is more than a compression of a mere future of the quantum spaces and the sacred medrones of the Ibixes with their direct relationship with Capricornus. Diverse capital moments were treasured in the breeze of the Vas Auric that was traced from the opposing moraine that fell in lapse-time, through the labyrinth in storms and thunderings that became planetary with the Lynothorax cuirass that Alexander the Great accommodated in the festoon border of his Aspis Koilé, kicking copiously as a sign of shaking the head of the gods who deceived him to be alive, and who was now reborn in the faith of Saint John the Apostle, favorite of the Mashiach and where he will have to wipe his face with the shroud of Veronica Before entering the Állos Kósmos Megaron that everyone built, in favor of a Panagia or Temple, unlocking the majolica that seeped out from the rest of the transmigration, and his own in the configuration of a corpse with a tricolor gesture.

The presumptive eradicated the side of the forearm rots that was being restored in Wonthelimar's laps, which helped him get up and catch his breath while the Katogorias snack filled his mouth with nectar and almonds with Macedonian Psiloi combat tactics with serum and flames of Alcohol dripped from her nostrils and sinuses in the sweet wine, which in pompous dilemma defied the judges of her life in the choir of the Bilocated Epidary Theater on Patmos, and in the ***** dry Kashmar of the orchard with the pale faces of the grotesque, that rested in the memory or Mnmosyne and in the fauna of the Thracian and Thessalian helmets.

Alexander the Great says: “here I agonized and now in the fresh waters of the springs of the Lerna, I will also marry the glorious mystay and bákchoi, in the memories of Vernarth seeing him besieged by Achaemenides in the stooped position of Dario III, to come purifying and sustaining of my limbs, learning to walk and speak in Neolithic techniques, which extruded me from the Lerna by barriers of the moon that shone from the bronze of my Leonatus helmet. Thus I could see that Vernarth, fought alone against thousands throwing fire through his mouth and his eyes, separating the waters of the Falangists, who plowed like ships deforesting the Persians, and leaving them in their mud, imposing glorious Hypaspists who unbolted from their back some arrows with heads of snakes and Hydras.

Vernarth watched as everyone climbed the Profitis Ilias mound, two hundred and sixty-nine meters above sea level, where the monastery of San Juan is located; here he was suspended in his solitude after everything that happened at the end of the moat that definitely I would return without the Diádocos, with a hint and its functionalities. From here Helios became genealogical, who snatched him from the kingdom of dead flowers, which were to be assumed from the Olympian where he will join him to the essential of Aïdoneus; immaterializing in the darkness of dizzies and the flowers that died in the genealogy of a new species. The scenic swept its cognitive and ferns with more than three hundred frank species that frowned like the enemy of an evil friend, with seedlings that expectorated from the resonance of the bushes that invited to thrive in the salty ripples that made a dreamer fall asleep on top of the kerchiefs or brambles that memorialized Gethsemane, burning his face and hands with psalms, telling him about his Baba. For when it is a luminary by night and by day, they will compare it with the white grayish drupes and mops, like those of the Bern orchard of Olives, in aqueous and resinous colloidal, which was crowned in harmony and syntropia in Vernarth activating intellectual conscious plantations, which will restructure its balance of ultra Hoplite, in metabolism of the Lentiscus flowers, with great brotherhood in the Olives that each time exercised the gift of bending their oleaginous self-species, towards planes of the Cornicabra olives, with large branches and high tree altitude that fruit within of the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko spin, juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, which with large branches and high tree altitude fruit within the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko line juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, and with polyphenols in scale geothermal energy that still leveled the Ponto Sea towards the tectonic plate to give it the flavor that was owed from remote prehistoric times.

