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Leonardo Wilde Feb 2017
I've been thinking about ambivalence a lot lately. And I’m still not sure what to think about it.
Because it’s basically inner conflict towards someone or something, but then, what does that mean?
It means you feel positively and negatively about someone or something, you want to react positively and negatively towards something or someone.
Usually, there’s an or between positive and negative. Ambivalence, I suppose, causes misinterpreted balance, by replacing the or with an and.
And it’s misinterpreted due to ambivalence being connotated as torn or uncertain. But, I think ambivalence is a good thing: it shows more than one approach to something, more than just one point of view offered from one person; an open mind, I suppose.
I think of ambivalence in the context of an ambivert. An ambivert is an introvert and extrovert in one body, one person that is both outgoing and reserved at the same time. To be an ambivert is to be special, unique, even revered. And I think that’s how ambivalent thinking ought to be seen: not as something negative, not torn thinking. Something positive.
Balanced thinking
'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
    in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
    where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
    or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
    is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
    about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
    implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
    and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
    who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
    like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
    should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
    caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
    playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
    blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
    graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
    brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
    while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
    the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
    joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
    there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
    an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
    some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
    cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
    and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
    away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
    in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
    the simple sum of heart plus heart.
Tear Drop Oct 2015
Blade or fingernail
its all the same.
Midnight strokes
I feel all the pain.
Tonya Cusick Feb 2014
Ambivalence is my friend,
Once a foe,
but I've sought and sorted through the feelings that swirl and whirl with every cranial nerve in my brain.
Causing the confusion and seclusion of our correlation.
Ending in my insanity.
Ending us.
The true cause to my destruction was the departure of my friend Ambivalence.
s Sep 2018
apathy, tolerance,
rage, and ambivalence-
nobody that I know
is happy for us.

happy and adored,
but I don't like me anymore;
for nobody that I love
is happy for us.

it's been quite telling
- happiness undressed -
her selfishness  

but I am kind of relieved
for there's one less feeling to woo -
and to be happy alone - I no longer pursue.
Marshal Gebbie Jan 2014
Greens and gold of lattice work cascading down the tree,
This epiphyte, so infinitely, delicately free.
A lattice work of green finesse, a miniature Cezanne
With exquisiteness of spiky bloom embellishing it’s charm.
Cascading down the grizzled trunk of gnarled and twisted hand
The hosting ancient Kamahi looms loftily, so grand.
Looms aloft with leafy bough so softened by the show
Of ruffled, pinkish bottle brush amassing high and low.
Hordes of buzzing, bumble bees so clumsy in their way,
Tumbling from flower to flower collecting nectar’s day.
With afternoon the waning sun lies hot on sultry air
And little girls in pretty frocks skip by with not a care.
Summer grasses long and dry stand statuesque and straight
With sweet laburnum’s perfumed heads a nodding by the gate.
Young heifers graze in clover in the dell down by the brook
And the fantail dances daintily seeking insects in the nook
There’s a special, quiet majesty pervading here, so fair
With the thistledown afloat, so still with golden motes in air.
Fills my soul with gentle feeling and a rolling tear, unplanned,
For this blend of quiet ambivalence through my beauteous rural land.

“Foxglove” Taranaki.
19 January 2014
SassyJ Jul 2016
Women Stereotypes
This is so popular, proven to have high performance even if it is synthetic. That does not make any sense realistically. It strokes engines brilliantly. The most expensive even on sale. It does not deter dirt.

3 in 1
The lubricant  can be trusted the fact that it dries quicker, penetrating the stuck locks as well preventing further corrosion.

Exotic Graphite
As exotic as graphite is, it does a good job by providing a long lasting lubrication. It repels water too! It’s cheaper that the rest and it extends life. It makes a proper logic economically. You pay less but get more!

Lubricant Affordability**
3in1 and graphite deter dust and are cheaper than 10W40.

