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September Roses Jul 2018
When the day comes
That my light leaves
And I go to descend
What ever will they do with me
All the way down there
Where fire pours like rain
Main population: pain
The one place
in the earth,
sure to drive you insane
I suppose they would start normally
With burning stoke
Or pitchfork
But what ever would they do,
When those things just dont work?
I suppose they'd try to drown me
In oil
Or flames
But when a smile
forms across face
They'll see
I like the pain
So this might go on for centuries
They'd try as well
To hurt my mind
But when all they find is numbness
Well
I might get hired
Kurt Carman Sep 2018
It’s something I think about often,
Do we fully understand the fragility of this life we possess?

And suddenly a loved one is taken …it inflames you to think.
Every consciousness is a precious and fragile gift.

These lives of ours are fleeting, gone in a minute.
When you suddenly understand this, everything fades into the background.

Pushing 70 now… I choose to soar out of bed joyfully rejoicing each morning,
That life has granted me another day above the dirt.

Life is strong and weak…it’s a paradox.
Keep your mind strong my friends, don’t hide behind your fears.

This life of yours is an amazing gift….live it with a smile!
I often think about my ancestry. In my living room hangs a picture of my Great Grandfather Isaac. And each time I walk past it I tell him how much I love him. I look forward to meeting him one day. But until then I refuse to let my death consume me and I hope you don't either.
Sometimes I can't be anything but sad.
I don't want to find a reason, or try
to find the light,
I just want to feel,
and allow the truth of reality to sink in.
I'm scared of what the future will be,
and what else I'll have to go through.
I'm exhausted, tired of enduring,
pushing on,
surviving.
I feel old, ever so old,
centuries lived, centuries weathered.
The intensity of it hits me hard,
and I gasp from the sheer feeling of it.
I can't breathe, can't move,
only let the sobs pummel me again,
again,
and again.
I only let it out when I'm alone
with my shadow,
No peering eyes, no sympathy,
just me and my sorrow.
And as I sit there, I wonder what I'll be
like years from now.
Still broken?
-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
a
goddess
of
love
a
symbol
of
lasting
adoration

a woman throughout the centuries
who has attracted
many a man's devotion

she of charm
and enticing allure
she of a superlative
nature

men have fallen to their knees
in exultant praise
worshipping the embodiment
of her feminine maze

and she invokes
powerful feelings
within a man's
core
Venus the allegory
of
timeless
armour
patty m Mar 2016
Dropping flower petals into the water
voices merge, lifting in song and prayer,
I wish that I could join them,
instead I whisper my prayer
very quietly, hoping that God
might hear me.

Brief deceptive gleam of sun on water
that catches the eye,
now hollow as dried driftwood, light as foam,
everything conspires against me even the weather;
Tumultuous sky, the squally wind squeals through wires, rattling flags.
The sea is glaucous with strange phosphorescence;
I sit watching rabbit tail grass flicker and bob palely in the wind,
the insects hum and the grass whispers.
Adrift in tides the
sand beneath my feet
spills centuries of debris,
shells, bones, pieces of fossilized matter,
fragments of unimaginable time.
Fire flies often dance here and the crickets sing in
warm grassy hollows

Somehow we co-exist, men exerting surly independence
trying to climb above the wretchedness.  
I take a loving look backwards
at this seaside town, and the boatloads of wood
brought in to fuel our fires.  
Now the rain pummels in endless drops
forming ever bigger puddles,  
flooding dreams gone to seed.  

Perspectives collide,
this is my way of life
even when it becomes bland and unsettling.  
All the icing on the cake has washed away
why cling to ghosts with their warm persuasive kisses
in the poetry of moonlight?  
Now the fire has burned out, leaving me cold
with only the ghosts who slide through end of day.
Left Foot Poet Jun 2018
a thousand brilliant lies
(Hafez, Iran 1320-1389);      (L.F.P., USA 20~21st century)

- Hafez -                                 - Left Foot Poet-

“I have a                                  if only, in my meager posses,
thousand brilliant lies,          but one lie when easy asked
For the question:                    the simplest damning of,
How are you?                          are you generally happy?

I have a                                    what is god you ask,
thousand brilliant lies.          no lies required,
For the question:                    many answers upon my face visible,
What is God?                          unsure if any worthy of believing

If you think that the               8 centuries separate us, yet
Truth can be known,              you lie; we poets - you, I, all believe

From words                             in the divinity of words

If you think that the                a thousand brilliant sparkles
Sun and the Ocean,                 when Sun loves the Ocean,
Can pass through that            each one a poem passing,
tiny opening Called                my mouth, my wide eyes,
the mouth,                                uttering a Cohen's hallelujah

O someone should                 So we gleam, mirthing in glorious
start laughing!                         and gleeful delight at ourselves
Someone should start             for your brilliant happy lies easily
wildly Laughing Now!"       
                            
