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Paul Verkouteren Feb 2013
I hear the drums beating a long the ****** city
Hearing only the whispers of strangers
I hear only hear talk of war and misanthropy
Nothing good on the news
Fear and panic is rampant through my mind
The complacent the happy ones hope for the better future
and here I am seeing the evil side of humanity
the apathetic side of humanity
the falseness the false hopes
the ugly truth falls on my head like the mid morning rain
it’s like yesterday my friends withered away
I feel this sense of estrangement for others that i can’t begin to fully understand
it’s like a never ending maze that is making me a blind social outcast
breaking me down to my very foundations
stirring up my inner feelings of anger ,hate ,self destruction
detesting logic for emotional rage that I somehow need to tame
thoughts expectations emotions racing through my ever vulnerable  spirit
I gradually become more withdrawn from people as I age
I see sometimes only frauds and selfishness
fates knocking down at my door
is there a bright essence of happiness that I will find a long this peculiar road called life ?
am I meant to fall by the wayside; to serve as warnings to the rest of us; signs posts along the way...... these thoughts are racing in my awakened mind but in vain I’m silent
Revised version
Emma Johnson Apr 2010
So you know I wasn’t raised in the hood,
But in a beautiful place in Surrey enclosed by woods,
Had quite a nice childhood,
Until the age of ten, everything was all good.

It all changed when my Dad went away,
Couldn’t cope with my Mums Bipolar state,
When he left I have a photo memory of that day,
‘Promise you won’t get divorced, I want you to stay’.

Then that kid had to grow up quick,
When mum had an episode, breakdown psychotic.
Held the family together through all this ****.
Then lost the plot myself couldn’t handle it.

So I left home very young, let down by pen pushers.
Dumped in and out of care, social workers?
Isn’t it a wonder how I became an alcoholic toker,
Stress of my life turned me into a chain-smoking joker.

A year I slept in my bus stop,
Stealing food to survive from various shops,
Helped to sleep with prayers and alchopops,
Checked on by ‘Rosy cheeks’ the local cop.
© Emma Johnson 2009
Testicular torsion,
Abortion,
I'll have another portion,
Of chips,
I hope they come with,
******* DIPS,
Fresh mesh,
Enough said
#therevolution
Scott Sinnock Oct 2014
This summer I saw mountains
   Thrusting out of the sea,
   And mountains mellowed with age,
   Rounded, softer, quietly returning to the sea.

I saw Redwoods: massive
   Majestic, alive,
   And marveled as I held seeds
   From which they thrive.

I wondered at hands that could be so old
   As those that carved the living stone
  In rocks by the sea;

I stood in awe hundreds of feet
   Beneath blankets of branches
   Of ancient trees.

I listened as mountainous streams
   Sang songs of the sources
   Of life-giving waters.

I saw flowers too many to name
   Running up and down grassy hillsides,
   In and out of pine-scented forests,
   Along rivers,
   Through meadows,
   Etc.
   Etc.
   Etc.*

But why am I telling you this?
   Because, of course,
   I must prove I am free,
   That I can see beauty
   all around me.
But it seems
   The less I feel free,
   The less beauty I see, and
   The louder I shout, “I am free, I am free”,
   The more I scream, “I see, I see”.
It’s all a game,
   You see;
   you see.

I just try to follow the rules.


                                                        ­        August 1, 1970
                                                            ­  *(edited 10/11/2014)
So gradual in those summers was the going
     of the age it seemed that the long days setting out
when the stars faded over the mountains were not
     leaving us even as the birds woke in full song and the dew
glittered in the webs it appeared then that the clear morning
     opening into the sky was something of ours
to have and keep and that the brightness we could not touch
     and the air we could not hold had come to be there all the time
for us and would never be gone and that the axle
     we did not hear was not turning when the ancient car
coughed in the roofer's barn and rolled out echoing
     first thing into the lane and the only tractor
in the village rumbled and went into its rusty
     mutterings before heading out of its lean-to
into the cow pats and the shadow of the lime tree
     we did not see that the swallows flashing and the sparks
of their cries were fast in the spokes of the hollow
     wheel that was turning and turning us taking us
all away as one with the tires of the baker's van
     where the wheels of bread were stacked like days in calendars
coming and going all at once we did not hear
     the rim of the hour in whatever we were saying
or touching all day we thought it was there and would stay
     it was only as the afternoon lengthened on its
dial and the shadows reached out farther and farther
     from everything that we began to listen for what
might be escaping us and we heard high voices ringing
     the village at sundown calling their animals home
and then the bats after dark and the silence on its road
Places to go when in Cairo
places where I've never been,
not the usual tourist attractions, 
but the hot spots for hot spicy things.

Are the fleshpots still there?
he declared 
with that misogynist air,
are the girls just as nubile?

He was a throwback 
someone we all knew back 
in the day.

Nefertiti would meet me on
the banks of the Nile,
for a while 
in the reeds 
satisfying our needs.

Pyramids built from papyrus 
papering over the cracks.

Just dreaming of dynasties 
and the mysteries of
mankind on the 
riverbanks lined
by age.
jeffrey robin Sep 2014
/\                                                                        
<(       ) >                                                                        
\/                                                                          
                                    
                       & from the Planet Venus                                                

                     ///  • |
                     <>

                                                                    7 pure souls approaching

•   •

Gentle as the child truly is

Down on the iron streets
                                          ( the prison streets )

There is a lover called      Forever
               there is a hidden hope
                         In some mangled memory

///                                

YE of the still - loving heart

YE of the purest Eye and truest Vision

                               ////

wander through the deserted dream

Thru the alien constellation



Knowing that when you are seen

                     They hardly think you       real - at - all

/../         /../

The   Breath of God

The hope for Peace

//

The el - train cross the ***** sky

Seeking love in alley -  ways

Courting death to ease the pain

////                        

We wander thru the broken line

Of age to youth

And immortality

••

Hypnotic spells hold souls at bay

The muted hope for free exchange

Of loving kindness shared in purity

••

From Venus the 7 souls complete

Have come



See us walking down the road

See us waiting on your street
Lawren Apr 2019
Since the age of 4,
I’ve wanted nothing more
Than to heal, and feel
Like I belong, therefore

I struggle and try
Pretend not to cry
While you laugh and laugh
Elated to simply standby.

