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Rube Frost Jan 2016
I await the rain
To fall down and wash away
The times I regret
So the pain is left behind
And the rain blesses me life
Mahdiya Patel Sep 2015
I WANT TO BE THE REASON YOUR BONES THAT ARE ATTACHED TO YOUR GUMS APPEAR ,TO BLESS HUMANITY AS A LIVING, BREATHING STAR BLESSES OUR DULL EARTH

                                                          ­  AND WHEN SPEAK OF ME I WANT YOUR SOUL TO POUR OUT OF YOUR TENDER LIPS GRACEFULLY BUT VIVID LIKE A WATERFALL
Jay M Wong Mar 2013
Remember, remember the fifth of November*,
But better, the past works and pieces remember, remember.
Forgot not have we? For “fair is foul and foul is fair”
Then forever, should we hold nearest those a’dear.
A mindless creature holds dearest his food at hand,
A mindless tree holds dearest its leaves, roots, and beloved land.
But a tree can hold forever his dearest leaves not,
For the current greatest will soon be tomorrow’s rot.
So what brews and exhales is but the autumn breeze,
And for what dances by such blesses: the autumn leaves.
Tell me you’ve forgotten not these dancing pests,
To dance and wander upon the skies, they need not rest.
Upon the window outdoors do they dare not dance,
For this distraction yields nothing but a mesmerizing trance.
With such improper dance comes improper lyrics unsung,
Which only sings to those previous works and dreadful puns.
So should we recall the Wallace and lobster and moral facade,
And the mysteries of black holes, the universe, and all that is odd.
And should we recall that “flowing sea of fallen heads,”
And that Hamlet and Othello that you may have also read.

From yesterday’s autumn to today’s now, can we rewind not,
Because since then, has numerous change been sought.
For even the great trees, their dearest lost leaves free a’last
Only to freely dance abandoned in the recent past.

But yet, this autumn has brought one of many treats,
For here in Amherst, Halloween was but a Christmas meet.
A snowstorm unexpectedly covers Amherst in a sheet of white,
Bringing the season of autumn to unexploited greater heights.
So a night in the midst of dark, were we forced to stay,
And a lack of classes announced the tomorrow’s day.
But as the day awoke, upon the ground – splits and shatters of numerous trees,
And aside their graves bore branches and their so-called beloved leaves.
Have we remembered the photos of this dramatic event?
To snow, to snow, and the aftermath’s discontent.
Had they not clung upon the dearest leaves will tis still stand,
So consequentially now, do both fall upon the failed land.
For now can we see that labeled beloved is truly beloved not,
For such trees has their deemed beloved, suffering brought.
For now can we see, to wear a crown so heavy is but a destined fall,
For upon the grounds are these trees split a’two; once wholesomely tall.
But shall some still stand, through the window I see,
A survivor, a survivor! A tree, a tree!
Though branches apart and leaves adieu,  
A month’s time, has this tree stood heavenly true.

And through the course of this semester, my writing a tree,
To grow, to deteriorate, to assimilate neither can be.
For a tree shall stand over its environmental stress,
So will the works and pieces that I dearly express.
For with these works, should the rules bend and stretch,
To house the hopeful, yet bombastic artist sketch.
From autumn ‘til now, has the trees changed greatly,
Although my writing, failed change has failed to see lately.
To be truly honest, my words to the ears may bleed,
But must I say see’st no change in my writing indeed.
And for me to reflect on change that’st occurred not,
For best I reflect on the opportunities that were given allot.
With the rules bent and greatly stretched,
Were the thoughts I mouthed gracefully etched.
Oh, be’st the tree, to stand greatfully proud,
For to have assimilation here is but unallowed.
Call it ignorance or ingratitude, actually it may be,
For dearest pieces and works can change not by he or she.
Call it grandiloquent or effervescent, for the rules bent,
For the treacherous waves of thought can I dare not prevent.
Be it impulse or nature to the second degree,
What be’st is be, and change not it by me.
Be’st the words, a flood, upon the papers it spills,
Maybe they be of value or just numerous frills.

So must I thank you to have one read my unmouthed words,
For my thoughts set free a’last, the skies, the heavenly birds.
Originally an assignment for a college writing class where students are to reflect upon their semester's work; written 2011. References to Shakespeare's Hamlet and Othello, an essay by Wallace regarding lobsters, a research paper regarding black hole, and the photo-essay of the events of 2011 at Amherst, where an unexpected snowstorm occurred.

*A reference to Guy Fawkes Day, the fifth of November; he designed a gunpowder plot in hopes to blow up the English Parliament. “Remember, remember the fifth of November” It is now celebrated as an annual holiday in London.
That second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds through the countryside,
Breathed hot and instant on my trace,—
I made six days a hiding-place
Of that dry green old aqueduct
Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked
The fire-flies from the roof above,
Bright creeping throuoh the moss they love.
—How long it seems since Charles was lost!
Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed
The country in my very sight;
And when that peril ceased at night,
The sky broke out in red dismay
With signal-fires; well, there I lay
Close covered o’er in my recess,
Up to the neck in ferns and cress,
Thinking on Metternich our friend,
And Charles’s miserable end,
And much beside, two days; the third,
Hunger o’ercame me when I heard
The peasants from the village go
To work among the maize; you know,
With us, in Lombardy, they bring
Provisions packed on mules, a string
With little bells that cheer their task,
And casks, and boughs on every cask
To keep the sun’s heat from the wine;
These I let pass in jingling line,
And, close on them, dear noisy crew,
The peasants from the village too;
For at the very rear would troop
Their wives and sisters in a group
To help, I knew; when these had passed,
I threw my glove to strike the last,
Taking the chance: she did not start,
Much less cry out, but stooped apart
One instant, rapidly glanced round,
And saw me beckon from the ground;
A wild bush grows and hides my crypt,
She picked my glove up while she stripped
A branch off, then rejoined the rest
With that; my glove lay in her breast:
Then I drew breath: they disappeared;
It was for Italy I feared.

