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Ken Pepiton Dec 2022
We all saw you on TV. See
we all felt you, on TV.
We effectually react/ or change the channel.

Seeing with, you and I, we seeing
we share science, we know bits
of many common childhood mystery
religion moralizing stories, animating
representative good and evil having beings,

eaters of roots and seeds;
eaters of blood, raw flesh;
eaters of the processed meat, made
from what clams eat, while making pearls
worth the merchant's speculation, see,
look, if this pearl were thine to own, yours
alone. If this pearl were thine, to form
using layering lightflex laminate fluid to form,
smooth curve force to mollify vitious spikes
as one creature soothes the pain caused,
when a certain signal calls for pearling,
biometric symbiotic gnosisnot using
a natural pattern found in viscous,
snottish fluids flowing just above
the bottom line reality, priced per
one man estimated ethos, may
haps, taken and called granted, per
happenstance, standing, there take it,
weigh the worth, at least, it cost you
this much attention, and left
an edge to look over…
take this thought,
taste test, notice salt, hmmm.
-- such taste, sweet
-- such taste sharp, and bitter…
Notice sticky hook to any attention paid
-- remember, re
member reading for all the roles…
This Is Your Life,
unforgiveable forethought odd after effect.
-- taste and see, we all are good, our lies are evil.

Novels in genres, are stories in familiar
feeling places. The realmmmm re-creational
master of monstors degrees, stages, steps,
tic to last held thought, ties to all held thoughts,
- who buys horror and shame hero stories?
- who buys cops are Platonic Guardians stories?
- who buys we, that people, are stories?
Vicarious as the pope,
we feel the ef
in efforting to display the glory of knowing.

- ceasing to effect the art's official form of love,
- sincere affection, effectively applied plasterwise.

Nothing new, sort of classless, drivel, driving assumptives
sorted on commonalities, professional confession,
yes, we guessed you exist, so we said
I do this for money, or
I do this to make pearls, when something in me
is grinding at my gut, make, make, make me,
a pearl none shall ever see,
make me, think.

On earth, as in my own peace of mind, let it be.
Awen. Amen, and all the other translations of make it so.
The narrow focus keeps the hearth alight. Thank you for being my dear reader.
Sharon Talbot May 2019
I never really liked Hugh Grant,
'til I saw him in "About a Boy",
It's not as weird as it might sound;
This lonely kid likes to hang around
And play with Hugh Grant's toys.

Wait, I didn't mean THAT! I meant CD's,
And he teaches Hugh about life...
Hugh's a loner & his life's a mess,
The kid's mum is SO depressed,
Thus their neuroses fit like peas.
(in a pod)

See, jerks in school chase the boy each day,
‘Cause he wears old, hippie clothes.
One day he hides at Hugh Grant’s pad,
Listens to music that’s kind of rad,
So he shows up every day.

Hugh and the lad start hanging out
He buys him trainers, shows him what to wear.
But soon, the kid wants Hugh for a dad,
And though it makes Hugh selfishly sad,
He kicks the poor kid out.

"Killing me softly" is the Mum's fave song
So the other kids beat him up.
In a school concert, Hugh sings along.
The mom is thrilled and cooks some Tofurkey,
Hugh joins the crowd; Thanksgiving is quirky,
And Rachel Weisz picks him up.

She’s got a son who’s kind of ******,
Over his Mum’s divorce and he tries to be Goth.
He roughs up the boy and mom is stunned,
'Cos Hugh Grant lied about having a son
So she tells him it’s a no go.

In the end, Mum doesn't commit suicide,
Though the kid DOES waste a duck,
With a loaf of Mum's 10 lb., whole wheat bread.
Everyone laughs and it clears their heads.
Mum & Boy and others get glad,
And the boy's mum finds him a new dad

Rachel forgives the boyish Hugh,
After seeing his good deed.
He loves the kid, the mum and her.
Everyone gathers for Xmas at Hugh’s’;
He wears a paper hat and agrees:

He's no longer an island and needs other folk.
The Boy gets a pal and Mum no longer sulks.
Everything is saved by the new Hugh Grant,
And at least he doesn't wear LEATHER PANTS!
A silly "review" of a great film: Inspired by Hugh Grant’s lame leather pants in that film about an over-the-hill 60’s singer in Love Actually, and then his much more believable character in About a Boy.
grace is getting more than you deserve,
whereas mercy is not getting what you deserve.
god grants us both.
as said by our youth pastor
hazem al jaber Jan 2019
Grant me a night ....

