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st64 Mar 2013
Making you a sandwich
Feed your hunger
Mmmm....jam's delish!

But butter's
*******
Bread.
Think of you
While....
Toasting.


Star Toucher, 28 March 2013
Jus a late-nite snack...lol
Balmy sarmie....sometimes needs a touch of warmth to get things...melting.

A pang-fixer for some..... midnight mmmmoves!
:-)
st64 Mar 2014
When she was seven, my grandmother suffered from fever and swollen glands. The doctors believed her tonsils were inflamed, that she needed surgery. Instead, she went to a curandera. The curandera divined that a jealous relative had cast a curse on her and, now, her language of kindness was bound to her throat, the unspoken swelling her glands.

As a child my grandmother spoke to santitos with a voice like a chestnut: ruddy and warm, seeds dropping from her mouth. The santitos would take her words into themselves, her voice growing within them like grapevines.

During the tonsillitis, when the words no longer fell like seeds from her lips, the santito's vineyards of accent and voice grew vapid, dry as a parched mouth. They went to her tongue and asked why silence imprisoned the words of the child, why lumps were present under her chin, why tears drew channels down her cheeks.

I asked my grandmother how her tongue replied. After touching my cheek, she told me she had a dream that night: She was within her lungs and she rose like breath through the moist of her throat. She remembered her tonsils swinging before her like fleshy apples, then a hand taking them into a fist, harvesting their sound. She told me her throat opened in two spots like insect eyes and the names of her children came flying through her wounds like peacocks.

Patting my thigh, she said, "That is why the name of your mother is Maria, because she is a prayer, a song of praise to the Holy Mother."
She told me this, then showed me two scars on her throat—tiny scars, like two eyelids stitched closed.


st - 20 mar 14
what a day for grapes in the sun.. to aspire to be raisin' a merry storm (later)..
pecans but not almonds.. will do.



sub-bent-tree: full two trie


how liberating.. wen a hart passes in the woulds
here, can the ****** of attempts be crack'd?

a wholly marvellous case of the best
full to trie.. drink it slow.
st64 Apr 2013
1.
This century
His end may not make the news
Nor for this year
Nor this month.



2.
But for this day
His end would make serious dent
As he holds her hand
To weather this storm.



3.
Yes, on their knees, they sob
For 'tis not only his end
Which would mark heavy plight
Three felt it in this sad twist.



4.
Beautiful burden....
Gone for good.
Tears bring back nought:
They both lost out....this day.



S T, 12 April 2013
Title is deliberately awkward.

Two people in suffering, yet grow ever closer......having gone through a (late) spontaneous abortion.
st64 Oct 2013
bildings in roowins
I rite with brokin-hand


it is the year of the unlord-tyms 2085
and skool hadbin abolishd since fyv decades
evrything in disrepair -
                    no hospitills no parks
                    no creche no greens
all grey and dark

now here I lie amid the rubble
I see they took my legs for under-market
what else did they take?
**** *******!
belly rumbles
the last I'd eaten was 2 days on
a chunk of hard-bread whose colour would turn envy in its boots
with artifishal-milk whose curdled smile greeted the back of my arid existence

**** bastarrrrrrds! they put me under, sawed off my legs
left me hobbling with jagged wounds and smirk-pain like hot-rods searing my brand-new stubs
elementary-bandage of an old sheet torn into strips...

wait, I must use this anger as fuel to get me going
she told me so
many, many times..




(I can remember my mother reading to me
reciting from her memory
they had burnt evry-single-book Man had ever known
                My eyes have never been graced with a book
but
she tort me words with stick in sand
and counting with stones
and there were many stones
               she fed me poetry when there was little else to eat
with fainting-body and starving-belly
my mind took pleasure in her ultimate-care
               she told me of a time when childrin took poor-interest
in the blessings of a book.. wen their minds were swallowed wholemeal by what they called media, I think
when they were not saddled with the worry of their next meal's magical-appearance
                (I can spell 'their' at least, yes.. she made sure I knew the difference)
the only pictures I saw were the ones she drew for me
in the volcanic beach-sand when we ran away from the parasitic-city
                I knew nothing of the world but what I saw around me
                        - decay, decay, decay
until she brought me colour - rite into the hart of me -
                           blooms that hurt at first, so bright and giving
                           that it saturated every molecule in my parched-centre
                           and I became a rainbow-suffused capsule in a otherwise drab-society
such wonder she spoke with open-eyes and loving-tones

and I also remember.. the day they took her..
I remember.. too much)




I crawl forward like a snake in the .. wait, what was that expreshin again?
I'll think later when I find a place to harbour my broken-body
                     thought is a luxury here
thers a horrible smoke in the air
          stings me so
and I miss her so
I have nobody left
but I cannot feel forsaken, as so many do
and succumb to self-pity
she made sure my armour grew
                 from the inside.. first
yet.all.the.while.she.watered.my.hungry.mind
and I took it with disbelief painted on my face
the things she told me about..




                I cannot believe there once were -
green fields and trees with chirping birds
a blue sky
blue? not possible
I've never seen a blue sky
I think she was being kind to paint me portraits of psychedelia
   to entertain and distract me
   from the horror of our lives
I heard tales of things called flowers - daisies and things
like vegetables and fruit
it seemed funny to me - little beings in the ground,
                                       growing
                                       standing rooted, awaiting harvest-hands
               just for people??
uncredibill
waaaat???
no..  such depth of kindness I can hardly imagine
for we have had only *
hard
-earth.. most concreted
and drank only brack-water from collapsing pipes
no, an unforgiving-scene is all I know
yet
     she is so kind to feed me such fantasy-tales of deep-imaginashin
     pity she could not tell any others
     for any tenth-of-a-whisper of this to any wrong-ear
and her head would roll
in the gutter.. where we lived in contest with rats
she could only rally my mind and relay things which would die with her
things that she bequeaths
to me

what will I do with it? this legacy of forgotten-paradise..
what can I do?   this wonder-clad heresy..
                I now know thers a way out these city walls
                ther is a life beyond
with valleys and rivers and salty-seas
I must try to find a river
she told of oceans which live - which heave and swell and move!
she said these things too .. they exist
what quaint-things, indeed
oh, for dreems..

but now, I must off the streets
for a double-darkness has begun to fall
when red-eyes will scour the streets for scraps of flesh
        anything is worth a barter
        even a dead-man in a lane whose eyeballs are gone
        harshly-hacked out living - by a previous-visitor
becomes a piece of currency for seekers of the dark

I don't know what they've done to her.. or where she is now..
yet, she always said - keep moving
                                   keep searching
for blue-sky and flowing-rivers and yellow-flowers..
(I wonder if it's real
I do believ her - I must)*




now I scrape on in haste into a darkening-alley
towards a derelict-bilding
whose sinister-interior is the only welcome it can afford me
             I have little choice
             no time for sentiment
plus, I feel a fever coming (perhaps this is all the dreem.. and she is the only-flower I know)
the night-Rats will come out soon
and I hate their stink
it doesn't help I leave a trail of blood..




now
only hoap lives
on
in hobbled-soul

as I rite on with brokin-hand
onto the back-pages.. of my mind





S T -  5 octoblah
awoke with a feeling of piece of broken-building teetering and wanting to fall on me..
with legs gone,
junk, junk feeling :(

(anyway, it's just a nightmare.. I thought I'd plug that energy into this poem)

hoap.. hold on, alright? please :)



sub: thanks be

to the grey of skies I never see
to the squalor of the seas no-one can smell
to decay in every nook you can't tell

thanks be to the beauty of our times
and where none of such deep-calamity
touches our lives

(yet)




(where love-tryst equals getting tangled..
in the stars)
st64 Apr 2014
If I were doing my Laundry I'd wash my ***** Iran
I'd throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap, scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back in the jungle,
I'd wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,  
Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,  
Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos,
Flush that sparkly Cesium out of Love Canal

Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain Sludge out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,
Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little Clouds so snow return white as snow,
Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie  

Then I'd throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood & Agent Orange,
Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out the tattletail Gray of U.S. Central American police state,
& put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an Aeon
till it came out clean.




                                                     Allen Ginsberg
                                                    Bou­lder, 26 April, 1980








.
Allen Ginsberg (1926–1997)


One of the most respected Beat writers and acclaimed American poets of his generation, Allen Ginsberg enjoys a prominent place in post-World War II American culture.
He was born in 1926 in Newark, New Jersey, and raised in nearby Paterson. The son of an English teacher and Russian expatriate, Ginsberg’s early life was marked by his mother’s psychological troubles, including a series of nervous breakdowns.
In 1943, while studying at Columbia University, Ginsberg befriended William Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, and the trio later established themselves as pivotal figures in the Beat Movement. Known for their unconventional views, and frequently rambunctious behavior, Ginsberg and his friends also experimented with drugs.

