"collectivity" poems - Hello Poetry

Amassed an inventory of words, marvelous and concordant, reserved for the late at night, tremulous and tremor shaking, purposed to soothe with honey, milk and cookies, and coax them, the odd ones out, to emerge slowly, oh so slowly, with a magnetic resonance, yank them from their granite tombs, and employ the force of Od to convert them over to their own side, and will not pause, be placated until they are my spring waters, my co-religionists, in grace and kindness, and I will levitate them above us, espousing our collectivity, each a designer, an artist of our gemeinschaft, free to come, free to stay, free to endeavor to clarify and excavate the roots so deep of the thin reeds of their solitary society, to stand up and count yourself linked but incapable of breaking the chain (see my photo) and even though there is nothing new under the sun, let us all remind them, a Seussian refrain, the sun nonetheless will come and clang, invitation engraved, naming you with calligraphic flourishes, a fine poem planted firm in our rooted hands saying: Welcome child >~~~~~~~~~< *God Blesss the Child Whose Got His Own Billie Holiday / Arthur Herzog Jr. Them that's got shall get Them that's not shall lose So the Bible said and it still is news Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that's got his own That's got his own Yes, the strong gets more While the weak ones fade Empty pockets don't ever make the grade Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that's got his own That's got his own Money, you've got lots of friends Crowding round the door When you're gone, spending ends They don't come no more Rich relations give Crust of bread and such You can help yourself But don't take too much Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that's got his own That's got his own Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that's got his own That's got his own He just worry 'bout nothin' Cause he's got his own*

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Aug 19, 2013

Aug 19, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Last poem of the day: Amassed an inventory of words

Amassed an inventory of words, marvelous and concordant, reserved for the late at night, tremulous and tremor shaking, purposed to soothe with honey, milk and cookies, and coax them, the odd ones out, to emerge slowly, oh so slowly, with a magnetic resonance, yank them from their granite tombs, and employ the force of Od to convert them over to their own side, and will not pause, be placated until they are my spring waters, my co-religionists, in grace and kindness, and I will levitate them above us, espousing our collectivity, each a designer, an artist of our gemeinschaft, free to come, free to stay, free to endeavor to clarify and excavate the roots so deep of the thin reeds of their solitary society, to stand up and count yourself linked but incapable of breaking the chain (see my photo) and even though there is nothing new under the sun, let us all remind them, a Seussian refrain, the sun nonetheless will come and clang, invitation engraved, naming you with calligraphic flourishes, a fine poem planted firm in our rooted hands saying: Welcome child >~~~~~~~~~< *God Blesss the Child Whose Got His Own Billie Holiday / Arthur Herzog Jr. Them that's got shall get Them that's not shall lose So the Bible said and it still is news Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that's got his own That's got his own Yes, the strong gets more While the weak ones fade Empty pockets don't ever make the grade Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that's got his own That's got his own Money, you've got lots of friends Crowding round the door When you're gone, spending ends They don't come no more Rich relations give Crust of bread and such You can help yourself But don't take too much Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that's got his own That's got his own Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that's got his own That's got his own He just worry 'bout nothin' Cause he's got his own*

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*CHALLENGES This spirit journey, dream walk starts with a single step taken while standing on the very edge of the precipice, over looking the path of truth far below. Not the abstraction of a never reaching truth, or the truth of some idealist, subjective plane of reality, but a reality that serves humanity, its desires to dream and make real an earth of no pain. For too long we have only blindly followed the world, known only its suffering and seen its vast oceans of tears shed for many millennia. We have felt the wounds festering in our souls, tasted the salty bitterness of broken promises and wasted lives, even as we have worked and toiled with all our might. So much is yet to be done though this dream journey has already begun. Soaring along the condor’s wind, breathing in the crisp snowy air as it washes us clean, savoring each crystalline speck, we follow the gathering avalanche as it cleanses the earth in newness along with our ability to know how to fulfill our collectivity, our humanity. In tomorrow’s land, where wolves have learned to whisper to elk and bear; where our journey’s dream continues, I will still step off the precipice edge seeking truth as it knows and changes the world. Perhaps you too will walk and stare with me at the night’s sky and hear the songs our ancient ancestors sang to the galactic winds. ~~Aztec Warrior/redzone 5.5.04~~*

