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#certain
A responce, to a TV Preacher, justifying war: {I had misthought my initial mission, I keep my peace.} But I thought, What about you being no man's enemy, and no man's debtor, but any man's friend, when the friend is asking to share my just enough. I believe, I think, Just enough, is always plenty to share, some times, that stranger already missed a meal, and you've missed not even a snack, in weeks, years, perhaps, what worth to you your last piece of money, at that moment, here's the test, tell yourself, do the right thing, when you have the chance. Become the base line good, for you, steady, building piles of settled little ****** beasties what done give all the life each had, to add a bit of bubbly possibility, as to what it is to know, made up your good mastermind, and put it on, be like, you, when you were worth dying for, let the bubble bear the word of peace for the blink of an eye, we can make Jesus wink at all you never knew. --- now, ask why you feel so lost, listen good we came to do today, say, look ye hear, I done my gig, I did, and some shall someday swear, I did. Instant poverty, nearly anywhere, from the womb, boom, the weight is maddening. Instant riches, not so tough, depending on the defined worth in values of the cost to fix the problem, messed up to start with, Goddammed faulty knowledge acquisition application. Snakes alive, we were to be so wise. Run this by me again, said the judge. You believe that life is given to be used… some duty, to perform, which means living is free, but happy costs money, in the form of time spent doing things, and you personally leave being likely your duty is to make peace by acting like a snake? That's right, your honor, due to your perspication o'my cautious wish to be harmless as the enemy doves, as well as a little bit literate, for the future writing or reading, yes, reading pays, testing retention, what do you know about life and the universe, if you know **** Feynman said life was worth 64, before we were told the wrong question computed 42, with everything included. Something never computes, Will, Robin's son.
0
Oct 26, 2023
Oct 26, 2023 at 8:08 PM UTC
Aching for a title that is not misleading
A responce, to a TV Preacher, justifying war: {I had misthought my initial mission, I keep my peace.} But I thought, What about you being no man's enemy, and no man's debtor, but any man's friend, when the friend is asking to share my just enough. I believe, I think, Just enough, is always plenty to share, some times, that stranger already missed a meal, and you've missed not even a snack, in weeks, years, perhaps, what worth to you your last piece of money, at that moment, here's the test, tell yourself, do the right thing, when you have the chance. Become the base line good, for you, steady, building piles of settled little ****** beasties what done give all the life each had, to add a bit of bubbly possibility, as to what it is to know, made up your good mastermind, and put it on, be like, you, when you were worth dying for, let the bubble bear the word of peace for the blink of an eye, we can make Jesus wink at all you never knew. --- now, ask why you feel so lost, listen good we came to do today, say, look ye hear, I done my gig, I did, and some shall someday swear, I did. Instant poverty, nearly anywhere, from the womb, boom, the weight is maddening. Instant riches, not so tough, depending on the defined worth in values of the cost to fix the problem, messed up to start with, Goddammed faulty knowledge acquisition application. Snakes alive, we were to be so wise. Run this by me again, said the judge. You believe that life is given to be used… some duty, to perform, which means living is free, but happy costs money, in the form of time spent doing things, and you personally leave being likely your duty is to make peace by acting like a snake? That's right, your honor, due to your perspication o'my cautious wish to be harmless as the enemy doves, as well as a little bit literate, for the future writing or reading, yes, reading pays, testing retention, what do you know about life and the universe, if you know **** Feynman said life was worth 64, before we were told the wrong question computed 42, with everything included. Something never computes, Will, Robin's son.
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51
This year drawing to a close Mind clouded by memory; Your name Future is a mystery but one thing is certain Nothing ever will again be the same
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Dec 24, 2022
Dec 24, 2022 at 7:00 AM UTC
This Year...
You cannot fear the uncertain If you want to be certain.
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Sep 23, 2021
Sep 23, 2021 at 7:27 AM UTC
Certainty
in a movie i loved as a kid, the moon was seen as a sort of deity. the man in the moon told people who they were and what their destiny was. of course that movie was fictional and the characters were fake and so was the man in the moon. no one can tell me what my destiny is no one can tell me who i am or who i am going to be in a movie i loved as a kid, my love for the moon was born. and still when i look up at it i feel calm still uncertain, still searching but i know i don't have to do it alone because there may not be a man in the moon but nature will always be there for me
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Sep 12, 2021
Sep 12, 2021 at 6:03 PM UTC
the man in the moon.