Does that make you more ambivalent?... ;0)

Anticlimax lubricant  ambivalence has reached it’s ******.
Armed downhill by the rusted adjusted shielded knight.
Pasted in exquisite oil, no distaste or aftertaste.
Dunked in abluent..........Dented but affluent!
Women stereotypes...... solve the puzzle......
Inspired by Aztec warrior (My dented rusted knight)
I understand my easy-going nature
has been misconstrued by some to be Apathy.
Wholly not true: at the very worst, it's Ambivalence.
Somewhere in your wardrobe, I'd be willing to bet
There's a t-shirt probably bearing the silhouette of Che Guevara

He was revolutionary, yeah, he wore a cool hat
But behind the design I think you might find it's not quite as simple as that

Che was a bit of a homophobe, Che was a bit of a homophobe,
I think... apparently.. who knows?
Che was a bit of a homophobe, Che was a bit of a homophobe

This is my song in defence of the fence
A little sing along, a anthem to ambivalence
The more you know, the harder you will find it
To make up your mind, it, doesn't really matter if you find
You can't see which grass is greener
Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier
To see the difference, when you're sitting on the fence

Somewhere in your house, I'd be willing to bet
There's a picture of that grinning hippy from Tibet - the Dalai Llama

He's a lovely, funny fella, he gives soundbites galore
But let's not forget that back in Tibet, those funky monks used to **** the poor, yeah

And the Buddhist line about future lives is the perfect way to stop the powerless rising up
And he tells the poor they will live again, but he's rich now so it's easy for him to say

I'm taking the stand in defense of the fence
I got a little band playing anthems to ambivalence
We divide the world into terrorists and heroes
Into normal folk and weirdos
Into good people and ****'s
Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer
And the things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future
We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened
Into wrong and into right and
Into black and into white and
Into real men and fairies
Into status quo and scary
Yeah we want the world binary, binary
But it's not that simple.

And your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive
Yea your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive
And your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive
And so does your baby, maybe you oughta trade HIM in for a Prius-

I'm taking the stand in defence of the fence
I got a little band playing tributes to ambivalence
We divide the world into liberals and gun-freaks
Into atheists and fundies
Into tee-tot'lers and junkies
Into chemical and natural
Into fictional and factual
Into science and supernatural
But it's actually naturally not that white and black

You'll be
Dividing us into terrorists and heroes
Into normal folk and weirdos
Into good people and pedos
Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer
And things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future
We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened
Into wrong and into right and
Into black and into white and
Into real men and fairies
Into parrots and canaries
Yeah we want the world binary, binary - 011101!

The more you know, the harder you will find it
To make up your mind, it doesn't really matter if you find
You can't see which grass is greener
Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier
To see the difference
Cause it's not that simple...
Kamini Nov 2011
There can be
Little said about
The hearts desire
Amidst the bustle
Of waking life

As the sun
Scorches the sky
And burns a hole
In her confusion.
A lazy, discontented

Lover strangled by
Words that stick
In his throat languishes
In the heat as she
Cools off in the breeze

Of his indifference.
Exposed, alone in a
Translucent ocean of
Discontent, she floats on
The surface of indecision
And ambivalence

When at last the
Changing tide sweeps
Him off to another shore
Leaving her free to dive
Deep for her pearl and

Much more… much more.
Emil Hedegaard Jun 2015
I am happy
I am sad
I'm a happy kind of sad
KM Hanslik May 2018
Paint me in new colors. I am tired
of my usual half-attempts
at dragging this out. Why
do my hands feel so heavy?
Lead numbness dragging
hours into days
I try to scraps off my old moldings but I'm
stuck in this feedback loop of
what will break me slowly because
I want to be here, but
at the same time I don't.
kills. It seeds itself
under my skin and I can't
tear it out.

will be the death of me.
tread Oct 2010
When I look out from the smudged and cracked windows of home,
I know there's no place quite the same as right here;
No place I could find that quite catches my ear,
And no place quite the same that can swallow my fears,
To the depths of this heated and comfortable box,
In which I am protected by numerous locks,
From intruders and bandits,
Salesmen and clerks;
I am the legal intruder,
And for me, that's what works.