On one occasion, Ginsberg used his college dorm room to store stolen goods acquired by an acquaintance. Faced with prosecution, Ginsberg decided to plead insanity and subsequently spent several months in a mental institution. After graduating from Columbia, Ginsberg remained in New York City and worked various jobs.

Ginsberg first came to public attention in 1956 with the publication of Howl and Other Poems.
“Howl,” a long-lined poem in the tradition of Walt Whitman, is an outcry of rage and despair against a destructive, abusive society.
Kevin O'Sullivan, writing in Newsmakers, deemed “Howl” “an angry, sexually explicit poem”, considered by many to be a revolutionary event in American poetry.
The poem's raw, honest language and its “Hebraic-Melvillian bardic breath,” as Ginsberg called it, stunned many traditional critics.

Richard Eberhart, for example, called “Howl” “a powerful work, cutting through to dynamic meaning…It is a howl against everything in our mechanistic civilization which kills the spirit…Its positive force and energy come from a redemptive quality of love.”
Appraising the impact of “Howl,” Paul Zweig noted that it “almost singlehandedly dislocated the traditionalist poetry of the 1950s.”
In addition to stunning critics, Howl stunned the San Francisco Police Department. Because of the graphic ****** language of the poem, they declared the book obscene and arrested the publisher, poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

Ginsberg's political activities were called strongly libertarian in nature, echoing his poetic preference for individual expression over traditional structure.
In the mid-1960s he was closely associated with the counterculture and antiwar movements. He created and advocated “flower power,” a strategy in which antiwar demonstrators would promote positive values like peace and love to dramatize their opposition to the death and destruction caused by the Vietnam War. The use of flowers, bells, smiles, and mantras (sacred chants) became common among demonstrators.

Sometimes Ginsberg's politics prompted reaction from law-enforcement authorities. He was arrested at an antiwar demonstration in New York City in 1967 and tear-gassed at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in 1968.
In 1972 he was jailed for demonstrating against then-President Richard Nixon at the Republican National Convention in Miami.
In 1978 he and long-time companion Peter Orlovsky were arrested for sitting on train tracks in order to stop a trainload of radioactive waste coming from the Rocky Flats Nuclear Weapons Plant in Colorado.
Ginsberg's political activities caused him problems in other countries as well.

Another continuing concern reflected in Ginsberg's poetry was a focus on the spiritual and visionary. His interest in these matters was inspired by a series of visions he had while reading William Blake's poetry, and he recalled hearing “a very deep earthen grave voice in the room, which I immediately assumed, I didn't think twice, was Blake's voice.”
He added that “the peculiar quality of the voice was something unforgettable because it was like God had a human voice, with all the infinite tenderness and anciency and mortal gravity of a living Creator speaking to his son.”
Such visions prompted an interest in mysticism that led Ginsberg to experiment, for a time, with various drugs.
After a journey to India in 1962, however, during which he was introduced to meditation and yoga, Ginsberg changed his attitude towards drugs. He became convinced that meditation and yoga were far superior in raising one's consciousness, while still maintaining that psychedelics could prove helpful in writing poetry.

Ginsberg's study of Eastern religions was spurred on by his discovery of mantras, rhythmic chants used for spiritual effects.
During poetry readings he often began by chanting a mantra in order to set the proper mood.
In 1972 Ginsberg took the Refuge and Boddhisattva vows, formally committing himself to the Buddhist faith.

In 1974 Ginsberg and fellow-poet Anne Waldman co-founded the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics as a branch of Trungpa's Naropa Institute.
“The ultimate idea is to found a permanent arts college,” Ginsberg said of the school, “sort of like they have in Tibetan tradition where you have teachers and students living together in a permanent building which would go on for hundreds of years.”

Ginsberg lived a kind of literary “rags to riches”—from his early days as the feared, criticized, and “*****” poet to his later position within what Richard Kostelanetz called “the pantheon of American literature.”
He was one of the most influential poets of his generation and, in the words of James F. Mersmann, “a great figure in the history of poetry.”
Because of his rise to influence and his staying power as a figure in American art and culture, Ginsberg's work was the object of much scholarly attention throughout his lifetime.

In the spring of 1997, while already plagued with diabetes and chronic hepatitis, Ginsberg was diagnosed with liver cancer.
After learning of this illness, Ginsberg promptly produced twelve brief poems. The next day he suffered a stroke and lapsed into a coma. Two days later, he died.

How would Ginsberg have liked to be remembered?
“As someone in the tradition of the oldtime American transcendentalist individualism,” he said, “from that old gnostic tradition…Thoreau, Emerson, Whitman…just carrying it on into the 20th century.”
Ginsberg once explained that among human faults he was most tolerant of anger; in his friends he most appreciated tranquility and ****** tenderness; his ideal occupation would be “articulating feelings in company.”
“Like it or not, no voice better echoes his times than Mr. Ginsberg's,” concluded a reviewer in the Economist.
“He was a bridge between the literary avant-garde and pop culture.”
st64 Apr 2013
I grabbed a piece of sky
And pressed it in your hand
Mind, hold tight now
Lest it be ripped away.

I stole a slice of rainbow
And placed in your eyes
Mind, don't shut now
Let it show all for us.

I longed for waxless endearment
And you apportioned lots my way
When I looked up to see
You stood, holding stars out to me.....


And so.....
Starry eyes.....
Shiny hope....
Tingly heart....
Waxless en-dear-meant!





S T, 12 April 2013
Yes....waxless, indeed.

Mind, never did like...shiny, though....always preferred matte....lol

NoneTHEless, it's endearment and its presence of any proportion, I definitely scoff not at.

:)
st64 Mar 2014
“The *** or ethereal soul is associated with the Liver System, and is the aspect of consciousness that continues to exist—in more subtle realms—even after the death of the body.”*

When *** walks, I walk. When he wanders, untethered, I go with him. With her. My eyes close, and ***’s will be wide. He leads the way.
She leads me, away from my bed to stand at window, which I open.

*** will lift the sash so I can lean out over the street where someone is screaming.
Always screaming.
Known to walk after the body dies, *** is roused by this call.
But the chill, the smell of the distant river, wakes me. And *** retreats.

I’ve been told to put bells on my window so I will wake when it’s opened. When I open it.
The bells of the Cathedral ring in the dark hours of all this animation: wandering spirit of my organs, custodial ghost of my art.
He wants me grounded. She wants me flown.

I am here, I tell him—her: not lost. Aloft.
A-sleep or awake, I am led, leashed, walking in the wake of our odd arrangement.

                                               -- by Nathaniel Bellows





st.. 25 march 2014
American author of "On this Day" a well-received first novel, published in February 2003.

The son of a physician, he chose instead the artistic path. He began his career as a visual artist and had his poems published in prestigious literary magazines before his work of fiction was published.
st64 Mar 2013
Would you now go spitefully hating the sun
Or go viciously plundering pretty flower beds
Or go crushing underfoot, fall leaves in contempt
Or turn gently  into the fresh fold of snow?

Come, come, dear child, hold out thy hands
Let me gently embrace thy spindly frame
And divest thee of thy onerous cloak
For thou art at journey's end; thy vessel awaits repose.

If I told you which season you'd die in
Would you relent with ease, when the hour falls upon you?
Should you know I'm not as fearsome as most believe
Could you surrender the lent Light I must return?

You already know the answer without knowing
For it is not how you look, but how you look!
You no longer remember, it's been so long
So, I ask it plain: Would you really want to know?

You are not just a spoke on the wheel of Life
Which needs to, as the seasons, turn resolute
Yet you pass through them all, simultaneously
Save, your linear faculties confine your esoteric bridge.

Take joy in aestival airs, the apex of fruition
Springtime soil so easily squandered, bear in mind
Access  introspective glimpses with  hiemal hibernation
Autumnal foliage is but a screen, time to get real!

You cannot have the sunshine without the rain
Nor expect fine blossoms without fair travail
Seek thus the true bounty bedecked in full view
If you had but the seer's eyeless sight, dear guest.

As you travelled from one season to another
Did you live fully, even in between them?
Yes, the tiny labyrinth-passages you overlooked
Time to exact the price now run overdue.

Too attached you are to world and kin
For none of these, can you take with you
But beneficial acts and and good intent
Cosmic trick of genes is cecity delivered.

The one whose life you may regard so worthless
Retains a level which allows his soul to pass through
The eye of a needle, not measured in numbers
Hoist your soul on, tilt your core... I carry you home

So, come, wayworn traveller, hold out thy hands
Let me tenderly close thy brief visit here
And divest thee of thy onerous cloak, prithee
For thou art at journey's end; thy vessel awaits repose.



