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Ken Pepiton Jul 2023
In my shop I have many unused tools,
and many useless things if electricty fails,

if crafts were to prosper, self sufficiency,
enticements might be as messengers,
in light, show-wers of the way, in story,
as once all knowing was made sacred, set
up right, perpindicular to the axial age last

rotation of the guards. How long this mad
mad mad mad made up and fed us, realm
stuttered into our commonsensed dance
where reason claims war is economical,
eventually, we assume we are all pawns,
so we do what pawns do,
get through
to the otherside, dude,
do you imagine,
chess players today less adept than AI
the prime ministerial idea, taken at init,

correspond
dance, what was it Foulcault's said
to have said? How can one discern,

5wpm quill to scribble, letter forms
sounds fit to, to say How can one discern,
a mad happenstance revealing an edge,
just in time, to stop, and think it over,
one more time, why am I alive, for good?

Eternal question all one trick ponies ask.
Animalistic nature of the rural breeds used
to be used to feed the cities, now they breed.

As the plow horses freed by machines, bask
in what looks like wild horse freedom, to a child.
Flank straps induce a buck up response, influid
flowing response,
to clover in bloom and bees, a buffalo
and then, some men,
on horses, olden days, three generations back.

The after math of war is a societie's honored dead.
Should the logical out come
of a point to point
message transmitted in the clear out
of the blue,
direct to you
as love, not of the Freudian mindsets sexuality
fact or realized co-related, lately piled on,
happenstance and dammed good luck, free

really, humans do these displays, and reflect,
scheizkunst riddle art with holes in the empty
Universal soldier modeled on all boys hero's,

drama sells glory, even to the losers,
look at Custer, and the medals for Wounded Knee.

So, what must one account for, idle word wise,
I burned each one redeemed, as raw aha, mere
words to the wise, each enough to titiosis curiosis

in volk, ah, dem Milchmadchen boo on u uumlaut

whoa, go slow, madness and mayhem, tears
in the flat felt seaming, inner thigh, sore

flat black and white yen to yank reality into my time,
I offer you this investment
of your otherwise used time,

which goes on forever in six differing ways.
In the middle of every thing I find a self expressed here as nowhere else, so far.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2023
~for my dear, dear friend, T.R.
who tills the soil of Jordan’s Garden,
from which life springs eternal

<>

see your words, sent direct to my ears and all our mutuality of senses,
fingertips tasting the soil, the moisture, the granularity,
the chemical composition and the color, always the colors…

our gardens are our children, each similar but always,
unique, altogether different, altogether similar

how I love the how-work of it;  how the soil, you, suckle each other
with nutrients of tears, Georgia heat, outcomes of
the summer produce(s),
a refresher course of memories, of frustrated endlessness

we see heaven only by looking down, you, me, on our hand and knee,
touching each plant by hand as if soft stroking a cheek of our children

in some spots, the ground unyielding, keeping its riches
stored for another day, only then, when it wills, offer up
its specialty - a surprise, a wind-blown in, seed sprouting

it so many different ways, the work gets harder, and yet,
more tender, more desirable and we do not wonder on it

for this the way, of planting, and planning human desires,
tempered by elements over which we relinquish a
sense of control, yet forever knowing, happily, renewal~marked by

the forever and ever on seasonality
of a rebirthing garden
that sustains
us






6/25/23
irinia Mar 2023
but who are you, Theseus, what is your name
behind the name that I call even in my sleep
when there is no memory of the worlds
you have founded
and will

what stays hidden beneath your name that I whisper
with a hunger older than ourselves
with a thirst so fresh in the fleeting moment
that words to name it have yet to be born

who are you to me, Theseus
my lord of many lives
and a hidden essence?

who? the labyrinth of days
shows me a different you
every time I open my eyes

it’s my words that ask, not I

not I who can listen to you with my skin
and can feel you with my hearing,
taste and touch and arrest with a gaze
across expanses bending over the horizon

bridge over the water
cobweb over cliffs
joy
joy over joy

a life-saving answer
maybe
to the riddle
when the time comes

by Ioana Ieronim from Ariadne's Veil
Filomena Rocca Aug 2022
I am cold and sterile,
And you are hot and fierce
But dressed in my apparel
Your radiance appears
Psych ward poetry.
Set 3, poem 36.
Zack Ripley Jun 2022
Which is the mistake: to give or to take?
To close my eyes or stay awake?
Do you hide from yourself in the light
Or hide from people who hurt you in the dark?
Do you leave it behind
or try to reignite an old spark?
Do you surrender yourself in honor of your faith
Or do you believe in yourself enough to create your own fate?
The truth is, it doesn't matter how you answer because none of these options are mistakes.
They're choices. And, regardless of the outcome, it's not a mistake to make a choice.
SøułSurvivør Jan 2022
A Patriarch in Faraway land
Had sons who were at odds.
Both wanted father's favor
So this king would laud
They both raced for fortune,
So he wanted them to PLOD.
He wanted them HUMBLE
So he asked of God...

The Prophet he petitioned
Spake, "Give each a horse.
Of great heart and lineage,
Which can stay the course.

Equines brave and stalwart,
When they first begin,
But they must not finish!
The slowest horse will win!

And so the father did this.
He gave each a steed.
Each a Highborn thoroughbred
Dam Triple Crown seed!
He told his sons the riddle,
They were perplexed indeed!

But for his land and all his gold
They set out on their "race"
But soon it was quite obvious
The end would not take place!

They both stood in water
A river coursed its way
They were going to stop there.
No Brave Horse held sway!
Neither lad knew what to do!
Neither black nor dappled Grey
Would cross that cursed Finish Line!
So they began to pray...

The Prophet came up right away
And told them what to do.
As they both heard the simple answer
They knew it to be true!
They rode off as chased by fire!
A HELLBENT race ensued!!

WHAT HAPPENED??
They traded horses!
Mark Wanless Jan 2022
i went to the narrow bridge
it was not that narrow
scaled the cliffs of death
i lived
went to the cavern of sorrow
cried and cried and cried
walked to the very end
it did not end
pondered the greatest riddle
the keeper gave up first

woke up looked in the mirror
Odd Odyssey Poet Dec 2021
I am a riddle;
  (only a few understand)

An unspoken poem;
      (few will find)

As shall by the gates,
do wisdom and I meet.

A riddle of purpose, &
the answer we all seek.
GaryFairy Sep 2021
the rushing water
what is it running from
to find out i guess we have to know where it's coming from
Celestial May 2021
So, there is a gap.
No bridge to be seen.
A precipice untapped.
I can see the green.

Ah, the challenge.
forgetting all secrets,
Can you find the hinge?
Never mind, I can see your pockets.

Also green in color.
You won't tell me,
You don't even remember.
Like a honey bee.

I'll take the ominous message.
Not sent by you,
but by the passage.
What a wonderful clue.

Ever closer to the answer.
Hopefully, the gap will close.
I'll see the other side with pleasure.
So you pose.

Questioning what isn't, or is.
Wanting the green again.
Looking it over, deeply knowing the bliss.
Misunderstanding the plain.

Anyways, this side,
isn't so bad.
You can watch the tide.
The blue only lingers a tad.
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