"clarifies" poems
**Strange how the dank hand of disaster clarifies the thinking,
How all irrelevancies are scoured from the frontal lobe,
How, strangely, should you look into the morning sky, the blueness is of a brilliant, startling intensity.
How biting into a piece of fresh fruit reveals the new mouth watering, exquisiteness of clean sweet,flavour.
Strange how the dank hand of disaster allow us to consolidate our values.
Where suddenly, the drabness of yesterday becomes the brightly,beautiful now.
Where miserable mindedness adopts an abrupt re-evaluation, in that the sour faced neighbour is embraced with passion as being a fellow survivor.
Where the rich and the poor are thrown together to work willingly, cheek by jowel, for a common cause…Tomorrow!.
Strange how the dank hand of disaster brings out THE VERY BEST IN US …isn’t it ?**
Marshalg
A commonality observed In having survived many disasters over the years.
1 November 2012
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
1714
By a departing light
We see acuter, quite,
Than by a wick that stays.
There’s something in the flight
That clarifies the sight
And decks the rays.
8.6k
A true story of a chance gathering of strangers in the back room of a Gelato Parlor *** restaurant, two years ago, in a little village near the bay, on a land surrounded by vineyards. Come visit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gelato Nation
There is a place,
location secret,
mine to keep,
mine with which
you to tease,
make you envious,
a back room 'office'
jealous guarded
by a barkeep,
whose chosen invites sweeps
you into a reality that is
what you will it to be.
But nota bene, note well,
remembrances of things swell
from your past be the
only tongue spoken here.
Code word entry only,
a shared whisper.
Perhaps One Woman,
may reveal its pleasures,
if she so chooses,
which are:
gelato laughs, poetry snaps,
Beatle songs sung ensemble,
by rag tag strangers
self-collected accidentally,
sung de rigeur off key
by voices lubricated by
cognac, laughter, and
the coldest of white wines,
issue of the very soil
upon which we sit.
Words to value properly,
not in my possess to capture
the few moments in time when;
Strangers transform themselves
into a triple A nation united,
that will never be
S&P; downgraded.
A holy alliance
celebrating July 4th
all night long,
all participants
signatory witnesses to
its gelato conception,
as well as pallbearers
to its last drink dissolution,
the fullness of its lifetime
a vintage of a few hours extant,
a vintage, once drunk, is
a history, forever gone.
Mixologists please record:
One playwright, a psychologist, bond trader and a social scientist
with a dash of museum director,
and do not forget the
Hundred Year Old Woman,
whose Dowager Princess Daughter
(she, a mere eighty)'
from Central Park West
clarifies all of life dilemmas with
the singular analytical tool of:
But is it good for the Jews?
**But t'is the barkeep
who is the leavening
in this evenings human
pastry-petrie dish.**
He makes the pastiche,
the ions of personalities,
coalesce best,
guitar strummer,
singer of songs that were our
multiple national anthems
when we were pseudo-rebels
starting out on our
long and winding roads.
Long the King of the Keep!
Long live the memory of our
Gelato Nation,
may it stay sweet in
our antique collection of
the best moments of
our intersecting lives.
July 2011
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
The Picture Window
The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
by wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.
The subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.
Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.
My soul?
Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..
The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.
Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.
But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy, where disorder minimal.
My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.
Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the
endogenous.
5:50 AM
P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 6:34 AM UTC
Composing Hallelujah
Fractious lines crack,
holiday decorate the spirit inferior,
while each note upon the priest's guitar
penetrates the aspirin roughened interior,
face slaps me, daggers and accuses,
you're not composing hallelujah.
So I mislead, big deal,
composing the anti-hallelujah,
yeah, I was ******** with you,
as you sit across from me electronically
pretending, me to you, you to me.
Lie to each other with smiling faces,
you too have reaped,
been emotionally *****
by what our minds see and sow,
scowls and howls,
we've both grown our own demons.
