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Annie Mar 9
I had a dream
Leaping stone to stone
Above a stream
Beneath me faces
Of the dead and old
Around the mist
Of the silent cold

I ran from place to place
Enflaming candlelight
Step by step along
A never ending staircase
Arriving on the top of
A tower, left alone

Haunted by a wooden rockinghorse
I threw down marble stone

By which I made a sacrifice
To fires burning bright
That saved me with its blazing flame
Within this bitter night

(And when I woke I saw it clear
As morning sun after a storm
My memories I couldn't bear
Still stuck in me like roses thorns)
A dream I experienced after assisting my first ***** donation.
Dear baby me:
You were wrinkled
You had no hair
Couldn't walk
Couldn’t formulate a thought
Cried a lot
Couldn't see too clear
Couldn’t distinguish what I hear
Can’t figure out how
I am so much like that now
It happened too fast
Why didn't my youth last
Seemed in an instant
I was no longer an infant
I knew nothing of life
But sure now it’s with strife
I remember way back when
I can’t remember now and then
It’s just not really fair
Being old with flair
No one forgot the baby you see
I hope no one forgets the now me
rk Feb 5
sweat
blood
tears
stress
is how you affect me almost every day
love
care
compassion
greatness
is why i wake up and work hard for you every day
Cathy Feb 4
I wish you every comfort
As you settle now to sleep
You can do it all your own way
There’s no timetable to keep
I know that you can hear me
But can’t express your need
But you don’t need to worry
Every tiny sign I’ll heed
Any possible discomfort
I will soothe away
All love respect and care
That it’s possible to pay
Is yours for now and always
As it comes upon your time
And the privilege of caring
Is forever mine
Carlo C Gomez Nov 2019
The day you feared is here!
They've been pressed
into service.
Oh, new Dad
don't be jealous now.
Sharing is caring.
Yes, they're still your
PlayStations.
But now they've received
a higher calling:
To nourish your offspring.
Inspired by something funny my wife said this morning
Afraid of existing not living
Terrified of my freedom being banished
Horrified of my privacy being invaded
No say at all how or when I choose to sleep or sit stand or walk and being allowed to breath the fresh air.
My mind is sick but I should be allowed to live my last days as if it were my last .
not  vanish into thin air
Tess Nicholson May 2019
Mouthing memories of
dumpster feasts.
Wandering or sleeping
in backs of cars or
tucked up into
cold carboard beds.
No warmth and lullabies
just harm, harm, harm.

Abruptly at the doorstep
with garbage bag suitcases.
Talons, overgrown and sharp,
dig up wonderbread skin;
clawing at what has burrowed there.
Smearing up their faces-
war paint so red, red, red.

Narcaned neonates
with powerranger prayers.
Echoing mockingbird profanity
in hollow, hungry mouths-
battle cries and spit.
Playing war in the backyard,
consequences for keeps.

Thin arms and legs sprawl, alien,
decorating the floors with despair.
Spilling out of doorways like lamplight.  
Moving in the night as
feral things do.
Cooing out “mother?”
As I pass in the dark.
John Mar 2019
Nothing will ever compare to my little Nightingale
Neither the prettiest lady nor the sexiest female.
For she bailed me out of my miserable tale
In a sea of pure pain and agony where I usually sail.

My little Nightingale is always busy
Caring for other people’s sickness, curing for other’s misery.
Helping weak people stand, making the babies a nursery,
Reaching for the poor people’s hand, and taking out my insanity.

But my little Nightingale knows nothing about this
For she loves to work in anonymity, and a place in peace.
But my beloved Nightingale knows nothing about this
For she captured my heart, this perfectly deity-like miss.

