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aldo kraas Aug 2023
We built this place called La Capella
So people could come and worship the Lord
We built it with our own bare hands
In the altar of the La Capella has stained glass windows
And when the sunshine through it
It is like paintings on the wall
La Capella was our dream
We dream about it for a long time
Now we finally have a place to worship the Lord
And now La Capella is the Lord’s home
We are so proud of what we achieved
Our dream finally came true
La Capella
aldo kraas Aug 2021
We built this place called La Capella
So people could come and worship the Lord
We built it with our own bare hands
In the altar of the La Capella has stained glass windows
And when the sunshine through it
It is like paintings on the wall
La capella was our dream
We dream about it for a long time
Now we finally have a place to worship the Lord
And now La Capella is the Lord’s home
We are so proud of what we achieved
Our dream finally came true
La Capella
aldo kraas Jun 11
We built this place called La Capella
So people could come and worship the Lord
We built it with our own bare hands
In the altar of the La Capella has stained glass windows
And when the sunshine through it
It is like paintings on the wall
La Capella was our dream
We dream about it for a long time
Now we finally have a place to worship the Lord
And now La Capella is the Lord’s home
We are so proud of what we achieved
Our dream finally came true
La Capella
David W Clare Nov 2014
The chao phraya river song
by: David Wayne Clare

Down by the River (echo-ee, a Capella) Down by the River (echo-ee, a Capella)

Down By the River, don't dive in, them sharks are real-****-mean but, that's where you'll find me... along with buzzards, ******* and kumoi dope fiends...

Chorus
we love that ***** water ... oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're my home !

now...
oriental Asian Ladies, Thailand's **** Siam queens
I dig them slant-eyed ******,
them sticky cat-faced chicks on Soi 13!

(Miami Hotel)

cause they love that ***** water ...
oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're my home !

(Harmonica Solo)

You'll find me trashed one morning (smashed!)
Iced-down in China Town; all crying alone...

One day I'll never leave here (Lord!) Unless an Esan Girl might claim me for her own...
'cause I love that ***** water ... oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're my home !

Refrain

Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River... Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River...
Buddha!
Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River... Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River...

Oh, Bangkok, Thailand... you're my home!

(Sharp jumps from river with snied smile... big splash sound...)

(c) in perpetuity, David John Clare Clairvoyant Music BMI

Thailand...
Written in Bangkok by...
YouTube demos
David John Clare
2010

by david john clare of The chao phraya river song 
by david john clare of bangkok Thailand...
Nishu Mathur Jul 2016
Sweeter than the song of a nightingale 
Gentler than the whisper of a spring wind
Quieter than the murmur of  summer  grass 
Softer than the symphony of hyacinths 

Hypnotic like the splash of blue seas
Tinkling like a stream that flows 
Mesmerizing like the cadence of rain 
Enchanting like the hush  of snow 

Like the faint breath of a scarlet dawn 
The rustle of clouds on a turquoise high 
A duet of  night and an ivory moon
A Capella of  stars in the sky

A hymn, a chant, a choir of angels 
Singing  on a rainbow of time 
Celestial is the serenade of love  
A tune and a note divine.
************
Thank you for your wonderful responses and I am so happy this poem was selected today. Means a lot to me... :)
David W Clare Feb 2015
The chao phraya river song
by david john clare

Down by the River (echo-ee, a Capella) Down by the River (echo-ee, a Capella)

1 Down By the River, don't dive in, them sharks are real-****-mean but, that's where you'll find me...

along with buzzards, ******* and kumoi dope fiends...

chorus 'cause we love that ***** water ... oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're our home !

2 now...Oriental Asian Ladies, Thailand's **** Siam queens

I dig them slant-eyed ******... Them
Sticky cat-faced chicks on Soi 13! 'cause they love that ***** water ...

oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're my home !

(Harmonica Solo)

3 You'll find me trashed one morning (smashed!)

Iced-down in China Town; all crying alone...

One day I'll never leave here (Lord!) Unless an Esan Girl might claim me for her own...

'cause I love that ***** water ... oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're our home !

Refrain

Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River... Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River...

Buddha!

Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River... Chao Phrya River, Chao Phraya River...

Oh, Bangkok you're my home!

(Big smiling shark jumps from river with switchblade knife in between teeth...)

fin

(c) in perpetuity, David John Clare Clairvoyant Music BMI

Thailand...
Siam song 21st century
it was warm
for a winters eve
unusually warm
but damp very damp
birthing a persistent
midnight mist that
crawled over everything

avenging
halogen angels
flitted down from
streetlight perches
skidding through
bare limb bars
of broken trees
roped in by sagging
telephone wires

skulking
seraphs
joined
ebullient
neon auroras
laughingly
brake dancing,
jittering away on the
pock marked rims
of hip hop streets

the fine drizzle
descending from the
black urban heavens
splayed holy water
over the bodies
of anything
that moved; and
layered mounds
of transparent beads
on all inert things
chiding those yolked
to weighty burdens
to seek relief of
a much needed
breaking point

our
slouching city
mired in a cycle
of a prolonged
historical rut
beavers away
to lift the lid
on tomorrows
tipping point
in a desperate
labor to stop
tripping over
itself...

a dinged up
Sentra’s
flashing spinners
twisted round
our dark corner
nearly clipping
our troop

inside the
yakking low-riders
scuttled along,
their hidden ***** eyes
cruising the stoops
and cyclone alleys
scoping opportunities
for the next
jolly hustle
to feed
a growing
angry fix

tonight
Mother Nature was
running a *****
to the wall third shift,
manufacturing a
stationary low
of gagging precip
churning volumes
of Vulcan smoke
conjuring
convective spirits
from all the
dim places

emanations lit
the balmy January air
rising from
stubborn gray patches
of despoiled snow
and rancid ponds
organic gutter water
composting
in distilled pools
awaiting leakage
through flotsam
clogged sewage grids

Paterson’s
litter police
could close the
city’s budget deficit
if all infractions
were properly cited
and paid in this
neighborhood

this queer elixir of
rising vapors from
evaporating snow
escaping the cracks
lining the bowels of
mordant streets
joining descending
screens of billowing mists
blurs boundaries of light,
diffusing temporal time

people and things
lose precise definition
reducing sentient beings
to moving silhouettes of gray
photographic negatives
framed in dribbling palettes
of pastel hues

our
5th Ward mission
planted in the
hub of a neighborhood
still holding on...

Old WASP’s
of St. Paul’s
long ago
winged away
from this
princely
Episcopate
principality

the abandoned
conical nest, its
chambers filled with
the mud of 50 dead rectors
precariously clings
to its shivering
boulevard corner

its endowment depleted
its earthly treasure rusting
grandiose Tiffany windows
remain the last legacy of an
opulent faith now
shamefully rattling away
in moth eaten frames

once icons of
adulatory reverence
the final sparkling asset
of a distressed religion
begs to be monetized
by flummoxed vestrymen
yearning to extend
a stewardship
over a dissipating
ESL flock

distress in the hood
parades down Broadway
in all directions

a few blocks east
a shuttered
Barnert Hospital
transfigured into an
urban enterprise zone
for health-care privateers
working overtime to
extract federal
corporate welfare
rent subsidies
dutifully fulfilling
fine print obligations of
Obamacare legislation

Old Mayor Barnert’s
namesake synagogue
once hard by
City Hall
is long gone
its absent footprint
now centered by
a thriving
White Castle

near Broadway’s end
on the outskirts
of Eastside Park
Art Deco Emanuel Temple
the last anchor
for the city’s Judaism
lies vacant
awaiting a renewed
purpose

fraught with irony
a thriving Islamic Center
stands juxtaposed
across the street
from the old
Hebrew Temple

we wonder what
will emerge
from the
hallowed chrysalis
of decommissioned
Emanuel?

rumors of a
Great Falls Art Center
trickle like a leaking faucet
failure to secure a mortgage
in the post credit
bubble pop economy
dams the possibly
of a new centers
coming to fruition

will
the city’s
changing
demography of
reverent Muslim’s
genuflecting
across the street
take time away
from prayer to
patronize a venue
offering decadent
bourgeois jazz and
risqué reviews
of retro Borscht Belt
vaudeville?

when Constantinople
became Istanbul they
converted the Christian
churches into mosques

when the Inquisitioners
drove the Moors from
Granada they converted
the Grand Mosque to
the Cathedral of the
Incarnation

what incarnations
will this city’s
twilight bring?