Yet I'm here when, in fact, I am meant to be there;
Not far from my home,
I'm meant to be learning whats fair.

I am meant to be learning what's right and what's wrong,
Yet 6 hours of my time a day seems quite long,
To be spending on verbs, nouns and pronouns,
On algebra, fractions, and abnormal word sounds.

This life is not theirs; this life is all mine,
Such an old and used system would appear to be right,
Yet I beg to differ, as revolution now squeaks,
To push through the systems cracks and cause leaks,
In which free-thinking filters the words of the old,
Who believe themselves better, for they're trained and so bold.

When I look to society, what is it I see?
Is it a throng of a thousand people who seem to be free?
Not quite, yet at the same time, that seems quite close,
They are free in a box, in which authority is the host.

"Civilization has to be defended against the individual,
And its regulations, institutions and commands are directed to that task."
Quite an obvious command,
And it seems that at last,
Man is learning to embrace what they each see as free;
And it does not simply stop at being free to simply be,
It goes beyond such in mind, matter, soul, and in trust;
For it is the systems denial,
Towards which I lust.

The institutions, and nations,
Corporations, news stations,
Stateism, classism, all attempt to control,
Who I am, what I do, where I go, who I meet;
They tell me to relax, and just take a quick seat;
Yet I know what I want from life is free feet,
To be who I am,
And take all the heat.
To do what I do,
And ignore what's 'elite.'
To go where I go,
And control, as such, my feet.
To meet who I meet,
And next to them, take a seat.

I am not a name,
And I am not a number.
I am always awake in my mind,
As I slumber.
*Quote from Sigmund Freud; The Future of an Illusion (1928)
jane taylor May 2016
walking through the woods i was surrounded by a plethora of golden bronze amber leaves tumbling in the wind sparkling with a star fire that evanesced from their jagged edges upon their descent.  i stood entranced, mesmerized, utterly hypnotized by their glorious magnificence.  i observed with intensity as a golden bronze amber leaf never having been attached to the majestic tree had no need to let go but gently released.  feeling no trepidation it wholly lacked desire for manipulation to control the forces of the wind.  i watched in awe and wonder realizing that it never disengaged from the tree knowing that separation is an illusion; it simply became the wind.  whirling it shimmered in the autumn sun as it wafted with no need for reins allowing its destination to unfold.  gingerly cascading it settled tenderly on the ground resting comfortably in ambivalence.  i sensed it did not cringe when it was picked up by an unsuspecting boot but intuitively knew immediately that it was being carried and dropped off serendipitously at an auspicious location.  i listened to it intently and drank in its essence as it simply lay in being not obsessing over what would happen consequent but sat in sheer stillness seemingly encompassing all totality.  i was stunned to see that it lingered without judgment in undivided clarity for what wild synchronicity would come.  it quenched its thirst in mystery while being completely at home in uncertainty.  the golden bronze amber leaf seemed one with all that is while simultaneously retaining awareness of self-perception.  as a gentle gust of wind coalesced with the beige fall sky it literally merged with the momentum enjoying the ride to its perfect destination.  with delicacy it rested cozily in ambiguity whispering to me that heaven is a state and not a place.  i vow surrender to black and white existence pledging fearlessly to climb higher creating life with vivid vibrancy adding golden bronze amber to my palette of colors with which i’ll paint.

©2016 janetaylor
Damian Murphy Jan 2016
To resolve any
Difficult issue
All one needs simply
Is the resolve to.
Cindy Dressler Aug 2015
Come let's strike the match
watch it burn..
not too much left to generate heat
I can't live on what was
you shouldn't hope for what will never be
Perpetual cure
I'll hold your hand as we walk thru
Don't be afraid we'll come out ok
just not together..
Thanks to a kind soul for the title.
Mariya Timkovsky May 2012
As the halo icicles melt
From the slender fingers of the trees,
They reassemble themselves
As sharp shards throughout my hair
And make me feel enshrined
In the Snow Queen’s palace;
Although slightly confused
As to whether her spell has worked on me.

