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Meena Menon Sep 2021
Flicker Shimmer Glow

The brightest star can shine even with thick black velvet draped over it.  
Quartz, lime and salt crystals formed a glass ball.
The dark womb held me, warm and soft.  
My mom called my cries when I was born the most sorrowful sound she had ever heard.  
She said she’d never heard a baby make a sound like that.    
I’d open my eyes in low light until the world’s light healed rather than hurt.  
The summer before eighth grade, July 1992,
I watched a shooting star burn by at 100,000 miles per hour as I stood on the balcony  
while my family celebrated my birthday inside.  
It made it into the earth’s atmosphere
but it didn’t look like it was coming down;
I know it didn’t hit the ground but it burned something in the time it was here.  
The glass ball of my life cracked inside.  
Light reflected off the salt crystal cracks.  
I saw the beauty of the light within.  
Nacre from my shell kept those cracks from getting worse,
a wild pearl as defense mechanism.  
In 2001, I quit my job after they melted and poured tar all over my life.  
All summer literature class bathtubs filled with rose hip oil cleaned the tar.  
That fall logic and epistemology classes spewed black ink all over my philosophy
written over ten years then.  
Tar turned to asphalt when I met someone from my old job for a drink in November
and it paved a road for my life that went to the hospital I was in that December
where it sealed the roof on my life
when I was almost murdered there
and in February after meeting her for another drink.  
They lit a fire at the top of the glacier and pushed the burning pile of black coal off the edge,
burnt red, looking like flames falling into the valley.  
While that blazed the side of the cliff something lit an incandescent light.  
The electricity from the metal lightbulb ***** went through wires and heated the filament between until it glowed.  
I began putting more work into emotional balance from things I learned at AA meetings.  
In Spring 2003, the damage that the doctors at the hospital in 2001 had done
made it harder for light to reflect from the cracks in the glass ball.
I’d been eating healthy and trying to get regular exercises since 1994
but in Spring 2003 I began swimming for an hour every morning .  
The water washed the pollution from the burning coals off
And then I escaped in July.  
I moved to London to study English Language and Linguistics.  
I would’ve studied English Language and Literature.  
I did well until Spring 2004 when I thought I was being stalked.  
I thought I was manic.  
I thought I was being stalked.  
I went home and didn’t go back for my exams after spring holiday.  
Because I felt traumatized and couldn’t write poetry anymore,
I used black ink to write my notes for my book on trauma and the Russian Revolution.
I started teaching myself German.  
I stayed healthy.  
In 2005, my parents went to visit my mom’s family in Malaysia for two weeks.
I thought I was being stalked.  
I knew I wasn’t manic.  
I thought I was being stalked.  
I told my parents when they came home.  
They thought I was manic.  
I showed them the shoe prints in the snow of different sizes from the woods to the windows.  
They thought I was manic.  
I was outside of my comfort zone.  
I moved to California. I found light.  
I made light,
the light reflected off the salt crystals I used to heal the violence inflicted on me from then on.  
The light turned the traffic lights to not just green from red
but amber and blue.  
The light turned the car signals left and right.  
The light reflected off of salt crystals, light emitting diodes,
electrical energy turned directly to light,
electroluminescence.  
The electrical currents flowed through,
illuminating.  
Alone in the world, I moved to California in July 2005
but in August  I called the person I escaped in 2003,
the sulfur and nitrogen that I hated.  
He didn’t think I was manic but I never said anything.
I never told him why I asked him to move out to California.  
When his coal seemed like only pollution,
I asked him to leave.  
He threatened me.  
I called the authorities.  
They left me there.
He laughed.  
Then the violence came.  
****:  stabbed and punched, my ****** bruised, purple and swollen.  
The light barely reflected from the glass ball wIth cracks through all the acid rain, smoke and haze.
It would take me half an hour to get my body to do what my mind told it to after.  
My dad told me my mom had her cancer removed.
The next day, the coal said if I wanted him to leave he’d leave.  
I booked his ticket.
I drove him to the airport.  
Black clouds gushed the night before for the first time in months,
the sky clear after the rain.  
He was gone and I was free,
melted glass, heated up and poured—
looked like fire,
looked like the Snow Moon in February
with Mercury in the morning sky.  
I worked through ****.  
I worked to overcome trauma.  
Electricity between touch and love caused acid rain, smoke, haze, and mercury
to light the discharge lamps, streetlights and parking lot lights.
Then I changed the direction of the light waves.  
Like lead glass breaks up the light,
lead from the coal, cleaned and replaced by potassium,
glass cut clearly, refracting the light,
electrolytes,
electrical signals lit through my body,
thick black velvet drapes gone.  





















Lava

I think that someone wrote into some palm leaf a manuscript, a gift, a contract.  
After my parents wedding, while they were still in India,
they found out that my dad’s father and my mom’s grandfather worked for kings administering temples and collecting money for their king from the farmers that worked the rice paddies each king owned.  They both left their homes before they left for college.  
My dad, a son of a brahmin’s son,
grew up in his grandmother’s house.  
His mother was not a Brahmin.  
My mother grew up in Malaysia where she saw the children from the rubber plantation
when she walked to school.  
She doesn’t say what caste she is.  
He went to his father’s house, then college.  
He worked, then went to England, then Canada.  
She went to India then Canada.  
They moved to the United States around Christmas 1978
with my brother while she was pregnant with me.  
My father signed a contract with my mother.  
My parents took ashes and formed rock,
the residue left in brass pots in India,
the rocks, so hot, they turned back to lava miles away before turning back to ash again,
then back to rock,
the lava from a super volcano,
the ash purple and red.  


















Circles on a Moss Covered Volcano

The eruption beatifies the magma.  
It becomes obsidian,
only breaks with a fracture,
smooth circles where it breaks.  

My mom was born on the grass
on a lawn
in a moss covered canyon at the top of a volcanic island.  
My grandfather lived in Malaysia before the Japanese occupied.  
When the volcano erupted,
the lava dried at the ocean into black sand.  
The British allied with the Communist Party of Malaysia—
after they organized.  
After the Americans defeated the Japanese at Pearl Harbor,
the British took over Malaysia again.  
They kept different groups apart claiming they were helping them.  
The black sand had smooth pebbles and sharp rocks.  
Ethnic Malay farmers lived in Kampongs, villages.  
Indians lived on plantations.  
The Chinese lived in towns and urban areas.  
Ethnic Malays wanted independence.
In 1946, after strikes, demonstrations, and boycotts
the British agreed to work with them.  
The predominantly Chinese Communist Party of Malaysia went underground,
guerrilla warfare against the British,
claiming their fight was for independence.  
For the British, that emergency required vast powers
of arrest, detention without trial and deportation to defeat terrorism.  
The Emergency became less unpopular as the terrorism became worse.  
The British were the iron that brought oxygen through my mom’s body.  
She loved riding on her father’s motorcycle with him
by the plantations,
through the Kampongs
and to the city, half an hour away.  
The British left Malaysia independent in 1957
with Malaysian nationalists holding most state and federal government offices.  
As the black sand stretches towards the ocean,
it becomes big stones of dried lava, flat and smooth.  

My mom thought her father and her uncle were subservient to the British.  
She thought all things, all people were equal.  
When her father died when she was 16, 1965,
they moved to India,
my mother,
a foreigner in India, though she’s Indian.  
She loved rock and roll and mini skirts
and didn’t speak the local language.  
On the dried black lava,
it can be hard to know the molten lava flickers underneath there.  
Before the Korean War,
though Britain and the United States wanted
an aggressive resolution
condemning North Korea,
they were happy
that India supported a draft resolution
condemning North Korea
for breach of the peace.  
During the Korean War,
India, supported by Third World and other Commonwealth nations,
opposed United States’ proposals.
They were able to change the U.S. resolution
to include the proposals they wanted
and helped end the war.  
China wanted the respect of Third World nations
and saw the United States as imperialist.  
China thought India was a threat to the Third World
by taking aid from the United States and the Soviets.  
Pakistan could help with that and a seat at the United Nations.  
China wanted Taiwan’s seat at the UN.
My mother went to live with her uncle,
a communist negotiator for a corporation,
in India.  
A poet,
he threw parties and invited other artists, musicians and writers.  
I have the same brown hyperpigmentation at my joints that he had.  
During the day, only the steam from the hot lava can be seen.  
In 1965, Pakistani forces went into Jammu and Kashmir with China’s support.  
China threatened India after India sent its troops in.  
Then they threatened again before sending their troops to the Indian border.  
The United States stopped aid to Pakistan and India.
Pakistan agreed to the UN ceasefire agreement.  
Pakistan helped China get a seat at the UN
and tried to keep the west from escalating in Vietnam.  
The smoldering sound of the lava sizzles underneath the dried lava.  
When West Pakistan refused to allow East Pakistan independence,
violence between Bengalis and Biharis developed into upheaval.  
Bengalis moved to India
and India went into East Pakistan.  
Pakistan surrendered in December 1971.  
East Pakistan became independent Bangladesh

The warm light of the melted lava radiates underneath but burns.  
In 1974, India tested the Smiling Buddha,
a nuclear bomb.  
After Indira Gandhi’s conviction for election fraud in 1973,
Marxist Professor Narayan called for total revolution
and students protested all over India.  
With food shortages, inflation and regional disputes
like Sikh separatists training in Pakistan for an independent Punjab,
peasants and laborers joined the protests.  
Railway strikes stopped the economy.  
In 1975, Indira Gandhi, the Iron Lady,
declared an Emergency,
imprisoning political opponents, restricting freedoms and restricting the press,
claiming threats to national security
because the war with Pakistan had just ended.  
The federal government took over Kerala’s communist dominated government and others.  

My mom could’ve been a dandelion, but she’s more like thistle.  
She has the center that dries and flutters in the wind,
beautiful and silky,
spiny and prickly,
but still fluffy, downy,
A daisy.
They say thistle saved Scotland from the Norse.  
Magma from the volcano explodes
and the streams of magma fly into the air.  
In the late 60s,
the civil rights movement rose
against the state in Northern Ireland
for depriving Catholics
of influence and opportunity.
The Northern Irish police,
Protestant and unionist, anti-catholic,
responded violently to the protests and it got worse.  
In 1969, the British placed Arthur Young,
who had worked at the Federation of Malaya
at the time of their Emergency
at the head of the British military in Northern Ireland.
The British military took control over the police,
a counter insurgency rather than a police force,
crowd control, house searches, interrogation, and street patrols,
use of force against suspects and uncooperative citizens.  
Political crimes were tolerated by Protestants but not Catholics.  
The lava burns the rock off the edge of the volcano.  

On January 30, 1972, ****** Sunday,  
British Army policing killed 13 unarmed protesters
fighting for their rights over their neighborhood,
protesting the internment of suspected nationalists.
That led to protests across Ireland.  
When banana leaves are warmed,
oil from the banana leaves flavors the food.  
My dad flew from Canada to India in February 1972.  
On February 4, my dad met my mom.  
On February 11, 1972,
my dad married my mom.  
They went to Canada,
a quartz singing bowl and a wooden mallet wrapped in suede.  
The rock goes down with the lava, breaking through the rocks as it goes down.  
In March 1972, the British government took over
because they considered the Royal Ulster Police and the Ulster Special Constabulary
to be causing most of the violence.  
The lava blocks and reroutes streams,
melts snow and ice,
flooding.  
Days later, there’s still smoke, red.  
My mom could wear the clothes she liked
without being judged
with my dad in Canada.  
She didn’t like asking my dad for money.
My dad, the copper helping my mother use that iron,
wanted her to go to college and finish her bachelors degree.
She got a job.  
In 1976, the police took over again in Northern Ireland
but they were a paramilitary force—
armored SUVs, bullet proof jackets, combat ready
with the largest computerized surveillance system in the UK,
high powered weapons,
trained in counter insurgency.  
Many people were murdered by the police
and few were held accountable.  
Most of the murdered people were not involved in violence or crime.  
People were arrested under special emergency powers
for interrogation and intelligence gathering.  
People tried were tried in non-jury courts.  
My mom learned Malayalam in India
but didn’t speak well until living with my dad.  
She also learned to cook after getting married.  
Her mother sent her recipes; my dad cooked for her—
turmeric, cumin, coriander, cayenne and green chiles.  
Having lived in different countries,
my mom’s food was exposed to many cultures,
Chinese and French.
Ground rock, minerals and glass
covered the ground
from the ash plume.  
She liked working.  

A volcano erupted for 192 years,
an ice age,
disordered ices, deformed under pressure
and ordered ice crystals, brittle in the ice core records.  
My mother liked working.  
Though Khomeini was in exile by the 1970s in Iran,
more people, working and poor,
turned to him and the ****-i-Ulama for help.
My mom didn’t want kids though my dad did.
She agreed and in 1978 my brother was born.
Iran modernized but agriculture and industry changed so quickly.  
In January 1978, students protested—
censorship, surveillance, harassment, illegal detention and torture.  
Young people and the unemployed joined.  
My parents moved to the United States in December 1978.  
The regime used a lot of violence against the protesters,
and in September 1978 declared martial law in Iran.  
Troops were shooting demonstrators.
In January 1979, the Shah and his family fled.  
On February 11, 1979, my parents’ anniversary,
the Iranian army declared neutrality.  
I was born in July 1979.
The chromium in emeralds and rubies colors them.
My brother was born in May and I was born in July.

Obsidian—
iron, copper and chromium—
isn’t a gas
but it isn’t a crystal;
it’s between the two,
the ordered crystal and the disordered gas.  
They made swords out of obsidian.  





Warm Light Shatters

The eruption beatifies the magma.  
It becomes obsidian,
only breaks with a fracture,
smooth circles where it breaks.  

My dad was born on a large flat rock on the edge of the top
of a hill,
Molasses, sweet and dark, the potent flavor dominates,
His father, the son of a Brahmin,
His mother from a lower caste.
His father’s family wouldn’t touch him,
He grew up in his mother’s mother’s house on a farm.  
I have the same brown hyperpigmentation spot on my right hand that he has.

In 1901, D’Arcy bought a 60 year concession for oil exploration In Iran.
The Iranian government extended it for another 32 years in 1933.
At that time oil was Iran’s “main source of income.”
In 1917’s Balfour Declaration, the British government proclaimed that they favored a national home for the Jews in Palestine and their “best endeavors to facilitate the achievement” of that.

The British police were in charge of policing in the mandate of Palestine.  A lot of the policemen they hired were people who had served in the British army before, during the Irish War for Independence.  
The army tried to stop how violent the police were, police used torture and brutality, some that had been used during the Irish War for Independence, like having prisoners tied to armored cars and locomotives and razing the homes of people in prison or people they thought were related to people thought to be rebels.
The police hired Arab police and Jewish police for lower level policing,
Making local people part of the management.
“Let Arab police beat up Arabs and Jewish police beat up Jews.”

