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Arke Jul 2018
when I craved kindness, passion, and fire, I stole
and they say no one person can complete you
but love, when you look at me, I am whole
and maybe we'll have thirty years together
but know the past century we were souls
intertwined with my arms around you

you make me beautiful when life takes a toll
I used to think that love only bruised
you've taught me that it's not about control
I used to think that pain was all that remained
but you came with love to heal and console
and show me the good that comes after midnight
grace Oct 2017
i pass the pen to the ghosts i once knew,
if only they would say something thats true,
with their twisted up tongues and jigsaw puzzle games that no one can win,
they refuse the pen so i try again,

i pass the pen to the empty mirror,
maybe it will makes my rhymes seem clear,
broken shards of glass and forgotten memories,
it has no hands for my pen so i leave for another century,

i hold out the pen to my skeletal friends,
but with jaws cackling with laughter,
"we don't want your pen! none of us are drafters!"

i mope away
on this rainy day,

with the pen left to me,
and im all alone to be.
happy halloween
Stephen E Yocum Jul 2017
I rolled out of bed
to start my day,
but the power was off
my all electric home,
as still as a grave.
No coffee, or toast.
The refrigerator not cold,
the freezer started dripping
the contents soon to spoil.

No computer, no cell phone service!
I began sweating profusely,
no air conditioning to cool me.
Not even a TV Emergency Broadcast Alert,
to release this uneasy feeling of topsy-turvy .

I drove into town seeking a pay phone,
with not a single one to be found,
gone the way of the dinosaurs,
extinct now too I assumed.

My old truck had no computer chips,
most cars did and were dead in their tracks.
I needed gas but the gas station pumps
electric computer driven, all DOA to boot.

The Nations electric grid had crashed,
blacked out, stone cold dead everywhere.
All heavenly satellites blacked out, expired.
Everything computer related (and
that is about everything), had ceased
to function as had the electronic reliant
world we had created.  

The street throngs of dazed people walked
around like zombies, clutching blacked out
dead computer devices, knowing not what to do.
Not even talking, forgotten I guess how to do that too.
As dependently defectively programmed as the useless
devices in their hands.

In a panic I did awake finding that
this scary dream world was indeed all fake,
a nightmare of fearful unconscious thinking.
My electric clock was still churning,
It's music alarm blaring,
birds outside still singing,
my cell phone started ringing.
Welcoming me back to the 21 century.
Imagine if you can some man made device or solar flare
knocking out all the satellites in space and computers on
earth, then this nightmare is not so far-fetched.
I actually did have this unsettling dream. The possibility
of this reality does indeed exist.
Steven Jun 30
Fruited - the dropped seed settles and now on to its seasons of battles -
soon to be nature's metal?  

The shoot grows among the spring's blush
a seedling born beneath dawn's hush.  
The smooth-barked sapling amid what it will become -  
flexible young -
the ground's secret fledgling.  

For us eternity
the constant rides of storms and sun
the tours of draughts and changes sung.

Now mature
the passing of years endured
a King and Queen's contour.
julianna Feb 6
We’re stuck in a web
But sometimes some get lost
They become a diaspora
Of goners.
Once here
And now
It’s like what you say these days matters more than who you are.
Smoke Scribe Sep 2017
Dear Mr. Carl Sandburg,

Once, you wrote:

"The lucid and endless wrinkles"
Draw in, lapse and withdraw.
Wavelets crumble and white spent bubbles
Wash on the floor of the beach."

Having observed often. the exact phenomenon you reference
in the words above, the undulating action upon a sand white beach, patient waiting the greetings of the all-day wavelets, which reminded you which reminded me of the lucid and endless wrinkles sea worn upon our faces, it is my happy duty incumbent to inform your spirit, that we have yet in this the 21st century, to invent, a machine that does it better than you man, hu-man, connecting our aged faces to the timeless stroking of the Earth by the water that sustains life.

