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"communes" poems
Wake Up Wretched World, I assert my Indigenous heritage I self identify With the ancestors of my continent Identity afraid to articulate Culture, unknowingly belonging to me Cycle of shame now shattered Product of love, hatred, lust, and desire europeans plundering my mother Latin America In chaos and violence, my skin's pigment Has been engineered through the mestizaje Of my Indigenous forefathers How could I not forget my lineage When the historical legacy of modernization Has been to massacre the consciousness Of where my people really come from Erasing indigenous pride Making Paisano and Indio Synonymous with poverty and alienation Insulting the humbleness State of hunger you've left us in Original lineage within me disturbed So you push me to ambiguity and embarrassment Not white, not indigenous? Pure indigenous brothers and sisters silenced Not an exploitable consumerist market, not in your campaigns Not benefactors of your philanthropic development tactics Bodies too costly to abuse, no reason to bring them Into the neoliberal multinational corporate circuit Constantly driving them off productive land Because they choose to assert their identity Live in collective communes, not owing you nothing Waiting for them to make barren lands productive So you can take those lands too Not capturing an obscure history, these are not colonial times This is the legacy of the european presence entering mother Latin America 21st century still defiling Indigenous cultures to civilize and modernize
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Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
Indigenous (Abducted Consciousness)
Wake Up Wretched World, I assert my Indigenous heritage I self identify With the ancestors of my continent Identity afraid to articulate Culture, unknowingly belonging to me Cycle of shame now shattered Product of love, hatred, lust, and desire europeans plundering my mother Latin America In chaos and violence, my skin's pigment Has been engineered through the mestizaje Of my Indigenous forefathers How could I not forget my lineage When the historical legacy of modernization Has been to massacre the consciousness Of where my people really come from Erasing indigenous pride Making Paisano and Indio Synonymous with poverty and alienation Insulting the humbleness State of hunger you've left us in Original lineage within me disturbed So you push me to ambiguity and embarrassment Not white, not indigenous? Pure indigenous brothers and sisters silenced Not an exploitable consumerist market, not in your campaigns Not benefactors of your philanthropic development tactics Bodies too costly to abuse, no reason to bring them Into the neoliberal multinational corporate circuit Constantly driving them off productive land Because they choose to assert their identity Live in collective communes, not owing you nothing Waiting for them to make barren lands productive So you can take those lands too Not capturing an obscure history, these are not colonial times This is the legacy of the european presence entering mother Latin America 21st century still defiling Indigenous cultures to civilize and modernize
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37
She'll sleep tight in a parallel universe tonight my deeply serious rainbow girl astral projects communes with Shiva and champions chakras she has the recipe for what passes as illumined her ignorance of current events is  appalling but that chosen ignorance is staid and unperturbed I grumble and complain, I use the news like a ****** I put the pieces together, pattern the puzzle- I see the BIG picture…I cut my life short possessing a keen memory is like the proverbial millstone the information is  the lake rainbow girl is contemptuous of my self inflicted plight we realize its a matter of time before disparate likes divide I am fire and she is water, I the destroyer, she the preserver the passion can be complimentary for just so long Like the lady bard said: *You read those books where luxury Comes as a guest to take a slave Books where artists in noble poverty Go like virgins to the grave  (Joni)* She'll tolerate my  confabulated artistry a spell I can see she's a caterwauling  banshee of protestation in the waiting Her mellifluous  quietude, equanimity  and perfect  poise can only last so long Before my brash stripped down vituperative  diatribe is as acid in the eyes Then be off to resume  her prior harmonic convergence of  heart  stuff as I  with my artistic bent, abbreviate my life *http://jonimitchell.com/music/song.cfm?id=38  The Boho Dance
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Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
Abbreviated Life
A loon communes on the lake, the lake is a tear drop on Mother Earth, the ripples flow like glass being blown, I am perched on my porch. The loon cries once more, I puff on my cigar, the smoke shifts indecisively, it moves much like the unchained around me, free willed and wild. I dream of being unchained. My branches stretch out, they yearn for the sun, but heavy grey clouds hang on puppet strings. Overcast and encumbered by responsibility, they shroud the sun, blanket it with regret and doubt. I dream of being unchained. I lower my branches and shout, but no one hears, my voice is chained. The loon cries out, it echoes unrestrained.
