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Michael Hoffman Dec 2011
Your angel calls you
From her distant doorway
Beckoning come my weary love
Into the Bigness.

Lay your armored fears
In the cradle of our hearts joined  
where you may feel the pulse and light
That makes our love.

I am the chimera of your longings
The whisper of the dreams
You could never make come true
Before you came to my door.

Love the idea of us now
But expect no kiss in kind
Knowing my face must turn away
Or you will never be free.

This is how the Bigness works
Leaving you half-starved
Hungry for the touch of love's ghost
Those desires that are too small
That no longer serve
In the Bigness.

I am not the only angel calling
From the light you crave
And though you beg me to follow
This is the bittersweet truth of the Bigness
I will always leave you
You must always come into it alone.
This is killing me !  I just can't seem to trim it down.  Need stronger images, more flowing syntax. Sparse lightning I think.
the bigness of cannon
is skilful,

but i have seen
death’s clever enormous voice
which hides in a fragility
of poppies….

i say that sometimes
on these long talkative animals
are laid fists of huger silence.

I have seen all the silence
full of vivid noiseless boys

at Roupy
i have seen
between barrages,

the night utter ripe unspeaking girls.
A Poem for Three Voices

Setting:  A Maternity Ward and round about

FIRST VOICE:
I am slow as the world.  I am very patient,
Turning through my time, the suns and stars
Regarding me with attention.
The moon's concern is more personal:
She passes and repasses, luminous as a nurse.
Is she sorry for what will happen?  I do not think so.
She is simply astonished at fertility.

When I walk out, I am a great event.
I do not have to think, or even rehearse.
What happens in me will happen without attention.
The pheasant stands on the hill;
He is arranging his brown feathers.
I cannot help smiling at what it is I know.
Leaves and petals attend me.  I am ready.

SECOND VOICE:
When I first saw it, the small red seep, I did not believe it.
I watched the men walk about me in the office.  They were so flat!
There was something about them like cardboard, and now I had caught it,
That flat, flat, flatness from which ideas, destructions,
Bulldozers, guillotines, white chambers of shrieks proceed,
Endlessly proceed--and the cold angels, the abstractions.
I sat at my desk in my stockings, my high heels,

And the man I work for laughed:  'Have you seen something awful?
You are so white, suddenly.'  And I said nothing.
I saw death in the bare trees, a deprivation.
I could not believe it.  Is it so difficult
For the spirit to conceive a face, a mouth?
The letters proceed from these black keys, and these black keys proceed
From my alphabetical fingers, ordering parts,

Parts, bits, cogs, the shining multiples.
I am dying as I sit.  I lose a dimension.
Trains roar in my ears, departures, departures!
The silver track of time empties into the distance,
The white sky empties of its promise, like a cup.
These are my feet, these mechanical echoes.
Tap, tap, tap, steel pegs.  I am found wanting.

This is a disease I carry home, this is a death.
Again, this is a death.  Is it the air,
The particles of destruction I **** up?  Am I a pulse
That wanes and wanes, facing the cold angel?
Is this my lover then?  This death, this death?
As a child I loved a lichen-bitten name.
Is this the one sin then, this old dead love of death?

THIRD VOICE:
I remember the minute when I knew for sure.
The willows were chilling,
The face in the pool was beautiful, but not mine--
It had a consequential look, like everything else,
And all I could see was dangers:  doves and words,
Stars and showers of gold--conceptions, conceptions!
I remember a white, cold wing

And the great swan, with its terrible look,
Coming at me, like a castle, from the top of the river.
There is a snake in swans.
He glided by; his eye had a black meaning.
I saw the world in it--small, mean and black,
Every little word hooked to every little word, and act to act.
A hot blue day had budded into something.

I wasn't ready.  The white clouds rearing
Aside were dragging me in four directions.
I wasn't ready.
I had no reverence.
I thought I could deny the consequence--
But it was too late for that.  It was too late, and the face
Went on shaping itself with love, as if I was ready.

SECOND VOICE:
It is a world of snow now.  I am not at home.
How white these sheets are.  The faces have no features.
They are bald and impossible, like the faces of my children,
Those little sick ones that elude my arms.
Other children do not touch me:  they are terrible.
They have too many colors, too much life.  They are not quiet,
Quiet, like the little emptinesses I carry.

