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"conveys" poems
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
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Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
The media machine and its lack of authenticity
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
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14
*With stolen moments, I could get lost in you, with the ease of walking into a silent room. Everything in the world fading away, when I feel your lips on mine and what it conveys. A kiss, a smile, your touch on my face a treasured sight, this secret place, where we connect and share our art, tenderly sharing bleeding hearts.*
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Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 7:53 AM UTC
Stolen Moments
Words and letters are written on walls Some as vandalization others as messages Words and letters are written on walls Words and sentences are written on billboards Some serve as advertising others to arouse awareness Words and sentences are written on billboards Words and paragraphs are written on my brain Some serve as inspiration others to support guidance Words and paragraphs are written on my brain Words are the weapons I use in a society that controls my image Words are the only thing that can divide me from being ghetto or educated My words are the only thing that I can vouch for like my ***** My words are the root of the intelligence that propels this sentence Letters in my words stand close to each other eager to make a statement If I do not show my words, my letters of cheerfulness begin to fade away Sentences are the compound of the mind that begs to be understood Sentences are made up of a tyranny chained down by a trendsetters mood My sentences contain verbs, nouns, adjectives and subjects that explain a lost purpose My sentences define the meaning of an ironical imagery that leads me to dream Sentences paint a picture that any blind character can see If I do not paint my sentences how will I ever show my brains art gallery Picasso used the paint brush to express his moods and feelings on a canvas Shakespeare and Allan Poe used ink to utter their thoughts on a sheet of paper Somewhere in my mind the collision of words and paint occurred Where I fused the essence of writing with the masterfulness of painting My words and sentences have met a significant other called paint Paint and words are my new best friend Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls Some are called vandalization while they represent artistic skills Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls Paint and words are written on subways So the eyes of the young and old can see the traveling message Paint and words are written on subways Paint and words smack up at my face So that the world sees who conveys this message Paint and words smack up at my face Paint gives visual to what words cannot picture My Paint serves as a method of expressing the mind’s tears and smiles My Paint becomes a tour guide through the loops of divine wonders Paint is just a stepping stone to the magnificent path of beauty A brush is just a brush depending on who holds it A brush is like the keyboard I constantly battle with to unleash my mind A brush can combine negativity and positivity and make peace A brush unites celibate beliefs with those whom are perverse Words and sentences along with paint and brushes help explain my motive Jonathan Pizarro Lost Cause © 2011 April 17th, 2011
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Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:42 AM UTC
Words and Paint
Words and letters are written on walls Some as vandalization others as messages Words and letters are written on walls Words and sentences are written on billboards Some serve as advertising others to arouse awareness Words and sentences are written on billboards Words and paragraphs are written on my brain Some serve as inspiration others to support guidance Words and paragraphs are written on my brain Words are the weapons I use in a society that controls my image Words are the only thing that can divide me from being ghetto or educated My words are the only thing that I can vouch for like my ***** My words are the root of the intelligence that propels this sentence Letters in my words stand close to each other eager to make a statement If I do not show my words, my letters of cheerfulness begin to fade away Sentences are the compound of the mind that begs to be understood Sentences are made up of a tyranny chained down by a trendsetters mood My sentences contain verbs, nouns, adjectives and subjects that explain a lost purpose My sentences define the meaning of an ironical imagery that leads me to dream Sentences paint a picture that any blind character can see If I do not paint my sentences how will I ever show my brains art gallery Picasso used the paint brush to express his moods and feelings on a canvas Shakespeare and Allan Poe used ink to utter their thoughts on a sheet of paper Somewhere in my mind the collision of words and paint occurred Where I fused the essence of writing with the masterfulness of painting My words and sentences have met a significant other called paint Paint and words are my new best friend Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls Some are called vandalization while they represent artistic skills Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls Paint and words are written on subways So the eyes of the young and old can see the traveling message Paint and words are written on subways Paint and words smack up at my face So that the world sees who conveys this message Paint and words smack up at my face Paint gives visual to what words cannot picture My Paint serves as a method of expressing the mind’s tears and smiles My Paint becomes a tour guide through the loops of divine wonders Paint is just a stepping stone to the magnificent path of beauty A brush is just a brush depending on who holds it A brush is like the keyboard I constantly battle with to unleash my mind A brush can combine negativity and positivity and make peace A brush unites celibate beliefs with those whom are perverse Words and sentences along with paint and brushes help explain my motive Jonathan Pizarro Lost Cause © 2011 April 17th, 2011
