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She got her God at last.

Bathed and in white saree
she offers him his choicest food
burns his favorite incense
sits with him to converse
about the day and events
argues to make her point
smiles at his complaint
of less salt or more sugar
cries at his question
if she misses him
as much as he misses her
and the two reach out to each other
more than all the years
of seeking the fulcrum
to balance the bond.
Fifty-nine hard seems short now years
today heard about a massacre
Fifty-eight, so far have died,
all strangers to the psychopath
who mowed them down
and I sat stunned crying
then heard about Tom
and tears fell down my face over my hands
fifty-nine known just today lives taken
so much more I sit listening to Last dance
with Mary-Jane
thinking of  everyone who died today
and didn't make the news but
i cry anyways
suppose peace gonna overcome
someday?
I've tried to help old ladies
bums
been a **** drunk discovering
the bottom
my self
given my heart soul and money
to orphaned animals
try to give forward

draw peace signs
in hidden places
and all caps LOVE
I hide in library books about the
holocaust
at times

I've sat giving lectures to the birds
to ants to trees, leaving traces
of my heart at their
root
and they seemed to listen
be aware of man's atrocities
clap applaud at times

I've been a minstrel
self-ministered
drawn on theologies
and  pathology
drawn and painted every self-portrait
I could while seeing
nothing

deeper
or wiser than
a sunbeam through limbs on the green
soft grass  near a calm stream
hearing her flowing musics
and cried among the bird chirps
and watched for hours
ants toil

trying so hard
so hard
to recognize
I awoke
with mountains in their heights
that spoke
of memories that wove
through knees
thighs
and ***** bone --
to the inky waters of the lake below.

In that cabin
where the sable pines enclose
and all about
from coral-white
to grayish
turquoise-blue
snow.

That scene:
on the edge
where the stillness
Knows.
Written because it was inspired by Daisy Clarke's painting, a friend, of a mountain cabin scene surrounded by a lake.
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
                          
                            we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.

Mindless,
         In the soup of silicone,
                            
                            all
Myt­h-makers,
         Pouring over electro-spawned
         networks,
                            
                            fall
Workers,
          In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
          megabytes and terabytes,
                            
                            down
Everyone
          Far from the wood, the brine, the
          mud that caked us,
          In tighter and tighter
          digitised  projections,
                            
                            click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’

Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,

                           enter:

Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,

Now a waking voice,
          Hardened, digitised, recorded in
          bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
                        
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
                          mirror.

          A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
          To record the echo in the hollow
          of our Being.
Wrote this a while back. It was published in The Tunnel Magazine, which was great. Anyway, hope it gets a wider audience.
On golden shores on white sands,
Stands a blue catamaran.
With toil, love, skillfully made.
Though paint chips off, colors fade.
It's built from logs of hardy wood,
A fisherman... his livelihood.
He sails each day, with hopes new,
His life, his love on a rippling blue.

On calm waters when sun shine beams,
When the shimmering bay glistening gleams,
When waves dance, in tandem sway
Where sun rays wink, hide and play.

On vengeful days when waters mock,
When menacing gales toss and rock,
When dark clouds engulf the bay,
When the world anchored safely stays.

But the sun kissed fisherman,
Sails each day his catamaran..
Never tethered on safe shores he,
For thats not where he's meant to be.

As he sails the coastal bay,
I see him fade.. far away
Singing songs, in the distance he,
His love, his life, his hope..the sea.
 Oct 2017 SøułSurvivør
Riham
the voice is haunting my mind
At first it was about little girl
Second time was about the Father
Now it's about the world
The world is a mess
War after war
Blood in every image
No peace
What's happening!!??
The end seems near but near is far from the end
They say go and Save yourself , go run to the safe place and grow your self thought and light the world
Am saying yes I will put the image away
Am clearing my mind
but what's this voice
Why I have voice of  people screaming in my head
Why is haunting me ...
Now tell me how can I run away from     this ...
The voice is haunting
The voice is haunting me
___
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