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vircapio gale Oct 2012
Haiku:

hiking new forests
mountain homes of moss and dew
more roots deepen


berries ripe
dot taiga heath--
alien planet


yellow blazing sun
'packin'rocks'
from maine to georgia


pain born hero
in oven boots of blood and pus--
summit breeze


barefoot hiker
calls herself 'FearNot'--
toes enjoy same mud


snake rises up
fangs gleam at water lair
cold spring quenches all


***** at each view--
water comes in and goes out
like a filter


at waterfalls, swans
alighting air-- noble poise
on the way to sea


gunas intertwine
my sweet mountain hunger paths
bitter taste of bark


sour grass
garnish of an earthen tract
saliva honeyed


strands of spider flight --
i too catch myself making
web after web


"nature loves to hide"
hidden hermit roars of all
strife and fire flux


spider bite at dusk
afterswing of scenting food
shoo the meal away


change becomes the same--
people streams talking pixels
aging static web

symbols set in light
speed of optic living nodes;
clicking finger fibers


websites spin and stick
plastic tropical alphabets
ant waves clean the keys


fueling in process,
living fossils already
drilling seas--on earth


give or take six months,
happy birthday!
two seasons gone


Haibun:*

A mountain poet has come to the city, blisters pushing up his toenails. His smile spans 15 blocks of concrete and rebar. Strangers coo to see his sunshine gait but cough at his aroma. Hospitality is found after all, in parks and in the drunken streams from clubs gregarious for midnight novelties.

poet's apology--
not exactly 'myself' to
license gratitude
when time gifts symbols distance--
terror war towers still fall

Emergencies of all sorts force their way into my mind, as I live, sometimes as I write. Ambiguities serve as fulcrum nooks for meanings incompossible to hide, not being ready to share what can't be shared, obscurity offers the ineffable reprieve to be spoken nonetheless.

peering in the word--
sound signs meta symbol
witty sea of *****

property stings
abstract fights to earth
mixing labor

i found a haiku
on my coworker's desk--
where is the frog pond?

dad drinks alone--
photo recalls sunlit leaf
and beer can stare

opining fire false
freezing hearts with argument--
cold spring, winters warm

It is with the love of a child that I write, wincing harder into that self-given 'Indian-Burn' of cathartic fetish and psychological indulge. Where is maturity, and what use is it when faced with endless ground-zeros? Still open to answers, still unwilling to speak plainly or straight about the blanket crookedness and blissful meander that colors life most vividly. I imagine dacrygelosis understood.

thawing pond
creaks in headstand calm--
autumn air released

night's insight pierce
heralds migraine's ease--
gong of moon or sun

on dead wood, against
live trees, hours of *** by
mycelia blooms--
fragrant rot and sweat collide
skin spotted with forest sun

love signs everywhere--
two trunks spiraled
in a yellow wood

vocal awe resung
this is love! this is love!
deep summer fruit

rub of bark                      
vast forest sways across skin
                        naked expanse
Alfred Vassallo Apr 2013
Where goes the time when it flies?
Simplified by expression, and stained by clarity.
Smudge by lucidity
smeared by simplicity
tainted by intelligibility.
Tempus fugit as in time flies.
Sharply distressing with painful feelings
to the point of mental instability
morning or night
we become possessed with its mystic dealings.

Where goes the time when it runs?
Not a solitary explanation is found.
It happens and it won’t stop
until life terminates as well
without cause.
Derived of rationalisation
lacking understanding
short of justification
bursting with vindication
persistently and with conviction.

Where goes the time when it sails?
From the second that we’re born.
Where were we existing?
We cannot be so sure
Cannot recollect the past
Not for the first five of our years
Memory so blur, so shadowy
Hazy with distortions
obscure and confusing
Unit our mind starts slowly to recollect.

Where goes the time when it escapes?
The chronology of life so mysterious.
Nothing can solve its ambiguity
for time is a complex case
with an infinity of secrets.
What’s the obsession when we have so many setbacks
drawbacks and obstacles
obstructions and conundrums
to take care of before time perishes away
and leaves us stranded in oblivion.

Oh time, you magnificent of all mysteries,
the high and mighty of ambiguities.
Show us mercy and explain
we are not detectives of secrecies
your spell with us reflects on the whodunits.
Oh time of things past and yet to come
give us a clue as to what is to derive!
“Remember”
it softly replies “Make most of your lives”
“Once I fly away no one can have a replay”.
An entrenchment of truths

That hold forth a funeral table

For gracious hospitality

Of gentle nostalgia

In indulgence of murderous affection

Which manifest adequate

Yet uncomprehending grieving

Ambiguities of advocacy

In their extreams of moralizing warnings

In fleeting appearances who tell bold lies

In the mosaics of enclosed palaces

Presenting bouquet upon bouquet

Of black flowers on this weighted table

Truths that have been deprived of their vein stone

Truths owned to identity of embodiment

Surreal and interchangeable

That resonate in timely dissorder

Like the noise of migrating birds

Flying to the edge of the world
I have a dream! I have a dream,
To the racial discriminators, said Martin Luther King,
I have a dream! I have a dream!
To the evil-creating economists, I warn and ring.

Globe witness hunger, inequality poverty and unemployment
The world turns out to be bitter,
To all of you, I write this letter.
To create a world relieved from these and turn better.

I am a mad aspiring economist, a fool,
Searching for the right tool,
You turned the world with full of mess,
People are left with nothing less.

To the world, you gave theories,
Pushed us into a vicious cycle of injuries,
About your theories, you boasted,
It has created a few ruling and bloated.
Most of you worked as economic hitmen,
Turned victim laymen to fighting gunmen.

To the realities, your theory is distant,
Served no solution to the dying peasants,
To the few, we remain a psychological slave and servants,
Tuned our lives to a depended migrant.

With your development lecture,
You have killed the entire nature,
In the name of ventures, corporates turned vulture,
Hunted and looted our generations’ future.

We lived a self-reliant community,
You killed us with imposed liability,
Our lives are now placed in intensive casualty,
The word that remains imagination still is equality.



We lost our humanity and identity,
In your eyes, we are just a market and commodity,
Your play with scarcity, was a mere futility,
We finally became a society, filled with atrocity.

Your useless lectures of development,
Put us under frightening & irrecoverable unemployment,
For a few, you got us into a deep-rooted enslavement,
So, now for you instead, we make a replacement.

