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Francie Lynch Jul 2018
Classical Trumpism: Judas makes a strong and powerful betrayal.

Neo-Classical-Trumpism: Adolph is a good friend of mine. He makes a strong
                           and powerful argument regarding purity.


Contemporary Trumpism: I love and trust my little buddy, Kim.

Modern Trumpism: Vlad, whom I trust with my marriage, makes a
                                   reel strong and powerful argument.


Trumpism:  Sad, Sad, Sad. Witch hunt. There was no collusion.

Neo-Trumpism: Crooked Malia and Sasha are to blame for the
                            collusion with Canada, Mexico and South America
.
If there are neo-nazis, there will be neo-trumps.
And the spelling of reel is what I intended.
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2017
by Augustus M. Toplady
(1740-1778)

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee;
Let the water and the blood,
From Thy wounded side which flowed,
Be of sin the double cure,
Save from wrath and make me pure.

Not the labor of my hands
Can fulfill Thy law’s demands;
Could my zeal no respite know,
Could my tears forever flow,
All for sin could not atone;
Thou must save, and Thou alone.

Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to Thy cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for dress;
Helpless, look to Thee for grace;
Foul, I to the fountain fly;
Wash me, Savior, or I die.

While I draw this fleeting breath,
When my eyes shall close in death,
When I rise to worlds unknown,
And behold Thee on Thy throne,
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.

