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Alyssa Underwood Apr 2016
The LORD is my Shepherd, I shall not want
I dwell in fields of green
Led by His hand I may drink my fill
From streams where few have been
Though I may walk through death's shadowed vale
His presence calms every fear
Through the dark dangers He sets a feast
Whenever my foe comes near
His goodness and mercy shall follow me
Throughout my days here on earth
Then take me home where forever my eyes
Shall behold all His glorious worth!
~~~
Sung to the tune of 'Cloud-Shadows' (music by James H. Rogers)
palladia May 2014
[northern hemisphere: on a beach above the 50th latitude at the end of winter]

(Winter-export), the beach frosted by fingers of polar constellations. It’s too cold to walk without huddling now, spine-shiver-esque, but we do it nonetheless, because, we’re together. Your frothy hydro-rhythm spears in pith, irradiance, I breathe again, deeply. (Thick lips; quick still-hunt.) I rivet fronds of dependence into the seams of your boreal palms, never planning to return the floating colony of barnacles I promised you I’d throw back. You, never planning to catch the sun bored through salt spray, lasping onto crisp foreheads, stitching on glistered lips and froze-shut lashes. And on a day when you didn’t rise early enough, I was left out in the water until my chest was steeped deep in ice, over the thought of losing you. (Glimmering isle); my hair disheveled in sea-foam. Annular light. You pushed me in, and I relented. My isotherm is chthonically, sent. But you, in your legendary mantle, adapted my eyes to see the light hidden deep within your belt; such pinks and fuchsias I have never seen before, suddenly inverted. At absolute velocity, I cut my foot on sea-glass, bleeding blueshift, aligning to the colours of your heights. You take me back to the starry house and we struggle with your parallax, a nadir inseminated on the celestial pole. (Parsecs quaking.) You whisper, I’ll heal you. I’ll heal you, only if you let me. Only if… you let me…  Over and over and over until it’s as mundane as the crashing coast, and unrivaled, I concede to everything and wake up deep in redshift, the whole universe escaping me, suffocating in abyssal warmth-ribbons: without you. Alone on the ecliptic. In the spring-sinking, you order me an argent-laden sword: to remind me of you. I know you still appear, a guardian behind the sun, but until you fling the tiny ice-hot rocks at the zenith (freighting gemstones), I submerge myself into the bathic depths, skulking in aestival despair, as you slip from night to day. Little do you know, my resurgence is also in your hands.

[i watched Orion slip from view every night this spring. No doubt he’ll return next winter... it’s sad losing a friend like that, for so long]
Tom Spencer Mar 2018
I guess they've adapted
to our debris

the wedge of geese
flying north

over south bound traffic
the hawks perched

on top of
parking lot poles

and the great blue heron
paddling air

with enormous wings
shadowing hissing lawns

and lifeless pools
but what about us

hands clenched
on wheels

weary eyes scanning
mirrors and windshields

wingless and waiting
for red to turn green


Tom Spencer © 2018
JB Aug 2018
You
Every word you say
Everytime we burst out laughing
I write it down
Because I know
That you will one day
Disappear
But I don’t want to
Forget
The feel of your chest
The smell of your hair
The comfort you gave
I want to relive the best parts of my life
That you became

You made me nervous
I was caught off guard
I would catch my breath
You made me scared
You made me involved
I adapted to depend on you
To need you
I wanted to not need you
I knew
I would be scorned

That day came
When I turned around
And you weren’t there
You went away
Disappeared
Into thin air
Suddenly gone
and with a piece of
        me
Now I take the ring
engraved with promises
of the past
off for the last time.
And say goodbye
To the day I dreaded
So much
Death may be eternal
Transfixed and transformed
Into another body
Adapted and reformed

Subtle and unnoticed
Yet driven to propel
Focused on the task at hand
Wishing you farewell

It’s been known to happen
In the past I dwell
It acts as a reminder
To never kiss and tell

What is true, what’s a lie?
Stubborn, waiting, to defy
I venture forward,
Just in time
No matter how I felt inside

A mental treasure to behold
Cannot be bartered,
bought, nor sold
Still it’s worth it’s weight in gold
A wealth of knowledge,
Or so I’m told

Taken hostage,
Choosing sides
Wanting all I’ve been denied
Is it a journey to the other side?
Or just another bumpy ride?
Meredith Ann Jan 14
Have you made it yet?
Have you found what you are looking for?

You’re still lying.

I watch you in your yellow and your pigtails.
All you wanted was a Polaroid summer.

You got what you wanted,
people and all.

How did it turn out for you?
Positive? Better? Lovely?
At least that’s what you tell the world.

But I heard you talk about how tired you are.
I know the look of annoyance in your eyes.
I see that you don’t love him, that that passion is burning out.