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48
*Inspiring is   the perfection of her approaching form By every measure   the epitome of classic beauty Beguiling is   her countenance so fair Thousands of ships   launch in her wake Captivating is   the outline of her femininity Every line and curve   arousing in me unquenchable desires Overwhelming is   the appearance of one so lovely My senses and spirit   soar to her grace For when my eyes behold her physical image   it conveys to me the essence I recognize to be her*
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Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
Body of a Goddess
A monolithic sculpture stands upon a hill. Ornate work of marble marks the artisan’s skill. Clad as a knight of yore, with stony gaze held high. Pilgrims travel from miles around to fall under his eye. Epitome of courage, virtue, and respect effused upon the villagers traits they should reflect. Elements gnawed at the stone but failed to corrode the manifold of lofty aims the knight would bestow. Dark years beset the kingdom causing disarray- Tyranny, vanity, and deceit led the people all astray. Artisan's work above, a shining icon of probity. A resolute bastion against the world’s impulsivity. A day will come when the people reach distress; crying out, they beseech the artisan’s redress, but long has the craftsman been journeying far away humbly allowing his handiwork, the message he conveys.
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Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 9:26 PM UTC
The Elder Statue
Maybe you’re mistaken when you think about what’s out there, You attribute ev’ry stimulus to winged things from books, Mistaking accidental circumstances for essential causes, There isn’t really anything that God conveys with looks. Perhaps it is hard to face the truth: we’re just meat bags with will, Which slowly rot away until the day when we’re forgotten Needlessly dissecting every move and every inner thought, Attempting to discover what makes us all so very rotten. Take a deep breath And hold it in Until you feel it all ...Fading away Slowly toward death All of us fall Someday we’ll feel it all ...Fading away Through my goat mouth, it’s true, you can hear me bleating, Like a little lamb who’s lambier than lamby-lambs can be, But yes in fact it’s bike tires, and tin cans that I’m eating, And I feel my goat heart beating and... I want to flee.
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Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
I Am Goat and Lamb
To prolong such an absence of vexatious jove Denying the will of instinct to arouse elation Self-inflicted desolation in which we all strove To create an empty shell like a fronted castration All the while being comforted by a depressing superiority As the uniqueness of our struggle blends in with conformity Yearning for our relations to meet with a tragic end Anticipating the consequence of a self-appointed woe Glorifying our character as we passionately pretend To endure an exclusive emotion that we all undergo This proclamation of individuality through insipid gloom Conveys nothing but the relative depiction of what I assume
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May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
Dominance Of Immiseration
To be an artist is to be free, free of my own thoughts and ideas Free from other's expectation and standards Free from everything except the artist itself, me I carve, I paint, I draw, I create To satisfy my mind and souls' desire Artist conveys what's in their head Artist express what's in their heart Artist tries to build connection in between people's heart Just like how chef prepares a dish WIth thorough preference of smell, taste, and texture, Artist prepares masterpiece to appease the eyes with perfect features Life is like an art With an artist giving color to one's life An artist never doubts his own outlook Artist uses it to be converted into book A book, full of experience and emotion A book, soon to be shared and unfolded to the nation When an artist loses its way Art will find you to make you stay In silence, in chaos It doesn't matter As long as it's always what we choose.
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Oct 19, 2022
Oct 19, 2022 at 1:37 PM UTC
Art is what you make others see
In a world full of more complex emojis The simple smiley face stands alone The one that adorned shirts and other paraphernalia long before the iPhone It conveys a simple message too Happiness Something we all want, and need But in the digital age, it's hard to tell by this colon and apostrophe When someone is truly happy After all It's not our chosen punctuation that conveys how we feel inside It's our actions And you can't understand those through the phone
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Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
:)
Why is this night different from every other night? Is it because you are now here lying in my arms? The mirage of you conveys beauty which I have longed for, you did make me weak that moment you walked through that door, and I thought you were not coming back. The wind serenades us, trying to elude and forget the war we had, leaving every tearful fight, nonsense arguments, never-ending quarrels for the paradise, we yet to have. I do love you, and I am so sorry, now I have in my mind that for every Superman there is always his kryptonite.
