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Kendra B Jun 2014
**** your heroes
Shoot em' down.
Shoot em' dead.
You'e only got one hero
That's You
Get it in your head.



© 2014 Kendra Bowman
David Sollis Oct 2014
There was a young man named John Bowman
Who was renowned as a bit of a showman
He practiced Yoga
Dressed in a toga
Convinced that he was a real Roman
I've also written a rude version of this...
Pierson Pflieger Jul 2013
There once was a lad from the Lone Star State,
who dreamed of exploration and realized that just over the horizon, adventure await.

He was commissioned by the internal desire for adventure,
which burns deep inside us all, and within him grew,
so he assembled a ragtag crew to explore a land seen by few.

He set off for the ancient land- more north than he’d ever been-
whose beauty and wonder only true voyageurs and men of the wilds knew.

By air and by land, the voyageur lad traveled to his Uncle’s cabin,
nestled deep within the Harshaw Hill country.
  
This legendary cabin, was built solely by the hands of the one they call Uncle Buck-
the most amazing cabin one could ever see.

Uncle Buck is renowned and recognized throughout the land
for his merit, adventurous spirit, long grizzled beard, and skillful hand.

It was here, in the cabin’s comfort, the brave Sugar Beans (as he was fondly named)
greeted his courageous crew with a hearty, “Boozhoo!”
They were some of the finest canoeists around-
paddlers tested, tried and true.

Together they pondered, planned, and plotted the course of their adventure
for which they’d set forth;
packed their belongings, and dreamed of North.

Sugar Beans’ crew consisted of five, rugged braves-
paddlers he knew had grit and could battle the wind, rain, and waves.

Uncle Buck, a wise and grizz old guide, had seen many moons in the Northland sky.              
Respect of all living things and the song of the wild are the codes to which he ascribes.

Jonesy, a well-traveled voyageur himself and Sugar Beans’ proud dad,
had been to this land and wanted to share its magic with his brave little lad.

Joeseppi , a young blood at heart, was the lad’s loyal cousin and friend,
a trustworthy bowman, on whom all paddlers could depend.

Makwa, the newcomer- fierce as a bear and as tough as the rest-
and after day one, she gave it her best.

And last there was Pierrὲson; the lad’s other cousin and fellow adventure zealot,
who once learned his lesson and stayed away from anything that resembled an apricot.

They loaded the van, strapped on the canoes, and greeted the early morning with a boisterous “Bonjour!” and embarked North to begin The Magical Northwoods Mystery Tour.

Traversing blue highways the voyageurs meandered north, through the wilds of Wisconsin and the Land of 10,000 lakes, hoping to make the Canadian border before it was too late.

Eventually they arrived at the Magical Northwoods’ doorway- delicate and ornate.
The crew unloaded their gear and launched their canoes- confident and sure.
Each eager paddle stroke brought them closer to all the memories they would create.

And Sugar Bean and his crew created memories- some of the best.
Memories that seep into dreams and make one feel blessed.  

Memories of:

discovering a pictograph and plodding through a ****** river- just to get back on path;

stumbling upon wolf tracks and forgetting the fishing poles- but never the packs;

exploring  craggy caves and battling and paddling against the wind and waves;

hunting for ice under rock clefts out of the sun, they searched and searched but came up with none;

swimming in the warm water nearly every day and asking painted turtles if they wanted to play;

practicing the art of stalking seagulls, and on every lake, they gave greeting the glorious eagles;

dropkicking each and every single portage and of food and laughter there was no shortage.

The crew came back with fantastic tales and experienced everything a voyageur could wish.
And although his dad will try to tell you it was only by an eighth of an inch, there are pictures to prove that Sugar Beans caught the biggest fish!

So here’s a paddle rattle for you- young voyageur lad- the greatest voyageur old Quetico’s ever seen!  May your adventurous spirit continue to grow and may the waters you paddle always be serene.
Mark Lecuona Apr 2015
When the arrow pierces another
The bowman knows what to give
I never knew of you before we met
Though in my heart you lived
When love is born
What once lived as a mystery
Now lives in the tip of an arrow
But she broke it because of pride’s misery

He knew he could never hold her
She would cry of hunger
Rather than accept his gifts
For of a debt she would never wonder
He wanted to tell her
She had defeated her insecurity
But her defiance was all too real
She didn’t want to be his ego’s charity

He blew out candles and laid them to rest
He wanted no shadow to witness
He wanted to protect her fears
So she could stop hiding her sweetness
She knew she would fall in love
Because she had already reached the bottom
As they parted with another wistful goodbye
She once again pretended what she had forgotten
Kendra B Jun 2014
The Sun.
She is Golden
Crying out to me as she dignifies the morning.
Blinding me.
Encasing me in her warm arms.
Comforting my wonders as I stare up into her pudgy round face.
Feeding my thought.
Her smooth touch across my cocoa colored skin,
It makes me just want to watch her,
And lie there forever.
As life happens,
And time passes by.




© 2014 Kendra Bowman
J B Moore Nov 2015
Letting his pome to Siri
Hopefully will make us 2.[period]
I got it matters what I say
Should probably change it anyway
Still out the 10 at home to Siri

I don't think contacts it should be
Around so cool be made out of me 
Still grumbling to choke 
So I don't waste too much rope
If anyone doesn't turn out too funny

After the person's coming
Bowman mentioned you running
Three more specific
It's more bulimic
Did everything go a plenty

Wonderwall things are
Fly high above All-Stars
Do you think that it's June,
That there Brazelton blue,
If they held and the press really hard?

So this is the phone from Siri
Not feeling quite weary
To Shay' pasta please process he,
Or just a foster for you' [apostrophe]? 
I guess we'll just have to see...

