"authorship" poems
is Corrie ten Boom´s Favorite Quote.
The Master Weaver’s Plan
My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me;
I may not choose the colors–
He knows what they should be.
For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I can see it only
On this, the underside.
Sometimes He weaves in sorrow,
Which seems so strange to me;
But I will trust His judgment
And work on faithfully.
‘Tis He who fills the shuttle,
And He knows what is best;
So I shall weave in earnest,
And leave to Him the rest.
Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needed
In the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern, He has planned.
by AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Based upon research, have discovered that more than one person has been credited with authorship of this poem. For now, have decided to list it as “author unknown” until there is further clarification. Corrie ten Boom.
These words said Corrie ten Boom, the author of many many books. I feel honored and humbled that I may show you this poem she constantly presented in her life as a token of love to God and let you know about her. As Corrie ten Boom said the true author of this poem is still unknown. I am only the one who gives through.
with love, Sylvia Frances Chan
Wednesday, 20 December 2017
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
~~~
*write the scriptures,
the Book of Me,
with authorship
exposed on the books cover,
of every word have ever writ
flawed, ignored, rejected,
necessary to self-publish
upon the unpapered internet,
where words are ionized
I take an oath,
self-administered,
oath sworn upon mine own scripture,
testify before a jury of my peers,
me, myself and I
what you read,
is not imaginary,
I am real,
you are realizing
each of us has a truthful name,
in spite of acronymic disguises employed,
and wearing it,
here, upon this.....line dotted,
place my neck,
ready for
the executioner*
you
~~~
October 24, 2015
7:20 am
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
there was no poem neath my pillow
no poem on my tongue, none from eye envisionaries, no dew gift from my grassy emissaries, parting residue of an unknowable finger touch
nothing stirring, the mother muses mushing their shushing noises,
only breathy quietude, an airy surround sound tissue,
the cadence of intermingled hearts, the mother and the child
two awakenings, one instantaneous, the other restless unhurried slow, but within an impatience to intersect,
the overlap is love stars crossing,
impatience weaponized to make
momma aware her companions refreshed status,
a needy for love’s suckling,
embrace of fresh baked smiles from hot heartedly hearth furnaces
thus a-born a new poem, a welcomed well coming, in words,
the alliance of alliterated words from the interlacing of the mother’s chest heaving and the sniffling joy of a five year old boy reimagining the dreams that crossed from mother to son, and back again, requiring composition and joint authorship of them
*the only and only true authentic authorship,
mother and child, their owned unique
duality of singularity*
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 2:30 PM UTC
I'm ****** off with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron or Yeats;
Each and every one you see,
(if you're ready for some truth)
Took their themes from me.
Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's left me
Mean and bitter.
Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just.
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know I'm internally bleating,
But I can't abide this metric beating.
Although they're merely dust and bones,
They don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown:
The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I said that before Robbie Burns).
Let me make this poeticaly clear;
***If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare***.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC
***A Woman's Reflection on Her Reflection (Valence and Value)
one poem, written by two authors***
~~~
**Ever the analyst,
A mirror functions as surface to
Parse the fleeting constant
Of youth's beauty.
From genetic gift
Of symmetry and bone,
To technological tampering,
Until the equation is solved,
As experience and character
Models and maps the result.
The answer, a reflection,
Of individual valence and value**
(written by S.D., a woman)
~~~
(written by N.L., a man)
unbidden and unannounced, a
"not fully formed poem,
but a simple reflection"
inbound missile arrives inbox,
armed with silent power,
the lethality of the
Holy Unexpected
the man reflects
on her mirror-on-the-wall's
fulsome reply,
parsing the words of a
woman's reflection,
while gazing on her own
every human's momentary glass notation,
but an instance of summation,
a human poem, whose editing,
unceasing
a comma here,
a period inserted,
an eye shadowed, an eyebrow tweezed,
a eye dark circle line added,
to tree-mark time's authorship
all these
but a person's
excerpted extraction,
notarized,
then auto-erased and revised,
as out of date,
instantaneously compromised
but,
***it is upon the conceptual,
valence and value,
more that the man reflects perpetual,
less on transitory morphing changes of
exterior mortality
while overlooking her
glassine realization from behind,
he concludes:
every reflection,
no matter how oft the snapshot,
the unfleeting constancy
of the combining of the
princes of principles,
valence and value
that he witnesses,
in the calming pool
of her eyes,
(those borrowed windows into her soul's well,)
so well reflect
her unchanging greater finery,
her character
this reflection,
metamorphosis transformed.