Patmos was aborted from an immanent consent and new force of the impending enemy in Pythagorean perorations and an offending thought. From this prerogative is born the generalized punishment of sub-mythological ethics in favor of legacies of allusions to reorder or defragment the enslaving and demolished bio culture, which would begin from the establishment of the Vas Auric found in Limassol, which took possession from Rhodes with clean scenes from Tsambika monastery. The epic ran like icy cold down the shoulders of all those who sweated for the generation of cops, and in domestic evasions in superior lordships to Hades or Wonthelimar itself, both sons of flocks and goats that nourished them by providing them with a mountain perspective, as a magnetic pole towards gothic energy that ruled more in the Magnetic North Pole, and the geographic oversize that reviled latitudes in riches that would dismiss Borker and Zefian, as masters distributors of the ethics of the Áullos Kósmos of Patmos, redeploying thousands of dead from pre-Hellenic times, so that they recirculate through the roots of the Kashmar, re-sulfurizing cinnabar saps as the germ of the subterranean Acheron, which consecrates the living and the dead in the eternity of the infinite Duoverse Universe. The order will lie in semi-shadows that even in the dark provide the pleasant warmth of camphor, with advanced Horcondising formulas, which will appeal to hungry souls by suppressing gifted energies, and by inseminating them with ovules without originally conceived organisms.

From Hylates, Cyprus; Zefian came by order of Vernarth, assisted with the extension of the earthly laborers of the Attic Calendar on the twenty-first of September, from the device of Apollo at the site of Boeotia, and especially of the Boedromion. The arrows that Zefian brought had an instant Boedromion crossing the lines from spring to winter, with seven arrows that Zefian threw into the sky and never fell, but if portentously received in the virginity of animals. The flora with seven golden arrows of the Chauvet de Wonthelmar cavern, condoned the exhaustive end of the fossal where they still remained, in a gesture of tenderness and relative Mycenaean genealogy, from Crete the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree was approaching, originating in the Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points, begin with the first two arrows that they put on the string of the bow, each one flying north and south trajectories and the other two that were once again attacked with the east bow, to shoot the arrows of east-west with southern magnetism limits. Zefian's imagination was of proportions that were not limited without wandering from their phalanxes when they pulled the string, like joys of a ghostly existence that pushed him in each bolt, presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for belated courts imposed from a cosmos, which he led by insisting on his will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating the association of the hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychological of the feared inter-tale alive that rebels in the arrows that they had not yet fallen and did not know their whereabouts. As plates or serial hosts, they were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burn contravened Duoverse to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in aeonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities towards vast volumes of light-years, where eternity has no measure, let alone the existence that begins and ends born from a homozygous arising without a Universe, to hatch from the branch of the Heterozygous Duoverse, bringing different unions of eternal cells by universal divine decree, and not the union of disparate cells. The science of the Mashiach came in these divine arrows that marked the points of the cardinal in the numinous and exclamatory expansions of the exiled universe of Vernarth, towards the perenniality in itself, but being heterozygous for a world that would begin to live in non-organic cells, but yes of divine composition, over saturating the limits of the origin, and destiny of syntropy of the conscious actions of the metabolism of the Alma Mater and of the great doors when losing the bodyweight of the physical-ether, but yes from the platform of the Mashiach that will take them hands without leaving them abandoned, showing them that they were no longer children born of ovule-*****, but rather in the luminous matter, envisioning expansions of prayers beyond from the universe, where it will accompany them in a multidimensional plane..., and will have no end from a human scientific conception.