My secrets, maybe are all there,
maybe, writ loud and clear,
in the songs I choose to share,
and in the unrevealed ones,
buried alive, held in reserve,
but not, for your average, rainy day,
could be today, you have no say.
Are we not all veterans of a kind,
don't we all have ribbons on our chest,
stripes and stars on our khaki blouse,
a record of our own great campaigns,
including the war to end all wars,
the never ending one,
the one the psycho-historians renamed,
"The 24/7 Year Conflagration"?
It used to be just my secret, no more
don't need a cartoonist to tell me that's
the enemy is us, and there are moles, traitors,
hidden deep in our intelligence organization,
planting seeds, urges, pushing to
out the identity of our communist friend,
Depression
I don't mean the ordinary, garden variety,
a mere moody blues recession,
when funk is sourced from gray clouds,
served up proper, cold and wet,
then travels on when sun warmth
clarifies temporarily, the aspirin kicking in.
So I misled,
composing the anti-hallelujah,
yeah, I was ******** with you,
sit across from me and lie to me,
lie to each other with smiling faces
we reap what we own,
scowls and howls.
A chorus of harmonious poseurs
inside your own City Center,
vocalize the lyrics of the anti-hallelujah,
a composition of questions directed at
whomever in tonight's audience deserves it,
asking, nerving, to sing too loud, at decibel speed:
Are these verses, curses
about D,
our mutual acquaintance,
or just research notes for further followup,
part two of a pas de deux, and,
did you go this time, too far,
or still not far enough?
-
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
~
who knows the definition of a poet?
~
*for my friend, S.Y,
who I will embrace with both hands,
both eyes, when he hands me a signed copy of a book
that answers the question*
weighty subjects deserve your best work,
expressions of affection and introspection,
need careful reflection, a proper set up for the
tumult inevitable when delving in the unopened recesses
where the answers kept
so, of course, the writing commences well after 1:00am,
when the darkness of night clarifies the process,
for I work by day but live by night,
when summoning up my one tool no one can take away,
the joy, the relief, the spectacular exultation of
rearranging the aleph bet in new ways,
when the quietude of reflection transports me
across the continents in visions of what will be
I don't know if I know the answer, perhaps, any answers,
but when this man demands
the ebb tides of soul to depart,
to make him stand alone on the shore of endings,
forcing him to acknowledge his reckonings,
lonely, only humanity and frailties
I hear a voice gruff growling and me laughing-
"cut to the chase, make your point, get out of people’s way"
so in your honor, this simp fool who asks questions
no human has any business, the answers knowing,
will one last stanza grant and give and
yours to keep,
and commence countdown waiting for that day of welcoming
*from the underground comes a chorus of voices,
in one voice but many languages, chanting:*
***all humans are poets
who acknowledge and freely confess that the
blood and stuff, the kisses and the touches of family and friends,
parent and child,
are the ***** and the egg,
the beginning and the circulation of the never ending,
the open entrance that penetrates the berm surrounding real life,
all these are the root and the stem and the blossoming,
of poetry writ large, for they who have these in their possess,
are surely by definition certainly
humans, poets***
~
5/14/17 2:05am
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
It’s good to be hated! But I know my name…
hate, blackened, misshapen, ugly, unnatural,
yet
how it clarifies the mind, like a cupped hand
carrying clear, cold, brook water to dry mouth,
to shock, enliven, resets resets, all your priorities
with alacrity, a word I prefer cause it is an intuitive
combo of eagerness + alarm, suddenly much of the
trivial is no longer worthy of your ‘to do’ list,
you, without thinking, DNA filter your filters,
those screens that digest, then reject & reflect
the inputs ongoings around you, and you are now
reclassified! by the hate surrounding, it declassifies
the time wastrels, reinterpreting most everything
on a bipolar scale of 1 or 10, there are no shades,
the middle ground of gray be fully eliminated,
just like those who wish to
eliminate
me.
