The truth is I never cottoned to that name, no sir, no how. Maybe it was a reference to the Dead Poets movie, which is now just an old teen movie.

Maybe it had to do with all the troubles you seen in your life, and that bad part was dead and over.  Ok that I understand.  But you can write about it, but if you really gonna claim you left it behind, which by the way! you have, the name keeps bring it up fresh and that is just plain sad and makes me madder than hell.  

Even still I always say oh look its the
Deed Poet
writing me about a a life and a world, I got no clue about in a way I could never do, don't got the  heart, the eyes to see the  way you do brother.  Yup.  You just misspelled it Ded and Not Deed, cause you write on a stupid smartphone in the dark and is that any way to write beautiful poetry, dummy?

But I don't like pretending though I do it plenty, but comes along a day, a thing, don't know what to call it any more, and I said to myself,
Deed Poet, that's like making his mistake permanent, and I don't like that.  

So I cast about for a new name for you, for what is a man and a friend for, but to make sure the world knows you for who your are...so with out further ado, addoo, adoo, I aint sure I know how you write that word, but what I am sure is from now on I am gonna address you sir as the
Unbreakable Poet.

don't like it? Too **** bad. That is what you are, and that is what you will be now and forever, *******! don't go arguing with me, cause I am close to blubbering as it is...tried to write some poem which half started ain't half bad, no, it is yo totally awful, so I quit it in the middle and instead I am gonna throw back at you your own words,
for none, bar none, coulda said it better...
so I don't give a good ****** if you change it or not, cause I already done the tinkering in my head to make it so...

Your wisdom is massive,
But I see your invisible signals,
And I know you fill the emptied heart.

I am Poet for you,
And the words will be eternal,
As you have stayed in all the hollow
Places of your children.

Live as an endless nebula,
Birthing stars in a prophetic vigil,
My stainless blood, immortal,
You live on in the tears on my window....

Sustaining me.

P.S. Let get that mentor ***** put to bed, I am ready to take lessons from you!
---------------------
Unbreakable Poet

he keeps company with a
society of the living,
such is,
as it should be,
tho an ancient order,
t'is composed of only his
breathing brethren

he orbits in a special galaxy,
as we all so do,
one sun amongst many,
but in this, his cluster,
no scientist can well predict,
his trajectory, his course,
or any of us
whose company
we keep,
but one company,
we are,
one company,
near and dear

but he errs grievous
if he thinks,
his universe is but
an isolated fragment,
a world slipping into darkness

He is much mistaken

the one moon we share
rises nightly
in different shapes, mystic always
but
it is
Unbreakable,
Forever True,
it is there as long
as poets like him
make it so.

make it so.

Is there any more vile villain
Than one that starves children
Or one who leads his men
Unarmed into the lion’s den?
Is there any more wretched soul
Who destroys his people’s goals
And befouls his neighbor’s sod
Then hides behind the name of god?

Is there any more heinous criminal
That those hiding in a high citadel
And ordering the total destruction
The implementation of a weapon
That murders women and children
That have done nothing to them
And hides the truth behind lies
Then points to the flag that flies.

Can anyone ever be worse than
The screeching ugly harridan
Who mouths deceits of her man
And brags she is his greatest fan?
Can she not see what she does
How she besmirches her own cause
By siding with this misogynist.
She condemns herself with her own fist?

Sometimes the villains that surround
Do their work with the least sound.
They undermine their very own fate
By siding with some nefarious mate.
Maybe someday the people will awake.
And make it stop before the **** breaks.
Or maybe we are doomed to forever be
The mindless victims of national apathy.

Every drip from bleeding pen
will forever drop
into an ocean
of broken hearts and distant shores
drowning hopes and flailing flaws
Every line, a path to cross
detailing every love lost
Every hate turns into crime
presenting as a moment in time
failing are the words
sitting as wingless birds
as Winter settles
upon us under snow clouds
we allow to own us
Our words will ever fail
leaving a faint trail
that allows me to find you
but only if you speak true
Speak to me
so I feel rhythm
give my heart beat a rhyme
break me out of this prison
where words have failed me
I'm done being a prisoner
for committing no crime

And the old habits once that led to good times
are just now old addictions
it wasn't supposed to last
to see another day
now it's fifteen years.
With the scars we bare
the shackles sting
we forged a prison
only to never see past the bars
Empty scenes and the faces
I no longer recall
I'm beyond the edge
welcome to the abyss.
**** the greetings lets just start this
as strangers who have grown all to familiar to the flame.
The story is there I just don't care to recall.

