"ceremonial" poems - Hello Poetry

"ceremonial" poems

We all have our own destiny, written in the celestial mystery, Mayan cycles in the eternal so trippy, transition of ego death can be accepted, our souls last forever protected, fear is only a shadow from light of awareness, experience deathless consciousness, nothing but a transformative change, a quantum jump strange, fictional in the cosmic game, rearrange dance celebrate and play, welcome the unknown foresty beyonds, all webs of being are woven better, we are all one from the beginning until forever, ceremonial tribal & shamanic let's gather together.

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Apr 7, 2016

Apr 7, 2016 at 5:35 PM UTC

mystical-voyager

CELESTIAL MYSTERY

We all have our own destiny, written in the celestial mystery, Mayan cycles in the eternal so trippy, transition of ego death can be accepted, our souls last forever protected, fear is only a shadow from light of awareness, experience deathless consciousness, nothing but a transformative change, a quantum jump strange, fictional in the cosmic game, rearrange dance celebrate and play, welcome the unknown foresty beyonds, all webs of being are woven better, we are all one from the beginning until forever, ceremonial tribal & shamanic let's gather together.

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GOLDFISH I had a pair of goldfish, Neither had a soul, maybe they did, Spiritual fish possibly? Aimlessly swimming around thei goldfish bowl. Every day, day in, day out, Poor flipping creatures, They never get out! If they were fed up, never would they shout. Last week it seems, the golden chap he became deceased! A glorious funeral was had by he, he had a final journey, travelling out to sea, Yesterday his cell mate, the black chap had his last day. He travelled out to see. Darling sweetest goldfishes, got funerals they both deserved. Military honour for brave goldfish. The black one and the gold one too, A ceremonial flushing by way of household loo. One hundred deceased goldfish all standing on parade. Together flowing through the sewer, Good night sweet fishes, Enjoy your journeys to the sea, Escaped eternal confinement, from depths of goldfish tank. Enjoy the ever after, ride the tide the two of you, The water in the solent, probably not too blue. (C) LIVVI

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Jul 12, 2017

Jul 12, 2017 at 5:38 PM UTC

GOLDFISH I had a pair of goldfish, Neither had a soul, maybe they did, Spiritual fish possibly? Aimlessly swimming around thei goldfish bowl. Every day, day in, day out, Poor flipping creatures, They never get out! If they were fed up, never would they shout. Last week it seems, the golden chap he became deceased! A glorious funeral was had by he, he had a final journey, travelling out to sea, Yesterday his cell mate, the black chap had his last day. He travelled out to see. Darling sweetest goldfishes, got funerals they both deserved. Military honour for brave goldfish. The black one and the gold one too, A ceremonial flushing by way of household loo. One hundred deceased goldfish all standing on parade. Together flowing through the sewer, Good night sweet fishes, Enjoy your journeys to the sea, Escaped eternal confinement, from depths of goldfish tank. Enjoy the ever after, ride the tide the two of you, The water in the solent, probably not too blue. (C) LIVVI

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Unapologetically Human I am **** on the mezzanine facing the darkened wet road illuminated with acrid yellow tube light better reds and blues surround towering palm trees wooden fingers of ancient giant hands buried below growing leafy green nails stretching skyward little things, orange ribbons, endless cricks and dollops bobbles and winches Spirits Play among the windmills climb to the top of trees and sing into the warm wind songs of *** and heartache as the universe ruffles along Dive head first into the opponents forehead grind the sand into his flesh with ram like resolve until the skin is red, determine to die This life is worth proving, the stars are worth gazing, and this body is worth bathing in the Maui air with naked delight The ocean calls to my heart water is a true lover whispering, kissing inescapably feminine I submerge my soul in joyful waves always the tides follow the moon like my silly heart, eclipsing both light both night both day simultaneously cycling fully the light shines and our eyes perceive shadow faces in the dark blanketed clouds the mountain gargoyles stand as titans, forgotten creatures shoulders and heads, waiting for the moon ball the ocean moon, tranquil bays the air is sweeter with you near, a distant thought cast about the horizon, the sun melting easy golden into my dreamy eye, bless my drunken lips dripping doltish songs into the friendly night Wrestling with bulls of men we kept our shirts on this time, yet blood was drawn in the sand we madly danced in the moonlight to clapping hands, kicking feet and knees the ceremonial struggle toasting the stars bottles were shared, some puffed on cigars Come surf with me in the morning or anytime the sun shines even under moonlight would I meet you and we could paddle come fill your heart with life and lust and romantic passions idyllic as freshly fallen snow undisturbed by worldly concerns be not abashed for this embrace is a natural wonder of the soul, join me, forget what words of yesterday the prophets of doom chant, we make our own tomorrow

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Jan 10, 2014

Jan 10, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC

universal-thrum

We Make Our Own

Unapologetically Human I am **** on the mezzanine facing the darkened wet road illuminated with acrid yellow tube light better reds and blues surround towering palm trees wooden fingers of ancient giant hands buried below growing leafy green nails stretching skyward little things, orange ribbons, endless cricks and dollops bobbles and winches Spirits Play among the windmills climb to the top of trees and sing into the warm wind songs of *** and heartache as the universe ruffles along Dive head first into the opponents forehead grind the sand into his flesh with ram like resolve until the skin is red, determine to die This life is worth proving, the stars are worth gazing, and this body is worth bathing in the Maui air with naked delight The ocean calls to my heart water is a true lover whispering, kissing inescapably feminine I submerge my soul in joyful waves always the tides follow the moon like my silly heart, eclipsing both light both night both day simultaneously cycling fully the light shines and our eyes perceive shadow faces in the dark blanketed clouds the mountain gargoyles stand as titans, forgotten creatures shoulders and heads, waiting for the moon ball the ocean moon, tranquil bays the air is sweeter with you near, a distant thought cast about the horizon, the sun melting easy golden into my dreamy eye, bless my drunken lips dripping doltish songs into the friendly night Wrestling with bulls of men we kept our shirts on this time, yet blood was drawn in the sand we madly danced in the moonlight to clapping hands, kicking feet and knees the ceremonial struggle toasting the stars bottles were shared, some puffed on cigars Come surf with me in the morning or anytime the sun shines even under moonlight would I meet you and we could paddle come fill your heart with life and lust and romantic passions idyllic as freshly fallen snow undisturbed by worldly concerns be not abashed for this embrace is a natural wonder of the soul, join me, forget what words of yesterday the prophets of doom chant, we make our own tomorrow

