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i have been having many dreams lately
the good, the bad, and the *****
lace curtains breezing at the touch of morning air
your face bare, the curly maze of your hair
undoubtedly an invitation for a quiet admiration

your little nose with its bridge slim and high
sits perfectly on your well-sculpted face
if poor apollo sees you,
this, i am sure the world would ignite
sparks seeping into your mortal veins
demeter, she would try to suffocate you
with wild flowers growing inside your lungs
aphrodite shall drown in her very own ichor
and replace poseidon’s kingdom with eternal tears
for she knows she could never overcome your beauty
artemis would fall out of the sky
with poison arrows piercing through her heart

the way your teal dress kisses
every curse of your body reminds me
of the time you angered hera because
zeus could only look at you and nothing else
there was a baleful thunderstorm coming
yet there you slept, safely and soundly
my arms shielding you in case she would come
but hera never dared, threatened by your power
to move the sea if you wish for land
to shatter the earth for fun if you desire
the hearts of olympus you have captured
within your tiny palms and i question:
am i worthy of such greatness?
an empress from a foreign land who speaks
with every word of innocence and affection
Written in November 2019

A Greek myth themed poem? By me? Who would've thought.

I was inspired by a dear friend who has been posting on here recently, so I figured I would post whatever I have in my notes app. Just for the memories.
Here we are again, in my darkest night,
I’ve never escaped
I thought the last stretches of a pitch-black pool did not  reach me.

Should I be happy on the crescent carving my brokenness?
you said how beautiful the glimpse of the moonlight is,
they have been a prosaic, silvery dust in dismal,
but now, they are a rare light in the sky.

I adore things that aren’t mine
and so you are,
I held an illusion in my desperation, and it wasn’t the universe's fault for sculpting an embodiment of galaxies and stars, such ethereal like you were living in a myth.

You can be there and begone or just begone
(your mercurial imperative) but this time, I wanted to be left on the traces where you were at.
Carlo C Gomez Feb 16
Dear Mr. P - [stop] -
I was your knife in the water, a credit card kept exclusively for killing - [stop] -
I was a gingersnap on your sugar train, a flower-filled glory box to swallow your whole wide world - [stop] -
I was night, night of the electric insects, praying mantis and ladybug — nervous animals, lotus eaters, enjoying a ceremonial after meal
- [stop] -
I was slivers of pseudoscience poisoned by man-made seasons — a new and beautiful and interesting disease - [stop] -
You and me, we are now the same — snapshots in sheared time, before the closedown of our impossibly ****** impulses - [stop] -
Best wishes, V
Ellesora Rue Jan 5
a letting go,
a complete acceptance of what occurred

But can you ever really let such a thing go?
If it inspired such emotion
that it brushed your very core—
If you loved it, hated it so much
that an it-sized hole was left in your life—
How does one just "find closure"?

And even if you managed
to wipe your mind of it,
to bid farewell to your demons,
to sever your ties to it
What makes you think it will ever release you?

In conclusion
a myth
Day 5 of @angelealowes poetry prompts: closure is a myth
The scaup is searching for a shore
To build her nest, a lonely beach,
Or rocky cliff no fox can reach.  
Egg-gobblers and roosting mothers war.  
There is no land, just churn and spray,
The billows heave and wave-crests foam,
Nowhere for her to make a home,
If there’s a coast, it’s far away.  
From hovering and fluttering, her wings
Are weary, and her soaring droops.  
Neither scanning, nor her endless loops
Find shelter from cold blusterings.  
And soon she’ll drop, and soon she’ll drown.  
Unless she finds a landing spot.  
And there, out there, a blip, a dot.  
A floe, an island made of ice,
Too big to bob, and just as firm
As any continent, a berm
Bears, seals or penguins would think nice.  
Not great for birds, but she’s no choice.  