I have had my chances.  I have tried and tried.
I have stitched life into me like a rare *****,
And walked carefully, precariously, like something rare.
I have tried not to think too hard.  I have tried to be natural.
I have tried to be blind in love, like other women,
Blind in my bed, with my dear blind sweet one,
Not looking, through the thick dark, for the face of another.

I did not look.  But still the face was there,
The face of the unborn one that loved its perfections,
The face of the dead one that could only be perfect
In its easy peace, could only keep holy so.
And then there were other faces.  The faces of nations,
Governments, parliaments, societies,
The faceless faces of important men.

It is these men I mind:
They are so jealous of anything that is not flat!  They are jealous gods
That would have the whole world flat because they are.
I see the Father conversing with the Son.
Such flatness cannot but be holy.
'Let us make a heaven,' they say.
'Let us flatten and launder the grossness from these souls.'

FIRST VOICE:
I am calm.  I am calm.  It is the calm before something awful:
The yellow minute before the wind walks, when the leaves
Turn up their hands, their pallors.  It is so quiet here.
The sheets, the faces, are white and stopped, like clocks.
Voices stand back and flatten.  Their visible hieroglyphs
Flatten to parchment screens to keep the wind off.
They paint such secrets in Arabic, Chinese!

I am dumb and brown.  I am a seed about to break.
The brownness is my dead self, and it is sullen:
It does not wish to be more, or different.
Dusk hoods me in blue now, like a Mary.
O color of distance and forgetfulness!--
When will it be, the second when Time breaks
And eternity engulfs it, and I drown utterly?

I talk to myself, myself only, set apart--
Swabbed and lurid with disinfectants, sacrificial.
Waiting lies heavy on my lids.  It lies like sleep,
Like a big sea.  Far off, far off, I feel the first wave tug
Its cargo of agony toward me, inescapable, tidal.
And I, a shell, echoing on this white beach
Face the voices that overwhelm, the terrible element.

THIRD VOICE:
I am a mountain now, among mountainy women.
The doctors move among us as if our bigness
Frightened the mind.  They smile like fools.
They are to blame for what I am, and they know it.
They hug their flatness like a kind of health.
And what if they found themselves surprised, as I did?
They would go mad with it.

And what if two lives leaked between my thighs?
I have seen the white clean chamber with its instruments.
It is a place of shrieks.  It is not happy.
'This is where you will come when you are ready.'
The night lights are flat red moons.  They are dull with blood.
I am not ready for anything to happen.
I should have murdered this, that murders me.

FIRST VOICE:
There is no miracle more cruel than this.
I am dragged by the horses, the iron hooves.
I last.  I last it out.  I accomplish a work.
Dark tunnel, through which hurtle the visitations,
The visitations, the manifestations, the startled faces.
I am the center of an atrocity.
What pains, what sorrows must I be mothering?

Can such innocence **** and ****?  It milks my life.
The trees wither in the street.  The rain is corrosive.
I taste it on my tongue, and the workable horrors,
The horrors that stand and idle, the slighted godmothers
With their hearts that tick and tick, with their satchels of instruments.
I shall be a wall and a roof, protecting.
I shall be a sky and a hill of good:  O let me be!

A power is growing on me, an old tenacity.
I am breaking apart like the world.  There is this blackness,
This ram of blackness.  I fold my hands on a mountain.
The air is thick.  It is thick with this working.
I am used.  I am drummed into use.
My eyes are squeezed by this blackness.
I see nothing.

SECOND VOICE:
I am accused.  I dream of massacres.
I am a garden of black and red agonies.  I drink them,
Hating myself, hating and fearing.  And now the world conceives
Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
It is a love of death that sickens everything.
A dead sun stains the newsprint.  It is red.
I lose life after life.  The dark earth drinks them.

She is the vampire of us all.  So she supports us,
Fattens us, is kind.  Her mouth is red.
I know her.  I know her intimately--
Old winter-face, old barren one, old time bomb.
Men have used her meanly.  She will eat them.
Eat them, eat them, eat them in the end.
The sun is down.  I die.  I make a death.

FIRST VOICE:
Who is he, this blue, furious boy,
Shiny and strange, as if he had hurtled from a star?
He is looking so angrily!
He flew into the room, a shriek at his heel.
The blue color pales.  He is human after all.
A red lotus opens in its bowl of blood;
They are stitching me up with silk, as if I were a material.

