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Savio Fonseca Aug 2023
I'm a fool, Who has fallen in Love.
Head over Heels and Blind.
I keep blushing during the Day,
not knowing what's there in My Mind.
If I offer My Love and Gift wrap it to U.
Will U make Me yours Forever
Or will U turn it Down and Laugh at Me
and make Me hang My Ears Forever.
As I stand on the Steps of Happiness
waiting for U to open the Door.
Will U let Me into your fold
Or will My Tears roll on to the Floor.
The Last time, When I said I Love U.
My Voice had begun to Crack.
I'm that best selling Book, U never read.
Lying Dusty and Torn on you Rack.
annh Oct 2021
πš‚πš˜πš–πš‹πš›πšŽ πš™πšŽπš›πšŒπšžπšœπšœπš’πš˜πš— πš›πšŽπšπšžπšŒπšŽπšœ πšŒπšŠπš•πšŽπš—πšπšŠπš› 𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚜
πšƒπš˜ πš™πšŽπš•πšπš’πš—πš πš›πšŠπš’πš— πšŠπš—πš πš πš’πšœπš‘πšπšžπš• πšπš‘πš’πš—πš”πš’πš—πš,
π™°πšœ πšœπš’πš–πš™πš‘πš˜πš—πš’πšŒ πšπš›πšŠπš’πš•πšπš’πšŽπšœ πšŒπš•πšŠπšœπš‘ πšπš‘πšŽπš— πš™πšŽπšŠπšŒπšŽπšŠπš‹πš•πš’ πšœπšžπš‹πšœπš’πšπšŽ;

π™Έπš—πšπš’πš–πšŠπšπšŽπš•πš’ πš πš˜πšŸπšŽπš— πšπš›πš˜πš– πšπšžπšœπš”πš’ πšœπš’πš•πšŽπš—πšŒπšŽ,
π™΄πš–πšŽπš›πšπš’πš—πš πšœπš˜πšπšπš•πš’ πš’πš—πšπš˜ πš™πš’πšŒπšŒπš˜πš•πš˜-πšπšŠπš™πš™πš•πšŽπš πšœπšžπš—πš•πš’πšπš‘πš,
π™ΌπšŽπš•πš•πš˜πš  π™°πšžπšπšžπš–πš— πšœπš’πšπš‘πšœ πšŠπš—πš πš†πš’πš—πšπšŽπš›'𝚜 πš›πš’πšπš˜πšžπš› πšœπš—πšŠπš™πšœ;

πšƒπš‘πšŽ πšπš’πš›πšœπš 𝚝𝚘 πšπšŠπš•πš•,
𝙰 πšœπš’πš—πšπš•πšŽ πš—πš˜πšπšŽ
πš‚πšπšžπšπšπšŽπš›πš’πš—πš πšπšŽπš—πšπš•πš’.

β€˜Springtime is upon us. The birds celebrate her return with festive song, and murmuring streams are softly caressed by the breezes.’
- Antonio Vivaldi
ATILA Nov 2020
Sit down here for a while
Look up and observe the sky
With a kaleidoscope of dreaming eyes
Contemplate how the stars shine
Complementing the beauty of night
Brazing to be the brightest sight
Bearing the heat by constant burning
Just to illuminate one’s world.

Turn your face beside
And savour my talking heart
A canvas made of refined stardust
Count the sparks of it
That complete anxious dots from your stare
Faith in myself when I say
Your tender existence already be the best being
Your enchanting gaze lights up dusky room I was lost in
Your warm embrace convects my flower’s needs
Makes it fully blooming.

You are solely my star
And I’m eternally stargazing.
β€œAm I your star?”
β€œOf course my dear, you are my star.”

The old dusty path
Weather beaten roads

Lead to the farm
With an old barn

The sun shinesΒ 
with a light afternoon

Orange cosmos flowers,
grow wild in the
green hills

Silvery white, slender fragrant flowers,
bloom on the Indian cork trees

The full moon glows through the night
On the old dusty path

Ken Pepiton May 2020
2020 - day 146

Monday, May 25, 2020
7:48 AM

A creed of mathematics and mud, said
in what may be
utterance from the ghost of the late,
and likely,
no longer lamented,
Sir Leslie Stephen, author, and,
authoritative voice in the matter
of his own mind.
He apologized for the state called
Agnostic, lacking gnosis, may I say,

I know more, in fact, if I count my access
to knowns,
along with my access to the sequence
of knowing;
I know more than any prominent literati
in the time before Google's
manifestation as an idea shaping tool.

