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hear the drumbeat now

jazz, blues, rock and far beyond

****** baker rocks
You called me Queen
A Goddess
You worshipped me
For hours
On end

Sang songs to
Me, with each new
I fell
For you

You said we'd sail
The seven
Oceans together
In time
We'd see
It all

Making each and
Continent our
Our special

I was
In shock
For days

How could I not be?

I was the
**** duckling
In oil spilled
On me years

You saw past it
All into something
I didn't believe
Existed in me
A priceless

My father offered you
Three cows and oh
How the village
Laughed at

Laughed at me

They all did

How could she
Be a three
They mocked
Me and I heard


Only told I was ****
For so long
How could
I know
I was a priceless
Pearl without your eyes?
Vivek Gupta Aug 6
I am a legend!
Heard about my story?
Heard about my end?
Heard about my Glory?
But honestly,
You don't even know me!
You only see,
What you really wanna see!
There's more to my life than just a lesson!
There's love, pride and obsession!
My misery and pain is what they really took!
To represent me on pages of an old dusty book!

Money didn't save Steve Jobs from death.
The physicians couldn't restore his health.
Sadly, he passed without taking his wealth.
So, in God Almighty alone invest your faith.

Steve Jobs built a very great empire
In which he had planned to retire.
Though he died, his name will never expire
Forever to his legend, will generations aspire?

Steve Jobs was a very good man
philanthropic with a helping hand.
Even that too didn't save him at all
In the end, death came with the call.

He gave us the iMac and the iPod
He gave us the iPhone and iPad
So he will forever be in our lives
In our homes and in our kid's lives.

#IvanBrookspoetry© #@Bassapoet©
      Aug. 2.2019
Gone but not forgotten.
Zywa Jul 18
He was left sick
in a cave made up as a nest

with dates, figs, in leather bags
also water and wine, light and dark
emmer beer, syrup, bread, butter
cheese and mutton, all set ready
and hanging around his head

In the sweet scent of resins
he lay there as in a grave
and the moon watched over him
After three days he rose
from his dreams and his tears

He set out to cross the mountains
where no trees grow
Prince Lugalbanda
who adorned the young eagle with the lion's head
with kohl around its eyes

and fragrant sprigs of white cedar
on its head, and around the chick
he arranged the fat sheep meat
that he had salted, and chunks
of bread dough mixed with honey

The Storm-bird rewarded him
with the power to run
tirelessly and fast
like seven storms, like the sun
in its orbit in the sky
“Lugalbanda in the Mountain Cave”
“Lugalbanda and the Storm-bird” (Anzûd)
Sumerian stories from the 21st century BC

Collection “Lilith's Powers” # 43
I drink the fabled waters of the fountain.
It tightens my skin.
Loosening the bounds,
Tied by time.
A weight falls off my back.
I feel my strength return.

The worn armor I used to wear,
Has been repaired.
Never have to fear the arms of time,
Counting down to my end.

The curse of death,
Has been lifted.
No longer feel the blow,
Dealt by time.
I have risen,
Above natural law.

I thought I died!
Now I am alive!
San-Pei Lee Jul 1
Milky constellations studied for centuries by astronomers
Form a floating river separating two lovers
Every night they ponder
At which moment they could have started over

But not once does the daughter of the heavens
Repent on her escapade onto Earth
Nor the ox-herder regret his walk along the river
For never would their souls have stayed entwined for lifetimes otherwise

Was this eternal story of love always destined to end like this
But is this the end or merely a beginning

For if birds adorned in feathers of the night’s colors
Can be moved by their fathomless love
To craft a cosmic bridge on the seventh day of the seventh cycle of the moon
For a reunion that brings tears to clouds and smiles to the stars

Who is to say
That there won’t be a day
When that bridge will stay
Forever in the skies
Ken Pepiton Jun 15
the old tale forgotten, whispers
I imagine.

Slow slow
Cali-ing an imp's pulse, a life's response to my
spondaic plea

Hear me.
Fret not, the game is afoot. Real life
has ridden the wind
to catch us up

we win again
and set us round this flame to teach us
past the games
past the practice

craft has prospered in wisdom's embrace.

taste, and see.
The story on one tongue tastes bitter, while

I always find it sweet.
The blind leader has an old horse
who always makes it
home, I have a promise I follow and

the horse is far behind, keeping pace
with the game afoot,
far behind.

When this tale is told,
may you be the first to tell it true.

--- each line I think ends the trail
--- but I think wrong

the tale and the trail are seeming symish,

here we be in this book of life, whence, if we find our name,
we remain forever.

Can you imagine? In a word realm, we may remain.

The secret is we live. That's the tale I tell.

it's all ish or isha, isn't it It, the nameless
missing wished for thing,
exact which one,
we all feel we lack.

A touch never felt, but hoped for
through the pain,
oh, the shame.

Yours, the blame.

---- old man not so old
---- all the lies that you were told
---- were told to all since Cain, these are the common chains.

The mission, the quest to bher the blame away in phors o'shame,
while holding all the truth

a word may logically hold ina reasonable realm,
a word realm

whence, in the be
gin or gen ing (on going ing ing ing)

Genius ginning seed from fibers fit t'make threads
fine as spider webs,

watch, chile, watch this bobbin spin and spin and spin

soon be baby sleep in full-on gamma state,
while gran'ma spin the cotton wit' no thought of a wheel.

By and by, we see things beginnin' better, from seed up.

Sgt. Why-**** calls me, from the VA hospital, in MIami,

why you interupptin me , Why-****? He say

stroke-slow, y'know

I -- a whole next word duration twixt each tongue-lip config
and some repeats due to ram slips

He got it out, said he had to tell you (me) to remember,
All things work together.

Incredulous me, I ask, really,  you called to tell me that?
he said
you said you would call, from time to time,
so I figured you forgot. The mission is to live true.

No lie, I replied.
Sgt. John Wikel, USMC, is real. He is history alive, and my friend. Wounded within weeks of boots on ground, his life is the kind of life legends form from.
Paula Kramer Jun 13
Night falls; in the chariot of moon goddess
Draped in shadow silk and encrusted with stars
She sits; crimson staining her unearthly bodice
A deadly wound among thousand golden scars

He drops his silver sword, scream dies in his throat
The blackness of her eyes slowly turning white
He sheds tears; it is by a song he himself rewrote;
A mere mortal who has slayed the Queen of the Night

The crown is his; he won the castle and the throne of dust
He sees his family, all as one looking at the sky
He reaches out, but the night is eternal, and the space is vast
All alone, he listens to their prayers but he can't reply

He waits patiently, for years, until another appears
As was he; the hero with no regard for what it would require
Until then, he watches from the universe's frontiers
And remembers his world, missing the warm touch of fire
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