Star Toucher, 24 March 2013
Written and submitted elsewhere for a while, till it reached its journey's end there...lol
As with all in life...like seasons which ever change, we are merely offered phases and afforded chances.....let's make the BEST of it, hey :-D
st64 Jul 2013
Pardon me, do you have change for a quarter?
I gotta make a phone call, thank you
Oh, I hope this woman don’t take me through no changes today
‘Cause I’ve had a hard day today, man, you know
Let me see what’s happenin’ at the address ‘fore I go home*

How you doin’, I hope you’re fine
Did your day take you through changes and mess up your mind?
I just called to say that I’m on my way
Whoa, and I’ll see you when I get there

I hope you’re in a good mood
You know a man’s home is his castle, and I’m comin’ home to groove
Whoa, and I’ll see you when I get there
I’ll see you when I get there

And you’ll be ready for good lovin’
You’ll be ready for good lovin’
‘Cause I’ve worked hard all day
Now I’m comin’ home to be with the one I love

Candlelight, cold wine, soft music on the radio
And you got everything you need from the store
‘Cause I’ll be in for the evening and I don’t wanna come out no more
Whoa, and I’ll see you when I get there
I’ll see you when I get there

And you’ll be ready for good lovin’
You’ll be ready for good lovin’
‘Cause I’ve worked hard all day
Now I’m comin’ home to lay and relax my mind

Whoa, I’ll see you when I get there
I’ll see you when I, see you when I get there, baby
[I’ll see you when I get there] I’ll see you when I get there
[I’ll see you when I get there] I’ll see you when I get there,baby
[I’ll see you when I get there] See you when I get there
[I’ll see you when I get there] See you when I get there, baby

Whoa, I’ll see you when I get there
I’ll see you when I get there

And you’ll be ready for good lovin’
You’ll be ready for good lovin’
‘Cause I’ve worked hard all day
Now I’m comin’ home to lay and relax my mind

Whoa, I’ll see you when I get there
I said I’ll see you when I get there, baby
I said I’ll see you when I get there
I said I’ll see you when I get there, baby

I said I might have to run all the way
Because the bus might be slow today
I’ve been thinkin’ about you all day long
And I just can’t wait to get home

I’ll see you when I get there
I’ll see you when I get there, baby
[You’ll be ready] I’ve been workin’ hard all day, you’ve been on my mind
[You’ll be ready] I can’t go on without you, darling, by my side
[I’ll see you when I get there] I’ll see you when I get there
[I’ll see you when I get there]
[I’ll see you when I get there] I’ll see you when I get there, baby!



www.youtube.com/watch?v=K7nSWR-tdhE



S T, 3 July 2013
Sure do love this song :)
whoa.... just g-roooovy, man!

can ye dig it? lol

Did your day take you through changes and mess up your mind?
worry not, poet ...tides'll turn...
it must, ok!
:)








sub-entry: 'rail'

1.
I'm your railroad
to where you want to go
climb aboard
fret none

sit back and relax
look out the window
and dream away

feel that breeze
      kiss your face
      lift your hair
brush your cares...gone

see the sheep at pasture
feel the green fields whizz by
poles at intervals
folk as dots, standing still
wagons trudge along

2.
ant on glass
see it walk so bold
across the sky

let landscapes roll along
at terrific speed
feel the jolt-less ride
as you float on foreign feelings
thrum..thrum..thrumming on

clackety-clack, clack!
rhythmic
hum to a tuneless channel

cradling on your lap
a book on philosophy
you shan't be reading
nor really needing, ha!
(go on, pretend all you like:)

no traffic jam
only
in your head

3.
boat's too slow
car's too noisy
bus too high
foot is sore
rail is best

this one can let you glide
up
onto that highway in the sky

4.
waste precious time
having jolly fun, man
on me

look out, baby
look out
and see the reflection
of my face
on the edges
of your thoughts

hey, no need to hide
your smile so beautifully unbidden
into your hand
give it
oh, see how you ache to just give it!

no late arrival
only
what you really want, darling
you know it, too
don't you?

5.
spill some freakin' smiles
over that fatigued mind
rinse merriment
all over
and soak in some
fab laughs

time to ditch the glum
just for today
please

have a slow Bell's...smooth flow
unmixed
as it were
plus an unmessy *******
and no Muzak

come
climb on
no tax, no toll
this is
just for you:
sweet supremo
all-time waxless ride ...


6.
this railroad
wasn't made today

it can take you, baby

it will take you
where you wanna go :)

oh, clackety-clack
CLACK...!
st64 Apr 2013
1.
Cry not, little sister
'Tis but the way of t'world.



2.
Seigneur's pleasure hold fort,
No doubt
Give in to
Prima Nocte.



3.
New bride's
.......sweetest petals......
Ravaged.

Greet sad grooms
Parcel undone.


S T , 12 April 2013
Bad, bad law of ***** era.

Like in the times of the Crusaders...or shown in cool movie 'Braveheart'.



From - http://uk.answers.yahoo.com

Was 'prima nocta' ever a real law?
In braveheart it was a law decreeing that any english lord may sleep with any common girl, in order to breed out the scots. In a time of war, torture & cruelty, it doesn't seem to be far fetched!

Yes it existed. And unlike what was shown in Braveheart, where it was actually used was the local priest. The local priest, who provided the marriage vows, would claim "prima nocta" to bless the wedding and "deflower" the ****** so the poor husband would not get blood on himself. It would usually happen the night before the wedding!


Yes, even hundreds of years ago priests were using their influence for their own ****** satisfaction and to control the people of his flock.

If true....****** twits!
st64 Feb 2014
you are in the mist, a grey mist
a beautiful coverlet to the eyes of dawn
you’re standing there, in the mist
all the eyelids fall from lunar spark and come to drape on
my beige undoing of graceful bassoon echoes


in this darkened window frame, I look out
and the beat of life pumps on in the veins of foliage friends


in the mist, all cities are alive in muffled sounds and reaching sighs
why give up so soon?
why give up.. at all?*




S T – 4 feb 14
in the mist, we see what we can.. until it clears.
st64 Feb 2014
“I know you're tired but come, this is the way...

In your light, I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.
You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you,
but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.”*        ― Rumi


1.
“You and I have spoken all these words, but for the way we have to go, words are no preparation. I have one small drop of knowing in my soul.
Let it dissolve in your ocean.

A mountain keeps an echo deep inside. That's how I hold your voice.”
― Rumi


2.
“Do not feel lonely, the entire universe is inside you.
Stop acting so small. You are the universe in ecstatic motion.

Set your life on fire. Seek those who fan your flames.”   ― Rumi


3.
“The way of love is not
a subtle argument.

The door there
is devastation.

Birds make great sky-circles
of their freedom.
How do they learn it?

They fall, and falling,
they're given wings.”                          ― Rumi


4.
“The morning wind spreads its fresh smell. We must get up and take that in, that wind that lets us live. Breathe before it's gone.

Sorrow prepares you for joy.
It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow.
Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their
place.”                                     ― Rumi


5.
“You are so weak. Give up to grace.
The ocean takes care of each wave till it gets to shore.
You need more help than you know.

Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder. Help someone's soul heal.
Walk out of your house like a shepherd.”
― Rumi, The Essential Rumi


6.
“You think you are alive
because you breathe air?
Shame on you,
that you are alive in such a limited way.
Don't be without Love,
so you won't feel dead.
Die in Love
and stay alive forever.

I want to see you.
Know your voice.

Recognise you when you
first come 'round the corner.

Sense your scent when I come
into a room you've just left.

Know the lift of your heel,
the glide of your foot.

Become familiar with the way
you purse your lips
then let them part,
just the slightest bit,
when I lean in to your space
and kiss you.

I want to know the joy
of how you whisper
“more”...                                                       ­     ― Rumi


7.
“When you go through a hard period,
When everything seems to oppose you,
... When you feel you cannot even bear one more minute,
NEVER GIVE UP!
Because it is the time and place that the course will divert!

The cure for pain is in the pain.
In Silence, there is eloquence. Stop weaving and see how the pattern improves.

The truth was a mirror in the hands of God. It fell, and broke into pieces. Everybody took a piece of it, and they looked at it and thought they had the truth.”                                       ― Rumi


8.
“Study me as much as you like, you will not know me, for I differ in a hundred ways from what you see me to be. Put yourself behind my eyes and see me as I see myself, for I have chosen to dwell in a place you cannot see.

Moonlight floods the whole sky from horizon to horizon;
How much it can fill your room depends on its windows.”
― Rumi, The Essential Rumi


9.
“Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances.
That's not for human beings. Move within,
But don't move the way fear makes you move.

If you are irritated by every rub, how will your mirror be polished?

