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SassyJ Jan 2017
The head thunders in a stormy cloud
The nose was long gone and dysfunctional
The mouth fills in the mould with oxygen

The body has caught a dreaded fever
It chills and trembles at the night's cast
as the eyes flow with wavering rivers

The lymph nodes have gone for a rampage
Lumps on the tonsils with unbeatable abscess
It's been two nights since I was possessed

Now the hearing gone and echoey ears persist
I can't quite dance to the bird's chirping
Neither walk balanced on the dizzy spells

Rough as a scrambled sack awaiting reuse
Unpressured on all angles straggering on corners
Ohh sweet heavens what broth can soothe!
Egeria Litha Sep 2014
A man with all the elements
Vibrating in his body
Eyes on fire
His voice shooting daggers
Of clarity at my mind
His stride like he's gliding
On ice
His touch like gravity
Wrap my arms around
A mountain of strength
He smells like my true nature
Divine geometry bubbling
In his heart of a hurricane
In his glass of champagne
We cross arms and sip our cups
Intertwined like infinite snakes
Underwater we blow air
In each other's mouths
Taking turns
In and out
Creating carbon
Within our lungs
That we already have

*** so holy
The Hierophant is jealous
A union so balanced
Even Adam and Eve
Are Dying to be us
We are living in a space time
Of perfect timing
Open to receive
Everything our awesome souls
Deserve
And we have a mission to serve

Life is a ride on a ship
The stars glowing for us
Because they know
The alignment of our flow
Standing side by side
We are grace justice ease
The Emperor and Empress
Of all that we desire to see

Judgement from the universe
Designed you to be mine
The wheel of fortune
Put us on the same cart
As we circle up to the
Pinnacle of the sky
The world invites
Us to smile
The High Priestess
And Shaman
Play with our schemes
Allowing us to unlock
Our dreams
The secret to death unlocked
Because we understand
Dying is just a key
To a door that is locked
Daniel Hodgson Aug 2012
There’s some comfort
In a Cigarette –
Slack on the lips,
Balanced as a Newton’s cradle,
The smoke rising,
A heavy silver blue
Lifting and settling in the air; a toxic mist,
Emerging – volcanic - from the singed
Yellowing paper.
And the mind clears and
Slows, for a moment and settles as the nicotine infuses
With the brain.
And it feels
Good.
You tap the ash and it falls, dissolving into hot powder –
you take another draw.
Breathe deep.

“Smoking’s bad for the health” someone says.
As the smoke -silver blue –
Travels down the throat, into the lungs; inflating -
Exhale (more refined now)
“I know” you reply.
Give some excuse or other, for the habit –
Needs to be kicked -
Their eyes flash to
Yellowing skin which
reflects the yellowing paper cradling the ash
encasing veins of red.
Smiling, a crooked smile, you take another draw
“the last one.” you say,
“good.” They reply.

And there’s some beauty to be found in
The silver blue smoke pirouetting in the air
A poison, personally selected.
Some assurance in this perpetual act of self-destruction,
Some comfort in knowing what it is that’s killing you –
Though it takes some mystery out of life -
Conducting one’s own mortality can be quite the security.

Inhale again,
Turning the filter,
Ash drops,
The word Marlboro
(If there’s some money in the bank)
Stares back.

A Cigarette is a sin to be shared or taken in private,
A true pleasure which leaves one wholly unsatisfied -
Something in which to partake with others; the rich, the poor, the lame -
Those who would not normally give you a second glance, nor perhaps you them -
“Got a Cigarette I could ***?” they ask
“Sure” you say
As you reach into your pocket,
Pull out the packet,
Weathering,
And hold out an offering.

In that exchange
Alone
Is a bond born, a moment of connection,
some common ground.
You turn away,
“Smoking’s bad for the health.”
Someone says, to them,
“I know.” They reply, give some excuse
And then smile
That crooked smile.
Rangzeb Hussain Mar 2010
My rooted feet are caked in blood brown mud
yet my head gazes upon the wonders of the rainbow sky,
I offer up my prayers with thorny crowned palms
and wait as the seasons savagely storm those who have died,
The years of hate have arrived all very calm,
Behind them lie the gliding galleons of well oiled gold.

O hear my pain of wingless hope,
Gales blast me,
Hail crushes,
Tears deeply drawn from the depths of a dead headstone
are soon licked dry by the Sun’s passionate caresses,
My land burns and drowns in War’s choking smoke.

Red as the early song of dawn’s new dew
is my dream this music of black swans bleeding chants of healing,
My petals shiver and away they float leaving me bare and exposed,
Here I am then, pure as the day I was recklessly seeded,
My life balanced upon the kiss of a crushed nightingale’s hopes,
Hearts of diamond stones my graveyard beyond yonder due.

Where be the desire of Valentine which once tore into St. Sebastian
upon the scorched red Roman rust behind the Coliseum’s hated gates?
No rose dares grow there,
Trojan Cassandra looked to the sightless fates
and see how mercilessly they dealt her,
My roots forever ****** to be fertilized upon coffined carcasses.



©Rangzeb Hussain
preservationman Jun 2018
Strike, Strike, Strike
The multitude of voices having might
These were Union Workers shedding some light
It was the Brotherhood Union of any Local being powerful
The Union Workers are all resourceful
They are working at a large industrial plant
Management wants to roll back wages and reduce health care
Now all that is simply not fair
The Union said No and told management to come up with a better deal
The Union Workers shouted “Is Management for real?”
Management was truly for real on their agenda
So strike was in as Worker’s march
The clock balanced as if it was an arch

Shouts went on
Brotherhood Union together in multitude strong
The Union and Management just couldn’t get along
Timing didn’t seem right
But the Union Workers were determined to shake up management being excite
After all, survival is establishing a cost of living deal, and why should Union Worker’s be polite?
Chant was “Union Worker’s Talent Skills but Management is functioning as if they are on a pill”
Now Management brought in contract workers to fill in
This strike could continue until then
However, the contract workers have no knowledge and experience in what the job entails
The aftermath, they all will fail
So management is at a loss without the Union Workers
But the question being, how long could this strike last?
It all depends in management doing the right thing
So until management sees the light
Union Workers will continue the fight
Two days had passed
Negotiations came fast
Union Worker’s ratified a new contract offering improvements to wages and health care
Management had choicer then to be fair
So the Union contract was signed and put into place
Union Workers returned back to work
The strike brought awareness
Management simply was out done
Union workers stuck together being among.
The Mellon Jun 2016
I'm going to tell you a story

One about a little bitty boy
And a little bitty girl

They both lived in a small town
And went to a little school

But the little bitty boy was not loved
He was in the first grade for the second time
He was a stranger to everyone

He was a victim of little bitty bullies
With there little bitty words

When he was seven he balanced on the edge of a blade
He **** near plunged it into his little bitty chest
And ended his little bitty life

The boy might have done so if it wasn't for the girl
She didn't know him but smiled his way
It's amazing what a smile means to someone whose muscles had forgotten how

In the sixth grade the little bitty girl sat by the little bitty boy
They talked for a while
A spark was lit for little bitty friends

The boy and girl became best friends quick
They hung out and did what middle schoolers do
They built forts and made paper weddings for unsuspecting friends

There came a time when neither child was little bitty anymore
By the time they realized that boys liked girls
That girls liked boys
They didn't know what to do

The boy asked the girl to hold his hand once
And the girl left him
She dropped him and ran

It was a long time

The boy grew dark
He found self hate and anger
He lost the friend who saved his life

Half a year later he talked with the girl again
They both made their feelings clear
Friends forever, nothing else

Something wasn't right

By the time they were seniors
There was friction to be seen
She, the pacifist and "mature"
He, the liberal and "immature"

They had opinions on many things
Few of them the same
Yet they were part of a large group of brothers and sisters
They could not part

So there they stand today
Both friends and enemies
The girl that stole the boys heart
The boy that only got pieces back

