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Lost Garden Dec 2018
A very important bird hit my mind with its beak,
With a message from the long lost leaves,
Shattered memories travelled to a far mountain peak.
You'll have to work hard to gather them so wear your greaves

I have come here as a delicate cue,
For your evanescent self to be soon in sight,
Don't be conquered and affright.
Towards the veritable direction, the bird flew.
after a tasty  lunch
& and extensive joyous afternoon chats
     with her women friends
while he was doing the dishes
she had no words left for him

so they started
       their smart phones and Kindles
and relaxed in their separate worlds
A.
SEROTONIN FIX FOR YOUR AESTHETICS

B.
WHAT'S PAST IS MOMENTARY,
THE PRESENT IS ETERNITY

C.
ALL IS DUST

D.
PERSPECTIVE RENDERS ALL

E.
THAT ELYSIAN APERTURE DARKENS IN TOTAL RECKONING

F.
PERPETUAL CONTINUUM

G.
LOST IN AN OCTOBER DESCENT

H.
THE SOUL DOES ROAM

I.
EXCEED INTROSPECTION, RECEIVE INTENTION

J.
REAL MEMORY, SURREAL THEME

K.
FOLLOW THY HEATHEN DIRECTIVE (TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH AND) ON TO EXALTATION

L.
THE MATRIX HAS YOU

M.
GLITCHED HISTORY

N.
LET THE SUBTLE WORD SOAR

O.
YOU BROKE ME THOROUGHLY

P.
WAITING ALONE ON THIS SATELLITE

Q.
SHATTER THE SKY

R.
JUDGE WITH AS MANY ASPECTS IN MIND

S.
EMPATHY IS DIVINITY

T.
THIEVIUS RICTUS DEVILISH GENTILITY

U.
ADVENTURE WAS NEVER A CRIME

V.
CONTEXT IS ALL THAT EVER IS

W.
KNOW THY DRUG/KNOWLEDGE IS DOPE

X.
AZURE HAZE OF SUMMER VIBRANCY

Y.
MESCALITO TORNADO ON DESERT SANDS

Z.
DOOMSDAY KISS
{[UPPER-CASE](OBJECTIVE)}
Civilized life is rigged, O land-dwellers!
With landmines hidden
in trails of Society's doctrine.
'Too often is it stepped on,
Too often does it explode.'
Blowing constitutions to smithereens.
Where you then rummage within your nucleus
to piece together your scattered jigsaw,
Misplacing your natural elements,
Overcasting your ability to side with beauteous aspects in simplicity—
Of those ethereal-resplendent butterflies.
Disillusioned on land thus is you(the complex you).

Let go—
Rise above your materialistic graves—
Walk on air!
My kindred wisps
Walk on air!
Poetic T May 25
Collect the bones of the poor,
     And let there bones build
the walls to keep out
           the retches,
                   the undesirables,
                                 the different.


And then realise that the wall
                contains you.


For we are all poor in different aspects,
                  be it dignity,
                            be it humility.


Be it the virtues that make us who we are.



We should never look at another as divergent,
                 for we are all apitamy of
                             our own diluted reflections.

Everyone is insolvent in the walls we create,

                        We just have to learn never to build them
in the beginning,
                           and realise we all take the same footsteps.

 No one walks differently from another in life journey.
Clay Feet Nov 2015
Forlorn beauty-child
Living in my night
Crying in your dream.
Sounds of sorrow
Linger in the morning mist
Of subdued consciousness.

Troubled water falls
From awakened red eyes
That searched inside loneliness  
Only to find more.

Now...

Behind my faceted face
Your countenance lingers...
I glance quickly within,
You disappear!

Your gaze lit my shadowed mind.
Your presence was there waiting
For me…

A Sonata…
A Fantasy  
A Major key bright-shining
Singing sunbeams to lift me.

After the music...

Shards of shattered dreams
Scattered like felled icicles
lying in the sun, melting into mulch      
They dawned bright green
Pipers on Scottish dew.

The mourning moon is
Catchlight in your eyes
Bright Bird...

