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Dead Rose One Jun 2015
Lush is the quietude
of the late Saturday afternoon,
rich are the silencing sounds,
as variegated as the shades of greens
of a man-seeded, nature-patchworked lawn

rays reveal some bright,
some yellowed spots,
all a potent color palette

resting worry wearied eyes,
untroubled by the gentle fading light's illumination,
that soon will disappear and seal officially,
another week gone by

the lawn,
acting as an ceiling acoustic tile,
absorbing and reflecting
the varied din of disharmonious
natural sounds orchestrated,
an ever present reminder
     that true quiet
is not the absence of noise

I hear
the chill in the air,
insects debating vociferously
their Saturday evening plans,
the waves broom-swishing beach debris,
pretending to be young parents
putting away the children's toys for the eve

the birds speak in Babel multitudes of tongues,
chirps, whistles, clicks and clacks,
then going strangely silent as if all were
praying collectively the afternoon sabbath service,
with an intensity of the silent devotion

this moment, i cannot
well enough communicate,
this trump of light absolutes,
and animal maybes,
that are visually and aurally
presented  in a living surround sound screen,
Dolby, of course,
all a plot of
ease and gentility,
in toto,
sweet serenity

here to cease,
no more tinkering,
leave well enough,
plenty well enough
for Sally and Rebecca, who love the lushness best....

JUNE 2015
touka Feb 4
a stones throw from freedom

so, I toss

wear down the wick,
burn into the small hours

til' the sun basks

suppose I dream in absolutes

from the ceiling, a billion petals;
rose consorting with the floor

come to smother me

the sweet balm,
that last-ditch adamance
the last scent on my breath

do I wake in a sweat
with reason to?

waking being my first misstep
walking penrose stairs

I feel it

suppose I pose more premonition
knowing what I might

a hairs breadth


I dream that I touch it
Tommy Randell Nov 2014
Sunset after sunset there is no better way
To watch light lick the edge of everything
And ponder on the world at large out there
Beyond what inner space is called my own
Now falling into love and now
Knowing there are those for whom my love
Should not be a thing disguised any more

It is not to be mentioned
The music of absolutes is what drives us onward
However far apart we may seem

It is best understood
The inspiration of you is what steers me
Toward the light each day
In hope – always in hope – the beach
And the light which reaches it from far away
Belong also to that future time I may
Despite myself flare when the last
Breath of me is shared fully and freely with someone

Today when I encountered the sea
I thought of you talking to me over the telephone
And the last light made it complete

There will come a time when I may
Be young enough to know what it means
To have loved such people as you
And yet not say – And yet not give

There will come a time I may be true enough
The claustrophobia of the sunset
Will not take my breath away
Feeling your closeness take my clarity
That I will not still look for you
In the first evening darkness
Where we used to meet
On the edge of meeting
Where we meet no more.
I see a world of people insisting
Upon absolutes
Within the current of perpetual
Change and uncertainty

I too am lost among
That insist upon the moment truth
Though they are constantly falsified

Those that have too much faith in science
Give not enough credit to faith and intuition

Too many souls seeking absolute answers
Too many souls only accepting absolute answers

“There must be a reasonable explanation”

Or reasonable within the current paradigm

Yet, perhaps what you needed to see a
Wider world is to take that leap of faith
To the next paradigm

There will be no “Theory of Everything”

If you are not considering everything

‘Truth’ can become mockery
Within mockery there’s often more truth
We are willing to accept

As Arthur Schopenhauer said:

“All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident”

Violent opposition to ridicules
Are evident of acceptance
Disguised as its antithesis

Often such mockery is not intended
But interpreted by a self holding truth
Afraid to be exposed to the world
Thus fighting back whenever it is touched
Leading to its unintended manifestation