To my questions, you neglected and ran,
In your eyes, I am foolish stupid common man,
To you short-sighted range,
I say I will bring in a change!

Today, I may remain lower and mere viewer,
A day will come, where you will stand to answer,
Writing a new rule, I would seize your beloved positions,
This will be my lifetime mission and ambition.

I say with all my limited experience,
I will put a test to all your conscience,
Are you just a fat-big corporate’s hand?
With people will you always stand?

I am not an economist,
I am neither an egotist,
I proclaim! I proclaim!
I am a revolutionary economist,

I know you will fit me a label,
I am sure I will be an economic rebel,
A rebellious economist.

I dream a world without huge inequalities,
I dream a world free from imposed liabilities,
I dream a world without poverty and disparities,
I finally dream for becoming an economist with no ambiguities.
The whole world is staring at new difficulties. It is still riddled with poverty, inequality, unemployment and illiteracy. The economists who dictated these rulebooks are the main culprits behind these. I am an aspiring economist. The economists mostly don’t stand with people’s welfare. Mostly they are ambiguous. They know only theories. They work as economic hitmen for many corporates. They are just a bookworm. Without understanding the pain and situation, they put forward new theories. Their theories sometimes serve good for the western world. One food or one dress or even one house cannot suit every person in the world. I have written this poem to the economists. It is better that all economist stay with people and find a solution that is most suitable for their enhancement. Else, people would reject their presence. In short, I say economist should be from the people, for the people, by the people, of the people.
sobroquet Apr 2013
So you think you are a master of techniques of persuasion?
You shallow pips-squeak, mediocrity is your mastery
the obsequious hoi polloi that surround you are the pitiable averageness of conciliation
Sophistry and subterfuge are your game of compromised facts
syllogistic  arithmetic conceptualizing  doesn't make anything so
your addition is flawed by your bungled bombast of banality and guile
fortunately for you, your crowd will never study logic
fortunately for you semi-literacy is  de rigueur

You pompous swollen grandiose mass of hyperbolic gas
Fear is what you offer, lies are what you sell
your rhetorical flourish is as the stench of a waste  dump
fetid, corpulent, fallow and febrile
toxic
half-truths, innuendos, ambiguities, conjecture and asinine aspersions comprise your specious fare,
fostering rumours,  manipulating facts, you are the purported Biblical brood of vipers so extensively reviled against
Your relevancy is attributable to the dull stupidity so profusely prevalent today
Your "success" is the stuff of taint and treachery
You'll probably choke to death on a stuck piece of poorly masticated  flesh
so appropriate  and  befitting the demise of a professional liar
Andrei Apr 2010
There is a Cheshire cat with a nefarious nose ring
Who lashes berating riddles, and vernacular that’ll make you cringe
He slithers through abandoned shadows
On dilapidated gravel, and bears a deathly sickle grin
Enticing as he may be, he only wishes to deceive
So be wary of his beguiles, they are hidden underneath his symmetrical smile
Nor give in to the plastic prophecies he preaches
Nothing he teaches will stitch meaning into your ambiguities
For he enslaves your sorrows and siphons your dreams
Leaving you asphyxiated in catatonic screams
Valeria Ariza Oct 2016
Darling Dragon Blue,
Your life is a circus
full of ambiguities leaving you stumped,
unable to discern good from bad, truth from lies,
enemies from allies.

The Ring Master,
Master Illusionist,
Master Magician,
call him what you may,
he knows this,
he feeds off of this.

your misplaced trust
gives him power.

He targets you,
his spinning whip sings I love you,
Striking down ******* your soul,
drawing blood from your heart,
Painting hate in your eyes.

He announces you as his greatest possession,
his greatest achievement,
the love of his life.

But now the show’s over.
he looms over you
using his two faced mask to scare you back in your place
feeding off your insecurities and self doubt,
he grows stronger.

“Dance my boy Dance!” he cackles
‘STRIKE’
“Sing my boy sing!”
‘CRACK!’
he lines his whip with false love
to numb your pain.

But only for a little bit.
Only for a few seconds.

Long enough for you to believe it doesn’t hurt.
Long enough for you to forget his dagger words.

A damaged young dragon,
you burn your sorrow into the glass
when you whisper I love you to the mirror.
“I love you” it reads back.
and you feel so empty.

You realize you’re tired of performing on strings.
you yearn to dance freely, to soar high into the unforgiving sky
you want to burn this place to the ground screaming
“I loved you!” Roaring your mighty roar releasing your fright,
Spreading your mighty wings created for magnificent flight,
your bound legs unable to carry you,
you fall to the ground.
cold, helpless, the flame within you
threatening to die out.

The ring master finds you.
a confused frightened smile creeps onto his face
“I love you” he sneers
as he kicks you back into your cage
wondering why, oh why you tried to escape.

again with false love,
he manipulates you, a creature
endowed with so many beautiful talents and gifts,
not realizing he conditions his “ I love you’s” with pain, anger, and hate.

and you a mighty dragon only wish to control your own fate.

And so Enough.
you roar.
Enough.
The fire inside you erupts into a great blue star
transforming the carbon in your ribs into your
diamond heart,
melting your golden bones allowing you to change form.

For Darling Dragon Blue,

It is HE. that should fear you.

Darling Dragon Blue.

**I LOVE YOU.
Plain Jane Glory Jun 2013
"Fight depression with chain smoking!" he says, half-joking
Fiddling with the lighter in his pocket
(He knows about her grandfather's lungs boxed up underground)

They will exchange the usual
Books, philosophical ambiguities and terrified uncertainties
Ideas of the unknown, which makes up more than the known

They will talk about how they would both rather die alone
Than surrounded by false pretense of love

Every night is an existential crisis, every other night one will feel strong
On the graveyard shift of saving the same life for the millionth time
Sarah Richardson Dec 2021
Don't allow yourself to close your eyes;
To sleep or rest, to look away.
You see, you know,
They all lied to you.

Existence;
Immersed in it's ambiguities.
Meaningless suffering,
Life is unjust.

Left behind.
Drowning in real
Refusing to ignore,
It's killing you.

It is all truly there,
It is all that there is.
Onerous to accept it.
You're creating a war with a reality
Who only seeks to destroy.

Nearly lost elation,  
Thoughts transmitted in times of joy,
Hope at times afforded.
Faint memories of it will linger,
Just try to hold on.

