Accept this call...
In need of repair
All parts important
String them all
He sits on the edge
Of a well worn seat
Concerns on the ledge
Extend your pen,
And toss him
We devour his table
Lick clean our plates
Guilty are we
Who are WE!
That we Expect!!
THAT…… we….. Expect!
Turn the page...
With words direct.
With outstretched arms
Convey with words
WE have been THERE
We ARE HERE!
So lend of yourself
Choosing to write ~ gave me a freedom ~ a practice ~ and ten long years of laboring with word placements. Sent to shadow my convictions when cleverly arranged ~ laced to tie in knots ~ thus I buttered my every send ~ a basket full of metaphors I left for the mend. The bleeding of my instincts furthered my discipline ~ I fox holed my reality for this obsession and polished my every mention.
I sent my journals in a haste without the flare of rhyme. But bursting with flavors to adore ~ a fortune of intense editing. I became infatuated with word placements. So to suit uniformity ~ I graced in a natural tone. Delivering principles with a gentle calmness ~ to fashion the write with harmony ~ yet disciplined and well measured.
Concise placement of my every word ~ together with my every reason ~ slowly allowed my words to free themselves of form. Following this fever to shell out words on paper, I ravished in the ceremony of it and enjoyed the challenge.
Calculating my vision for this send ~ I journal in a freer way ~ and shelter my light ~ and gather in folds. Without the confines of meter or rhyme this diamond of prose offered an elegance I could not overlook. A tool so nifty ~ it polishes you’re every write ~ delivering a gumbo of logic ~ served with the elegance of a waiter ~ thus delivering the promise you expect ~ prominent in formality ~ with a tie of respect ~ I polish and season for your plate. This here ~ is to celebrate and champion prose, a tool of the heart for the heart ~ found beside the poetic soul...
A facilitator ~ a communicator ~ a churning out of compressed diction ~ is the intent ~ distilled by the liquor of life. Justified is the send for those who convey their words in a humble fashion holding words to a higher measure ~ so without apology ~ these limits are on reserve ~ thus I shall flourish only beneath your light and your read.
Within this practice are many who are overburdened ~ grinding away ~ justifying every verse by stringent form. The friction of this ~ is a tightness of pen ~ resulting in the harmony being crimped and left out to dry. Thus to spoil beside the misfortune of lost rhythms. Finding place in the baskets of regret...
Better to milk the essence of your intelligence ~ by way of word play. Then you shall brave away any challenge or measure of the write ~ to unharness the fever of your discipline ~ all in prominent formality. So spread your wings and awaken your poetic heart ~ shelter yours ~ trust in prose.
Keep curiosity close ~ exercise your pen ~ ferment your style ~ it shall knock the boots off your readers. Spin them fancy drape your English. Drench them with your character and master your discipline. Refrain from the intensity of basic poetry ~ the anvil to hide ones logic. Mine the mental of your reason ~ write from the heart and success shall follow. Vent ~ thus glow in this forum of prose ~ to steady your poems ~ a gift to find ~ for another’s read ~ promise them clarity, give them insight ~ it shall gentle you calm ~ found in the readers trusting palms.
Here we leisure on steady rhythms ~ slinging principles as if painting portraits ~ all ventured for the write. Harness your diction ~ and fever in with heavy metaphors. Allow your confidence to gather steam and grow. Lace your language, buckle your soles ~ bamboo your sporadic springs of life with acronyms ~ venture beyond the scope of your greatest expectations and your words shall carry you free ~ to a measure of the highly refined ~ a carriage awaits you ~ to escort your work ~ to the Library of Congress.
Linguistic jewels are found here filtered, distilled and taken in one pint at a time. Gems for the share are found beside the precision of an honest pen ~ and sure as the open cold it shall shine of your dressings.
Prose a tool fit for a Queen and king and a meal for those who join them. A fun formula to escape the boredom of constant rhyme is the fancy. So journal your words for the kind ~ gentle the mind ~ and plate your meal for two.
