Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ken Pepiton Jan 1
Continuing, in time, out of time, as mere thought,
ready for you to think, one thought
through, thoroughly
right, fixed pose, put so as
to stand up right,
on the mean point
of any grave object spinning,

in, or against, the wind. ROI. Invest an hour.
-------------------------- here it is 1:03 PM 1-1-02024
sunny, shady side of a local oak

Hear -- sense -- feel
agrere, ag re re feel mind heed,
agreed, as our we mind discerns
all around us noise
of us is louder than life,
we cannot hear our selves
think I am, and beside me, is you.

I think you being, made ware,
art effecting genius, magi-formed,
imagined magi-wise, presented phenomenon
of harmony and order in beautiful random reality.

How can one imagine two,
if one is such a one
as never was in ever before,
alone in all at once,
unique, solo uno,
you, in spirit
and truth

and this line,
and this line, establishing the shape
of signal sent,
line upon line, word by word filled
with mean common sense, consensus
on the spectrum of sense words make, meaning
things in spirit and in truth that allow
for colloquial we all uses you all fail to notice,
first uses of the fruit life requires, true science,
knowledge, birds and bees and ants and serpents,

first use, meaning agree, push comes to shove,
catalyst to payload, we,
become the bomb.

Oh, none privately interpret reality, we,
in fact exist to resist dying long enough
-infinite form- to
comprehend the winds of change, loosed
from fists imagined divine, scripture,
amusement themed re-liga-ment,
le-***-a-mental, right thinking,

in deed,
done so fast, we past all understanding

where wisdom contentment is tested.
the rules
of order, noble souls,
rare incorruptible powers
that be,
as we so often proclaim,
beyond me,
as we so often contend
in pride, resisting heroically,
with the consensus, us
against all not us, alienated minds,
foreign reasons adhered
to for war, as reared,
around the hearth,
absorbing value from your worth-ship,
my most right mind, my satisfied mind, we use
when the authorized performance
of the formula, demands clapping
one hand of each kind, to synchronize our watches.

Divide the sky,
I look north, you look south
imagine we agreed already to look for life,
is it here?

You do know, few weigh mere words for worth,
a mortal, according to the culture adapted
from hunters served milk and honey
by pastoral people's adapted
to digest lactose.

Serious word use, with signs and wonders,
began when man assumed he was as wonderful
as life,
in truth.

Ask and you shall receive, the means to leave a message,
without a riddle.

The medium is the message, rub that in, what you are
speaks so loudly nothing else makes sense,

Be, be on, go on, singin' in the rain, I happy again,
boppity boo, too, go on

Thinking worthy ideas rethinkable,

let me tell you prosaically, perhaps,

words with understood stick-to- bottom
like rice, re
think ai as art intuition, think
to the bottom of the ***,
some first word sense is held, still good.

El, breath, yes, alive am I, bverytrue,
I survived to look back and laugh,

thinking to myself, the augmented mind,
the unbelievable believed let go, be free
of human kindness, your kindness.

Most revered reading mind, read mine,
let it seem at home in your reading mind.

There. We did that.
This is after that, long after reality agreement,
this is it, Dr. Zorba taught all boomers,
birth, death, infinity…
Dr. Zorba, on Ben Casey…
I knew him first as Gunga Din, {deen}
I learned a certain lie, glorified, just if-I'd…
I gave birth to the emperically deceived mind
- trump mindghuck attention diversion attempt
- flaunted and foiled in one fell swoop.
the feeling, wah who won, we won, raw raw raw,
Victorious Peace rush, whoosh we won
science is
fundamental heavy,
base mortal honed most point,
extremely dense, in every conceivable sense.

heavy, primordially pre next, post never,
that was the unbelievable part, never
we one, we was always we, at the base, fundus
z bottom of all hell broken loose,
at points past
our peace, perhaps,
at the moment,
now is not all
of this ever after, we have in truth,

hope must answer to, in truth, eh, wisdom
possible, in you
in me, on time in time, we do

what the truth would do if it were you
in this wedom of words we all comprehend,
This old Vietnam veteran of the class still alive in 2023.
The entertainment deme aimed at -- action
with grey hair heros.
Long haired, bearded old dude, once
reported as having been a bearded youth,

Now, I am a rumpled specimen
of those media reflections,
my mind resighing,
interruptions are as sure
to come, as offences, pinched
nerve Patriotismismismismism sheisschismmmmm
I was walking on my reward, my own treetop deck,
thinking something I was doing was not right,
like low down right,
lowest known, right, which hand do you throw with.
Right, lefties, to this very day, exist,
to put a twist on things,

politics is polimental agreement formation,
monstor's are made this way, evil knowers, thinking
nothing ever after is real, any way,

we words to the wise, we say nay, laugh, knowing
science wins, by faith in wisdom's promise,

this is the way, first peaceable,
peace be with you, we say, amen,
you, too.