                      
­                            unravel into a thousand laughs
hafez
Brody Blue Aug 2017
I gazed into his eyes like beads of sweat
Blacker than the empty spacious depths
Around the little bridge-like tiny speck,
An ember on His hearth
We only think is worth
Its broken wharfs

He said to me: "Son, don't fear empty bluffs
They may be steep but they're not steep enough."
And judging by the scar beneath his cuff,
I knew he would be true
And his tale would be true too
About the wharfs

"Throughout the many vicious centuries
The motor of it always seems to freeze
Until the kindled flame does hit the breeze
And thaws its frostbit joints
And burns the hand that points
Out from the wharf."

He cleared his throat and then he said aloud:
"Is piety reaped from fertile ground?
Or by the planter's hand is it endowed?
The answer lies in strife
So mount the throne of life
Far from the wharf."
A song about an improver.
Robert C Howard Jul 2013
It wasn’t really John’s saw
that carved the branch into logs -
its blade severing rings of time.
The saw was mine but just like his.

Resting for a spell, I thought of John:
clearing his spread by the Williamson Road,
building fences, raising his barn,
or, like me, cutting wood for the hearth.

But perhaps I didn’t “think” of John at all
since he lives in each cell that I am.
He may have just stirred a little within
to recall pioneer paths we once had walked.

The long branch shortened
as John and I pistoned our arms
in unison across centuries
slicing through time and space -
stacking fuel to warm a cold winter’s night.

May, 2006
Included in Unity Tree - Collected poems
pub. CreateSpace - Amazon.com
Daisy Marrow May 2014
We've been running with blistered feet
and weak knees for centuries.
Yes, we've come so far
but no one ever said it would be this hard.

Just lay your head to rest
you have run enough.
I've got your hand and I'm holding it tight.
You're all I have in this world
so I won't ever let go.

Don't you cry no more
because you gave your all.
It's just this time god wasn't so kind.
You put up a good fight and I'm so proud of you.

You'll finally be at peace
when these dark days are behind you.
You slayed your demons and monsters.
You did your job and you did it well.

Don't worry too much, brother,
because I won't be able to live in this world too long without you.
I'll follow you down the path and into the dark.
I won't let you die alone.
On the other side we'll just drive down the endless road back home, or god knows where.
We would always dream of tomorrow
but this time tomorrow never came.

We gave our live's to protect others.
We've come so far up the mountain
just this time got caught in the landslide
and fell all the way back down.
But look how far we got.
Look how much we've done.
Look at how many lives we've saved.
We're just two brothers born from the fire
but this is where our lives end.

I look back and see all decay,
but I won't apologize
I did my job.
We saved lives and protected the land.
We always stood tall
no matter how hard we'd fall.
I'm proud of you.
I'm proud of us.
Dean & Sam Winchester
Supernatural
Nassif Younes May 2016
You are a cloud
And nobody cares when you cry
Instead they only complain
Because you've rained on their sunshine -
Because you've reigned in the good times.

You are a cloud
And once you get so high
You are always doomed to fall
Whether as a cascade of soft tears
Or frozen pellets crashing on bleeding heads.
You are a cloud
And no one will look up when you cry.

You are a cloud
And have touched every corner of the sky.
You have swam in every ocean
And passed through the flesh of millions.
You have rested for centuries
On the edge of a glacier
And spent an evening as a puddle in a cobbled lane
Rippling the face of a blue moon.

You are a cloud
And all that is
Will never really die.
Gina Old Oct 2015
Go see the misty place, deep in the woods,
That's where the willow tree's spreading her roots.
Long gentle branches are modestly bowing,
Above the shoot where a river is flowing.
It's been like that for centuries now,
The tree and the river, living in a vow.
The branches are caressing the hair on the surface,
The gesture, however, can't fulfill its purpouse.
Although their bond is strong, love never ending,
All alone, Willow and River are standing.
They're guarding each other, and each other only.
How come they, despite that, always feel lonely?
Every night, the willow tree woefully shivers,
Looking down upon her dark, lonesome river.
Antino Art Nov 2018
Raised
in this floating
world, forever
deep.
You can’t drain the ocean

Decidedly from down
south of here
You can’t un-trace the roots.