into a planetary permanency poem,
high placed in his the firmament
of their conjoined sky***
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
curling up into all sweet confusions
that trickle down from
your touch,
we become the sky, as birds fall
from above. i lose
a tactician's leverage throughout
this fog; a descension
if you were the moon,
an aberrance,
if you were a single leaf,
dripping from this
tree coiling up to
the lights hung on
netted strings set under
the darkness of the sky,
where-ever you have been.
where-ever you are.
so,
do the stars still shine solely for you,
the nights you most need them?
perhaps i have
gone blind,
just when i need to see you,
more now than ever.
perhaps i've just
been sleeping
a little
too long, inside this cave.
does the sky still divide the sea?
but, undoing the buttons on your grip,
you build declensions on foundations
of realisation: with full authorship of
your motions, you know you could
go anywhere, love. you now know
away from i is any road, every treadmark
save this single one.
and mine is hardly treacherous,
but you'll still only find me in mountaintops,
so i could barely blame you if the path gets
too narrow, or too long-wound.
do the clouds still turn images
in full colour, late afternoon, to
remind you of shapes i imitate
in all fractured disappearances?
i've seen retreat from so
many sides now, the addition of
yours could
hardly make a dent. not that i
would not lament a loss like you,
more than anything.
yet, don't
worry, never
worry, i can still stay in motion.
still, if you see fit to
collect all broken pieces of me,
and build up this cottage, or nest, you can keep
your heart here long as
you like, darling.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
Helen sends me scraps of poems for repair. "Shreds of lettuce," she calls them. I fool around with them in my role as Poetry Doctor (see my banner photo). In her extended absence, I will post our convolutions. While the final product is mine, the vision, the imagery, the notion of the poem is all hers and therein lies the true authorship.
From Helen, Dec 2
Here is the last of the salad,
dressing not required...
savoir-faire [?sævw???f??
Upon a plate
of deliciousness
the lettuce
is usually
pushed to the side
to wilt
and be scrapped
into an
Industrial bin
were we all begin
as fodder for worms
turning garbage
into words
Nourishing
nothing
but our own pride
bon appétit
Helen
---------------
The Human Word Salad
Now it is dressed....
all poems, no exception,
the bad, the exceptional,
all begin
in an
industrial bin.
wormwood,
wormword
the ancestors,
feast on the scraps,
garbage letters discarded,
the wilts of alpha lettuce,
the word waste of the
every day beta jabber,
plate pushed-aside decorations,
all but none, bystanders
and they
turn them into words,
though inedible, incapable,
of nourishing life individually,
yet their recycled deliciousness,
unquestioned.
when
each sole word,
re-birthed in the compost
of the delivery room of that bin,
meet in the maternity ward
of our minds
words wed,
poems form,
and all the true nourishment
the world needs
begins anew.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
for the ladies who liquid lunch
<>
the finest young women of the wild west,
(the best of course just might be in Texas)
don’t always get educated in the things best,
no private schools, so somethings sometimes,
like the upscale training of the taste buds,
must be learned on the job, training the palate,
by growing up, self+taught, thank god, yes!
