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ATL Jul 2019
In you I descry a wandering eye,
with no end and no start,
looking to cherish the projections
of a disabused heart

and to think I could use this sight
to sift through reflections untrue,
to know what is not in the knots of my ribs
and to see what the sky sees in blue

together with you, a second of two
I try still to be more acute
yet in such a gaze, I am rendered to clay,
and hunger rules all that I do

though with every backstep
I am empty and left with impressions of oldness and you-
with cold questions of folly that sit still in my body
and pebbles in both of my shoes,

I still run to what could be swirling new in that eye
amongst what is not in the gray,
though I know that its gaze looks far beyond I,
for it sees naught but the lights of new days
Ben Mar 2012
death is blunt.

eloquence means nothing
and charismatic words
don't do a ****

death is blunt.

and infinite reminder
to this finite span of life
a permanent problem
to a temporary solution

death is blunt.

in the end we're all just dust
no emotions, no thoughts
just the soil and us

death is blunt.

the poetic anthesis
anesthesia of the soul
period. end. done.
The Anti-Monk

Resurrect a tribal passion, when the needle threads the skin after each wince the pain screams that this canvas is art happening. An art so ancient, an art so ancient; nuturing itself like a child alongside ourselves developing traditions that encompass every mountain on ourselves to only just a small patch of grassland on ourselves. The true tattooist's masochism has no bounds, well except maybe brands, a decision about your portrait of self only your choice will imagine. Paint my self reflection upon myself, the aethetics will please me.

Suppress a primal ugre, where the mind threads between the skin after calm the tranquility whispers that this temple is peaceful, still. A practice so ancient, a practice so ancient, festering itself like a ***** alongside ourselves deccelerating rituals that encompass every valley on ourselves to only just  a summit of our plateau on ourselves. The true monk's bounds has no art, well except maybe botany, a decision about your portrait of self only your choice will imagine. Meditate my self reflection upon myself, the anaesthetic will soothe me.


An Anthesis and a Monk
Amber Rose Feb 2014
Glorious anthesis to light,
you shone
black midnight sleep
with nothing but flickering flames and lingering embers.
You surrounded us all
like a blanket,
your maternal arms embaced us in one brief moment
like the candle flame flickering,then, flicker, then gone.
In your rustic time capsule,
you swallowed us up
an omnipresent reminder of our fragilty,our powerlessness
in the wake of your fury.
But you stopped stomping your rooted feet,
as our yellow beams returned,
as if they never were away,
yet it's a caveat perhaps?
In the midst of our mundane rountine
that made us-halt-
for awhile
we took a step back,slowed down,stilled
to just be.
Just be.
Krystle OBrien Apr 2019
Soil in your palms
Seeds in its depth
Care and warmth
Water and light
Growth of life
Sprouting from the earth
Anthesis
Awake inspiration
A new home
Lush and full
Green and soulful
An oasis
Welcoming Spring
n White May 2014
it's no good
and it's no use
when my expressions of love
are perceived as abuse
of liberty
and the right to decline
but you don't understand
you can be only mine

you told me so
and reassured
that our time would come
and our future assured
now i see
that i was mislead
you killed what's inside
soon one will be dead

there's no path left to take
from this protracted anthesis
nothing left to break
only ill-fitting pieces
as i scrabble to gather them
i know it's no use
the adhesion is lost
and can't be reproduced
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2019
For Leonard: Two Years On (11/7/16)


don’t patronize, he laughs,
don’t want too much praise,
might go to my head,
which is still residing in Montréal,
ville de ma naissance

well you know, Natty, our tradition~prohibition
against excessive eulogizing (hesped),
and I know too,
some traditions you respectfully disrespect,
so try to be mindful,
wax not overly long

a suggestion by our mutual master songwriter,
follow the Song of Songs model,
write of new love,
born and reborn,
and borne
from the collection of beloved songs ancient

“His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem”
Chapter 5, Verse 16


kiss the comforter, that unmistakable gravelly voice chanting,
smooth anthesis, lips raining down blessings,
from places heard but unseen, that yet flutter the spirit

come to me, thy beloved, thy image mirrored,
our missing part, bare the lightness,
pour it into the crack,
that fire creates
when lips meet and sing a song of unity again
continuously perfected

go downtown, on rainy nights, when only few venture
to the venue, find the small bars with a stool and a spotlight,
smoking out back, the sound system half-busted,
where the tryouts for brave are held, keep those names,
make a list,
for these are the voices of angels hidden among the living

singalong, see the notes rising to glory bound,
clothed in shiny stainless steel, golden bronze,
metals of man and earth, forged formed,
for who needs fanciful gold and silver, soft and bendable,
earth presents, they’re over praised, 
 it’s on the base bass that the tower of love is founded,
and not just for the gifted

come my friend, the schooner captain^ has reserved your place,
with shiny eyes come to the new Jerusalem where poets rule,
and sweet lips all, only speak, in a united tongue,
only love songs
^ God, on the Day of Atonement
Written for the two year anniversary of his passing
Tom Blake Apr 2016
Anthesis
Must
Be
The
Best
Stage.
Alex Salazar Oct 2017
When all is said & proved.
& those close, are quick to run.
Clarity will beckon lose,
&  sink like kingdom-come.

Tendrils of peace
Fiery rings of freedom
This onus is making me prune,
& i have lost myself in a reflective arboretum.

The anthesis is the self, humiliating disaster.
Argumentations are made in the night to keep away all those laughing *******.
sins are sins are sins are sins are sins are sins
failure creeps aboard,  and  my patience folds thin.
touka Apr 2018
with a broken jaw
and a broken spine

he tries to tame the gnawing
unhinged, colubrine

he claws for claret, cherry blood
sloughs his futile, far loves
sinks his teeth into the silt mud

swiping bugs from widows web-spin
perhaps I'd never reach my anthesis
perhaps I'd never shed my dead skin

like he crawls along the leaves
all the rest crawls from his sleep
in late hours
he thinks of me
"I've always had a broken spine."
hungry, hungry, hungry
Yaoyan Oct 2020
Music played
Out loud
Fills the air around me.

I drop the headphones
Somewhere between 5th street
And an A minor chord
From the string base and
The violins.

Winter is coming.
The frost tipped grass-
Crystals in the sun,
Are fading by the light.

Winds blow the tune back to me.
Out my mouth pours a song.

It is a twinkling thing
An anthesis against the background
But the beat is the same-
In time with my steps.

Music played
In silence
Fills my soul within.

— The End —