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 Sep 2019 Meghan
Eryck
LIES
 Sep 2019 Meghan
Eryck
All lies diminish me ---

As a card carrying member of the human race,
I consider it a disgrace,
when truth is subverted,
truth is diverted,
puts a frown on my face,
puts me in a bad place,
when truth is perverted in any way.

Lies weaken the laws of modern man--

If it's a shell game of opinion while avoiding fact,
modern society might as well take a giant step back.
To the plague days,
to the guillotine ways,
when might was right,
carry a big stick.
I dont want to go back to that.

Each lie told damages the soul ---

Are we here on earth to be false to each other,
to con with words or sister and brother? 
 To smother or dignity,  
break it and fake it,
knowing wrong from right but go ahead and forsake it?
I think no.

And the outcome of lying---

When those you trusted lie,
but don't  get busted - cry.  
Consider it the day truth died. 
 And down with the ship of truth goes honesty
       respect,
              rules,
                    civilization will fall.  
Tears to lend, prayers to send, 
lies will be the beginning, the middle, the end.
  Lies will be the death of us all.
 Sep 2019 Meghan
Born
This is to us
The ones who've been broken
Shattered and felt like dying

Pour yourself a drink
Take a long sip
And know that you'll make it
 Sep 2019 Meghan
Crow
Citadel
 Sep 2019 Meghan
Crow
Forced by covenant to conceal
The wound you carry deep
Too dangerous far to now reveal
The secret you must keep

The truth, it’s said, can set you free
Whose truth, I ask my heart
Some truth must hide, to shadow flee
Or slay as a poisoned dart

A truth which must be guarded well
Though to be shouted loud it cries
Must be restrained and forced to dwell
Within a citadel of lies

A soaring fort of alabaster walls
Splendid turrets as disguise
Conceals pits beneath its gilded halls
Where love lies brutalized

Though we ache for all the world to see
To the heart, it matters naught
Two souls are not united by decree
Nor love with license bought

So truth must wait and a prisoner remain
In lonely cell, there to abide
Believe dreams of freedom are not in vain
That gates, one day, will open wide
Winston Churchill wrote "In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies. " Just as in war, so it may be in love.
 Jul 2019 Meghan
Akira Chinen
Love is not a singularity
It is a whole
One cannot extract a part
Or worship only one piece
It must be accepted as a whole
One cannot only enjoy the soft warm places of love
The pleasent corners and pools
The weak seams that easily split
The lose threads that unravel with the slightest mistreatment
It takes great and delicate strength to walk its halls
Love is complex
And beautiful
It has hidden shadows and dark nights
It cries to the moon and begs for the sun
And it comforts them both in turn
Love is filled with dreams and hope
Longing and doubt
Wishes and tranquilty
Torment and viciousness
It resides in both angel and beast
Heaven and hell
And earth
In the tears of god
And the blood of the devil
One cannot claim it as there own
One cannot truely love any other person
Before loving them all
One cannot give love
Without giving themselves
First to love
Love is of our time
Our blood
Our soul
Treat it well
As you treat others well
Give your all to love
And give all your love
To those in need
Life and love
Though never perfect
Are always
Beautiful
 Jun 2019 Meghan
Nat Lipstadt
In my real life,
not a poet,
just an astronomer,
an observer of
universes, bodies,
places, faces,
visited, discovered,
named and oft,
best forgot.

I observe:

Some never find true love.
Some never fly first class.
Some of us
never see the
South of France.

Some of us wear
hand-me-down pants,
white lined creases when “let down,”
mocked, we never forgive ourselves
the shame of it.

Some never experience
reckless abandon.

Yet, some of us are
recklessly abandoned,
and never forget,
and never forgive.

Some of us lose
children, husbands,
avanti nel tempo,
before their time,
and
the anger is
forever, palpable,
costly.

Some of us
were raised by
someone else's parents,
and never rest easy,
the abandoned taste
always nearby,
a cruel living, breathing
teasing wasting

Some we can pass over
with ease,
as new tissue grows,
those cuts marked -
emotionally healed.

But the ones that scar,
the ones that visible scar
permanent reddened,
are the
holocaust deniers
that there is a real
promised land of
peace of mind.

Peace of mind -
not even for a second,
foretold but
unrealized,
a biblical myth,
a promised land,
a capitalist paradisal hoax.


Some never feel
public victory,
adulation, adoration,
always wearing the T-shirt labeled
Property of Someone Else.

Most of us remain
unpublished, undiscovered,
unremarked, blanketed,
cloaked in bills to pay;

Living a triumvirate of
heart ache, loneliness, worry,
our normal table fare
consists
of hand to hand
into the mouth
combat MRE's,
we engage,
to survive,
just stay alive.

We are not digitalized,
nonetheless,
we are
but digits,
our faces hidden, and
in no one's heart book
are we recorded,
friended,
yet our viewing habits,
purchases, secret sites
are enumerated, captured.

Some of us live
exclusively
in the real life,
never to escape to the
province of Wifi,
in the landscape
of the electronic mind,
an option for which
we are
untrained.

Perhaps sanctity of separation,
safety of text, email,
avec the ******* intrusion
of tweets are
the real life today,
games are always won,
and what we don't enjoy,
we just delete away

But In My Real Life
getting up is trying,
IMRL,
the trying is trying,
IMRL,
delete buttons don't exist      
in the keyboard
of our brains,
IMRL,
all we have is a
measly twenty six aleph bets
to find new ways to say
that living is striving and
what we feel is
oh so real,
not digital

IMRL,
when I laugh out loud,
the neighbors
beat the walls,
complainants,
registering their feelings
in my face,
in my book,
so to speak.

IMRL,
I got a friend,
maybe two,
all I need,
voices to help soften
the 400 blows of RL.

Their synthesized silence
of their breathing
on the phone
is precious unto me.

IRL,
limp from Friday
night to
Friday
night,
a bottle of Medoc
my weekend reward,
my bedrock cushion
in order to sleep.

After all these years,
gains and losses,
conversations with God,
I look up,
see the risk,
the slightest breeze
is a
hurricane wind.

The shaft,
of the
the sword
hanging above me
the hilt,
swaying in living color,
is no legend.

But what I have is
the ability
and maybe
the responsibility
to let anyone know
that
in my real life
anyone who touches me
with fine and good intent,
a momentary glancing blow
or a gunshot to the ventricle,
is part and parcel of
my real life.

This makes you real too,
savior, and hereby notified,
that you are not
just an observer, but
a poet of me,
an astronomer of my heart,
and namer of
a secret universe
inside of me.


Sept. 1, 2010

_____________________________
US Army jargon: meals ready to eat
nine  years ago I wrote like this.
 Jun 2019 Meghan
Penguin Poems
If want was water,
I would be drowning, my head under completely
and my oxygen quickly depleting.
If confusion was cold,
My fingers would be numb and I wouldn't even
have a coat to ward off the freezing.
If youth was you,
It would be slipping away by the second,
And I can't get a hold to stop it.
Now,
my air is gone,
I'm shivering to the bone,
and can't keep a hold on.
But, this is only a poem:
I know I'm not suffocating, subzero, or slipping.
But I can't help but feel like the more I write,
the farther I get from reality
and the closer I get to metaphor mortality.
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