#ethos
Experience was without form,
And so I shaped instinct.
Between them was love,
And so they gave birth to intelligence-
But intelligence grew alone,
So they adopted wisdom.
And wisdom loved intelligence,
And honored their parents,
So they created a family.
There were all the emotions,
And all together they built a home.
There was the body,
Something physical to provide shelter.
We called the land Elysium,
And we were the Ethos.
Aug 26, 2024
Aug 26, 2024 at 2:15 PM UTC
My name is an identity
Everything else
Just call those credentials
Feb 13, 2020
Feb 13, 2020 at 7:18 PM UTC
“[At the moment, the human world is a corrupt force.] Greed has poisoned [human lives], has barricaded the world with hate, and has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical. Our cleverness, hard and unkind. We think too much and [understand] too little.
However [some] continue, indefatigably, to reach out. There’s just no way [a few of us] can single-handedly save the world or, perhaps, even make a perceptible difference – but how ashamed [those few] would be to let a day pass without making one more effort.
[Like water, we can be] the highest good. Water gives life to the ten thousand things, and [does not fear its courses]. It flows in places humans reject and so [creates unity]. [It is an element that] can take any form. [Water] can drift without effort one moment, then pound down in a torrent the very next [moment, as a single force]. [And yes, It is true that the efforts of those few] amount to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean. Yet what is any ocean, but a multitude of drops?
[Now just] Imagine a world in which every single person on the planet has free access to the sum of all human [unity]. In dwelling, [we could] be close to the land. In meditation, [we could] go deep in the heart. In dealing with others, [we could] be gentle and kind. In speech, [we could] be true. In ruling, [we could] be just. In business, [we could] be competent. In action, [we would be sure to] watch the timing and the season. We may even have no reason to fight each other, and thus no reason to blame each other.
In [our] hands, my fellow [droplets], will rest the final success or failure of our course. Since [civilization began], each of our generations has been summoned to give testimony to [the greatness of life.] We’ve all wanted to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other’s happiness – not by each other’s misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another. In this world there is room for everyone. And the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone. The way of life can be free and beautiful.
Now the trumpet summons us again—not as a call to bear arms, though arms we need; not as a call to battle, though embattled we are—but a call to bear the burden of a long twilight struggle, year in and year out, “rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation”—a struggle against the common enemies of man: tyranny, poverty, disease, and war itself.
In the process of [this struggle], we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct [this struggle] on the high plains of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our [honest efforts] to degenerate into [criminal high jinks]. We must rise to the majestic heights of meeting [corrupt] force with [pure] force, [or suffer the failure of our efforts under an inequitable and desperate silence.]”
Dec 23, 2019
Dec 23, 2019 at 4:23 PM UTC
words tucked into child minds forming in the mold,
depeche mode, fashion wisdom
blooming in
starstruck lunacy of lost meaning
****** Airline driving Jet Blue
as a sign, you know we
rise and ask redemption
this instant
toiling with tools the psalmist dreamed
and all the first cantors sang
in genuine gentle
spirit of...
genius (n.)
late 14c.,
"tutelary or moral spirit"
who guides and governs
an individual through life,
from Latin genius
"guardian deity or spirit which watches over each person from birth; spirit, incarnation; wit, talent;"
also
"prophetic skill; the male spirit of a gens,"
originally
"generative power"
(or "inborn nature"),
from PIE *gen(e)-yo-,
from root *gene- "give birth, beget,"
with derivatives referring to procreation and familial and tribal groups.
Sense of
"characteristic disposition"
of a person is from 1580s.
Meaning
"person of natural intelligence or talent"
and that of "exalted natural mental ability"
are first recorded 1640s
and remaining in super position watching
until
we see we be agreed and symbiosis sets in
upto unto upon a time
stumbled into uttering urgent fervent
prayer, simple asking, what remains broken
what quest unmade, unmade imagined asif
this is life's book interpreting your
translation of reason into I'll go rythmic
waves rising from great notions stuck
in the mire at the bottom o' th'ocean
stirred up by trouble peace bringing in times of
see-change
settling in on of by bis more again or less
waiting is all suffer ever meant to mean,
mean men made each furrow seem
too hard to *** in final
throes of
terminal toil
debitum in praesenti, solvendum in praesenti
debt due now, paid. It is finished.
Good news
darkness consummatum
light
fashioned in the mode of our time
powered for ever by happy Sisyphus's
rock rolled up
rock rolled down
by grace of gravity being the law
reach out
ceive con re de ceive (if you know
what I mean, taken for granted)
praesentium tedium t'do doodle do
touch faith, fingers fail, toe-tippy reach
topple the tinker-toy tower where war once reigned
back ground Johnny Cash praisin' Dylan from the dead
out in the desert, just doin my time--
waitin' by a pile of Hopi
nilhili-pili rocks rolling no more
sitting still in rasta farian blank spaces
between the pieces of we
carried to now as you see. We are in this real,
as real angel messages
made magnificent in worth as
words
worth deeming worship's solventum
songs from the po et tu brutes, breakin' rocks
back down the line,
scarlet thread sewn tendon
anchored to my zen minded ped-dance
kick the liar from his throne,
claim it for my own, my pile of flocci nauci
meaninglessness of weightless worship
turned on, with a merest touch.
No flame,
no night. Words alone reign un fused, un frozen,
new mercies
rising in the sunshine of a rich man
with a satisfied mind,
as time rolls by.