Yours truly,

Mr. Smoke Scribe
lifeonLSD Nov 2018
i’m tired of the constant ticking

the loud passes and the noisy
passage into new beginnings

always evolving

_it keeps me turning

i tried closing my eyes and just
block out those awful writings on
the wall

the constant usage of blank reason
to grab the world for the reminder

a more then a century old excuse
to look down

but never able to really grasp it in hand

_it’s forever learning

every answer opens in a different

so many rounds to complete one

[i’m tired]

can you make it go off?

i would like some sleep now

_my eyes are burning
and it just goes on
Daisy Marrow Jul 2014
Feel the tide.
I am the ship.
I am the captain.
The ocean is a savage
the way it pulls my body,
slinging me around like i'm weightless.
I will not surrender to this beast.
The waves mean nothing to me.
I've been fighting this savage ocean for a century.
100 years of getting carried away across these waters.
Isolation is my home.
It's all I know.
I brought this on myself.
I ran away from land and into the water,
unknowing of the horror it holds.
But I will not surrender
I am the ship.
I will not kiss the ocean goodnight.
I will not fight.
I will float on until the day comes I greet the sea.
My lungs will sting and my head will rush.
Leave my body in isolation.
Let it be a peace offering.
So the ocean wouldn't have to carry away another ship that day.
Cool monsoon breeze sway the trees
Cascading rills , meadows
The Valley and Scenic hills
Colour green rich in hue
Breathtaking the view

The rain pours and rushes down
On the windscreen and sunroof
A sweet melodic sound it makes
Like an Artist, paints in gentle slopes

Dark clouds in daytime , stark
Makes the Sun shiver in cold
The bridge ahead ,century old
Winding road  and steep slopes

Passing through the illuminated tunnels
Old melodies played on the radio
The journey ahead ,we steer
The ebullient nature brings cheer
Lonavala is a scenic hill  station on the
Mumbai- Pune Expressway .
17th August experience on the way to Mumbai .
It was beautiful, had to put in words :)
elaine Jul 2018
A sudden wave of destruction hit the center of town,
blowing over century old walls and damaging  ancient artifacts.
This hurricane was so unexpected none of the towns folk knew what to do, they searched high and low for a stable place to lay. Safety  lost among the waves.  

Closure never came that night and neither did sleep.
You had damaged my will to live.
Leaving me isolated in a world with overflowing oceans of despair,
residence always wondering the same,
will I ever leave this horrid island?
Sebastian Macias Jul 2016
The cheering had already begin
Nobody was in their seats
The race of the year, The race of the century?
It had been a long season for these two
Each with different odds to face
A rivalry made by the media
Cultivated by the perseverance of each rider
Clocks gone will jumps in front
Dubai tonight follows
But all eyes are on "Casino Lisbon"
And his brother "Silver Sea"
A mile and a half they stride
The race is loud and the crowd is wild
Instinct verses experience
Their strides are graceful
Their speed is immaculate
The younger of the two, "Silver Sea"
Knew he was out to win, his eyes said it
"Casino Lisbon" blood ran cold as he
Took the lead half way through the race
With ambition and determination they pushed
One horse goes out wide, but steady
Turns the corner and down the stretch
They battle for first! ******* !!

Neither can lose. But only one will win/
Who has worked harder than the other?
Who has pushed themselves during training?
Who will survive the ****** on the roof,
Waiting for his own fate?

They are neck and neck down the stretch
Casino Lisbon has a nose in front of Silver Sea

Pop. Pop.

Pop. Pop.
Skaidrum May 2015
And it wasn’t nearly reality enough,
    So I skimmed this water of bone
Hoping that the blood beneath
    my fingers would only be temporary.


        But you can’t promise on broken love,
    Could you believe me when I say I’ve known.
        Lie behind your cheap lips and teeth
    Cross your heart and hope to die yet on the contrary.

Your empty threats of wishing to **** me,
    But darling I’m already dead.
You can hope on deeds of darkness but not anymore,
    It’s such a shame a poet must draw her scythe.

        So take a deep breath dear, inhale slowly,
    And don’t worry there’s nothing wrong with just a taste instead.
        I can’t help but smile as the ashes flood the floor,
    Such a beautiful way to die, letting a poet take your life.

Tonight she sleeps with the lions and like before,
    Dark as it may be she laughs when one offers her light.
“I sleep with demons roaming my skin,”
        “Beg your pardon I don’t need this pity.”

            And the truth was not a sin, she really had to pay for.
        A century of this and that really left without a fight.
    I haven’t decided on which degree of hate I let out and in,
But tell you what I digress this country and this rotten city.