For rage bubbles up inside of me
Like the volcanic lava of Vesuvius
As I carefully remove the icicles from my hair
And attempt to reassemble them
Into miniature castles,
Under the Queen’s command.

But then once the Vesuvius of my mind
Innocent soapy bubbles float out
And children shriek with laughter
Leaving Pompeii safe from harm.
But the ancient people worry anyway
Since historically-speaking,
Molten lava is scheduled to surface.

Should I then worry?
It hasn’t yet singed my pores
But rains have attempted to fabricate themselves.
Yet something has managed to hold them back.
I am not so grateful.
WNG Feb 2016
You are a star and yet lead a double life,
Concealed in the day and then arriving abruptly at night,
The brightness you illuminate, compels those sombre tones,
To form into a perfect twilight,
Even under the vast veil of ebony,
With its cosmic significance,
We open our eyes just for you,
And yet you disperse before we have the time to bid adieu,
Does being under the gaze of seven billion faces cause you to feel unease?  
Perhaps like the consummate performer, you know when to drop,
At the right moment to get the crowd out their seats.
A familiar scent in the air,
a rumbling sound in the sky,
a raindrop landing on your hair,
as we hug for one last goodbye.
John Newman Dec 2013
(This is not a poem)
On a scale of happiness (being 1-10) I am below average, but on an average basis. This means that when I am average on a happiness scale, I am actually happy when I should be ambivalent. The point of ambivalence in this case is to decide whether or not you’re happy, or be satisfied with an unwillingness to care about your happiness.  When I’m ambivalent I wonder whether or not I am happy then realize it is impossible for me to be happy until I move up the scale of happiness. Therefore ambivalence only serves as a gateway to an involuntary sense of care towards ones own happiness, which then leads to unhappiness. Giving up is another way to say involuntary, and if I give up on myself then I am satisfied with not being happy. Since I don’t care, I am simply not happy. However, since I am satisfied with my unhappiness, the scale of happiness only serves as a method to judge me based on ‘social’ standards, and not standards of my own. Without these social standards to live up to, I may be more willing to be happy, and more satisfied with myself, which may lead to increased chances of happiness. To be honest, I’m ambivalent about the issue.
molly kathleen Oct 2013
gather up the things you lust to love
and become the world's loneliest human
just for a night
in a room with blue lights
where so many others have once slept
as simple cloud sheep
when the eyelashes filled themselves with hypnagogia
late late late at night
ad slowly poured (and poured, and poured)
somnolent paint onto the walls
which fainted and licked the floors
rabbit and ft
In this cruel world
Full of scorn, hatred and unkept vows
There will always be lights
Smaller or hugenormous
They are the heroes, managing struggles while keeping sanity, not giving up
Hope is a paradox
The force that keeps them moving, alongside family, relationships, goals and the will to fight
Unwavering and strong
One, two, three and I say these
I will fight til the end
Everyone, lets fight until we redeem ourselves
To make this world better and lovely
To feel better and have higher self-esteem
To make progress and to make our lives worth living
In this cruel world, where paranoia, hatred, homophobia, indifference, kitsch, low self-esteem and hidden survellaince are in bloom
In this cruel world, love can make changes of huge importance
Baby steps we should make.
To make this world a better home and a lovely place!
Lady Misfortune Jul 2019
Please fill me with love before I flatline
Filtered and withered,
I sigh

Masks are a cancer flooding my blood stream
Staining my skin
Leaving me philosophizing
Over why I'm still living

It feels like I have to end me
Because nothing will mend me

I tried to speak, but the ambivalence outstretched to my throat before it could connect
The message to your screen

Drifting from myself
Forlorn shreds
I won't scream

I only know how to suppress
I've been submerged into thoughts of depression
Due to all I have been neglecting

This is the pain express
Toot my horn and come aboard
If you have the qualifications your reward granted
Is beyond explored