Start a huge, foolish project, like Noah…it makes absolutely no difference what people think of you.”   ― Rumi


10.
“Do you know what you are?
You are a manuscript oƒ a divine letter.
You are a mirror reflecting a noble face.
This universe is not outside of you.
Look inside yourself;
everything that you want,
you are already that.”
― Rumi, Hush, Don't Say Anything to God: Passionate Poems of Rumi



11.
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing, there is a field.
I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.

What you seek, is seeking you.”                             ― Rumi


12.
“The lion is most handsome when looking for food.

Pain is a treasure, for it contains mercies.
Love comes with a knife, not some shy question, and not with fears for its reputation!

I am your moon and your moonlight too
I am your flower garden and your water too
I have come all this way, eager for you
Without shoes or shawl
I want you to laugh
To **** all your worries
To love you
To nourish you.”                                          ― Rumi


13.
“I was dead, then alive.
Weeping, then laughing.

The power of love came into me,
and I became fierce like a lion,
then tender like the evening star.”                        ― Rumi


14.
“Suffering is a gift. In it is hidden mercy.

Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving.
It doesn't matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair.. come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again, come, come.

But listen to me. For one moment - quit being sad. Hear blessings
dropping their blossoms
around you.

I closed my mouth and spoke to you in a hundred silent ways.”
― Rumi


15.
“The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep!
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep!
People are going back and forth
across the doorsill where the two worlds touch,
The door is round and open
Don't go back to sleep!

These pains you feel are messengers. Listen to them.”
― Rumi, The Essential Rumi



16.
“Like a sculptor, if necessary,
carve a friend out of stone.
Realise that your inner sight is blind
and try to see a treasure in everyone.”                    ― Rumi


17.
“Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy, absent-minded. Someone sober will worry about things going badly. Let the lover be.

There are lovers content with longing.
I’m not one of them.”    ― Rumi, The Essential Rumi


18.
“There is a secret medicine given only to those who hurt so hard they can't hope.
The hopers would feel slighted if they knew.

You were born with potential.
You were born with goodness and trust. You were born with ideals and dreams. You were born with greatness.
You were born with wings.
You are not meant for crawling, so don't.
You have wings.
Learn to use them and fly.”          ― Rumi


19.
“Forget safety.
Live where you fear to live.
Destroy your reputation.
Be notorious.

Inside you, there’s an artist you don’t know about… say yes quickly, if you know, if you’ve known it from before the beginning of the universe.”
― Rumi


20.
“Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.”     ― Rumi





"On a day
when the wind is perfect,
the sail just needs to open and the world is full of beauty.
Today is such a day.”
                                               ― Rumi






S T – 25 feb 14
Rumi - born to native Persian speaking parents in 1207.
Died 1273 AD.
Rumi (an evolutionary thinker) believed passionately in the use of music, poetry and dance as a path for reaching God.
st64 Dec 2013
standing at water's edge
good-bye, momma - I'll always love your straight-face discipline
goodbye, poppa - whose handsomeness I never knew nor saw




nobody'll see me camp out alone on the common
tiny-tent to keep my limbs from cramping morning-mist
maybe some stray-mutt to be (f)ears to intruders
perked-up coffee in tin-***
and baked-beans from a tin, I'll share my bounty
with the dog and bramble-bush




I'm not afraid if the dark
   which waits in timely-blocks
   never overwhelms
I'll meet that sky at midnight and greet the stars in bloom
   their twinkling-smiles will warm my eyes
   and scoop away all lone thoughts
I'll siphon inspiration from the sighs of flora
   inaudible yet felt
I'll huddle not away from any lesson
             *even second-hand





my weapon will be prayer
mouth-***** tests the waters
sends a tentative trill into heightened-silence
      rippling on surface
      embracing the dark
Joe felt that God was there.. the boss
fussing over all his creation
yet, he felt alone on the pier that day
with not one soul..
        to stop the tides from swallowing his tired-life
        to love the gauche-grit inside his gifted-cage
        to hear the silent-scream of fretless-agony
        to sense the dripped-disparity of favour
turning face upwards and smelling fresh sea-salt
he closed his eyes so slowly
and let the wind rip it away from him..




nobody had heard him play Bach on his guitar
finest poignant tone
all the suites and minuets in glory to the one
    yet among the many passing, there was one listener
    a quiet boy whose senses touched celestial-note
most mothers warned their children to stay away from Joe
save this lad to inherit misunderstood genius-scribbles
as Joe's blue book held more than just music of old-siècle
to be legacy in the talent-hand of open-heart apprentice



and my penciled-in landscape grows incisors
from the sharpness of your colour
as I camouflage my strained-song
in seeming-vibrancy of words
merely purloined from the deepest
of
your quiet-sighs



S T - 20 December 2013
so much of brilliance remains undiscovered.. shine on, you crazy-diamond :)
st64 Jan 2014
Just beyond the sunset
Someone waits for me
Just beyond the sunset
Lies my destiny
Where the purple mountains
Lie in deep tranquillity
There I’ll find the treasure
Of love eternally

Just beyond the sunset
Waits someone so fair
Just beyond the sunset
All alone they wait there
Their hair is golden
The colour of the sand
Their eyes sparkle in the night
Like diamonds in your hand

Just beyond the sunset
Lies a home for me
Where the world is peaceful
Like a paradise should be
Just beyond the sunset
Someday is where you’ll find me



Written - July or Aug 1966  by David Harris
feel so inspired by this piece :) so beautiful
st64 Oct 2013
Can't get the stink off
He's been hanging round for days
Comes like a comet
Suckered you but not your friends
One day he'll get to you
And teach you how to be a holy cow


You do it to yourself, you do
And that's what really hurts
Is that you do it to yourself
Just you and no one else
You do it to yourself
You do it to yourself


Don't get my sympathy
Hanging out the 15th floor
You've changed the locks three times
He still comes reeling through the door
One day I'll get you
And teach you how to get to purest hell

You do it to yourself, you do
And that's what really hurts
Is that you do it to yourself
Just you, you and no one else
You do it to yourself
You do it to yourself

You do it to yourself, you do
And that's what really hurts
Is that you do it to yourself
Just you, you and no one else
You do it to yourself
You do it to yourself.. yourself.. yourself..




Writer(s): Jonathan Richard Guy Greenwood, Thomas Edward Yorke, Philip James Selway, Edward John O'brien, Colin Charles Greenwood
Copyright: Warner/Chappell Music Ltd.




ST - 10 ocky-tocky 2013
yeah.. well.




in this cool vid, I scratch my head - HARD - and do wonder what that man tells them.. what can be so devastating..?

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=R5X7HKxpiQA&desktop;_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DR5X7HKxpiQA
st64 Jun 2013
it will be, you know


1.
small bird
shivering

kind hand
covering

warmth
spreading

destined
for life


2.
her well-trained cats
at the door
         ants *always
spared (!)
         on sill
         with sugared saucer
poultry in the yard
collecting deep-yolked eggs
         making gooseberry jam
and sweet, strong tea
with hot milk
just for me

she taught me inner grace
and the real meaning
of quietness
        just birds chattering away
        whistling wondrous
        in fig trees
laden with heavy fruit
awaiting her deft hands

how I loved her so

accounting exams
interrupted
in sixth grade
sorry
she's gone, dear
dumbstruck silence
          they ask
          why I'm not crying?


3.
kismet peeps in
to embrace you
and kiss your brow

you try to sidestep
and stub a toe
knock your head


in the end:
full-circle prayer


que sera...sera




S T, 28 June 2013
special soul ...M M S



'recycling hope'

right about now
I really need you so

your candour and
protective love

bird flying
recycling hope
st64 May 2013
Kindly open up
Are you there?
Real time, I need the right one.
Enough of crap.

Let's get real.
In time, you will see.
Now or never, how you waste!
And as you always vulnerable, never ready.



S T, 8 may 2013
Just some stereotypical rambling.

Love European (art) movies.

Can anyone figure the acrostic?

:)
st64 Apr 2013
Would you rather sweep leaves on a windy day?
And read about others’ stories than be with me?

You’d prefer to sit alone than hold me in your arms
You’d prefer to walk away than hold me in your arms?

Than hold me in your arms........

So, do I really fit in here at all?

Do I even quite make the grade in your eyes?

Would you go counting wispy clouds than float away with me

Would you rather sweep leaves than hold me in your arms?

CHORUS:
Please, tell me why......you prefer to sweep leaves on a windy day

Sweep leaves on a windy day
Leaves on a windy day
Leaves on a windy day –ay-ay.....

When you could be..........holding me in your arms!