Captivating sailors
Reaching down evoking vulnerable
Aspects held so long secret...
Jim Timonere Sep 2018
I washed ashore blind with anger after the storm of my life,
And met a girl who loved rainbows.  
She found me, though she wasn’t really looking, and
Called out to me cautiously; for
She’d lived through a storm of her own.
We learned to know each other through the distance
Between us, enjoying what we learned and suffering,
At times, from the jagged edges of what we’d been through.

Trust that has never been betrayed came first, then
Friendship, and love.  Then came something more
As these three aspects melded into a union greater than the
Sum of them.  Something comfortable, something
Warm; a companionship of spirits gained over two decades.
That will carry us above and beyond and away
Where pain is forgotten, and the warmth lasts forever.

I have not earned this, it was my luck when I was blind
That she could see the rainbows after my storm…
Tomorrow, September 13, 2018, is the 20th anniversary of my first date with Jane Truax Timonere, the love of my life.  It wasn't always easy because we met when we were older and had each been pummeled by life.  We were lucky and hardheaded and made it.  I am grateful to her and the One who was kind enough to bring then keep us together.
Thanks for letting me spout.
Pagan Paul Jul 2018
.
In a costume of conflicting emotion,
of crossing diamondic colour,
with regal posture in grief,
the Harlequin and the King,
a display of opposites
creating a composite being,
that eases her body
gently into the waiting water,
to float away serene,
on her journey to the nether.

The tears of the Harlequin,
the fall of a King,
the loss of a love,
the grace of the legend.

Midnight blue and emerald green,
the regalia of ermine,
both ostentatious and humble,
robeing the aspects,
understated in crowning splendour,
the gentleman King bows,
and the Harlequin laughs,
the bi-polar reaction
to the tragedy of misfortune,
with a sting in the myth-tale.

The fall of the Harlequin,
the tears of a King,
the grace of love,
the loss of the legend.

With the dark hues of mourning,
a legend passes on her way,
across the streams of time,
on a voyage to discover herself,
carrying her Harlequin in a purse,
holding her King to her breast,
owning them both in her heart,
the medicine wheel spins,
knowing the grapes of wrath
yield the wine of spite.

The fall of the Harlequin,
the fall of a King,
the passing of a Queen,
the death of the legend.

The motley speckles of attire,
a starry parody of night skies,
lighting the decorated funeral barge,
gliding along the rivers of space,
worn with the mantle of sorrow,
and it sails into the sunset,
as the Harlequin and King observe,
the mandala turns,
the bier of the Queen departing,
bears their sadness forth.

The tears of the Harlequin,
the tears of a King,
the death of a Queen,
the passing of the legend.

The Harlequin laughs and laughs 'til he cries,
his heart grows cold, then withers and dies,
whilst the King, statuesque, memoirs his life,
lamenting the legend of a Queen, his wife.



© Pagan Paul (24/07/18)
.
Poetic T Mar 5
Gather me upon the wind,
       so I may whisper words
                                        of serenity.

Gather me upon the ground,
         so I may feel the footsteps of
                                  another's life.

Gather me upon the waters,
        so I may wash within the
               memories of teardrops.

Gather me upon the embers
            so that I may warm upon
                      the thoughts of others.

We may gather for many reasons,  
              different aspects of the same
                                                  wanting.

But we all have that moment in life
                   where each one will touch
                                             our lives.
Spike Harper Aug 2017
It isn't a game.
But one can definitely lose.
There are no competitors.
Yet self comparisons fog hind sight.
Leading to more dreary backroads that the world forgot about.
It was fun for a little while.
Telling yourself that you threw away the world and not vise versa.
Was truly the greatest lie.
One that grew into actual belief for a time.
But found that the greatest hell.
Is watching your paradise burn.
Bound only by disbelief.
Dumbfounded.
It's a shame that when you lose everything.
Somehow your mind is the only thing that stays intact.    
As if those aspects were programmed into humans in preparation for it..
And happiness got the short end of the stick.
Then to further rub dirt into the wound we create hope.
By means of pursuit.
Shakespeare knew the questions.
And left it up to everyone else to answer.
Only as generations pass.
We couldnt be further from any resemblance of an answer.
Let alone know the question has already been proposed.
Writers play with this notion and yield no two pairs alike.
Lifes most important knowledge sadly can only come from experiencing it.
But with the world in such a desensitized state.
The fear of stagnation is becoming the only real possibility.
Preposterous?
No
Predetermined the moment we chose to let others choose for us.
There is no freedom.
Only sacrifice.
Right.
Forgive my semi rant. A lot is going on in and out of my head.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2018
based on the essay below received from Liz Balise**

all poems and their accompaniment sauces begin with onions
start by fouling the air, bringing forth only unrestricted tearings
then...

