The Youth trust a bunch of Old Geezers
To run the world,
But these Old Geezers
Appreciate the naked companionship of whores
More than recognition
For their altruism
Of all the lies I've been told
Of all the promises that have been broke
The ones I lose sleep over most
Are those three words you misspoke

© JL Smith
T 9h
Interlocking fingers raised up toward heaven
Unity is like a mysterious conquest,
Constantly searching for something that fits.

He was once full of hatred
But over time patience sets in and men begin to grow
Like a flower under the unbearable heat,
Somehow the meek shall inherit the earth

The interlocking of hands
A symbol of some holy connection-
Friends gather round;
I am you, a beautiful reflection-
No matter what color or creed
I find ease in your grace.

Do the fish and fauna know of its own beauty?
The meek someone gaining strength over time-
We, hoping greed has played its final hand,
We, who transcends time and space with love.

Shall I scatter my past upon the reckless world?
Or shall my palace be shattered amid ashes
And bone?

Long ago dogma surrounded the boy
But trauma can stop the turning of planets,
Or the sensation of watching the leaves change.

Each frame taken by the mind,
Seems to rewind on those gray days at dusk,
But the reply is worth admission.

Leaks can be stopped
And tears can be dried,
Faith can be dead, while thy spirit is alive.
T 9h
Southwestern Connecticut,
Where I still feel a pulling.

Somehow I still remember the old man.
He’d let the boys play,
A yard too big to complain.

All day he sat there
Smoking a pipe,
Until dust turned to night.

Never saying a word.
Occasionally we’d get a wave,
Or some brave gesture of acceptance.

Eyes the color of bronze,
And tired looking as if he’d wept,
Before becoming or biggest fan.

In a way
I wanted to be him,
Someone slim, proud, and prosperous.
But what worried me
Was that concerned look on his face,
Which seemed to be infinitely sad.

How many days
Were spent
Bent over a fire,
Waiting for us to play?

How many nights,
Wishing we’d be back-
Hoping we’d be back-
Praying we’d be there.

Subconsciously- a gang of young men,
Knowing nothing of the world,
Would arrive as lively as ever.

What a wonderful audience,
The ones who watch
And mention nothing.
Riding on tides of passion
Like waves, we rise in love and ebb
One being
While the sun shines and the rain pours
Till the sea of want is calm
Hand in hand. Arm in arm
And then gently drift to the shore
There’s a burning of books inside my head
Of Witch Hunts. The Bible
and The Book of the Dead
That I wish to share, If you care
enough to have read
my mind,
you’ll find
My thoughts are on fire all the time.

You’ll find the author
who wrote ‘The Day The World Shook’
and that book about ‘Steam and Coal’
And Abelard who burnt his own book
Still Burning in the furnace of my soul
If you cared to browse, or look

For my mind holds titles
authors, biographies
many idols and famous names
But never our love story
like the Library of Nelada
That one is still up in flames
Do you really know someone?
Sometime receiving is a powerful gesture of love toward the giver

This poem was a personal experiment for me. I’m testing out my readers attraction to my poetry. And hopefully learn more about my writing. Thanks for your support.
A simple stroke stemming from a heart-planted seed
Ice white and sky blue freezing every generated thought to one with its chills
Intertwining shades of brown fuchsia splattered to a black space - manifesting into dreams
Blue, yellow, and purple churning with hydrochloric acid forming butterflies
Pulse shooting through into the darkened mesosphere darkening fuchsia's mark
Darkened fuchsia turned deep red lustful passion
An unfathomable crescendo beading sweat with final strikes
Reaching the thermosphere - revealing an exclusive sight of our aurora
It hangs in the gallery "Of Our True Selves"
The finish product is almost disappointing

+ crowned saint
*circa 2015
stumbled upon this poem the other day
Freddie Ruiz May 24
I remember every detail of that day
as if it were yesterday;
the two of us, alone together
at midnight on that Saturday 21st.
My heart was beating fastly,
my legs wouldn't stop shaking;  
a part of me wanted to leave
while the other was dying to stay.
And then we stopped behind your car
and after a simple goodbye you grabbed my arm.
My shyness went away and I felt an urge in my heart
to kiss you intensely until we ran out of breath there in the dark.

For once I was going with my feelings
as I pressed you closer to my body,
and I felt the need to let go of everything I had suppressed
when I saw you leaning against my chest.
I was so full of intense desires
while circulating your waist with my fingers
that I succumbed to my own weakness
by allowing my heart to guide me with no resistance.
And then I kissed your lips for one last time,
and I felt emotions overflowing deep inside.
And for a while I got lost looking in your eyes,
as the passers-by saw how we melted under that street light.

On my way back home I kept on thinking about you
and if that would’ve been the right moment to say: "I love you",
just when I had you in my arms, lost in your eyes
and gave you that one last kiss goodbye.

When the desire invades me
unforgettable memories come to mind again
of a moment that belonged to the two of us,
in front of your house, on that 21st of June.
Written on January 17, 2000
Composition number: 81
Trace the curves
Silhouetted hips
Soft swollen breasts
Touch me
At my hidden crevices
Dripping nectar
Begging to be explored
By your glazed fingers
T 2d
I was a sentinel of a city;
atop the tower, my fear grew
as the hazards began flickering on the streets below.

I've yet to fully chart this Polis,
the possibilities are far too endless,
and the automobiles with their abrasive motors,
leave me weary.

When in Rome,
One feels unidentified.

Perhaps I need the quiet serenity of a Northen mountain range?
The city never sleeps, and my eyes cant take the gleaming monoliths,
and grey-faced single mothers, and the rigid Banker blowing his own horn.

Thy soul yearns for the earth,
yearns for the golden wheat fields,
yearns for the innumerable wings soaring across the untainted skyline.
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