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Ken Pepiton Nov 19
Idle word redemption day. {optional title}

Clocking time.
Timing coincidence,

confident tempus fugit…

ever learning, never certain,
each lessoning examined

conscience temptation, fug-edaboudit,
esse,
This is the day,
laid out
in front
of time's arrow

to be shot thro-
ugh-**ing A,  okeh, shot…out
ra' rough, footballer mind
an instance
in prayer… patiently ghine

-----------

He, if he were you,

ignoring nothing, finding quiet

time, alone,
in an empty house;

he would think, being as you
were he, I think,

rare, quiet, not noiseless, listen
the humms, the wind rattling
leaves in Live Oaks,
needles in Pines,

birds whose peeps are
playing
with my ears,
tuning mine
to his who hears

quiet time slipping by,
acknowledging most
deafening noise

is all
in the mind.

--------------

Wally Amos, are you still famous?

Me, too. Locally.

Famous for fine grandchildren,
Parent-Teacher Conference
confirmed, year after year,
fine
grandchildren given access
to books, and self education,

And wicked fast internet/
tutorials for anything

solvers of Rubic's cubes,
setters of gathering magic what's

and ifs, and but then, so that's
better, he thinks, this tinker

touching each across time,
think yourself useful to us all. Amen.

----------------------




Laughing, thinking of shouting,
at the floor, I am
so intense
because

I am alive
in my own future,
the world's a mess, unless,
I laugh,
and take the good.

It is a sunny November day,
after the promised latter rain,
laughter functions, leaving lines

where old faces wrinkle happily,
fitting character traits common
to old scout squinty perspicacity.

-------------------

Bored, in ever after, eh?

¿Made no plans
    to pursue, when you had time?

Well, as a filler word,
or is it
a feeler a
wordwiggle rough
through a ra'thought,
be may, may be, maybe so,
declaratively so said, indeed, thinking
beauty be,
what if now,
is the same time,
any instance taken
seriously curious wise,

from the initial point perceived, taken, held
to hold this thought, or hold that thought
as self evidently true,
having being
in minds
let be found like live words,
in spirit form, as breaths, taken

held, to rethink against knowing again
what was meant,
so long ago,
when all words got scrambled,
some lost all sense,
such be idle, now,
set to activate
on recognition, off, set
which is no longer the case, you know
common conscious
ness is the use, men-tal chabad
of knowledge actioning knowns
under the God
pledged and sworn
to try to tell the truth,
the whole truth y nada mas,
aliegiantly, in the spirit of Liberty…
inspired emperically in poetry
IF, Gunga Din
allah
Tha… just so, says
fear was the problem,
not knowledge
of wonder and adversity,
so opposed
for honor,
as translated good vs evil,
to death, staining beguilement,
from aha, got it, reason
to woe, original curse, sin
during developmental stages
interesting times first tier burns
of what our story says we mustabin,
in the dark ages, previous to the internet.

[[== jest, so ==]]-

eftsoons
obsolete or archaic way
of saying "soon afterward,"

ongean magical once more,
with feeling.
If life did not pass so fast, it could be much more phun.
Ken Pepiton Oct 29
Doorkeeper,
where can I find an attention spanner?

Wrenching the nose, brings forth blood,
so it don't freeze, yawn and rub eustacy
from your wide open heavily hooded eyes

Eutopian Earthian Mind Schemes,
not dreams, moral equivalency resets/upgrade

Free any ostiarius,
and find doors open
in the realm of curiosity,

the bane of short attention,
at tenere, eh, stretch

the fabric of reality just so far, the bubble
we be sayin' wagwan like a password, pops

and what is going on, lets any enter, imagining

this exclusive, exceptionalist aweformed bubble…

when a reader re ads attention tension,
pop, the idea that was the weasle,
offers a way to say this and get free. An ostiarius,
freed from slavery when we read the idle teacher

of decolonizing clogged cognitive colons…

and the sweet persuaders remind us whose time\

Yours, we took this much attention,
but you can still use it, we sorta cloned you.
I did not know this, now we both do:
An ostiarius, a Latin word sometimes anglicized as ostiary but often literally translated as porter or doorman, originally was an enslaved person or guard posted at the entrance of a building, similarly to a gatekeeper.

In the Roman Catholic Church, this "porter" became the lowest of the four minor orders prescribed by the Council of Trent. This was the first order a seminarian was admitted to after receiving the tonsure. The porter had in ancient times the duty of opening and closing the church-door and of guarding the church, especially to ensure no unbaptised persons would enter during the Eucharist. Later on, the porter would also guard, open and close the doors of the sacristy, baptistry and elsewhere in the church.
Mark Wanless Oct 9
mind is imagery
and we are able to choose
what is imagined
Ken Pepiton Aug 14
Gnoshit, reco-gnosis,
makes one imagine I am, no, know I am
one, in the largest ever population of nobodies.