the slow cooking elicits the sugars hid within,
the unpleasant odor, refined into something
minted new sweet and savory.

so too, the poem must simmer, slow cooked,
harmonizing the caramelizing,
even if some ingredients
claim the first born birthright of the eldest first essential,
despite the collective harmonizing.

the ripened color of the blood red tomatoes,
the ruddy cheery sanguinity of
certain words in each poem,
are the coloration of its entirety -
the ones your never forgive for never letting you forget them!

what matters not but how, the daring to substitute the new how,
how you chef see it and color it with the crazy way how
you beckon us over one by one to the big *** for a tasting
accepting critiques and suggestions, a thousand pinches
of your salty sweet essences.

and the recipe is dog stained and pointy corner ear-edged,
cause you cannot exactly write it down, and you bend the corner
for every substitution and variation,
cause every poem
made to taste the how of us,
each one a subtle different.

everyone understands metaphor,
even the society of the reticent ones in the back row,
just say the “trapdoor of depression” and they’ll nod knowingly,
so say to them a poem is a metaphor for you,
and spaghetti sauce is how you see, recreate in words,
how you need to add an ingredient of yourself
to this one,
a word, a phrase, becomes you in it, in you,
you in it are both poet and poem
and a simmering new and different
————————————————————————-


A Well Written Essay— The Spaghetti Sauce Method
As a teacher and a learner, I have always wanted to see the "nuts and bolts" of everything. Yes, it slows the process down, but the learning is more complete, and a person becomes capable of making endless connections of understanding, branching to other  creative possibilities. Writing like dancing, and all that is worth learning, deserves all of the pieces and steps of the process.
I remember telling my students every year that grammar could indeed be a dry bone, but necessary in the process of good communication. Told them that I would teach writing by the "spaghetti sauce method" (Visualize their perplexed faces here.). "A well-written essay should be like a really good sauce-- smooth, fine textured, with a complete harmony of meat, sweet, tomato, and seasonings-- not one overpowering the others, but all in marvelous union of great flavor and aroma."
I continued, giving the example of my mother's
(God rest 'er) Irish spaghetti sauce" as a contrast. "Mama would throw in onions, peppers (if she had ‘em), hamburger, salt and pepper, fry it all in corn oil, and mix with two cans of plain tomato sauce. This was all okay with me," I went on,“ till I experienced the epiphany of garlic, basil, oregano, pork neck bones and a cup of wine; in the kitchen of an Italian neighbor, who walked me through the process and ingredients of real Italian sauce that was simmered for hours."
I continued to nudge them with the comparison: "Excellent writing is more than talent and passion, otherwise a tirade of curses, knotted ideas, and copied paragraphs of someone else would always do.” "No," I went on, "It is clear thought, captured, slow-cooked in the labor of mind and understanding— and in good time, expressed, in a way that others can comprehend -- with great attention to the cardinal rule: It is not as much WHAT you say-- but HOW you say it."
Through the year I focused on one or two aspects of better writing at a time for each paper. It was an uphill battle, often teaching against the mediocrity of the expectations in the PA State Standards of Assessment. It would add ten hours to my work week to grade and comment on a set of a 115 papers.
Moonflower Nov 2016
Sometimes it takes a while for me to become aware of the tension I am
holding in my shoulders and face when I am feeling anxious,
and while I stretch my rubberband body, I wonder what else I have
been entirely oblivious to
and how much more at ease I would be if I discovered it.

I believe there are several aspects to the meaning of life;
One of them being mastering the art of letting go, as cliché as that sounds.

I think it's about building solid relationships
and letting go of the feeble ones that inhibit us from blossoming into
our true selves,
clinging to them as we may.


In the mind, time is relative.
It is a spiral,
It is the measurement of growing distance.

Sometimes the things we feel aren't a sign, they aren't proof of
anything,
they are, in a literal sense,
feelings.