You'll wield power beyond any galaxies in space
Knowing what exist and how to get to what is sick
In order to remedy it

I stopped carrying life the second you dropped that glass
Emptied out
The vacancy poisoned my plasma to vast degrees

Attempting to finally earn a little more than lack of words from the past
The bruises are firm but the alert fluctuates in my brain  
While I wait
To find a cure for what I hate

Oscillating between extremes
I'm not sure who I want to be in this story.
I wanted to give up writing, but the things I create seem to be the only constant I control. Seems like everyone in my life is painting me as the bad guy. I'm not.
Anonymous Tip Sep 2016
Sometimes I feel
I should be dead.
The fact that everyone hates me
is still in my head.

Sometimes I feel
I should just live.
Ignore the hatred
in me, I should believe.

Sometimes I feel
I should not write.
Hatred in comments
it does not feel alright.

Sometimes I feel
I should just write.
Ignore the hatred
I can win this fight.
Why aren’t your eyes--- there?
In two places--- where water should be?
Moldy residue--- absence of vision, tears
From those bullet holes--- you ought to see--- your own ambivalence
Fall down my cheek
Terrifying--- Me, with nothing for both us
Automaton, my weakness
Intellect, disease
You’re my body
You're my spirit
Justice and horror--- within, without
And on the day when
He shall gather them all together:
O assembly of jinn!
you took away a great part of mankind.
And their friends from among the men shall say:
Our Lord! some of us profited by others
and we have reached our appointed term
which Thou didst appoint for us.
He shall say:
The fire is your abode,
to abide in it, except as Allah is pleased;
surely your Lord is Wise, Knowing.

Holy Quran
The Cattle

Do you build on every height a monument? Vain is it that you do:
And you make strong fortresses that perhaps you may
And when you lay hands (on men) you lay hands (like) tyrants;

Holy Quran
The Poets
26: 128-130

The desert Jinn of Cairo
flit and dance
upon the burning waters
of the Nile.

The midnight streets gasp
with the turgid fragrance
of tear gas and jasmine

The stink of the
ungrateful dead
riles the nostrils
of indifferent gods
at the litter of corpses
strewn along
torpid boulevards
in this city of lament

Unbounded crowds dash
amongst fleeting shadows
the agitated ghosts
of undead generations
refusing to stay buried
blink to life
in epileptic frenzy

The timeless city
fertile floodplain
western cultures
opening chapters
housed mythic libraries
erected mysterious
stone tributes
monarchical opulence
now yields
frenetic outbursts
of Arab fury
an epilogue
to a despots rule
the blessed end
to an imperial age

Rampant corruption
asphyxiating bureaucracy
malicious suppression
syphilitic exploitation
rabid oppression
enforced ignorance
human defilement
are the bitter
of degradation
layered in crushing piles
upon the lowly masses
on this delta of sorrows
breeding revolution
to unravel a tyrants
specious claim
to perpetual rule

The city
flood with

a peoples will
to rise up
beating hearts
a sonic drum
this age
a turn
in history's
creaking wheel.

Allah Allah
Allah Akbar!
from parsed lips
from underground
the rising words
sharper then
Saladin's Sword

The Holy Quran
flows like boiling blood
in agitated hearts
dissidents pound
bloodied fists
against intractable walls
of monolithic power

Visions of liberation
a democratic paradise
an infinite harem
of compliant virgins
swim in the heads
of dissidents in motion
as baying throats
exhort comrades
shouting brave
seditious slogans
to engage
water cannons
and unsure outcomes.

I heard a young woman say
"I have faith in my people
and faith in my country."
Never a more foolhardy sentiment been expressed,
nor braver words have I ever heard.

As the laughing Jinn of Cairo
flit and dance
atop the burning waters
of the Nile.