The boy was reminded by the girl
After saying something ridiculous
Just how much the girl hated him
He still feels the bitter iron in her words

The little bitty boys' light did dim
The little bitty girl went on cold as ever
Together they were sperate
Separate they were at peace
Forever to be known,
That was all
I wanted the high school sweetheart to want me
But she had another plan in store
It almost hurt me at the core
Than i realized that there's already too much sadness surfacing here
So i must distract myself, persevere
Before i could ever endure
The harsher realities
This wasn't a fatality
Calm down, calm down
I'm not taking it to heart
I'm not falling apart
I'm just building a new start
Another chance could come
But I'll forget about it until then
If there's ever a then
I'm not a bleak beach, but I'm a summer you can't sweat out
Staying as long as i can
My mind is more open than the borders of the land of the free
Not everything is free
So why don't you take on me?
No? It's all good in this neighborhood
Economy is still balanced
People are still working
Which i mean my white blood cells
So there's no reason to get angry and yell
It's time to sell
My previous plan to the mental shredder
They'll really love the business
Trust me, they've been harping on it for far too long
I might need to lecture them soon
I'm not tolerating any doom and gloom
In my own living quarters
In my mind
This city has to grind
To be noteworthy
Just like the external ones
So i apply the double standards firmly
Hold your heart that way
When you think it might sink
Prevent yourself from the baleful think
Take out your gloss like Tink
And put an end to this possible siege of lapsed judgement
I walk among the quietened beasts
soak up their ancient sorrow
for lives suspended evermore
there can be no tomorrow.

I think we are quite like them
for we may never  be
forward-thinking, pursuant
nor together, you and me.

I hand my heart unto the sacred
dagger'd through and split usunder
a choice made in perfect honesty
now rolls in me like thunder.

Of time and tide, I waited
believing bright in your return
the hands ran down eventually
but will I ever learn?

For yet I chance my dancing luck
balanced on the edge
to tumble into history
or stay within my pledge.

I am split right down the middle
as these taxidermy dreams
my insides on the outside
coming loose unto my seams.

I gaze into their marble eyes
dare to touch a proffered paw
I am locked in here, forever
disbelieving what I saw.

Your face came in from the ages
and I tumbled, caring not
of promises I had made
the moment time forgot.

Just as I thought you gone, forever
there you are again
and now I'm living with the beasts
my winged heart aflame.

Fill me up with chemicals
to float, suspended, in my jar
my other life is dying
gazed only from afar.

An actress of reality
I am wholly in pretence
unable to exert myself
I sit upon the fence.

Just as do the quietened beasts
whom my secrets I shall tell
I love you, darling, just as much
as I did the day I fell.

In my pose'd capture
of grotesquerie divine
I am strangely whole again
myself, outside of time.

So, come and walk these rooms once more
pass around my tortured form.
Organs draped and ribboned,
complete, I am, when torn.

Take my body-blocks apart
to only you I yield,
and every little shred of me
wrap around you for a shield.

My parts protect in constance
each step upon your path,
in bits of broken wonder
I shall burn upon your hearth.

For love is all that I can give
and in pieces there are more
sides to coat with blessed pain
oh, love, rip me to the core.

The beasts gaze at me so oddly
I think they feel me vain
for I don't wish of being whole
just of pieces, torn again.

My destiny is tableaux
if I cannot be with you
and, thus arranged, my pieces
show only what is true.

That I may never find sweet peace,
in this body, only strife.
I must be smashed to smithereens
to be brought back to life.

Dear beasts, please let me stay a while
you're my family.
And this old house is comfort
my safe menagerie.
AnnaMarie Jenema Oct 2016
Sumimasen, chotto.
Donde esta la bibliotecia?
Yo tengo un gato in los pantalones.
How can I even speak english?
The simple answer,
I can't.
My words fall short,
I loose my train of thought.
My grammer tries to autocorrect itself in the worsest of ways.
I'm often teased that I have my own language,
and yet my writing comes across well.
I can speak a mix of languages,
but barely.
I speak Annanese,
I can't speak at all.
I just get nervous and my sentence structure falls to ruin.
I'm too shy for my own good.
And yet I can become too bubbly and worry that I speak too much.
It's always too much,
or not enough.
Never balanced.
Why can't I just speak my mind?
Devon Gonzalez Jan 2018
A perfect equilibrium,
gravitationally balanced between Luna and Earth.
A place in space where peace gives birth.

Earth at my head and Luna at my feet.
Up and down does not reside here,
where my soul has found the cure.

Here I am alone, to watch the Earth kneel to its orbit.
Here in this point, hell I can forget.

The clouds become shrouds around the wet body. Mountain tips peek through weather thick and thin, piercing through the polluted sin.

Luna at my feet, in a tidal lock.
She only shows her face,
waiting on an orbital clock.

Fifty billion years till Earth returns the synchronous favor.
Looks her in the eye and and her beauty she will savor.
A thank you for the ocean wave,
and the path to life she did pave.
Kam Yuks Sep 2013
Balanced barely - crept up slow. Narrow and steady, my chemical device needs reuptake badly. Bleeding - poorly bandaged wound walking, in memorial of my flight from mothers womb. Pain rainbow, gypsy vantage point through eyes of stained glass. Literally lost, fact facing smothered butterfly sleeping sound under a blanket of pain.
Paste this with a melted glue stick while it is still chunky and in need of nimble fingers to spread.
I remember the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils;
And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile;
And how, once startled into talk, the light syllables leaped for her,
And she balanced in the delight of her thought,

A wren, happy, tail into the wind,
Her song trembling the twigs and small branches.
The shade sang with her;
The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,
And the mould sang in the bleached valleys under the rose.

Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth,
Even a father could not find her:
Scraping her cheek against straw,
Stirring the clearest water.

My sparrow, you are not here,
Waiting like a fern, making a spiney shadow.
The sides of wet stones cannot console me,
Nor the moss, wound with the last light.

If only I could nudge you from this sleep,
My maimed darling, my skittery pigeon.
Over this damp grave I speak the words of my love:
I, with no rights in this matter,
Neither father nor lover.
Ma Cherie May 2017
Life, love an cooking
are the same-
all of these,
require,
the proper ingredients,
to create a balanced
and perfectly wonderful
life changing recipe.
Idk lol...❤❤❤
jack of spades Dec 2015
buy me on the black market like the instability I am.
watch me hurtle through negative space backwards,
the planet-wide catastrophe of a sun-sized storm in me.
Call me Carbon-14.
it’s the latest piece of my galaxy-sized identity, another chemical
small enough to wage nuclear war.
you’re witnessing my radioactive decay,
the deterioration of everything I used to be into
everything I might be,
a kind of reaction that happens when one of my ‘downs’
becomes an ‘up,’
no aces up my sleeves or full houses of face cards in spades,
but I’ve got straight sevens,
protons neutrons electrons, carbon to nitrogen.
beta decay, the mass production of passive procrastination;
second in command, sidekick sidetracking heroes.
Call me Nitrogen standard 14.
watch me decay into the air that you breathe,
seventh most common gas in the Milky Way galaxy,
keeping things fresh and stainless like my steel armor,
try and make me combust but I’m fireproof, bulletproof,
balanced and on my toes in a defensive position,
fists raised for the fight that you’re going to put up.
my axis is more stable than yours. step into the rings of saturn,
ring the bells to start the rounds, champion takes home the stars,
wraps orion’s belt around their waist and buckles it tight with nuclear waste.
everyone loves an underdog story, but only when they know,
positively, that the underdog will win.
with you and me, it’s a 50/50 on who exactly has the upper hand
and who exactly is going to win, but I’ll make bets with the elements around me,
the carbon that I used to be hashing out 20’s and oxygen
claiming she’s not one for gambling.
baby, you’re in my lungs, you’re in my corner of the ring.
she’ll slip in a 50 like my chances, and I’ll pretend that I don’t notice.
phosphorus is too fiery to root for me,
he’s more of a heavyweight believer than me.
Call me contagious
when my knuckles bloom across your jaw and knock away
all of your sensibility, stability, bruises like moons
as the mirror shatters every reflection of who I used to be.
Call me Carbon-14, but know that I am radioactive,
actively changing, reigning champion of breaking perceptions,
and you’re just the impression of the death that I’m carbon-dating.
did u know that im a chemistry nerd
WhyamIaSpoon Mar 2012
"All I really need to know about how to live and what to do and how to be I learned in kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate-school mountain, but there in the sandpile at Sunday School. These are the things I learned. Share everything. Play fair. Don't hit people. Put things back where you found them.  Clean up your own mess. Don't take things that aren't yours. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody. Wash your hands before you eat. Flush. Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. Live a balanced life-- learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some. Take a nap every afternoon. When you go out into the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands, and stick together. Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup. The roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that. Goldfish and hamsters and white mice, and even the little seed in the cup-- they all die. So do we. And then remember the ****-And-Jane books and the first word you learned-- the biggest word of all-- LOOK. Everything you need to know is in there somewhere. The Golden Rule and love and basic sanitation. Ecology and politics and equality and sane living. Take any one of those items and extrapolate it into sophisticated adult terms and apply it to your family life or your work or your government or your world and it holds true and clear and firm. Think what a better world it would be if we all--the whole world-- had cookies and milk about three o' clock every afternoon and then lay down with our blankies for a nap. Or if all governments had as a basic policy to always put things back where they found them and to clean up their own mess. And it's still true, no matter how old you are-- where you go out into the world, it's best to hold hands and stick together.
I found this poster somewhere, and I wanted to share it
Eileen Auger Apr 2014
The years of memories
pile up like cord-wood
stacked randomly,
a Jenga game of blocks
balanced  precariously,
verging on toppling
when a piece near the bottom
is removed too carelessly.