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They are silent and beautiful, gorgeous in in the white halo, cemented in a beautiful terrazzo, baring the names of fallen soldiers, the European soldiers that fell in Wars; second and first and the heinous silent wars, i hope this is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre, only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian. Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa, in India , panama , Latin America and europe, the active fronts in which the allies fought ****** they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas, in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa, in Matisi when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar, They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires, which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands, he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard, for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption. I walk around the commonwealth graveyards, in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire, looking for the names of African soldiers , who died in thousands fighting for the queen the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth, Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with the second duce Benito son of Mussolini, fighting for Hitler,for Shintos in the European war, i have seen no name of any African, I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo, who was conscripted into the first world war, Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo, Biket back after seven years in 1918, carrying Wandabwa's Belt, Wandabwa died in the field, Where was he buried, he is nowhere Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries, I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo, who was conscripted in 1940, to fight against ****** he was conscripted on his nuptial evening, even before he had had the first *** with his new wife, he went away crying, he never came back, his name is nowhere in the graves the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen, Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world. you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt, whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen, you hear someone is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya, or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya, you meet a man that is of the circumcision age group, Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini, Keya is subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR the African sound for KAR is Keya, in reference to mass conscription of Africans into the KAR, to fight ****** A child born during that time is Keya, A man circumcised during the time is in the age group of Keya, A simple lesson in regard to our people, taken away to fight the colonial power and left to died and rot away in the bush with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial, that come along with the death of soldiers, who passed away in the battle field.

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Sep 1, 2014

Sep 1, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC

alexander-k-opicho

Commonwealth War Graveyards

They are silent and beautiful, gorgeous in in the white halo, cemented in a beautiful terrazzo, baring the names of fallen soldiers, the European soldiers that fell in Wars; second and first and the heinous silent wars, i hope this is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre, only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian. Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa, in India , panama , Latin America and europe, the active fronts in which the allies fought ****** they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas, in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa, in Matisi when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar, They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires, which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands, he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard, for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption. I walk around the commonwealth graveyards, in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire, looking for the names of African soldiers , who died in thousands fighting for the queen the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth, Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with the second duce Benito son of Mussolini, fighting for Hitler,for Shintos in the European war, i have seen no name of any African, I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo, who was conscripted into the first world war, Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo, Biket back after seven years in 1918, carrying Wandabwa's Belt, Wandabwa died in the field, Where was he buried, he is nowhere Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries, I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo, who was conscripted in 1940, to fight against ****** he was conscripted on his nuptial evening, even before he had had the first *** with his new wife, he went away crying, he never came back, his name is nowhere in the graves the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen, Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world. you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt, whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen, you hear someone is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya, or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya, you meet a man that is of the circumcision age group, Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini, Keya is subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR the African sound for KAR is Keya, in reference to mass conscription of Africans into the KAR, to fight ****** A child born during that time is Keya, A man circumcised during the time is in the age group of Keya, A simple lesson in regard to our people, taken away to fight the colonial power and left to died and rot away in the bush with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial, that come along with the death of soldiers, who passed away in the battle field.

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My hands allowed this head to hang back, and her arms were of an awakened soul. Sun rays haloed her body, and so it felt Ceremonial. She looked to me, though still, leading the way. she'd gone, changed the day and changed her time. so, as we prepared to walk the line we held each other and closed our eyes.

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Jul 17, 2014

Jul 17, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC

My hands allowed this head to hang back, and her arms were of an awakened soul. Sun rays haloed her body, and so it felt Ceremonial. She looked to me, though still, leading the way. she'd gone, changed the day and changed her time. so, as we prepared to walk the line we held each other and closed our eyes.

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resuming textual trip testing experimental procedures visualizing model tsunami augmenting facetious environment catching abstract architecture noticing rhythmic exchange projecting subtextual database airhorning reggae royalty adding atypical party resolving twitter question noticing emotional mission awaiting emotional dialect installing metaphorical experiment intensifying animated trip displaying dynamic victory programming abstract development releasing emotional exchange deriving fata morgana glorifying referential sequence intensifying facetious map noticing harmonic trip observing radical ratio compiling nomadic message predating google rebranding reticulating facetious panda using hyperreal feedback exploring virtual panda speculating graphic gallery throwing mundane exception targeting graphic experiment replenishing emotional trap localizing asemic animal dropping rhythmic trip propagating immortal experiment displaying lowercase database invading orange bubbles crashing animated trip running conceptual topography remembering collapsed buildings crashing hyperreal coverage propagating hyperreal stipulation finishing western library envisioning neon tessellation reciprocating network likes processing animated device releasing haptic quality examining building seven awaiting rhapsodical ratio sampling death sauce sensing lowercase clone examining symbolic tour processing potential development encapsulating spatial lottery displaying digital paragraph reticulating theoretical source perpetuating western paragraph transmitting monochromatic structure anticipating ambient quality transmitting asemic environment intensifying atomic quality remastering history poem keeping future light hypothesizing eternal game using future library rearranging masonic language transmitting masonic development continuing ceremonial ritual questioning party's legitimacy deferring western coverage finishing asemic hypertext mollifying ostentatious presence synthesizing allegorical icon forming categorical unions sketching app wireframe programming immortal repository