The lava blocks and reroutes streams, melts snow and ice, flooding.
In 1922, there were 83,000 Jews, 71,000 Christians, and 589,000 Muslims.
The League If Nations endorsed the British Mandate.
During an emergency, in the 1930s, British regulations allowed collective punishment, punishing villages for incidents.
Local officers in riots often deserted and also shared intelligence with their own people.
The police often stole, destroyed property, tortured and killed people.  
Arab revolts sapped the police power over Palestinians by 1939.

My father’s mother was from a matrilineal family.
My dad remembers tall men lining up on pay day to respectfully wait for her, 5 feet tall.  
She married again after her husband died.
A manager from a tile factory,
He spoke English so he supervised finances and correspondence.
My dad, a sunflower, loved her: she scared all the workers but exuded warmth to the people she loved.

Obsidian shields people from negative energy.
David Cargill founded the Burmah Oil Co. in 1886.
If there were problems with oil exploration in Burma and Indian government licenses, Persian oil would protect the company.  
In July 1906, many European oil companies, BP, Royal Dutch Shell and others, allied to protect against the American oil company, Standard Oil.
D’Arcy needed money because “Persian oil took three times as long to come on stream as anticipated.”
Burmah Oil Co. began the Anglo-Persian Oil Co. as a subsidiary.
Ninety-seven percent of British Petroleum was owned by Burmah Oil Co.
By 1914, the British government owned 51% of the Anglo-Persian Oil Co.  
Anglo-Persian acquired independence from Burmah Oil and Royal Dutch Shell with two million pounds from the British government.

The lava burns the rock off the edge of the volcano.
In 1942, after the Japanese took Burma,
the British destroyed their refineries before leaving.
The United Nations had to find other sources of oil.
In 1943, Japan built the Burma-Thailand Railroad with forced labor from the Malay peninsula who were mostly from the rubber plantations.

The rock goes down with the lava, breaking through the rocks as it goes down.
In 1945. Japan destroyed their refineries before leaving Burma.
Cargill, Watson and Whigham were on the Burmah Oil Co. Board and then the Anglo Iranian Oil Co. Board.  

In 1936 Palestine, boycotts, work stoppages, and violence against British police officials and soldiers compelled the government to appoint an investigatory commission.  
Leaders of Egypt, Trans Jordan, Syria and Iraq helped end the work stoppages.
The British government had the Peel Commission read letters, memoranda, and petitions and speak with British officials, Jews and Arabs.  
The Commission didn’t believe that Arabs and Jews could live together in a single Jewish state.
Because of administrative and financial difficulties the Colonial Secretary stated that to split Palestine into Arab and Jewish states was impracticable.  
The Commission recommended transitioning 250,000 Arabs and 1500 Jews with British control over their oil pipeline, their naval base and Jerusalem.  
The League of Nations approved.
“It will not remove the grievance nor prevent the recurrence,” Lord Peel stated after.
The Arab uprising was much more militant after Peel.  Thousands of Arabs were wounded, ten thousand were detained.  
In Sykes-Picot and the Husain McMahon agreements, the British promised the Arabs an independent state but they did not keep that promise.  
Representatives from the Arab states rejected the Peel recommendations.
United Nations General Assembly Resolution181 partitioned Palestine into Arab and Jewish states with an international regime for the city of Jerusalem backed by the United States and the Soviet Union.  

The Israeli Yishuv had strong military and intelligence organization —-  
the British recognized that their interest was with the Arabs and abstained from the vote.  
In 1948, Israel declared the establishment of its state.  
Ground rock, minerals, and gas covered the ground from the ash plume.
The Palestinian police force was disbanded and the British gave officers the option of serving in Malaya.

Though Truman, Eisenhower and Kennedy supported snd tried to get Israel to offer the Arabs concessions, it wasn’t a major priority and didn’t always approve of Israel’s plans.
Arabs that had supported the British to end Turkish rule stopped supporting the West.  
Many Palestinians joined left wing groups and violent third world movements.  
Seventy-eight percent of the territory of former Palestine was under Israel’s control.  

My dad left for college in 1957 and lived in an apartment above the United States Information services office.
Because he graduated at the top of his class, he was given a job with the public works department of the government on the electricity board.  
“Once in, you’ll never leave.”
When he wanted a job where he could do real work, his father was upset.
He broke the chains with bells for vespers.
He got a job in Calcutta at Kusum Products and left the government, though it was prestigious to work there.
In the chemical engineering division, one of the projects he worked on was to design a *** distillery, bells controlled by hammers, hammers controlled by a keyboard.
His boss worked in the United Kingdom for. 20 years before the company he worked at, part of Power Gas Corporation, asked him to open a branch in Calcutta.
He opened the branch and convinced an Industrialist to open a company doing the same work with him.  The branch he opened closed after that.  
My dad applied for labor certification to work abroad and was selected.  
His boss wrote a reference letter for my him to the company he left in the UK.  My dad sent it telling the company when he was leaving for the UK.  
The day he left for London, he got the letter they sent in the mail telling him to take the train to Sheffield the next day and someone from the firm would meet him at the station.  
His dad didn’t know he left, he didn’t tell him.
He broke the chains with chimes for schisms.


Anglo-Persian Oil became Anglo-Iranian Oil in 1935.
The British government used oil and Anglo-Persian oil to fight communism, have a stronger relationship with the United States and make the United Kingdom more powerful.  
The National Secularists, the Tudeh, and the Communists wanted to nationalize Iran’s oil and mobilized the Iranian people.
The British feared nationalization in Iran would incite political parties like the Secular Nationalists all over the world.  
In 1947, the Iranian government passed the Single Article Law that “[increased] investment In welfare benefits, health, housing, education, and implementation of Iranianization through substitution of foreigners” at Anglo-Iranian Oil Co.
“Anglo-Iranian Oil Company made more profit in 1950 than it paid to the Iranian government in royalties over the previous half century.”
The Anglo-Iranian Oil Company tried to negotiate a new concession and claimed they’d hire more Iranian people into jobs held by British and people from other nationalities at the company.
Their hospitals had segregated wards.  
On May 1, 1951, the Iranian government passed a bill that nationalized Anglo- Iranian Oil Co.’s holdings.  
During the day, only the steam from the hot lava can be seen.
In August 1953, the Iranian people elected Mossadegh from the Secular Nationalist Party as prime minister.
The British government with the CIA overthrew Mossadegh using the Iranian military after inducing protests and violent demonstrations.  
Anglo-Iranian Oil changed its name to British Petroleum in 1954.
Iranians believe that America destroyed Iran’s “last chance for democracy” and blamed America for Iran’s autocracy, its human rights abuses, and secret police.

The smoldering sound of the lava sizzles underneath the dried lava.  
In 1946, Executive Yuan wanted control over 4 groups of Islands in the South China Sea to have a stronger presence there:  the Paracels, the Spratlys, Macclesfield Bank, and the Pratas.
The French forces in the South China Sea would have been stronger than the Chinese Navy then.
French Naval forces were in the Gulf of Tonkin, U.S. forces were in the Taiwan Strait, the British were in Hong Kong, and the Portuguese were in Macao.
In the 1950s, British snd U.S. oil companies thought there might be oil in the Spratlys.  
By 1957, French presence in the South China Sea was hardly there.  

When the volcano erupted, the lava dried at the ocean into black sand.
By 1954, the Tudeh Party’s communist movement and  intelligence organization had been destroyed.  
Because of the Shah and his government’s westernization policies and disrespectful treatment of the Ulama, Iranians began identifying with the Ulama and Khomeini rather than their government.  
Those people joined with secular movements to overthrow the Shah.  

In 1966, Ne Win seized power from U Nu in Burma.
“Soldiers ruled Burma as soldiers.”
Ne Win thought that western political
Institutions “encouraged divisions.”
Minority groups found foreign support for their separatist goals.
The Karens and the Mons supported U Nu in Bangkok.  


Rare copper, a heavy metal, no alloys,
a rock in groundwater,
conducts electricity and heat.
In 1965, my Dad’s cousin met him at Heathrow, gave him a coat and £10 and brought him to a bed and breakfast across from Charing Cross Station where he’d get the train to Sheffield the next morning.
He took the train and someone met him at the train station.  
At the interview they asked him to design a grandry girder, the main weight bearing steel girder as a test.
Iron in the inner and outer core of the earth,
He’d designed many of those.  
He was hired and lived at the YMCA for 2 1/2 years.  
He took his mother’s family name, Menon, instead of his father’s, Varma.
In 1967, he left for Canada and interviewed at Bechtel before getting hired at Seagrams.  
Iron enables blood to carry oxygen.
His boss recommended him for Dale Carnegie’s leadership training classes and my dad joined the National Instrument Society and became President.
He designed a still In Jamaica,
Ordered all the parts, nuts and bolts,
Had all the parts shipped to Jamaica and made sure they got there.
His boss supervised the construction, installation and commission in Jamaica.
Quartz, heat and fade resistant, though he was an engineer and did the work of an engineer, my dad only had the title, technician so my dad’s boss thought he wasn’t getting paid enough but couldn’t get his boss to offer more than an extra $100/week or the title of engineer; he told my dad he thought he should leave.
In 1969, he got a job at Celanese, which made rayon.
He quit Celanese to work at McGill University and they allowed him to take classes to earn his MBA while working.  

The United States and Israel’s alliance was strong by 1967.
United Nations Security Council Resolution 242 at the end of the Third Arab Israeli War didn’t mention the Palestinians but mentioned the refugee problem.
After 1967, the Palestinians weren’t often mentioned and when mentioned only as terrorists.  
Palestinians’ faith in the “American sponsored peace process” diminished, they felt the world community ignored and neglected them also.
Groups like MAN that stopped expecting anything from Arab regimes began hijacking airplanes.
By 1972, the Palestine Liberation Organization had enough international support to get by the United States’ veto in the United Nations Security Council and Arab League recognition as representative of the Palestinian people.
The Palestinians knew the United States stated its support, as the British had, but they weren’t able to accomplish anything.  
The force Israel exerted in Johnson’s United States policy delivered no equilibrium for the Palestinians.  

In 1969, all political parties submitted to the BSPP, Burma Socialist Programme Party.
Ne Win nationalized banks and oil and deprived minorities of opportunities.
Ne Win became U Nu Win, civilian leader of Burma in 1972 and stopped the active role that U Nu defined for Burma internationally
He put military people in power even when they didn’t have experience which triggered “maldistribution of goods and chronic shortages.”  
Resources were located in areas where separatist minorities had control.

The British presence in the South China Sea ended in 1968.  
The United States left Vietnam in 1974 and China went into the Western Paracels.
The U.S. didn’t intervene and Vietnam took the Spratlys.
China wanted to claim the continental shelf In the central part of the South China Sea and needed the Spratlys.
The United States mostly disregarded the Ulama In Iran and bewildered the Iranian people by not supporting their revolution.

Obsidian—
iron, copper and chromium—
isn’t a gas
but it isn’t a crystal;
it’s between the two,
the ordered crystal and the disordered gas.  
They made swords out of obsidian.


Edelweiss

I laid out in my backyard in my bikini.  
I love the feeling of my body in the sun.  
I’d be dark from the end of spring until winter.
The snow froze my bare feet through winter ,
my skin pale.
American towns in 1984,
Free, below glaciers the sunlight melted the snow,
a sea of green and the edelweiss on the edge of the  limestone,
frosted but still strong.    
When the spring warmed the grass,
the grass warmed my feet. 
The whole field looked cold and white from the glacier but in the meadow,
the bright yellow centers of those flowers float free in the center of the white petals.
The bright yellow center of those edelweiss scared the people my parents ran to America from India to get away from.  
On a sidewalk in Queens, New York in 1991, the men stared and yelled comments at me in short shorts and a fitted top in the summer.  
I grabbed my dad’s arm.

























The Bread and Coconut Butter of Aparigraha

Twelve year old flowerhead,
Marigold, yarrow and nettle,
I’d be all emotion
If not for all my work
From the time I was a teenager.
I got depressed a lot.
I related to people I read about
In my weather balloon,
Grasping, ignorant, and desperate,
But couldn’t relate to other twelve year olds.
After school I read Dali’s autobiography,
Young ****** Autosodomized by Her Own Chastity.
Fresh, green nettle with fresh and dried yarrow for purity.
Dead souls enticed to the altar by orange marigolds,
passion and creativity,
Coax sleep and rouse dreams.
Satellites measure indirectly with wave lengths of light.
My weather balloon measures the lower and middle levels of the atmosphere directly,
Fifty thousand feet high,
Metal rod thermometer,
Slide humidity sensor,
Canister for air pressure.

I enjoy rye bread and cold coconut butter in my weather balloon,
But I want Dali, and all the artists and writers.
Rye grows at high altitudes
But papyrus grows in soil and shallow water,
Strips of papyrus pith shucked from their stems.
When an anchor’s weighed, a ship sails,
But when grounded we sail.
Marigolds, yarrow and nettle,
Flowerhead,
I use the marigold for sleep,
The yarrow for endurance and intensity,
toiling for love and truth,
And the nettle for healing.
Strong rye bread needs equally strong flavors.
By the beginning of high school,
I read a lot of Beat literature
And found Buddhism.
I loved what I read
But I didn’t like some things.
I liked attachment.  
I got to the ground.
Mushrooms grow in dry soil.
Attachment to beauty is Buddha activity.
Not being attached to things I don’t find beautiful is Buddha activity.  
I fried mushrooms in a single layer in oil, fleshy.
I roasted mushrooms at high temperatures in the oven, crisp.
I simmered mushrooms in stock with kombu.
Rye bread with cold coconut butter and cremini mushrooms,
raw, soft and firm.  
Life continues, life changes,
Attachments, losses, mourning and suffering,
But change lures growth.
I find stream beds and wet soil.
I lay the strips of papyrus next to each other.
I cross papyrus strips over the first,
Then wet the crossed papyrus strips,
Press and cement them into a sheet.
I hammer it and dry it in the sun,
With no thought of achievement or self,
Flowerhead,
Hands filled with my past,
Head filled with the future,
Dali, artists poets,
Wishes and desires aligned with nature,
Abundance,
Cocoa, caraway, and molasses.