You can’t lie and say,
“This isn’t where I grew up”
You can’t deny the fruits
of what was planted two generations ago
when your grandpatents arrived from the Philippines, seeds in tow
soil for the taking
You can’t confiscate what they claimed
when they planted their flags
into the moon-white sand of a beach in Florida
on a far side of the planet
their forefarthers have never seen

You can’t say those flags weren’t there
when wind came
You can't ***** out that pride
of country,
cut off its native tongue and its acquired taste, or pass up the plate of fried lumpia and rice passed down from the kitchen of your Daddylol
feeding seven kids day in and out with tomatoes he planted,
chickens he raised, Malonggay leaves he grew
with thumbs so green they wrote in the papers about it
He was a farmer
Your grandmother, a nurse
And i was writer
And this is our story

You can’t erase the letters of your name,
your lineage written all over it
like a map
of everywhere we been
You can’t take back the words in Tagalog and Chavacano
your Lola Shirley must have sang your mother to sleep with
You can’t take their dreams

You can't just wake up one day and undo
the ripple effects their moves
created across waters 10,000 miles east of here,
the rolling waves they curled into
or the faraway shores they washed up upon
Bottled messages in hand
Our legends held within
You can’t say centuries from now that they won’t feel it
when their feet hit the sand of their own frontier
beside the waves we stayed making
a history written in deep water
for those who come after you
to sail above and beyond.
For Nali
timmyxholiday Jan 2018
~
all the silent brides
centuries of silent brides
~
'but i made you dinner tonight'
~
.
that over millenia
major religions have advocated peace
their adherents have been slaughtering each other    
     supposedly in the name of their assorted gods
more than any other known species

why is it
that in my maturity
(which people usually call old age ...)
I‘m getting so *******
with politicians who seem not to see
the obvious solution to a problem
but find elaborate fake excuses
just so they can get re-elected

why is it
that for Europe it‘s so difficult
to find a way for refugees to be accepted
with respect and  dignity

why is it
that the USA apparently forgets it‘s been the country
living off its (il)legal immigrants for centuries
and now simply ignores the words
they put onto their Statue of Liberty

why is it?!??
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
You can feel it spinning
                                         fast
the Chinese, Japanese, American and European junk
orbiting at several thousand miles per hour could
                                                           ­                             punch
a hole in your armor, future. Thanksgiving passes, then Christmas.
A nuclear detonation, we absorb that fact. The scientist in us
delays sadness by recording observations. What is is,
sorrow's for tomorrow.

By reducing probabilities to near zero I hope to avoid sorrow.
In yr suburb.
In history when there were many fewer people we still found reason
to cross space, explore, trade and war. Now
                                                             ­                 overpopulation
may not be the problem but food and water shortages
get our attention.
                              I have Korf's fears.
And hear what I want to hear.

Some hear singing, some hear speeches or complaining.
Martin Luther King sang his complaints, dreamed of a brotherly nation
which came to pass, spinning fast, past Thanksgivings, past jailings
into reconnaissance, small wars, drones, renaissance, inventions.
At the border,
                         where the Juaristas fought Maximilian:
Benito Juarez (1806-1872) Zapotec Amerindian who served five terms as president of Mexico. He was the first Mexican leader who did not have a military background and also the first full-blooded indigenous person to lead a country in the western hemisphere in over 300 years. For resisting French occupation, overthrowing the Empire, and restoring the Republic, Juarez is regarded as Mexicoxs greatest and most beloved leader. 

Each soldier chooses what war at what border, or just
                                                            ­                                   shows up
spinning with the planet.
The neighborhood and surrounding nature is orderly.
But always there is implied force, violence holding it together,
                                                       ­                                                       chaos
is contained
kept out of the playground, government buildings, childrenxs games
but lies within
the force maintaining order, a spinning tumor, a gyroscope of
                                                              ­                                                inertia.
The force of the spinning, the speed of the force bring one to one's
      death
seasons, weather, earth.
                                         While the emperor's being beheaded
enduring seeds are discovered and invented, cross-fertilized and bred.
Corn, yams, potatoes, sunflowers, rice.
                                                           ­       Food is life and a good study,
useful discipline
                           daily meditation.
                                                     ­   The fighting man protects the farmer
and the farmer feeds the fighting man.
They elect the governor
                                        who serves the people. Peace out.

Peace and war are transitory manifestations of spinning
electrons, planets.
                               The sun's a nuclear detonation, essential
to spring and planting. Food is life. Seeds endure
if man goes to his daily discipline. If woman is man.
Birth and death
                           together are orderly, the border can be known,
voluntarily. How we live together, by prayer or force,
is our story.