As Byzantine
begets
Constantinople
begets
Istanbul
the links
in the Silk Road
spanned west
to the new world
of mechanized looms
powered by
Great Falls
raceway water
and a distribution
and procurement
chain anchored
by the Morris Canal

Capitalist
modernity
begets
our Silk City
it also bespeaks
its demise

in the courtyard
of St. Paul’s
a muffled chorus
trawls the thick air

a posse of pimps
done wrangling
their stables
of $5 ******
sing reveries to
the evening haul

midnight lullabies
of corner crooners
lift a Capella hosannas
from the dark armpit
of an alley behind
the Autozone

“i said
you say
what can make
me feel this way
my girl”

juiced pimps
cashin in
livin large on
a skanks
50 cent haul

the trade in flesh
of distressed
human capital
remains a
growth industry

Music Selection:  
Temptations, My Girl

jbm
3/1/13
Oakland
Part 1 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Paterson NJ is nick named The Silk City.
Pagan Paul Aug 2023
.
I lay down on a bed of petals
I lay down on the flowers scent
I lay down on a bed of petals
I saw my Spirit and where it went

I lay down on a mossy carpet
I lay down on the forest floor
I lay down on a mossy carpet
I feel my Spirit was here before

I lay down on an icy glacier
I lay down on the frozen ground
I lay down on an icy glacier
I know my Spirit can be found.

Pagan Paul (25/09/22)
Thought I'd write a song for vocal harmony's, this was written last September and a friend has picked it up for her group to sing. I wasn't going to post it ever, but what the hell!
solEmn oaSis May 2017
buhay natin ay ano nga ba?
kung walang lagyo ang musika
kagaya ng isang A capella
ang bawat simula
ay may kataposan
ngunit sa bawat kataposan
ay may panibagong simulain
isang prinsipyo na di kayang tuldokan
isang nakaraan na di mapaparam
sapagkat ito ay binantasan ng tandang pandamdam!
kaya naman halina kayo SAGLIT
samahan ako sa pasakalye ng aking DALIT
dahil tulad ninyo...di ko rin nais na wakasan
itong himno ng aking kaluluwa na di ko mapigilan
mailapat sa papel ng aking hapag sulatan
at marubdob na papangyarihin ang taos-pusong koalisyon
ng aking Pag-asa, Pananampalataya at Debosyon
sa pamamagitan ng aking Isang Libo't isang Awit
na pinapag-sanib ng samot-saring kudlit at kuwit
hanggang sa aking maabot ang liwanag sa dilim
at kayo ay aking handogan bago ang takip-silim
What ever happens.... I will continue
what i have been started and
what i haven't yet!
What i am trying to say is...
" some have some while some have no
that's why for those who have most-
this one is also for all of you! "
because for me your Poetry is my Music!
Mary Frances Oct 2017
My heart forgot the melody
like what it used to sing.

The words remained
but not the tune.

And now that you're gone,
I'm trying to hum the music.

But all I can hear is silence
and an a capella that my heart is trying to sing.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
The Quantum Poetry Theorem

from a long time ago,
a thousand poems a priori.

Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement.,
But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.


Scruffy, yet ennobled,
my own 99% invade and
occupy all my senses,
in my eyesight encamped

sensing opportunity,
the 99 demand
that each shutter eye snap,
all nominal exhalations,
every quantum minutia perception,
be live streamed,
direct tv to you

Everything I witness,
transformed into an
acoustic guitar rocking vision,
a levitation of poetic expression,  
set to a primitive three-chord
rock & roll overture,
and my iPad,
appointed Recording Secretary,
compiles exhalations as ecrivations

a preservation society of the verb,
strings of words emanating non-stop
within my head, from a guitar playing
twenty four seven, ironically,
expressed mathematically

Street strolling,
busy brasserie bar,
a Pinot Noir arrives,
a large pour of
stanzas and a
napkin upon to scribble

mind in ferment but
A Capella smooth cool,
my bossy brain requires
incident reports,
a "write me down, please,"
and

no matter how much I drink,
ain't anti-matter enough to
stop my eyes from seeing
every human interaction
as a poetic, probabilistic,
verbal equation,
quantum expressions of sensory upload

The brain revels and reels from overload,  
no mas, no more,
poetry fatigue incurable,
caplets and ointments,
string theory,
can't cure or explain
the compulsion I feel,
and the 1% of me
protests my
overtaxed mental capacity,
and

hear the, see the, masses,
the shouts, the placards,
outside my home,
shut it down, no one cares,
no one wants your transplanted mechanics
in their eardrums

Huzzah, found in my gut,
a Grand Unifying Theory
to coordinate, gauge  and harmonize
my internal asymmetries,
yes, a coupling factor required,
but still,
one equation that explains everything!

my fatigued, pointy, index finger
refuses to tap any more,
my Theory of Everything,
and my poetry, forgot, overlooked.
in my library buried,
black holed, forever silence-stored
I wish they made cocktail napkins bigger, for this was born on one such white invitation, at
Demarchelier NYC, and finished on the mirrors there
From the depression of the distances with respect to the horizontal and the planes that separated them from the surface, below the references that came against, single sediment had been destined towards the high eminence, before the fossal of megatons of aldehyde below the bilges of the final base, where the seventh rings of the goat ibex were perforated, all in the antipode of the Constellation of Capricornus; where the goats were enraptured in the binary of Wonthelimar, behind the floods of absorption that took the Diadocos far from where they should never have left, in order to extrasolar wishes and never to come. From the node of the supreme and poked aldehyde of the horn of Amalthea, with the bizarre analogy of Zeus and Wonthelimar, both mammals with milk from goat's udders, one from goat from Mount Ida and the other from Aldaine in the Alps, with milk from ibex and In the face of Amalthea that appeared in the fossal, all the Seleucid generals had already vanished, starting from the Viper Typhon, who in the retracting sub-mythology of Capricornus was transmigrated to Wonthelimar, swollen with the aldehyde transmuted into this alcohol and into the udder milk of the Ibix that He lactored, while they were all carried away as in the chambers of Auschwitz, in distant lanterns and lamps of the Calypso that he dismissed them, leaving them with the escorts of the ibex or goatfish in laudable stratagems, which vanished them away from their desires from a new polis or Nostos Patrída, sprinkling them with goatskin and flourishing essences of the kashmar of Zeus' nurse; Amaltheum or Amalthea.

The Iberian rings from the medrones in advance reached the two final ring nodes, here Wonthelimar intimidated them with an accurate adjacent bleat of the kashmar that rubbed their back, before the newest and last lux of Amalthea that vanished into herbaceous fruits that always He carried the barefoot medron with him, to start with the antlers dumbbells and re-transport them defeated to the species of snake that frightened the pastoral god Pan who shepherded, and then he submerged in the water after becoming Capricornus Ibex Fish. Being aware of this and of those who refused to continue listening, Ibics rings were unleashed until the seventh medron, feeding back with Wonthelimar who ad libitum created Venus in triads of Zeus. Wonthelimar and Amalthea were remote in the eighth and ninth medron of the antlers, they appropriated to each the portion of the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, and of the thirteenth Shemot so that their dualities and fumes from the unbreathable fossa would remain under the possessed surface of the pendular property balance and positive-negative gender correspondence. Right here Amalthea transmuted her mercy to save the world with her lactation of syrup and honey that was not in short supply, and that was extrapolated into a future abundance of food and nectar, making up for crusts that were uneven in average terms. From this bezel, both beings of the goat genome contributed to the pole of goodness for each one at the end of the benevolent cuirassiers of prospering, and not from the opposite that would lead them, even though they were dissimilar causes, towards a retrograde event that was not a consequence of the becoming of the plagues, and of the malignancy that does not flourish with the Shemot of the Parasha, to agree and lavish themselves on blessed virtues or deliberate wicked ones.