Wonthelimar says: “Since the omphalos was swallowed by Cronos, Hera's elegy was unleashed, for not raising her son Zeus in free clumps of goats and Ida's honey. I in the Alps went to the herd of the Ibix like a Zeus saved from the darkness of Chauvet in the mountains of Gaul. There are chisels that cut stones in beautiful whirlwinds, but I know that a lot of cosmology would not speak of the Mediterranean Cornicabra and its olive drupe, nor less of the Cornucopia that sinks with sumptuous and ephebian flavors in the fruit, and the greenish heraldry of the binominal that is disturbed in its phalanges eating and sipping honey, in antler pots with pride of the Ida and the Vercors massif”
Wonthelimar Amaltheum, Állos Kosmos Megaron
SassyJ Apr 2016
A cider and a minder
Passing time as a reminder
Pink glow and songs flow
A waxy time erodes the mow

Renegades and perspiration responds
Swimming in winded seas of  Jordan
Heated in space, evicted in their pace
Libido fails as the liquor dilutes in taste

Catch an esse as the moonlight smite
Hold another to fake a romantic right
Filter to the cards of ace as the one winks
Emotive intruders farm in fields of pastures

Imbued with alcoholic waterfalls
Molehills of termites condense lose soil
A lack of connection a taunt that apes
Future anthems triumph in hungered strums

Amused by the music erupting volcanoes
A morrow blows as the candle slows
To tow the tall grassed disused straw
A spring to summer that promises sun rays

A resolve to moderation to preserve modesty
A kiss stored forever peeping the awing stars
To guard a heart and hatch uniformity
Trembles justly forgotten in termed premises
Friday night people watching in a Jazz / Blues club.
Gerudo Jun 2013
New
They came through our Forest
And spread through it their stone,
Through this haven
They thought they could take.
And the Little ones ran,
Afraid and confused -
The play-place was changed,
But it was their mistake.

And the Little ones thought,
Burn the corruption,
Burn the corruption,
Light it on fire,
Light it on fire!


The blind mute child came,
And he tried to tell,
So the Watcher came
To see what they'd done.
He brought the rest,
The ones who could help,
But all were needed
So to this scene they would run.

And everyone thought,
Burn the corruption,
Burn the corruption,
Light it, light it,
Ablaze!
Ablaze!


So they all gathered round
And trapped the intruders;
They stood in the way
Of the corruption's path.
The New Ones were stopped,
Surrounded, even,
And they could do nothing
To escape their wrath.

And they stood and chanted,
Burn the corruption, and
**** those who bring it!
Light them on fire,
Ablaze!
Ablaze!


And the sword of the Angels
Was just over their heads.
They cowered and looked up
So hopelessly.
But the loneliest one,
Who saw so much loss before,
Stood in its way,
And helped them to see.

And they learned they knew not what they had done, and realized,
*End the corruption, but
Forgive those who brought it.
Light it on fire,
Ablaze!
Ablaze!
Cleanse the forests, and
Cleanse those who hurt them,
The flames will renew,
Forgive,
Forget.
Davina E Solomon Jun 2021
In Parsley, a Levantine munificence accreted together in Tabbouleh,
herbage that covers fractured bedrock in a poultice of healing.

Secreted within, lie igneous outpourings of bloodied tomatoes,
those solid affections that had welled through an ocean floor

as Neptune quelled Gaia's contractions, her waters seeking to burst
beneath the wrinkled surface of a salty sea. She, an underbelly of sky,
  
pregnant in the overwhelm of magma, sweating out her heart in fire,
muted like a moon of Neptune, in his retrograde soliloquies, yet mirroring

hers in icy resurfacings of skin. The God of the Sea,  boils an amnion  
to hazy mists, how deep will his trident plunge to dislodge those Trojan ships

of deceptions ? Yet, Triton blows a conch for Gaia, not for man's duelling
and his warring tribes. He soothes her feverish gnashing of thighs

labouring continents. Some fires burn in water, like desultory heartbeats
moving the pace of rocks through the ocean floor, spiriting away

to stranger places still, marking maps of memories in the beauty of
a stillborn magma. The limestone they say is no blood relation to such

alien fructification, those oceanic intruders, bleeding still, spilling
secrets in reds and purples. The acid tears spilled in lemons merely

neutralised in syllables, sedimented to a community of  limestone,
that possess no archaic remnants reminiscing through dead bones,