I plead and seek your aid,
Instead of help, you evade
All I ask of you, is for you to do
The job for which you are paid.

My blunder I can’t ascertain
My fellows you guide time and again
Until, I yet see, that the error is me
Teaching me is from what you refrain.

But the real problem here,
Is that I can’t be clear,
Of this skin I was born in,
It doesn’t exist—a veneer.

On the ground I must lay,
Your knee crushing my airway,
While to me you tell, that all is swell,
My lips blue, no air left to say

That since I was 4,
I’ve wanted nothing more
Than to heal, and feel
Like I belong, therefore

Though scared I may seem,
And left no self-esteem
I continue to fight, for it is my right
To keep pursuing my dream.
How it feels when teachers refuse to help you because of a characteristic or feature or part of you that you were born with.
Luna Pan Apr 2023
him and i
it was a love story so rare
from our hometown to europe
two similar souls and a story to be told

him, the boy from upper class
a genious with toxic behaviours
me, the girl with the silent grace
an artist with messy mind

a story of love and cheating
in the second jazz age
we whispered secrets at night, and laughed in mornings
our love was red, burning inside out

i would write and he would read
he would talk and i would listen
our story still lives on in our hearts, yearns to belong
but beneath it there is a sorrow
karin naude Oct 2013
some love starts fiery red
burn furiously
no end in sight
illusioned feeling of safety
the fire cannot ever burn out
but all fires die eventually
leaving scorched earth, surroundings devastated

some love start slow
patients lots and lots of patients needed
but over time the shrub starts to grow
soon when no one is watching
a gorgeous massive strong tree stand
tall green with endless potential
even if it dies of old age it will give life to whats left behind
the cycle of life continues

then there is the love god blessed you with
you cant choose, you always love them but not always get along
you don't always like each others, but always love
they say this crawls where water don't run

i choose the one that adds over time slowly
never subtracting just multiplying
Third Mate Third Nov 2014
What time is it by you?

such a complicated question,
you know
exactly
what I mean,

are you brushing your teeth,
hello or goidbye,
weeping into your pillow,
sun borning hopeful,
writing poems
a handful will brush by,
leaving your wet insides
even more dry
dissatisfied

dinner or breakfast,
day gone erased,
another wasted,
or
clock marked as
just started
and the
task of filling hours
an unwanted curse,
an incalculable calculus,
but insoluble
for there is no
their
no in,
in your life,
no
us
in the numerology of
your clock marking

time to rise
to church go
time to take
the woman out
for one more
nothing-to-say
silent dinner,
inject or flush,
bar dive,
TV mindless,
to high, to low,
to pick
right left or center,
to ***** or bandage,
to turn in,
or come of age

is it time to bed return
because you have just AM awoken,
and every any other place else is hell

no time to pay the bills,
no money, why bother,
time to worry,
why that is the only equation constant,
only the worry changes,
never the time

time to reconnoiter
a good book,
to tune the body up,
afternoon blues,
red eye time,
self
mutilation,
even verbal,
when?

D time?
deep dark
suffocation,
*****, all *****
or
shower bathe,
slough off the dead cells,
clean clothes clean start,
even at midnight

what time is it by you?

time to clean mop your life,
walk in new places,
walk to the roof,
just for the view

so many answers....

this I know
it is time for an answer,
choose
Johnathan locke Jun 2015
Last night,
I went to sleep.
And drifted to a land,
Where shadowed memories creep.

Broken thoughts,
Drift around.
They float through the shadows,
Without a sound.

It makes me sad,
For those I've forgotten.
For only their voices,
Remain not rotten.

As I grow older,
My memories decay.
Until the me of old,
Will someday fade away.

In this place,
Of broken dreams.
I see my past,
Leak out of my seams.

at this time,
I mourn my age.
Thinking back to the time,
When I thought being a kid was my cage.
JoJo Nguyen Jun 2015
As close letting
to bending bones
broken,

As wide setting
so mending minds
rhyme,

As We of age,
collateral children
in time will rage

In strapless grown,
in dead damage
razed by wings flown.
Sometimes Starr Oct 2016
decorative flora thrown to the sacrificial pit
pity shivers on the fringes of my identity like springy roots
out from the warmth and wet
of potting soil

not brave, just lucky
not impressive, still growing
just let me broaden my garden

in league with lofty new age decision rooms
to air strikes and precarious ties, not hiding in the sky!
shivering to rotten hospitaled justice
up all the way through that cold toll of some bell of betrayal.

planted like a whisper
seen at stops at the park and weddings
the cute moments of acceptance we have
and things i could not and would never want to take from you