An hour, and she returned alone
Exactly where my glove was thrown.
Meanwhile come many thoughts; on me
Rested the hopes of Italy;
I had devised a certain tale
Which, when ’twas told her, could not fail
Persuade a peasant of its truth;
I meant to call a freak of youth
This hiding, and give hopes of pay,
And no temptation to betray.
But when I saw that woman’s face,
Its calm simplicity of grace,
Our Italy’s own attitude
In which she walked thus far, and stood,
Planting each naked foot so firm,
To crush the snake and spare the worm—
At first sight of her eyes, I said,
“I am that man upon whose head
They fix the price, because I hate
The Austrians over us: the State
Will give you gold—oh, gold so much,
If you betray me to their clutch!
And be your death, for aught I know,
If once they find you saved their foe.
Now, you must bring me food and drink,
And also paper, pen, and ink,
And carry safe what I shall write
To Padua, which you’ll reach at night
Before the Duomo shuts; go in,
And wait till Tenebrae begin;
Walk to the Third Confessional,
Between the pillar and the wall,
And Kneeling whisper whence comes peace?
Say it a second time; then cease;
And if the voice inside returns,
From Christ and Freedom: what concerns
The cause of Peace?—for answer, slip
My letter where you placed your lip;
Then come back happy we have done
Our mother service—I, the son,
As you daughter of our land!”

Three mornings more, she took her stand
In the same place, with the same eyes:
I was no surer of sunrise
Than of her coming: we conferred
Of her own prospects, and I heard
She had a lover—stout and tall,
She said—then let her eyelids fall,
“He could do much”—as if some doubt
Entered her heart,—then, passing out,
“She could not speak for others—who
Had other thoughts; herself she knew:”
And so she brought me drink and food.
After four days, the scouts pursued
Another path: at last arrived
The help my Paduan friends contrived
To furnish me: she brought the news:
For the first time I could not choose
But kiss her hand and lay my own
Upon her head—”This faith was shown
To Italy, our mother;—she
Uses my hand and blesses thee!”
She followed down to the seashore;
I left and never saw her more.

How very long since I have thought
Concerning—much less wished for—aught
Beside the good of Italy,
For which I live and mean to die!
I never was in love; and since
Charles proved false, nothing could convince
My inmost heart I had a friend;
However, if I pleased to spend
Real wishes on myself—say, Three—
I know at least what one should be;
I would grasp Metternich until
I felt his red wet throat distil
In blood through these two hands; and next,
—Nor much for that am I perplexed—
Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,
Should die slow of a broken heart
Under his new employers; last
—Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast
Do I grow old and out of strength.—
If I resolved to seek at length
My father’s house again, how scared
They all would look, and unprepared!
My brothers live in Austria’s pay
—Disowned me long ago, men say;
And all my early mates who used
To praise me so—perhaps induced
More than one early step of mine—
Are turning wise; while some opine
“Freedom grows License,” some suspect
“Haste breeds Delay,” and recollect
They always said, such premature
Beginnings never could endure!
So, with a sullen “All’s for best,”
The land seems settling to its rest.
I think, then, I should wish to stand
This evening in that dear, lost land,
Over the sea the thousand miles,
And know if yet that woman smiles
With the calm smile; some little farm
She lives in there, no doubt; what harm
If I sate on the door-side bench,
And, while her spindle made a trench
Fantastically in the dust,
Inquired of all her fortunes—just
Her children’s ages and their names,
And what may be the husband’s aims
For each of them—I’d talk this out,
And sit there, for and hour about,
Then kiss her hand once more, and lay
Mine on her head, and go my way.

So much for idle wishing—how
It steals the time! To business now.
Devin Ortiz Aug 2015
Ego
The cold metal of a silver spoon
Leaves stale memoriesin my mouth
Never had the taste of luck
Nor privilege that blesses few.

Underrated, judged and boxed in
Beaten by myself, along with societies glares
Dare to escape, to fight
The cornered beast flashes fangs

Claiming a cocky egomaniac
Through blinds eyes and deaf ears.
Rise and die for a 1000 days.
Tremors of tears on the fringe
Of empty yet focused demeanor.

Never apologizing for monster
That reflects from success.
Tant que mon pauvre cœur, encor plein de jeunesse,
A ses illusions n'aura pas dit adieu,
Je voudrais m'en tenir à l'antique sagesse,
Qui du sobre Épicure a fait un demi-dieu
Je voudrais vivre, aimer, m'accoutumer aux hommes
Chercher un peu de joie et n'y pas trop compter,
Faire ce qu'on a fait, être ce que nous sommes,
Et regarder le ciel sans m'en inquiéter.

Je ne puis ; - malgré moi l'infini me tourmente.
Je n'y saurais songer sans crainte et sans espoir ;
Et, quoi qu'on en ait dit, ma raison s'épouvante
De ne pas le comprendre et pourtant de le voir.
Qu'est-ce donc que ce monde, et qu'y venons-nous faire,
Si pour qu'on vive en paix, il faut voiler les cieux ?
Passer comme un troupeau les yeux fixés à terre,
Et renier le reste, est-ce donc être heureux ?
Non, c'est cesser d'être homme et dégrader son âme.
Dans la création le hasard m'a jeté ;
Heureux ou malheureux, je suis né d'une femme,
Et je ne puis m'enfuir hors de l'humanité.

Que faire donc ? « Jouis, dit la raison païenne ;
Jouis et meurs ; les dieux ne songent qu'à dormir.
- Espère seulement, répond la foi chrétienne ;
Le ciel veille sans cesse, et tu ne peux mourir. »
Entre ces deux chemins j'hésite et je m'arrête.
Je voudrais, à l'écart, suivre un plus doux sentier.
Il n'en existe pas, dit une voix secrète ;
En présence du ciel, il faut croire ou nier.
Je le pense en effet ; les âmes tourmentées
Dans l'un et l'autre excès se jettent tour à tour,
Mais les indifférents ne sont que des athées ;
Ils ne dormiraient plus s'ils doutaient un seul jour.
Je me résigne donc, et, puisque la matière
Me laisse dans le cœur un désir plein d'effroi,
Mes genoux fléchiront ; je veux croire et j'espère.
Que vais-je devenir, et que veut-on de moi ?
Me voilà dans les mains d'un Dieu plus redoutable
Que ne sont à la fois tous les maux d'ici-bas ;
Me voilà seul, errant, fragile et misérable,
Sous les yeux d'un témoin qui ne me quitte pas.
Il m'observer il me suit. Si mon cœur bat trop vite,
J'offense sa grandeur et sa divinité.
Un gouffre est sous mes pas si je m'y précipite,
Pour expier une heure il faut l'éternité.
Mon juge est un bourreau qui trompe sa victime.
Pour moi, tout devient piège et tout change de nom
L'amour est un péché, le bonheur est un crime,
Et l'œuvre des sept jours n'est que tentation
Je ne garde plus rien de la nature humaine ;
Il n'existe pour moi ni vertu ni remord .
J'attends la récompense et j'évite la peine ;
Mon seul guide est la peur, et mon seul but, la mort
On me dit cependant qu'une joie infinie
Attend quelques élus. - Où sont-ils, ces heureux ?
Si vous m'avez trompé, me rendrez-vous la vie ?
Si vous m'avez dit vrai, m'ouvrirez-vous les cieux ?
Hélas ! ce beau pays dont parlaient vos prophètes,
S'il existe là-haut, ce doit être un désert
Vous les voulez trop purs, les heureux que vous faites,
Et quand leur joie arrive, ils en ont trop souffert.
Je suis seulement homme, et ne veux pas moins être,
Ni tenter davantage. - À quoi donc m'arrêter ?
Puisque je ne puis croire aux promesses du prêtre,
Est-ce l'indifférent que je vais consulter ?