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Sep 15, 2015

Sep 15, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC

resuming textual trip testing experimental procedures visualizing model tsunami augmenting facetious environment catching abstract architecture noticing rhythmic exchange projecting subtextual database airhorning reggae royalty adding atypical party resolving twitter question noticing emotional mission awaiting emotional dialect installing metaphorical experiment intensifying animated trip displaying dynamic victory programming abstract development releasing emotional exchange deriving fata morgana glorifying referential sequence intensifying facetious map noticing harmonic trip observing radical ratio compiling nomadic message predating google rebranding reticulating facetious panda using hyperreal feedback exploring virtual panda speculating graphic gallery throwing mundane exception targeting graphic experiment replenishing emotional trap localizing asemic animal dropping rhythmic trip propagating immortal experiment displaying lowercase database invading orange bubbles crashing animated trip running conceptual topography remembering collapsed buildings crashing hyperreal coverage propagating hyperreal stipulation finishing western library envisioning neon tessellation reciprocating network likes processing animated device releasing haptic quality examining building seven awaiting rhapsodical ratio sampling death sauce sensing lowercase clone examining symbolic tour processing potential development encapsulating spatial lottery displaying digital paragraph reticulating theoretical source perpetuating western paragraph transmitting monochromatic structure anticipating ambient quality transmitting asemic environment intensifying atomic quality remastering history poem keeping future light hypothesizing eternal game using future library rearranging masonic language transmitting masonic development continuing ceremonial ritual questioning party's legitimacy deferring western coverage finishing asemic hypertext mollifying ostentatious presence synthesizing allegorical icon forming categorical unions sketching app wireframe programming immortal repository

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I sought satisfaction in stupid sheepishly and shallow strides. Scared subconsciously, I swallow and sustain substance for pseudo self esteem strengthening. I seemed of in service to slumber and stinging sadness, shots sank like ships, submerging into the sea of my swarthy stomach in seconds. I somewhat sympathies as a sailor, sweating, struggling and swimming in slipping sobriety saturated in my sulking style. Scanning swarms of serial swindlers, striking sculptures stances of self-doubt. I stammer in a storm of slurs, ******* down my safety, stopping myself at the stoop of the saloon I see a seductive silhouette staging the space. She stroke my sight, standing sanguine in scarlet, soul sold in high heels. The smoothest sculptures in seven square miles were subjugated into scree and I was ****** in submission. Stubborn staggering suitors, stand shaking silently as she is stopped by sharks stalking and snarling sycophantics. So straightforward in suggesting their secret starvation to strip sensations, seem by seem, like a sub-par **** cinema scene. They step and speak short. She smokes off, stranding the scree in smoldering slaughter. Its sad this soul-less sanctuary soaking up sorrows. So self inflicting, and so satisfyingly side splitting. She sported her spurned, scorned off into sadistic solitude and stained sticky stigma, sobbing to sleep. So spent from simple stocked, stored and supported senescence of ceremonial subjection of ****** status. I savior my sincerity, and stretched out of this strange stadium of stooges. So long scarlet sanguine I sang softly, as she stole my sight suspiciously in sync with hers. Sacrificial seconds split from smearing stolidity to sharing a smile. That's simple satisfaction, so I seen scripted in sitcoms and shows. Supporting sapiens in stasis to see sappy stunners on screen, to stare snoopy, as stabs and slashes strike socially into socialites of so called sanity and sovereignty. To sweetly pay salvage as slaves of soppy studio slander. Such is this sorry Saturday night, I am solidified in sedation.

0

Dec 14, 2017

Dec 14, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC

Saturday night (Alliteration in S)

I sought satisfaction in stupid sheepishly and shallow strides. Scared subconsciously, I swallow and sustain substance for pseudo self esteem strengthening. I seemed of in service to slumber and stinging sadness, shots sank like ships, submerging into the sea of my swarthy stomach in seconds. I somewhat sympathies as a sailor, sweating, struggling and swimming in slipping sobriety saturated in my sulking style. Scanning swarms of serial swindlers, striking sculptures stances of self-doubt. I stammer in a storm of slurs, ******* down my safety, stopping myself at the stoop of the saloon I see a seductive silhouette staging the space. She stroke my sight, standing sanguine in scarlet, soul sold in high heels. The smoothest sculptures in seven square miles were subjugated into scree and I was ****** in submission. Stubborn staggering suitors, stand shaking silently as she is stopped by sharks stalking and snarling sycophantics. So straightforward in suggesting their secret starvation to strip sensations, seem by seem, like a sub-par **** cinema scene. They step and speak short. She smokes off, stranding the scree in smoldering slaughter. Its sad this soul-less sanctuary soaking up sorrows. So self inflicting, and so satisfyingly side splitting. She sported her spurned, scorned off into sadistic solitude and stained sticky stigma, sobbing to sleep. So spent from simple stocked, stored and supported senescence of ceremonial subjection of ****** status. I savior my sincerity, and stretched out of this strange stadium of stooges. So long scarlet sanguine I sang softly, as she stole my sight suspiciously in sync with hers. Sacrificial seconds split from smearing stolidity to sharing a smile. That's simple satisfaction, so I seen scripted in sitcoms and shows. Supporting sapiens in stasis to see sappy stunners on screen, to stare snoopy, as stabs and slashes strike socially into socialites of so called sanity and sovereignty. To sweetly pay salvage as slaves of soppy studio slander. Such is this sorry Saturday night, I am solidified in sedation.

