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 Jan 2015
Joe Cole
We lined the ridge of Senlac hill
The shield wall stood five men deep
In the autumn chill
The came at us on horse and foot
But we were the men of the Sussex weald
Men who would not yealed
Our shields now hacked and broken
Bodies bloodied bruised and sore
But we the housecarles of the English King
Would stand and fight the war
Prince William came with his aray the English crown to take
But we the men of Sussex
Would many French bones break
Alas our shield wall has broken
Kentish men on the right have charged
They sought to cut the Norman line
And so the men of Kent did die
The French now archers did deploy
With bitter arows fired high
Harold, our king, our leige Lord
Took an arrow in his eye
We gathered round his body
We men of the Sussex Weald
Our king was dead, the battle lost
But Sussex men don't yeald
The shield wall now in disaray
Large gaps now opened up
Brave men now die before the spear
From the broadswords vicious cut
And so we died on Senlac ridge
But there were no wounds in our backs
We died for England's glory
Cut down by spear and axe
The battle of Hastings in 1066 when William of Normandy took the English crown. The battle on Senlac ridge is about an hours drive from my home and I have visited the site many times
 Jan 2015
Jon Shierling
Where can I find people like me?
Do they actually exist somewhere
out there int the vast expanse of the world?

Or do I sit here bemoaning my self made exile
in the same vein that a child does when placed
in the corner as punishment for some transgression?

Even if there were some community I might
feel welcome in hiding with at some far
flung place pledging true freedom, still I would
suffer the pains of having a broken soul.

It's been a long time since I opened up
my shoebox full of pictures and saw myself
five years old and wading barefoot through
a cold creek....loving every second of it.

There's another polaroid of me feeding a mint
to that angry old donkey, dead years now,
but that ornery ol ******* and I had some
sort've understanding, him knowing his place
and me trying to discover mine.

Most of my life has been spent clawing my
way toward some ill defined future I thought
I had to travel toward in order to live well,
and now I find myself willingly going backward.

My Dad achieved his dream of having land when
I was fifteen, and when I came back to live with him
again, his land became my own, his cares for our place,
became my own, hauling rocks and worrying after fences,
being a part of something that we built from our hands.

The world changed quickly though,
and if I had been older and wiser I
would have expected that the eventual
break would appear when most we all
needed something of peace.

But those minutes in the clear creek,
and that grudging comraderie with a donkey,
getting off the bus when seventeen and having
horses recognize me as I walk down the dirt road,
hoofed friends meeting me at a gate every day;
that is the home I need...and one day will return to.
 Jan 2015
Poetic T
She needed to express her words
Have them reach out,
Spoken upon the page
Words,
Syllables,
Sentences
Needed to mean something
But with each one wrote, anger consumed
Each burnt as if never mentioned,
It was though her thoughts ignited
Then became ash.
Needing to evoke the words they had to
Bleed,
Meaning,
Stained
On a page of flesh, This was her defining moment
Who to choose, who to witness her words,
Homeless were a thought, but never questioned
Her words were not trash, she needed not to be write
On skin with words that showed there own pain.
Words needed freshness, flesh of the innocent,
"Her first"
"Her cutting of life"
"Her mistakes upon this delicate flesh"
Inaccuracy, left rage as she slashed
At the words,
"Muffled screams"
As the living felt her words as she had cut
But that voice silenced.
Trial and errors correct instruments wielded,
She perfected her motion the living had to be still
For words were
Perfection,
Fulfilment,
Perfection
Of her word it felt so good so many pages ruined,
As before with  paper they were burnt to ash
She signed each upon the parchment
Names carved in to throats
"Poetic Death"
But now she cuts the pages out in to her
"Book of dead paper"
But the words still seen
When bodies found. Her destiny was calling,
To carve upon purest  flesh,
To let her words  bleed out.
They sacrificed there life, to further her words,
She was Poetic death, fear her, for her words meant your **death.
She needed her words to bleed to have feeling
 Jan 2015
Joe Cole
Late last night I watched a film
Field Punishment No  1
About 6 New Zealanders
Who refused to fight the ***
Beaten, abused and humiliated
The stood up for their beliefs
And the army couldn't break them
Despite the torture and mental grief
Threatened with a firing squad
They steadfastly held their ground
We will not yield to you on bended knee
Though in fear for our young lives
We choose our own destiny

Up to the age of 19 years I had Catholicism forced on me
But when the killing started
I finally opened my eyes to see
No Gods in their compassionate wisdom
Would allow such things be done
Then praised in halls of worship
Allow fine hyms of death to be sung
And so I made the decision
Not to go down on bended knee
And so at the tender age of 19 years
I chose my own destiny
 Jan 2015
r
light travels in straight lines

but truth often gets inverted

when worded through the pin-

holed window of closed minds

and blinds us with distracting

theories refracting on white walls

in a world of royals and riyals

and unnamed dark chambers.
r ~ 1/12/15
What is it
within the realm of
my Self
that has the nerve
to question the divinity
of this current, fleeting moment?

