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An altruistic act or just greed, my motivation is questioning, am I the selfless one or thinking of my own glory in suffering

My actions are never clear

I need to question everything that I do, Deep inside I know I should follow the golden rule always

If I get something out of it is it wrong or is it just always that way

My actions are never clear
Gold or silver, every day,
Dies to gray.
There are knots in every skein.
Hours of work and hours of play
Fade away
Into one immense Inane.
Shadow and substance, chaff and grain,
Are as vain
As the foam or as the spray.
Life goes crooning, faint and fain,
One refrain:
'If it could be always May!'

Though the earth be green and gay,
Though, they say,
Man the cup of heaven may drain;
Though, his little world to sway,
He display
Hoard on hoard of pith and brain:
Autumn brings a mist and rain
That constrain

Him and his to know decay,
Where undimmed the lights that wane
Would remain,
If it could be always May.

Yea, alas, must turn to nay,
Flesh to clay.
Chance and Time are ever twain.
Men may scoff, and men may pray,
But they pay
Every pleasure with a pain.
Life may soar, and Fortune deign
To explain
Where her prizes hide and stay;
But we lack the ***** train
We should gain,
If it could be always May.


Time, the pedagogue, his cane
Might retain,
But his charges all would stray
Truanting in every lane--
Jack with Jane--
If it could be always May.
Mary McCray Apr 2013
My married life
has a new ghost fix du jour—
a show called Haunted Collector
where John Zaffis pulls *****
historical do-dads out of haunted
domiciles, lines them up in bell jars
every harrowing episode.
His basement must be bursting
under the floorboards with EVP
chatter, ephemeral dead men
making residual trips down the hall
for midnight tuna-fish.

Last night we went down to Louisiana
in Deep South Paranormal
where a cast of drawling ghost hunters
cat-called the departed with backwater
truisms about cats and frissons.
Two bearded ZZ Top-types rattle
and shout through the Longleaf sawmill,
suffocated, chipped and abandoned.

But interestingly, our typecast yokels
take a new tactic beyond respect,
sympathy and confrontation. They play
their guitar for the undead, unleash
a melody, tempting the cryptic spirits
to step over the trimmers and chippers
and into the laser grids of square
lights, K2 meters, thermal camera frames,
the obelisk.

The peepings of ghosts have ceased
to ***** me. The proliferation
of paranormal pollsters
are crotchety and terrified,
modeling and grandstanding
the character American,
heirs of TV Kings and monsters,
castle builders, suffocating,
chipping away and abandoning
our very real screaming human
American creature.
Last night saw the premiere episode of Deep South Paranormal.
Most times walking around has a tendency to excentuate the noise.

"You're the last one I'd have expected".
Yeah - Same

Convinced to go to the hospital by the piece of glass in her neck.
there's cinnamon in my eye socket

Multiple voices feature various speech patterns I'm not yet familiar with.

"So, was he a thief, or a treasure hunter?"

Midnight pokes through cavern walls illuminating the craters.
the moon is like pupils in my skull

Approximately three or four of them have been developed over the last month.

"Since when has that been a factor?"
I wanted you to understand

I can't see the pamphlet's words behind your shaking hands.
they drip into my nasal passage

You can pull my lips off - protest this esophagus, "My skin's never normal".

"Where'd you put the knife - I need it". Far-left, back of the cabinet

*These festering autocrats (two faced dichotomies) the man in the suit gets 'em all in the end
{she has metal flakes in her lungs}
"Now take off your shoes and sweep up that glass".
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2013
enlighten — verb (used with object)

to give intellectual or spiritual light to;
to instruct; impart knowledge to; Archaic: to shed light upon.
like an overdue library book,
the omission of a
failed commission,
makes me a bad boy.

request submitted.
progress stalled,
dust accumulated.
guilty of failure to perform,
a fineable offense
where I come from.

perhaps it was the word?


down too many paths possible
this word obvious, but not,
a distortion, to me.
the definition I seek,
is not in dictionary listed!

for I want to enlighten you,
make you lighter, carefree,
But Not Through Spirit or Intellect.

for what spiritual guidance
can I give thee,
that would not burden you,
with collected do's and don'ts.

my intellect impoverished,
reduce to grunts and curses,
my opinions, even if valid,
are simplistic truisms.

nonetheless, I want to enlighten you.

"put the load right on me."

"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me."

Give me those-parts of you,
convoluted, twisted, that need bearing,
but cannot be borne any more,
for there comes the line,
where the totals are recorded,
the sums noted,
black or red,
matters not,
disposal ready,
my truck is marked
Heavy Load.

make me fat with seven years of plenty,
plenty worries, plenty troubles,
shed those pounds of weighty words
that gain no recognition,
misheard, misunderstood,
or just ignored,
so I can enlighten you.

what skill you posses,
doing this noble thing?

skill is simple,
merely human,
only the human touch
can enlighten,
take out the trash.

