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Wes Rosenberger Jul 2016
Please forget schoolwork,
for there are heartier things,
such as your forehead craving these
good night lips.
You thoroughly speak of
entwining our limbs,
while I'll dream of seeing
my sleeping beauty,
and a kiss.
Although rhyme does not showcase wit,
I'm still the man that tonight,
you will miss.
Moonlight peers over a crest of visions,
or balances right on the cusp.
With daylight matters so pressing,
I'll press just enough.
Upon the small of your back,
your resonant blessing,
to awaken your dreams
with my morning touch.
Now go to sleep with the help
from countess sheep up above,
and by my word, we'll catch up.
In the early morrow, my love.
The shortest distance between two points of travel.

The fastest method for achieving a result.

Quickest answer for a resolution.

Marrying equals.

  All terminology meaning essentially the same thing; synthesis. That is what the two-party system is meant to be doing. It is the point of checks and balances. A check is a stopgap. A balance is a measure.

  No one wants to ban personal firearms. No one wants mentally-ill people to own them. No one advocates violence by school teachers to assuage future potential violence. No reasonable person wants children to grow up in a police state school system. No American believes that State and Federal government can agree on what should be done in all states.

  We will not be arming teachers. Nor will we be banning guns. There will never be armed guards at public schools. States and the Federal government disagree on so many levels there will never be consensus on change when it comes to this issue. So, change the issue in a way that offers a stopgap as a measure.

  The President of The United States issues a proclamation that all land directly adjacent to the front of all public schools will be bought by the federal government at today's market price. That price will be fixed provided the states do two things. Use state eminent domain laws(every state already has them) to file a claim on said properties and assess the value thereof for the federal government.

  Secondly, establish police precincts on said property.

    Ask yourself;

"How many children would die if the local police were directly across the street from the school at the time of the shooting?"


"Would Conservatives or Liberals be against this proposal?"


We should all remember that these shooters plan their attacks and would have to plan around the police being there immediately after they begin one.

  Problem solved...
                             ...and no one touched a gun(right) to do it.
VV Thistle Dec 2018
in other news
go snack on this, you
edgeless pulp of adjectives
sweet turbid human brine
decrepit balances
and out-of-boredom lying:
we'll grant you not
even the hint of
any valid right
to make
no love
go easy on you
(as desired)
by design.
Mikey Kania Dec 2019
people who do something excessively:

having ***
and many more actions

are on a quest.

sooner or later, some of these people discover something much bigger.

something that balances their
minds and hearts.
Bad Luck Feb 2019
My reality bends, but doesn't break . . .
            Oh! how I love to watch her shake.
I love to watch her struggle,
              as she fights not to crumble
                      Into the void that she creates.

All the while, she's subtracting,
                   Extending, then retracting . . .
She functions as a prism,
         But it's not light that she's refracting.

She exhales in waves of reverb and vibrating oscillation,
        She creates all that imitates
        In the shadow of divinity,
                                                As she balances the equation.

Giving birth to the chaos, she finds replication in order . . .
As the random escapes, and attempts to distort her.
She's graceful and strong, yet falls apart when out of step.
Never stopping or regaining a second,
Nor a chance to catch her breath.
So in awe we observe her,
The birth-giver to grace, in a dance of life and death.
Steve Page Sep 2018
an aqua silence
balances a reflected peace
a restrained light
while I wait in filtered hush
and the fish refuse to bite

an aqua silence
stills me, re-fills me,
tells me to wait further
to rest longer
and not wonder why
the fish refuse to bite

an aqua silence
quiets me, speaks to me,
seeps deep in me
while I weigh the possibility
that the fish have it right
when they refuse to bite

I sit in aqua peace
and refuse to bite
Fishing from the beach.  Inspired by an untitled painting by Virginia Bruno for Ealing's Art Trail.
Eryri Mar 2019
It sits unsquare
Made of tumoured granite
In a dip on a peak
Overlooking a lush green carpeted landscape.

Hurriedly hewn by many hands,
And thrown up by makeshift stoneshifters,
It balances on large pebbles
Held together by Play-Doh mortar.