And I feel your icy stare on us.
Knowing what’s going on that you can’t be a part of.

I watch the gears shift as you process what you have lost.
You compute how I have adapted.
And what all I have.

That sticky sweet is still there, except this time it isn’t malice.
It’s desperation.

Deep down I want the best for you.
I really do.
But I am ok now and you chose to walk always.
So I cannot use my carefully stored energy running after you.

I’m sorry that you don’t know happy,
Because I know that you are not.
written 9/13/18
Mallory Aug 5
Looking at you stung.
Being next to you again
for another springs end,
felt like never ending
beginnings of falling
to some sort of death.
Wasps bzzzz
              Zzzzzzzzzzz
                  Zzzzz
         ­             Zz
                       Zzzzzzzzz
     ing.
Against the walls of my stomach.

Swallowed whole by hope,
I don’t know
who you are. Ever.
I don’t know who I am
ever.

Season’s rotation spent tripping in circles around you
are a lifetime and more.
A mere glimmer
through the eye of this storm.

I have known since genesis
how your light refracts mine.
Spider’s silk caught in sunbeam.
Unraveling sun from sky.

I come back to find you different.
Adapted to despair. I become burdened and create distance,
Avoidant attachment floating in air.

H
    A
        N
            G
                S
and
                 C
               L
             I
         N
      G
   S

like a thick,
low fog
at fallen angel’s midnight.

Every morning light
always left us
and aquatinted us
the same.
Jerry Howarth Jun 13
M U R D E R I N G  B A B Y
Within my Mother’s womb I grow,
Not knowing what life will bestow
A genetic code all my own,
God used to make me flesh and bone.

A little man I am I know,
Yet give me time and I will grow,
Just think of what the world would be,
Without a joyful world like me.

I need love and protection too,
And my protector needs to be you.
If you turn a deaf ear to me,
What I most fear may come to be.

Why does not someone take a stand?
And save me from my killers hand.
I’m murdered by the surgeon’s knife,
As though I have no right to life.

My body is torn limb from limb,
Yielding to Mother’s whim.
My screams are muffled as I die,
Dr. and Mommy ignore my painful cry.

Aborted (no, murdered) by my Mother’s plan,
I’m cast into a garbage can.
“AVENGE MY BLOOD, OH GOD” I pray!
Repay my foes on judgment day.

And God will.  The voice of “Babies” blood
cries unto me from the ground” Gen.4:10
                              - adapted from a friend, Milton Weir
……..by GE Parson
ollie Dec 2017
I watched this man in an assembly a few days ago
I pity this man because he's from this group called Teen Truth
But it's Teen Lies because they've got the reason kids say their goodbyes all wrong
The man said that statistics were inaccurate: 99% of kids have been bullied or are bullies
So you think he'd understand most of those kids have adapted to this society
I wish this guy could see he's wrong and he's spreading lies like a Teen Idle
Because everyone knows the song goes "feeling super super super suicidal"
And for most of us, it ain't severe so it's crystal clear it's because of the men who make assumptions about us muffins tryna turn us soft, softer than we already are, so they leave us in the oven for 7 minutes instead of 9
The truth is it isn't because of our iPhones
We're not wanting to die just because it's cool
But really I'll tell you a secret:
My friend shouldn't have to ask if it was on purpose or on accident when I said I cut myself
I shouldn't have to clarify or reassure him it was because of my clumsiness and not my courage
But here we are, your invincible teenagers, falling falling falling down until we're going going going gone
It is because we know that the economy is ******* and we'll never be able to do what we want to do
It's because when I got bullied, I sure as hell was not going to **** myself because of it
I was going to **** myself because I had dreams where I retaliated
I was going to **** myself because I was taking down those people, those people I'd be allied with and probably forget about years later
I was going to **** myself because everyone else was, for the reasons they were
And even for petty reasons like, "If I die today, I never have to feel sick ever again."
And because I felt like **** when I couldn't get out of bed
And maybe because there's people out there like my dad who probably want to but would never tell me
And because my mom threatened to sell me when I was younger
And now I'm done with her because I only have to live for another five years before I find myself on the streets
Covered in cuts I did not make on purpose
Maybe I'd be yelling poetry on the street corner or maybe I'll have that apartment in New York
Maybe I'll be in love with someone
Maybe I never will be and maybe someday, I will see everything the pizza delivery man sees, like I do every single day with every single person, and I will tell him "Thinking about her will only make it worse."
