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The more I live,
the more I wish
to be that boring guy
at the party who's
too busy and happy
living his life
to be able to tell others
about it...
Timmy Shanti Mar 21
Put pen to paper
- it's so simple -
And wield the might
Of countless words!

Be brave and daring
Or... be nimble:
Your thoughts can be
As sharp as swords.

Pick up a pencil
- pen a poem -
Enlighten, thrill and entertain!
But once it does spring from your *****,
What sway is there to retain?..

The words you say
Are gone forever!
Life of their own,
So free at last!

By humbly scribbling
You endeavour
To stay the future and the past...

Partake in pleasure
- pure and proper -
Both art and craft, it's eons old!

Tread lightly!
There's a world on offer,
A slew of stories to be told.
Happy World Poetry Day!
21 -iii- 2020
Carl Halling Jul 2019
Oh! With what unspeakable anguish
Do I regret the vocation
I came so close
And so oft to having
The sweet acclamation
That might have been mine.

Had I tried and failed,
That would scarcely concern me,
Yet, I squandered my resources
Time and time again,
And failed so unnecessarily,
That is what so torments me.

I only wish I could contemplate
More than a mere handful
Of past achievements with pride
And satisfaction,
But even this paltry compensation,
Remains stubbornly beyond me.

Oh! With what unspeakable anguish
Do I regret the vocation
I came so close
And so oft to having
The sweet acclamation
That might have been mine.
'Oh! With What Unspeakable Anguish' almost certainly dates from late May 2019, when it was conceived in a state of genuine anguish (as clearly evidenced by the piece’s title), related to my past; although this has since faded, so that I don’t feel it so intensely at the time of writing, viz., a little under two months after it assumed its final shape on the 16th.
I dream a dream of skill,
I gather pictures of best practice
(methods best enacted off the couch.)
I house,
crisp corners, soaring beams and posts
where gawkers marvel, ‘cos
the high is feeling good. I see
the woods
and watch the owners.
(What good grip they have! enough to claim
what they could never care for-
let the lessers sing their lives!)
I drive a drive
not fast enough for fastness-makers,
flaunting logos, polished chrome,
I drive a loan.

None say it, none will ever hear
these soft confessions to
the “here” I hold right now
in its un-good. I slip
a “should” on, halfway,
dumping it for snacks and cons -
I run for miles
to lose it on the lawn.

And as I break, I pause to
watch a bit to see how not to fail.
I land in jail. The wardens
never speak to me,
the only copy of the key
described in stories, but
they’ve scattered every page.
And every day I fail
to reconstruct it out of naught,
I age.
Terry Collett Aug 2018
The taxi dropped me off
at the end of the drive.

I wanted to walk up
the avenue of trees
to the monastery
and leave the outer world
by a slow walk.

It was September
and the August
warmth remained
and birds flew overhead.

Half way up the drive,
I saw three black robed monks
walking towards me.

I knew them all
from my previous visits.

This time it was to stay
and take my place
amidst them all.

Words of welcome
and enquiries of my health
and state of mind
and humour to relax me
as we entered
the porter's lodge
of the abbey.

A sense
of nervousness
entered me.

The world and its works
left behind and the inner world
of this desert would
shape me and prepare me.

After the introduction
and cheer, a brother took me
to my room or cell
as it was called
and watched and talked
as I unpacked my things.

He studied the books
I unpacked: Story of a Soul,
Confessions of St Augustine,
one Bible and poems of Hopkins.

He left me and said
he would return later for me
for the Office of None;
two others came
so I wasn't alone.
v Mar 2018
My religion teacher doesn't care about the arts.
But what if I don't care about religion?
My parents forced me to go to a catholic school. But I am going to study arts in college. Why can't you accept that the arts is some peoples vocation in life. You explain in class how things we're good at or find an attracting too at a young age is our vocation. I fell in love with the arts at a young age.
Stop being a hypocrite Mr.Majewski and respect the arts.
I'm not religious.
Seanathon Sep 2017
When did I let this vocation of mine?
Which I've worked so hard for
Become the main reason and meaning of me?

When exactly did it happen
That my passion slipped and fell to the ground
Like the seasons passing on an endless tree?

I said I wouldn't forget once I had
I said many things of myself back then
Be it most confident or most arrogantly

A vow is a vow to those who uphold
But what are the words to the man within?
Who forgets himself in his own externalties
Truth and honest. Doesn't mean there's action.
Steve Page Jul 2017
Tomorrow I'll rejoin the fray,
Seeking to keep us all a little safer; Restraining, revoking,
Cajolling, provoking,
Addressing those who fail to see
A more enlightened way
Of treating the wider community.
Workers seek to save
And secure a future for their families
While navigating over-selling audacity,
Under-disclosure with a lack of clarity,
And obscure charging opacity
Or plain old mis-selling strategies.
So thanks, but I'll pass on that job hint
And continue rummaging through the regulatory tool kit,
And find the spanner that'll fit
The next nut that I'll inevitably be faced with.
It's great to hear your stories,
But for now I'll continue where I best fit
Pursuing retail investigations
With my best forensic slick.
I'm an investigator specialising in financial services, seeking to protect retail customers. It's frustrating and tiring work.  Some colleagues move back to private practice or the industry.  22 years on I prefer to stay in the fray.
E C Vadnais Aug 2016
The boat shudders against this force.
Thirty feet the rolling water comes against the bow.
Now again I hold the wheel, chance the wave,
Sliding down with a sickening sound,
Tossed hard up, careening down.
After the light I may be safe and sound.

Cold, cold this haggard wind.
Fail nothing now. Rolling up, hissing down,
Flesh against wood and the sickening sound,
Holding this craft against the shudder,
Hands bloodied from this rough rudder.
After the light I can be safe and sound.

The chance was taken, but no option ever given.
As they in my past did, so do I:
To sea to fish, to master whatever I see.
So to this storm-wracked sea I go with prayer
To see again the land and family.
After the light I will be safe and sound.



© 2016
Jess Hays Jul 2016
The feeling panicked my veins
Racing through me like a hurricane
Drowning all ability and faith

For years, my soul was the way of a drought
Rations of strength became food for doubt
Childhood dreams kept falling, from me, out

Like a shooting star, it was an intoxicated rush
I licked the future's candle out, but not enough
There I was, and there it came all at once

I was floating the air with a net
The intention of it getting set
But this wasn't the newest and best
Rather the same, but bigger than it used to get
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