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Robin Carretti Aug 2018
This is far from a
car S-p-a--C-y
Oh! My? Crossover traveler
The Phyton
Top of the rank
collision-course
New job space
planning tech magic cursor

Magical Podcast*

Do we have space
Sci-Fi-Hi Meeting
Googling creating playing
Cheating Overexaggerating
And faking our
(dead)lines

Not meeting our deadlines
What is the right time?
Spacewalking on the yellow brick
the road you are my sunshine*
"Million light years away from being rich"?

     Lucy in the Sky
       LSD-Little space devil
No/space for Jack the shinning
of diamonds, this isn't Oz
Emerald City or spin-off

Climb the ladder space objects clutter
Posh-Rich Witch is which
The last epidemic standup comic

Crawling having a ball Spalding

That Spiderwomen kvetch
Wolftie face switched
Fox lies moms moon pies
The collision of the moon
Space monkey baboon
The equation or burning
Sun people in devastation

Magic God

What time holds the
Mass control Einstein the professor
The brain exploding stars
Study hall those equations

In Princeton New Jersey
Those tiny particles lost in space
This corporation division
*
Space Between_

*Hard paper scissors and
Mr. Rock

It's time to money pound
The Big Ben clock
"Do we act like the only
one on this planet"                  
The Singularity
The multiplicity
The burning sun
*
War of the Military
Hot fun "Twin City"
Medieval twin planets

She's brace-space and he's
Well known physic
energy flowing one
step beyond collision of '
     Two Gods"

Magic space-lotus love of "Venus_
Pond

The Mall of America Star Spangle Banner
Next International flight became a winner

Plants and animals
The primal magic
Catching the
planets there both
emerging
The submerging eye
Space-out engaging

The civilization nightmare
On the cusp right here
Martian stripe and stars
Wipeout species of mars
Gravitatious collide of lovers
Confused about earthlings
More siblings another planet colliding

Like a space odyssey ground control to
      "Major Tom"
Fe fi fun on space run
Our Earth Mondadori
Spicy pleasure taste for
Chicken Tandoori
Magical dish
Make a wish

Magic hands believing

Metagalactic space and time
Holy God realistic
Osprey someone is the prey
In the movie magical classic
Breakfast at Tiffanys
Holiday mind dressed up window
"Out of our comfort zone
eating to the end twilight zone widow"

The extra enchanted evening
For the Moms only
Our heads over space
heels hit the ceiling

Eggs Benedict, the salt wasn't kosher
Artsy Audrey Hepburn don't push her

Celestial Ocean Space Steven Universe
The Christmas madness sale
Poison Ivy Pointsetta what
a vendetta
Interstellar meeting her
new race feeling out of place
Adulation like a prosecution
Space collide anytime
can explode

Two worlds become tragic
Space station not a game
A haunting catastrophic
Collision Titanic ship

Magically got more modified
Needing a space program the
spy to identify  

Dragonfly to Madame Butterfly
Space of magic crime-space
All spots, not Dalmatian
Space wings set up for Superman
Magic fan rising adrenaline
Monster cookies for Madeline

Fire and Ice Global warming
wildfires now the collision
On another planet warning
Miracle blessing of magic
Someone before or after
just to touch them

We cannot stop this craziness
The outburst goes pop the weasel

Magic place portal
Something in the way
to crumble like a baby
firstborn rocking her cradle

The curiosity space philosophy
Like breed of cats,
Licking tongue envelope
The cats eye Egyptian
Terrified space milk the tabby
Meeting my space hubby

Microscopic became two dots .-.
Space became a new buried plot
Is this all I got Twitter
Home run ball and
New York Dodgers
Brooklyn bat *******

So compelled to the computer
Designed the Rover robot lover
Magical Elton John
wedding
space planner
Across the Universe
John Lennon
Bennie and the Jets
Like a science
Teacher's pets

Eyes spaced out the magic place within**
So sacred magic hat Rabbit
Mountain bear Airspace Hobbit
Roll over Beethoven
The dog bone playing space I tunes

The spaceship magic
fingers piano
Plays one enchanted evening
Let me see the beautiful
new awakening
When Robin sings
Her magical wand
Lights up the world
of hands magical awaits

