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birds of the same disposition*
all gathering in a collective band
one feather is their rendition

they'll always be of this strand
never deviating at anytime
all gathering in a collective band

everyone of them an akin dime
minted by the exacting coin press
never deviating at anytime

they're keeping a single address
companions of an only kind  
minted by the exacting coin press

none are really hard to find
assembling neath a unified wing
companions of an only kind

can you hear the old adage sing
assembling neath a unified wing
birds of the same disposition
*one feather is their rendition
Sparrow Junk Jun 2017
This stagnant pond refuses to change
It won't even acknowledge the rain
Painting itself as full of lush life
Whilst ignoring the constant strife

"I am my own system" it cries
"I won't care when the river dries"
Forgetting, of course, it's own role
In making the water continually flow

In this age of inflated identity
It's lost the collective amenity
Standing alone amongst the crowd
Singular voices don't ring so loud

This stagnant pond refuses to accept
That the way it acts is incorrect
"It's not me it's them" it blames
Losing the help that it shames

One day this pond will dry up
Leaving little left in the muck
Whereas other ponds form a lake
Giving for the collective's sake
This one was inspired after listening to an Adam Curtis interview where he talked about individualism versus collectivism which made for an interesting discussion
Denel Kessler Feb 2017
fallow winter does not bring
peace to the restless soul
finger-licked, waiting
on subtle winds shifting
for the tropical taste
of exotic droplets of rain
a salt-stained remembrance
in this time of dreaming

red-light ladies hatch
in raftered minds
a mass awakening
beneath hardened shell
freedom awaits wings
a collective opening
an essential
transformation
GaryFairy Oct 2016
when no objective is best for our protection
protecting ourselves would be the best direction
directing ourselves toward a progressive connection
connecting our minds to make a collective correction

correcting the obsessions that infect our perception
perceiving ourselves as the essence of conception
conceiving a brand new perspective of reception
receiving the blessing that we call perfection
In a Quantum Loop poem, the last line of each stanza must be used as a different form of the word, as the first word in the following line. It also must rhyme, or nearly rhyme. Rhyme scheme can be any way you want it though. In a double quantum loop poem, the first word in lines 2, 3, and 4 must rhyme.
Julie Grenness Mar 2016
I prayed to God in the silent house,
In the quiet stillness, in came a mouse,
Yes, in scuttled Horatio the Mouse,
Sardonic God has sent me a mouse,
So, a little fur friend,
God's blessings don't end,
This mouse is way too hyperactive,
I ask, does it come from a mouse collective?
Is Horatio pregnant? think twice.
Shall I be plagued by furry mice?
I bought poison and mousetraps, too bad,
Is the mouse collective about to be sad?
Thus spake God, in the silent dark house,
"I shall send you a fur friend mouse?"
The real world,  in came the mouse. Feedback welcome.
Koggeki Feb 2016
Have you tasted
A campfire?

Have you seen
Polaroids fade?

Have you felt
The sand sparks?

     We howled at the moon.
          Our youth in full bloom.

               Our collective pasts
               Biting at ankles;
               In strength we held fast
               Denying shackles!

           Demons will come soon.
     We’ll conquer at noon.

Have you heard
Our trumpet?

Have you smelt
Victory?

But, more import
Would you like to?
Raghu Menon Oct 2015
Death ?

Is it just the process where your body stops functioning?
Your heart stops beating,
Your lungs stop contracting and expanding
Your brain stops the processing of signals
Your blood stops gushing through the highways and narrow roads within our body?
Your memory wades away and is erased forever?
Your senses make no sense?
Your body starts losing its heat and starts cooling down?
You yourselves sliding into a sleep from which you never comes back?

What happens to  “us”, “our” knowledge?
The feeling of “me” and “mine” ?
Our feeling  of this universe, the science, the philosophy?
The values that we have given to things, people, cultures?
Our view points, our process of putting things to its perspective?
Our interactions with people close and far?
Our love and affection to people  and theirs to us?
What happens to these rather complicated web of interconnectedness?
Is it that only our link gets cut when we die?
What happens to the energy between  me and the rest?

May be we have lived our lives.
We have done what we could have done
Or may be we have left some gaps which others may fill or leave
May be things would be better with out us being there
When others try to fill our space, they do it better
And if we can be an inspiration to them,
If we can be a cause for others to do things
May be we live through them
Our thoughts will live in them
And we live again

It is immaterial whether we live or not
For, things will get done the way it should be done
Either for good or bad
If we can be part of a vibe, part of a collective
Part of a movement
Which strives for a common good,
And if we can contribute in whichever small means and ways
The common vibe that is generated from the good energies  of a group
Then we live, even after our death
The values that we lived for
Will continue to grow and lead the world
For a better cause, for a better world
For a good today
and
For a brighter tomorrow
Arcassin B Jan 2015
By Arcassin Burnham

With your hair through the air,
when your soul is to spare,
I cry,
Honest ways through the trees,
When you just wanna be free,
I cry,
My initials flow through your head,
Don't want to let you know that I'm dead,
I cry,
Sadness ***** a lot even in high contrast,
You can not overcome or surpass,
You cry.
She finally did
Wuji Seshat Oct 2014
I lift syllables to plant
They will ripen in your mind
Like wheat of the ancient fields

Where our ancestors ate language
And leisure, like we have never known
We who labour like machines
As slaves might, while our lives
Is as a poem where the trees incandescent

Must watch themselves wither
As sheets of paper gone to waste
I lift houses of sound

To your legendary fracture of silence
These vacant lots of night-time
Where a pale puddle of your
Grip upon reality suddenly blazes
With figures of your once dreams

The summer has oxidized mornings, sunsets
A weightless winter awaits, as scattered
Pages are left to turn, each one

Words in the shape of a cloud of dust
As white as snow, as lingering
As the cold, and the murmur of a million
Leaves that once were, but are now only
The idea of color, the texture of earth.
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