What do I know?
I know how to use the Internet to learn,

in broad sweeps through the remains of
into the dustbin of history for which we stand,
as a nation,

to build new and more destrucively effective

Blow your mind, hoist, lift-off, on your own farts.

Passing wind,
did you smell it?


Mental as opposed to spiritual,

this will need some study...
a little think,
an imaginary journey,

from here to... where? Where,
or when,
we were to change the world,
as we know it;
we did. Say we changed the world,

who would know?
Who would care? We have yet,
breath, and fuel, and functionality.

We have movement, and a grasping,
holding, using,
a natural, from the womb, knack
for making a fist.


Womb survivors of the world, unite.

Defined to the finest quarkish sublimnity,
we entangled creative
thoughts being spun into the wind
passing, rising
from bloated corpses,
we all may witness, as real as you may imagine...

in 2020, we have eye-witness visions made plain,
we have seen the bodies stacked in carts,
we have seen My Lai from the sky,
we can imagine

being there... but don't, I mean, Memorial Day is...

maybe, it is... evoking memory of madness,

how is war good? It is good for the greedy, no one else.

We watch our hero's die to stop the evil, then we watch
the bankers free the last Krupp cannon molder,
to spite the facts we can see, as seen at Nurnberg.

That injustice, was done in my name, if I believe I am
pluralized as we, the people who hold truth,

the Yanks, ye' know? Yankin' y'strang, stranger... did you
stumble into our historical records of all the good
war has done? Nay,
we came to remember peace,

in high definition resolution sharper than the
unaugmented human eye can detect,

see that guy's head, or his helmet, look close,
no head remained in the helmet,

but I knew the head the helmet was hoisted from.

I watched PFC. -name redacted - die,

-- did you know, did you learn, ever, the meaning
of being hoisted on one's own petard?

A petard was a bomb. Nothing fancy,
a bit of alchemical magi-knowing of laws yet to be

discovered in the rubble of guesses as to cause,

accusations of arrogance and hubris, combound to whys,

never examined, never lived out in vital awareness.


quenching a flaming spirit, is ill advised...

but it happens,
all the time. A heart pouring hope
into a mind jumbled
with signals and signs and pleas;

stops, stutters, and aches for
meaning meaning meaning in the
tinkling bells and crashing cymbals.

Hope, ash of aspirations inspired

love, as a thing, a noun, not a verb.

Love is a verb. Not a thing, an act.

Indeed, done, love is easy to think wisely done.
No announcement is needed,

long after the tale is first formed,
the legend rises from resting in peace,

to give a lie an opposing force, not a war,

a flood.

A deluge of lusion, a seeing at augmentedus
resolutions into further and beyond,
all we can think, or ask
into life

former-wise, formerly, unknowable, now

known, according to the pundits,
these are not the days of Lincoln,
craming laws into his head by firelight,

calloused digits flipping page after page
of proprietary rules governing

the white man's burden.


Staunching the flow, of blood, particularly,

meant stopping the flow, usually
stopping it from
flowing out of course,
the plain, flat, seeming, surface of reality.

Reality not being as defined as we imagine, in ourselves.
This being the flow,
if we pay attention, focusing on a point,
fixing a line of sight to a distant thing, a star will do,
no, those won't do, you see, the planets, now we know,

the planets reflect light,
they bounce light back to our eyes, which we invariably miss

when our attention is owed to the habits we hold.
Our daily grind... growing, or surviving in hope

We guess at many next right or otherwise, standing,
based up on a pedestal, a riser,

lift up your head, egregious though you be,
easily seen, so
easily you see as far as I'm concerned, dis
cerned, re
fined to the innermost edge,

ground to a halt... pressing blade to ground to scrape
a living

plowman, plow me a furrow, for the flood.
Maker of ways,  form me a way to flow,
channel my worth to the dying seeds

scattered, so long ago, on the thread of time we ride behind.


a bug, an insect, not an arachnid,
by leg count
class-ift, insect extremely delicate, what use
could this bug be to me,
a mayfly,
that I did pay it this attention?

Did I mention, no,
sequences in re
telling, consider starlight bounces from sunlight,

but reason and gravity suggest, those
waves of starlight intermingle
with sunbeams.

A mote in my eye may have bounced once from the moon,
as a made its point pinging a receptor some where behind

the window of my soul
to make a ligandary acceptence of influence, from the Greeks,
in an instant
Zeno, doncha know, decided, made a cut,

skience is the conscision, the cutting into bits, until

no further cutting may be done,
and we are dust,
at best.