S T, 27 April 2013
...sweep or hold...?
st64 Mar 2013
Sliding into the water as I rise
She holds onto me, I stand steady
Feeling the hot, soapy suds slide down me
Her fingers on my legs, gently caressing

I look down to see what my leopard-girl's up to
Through the steam, I feel her roving eyes
Whose slinky slits belie what she intends
Not an inkling do I have ....of what she holds in store.

Then she's beside me....yes, her on bended knee
And with her lips planted carelessly along my belly
I quiver now in the shimmering heat of her arrows
On her haunches, darting lower now to thighs....

I flinch in disbelief as she reaches up, all coy
Does a befuddled thing I would never expect
She.....oh, holy smackerel in a barrel, baby!
What in blazes ARE you doing to me?

My senses fall to pieces, mind in utter disarray
Wordlessly, I try real hard to hold it together
As she scratches lightly, while purring oh-so deep
My feline fantasy coming oh-too-true!

Mumbling sweet-nothings in a haze of desire
Ramming shaft into her mouth, we make a different musical jam
Throttling up all the way to the hilt
Sure ain't nothing so sweet as her takin'-at!

She shifts the rolling gears,  I sway along
Clutching her hair for support, I humbly beg release
I see her ***** her eyes, makes ME ***** her harder
Makes me buck, drives me up that ***** wall!

I am in the driver's seat now, better believe
Feel a touch unsteady, but I hold her reins
I pull her maddeningly tight into me
Such delicious thrills course through my veins.

Pumping on vigorously, I'm-a  gonna spurt
But I know I have to pull the plug a bit
So her face and neck and **** rejoice
As not everyone can swallow what I give.

Ooh! Sweet heaven...now rinse off all-a that love-sap
Gingerly step out, wreathed in smiles
I let her soak on, as she's wont to do
She loves a delayed bath and I do need the time....

No room at all for doubt must be left
For her to earn folded returns for sated favour
She must be famished for some humble pie
How creative shall I prove to be, I wonder....

Swathed in terry cloth, her skin all pink-an-rosy
Oh, will she be just ripe-an-ready for this picking
Deftly will I lead her down, on downy floor
And mete out sweet and fitting penalty.

Growing exceeding restless, she will moan
But I shall will her to her knobby knees
Shame, wouldn't want her to be uncomfy
Give the lass a cushion....there, there.

I will rake my nails delightful 'cross her back
My leopard-girl will taste and be a crumpled mess
She will crave the whips across her ****
To match her lovely, striped, distorted mind!

And.... do I spy the goldfish bowl beside our bed?
Yes, methinks a wicked dip.... will do the trick
And her tower of resistance crumble, it must
Oh yeah, have I got a treat laid out for my pussycat!


Star Toucher, 30 March 2013
Just a .....tiny tidbit, really :)
There's a paradox in here, dunno if it's detectable....
Rather, hope it's ....um, delectable! Lol

Arrr!

Written in Jan 2913.
st64 Dec 2013
Let me whisper you a world spread in open-palm
   and lay you wide-pictures etched in cobble-stone
   till your feet find their way in the wake of alt-time

Let me grow you orchards on margins of probabilities
   and capture breezy-smiles to place upon your sleeve
   till illumined-steps of afternoon crumble before angels

Let me turn the planets on fingertip high upon wheel-rim
   and show you matte mirror-lakes of superb-chances
   till the evening-sky feels the shy-tiptoe of moon-kiss


please… let me….?


S T -  4 dec 13
..till it is.. none less than full.

Inspired by kate bush song.


sub-entry:  even

even if you (ever) go away in the afternoon
I will wait for you
even in the next time

the odds are.. evening out
st64 Apr 2013
Got a letter on a rainy day
Can't open a wet envelope
So, I wait for it to dry
Don't want the rain to steal away your words.

By the time I read your thoughts
And felt you pour your heart to me
I know now how .....it turns for you
And how you sealed the dried promise with a kiss.


Quickly, I mean to catch it
But the winds shift it away.

Now all I hold twixt my hands
Is this letter on a rainy day.



And it still rains.





S T, 20 April 2013
Yes, and it's raining.....still :)

Well, actually.....yesterday, it was! Lol

Beautiful....rain.
st64 Jul 2013
he says:
I say,
seems my things were bequeathed
Without my knowledge!
Isn’t my heart already spoken for?


(received in the post)

Dear Mr. Ledbetter

We thank you for having signed away your organs to us.
We appreciate your donation.
We hope you’ve, in turn,  enjoyed the half-generous donations deposited into your account some time ago.
You’ve been living off the proceeds of organs we will inherit one day.

And we trust you’ve been looking after *our organs
, especially your  heart.

Upon your final hour, we will reap the rest of you.
And we will offer the second half of a gift to your kin: a small donation and application forms.....

Have a continued happy life, Mr. Ledbetter.

Thanking you
*****-Retrieval Team


my heart, my heart
Oh, me heart




S T, 18 July 2013

Whose heart?
Imagine getting a letter like that in the post . . . where your ID has been used by some *** . . .
st64 Nov 2013
nothing like unsmoothed-potential
handed out
by
the dense-influence
of
libraries


1.
symbiosis personified within
the heart of libraries
where tomes could be spilt
in split-seconds


2.
staked into the other
like a dove-tail joint
yeah, I'll smoke you yet
on a day beneath a sun-trilled tree



peanut-butter sandwish on a windy-day
hm.. ain't nada like libraries
as fine-shelter
for fretted-shoulders*




S T - 14 novice 13
oo-wee.... put your head on my shoulder.. the things one can learn in libraries..
w-wot-a-day!



sub-trench: oo-wee!

oo-wee, indeed..
all eyes fall upon a greenish-figure
whose eyes sit on scales of half-shed mediocrity
balance, balance to the left, now to the right
tip-tipping the weight in favour of the duality
on an unending highway
to
the unexpected

and yes.. that highway..
ah well, never mind!

best grab-a-book and stuff me mug into it :)
st64 Aug 2013
the tape spins . . . in over-reel
haphazard lines in convulsed black



1.
Clear and still lake . . .                                                                  ­    hardly a ripple on the blue matter
Step to water’s edge . . .                                                                ­   hesitant eyes briefly touch the surface
Heel lifts into the arch of civilisations hanging . . .                      humming inside-tunes
Foot pendulous and . . . toes dipping                                             aching-slow sink in
clean and      . . .  s u b m e r g e d
Then rising, a single drop escapes . . . sweet                                 h   e    a    l


2.
Step forward . . . into the void . . . it has been waiting . . .               sacrosanct

the flourish . . . to reach . . . constant  . . .                                            oh, it is here
finally

( . . . )


this is
the truest understanding
to me . . . undeniable life-spring*




S T, 29 Augmented 2013
globe spins on . . . time for a beach-walk and smell that fresh, salty air . . . despite whatevr :)
not gonna go bitin' me elbows.





sub-entry : heron’s call

sparkle of dew on leaf-tips
trail of dead earthworms
flattened by the wheels . . . on wet tar
feel the veritable tremors of the heron’s call . . . echo
beseeching to the others

muted rumours of a vagrant’s death in hostile chill
against backdrop of giant stone-face
table-cloth long dissipated . . . by now
icicles hang with plaintive air in another realm
of land-locked drought
where obscenely-rich jetsetters sport their latest Pontiac or Porsche
subconsciously remember bonds of care
amidst tipsy tinkles of flibbertigibbets
a drink the cost of their kin’s weekly wages and
deign to pop with cordial air-kisses and leftover-humanity
to down-and-broke parents who offer freshly-steeped oolong to half-hearted ingrates

stepping aside the hangman’s hope
round that perilous bend
into that iconoclastic gut’s-trail as smeared revealings
whose juddering disciple turns out not a plagiarist
shows
he had seen the lofty bird take flight and burst to flame
before their latent eyes

dismay can well hold hands with anticipated pitch  
yet leather-strapped feet trudge on
as not only eyes, but meagre spool rolls on . . . closer . . . closer . . . closer
every moment framed by minded pellucidity

hands in ill-assorted gloves . . . no matter
they fit
all fine and fitting wholly . . . within that heron’s call

it all fits somehow . . . in the trans-coloured emblem of a winded prism                            
wǒ ài nǐ





http://m.youtube.com/#/watch?v=_2TGkBf7vMQ&desktop;_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D_2TGkBf7vMQ
st64 Nov 2013
welcome to light-city
where a dead-****** is on the back of a golden goose
head thrown back in rigor-mortis, days old

1.
the plaza is on fire
one man walks out his delirium into a derelict-town
with so many glittering-lights on
an unhealthy-sheen to his face.. some melted skin
   he seeks the looted-gold the long-plaited one assured was his
   he can't hear the dark-whispers right behind him
   his shoulder-blade itches with a fury no typical-scratch can relieve
nor can he sense the violent-energy half-crackling in the air
hovering in the wings of that dry-wind.. in sullen hiss-spits