The meaning of a relative synchronic and factotum coexisting does not redeem the disintegration of an existential relativism in Skalá, the Hexagonal Primogeniture from one of its angular visions, metaphysically transfers from its temporary contingencies after its arrival on Patmos, while the temporary Seleucid temporality vanishes, It was affirmed from a contradiction since its truth was distended in the arena of Skalá not implying being welcomed, rather it was victimized by the absurd political dimorphism in a meta spiritual state, abdicating its dispersed retrospective, and now contemplating a compromise of the Hellenic genre, to gradually rebuke the virtues of their banners, twice as good for the purpose of reinforcing the will to accede, and not perish in the attempt to lead Alexander the Great. The criticism of founding the memories are of a revived past where it was not, marking the anthropological fact and false truth judgment, in meaning and contradiction in the polarity of both axiomatic genres, but that is saved when quantifying in who has to defend himself, if seeks to abrogate itself, in the entity that is characterized by induction and attraction of egonies and not of exo-egonies, thus describing it in the theme of "Do not support egos that recriminate other characters of frustration and empowerment of a Vernarthian logic split into Vern-narth. Vern has etymology of Bern or Bern olive tree of Gethsemane and narth of the ordinal scale that speculates its nickname in millions of northern sections of its origin, which subsumes the truth and the criterion of apocalyptic parapsychology, re-life of quantum historicity of the metaphysical and sub-block. -Mythological of Vernarth in his identical.

Everything seemed a strange self-annulment from a clear and understandable limit, but Wonthelimar rose to the surface of the Állos kósmos, finding himself in atmospheres of truth and reality of a Cantabile, who decided about the horse Kanti coming with him towing him from the Erebo de Chauvet Bilocated. As a musical and festive ending, he received them on the upper plate of the happened gestures, where a cabaletta rendered parts of a Cantabrian aria, in sulfurous and remorseful cavatina married with the cross emotions of a finale who sponsored expressions and festive Templar tales, with the descendants of Zeus or minor children, or grandchildren after this had to give him milk and honey but with báchkoi. Among the couplets that received him, some came about the smoke of terror that was confused with the dustbin of a Cavallo or horse acclaimed Kanti, with gasping bustling from a cardex, containing all the repertoires of a cantabile if this scene were to be repeated in The same epic allusion, and in random consequences, that go after a cavalcade that is not abstracted in real characters, but more in conformity with the well-deserved place of epic imaginative beings or in the operatic psychotropic of a duet, which would go flagellating in individuality and in each which is not content from another section of the Cantabrian.

The Universality of emotion and feeling is a tragic Parodo emulating voices of all those who sing from a cantabile galloping in their voices to the beat of the heart in some, and at the same time chanting stanzas and antistrophe in reverse epic and tragic lines, for the purposes of the coliseum that diametrically obstructs the Hellenic choir, which is attached to the intervention of the Hexagonal Primogeniture that was already beginning to rise in height, and in the prayers of Saint John, the Apostle and Prochorus from the captaincy and the ode that would begin to stanza, from the west to this and the antistrophe would follow with Vernarth, Wonthelimar and Alexander the Great from east to west. Ad libitum of their enjoyments, they were eating Greek snacks or Katogorias on the way in bases of Almonds, cinnamon, olive oil, sugar, and sweet wine that they carried on their backs in Rhytas shaped like the horns of Zeus and the Ibix of Wonthelimar, which the same Procorus carried on his golden back. The meaning is affirmed as a meaningless infringement of laws of temporality, and truthfulness at the expense of short evidence, and of facts that vanish in the light haze of causalism and not of effectism, when the adjective or noun is made of a strong verb in the Metabasis and in the imprecations that Vernarth gave.

Vernarth's metabasis: “the verse and the adjective will be subsidized by the noun in the construction of Állos Kosmo Megarón, from where mathematics will immaterially explain sap suckers under the noun in liquid milk of the color white and of the high nutritional value in female lactated, and of mammals to feed their goats or ibex. The soul of this prerogative implies that the verb will be to promote species rather than a nutritious milky elixir for Zeus, and the candor of his **** will tend to the bipedal or quadruped subject self-procreating from a Milky Specie. (Milky species).  Being ****** into milk by self-procreating snitches. Vernarth says (give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!)

Amalthea in rituals and relics from prospects of demigods was purposely cordoning them off in Mycenaean deities, from a contemporary Westerner comforting them near a hippocampus; with signs of ibex Capricornus, rapt at the nymph that spoke from Mount Ida in Crete and that she made congruent with the constellation of Capricornus, more precisely in the Cornucopia making this heraldry of Wonthelimar with Fortune, Abundance, Occasion, Liberality, Prudence and Joy. In a woman sitting on a throne, a young nymph with a flower crown, a naked woman with one foot on a wheel and the other unstable, a woman with sunken eyes and an aquiline nose dressed in white, two faces from the past and future, a woman happy with the exuberance of the Cornucopia with children and a palm leaf. Being the abundance that in serial Amalthea bordered all the ladies in different esoteric and Mycenaean prosperity, constantly shining with radiations on the present in the Unicorn Ibix, which Zeus left after breaking its antlers, unleashing kindness and plethora in fruit buds, and vegetables that were appropriated in the Fortune of Wonthelimar reissuing what in their domains they can do, and now in Patmos with its Cornupia being transferred from that liquefied shaft honey and milk cultivated with attributes of herbs contributing to the leisure, peace, and relaxation of the cosmic world that ascended in Wonthelimar as Ibix in advance of Capricornus, from where the Auriga always broke into his expeditions with a trajectory towards the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, where he brought it from the Capella Star for the femurs of the Diplodocuses who seconded Drestnia to watch over the hydraulic pits of the Koumeterium from Messolonghi, before traveling to Tangier.

The entire herd went back to an ancient promontory that was halfway up the mound towards the black styes or abscesses, in the central intuition of the fossa that began to dissipate towards their backs. Amalthea extends into the Állos Kósmos, which came in zoomorphic receptacles collecting the announced blood of the animals that flowed in black planks from the vortex of the fossal, towards the liminal or transitory sleeper of the fossal that oozed acetosities of the Aldehyde to be transmigrated after the bilocation of the Chauvet cavern. All wore willow halos on the crowns or diadems of their caps, including the proliferation of phantasmagoric Allies that went in rows from 780 to 680 BC. C., with fortunes of the Cornucopia that arched in magical arches due to the dissociative changes of the universe, as well as the circumstantial creed of some omnipotence that will cause emotional transgenerational transgression, in the rain vessels that they made fall from the Ombrio de Zeus, in a daily latticework closing the spaces, and only leaving for some intruders and onlookers to see his flashing Astrepé. Right here the diádoc fossal vanished, when it rose above the horizontal that poured into the Chronic Vernagrams of parapsychological personalities of ingenuity classicism and in Astro-concomitance, which would rethink everything that is past and future from a Vernagram, which is more than a compression of a mere future of the quantum spaces and the sacred medrones of the Ibixes with their direct relationship with Capricornus. Diverse capital moments were treasured in the breeze of the Vas Auric that was traced from the opposing moraine that fell in lapse-time, through the labyrinth in storms and thunderings that became planetary with the Lynothorax cuirass that Alexander the Great accommodated in the festoon border of his Aspis Koilé, kicking copiously as a sign of shaking the head of the gods who deceived him to be alive, and who was now reborn in the faith of Saint John the Apostle, favorite of the Mashiach and where he will have to wipe his face with the shroud of Veronica Before entering the Állos Kósmos Megaron that everyone built, in favor of a Panagia or Temple, unlocking the majolica that seeped out from the rest of the transmigration, and his own in the configuration of a corpse with a tricolor gesture.

