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Why was I so enamored as a young person
by the world I had found in addiction
and everything it encompassed;

The search, the climb
and the view from up high.
It was as a balm to my longing,
A salve to that infinite homesickness.

Why was I so enchanted as a young adult
by the moments we experienced
as companions of substance;

A breeze caught my sails
and I escaped the doldrums
of mundane existence, I knew
"Today is Yesterday's Tomorrow"
Last line is inscribed on the Morehead Planetarium Sundial.
The revolution of imagination...

I may not be able to keep you by my side...
and I don't have the strength to make you my destiny...
i have a heart that I will keep you in...

there is an exceptional relationship...
between you and me...
i can't find a name for i ...
but it is...
an irrevocable covenant...
it is  a revolution...
and a volcano of love ...

and i am so lucky...
that i don't have any wish...
because i just have you...
always inside my heart...

hazem al ...
Remember your true calling /
As the susurrant breeze wafts your epidermis /
And the platinum moon glistens /
Atop the clouded expanse of The Cimmerian Skies. /

Know The Transcendental One walks with you /
Forces unseen fight for thee, /
You are enclaved within the omnipresent mist, /
Of Jehovah God, The Most High. /

"But you are 'a chosen race, a royal priesthood, /
A holy nation, a people for special possession, /
That you should declare abroad the excellencies of the One who called you /
Out of darkness into his wonderful light.'" —1st Peter 2: 9 (NWTSE) /

Equip yourselves for your pilgrimage /
Doven divine Aether, /
For strength, wisdom, justice, love, /
Courage, beauty, & indefatigability. /

Your journey is yours & yours alone, /
Walk through the rain unafraid, /
Believe in The Light when Stygian Shadows fall, /
Cleave to The Cosmo-Plexus of Empyreal Love as you effloresce in The Light of The Sun. /

Your testimony is power, /
Your story is a shockwave pulsar through The Ages; /
Therefore, use your promenade down the experiential cascade /
To prepare your souls for eternity. /

(—Se' lah)
Renae Feb 21
Release the knots of emotion
bound by cages,
walls that taunt the mind.
Express your frustration
bleed through the pen,
unheard & stunted feelings
leave them all behind.
My definition of poetry
Monica Mourad Feb 20
One was left reeling
The other went on with  life

Two people words exchanged
On a Thursday at 2:00 pm
Feelings emotions intentions coming to light
One’s truth blindsiding the other’s truth
4 months of you and me
Trickled down to a 20 minute text exchange
That’s what I was worth to you.

Her reply unshaken disappointment
His reply an aloof “don’t be stranger … let’s be friends”
Silent tears mourning the idea of what could have been - she refused to let him see her break .
Him going about life - realizing he might not really want a clean break.

Me saying take care - walking away
You saying add me on social media - trying to keep me in your life

Words said can’t be unsaid
This is how the story of us ends.
I hate this part right here... the end.
The Pleated Skirt  by Brandy Channing

It was in San Fran,
a destination chosen for
its variety of vicarious distractions,
romance was in the ebb stage
of ebb & flow, and there was
a sufficiency of distraction there,
that my mind
could be there,
in actuality,
in the present,
in the moment,
accounted for,
and the cancer of
rooted sadness,
that wastrel feeling,
was temporal boxed,
in my traveling attic.

On a cable car,
of which
the hills, insisted,
when the
lactic acid, persisted,
be re~viewed as an actual
conveyance methodology.

A-man got on,
near enough, but not
invasively too near,
and began a
study of me;
perhaps an exercise
in memorization
for a sculpture or a painting,
that would be shown,
in a gallery quaint,
nearby in Benicia,
and destined to be
displayed (dis~splayed?)
near a picture window in a
big old home overlooking
the North Bay, as the
She~Muse mused amusedly.

Or it was just another
inspection by “a man,”
common enough that
it was noticed and noted,
but attended to with a
practiced nonchalance,
which is a French word,
meaning nonchalance.

Ah! descending near the Wharf,
He~too, as he was now labeled,
stored and forgettably tabled,
He~too descended as well.

A meandering into familiarity,
of ancient memories of smells,
of clam chowder,
gulls and sea lions
the inhabitants of Pier 39,
all traced my face with
a grimacing smile,
for sometimes one lives
in a state of duality.

But a voice from behind,
gently inquired if permission
was grantable to recite a poem,
yes, directed to me,
yes, from He~too,
who, awkwardly shifted
his stance from side to side,
as if performing a
pantomime dance routine,
while waiting for
my pithy or pissy,
but always well considered
which is four french words(!),
meaning, “sure, why not, try me”).

Alas this Techi-he
as he was subsequently
re and de-nominated,
recited a variant of
roses are red etc,,
but concluded with
“your pleated skirt.”

(Roses are red, violets are blue,
when I observed your pleated skirt,
my heart pleaded with me, DO NOT!
let this woman ever escape your purview)

Now this navy medium wooly weight
(always chilled in SF)
somewhat too short skirt,
was a hand-me-down
from my mother (mom!)
who in a prior decade,
dressed like everybody else,
but with a panache,
(yes, a French word meaning panache)
that declaimed and declared,
“I do it my way”
and was in truth,
a fav of mine when
accented with dark tights
and preppy but comfortable
matching navy penny loafers
(mais non! pas de béret ridicule).