Remember "A Poem" can be magic
Collison in Space or Good earth how do we collide into one another planet some fire exposed in our words can we change the way we feel we collide again but what happens when our planets collide
Ahmad Cox Apr 2012
The people on the t.v.
Pay a lot of money
To take up airspace
To try and sell their products
And to try and grab our attention
And grab our minds
Convincing us
That we need to buy that extra ginsu knife
Or Chia pet
Or else your life surely couldn't be complete
Telling us that we have to live a certain way
Eat a certain way
Love a certain way
Look a certain way
Even feel a certain way
Or else somehow we just aren't good citizens
We just aren't being patriotic enough
If we don't buy into their political slander
And buying into the America dream
That is based on artificial hopes
And artificial dreams
dj mcc Nov 2017
I live in a vacuum.
I exist in a fundamentally
misunderstood airspace
inhabited only by a
lonely soul
who is
shouting and stammering
senseless pleas,
thinking,
"Who can this awful,
lonesome creature be?"
Never realizing,
"Oh,
it's me."
Molly Oct 2012
Singing birds are often better off caged, and maybe I’m no different. Maybe it’s safer, biting my tongue and shoving my hands deep in my pockets when the urge to delineate my woes shivers its way up my spine, shaking the rust from the back of my teeth and loosening the hinges on my jaw. I’m constantly reminded that the world outside my mind is far too dangerous, too brutal for my fragile thoughts, for my feeble words. But every now and then those words get the better of me. They convince me that their songs are worth hearing, that they’ll survive the hell that awaits them. Then, eager and  hopeful, they jump off my teeth like a diving board, spreading their wings and gliding out into the world of the unknown, the world of wars waged to divide and battles fought to conquer. I watch as they hang suspended in the air, wings spread, small and beautiful against the ominous background, innocent if only for a fleeting moment. But, of course, beauty has no place here.
I cringe as the shots ring out from all directions, as everyone around me opens fire upon my winged thoughts. I shut my eyes tightly against the firing of guns, arrows, cannons: delivering the message loud and clear that the airspace between me and the world is better left unclouded by my superfluous banter. I try not to watch as they drop from the sky, my unsuspecting words, but my eyes force themselves open. Wings broken, hearts still, they crash to the ground, silenced.
I want to gather them one by one, my feathered thoughts, gently in my hands; I would take them somewhere safe and give them a proper burial, for they were once so near and dear to me. But I’m afraid of what lies in the battlefield. I’m afraid of the landmines and the barbed wire and the trenches. So I bow my head, refasten the locks on my sore, stiffened jaw, and turn my back on the carnage, on the dirt and grass and the haze and smoke. I turn from my defeated birds, form the bodies of my barely spoken words, and I leave them.
This is old as well.
Silence Screamz Nov 2014
Custom made world
All made of plastic
Counting twist or turns
Everything is spastic

High definition views
Playing with our eyes
In a different place
Reality is a crime

Trapped in our electronics
We can not walk a line
Children with no manners
Living is a lie

Spoiling our ambitions
Charging everyday
Respect is really lost
Pictures are to say

Transmissions cross the airspace
Signaling the cost
Humanity is all but broken
Everything is lost
Edna Sweetlove Feb 2015
It was a lovely New York morning and the sun in the sky was shining
When, from up above in the clouds we all heard a horrid noisy whining,
And we looked up in the air to see a large silver plane flying by,
And the sun was glinting off its fuselage as it flew like a great metallic bird
                                                            ­               swiftly through the sky.

But then the plane made a change of course and headed right in our direction,
Pointing straight at the World Trade Centre (a double concrete *******),
And then the aircraft went into of one of the towers causing much dismay
And a terrible shock to all who saw this truly devastating incident on that
                                                            ­                            cataclysmic day.

The explosion was very loud, and shocked everyone who saw the accident,
(At that stage it was thought to be a mistake and not really meant)
But after 45 minutes we saw another plane on New York airspace encroaching,
And realised that the first was no accident as there was another jetliner
                                                        ­          on the way, fast approaching.

The other plane flew into the second of the towers standing proudly there;
One minute flying in the sky and the next 'twas no longer there,
For the aircraft disappeared totally into the core of the giant concrete building
And it was about half way up the tower, I suppose you would say just about
                                                           ­                             in the middling.