2.
elsewhere, many give thanks on the prairie
where daffodils fly free in love
            a motorcade of bikers with a moon's view
            bespectacled-waiter can ask for help
            one child holds in hand.. so many open-answers that adults just fail to see
and dreamers dream *the same dream

in a broken, incredulous world
(you can't hide away in your dreams
   they over-foam your running-legs)

                                      yes.. scamper..!
beware those pretty-wigs who tug at firm-minds
                                              who force you to skirt the true-issue
you plain-refuse to see what you're tripping over
in case it resembles that.. stuff inside


3.
there's a hue of bright-orange in the distance and you can't deny it
it is there
      you can't see it yet
      but you can smell it
within an arc of heightened-paranoia
it has started burning inside the back of your afrighted-eyes
drying out any recollection of estranged-promise
             in a hopeless land of artifice
be not perturbed by fumes which rise in choking-plumes
the workmanship of assiduous imps, dutifully-bound
beset to task all goodness and beleaguer any hope
that only the blind-man can feel in bones-vibrated


(bring forth your legs
tarry not
sing with fully) heartened to glory of light
there be a breaking in the pattern
not everybody made it
so less power to the battle


                                                        ­               the circle is not done..




static.. static.. static.. // static.. static.. static.. // static.. static.. static.. // static.. stat.stat.stat....... //




with a half-smile of patience (she says) -
within your dream.. I'm there
I call you forth
into real-light

here..




S T - 30 nov 13
close your eyes and see the beautiful fields
nature's harmony.... lift, lift, lift the heart


:)





sub-exit: party and privy


disabler of dreams
poor relenter of schemes
mauled by media
coated by propaganda

where princesses hunted like wild-animals
and chased by sleek-foreigners into tunnels
like frightened rabbits
who never come out the other side
who's really behind it all?

where daughters of pop-kings
in ostensible suicide-attempts
left alone.. afraid to speak

where rebels with just-cause
feel final December-folly
leave sons and widows

there be those party and privy
(to inside-stuff so scary)
but less said...

save your salt for mountain-goats
and for sweet-soil sanctity
st64 Apr 2013
Stitches ov pain and ......lines to hell


1.
(Come, Yves...please, let's go....he's a megalo )
(Don't worry, it's ok...soon)

Jacques pulls us another line
Makes criss-cross stitches on Lisa's eye
While she screams atop her lungs
Yet invites us to share  ......that line.

Yves eyes it while I dress
Jacques tries to stop me, I ignore
I put on this, I put on that
While he stares, moody and Yves is ******.

(Yves, PLEASE let's go, I don't feel right)
(Relax, man....we will go soon...we got us a line...)


2.
Poor Lisa tries to sneak out, but trips and falls
Not escaping Jacques' eye
He glints and rises, while Yves apprises
We see not her fate but hear her screams.

I think I've had more than enough
What'll happen when he returns?
Jacques is demented, our moves'll be cemented
If we accept this one line...to hell!

(Yves, please....something's not right....)
(Heeeey...?? Come sssit, mannnn.....aaahhhh...)

I care not for that line.....

[slipping in and out, in and out.....so many passages here, like a maze in a   forest.....a headless run, this mare.......to seek me out, seek me out......try to hide behind the shadows in the walls and climb into the ghosts of battered souls....find little respite ......]


3.
:(After raids, Yves' body is found.....in a closet next day....and......
A gruesome ending for.....a line):

Stitches ov pain and lines...to hell.

(Pourquoi t'as pas ecoute, mon cher......)



4.
You stayed behind, while I fled on blind eye
Why couldn't you just resist that one last line?
The one that caused us all so much pain
That one, ****** line....straight to hell!



S T, 07 April 2013
Cauchemar galore!

:(

Garish nightmare, indeed!

Clear the lines, blow pain away....then see clearly
For the first time.....in a long time.
Clear that fatal line!


Pax vita

We CAN have peace in life!
Believe it.

:)
st64 Jul 2016
Little Box talks back
With a new set of teeth
And pink gums
A fake nose and a wax mustache
She disguises her voice
To sound like Groucho
  


Little Box opens up
And cries to her psychiatrist
I don’t know why they hate me
I’m such a sweetheart
I volunteer at the zoo
And teach Mandarin
To their bratty children



Little Box is not happy to see you
So she closes herself up for months
Years, decades, and two millennia!
She tacks up a sign that says
Nirvana



Little Box is undead
She sleeps all day in a coffin
Hands over chest
At night she cruises the mall
For juicy victims

She prefers type A
But AB if she has to
What can you say
Vampires can’t be choosy
She likes your stupid brother



Little Box is on the psychiatry couch
Everybody hates me
Nobody loves me
Little Box lies on her side
And spills her guts



What’s in Little Box
A perfect orchid
A chocolate-covered strawberry
A new iPhone
With a glittery sleeve
Amber earrings from Pushkin

Keys to a new Porsche
A retro Chanel brooch
A Getty scion’s left ear
A Czar’s *****
Gifts so rare
Please don’t stare



What’s in Little Box
Rancid chow mein
A sliver of cold pizza
Last week’s hummus
You’re a starving orphan
From East Brooklyn
And you’ll eat it



So you want to **** Little Box
You want to know her secret
She won’t open up
She won’t give it up
And you are genuinely repelled
By her filthy ribbon



You want to DO the Little Box
You are a sorry story
You big creep
Why don’t you get off the couch and find
A real girlfriend!



Boss Box
White, square, and without a soul!



Please don’t analyze Little Box
She’s just cardboard clogging the landfill
Her mother Precious Jade Purse
Has been regifted
howdy :)
st64 Mar 2013
Don't grow so fast, little one
You've so much to see and do
But take your time....your time and enjoy
And love the little moments in-between.

Run and play and s-i-ing with joy
Don't join the queue of  Life too soon
But take your time....your time and enjoy
And love the little moments in-between.


CHORUS
Bedtime songs will end on a day
When you no longer feel the need
But hugs and tugs will always be there
These are the precious moments in-between.

So sail your ships and build your dreams
Paint your pirate face and ri-i-ide your horse
But take your time....your time and enjoy
And love the little moments in-between.


Refrain
Your steps will take where you wanna be
And then, you'll be grown
And all your pictures drawn on the walls are the best treasures
And all your words so very funny
Are safely tucked away......in my heart.




Star Toucher, 14 March 2013
A touch of nostalgia for the beauty of innocence in the eyes of my youngest child, who as a 5-year-old then, used to enjoy organic playtime . . . .
Written in 2007.

Everything must pass.
st64 May 2013
sweet

Drive into the countryside
Buy granny-green apples along the roadside
Wave to jolly farm workers in verdant fields
Smile and look up...greet the beautiful sky.

ceiling of the heavens

Share some (yellow) Lays in the car
Pass the packet around, mmm..crunch crunch
Feel the wind and see it, like sails...whip your hair
Inhale sweet air, while cool music taps into ear.

tranquil reaches

Cannot hear the indiscriminate noises
Cannot see the dust and dirt
Will not touch the pulse of pain
Can see only....pure sunshine.

pure sunshine*



S T,  2 May 2013
Think it's time for another ride....

:)

Yellow one is the best flavour...you get to taste the potato! tee hee
st64 Apr 2013
Refrain:
He your pappy, but he dead now
Won't mess with yer head no more
No more.

Cos he dead now, he dead now
He dead now.


1.
Looking in this window. See 'em all warm inside.
Cold wind, him bitin' at my ankles.
Just look at 'em inside, all warm and cosy.


CHORUS:
Maybe gotta look inside
Won't get nothing on the outside
Yeah, gotta look inside
For a little bit o' lurve!

Never gonna turn your back on life.
Gotta take this shot of live
Gotta warm me up inside
'Fore the cold comes to claim me.

Gotta close all lonely spaces
With a little bit of love
So, I's gotta take a look inside.


2.
Don't mean to feel so mean. Just wanna feel part of something
(So) strange, with all 'em polar caps a-meltin',
We still don't have enough love!


3.
Looky here, now traipsin' down this ***** street
Seeking all along the edge of night
Huntin' warmth, hikin' smiles, hawkin' love and sellin' souls
What the hell are we doin' here?


4.
No, you don't always feel it
But there's a stink wind blowing out there
Suckin' at my poor soul, stealin' all my warmth
Yeah, (s)uckin' up my poor soul, takin' all our love!


Repeat refrain.





S T, 23 April 2013
Inspired by movie, 'Precious'.

Deliber8 use of double negation and colloq.



Failing to go within, means going without.

And, if you think your situation is bad.....think again!

If we take a good look......
st64 Mar 2013
Sort lost thoughts;

Yet find

Dangling want o'er mind's lip.