There is no excusing what you did Not greater betrayal than that Heavier now than it was before That is certain fact
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Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 5:15 AM UTC
A Certain Fact
Of you, I am certain can it snow if the skies are cloudless blue? will I kiss tomorrow the person sitting bus opposite, who now gifts me love at first sight? can my children’s children love me more for who I am, and not just for who I am? knowing does true love have an uncertain beginning and a certain end? would I recognize peace of mind if I ever so blessed, had it in my possess? if the sun never returned, is happiness possible? can a broken heart mend itself without new love? Of all these, I am uncertain. Of you, I am certain! will this scrip of letters be beloved or overlooked and forgotten? will the day come sooner when self-rising, my eyes will be pleased at no new scar ‘discovery.’ my ears hear no snap crackle or pop, and my blood, pre-warmed, by a lover’s attentions, to happy coffee cooling and a poem-done at my feet? will my flaws be healed, scars laser erased, my muddled past, fall obedient to a blue skies, a white full moon embrace, yours? will today be the day, two feet identical, left and right banished, ten new colors invented and rainbow added, and sad illegal? will I awake somewhere over the rainbow one day, dreams coming true, troubles melted, way up high? Of all these, I am uncertain. Of you, I am certain!
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Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
Of you, I am certain
I asked about a man named Wealth Who lives nearby - just up the street I asked his nearest neighbors About Wealth, and when I could meet The neighbor on the left replied That Wealth was not a friendly guy And since this was the certain case To help us meet - he wouldn’t try And then the neighbor on the right Said “Wealth’s a super friendly man” “Easy to talk to - fun to see” Could we meet?  “We surely can” Both neighbors quick to answer But with such different views It left me puzzled right at first But soon I knew which view I’d use So Wealth and I remain good friends I’m happy that I know him well Get to know this man called Wealth Enjoy his home and with him dwell
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Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 10:23 AM UTC
A Man Named Wealth (Prosperity Poem 73)
Sleeping soundly on your memory now I dream of uncollected worlds Where young girls dance at summer weddings And foolish men take their cars for spins and whirls I've seen you less and less, in the headlights of happiness My onetime escape From you I'm free Within the dance of newfound reflectiveness, I'm free indeed
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Jan 12, 2020
Jan 12, 2020 at 10:14 PM UTC
Certain Sounds, Revisited
As I become the thing always feared See my life ending too fast Honest consequences catching up Chance after ruined chance Wasted mistakes consuming me Fall to my lowest point Scrambling to hold together It's no secret I'm a ****** Never following through my decisions Promising to be a greater person Screaming at reflection Cold to touch Colder to feel Thawing much too late But for certain Softly inviting something like love The wanting in my eyes Silently hoping affection One small kiss My biggest wish Must be dreaming No one will ever want this
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Dec 26, 2019
Dec 26, 2019 at 5:08 AM UTC
As I Become The Thing I Fear
Rich and dark, like apple cider on an October street corner I didn’t know you, dulcet and sweet Until the full weight of your intoxicating world washed over me
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Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 8:24 AM UTC
That Certain Autumn Look
I am humble when I’m aware that I don’t know anything for certain; that all I am aware of are philosophical-questions with uncertain changing answers.
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Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 5:06 AM UTC
Humility?
Bear’s certain it’s a bear alone with salmon it’s a bear on the mountain it’s a bear up a canyon it’s a bear eating berries it’s a bear sedated, carried it’s a bear answer, query it’s a bear clown or faery it’s a bear
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May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 9:14 AM UTC
It’s A Bear!