The world's TV stations covered these events 'live' with horror and with awe;
No one knew who had done this, which shook the US of A to its core;
The New York firemen sped to the scene and it is agreed they were very brave
As they did their best to rescue people in the towers, and many a person's life
                                                                      undoubtedly they did save.

But there was worse to come and all know this now (but did not at the time)
Because the towers had been weakened by the crash in this great crime;
Then first one tower fell to the ground with a great noise raising lots of dust
And the other one crumbled with a mighty roar which might well have
                                                                damaged the earth's very crust.

This was without a doubt one of the blackest days in the history of the U.S.A.,
Still talked about with shock and awe and people still cry about it to this day;
And news commentators asked who had done it and soon opinion hardened
With the agreement that it had been masterminded by a Saudi Arab whose
                                                           ­   name was Mr Osama bin Laden.

On the same day as these events which did such damage to old New York City,
Two other planes got hijacked too and the results of that were not very pretty;
One of the other planes landed with a thump on the walls of the Pentagon,
But the fourth one failed in its mission and crash landed en route to the
                              president's residence: the White House, Washington.

So looking back, one might say that they were the start of a war of terror
(And only time will tell if subsequent US attacks on the Arabs were in error)
But whatever transpires these happenings will always be remembered;
However by calling these dire events "9/11" most of the world believe they
                                              happened on the ninth day of November.
William Topaz McGonagall (1825-1902) is famous as being perhaps the world's worst poet - in fact he believed himself to be a great artist and took himself very seriously. My present opus is how he might have written about the so-called "9/11" event had he not died 100 years earlier, which of course caused him to miss out on it totally, bigtime.
nick armbrister Aug 2019
Airspace
Four lines between poems
Or is it only three?
This was the question
That the pilot was pondering
While his airliner flew
Into the jagged mountain side
All aboard were killed
The pilot never did
Resolve his query
Was it three or four lines
Between poems?


from New Dawn 2971
Nick Armbrister
mûre Jan 2012
Somewhere along the way the
silver threads that embroider daylight with dreams
have melted, losing architectured edges and I find
these days it's harder to tell whether I'm
even awake at all.

Trance chaos, but curiously calm,
considering and sleepy.
My corridor is long but I
have no reason to hurry.

Broken lamps against the walls
dusty apartments to spiders and fluff.
No lightbulbs.
Only husks of maybe
once upon a time ideals.

There is a familiar light of
gossamer gold murmurs over me
I've been here before and
there isn't much farther left to go.
Incandescent airspace
pulsing like a living heart
rising, ebbing, coaxing me on.

The lamps are a silent vigil to my journey.

Again I am here at my tabula rasa.
The door is laid with bricks, sealed by my own earthly hands
Will not open! Will not open! Un-opening door.
And as far as I've ever come.
Light all around, fleeing from robinred tetris brickwork.
Intimate, tantalizing, maddening
Bone aching Mystery.

Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet.
I yet.
Yet again.
I am here.
Crossroads. Yield to trains.
There is no last stop until I
play cartographer
and circumnavigate
Wasteland concepts. Swamps of muted wishes.

Until I put my broken lamps back together
I am here.
Wandering,
waiting,

a ghost.
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
I was ill,
convalescing in fact
when I read this book
On Poetry.
 
I was a captive audience,
couldn’t move much.
I sat by a window
and enjoyed the light
playing shadows.
 
Twice in two days
I read this book.
It convinced me I was already
a judge of poets and like its author
only needed seconds to know
whether a poet was present in a poem.
 
The book encouraged me to
‘Read all the way back.
Read what made it.
Read what’s still here
And work out why . . .
Read up on the old stories
Know a little of what past poets knew
And what their poems still know.’

 
I thought that was quite enough.
But no, a little later
there was more I had to learn.
 
I was given as a gift
a collection of poems.
Its prizewinning author
had published respectably.
Imagination would take flight
into airspace off the radar screen.
Childhood scenes were to chill and disturb,
erotica left a bad taste in the mouth,
narrative poems told with a twist, and
common-place objects freshly observed.
Dear Reader, this I can truly say
is a confident, page-turning volume,
full of proper poems,
full of a poet’s presence.
 
But, for me
there was a significant absence of wonder,
a sad deficiency of joy.
 
When I brought the book to bed
to read out loud to the one I love,
not one of the poems seemed
right to read to end our day.
These poems called for hard chairs
and the bright lights of a seminar room.
 
