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Alyssa Underwood Jul 2016
“The love for equals is a human thing--of friend for friend,
brother for brother. It is to love what is loving and lovely.
The world smiles. The love for the less fortunate is a
beautiful thing--the love for those who suffer, for
those who are poor, the sick, the failures, the unlovely.
This is compassion, and it touches the heart of the world.
The love for the more fortunate is a rare thing--to love
those who succeed where we fail, to rejoice without envy
with those who rejoice, the love of the poor for the rich,
of the black man for the white man. The world is
always bewildered by its saints. And then there is
the love for the enemy--love for the one who does not
love you but mocks, threatens, and inflicts pain.
The tortured's love for the torturer.
This is God's love. It conquers the world.”

~ Frederick Buechner, The Magnificent Defeat
David Irvin May 13
When we were young
we had no care in the world,
we were free like a bird
like an eagle that soars high

As we get older
we are told diffrent truths,
what to believe in
what to percieve

Little by little
our hearts voice got lost,
thinking with our minds
not feeling the truth

Together as one
we played as a child,
no hate for another
all races as one

Life punishing blow
not to think for yourself,
to do as others do
not realising
the truth

Hate didn't exist
as a child
we only knew love,
Sometimes we got in a scrap
but made up so soon

Hate only grows in fear
but never in love,
let's make hate a legend
love one another as a friend
Taken from the ebook: Forever and Always we live
Listening doesn't always mean understanding
- Listening could mean getting lost in your own thought of tranquility
- Or even your own devastational whir
- Listening doesn't have to be with your ears
- Just the exhaustion of emptiness that outlines your skull;
- Or even the numbness that conquers every length from spine to external excellence of your mind;
- Gliding from one emotion to another could be the loudest transaction without making a single clamor;
- Listening doesn't always mean understanding
- But the utter perplexity of ones thoughts drowning in the sound of nothingness.
By Macee L
such a lovely bubble rise
bulbs and spark to the heart
i keep watching you with my eyes
I hear your voice awaken art
to pick the words in my poem
i point them on you like apollo's arc
on my eyes desire with aim
reaches jupiter to leave a mark
so i can say it in each verse
with the soft arrow of Anteros
till the endless part of universe
beyond the level of the Erotes
and the sublime blessed grace
i'll describe the beauty of your face
and the perfection in you do the ace
the white on you conquers the lands
astonished while the spirits ascends
pauses the time so it will never ends
to draw it in every potential star
endless feelings! unconquerable grips!
rises and forget who the humans are
as the sun gets closer to touch your lips
once it get's very closer it's pretty far
your care launch the thousand ships
while your innocence nag and glare
an existence of a cosmos it possesses
a galaxy craters the beauty on mercury
drives venus jealous to his very end
then uranus forgot where is his sky
and pluto descibes it to his band
mars can't belive his own eye
while neptune losing his mind
and saturn's ring exceed the fly
earth was the blessed land
and jupiter was the one to tie

Author/ Aladdin Aures H.
Cassia Jul 2018
Do you see that girl with the silver eyes
Who walks that hallowed road?
She loves to speak her softened words
And knows she's not alone

Do you see that girl with the emerald eyes
That are bright despite her pain?
With a darling smile upon her face
She dances in the rain

Do you see that girl with the hazel eyes
That loves to write her words?
With a forgotten smile on her lips
She dwells on other worlds

Do you see that girl with the steel blue eyes
That conquers all she sees?
She has her friends all standing by
What a lovely sight, indeed

Do you see that girl with the chestnut eyes?
That ignite with passion's flames?
She sings aloud her hopeful song
And her heart never complains
Rob Rutledge May 2015
What words would Winter whisper,
When the last warm rays
Of sweet Summer sister
Have shone beyond forgone horizons?
His hands clasp blistered,
Embraced by the rhythm of fate.
Love conquers all but his envy is great,

