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Arise my son,
For the dawn of Uranus has come
Bright, Lime and Eternal
And before the Throne, a vernal

A little while, a little while
And Lightening ransoms Liberty
Should strength leave you?
Use your enduring ferocity

Listen to the roar of the north winds
For I have known whom I declared
Advance, Spread and Expand
Sovereignty shall lead you from within

From the heights of the ram
To the bull of the stars,
Where timeless honor shall reach afar,
And raging tempests shall fade away.

From my upcoming album Born to Soar.
Registered with ProtectMW London
Jules AA Apr 4
Suns will set and rise again,
but Chytherea hasn’t kept her promise, yet.
You should be my own Cerinthus, I think,
a font to passions, and to sorrowful cares.
A flickering flame robbing me of my senses.
I count the minutes between a fresh glance,
or hearing the harmony of your voice.
Days you are absent feel hollow,
like a flower drooping, crushed by the plow
At the end of a field.
O Venus, when will you sing of my fortunes?
Arianna Mar 30
circles swirl            
flightless doves,                          
out of control,                
Fingers unbound;

                          Cloak of silk
                                             and motion,
­                                        and around,
                  ­            at the core
                   with red threads,
            bellies branded
with tallow from the temple lamps.        

They dance: mute birds, wings clipped
          and tossed about
                                in flurried vortexes
            ­                        the
Arianna Mar 12
Sinner of sinners, he gorges on Beauty, grows fat on the senses.
Gluttonous, slothful, and lustful — a perished feast for one.
An experiment with the elegiac couplet. May contain metrical errors.
Paul Butters Mar 4
You can’t beat that musical beat,
From tinkling triangles
To blaring horns.
A quick ditty
Or grand symphony.

Music can mould mountains,
Oceans and plains.
Make you feel any emotion
Or atmosphere.

When songs and poems marry,
Their offspring are awesome:
“Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality…”
Mercury magic.

Those rhythms run like chugging trains.
They fight pitch battles
Within our brains.

Drums keep beating,
Guitars whine.
Ever repeating
All through time.

Chuck Berry with his rock and roll,
Aretha Franklin, Queen of Soul.
Elvis truly was the King,
Want some crooning?
Play some Bing.

Beatles, Queen or Stones,
Who really cares?
Roll over Beethoven
Bach or Lennon
On your dancing squares.

I know that rap can give you the blues,
But there’s so much music
You’ve got plenty to choose.

Musical memories adorn our minds,
Warm associations
Of nostalgic times.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\3\2019. Last stanza added 6\3\19.
Let the band begin to play...

The biggest thing I could find
Was my pitiful sense of pride.
Blinding stage lights I set make me blind
New sockets to inhabit myself self eyed.


Maybe a cursed heart but blessed mind.
Ribbons wrapped on gifts with a contract tied.
The wrapping paper weaves into a bracelet with mine intertwined.
Chuckle and hide the gift, a furthering puppet on it’s right foot stride.

K n o w s?

I crave remembrance in the tenements of the refined.
As I greet the regulars, painting the memory a pubescent tide.
Those decrepit halls of poverty ascend to new space confined.
My images too familiar, as the graffiti covers my father art. And mine already died.


Sympathy nods and greets me down the Levie, the fish streamlined.
I seek sustenance distilled in it’s shadow, it’s promises to my mind a ride.
Years of excuses for odd fish to the family, age to this unkind.
I feast, yet with my family complain the taste too tacky and tried.

I crumble and grovel at the end of the line.
I pulled the linchpin, and came tumbling down my statue of twine.
Strung of nylon lies and bitter vine.
The pedestal willowed and wales of years in the spine.
And the rain wails upon the unstrung man, all quite a whine.
So now where the sun forgets to shine
I build a shrine
Out of old wicker and pine.

To remember the time
Struck out of prime
That I built castles in rhyme.
Now I turn to the store with a dime
Backpocket backwater downtime.
To buy a Cassette of the old ragtime.
To the shrine, I play it in passtime.
I pass it every day as I think of bedtime.
And think;

“Oh What Liar, what cheater and what hypocrite will I build in it’s honor? One robbed of innocence, fiendishly poignant, selective in forgery, one failed in love and one carnal in empathy. Oh but one my dastardly, and more selfish. As the purpose of role models has changed, they inhabit your world now. And I inhabit a world where I decided to go and pull my own Linchpin.”
A Poem about my Flaws, about who I am and about who I want to be and aspire towards.
Pete King Dec 2018
Realisation can be a harsh pill;
One I've always struggled to swallow.
The dose, in this instance, was to be
That my happiness isn't a reward.

It's not earned through great achievements;
Contentedness isn't product of valour.
It's not found in deep breathing and spiritualism,
It's not created by anything external.

My happiness will always be through
consistent fidelity and belief in a purpose.
A purpose that simply has to be weightier
than the small stuff we're sometimes thrown.

It's the consistent drive:
To love.
To laugh.
To make laughter..
To put pen to paper.
It's a thousand-melodies,
On twelve piano keys.
It's the gnawing hunger inside of me,
That says it would be simply unacceptable
For me to leave this world,
Until I have brought forth
Everything I feel I have within me.

Happiness is always going to be a fleeting thing for me.
And that's alright.
Because I'm only just getting started.
Angela Liyanto Dec 2018
Come, come, music,
While I kiss your melody
Not even I, can measure
how much love you hold

Hush, listen - the soft tiptoes
So gently, tenderly - sweet!
Your tune is so light
Pure bubbles meet

Schubert’s humming butterfly
Almost forgets the May bliss
She placed Music on a flower
Till her ripples lay in care

Come, come, sweet music
The moon may wink at you
And charm may sleep
Now those notes, she will bloom

Hush, lift the sleepy light
Well done Debussy – O dear
Roses shall dream of pulp’d verse
And music, she well knows what she hears.
Inspired by Keats, Schubert's Impromptu No.3 & Debussy
Peter Balkus Oct 2018
Oh Handel
is like a beautiful
I simply can't handle
Inspired by 'Arrival of the Queen of Sheba' by George Frideric Handel.
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