And then I will give him a tip, take the pizza, and be on my way never to think of him again
And maybe he'll never know when he'll forget me because I'm the reason it got better
Because that pizza man was my age I remembered how it felt to not get out of bed and us kids, we have to stick together
That's all we're ever going to be, yeah, sickly kids remembering math tests and other countries threatening to destroy our own
A man in charge with orange skin, bad hair, a temper and a refusal to learn the word consent in front of women
So if I live that long I sure as hell hope a pizza man is waiting because I'm gonna tell him that if it's what he needs to hear
I guess I'll always be here, in a room without much light, and god I gotta tell you I'll keep writing poetry, unfortunately
Because you don't want to read it but you have to
I know I'm different but in the ways we feel I am exactly the same
And because of this half-hearted explanation, I assure you
I didn't cut myself on purpose
Not quite yet
“Get back to wherever you were, because it gets better, and we're all broken, and **** you've got your own **** to do, I assure you, the world really is just waiting for you to shine.”
**** so this is later but this poem actually resulted in a two hour meeting with my school who FOUND IT. they don’t seem to understand creative liberty, but **** them, honestly. just because i said i doesn’t mean it specifically happened to me - it means i’m capable of empathy and it’s happened to multiple teens. no i’m not suicidal anymore. yes i used to be. and that’s why you need to pay more attention - if i were going to **** myself it would’ve happened before i started writing poetry.
Mohamed Nasir Oct 2018
Green coated so rarely you see
Seeking meals of small games.
Absolutely silent flows fluidly
Where their fork tongues aim.

Natives inhibit in leafy shades
In trees of canopies high above.
With scales gleaming like jades
Dances to beating drum of love.

Equally well adapted in suburbs
They come in the vicinity of man.
Here the danger lies colours rubs
Into shrubs and bushes to blend.

Via the tip of each tongue winds
Into a Jacobson's ***** impulses
Of the air they kissed send finds
What ahead can satisfy hungers.

Darkest pair of mouths in Africa
Ajar in sheer delight in weird grin
Of secrets hidden uncovered aha!
Food served without obvious sin.

Slides over a nest and exclaims
Death two birdies in cradle ouch.
Yet another victim Africa claims.
I moan not as I lay on my couch.
Lieke Jan 26
I will put in a box
How our eyes locked when we first met
When we finally kissed in the light of the dark party
And when I found out- this was getting heart-to-hearty


I will put in a box
The way you'd gaze at me biting your lower lip
Tension when you pulled me closer
With both your hands on my hip


I will put in a box
Every time we hugged goodbye
How you adapted to my liking
The breath-taking look in your eye


I will put in a box
Our late night walk
How you'd pleasure me anywhere
The way our lips would perfectly lock


I will put in a box
The texts that made me smile
Your shield of protection
Even if that means I won't be happy for a while


I will put in a box
Every **** remainder of you
I will put in a box
All the tears, all the blue


Every cry, ever scream
The pain of not belonging
Hoping that one day
I'll wake up, and no longer be longing.
21 January, 2019
The sea was once our prehistoric home.
O how we adapted to its dark currents,
to its India-ink infinities,
chasing seaweed, driftwood and coral,
before belly-flopping onto dry ground.

Now, the sea threatens our ancestral home,
the sea that falls from the angry skies
with their charcoal-smudged infinities.
A swelling flood, chasing red alert,
destroying houses and lives; raining grief.

Once sea-bound creatures now drown at home,
ill-adapted to meet the flood's malevolent intent:
to purge the Earth of all who cannot resist
the rushing, rising mountains of waters,
before proclaiming its final conquest of India's ancient lands.

Now, only prayer will be our home, built on deepest despair.
Now, only God's omnipotent infinities
circle the mud-brown rapids of sludge
choking all who helplessly cross their path.
Only God can make Kerala and Tamil live again, as one, on dry, holy ground.
Ken Pepiton Feb 19
Bottom of the stack,
first shall be last

each line has the potential to lead on, read on

confer, compare parallel ports pulsing in
synchronisity

goodness knows wrong ain't ever right,
nevermind whys and hows when
nows calling you by kind
ask attention
still

reader
read this, you are the few,
other than me, I know you allone,
Dear Reader, whose name you alone
may now know

in your one
integrated, tooled-up, read-up, curious
and curioser
self.
---
words hold whole thoughts in harness,
letters let them live,
writers make them work,

poets pay them mind to find reason and
metre in the spiral of knowing
growing steadily meeker
as peacemakers take

the call as op
portunate,
fortunate. Good for goodness sake and
no measurer yet devised,
no witty invention,

can make you listen to patterns
scattered in the noise,

still,
time keeps its steady pace, irreversible.

all parallel paths cross mine, eventual.

vente vide vince but (vente was the size
of my coffee, I think) I think,

history waves a banner, see

it says many wrongs
did not come
past last lie believer ceiving a source

of knowns unknown re

making, fect per effect ual, right,

the basic idea.