Is it not the vessel of Life, itself,
that is used to navigate
these, the occluded
Seas of Death?

Could it not be
that a Mind and Body
are the very salvation
over which we so toil?

Would it not be an act of pure mercy
to have the capacity to look around
and to think, and create
while, all the time,
being pulled under
by the inevitable tide of change
we, in English, chose to call
"Death?"

That, in itself,
should inspire me to carry on
and to turn an eye
up from the ground, back from the past;
to within my self; this current moment;
and on, upward:
to the skies and, likewise,
the future.

What is it about my Mind
that so enjoys, or perhaps requires
some selfish sense of 'overlooking'
for the sake of ephemeral comfort?

Alas,
I know what word I would use,
but I dare yet not to use it;
for, t'is that a word, itself,
isn't the concept, itself;
and it's use would be to misdirect
from the nature of the experience,
and to mistranslate what I feel.

I realize the necessity
for names; for words:
we use them to facilitate communication.
I also understand their limit:
there is a great realm
beyond the transparent restraints
of our Languages.

I would identify the culprit
as either "Ego," or "Id."
But, better yet, I would argue
"both and neither."

Freud had some great ideas,
but I tend towards Jung-

I could sooner call it the Shadow,
or at least one aspect of it.

The Shadow is semi-subconscious.
It is an amalgam of fears and repression.
It can only hold so much pressure
before it erupts.
So,
I implore you
to study your Shadow.

It has great potential for change.
Failing to utilize it
is to be utilized by it.
Make it work for you
or you will work for it.
Use your Shadow
to your advantage,
or it will use you
to that of it's own.

Pick apart your Self;
put it back together.
Sometimes that's easier said than done,
but, with a proper mindset,
it'll come and leave
before you even know it.
It happens all the time.

Refuse the shackles
of thy Shadow;
break the chains
and share with the world
the fleeting feeling
of self-liberation.

That is,
if someone doesn't misinterpret what you've said;
looking through the Shadow,
everything looks darker.

Realize where you're going.
Realize what you're doing.

Heed what you feed,
external or internal.

Seek Balance.
Explore Ideas.
Gain Understanding
no matter how slow:
at all
is far better
than so many.

No one may escape these Seas;
but you can start some ripples
that will propagate ad infinitum.

Ask. Practice. Learn. Grow.
Mostly improvised.
Stream-of-consciousness-esque.

Call it following a whim~

Spoken Recording:
https://soundcloud.com/apexparadigm/fleeting-seas-of-death
 Jan 2015
Mariah
the daughters of the street begin
their journey in vibrancy,
pretending they hadn't been
afraid of their own voices.

the soles of their worn-out shoes
beat in rhythm on the soil
that breathes tulips and coughs dandelions.

some of them will be wishes,
objects of desire in the eyes of men
who look like they have lived
their whole lives in subway seats,
ready to strike.

and i thought i would stay in this place
of directions and dreams,
thinking i could pick one off the sidewalk
like a dropped penny.

they never keep the buildings up
long enough to rust,
rain doesn't stop anyone.

suddenly there are two of them
facing each other's weaknesses
and neither will give in.

she's up to her neck in
unrealistic expectations,
he is up to his in all his confidence.

the only difference
is doubt, splashing up to her nose,
trying to get into her head.

and when she looks in the mirror
all she sees is who her mother was
and who she wants her daughter to be.

my hands are tired from all the squeezing
i do when i'm alone,
trying to get every last drop of
anything they'll give me
when i know i deserve better things.

maybe i'll just walk to work
and see the flowers on the other side of the road.

i wish they'd toss me over there like a stone
or there was some crosswalk and a crowd
i could hide myself in
and pretend i am one of them.

there is only concrete here.
how can we grow anything in it?
yes, we have the water and sun,
but nowhere for our roots to stand.

it's getting crowded on this side of the street
they speak of throwing some into the river of cars
so we have more room for our feet.
oh, won't you let some of us cross
so we can cultivate
the flowers on the other side of the road
they're drooping under your shadow.
about being a woman in life and in the workforce and never feeling like you're good enough.
 Jan 2015
L
As I fixed your collar,
my fingertips barely
grazed your pulse
but it was just enough
to feel the blood rushing
underneath your skin.
Pulse quickened: check.
I only had to make
brief eye contact,
look up
and down again,
to see the expansion
of your pupils.
Eye dilation: check.
Don't think that
I didn't
hear or feel
the breath you didn't
realize you
were holding in.
Shortness of breath: check.
Hmm.
Interesting.
Science of deduction... It's kinda fun.

