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Yue Wang Yitkbel Oct 2019
Enlightenment isn’t the discovery of the already known.
     No need to illuminate where the sun had already shone.

I. The Roads Endlessly Traveled

The Truth may be hidden and infallible
It can’t be said the same for its roads
For all past voyagers false or true
Will leave marks, endless trails of clues
A path may be closed
Others cut through
Wind and dust, and overgrowth
May cover and obscure a shallow few
And though light footprints oft lose to leaves and dew
We can’t blame them all for us being astray still
        If we stomp out the old
        And naively begin anew
Then we will truly be lost
To unknowingly retrace
Footpath already abandoned and used



II. The Miner and the Gardener

And now there are two ways
One clear path to the garden of reason
Always in the open, clear as day
And
Another a tunnel to either valleys or caves
Ever shrouded behind a gateway obscured
Dark in passion, fright or daze

And there are two travellers
Workers searching for the same

  The one of the tunnel
  Always mines for ore
Dreaming to one day find the sunkissed
Palace

The other of the garden
Constantly gather berries
To fill his insatiable hunger for sweet
Sense and wits

Till now
Both of them have gathered more than
They’ll ever need or use

What pleasant wonder, and departure from this
Tedium  
Could they discover if they would switch places

Would the gardener of sense
Finally have a vessel for his fruits
Unused
To not be sullied
And preserve
For all men and women, and children to enjoy
Always, anytime in any season
From summer days of knowledge
To even wintry days of reason

Would the miner of lofty dreams
Rejoice in the replenishing of strength
Forevermore
Sipping the sugary wine
Of ceaseless ideas
Along with his gardener mate
And ***** friends of all earthly grace
All the more stronger
To altogether breach
And reach The Forever
Cloudless Place



Where the sun never sleeps,
But only dreamy coze will we embrace.
Please read: :)
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3354537/learn-from-scars-not-flesh-unmarked-song-of-tormented-souls/

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Travel All Roads - The Rational and The Ideal
     Enlightenment isn’t the discovery of the already known.
     No need to illuminate where the sun had already shone.
By: Yue Xing Yitkbel ****
October 6, 2019, Finished Writing at 23:17


I really should be getting back to reading. But I just can't stop writing all these thoughts that rush to mind. Not exactly that divine and guiding nausea I always feel and have often written about but close:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2236340/the-guiding-nausea/
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3120157/the-divine-nausea/




---
This came to me spontaneously, and so I wrote all in one go. It is my immature exploration of the age-old problem of dualism, and what has been repeated a million times in the dire warning of the various variations of “If we forget the past, we’re doomed to repeat it.” Ironically it is more than likely, now that I have read it through, that it is too simple and obvious of a metaphor and allegory to not have been told before, perhaps even countlessly, and in many languages.  The irony being me having read so little to not actually be familiar with human history and our literary past.

Alas, even so, I see too many wise men boast about their correctness in a fallible road to truth while mocking those that walk a different path, perhaps not entirely correct, but still, infallible and non-disprovable as lost souls.

Even though we are all still lost. Perhaps, we are getting ever closer to the end, but nevertheless, it is yet unreached.

And so perhaps it is not so redundant for me to repeat this Critique of Pure Reason in my childish words.

Travel All Roads, Walk All Path.

You’ll never know where it goes, what it shows until you’ve seen and experienced the journey yourself.

Enlightenment isn’t the discovery of the already known.
No need to brighten where the sun had already shone.
Phoebe love Mar 2012
It’s OK to tell a secret
to a dolphin or a seal,
but a pig cannot be trusted,
for a pig will always squeal!
You cannot trust a potato
It will only tell them lies
Some secrets they are mean that’s why an onion cries
I may tell one to max
Or fife or bob But I’ll never tell a teacher to tell you off
Is her job
But when comes to animals
Tell a dolphin or a seal but
Whatever you do
Do not tell a pig coze they will only sequel
But secrets are  mean they heart some ant true
So when you tell a secret imagine its about you
got It’s OK to tell a secret
to a dolphin or a seal,
but a pig cannot be trusted,
for a pig will always squeal! off internet made up the rest
lonnieray Mar 2017
New note not newt moot. Why does my gibberish wither before yours? How is to say whose is better, the bitter brother betters the spalding other. Trother. The same similair kurds come fro and tooth inanimately they become similar. Why is there such a contusion, a contortioning togetherness, a wheeling feeling of the sameness. CuddleU, the 23rd letter. Beforehand blending breezing becoming contortion torture out the statistics until it confesses.