Later, awake in the night,
I thought,
I’m not hard-edged enough to be a real poet.
My poet’s view is too parochial and kind.
I write about penguins, the moon,
even Christmas cake . . . and prose poems
on subjects filched from postcards
picked up in museums and galleries.
 
And there is, inevitably and always,
this ever-present thing called love,
creeping about when you least expect it.
Know I’m at one with Dr Givens
in Guteson’s East of the Mountains
who laments that with death
the tender memories of life
will be gone –
forever.
 
So with my poems I try to record
the daily wonder of life and love:
for those I care for
and those who care for me.
 
Life is so inexpressively full
of images and moments
waiting for words to bring them home.
 
Oh I know there’s pain,
and fear and distress,
hate and abuse and terror . . .
This is not for me what poetry
is there to express.
I’ve read enough to know it can,
and does. That’s enough.
*Poetry forms in the face of time.
You master form you master time.
The book On Poetry is by Glyn Maxwell published in 2012 by Oberon Masters.
Micheal Wolf Jun 2013
Fly in my airspace!
Not a chance
One Europe for all?
Not here in France
It will save fuel and time
NO NO NO
We are control freaks
More cheese or wine?
Dedicated to the air traffic control freaks of France
Marshal Gebbie May 2015
Little is known and less is appreciated about the geographic, strategic and political significance of the Spratley and Paracel Islands situated midway across the South China Sea.

Disputed historically for ownership by Malaysia, Vietnam the Phillipines and China, amongst others, the islands are situated strategically across the major commercial sea lanes of the region and atop an ocean of vast, submarine deposits of untapped fossil oil.

China has used her muscle to occupy and claim these islands, together with unspecified, adjacent sea way area. She has claimed them as sovereign territory of the People’s Republic of China. Until this occupation the islands have been largely unpopulated and have had little or no military significance. Recently, however, Chinese constructors have been ruthlessly dredging the surrounding coral reef and building a 3000m long concrete runway for military purposes on the hugely expanded artificial island area created.
Chinese troops, in divisional strength, occupy and defend the new territory.

It is significant that all parties in the region are watching China and gauging her intentions. None less so than the United States Navy who have an aircraft carrier and supporting military vessels, stationed permanently nearby and conduct over flights of the island airspace testing sovereignty and Chinese reaction.
To date reaction has been muted….but this will definitely change.

China is frantically building to be the world’s next superpower, economically, industrially, politically and militarily.
...And, as this development comes to fruition in the very near future, it is inevitable that this distant, remote set of  South China Sea islands shall become the next global hot point of international confrontation.

China and the United States of America will go eyeball to eyeball, bristling with hostility, resolute and immovable, each waiting for the other to blink!

…..and we, the rest of the world, shall, again, tremble in our boots, breathlessly awaiting the outcome.

Marshalg
22 May 2015
AUCKLAND.
Andrew M Bell Feb 2015
“Poetry’s for poofters, innit?”
A square jaw
thrustwobbling out of sagging jowls
to menace my airspace.
The first assault,
olfactory.
Saliva hops into my bitter dominion.
Draw breath, draw back
as knuckles whiten
and eyes glaze with a lust
for ****** architecture.
“Excuse me, I think I left my car headlights on.”
Copyright Andrew M. Bell. The poet wishes to acknowledge Valley Micropress in whose pages this poem first appeared.
4
I've lent myself to self
parody. I am yellow grass
in summer. So easy to see
in daylight, split-rays.

Again I stumble through the
door too closely, nose grazing
siding too rough, not fit for
suburban living.

I am outside now, cigarette in lungs
almost empty of airspace. Tight
breath, silt sinew of exhale and
burning, eyes painted in panic.