I'm writing this poem through Siri,
Hopefully it won't make us to teary,
I doubt it matters what I say,
she'll probably change it anyway,
Still I'll dictate my poem through Siri.

I don't think complex it should be,
Or else a fool will be made out of me
Still I'll grumble and I'll choke
So I don't raise too much hope
If in the end it doesn't turn out too funny.

After this verse it is coming
A poem that might send you running
Though to be more specific 
It's more of a limerick 
Than anything full of cunning.

I wonder where wild things are,
That fly high above all the stars?
Do you think that it's true,
That their face will turn blue,
If they held in their breath really hard?

So this is the poem from Siri
And now I'm feeling quite weary
For did I say 'pasta please',
Or just 'apostrophe'?
I guess we'll just have to ask Siri.

7/3/14
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Emerald’s Trance

Oh Irish eyes you follow me all through the emerald isle you stop time it runs backward and
Forwards the rush heady the roots of Irish lore entangle me fully I see the loving vesture worn in pride its
Charm is magnified there is much of the Leprechaun and blarney stone just the correct amount to
Solidify a national identity and then to complete everything in magic top it all off with a red headed lass
With the greenest eyes the heart skips and dances all about when you are as full as you think you can
Take then she speaks does not the mystical burst forth openly ancient days flood the valleys sweeping
You into the power that alone is Ireland come with me suspend reality search for the *** of gold you will
Find riches that even surpass gold a place a people where the well springs of charm and laughter echo
Down roads and streets in every village and city every once and a while you need a place you can empty
Your heart and ready your being for thrills without fear I know it has been a land of conflict but in spite
Of it justice takes it all in stride makes it as a whole a tribute to diversity that is tinged with divinity a coloring
That prescribes a peace that finds loyalist pockets but leads on to the far borders where understanding
Shakes itself and gives way to reason as the bowman takes all factors into consideration distance
Wind age bows power weight of arrow and most important experience in hitting the bull’s eye seldom
Is victory and success derived in any other way than by turmoil and hard fighting who can lose when
Your held in the gaze of the greenest green dreams are hard to be defeated she gives nobility to the
cause the fight has purity at the head all will easily fall romantic treasure will fill your lives with greater riches
Than many pots of gold
Kendra B Oct 2013
Hi,
My name is--

Nothing.
Never mind.
I forgot that I don't have one.
You can't know me.

You don't know me....

At least that's what you told them...

You could never just admit it.
You would never just tell them.
You should have went out shouted it out,
Loud enough for the whole world to here you.
But I only ask of this because you were so ashamed of me.

I love you...
And you know this
Because you know you loved me...

Cause we were together

Yeah.
We were a thing
I couldn't have just imagined it
We spent 4 months together

Cuddled up in the back of your mom's car
Laughing at my jokes
And spilling drinks
Arms around each other
Lips locked together.....

But now you say that you don't know me??

Every.
Single.
One.
Of my deepest darkest secrets has been invested into your very soul.
****** into your hands for you to hold onto.

And in return I had gotten trustful looks of lies.

And now every time you look at me...
You turn the other way and laugh

Because you know I'm a freak.
You know what's wrong with me!
You know everything!

But you still say that you don't know me...
But you know you do.
You know you loved me!

And I know that I loved you....
And I know that you know you loved me too

So I am just waiting.

Waiting on the day you will tell the world

That you loved me.

All I wanted you to do is not deny this.

Deny that there was an us.

That you know that our laughs
And our smiles
And our times together
That our everlasting foreverness
Was not made up
It was true
We were real

And you loved every bit of it....
Including me.

Hey,
It's me.
And Baby...
I'm still waiting.












© 2013 Kendra Bowman
Kendra B Oct 2013
Perfection likes to vacation inside my head
And I can’t stand her.

With her bows
And her dresses
And her frilliness....
She knows everything....
She can do anything.....

She's what everyone dreams of.
She's what everyone wants to be.

But,

She's always loved to tag along with Insanity
And of course Insanity drives me crazy.

So self-control tries to control me.

But still insanity pushes her way through to me.

Till I am drowning in her sweet words of comfort.
Wrapped up tight.

In a soft padded room.




© 2013 Kendra Bowman
I past beside the reverend walls
  In which of old I wore the gown;
  I roved at random thro' the town,
And saw the tumult of the halls;

And heard one more in college fanes
  The storm their high-built organs make,
  And thunder-music, rolling, shake
The prophet blazon'd on the panes;

And caught one more the distant shout,
  The measured pulse of racing oars
  Among the willows; paced the shores
And many a bridge, and all about

The same gray flats again, and felt
  The same, but not the same; and last
  Up that long walk of limes I past
To see the rooms in which he dwelt.

Another name was on the door:
  I linger'd; all within was noise
  Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys
That crash'd the glass and beat the floor;

Where once we held debate, a band
  Of youthful friends, on mind and art,
  And labour, and the changing mart,
And all the framework of the land;

When one would aim an arrow fair,
  But send it slackly from the string;
  And one would pierce an outer ring,
And one an inner, here and there;

And last the master-bowman, he,
  Would cleave the mark. A willing ear
  We lent him. Who, but hung to hear
The rapt oration flowing free

From point to point, with power and grace
  And music in the bounds of law,
  To those conclusions when we saw
The God within him light his face,

And seem to lift the form, and glow
  In azure orbits heavenly wise;
  And over those ethereal eyes
The bar of Michael Angelo.
Kendra B Oct 2013
She is yellow.
Screaming happiness in my face as she glistens across my tear streaked cheek bones
She shrieks with laughter.
Filling our soul with the joy we continuously search for.
She taste like lemonade,
A sweet, sour sensation that pools upon my lips,
Swims in my mouth,
Swishing along my tongue.

Though she smells like fear.
And we all cower before her.