the very fact of you seems to poke a question into the sky
Akira Chinen Jan 2017
The childish heart of mischief and innocence beating with wonder and awe and kindness and magic and soft beauty
Keep it well and keep it always
Don't foolishly let it float away with lost ballons or abandon it like an unwanted kite tangled in the dying branches of an old oak tree
It is the best heart you will ever have and the best heart you will ever be loved by
It is no easy task to keep as the days go by and the years add up
Don't fall victim to the lures of what comes next or to those who insist you must let it go and you must grow up and old
This is not true
Not at all
In no way
And no how
You will age and that is certain
If lucky your body will collect many many years
There is no fighting time or fate on that
But the soul and spirit of your heart is a timeless entity
A will and mind of its own
Half crazy and fully mad
The wild card in a deck full of jokers
The maker of things impossible possible
The final guardian of magic
The last knight of wonder
The only protector of kindness
But it can stray
It can grow old
It can even turn cold
and bitter
and cruel
It is much harder work to keep the childish heart than to give into doubt and disbelief and follow the flow of the normal world around you
And how do we keep this heart
This childish beautiful heart
How do we keep it safe
How do we hold on
We feed it the magic of childhood dreams
And the sweet kindness of wonder
We encourage the impossible
We push it through failure and skinned knees
We let it soar with kites in open skies and dance among cloud high ballons
And most importantly we believe in its love
For there is nothing more important to the childish heart
than believing in its love
Feeling its love
Giving its love
and accepting its love
The childish heart
Is ours to always keep
and it is simple as believing
all though that is very difficult to do
but there is no better life to live
Than the life lived
Protecting and keeping
The childish heart
Lilyy Jan 2014
We're quite constantly bombarded
with miracles and nonsense.
A chaos of concepts.
are we falling
into an age of darkness.
Lives overcome with
wars of separate continents.
Alexandra of Old Feb 2013
Sweet revenge
To have tasted you
And then your bitter -
Nay, poisonous -
Aftertaste

I don't need to.
I know what that feels like.

Nice for a second, gone for a century,
Scarred for an age.
All.

I, All-Creation, sing my song of praise
To God Who made me and vouchsafes my days,
And sends me forth by multitudinous ways.

  Seraph.

I, like my Brethren, burn eternally
With love of Him Who is Love, and loveth me;
The Holy, Holy, Holy Unity.

  Cherub.

I, with my Brethren, gaze eternally
On Him Who is Wisdom, and Who knoweth me;
The Holy, Holy, Holy Trinity.

  All Angels.

We rule, we serve, we work, we store His treasure,
Whose vessels are we, brimmed with strength and pleasure;
Our joys fulfil, yea, overfill our measure.

  Heavens.

We float before the Presence Infinite,
We cluster round the Throne in our delight,
Revolving and rejoicing in God's sight.

  Firmament.

I, blue and beautiful, and framed of air,
At sunrise and at sunset grow most fair;
His glory by my glories I declare.

  Powers.

We Powers are powers because He makes us strong;
Wherefore we roll all rolling orbs along,
We move all moving things, and sing our song.

  Sun.

I blaze to Him in mine engarlanding
Of rays, I flame His whole burnt-offering,
While as a bridegroom I rejoice and sing.

  Moon.

I follow, and am fair, and do His Will;
Through all my changes I am faithful still,
Full-orbed or strait, His mandate to fulfil.

  Stars.

We Star-hosts numerous, innumerous,
Throng space with energy untumultuous,
And work His Will Whose eye beholdeth us.

  Galaxies and Nebulae.

No thing is far or near; and therefore we
Float neither far nor near; but where we be
Weave dances round the Throne perpetually.

  Comets and Meteors.

Our lights dart here and there, whirl to and fro,
We flash and vanish, we die down and glow;
All doing His Will Who bids us do it so.

  Showers.

We give ourselves; and be we great or small,
Thus are we made like Him Who giveth all,
Like Him Whose gracious pleasure bids us fall.

  Dews.

We give ourselves in silent secret ways,
Spending and spent in silence full of grace;
And thus are made like God, and show His praise.

  Winds.

We sift the air and winnow all the earth;
And God Who poised our weights and weighs our worth
Accepts the worship of our solemn mirth.

  Fire.

My power and strength are His Who fashioned me,
Ordained me image of His Jealousy,
Forged me His weapon fierce exceedingly.

  Heat.

I glow unto His glory, and do good:
I glow, and bring to life both bud and brood;
I glow, and ripen harvest-crops for food.

  Winter and Summer.

Our wealth and joys and beauties celebrate
His wealth of beauty Who sustains our state,
Before Whose changelessness we alternate.

  Spring and Autumn.

I hope,--
          And I remember,--

                            We give place
Either to other with contented grace,
Acceptable and lovely all our days.

  Frost.

I make the unstable stable, binding fast
The world of waters prone to ripple past:
Thus praise I God, Whose mercies I forecast.

  Cold.

I rouse and goad the slothful, apt to nod,
I stir and urge the laggards with my rod:
My praise is not of men, yet I praise God.

  Snow.

My whiteness shadoweth Him Who is most fair,
All spotless: yea, my whiteness which I wear
Exalts His Purity beyond compare.

  Vapors.

We darken sun and moon, and blot the day,
The good Will of our Maker to obey:
Till to the glory of God we pass away.

  Night.

Moon and all stars I don for diadem
To make me fair: I cast myself and them
Before His feet, Who knows us gem from gem.

  Day.

I shout before Him in my plenitude
Of light and warmth, of hope and wealth and food;
Ascribing all good to the Only Good.

  Light and Darkness.

I am God's dwelling-place,--
                              And also I
Make His pavilion,--
                      Lo, we bide and fly
Exulting in the Will of God Most High.

  Lightning and Thunder.

We indivisible flash forth His Fame,
We thunder forth the glory of His Name,
In harmony of resonance and flame.

  Clouds.

Sweet is our store, exhaled from sea or river:
We wear a rainbow, praising God the Giver
Because His mercy is for ever and ever.

  Earth.

I rest in Him rejoicing: resting so
And so rejoicing, in that I am low;
Yet known of Him, and following on to know.

  Mountains.

Our heights which laud Him, sink abased before
Him higher than the highest evermore:
God higher than the highest we adore.

  Hills.

We green-tops praise Him, and we fruitful heads,
Whereon the sunshine and the dew He sheds:
We green-tops praise Him, rising from out beds.

  Green Things.

We all green things, we blossoms bright or dim,
Trees, bushes, brushwood, corn and grasses slim,
We lift our many-favored lauds to Him.

  Rose,--Lily,--Violet.

I praise Him on my thorn which I adorn,--
And I, amid my world of thistle and thorn,--
And I, within my veil where I am born.