The presumptive eradicated the side of the forearm rots that was being restored in Wonthelimar's laps, which helped him get up and catch his breath while the Katogorias snack filled his mouth with nectar and almonds with Macedonian Psiloi combat tactics with serum and flames of Alcohol dripped from her nostrils and sinuses in the sweet wine, which in pompous dilemma defied the judges of her life in the choir of the Bilocated Epidary Theater on Patmos, and in the ***** dry Kashmar of the orchard with the pale faces of the grotesque, that rested in the memory or Mnmosyne and in the fauna of the Thracian and Thessalian helmets.

Alexander the Great says: “here I agonized and now in the fresh waters of the springs of the Lerna, I will also marry the glorious mystay and bákchoi, in the memories of Vernarth seeing him besieged by Achaemenides in the stooped position of Dario III, to come purifying and sustaining of my limbs, learning to walk and speak in Neolithic techniques, which extruded me from the Lerna by barriers of the moon that shone from the bronze of my Leonatus helmet. Thus I could see that Vernarth, fought alone against thousands throwing fire through his mouth and his eyes, separating the waters of the Falangists, who plowed like ships deforesting the Persians, and leaving them in their mud, imposing glorious Hypaspists who unbolted from their back some arrows with heads of snakes and Hydras.

Vernarth watched as everyone climbed the Profitis Ilias mound, two hundred and sixty-nine meters above sea level, where the monastery of San Juan is located; here he was suspended in his solitude after everything that happened at the end of the moat that definitely I would return without the Diádocos, with a hint and its functionalities. From here Helios became genealogical, who snatched him from the kingdom of dead flowers, which were to be assumed from the Olympian where he will join him to the essential of Aïdoneus; immaterializing in the darkness of dizzies and the flowers that died in the genealogy of a new species. The scenic swept its cognitive and ferns with more than three hundred frank species that frowned like the enemy of an evil friend, with seedlings that expectorated from the resonance of the bushes that invited to thrive in the salty ripples that made a dreamer fall asleep on top of the kerchiefs or brambles that memorialized Gethsemane, burning his face and hands with psalms, telling him about his Baba. For when it is a luminary by night and by day, they will compare it with the white grayish drupes and mops, like those of the Bern orchard of Olives, in aqueous and resinous colloidal, which was crowned in harmony and syntropia in Vernarth activating intellectual conscious plantations, which will restructure its balance of ultra Hoplite, in metabolism of the Lentiscus flowers, with great brotherhood in the Olives that each time exercised the gift of bending their oleaginous self-species, towards planes of the Cornicabra olives, with large branches and high tree altitude that fruit within of the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko spin, juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, which with large branches and high tree altitude fruit within the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko line juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, and with polyphenols in scale geothermal energy that still leveled the Ponto Sea towards the tectonic plate to give it the flavor that was owed from remote prehistoric times.

Patmos was aborted from an immanent consent and new force of the impending enemy in Pythagorean perorations and an offending thought. From this prerogative is born the generalized punishment of sub-mythological ethics in favor of legacies of allusions to reorder or defragment the enslaving and demolished bio culture, which would begin from the establishment of the Vas Auric found in Limassol, which took possession from Rhodes with clean scenes from Tsambika monastery. The epic ran like icy cold down the shoulders of all those who sweated for the generation of cops, and in domestic evasions in superior lordships to Hades or Wonthelimar itself, both sons of flocks and goats that nourished them by providing them with a mountain perspective, as a magnetic pole towards gothic energy that ruled more in the Magnetic North Pole, and the geographic oversize that reviled latitudes in riches that would dismiss Borker and Zefian, as masters distributors of the ethics of the Áullos Kósmos of Patmos, redeploying thousands of dead from pre-Hellenic times, so that they recirculate through the roots of the Kashmar, re-sulfurizing cinnabar saps as the germ of the subterranean Acheron, which consecrates the living and the dead in the eternity of the infinite Duoverse Universe. The order will lie in semi-shadows that even in the dark provide the pleasant warmth of camphor, with advanced Horcondising formulas, which will appeal to hungry souls by suppressing gifted energies, and by inseminating them with ovules without originally conceived organisms.

From Hylates, Cyprus; Zefian came by order of Vernarth, assisted with the extension of the earthly laborers of the Attic Calendar on the twenty-first of September, from the device of Apollo at the site of Boeotia, and especially of the Boedromion. The arrows that Zefian brought had an instant Boedromion crossing the lines from spring to winter, with seven arrows that Zefian threw into the sky and never fell, but if portentously received in the virginity of animals. The flora with seven golden arrows of the Chauvet de Wonthelmar cavern, condoned the exhaustive end of the fossal where they still remained, in a gesture of tenderness and relative Mycenaean genealogy, from Crete the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree was approaching, originating in the Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points, begin with the first two arrows that they put on the string of the bow, each one flying north and south trajectories and the other two that were once again attacked with the east bow, to shoot the arrows of east-west with southern magnetism limits. Zefian's imagination was of proportions that were not limited without wandering from their phalanxes when they pulled the string, like joys of a ghostly existence that pushed him in each bolt, presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for belated courts imposed from a cosmos, which he led by insisting on his will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating the association of the hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychological of the feared inter-tale alive that rebels in the arrows that they had not yet fallen and did not know their whereabouts. As plates or serial hosts, they were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burn contravened Duoverse to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in aeonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities towards vast volumes of light-years, where eternity has no measure, let alone the existence that begins and ends born from a homozygous arising without a Universe, to hatch from the branch of the Heterozygous Duoverse, bringing different unions of eternal cells by universal divine decree, and not the union of disparate cells. The science of the Mashiach came in these divine arrows that marked the points of the cardinal in the numinous and exclamatory expansions of the exiled universe of Vernarth, towards the perenniality in itself, but being heterozygous for a world that would begin to live in non-organic cells, but yes of divine composition, over saturating the limits of the origin, and destiny of syntropy of the conscious actions of the metabolism of the Alma Mater and of the great doors when losing the bodyweight of the physical-ether, but yes from the platform of the Mashiach that will take them hands without leaving them abandoned, showing them that they were no longer children born of ovule-*****, but rather in the luminous matter, envisioning expansions of prayers beyond from the universe, where it will accompany them in a multidimensional plane..., and will have no end from a human scientific conception.