Torture the numbers until it confesses. Tortillas go number if you cover congress confetti. Ficusification. Ficus - ification. A new world for a **** word. When whirred a bird stirred. And out of the air it dropped a word wart. A **** of glistening glee. Faceless plumbers into leather feathers of frictionless glass. Bumble-mumble beeseetch the forlorn. You like to slumber. You like to slumber yet you think you slick and on far. You so on but you so like to coze up to pillows and warmth yet acting like you above it, cuddle like froth on tea.

Vietnam vitamins - cheering in the rain, cheering for the beautiful sleet, this ****'s pouring, pouring all weekend. Chewing on the plastic edges of your houses, pearlescent and truth or dare icey pubescent? Ploob plebian. Can you tell if I have an idea or if I don't? Why is asking questions fun? Why is it enjoyable to enter queries like burrowing rats into others head houses? Let's be more confidant! Let's confide our absolutes. Let's rid the bore holes of braniacs and smack diapers onto our dripping jewels. I sack the funny. The funniest letter is R. Isn't that more interesting than asking the question, what is the funniest letter? (Rhetorical questions don't count.) I make an assertion. Assertions are so often seen as representative worldviews when they are so much more interestingly experiments, something different than asking cowardly questions. Questions are cowardly, they refuse to experiment with a possibility. The funniest letter is R vs what is the funniest letter? You see. You see? Use E. Ease E.

There is a giant globulous letter E sitting - no swinging along your eyebrow, tipping almost but stuck nonetheless. Your eyelashes are infused with rubber buttercups. Tears are made of holograms, and they drip from the hollows of your talcum-powder nostrils. Lips are a blend of cigarette butts and gummy bears, the very small, very hard ones. Cheekie weekies made of pressed sheets of peach fuzz. It took two seasons to collect that much fuzz. The last batch was made of belly button lint and ten years of eyelashes. Eyelashes are enormously difficult to collect because they are inhabited with mites which eat them. Therefore they actually seem to dissolve just as the very small piles are building. There must be a better way to complete the harvest.
MARS Apr 2020
I strolled through
A library. T’was as abandoned
In the hands of time
As the proverbial Ozymandias.

It guarded a wealth of knowledge
Under each leather wrapped parchment
Like a pearl inside an oyster, just
Not under Adam’s ale.

One of them, as abandoned as the former
Stared at me, sitting in a
Coze on the floor.
‘Mommy!’ it cried

In such a desperate and helpless manner.
Instantaneously bonded I with it.
It was one akin to a mother and her child
Fragile, yet quite unbreakable.

All this in a book.
Words I have not to say
About that fervid day
And how etched it is.
This poem shares an intimate bond between MARS and a book. MARS adopts the abandoned, lonely and weeping book as if it were the MARS's own child.  A mix of archaic English and complex words let the reader bond with the poem as the MARS did with the book.
jamaica ramirez Apr 2017
everything was to change
it was the nature

one describe
as a comfortable coze

far and away
there's no more beautiful
Lavanya Jain Jun 2020
It was a late midnight
and the radium stars on the ceiling wall were shining bright.
The wheather was pleasant,
the aura was warm.
I was sleeping with Noddy, in my arms.
Then A sudden heaviness in my head
broke my sleep
The pain was growing so steep
That I couldn't get up.
I tried to drub
but Some thing was pulling me in my bed.
I could feel something leak
out of my nose.
It was blood , spurting out
flinging the coze.
Severe nosebleeds,
was a common symptom
of my disease.
But this one was differing,
My nose was blistering.
I knew it cause I've had many before
But this time my throat became sore
And soon i lost all control over my nose,
All I could do was doze.
My mind, I tried to divert,
So I looked for Noddy,
his cap was as red as his shirt.
Then I tried to call for aid
But by now not just my head
also my arms and legs
heftly weighed.
The pain was only growing more,
worse, than ever before.
It was as if the red water was flooding,
Unstoppably my nose was bleeding
Then with a sudden strangeness,
something leashed my lungs
Now I was breathless.
I don't wanna a die, I wanna play with my dolls,
I spoke to the dream catcher ,
That hung on the wall.
I was ailing and weak
my vission was turning bleak.
Soon i was left with none.
All I feared, was oblivion.
Casey Apr 2020
My favorite season
is the bite of the wind as it brushes your cheeks.
It's the cushioning of a purposeful fall.
It's the muted gray skies and the hush of the world.
It's the crunch of the frozen fractals that support and keep you from falling in.

My favorite season
is the echoes of voices bouncing from the trees,
the only sounds to be heard.
It's the coze of a warm drink and the crackles and pops of the fireplace.

My favorite season is the temporary loss of visible life
until only by my favorite season's death
does the world start to breathe once again.
Prompt was to represent our favorite season.

— The End —