What did my fingers do before they held him?
What did my heart do, with its love?
I have never seen a thing so clear.
His lids are like the lilac-flower
And soft as a moth, his breath.
I shall not let go.
There is no guile or warp in him.  May he keep so.

SECOND VOICE:
There is the moon in the high window.  It is over.
How winter fills my soul!  And that chalk light
Laying its scales on the windows, the windows of empty offices,
Empty schoolrooms, empty churches.  O so much emptiness!
There is this cessation.  This terrible cessation of everything.
These bodies mounded around me now, these polar sleepers--
What blue, moony ray ices their dreams?

I feel it enter me, cold, alien, like an instrument.
And that mad, hard face at the end of it, that O-mouth
Open in its gape of perpetual grieving.
It is she that drags the blood-black sea around
Month after month, with its voices of failure.
I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string.
I am restless.  Restless and useless.  I, too, create corpses.

I shall move north.  I shall move into a long blackness.
I see myself as a shadow, neither man nor woman,
Neither a woman, happy to be like a man, nor a man
Blunt and flat enough to feel no lack.  I feel a lack.
I hold my fingers up, ten white pickets.
See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks.
I cannot contain it.  I cannot contain my life.

I shall be a heroine of the peripheral.
I shall not be accused by isolate buttons,
Holes in the heels of socks, the white mute faces
Of unanswered letters, coffined in a letter case.
I shall not be accused, I shall not be accused.
The clock shall not find me wanting, nor these stars
That rivet in place abyss after abyss.

THIRD VOICE:
I see her in my sleep, my red, terrible girl.
She is crying through the glass that separates us.
She is crying, and she is furious.
Her cries are hooks that catch and grate like cats.
It is by these hooks she climbs to my notice.
She is crying at the dark, or at the stars
That at such a distance from us shine and whirl.

I think her little head is carved in wood,
A red, hard wood, eyes shut and mouth wide open.
And from the open mouth issue sharp cries
Scratching at my sleep like arrows,
Scratching at my sleep, and entering my side.
My daughter has no teeth.  Her mouth is wide.
It utters such dark sounds it cannot be good.

FIRST VOICE:
What is it that flings these innocent souls at us?
Look, they are so exhausted, they are all flat out
In their canvas-sided cots, names tied to their wrists,
The little silver trophies they've come so far for.
There are some with thick black hair, there are some bald.
Their skin tints are pink or sallow, brown or red;
They are beginning to remember their differences.

I think they are made of water; they have no expression.
Their features are sleeping, like light on quiet water.
They are the real monks and nuns in their identical garments.
I see them showering like stars on to the world--
On India, Africa, America, these miraculous ones,
These pure, small images.  They smell of milk.
Their footsoles are untouched.  They are walkers of air.

Can nothingness be so prodigal?
Here is my son.
His wide eye is that general, flat blue.
He is turning to me like a little, blind, bright plant.
One cry.  It is the hook I hang on.
And I am a river of milk.
I am a warm hill.

SECOND VOICE:
I am not ugly.  I am even beautiful.
The mirror gives back a woman without deformity.
The nurses give back my clothes, and an identity.
It is usual, they say, for such a thing to happen.
It is usual in my life, and the lives of others.
I am one in five, something like that.  I am not hopeless.
I am beautiful as a statistic.  Here is my lipstick.

I draw on the old mouth.
The red mouth I put by with my identity
A day ago, two days, three days ago.  It was a Friday.
I do not even need a holiday; I can go to work today.
I can love my husband, who will understand.
Who will love me through the blur of my deformity
As if I had lost an eye, a leg, a tongue.

And so I stand, a little sightless.  So I walk
Away on wheels, instead of legs, they serve as well.
And learn to speak with fingers, not a tongue.
The body is resourceful.
The body of a starfish can grow back its arms
And newts are prodigal in legs.  And may I be
As prodigal in what lacks me.

THIRD VOICE:
She is a small island, asleep and peaceful,
And I am a white ship hooting:  Goodbye, goodbye.
The day is blazing.  It is very mournful.
The flowers in this room are red and tropical.
They have lived behind glass all their lives, they have been cared for
        tenderly.
Now they face a winter of white sheets, white faces.
There is very little to go into my suitcase.

There are the clothes of a fat woman I do not know.
There is my comb and brush.  There is an emptiness.
I am so vulnerable suddenly.
I am a wound walking out of hospital.
I am a wound that they are letting go.
I leave my health behind.  I leave someone
Who would adhere to me:  I undo her fingers like bandages:  I go.