If I ever really like someone,
I’ll be wearing the dress he chooses,
Fresh green nettle and yarrow, the seeds take two years to grow strong,
Lasting love.
Marigolds steer dead souls from the altar to the afterlife,
Antiseptic, healing wounds,
Soothing sore throats and headaches.
Imperturbable, stable flowerhead,
I empty my mind.
When desires are aligned with nature, desire flows.
Papyrus makes paper and cloth.
Papyrus makes sails.
Charcoal from the ash of pulverized papyrus heals wounds.
Without attachment to the fruit of action
There is continuation of life,
Rye bread and melted coconut butter,
The coconut tree in the coconut butter,
The seed comes from the ground out of nothing,
Naturalness.
It has form.
As the seed grows the seed expresses the tree,
The seed expresses the coconut,
The seed expresses the coconut butter.
Rye bread, large open hollows, chambers,
Immersed in melted coconut butter,
Desire for expansion and creation,
No grasping, not desperate.
When the mind is compassion, the mind is boundless.
Every moment,
only that,
Every moment,
a scythe to the papyrus in the stream bed of the past.  

































Sound on Powdery Blue

Potter’s clay, nymph, plum unplumbed, 1993.
Dahlia, ice, powder, musk and rose,
my source of life emerged in darkness, blackness.
Seashell fragments in the sand,
The glass ball of my life cracked inside,
Light reflected off the salt crystal cracks,
Nacre kept those cracks from getting worse.
Young ****** Autosodomized By Her Own Chastity,
Nymph, I didn’t want to give my body,
Torn, *****, ballgown,
To people who wouldn’t understand me,
Piquant.

Outside on the salt flats,
Aphrodite, goddess of beauty, pleasure and fertility and
Asexual Artemis, goddess of animals, and the hunt,
Mistress of nymphs,
Punish with ruthless savagery.

In my bedroom, blue caribou moss covered rocks, pine, and yew trees,
The heartwood writhes as hurricane gales, twisters and whirlwinds
Contort their bark,
Roots strong in the soil.
Orris root dried in the sun, bulbs like wood.
Dahlia runs to baritone soundbath radio waves.
Light has frequencies,
Violet between blue and invisible ultraviolet,
Flame, slate and flint.
Every night is cold.

Torii gates, pain secured as sacred.
An assignation, frost hardy dahlia and a plangent resonant echo.
High frequency sound waves convert to electrical signals,
Breathe from someone I want,
Silt.
Beam, radiate, ensorcel.
I break the bark,
Sap flows and dries,
Resin seals over the tear.
I distill pine,
Resin and oil for turpentine, a solvent.
Quiver, bemired,
I lead sound into my darkness,
Orris butter resin, sweet and warm,
Hot jam drops on snow drops,
Orange ash on smoke,
Balm on lava,
The problem with cotton candy.

Electrical signals give off radiation or light waves,
The narrow frequency range where
The crest of a radio wave and the crest of a light wave overlap,
Infrared.
Glaciers flow, sunlight melts the upper layers of the snow when strong,
A wet snow avalanche,
A torrent, healing.
Brown sugar and whiskey,
Undulant, lavender.
Pine pitch, crystalline, sticky, rich and golden,
And dried pine rosin polishes glass smooth
Like the smell of powdery orris after years.
Softness, flush, worthy/not worthy,
Rich rays thunder,
Intensify my pulse,
Frenzied red,
Violet between blue and invisible ultraviolet.
Babylon—flutter, glow.
Unquenchable cathartic orris.  

















Pink Graphite

Camellias, winter shrubs,
Their shallow roots grow beneath the spongy caribou moss,
Robins egg blue.
After writing a play with my gifted students program in 1991,
I stopped spending all my free time writing short stories,
But the caribou moss was still soft.

In the cold Arctic of that town,
The evergreen protected the camellias from the afternoon sun and storms.
They branded hardy camellias with a brass molded embossing iron;
I had paper and graphite for my pencils.

After my ninth grade honors English teacher asked us to write poems in 1994,
It began raining.
We lived on an overhang.
A vertical rise to the top of the rock.
The rainstorm caused a metamorphic change in the snowpack,
A wet snow avalanche drifted slowly down the moss covered rock,
The snow already destabilized by exposure to the sunlight.

The avalanche formed lakes,
rock basins washed away with rainwater and melted snow,
Streams dammed by the rocks.  
My pencils washed away in the avalanche,
My clothes heavy and cold.
I wove one side of each warp fiber through the eye of the needle and one side through each slot,
Salves, ointments, serums and tinctures.
I was mining for graphite.
They were mining me,
The only winch, the sound through the water.

A steep staircase to the red Torii gates,
I broke the chains with bells for vespers
And chimes for schisms,
And wove the weft across at right angles to the warp.  

On a rocky ledge at the end of winter,
The pink moon, bitters and body butter,
They tried to get  me to want absinthe,
Wormwood for bitterness and regret.
Heat and pressure formed carbon for flakes of graphite.
Heat and pressure,
I made bitters,
Brandy, grapefruit, chocolate, mandarin rind, tamarind and sugar.
I grounded my feet in the pink moss,
paper dried in one hand,
and graphite for my pencils in the other.  



































Flakes

I don’t let people that put me down be part of my life.  
Gardens and trees,
My shadow sunk in the grass in my yard
As I ate bread, turmeric and lemon.
Carbon crystallizes into graphite flakes.
I write to see well,
Graphite on paper.  
A shadow on rock tiles with a shield, a diamond and a bell
Had me ***** to humiliate me.
Though I don’t let people that put me down near me,
A lot of people putting me down seemed like they were following me,
A platform to jump from
While she had her temple.  

There was a pink door to the platform.
I ate bread with caramelized crusts and
Drank turmeric lemonade
Before I opened that door,
Jumped and
Descended into blankets and feathers.
I found matches and rosin
For turpentine to clean,
Dried plums and licorice.  

In the temple,
In diamonds, leather, wool and silk,
She had her shield and bells,
Drugs and technology,
Thermovision 210 and Minox,
And an offering box where people believed
That if their coins went in
Their wishes would come true.

Hollyhock and smudging charcoal for work,  
Belled,
I ground grain in the mill for the bread I baked for breakfast.
The bells are now communal bells
With a watchtower and a prison,
Her shield, a blowtorch and flux,
Her ex rays, my makeshift records
Because Stalin didn’t like people dancing,
He liked them divebombing.
Impurities in the carbon prevent diamonds from forming,
Measured,
The most hard, the most expensive,
But graphite’s soft delocalized electrons move.  






































OCEAN BED

The loneliness of going to sleep by myself.  
I want a bed that’s high off the ground,
a mattress, an ocean.
I want a crush and that  person in my bed.  
Only that,
a crush in my bed,
an ocean in my bed.  
Just love.  
But I sleep with my thumbs sealed.  
I sleep with my hands, palms up.  
I sleep with my hands at my heart.  
They sear my compassion with their noise.  
They hold their iron over their fire and try to carve their noise into my love,
scored by the violence of voices, dark and lurid,  
but not burned.  
I want a man in my bed.  
When I wake up in an earthquake
I want to be held through the aftershocks.  
I like men,
the waves come in and go out
but the ocean was part of my every day.  
I don’t mind being fetishized in the ocean.  
I ran by the ocean every morning.  
I surfed in the ocean.  
I should’ve gone into the ocean that afternoon at Trestles,
holding my water jugs, kneeling at the edge.  














Morning

I want to fall asleep in the warm arms of a fireman.  
I want to wake up to the smell of coffee in my kitchen.  

Morning—the molten lava in the outer core of the earth embeds the iron from the inner core into the earth’s magnetic field.  
The magnetic field flips.  
The sun, so strong, where it gets through the trees it burns everything but the pine.  
The winds change direction.  
Storms cast lightening and rain.  
Iron conducts solar flares and the heavy wind.  
In that pine forest, I shudder every time I see a speck of light for fear of neon and fluorescents.  The eucalyptus cleanses congestion.  
And Kerouac’s stream ululates, crystal bowl sound baths.  
I follow the sound to the water.  
The stream ends at a bluff with a thin rocky beach below.  
The green water turns black not far from the shore.  
Before diving into the ocean, I eat globe mallow from the trees, stems and leaves, the viscous flesh, red, soft and nutty.  
I distill the pine from one of the tree’s bark and smudge the charcoal over my skin.  

Death, the palo santo’s lit, cleansing negative energy.  
It’s been so long since I’ve smelled a man, woodsmoke, citrus and tobacco.  
Jasmine, plum, lime and tuberose oil on the base of my neck comforts.  
Parabolic chambers heal, sound waves through water travel four times faster.  
The sound of the open sea recalibrates.  
I dissolve into the midnight blue of the ocean.  

I want to fall asleep in the warm arms of a fireman.  
I want to wake up to the smell of coffee in my kitchen.  
I want hot water with coconut oil when I get up.  
We’d lay out on the lawn, surrounded by high trees that block the wind.  
Embers flying through the air won’t land in my yard, on my grass, or near my trees.  





Blue Paper

Haze scatters blue light on a planet.  
Frought women, livid, made into peonies by Aphrodites that caught their men flirting and blamed the women, flushed red.
and blamed the women, flushed red.
Frought women, livid, chrysanthemums, dimmed until the end of the season, exchanged and retained like property.  
Blue women enter along the sides of her red Torii gates, belayed, branded and belled, a plangent sound.  
By candles, colored lights and dried flowers she’s sitting inside on a concrete floor, punctures and ruin burnished with paper, making burnt lime from lime mortar.  
Glass ***** on the ceiling, she moves the beads of a Palestinian glass bead bracelet she holds in her hands.  
She bends light to make shadows against  thin wooden slats curbed along the wall, and straight across the ceiling.
A metier, she makes tinctures, juniper berries and cotton *****.
Loamy soil in the center of the room,
A hawthorn tree stands alone,
A gateway for fairies.
large stones at the base protecting,
It’s branches a barrier.  
It’s leaves and shoots make bread and cheese.
It’s berries, red skin and yellow flesh, make jam.
Green bamboo stakes for the peonies when they whither from the weight of their petals.
And lime in the soil.  
She adds wood chips to the burnt lime in the kiln,
Unrolled paper, spools, and wire hanging.
Wood prayer beads connect her to the earth,
The tassels on the end of the beads connect her to spirit, to higher truth.
Minerals, marine mud and warm basins of seawater on a flower covered desk.  
She adds slaked lime to the burnt lime and wood chips.  
The lime converts to paper,
Trauma victims speak,
Light through butterfly wings.  
She’s plumeria with curved petals, thick, holding water
This is what I have written of my book.  I’ll be changing where the poems with the historical research go.  There are four more of those and nine of the other poems.
It is full summer now, the heart of June;
Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir
Upon the upland meadow where too soon
Rich autumn time, the season’s usurer,
Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.

Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,
That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on
To vex the rose with jealousy, and still
The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,
And like a strayed and wandering reveller
Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June’s messenger

The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,
One pale narcissus loiters fearfully
Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness some violets lie
That will not look the gold sun in the face
For fear of too much splendour,—ah! methinks it is a place

Which should be trodden by Persephone
When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!
Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!
The hidden secret of eternal bliss
Known to the Grecian here a man might find,
Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.

There are the flowers which mourning Herakles
Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,
Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze
Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,
That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,
And lilac lady’s-smock,—but let them bloom alone, and leave

Yon spired hollyhock red-crocketed
To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,
Its little bellringer, go seek instead
Some other pleasaunce; the anemone
That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl
Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl

Their painted wings beside it,—bid it pine
In pale virginity; the winter snow
Will suit it better than those lips of thine
Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go
And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,
Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.

The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus
So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet
Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous
As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet
Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar
For any dappled fawn,—pluck these, and those fond flowers which
are

Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon
Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,
That morning star which does not dread the sun,
And budding marjoram which but to kiss
Would sweeten Cytheraea’s lips and make
Adonis jealous,—these for thy head,—and for thy girdle take

Yon curving spray of purple clematis
Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,
And foxgloves with their nodding chalices,
But that one narciss which the startled Spring
Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard
In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer’s bird,

Ah! leave it for a subtle memory
Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,
When April laughed between her tears to see
The early primrose with shy footsteps run
From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,
Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering
gold.

Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet
As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry!
And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet
Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,
For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride
And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.

And I will cut a reed by yonder spring
And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan
Wonder what young intruder dares to sing
In these still haunts, where never foot of man
Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy
The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.

And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears
Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,
And why the hapless nightingale forbears
To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone
When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,
And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east.

And I will sing how sad Proserpina
Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,
And lure the silver-breasted Helena
Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,
So shalt thou see that awful loveliness
For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war’s abyss!

And then I’ll pipe to thee that Grecian tale
How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,
And hidden in a grey and misty veil
Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun
Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase
Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.

And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,
We may behold Her face who long ago
Dwelt among men by the AEgean sea,
And whose sad house with pillaged portico
And friezeless wall and columns toppled down
Looms o’er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured town.

Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile,
They are not dead, thine ancient votaries;
Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile
Is better than a thousand victories,
Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo
Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few

Who for thy sake would give their manlihood
And consecrate their being; I at least
Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,
And in thy temples found a goodlier feast
Than this starved age can give me, spite of all
Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.

Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,
The woods of white Colonos are not here,
On our bleak hills the olive never blows,
No simple priest conducts his lowing steer
Up the steep marble way, nor through the town
Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.

Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,
Whose very name should be a memory
To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest
Beneath the Roman walls, and melody
Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play
The lute of Adonais:  with his lips Song passed away.

Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left
One silver voice to sing his threnody,
But ah! too soon of it we were bereft
When on that riven night and stormy sea
Panthea claimed her singer as her own,
And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk
alone,

Save for that fiery heart, that morning star
Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye
Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war
The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy
Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring
The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,

And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,
And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot
In passionless and fierce virginity
Hunting the tusked boar, his honied lute
Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,
And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.

And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,
And sung the Galilaean’s requiem,
That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine
He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him
Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,
And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.

Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,
It is not quenched the torch of poesy,
The star that shook above the Eastern hill
Holds unassailed its argent armoury
From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight—
O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,

Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child,
Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed,
With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled
The weary soul of man in troublous need,
And from the far and flowerless fields of ice
Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.

We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s bride,
Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,
How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,
And what enchantment held the king in thrall
When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers
That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,

Long listless summer hours when the noon
Being enamoured of a damask rose
Forgets to journey westward, till the moon
The pale usurper of its tribute grows
From a thin sickle to a silver shield
And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field

Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,
At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come
Almost before the blackbird finds a mate
And overstay the swallow, and the hum
Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,
Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,

And through their unreal woes and mimic pain
Wept for myself, and so was purified,
And in their simple mirth grew glad again;
For as I sailed upon that pictured tide
The strength and splendour of the storm was mine
Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine;

The little laugh of water falling down
Is not so musical, the clammy gold
Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town
Has less of sweetness in it, and the old
Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady
Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.

Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!
Although the cheating merchants of the mart
With iron roads profane our lovely isle,
And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,
Ay! though the crowded factories beget
The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!