<>
your salty taste
reminds me of ruffled potato chips, bugles, beef jerky
and
your very own brand of
loving tears
it’s true you know,
impossible to eat
just one, which is
why my tonguing
of your body parts,
is unceasingly seizing
I will always be found
attached unbreakably,
to your moving image,
moving inside of me
so sweet your salt,
it’s your story,
your flavored lives living on
in poems unnamed, to disguise
but the authorship of whom,
in body, in mind, so obvious,
cause in all your poems is a tangy
salty
impossible to eat just one
****
<>
p.s. you tease me mean,
cowman,
bbq and béarnaise,
sassafras and edible petals,
molasses and kosher salt,
ingredient combination
which of course
you just made up,
so I show my appreciation
biting your arm so my permanent
teeth marks,
will remind me,
and you too,
just how salty
biting Texas heifers who
can or cannot be salt cured
when
it’s their turn to write some
real good tasting
poetry
****
back for more already?
****
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 2:54 PM UTC
"God is Alive, Magic is Afoot."
Who are you? Who am I?
the light in February can be self-sufficient,
sharp as deafness in the middle of the sentence
heavy as denial,
rapturous as a fusion
in the wind, in the air
forces of cohesion and destruction
play well together
in the arena of ribs, guts, lungs,
perhaps the silent liver
something is shivering inside
the light of a blade
an efortless wave of desire
a tired boundary left alone in the afternoon
the contours of my limits, your limits,
their limits so bright in this
constructivist fabric
Picasso was just foretelling us
forcing the doors
to expose the cover-up
dreaming his internal objects
then we start all over
with every breath
I want to give myself to me
as a new toy, as a gift
I want to love him with overt passion
I want you/him to break and store me
in between your thoughts
the body is full of eyes, of ears, of lips
I’ll survive in a whisper
They just want to flow into each other
clapping, holding on to the fluid of life
engulfing everything, defying all
censorship, authorship,
leadership
the light in February
is newly born with desire
to embrace itself, its darkness
in the vibrant body
I am, you are are sliding back with the air
finding rest in the vital void
the song remains the same
I am you, and you are me
the enchanted blade
is ready to cut
a new body for misunderstanding
we need to survive each other
something is tickling my feet
some wordless revolt
some rage of the living
to impersonate death
to posses their breath
I feel my boundaries
watched over by desire
but you are always invited here
to sing your sea of blood
turquoise or as you like
I am my desire
my desire is searching for myself
everywhere
in the incomprehensible light
in the lightness of his hair
in their hunger, courage and despair
for tomorrow
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
~
frost and snow,
hail and ice...
expressions of winter's
tantalizing sights;
displays that mesmerize
with sparkling magic,
and inexplicably
its sullen moods,
its stormy, icy grip.
like a garden’s blooms
remind us of our brevity,
the cruelty of this life;
but also whispers softly
of graces found within
life's wintery courtship,
a beauty easily overlooked
or altogether missed,
awaiting springtime thaws
while tightly held within
winter’s frosty mix.
for it is here
that winter whispers
e’er so quietly,
*”i’m less like death
than you imagined,
watch closely as
i draw my knife;
and with razor edge unfurl
the frosty breath i breathe
o’er flower’s sleepy seed,
firm within my grasp
i freeze her fast asleep,
her beauty held within my arms
until the sun, my brother
can reach her with his warmth,
to stir her from
her restful slumber,
and awaken her
to spring to life.”*
~
***postscript. **
you know how it goes, you read a poem that absolutely speaks to you, so much so that it stirs a moment of creative writing out of which flows a series of lines; words for which you know you really cannot claim true authorship. this then is the inspired result of reading my friend Harlon Rivers' “that which often whispers”. i invite you to read it here -
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1016263/that-which-often-whispers/
"winter whispers"...
intended to speak of
the paradoxical,
the irony of winter,
just one of nature’s many mirrors...
of life.*
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC
You are part of the beautiful whole.
— Joanne Storlie
The dark night of the soul meets
The coming of the dawn.
The agony of declaration a mere
Glimpse into the truth.
The spirit, so powerful and full
Of promise and beauty.
The testimony, reaching your
Heart with boundless joy.
The trust, beyond words, a gift
Abundantly given.
The strength to succeed in life
And recognize its value.
The constancy of faith, its face
An artistic canvass.
The search for humility in all
Your endeavors.
