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The untold existence of a situation welcomes in the fact of a happening.

It creates a movement of waves that direct you towards the right place.

The story of you is told in the midst of the forgotten love that you have for you or someone else.

I created you out of something, No, an Ideology that was mine.

The silence you experience is born out of the zeal that was born either out of your experience or just how you were made.

I love the story of you because it is an opening to

the story of me.

Although the story of me is not meant to be told


I tell it in relation to the story of you.
County seat, of Mason County, Washington,
United States Westernmost city on Puget Sound
above ground sans tectonic plates Population 9,834
per 2010 census end result from biological mates
maintains commission form of government
drafted by mandates.

Shelton served by small steamboats
comprising Puget Sound Mosquito Fleet
Old Settler, Irene, Willie, City of Shelton,
Marian, Clara Brown, & S.G. Simpson
logging, farming, dairying, ranching

& oyster cultivation for populace to eat
Simpson Timber Company mill on
Puget Sound's Oakland Bay over yon
dominates landscape of the downtown area
as essential heart beat Shelton identifies
the "Christmas Tree Capital" sold by the ton.

47°12′49″N 123°6′22″W (47.213702, -123.106088)
coordinate bench mark
total area of 5.9 square miles (15 km2),
of which 5.6 square miles (15 km2) land
0.3 square miles (0.78 km2) (5.60%)

water laps with an occasional errant shark
in a pinch captured, processed and canned
a delicacy that fin de siecle bony illegal
***** fined by the oceanic arc.

well nigh two decades in the past
this poet trekked across America
beginning in a place called Gap
Pennsylvania  - where stockpile
of Amish goodies barely did last

and vanished in a gingerly snap
of fingers, which necessitated
sustenance when van fueled i.e. gassed
up while myself or other driver stole short nap

seduced to sleep by syncopated tires
as highway miles passed inching closer
to youngest sister via this linear transcontinental lap
destination Seattle Washington indigenous
iconic statue cast.

Ronald Strickland a fine companion
Boone storyteller to boot about my age then
(five decades plus two), him trying to rake
in loot by writing about his travels, yet
unpretentious and no square at root

perhaps one day, I will surprise him
with a call and give him a toot
though on might deign to bellow
while atop the snow capped Mount Rainier

Taking in the august magic crystalline beauty
all year round:
whereat snowfall etches silhouette once dusk shed daylight
sketching in natural bas relief ascension from horizon
to heavenly height albedo effect from glistening snow light
luminescence transforming night into blinding sight
from pure flakes of incandescent white.
Eleanor Rigby Oct 2017
the zeal is upside down
i chase the dark sides
not of the moon
not of the story
but of you
and me.

-- Eleanor
Ignatius Hosiana Jan 2017
There Was An Old Farmer called Zelalem
Whose dream was to visit Jerusalem
for which he tilled crop and prayed for rain
to mint some buck albeit in vain
That relentless Old Farmer called Zelalem
A disease,

Luckily its curable..

When with great people,its never at ease,

To it,its invisible.

And everyone else invincible.

Its all about looking at what everyone else is doing,

And forgetting its own work.

Doesnt know where its going,

All it does is want to break.

Its hard living with that disease,

So lets give ourselves some remedy;

A piece of self acceptance to put your mind at ease,

A table spoon full of self love to revive your energy,

And big dreams to ignite your fire.
Ignatius Hosiana May 2016
If you are bound to quit,
you shouldn't have started
for much as reaching here
is a milestone,
Way past 12
yet still I am awake
the world sin,
in a pen
conforming lights,
this is the world now?
digitized in bytes
digitized in bites and bytes.
we are ever distant, we don't
gaze at each other on these nights
we just digitize , digitize bytes
process instead of feel
and distract ourselves
forever encased in the mud of the machine.
Lets jump on the lifeboat
and find ourselves homes
to root in, not another boot that breaks the skin
Emote, and feel
don't process
with a zeal that begs
Inspired by listening to Radiohead Pyramid song late at night,
or is it morning? :)
Cameron Greer Feb 2016
Beat-Up Old Car
Vastly under-appreciated possession
In dull blue, a MK1, no less, with original rust
Inside lingering scents of Exchange and Mart
top-notes of WD-40 and miscellaneous mix tapes

A car like this gets into your life
in lumpy knuckle-barking unsubtle ways,
stays there in subtle ones

That long drive back to Yorkshire
in the quintessential exemplar
Clutch cable snaps.
****** and ****.