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Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 2:26 AM UTC
Kryptonite
I see my soul dancing naked in a pit of burning embers. She is on fire, and she is laughing and twirling engulfed in beautiful flame. She dances mostly alone. Sometimes another soul will come along and dance with her. They will stay for a while, and then they will leave. The fire is too hot for them, and they tire easily. Then one day a soul comes along who is made entirely of water. He is her opposite in every way. He dances with her and enjoys the heat of her fire, for he has the power to keep himself cool. He never tires of their dancing for she is so different to him, and he is transfixed by her uniqueness. She in turn is in awe of his fluid motion, and the coolness he conveys. One day they decide to embrace each other. A merging of fire and water. They touch each other for the first time. They fill each other and synchronise in perfect harmony. They both wonder aloud how they had ever been separate, for now that they were together, they would never dance alone again.
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May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
My dancing soul
How word conveys thine yonder form is winter’s ice upon my ear, No mouth can so describe the warmth lay hous’d inside my heart endeared. Despite all speech that one might find, though vastly far it always spans, your essence will lay undefined, far beyond all ink-spotted hands. But here I stay ever toiling, grasping my pen yet unprepared, Cursive paper onward coiling, My crumpled sheets lay uncompared. So know my love you’re all to me beyond that which our words can see.
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Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC
Undefined (A Sonnet in 8 Syllable Lines)
Quite admirable , awe-inspiring , a divine piece of manufacture It’s capriciousness is an equivalent of swooning of rapture This carpet conveys itself as flawless , the fragrance is pleasant The glossy finish generates a yearning to have it present The blissful texture is mesmerizing , subject to perfect knitting Not to mention it’s size is perfectly fitting ~ Though the alternative side seems worn and tattered And the fabric surrounding is scattered There are pockets and splits There are strewed fiber bits Along the edges are multicolored spots And the yarn had formed knots ~ At that point the onlooker would become flustered helplessly Were they to take it into their tenancy ? Sure it was depleted And maybe it was slightly untreated Though it was equally handsome Despite it’s opposing filthy expansion ~ Then the beholder would ponder a tad And realize the flaws weren't so bad They were to be contemplated abnormally Though as well stood out morbidly The allotment seemed now suitable And each side was mutable
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Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
Perception
Conjunction: a small class of words distinguished in many languages by their function as connectors between words, phrases, clauses, sentences - the act of conjoining; combination; the state of being conjoined; union; association: - a compound proposition that is true if and only if all of its component propositions are true. - the coincidence of two or more heavenly bodies at the same celestial longitude. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I am in a relationship. a colorless word a word of no clarity a good one? a bad one? a professional deal, or one that makes you squeal with pleasure or despair without context or content, a description of a status, not a state, but a quid pro quo I prefer I am in a conjunction *well recall the day our orbits more than crossed, but synchronized, when two bodies began to travel upon the same longitude one direction in conjunction t'was the day we coordinated on our mobile phone, co-configured our future, our calendars* *nowadays, I answer her questions while she is commencing to think, when her foolishness prevails, she questions, "did you remember to..." my answer, a question returned, connected, constant and conjunctive,* "and what's my name?" an answer conveying constancy *relationship oft the farthest place from logical, but you know that, say I am in a conjunction and the logicians will celebrate the end of your lonely celibacy, well they understand the truth inherent in and of and about your compounded proposition* *what unimaginative creatures we be, dispensing with beauty for factuality, but facts are easily misread, your fact and my fact, relationship, the exact same fact, conveys neither an agreement as to what that means are we unionized, associated, or conjoined what is the quality of our related ships?* so Dear Mr. Zuckerberg, amend my status please, post me as being in a state of: a) conductivity b) connectivity c) concoctive no, none of those capture what we have captured, so let create a new state, a new world, using a very old world word post us as follows, "Nat is in a conjunction"
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Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
I am in a relationship