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oh i can tell you why Brexit happened... apparently in light of the European i was not European enough, a mongrel, a ******* Mongol... eastern Europeans are Mongols, mind you... i'm pretty sure the Brexit vote happened... because the A8 joined... when the Eatern European joined the old post-colonial powers... plenty of Pakistanis... do i mind? do i ******* care?! i don't care... you deal with: the minding! no... i have an inheritance tax without any ceremonial past... your **** is your ******* **** plus the Arab, and the curry... **** off! i'm no ******* *vierte ***** pussy-whip... you ******* yo-yo oreo! mind you? put me down on this one... i hate the Poles... i ******* hate the Poles... what they did to the Chernobyl me? i hate the Polacks... don't like them... i'd rather spit than talk to them... i've learned my lesson... i hate them more than the Germans, or the Russians... i hate them with the sort of hatred reserved for patriots... Judas Priests... i abhor the ****** catholicism... it makes me... cringe... then i think: thickens the thong - better than the Islamic crap to mind making a boot... Brexit only happened because of the supposed invasion of the A8... the Pakistani mobile gave off a jitter - somehow the "excess" Europeans migrated... whites combined with whites... Europeans mingled... big problem for the Pakistanis... Brexit only happened because "eastern" Europe joined the *vierte ***** well... "joined"... some of us had enough sense as to keep the currency... ******* Pakistani bullshitters... what?! i thought English girls loved being gang-rape-fucked?! no?! my bad... the joining of the A8 disrupted the presence of Britain in the EU... thumbs up on the curry-sauce... thumbs down on the Baltic sauerkraut.... guess what?! **** you! you ******* British Empire bonkers... relief contra racism with an Empire disintegrating! wankers... sure, beseech alliances outside of Europe... seek them, find them, govern them... the next time you come shoveling your **** into my: awareness... i'll be asking... so... Rotherham... no, not really... don't bother me with that sort of **** you deal with your ******** before shoving your ***** into my mouth expecting me to gargle on the produce... you're closer to Pakistan than i am to Mongolia... you draw the the postcard... i'll draw the pretty picture. don't get me wrong, thought, i hate the Polacks... i don't belong between them... i'd prefer to be strapped to a Hydra of homeless dogs... than exercise the humanity of a shared tongue with these... mongrels; mind you... the British are just as bad... when it comes to their, mongrel stature.

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Sep 17, 2018

Sep 17, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

the Mongols are coming! / scenes from Warsaw

oh i can tell you why Brexit happened... apparently in light of the European i was not European enough, a mongrel, a ******* Mongol... eastern Europeans are Mongols, mind you... i'm pretty sure the Brexit vote happened... because the A8 joined... when the Eatern European joined the old post-colonial powers... plenty of Pakistanis... do i mind? do i ******* care?! i don't care... you deal with: the minding! no... i have an inheritance tax without any ceremonial past... your **** is your ******* **** plus the Arab, and the curry... **** off! i'm no ******* *vierte ***** pussy-whip... you ******* yo-yo oreo! mind you? put me down on this one... i hate the Poles... i ******* hate the Poles... what they did to the Chernobyl me? i hate the Polacks... don't like them... i'd rather spit than talk to them... i've learned my lesson... i hate them more than the Germans, or the Russians... i hate them with the sort of hatred reserved for patriots... Judas Priests... i abhor the ****** catholicism... it makes me... cringe... then i think: thickens the thong - better than the Islamic crap to mind making a boot... Brexit only happened because of the supposed invasion of the A8... the Pakistani mobile gave off a jitter - somehow the "excess" Europeans migrated... whites combined with whites... Europeans mingled... big problem for the Pakistanis... Brexit only happened because "eastern" Europe joined the *vierte ***** well... "joined"... some of us had enough sense as to keep the currency... ******* Pakistani bullshitters... what?! i thought English girls loved being gang-rape-fucked?! no?! my bad... the joining of the A8 disrupted the presence of Britain in the EU... thumbs up on the curry-sauce... thumbs down on the Baltic sauerkraut.... guess what?! **** you! you ******* British Empire bonkers... relief contra racism with an Empire disintegrating! wankers... sure, beseech alliances outside of Europe... seek them, find them, govern them... the next time you come shoveling your **** into my: awareness... i'll be asking... so... Rotherham... no, not really... don't bother me with that sort of **** you deal with your ******** before shoving your ***** into my mouth expecting me to gargle on the produce... you're closer to Pakistan than i am to Mongolia... you draw the the postcard... i'll draw the pretty picture. don't get me wrong, thought, i hate the Polacks... i don't belong between them... i'd prefer to be strapped to a Hydra of homeless dogs... than exercise the humanity of a shared tongue with these... mongrels; mind you... the British are just as bad... when it comes to their, mongrel stature.

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I am the eccentric lovechild of a mother frondescent and a father evanescent Sprouted through corrupted soul Fed from the fish delivered free from a sea of blood and oil Uprooted I drift in sunlight towards an amiable oasis nurtured by scribes Roots form synthesis with a surface void of story My blooms entail alternative motions ranging from the aspect of a chaotic notion and the transcendent shiver given with ceremonial moments Traces of my lingering expanse traverse and terraform galactic sound gardens bursting at the seams with Gaia’s seeds Wither, decay, destined to resume once in full bloom Meandering with solar rays bonded by ebb and flow The remnants of the last sun ray plague the wanderer who was born of sunflowers

0

Oct 14, 2012

Oct 14, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC

I am the eccentric lovechild of a mother frondescent and a father evanescent Sprouted through corrupted soul Fed from the fish delivered free from a sea of blood and oil Uprooted I drift in sunlight towards an amiable oasis nurtured by scribes Roots form synthesis with a surface void of story My blooms entail alternative motions ranging from the aspect of a chaotic notion and the transcendent shiver given with ceremonial moments Traces of my lingering expanse traverse and terraform galactic sound gardens bursting at the seams with Gaia’s seeds Wither, decay, destined to resume once in full bloom Meandering with solar rays bonded by ebb and flow The remnants of the last sun ray plague the wanderer who was born of sunflowers

