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I’ve always had certain
thoughts
that manifest as forbidden plays
performed privately only in
a mental stage
I always swore
to keep unspoken,
unwritten and
eternally unprocessed
in hopes that
keeping it ineffable
and far away from explanation
would shield it from the
soul-draining burden
of legitimacy.

But the longer
I keep these things
an embarrassing secret,
and the longer I insist
that in my every thought
lies shame best kept suppressed,
the more I realize
that maybe the reason that I,
like every animate creature
stumbling through their earthly existence,
have come to condemn an abrasive world
for never understanding me,
stems from every human’s destructive habit
of refusing to understand the parts of ourselves
the world will never accept.

And what we never realize
is that we are the world—
sponsoring our own
oppression and feeling as responsible
as every snowflake in the avalanche.
TKS Nov 2015
You measure your self worth
on insufficient evidence
of what you have accomplished
when that word is ******* relative
as if the things we do
are black and white
and everything you do
is simply right

No I can't comprehend
your views on virtue
and it's not common sense
for me to be like you
but you won't think it through
your skulls thick and askew

You live like your opinions
are a law they're multifarious
But what you say is so dogmatic
man you just you can't notice it
as if the things you say
are etched in stone
if only ****** like you
would stay at home

No I can't comprehend
your views on virtue
and it's not common sense
for me to be like you
but you won't think it through
no, you won't think it through
Another song that's done by my band. Lyrics by yours truly.
The laws of God, the laws of man,
He may keep that will and can;
Not I: let God and man decree
Laws for themselves and not for me;
And if my ways are not as theirs
Let them mind their own affairs.
Their deeds I judge and much condemn,
Yet when did I make laws for them?
Please yourselves, say I, and they
Need only look the other way.
But no, they will not; they must still
Wrest their neighbor to their will,
And make me dance as they desire
With jail and gallows and hell-fire.
And how am I to face the odds
Of man's bedevilment and God's?
I, a stranger and afraid
In a world I never made.
They will be master, right or wrong;
Though both are foolish, both are strong.
And since, my soul, we cannot fly
To Saturn nor to Mercury,
Keep we must, if keep we can,
These foreign laws of God and man.
Matthew Randell May 2015
Runaways hiding in the abandoned warehouse,

Teenagers stolen, unwitting  spouse,

Gangs and violence all around,

People disappearing without a sound,

Blood and drugs and stolen girlfriends,

Turf wars and kidknappings, is there no end?,

People vanish and are never found,

People hunt them down, like bloodhounds,

A world with knives at every turn,

People who live to watch things burn,

They never think about the consequences of their actions,

Just watch the news for the family's reactions,

Shoot old friends in the head because of a debt,

Slit a strangers throat because you don't like their pet,

Lock ememies in your bathroom; release them for money,

Beat them inch away from death; 'till they're crying for their mummy,

Tie a stranger to a raft and watch them drift out to sea,

When are these people going to wake up and see,

It's time gang members had an epiphany,

You can't lock people up and cover them in wee,

Karma says that bad things happen to bad people like them,

Every mean thing they've done, to them we will condemn,

Relentless bullying towards your colleagues and your peers,

You've had your brutal fun; it's the Day of the Disappeared.
A poem I wrote for the British Red Cross' Day of the Disappeared (August 30).
Pauline Morris Mar 2016
There was a caterpillar that had no friends
She feared she would be alone in the end
She had all, but given in

She stayed in a trees
And hid behind the leaves
Until she ate them, or there was a breeze

She had become so very fat
All the other insects made fun and spat
Out cruel words, she no longer wanted life and that was that

But before she could eat the poison leaf, along flew a hunny bee
"Hunny child you just dont see
That one day your gonna fly like me"

She looked at him in bewilderment
Surly his brain was a little bent
Wings for her would have to be heaven sent

But she decided to hold on a little longer
Just to prove he couldn't be wronger
That bee's words she would often ponder

The other insects still showed their hate
The more they said the more she ate
She knew they was right she'd never find a mate

So she made a cocoon, to hide herself within
So she no longer heard the words that could condemn
What awaited her would be hard to comprehend

The bee seen the cocoon, and sat and waited patiently
He wanted to be the very first to see
At what a beautiful creature she had came to be

When she emerged the sun hurt her eyes
Many a day had gone by
The sun seemed way to bright in the sky

But then she got a look at her wings, they where gray
"Why didn't God paint them, why are they this way"
At the bee in disgust she shouted, "You should of let me die that day"

"But my lovely one, you are now a creature of the night
And will fly by the enchanting moonlight
And see many many wonderful sights"

"Besides my hunny chid they're wings
You can now fly to the heavens and sing
Your point of view will now change on many things"

"God painted your wings gray
So in the bright of day
Against the tree bark you can lay
And safely sleep the day away"

"God only picks the strongest
To prowl in the moon lit darkness
He only picks the bravest
That at night can help with the loneliness"

The Moth bent her head in repentance
She couldn't even finish her sentence
For she realised in that instance
The bee was talking about her transcendence
They have become defiled
They have defiled the land

"It's so unfair," she said. "Is this a loving God
Who sanctions genocide?
Who commands His people to slay man, woman and child?
A nation condemned, not the first
An entire planet submerged
Heaven snatched away for disobedience
No, I will not tolerate such a Deity."

In dark caves the Canaanite altars drip with the blood of children
The stench of feces and foul ***** taints the air
Yellow pools glisten in torch light
**** drips from the walls, piles up in mounds scattered on the floor
Animals mill about, sniffing the carcasses of other beasts
Each one kept for a purpose, dead and alive
No golden calves here, only warm flesh unyielding
Worthless for breeding, unneeded
For the Canaanites feed on the carrion of their own battlefields
The meat of their own brothers
Sisters, Fathers, Mothers
The feast devoured, bellies full, sated
The leftovers packed in salt for another day

Night falls, soon the stone that seals the altar tomb
Will be rolled away
The strongest of the peoples will enter the huge cavern
To claim their rightful reward
Until then...

The sounds of grunting women and children
None resisting, none even caring
Most feel nothing
The women should be crying, the children screaming
Only the infants' wails stand out against the cacophony
The noise of mindless rutting, the tears drawn by innocence crushed
Man and woman so desensitized
They barely feel anything anymore
But they remember the sensation
They strive to get it back
The Canaanites have become too ignorant to realize
They never will
So they've turned it into a God
Given it life, passed it on, infecting their enemies
Every bit as lethal as the diseases they've unwittingly cultivated
Passed on to open hearts and open minds
And to their infants and children
A malaise that blossoms into deformity, leprosy or worse

On a dais in the center of the cave
Are seven corpses
The Strong Men know them well

A Canaanite woman squats in a field on the edge of the village
She heaves and groans, face red from effort
With a final push she feels relief
The tiny thud of a newborn hitting the ground distracts her
To her it is nothing more than another form of defecation
She wraps the umbilical cord around her right hand
With her left she grasps the slimy casing
With a quick, purposeful **** she tears it in two
Rips, wanting nothing more to do with the burden she's carried for nine months
A final glance at the condemned child
The sand around it's body blotted with blood and issue
It's airless plea unheeded
She turns and walks away, apathetic
She's done this before
Many, many times before

The cave echoes with an ungodly sound
The Strong Men harness the beasts
The noise is maddening
The Strong Men dominate
Their laughter is insane
The creatures, they believe, are their prize
After all, they are the Strong Men
They are the leaders of the land

Friendship is dead
Compassion is dead
Fear is dead
Hope is dead
Desire is dead
Reason is dead
Logic is dead
Understanding is dead
Joy is dead
Peace is dead
Patience is dead
Kindness is dead
Self-control is dead
Faithfulness is dead
Gentleness is dead
Goodness is dead
Love is dead
Dead as the corpses on the altar
Dumb as the animals in the cages
If those creatures were sentient beings
They would beg for the slaughter
If the Canaanites had not so long been numb
They would pray for the same

The Strong Men
Are ready
Now
For the
Corpses

****

A loving God puts a crippled horse out of it's misery
A loving God buries it deep underground

A loving God does not condemn without reason
Without good reason

A loving God does not sanction genocide
But He will clear a field full of rabid skunks
© 2010 by James Arthur Casey
SEAN Oct 2017
A metaphor of life,
A metaphor of death,
A metaphor of love,
That you once left.