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Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 12:52 AM UTC
Unchained
Far from the world, O Lord, I flee, From strife and tumult far; From scenes where Satan wages still His most successful war. The calm retreat, the silent shade, With prayer and praise agree; And seem, by Thy sweet bounty made, For those who follow Thee. There if Thy Spirit touch the soul, And grace her mean abode, Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love, She communes with her God! There like the nightingale she pours Her solitary lays; Nor asks a witness of her song, Nor thirsts for human praise. Author and Guardian of my life, Sweet source of light Divine, And, -- all harmonious names in one, -- My Saviour! Thou art mine. What thanks I owe Thee, and what love, A boundless, endless store, Shall echo through the realms above, When time shall be no more.
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2.2k
Retirement
Coyote’s mournful howl echoed in the new moon’s enchanting sultry ether; breathing the living harmony of the wilderness rhythm He seemed to sense a soul reincarnation       within a pervasive spirit light       an oft misunderstood       common thread shared       this hallowed land’s night An uncommon Zen stirring from within,               stifling apathy .., . . . of rumble deep beneath       a dormant volcano reawakening ;       that which lies undiscovered       just before the ruptured moment ..,       liberation of release ―       dust and ashes taking flight Through open window              insomnia churns                           fifty shades of blue ..,       cast in shadowed hues of broken silence Coyote stirred the stillness       with a hauntingly familiar cry       reading the ridge-top echoes       like the book of my mind " YIP YIP   A ―W O O H !!! " . . . the somber plea For it is in these final hours chosen chore       the recurring torn       these chains and things Coyote was going there ―       to stand these watermark crossroads       this hour of need Accepting brother has always been lonely       sometimes anything       means something - - and so it goes .., Coyote communes in pulse       from ancient realms       this sacred blood ..,                 Om          the lost chord       wounded healers , . . . one mutual spirit       runs marrow deep       where dogs run free The moan of doves whisper to the impending dawn . . . always known these days       too soon do come and gone What once was a life well lived ,       s l o w l y     e v a n e s c i n g       like the summer river’s flow some say ..." you never miss the water       'til the well runs dry " . . . regrets a waste of time - - Rumination, a loathsome silent reverie       a taunting unsolved koan       an unplanned oxymoron ,         beget of a deafening silence . . . dust sleeps with indifference       veiling a beautiful handmade       unstrung guitar       muted - - abandoned,       tone poems, unsung and so "re-begins" the task ...       come what may rise up       into the dark star's light ... Coyote was going there - -       a dawning metamorphosis       under another nebulous sky . . . refreshed by Luna's potent alchemy bestrewn       in her spellbinding lambent moonlight elixir of life ... harlon rivers  ... 5. 21. 2015
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Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 11:21 AM UTC
Coyote was going there
Coyote’s mournful howl echoed in the new moon’s enchanting sultry ether; breathing the living harmony of the wilderness rhythm He seemed to sense a soul reincarnation       within a pervasive spirit light       an oft misunderstood       common thread shared       this hallowed land’s night An uncommon Zen stirring from within,               stifling apathy .., . . . of rumble deep beneath       a dormant volcano reawakening ;       that which lies undiscovered       just before the ruptured moment ..,       liberation of release ―       dust and ashes taking flight Through open window              insomnia churns                           fifty shades of blue ..,       cast in shadowed hues of broken silence Coyote stirred the stillness       with a hauntingly familiar cry       reading the ridge-top echoes       like the book of my mind " YIP YIP   A ―W O O H !!! " . . . the somber plea For it is in these final hours chosen chore       the recurring torn       these chains and things Coyote was going there ―       to stand these watermark crossroads       this hour of need Accepting brother has always been lonely       sometimes anything       means something - - and so it goes .., Coyote communes in pulse       from ancient realms       this sacred blood ..,                 Om          the lost chord       wounded healers , . . . one mutual spirit       runs marrow deep       where dogs run free The moan of doves whisper to the impending dawn . . . always known these days       too soon do come and gone What once was a life well lived ,       s l o w l y     e v a n e s c i n g       like the summer river’s flow some say ..." you never miss the water       'til the well runs dry " . . . regrets a waste of time - - Rumination, a loathsome silent reverie       a taunting unsolved koan       an unplanned oxymoron ,         beget of a deafening silence . . . dust sleeps with indifference       veiling a beautiful handmade       unstrung guitar       muted - - abandoned,       tone poems, unsung and so "re-begins" the task ...       come what may rise up       into the dark star's light ... Coyote was going there - -       a dawning metamorphosis       under another nebulous sky . . . refreshed by Luna's potent alchemy bestrewn       in her spellbinding lambent moonlight elixir of life ... harlon rivers  ... 5. 21. 2015
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70
2020 Vision. There’s no flying cars We’re not living under the sea Mars is still unsettled Mail is not sent by rockets But in 2020 all apples have faces now. Apes have not evolved to work for us Aliens have not made contact We still have ten toes We can not yet breathe under water But in 2020 we sing songs instead of talking There is still hunger There is still war We can’t yet teleport to a holiday destination Or read each other’s minds But in 2020 dorkiness got into the water supply. Hibernation became an art form Hermits live in communes Elle Kay and Veda were never strangers again.