Memories must dwell in the past,
forever in the life of the mind.
They cannot be pulled out,
touched and held,
nor lived over and over again,
except perhaps in dreams.

Eileen Auger
3/22/14
Molly Dec 2017
Can one be filled up with non-things?
Electrons in a shell, their negative charges
dense and balanced,
a double negative --
What is the opposite of a blank space
and why is it so thick with hurt?

                        Obsession.
      A binary.
Everything or nothing,
dead or so frighteningly alive.
        
                           Fear.
      A lingering.
You are the author of all your failures,
and you cannot escape their weight.
            
                           Disgust.
       A constant.
A grub worm gorges itself below the surface.
The maggot and vulture feed on rot.

                             Apology.
        A tradition.
If you were really sorry you wouldn't have done it, and
certainly wouldn't have done it twice.
Samantha Pearse May 2014
Early morning awakenings followed by days as seen through the haze of sleep deprivation are the story of my life. Late nights chugging caffeinated drinks keep me on the brink of insanity. Long afternoons in the library bent over a book filled educational words that all swim together in a river of knowledge to wash away my brain. Each day is the same filled with paper after math calculation due day in and day out because adults don’t seem to understand the stress we are under. Teacher’s voices begin to sound the same hour after hour of classes and all the subjects blur into one mass of nightmares.

This is the life of a high school student.

From grade 9 to grade 12 we are trapped within the strict walls of assignments tests and exams. Our lives evolve around this institution, defined by the marks we receive and we begin to believe that there is nothing more important than balancing chemistry equations rather than social obligations, or mathematic foundations as if the building blocks of society.  But they give no preparation for the real world.

When we reach a certain age, long before the time of university stress, they tell us that we can be anything, so I picked sparkly fairy princess. Apparently that defies the laws of physics and they said try again I loved the power of the pen and I said author. Then they laughed in my face and said I’d never win the economical race so I settled on lawyer, an profession where I would become a the predator.

The days are structured and muscle memory carries me from class to class, until I resemble a soldier in an army of zombified ants that is under the influence of the queen of education. There is no room to be different, yet we are told to think outside the box but too far outside the box is stupidity, according to the system that doesn’t even think critically anyway. So what is the point?

The pupils that constrict under the bright light of pressure are told that the grades they receive will make or break their future. And that ache of disappointment in the back of the mind says that their only option is the McDonalds up the road.

Parents, teachers, administrators all push and pull me into the “right” direction of life as if they know my true interests because they think they have taught me everything. But they can’t do anything when I finally speak my mind. So, I will apply newton’s third law and react to all those balanced equation and mathematical calculations by becoming a sparkly fairy princess. Then I will give education the finger and only linger to say “***** you school.”
Ellen Joyce Jul 30
My mind dances and swirls the jive and the jitterbug skirting around a myriad of colourful thoughts and shapes and places that may or may not exist.
It lurches as if somewhere my rebel self has pulled the emergency break and comes to a screeching halt leaving me vacant and vague beyond the reach of this world.

My mind has within it realms filled with volcanoes, raging waters and cliff edges lined with gorse bushes and burns me, scalds me, swallows me up periodically or else some dark shadow of who I am pushes me over the edge and I fall into a kind of abyss.

My mind is alive and buzzing and builds ladders from words once spoken by kind mouths. My mind can call my name and ****** me back to life and whisper hope into my heart as it builds a ladder from nothingness and leads me from death.

My mind is beyond comprehension and yet simultaneously can be almost transparent and articulates itself to me with passion and such clarity.

My mind is more magical than Houdini, darker than living inside a top hat, more robust than the largest of diamonds, weaker than egg shell, contains more colours than a rainbow, its intricate, it has the ability to distort like fun house mirrors, it devours knowledge like chocolate cake, it can be sloth-like or ant-like in its focus and diligence in extremes, it’s Narnia and Wonderland and fallen fairy tales blended, poisoned and polished.

As a baby, my mind – sponge, soaked everything up and yet refused to be wrung out.
As a five-year-old my mind put Picasso and Carroll and Barrie to shame and built up worlds in which I could live, created threads and wove them into reality and forced prisms into my eyes so when the sun shone I saw everything in magnificent vibrant glorious spectrums of colour.

As a ten-year-old my mind built a court house - old style - judge, jury and executioner. It planted olive groves and slipped olive branches out through my mouth - they tasted like Brussel-sprouts - they made me gag but had to be endured as I passed them and myself between those around me, grasping my ideals that the world could be changed, hanging on for grim death.

As a teenager my mind opened wide, it came to life like a popup book, scenes remembered unfolding as if a gust of wind blew ferociously through it and yet my mind also closed the book, closed itself, locked the doors, bolted the windows and drew black velvet curtains until there was nothing but numb blankness. It made me grow wings, colourful and exotic and taught me to fly and I did fly higher and higher until the air grow too thin and my wings would wilt, feathers shedding as I would plummet, colours fading to greys and blacks and I would be scorched by red hot lava, fight for my life in violent seas and be thrown into the gorse bushes staring over the cliff edge into the abyss. Sometimes my mind pushed me over the edge, other times I balanced like a circus freak and other times I dared myself to fall and did. And then my mind would haunt me, punish me, berate me before gentle breathing into me - bringing me back to life.