-

You think so highly of such a lowlife as yourself,
Or are you it?
Are you it?
renea lee Jun 2016
maybe we were two lonely souls in an
infinite number of universes
that coexists at the same time
so in the least cases when other universes
cease to rotate;
we were looking at each other’s eye—
half consciously exchanging breaths as we stood
in a random street on a random time with random people
in Metro Manila.

maybe we were two lonely souls
devoid of life with its absurdities and ambiguities
that when other universes began to move—
adverse was ours.
we were motionless and breathless
and static and frantic
amongst the dismal place where we stood
under the rain and under the heat of the sun;
dear, did you feel the spontaneity of our souls
for the first time in a lifetime?


maybe we were two lonely souls
searching for our own universe in this
infinite number of universes that when
we finally had the chance to meet on
a road with nowhere to go while listening
to our timeless symphonies of pleasure, pain, and lost;
we found universe at each other’s soul.

maybe we were two lonely souls
before we met in Metro Manila.
maybe we were two lonely souls
when we were living in abyss.
maybe we were two lonely souls
before we found our infinite universe at each other.
maybe we were two lonely souls
before we knew love.

(06.19.16)
Arwen Mar 2013
Did you ever just sit and wonder,
how someone you barely know,
could impact your life so much,
in such a short amount of time?
How they could so quickly turn a
frown upside down?  
How they were able to relight
a fire that burnt out
some time ago?

What is so special about them,
that they were able to get past
the walls surrounding your heart,
as well as, being able to
totally invade your thoughts?
The biggest question is how you could
trust another person, as easily as,
you trusted them?
Trusted them, even after you swore to yourself
that you would never, ever, be able to trust another,
after all the hurt and disappointment.

I have, and I do know that,
from the moment I met you,
I could feel safe in sharing
my most intimate thoughts.
I could share with you
my dreams and aspirations.
I could share with you
my hopes and fears.
Most importantly, I could
allow you to walk around
in my head, and in my heart,

So, now that you are gone,
why do I cherish
memories of you, so much?
Why am I left feeling
that I am only a distant
thought in your mind?
What more can I do to prove to you
that I am not someone who just speaks,
but also proves, by my actions?

Do you realize that I think of you often,
without truly understanding why?
Asking myself constantly,
why can't I just have you?
But, I know that, deep down in my soul,
I do not truly want you
when you have such doubts.
I want you free of any
fears and ambiguities.

Maybe the real, and most important question,
of why we were destined to meet,
will never truly be answered.
But, I do know that, regardless if,
I ever receive any answers,
I will never regret
the brief time I spent with you,
in the making of these questions.


Vicki A. Zinn
2011
I S A A C Aug 2021
money, fame, glory
Childhood was so rough the only option was to come up with a story
Adulthood came early and taught me to be discerning
But in a world full of colour hues its easy to pick the shivering blue
Fell into a whirlpool, a black hole so dark my memory vanished
But these lessons I learned taught me to survive in famish
So I worked for the juxtaposition because I deserve lavish
So stunning and blessed I came to be
Never let that light die in me
I knew I would make it with the right opportunities
So I learned how to be hardworking and ambiguities
A humbling story and sometimes sad
But I am grateful and cherish moments I will always have
But I moved on, looking good, getting back
Everything they took from me I used to have
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Oct 2021
Is life a course
or a curse,
a path
or a pathology?
Is living a blessing
or a lessening,
a miracle
or a mirage?
Is it a kiss
or a miss,
a tender touch
or simply a come-on?
The opposite of love
is not hate,
but uncaring,
simply not feeling.
Are all illnesses
psychosomatic,
a disguised, silent way
that we take out
our unconscious anger
against ourselves?
Love both clarifies
and resolves these ambiguities,
seeking always the better
over the worse.
Life can mean love,
but too often
means meanness.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Rachel May 2016
i miss the late night conversations we shared / you climbing onto my bed whispering something about the dream you had / hands clammy / breath shaky / your voice filtering through my sleep deprived mind / you asked if i am still listening / and i hummed a lazy reply / you snaked your fingers between the spaces of mine / taking all the blanket while we talked through the night / when your eyes finally closed / i murmured sleep tight / unsure as to who dozed of first / we held each other's hand till the break of light

i remember braiding your hair / de-tangling the knots / weaving a pattern you're sure to unravel it as soon as i'm done / you displeased and me peeved / we didn't speak for a quarter of a week / but of all the times we fought and all the unplanned shenanigans / we are still each other's significant

and soon, time will go by / and we will grow old / my dear sister / how can i let you go to a world so cold? / it play well into my fears / becoming two separate entities / constructing memories from ambiguities / the hallmark of our sisterhood / shackled by our adulthood / though i'm not ready, i know it’s time for the new / for our arc has concluded, so the next chapter can take root / i wish you infinitely well / so let’s work together to become the greatest version of ourselves
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
01004    (N18>N25>N86>N365)

i guess it was just one of those days that managed to be split
between two:
get up at 7am: shower, get dressed,
head out for the first shift as a supervisor at the London
stadium: starting at 9am... work until 4:30pm...
shake hands with the stewards at the end of the shift
for making my job all the more easier...
calling control (of the stadium) on my radio telling them:
there's a limping crow on the pitch, could we please remove
him? not so easily done, but done nonetheless...

finishing the shift having to master the art of moving
through spectators also leaving,
heading toward Wembley stadium,
starting the shift at 6pm and working until 11:30pm...
leaving the stadium trapped by more spectators
leaving the stadium... being | | this close to getting into
Wembley Park station: i was already planning
a swift return home... on the metropolitan line
to Liverpool St. then a quick train ride back to Romford...
obviously that wasn't going to happen...
**** man: i love this change of plan...
i watched as people were rushing to Wembley Central
station while i walked into a shop
and bought myself a bottle Coca-Cola for mixing
with whiskey at home, a packet of Sterling cigarillos,
a packet of 10: only £5.30...
a packet of crisps and a magnum milk and white chocolate
raspberry ice-cream... walked to the first bus stop...
PACKED... chicken-brain: hatch a man...
absolutely necessary to walk up stream to the origins
of the bus route... passed one bus-stop back:
packed... passed a third: packed... the fourth
at Wembley Central was empty: for a while...
before i noticed that Wembley Central was closing
and people started congregating...
oh **** this... i walked back to the fifth bus-stop...
or maybe it was the sixth...
no... no way am i going to get on a bus:
watch it get packed like a can of sardines
and stand there like a clueless *****!
i have walk back a mile and sit in the front seats
of a double decker on top: SIT... relax... after a long day...
than stick around with these sheepish folk
that would rather stand at a bus-stop with about
50 other people than figure up what salmon do...

