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Left Foot Poet Nov 2017
for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars
<•>

fluids in, fluids out  

wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together,
it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd  the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere,

so what if it's spat-past midnight,
isn't this one of those soul-criticality's,
staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive  

make sense to you?
the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out,  
doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of
yeah yeah yeah,
my professional courtesy answer to their  dire warnings repetitious  

tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream,
a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson,
and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid  
is strong transformed into words

water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again

water is words, words are water,  
the difference huge, the difference minuscule,
both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids,
all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh,
staying-hydrated is primate

place a new cold bottle in readiness for my
3 o'clock feeding
11/14/17 12:04am
Brianna Heins Jun 2012
To lose the robust and ephemeral vitality,
is waking up in dazed desolate imitation,
that creases and crinkles euphoric principality.

Blades of grass, sharp tipped spears of unreality.
A chilling, a challenged negation;
to lose the robust and ephemeral vitality.

Spinning round the ugly formality,
are snickers, unshy sneers of an evil salvation,
that creases and crinkles euphoric principality.

Thrilling no longer a verb, piano key pressing its precious mortality
into her throbbing thrashed temple dictation.
To lose the robust and ephemeral vitality.

A ****** numb soul with the criticality
of skeptics, chewing their lips, a dead cell castration
emotional stripping, slipping into complete impromptu filtration.
That creases and crinkles euphoric principality.
A Villanelle. Such a cool form name.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
So many poems in shallow graves lay,
unremarked, disfigured by inattention,
undistinguished, death by ignorance,
yet all distinguishable,
in merited manner
and winsome way

numerical weight of observations
marks only quantity,
nor is it a critical mass
connoting value, criticality
only idol worship, pop rock popularity

are you genuine,
do you value place
on any handworked lettered trace,
its silver hallmark
even ever,
ever even,
magnifying glass faint?

does the fear, the knowing,
that the greatest poem
ever penned and ever posted,
has escape your inward glance,
laying stillborn and yet
just a click away?

are you truthful poet,
do you imbibe
from the word~waterfall,
poems sky-endless falling,
within which,
by their virtue,
you, too,
permissioned to
survive and be nurtured?

if you drink and think of but
the issue of your own spawn,
see in a one way mirror,
a contained reflection,
see then a limited version of one self,
a half-formed wordsmithy,
incapable of healthy mutation,
a child, unfully grown,
poisoned by reaching for only
only one's self from the bookshelf of
this miracle,
called poetry

integrate your integrity
with integers and alphabets,
from spice islands and faraway places
infect yourself
with dots and dashes
of other's mind,
thus your own composings,
healed, improved with injected
doses of vive la différence!
a verbal literary interferon

are we all laureates? no
are we all kith and kin?
assuredly yes,
assuredly no

Vive la Différence,
the only commandment,
the ruling motto,
sup with me

once I was a young man,
a younger man than now,
unaware the road less traveled
the veritable choice of the chosen few,
vanity from the page
reflected falsely upon me

I learned to be not~me~poet,
in the company of
scribblers and scribes,
who strove and tried,
some better, some for worse,
all enshrined

once he wrote:
***** your courage to the sticking point,
Begin to write then with reckless courage,
Unfettered abandon, make a fool of yourself!
Scout the competition.
Weep, for you and I will never surpass
The giants who preceeded us, and yet,
Laugh, cause they thought
the same thing as well...^


so these souls
to thee I do commend,
it is just the first snowfall,
I am buried neath drifts Minneapolis deep,
so help me,
lend me thy scalpel eyes,
thy tiny toy shovel,
six feet ain't much,
dig we must,
alert me to the names of
those who
must be uncovered, discovered,
rightfully celebrated
Spend too many hours reading poems.
I am a free heart giver, a list keeper
of the names that stumbled once upon,
I am instant devotee

lest I offend by absence decided to keep their names to myself,
but I crown their efforts with this poem and my unfettered
desire to bring them to your attention