Flakey humans. Homes to literal gazillions of mites,
hunting and gathering epidermal

flakes of us, digesting said flakes, into demodex *****

{demodex, face mites, are as old as **** sapiens}

as we are in didactic tic mode, ******* meaning from flakes
rubbed off during the itching ear phase

of dust mote formations, see

a mite eating the scales of our bodies, our subjective habitats,

where we hold our habitual rituals;
a mite eating those, fecates and defecates, fecation required,

in consequentialist thought, prior to defecation.

Fact or fiction? Science, as we know it at grade eight,
on the global scale of common knowledge,

science is what we are convinced we know in useful ways.
Knowledge is our opinion of

what we think we know. That is a guess. Not quite right, flow

the missed try, reach a next un ex spectated, un i magined
ic tic tic

time passing options, while a life away, or wait

wait and see, or come and see.

I say go. Where this river runs, reach that place,

get all salty, then
lay in the sun and evaporate. Ex sciere, rise, sublimated into ever knowing more,

scient-if-ic known knowns within the un gated narrative we occupy.

We live in an atmo-sphere, a bubble, with a core- inward pulling force

which rolls the rock down the hill, as me and Sisyphus spend a pleasant afternoon
watching all our effort play out...


forgive me if you already made all the links, I found the scient bits glittering in Old Norse skita,

science is ific in its will to be known truth holding, bogus science is willing to lie, for prestige.

Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to cut, split," extension of rootΒ *sek-Β "to cut."
It forms all or part of:Β abscissa;Β conscience;Β conscious;Β ecu;Β escudo;Β escutcheon;Β esq­uire;Β nescience;Β nescient;Β nice;Β omniscience;Β omniscient;Β plebisc­ite;Β prescience;Β prescient;Β rescind;Β rescission;Β science;Β sciente­r;Β scilicet;Β sciolist;Β scission;Β schism;Β schist;Β ******-;Β schizop­hrenia;Β scudo;Β sheath;Β sheathe;Β sheaveΒ (n.) "grooved wheel to receive a cord, pulley;"Β shedΒ (v.) "cast off;"Β shinΒ (n.) "fore part of the lower leg;"Β shingleΒ (n.1) "thin piece of wood;"Β ****Β (v.);Β shive;Β shiverΒ (n.1) "small piece, splinter, fragment, chip;"Β shoddy;Β shyster;Β skene;Β ski;Β skiveΒ (v.1) "split or cut into strips, pare off, grind away;"Β squire.
It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: SanskritΒ chindhi,Β chinattiΒ "to break, split up;" AvestanΒ a-sista-Β "unsplit, unharmed," GreekΒ skhizeinΒ "to split, cleave, part, separate;" LatinΒ scindereΒ "to cut, rend, tear asunder, split;" ArmenianΒ c'timΒ "to tear, scratch;" LithuanianΒ skiestiΒ "to separate, divide;" Old Church SlavonicΒ ceditiΒ "to strain;" Old EnglishΒ scitan, Old NorseΒ skitaΒ "to defecate;" Old EnglishΒ sceaΓ°, Old High GermanΒ sceidaΒ "sheath;" Old IrishΒ sceidΒ "to *****, spit;" WelshΒ chwyduΒ "to break open."
This began when I noticed science is from the same root as all those old words for post digestion of chewed up stuff.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Pity Clarity
by Michael R. Burch

Pity Clarity,
and, if you should find her,
release her from the tangled webs
of dusty verse that bind her.

And as for Brevity,
once the soul of witβ€”
she feels the gravity
of ironic chains and massive rhetoric.

And Poetry,
before you may adore her,
must first be freed
from those who for her loveliness would ***** her.

Published by Contemporary Rhyme (January 2005) and The Columbus Dispatch (Sunday, April 3, 2005). Keywords/Tags: Poetry, pity, clarity, obscure, webs, dusty, verse, brevity, gravity, irony, chains, manacles, massive, rhetoric, imprisoned, prisoner, jailed, *****, ******, *******
Raghu Menon Oct 2019
It was dry
Hot and humid
Dusty and nasty

It rained
Cool and wet
Soothing and cozy.
Anastasia Aug 2019
the same
soft color
the blue of the sky
soft clouds
drifting through them
a smile
that makes me fall
a drift
like a feather
i'd like
to kiss
Glenn Currier Jul 2019
Back in the corner of the closet
they rest covered in layers of dust
so thick I can barely see their color
but I remember the days of trust

I placed in them on ladders
dragging the hose through mud
standing before the radial saw
cutting with fear of drawing blood

Yes they are quite ugly
scuffed and parting at seams
soles worn and getting holey
walked through broken dreams

But I’ve got more work to do
I shake off the past with their dust
put on these old shoes cozy and true
and step into another future with trust.
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