The recognition of fledgling
Relationships.
The forgiveness through, with
And in the great I Am.
The authorship of another
Loving generation.
We light here to grasp
Less of what we think
We are, and more of, in
Straight-speak, what
We truly are.
© Lewis Bosworth, 2-2017
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
***he rises early, well before the premature, minutest hints of early dawn,
cradling tenderized words, from a silent marinating mind withdrawn,
some spices harvested from the soil's mortality of daily strife, others,
manna gifts of wild floral tenderness, plucked from Eve's tree of life
neither gardener nor chef, the fruits of his labor, are product of
a mothers mind's silent back labor, emerging with no notice or invitation, spilt from lips unmoving, eyes shuttered, fingers ungloved
ministering a Temple sacrifice of plain psalms authored but un-titled
some spark ignition causes a key reversal, from motionless to motion,
moving with no in-between, words simmering, from seeds unknown,
the dishe's integrity questioned, but it births itself, uncaring, eagerly, willing copied from cavern decorations of rude, wall drawings
almost fully formed, though untasted and undigested, a savant smell
provokes a leap from placid prone, to upright and seated upon the
throne of his writing desk, can one*** divine ***a recipe from odor alone,
thus claiming authorship of an untitled dish, one that can't be recreated?***
sets it down before you uncovered, with a lustrous screen of silk damask,
plated on Royal Worcester fine bone china, yet, without any utensils,
asking you to ken this work,
**eat this poem, with bare hands,
love it as if it was your own first born,
consumed/consuming
a strange but familiar spirit**
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
She by him like an angel always stood.
Her presence often gave him true joy
And warmth, her words were like food
To his soul, and never was his love coy
In her heart, nor was her affection with
Guile beclouded too. She's a babe unique--
Decking out in virtue, diligence and divine wit,
One that could make mortal men weak.
Howbeit she has left him in the lurch all alone,
His life and authorship to paddle on his own.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 9:57 AM UTC
So many relationships like bad business partnerships:
green bottles falling from walls; messages stuck in bottles
rotating in great gyres; swallows never at home North or South.
(Anti-Confessional? — It’s a fashionable trend just now
and yet what is it not to confess, when we claim authorship?)
Suburbia’s flat evenness suffocates (but I’ve repeated this
so many times and I’m still here!).
We need to find the cracks in which to grow, in which to place,
our errant thoughts like rude whispers in a darkened room,
and nobody about to hear you anyway!
We express ourselves well in silence but me, I gyrate,
not quite on one side or the other, a kind of even fullness,
or, that’s what I like to think, let’s get this straight:
I’m an uncouth wind against plains that offer no obstacles.
Better to wear me that way — it saves the snap under pressure.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
I'm ****** off with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron, or that poser, Yeats.
Each and every one you see,
Lifted their best themes from me.
Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's made me
Mean and bitter.
Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just.
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know I'm internally bleating,
But I can't abide this metric beating.
Although they're now just dust and bones,
They still don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown, like,
The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I thought that up before Robbie Burns).
Let me make this poetically clear;
***If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare***.
Jan 24, 2024
Jan 24, 2024 at 10:14 AM UTC
for you
put my poems up on a shelf,
summer fruits transmogrified
into winter jelly and jam preserves,
not for now, not for know,
but to be come-backed to in
our latter days of forgotten maybe sainthood
two years.
two years here.
two years composing, decomposing.
many more, from before, lost in sands.
poems came from my mind's ******
most water birthed right here, in this bed,
many water birthed right next to a sleeping her,
delivered in the middle of the night,
jes like this one,
this anthology of me.
these poems, my resting,
living will,
my only bequeath
of valorem value
to two children
the only global survivors left living
to bear their father's father,
and my father's
name.
barely old enough to read,
they are, will be,
my one true audience.
older aging dismisses and diminishes
the poetic urge, like eyesight, hearing
and ****** appetite, it's work and gone
the days of five poem days of
love making, **** bursting
flicker over, over.
saving my letters and pennies and
poems here, caught for now
by a porous net
that so far,
HP has not let any slip through
hopefully
it redefines the word
perpetual
for here they will lie buried,
my summer preserves,
with no use-by,
no expiration date,
long after the one my physic owns,
long time passed,
long time coming...
perhaps two children
will stumble upon
their bequest
and be pleasured
with their inheritance.