Si mon cœur, fatigué du rêve qui l'obsède,
À la réalité revient pour s'assouvir,
Au fond des vains plaisirs que j'appelle à mon aide
Je trouve un tel dégoût, que je me sens mourir
Aux jours même où parfois la pensée est impie,
Où l'on voudrait nier pour cesser de douter,
Quand je posséderais tout ce qu'en cette vie
Dans ses vastes désirs l'homme peut convoiter ;
Donnez-moi le pouvoir, la santé, la richesse,
L'amour même, l'amour, le seul bien d'ici-bas !
Que la blonde Astarté, qu'idolâtrait la Grèce,
De ses îles d'azur sorte en m'ouvrant les bras ;
Quand je pourrais saisir dans le sein de la terre
Les secrets éléments de sa fécondité,
Transformer à mon gré la vivace matière
Et créer pour moi seul une unique beauté ;
Quand Horace, Lucrèce et le vieil Épicure,
Assis à mes côtés m'appelleraient heureux
Et quand ces grands amants de l'antique nature
Me chanteraient la joie et le mépris des dieux,
Je leur dirais à tous : « Quoi que nous puissions faire,
Je souffre, il est trop **** ; le monde s'est fait vieux
Une immense espérance a traversé la terre ;
Malgré nous vers le ciel il faut lever les yeux ! »
Que me reste-t-il donc ? Ma raison révoltée
Essaye en vain de croire et mon cœur de douter
De chrétien m'épouvante, et ce que dit l'athée,
En dépit de mes sens, je ne puis l'écouter.
Les vrais religieux me trouveront impie,
Et les indifférents me croiront insensé.
À qui m'adresserai-je, et quelle voix amie
Consolera ce cœur que le doute a blessé ?

Il existe, dit-on, une philosophie
Qui nous explique tout sans révélation,
Et qui peut nous guider à travers cette vie
Entre l'indifférence et la religion.
J'y consens. - Où sont-ils, ces faiseurs de systèmes,
Qui savent, sans la foi, trouver la vérité,
Sophistes impuissants qui ne croient qu'en eux-mêmes ?
Quels sont leurs arguments et leur autorité ?
L'un me montre ici-bas deux principes en guerre,
Qui, vaincus tour à tour, sont tous deux immortels ;
L'autre découvre au ****, dans le ciel solitaire,
Un inutile Dieu qui ne veut pas d'autels.
Je vois rêver Platon et penser Aristote ;
J'écoute, j'applaudis, et poursuis mon chemin
Sous les rois absolus je trouve un Dieu despote ;
On nous parle aujourd'hui d'un Dieu républicains.
Pythagore et Leibniz transfigurent mon être.
Descartes m'abandonne au sein des tourbillons.
Montaigne s'examine, et ne peut se connaître.
Pascal fuit en tremblant ses propres visions.
Pyrrhon me rend aveugle, et Zénon insensible.
Voltaire jette à bas tout ce qu'il voit debout
Spinoza, fatigué de tenter l'impossible,
Cherchant en vain son Dieu, croit le trouver partout.
Pour le sophiste anglais l'homme est une machine.
Enfin sort des brouillards un rhéteur allemand
Qui, du philosophisme achevant la ruine,
Déclare le ciel vide, et conclut au néant.

Voilà donc les débris de l'humaine science !
Et, depuis cinq mille ans qu'on a toujours douté,
Après tant de fatigue et de persévérance,
C'est là le dernier mot qui nous en est rester
Ah ! pauvres insensés, misérables cervelles,
Qui de tant de façons avez tout expliqué,
Pour aller jusqu'aux cieux il vous fallait des ailes ;
Vous aviez le désir, la foi vous a manqué.
Je vous plains ; votre orgueil part d'une âme blesses,
Vous sentiez les tourments dont mon cœur est rempli
Et vous la connaissiez, cette amère pensée
Qui fait frissonner l'homme en voyant l'infini.
Eh bien, prions ensemble,-abjurons la misère
De vos calculs d'enfants, de tant de vains travaux !
Maintenant que vos corps sont réduits en poussière
J'irai m'agenouiller pour vous sur vos tombeaux.
Venez, rhéteurs païens, maîtres de la science,
Chrétiens des temps passés et rêveurs d'aujourd'hui ;
Croyez-moi' la prière est un cri d'espérance !
Pour que Dieu nous réponde, adressons-nous à lui,
Il est juste, il est bon ; sans doute il vous pardonne.
Tous vous avez souffert, le reste est oublié.
Si le ciel est désert, nous n'offensons personne ;
Si quelqu'un nous entend, qu'il nous prenne en pitié !

Ô toi que nul n'a pu connaître,
Et n'a renié sans mentir,
Réponds-moi, toi qui m'as fait naître,
Et demain me feras mourir !

Puisque tu te laisses comprendre,
Pourquoi fais-tu douter de toi ?
Quel triste plaisir peux-tu prendre
À tenter notre bonne foi ?

Dès que l'homme lève la tête,
Il croit t'entrevoir dans les cieux ;
La création, sa conquête,
N'est qu'un vaste temple à ses yeux.

Dès qu'il redescend en lui-même,
Il l'y trouve ; tu vis en lui.
S'il souffre, s'il pleure, s'il aime,
C'est son Dieu qui le veut ainsi.

De la plus noble intelligence
La plus sublime ambition
Est de prouver ton existence,
Et de faire épeler ton nom.

De quelque façon qu'on t'appelle,
Brahma, Jupiter ou Jésus,
Vérité, Justice éternelle,
Vers toi tous les bras sont tendus.

Le dernier des fils de la terre
Te rend grâces du fond du coeur,
Dès qu'il se mêle à sa misère
Une apparence de bonheur.

Le monde entier te glorifie :
L'oiseau te chante sur son nid ;
Et pour une goutte de pluie
Des milliers d'êtres t'ont béni.

Tu n'as rien fait qu'on ne l'admire ;
Rien de toi n'est perdu pour nous ;
Tout prie, et tu ne peux sourire
Que nous ne tombions à genoux.

