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Victoria G Oct 2013
I sit doing my calculus homework
The homework that I should have done yesterday
The numbers swim in front of me
Until they spell out your name
I take your derivative
To find the critical points
And realize that our entire
Not-quite-friendship
Has a downward *****.
I still ride that curve down
Pretend I am falling in love
Instead of falling deeper and deeper
Instead of what is really just
Begrudging tolerance.
My homework remains undone.
Written in March 2013
zebra Aug 2016
while heaven and hell
where engrossed in their own affairs
the light bringer
an incandescent intelligence
was cast down
to this metallic monument of stone
hurled to the depths
mourning star falling
for aspiring
to greater altitudes
the furthest reaches
perhaps some distant
parametric edge
or insensate endlessness
of the northern most realms
Baals glittering throne

Lucifer
stellar divinity
mourning light
enemy of evil
gave mankind its foundations
fire, technology
the signatures of spirits
those vey veys
the voodoo
that Jews do
the secret of
the dark speculum
polished obsidian
for scrying
door to arcane gods
and spirits dark
of great power
Solomons instruments of wisdom
demonstrating that man might live in grace
without watering the ground with tears

now vanquished in the depths
of labyrinths submerged
and contained in a brass vessel
crypt of sigils
the true names of power
reside

as ages rolled over
we lost our depth of mind
became zombies
shadow beings
at first a mystery to our selves
and then the mysteries
became memories
and then even the memories
became dust

no longer could
we conjure or evoke
from the depths
our Jacobs ladder
those Goetic spirits
and  Amadel
of angelic powers
our protectors
and sustenance
lost and bereft of
aladins lamp
leaving men a drift in reason alone
barren religions of flagging faith
desolated
heaven and earth separated
a god absent
based on belief
the words
historic etymology
be-lie-eve
at its very core
it hides its secret for all to see
a lie

science of endless calculus
bereft
a one trick pony
rationality
like a sludge hammer
its only tool
which maps the known universe
but understands nothing
about what things mean
like the subtle architecture
of consciousness
and its interconnectedness
to all that there is
which may be nothing
with no physical properties
no volume
no trans-formative elemental substance
energies of light or force
or pulsating quanta
but inventions of consciousness
it self a light
which lacks volume
and physical quality
all of reality mere dreams
by an unknown dreamer
perhaps the child of another

at the stroke of midnight
the darkest point
in the murkiest age
the Kala Yuga
post modern man
remains conceited
while the world burns
paradise lost

Monotheism reigns
in our back water world
millenniums long night
of honor killings
god of the blade
thou shalt not ****
yet all condemned to die

put that in your pipe
slave makers
over bearing pedagogues
god loving war stooges
your god has a bigger ****
while parents
pack up their
shell shocked babies
there little trampled flowers
forced to
plummet to some dark address
tears fluttering
suffused  by poison clouds
in shady groves
where they only dare exhale

have you not had it yet
with gods mysterious ways
if it quacks like a duck
hello
hell goons
****** spiritual stasis
toxicity and contagion
of the simplistic

their god
a shrunken form
projection of an incomplete  mind

those who live by the sword
die by the sword
and those who do not
die anyway
not a leaf falls with out the will of god
are we not all falling
oh man
cast off axioms
of the addle brained

oh priests
of petrified ideation's
if you have a real god
look to reality to understand it
do you see mono anything
or do you see binary everything
love hate
macro micro
life death
creation destruction
as above so below
the tao
male female

no your god
both great and terrible
can not make you whole
with out her
for she is all of space
creator of all form
our human women
vessels of the goddess
who you have
conveniently subtracted
and profaned
for vainglories patriarchs sake

the universe it self
a multitude of powers
from hells deep shocks
and dismal woe
to adorations from the queen of heaven
and the sacred temple prostitutes
now made sullied
by goody goody minds
shames children
a vice of knives
solar heroes they think
while high minded and ignorant

the synoptic religions
feeding frenzies of dogma
beatings of submission
mouldering skeletons
of the abyss
******* blood loving bats
all dressed up
in Don Trump
plush red power ties
made in china
where indentured servants
in state hell mills
are worked to death

while others
prim men
pretending to love
god
all ostentatious actors
spiritual materialist
fearing hells abyss
outwardly proud
in self righteousness
performing public adorations
while in secret rooms
they ****** themselves
under shadows guilt
blasphemy of gloating piety
begrudging the pleasure of others
there guiding light

there true god
a demon of obedience
bes-tower of agony
ensuring
you gota suffer now
so you don't have to suffer later
dividing man from himself
All of them covering there heads
to obstruct the gifts of wisdom
and freedom
blocking the rays of Luciferic light
and insight
******* in there own hats
so they may remain undistracted
by their gods commands
having forgotten
that they themselves
made them up
pious dullards
that they are

oh Lucifer bright one
i stand before you
embraced by eight
the number of Majick
in arms that proliferate
the true will
Lucifers eight arms
amen
cacia Nov 2013
i am a determined
young man
with nothing but my
aim
my shoulder
and my name
i envisage to race
ideasl with a face
encouragement is main
nothing would do to reign
but i never take
lame
to be a begrudging game
there is more to
the same
more and more
with a tame
but not to filtered blame
to equal less and less
apprehension weighs
why pick up
when you base
measurement with a case.
freedom may want to laze
but i wish it to raise.
JadedSoul Aug 2014
Rain drops run like tears down the window
as my Car speeds past another Lay-by
lamenting those past bring no solace
at the horror of those yet to come

ahead an old man struggles
his Car is aged, broken down
every mile a small mercy
as desperately he hopes to carry on

begrudging my car’s reliability,
I look in sadness as we pass him,
he looks wistfully
as the sun dances on my shiny paint

how I wish I could stop!
give him my engine!
transfer my fuel!
maybe give him my tires!

the Road is yet too long
I have no strength for it
no yearning to drive another Mile
best to give to those who want
that they may travel past and smile
Life and death
vircapio gale Aug 2012
in ashes hidden, smoulders god of love
from matted dancer's focus conflagration purely come
continues still perhaps in empty homage
of a sa ta na ma
personage of ((Shiva))

white bones pierce the sky
in upward curtain-seethes of heat
beyond imagined burning hells...
the triad ventures into zero-zones of anti-life,
sands of absolute defeat.

shadow trust imparts
a silent teacher's mantras;
soothing psychic words,
"Bala" and "Adi-Bala"
carry over dunes of morbid thirst--
the gape of ancient serpent-maws
choking dust of frightened, elephantine skeletons
fissured by immobile sun--
their inner sound become cool water of a summer stream

in timeless desert, traverses strain of royal line:
god-fated tutelage of seedling savior,
lightning skill with bow and virtue sinew
shining arms horizon's arid form:
despite begrudging honor kings expect
when offspring given after years
in hard-earned sacrificial grace:
yet still obeisance ends in facing demonaic rage
to which is pitted youth to slay--
despite allay by symbol feminine,
as if to question her abode would conjure her
in dire storm and quake announce gigantic step and hairy gulf--
with arrow sprays destroy Thataka's trident, curdling throat
the slitting of, rejoicing pantheon proclaims heroic,
forever railing under epic breath of tacit page theodical:
"we gave you progeny, now grant us our theocracy;
before your son our asthras lay their weaponry"













.
st64 Apr 2013
Refrain:
Free-ee-ee caravan
Won't you join me on the free caravan?
Just let your hair down
Try, try to unwind
Please free your mind.


We'll go beyond the wind's domain
To find that dip in the ground
Where true freedom is found.
Feel your soul fly free.


1.
Let's escape the confines of this caged life
Of ******* to banks, of toiling to work
Of rushing to shops, of accepting too much
Of just too much......


2.
Gotta leave behind all the piling possessions
These things which steal your flight
Rob your sight
Increase your plight
Make you fight
Gotta seek what's real in life.


3.
We see the landscape changing
Yet it's all the same
Age teaches us yet we learn too late
That your childhood is so precious.