  Apple,--Citron,--Pomegranate.

We, Apple-blossom, Citron, Pomegranate,
We, clothed of God without our toil and fret,
We offer fatness where His Throne is set.

  Vine,--Cedar,--Palm.

I proffer Him my sweetness, who am sweet,--
I bow my strength in fragrance at His feet,--
I wave myself before His Judgment Seat.

  Medicinal Herbs.

I bring refreshment,--
                      I bring ease and calm,--
I lavish strength and healing,--
                                I am balm,--
We work His pitiful Will and chant our psalm.

  A Spring.

Clear my pure fountain, clear and pure my rill,
My fountain and mine outflow deep and still,
I set His semblance forth and do His Will.

  Sea.

To-day I praise God with a sparkling face,
My thousand thousand waves all uttering praise:
To-morrow I commit me to His Grace.

  Floods.

We spring and swell meandering to and fro,
From height to depth, from depth to depth we flow,
We fertilize the world, and praise Him so.

  Whales and Sea Mammals.

We Whales and Monsters gambol in His sight
Rejoicing every day and every night,
Safe in the tender keeping of His Might.

  Fishes.

Our fashions and our colors and our speeds
Set forth His praise Who framed us and Who feeds,
Who knows our number and regards our needs.

  Birds.

Winged Angels of this visible world, we fly
To sing God's praises in the lofty sky;
We scale the height to praise our Lord most High.

  Eagle and Dove.

I the sun-gazing Eagle,--
                          I the Dove,
With plumes of softness and a note of love,--
We praise by divers gifts One God above.

  Beasts and Cattle.

We forest Beasts,--
                    We Beasts of hill or cave,--
We border-loving Creatures of the wave,--
We praise our King with voices deep and grave.

  Small Animals.

God forms us weak and small, but pours out all
We need, and notes us while we stand or fall:
Wherefore we praise Him, weak and safe and small.

  Lamb.

I praise my loving Lord, Who maketh me
His type by harmless sweet simplicity:
Yet He the Lamb of lambs incomparably.

  Lion.

I praise the Lion of the Royal Race,
Strongest in fight and swiftest in the chase:
With all my might I leap and lavish praise.

  All Men.

All creatures sing around us, and we sing:
We bring our own selves as our offering,
Our very selves we render to our King.

  Israel.

Flock of our Shepherd's pasture and His fold,
Purchased and well-beloved from days of old,
We tell His praise which still remains untold.

  Priests.

We free-will Shepherds tend His sheep, and feed;
We follow Him while caring for their need;
We follow praising Him, and them we lead.

  Servants of God.

We love God, for He loves us; we are free
In serving Him, who serve Him willingly:
As kings we reign, and praise His Majesty.

  Holy and Humble Persons.

All humble souls he calls and sanctifies;
All holy souls He calls to make them wise;
Accepting all, His free-will sacrifice.

  Babes.

He maketh me,--
                And me,--
                          And me,--
                                  To be
His blessed little ones around His knee,
Who praise Him by mere love confidingly.

  Women.

God makes our service love, and makes our wage
Love: so we wend on patient pilgrimage,
Extolling Him by love from age to age.

  Men.

God gives us power to rule: He gives us power
To rule ourselves, and prune the exuberant flower
Of youth, and worship Him hour after hour.

  Spirits and Souls--

Lo, in the hidden world we chant our chant
To Him Who fills us that we nothing want,
To Him Whose bounty leaves our craving scant.

  of Babes--

With milky mouths we praise God, from the breast
Called home betimes to rest the perfect rest,
By love and joy fufilling His behest.

  of Women--

We praise His Will which made us what He would,
His Will which fashioned us and called us good,
His Will our plenary beatitude.

  of Men.

We praise His Will Who bore with us so long,
Who out of weakness wrought us swift and strong,
Champions of right and putters-down of wrong.

  All.

Let everything that hath or hath not breath,
Let days and endless days, let life and death,
Praise God, praise God, praise God, His creature saith.
K Mae Sep 2013
age resists sleep
with dreams too vast for lying prone
aware that time in this free zone
may end with a quiet nod
**immortal valor once was mine
a human gift as such divine
Paul Glottaman Jan 2010
Old
Flashlights flicker a thousand miles away.
Old men, wrinkled and sagging,
like memories, they fade.
Drop by drop they slip away.
Into the ether.

Clouds. Fog. Haze.

In dreams so clear, what alert dissipates.
The candle still burns down to bleeding wick
(On both ends, as ever it was.)
As voices cry out,
Soft as age or over ripe fruit.

But here, by now, and there, in the end, it all melts into one.
Time catches up.
Speed was never to blame.
(Though we all thought we could out run it.)

The bile bubbles venom.
Rage turns an ugly shade of green.

All the while, as it'll ever be;

A thousand miles away, children play.
I watch as my world turns red,
the price of withholding such rage.
I let my anger burn until I am dead.

Lay down in your silk white bed,
time caresses then cripples with old age.
I watch as my world turns red.

Swallow the lies that I was fed,
causing a wound that you cannot bandage.
I let my anger burn until I am dead.

You care little for those who have bled,
satisfied with a kingdom left in carnage.
I watch as my world turns red.

Even after everything that was said,
you still cling on to your false courage.
I let my anger burn until I am dead.