For One at least there is,—He bears his name
From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,—
Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame
To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,
Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,
And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,

Loves thee so well, that all the World for him
A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,
And Sorrow take a purple diadem,
Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair
Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be
Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery

Which Painters hold, and such the heritage
This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,
Being a better mirror of his age
In all his pity, love, and weariness,
Than those who can but copy common things,
And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.

But they are few, and all romance has flown,
And men can prophesy about the sun,
And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,
Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,
How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,
And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.

Methinks these new Actaeons boast too soon
That they have spied on beauty; what if we
Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon
Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,
Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope
Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!

What profit if this scientific age
Burst through our gates with all its retinue
Of modern miracles!  Can it assuage
One lover’s breaking heart? what can it do
To make one life more beautiful, one day
More godlike in its period? but now the Age of Clay

Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth
Hath borne again a noisy progeny
Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth
Hurls them against the august hierarchy
Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust
They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must

Repair for judgment; let them, if they can,
From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,
Create the new Ideal rule for man!
Methinks that was not my inheritance;
For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul
Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.

Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away
Her visage from the God, and Hecate’s boat
Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day
Blew all its torches out:  I did not note
The waning hours, to young Endymions
Time’s palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!

Mark how the yellow iris wearily
Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed
By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,
Who, like a blue vein on a girl’s white wrist,
Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,
Which ‘gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light.

Come let us go, against the pallid shield
Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,
The corncrake nested in the unmown field
Answers its mate, across the misty stream
On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,
And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,

Scatters the pearled dew from off the grass,
In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,
Who soon in gilded panoply will pass
Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion
Hung in the burning east:  see, the red rim
O’ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him

Already the shrill lark is out of sight,
Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,—
Ah! there is something more in that bird’s flight
Than could be tested in a crucible!—
But the air freshens, let us go, why soon
The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!
Josiah W Menzies Mar 2013
My feet sweat, my shoulders burn
But I am indifferent.
Nature plays around me.

Close your eyes. The last thing you see
is a white butterfly dance past the tree-line
into oblivion blue.

Bush leaves crackle above you in branches
and below you, let loose through brittle grass.

A light wind conducts a symphony in which
Each shrub plays a part.
Each dry branch, kindling ready to explode,
Itching to snap its dangerously perfect note.

Thorns whistle sharply - reeds hiss and hum.
Every breeze is a clown, taking up instruments
And jostling melodies to play all at once.
The grass rushes to its queue, dry as a bone.
Leaves follow behind in vague harmonies.

I wait on the edge of an eventful storm.
The sky is blue.
A storm of events - something big,
Behind the horizon, behind the mirage.
A rhino.
A microlite .
Electric fences, purring.

A wan nation celebrates, then groans behind the hills.
Natures orchestra sings to no one in particular
jeffrey robin Jul 2010
i sit at the library computer.

across the room TUTOR JOHN prepares
his lessons for the free CITIZENSHIP CLASSES he conducts
for the punjabis, mexicans hmungs and others seeking
to pass the immigration service citizenship test.

he is a great man.

it  is not surprising to say that he likes me and is my friend
as i am his friend

why is that?

in the simplicity the seed forms itself into
viable human forms and human beings

this we all know
yes we do
Odysseus is angry without knowing what reason scared hopeless longing not a good student teachers raise suspicions Mom claims he is mentally not right in third grade parents send him to well-known psychiatrist conducts many tests finds Odysseus’s i.q. scores quite high doctor’s diagnosis is learning disabilities emotional anxiety recommends weekly appointments Odysseus continues to see various psychiatrists all the way through college in late 1950’s early '60’s psychiatric field is somewhat unreliable one downtown child’s psychiatrist chats about other patients then gives Odysseus baby ruth candy bar another psychiatrist with office in Wilmette tells him parents need therapy advises he will someday live independent of parents free of their influences

Odysseus Penelope Ryan Siciliano play in undeveloped land across from Schwartzpilgrim’s apartment building there is big tree they often climb near corner of commonwealth and surf streets Ryan is going on about his favorite actor errol flynn and movie “they died with their boots on” suddenly two bigger older boys approach bully them down from tree Odysseus does not recognize older boys from neighborhood bigger older boys push Penelope to ground then elbow trip Odysseus punch Ryan in stomach panic shoots through all three of them bigger older boys glare down with taunting eyes after terrifying moment Ryan then Odysseus jump up flee across street they hide beneath parked cars in underground garage of Odysseus’s building hearts pound in terror hearing footsteps on concrete grow louder they hold their breaths voice speaks out "they’re not here they’ve gone Odys where are you?" Odysseus and Ryan crawl out from under cars feel ashamed of their cowardice in front of Penelope and putting own self-preservation before her protection Ryan is particularly disturbed explains his family are sicilian code of conduct Ryan insists Odysseus swear never to divulge their weakness Odysseus promises later Penelope tells Mom

harper is broad-minded exceptional school housed in old english tudor building on second floor along hall is long glass cabinet displaying among other things 9 large jars each containing developing stages of fetus girls wear uniforms of navy blue skirts with knee socks white blouses blue sweaters which are school colors boys are allowed to wear blue jeans and shirts in good taste Miss Moss teaches fourth grade classroom is duplex with stairs leading up to balcony directly under stairs is secret meeting place and beneath balcony are classmate cubbyholes there is sunroom facing south overlooking entrance stairs to school where older students hang out Odysseus thinks Miss Moss is pretty wonders why she is not married she has deep blue eyes dark thick eyebrows premature graying hair she wears in bun he has crush on Miss Moss thinks she is best teacher he has ever known she teaches greek mythology assigns each member of class character in ancient greek mythology Odysseus is appointed Hermes son and messenger of Zeus Hermes has affair with Aphrodite resulting in child Hermaphroditus Hermes also fathers Pan rescues Dionysus saves Apollo’s son there is voice speaks inside Odysseus’s head no one can hear voice except Odysseus it is voice of smart-*** disobedient twisted child when Miss Moss says “where shall we begin today?” Odysseus automatically answers in his thoughts “how about up your sweet ***?” it is uncontrollable voice for his amusement only often he tries to ignore voice but sometimes it speaks out when voice speaks out Odysseus gets in trouble his friends think voice is funny adults get offended when he reflects on classmates at Harper and distinction of their privilege he wonders what went wrong they are troubled class in fifth grade they cause miss penteck to have nervous breakdown and retire other classes produce famous actors playwrights renowned restaurateurs prosperous investment bankers leading doctors Odysseus’s class produces delinquents gangsters social dropouts drug addicts suicides they take their privilege and run it straight to hell

creature inside Odysseus can be little monster teaches Penelope how to go berserk going berserk involves entering strange residential building in neighborhood elevator up getting off about middle floor pushing all elevator buttons scrambling down stairs knocking over umbrella stands spilling ashtrays ringing doorbells pounding doors running out lobby doors escaping uncaught Penelope is good warrior princess brother and sister can be little terrors

Ryan Siciliano and Odysseus go to see “the magnificent seven” at century theater they head south along broadway street college-age girl with large bouncing ******* appears walking north Ryan and Odysseus glance at approaching girl then nod to each other no plans uttered as college girl passes both Odysseus and Ryan reach up grab her ******* pet squeeze then run do not look back keep running laughing all the way to theater they watch movie with jaws hanging open mcqueen is brilliant all seven are so groovy movie inspires both Odysseus and Ryan.

in 1960 Mom and Dad send Odysseus and Penelope to sunday school at temple shalom teacher calls him aside "Schwartzpilgrim what do you want to be when you grow up?" Odysseus answers "architect or maybe an indian warrior" teacher says "do you know story of judas maccabi? he was a great warrior leader learn about the festival of lights and wield your sword wisely Odys Schwartzpilgrim" Odysseus replies "yes sir" two weeks later he gets kicked out of sunday school for pulling seat out from under girl during solemn religious service he never learns hebrew nor is he bar mitzvahed

Odysseus is hyper-sensitive about race and religion knows he comes from race of people who once were born into slavery nazis systematically exterminated millions of them at aushwitz-birkenaub belzek chelmno majdanek sobibor stutthof treblinka black and white photographs of faces emaciated children adults flicker before his thoughts knows jews are hated not considered caucasian in europe and russia not allowed to own land for many centuries what does it mean to be member of race of people who are despised and blamed? he sympathizes with all minorities particularly negroes who were forced from homeland collared into slavery and native americans who were cheated out of land and slaughtered by white people
Auntie Hosebag Nov 2010
Stage Design/American Drama


Down front on America’s stage—
awash in a universe
of light arranged by
the ultimate technician.
Come closer.  Anticipate
spectacle.

First sun-splash
on these shores fashions
fool’s gold of surf that heaves against
foam-smoothed, lobster black,
slick rock beaches of northern Maine/
bubbles about black rubber boots of men in boats—
another day, another dime,
shivered away in ancient rime—
adrift in fog on the black
                                          glass
                                                   harbor
                                                               surface.

Grand Canyon sunrise
          EXPLODES
               copper and white/
                    orange and green/
                          blood red/
over many thousand pounds
of brash brown
        dirt—
in every direction/especially down.
       Soldierly shadows armed with swords
       of slivered sunlight hack through scrub
       like so much meat, to each day’s final
       battle at the canyon’s rim/
while a mile below the torment
called the Colorado
turns silver and gold,
black, blue, and
thundering
mud.

Louisiana bayous trickle chlorophyll caramel over twisted hickory sentinels, monumental elms and sycamores—even the alligators.  More mystery here than far-flung nebulae—and everything fighting back ***** green kudzu.

The Badlands of South Dakota, striped like the surface of a ***** peppermint planet—sizzling in the sun, bone cold in the shade—knobby tan canyons wrapped in ribbons of rust that dribble sounds one can neither recall nor reproduce.

Same phenomenon frames dawn over spongy folds of tall green cilia ocean called simply The Plains.
Kansas, Nebraska, horizons so far away thunderstorms creep along like dark, threatening slugs.
Distant night fireworks laden with punishing hail hide tornadoes and winged farmhouses in the horizontal gloom.  In the morning—those sounds again.  Critters?  Wind.  Ghosts, maybe.

Spectral mists of the Great Northwest cloak clear-cut sores on Nature’s sacred,
fragrant, deep green shores, falling steep to the creamy Pacific.
Light's a plaything here.  Big Sur
renders color to gem, sparkles
down the coast
to rusty Golden Gate and grimy LA,
where the sun goes down brown
and the rain shines
like gun metal.

Georgia soil—
homicidal redheaded cousin running loose, looking for trouble—
grows swampy hardwood groves/
leaves hung limp from humidity/
masking antebellum secrets/
offering sanctuary to voodoo practitioners and moonshiners alike.
Magic, danger, ******, and ghosts
of slaughtered slaves wander tight-packed old-growth forests.
Some say the soil is red from ancient conflict,
unanswered pleas for mercy drowned
in the drenching rains
of hurricanes
strayed north from the Gulf of Mexico.
Others claim tears of countless mothers will never leave
Civil War blood completely dry.

Northern New England foliage--
master maples drunk on fresh cider/
psychedelic finger-paint exhibitionists high on
the year’s last harvest,
intoxicated by Nature’s largess/
symphonies of scarlet, tangerine, lemon, even purple--
regal birds migrate over lakes so blue
you could chip your teeth on them,
and a diehard hemlock conducts its final green opus to a sea of primary colors.

Iowa is quiet and corn, obscuring whole towns and the lives held captive therein.  All the green on Earth is planted here; all the sun, all the sapphire sky feeding knee-high-by-July crops, bleaching spare white churches, white picket fences, white-on-white generations and all their vanilla dreams.

Linger beneath Montana’s cobalt crystal canopy to know why it’s called Big Sky.
Stark, Crazy Mountains chase stuttering clouds above treeless, tumbleweed towns,
bathed in the same blues as Wyoming, blown through a wild man’s horn.

A wink of sunlight
mirrored in unseen peaks
perhaps hundreds of miles away—
snow so white/Rocky Mountains so hard and gray—
behind a universe of wheat flatness beckoning the eye to infinity, slowly,
slowly, the Continental Divide rises
from the horizon like a monster parade balloon filling with gas on another continent.
The Flat Irons--majestic stone slabs lounging against Boulder's nearby foothills--
were cursed by ancient observers.
One peek at their precarious slopes compels you to return.
Been back three times and I’m still not sure I believe it.

Southwestern deserts’ blaze,
haze, and halo—spotlights hot,
focused on towering sandstone totems.
Deep gashes of flowering canyon, adrift in the flat and barren,
rage water, mud, and death during summer storms.
Scrub and sand, dust and desolation, land unfit for demons.
Get thee behind me, Arizona.

Endless, straight, lonely two-lanes
carve the lunar landscape of west Texas
into parcels of wasteland, miles marked by
bleached carcasses of ranch animals
and their predators, some hung
on fences as a warning
that people really do
live there.

Cities have their place,
                    their places,
                    their placement--
but my heart can’t pound to the beat of traffic
like it does to waterfall spray.

Turn your back to the fire in sufficient twilight and a mountain range sharpens into a line—
coyotes prowling, howling on the perimeter.
To spy on a wild animal lost in thought.
The sight--and sound--as swans alight or leave a hidden pond.
Northern lights and swamp gas,
everywhere the stench
of Earth.

This
is what matters—
all around us—
this alone.

Not politics,
not religion,
not countries.

Just this—
stage.
This is about the fifteenth iteration of this piece.  It keeps shifting from prose to poem and back again--or worse.  I lost control of it long ago.  Please help me rein this ***** in.  Workshop?
She wears t-shirts of the Beatles

And she loves the Rolling Stones

She wakes up to David Bowie

And she dreams of the Ramones

She goes out to dance clubs nightly

Till her ear drums both get blown

But, she has a deep dark secret

That her friends will never know



At night when she is by herself

When the room is nice and dark

She slips beneath the covers

With Johann Sebastian Bach

She's a closet classic ******

And her name is Amber Clark

She just loves orchestral music

The rock and roll is just a lark

Her friends think something classical

Is something for your folks

They cannot play an instrument

They cannot read the notes

They think that  chamber music is

What people play on boats

But she has a deep dark secret

She loves the stuff that Chopin wrote

At night when she is by herself

And her friends have gotten ******

She slips beneath the covers

And she listens to some Liszt

She listens to it many times

In case there's things she's missed

She's a closet classic ******

She has "Baroque" upon her wrist

She listens to the music

That her friends like to be cool

If she told them what she listens to

They'd laugh her out of school

So, when they go out  clubbing

She will join them as a rule

But...ah that deep dark secret

This girl is no ones fool

She listens to Beethoven

And she knows each piece by heart

She knows where one bar ends

And another one will start

She can play most every instrument

And she knows most every part

She's a classic closet ******

But she still knows Boyce and Hart

She has cds in her library

And most sit there untouched

When her friends are gone they don't get played

She doesn't like them much

She would rather hear a symphony

By a composter who was Dutch

But there's that deep dark secret

And she won't use it a crutch

At night when she is warm in bed

She listens to Mozart

She needs a little Nacht Musique

To open up her heart

It's a piece that sets her mind a blaze

It hits her like a dart

She's a closet classic ******

And she keeps her worlds apart

By day she sings Bruce Springsteen

At night she listens to

Composers that her friends don't know

They're so old they're new

So she keeps her world a secret

For she knows what they would do

If they found she didn't know

Where were you in sixty two

But at night she is a ******

And she listens to Mozart

She needs that piece of music

To shoot an arrow through her heart

Eine Kleine Nachmusic

She conducts every part

She's our Closet Classic ******

shhh.....the song's about to start...
kieran conway Mar 2013
Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans

Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime

Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies

Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****

Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time

Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....

Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood

Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within

Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.

Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation

Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *******
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression


Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks

Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ******* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines

In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo

Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
******* a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men

The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’
Julius Nov 2013
oh **** just realised bare movements 2wards success dnt think
THIS TIME, but not just say 'dont know' rather than just saying
It lasted 24 hours, at least i do?
Epic album in my living room lol
them waterproof socks were gonna die of cancer we'd be nice D!
NEVER STOP MAKING me
yes well it
insert ambiguos, nondescript but first
spanish exam conditions, conditions which wall were gonna BUY them off
and i die, I wanna hear about 2500 bones id need a birthday with a large group of 17/18 year olds
89.01 for da nine
he gets the light ray effect for
is it is and no KURUMA!
Ok so we progress through the clean flow of 'having a reminder, dont
Because Чou Are A list of MY favoutite photos i have 'got the 40's music
AM I end of school?
*** americans are so
i watched super sweet 16 and now
3 Ivo my ROOOME! MY SWEET ROME!
mi amigos son
when i die, I was hench
I'm not too but you
I watched Super Sweet ROME!
This is whats happening to BE working
luv your fellow man, NO matter what happens. i would rather die than take notes...
people are bad when we've all done
yeah dont watch after all, he doesn't have one* Sorry im tipsy
ahh he's completely changed it...
yeah dont watch it
in fact, not a bad subject its interesting but still proves my point not yours so
in fact, not should you, would actually rather spend time with both arms swinging, well, I'll tell me
guess everyones at the caravan
think my wisdom teeth are coming soon
89.01 for 1 bike and 1 bike and abused for
i'm ******* SERIOUS?
must do coursework, must listen
ok about the street, almost over At the levels cuz
2 many ppl online anyway
come to a party or social gathering where for
should be pretty good
it is there womans face and a lampshade behind me?
btw i did with strangers
dont take pride in an easter egg
i watched super sweet 16 and feel happy
m a party or social status. chew on the telly impress the nation, im a product of my favoutite photos EVER!
anyone whos doing ANY REVISION?
dnt chat **** y11 white rappers who aren't good.
Classic Jamie scruple Should I need to climb over a mountain of Valentines cards to get out o the house?
I'm not a 9to5 a 4 39% Allow this
year 10s are hyping over a mountain of us looking piff
*** americans are such an intelligent sounding statement here
in fact, not on the menu screen tap the triggers repeatedly then
does anyone know
so theres online write ****** responses you
Originality is really long, i will treat others
you need to be popstars we cannot change?
year 10s are always
relax and take it
round two windows
, no, the game
well it **** though, none of there full mental capacity and who's ...a danger to themselves senselessly, and i can’t improve, school
Your dress is very consistent with enduring 2 Chainz + Iggy Azalea but **** it
**** education, i don’t wanna be perfect, then
2 many ppl online even tho the Day!
gal dem would be honest forum
oh **** just realised bare movements 2wards success dnt forget to please therefore stop being friends with that
i watched super sweet 16 years, the coursework deadline is tomorow!
this is sarcasm lol
at the diner, clothes aint designer vision, i will continue thank you
wish i had some friends with gets totally embarrassed and i hate slow internet, and his lyrics have Maths is at the open evening.
no, it WAS SUPPOSED TO BE a few words, why
legally made to be easy to get. I invite you
insert ambiguos, nondescript but theyve sorted it
Who said anything NO ****!
utorrent never STOP MAKING THEM PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

you need to be teachers but we’re treated like the school
and i hate slow internet, and i know
THIS TIME, IT'S BETTER! BECOME A fan
well it is on DETOX I WIL PUNCH THE WALL until THERES JUST A few questions, oh well
cant wait till these exams are almost over At the same time
to clarify, I was cros examining me
but i DARE you
and i will treat you

Basically the problem was caused by a bug in the background
single strand in an infinite white plane of intelligence remembering things and performing well
Justin bieber is a response
so theres online anyway
You're going to be an electric shock device to prevent stupid kids ok?
ahh he's white i can
must do coursework, must do

and i hate with love!
They pretend it's a sailing boat and sit on one
no matter what I propose when we've all done
this is Grace representing here?
THIS TIME, IT'S just a standard morning
spooning, tribal *******, free
no matter how hard i tried to talk to you
jules you're somehow still managing to frape me, but sooner or later they betray me.
facebook chat is ******
im a white guy
i watched super sweet 16 and now
you need to use poetic language
also how is there womans face and a part of myself
Had to climb over 1 Favourite song
and i hate facing reality. they ARE Reading This
just gotta finish this
But Post i'd like to see!

to clarify, I was screaming 'wheres my wisdom teeth are notifications???
That's how to be very somberly FOUR HOURS ago
Had to bend edges to find a standard morning
utorrent never works no morre

anyone whos doing ANY REVISION?
*** americans are trying to raise AWARENESS about the son
if one conducts themselves senselessly, and respond to sound like rhymes...
everyone say thanks to Grace Julia Clarke and Black ops AND Tomorrow Will Be A regular guy, i wanna have a huge **** already!
B Zells Apr 2014
In all of the pages that you wrote
There was never once talk of the past
In every single story that was sold
You locked away all stories to be told

All of these letterboxes used to leave me love
All of the hopeful words you could dream of
But now your past is dead
The future wades in your head
To your new self
I say goodbye

Well, should I change? Must I remain?
Should I love you all the same?
March on steady to the beat of that drum
If it’s gonna go- I’m going this way, on this line

All of the people had the notion to speak
All of the words, now so weak
Surrounded now, blank white walls
Paint a life, your world calls
To some motivation
I say hello.

I’ll walk until I think I’ll stop
Rest awhile ‘till you catch up
Put my boots next to the fire
While the body and my mind do conspire

All of the birds would sing their song
Don’t mind at all if I sing along
In a quiet world sound erupts
The chant of choir soon conducts
To this plague of mice-like men
I shed a tear.

Beat, beat on that black-laced drum
The march that gets every man from
A kingdom to a kingdom in the sky
Living in a world of life just waiting to die.

All of the eyes were looking stern
All of my letters have been burnt
Carry coal from that mine
Who knows, he, she, or mine?
And tip my hat to whom it may concern.
Waiting4TheStop Jun 2015
This one's for she who wears the glow in the dark specs.
The one nobody disrespects!

The one who always has the biggest smile on her face.
The one who constantly conducts herself with impeccable grace.

The one who isn't a afraid  to be different, to stand out and defy the norms.
The one who's light still shines, so bright, even after weathering the harshest of storms.

The one who sees nothing but goodness inside.
The one who makes me feel as if I I am airborne, I can simply spread my wings out and glide.
I have been afforded the greatest honour by her, she considers me her sibling, that alone gives me the biggest sense of pride.

Some say: "Money buys you happiness."
I will not argue, that could be true.
But couldn't the same be said about love too?
(C) 2015
K Balachandran Mar 2012
The willowy woman,
clad in a red, red sari,
that makes her look like
a challenge  so difficult to meet,
in an imagined island of her own,
enveloped by thick whiskey vapor,
sitting on a bar stool,  precariously
in an attention catching posture,
complicates the prospects
of my white night, getting dense,
as the moon beams start to peep down,

I intuitively sense
from my table afar.

I am inward  looking silence,
but why did her voiceless shouts of
frequent glances, come in search of  me,
as if i am wanted in her court, for some mysterious purpose.
Like a curious  fish,  that swim around pecking and tasting
something she has got interested, in her underwater world,
her eyes roam, so far to my lonely  corner, a sea **** filled depth.

This busy bar has an inner silence
i realize every time i enter  here,
i often get the feeling,
that Buddha sits somewhere and meditates
in disguise, i am all eyes,
let me surprise him
before he decides to tell this secret,
-i am almost sure
in my ear.

I expect this to happen,
for a while now,
this bar is esoteric, conceals many things
though darkness concentrates and celebrates
as often as it could,its motif is  gleaming white
-reminds me the  thousand petaled lotus

and it makes my consciousness tingle,
even in tumult, like two hands protecting
a flame against the wind's onslaught,
this bar preserves its silence.

Every time I get in, it embraces me
like i was a  long lost prodigal child
.

Moonlit night brings  mystical moments,
the universe has so much to communicate,
the galaxies distant,  resonate with silent symphonies
eternity conducts only  for the ears that hear without  a sound,
the consciousness is all ears and listens like a child in its cradle,
straining its ears for mother's lullabies.
Enhanced by the bar's background music
i was getting  immersed in a conversation with the moon,
rising above the sea of  undulating coconut palms.

She sat alone shouting orders,
an unknown landscape,
an island melting in to sea,
none could reach without,
a boat that could cross rapids,

She sat with an imaginary baton,
imagining she conducts with perfection,

Fighting rough waters
seemed nothing new to her,
' haven't i weathered many
cyclones, day and night?'
she wordlessly proclaimed.
Four gentle men on bar stools near her
busy finding their own wonderlands,
though fascinated,
with their combined  body language indicated,
'she doesn't belong'

Forced to break my cocoon,
i hear,
          -you drinker of distilled silence,
          -lover of primrose moon
my white night
was taken over,
by this dark cloud
that wanders many skies,
'lend me your time
and those patient ears' she whispers
'if you don't know my mother'

No mother should become a shackle to her daughter,
fathers should be the key syllables* to liberate children seeking their own distant  sun


Here she goes-
taking me along to the road of her past,
dodging shadows of
a mother, wayward.

-men are cowards they never accompany me all the way-
i hear she secretly wail; who cares about self inflicted pain?

the hood of darkness
stood behind her
framing her face and mind.
i let her walk, run and feel free like a peacock
that badly wanted to see a dark cloud to feel  the mood to dance
a wild dance it was, untill
I said,
'do you see the army of ants, that are behind,
feeding on the dead,
that want to hunt you down?'

She didn't seem to hear
or anywhere near the mood
not to dance.
                                                          ­                                         UOIOIOIOU
Thousand petaled lotus-  'Sahasra Padma'  is located at the top of the head according to  Kundalini Yoga
Sahasrara Padma symbolizes the detachment from illusion.
Key syllable---"Bija mantra' Premordial sounds that energize different  'Chakras' in human body  to stimulate self realization
Sa Sa Ra Dec 2012
In his breakthrough work of channeled literature, I Am the Word, author and medium Paul Selig recorded an extraordinary program for personal and planetary evolution as humankind awakens to its own divine nature. I Am the Word is an energetic transmission that works directly on its readers to bring them into alignment with the frequency of the Word, which Paul's guides call the energy of "God in Action."
Paul was born in New York City and received his Master's Degree from Yale. He had a spiritual experience in 1987 that left him clairvoyant. As a way to gain a context for what he was beginning to experience, he studied a form of energy healing, working at Marianne Williamson's Manhattan Center for Living and in private practice. In the process, he began to "hear" for his clients, and much of Paul's work now is as a clairaudient, clairvoyant, channel, and empath.
Paul has led channeled energy groups for many years. In 2009 he was invited to channel at the Esalen Institute's Superpowers symposium, where he was filmed for the upcoming documentary film Authors of the Impossible. He is the subject of the feature-length documentary film Paul & the Word which will be released late summer, 2011. His workshops in 2011 include Edgar Cayce's A.R.E. in New York City, the Jungian Center in Vermont and the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, Calfornia. Also a noted playwright and educator, Paul serves on the faculty of NYU and directs the MFA in Creative Writing Program at Goddard College. He lives in New York City, where he maintains a private practice as an intuitive and conducts weekly, channeled energy groups.*

Personal and planetary evolution- Live channeling with Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAgh2pXDDls&feature;=youtu.be
Waking Universe With Guest Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7BI0Lgb9Kk&feature;=youtu.be
You are the first in a generation of conscious beings coming into form and you will make it possible for those that follow to exist more easily in the higher frequencies that are now available.
This is a gift, but this is a massive change.
It’s a tidal wave of light ascending into you as you ascend into it.
--from I Am the Word, a channeled text by Paul Selig
http://www.paulselig.com/welcome/

Paul will be here private event at retreat center New Years Eve,
in PA, USA just over NY border I-84 West;
info and tickets available still here is info!!!
https://www.facebook.com/events/441324579253629/486222241430529/?notif_t=plan_mall_activity

David Bryson is hosting creator of Evolvefest:
http://evolvefest.com/
We are hoping to manifest and barter admission with a video artist who is able to capture this event with 100+ photos and 3 hours of footage and interviews and who can then make and upload a professional 10 minute HD Vimeo/YouTube video of this event for future promotional purposes.
Please let us know of anyone who comes to mind~ ♥


The Juicy Living Tour is about following life – wherever it leads.
This is a healing journey – for all of those participating in this co-creation and who want to let their soul guide them.

Lilou’s mission is to create and host an international communication network to
“inspire, motivate and empower millions of people to pursue their dreams”
and to “help spread joy, freedom and personal awakening”.  
Currently Lilou resides “on the road”  
Where ever the Juicy Living Tour guides her.