Why do I keep on smoking?
It's a bad habit, I presume
I once hated its smell;
You know, like how you hated it.

Even cried to God
For my father to stop,
Its killing him-
A terrible affliction.

Now, here I am
Smoking my last cigarette  
Now that you are gone;
Its killing me, but you killed me first.

When will I conquer this torment?
Pondering about you,
Cigarettes keep me warm
Every puff and cough.

I don't blame you;
I just condemn my self
For being too weak,
Naive, and trusting.

I guess
I'm not really addicted to you,
I'm just addicted to your company,
Your warmth.

Every flick of the cigarette ****,
Like shootings stars,
Wishing you'd come back
This emptiness, this hollow smoke

I'll promise to stop, maybe.
But not now, darling
I guess this vice would suffice,
For now.
SK Feb 2013
Raw
And here I sit
An empty shell
For the world to see

Go on now
Take your look
These are my scars
Here for you
Like an open book

Go on laugh if you’d like
Laugh at the pathetic-ness
That has become my life

Go on judge me why don’t you?
Ridicule me for my choices
Condemn me for my heart

Little do you know
I’ve experienced worse
Your words are nothing
Is that understood?
Nothing.

So go on,
Look.
Mneme begin.  Inspire, ye sacred nine,
Your vent’rous Afric in her great design.
Mneme, immortal pow’r, I trace thy spring:
Assist my strains, while I thy glories sing:
The acts of long departed years, by thee
Recover’d, in due order rang’d we see:
Thy pow’r the long-forgotten calls from night,
That sweetly plays before the fancy’s sight.
Mneme in our nocturnal visions pours
The ample treasure of her secret stores;
Swift from above the wings her silent flight
Through Phoebe’s realms, fair regent of the night;
And, in her pomp of images display’d,
To the high-raptur’d poet gives her aid,
Through the unbounded regions of the mind,
Diffusing light celestial and refin’d.
The heav’nly phantom paints the actions done
By ev’ry tribe beneath the rolling sun.
  Mneme, enthron’d within the human breast,
Has vice condemn’d, and ev’ry virtue blest.
How sweet the sound when we her plaudit hear?
Sweeter than music to the ravish’d ear,
Sweeter than Maro’s entertaining strains
Resounding through the groves, and hills, and plains.
But how is Mneme dreaded by the race,
Who scorn her warnings and despise her grace?
By her unveil’d each horrid crime appears,
Her awful hand a cup of wormwood bears.
Days, years mispent, O what a hell of woe!
Hers the worst tortures that our souls can know.
  Now eighteen years their destin’d course have run,
In fast succession round the central sun.
How did the follies of that period pass
Unnotic’d, but behold them writ in brass!
In Recollection see them fresh return,
And sure ’tis mine to be asham’d, and mourn.
  O Virtue, smiling in immortal green,
Do thou exert thy pow’r, and change the scene;
Be thine employ to guide my future days,
And mine to pay the tribute of my praise.
  Of Recollection such the pow’r enthron’d
In ev’ry breast, and thus her pow’r is own’d.
The wretch, who dar’d the vengeance of the skies,
At last awakes in horror and surprise,
By her alarm’d, he sees impending fate,
He howls in anguish, and repents too late.
But O! what peace, what joys are hers t’ impart
To ev’ry holy, ev’ry upright heart!
Thrice blest the man, who, in her sacred shrine,
Feels himself shelter’d from the wrath divine!
C Jan 2011
Listen closely and hear our collective vernacular in a state of constant mitosis.
Live and see our language begin to rival our own complexity.
A myriad of inter-connecting word highways with more twists,
turns and travelers than that of any physical road.
A body of thought massing in our collective conscious,
an infinite man-made addition to our finite physical reality.
Every addition is another color, another taste,
relative to the user in enunciation,
becoming ever less limited by geography.
Emotion attaches and tints the tone of individual words as we grow with age.
Without it enabling us to define ourselves, we are left ignorant and insular.
Memory accumulates casting a shadow and adds depth,
communication cultivating perception to leverage change in corporeality.
Pulsating slang spreading locally with fresh life to be globally colloquial.
A wordsmith may use this power to celebrate
or condemn their perception of reality,
more still- will wield words like plowshares
and escapism flourishes with such an expansive field
where all of humanity is brought out to play.


And sometimes-
for me,
it is just barely enough to grip a word with impunity.
Raphael Uzor May 2014
I read the book of Samuel
I read the story of the Israelites
Of how they rejected God
“We want a king!” they demanded
“We want to be like other nations”
Rejecting God’s kingship.

The same God who brought them up
Out of the ******* of Pharaoh
Out of slavery in Egypt
The same God who gave them victories
Over many nations and wars
The same God who had fed them
For forty years in the wilderness
Same God who had proved
Beyond reasonable doubt
That He is the King of kings
A Lord above all lords
They chose to downgrade!

I was swept away in a mind journey
As I thought of how it must have felt
To be rejected by your own children
Repudiated by your beloved
Disowned by the very people you love.

My heart bled!
The heartbreak was unimaginable
The pain was excruciating
As my mind pointed fingers of accusation
I couldn’t find befitting words
“Foolish Israelites!”
“Unrepentant idiots!”
“Stubborn generation!”

And as my mind went awry
Heaping insults on God’s people
Raining accusations on them
Judging an imperfect people as myself…

His still small voice whispered
“You are all the same”
“You have done worse”


Then it struck me
Like a lightening of a million volts
I am the Israelites
I am the very people of God
I am the same ones I condemn
I have betrayed God repeatedly
I have chosen sin above my maker
My iniquities know no bounds
I have trivialized His blood
I have made a mess of the cross.

I am the “foolish Israelites!”
I am the “unrepentant idiots!”
I am the “stubborn generation!”

My heart melted into tears
Shame covered me like a cloud
My head was bowed in ignominy.

Unable to speak or move
I lay there, weeping at my wickedness
No words were spoken
But I felt His arms embrace me
In acknowledgement of my repentance
I never deserved it
But He loved me nonetheless.
I pointed one finger at them
But three pointed back at me!


© Raphael Uzor
Shay Feb 2016
I'm a person;
I am not a meal to be devoured yet they say that real girls have a bit of meat on their bones.
I'm a person;
they may tell me that wearing make up is false advertising but I am not a product to be sold and I am not theirs to own.
I'm a person;
and no matter how many times they whistle at me in the street, I am not a dog who's going to go running to them.
I'm a person;
I am not an object for them to touch, use or abuse whenever they wish to; that behaviour I abhor and condemn.
I'm a person
with as much talent and intelligence as them but I am held back by the glass ceiling in my endeavours.
I'm a person
and I'm determined to reach my goals - I will not be held back by my oppressors.
mark john junor Feb 2014
the unattainable girl in cotton dress with her untouched hands
her perfections body and soul are store purchased at trending boutiques
she illustrates the room into vivid colour with her casual presence
she becomes the motion in the still life drawing you live
she is the utterance of everything to be attained by dreaming
by hope
for you
the unattainable

she leads you through the broken gate
a backyard overgrown and
past the rusting skeleton of a child's swing set
night has rendered it life
and it looms large in the minds eye with terrible
wrath for its cheated years
inside the bare room
streetlight filtered by the boarded up window
sound is muffled in here
her voice strangely stagnant and heavy
as she clumsily removes her shirt
laughing a small embarrassed laugh
so unlike her cool and convincing hardcase appearance
the two of you rest a few hours cupped in eachothers arms
till daylight leeches your sleepyheads of dreams

but the tattered cover of your romance novel
is by no means a feat of strung out fairy's on a mission to condemn
they only want recompense for the time they spent wrapped in the
soiled leather sheets entertaining some middle aged naked man
and his sole desire to be pretty
she sees all this
she sits in the dry corner
eyes wide but unseeing
a song of terrors paused on her lips
the reality's of reality has not yet sunk in
but its soft spoken voice is whispering to her now
it sets its christmas card well wishes on her mantle
it lays its warm gifts on her bed
careworn toys of her bitter embraces
sit in the grey snow abandoned like her lovers
now that she found her nirvana

she will spend her days
in hard red leather and fishnet
plying the flesh pots and the mystery's exposed of naughty naughty
the unattainable girl is just a photograph now
one dimensional image of a four dimensional demon girl
Silence Screamz Sep 2014
We condemn the fruits
of our putrid past,
straining the stench
of summer's last

