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-on the justification of poetry

I saw a rose I couldn't smell.
Though pointless as it seemed,
her thorns have taught me all my life
there's truth in what I dreamed.

Blessed was the day when poetry came of age,
it saved me from pacing back and forth in my cage.

Blessed are the lines that should be carved in stone,
they helped my hand to leave the bottle alone.

Blessed are the words that saved my life,
the words that fed my selfless strife.
Feggyr Citack Dec 2018
-on the spirit of passion

My life had ended, so I felt,
when your eyes found mine.
You dragged me up to heaven
- the heat caused my will to melt.

My reborn self drowned in your beaming eyes.
Your ardent face steamed away my flesh;
my spirit, pure and longing, stood *****
- only at your service now, only yours my ties.

Let me take the final step, I cried.
Unshackle my heart, unwrap my love,
undo the border between you and me
- our nova will disrupt all selfhood that we hide.

My love flamed high towards your feet above.
It burned itself and turned to ashes,
its sole remainder its humiliated, aching root
- and still a new twig grows from the stump of love.

How could I ignore your whispering song?
The voice of your leaves filled my head,
you took my hands, you bowed my knees -
a gardener's prayer makes a tender love grow strong.

A storm shook my spine and my sacrosanct place!
The more I pressed my face against your trunk,
the clearer I saw two radiating planets rise
- attracting me with liberating gaze.

It's you, and you, and you, my beloved friends,
it's the asking glance we see in each and all.
My life has ended with my questions now -
now that your responding eyes found mine.
Just another christmas carol
Feggyr Citack Oct 2018
Psychotria Elata needs your discretion,
its hot lips' bloom is premature,
****** showing at her best.

Close your eyes,
don't watch her flowers coming out,
the shock will **** your desire.

Psychotria Elata needs your protection,
its secret toes that root the soil,
may soon be dangling burned and bare.

Open your eyes,
stop the men ravaging the forest,
stop them from taking what they want.
The 2018 presidential elections in Brazil have presented another politician preaching violence against man, nature and common sense. Among his supporters are the persons who take away rainforest territories from the local people, burn huge areas of the land and emaciate the soil by growing industrial crops.

The flower of Psychotria Elata has become an iconic image of the arousing beauty and the innocence of the tropical rainforest. Cf https://g.co/kgs/5jxRdt
Feggyr Citack Sep 2018
At 1100 hours the guns went silent,
but for many men (and their families)
the Great War would carry on.

They had come to face a sneaky guest
that dug into them by surprise,
scraping skin and flesh and bone.

Shrapnel took their faces away,
digging ***** holes into their ears, eyes,
noses, cheeks, jaws, lips and teeth.

It took a pioneer of plastic surgery
to ****** it all back for them, not just the flesh
or just the bone but face, true face, their face.

Their faces finally looked back at them.
Now they found new friends, they stepped
through the mirror between two worlds.
On September 10th 1960 Sir Harold Gillies died. During WWI he invented plastic surgery as we basically know it, thus offering severely mutilated men a second life.
  Jul 2018 Feggyr Citack
Paul Butters
Life clings on
In deserts, ice sheets and hot acid pools.
Those selfish genes persist:
Batons in a Marathon relay race.
Generation follows generation.
Clone adds to clone.

So life spreads:
The mightiest empire,
Covering all the globe.
A world full of living wonders.
All manner of plants, insects and animals.
Oceans teeming with fish.
From tropical paradise
To awesome glaciers.

We must be mindful
Of this glorious beauty.
Mother Nature reigns supreme.
Sing and rejoice,
Party hard
And put aside
The awful truth -
That in the end
Everyone dies.

Paul Butters

© PB 26\7\2018.
A thought I cannot escape.
Feggyr Citack Jun 2018
-on cracking and crushing

It's hard
to conduct oneself
when candy's on the shelf

It's there for the taking
my decency is breaking
I feel I slip away

Where's that hopeless helping hand
of my helpless hapless father
Now I need it, not in my shirt
and for once not under my skirt

Who on earth can help me stand
against this hapless hopeless bar
It ***** me empty
me - imploding star
#metoo is probably just the top of the iceberg.
Feggyr Citack May 2018
-on a person's 20th birthday

When I turned twenty I couldn't wait,
so sure was I to change the world.
Exactly right were all my thoughts
I couldn't ever stop to state.

So I turned fourty while I built and built
on top of my precisely stated schemes.
My loved ones warned me for collapse
but I would never stop, in it to the hilt.

When I turned sixty, felt a faint *****,
not in my infallible buildings
but in my overstressed back.

Now that I am eighty years of age
I know the way to perfection:
the missing line in your design
opens your cage for the future page.
Hmm. 4 stanzas x 4 lines makes 16 lines. 1 line missing + 4 makes 5. And 5 times 4 makes a pretty girl's 20 years. I knew it worked somehow ;-)
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