Wonthelimar says: “Since the omphalos was swallowed by Cronos, Hera's elegy was unleashed, for not raising her son Zeus in free clumps of goats and Ida's honey. I in the Alps went to the herd of the Ibix like a Zeus saved from the darkness of Chauvet in the mountains of Gaul. There are chisels that cut stones in beautiful whirlwinds, but I know that a lot of cosmology would not speak of the Mediterranean Cornicabra and its olive drupe, nor less of the Cornucopia that sinks with sumptuous and ephebian flavors in the fruit, and the greenish heraldry of the binominal that is disturbed in its phalanges eating and sipping honey, in antler pots with pride of the Ida and the Vercors massif”
Wonthelimar Amaltheum, Állos Kosmos Megaron
Craig Verlin Jun 2013
the radio echoes
noiselessly
off lives lost
too soon
dreams left
for dead
people die everyday
I only blink
move on
perhaps turn
up the volume
staring at
blank pages
they burn and twist
taunting
while the words
won't come out
and the women
won't go out
they scorn
the piano player
while dancing to
the music
it makes
no sense
no music
no women
they dance and dance
each with their own
set of teeth
of claws
only hope
to make it out alive
the door opens
and the door closes
it won't stay shut
the piano player
scorned in the corner
while the women
dance and dance
and laugh
while all dreams
bring paradise just
out of reach
while the dead
still die
still die
and the words won't come out
the music cuts off
and the women still dance
as if there was
no sound
to begin with
no sound
no sense
no music
no women
only blank pages
burning and twisting
and the piano player
scorned in the corner
and the words won't come out
the words won't come out
anymore
KingOmar69 Sep 2013
Collage of College
Sharpened carrot sticks
Twenty hundred lettuce leaves
We eat this salad

Fall Fails
Summer: The Sequel
Starring Flora S. Fallen
Directed by Son

Sweater Weather
Snow covered beignets
Cider and cocoa rivers
Gingerbread people

Mojito Vice
Muddled leaves of mint
Lime juice and syrup downpour
Ice cube avalanche
A *** and fizzle drizzle
A spri(n)g of mint to garnish

Meat meet Heat
Baritone beer belch
Sweet symphony of pig parts
Oyster orchestra
Beef, chicken composition
The sun sings A Capella
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
"His mind would never romp again like the mind of God."
The Great Gatsby**


Does he fret,
Does he sweat,
Does he pay his bills
On Time,
Even tho his personal stash
Of anything,
Inexhaustible and
He bills himself?

Is he lonely,
So when he romps,
His greatest pleasure is
Inventing new kinds of pain?

Does he like to watch butter
Snowmelt,
Does he turn the honey jar
Upside down
Because viscosity is
A turn on?

Is he lonely?
Of course he is,
Is that why he endlessly
Tinkers with creative destruction?

Does he put strawberry jam
On his watermelon?
Salt on his wounds,
Caramelized onions in his
Cologne and parfumes?

Does he watch reruns?
The bombing of Dresden, Hiroshima?
The shaving of the heads of the French women?
What's his fav. late night host,
When he can't sleep
And. his damaged dreams
Become our unfortunate realities?

Acting childish, a métier,
So he can scold himself?
Does he keep score,
Ever say no more,
Contemplate suicide,
Or just murdering his sons?

Did he kiss Shakespeare's lips,
Or just his fingertips?
Does he sing a Capella
With Holly and Cooke,
Let Beethoven play rock n' roll?

What is he best excuse
For playing with
Tormented souls,
Making so many wonderful things
Forbidden fruit?

Does he worship regularly at the altar?
Irony his faith and skin his vestments?
Are his twisted straight,
His late, early?
His order disordered and when bored,
Does he just close his eyes and
Let us live in peace?
After seeing Gatsby.  Buddy Holly, Sam Cooke.
Peter Simon Mar 2015
It was raining really hard,
I’m standing under an empty shed
And the sky wasn’t starred,
Seemed like all the lights were dead

You came under the umbrella,
With your face neither happy nor sad
I looked up hoping to see the Capella,
But still the sky seemed mad

Slowly, I glanced at you,
I caught you staring at me
Then the wind hardly blew,
The freezing rain fell free

Suddenly, the shower stopped
You smiled, I blushed
Overwhelmed, my gaze dropped,
And everything around hushed

Then lights started flickering,
I thought they were the stars
But no, they weren’t shimmering,
The fireflies were ours
© Peter Simon
2015
Jack L Martin Aug 2018
It was a hot summer Georgia morning.
The fresh smell of pine
The sounds of marching solders
Reveille played over the loud speakers

As cooks, we started our day early
Everything seemed normal
Normal for Army life, that is
Life that I got used to

I put on my uniform
Polished my boots
Walked over to the dining facility
Expecting to fail inspection, again

"Report to HHC Immediately!"
24th Infantry Division (mechanized)
"First to Fight"
This was serious

What was going on?
Confusion afoot
Kuwait was ambushed
Sadam must be stopped

We marched over to the gymnasium
There were stations set up
Line up for innoculations
Fill out your Last Will and Testament

March over to the barraks
Pack up your gear
Only what you can carry
Sneak in some comfort items

What about the rest of my stuff?
Someone will look after it
Don't worry, it's safe
Soldiers are a bunch of thieves

March over to the National Guard barraks
They look like the did in WWII
50 double bunks in a row
they smelled moldy

This was our new home
until further notice
I haven't slept
in 48 hours

No communication
to your family or firends
I snuck out
to the pay phone

Not sure what to say
other than don't worry
I love you
goodbye

I am one of
the first one hundred
soldiers to depart
Single, no close family

We board the ship
It is massive!
USNS Capella (T-AKR 293)
In the Savannah Harbour

Tanks, helecopters
Trucks, supplies
One hundred ARMY soldiers
Ready to disembark

We stand along port side
at parade rest
A tear rolls
Down my face

Thousands of civilians
Waving flags
Cheers of goodbyes
Crying children and wives

The ship leaves port
slowly pulls away
the cheers fade
into the ocean depths

First day afloat
The ship rocks slowly
Hard to get used to
Motion Sickness kicks in

I worked in the galley
T-Ration for breakfast
MRE for lunch
T-Ration for dinner

I ate with the Marines
A-Ration meals
Privilege of being
a Food Service Specialist

Trash accumulated
Throw it overboard
Alongside the bow
Death to the oceans

Many days pass
I read a book
Hyperion (Dan Simmons)
The only book I had

I sit on the deck
the sea in all directions
mystifies the soul
we are alone

I wake up to discover
Another ship next to us
USNS American Explorer
(T-AOT-165) Refueling ship

We reach the Suez Canal
Egypt looks beautiful
To the east: lush greenscape
to the west: barren wasteland

Egyptian Militants
watching intensely
along the shoreline
they saw my camera

Merchants come aboard
"Good deals for you,
American G. I."
I bought some batteries

I get to phone home
satellite communication
ten dollars a minute
worth every penny

We reach our destination
Twelve day journey ended
time to unload
organized chaos

All hands on deck
mechanized disembark
crash course
on driving a tank

Transported to my unit
in the tent city
they got there first
flown by commercial airliner

time to roll out
loaded my gear
WRONG TRUCK!
Ruck sack gone forever

Lost my walkman
lost my camera
lost my book
was in the ruck sack

to be continued.........
I joined the ARMY in 1989, straight out of high school.  Active duty station was Ft. Stewart, GA.  Assigned to the 1st Battalion, 64th Armor Regiment. Desert Rogues: "We Pierce!"
Jordan Resendes Dec 2013
This daze I'm caught under.
Constant. looping of days
Thrown together carelessly.
Eventually. Later. One day.
My eyes, heavy. Mind: weary.
Her eyes, so simple, familiar.
One is more than enough
Everything is making sense
freeing, understanding beautiful
Impossibilities flow through
me as I come to realize.
A proper education which
brings us together is the only
String from which we dangle.
Paul Sands Mar 2015
friends of friends and an **** of mutuality
every one ripe for the ******* until we greedily
eat our own tails

I find myself running low on chemistry

with so little reaction left inside of me
the water around the plug hole no longer spins,
it only falls

architectural wounds
cannot heal beneath this razor’s murderous haste
while the cognisant weak and a capella apes deform
the silent comedy of a shared space

once straight tempers and scorpion kindness highball
an unhappy taste, leaving who to speak
for the ordinary host?

the functionaries’ short practice
infects the martyr’s hurried hair
between the principal route and the settling irons
Joshua Haines Apr 2016
A radio perches on a mahogany end-table,
singing like a mechanical bird:
bellowing fuzzy jazz, reaching my ear.

Its sides are rounded
like the curves of a classic car.
The antenna is *****
like the arm of an eager child
I've had swinging in-between
phantom-bytes and sonic slush:
my mind: inexcusable and mush.

