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Gary Brocks Aug 2018
No buttressed vaulted ceilings here,
or monkish men in robes of cloth,
a space where things are sold and bought
and yet, there is an atmosphere:

A cloistered hush outside of time,
etched in rows of words, wooden,
the self’s restrained demarcation
seeds this scene for the sublime.

“In the beginning was the word”,
nothing before that differentiation,
in the assemblage of imagination,
a whispered restless breath is heard, as

marks on paper command the motion
of eyes and thoughts across a texture
in which silence is a rapture,
the echo of yearning and union.


Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
180827F
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2018
I was on the way to pick her up,
was just about to cross a slippery *****
on the front yard of my in-laws’ home.
Forget how long it took me to cross,
Huh, I had to solve a riddle.
A Moon pops up halfway through,
right in my way, it just won’t move.

I said I don’t need any horoscope,
already married, I am not a groom!
She goes, I too don’t fancy fussing about.
The riddle I got is only an easy-peasy one.
Just tell me your W duo—Where and When
did you take your first breath?
I laugh, isn't it the mum who can tell best,
who saw it first when I was born
but I can't go back and ask her,
she won’t show up
unless I return home, picking her up.

I said to the moon, o dear,
never did I say you got a scar,
that a spot on your face is cute, fair,
is only a cool shadow of one’s
deep-rooted fine lock of hair!

I then ran to the expert scientist.
He said it’s all vibrating but knows not
where the heck, if ever the spin might stop.
Again I ran to knock on the Sufi’s door.
He seemed to know why I went there,
And said in a deep voice, “as far as I know,
you don’t have a sister-in-law!”

Again the moon asks, in a heavy tone
“Tell me the truth,” before it's too long,
I said you’re in my way,
“I am not asking for an acre of moon.
Spare me a digit gap if you could.”

Unlike how the lands on earth, she tells,
keep changing the hands,
owning the ultimate plot is still one’s dream.
But no space is left unmeasured in space.
You miss by a hairbreadth, no matter how tiny,
and you might as well miss it by the eternity.

So zero space can I spare says the moon
This is it, the dead end, no more room to move.
Still, even a closed circle can’t be close,
the smallest atom is not the smallest to be closed.
The constant spin inside it constantly finds
ever more space to move on, because the root
pi is cracked open, spills out a new decimal,
though none can pinpoint, in this finest loophole
the sky can sway and earth finds a mouth to jingle!
Future is more digital. In the last stanza, a complicated dilemma solves for me. Since the subject matter is that there is one perfect circle though it's vividly complex to discover. The Motion continues even from the ultimate end of the tiniest particle. Because the closed circle is somehow open for something. But this subtlest opening angle is transcended cannot be located. Just as the never ending pi decimals denote its enduring open range without projecting a pattern is a juxtaposed example.

Juxtaposition conveys a lot of meanings in natural science. For instance, the inverse of phi golden ratio 1.618 is 0.618 they are same but utterly two different Numbers. I find it as a sign that the closed circle also can open without actually opening to the mass.
Daisy Rae Aug 2018
I walked for miles afterwards
After I got the news that broke me
Instead of shriveling up like a prune
I walked
I couldn’t stay still otherwise I’d think
And I couldn’t think
I would crumble
I’d fall into an unending abyss of what ifs and whys and how could yous...
I walked
And the night air made my tears dry up
I was hoping it would dry up my pain
Dry up the thought of you with her
The thought of every lie you ever told me
The thought of being alone
I stopped walking
I realized at that point in time, I didn’t need you
I never did
You are no longer the air that I breath
I have my own lungs
You are no longer my hopes and dreams
I dream of other things
You are no longer the love that brings me life
I give myself life
You are no longer my forever and always
I have a new beginning
I walked back home
And I breathed with my own lungs
And I realized I didn’t need you.
Esther Aug 2018
Every face is a story
Etched into the air we breathe /
          And these journeys
Lead us to paper lives of survival’s manifest,
Where solid colours refuse to exist
- And black and white enmesh
To cloud the streams of speech
We use to guide us to
The non-existent chapter
Of complete understanding /
          Leaving fingerprints
That overlap over others
Until an artwork is forced
/out/ of our ghostly presence,
Always to be remembered
By all we’ve touched -
Long after memory has lost itself...
In the streets of brains
Trying their best to rest after they have successfully
/etched/ themselves into the fabric
Of spinning time and a gravitational pull
          -Irresistible-
Breathing out one last patch
To add to humanity’s short stretch,
To feel the very essence
Of reality within them
Before returning to the beginning /
Every face is a story
a lost poem, found, edited. est. jan 2016.
Make sure breathing is the first thing you do when someone you love enters the room.
Blue looks good on you, but not on your cheeks as a blush.
Inhale.


