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Viktor Frankl's faith was trust that one's life holds meaning
trust in ultimate meaning...
My word trust holds true and rest crammed together for support
to stand under knowing the entire set of upgrades
and lock changes,
to mankind-basic knowledge of good and evil, since my last
a filtration algo-i'll-go rythmn and hyme adjusterho rholler
that powers ourkind past wayless places
when language joins the gamers playing for glory, at any cost,

Old Glory

per pose haps need happening,
sans happy-ness,
what ness could ever be?

What's the haps? Don't lie.
What's goin' on? Don't lie. Say,

Regular stuff. My side's winnin'. A *** in Pershing Square,
under the Jesus Saves sign, brought that to mind,

Fifty years ago, for him, looked like "no direction home"

Sansara sera, whatever sera selah

Nihili, to the max, right. But,
we know
other than this now,

thinking process of cognitive rythm building

coughing final, expulsion of some invading barb,
a fiery dart, setting cooling

actions sponding to ligands loosed when the
third aveili in a micron failed to expell

slowww whoooshhhhh
in-a-ginning be da vita, see...

say I think I know this feeling

qwhy-esse quiessence,
a settling,
after all that could be shaken, was.

acid to water, or water to acid?
who would gno?
Southern California autumn breezes
Randy Johnson Jul 20
It has been half a century since the first moon landing.
It was a historical event that was absolutely outstanding.
The Apollo 11 landed on the moon's surface fifty years ago today.
Two astronauts walked on the moon which is over 238,000 miles away.
Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were pioneers like Daniel Boone.
On July 20, 1969, Armstrong and Aldrin landed on the moon.
As Armstrong stepped on the moon's surface, he said "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.
When those brave astronauts left the moon to come home, the American flag was something they left behind.
I wasn't alive in 1969 so the moon landing wasn't something that I was able to witness.
But I'm guessing that it was awesome for those who were alive, a wonderful experience.
NASA is an independent agency of the United States Federal Government.
I wish I could've seen the moon landing because it was one hell of an event.
Joshua Brown Jul 20
Blooded red, red, RED
The Hunger takes over
The Eyes black, darkness
As warm blood hits the skin
Like candlewax or cow's milk
The screaming of men and horses, the Taste of sweet flesh--
And then Sleep, deep wondrous sleep, like the men before
And then a gurgle, a gasp, One by One by One
They all Wake just as I do
And they get up and walk
To me, and their eyes most True
Aglow like candles,
The Hunt now begins
To be continued...
Xaela San Dec 2018
The women from the past century
Is a collection of mystery
A woman of her own royalty
She's a brimful of nobility
A representation of modesty
In her character and quality

She can hum sweet melody
Forever remaining in our memory
She has great craftsmanship in pastry
Feeding the hungry with her generosity
She can write thousands of poetry
Expressing deepest desires and misery
She's brimming of badassery
Winning battles for our democracy

She's a factor of our history
With her fierce victory
Unwavering bravery
Against human slavery
From the hands of tyranny
Ancient atrocity
And lowlife peasantry

She's the future of humanity
Through her maternity
Perfect epitome
Of womanhood biology
Brings life in this society
I am inspired by the struggles and badassery of historical women.
Tudor Royals.   (An Acrostic)
Tough times the Tudor King endures
Undecided on his bold armorers
Due to hots for miss Anne Boleyn
Ordered aside the maid of Aragon
Removed poor Anne’s head for Darling Jane

Rare son to Jane but childbirth was a pain
On death we see the shrewdest Ann o Cleaves
You know they didn’t get on or consummate
A fifth in Katherine Howard a **** for sure.
Lost her head , took Kath Parr to bed
Six was five too many for a King named Henry
Written by Philip.
November 10th 2018.
The six wives of Henry VIII .. Katherine of Aragon.
Anne Boleyn ,Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleaves,
Katherine Howard and Katherine Parr.
Benton James Oct 2018
I found the Fountain of Youth.
I’ll tell you where it is:
It’s been inside you all along.
Now enjoy your life, and live.
I'm fascinated by historical and realistic fiction, myths, legends, motivation and philosophy.
Bethan Roberts Aug 2018
He did not care to perform a false remorse
At the ****** trial or over the course
Of any psychiatric interviews
And physical examinations. News
Reports passed on our scientists' findings later
Down to the minutiae of the data:
The width and sub-brachycephalic class
Of his head and the marks on his prepuce
Indicating venereal disease
Of which the subject, prior to all these
Tests was not himself aware.
What we tried
To find was some phrenological sign
Reflected in his face's symmetry
But no stigmata of degeneration
Could be found to show that in one of his station
Lay latent inherited criminality.
Through the taking of various measurements
By our alienists he stayed reticent.
He was no actor, unlike other Bruti
Aspirant, saying just "I've done my duty,"
With flat tone and affect "I've done my duty."