<> for the early morning teach <> she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed, in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse, yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch, until you accidentally once again path cross, she provides a precision mathematical status update "i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse." it is 1:38AM for you, the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour when the night ether has prematurely worn off, rising time close but not nearly close enough, a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate, and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain instead you turn on some belle string musique, a Grande Messe des Morts, a chorus, singing a high mass for the dead, while opening all your various email luggage and baggage, smiling as you read a poetess's message of laughter behind tears "i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse." and Mississippi ****** your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional Grenada grenade cocktail, flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's gentling sleep sounds, has you writing your own protest poem, your very own, oy vey, grande messe, about lives that were supposed to be pictures of perfect artistry and for but a word or two, instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down, and indeed, leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking, smiling recall Laurel and Hardy's summary definition of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures: "Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !" but 38% worse? not an even-steven rounded up 40%, should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach? or more accurately, more mathematically, 138% of what was writ before? and you recall your older, prior words about the love hate affair between you poet, and the beauty of written brevity (her style) and you give her this then, this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification, word attentiveness, a summary of your readings of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of pained poetry, it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient, a summarizing phrase that opens and yet briefly encapsulates all that you are feeling for her "thinking of you" or the 38% larger version thereof - ***"Well, here's another 38% more nice poetic mess you've gotten me into!"***
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Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse"
<> for the early morning teach <> she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed, in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse, yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch, until you accidentally once again path cross, she provides a precision mathematical status update "i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse." it is 1:38AM for you, the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour when the night ether has prematurely worn off, rising time close but not nearly close enough, a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate, and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain instead you turn on some belle string musique, a Grande Messe des Morts, a chorus, singing a high mass for the dead, while opening all your various email luggage and baggage, smiling as you read a poetess's message of laughter behind tears "i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse." and Mississippi ****** your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional Grenada grenade cocktail, flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's gentling sleep sounds, has you writing your own protest poem, your very own, oy vey, grande messe, about lives that were supposed to be pictures of perfect artistry and for but a word or two, instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down, and indeed, leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking, smiling recall Laurel and Hardy's summary definition of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures: "Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !" but 38% worse? not an even-steven rounded up 40%, should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach? or more accurately, more mathematically, 138% of what was writ before? and you recall your older, prior words about the love hate affair between you poet, and the beauty of written brevity (her style) and you give her this then, this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification, word attentiveness, a summary of your readings of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of pained poetry, it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient, a summarizing phrase that opens and yet briefly encapsulates all that you are feeling for her "thinking of you" or the 38% larger version thereof - ***"Well, here's another 38% more nice poetic mess you've gotten me into!"***
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67
why I love certain men it’s a raining and writing Saturday, a washout for the beach visitors who chose their calendar lottery tickets poorly but hurrah and huzzah for the poet in the no-sun-today-room with steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug, the rest of him cozied neath a wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket, from a now naked and shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent in the 1319 poems, in the ‘sorta started to do’ list **** new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless, serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!) I love most men; certain men more than others, not because they are soft to the touch, look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe, lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren, or write better poetry than me, because they make me weep from zealous delight at their capricious unprecedented constancy of their honorable actions they are soft to the core, which is itself wrapped in a leather soldered steel, which defines them by their self-questing constant, asking themselves preface and postface, doing it well, in between, what is the honorable thing? this honor idea of which writ previous doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger, like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn crying out to heavens at the concluding end on the holiest judgement day, a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder, ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun, reminding both sinners and saviour each, to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day, what is the honorable thing? some are borrowers and some lenders, of anything, the substance or the whom matters not, but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done, is of a uncharted organic chemical matter unrecognized but millennium ancient here I stop the call to breakfast must be obeyed, for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested, this is too an honorable thing to do, and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes, can be faced with new courage afterwards on a perfect raining and writing Summer Saturday for the next one hopefully and woefully may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah/Jewish New Year) when acorns fall certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day, when Atonement begins, a ten day process to the final conclusion, by asking of everything living and of every act human performed, for the forgiveness requested inherent in the absolute bar setting of what is the honorable thing? which by the by, is why I love certain women too... and all who are honorable will read this honorific and remain clueless as to whom it is addressed... oh god, I do so love that best! what could signal honor even more...