She lands, she rests, she lays her eggs.  
Her frigid roost has numbed her legs,
But it’s a nest, so she’ll rejoice.  
Her eggs are warm, and soon they’ll hatch.  
Hatchlings can sip from melted snow,
But grubs don’t squirm on this bare floe,
And there’s no fish around to catch.    
Icebergs are barren and they’re hard.  
But far beneath the ice and sea,
Rich bottomland, a cozy lea,
The sea-bed makes a better yard.  
Born to water, they will breathe
Water, as their mother did the air.
And though aquatic birds aren’t rare
Gilled scaups are scarce as hens that teethe.  
A separate species, her lost young
Will never know their mother soared,
Or dropped the offspring she adored.  
In ocean depths unwarmed by sun.  
In that strange element they’ll thrive,
Becoming what has never been,
A species hitherto unseen.
Unknown to her, but they’ll survive.  

She drops the eggs, and trills goodbye.  
Then, mournfully, the scaup takes wing.  
To cross what’s past accomplishing.
The coast’s too far, but she will try.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2021
Silly, silly me. Mind of my own,
swimmingly setting bubbles of simile loose
in your
mind, in factors felt as real as any thought you thought.

as real as any thought you thought, this
particular, alien idea,
emerging, critique click cliché YES, all the mises, pro
liberality, certain and absolute solutions to UV salves

"Sunshine, came softly…"
The alienated minds of the children purchase in 1948,
was anticipated, seen as a future path,
to negotiate, eh, take the bold leap
over the briars, or dare
to follow the hounds,
and crawl into the chapparal so similar to home.

¿Hoy, Compa, te acuerdas… to you do you recall…

muse, imp, urge, will to know, while knowing nothing,

no good no ill, only wonder, and then not wonder if, but what?

Are you- with or con- knowledge or science, not of, or…
loving me for being alien,
nothing near real,

a familiar feeling, with no words clinging
in hope of some idle thoughts you hung out to dry,
as washed grocery bags, set to trap answers
blown by winds named now for saints,
then for powers, real as any, these
returning on circuits predicted by AI.

Santa Anna warning,  strange weather all the elders say,
in the past,
these winds were earlier, by a moon,
and they often followed dry storms of lightning and thunder
fanning any smoking flax to vibrant flame,

claim the promise, Yes, all
the promises given the endurer to the end,

the only hero you personally know, inside out, is you.
Should you play a standard trope,
or seek the character's principle

shape, in formed from thought, Toth, is said to have thought

Cathar, hide, and watch, we may ask Google, we need not own
the knowing, we need not hide the hoarded secrets,
required lessons, treasured knacks and tricks for pulling wire

fine as any spider's silk, listening in every palace, believe me,
we lace the planet in silken sensing threads, singing windsongs

silly old tuners, hear for practice, the lightest test touch
there at the base of the thought, fiddlesticks, catgut crossing
spider kites
eyes tight to the squint, discerning gleams
there, then.
You still see that morning meadow with gold in its mouth,
kiting spider trails, wet with dew, we, atop the old stile,
standing, stone still, staring at raw beauty
saying, try to remember…
In hope, the imagining thing functions as when these winds came in September.
Chris Saitta Oct 2021
Love, unruliest hope, when fierce Diana went wild
With savage discourse, the arrow-stroke of her tongue—
While rage-hounds bay in wooded Gargaphie—aimed at Actaeon.
Or old Baucis her god-giving bone fat of mind,
Stewed the broth of covenant for Zeus to repay in kind.
Then Parthenope, siren-stung in her whirlpool of sea vines,
Her maiden-voice is a breath of sand for Naples to muse upon.
The body of Helen still lies in ages-old smoke over our cities,
We live in the timberframe of her bones of burned ships.
Why can’t her death be an end to all skies?
All these myths have some form of love, whether unrequited, holy, self-sustaining, or ruinous.  

Diana, goddess of the hunt, turned Actaeon into a stag who was then chased and killed by his own hounds; he had gazed on her bathing.

Baucis and Philemon, an old couple, provided food and shelter to two wandering peasants, the gods Zeus and Hermes in disguise.  The town had shunned the two, and Zeus urged the old couple to safety while he destroyed the town.  Their home then became a temple.

Parthenope, a siren whose name means maiden-voice, drowned herself when she failed to lure Odysseus; her body washed up on the shore of what became Naples.