Our passions forbidden
by the temptress soul,
love is blind
when given whole

Driven by lust
and greed and sin,
Envy takes over
now it begins

Deep in the soul
feeling it swell,
Its all but over
we are going to hell!!
Thoughts of lust
Adieu dear object of my Love's excess,
And with thee all my hopes of happiness,
With the same fervent and unchanged heart
Which did it's whole self once to thee impart,
(And which though fortune has so sorely bruis'd,
Would suffer more, to be from this excus'd)
I to resign thy dear Converse submit,
Since I can neither keep, nor merit it.
Thou hast too long to me confined been,
Who ruine am without, passion within.
My mind is sunk below thy tenderness,
And my condition does deserve it less;
I'm so entangl'd and so lost a thing
By all the shocks my daily sorrow bring,
That would'st thou for thy old Orinda call
Thou hardly could'st unravel her at all.
And should I thy clear fortunes interline
With the incessant miseries of mine?
No, no, I never lov'd at such a rate
To tye thee to the rigours of my fate,
As from my obligations thou art free,
Sure thou shalt be so from my Injury,
Though every other worthiness I miss,
Yet I'le at least be generous in this.
I'd rather perish without sigh or groan,
Then thou shoul'dst be condemn'd to give me one;
Nay in my soul I rather could allow
Friendship should be a sufferer, then thou;
Go then, since my sad heart has set thee free,
Let all the loads and chains remain on me.
Though I be left the prey of sea and wind,
Thou being happy wilt in that be kind;
Nor shall I my undoing much deplore,
Since thou art safe, whom I must value more.
Oh! mayst thou ever be so, and as free
From all ills else, as from my company,
And may the torments thou hast had from it
Be all that heaven will to thy life permit.
And that they may thy vertue service do,
Mayest thou be able to forgive them too:
But though I must this sharp submission learn,
I cannot yet unwish thy dear concern.
Not one new comfort I expect to see,
I quit my Joy, hope, life, and all but thee;
Nor seek I thence ought that may discompose
That mind where so serene a goodness grows.
I ask no inconvenient kindness now,
To move thy passion, or to cloud thy brow;
And thou wilt satisfie my boldest plea
By some few soft remembrances of me, [50]
Which may present thee with this candid thought,
I meant not all the troubles that I brought.
Own not what Passion rules, and Fate does crush,
But wish thou couldst have don't without a blush,
And that I had been, ere it was too late,
Either more worthy, or more fortunate.
Ah who can love the thing they cannot prize?
But thou mayst pity though thou dost despise.
Yet I should think that pity bought too dear,
If it should cost those precious Eyes a tear.

Oh may no minutes trouble, thee possess,
But to endear the next hours happiness;
And maist thou when thou art from me remov'd,
Be better pleas'd, but never worse belov'd:
Oh pardon me for pow'ring out my woes
In Rhime now, that I dare not do't in Prose.
For I must lose whatever is call'd dear,
And thy assistance all that loss to bear,
And have more cause than ere I had before,
To fear that I shall never see thee more.
Hank Helman Mar 2016
Even I cannot find this care anymore.
I’ve run vague and dry of all moist thought,
Brittle will scores this round,
All life is best endured no more,
I will not bend to peek at joy,
Each smile a twist, all laughter ups to snort and ugly choke,
Time strides by, a hustler, a tomcat, a victim on the run.

At last the end of dreams, such bold relief.
Not more takes or edits done,
I breathe in whole, without the worry of dismal hope,
Each expectation outed now and free to fade,
I court the hours without a scheme,
Death will pace until my shift is done,
This warm friend who sentences but can’t condemn,  
Staid promise, an infinity of next for all.
Soon enough this now is gone,
Rejoice
This poem is about the turning point in life when we no longer worry too much about the future. Life isn't meant to make us happy. And so at some point there is odd relief in giving up on dreams and submerging oneself in just the day today experiences. Perhaps I've waited too long-- dismal hope a grand goodbye. Death is not to be feared-- it is our reward.
Katira Niquidet May 2017
Rain plummets from your branches
to my face,
Overflowing leaf's chimb
Onto unvigilant ish limbs
While my blinking eyes are dim,
You long for an embrace,

Without word yet of rejection,
You are ever bold.
You've thrown your achy breeze at me
And now you throw those icy leaves at me
Cause this pain to freeze in me.
With your icy hold.

I do not have a love for you
Deluging tree.
Stay close to your own stem,
You're a cold love I condemn
Leave me in my lonesome,
Can you not see?

I do not want your flowers, berries,
branch nor bark
I don't want your petals' play,
Nor your leafy locks to sway,
I want your leaflets to on this day
remain at far.

Your frosty touch on my skin
it blanches
I'm not ready for love so steely
I suspect I never will be
So stick to your own tree, please
Rainy branches.
Inspired by George H. Miles' Said the Rose 2001
I have been insulted for sharing out
my peasant songs, pataphorical poems,
on the table of the cultural patriarchy
the insults have come in a serial flow
into my dark soul a basin of condemn,
it began as my duty to take my poetry
to the bottom of African latrine,
followed by volley of insults like ;
cerebral panicking insensitive idiot,
a gifted ******* of arsolian poetry
One other contumely went aboveboard
to announce me a better dead ******,
i wondered how much one can ****
without erstwhile duty of creation,
now i have been condemned in starkness,
to be a beautiful walking ghost
of William Seward Burroughs,
Uhm! folly of eugenics, No! i am wrong,
this  accolade, i seriously decline to take,
my innateness is not wounded at all,
by anything near to genetic disorder,
i am only conscious of my luckless past,
of Slavery,colonialism,wars,re-colonialism
Then poverty spiced by open ridicule ,
And partly trenchant and half-****** tease
firmly fuelled by racial intolerance,
i have now been mistaken in awry,
to  be a looming ghost of William Burroughs,
and i am not
i am  purely my self,
without imperious wide blood
any where in my by black veins,
i may easily have chimpanzee blood,
Flowing turbulently through my vessels,
but no tincture of white blood in my zoo,
Burroughs broke his virginity with a *****,
i have remained a ****** for three decades,
As African virgins marry only virgins,
Burroughs was the king of underworlds;
chasing lessbian prostitutes and  gays,
to quench his mad ******  appetite
the turf in which i am a  better sham,
Billy was a serial criminal, ever on the run,
my soul is clean as new pin,
in fact  gorgeously dressed
in the unique royal attires
of as a Bristol pin merchant,
Billy worshiped crime and drugs
my piety is anchored on freedom of all,
Billy went to Latin America for *****
i  have been there to mourn Gabriel Garcia,
the Nobelite who was alone in deathly  solicitude
Billy never lifted a finger against tyranny,
my arsolian poetry is center-pieced on nothing,
other than African chantings for  liberty,
freedom for the white and black peasants
perhaps to unyoke themselves,
from the yoke of vicious human avarice.
Marieta Maglas Jul 2015
After bringing to the ship the women they had found
On the shore, the pirates asked about the rest of the women.
Rosa said, ''they disappeared in the water splashing around
And died from drowning in the sea; now, maybe they're in Heaven.''