Touch up your appeal ~ embrace your readers keen ~ champion your form ~ spotless will be the share ~ radiant ~ all with a high luster ~ also defend your every word placement when needed. A clarity to rejoice your sporadic cleverness to posture your diction righteous ~ shall also entertain ~ thus your work shall blossom. Simply amplify your message ~ needle your insight ~ trust your stitching ~ to discipline your style. Measure your wit by the pieces you share ~ and a gift they shall find.
Refine your intuition ~ to bless your pages with good intentions ~ pay the premium with gold nuggets of reason. Dance ~ not strain in your brutal edit. Ground solid your revisions ~ buff them
proper ~ simply hand over your wisdom and polish your send. Carry your principles as the bolt of lightning ~ understanding when to strike out flames with the passion and sharpness of your pen ~ so feather it ~ spin it ~ then spit shine ~ elegant is the commoner’s discipline here for the share.
An elder’s intuition ~ comes with time and reason ~ they fountain our knowledge. Exalt your apprehension of this grand wisdom by passing it to another ~ thus calming the words of your intuition. Yearn for your readers ~ they backbone our discipline by their precious read ~ so venture steady and seam them wise ~ milk them your logic.
Canvas your poetics ~ a castle of laureates awaits your presence. So package your riddles ~ bend your thoughts ~ and send them wisely. Simply puzzle your pieces together ~ without puzzling the
reader. Streamline your messages ~ striking chords by short tunes ~ soil your thoughts to enrich on native grounds ~ a place found by the good write ~ thus your pleasure will reflect you’re deepest of desires. So fancy in your diction ~ this is key to the reader’s heart. Calculate your rhythms ~ to fuel the fire of your every mention ~ all for the connoisseur’s desire. Hope your discipline invites you to the district of the fevered writers ~ refine yours ~ clever it ~ write.
The fast track ~ the short cut ~ the lost reasons ~ leads to losing one’s discipline. The copper keepers ~ saving cents but spending quarters ~ have little value for the fortune here. A same ~ copies worth a penny ~ are left unfiltered ~ resting in a jungle of loose words. Distil your forms in the silos of life ~ simply showcase your talent. Steady away from the cave of lost confidence found by the basket of simple verse and regret. Dive in ~ to a freer form, prose,
Make waves ~ make headway ~ make time, even if a luxury ~ refine your message with your priceless instinct ~ spill out revisions ~ complete your creations clean and it shall be entrusted as your standard...
Erroneously ~ misguided attempts to craft without close attention to detail ~ will shelter the chains of the first draft. Such left compromised ~ a mask for the beauty of your words ~ found beside the lackluster edit. It shall show stains of regret. So ~ correct yours kindly ~ steady away from the misfortunes of the canvas left tame by the product of laziness and one revision ~ in this shape it shall be left unread. So brand your words ~ or rather tattoo them permanent. Enrich your thoughts ~ simply yearn for another’s read…
Bleed a mist of your passions on the pages kept clean for your refined intuition ~ define yourself as a seasoned writer ~ so don’t confuse ~ don’t conform ~ adjust when needed to meal your message. Refine our English ~ celebrate the freedom of this language. Gentle your thoughts to fashion your poetic style ~ deliver the meal of your understanding ~ a gift to quench another’s thirst. Escape the blandness of simple repetition ~ censor away imperfections ~ sharpen the eye of detail ~ to make your blessing uniform ~ suit your readers calm ~ and such embrace them clever.
Merit ~ tenure ~ within this craft are blessings found in the halls of the write, in the spotlight of this art. Learn from the masters of verse ~ but search deep and far ~ for they are few, but great. Thoroughbreds of diction they are ~ dedicated to their practice and here highly respected in this forum.
This tambourine of life I chant ~ is prose ~ it’s a quicker relative of its classical cousin simplicity.
Intense wordplay is now in a fever ~ sew yours proper ~ fashion it to unlock the flavors marinate your send overnight as needed decide if the waters of uncertainty are ready for the share ~ lay heavy in your thoughts ~ sit beside the dancing blue waters of curiosity ~ simply refresh your intuition. A poet you are to this branch of arts ~ embrace your craft ~ become the gardener of your measures. Allow me this ~ I pound in heavy ~ you must bleed in your revisions and edits. This is the truth ~ this is the key ~ polish the write...