Two years ago I entered with
an ineffable amen,
silently marking the confluence of cries,
Oklahoma tornado taking of children,
Bangladeshi factory ****** collapse,
men killing men in the name of God,
and
***the birth of the younger of
those two grandchildren.***
these poems are
my body
my flesh,
the wine-blood,
the ingredients of
all our prior ancestor's resurrection,
kept in the cloud of human cells
mine only by initializing authorship,
they are no longer mine,
the authorship transferred
free of gift and estate tax takings
to the next of kin and all future generations.
Nat Lipstadt
May 18th, 2015
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
The sounds of those clear mountain waters
rushing down the hill
over the rocks
blessing...everything
until finally they find their way home.
Only then.
after that sleigh ride of Delight,
Those easy joyful rapids
of tumbling Grace
and fluid silver parting
Only then,
do the cool waters of giving
speak their Blessing
Pergamon, Ride of Ecstasy
Scribes Authorship upon the Rock
NOW Promises of Life..
far beyond ten
Stillness.
Entrance into the Gateway of Eterenity
Named Free Evaporation of the Soul.
Stolen Innocence,
Lifted
into the Great Revealing of Purity
Silver Light of Heaven
untouched by anything.
Reflection..
Moonlight Upon the Water
Chains of Gold are Glory.
Yes Paul, they are..
What of the silver links......
are they the Pearls of a Great Price?
or the Mala of Mankind?
Witnessing of Heaven
Gods Gifts...
Forgiveness...Abundance....Deficit.... Harvest,
.....Living
Held together, by the hands of Prayer
A Secret Passageway,
the silver link of Christ.
Arch Opening
to the mystery of the Cross.
Enter into My kingdom
and you shall know the Way
Peace.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
BUT each piece, limb parcel, of me,
claiming authorship credit,
the fingers that type,
the left foot upon
which we stand,
the heart, soul,
and the oxygenated blood,
diluted with a vodka-like
mysterious soulful ether
all vociferous claim
full credit
regardless for the specific
IDENTIFYING
instigating moment,
specific contribution,
they each encapsulate
and the birthmark,
a Noah’s ark-escapee,
sign left behind, well,
upon my chest, exactly
when my guttural growled,
complete! for the very first time
Do I care?
Not really.
Can we live without any ***** specific?
Briefly, perhaps, a substitute oft rejected,
the jigsaw of my body, it’s animated spirits,
just a bunch of noisy, plagiarizing auteurs,
egos so big, it’s amazing
we can frame them all in
into a single slop bucket
Jan 16, 2021
Jan 16, 2021 at 11:04 AM UTC
Artists are always trying to configure the landscape with invisible ink. So, it seems. The kind you can't see at first (a thought, a wish, a desire) and with an incredible thirst for life. Maybe survival may be because they're afraid, maybe afraid to be swallowed up by some demonic invisible force. No filter to tune out all the little things you see. You're fed up with all the analysis. You need to purge. Uh- such an ugly word. Well, I guess that’s one way to put it. Try purify, justify, express, clean up, cleanse. remove, sanitize, vent, erase. On and on. Morph it, whatever it may be, into some form of art. Some of it splatters, some of it matters, some of it doesn’t. Not art for art's sake. Too difficult. Too contrived. Too much work, but mostly the art of necessity. A flow or a push, whatever the case may be. An inexorable need, a hunger, a vacuous perpetual emptiness that cries out for needing. The expression of something lacking in me. Oh, poor, poor pitiful me. Control was never the issue. No issues were ever released before they're time.
Such a need to get in touch with my possessive adjectives or am I just possessive. So how does this relate to you? Everything does but you like me. I could leave it there. I won't. You like me don't like some parts of you. Yes, that's it.