4.
So now, no more trudging, begrudging
Just flying free in the wind
Journeying to that dip in the soil
Where there is no more toil.



S T, 24 April 2013
Come, travel with me, we'll go together
Makin' and losin' friends: well, that's the price of change and growth.

[But please, don't yet climb that horizon. Don't go there alone.
Don't desert me here. Let me join you on the free-ee-ee caravan.]


The system kills.



Written in 2009.
There is no blame.
There is no blame.
There is no blame.
There is no blame.

There is no shame
unless you blame
or forget to learn
there can be shame,

but there is no blame
there is no blame
no room for blame
nor time for blame,

there is no blame,
no blame at all
there is no blame,
it will only stall.

No blame.
No blame.
Make thus thy mantra:

No blame.
::
THERE IS NO BLAME
AND NO SHAME
UNLESS YOU BLAME
THEN YOU BRING SHAME

for there is no shame
nor any blame,
unless you forget to learn,
or you yet yearn
to call for blame;
and endless shame
but there's no room for blame in this life of limited time
nor room for shame
nor to refrain yourself from anything but yourself;

no time for that
no room for that
it is only hate
and a grudge,
what a shame.

Work towards improvement.

I hold no blame
and try for no shame
in who I am and what I do.
Yet there is blame
and with it, shame
but what a shame
is this blame;

Work towards improvement.

There is no blame
in the face of such blame.
I cannot blame you;
but still I maintain
that there is no blame,
nor begrudging shame.

Work towards improvement.

There is no time for blame
nor room for shame,
nor need to blame;
I hold no blame.

No blame.

Gain.
There is no blame; blame is an artifact of Ego and Shadow.
Non-blame is an artifact of compassion.

Also, after reading this, the word "blame" seems to become weird.
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2014
The hills beneath him stretched out like the curves of women.  Bent
to the clouds he fell from the earth which geared him prickly as would
a range of *******, then soaring higher, he dived, topping valleys
reshaped downy now into ridges slowly writhed before catching
under toe his own dazzled stare on a water loch of milk and coal-
haired body strewn out to her lily'd bones and still falling, he dropped
to the break of morn dribbling wet sand from his eyes and woke
in the sparring light of his least favourite day.
        In a grainish and utter room, where hanged more than two
pictures of two people, he sank down to Sunday diminished in sighs
from the four tilting walls and blew dead inward unfolding a book.
As he reached for some volume, a baby finger nicked the hair string
of his guitar and for a moment was reminded of her voice in the bedded
vibrations.  Looking on her curves she felt the soft nape of her neck
with his eyes, then those same eyes unhanded her and she, his
dejected guitar, faced him unsung in the cornered glare of his boxed
in room.  He felt frost in throes all that morning and sideways out
of doors— the sun looked back on him even colder.  It would be hours
now until the end of days, so after lunch he went for a walk and a bird
sang nearly the whole way.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

It was much warmer than he had fared it to be outside and having wrestled
with this idea, that the day was somehow harder than his soft, flat room,
the mere remembering was rote by him to his pangs.  He turned, thinking
toward other things, like the void of driven streets or the mimicking cruelty
of shadows, until he saw a sullen field and left the road to dust.  He knew
that if lost, walking through the lofted hills, he would end up in the ocean
so he headed higher to the crest and over then saw a stand of trees.
        And facing the water that rilled on its way, in the tall grasses he saw
patches of red, flying with the black birds and his heart, in a boat of swells,
traveled like the red patches those birds carried.  Snowed on alder trees
brushed by him, but the wind was blowing in from the west and there
were beautiful things to behold.  A red-tailed hawk striped the ceiling
of his day by the sea and built an island to his eye and then his head sank
droning into a syndrome of birds as he joined in silence with them all
singing;
        'ta— hee— tae.'      
        Showers of poppies spilled to his heel and the keel-brew of rushes and rain
tasted purple on its way perning to the sky.  At one stop in the middle of his
path, he came upon a purfled coil, a briar snake, its body shaped in question,
unmoved and long.  The dark Orphic frieze, branding his way, it would not
listen, as if she had always been there, deaf to his song.  He felt the loss
of love by echoes from his room in the out of doors.  The drumming trunks,
the stringing leaves harping and the water that gurgled by stones into poems.
A Northerly blew begrudging the trunks, the leaves and the stones and by
the woods sinking taller he felt rushes of time running as breath through
gusty trees and felt chimes of things flying buttery like feathers to a bell.

    .  .  .  .  .  .  .

        But at the deeper woods opening he lost his way and became fearful,
not wanting to enter.  The tallest ones, red giants with faces of evergreen
canceled out the closing sky and so he changed his way back as before
to the rounded hills.  And weary from his climb he rested on the back of her
body in lands overlooking down from the brae he saw the ocean swelling
and the stars being born in wild flowers as the hills at dusk were dissolving.
        After two eternal moments in peace, he rose again in the Highlands,
to the braise and harvest smell of musted hay, cottage chalk and bleating
wool.  Now holding the girl draped in tartan, this time without caring he fell
into the black woods of her mien.  And the milk of her body dripped out into
his and slid back waveishly until she was all hair from black becoming straw
in their bed and feathers when the raven appeared.  And the flooding waned
when she flew through an opening unraveled in the thatching roof, shredded
above the funny moors.
        In seconds he was swiped clear, before the shy song lamenting when
the doors, by tidal weathers, blasted open into the mackerel sky, gathering
too like vapours with the dawn, he wafted up, swept away into the airs
on Highland shoals.  Now sailing above the speckled clouds in a darting
school of other drifters, he heard himself singing in heights of sways
throughout the tangle of wandering bark that stretched by branching coral
midway to the moon.  A great oak tree made of lime pierced the end of blue,
nadir to its zenith and into the heavens all starry.  And ringing its trunk was
a line drawn of which beneath lay the drowning world.  It was as if each layer
were one part oil, the other part water.  Looking down, way, way down
and down even farther, he saw the running seeds of striped minnows
who swam by up-streaming a wide river.  To catch up he dropped, again,
all dressed in the colours of rain, with those gladly miners.  But they swam
above the river between the rounded hills.  And the waters ran runny, now
unwrinkling as does the bowl that holds the Milky Way, when someone
dappled by in whisper saying,
        "Come with us twice the road is easy!"
"Where are we?" To himself he mused, as she blew away and by, like a long
dragon flying.  He let his body to sink with the weeds and sedges he saw,
to a beam held with barely a nail hanging, the age old sign set, spiriting him
back again to his place.  Back to the point that draws itself, as does the wind
that winds through the rushing reeds, back to the sun rising note after moon
underwater and from such still sounds was he a reel, just when the post
that was always sheering spoke out and said;
"Welcome!  .  .  .  "
        "Welcome to Minerva."
The aisling (Irish for 'dream, vision', pronounced [ˈash-ling]), or vision poem, is a poetic genre that developed during the late 17th and 18th centuries in Irish language poetry.  

In the aisling, Ireland appears to the poet in a vision in the form of a woman, usually young and beautiful. This female figure is generally referred to in the poems as a Spéirbhean (heavenly woman; pronounced 'spare van'). She laments the current state of the Irish people and predicts an imminent revival of their fortunes  .  .  .


Minerva ( Athena ) was the Roman goddess of wisdom and sponsor of arts, trade, and strategy. She was born with weapons from the godhead of Jupiter.  From the 2nd century BC onwards, the Romans equated her with the Greek goddess Athena. She was the ****** goddess of music, poetry, medicine, wisdom, commerce, weaving, crafts, and magic.  She is often depicted with her sacred creature, an owl usually named as the "owl of Minerva", which symbolizes that she is connected to wisdom.