Conjunction: a small class of words distinguished in many languages by their function as connectors between words, phrases, clauses, sentences - the act of conjoining; combination; the state of being conjoined; union; association: - a compound proposition that is true if and only if all of its component propositions are true. - the coincidence of two or more heavenly bodies at the same celestial longitude. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I am in a relationship. a colorless word a word of no clarity a good one? a bad one? a professional deal, or one that makes you squeal with pleasure or despair without context or content, a description of a status, not a state, but a quid pro quo I prefer I am in a conjunction *well recall the day our orbits more than crossed, but synchronized, when two bodies began to travel upon the same longitude one direction in conjunction t'was the day we coordinated on our mobile phone, co-configured our future, our calendars* *nowadays, I answer her questions while she is commencing to think, when her foolishness prevails, she questions, "did you remember to..." my answer, a question returned, connected, constant and conjunctive,* "and what's my name?" an answer conveying constancy *relationship oft the farthest place from logical, but you know that, say I am in a conjunction and the logicians will celebrate the end of your lonely celibacy, well they understand the truth inherent in and of and about your compounded proposition* *what unimaginative creatures we be, dispensing with beauty for factuality, but facts are easily misread, your fact and my fact, relationship, the exact same fact, conveys neither an agreement as to what that means are we unionized, associated, or conjoined what is the quality of our related ships?* so Dear Mr. Zuckerberg, amend my status please, post me as being in a state of: a) conductivity b) connectivity c) concoctive no, none of those capture what we have captured, so let create a new state, a new world, using a very old world word post us as follows, "Nat is in a conjunction"
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74
~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~ The life we live each day is a spiritual journey; we find our places, we sit, then we sail meditatively on waters where the past and present play. a chance to reflect on what to think, what to do, a place where raging thoughts are purified, all worries and fears are washed away. soothing words gently rise and fall with the waves that fill the sea, thoughts that dwell in the steerer's mind, a message he conveys to us, his passengers, like a wind blowing, caressing our unsettled hearts as crystal waters, calm and still us deep within. At journey's end, we rise and leave the vessel, enlightened. with endless thanksgiving, we gift our captain, a Soul Whisperer, his name is Amitav Radiance. ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ Sally Copyright 2014 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
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Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 7:22 AM UTC
Soul Whisperer
~ *the peculiar sound of morning during the long, boarded-up winter, resonating through a cistern set apart by thin waves of decaying reservoir a hint of canticle in the unfounded wind, impossible to ignore, a series of collapsing oppositions like interior and exterior, self and other, the momentum conveys the sublimity of being, immersed in an unfathomable vastness, of being part of an indivisible whole a repeated glitch in the system, our forever changing constellation of feelings and backward configurations, slipping into a stream, where the water precedes us, and it will outlast us we don't so much carry life as allow ourselves to be carried along by it, swept up in its current for a little while* ~
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Oct 4, 2023
Oct 4, 2023 at 2:39 PM UTC
Modern Echoes
Shall we drown together in deep lagoons of forensic cognitions, my seductress of medieval echelons? As your mouth is already full, I strongly recommend that you masticate that which you initially intended to ingest. We could become spellbound by the moon. What do you think my Vedic chant of austere arrhythmias? I suggest that we simply need to interact without reserve amidst this toxicity of inhibition. The sound of the violin is hauntingly beautiful as it conveys literary intensity.
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Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
Philharmonic Lusts
As the blue moon climbs over the Potomac River, I lay my tired body down next to the planted field. Momma tells me that I’ll turn 13 tomorrow; my birthday wish….to be free Like brail, the scars on my back speak to the humility in my life. My dog Jip lays beside me and with a warm tongue conveys everything will be fine. It’s the early fall here at Georgetown University My name is Cornelius, Cornelius Hawkins and I write these words so you know my plight. Here with me are my father, mother and 2 yr old sister. We toil the field from dawn to dusk…the salt herring and cornmeal give us strength. And my hands are forever clinging to this rosary and I pray God will hear my prayers. I can’t begin to tell how afraid I am each and every day. I try not to dwell on our strife and struggles, but day dream of downright happiness. My family and our ancestors before us have been confined to slavery for 200 years. Momma always says “There is no slavery, just ignorance”. I hold her words near and dear to my heart and I never give up hope for a better life.