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this old poet, one of the first, to see your wave, when he was playing knick-knack paddy whack on his shoe, the old poet then played two, and said, yes, I will follow you Please imaging-imaging that old poet with a glanceable cursory, a small smile whispered, with entourage of a nod and a wink, stands, knowing he is in the delivery room, a witness, to first steps of a babe starting a new life marvelous miracle by touching a button, a new line written, not crossed but connecting by pressing "Follow" with a finger from a hand, a human fringe, attached to a breathing mind and a thinking heart, the first to follow you, a ceremonial gesture of innovation magic incantation, a new moon blessing, a living person believing, remembering, the longest ago, his first own graceful acknowledgement and eyes speak, yes, I will follow you the new poet, astonished at this induction to the smallest Hall of Fame that they alone own the only key, study that number, that number 1, the first to follow, kinda looking over their shoulder to make sure the old poet still there on the morrow, sure enough there are now two, safe in the back pocket, a tabulation of humans who speak volumes of trust, saying, yes, I will follow you the old poet, imaging-imaging the babe, dancing round the room, invigorated, challenged and the faucets pouring, can't write it down as fast as the trains arriving disgorging, words unique in new combinations and the rush of blood from heart to head to those newly literary fingers bleeding happy creatures of creation as if they are Noah setting sail to save us with verbs and adjectives two by two all for now species unheard of the old poet wants to send cautionary notes, the path strewn with frustrations of no inspiration ditches and inescapable cliches that sound fresh but just aren't, the disappearing satisfaction, the inability to get it just perfect, and so many obstacles to be prophesied, but he does not, these things must be self taught, today let it suffice the initiation, the first crowning of **yes, I will follow you for this the way of the poet 10/16/17 5:09pm**

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Oct 16, 2017

Oct 16, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC

The First to Follow

this old poet, one of the first, to see your wave, when he was playing knick-knack paddy whack on his shoe, the old poet then played two, and said, yes, I will follow you Please imaging-imaging that old poet with a glanceable cursory, a small smile whispered, with entourage of a nod and a wink, stands, knowing he is in the delivery room, a witness, to first steps of a babe starting a new life marvelous miracle by touching a button, a new line written, not crossed but connecting by pressing "Follow" with a finger from a hand, a human fringe, attached to a breathing mind and a thinking heart, the first to follow you, a ceremonial gesture of innovation magic incantation, a new moon blessing, a living person believing, remembering, the longest ago, his first own graceful acknowledgement and eyes speak, yes, I will follow you the new poet, astonished at this induction to the smallest Hall of Fame that they alone own the only key, study that number, that number 1, the first to follow, kinda looking over their shoulder to make sure the old poet still there on the morrow, sure enough there are now two, safe in the back pocket, a tabulation of humans who speak volumes of trust, saying, yes, I will follow you the old poet, imaging-imaging the babe, dancing round the room, invigorated, challenged and the faucets pouring, can't write it down as fast as the trains arriving disgorging, words unique in new combinations and the rush of blood from heart to head to those newly literary fingers bleeding happy creatures of creation as if they are Noah setting sail to save us with verbs and adjectives two by two all for now species unheard of the old poet wants to send cautionary notes, the path strewn with frustrations of no inspiration ditches and inescapable cliches that sound fresh but just aren't, the disappearing satisfaction, the inability to get it just perfect, and so many obstacles to be prophesied, but he does not, these things must be self taught, today let it suffice the initiation, the first crowning of **yes, I will follow you for this the way of the poet 10/16/17 5:09pm**

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A simple, well-cut black dress with pearls and up-swept hair. So, Audrey Hepburn. The way the Japanese drink traditional and ceremonial tea. The shape of a ballerina. French manicures. Horseback riding. Victorian dresses.

0

Oct 22, 2013

Oct 22, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC

Graceful people, graceful things

A simple, well-cut black dress with pearls and up-swept hair. So, Audrey Hepburn. The way the Japanese drink traditional and ceremonial tea. The shape of a ballerina. French manicures. Horseback riding. Victorian dresses.

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On spread palm fronds, wind trumpets monsoon's onset loud, await fireworks soon!

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Apr 16, 2017

Apr 16, 2017 at 8:22 AM UTC

Ceremonial arrival-Haiku

On spread palm fronds, wind trumpets monsoon's onset loud, await fireworks soon!

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*(Blackened tissue beside debris of bleachd cocktail Power pundit in cubicle A ship in shadow-pieces passing by, unnoticed* smoking water.. now costs getting kickd out ur xafe Your blood lies in a high-account and all the stampz areMelting Crawling in a desert, accusations shave the top off my black land Did failing the test lead to a power-packed punch in strands No time for treagedies clogging up the freeway Twenty watts up the waterfall and your ride is here Befits a ceremonial decapping Catch ur vogue latte on the way out Come aboard by jet and then expect a red carpet, soaked dry from the spoils of erstwehile-smugglers Let em bleed green notes till the moths all come round the flame Wait for it… the flame grows hugher… and int it all…………poof! That was easy. Don’t chuckle out loud when expletives slidie down your back Like champagne off the shoulder of your ne-xt planet’s ride Duck in time cos the butters hard and the toast is dry Four friends over six decades carry grudges heavey enough to pump oil to lakes And the unexpected happens.. the one they didn’t watch, wwent missing All eyes on the little one.. no, you didn’t catch them all. You became immunes to the skills you advert-tarted and sqeueamish set in you didn’t know casn host violence in a putrid-robe? One finger pointing out, makes at least three in.. to the pointer How can one planet swallow so wide a dichotomy in plasticky degrees? It’s too wide this time to make that jump – we will ingest what weve been giving all along And some end up well-funded while others simply dwell.. as frogs in a well. sun can climb in sometimes, but for half an hour their fingers are small for the mine, keep small the issue don’t cry when it rains in expectorata I think frogs can swim. *when do I ever learn that.. I am simply a frog in a well near craxks )* 21feb