ha! plan worked... sat up-stairs on the front two
seats... now i said to myself:
this is my favorite bus journey: from Wembley
to Romford...
first the N18... then the N25... then the N86
and finally the N365...
                                    mind you: north London grime
architecture is very different to east London
grime architecture... i prefer the London grime architecture
to the east London grime...

as i sat down i thought to myself: what i really now
for this to be an "Emirates" journey back home
is for some pretty girl to sit down next to me...
hey presto! i'm a firm believer in luck of late...
i was lucky today...
she sat down... a sort of Camila Cabello lookalike:
but much prettier... Spanish... i can decipher Spanish
when i hear it: d'uh... i could never find a Spanish girl
i found attractive: Spanish feminists and French
feminists put me off from looking...
but there she was... sitting pretty... raven hair...
glasses... blue-grey eyes... skin tone: mocha with a hint
of cinnamon and bronze...
i felt an Adam's apple in my throat choking me...
will i speak to her?
a little nudge of the leg on her part...
a little bristle of arm against on arm...
then dozing off her head almost rested on my shoulder...
i just couldn't help admire the difference in size
of our two bodies...
by thumb alone i had a thumb 1.5x larger than hers...
i looked at my shoulders in the reflexion
in the glass lit up by streetlamps...
  then i looked at her petite exposed details...
she kept flicking her hair: at one point the detailed
a style that i greatly admire: no partition down the middle:
although she pulled it off stunningly because
her raven hair was slightly bouncy: not curly:
bouncy... but then she flicked her hair to one side...
so feminine details any woman could wish to have...
naturally gracing some ancient altar of
man's admiration...

  a crescendo came when some ******* came on the bus
and was playing some ****** rap music
for us to listen to... turns out he wasn't a *******...
he ended playing Coldplay's Paradise...
the entire bus erupted in song... everyone was
singing... she was singing: me? i was just smiling...
she then asked this guy who was standing over her
(because the bus was that full that people were
also standing on the upper-deck) about whether
the N18 stops at St. Paul's...
my throat loosened and i turned around to her:

no... what you have to do is get off at Oxford Circus
and turn left onto the Oxford St. and catch
the N25 bus to St. Paul's... and as i did what i instructed
her to do... i got up and realised:
she came a magical puff of smoke never to be seen
again...
          i knew this was going to happen...
make your heart small... make your heart small...
dangerous daydreaming to begin with...
i knew nothing would come of anything like this...
do people still meet people of their dreams
in random locations in life? on buses?
or is the whole dating experience all about profiling
yourself on the internet so that people
have a boring a priori knowledge of you?
that's why dating is so ****... there's nothing to unravel...
there's nothing to discover: absolutely no thrill...

but this is most certainly my favourite route...
esp. at night... and if you can time it perfectly...
you jump on one bus... jump off it then jump onto
another and a maxim you have to wait for the third
is about a minute: enough time to take off your shoe...
pull up your sock, put the shoe back on and not have
time to do the shoelaces...
i was going to get off the N25 at Stratford bus station
but as the bus was circling the station
i noticed a blackened N86 waiting...
the driver just managed to go down from the second
deck to his cabin and pour himself a coffee from
a flask... so i stayed on the bus to Ilford Hill...
but... i started to watch my back...
yep... just before Manor Park i saw the ******
speeding... quickly got the N25 and jumped
straight onto the N86...
i was in lucky... from Goodmayes there were
only three people on the bus...
we sped past Chadwell Heath and entered Romford
without anyone at bus stops or anyone
trying to get off...

walked to the last bus-stop and caught the N365
to Collier Row... then... talked to myself for a while...
literally... i talked to myself...
i only do this "talking to myself" when i tired
of thinking it... then thinking has absolutely no effect
on me: when i can't do any ego-tripping:
i talk to myself when i've exhausted all avenues
of feeling all "high and mighty"... i bring myself
to a level of conversation: since i can talk to myself:
but i can't think to myself... how can i?
i'm not even myself when i'm thinking: all that ego-*******:
shrapnel thinking...

did i hear my company manager just tell me
he gave me an extra hour of the second shift?
call me a legend... because i was the only person in the company
willing to do a double-shift? i must have:
that's why i started talking to myself: i think i misheard
him...
and wasn't i a supervisor today, even though modern
security standards require you to have an NVQ level 3
while i only have a level 2?
and my treating stewards with the utmost respect
having than talking down to them: gaining their trust
and mutual respect, isn't that something?
that golden rule: treat others like you'd like to be treated?

and to think: i was in the trenches and pitfalls
of madness for so long... my 20s are a blur
or psychiatric pharmacology and psychological
scrutiny...
while most people lost their minds during the Corona
virus lockdowns: i regained mine:
i guess people were a given a taste of the sort of medicine
i was prescribed for so long...
i returned like a phoenix... i exploded back into
the realm of human interaction with shedding
my straitjacket... why could it be so weird
that i hear a choir either ascend or descend in a church
and then in a heat of panic hear a great wind
disperse the choir?
what's so weird about that? doesn't anyone who fasts
and smokes marijuana conjure up such auditory
hallucinations daily? sure... sure... blame it on the ****:
i actually gained while others lost...
i returned to a state i remember myself as being
in high school: not-two-faced... just chameleon like...
i can be liked by almost anyone these days...
one guy who's prone to wearing finger-less leather
gloves and that famous Palestinian bandana takes one
of his gloves off and is so happy to shake hands
with me...

even today i walked into a chicken shop before the second
shift and met up with two stewards i've worked with
before... i ordered a spicy five wing meal...
they were waiting for their meal...
we talked about Miranda (the strawberry drink)
was any good... shift times... blah blah... i stood next to them
and ate... they were perched on stools...
we ate together... Somalis?! who cares...
it's not like England is America....
race is a descriptive investment: not a prejudicial
aspect... i need to say if someone is either Somali
or Samoan or Eskimo... it just paints a certain picture
that a white boy can be on level ground...
my greatest concern whenever dealing with
someone is... respect... the surest sign of respect
is: i'll eat with you... i finished my chicken wings ate
some of the fries... i noticed one of the guys
ordered a burger and a wrap... i couldn't finish
the chips... so i asked... hey...
there's some unopened mayo pouch...
i can't finish these chips: do you want them?
you sure: he implored... mate... i'm full...
he gladly took them thanking me...