in a palette of black or white, your
e +e,
(essence and existence) cannot be ever
a gray area, yes, of course, the sunshine
is yellow bright, and the grass is spring
flushed green, the multicolored daffodils
newly define colors varietal, and the waves
of the Sound, roll relentlessly, but hate can be
coated, camouflaged and subtle disguised, but
we know, oh how we know, and how we wanted
to ***forget, our “sins”, our original liabilities of
our multi colored skins, our religion, our race & ethnicity,***
but NOT our names!
the Rabbis tell us that God nearly did not keep
his promise to Abraham, to rescue his progeny
from slavery in Egypt but saved them only because:
‘On account of four things Israel was redeemed
from Egypt: they did not change their names, they
did not change their language, they did not speak
slander and not even one of them was found to be
promiscuous.’^
I know my name; and though you cannot distinguish
me by dress, know not my moral life, but now you
know my name,
given to me by my parents, in the language of my ancestors:
Mordecai Netanel ben (son of) Eliyahu Chaim
Per my family lore, as told to me by my parents, our
family fled from Spain because of the Inquisition (1478),
settled in a small town in Germany on the banks
of the river Lippe; and from the shtetls of Poland,
and those who survived or avoided the Holocaust
ultimately left Europe, came here, to the land of
the free, the United States of America with names,
in their language, with memories intact.
I will not flee this country,
for I know my true name,
inscribed in my pores, in my
DNA
<>
(but should I have to…there is a sanctuary.)
May 2 2024
May 2, 2024
May 2, 2024 at 9:24 PM UTC
Have you ever spoken with someone in this deep manner? The pain clarifies, sharpening and focusing into
wait where is my mind
Delaying the spoen inevitable truth spit
*spoken
Can't type when I'm shaking with emergency
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
~a companion to “A Flawless Poem” (1)
<>
time is truly never on your side,
but it lends an assist
with a continual grinding inexorable steady draining,
but that narrowing perspective, clarifies, opens eyes wider, and yes,
simplifies and prioritizes
there is an elegance in simplicity,
and write this as a reminder
to self,
that the beauty of
straightforward brevity,
with a honed tip
is likely the fastest path
to the sticking point,
and there, and here,
will I leave you
to it,
flawlessly
Nov 19, 2024
Nov 19, 2024 at 5:24 PM UTC
My life is like a poem;
And a pure sleep that lasts forever.
Ah, sleep-sleep that is more flamboyant than the stars;
But for which I have not prayed; about which I have not even started.
My life is like a wind;
A wind that grows, within a pair of wings unseen.
My blood groans and roars as it steps forward;
My heart flips and leaps as it falls in love.
Ah, a love that arrived between roads foreign;
A love that slayed me, and tasted my juicy kiss;
Like a tame note, like a flood of roses;
Love that lights my rocks, and burdens my abyss.
And when everything is deaf and purely abysmal;
I shall bloom still, and glistening as rainfalls.
I shall listen to its greedy calls;
I shall begin my poem-as I'm thus hiding, behind the walls!
And the rain shall pour but bleak water;
A water so small, and thereby impure.
But thy eyes are like its earth-that stills and clarifies it;
And thy charms are magnets that charge-and wondrously cure!
As though I have ne'er been mystified;
When I am heartily scared-palely challenged and petrified.
I am but burnt, within this unmuttered torment;
But to my praise I stay loyal, and defined unbent.
Ah, Nikolaas, shalt thou be mine-and be my shield?
Shalt thou rewind my bones that have slept?
As far as I know, this poetry can no-one build;
Loves that other hearts shape; loves that their doubts have kept.
Ah, Nikolaas, shalt thou melt my, my very insane heart?
Of which thy breath hath owned a part;
I shall kiss thee; through thy mint arms-and thy cold sleeves;
I shall be the prettiest goddess God'll ever give.
Oh, Nikolaas, and shall thou purify my rain?
And liberate these tears-and their art of pain;
And let thy heart be the one I judge;
Make me all over sweet-like two twin bars of silky fudge.