Four smokes in, cherry blossom
cheeks, a rosary of liquor, perhaps
lending myself to sanity,
a bright morning in autumn.
Mahdiya Patel Jul 2015
Sometimes poverty unites not nations
but merely two people//
Intoxicants when overused break families as waves break on the shore//
Their drug now becomes their love//
And you are equivalent to nothing in their perceived reality//
It either makes the users surrounding guests mature profound strong souls
As strong as the Pedi army stood against the British and Boer to protect their land//
Or it causes them to transfer to their own twisted but illusionistic universe where all they see is darkness and despondency//

And then one day//
The money begins to run out
and so do the people//
But rarely, oh so rarely some humans make the decision to stay and continue the journey//
Where the road may potentially split into two//
recovery or relapse//

Sometimes poverty unites not nations
but merely two people//

The money has begun to exhale into the earths atmosphere
just as a stoner exhales his poisonous vapour into our airspace//
Some stay behind to help the corrupt mortal//

No money equals no substances//
No ******* or cat or cannabis or crack or codeine//
No drugs//

Then//

Two beings begin to ignite each other's fires
they learn the things they didn't know for the what felt like a million and seventy years//
They begin to discover how the one mispronounces words
and how certain songs cause ones soul to sway as the bass drops
or how ones hair whirls as the wind rushes through it
or how he can see the depths of the her soul through the eyes
and when she stares at the moon
her beauty is illuminated by the magical glow//

And then one day//
The money starts returning//
Creepily and discretely
the evil money
the tragedious money//
Like an evil monster emerging from hell
Where its dark and *****//

The money blows out the fire they have ignited
and slowly lures the user back//
The bond is now broken//

Sometimes poverty unites not nations
but merely two people//
* my proudest piece
Terry Jordan Jul 2018
However I wasted my younger days
Wherever I wiled away precious hours
Whenever I gazed at the moon and stars
Whatever games that we played and pondered
Whichever adventure we went on then
Is exactly where my mind still wanders

Whoever I kissed and then held hands with
Whatever the spell from the sounds and smells
Whenever my heart was soundly broken
However I try silencing this hell
Wherever that loss is newly spoken
Whichever place causes the freshest pain

Whenever I think of the time in flight
By mistake flew into forbidden space
When 2 jets flanking me motioned us down
How they saw us as Eco-Terrorists
Flying to LosAlamos Power Plant
Where it is strictly restricted airspace

Whenever dad left-once on Christmas eve
However it unfolded felt tragic
Whatever Christmas comes around again
Whoever toasts to the joy of the day
Whatever the chance, gone was the magic
Whichever way we celebrate today

Whichever day Mother's Day comes around
Whoever I'm with matters not a bit
However I remember that morning
While feeding our son, “I love you”, you said
Then later, “I don't want to be married...
Anymore.”  That pain floods like tsunamis

However I try to stay in the now
Whenever the calendar reminds me
How my favorite youngest brother died
Whatever the details I sorely pine
Thinking of Sam this 4th of July
When he would have been turning 59

However my days have been wiled away
How often revealing one simple truth
*Where your treasure is, will your heart be, too  (Matthew 6:21)
Happy 4th of July!  I had my brother Sam convinced-he was born on the 4th of July-that the fireworks were specifically for him.  This piece is my stab at a sestina, a poetry form with 6 verses with 6 lines, #10 syllables each, and a 7th verse with 3 lines.
Elihu Barachel Feb 2015
The Saudies clear their airspace, Kim Jong prepares for war
Poroshenko buys new weapons...have you seen this all before?
-
What is going to happen? Not too hard to figure out
The world will be at WAR, this without a doubt
-
But take heart I have good news, it will only last an hour [1]
Just half the world gets blown to ****, so no need to cry and cower
-
The other half will see, the unveiling of "the Man"
Of "that Wicked" [2] Man of Sin [3], for you he has a plan
-
His plan is going to be, to give everyone a Mark [4]
In your forehead or right hand, to him you must now hark
-
Seven years will follow, seven years of pain and woe
It's called the Tribulation, through this you're going to go
-
It's all been written down,  in the last Book it's contained
Contained in the Holy Bible, your demise is there explained

[1] Rev 18:10
[2] 2nd Thess 2:8
[3] 2nd Thess 2:3
[4] Rev 13:16
Nicole Hammond Dec 2015
when i heard that you were going to die, my mother told me "baby, these bodies are only as strong as the next car crash". invincible until two metal birds try to occupy the same airspace and then hollow bones suddenly are no good for flying anymore. i watched the same thing happen to you, without the screeching brakes. when your blood tried to occupy the same space as your lungs, your heart suddenly didn't know what to do so it didn't do anything. i'm writing this poem without any line breaks because i'm scared that if i give you any empty space, you'll take it and run and i can't let you die like birds flying south for winter. this isn't that natural. i can't justify you dying with a stupid euphemism like "if you love something, let it go". this isn't how it's supposed to be. god created the word "goodbye" to try to make up for the fact that we ever needed to use it in the first place. i'm supposed to be able to use it but you couldn't hear me even if i could. i'd tell you goodbye but it's clear neither of us are good at letting go.
Cecelia Aug 2018
Cutting the airspace
Between what's left of it all
Denies my life song
April 24, 2018
Cecelia C.
-cc
(HAIKU)
Here they come to be healed

some can hardly fly

get the screamers out

protect their airspace

  