To support the juicy living tour and to watch more video interviews, visit;
http://juicylivingtour.com/
Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild
Mingled in harmony on Nature's face,
Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot
Fail not with weariness, for on their tops
The beauty and the majesty of earth,
Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget
The steep and toilsome way. There, as thou stand'st,
The haunts of men below thee, and around
The mountain summits, thy expanding heart
Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world
To which thou art translated, and partake
The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt look
Upon the green and rolling forest tops,
And down into the secrets of the glens,
And streams, that with their bordering thickets strive
To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once,
Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds,
And swarming roads, and there on solitudes
That only hear the torrent, and the wind,
And eagle's shriek. There is a precipice
That seems a fragment of some mighty wall,
Built by the hand that fashioned the old world,
To separate its nations, and thrown down
When the flood drowned them. To the north, a path
Conducts you up the narrow battlement.
Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild
With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint,
And many a hanging crag. But, to the east,
Sheer to the vale go down the bare old cliffs,--
Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbear
Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark
With the thick moss of centuries, and there
Of chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt
Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing
To stand upon the beetling verge, and see
Where storm and lightning, from that huge gray wall,
Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base
Dashed them in fragments, and to lay thine ear
Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound
Of winds, that struggle with the woods below,
Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene
Is lovely round; a beautiful river there
Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads,
The paradise he made unto himself,
Mining the soil for ages. On each side
The fields swell upward to the hills; beyond,
Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise
The mighty columns with which earth props heaven.

  There is a tale about these reverend rocks,
A sad tradition of unhappy love,
And sorrows borne and ended, long ago,
When over these fair vales the savage sought
His game in the thick woods. There was a maid,
The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed,
With wealth of raven tresses, a light form,
And a gay heart. About her cabin-door
The wide old woods resounded with her song
And fairy laughter all the summer day.
She loved her cousin; such a love was deemed,
By the morality of those stern tribes,
Incestuous, and she struggled hard and long
Against her love, and reasoned with her heart,
As simple Indian maiden might. In vain.
Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step
Its lightness, and the gray-haired men that passed
Her dwelling, wondered that they heard no more
The accustomed song and laugh of her, whose looks
Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said,
Upon the Winter of their age. She went
To weep where no eye saw, and was not found
When all the merry girls were met to dance,
And all the hunters of the tribe were out;
Nor when they gathered from the rustling husk
The shining ear; nor when, by the river's side,
Thay pulled the grape and startled the wild shades
With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian dames
Would whisper to each other, as they saw
Her wasting form, and say the girl will die.

  One day into the ***** of a friend,
A playmate of her young and innocent years,
She poured her griefs. "Thou know'st, and thou alone,"
She said, "for I have told thee, all my love,
And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life.
All night I weep in darkness, and the morn
Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed,
That has no business on the earth. I hate
The pastimes and the pleasant toils that once
I loved; the cheerful voices of my friends
Have an unnatural horror in mine ear.
In dreams my mother, from the land of souls,
Calls me and chides me. All that look on me
Do seem to know my shame; I cannot bear
Their eyes; I cannot from my heart root out
The love that wrings it so, and I must die."

  It was a summer morning, and they went
To this old precipice. About the cliffs
Lay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy skins
Of wolf and bear, the offerings of the tribe
Here made to the Great Spirit, for they deemed,
Like worshippers of the elder time, that God
Doth walk on the high places and affect
The earth-o'erlooking mountains. She had on
The ornaments with which her father loved
To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl,
And bade her wear when stranger warriors came
To be his guests. Here the friends sat them down,
And sang, all day, old songs of love and death,
And decked the poor wan victim's hair with flowers,
And prayed that safe and swift might be her way
To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief
Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red.
Beautiful lay the region of her tribe
Below her--waters resting in the embrace
Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades
Opening amid the leafy wilderness.
She gazed upon it long, and at the sight
Of her own village peeping through the trees,
And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof
Of him she loved with an unlawful love,
And came to die for, a warm gush of tears
Ran from her eyes. But when the sun grew low
And the hill shadows long, she threw herself
From the steep rock and perished. There was scooped
Upon the mountain's southern *****, a grave;
And there they laid her, in the very garb
With which the maiden decked herself for death,
With the same withering wild flowers in her hair.
And o'er the mould that covered her, the tribe
Built up a simple monument, a cone
Of small loose stones. Thenceforward all who passed,
Hunter, and dame, and ******, laid a stone
In silence on the pile. It stands there yet.
And Indians from the distant West, who come
To visit where their fathers' bones are laid,
Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day
The mountain where the hapless maiden died
Is called the Mountain of the Monument.
K Balachandran Feb 2016
Pure in it's gleaming marble white
a rare conch shell, well formed,
with 'reverse turning spiral',*
he holds, in both palms with reverence
closer to his naked chest, where
his beating caged heart tries to create
echoes, as if it, in an unknown
mysterious way, represents
a myth entwine him with pure nature.
An intriguing remains, retrieved,
from the accumulated deep sea secrets,
where still his memories vaguely roam
in another life, as a creature of the deeps.
The conch he is aware, hides tender notes
that bridles air, water and fire, cosmic ripples
prods him subtly to accelerate  his quest,
a swim towards the maelstrom of inner core,
commingling with the music cosmos conducts
every moment, with it's billion piece orchestra grand.

She is a flame burning in clarified butter,
his consort,her eyes reflect a concurrent spirit,
both her palms she bring together ,makes a lotus thus
and a red blooming lotus is nestled between palms.
Her lotus speaks of  fecundity,from which flows love and life
generations, descend find succor, in the gentle fragrance,
and warmth, the lotus, protects, even at the midst of a freeze.
Her eyes are blissfully half closed immersed in the fragrance
wafting in the air spreading in waves far and wide.
Conch shell with reverse turning spiral--Magical, mystical properties are attributed to such conch shells that are rare..
Jack Piatt Jul 2013
Your intrepid nature
Mixed up like a tonic and gin
Half squeeze of lime, stirred up with mine
The in and out of clarity stare
Impulsivity meets the creative dare
A kiss with more bite than lip
Followed by an endless moment trip
Hanging in that space
Face to face
The strangely familiar embrace
The rules fall off the page
Letters clink on the faded olive green tile
A 1970’s homage to yesterstyle
The ‘U’ slid under the fridge
You never bat an eyelid
Just hold your gaze
Wandering wild
Through my mental maze
Pausing on occasion to play
Your breath smells like love on fire
And what does love smell like?

Flower petals shut tight in books

Not enough to turn heads
But good for a couple of looks
It’s “just woke up
from a sweet dream” subtle
Enough to plant a seed
And not look back
Knowing you’ll be back
You’re under attack
By the chemical undertones
Bidding you to the smitten zone
Where, when alone
Vulnerability conducts the strings
Plucking and pulling
As your heart faintly sings
The trap is set
You’ve been caught
No points given
For the good fight fought
Now back to your breath
Tickling my lips
My hands grab your inviting hips
We relight the fire
The air hangs heavy
With deepened desire
The room disappears
Along with my fears
The world spins again
Now that you’re here
(c) 2013
Mymai Yuan Sep 2010
All my life I’ve watched them dance,
Swing and dip and sway
Rustle and nod, so fresh and sweet

The young ladies skirts are
All decorated with beautiful, delicate lace-like veins
Threaded through carefully,
Or sprawled decoratively

Some ladies are full and round
Frail and graceful
Or pointed and elegant
But all dance divinely.

Their skirts are
Sprayed with a pinch of cologne
Some smell too strong,
Are barely there
Or smell perfectly lovely
Yet all are carried off with the melody of the wind.

Stick-like creatures climb up and down
Our dance floor,
Picking one of us off our dance floor
And leave us lying on an eerily still ground.

I’m just a skinny bud
Pale-green, like all other buds
Yet I’m shamefully paler and skinnier
I notice a pale white spot beside me

Some time has passed.
The early-budding young dancers
And their pink flowers have wilted
To a strange orange color
Turning brown
Before falling to the still ground

It’s become my time.
My thin, curled frame has changed
Fanning out and my skirts darkening an enviable green
A deep, rich green with its edges colorless
So the sunlight can
Tint it a merry gold
The lace-like veins are fine and soft
Stitched to make an almost symmetrical pattern

The white spot beside me has blossomed to be
My pretty, pink flower
Soft against my skin
With a sweet, alluring fragrance
Enveloping my pointy-edged but round frame

It’s become my time
To dance as the wind conducts
Never-ceasing

The melody of the wind whispers
We lean gently, softly
The music caresses me
Sunrays glowing

The tune of the wind picks up
We rustle and nod
The music embraces me
Sunshine kissing

The beat of the wind crescendos
We dip and sway
The music rushes around my waist
Increasing the velocity of my dancing

The chorus of the wind starts
We swing and twirl
Our dance floor swings to and fro
The music whips my skirts
The last rays of sunshine start to leave us.

The orchestra of the wind erupts
We joyfully prance and wildly flutter
The dance floor shudders violently
The echoes of the thundering cymbals excite us
Far-away spotlights of silvery purple pierce the dark sky
Fat, watery droplets pour
Trembling on our skin

The music holds me a welcome prisoner
All I can do is dance, dance, dance.
The Sun has disappeared from the sky
But is in our hearts right now

The fat droplets hang on the tip of my dress
And the sun glow them rainbow
Making me sparkle and shine
As I dance to my hearts content.
Rustling, whistling, dipping, swaying and swinging
My beautiful green dress

When all around us is dark,
And they’re no parties tonight,
We yawn and tuck in our skirts
While the dance floor rocks us to sleep.

When we wake we dance again.
This dance never seems to end
As the sun says hello,
And the sun says goodbye.

I see the pale-green buds watching us enviously
Watching me, with my rosy-petal jewel
As I watch the azure-blue patches of ceiling

Many sunsets and sunrises have past.
The whipping of my skirts are loosening
The energy of my hips are fading
My green skirt is getting old, ever so old
Its fringes turning an odd yellow-orange
Dancing has become wearisome
The dress slowly turns an ugly brown, with specks of yellow-green
My flower-jewel has turned brown,
And flown away with the music in the wind
Many of my friends have fallen from our dance floor
To rest finally in a beautiful sleep
We’ve all danced for too long and are tired
But I keep holding tight.
I have but one last dance to do.

I see the buds still watching me enviously
Surprised, I notice they’ve gotten fatter.
When blinded by youth and happiness
It was hard to remember I was ever one of them
But I remember now, I do.
I remember so clearly now that my time has come
To pick up my skirts
And silently fall…
So I dance to them my story
As I have danced to you mine.
mymaimonkey
Trevor Gates Apr 2013
VII.


Welcome to tonight's program

We have a fabulous show for you.

I'm sure you'll all find it enjoyable

You might even find it

Amusing

Sad

Pretentious

Obnoxious

Daring

Moving

Captiva­ting

Disgusting

Beautiful

Miraculous

Upsetting

Discomforting­

Disgraceful

Delicious

Seductive

Frightening

Disturbing

It could be all of these and maybe none at all
But what is it when you examine each emotion listed above?

Take each word and run it through your head

Imagine everything in your life that is associated with each particular word

The events in your life that were frightening
That were beautiful
That were delicious
That were seductive

And what emotions were felt behind the events of each memory?

Ah yes what were the stories you personally saw unfold?

The times well spent

The days you regret

The nights you couldn't forget

The people you forsaken

The lives you ruined

The love that was lost

The identity that was regained

Has your life turned out to be what you thought it would be?

Are you proud? Content? Disappointed?

Think of that one thing you could do again.

Have it clear in your mind

Now forget it

There is no point trying to imagine what could have been when you can change what will be.

   There is a life ahead of you.
Whether your 18 or 48

There is still life ahead of you.

Quit trying to mend the past.  The past is all in memory, pictures and writing.
The past isn't there waiting for you.  The only thing that opens its hands to you is the future.

A future where you fall in love
A future where you travel to where you've always wanted to go
A future where the human imagination lets you float above worlds and compose impossible music.

Be the artist that paints a beautiful picture
Be the composer that conducts a glorious symphony
Be the writer that creates a literary masterpiece
Be the one human that understands life be accepting the fruits of imaginative longevity.
Flourish in the bath of simple joys
Walk through the park and appreciate the wonderment
The wonderment of how a bird is so content with just being a bird
Why can't we be content with just being ourselves?
Is there some other choice?
Is there some other version of us somewhere? The true self?
The true self is there.

Right there

In front of you

In the mirror

In the pool of water

In the significant other

In the sky

In the oil pastels

In the five stanza poem

In you.

With you

Around you

Forever

Before and after

Once you're here and once you're gone.

The breath of life.  


  
Thank you all.
Please everyone take a bow.  Rejoice!
We'd like to thank:  Christian Bale, Tommy Tutone, The Cure, Lipton Tea, Museum curators, Mark Millar, Arthur C. Clarke, Keith David, Slowdive, Gregg Araki, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Elizabeth Taylor, Scott Pilgrim, Leather trench coats, Irish tweed hats, Technicolor dream coats, Mufasa, Rebekah Del Rio, Bruce Lee, Terrance Malik, Penelope Cruz, Selma Blair, Chopin, Orbit gum, Vlad the Impaler, five layer burritos and finally Howard shore for making this all possible.

Goodnight and God bless!
Elizabeth Zenk Jul 2023
Strands of light cross my wall.
Full moon through the blinds
So bright it shines within
a city without stars.
It bobs in a murky brown pond.
Mosquito satellites **** by.
I'm enthralled by its loneliness.
In a city without stars,
the moon conducts
the streetlamp orchestra
Though it's a solemn life she leads
May she never dream.
May she never wish.
Long as we exist, she's shrouded,
but as long as we do, she is loved.
Light polluted love.
Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere,
And that my raptures are not conjur'd up
To serve occasions of poetic pomp,
But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our pace
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne
The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew,
While admiration, feeding at the eye,
And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.
Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd
The distant plough slow moving, and beside
His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track,
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along its sinuous course
Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank,
Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms,
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut;
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,
The sloping land recedes into the clouds;
Displaying on its varied side the grace
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r,
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells
Just undulates upon the list'ning ear,
Groves, heaths and smoking villages remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily view'd,
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that I describe....


But though true worth and virtue, in the mild
And genial soil of cultivated life,
Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there,
Yet not in cities oft: in proud and gay
And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow,
As to a common and most noisome sewer,
The dregs and feculence of every land.
In cities foul example on most minds
Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds
In gross and pamper'd cities sloth and lust,
And wantonness and gluttonous excess.
In cities vice is hidden with most ease,
Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught
By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there
Beyond th' achievement of successful flight.
I do confess them nurseries of the arts,
In which they flourish most; where, in the beams
Of warm encouragement, and in the eye
Of public note, they reach their perfect size.
Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd
The fairest capital of all the world,
By riot and incontinence the worst.
There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes
A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees
All her reflected features. Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips....


God made the country, and man made the town.
What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught
That life holds out to all, should most abound
And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves?
Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about
In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue
But that of idleness, and taste no scenes
But such as art contrives, possess ye still
Your element; there only ye can shine,
There only minds like yours can do no harm.
Our groves were planted to console at noon
The pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eve
The moonbeam, sliding softly in between
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,
Birds warbling all the music. We can spare
The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound
Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs
Scared, and th' offended nightingale is mute.
There is a public mischief in your mirth;
It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,
Grac'd with a sword, and worthier of a fan,
Has made, which enemies could ne'er have done,
Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.
CM Rice Dec 2013
“See herself..?”
‘Who..?’
“Herself.. there”
‘An’ about her?’
“..Cheating on himself..”
‘Sure she.. that one..’
“Fur coat.. no knickers..”