Pourquoi donc, ô Maître suprême,
As-tu créé le mal si grand,
Que la raison, la vertu même
S'épouvantent en le voyant ?

Lorsque tant de choses sur terre
Proclament la Divinité,
Et semblent attester d'un père
L'amour, la force et la bonté,

Comment, sous la sainte lumière,
Voit-on des actes si hideux,
Qu'ils font expirer la prière
Sur les lèvres du malheureux ?

Pourquoi, dans ton oeuvre céleste,
Tant d'éléments si peu d'accord ?
À quoi bon le crime et la peste ?
Ô Dieu juste ! pourquoi la mort ?

Ta pitié dut être profonde
Lorsqu'avec ses biens et ses maux,
Cet admirable et pauvre monde
Sortit en pleurant du chaos !

Puisque tu voulais le soumettre
Aux douleurs dont il est rempli,
Tu n'aurais pas dû lui permettre
De t'entrevoir dans l'infini.

Pourquoi laisser notre misère
Rêver et deviner un Dieu ?
Le doute a désolé la terre ;
Nous en voyons trop ou trop peu.

Si ta chétive créature
Est indigne de t'approcher,
Il fallait laisser la nature
T'envelopper et te cacher.

Il te resterait ta puissance,
Et nous en sentirions les coups ;
Mais le repos et l'ignorance
Auraient rendu nos maux plus doux.

Si la souffrance et la prière
N'atteignent pas ta majesté,
Garde ta grandeur solitaire,
Ferme à jamais l'immensité.

Mais si nos angoisses mortelles
Jusqu'à toi peuvent parvenir ;
Si, dans les plaines éternelles,
Parfois tu nous entends gémir,

Brise cette voûte profonde
Qui couvre la création ;
Soulève les voiles du monde,
Et montre-toi, Dieu juste et bon !

Tu n'apercevras sur la terre
Qu'un ardent amour de la foi,
Et l'humanité tout entière
Se prosternera devant toi.

Les larmes qui l'ont épuisée
Et qui ruissellent de ses yeux,
Comme une légère rosée
S'évanouiront dans les cieux.

Tu n'entendras que tes louanges,
Qu'un concert de joie et d'amour
Pareil à celui dont tes anges
Remplissent l'éternel séjour ;

Et dans cet hosanna suprême,
Tu verras, au bruit de nos chants,
S'enfuir le doute et le blasphème,
Tandis que la Mort elle-même
Y joindra ses derniers accents.
Sam Temple Feb 2014
spirited ferret
rare, ear hair tipped white
frightened pip carefully snaring
darting pairs flipping
clipped wings, carted
shipped riggings sing
lark songs
darkness brings
wronged Nips
angered and singing
ears ring banging hangers
tearing string Narcs protest
ingesting *** freeing boxes
rocks bling
****** tracks shear hearts
parked rack blesses
black guests
I have this idea for poem-art in which substance and context are replaced with emotional responces to word sound combinations and the look of differnt ideas placed together that have no place along side one and other....we'll see how it goes
Forbidden fruit of Barbados
Oh how she glows.

Sectional sweetness
Bitter in aftertaste

My favorite things in life
Always seem to be similar

Maybe because
I prefer the familiar

The curve and the shape
Contour and ripe

As I slice thee in half
I notice your walls

Serrated spoon in hand
Showing gratitude toward the land

For it bears blessed fruits
The fruit blesses me

Upon receiving sour
Bite after bite

The bitterness sets in
Night after night

Grapefruit makes me happy
Grapefruit makes me smile

I hope that I don’t get sick
At least not for a while
I love grapefruit, I just hope it doesn't make me sick!!
Beauty is a blessing and a curse
For both you and I

Whenever I see you utilising your curse
I can only sit and comply

I can become so distracted by your blessing
That I can't unfix my eyes

When I see your entire blessing
I feel the need to have you in my life

Beauty is a curse to me
It is my weakness

It takes over everything within me
Then all I see is your evoking bliss

It is a catalyst to my thoughts and actions,
But negatively effects my loyalty

Then my actions lead to insanity
Kate Deter Feb 2013
Dew
The dew is frozen.
It glitters on the ground like crystal,
Diamonds to those who see.
It brings an edge to the world,
As though everything’s in sharp focus.
So ephemeral, this frosty dew,
Gracing us only so long as it’s permitted.
Its cold beauty is breathtaking,
And demands silent reverence.
So why, then, do people find it
Nothing more than a nuisance,
And yet gripe when its life expires?
Beautiful even in death,
The dew blesses our sight with its grace,
Reminding us that every so often,
Silence must be kept,
So that the world may speak to our hearts.
Poetic T Jul 2014
The moon was full, florescent light
Bathed me, touched my soul
It dripped in to the white,
Corrupted,
Tainted,
Polluted,
My soul had claws
It was the time for the beast,
To shed,
To rip,
Shred this weak human husk,
Let the animal out, claws grow
The person is gone.
Only the wolf looking towards the moon
The lust, the hunger is on,
Biting,
Clawing,
Flesh,
Apart from the bone,
The moon blesses the ****, shining down
Its purity, shines upon the blood
As what once was warm, now pooled cold upon the floor
The hours past since man was gone,
Only the animal, till the night is done,
Sun rises, pain
Subsides,
Wains,
Dwindles,
Till only the man now exists,
Guilt over what was and passed
The deaths, blood tainted,  
Still the taste of death resides in his mouth.
The taste never fades as once again man is wolf
And the cycle of good and bad,
The man of light a doctor saving lives
The wolf animal of night taking away
They are two but one,
Until one passes the other will not fade away.
Sam Temple Jun 2014
piercing my right eye from within
daggers, sharpened with blame
fly true
through the blue
into faces of lying dry-cleaned faces
puffed and crimson
spittle gathering
hate speech teachings
reaching beaches far from informed shores –
new ***** blesses the young
shoveling modified nutrients
smiles beam
glistening sweat runs
internal furnace matching
warm glow of planned dumbing-down
vaccination zombie
mercury poisoned baby rocks silently –
embryonic images
in laboratory dishes
sample size offering a slight variance
right-wing politicians eagerly await
the first course
stem-cell soufflé
desperation sets in as reality takes hold
the shift already happened –
glancing at a dime-store wristwatch  
plotting an afternoon of debauchery
slowing pulling off the square
admiring the show -
Hal Loyd Denton Mar 2012
Hodge Podge

I entered a shop titled paraphernalia in Canary Row as I started to enter a raw sea breeze rose it
Blew hard against my back little did I know I was about to enter a new world the place set the

