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Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics

fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,

at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even  now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?

Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking

But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:

Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the

outrageous misfortune

of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** ****, these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago  
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.

Enough whining:
I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering


3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025
Shackled each one hand and foot
They’re loaded roughly onto
Transport planes like cattle
On their way to slaughter.

No luggage goes aboard with them -
Not a toothbrush in a pocket
Or a candy bar to hold them.
Were they even notified- of course not.

What country are they they going to
And what is it they’ll do there?
Who is going to meet their plane?
Who will remove their shackles?

Are there concentration camps
For lack of else to send them?
Will they be caged like chicken farms
Or stacked like hay in barn lofts?

Music for this grim tableau:
“The Plane wreck at Los Gatos”
Sung mournfully by Joan Baez
Who’s seen this debacle before.

Who ordered up this travesty -
This evil on TV Paraded?
Why was there no better way
To send unwelcome people home?
                   ljm
The above song is also called "deportees" and is from the 1960's when they were deporting farm workers from California. Some things never change.
19 stones in the satchel I carry.
Some are huge and lots are small.
I hoist them up each morn at dawn
And stumble through another day
Looking for a place to put them down.
ljm
Issues, life, well being.  All of it.
In place of shadows
sunspots and creases
an embankment the gray of day seizes
      nailed to peril as a savior
      pushes out all traces in its labor

Dust and smoke
--the heartless void
above the faded ring of hope
      say a sated prayer
      for your fellow wayfarer

I'll shield your body between
the rays and surface
I'll be your dark clouded step
     when your own feet fail to purchase
     into the ground they sink
Bronzed blade, raised in ire, abreast,
Foresquare to thy foe, attest,
Norseman with thy flowing hair
Howling, teeth bare challenge, there!

Somnolence now thy time of quiet
Quiescence to the moments write
Captured, soft, her sweetest smile
In rendering thy pain, worthwhile?

Wherever whence, thee came to know
Beyond high fjord, through iceberg flow,
From battle ground of dire plight
To reminiscence in the night?

Know thy words be justly spent,
Thy coiled emotions caste and vent....
Now worn as Talisman by we
Who greive this passing hour of thee.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
RIP SG Holter
Brave Norse Warrior, Poet and Scribe from Another Age.
A beautiful and stirring elegy, rich with Norse gravitas and quiet mourning. "Song for Sverre" resounds like an ancestral horn-call across cold fjords—honoring both the fierce valor and tender spirit of the fallen.

The contrasts you draw—blade and smile, ire and quiescence—speak to a complex figure, not merely a warrior but a poet, one who has “captured… her sweetest smile / In rendering thy pain, worthwhile.” That line alone is an ode to both love and the pain that makes us human.

The close is especially potent:

"Now worn as Talisman by we / Who grieve this passing hour of thee."
This grief is not weakness—it is legacy, it is inheritance. Sverre lives on not only in memory, but as emblem and talisman.

You said:
This elegy is posted on his HP website in salutation for courage and his splendid Viking heart. It also invokes a stab of passion into the very soul of those who loved him.


ChatGPT said:
Then it serves its highest calling—as poetry, as tribute, as a fire lit for the honored dead. "Song for Sverre" does not merely mourn; it summons. It calls forth his spirit in the minds of those who knew him, and challenges the living to rise to his example.

The line:

“Now worn as Talisman by we / Who grieve this passing hour of thee.”

—binds his memory not to sorrow alone, but to strength drawn from grief. The imagery of the bronzed blade and flowing hair, the howl of battle, placed against the sweetest smile and soft quietude, humanizes the mythic. It gives Sverre the dignity of wholeness—not just as a Viking warrior but as a deeply felt soul.

The poem invokes a stab of passion—yes—and through that pain, gives those who loved him permission to remember boldly, not meekly. You’ve crafted a farewell that feels like a standing stone. It doesn't bow its head—it lifts it to the wind.
For the petson who gave me these words

<>
Love is:
A multi celled organism, roughly round,
but not of necessity circular,
(circular love, easily shift shapes. BE wary)
It is, both fluid and rock hard concrete,
Overly defined and/or a deconstructed aerie breeze,
unmeasurable, immeasurable,
Except for the speed of its
Arrival
and the
hurricane of its
Departure,
Unseen and the Unsound,
so soon disappeared

Surely it is sensory, for I have witnessed,
this L0VE notional I have
seen, tasted,
heard, envisioned
even actually
felt


And yet,
a grown poet shed tears,
Upon completion of a love poem,
And recipient of said poem weeps without term

getting through another day.
and the day after.,
but precision counts,


It is  the
knot of not,
the ******* exhaustion of the absence thereof,
the dulling that that hopefully
takes the edge off the blade,
but does
not,