Try it on for a fit.
Does it fit?
It should fit because I feel it fits and then moments come.
They're excruciating.
They’re despairing
They’re painful.
They hurt.
They drive me to my knees.
I think I'm possessed.
I hide.
I hide behind my invisible ink, with you.
Yet I am never alone.
I know you're not there but really does it matter.
You always have something to do, somewhere to be and then something else to do, to be, to do, to be, inexorably. Why do I use this word continuously?
You have turned your moments of reverie into a painting, a song, a poem, a dialogue, a whatever and ever. Never and never to just let it be. I scream but no one hears.
Can anyone tell me why I wrote this terrible scenario?
I thought I was the authorship of me, of my life, my script.
Can anyone tell me why I can’t write you back into my life?
Someone has sabotaged my authorship.
Not to sound paranoid, but I think negative entities have taken up residence in me.
I have cast them out invisibly with prayer and intention, but if nothing changes, I’ll know it was me.
I’ll post this now just to see if anyone can relate.
I don’t want to be all alone - with a poem I can’t write.
I don’t want to be all alone with just me.
I miss my doggy.
She loved me unconditionally.
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 1:56 PM UTC
Pastors posting fluff on Facebook
longing to be liked for being hip
read from the dull world’s losing playbook
to sink with their own authorship;
virtue-signalling to the flock
(a milky slice of soggy toast)
while gallivanting ’round the block
and hoping that you’ll like their post.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 8:05 PM UTC
Drug Addict
Reaching Out
Uncared For
How Quickly We Forget
Drug Addict
Reaching Out
Pariah of Friendship
City Defined
By Colors
of Its Deepest Shadows .
Sorrow, For
What was Once Good
Mor, Mor ,Mor of the Same
Greed
Mor furniture
Mor construction
Mor coupons
Mor, Mor, Mor
Transmuted Greed
More , More , More
High Priced *****
Sold
For
a Dissatisfied
Stars
Relief
Presidents Day Sale
Of Addiction
Forgotten Friendships
Betrayal
Far Beyond Pretending
Now Is Innocent Wisdom
Shared
Pure Giving
Authorship
From
Beyond
Leaders of the World
Do Your Work
Will
That I Am
Unforgotten Forgiveness
Peace
Forgive Thou Me
Kind Passage
Thru
The Rock
My Stead
World Without End
Forever
Be the
Glory To God
I Am Grateful.
Amen.
Amen.
Amen.
And So It Is
Peace
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC
these words retained, their authorship lost and unresolved,
but their siren sounding ringing, ding ding dinging;
resoundingly and unresolved:
we do not always, indeed, hardly ever safe harbor the true origin and
the true meaning of our memories, but they come returning to us with accompanied shrouded shuddering, so oft, for frequent "EX'ing:"
Excellent exhilaration, expiration,
exhalation, variant explanations,
and unsatisfactory excitations but
never any finality of finale
exiting
the memories and the meanings
return modified, encumbered by
prior visionings, and the meaning
further twisted, their import
un lessened, until some resolution
is reached required retained
and a new memory is formed,
perhaps imagined,
perhaps not,
nonetheless
the siren sounds, the mind alerted,
we commence daily, nightly
to reimagine what we once imagined...even
endings...
nml
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 9:42 AM UTC
(can art occur without an artist?)
Maybe the question is wrong.
Maybe art doesn’t begin
with the artist.
Maybe it begins
with a condition.
A field.
A stillness.
Something opens
and something enters.
Not summoned.
Not owned.
Just… appearing.
A melody you hum without knowing why.
A shape your hand draws while thinking of nothing.
A line that arrives mid-walk
with no sender,
but undeniable weight.
Did you make it?
Or did you just
stop being in the way?
Art, sometimes, is what happens
in the absence
of authorship.
It doesn’t ask for identity.
It just needs
an opening.
A body willing
to vanish
long enough
to let it speak.
Jul 2, 2025
Jul 2, 2025 at 6:25 PM UTC