of the two best quote i have yet to topple:
Bukowski: some people never go mad...
what horrible lives they must live...
and?
there are variations on this one...
quos deus vult perdere, prius dementat
ha! those whom god wishes to destroy,
he first deprives of reason...
there's a double take on that...
point in mind: to destroy: not... to be destroyed...
meaning? if a deity requires a change of pace
for humanity... it's not a maxim directly related
to Hercules...
  to destroy doesn't imply: to be destroyed...
quem Iuppiter vult perdere, dementat prius
is more precise in that assumption...
those whom Jupiter wishes to destroy,
he first deprives of reason... then again? no!
destroy what? himself or the world around him?!
i've seen the world being destroyed...
if the gods truly wanted me sulking, mumbling...
in some mental institution... i would be just there...
but i'm all in the open... i've regained my strength!
i haven't destroyed destroyed myself...
i've regained myself: perhaps it's not the old me
i remember with a rich cognitive-narration lodged inside
my head: but? instead it's lodged in my read:
that's how the Cartesian dynamic works...
you can begin with the "solipsistic" res cogitans...
but end up after a psychotic transformation
as being a res extensa: what you think about in sketches
you write about in a narrative that's "escaped"
the hell of your supposed "thinking"...
couple that with experiences of auditory hallucinations...
letters, words... are better coupled to writing
than anything the Beatnik attempted with exploring
language with hallucinogenic additives...
believe me... first comes music: then music notation:
then... the ambiguities of what's being spoken...
after all: you can speak language in a rainbow of accents...
but you can't exactly play an instrument
idiosyncratically: it has to be universally arrived at...
otherwise it's particular, i.e. out of tune...
whereas music is universal: language is particular...
sure... the strict obligations of the written tongue
being universal... but? how it sounds? there's nothing
universal about language beside the fact that language exists
per se... English is not a universe language:
it's a modern version of the medieval Lingua Franca...
but... how many versions of English are there?

there's a version of English in every language
that already exist...
on the N25 bus i overheard some Hindus giggling
and dropping loan-word-bombs prompto:
chicken... nuggets...

hmm... something strange happens when you strart
leaning on the res extensa (extended thing)
rather than focusing on the egocentric (cogito)
of the res cogitans (thinking thing)...
a res vanus (empty thing) is spawned...
of course in the realm of res extensa you can
mix-up your own thinking with strange hallucinations
that are cognitive in nature and can be misunderstand
as sensual: on the basis that "thinking" is "audible"...
for example:
Matthew: you're a genius.... a strange expression
for an ego to have: given there's a denotation
of a noun, a given name:
a chair doesn't reply to: you're a great table,
does it?
ergo? an "i" doesn't respond to: you're either genius:
or a Matthew...
an i is an i... a hammer is a hammer...

oh god no... Descartes is yet to be properly invested
in intellectually...
he gave the really proper antithesis of
Christian trinity theology...
Freud just created cages for modern modern
to be behaviour-ably: un-stimulating....
predictable: all that ego super-ego id schematic
is ****-pants worth when pointing a finger back
and telling people: just do what as i do:
do some Cartesian-revisionism...
it will do you much good...

you heard that joke about a bilingual "schizophrenic"?
apparently he's exponentially squared and squared root
of a quadratic...
i think i regained my senses by going mad first...
second came the destruction:
given the damage already done:
i had nothing else in me to destroy... the world needed
a fire... so great that it would have to experience
a shackling to either luck, fate, or? circus...
or all three! ha ha!

it was truly a bountiful day... that N18 bus ride
with that pretty Spanish girl gave me flickers of hope...
heavenly Islamic harems exist...
if only... wait... she did have one or two "awkward"
flickers of freckles.... freckles? moles... those "puns"...
i terribly hate people who make millions
scribbling sensibly guised never-good-byes...
i'm supposed to be picking up a second bicycle i'll
be using to go off the road today...
5:30am... i'lll sleep until 1am then thinking about it...

n'ah... two bicycles... i always loved the idea...
one day i ride on the roads...
the other day i ******* into the woods...
chances are i'll come across a blind rabbit..
as you do...
mind you... even with todays? yesterdays!
yesterdays! shift... i was mostly dealing with the early
leavers..
but it's Coldplay... it's not like the Red Hot Chilly Peppers...
if they're doing a world tour...
and they have the same set-list?
i already heard their two best songs
when they play them first... Paradise and
Adventure of a Lifetime...
  Yellow? i couldn't care less... Fix You...
fix constipation first fix diarrhoea thirst...
don't panic, no? we all live in a beautiful world?!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
in a house, where a bonsai tiger sleeps listening
to jack johnson's in between dreams
(realising his loathing for radio transmission
dynamics of advertisement and talk when
the album fills a full hour of ear drum concerns,
and in a house where upstairs frank zappa's
hot rats plays in unison to a man on a windowsill
musing: 'by god, zappa did a john coltrane
in a symbiosis with a love supreme; there's only
one vocal track on the album, the rest
is sheering saxes to grizzly.