A deck of cards shrugs it's shoulders
before it climbs on top of the radio;
it's rigid joints straightening and angling.
It tucks the tab back into it's head,
concluding before singing along to
'Somewhere beyond the sea.'

The voice of the deck rattled and squeaked,
like a caged mouse doing a capella.
Shot spit of it's mouth,
like a translucent spaghetti noodle. Bloop.

- I stormed outside, inaudible to all,
unmoved by few, chosen by none -

Today I sat across from a girl --
across the room, not across a table
or across the universe --
Her hair dangled like a carrot's wig,
a carrot's impersonation of a blonde girl.

Of course, her skin was closer to orange than pale --
but I like that stuff. I want it rubbed off on me,
physically, spiritually, mentally, emotionally.
Old-oxidized-green-coins invaded her eyes
and settled in the center of eggshell-white buffer.

Pants were as denim as a brush of shale
or the picture-pose of a flannel-clad beard,
holding a pick-ax and a dusty journal.
A journal of my thoughts, timeless
in their irrelevancy, until discovered
and claimed by someone else,
someone with a beard, a daughter, a smile;
See: Things I will never have.

What could I mean to this person?
How could I be desirable to her?
What am I but an alien,
coasting a galactic sea,
unable to relate to what I see?

- And what was your prize,
in this life? To be loved?
Or to be conquered? -

The deck of cards disappeared.
And I, I without consequence,
rummage through dust blanketed boxes,
hoping to cut my hand on something
I have mistaken as dull.

I have been told that my mother inhabits this box,
somewhere, sometime, somewhere, sometime.
A framed image, a polka dot cloth, a forever
unprecedented by a sunny-day funeral,
where I am the tail of the dying snake
that is my family: last to perish, last to wait:
a corrosive ingestion of unadulterated isolation.

My beige fingers wrap meat and bone,
but also a cheap-golden frame of my mother and us.
Our glasses are all too big, but we were all too poor.
My mother is wearing her wedding ring,
but I don't know why.

So young and vulnerable,
held by a freckled, strawberry blonde.
I don't even know her, any more.

The deck of cards reappears.

- But I've been alone for too long.
Even the winds have stopped whispering.
I have become a witness to my own death. -
Peter Simon Nov 2014
It was raining really hard,
I’m standing under an empty shed
And the sky wasn’t starred,
Seems like all the lights were dead

You came under the umbrella,
With your face neither happy nor sad
I looked up hoping to see the Capella,
But still the sky seemed mad

Slowly, I glanced at you,
I caught you staring at me
Then the wind hardly blew,
The freezing rain fell free

Suddenly, the shower stopped
You smiled, I blushed
Overwhelmed, my gaze dropped,
And everything around hushed

Then lights started flickering,
I thought they were the stars
But no, they weren’t shimmering,
The fireflies were ours
Riq Schwartz Feb 2012
colours sing their a capella hymn
lighter tones emitted from your skin
brush the light aside as morning's rise
shows us something glowing from within
Pavel Popov Jun 2016
Mc Kit, im a cat i compose my songs
a dog's gonna to bark, a dog is a dog
i go to an extent come see how long
dog sits on a chain, cats are free to walk
no reason to chase me, im high up in a tree
barking won't help, you wake a Lion in me
if it happens that you, slip off your leash
you take that chance, run away if you wish
if they catch you again and tie to a chain
they do it that way, so you can't run away
you can guard their money be my guest
real treasure though is what's in my chest
doesn't take any heart to diss a cat, fella
i fight for my freedom do this a capella
we live in a junge it's true what they say
it's a struggle for me every night and day
dog chase a cat it's hungy for food
bad dog doesn't see i am more like a wolf
figure out for yourself if you're evil or good
i gave you a recepie hope its understood
what else do you need how much more proof
i am a Whale in a sea, a cat on your roof
hold on to knowledge while my sub woofs
still all i hear in the background is woof...woof
https://soundcloud.com/mc-kit-2/mc-kit-the-struggle-cats-and-dogs
Lauren Dec 2013
once when we were speaking candidly
in the car or maybe at breakfast
I told you how much I love the you
that comes out at night in your room,
the Bogeyman beneath your glasses who
leaps out of the shadows and, like a
ravenous beast, topples me over to
devour my tasty flesh —

you shrugged at my suggestion and I
wondered if it ever occurred to you
that your lust simmers so near the
surface on those nights that smell
so heavily of *** —

when I asked if you noticed any
Bogeyman in me, you only admitted
that I become more “blunt”, not
commanding, necessarily, but
straight-forward and concise —

it makes me think of those shivering
nights without clothes when we haven’t
made it beneath the covers yet
as something like a ritual where we
shed our daily roles and put on
those of the beast and his master,
where I conquer you and clean up
your spoils, leaving only a
slick orange sweater and a
hasty a capella symphony, a
prelude to sweet and somber slumber.
Michael DeVoe Mar 2011
I've been shot through the heart
By a bullet with no name
So I have no one left to blame for this
I'm lying here
Bleeding out
Asking forgiveness from everyone I've met
But they all deleted my number along time ago
Nobody answers numbers they don't recognize anymore
So really I'm just lying here
Staring at the moon doing its best impersonation of the Cheshire Cat
And I want that
That, smile while I die
The "it ain't ****"
That swagger that everyone else seems to have
I never had

I'm lying in a casket I built
The only project I ever finished
They're shoveling piles of regrets, sorrys, and unused potential
That's enough to bury me here
My headstone doesn't read like the eulogy of a loved man
It reads like a children's book
One word per page
And the word they put on the only page about me?
Somebody else's name
So the creditors couldn't find me
It's not like anyone else calls these days
History need not remember those who did not contribute to it

The list of things I've said I would do
Is not as long as the list of things Kanye West has done
But if you let me finish you'll see it's ten times as long as the list of things I've done

I know five songs by heart
Every one of them is sad
Ain't No Sunshine
500 Miles (not the catchy one the old a capella one from the fifties)
Hallelujah
Landslide
And Red Eye
I use the word why like a piece of gum
Chewing on it until it loses its flavor
It used to taste like coconut
After 10 hours of a graveyard shift it just tastes like yesterday
And the moon doesn't track my days anymore
My feelings do and it's been today for a long time and yesterday I was happy
It's been a few years since yesterday
I can't wait till tomorrow
Who knows maybe it will come when I wake up

I have black out curtains
The sun says goodnight to my toes through the crack in them
My dreams still watch her pull the trigger
I still wake up with bullet holes
People are still not answering my phone calls
And I'm too afraid of my mirror to go knock on their doors and ask if they want to come out and play
She knew
I knew
But knowing isn't accepting and accepting isn't wanting
I want my dreams back

My feet swell up at the end of a work day
When I take my shoes off they feel better
I don't feel better now that she's gone
My heart used to swell up after seeing her
Apparently swelling doesn't always hurt
Apparently making it stop doesn't always feel better
I learn something new every day
Today I learned that if you only think happy thoughts about a person you just miss them more
Yesterday I learned if you only think bad thoughts about a person you just want to apologize
Tomorrow I'll learn what happens if you forgot that person ever left
She won't be learning the same lesson
I don't see this going too well
My therapist says it doesn't have to be fair to be how I feel
I feel discarded
Like one of my promises
Like one of her days
Like a snow man in March
The piece of litter the prisoners forgot in the blackberry bush on the side of 1-5

The moon smiles like a cat who never knew what it was to frown
I live like a man who never knew what it was to be
A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
http://goo.gl/5x3Tae
Dana Pohlmann Feb 2014
Science is the understanding that nothing is lost,
But everything winds down.

There is no beauty in science, some said, no art.
I refused: Some, God, silent doctor waiting at the door-
I refuse.

There is only this tragic struggle:
Your heart, carrying all the implications
Of a watch left in desert, must eventually fail to keep time.
I would know why the stitches that wound our heels,
Blossoms of Achilles, are the heart’s most desperate gestures.


