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Dan Filcek Apr 2015
collect payment support
regulatory regimes including failed merger which
effect enclosed circle including capital
Other responsibilities include:
enforce administering registrations
Responsibility protection
overarching public service
strong cadre investigating previous criminal work
Alcohol aligned
tackle pounds
Their skills range: intrusive
arrest, entry, search, detention.
detain anyone committed
listed parts which deter intelligence
analysis assessment:
the nascent department staff
occupies office
cultures: mating the terrier with the retriever
interim period empowered
relation matters within remit
Customs: ethnic-minority permanent policy of racial discrimination.
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. - source - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HM_Revenue_and_Customs
Bella Nov 2017
Social Customs are strange things.
Football games,
for example:

it's dark
night time
they gather, swarms of them,
in groups of colors.
Paint dripping down sweaty bodies
turning words into slurs-
and flags- and hand prints into swirls of color,
spirals of sweat.-
In the middle of it all
are two herds of men,
yell and jump
into each other/
on to each other/
at each other.
It looks less like a game and more like a battle to the death.
The noise from the crowds only seem to encourage the Warriors.

Girls with small handheld fireworks
throw each other in the air.
Each of them trying to grab a piece of the clouds as a present for the ”winners.”
Sending sequins and mini skirts flying left and right.
They're sweating and smiling
whether it's real or fake is unclear.
The voices coming from their tiny bodies could create a sonic boom.
Which only adds to the noise.

The noise--
half screaming,
half instruments.
they--
have a competition of their own.
They're just as loud,
but not nearly as violent.
Some say you either fight with fists or with words,
but there's a third option.
It's not words--
it's not noise either,
to the trained ear it's a different language.
They speak to each other.
They're telling stories with sound.
And the one who strings together the best sentence,
Wins.

It takes a lot of work to do this--
to do all of this-
any of this.
Each part takes sweat and blood,
time and energy,
concentration and practice.
Each moving part takes hours,
days,
months,
to practice,
to get it just right.
And when the pieces all come together
it's like clockwork.
Each group works like a gear in a clock coming together
to make something unique,
special,
beautiful.
At least-- in someone's eyes.

I'm still not sure what it's all for.
But what I do know,
is it bring smiles and laughter.
So  some way
somehow
all that sweat and noise
must be good
to someone.
this is an outsiders take (my take) on a football game.
Sam Hawkins Mar 2016
Carefree in leisure time, one blasé tourist,
almost happy, I once had collected a complicated stone;
after the sunny hours had ended and last opportunity
for keepsakes began.

In my hand the stone had kept all of its mouths sewn shut,
holding its amalgamated story, and likewise in the car,
on the plane, through US Customs where it was not
in the least suspected.

A thumbnail identity I now should guess at, marking an old date,
and fixing it to, with reasonable estimate, a map location:
Plot No. 243, East end of the island, ***** sugar plantation,
the stone from the corner of a ruined sugarmill stair—
broken free by my criminal hand.

The stone like a bleached out mini-monolith,
square rectangular, could be stood on end;
was swollen at its center like a pulled cork.

What could have moved this sequestered world to opening?
That was not for me to exactly discover,
except what came on Christmas Day,
two days after my returning.

***** watercourses, the sight of innumerable Dutch ships,
ballasted with human flesh and hewn rock
for sugar works buildings.

The drop at-arms-swish of the Driver’s bullwhip.
Flecks of spirit splayed on vegetation.

A mongrel dog barked beyond the windless wall of sugarcane
in centipede and mosquito heat.

Seaside, beautiful seaside impressions;
distant coral light shadows, etched deep azure;
snowy colored breakers that pencil-marked the sea.
The staid, vibrant, mocking power
of visual symphony backdrop.

So little of aid for the slaves, but for those dangerous secrets,
un-housed in the fallen coolness of the night:
demonstratively crystalline heaven of stars;
a ragged moon, clouds scudding eastward toward Africa.
And there -- Orion’s Belt, mid-sky, illustrious bright,
with its three centering star points in rational line,
as if Hope could have flung its anchor onto Life
engendering sanctified resistance.