Even in the chair he towed the same line
He said "I am not sorry for my crime,
I am sorry that I could not see my father,"
Without preamble we then turned the charge on
For the first contact - eighteen hundred volts
Then three hundred in alternating bolts
Of current. We abolished his sensation
Consciousness and motion by all indication
All at once, but to be sure we again
Started the machinery of humane
The body was placed to dissolve
In sulphuric acid so as to resolve
Any questions as to if too kind justice
Had been accorded to an anarchist
And a migrant too, or has been said,
Born in Alpena, and in Auburn dead.
Czolgosz is Leon Czolgosz, the man who assassinated William McKinley.
Bethan Roberts Aug 2018
Fourteen days gone, too long,
Since you rowed the chopping sea
Away from the island,
And the heat beats down on half-shorn sheep,
Biting through turquoise shards
In a slate-grey sea.

Fruit ripens and rots on the bushes,
And the boys next door are casting longways looks
At our eldest daughters.
Old women out of the sun
Fan themselves with hands roped and ridged
Like gorse roots.

Washing and dressing the children,
Milking the full, pendulous udders of the cows,
Digging floury fingers deep into unbaked bread -
Stalks in the field would bend and break
So heavy with grain!

Come back in the bay,
Come back ‘cross the sound!
Come back and I will lick the salt from your lips,
Jealous of the ocean’s kisses.
Come in, cariad, warm and welcome –
Come home – my darling –
My desire!
Ynys Enlli or Bardsey Island is an island off the coast of North Wales. The island has no harbour and the journey across the stretch of ocean between it and the mainland has always been a treacherous one. In the past, the only way to make the crossing would have been a rowing boat that often required every able bodied man on the island as a crew. If the weather was not fair for the return crossing, the men could then be stranded on the mainland for weeks at a time with no way to contact the other islanders.

I wrote this poem during a stay on the island in 2016. It is still difficult to reach by boat, being so dependant on fair weather, and I have been stranded there myself before. In this poem I imagine the emotions of the women left behind, charged with running their homes and farms single-handed, and finding themselves frustrated in the absence of their partners.
Duncan Brown Aug 2018
Archie was smart; at least he reckoned he was, because he had what he considered to be the good things in life: dosh in his wallet, a Cat in the garage, and a detach. in the green belt; all of which he had worked hard to acquire. Worked, is not exactly the word for it. Archie did deals. He reckoned he could always turn a fiver into a tenner an’ a tenner into a pony; a pony into a ton and a ton to a grand. He was one of the cash economy’s natural alchemists.  The folding stuff was the measure of a person, he reckoned. Archie never thought about anything; he reckoned everything, and nothing on God’s good earth was beyond reckoning, he reckoned. An ever-ready reckoner; that was Archie, and he loved himself for it. Only John Wayne did more reckoning than Archie, his old dad, bless him, used to say, thought Archie. In Archie’s world a grand was currency; less than that was just spare change. He reckoned he gave superior meaning to the expression ‘it’s a grand life’. The only blemish on Archie’s horizon as far as he could see was the lack of a class bird, or ‘ream sort’, as he preferred to say; hence this evening’s extravaganza at a posh French restaurant in the company of a beautiful lady. Archie only had two serious weaknesses in his existence: a fondness for the last word in a dispute about anything you care to mention, and his infatuation with his dining companion, the beautiful Carmela.