^ http://hellopoetry.com/poem/379313/do-not-put-a-poem-here-until-you-have-bent-your-ear-to-shakespeares-sonnets/
Gary L Misch Oct 2011
Let us render clear,
The vital items
Of our lives,
Not the things of pleasure,
But those things without which
We may find ourselves expired,
Or at least severe impaired,
Beyond
Those things that are
The sustenance of life,
There is a list that can be made,
Food,
Water,
Air,
The last is mostly critical for its
Oxygen,
What if we were to lose
An equally critical component,
The oxygen of our life,
Not the O2,
That mixes with the nitrogen
We breathe,
But that very something that
Sustains our soul,
That very life line
That many of us must have.
True,
Some are more tightly
Interwoven with it than others,
For some it is
Like unto the umbilical cord,
As critical as that to which we cleaved
Within the womb,
Without it we wither.
What is it?
For some it is a place,
For some a drug,
For others
A person,
For all,
A vital element,
Defined only by us
As individuals - involuntarily,
The level of criticality unknown,
Until it is lost,
Whereby we are,
Perhaps for the first time,
Truly working without a net,
Or a sense of direction,
And we begin slow suffocation,
Not of the lungs,
But of a different kind,
A drowning of the mind and soul,
For,
Without that special oxygen,
Whatever,
Or whoever it may be,
That beacon,
Like unto a horizon reference,
We are slowly,
But surely,
Unmade.