And now, at twenty-five I find myself not wanting to run from my mind, not wanting to close it down or sedate it with medication. Instead, I watch it fascinated, horrified, feeling somewhat the ****** with the same morbid urges that makes one slow down and look at a car crash by the road. I am exhausted by it. I am frightened by it. I am intrigued by it. For the first time in my life I am letting my mind play out despite not knowing steps to that waltz I am trying to dance.
Written in 2010 - not really a poem so much as lyrical musings and a making sense of my mental health
Megan James Feb 2014
As I lay pacing through the walls of insanity balanced between reality

My mind unwinds bringing down sequences intertwined

Twisted secrets of poisenous emotions while i glide along euphoric passions

Drastic oceans embedded between those luscious lashes, grasping my last breath with shades of ashes

Unraveling  silk layers  of her anatomy, the dark shades
within history abandoned upon a sweet mystery.
All Rights Reserved.
emily c marshman Oct 2018
I’m not allergic to bee stings – I never have been, I probably never will be – but I am more afraid of bees than anything else. More afraid than heights, than fire, than opening up to others, than death by drowning. I have been stung more times than I will ever be able to count. My skin has since grown thicker, but I remember when it was soft, and I was small. I used up the entire allowance of pain I was given for life in less than four minutes.
Perhaps I should specify that it’s not bees that I am afraid of, but wasps.
When I was nine years old, much younger than I am now, I stepped on a yellow jacket nest. My bare foot went into the hole and came out covered in their little striped bodies. There was this buzzing noise that at the time I’d thought was normal, but I now know that it was the sound of the wasps that were in my ears. They had been trying to crawl down my ear canals. I wonder if they had mistaken my canals for their burrows, and had been trying to get back to their queen, but were disappointed to find my ear drums, instead.
My sister – the same age – covered in wasps alongside me, screamed and screamed, but I made no noise. By the time I even thought to cry, I had been stung so many times it would have been pointless to weep for my swollen, red toes. I remember being unable to feel the wasps’ venom running through my veins because I couldn’t even feel my veins. If I would have cried for anything, it would have been for fear that, being unable to feel them, I might have lost track of my tiny feet. They could have walked away without my body and I wouldn’t have known. They could have walked to school and back without me.
Of course, my feet could barely walk. After my initial disgust, I watched my sister run away from where we had been standing and I knew that I should run, too. I could still feel the wasps crawling, clamoring, on my skin, in my clothes, in my hair. I remember the feeling of these bees crawling around among the roots of my hair, making themselves well-acquainted with the tender skin of my scalp. I remember being unable to get them all out of my hair before I walked into the house.
I knew that I should run, and so, balanced precariously on my numbed feet, clambered after her.
I followed my screaming sister down to our farmhouse, past my stepmother who was also screaming, even louder than my sister. I don’t remember where my father was that day.
We ran down the dirt road that led from the barns to our house, removing our shirts as we went and stopping to strip down to our underwear on the front porch. I remember the honks from cars as they passed by. I remember not knowing why they were honking, but knowing that I was angry with them for honking, for ogling, rather than stopping to help. I remember not knowing how they would help, just knowing that I needed help, desperately.
The irony of our stings is that my sister, a year later, was cast in our school’s operetta, and ended up playing the part of a yellow jacket, a sort of elementary-school-gangster, part of a group of them, who wore – you guessed it – yellow jackets and stole other bugs’ lunch money. I would say that, if the wasps that attacked me had been human, they would definitely have been after the money I used to buy Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pies in the lunchroom.
If I had been stung even three years later, I would have been big enough to know that one doesn’t run around in untrimmed grass with no shoes on their feet for precisely this reason. If I had been stung three years earlier, I would have been too small, and dead. So I am grateful for even the smallest of coincidences, the tiny droplet of fate that had given me those stings on that day, at that age.


I would like to talk about pain transference. In your body, nerves often run between parts of yourself you never thought would be connected. If something hurts in your elbow, it wouldn’t shock you to find that your fingers hurt as well, but if your elbow hurt and so did your lower spine? You’d be a little confused.
This is pain transference.
It’s a form of generalized pain; you can locate the pain, it’s just not coming from any one place. You can feel the pain in more than one part of your body, though there’s no reason for anything other than your elbow to ache. This is also your body’s way of protecting you from pain. It’s not that this pain is more manageable, but that it is easier to understand. Your elbow might be more hurt than the ache lets on, but you can’t tell, because your lower back is throbbing.
Now imagine your body as a hive of wasps. Imagine each of these wasps as a nerve inside of said hive-body. Imagine the queen as this hive-body’s brain. What is your body’s goal? To protect the brain. What is a hive’s goal? To protect the queen. Each wasp is born with an instinctual dedication to the queen. They must protect this individual at all costs. Your body, on the other hand, does everything it possibly can to protect the part of you that makes you so unbearably you.
Yellow jackets are social creatures. Each wasp has its own purpose in the hive, and the three different ranks within this hierarchy are the queen, the drones, and the workers. The queen (who is the only member of the colony equipped by evolution to survive the winter; every other wasp is dispensable) lays eggs and fertilizes them using stored ***** from the spermatheca. Her only purpose is to reproduce. Occasionally the queen will leave an egg unfertilized, and this egg will develop into a male drone whose only purpose is also reproduction. The female workers are arguably the most important part of the hive. They build and defend the nest.
Only female yellow jackets are capable of stinging, and wasps will only sting if their colony is disturbed. This fact is new and interesting to me. I remember thinking that it would make so much sense if the only wasps in the colony who could sting were the females. Females have a motherly, nurturing nature about them, but they are protective and willing to make sacrifices as well. Lo and behold.
The females are the nerves. They transfer the pain from the queen to themselves (and then, if disturbed, to the third-party individual who has disturbed them).
Psychics view pain transference as the transferring of pain between bodies rather than the transferring of pain between separate parts of the same body, but it works in a very similar way. Different types of energy vibrate at different frequencies; loving energy vibrates at a higher frequency than dark energy, therefore they transfer between people at different rates. Pain is simply dark energy that holds a fatalistic power over us.
According to psychics, energy can be transferred through the mind, the body, and the spirit, but pain is mostly transferred through physical touch. To transfer pain to another human being, you must touch them in a way that is not beneficial to their own or your spiritual growth.


I would like to talk about smallness. I was nine when I was stung by these yellow jackets. I was nine and the first time I’d ever been stung was at a friend’s birthday party at maybe the age of seven, behind the knee, and it’d swelled up so large I couldn’t bend my knee for two days. I knew the dangers of disturbing wasp nests; I’d watched my friends all through elementary school getting stung on the wooden playground on the premises. I, myself, stuck to swing-sets and splinters.
I was always so careful. I never went near trees if I saw a nest in its branches. My teachers had told me that I should stay away from the part of our playground made up of tires, because the hornets liked to nest in the rubber. I was terrified of being stung again after that first time because all the mud in the world didn’t seem to make a difference. The wasp’s venom, even after drying up pile after pile of soft, wet dirt, made my limb stiff and sore. I was always so careful; it seems appropriate that the one time I’d been careless, I’d been stung enough times to make up for all the times I had avoided wasps as if my life had depended on it. Maybe it had.
I was small enough when I was nine. If I had been stung at six, or three, I would have been in a lot more trouble. I would have been in a lot more pain. At nine, my stings required calamine lotion and mud for the venom, and ice baths for the swelling. At six, they might have required a trip to the hospital. At three, they would have been much more alarming, considering I had never been stung by a bee by that age.
I was careless. It was summer and I was old enough to wear denim shorts and I had kicked off my flip flops so I could feel the grass under my feet and I was careless and I was punished for it. Now I watch my cousins and my niece play outside and I have to hold my tongue, remember that I am not responsible, that I cannot prevent their being stung, their stings, no matter how badly I want to.
I would like to talk about fate. I would like to talk about how, if I hadn’t been running barefoot, I wouldn’t have gotten stung so badly. I would like to talk about how if my father had been around to tell me not to run barefoot, at least my feet would have been safe. How, if I hadn’t been too stubborn to listen to my stepmom, too, I probably would have had shoes on. How, regardless of all of these things, I probably would have been stung no matter what.
In a world where people are stung by hornets every day – where people are stung by as many as I was, at once – I would like to say that I know now that this experience is not as unique as I had previously thought it to be. I know more people than I thought I did whose trauma involves insects smaller than their pinky finger but together cover their whole body, and venom. I know people who, when I tell them I was stung by hundreds of yellow jackets at the age of nine, shrug and say nonchalantly, “Hey, me too.”
I would like to talk about smallness, and fate. I would like to talk about not only physical smallness, but the smallness one feels when they are in pain.
Belittled might be the word I am looking for. My pain wasn’t belittled, per se, but my pain belittled me.
My pain made me feel small. My pain made me feel small when I was stripping my clothes off on my front porch, cars racing by on the state highway that ran past my house. When I was running my fingers through my hair under the faucet in my kitchen sink because my sister was older and always got first dibs on the shower. As these wasps that hadn’t suffocated under my hair stung my fingers, too, until they were as swollen as my toes. My pain made me feel small when it made me pity myself.