Still refusing to let your rotten skin shed,
simply content in your tainted marriage.
I watch as my world turns red,
I let my anger burn until I am dead.
Sailors we're not, but here our souls roam
Beneath the cold seas, and the waves and the foam
We inherit the depths of the oceans and sea
Never to know of just what we could be
We are the dead, lying down in the dark
Our stories forgotten, our history stark
We're not in one place, we live where we went down
Not a monument stands for most in our towns
We went down in rought seas, in a storm or a battle
We died taking a trip or transporting our cattle
There's as many of us as there are in the earth
We've been taken at sea, since man first did give birth
Our souls walk the floor of the deepest dark places
No one knows who we are, not our names or our faces
We ended our lives on ships , sloops and on ketches
We are the dead, some rich, some poor wretches
We never will age, never again will see light
We're still waiting for more to join us in the night
The seas give us life and they take just as fast
It's a tomb for us all, it's where our breaths were our last
Unsinkable ships...fifteen hundred or more
Lost their lives to the ice just like many before
The water cares not, your soul's there to take
Whether ocean or sea, or on river or lake
We walk in the depths, beneath the lighthouse and rocks
Our home is the cold, down below all the docks
We lie just off the shore, we died within reach
Some of us drowned just a bit from the beach
The sea's a cruel master, it owns all who sail
It cares not one bit, who you are or your tale
Stories mean nothing to those down below
For when it is time, to the locker you'll go
We died fighting pirates, we gave up our lives
We left our young children, our husbands and wives
From the Cape of Good Hope to the cold northern seas
Where we were still alive as our bodies did freeze
In the Indian Ocean and off the Newfoundland coast
Some nights you might see us, in the fog...just a ghost
We're the ones who inhabit the dark of the seas
When you hear the wind howling, you are hearing our pleas
Don't forget who we were, when we lived and we died
Please remember the families who broke down and did cry
There are fish in the ocean, but we live here too
We're the lost souls of people who died on the  blue
Sailors we're not, but the water's our home
Down in the dark waters beneath the waves and the foam.
fernando birlo Sep 2012
and i never said goodbye
but i don’t know where to start, anyway
though you’ve never been more at peace
apart, we just fell apart

please, please send your guidance
and don’t answer with a question
I’m just naive
don’t forgive, just forget, forgive again

I watch the evening smoke fade into orange
and the reds into black
you’ve always been a lamp unto my feet
in a blank world
give me comatose joy
like recurring memories
well the snow is shimmering in now
slanting dark colors, shading my destiny

can we just rewind time while I watch you age backwards?
forever changing the shape of memory
again, just show me how victory’s sweet,
even in death

hey, this dirt road’s empty
littered with cans from summer nights
deliver me, make me honest, make me clean
take me home, tell me where

wait, calm me with your voice
take me back to the old willow tree
make me dizzy with laughter
push me in the creek, again

like 2008 goodbye,
give me tears of pride
soft winds are sweeping away my days
as evening fades to night
you’ve always been a empty book to me,
an empty box to fill with notes
I still feel you, like a shadow on the empty plains
you’re a gushing waterfall
that’s run dry

can we just rewind time while I watch you age backwards?
forever changing the shape of memory
again, just show me how victory’s sweet,
even in death

you never judged
never condemned, cause that’s not you
and I never asked enough,
sought what I should have…
and tomorrow is here, unknown
all these changes and time—
and it’s you on my mind

like the evening smoke fading into orange
while the reds are fading into the black
oh today is just a nightmare
chaos and uncertainty
your boardwalk isn’t the same.
as I give way to **** poor dreams
like jumping out of a plane, with no parachute

I feel like you constructed this universe,
had it in the palm of your aged, lined hand
this perfect society of infinity

I lay and watch the sky get darker
the sunset through the naked branches of our tree
the stars emerge like diamonds
I remember how you always wished on the ones that
“have the courage to stay where they are”
and I retrace our steps of old to your empty room
to the datebook you lived by
you missed your dentist’s appointment,
never made it to my senior night.

but today, just hear my call
send me your voice
guide my feet as i walk away
as i take my steps into this ever-changing
presence we call life
watch over me from above with your knowing smile
and show me how victory’s sweet
even in death
Robyn Jan 2013
It doesn't snow anymore
Everything loses its sparkle
Under a sun that stings your eyes
And blinds you
But refuses to keep you warm
The frost retreats to the shadows
Like a convict on the run
And we'd join it
But we're chilled to the bone
And the cold sun sits
Upon its throne
We're trapped in an urban ice age
And we groan
And we moan
Danielle Shorr Oct 2014
We grew up
Quickly
Wishing to be older
Wanting nothing more
Than freedom
16 meant driver's license
18 meant cigarettes
And 21 was left for liquor
For gambling
And finally calling yourself
A grown up

It was his birthday
A few weeks ago
The age
We spend our whole lives
Waiting to be
And he came so close
To being it

21
It has been
Half a year
Since his leaving
So abrupt in its presence
Death has a way
Of shaking you
Waking you up
Only to have you fall back asleep
Again
And forget about it
It's hard to remember someone is gone
When you don't see them
Everyday
Loss is funny like that

21
You look through the texts
On your phone
Years back
You didn't know him well
But you knew him
And past tense feels strange
Knowing these kinds of things
Are permanent

21
Your best friend
Introduced you
That night in September
Spent filling lungs with smoke
I think it was a high holiday
The four of you
Laughing over nothing
The irony of it all
Kills me

21
She loved him
Still does

21
Taking hits
Escalates
Into much more
One time
Is all it takes

21
It is his birthday
The first
Without him here
He can finally do
All of the things
We've been doing for years
In secret
In hushed voices
And in hiding from our parents
Except now it is legal
Now it is allowed
Now it is okay
But it is not okay

He is 21
And he is not here
To celebrate

He is 21
And his mother
Is pouring a glass of wine
Alone

He is 21
And his birthday wishes
Sound more like condolences
There are words of grief
Instead of cheers
His facebook
Is a collection of memories
And emotions
He will not be forgotten
We swear

21
We grew up
Wishing to be older
Wanting nothing more
Than freedom
Age may not liberation
But neither
Is death

21
Make sure
To have a drink
For him.
paodje Mar 2012
hellopoetry.com is down

and i have so much to tell you
of love, of flight, of feeling sure
1984's so right
i thought, the certain age of five

we danced beneath the sprinklers
rotated likewise on the grass
my paper hat fell off
the fences of our old backyard far stronger
than any castle walls

dad at the brick barbecue he built
mum at the back door, smiling
cake and candles,
being lifted up,
a moat of inevitable sunshine.
Anya Mar 2020
His hands shake as they grip the edge of the bima.

