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Basking in the glow of a lacerated sun
Dripping blessed rays, life pools in an agonising emptiness.
Smile upon me with your godless grace
Light of life, prying open a necrophyte visage
Spotlight upon a murderous parade
Of life and happiness. Always watching with
Catastrophic intent and purging flame.
Behold the beacon of rage as it rips
At your vision. Blinding illumination.
A scar in the sky.
Cataclysmic vista.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 18
once again the fog draws me in,
speaking fog soft,
“of me, of me, you must,”
so write-birthing,
I am mustered out,
permissioned,
commissioned,
so ordered.

This fog is personal, in your face, changing by
masking/unmasking street and bay, slow burning,
this one, revealing a tableau, like a theater curtain
rising to audience applause for the set before them,
so unexpected, eye-delighting, pleasuring perspective.

why should you care? what matters this to you?

your fog likely little different, in the Cascades,
Everest, the California coastline morning burning off,
not costing anyone’s life, the Blue Ridges smoking meats,
the Quatse River saying, follow me to the Alaska glaciers,
(in the Midwest, some states, use rivers as boundaries,
so they like the fog to keep the ‘neighbors’ on the other side),
the twin Ghats, or mourning steam rising from the Ganges,
or the Zambales Mountains, guarding Manila Bay entrance,

all mine, here too, so slow retreating, gifting a quiet, wider
bay vista tween two islands, one Long, one sheltered.

so wrong, it matters so, none beyond compare!

these mountain or river comparison, white or gray,
listen friend, look closer, see my face, my words
fogging your soul’s view, full of carryover affection,
so deep, they borrow West Virginia coal miner~heroes
to dig it out, a different kind of mining,
but,
nonetheless,
mine.

so it is here, I see your multi-colored faces like
light flickers shedding clarity to these troubled times,
troubled waters, saying here we are, we are!


we here, outside your window, on waters calming,
see us dancing, but it’s so hard for me spot you in
the mists, for mine eyes are clouded, misted over too,
glasses fogged now, **** these **** tears.
8:53am
Jun 18th
Year of the Mask
You know where...


Eugene O'Neill

“The fog was where I wanted to be. Halfway down the path you can’t see this house. You’d never know it was here. Or any of the other places down the avenue. I couldn’t see but a few feet ahead. I didn’t meet a soul. Everything looked and sounded unreal. Nothing was what it is. That’s what I wanted—to be alone with myself in another world where truth is untrue and life can hide from itself. Out beyond the harbor, where the road runs along the beach, I even lost the feeling of being on land. The fog and the sea seemed part of each other. It was like walking on the bottom of the sea. As if I had drowned long ago. As if I was the ghost belonging to the fog, and the fog was the ghost of the sea. It felt ****** peaceful to be nothing more than a ghost within a ghost.”


― Eugene O'Neill, Long Day's Journey into Night
Ken Pepiton Jul 2019
there's this old crow,

comes around most mornings to perch in
the momma pine who
sowed her chil'ren
down *****.

The crow seems to speak through a bluetooth
of nature

he caws asif conversing, re-plying layers
of nuance on my mileau.

Listen, I say to him,
I want you to be my friend.

He sits, quiet.
Not disturbing my peace.

I take that for a yes.
Peace, be still
rgz Mar 2019
From
yester to yonder
the mountains would wander
and ponder on what they should do
"Let's visit the forest." "Let's trek through the desert."
"Let's dip in the cold ocean blue." "Let's travel the poles."
"Let's dig a big hole." "No, let's swim through a river or two."
East, West, North and South, they circled round, never settling down
Until one day they caught sight of you. Not before had there been
a more enveloping scene, they knew at once what they would do.
So they settled their feet, "Let's stay here." they agreed and to this day they still haven't moved
The place,
Where the clouds
Meet the mountains
The vista of it ,
To get lost within
Its euphony,
The higher
And higher
It is
The more beauteous
It becomes
Times wrath
And
To be infrangible
Absent Motility Against Staid Inertia

impossible to describe listlessness
     bedeviling this body electric aye attest
motivation to counter glumness
     seizes motility temporarily

     to stave off staid purposeless at best,
yet aware poetic obfuscation chest
barely delineates fierce hopelessness
     assailing me,

     when'r awake and/or at everest
feeding melancholy feedback loop
     sparring against faintest
momentum - writhing psyche,

     asper an unwelcome guest
emotional friction
     bringing motionlessness,
     where lunging futility

     summoning ability
     to muster joie de vivre
     defeated willpower
     no matter mental health

     propped up
     with pharmacological medications
     prescribed by Doctor George Adams be hest,
yet tis NOT suicide, but general malaise
     as if poison (or stung by a scorpion) jest

permeates thy being
     sparking existential angst
     hoop fully communicating figurative soffits
     facilitating emotional bulwark lest

ye **** sitter
     this lix spittled chap messed
up in the head, but also that empty nest
syndrome - aa bird den, and nefarious pest

disallowing merrily rowing my boat
     subjected to turbulence that doth wrinkle
     space/time continuum quest
punctuating any attempt

     to take fig yurt heave Newtonian rest
without being assailed
     of drab quotidian predictability
     re: envious papa

     towards daughters adventurous lives
     he rejoices (albeit vicariously)
respective lives where offspring lasso lassitude,
     viz both their electric kool aid acid test
how fate didst in vest
waning wily woebegone zest!
Alienpoet Sep 2017
Existential views
Church bell blues
Christian old news
Messiah complex
Respectful specs
Saviour syndrome old tech
Love in the heart of the wild
A sky cannot be outsourced or out styled
It has millions of vistas and views
I will never be old news
We are the sky
We will never die
Or sink into religious why's
Who is Daniel Hooks?
Neither a robber or a crook
Just a man who looks
Into the depths
like the mind who crept into a unfinished novel
I keep your secrets in my hovel.

— The End —