The sun is like a wild fire. You can not control her.

Still she engulfs us in warmth.
Glistening.
Holding fast onto our hearts

She knows we can not live without her.


© 2013 Kendra Bowman
JDH Sep 2017
Part One
- Striking and the transfer of energy -

It would be my contention that most people, if asked where exactly the power in a strikers punch comes from, that many would reply with answers such as the arms, shoulders, hips or core. However, all of which are wrong to a degree, because these tenets of a strike are all secondary to the source of energy from which force can be generated: the ground. It is in fact the surface beneath a strikers feet from which much of the significant striking energy is generated up into the tips of their fist, with the mediator being technique. This knowledge alone of course does not produce an effective strike, however, this conception within the mind of a fighter alters how they see the process, for making a strike is simply the transfer of energy from one point to another.

How exactly that energy is transferred from the ground into the target is of course a matter of technique, but many traditional Martial Arts will teach the importance of the Stance in striking, particularly the rear leg. Before making an effective strike from a stationary or moving position, in many cases it is crucial that one's rear leg be straightened and not buckled at the knee, because, as the energy is generated from the ground into your target, that energy on impact will want to go back into the ground. However, by straightening the rear leg in your stance, much of this process will be eliminated as your body remains strong and upright upon impact. There are also many subtle nuances that can be developed regarding the Stance and the Strike, for instance, a short and strong push off of the rear foot before delivering a strike (whilst maintaining a straightened leg) can generate greater forward motion into your target. This technique can be developed through functional training of strength in the toes, ankles and lower leg, such as bouncing on the toes, jumping squats and other forms of exercise.

To use the example of the right hand straight punch (Gyaku tsuki) from a standard stance, it is also important to keep one's right side hip and shoulder locked back in a strong position, almost as a bowman draws his bow, as this creates a stance from which a tremendous transfer of weight can be shifted through your body. On making the strike, the sharp twisting of the hips and release of the shoulder will result in a launch of the striking hand out towards the target, not only creating speed and power, but also covering more distance via extending the shoulder and twisting the hips. This is why traditional Martial Artists are often able to fight from a distance and cover distance rapidly in making strikes.

Furthermore, to increase the power in a strike, it should be delivered in a whipping motion, and not in brute muscular strength. Many have a tendency to use the muscle strength in their upper body to create force, however, it is greatly more effective to relax these muscles when the strike is in motion, tensing only at the last minute in order to generate a whipping effect (sometimes refereed to as elastic recoil). Other ways in which this can be done is through a sharp twist of the wrist at the very last second from knuckles facing down to knuckles up (body punch) or to the side (face punch), as this will truly drive the strike into the target, also helping to generate that whipping effect on impact. On making this strike, as one's fist is thrown forward toward the target, a very slight and nuanced control of one's own body weight is too, greatly effective, as it is possible, through a short ****** of the upper body (whilst not lunging) to throw your weight through your arm, whilst remaining upright. This technique is so subtle that it is difficult to explain without demonstration, however, what is done is that as your leading foot lands before making the strike, one's body weight should follow that forward momentum for just a split second before releasing the strike which will create a kind of kinetic chain. This technique can be very effective if developed with control of your own centre of gravity.

Another greatly important tenet of making a strike that is often overlooked in many traditional forms of Martial Arts is protecting yourself whilst striking. It is important as you are most vulnerable when on offence (which is why timing is vital). Because of this I have tried to develop techniques that eliminate risk when striking, though, of course there are multiple methods that can be taken to minimise risk offensively, I will focus on what can be done regarding positioning. For instance, when throwing a right hand punch as your primary strike, to negate your opponents counter strikes, rather than advancing straight forward, it is possible to advance at an angle, i.e. stepping off with your leading foot to the left. This technique is more effective against straight punchers, however, can be effective in general as many are familiar with opponents advancing linearly toward them, thus the step off can be offsetting and will likely result in their punches travelling past you instead of into you, similar to how a boxer slips punches. What can also be added to this technique is that as you step off, rather than simply stepping with your foot closer to the ground, is to step with a swinging motion, lifting your foot clear of the ground. This will negate any possible sweeps to your leading foot that an opponent might make and will check any leg kicks. When defending yourself to counter attacks, your free hand can also be an effective tool to guard yourself. For example, it can be used to protect the left hand side of your head in a fist whilst the shoulder of your striking arm can be extended to protect your jaw. Alternatively, your free hand can be used to protect the right hand side of your head by crossing it across your body and having your palm outwards.

Finally I should add that a strike is most effectively made when your opponent doesn't see it coming.


  -  brought to you by JDH
Learn Martial Arts... sign up to a club!
m Oct 2010
On some distant island
The fish swim –
In the air
And upside-down.
And they talk like people
And they talk unlike people
And they always look silly.
I’m sure of it.

I know because I want to know.

Has a curious vision-arrow ever glanced your eye,
Forsaking your pupil and enjoying your iris?
One or two have mine.
I think to the bowman always:

A black hole, and at least as complex,
But not a hole of darkness.
Nay, in my own, I see the fish.
An extravagant concavity that appears convex.

Eye – flipped funnel
Man – flipped funnel
The mind works like class notes,
Disheveled.

A realm of those aqueous creatures
Can’t be possible and
Must be possible because
I want it to be.

Even holes are filled with earth, air, ether
Even funnels.

Who is to tell me
That my fish can’t have their reality elsewhere?
Some infinite alternity where
Things go and are made
And holes, filled, are emptied?

Who to tell me?
A man who sees colors
To describe to a man who sees black
Some ethereal place
Which is neither black nor color?

No.

On some distant island,
The fish don’t fly –
They swim in the air.