I would like to talk about standing up for yourself as an act of causing pain.
Honeybees, when they sting, are defending themselves and their queen, but they don’t know that when they sting, it will become lodged underneath the skin of whomever they sting and it will pull them apart and they will die.
I imagine the first time a wasp stings to be a sort of power trip. Female wasps can – and will – sting repeatedly to protect the colony. I also imagine they don’t know that their relative the honeybee dies after it stings, but it must be strange for them, nonetheless.
Have you ever seen a video of a woman protecting herself and those she loves? She’s vicious. She won’t stop until the perpetrator has retreated.
When a woman stands up for herself, though, it’s as if she’s tearing herself in half.
A woman standing up for herself is a dangerous thing, both dangerous for her and for those around her. It is an act of bravery and defiance and saving grace all in one.
A few weeks ago, I overheard someone equate being female with being terminally ill, as if we have no place to go but down. As if we are dying creatures, on our last leg of life, with no will to fight for what we want.
As if the pain of the world is being transferred into us all at once.
I would like to argue that it is the exact opposite. There is nothing more alive and breathing than femaleness.I am inseparable from my femaleness. I am inseparable from the that leaks from me when I think of all of the times I have been harmed But I am not inseparable from the pain that I have caused others. I cannot forget that.


I like to imagine sometimes what my stings would have been like if I had gotten them ten years later, as well. I am much bigger. I am much stronger. I am much more capable of handling pain than my nine-year-old counterpart.
I wish I could have been the one to have to handle that pain. I wish my nine-year-old self had known better than to let her foot fall into a yellow jacket nest. I think it’s unfair that, at such an early age, I had to deal with something so terrifying and painful and traumatic. My extremities were swollen for over a week. I couldn’t write, I could close the zipper on my backpack, I couldn’t turn the pages of a book. I couldn’t go to school, and I couldn’t read in bed, so it might be enough to say that the week I was kept out of school to elevate my legs and let the swelling go down was the most boring week of my entire life.
Sometimes I look at my ankles, swollen from blood flow, from standing too long or from sitting too long or from doing anything except elevating them, and I’m reminded of this time when my ankles were much thinner and I watched them on the end of the couch, my toes pointing toward the ceiling. I remember how terrified my mom was. I imagine that phone call must have been harrowing for her – Hi, Michelle, Em’s been hurt. No, she’s fine. Just a few bee stings is all. – and for her to see me for the first time, red and splotchy and itching myself like mad must have been even more so.
I think about my father’s reaction, how I hadn’t been around to see it, but how he must have been heartbroken at knowing he wasn’t there to protect me, to prevent the bees from attacking me. I believe, however, that there was no protecting me, that there was no preventing these wasps from defending their home against me, an infiltrator. I had stepped inside of their burrow and was instantly seen as a threat. Anything I see as a threat to myself, I instantly want to rid myself of.
This is the way of the world: we see something, we determine it to be good or bad, and we either bring it into our lives or defend ourselves from it depending upon which it turns out to be. I happened to be the ultimate evil in these wasps’ lives. They were simply protecting their queen, without whom their hive would no longer exist. I was dark energy, vibrating in a way that spoke to them as threatening. I was transferring pain to them when my foot stepped into the hole, and they were transferring it back to me when they stung me. I transferred energy into the ground as my feet thumped against it. Water transferred energy into me as it helped me rinse wasps out of my hair.
From pain to protection to pity, back to pain. From bee stings to womanhood to sadness and back again. One shouldn’t be afraid to introduce the things they’ve lost to the things they’ve loved, or the things they love to the things they’re afraid of. And I am afraid of wasps. Petrified, even. The other day, driving in my car, I rolled the window down and in, immediately, flew a yellow jacket. I watched as it she flew past me and then around the back of my head. I heard her and was immediately transported back in time. I wondered what she was doing in my car, so far from her queen. I wondered what was in my car that she possibly could have wanted. But I knew that she wasn’t there to hurt me, because I hadn’t invaded her home. I hadn’t made an attack on her queen. I knew there was no sense in panicking, so I didn’t. I didn’t panic.
I am afraid of things even though they won’t **** me, but I have watched myself face these fears. I have stumbled onto a Ferris wheel and then walked confidently off. I have left candles lit without standing to check on them after every episode of The Office I watch. I have loved people I never thought I would, and I have seen the other side.
“And such bees! Bilbo had never seen anything like them. If one was to sting me, He thought, I should swell up as big again as I am!”
      -The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien
Elena Smith Dec 2015
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A Renee Feb 2010
Bedpost gold.
Common contours.
Bare blankets unfold.
Unraveled slack.
Treasured hazel tundras gazing back.

Hollow silver.
Lavender lace.
Stitched up smile.
A diamond ace.
Balanced on a crystal brim.
Faded toil.
A violent grace.
I told her reality is a lie
reality is a lie
there are cowboys and aliens
making music in the sky
robots and dinosaurs
dancing in the jungle
monsters and angels
playing checkers in the chimney

Don't bother them and their whimsy, she said
I'm what's real
like the illusory cold of steel
or the bellyful of a meal
I cook and I clean for you
I laugh and I sing for you
I hold and I cry for you
I feel no shame that I'd die for you
but you're far off in the aether
tempting ruin from fool's gold gods
and I ponder how long I should wait for you
to come down from the heights you have scaled

The heights scaled me, my darling, I uttered
they came creeping in the night
alighting me to the depths of hell
where the ****** weep with fright
they call out for mercy, I swear
and I do not lift a finger
for I am a mortal
only armed with prayer
It's best you leave me be
I will plan their great escape
for if anyone deserves no freedom
it is I
'tis I...

But she never left, did she
she clamored on for hope
that I'd be the man I was
that I'd not be tempted by the rope
I watched her smile grow dull
her eyes' glow became glassy
her encouragements lost pep
her savor for life lost flavor
and the gods grew quiet...
the fairies fluttered away
the aliens and monsters disappeared
guilt began to choke my spirit

Darling, I said, sweet thing
your smile wanes softer than the moon
what can I get for you,
a lilt? a tune?
She sighed and shook her head
"Your dreams await, my love."
I was shocked to hear the utterance
the defeat that marred her voice
I hugged her deeply, as if to stop her falling
lo, her spirit had ebbed into despair
frightfully, I told her, "I shant dream again."
But you always dream, she said, it wouldn't hurt to dream once more
Oh but it does hurt, I whispered, it hurts that you hurt for me
The ****** still call, do they not?
Your one voice drowns them out
What of the aliens and their schemes?
I will make plans for you, say the word
What of the cowboys and their adventures?
You are my adventure, my freedom, my home
I don't know, you'll be dreaming tomorrow, I must prepare the bed
I'll prepare it with you - you and I will make love tonight

After so long, will you have the stones?

I will be the mountain you're astride
stones enough for cobbled streets
stones enough for churches and keeps
I tell you darling, I am through
no dreaming, no sleeping, no games
I will lay you down tonight
until you say my name!

And the morrows were ever sweeter
the days skipped by with grace
no longer brooding over the dead
it was life that I laid claim to
my love, she held me tight like never before
cooing like a nested bird at the highest tree
she turns to me, says, "I have something to show you."
She leads me to the door and opens
but it was then that the doorway warped
a darkness suffused the entry
a darkness deeper than the cosmos beyond the sky
and in a that darkness, a gleam...
I reached out to touch, with my love grasping my hand
the gleam became a roaring light
and from it, the king of darkness himself

You were to be a hero, he claimed, a champion for them all
but here you stand at the threshold
here, you fight you last battle
I heard your cries to the hells
your pining for their salvation
I heard them cry for you
I heard them sing for freedom
it tickled me, their futility
until I realized, it had never been done before
for someone to light hell to a chorus
for them to weep no longer,
for them to hope
I've come to you with an offer
we shall see what you are made of
what can you offer for their freedom
what thing of value can replace my coveted ******?