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Jan 1, 2020
Jan 1, 2020 at 12:22 PM UTC
2020 Vision
he rises with words in his  unwashed mouth, mouth, is unwashed, tongue tastes dregs, bits of morsels of his past, some good, some bad, some tastes of places, of women he has loved, sweetness of sorrow, dregs of regret, and all a jumbled, tumbled, intertwined, clinging combo of nations, his~stories …a mashup of a mashup’s smashup he tries to separate them, this admixture, to better recall, but the sacrificial fire lit, the ember-members are too burnt, indistinguishable and can’t find the vive entre les differences… South of france, tahiti, the one he loved in cities, Toronto, L.A., and Portland, and the communes in Asia, but tries harder but it’s no longer possible to separate the essences and the similarities same, and a great sadness is what he recovers when runs his tongue across the roof of his mouth, the roof of his memory, the roots of his…being…his unbecoming he rises to a glorious day, where he is can’t be sure, who he is with, certainly not, the why, but he recovers some pants and the idea of a fresh start seeps creepy in, but by the time both legs dressed, his mind’s eye wanders to a new sunrise and old template of temptations. . .
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Jul 28, 2024
Jul 28, 2024 at 7:30 AM UTC
he rises with words in his unwashed mouth...
I might be a few years to late As this has been decades in the making But I'm going through with a commune To give a few hippies something to do So I wrote an ad, put it on a list They say this guy Craig is the best Now my yard is filled with hippies by the score Or would the proper way be to say hippies galore I hurried them all into the house It wouldn't do for the neighbors to find this out I set up booths in different rooms I handed out name tags and colorful kazoo's Don't let it be said I run a shabby commune You gotta keep the hippies happy in all you do That's why I have a calendar of special events From karaoke kazoo to rug making with hemp On Tuesday's we basket weave, Wednesday's we kite But never in the day as hippies burn in the light (Or is that Vampires...scratch that, that may not be right) I even hired a Jerry Garcia look a like To call out the numbers on Bingo night All this hard work hasn't gone for not Communes and Jefferson Airplane tunes last week called me up They'd like to feature me in their magazine A full page article on living the dream Where I can help others to have their very on Commune to invite a few hippies along So go out if you can to a magazine stand Read how it's done then buy you some land We'll have hippie commune's from one end to the other No color nor creed just sisters and brothers
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Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
Hippie Commune
Love accepts and does not analyze Love surrenders, does not resist Love sees without eyes It hears without words It understands the silence Love communes direct and deeper
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Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
LOVE SEES NOTHING
The sixties changed our countries ways, Gone was the time of June Cleaver days. Vietnam and protesting, divorce and unrest. Family's unraveling, that era's not the best. Out around LA, communes were in vogue, Welcoming all, the beggar, thief and rogue. The one commune, around Topanga town, Was home to a family, that brought the world down. Charles Manson, and his motley crew, Were plotting and planning horrible things to do. The drinking and drugs, had warped his mind, The war was coming, the world in a bind. Gathering arms for the fight of their life, Blacks vs Whites, getting ready for the strife. Funding is needed, for any good war, Arms and supplies, always needing more. So after a party, featuring mind altering drugs, A robbery was planed, the family now thugs. The first attacks, were directed at those, Oblivious to Charlie, they had no foes. Sharon Tate was a pregnant Hollywood beauty, An aspiring actress, she was a real cutie. Watson and Krenwinkel and other sick folk, Tortured and killed, with a fork they did poke. A horrible crime, what were they thinking? Even lower they dropped, their ship kept on sinking. The LaBianca castle was next on the list, Beaten to death, with a hammer and a fist. San Quentin and the gas chamber, to be their fate, Sentences commuted to life, the reaper must wait. To collect up those souls, and bring them to hell, God may be forgiving, but this horror doesn’t sell. Manson and his cronies must remain locked away, New souls for the devil, in hell they will stay. Please visit poemsbypaul.com
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Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