Then, they asked about Fargo and Chiara said that he
Had been sent to search for water. They took a boat to go
To the shore, but they found no one, '' somewhere he could flee.''
Three men stayed on the shore and others searched for Fargo.


While dominating the new world, Spain used its ships to cart
Great riches from there; Marco and Rosa chose to come back
This way wanting to hide their gold until selling it at a mart.
From somewhere, those armed robbers have followed them in their track.


They wanted to steal their gold, the ship's cargo, the oil,
And that fuel being bought from the Empire’s wells to sell them
At the Lisbon's black market; to acquire wealth, they did not toil.
There was no law to condemn them, but they could condemn.

They took Marco and used four cords to tie his hands and his legs
Onto four stakes, they had fixed in the deck at a distance.
His body was pendent in the air; being punched by his dreads,
He was thrashed by them with sticks to end his last resistance.


When Marco prayed for God to save him from the suffering,
Another pirate took the cat; and, when Marco received
Two dozens to faint, he felt pulled apart without rupturing
When he was taken down, he could not stand; he was deceived.


Then, he took two dozens once more; his flesh was hanging in strips.
They used also the cat of nine tails to whip him so badly.
He was a Jewish and ''Deuteronomy'' came on his lips.
With salt on wounds, he couldn't believe they could hate so madly.

(Marco died.)

They beat Rosa with the **** of their guns to say if there was
More hidden gold; after Marco's death, one of the pirates
Married Rosa; he kissed her, ''I'll be rich- please no applause, ''
He said laughing; his love was too brutal for her iris.


In bed, she was immobilized by her fear; when they
Exited out from the cabin, he said, '' I've lain with my *****.''
These words petrified her; she knelt while starting to pray.
When she finished, he killed her saying, ''Now, I'm very rich.''

A pirate came back saying, ’’ ''he didn't return to the beach.''
''Maybe he was bitten by a snake, ’’ ‘’Tomorrow morning,
At dawn, take these dogs along on searches; watch them in reach
Of the steps of Fargo until the dogs give you a warning.''

Lucca said, „I’m an Italian diplomat.'' One pirate
Laughed and told him that they were hired by that strange man; served
Another government, '' your death will be a twist of fate.''
''Let me live! '' ''You're asking for something which you do not deserve.''


''I can pay for my life, '' ''No deal- gives us those documents.''
The pirates stuck some candles around the mizzenmast and they
Surrounded it having swords in their hands, ''twist your arguments.''
Lucca had to enter this circle, ''now, we sing and you play.''

Lucca was forced to run while another pirate used
Bella's violin to play a merry Jig and while each
Pirate cut him with his weapon; he screamed and they were amused.
They kept him dancing until he confessed while starting to preach.

After that, one of them took some boiling water to pour it
Into Lucca's ears; the pirates tortured him to reveal
Where the scrap of his wealth and his documents might be concealed.
They hung Lucca by his feet and submerged him as a fish meal.


(Then, he collapsed. In the sea, he was left for dying.)

Then, they murdered Gino, Nico, and Dino by tying
Cannonballs to their feet and by pushing them overboard.
Other victims were locked in wrist and leg irons being
Held on the ship’s deck; they stopped when they saw the moon they adored.

(They needed to rest because the night was coming.)

(To be continued…)

Poem by Marieta Maglas
Exhortation:
Greetings,
Let no one hesitate to study philosophy while young, and let no one tire of it when old, for it is never too soon nor too late to devote oneself to the well-being of the soul.  Whoever says that the time for philosophy has not yet come or that it has already passed is saying that it is too soon or too late for happiness. Therefore both the young and the old should study philosophy so that, while old, one may still be young with all the joy he has gathered from the past; and while young, one may at the same time be old through fearlessness of the future.
We must practice what produces happiness because when we have it, we have everything, and if we lack it, we shall be doing everything necessary to regain it.  So I encourage you, as always, to study and practice my teachings, for they are the basic ingredients of a happy life.

Don’t Fear the Gods
A god is an immortal and happy being. This is well-known, but do not believe anything about divine nature other than what is congenial for an eternally happy existence.  The gods do exist because we have preconceived notions of them, but they are not like how most people describe them.  Most people embellish their notions of the gods with false beliefs.  They credit the gods for delivering rewards and punishments because they commend those who share their own ways and condemn those who do not.  Rejecting the popular myths does not make one impious; preaching them is what demonstrates impiety.

Don’t Fear Death
Death is no concern to us.  All things good and bad are experienced through sensation, but sensation ceases at death.  So death is nothing to us, and to know this makes a mortal life happy.  Life is not improved by adding infinite time; removing the desire for immortality is what’s required.  There is no reason why one who is convinced that there is nothing to fear at death should fear anything about it during life.  And whoever says that he dreads death not because it’s painful to experience, but only because it’s painful to contemplate, is foolish.  It is pointless to agonize over something that brings no trouble when it arrives.  So death, the most dreaded of evils, is nothing to us, because when we exist, death is not present, and when death is present, we do not exist.   It neither concerns the living nor the dead, since death does not exist for the living, and the dead no longer exist.

Most people, however, either dread death as the greatest of suffering or long for it as a relief from suffering.  One who is wise neither renounces life nor fears not living.  Life does not offend him, nor does he suppose that not living is any kind of suffering.  For just as he would not choose the greatest amount of food over what is most delicious, so too he does not seek the longest possible life, but rather the happiest.  And he who advises the young man to live well and the old man to die well is also foolish – not only because it’s desirable to live, but because the art of living well and the art of dying well are the same.  And he was still more wrong who said it would be better to have never been born, but that “Once born, be quick to pass through the gates of Hades!” {Theognis, 425 - 427} If he was being serious, why wasn’t he himself quick to end his life? Certainly the means were available if this was what he really wanted to do.  But if he was not serious, then we have even less reason to believe him. Future days are neither wholly ours, nor wholly not ours.  We must neither depend on them as sure to come nor despair that we won’t live to see them.

Master your desires
Among desires, some are natural and some are vain.  Of those that are natural, some are necessary and some unnecessary.  Of those that are necessary, some are necessary for happiness, some for health, and some for life itself.  A clear recognition of desires enables one to base every choice and avoidance upon whether it secures or upsets ****** comfort and peace of mind – the goal of a happy life.

Everything we do is for the sake of freedom from pain and anxiety.   Once this is achieved, the storms in the soul are stilled.  Nothing else and nothing more are needed to perfect the well-being of the body and soul.  It is when we feel pain that we must seek relief, which is pleasure.  And when we no longer feel pain, we have all the pleasure we need.

Pleasure, we declare, is the beginning and end of the happy life.  We are endowed by nature to recognize pleasure as the greatest good.  Every choice and avoidance we make is guided by pleasure as our standard for judging the goodness of everything.

Although pleasure is the greatest good, not every pleasure is worth choosing.  We may instead avoid certain pleasures when, by doing so, we avoid greater pains.  We may also choose to accept pain if, by doing so, it results in greater pleasure.  So while every pleasure is naturally good, not every pleasure should be chosen.  Likewise, every pain is naturally evil, but not every pain is to be avoided.  Only upon considering all consequences should we decide.  Thus, sometimes we might regard the good as evil, and conversely: the evil as good.

We regard self-sufficiency as a great virtue – not so that we may only enjoy a few things, but so that we may be satisfied with a few things if those are all we have.  We are firmly convinced that those who least yearn for luxury enjoy it most, and that while natural desires are easily fulfilled, vain desires are insatiable.  Plain meals offer the same pleasure as luxurious fare, so long as the pain of hunger is removed.  Bread and water offer the greatest pleasure for those in need of them.  Accustoming oneself to a simple lifestyle is healthy and it doesn’t sap our motivation to perform the necessary tasks of life.  Doing without luxuries for long intervals allows us to better appreciate them and keeps us fearless against changes of fortune.