Christmas morning, 5 a.m.
I had awakened from a stuck place, shapeless and dark,
half in dreaming and half knowing I was in no dream.

I was sobbing, yet strangely, because there were no tears.
I had only put the stone inside my pajama top onto my heart.
a story of what happened...a feeling and vision I had, in 2008. written then. the stone is piece of mortar...
Akemi Feb 2018
hole in the sky. tap tap, the empty vessel flows out. a weightless sink. the hour goes, blaring swell of humidity, and the jug lukewarm, leaven oft in the barred space. I return to my room. I drink the cold milk on the sill. I finish the third wretched spill of the journey to Olympus.

Downstairs a howl, a wind slam SOLOM OBSERVATIONAL MATRIX STRUCTURED TASKS AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY TO ASSIST WITH INSTRUMENTAL DECISIONS. I close the door I close the door I close the door I close the

In this uneasy slumber, the bed shakes, the windows rattle, the sky splits, the earth floods a red simpering capitulatory spasm of earthly flesh. Here is the circuit, the tired nervous tic of inaction, I shrink back from the outstretched hand, a condition which recommends two pills in the morning to mask the double image beneath my hands.

i have slept through the week again, this pathetic flesh obeys nothing, where are my pills inescapable ******* dullery

THE JUG IS HOT. I return to my room. I close the door two pills on the sill to go down with the milk

THE DOOR SLAMS GALL BUCKLING FIT ODE BREATHLESS CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER BUT THE SOUND REMAINS

Figures muffled by the walls. There are guests in the house, the looming presence of multiple species with incomprehensible intentions. In a bout of uncharacteristic curiosity, I slip my sight through the ***** of my door. UNDER RCG IT WILL BE MANDATORY FOR ALL CUSTOMS CARGO REPORTERS IN THE AIR SEA AND ROAD INDUSTRIES TO SUBMIT REPORTS TO SARS ELECTRONICALLY. I am unmoved by such perceptions. I prepare the final climb to Olympus.

the cyclone is ended. the front door is barred. the jug is cold. the yard is littered with unmoving shapes.
In this catastrophically worthless point of my life I find myself intersected by my failure to sustain a relationship, my alienation from left-wing collective politics, and my consumption of Faulkner and Ligotti, unto the birth of self-destructive pessimism.
Sally A Bayan May 19
East...and west, are we?
north, and south?.....maybe...
we were nurtured with love,
our eyes and our minds opened
to different isms that helped shape our
values...we were brought up, bearing our'
folks' customs, traditions and principles...
we have different faiths...some practice...some
don't...some, don't even subscribe, yet, survive.

we have dry and monsoon season...in
other parts, pleasant weather, cold winds,
and in some parts, snow.....turning to ice

we are  a mix of white skin, seeking for a tan,
and brown-skin, hiding from the sun;
one's night, is the other's day,
there are surfers among us, playing with the waves,
there at the cusp...gambling...daring fate...
there are those who hide from silent freezing winters,
finding warmth and comfort in long hot summers...

countless points of comparison,  
yet, we've something beautiful in common,
a connection of feelings, of words......our poetry,
flowing like blood,through our veins.....endlessly
feeding, fueling our hearts and minds, with classy,
themes....sometimes bold, mushy, or....sassy...
no set skeds......we do it even through adversity...

we write......

we tell about our escape from life's banalities,
mindscapes and landscapes immersed in frivolities

yet, we await the marvels of each  morning we wake,
remembering gratitude, in every breath we take...

years have passed us by,
still, plays this soft music that mollifies
and inspires......heard only by you and i
prodding us,through the hours, of day or night

while you exist in your part of the world,
and i, in my hot, humid cosmos, longing for cold
::::::::::::::::::::::::::


Sally


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    May, 19, 2019
(a love poem, edited...for all Hello Poetry writers)
"DONALL DEMPSEY INDEED!"