Charlie
The sixties changed our countries ways, Gone was the time of June Cleaver days. Vietnam and protesting, divorce and unrest. Family's unraveling, that era's not the best. Out around LA, communes were in vogue, Welcoming all, the beggar, thief and rogue. The one commune, around Topanga town, Was home to a family, that brought the world down. Charles Manson, and his motley crew, Were plotting and planning horrible things to do. The drinking and drugs, had warped his mind, The war was coming, the world in a bind. Gathering arms for the fight of their life, Blacks vs Whites, getting ready for the strife. Funding is needed, for any good war, Arms and supplies, always needing more. So after a party, featuring mind altering drugs, A robbery was planed, the family now thugs. The first attacks, were directed at those, Oblivious to Charlie, they had no foes. Sharon Tate was a pregnant Hollywood beauty, An aspiring actress, she was a real cutie. Watson and Krenwinkel and other sick folk, Tortured and killed, with a fork they did poke. A horrible crime, what were they thinking? Even lower they dropped, their ship kept on sinking. The LaBianca castle was next on the list, Beaten to death, with a hammer and a fist. San Quentin and the gas chamber, to be their fate, Sentences commuted to life, the reaper must wait. To collect up those souls, and bring them to hell, God may be forgiving, but this horror doesn’t sell. Manson and his cronies must remain locked away, New souls for the devil, in hell they will stay. Please visit poemsbypaul.com
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35
she kneels in a fire place ******* off a midnight entity of deformed shadows and hinged erections rickety tickety tin sang clutching muffin in Neolithic fires caressing tinker toy femurs *** deep a dark heaven chants **** ghosts and gorgons while sea witches and dwindling waves like goat steps edge twilight princess Zex depraved lord and lick my lips crucify her spread wide coiling vacant maidens yielding angel hemic tides in rituals of ********** skinned on scarlet pavement as she is dragged on her knees where moaning thighs perch on nailed sticks like white picket fences and invisible doors burn she communes with oracles of lust that incinerate rafts of solitude windows slam shut like shuddering robes of thunder and a headless god pours her glistening tears over his arterial bludgeon resurrection of eros in the Golgotha of swarming incubi she called to hell i am prey
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Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 12:28 PM UTC
Tourniquet
in the midnight hour desperate men do desperate things, this a tale of one man facing down a terrible challenge in the city that never sleeps, NYC, especially this sleepless natty resident, (of that fact, the bible speaks) when there is nothing left to write or say, could pick up the phone and order penne alla ***** delivered to his bed better yet, hot and direct not sure which I prefer, the penne or the ***** but in the absence annually of my master mistress, all bets are off, she communes with nature, I, with pasta really? really? Frosted Flakes for dinner was not well and sufficient? have you seen you waist line lately, or is that a physical impossibility? drat rat will forgo my pasta orange creamsicle, but you will be sorry too, cause instead you have to share, to eat, this awful poem in bed next to me 12:34am
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May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
penne alla *****
“That’s what America is about,” Carson said. “A land of dreams and opportunity. There were other immigrants who came here in the bottom of slave ships, worked even longer, even harder for less." Ben Carson is a might confusing because he is without a doubt a brilliant brain surgeon & yet, & yet ... according to him he communes telepathically with wild bears, can calm armed-robbers, stabbed his best friend, & now sees slavery as some sort of Welcome To the Land of Liberty All are Welcome Act. Ben Carson is an idiot because well ... where to start, well how's about millions of folks forced to board ships naked, afraid, chained in rows, as SLAVES, & yes, half of all slave infants died in the first year, survivors lived on a basic nutrition-free gruel, there was diarrhea, dysentery, whooping cough, blindness, skin lesions & convulsions, & they were SLAVES. but to Dr. Ben Carson these terrified, beaten, chained, whipped, SLAVES ... were immigrants just like you and just like me.
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Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 1:30 AM UTC
Ben Carson is an idiot ... a poem of simple astonishment.