It was not always like this. Once
His fingers tapped spry and nimble,
His knuckles did not gnarl and swell,
Spots dotted his face in freckles and not his skin as it aged.
His right knee twinges. He swallows dry.
Perhaps he should visit a doctor.  It is not wise, they tell him,
For a man his age to continue his work under such pressure -- he simply laughs it off.
Pah. Meshugge, you are.
He maintains, he will manage, his kind were built to endure.

His kind have walked miles in red sand that burned the soles of their feet.
His kind have strained their eyes to see the hazy shape of hope
In lamplight that burned eight days too long;
His kind stood tall in front of kings and pharaohs and Führers
That ordered them to kneel, bow, lay dead, rot beneath ten feat of Earth.
His kind broke their backs to remain steady on their own two feet --
Who is he to fail them by resting now?

He can certainly stand on a bima, facing a congregation that has come to expect
The sound of his voice, passion in his words,
The life in his eyes glowing behind a cloud of cataracts
(I do not need to see, he claims, to recite the words of Hashem; I read with my heart.)
Like candles through a foggy window,
Tinted glass distorted,
Faint chanting ringing from within.

Kol Nidrei.
He had to break fast this morning -- God forgive me, I did not want to --
I’d rather have died. But pills must be taken.
He scans his audience and knows others must have taken pills of their own:
They are old. No one lives forever.
His joints ache as theirs do,
They too feel the weight of seventy, eighty years settled in their bones
Like rocks, like sediment,  
Shifting with the current of the river that teems above them.
Such is the will of God.
They will be carried upstream when their time comes.

Ve’esarei, ush’vuei,
A glass of water rests on the floor at his feet,
Already half drained --
Droplets still sit moist on his lips.
Vacharamei, vekonamei,
He is a humble man, as all of Hashem’s servants should be --
He is blessed with dexterity unusual for his age.
He has no cause to complain, and yet even on the day of atonement,
Deep within his chest burns pride.
He is scared.
Vekinusei, vechinuyei,
Adonai, please,
Give me the strength.
I know why I hesitate.

He fears his voice will catch in his throat --
Will waver, will break to cough,
That the silver in his tone has tarnished,
That his pitch will strain, fall flat,
That his voice is not fit to sing God’s words,
That this chant will be his last.
That he will have to stop.

Kol Nidrei. All Vows.
He is nothing but a man. He is a mouthpiece for the words that pour out of him,
That float through the synagogue as they’ve floated for years upon years.
If he silences himself, he has no purpose.
If he silences himself, he is already unfit to sing God’s words.
He must begin without fear:
His kind know how to endure without fear. It is in their blood.
His mournful voice sings for them.
He takes a breath. The congregation holds theirs.

Kol Nidrei.
Ve’esarei, ush’vuei, vacharamei, vekonamei, vekinusei, vechinuyei.
Prohibitions, oaths, consecrations, vows that we may vow --
His voice is his vow.
He vows his life, the rest of his year, however many those may be, he pledges all of them,
That he may stand before his people in front of him,
And sing to his people that lived behind him.
Kol Nidrei.
All vows.
His voice soars and echoes off of the ceiling of the synagogue.
dawid Jan 2010
On my horse away I go
To adventure I do not know.
Up and down, faster faster
Of this beast I am the master.

Thrills and screams fade with age
Deep down in me is born a rage.
The journey replays, the same reel.
One big circle, plastic and steal.

I reach out to a girl, a smile,
Her adventure died back a while.
I take her hand, we'll escape,
This journey with a circular shape.