   PSA: Poetic Service Announcement - written 05/01/2017
                                              
   Please feel free to share with established and future
   authors on FB.
********************­***
.
One of the toughest decisions, an author has to make, is the selection of a reliable publisher. With more than six months of personal experience, I have painfully learned that PBP (Published By Parables, headed by John Jeffries) is NOT one of them. For decades, I’ve listened to ministers tell me that “Mediocrity is not a hallmark of Christianity; it’s halfway between success and failure.”; and yet, the shoddy workmanship of transforming my manuscript into a usable PDF (that would produce the book) failed to even reach the level of mediocrity. I extend an apology to those, to whom a premature recommendation of PBP was given by me. Don’t repeat my mistake! Please. You’ll be grateful and thankful for heeding my warning.
.
This company engages in deceptive practices and doesn’t operate with complete transparency. For example, it advertises that it will publish your book for free. While this is technically true, you will have to make an initial payment of $185; $35.00 for the copyright and the $150.00 for the ISBN-Barcode. In addition, John will subtlety lecture you, regarding why he won’t cover this expense and why you should.
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Before I began writing poetry seriously, I acquired 30 years of IT experience and 20 years of desktop publishing experience; so I understand conceptual ideas, the need for high standards and the importance of having a solid, but flexible framework. In addition, I was taught the criticality of working with a mindset of excellence- a topic taught by most ministers. One example is Titus 2:7-9, which states: In all things shewing thyself a pattern of good works: in doctrine shewing uncorruptness, gravity, sincerity, sound speech, that cannot be condemned; that he that is of the contrary part may be ashamed, having no evil thing to say of you.
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Computer templates, used in today’s bookmaking operations, are not meant to be static; rather they set an initial foundation from which work can begin. Given the style of my writing, PBP had agreed to modify the template being used, as to minimize the impact of my having to change my writing to accommodate the shortcomings of said template. I understood that this would possibly extend the timeframe to get my book constructed. I was okay with this and never rushed PBP in its efforts.
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With each iteration of manuscript changes, new random and unexpected problems began to appear; so I was blamed my project’s lack of progress, since the errors arose from PBP’s ongoing modification of my manuscript’s template. It’s unimportant to realize that ALL modifications to the template were made solely by PBP. PBP never reviewed an updated PDF before sending it to me; therefore, it became my responsibility to identify issues that resulted from the technical incompetence of PBP. So what if titles lost their boldface attribute, while the text of poems were inadvertently made boldface. So what if poems were displayed to the left of the left-hand margin, pages numbers were lost, or randomly displayed in boldface, or that page headers would be missing or cut in half- it was my fault for desiring a template customized to meet my personal need. So what if the page numbers were corrupted within my index of poems, from PBP inserting new pages into the beginning of my manuscript. So what if I was concerned that the index’s format was changed from the way I desired. Stuff happens and I need not concern myself over such details. Apparently I was delusional in thinking that I was responsible for the vision of my new book.
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And if that wasn’t enough fun, PBP would ignore some of my changes, such as inserting the occasional blank line, as well as making unauthorized modifications that included adding, replacing and deleting PBP graphics. One graphic I was fond of, PBP removed because its intended purpose is meant for “internal company use only”. Guess I’m just an unruly rebel for wanting to use it. Since he originally inserted it into my PDF, using it must have been initially okay. This incident is one of many that shows John’s lack of attention to detail.
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In addition, I was unreasonable for wanting my legal name displayed properly (so I can differentiate myself from the other “Joe Breunigs”; no offense guys!) That correction alone took John SIX MONTHS to address; my book’s title also created angst for PBP, since it contained an ellipsis. Twice I e-mailed instructions on how to insert one because he misplaced/lost the first correspondence. And so I was unreasonable once more, since his option of using three consecutive periods was deemed unacceptable by me. An ellipsis is my favorite punctuation mark; if he couldn’t handle my previous instructions, he could have COPIED IT DIRECTLY FROM MY MANUSCRIPT.
.
John constantly complained about updating the template and the slow iterative process of making my book. At one point, John made the remark of how he had published two other titles during the timeframe my book was being worked on. As Christians, we get in trouble when we compare ourselves to others, since everyone’s journey is unique. So it’s clear that PBP’s intent was to manipulate me into feeling bad, regarding PBP’s lack of progress. Supposedly I was out of line for suggesting that he remember James 1:2-3, which teaches us: My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. In discussions with PBP, I indicated that I have 15 complete and unpublished manuscripts of poetry. In addition, I stated that we would have the most hiccups during the creation of my first PBP, since we had no experience working together. Nor did PBP understand that this process of creating a personalized template for my work would save time during the construction of future titles- both for me and other poets. Should I apologize for forward thinking?
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Given the problems I was forced to face, doubt became evident in my selection of PBP; so I decided to ask more questions, to step up due diligence on my end; NONE of my follow-up questions were ANSWERED. I had the audacity to ask for a contract, how much I could expect to earn per copy sold, why PBP didn’t request my SSN and other questions of concern. I wanted to understand how to stop PBP from making unwanted changes or ignoring the ones I desired. One would like to think that a publisher would be appreciative of a proactive author, seeing that I have one title already. At one point, I had the false hope that my book could be completed by December 2016, but not in time for Christmas. Now we’re into May 2017.
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Nor was I ever allowed to see the prepared book cover- FOR MY BOOK! I was informed that I couldn’t be allowed to see it because the image MAY need to be re-sized. IMO, this is a ridiculous excuse. Since I never saw the cover, I was unable to either review it (for mistakes) or critique it. Supposedly the cover was made three months earlier; since I’ve not seen it, I must assume that PBP is not lying to me. And it was crazy of me to imagine using the graphic (OF MY BOOK) as a marketing tool to create excitement and interest in my latest title or possibly generate pre-order sales. When a publisher intentional decides to play games like this, does anyone else see this issue as a “Red Flag”?
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Caught between his impatience, unrepentant attitude and ability to be easily offended, John refused to apologize for his technical ineptitude and unwillingness to press forward; instead he chose to hide behind his spiritual authority (which I do not fall under); he essentially demanded that only I had the onus of forgiving him. After a weak and failed attempt to bully me into accepting substandard work, he later announced that he was quitting my project. In a phony letter of apology, John even implied that I needed to accept responsibility for the failure to get this book made, since I HAD CONTACTED PBP. In addition, he reiterated that PBP is a ministry; if that’s true, then why didn’t he demonstrate patience, perseverance and humility towards me or ensure quality of effort… as unto The Lord? Should PBP want to dispute my account, John should be reminded that I’ve retained a copy of various PDF iterations of my unmade book with the aforementioned issues.
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I took no pleasure in composing this PSA, but felt that it was my duty, to share my poor experience in dealing with a difficult publisher, to my writing communities. This notification could have been prevented, if John had repented, swallowed his pride and pushed forward to get my books made. Instead he chose to become an irrelevant part of my journey as an author, which is sad, since he acknowledged that I have a gift for writing poetry. IMHO, we the writing community, must be willing to stand up to publishers, since the responsibility (of the vision for our books) lies with us. We should be able to freely ask questions and have templates modified to suit the individuality of our books. Let your voice and concerns be heard. Please share this message with the writers you personally know. We should not be forced to accept shoddy work! John can be reached on FB at https://www.facebook.com/john.jeffries.33; the PBP website can be found by searching its full name. Please feel free to share this PSA on John’s page, so he understand the ramifications of his actions.
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Troy Wylie-Hill Feb 2021
I sometimes talk to others with the same tone I talk to myself
With the same criticality, the same distain
Sometimes I don’t
Sometimes I’m forgiving, I’m tender
Sometimes I’m compassionate and kind
I must remember this
To keep it in mind
For the next time
Myself and I
Speak again
short Sunday musings
dania Jul 2016
that's the thing on the tip of my tongue
in a heart i felt nothing

but i had some dawns in me already
breaking truth

that else is not always else
and my self was not always myself
and i trust this and i need this truth

and if it's called selfishness
then i admit it to be
i swear it to be
because a heart where there is nothing else
only comes about for me

an end, i reach, came finally
all that was amind
was mine.