And it grows,

And it blows,

And the Winds are rising,

Giving voice to once silent trees.
Through the maelstrom
Winter watches.
A feeble man on bended knees
Cradles the embers of fire.
Winter froze with desire
While stunned by despair,
That even man could find warmth
While his sky lay frozen and bare.
Diana Apr 2
Well
Romantic poetry that is
Because I write about detailed experiences
I’ve never truly experienced
But imagined in my head

Because I’m done submerging myself
In the utopia of a perfect love
Between two hopeful romantics
Finally coming together

Because I’m done
Falling in love with the idea of love
Before I even get the opportunity
To fall in love

Because I wanna stop wrapping myself
Isolating myself
By temporarily living in the fictional world
That lies between the words
Of pages of books
In the aisles of abandoned public libraries
Where true love conquers all
Where life’s responsibilities blur
Fading in the background
While romance is magnified
To an unreachable level
That I desire to reach

But my question remains

W h E  n    w  i L  L
M  y          t     i    M    e
C o    M    E
?
IrieSide Jul 22
Submit radiation upon
fourteen gazelles
in time the divine
conquers
the old
now come find light
dear children,
you know not
of where
it's been

angelic frequencies
carry my fingers
from key to key

free flow heart beat
made in time
We're together at the beginning,
but it didn't last.
We set apart,and we broke our vow.

I took an apology,but it's futility.
This rage conquers all, dreanched in fiendish memories
For so many years, I can't buried these,
because you always reminds me of you.

All this time we falter.
It seems we didn't fix ourselves together.
You thought this is the end, but this is the start of being vein.
All this time I realize,we built void promises,
We built something useless.
And all this time, you're selfish and fragile.
We didn't conceal those mistakes.
We couldn't take the consequences.
I hope someday,we find the answer in this emptiness,
and accept the real thing.
That we'll never gonna make this right.

                               Anymore...
#Shattered #YouBrokeOnesLife # TheTruthOfLies #Useless
Terry O'Leary Sep 2013
NOTE TO THE READER – Once Apun a Time

This yarn is a flossy fabric woven of several earlier warped works, lightly laced together, adorned with fur-ther braided tails of human frailty. The looms were loosed, purling frantically this febrile fable...

Some pearls may be found wanting – unwanted or unwonted – piled or hanging loose, dangling free within a fuzzy flight of fancy...

The threads of this untethered tissue may be fastened, or be forgotten, or else be stranded by the readers and left unravelling in the knotted corners of their minds...

'twill be perchance that some may  laugh or loll in loopy stitches, else be torn or ripped apart, while others might just simply say “ ’tis made of hole cloth”, “sew what” or “cant seam to get the needle point”...,

yes, a proper disentanglement may take you for a spin on twisted twines of any strings you feel might need attaching or detaching…

picking knits, some may think that
    such strange things ‘have Never happened in our Land’,
    such quaint things ‘could Never happen in our Land’’,
    such murky things ‘will Never happen in our Land’’…

and this may all be true, if credence be dis-carded…

such is that gooey gossamer which vails the human mind...

and thus was born the teasing title of this fabricated Fantasy...

                                NEVER LAND

An ancient man named Peter Pan, disguised but from the past,
with feathered cap and tunic wrap and sabre’s sailed his last.
Though fully grown, on dust he’s flown and perched upon a mast
atop the Walls around the sprawls, unvisited and vast -
and all the while with bitter smile he’s watching us aghast.

As day begins, a spindle spins, it weaves a wanton web;
like puckered prunes, like midday moons, like yesterday’s celebs,
we scrape and *****, we seldom hope - he watches while we ebb:

    The ***** grinder preaches fine on Sunday afternoons -
    he quotes from books but overlooks the Secrets Carved in Runes:
    “You’ve tried and toyed, but can’t avoid or shun the pale monsoons,
    it’s sink or swim as echoed dim in swinging door saloons”.
    The laughingstocks are flinging rocks at ball-and-chained baboons.

    While ghetto boys are looting toys preparing for their doom
    and Mademoiselles are weaving shells on tapestries with looms,
    Cathedral cats and rafter rats are peering in the room,
    where ragged strangers stoop for change, for coppers in the gloom,
    whose thoughts are more upon the doors of crypts in Christmas bloom,
    and gold doubloons and silver spoons that tempt beyond the tomb.