poetry, esp. non rhyming poetry to detached it
from musicology, poetry is after all
the oldest musicology without instrument
as whether dicing tongues protruding
made sneezing a new wheezing or coughing
to beat-box rapping, i guess it's like that,
well, non-rhyming poetry that old rekindling
adolescence needs to be less "scientifically"
itemised with theories to identify a metaphor
for a metaphor: just take it in one gulp as the whole;
it needs a detachment to lose all inhibitions
of self-consciousness and carve a route into
exhibitions, pompous art of music, this poetry,
so if not rhythmic rhyming at least interested
in music: a strong rhythmic section makes music
interesting, esp. when the bass guitar
is as important as the drum-kit - and gets equal
expression, unlike all those air-guitar soloist
techniques within the framework of critique of
the famed phrase 'intellectual *******,
thinking, epitome of liverpool's jabbing and upper-cutting
because of a football score because of a referee decision,'
same thing in music: big hair, make-up, solos
of guitars with over-burdening vocals - i need the rhythm,
i need the rhythm to enter the labyrinth and scatter think
by way out, by the odd chance right choice.
so scientific theory died with the higg's boson,
god got a mention, no need for scientific theories,
with my x-ray vision i see everyone wearing laboratory
coats and pretending to not have rats' whiskers and tails,
it's over, we need all theories to move into
humanism's area, from science just practicality,
but as always, we have the merchants and middle-men
who will stall human endeavour for a higher price
being reached by politico dynamite exploding
in curbing the populace for a horse-blinders of
angry rubric divisions into economy theorised.
so if i told you otherwise, would you tell me
the winter be bleak? i find winter refreshing,
after all, only in winter can you see the celestial
marriage of moon and sun, seeing how the moon
appears in the daytime and in the night is missing.
with that famous debate about pinpointing god
(existence - out of every instance? that's hard),
i'm not going to guise myself in a theological disguise
of spider and spider's architecture to eat with
the spiderweb his digestive system inside-out:
like a poet to his unvocalised muse: this word
isn't complete, it's an abandoned poem,
and hence us, we come in with scissors and pliers,
hammers and nail, due to the incompleteness of
this world we have a momentary chance to fill
it with ourselves... that creationism fight v. darwinism
is too claustrophobic for me, so anyway:
if i said to you the romans were better poets than
the greeks because the greeks gave names to
their phonetic units: alpha to omega in between
iotas, then i'd tell you the romans didn't name
their letters to be befitting for scientific constants,
on the basis of do re mi fa so la,
and hence i'd tell you romans were better poets
and the greeks were better fathers of shakespeare,
and i'd tell you homer was a greek and fathered
the tree major sons in rome: ovid, virgil, horace.
then i'd tell you our age has to have a lightbulb moment,
after the 1st prometheus stole or simply gave fire
unto man in order to be gnawed by a hawk
gnawing on his liver (metaphorically, might have
been a heavy drinker, drinker's hawkish vision),
a 2nd prometheus must come:
i'm guessing with some sort of magnetism to capture
zeus' wrath of a lightning storm...
2nd prometheus is rather dull, let's use etymology
to drive out a name for this man:
lightning bringer (αστραπαραδευς) - derived
from lightning and the word *deliver
, the deliverer
of a godly essence - of course other ambiguities
can be crafted, but putting two nouns together
to create a compound, like -1 + -1 = -2,
so two nouns put together don't really create a
new noun, but couple a noun with a verb
and it's like -1 - -2 = 1... hence i didn't use
the greek word deliverer (ελεθερωτις /
eletherotis).
melli7 May 2017
There are precious few at ease
with moral ambiguities,
so we act as though they don't exist.







              ---Wizard of Oz in "Wicked," lyricist Stephen Swartz
Brett Cooper Feb 2010
Calloused fingers trace their intentions upon the smoothest silk of
skin, like waves reflecting the moon's light back to a sunless state of
day. We've braved the trenches of social interactions, the jungles of
communications, and have reached the plateau, contently entwined in
one another.

But the bell curve proved too willing to be true.



In a moment, I am that same boy falling from the sidewalk, draped in
misconception, losing vision to a passing stranger and sheer
coincidence. But this is no trauma of the head! I fear it is much more
vital, much more fleeting.

Much more needed, much more weary
Much more lethal, much more guarded

My mouth runs on empty when my heart stops supplying and I expect
only the worst. But the feeling's so appealing to just let go and lift up,
exhaust your ambiguities and leave fate to sift through it all.

Because I'm better than that.
Because You're better than that.
Because, at the end of it all, we're all better than that.

The wind will blow and the earth will spin.
Wars will be fought and men I'll never meet will demand obedience.
There will be new names, and legends continued.
Things will change, and things will never change.




This is not important.




I wrote this poem because I wanted you to know I think some things are.
I wrote this poem because I move too fast for my own good.
I wrote this poem because I am hopelessly hopeful.
I wrote this poem because you destroyed a black hole, and you don't even know it.


However,
Thisisnotimportant.
The Butterfly Apr 2014
You wonder why love runs cold?
There is only so much hurt one heart can hold.
You have this unattainable expectation
That continues to be approach with hesitation.
The death of love will be your insecurities
And your constant accusations of ambiguities
How will the love last you say
When you are forced to go away?
Why is it never enough?
Why do you seek all the fluff?
When you fly off the handle
All it does is blow out the candle.
It's overwhelming at best
I truely hope there is something left.
It's hard to turn back a heart of stone...
Cain Dec 2012
Projectiles piercing past years, tears and more,
All for nothing, nothing for all, but for what? What for?
Ruination of art, knowledge, wisdom: ambiguities of war.
Instilling fear, burdening bystanders- thrown asunder or ashore
The guiltless stream meanders as wings which soar.

Tyrants rampant like rebels on the range,
Hierophants justified killing for a cause,
Fuel-driven greed heeds a need for a change.
Actions bring reactions when blood meets the gauze.
Pause, hold the applause; the jaws withdraw.
spysgrandson Apr 2017
my old street,  
a perfect bicycle drag strip,
needed no gutters--all rains drained
into the bay  

but today,
the lane where
I learned to drive, is a place gulls dance
and killdeer prance

this river
is a dozen inches deep
at street’s end, but a yard and growing at the bay
where the hot dog stand once steamed  

the melting monsters
were a million miles from us, you know;
a threat to a Titanic, though  surely inconsequential
to the Atlantic, or so it seemed

all the hype about heat, carbon emissions,
ozone’s demise, and other gassy notions, we thought
belonged in tomorrow’s world of worry  

but tomorrow became today,
and now it’s commonplace to say,
"the shoreline receded--that neighborhood’s gone."    

a continent constricted,
a lowly inch a year, by greed or divine design?
retribution from an earth that never forgets?
or a fickle force we cannot fathom?  

I am ancient now, though I recall those admonitions,
ambiguities that fueled futile debate, until it was too late
and here I be, watching waters at low tide, lapping
against my feet on a once dry and driven street
E A R T H   D  A  Y
Rose Nov 2011
Your back arched against my nose
The softness of you melting into my bones
I'm sure you're alright, I'm sure all is well

I wish you could tell me where you go at night
The morning light would be much more sweet
Without the worry and curiosity
Of your whereabouts and moral ambiguities

You and your bones are stretched across my bed
My black cat in the afternoon
Careless, magnificent loon
I could have sworn
Bianca Reyes Dec 2015
I love you in silence yet it echoes so loudly
Wishing to drown this but I love you profoundly

Empty promises to hide my insecurities
You'd still be here if it weren't for my ambiguities