Cohen told us there is a crack in everything,
that's how the life gets in
this bubblin ethosphere we offer
as a sacred secret shown in light of all we share.
Clap clapper in liberty's cracked bell.
Let us lieve well enough alone for the time,
being once rung, listen,
other bells ring still with that pathos we share
logically as mere words.
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 1:38 PM UTC
The word I. The idea, ego. Me, relative to you.
I am, but you may not know that. May is your word here.
May be is all yours
to follow in the flow of
all that
anyman,
(wombed or un nevergoes unsaid some days,)
any among the lot o' ye, may be able to swim thru if
it don't get thick.
I, a-poli-gize, bow down, kau-tau, or no--
un appolo getic magic tech
I stand, sistere, my command,
in this realm, I command lies to stand in light and
I redeem the idle words from the ashes.
Okeh that's my job. I am not a messenger, I sweep.
When walls come down and chains are cut, it's amess.
I become the besom sweeping up the destruction.
--- why is any line after any line. sirius, you have to ask.
orthodox definitions serve as ample chains to hold any
child to the post where today's
sufficiency of evil squats
quotidianishit, day after day. I find such chains,
I cut them with the fruit of my lips,
shape-shifted to the sword,
from the stone,
you know the one...
then bing back to me through a google plex of porbables
fighting spelchek to go viral.
A blind me, I lied, and saw the light. Dumb luck.
And then, rather than, lie once more and say,
I can't believe this,
I am that sword, still be, and know.
eh.
I, the word,
I did it. I made a point and a word formed,
as a bubble might
under relative circumstances. I know, round and round.
If this were a game, this is a key. (ah, a secret here.)
if this were a game, and I were playing.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 11:23 PM UTC
a dogma
that inter-
nuncio drew
sultry where
gotham despite
arms was
proctor of
circle that
could emboss
pathos in
guise of
rouge that
flew in
grace still
an alkaloid
with quantum
effect beyond
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 1:30 AM UTC
"Don't waste your hate. Rather gather and create. Be of service. Be a sensible person. Use your words and don't be nervous. You can do this you got purpose. Find your medicine and use it." - Nahko Bear
Our medicines are the gifts and passions that make us so uniquely elegant
Still those who doubt and hold you back will say those things aren't relevant
But it must be shared and given to heal others and your self
This does not just concern your purpose; its an issue of your spirit's health
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
You have been through so much
Wounded and bruised on all sides
Standing at the edge of this cliff;
Feet slipping with disturbing thoughts
The world is a narrow path, dotted
With uncertainties and cruelty
A terrain, victory so unpredictable
Coup de grace may seem the only option
You, you have the warriors ethos in you
Shield thy heart from the volcanic ramblings
Forlorn hope, in frontal attack, come what may;
Conquering your personal demons and fears
You win, from the inside out!
Copyright 2014 || McDaniels Gyamfi
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
All I've ever had in my possession were bones.
The framework of a biological nuisance, something empty
on the inside, though full of what any of us may call life.
At the least, the semblance of which we can be convinced:
parading a corpse across the bridge, most talented thespian in space;
and medicine, the hobby you picked up so you could learn to ignore death.
You are too old, now, to foolishly believe you can outrun death,
the inevitable silence that haunts your dreams and soaks through your bones.
You breathe in too quickly, too aware of the emotional cavity, of the space
between your thoughts and your actions. Your words have always been empty,
a reminder of the very symbol of your own faith, though you aren't convinced
that you, yourself, can ever measure up to that vivacity that floods his life.
Repeat that in your mind, over and over; that the anomalies in this life
can be proven as effects of the reckless and the brave, that their death
is ultimately yours to cause or to save. So, of your own importance, you are convinced,
and you know you are the best, always have been -- always, Bones.
So don't waste your energy on the thought that all of his promises are empty
and trust, instead, that this lunatic, this love, will survive all of space.
There's nowhere for you to escape this bitterness; indeed, no space
for you to claim as your own, your sanctuary. No chance of a separate life
when you've had all you can stomach of this insanity, this empty
endless game you've boxed yourself up in, until you surrender yourself to death,
to the simple cessation of your repetitive motions -- but, no, Bones;
he will never stop. His life will continue, his body and soul immortal -- of this, you are convinced.
No, he'll keep on going, as perilously as before; of his invincibility, you are convinced,
but you, yourself are, as ever, determined to follow his failures through space,
to diligently spout your expletives and condemnations and advice; you are now, as then, his bones,
and you never forgot that. Just as he never forgot who takes credit for his life,
his bones, his common sense --- you alone have, time and time again, forced death
to hang its weary head and return and yet, his own promises are empty.
You've learned to scoff at his vows of safety; his idiocy, you could handle. Still, empty, too, were his promises of faith. His loyalty, he proved, but you stay thoroughly convinced
that alone would he remain, had you considered your logic. Somehow still, like death,
the logic was an inevitability, and you learned to detest one trait in all of space.
You can see his faith fading as it goes, as logic proves itself a thief of your life,
and you lament the truest fact of all -- no longer could you be his bones.
And so I've managed to pull my empty shell together, as he never could, for in space
nowhere can I hide from the death of my ethos; yes, in space alone I dedicate my life.
And I am, as he was convinced, an honest man. I end as I begin -- with all I've ever had: Bones.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC