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Traveler Jan 9
Our universe is like a bolt of lightning
Suspended between
A negative and positive force
The past that connects the future
The conductor is intelligence
Conscious energy
Ever flowing

Unfortunately faster than we can think
So it appears our world is on the brinks
Yet beyond all worry and fear
Our energy is pure
Traveler Tim 🧳
Tyler Matthew Jun 2020
one word
just one spark
one soul
just one race


we built a tower up to heaven
reaching up and out to Him
curious to what’s beyond
united in our purpose then

one tongue
one mind
one hand
we climbed

the tower

and was it wrong to search the sky?
to know the angels, brush their wings?
was it wrong to meditate?
to equate ourselves to kings?

and when He deemed we rose too high
He brought the tower to the ground
colored flesh and broke our tongues
with a hard hand held us down

the tower

and was it wrong to search the sky
with all those stars we looked upon?
to see the truths eluding us?
to know what heaven lies beyond?
The Lord said, “If as one people speaking the same language they have begun to do this, then nothing they plan to do will be impossible for them.  Come, let us go down and confuse their language so they will not understand each other.”
Ylzm Apr 2020
Banished to wander the Earth
But rebelled to build a City
Babel was temporary, now COVID19
For worship of numbers makes Money, and Man, god.
Nigdaw Feb 2020
we climb
higher and higher
in our ivory towers
land is at a premium
a square foot a king's ransom
so we dwell among the clouds
eye to eye with the birds
though never know their freedom
we are with the stars
though we burn out
their celestial light
we can whisper in God's ear
though above the clatter
he may never hear us
neth jones Aug 2019
In the proud of the night
(well past the community allowance of social mirth)
curfew has been ignored on mass

The town is flooded with its near full population
on the streets

A tension

Intelligence is lost in the mob formation
all tender that something is frowning
that a ‘big thing’ is about to happen

How do you speak out in this field ?
Town Cryer
An old fashioned post but still held
he strikes out a pound against the atmosphere

Might I hold your attention Good People
Gods People may I bend your ear ?
Upon my authority
Mark my words
As Goodly subjects of our fare town
I ask that you return to your abodes
Account for your household
Barrier your threshold
Tend a warm hearth
And wait out this night
Praying as family
As unit bond
And union under Gods kind eye

The Cryer has given direction
Repeating to all the gatherings he comes upon

By his office he has told them to swear off

The public move
Infected by the nights vibration
Addled and inflamed
Crowds coward together
And relax apart
Walking foal, new to footfall
Sparks in the dark
Unguided and untested
Weapons into the criminal night
New spawned characters
Laughing giddiots,
Diners, not surgeons
Fledded on venoms
Sense riders

As their individual monsters grow they distance one another
They pepper
Repeating the town
Strays of mess opportunity
Few go straight home

A remattered night is made place
An unpracticed costume horror
No dress rehearsal here !
A remattered night is made
neth jones Jul 2019
and then the churches
not a climbing peel
not the telling of bells
but an absense felt
a spirit skin hammering out the pressure
the clung tongues of worry
Babel Tolls

then following
and opposing this
A deprevision blow to the senses
a ballooning calm
A nature of electricity makes itself stage, tone
and is source of beacon
A strobe of invitation
past the the mid mark of night
This is verse  ? of an ongoing project. It overlaps words I’m using in current poems.
neth jones Apr 2019
Tattle calls
Curses amongst the Merchants
They hack of new seasons
brided with ill weather
These social breaks
that cement their business relations ;
A ****** of Tongues
A Jinn
A wit that flees port
Fleas to the ears that scout town.
neth jones Apr 2019
There's fierce work
Amoungst the Butchers
Tooling upon a diseased cattle cull
A mutter of meats
and turned pieces
To be discussed
by the Monies in charge
wet and heated
Thick knit
Behind clothed doors.
Ylzm Apr 2019
It sounds like prose,
perfect sentence,
punctuation and all.
But broken up here and there,
an attempt to imitate poetry.

To say words that are not words:
Driven - like a wind blown plastic bag:
Uncertain, circling, bobbing around -
But driven it is, if not tapped,
it’ll reached the seas and be lost:
To bring into existence a thing never heard.

A fragment, a hint, an ineffable thing,
an echo of the Word, long lost since Babel;
Yet living, its life’s magic very much potent,
resonant, manifold and transcendental.

Encouraged by similar sounds and whispers,
of dead and living poets,
of the same spirit but differently gifted.
That I owe it to all of them to do my part,
to craft this unique bit of mine.

And the ethereal Word,
more wholesome by the Day,
that it may soon resound,
loud and unambiguously,
that even the dead will rise.
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