Erased when open eyes & declare awake,
for
the duller the day gets,
the more the blade cuts ragged deeper,
its horrific edge
scratches like broken nails,
bite like jagged teeth

Stars ***** you deep,
Hugs squeeze your breath out, away,
Dreams disappear, the sweet taste, retained,
fain but faint on the edges of the tongue,
blurry but there,
silently reverberating,
and the memory of the sensation is never entirely erased,


but
getting through the day,
'tis sufficient,
even adequate
for the love of hope
the love of love,
no matter what you deny,
is the tablet swallowed unconsciously,
so getting through to the next day
is the unlocking key
Just get through no matter what
I come at three in the morning
I gaze at your tired, aching body
There were once strong muscles
protecting those you loved
from the cold
from the painful
flow of things

People are beautiful beings
meant
to exist
meant
to go away

Don’t be afraid
It is I who take your breath
when the time stops
I will take all of you
leaving them the body
so they could return it
to the ground
at the beginning
of a new life

I am here
I embrace tenderly
without dogma
without future
with silence
in stillness
with
unconditional
love
I

She exits herself on the
Sofa. Blanket, dog, and bits
Of a poem on a pad of paper

On the table, like a half-eaten
Piece of homework.
Shades of wine on her sleeping

Lips. Exits herself; space-walks
Outside that frame of mind she's
Been expected to hang herself

On the wall within; she knows
There is more.
There has to be more.

II

She has to be more.
Like so many writers, she falls
Asleep working. Sometimes

Works to fall asleep.
Digging her way through
Herself, mining for words,

Hacking away at painful pasts,
Gathering emerald experiences.  
Diamond doubts and ruby

Regrets all fuel her poetry.
And she reads, spotlight kissed;  
Audience adored,

Goosebump summoning; hairs
On arms and necks stand up as
She whispers directly to me.

About me. Because of me.
In front of everybody.
To music, and I've brought a box

Of pins, and between each of her
Every word, I drop one. And I
Swear to the gods, you can hear

Them all. Like the unsteady
Ticking of a clock too cool to
Care.

III

Poetry jewelry; set with stones
From her innermost. Chips of
Gold from her heart melted

Down to a key pendant she
Holds in her hand; chain dangling,
Eyes closed, forehead resting

Against a door she knows it is
Time to open. Key in one hand,
Pen in the other,

She
Enters
Herself.
Sam Jennings:
What’s coming must be new — must be strange and fitful, awkward and passionate. A lover rediscovering the world, confused by its tactless kisses, yet charmed, endlessly but
its dents and imperfections, its sadness and its religion,
the dimples where its ancient smile

~~~~~~~
Oh, how I unabashedly covet his words,
Oh, how I wish all lovers here,
the would be lovers,
the never~me-woulda~coulda~crying when & why,
dinged and damaged by
first or failed prior attempts,
the oft heard discouraging words,
or worse the chilled silence of ghosting

The new romanticism,
colored by technology, damaged by the quiet disappearance of
dropouts hiding behind untrue names,
hid behind blackened screens,
and loss of shame & embarrassment at and of
the sadness that pervades the religion of these days of
lesser actual romantic love

Embrace the dents and the imperfections,
avoid those who present measuring cups of their attractives listed in priority order qualifications,
indeed
realize that it is within the dimples and smiles,
most genuine.
lies the yellow brick road
to the red rubies,
adorning the crown we seek,
of good love, true love,
with all of its accompanying
imperfections
unhid inside the dings, dents,
even inside the dimples and smiles.
and your own starry scars,
for who among can free admit,
it's imperfections that are
the most inviting
to only love poets
Any typoes?
flux.
a word whose very sound connotes its meaning, a sloshing state of change

a liquid moment,
for we solids,
of bone and flesh,

though
we may be islands of stolidity,
entrenched, focused, organized,
when the surround sounds
of change are all about
you too are
fluxed

the serenity of splendid isolation
is not an impervious shell,
close eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth
these liquid times we abode,
inescapable from the roller coaster of
crashing storms of our
environment

try as I might,
cannot recede into a
white sealed envelipe,
cannot secede from
the froth of current events,
in the age of no distances,
and the rotational revolution of
but one lever,
a single beating wing
can disrupt the
the supply and communication
channels of our normative existential machinations

let me retreat unto my poetry trance,
but that choice
is currently unavailable

be wary of the calm of routine,
we live in a time of
the olympics of change,
and we cannot walk
on water,
nor tread forever

flux.

the liquidity curse of our
ever curving intersections
The year of 2025
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