~ Augustus M. Toplady
~~~

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qqDJVGPRdg
Chris Neilson Aug 2018
Along the bus filled corridor
from the south of the city
through the Victorian architecture
of Withington and Fallowfield
to the world food of Rusholme
with its plethora of barber shops
shoe shops, shisha bars, cafes
Philips Park and the eye hospital
then the university quarter
students like woolly hatted ants
a human tide of books and backpacks
our future professional generation
of doctors, scientists and philosophers
part time poets and musicians

Into the city centre bustle 
of hipsters and hustlers
high flyers and homeless
rough sleepers and penthouses
side by side in a sea of incongruity
The roman settlement of Castlefield
now sky scraping soulless concrete
in this original city of industry
where workers downed tools 
in cotton mills for anti-slavery 
American Civil War brethren
built on old world immigration
integrated into a working class
of blue collars, graft and toil
bones of its makers in its soil

Images of the lost industries
now decorate ornate beautiful bees
scattered in and around the urban sprawl
timely reminders of our heritage
of Northern grit in all its colours
of invention, science, sport, music and art
of protest, achievement and inspiration
a city that's historical
a city for the here and now
a city for future nascent talent
a city that's changed the world
Manchester, a city for all ages
I wrote most of this after returning from a hospital appointment earlier this year but have now added to it to bring it up to date
Nylee Nov 2018
It is seasonal
limited time period
Your smile, his frown
My car, her scar
A small episode by far.


Tiny twinkles
Cloudy atmosphere
Pull push
Open and close the door
Then sit on the floor.


Tired
And rest
Blooming rose
And the bleeding thorns
Leaving the pieces torn.


All it begins
And ends
We live and die
Nothing remains
No entertainment.


Replaced fractions
Divided notions
Agreed and discarded
Lies filled in truth
Because life gives no proof.


Ten steps, eleven jumps
Crawling there
After a huge fall
In between few moments
A sad sentiment.


A vacant headspace
It came and went away
Nothing stays
Good bad ****
All too early
A thought left
Distant.


Rough days
Cold nights
replaces warmth
tight shoulders
Stiff movements
Aching muscles.


The bitter taste
Sweetened in spring
And the autumn leaves
Winter is coming
The ages pass
Just like that
.
Candy Flip Mar 2016
When I was a child, there was something mildly special about standing in the garden, late into the minutes leading up to my bed time. It was something about the thrill of disobedience, as if I were already an adult, making my own decisions.

This poem is about my testicles.

A thousand twinkling freckles gazed down at me. Joining the dots with a finger extended high as if gripping an imaginary pen, lines would appear. The celestial wrinkles of an old woman who wears these wrinkles with pride – the imprint left by a lifetime of smiles like how an old arm chair wears the imprint left by a lifetime of back-sides.

A singular eye governs the sky, and through what I interpret as a flirty act of desire, winks at me, through a thirty day cycle. I let out a giggle, and wink back.

On the horizon, trees sway in a purposeful and rhythmic way, as if conducting a symphony meant just for me; the delicate harmony of distant car horn beeps, the melody of crickets and bird tweets, and the gentle percussion of snapped twigs and crushed leaves.

Blades of wet grass become fingers seductively passing between my toes. A gust of wind blows and like a comb, massages out the knots in my hair, whispering through a foreign tongue pros into my ear.

And I can feel it inside, a connection with the night. As passion builds, a bird takes flight, and I let out a confident breath: I am in love with life! I’m in love with the Earth, warm days and clear skies. I’m in love with nature: the birds and mammals, snails, slugs, spiders and flies.

I await a reply.

Which doesn’t come.

Years go by.

And then, half way through my puberty, when the world was not so alien and new to me, I had the sad epiphany that maybe this symphony of car horns and bird tweets was not meant for me.

That, if I were not standing precisely here, or had tragically lost both my ears, the trees would continue to conduct their tune, unstirred by the news that their audience had disappeared.

And with this realisation, came an audible, synchronised plop, as – like a penny – my two ***** simultaneously dropped as if recoiling, paralysed in shock.

Then in the following silence, a tumbleweed drifted by as if to imply some kind of mockery to the thoughts going through my mind.

But of course, it was just a coincidence. The tumbleweed, in its oblivious innocence has no knowledge of the context of my thoughts, like a bolt of lightning can’t appreciate its momentary grasp of dominance over an angry sky. Like an atom doesn’t appreciate the burden of the service it provides, like a poem doesn’t appreciate the metaphors woven purposefully between every line.

And how could I sleep at night knowing that a hurricane could slip into existence, tear its way through a village of innocents then ******* in an instant leaving no form of apology or reason?

This is the dilemma of owning a conscious mind in a world of impartiality.

And if you don’t mind, I’m going to divide this audience into two sides: those who are matured and wise, and when they look at the night sky, see those wrinkles reflected in their own eyes – and those who are young and naïve, to whom this insight may come as a surprise.

To the wise and mature, I assure you that we are all in fact slowly dying. The only reason you’re alive is through generations of successful breeding and surviving. God is dead, and love is a chemical compound produced in your head.

And to the young and naïve, I’ll leave you with this line: despite the pessimistic undertones this poem implies, if you just don’t worry, you’ll turn out just fine.
I will now write all my poetry in pros as I feel like it leaves more freedom for my presentation.
