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Ken Pepiton Aug 2019
Hearing history whisper in the background

in an aural realm
I hear enkidu bled
ink
to fill the pens

of ready writers after
ever
lasting word
forms
a name
Enki, wisdom and life
flowing

into length of days
ancient
days
long

remembered, visited
in daydreams
featuring

all that may have been,
then.

Some soporific drink drunk
in old Uruk

vicareate, those in lieau of you.

Dying for you to go into the
realm
of knowns past
knowing knowns now in this

realm

make your mind reach mine.
Stand under my lines and

lean toward joy
good and calm,

gentle waves of peace
swirling fibrating threads
forming

woven things, matrices,

see the points crossed over
and under,
see the edges wound around,
to keep the rubbing of

reality from fraying ends.

did the fingers gno the math,
the ciphers we see
in carpets woven by magi
families
for centuries, ere

The Prophet were told to Read,
and he refused
to learn,

but chose to teach that which
an angel of light,

warned against by Paul the Gnostic Jew,

taught? Told to read, but never learning to do it, because angel said,
say exactly what i say...

Teachers once learned by teaching, but
never has reading been masterd
sans
sensibility of the graphemes
re
presenting the noises

common in every human ear
hearing in
sapience, abruptly

Hear!
Easy to be entreated. You have ears?
Hear.
How is never asked, why is clear; ears hear,
we all have ears.

Not all ears hear.
But eyes can learn to read, with some effort.

I magine it your task. You the first speaker of your
magic tongue-lung-teeth-lips, epiglot-tonsil-nasal

noise making system, engineered
to permit

song in accord with this, our shared realm of
noises, common.

Ha. This tale of an angel telling a messenger to read,

is this a famous story? Have I not learned of a war being
waged,
i.e. fought with stand-ins paid to fight, live or die.

Soldiers formed from hearers of empty songs
stretched to cover eyes, as well,

push and pull, hot and cold, balance value
weight and worth

imagine knowing no written tongue

you, dear reader, this book of lives in life per se,

who could see this coming?

Papyrii and clay and stone

cities are inventions of men

men who would be kings
imagined
delegating

knack for knack *** for tat

this for that all
for me,
the man wombed or un who would be

like the most high god I can imagine

ah the danger of falling into anachronism

you first must imagine, dear reader, that
writing is an invention

intended to bher the burden of learning to
remember, really,

no po'etic license claimed or blamed

famine of the written word
negates not the worth of rhyme and dance

masques and noises of roaring bulls

thrumming, thundering herds

screaming hawks, squeeling rabbits,
caw
cawing crows or ravens if that
distinction is
ever
necessary...

as the story is told, some time after ever starts.

This has been a chapter in our history,
dear reader from the times before the pictures
were scratched on the rock Sisyphus rolls.

Twixt now and then lies a realm of stories locked in idle words
never written for never having a reader
who grasped the message to the prophet,

read.

-----
Uruk, was there a ****** who watched you rise and learned
to make a city sufficiently

enslaving to raise a king from the son of a king

to the level of luxury allowing

reading all that writing demands

suggestive is the fact that the written word for C2H5OH
is a spirit ual thing caught in a word
as old as the earliest writing
remaining

alcohol, spoken now, would call for a drink in old Uruk and Akkad,
as would reference to kohl warm eyes,

be cool

as are we all, we living words spoken in times past,
listing in lusting vacuums of empty songs

ah, you shall not surely die, poor Gilga-
mesh, the net

spread in your sight, you never thought

networking and weaving were skills teachable, thus
this witty idea, the best potter makes only one pattern of ***,
all for me,
I take them a ll and feed the potter meat. Mighty hunter, am I.

I feed many with one mammoth

I am worthy of all they make with strength taken as granted

while chewing the carcass of my
****
--- here it comes,

civilization---

things in abundance might be made,
and traded
for
that which we lack the knack to make

so soon does some medium of exchange manifest

as witty inventions emerge from seeds carried from the garden

How? Now, off-scour, **** of the earth, us-all,

poor you have with you always,

we, the feeble-but-not-un-minded, people, whisper

when we sing,
shuffle when we dance, fly when we dream
and live until we die and leave mere words to live ever after in the wind,

making peace for the heirs of the earth.
J.M Roberts history of the world in the backgound listening to Sunday in my valley.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
God's thoughts are claimed unthinkable
correctly by a man, but there is a way

a man
may,
however,
imagine he can. Amen. Amen?

Higher than the earth,
above all we can think or ask,
God's thoughts are said to be,
yond all a man can imagine.

Yet I do, imagine God thinks, if anything, at all.

In my thought, a child emerges in the midst,
thinking round and round,
up and down, this way and that

what if
some how, we think, this child in me,
and I , we think

Off the tight line from here to there,
God's thoughts must be
every where
we can think,

tighter

up and down and all around,
through solid ground and
non-empty space.

Minds are bubbles, let us say,
God's thought are not up above us
exceeding both our reach and grasp.

but nearer, being here, in the bubble
where we live, and move, and have our

being.

Seeing the never hidden
is not revelation,

it is ignorance, ceasing.

Peace,
be with us, everyone.

Time shall tell if this fixed that.
Ignoring innocence, I sense signals seeming meaningful minding my manner of thinking. It keeps me from shouting at fools who ignore the music and deny the harmony we bring to every discordant resonance. I edit this to be the first of my 2018 holiday amuse meants intending to instill joy to the world. That's the big idea.
Mariya Timkovsky Nov 2015
Transform me, dear child
Show me your visions
Help me find Hope in my name.
For I've been listening
To Peacelessness in my veins.

Your time here isn't done
Battles rage without a single one won
The Lies reach past fingertips
And Truth is painfully shy.

Please restore my faith.
Say those kind words you always manage to say.
People crane their necks
For leaders left and right
But you and I know
Leadership moves forward
With flashlight eyes in the night.
Mattie Stepanek was a poet and peacemaker who was taken too early from this world. After reading about his legacy through the eyes of his mother, I felt moved to writing a tribute to him.
Miah Nielsen Nov 2014
he smiles to create the world's golden happiness
his laughter opens the confused, rainy skies
he's the one to love more than the heavy drops in the ocean
he looks with heart-felt eyes as deep as the hidden valleys below his feet
he lives to change the clashing towns surrounding
his love eases wars stirring about in the distance
he amazes my personal beliefs repeatedly
for this world he lives for
happens to be me

— The End —