When we say that pleasure is the goal, we do not mean the pleasure of debauchery or sensuality.  Despite whatever may be said by those who misunderstand, disagree with, or deliberately slander our teachings, the goal we do seek is this: freedom from pain in the body and freedom from turmoil in the soul.  For it is not continuous drinking and revelry, the ****** enjoyment of women and boys, or feasting upon fish and fancy cuisine which result in a happy life.  Sober reasoning is what is needed, which decides every choice and avoidance and liberates us from the false beliefs which are the greatest source of anxiety.

Live Wisely
The greatest virtue and the basis for all virtues is prudence.  Prudence, the art of practical wisdom, is something even more valuable than philosophy, because all other virtues spring from it.  It teaches us that it is not possible to live pleasurably unless one also lives prudently, honorably, and justly; nor is it possible to live prudently, honestly, and justly without living pleasurably.  For the virtues are inseparable from a happy life, and living happily is inseparable from the virtues.

Who could conceivably be better off than one who is wise?  No one could be more content than one who simply reveres the gods, who is utterly unafraid of death, and who has discovered the natural goal of life.  He understands that pleasure, the greatest good, is easily supplied to absolute fullness, while pain, the greatest evil, lasts only a moment when intense and is easily tolerated when prolonged.

Some believe that everything is ruled by  *fate,  but we should dismiss this.   One who is wise knows that the greater power of decision lies within oneself.  He understands that while some things are indeed caused by fate, other things happen by chance or by choice.  He sees that fate is irreproachable and chance unreliable, but choices deserve either praise or blame because what is decided by choice is not subject to any external power.  One would be better off believing in the myths about the gods than to be enslaved by the determinism proclaimed by certain physicists.  At least the myths offer hope of winning divine favors through prayer, but fate can never be appealed.

Some believe that  chance  is a god, but we should dismiss this also.  One who is wise knows the gods do not act randomly.  He does not believe that everything is randomly caused.  Nor does he believe, in cases when they are, that chance is doling out good and evil with the intent of making human lives happy or unhappy.  He would actually prefer to suffer setbacks while acting wisely than to have miraculous luck while acting foolishly; for it would be better that well-planned actions should perchance fail than ill-planned actions should perchance succeed.

Conclusion:
Practice these teachings daily and nightly. Study them on your own or in the company of a like-minded friend, and you shall not be disturbed while awake or asleep. You shall live like a god among men, because one whose life is fortified by immortal blessings in no way resembles a mortal being.
-Epicurus (341-270 B.C.)
Sean Achilleos Nov 2022
You earthlings...
You think you know it all
Yet you're so far behind that you think you're first
You were last in the queue
But turned your back on the rest
And pretended to be first in line
You suffer from a lack of compassion
A lack of understanding
And worst of all a severe lack of Love
You live in your falsely created world
Always looking for a leader
Yet you are incapable of following
You cling to your god called money
Everyone gets weighed on the same scales
You have no idea what a harmonious existence is about
Because you are forever fighting about land that belongs to nobody
It belongs to the earth you *******
Yet you gave it different names and marked it as your territory
Will you take it with you when you die foolish man?
You create wars and **** innocent people
And once the chaos is over
You receive a badge and get branded as a hero
Earthlings love chasing the wind
It's your favourite hobby
Nothing makes you happier
You weigh success in monetary terms
Because it's all you idiots know
You destroy what is precious and beautiful
Your unconditional love is conditional
Why don't you learn from the animal kingdom?
They belong to no political party
No organized religious group
They are simply happy to breathe
You see the world in black and white
Yet you have full colour vision
But tradition prevents you from activating it
You select what you want to know
And condemn what you don't understand
2022-11-04
sean achilleos
Thomas Bodoh Sep 2018
Spellbinding sparkling queues of pearly faces
Seethe in a gemstone sea of lips and beaks.
Veiling night, my Nirvana, leads us places
Fraught with clandestine lies and feathered peaks.
The hidden eyes reflect the burning light
Rampant within the painful lifelong dance
And swivel southward, scorched with silent fright;
Parades of fiends swing by at ev'ry glance.
Burn the voiceless witches! Condemn the dead!
Slash the hopeless visages to the night!
Raccoons, exposing drooling mouths unfed--
Charming music conceals their true delight.
I, the regisseur, perform my role
Then fade behind the mask that chokes my soul.
st64 Jun 2013
walk with me, oh sweet soul
oh please, walk with me

walk with me upon this path betwixt dale and brook
you are goddess of the moon, healing night creatures
feel the rustling breeze whisper hopeful prayers to us
don’t condemn your thoughts and feelings, for they guide.



This time, curiosity can be a blessing
Seek not excitement of the night
Yet wait not forever for a life to come
When you have it *right now
; live it well.

Emotions are sometimes borne of selfish needs
Thus, succumbing to easy judgment.... may lead to pain
And not only to yourself, oh no!
Its force can touch your whole being.

Get up thus and walk with me, sweet soul
Get fresh air into your lungs
Lie on beachsand, fully stretched, in clothes
Feel the living sun give to you, selfless.

Encourage not phantoms of ill desire
Place not your heart so precarious
Reach inside, extend a hand
For what seems cursed or bland..may well be ~ your very own blessing.



Oh, what gentle ministry gives she...goddess of the moon..to a needy soul




S T, 30 June 2013
written in 2010.

"oh Lord, it's hard to be humble"

read that line somewhere, just forget where now....

hope that Moon-Goddess pops by sometime....soon :)




sub-entry: 'tides'll turn...tides'll turn'

when we least expect
but most need.

wait for it...
tides'll turn....tides'll turn.
Noah A Baker Dec 2013
You
One day I'm going to slit my throat in a beautiful burst of rebellion and commitment to eternal solitude. And in my last, blood choked breaths, I'm going to condemn myself to Hell and ridicule this dystopian legacy I was introduced to called love. I hope you understand. I'm just starting to realize that each and every one of us are alone. And I don't want to be alone. I've been alone long enough. That's why I searched for you. You, my focus, my chief goal, my everything. You saved me from my most feared demon, myself. You brought me out of this pit of Tartarus and into a grand epitome of ecstasy and emotion. All of that emotion turned towards you. And now this. It's safe to say, I'm in cursed love with you. In. I'm in love with you. Everything I do is in hopeful remembrance of you. And without you this curse is going to consume me into oblivion. Yet, without you, oblivion is most certainly my paradise.
Honestly don't know what this was. To hell with it.
Brian Oarr Oct 2012
Meteor streaks an onyx sky,
thoughts vaporize without a tail