The prize in concert here is now at attention. Rejoice in your linguistic grains of insight ~ beach your bottle, to send your last draft ~ sprinkled in knowledge ~ by a toss over your head ~ and daisy chain this superstitious act with one carefree wish ~ a wish to master the discipline.
Drizzling are the beads of life ~ perspired in this mention to quench thy thirst with measure ~ to bend your wits ~ and squeal this pleasure ~ a treasure found by the seams of leisure ~ left tame atop the table of promise ~ a treasure chest of diction awaits ~ an opening up to all poets ~ is always in progress ~ don’t sink to lows of the cave of lost revisions left by the mounds of regret..
Works of leisure ~ found by the pressures of a finely tuned pen ~ are blessed by the fountain of one’s ink. You must torpedo your ideas to blast through the doors of the critics dismay ~ if they simple you today, posture them tomorrow ~ this must be the promise ~ so seek another’s measure. So drape your wisdom ~ embrace the cleverness of your threads ~ stitch even by way of candle light ~ to steady your helpings. Fine-tune until the end ~ to escape to the land of poetics ~ found by the books of leisure.
The keys to the heart and mind ~ are found nude and in it a cold state ~ if your lingo is without the dressings of your wisdom ~ so layer your send in coats to armor ~ keep the warmth of your diction ~ all in order. Make the medicine for your people and they shall share in it ~ by their loyal read.
Constant is the dripping of these words drenched in the rhythm for the dance ~ gentled by pace and brushed in ~ with paints of color. Wrap your lines for a new find ~ the palms of another. Prepare your plate, and serve seconds when needed. Poetry is the discipline ~ the gift is within your write ~ and the reason for this is the truth ~ the truth of the share. Condense your wisdom for another’s heart ~ make it a blessing of the refined ~ and they shall read with intent.
A wastebasket is the reward for laziness an odor left displaced by first drafts sent for the read ~ thus a treason of your intelligence. First drafts are not for sharing. Reward instead is for the precision of a quality work ~ so drape your diction ~ lace in metaphors ~ simple the promise and blanket your style ~ carry us home, deliver us ~ write...
The back seat for this romance is prose poetry. The essence of this style ~ is cleverness ~ or again ~ find the basket. Instincts now lead ~ to self-control ~ sporadically decorate your every mention ~ uniform your experience as the elder of measure ~ dazzle them with humble intentions.
A homecoming ~ and a pleasurable pot of stew ~ are in order for your every word ~ here its justified ~ thus is without compromise ~ a healthy meal ~ a service for two ~ for your poetic heart and this faint writers need to share. You are the seasoned writer and I am only here dressing this fit for two ~ you and I.
Style ~ rhythm ~ comfort food for the wise ~ is carefully refined and is treasure left for a royal keep. Astute intuition ~ and the luster of the read ~ weighs in heavy. Showcase your talent to stairway your confidence. Your piece shall be fit for a royal read, just canvas your hopes ~ pencil it if needed ~ for your every send ~ your every share ~ will prosper ~ if you practice steady and deliver in the delicatessen of poetic flavors ~ yes, prose!
A council of words ~ sent for your delight ~ are reinforced by the share. You see you must dress your send fancy in this forum of fun ~ to seam as the wise and calm. Sit below the blue moon of joy and taste the salt of the waves open at sea. Marinate your thoughts to tame your words, trust the lion of your instinct ~ follow your pens every desire. Spill out from the heart ~ dance on the waves of wonder and live as the poet does in the land of the free.
A poet full of heart I assume suits you ~ you are the master of your desires ~ such I tap dance for your delight. Simply If I may ~ just lose yourself in poetics ~ fence in your every measure ~ spill out from the constraints of simple verse ~ and your soul shall follow ~ trust your measure and sift your every whim ~ serve your plate without regret and bow before your readers and your work shall grow. You are the poet ~ and I but a simple man ~ who enjoys the write. Catch the fever ~ deliver the promise ~ dance with your readers ~ pleasure in the tool ~ the tool of prose...
