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~
cracked compass
burning atlas
no sense of direction
on a drive about
the silent forests of the heart
egressing from the shadows
that hunt for us

foot caught on the accelerator
passing escapism's plateau
like a dissolving shelf of flashbacks
kept in a glass jar
it's normal to tire out
wondering who will it be
looking in the window?

the people at the wheel
are not on the payroll
they're pierced and sheer
on the surface
but their deepest parts
still inhabit bone
and slave for mere feldspar
once again human thoughts
turn to crystalline
and still they shine for us

signs are posted:
"a time for vanishing, lay it to rest"
until the unfamiliar sound
of the walls of Jericho
collapsing
breaks the momentum
quiets the traffic

we entered a promise land
on cruise control
with too many exits
and not enough things to see
we did not end up
where we thought we'd be
those eyes at dusk
in the rearview mirror
they hunt for us
they wait for sleep

~
Humanity is swiftly disappearing from the map.
Carlo C Gomez Apr 25
~
I see starfish from
my false bottom
canoe

stretching the wave,
a shimmer to the sound
—slow, fast, wide, and narrow,

then gray over blue
in the empty mirth.

I see trouble and strife,
a beacon of
decadence,
trembling consistently
on each note as if
she had the permanent fever.

I see death and transfiguration,
(equal bedfellows),
out of the ground
as glorious
wisteria,

there's ether on hand
and a lot of bridge work
to cross the vocal span of our
vibrato wars.

I've only got time
for the business at hand,
these cobwebs in the corner
(of history) can linger,
or die like
flies

on the Queen of Compromise,
who never was,
who might have been,
who will always be.

am I cantillating
or have I ventured into
false memory syndrome
again?

~
Never Again?
Old Mariupol lady
Hid underground from Nazis
Russians killed her now
Has anyone survived, that remembers 1969,
Everyone, was experimenting with drugs,
You’re still alive, you were supposed, to die.
Peace & Love were the greetings, with,
Bright colorful flowers to brighten up each day,
Sharing, looking for the cool, positive in each other,
Giving hitchhiker’s a ride, no one in that extra seat anyway.
The Wood stock concert, held in muddy farm fields,
That season the farmers, lost some yield, as a pond,
Was their bath tub, they passed around, and shared meals,
Touching each other,
Showed love, sharing a sandwich, or ****, was no big deal.
Hundreds of thousands, left their homes, to protest,
Their feelings, and what they believed, they stood up proud,
The way Americans should be.
Protesting the politicians, for picking, shipping young people,
Across the seas, to fight in Viet Nam, they didn’t know why,
Or believe, the day they left, the last time for many of them,
Their homeland, they would ever see. Events that change history,
Marijuana legal today, politicians taxed it, so now it’s good, ok,
Those boys that came back, from war in body bags, they still lay.
The Original: Tom Maxwell © 3/30/2022 AD
4:20pm
Chris Saitta Mar 31
So Herodotus muttered marble dust into his beard,
And foretold the white clay of the mule road,
And the whiskers of Greece grew long with legend.
The Histories (c. 430 BC) of Herodotus are widely regarded as the cornerstone of historical works in Western Culture.  Though it primarily documented the Greco-Persian Wars, its reliability has often been questioned, giving rise to the belief by some that it is a work of fable and legend rather than chronological accuracy.
dorian green Mar 28
callused hands over buzzing metal string,
fingers practiced, deft and adept.
i slept there and woke in a memory—
temporary and beautiful and gone.
a song someone played for me once,
over and done, the lone melody of a heartbroken nostalgia.

the past wraps its arms around me—
history speaks— history lies— history repeats.
keep it inhuman, abstract and formless.
best not to give the past a face
or a place to hide in your heart.
they're the parts you'll miss:
kisses, laughter, drowning in a borrowed sweater.
better to leave it all as loosely connected events,
portents of later misfortune, not a room i can't leave,
a grief grappling with the transience of intimacy.
history can't hurt me— the past is dead—
but that song still gets stuck in my head
Eros Mar 25
It was supposed to be true love
I would have kissed you for always
Was there no trust?
I would have kissed you through time

But our pulse was just a wish unfilled
There was only history
It breaks me truly
To bid you farewell

All of our memories
Burning in my hands
Photos and letters
Signed with our secrets of love
Reduced to ashes

I walk with matches in hand
Away from the fire
Away from the place that was home
Standing at a safe distance from the mansion

I watch it go up in flames
Our memories and history
Burn just as you burned my heart
I submitted this for a poetry competition so I'm hoping I'll get something or at least get advice on how to develop my writing
By Sixes
With this book we have to make a difference
The weight of worry and seriousness is huge
This has not happened before not this way
And very soon all things could happen
They try to control it but can they?
How do you control so many soldiers?
Along with the other shooters
Planes ships launchers tanks and more
Myself I've never felt this way
Except briefly in the early 80s
The world moved on in most ways
But not in Putin's head for him
He alone wants his empire back
And will ruin the world to get it
This is why we all must not fail
And stop him from winning
Even if the unthinkable happens
It has already started the walk
Sleep walking to Armageddon
NATO and Russia and the rest
This is really it...
xavier thomas Mar 13
Even though I understand,
I’m getting tired of understanding
Done being your last
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