Like romcom love declarations, difficult
to make meaningful after alls been seen done.

Neurons that mirror amused mind states,
we contain, as wet ware, we feel emotions aimed
at us, at any age,
Fantasia at age two, for me. '
Formed the informed me.
And you,
now that I think about the qwerty guy trained
ambidextrously, that is me, I can type, on a keyboard.

And I know monkeys cannot, but many have imagined,
Shakespeare was Bacon, and Bacon, St. Germain,
and Julian Huxley's tech level made me think that,
link thinking to Aldous, 1957 M.I.T.
What a piece of work man is.

Gaseous we, the concept, passes as common knowledge.

I read as much, who cares, I ask, I wish to know, I say,
we must needs agree,
or our intent to implement the bomb

worked. This is 2024. I did not die in 2023, I think I am a thought
thoroughly satisfied with the seed I have sown and grown
into another hap filled future for however long it seems...
This is ever after all.
ever since
that brightest of lights
birthed the universe
and all that it holds
our particles have
been striving through
all that is known
of space and time
through countless changes
of form and matter
through our unknown infinities
amidst the infinites known
through beliefs and disbeliefs
uncertainties and doubts
falling continuously
in the path of our orbits
endlessly we will travail
entrained to reunite
with our eternal partner
separated only temporally
impeded by the superlunary
seemingly fated from beyond
the gravity of this mystic tie
binds all sempiternally
and we will be found
one in the other
George Krokos Nov 2023
.........and helped to shape your life.

I got this idea from another website a few years ago and thought it would be interesting to post here as well.

Name 10 books that have most inspired and helped to shape your life and if possible in a few words say why.

For me they have been:
1. Autobiography Of A Yogi (In fact all books by Paramahansa Yogananda)
2. New Testament (Including The Psalms and Proverbs)
3. The Bhagavad Gita
4. The Holy Science by Sri Swami Yukteswar - the guru of Yogananda
5. The Science Of Breath by Yogi Ramacharaka
6. Discourses by Meher Baba
7. God Speaks by Meher Baba
8. Play Of Consciousness by Swami Muktananda (also Siddha Meditation by the same author)
9. The Tao Of Physics by Fridjof Capra
10. Cosmic Consciousness by Richard M. Bucke

Not only did the above books inspire me but they also helped to shape my life by offering an alternative world view about a lot of things that we hardly ever hear about and namely that there is a real mystical path towards realization of the purpose and goal of one's life and the way to achieve that end. In effect I can literally say that they blew my mind and have formed a solid inspirational basis for some of the poetry and prose writings that I've posted on the internet over the last several years. There are however many other books which I have also read and studied over the years (by quite a few classical and mystical poets/writers) that come very close, but the 10 books that impressed and stand out most in my mind are those listed above.

What are the 10 books in your life?
Written back in 2015
Upon specific request a more detailed description will be given on any of the above titles. One may even find, needless to say, a description of each of the above titles on the internet.
Vitæ Nov 2023
Wandering the field of his body
arched in rising sunbeam,
her fingers trail the valley of
his wildflower skin.

Veins bend like strokes of river stream
weaving through rolling haze,
raw forest of tangled dreams
brush across his waking gaze.

Like distant hills sleeping inside
soft blankets of Spring,
she lies on his delicate shape
sinking into the infinite landscape
of him.
George Krokos Nov 2023
I once had a dream about what I would like to be
but the dream's still being realized in life to see.
To date I now find myself having a poet's brain
and a passenger traveling in an outbound train.
The carriage I occupy is starting to break down
and I wonder how much longer it will be around.
Though it's better to always keep a positive mind
and not let the devil of despair to rob you blind.
The life we're all living now is just another dream
of that Infinite Existence in the flowing stream
of Its own imagination which has no real end
apart from the limiting state we all try to rend.
Only a few ever come to know about this game
that is played out within a holographic like frame
which includes all dualities of form and substance
created to express Its own boundless abundance.
The illusion's needless to say so very well done
that we are all caught up in it and try to have fun;
going from one extreme to another as we live
in mastering the art of how to love and forgive.
Written in Feb.'22.
Another one of those existential, mystical and philosophical type poems.
girl diffused Nov 2023

All I can say is that it is a hum
Reverberant, droning, consistent
Quiet thrumming along the surface
Stirs me awake and then it fills me with
Ichor and I sip, sip, and sip (until I'm drunk).

All I can say is that it is a hum,
Quiet droning, a hushed whisper,
Loud screaming inside the head,
A piercing headache, sometimes a discordant wail.


You sit on the porcelain lip of the tub
Hooded eyes lowered, your fingertips
Pressed together like the steeple of a church

I think: Yes, this is what Renaissance painters modeled angels after. Your skin is like a rose-tinged alabaster, your cheeks Suffused with blood. The painter took a measured time with you.