Find real horses, we could find pain
Real adventure, all in vain?
We must, afraid, get on the beast
Destination trivial, we'll go East.
They reached the low lying city of Lacedaemon them where they
drove straight to the of abode Menelaus [and found him in his own
house, feasting with his many clansmen in honour of the wedding of his
son, and also of his daughter, whom he was marrying to the son of that
valiant warrior Achilles. He had given his consent and promised her to
him while he was still at Troy, and now the gods were bringing the
marriage about; so he was sending her with chariots and horses to
the city of the Myrmidons over whom Achilles’ son was reigning. For
his only son he had found a bride from Sparta, daughter of Alector.
This son, Megapenthes, was born to him of a bondwoman, for heaven
vouchsafed Helen no more children after she had borne Hermione, who
was fair as golden Venus herself.
  So the neighbours and kinsmen of Menelaus were feasting and making
merry in his house. There was a bard also to sing to them and play his
lyre, while two tumblers went about performing in the midst of them
when the man struck up with his tune.]
  Telemachus and the son of Nestor stayed their horses at the gate,
whereon Eteoneus servant to Menelaus came out, and as soon as he saw
them ran hurrying back into the house to tell his Master. He went
close up to him and said, “Menelaus, there are some strangers come
here, two men, who look like sons of Jove. What are we to do? Shall we
take their horses out, or tell them to find friends elsewhere as
they best can?”
  Menelaus was very angry and said, “Eteoneus, son of Boethous, you
never used to be a fool, but now you talk like a simpleton. Take their
horses out, of course, and show the strangers in that they may have
supper; you and I have stayed often enough at other people’s houses
before we got back here, where heaven grant that we may rest in
peace henceforward.”
  So Eteoneus bustled back and bade other servants come with him. They
took their sweating hands from under the yoke, made them fast to the
mangers, and gave them a feed of oats and barley mixed. Then they
leaned the chariot against the end wall of the courtyard, and led
the way into the house. Telemachus and Pisistratus were astonished
when they saw it, for its splendour was as that of the sun and moon;
then, when they had admired everything to their heart’s content,
they went into the bath room and washed themselves.
  When the servants had washed them and anointed them with oil, they
brought them woollen cloaks and shirts, and the two took their seats
by the side of Menelaus. A maidservant brought them water in a
beautiful golden ewer, and poured it into a silver basin for them to
wash their hands; and she drew a clean table beside them. An upper
servant brought them bread, and offered them many good things of
what there was in the house, while the carver fetched them plates of
all manner of meats and set cups of gold by their side.
  Menelaus then greeted them saying, “Fall to, and welcome; when you
have done supper I shall ask who you are, for the lineage of such
men as you cannot have been lost. You must be descended from a line of
sceptre-bearing kings, for poor people do not have such sons as you
are.”
  On this he handed them a piece of fat roast ****, which had been set
near him as being a prime part, and they laid their hands on the
good things that were before them; as soon as they had had enough to
eat and drink, Telemachus said to the son of Nestor, with his head
so close that no one might hear, “Look, Pisistratus, man after my
own heart, see the gleam of bronze and gold—of amber, ivory, and
silver. Everything is so splendid that it is like seeing the palace of
Olympian Jove. I am lost in admiration.”
  Menelaus overheard him and said, “No one, my sons, can hold his
own with Jove, for his house and everything about him is immortal; but
among mortal men—well, there may be another who has as much wealth as
I have, or there may not; but at all events I have travelled much
and have undergone much hardship, for it was nearly eight years before
I could get home with my fleet. I went to Cyprus, Phoenicia and the
Egyptians; I went also to the Ethiopians, the Sidonians, and the
Erembians, and to Libya where the lambs have horns as soon as they are
born, and the sheep lamb down three times a year. Every one in that
country, whether master or man, has plenty of cheese, meat, and good
milk, for the ewes yield all the year round. But while I was
travelling and getting great riches among these people, my brother was
secretly and shockingly murdered through the perfidy of his wicked
wife, so that I have no pleasure in being lord of all this wealth.
Whoever your parents may be they must have told you about all this,
and of my heavy loss in the ruin of a stately mansion fully and
magnificently furnished. Would that I had only a third of what I now
have so that I had stayed at home, and all those were living who
perished on the plain of Troy, far from Argos. I of grieve, as I sit
here in my house, for one and all of them. At times I cry aloud for
sorrow, but presently I leave off again, for crying is cold comfort
and one soon tires of it. Yet grieve for these as I may, I do so for
one man more than for them all. I cannot even think of him without
loathing both food and sleep, so miserable does he make me, for no one
of all the Achaeans worked so hard or risked so much as he did. He
took nothing by it, and has left a legacy of sorrow to myself, for
he has been gone a long time, and we know not whether he is alive or
dead. His old father, his long-suffering wife Penelope, and his son
Telemachus, whom he left behind him an infant in arms, are plunged
in grief on his account.”
  Thus spoke Menelaus, and the heart of Telemachus yearned as he
bethought him of his father. Tears fell from his eyes as he heard
him thus mentioned, so that he held his cloak before his face with
both hands. When Menelaus saw this he doubted whether to let him
choose his own time for speaking, or to ask him at once and find
what it was all about.
  While he was thus in two minds Helen came down from her high vaulted
and perfumed room, looking as lovely as Diana herself. Adraste brought
her a seat, Alcippe a soft woollen rug while Phylo fetched her the
silver work-box which Alcandra wife of Polybus had given her.
Polybus lived in Egyptian Thebes, which is the richest city in the
whole world; he gave Menelaus two baths, both of pure silver, two
tripods, and ten talents of gold; besides all this, his wife gave
Helen some beautiful presents, to wit, a golden distaff, and a
silver work-box that ran on wheels, with a gold band round the top
of it. Phylo now placed this by her side, full of fine spun yarn,
and a distaff charged with violet coloured wool was laid upon the
top of it. Then Helen took her seat, put her feet upon the
footstool, and began to question her husband.
  “Do we know, Menelaus,” said she, “the names of these strangers
who have come to visit us? Shall I guess right or wrong?-but I
cannot help saying what I think. Never yet have I seen either man or
woman so like somebody else (indeed when I look at him I hardly know
what to think) as this young man is like Telemachus, whom Ulysses left
as a baby behind him, when you Achaeans went to Troy with battle in
your hearts, on account of my most shameless self.”
  “My dear wife,” replied Menelaus, “I see the likeness just as you
do. His hands and feet are just like Ulysses’; so is his hair, with
the shape of his head and the expression of his eyes. Moreover, when I
was talking about Ulysses, and saying how much he had suffered on my
account, tears fell from his eyes, and he hid his face in his mantle.”
  Then Pisistratus said, “Menelaus, son of Atreus, you are right in
thinking that this young man is Telemachus, but he is very modest, and
is ashamed to come here and begin opening up discourse with one
whose conversation is so divinely interesting as your own. My
father, Nestor, sent me to escort him hither, for he wanted to know