Copyright Material 2013 ~ By Ray
the first time we spoke alone,
in an empty voice,
'die liebenden tot sind.'
and when i didn't acknowledge it,
you said it again
till i kicked you and snapped 'i don't speak german, you fuck.'
that wasn't my line.
i was supposed to tell you they were dead from birth,
or something equally poetic.
i was supposed to be a walking paragon of
i was supposed to be the love interest
in the tragic love story of your life,
you told me
we would bring each other down.
you told me the world was cold
and we would drown in frozen lakes together,
when hypothermia turns to terminal burrowing,
we could burrow within each other.
you told me i would kill you.
i spent 5 hours in the shower boiling off my skin.
you and i
will not sink in tandem, you and i will not
fall apart in unison,
i am not your personal suicide pill.
i am not your romantic,
in helpless self-destruction,
you're talking like we'll die tomorrow but i have plans to live a while yet,
if you jump from lover's leap
then you will fall alone.
i think you think
i love you.
i think you think i value
more than the voice of my thoughts.
it is december and the sun is too bright
to look anywhere
but your feet.
it is december and you're waxing poetic
about the boy who broke his neck
falling in the forest at night.
you look me in the eyes like you're trying
to crawl through my cornea.
you make eye contact an act of violence.
dream about me?]
you're trying to be poetic.
i don't tell you about when i dreamed
you snapped your neck
while we walked in the forest,
and i left quickly,
lived peaceful and alone.
i don't tell you about when i dreamed you moved on,
or that reoccurring dream where you spread my legs so far,
they snap out of the sockets.
i tell you i don't dream.
i tell you i don't sleep.
i tell you
i wear boxing gloves to church
but jesus never shows, and really,
i shoulda known he'd run from this fight too.
i tell you
i wear boxing gloves to bed but i just end up
chewing on the laces,
boxer's fractures never visited me.
bar room fractures on the nightstand.
[i dream about you,]
and i take another hit.
you've been in my air for six months.
under my skin for five,
and it's been three months
since you stitched our veins together.
i fall asleep wearing your scarf
and dream of garrotes that smell like you,
dream of strangulation
and bruises on my throat.
i don't love you like a motive.
you don't love me like a person.
you told me i had a clean heart,
you told me i was an innocent soul,
you told me you would corrupt me, don't
your touch doesn't have the power
to make me sick.
only i can do that to myself.
i'm not a virginal sacrificial saint
for you to build altars to.
lets see if we can cut our hearts out with our fingernails.
i bet that they'll look just the same:
bloody and red.
the same size as our clenched fists,
guess it's not your fault
you never learned the difference between the two,
you keep trying to fight with aorta and arteries
while my knuckles bruise your gut.
i taped my hands and i'll tape yours too.
this will be a fair fight-
don't break your wrist
when you break my nose.
i'll teach you i'm more solid than a saint.
i'll teach you i am bile and spit and piss.
i'll teach you to love me human
or not at all.
die liebenden sind nicht tot ist.
die liebenden sind auf einen kampf vorbereitung.
We went to a reading
You sat leaned back
With your arms crossed
sighing at every read line
aren't they just so pathetic
The person reading begins to cry
reading his own words
I press forward
and rest my elbows on my knees
and my chin on my hands
I can still hear you
in my peripheral audition
rubbing your eyes
with your thumb and index
with that smile
making a show
of your disappointment
You were once in his shoes
reading your own work
self-conscious and vulnerable
full of doubt
Then someone called you "good"
and now you're this
The walking image of what it
means to be a Poet
and aren't you just so damn poetic
How to be a whore. Step one, find a lover, preferably one of the same gender and do not render yourself completely helpless against her charm, don’t hold her too close because her eyes are fire and you must be the moth dancing seductively close to the flame but don’t mame yourself with her words, don’t forget that she’s leaving in a month and you the moth only lives a few days don’t fall in love with her, that would be gay.