Mood so much nothing that set everywhere but was in perfect order what a place to search for an
Indefinable item moving from one discarded disgraced piece to the next then an item of interest a

Pearl among bitter residue a case of leather with gold initials they were meaningless but they
Seemed to gleam like the time I approached a man setting in front of his house I was just a kid

Although I had lot of zeal for the things of God well it couldn’t be a worse situation as far as
Timing goes I just left a woman’s house that tended bar I thought what an opportunity she will

Be thrilled to see what is in store for her life that bespoke despair that has been more years than
I like to think about but when I shook her hand it was like taking a cold wet fish and holding it
I’m not being insulting just truthful the naive blur I was in was quickly taught a lesson it was like
Having a propitious sale on beautiful blue water and all held promise of good things unfolding

But the sea is the master of surprise that is it’s most captivating quality so from nowhere a
Knifing Wind rips the sail loose for a bit chaos rules that was my feeling as I stumbled away and

Came upon this man as said it wasn’t perfect he was opening mail just relaxing and I show up
And I’m Arguing this in my head to God he won’t listen it will just be repeat of what happened

But as I Passed his fine big car the sun glinted on the chrome and in that briefest of moments
God Spoke this is who I want you to talk to sounds good no God was talking to a deaf guy what

A Picture A tiny speck saying oh sure to the one who created this speck an all the rest so I
Soldiered On he probably thought what his problem I exuded a lot but none being confidence

Well after a Quick hello and in the next breath ready to say goodbye the spirit within started
Speaking Winsomely He dropped his guard I didn’t stick my foot in my mouth and we talked

Close to two Hours and at the end he gave me the greatest compliment he said you are a great
Salesman and it meant a lot because that was his line of work again don’t have contempt for

Small things so the Case intrigued me and spoke of promise so I purchased it a bit of history
Picked up a last stop for durable goods and it was such an announcement for the times it came

From it had forties written all over it when I picked it up I felt movement that felt like loose
Papers moving instantly it became more valuable what if it was an old movie script they have all

Kinds of stories about How Hollywood was everywhere up and down the coast and didn’t I bunk
Next to John Steinbeck’s son when I first got to Fort Ord the initials were in fact JS maybe he

Started another Story like Cannery Row Tortilla flat a sequel to Grapes of Wrath my heart raced
As I envisioned Spencer Tracy carrying this very case with the script for Tortilla flat they were

Both drinkers Maybe they switched cases in a haze of drink not unlike the mist that socks in the
Monterey Peninsula whatever it was I had to get alone and search the contents so I returned to

My sea Cabin at Big Sur it was already famous then Jack Kerouac spent time there he opened
Many Doors for me I took to the road in an imagination and later in real life I love the sea so the

Cabin Inside looked like a miniature museum of all things nautical I had the immense fire place
Roaring and the sea howled incessantly and the cabin groaned and creaked slightly what music it

Played To enhance the moment I doused the electric lights and lit the lantern you picked it up to
Carry it and you saw yourself as the old man trudging his way up the difficult path to the light

House Walking against a contrary wind so I placed the lantern on the great table that rested on a
Driftwood base sure I paid too much for it in Carmel but it was the best five hundred I ever spent

The twisted gnarled wood glowed with sea glory so now the time came to open the case with
Excited fingers I pressed and they released and I opened the lid in the shadowed light the paper

Might as well have been Silas Marner’s gold it was paper like rich parchment and strangely it
Had a golden quill I thought typical California you could find anything if you searched very

Long Of course no ink or well to put into it but since I am a calligraphic buff that likes that
Exquisite Way of writing I had the necessary equipment to get started writing with such richness

Crashing Against my heart and mind lost souls at sea and only their case survived it was time to
Write something the quill glowed the tip dripped as black blood the sound of it scratching sent a

Shiver through me the paper licked the ink and pulled it deep within its aged pores for hours I
Was truly lost on a sea of ink well what did you write well friend that is when the pirate in me
Arises and I have to say you will have to wait for the book but I will leave you with this it is

Dedicated to two Donnas’ one who got me restarted and the other that blesses me and others
With her soulful writing not the end by a long shot
Arjun Chopra May 2017
​Your body

Is my pilgrimage

Of worship



A place

Where my hands reach to

Offer absolutions



I use my silvery tongue

To get you around the bend

And tell you that your flesh



Blesses mine, with a stain

That’s more than just skin deep



So I press my heart against yours

Waiting for the two drums

To beat as one



I press my mouth against yours

And eat the words

That died upon your lips



My mouth traces

Every inch of your skin and bones

Until my hunger is satiated



A sliver of the midnight moon

Bathes us while we

Tangle ourselves deeper into one another



Every heavy breath, a sonnet

Every bite, an ode

Every moan, those three tired words



The air is heavy

With the scent of old perfume

While our two bodies talk



The burden on my hands, absolves

The stars in the sky, dissolves

And the argument our bodies have, resolves

As we bloom synchronously
Julie Grenness Nov 2015
I, Angelus, bring you Good News this day,
Joyous the world, one blessed day,
Infant King born on Christmas Day,
Now we only see the Nativity in a play,
While commercialising Christmas Day,
Good excuse for a holiday,
Celebrated in diverse ways,
Too much cant in Christmas Day?
Baby Jesus still blesses us,
As the world turns, spake I, Angelus,
Let' s worship our Infant King with giving,
Life is, indeed, for the living,
The future is for the young,
Their world has now begun,
Jesus spreads His healing love,
Let's bless our lives like peaceful doves,
I, Angelus, bring you Good News this day,
Every day National Peace and Happiness day,
We ain't dead yet, I, Angelus, does say,
From bad shall come good one day,
God blesses us on this Holy day,
This, the true meaning of Christ on Christmas Day,
I, Angelus, bring you Hope and Good News this day.
Inspired by a poetry contest, the poet is a participant in the Nativity.
Joe Cole Mar 2014
This poem was witten by my godfather Hilair Beloc 1870-1953

When I am living in the midlands
That are sodden and unkind
I light my lamp in the evening
My work is left behind
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind

The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea
And its there walking in the high woods
That I could wish to be
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me

The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells
Their skies are fast and grey
From their castle walls a man may see
The mountains far away

The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong
A rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along
The have the secret of the rocks
And the oldest kind of song

But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise
They get their laughter from the loud surf
And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our sister the spring
When over the sea she flies
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet
She blesses us with surprise

I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there
And along the skyline of the Downs
So noble and so bare

A lost thing I could never find
Nor a broken thing mend
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end
Who will be there to comfort me
Or who will be my friend

I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald
They watch the stars from the silent folds
They stiffly plough the fields
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed

If ever I become a rich man
Or if ever I grow to be old
I will build a house with a deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold
And there shall the Sussex songs  be sung
And the story of Sussex told

I will hold my house in the high woods
Within a walk of the sea
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me
M Vogel Jan 2022
sweet lord, girl..