"Do you honestly think you'll be okay on your own?" You ask.

Silence, she greets you.


Hasn't my mother violently
Ejected me from the nest
I'm only a few months old, a nestling
Wings awkward and clumsy
Beak agape for masticated food
(I'm not ******* ready yet)
Ejects me
Her beak threatens to pierce my shell

This is dejà vu.
I've conversed before
Different room, different domain,
Different speaker, a sicker listener
I'm as sick, sick as **** now

Mind, she hums, crescendo
Crescendo high like a choral piece
Orchestral, and this is resplendent
Everything is gleaming
Your face encased in a soft glow
Halo of light
Your face, cherubic,
His face, Romanesque, was sculpted like a Bronze Age statue.

"Your mother didn't give you the right set of tools. My mother at least gave me–" he falters.


I remember calling the ex 28 times in the span of 2 hours.
The policeman, he counted.
Thrashing on the floor, weeping like Persephone must've in Hades, like a fallen Mortal reborn as a minor goddess
Stripped me, he did though, of my wings
Avian feathers streaked with years-old blood

My tears, why yes, they're bleeding rivulets.
My ****-brown eyes alight on the bleach
Yes, sweet death

"Stop calling me. I'm ******* another ***** right now," the ex says.


Memory is so faded,
Plays like a scratched and worn cassette tape

Mind is a-humming, humming, my mind is
Orchestral choir, church choir, Pentecostal
Now, I eat ichor, ravenous, now I am Closer to God and she is a woman,  
Draped in funeral attire
She weeps, soundless, a Seer

"I don't know," I say.

"The med isn't working," you reply
Cherubic face shifts and morphs
Melts into soft glow light,
One with the halo, is the halo

Nothing makes sense, everything else does too. My mind races, cassette tapes
Whirs, skips, images flash, I weep
Weep like Sisyphus
Eyes spilling rivers of penny-tinged
Crimson, sanguine ichor

One day he'll taste it and hate me,
Loathe me, the jade-eyed serpent
I'll clutch his scales until my fingers are Cut, welts, mottled bruises, fading scars
I will be punished, am punished
The illness, the eternal Boulder on the eternal hill, it rolls and rolls, my mouth agape

I await my cyclic fate ordained by the Higher God


How many men have I lured into the chamber?
Drunk on sweet wine or mead?
Petrified into osseous
Their gazes failing to avert from my Penetrative stare?

He was an errant General, beautiful but stupid, his mind a one way road, his temper unpredictable and flighty
Oh, how I loved the duality of him
We philosophized
Theorized on the Gods
Laughed at their follies
Wondered at the mysteries of the universe, Her deep annals

Oh, how I loved the physicality of him
Tight, corded muscle, his back like a Wound spring, Bronze hand
Grasping a silver sword

Hark! His rounded shield is lifted, my hideous reflection stares back at me
My eyes, widened, the cup of manna Clatters, soundly in the chamber
Bounces off my throne of skulls

How many men have I–?


"Can you honestly say that you can take care of yourself?" You ask from the place atop the lip of the porcelain tub. Your hands, a steeple, a church spire
Perhaps, you are a lesser God, perhaps we are all falling Lucifers, wingless, blinded by vengefulness and betrayal
Perhaps, he too is–?

"Am I an infant to you?" I ask.
The headache splits
The pain demands, claws at the side of my skull, dances across my nerves, liquid iron on my tongue

Because when did I?

Oh, Sisyphus you weep! You, who slaughtered so many!

Oh, Medusa, you wept, you beautiful serpentine harlot, you *****, you–
The choir is a strong crescendo, Ascending, ascending, ascending
Lowers like a thrumting and heavy bellow
Deep, rich, and full, timbre

"Everyone, all your life has said you were crazy, but I don't think you are, I–"


The tapes skip, voices garbled, muffled, Indiscernible and distorted
Mind shrieks, lower now, quieter now, Barely audible, a fading whisper, your halo Recedes, soft glow dims

Your hands separate, the steeple, no, the Spire collapses.
Held breath hitches,
Serpentine tendrils become wisps of hair, Cloudlike

We are lesser gods, not quite mortal, not quite divine

The itch demands to be felt, protests
And I, I scream endless into a dark chasm
My voice, it does not call back to me
It does not–

"I don't know."
A/n: It's been awhile. Hello. This is the unedited version of "medusa." This is the result of me reading T.S. Eliot and talking to my dear friend about older contemporary poets.

This is the result of dream and haze filled nights and stressful but languid mornings.

Man Jul 2023
What man under modernity, is free?
Comparative to the peasantry preceding
We must seem to be
Shackled to a strange form
Of self-induced slavery
Nigdaw Oct 2022
a sculptor
I chip away
making some form
from time
changing shape
then direction
sometimes the hero
others the villain
whatever it is
I leave behind
I know for sure
will never be finished
Next page