I promise.
Kenny Brown Mar 2012
Four turns…
Four turns point down within these boxes.
Tail bitten chased by following red foxes.
These lovers leave ***** trails through the sand,
But good friends extract tattoos on my lonely souls hand.
Please, please captain help me wax my earnest ears.
Crashing on the rocks nightly reaps woeful tears.
And yea it’s beautiful music that draws me near
But where does the soul go at the conclusion of yet another year.

Three queens…
Why do you bring me here?
Why do you suddenly appear,
Out of air with songs so clear?
Now I’m lost without a seer,
And can’t hold a trace of what is dear.

Hunter…
Bowman of the woods rid this path,
Of harsh kings evil epitaph.
And let me not follow in a fools wrath.
Artemis’ hand leads the chart at last.
Ensure stern sister that I do not break fast,
And spend my days limping one way dragging a sore cast.
So the pieces left do not shatter.
Internally ingest information attempting to make the mind fatter,
Meanwhile every movement causes clatter.
But can even one remain sane without a stain.
Surely mother nature could do without acid rain.
If it came to the choice of not a single more day of pain,
I’d still choose love.

One pair…
Running through a great deciduous metropolis
Good goddess hanging by my side there’s no stopping us
Immune to infectious wounds pouring out blood and pus
Even joyful alone with strangers on a late night city bus
In these short days it’s far from all I need
What’s the point of getting chest beaten with golden greed
Just take me to that luscious garden
And I will sing loves long lost pardon
Kendra B Aug 2015
My silence lives in the middle of my chest.
Engulfing my lungs into the poeticness of Black.
It inches up my throat,
Clinging onto my esophagus,
Chokingly.
My silence suffocates me,
But my voice still wants to Scream.










© 2015 Kendra Bowman
Kendra B Oct 2013
Guns to the head.
Knives through the heart,
Down our wrist.

Jumping off bridges,
Drowning, Crashing.
We keep putting bullet holes in our chest.

Tears streaming down our faces.
We go to sleep and never wake

How much more can we take?

We've got those painkillers,
Our cheerleaders.
Screaming "You can die!!! Just take me!!!"

© 2013 Kendra Bowman
Kendra B Oct 2013
Sky.
She is falling.
Crashing down upon me.
Crushing me beneath her overwhelmingly heavy weightlessness
While Beauty,
Striping herself from me.
Constantly escapes my needy grasp.
Then Pain
She singes me
Burning deep into my flesh
As she holds fast onto my heart.
Squeezing its rhythmic thumping in her tight grasp.
Killing me.
All while waiting on Death,
And searching for Perfection.
Dying for Joy,
And crying for my savior.

Who never showed up...


© 2013 Kendra Bowman
SøułSurvivør Jan 2017
The story Clinton Jarvis - my father.

Isle La Motte Roots

There's a place of quiet peace
In beautiful Vermont
It is filled with history
It beckons you, and haunts
In pacific Lake Champlain
It's called Isle La Motte

The lake is long and narrow
A lovely gem-like blue
The Island lies within its shores
It is a jewel, too.
Emerald in the summer
In fall a topaz hue

Old style houses charm us
With plain stone quarry frames
There are many maple trees
In fall these become flame
Churches with tall steeples
All barns look much the same.

From Blanchard's Point to The Head
North to south we go
Clark's & Reynolds to Fisk & Scott's
These east/west points we know
From The Lighthouse & Fort Stann
To the marble quarries low.

It seems the rock on Isle La Motte
Was formed from glacial ice
Which pressed the clay beneath it
As if it were a vice
The marble from the quarries
Is especially nice!

Samuel Fisk founded some of these
Marble blue, black, and grey
Many used the sturdy stones
Solid houses in the way
They can be found everywhere
And still stand to this day.

There was an ingenious sawmill
Powered by a boat!
A large and hearty steamer
By The Dock would float
The "Utica" by name
As sawmill founders wrote.

The taverns and inns
Had distinctive place
It would be so heartening
To see a merry face
There the weary travellers
Could find warmth and grace.

Famous for its apples
There are many orchards found
John Bowman & William Yale
Planted in the ground
My father was one who picked from them
Folks came from miles around.

The Fleury Store had merchandise
Sold to people from their stock
Carson's Store and Naylor's
Store to store the folks would walk
Often a place of meeting
Where people stood to talk.

Elizabeth Fisk. Creative.
She had looms, and linen wrought
This fabric so very fine
Much of it was bought
There were also boats and ferries
On an island... used *a lot!


Nelson Fisk secured the Post Office
James Ritchie built in stone
His relation, Cynthia
Maintained the library alone
Succeeded by M. LaBombard
For faithfulness much known.

Both Methodist and Catholic
Worship the Divine
The faithful go to churches
No matter what the clime
A place of fame on Isle La Motte
Is lovely St Anne's Shrine.

The original schools on Isle La Motte
We're founded by strong men
Independent. Intelligent.
Created they back then.
Back in 1782 they had discerning ken.

The school my father went to
Only had one room.
He graduated the 8th grade
For his future groomed
But went to High School elsewhere
Back then quite a boon!

The Jarvis' were tennent farmers
Not much to be made
But the beauty of the place
Embraced them in its shade
T'was in this environment
Where young Clinton played.

Amongst the leaves - jade and fire
Honey'd amber caught
He found a love of nature
He was reared and taught
Here his story started

A place called Isle La Motte.


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C)1/11/2017
Finally completed! This segment in my father's biography took a while due to the
amount of research done. As you can see!

Sorry i haven't been around. This poem is
part of the reason why!

I'm going to present this to my now
hospitalised father this weekend. It will
be written out on posters in large writing
so he can read it... he's completely deaf and
going blind. It will bring back many fond
memories to him I'm sure! He certainly
deserves happiness about now!

PLEASE PRAY OR SEND GOOD THOUGHTS!