There is an inch of sleight in this house – this cold chair, a burst of cologne clogging a 20 minute stride. The stringent air tonight blusters deeper than gashing sheens. The little dryad of dew outside and the cadenza of frogs after lambaste of rain. Whenever you sing, your voice communes an immense pain, something unconscious of its gravity, something that levitates back to momentary ululations swelling in the grime of times and heady chances. A long stretch of a day submerged in silence resembling a howl underwater. There will be many sorrows and they will take form of doves, assume the skin of the populace. They will come in a volume of names pressing the linoleumed musk the way the body turns maneuvering over the saltine, the mattress, juxtaposed to a lover, a brusque aroma of coffee brushing away the calm demeanor of the morning, dragging along the weight of its lassitude towards the sprays of fern opening a dense ornate of forget, you, in all places that pulse without recall – an obtuse fish feeling its life in a surge of blue, overtime, finally knowing     what it means to sing and drone only words.
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Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
Age 23, Listening To Rachmaninoff
Silliest bristle came over me, like a yearn to wear a negligee to church, or eat ants. I can't remember who first gave me pause in an earnest sense of how to live life justly or fully. Not sure which one I'd want more. Doesn't matter, I suppose. My morals keep becoming reconfigured. It's difficult knowing who might be heroic, or who might be manipulating mass appeal in order to boost book sales. I think I just want some new exotic flavor, that rush of tasting avocado for the first time. That really happened to me, you know. I never knew the taste of avocado until I was nineteen and moved to California. It was not common at the time in New Jersey, or at least I had never had it. Never even heard of it, really. I landed a job as a prep cook and dishwasher at a little mom and pop joint that catered to a mostly lunch crowd from the county court house. It was a quaint little town in the Sierra Nevadas. Townsfolk consisted of artists, musicians, gold miners, hippie marijuana propagators, and lumberjacks. Mostly, at that time, there were the good old boys, Republicans who held most political offices and police positions, and the newbies, attracted to the area by some new age communes, a Democrat influx. I fit into the newbie category, though it was a girl I followed there, not a guru. And of all the outstanding romances had, through the twenty five some years spent in California, none have lasted as long as my love affair with the avocado. It's a certain jolt I feel when guacamole passes through my lips, squishes around my mouth, and lands within an empty belly. I was beside myself in wonder, that very first day such a taste hit me. Now, being back in New Jersey, but not devoid of such illustrious fruit, I wonder where it is I stand on more matters of what it is to live justly or fully? Where is after here? I even see one of those new age communes has moved in down the street. Though I have my guacamole, I'm feeling less fulfilled.
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Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 11:12 PM UTC
A Certain Squishiness
Silliest bristle came over me, like a yearn to wear a negligee to church, or eat ants. I can't remember who first gave me pause in an earnest sense of how to live life justly or fully. Not sure which one I'd want more. Doesn't matter, I suppose. My morals keep becoming reconfigured. It's difficult knowing who might be heroic, or who might be manipulating mass appeal in order to boost book sales. I think I just want some new exotic flavor, that rush of tasting avocado for the first time. That really happened to me, you know. I never knew the taste of avocado until I was nineteen and moved to California. It was not common at the time in New Jersey, or at least I had never had it. Never even heard of it, really. I landed a job as a prep cook and dishwasher at a little mom and pop joint that catered to a mostly lunch crowd from the county court house. It was a quaint little town in the Sierra Nevadas. Townsfolk consisted of artists, musicians, gold miners, hippie marijuana propagators, and lumberjacks. Mostly, at that time, there were the good old boys, Republicans who held most political offices and police positions, and the newbies, attracted to the area by some new age communes, a Democrat influx. I fit into the newbie category, though it was a girl I followed there, not a guru. And of all the outstanding romances had, through the twenty five some years spent in California, none have lasted as long as my love affair with the avocado. It's a certain jolt I feel when guacamole passes through my lips, squishes around my mouth, and lands within an empty belly. I was beside myself in wonder, that very first day such a taste hit me. Now, being back in New Jersey, but not devoid of such illustrious fruit, I wonder where it is I stand on more matters of what it is to live justly or fully? Where is after here? I even see one of those new age communes has moved in down the street. Though I have my guacamole, I'm feeling less fulfilled.