Knowledge
from laboratory to starry corridor keeps us very
                                                            ­                         versed.
Did Juaristas consider the rights of animals not to be eaten?
Not during that spinning.
                                              And perform the history that surrounds us.
All that can be done
is written in the spinning:
"The people of the land, the Indian farmers of North America - like their counterparts in Mesoamerica, the Andean region, and the Amazon - have continuously cultivated maize, beans, squash and other crops for more than five thousand years. One of the salient features of their traditional farming systems is the high degree of biodiversity. These traditional farming systems have emerged over centuries of cultural and biological evolution, and they represent the accumulated experience of indigenous farmers interacting with the environment without access to external inputs, capital or scientific knowledge. In Latin America alone, more than 2.5 million hectares under traditional agriculture in the form of raised fields, polycultures, agroforestry systems and the like document indigenous farmers' successful adaptations to difficult environments."
--Wikipedia,  "Benito Juarez"
-- Altieri , Miguel A., Foreword to Enduring Seeds: Native American Agriculture and Wild Plant Conservation, by Gary Paul Nabhan, The University of Arizona Press, 1989

www.ronnowpoetry.com
Adil Zaidi Mar 2015
Neither in the vividness of the arches of a cathedral,
Nor in the dangling bells and echoing rituals of a temple,
Neither on the holiest banks of Nile or Ganges,
Nor among the peaks of the grandest Mountain,

There is no augury, there is no God, is there no God? And if there is,

Why are the eyes of lives haunted by the cruel dreams of disbelief?
Why is banishment tangled around the feet of a truth seeker?
Why the perverse thoughts and deeds ruling the Mankind?
Why the pious body and mind are today full of grief?

If there’s God, Why is this sea of cold blood on a high tide?
If there’s God, Why are the innocent lives being wasted?
If there’s God, Why are the good being handcuffed?
If there’s God, Why the darkness is today the source of light?

The slaps of violence on the face of peace is a sign of doom,
If there’s no God, then these drops of bloods cry for whom?

But GOD is that moment which is beyond knowledge and wit,

That one cipher which has taken centuries and yet not deciphered,
That one point of thought where the minds seize to think,
That one decision which stops a man from giving up,
That one drop of tear from the eyes of an Oppressed,

That one source of energy which makes us to take a stand,
That one voice of truth which demolishes the works of lie,
That one smile of innocence which equals a million shouts,
That one silver lining which makes us believe in ourselves,

Calls Aloud and makes us believe, that there is A GOD,
And He’s Everywhere, With everyone, and Will always be.
Skaidrum Jun 2015
.
Hello    archangel,
fallen goddess behind my morgue.


    Whose complexion equaled the moon,
craters and abysses,
    cascading like salt on
an empty


    wound.


With the crosshairs of nicotine
a mirage on her cracked lips;



“Leave me,

    lowly poet,

Your pity is unbecoming.

I am the 13th fallen sister,

    so linger here

no longer.”


“Death is an old friend,

    I fear not his company,

nor his demise.”


I’ve never seen such eyes;
glass-stained,
divine & unpredictable.



“I’ll **** you.”


“Darling, I’m already dead.”



Her monologues could summon the dead,
she preached of the lovers
who bore no fruit
and the heartless
that lay eternal
in the eyes of
her dalliance.


I’d often find myself
yearning at the pebbles at her gravestone,
impatient, to be graced by her
ink soul and
  rhapsodic  presence.


“Are you my friend,

poet?”



“No,

I am much more.”


And for centuries
of cracked dawns and
folded nights,
shallow moons &
crippled suns,
we’d meet---
poet to god,
at her morgue.



“Poet,

why must the most beautiful

people die?”

She once asked me.
Alured, I answered:


“When you’re in a garden,

which flowers do you pick?”


“...The most beautiful ones.”


I’d spend my seconds ‘neath the gallows,
among the bones
of her brethren,
all had fallen before her,

from the house of god.


I bargained my soul with Ursula,
my sins with Lupus,

    I ignored their tempertantrums

& discord.


That very evening I stitched a universe,
upon her shoulder-blades.



“What are these?”


“Wings.”
This was a commission, for an old friend.
I'd already used one of my popular sayings
in my other poems.

© Copywrited
Ken Pepiton May 2018
Sunday, May 06, 2018
4:51 PM

Failing for lack of power is a fear crop.
A fear crop.
An odd thought.

Not the seed nor spore, but the fruit.

And fruits have seeds in themselves,
All men, I say again,
wombed and un, should know that by now.

Freedom of information act fact, informed
men know when to fight and when to sow and when
to reap the crops we've sown
in our mortal moment
gone with the wind.

Not mine.
The wind is in my inheritance,
True proverb.
I troubled my own house, fouled my nest
with all the rest o' youse ab-users of life
ignoring forever like that could never happen here.