Star Toucher, 11 March 2013
(First attempt at ten words.
Gosh, it's not so easy!
Please have mercy?  :)
st64 Nov 2013
the lotus floats on waters
silhouettes dance in spastic-joints
a sombre-figure with a spiky do
cavorts behind invisible-mirrors
which reflect the lost motions of unchaperoned-pedestal
in corrugated-shadows



don’t forget to lift that hem a little higher, lady
and give over to the pulsing rhythm
undo your leather-strap, it’s enough to whip out some frenzy
do what you want: you’re not awake, anyway
what have gone and done, dear girl?
is true-love to be found in the arms of a bearded Japanese?
yes, open that white blouse of yours with the silky-buttons on
while your eyes pearl-glaze over attending-cliffs
hold that slow-unfolding palm over your breast and
let busy aglet-fingers shake loose some nuciferous-reward
stems hold up sweet-flora and its waiting-petals
the gyrations match the ripped-space in your ceilinged-heart
slow-motion coy-boy on stand-by in heated-debate
            where stickety-words carry the burden
                           of                          
             knock-out honeyed-pleasure

high-pitched comes and you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be
than to fit your *explosive
jigsaw-piece up my nostrils
so that I can finally breathe
lithe and limber



later, when you nod off
your dreams’ll take care of lost-thread and thorough-floss your mind
yank off the binding-straps
take it down muddy-banks into pools of upside-down sky
and the only light will be the reflected-glint of moon
as it winks its very firm OK




S T – 21 nov 13
superb day, alritey ;)



sub-entry: relaxx
close your eyes a while
relax
be still
quit makin’ your knees work so hard
and just please
lemme kisssssssssss you
st64 Apr 2013
1.
Sweet love
Oh, such sweet love.



2.
Stick into the pincushion of hope
Gentle pins of far-off dreams,
Holding wispy threads of desire
For which time (as a heading) is never enough.


Push down and drown all thought
Which beckon expectation -
And trust to want less.... or nothing;
Thus reduced, we get no fails.



3.
All up to the sky
We cry,
Agonising -
That waiting of footfall.

Then.....
Lovely flow.
Yes, let's dare to increase
Irregular patterns of abdicated pain.
To fulfill what is so held back.



4.
Because of you
Three days can last a lifetime
Full of affection and delicious warmth
Within the bearings of your arms.



5.
Dreams in the coffee whorls
Willing spindles now
Turn as they eddy...like happy tidings
All around my head.

Dreamscapes thrive
In dulcet whirls inside our core.



6.
No shipwrecks here,
No abandoning of esperance.

No deserting,
No dereliction of love.

No grief,
No castaways on hopeless coast.

These proffered crumbs on palm
Become sought-after......and precious gifts.



7.
Sweet love garnered over time
Poured slowly.....into sacred cup.
Where phantoms run to hide away
No abode for wicked despair.

Oh, for lovelorn hearts and broken dreams
To find such gladness in a cup
We hold hope, ever bold....so deep in heart
And sink away in woven bliss.

Capsule of infinity.....



8.
Come, let us drink
From our coffee-cup.....
Of love.

Oh, come......



9.
Time to kneel and give thanks
Place forgiving wafer on tongue.
Take none in haste
Accept only when ready.

To....
Drink sweetness of sky's nectar.



10.
Of pastures plain
And meadow green
Swift do echoes fall
As moments slip away....like clouds.



11.
Oh, and....

One sugar....
(No analogy needed, surely :)

Hot.....
(Nor here!)

And BLACK, please.



S T,  11 April 2013
Love in the coffee.....oh, yeah.

Don't spill now, guys!    lol

You never know what marvelous tales and fabulous moments await....all inside that small cup.

Could well be a hopeful taste of some swell luuurrrrve!
He he


A somewhat (semi-facetious) version of a modern Grail-tale......whatevr, man.

And......er, please do keep yer hair on, dear chaps!
Not intended for anyone to be offended, I ask ye on bended knee...

:)

Have a cuppa, then?
st64 Mar 2014
Pack, clouds away! and welcome day!
    With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft, mount larks aloft
    To give my love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
    Notes from the lark I’ll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
    To give my love good-morrow;
    To give my love good-morrow;
    Notes from them both I’ll borrow.


Wake from thy nest, Robin Redbreast,
    Sing birds in every furrow;
And from each hill, let music shrill
    Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
    Stare, linnet, and ****-sparrow!
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
    Sing my fair love good-morrow;
    To give my love good-morrow,
    Sing birds in every furrow.
Thomas Heywood (early 1570s – 16 August 1641) was a prominent English playwright, actor, and author whose peak period of activity falls between late Elizabethan and early Jacobean theatre.

He wrote for the stage, and (perhaps disingenuously) protested against the printing of his works, saying he had no time to revise them.
Johann Ludwig Tieck called him the "model of a light and rare talent", and Charles Lamb wrote that he was a "prose Shakespeare"; Professor Ward, one of Heywood's most sympathetic editors, pointed out that Heywood had a keen eye for dramatic situations and great constructive skill, but his powers of characterization were not on a par with his stagecraft.
He delighted in what he called "merry accidents", that is, in coarse, broad farce; his fancy and invention were inexhaustible.

Heywood's best known plays are his domestic tragedies and comedies (plays set among the English middle classes); his masterpiece is generally considered to be A Woman Killed with Kindness (acted 1603; printed 1607), a domestic tragedy about an adulterous wife.
Also, a widely admired Plautine farce The English Traveller (acted approximately 1627; printed 15 July 1633), which is also known for its informative "Preface", giving Heywood an opportunity to inform the reader about his prolific creative output.
His citizen comedies are noteworthy because of their physicality and energy. They provide a ******-geography of the sights, smells, and sounds of London's wharfs, markets, shops, and streets which contrasts with the more conventional generalisations about the sites of commerce, which are satirised in city comedies.


sub-entry: bird in the hand

(open the furrow --------------)

and let loose
bird in the hand

(close to flying)

to measure what's worth of sharing
desire in a play on a midnight-watch

(all familiar with the adage)

good love on the wing of morrow
unpunctuated, leaves option wide open

(let bird sing you sweet-song.. love)
st64 Mar 2013
Lunatic calling....... Earthling.........

Yes, you...fool..... tiny Earthling!
Wake up, you intractable iota of pulp
I watch you on your little planet, with relish
Playing depraved games on your spiritless  ilk.

I inhabit a moon much larger than your scrap of sand
You already appear so infinitesimally  small
When seen with a magnifier, from this innocuous distance
But now, you're even less than a speck of dust.

Seemingly important, you prance and preen and strut
Your feathers ruffling so easily, I do note
Look how you fret your heartstrings and gnaw away
And I didn't get to say that much....yet!

But fear not: collide with each other, we will not
For conversing amiably with my solar sibling, I've pled
To wield its forte and rein out all magnetic fields
So's we never make acquaintance of regret.

See how bloated and full of yourselves you have all become
Feeding on yourselves, sick with bilious envy
Scurrying like ants, at least THEY know better
For when you reach inside you, there ain't too much of note!

You try aimlessly to prove your dull existence
By crawling all wild-like and filling up the gaps meant for silence
Instead, you leave gruesome tracts of rotating noise
I constantly quake at the revolting  mess on Earth.

Scamper along now, as you are wont to do, brain-scooper
You can hardly hold still a thought in mind
You seek and ferret out answers not meant for your likes
Soon you will sever and break up into little pieces insects love!

You think that what you do, is so gripping
But don't you know we're all varying on the same theme
Roll up the deified curtain and you might find
Everything's an inflated rerun of what passed before.

So, even here on this jaunty moon where I live
I'd rather you not join me in my solitary abode
This lunatic prefers the osculating of kind craters
And communing in the solace of orchestral stones.

You delude yourself with ludicrous ideas
That you have the swell of sultry oceans at your disposal
All tied to deceptive spider-like strings, kited fraudulently in your hand
Hoping to catch that salty surge and drift away.....

My scathing  job perchance, is to spot that pattern of power
And when Eros comes rolling in on that mighty tide
I plan and do my best to make you fail spectacularly
Oh, to climb on and ride that sweet wave for all it's worth!

There is nothing to lose, cos you have nothing!
But your acquisitive nature lets you think you do
Yes, go and ape your latest hobby: quickly run to your house
Check that  no-one has stolen the dust from your gate!

Temporary custodians of that rock, is all you are.
But you......You're absurdly afraid to lose what isn't.
Tiers of neglect show how little you learn of what's around you
Hello, look up.......please. Do you see me? Oh, you do.

Well, well now ! Grand planes and happy steaks to you!
Two swell ticks bestowed on you......for neatness.
But even as I study and decimate your paltry existence
Turning, I'm growing painfully aware of three eyes on me.......