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Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
A Slave Named Cornelius
Relax, begin to Imagine you are in the proximity to immerse yourself into a precious moment. It is that needed time you have brought into being, and is intrinsic to experience composure, equanimity. Smooth - melodic - ambient music with simple cause, low and soft will, in its incipiency invalidate trending previous troublesome thoughts, silkily, sauntering, lingeringly pauses, to softly embrace your audible senses with silence which conveys complete assurance, that the here and now is yours, no-one elses, ataraxia created by you, for your true inner self, It continues; envelops remaining unsettled interruption embraces the heart, and encourages serenity, all the remaining negative, solicitous intellection are temporarily, tipped out of your consciousness, you are experiencing them leave, then transcended with blissful tranquillity for your indulgence. You are asleep with your eyes open, it feels so benefic, the mind is calm and clear no longer confused. Melodious sound continues to provide atmospheric momentum to this sensibility folding into the soul. Joyfully you are enduring moments of pure inner solitude and wrapped in perfect peace, consciousness uncommitted. There is no expectation of time, not at all just the psyche drifting, changing shape, density, profundity. You feel wonderfully restituted, calmed; uplifted. You sense it, knowing, this absence of tension you sought, this, your perfect you, is transient and will slowly begin to regress, reluctantly, relinquishing this blissfully serene, conditioned emotional stillness, to be restored. Then you turn the telly on!     All gone. Michael C Crowder        March 5th 2019
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Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
Just Imagine For A While
Relax, begin to Imagine you are in the proximity to immerse yourself into a precious moment. It is that needed time you have brought into being, and is intrinsic to experience composure, equanimity. Smooth - melodic - ambient music with simple cause, low and soft will, in its incipiency invalidate trending previous troublesome thoughts, silkily, sauntering, lingeringly pauses, to softly embrace your audible senses with silence which conveys complete assurance, that the here and now is yours, no-one elses, ataraxia created by you, for your true inner self, It continues; envelops remaining unsettled interruption embraces the heart, and encourages serenity, all the remaining negative, solicitous intellection are temporarily, tipped out of your consciousness, you are experiencing them leave, then transcended with blissful tranquillity for your indulgence. You are asleep with your eyes open, it feels so benefic, the mind is calm and clear no longer confused. Melodious sound continues to provide atmospheric momentum to this sensibility folding into the soul. Joyfully you are enduring moments of pure inner solitude and wrapped in perfect peace, consciousness uncommitted. There is no expectation of time, not at all just the psyche drifting, changing shape, density, profundity. You feel wonderfully restituted, calmed; uplifted. You sense it, knowing, this absence of tension you sought, this, your perfect you, is transient and will slowly begin to regress, reluctantly, relinquishing this blissfully serene, conditioned emotional stillness, to be restored. Then you turn the telly on!     All gone. Michael C Crowder        March 5th 2019
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32
In a lavatory a pink transvestite Applies ruby and rouge To my cosmetic mask Hoping for a wished encounter A fiction overcomes us Conveys us as strangers Into an unknown territory Leaves us there The two of us, stranded Our location inaccessible As intuitive yet unpredictable Thoughts cluster In constellated Images around The rehearsed persona Of myself
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Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
Femme Boi
Eftsoons, thee would fain depart and chasten thy chance Meseems to be fond of thou beloved with fears: Harken thy anacreontic jovial at once, For whosoever conveys love shall drown on tears. Thee may not ratify affections I bestowed; Each morn may bring no reasons to behold the sun. Yon enigmatic events has come and winnowed Beseech, to cease the fires, afore thy love has gone. Somehow, blossoms will wither, as rivers will dry Mayhap, thy heart I own shall be shattered in twain, Welkin rings, pearls cannot retrieve ev'ry goodby Maimed and futile; whence, no one can withstand the pain. If these velvet ropes would seize thine eyne twixt the thrill, Utter prayers, for Heaven would burn me in hell.