I like the way your brain moves its thoughts  into its own deeper
realms with each thing said. You have that rare gift of being able to
be your own internal/external Muse.. even while midstream within
the process of writing it all out.

Alone.. maybe more than you may think you want to be, you are
never lonely. A very rare thing indeed in the modern world, kid.

Very unique, and very very special.
(It is very much the truth..)

I would always hope for the gifted ones such as yourself,  that you
would always and ever-increasingly be able to see your own
worthiness in yourself in being chosen to be a bearer of such a
wonderful gift. Kierkegaard was a chosen recipient such as you
(your rare mind's unfolding thought processes are in ways, much
like his), and through his own beautiful self-love, became.. through
his stewardship of the gift, the father of Existentialism. He felt the
Living Word within him, causing his wonderous mind to feel also,
through thought.. which in turn, churned deeply  his
forever-goldmining heart, which in turn, mused his mind into deeper processings of the deeply-felt word's expressions--

ever-cycling.. ever churning within him,  until every cell within his
electrified body became fully lit..

And out onto paper it all went.. as what was so beautifully
self-Mused within him was brought out from an internally-lit
darkness and into the full light of day. The deeply-searching, in you
is in relationship with the gifted Magical  in you,
(which is also so very much you [the gifts are irrevocable]),
bringing out words and concepts/thought processes pretty much
previously unknown here in this world. Make your own self-Love..
self forgiveness.. self-acceptance, and self understanding.. all your Art..

And it will be your art that most blesses this world down here.
You've already got the goods, kid.. watch them become greatly
clarified in you as your own self-Love becomes your own finest art.
The gift, you already have-- clear as clear can be. Shame and
condemnation are powerful enough down here to make even the
most purest of pure, become obscure.

Mm.
Yeah, kid..

"In the end..
The Love you take (in)
Is equal to
The Love,  you make"


Make your own self love, your goal-- surround yourself with
loving truthtellers who will love you for who you truly are..  rather
than what they want you to be (or think you should be)  for them.

Clearly you are worth every single bit of it all.

~Paul
(preston
M Vogel
F Unting Somethingoranother)



The best ever death metal band out of Denton
Was a couple of guys who'd been friends since grade school
One was named Cyrus, the other was Jeff
And they practiced twice a week in Jeff's bedroom

The best ever death metal band out of Denton
Never settled on a name..
But the top three contenders after weeks of debate
      Were Satan's Fingers,
      ..and The Killers,

       and The Hospital Bombers

Jeff and Cyrus believed in their hearts
They were headed for stage lights and lear jets and fortune and fame
So in script that made prominent use of a pentagram
They stenciled their drum heads and guitars with their names

And this was how Cyrus got sent to the school
Where they told him he'd never be famous
And this was why Jeff, in the letters he'd write to his friend
Helped develop a plan to get even

When you punish a person for dreaming his dream
Don't expect him to thank or forgive you
The best ever death metal band out of Denton
Will in time,  both outpace and outlive you
Hail Satan
Hail Satan, tonight
Hail Satan
Hail, hail

https://youtu.be/AGHmr1NyBTw
god bless the beautiful hospital bomber in us all
brian mclaughlin Jan 2015
The tree takes it's time
for to reach maturity
then blesses with shade

Men imitate trees
once they reach maturity
they bless with wisdom

A tree with deep roots
withstands the winds at their worst
to bend and not break

A mans deep beliefs
hold fast throughout his days and
cannot be broken

The tree and the man
bless the world and together
can be seen as one
Riptide Jan 2014
I am who you are

I know... Or maybe I don't
But atleast my thoughts
Have a spark of knowledge and experience
My words are never intended to hurt they only wish to heal
And tonight
With your somber and delightful heart
I pray that my presence in your life: Blesses you
I pray that your presence Blesses us
Greatness and patience is a attribute God perched in your life
And relentlessly I'm going to be your beacon of light
For you I have cherished
I'm just a Christian sod
That wishes neither ever for hurt, sorrow nor for anything odd
But you Greg
Are a different book in this life
Trying to use words to describe you...
Would be Blasphemous
I have come about that platonic friendship
And reached the life long stage of friendship, hardship and joy
In amid who I am is who you are
But who you are, I am

By: Master Magnus Robinson
Mike Finney Jan 2012
A Man will ask himself:

Is the glass taken of half

Or given of it?


We hear this tale

Unworn and aged

(Like a fine wine

Save a rich cheese

Always a decadence

An adornment so sweet.

Fruits that our mother

Blesses us with)

and look into the crystal

Search for grace

We think comes from

Wonders of the light.

But man’s feeble mind

Is so beguiled

(Hoodwinked into

Vizard

By the lures

Of such a beautiful thing

As crystal.)

And rapt with greed.


So much brawn

Is put to

Pondering the

Substance

Of the vessel

(such thought

That manifests itself

In a disease

More blood ridden

Than a

Plague)

in materialism

(the silent

Murderer

That infects the

Mind of a

worldly soul)

and has no cure

To emerge from

A field of

Medical travesty.


When all has

Passed

And man answers

for his sins,

One will in the end

Discover

the question

That never works it’s way

To the lips

(If not even

Figments of thought

In words)

What have you to say
About the fill
Of a glass
When it has
Shattered
Upon the floor?
sage short Sep 2015
The Garden Boy has eyes greener than the grass that will sometimes be the color of the dirt too
The Garden Boy reminds me of a distant galaxy because he is so close yet unreachable
The Garden Boy spends his time learning about the world and dreams of changing it
The Garden Boy met my eyes under the full moon and his parted lips were saying words that he never would
I wish The Garden Boys’ hands were welcoming to mine
The Garden Boy has a love he can’t admit
The Garden Boy is the garden boy because he reminds me of all the different flowers and the sunshine that blesses them and the sky that changes paintings every evening and he reminds me of the storms that he hates and the sunshine that he loves and the rain dripping from my eyes as I thought about how beautiful he was
The Garden Boy loves the world but I don’t think he loves me
The Garden Boy probably doesn’t have a garden
The Garden Boy is a poem of leaves turning orange as fall descends from the heavens
The Garden Boy told me he likes my hair but maybe he’s receiving wavelengths from a different star and my hair is red
But Garden Boy, I want us to be purple
s.s x 9/13/15
Eli Nash May 2014
Tears of creation
fall from the overcast blanketing
of the billowy, white fields overhead,
blended with a requiem
that only the absence of dawn could manifest,
and kissed upon
by the ever-fluorescent canvases
of smoke, and flame
that carelessly intrude
upon the horizon.