♡ LOVE YOU ALL! ♡
David Bremner Oct 2018
I
Ernie struck up his pipes
Ten seconds TOO SOON
And in the wrong millennium

Fiona still had her SKIRT up
Adjusting the top of a nylon stocking
Whilst the KING OF THE JEWS
Left an unfinished drink on the bar
Of the Portland Arms Hotel.

All Hail Jesu, King of the Jews
Striding out through the Portland's door
All Hail George Munro
Best dry-stone dyker in the parish
And owner of a MOPED.

II

The procession moved SOUTH
Across the former A9
Careful never to exceed 30MPH
Fiona didn't go
(Preferring a young stranger's hand stroking her thigh)

Then -                                                                                    
The minister appeared, but.......
DIDN'T BELIEVE
That this was the Second Coming
He stood on the front steps of the kirk
That was now a Cathedral ( Lybster henceforth a SHINING CITY!)
Wishing all a HAPPY NEW YEAR
Including the KING OF THE JEWS
Whom he treated like all others
In true Presbyterian fashion
All Hail Jesu, King of the Jews
All Hail The LYBSTER STONE
Left outside in a forgotten corner
In true Presbyterian fashion

Beyond the Police Station and Primary School
A GREAT BEACON blazed
Lit by two schoolgirls and Mr Marshall Bowman
Pyre for a thousand years
Sinners preheated their teenage **** and middle aged bums at it
The nearby football pitch was illuminated by it
Nobody remembered the forgotten old folk because of it
They held their drinks and met their eyes
And as the procession arrived
Departed for the COMMUNITY CENTRE
A veritable Sodon and Gomorrah (BYOB!)

All Hail Jesu, King of the Jews
All Hail Mr Marshall Bowman
Rm32, Geography Block, WICK - HIGH - SCHOOL

(This part rhymes to appease the DEMANDERS)                        

The hall wis fill wi' yowng and owld
An' packed lek at hid wisna' cowld
Some were timid, ithers bowld
Little bairnies wid no be towld

When the lot hed gethered in
(The fire ootside hed raxed their sin)
They rolled their sleeves an got stuck in
Til grub an ***** an.. well.. ******!

All Hail Jesu, King of the Jews
All Hail Andrew Gunn
Fumbling with a fifteen year olds brassiere
In Donald Eyers' back garden

Jesus turned away from the COMMUNITY CENTRE sinners
leaving them with these words:
The Scribes and Pharisees of LYBSTER COMMUNITY COUNCIL
Will raise here a PAGAN STONE to mark this night
So that Alan Henderson can henceforth
URINATE on it on Gala night
in a political DEED.

And the Scribes took down these words for the minutes
As carefully as I imagined
Taking down the posties knickers.

Whenceforth -                                                                                    
Heralded by three giggling lassies
Jesus entered the great square of the SHINING CITY
Grey's Place
Thst held one butcher shop, two convenience stores
The Commercial Bar and a Post Office
That sold postcards of the harbour
and the Silver Cloud II.

All Hail Jesu, King of the Jews
All Hail the Silver Cloud II
That landed a record haul of 365 boxes
In 1973!

Bare was the square
That lay before the King of the Jews
Only Tony Ryrie's cat Patchy
Moved in its GREAT WASTES
Patch and an empty packet of Salt n Shake
The only witnesses
To the GREAT MILLENNIUM MIRACLE

Whereby -                                                                                  
A shaft of blinding light
Shone forth from the British Telecom phone box
Deflected off the Cathedral weathervane
Up, up (like a great *******) in to the heavens
Where the inhabitants of the moon Titan
Looking up through their dense, noxious atmosphere
Saw this light and sent
INTERPLANETARY FRATERNAL GREETINGS
To their sisters and brothers of Lybster (twinned with Fort Mackinac USA)
That were not returned

All Hail Jesu, King of the Jews
All Hail Johnny Mackay
Envoy from the plannet Titan
to the Court of St James

Jesus was NOT angered by this
For he knew that DEEP inside the people were good
And as Fiona (still in the Portland Arms) dabbed the TIA MARIA off
Her blood red lips
He struck south
Down past Donnie Mackenzie's

All Hail Jesu, King of the Jews
All Hail Donnie Mackenzie
Jannie of Lybster Primary
Pulling out your wobbly teeth in his cupboard
Then giving you a POLO

Until -                                                                                        
He reached the Harbour Road bus shelter
Where a choice was offered
To proceed to the harbour and part the Moray Firth
Or live amongst the lepers
Of SHELLIGOE ROAD.............

III

I was sent to the harbour
To pump the boat
The early morning frost glinted on a half-full Tia Maria bottle
That lay discared on the grass
I pulled the cork                                                
Took a long, sickly draw
                       Then threw it back  

In the SHINING CITY only some things had changed.
SE Reimer Oct 2016
~

i know, you thought it just a bow,
a pretty band from blues to red,
’cause that’s all we were told
in sunday school for kids.
think it myth or truth or mystery,
the story’s incomplete,
if outside the lines of childhood
we cannot grasp or think.
for a bow is but a weapon,
’til its hung upon the sky,
but its symbolism's lost,
when we take it down to fight.
its band of colors make
our band of brotherhood;
its peace in men entrusted,
to lead from strife to good.

in colors of the spectrum,
in bow, all skin is on display;
a creator’s ev’ry wish,
let peace on earth remain.
so next we see the bow,
that follows after rain,
consider love and harmony,
a life laid down for friend.
think of laying down the weapon,
the feud, the fist, the fight,
no need to strike the darkness,
we can simply turn on light.
consider colors are all needed,
yes, each and every one;
apart we draw our boundaries,
but blend together, makes our sun.

so be a hunter, be a fighter
be a bowman... every one
but be light dispelling darkness;
we need all colors in this hunt!