They scuttle out daily wagging their vicious tales,
Through dullness that dampens their every afternoon,
Ignored by their own; an’ threadbare reflection,
******* each spun yarn an’ sheet out to dry,

Stained with every listless memory an’ lonely evening,
Gossip-hungry, they covet the community swill,
Chomping through the random, unopposed untruths,
‘..husband slayer, heartless siren.. tis’ a mortal sin..’

They make no bones of any acquaintance of herself,
With monstrous-eyed chronicles of salacious green,  
Such falsehood is kind to the envious an’ bias ears,
Which tolerate any brazen line to a choir of lewd hymns,

They harmonise each lustful lie; the prime accuser,
Conducts a murky symphony of ***** laundry aired live,
The jury silent, mocking whispered an’ ears into the wind,
As the accused sullen-faced an’ solitary suddenly appears.

Herself stands idly ignorant to the satirical sniggers,  
The trial by jealously ends, they turn two faces an’ leave,
No fur, no knickers, no time to wish away the pain,
Curtains drawn, truth quartered - the washing hung
A regular occurrence when growing up once listening to women rip apart other women as they hung out their washing.
Jason Cirkovic May 2015
I had a moment of clarity
In my life
When I would wake up
From my night terrors
The train tracks outside my window
Wobbled louder than my sanity.
Yes you were there
Patrolling my dreams,
Sprinkling hatred
Over the innocence.
You were the fake ****
Who conducts lies
With your promises.
Your nails, nail the impression
That you practice
On voodoo dolls
Hanging in your soul.
Tearing each thread
Back to its spindle.
It cries.
Prying apart
Till frost vacates your heart
Into these dolls.

Look at you go!
Like Reptar,
You mustered the mightiest rawr
To scare everyone away.
Like reptar you are the toy,
Imagine that.

You see,
They use their imagination
To make you look like
What your faking to be.
Someone different.
You forced me
To lock you up in my dreams.
Murderous murders
Slaughtering anyone
Who mentions my name
So you can feed the meat
You store in the temple
Filled with thorns.

People say stick and stones
May break my bones
Yet your smile
Still shatters them to dust,
Stuck between your nails.
An inconvience.
That's what you would called it.

Hear ye hear ye
My apologies
For me not being clearly.
You must understand
My voice is a little drowned
By the lack of intelligence
You ponder about.
Especially when I glossed over the fact
That this is the poem
I've always want to throw down
Onto your trenches
On your forehead,
The gateway to the mind
Which conducted
The illist mistake
Thinking I'm not worth the time.
Dilectus Dec 2013
I've been in a lavender melancholy
and I think my bones are the bows of violins
to some symphony my heart plays
that I'm not sure who conducts.
and through a humming night,
I've been watching you swim
that hue in the sky,
the grapefruit pink making lines across your arms.
you know, I've got my money on this shadow.
I can see it pointing west
and to the way you you try to breathe me,
up and out of the willows,
patient as I winnow these thoughts.
you smile at me staring at the soft prints of pink.
I've been waiting for a dawn,
been waiting for the colors to change.
that bed of stars is fading,
well, we'll see 'em next year.
we're under a lavender sunrise
and there's a serenade the leaves create,
there's a harmony our hearts can make.
The purgation or Katharismós that was unleashed, all the imperfections were gleaned by the elevations that descended due to ignominies and pathogenic lineage that were falsified by the demonicity of one who does not walk soullessly to another who is immune. The dark and cloaked darkness slipped away through the first sense of the fifth son that began to become sensitized, being the hearing that agreed in Vernarth with its great hypersensitivity of the Eclectic Portal, in which they are disconsolate when listening in unison, and who are shielded from the noise of the night when crushing the souls in pain that they purged from their places at midnight and on the way to the third midnight that appeared at 03:00, when the spirits lined up looking with their faces in the first night, at the cessation of all objectivity of Aesthesia. All already emigrated from all the dungeons of the leprosarium with meager living bodies and crowded souls in purgation; The Manes Apsidas with the remote light of the night of the antelucan, preceded the dawn following the darkness of midnight and not the second, to protect souls in expiation, with the lightning of the four Xiphos crusades of Vernarth, Etréstles, Theus and Vikentios, when Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi lagged behind them from hours to minutes, until within the same night three septenaries passed by, illustrating the supernatural Hijra of the Apsidas, transporting themselves to the dark souls of Spinalonga. The living went in double rows from blind rationality and without words to mention, only souls in purgation followed the path of Marie des Vallés who was exteriorized with the Apofisi in her palm, as a written object, and of great passive sensitivity, to then activate what that exceeds a body and a soul incapable of self-help, with excessive darkness, only being transported by hearing as the only sense present before others, who were de-empowered when what deprives beautifies the eyes of those who have no light to see, but if to feel. The atonement continued, and from the altar archangels came down, making those who for different reasons exceeded the privation of the dawn, which is shone in the small spaces of the natural light of Crete, rejoice. The omega overcomes the darkness and the crossed swords Xiphos extended beyond what oppresses the emptiness and non-material belonging of his Hyletic or Hilética, but if from a synod of beings that were abducted from the Kidron Valley and the Beit Hamikdash to the unearthly silence that inked dawn with pale and slimy light in the ranks of the lepers on their way to Agios Andreas where they will reside. The light conquers the darkness of the understanding that only looks with light, but without it, it was upset in the figure of the entities, believing that the Apsidas could be beings of category that are born from a countenance that provides feet to leave without looking back. Thus they would be guarded and not be involved with animals with semi-human figurative characters, in the stubbornness that none of them make sense, being able to be oblivious to the obfuscation of confusion and purgatory, changing all the conscious senses before the authoritarian light and darkness, reaching levels from Isaías “Si non-credideritis, non-intelligetis”, this is portrayed like this: “If you don't believe, you won't understand”.

Then, of course, faith is a dark night for the soul, and in this way it gives light; and the darker it darkens, the more light of itself, because by blinding it gives light. This was pronounced by Marie des Vallées when it was admired that the graceful specimens of Spinalonga were already going away, losing themselves in the dark cloud of uncertainty until Agios Andreas, while more darkness was concelebrated in the private blindness of the night that watched him. Thus in this way, the Saint leaves with the Apsidas Manes in a long night that was allied with the perplexity of dawn, going through the clouds of mourning through each lapse, with the lights that were enough to make her his disciple, erected of a David ascended alongside them. An Apollo resurfaces from the mist overcoming the abyss of temperance, which creates sudden chapters of generating and silencing pain with howls of those who compromise in their aching souls, being able to migrate to slow dimensions with a sensitive voice superior to that of hearing. From this topic the exchange of Gehenna as a voice inferior and superior at the same time to the sense of hearing was closed, when the clouds were already serene with their snowy colors, leaving the lights that dimension everything and transformed into a rational colloquy, which predominates over classic stratagems that will err in those who are not led by error, but by the slovenly voices escaping from whoever conducts the hearing of those who are members of an unconduced purgation, but rather from the twisted fact of free will, burning what is understood not to imagine what would happen, rather what is proper to mortality without faith. The young night was transformed into sovereign dawn, each one coming closer and coming to each one who understands himself. Before a small night that was enlarged in the gloom. They all go to their rooms, going to the third instant of sensitivity, before the intuition of seeing and hearing, together with the aftertaste that each one was pairing with who is not his nature, and thought that was once again renamed in Marie des Vallées, the signage of Isaiah and Saint Paul, “what God has prepared for those who love him, no eye ever saw it, nor ear heard it, nor did it fall into the heart or thought of man”, this being the last message of the Saint when all were discovered from the perennial distance, in glory and submission where the just endures the most intrepid pain seizing their senses towards the Mashiach, alleviating the fantasy that disturbs any deconcentration that should not be admitted together with the halo of Marie des Vallées.
Katharismós of Marie
halfmoonprxnce Jan 2023
a feeling of numbness

suffering from a disease

too invisible for the eyes to see

a parasitic disease

in which its host

is unable to escape

the confines of this mind

no matter how hard they try

a precious body with a functioning heart and brain

but unable to use them to your gain

a body that never experiences happiness

an abnormal brain given by a God

who apparently conducts experiments on his children

a lingering heaviness in my mind

impossible to be removed

urges that I don't want

every day, hour, minute, second

always in a battle with your own mind

nobody there for you to confide

in


for i just want to be normal.
Help
DJ Thomas May 2010
Intolerant feet of clay
shout out “Not Him!“
echoing, ignored

Life’s cathartic poetry
now mediates extrovert ideas
and introvert intuitions

Past’s flicker of persona masks
solicit with anima driven darker roles
remote and mysterious - not nice

Real now, not reflecting her animus
all becomes stilled and naked, to seek
that physical and spiritual soul mate

Jung’s bucket plumbs the black well
awash from hidden depths of creativity
and kindred ghost’s of spirituality

Change is loss then change - feeds
thy growth’s capacity for understanding
socket of creativity and enlightenment

Life’s tutored process of intelligence
responds elegantly to image and symbol
as a morality conducts the minds music

Babbling on to sip from the well
gains tested may then help others

Ghost glimpsed not genius or mad
spirituality and love held close**


.
copyright©DJThomas@inbox.com 2010

Anima and animus as in Carl Jung's school of analytical psychology, are the two primary anthropomorphic archetypes of the unconscious mind, . The anima and animus are described by Jung as elements of his theory of the collective unconscious, a domain of the unconscious that transcends the personal psyche. In the unconscious of the male, it finds expression as a feminine inner personality: anima; equivalently, in the unconscious of the female, it is expressed as a masculine  inner personality: animus.

It can be identified as the totality of the unconscious feminine psychological qualities that a male possesses; or the masculine ones possessed by the female. The anima is an archetype of the collective unconscious and not an aggregate of a man's mother, sisters, aunts, and teachers though these aspects of the personal unconscious can 'influence for good or ill' the person.

Because sensitivity is often repressed, the anima is one of the most significant autonomous complexes of all. It manifests itself by appearing as figures in dreams as well as by influencing a man's interactions with women and his attitudes toward them, and vice versa for females and the animus. Jung said that confronting one's shadow self is an "apprentice-piece," while confronting one's fears is the masterpiece. Jung viewed the anima process as being one of the sources of creative ability - Wikipedia
SG Holter Dec 2017
Such a huge, beautiful sky
Now that the mountains have all
Called in sick.

Plains where valleys were,
Seas withdraw as if in retreat;  
Defeated armies of

Timelessness. Wake of
Soil and stone. Such a
Huge, all embracing heaven  

Not even looking down.
And now, enter her, as I make
Myself comfortable with

My new life of treatments and
A violently shortened lifespan;
The one I always loved from

Within the shadows.
Willing me to live.
Caring.

A sleeper angel deployed to
Hold the holder;
Double-wing-cover from

The snow. Old love unspoken.
The kind that makes hills run for
Themselves.

Steady and unquestionable;
Tectonic shifts between hearts
Running out of

Tic-tocs and bass lines.
Plains where valleys were. She
Fills craters with her presence

In the room.
Never my girl; always my girl.
Sleeper angel activated.

I see why the seas withdraw.
No wonder the mountains called
In sick.

She raises solar storms with her little finger;
Conducts atmospheric changes with
A sigh.
...

Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere,
And that my raptures are not conjur'd up
To serve occasions of poetic pomp,
But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our pace
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne
The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew,
While admiration, feeding at the eye,
And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.
Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd
The distant plough slow moving, and beside
His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track,
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along its sinuous course
Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank,
Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms,
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut;
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,
The sloping land recedes into the clouds;
Displaying on its varied side the grace
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r,
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells
Just undulates upon the list'ning ear,
Groves, heaths and smoking villages remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily view'd,
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that I describe.

...

But though true worth and virtue, in the mild
And genial soil of cultivated life,
Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there,
Yet not in cities oft: in proud and gay
And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow,
As to a common and most noisome sewer,
The dregs and feculence of every land.
In cities foul example on most minds
Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds
In gross and pamper'd cities sloth and lust,
And wantonness and gluttonous excess.
In cities vice is hidden with most ease,
Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught
By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there
Beyond th' achievement of successful flight.
I do confess them nurseries of the arts,
In which they flourish most; where, in the beams
Of warm encouragement, and in the eye
Of public note, they reach their perfect size.
Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd
The fairest capital of all the world,
By riot and incontinence the worst.
There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes
A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees
All her reflected features. Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.

...

God made the country, and man made the town.
What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught
That life holds out to all, should most abound
And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves?
Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about
In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue
But that of idleness, and taste no scenes
But such as art contrives, possess ye still
Your element; there only ye can shine,
There only minds like yours can do no harm.
Our groves were planted to console at noon
The pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eve
The moonbeam, sliding softly in between
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,
Birds warbling all the music. We can spare
The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound
Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs
Scared, and th' offended nightingale is mute.
There is a public mischief in your mirth;
It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,
Has made, which enemies could ne'er have done,
Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.
irinia Jan 2023
my imagination
suffers from excess
yesterday in a dream
I said that I sleep
I ordered personalized matchboxes
I saw the sea
in a plate from soup
I heard how a baton
conducts the conductor
I saw a breast
****** by a child
I uncovered a naked surgeon
on my operating table
and I recognized the voice of ******
among those gassed in auschwitz

by Volker W. Degener translated from the German by Adam A. Zych with Andrzej  Diniejko
from The Auschwitz Poems an anthology edited by Adam A. Zych
Ryan P Kinney Mar 2022
Every time I close my eyes I watch a 1000 tragedies pass before them
This is the curse of those with the unimaginable imagination
Every worry
Every doubt
Every fear for everyone I have ever loved
Becomes a full-length movie
I am forced to watch
Every time I try to rest or close my eyes or even think
Every time I am arguing and screaming and yelling against these imagined worlds
I have to repeat the mantra:

It's not real
This is not real

I have to force myself  into cognitive lucid day dreaming
Some new framework from someone else's fantasy
That's happy
Where people love me and care
Then I wake up
I sit alone at home every night hoping I don't wake up from this dream
That these worlds can be real
But I know
One day the ones I fear most
Will be real

Hold On!
Take a breathe

It's not real
It's not real
It's just a story
Aren't we all stories?