Piyush Gahlot Mar 12
My phone rang,
Saw her name flashing after eternity,
but, WHY ?
Why would you call now?

Ain't we done yet.
last time I checked,
you were long gone,
gone too far to be back.
You hustled into another relationship,
couldn't wait to give me another chance,
wasn't I worthy ?

I have tried enough,
I have cried enough,
Can't bear this no more.
Just come back if you want,
Or leave me alone, forever, please!
No calls !
No texts!
My Ex called up after a long time.
Childhood is the sweet air of spring,
To laugh, dance and sing,
To give roots to be strong and happy,
And wings to fly.
Youth is the beautiful smile of summer,
A kiss and memories that last forever,
Enjoy the greenery of life of the season,
And sway with the leaves and flowers in the Sun,
Wooing,
Seducing.
Middle age is the crisp Autumn,
A mellower season,
When leaves are falling,
A change is happening,
Sweaters, scarves,feeling nostalgic,
Trying to bring back the magic,
Of health and well being,
A second spring.
Old age is life's winter,
Bare trees with icy splinter,
A need for comfort,good food and a caring hand,
A verdict of life,where we stand,
A reward of childhood and youth,
Middle age and its truth,
The last act,
Life's fact.
Marble skin,
Sculpted clutch,

Solid and tender,
To the touch.

Depth of character,
Length of reason,

A modern day Greek,
In exactly his season.
Adonis says "hi".

*If I had matched lengths of acts, I'm sure it would seem better but, haven't put enough thought into it*

Edit ******** put enough thought into it*
Sweet liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,

She looks -a still,
                  Young looks can ****.

Oh it breaks my heart…
                     It won’t be mine,

Bottled-up it gets better,
                Just give it some time.

Sweet liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,

Beauty stop, you stand still,
                              Young looks can ****.

I gave my heart and wasted my time,
Let my love out, let go-o-o-o-o…
Woman on woman -my Woe!

Sweet Liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,

Here with a feeble mind,
                                 Now drinking all the time!

Sweet liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,

Plump lips, her curly hair-r-r-s,
                                 Never a boyfriend, -she swears!

Sweet liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,

That body, does it shine?
                                       I’m drinking all the time!

Sweet liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,

Sweet liquor only ages,
                      Sweet liquor only ages,
An Old Timey Timey about man drowning his sorrows in liquor over the loss of his woman to another woman. He becomes elated at the notion that over time liquor gets better while females appearance deteriorates over time so he is in glee thinking she lost him and without those looks one day she'll never get another man which is ironic to place that assumption upon a woman who is not attracted to men.
Esther Krenzin Oct 2018
Strong and resolute, it stands
seeking with claw-like limbs
for sunlight and raindrops.
Leaves, crimson and gold
slip from trailing branches
coming to rest on frozen ground.
Whispering and sighing
the great oak bends and sways
in the icy wind.
Roots, beneath the surface
delve deep down
growing
strengthening
as ages pass--
untouched by frost.
The strong winds may blow
and wage their wars
brittle branches may splinter.
But still the oak stands
bending
not breaking against the forces.
-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
We must learn to be more flexible in life, and not let the world make us hard and unforgiving. If a tree were hard and brittle, than it would break and fall over. And if it had no roots, it would never be standing in the first place. When we are born, we are born a tree bud with roots like small veins. As the years past we grow and learn the ways of the world, our roots growing and spreading. Life may be difficult, there may be suffering, and we may become hard and splinter into pieces. But remember that everything that is broken, comes back stronger than before. I once saw lightning strike down a towering oak, causing it to fall and leave nothing but a barren stump.
After a year or two, a little tree began to grow from the stump of its former self, becoming everything it was before it fell--if not even more beautiful.
To this day, it still stands, looking as if nothing ever happened.
Life will knock you down, but it is your choice whether or not you will stand up again, or stay down.
Homunculus Apr 2016
The process of becoming other than,
  the shedding of the old by way of time
  the hands upon the clock traverse their span,
  the ever fleeting moment reigns, sublime.

The emptiness of all objective forms,
  the rushing river, never stepped in twice,
  the reconfiguration of all norms,
  the virtues of lost ages seen as vice,

The elements converge and then react,
  the caterpillars weave themselves cocoons,
  the world amends its stock of gathered facts,
  the moths emerge, in flight to greet the moon,
  
   The firmament, destroyed and rearranged,
     the universal essence, found in change.
I'm actually beginning to enjoy writing these.
Carter Ginter Jun 2018
What a day
What a life
I've been here many times
But none of them felt like this

My first year
I saw this couple
They were dancing and singing
As they gazed into the other's eyes
The love there was palpable
And to a young queer person
Feeling extremely alone and unlovable
I cried because I didn't think
I could ever be worth
A love quite like that

Then this year happened
I thought they were a new crush
But those gorgeous eyes locked into mine
And I feel like I've known them for ages

A few drinks in and
The anxiety begins to fade away
As our bodies time themselves to the rhythm
Of music I didn't think I could dance to
As strangers question the intensity
Of the intimacy between us
And would probably freak if they knew
That we've only known each other
Just over two weeks