    Mid *** shots from vacant lots, that strike and ricochet
    a painted girl with flaxen curl (named Wendy)’s on her way
    to tantalise with half-clad thighs, to trick again today;
    and indiscreet upon the street she gives her pride away
    to any guy who’s passing by with time and cash to pay.
    (In concert halls beyond the Walls, unjaded girls ballet,
    with flowered thoughts of Camelot and dreams of cabarets.)

    Though rip-off shops and crooked cops are paid not once but thrice,
    the painted girl with flaxen curl is paring down her price
    and loosely tempts cold hands unkempt to touch the merchandise.
    A crazy guy cries “where am I”, a ****** titters twice,
    and double quick a lunatic affects a fight with lice.

    The alleyways within the maze are paved with rats and mice.
    Evangelists with moneyed fists collect the sacrifice
    from losers scorned and rubes reborn, and promise paradise,
    while in the back they cook some crack, inhale, and roll the dice.

    A *** called Boe has stubbed his toe, he’s stumbled in the gutter;
    with broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter,
    the passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads and mutter:
    “Let’s pray for rains to wash the lanes, to clear away the clutter.”
    A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.

    The jungle teems, a siren screams, the air is filled with ****.
    The Reverent Priest and nuns unleash the Holy Shibboleth.
    And Righteous Jane who is insane, as well as Sister Beth,
    while telling tales to no avail of everlasting death,
    at least imbrue Hagg Avenue with whisky on their breath.

    The Reverent Priest combats the Beast, they’re kneeling down to prey,
    to fight the truth with fang and tooth, to toil for yesterday,
    to etch their mark within the dark, to paint their résumé
    on shrouds and sheets which then completes the devil’s dossier.

    Old Dan, he’s drunk and in a funk, all mired in the mud.
    A Monk begins to wash Dan’s sins, and asks “How are you, Bud?”
    “I’m feeling pain and crying rain and flailing in the flood
    and no god’s there inclined to care I’m always coughing blood.”
    The Monk, he turns, Dan’s words he spurns and lets the bible thud.

    Well, Banjo Boy, he will annoy with jangled rhymes that fray:
    “The clanging bells of carousels lead blind men’s minds astray
    to rings of gold they’ll never hold in fingers made of clay.
    But crest and crown will crumble down, when withered roots decay.”

    A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
    Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry ***** -
    she casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
    then stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
    the stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.

    So Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
    “The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
    Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
    where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
    where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
    Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
    Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
    whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood cling, splattered on the spire;
    though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”

    Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
    And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
    with child, *****, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
    A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
    in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
    and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
    which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.

    Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
    “In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
    neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
    “She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.

    Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
    but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
    “The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
    but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
    And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.

The eyes behind the head inclined reflect a universe
of shanty towns and kings in crowns and parties in a hearse,
of heaping mounds of coffee grounds and pennies in a purse,
of heart attacks in shoddy shacks, of motion in reverse,
of reasons why pale kids must die, quite trite and curtly terse,
of puppet people at the steeple, kneeling down averse,
of ****** tones and megaphones with empty words and worse,
of life’s begin’ in utter sin and other things perverse,
of lewd taboos and residues contained within the Curse,
while poets blind, in gallows’ rind, carve epitaphs in verse.

    A sodden dreg with wooden leg is dancing for a dime
    to sacred psalms and other balms, all ticking with the time.
    He’s 22, he’s almost through, he’s melted in his prime,
    his bane is firm, the canker worm dissolves his brain to slime.
    With slanted scales and twisted jails, his life’s his only crime.

    A beggar clump beside a dump has pencil box in hand.
    With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned,
    with no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.
    The backyard blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
    and Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.

    While all night queens carve figurines in gelatine and jade,
    behind a door and on the floor a deal is finally made;
    the painted girl with flaxen curl has plied again her trade
    and now the care within her stare has turned a darker shade.
    Her lack of guile and parting smile are cutting like a blade.