Perhaps because you sit there
at the edge of a fiery pit
casting memories into a flame
that were never legit
mocking the chains that hold me
casting aspersions to the skies
when did you get so close
to Purgatory, held hostage
by others lies?
Unchain me from this misery
how so easy it is to forget
the path taken to Ecstasy
is scarred with arrowed hearts
something more scary than
Lost Love and littered with
bones of Regret
You know the story well
you feed the fire with it's ripped pages

As in wasted lies and tattered pages nothing feeds a fire like a good dose of delusion.
No more do I view the possibilitites, simply count the days and escape further into myself.
Sometimes we find within the depths there are no clear answers .
Sometimes locked within we find just more emptiness and nothing more.

Old tracks and new scars together keep company with stories
I care no longer to tell.
The page as it was before you is as broken as before we met.
Does it all ever truly change or just become as twisted and bitter as I?

Do we wish to re read old stories, those that shattered into glass?
Do we want to tell the same old tales? Should we even try to rehash?
Sitting in the darkness, tracing old scars, feeding the fire from pages
that are not who we really are.
Wishing  we were progeny of those that had it good.
Thinking we are better than most but they misunderstood
that we stand in front of the fire, feeding it pages from our book,
never understanding all the mistakes that we took.
Never understanding that we listen to our conscious as we lay,
never understanding there was a price we had to pay.

We tell old stories out of the same old lies
In seconds and empty barrooms taking comfort in space
and drowning in distance .
We wore this disguise, we no longer can recognize our own reflections .

Sometimes truth is the only thing that keeps us from the destruction
all of it built upon lies .
The tides change, taken to a distant shore only returned like a message in a bottle,
discovered long past our time .

Why weather the storm when we always preferred it’s chaos my dear?
Old wrongs would be far easier if not feeling ever so right .
Sometimes you have to follow a dead-end for the pure hell of knowing.

And in that dead end we find the final passage of the book
Written in blood, scratched upon the walls,
tucked away in some hidden nook, in a corner
where we like to hide our eyes.
The final lines of a storm damaged mind, a wrecked soul cast upon a lonely
tide, the final words scratched into scars that wind around a body like a
cloak
The last three words scribbled in a ****** mess..
What a joke!
In empty crowds and fallen stars we often see only what gives us a much easier day.
Wine with regrets, hearts and barbwire confessions, none where ever as true as you .
Bleed those thoughts once more and we will pretend together .

This waltz is as clear as a sinking ships bliss
tell them all I've long since gone insane
Give my regards to your memories for I will burn in their illusions
till our Hell is left barren,  no remorse suits the ash as does this bitter pill
and a never existent flame.

To hide what is so easily viewed  now the scars we bare with such glee in a perfectly twisted display.
Give me no tomorrows promise for I only yearn for today.

And I knew the moment my eyes beheld it,
"A love like this can know no death."*


The quote above is from a poem. The first one to correctly guess both the title and poet gets to choose which one of their own poems I will gladly light up for them.

In turn, you agree to post a quote from a poem or book for others to guess the title and author. And will light the winner in return.

Quin had a great idea. It's fun and promotes the site we enjoy so very much.  Please don't offer a guess, if you do not intended to follow through.

Good luck and no cheating. ☺☺☺

Have you ever seen it rain cats and dogs
How about a dumb bell or dumb waiter
Or a road runner
Have you ever seen a blue whale
Maybe he's just depressed
How about a stool pigeon
Or is it a pigeon stool
I have seen a mocking bird
They are loud , obnoxious , and on my
Mailbox they leave . . . (rhymes with words)
Bobby pin
A temporary permanent
How about a hot plate , yeah me too !
Or a cat on a hot tin roof
A mega phone (probably not portable)
Or walk down the up escalator
A bat out of Hell
Naw , I prefer fried chicken fingers

He was Daniel Kingery to the police.

Daniel Overstreet to his friends.

He was Dollar Dan on the streets.

He was Daniel,
he was wet rough kisses and anger and lust to me.