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2
Today could be the day first bitten spring curls beneath my hopeful brow blackest dirt sings richness alarmed with promised growth inside out openings loves embracing rows upon rows peerless shining truths fed on black water planted without doubt my ancestor forgiveness seeds Today could be the day Alice’s rabbit hole found first small spurts ant energy marching ... intent sober clean see yonder the finish line? My feet crippled tied up to old stories fathomed deep with slots for copper pennies unworkable killable outdated and futile slathered in history are cheap resigned actions day after day groundhog sing songs each morning eyes dry with snake cures seeing my other side of the bed missing out slide rule elements of now of what could be Today could be the day cherub heart Pink with expectation alive with bringing forth communes both sides into action I lay here supple feeling the cure ready for the change I seek.
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Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 9:09 AM UTC
Today Could Be The Day
Born with prejudice, throw it all about   By extracting color within the blues   You’d all still enjoy it, no doubt   Without any clues, you got nothin’ to lose   The colors of blue, were made to be taken out   Now listen again, with newborn ears   Remember, you’d let dirt, get in and about   Baby face baby face without any fears.      Tired of racism, going on and about     By liberating, we strike new tunes   You’d all still enjoy it, no doubt   Without any clues, you got nothin’ to lose   The colors of blue, were made to be taken out   Now listen again, with newborn ears   Remember, you’d let dirt, get in and about   Baby face baby face without any fears.     All of society, from near to far about   To all city slickers, outback folks or hippie communes   You’d all still enjoy it, no doubt   Without any clues, you got nothin’ to lose   The colors of blue, were made to be taken out   Now listen again, with newborn ears   Remember, you’d let dirt, get in and about   Baby face baby face without any fears.
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Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 2:53 AM UTC
Color Within The Blues
Through the towns and country lanes fortress walls and ancient stains Roman treasures, aquaducts the running bulls, a stroke of luck! Cobblestone and feudal cracks the culture weaves and summer smacks! enchanted ramparts, medieval ruins coliseums and communes Aigues Mortes to Avignon the rolling hills and castles strong fields of grape and olive trees cicadas singing on the breeze Tranquil rivers, lost lagoons horses prancing at high noon flora and fauna in lofty decree! say the sycamore and cypress tree De Lumières in tomb-like calm illuminating sounds of Brahm Vermeer, Picasso and Van Goh the ghosts of Voltaire and Rousseau Les Baux-de-Provence's immersive stage brush strokes wide from another age chambers deep at quarry rock the mesmerizing notes of Bach Sacred figures, holy shrines monestries in grand design blocks, arches and polished stone gladiators at the throne Castle turrets and dungeon bars the ancient bridge of Pont du Gard chapel bells across la ville spiral stairs where time stands still Scrolls and chronicles filled with scars church and state with dark memoirs scholars, artists and dignitaries in pursuit of God...and all his glory
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Aug 30, 2023
Aug 30, 2023 at 12:00 PM UTC
On the Banks of the River Rhone
talking heads discuss the moral fiber of America but they mean rich, white, elitist fibers…. what about the fiber of those who helped slaves escape at risk of their own peril? what about long-haired kids from the Height building communes in the California forests? what about those firemen who ran into burning buildings to rescue humans regardless of race, creed, or color? rich, white elitist men, don’t care…. look at the native traditions of living harmoniously within the natural order of the planet/ look across the impoverish third world lands and the way families feed each other, tend to children, work for the common good/ look at the medical marijuana movement freely giving pounds to sick or autistic children/ rich, white, elitist men, don’t care…. these men only care about making money off the backs of the less fortunate expanding the bottom line while maintaining the status quo taking care of the shareholders at the detriment of the entire planet…. rich,   white, elitist men, care about that….
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Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
too much Republican debate
un-damaged brains are such fertile fields waiting to be sowed - as those with infantile imagination are prone to dyslexic deficiencies and given their dreams, have ensured their imaginations be like foetal embryos - those prone to nightmares will never be prone to Disney's wedlock being fulfilled - dreams are imagination's thieves - and memory short-circuiting a fake - analysis of conscious memory is unlike analysis of unconscious memory - albrecht dürer seemed sensible - we've become sensible, but also too naive - our modern sensibility extends into a belief in demons and angels with modern pharmaceutical companies - nothing has changed even though man is in flux - with modern dentistry's trickery - how can man trust man and not feel obliged to distrust him for reasons that provide us with travelling communes or jeep-sees - see what lost diacritical approaches does to the tongue entombed in optics? chiral-optics - you can say gypsy and say jeep-see like a handshake. god, we're paying for our original sin with the virtuoso of animal plagiarism - a mere peasant is also but a mere Mozart - i too claim my right to talk easily among scaffold-men, talk of his girlfriend and Smurfs due to height and Gargamel - i rather among them than in what is talked as the pop of the Smiths' vocab of schooling and regret blues; cats demonic, dogs saintly.