The celtic Gauls revered Minerva ( their name for the goddess being 'Brigit' ).  In this poem the name refers to a mythic place in dream.
Edward Alan Mar 2014
Canto I: Exposition

A dampened quill and wrist unstill
Dare gallop ‘cross the page
Scribbled lines in black do shine
With much and fervent rage

And without fail, they tell their tale:
A passage tried and true
Lasting years, through hopes and fears
On page of yellow hue

Epic tales and loss at sea
Are listed in its text
The hand that writ this hallowed script
Can be no less than hexed

It begged, it sailed, it led a crowd,
It took a lady’s life
It stole, it smote, and always wrote
In volumes more than rife

He took this hand to unknown land
To carve a profound path
He set the sail for times to come
Yet tore himself in half

He lay awake in warm Toulon
In misty-morning May
The yellow birds in shrillest words
Alert him to the day

For too long days and longer nights
He’s waited for the word
The morrow here will mark the first
Of correspondence heard

Bonaparte has rallied here
To Toulon’s bustling bay
Three-fourths a score of battleships
To Egypt make their way

Before the high and mighty men
Joined with the water’s ebb
A note was slipped beneath the door
Assigned to M. Lefèbvre

Finally, a true decree
Has blest his merry course
Soon, eagerly, he’ll set to sea
Lost time his one remorse


Canto II: Aleron

Out to sea are thirty-three
That with me sail the tides
With these men, I trust my life
They follow where I guide

And so we’re gone from warm Toulon
Just days from the decree
Noble men off far ahead
And me with bourgeoisie

Bonaparte has aimed his fleet
To Egypt’s sandy shores
Through pirate gangs and ill intent
His roaring cannons tore

We follow in this taintless route
As far as we can trail
But soon we’ll turn half-way to stern;
To Gibraltar we shall sail

Days upon the Aleron
Are short but riveting
My men maintain their cheery air
And working still, they sing

No more of cloudy restlessness
No more of shady days
The blazing sun and windy waves
Have chased off my malaise

We pull our sheets and head from east
To curve around southwest
Past Ibiza, whose northern shore
Our Aleron caressed

The choppy sea grows thinner
And our nerves become unstill
The pirates of the Barbary Coast
Could leap in for the ****

And now, a sign above the line
Where water meets the sky
A tow’ring plume of certain doom
Is growing ever high

The heavens choke with blackest smoke
As fires burn a boat
The raw, impending fear of Death
Is clawing at my throat


Canto III: Skull and Bones

‘Tis hours later and we’re chased
Beneath the star-dogged moon
We tried to break away to north
But broke away too soon

Unknown, we tailed the pirate ship
Then saw the far black dot
The crow’s nest signaled skull and bones;
We held onto our knot

We much too late had turned around
My Aleron spun slow
Sheets so white in plain of sight
Had sold us to our foe

Our heaviest of itemry
Into the sea we cast
Rusty tools and iron spools:
Submerged, and sinking fast

Yet still we could not make a pace
To lose the rotten crew;
On our backs, they sailed our tracks
And split our wake in two

And so the misty moon is here
And watches like a ghoul
As we divorce our southern course
For Pillars of Hercule

The flick’ring light behind us
Like a glimmer in an eye
Stares and preys upon us
In cover of black dye

It grows and throws upon our ship
A light of fear and blood
It digs into our drowsy eyes
With sharpness of a spud

We hold on to our frantic pace
Till night invites the day
When to our right, in bright sunlight,
An ally heads our way

With Godly sound the cannons pound
The scoundrels far in back
Our brothers there in ship so fair
Repelled the foul attack


Canto IV: Gibraltar

In safer seas, our Aleron
Met with Le Taureau Bleu
We buy and sell and trade our stock
And praise and thank the crew

For safety’s sake, along we take
Two cannons of our own
We’ll stand a better chance against
The skull and crosséd bones

On we sail, on more and more
On through the placid day
No longer faced with poor intent
We make our merry way

Finally, from the vociferous chum
Upon the tall crow’s nest
“Land **! Land **!” Enthused, we know
Gibraltar’s over the crests

I decide to park (good-will flag on ark)
At the British colonial base
With cannons in stow, civilians are we
Attacking is surely bad taste

Just then, as I stood face-front on the deck,
A shrill squawking was cast
To the back I turned, and quickly discerned
A yellow bird up on a mast

How dare it perch there! I’d **** it, I swear
But I’d fire not a gun
Britons who spy me would surely deny me
Fair entrance, if that’s what I’d done

Instead I’ll sit tight; my crew is all right
They don’t mind the bird at all
I’ll listen and bear it, and try to forget
That the bird is the cause of my fall

Closer we draw to Gibraltar’s port
The Britons are within clear view
With a wave of a flag, they accept us in
But my anger cannot be subdued

I ready my gun; to the bird I have spun
And fire my shots to the air
The Britons, upset, rush onboard and get
Me constrained; and ensued despair


Canto V: The Crimson Owl

Silver chains kept me detained
As questioning carried on
Was I a spy for whom I ally?
Or was I simply a con?

I kept face as the questioner paced
And the brute slapped me around
Lastly, I smiled, as after a while
They had no evidence found

With regret, they set me free
Determining I was no harm
But seconds before I went through the door
A fellow rushed in with alarm

Cannons, found inside my ship
As rifles point at me
Again, they had me cuffed and chained
And threatened hostilely

“Smuggling arms to enemy ships”
Was written in their book
Chained and gagged and stowed was I
No better than a crook

Between the pillars I was passed
But not as I had hoped
Both my arm and legs were bound
My fragile neck was choked

In the bowels of The Crimson Owl
I slept in dark distress
No other day, with truth I say,
Had I known such duress

The days had passed and I’d amassed
A hunger, fierce and true
All my thought was set aside
To find something to chew

When suddenly, the shrillest sound
Came flying from afar
A cannon shot had hit its mark
The mainmast it would mar

Sounds of death came all around
And finally toward me
My blind removed, I held in view
The pirates of this sea


Canto VI: Captain Riceau

I stepped aboard by point of sword
And left the burning Owl
“Bienvenue à Le Chat Fou”
Said a fellow through his scowl

But when I talked, they stopped and gawked
Surprised at me they were
A fellow French, I was embraced;
The Crazy Cat could purr

They brought me on, my captors gone,
And took me as their own
And for the time, I went along
And made this Cat my home

I was kept live, and was used for
My knowledge of the sea
For vengeance ‘gainst the Britons
I complied happily

For months - perhaps three seasons passed
I rode upon this ship
Captain Riceau valued me
He named me second skip

For cause unknown, we crossed the sea
Old Captain held his tongue
He would not tell us why we trekked
And chased the setting sun

He brought us ‘round the chilly tip
Of Chile’s southern shore
No reason from his crazy lips
Though long did we implore

Then at last, the day had passed
When Riceau caught a cold
His eyes were red, his limbs were dead
His breathing: hoarse and old

I became the skipper then
And buried him at sea
We cut up north to flee the cold
But at a loss were we

Confused and crazy we’d become
Just like the Cat, rode we
I thought to keep Old Captain’s path
And that meant mutiny


Canto VII: Mutiny

Two days it’d take for them to make
The foul and bitter plan
That I’d be through with Le Chat Fou
And they’d return to Cannes

I lay asleep, in sleep so deep
Dreaming of Calais
The maiden fair with yellow hair
Who one day would betray

In this dream, I heard her scream
And went to touch her cheek
But standing as a statue does
Her gaze was still and bleak

They dragged me back into this world
Then dragged me off the port
My lungs too filled with shockéd air
To object to this tort

They threw my pants and diary,
And sandals, as they laughed
For shoes could serve no purpose
On the ocean’s liquid draft

The flick’ring light before me
Like a glimmer in an eye
Stares but grows more distant
And retreats into black dye

An injury had placed me in
A lesser swimming league
Then again, it’d only serve
To cause me great fatigue

Three days, I had rode the tide
Of the western ocean’s waves
No shark, no squid, no slimy thing
For my flesh did crave

The crests came up like daggers
And fell like hulking trees
I prayed to God almighty
I survive the vicious seas

Finally, I set my stare
Upon the northwest sky
Far away, but clear as day:
An object in my eye


Canto VIII: Abyss

Although I swam me ‘cross the sea
As fast as my arm can
Dry throat and sun win victory
O’er me: a fainted man