They demand to be felt at once or not at all, but they legitimately
mean nothing.


Sometimes I feel a desperate gnawing in my chest when I think of
the people I no longer know,
when I imagine how each of their lives has continued to pan out
without
me;

when the truth creeps up on me like a shady ******* and I realize that

no, this is not entirely my fault,

but yes, I had a part to play in the chaos;

I realize how wrong I was.

The brain gives way,
and the brain heals itself.

Let it heal
Eva Aloezos Aug 2018
I left the devil in the dark,
because he is a blue eyed serpent
that draws me in, then abandons me on a cliff
foolish,
soul stiff

Through the sultry mess that is MDMA
I loved him just the way he was
sitting in the back of his truck
drapped in wool and luck

He transformed into a spanish sailor
and I forgot I was a failure,
in many aspects

he whispered slowly,
“you are a hazel eyed angel”
but I gave no answer

The only answer I had to give,
was the one I spoke silently

I knew he was a devil,
I encountered in life times past
so on the tip of ******,
I felt satisfaction accompanied by terror
elizabeth May 2018
I’m forever uncomfortable with the idea that time is not linear. I’ve always wanted things to be straight forward, for each day to feel the same, for every hour to be the exact same length. But they aren’t, and that makes me feel all woozy and sick in my stomach- like the butterflies are trapped and trying to escape. It scares the hell out of me that I can’t remember what it felt like to be in love with him, that, even though it wasn’t too long ago, it somehow feels like I never truly was with him— it all feels like it never happened. I guess most things feel that way, when you really get down to it. I can imagine certain aspects of my past, but none of them feel real. It’s like everything that occurred up until today was a dream, and I can’t quite place my finger on when or why it happened. That’s the thing about time. It’s always changing. Each time I think this is it, this is how my life is going to be, I wake up one day and nothing is the same.  I’m terrified by the fact that I can’t truly recall what it felt like when he and I were by the lake that summer night or when we fought over ice cream and I cried into the night. I want to feel everything I’ve ever felt my whole life, even though that would probably **** me. I honestly can’t fully grasp that time is so fleeting, and I will never feel the exact same way about things the way I felt in the past. I want to understand it, I want to hold my past and my future in my hands and lay them out in front of me, counting the times I am hurt and heartbroken, counting the times I get frosting on my nose and I feel whole, counting the times I fall asleep on the subway or the times I hold someone’s hand. I know that’s an impossible dream, and that scares me even more. There is no running tally of lives you impact or places you go. Maybe it’s time I start accepting that.
Jayesh Nov 2018
I've heard this story
The whereabouts of it, I still can’t recall
Whether from sacred scripture
Or stolen from the mouths of outsiders
Yet, despite my ailing nerve,
I do recall the tale itself

It began as most others did
In the eyes of a character
Like any other, yet somehow unique
Perhaps it was in his honest peculiarity
Or in how he would gaze out into the open
Searching for certain aspects
Hidden from those uninvited
Quite like a masked gala

He thought on topics most considered trivial
Or couldn't fathom to their relevance
Yet, to him, it was much the opposite
He cared not for the what and where
Instead focusing on the how and why;
Aspects much more involved
Filled with effort others simply avoided
However, it was amongst these wanderings
Where he began to truly feel
Just how alone he was in them

It may have been an arbitrary matter,
Especially considering his own foci
Yet, despite all he thought and felt
It lay there, forever present;
Quite the uninvited guest
To the gala he held so dear

It wasn’t simple solitude
In the dramatic musings of one considered so young
Instead, it felt akin to an old friend;
A ghost to the past he hadn't partaken in
A simple irony, one which wasn't lost to him;
Finding companionship with an emotion
Holding anything but
A thought which would elicit a whispery smile from him
In the dead of night

It was a condition he told none of
Hesitant to take advantage of others' kindness
Even if they wouldn't have perceived it thus
And while some may have considered it
Immature pride, or even stubborn regard
It was different to him
Almost as if a trait he held dear

Through the stories told, in all ages past
Many cherished his saga
A journey of discovery and novelty
Yet none knew of the man himself
His achievements acting as a veil to a fractured interior
And if you asked him
His spirit wandering in the midst of his old books and apparatus
He would smile, in that same whispery way,
Saying he would have it no other way
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