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Mark Wanless Jul 18
practice practice and
practice there is no end to
the ever pure piece
a neighbour
plays saxophone
somewhere down the street
it sounds like
they are at
an open window
practicing scales
bursts of pieces
previously mastered
other segments
yet to be perfected
those standard exercises
again and again
with missed breaths
and off-note *******
building in complexity
but slowed down
beyond recognition
with their concentration
no doubt
seething at times
behind closed doors
as fingers refuse
to obey
not moving fast enough
assuredly enough
it should annoy me
it usually would
this distraction
while I try
to read or write
the stumbling repetition
of practice failing
to make perfect
but today
there is a calming
in the familiarity
of it all
neth jones Nov 2022
solicit the galling thoughts                                                  
those obscenities   rigged gorily within        
          victim concepts   taught distortion   forbidden carcass

in the persisting sully of night                                            
padded dreams pace    ******* at a fed distance      
it's all in sight  and held racing back and forth  out of reach
                     some sloven mystery
under a cower of skin

one day free of your agent cover                                        
and you'll stand   vacantly able     under eye of the morgue creator
mating together life habits    gracious goodness gratefully seeded
you could maintain a patient pattern
with practice you could go mainstream

                                 -with practice
Alio Apr 2022
Eat this poem
Savor its taste
Feel it on your tongue
Then swallow without chase

Take this poem in
Digest its every word
Take apart its meaning
Don’t let it curd

Absorb this poem whole
For it is as it is
Give it life
And meaning
Simply let it in

And then let this poem go
It may linger for a while
But let it flow like the river
Now, say your goodbyes
Ken Pepiton Jan 2022
Let my peace, mine, mine, mine, my peace;
peace, eh, flow into this vessel
or this space?

Peace past understanding,
what's that cost?
if it's free,
what's it worth,
I got some saved up in de-ift metaphors,
containers of general whatifery,
like what if, I'll let all-if-ity
right now, my peace
can you feel me now? Even
If you knew the taste of spoken love,
it would seem odd, if
wordless, mmm, so.
weyekin say hmm.

Feel a peace, say
selah, let go

could you feel love from this far?
Have you ever felt the connection
since the repair? The reconciling?
Whenever began
a while ago,

you should feel alive, if you notice.

Speed of thought (not speedothought, shame)

kidding eh
this is serious, peace is in the balance

war is threatening,

life is about to be taken from me.
Life is being taken from earth itself?
How is that possible,
Is there a flaw in the recycling schema?
or is there a missing comma somewhere?

Are we cancer and ambiguous?
I think,
if earth hears,
earth is alive, Gaia speaks and breathes or
is it the universe
who speaks and breathes?

Yahweh, as a being I envision invisible as light,
in whom
I live
and breathe and have my being,
speaks, saying
Fret not. Nada mas.

Word o' god.
Then my dogma goes pretty
- I begin to see messages massaging
- unction to function, under my skin…
so true,
if what I done, did you good,
but you never knew I was,
should I care?

This peace here, past understanding, you
can call it yours and call it soul,
keep it in your patience
with some practice,
you may learn to
let it go.
An old notebook from after a fight with words walked away from,
so long ago, I cannot remember what brought the tears that ended here.
Rachel Armstrong Dec 2021
O old Gods who wait in morrow, let me shine in sacred sorrow
I proffer, and offer, my marrow, bone, flesh, to thine altar borne,
lone in meeting, only fleeting, silent here for duty sworn
My old Gods who sit in waiting, might I power just to borrow?
Only briefly you must loan me the magic to sunder torn.
Weak and trembl’ng, weak to muster, I sought courage, but I crumble,
at the sight of just thy vision, for to me it seems e’er unseen
naught to know but thy own master ‘til I patient, sorely lumber
wondering if fear has stolen me to thine own sacred meadow
when suddenly, fervently see thine true shape and face and form and
terrible dreams enter my soul e’er to stay and e’er to fecund
for death I prefer to understanding the truth our Gods have shunned.

Yet little more did I then speak among the dead and too the meek,
falling towards an abyss so deep that makes my heart and soul weep
dying truly like a phantom lurking in the shallows creep
and yet falling ever faster and so overwhelmed by deep
my eyes and ears saw nothing and heard nothing, not a leap
from the darkness that consumed me e’er more did I fail to seek
that which cannot only reap the dead and tear them ‘til they so reek
so sharp and pointed so it was even I could witness and speak
“Who have I wronged in this place so awful that I am gaoled oblique?
Yet can still think and ponder the widow’s peak and in vain self-wreak?”
in sacred toil among the stardust that makes us shine so mystique.

What does thou will, O lord, my lord, of more than we can ever tell?
I know it is not my duty not to know. Ask I must, ask besides
the husk of my body is yours and yet I know little of thee
by whose authority do wield such magics and more asides?
it is not plain to me what sort of horror lies ‘neath the scorched ground
so why do I? Why do I scream? Why do I see the beast in me?
The hound that hunts for those who must be slaughtered despite what else they seek
the wolf inside that hunts, rips, and tears, taken apart piece by piece
the awful sound of howling that’s for me to not and never cease
the stars themselves align to my fate fear in mind and e’er besides
‘tis here that I myself sit alone and finally soon to die.
for death I prefer to the fate our Gods have brought to us benumbed.
practicing structured poetry. not very good at really understanding syllable stressors yet without a guideline. meter makes sense though. this is lovecraft inspired for a section of a novella i am writing.

this website doesn't let the lines work properly since they get moved down sometimes which is annoying, not wide enough for 1080p

gave a bunch of poems including my own here sunshine to support the website that lets me indulge myself on a pen name whence no one can find me.
xavier thomas Oct 2021
starting @ the top of the key

two cones. one at the 3-point line to the right. one at the free-throw line to the left.**

(Cross-over right to left; spin-move left to right; gather myself, **** fake, lay-up)

(Between the legs right to left; cross-over left to right; jump shot)

(Spin move right to left; behind the back left to right; lay-up)

(Behind the back right to left; between the legs left to right; floater)

(Step-back right to left; inside out cross; dunk)
Martina Jul 2021
Like a 21st century Snow White in her crystal casket,
You can find me in the frozen aisle, lying on a bed of ice cream tubs and chicken kievs,

Slide the plexiglass door open,
Pick me up.
Do not worry if your freezer looks too small,
I can bend, I can fold.
You can consume me tonight, tomorrow, next week, six months from now and I won't expire.

It doesn't take too much to cook me,
Yet it shows you haven't done enough cooking in your life to know
That once meat is defrosted, you can't freeze it again and expect it to taste good.
Mark Wanless Mar 2021
what are choices but
a skill of hand internal
progresse in practice
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