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Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC
albrecht dürer seemed sensible / Azrael
J'aime le souvenir de ces époques nues, Dont Phoebus se plaisait à dorer les statues. Alors l'homme et la femme en leur agilité Jouissaient sans mensonge et sans anxiété, Et, le ciel amoureux leur caressant l'échine, Exerçaient la santé de leur noble machine. Cybèle alors, fertile en produits généreux, Ne trouvait point ses fils un poids trop onéreux, Mais, louve au coeur gonflé de tendresses communes, Abreuvait l'univers à ses tétines brunes. L'homme, élégant, robuste et fort, avait le droit D'être fier des beautés qui le nommaient leur roi ; Fruits purs de tout outrage et vierges de gerçures, Dont la chair lisse et ferme appelait les morsures ! Le Poète aujourd'hui, quand il veut concevoir Ces natives grandeurs, aux lieux où se font voir La nudité de l'homme et celle de la femme, Sent un froid ténébreux envelopper son âme Devant ce noir tableau plein d'épouvantement. Ô monstruosités pleurant leur vêtement ! Ô ridicules troncs ! torses dignes des masques ! Ô pauvres corps tordus, maigres, ventrus ou flasques, Que le dieu de l'Utile, implacable et serein, Enfants, emmaillota dans ses langes d'airain ! Et vous, femmes, hélas ! pâles comme des cierges, Que ronge et que nourrit la débauche, et vous, vierges, Du vice maternel traînant l'hérédité Et toutes les hideurs de la fécondité ! Nous avons, il est vrai, nations corrompues, Aux peuples anciens des beautés inconnues : Des visages rongés par les chancres du coeur, Et comme qui dirait des beautés de langueur ; Mais ces inventions de nos muses tardives N'empêcheront jamais les races maladives De rendre à la jeunesse un hommage profonde, - A la sainte jeunesse, à l'air simple, au doux front, A l'oeil limpide et clair ainsi qu'une eau courante, Et qui va répandant sur tout, insouciante Comme l'azur du ciel, les oiseaux et les fleurs, Ses parfums, ses chansons et ses douces chaleurs !
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698
J'aime le souvenir de ces époques nues
J'aime le souvenir de ces époques nues, Dont Phoebus se plaisait à dorer les statues. Alors l'homme et la femme en leur agilité Jouissaient sans mensonge et sans anxiété, Et, le ciel amoureux leur caressant l'échine, Exerçaient la santé de leur noble machine. Cybèle alors, fertile en produits généreux, Ne trouvait point ses fils un poids trop onéreux, Mais, louve au coeur gonflé de tendresses communes, Abreuvait l'univers à ses tétines brunes. L'homme, élégant, robuste et fort, avait le droit D'être fier des beautés qui le nommaient leur roi ; Fruits purs de tout outrage et vierges de gerçures, Dont la chair lisse et ferme appelait les morsures ! Le Poète aujourd'hui, quand il veut concevoir Ces natives grandeurs, aux lieux où se font voir La nudité de l'homme et celle de la femme, Sent un froid ténébreux envelopper son âme Devant ce noir tableau plein d'épouvantement. Ô monstruosités pleurant leur vêtement ! Ô ridicules troncs ! torses dignes des masques ! Ô pauvres corps tordus, maigres, ventrus ou flasques, Que le dieu de l'Utile, implacable et serein, Enfants, emmaillota dans ses langes d'airain ! Et vous, femmes, hélas ! pâles comme des cierges, Que ronge et que nourrit la débauche, et vous, vierges, Du vice maternel traînant l'hérédité Et toutes les hideurs de la fécondité ! Nous avons, il est vrai, nations corrompues, Aux peuples anciens des beautés inconnues : Des visages rongés par les chancres du coeur, Et comme qui dirait des beautés de langueur ; Mais ces inventions de nos muses tardives N'empêcheront jamais les races maladives De rendre à la jeunesse un hommage profonde, - A la sainte jeunesse, à l'air simple, au doux front, A l'oeil limpide et clair ainsi qu'une eau courante, Et qui va répandant sur tout, insouciante Comme l'azur du ciel, les oiseaux et les fleurs, Ses parfums, ses chansons et ses douces chaleurs !