I want to look at your heart, hearts.
Aspiring a capella,
The down-singing choir in my hand, your heart reveals.

First, I must understand the laws of motion,
Wave-forms, cryptic anatomy of silence and not-silence,
Only in your mind, your body is a law unto itself.

First, the Archaea, frustrating enigma that never speaks.
“Where did you come from?” I asked.  
You smiled, as if I were asking
Who of us is more than water?
Why aren’t the stars alive?


Selfishly, our endosymbiosis called its questions as demands.
How can this work?
You look like someone I knew before…
I want.
You cannot leave.


I must submit to examination.
The machine will tell us if my heart speaks in murmurs,
But not if I am heavier than a feather,
Not if we did or didn’t know what we were doing.
You invited me in, and it was raining so I stayed.

We violated the lens, spoke too longingly of light.
You saw the defined spaces between the foam.
In a tangle of bed linens, I dreamed of pulsing Farandolae,
Paired for synapsis, migrating to the metaphase plate,
Ripped from sound’s embrace by their reluctant roots.


*I will be vaccinated against harm, but not shadows, not time.
Manu M Jun 2015
The cathedral bells rang as Sarah’s heart raced like a bullet
Today was when Joe would arrive; waiting she was for his embrace
Whilst, Richard sat solemnly then stood and struggled
Trying to grapple the names of the Apostles

There Sylvia, as Richard would call her: grandma
Brewed her special tea; the fragrance brought Richard towards her
He recited the names of the Apostles-“Saint Peter, Saint John, and Saint um….”
The last name tried he hard to pull
“He is invoked in helpless situations” his grandma prompted
Without reluctance he exclaimed-“Saint Jude!”

Sarah the mother entered and Richard flung into her arms
Without much ado Joe the father jived into the hall
All of them hugged and kissed like mad, and Sylvia the grandmother sent a little prayer to the Lord
She does that a lot, was brought up in a pretentious Christian family

The Bishop preached the Gospel; all rose for the Morning Prayer to be sung
Seeing him standing there singing in the choir made her heart burst with joy
Her little Richard singing the prayer; when all was done Richard walked hand in hand with his grandmother
And every night she recited him a verse of the holy Bible

Joe’s love for Sarah was taciturn
Sarah’s, more strident in approach
And whenever mother talked Richard felt
That a semblance tarnished his father’s soul

Five years after, the sound of the Shofar made his ears hurt
The sound almost eerie made his chest burn
Tears incessantly slipped damping his black suit
His mother was Jewish, the Synagogue echoing the sound
Of the Shofar shouted for itself
Making him realize the real reason behind his father’s reticence

In the spring of ’58 his father left
With a woman Richard would have never suspected
But that was not all spring had to offer
Richard fell in love with the girl of his dreams
She reminded him of his mother when she smiled
But glamour supposedly overpowered this sweet joy

And one wintry night Richard fled from his house
Leaving his grandmother to cry
She knows not where he is
For he never returned to his only lover alive

Roaming he is in the filthy streets of Nogales, Sonora
The a Capella that the Armenian Church nearby played wracked his nerves
The sermons that he’d heard over the years long back lost their effervescence
As the faiths Judaism, Christianity, Islam all seemed a cruel joke
Follower of Satan some call him when he walks down the road

Had it not been for the heinous conspiracies of the world
Poor Richard would have still loved the divinity
But sick he was of the demons of the world’s and his own
His ingenuity, innocence, spontaneity were taken away by the supreme
His heart no more hurts as madman he hath become

But somewhere in the abyss formed in his heart
He wants to believe the priests for once and for all
But the ineptness of the cause restraints him each time
Once was a devotee now a Pagan he’s forced to be for life

~Manu M.
nawke Jun 2018
East of the Equator on 1° 15' tropics is an old pirate isle
Irate *****-wavers are set to meet, I repeat, on Santosha
where, if you know it by its sanskrit, they might reconcile
Wishful leaders play symbolic. To us are none, but frenzy frolic.

Rudy doubles a pretty sight when smart cookie crumbles
to his knees.  The apprentice,  a fake gansta has capitulated to
Trump who's  known to expostulate his lot of twitterati
oh, the wizard of sentences,  cut the circuit and paparazzi.

Rocket man says read my lips, so Dotard threatens bigger drips
Both gaga over trigger hands, like-a-****** on hot dozen buttons.
Ain’t it a saga, they goatherd each other on,  so call in Dennis to
get us out of the funk. Just maybe, a remote chance, a fun slam-dunk!

The world awaits with bated breath, the immovable anchors to a
bad romance. We're stuck for answers to translate two gyrate minds,
singing hits a-capella under nuke umbrella.  No tanning spray and
pray please or death-from-behind us all, the wrench of humankind.

At 34, Prince has just begun life, to see his people starving to die
At 71, ****** has a life doing what he does,  while waiting to die  
Chasms miles long, but cookie cutter share tall man phantasm
94 stories high towards disarming God in their own ego suites.

Gurkhas and gazetted city blocks, the people in uttered groans
All twitterpating over a hermit throne dancing to a jailhouse rock
Two bright like buttons, so zero sum bargains may cost an arm and
an earth - nuclear glutton! Not a far gains from your usual Target?

At St Regis in gather,  string theories of riddles to Lord of the Rings
Towkays at the table “Order! Order!” no one absquatulates at all borders
In shambhala, will it be “Big and Bold” or “Beg and Hold”, who knows
Except Goldenhair, in first minute - Upside or Upset of an F1 ride!
An observation of Trump-Kim Summit 1206 Singapore @Copyright
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
On The Great Lawn of my mind,
The city's biggest dance floor,
Upon its cushions, stepping lightly,
The spring breeze, feeling its way,
Making, reawakening, a thousand acquaintances,
Absent parent kissing each long-lost babe-blade of grass

Breeze takes each blade of spring grass:

Cajoles, asks not,
With windy hands, guided missiles,
gentle/firm
push/pull
engage/ disengages,
open/closes

Breeze makes each one
Neck, caress their neighbor,
A thousand pas de deuces of  
fresh faced green children.
All in all a triumphant processional,
Cloaked in robes of sky blue velvet,
Crowned by the sun's burnt orange kisses.

At the middle school dance,
The walls are portrait painted  
with the shy ones,  
The ones-who-don't-know-how-to-ask.
Passover's children
Needy for a Moses.

Student of the spring breezes,
This silly earnest teacher/chaperone,
Grand-pa-rent will:


Cajole, ask not,
With hands, guided missiles,
gentle/firm
push/pull
engage/ disengages,
open/closes

Under his tutelage,
Every boy and girl
A dancer, a blade,  
Each a Passenger on the fuselage
Of his Spring Ballroom breeze.

These are my spring rites  
imagined,
Visions of my sight  
unimpaired,
Present and future  
clarified.

Soon we will teach our own  
Little Princes and Princesses,
The shelter of dancing,
Feel the embrace of nature,
Under the mantle of an  
A Capella choir of tree leaves,
We will lie side by side,  
Skyward pointing,
Sharing our spring-sprung imaginings,
Performing each and all  
Upon the breeze to carry away,
For all to gleeful applaud!
Another old one
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Drove 75 miles each way
To see Colbie Callait,
Somewhere in Connecticut,

That was back
In 2009,
Maybe 2010,
Maybe 2011.

Enjoyed it immensely,

Other than
The only thing
Older than me
At the concert
Was the building
It was held in.

And everybody at work made fun of me.

Took my woman
Downtown to the  
High Line Ballroom
A few years back,
Edwin McCain,
He sang
I'll Be.

It was fine,
Other than
I was the tallest person
Standing on line.

Last year
Danced on a conga line
Led by Pink Martini,
At Carnegie Hall.
Ain't embarrassed to admit,
They dragged me from my front row seat,
Kicking n' screaming,
Hope nobody was videotaping!