I am as anonymous as privacy needs to be, open source,
casting pearls to pearl eating entities, noticing

taking notice, marking time for recollection,
whiling away on missed perceptions correction duty.
We, the public entity,
did we ever have a republic
without slaves, as a we, did we become
the people who constituted the distribution of power,
to the people,
under authorized sanctified known terms?

On the border between all languages,
the gift of translation, we have
t'reason,
to trusted reasons why we keep war alive,
in season,
the bulls all wanna breed,
the biggest boasters become kings,
let Lyndon tell it, ladies. History records
the incident as sometime after 20 Aug 1968.

While we replay the audio from the show at Khai Vinh,

put the mark anywhere? think wonder the verb, if
ever once it all seemed much like now
the experience, live
at the *******
across the highway.

Not many had the exact same experience,
but the music is all still played in that order,
chance opening a vein unexplored limnal spaces.

Playlists with metadata dendrite meandering mods.

Did you say you once wrote a book a day, by golly,
did you think that you wrote with extreme
prejudice, or did you slide each phrase,
along the edge, to the hilt, each phaze,

phinally spinning luck elucifity, apologize
for lies I left believed, as certainly as turbulence
mastery leaves lads and lassie's breathless,
globally on TV, the most imagined sin,

connecting, carnal knowing with dis connected
what kind of master would forbid knowledge,

start there o man of god, make me believe you know,
while you know I got you at the grand jesuture,
for all to hear, as all believed the lie about us,
let all believe the truth,

Job was right, no immortal knows a mortal's ignorance
of patience's perfecting function, waiting seems sufferage.

Endure until the end, pretend you are attending a judgement.
And notice, the remembering use by the accused to account
for idle words, with penitent acknowledgment, I was beguiled.

That's it, we know, the side the enlightener entertains
contains all the luminaries of our culture's global echo intent
chabad chata hamartia, principle idea, wisdom's dominion,

at the point of first precept, no noise, a twist, to on.

Our signal through tomorrow, prepaid.
Some days, time spent feels undeserved, and time taken in thinking,
seems to stretch to the inner edge of this bubble, where every way is up.
It was bad as I always imagined
Honey no longer tastes sweet
All who partake intoxicated
Words melted in the midday heat
Illusions beyond comprehension
Evoking apparitions from a fleeting flashback
Fragments claimed in the light of day
Painted my world in shades of black
I could only watch colors fade
Charismatic allure had me paralyzed
Energy spent transformed into tears
Crossed paths unrecognized
Time has not dwindled intensity
Feeling depth exceeding all measure
Defined by despondent devotion
You no longer bring body pleasure
I dream a life free from anchors
The shadows darkening the air
In moonlight images my skin unblemished
Make-believe scars were never there
If only I could pretend something into existence
Nolan Willett Apr 2020
If we can never sail the ocean
We’ll still dream of the sea;
all have their own notion,
Of what it means to be free.
Rose Amberlyn Jan 2019
I’m painting you a million colors.
But none of them will stick.
They drip and drop,
From the canvas to the floor.

Without a face, without a name,
Who are you?
You’re mine.

But I’ll sit here colorblind,
And wait for you to come.
Camille Barr Sep 2017
Oceans swell as lifestyle sells

The bare and barren truth lurks

An imagined Photoshop collage

Draws weary as deliveries stop

Where are you my dear old friend?

The one I knew so well as a child

Take me home…

to the birds that sing,

to the trees that whisper

and the flowers that bloom.
My role as a poetic scribe is…
more than I imagined, or had
hoped to do; He qualified me,
as one of His spiritual nomads,

who digs within the Scriptures,
in search of those prized gems-
eternal lessons of Godly wisdom.
I’m not desiring some stratagem,

to con people in turning to Him,
but to share my heart’s delight
of a solid Faith in Christ; He
strengthens me and by His Light

guides me forward in Truth; by
this gift, I can softly voice
my limited understanding of His
Love for me; I opt to rejoice,

having accepted His sufficiency
for my Life; I’m an extension
of Today’s New Testament Church,
rising up with poetic ascension…

while embracing my true identity
in Him; by His Grace and Spirit,
I’ll write new songs, stories,
poems and hymns that will lift…

all eyes unto the eternal Godhead.
Inspired by:
2 Cor 3:5-6

He takes us as we are- and makes us
more than we ever imagined. -Unknown

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
amazon (dot) com

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.
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