an age of glory. Now beauty lies in herbage over once raucous magma
and traces of a salty sea, freshness of life trailing her veins, in fragrance of Parsley
This poem was written in a way to thread together themes of Roman myths, the moon of Neptune and NASA's proposed Trident mission to Triton, the Jonestown/Lebanon County Volcanic field and a levantine salad. It is specifically based on the Geology of the volcanic field ara located in Southeastern Pennsylvania. Do read the synthesis of it all at davinasolomon.org/2021/06/21/a-levantine-myth/
sobroquet Jun 2013
renegade memories
relentless effrontery
rogue  fractured intruders
a formulable formidable aside inside
man is a modified monkey
a jackdaw in peacock's feathers
contradictions, the multiplicity that is a unity
a patchwork of odds and ends
snips and snails
                                  dreams and delusions                                
hopes and fears
a mystifying  knot of  phantasmagoric  disquietude

agape in a stupefied bewilderment
as an autistic child swept up in minutiae
inscrutable incongruities
melange of matters beyond  explanations
maundering machinates
necessary inventions repeating and reforming
sheltering some aspect of the mind's deforming
'reaction formations' sotto voce instructs the analyst
defending emotions at the personalities bequest
    merrily merrily merrily merrily,  life is but a dream
psychotherapy is no mere scheme
partial selves
Sharon Talbot Sep 2017
Ötzi

Even in my long sleep,
I dreamed of this.
A waking by strangers
A grasping of my wrist
And I wrench it back from them!

My dreams beneath the ice
Were warm, in summer vales,
Where children played
Under my watch, old but hale.
An easy thing, my guard was then.

I tend sore limbs as supper warms,
And aching joints inflamed,
And muscles tough as ibex horn;
For a while I can be lame.
And see my copper ax in the red-gold flame.

I dream of how it came to me,
After vanquishing a headsman.
Intruders fell before me!
And I earned this talisman.
Weapon, scepter, power of my clan!

Then I was sent across the mountain,
A lone journey I knew well.
To trade with kinsmen in a the northern glen,
With gifts, arrow shafts and tales to tell,
Never guessing betrayal that walked behind.

Alone upon the highest peak
I ate my last meal by the fire.
To me the gods seemed trying to speak,
As men I knew climbed higher.
We had words, but they were my kin!

In my long sleep I wonder why
These false friends turned to hate.
I’d watched over them, yet they cried
That my rule was done, and it was too late,
So I turned from them and faced my doom.

I crossed the last protruding rock
And now felt safe from them.
But then a blow, beneath my heart: a shock!
I fell in a soft, snowy glen,
And then a dull pain in my skull…and black.

Beneath me, I can feel the ax;
They’d never take that from me!
Nor my arrows, quivers and packs;
And risk the fury of the gods.
They’d taken my power and left a naked soul.

Five-thousand years I spent beneath the frost,
Until I was found and freed.
My scattered ions watched, angry and lost.
They dragged my body from its bed
And my soul from another life.

Now part of me lies in a crypt
Another frozen tomb.
If only I hadn’t run and slipped,
All those ages ago,
I would now lie in sacred ground,
Back in the earth to which all are bound.
Based on the 5,000 year-old, frozen body of a Neolithic man, called  Ötzi, resting under a glacier on the Austrian/Italian border. He has been widely studied and they theorize that he came from a transitional community at the base of the Alps in Italy, who were early farmers but also hunter-gatherers. When his stomach was finally autopsied, they found a meal of grain, mutton and greens. He was about 45 years old when he was most likely killed by an arrow in the back along with a blow to the head. He fell and bled to death between two large rocks, which kept his body safe from the moving glacier. Two hikers found him and assumed he was a recent ****** victim. The latter is true. His body is now kept in a temperature controlled refrigerator, taken out only briefly for various studies.
Nathan Klein Sep 2011
My world is a radiant caramel dewdrop,
amidst the blissful blades of chocolate grass
that flourish like an expert sabre,
waiting to sever me from bleak reality
and the coldest of darknesses.