Perhaps it is the dearth of a deeper love
In the absence of a truly unconditional love
That gives me fear in what it is to be accepted
There is no ‘Truth’
There is no ‘absolutes’
There will not be the 'acceptance'
That I seek and sought
Inspired by War and Peace and Julia Zarankin's course on said text, as well as some recent observations. Mostly Tolstoy's journey to a truth that will never be found.
gcj Feb 27
i see you and i see me
a new me and a new you
fresh and absolutely free
i can see a new future too
a future where we are absolutes  
free from societies pollutes

i see you and i see me
a new me and a new you
in a place that is no longer empty
a place where we see a new view
a view of a beautiful place
where poisonous society leaves no trace

i see you and i see me
a new me and a new you
so i leave you with a plea
that we set things askew
that we begin a new realm
with love at the helm
Consciousness is decay

Consciousness is atrophy

Consciousness itself is ‘DEATH’


Perhaps suffering

Is not the result of

Divine punishment

But ‘the fruit’ itself

The pain

The poison

For time is no object

A mere space and place

The lack of

For events and

Ever Changing ‘reality’

To be

There is no ‘cease to be’


Only complete transformations



Measures the transformations

Eternal transformations

With finite increments

Of time






Must measure

And limit itself


For eternity


The ‘death’ of


Or lack thereof

[The Cave]

And the sweet hereafter-

The full escape from

The shadowy cave

Of imprisoning



Will be forever unimaginable

For the exterior scenery

Must be that which

This conscious world is not

With absolute free will

And yet

No absolutes




[The Tunnel]

Between the seemingly

Infinite cave


The ‘objective reality’

The truly endless lofty sky

There is a long

But narrow tunnel of


That must be crossed

The Aging mind

Is like the overgrowth

Blocking our view of

On either side

And the search for truth

Of either reality

Shadows or sunlight

Clears the view

Looking towards the cleared


[The Escape]

A full escape of no return

Is the end of consciousness


‘Waking’ from the ultimate


[Keep Dreaming till the Daylight]

You may wonder

What is the use then to

Keep dreaming?

What is the use to limit ourselves

To the good solely.


As we all know

No matter how perfect

The ‘real’ world is

There is no harm

Savoring the sweetest

Illusion for the time being

And make it as sweet as

Can be

[Nobody likes a Nightmare]

Consciousness is a dream

But we can still

And should still

Make it the greatest

Consciousness is ‘DEATH’ Itself
By: Yue Xing **** (Yidhna)
February 17, 2019 4:51PM
Lawrence Hall Dec 2018
(Imagine the title centered)   Art in Pursuit of Man

        Reaction to a Temper Tantrum in a Fashionable Arts Magazine

Art cannot be but in pursuit of man
Whether or not man is in pursuit of art
For men are shifting shoals of shiftlessness
Artistic absolutes that calendar-clique

But art is not defined, not locked in time
Art does not yield her crown in obedience
To yet another Decree 349
To yet another Order of the Day

Art is herself; her names are Sapientia
And Sophia; she creates; she does not obey
Butch Decatoria Sep 2018
Trace their patterns, paths of strings

Hastened-like colors like bird-less trees

Epitaph-Web of confusions nesting.

Say, my love, do not retire there

Each kiss of light at Dawn,

Absolutes of their belief gong wrong.

Open eyes to sky come rain or fall,

From “gray” minds, another pavement…

Truth changes still the drink of Us,

Reasons they misplaced The Reason since

Every day I am found!

Every lost starlight hour!

Surrender not Love in the Mountain’s arms…
ATL Jul 30
all the moving blessed things
become brittle in my gaze,
blithely lost amongst songbirds
whistling softly through the haze.