Oh,

how fastidious is the misting
that blesses this premature day,
invoking a spontaneity
within the mundane clockworkings
that symbolically define
the average,
the everyday
and the norm.

Glorious is this sight to behold.

Not only by our soulpanes,
but through the remainder;
our entire spectrum of sensory awareness
that we are so gifted to have received,
yet,
rarely do their values go little more
than depreciated.

The refreshment
that quenches our starving skin,
and slowly enfilms us
with the caressings of unrequited purity.

The dampening of the air
that perpetually enthralls
even the most tolerant
resisters to aroma.

The crispness;
unadulterated,
and without perversions of the modern day;
enrapturous are the resonant entrails of the strata
that ever so gently envelop,
and awaken our slumbering buds.

And finally,
but without conviction,
the resound of symphonic harmony,
abound with the alluring enchantment
that,
in seamless refrain,
could only be achieved
by such a reverent miracle of nature.

These are the moments in which I revel.

And blessed be Her,
who benevolently grants us
with such an immaculance
of cornerless beauty.

Graceful, and sacred is the oasis in the sky.
Coming from your humble and holy
houses each morning bringing blessings, your lively and
cheerful "Good Morning!" sounds - all the power and energy
that a good life brings. Living by the light God gives you
every day, eschewing electricity,
and all of the worst that it brings with it,
teaching your children and loving your wives
with gentleness and devotion.

Ruben, Glen David, Marlin... did I spell these right?

I only heard your beautiful, traditional names in your own, clear, grounded voices,
as we began to know each other, while you travelled back
and forth, from bright and early each day, onto our ailing roof.

Tearing into four layers of old, sickly roofing tiles with your
wonderful vim and vigour, a healing began that went deep,
deeper every day, as we absorbed the precious fortune
of having you in our midst. Your chosen, Amish lives inspired
us, and still do, as we still, quite often, hear the echoes
of your footsteps above us, each one a prayer and an affirmation
of lives well-lived.

One fine afternoon, one of you stood straddling the very top of our
steep old roof line, and that image of a man mastering his craft,
invested in a life that blesses everyone he cares for,
and teaches by example, everyone he meets,
will stay with me for all of my days.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
One beam of morning light
blesses a simple kitchen apron.

Standing here, and only here,
the whole world is made
of small, white petals.

On a day much like today,
infinity became my home.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
Another day, another year
And I know this isn't about me.

So I give thanks to the Creator above
Who chose to give me life and so much more.
Who blesses me with his mercy in every breath.

And I know I have yet to understand that this life is His gift
And that I must repay Him for all that He did and has yet to do.
Thank you God, today, I thank You.
Displayed in a forever line of serpentines
Stretching over many days and weeks and years,
The dominoes stand upright in the dusk;
Each a careful distance from the next,
All skillfully and artfully arranged.

A prideful eye surveys the intricate design
That wonders at the craftsmanship involved
And blesses luck that gifted steady hands
And a non-ending stack of pieces -
Hoping that an earthquake does not come.

Who will have the honor of the push
That starts the clicking trail of doom
That ends with helter-skelter rubble
On the floor or mortuary slab
As dominoes become a life all lived.

Will it be anger like a piercing knife
Or some organic instrument
That weakens the well organized
Assemblage of a life and makes it fall
Like a domino nudged out of line.

Frustration or depression, which will it be
That starts the tiles to falling
And once moving with no hope to stop.
Will it it be by accident or force of will-
I need to add a few more at the end

I can’t afford to buy another box.
    ljm
SG Holter Oct 2014
The poems doesn't speak to you.
It sings, it whispers, it screams.

The poem isn't going anywhere.
It dances; glides or crawls.

The poem isn't written.
It is cried, bled or shivered onto

Paper. The poem doesn't care.
It's just there. Where it belongs.

It doesn't mind or like.
It loves, adores or despises from its

Soul. The poems isn't created.
It blesses the poet with its birth.
Deep Thought Sep 2020
When God blesses you with a gift,
use it wisely don't abuse it.
I can hear Him in my ear,
telling me to bask in the sunlight & be of good cheer.

This world has many things to offer.
But doesn't fully satisfy.

It's a beautiful thing when someone
besides yourself thinks you're worth it.
Going through old writings
Jedd Ong Mar 2016
"Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
-Ozymandias

I.
O wait for us, Colossus

as we wait - and throw you
to earth: from heaven’s gates judge you
unworthy - to hades’ lands assign,
where your iron limbs make mincemeat out
of anguished homes - by tyrants
you were thrown but floated aimless past

the drifting realms where once lay hell,
and fired you your rocket boosters - apollo’s gift

blinding still your eyes -

II.
next, awake: the visage of the Child
in your face - languishing, affronted:
two vast and trunkless legs of iron glare, only to grow
rigid still - slumping at His feet: with heart-engine smoking,

eyes hollowed-black,
lying in slumber with giant's knees bent,
in grasslands rest and where hearkens the plain - He cries out:
’tis you!

though dwarf, He is - he kneads your iron
by grass, and your wounded legs the earth
now christens, snd blesses still your sleep.

III.
He moves forth with grass blades and twigs,
crown you a nest; and bear stones unrolled to where

your feet first kisses ground.

-2.17.16
An attempt at "sketching" a cartoon. Originally a photo piece.
1759

Which misses most,
The hand that tends,
Or heart so gently borne,
’Tis twice as heavy as it was
Because the hand is gone?

Which blesses most,
The lip that can,
Or that that went to sleep

With “if I could” endeavoring
Without the strength to shape?
B Dec 2013
i tried to quit ****
but each morning i wake up from sleep
it's calling me

i walk through the house
and say
today i'll be alright without it
and i'm drowsy
make some coffee
have a cigarette
take a shower
and figure
that this will be the day
i don't pull the lighter trigger
and watch the flame ignite the green
make it turn orange
smoke whip down
around the corner
and up and under
into my mouth
down south
and back out

then i decide
that it's time
to give it a try
because i did all i was supposed to do
with my day
that i could have
to make it better

and then i feel real real light
like a feather
and i start feeling clever
and inspired
and optimistic again

it's like i have a new friend
each day
he greets me again and again

so i guess ill quit smoking
the day he dies
which in my eyes
will probably be longer than me
which makes the answer
to how long itll take me to quit
forever

that's called a soul mate
a life partner
and even though i've known him
for years and years
i feel like i learn something new
every time he blesses me
he's so kind
that bud of mine
Vicki Kilgore Aug 2018
Find the beauty and your worth deep inside your heart,
To enhance a relationship with the one you make part.