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Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 5:12 AM UTC
Sonnet 1: "Eftsoons, thee would fain depart and chasten thy chance"
sweet waters with mint fragrant hints, memories flood me, "walking back in time" he describes it of my early days of discovery, this voyage upon the poetry ship, with me, mere stowaway, unfit by compare, sailed to lands unimaginable, friendships seeded in words, sprouted like a field of summer sunflowers, water weeping, for joy so joyous, the mastery of his words elevates, levitates, the ashes of sadness now dispossessed, floating on the Ganges the drumming of my dreams, of treasures of golden words, in lungs undiscovered, unspoken, leads me back to you, Balachandran from Thiruvananthapuram April 10, 2016 ~~~ Jun 1, 2013 Balachandran How I love to say your name, Rolling waves over my tongue, It is must be said out loud Two or three times to feel its rhythm, Two or three more just for the Spiced pleasure it conveys. Bala chan dran! My name harsh, Germanic, Like the Black Forest, Where my ancestors dwelled, Until a harsher people drove them away. Balachandran! Under the ground beneath the temple Padmanabha Swamy, A temple dedicated to Vishnu, In the state of Kerala, the original spice country. South Western sea board of India, where miracles never cease to happen, A billion dollar treasure discovered. A treasure of words and sounds, A language musical, every word a poem Of incroyable elegance. I am so glad that you were not born in France. Perhaps someday I will courage summon, To spicy lands, explore, and even come to Thiruvananthapuram. For now, I must be satisfied with the Poetical musicale program I attend, When I say over and over again, Balachandran from Thiruvananthapuram! Dedicated to K Balachandran
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Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
this morning I drank from the river Balachandran
sweet waters with mint fragrant hints, memories flood me, "walking back in time" he describes it of my early days of discovery, this voyage upon the poetry ship, with me, mere stowaway, unfit by compare, sailed to lands unimaginable, friendships seeded in words, sprouted like a field of summer sunflowers, water weeping, for joy so joyous, the mastery of his words elevates, levitates, the ashes of sadness now dispossessed, floating on the Ganges the drumming of my dreams, of treasures of golden words, in lungs undiscovered, unspoken, leads me back to you, Balachandran from Thiruvananthapuram April 10, 2016 ~~~ Jun 1, 2013 Balachandran How I love to say your name, Rolling waves over my tongue, It is must be said out loud Two or three times to feel its rhythm, Two or three more just for the Spiced pleasure it conveys. Bala chan dran! My name harsh, Germanic, Like the Black Forest, Where my ancestors dwelled, Until a harsher people drove them away. Balachandran! Under the ground beneath the temple Padmanabha Swamy, A temple dedicated to Vishnu, In the state of Kerala, the original spice country. South Western sea board of India, where miracles never cease to happen, A billion dollar treasure discovered. A treasure of words and sounds, A language musical, every word a poem Of incroyable elegance. I am so glad that you were not born in France. Perhaps someday I will courage summon, To spicy lands, explore, and even come to Thiruvananthapuram. For now, I must be satisfied with the Poetical musicale program I attend, When I say over and over again, Balachandran from Thiruvananthapuram! Dedicated to K Balachandran
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59
* Your melancholic memories come every second You are invisibly floating all around me My breathe plays your melody My heartbeat plays your love-poem My soul listens to my own LOVE longing The breeze swirling your scent around me I walk amidst your fresh jardine When my eyes are traversed by YOUR eyes Then the weather drenches me with your colors And YOU pour all colors of LOVE on me My numerous sleepless nights I stand and see you in the stars I count every sparkle you've left behind In those million heart beats within In that nighty silence I wait to hear Your silence footsteps walking around me I look up and see the reflection of YOU nudging & hugging me from behind In the mirror of that bright BIG moon Each passing breathe conveys your arrival The one, who is revered & adored all the time My heart-beats showers cascades of blossoms All along the places YOU- my BELOVED exists And I render the whole world in my BELOVED's colors *
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Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 1:36 AM UTC
My Heart Beats
My friends ask me why, I no longer take time, to take pencil in hand, to draw what’s in my mind, or to put it on canvas, with paintbrush in hand, though I’ve tried to explain, they just don’t understand. So I simply reply, “I now paint on a screen, or I paint on computer, with words and a theme, and I use what’s inside me, to bring words to life”. with a spectrum of colors, they are just as precise. Their only reply is, “But you are far too good!” You can’t put your art down!  If only I could…” Still they can’t understand, nor could I in their place, that the freshness of art, has since gone with no trace. To make art with pastel, no longer conveys, what I felt was important, what I wanted to say. I no longer enjoy, art’s gestation and birth, it no longer brings joy, only pain for its worth. But the pen gives us strength, just as mighty as all of the art that we see, on the gallery walls. Each image on paper, with the picture complete, is boundlessly infinite; each image unique. There may come a time, when I’ll take up my brush, to paint what I see, to the canvas I’ll touch. But for now, I’m contented, to write how I feel, to paint with my writing, and to share all I see.