~

*post script.

this is likely the first of a few pieces i hope to post about our nation’s color-war; a matter my wife and i have been deeply contemplating with growing consternation as time goes on.  having worked together in heavily, color-blended environments, we are broken by the walls that are being built up, rather than being broken down.  i do not love my sweet wife in spite of her differences; no, i love her dearly because of them!  thus, racial accord doesn’t mean we need to be the same. it simply means we need to learn to love and appreciate what makes us different.  color blindness is not the answer some once thought it; but color awareness without prejudice is a start.
Kendra B Oct 2013
Crying is like a rainy day.
And tears,
They are the raindrops upon cheeks.

A smile is the rare beautiful sunshine
That clears the foggy afternoons

And laughter,
It is the rainbow that spreads across the sky.
When perfection makes the rain cease
And the sun sparkle


© 2013 Kendra Bowman
Kendra B Jun 2014
I no longer yearn for tenderness.
I only once yearned for it because I thought it was what was right.
Soft,
Gentle,
Love.
Sweet
Between
The Sheets.
With Patient Kisses.
And hands
that Do Not
Hunger.
But I need you to Ravish me...
Because when you ransack me it feels ravishing.



© 2014 Kendra Bowman
Kendra B Aug 2015
I am from Fisher Price cars with foot powered engines.
Dolls with no hair,
Barbies with no houses.

I am from give it back!
Give it here!
Alex, no!
Ni Ni, stop!

I am from frost bitten rain and winter coats.

I am from snow for Days.
and Weeks.
and Months.

I am from North, East, South, and West.
The Shinobi.
The Lone Ranger.
With Life dragging me in each direction,
“Stay” is not in my vocabulary.

I am from the Cool of The Bay
And the Heat of The Valley.

I am from Loud Mouths
And Long Hair.
Sarcasm and Activism.
No one speaks for me.

I am from a Cousin of Every Color,
A Sister of Every Origin,
A Brother of Every Nation.

I am from the empty darkness of my room.
I can do nothing but bask in its humidity.

I am from nothing but the Hum of Music.

The Tune of Music.

The Sound of Music.

I am from things unsaid.
I am those unsaid things.

I am from the beat of the drum,
And a dance that will always conversate with me.

I am from the Theater.
From the Backdrop to the Stage.
I am the dusted over glitter on the floor.
I am the glisten of the lights above me.

The Singer.
The Actor.
The Writer.

I am the truest version of myself.

And nothing will stop me.











© 2015 Kendra Bowman
wrote this for class
Kendra B Oct 2013
She was the one that ran out into the rain.
Laughing,
Smiling,
Dancing.
The one that made the boys afraid.
Tough,
Fearless,
Strong.
The girl who'd jump not knowing how to swim.
Now drowning 6 ft under.
Lost and imprisoned within herself.


© 2013 Kendra Bowman
The Arrow that flies by day. For even the blind can see it.
A White-Golden head glittering in the sun, Its materials extracted from an unseen legendary mountain.
Its Craftsman, a greedy Dwarf Journeyman. Whose eyes lead him into ******* but was freed by The Bowman.
Indebted to Him forever. An Oath of Blood he spoke for all knows words that are uttered into this world is tattooed, recorded, and time-stamped on the soul's forehead.
Nearby, a stranger asked me “What of the sound?”
"Momentary hairline fractures (lighting) are swiftly seen galloping across the blue canvas. What sounds do you hear thereafter?"
The stranger responded “Thunder?” "Exactly! It dares not, never to return back, driven with a high parade to fulfill its Masters will.
“Who is the Bowman? Is He Friend or Foe?” a mother requesting the answer while tucking her children near under her shadow.
"Women, this is how false rumors, propaganda, and evil seeds are planted inside the soul. 'Take each saying with a grain of salt', less your mind be warped and scalped to their liking, creating a false image of a person in the public square. Remember, mankind's heart is divided into four chambers.

Romance, Hate
Justice, Deception

Seek for yourself fine women, for 'Beauty is in the mind of the Beholder.' But if its a Cup of Water that contains knowledge that you seek? The Bowman knows the world is not painted in black and white. He watches carefully and is not quick to pass judgment, the Arrow that flies by day is destined for the Deceiver.
-GhostMoon Poet-
Kendra B Oct 2013
Why didn't you get it?

You just thought it was one of my phases
But on the inside I knew I was going crazy

Why didn't you understand me?

Oh the irony of that statement.
That you can understand the children with the needs of the special needs
But you cant understand your own child
Who's brain functions and cooperates
Quite clearly
She is calling out for help
But you cant see that

Now she is crying out to you from her hospital bed.
From her asylum.
Bruised around her neck.
Scars across her wrist.
Scratched up and down her arms.

Cut to deep,
In a coma from the draining of her sweet crimson.

Because she let the pain tear through her.

She let it tear though her....

And it threw her
Over the edge

I am pouring out to you through this poem.
Before I let my pain
Push me over
And I Am crying silently to myself in my asylum.

From the scars down my wrist
And the painkillers that were once in my hand
In my coma

Because I let the pain tear through me
And I've become this person I can no longer control.

I could never control myself.

So please
At my funeral I want all of you to see rainbows
And I'll see you in white
When you meet me
In heaven


© 2013 Kendra Bowman
Never understood
How to write a full
Sentence,

But did figure out
How to put down
Random silly syllables
In just a  minute,

Never figured out
How to play the flute,

But i did learn how
To pick fruit,

Caught a cricket
Never understood
The game cricket,

To my dearest
Never meant to make you
Cry or break your spirit...

That was my younger self,
I've grown and have learned
New ways to carry myself,


I know you'll never rest your
Eyes on this...