A city
self immolating
atop a pyre
of blood stained stones
dry constricting fables
passed down along
marching epochs
hieroglyphic puzzles
recorded on
crumbling papyrus
wrapped in
holy legends
of mystical pharaohs
receiving an exiled
Father Ibrahim
fresh from
the destruction
of *****
cedes to the
Lord of Fear
spawns a lie
and gives
Sister Sarai
over to the
unholy whims
of profane

Abe's skin saved
soul preserved
the generations
more numerous
then the countable stars
in a known universe
not vast enough
to find room for
Hagar's cursed progeny
-call him Ishmael-
a wild ***
exiled to
Desert of Paran
siring many
lesser Semites
a strong archer
in the vast legions
in timeless
service to
an uninterrupted line
of deranged Pharaohs

This scorned land
grew the
grievous reeds
Baby Mussa
who turned
the river of
his arrival
into a flood
of gushing blood
who split the waters
to consume
the raging armies
of marauding charioteers
bent on the annihilation
of their chosen
Semitic half brothers

The shame
the simmering
rage of ambivalence
gladly sacrificing
these historic
on angry
the glories
of Alexandria
into the sea
once again

Up stairways
down dark alleys
the Jinn of Cairo
haunting ruins
hurling stones
burning buildings
looting stores
smashing artifacts
cursing the bitter bread
of tyrants
the black echos
of deadly gunfire

dead soldiers
gather in corporeal legions
a proud nations
undead generation
mythic heroes
dashed in Six Days
rise from
shallow graves
of Sinai
shame is loosed
to stalk targets
heated enemies
setting aflame
the burning waters of
a very blue
unsettled Nile

The unholy platoons
Sadat's assassins
hurl grenades
like thunderbolts
from jealous Zeus
implores Mars
to join the fray
rousting the specter
of dead kings
and a terrorized
living in the black days
of his final nights

Tell Ole Pharaoh
to go back to the hell
from whence he came
as the laughing
Jinn of Cairo
dance on  the
burning waters
of the Nile.

Music Selection:
Randy Weston: Blue Moses

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
enough to
recuse any
of an
with the


From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
promising a
much needed

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
prelates, Emirs and
state department
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
official commissions
of inquiry,
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
in the fascination
of interviewing
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
if papers
are to be

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
gun running
and China’s
chess moves.

boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
of civil war.

of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
the mangled
of mortally
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
emaciated from
the wanton
of the world?


From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
before it
our common
humanity in
a final

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
from marauding
jeeps of laughing

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”


physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

the notion
of a shared
is a cunning
sedition that
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.



From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lifting from the
the burning
of shelled

Our eyes spark
from the night
of sleeking
flitting along
the city’s

The deadly jinn
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
head shot.

lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a


From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated


From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
respected and


From my safe
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
joins my
rising in
with the
black billows
of smoke
from the
of scorched


From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
of avenging
as they
the black
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated

It is the
for our
a new
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
stones of


From our
safe windows
we peer into
the perfect image of
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
the wiz of a
passing bullet
its presence
into my


From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme

Samir Feb 2012
Here I ponder empty hearted
Seems as though I remain *******

But this word is controversial in its essence
Politically incorrect malevolence

Because of what I speak pertains to delay
The thoughts inside my head retrace this time of day

And even though the wheel spins and spins
I am left in the same place where I begin

To trace and trace
Over again

At this time of day I remain hidden

I'm struggling now
These words to no avail
Youll never receive them in the mail

Word to the wise, here is your token
Do not put forth words of actions you have not yet spoken

Because if you loved me you would have never left

in this time of day

for lack of better rhyme
and it is to late to fix what you have broken

Yet you said it
Poetic Artiste Aug 2014
One moment I want you
The next, unsure

One moment my hearts open
The next, a closed door

One moment feelings overwhelm me
The next, no more

One moment I feel safe
The next, scorned

One moment I dream
The next, reality hits

One moment I am decisive
The next, ambivalent

One moment I am ok
The next, I cycle again

One moment I know I want you
The next, I am unsure...