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Jan 7, 2016

Jan 7, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC

aztec-warrior

POEM 110

*CHALLENGES This spirit journey, dream walk starts with a single step taken while standing on the very edge of the precipice, over looking the path of truth far below. Not the abstraction of a never reaching truth, or the truth of some idealist, subjective plane of reality, but a reality that serves humanity, its desires to dream and make real an earth of no pain. For too long we have only blindly followed the world, known only its suffering and seen its vast oceans of tears shed for many millennia. We have felt the wounds festering in our souls, tasted the salty bitterness of broken promises and wasted lives, even as we have worked and toiled with all our might. So much is yet to be done though this dream journey has already begun. Soaring along the condor’s wind, breathing in the crisp snowy air as it washes us clean, savoring each crystalline speck, we follow the gathering avalanche as it cleanses the earth in newness along with our ability to know how to fulfill our collectivity, our humanity. In tomorrow’s land, where wolves have learned to whisper to elk and bear; where our journey’s dream continues, I will still step off the precipice edge seeking truth as it knows and changes the world. Perhaps you too will walk and stare with me at the night’s sky and hear the songs our ancient ancestors sang to the galactic winds. ~~Aztec Warrior/redzone 5.5.04~~*

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) :: O :: ( //// • ||| <> ( • ) ( •. ) ////// In praise of DIVINUS // I walk with measured steps Thru the childhood days Past the **** heads dying in the park Thru to the cutters and the depressed kids Who write of lovelessness Here on hello poetry /// On the brink of World War III Wounded to the very heart Telling of the pain of Loneliness ( Such deep and penetrating loneliness. ) •• The tenemented poverty The isolation The continuous onslaught The reverberations The utter lack of hope The utter abandonment of faith /:/ The frighten refusal to see The universality of the dissolution The pandering to collectivity The "me-too" egoism That says Sadness is enough misery is qualification enough The lack of rebelliousness The turning of suffering into normalcy The steady worship of authority The denial that there will be a reckoning tomorrow •• All the hippies are gone Replaced by violent lovers and *** addled addicts The plight of lemmings Going over the cliff Into the sea /// Dear people There is Something Much better Much finer Neater More holy And satisfying Than to simply await death While telling each other Nothing of significance

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Aug 2, 2014

Aug 2, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC

jeffrey-robin

A ****** poem

) :: O :: ( //// • ||| <> ( • ) ( •. ) ////// In praise of DIVINUS // I walk with measured steps Thru the childhood days Past the **** heads dying in the park Thru to the cutters and the depressed kids Who write of lovelessness Here on hello poetry /// On the brink of World War III Wounded to the very heart Telling of the pain of Loneliness ( Such deep and penetrating loneliness. ) •• The tenemented poverty The isolation The continuous onslaught The reverberations The utter lack of hope The utter abandonment of faith /:/ The frighten refusal to see The universality of the dissolution The pandering to collectivity The "me-too" egoism That says Sadness is enough misery is qualification enough The lack of rebelliousness The turning of suffering into normalcy The steady worship of authority The denial that there will be a reckoning tomorrow •• All the hippies are gone Replaced by violent lovers and *** addled addicts The plight of lemmings Going over the cliff Into the sea /// Dear people There is Something Much better Much finer Neater More holy And satisfying Than to simply await death While telling each other Nothing of significance

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That was all that we knew to latch onto. This certain sensation of what we knew to do, and how we can match a mode of discontent. All that we knew was that the grimace of peaces surfaced the pain of underlying greed. Not all with the food of gratitude, none left of who could turn themselves into a single thought. We are broken, and through our teeth we grab what was past and smash it into resistance. When screams are faltering to reveal a song of latitude, all across the world we will fall and rise from the ashes that were thrown to blind us. But we have the guard of protection, from a screen of human feelings so deep it is impossible for the ruling classes, minority of the masses, to possess. This war cries to jubilation, when all we know has fallen to replace our own souls with a being completely free in collectivity. © 27 March 2013