I have to tell them

all will be alright

knowing some of them

some of them are dying tonight

  

Our banners fly proud

in these red and black skies

I fly with the next squadron

wing leader again as another fallen

  

Oh in the realms of wisdom

this should not be happening

all our lost comrades

as we commit to this fast war

  

Making more machines for this holy war

working till we have exceeded

giving our life's

to the fight that never will end

  

  

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
M Aiman A May 2018
I hope you know
That i gave up my world
To give you the freedom that you want
So that you can fly

Without me tied around your neck,
Or me weighing you down with all of my luggages
To let you soar in the new airspace

I really, really hope that you do now
Because i really am not
And all in all
You were really all i had
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
my mother said i was a tyrant,
my father just said: you'll scare their children...*

and i guess that's true,
given the fact that poetry became
a joke, cute pompous readied
for seasons and such damnable events
as speaking at funerals...
i guess i am a joke, my output is a joke,
poetry per se is a joke ergo...
i guess they will fear me because
i expressed a love of poetry like
a salvation army band member...
i sang to the highest peak and
ebbed towards the lowest valley
where at last i met the shadow of death;
that's the point of fear, they think
you've a steady job going for you,
that you expect that the only art these days
is only worth a part-time status and
not the pope's patronage...
then you realise i'm not earning... then what?
ha ha... you do jack ****!
oh my tyrant, me Napster... me ball-less in
Chinook covering Cairo's airspace for a radio
broadcast of no bankrupt ****** mega-store;
poetry the cheapest art,
hence so many poets and hence so few risk-takers,
1000 poets and about 100 poems among them to share
a credible signature to.
CautiousRain Apr 2019
I despise how abuse is always
littering my airspace,
always tainting
the water I drink,
and always rupturing what's left of me.

I had this preconceived notion,
unfortunately,
that once you've been abused,
you'd be wise enough to escape
another abuser,
but boy, how he showed me,
how they all showed me,
how stupid I am
to have believed that.

I want to imagine,
though how useless it would be to do so,
what it would have been like
to love someone
and to be loved by someone
genuine, for once.

I must confess,
I don't think I would know
how to accept a love
that isn't corrupted,
or perhaps,
nonexistent,
and that pains me more
than my delusion that
I could stop them from hurting me.
sometimes I'm a fool
always a fool
Lydia Aug 2019
I’m apologizing to our old memories for calling you the wrong name again
When I search for your text messages, they start with the wrong letter
End with it, too, never meet in the middle
I’m sorry that body never chose you
Never chose to hold onto the only thing it ever thought precious
When you told me how much you hated all the dresses,
I wondered if you hate all of the times I did your makeup, too
If who we were together is woven shut with apologies you’ll never ask for and I’ll never give
Sometimes I wonder if the body makes a choice
Or if it flops around until someone tells us we are something
Did I ever say you were a girl?
Or did you go to prom wondering how to peel off the layers of hips and chest?
I know your name and wonder how it fits you out loud
It feels all angles like you must have felt in a girl scout uniform
I’m out of airspace for wondering
All I was looking for was some sort of grounding
Some red wire or telephone poll or tall building with an elevator
Because if I was electricity, you were something else and I don’t want you to become something to burn
But I still mourn you, sometimes
Like you burned her down
When my friend transitioned, they denouned parts of who they were before. I tried so hard to be the person that is completely supportive and questions nothing and I would never tell them in real life how much I missed from before. I know they are the same wonderful person. I accept them wholeheartedly and unconditionally. But when they suddenly dismissed most of the parts of our lives we spent together, I still felt like I lost something. They will never know. They are going through enough with the transition and just need love and support from me and that’s what they will get because that’s what they deserve. Some part of me will still sit here and grieve.
basil Aug 2020
-
saying a few words should be easier than it is
i get lost in concise conversation
i need you to ramble into my ears until our lungs are touching
from sheer lack of airspace

