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Wanderer  Mar 2012
Transferable
Wanderer Mar 2012
I wash my hair
The dirt is stripped away

Wet.

Rinsed down the drain into the sewer
Stinking sludge water waste
A homeless man leans down
Filling up his intellectual cup
Gutter filth rot glory
No wonder bums are crazy
Talking to mattresses, having imaginary riches
Someday

Makes me wonder what it's like deep inside
I could be imaginary
More than just one
Do I get the crazy out on paper?
Or down the drain when I wash my hair?
Where Shelter Apr 2019
the unthinkable is our specialty

~

there are special periods of varying length
when we are given grants of capability
where solutions transferable like shared salt drops
and red gummy bears

you need, I believe, and the
no contract is signed and commissioned,
belief is suspended,
for the eyes have the evidence,
the ayes win the nomination,
the shaken but unbreakable longest kiss
secures the deal,
and the local island newspaper banners a headline,

“miracles on the island expand contagiously!”

this is when
this is where
one walks the streets and the dirt roads
sing song smiling,
the tide always incoming,
the peeks of sun
perfectly strong,
installing a feeling
of safe and home and not alone

where is shelter?

here here,
here is shelter,
hear is shelter,
in words and deeds and on our
embracing fingertips



9:45am

April 11, 2019
Where Shelter Jul 2023
Where Is Shelter?

depends on the location of the storm…

so oft have I queried the gods and you?

Where is Shelter?

to which, my response, while surrounded so well (!)
within
my moated island circumferences redoubt,
always was a simple:

“Here, Here is shelter!

But so human, thus so prone to delimited vision,
always, we scan the skies outward, fearful of
the hurricane and storm that approach,
from without, appearing, and the brewing
sky’s danger is visceral~visible to the naked eyes,
when,
it is disguised within the chambers of the
body, festering, until it is pestering, and
shelter, sadly, is not injectable, transferable,
easy remedial, and the hunkering down
with four walls not the solution, for the walls
themselves are damaged by decades of
waves of innocuous gently lapping that
still
erode igneous granite(1) and fissure the self,
this secretive, enemy insidious…


so it comes to be, that my own daggers have
pivoted, the pointy dangers pointed outwards,
well entrenched in their own defenses, now targeting
the whole of me, my outer walls breached, and
fired upon by cannons of cells, a treacherous
attack, bombardement par l'artillerie et les drones,
of the Fifth Column (2)…

so once more, say no more, but ask the brief of demand,

Where is Shelter?

the answer is as of yet to be decided,
but the forces
arrayed for and against
are equally determined!

W.S.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3094276/the-unthinkable-is-our-specialty/

(1)
Granite is hard enough to resist abrasion, strong enough to bear significant weight, inert enough to resist weathering,

(2)
Clandestine fifth column activities can involve acts of sabotage, disinformation, espionage, and/or terrorism executed within defense lines by secret sympathizers with an external force
the wrong atmospherics of transmission
move in uninvestigated chaotic archives
red and pink turbulent storms swarm across
deep space frequencies in imaginative
currents of pulsars
that are translated into phases
each represented in diverse
conflicting modes of expression
in obsessive grooves of consciousness
cut up components of recycled narratives
audibly fixating on vibrations
that sound across the universe
in diffused spirals of manic fluctuations
converting archaic symbols into equivalents
of dust surfaces that oxidise in intermittent epochs
and deposit a rediscovered earth
an expansive transferable construction
of accidental providence
that allows for expression in artificially generated realities
hallucinated images that float
across the consciousness of the cosmos
producing visions that punctuate rational thought
become preoccupied with the conception
of  interplanetary transpeciation
counting the chronological diversity
of those that occupy the black, blank
vacuum of space
i have been introduced to a fragmented universe
blue and silver
amid temporal ruins
oxidized epochs extract from me
thought processes and aural distillations
of a catatonic rage, that discards all trivia
in its scrutiny of minds
in a chronological diversity of words and images
it is a kinetic fluency of gestures
in an ****** calligraphy of expansive
transferable threads of thought
it is the real and the imagined
one that precludes inquiry
which leaves me infused
with a compulsion of composed complications
in episodic inspired delirium
Julius Nov 2013
i listen to Dubstep music and sip tea
i am the Post-Mark
Pondering Gender politics and finishing my tea
i am non violent, a pacifist
But don't put it past me that i won't clench a fist
With righteous grist
If you make me feel alone in my considerations temporarily

i'm not a weak soul am hardy folk
Hardly lost faith when i realised God was a joke
Like a big fat egg yolk splattered all over paper
Christmas hogging 3 months of calendar
A Consumerist campaign, but tell me i'm the miser