I am your man.
what makes you
heavy hearted,
enlightens me,
and makes you
lighter than air,

thus, miraculously,
we are both enlightened.

send what you need to be rid of,
promise, I will read and keep,
every poem you send.
apologize for the delay, M., but the word gave me trouble, and then it was perfect-clear, give me thy troubles and through that act, that we are both

I got the room.

Send me a word,
and I will return to you,
a commissioned poem.
A good place to start would be an introspective analysis of self, but what of the ramifications of objectified manifest? If evil is incarnate then what is the nature of corporeally preternatural? Can we save each other from the truisms of self we all embody, or do we all wallow in the pandemic phatic of our own fatidic as we seek augur's tout. My imagination tells me I can create a personification that has mystical properties but can this be functional garb or is it basically illusion. Can we touch each other, or even ourselves with these extrapolations? So many of us live by this platonic proxy photic aimed humanitarian instinct, maybe the reason we don't seem to succeed is because we need to be bad to be good. Further some of us are so bad that we obviously don't deserve to live but are those of us so inclined doomed to die of the ramifications thereof? And will this malady be a contagious virulence for all? Were it not for the astonishingly astounding and incredible nature of life itself I would almost be forced to abjure the nature of metaphysics on a corporeal level. Fortunately for me the answer is much more simple, I need someone to make love to, or **** if you will. I believe in retrospect this is obviously clear! Forgive my blither.
Are the bluebells really a delightful hue
when they habitat railway banks
They are wild and not so rare
like the country we reside in.
We are a barren land
once proud but
with all wealth stripped away
Our Jurassic coastline erodes
likewise a once bedrock of national pride.
Our spirits wane,
we are too self conscious to crowd
amongst our own.
We have been too disorientated
to uphold our truisms
vircapio gale Oct 2015
i have holidays off at my new job.
no vacation for a year
or insurance
for six months.
i think
the work is fulfilling.
but if i get hurt, it'll be my fault, according to company policy.
i mean, i make it fulfilling
--to deal with the continuous,
and aggressive abjection--
by climaxes
political correctness  or explicit signs of empathy
are seen as the enemy. as problems.
anything organized or tidy is
"****** up."
i mean, my boss told me the other day,
" if I call you a ***, and you happen to be one,
you could just sue me! People are so sensitive nowadays...
My wife calls me a chauvinist, but I say i'm just old-fashioned."
young girls we pass in our company vehicle are called,
East Asia is called
and stereotypes are considered truisms.
ethnic slurs are the norm.
**** is a common,everyday
source of humor:
maple trees are called "Raples";
grapes are called "'g'-Rapes"
and small houses are called "****-Shacks."
a large kiln oven is called a "Jew-Oven."
glorifications of violence are welcomed with a smile
and the N-word is spoken with gleeful abandon.
if something is fixed poorly, it's "******-rigged" . . .
...they say they're not racist,
but perpetuate hate speech like it's a responsibility.
how am i growing to enjoy the company of such people?
to see any aspect of value here whatsoever?
what the **** kind of coward am i?
to allow this to pass without immediate and uncompromising opposition...
i must be dead inside
to trust my safety to such people
i say
i want to ***** my heart
and show them
how wrong and terrifying,
how hurtful their words are...
how i burn, impaled on stakes with each pronunciation of the word, "******."
rage shakes me awake at night
...though less and less...
as i understand the hate and fear,
the pain these men have lived with and seem unable to restrain
from spilling out;
as i begin to understand their conditioning
the origins of this inexcusable, ancient behavior
(or as i too become somewhat desensitized i fear)

but if i can see the potential for change in these earthlings,
i will go on hoping,
live happily amid hate
measuring with wide eyes the subtle shiftings
holding the intention of healing
of understanding
of presenting alternatives
of tolerance
and honest truths of self suffering
of other suffering
of self healing
and other healing
of self love
and other love
VENUS62 Jul 2014
When the neurons
process the vocabulary
acquired and integrates
integrity with observations and truisms
there emerges an algorithm
perfect in metre and in rhythm
creating a poetry contrived

When the neurons in tranquility
along with the heart engage
in emotions happy or sad
and reflect on nature with wonder
Or simply ponder
On the complexities of life
Or dreams asleep
Or awake immerses in the divine
There is a genesis from the soul
Of a kernel of truth and joy
designed to touch another soul
Thus is born a poem
that freely respires
ensuring a legacy
that truly inspires*!

— The End —