At least now I know what those songs speak of
When the artists sing about lost love
Jack Trainer Nov 2014
Arise from autumn meadow
The days last thought
Of you who chose a path
Not measured or guided but sign less
And yet, you walk with purpose
Resting in unfamiliar territories
Aware of the incongruities of your route
And still, you had the vision
Earlier years were fraught with ambiguities
And muddy trails made for slippery ramblings
And then, you wrote a poem
Your heart found its medium; and soul, its pen
You write with depth in a shallow sea
How magnificent life is, when our path is clear
And the autumn meadow allows for one more thought
no dreams tonight
though the moon does shine bright
yet clouds make it look
a little bit like a crook

they shroud its pale shine
misty rags do entwine
even hide the whole disc

then again with a whisp
a distorted appearance
suggests perseverance
     of the heavenly body

we love its continuity
amid life‘s ambiguities
welcome the now shiny round face
with a heartfelt embrace
Jeffrey Pua Nov 2015
Count, my friend. Make them count.
Limit your words to ten, or less,
As though to conceal a panorama
Of thoughts inside a dreamcatcher,
Or the stars to a wallflower, I wonder,
If you infuse all flavors that there is, altogether,
On her doubled lip of plum, the herbs of your country,
An Asia of spices squandering her mouth,
Will she smile? Hunger is key
To her heart. Use it.

Rhyme, my friend, toy with the galaxies,
Unleash the behavior of a predator, an annihilator,
Ready to swallow the moon for her love,
And burn the Venuses of the Universe,
Her doubts, her insecurities.

Blind her with the imagery of love, her true self,
For love is blind, and is yet to see the light
That she emanates. My friend, flatter her
With the colors she was deprived of.

And then, slowly, unbridle your soul, your spirit,
The white mares of your chariot. I say, set foot
To your heart, my friend, and set your self free.
The constraint of words is the constraint
Of affection. It is to chain the Divine
To the old, old pillars of ambiguities.
     Remember that.

For it is with an I love you
That you write the poem of love, my friend,
     On her wrists, waist, her chest.

          Now, tell her that.*

© 2015 J.S.P.
Draft.
The politics after the remnants in the ragged serpents of Aerse flowed through the Cefiso, by way of a section of linking of clear and effulgence before an evident flash that enveloped him of being a cardinal priest of bucolic policies of all the nearby Athenian regions, towards vertiginous regressive parapsychology, like flashback Elusino or Anadromí sto Parelthón Eleusia, where the visualizations between Aerse and Lochnith, happen by omniscient geopolitical induction of biofeedback that re-agency the inclinations of both, for the purpose of their geomorphological foundation and for the purpose of instituting them as evocation backbones of millennia, providing feedback and settling on prophecies from the 8th century bC, stop of the ends and interprocess of eternality of the incognito mystery that began to be clarified with the reinvented personality of Aerse in amendment of Life and Expiration experienced with Lochnith in the month of Boedromión, fleeing from a federated Re-Polis that would unify dimensionality of substance and sacred space Eleusinian with Lochnith nascent warmongering for the purpose of recruiting in the Hexagonal Primogeniture, for assistance and indissoluble ephemeris of edification and hegemony of the Megaron in Patmos. This thanks to the ragged serpents, but nesting hopes of gold in the nests that give priority to the dimensionalities of peers, which will be consolidated as a reality of rite and E-cloud flashback space, for the convenience of retro-future parapsychological memory, In economy of two blocks of resignation of the Sacred Space repealed, but in geomorphological consensus, for Military command jambs towards Vernarth, as a forged pulsing ***** of the sacred cult, in the mysterious nature and territorial domesticity to come from Aerse, for the purposes of the Agoras re-nucleating the metaphysical messengers that reinstitute the re-polis; but in a field of worship of E-Cloud, in civic and cyber-organic action, for those who virtually recognize the Ablution in the multidimensional of hands calling the unknown, but with ardent passion to receive him even while guarding against further vibrational mutations with the Faskéloma or exasperation of hands that move the indigo in occasional sub-vibrations, in the tendency of a parity of the Sacred Space of Gethsemane, in disaster of passing the aqueous levels of the Cephysus, in ordinal of presumptive of unreal and sub-unreal worlds.

The parapsychology of the Space of quadrilateral teas of absorption and of erratic emotional meditation lies here enshrined in Aerse molecules, which were still received by the substances intra-exposed and extra-gates of the body, experiencing an absolutely unprecedented phenomenon, towards an immune-spiritual transit, preserving eccentric radii of concentration of refurbished chromatic rays, in a field of mental daring towards another of unprecedented and electrogenic mental force that dissipated between Aerse and Eurydice, who came near the Coasts of Patmos, coming from theoretical planes between both metaphysically flowed for unions and restraint. The ebbs of their statics jumped, for simultaneity and bilocation, endo electro-Eleusines who went exorbitant to other rollers uncrossing in body margins that concelebrated the quantum crankshaft and fiber kindness in arresting inter-women, such as teleportation and rescue of rituals in scheduling and seasonal astrological forecasts.

Lochnith says: “in the proximity of mortuary reality, there will be no repair outside of our body of geography and of our losses and harvests or of lives in sub or supra quantum transit, blinding the eyes of unknown erudition, while our contraption is self- it obstructs in our interactions and electromagnetic sensory ones, paraphrasing itself in the remote-near wired of residuals and related electros-metaphysical, which becomes the nothingness of a post-ritual pre-sense whole "

The ligation of the arteries of the Cephysus, carried the emanations of Lochnith, to love him in a medicinal act, for beings devoid of physicality, on the way to spectra of healing, in a reparative pain of extra-corporal and bi-localized pain, among which they conform polarity in androecium and gynoecium as a unit of superior physical mental gender, towards an ectoplasmic regulated nervous world, by means of Vernarth's regression, lowering their blood pressure and increasing stationary red blood cells, and with secondary effects intertwining with Eurydice and Aerse, for outcomes in Vernarth, who came in the prow of the super wet ship, and with some fabrics from the stowage of the ship directing the relaxed but autonomous cerebral advance, which already dispersed dead cells from the right pectoral, for the military and syncretic affair with Lochnith, reinstalling targets globules that arose when it was dawn on the shores of Skalá in independent, peaceful and surrounded cohorts of phalanxes that accompanied him in minutes that seemed millennia, all succumbed to mind-body pessimism and telepathic prayer, which took place by glistening in trances of self-healing parapsychology that descended on them, in pure membrane novels in acts of merciful that made them thick in the flashes of falling weightless ultraviolet rays, separating between body and opinion, joining in psychosomatic networks, as chemical messengers in undefined subsequent receptor bodies of the bachkoi chemicals, which were already deficient for a compensatory universe of genres emerging in a disintegrated emotional quantum world, with a body increasingly reintegrated into a body made of unknown subjective material, but of physical material linked in the network to each other as a real whole, transforming into the greatest passionate refectory of flashes between the their own reinstalling themselves in their Super Egos.