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Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
PAINTING WITH WORDS
*Listen. Let’s just strip down to the skin and warm each other up under these covers. I want to lay down atop you and let my head rest on your waist, snug between those lovely hips of yours, just above your *** I want my hands to waltz around your thighs and listen to your gentle breathing synchronize with mine. I want to feel you giving in to this moment, I want to feel your body let go and your muscles unclench. I want it to be completely quiet around us, not the dead kind of silence, the kind that’s comforting and warm. We don’t need words, our touch conveys what our hearts beat for. Don’t think. I don’t want you thinking about what’s happening tomorrow, what time the game is on, don’t think about what’s for dinner. Don’t think about that argument we had last week that still sits in your heart. Let it go dear, just for now. Don’t think. Run your hands through my hair and think of all the memories we’ve made since the last time I cut it. Caress my face and look into my eyes, darling. Now close yours. Close your eyes and open yourself up to me. I want to take my time in taking you in. I want to spend eternities on your lips, darling. I want to cup your face in these hands of mine and kiss you; I don’t want that kiss to lead to anything, it doesn’t need to. I want it to convince you of my undying love for you. Drink in the right-now of this moment, of me. I want to sit back and admire every inch of you, my dear, from your flowing tresses down to your toes, and everything in between. I want my hands to run down your valleys and hills and let my lips paint your landscape. I want you to smile at me from under my touch and let out a laugh as I cover your face with happy kisses. Not the kind of laugh you’d give someone telling a joke, not the kind of laugh you force when someone says something mean. This is my laugh, you’ve saved it just for me, it’s sweet and soft and vulnerable and that’s okay because that’s how we feel right now. I want to roll you over and let your body lay atop mine and simply hold you, caressing your every curve and warming your heart and your soul. And then I want to do it again the next day, and every day afterwards until our bones are brittle and our days are at an end.*
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Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
Come to bed.
*Listen. Let’s just strip down to the skin and warm each other up under these covers. I want to lay down atop you and let my head rest on your waist, snug between those lovely hips of yours, just above your *** I want my hands to waltz around your thighs and listen to your gentle breathing synchronize with mine. I want to feel you giving in to this moment, I want to feel your body let go and your muscles unclench. I want it to be completely quiet around us, not the dead kind of silence, the kind that’s comforting and warm. We don’t need words, our touch conveys what our hearts beat for. Don’t think. I don’t want you thinking about what’s happening tomorrow, what time the game is on, don’t think about what’s for dinner. Don’t think about that argument we had last week that still sits in your heart. Let it go dear, just for now. Don’t think. Run your hands through my hair and think of all the memories we’ve made since the last time I cut it. Caress my face and look into my eyes, darling. Now close yours. Close your eyes and open yourself up to me. I want to take my time in taking you in. I want to spend eternities on your lips, darling. I want to cup your face in these hands of mine and kiss you; I don’t want that kiss to lead to anything, it doesn’t need to. I want it to convince you of my undying love for you. Drink in the right-now of this moment, of me. I want to sit back and admire every inch of you, my dear, from your flowing tresses down to your toes, and everything in between. I want my hands to run down your valleys and hills and let my lips paint your landscape. I want you to smile at me from under my touch and let out a laugh as I cover your face with happy kisses. Not the kind of laugh you’d give someone telling a joke, not the kind of laugh you force when someone says something mean. This is my laugh, you’ve saved it just for me, it’s sweet and soft and vulnerable and that’s okay because that’s how we feel right now. I want to roll you over and let your body lay atop mine and simply hold you, caressing your every curve and warming your heart and your soul. And then I want to do it again the next day, and every day afterwards until our bones are brittle and our days are at an end.*
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