Step two, get another lover, preferably one who is awkward and cute, someone who can flip you on your back and pin you but doesn’t because he is gentle someone who fills himself with your smile and takes solace in the fact that just because you’re fuck buddies doesn’t mean you’re not making love, but soon he’ll discard you, not like a broken glass he won’t smash you. More like an apology an epilogue to a song you didn’t know you knew the words to. He will remind you, you are human,
acquire a third someone poetic, you know these are just safety nets in case the first one leaves you, you heave through the pain of every meeting but you still worship your first as if she wasn’t your curse but your lover, but you can’t love her.
Step four; have sex with them, this might seem like an obvious choice but if the voice in your head says it’s a good thing that this fling isn’t fool proof prove them wrong you’re allowed to say no sometimes
Step five: Stay alive amongst the bodies huddled close, don’t fall in love with the first, she is not well rehearsed or as well versed as the third don’t miss your second, not the way he beckoned you closer and don’t hold her, don’t hold her don’t love her, don’t kiss her, don’t miss her just fuck her she’s your sex toy and you’re hers don’t fall for her.
Step six: solitude is simple, measure the space between his dimples on the off chance he’s ever smiling, the timing is perfect but you can’t purchase another round of bullets for this gun, it’s all fun and games just don’t lose it, don’t love it just like the flame
step seven: minutes in heaven is your new best friend, because a new pair of lips will remind you that you’re not as alone as you know you are
step eight: debate telling her how you feel and throwing away the third, but then say no because after tomorrow she’ll be gone and your hands will be tied to his bedposts where they belong
step nine: cry. Because you couldn’t stop yourself from falling and calling her name as you felt the soft grass beneath you.
step ten: send a quick message to the second, thanking him for showing you that it is possible for you to mean something to someone without hurting them. Let him know that before this you thought that destruction was your only coping mechanism because you have destroyed so many before him and now things have changed.
Hold her. You know deep down inside that you can’t hide from the way you feel you can’t exchange your emotions for a safety net you just have to let the pain sink in.
I hate the word beautiful, but it’s all that I can think of right now, there’s the sounds you make when I grab you and the color of the bites on your neck but there’s nothing in between the rapid heartbeats in my chest and the next best thing sitting beside me, you could hide from me, put yourself in a little parcel and package your mind up for sale until you’ve sailed half way to Australia, you could have lied about your past and cast aside a shadow of a doubt but instead when I settled down beside you, your unexplainably soft lips touched the tips of my fingers and lingered on my hips and dipped beneath me whispering beautiful.
I hate the world beautiful, its cliché. Thesaurus’ are made for a reason, I’m caught up in the changing of the seasons and it would be treason to say there is a more fitting word that I’ve heard about you but… I’d really rather not admit to thinking your be-
When the snow softly falls on the lit trees in the moonlight, or the message lights up the screen on your phone and the butterflies in your stomach start to scream. There really isn’t another word for your eyes blood shot and captured by passion, I only have some idea of the way you taste but I’d hasten a guess that it’s sweeter than sugar. That! Was cliché, but hey… please say you’ll forgive me for being so damn forward.
The smoke in this room makes my eyes squint, if you could take a hint instead of taking a hit we’d be a lot closer than we are. Thanks to Mary Jane, and if it’s all the same to you I’d like to say that you are handsome, attractive, be-
I dislike the word beautiful because it’s trivial, of course I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t think you were hot. Because God damn do I? Not a volcano, you’re molten lava, after the fires of Pompeii. You’ve single handily wrecked me, crashing into your shore I’m sure you still stretch out your arms to heal the burns left by your fellow man. I can’t stand when I’m around you, my knees quiver and I shiver from head to toe. I must really think you’re beautiful
And I am not about to deny that for every word I’d rather use the word you like best is the most appropriate. And it’s a scientific fact though it’s not backed up by experiments but experience; I’ve found a new way to exercise my right to use something redundant. Here’s my poetic licence, you can check the date of its expiry, I’ve hardly gotten to know you but I know I want to hold you while it’s snowing outside and hide with you from our not quite forgotten fears. So here I am, standing quietly. Stripped of my superfluous splendor and you still look at me in awe, everything is still in this darkness and this snow, I’m not trying to be an actress for you, this isn’t a show I’m just here so you know that it’s true. Your tongue traces your lips and you murmur.