SECOND VOICE:
I am myself again.  There are no loose ends.
I am bled white as wax, I have no attachments.
I am flat and virginal, which means nothing has happened,
Nothing that cannot be erased, ripped up and scrapped, begun again.
There little black twigs do not think to bud,
Nor do these dry, dry gutters dream of rain.
This woman who meets me in windows--she is neat.

So neat she is transparent, like a spirit.
how shyly she superimposes her neat self
On the inferno of African oranges, the heel-hung pigs.
She is deferring to reality.
It is I.  It is I--
Tasting the bitterness between my teeth.
The incalculable malice of the everyday.

FIRST VOICE:
How long can I be a wall, keeping the wind off?
How long can I be
Gentling the sun with the shade of my hand,
Intercepting the blue bolts of a cold moon?
The voices of loneliness, the voices of sorrow
Lap at my back ineluctably.
How shall it soften them, this little lullaby?

How long can I be a wall around my green property?
How long can my hands
Be a bandage to his hurt, and my words
Bright birds in the sky, consoling, consoling?
It is a terrible thing
To be so open:  it is as if my heart
Put on a face and walked into the world.

THIRD VOICE:
Today the colleges are drunk with spring.
My black gown is a little funeral:
It shows I am serious.
The books I carry wedge into my side.
I had an old wound once, but it is healing.
I had a dream of an island, red with cries.
It was a dream, and did not mean a thing.

FIRST VOICE:
Dawn flowers in the great elm outside the house.
The swifts are back.  They are shrieking like paper rockets.
I hear the sound of the hours
Widen and die in the hedgerows.  I hear the moo of cows.
The colors replenish themselves, and the wet
Thatch smokes in the sun.
The narcissi open white faces in the orchard.

I am reassured.  I am reassured.
These are the clear bright colors of the nursery,
The talking ducks, the happy lambs.
I am simple again.  I believe in miracles.
I do not believe in those terrible children
Who injure my sleep with their white eyes, their fingerless hands.
They are not mine.  They do not belong to me.

I shall meditate upon normality.
I shall meditate upon my little son.
He does not walk. &n
Orion Schwalm Jul 2018
There once was a time
Gone by, gone by,
Picking blackberries till the vine was plucked dry.

Pricked finger and the blood of kings
washed the riverbed clean again
paving path for new bled love.

Story of my life: Hot Hand-Grenade.
Tripwire tickled by trespassing travelers
Red wire arteries
clipped and clipped and clipped
and simple minded times when birds sang songs to other birds
and chirped lyrical lines in the dusk.
More wonder. More trust. Less wanderlust.
Dust in the air. Still in the sunlight.
Through glass.
Broke. Fall. Cut. All roads lead to home.
Wood, River, Stone. A guide, a path, alone.
We all walk on our own
Striving for independence
Together.

Now is a time of faded glory, daffodils in freshly-mowed fields.
I still catch myself wishing I had the words to share
The bigness of what's out there.
I still hear myself singing your song of longing.
Still find myself longing for days of childish peace and ignorance
when we could pick blackberries from the bush without bombs falling in our basket.
Still a long way to go to hear the sound of surrender and the silent unfurling of egos into how alone we feel.
Still my heart, that lost love long ago, and surrendered a savior forever.
Hart, of dreams, slip into the stream.
Interstitch the seams.
Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth!
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength ***** against her hate.
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.
Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state,
I stand within her walls with not a shred
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time's unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.
Night Owl Dec 2012
Her
Upon her back, a smooth mossy boulder rests
An old turtle shell that has not yet lost its aqua blue hue
or the blooming flowers between its cracks

The skin on her slim legs are the color of jean
her feet are soft and padded, much thicker than could be called delicate
they are like puppies feet
the other girl's feet tumble and toddle over one another
clumsy
but she has mastered their bigness

Around her ankles is a woolen strip
creamy white and fluffy
fair and curly like a spaniel's chest
soft as a cloud's skin

her hair is a lion's mane
I have seen it whip and sting when she is angry
but now its floating round her head
in a golden halo
like sun burned wheat
it curves, dips and dives
rippling down her back
blazing

The best part of her
as she turns her head, I catch a glimpse
her eyes
sad, dark moons
fanned with lashes, curling upwards, brushing the lids
they glitter as she moves