And shalt be thou ***** by my shy verse?
For thou hath freed, and forgiven my bare universe;
I am in love, I am riding its wheels;
I am on the moon, no-one knows yet-how grateful I feel.
And Nikolaas, but shalt thou be my moon itself?
Over my darkness, thou shalt stay gripping and smiling;
And to my touches, thou shalt be forever truth;
Unlike this lone stranded poem-which thinks but stays mute;
Thou shalt be mine-on this wan land and in the keen hereafter;
Even when death is dubious-I shall remain and love thee like this; just as I do now-and perhaps forever.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
Is life a course
or a curse,
a path
or a pathology?
Is living a blessing
or a lessening,
a miracle
or a mirage?
Is it a kiss
or a miss,
a tender touch
or simply a come-on?
The opposite of love
is not hate,
but uncaring,
simply not feeling.
Are all illnesses
psychosomatic,
a disguised, silent way
that we take out
our unconscious anger
against ourselves?
Love both clarifies
and resolves these ambiguities,
seeking always the better
over the worse.
Life can mean love,
but too often
means meanness.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Oct 1, 2021
Oct 1, 2021 at 2:57 AM UTC
Awake in the night
and who to call?
The one owl
watches my soul.
It knows silence
Like I know words
it knows smiling
humouring my slurs
Shoo it off I may
With my five fingertips
A stretched hand
once open, now stands.
Denial is funny
the river that never lies
slowly eroding, quietly
painfully clarifies.
Lifetimes and lifetimes
the truth floats by
caressing that simple answer
over the lids of my eyes.
Open them I mustn't
refusing so much to see
Once the water rushes in
there will be nothing left of me.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 9:39 AM UTC
Words
So many words and languages
Often confuses more than clarifies
I pull words from deep within
And am left
Inadequate
Voiceless
Wordless
Silence reigns
Meaning is lost
As words pour forth
Then,
In an instant
A moment is perfectly captured
And I feel I finally know myself
Then,
Silence reigns
Meaning is lost
As words pour forth
And I am lost
Kelly Rose
October 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC
Please grasp me,
press me to your chest.
Hush my frenzied inhalations,
I can bear this pain no longer.
Dip your fore-finger,
across the roughed wake,
of my cheek.
Blot away the trauma.
Rest your chin
dangle its weight
my head -jeering-
screeching
little girl-
clutches her temples.
It flickers, clarifies.
Back and forth,
Rocking, in fragmented, jerking
motions- her underweight
figure slammed along.
Blood purges with each
maddened- hoarse gurgles
the spittle deposits at
the overhang of her lip.
Snagged in the animosity,
of gnawing, writhing inhumanity.
TASTE IT rusted copper
An ashing purple, crusty
and running over engorged rims
of milky cocoa.
Darling, tip out your tongue,
lap up the shrivels
of failed organs and deprived marrow.
Images, flicker.
Pulse, with the steady
throb of an aching yawn.
shift
Reality sweltering
Chilled moisture scoffs-
the nape of your neck.
Muddled, focus,
focus.
honing in
back-
and-
forth.
Rocking back and forth,
no good.
Not good enough.
No help.
Flicker
malicious snarls.
Fluctuating horror,
impales your upper thigh.
-SILENCE-
Whispering -hush-
-hush-
don't
let him hear
hush
whispers
Make it STOP
whispers
-hush hush-
help
ME
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
**
Where we stand in the World,
Do anybody knows,
Where we stand in the Universe,
Do anybody feels it;
Where we stand in the space station,
Do anybody reaches it;
Where we stay's in the beloved one's
Do anybody clarifies it;
Someone who reject us from our heart,
Do anybody fulfill it's heart.
Someone who reject humanity,
Do you know where he goes;
Why everyone of us is not rejecting teacherous minds,criminal minds, terrorist acts,
When we will open our minds and eyes.