Trapped in darkness once again
I spy my fair Calais
Screaming, shrill in bleakness then
With not a word to say

Over me her head hangs low
Her arm is slightly raised
Blood drips off her elbow
Her expression leaves me dazed

She’s gone; the air is hard to breathe
The wind is biting cold
A canopy of restless leaves
Is stirring uncontrolled

Lost inside this world of wood
I struggle to emerge
Feels like years have I withstood
While searching for the verge

No chirpings from my yellow bird
No noises all around
Not a sound is to be heard
But footsteps at the ground

No rodents gnawing at the bark
No insects in the trees
Alone I sleep in brush so dark
With nobody but me

In the drying mud I’m laid
Despondent of my fate
Looking through the verdant shade
The sun does penetrate

Streaming down, the light is rich
Bespeckled on the floor
Dancing ‘round without a hitch
Its presence I implore

I call upon the pouring light
To lift me from this hell
To nullify the chilly blight
Incite the warmth to swell


Canto IX: Land Forgets Itself

The burning light lends me its faith
Yet suddenly absconds
The dulling light projects a wraith:
My soul from the Beyond

The day retreats and turns to night
The moon in place of sun
Mute, and without touch or sight
I desperately run

Fleeing from my fading soul
Myself, I do berate
For no such being should extol
Escaping from my fate

Luscious leaves all turn to brown
They wither and fall fast
Suddenly, upon the ground
A dune of sand’s amassed

Crawling on the desert floor
And shaking from the cold
I hate and bitterly abhor
The night’s begrudging hold

In the distance, at the line
The land forgets itself
The beaming rays of light do shine
And warmth indeed does swell

Basking in the drenching sun
My coldness is expelled
Frigidity that night had won
Has fully been repelled

In the sands, I’ve laid to rest
To steal the heat of day
Yet no sooner had the sun caressed
Than sourly betray

Melted on the scorching sands
My body burned and scarred
I cannot lift my torrid hand
My feet have both been charred

The burning heat has ripped my lust
For life and will to live
My last resolve is brutely ******
Through Death’s unyielding sieve


Canto X: L’Oiseau Jaune

I coughed and spat the water that
I swallowed with my snores
Upon the sand my hand did land;
I’d made my way to shore

The beach was bright with fiery light
My skin was hot and red
I tried to get out of my head
Those visions that I dread

A novelist I once had been
Writing was my joy
With pen in hand, I could withstand
Each plot set to destroy

Yet Calais came and stole my heart
But also my free time
We wed and had a baby boy
Our life was too sublime

I raised my pen to write again
To feed the family right
I spent my days filling the page
And toiled all the night

When finally, she’d lost her mind
She needed to be loved
I tried to calm her shrill attacks
With no help from Above

My raging wife had grabbed a knife
And stabbed my writing hand
Yet somehow I had speared her eye
I couldn’t understand

At the elbow, I was chopped
And no more could I write
The widespread fact I’d killed my mate
Had augmented my plight

I beached onto an island;
This was no Chilean land
I walked around the grainy ground
And found nothing but sand

But soon a rescue ship had come
I was not too long gone
I read the name upon the port;
It was l’Oiseau Jaune
This was my senior thesis in high school, primarily inspired by "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Coleridge.
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2016
The hills beneath him stretched out like the curves of women.  Bent
to the clouds he fell from the earth which geared him prickly as would
a range of *******, then soaring higher, he dived, topping valleys
reshaped downy now into ridges slowly writhed before catching
under toe his own dazzled stare on a water loch of milk and coal-
haired body strewn out to her lily'd bones and still falling, he dropped
to the break of morn dribbling wet sand from his eyes and woke
in the sparring light of his least favourite day.
        In a grainish and utter room, where hanged more than two
pictures of two people, he sank down to Sunday diminished in sighs
from the four tilting walls and blew dead inward unfolding a book.
As he reached for some volume, a baby finger nicked the hair string
of his guitar and for a moment was reminded of her voice in the bedded
vibrations.  Looking on her curves he felt the soft nape of her neck
with his eyes, then those same eyes unhanded her and she, his
dejected guitar, faced him unsung in the cornered glare of his boxed
in room.  He felt frost in throes all that morning and sideways out
of doors— the sun looked back on him even colder.  It would be hours
now until the end of days, so after lunch he went for a walk and a bird
sang nearly the whole way.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

It was much warmer than he had fared it to be outside and having wrestled
with this idea, that the day was somehow harder than his soft, flat room,
the mere remembering was rote by him to his pangs.  He turned, thinking
toward other things, like the void of driven streets or the mimicking cruelty
of shadows, until he saw a sullen field and left the road to dust.  He knew
that if lost, walking through the lofted hills, he would end up in the ocean
so he headed higher to the crest and over then saw a stand of trees.
        And facing the water that rilled on its way, in the tall grasses he saw
patches of red, flying with the black birds and his heart, in a boat of swells,
traveled like the red patches those birds carried.  Snowed on alder trees
brushed by him, but the wind was blowing in from the west and there
were beautiful things to behold.  A red-tailed hawk striped the ceiling
of his day by the sea and built an island to his eye and then his head sank
droning into a syndrome of birds as he joined in silence with them all
singing;
        'ta— hee— tae.'      
        Showers of poppies spilled to his heel and the keel-brew of rushes and
rain tasted purple on its way perning to the sky.  At one stop in the middle of his
path, he came upon a purfled coil, a briar snake, its body shaped in question,
unmoved and long.  The dark Orphic frieze, branding his way, it would not
listen, as if she had always been there, deaf to his song.  He felt the loss
of love by echoes from his room in the out of doors.  The drumming trunks,
the stringing leaves harping and the water that gurgled by stones into poems.
A Northerly blew begrudging the trunks, the leaves and the stones and by
the woods sinking taller he felt rushes of time running as breath through
gusty trees and felt chimes of things flying buttery like feathers to a bell.

    .  .  .  .  .  .  .

        But at the deeper woods opening he lost his way and became fearful,
not wanting to enter.  The tallest ones, red giants with faces of evergreen
canceled out the closing sky and so he changed his way back as before
to the rounded hills.  And weary from his climb he rested on the back of her
body in lands overlooking down from the brae he saw the ocean swelling
and the stars being born in wild flowers as the hills at dusk were dissolving.
        After two eternal moments in peace, he rose again in the Highlands,
to the braise and harvest smell of musted hay, cottage chalk and bleating
wool.  Now holding the girl draped in tartan, this time without caring he fell
into the black woods of her mien.  And the milk of her body dripped out into
his and slid back waveishly until she was all hair from black becoming straw
in their bed and feathers when the raven appeared.  And the flooding waned
when she flew through an opening unraveled in the thatching roof, shredded
above the funny moors.
        In seconds he was swiped clear, before the shy song lamenting when
the doors, by tidal weathers, blasted open into the mackerel sky, gathering
too like vapours with the dawn, he wafted up, swept away into the airs
on Highland shoals.  Now sailing above the speckled clouds in a darting
school of other drifters, he heard himself singing in heights of sways
throughout the tangle of wandering bark that stretched by branching coral
midway to the moon.  A great oak tree made of lime pierced the end of blue,
nadir to its zenith and into the heavens all starry.  And ringing its trunk was
a line drawn of which beneath lay the drowning world.  It was as if each layer
were one part oil, the other part water.  Looking down, way, way down
and down even farther, he saw the running seeds of striped minnows
who swam by up-streaming a wide river.  To catch up he dropped, again,
all dressed in the colours of rain, with those gladly miners.  But they swam
above the river between the rounded hills.  And the waters ran runny, now
unwrinkling as does the bowl that holds the Milky Way, when someone
dappled by in whisper saying,
        "Come with us twice the road is easy!"
"Where are we?" To himself he mused, as she blew away and by, like a long
dragon flying.  He let his body to sink with the weeds and sedges he saw,
to a beam held with barely a nail hanging, the age old sign set, spiriting him
back again to his place.  Back to the point that draws itself, as does the wind
that winds through the rushing reeds, back to the sun rising note after moon
underwater and from such still sounds was he a reel, just when the post
that was always sheering spoke out and said;
"Welcome!  .  .  .  "
        "Welcome to Minerva."
The aisling (Irish for 'dream, vision', pronounced [ˈash-ling]), or vision poem, is a poetic genre that developed during the late 17th and 18th centuries in Irish language poetry.  