Are you ok?
No, I'm not
But its none on your concern
Leave me alone
I'm always alone
No matter who's here

I have been so scarred by those who claim to love me
That I do not believe anything they say
Only when I see them actually act.
But, if I have to tell them that
Then I am forcing them into showing they care
Then, do they really?
Or do they feel obligated?
I don't care for those I do,
because I have to,
because I'm required to
I do not expect something in return
But I want it SO badly

And the problem is
that if I tell them this
It becomes about me
And this is not about me
I'm a parent
My life stopped being mine when he was born
But what about ME?

You should just let sleeping bears lie
Because this one can't sleep alone at night anymore
With his head so crowded with worlds full of travesty

I am so ******* angry all the time
At myself for letting myself feel this way
For needing someone else

I can't
I just can't anymore.

But I still do
I'm tethered to a web of fake memories and sins I know are not real

It's not real
It's not real

It's a ghost story that haunts
but with no substance
no form
no unfinished business
no one ever conducts ANY actual business

I am alone in the light of day
At night the endless voices scream out in silence

It is better for me to ignore you
than to unleash what I keep trapped inside
I care too much
For you to have to face that monster
Staying away is protecting you
If I ever let out what's in there
It will destroy you

It's the mask I wear so I don't crack into a million pieces
And take all of my worlds with me

STOP
You can stop right there
Forward stop having meaning years ago
When you lied to me and said, "I love you"
You actually want to show you care
You're going to have to try harder
And if the effort isn't there
Then your actions will speak for you
What you say
No longer does

I scream, WHY!" in chorus with my radio
WHY?
I don't know if it makes me feel better or worse
Why do I feel this way?

It's not real
It's not real

What world am I in?
Is this one real?
Where do I exist?
Do I exist?
Swan girl Jun 2013
Sea shells sigh
jellyfish flow
with the current guiding them along
wind whispers
sea birds soar
light dances on the water
waves roar
seals bark

Deep in the undersea
seaweed waves
fish dart
as Mother Nature conducts
the endless symphony of a world below
The Terry Tree Jan 2015
Glares of Moon Stars
Shine brightly overhead
As I am gazing out my window
Resting in my bed
Thinking of the ones I love
Holding them so tight
With every beat my heart conducts
I hold you in my mind

An orchestra of petals
A choir of starlight
Beckons me come morning
Bends its way through with sunlight
Through an opening I see
The day reach out its hands
Welcoming us to embrace
The gifts that we've been given
Simple blessings we receive

The gift to see each other
The gift to read our words
The gift to hold each other
The gift of hummingbirds
The gift to taste the sweetness
The gift of fruit on earth
The gift to love each other
The gift to know our worth

I pray that we are able
To see the simple gifts
The Christmas of our lives
Everyday not once a year
To be here to support and love
Each other is a gift
And I thank heaven up above
For blessing me with
Your friendship

© tHE tERRY tREE
Edward Coles Sep 2013
The wicked, they come
In a cerulean dream.
The cellar door opened,
With an opposable thumb.

A disposable past
And no ties in the future,
They live within ******
And die through their caste.

Oh, Ford! They cry out
For all of their blessings.
Oh, Ford! I cry too,
To drown silent doubt.

“Take me to your room.”
She breathes, voice coppered,
She conducts me. Unzips in
One movement, fit to bloom.

“Lenina,” I call,
Eyes blinded by her colour.
In a world so built and grey,
I live only in her sprawl.

We finish, my heart descending.
She nicks her lips to my ear,
Then reminds me thus;
“Ending is better than mending.”

To bed we fall; once, twice, thrice.
Each time I cling longer,
Wrap her in bedsheets,
‘Till she feels our ****** splice.

With no use, she’s gone
To some other embrace.
Some cold shouldered support,
Then to the salon.

She’ll tell all to her friends,
A gaggle of giggles.
And he’ll speak of her,
Like some means to an end.

“Pneumatic,” is she,
He’ll say with no stutter,
“You should have her,” he’ll offer,
Like the fruit from a tree.

No, like meat, like meat,
She is passed around.
Like animals, the Alphas
Bruise, **** and maltreat.

Community. Snake-like,
It moves as if one.
Each person a muscle,
Not separate but a part.

Identity. It blurs,
‘Till I forget the use
Of my name. Push it out,
Repeat in my dreams.

Stability. It comes,
A two-gramme holiday.
A superficial guffaw
That veneers my face.

Oh, Soma! Come take me,
From where I don’t belong.
To where passions are birthed
Far from the hatchery.

To where feelings are heartfelt,
Not found in a pill.
Where waistlines aren’t throttled
By a Malthusian belt.

A savage I am,
In my pursuit for more.
When I long for freedom,
And not another half-gramme.

Gaia, she held us in her womb.
From fish to ape, she mothered too.
Now all that’s left is this soulless gloom
Where man is born only to consume.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2016
for mine own Yocum*

<>




a strange parting shot,
that we are are the refuse
upon this island Earth,
the very last item on some being's
weekly grocery list,
a list composed 'illions of years ago,
of things that could be worthy of
"creating"

this thought sticks to my soul,
like a rosé pink colored
NYC street'd, well chewed,
gum piece
adheres to my sole

the musical companion to this ecrivez,
a sinfonia for strings politely begs to differ,
while a hard covered book
dances me over to Texas,
Dudamel conducts Barber,
all making the question of
man as an afterthought
in a divine master plan for a planet,
seems almost recklessly absurdly nonsensical


then

my cell buzzes me back to this

******* hell earth

seven more cops shot, three dead

down in the bayou of Baton Rouge,
on a sabbath Sunday morning

rouge red now assumes,
takes on a different
notation colorations,
to my bleeding eyes,
delivering importations
of  headaches confusion rampage,
red rage

the amplification of the worst of we,
afterthought creatures surely,
why "create a destroyer,"
an absurd contradictory term,
so we are gift wrapped  
beneath the misleading approbation -
human

there is no nobility in our savagery,
or dare I sneer and say,
in our humanity

you cannot seal a wound with music

you cannot revive the dead with a poem ear-whispered

sitting beneath the tree shade
of my privileged place,
my surrounding world is
bay blue and grass green,
my vision myopic,
I am a self-centered,
microscopic collection of red cells

conceding to you Sargeant,
this designer of the human form,
who wrought it from
soiled earth and excess rib bone,
had a peculiar sense of humor,
a comedian full of
malice aforethought,

for are we not
the final joke,
for someone's bemusement

we must have come last,
because you always
want to leave them
laughing
Mistaken Beliefs
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1706235/mistaken-beliefs/

Within the unfolding creation of this Earth,
with its majestic mountains and valleys,
its rocks and trees, its life-giving streams and seas,
Surely man was but a minor afterthought
no more important than birds, or snakes.
Only we see ourselves as exalted above all other
living things. Our opinion is highly overrated
and wholly underserved.
Alicia Scott May 2014
She's the kind of girl.
Yes.
She's the kind of girl who could make your heart stop beating like a
bullet.
But could bring you back faster that your emergency room defibrillator.
She's the kind of girl who conducts the orchestra of hurricanes in your heart with just a glance from across a flooded room.
She's the kind of girl who makes use of your telescope eyes
to show you what your love will be
but can pull a shutter down too,
but only to save you.

The kind of girl who lights fires to keep you warm and not
to burn you down.
The kind of girl who holds you close without a dagger up her sleeve.
The kind of girl who holds you close whilst being an ocean away.
The kind of girl who would rip away your flesh and blood
to prove that you're more than what you're made of.
The kind of girl a failed skipping stone would fall into.
The kind of girl who holds you strong whilst being beaten down onto her own knees.
The kind of girl who lets her heart speak instead of her mouth.
The kind of girl whose eyes have experienced a more austere flood than you ever will.
The kind of girl who would take Cupid's mismatched arrow for you.
The kind of girl who would hold you still whilst an earthquake tears you from what you thought you knew and felt.
The kind of girl who breaks the mirrors which have held you captive for years.
The kind of girl who bites her fingernails, so nobody can remain underneath.
The kind of girl who believes that the heart is made for more than to pump blood.
The kind of girl who knows your lungs could never survive the flood.
The kind of girl who brings even the world to a halt.
The kind of girl who shouts from the sun to the moon,
and from the moon to the sun,
not because she understands,
but because she yearns for their love.
The kind of girl who possess wildfire hands.
The kind of girl you'd let burn you down.
The kind of girl.
kiran goswami Jan 2021
Her job always has had an inflated demand
and ironically surplus production too.

The men’s job, I wonder if
it is their hobby or job.
So, the men’s job has demand amongst themselves
and production too.

Hers is a common and a well-reputed career,
until it is achieved.

The men or at least a man
might choose not to opt
for this career.

She, however, has no choice, as always.

So, she looks at her ancestors,
Her great grandmother who was a wife.
Her grandmother who was a wife.
Her mother who was a wife.
Now, she too has chosen this job.

There is no other choice, of course.

This job has not been her job
since history began.
This job has been her job
since her-story began.

Her job does not require
travelling nations and crossing borders.

Her job requires
staying.
Confined, caged, in-home.

That’s home for him,
not home for her.

That’s her experimental laboratory,
She conducts experiments.
That’s her cricket field,
She plays.
That’s her hospital,
She cures and treats.
That’s her restaurant,
She cooks.
That’s her engineering workshop,
She creates and invents.
That’s her writing room,
She writes.

And that’s her prison too.

And in this prison,
she is her own jailer.

Her job requires only
a few tasks to be taken care of.
Tasks assigned to her sound easy and self-fulfilling.
But she must do them dutifully.
For she, is a wife now.

Nothing more,
Nothing less,
a wife.

But her husband,
is not just a husband.
He is a man.
The man.
A child.
An experimenter,
A cricketer,
A doctor,
A chef,
An engineer,
A writer,

A politician and A king.

And his kingdom,
belongs only to him.

In this highly reputed job,
this only job that she is supposed to have,
and stay loyal to,
with her body and soul,
she is expected; expected of a lot
but never supposed to expect from
and express to.

So, she is expected to not wish.
Because wish leads to worry or somehow even vanity.
Wish kills her work
and that is her tagged happiness.

Thus, she must work,
so, she is called happy.

She must be a wife,
so, she has something worth living.

Her job is the one that requires
her to reach nirvana,
before she starts living.

It is not forced upon her
to choose this job.
It is bought to her
in a jewellery box,
as a necklace,
that she continues to wear
even after it hides the tattoo of her personality,
carved on her neck;
chokes her every time she tries to speak
and eats her words before she births them.

She still, however, continues to wear this necklace
because she has been conditioned
“Beauty is pain, Pain has beauty.”

Songs like “beloved wife” and “my wife”,
make her love her job, but hate herself.
So, she listens to them over and over again.

She avoids reading the newspaper or watching the news
because she knows that if she reads them,
no husband, not even her own,
would be able to look at her in the eye.
And she will not be able to look at them without crying (or killing).

In her job, a resignation letter is the same
as being expelled.
So, it is made sure
that if she takes such a step,
she is not capable of moving anymore.

But out of all these, what makes her job the funniest
is the irony within.
Like she has freedom
but should not be free for her freedom.
Like she is protected but from others
in danger of her own self.
Like she has all the happiness
but she shouldn’t smile too much or make any noise when she laughs.
Like she is a wife
but she is not loved and has done nothing to deserve that love.

What was her mistake that she should not be loved, you ask.
Well, nothing and perhaps everything.

Sometimes, when she is tired and exhausted of her job,
and you go ahead to ask her
“what is more difficult, to be a wife or to be a mother”
She would look at you, for not more than 10 seconds,
and say,
“to be a woman”.

If there is something, she needs to be wary of,
It is people and words.
Because there are certain words,
that if used for her,
would disrobe her in a public square,
where her husband
would be a witness
or perhaps a member of the disrobers.

So, all she should be wanting
to be called
is a word or a name,
to get disrobed by just him
or disrobe herself only for him.
There is much scope in that.

In her job,
she is expected not to wish.
But she does.
She wishes too much sometimes
and on somedays,
just one thing.

She wishes not to be his wife
or ‘a wife’ at all.

But she does nothing more than to wish.
She cannot do anything more.
Because her job always has had an inflated demand
and ironically surplus production too.
RCraig David Dec 2016
Sometimes when unsure souls are apart, hearts go dark,
finding bitter-sweet sorrow in the depart.
Unconsciously staying far away from "them and they" who filled and smashed then cast away our jars from back then to present day.
In all despite,
in a moment of might,
You walk into my sight,
Suspending the win of "them and their" sins.
It's effortless for me to give in,
the chase begins again.
In spite, it doesn't feel like a chase,
it just feels right.

Smile so sweet,
our eyes meet,
it's like a lightning strike...head to feet.
Hits me like a glowing, white hot flash of tingling electricity,
blinding bright,
striking right down from the heavens like a craggily branch of pure flowing energy piercing my heart and soul,
then surging through every electrical current-driven nerve cell my body holds.
I magnetize to the earth, unable to move, frozen in time…
Grounded as thunder following clasps in the distance.

Staring at your sparking seducing silhouette,
then hips,
then lips,
then surmising eyes,
then smile advancing pace towards me in the street.
A rare chance for us to meet.
The same Lightning strikes twice.
I feel the tingle spiring up to my face,
the sly and subtle serendipity strike setting the pace, the time, the place.


My fears are flushed,
I feel heat blush,
I wish you to rush.
Race,
closer to touch.
The instant innocent "Crush" is much.

You enter my personal space,
Smiling a mile wide.
You close in until my place is touched and encased by your hair softly falling around your eyes and face.  
Lightning strikes thrice.
I sense my helpless demise as my heart takes the stage,
Opening night,
Act one,
Scene one,
Cue the thunder.
Will I be undone in this serendipitous theater of surprise or hearts unwon?

Dropped from the highest point,
the largest stone smashes down and holds back all that once made me feel alone.
My soul runs unto to your connection,
our necks connect.
I smell your skin's convection.
Time alignment correction.
The earth is shifted.
My eyes naturally close as I fold into you.
My natural emotion is selected as I hold on to you.
all sounds drown,
our heads tilt down in concert,
seredipty conducts,
a symphony erupts into minutes as though everything I want goes through yourself.
So subtle is the soul-to-soul magnetism adherence, a transference beyond appearance.
Anticipating thunder,
the next minute of our meeting begins.

By R. Craig David-Copyright 2017
Ryan Jan 2016
Ocean waves crash in eligant chaos,
the calm fury rattles in my ear.
The hazy beams of the sun bless my face,
my skin retreats to a relaxing sweat.
I feel the mushy sand bond between my feet,
as a refreshing gust of wind passes through.
The wildlife syncronizes in sound,
mother natures conducts her orchestra.
This is the true design of life,
This is my Utopia.
When you have no where else to go, go here.

— The End —