My world is the battlefield of imagining,
waged between the disembodied armies
of beautiful youth and frantic existence.

My world is an upside-down fairy tale,
where the princesses are sovereign and joyous,
but soon locked away by charming princes.
Where the absent shoe is found at a ball
and is never worn again.

My world is a creation of innocence,
with generous fountains of exuberance,
and a statues built after words unsaid.

My world is the autocracy of rapture.
I am king, hear me roar.
The invisibles and the less-importants
are tacitly knocking against the door
of my nougat castle, intruders!

Arm the guards! Foot the gates!
Let it be known that my world
shall not fall to mere accusations
of "autistic" and "challenged"!

I am king! Hear me roar!
For Poetry class. We had to write a poem with a twist, foreshadowed by imagery. I love the images in this poem.
Parable Megaron Dodeká Spathiá: “Procorus perceptibly saw how the sky of Patmos was crossed by heavy metalloids of bronze, tin, and acrobalistics; for the cavalry of Kanti and his six Para Sinuses appeared who used to ride on the roof of the Megarons belling in the sounds of the acroteras. In these episodes, in twelve Swords that multiplied in advance by thousands, before the Megaron began to be built. In relevant and virtual dimensions, foundation lines, acrostics of Thessalian steeds on their palfrey, mounted Polish Winged Hussars, carrying twelve armor wings with twelve horsemen, adjoining the halo of heavy cavalry in Katyn, being abducted by a circum-regressive parapsychological Ellipsis of the 1939 event in Poland. Each rider was skewered in blood with golden wing feathers. In each of their hands, they carried the curved sword Szabla, to conceal the tacit target of oppressors and musketeer intruders from the armory hearth of the hypothetical-unknown enemy but if outsider, assaulting the flanks of the rooftops in the Virtual Megaron of Patmos, using Kopias or pikes that schemed on the impulses of deadly resistance and betrayed ancestry. On the roof that pointed to the southwest, the light of Orion was reflected by aerial forms of the Orpheum in the Aegean, riding on the high seas with the Exvotos or offerings of Cyclamen and Red Poppies, looming in majesty and in their nomadic obtuse compass of the Rapsodas Orpheming epic elegies, of those venerable and revived triumphs that were stretched out on the banner of glory and on the bed of epiphany.

Rapsoda proclaims like this: “In Katyn Wings of Golden Wood and Red Poppy, they adorned themselves with Bellis Perennis in twelve thousand rags, in our steppes harassing their wailing in blood wars, framed in large sections on the thresholds of the threshold of their mounted war. There were twelve thousand red poppies burning on the executory pilaster near Smolensk"

How much there is to be fed up in the Polish cavalry of the seventeenth century, that, upon glimpsing of barbarous sounds, the temple approached the altar of the Virtual Megaron, shining in acquiescent ceremoniality and counter-revolution of bloodless aristocracy in needy portals-living and mortals- living creatures, who posed in the rear of twelve thousand slain officers in Katyn Forest, like gentle medieval men in the contemporary untimely invasion. Here, in this place, the winged horsemen, snorted were by fate when they were sacrificed, like steel cushions galloping on their heads and sheltered by brotherhoods of Hussars that protected them with their lion and tiger breastplates with deterred claws.

