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Caught within the hollow parallel ,
of the past, versus forever;
my heart had fun playing with waves of ache,
but could never find the opulent treasure.
You'd think "it's such a shiny thing, I'd spot it right away."
and dive right down to the very bottom,
to peer inside the dark decay.

Oh..
but it was never there, and one must understand -
the beauty is in the glittering seams,
joining the water with the land.
Zwischen den Gezeiten
When love was spreading across
Hatred was at a loss
She had invested so much
Results were quite dismal
Fact finding committee found
Love affairs was the reason
Hatred money
Easy source of income
Meeting day to day
Love expenses
I felt empowered indeed
And for me you were the source
To the front you always lead
Saying the stage is yours
Though it was hard for me to stand
And to be noticed by all the class
But you made me understand
That courage is needed to progress

You knew exactly the right way
To show the girl who used to hide
I still recall my yesterday
I was your student, you was the guide
You teach, you help, you support too
And here I am passing the test
Of all the professors that I knew
You are definitely the Best!
To my professor Khalid Lahlou
Tell me why indigenous
seems so obsolete?
Thoughts in the genius
whose sense is up so late

Why originality
seem so fake?
And off-reality
is worth the take?

It might not seem its best
nor have the Sauce
Not in Vogue as the rest
But it's the source


-Pastorlee
I choose #originality
#indigenousSombodi
your #LocalBoy

#ipoet
Solar Nov 2020
I can feel her love the way I feel the desert winds
of a tangerine evening hurling off the mountains
as they reach for the end of the summer solstice.

She sings beneath the bridge of god.

Oh, how spirits that make the nature of whispers
known to my fleshly ears dance to her innocent voice.

I can see her crown among the thorned rose vista,
****** by her favoring tobacco musk,
and it cascades about the once savage lands
of the wanning moon.

Her crown is redolent
with the astral fragerence of eden.

I have walked past the dawn
and gazed upon the serpent of the sea,
it has been raised only to bow before her loving words.

Oh, what peace she brings,
and how effortlessly I see the maiden,
for I must hear her
sing beneath the bridge of god.
Dylan McFadden Nov 2020
O’ Flowing Stream, smooth and calm,
How gentle are your waves

Oh, how refreshing is your taste;
Like crystal glass, your gaze

I came a long and weary way –
Walked through the deserts dry

And in the moment that my eye
Beheld your view I cried

---

I cried because my eyes then traced
Your course up to the Spring

The Source beyond the mountain top,
Where blessings flow and bring

I saw a bright and lovely sight:
A plan in the Grand Scheme

Providence…it brought me here,
To drink – to sing – to dream

---

O’ Stream, now that I’m here with you,
I’m here with you to stay

I’ll make my home and plant a tree
Beside your waters way

I’ll watch it close and give it all
I can to help it grow

And trust the Source to ever-pour
That you may overflow

.
A poem about my wife
annh Oct 2020
’Ego sum hic.’

Calling to the dawn,
Baying at the moon,
Petitioning the horizon,
Summoning the faithful;

The yearning indefinite,
In pursuit of an enduring affirmative;
An echo searching for its source
In the boundless beyond.


’Ibi tu es, tu es, tu es, tu es...‘
‘When at eve, at the bounding of the landscape, the heavens appear to recline so slowly on the earth, imagination pictures beyond the horizon an asylum of hope, a native land of love; and nature seems silently to repeat that man is immortal.’
- Madame de Stael
Blind Pathos Sep 2020
Van Gogh’s ear sings tales all night
Soulful moaning over mind’s eye sight

Antagonize the heart and turn the eye
A visitor to the heart or passing by

From this spring that we all drink
What whispers all the thoughts we think

Lunatic genius with eyes turned in
Tell me where my mind has been

A freighting tether is shelter and cage
Where the writer’s pen touches page

Ink’s fossil trail bleeding from my pen
A history of where my heart has been

To go and not say in doing so
Beyond this point no words can go

With feet of clay and hand to chalk
I’ve come to hear Van Gogh’s ear talk
There is a moment just before an idea, it's origin. The magic of the written word is a spark that comes before the writing, up stream, unknown, untamed, shear new. I would follow the path to the origin and bring back great treasures. I have been lost many times, but what else is there to do?
Orakhal Aug 2020
Life knows something you don't
and its telling you

as you stop knowing something life does'nt
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