I gulped, not sure what to say
was I dreaming again? Surely not!
But my darling was seeing this, too
this was not a dream at all!

All I ever had to offer, was myself, I said

And will you make that offer?

My grip on her hand loosened against my will
against my better judgment, I yearned to shake his hand
to make the deal
to save their souls
but I knew, or at least I was learning
things could never be that simple...

After me, I said, shall there be more souls to claim?

Always as the sun rises and sets
there is reaping, bills to collect
the debt of sin is final, and punishment is due
punishment for them
punishment for you

Can I have your assurance
that you will not take more souls after me?
I require your agreement
your acceptance of my plea

The king of darkness smiled a vast, soulless grin
Unless you make their decisions for them, you cannot change their fates
But you would give them a chance
a glimmer of opportunity to right their courses

Something else was nagging at me
Why, after all this time, was he here?
To make a simple offer?
My soul for the ******?
The offer made no sense
if I truly were ******, my soul would be worth less than any of theirs
I began to catch on to the ploy
I began to live the game

I don't believe my soul is worth the souls of hell...

Ah, a change of heart

No, I just don't believe the scale is balanced - my soul has the scale tipped

You jest

Don't tell me you can't afford my soul...

Wha- well how much then? I'd have to wait for new batches

I don't think you're up for bargaining

I can offer you a hundred years more worth of souls

You wouldn't come here for a soul worth so little - that's a sad offer

A thousand years more worth, it's a bargain!

I don't come so cheap, that's pathetic...

How much then, how much!

All the souls... of all time

Do you mean hell to be some kind of revolving door? No. Absolutely not. Actions have consequences, and the ultimate consequence is hell - that's fair.

Fair? Fair for billions of people to live lives of suffering, emptiness, and defeat, and sure, fail at it, cause catastrophe maybe, but ultimately all for the chance to live, only for all that striving, and all the weight of that suffering, to land them in a pit for eternity, experiencing a suffering unlike anything they'd ever imagined?
Fair? You have no idea what's fair and your bogus offers are indicative of that.

I felt her grip my hand tight. I held just as firm.

The king looked shocked, so... that's a no then.

Did you hear anything I said?

I heard, and if you have some means to change how the universe works, I suggest you start working, because I have work of my own to do.

That's it then?

Indeed.

With that, the king of darkness melted into the black, disappearing from sight, along with the dark portal. Suddenly, light burst from the now open doorway, revealing the green pastures beyond.

You saw all that?

She nodded. You dreams weren't for nothing, then?

I guess not. I breathed a sigh of relief. You had something to show me?

I absolutely forgot with everything that just happened. Are... are we dreaming?

I looked around, smiling. Everything is real, I said.

She smiled back, and let me out into the world where I had not ventured in years.

The first steps were trouble. My joints ached. The sky was too bright. But as we strode, it got easier. I began to enjoy it. She led me far, until I almost didn't recognize where we were. Up a steep hill with trees and shrubbery covering its expanse.

At the top, a small clearing, within which a tall tree stood. We rounded it, and she pointed at something, "Remember?"

I nodded, I can't believe we haven't been here since we were kids.

You're the one that brought me here the first time.

I forgot this place existed

This used to be your favorite spot

Things changed. We changed.

Change doesn't have to end life. It could be the beginning.

I hugged her. It could, I said.

What she'd pointed at was a carving of our faces I'd made in the trunk of the tree when I first began dreaming of the future. She was my dream. My first dream. Sad to see how I'd taken her for granted.

I want to help you, she said. I want to dream with you.

The dreams won't change anything anymore, I said, we have our answer. I want to start changing the world... will you help me with that?

She nodded.

I dreamed, I said, because I was suffering. I dreamed because I wanted an answer. Instead, the dreaming brought me into the darkness, and I couldn't escape. But with your help, I did.
Now, we take everyone else out of the darkness. We help them build a world where dreams are filled with love, not death.

I like that, she said.

We kissed. We climbed the tree to a good, thick branch and sat watching the sun sink into the horizon.

I thanked the heavens for my life, and, as I watched the sunset, sang to myself, at first in my head, then with my voice, and she joined in,
"Reality is alive,
reality is alive."
I honestly don't know where this poem came from but I love it, and how it turned more into prose by the end, in theme with the poem itself.

I've suffered a lot in life, mostly in my own head. And it's easy to forget how life's worth living when I step out of my fear and into love.

I hope this poem gave you something to think about or hold on to.

Enjoy!

DEW
Colin E Havard Mar 2014
G'day Chaps and Chick-a-Deez
This Luna-Tick has Awoken (Again!)
And, this Time round,
Will be somewhat Outspoken.

My confidence is up
And doesn't/cannot be deflated;
I'm neither here or there,
But I am under-rated.

To realise is one thing,
To release too soon another:
While I hate the current system,
It both feeds and protects as my Mother.

So...slowly, slowly...and
Breathe deeply...breath deeply;
Let's not get ahead of ourselves
And spoil the fun of the Masses.

I might be an Adept
At Adopting new strategies,
But my personal Evolution - unscrewing -
Entailed my total undoing - Devolution.

The pressure We face when **** hits the wall
Should at least be balanced when we know the score.
So thank you my friends - the Voiceless believers;
I was never going to forget my countless Leaflets.
21/2/2014
Devil's Advocate, Day 6, Concord Mental Health Centre
K Balachandran Oct 2014
The insane man with uncommon zen,
I encounter now and then near the city center
poses a nonsensical question each quite different,
every time he and i come face to face by chance,
then shares a smile with a conspiratorial wink.
        "Every one in this planet, even those ones
          who are at war with themselves or others
          inanely clamors'light, light, give us light'
          they sincerely believe it or not, do you think
          there is enough light, for all, assuming they all deserve it?"
I see the night getting  near and the electric lights started
opening their greedy eyes in quick succession,
I see a drop of it reflected in the well of his eyes,
He expects a "YES" or "NO"from me at once!
as if it's crucial to the survival of planet earth"

