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#distilled
hits my system and I shake six days fermentation aged for four years in oak barrels walks across my grave I've distilled time into a shiver
0
Dec 8, 2024
Dec 8, 2024 at 6:36 AM UTC
bourbon
#*Death stands at The broken door At despair None to repair Life stands still Up the hill Lonely the breeze Plays at its will To sway And move along The winds of change At every bend Stands the door Repaired hinged And life moves on Clear, distilled*#
0
Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 12:19 PM UTC
Distilled
Storm the beach with sand-filled eyes. Burying hatchets along the way.   Let the turtle dove rest in your palm. Hum the hymn for the sinful demise. Bless the butcher and embrace the calm. Lay in the gravel, embrace the newest day. Driftwood and briar leaves, brambles and hay. Dance with your demons, sever your earthly ties. Destroy all around you, burn down the psalms. Just turn off your mind, your balance, your sway. It is time now dear child, you shall retire your qualms. It is time now young darling to release your final sighs.
0
May 29, 2020
May 29, 2020 at 12:13 AM UTC
A time for an expired moment, an elapsed shade of grey
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial.  On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death. Open sky annulled to bordered lines of uptown edges, worldview momentarily forcibly redefined by memories of buildings and sadder days, recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising A photograph makes me look up, and sit down historically, need to catch a breath, to rest mentally, upon a storied small bridge's steps, that I well recall, a disappeared street stoop. all were rubble then and once upon that day. Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective, but the hardy heart is hardly stilled by the recognizable gray upon bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of memories of buildings and sadder days So today, on a reborn street, I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone, the city's lowered down ledges, the city's lowered down-town boundaries, constantly redrawn, but nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own regenerated stony compost, and the NY passersby doesn't even notice a man, head in hands, silently weeping, thinking that: We throw away so much we should have kept. We keep so much we should have thrown away. Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses locked away in compartments that open only to benedictions uttered in ancient tongues. Make your own list, be your own curator, catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs, museum mile pile those early poetic drafts, be unafraid of memories raw and ungentrified, overlaid, buried underneath postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques Finally went downtown to see where the blessed water falls into catacomb pits that once were the foundations of buildings that ruled the cityscape, downtown anchors for a modern city that exists only because it was built on million year old granite bedrock Stone monuments are stolid, discrete. Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency. Negatives resurrected that survive digitally, all blend synthetically, layer upon layer, essence distilled in a single, black and white photograph that serves to disturb complacency,   awaken stilled pain, reflections suppressed, are restored
0
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
9/11 Distilled
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial.  On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death. Open sky annulled to bordered lines of uptown edges, worldview momentarily forcibly redefined by memories of buildings and sadder days, recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising A photograph makes me look up, and sit down historically, need to catch a breath, to rest mentally, upon a storied small bridge's steps, that I well recall, a disappeared street stoop. all were rubble then and once upon that day. Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective, but the hardy heart is hardly stilled by the recognizable gray upon bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of memories of buildings and sadder days So today, on a reborn street, I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone, the city's lowered down ledges, the city's lowered down-town boundaries, constantly redrawn, but nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own regenerated stony compost, and the NY passersby doesn't even notice a man, head in hands, silently weeping, thinking that: We throw away so much we should have kept. We keep so much we should have thrown away. Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses locked away in compartments that open only to benedictions uttered in ancient tongues. Make your own list, be your own curator, catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs, museum mile pile those early poetic drafts, be unafraid of memories raw and ungentrified, overlaid, buried underneath postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques Finally went downtown to see where the blessed water falls into catacomb pits that once were the foundations of buildings that ruled the cityscape, downtown anchors for a modern city that exists only because it was built on million year old granite bedrock Stone monuments are stolid, discrete. Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency. Negatives resurrected that survive digitally, all blend synthetically, layer upon layer, essence distilled in a single, black and white photograph that serves to disturb complacency,   awaken stilled pain, reflections suppressed, are restored
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67
Pure, clear,refreshing, Offers life, Turbulent,stormy, tempestuous, Drowns life.
0
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
Water
The water in the glass is clear as a pool It cools my throat in relief I have been dying of thirst Without even knowing What it is like to drink water Playing in puddles of mud and moss I never thought to search for higher ground Keeping like a child Stuck on the earth's surface Feet planted on the sticky stuck When the discovery of the body of water Led me to clean out my bucket of shells In this cave from which water is falling from Wilderness' Fresh water springs from his mouth Nothing tastes cleaner than that
0
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
Glassy Water
They can get it without dying as a Jihadi, But not from a Mullah they will get it, They'll get it from science instead!
0
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 2:54 AM UTC
If Distilled Water Is All They Seek