In the aisling, Ireland appears to the poet in a vision in the form of a woman, usually young and beautiful. This female figure is generally referred to in the poems as a Spéirbhean (heavenly woman; pronounced 'spare van'). She laments the current state of the Irish people and predicts an imminent revival of their fortunes  .  .  .


Minerva ( Athena ) was the Roman goddess of wisdom and sponsor of arts, trade, and strategy. She was born with weapons from the godhead of Jupiter.  From the 2nd century BC onwards, the Romans equated her with the Greek goddess Athena. She was the ****** goddess of music, poetry, medicine, wisdom, commerce, weaving, crafts, and magic.  She is often depicted with her sacred creature, an owl usually named as the "owl of Minerva", which symbolizes that she is connected to wisdom.

The celtic Gauls revered Minerva ( their name for the goddess being 'Brigit' ).  In this poem the name refers to a mythic place in dream.
.
Shivani Lalan Aug 2017
click
    click
clack
On a white marble floor
If you're a woman,
you already have
one foot out the door
of a room filled with
all the conversation
and opportunities
that a man can afford.

This is a scene we've all seen before.
Paid way less
when you're told
that you worked way more.
I'm sure a client will adore my face
in a meeting,
but what do i do with the horror
when he hears me speaking?

I'm reeking of the sour aftertaste of everyday misogyny.  
My worth measured
by the distance between
my skirt and the floor.
And when I protest,
politely, of course
Being told that I can do better,
I can be more than a bore.

My skin revolts
From the last time a colleague
brushed his hand accidentally
against my everything.
My strength and independence rot
in catacombs made from begrudging wombs,
waiting for their lives to begin
before building a tomb for another.

My ears hear no corporate conflict.
My eyes read no unjust verdict.
My knees wobble of no panic.
My voice even now is not frantic.
I try to use my woman card as a shield,
But they already know I'll yield
Because sadly
Feminism, safety, and my daily routine
don't get along very well with each other.


If I could stretch myself to my full capacity;
Correction.
If you'd let me stretch myself to full capacity,
I'd be taller than these nine yards,
Stronger than this silken thread ,
Darker than this black,
Louder than this naked mic.

My worth is equal to the number of folds in this sari.
Uncertain.
      Defined.  
           Redefined.
                Ever changing.
As I shift move walk stumble run shuffle sprint
Dive
Into the storm.

Riot chhod,
I'm a civil war of colour.
Black sari
Black eyes
Black bindi
Golden jhumkas
Red lips
Multicoloured sword at my hip
Swinging at the shackles they placed on me.

Din ke dus dangey lad jaati hu mai,
Saal ki solah siyaahein bharke ruk jaati hu main,
Kabhi kahin khade rehne ki jagah mil jaye,
Toh iss duniya ki acchhaai se thak jaati hu main.
As performed at OSS E#15
That's why it reads weird, prolly.
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2013
The hills beneath him stretched out like the curves of women.  Bent
to the clouds he fell from the earth which geared him prickly as would
a range of *******, then soaring higher, he dived, topping valleys
reshaped downy now into ridges slowly writhed before catching
under toe his own dazzled stare on a water loch of milk and coal-
haired body strewn out to her lily'd bones and still falling, he dropped
to the break of morn dribbling wet sand from his eyes and woke
in the sparring light of his least favourite day.
        In a grainish and utter room, where hanged more than two
pictures of two people, he sank down to Sunday diminished in sighs
from the four tilting walls and blew dead inward unfolding a book.
As he reached for some volume, a baby finger nicked the hair string
of his guitar and for a moment was reminded of her voice in the bedded
vibrations.  Looking on her curves she felt the soft nape of her neck
with his eyes, then those same eyes unhanded her and she, his
dejected guitar, faced him unsung in the cornered glare of his boxed
in room.  He felt frost in throes all that morning and sideways out
of doors— the sun looked back on him even colder.  It would be hours
now until the end of days, so after lunch he went for a walk and a bird
sang nearly the whole way.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

It was much warmer than he had fared it to be outside and having wrestled
with this idea, that the day was somehow harder than his soft, flat room,
the mere remembering was rote by him to his pangs.  He turned, thinking
toward other things, like the void of driven streets or the mimicking cruelty
of shadows, until he saw a sullen field and left the road to dust.  He knew
that if lost, walking through the lofted hills, he would end up in the ocean
so he headed higher to the crest and over then saw a stand of trees.
        And facing the water that rilled on its way, in the tall grasses he saw
patches of red, flying with the black birds and his heart, in a boat of swells,
traveled like the red patches those birds carried.  Snowed on alder trees
brushed by him, but the wind was blowing in from the west and there
were beautiful things to behold.  A red-tailed hawk striped the ceiling
of his day by the sea and built an island to his eye and then his head sank
droning into a syndrome of birds as he joined in silence with them all
singing;
        'ta— hee— tae.'      
        Showers of poppies spilled to his heel and the keel-brew of rushes and rain
tasted purple on its way perning to the sky.  At one stop in the middle of his
path, he came upon a purfled coil, a briar snake, its body shaped in question,
unmoved and long.  The dark Orphic frieze, branding his way, it would not
listen, as if she had always been there, deaf to his song.  He felt the loss
of love by echoes from his room in the out of doors.  The drumming trunks,
the stringing leaves harping and the water that gurgled by stones into poems.
A Northerly blew begrudging the trunks, the leaves and the stones and by
the woods sinking taller he felt rushes of time running as breath through
trees and felt chimes of things flying buttery like feathers to a bell.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2016
SO PRIKETH HEM NATURE IN HIR CORAGES

Never did
help my Da enough.

Always
head-stuck-in-a-book.

"Donall son..."he call
"Can you hold this while

...I saw.!"

"Awwww Da!"
I'd wail.

Me lost in Chaucer
and his tale.

And so the saw saws
but all I see is..."Yo!"

"The Miller was a chap of sixteen stone,
A great stout fellow big in brawn and bone.

The saw cuts through the afternoon.

Pauses: then....
Chaucers on again.

"He did well out of them, for he could go
And win the ram at any wrestling show."

"Say what...?

Oh, don't get me
wrong I

adored the aesthetic beauty of
sawdust floating

in a universe of its own
suspended in sunlight and shadow..

The smell of pine
kidnapping my mind.

The green dance of the bubble
in a spirit level.

Didn't have time for all that
hammering and sawing.

I was a boy on a mission
ever since our teacher sighing

"Oh I...don't know why I
teach you scruff Chaucer

...you'll never read the book!"

But by the weekend
( furious at the rebuff )

I( ha ha)HAD!

My poor auld Da
only getting begrudging help.

"Whan that Aprille..."
( the words falling like gentle rain upon my mind )

"...with his shoures soote
the droghte of Marche..."

Words words oh sweet words.

"hath perced to the roote"

My mind
( "...bathed every veyne in swich licour, )

the bubble in the spirit level
poised perfectly...perfectly poised

"Of which vertu engendred is the flour."
Gotta beware the ****** Machine,
the ****** Machine, quick and clean,
the ****** Machine, run you through,
the ****** Machine, rip you in two.

The ****** Machine is coming for you,
black coats, and black boots stamping in tune
in light of day and the dark of the moon.
The ****** Machine pounds its chest.

The ****** Machine blots the sky,
its oppressive cloud tainting the world,
always watching, always judging,
your faintest mistakes, always begrudging.