**
Leigh
 Jan 2015
susan
she sits
in her grandmothers chair
head in hand
staring placidly out the window
frost is starting to form at the outer edges
and she feels the chill creeping through the glass
so she tightens the afghan, another of her grandmothers
hand me downs
, around her
and starts to gently rock back and forth
  staring
into the dreary winter vastness
letting her mind wonder
to simpler times
carefree, uninhibited, happy
   young
no, she thinks, this is not what i had planned
when did it slip from me
when did my dreams dissipate
how can i have let them go so easily
   unknowingly
with a sigh she knows she must accept
her fate
because somehow,
somewhere
she became lost
and she gave up on her dreams
so now, aging,
feeling a slight comfort
being amongst her grandmothers things
she sits
   unsettled
but accepting
accepting the hand she has dealt herself
so many years ago.
 Jan 2015
ryn
.
             *the *future is...a tornado of uncertain-
          ty• a swirling vortex, in its centre is
me•such power and speed, can ne-
ver see•can never foretell, it's hid-  
den debris•like clockwork, it will        
   make contact•by the second, bra-        
cing for next impact•the past is...      
  yet another•wild winds that echo      
     my mistakes as reminder•this twis-         
      ter within...tearing with no remo-    
           rse•destroying confident strong-
             holds, breaking feebly boarded
           doors•can't ease the rage...eat-
    en from the inside•won't stop
until...my beating heart had
        died•the present is...only this  
   frail little body•fighting huge 
battles that come incessantly  
  •fending off the future, con-        
    taining the past•not know-            
ing how long.......this disas-       
ter would last•but I'm still      
   here.....still holding integ-         
   rity......•still fighting this       
war waged in history's        
folly•will i be settl-
ed? will the winds
ever abate?•
will i ever
      come to    
terms...?
will i
ever
    acc-
          ept
                     fa      
                 t
               e
             ?
             •
 Jan 2015
skyblueandblack
It was a quiet afternoon of reminiscing
Nostalgia lingered in the sunlit air
intermingling with the sweet aroma of coffee
as I sipped and leaned back in my chair

˜
He walked up to me as I sat by the window
I waited to see what he wanted to say
“Your skin is the color of my mocha’, he smiled.
‘Just a notch deeper than your café au lait.’

°
With his jet black hair and Mediterranean eyes
And a physique worthy of a prize winning stallion
His confident air and his subtle smirk
He had to be greek, or maybe a charming Italian

˜
Long hair in a messy bun that didn’t care
jeans ripped in strategic places
His gaze never left my quizzical eyes
obscuring everyone else’s faces

°
He waited for me to respond
mere seconds since his saunter
Forever engraving in my mind,
This coffee shop encounter…
http://skyblueandblack.com/2014/12/17/coffee-shop-encounter/
 Dec 2014
skyblueandblack
He casts his fishing lines into the water and waits patiently
.. what shall be the catch for tonight?
He needs something to breathe life back into himself; get his creative juices flowing again.

This is what feeds the Artist after all.
He does not need food or water;
he needs inspiration.
Good, bad, ugly.. it matters not.
It must be something- someone-
that affects him intensely,
that reaches deep down beyond his self-imposed armour,
and grabs at his soul.
He needs to devour in order to survive.

It is not long before one bites, and then another.. and maybe another.
He gently coaxes, drawing them in with his seductive lures.
He knows this art well.. knows what to say, what to do, who to be.. or not be..

He examines.. tests them..
… a little subtlety here.. more boldness there,
     …… but tempered,
                with a laugh,
                a smile,
                  a chuckle,
                    a wink.

He doesn’t quite want to scare them away,  but he wants to see how far he can go.
What boundaries can he safely breach..?
He pushes, he pulls..
He engages, he retreats..
He shares, he takes..
He tugs, he releases…
     … and the dance continues until his search is satisfied.

And then when he has determined which shall be his catch for the night,
which of these waltz partners is most ready to be broken – open-
he gently releases the others back into the waters…
gently Discarded.

Perhaps they will be led back to his watering hole another day,
and perhaps they will be the ‘one’ at that future time —
or perhaps they will never be seen or heard from again.

It does not matter.

What matters is Now.
What matters!
         is what it takes to feed his desire.
What matters is this moment.
Everything is in this one moment.

This is practice after all.. one must practice in order to perfect the technique.
One must perfect the technique if he wishes to be claimed and devoured by Bliss.
And who does not wish to be devoured by Bliss?

“Enjoy the practice, perfect the technique”.

he says.
http://skyblueandblack.com/2013/09/12/the-fishermans-waltz/
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