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I dream in shadowed memories,
I sing of cosmic love,
And whisper gothic reveries
That haunt the stars above.
I drift on wind’s lamenting tread,
Through veils of distant time,
Where echoes of the long-since dead
Chant elegies in rhyme.
I’ve danced where Saturn’s rings divide,
And walked the comet’s wake,
I’ve watched the moon in silence hide,
And dreamed for dreaming’s sake.
©️2025 David Cornetta

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“Our apparatchiks will continue making
    the usual squalid mess called History:
        all we can pray for is that artists,
        chefs and saints may still appear to blithe it.“

W.H. Auden, “ Moon Landing”

<>

Let us happily and heedlessly
i.e blithely
send the pundits, panderers, and pussycats
and and the ill tempered ones,
the “like~seekers”
whose factual are not actuals
But
opinions gussied up
as itter-bitter-litter factoids on opioids,
of little value


yeah
they’re  history

seek not likes or to be liked,
make your own history or herstory.,
and you will be admired
'tis a far far better thing…
if you don’t like a poem, keep quiet
And just move on
And far away
that place with comforting as theme overriding,
essentials of dream, complex, shelter, cocoon,
which/whether, almost irrelevant,
if and or,
don't matter when you are at home,
light, fierce sun rays eyes filled,
moonlight stars invading one's composure
now!
time
to alight, feet on the grounding,
rain,
pelting, not an inhibitor to the poem
in me, its resonating drumming me up,
to a beating, a lyric, a thyme of rhyme,
fragrantly repeating in my head, home,
home is where the flagrant poems are
born, delivered by no midwife, from
the ***** of my entirety, all five sensoria,
commanded by multiple generals on
different battlefields, coordinating a
battle plan, exhale, attack, coordinate,
brain, eye, smell, movement, urgency,
taste, words gushed, light emitted from
the fingertips, you cannot write as fast
as required, you, self, afired, and afeared,
losses will be greater than expected, but
no matter when we carry the tide behind
us, sweeping the obstacle of ego, pinging
pain, the hesitation that collapses courage,
oh god, oh me, be brave, lead me into the
breach,
the hole, the aperture that will allow a totality
of me to exit, to escape, to compose, p r o p o s e,
the confines of my uncontrollable uncontained
unconscious natured being and fervent annouce,
on this day,
this poem shall be
written in its fulfilling, exiting fulsomeness,
&
entirety,
and let me rise, raise up, lift and shout,
one more last time, like the first time, praise and glory,
hallelujah to the parts of me that gifted me this
poem in-the unity-of-unison, uncensored, un~
inhibited and finalized momentarily perpetual,
with an amen amendment offered up too all and to
me…
amen, amen, amen
and let us rise up to morrow and once more,
write up to ride to birth the essentials of my next
homebound
be-ing
8/18/25
LA, CA
can you be written as Byron?
To travel in time and revive his thoughts,
maybe you too are great like him,
oh Lord Byron,
your tempestuous and raging mind,
like a rose planted in the ravines,
thorny and unreachable.
I wish to retreat,
perhaps to a cabin in the woods,
or, like Iris Murdoch’s hero,
to settle near the sea…

It has been so long
since I have felt true solitude.
I long for that silence
that only it can bring
to sit in stillness
and listen to my own thoughts,
to cook only for myself
and savor each single bite,
untouched by the street’s noise
that might disturb
my quiet comfort.
The fisherman, even in dreams,
stands by the city river, rod in hand,
waiting with hope,
watching others on the opposite bank.

And in this dream he catches
the largest fish  a trout.
He thinks: Such a species no longer lives
in the city river

Perhaps he will let it go,
or show it to his friends across the water.
He thinks: It is truly beautiful.
At last, he realizes it is only a dream.

He wakes, rises from bed,
prepares himself,
still thinking of his dream:
Maybe today luck will smile on me

In the heat of summer
the river’s breeze will dry his sweat.
Once more he looks, with hope,
toward his friends.
 Aug 29 Rob Rutledge
So
monster
 Aug 29 Rob Rutledge
So
my beds a monster
with layers of warmth
heat emanating from within,
it's steady breathe
lungs rising and falling
rocks me too sleep,
it listens carefully with it's round ears
absorbing my tears and worries
to store deep within

sometimes my bed gets angry,
it's jaw opening wide beneath me
threatening to swallow me whole,
refusing to relinquish it's hold
as my screams are muffled in it's pillows

It was not the beast alone
that hollowed the soul,
but the silence
that made a chamber for it.

The silence of fathers
who looked away.
The silence of mothers
who smoothed the tablecloth
and spoke of other things.
The silence of friends
who chose comfort
over confrontation.

Every unspoken word
became a shroud.
Every careful pause
became a nail.
Every smile that denied
became another grave.

The beast feasted,
not only on wounds inflicted,
but on truths unspoken,
on the complicity
of quiet mouths.

And so silence
killed more surely than rage,
for rage at least
named what was broken,

but silence gave it a home.

The deadliest weapon
that lays in the hands
    of Death  itself
    is not the sword;

but the silence sharpened
     against the soul.



What destroys us most often is not what is done, but what is left unsaid. Families, friends, communities.. complicity thrives in silence. Every unspoken truth becomes a stone, every quiet denial a grave. This piece speaks to the deadliest accomplice of the beast: not hatred, but silence.

And yet, even within silence, the cry still trembles. It leaks through scars, through hidden eyes, through the fragile flame that refuses to die.
These words are for every soul who has lived inside that chamber, unseen but not alone.
Plumb gives voice to that cry.

What if the “cut” is not a blade at all, but truth itself--
naming the wound, naming the perpetrator,
breaking the silence that becomes a second trauma
worse than the first?
Sharp though it is, such a cut
can become the only one that heals--
the deepest relief of all...


"Cut"

I'm not a stranger
No I am yours
With crippled anger
And tears that still drip sore

A fragile flame aged
With misery
And when our eyes meet
I know you see

I may seem crazy
Or painfully shy
And these scars
wouldn't be so hidden
If you would just
look me in the eye

I feel alone here and cold here
Though I don't want to die
But the only anesthetic that
makes me feel anything kills inside

I do not want to be afraid
I do not want to die inside
  just to breathe in
I'm tired of feeling so numb

Relief exists,   I find it when

    I am cut

https://youtu.be/OJkqkWIpFAI?si=hMaAlmoUB_OnEoOG


Better the wound of truth than the grave of silence;

To those who have carried the weight of numbness,
Plumb’s voice  becomes
their own cry of solidarity

xoxo
 Aug 28 Rob Rutledge
Khoisan
Stealing my thoughts
are much more difficult
than the theft of my heart
Yes my solitude
shocked the thief
into remission
A second chance
are meant to last.
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