The ****** Machine is big, bad, and bold,
it has our minds and the masses under control
to fight, to resist is to wait and die.
The ****** Machine reigns supreme.
jeremy wyatt Jan 2011
Winters grip pulled tight today
ice crystals grown from dust to diamonds
frozen mist clinging to trees and stream
put my face in  water too cold
felt it shudder like I did begrudging my warm
walking and dreaming and waiting
what do I yearn for I know in my heart
summer's gentle song and touch
and too hold that one dandelion seed
for a little while in my scarred hand
then let it soar for ever
I would be a weight too much
with me it would never fly
just to see her rise will be enough
then I can go and walk alone
Seán Mac Falls Sep 2013
The hills beneath him stretched out like the curves of women.  Bent
to the clouds he fell from the earth which geared him prickly as would
a range of *******, then soaring higher, he dived, topping valleys
reshaped downy now into ridges slowly writhed before catching
under toe his own dazzled stare on a water loch of milk and coal-
haired body strewn out to her lily'd bones and still falling, he dropped
to the break of morn dribbling wet sand from his eyes and woke
in the sparring light of his least favourite day.
        In a grainish and utter room, where hanged more than two
pictures of two people, he sank down to Sunday diminished in sighs
from the four tilting walls and blew dead inward unfolding a book.
As he reached for some volume, a baby finger nicked the hair string
of his guitar and for a moment was reminded of her voice in the bedded
vibrations.  Looking on her curves she felt the soft nape of her neck
with his eyes, then those same eyes unhanded her and she, his
dejected guitar, faced him unsung in the cornered glare of his boxed
in room.  He felt frost in throes all that morning and sideways out
of doors— the sun looked back on him even colder.  It would be hours
now until the end of days, so after lunch he went for a walk and a bird
sang nearly the whole way.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

It was much warmer than he had fared it to be outside and having wrestled
with this idea, that the day was somehow harder than his soft, flat room,
the mere remembering was rote by him to his pangs.  He turned, thinking
toward other things, like the void of driven streets or the mimicking cruelty
of shadows, until he saw a sullen field and left the road to dust.  He knew
that if lost, walking through the lofted hills, he would end up in the ocean
so he headed higher to the crest and over then saw a stand of trees.
        And facing the water that rilled on its way, in the tall grasses he saw
patches of red, flying with the black birds and his heart, in a boat of swells,
traveled like the red patches those birds carried.  Snowed on alder trees
brushed by him, but the wind was blowing in from the west and there
were beautiful things to behold.  A red-tailed hawk striped the ceiling
of his day by the sea and built an island to his eye and then his head sank
droning into a syndrome of birds as he joined in silence with them all
singing;
        'ta— hee— tae.'      
        Showers of poppies spilled to his heel and the keel-brew of rushes and rain
tasted purple on its way perning to the sky.  At one stop in the middle of his
path, he came upon a purfled coil, a briar snake, its body shaped in question,
unmoved and long.  The dark Orphic frieze, branding his way, it would not
listen, as if she had always been there, deaf to his song.  He felt the loss
of love by echoes from his room in the out of doors.  The drumming trunks,
the stringing leaves harping and the water that gurgled by stones into poems.
A Northerly blew begrudging the trunks, the leaves and the stones and by
the woods sinking taller he felt rushes of time running as breath through
gusty trees and felt chimes of things flying buttery like feathers to a bell.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .
Amy Grindhouse Jan 2014
Burnt out on
a legion of increasingly mobile devices
for a legion of increasingly immobile people
Antisocial networks and a friends list
of listless friends
But what judgment is justified
while staring at square screens with
increasing intensity
and begrudging propensity?
An information ******
that can't get a fix
for all that's wrong in their world
Let's start to run a shutdown command
march away from the heat of indifferent ****
pull away from those fright emitting diodes
crowding a fiber opticked off planet
With nothing better to do
No plans that aren't metered in Gigabytes
We can topple their towers of babel
and towers of cable
And the night sky will shimmer with thousands of stars
we never knew were there
Forever: it is not a word I know,

Its bounding aches, its tugging groans,

Whereof I speak, thou knowest not,

My mem’ry fleeting, forlorn and rot,

Because this is of tales of my naught,

I live on only to be here, forgot.

-

-

I have saved the life of a child who shall never know my name,

The love I had for my Love, doth she not want to feel again,

I’ve fought for allies, only to now be believed of conspiracy

I’ve liberated my beliefs, only to now be under new tyranny.

I may die any day here, perhaps with the coming sunset,

But in my name and mem’ry, a candle forgotten to be lit.

Time is mortally timeless in this solipsistic reign,

I write my tragedies knowing not a person will feel the same.

-

The ghosts of faces taunt me in my regretful sleep,

Begrudging me to hide my face from all distaste and weep,

Although this feeling flourishes in this daunting midnight air,

The daylight only brings me knowledge of my true despair.

For even my children, even if I were to have them now,

Would forget my name also, I’d be but a whisper upon a cloud.

-

I could go about this life living in the best way that I could,

If all was start over, the same mistakes I made, I would,

But it does not change the fact that no one ever my name will know,

Or remember it with time if even fondness were to grow.

For it is a curse that deaf is eternity,

To my name and quill, knowledge that this woe is me.

-

My love will be forgotten,

For woman, for warmth, for longing,

My words will be forgotten,

In ink, in music, in harmony,

My breath will be forgotten,

For I leave nothing, and nothing again,

My name will be forgotten,

Knowing this makes me insane.

-

Forever: it is a word I will never know.

Love has left and died, and it seems it always will,

I don’t deserve the music I process in my head every hour of the moon and sun.

I don’t possess the strength or skill to properly put what feelings lie in my breast on to parchment.

I cannot scribe a good enough requiem, and I certainly leave no worthy revelation.

Forget my name, and remember those worthy. Forget my work, and remember the ones that fill your heart with happiness and inspiration, for no one need look upon mine and see the struggles of someone that ne’er need complain, or deserve to.

-

It is what I hear all the hours of any of my wretched days;

The cacophony that is the choir singing hymns of me being forgotten.
mark john junor Jan 2014
the lights from the street below
shine weakly into the silent room
she lay in the tangled sheets
staring off into the night
a television set oddly turned to face the wall flickers while
its low volume garbles its incessant whispered babbling
like some deranged man talking to himself
the scents of ******* thick in the air
there is a tray of food gathering dust
a bottle of wine untouched
she is motionless
the **** skin of her face glistens in the
shifting shadows of her silent thoughts

i sit in the hardback chair
with difficult breathing apparatus trailing my mental footsteps
i tread carefully through the narrow dark wood
of her languid eye with small talk
laying out a feast of interesting topics
she is not hungry

a storm flashes lightening far out to sea
images come to the mind of a ship chasing the dawn
desperate to break free of the natures fury
and the captain at the helm
heroic figure standing fast against the odds
holding to the wheel and shouting to all hands
the rain falling in tangled sheets
focus returns to the room
she is falling motionless entangled in the beds sheets
i am the brave helmsman standing fast
this ship has already sunk

daylight appeases the minds of the
littered minefield of broken and bent on the bedroom floor
so they now allow begrudging paths safely to be seen
her eyes have closed
sleep
the dust encrusted food and the stale wine
make a feast for the birds who's small wing fluttering
are the only sound
the sun's heavy light falls in a narrow shaft
that glows against the dark wood background
i slowly ease my hand into its warmth
like a swimmer testing the waters
i dive in
and my soul swims the shaft of light
up to the bright world
leaving this place of shadows
and this woman of darker dreams

she awakens hours later
to find me laying on the floor with one hand extended out to
where the sun once held sway
laying there wrapped in my dreams of liquid light
dreaming of the day just past
and the days to come
she lay next to me
and cups me in her arms
while weak lights from the street below
shine up into our quiet room
Sag Jun 2015
IV
You said that you weren't as weak as I am.
weak weak weak weak weak weak weak weak weak
IF WEAK IS FORGIVING PEOPLE FOR BREAKING MY HEART AND HAVING THE COMPOSURE TO NOT DISREGARD OTHERS AS HUMAN BEINGS FOR ******* UP OR ******* MY BOYFRIEND THEN YOU ARE LUCKY THAT I AM WEAK. IF WEAK IS LOVING MY FATHER DESPITE THE ADDICTION AND MY MOTHER DESPITE THE PROMISCUITY AND BOTH DESPITE THEIR BROKEN PROMISES THEN I WANT TO BE WEAK.
WHY WOULD I EVER WANT TO BE STRONG?
Weak is peaceful and weak is kind and if strength is measured by the ability to cut people out of your life with no remorse then I feel terribly sorry for the strong people in the world.
Strength is sad and lonely and begrudging
and tight muscles and hard exteriors and quick breaths.
Weakness can be the long drawn out exhale that comes before death
as long as I've got someone holding my hand in the hospital bed...
some passionate thoughts from about a week ago
This feathered quill with fluted nib stands idle in an idle hand and a man with little time to spare,despairs of flowing from its point,a point to make,a case he cannot state.
It is late the ink has bled,I am being led to some conclusion,propelled to see a page, unwritten not by me but by the elements.