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Feb 21, 2014

Feb 21, 2014 at 6:49 AM UTC

Crawling in a desert

*(Blackened tissue beside debris of bleachd cocktail Power pundit in cubicle A ship in shadow-pieces passing by, unnoticed* smoking water.. now costs getting kickd out ur xafe Your blood lies in a high-account and all the stampz areMelting Crawling in a desert, accusations shave the top off my black land Did failing the test lead to a power-packed punch in strands No time for treagedies clogging up the freeway Twenty watts up the waterfall and your ride is here Befits a ceremonial decapping Catch ur vogue latte on the way out Come aboard by jet and then expect a red carpet, soaked dry from the spoils of erstwehile-smugglers Let em bleed green notes till the moths all come round the flame Wait for it… the flame grows hugher… and int it all…………poof! That was easy. Don’t chuckle out loud when expletives slidie down your back Like champagne off the shoulder of your ne-xt planet’s ride Duck in time cos the butters hard and the toast is dry Four friends over six decades carry grudges heavey enough to pump oil to lakes And the unexpected happens.. the one they didn’t watch, wwent missing All eyes on the little one.. no, you didn’t catch them all. You became immunes to the skills you advert-tarted and sqeueamish set in you didn’t know casn host violence in a putrid-robe? One finger pointing out, makes at least three in.. to the pointer How can one planet swallow so wide a dichotomy in plasticky degrees? It’s too wide this time to make that jump – we will ingest what weve been giving all along And some end up well-funded while others simply dwell.. as frogs in a well. sun can climb in sometimes, but for half an hour their fingers are small for the mine, keep small the issue don’t cry when it rains in expectorata I think frogs can swim. *when do I ever learn that.. I am simply a frog in a well near craxks )* 21feb

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sometimes you are with me when I bike right in the middle of my eyes you look through as if recreating tides sometimes you rise stretch my tailbone cross my neck all along and silently whisper love and hate words until you painfully adjust yourself towards a subtle opening hidden under a golden crown you tie us by secret subtle lines as if a puppet-pendulum anchored to a bluish-green star somewhere far away as far as a single jump-rope swing which I may call home sometime is that why you send me signs while I listen like that lady bird today … perfectly matching to the colors of an eloquent orange brown pottery by which geishas serve a ceremonial rice bowl the labels tell exhibited behind glass only my silhouette reflected in dim lights becomes a dance of invisibility hiding teardrops along a museum corridor covered with cherry blossoms I ignore I say all the stupid signs continue a play with the luck bug alight on my right side observe its dotted natural beauty forget all there is around me oh yes she knows me I farewell her over a giant photograph of a well respected lady make it a living part of her brooch and dream away if - maybe she’d be me some lifetime ago and you the lover of our lingering sad story…

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Oct 22, 2014

Oct 22, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC

sometimes you are with me when I bike right in the middle of my eyes you look through as if recreating tides sometimes you rise stretch my tailbone cross my neck all along and silently whisper love and hate words until you painfully adjust yourself towards a subtle opening hidden under a golden crown you tie us by secret subtle lines as if a puppet-pendulum anchored to a bluish-green star somewhere far away as far as a single jump-rope swing which I may call home sometime is that why you send me signs while I listen like that lady bird today … perfectly matching to the colors of an eloquent orange brown pottery by which geishas serve a ceremonial rice bowl the labels tell exhibited behind glass only my silhouette reflected in dim lights becomes a dance of invisibility hiding teardrops along a museum corridor covered with cherry blossoms I ignore I say all the stupid signs continue a play with the luck bug alight on my right side observe its dotted natural beauty forget all there is around me oh yes she knows me I farewell her over a giant photograph of a well respected lady make it a living part of her brooch and dream away if - maybe she’d be me some lifetime ago and you the lover of our lingering sad story…

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This that is washed with **** and pebblestone Curved once a dolphin’s length before the prow, And I who read the land to which we bore In its grave eyes, question my idol now, What cold and marvelous fancy it may keep, Since the salt terror swept us from our course, Or if a wisdom later than the storm, For old green ocean’s tinctured it so deep; And with some reason to me on this strand The waves, the ceremonial waves have come, And stooped their barbaric heads, and all flung out Their glittering arms before them, and are gone, Leaving the murderous tribute lodged in sand.

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2k

This that is washed with **** and pebblestone Curved once a dolphin’s length before the prow, And I who read the land to which we bore In its grave eyes, question my idol now, What cold and marvelous fancy it may keep, Since the salt terror swept us from our course, Or if a wisdom later than the storm, For old green ocean’s tinctured it so deep; And with some reason to me on this strand The waves, the ceremonial waves have come, And stooped their barbaric heads, and all flung out Their glittering arms before them, and are gone, Leaving the murderous tribute lodged in sand.

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... Dear Mr. P - [stop] - ... I was your knife in the water, a credit card kept exclusively for killing - [stop] - I was a gingersnap on your sugar train, a flower-filled glory box to swallow your whole wide world - [stop] - I was night, night of the electric insects, praying mantis and ladybug — nervous animals, lotus eaters, enjoying a ceremonial after meal - [stop] - I was slivers of pseudoscience poisoned by man-made seasons — a new and beautiful and interesting disease - [stop] - You and me, we are now the same — snapshots in sheared time, before the closedown of our impossibly ****** impulses - [stop] - ... Best wishes, V ···

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Feb 16, 2022

Feb 16, 2022 at 12:20 PM UTC

Telegram From an Angry ******

... Dear Mr. P - [stop] - ... I was your knife in the water, a credit card kept exclusively for killing - [stop] - I was a gingersnap on your sugar train, a flower-filled glory box to swallow your whole wide world - [stop] - I was night, night of the electric insects, praying mantis and ladybug — nervous animals, lotus eaters, enjoying a ceremonial after meal - [stop] - I was slivers of pseudoscience poisoned by man-made seasons — a new and beautiful and interesting disease - [stop] - You and me, we are now the same — snapshots in sheared time, before the closedown of our impossibly ****** impulses - [stop] - ... Best wishes, V ···

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The firewood kept beside the fence post was soggy, surly was the evening weather, and Mother Nature was redefining the word torrential A drop to the eye, rendering it senseless. On one side of the spectrum, a crystal or a rock comes from dirt. Although that other side, the side of the spectrum that enlightens by color. A yellow or a blue or a red are useful. So by that exploitation will become the puzzle pieces of which the artist creates. Imagine having a thought cross and be ignored. Saying that, maybe the Earth isn't flat, and maybe a Christmas card is not as commercial as it is ceremonial. Perception is one side to say, but the gentleman pouring gasoline on a fire is far from the man asking for a drink shaken, not stirred. When the fire becomes everlasting, water will not quench a thirst for destruction, and that is because there has never been an accident that could ever be everlasting. The man that knows that does not exit the house with a helmet. He simply raises the proverbial glass and swallows what is in front of him. At times the end brings a sweetness. The only other times are consumed with a bitterness. One that an artist knows as he takes his shot of whiskey, but not of the man that is readily available to set himself on fire. That is a drop of rain on your tongue. At the beginning it is too fragile to become a warning, but at the end it is what separates lands and lives. That is why saltwater and tears aren't that much different.