If I were to dive into a bottomless pool of chocolate
that still would not be deep enough
If I slid into a smooth black lake rimmed with obsidian stone
that still would not be liquid enough
If I leapt into a ebony panther's fur
that still would not be dark enough
to match those eyes that melt
and freeze
in turn

If there was a golden goose who laid a golden egg
and if a spider delicate as lace spun around it a thin moon dust thread
then placed it inside the black heart of the cruelest duke of old
and took it out after three hundred years
then that might resemble the two scorching molten drops
that were my lovers eyes

--Lily
abby Nov 2015
your hands are gospel, writing history
with your fingertips and whispering
prayers up and down my spine
i called you my ravenous wildebeest, and i
said it with a smile painting my lips, but
you are everything wild,
thorny, and carnivore.
you're gonna eat me up with texas-sized
teeth and leave me a carcass in the
desert. but i don't mind
i want to be bone for you,
bare.
i think that maybe your bigness is going
to consume me
until i'm a star-soaked black hole
set me on fire, douse me in gasoline
make all the blood rush to my head
because kid, you're a firecracker
and i've always been in love with explosion.

*(a.m.c.)
Devon Webb Nov 2014
Don't
you ever
marvel
at the
crazy
bigness
of the
world?
Alyssa Spungen Mar 2010
staring into blue and green bigness
lost in the sky of her soul
repeating the nightmarish nothingness feeling
this emotion has left me immobile
she's big and blinks and breathes on her own
and she moves when i move
but this girl who is just a body bag
is not me can't be me was never me
however the trance has come to an end
and i've blinked
and i've realized the only difference
between the mirror and me
is that i can think
and i am alive
and breathing
and blinking
and crying
but you, the reflection, has no soul
PK Wakefield Apr 2011
with cords electric, you've strung me stinging, with them, me. your mouth
is an apple. your mouth is a fragrant cavern.
in which is my my mouth. mingling. from them springs a mountain

of wind. your hands are, on your wrists, pale spiders. on me slung. your web
of cool scuttling love. on my belly.
you go supple. into palms. they are a colour. your colour. the colour of death

just before you live. you are strenuous. a boundless taught moment. of unugly caffeine. i am a noise.
and you are a colour. you said it in me. big and tiny. in my tiny bigness.

and in the backyard. by the sleeping pile of forests. you draw the hammer
of your guns. and i wilt.
sprouting. effortlessly. infinitely. eating the gilt purse of your pinkest tiny.

and we are like wind. who grapples with leaves. and they touch like
lovers. we are like that.
like health. like sickness. freshly shearing. every molecule of our bodies

onto the indigo eaves of eve. quickly, carnivorously, slaughtering light.
let's then just be.
in quiet. and symmetry.
cords electric. strummed with fallen night.
Walter chased me into my house. I owed him five dollars I did not have and I thought I would trick him by getting out of his car quickly and into my house. I was fifteen years old.

Walter was quick too and when I turned to close the door and lock it, he was there to force the door open. I ran up the stairs and down the hall and into my room and Walter was just behind me, stride for stride.

I turned around and he slapped me.

I was small then, for fifteen. He was big for seventeen. I thought about what happened all night. What I should have done and why I did nothing. Mostly, I was ashamed.

I decided from that day forward, if I had an ***-kicking coming, I’d take it nose-to-nose. Better that than be chased into a corner like a dog that just ****** the carpet.

I learned from the Smiley brothers too. They would call my mother fat, and she was, but so was their mother and I’d let them know it right back. This always resulted in some fake pride and threats by the Brothers.

I came to understand that the weak take it, they don’t give it, and that I was The Weak. The Smiley Brothers knew it, Walter knew it, I knew it.

Time passed and I kept growing, bigger than the Smiley’s. Bigger than Walter.

I ran into Walter years later, as adults. He had the kind of defeated look that I assume a plantation owner would have after having done business as equals with a former slave.

But, I harbor no ill-will. I thank Walter and I carry our past with me today.
When I’m going to confront another man, Walter walks in the room, not me. When I make love, my amorous and mischievous sister is the lover.

Yes, she’s there, pushing my lovers, the way she pushed me, curious to find out what she can get them to do next. Oh, how good it is to be in control, to be the one with the whip, to be deliberate.

Like hyenas roaming the African plains, I too have come to understand leverage. But, I’d rather be the elephant than the lion. I consider myself fortunate.