I look around and see light valiantly fights the army of darkness,
now tell me my friend, who now reads this, what would you advice?
I am waiting, I am all ears; darkness and light too listens.
I know you as a nice one,a good soul, balanced; come on tell me..,
,
Now when Morning, clad in her robe of saffron, had begun to suffuse
light over the earth, Jove called the gods in council on the topmost
crest of serrated Olympus. Then he spoke and all the other gods gave
ear. “Hear me,” said he, “gods and goddesses, that I may speak even as
I am minded. Let none of you neither goddess nor god try to cross
me, but obey me every one of you that I may bring this matter to an
end. If I see anyone acting apart and helping either Trojans or
Danaans, he shall be beaten inordinately ere he come back again to
Olympus; or I will hurl him down into dark Tartarus far into the
deepest pit under the earth, where the gates are iron and the floor
bronze, as far beneath Hades as heaven is high above the earth, that
you may learn how much the mightiest I am among you. Try me and find
out for yourselves. Hangs me a golden chain from heaven, and lay
hold of it all of you, gods and goddesses together—tug as you will,
you will not drag Jove the supreme counsellor from heaven to earth;
but were I to pull at it myself I should draw you up with earth and
sea into the bargain, then would I bind the chain about some
pinnacle of Olympus and leave you all dangling in the mid firmament.
So far am I above all others either of gods or men.”
  They were frightened and all of them of held their peace, for he had
spoken masterfully; but at last Minerva answered, “Father, son of
Saturn, king of kings, we all know that your might is not to be
gainsaid, but we are also sorry for the Danaan warriors, who are
perishing and coming to a bad end. We will, however, since you so
bid us, refrain from actual fighting, but we will make serviceable
suggestions to the Argives that they may not all of them perish in
your displeasure.”
  Jove smiled at her and answered, “Take heart, my child,
Trito-born; I am not really in earnest, and I wish to be kind to you.”
  With this he yoked his fleet horses, with hoofs of bronze and
manes of glittering gold. He girded himself also with gold about the
body, seized his gold whip and took his seat in his chariot. Thereon
he lashed his horses and they flew forward nothing loth midway twixt
earth and starry heaven. After a while he reached many-fountained Ida,
mother of wild beasts, and Gargarus, where are his grove and
fragrant altar. There the father of gods and men stayed his horses,
took them from the chariot, and hid them in a thick cloud; then he
took his seat all glorious upon the topmost crests, looking down
upon the city of Troy and the ships of the Achaeans.
  The Achaeans took their morning meal hastily at the ships, and
afterwards put on their armour. The Trojans on the other hand likewise
armed themselves throughout the city, fewer in numbers but
nevertheless eager perforce to do battle for their wives and children.
All the gates were flung wide open, and horse and foot sallied forth
with the ***** as of a great multitude.
  When they were got together in one place, shield clashed with
shield, and spear with spear, in the conflict of mail-clad men. Mighty
was the din as the bossed shields pressed ******* one another-
death—cry and shout of triumph of slain and slayers, and the earth
ran red with blood.
  Now so long as the day waxed and it was still morning their
weapons beat against one another, and the people fell, but when the
sun had reached mid-heaven, the sire of all balanced his golden
scales, and put two fates of death within them, one for the Trojans
and the other for the Achaeans. He took the balance by the middle, and
when he lifted it up the day of the Achaeans sank; the death-fraught
scale of the Achaeans settled down upon the ground, while that of
the Trojans rose heavenwards. Then he thundered aloud from Ida, and
sent the glare of his lightning upon the Achaeans; when they saw this,
pale fear fell upon them and they were sore afraid.
  Idomeneus dared not stay nor yet Agamemnon, nor did the two
Ajaxes, servants of Mars, hold their ground. Nestor knight of Gerene
alone stood firm, bulwark of the Achaeans, not of his own will, but
one of his horses was disabled. Alexandrus husband of lovely Helen had
hit it with an arrow just on the top of its head where the mane begins
to grow away from the skull, a very deadly place. The horse bounded in
his anguish as the arrow pierced his brain, and his struggles threw
others into confusion. The old man instantly began cutting the
traces with his sword, but Hector’s fleet horses bore down upon him
through the rout with their bold charioteer, even Hector himself,
and the old man would have perished there and then had not Diomed been
quick to mark, and with a loud cry called Ulysses to help him.
  “Ulysses,” he cried, “noble son of Laertes where are you flying
to, with your back turned like a coward? See that you are not struck
with a spear between the shoulders. Stay here and help me to defend
Nestor from this man’s furious onset.”
  Ulysses would not give ear, but sped onward to the ships of the
Achaeans, and the son of Tydeus flinging himself alone into the
thick of the fight took his stand before the horses of the son of
Neleus. “Sir,” said he, “these young warriors are pressing you hard,
your force is spent, and age is heavy upon you, your squire is naught,
and your horses are slow to move. Mount my chariot and see what the
horses of Tros can do—how cleverly they can scud hither and thither
over the plain either in flight or in pursuit. I took them from the
hero Aeneas. Let our squires attend to your own steeds, but let us
drive mine straight at the Trojans, that Hector may learn how
furiously I too can wield my spear.”
  Nestor knight of Gerene hearkened to his words. Thereon the
doughty squires, Sthenelus and kind-hearted Eurymedon, saw to Nestor’s
horses, while the two both mounted Diomed’s chariot. Nestor took the
reins in his hands and lashed the horses on; they were soon close up
with Hector, and the son of Tydeus aimed a spear at him as he was
charging full speed towards them. He missed him, but struck his
charioteer and squire Eniopeus son of noble Thebaeus in the breast
by the ****** while the reins were in his hands, so that he died there
and then, and the horses swerved as he fell headlong from the chariot.
Hector was greatly grieved at the loss of his charioteer, but let
him lie for all his sorrow, while he went in quest of another
driver; nor did his steeds have to go long without one, for he
presently found brave Archeptolemus the son of Iphitus, and made him
get up behind the horses, giving the reins into his hand.
  All had then been lost and no help for it, for they would have
been penned up in Ilius like sheep, had not the sire of gods and men
been quick to mark, and hurled a fiery flaming thunderbolt which
fell just in front of Diomed’s horses with a flare of burning
brimstone. The horses were frightened and tried to back beneath the
car, while the reins dropped from Nestor’s hands. Then he was afraid
and said to Diomed, “Son of Tydeus, turn your horses in flight; see
you not that the hand of Jove is against you? To-day he vouchsafes
victory to Hector; to-morrow, if it so please him, he will again grant
it to ourselves; no man, however brave, may thwart the purpose of
Jove, for he is far stronger than any.”
  Diomed answered, “All that you have said is true; there is a grief
however which pierces me to the very heart, for Hector will talk among
the Trojans and say, ‘The son of Tydeus fled before me to the
ships.’ This is the vaunt he will make, and may earth then swallow
me.”
  “Son of Tydeus,” replied Nestor, “what mean you? Though Hector say
that you are a coward the Trojans and Dardanians will not believe him,
nor yet the wives of the mighty warriors whom you have laid low.”
  So saying he turned the horses back through the thick of the battle,
and with a cry that rent the air the Trojans and Hector rained their
darts after them. Hector shouted to him and said, “Son of Tydeus,
the Danaans have done you honour hitherto as regards your place at
table, the meals they give you, and the filling of your cup with wine.
Henceforth they will despise you, for you are become no better than
a woman. Be off, girl and coward that you are, you shall not scale our
walls through any Hinching upon my part; neither shall you carry off
our wives in your ships, for I shall **** you with my own hand.”
  The son of Tydeus was in two minds whether or no to turn his
horses round again and fight him. Thrice did he doubt, and thrice
did Jove thunder from the heights of. Ida in token to the Trojans that
he would turn the battle in their favour. Hector then shouted to
them and said, “Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians, lovers of close
fighting, be men, my friends, and fight with might and with main; I
see that Jove is minded to vouchsafe victory and great glory to
myself, while he will deal destruction upon the Danaans. Fools, for
having thought of building this weak and worthless wall. It shall
not stay my fury; my horses will spring lightly over their trench, and
when I am BOOK at their ships forget not to bring me fire that I may
burn them, while I slaughter the Argives who will be all dazed and
bewildered by the smoke.”
  Then he cried to his horses, “Xanthus and Podargus, and you Aethon
and goodly Lampus, pay me for your keep now and for all the
honey-sweet corn with which Andromache daughter of great Eetion has
fed you, and for she has mixed wine and water for you to drink
whenever you would, before doing so even for me who am her own
husband. Haste in pursuit, that we may take the shield of Nestor,
the fame of which ascends to heaven, for it is of solid gold, arm-rods
and all, and that we may strip from the shoulders of Diomed. the
cuirass which Vulcan made him. Could we take these two things, the
Achaeans would set sail in their ships this self-same night.”
  Thus did he vaunt, but Queen Juno made high Olympus quake as she
shook with rage upon her throne. Then said she to the mighty god of
Neptune, “What now, wide ruling lord of the earthquake? Can you find
no compassion in your heart for the dying Danaans, who bring you
many a welcome offering to Helice and to Aegae? Wish them well then.
If all of us who are with the Danaans were to drive the Trojans back
and keep Jove from helping them, he would have to sit there sulking
alone on Ida.”
  King Neptune was greatly troubled and answered, “Juno, rash of
tongue, what are you talking about? We other gods must not set
ourselves against Jove, for he is far stronger than we are.”
  Thus did they converse; but the whole space enclosed by the ditch,
from the ships even to the wall, was filled with horses and
warriors, who were pent up there by Hector son of Priam, now that
the hand of Jove was with him. He would even have set fire to the
ships and burned them, had not Queen Juno put it into the mind of
Agamemnon, to bestir himself and to encourage the Achaeans. To this
end he went round the ships and tents carrying a great purple cloak,
and took his stand by the huge black hull of Ulysses’ ship, which
was middlemost of all; it was from this place that his voice would
carry farthest, on the one hand towards the tents of Ajax son of
Telamon, and on the other towards those of Achilles—for these two
heroes, well assured of their own strength, had valorously drawn up
their ships at the two ends of the line. From this spot then, with a
voice that could be heard afar, he shouted to the Danaans, saying,
“Argives, shame on you cowardly creatures, brave in semblance only;
where are now our vaunts that we should prove victorious—the vaunts
we made so vaingloriously in Lemnos, when we ate the flesh of horned
cattle and filled our mixing-bowls to the brim? You vowed that you
would each of you stand against a hundred or two hundred men, and
now you prove no match even for one—for Hector, who will be ere
long setting our ships in a blaze. Father Jove, did you ever so ruin a
great king and rob him so utterly of his greatness? yet, when to my
sorrow I was coming hither, I never let my ship pass your altars
without offering the fat and thigh-bones of heifers upon every one
of them, so eager was I to sack the city of Troy. Vouchsafe me then
this prayer—suffer us to escape at any rate with our lives, and let
not the Achaeans be so utterly vanquished by the Trojans.”
  Thus did he pray, and father Jove pitying his tears vouchsafed him
that his people should live, not die; forthwith he sent them an eagle,
most unfailingly portentous of all birds, with a young fawn in its
talons; the eagle dropped the fawn by the altar on which the
Achaeans sacrificed to Jove the lord of omens; When, therefore, the
people saw that the bird had come from Jove, they sprang more fiercely
upon the Trojans and fought more boldly.
  There was no man of all the many Danaans who could then boast that
he had driven his horses over the trench and gone forth to fight
sooner than the son of Tydeus; long before any one else could do so he
slew an armed warrior of the Trojans, Agelaus the son of Phradmon.
He had turned his horses in flight, but the spear struck him in the
back midway between his shoulders and went right through his chest,
and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell forward from his
chariot.
  After him came Agamemnon and Menelaus, sons of Atreus, the two
Ajaxes clothed in valour as with a garment, Idomeneus and his
companion in arms Meriones, peer of murderous Mars, and Eurypylus
the brave son of Euaemon. Ninth came Teucer with his bow, and took his
place under cover of the shield of Ajax son of Telamon. When Ajax
lifted his shield Teucer would peer round, and when he had hit any one
in the throng, the man would fall dead; then Teucer would hie back
to Ajax as a child to its mother, and again duck down under his
shield.
  Which of the Trojans did brave Teucer first ****? Orsilochus, and
then Ormenus and Ophelestes, Daetor, Chromius, and godlike
Lycophontes, Amopaon son of Polyaemon, and Melanippus. these in turn
did he lay low upon the earth, and King Agamemnon was glad when he saw
him making havoc of the Trojans with his mighty bow. He went up to him
and said, “Teucer, man after my own heart, son of Telamon, captain
among the host, shoot on, and be at once the saving of the Danaans and
the glory of your father Telamon, who brought you up and took care
of you in his own house when you were a child, ******* though you
were. Cover him with glory though he is far off; I will promise and
I will assuredly perform; if aegis-bearing Jove and Minerva grant me
to sack the city of Ilius, you shall have the next best meed of honour
after my own—a tripod, or two horses with their chariot, or a woman
who shall go up into your bed.”
  And Teucer answered, “Most noble son of Atreus, you need not urge
me; from the moment we began to drive them back to Ilius, I have never
ceased so far as in me lies to look out for men whom I can shoot and
****; I have shot eight barbed shafts, and all of them have been
buried in the flesh of warlike youths, but this mad dog I cannot hit.”
  As he spoke he aimed another arrow straight at Hector, for he was
bent on hitting him; nevertheless he missed him, and the arrow hit
Priam’s brave son Gorgythion in the breast. His mother, fair
Castianeira, lovely as a goddess, had been married from Aesyme, and
now he bowed his head as a garden poppy in full bloom when it is
weighed down by showers in spring—even thus heavy bowed his head
beneath the weight of his helmet.
  Again he aimed at Hector, for he was longing to hit him, and again
his arrow missed, for Apollo turned it aside; but he hit Hector’s
brave charioteer Archeptolemus in the breast, by the ******, as he was
driving furiously into the fight. The horses swerved aside as he
fell headlong from the chariot, and there was no life left in him.
Hector was greatly grieved at the loss of his charioteer, but for
all his sorrow he let him lie where he fell, and bade his brother
Cebriones, who was hard by, take the reins. Cebriones did as he had
said. Hector thereon with a loud cry sprang from his chariot to the
ground, and seizing a great stone made straigh
BB Tyler Aug 2010
I caress the stone upon which I lie as a faithful lover
and seeping warmth from above sun, balanced atop blue sky cover
I hear the violent river gently light upon the stone
as I sit upon earths sculpture as a natural throne
tiny tributaries trickle slowly forming elegant art
as light fairies dance from water where graceful minnows dart
and as I sit upon my throne, as one who rules supreme
my eyes and ears absorb all that is beautiful and serene
the water flows supporting life and softening the earth
while to happiness, joy and peace, it gives selfless birth
so if you wonder upon this land of the continuous giver
remember this land, remember it well, this magic in the river
Copyright: Bennett Tyler
elizabeth Jan 2015
It can be said
that whatever you put in
is what will come out