whether you could give him any counsel or suggestion. A son has always
trouble at home when his father has gone away leaving him without
supporters; and this is how Telemachus is now placed, for his father
is absent, and there is no one among his own people to stand by him.”
  “Bless my heart,” replied Menelaus, “then I am receiving a visit
from the son of a very dear friend, who suffered much hardship for
my sake. I had always hoped to entertain him with most marked
distinction when heaven had granted us a safe return from beyond the
seas. I should have founded a city for him in Argos, and built him a
house. I should have made him leave Ithaca with his goods, his son,
and all his people, and should have sacked for them some one of the
neighbouring cities that are subject to me. We should thus have seen
one another continually, and nothing but death could have
interrupted so close and happy an *******. I suppose, however,
that heaven grudged us such great good fortune, for it has prevented
the poor fellow from ever getting home at all.”
  Thus did he speak, and his words set them all a weeping. Helen wept,
Telemachus wept, and so did Menelaus, nor could Pisistratus keep his
eyes from filling, when he remembered his dear brother Antilochus whom
the son of bright Dawn had killed. Thereon he said to Menelaus,
  “Sir, my father Nestor, when we used to talk about you at home, told
me you were a person of rare and excellent understanding. If, then, it
be possible, do as I would urge you. I am not fond of crying while I
am getting my supper. Morning will come in due course, and in the
forenoon I care not how much I cry for those that are dead and gone.
This is all we can do for the poor things. We can only shave our heads
for them and wring the tears from our cheeks. I had a brother who died
at Troy; he was by no means the worst man there; you are sure to
have known him—his name was Antilochus; I never set eyes upon him
myself, but they say that he was singularly fleet of foot and in fight
valiant.”
  “Your discretion, my friend,” answered Menelaus, “is beyond your
years. It is plain you take after your father. One can soon see when a
man is son to one whom heaven has blessed both as regards wife and
offspring—and it has blessed Nestor from first to last all his
days, giving him a green old age in his own house, with sons about him
who are both we disposed and valiant. We will put an end therefore
to all this weeping, and attend to our supper again. Let water be
poured over our hands. Telemachus and I can talk with one another
fully in the morning.”
  On this Asphalion, one of the servants, poured water over their
hands and they laid their hands on the good things that were before
them.
  Then Jove’s daughter Helen bethought her of another matter. She
drugged the wine with an herb that banishes all care, sorrow, and
ill humour. Whoever drinks wine thus drugged cannot shed a single tear
all the rest of the day, not even though his father and mother both of
them drop down dead, or he sees a brother or a son hewn in pieces
before his very eyes. This drug, of such sovereign power and virtue,
had been given to Helen by Polydamna wife of Thon, a woman of Egypt,
where there grow all sorts of herbs, some good to put into the
mixing-bowl and others poisonous. Moreover, every one in the whole
country is a skilled physician, for they are of the race of Paeeon.
When Helen had put this drug in the bowl, and had told the servants to
serve the wine round, she said:
  “Menelaus, son of Atreus, and you my good friends, sons of
honourable men (which is as Jove wills, for he is the giver both of
good and evil, and can do what he chooses), feast here as you will,
and listen while I tell you a tale in season. I cannot indeed name
every single one of the exploits of Ulysses, but I can say what he did
when he was before Troy, and you Achaeans were in all sorts of
difficulties. He covered himself with wounds and bruises, dressed
himself all in rags, and entered the enemy’s city looking like a
menial or a beggar. and quite different from what he did when he was
among his own people. In this disguise he entered the city of Troy,
and no one said anything to him. I alone recognized him and began to
question him, but he was too cunning for me. When, however, I had
washed and anointed him and had given him clothes, and after I had
sworn a solemn oath not to betray him to the Trojans till he had got
safely back to his own camp and to the ships, he told me all that
the Achaeans meant to do. He killed many Trojans and got much
information before he reached the Argive camp, for all which things
the Trojan women made lamentation, but for my own part I was glad, for
my heart was beginning to oam after my home, and I was unhappy about
wrong that Venus had done me in taking me over there, away from my
country, my girl, and my lawful wedded husband, who is indeed by no
means deficient either in person or understanding.”
  Then Menelaus said, “All that you have been saying, my dear wife, is
true. I have travelled much, and have had much to do with heroes,
but I have never seen such another man as Ulysses. What endurance too,
and what courage he displayed within the wooden horse, wherein all the
bravest of the Argives were lying in wait to bring death and
destruction upon the Trojans. At that moment you came up to us; some
god who wished well to the Trojans must have set you on to it and
you had Deiphobus with you. Three times did you go all round our
hiding place and pat it; you called our chiefs each by his own name,
and mimicked all our wives -Diomed, Ulysses, and I from our seats
inside heard what a noise you made. Diomed and I could not make up our
minds whether to spring out then and there, or to answer you from
inside, but Ulysses held us all in check, so we sat quite still, all
except Anticlus, who was beginning to answer you, when Ulysses clapped
his two brawny hands over his mouth, and kept them there. It was
this that saved us all, for he muzzled Anticlus till Minerva took
you away again.”
  “How sad,” exclaimed Telemachus, “that all this was of no avail to
save him, nor yet his own iron courage. But now, sir, be pleased to
send us all to bed, that we may lie down and enjoy the blessed boon of
sleep.”
  On this Helen told the maid servants to set beds in the room that
was in the gatehouse, and to make them with good red rugs, and
spread coverlets on the top of them with woollen cloaks for the guests
to wear. So the maids went out, carrying a torch, and made the beds,
to which a man-servant presently conducted the strangers. Thus,
then, did Telemachus and Pisistratus sleep there in the forecourt,
while the son of Atreus lay in an inner room with lovely Helen by
his side.
  When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, Menelaus
rose and dressed himself. He bound his sandals on to his comely
feet, girded his sword about his shoulders, and left his room
looking like an immortal god. Then, taking a seat near Telemachus he
said:
  “And what, Telemachus, has led you to take this long sea voyage to
Lacedaemon? Are you on public or private business? Tell me all about
it.”
  “I have come, sir replied Telemachus, “to see if you can tell me
anything about my father. I am being eaten out of house and home; my
fair estate is being wasted, and my house is full of miscreants who
keep killing great numbers of my sheep and oxen, on the pretence of
paying their addresses to my mother. Therefore, I am suppliant at your
knees if haply you may tell me about my father’s melancholy end,
whether you saw it with your own eyes, or heard it from some other
traveller; for he was a man born to trouble. Do not soften things
out of any pity for myself, but tell me in all plainness exactly
what you saw. If my brave father Ulysses ever did you loyal service
either by word or deed, when you Achaeans were harassed by the
Trojans, bear it in mind now as in my favour and tell me truly all.”
  Menelaus on hearing this was very much shocked. “So,” he
exclaimed, “these cowards would usurp a brave man’s bed? A hind
might as well lay her new born you

— The End —