Hey, hang on.....wait, wait, WAIT........help!
Earthling.....please!!
Lunatic calling....... Earthling.........
Somebodyyyyyyy....?

Lunatic calling......dear Earthling.........



Star Toucher,  10 March 2013
Slightly older one by me, written in Jan this year and posted on another site under another alter-name...
Now that I look at the piece, its theme and content, I'm much reminded of that fab film 'Horton hears a who(o?)'.....despite content not quite similar, it could resonate a bit, I think.
Go figure, humans!
:-)
st64 Mar 2014
you are so beautiful

such grace
in your words, power spills forth
with magnitude


you are so beautiful

may your light shine
beyond
all boundaries


YOU are so beautiful





st - 5 mar
so inspiring.. humanity at work.
such finesse.. wow!

http://www.upworthy.com/oscar-winner-lupita-nyongos-speech-on-beauty-that-left-an-entire-audience-speechless?c=reccon1



sub-entry: beauty in / / beauty out

what is it?
is it upon the rags of your face.. ?
or is it the ***** you flaunt?

where is beauty?
perhaps.. in the things
we do not see.
st64 Aug 2013
Fighting dimensions that are not real
Virtual hatred virulent viral.

When man grows up
Something happens . . .
Some apathy kicks in.


(Moon spits its half-light in greenish gobs and smites my ashen shame
No, dunno where to hide my life
Lame with wide-eyed horror)



Telepheric jollity and catherine-wheel of fun
Like a mist . . .




Equation of hope  / /
M a n k i n d
=
    Kind man
. . .



S T,  Sat (in)Auspicious  17, 2013
Hmmm . . . seeing the shenanigans in our mad world . . . less said, the better.
Really :(
Kinda HUGE shame.  

We’ve really mastered the art of killing one another / perfected infliction of misery.
Just . . . well done!
st64 Mar 2014
Adjectives continue
their downward spiral,
with adverbs likely to follow.

Wisdom, grace, and beauty
can be had three for a dollar,
as they head for a recession.

Diaphanous, filigree,
pearlescent
, and love
are now available
at wholesale prices.

Verbs are still blue-chip investments,
but not many are willing to sell.

The image market is still strong,
but only for those rated AA or higher.
Beware of cheap imitations
sold by the side of the road.

Only the most conservative
consider rhyme a good option,
but its success in certain circles
warrants a brief mention.

The ongoing search for fresh
metaphor has caused concern
among environmental activists,
who warn that both the moon and the sea
have measurably diminished
since the dawn of the Romantic era.

Latter-day prosodists are having to settle
for menial positions in poultry plants,
where an aptitude for repetitive rhythms
is considered a valuable trait.

The outlook for the future remains uncertain,
and troubled times may lie ahead.
Supply will continue to outpace demand,
and the best of the lot will remain unread.
Alexa Selph, a freelance editor in Atlanta, teaches a class called "The Pleasure of Reading Poetry" as part of the adult education program at Emory University. She has contributed poems to Georgia State University Review, Habersham Review, and Blue Mesa.
st64 May 2013
1.
Twelve-eleven
Just past midday.

Lying on this bed alone
Looking through the window
Staring at clouds, bulbous
Promising all to youth.

May try to latch on one
Catch a dream, perchance
Floating on forever
Away from distress and pain.

I long for chances to prove myself
Can show and give so much
Plans and dream hatch
Eggs crack, hatch to realise the truth.


2.
Twelve-twelve
Just past midday.

Disappearing fast, wind shifts
Wispy threads are all that's left now
Dreams dissolving into the air
Less to touch on and fly away.

Some dreams are gained, others lost
New dreams now, comes with age
Hope replaces reckless mood
Settle in and eke all out.


3.
Twelve-thirteen
Just past midday.

Now sagacity abides in this ancient shell
But nobody hears the long-lost songs
Would believe such intense poems from the heart
All an echo away; endless now....into dreamy wisps.


hm....

S T, 31 May 2013
Written a while back, seems to fit pieces of this clockwork-melody.
Ain't clouds just...sooo beautiful, hm?
Wanted to make it 'midnight clouds', but then I thought...wait a minute, who the hell sees midnight clouds? lol
Ok, I do :)
Crazy, huh.



sub-entry:

'clock-work melody'

magenta flutters by, draped in gilt
stuck on your shoe.

from canal to canal, the traveler goes
seeking currents to the shore.

often, dreams can make you fly a bit
best to keep alive.

absolute truth larks in clockwork songs
melody of cottony swathes.

if you dare dream so hard enough
them visions will prevail.

hell-o!
st64 Feb 2014
Whatever the cost I pay up at the minnow pools.
I don't know anything of the misery of these trapped fish,
or the failure of the marsh I'm so hidden.

Up above is the island with its few houses facing
the ocean God walks with anyone there. I often
slosh through the low tide to a sister
unattached to causeways.

It's where deer mate then lead their young
by my house to fields, again up above me.

Pray for me. Like myself be lost.
An amulet under your chest, a green sign of the first
rose you ever saw, the first shore.

Then I wash my horse, dogs, me behind the barn.
Only the narrow way leads home.
Ray Amorosi is the author of three books of poems, including In Praise (Lost Horse Press, 2009).




sub-entry: Wizard (Ray Amorosi)

All this havoc
just means I’m a poor wizard.

Once, I lit three twigs and fanned the smoke,
from miles away,
into the girl who jumbled scales through my spine.

As she vanished I clapped a delighted tune.
But not without aches of my own.

Did the sack of no echoes fail me?

Now, on such a mild curse—
boils, sewn eyes, a shrew
in the **** my ankle reddens up and eyes me
with disdain. Toenails fall off.

How far will this go?

Poor wizard. Poorly done in.
These pangs are power are power as both
knees lock up
ashamed to move under me.
st64 Dec 2013
sshhhhh......


the mouse I'm in
is so petrified of breathing

life is a cat waiting to pounce
on every move I make

many moves through perdition-land
and the frog croaks



croak-croak*



S T - 4 dec 13
st64 Jun 2013
turning..turning..turning
how it ever
turns


1.
they all pass me by
everyday
and no-one says a word
to me

the earth moves
one more time
and it all
starts again


2.
on their way to work
high-heels totter
they chatter on
birds in smoke
hardly aware

from the evening subway
attachés whisk past
looking so important
eyes down on text
talking into boxes
streaming... streaming
endless

onto the bus
a struggle
a pram is lifted
distant cries of a baby
an echo of an old man
in a park nearby
sitting, lost in thought
counting the arthritic joints
of his fingers

skateboards
in such great haste
as on an almighty trail
somewhere

footfalls go
some clackety-clack
a thousand by the minute

by now
I lose track
of the number


3.
they look my way
and they don't really see me
not anymore, anyway

I'm just there

but I hear it all

the steps..
they clack-flash across my ears
the words..
they flaunt over my silence
the secrets..
they furtively long to share with someone
the awful rush..
they long to shed
the frustrations..
they find no space for
the dreams..
they ache to realise


4.
only *the mendicant traveler

comes by
once daily
with a battered Coke can
to sit and keep me
company
just for a while
a little while

leaning against me
I smile inside
to think
I can still be somewhat
useful

or the occasional trolley-lady
who guards all her assorted treasures
a bric-a-brac of unrecoverable dreams
all neatly piled neglect
reflected in
society's abandoned grown-up child

then, that funny visitor
comes by
to bestow on me
hebdomadary gift:
his customary ****

too lazy for a WC!


5.
I am just
what I am..
on a wall
as pretty as they come
yet half-invisible
and
I am here

how
I keep track
of
all the beings'
coming-and-going

as the busyness
of life
keeps
turning..turning..turning


(once in a while, though...a new pair of eyes may flash upon me and love me for my worth.
then again...just for a few seconds...but it is enough: I may be peeling now, but I am such the fine burgundy-and-green masterpiece, of a rather stunning bird, caught in mid-flight.... that once was the great love of my esteemed master, the eternal artist...long, long ago.

and I can smile...inside)

I dare to smile, yes..




how the earth moves
one more time
and it all
just
starts again





S T, 26 June 2913
The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Do so love the use of metonymy.




sub-entry: 'pictures etched'

1.
a fine day for rain, it is
soaking into earth
warding off all noise
but the gentle
pitter-patter
of half-born
ideals

2.
such grasping images
come
all attentive
and
tremors unaware
ensconced
by
pictures etched
deeply into psyche
they sit

slow birth
of
some very
powerful
ideas

3.
then, write a heartfelt note
and lick a stamp
post it off
in a spiffy new
London-red box
and
wait..
distant destination

4.
final score
no parting

break down the wall
and
rescue that light
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