Carmela shared a common background with Archie. They grew up on the same council estate in the inner city. They were aware of each other’s existence as kids and teenagers, but they didn’t really know each other. Carmela was a quiet child and very singular; even in company she could be by herself. None but she was wise to her sense of solitude. She had three passions in life: knitting, sewing and weaving; the blessed trinity of her existence. Carmela interpreted the world by these three gifts. Here she was, she thought, weaving her way through an evening, in the company of three strangers. One she knew, herself, another she didn’t know at all, despite proximity and semi-shared origins. Then there was the complete stranger to the trinity: the waiter in his new and very polished shiny black shoes, “You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes”, Carmela’s mum used to say, she was thinking about that as the waiter appeared to almost pirouette into vision.

The waiter was a patient soul, it goes with the territory. The waiting game wasn’t something you should rush in to, he often told himself, in one of his more existentialist moments. He appreciated the irony of the comment in a Sartresque kind of fashion. He was from a steel town in the Rhonda Valley of South Wales. Iron was in his veins if not his appearance. A creature of paradoxes, that’s what he told himself he was. He liked that assessment of himself. It complimented his passion for all things French: French food, French wine, French philosophy, literature and art. He was learning the language at night school. Alas, his accent was as lyrically refined as the landscape that bred him He shovelled the words onto a conveyor belt of sound and meaning as best he could in the general direction of the person he was talking to, more in hope than in faith that they understood what was being said .The other passion in his life was tap dancing, and as luck would have it he could wear the same outfit for work and leisure, hence the very shiny shoes which allowed him to dance around the tables of the restaurant, practising his language skills on the clientele, His life work and leisure dovetailed with his ambition and he was pleased to wake up in the morning and set about the mortal trespass with a skip in his step. The waiter imagined himself to be a cosmopolitan and enlightened soul, in a very Fred Astaire kind of way, and life was a flight of stairs which he could ascend and descend in a Morse code type of style, just like Mr Bojangles.

The fare was fine. the wine was rare, but the conversation was spare until the cheese board arrived.” Good grub”, said Archie to the waiter. “We don’t do grub, sir, we only serve the finest Gallic cuisine in this establishment,” replied the waiter, in his usual mangled French, whilst smiling that smile that only waiters can manage when registering disapproval. Archie looked blank. It was Carmela who spoke: “C’était magnifique! Mes compliments au chef.” “Streuth! You speak better French than Marcel Proust here” said Archie.” I studied Fashion and Design in Paris for five years “replied Carmela.” “An’ I joined the Common Market many moons ago. It’s good for business” said Archie. The waiter was impressed: “Food, fashion, wine, Proust and Paris. This must be Nirvana” he said. “Great band, but a very dubious heaven.” replied Carmela, knitting together the threads whilst changing the pattern of the conversation in a very subtle fashion that was more to her liking.” “It’s only rock ’n’ roll” said Archie, an’ if you’ve ever heard French rock ’n’ roll it’s enough to make you believe in Foucault” “Foucault, my hero!” said the waiter, “a philosophical genius”. “According to Foucault, a knitting pattern is the hieroglyphic of a consumerist and decadent capitalist society.” intoned Carmela.” “And ‘A recipe is a critique of a cake’, said the great Structuralist philosopher,” interjected Archie, so if you serve the gateaux we may effect the collapse of western civilisation as we all know and love it”. “Allors, Let them eat cake” said the waiter, and everybody smiled at the irony of the comment.

The waiter bojangled his way into the night, tapping and clicking the pavement as he went.  Carmela and Archie got into a black cab. “That was a night to remember,” said Carmela, “very Proustian”. “A la recherche du temps perdu”, replied Archie, pleased as punch to have the last word. Carmela just smiled as she looked at Archie’s shoes.
Randy Johnson Jul 2018
I got tired of being called a hillbilly from the sticks.
So I built a time machine and traveled back to 1776.
I intended to see the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
This was a fantastic historical moment that needed my attendance.
But my time machine landed on Thomas Jefferson before the document was written.
The document wouldn't exist that gave America independence from Great Britain.
I accidentally squashed Thomas Jefferson so it was left up to me.
I wrote the Declaration of independence so the USA could be free.
You may have noticed a few changes that I made.
One of which is that it's mandatory for me to get laid.
I proved that I'm not a hick who is slow.
I wrote the Declaration of Independence nearly two and a half centuries ago.
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