Words have seized the winds,
usurped control from ideas

Page absorbs a mutant slang,
lines malinger with an attitude

Inspiration silhouettes reason,
unblemished by banality

Grant language mellifluence or
condemn the poet to monologue

Lost are themes, jewels of a lifetime
separated by melancholy vicissitudes
Johnny Noiπ Aug 2018
Already, a conscious courage is coming to life.
Here are some of the painters: Picasso, Braque,
Delaunay, Le Fauconnier; they are highly enlightened,
& do not believe in the stability of any system,
even if it were to call itself classical art.
Their reason is poised between the pursuit
of the fleeting and a mania for the eternal.
Quote of Jean Metzinger Note sur la Peinture (1910)
[the Cubist painters who]              continued to paint objects motionless, frozen, &                                                   all the static aspects of Nature;
they worship the traditionalism of                  w:Poussin, of w:Ingres, of Corot,     ageing & petrifying their art
      with an obstinate attachment to the past,
      which to our eyes remains totally incomprehensible;
                            Is it indisputable that several aesthetic
declarations of our French comrades
[the Cubists in Paris] display
a sort of masked academicism.
It is not, indeed, a return to
the Academy to declare that
the subject, in painting, has
a perfectly insignificant value?
To paint from the posing model
as an absurdity, and an act of
mental cowardice, even if the model
be translated upon the picture in linear,
spherical and cubic forms;
Quotes by Boccioni in his text
of 'Les exposants au public' - exh.
Cat. Galerie Bernheim-Jeune,                      February 1912, pp. 2, 3
Get all the information you can about the Cubists,
                 & about Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso. Go to Kahnweilers' art gallery. And if he's got photos of recent works –
                              produced after I left -,
buy one or two. Bring us the Futurists in Italy,
like Boccioni himself;                          back all the information you can get.
Quote of Boccioni,                                in a letter to Gino Severini,
staying in Paris in the Summer of 1911;                     as quoted in Futurism,
ed. Didier Ottinger; Centre Pompidou /
5 Continents Editions, Milan, 2008, p. 27.
We [the Futurists] must smash,
demolish and destroy our traditional harmony,
which makes us fall into a 'gracefullness'
created by timid and sentimental cubs
[this denigrating word refers to the French Cubists].
Quote by Boccioni in his 'Sculptural Manifesto' of 1912;
as quoted in Futurism, ed. By Didier Ottinger;
Centre Pompidou / 5 Continents Editions, Milan, 2008                    Is it indisputable that several aesthetic declarations
of our French comrades the Cubists display a sort of masked
academicism;   It is not, indeed, a return to the Academy
   to declare that the subject, in painting,
        has a perfectly insignificant value?
To paint from the posing model as an absurdity,
& an act of mental cowardice, even if the model
be translated upon the picture in linear,
                    spherical and cubic forms;
Quote of Boccioni, in 'Les exposants au public' - exh. Cat. Galerie Bernheim-Jeune, February 1912 pp. 2, 3.
The square is not a subconscious form.
It is the creation of intuitive reason. The face of the new art.
The square is a living, regal infant. The first step of pure creation in art.
Quote of Kazimir Malevich,
in 'From Cubism and Futurism to Suprematism: The New Realism in Painting' (November 1916)
Unless we are to condemn all modern painting,
we must regard cubism as legitimate, for it continues modern methods,
& we should see in it the only conception
of pictorial art now possible.
In other words, at this moment cubism is painting.

Quote of Albert Gleizes, Jean Metzinger,
in Du "Cubisme", Edition Figuière, Paris, 1912
(First English edition: Cubism, T. Fisher Unwin, London, 1913)
To understand Cézanne is to foresee Cubism.
Henceforth we are justified in saying that
between this school and previous manifestations
there is only a difference of intensity,
& that in order to assure ourselves
of this we have only to study the methods
of this realism, which, departing from the superficial
reality of Courbet, plunges with Cézanne
into profound reality, growing luminous
as it forces the unknowable to retreat.
Quote of Albert Gleizes, Jean Metzinger,
Du "Cubisme", Edition Figuière, Paris, 1912 (First English edition: Cubism, T. Fisher Unwin, London, 1913)
Adam Latham Sep 2014
King Neptune sat upon his saline throne
And cried out loud to all the sea drenched sway,
"More sport, more sport" he yelled unto his own,
"That I might ease the boredom brought this day.
You, Dolphin, bring your wisdom unto me
And pray tell of that light, that coastal hue
Which cuts the dark asunder to my sea,
'Cross leaden skies to blind us all we few."

A hastening fin and quickly to his place,
The wise old Dolphin, gripped with fear and awe,
Bowed solemnly, then with a gentle grace
Explained what shone upon his master's shore.
"The glare, those slicing beams that shine at night
Warn pending doom to all who sail to near,
The jagged teeth of rocks are such a sight
To instil e'en the hardest men with fear.

Men's hands, those mortal gems the gods employ,
Have seized upon the danger of it all,
And built a structure warning of the ploy
Of all Sea Lords to bring about their fall.
And so the Lighthouse, named with ample sense,
Can only mean a blasphemy to thee,
So sailors can quite safely trespass hence
From port to port, unto the open sea."

(Neptune)
"No more! My once cool spirit rages hot
And boils a fury charring to the bone,
I see the House of Human has forgot
That they are ours, amusing us alone.
We Gods, we masters of their finite lives
Demand their will, their thoughts, their breathing souls,
To serve without regret our divine hives
With worship, prayer, and swinging incense bowls.

Strange feeling, 'tis the curdling of my blood,
The clotting of my rage to pure disdain,
Revenge is stoked where once pure anger stood,
Enough to charge mankind to think again.
Come trident keeper, serve my thrice pronged arm
And gird my ***** with implements of war,
The time has come to use such lethal charm
That foolish men like these cannot ignore.

A bellowed word, the tide is at my tongue
And wave on wave is mercy to my feet,
Children of the sea rise up in song
And on the Lighthouse moorings thrash and beat.
Seek victory, seize woe upon that hill
And raze in moistened load their pillared sin,
My kingdom shall devour this bitter pill,
'Til it shall be as if it had not been."

On land a Priest, Tiberius by name,
A servant to the Goddess of the Hunt,
Meanwhile had climbed the saturated frame
To view with nonchalance the ocean front.
These seven days had seen Diana's shrine
Find several hundred pilgrims on its plot,
And feeling soon the strains of the divine
Had hoped the walk would ease his troubled lot.

Upon the coast he'd found this Titan's torch
When from his daily burdens he had fled,
A walk one hour from the lunar porch
Where tithes were paid and healing prayers were said.
And from the top he surveyed all the world
Around about, inland and to the sea,
And marvelled at the way the water curled
Itself onto the shore so constantly.

Though mesmerised, his senses were not dulled,
A sound, a buzz, a percolating hum
Fell on his ears until his eyes were pulled
To ripples forming in the salty ****.
A tremor was the herald he surmised
For one whose habitation was the sea,
But even then what 'rose before his eyes
Was something that he thought would never be.

A giant crowned with royal ornament
And plates of golden armour on his chest,
Reared up out of the depths in quick movement
Which saw the waves removed and pulled abreast.
A thunderclap and lightening bolts galore
Along with all the earthquakes there could be,
Made our heroic priest fear all the more
As Neptune stood astride the choppy sea.

The stature of a God cannot be ruled,
But here Tiberius measured a mile,
From sandalled feet to head and hair bejewelled
With water droplet gems set regal style.
He noticed that this ocean deity
Well placed amongst the swells of his domain,
Now roll his eyes towards him hatefully
And bellow words the skies could not contain.

"Six nights in seven I have seen the light
From this abomination cast a spell,
And give to those that would not have insight,
A knowledge of the coastal rocks that dwell.
Tonight I will destroy it piece by piece
And reclaim once again the water's grave,
The perils of my realm will then increase
And men of ships I once more shall enslave.
I call upon all life of which I rule
And Mother Nature's elemental froth,
Join with me in the use of anger's tool,
Tear down each brick with undiluted wrath!"

Tiberius was quick in his reply,
His nerves suppressed to give a hardened look,
Inside a churning stomach would not lie
Yet somehow courage managed this rebuke,
" I care not for the wars of Gods and Men,
But hearken Neptune, hear this heartfelt pledge,
Strike not your hand against this lighted den
For by that action you would cross the edge.
The earth beneath my feet is holy ground
And sanctioned sacred at the throne of Jove,
I prayed my blessing when I heard the sound,
That ****** of rushing water in your grove."

The Sea God boomed displeasure with a roar
That pierced the cooling air with heated might,
A calmness quickly soothed him to the core
Though whitened knuckles gripped his trident tight.
"How can this be from one whose station's known
To beg the favour of the King of Kings,
Your faith is to one God and one alone
And subject only to the gift she brings.
I do not recognise the swift dictate
You prayed unto my brother in the heights,
Your life is therefore forfeit to The Fates,
As I condemn to death your house of lights."