censorious glances given squarely
with tongues spitting folly filled absolutes;
covered in the insolent naïveté of those who think their truths beyond dispute

in this deafening self-induced shell
good turns to plainly earnest need,
yet its riddled with all that is and isn’t...  
with uncertainties clustered greed.
Leslie Thielen Nov 2018
the realization overtook the delusion
not overnight, not like a light switch
but like a gradual suffocation,
liquid black spilling in
it’s a futile gasp for tainted air

i am the anti-hero of my own autobiography
the protagonist that gains nothing
and by the end of the 400-page novel
the reader understands, they’ve wasted their time

because the story was never about me to begin with
all wrapped up superficially in a soft cocoon
immersed in a pseudo-nobility that shielded me
and convinced me that there is a right answer
to every wrong thing

one of the most painful and crippling experiences
is forcing yourself to unlearn everything you thought you knew
and resigning yourself to the fact that
not everything makes sense
not everyone gets a happy ending–

and there’s beauty in nature, but devastation in ours
serendipity in our structure, but chaos in our hearts
nothing deals in absolutes, and pain does not subside
we hide behind small comforts, but these are often lies

humans aren’t built in black and white, so i’m drowning in the gray
flailing and failing to understand why certain people cannot stay
over two decades on this planet and i’m still trying to decide
if the tragedy is hiding elsewhere or somewhere trapped inside.
i just want answers
James Floss Feb 28
X: Mr. Floss, do you believe in god?

J: No, no I do not.

X: Mr Floss, do you believe in sin?

J: No, I do not.

X: Mr Floss, are you saying…

J: Please, let me explain. I believe in goodness. If you know what being good is then you know what being bad is…

X: Isn’t that simplistic solipsism?

J: Yes—but it is not that simple…

X: Explain.  

J: We want the world to be simple but it isn’t. We desire absolutes. We want the news to assure us that what we think in the moment is right. But it may not be.

X: Go on.

J: You could be right at the same time that I am right. We needn’t rely on a two-valued logic.

X: So, what are you saying?

J: Let’s both get off our high horse?

X: What?

J: We both just might be right. Relax. Sleep well tonight. Do something good tomorrow. Treat a fellow human being well. Goodness is its own reward.
poetryaccident Nov 2018
Somedays I choose the extreme
go beyond the edge of this dream
embrace the nightmare of the beyond
seek a shadow to dwell upon
I put on the jacket and cinch the shoes
tie the garrote around my neck
walk to the edge to plunge within
all these rules I must endure

now I'm the model of self-repose
normality set with the perfect taint
these goals I set for myself
exclude the spirit of sanity
grasping the ring made of brass
allows decorum to be the boss
a straitjacket to bring in the bucks
now life’s harmony is justly forced

this balance leaning toward the right
the rule of order becomes the crux
for noose set just right
against a neck offered to the crowd
the Hangman gives a nod
the job well done is for the best
comfort found in absolutes
sacrifice for the greater good.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181109.
The poem “Comfort Found” was inspired by thoughts about fitting into the larger world.
Get very small, sidestep time.
You are so much more than any organisation.
You’re a rushing into the valley,
a drawbridge of feeling.

Steal the fire
and when it all goes wrong
and you crash and burn,
get up as if nothing happened.

Warmer for the dark,
cars doors open,
the promise is there.  
Guitars made for the song.

We're the fire’s bracelet.

Ah, the often sounds of night.
Mist lies low on the river,  
trains stand at the station.
This joy and no other
as l laugh, laugh,
and make my way home.

Such are we,
surrounded by absolutes,
our minds always going,
our emotions ordered by minute dualities
into all the exquisites of desire.  

Too many steps? Too near the edge?
People clash, trolleys on crazy wheels
going every which way.

Sweep away the debris.
Away with mementos.

It is a new devouring
and when the remnant wake and discover space again,
discover air,
mouths will gasp like fishes out of water.

There'll be no noise and no rejoicing.
The too astonished
will look, stare
and turn to one another,
reaching out.
A Simillacrum Nov 2018
Tell me, what's love?
You seem to me,
able to enter
the infinite.
You seem to me,
able to find
absolutes.       >>just fine<<

That's ******* boring.

Love, perfectly fit for broadcast.
When some, like us, are out on our ***.
So. Define love.
Because my love is pain, thankfully,
but you manage to sing it so sweet.
So. Love and peace?

For me, love is heat.

And if the heat is missing,
are you asking me?
That Love's placation.
And placation, I'm learning,
isn't my driving force.

— The End —