Procorus, observed in the virtuous imaginography as medieval winged specimens, protected the frontispiece of the Megaron, in a battered super existence and trance of historical architectural pavement. Here on Patmian soil, each of the officers who was assisted by each Polish cuirassier of the 17th century with fierce wings, they were making them agonize with honor and glory, with those similar twice right there in their likeness, with interwoven discrepant blood fogging and executing apocryphal witnesses who covered their faces, overflowing evasion and delays of bodies stained with mourning and grief, in quilts of red poppies scattered and bordering a naive disarmed forest. On exalted memorandums and with secret cries of Adrastea procreating with the nymphs of her kind, they drowned the cry of cuirassiers like Didaskein, before sobbing on their topic, but of Pashkein in the foliage of the putrid hopes, of those who beat them for the back, in analogous vexation to Katyn's heroes. Here neither Crones nor Mother Rea heard them, only Adrastea prevented the cries of the men-children who were atoned for their backs; unburden them of the foliage of the Didaskein-Pashkien, in tears of solid mercury. Kanti's steeds rise up, carrying them the curved Zsabla sabers, before each is shot in the head, in the manner of twelve thousand Winged Horsemen caught in each Zsabla. These sacrificed them before they were killed at the waist of their head, not being expired by bullets, rather by sabers of honor and glory of their own winged protectors that would lead them by sharp weapons towards the holocaust of the Mashiach surrounded by red poppies.

“The red and fiery mist of the forest led the souls of the Hussars to pass through the sabers of their compatriots before they were slain by the Soviets, so their apostolate souls will be catechized by Zsablas of air stained of Red Poppies turned into the air of respite from the heroes of Katyn Forest, redeemed by the Golden-Winged Horsemen of the 17th Century ”

(Procorus in the immensity of the voices and epithets that were heard and differed in the volatile and explosive sabers metals, at present they were extinguished in their crooked breastplates and in their Polish beings, in the rear that finally Procorus settled them in warps of immaculate habit, suspended in twelve thousand Red Poppies crossed by their forehead, before being shot in the cortex and occipital lobe, forging themselves in the golden sabers and of transvestite cenobites who received them in their arms in the sublime stench of the effluvium of their blood and their hosts, never left and desisted of the bubbling by the figures of the acroteras near the Megaron, idem in the same Katyn Forest, surrounded in a string of the Rosary that was splendid in Procorus prohibiting them)
Parable Megarón Dodeka Spathiá
Joan Reese Jul 2016
Red rooster strut your stuff!
Puff up your chest,
Fill the room with your allure.
Capture an audience with your grace.

****-a-doodle-doo
All the little chickies gather ‘around,
Admiring your strong calls,
Sharp claw feet,
Beautiful red face,

Like a stop sign to ward off intruders.
Little chickies now feel safe.
Are you, are you a red rooster?
Standing firm in your space,
No one dares to give you chase!

****-a-doodle-doo
Are you one of the little chickies
or Red rooster strutting his stuff?
Admiring chickies or strong rooster?
****-a-doodle-doo!  Who are you?
Mike Hauser Nov 2014
To battle off intruders
I hired a dog named Goober
He came to me packing heat
I think it is a Luger

He's not a German Shepard
Though his collar and holster are made of leather
He graduated Obedience School
Proudly wearing his Letter Sweater

I pay him in dog biscuits
Which cuts down on doing dishes
As we toss ideas around
When problems arise Goober licks it

He came with papers so all could see
Showing he is the best of breed
Also to lay out on the floor
In case Goober feels the need

Goober has been a great asset
All the intruders around here left
In case you feel the need to ask
...Just don't ask the cat
Molly Morgan Feb 2010
Hidden stigmatas fall from your heaven
Solidly landing as a pathway to your righteousness
Running from your broken land
Broken lamp
To provide you with silver thread no more
Centuries of torment squeal under burnt rubber
And mudslides turn to avalanches
Room for the becoming
Pens leak ink over new white blouses
Draped over chairs like makeshift tents
Next to fireplaces to read
Seclusion from enormous intruders like yourself
Dusty pills litter the night table
Subtle reminders of doom once left
Left to chance
Echoing clacks as ***** scatter everywhere
Across the green felt next to the portrait
Covered by the heavy burgundy velvet drape
Whose eyes are blind to your savage beauty
You put the bell in the jar and cried out lonesome
Too many times before
You tried to pick some mushrooms
But it’s harder than you thought.

— The End —