It is, for all its aesthetic faults,
A resilient testimony
To a family's love
And to a proud identity.
Bob B May 2019
Congress has numerous duties
With oversight being one.
The president's decided that
Such oversight he will shun.

In other words, he chooses to thumb
His nose at our Constitution.
His lackeys in Congress refuse to defy him,
Fearing his nasty retribution.

Refusing to cooperate with
The lawful demands of Congress, he
Thinks that he's above the law,
Which justifies an inquiry.

Occurring at the moment is
A constitutional crisis, which
The president craftily plans
To pull off without a hitch.

Defying subpoenas and trying to silence
Witnesses' testimonies,
He's rejecting checks and balances
With the help of some of his cronies.

The president seems to think
That certain people should be exempt
From testifying. But watch as they
All are cited for contempt.

Americans deserve to know
What is really happening here.
Trump's obstruction of justice and his
Abuse of power are something to fear.

What it boils down to is this:
It's Trump versus the truth. That's it!
If you dig deep, you will find
What motivates the hypocrite.

If his record were squeaky clean,
Hearings could be set aside.
However, his suspicious behavior
Keeps us wondering, "What's there to hide?"

-by Bob B (5-9-19)
Khyati Pareek Nov 2018
With the summer breeze touch on my neck,
I’ll infer it’s you.
When the winds start to be sharper,
I’ll gladly open my arms to you.

When the snowy snow-***** fall on my face,
Condensing the pores of my skin,
And cooling down, my burning of a heart,
I’ll infer it’s you.

I’ll infer it’s you when a little one walks alone in the rains,
And jumps into the puddles of mud water deliberately,
Holding on to the air for her balance,
And squeaking a silent scream when she’s fearing to fall.
And laughs idiotically over her silliness,
And blushes away from me when she knows I have been watching
Intently, I won’t stop gazing at her,
But my eyes will surely bleed,
If that is possible,
To see her jump, trip and fall and walk,
Still get up and with a smile new.
I’ll infer it’s you.

When she’ll also have petty queries in calculating her sums,
I’ll infer it’s you,
When her childhood opens up and she balances her bicycle,
While pedaling she watches me too,
I’ll be sure and infer it’s you.

When her knees will be sprained
And her elbows would pain
And she would hiss in her ache
I will provide her aid
And take away her ail.
When she’d again get up to rejoice,
And tumble upon the furniture,
Then run away in fear of being caught,
I’ll infer that it’s you.

When she’ll leave behind her dolls to comb her own hair,
When she’ll fall in a struggle everyday on what to wear,
When she’ll tell me I’m not understanding her,
And when her impatience will make me scold her,
She’ll run away to a picture hanging on the wall,
And complain her heart and tears out.

But then she’d come back to me apologizing,
Knowing her wrongs and she’d then be strong.
Her teenage will pass too,
And she’ll be prettier than earlier too,
I’ll infer it’s you.

And then she finally will be set to run away,
With her Prince Charming,
Covered with the bride’s attire when she’ll look divine,
With smile on her lips and the wedding vows,
When she’ll set her foot in her carriage,
She’ll turn to again go,
And run in my arms to slide off the tears,
Of her separation,
And I’d not stop them,
They’d not be in my control,
I’ll shower on her our blessings and love,
And when she’ll smile through her glistening eyes,
And proudly add that I look funny when I cry,
I’ll infer it’s you.
My beloved,
I will know it’s you!
Because you live in her,
A part of us!
She is just like you,
No she’s a reflection of her mother
Desmond Baker Mar 2019
No bundle greater
Love, strength, wisdom, and wrath

Bring the scales
To which ingredient lies your allegiance?

At times I wish I was as the clouds
So welcomed, but also feared at my coming
To bring shade or thunder
But where is the wisdom?
Guided by fickle wind.  

At times I wish I was as the butterfly
A star on earth
So elusive predators scatter when I spread my wings
But where is the strength?
A mere rain drop would destroy me

At times I wish I was an octopus
I can bring down sharks
outwit any human
Nothing is out of my reach
But where is the love?
I hurt my own brethren.