Police tend to pass me in the streets, i think smart
Skin colour ain't the first part
One of the mainly white audience at the Public Enemy show
The system as it stands fears me though
If you stop and searched my heart you'd **** me though

i Listen to Deep House and sip Lucozade
Lost deep in this house
i've never worked hard at a job
So **** lucky at birth to have wealth
But that's my parents money (and I'm not in any way responsible for slavery)
Kanye West with his Confederate Flag ****
"I'ts mine now, what you gonna do?"
Little did we know that we were the 'New Slaves'

Contemporary thinker, i read the game cover to cover
After all they taught me from birth how to study
i'm too uninterested in ticking boxes to earn money
To satisy the transferable skills that you want from me
I'll Enjoy a nights alcoholism instead of getting high and writing an essay

Am I getting too wordy?
i'm trying to spit now, can i? can I?
The gender politics on my mind at inappropriate times
i told the guy at the door i wasn't thinking about race
Most people are thinking about 'the race'
White Middle Class kid picked up a mic and tried to rap again...

I listen to Hip Hop and drink water
Hardly faded I'm perfectly sober
I'm energised naturally, words seem to strengthen me
I am the grassroots, I have been wrongly righted
My Parent's deserve this so want me to sit tight
But I'm jumping right into the middle of hip hop (and feminism)
And theres nothing you can do about it.
[For All My ****** and All My *******]
It is a replicable dialectic

that swirls in my mind

like a spiral of cigarette smoke

covering fluctuations

of diffused expanses

of transferable hallucinated images

relying on an artificial artificiality

to generate a reality

one that amplifies a calisthenics

of maximized reduction

in the blank vacuum of space

allows those sophistication’s

where there is a scrutiny

of exclusions

that may perhaps betray

the concepts of others

those correlatives

of our own creative interirority

where a mind may repeal a transgression

for it is breakfast in the time

of the Wizard Pig
Left Foot Poet Apr 2017
“I can calculate the movement of stars, but not the madness of men.”   Sir Isaac Newton**

I can, but only of my own,
the orbits of the stars
within my envisioned mind,
this anti-expanding universe
this black hole of anti-matter
collapsing inward, the gravitational pull calculable
where I, madman creator,
am the sole witness mine self-destruction

I summon fate, luck, random numbers to the dock,
but all pleadingly state it wasn't me,
"I was somewhere else, had to be,
you cannot see my mathematical probability,
ergo i am definitionally
not capable of being guilty-
my orbit of madness
non transferable to you-mans"

who then can I blame?

for-seen poems every where,
upon on every face lay dime store words of bad novellas,
awake to work in dread,
return from it more deadened
and the piety pointy poetry pills
refusing to cooperate,
and the madness equation
has too many answers viable

what shall I title this poem?
James Crofts  Apr 2015
Hire me
James Crofts Apr 2015
Hire me, hire me,
I have four A-levels and an Arts degree.
I have little experience or transferable skills,
but i'll gladly complain for free.

I'm educated. EH-DUE-KATE-ED! I'll scream in my head,
as I make your coffees and your teas.
My intelligence is far to great,
your menial work is just not for me.

I belong to greater things, I believe.
an author, a politician, a diplomat maybe?
or even, only if I'm lucky
this twenty-five a year scheme in marketing!

So please hire me, oh please!
I'm poor, desperate and my love-life is in decline.
The streets are no place for a graduate,
with a face, quite like mine.
There is a lot of sad stuff on here tonight, so I thought I'd write something tongue-in-cheek to hopefully cheer at least someone up tonight.
Yenson  Aug 2018
Do You Have.....
Yenson Aug 2018
Is there a place somewhere known and yet unknown
where humans keep or lose their guilts
Is there a dumping hole or a snug
or a fierce incinerator blazing
That destroys or obliterates
human guilts

Is it a known some guilts carry comfortably and alone
just another thing for the holdall satchel bag or arm
Someday its worryingly heavy on the shoulders
other times it's just small and weightless
An accessory as any others
imperceptibly light

Is the heavy guilt or tons heavy ones like granite stone
a weary toil left in a storage or thrown over a cliff
What ever done guilts come with a personal receipt
bearing owners name time and number
Attached to owner and carried 24/7
marked as 'Non-Transferable'

Is your guilt or guilts  bearable or carry-able like your phone
have you stored, hidden it or pushed down a crevice
What about the indelible receipt on your person
that which is there and rests on you
Does it flare like an incindaries
or just simmer quietly

Is your guilt a bedfellow that clings to your chest in a zone
whispering in tone foreboding and chills persistent
Or one that wades in and recedes like shore waves
perhaps it's a type like a central rigid statue
An unmovable edifice of horror
coated in fear and alarm

Is your guilt light and niggly, a Bonsai with no tall grown
did you amend paying a due and penanced did leave
And though the attached receipt still haunts you
least you know it will gradually fade away
Leaving truly tutoring imprints
Never to be repeated

Is your guilt a stranger yet unmet and your spirit happy flown
do you walk in salient steps with no recourse to remorse
And greet each morn with pleasantries to I, me and self
enthralled no rent paid for secret storage or a crevice
Just the one that stands before man and Creation
Held aloof by a Conscience unstained



Copyright@Laurence14th Aug2018.all rights reserved.
Mike Essig Mar 2017
I am often asked this question in comments, private notes and emails.