The well-known myth of Helen, whether seduced or abducted by Paris, launched the Trojan War and as Marlowe famously wrote, “Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships, / And burnt the ******* towers of Ilium.”
Ken Pepiton Sep 2021
Somebody say I don't care
If I do or if I don't
as well,
just as well

tell you what I think
If I do or if I don't
If I do or if I don't

If I do or if I don't
If I do or if I don't
as well,
just as well, yell at the neighbor
you wanna play?

That was then, the reality tv was made up
accident, or purpose,
I can't say, if I know of if I don't
how long the book of life leaves idle words
un re
used as deemed worth one whole BAT.

Time on site, you reading my mind,
in my distant future using the tools of 2021.
Sing when sung to said the shy man
Ken Pepiton Sep 2021
Never having been a shepherd, I seek my
artistic intuition for a way to say I know

a bit of what the whole cloth needs to form,
at all,
information conforming to pattern with mysterious
iniquitous twists and transpositional possibilit-

a knock at the door,
and an inner action with reactions,
to things
I have been known to have said in terms
we disagree on,
suffer it to be so now, the suffering as you imagine,
is brief,
the time it takes to see eternity is not a mortal concept,
ever is no absolute state, stasis stuck
round and round
wait and see, leave me be the only knower,
lone be
learn of wedom, as we know, me and the reader, being
known as selves with stories certain
in the past,
no regrets remain, but where the complexity of being
in my mind, is not for me to untie, or re-tie to my definition
when you believed you know, far better,
truth that proves, data-wise, there is no god, as - who/
who who
who refines the rethinking task, way back machine, be
history. As of now,

Baccus protocol envocolation e-lation cellophane
crinkle in the veil
Rumi walked right through, and left me wondering
when did I recognize the being by the name.?.

name me author for a day,
run it on old video of Queen for a Day,
run a series of clips,
wish clips, what is your wish the audience may grant,
in our democratic game of shame erasure,
wound recovery, tattoo removal,

- nur ds
- the banality of evil, asks for first rule
- from point of no return, what is evil's mission,
- in words?
- Evil words, Turrets spir'ts spat from side walk
- prostrate saint in the throes of entheosity

Walk on by, imagine I am all
alone, wishing I were in a we, a class of us, big
ambitioned amity in enmity
with e as balanced on an inconsistent constant,

absolutely, I see, he says, I see, he thinks he does

out of body lookame aiming to know, as much or more
than any
who got away
may have used to leave a clue

where now, this is 2021 and the sleeve/host/possession

kiva-temple on the phone fully converged to match
the 1999 white paper.

Read the stripes. Those heal invisible. Like plastic braced bites.

We all have flaws, we are the industrial gems,
stories, parables, poems, recurring pocketest
of crystalline thought
tinkling breathless

if ex stasis, see, budge it, oomph, we all know,
let's roll

down the barrel, rifled at a ratio only the knacked smiths knew,
now, we know, all things related to rifling spiraling
an arc, set to force the strike

flint to steel to powder of magimeasures and transfiguration,

In my mind, at the very least.
yes. the point of every thing at once, knowing
is slowing
the engines of fear and hate and doubt and betrayal

-- I released the idea of absolute states or stations,
because of you. My son, from his younger self, to whom
I first define my terms,
as Silverman taught me, with your permission, let's say
I cannot lie,
oathbound, resound, begun redone

dance around the truth with me, think of reading ready
writing qwerty keyed in symphony, phony or Meme-o
graphic burps of adol-idolescing,

didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we

and it never gets old, days of old,
being who we once imagined we could be had we
taken another turn,
roll one more time.
Great Course on Monotheistic Mysticisms mixed with my now and then
There is another thing that the sky is covering up to, parallels are invisible strings that connect us.

You are a myth that the muses talk about,
they tell me how far the stars
that I wouldn't reach you
and how I wander my hands on my brokenness.
It was the traces of how beautiful the blue in your eyes
and the memories of red lanterns
lighting up our way home,
I feel the terror of we might forget
the sound of the eerie cold night.

Parallels are constellations in the skies as if we are remnants of history,
Each night we wished we exist.
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