the biggest fog, cloudiest bog
aggregated aggravation
wish i could go around and change the notation

never MIND the abject self-criticality
i mind it the most when you mess with my practicality

cause i'm sick of this big big fog that i carry in me.
you wanna carry this for me?
i carry it for no reason but
an old commitment i used to have for interreality

and this isn't really my reality
this is your reality

so we play, and when we do, we play across the line
and when we cross your faults, they become mine
but like always
i'll take them
it's fine

forgetting i'm already sick of the weather
forgetting i don't know how to make it better
forgetting it forgetting it

filled of others
I'M FILLED with others
of what else?

you say else never was the anti-me
but i fought inner wars to have it reconciled in me

well, in any case,
your else, i used to make it mine

but here i fulfill my own. disown disown disown

cause i've laid no ties to this weaky throne
nor to the cloudy ****** weather i'm gonna have
overthrown

belonging to all these people i asked to leave me alone
by the way, they never left me alone
till i finally left me alone

honey i'm home
honey honey
i'm home
i'm more than skin i'm more than bone
but i'm not you
i'm my own


i keep thinking
if only i had known

if only i had known
and I say then.
I say then the things I have to
the things I didn't want to
but they come out whether you plan to
or not-plan, too
Sam Temple Mar 2016
shapeless form flowing easy
whirling and twirling to infinity
colliding with memories
and creating delusion
synapsis fire seemingly random
shapeless formless mass shifts
altering long held beliefs
and morphing religious boundaries
gifting treasonous ideals
to steadfast personal decisions
without consideration to ramifications –
free flowing thoughts cascade
leaving trace elements behind
fitted with apparatus engineered
to change one’s mind
create a new thought pattern
extend and elongate the process
into criticality
the path to becoming a critical thinker
is no longer marked or taught
it has become up to the individual
to learn this important and valuable skill
lest we all vote Trump
and live on McDonalds –
I hit the ground running
What else was I supposed to do
When I fell
Every thought in me
All that I believed
Said
I should have seen this coming.

But where were you
Who were you
Who was it I thought you would be
What did I expect you to do
Who were you...
Who was this "you" in my memory
A perfect stranger
Or maybe me

What did I expect
Was myself not enough to survive the storm
When I asked you and you held me up
Did I expect that you had some deeper knowledge
-- did you know me
-- did you see me for who I am... not who you thought I should be

Give it up, Ive had enough,
I drink too much to believe in belief
I am my worst enemy above even your worst
Criticality
So take a breath and walk away...
Maybe just let me breathe.
labyrinth Nov 2020
Diminishing sincerity
******* polarity
Excessive irrationality
Abundance in disparity
Ever-increasing barbarity
Fading income inequality
His, her or your vanity
Addiction to popularity
Translates to peculiarity
Governmental irregularity
A lot of corruptibility
Destitute of quality
Surplus of insensitivity
Lack of responsibility
Never ending animosity
Disengaging actuality
Too much sexuality
Accelerating obesity
Elites: Malicious fraternity
Utter contemptibility
All about profitability
Causing instability
What a pity
And!!!!
True solidarity
Complete clarity
A lot of integrity
Quite some serenity
Stronger immunity
Back to respectability
Definite profundity
Old-school verity
And impeccability
Absolute race equality
Mutual generosity
Much less paucity
None of docility
Financial security
Fixing credibility
Growing authenticity
Waning negligibility
No images, real identity
A little conventionality
Maybe some spirituality
For sure, intrepidity
Equal opportunity
Lasting prosperity
Happier humanity
With fine dexterity
All necessity
If not!!!
Inevitable scarcity
Impossible maintainability
Increasing immorality
Spreading brutality
Thus illegality
Sheer inequality
Additional vulnerability
Air and nature impurity
Much less inhabitability
A separating community
Everything’s overcapacity
Additional promiscuity
With less heterosexuality
Way more criminality
Presumably more oddity
Leads to inexplicability
Rising radioactivity
Unstoppable ferocity
Along with hostility
Political den of iniquity
All that potentiality
On the verge of criticality
Oh boy, a poor posterity
More than a possibility
Around the vicinity
Shame on complicity
The End!!!
Terry Bradshaw, hairy dads' law, fairy grads' law, Mary's mad shawl
kick ***, shave *****, crucify Christians, blind mice, sign by scrawl
a contract on Loke to make tall movie marquees for Run Run Shaw
who swore an oath on the soul of his dead brother to not wear a bra
till Galen Winsor's criticality mass of U-235 forces an A.E.C. brawl
over sunlight burned from David Bowie's epical "Time Will Crawl"
what possesses no musical tempo for Barry's beagle minus forepaw.

— The End —