At the Beacon on Broadway,
Saw Paul Simon and
Straight No Chaser,
And I would do it again in a
A Capella second.

This year,
High up at Lincoln Center,
Overlooking Central Park and
My city sparkling,
Saw Ingrid Michaelson singing,
It's OK.

She was giggling,
Cause it was so fun, for her,
To act so grown up.
Her parents and sisters
Even came to see her.

Sometime ago saw Marc Cohn, singing,
Don't remember when, don't recall,
Walking in Memphis,
Even tho both of us were at
City Center on West Forty Third Street.

At the City Winery,
In NoHo
Don Felder did Hotel California,
Went to the backstage partee
Cause I was around when
he first penned it,
When he was still part of the Eagles.

For an old geezer,
Born in 1901,
I'm pretty cool,
Despite the occasional mistake.

But I know better than to go to see
Justin Bieber,
Way too cool for that,
So those ticket to
Taylor Swift,
Ripped,
Having never seen
the light of day,
I think I even pretended to
Throw them away...
All true, especially the embarrassing parts.  Nooooooo I did not go see Bieber....really!
Brian Clampet Mar 2011
(A capella)
The room's gettin kinda crowded
I think they heard our sound check
I can seem them craning their necks to see who's next
they want a set that wrecks
were happy to provide, come on
step inside the light we'll take you for a ride
and we're smiling like we're on trial for our lives
it's a good day to die
but tonight we feel alive

(FUNKY ****)

and it's wild how they've got us chasing fires
through the night
in the absence of light
with music, we search for sight
they're reaching for the supreme dream
the currency, the cream
but we resisted the feeling
and we rage against machines
and we blow off ceilings
"Lil c" and the Tree and me, we three
teach with beats and melodies
and bass lines we shine our light
for those who are blinded
and we raise our voices
for those who stay silent
dying to live so
to live we're dying
but to be honest
most of these faces are two-sided
it's the pride inside that won't let me hide my shine
trying to find a sound in this town i can call mine
but i'm feeling fine, waiting for my time
just walking the line in the sunshine
chasing a feline, this a summertime rhyme
but i'm ducking rainy days
like Cassius Clay
Stinging like Ali, laying waste in this place today
fade away?
heck, we haven't begun to blaze today
but maybe today's the day to light up the stage
let me see, Tree can these people hear you slay

(FUNKY BASS ****)

but just remember, there'll always be Haters in every pack
they'd stab you in the back
soon as they'd help you off the tracks
whatever helps them stack faster, or
puts their name on the plaque (map)
but we'll be rockin
til this all fades into black
with bass...(FUNKY BASS ****), and drums...(FUNKY DRUM ****)
and a kid on a mic
(ALL THREE)
we designed this curtain call
for ya'll, we hope you like it
(JUST ME)
now listen to this beat hit just right
to-nite

(CRAZY FUNKY ****)
amidst cavorting delightfully, enjoying thorough
frolicking gingerly, foreign hick hating ******>hip-hopping insouciantly sustaining row

biological status quo
kvetching lamely moreso mother became pro
naturally physically rumbling,
   heard all the way in Oslo

   supposedly twerking, undulating vivaciously
wantonly x2c wisely yielded – nada no
   zona pellucida anchored byte size ******,
   potent embryonic fetal moe
newlweds nocturnal merriment
   moma's ****** marked march 1959

   lovingly joyusly, insemination happened ha low
bullseye clenched diploid fertilization
   guaranteed germinating heiress
   while squaqking lichen Apache at Diablo
   ma late mother did should know

upon awakening upon tautly stretched exertion
   during dilating ******, which jiggled like jello
three score orbitz round el sol, warmed cockles

   and muscled away brutally cold degrees
   tab billed an igloo,
   or circa six decades
   drafted exuberant **...**...**...
cuz, i.e. thencee at 362nd day

   baby in belly did fully grow
December first nineteen fifty seven
   sanctioned newly minted papa  
   to sing a capella for he's a jolly good fellow

   quintessential nascent
   kickstarter heady everflow
though wintry dark,
   a “hi” beam illuminated
   newborn girl with dayglow

sans, mechanical engine ear
   papa (an honorably discharged army vet)
   all spit and shine groom,
   who wed a bride somewhat callow

first time parents with giddiness did saul fully bellow
Boyce and Harriet Harriet countenance
   twas (like an elf on Christmas eve) all aglow.
--------------------------------------------------------
D­ear Sis – I knew not what else to do
thus, this poem crafted fur ewe
a doe ting maternal gal – whose time on Earth flew
David Ehrgott May 2016
THE PODS
A Memoryrhyme
a capella
  
I Pod
You Pod
We Pod
She Pod
He Pod
They Pod
Her Pod
His Pod
My Pod
Your Pod
Their Pod
This Pod
That Pod
Magdalyn Apr 2014
Walked into the bathroom, expecting to see the room crammed with girls
screeching, smiling at me, checking their foundation and wondering
why hasn't he flirted with me yet?
Instead, all that's left is the ten posters taped on the wall
with stock photos of black skirts
telling me the difference between wrong or long.
Yeah, there are no more mornings of waking up to the sound of
A Capella hymns and kids I've never met laughing at
things I've never said before
no more 5 'o clock practices full of winces, trips, laughing, sweating, and thinking
no more 7:30 pm concerts where
my heart bounces around like a dead animal
no control left, and
I'm running in the halls wearing black and white, but thinking gray
no more taco bell runs right after, when I'm getting cinnamon sugar on my skirt and counting measures in my head.
And certainly no more days of just sitting on the bleachers
my head and heart too full of sputters of laughter to worry
about whether my melody is correct.
Lindy Dec 2014
My voice grows thin and wan
like flower buds surviving,
pale green, too pale to stay.
When will the sound beat upwards to the sun?
Not speaking/ merely words -
singing with the tulips,
Humming like the bees in spring,
Capella, Forte, I want to sound like the roses
who belt and  weave the most robust of songs.

When will I **** out this disastrous black thumb choking out my arias
every last one.
Nomad Sep 2014
Tonight I heard
the voices of angles,
the beats of drums,
and the scats of skits.

Don't know if that made sense or not,
but it's the words I know
and the only words I got.

And together,
these voices like angles
and the beats like drums,
the skats that skits,
they made a harmonizing melody,
and my my heart began to flit!

It was beautiful!
This A Capella sound,
it was wondrous,
this singing that I have found.

These songs,
had no meaning,
as the voices who sang them did,
it made me happy,
young,
vibrant.
Like a kid.

These voices,
need only a moment,
to sing their hearts to their hearts' content,
makes a sinner,
fall to their knees and repent.

Songs of songs,
voices of voices,
they sure help,
when dealing with the noises.
Del Maximo Aug 2016
she used to sing around the house
songs from the Hit Parade
there was a little transistor radio
slim, dark green with a telescoping antenna
kept on the kitchen windowsill
she would listen to music
singing along while cooking and cleaning
or going solo a Capella
Rosemary Clooney, Della Reece
Frank Sinatra, Andy Williams
Jo Stafford Weston
she told me that when ‘Daddy” was in the hospital
he had his favorites
Don’t You Know and You’ll Never Know
he asked her to sing them again and again
her singing came from a good place
somewhere deep inside her
a place where she could just be herself
apart from life’s responsibilities
far away from the roles of wife
and mother to too many children
leaving behind the frustrations
of carrying on in poverty’s face
if only for the moment it took
to sing a song
she would sing about pyramids and sunrises
about a lady with an enigmatic smile
cheating hearts and when she might fall in love
and we learned all those songs  too
as her hearing worsened
she stopped singing
as if she lost a piece of herself
she’s gone now
but we still have those memories
a musical legacy for her talented children
© 08/14/2016

— The End —