i need there to be more words than air
for our limbs to be tangled in ideas that keep pressing us together
knotted so tight we can finally tighten around all the sound
and make silence
-
Tafuta Atarashī Jan 2019
Welcome to my airspace.
How do you like the way my lightning
Strikes your weathervane?
The way my thoughts rain down
On your rocket ship?
The way the moonlight hits your skin
When the clouds clear
And you've landed on my mindscape.
Do you like the way my words gravitate
To you and wrap you in flames?
Jacob Dunstan Oct 2018
The rural hours poached breaths off me,
Your shadow casts dark forests on my face
More closures than I can bear,

Something rouge has entered my airspace.

I’m harbouring arboreal love,
It stands stately, shared by you
Your kindness need not extend,

As wide as the wings of the Boeing do…
You know, something always bugged me about love.
I always assumed it was having someone there for you,
someone for you to care for and someone to care for you.
A star in a dark sky to show you the direction you were going,
the moon on your back lighting the way to somewhere warmer.
It was always an ember to me, something small but bright,
how it tricked your eye into being mesmerised by it,
how it danced on invisible winds and flowed like the air was water.
Sometimes it would happen little by little and other times all at once,
and when it was gone, it would make you beg for more,
have you scraping at the burning log to make more little embers.
I suppose there’s a beauty in that somehow, the subtlety of movement,
a staccato as a new breeze entered the ember’s airspace,
and how that little ember would judder in the air but still it would burn.

But years go by as they so often do, without warning or permission,
and you inevitably see things differently from a more mature viewpoint.
You have so much more to look back on, so much more to comprehend,
how everything you’ve ever done up to this point all fits together.
I don’t see love as one of those spritely little embers anymore,
love to me is so much more, a force of magic that binds souls together,
the universe, once thought so unforgiving, actually there to support you,
to guide you through the twilit marsh of existence, to heal the hurt.
I have experienced that magic firsthand, and I know it happens to everyone,
but so often we either look the other way or we can’t fathom what we see,
until it’s too late that is, when memories become cloudy with age,
when all that you had ever hoped to come true has been replaced by nothing,
but that too is magic, my friends, because magic knows nothing of time,
it transcends the very fabric of the universe that binds us.
Magic flows through the connections, seeps through the cracks,
and that is where love resides, not in the intimacy of no distance,
not in the warm embrace of someone who takes you for granted.
It’s in the very fibre of your being, you are composed of love,
of magic and the beautiful light show on display every waking moment.
Dance to the rhythm the universe provides, you are its melody.
"Etrestles them knowing that a hill was reserved in a beautiful settlement on axiomatic elevations east of Bethlehem, he provided unusual illumination." Etréstles; Champion of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, felt that after thousands of years of life, he conceived in this Holy Land a great value of omnipresence. The Miracle of Christian protocol would begin in him, paying for votes and tributes in the Baptistery of the Field of the Shepherds. In this uniquely mystical rock, “His rebirth begins in his tenth life before there were nine in Messolonghi (Koumeterium Messolonghi-Editorial Palibrio USA). A miracle happens that transports him to the subsoils that would transport him to the most archaic, of the nine past cycled epics in Kalavrita, Kalidona, Patmos, and Messolonghi. Here he will come face to face with past lives, with the substances that were born and fell reborn in those that come, surrounding him with the pastures that circulate through the veins of the airspace of Thesaurus; through the plain of the Rabadanes in La Shepherds Fountain. In this analogy with allegorical motifs, he goes in commemoration of the shepherds and their flock, for those who are crowning this fountain, having before our eyes the sculpture of the shepherd and under his feet floral motifs such as palm leaves, heads of cattle, sheep, and geese. in the act of ingesting his own Masken. This hexagonal source contrasts with the Hexagonal Primogeniture; here is the miracle that would come about, to meet the intangible Creation and the Luminescence as clothing. They thought they were closer to the village ... but in reality, they were three and a half kilometers from it, in a fenced area with a wide path that runs through the park on the hill between groves and lush flowers that clearly evoke the place where those 1st-century shepherds led their sheep to pasture. They went up the sinkhole at level 203, of the Profitis Ilias wind tunnel, here the Armas Christi worshiped the foreman who was present before continuing their pilgrimage to the top of the mound, where Vernarth was with the Hexagonal Birthright waiting for him in this zafral.