    Mistake me for a witch, and how many friends will I lose?
I can hardly tell with all this nihility I now hold dear to me.
    Keeping words on chains, imprison me why not.
A bucket of silver is all I hold in my eyes.

    And keep the hounds in hell dear,
            Just let me say you are quite lovely,
    What can you teach me, what have you taught?
        Beware of the silver in the bucket child...


Beware the poets eyes.
Letters to myself,
are bittersweet &

© Copywritted.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2018
( for J.L )

"I like birds
more than books."

a young Edward
Thomas thinks

scribbling it
in bad Latin

on the fly leaf of
an algebra book.

A chaffinch chuckles.

"Vink...vink...vink!" it urges
in a regional accent.

"Fringilla Coelebs!"
Edward addresses it.

" cap!"
the bird disowns its names

content with being
itself and itself


It looks as if it has
just stepped out of the 15th century

illuminated maunuscript
The Shelbourne Missal.

"A caterpillar skeletonising a leaf
mmm...breakfast mefinks!"

The year  1895
madly in love with its own

never such sunlight

as this
the window holds the scene

as if it were
a living painting.

The bird behind the glass
poetry in just being.

The torture of
an algebra class

"Quod erat demonstrandum."
***Reading Jean Moorcroft Wilson's wonderful biography EDWARD THOMAS -FROM ADLESTROP TO ARRAS. I was struck by the tiny detail of the algebra book. A chaffinch had just landed on our bird table and had its fill of suet. So I imagined Thomas longing for escape from algebra in the glory of this common bird. The chaffinch is of course busy being a chaffinch and busy eating its favourite food...a juicy defoliating caterpillar. It has no notion of its human names and only knows the poetry of being itself.

The title comes from the Greek translation of the phrase rather than the Latin ( which yields, "what was to be demonstrated")which methinks is more apt.

To myself in the De La Salle Academy in Kildare in an equally sunny day in my own was always...Quite Easily Done! Alas Algebra and all its Mathematical kin were never kind to me and it was never easily done.

The chaffinch was once popular as a caged song bird and large numbers of wild birds were trapped and sold. At the end of the 19th century trapping even depleted the number of birds in London parks. In Britain the practice of keeping chaffinches as pets declined after the trapping of wild birds was outlawed by the Wild Birds Protection Acts of 1880 to 1896.

In 1882 the English publisher Samuel Orchart Beeton issued a guide on the care of caged birds and included the recommendation:

"To parents and guardians plagued with a morose and sulky boy, my advice is, buy him a chaffinch."

Competitions were held where bets were placed on which caged chaffinch would repeat its song the greatest number of times. The birds were sometimes blinded with a hot needle in the belief that this encouraged them to sing.

The chaffinch is still a popular pet bird in some European countries. In Belgium, for example, the traditional sport of Vinkenzetting pits male chaffinches against one another in a contest for the most bird calls in an hour.

Hardy's THE BLINDED BIRD rails against this habit of blinding in order to sing more fully.

"Who hath charity? This bird.
Who suffereth long and is kind,
Is not provoked, though blind
And alive ensepulchred?
Who hopeth, endureth all things?
Who thinketh no evil, but sings?
Who is divine? This bird."

In Irish it is Rí king or king of the wild. As well as it's blue crown it has rusty red underparts or underpants as my Uncle Michael called them which would account for the rusty or red part of its name.

For half a day there was now a world of snow, a myriad flakes falling, a myriad rising, and nothing more than the sound of rivers; and now a world of green undulating hills that smiled in the lap of the grey mountains, over which moved large clouds, sometimes tumultuous and grey,  sometimes  white and slow, but always fringed with fire. When the snow came, the mountains dissolved and were not. When the mountains were born again out of the snow, the snow seemed but to have polished the grass,  and put a sharper sweetness in the song of the thrush and the call of the curlew, and left the  thinnest of cirrus clouds upon the bare field, where it clung only to the weeds.

Edward Thomas – BEAUTIFUL WALES( 1905)

“….words of landscape…landscapes are what I seem to be  made for…nearly all  of it without humanity except what it may owe to a lanky shadow of myself – I stretch over big landscapes just as my shadow does at dawn…”

Letter to Bottomley
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