Who balances these ingredients masterfully to create this awesome recipe?!

I’ll tell you. He made fire and the flowers.

No behemoth gets away unpublished to lick their paws in peace!

No eye gets weary of seeing his work.

All beings fear his coming, even the idols dare not be animate.

All adore his qualities, they searched tirelessly for deceit.

He took the venom from vipers as if they bit a sponge and satisfied the flaming sword of heaven.

attempting to balance these ingredients is a mockery.

To choose one over another is death.

To honor the one who held them

That, is to be without hypocrisy
thomezzz Jan 2019
I'm full of emotion

All tip topsy turvy

With laughter billowing

Out of my pursed lips

And the sun is beating down

Through the half-down windows

Of your beat up Chevy truck

As it bounces down these country roads

Your hand loosely grips

The black leather steering wheel

While the other hand precariously

Balances a cigarette between *******

The wind jostles the truck

As you increase your speed

You look at me wildly

Daring me to tell you to stop

Instead, I look back

Studying every fraction of your face
Knowing this would be the last time

That this would be my memory of you

Wild, free, and beautiful

Daring life to take you away.
Star BG Jun 2019
i am a word hobo
inside a journey
filled with inspirational scenes.
gathers that I scoop up
and place in backpack
of mind.

My walking stick pen balances me,
as focused inside steps ground.

IF it rains emotions flow
IF it's sunny birds GRACE ears
making phases into songs.

When I arrive a-top of mountain
and plant flag
it means poem is done.

I am a word hobo
and I wouldn't have it
Nicholas Mar 2019
Fragile cosmos; not expanding but exploding what it wished were a
soulful, solitary display

All of His contemplations;
a quarry of quandry for
which the upper depths of
space are the baseline

Stars, no longer an expression of a
dying Son, ethearalize upon a canvas that can either
crush The Father

or remain
painted on the dark side of the
moon; a face mistaking it's
frown for a grin, nobody to correct him

Of His own volition;
a never-ending shift of balances

throwing Everyone into it's tantric evolution

Shotten wishes, raining onto the unawakened

Hushed gasps collapsing into
vacuous nothingness
Rambling spurred by an extended mediation on art and why we even create it to begin with.
She tosses her hair to the side, revealing a naked neck
A subtle invitation to play
As her eyes display a deep furious passion.

She balances her head on her cradled hands
A signal of her interest
While her eyes deep passion demands
That I don't stare at her *******.

Remaining calm I meet her gaze
Her pupils dilate in the shadowy evening
I've been thinking about her for days
Her beauty and poise is sincerely striking.

I bridge the gap our bodies leave
And gently touch her hand
She draws breath in, her chest it heaves
I proceed without a plan.

My mind is free from carnal thoughts
But filled with opportunity
To know this woman and her thoughts
As her eyes see straight through me.

She responds well to my touch
Her eyes now have a mischievous sparkle
I want to hold her now so much
My movements smooth, I don't want to startle.

As she goes to leave she whispers in my ear
Her breath creating a sensual tingle
She tells me what I want to hear
Words a man wants to hear when he's single.
Bruce Adams Jul 2019
She collected lolly sticks,
        The ones with jokes on them:
        Why did the chicken cross the road?-type stuff,
Which she stained brown and used as floorboards
in her magnum opus.

The Tudor house was the best one.
It had servants’ quarters
And a kitchen with little hessian potato sacks made
of something or other she salvaged from
somewhere or other;
And the floorboards looked so real:
        painted lolly sticks
        but almost evoking the smell of varnish,
        layers of polish on a floor trodden by centuries
        in perfect miniature;

This was the last of the three
                                                or four
                                                        doll­s’ houses she built;
The devil’s work for her idle widow’s hands.
She built this one while you were entering into your final
that doomed dance that sits so permanently
on your conscience now
like a sack of compost
full of water.
        (I choose this metaphor only because
        I found this in my garden yesterday
        and it was ******* heavy.)
On paper it was simple:
        You gave her your house,
        She gave you hers.