After all, I’m a big guy that knows what it’s like to be small. I’ve been the tether ball and the pole. I’m gentle with my bigness and I’m good at feigning hurt for those that need to believe they have that power.

And as my path narrows, I find myself thanking Walter for the slap, thanking the Smiley Brothers for teaching me what’s worthy of a fight, and loving my sister. Above all.
Kiernan Norman Feb 2016
Shut off the sky if I ask you to.
Grab my world so brassy boring between
battles and courage.
I provide the cold hands and you provide the ghosts
We know constellations listen from melting harnessed skies
then share stories of their bigness.
June can wait a bit.
My verse spinning sad where you used your knees on the good nights.

Born alive, born with the thinnest layer of skin
Finding comedy in the ripped pages
Cutting phonetics apart
Witling words, truncate.

Shakespeare was an afterthought.
I’m bowing in the middle of the scene, I’m shaking off applause.
Punctuation becomes a commandment
I reverse and misuse.
Commas mean breath and in their place- used in succession,
mean run through corn fields like you’re being chased, like your fingers are full of cramps.

Injecting poetry like insulin.
Hoping it will seep into your bones
and strengthen the foundation
like the milk with you ice cubes you
had to drink with dinner.

Envy the women on nick at night who want new dresses and new babies and don’t scrape their insides out in front of readers and audiences because they’re bored and maybe not sure if they’re real.
again, not a real thing
Redshift Jun 2015
i wear ancient friendship anklets
chipped toenail polish, a gritty smile on my face
sunshine seeping under my fingernails i
walk on the top of the railguard and look down
over and over
teetering.

see the ditch,
see the road,
see the trees.
can't see the forest but i see the trees
and i feel a nearness to the wild undergrowth
missing that blank, trodden look of a ground too often explored
i crouch in the ferns and remember the feeling that i lost.

hair smelling like wind and earth and sky
fists against the trunk of the tree
in a forest i can't see
i fight the bigness of it all
i fight against the all encompassing picture that threatens to lose me
lose this tree
i chip off the bark and put it in my pocket.
lose the tree,
but still have
a piece

i stand in a forest that i refuse to see
comforting the trees
battling the sky
screaming at the crowded leaves
dead friendship anklets
dragging
me
it wasn't a dream.
Brianna May 2014
Efficacious.
Untroubled.
Buoyant.
Radiant.
Jocular.
Carefree.
Bli­the.
Pleased.
Contented.
Gratified.

They all are they opposite of subside.
What do they mean?

Big words are like a different language,
But the bigness doesn't need explaining.

All you have to do to understand is,
Look them up.
Ha. Parody poetic style of talk ***** to me (2nd stanza)
PK Wakefield Mar 2012
some short spark
you seem hard
hot over your
microphone
wailing
a bigness
larger
than
the
very
pert
figure
you cut
nicely out
the quavering
small air of a basement
houseshow crowded tangle
of faces and ears on edge at
the electric stroke of your agile
pick(but even larger is the alone
cloying to every word you uncarefully
hammer into the strangled pocket of youth)
i would take it i would take your alone voice
and i'd put it with mine and together perhaps
we would be something like some might call Love
Thandiwe Dec 2015
The simplicity of life is heavily veiled by the intricate challenges of life, leaves the soul broken and gasping at the possibility of a new life.

Better and masked with joy.

The homeless youth looking at life with vague eyesight,  sees no were beyond his unique DNA and instead succumbs to the prison of drugs.

Believes no further than what he was told and carries his dreams in the joint he smokes.

It puffs up and mingles with the clouds, escaping his head, reaching the Maker of a new beginnings.

We were never given a memo and were never expected to survive the cruelty that sunk its claws into our backs.
Dream further then your reality because that is were dreams reside.

As the years progress we need to worry....as it has been exposed...it only gets worse.

The Creator knows beyond this life, He gave this life and carries our lifes in His perfect Hand. The thoughts of Him no mind can imagine. It is said He breathed the stars into place, one of those stars being as big as Mount Everest, whole earth is merely the size of a golf ball when compared to its bigness....glorious and unimaginable, it's called Cannes Majories.

When the blows of life hit, we are never trained to fight, never ready to resist, we might sink but again the mass expects us to swim.

Is it even possible to see ourselves in their eyes, in His eyes....when the imperfections speak louder then our uniqueness.

Hold close those you love dearly and confine in their belief in you.