In the Latest Minute Dogmate according to the rictus Mortis thesis, the globules would move like a big explosion, interacting with everything, as starting everything from the beginning of nothing to the indivisible, in numbers of coincidence options for a whole, as a phenomenon of domesticity to align times, but with the probability of finding them in the vestige of real anomalous presences that occurred millions of light-years ago.

Aerse replies: "My admired one, the flash has a measure of the astral body, in the consciousness of spirit that underlies purgation in repeated souls measurable in the perfection of semblance and providential ****** questioned, re-transforming, distant and with disaffection, but contiguous healing. The smallest coherence in the fabulous Griffins that joined my imaginative component and in the ballast of his final departure, not aware of another unique being that can measure and augur him for an undivided trans-personal being. But I am already here, and I am your creation and I no longer know of other illusions of separating myself from this life, of what Eleusis is from a cosmic material that is and was in all time that speculatively passes, for the flash that you reflect if you it pales visible and not, but compact on our intertwined hearts"

As living organisms, various methods of life were postulated as an option in the right hand of Bing Bang, for the goods of those who are really close to real neuroscience puzzles, by way of resonant daring that will influence consanguinity, for volumes of blood releases, carriers of experiences and trans-evolutionary life of the emitter on the outskirts of a Parthenon, as well as in the genre of the world that associates ambiguities from anode to cathode, positive and negative for Hellenic parallelism and life adorned with roots and forage of everlasting vernacular inheritances. All electro-dermal from the Lochnith conglomerate was in total congruence with regressive Eleusian parapsychology propagating from the Vernarth portal, which was vaguely teleported by the river Cephysus, into living organisms that asserted Vernarth's native species originality and currents super life in the euphemistic underworld of mysterious protocols.

As a reaction of mind-matter, the reluctance and support of entrainment in all perceptions, precognitions, telepathies, and forebodings, between this intrepid parapsychological adventure as cloister perpetuity in sensory interferences of the reality of the body and the reality of the omnipotent world, as menthe-matter explosive. Lochnith, was already the possessor of the hypnotic mental reincarnation formula, in the form of a neuroscience ship close to the apparitions of death using the later shoes in life purely in the baggage of sleepy ethereal meats and oracular meditation.
The more we learn about the laws that explain parapsychological phenomena, the more our vision of reality and fiction of something that begins to be the laurel of a psychokinetic true world will grow. Within the curvature and scarce light that already remained in the places of the Lochtian day, normality returned to them after this long journey of the parapsychological biosphere and intriguing contemplation, and even of tenuity and the frisky idea that can die suddenly, after self incubate in the invisible passage of coexistence and rupture of mystery in the medication of art lived with alien beings, for a prototype of a character who only knows that harvesting is consuming capital from the upheaval of a loss and non-profit of the incontrovertible paranormal-normal. What is paranormal and parapsychological in the plane of the posterity of life, is an act of calm coexistence in playful spirits compensating in the seclusion in the vaults of the dramatic and involutionary psychological past, if the material or cute (spiritual) is not dissected the train cosmic perception of duality and the concept of purging the spirit of living…, he lives in his seventh heaven.

The hypnosis of death and purgation for those who require a convoy of conscience continues to be a tiny space that physically transports and reverts to minimums that are neutralized in foreign bodies and foundlings as well, from a corporal depositary aedicule that is not his or the owner that He claims it (Vg aedicule of Joseph of Arimathea). The voices of people officiating the Eleusinian ritual were heard far beyond those who could merely hear them in memorable spaced therapies and recorded in interspersed layers of electro-acoustic sounds of the complex frequency serial of alarming regenerative life, in a moving celestial body. Continuous. Everything is transfused in the meditation of curves that revive in those who promote the perfection of marigolds, like buttercups that dress the clothes of Canephore like Aerse, but of psychic and ephemeral latent of the psychoactive psychic and ******-spiritual alchemical in ethereal entities that become more alchemical in unknown molecules.
Gleam  of Lochnith  III
Safwan Barnawi Oct 2017
Might I travel through time to see the crulety?
Of what we define as death or human mortality
That Limits our joys and the Godly given totality!!!
It keeps us in fear of the mythical divinity
Regardless of not knowing to which divine is superiority.
Leading us to rage, grief, and pain with helpless tragedy
Which we might even come to enjoy its collateral beauty.
We are told that time would heal the wounds with its mystery
Pouring rains of happiness to the unforgotten memories
Instead it flows like a wind shaking the pleasant acceptability.
I'd say time is a rutheless illusion full of ambiguities
that make you question why on earth would Gilgamesh seek immortality!?
Dedicated to my recently deceased uncle. RIP
Arfah Afaqi Zia Sep 2017
My heart feels so low
sinking in its own depths
slowly losing its true color
the joy and spirit it once held
all's fading away,

I used to be so happy
my heart so calm
so full of life
and held such beauty
but now no more,

The vulnerability that it now feels
ceases me from doing what I once loved
pushing away all the people that I was once so attached to
the limitless boundaries of freedom now tear apart
vexating my heart and drowning me,

I could once face all my fears
i once clarified all my ambiguities
but now suddenly they burden up
clouding and clustering my frail heart
that now breaths its end.
Gone are those good old days where I would smile and be satisfied.
While seconds quietly and quickly elapse
under the consistent control of Time’s arrow,
the evil forebodings of Dread and vague fears
continue to lurk within Life’s long shadows.

Despite the existence of potential problems,
choose to disregard the negativity of fear.
Knowing that we are more than a conqueror,
charge forward under a Faith-filled atmosphere.

Approach the day with enthusiasm and expectation
that God continues to honor His Biblical Word.
Regardless of events, He will take care of His own;
look within to have your spiritual confidence stirred.

Speak holy words against the day’s difficulties.
Life’s worrisome ambiguities are sufficient for the day;
allow the Peace of Christ to supremely reign in your heart,
knowing that He eternally remains… the Life, Truth and Way.





Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Matt 6:25-34, 11:28-30; Prov 15:15; Rom 8:32;
Psa 23:4, 55:22; Num 23:19; Col 3:15; John 14:6

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.

— The End —