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Ken Pepiton Feb 15
-------- tea and Sisyphus

Bruno paused, at his interface
with the printable word form,

he paused thinking in writing
"this is so important, I must underline it."

I thought it, of first importance.

The concept of all fruits freely eaten from,
but one, knowledge, right of all sorts,
all species fruit, branch, root and leaf,
all intervvining chthonic molds to make soil,

goodgottamight jus' gimme a blackland farm.
let ol' pharoah done be drownded
goodgottamighty , oh yah,
jus' gimme a blackland farm.

Science, long now, sudden
eruptions of just too much to think about,

like the size of the Earth in his hands,
relative to the post JWST visualizations we share,

bring it in, too wide, ballein, throw out a thought,
an Earth baseball sized, no problema,
in your hand, your mind hand, your typist hand,
keyboarding second nature, like a callous
on the *******
of a scribes writer hand.

Often offered up as proof, see this finger,
this proves I wrote the whole pile crushed,
in the shipping and storage of Ashurbanipal's
collection of books, which Solomon told him,
when they were swapping wives and concubines,
was a vanity and a vexation of the spirit,

But this calloused finger, the mused mind reminds,
this finger proves I came through history,
I did not make history.
I remind myself one reader is plenty, keep things rolling up hill,
get to the top. Drop it, watch it roll, meander on down, at a peasant's pace.
Juno Sep 2021
She earned the title Nine Days Queen,
But hitherto, she was just Jane.
Just Jane, and she had no idea
That when she married the son of a duke,
A plot was forming around her to steal the crown.

A crown she did not yet wear,
But inherited when the King was gone.
She rose to power instead of Mary or Elizabeth
Through an amended line of succession;
She was never meant to be Queen.

The plots and plans and goals of others
Led to the end of Lady Jane Grey.
Mary conquered the throne with little effort
And Jane was one of many to be sent to death
By the woman history calls ****** Mary.

Nine days was the length of Jane’s reign,
Unscrupulous were her advisors.
Just Jane, she had no idea what she was:
A pawn in the games of those around her,
And she was never meant to win.
In English class I had to write a poem about Jane Grey, so here it is.
Astrea May 2021
The dragonfly
that perches on your finger,
on the wall, at the doorstep,
like still life human history,
on the page, close to the vines,
balancing atop that blue teacup,
fanning steam

as time slips, whistles, rips
like stitches twisted, which
unravelled, like a wish
you made last summer
when horses snickered, reined by
steel knights sweating and kissing
gloved hands, ladies laughing
over earl grey tea and shipped silk,
the dragonfly danced upon
melancholic waters

what is skulking in the moist darkness
must come forth and answer
how one equates infinite and none,
vain, like history, snow, and gold,
before sung poetry from the old —
to live one’s life for something, you say,
is to live one’s life alone for something

what is repeated,
wars and manipulation,
mutual destruction, human reproduction,
drilling and penetrating,
with rhythm and with force,
Is intrinsically obscene,
the mechanics ancient and ******,
beastly brutal and brutally simple –
the human wheel of time

dawn broke
over churning waters, a cycle of
chalky, foamed flowers grew and died,
quivering is the white fish washed ashore
twitching, pulsating, then stilled

the dragonfly, sensing death,
skitters away
Gabriel Apr 2021
She plays mother,
wraps a scarf around her neck.

Red, once,
a proclamation of this,
of who she is.

In her letters,
she writes of little strong hands
taking her
up and up to the end of the world,
the breathlessness
of love, in which she thought,
and afterwards wrote,
and afterwards danced.

The world takes her
and she paints her neck
with something beautiful;
there’s a lot here
about getting to the roots
of it all.

And from this,
something grows.
Something, now, is cultivated
in the passive tense,
and then poets flock to her,
their little strong hands
grasping against her neck
for a taste of the bruises
and the colours.

But she is a spiral in herself,
a coil waiting to snap,
she is the roots of it all.
And the world wants
what the world wants;
to dig it all up
and plant something acceptable.

Still,
the silkworm woman
will not yield,
caught in the effervescence
of spider webs and champagne
she sings,
she shouts,
opens her mouth,
and silence pours out
of the wound.
From a collection of poetry I wrote for a creative writing portfolio in second year of university, titled 'Spiral'.
EmB Nov 2020
haughty and hateful or pitilessly played,
head freed from embroidered shoulders,
her heart beat, heavy, behind corseted layers.
Temptress or model maiden,
she fell just the same.
The jewel in a king’s crown,
cast away for the next shining stone.
Traveler Jul 2020
Challenge Thomas Case
from a historical figure's viewpoint.

(Pay no attention to the little man behind the curtains)

All my great inventions
An Emerald City of true paradise
An eye in the sky that watches all...
At the labor of the Munchkins
The city thrives on and on
  The four winds carry my famous name
The great and most powerful OZ!

There was ones a great disturbance
A march upon my precious city
The yellow brick road of evil
The Witches of all directions raised
Dorothy and her posy had arrived

Why can't they understand
I protect this kingdom
From the dangers of the outsiders
And the opinions of those unwelcome here in Oz!

But then it happened
Nothing would ever be the same
The Munchkins revolted
Red ruby glass slippers some witch made
Would over power my dictatorship

The Munchkins now ruling their selves
In league with some race of monkey elves
Left me no choice
So I returned to Kansas
Just behind Dorothy and her confounded little dog Toto

I joined the mighty Canaveral for a short spell
Still there and everywhere
Again and again evil dwelt among men
So beware
Until this day I still fight for the small people
..........................................................­................



                                    
                         W. Oz
Misty morning, clouds in the sky
Without warning, the wizard walks by
Casting his shadow, weaving his spell
Funny clothes, tinkling bell
Never talking
Just keeps walking
Spreading his magic
Evil power disappears
Demons worry when the wizard is near
He turns tears into joy
Everyone's happy when the wizard walks by
Never talking
Just keeps walking
Spreading his magic
Sun is shining, clouds have gone by
All the people give a happy sigh
He has passed by, giving his sign
Left all the people feeling so fine
Never talking
Just keeps walking
Spreading his magic.

BLACK SABBATH
Songwriters: John Osbourne / Terence Butler / Frank Iommi / W.t. Ward

Traveler Tim
Rossyam Hadi Jul 2020
We get on the ride
without any maps
or compass to guide us,
we create our own ways
and start the journey.

It could be dangerous,
but I feel safe
sitting beside you
as you take the wheel
and bring us
to somewhere new.

We will watch
every sunrise and sunset
while I rest my head
on your shoulder
and be your permanent passenger.

I want to see
the world with you,
we can go places
that we have never been,
seeing seven wonders,
exploring exotic and historical cities,
capturing priceless moments.

After the long trip,
I will always come back
to your arms,
my comfort place
and waking up
to your face,
my favourite morning view.
#PermanentPassenger🗺 is about when found the one that you can do everything together with - you can travel the world together and at the same they are the person that will be waiting for you at home.
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