No more was said but actions stole the words
Before Tiberius could speak again,
This Sea Lord with his head amongst the birds
Now caused the air to turn, the sky to rain.
He strode towards the object of his ills
With nothing but contempt within his eyes,
Incanting as he went the magic frills
Positions such as his can realise.

And so our priest expecting deaths divide
To halt the smooth meander of his life,
Stood firm with very little hope inside
That something could release him from this strife.
With quickened breath he ****** the salty air
To calm a body gripped with cold and fear,
His final thoughts would be in silent prayer,
Preparing for the end that drew so near.

The wind blew stronger and the rain lashed down,
A mix of spray and torrents from the sky,
The wet had found his priestly robes and gown
And now they clung unlike when they were dry.
One footstep, two, three more and then no light,
As all of Neptune's bulk eclipsed the sun,
The Lighthouse trembled in the pseudo night,
Lo Judgment Day for our brave priest had come.

And so the scene, a God engulfed with rage
About to battle mortar, brick, and bone,
Freed from the bonds of his salt water cage
By mortal acts that he could not condone.
With one hand raised and trident poised to strike,
The King of all the Oceans took his aim,
And without pause he loosed the three pronged pike
So that it flew unhindered to the game.
It did not falter, neither did it swerve
Nor did it slow by friction of the air,
But straight and true, devoid of any curve
It sailed towards the Lighthouse that was there.

And all Tiberius could do was watch
And wait the lethal throw by Neptune's hand,
Closer and closer, ready to dispatch
His sorry soul to Pluto's hallowed land.
In seconds all he knew of life on Earth
Would perish at the will of the divine,
And that which had been granted his from birth
Would disappear into the sands of time.
AD Sifford Aug 2014
I don't really know what to say
But I've got to say something
Because I'm buried deep in your grace
It's piling up on me
'Cause time and time again I sin
But you've forgiven me
You do not condemn me

Lord I don't really know what to do
So again I come to You
In hopes that you will give me the strength
I need to finally change
'Cause I'm drowning in this sin
This sin that's holding me
God come and set me free

It's time for me to be the man
You created me to be
O God, I need You; take my soul
It's in You I shall be free
I'd die to live for You, My King
And I'll do anything
Just take my heart and dig me out
From this sin that's holding me

I don't really know what to say
But I'm crying out to You
And I will do whatever it takes
Lord, bring me home to You
God cleanse my heart and wash my stains
O, make this spirit new

'Cause here I am, deep in your grace
Just crying out to You
From deep, I call to You,
God make this Spirit new

My merciful, loving God
So deep, I long for You
|Written 2011--minor edits carried over from song version, made May, 2013|

"Deep In Grace" was written on the same day, and the same two papers, as "One Click". For more background information on these poems, see my collection page Ignite, and the poem "One Click" (my second most recent self-written post before this one). These poems birth out of the same time period in my life and struggle, and follow closely after my Ignite collection.
God bless, and may this poem affect you in a positive way, and stir your affection for our Savior, and Creator, Jesus, The LORD, our God, as I certainly hope it does.


© 2017 A.D. Sifford.
I'm okay with you sharing my poems, but I ask that you show courtesy. Please be honest about the authorship by attributing it to my name. Thank you,
- Sifford
“But if any old Lady, Knight, Priest, or Physician,
   Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
   If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
   May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?”

   Anstey’s ‘New Bath Guide’, p.69.


Candour compels me, BECHER! to commend
The verse, which blends the censor with the friend;
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause;
For this wild error, which pervades my strain,
I sue for pardon,—must I sue in vain?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom’s ways depart;
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can’t controul,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love’s delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Limping Decorum lingers far behind;
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish’d in the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love;
Let those, they ne’er confined, my lay reprove;
Let those, whose souls contemn the pleasing power,
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour’d lines, in chilling numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne’er can know!
The artless Helicon, I boast, is youth;—
My Lyre, the Heart—my Muse, the simple Truth.
Far be’t from me the “******’s mind” to “taint:”
Seduction’s dread is here no slight restraint:
The maid whose ****** breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer,
Firm in her virtue’s strength, yet not severe;
She, whom a conscious grace shall thus refine,
Will ne’er be “tainted” by a strain of mine.
But, for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her ***** with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread;
She would have fallen, though she ne’er had read.
For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy.
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Of fancied laurels, I shall ne’er be proud;
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures, I alike despise.
Alan McClure Dec 2015
Arise Great Britain, swell wi pride
this is no time tae split, divide,
a hero needs us on his side
a man apart
Brave Osbourne comes wi manly stride
and lion heart

When danger ca’s, he stauns and fights
He’ll haud the baddies bang tae rights
Nou in their een he sees the whites
and yells, “Attack!”
He’s got oor mojo in his sights –
He wants it back!

Let’s cheer his valour tae the roof
Condemn the wans wha’d cry him couff
And pray oor Geordie’s bulletproof
As on he flies
Then fit him wi a parachute
and wave guidbye.

This GM perfect Tory clone
need not rely on un-manned drone
He’ll tackle ISIS on his own
their fight dissolve
His pores squirt pure testosterone
his eyes, resolve

Just watch the baddies turn and flee
as George, wi patriotic glee
wreaks vengeance for democracy
a one-man dojo
And cries, “Come, Britain, flock to me,
and feel my mojo!”

Or mibbes we should check this twice.
Although the image may be nice
The blood we risk on his advice
may never stop -
But Geordie will not sacrifice
one ****** drop

These profiteering pinstripe ******
wha ken no life but politics
Are no the first tae play these tricks
while deals are made
Why no just wave a crucifix
and shout “Crusade!”

So hooses burn and horror grows
A stream o misery outflows
While braggard Geordie struts and crows,
"Ye want a fight?"
I’d dump him on Damascus road
tae see the light

Ye plot the death o innocents
Tae score yir points in parliament
Yir fascist mocking o dissent
it suits ye well
George Osbourne, ye're a proper gent
**** ye tae hell.
Emma Dec 2010
[civiliz]ation made of a large
[popul]ation of people with tendencies of
[segreg]ation with no purpose and
[condemn]ation that just hurts us
[transl]ation: [****]ation


(suffoc)ation prevents (revel)ation
WHY
Why is the concept of being forgotten so paralyzingly terrifying to me?
Before the expanse of time,
none of us stand a chance of being remembered.
We will be swallowed up,
only be known as a statistic, a point of reference.
The thoughts we think are paramount
Quail before the laughing face of Time.
God will remember me,
so why do I care about what those on earth think?
Why do I care what people think?
What kind of sick ******* are we that we derive pleasure from others' pain?
Schadenfreude is alive and well
Unlike you and I
Why don't I throw up my hands
And succumb to the ravages of an indifferent Time
And an indifferent society
Why not let them win
Who values a game which is purposely weighted to one side
If not those who have waged something dear upon the outcome
The Ender inside me rejects the faulty system.

Why do I persevere for a "humanity"
which will never improve
In fact,
the more we evolve and know and comprehend,
The more apt we are to be heartless
Because why do we need a heart when we have a brain, Tinman?

Why do we care what we look like
Our bodies are merely
borrowed from the earth
And in the blink of eternity's eye
what we call ours
will belong to another

Why do we live in a world overflowing with bodies
And entirely lacking with people

Why can we satisfy any part of ourselves
by draping on borrowed emotions
Why is the false more alluring than the truth?
Show me an honest person
And I will show you an attractive one.

I am not you
you are not me
And we will never be
The same
Despite the pervading effort of our society
I will not be assimilated.

If we let people in,
They wouldn't hate
So why are we terrified of doing that
Is it because,
If everyone is in,
No one is
And in ceases to exist?

Why do we feel the urge to gloat about things we did not earn

Why does 1
Make more money than 2
Because his nose is straighter,
His hair is curly rather than straight,
Because 1 spends an eighth of his time in the gym
While the less attractive 2 spends 7/8 of his time
Screaming inside
At a society which has cut off its own ears that it can't won't hear.