Hardly helpful but can be accommodated
with enough thought
rough though it is
on starter motor
and nerves whenever
anticipatory powers inadequate
and we are forced
to a complete red-light stop

Brakes dodgier, exhaust noisier
than ideal or legal
elderly tyres flirt outrageously with slick tarmac
Showing their canvas underwear
and male-pattern baldness

Keeping this unstable, unsafe, unreliable
ultimately essential lump of metal
moving and on the road
is a fine art

Engaging, fluid and intense art;
The Clash and The Specials
Costello and The Cure in support

A distraction then
getting hauled over by plod
somewhere near Bury St. Edmunds
Thatcher's boys.

Tax? MoT? Insurance? ID?
No real interest shown

Any passengers in the back?
Clearly no.  Pickets?  
Pickets? What?
Please open the boot sir... Oh.
On your way lad. Drive carefully

I was, officer, I was
More than you will ever know
Thirty Years ago the conservative govt. under the egregious Margaret Thatcher, gleefully aided by a despicable bunch of oleaginous yes-men and sociopathic creeps, knocked into line by the creatively destructive ghoul Norman Tebbit...  ratchetted-up the creeping politicisation of the police force.   What she started has never been properly undone.  Yes, it's simplistic to point to one person alone as 'the cause', but her legacy remains and is as toxic and divisive as ever.
JR Rhine Dec 2015
My Jesus
does not shout his father's name
in a victor-trodden written page
in scenes atop mass unmarked graves.

My Jesus
does not begin sermons
preaching the "White Man's Burden"
treating a "Savage" as ill vermin.

My Jesus
does not parade down busy streets
holding signs of scorn and deceit
casting dour faces in their fallacy.

My Jesus
cries out his father's name
from a splintered cross in agonizing pain
his blood the payment of sin washed away.

My Jesus
tore the holy temple curtain
lifting the veil of the voyeurs uncertain
washing their ***** feet a humbling servant.

My Jesus
In the crowds victim to the zealots' decree
Widens his arms in the wake of their hypocrisy
He calls them all to him, tears streaming down his cheeks.
In response to my poem, "*** is a Gargoyle."
If there was a chance that a sliver of hope in humanity
still looms within your hallow chest;
still waves a portion of your resplendent soul like how the Hunyak calls for innocence undeclared;
still looks at the moon embraced by calcium coated rods, wishing it to quench its thirst
Will you let it revel in its over-zealousness?

If not, can you explain to me why,
why have you disowned your responsibilities to mankind despite it, like velcro, wailed when you tore it from your skin?
On the matter of the justice deprived, what say you?
Does it serve a lesser purpose than frolicking on streets, crimson bathed?
Has Billy shown you the razzle-dazzle of murderer's row?

As Legends wreak havoc with twin brigands,
slander who took a page from libel and read out loud —with a projected voice echoing throughout the ages— erroneous eyewitness accounts
and rancor who is bisexual to atrocity and entropy and seemingly engulfs himself in them,
you sat pretentious on your wheelchair
Over looking war from a peephole in a filthy blue washroom

The bombs that we drop are no longer metaphors to modern ears
Neither do sacred extremes keep their insatiable thirst for ruptured streets a thing of faded memory
Attacks on clergymen are no longer a painting born from a misinterpreted dream...

And you, no longer can you regain your innocence for you have witnessed the dilation of dense war, pulling and ******* every ray of light from hope that it sees

Yet you did nothing.

If there is still a speck of humanity in the mind of a mechanical automaton like you,
Will you let it rip apart steel skin and touch the lives of those like you?
Will you let it carve a symbol on your forehead, to let people know you are to save the dying hope in humanity
Or will you let it bid farewell to fair weather forevermore?
Or even more so, will you let it brand you so that every time you hear its call for justice inside you, you cry an ocean of dissatisfaction?

In the matter of a dishevelled world, what say you?
Read more of my works on: brixartanart.tumblr.com
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