sweetheart ...
my nights are too cold ...
lonely always feel ...
only sharing mt bed ...
my lonely bed ...
which it knows ...
and feels my lonely ...

so cold nights ...
i feel ...
so bore ...
lonely ...
thinking always ...
about you ...

ooh lady mine ...
grant me a night ...
just one night ...
to warm me ...
as i need your warm ...
come my angel ...
my only sweetheart ...
come let's taste ...
one the other ...
let's sip each other's saliva's lips ...
let's feel the wonderful of this day ...
while we both get the warm ...
from each other's body ..
to fire up this morning ...
while we diving ...
one into the another ...
into our bed ...

let's fire up ...
this day ...
to get what we both feel ...

grant me a night ...
just a one night please ...
to grant you forever ...
my heart ...
for the whole of my life  ...

hazem al ...
I admire death,
Although he but a vessel to the nether;
He is the great divide
That humbles the egocentric
And gives peace to the fraught.
Yet he cannot grasp anything but ash
And still brings mortals to their knees
In plee for a life that he cannot grant
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018

that links begins at the oldest of my poems here, which are nearing
the point of no return, maybe only because people cant tell me that hate them here, but more likely,
because some of of ya'll liked 'em writ, ye might like 'em said.
A link Please share
as the
bear here
is Hyde
in Kansas
now needs
Manassas where
Lee has
vanished nearest
bells that
he still
tells me
that to
sing there
in melancholy
of a
****** choir  
is heaven
Robert E. Lee has died...
hazem al jaber Nov 2016
grant me your lips...

sweetheart mine...

i'm not perfect to love's art ...
nor not a playful man ...
i'm just a serious...
if you really are ...
to show you the love's art...
as the feelings which i have...
to make you completely melt ...
through fires within mine...
til you dive with no choice to me...
to get the pleasure that you seek for....

i'm a perfect...
but i'm so true ...
i'm the lover of you....
who always dream about you...
could i have your lips...
or one at least ..
to write my history at them...
to write them as a poem...
my poems which it always about you...
til i lose away between your lips...
to keep living there...
my all days ...
and coming years...
as i lived at them ...
many years ago...

yes sweetheart...
i need you now,,,
need your lips...
need within you and your lips..
my all poem's nights...
to live with you all my life...

grant me your lips now....
or give one at least ...
to kiss them much  as your desires...
grant me your warm ******* now ...
or give one at least ...
to **** tenderness from you....
as much the love which i hold for you...

grant me your lips sweetheart...
to grant you all my life...

hazem al ..
Grant MacLaren Sep 2016
I know how it was in that time
sixty years ago when roads seen
from above were little more than
two thin tracks through grass.

My mind has heard the noiseless roads
cutting unfenced fields, passing cherry groves,
skirting steepest hills and flat lakes,
making settled burgs where roads cross.

I know how it was in that time
when many-handed harvests,  
sweet smells and back breaking work
were wrenched away without referendum.

Wrenched away by Ford's cast iron.
Wrenched away without option of staying
to enjoy the scale of day-long trips
on foot, in wagon or buggy.  

Our innocent grandfathers too,
wrenched away, not unwillingly, from plowfields,
to be told by newspaper and newfangled radio  
of the one-day Atlantic crossing.

I know how it was in that time.
I've seen it from three or five hundred feet;
the quick shadow and lake-mirrored
image of fabric covered wood and wire.

I've gently flown, pocketa, pocketa,
in that time; in a ship as much a product
of those shifting decades as of its tinkerer/
designer, builder, pilot, Pietenpol.
Austin Bauer May 2016
The church we visited
Today for pastor's round table
Was set like the scene
Of a Grant Wood painting.

The fields were stretched 
For miles upon miles,
The view enhanced 
By gently rolling hills.

The tin-roofed-and-sided church,
Once a barn, now renovated,
Sits in the middle of a farmers field.
A treasure once hidden, now found.

In that building we discussed
The move of God across
Our nation and our state,
Building unity amongst us, 

Those who till the earth 
And spread the seed,
Waiting for God to 
Bring the increase.

For as the rain falls
Down from the sky,
It waters the earth
And causes our seed

To sprout and produce fruit.
So we must be patient now,
Being faithful farmers waiting
For the seed we've sown 

To receive the nutrition 
It needs to spring forth
And yield the harvest 
We have always desired.
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