You have need of patience,

curios and kachina songs and liter
ary urges from words

once stuffed with meaning, right, like
each word is a clay jar,
a vessel for a thought spoken right,

as my servant, my re
feree confounding my accuser for ever,

in a word. Hide and watch, or sing and shout.

The basic idea claims any word may be redeemed,
but the utterer must give account for every idle word.

The house-dweller,
the non-nomad, who labors,
who efforts,
who sweats and frets and fusses over seed
sown in history
must first partake the fruit.
Not ever must an idle word be

let alone to fester in rot for lack of
a taster to test the truth,
a darer
of daemonic algorythms pulling

the very air, air, atmostfear away oh,

see,
the arctic ice is adapted to by the
basic idea that things survive
as life lives, within the
field named
HIggs,
worms hold out promises

see,
the arctic ice is the scab being
ingested slowww glacial slow, soon

weather will find the pattern.

All things work right,
nothing works wrong.

--
Lemme say,
for a while, as defined by mortals,

we taught. We words took no other pose,
played no role save to hold
ideas taken by men to serve a human plan.

'Sup.
That quest ion. How ahye? serves as well, but

Sup says more. What is up? op
positive to down, related to spins named
charming and strange for reason

known to a very few.
Some where in there, is a base, a standing place for idle words to plead a purpose sufficient unto the evil of the day. Any idle word, fittly spoken, can be as "apples of gold in pitchers of silver, or is that pictures of silve?
Johnny walker Dec 2018
I love to spend my time now retired In dreams
and fantasies of my once
wife, to whom I owe so much
I often fantasies about the first time we fell In love I was so shy when we first met, she totally opposite very forward
I had never really adapted to adult life through child abuse I remember the very first the time that we became Intimate, the first time I had undressed a lady
I was a child on Christmas morning excited unwrapping a present slowly revealing bit by bit removing each Item of
her clothing to reveal
all
Couldn't take my eyes off her one can take all the wonders of the world but they don't even come close to the beauty of a naked woman
Well that my opinion the very first time you see your lady naked nothing compares In this life how blessed we were at birth gifted the wonders of
sight
To me nothing compares to naked lady such a sight of beauty so blessed to be gifted
sight at birth
Amy Childers Feb 24
...
broken hearts
broken dreams
broken plates
echoed screams...

no one can help me
not because i wont let them
but because they are not there
for me

it is okay though
i have adapted to the loneliness
Deeba May 30
Few years ago,
No so long though.

I started to write
converting every emotion into words.
Dancing and juggling each letter
into sea of ideas.

Today, ink inside my pen
never wants to dry.
There is a change in its attitude.
It has adapted from being black
to blue, green, red, every possible color.

And with immense courage
continues to scribble
every nuance of life

as a silent warrior.
Celebrating my journey of writing.
May 21, 2009 ~  John Brownlee
For all the wonderful uses of technology, none is more wonderful than when it can be used to improve the lives of the handicapped. Thanks to technology, amputees can beat Olympic Sprinting records, and Cochlear Implants allow the deaf to hear music. But where the heck are cyber-eyeballs for the blind already?
We may now have them. A device called the BrainPort is a sixth sense for the blind, translating images from a video camera to electrical impulses that are transmitted via the tongue to the brain of a blind person.
The test patient is Roger Behm, a man who lost his sight at the age of sixteen when an inherited disease destroyed his retinas and they had to be surgically removed. Now, thanks to the Brainport, he can slip a device over his head and see — albeit in black and white — nearly as well as a sighted person, and all through his mouth.
The device, which consists of a miniature camera mounted on a pair of sunglasses, a tongue sensor and a small control unit, was developed by Wicab of Middleton. The science behind it is in the brain’s remarkable ability to reprogram itself to accept and use different sensory signals if one is removed.
It’s incredible technology: Erik Weinhenmayer, another blind man, climbed Mount Everest a few years ago using the Brainport. As a sighted man, my only regret is the technology can’t be adapted to work on senses the brain doesn’t already have: I’d love to install a sixth sensory module into my tongue just the way the blind can install the Brainport.
erin Oct 2018
i think i often represent the butterfly i so often speak of
frail and weak in every step- my plain brown wings are just like the papery disgusting skin i want so badly to break out of, revealing my clearwinged beauty. but i've adapted to this form- i've changed. who cares for being disgusting- better to simply scare away the predators with my big nose and buggy eyes. who cares for being unloved- i do, for solitide is survival in this concrete jungle.
but i know better.
i am no graceful, gentle butterfly. satyrs are still lovely, despite being different, and i am not lovely. i know that these white wings cannot and will not be silenced. the beating drum behind me says otherwise. i am not butterfly. i am a falcon, and i do not dare hide behind a mask of a face. no-

i fight and claw my way out of it.
this is really more of a vent than a poem, but i still feel something important in it. i hope you enjoy.

— The End —