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Jun 14, 2014

Jun 14, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC

charlie-chirico

Preemptive Rain is a Courtesy

The firewood kept beside the fence post was soggy, surly was the evening weather, and Mother Nature was redefining the word torrential A drop to the eye, rendering it senseless. On one side of the spectrum, a crystal or a rock comes from dirt. Although that other side, the side of the spectrum that enlightens by color. A yellow or a blue or a red are useful. So by that exploitation will become the puzzle pieces of which the artist creates. Imagine having a thought cross and be ignored. Saying that, maybe the Earth isn't flat, and maybe a Christmas card is not as commercial as it is ceremonial. Perception is one side to say, but the gentleman pouring gasoline on a fire is far from the man asking for a drink shaken, not stirred. When the fire becomes everlasting, water will not quench a thirst for destruction, and that is because there has never been an accident that could ever be everlasting. The man that knows that does not exit the house with a helmet. He simply raises the proverbial glass and swallows what is in front of him. At times the end brings a sweetness. The only other times are consumed with a bitterness. One that an artist knows as he takes his shot of whiskey, but not of the man that is readily available to set himself on fire. That is a drop of rain on your tongue. At the beginning it is too fragile to become a warning, but at the end it is what separates lands and lives. That is why saltwater and tears aren't that much different.

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pour some words into my ear make a nice stout aural darjeeling no need to sweeten i like mine hot and strong in turn, i'll steep your cochlea Senno Rikyu at your service master of libidinous liquids ceremonial titillated ears then we'll make oolong to each other i'll brew your longing leaves ferment your black dragon lips sip the liquor from your ***** write it up for the society page tea today at four and Thea pours

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Feb 20, 2012

Feb 20, 2012 at 12:01 AM UTC

tea today at four

pour some words into my ear make a nice stout aural darjeeling no need to sweeten i like mine hot and strong in turn, i'll steep your cochlea Senno Rikyu at your service master of libidinous liquids ceremonial titillated ears then we'll make oolong to each other i'll brew your longing leaves ferment your black dragon lips sip the liquor from your ***** write it up for the society page tea today at four and Thea pours

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In the flawless dark high overhead Torea shrieks ripping holes in the silent korowai of night again Torea calls and further off faint again now silent the cloak ripples settles repairs the tears stillness sprawls warm as aroha Tricia Lambert Torea-the Maori name of the Pied Oyster Catcher Korowai-a ceremonial cloak Aroha- love, unconditional love, similar to the Greek, agape

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Feb 8, 2014

Feb 8, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC

In the flawless dark high overhead Torea shrieks ripping holes in the silent korowai of night again Torea calls and further off faint again now silent the cloak ripples settles repairs the tears stillness sprawls warm as aroha Tricia Lambert Torea-the Maori name of the Pied Oyster Catcher Korowai-a ceremonial cloak Aroha- love, unconditional love, similar to the Greek, agape

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i would compromise --i compromise. i appear to i mean, with peace-demeanor customized for show paraded there and there, obeisant nonsense in a confidence of meek to render compliments crowding infancies of all for the sake of art i bend my frame about cliche to have a human dragon claim "the real persists unknown" and gather at a sacred dolmen fascinating morals sung beneath the stars and sun-- you said there was a butterfly tasting at my skull, shaking with uncommon music too.. its skinny, immigrant feet abuzz within the world they called a One, wings on pause, my eyebrows in flight. a blanket iris cries warmth in clusters hung ripe, filming over all a native ceremonial, falsepolitik i pluck at them atop a fence obscure for comforts masking truth discarded, found, fashioned into furniture for candled houses built with children's sons where families try to see a clearing in the warping mirrors saddled with a dripping time no illustration comprehends . wooden beams help it rise and dim, the sunny lie, genuinely fake, authentic trick of aeons hidden in the true -- growing young, stemming back to foil brighter undiscoveries for otherwisely patient basements full of heirlooms, sheik dining areas all nodding over cheap wine we still manage to squint up at nothing at in apple layers symbolizing tidy crimes invented ceaselessly, serving existential voids-- grace, fall, stumble catch acquired tones of oak or berry-- other fruits would do, or none, as i still feel praised by your rejections -- when indifference gains a sweetness like a novel vengeance won i am indulging villainy workshopping staling norms, garden dark as cultivated loam. where i am words mooding intellect to torment, faun complexity awry

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Mar 1, 2013

Mar 1, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC

a taste of earthling

i would compromise --i compromise. i appear to i mean, with peace-demeanor customized for show paraded there and there, obeisant nonsense in a confidence of meek to render compliments crowding infancies of all for the sake of art i bend my frame about cliche to have a human dragon claim "the real persists unknown" and gather at a sacred dolmen fascinating morals sung beneath the stars and sun-- you said there was a butterfly tasting at my skull, shaking with uncommon music too.. its skinny, immigrant feet abuzz within the world they called a One, wings on pause, my eyebrows in flight. a blanket iris cries warmth in clusters hung ripe, filming over all a native ceremonial, falsepolitik i pluck at them atop a fence obscure for comforts masking truth discarded, found, fashioned into furniture for candled houses built with children's sons where families try to see a clearing in the warping mirrors saddled with a dripping time no illustration comprehends . wooden beams help it rise and dim, the sunny lie, genuinely fake, authentic trick of aeons hidden in the true -- growing young, stemming back to foil brighter undiscoveries for otherwisely patient basements full of heirlooms, sheik dining areas all nodding over cheap wine we still manage to squint up at nothing at in apple layers symbolizing tidy crimes invented ceaselessly, serving existential voids-- grace, fall, stumble catch acquired tones of oak or berry-- other fruits would do, or none, as i still feel praised by your rejections -- when indifference gains a sweetness like a novel vengeance won i am indulging villainy workshopping staling norms, garden dark as cultivated loam. where i am words mooding intellect to torment, faun complexity awry