Underwater I breathe air,a little trick I found when underneath the earth and being ground, they thought into fine dust,the fire was just a place to warm my bones while the winds sang songs to me in dulcet tones.

And still the quill sits silently as if begrudging me a moments rest, it  would be a feather in my cap if only I could slap another word out of its tip,but no letters slip to form these things,it seems that silence only brings me emptiness,even less than that when words within are crushed and flattened by the fattening of worms that squirm and hold me in their coils,and any words there were are spoiled,deleted,secreted quietly and forgot about.

In the tomb without a light, this ink is but a link to further things to think and if only I could force this quill to spill something.

Underlined in red and on the tombstone up above it said,

'here lies within a man so thin
and yet so thick
his quill
a magic stick
his ink
a skating rink

Magic couldn't save him'

But this is of another page when reached upon a ripe old age and suitably I shall erase that which pertains to me.
topaz oreilly Aug 2012
Haus 29 is a magic number;
its once whispered dry silence,  
then collapsed like black tulips.
Her wooden frame smiles under morsel Sun,
night protrudes giving out
Coagulated rhythm.
The denizens drone in droves,
even forests cannot contain them,
bystanders flock in,
looking for  unexplained carolled groves
conversations staked on fevered implausibilities
the villagers respond in begrudging ignorance
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
The key to the past and future
It lives and runs in the essence of a child innocence fends off wrong thinking that leads to guilt it buys
The future without investing in error that is born of greed turn back to the days that are golden purity
Was fixed who sought personnel gain at the harm and pain of others you moved through rings of joy
That were ever present this constant could be found even in the adult world of upheavals in your world
There was a slower pace it never caused to race haste can cause unexpected disaster a Childs hands
Feels its way down dark passages there is still high surges of energy that detect what lies ahead if it be
Good or sad at times that tears are shed by the little ones they hold such power of grace they displace
Lasting hurt with the soulful knowing linked to a higher fathers love if at times of anger danger or
Temptation we would return and stand within this impenetrable wall so many of life’s troubles could be
Shortened and at least lesson their degree of severity the future would unfold with a higher degree of
Nobility standing in the center instead of a begrudging corner resisting freedoms challenge and its
Reassurance that all will be well no we push on we refuse the power that reflection holds surly life is a
Circular affair it isn’t a strange occurrence that has never happened before and there is always the
Divine shoulder to rest on and ask for wisdom but so many are above such things you can see them
Ever where the grim looks are so telling they missed mercy and love that walks by their side no they
Push on ahead they know best all they really do is open themselves to the enemies well laid plan to
Cause them pain and heartache why walk a path of foreboding when there is one drenched in sunshine
Bright happy charms as even and the swell of distant church bells ringing their truth affords a power a
reverie that is ever constant don’t be so adult that you rob yourself from the inner voice that flows in
both directions without fail it finds the higher safer ground your feet sure your life will take on higher
meaning and you will be a source of comfort and wonder to those who know you
Julian Aug 2015
Affinity for the sharks attraction to the squeeze
Apotropaic lyrics cure an ineluctable terminal disease
Traversed time repent and rhyme
For every dollar exists a crime for every penny lost cured with wine
I serenade the world with lore threadbare and cloying but earnestly transcendent
Linger longer in evanescence so I can see the rainbow’s intent
Confederate putsch subverted by transnational push and supreme wonder
Tactless assault on the unadulterated truth a sheepish blunder
Ennobled and regal they gentrify the legal
A European tyrant fishes the sky to capture the preeminent eagle
Kings of the jungle turning us gradately into desert
Desiccated promises elicit the thirst but **** myself they can be so curt
One eye to see them all
One conqueror beyond the confines of linearity hogs the ball
Shoot the three when two will do
Missing every time when the sky is completely blue
Shrouded in the clouds are souls wafting to the sky
Concealed in the Dow a dry rain turns the dust extra wry
Moments clash with movements and chaos erects a monolithic lie
Sold in every shop consumed by every cop it keeps us landlocked on the verge of flight
Rescue the contempt needed to override the wrong and enshrine the right
Abdicate the war, annex the score and appear to soar
Words cannot corral the present anymore than the future can ignore
The past becoming present presents us throttled to the wire
Cartels own the news but the periphery is harder to conspire
We scour the earth looking for rebirth
We tower over the worthy with a catchy mirth
To all law belongs the defeat of malcontent with a begrudging consent
To any miser nothing is more miserable than avaricious but impotent intent
Invisible prison with visible prisoners beset by bars established by BAR exams that we fail to apprehend
Zero sum collapse contingent on the motives of the tyrants that cannot break or bend
So stand to grow the earth with elapsing sand and synchronize the beating of the drum with the actions of the best possible invisible hand
Choice monopolized by a garbled voice trying his best to be the lead singer of the smartest brand
Wary of the scary and contemplative before the boast
We align with design streamlined in serpentine time and on that sinuous path we coast
So we find time for a dream that proves God is a dreamer
Only to find out that all the teams play for the teamsters
Bribe yourself and renege your own wage
Depriving yourself of the ink needed to fill the page
But many words are impotent
When few will do
All you truly need in this world is an emboldened you and a chosen few
December Dec 2010
Left behind
But not forgotten
So much to say
But I'm not talkin

Feeling alive
in a world so dead
Everyone keeps quiet
With much to be said

The words on the lips
Of silent mimes
Ticking of the clocks
That run out of time

Waiting on something
That just might happen
Though its not funny
I'm still laughin

Waging a war
That has no sides
Where many innocent
Lay down to die

Through the silence
The lies could be heard
I listened to them
But didnt hear a word

I knew the truth
It was right in front of me
I just couldn't make
The other people see

They ran toward a light
That flickered and died
And more lies were said
To keep them occupied

I ran the other way
Ready to sacrifice
In search of all the things
That are good and right

This is the world,
The way we live.
Begrudging and angry
To not forget or forgive.

I'll not say that
There is no peace
But for us
Its just out of reach.
Slept through all that ******* Thunder
but not the closing of the front Door?

Pardon us, your ******* Highness,
for living some of our Lives
before ******* 18:30;

Please, your ******* Highness,
take a step back from yourself
if you can fathom anything
other than yourself.

We try not to begrudge you your Schedule;
reciprocate by not begrudging the majority of the House theirs.
Yay self-absorbed roomates!
Dane Ficklin Mar 2012
The price paid, begrudging none
The True Debtor knows the cost
Parts willingly, and would again
Should ever more be required
Feeling each moment that more is owed
Though so little, so little is asked

Giving all, every drop
Of heartsblood for the cause
For none greater exists
Nor could such ever be risen above
Always asking, What more, what more
Can I, to you, bestow?