0
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 12:08 PM UTC
why I love certain men (what could signal honor even more)
why I love certain men it’s a raining and writing Saturday, a washout for the beach visitors who chose their calendar lottery tickets poorly but hurrah and huzzah for the poet in the no-sun-today-room with steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug, the rest of him cozied neath a wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket, from a now naked and shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent in the 1319 poems, in the ‘sorta started to do’ list **** new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless, serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!) I love most men; certain men more than others, not because they are soft to the touch, look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe, lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren, or write better poetry than me, because they make me weep from zealous delight at their capricious unprecedented constancy of their honorable actions they are soft to the core, which is itself wrapped in a leather soldered steel, which defines them by their self-questing constant, asking themselves preface and postface, doing it well, in between, what is the honorable thing? this honor idea of which writ previous doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger, like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn crying out to heavens at the concluding end on the holiest judgement day, a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder, ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun, reminding both sinners and saviour each, to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day, what is the honorable thing? some are borrowers and some lenders, of anything, the substance or the whom matters not, but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done, is of a uncharted organic chemical matter unrecognized but millennium ancient here I stop the call to breakfast must be obeyed, for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested, this is too an honorable thing to do, and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes, can be faced with new courage afterwards on a perfect raining and writing Summer Saturday for the next one hopefully and woefully may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah/Jewish New Year) when acorns fall certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day, when Atonement begins, a ten day process to the final conclusion, by asking of everything living and of every act human performed, for the forgiveness requested inherent in the absolute bar setting of what is the honorable thing? which by the by, is why I love certain women too... and all who are honorable will read this honorific and remain clueless as to whom it is addressed... oh god, I do so love that best! what could signal honor even more...
Continue reading...
69
If the world found a way to let us meet, on a holy ground, in an event with seats and intentionally our eyes meet, I won't see you as the person I once loved nor the person I still want to have for you're the person I'll always love but I didn't need to have. If the world granted us a chance to encounter each other's lives, inside a ride to a reception hall and happily shakes each other's hands, I won't regret the day we met nor the day you left; I'd thank you for leaving me to give me a chance to meet him. If the world made us happen, we'll be standing under ringing bells but it is impossible; so as I gaze at the sky, I won't wish for a chance to be with you nor a memory without a single trace of you. I'd wish happiness for the both of us regardless if we could've happened. And now I'm telling you this: Those ‘what if’s once killed me But I’m glad it led us here.
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Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 4:40 AM UTC
Certain
Blood drops pitter patter drop/ Pool underneath red/ Surely a sign you are dead
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Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
DIE DIE DIE
Yours is the kind of love I once wished The feeling that favored not just what I can give but who I am - light and dark. For years, it didn't change. Instead, it grew stronger with every spark. It's ever beautiful, peaceful and mild. It's what I can call mine. It's what I can call ours. We may be apart but ours is the feeling I'm quite certain as I am sure. For you embedded my heart with words that bring warmth like the sun's rays, Avec vous, toujours With you, always.
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Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
With You, Always
Meeting you was the prologue of a complicated story Memories with you were the chapters that developed the "love" felt all throughout the story Finding out that you'd rather have my best friend than me was the unexpected plot twist Breaking up with you was the epilogue of our story that turned bittersweet. You asking for a second chance was an invitation for a sequel But my dear, I'd say no to that For I cannot erase the period I placed At the end of our story.
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Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
Dear Lover
You lead my ears to water Thirsty once forever be For it is May and I intend To make this music mine to me Forever yours So is my artist To will his will Will ever be For this exists In both our minds In memories mixed With solidarity
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May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
Once Shared
Jesus looks down on me A tidal wave of hope Crushed and smashed against the rocks It drowns with everything else Somehow I make it to the nearest town Looking for shelter I stumble upon familiar roads See familiar faces Faces that may haunt me forever I climb up a lighthouse It should be the key out of here It should show me all my future It should have helped me Instead I only see the somber clouds And mystic fog settle in I can’t help but watch the water pull in and out again Drifting back and forth Moon playing tug-of-war I can’t stand looking at the familiar view The same thing over and over So I must ask myself these questions again: Do you know who you are? Do you know where you are? Do you know what has happened to you? Jesus send me another wave This time of peaceful realization Don’t send me away
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Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 2:36 AM UTC
Wavy Days
Everything i was fond of him Never existed in him, Instead Everything I love about you Is all that I kept seeking in him While , he was just a     m        i           r              a                 g                    e ; And here you're ! A certain      t       r          u              t                 h Of mine .. ©poojakaundal apr212018
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Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 2:59 AM UTC
I realised
By the grave of your every love, I have cried for nights. For the love they took to their graves and the life you have lost. This life that demands me to suffer without hope. This ocean that I never thought my feet would touch. The night seem so lonely, not having someone to look for me when I have lost my way inside the wreck of your life. Trying to heal the wounds that you never gave me the right to touch. The gravestone cries with me. Like this gravestone, I mark the life of the love you lost. There are certain deaths that must be lived.
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Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
Must Be Lived