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nishta Apr 10
tethered to a string
it flies,
ever free
into the early hours of dusk.
the blue and purple triangles
merging as one.  

the times of what has passed,
stolen sweets and mirthful eyes
crinkle in the sunlight.
mindless chatter fills the abyss
as the torrent sea laps at the feet
of the storyteller and the lamb.

little boy, alight with glee
turns to his father
but there,
encompassing the boundless expanse
on the empty field,
not a flower sways.

the sea once turbulent, whispers in his wake.
a story, a tradition between two individuals.
Roast me on the charcoal bottom of your heart
Roll me in your pie and chew
As your meals yummies
Draw me and paste on the pages of your mind

Like poster and image
Paint me in the color of your blood
Leave me stained on the ground like a liquid black gold
Mine me with your steel heart of unforgiving
Peel out my skin for your white magic
Use my flesh for experiment

It's mysterious and strange
Yet I can breathe melanin as oxygen
Because it's runs in my veins

I beneath my brain with the dark spot of my soil
I stretche out my hands to receive
But still match my feet on my rock.
This poem is all about the  black people and their mentality ofter the colonization.
Chandra S Nov 2019
Many times,
You have said vociferously;

......for all success
and in all failure,
faith is the key.

And many times,
I have tried to reason
against the equation
of ritual and religion.

in the fashion world
of materialist-spiritualism,
where majority conforms to modern tradition,
I have often found it convenient
to ignore the dictates of reason
and still more convenient
to believe in the corollary; is the key.

I have mostly believed, your faith
and in your prayers
......for me.
Inspired by: The subconscious mind which secretly prefers prayer over logic.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2019
start comprehending what Paul,
arrogant, if Pythagorus be so called.
The apostle, witnessed in the spirit to the
prophets, who warned, they'll
re-tie you to some rules
yule never keep

once you believe you have seen the earth
from the moon, immutable morphs into a
bigger deal where little matters less

than what one of us lets be true.

If self be logos and capital letters, Turkey mean squat,
hexagons mean stop
sometimes they do some times they dont
like spells for finding witches

long ago, the legends say bold Constant C,
dictates all reality
in terms

of timespacetimespacetimespace
By consuming these words you self
evidently know to chew
your blue berries,
everyone's thrill, cheap trick.

selahlahlah meandering in Shaubergian curls,
Fibbonacci swirls to back around rocks too big
to roll, rilling li'l' vortices to under mine
the flow through
that which does least good? whoa.
time. right. we exist in words. This may be ever.

I went through a phase,
some time
back, when I gave the whole dear reader possibility fog
the power of may,
I said may is your word now and you said we may
as well see where this leads.

--- is that a line? line upon line line?
precept or per

you see cept re grabbing and gripping taking or

accepting, with whole being connection restoring
power, absolutely,
to unthink unbelievables idly uttered with

weir-ish fish traps served the forest, power dams don't/
but electricity,

she is a child of all the gods, come to serve us all,
for as long as we can keep the only evident inter galactic life pod we have, balanced
along the spiral
of life.
May be or Amen, all the people sayit and that' is not always
the way it goes.

Current speed, each, 1/1300th C. Thrilling, can you breathe?
Some times these get a certain geek response -- the number of tries is measured in umph, said some proverbial ****** I ******.
Steve Page Oct 2019
She opened the window above his bed
(How else will his spirit rise?)
I could have said
that his is a spirit that defies convention -
domestic or foreign -
his spirit would not wait for our permission.
But instead I smiled
at the February chill and the gas bill
that would have made my dad shudder.
Memories of February 2000.
in the chronicles of our days,
the agonizing ones
are the most

flipping through pages
of history books
it’s always
war war war

expired lives
settling differences
with violence and force

and now the living must
barter time and
for absolution
in order to honor
the dead with tradition

but yesterday was yesterday
and yet we carried around
like dead weight
on our backs
without thought
of letting go

and somehow, someway
the problems we’ve already
countered seem to attack
us the most

as I stroke my beard
and watch them spin
down the endless well
of dread, sorrow
and regret.
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