But time is irrelevant and
Feelings are everything

Their vibrant energy electrocutes mine
Sending my body into both a
Simultaneous rush and deceleration
As we are transported beyond this space
Beyond the heavy crowds
To a place of our own
Where no one can touch us
Where no one else exists
Where it's only them and I
Staring into each other's eyes
And feeling each other's souls
Exactly where I wanted to be
Is exactly where I am
All my life
is waves, expressed as rays,
phases, and cancellations...

...Waving by
and paving over
what I made in other ages

Undulating sway,
disrupting Self,
the Phrase, the Word, the Way --

Nameless, without
shape - within all shape -
all touch, all taste;

One expressed as Two:
compress, expand, repeat.
In balance, truth.

Lilting swells
that break in mind and water,
endless scintillation;

Every word as complex
as its counterpart,
unpatterned ocean;

All motion
the illusion of Desire,
the fire that burns to Rest...

...But only ever
simulates, for trough
but stimulates the crest;

When all my waves
have ceased and found their peace,
there ends my quest.
Dedicated to Walter Russell
Bus Poet Stop Jun 2018
~for those who will read this and weep~

the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-Job experience

localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!


the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life *****” advertisement

I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs


summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created

so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)


but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early


got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind

these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived
Amy Leigh Dec 2015
How can anyone
be sure? It's ages now and
I still feel so lost.

© A. Leigh
CK Baker Aug 2017
the banners are blowing steady
(fully extended in the hot august wind)
contemporary in style
tightly trimmed
and all gloriously dressed
in the latest colors and hues
it’s a fleeting distraction though
as the caskets
and children
and grieving widows
are rolled steadily across
the burning tarmac

it’s the beginning
of that inevitable
two part proceeding
a skotoma for the ages
delusionary in nature
rich in grays
and eerily reminiscent
of that foreign reign
clipped in silence
with dark roots of fear
set deep in the bowels
of a chapter
of unimaginable sin

indifference as pronounced
as the accompanying salutes
haphazard sentiments that are
cloaked in the horror
of endless
aborted days
forgotten buggies
and bunkers
and rat packs
how could the switch
be set so wrong?


it’s truly an illusion
(this way of the world)
simple indulgence can grow
so beastly and consuming
try telling the tale to the
tibetan monks
or broad peak sherpas
(those boys know how to get it done!)
how to bask in
the ice cold waters
how to savor
the lava hot falls
couldn’t the others
have figured this one out?


the flags have settled
at half mass
and are tinted
in a charred yellow brown
the lifeless dreams
and inspirations now
in the rear view
leif running solo
(exempt of his trusted gunners)
ready for the numbered lines
his eyes open
to the ever changing
enemy at hand
Sara Kellie Jul 2018
Go.
You're just above the water, just.
You know you're going, don't you.
You've hung on for ages, years.
You seem ok about going, are you.

Just go, now.
Just go.
Go.

Poetry by Kaydee.
A short poem about the right to die.
Calmly exiting life.
Serenity.
Quiet.
Peace.
Calm.
Owlman Jun 2014
They throw me in the name of god
Throw me in the name of freedom
Use me to sharpen their blades
Carve to make beauty that never fades
Use to measure, find assumed treasures
With all the radical measures
Use me to build shelters and shatter bones
Calling me god, he bows and bends
Cull animals and humans alike
With ****** hands, holding rituals
Some one ask him! what is it you truly sacrifice?
I marvel, at this creature
Ponder upon every feature
After ages and ages of gazing
To me, It is still amazing!
still life and the way they might look at us.
Blissful Nobody Sep 2018
I must be made out of stone,
A stone is a good thing to be,
I have weathered wounds ,
Changed a bit on the outside,
The core remains the same .

A stone is a good thing to be ,
Nothing changes inside,
A landslide or an avalanche,
It’s just an adventurous ride,
An experience that shaped me.

Nothing changes inside,
Time has layered me solid,
A little unraveling by nature,
Is time again working on me,
Showing the grit that makes me.

Time has layered me solid,
Bruises sharpened my edges,
Water smothered me smooth,
I could lay alone for ages,
Or I could flow and dissolve .
Robby May 2014
Sleep deprived I've been up for too long thinking about how we used to dance so long ago. if I grabbed you by waist Do you think these worries would fade and bring us to a time we both know. Ages ago two different paths but  if you trace this chord back to the wall you can see we were never unplugged at all.
Meredith Ann Jan 14
Suddenly, I understand it all.
Yet the world is a mystery and I am lost in it.

Ages are a time and emotion.
13 is mid afternoon. Lagging and energetic.
15 is the morning sun. Rising groggy and regretful.

17? 17 is the night.
17 is the span between 11-1.
When you aren't wild yet but things are certainly different.
17 is the city lights and no seatbelt.
17 is the teenage cliché,
shadowed by the unknown of what is to come.

17 is crying in the hallways and stargazing on the lawn.
17 is having a bottle of ***** under the bed,
but being too scared to drink it.
17 is Ribs and loneliness,
As you watch the night slip away and the knowledge hits you that you now have to wait for morning.

17 is the unknown.
17 is taking risks.
Not because you are brave,
but because you don't have anything left to give.
17 is to be lost,
but to be okay with that.

17 is slowly coming down from the high of growing up,
Reflecting on all you have lived,
As you patiently wait for your life to begin.
written 4/19/18
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