The short answer is: I don’t know.

I don’t know if there is an answer or if I’m the man to even try.

First, there are probably as many ways to write poetry as there are poets. I can’t imagine any one size fits all template. That is too horrible to contemplate.

Second, my method is actually a non-method. I will describe it, but I doubt it will be useful or transferable.

I have been a fanatical reader all my life. I still am. I probably read an average of three books per week. This has been going on for decades.

I have been reading poetry seriously for perhaps 43 years, including being taught how to read closely by some brilliant professors as an undergraduate and graduate student.

This has deposited an enormous mishmash of poems, sentences, images, phrases and fragments in my brain. Add to that mishmash decades of reading across disciplines, especially history, philosophy, religion and novels. Imagine that mishmash slowly marinading and fermenting.

From that random accumulation, without provocation on my part, poems emerge. There is no order to this and not much effort. I just channel what shows up. I do some retouching, but little serious rewriting.

And there you have it: my non-method. It should be obvious why I doubt it will be of much help to anyone else.

I can give a bit of advice, but only based on my experience.

Love words. Love to learn them. Love to play with them. Delight in them.

Read as much poetry as you possibly can. I doubt anyone can become a poet without doing this.

Be patient. It takes a while for the marinade to work. I’m 65 and I only began writing seriously eight years ago.

Find your own method and your own voice. You’ll know when that voice is authentic.

And then, sing out.
Werdna  Feb 2019
blind spot.
Werdna Feb 2019
1
today on the radio, the voice of british engineer
kenneth bigly,
shackled in a chicken wire cage in iraq, is crying and
begging his prime minister
“please don't leave me here...”

the sound of his desperation rises like black smoke,
takes a solid
form, lodges itself in our hearts, non-transferable as
we continue to
invent as we go, what to do next.  this evening,  a
televised debate
about homeland security and foreign policy...

life has spilled out of its channels.

2
the rain has finally stopped, the puddle in my
basement is
deep enough for minnows.  dawn wrings itself out
before the
sun comes up, and trees shake off their heavy wet
skirts and
move on in the wind.

outside the back door, a large spider, the colour of
sand looks like a
crab walking on air, weaving, weaving the repairs of
her lair.

this airy space, this life, holds everything in place.  do
not pluck or cut
or name what you find hanging – it's only time
rearranging itself.

a sense of the invisible in the corner of my vision, a
glint of gold, a
secret life is moving between the trees; they are
always whispering.
in the solitude, behind the rocks, in the tall grass, and
below the
surface of the water, meaning passes silently.

this is not daydreaming. it's watching yourself dream.
the way children
play.  draw the curtains.  open the curtains.  vanishing
or fusing?  what
course will this take?  when the time comes that I can't
feed myself or
get up from where I lay?

3
thoughts are throwing themselves like discarded
clothing inside my
head.  i pick up a few and make some notes, but the
rest, strewn
about, disappear when i turn on the lamp.  sometimes
the very word
i need goes dark.  i want to get on my hands and
knees and look for it

4
the trees have entered the house.  they are on the
stairs and in the
hallways between the rooms.  i can hardly see you
anymore.

you stay, you go.  you will be someone who will always
remember
sounding the hurting horn at the wrong time.  you
catch your plane.
my body wants to fold forward like a suitcase locking
in the pain.

i begin giving things away.  a long time resident of my
head, I tidy up,
fold the past away, and gather what feels like a new
method of
thought – to admit that we just don't know, never knew,
where we are
going.  passengers waiting for departure.

5
tonight i pull on a cloak full of the moon that won't come
off.  i begin to
dance around a hole in the world where love once
thrived.  i hear the
trees applaud.  whirling in the shining light, i float.  i
fall.  i learn to fly.

healing without, healing with
Breeze-Mist Oct 2016
The question seems to lie in

Wether we are
We are the physical computer drive
Or the transferable background programs

Wether we are
Tied together in networks or an internet
Or wether we are a lone, disconnected monitor

Wether this place
Was created intentionally by an experimenting programmer
Or wether it is just a bug, a byproduct of natural binary

And if we
Have the computing power and memory storage to download the truth
Or if we'd simply overheat our circuitry

— The End —