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 Aug 2012 dj
Zoe
confusion seems to be simply an excuse for people to hide behind their true feelings
but for me
if i use the word confusion, then i am truly confused
boredom seems to be the reason why people do stupid things
but for me
if im bored ill find something productive to do, and not just waste my time
lonesome seems to be the reason why people find things to do with people they shouldn't have anything to do with
but for me
if im lonely ill go chill with friends or my dogs, and won't do things that are stupid or could hurt me
please don't confuse me for all the other people you so confidently think i fit in with
for if those are the things you think everyone does and think im doing the exact same
then you don't know me at all
 Aug 2012 dj
Robert Kralapp
Elegy
 Aug 2012 dj
Robert Kralapp
For Randall Kruk

Although no stranger to yourself,
you were your own undiscovered country,
always pressing on some border of awareness,
always asking more of who you were.

You were the one who asked of life,
who spoke for spirits and for memory,
who wished us at that last meeting over coffee
to have the time of our lives in Madison.

You demonstrated time and time again
the plain necessity of kindness, of honesty.
That would be your legacy, my friend, your gift -
and in the giving, you became that gift.

After all the words spoken in memoriam,
the Guinness and the soul-soothing jazz,
there came a shifting bow of color in the sky -
rain pouring from a blue cloud at evening.
 Aug 2012 dj
Darkin
Anxiety
 Aug 2012 dj
Darkin
Between pulls and heat and crossing and lines lies
unease, eased between my two halves, focused to
split me in two. Sanctuary was to be unique and new.
Only the darkness was new,

for in the void

my voice was lost, and silence smothered my shaking.
 Aug 2012 dj
Caroline Grace
Attended by old friends and mentors
the Great Bear's name is set in stone.
Protected by the roof of his architectural cave
his undying lines resound
in the celebrated corner of words.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
 Aug 2012 dj
Caroline Grace
A woman drew herself up from wrecked wood at the bottom of the ocean;
whispered sea-songs into the wistful ear of a long lost love;
shook her locks 'til his heart beat faster;
looked longer than she should into the deep pools of his pleading eyes.

"I will call you when I want to;
I will call you when I want."

Cooled his temples;
breathed her watery breath
as silvered beads streamed down his shocked skin.

                                       .......

Rumors rock an empty drifting boat;
a glazed shell faced with priceless pearl
broken from its moorings,
strangled by a knotted rope.

"You have not chosen me, but I have chosen you"

Hold fast the bestowed gift,
your Quinquireme of stowed treasure.
Protect its precious structure.
"Who are you, the one who stripped my soul?
Who is the third who stole yours?"  

                                          .........

B­roken from netting I lie
a beached starfish on burning sand,
wishing the waves to wash me
back through Time's receding current
to find the silence that once was;
to turn away before the sacrifice,
before the Eye of the storm.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2010
 Aug 2012 dj
vircapio gale
let me structure you first:
there, now, ready, fly my owl
granting vision logic,
guiding thoughtform fair.
what softness in the earth gives way
to waterway, what forceful gust of air
to final quench of earthy thirst...
such unseen pyschomancy dusts
the wing-stroke of your flight,
and weathers well my musing trust;
you see with ancient zero eye,
and die to my dull interpret edge;
like a certain volcano jumper's
ox of oats and honey you
coat the stone of time to
symbolize my rhyme. hold,
softer, still, i do not need to cut
or pluck or forge with harshness --
your shrill screeching from the cage
of lines here summons more
than Athene's gavel ever forced.
otherwise than writing, you wait...
cradled darkly, unknown priorlife
of avadhuta colors mixing in,
of whalesong faintly felt
like stegosaurus moans,
like city-ships to overreach and then to rot,
forgotten tattva vidya shastra
forgotten sukha,
Megbe, Tirawa, Awen, Asha, Ichor...
(अवधूत avadhūta) is a Sanskrit term from some Indian religions or Dharmic Traditions referring to a type of mystic or saint who is beyond egoic-consciousness, duality and common worldly concerns and acts without consideration for standard social etiquette. Such personalities "roam free like a child upon the face of the Earth" (wiki).

अव 'ava':

favour; off, away, down.

धूत 'dhUta':

shaken, stirred, agitated; "rinsed"; fanned, kindled; shaken off, removed, destroyed; judged; reproached; [neut.] morality

अव-धूत 'avadhUta':

"shaken off (as evil spirits)"; removed, shaken away; discarded, expelled, excluded; disregarded, neglected, rejected; touched; shaken, agitated (especially as plants or the dust by the wind), fanned; that upon which anything unclean has been shaken out or off; unclean; one who has shaken, off from themselves worldly feeling and obligation, a philosopher; [neut.] rejecting, repudiating

\|/

tattva-vidya-shastra:

"discipline of knowing reality" (one modern sanskrit term for philosophical enquiry -- the language having no straightforward equivalents for 'philosophy' or 'religion')

sukha:

skt. for happiness, comfort, ease, pleasure, bliss, light, space.
    fr. Su(good) & kha (“sky,” “ether,” “space,” orig. “hole,” particularly an axle hole of one of the Aryan’s vehicles, thus “having a good axle hole,” while dukkha meant “having a poor axle hole,” leading to discomfort

Megbe (African):

life force exists in blood and bones

Tirawa (Pawnee):

'force which moves all things'

Awen (Welsh):

"(poetic) inspiration"; also considered a force or
energy forged from an indivisible source that is the power behind the
physical

Asha (Avestan):

'truth', 'existence', 'right working', "the decisive confessional
concept of Zoroastrianism" (in Vedic language ṛta). "The correspondence between 'truth',
reality, and an all-encompassing cosmic principle is not far removed
from Heraclitus' conception of Logos." (wiki)

Ichor (Gk):

ἰχώρ is the ethereal golden fluid that is the blood of the gods
and/or immortals
 Aug 2012 dj
ju
Pretty One
 Aug 2012 dj
ju
Knee length skirt, cotton cami,
lace shrug, and heels.
All black.
Fair skin, blonde hair, blue eyes. Very pretty.
My children edge past her, past the Other Women,
on their way to the park.
Son takes a second look, then hurries on. Vans squeak
through sodden grass.
Baggy jeans soak up puddles of mud.
Typical twelve-year-old boy.

They return,
plastered in cut-grass, flushed-pink and grinning.
Daughter cradles the ball, and
crows about winning, while
The Pretty One, the Other Women,
alternate tuts with
oh-what-it-is-to-be-youngs

but The Pretty One,
she's only
twelve.
 Aug 2012 dj
Paul F Clayton
The man with the plastic face
He has cloudy, liquid eyes
His fibre moustache and the thick dense fog
Strengthen his disguise

As he stops to check the time
His circuits start to glow
Then a figure comes to greet him
With a face he used to know

It's a face in a leather case
It's a face he used to own
It's a face that moved through time and space
And now he's come to take it home

There was a subtle smell of sulphur
As he made time stand still
He unclenched his plastic hand
To expose a yellow pill

Then his sub processor skipped
To where it all began
To a time before his micro chips
When he was still a man
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