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Oh sweet hovering dream of long weekend,
mental pensioners on Morpheus train godsend.
Nymphic muses entertaining with hot-cross-buns,
slightly toasted with jam and butter runs.
To hit the sense of gratitude to the wisdoms cup,
that foamy coffee contributes to extinction sum up.
That buzz that should wake on up not to consume,
and therefore not creating a weaker view.
Wicked desires and praise above deserve,
forget oneself to some marble will subserve.
To consume regardless heavy downward cast,
taken earth resources far to fast.
Cocoa eggs and bunnies sickening state,
hyper obesity and musing gait.
Less is more for every shopping list,
natures unbalance is coming with the mist.
Retire oneself from indulgent leisure,
creating gardens of source-full pleasure.
To bless the doors of immunity harm,
mother natures healing charm.
The consumer train by now of the tracks,
while misplaced love as guilt shopping acts.
The prophetic strain with heavenly guided souls being bold,
ancient stars and its prophesies foretold.
from o'er eastern hills
a brightly glowing moon's face
rose in late eve skies
Thomas W Case Feb 17
I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined so many spices—like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled so foreign and exotic,
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called naan was dipped
in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine—smiles—laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandoori chicken
smells like a T.V dinner.
Elena Mustafa Sep 2020
Demented
Was this evil
Witch
When she snatched girls from the
Streets
To havevthem sacrificed and
Possessed
By the jinn
When will she end her
Evil spree
Of taking innocence
And committing them
To Satan
Lundy Jul 2020
After a year I took you to the Eastern Sierras. Home.

Last time I was here these mountains seemed bigger, in pictures my face was thinner.

Walking in my granfathers footsepts I spoke of my family, I spoke of these canyons, you spoke of your dreams, and you spoke of us.

Black coffee in our matching cups. You make it strong; like me I said.

With the high sierra granite surrounding us we removed our bandaids and wondered where the scars went.


Everyone knows a broken heart is blind. At least that's what Jack thought me. After pondering it for quite sometime I think that I would like to give you mine. I think you see me.
old willow May 2020
Crossing the eastern stream,
I met a friend.
His shell, hard as he slowly
traverse across the water.
Crouching down, I asked him.
Oh turtle, why do you move so slow,
Yet never stop inching forward?
Mystic Ink Plus Oct 2019
मलाई सोधियो
किन भाईटीका अन्तिम दिनमा मनाइन्छ?

मैले भन्दिए
परापूर्वक कालदेखिनै
पूर्वीय दर्शनमा
हिरोको प्रवेश अन्तिममै हुन्छ ।
शैली : अवलोकन
विषय: प्रश्न यस्तो थियो
Kobu Sagiyama May 2019
For though we might,

We cannot fight the wind;

Try as we may,

The mist eludes our grasp;

Shadows defy our clutches,

Rainclouds form,

The sun and moon rise and set

Despite our will;

Controlling nothing,

Still we do not see,

And frame our lives with an order

That is illusion,

Timetables and inventories

Of ignorance;

Labels and times and convenience

We set in stone that crumbles

Like sand before the winds

Of Impermanence;

Change is the symphony,

And fluid the score

Of this dharmakayic waltz,

And though we dance

We fancy ourselves but

Onlookers to the show;

That when the crashing finale

Resounds -- as it must --

We stop our ears and wail;

Not seeing, deaf to the choir

That has but turned the page

To sing a new song;

Our own melody ended,

We fade only to be played anew

From the string of another bow;

The song goes on, rising, falling,

And Bliss is the one

Who follows as the Piper leads

With Namu Amida Butsu.
A Pure Land Buddhist poem.
A Simillacrum Jun 2018
I
Am human
I
was
born,

I,
For reasons
I
Don't
Know,

I
Am conscious
I

Want what is mine.

The only planet I might
ever touch with my toes
in my lifetime, the only planet
that our children may
ever, is in constant flux
as humankind fights on high
between the minds that
can't decide on the price
of life in this land of freedom,
minds on high that can't
decide if a government
should protect its citizens' best
interests or preach
individualism until the best
is a corporate Wild West.
Until when? The time
Has come.

It is.
You can see it.
Look what you've built.
Gaze upon social implosion and cry.

I
Am nothing
With
Out
This
Blessing

I
Am a part
Of
the
We
as the

Us.

You want to see God?
Feel your face with your hands.
Look at yourself in the mirror.
Assess what you've become.

At some point in time,
The value of commodity
Became The value of a human life
At some point in time,
The value went intangible
Became the money We need, when

Our leaders all fritter Fiat funds
For access to guns and bombs.

(Bigger and Better, Baby)

(❤)
Who am I?

(Who am I?)

Who am I,

but a sound of tomorrow?
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