Exhale.
Trying shorter poems
neth jones Aug 2018
With a raffling breath
I sate death neatly
I am now in trust
Dead
And being played into new life
There's a swelling of new strifes
and wavings from within
Heats of organisms
Worlds accelerating
Pulsion
Gases waste and gases invitations
take place where I have been
A celebration
A bedding
If only The Humans would leave
the 'Dead Body' be
Just when I am finally achieved
They make a bother
I'll make out a doner card
No, a placard
"No Preservation Upon Death !
Corpse Rights Remain !"
Karijinbba Aug 2018
Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone
Man has created death.

- W.B.Yeats
For:Karijinbba
Me just a child confronted
murderous men at only age five
nearly killing me men in uniform Greedy Feds killed my father and every man child in my Purhepetcha Indigenous tribe for the greed
of my father's land I hid iñ the chicken coop and lived
Man created death repayng evil for my good from the riches of my land they ate and lived as kings
while I barely survived, I did rise I grew up and I also was Loved and kissed.. Again betrayed injured I was and dying I still rose and still I rose and still I rise again and again¡
I guess I am supernatural. Something always tried to **** me and something else rises me and kept me stumped but living. I love life babies children the wise eye of the aged. I love the Knight spirit breath of life  side in men, .music, poetry song with these I thrive I rise and rise..
my friends Poets and poetessess thank you for RISING up to read.
Rebecca Scull Aug 2018
I've seen myself in the mirror
And it looks the same as always
But the feeling deep down under
Shows that the real me is far away

I've lived in the same skin forever
And it feels the same as always
But the look of it asunder
Shows that the real me is far away

I've breathed in the same way as always
And it's always been suffocating
But to outsiders it seems normal
Nothing but brooding too long on twilight

But in my soul I feel untamed
And in my skin I feel maimed
In my breath I feel strangled
My everything yearning for freedom

Freedom from this, far away from this
Mystic Ink Plus Aug 2018
I was asked,
Any addiction?

I replied,
No lie

Here I’m
Addicted to
Breathing
Genre: Clinical Abstract
Theme: Fuel Of Life
ClawedBeauty101 Aug 2018
...I couldn't help but to stare blankly at your white, emotionless face...

The last time I saw you... You had a light full of joy and grace...

But to see that light now gone from you body left a taste of melancholy

A hood of sorrows is what hid my bitter sweet tears from them and you, what folly...

Before my aching heart could leave your presence, your eyes opened...

Your heart startled by a hug, your eyes gazed around at all of us, an opportunity, I was hope'n

You stared straight into my black stained waterfall and spooked me

When your pale, cold hand, with quickness, grabbed my hand.. and begged me not to leave..

It shook... I could feel and count every bone you used... with the little muscle strength you had...

My body trembled at your white, thin, Skeleton hand... Stabbed by the reality of loss...the insecurity was bad..

I felt so troubled and helpless... Since there was nothing from me you could gain...

"Alan...Linard...." was the last thing I heard, the last thing she said... it was her husband's name...

6 days later... 9:15pm, July 2nd, 2018...for the first time... I watched Some breath their last... and finally die...

Puzzled by how quick and peaceful a painful image thing can be.... It felt so deceitfully wrong... but I knew it was..right..

Donna... You wouldn't come back... even if you could.. you wouldn't

You in a place of paradise... pure perfection... I wont lie... I miss you.. but I know you could never return... you couldn't..
..I hate writing stuff like this.

Lord.. Thank you for finally taking her home..

Donna, you always said to me "Age Doesn't Matter" for a variety  of things I told you about... I want to always thank you for constantly telling me that...and for praying for me, and for teaching me what it means to be a prayer warrior...
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