By now, you know, I know,
how to deal with men, whose
onslaughts are like the beaches
of Normandy, littered with death &
destruction from my hot herbal tea,
heated by rapid fire of my
machine gun fire,
my bullets of verbosity
from an old, original ***,
used by my grandfather.

But this reference to my pleated skirt,
flattering me when accompanied
with a beautiful French blouse,
sunglasses, and my heart and hair
openly parted down the middle
in a nod
to Haight~Ashbury
hippie history,
was off kilter,
or as Techi-he would later
joke that I was off-kilted (a pleated skirt),
and taken prisoner, a POW, which
under the rules of the Geneva Convention,
would be guaranteed all the necessities
of a good loving.

We are California Commuters,
me in LA, he in SF,
an unlikely combination,
he and me,
of milieux, personality,
yet not dissimilar:
harmonized when
he writes code snippets
on diner napkins, and
snippets of poems
on diner napkins,,
he clears my laptop’s cache,
I clear his heart and vision,
a blending of

vive la différence!

and we see each other often,
as in as often as we can,
we vacation in the South,
of France, where he learns
of Impressionism, and a
different sea coastal ocean

I, learn from him,
his remarkable human fondue,
of intensity and concentration,
which melts into gentility and
a softness natural that steals my
heart, accompanied by the ridiculous
rhymes he passes me beneath the table,
notes toujours,
always perfect
for that moment,
like my pleated skirt

*(which now resides in his closet,
its magic work again, thus,
kept safe by him, in a wardrobe,
to which he has locked and keyed,
and is worn upon request, my bequest,
it, a whirling twirling dervish of a poem enshrined,
a wearable honoring
our commencement,
our commitment,
our pleated,
plaited hearts.)
The word is on the wind herself and whispers secret stories of learning to the wise of heart and mind,

This is in her ever, so sweet whispers of life itself.

The word is in the flames of a great forest fire,

Which brings new growth and insight to the wise after the flames have gone from the forest again.

The word is in the earth herself from which a new seedling can grow into a great Birch tree herself.

The word is found flowing down the rivers of the land to the seven oceans of the world.

Then falls in rainfall on the land again to bring new growth on the needy land again.

So seek the new dawn's light each day within yourself and you will find The Secret Bard within yourself,

So seek the new dawn's light each day within yourself and you will find The Secret Bard within yourself,

So seek the new dawn's light each day within yourself and you will find The Secret Bard within yourself.
Khoisan Oct 2023
Black bombs fly
religious people lie
sky scrapers cleric capers
THOSE!!!! archaic papers rise
here human dwelling must crumble
and masses must die.
in this barren space of Arabic land
feet aimlessly plod
the elderly pray
widows wail
orphans weep
and babies cry
on the order 1947
sacked from a place called heaven
waves in a sandstorm
40 nights and 40 more....
THOSE!!!! ghouls are rotten to the core
killing innocence
and much, much more....
Anais Vionet Oct 2023
If light is the fastest thing in the universe,
why is darkness already there when light arrives?

After watching Harry and Megan Sussex grub for ever more cash and attention, I’ve decided that they should start a OnlyFans site.

We’re going to a *****-free dance party.
“You don’t have to drink to have fun.” I assure myself, in the bathroom mirror, but somehow the event sounds like a high school dance.

I’ve been reading the Internet - was it really a giant squid that sank the Titanic?


Panpsychism Is a scientific theory postulating that consciousness is part of the fabric of the Universe.

On the theological level, why would God (or nature) create the bitter taste of espresso and vivid, azure skies slashed with rainbow sunsets if stimulating consciousness weren’t important?

“Colors, tastes and smells are no more than names,” Galileo declared 400 years ago. “(as perceptions) they reside only in consciousness.”

Does life exist, as sensors, to experience stimuli for the galactic consciousness?
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2023
“the unbound unbinding: an admixture of words and swords…
that will cut a newborn cord of reciprocity of thee and me,
thereby, an unbound binding that ties and frees us from
and connects us nonetheless by our shared senses…”

these words, recalled well,
for they but a newborn issue of a few days, and the notion of binding that
frees us into reciprocity yet buzz~hums
in my brain

the contradictory nature of a cutting
which ties us together,
that an unbinding binds us even more tightly,
I struggle, to better understand the nature how an unraveling
of our connection somehow ties us closer

but re-envisioning
Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel in my mind’s eye,
that sparking space tween God’s finger outstretched
to bring the enlivening of his spirit to His first enervate, Adam,
the original of we humans,
somehow sates my confusion

to touch each other
at the most primitive basis,
we require a space
between us, in order to fulfill,
a contract contact
of completion and binding

and this bestills and bestirs
my puzzlement,
a space electric necessary
to permit us to
close the human circuitry

!and I am contented,
the contradiction
no more, I sense the
need to close gaps
tween us certify our human resources
for it is the permanent invisible grasping
of our loving minds that transcends
overpowers gaps,
bringing tears of joy to my eyelids,
even as I write these words,
and greet this morning
that every space
brings a richer
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