This world and life was never meant to be easy, love is what we dream of and live hoping we will one day be engulfed in the arms of our significant other.

Unjudged, undisturbed, in discriminated,  loved with everything that makes you who are.

So sudden time flies, leaving no room to expand and delve in the possibility.

This life we might not know, this time we may not know how to measure, some mysteries are left for the after life and the now is for the bold.

Secrets have no place in the open mouth of society  they always have something to say.

But who will you listen to......Battered and scared, hurt and perplexed as to why  bad things happen to good people....as the always say...

When a smile is all I could offer, in return a hot mess that leaves questioning my existence for as long as I'm breathing.

But wait, you have not robbed me, instead you peeled my eyes to see the world is ugly, not pretty and heavy laden by far worse abuse.

The challenges we face are greater than our intelligence, as they say only the bare and brave survive.

Day by day bad is reported, announced for the world to know we are heading for the worst.

We look at sights of our yester years and burn with deep sorrow, how did we survive.

The human being is clearly designed to handle far more then we can imagine.

Hold no reservations to what love can do...what God can do.

Crossing racial barriers and cutting deep into the fibres of the ******* propaganda.

There is no room for hate...how can there be when the simple things are free.

The teachers of faith tell us  so much truth and yet the heart fails to nurture the truths they speak.

The world seems to attract more then repel, we ought to listen yet it seems far from reach.

Time...They say heals all wounds, does it really?

Perhaps it does but fears has cemented our feet in the mess of our decisions.
Tanisha Jackland Jul 2016
"The mystery, the Door of the Woman, is the root of earth and heaven..."* Translated by Ursula LeGuin, Tao te Ching

Big bodies, you say,
don't belong here
woman as big body is
big failure to most
but your naivete begets you
and would have
you believe in such silly notions

Woman as bountiful and
big was made that way
She was born to breed more than babies
She houses the righteous dust of us
and all the gall she could muster
to free us

She is all of
us and nothing more
but the bigness she sees in her
large, black eyes
She swells more and more each day
counting the days when she will
scatter as gargantuan as the sky
Love of self
PK Wakefield Apr 2012
listen dead
                     is a lot like sleeping

in the earth
                     where there is not

life and there
                       is wormness

there is eated
                       a faint uncolour

a body
             a quiet
                          a bigness

'cause livings
                        finiter

but dead's
                   unfiniter

it's a nice long forever where you don't rise but you do you come out the earth in a trillion spears of grass
you come out as a dandelion and your heads a delicately flared puff of cottonlike earthbreath tousled
and fractures in the breeze, lilts, doesn't cease and goes making more life
                                                                                                                                       and
                                                                                                                                                  dead
                                                                                                                                             wasn't ever
Paige Sep 2014
I want a man whose soul is pure;
a deep ocean that is yet as clear as glass
Whose intentions are genuine and steadfast
Who will hold me to his heart…
I want a man whose love will start
anew every brilliant morning,
Who loves as tenderly as green leaves and budding branches
with all his strength, courageously;
Endlessly devoted.
Who loves God more than he loves me—
So much that he falls to his knees.

I want a man whose kisses are sweet like honey,
Whose words are cool as rain;
Who has a healing touch.
I want a man who burns like the sun
With love for the world:
A sweet-smelling blaze
Which fills up my lungs.

I want a man whose pride is as limber as young shoots of grass.
Who bends in the breezes.
Who breathes like the river, and lets things flow.
Whose anger is like warm sand,
that is soft and slips away easily.
I want a man who forgives as often as raindrops hit the soil.
Who cultivates his relationships with his loved ones
as carefully as a farmer tends to the earth.
He gives every last piece of himself to nourish it.
I want a man who ardently seeks my heart,
who endeavours for my soul,
Who recognises my worth.

I want a man who looks down at me from his tall tree height
Shoulders strong as a redwood, with gentle eyes
That pour out their beautiful emotions like a waterfall.
I want a man whose breath smells like coffee
And whose hugs feel like velvet and cinnamon.
I want forehead kisses, and winding walks in nature where the air is bracing.
I want to be hugged in the kitchen by arms as warm as a fireplace.
I want him to smile when he takes me into his arms every night
Smiling lips I can feel between kisses
and whispers of “I love you”
I want to be held like a delicate rose,
and ravished like an ocean storm.
Fall in time with the beat of his heart;
let it become the rhythm of my life.
I want to be protected like a lion,
and loved like a lamb.
It’s okay that I am small.
The bigness of his heart overwhelms me
And I melt…
Into his arms.