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40
*the communes are here again avant garde artists’ colonies too! we produce but do not reproduce everyone knows about the ***** and how it is a preview of heaven the family is dead, long live the family!*
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Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
the family is dead, long live the family!
It's too late for me my friends Pacing around my kitchen with a half empty bottle of Red Stripe I write this poem to you To anyone who gives a **** enough to pay attention and listen to all the nonsense that leaves my lips I am a man with no realistic goals I am a man who does not listen to the battle cry that beats in his chest and forces it's way through his veins Instead I plug my ears because I know what danger would come from action I am a slave to inaction And I've been told that a slave that doesn't defy their master is not yet deserving of their freedom While I don't believe that's the truth, I let it apply to me Because I am a coward Nothing I want is attainable None of my dreams are feasible I have lost more times than I can count But maybe if I lose enough, it will mean someday I've won Because I don't want to live a quantifiable life of wins and losses Successes and failures I want a life that is worth getting up each morning A life of joy that is armed to the teeth Because from John Brown to Emiliano Zapata From Spanish barricades to French communes I believe that the heroes who fail are the only one's worth having Because in failure there is always action There is sincerity and the feeling that what one is doing must happen eventually So why not now? What is stopping me from saying "no more shall I live a life that isn't according to the what I believe" I believe in a life like the hardships of Paul "Sorrowful but always rejoicing Poor yet making many rich Having nothing yet possessing everything" Alone I must build for myself a life worth living And together we can build a world we can finally call home
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Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
Times Worth Living (Reprise)
It's too late for me my friends Pacing around my kitchen with a half empty bottle of Red Stripe I write this poem to you To anyone who gives a **** enough to pay attention and listen to all the nonsense that leaves my lips I am a man with no realistic goals I am a man who does not listen to the battle cry that beats in his chest and forces it's way through his veins Instead I plug my ears because I know what danger would come from action I am a slave to inaction And I've been told that a slave that doesn't defy their master is not yet deserving of their freedom While I don't believe that's the truth, I let it apply to me Because I am a coward Nothing I want is attainable None of my dreams are feasible I have lost more times than I can count But maybe if I lose enough, it will mean someday I've won Because I don't want to live a quantifiable life of wins and losses Successes and failures I want a life that is worth getting up each morning A life of joy that is armed to the teeth Because from John Brown to Emiliano Zapata From Spanish barricades to French communes I believe that the heroes who fail are the only one's worth having Because in failure there is always action There is sincerity and the feeling that what one is doing must happen eventually So why not now? What is stopping me from saying "no more shall I live a life that isn't according to the what I believe" I believe in a life like the hardships of Paul "Sorrowful but always rejoicing Poor yet making many rich Having nothing yet possessing everything" Alone I must build for myself a life worth living And together we can build a world we can finally call home
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31
I drive in circles because I don't want to go home I trust in the strength of my phone's speakers as I listen to Ramshackle Glory I drive past a house from long lost memories What is my obsession with this suffering? Why can't things move forward? I romanticize living in my car But then I remember most people who live in their cars don't have a choice Does this make me a bad person? Am I a bad person? The next logical step after riding the rails is living in your car Soon you'll find me an old grey beard anarchist living deep in the woods A shotgun I never intend to fire pointed dutifully forward as I yell an the empty forest to get off my lawn Surround myself with enough trees to hide from your ghost I will surround myself with land and won't pay a dime because it probably won't be mine But no ones gonna look for me where I'm going I'm going to unionize the college campus Seize the means of textbook production and go to bed hungry only when I want to I will have coffee for breakfast I will storm every Bastille left on earth I will create a million Paris Communes I won't go home I promise I will never stop loving everyone I meet I promise I will never stop fighting everything that wraps us in chains I will die as old as I can get I will hold on as tightly as humanly possible And when I say I am free I will always know what that means
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Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 11:57 PM UTC
Your Heart Is A Muscle The Size Of Your Fist by Ramshackle Glory by Daniel Robinson