My little Nightingale knows not one single thing.
‘Tis the feeling I feel inside, ‘tis the desire I always hide.
That I want to see her dressed in full white, marching at the center of an aisle,
With the priest commanding me, “ You may now kiss your bride!”
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
'Put my hand in the hand of the man from Galilee,

that song keeps playing in my memory, and I recalled

Or I thought I did, I imagined he'd walk with me
and talk with me
Along life's merry (or was it narrow?), way

a light touch, his arm around my shoulders,
as boys are wont to do,
I axed 'im,
help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which I think may have been blind, at that time,

I have memories like that.
packed away in old memes. That mean something...
Gold-something...
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom.
Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, Howard Bloom,
where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but these,
heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Here a seeing being done, words appearing...

fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made,
and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble collapses by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tension-power-loss collapses the bubble?

You should think, you know atoms work, this way.

Touchy bubbles disappear when their form is disinformed,
the wall of a bubble,
one quanta of power thick,
vanishes
as the charge that formed it flees.
That bubble,
not cloud-based, random super positioning,but
elect
tric-magi-tech, a touch screened
at the quantum accounting point of real-ification,
but, probably,
a bubble,indeed,
powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
(I charge thee, son Timothy, go)
That's all an electron does.
It goes, as soon as any sense can be made of it,
outa here, oughta hear it, clear,
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...
No, ah, when I think about that..

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin musta hapt one time,

but ya'll take no heed, this voice,
m'fallin angel, Tantan, droppin' in ol-fren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth
found in wines that moved themselves aright,
slurry tongued, and laughin' but pisstoff.

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Old story, God damened 'em, not me, I just
built the box.

Who told you I was naked? Noah queried Shem.

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe could be forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.
Forgot can't be forgiven it seems, sometimes...

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

I've looked so long through that lens,
that I began to see the bubble formed around me,
charged powerfully with fear,
'yond my bubble monsters lurked.

But, my bubble bumped another,
purest of happenstance,
the bubbles merged and merged again,
their power building to a wave,
crashing to the shore and no more
was I bubbled in my safe place.

I found this trail up from the beach.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
Did you regret the defeat at Ai,
or were you
Aachen, bold?

No, irrelevant, obtuse allusion to Yahshua,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Information unformed begins to boil deep in me.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick. Elect trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening as an event, in the Deep Field,
is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  
Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,
to learn. Fifty year'r longer.

Everything that's old and still works is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the potential worth of all your eyes behold,
behind the curtain,
lies the prize.

If, if, if you are a luckywinner and
you arise when I call your name
to come on down,
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, 'smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize, what's the diff?
How comes a thing to be worthy,
in your estimation? Tell me no lie.

A feeling? What's it worth?
Depends.
Safe? Priceless! Don't shout. There's money to make.

'Got a busy-ness pre-positioned high above the rest.
A super-positioned superstion. The darkness.
See, safety is a human right.
So we sell walls, impermeable. It's always, lights on
within, then
We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened
by those we make
feel safe, from the dark unknowns seeping in.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we saw the Power in Myth and
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Within these walls workers will work for food and a feeling.
And Facebook.
They choose a place and stand, and do what comes to hand.
Heartily
grip what's easiest for you to hold on to,
they are told.

Attendants bring the meds, settling every disruption
of the peace the patient craves in his comfort.
The price ain't right, m'mouthmumbles...

You are absolutely co-rect-allatime, tekayepeel.

There are wishes being made,
on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters.

If wishes were askings, what if
connecting to the source of haps which,
every expert knows, haps are
all happiness can possibly
consist of.
Oh, consist.
That sticky, gluteny idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand.
Sistere. Shield-wall and all that. Turtles all the way down.

A disruption!
Day room Now! Granpa's shouting,

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!
I'll drop it. I swear.

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted... in my meander.

What if, nothing is immaterial,
as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
If nothing can go wrong, it won't.
Ask the pilot flying by faith in his checklist.

What if,
asking for help helps?
Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea? An answered prayer?

Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore,
quoth the raven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories,
telling eventualities that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,

Stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
Grandpa made some sense and we built a fort, of pillows
This is a reworking of Good news from a far country, I am attempting to rein in my scattered mind. Let me know if you see improvement or parts in need thereof.
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