He found me one day,
18 years to his 37,
he found me when i was still a question mark trying to bleed red.
From behind a lens pointed at my naked flesh
he became a man of mystery,
he became the object of my desires.

I was a young, naive girl who got caught up in
how his pockets were always full- he flaunted it.
The flowers and the exotic dinners and the alcohol and the touch...
oh god, the way we fell into bed,
onto chairs,
into walls.

Then i fell in love on a broken sidewalk.

I was blind to the empty shadows in his eyes,
to the lines he had recited,
to the webs on his face.

I made a god out of a sociopath and i called him "love".

I was his ******, his baby blue.

I became wild under his touch,
manic when he gave me his attention,
suicidal at his leaving.

I was a flower that once was his favorite,
but he left me on the windowsill at a slow, burning wilt
and forgot to water me most days.

Why water a flower when you could have a garden?

Have you ever hated what you loved
until even their existence ate at you?

I have.

Don't feed the trolls.

---/♡\---/♡\---

I reposted this poem for
I feel it is important you
read it. I'm sure sorry that
I can't read right now.
My mom is recovering from
a serious illness.  Read at least
the footnotes. Thanks!


I am a follower of
The Lord Jesus Christ.
He teaches me
To embrace the strife
In this place
Of trial and pain
To learn to bear
The extreme strain
He had hardship
Here on earth
He showed folk their
Inner worth
With humility and grace
He bore all and ran His race
He prayed the Father
Up above
Would lead His children
To learn LOVE
Putting pride upon the shelf
To love your neighbor
As YOURSELF
And I honestly believe
'Tis better to give
Than to receive

In these tenants I am free
I'll walk the walk

ETERNALLY


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 8/8/2015

so now in these times
when the corporations run our lives
and the religions run our after-lives
we are faced with the touch stone
of both factions

art

painting
sculpting
dance

theatre
film
photography­

music
writing
and
poetry
too

art

by any measure
the difference between us
and the chimps in the jungle

but in these times
of corporations and religion
run by soulless men
who have no time for excess
and no time for
thought

where can it
exist?

art is the essence
of human over-flow

now not always fighting for food
now not afraid of the bumps in the night
now not a chimp in the jungle

we are more
and that more slopes off
to form:

art

the poems
the paintings
the plays

are all just excess

but there are important
because without the release
all that pent-up excess
would eventually
explode

killing us or
something
worse

right now
art has been found by
the corporations
and
the religions
and they’ve turned huge profits
for it

but art isn’t about profit
and it isn’t about art

art is about killing those nasty things
that grow up in the cracks of the sidewalk
when you leave it alone for too long

art is about finding the needle in the haystack
art is understanding why we exist at all

but now we live in a time of
corporations
and
religions
run by soulless men seeking
to turn a profit

and as long as we live
in this age
art can
have
no
purpose

Emerging from a distant dust-up,
A lone rider approaches on horse.
The clip-clop gallop grows,
The panting animal is alarming,
Sweat paints and streaks down
The dark hide.
The rider wears a bandana
Over mouth and nose,
Beneath a once white hat.
His clothes are covered with the trail.

Next, he's in the leather tub
With suds from chest to hair,
Shaving cream covering his face,
Mirror in one hand,
Probably a gun on the floor of the tub.
Eyes and nose poking through the foam.

Later, we see the clean, pressed black shirt
From the back, outlining shoulders we know
Have been busy righting wrongs.
He puts a cockey tilt to his hat and pivots
With a Parodi between his clean, straight teeth.
The champion. The underdog vanguard.
Clint.

I always struggle to leave  Muscatine where I am from.
Always felt like I was nothing there was nothing there.
For me but loneliness and broken heart were all that I had there.
For in my mind at the time I felt that it was all that I deserve.
But something Christ show me was that I can find True Joy.
In his Love with a peace that fills me completely everyday.
That Muscatine is beautiful city with so many Godly people.
That it was my own wicked thoughts that made me run.
For it was his desires for me to dwell there with his blessings.
But I kept making bad decisions there out of my marriage was one.
For it open the door to me wanting to find a wife over the internet.
For I felt so unlovable and wanted desperately to be loved.
But what I miss was that I was loved by so many good people.
But after I left there I lost all the blessings from him there.
But new blessings would wait me there if I was to go back.
For the City does have a lot of Awesome Godly people there.
Just like a lot of cities , for Christ has many people in many cities.