Actions speak louder than words you will surely learn,
Because love, trust, and respect must be earned.

No rush!  Take time getting to know someone well,
You don’t want a marriage that you argue and yell.

Always put God first and it will be blessed from above,
When you meet the right one you will feel the love.

Good times or bad you always know they will be near,
No matter your appearance they make you feel dear.

Love you can count on with romance full of affection,
No doubts ever that you made the right connection.

Cherish each other and give more than you take,
The bond will grow over time and never break.

A beautiful relationship so full of awe and wonder,
What God joins together no man can put asunder.

VLK
Vish Jun 2013
I stood there patiently,  
To see the idol in red
Along with me waited a thousand
Until their feet bled…
Wishes and dreams they never have an end,
To get one granted I waited there myself.

Folks from everywhere came to see,
The deity, that blesses selflessly.
Adults, children, infants and old
Delayed my visit to the divine soul.

Among this crowd, a voice I heard.
Sweet and melodious like the cuckoo bird.
I tried to get a glimpse, of that sound
When what I saw got me astound.

An angel in pink, with eyes so brown.
Hair like midnight and face serene
Giggling and laughing she stood with her mom,
Playing with her shadow, she moved round and round.

Her innocence so delicate, just like snow.
Her smile, so cheerful she would make a dreamboat.
Anyone who seemed erupt and raged,
Would get a glance and feel calm like a sage.
.
Like the scales of a rattle snake we lined.
Slowly yet steadily towards the sacred shrine
Long and restless, like the wind we moved.
The doll came closer to where I stood.

Infants were crying and the old got tired.
Mothers were trying their best to keep calm
We were in a temple, I wondered why the alarm?
Men perspired and their phones kept ringing
Impatient they became as the wind stopped ruffling.

All this happened around that princess
She was still calm and smiling instead.
She looked around to see other kids cry
Then she saw me and waved hi.

I wanted to carry her; that little child
Her face was imprinted on my mind,
I was sure she would be lighter than air,
I admired her for the way she stared.


Wonder if she knew where she was,
Wonder where she got her patience from
Wonder when my time would come
When suddenly I realized the temple bells rung.

The queue moved faster as people barged in
The crowd got disorganized and broke the line
I pushed too and stood on my toes
With my hands joined, and my neck stretched
I tried hard to see; the divinity.

Just then next to me I felt
Something; a gentle touch I guess
I turned to see who it was
To my enchantment, there she was…

That darling stood just beside me
Carried by her mother facing the lord.
I forgot for that moment where I was
For next to me was the angel from above.

Her sparkling brown eyes kept me stunned
Her exquisite smile, oh lord I wish I was a guy!
He face so beautifully crafted not a single flaw…
She was best work of the heavens that I ever saw.

I touched her tiny hands so pink.
She smiled; I tried to get her to speak
Just when, her mother turned to me and said
“My baby; she is unsounded from birth.”

Startled I stared at that mother’s face
I could see droplets flood her almond eyes
“I heard her voice so sweet just now” (I mumbled)
“She only, just makes noise” (and passed by…)
I leered again at that child
Wondered; how could the lord be so unkind…?

Just then it struck me why I was there
I ogled again at the idol in red
With so many questions that ran in my head.
I realized then my wish was lame.
I shut my eyes and prayed with faith,

“Dear lord; take away this cruel bane
And give her a life that she would want to live,
again… and again… “
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Love is an unsolved mystery
Fine like scenes spilling from favored and crowded memories to stand as two who honor each other
This plays off one against the other one strong one soft one invites tenderness the other craves to give it
There is no greater fit a head laid on a shoulder an arm encircling the fulfillment a fire burns for another
Spark was the signal at great depths there it smoldered the knowing of combustible lives ignited eyes

Nothing sweeter untreatable once the heart is smitten clueless the heart leads the way two it will sway
No matter what others miss but sight is given it sees pure and true virtue its soul deep lives unite untold
The story might go here and there look closer the sewing of a single garment has begun an altar one day
Love crowns a single man and a woman the colors of their lives are fused they hang galleried in a home

From courses quiet different now form the central issue of all life whatever differences they are a family
Souls speak without words in this towers rise and create monuments the hearth’s warmth blesses each
In a world where divides and cold indifference creates lonely hurting ones come pained yet leave calmly
As one who observes intently and knows things at deep levels you reveal secrets that even you miss

A book has many pages some of the best lines ever written came out of dreams your life is one story
The swelling filling of the void takes time and effort a measureless happiness brimming full covers you
You don’t need introduction on this page you live all I have said flows out from your incomparable glory
Thank you for a story that is ageless filled with promise continues in days with love’s boundlessness
An artist, creative and imaginative
Powerful enough to place, into mere words,
The phenomena that take place in his mind.

Marveled enough by his surroundings
That evoke anger, gratitude or happiness
His mind efficacious, his talent omnipotent.

Bourne of superior intellect
Taken in by souldiers of courage and
Raised by wisdom, pain and knowledge.

I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.

Each day the Poete rises from his rest
Each day the Poete more powerful than the last
Each day the Poete expresses greatness from within.

Rhythm and brilliance flow deeply in his veins
Beauty created by the molding of his words
Truth is spoken through the realness of his verse.

Poete Prophet, able to see what's hidden beneath
He sees the lies abstruse in sugar-coated deceit
He reveals the fib's tales and makes them his gospel.

I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.

Exquisite verse, natural and unrehearsed
The Poete will forever be mind blown
And continue to expose the joy in his word.

He writes not for tangible wealth or
Useless recognition, but he blesses his pen to paper for the simple appreciation of veracity.

The Poete steals sight from the blind,
He takes weakness from the strong,
And owns the shades of colour, all to create artistry.

See I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.
K Balachandran Feb 2016
A tree, stands alone  in the misty, interior forest,
frozen, bark to the core,agitated, in the blizzard and gale
only embrace mother nature now blesses him with,
yet  full of hope and all ears  for something,humming, then-
comes alive suddenly as if a new season of efflorescence
has begun, a cycle of youth,gentle love of butterflies.
A haunting note of wafting music, wakes up the soul
the sky high tree has already forgotten, is rising above the din
booming, sonorous from the deeper part of cosmos.
The tree listens and a transformation begins in every
small root, tiny leaf and allover, the tree left in the
heart of the forest to the mercy of forces is, you know who
the music that enlivens me once again is you my love.
Out of the blues comes the muse and creativity blooms as if by magic..

— The End —