And the smile, the touch, alone
Are the given response
Satisfying, overwhelming
The True Debtor, with luck unmatched
Pays again, 'til naught remains
But neither fades nor diminishes

And so Love moves the two
Each feeling the debt
Each paying their all, their all again
Until it cannot be said to whom the other belongs
Until they cannot be told apart
Sophia Granada Sep 2015
I know you always saw yourself a knight
But I did not realize for a long time
That I was a page.
You were my sparring partner
Who taught me to come at the world
Gun drawn
So no one could out-shoot me.
You told me,
And I know,
That Justice wears a blindfold because
She slashes her sword indiscriminately,
And looks at that scale
Never.

You always saw yourself a lawman
I always saw you as a fool.
I never realized I learned law
At your feet.
Fallacies and ways of
Drawing out argument and diatribe,
Loopholes of morality through which
We spin.
You taught me to be technically correct,
The best kind of correct,
Always exploiting but
Always within my jurisdiction.
I only know now I was a deputy
To a sheriff of ridiculous stature.

You taught me THE ART OF WAR.
It was engraved in stone for me
Like an all-caps Roman monument.
THE ART OF WAR
Is sprawled across a stone archway in my mind
Where you came, and you saw.
It marks your conquest.

You made it my way of loving,
Of relating to the world and the people around me.
You made me a martyr and mercenary,
Standing atop a hill in golden armor,
Sunlight behind me and wind in my hair,
An avatar of Durga,
A disciple of Joan of Arc,
A four-year-old poses in chainmail
You wrought for her.
Illusions of grandeur such as your own
Come with this territory.

You taught me
As your mother and father
And grandparents
Taught you,
THE ART OF WAR-
That love is just begrudging words of sweetness
Issued only after ruins lay all around
And both parties are sufficiently vulnerable,
Their bricks having been pried away with crowbars.
Love is only an apology given to mollify
The wounds you have already wrought.
The only privilege loved-ones are afforded,
Is the bandage that covers up the customary
Destruction
That is your normal face.

You and I only ever knew love as
You clipping my wings
And I breaking free to spray
The shrapnel of those chains
Into your face.
We added to each others' pile of scars.
It was so rare for us to run into battle together,
On the same side,
Voices as one in a battlecry.
I don't even know how long it's been since
Us soldiers-for-hire got hired
By the same team at once.

You cast me out of steel
Like a sword.
And now I am the legendary blade
Destined to clash against you for all eternity.
We will only ever know ceasefires
Of a day in length.
We will run through the flame,
And we will practice the art
You taught me.
When I was five years old, my father's favorite hobby was making chainmail. He made a coif sized to his head, and put it on me, and had me pose fiercely. He took a picture because it was so cute. Now he doesn't make chainmail anymore; he has built his own forge and learned to cast metal.
My father and I are both fond of writing poetry. He once wrote a poem about anger management problems, the first line of which was "beware the page whose master is rage."
He has a tattoo of a soldier of fortune skull, whose empty eye sockets I used to poke with my tiny fingers.
He has worked as a combat medic, and as a corrections officer, and as an EMT, and as a security guard, and as many many other kinds of people. He was an aimless shiftless jack-of-all-trades before he was my father, and he knows it, and he very much sees himself as a soldier of fortune, a knight, a contractor of combat.
He knows the law well, from his amateur studies of it. He is very much "up" on law that concerns guns and all other manner of slings and arrows. He knows the penalties for assault and battery and homicide and manslaughter and countless other things. Because he likes to argue law so fiercely, he often takes the same knowing and devious tone in personal arguments. He has read "The Art of War" by Tsun Tsu. He recommends it.
His family was not kind to him growing up; I don't think they knew how to be kind. He is not kind with others, because he does not know how to be kind. He is always fighting and struggling and feeling himself pursued and oppressed. He is his own prisoner in a string of meaningless personal battles.
When I was ten, he and I made an agreement that we wouldn't argue for that whole day, and we would be kind and gentle to each other. And we were. And we knew that one ceasefire of a day in length.
He is a Scorpio, and I am a Sagittarius. There is a myth about the great scorpion pinching the centaur's arrows out of the sky; he clips the only wings the centaur knows. He steals the only way he sees to fly.
My father the lawman, the soldier for hire, the knight, dressed his page in armor he wrought himself. He cast a sword to fight back at him. He clipped the wings of his celestial neighbor. These metaphors are so personal. You can't know what they mean unless you've lived in my house.
Brent Kincaid Oct 2015
It seems that just like prices
Your salary always rises
But when it comes to mine
You quickly draw the line
And tell me to do without
Then you begin to shout
That you are the party that
Always tips your hat
To the good old days
And the good old ways
How the country should run
But only you are having fun.
You and the other rich kids
Have all the toys and games
While our lives stay the same;
Underpaid and underfed
Until we are all dead
And only you remain.

That is your refrain
In the marching song you sing
And the privation you bring
With your deals and lies.
Just one of the guys.
And we are left out in the cold
Unless we happen to get bold
And call you out for villainy
For stealing every penny
And begrudging us an ounce
Of clean ***** on which to pounce
To grow a meager garden here
To feed us one more year.
But that seems against your rules.
We that are your tired mules
And can’t afford to bribe you
To do what you know you ought to.
white bird Mar 2016
How could you
Suddenly come into my heart
Without knocking 
And even leave a hole in it

Picking at locks
That weren't yours to pick at
Once a forgiving heart
Now filled with begrudging sorrow
-Collaboration with Star Gazer-
Charles McCue Sep 2016
The darkness flees into the night
The hunger gladly chases light
The fear indulges in the fight
I cant get it right

The desperate often come out sore
The lover always asking more
The silent child always cries
But i can't scarecly get it right

The ache can dull the greater pain
The solitude can mend or maim
The whisper can confuse the lie
Still i won't get it right

The honesty set on the shelf
The past begrudging future help
The day breaks naught but for itself
So i must get it right

The Once and Future comes no more
The Poet taken for a bore
The story none have heard before
Once I get it right
natalie Feb 2012
when the sallow moon rises
from her hidden slumber
and the stars light their
unimaginably distant fires,
i slip under my fleece cocoon
and curl into the waking dreams
of sleep.

my thoughts lose their borders,
flowing into an erratic pulse of
flashing images and wild colors.
in these dreams, you are a tidal wave.
you swell before me, dark and
enigmatic, a monstrous shadow.
you are deep and murky,
making my heart race with
the fear and excitement of the
unknown.

under the forgiving moon,
i allow my mind to hope for
things unlikely and far-off.
but when that pallid face
slips behind the earth and the
arrogant sun climbs up with
a blinding smirk, i turn my
own face toward the mirror and
stare into his begrudging truth:
i am not first place, i am not the
best, but i am just good enough, and
that is plenty for me.
poetryaccident Oct 2018
With the clouds come the rain
accompaniment nature has decreed
I’ll not bear a grudge in response
knowing skies will open up

to sway the drought that came before
those rays of sun from a blue sky
few would deny to be a curse
leaving dust that chokes the throat

the thirst evoked the worse of times
begrudging love in the slow drip
or the deluge of past revels
festivities divorced from love

low hung mist promised streams
prompting memory to fill the space
or prodding travelers to discern
revealing landscapes that converge

cleansing is the benefit
when the dust is washed away
not to drown, instead to wash
absolve our sins, renewal’s breadth.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181021.
The poem “With the Clouds” was written against the prompt, “let’s get wet (and) celebrate with some rain.”
SpazticOrange Jan 2014
The feeble tenderness of a father,
sinless in his love, debt-ful in his becomings.

Nothing short of the wonders of a child,
Never batting an eye, never blinking away from the grasping hands,
nor the warm cuddles in the middle of any stranger afternoon.

Drained in the lowest of societies moral views,
drunk in the sullen sorrow that speaks of his choices,
none can judge the begrudging love of a man for his child,
for his tip-toeing daughter;
for his dirt-rolling son.

Tell the sinners they sin, tell the crooks they crook the worst.
Make the judges about their failures,
and the peers of the world,
their Devil's due.

No mercy for a man in love,
no mercy for the minutes of safety,
no mercy for the forgotten names of the dead,
no more for the missing pieces of a puzzle,
only a child can see in a father.

— The End —