    Some boys with cheek play hide and seek within a house condemned,
    their faces gaunt reflecting want that’s hard to comprehend.
    With no excuse an old recluse is waiting to descend.
    His eyes despair behind the stare, he’s never had a friend
    to talk about his hidden doubt of how the world will end -
    to die alone on empty throne and other Fates impend.

    And soon the boys chase phantom joys and, presto when they’re gone,
    the old recluse, with nimble noose and ****** features drawn,
    no longer waits upon the Fates but yawns his final yawn
    - like Tinker Bell, he spins a spell, in fairy dust chiffon -
    with twisted brow, he’s tranquil now, he’s floating like a swan
    and as he fades from life’s charades, the night awaits the dawn.

    A boomerang with ebon fang is soaring through the air
    to pierce and breach the heart of each and then is called despair.
    And as it grows it will oppose and fester everywhere.
    And yet the crop that’s at the top will still be unaware.

    A lad is stopped by roving cops, who shoot in disregard.
    His face is black, he’s on his back, a breeze is breathing hard,
    he bleeds and dies, his mama cries, the screaming sky is scarred,
    the sheriff and his squad at hand are laughing in the yard.

    Now Railroad Bob’s done lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
    His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
    The union man don’t give a ****, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
    the boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.

    Bob walks the streets and begs for eats or little jobs for trying
    “the answer’s no, you ought to know, no use for you applying,
    and don’t be sad, it aint that bad, it’s soon your time for dying.”
    The air is thick, his baby’s sick, the cries are multiplying.

    Bob’s wife’s in town, she’s broken down, she’s ranting with a fury,
    their baby coughs, the doctor scoffs, the snow flies all a’ flurry.
    Hard work’s the sin that’s done them in, they skirmish, scrimp and scurry,
    and midnight dreams abound with screams. Bob knows he needs to hurry.
    It’s getting late, Bob’s tempting fate, his choices cruel and blurry;
    he chooses gas, they breathe their last, there’s no more cause to worry.

    Per protocols near ivied walls arrayed in sage festoons,
    the Countess quips, while giving tips, to crimson caped buffoons:
    “To rise from mass to upper class, like twirly bird tycoons,
    you stretch the treat you always eat, with tiny tablespoons”

    A learned leach begins to teach (with songs upon a liar):
    “Within the thrall of Satan’s call to yield to dim desire
    lie wicked lies that tantalize the flesh and blood Vampire;
    abiding souls with self-control in everyday Hellfire
    will rest assured, when once interred, in afterlife’s Empire”.
    These words reweave the make believe, while slugs in salt expire,
    baptised in tears and rampant fears, all mirrored in the mire.

    It’s getting hot on private yachts, though far from desert plains -
    “Well, come to think, we’ll have a drink”, Sir Captain Hook ordains.
    Beyond the blame and pit of shame, outside the Walled domains,
    they pet their pups and raise their cups, take sips of pale champagnes
    to touch the tips of languid lips with pearls of purple rains.

    Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
    be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins.
    The ruling lot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
    “The gypsies’ soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
    they will not cede to common greed, which conquers far domains
    and furtive spies and news that lies have barely baked their brains.
    But in the court of last resort the final fix remains:
    in boxcar bins with violins we’ll freight them out in trains
    and in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains
    (should one ask why, a quick reply: ‘It’s that which God ordains!’)”

    Arrayed in shawls with crystal *****, and gazing at the moons,
    wiled women tease with melodies and spooky loony tunes
    while making toasts to holey ghosts on rainy day lagoons:
    “Well, here’s to you and others too, embedded in the dunes,
Weirdo May 10
No twigs remain bare until the end of time
No sadness remain forever, we will forget it
No darkness remains and covers the world, but is dispelled by brightness of light
No tyranny remains and conquers souls as long as he feels betrayed

Let's light the candles and dispel the darkness, and in the sky we call the doves of peace, actually not only words, we will move forward and achieve all the dreams.
#life #glum #miserable #darkness #doves
Mountains are subdued in triumph
Valleys are crossed in glory
Battles are tamed to surrender
Whirlwinds are made still in valor
Faith conquers fear in victory
With discipline, the ace-axe!