**
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 6:40 AM UTC
the instant, the instance, is that your body?
the clear cleansing storefront windows
ask for clarification.
is that your body, presently?
is that your body presentably?
just in that secular instant, again, over,
the body’s inquisition clarifies, asking,
requesting in a babel of foreign languages,
repeat after me!
each window pane that follows repeats the query,
the themes in each, tiny variations,
the variables of rhythm, timbre, harmony,
engine timing minute minutiae alterations,
in that passing milli-instant,
each a separate instance for each separate pane.
in every instance. in every language.
the accusations tonality oscillates in wavelength pitch.
quest nonetheless similar,
is that your body?
all the replies are mirrored reciprocal.
that was my past.
this my present.
the next, a future vision.
the here, the now, all of it, each a flashcard.
the insistence!
*when your body falls finally upon
the sidewalks concrete filthy city Persian tapestry,
the shameful answer tastes always the same.*
always the same.
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 8:50 AM UTC
On last night's news I heard
of an engineer named K_____ who
invented the microchip and changed
our lives. How the chip now contains
a billion circuits which I still don't get
but what I do perceive is this engineer's
(a man modest in pride, fame and wealth)
achievement of Teilhard de Chardin's vision
of a world that is one organism and a single-
minded mankind.
Also mentioned
were Edison, the Wrights and Ford,
oddly not Einstein, Galileo, Copernicus, Newton,
Hamilton or Jefferson, Christ or Buddha,
or the unknown gatherers and traders
who invented agriculture, money.
8,000 generations and each individual
an experiment gone well or wrong, a chance
to respond with love or grief to the universe's effort
to extinguish us.
Family of weasels, young ones playful.
One reference says they're vicious murderers,
killing for sport. Absurd, I think, in the wild.
Another clarifies they eat ½ their body weight daily,
extremely active, high metabolism, hunt all their caloric needs
before eating. And, like the raccoon, ferocious defenders
of their young.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
a vast celestial sphere
face of the earth looks perfect from up here
and as the stars begin to appear,
one that clarifies the nightfall
the sky is connected after all
you're a combination of harmonious elements,
a combination of colors; a symphony
the pieces of music you have created in every photo,
it reached me
your smiles sprinkled like a glitter
of purple flowers and raindrops
your eyes' braided with a collection of thoughts you never say
waiting to be lit like fireworks display
and your hair's a little tousled like a river
singing and swinging between joy and sadness,
it reached me
I hope this poem reaches you too,
I admire you from afar
from a different place, different language, different culture
and I may not know you and you may not know me
but the sky is connected after all,
the moon will always look back at us,
the birds will leave footprints of pathway
and the sun will always shine like you do
and maybe, just maybe, I could take a step
from that thousand miles of linear extent of space,
of interval between two points; the distance
with a simple hello
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
The river flowed fast in its shallow shadow
Cluster of primroses and wild daffodil waves
As they bloom in undying joy and awful laughter
Caressing breeze forms a ripple in my body
As my eyes caught the shining leaves
as a glass in the sun my ears listen to my heart
How beautiful, beauty clarifies one heart desire to fall
As I walk on the shape, color and texture of her skin
The quiet sound of rippling water screamed
Her mind stirred thoughts of happy love
Is this the lost rib, my heart so inclined
That lifted the river of warm thought in me
Silver sheen of admiration
grows like ***** willows
As I leaned out of the water of thoughts
love sheltered the valley as winter sun
****** of first flowering green so visible
love introduces so much pain in my heart
For it is an empty path that tempts a heart
To climb so fastly instead of slowly
Written by
Martin Ijir
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 7:04 AM UTC
It’s Saturday morning, and even though it’s Thanksgiving break, Lisa and I are in her bedroom, in NYC, studying.
“Ok,” Lisa stops, looks up and says, “give me a *** symbol.”
“I.. I don’t have one on me.” I say, apologetically.
“NAME one.” she clarifies.