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(I) People used to light candles to ward off  prophesies such as this. Stopping, each motherly representative, for 75 seconds  or less, to tip match-spark to wax-thread and hope for the best. What ceremonial significance now  do we seek for to slow the approach  of what we know is waiting? Oncoming march of death-knolls and unhappiness  bound up in silence  where once we laughed uncensored at and for  the characters who spun throughout this town, that school, the city, our lives. All being, understandably, becomes  efficiently replaced with obvious simplicity.  From effortless performances  of what made our lives important  back in childhood years when living was stable and guaranteed,  now to this mongrel era of constant migration  beckoning....  The familiar is no longer our youth’s careless summer holidays.  The Familiar is now a land where  people don’t bother with any ideas  of an ideal existence beyond  what lottery tickets may bring. Those who inhabit here are  more alerted to the purpose of lighting  coals in winter to shelter the children  and to keep the windows from cracking.  In summer find these same awaiting with  patient ears to heed any advice which keeps them from going completely insane. (II) Go now, away ,begin your quest, foolish schoolboy.  An entire adolescence’s  comeuppance is due.   Time now to seek recompense for the years you waited  for anything significant to happen.   Time to seek girls with inviting eyes  and lilting vowels to offer favors to. Abled with a catalogue of charmed  intoxicants. All softened by a plentitude of weekdays waking at three in the afternoon.  (Does “afternoon” exist in layman’s terms? Does  he simply made do with morning, day and night?) Then on your flight make haste  to ensure your visit merely brief.  Like only one dimension of  your day-persona be a hawk  that delivers messages  back to the ivory towers of  new central HQ, while remaining   all cloak and whisper. Messages from where people live  but no longer speak,  as result of an assigned sense  of failure,or complimentary  wrongdoings sought, what sorrow achieves.  Shattered lives, Ending dreams.

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Feb 11, 2013

Feb 11, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC

Forecast In February

(I) People used to light candles to ward off  prophesies such as this. Stopping, each motherly representative, for 75 seconds  or less, to tip match-spark to wax-thread and hope for the best. What ceremonial significance now  do we seek for to slow the approach  of what we know is waiting? Oncoming march of death-knolls and unhappiness  bound up in silence  where once we laughed uncensored at and for  the characters who spun throughout this town, that school, the city, our lives. All being, understandably, becomes  efficiently replaced with obvious simplicity.  From effortless performances  of what made our lives important  back in childhood years when living was stable and guaranteed,  now to this mongrel era of constant migration  beckoning....  The familiar is no longer our youth’s careless summer holidays.  The Familiar is now a land where  people don’t bother with any ideas  of an ideal existence beyond  what lottery tickets may bring. Those who inhabit here are  more alerted to the purpose of lighting  coals in winter to shelter the children  and to keep the windows from cracking.  In summer find these same awaiting with  patient ears to heed any advice which keeps them from going completely insane. (II) Go now, away ,begin your quest, foolish schoolboy.  An entire adolescence’s  comeuppance is due.   Time now to seek recompense for the years you waited  for anything significant to happen.   Time to seek girls with inviting eyes  and lilting vowels to offer favors to. Abled with a catalogue of charmed  intoxicants. All softened by a plentitude of weekdays waking at three in the afternoon.  (Does “afternoon” exist in layman’s terms? Does  he simply made do with morning, day and night?) Then on your flight make haste  to ensure your visit merely brief.  Like only one dimension of  your day-persona be a hawk  that delivers messages  back to the ivory towers of  new central HQ, while remaining   all cloak and whisper. Messages from where people live  but no longer speak,  as result of an assigned sense  of failure,or complimentary  wrongdoings sought, what sorrow achieves.  Shattered lives, Ending dreams.

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authentic shots from the shooting place in iran. dozens of people died however she is not ashamed of her beauty. the famous model let her ******* peek out at the ceremonial party – all good then

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Jun 9, 2020

Jun 9, 2020 at 7:09 AM UTC

authentic shots from the shooting place in iran. dozens of people died however she is not ashamed of her beauty. the famous model let her ******* peek out at the ceremonial party – all good then

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and to you I make myself a gift to be held in palm unwrapped s l o w l y, an ever- evolving apparition of sculpture, malleable yet firm, with backbone and as you trace your fingers upon the small of it, running them over slopes of spine watching my skin slip from rough ache han gi ng to smooth quake know that underneath crisp wrappings of papery gossamer beats the ultimate of ceremonial offerings: the present of my presence, fiery, pulsing shimmering like blood on lava ready for you to dip your heart into lips parting as my breath fills your spirit's cavern slick dip of opening as you draw shadows from my deepest Cimmerian caves ******* them through in siphon's pull to the side of light until around you and deep inside you split me oh so gently and fully completely apart

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Mar 15, 2017

Mar 15, 2017 at 5:28 PM UTC

luminous offering

and to you I make myself a gift to be held in palm unwrapped s l o w l y, an ever- evolving apparition of sculpture, malleable yet firm, with backbone and as you trace your fingers upon the small of it, running them over slopes of spine watching my skin slip from rough ache han gi ng to smooth quake know that underneath crisp wrappings of papery gossamer beats the ultimate of ceremonial offerings: the present of my presence, fiery, pulsing shimmering like blood on lava ready for you to dip your heart into lips parting as my breath fills your spirit's cavern slick dip of opening as you draw shadows from my deepest Cimmerian caves ******* them through in siphon's pull to the side of light until around you and deep inside you split me oh so gently and fully completely apart

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