'LLANOD YESPMED?"
he squinted at my driver's licence.

"It's pronounced CLANOD!"
I said with extreme exasperation.

"Y'are not from these here parts
. . .are ya fella?"
he drawled dryly

squinting closer firstly at me then
back again to my !D.

"I'm of Welsh/Turkish extraction
but I was born on Venus!"

I explained as if to
a little kid.

"Ha ha...haha!" he snorted
a tiny trickle of snot

yo-yoing up and down
his hairy left nostril.

"Ha ha...if you were to
spell yer name backwards
it would spell:

Donall Dempsey!"

I was not amused.

"Ya know...that crazy hairy
Irish earthling poet dude!"

"I'm not him!"
I fumed.

"Alright...alright...keep yer
antenas on...geeeez!"

He handed me back
my Id ID.

Tipped his hat.
Wiped his nose across his sleeve.

"Welcome to Mars.
You drive carefully now!"

I stepped on the rocket boosters.

Left him eating my stardust.

"****** customs!"
I yelled to myself.

"Huh...Donall Dempsey
...indeed!"
Without any intro I would tell a class to take a blank piece of paper and exactly and neatly write their name in the very middle of the page. Then I would go around to look at them and go "No...no...no!" They would look at me in great surmise. "I meant...backwards!" So painfully as if it were a hard maths question they would backward themselves and ask me how to pronounce themselves. And then with their new "selves" I would get them to invent who they "now" were. They went at this with great gusto and characters born purely form pure sound would be created right in front of me> They're "I" had changed into a hee hee hee "HE" and suddenly there were all these different people running around in their minds. They even drew these new "thems" and the playground resounded to the new sounding Nairbs and Yrams who had sloughed off their usual monikers to be born anew as an inventive character.

I would never not do what I would tell the kids to do...so I became this LLANOD YESPMED who had problems with a border guard somewhere in the 25th century.
Chris Slade Apr 1
What do you reckon? I know what you’ve been thinking…
We’re on a ship that looks unsteady, like it’s sinking…
We’ve made shaky plans to be gung-** and to go it all alone…
But we’re beginning to wonder… are we heading for some kind of danger zone?…
At first we were just floating along - enjoying the passing view
And 2 years off it looked a lot easier …leaving the EU!
But there’s a waterfall downstream…and it looks like a helluva drop.
And once we get too near the edge, well, we won’t be able to stop.

The simplicity of Cameron’s ‘in - out’ referendum question dawned…
Cos, divorce is complicated.  Those who voted leave were scorned,
branded racist, or at least suffering some kind of mental disorder.
“Didn’t you stop to think about the about the Northern Irish border?” (best read in a 'silly', sneery voice).
But - back then there were 2 million Syrians, Afghans, Iraqis all walking toward Calais.
Some thought serious overcrowding problems could come our way.
Single Market,? Sovereignty? Customs Union? What the ****’s all that?
It means you’ll need a visa to go to Benidorm you ****!

Meanwhile Merkel diffused things by taking the refugees in.
But only served to rattle the bars of the **** leaning right wing.
The Spanish got all Oity Toity about us having Gibraltar.
And some of those previously unforeseen problems made Brexiteers falter.
This is David effing Cameron!… Farage embarrassed him into calling for a vote.
And, when the Remainers lost, Dave saw his chance to produce his sick note.
“I’ve done my bit”, he said “so… I’m standing down…  so who do you think should take my dodgy crown.
The Buffoon, the Backstabber, the Right Honourable Lady Home Sec?”
She, the author of  Windrush, Repatriation, food-banks, lower benefits? She got it! ****** heck!…

Hoodwinked by a government you maybe invested your life in, in all the earlier polls
Now we’ve all been tricked by a bunch of, navel gazing, self serving arseholes!
So it’s the blind leading the blind… Well, no.! Misinformed…and maybe just a bit short sighted.
And, you know, Theresa… she’ll most likely still get knighted.
But I doubt this episode will score with generations yet to come,
Deserted by this Parliamentary shambles - sitting on their hands, their collective ***.
The proletariat are cut adrift, and heading for the falls…
So we’re looking for a new saviour - someone with charisma…big *****!