“Are there *** symbols” anymore?” I say, with air-quotes, “Who’s “Marilyn Monroe” today - Kim Kardashian - oooo - or Kendall Jenner?”
“I read Emily Ratajkowski refer to herself as a *** symbol the other day.” Lisa says.
“Is that the model that said she was groped at a naked photo-shoot?” I ask, as I google her.
“Yeah,” Lesa nods, “but it was a naked music video shoot.”
“Do you think I could model?” I ask, as I pose vampingly. “Be unflinchingly honest.” I request.
“Hhmmmm,” she considers, framing me in a finger rectangle pretend camera. “You’re like Marilyn Monroe,” she says, “in a training bra.” We burst out laughing
“Back to the subject,” Lisa says, “name a guy you think of as a *** symbol.”
“Humphrey Bogart!“ I say.
“Humphrey Bogart?? No!” she rejects him, wrinkling her nose, “too old-timey and dead, besides, he was a MOVIE star - come ON, a real one - SAY!”
Michael Gandolfini!” I offer.
“Michael Gandolfini??” she says, sounding stumped as her fingers google him.
*I make a dreamy “mmmm,” yummy sound.
“Oh, my GOD,” she says, and looks up for confirmation. “Humphrey Bogart and Michael Gandolfini - HONESTLY, you have the WEIRDEST taste!”
I was shocked, “No, seriously, don’t you think Michael looks kind of soft, cute and.. LUVable?”
She groans, “You’re going to marry an ugly man someday - aren’t you?” She pronounces, shaking her head.
“AM NOT!” I responded, throwing a pillow at her head (a pillow fight ensues).
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 9:02 PM UTC
The pale smoothness of your skin;
sleek face and pointed chin,
clarifies, enhances dark and oval eyes
an oyster shaped mouth smiling –
red lips, opened – an interesting twang
springing from the larynx, compels
me to wander to The Muir Éirean:
a fierce wind whistles over my shoulder
at dusk; your embroidered headscarf,
a wild element decorated with tiny shells,
cloaks my head on the shoreline,
keeping me warm until you get home.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
Feet don't fail me now
Just pick up and turn around
putting pressure against the ground
twist torso with all of focused might
heart hammer against bones
Breathing back and forth, ragged
gasping and I feel stronger
when I put the pressure to the ground
shove the earth away
I'm pushing down
I'm thrusting my body
pounding the ground now; time has quickened and everything clarifies
I don't dare turn; I know you're still there; I'm aware of your presence
You are heat burning my skin when you draw near
You are chills that run thin metal fingers along my spine
You are flutters of passion that grab my wrists and pin me
You are the nicest person I've ever met
Your generosity is killing me
So I run
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
Risk is a funny thing.
Sometimes it's worth it. When it's not, it hurts.
It terrifies, electrifies...even sort of clarifies.
The thing is, how do you know what could be,
If you can't choose a dream and set passion free?
Love can die and so do dreams.
But if neither are given a chance,
What could it possibly bring?
I know that you're worth it,
Because even if we should fail,
Not trying (by comparison) only pales.
I'd rather say "It didn't work." than simply "I never tried."
Because the way I feel with you is worth the tears we might cry.
So I'll take this risk, not just for you, but so that I can live.
I won't ask a gaurantee. I know your all you'll give.
Let's see what happens. It will all be okay.
Because even if it doesn't settle as I'd like,
At least we made each other smile along the way.
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 3:25 AM UTC
Nascent and emerging
Yet growing every day
Bitcoin’s only dawning
Come join without delay
Incipient, forthcoming
With still some way to go
Like a constant drumming
Measured, strong and slow
Budding and beginning
In young and infant stage
Yet nations it is winning
As it slowly comes of age.
Changing us while growing
More freedom and more hope
Still small - yet never slowing
In numbers, and in scope
Original, advancing
It clarifies our view
Bitcoin - worth defending
Continues strong and true
Sep 9, 2022
Sep 9, 2022 at 11:28 AM UTC