This being a poem i wrote
Well
More typed on my phone

While you was in the back
Of my dome,

I know I'll never aton
For the actions i have sewn,

Just know my shoes
I walked in
holding your hands

I've out grown,

I have became a different
man,

I'm sorry for not telling you
That ever time i looked
In your eyes i drowned,
They where so blue they
would remind a pirate
Why he loves the ocean,

That Sunday nothing
but loud lust moaning
this Sunday nothing
but silence,

I do regret the
choices I have chosen,

I'll end it there

For my memories
found a way
through the catacombs,

But my bowman took them
Out thank goodness,

He who took the shoot
Shall be my
yeoman,

Honor killed the Shogun

Snowman left in the snow
Was abandoned,

Young girls heart was stolen,

So much stress took a
Nap fell asleep on
the cushion,

I'm living the life of a

foreigner,

Cant understand no one
Working for a dollar
Selling my so called freedom,

Thinking of home..

Falling in love with a woman
Often,

Fortune lady try to tell me my fortune i said
" no thanks for you
can not tell me my own future"

If you did it would
just be a rumor,

Woke up late cause the
Cougar killed the rooster,

Didn't see it so i guess that
Makes me the accuser,

Gotta find it put her in
The scope and remover,

But if a shark did it
I guess I'll have to harpooner,

Get blood on my carpet
I'll have to shampooer,

Either way I'll have to
**** the evildoer,

But probably offer her
A job and interviewer,

Fall in love and Honeymooner,

Find a cloning factory and
reproducer,

But i got a better manoeuvre,

I'll go to church
and scream Hallelujah,

Hopefully that'll be one
Step closer to get the doors
To heaven to open,

Dose this count as a poem??
Michael Marchese Apr 2017
You can't catch me 22 
I'm miles dead ahead of you  
Runnin' circles round' you squares
With lion shares and grizzly bares
Livin' on a cobra's prayer
With taboo turpitude'n tongue
Conundrums that I'm summon'un
The meta-Orpheus has come
Since 21, the chosen one
I'm neo-hippy rebel ****
So ante-uppers, get you some
Eleven seven slurpee sun
Super-soaking supernovas
With a matrix water gun
From vats of hydrochloric
Spillin' Joker on the masses
Turnin' Gotham allegoric
Into clown prince rhymes of passion
Of a blood of Christ fanatic
Jimmy Jones'n as I'm cashin'
In the semi-theocratic
Weapon cache'n checks imbalanced
Chemically unstable attic  
Bat **** crazy poison gases
Spewin' power-trippin' fascist
Cataclysmic autocratic
Devolution clash of classes
Resolution's prehistoric
Meteoric democratic  
So I'm risin' from the ashes
From dismayin' to conveyin'
How I'm goin' super Saiyan
When the treasure hordes of Mordor lords
Corrupt the men of Numenor
For Bard the Bowman heroes
Are the roles that I am playin'
In shadows of the Arkenstone
When I go dragon slayin'
Kendra B Oct 2013
Beauty Is The Beast.
And I want no part in her sadistic massacre of my body

Her clawing at my flesh.
Her tearing at my skin.

Her pulling me down and ripping me limb from limb.

But sometimes....
I can't help but help her destroy me.

Because people are always drawn to beautiful things.

But you should be careful.
Beautiful things are always more
Than just beautiful things.


© 2013 Kendra Bowman
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
Nietzsche once said: poets are shameless with their experiences: they exploit them. i think he was wrong, maxims aren't exactly atoms of accuracy and unchanging ontology... i see poets as shameful with their experiences: they don't exploit, they simply exaggerate their experiences - the oldest truth out of Eden was a lie... what poet could possibly reinvent such parameters as necessarily truth-worthy upon revision? the fear of telling a lie encompasses maximums, or truths untested / undemanding... the oldest truth out of Eden was a lie... the youth of refreshed Eden-like hopes is the ageing original, neither truth, nor life - but simply the unattainable regurgitation once fabled by Roman enforced bulimia and the Welsh long-bowman V wedged into the throat like an oyster into the world.

what they sold the ultra-left fanatics
and kept at juggling pace stalling
worth's of economics comes to bite back...
in my family?
the only ones readied for a coffin
are my grandparents, my parents aren't secure,
i ain't one for prawn cocktail starters either  -
i won't repay my student loan...
because i won't be working McDonald's till
dusk asking myself: so what was the point
of educating myself? i guess working at
McDonald's was the answer already
waiting for me once graduation time came.
me? i'm analysing the fears of living
on the streets... but as one homeless man began...
you're a diamond in the rough...
i just gave him a cigarette and talked with him
in Turkish akimbo.
oh pooh you, papa won't pay! how *sad
.
i hear you antagonising both left and right these
coming days.... of course the right you fear...
fear and shrivel and tremble and dust...
i came from a family of Communist party members...
you think the Vatican aid will suffice?!
i'm into the lessons of the founder -
i believe in forgiving your enemies,
but in a way that does not enact tribal satisfaction
of culprits kept in cages... i believe like yhwh believed
concerning Cane... roam free! lie forever more!
i don't believe forgiving a culprit once all the laws
were passed is worthwhile the message -
i don't believe in zoological jurisprudence -
i want the LIES... i want a person to exact their
role in society to a full potential... like the god
of the old testament i was the law of free-roam -
i want the lies to suffocate the culprit...
i can name him any day you like, but i like the odd tease
and fake of reprimand -
i want the culprit to roam free like Cain -
i want a zenith of lie to extend beyond a mere cage
and an environment of prison - i want the obsession
of the everyday life to encompass the term -
if forgiving is the lesson, then i will not want any laws
exacted - completely free, away from prison -
away from a similitude of criminality -
the "normal" person - oh sure, call me mad,
i faked madness a long time ago, so i could be granted
a quasi-diplomatic immunity -
Broadmoor Hospital is closing... care in the community...
oh wait... but you called me mad?
i sought my reason in Polish neurosurgeons and kept
them knit-picking lies and deceptions in a society
i once wished to integrate into, as prescribed
by my use of English; yet... left aside, i turned to Russia,
in the Axis tribunal i was least offended.
they can ridicule all they want... i know my weakness
when i see it, and subsequently utilise it in the staff gimmick.
their language undermines them - their language
undermines them... old Jack shredded the Union
in the 19th century... of course they're slow to pick up
the realities ahead - p.c.s.d. (post-colonial stress disorder)
mimicked in every soldier coming back from Afghanistan.
Kristen Hain Dec 2016
What a fool to be afraid of falling
Asking for reassurance as though I needed more
than response, a hand held, a kiss planted
drunken nights and sober days
"If love is not passionate, do not participate"
What a fool to not have trust in yourself
a foot hovering above a pool or
Pacing thoughts trying to ride a skateboard
Trust yourself, but do not trust him just yet
but what a fool
To be say it is as though I haven't fallen already
18 flights of stairs, each individual bump
From every single height we have watched the world from
The cliffsides of the Appalachians
The 1800s towers of Bowman
the landscapes that connect beach to sea, wondering when we'll reach over there
An abandoned building east of the city enamoured in fluorescent light
A skytop birdsnest of an arboretum
from the back of old Reggie staring onto pavement in warm summer rain