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Mar 27, 2013

Mar 27, 2013 at 11:03 AM UTC

selena-jance

Coalescence

That was all that we knew to latch onto. This certain sensation of what we knew to do, and how we can match a mode of discontent. All that we knew was that the grimace of peaces surfaced the pain of underlying greed. Not all with the food of gratitude, none left of who could turn themselves into a single thought. We are broken, and through our teeth we grab what was past and smash it into resistance. When screams are faltering to reveal a song of latitude, all across the world we will fall and rise from the ashes that were thrown to blind us. But we have the guard of protection, from a screen of human feelings so deep it is impossible for the ruling classes, minority of the masses, to possess. This war cries to jubilation, when all we know has fallen to replace our own souls with a being completely free in collectivity. © 27 March 2013

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Purple. The color, warm, cold, catching gazes like it’s gold. Every time I look, I feel the need. The need to. To do what? I must, I should, I ought. The feeling like it’s something, someone I have already fought. Living, lying. Is it the same? Every time, I immediately took the blame. Hiding behind, hiding inside. You could never find me in a lavender field this wide. The option of expressionism, the reason for creativity. Still, we all find a reason to copy, like it’s some sort of collectivity. Warm, cold, it doesn’t matter. I talk of the pain foolishly, it did just shatter. Blank canvas, standing in front of everyone. Blank canvas, standing in front of me. Purple stains my fingers, a mark I will not be able to wash away.

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Apr 15, 2025

Apr 15, 2025 at 2:22 PM UTC

sunseeker-21

Purple stains.

Purple. The color, warm, cold, catching gazes like it’s gold. Every time I look, I feel the need. The need to. To do what? I must, I should, I ought. The feeling like it’s something, someone I have already fought. Living, lying. Is it the same? Every time, I immediately took the blame. Hiding behind, hiding inside. You could never find me in a lavender field this wide. The option of expressionism, the reason for creativity. Still, we all find a reason to copy, like it’s some sort of collectivity. Warm, cold, it doesn’t matter. I talk of the pain foolishly, it did just shatter. Blank canvas, standing in front of everyone. Blank canvas, standing in front of me. Purple stains my fingers, a mark I will not be able to wash away.

23

What more than a head and body? What more than a room? What more than staring eyes? Do they ever pierce through? The molecules of the things in here spark no new sense to me. Nor outside taking a smoke. There has got to be a word for this. Not boredom, not austere. Not glum, not shade. Lukewarm light, maybe. Noble stare of the formless mind, perhaps. Miser, hopefully not. Forgetful, of the world though. Hopeful, no, a little more resigned. A frequency? Could be. The loser, the creative? The inventor, the wannabe? Expectant, too intense. Drifting on the hard edge of the mind. Why can't a fish bite? Why not one? I'm a doomed fisherman with none. No flower has vloomed, not an exceptional one. How do forms collectively merge into one, though separate I see? I'll explore this novelty. Blind to multiplicity things become one. What price do I pay for collectivity? Look at the Earth so together, so one. Yet how little I can relate to Her. I see a collection of rooms, a collection of houses, a collection of cars and businesses. Collection of dishes, a collection of cash and credit receipts. This is the minor Earth I see. A collection of esteem's, a collection of words, thoughts, and things. Nothing like iron-hard duty to break apart the day.

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Jan 29, 2021

Jan 29, 2021 at 5:16 PM UTC

ChadYoung

Insense peppermints

What more than a head and body? What more than a room? What more than staring eyes? Do they ever pierce through? The molecules of the things in here spark no new sense to me. Nor outside taking a smoke. There has got to be a word for this. Not boredom, not austere. Not glum, not shade. Lukewarm light, maybe. Noble stare of the formless mind, perhaps. Miser, hopefully not. Forgetful, of the world though. Hopeful, no, a little more resigned. A frequency? Could be. The loser, the creative? The inventor, the wannabe? Expectant, too intense. Drifting on the hard edge of the mind. Why can't a fish bite? Why not one? I'm a doomed fisherman with none. No flower has vloomed, not an exceptional one. How do forms collectively merge into one, though separate I see? I'll explore this novelty. Blind to multiplicity things become one. What price do I pay for collectivity? Look at the Earth so together, so one. Yet how little I can relate to Her. I see a collection of rooms, a collection of houses, a collection of cars and businesses. Collection of dishes, a collection of cash and credit receipts. This is the minor Earth I see. A collection of esteem's, a collection of words, thoughts, and things. Nothing like iron-hard duty to break apart the day.

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