It did.
The voices in your head are never all evil
if they use words.
In the total accounting of idle words
some significant percentage
may
carry meaning forsaken.
Such may be redeemed
much as one would redeem the time.

One of us.  One of our mortal kind.

Dear reader, we say again, we ain't Legion nor his kin.

We are words once spoken in jest among fools who repeated us
meaninglessly, oh my God, you know. Per se. No ****. **** happens.
All the ****** time,
and **** and God, those two get overtime of idle utterance instances.
Though a statistically measurable deme
does redeem a significant some of those two
in true beliver
dying breath
honesty. God, they say, and die.

By my leave, I say,
I am the definition of a free entity accepted in these books.
We are voices. Messengers.
Some of us were wicked, twisted as wicker
or wire bundles. Some of us were true pass words.
Some were true rest words,
rest rooms were so named
for that wonderunful feeling we all get
when **** happens

at just the right moment

in the book. Great ideas gravitate to clean rest rooms.

this is a new book right, this reader is
whadayacallit

Vetted.
What does that mean. You know right idle heard words are
meaning less
power less.
Vet me. Am I one of those ideas, good to the core, caught up in fairy
tales fed the T.V. generation, the Boom beyond the bomb.
After school and duck and cover drills,
we watched cartoons aimed twenty short years earlier
at the wanters and wishers and workers and worriers
of the thirties, we Boomers, as the media hipsters have always known us,
the off-spring, often unwanted and ill-begotten, of the Greatest Generation,
the one that won the contracts to build all the bombs in the world,
tax-free.

Those cartoons from the thirties with Entertainment Tonight plots and cameos of
Hollywood stars who were Grandma's age,
that Cowboy Bob on the local VHF
(unaffiliated or independent, hard to tell a diff)
showed to us, the first middle class latch key kids in centuries,
were meaningless, prewar propaganda
unless we match adult laughing recoging the exagerations,
The Betty Davis eyes and Frankly M'Dear bigears
"Grandpa, who is that guy with big ears and a skinny mustache?"
Clark Gable, wow.
Who knew the "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a ****" guy had jug-handle ears?
It was diversity in the desert. My big ears no longer made me bully bait.
I have superior hearing and star power.
From my kindergarten years I have known.
I am included, my flaws are not flaws at all.
That don't give a **** guy
and I have big ears to hear better with, so
we know more. Good fathers teach their big eared sons such facts of Nature.

Take care. Don't get puffed up. Knowing too much
will fill a head with hydrogen and the brain in it rots,
intrixically.

Are we powerless? If you say so? No.
I am in control, graciously demands
no load un-bearable with Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice.

(Note: not fire water white lightning. This is
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice. Al Capp's
Personal Stash of Greatest Gen Synthetic Absynthe.
Used to **** hippie wanna-bees in farm country,
Like DDT for apple worms and skeeters,
Atom bombs for all colors of thinkin' right (but white),
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice revived many a faintin' pilgrim
follerin' John Wayne down the dusty trail,

Play me one o' them somebody done somebody right
songs,
there must be a million lying idle in blue puddles o' all kinds
of imaginary
ref-use.

Referee.
Job's Daysman betwixt us, we win. His call, not mine. I thought I lost for sure.

I was powerless, let me testify.

No. We think different here. If you are not ******,
you are not powerless. If you are ******, then you are powerless,
but but but
If you think you are powerless, you are not ******. God knows, right?
****** people seldom see themselves powerless past the standing
under peace that's beyond understanding meat-mind-wise.

Dunning-Krueger. Again.
Feedback please, this is one of many in the theme of redeeming idle words, for fun and profit.
Kay Fischabch Jul 2018
Everything is put into a box, by misconception.
Through not really understanding what truly matters.
Scared being what feels like, unknown powers used for pure destruction. To build would take centuries, but stand it could eternally.
To sustain, things life path. The unprevented dragged out waiting to follow a path.
Daisy Marrow Sep 2014
Find me across the room,
I am the silent morning.
I've known your name for centuries,
but mines still just a foreign language to you.
My tongue is tied
and you're lost in translation,
But that's just how these things will remain.
My body sings every time
because your smile is like a melody.
You light me up
shining brighter than the moon and stars.
I'll follow your voice to the beginning of our first hellos.
You're a perfect afternoon.
We could sing away evenings with the radio.
Drive to places only we would know
where there would be nobody but you and me.
So please won't you come talk to me
because you see my words are lost
and my knees are shaking like trees in the wind.
I hope it doesn't come as a surprise that you light up the room.
Every time I see you I hold my breath
and my mind goes blank.
So I suppose I'll just always be on the other side of the room,
loving you from afar.
a poem about a boy what else
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