They are hanging up
strings of light with gloved hands
and it is so easy for them
to create stars
to fall from their roof
(the world's oldest face),
dressed in all black you
steal your parent's cigarettes
don't wear gloves because
numb fingertips are
this shit is so stupid,
they hang the lights while you
soak in warm water
for so long you think
"I have shrunk,
I hope I have shrunk."
Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native swimmer by poetic luminosity.
A prose in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the diver does not care.
So, take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the swimmer seeks to hear;
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
The inquisitive diver infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin, abysmal.
Rejecting all fables history’s abettors inked true,
The swimmer seeks fair chroniclers as wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here;
A land said "not to exist", so how can it disappear?
Most fabricated history our beings cannot fathom;
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
While Illyria’s rebel ship sailed upon history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Calling curious minds to ponder this hell of a theory,
But consider the diver's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent;
Not man-written guidance begging cents to repent.
On modern Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails;
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
But her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem all these conspirators of ultimate treason.
And as the State buries the intellect for piercing wits,
The native dog barks, upon foreign command he shits.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species;
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces;
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease;
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves, those below made to inspire,
The dopey dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This damned work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
The dog's disintegration, painted by his foreign master
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
As today’s worthless pawns in corruption they engage,
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage;
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play.
Our minds confined to idiocy as the capitalist’s prey.
Now, a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a 'finger.'
Please do not look into My Poetic Eyes
Your heart will be captured by this thief in disguise
My true eyes you will never see
My imagination expressed through my poetry
I'm just another tortured soul
Who has traveled down many dark roads
Observing life's pain exposing the lies
My reality illuminated through My Poetic Eyes..
Fashion this as liquor to give spirit to a song in write.
Seen seldom to weigh words at play in search,
sewn expensive for time spent in trust and recite.
Penciling not for profit so rhythmic this may show.
Find in the presence to open and reflect our woes.
Only prescription for uncommon those in write.
A same those who compose.
This on display is the compromise
of sheltered dreams ~ and the soul,
of rhythm in gentle prose.
This is the allure of the jewel of life.
Sent as promise a same a wish.
Stem those genes and make heavy this vision ~
and prayers in might.
These are our rays made ink,
to weigh the pressures of waves
constant in cycle, to detract from nature’s
Heavenly sight. Lost we shall dream
and ever so patiently grow old but in heart live bold.
Rugs were in Persia mathematically
correct and with an Indian craft
colorful, Heaven sent. Only captured in
a metaphor this day, so men do master,
so simple this way. Simple this as to
measure the years past, shudder away
tears, for the river purifies our passions
commandeered. So culture our gardens
to prosper and replenish, in the green
untamed, and natural in wonder,
Today we thimble a sew for tomorrow,
for our craft is spared only to simple ~
ness of editing, not journeyed journals
to an ever-changing composition
Perhaps unfamiliar this vest, this
life. Sample the living, in books that
inspire. Dismal I think the desire to
purify a pen in this heavy practice, a
dance an art. Time lends a flavor,
marinating appealing to a fashion so
Always calm to prolong righteous
reason, modern making, yet captured
still as storytelling. Uncommon to cues,
but refreshing at leisure, is now a
computer who makes simple what once
was wasted time. Measures made in
this art are laborious, the passion is for
the pen, reel it in as your tool, rations
will in turn ~ give as a well to nature
and sow, the seed of the write.
Refinement ~ un-forsaken, notes of
detail, must reinvent and inscribe in
ink. The bank of intuition lay tender as
our diction. Replenish in the soil of our
native grounds to seed another tool, the
luxury of our lingo. For inspirations
may befriend or become uncharted if
left in the cold. Sold but without a
surrender to all integrity, we will call
for many souls to ship and receive what
Forefathers intended. In over our
heads, over watering our behaviors,
half unknowingly over diluting our
mental treasures, is this the liquor of
life, all too fancy in measure but it was
the tea of rebellion ~ and so I toast ~
to a drink tonight.