-- -
Word, 4 April 2014
Martin Bailes Apr 2017
Our Great & Wise Leader was just so busy
basking in his omnipotent all-knowingness
& radiating light that reached the four corners
of the world where millions were at this very
moment reflecting on the so, so many Time
covers he'd graced that our Huge Orange One
needed a nudge from his missus to snap him
out of his bigly reverie in which his coffers were
filling, & his bigness was getting bigger & his triumph
over all living beings was being chorused in the very
heavens above,

oh lord he was lost for awhile there as he forgot
to put his hand over his heart
during the anthem,

thanks Melania.
EP Robles Nov 2018
PET this pretty kitty,monster
oh, WET is progress-pink disease
of love,my victims(like when i break
your heart i won’t deny it all
so we suffer the Bigness of your
LITTLEST pelvic region
so unwish a world of pity flesh
and my need for guidance is so much
like-more the world born–pity my
poor flesh(i “hyper-magical beauty”)kitty
so WET and in need of a good petting hand
and two eyes upon
my ever unwished words(never save me
from these evil deeds of desire)ugh,
ultra-omnipotence makes me hot and with
a hell to pay the angels say,”what the
devil needs to know I always seem
to suffer myself;”
so pet this pretty kitty,monster
yeah, a wet progress-pink disease o’love

:: 09-01-2015 ::
Copyright © Ernest Robles
Tanisha Jackland Dec 2018
You are the cup
that runneth over
spilling into the
fear of the collective
of your ***** bigness
But silently we seek
the warmth of you
your body the
billow of clouds
a resting place
expanding until
we finally see
the true you
Dylan McFadden Dec 2019
Part 1: JOY & SORROW

It was around 3am…

When I learned that the
Sweetest Joy
Could, simultaneously, be the
Bitterest Sorrow

As I held my newborn son, Ezra
Close to my chest [Joy]
As he was (inconsolably) screaming his head off
Just below my right ear! [Sorrow]

But, oh, Ezra himself is a single joy
Who outweighs 10,000 sorrows!

And his parents CANNOT IMAGINE
Life without him

(Though our bodies ache to know, again,
The comforts
And rest
Our past life afforded us)

---

Part 2: THE BABIES ON THE PORCH

We COULD NOT WAIT to introduce Ezra
To everyone (and anyone)!

And the first time we took him outside
Onto the front porch
To meet the neighbors,
The most curious thing happened:

The one-and-a-half year old neighbor girl, Remi –
Short for “Remington” (yes, named after the rifle!) –
Hobbled over with her Daddy,
And pointed to Ezra, and said, “Baby!”

And I smiled
And said
(In a high-pitched, baby-talk voice),
“Yeah, he’s a Baby…”

---

Part 3: “BABIES” TO BABIES

Later, I was replaying this interaction
In my head –
Amused by the irony
Of the situation:

That this one-and-a-half year old BABY
Identified a thing
Smaller and younger than HERSELF
As a “Baby!”

And I wondered if she knows that
SHE too is a Baby –

If she ever looks in the mirror,
And points to HERSELF,
And says,
“Baby!”

---

Part 4: BABY GIRLS & BABY DOLLS

And then, I recalled
Having witnessed this ironic phenomenon before…

…As I watched our friend’s little girl, Addy,
Pushing her baby doll in a toy stroller
Around her house
As if it was her Baby

And I thought about how amazing it is
That “pre-programmed” into little girls
Is the nurturing and emotional concern of
A Mother,

And that, it’s not uncommon to find
Baby girls
Pretending to be Mommy’s to their
Baby dolls

---

Part 5: THIS “BABY”

And then, I thought about myself
In relation to my Heavenly Father

Who, in His Infinite Character,
And Bigness,
And Greater-Than-Us-Ness,
Is so unutterably HIGH above (and beyond) me

And a thought popped into my head –
In the form of an absurd question:

“Are we all just ‘playing with dolls’?”

.
Are we all just pushing proverbial "strollers" in a cosmic "nursery"?
Connor Veach Feb 2017
Big bouncy bright sky and diamonds and sky woman child and man full of diamonds, moon tree and sky with spinning smiles, light peace air and water cool with laughter smile of light diamond bright, bigness and bounce all there and up

— The End —