Will this perpetuation ever become anything more?
Are you a brush for my golden hair,
or a sharp dagger - so rare?;
Small pinches of my skin stand up,
in applauds, for your arrival,
but the question of survival still remains:
A swift sea? Or an endless night?
Something in between?
I am no owl, but I can see in the dark.
I am no dog, but I'll run if you strike.
Watch as the sun fades, then grows again.
It shrinks as the light fills me, so warm.
Can we share?; Can we love,
with an endless melody, rather than
an excerpt of being?
Whether yin or yang, I still see the air between.
Is it just you, or only me?
Be my daggerbrush,
because my hair still needs to be cut
after some time --
So, keep me in line,
and I'll look after you, truly.
Navarana Mar 2014
I slip into these weird
moods every now and

I want to be in my own
little world and mind

But I do not want to miss
out on anything that happens
flynt Feb 2013
The state of having simultaneous, sometimes
conflicting feelings towards something - like feeling
happy and sad at the same time.
exactly my case always.
You'll be initiated,
when you are ready.

Life knows,
and the initiation rites
are waiting.

Where you are holding,
you will be broken.

Where you've lost heart,
you will be shaken.

Where you are careless,
you'll meet your neglect.

What you are averse to,
will be total and stark.

What you are attached to,
will be pried from your grips.

Ignorance will be
wrought with vision,
a burning,
to make you see.

You are loved so much
that you will be engulfed in
the flames
of loves fire,
in order to
ignite your own
hearts flames,
and fulfill loves destiny.
Alchemical change will ensue,
destroying you,
to make way for
new love.

Licked by some Hellish ordeal,
Ambivalence gives way to Engagement,
Rage engenders Clarity,
Anxiety becomes Inspiration,
Apathy roars into Feeling,
Melancholy imbues it's Depth,
Licked by some Heavenly delight.

Phoenixed, you'll fly,
the hero of your own journey,
wielding revelatory fire,
with great Wisdom
and Compassion,
a Gestalt,

The circle closes,
it is a spiral,
to the beginning,
of another
Andrew Jul 2018
Out in the desert there is silence --
The mountains blinding ambivalence  
As white as the bones within.  
Slipping out the rocks, more rocks
Come the unbending tongues of time, satisfying
The antemortem joy once again.
The sun holds the sky, the whitest wing
The earth holds the rest, all of your thoughts
And the rain.
Thomas Haverman Dec 2013
I wish I had a Mother.
Or a Father without children.

At least the Spirit to stop wishing.
The Noose Jun 2017
Sinking in this shred of light
Intentions laid bare
Dragging the tremble of a jilted lover
I remain vaguely haunted
All I have ever embraced slips from my quivering hands
It's the obvious approach
This matyring
These are the bones I am made of  
Incessant heart's roar
The violence it wrecks on the senses

Long stretches of weary silence
Laboured sighs
Devoid of concrete
Lost among the stray remarks
Certitude becomes magic
Feigned ambivalence
My desires tucked behind my teeth.
Arson Nick Jun 2013
We exist within spheres
Bubbles of perception
Roughly circular ripples of both know knowns and known unkowns
And then there
Right at the edge of these spheres
Just outside the very last shred of our understanding of how the world works

Is how the world really works

I've seen it
Only briefly
And not because I'm smarter or more enlightened than anyone else
But rather because I do better drugs than most
And while my short term memory is ******
I have managed to bring back an excerpt of my journal
And it reads:

"This world is a process of conflict
A construct begat by the clashing of two equal and opposite forces
One of the forces
Is called Fate
And the other
Is called Choice
And the sum of existence consists of everything that falls in between

And the really ****** up part
Is that we already know this

But life
Has affixed us with blinders that force us to see
So much so, in fact
That a sense of 'self'
Is considered hedonism in most circles

But the soul
Does not have a default setting
Is not an illusion
And despite what you may have been told
There is no compelling evidence to suggest that there isn't another world on the other side of my mirror

The are no empty spaces
Only effects that have yet to be caused
There are no reflections on lake shores
That is merely the image of God

— The End —