Let’s look forward to this time next year… When some trusty politician re-writes our little story.
When we may be out - but far from down… Well I somehow can’t see it being a Tory…
And if isn’t Jezzer - who HAS got his eye on the prize…
McDonnel, Starmer, Benn, Tom (call me Slim) Watson? Who should THEY try for size?
And, just supposing, by chance, the Conservatives actually ***** it
who, amongst the front runners there, could get the job and hack it?
Lord Snooty, Gove, Hammond…Hunt the err… Foreign Secretary,  Javid, Liam Fox (surely not!). Bojo?
With this current stay of Brexicution, for just a couple of weeks… the petition, the march, the chaos, could it still be NO-GO?…
Whatdya reckon?
The complexion of this subject - Brexit (if I hear the word one more time on TV I think I'll unplug the thing and throw it out of the window) changes by the minute so it's hard to pin it down - Here is where we're at up to this point.
trf Dec 2018
~
if i came to you with solemn
could we pretend things were fine
rest your head on my chest
with our heart beat rhymes

if i came to you swollen
would you fetch frozen peas
dampen the dark circles
around my eyes

if i came with a gift
from an overseas trip
smuggled through customs
for your surprise

it's foggy in our kitchen
it's foggy in my head
let's talk till morning turns night

logging all those tears
on the back porch with wolves
blessed be the saints of sunrise
~
Scot Dec 2018
A morgue is an unhappy place regardless of time or place.
The somber few that haunt the halls often project the surroundings dreadfully.
While walking the gray tiled rooms it’s known too that we shall one day wear the toe tag.
But mortality gives way to reality and jobs are done with quiet respect for passed souls.

And then there’s the Juarez Morgue...
A hot July day and a drive through Mexican customs brought a meeting with police officials.
A body in their possession, they thought, would bring transportation home.
Calloused officials with shiny gold 45’s aglow, spoke rhythmic Spanish in their police code.

A “******,” said one and this should be fun a ride with those looking more like hit men.
A car loaded with “Madrinas,” in tow and AR 15’s laid in seats in a row.
How odd thought he in a land purportedly free and fright on passerby faces.
Cocky bravado speaking radio slang,
did drive towards the Juarez morgue.

A couple miles out a turn in and out did place them in a neighborhood quiet.
But a familiar smell in a nose did swell, and wonder of how that could be valid.
Putrefaction it was, the odor rose above as the children played gleefully nearby.
How could it be when he could not see the edifice emitting the smell?

A small octagon building, small air conditioners in four windows.
Could it be that this was the morgue?
The desert sun bright and heat overbearing.
My God this is a place of death among many living, what a fright!

The escorts did enter, the detective slowly met the front door.
He was quite pensive when sliding from light to the dark.
His eyes gone black his vision insufficient, as he started to be able to see.
A wet sounding step and a curious glance, did place his feet in crimson water.

Disbelief as the room came into focus, he saw well the visions of what belong in ****.
Bags of bones stacked they were, a femur and skull, the fully decomposed welcomed.
Four porcelain tables and bodies disabled lay upon with nary a stare.
Just shortly behind bodies piled feet high forget a tray or a gurney.

Overcome by it all he began to stall, and try to gather his thoughts.
Rank smell in his nose sent him scrambling for his cigar.
The smoke unable to cover what he did discover, his heart fell hard to his knees.

How inhuman it was to see rampant disregard for the dead.
No scalpels used to cut the Y,
a kitchen knife he could cry.
Sewed up a corpse, with rough twine of course, he regretted where he did stand.
His spine became metal his mind did reel and a new wrinkle appeared on his brow.