And so her house shrunk around her and
became a dolls’ house of your own making,
                        she saw your god-hands reaching in
to manipulate and
extort her.

She was wrong, of course.

You were making good on your promise.
You would come through for her in her old age.
You did.

But it was a promise you made more to yourself than her,
And she let her illogical mind
        never analytical to begin with
        now razed and blinded by grief and loneliness
                        (there was nothing to work with)
poison your good deed
and you were both dolls now.

Eight years later she died lovelessly.

She was moved into her sitting room
        the only part of the house that stayed the same
        after you moved in –
                the walls closed in to contain it
                constrict it
a hospital bed and vinyl chair with commode,
and the brown laminate floor
        just like
        her lolly sticks.

You administered painkillers
Admitted the nurses
Negotiated with your estranged brother.

but her paranoia rotted everything
and your hands cared with compassion but not love.

Gone, now,
the dolls’ houses remain.
An inheritance of clutter but in a house
you bought.

You answer the phone
      ­                                  aggressively.
You have been heaving the big one up the stairs
        that sack of compost
        that heavy conscience of yours.

You will be heaving those ******* dolls’ houses around
until I have to buy your house and care for you.
But I am telling you now:
        I am putting them in a skip
        the moment I have the chance.

They are not imbued with the joy they gave her
any more than
                        by keeping them safe from landfill
                        you can imbue them with the love you withheld.

They are painted lolly sticks and sewn hessian.
They don’t contain any more of her
than the bits of paper she kept
        passwords and bank balances
        dates and instructions for the Sky box
There is nothing left of her to protect now.

        (We won’t mention her
        unscattered ashes
        which have been left with the undertaker
        for nearly two years now.
                They’re not her either
                but they’re more her.)

Open up the hinged false front
                tip out the miniatures
                let the little figures be free,
                                be landfill
                                (isn’t that what dying is anyway?)
all the tangible things she touched and loved
are not avatars for her touch and her love.

The past is not present through the preservation of objects.
The past is not erased by the advancement of time
                nor can it be undone by corrective action.

Now she is on the other side of the road,
        (why did the chicken
She has no further use for the things she left behind.
colorfulSmoke Sep 2019
bone licks soul
clouds on blue canvas
turquoise beats serenade bus seats
leaves turning autumn
people going nowhere
people going somewhere
2.50 balances on a card
Gaelic streets say hello
postage stamps on butterfly wings
colorful flowers wilt in the sun
hydra peels for subjective beauty
apples oranges peppers
bike skids close to honking
Heineken still local
trees need heroes
heroes need tree's shade
ENES etched in glass

i don't see reasons
maybe i'm hungry
drive by food
and starving people
i don't see reasons
takeaway petals
banks and metals
lots of demand for beans
with so much gourmet coffee
fair trade
fairish trade
statue bares rippling stone

skeleton bone sock puppets press soles to dry pavement
bone dry hunger on ****** featurettes
space where space is with spacial cigarettes
turquoise beats drop off
crowds rumbles echoes
sugar in blood
it bubbles to surface
blood bubbles with sugar
blood sugar on curtains
whiskey parasites at the height of barrels
wood barely sentient
god is hungry
god lives in Hungary on a crater
the brew docks brew
ufo mailboxes never outta reach
titanic sank to the bottom
of Belfast in a bottle
JM Sutherland Aug 2018
We worry and we wrestle
Day by Day
With the thought
We won't have enough
Our account balances
Sometimes as low
As our happiness.
And instead of wading
In life's treasured moments
Like some picturesque Hallmark
We sit in an ocean of frowns
Contagious they feed us
With the thoughts that
Maybe someday we
Might have enough
Maybe we too can
Have enough money
Where we can control
Our own destinies
And maybe if we just
Work hard enough
We too can join

The enlightened
The happy
The free
But as life's camera
Zooms out of focus
Our slave collars tighten
Around the dollars
We grip onto with our
Strength that slowly fades
Starving, as we stare
At some motivational story
Hanging on the mantle
Of our Master's mansions.

— The End —