Vernarth says: “They were all dozing when certain decagonal sounds carried them through the baptistery…, in its decagonal plan surrounded by four chapels and the apse that houses the altar, covered by a large dome of mortar and glass, which lets in illuminating the altar as did the star Ursae  Minoris or Kynosoura who indicated the shoulder of the shepherds. Here the murals that guarded the hosts of Aserá had already disappeared. Most likely, they were watching with great chandeliers as they opened in the quagmire of the sclera of their bare eyes. We were trapped by the quagmire created by Raeder and Petrobus, in these opaque clouds of numinous sheep dung, transmuting through the corridors of the new worlds of culminating grazing. We went to its algorithm and on the entrance door, the angel of the annunciation showed us, on it a singular watchtower incorporating us into the facade by means of three distended flying buttresses. Inside the beautiful fertile field, from a bicolor marble hermitage, the spaces to which the pilasters that support the roof also contribute could be emphasized. The chapels are adorned with some precious frescoes that represent scenes of the annunciation to the shepherds and the arrival at the birth, and the altar table that is supported by the sculptures of four archangels, especially with the appearance of the hexagonal birthright in the middle of these boulders”

Faced with this hexagonal-polygonal effect on both sides, they intro dug into their own peaks and reigns. A straight north stretchmark crossed them in a double hemicycle that was concentric in the full equatorial diameter, inscribed in the theocentric of a circle of a sheep that was lactated ..., here the foreman arrive and receive them with great hospitality, in symmetrical affability they shook in entertainments with their shofar on songs and tunics…, each one was exalted by the rising air of another Jamsin zephyr that was detached from the typical climograph with golden showers in Ein Kerem and of golden verses in Bethlehem in the Nativity. More than a plateau grazed by ruminants, it was adorned with golden gadgets in its golden mouths. Twelve degrees to the right, on the sixth wick of the Menorah, a regular Silouéta or silhouette was lit, making this intangible, whose vehemence makes them drink water from the hexagonal well, much more equidistant than walking among themselves, moving their hands with all their hands. Diligent emotions, intensifying the numb emotions that would vibrate from the third angle as they were coated with the vertices of the light that glowed from the convex morning. The trisection of the angle will have to hit an angle whose measure is one-third of another given angle, using only a ruler and compass, the baptistery or apse being incorporated in its third part of the Greek tertiary angle.

The Sibyl Agrippa sings (bis): “she bears the lashes related to the scene of Flagellation in the Praetorium. Here red blood-stained filigrees ran for votive offerings simulating blood from the celestial, representing the corresponding straight folio. The natural laws of the Parables Jaspias make alchemy with immanent and hypocoristic noble minerals in the cavern that revealed all this grace to Raeder, for the propaedeutic of the Mashiach by centralizing here the space-time that said that God has similarity to the Iaspis, as you set of condensed gold in the expiration and metallization of the cosmic essence. The similarity made all the walls of the vault or tunnel of the Profitis Ilias ruled by Jasper and Carnelian, the latter being Raeder's green-blue eyes shining in his iris, and in the curvature of mass that was pressed into the interior of the wind tunnel that also expanded, making rubies and acuities out of itself. The visibility of the Universe was still hyper-bright over the Patmos inlet, for this Petrobus, his blue Pelican, was crowned surrounded by Apollo's superciliary arc, to enter the similarity of metals like his metalloid neighbor”
Codex XXVI - Mundis Parallel Messiah of Judah III part
sean pomposello Apr 2019
We've all been given our own
name. And, this does nothing to
help the divide. The flippant
posture is more than just sloppy
decorum--it's a striking
metaphor. She of the haves. I
just laugh (though I should be
crying.) We are wasting real
estate and airspace and
bandwidth and patience. Today,
amongst the onslaught, so little
brings me joy. Couldn't we all
just use a little pick-me-up or
some means to forget the
terrifying reality?
Vyiirt'aan Dec 2017
The birds of paradise bloom across the valley
In the morning glow, the evening gleams
In the mellow amber light

Lift your wings, little birds
Soar through the vast airspace
Flutter in formation, the serene illusion
Where balance exists, where order conquers
Where stability feeds the concrete cortex

I respire, and watch the petals dwindle
As my paradise flies away

— The End —