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Manan sheel Jan 17
These thick waves of this river,
This fading sun, a little above it,
This unique universe,
These eyes which carry universes,

All these are works of art,
created for us,
so that we can see glimpses
of our home, in them,
in certain moments,
and reach it,
when worthy.


© Manan sheel.
George Krokos Jul 2018
The reality of any situation is a balance of subjective and objective cognition
which generally depends very much on one’s experience and predisposition.
_____
From "Simple Observations" ongoing writings since the early '90's
Amanacer Apr 2018
Your Dream

Naughty
Silk
Feather
Whipped Cream

My Dream

Wicked
Latex
Whip
Handcuffs
Gale L Mccoy Apr 2018
objectivity
its so clear
all lined up and logical
do this then that then that over there
of course, of course
just do it
simple as that

theoretically
its so easy
all planned out to the t
do this then that then that over here
of course, of course
just do it
of course, of course
have you done it?
of course not
Arlene Corwin Jan 2018
Pain Of Place

We were happy or we weren’t.
Blended feelings formed the most;
College, restaurant, bookshop, church,
Street, park, architecture host
To chunks and bits of searching,
Forming eyes of yesterday.
Covered market, cups of tea,
Open market on a Wednesday,
Stalls of veggies, jewelry;
Child to school and child picked up,
The walking to, the walking back,
The elder tree we plucked, hands cupped,
While counted blocks betrayed a lack
Of some fulfillment.  What the target?
Surely not the streets and market.
Not the people either, nor
The daily passing through home’s door.
Gone.  But pictures still remain.
And with the pictures tints of pain.
Of place that’s not the face,
Not company.
The place acts independently,
Its energy “the spirit of…”
Its colors move.
Algos: pain.
Nostos: going home again.
Sweet nostalgia’s pull is ‘bull’.
Place may frame the pre-ordained;
Memory’s the game pre-pained.
Twists and lists: a dream.
Place and act, smell and sound:
Mind boundaries.
Mostly, we were happy or we weren’t.
an objective, detached examination of the past
To hate family is to hate self.
for whether to admit, or not
they are us,
and we are them,
inexorably tied,
Our traits,
hopes,
desires;
us,
Blood,
Love,
carry through.

this is no reason to be distraught
it instead simply is.
mother nature does not stop
do not fear this
to over-acknowledge is to assume
you posses more than the man that stands near
what lies beneath is a part of her charm
she is ambivalent and could care less
she means to do no harm.
Therefore, where the feel of inherent flaws plague the mind
let go,
sit,
turn off all distractions
and give yourself time,

to

Ponder
not when you fail,

to

Think,
not when you fall
but pass, and
Rise
above and beyond
not in the eyes of the onlooker
but in the eyes of the self...

not in unwrapped spite,
but in benevolent unison

Family:
they are me
i am them!
through eternity.
Do we need to debate an argument
of objective morality, to prove
God’s existence? Can’t we look…
upward towards the sky and beyond,
to clearly observe a magnificence
of His, spectacular handiwork?

Are we nothing more than animals,
stuck in a plague-filled universe
of endless, ruinous destruction?
Are certain levels of violence
deemed acceptable and necessary?
Are we seeking excuses… to shirk

away from the responsibilities
of being our brother’s keeper?
Can our human actions be judged
simply, as either good or bad,
to match our current disposition?
Can any of our behaviors work

favorably, to move us from a state
of chaos to one of divine peace?
Is Love and self-sacrifice genuine?
Or should we just live with a sad
realization, that we prefer to act
badly as only… inhumane jerks?
Author notes

Inspired by:
Gen 4:9, 6:5; Jer 17:9; 1 John 4:8

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

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.
subpar star Oct 2016
you tell me that i write the most beautiful words you've ever read but thats where you're wrong. these words are not beautiful, they are not a work of art. these words are full of agony and heartbreak and pure, raw emotion. dont you dare tell me they are beautiful. i coughed them up from the depth of the pit of my despair, swirled them around my curse-filled mouth until they tasted of blood, and then spit them out onto paper, splattered and messy. these words are not beautiful.
George Krokos Oct 2012
The most important things in life are often those we have to choose from at critical times.  They very often represent and determine the course our life will take and to what extent we have in controlling or shaping it.  With whatever choice we make, opportunities arise and by making the most of these we realise the relative benefits to be gained or otherwise.  Through our committment and willingness to achieve a goal, irrespective of what obstacles there may be or we come across, we move forward and progress is made in our endeavour.  If the goal is something we have set our mind and heart on whatever setbacks or obstacles are encountered should then be taken to be the hurdles to overcome.
By repeated experience we learn the necessary disciplines with which to train or involve our mind and body to reach our goal. When we recognise and forego or sacrifice certain habits that are not conducive to our overall progress we release more energy by which to accomplish our end.  By sustained right effort we put in motion the train of events that will bring about the right results, but we should not be too attached to the fruits thereof.  Too much attachment is a cause of blindness, disappointment and suffering.  However with the right mental attitudes including positive thinking and actions we should learn from and leave behind past failures by always striving onwards to our desired objective or set goal.
The best way to achieve this end is to include in some way the benefit and good of all those concerned whether they be friend or otherwise which will not be easy but will exhibit a spirit of high ethical standards and character and contribute to endearing oneself to others.
__________________­_
Hail to the king

as he crept from the ivy

Rolled to the door

He lives under the floor
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