Inherent as memories of a generation
now surely within time, we will fill the
promise within crafted lines, and file
away ~ many promises ~ many
revisions, many times. In spoil we shall
not surrender our bounty of honesty and
wisdom, so gray in years we
mend. Dent our self-serving self ~
respect, make and justify the wheel in
role common. Like a beard in keep,
intention is relevant. Surely women
refine makeup as to show beauty in
character. Thus what we intend to
refine is an endeavor to unwrinkled and
celebrate the qualities of growing
old. Time is of new defining, for the
times are naturally at all times ~ in
ritual of change.
Memories to grace the gift of sight are
the shades to carry our reflections
away. One, who trusts and so cares, lay
in the daydream of light. In a wish sent
salient, reference to eyes unveiled,
patiently as a seed shall ripen, the
flavors of life will flower in springs
day. We hanger thus shelter, the rags
made clothes, best when leather to
weather firm and tight.
Regift the promise, to harness the wind
and make words potent as those before
did without regret. Today in general we
lean and conform on the fundamentals,
too disciplined, mirror of stale
literature. Similar to wood varnished
but without the stains of life. First
revision is not for giving, only what is
taken, luxury of time. Color your copies
of the wood you talk in and pencil in
your pressures to relieve the pain,
simple ~ ness and cold feet lay sold, as
buttered bread to fill. But imperfect, so
forthcoming, wills the literature of today
finding promise in ceremony by
charting drafts and revisions to send in
message to those young in read.
This voyage is regretfully gentle as our host
made monumental any verse, so breathe
within the soul and hearts of men, to
find new styles to milk the mind of
reason. Leafs from the tree of intuition
censure the picture, sell in the filter of
Freedoms fight, not first drafts ready
Battered but purely by pace and
meager beginnings, the wave of
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will saddle and shelter the idea
profound. Don’t toss away the raisin of
a pen in hand, for we lean to easily in
bits and bytes. Promise of Heaven’s
pennies falling in rhythm will sing
tonight. Majestic in find, common in ground,
gift a find, in leisure, in time. Gather
they guard and uphold the greater good,
not to entertain but inspire. Just as
ones soul is when right. Humbled in
behaviors so chips in clever may
fall. But poker face we have
become, once centered in earnest of
essays in rent, now owners of ideas
embellished ~ in verse ~ our native
treasures. Second, we charter the raft
of ideas in mend, to conceive works so
aspiring as the poets and linguists of
historic claim. So riddled ~ so
mastered. Surely a new discontent shall
offer, in a pebble of examples met, with
practice and structure our youth will
Demand must be patient, for
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will nurture and mother our future
Leaders to a discipline in their own
right. Never forget the days of past
generations for they marveled in the
arts ~ and in rain it falls in our hands ~
to luster and defend. Poetics are too
political if not in share. Protection of
this is how Freedom was rung. The
hungry will maintain its resolve and
rightfully so. Riddled as sow ~ these
lentils, this meal, these feathers, this ink
shall fuel the fire. A dance in the
pillows of night shall brush the painting
in the autumn of one’s days. Flaccid in
so many ways. Glorified by the shadows of protection,
but only one day is stored for this
intention. Freedom is in the work
engraved beside it, within it, sharing we
celebrate it, and our Brave provide
it. Celebration comes by way of duty
and hard work, and it rises high and
early in the dawn. Yes, on the Fourth
Day of July. Food and pleasures are
gifts for price paid by our Soldiers and
Agencies who protect and defend our
freedom and intelligence, and calmly
watch over it as we carry along. All
under the calm watch of Gods
umbrella. Future dreams are blessed a
same, for all under this Flag by notion
alone, seam and dress and hence sail
with solemn truth. Trusting the winds of
reason to keep us Forever Free and on
course to replenish the soil, for those
young in years. Students in the day
dream of life are in the send to allow
their pen to charter this peaceful but
daunting Nation to one of peace and
prosperity. Willingly and calm the Lion
stares afar from American shores,
Democratic in nature and always
reinventing in this idea we call ~ the