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Hugo gave
A top hat, to save
A night of times, singing about freedom...

What is first?
Sakes alive, the richness of a host...
Or the significance, of have for worst?

Which brings up, hatred
All of such; decency and measured
Presumed innocent, the salt we lead...
Is a family of sincerity, fated as curious?

With worth as an asking marvel...
Is now and never, ever how?
Worth one more look at hell...
Was kin the many, any to avow:

Courage for a new friend...
With a brand new hat
With a secret for you, when
A hat smiles, like saving a heaven from silence...
Make a choice from three days alone; two ways to atone, a single voice to own and of course none, to see you run faster than a sunshine sung. Can, rancor, and cope - do they ever know when to win an argument?
Ken Pepiton Feb 12
What is a daemon?
In computing, a daemon (pronounced DEE-muhn) is a program that runs continuously as a background process and wakes up to handle periodic service requests, which often come from remote processes.
Did no one ever tell you, child,
never swear for no excuse,
plead guilty,
confess you was beguiled,
indeed. By some when
back then you had kin, what
made time to preform
the secret baby making.

Once upon a time,
we were always orphans,
from first whipper snappers used
to scrape tar from industrial chimneys.

Songs of Innocense in a new age,
learning old religions decay to mythos,

whence new religions tie memorium,
whence each season we return to recall

our broken spirits, how so and so sang,
lala live for today, la la live for today,

some same stories we recall, links,
URLs, to old sessions recording history,

close your eyes and drift away, listening,
much as winds seem to do, returning
on their circuits from collection
to collection, paid attention tokens, believed
to soften the hull on the gospel seed sown
to a cultivated faith, planted to propagate,

the idea of a secret code Truth uses in spirit form,
the Truth of truths, which, if known, even once,
makes the captive free,

mentally, happy as one can imagine,
under unchanging immutable terminii enforcing

Order, called for, order in the court
of geeky oddball poetic discerners of like or love or not,

Thought traditions trades across epochs forming news,
too much to think about while considering sidereal extents.

Desiderata, poetic license, madejathank, Christian Nation,

Conquistadores were still heroes in 1954,
when the generation first born in the United Nations
victory forever standardization of historical information,
- Boomers stepping aside, survivors come to remember
- first were we to be graded by machines for marks
- made in Number two pencils rounded to one swipe
- width, right answers, only, only, one swipe between
- the lines, esoteric practice for precision aim.

to be overseen by servants of the victorious economy,
as pieces resorting to old formerly used rules of conduct,

smell the wind the strange idea carries,
worth weight, pushing power, pumping umph,

known cost of use, userer's fee, faith, the story held true,

with the evidence in the box, the bag, the sacred bundle,
all but forgotten, faith becomes the evidence of things unseen,

children are told
to hold these truths, those being taught you,
as you line up
in patterns
of proven paid attention, facing the flag

child, you should remember, wordless, for lack of a phraze,
thinking What? What am I pledging, what is pledging, I swear

I mean, I swanee, by golly, gosh ****, shucks, I ghucking did not know.
Feeling chthonically frisky on a warm day after a long storm, called an atmospheric river these days.
Zywa Feb 12
With dry pods and bags

filled with granules we're rising --

little whirls of wind.
"Deep Listening" - Composition "Wind Horse - 2" (1962, Pauline Oliveros), performed in the Organpark on February 10th, 2024, by ensemble MAZE, with participation of the audience

Collection "org anp ark" #366
A force of nature sound,
It will come in a black plague.
No burials left mound,
Bodies dismantled and vague.
Not much all suffering,
Some souls will want to go down.
No Heaven’s dish to bring,
Body after body pound.
Those who will see the blast,
Will live alive all to tell,
For whatever left last,
Will be alone left to dwell.
Come forth the wise to help,
Boiling madness to welp.
Bekah Halle Jan 31
My tent pegs expand,
As I ride.
Wind glides over my skin,
Fear has no place to hide.

A foreigner in my childhood town,
Obstacles abound; pride.
But I don't give in,
I ride. Troubles subside.
Zywa Jan 20
Boxes in the wind,

rolling on, getting one kick --

after the other.
Novel "Maurits en de feiten" ("Maurits and the facts", 1986, Gerrit Krol), § 19

Collection "Actively Passive"
neth jones Jan 18
winter warfare
torments our dwellings brickwork
night of casualties
aggressive plague on my dreams
wakes me  to be visited
tanka style
Heidi Franke Nov 2023
The forecast on the radio
I didn't need.
I felt it coming
In and through the threads of my light sweater
Tickling my skin so my arms embraced
One another.

The barometer falling
As are the remaining Ash leaves
Of yellow, like canaries rushing about
Certainly saying goodbye
To the past
As they must
When the wind picks up.

Hurling chilly
whips of wind
The East canyon
Announcing its arrival
I think of my warmest coat
And how long I'll have to wear it
As I sit on the porch in my shivering
Bare feet listening for what is to come
The seasons change
How will I?
Contemplating arrival of winter storm, the loss of one season to another. Will I make changes?
Andy Hewitt Nov 2023
A poem for cyclists with tech.

When one is by-cycling,
And the wind is anything but charming.
The direction that doth wind blow
Is the SAME as on your Garmin.

When one is by-cycling,
And the wind propels you like a teen.
The direction that doth wind blow
Is OPPOSITE as what’s on your screen!
Composed in favourable wind conditions
Heidi Franke Oct 2023
To heal,
Journal they say
Like a worm in the dirt
Of my front lawn
Sliding, pushing through
Air pockets
Arduous, unending crawl
No words come
To mind
Where can I breathe

To heal,
Journal they say
Words don't come easy
They fly up like
Torn pages of a book
Riffed, stolen letters of some name
In the nameless wind
Grasping what isn't there,
A cynical continuing void

To heal,
Journal they say
My hands become deaf and blind
The pages curl and mold
Pen and paper inventing before I have begun
All I have is the deep
The deepest inside
That comes here
Traversing incredulity, while I

To heal, they say
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