So why is it
that I am not getting back
everything
I am putting in?

I was taught early on
that energy cannot
be created or destroyed

If I am giving you everything,
then you are not destroying it,
just redirecting the love
towards something
you care about more

I suppose I need
to account
for the negativity
I intake from you,
which would make my output
less than perfect

We are a water cycle-
you pour drinks down my throat
and I cry them back into your hands

Let's pretend
our equation is balanced
until I remember
what it means
to be my own pure element
Word: Intake
Roland Oct 2018
It will never be easy as some people would say
To see the black and white but still think in gray
Admitting that the extreme end of one side isn’t always the way to go
Unless the lack of redeeming qualities simply make it so
Especially in matters left to one’s personal choice
It calls for the need to look at those of different perspectives and voice

Changes around us require both firmness and flexibility
To get with the times that abounds in ambiguity
In an atmosphere that show a scarcity of pleasance
It would help if in our eyes there is balance
Facing the fact that flaws and fine points can actually coexist
That understanding is the aid for ones inner peace to persist

Tolerance for differences must be present as a form of diplomacy
Though decency must still take root and defend ones boundary
Respecting choices for the sake of peace is truly a noble aspiration
But not before the light and shadow have gone through careful separation
Acceptance and rejection can be balanced though challenging it may sound
An equal and balanced blend of both needed to pave a road in walking the middle ground.
#balance #tolerance #understanding #acceptance #rejection
betterdays Mar 2014
here i am...
nailed to the cross....
of elephant hide.... memories
.....walking the slack rope
balanced..... between
if ..and ....why..
used to be...... watering
a ducks back .....was making
....a water feather slide
but now....... it just *****
up my equalibruimal tide......
making sense now?....
...........not ****** likely..
spinning words....
..on empty tequila shot glasses
  .....while student one
and student fourteen .....are
making moons with they *****
......so the mouse squeaks
memory roars......been here b4
time to climb.............down....
........off the cross.....jump on... .......off the wire
..let it go ......was just.... teenage .........angst v desire

walk away  now...get some water.....
..go home get to bed ....or the morning will be simply .....hangover.....
.....slaughter..... city .. rimed
with lime ...and salt.. and   tequila .....worm-fed fears...
so....listen ...well  ....to the squeek of the mouse......

— The End —