I fall from such great heights
clamored on each step,
I do not know if there is a bottom
but I surely hope not
Kendra B Nov 2014
I took my life to forget your name.
Drowned in alcohol to wash away your kisses.
Drunk bleach to make your lies spotless.

I took my life to forget your name.

Hit this blunt because you take my breath away.
Lit my skin ablaze to erase your touch.
Slit my wrist to leak our connection.

I took my life to forget your name.












© 2014 Kendra Bowman
Kendra B Nov 2014
He had swallowed me whole.

Lips pressed together,
Wandering hands full of freedom,
He caressed me.

Blind fingertips
Sweet between these foreign sheets,
They roamed my hills and valleys.
They tingled like peppermint soap,

Though not to clean.

***** me,
Lied down of soft comforters,
Lied down like a princess,
Like a beast you defiled me.

And once there was Beauty.









©2014 Kendra Bowman
Kendra B Oct 2013
Just let me die before I wake.
**** me softly in this sleep.
Slowly,
Painfully,
Anything.
I mean it.
Just let me die before I wake.
**** me softly in this sleep.

Just let me die before I wake.
**** me softly in this sleep.
I don't care how it happens.
I don't care how you do it .
Just let me die before I wake.
**** my softly in  this sleep.

And If I shall wake to my captor,

Gripped by the beauteous hands of death.

Let me feel every bit of pain
While I relieve all the pain in my life
And then I shall dwell
Beyond the gates of Hell.
All the days of my eternal after life.


© 2013 Kendra Bowman
Phantom Poet Feb 2016
Winter,
A season when u sit beside,
Some burning timber,
To cold to go outside! ,
Well I prefer being cuddled in a blanket,
And sitting inside,
Best time for hot chocolate,
And Add some marshmallows,
After ye make it,
The lakes are frozen,
People are buying,
Hot cross buns by the dozen,
Dance on ice,
Which once was a lake,
But I find both nice,
Make some snowman,
Or throw some snowball,
Like a professional bowman,
Well I think,
Winter,
Is best,
When u sit beside some burning timber
Kendra B Aug 2014
There is a scream inside me,
And its Angry.
And its Agonizing.
It is ever so Tantalizing.
There is a scream inside me.

There is a scream inside me.
And it's loud.
And it's deafening.
It just whistles through my emptiness,
Never filling.
Cause it's leaking through my bullet wounds.
Lord Jesus,
Help me.
There is a scream inside me.

There is a scream locked up inside me,
And somebody needs to hear it.

Take this scream out of me, Bwana.
Bwana, take this pain off of me.

This scream can stay no longer.










© 2014 Kendra Bowman
Kendra B Oct 2013
My smiles fades as you fade away,
Just to return when you do.
To rejoice in that sweet second of happiness.
That temporary relief,
Covering up the pain.
Caused by this sick game,
We call life.


© 2013 Kendra Bowman
Tom Shields Jul 2020
Missed the mark, aw
I can't verbalize a visual
if I nock and draw
comprehend this visceral vitriol slack-jawed
I can victimize individuals with knock knock law
utilize your futile lives to ask who's there, ****
ding **** ditch, upcreek, just missed, to whom it concerns
I am philosophically fluid, blue devils could reach into my pool of words and pull a charge through it, but I hide my true self in pieces, keep my voices eclectic, if you think you know who I am from Adam, why are you a fan, I'm already the Hoover Dam, I'm hydroelectric
my wiring is just that way, I'm cynical enough to inhale in a vacuum, ******* the life out of living just for the power to stay
I'm an educated typist, simple in all aspects, adamant that little things hurt longer inside like I swallowed Atom Ant, letting go isn't in my blood, I'll break if I have to, but give up? I just can't
arrows point for the oblivious and help the lost, bullseyes glaze over tiredly as they graze peacefully or glare intensely, arrowheads that follow horns, spring of battle in the ground, that follow the kicking, snorting, charging, and unrelenting sound
a feather in your cap, shoot an apple off a chapel, topple into a hungry laddy's lap, give a kite and key a light tap, wake sleeping minds up from their nap, do not sup, sip sap from sleepy roots of wisdom, applaud, do not clap for the conditioned cheers of genius in its kingdom
now, after you have held everything taut for so long, so strong and confident that you know, merely point it in a direction and let it all go.
write
please read and enjoy

— The End —