I am discipline
The soul of the winning army
The refining army of the inimitable
Procuring success to the weak
Making small numbers formidable
Turning talent to power
Turning disability to ability
I am discipline, the almighty formula!
mc ish Oct 2018
i have never met one who makes my soul so willing to be wrung
she conquers all idea i had of "Peace"
demanding to be felt
requesting to be seen
i wish nothing but to lay between her legs and dreams of days yet to come
she is a ******* pipe dream
she does not know the consequences of her loving
and she does not care
that is why i adore her soul
look at me
look away
believe my lies and hope to God she never sees
she could destroy my very psyche
how ironic
she is a ******* thunderstorm
she creates the pit in my soul that will only be filled by dancing
through her rain
i will not run at the sounds of danger
i will not hide from my destiny
unless it is inside her clouds
her mouth
i will drown myself in her fears and bury myself beneath her seeking rain
i cannot stand this
i cannot stand her
i will kneel.
I have not peace with death
Though it may be the peace
I do not now know will come
But to live shunned by love-
What sort of life is that-It is
War and a divided house can
Not stand-One side is for the
Union the for the other against
Love divided is not Love but if
For Love I stand I must also go
To war and cannot agree to die
Whilst yet we are divided my
Love.  Love is not Love that is
Not whole.  Love is One. As a
Nation so unto each of us- Love
Conquers all even death-  To
Death I say it is not with you
I have an argument-  For all
I know I might have come to
You sooner but for the War
For the sake of Love I had
To press on;  For Love is not
Love that would not be as
One   Let the war be over
Then Lord, I will know that
Love everlasting is the end
For which we fought and died
Won for all the ages to come
Come! With Charity for All
And malice towards none.  



For Abraham
How wonderful -becoming stronger
Soon I will forget all my care...
Yet as thru mist .a fog horn warns
It is your watch.  Be vigilant!
Some needful duty
Some charity owed to
The one I love -that I leave
Alone in pain.   Know then
You are priceless.  Let my
Lost Bliss give testament to
That Love conquers all
Nor counts heavy the cost

But speak to  again  little
One If it offend you
I will write no more
It was more than bliss
That I could  know you
Curdling me on walking
the aisle, she was beaming
with sunshine smile.

I look at the altar of love
I weep gently but profusely.

Can't you  see the
rainbows in the sky of the
festive moon? She queried.

I smile and cry for the the
uncertainties on the mountain
we are about climbing.

Faith navigates all seas
and conquers all   oceans,
no matter how cloudy,
no matter how stormy.
She muttered!
S G Arndt Jun 2018
Through the grass you maneuvered your way.
Preying on the weak, pleasing yourself,
day by day.
One must stay strong.
When faced with such allure.
One must remain true, true to the core.
By doing so,
you might regain control.
Overcoming obstacles and much more.
The knowledge gained unknown.
For when man conquers this,
where will the power go?
S Margot Nov 2018
No more captivating colors,
as with our eyes,
we welcome a greyness
created by us.

Sadness conquers,
missiles are dropped,
a whole lot of places,
are being undone.

Bodies fall to the ground,
meanwhile sitting at home,
lingers the woman
who can't sleep at night,
waiting for the nightmare
to cease at time.

Later, the wind
happens to come,
bringing devastating news,
about all of those
who at the end are lost.
Adding more
broken hearts and tears,
to an already filled up
list of heartbroken shields .

Ashes are seen
all over the sky,
but they would be better
if they had never come alive.

Memories are lost,
people are in grief,
No more battle,
please let us live.
Aaron Feb 19
I wanna write in the bath
Just to prove I can,
So I am;
No clue what I'll say,
But that's okay;
I don't need an in to win;
I just gotta play.

Language conquers mind;
Maybe we're all too blind
From the search for a metaphor,
A greater meaning, a Something More;
I wonder what we might be
Without the concept of you vs me?
I give up on titles
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