Why are random genes a judge of worth
While character is a word so overplayed
It folded its hand long ago

Why is the face of a beautiful liar
Infinitely preferable
To that of a plain truthteller
Infinite whys
And a world which whispers
     Cradle me with your honeyed lies
     Assurances of past lullabies
     How do I trust what the mockingbird cries
     When even it runs from the skies

Why do so many see ourselves as bound and controlled by manipulated strings
When those strings are nothing but ropes with which we can escape

Why do we live on top of one another
Without deigning to know our prisonmate
Without so much as a spared thought
For the dead flailing beneath us

Why do I hold dearest to my heart
Past injustices
Counting them as the tiny, insidious proofs
That I am a good person
Because good does not exist without the bad
Relativity is the grip keeping us from sliding
Down.
Away.

Why is it that words spoken can never be taken back?
Simple. We can never reclaim what was never ours.
You think you are original in your menial thoughts
What have you done but regurgitate the thoughts of your predecessors?
Rearranging the same letters
To form the same tiresome conclusions.
We are the worst type of plagiarists.

Why is the only thing propelling you a sense of duty
Why are you devoutly loyal to objects rather than the people who happen to hold them

Why

Why do we invent reasons to hate one another
We take solace in the loopholes which justify our hatred
That we may not be like the "monsters" we condemn

Why are "we" and "they"
Not just markers of distance?
Why must they be very real, ubiquitous mentalities?

Why are somber topics the common stuff of jokes
Because we have grown numb enough to empathy
To shun it in favour of a laugh?

Why is suffering so prevalent
When we have an excess of affluence
Are such extremes what define us as a race?

Why is a white lamb the symbol of pristine innocence
When innocence is slaughtered day after day?
Why are sharks abhorred creatures even though
Our vicious attacks
Far outnumber theirs
Do we idealize them that we may have a reason
An excuse
To assert our dominance over yet one more
To feel the joy of crushing them underfoot
Why do we focus on certain images
When the true image of our society
Is the person who occurs each day,
Who breaks
The answer is because we know
that we
Are at fault.


Why when confronted about the tiniest aspect of ourselves
We rear our heads in defense
Backing up against the corner of idiocy
The walls built upon the truths we have fabricated
Why are the swirling armor of falsities so comforting
And when pierced
We rebel
With every bit of the person we have built
Lashing out as does a dog chained its entire life
But even a dog
Which is after all "just an animal"
*Is not fool enough to delude itself into loving its chain.
Some of the "why?"'s running through my head. Like most others, this poem of mine came from a place of severe disgust towards humanity. Enjoy!
Hayley Siebert Dec 2016
A woman is a rabbit
She lives with notions determined by her ***
Thus constrained to her Father’s or husband’s will
Hunted by the predator who hungers for her flesh
Hunts in the dark of the concrete woodland
She is forced to be silent and suffer lack of wit
Forsooth her body is a puppet by the Male hand!
She forced to wed and breed
She faces a society that would **** her
And condemn her for her free mind
Tongues of blinded minds order her to undress or cover up
She must walk like that of prey
With a keen eye over her shoulder
She must console herself to the ideas and thoughts
That one day or one night she may be killed, murdered
She must play the dumb beauty, the cow on market, the ***** on heat
She isn’t powerful, or strong, or noble
She is a Rabbit….


A Rabbit is a Woman
A creature of God made out to be cute and small
Butchered, abandoned if illness takes hold, or stomachs are gluttonous
Hunted by great beasts for Frith gave them their gift to slay!
Tortured by experiment, at the will of a child they are rejected
Forlorn by notions of uneducated fools
They hide and huddled for man is their greatest enemy
This mammal is that of prey
With a keen ear scanning the hills
Bright eyes foresee the predator that lurks
They must be silent, they must be sweet, they must breed, or food to feed
They are forced to die! Forced to live!
Abused, beaten, slaughtered, they know in any moment they could be killed
They must hide their instincts, in filthy bed holes of hutches
They are forced to succumb to disease, hardly nursed
They must be petite, they mustn’t chew, they mustn’t ****
They aren’t intelligent, or strong, or noble
They are Woman…


A Rabbit is a Woman, A Woman is a Rabbit
Both hunted, beaten, abused…
Both by society and mankind used
Both are powerful, intelligent, strong and noble
I am Woman, I am Rabbit
Obscurest night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent.
He lov'd them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away;
But wag'd with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.

He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay'd not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent pow'r,
His destiny repell'd;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried--Adieu!

At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere;
Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace

No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;
When, ******'d from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
Alan W Jankowski Jan 2012
The one thing I will never understand,
Is man's inhumanity to his fellow man,
How people who call each other sister and brother,
Could be so hurtful to one and other,
How people can treat each other so mean,
Without understanding where they've been,
Who would lead each other into war,
Choosing to be the problem, not the cure,
Who have the power to guide another man's fate,
With hidden agendas mixed with hate,
Who think nothing of causing another man pain,
If there is a dollar somehow to gain,
Who would send another man off to die,
While widows and orphans are left to cry,
Though they may play the part of an impartial judge,
They'll soon condemn you for some long-held grudge,
Stepping into the night like some heartless thief,
Their only goal is to bring another man grief,
Manipulating others they seek to control,
For a bit of power, they'd sell their soul,
Yes, the one thing I'll never understand,
Is man's inhumanity to his fellow man.

09-23-10.
Javier Garza Apr 2015
Call me queer, call me *******
But is my ****** life really that important to you?
I don't call you ****-cuffin, ***** eater, nor hetero freak
So why must I be insulted for my *** life while you remain unscathed?

Call me ****** all you want,
But let's be honest, my life isn't easy
But I'm still here
My heart still beats
I'm still strong

Call me fairy to your little heart's content
But answer me this, could your heart bare the abuse of every kind  for almost a decade?
Could your "holy" self withstand standing alone in the dark without so much as a friend?
I'm a "sinner" and I've withstood all those horrors and still came out strong

Call me a disgrace, an abomination, a freak
But answer this you pretentious *******,
Who's the one cursing people, condemning, hating, discriminating them for being nothing more than who they are?
That's right, you, not me
So think again, who's your god going to punish?
People who have done nothing wrong but be themselves?
Or the ignorant fools who think they are God and condemn others?

Call me ******, call me queer
I know who I am, and it's someone strong

Call me *******, call me fairy
I'm the one who will survive
Call me all you want,
It won't change who I am
Megan Hoagland Mar 2015
Let's get drunk off cheap wine.
Make out under the stars.
Feelin' spiritual tonight.
Hallelujah, amen.

I worship the taste of my lover.
Soak up the sweat from his skin.
Feelin' spiritual tonight.
Hallelujah, amen.

Singing praises that sound like moans.
Sighing his name, scarring his back.
Feelin' spiritual tonight.
Hallelujah, amen.

Laying claim to the blessings.
Anointed by hot breath.
Feelin' spiritual tonight.
Hallelujah, amen.

Some would call this sin.
Some would condemn, but I'm
Feelin' spiritual tonight.
Hallelujah, amen.
David Nelson May 2013
The Mask of Mediocrity

there are those here amongst us that hide
behind a mask of mediocrity
too frightened to even show us there own faces
so one dimensional in thought

it would be wrong to condemn or criticize
why they choose to hide
telling stories of their own fantasyland fantasies
real life scares the hell out of them

when it all comes down to the end
we are all wearing masks
we are all mediocre in averages of totality
good at one thing terrible on another

good hard workers reliable to the firm
great at making love
but terrible at giving true forgiving love
committed to their own world

and me I do not choose to hide my face
but mediocrity at its finest
still striving to reach that art of true forgiving love
trying to remove that mask
and by the way the real world scares the hell out of me too!    

Gomer LePoet ....
a look inside my soul :)

— The End —