On some summer nights when heat fills the air, he does look up to the moon.
His mind travels back to the withering stacks, and the odor still gathers in his nose.
The years have passed by and he doesn’t know why, the memories will not fade.
Restless sleep, fallen heart, many more new wrinkles have taken there place.

A war there has broken out,
and factions viciously ****.
He can’t help but wonder what has happened in Juarez.
The tractors and the bodies they plow.
No building this time a long ditch in the ground scores of people pushed into a long trench.

He walks each day with what he has seen, which cannot be unseen.
Wrestling with himself in the bed, and covering his head.
The dead they do come to visit still.
The Morgue in Juarez left it’s print in the mind of a young fellow.

Indulge the last line if you have some spare time.  Dios bendiga los muertos de Juarez.
True occurrences.
Gabriel Bonney Oct 2018
I never really understood
Why you like coffee anyway
Having something so cold and bitter
To start your day

Or maybe it's just me
Acustomed to the customs of this world
A product of this day and age
And that why I couldn't see

A past so dark and dreary
Shown in your eyes cold and weary
Weak and beaten down
You fell away beneath the sound

To live again another day
In the quiet cliché of this café
Within the solitude of your own creation
You view the world through your imagination

That's why you would take a sip of bitterness
In this jaded and abstracted mind of yours
Now the only bridge to entity you'll let through
A gentle reminiscent of reality's grim kiss
A poem I wrote a while ago
Mahwish Z Sep 2018
Enclosed in this body
I find myself terribly alone
people who are supposed to be mine; I don't understand their customs even though we share same language
how can we share same culture, bonding, skin colour and religion?
I find this bizarre- strange, and defying
though I did not want; I am forced to hear the stories
participate in this wildness of rituals, judgemental games
these rituals, maddening remarks and cultural scores
majorly- religious obsession; I find this bizarre, fanatic, humiliating
I, just feel, absurdly, obscurely and intensely alone
officially, I resigned from feeling too human.
Amanda Oct 2018
I sometimes wonder about morality
How each life circle slows to a final crawl
Now, I know this is how it’s meant to be
Because life must end, for creatures all
For some, their beliefs will make them fearless
They will live a life after with reunited family
And a herald of horns will light up the darkness
Isn’t that what the preachers say, how it’s going to be?
But I don’t hold with the religious tract
It’s a big, wide world of varying faith and customs
Just too many versions out there to take as fact
But choosing is but one of the many freedoms
As a human, that we have, I give thanks for.
But I am not here to beat a drum
I just hope when I finally meet deaths door
I can look back and see a life lived that was awesome.
Lyra Apr 28
Here I am, halfway across the globe,
Seven continents away from home,
Isolated by barriers of roaring seas,
With no one but myself for familiar company.

Weeks and weeks of new faces in classes,
Campus teeming with foreign masses,
Culture shock is an understatement,
everything that I see suffers my judgement.

Chinese Malaysian - my identity,
becomes dissected and questioned by all I meet.
Tired of having to explain my heritage,
Tired of feeling like I need to change.

White and yellow - a clash so supreme.
"Shoes off by the front door, if you please,"
this request met with countless clueless faces,
then I remember: different customs, different places.

I made friends, I wasn't alone,
but they're different from friends from home.
It was nice on the surface but I wanted connection,
understanding of my culture and recollection.

Then I met you that fall Halloween night,
though fireworks were scarce, things were alright,
I left the party with no expectations,
us being Asians didn't mean a connection.

Then we saw each other every Monday,
your friends became my friends, here to stay.
Then that winter night clicked us into place,
there was no escape from threads of fate.

You were born here and  this land is your home,
but when I see you, I feel it all in my bones.
Connection is true, my heart feels at ease,
when I'm with you, there is nothing but peace.

I find home in you when I need it most,
when I feel alone, like my past are my ghosts.
You tell me we ate the same snacks in our childhoods,
celebrated the same festivals, loved the same foods.

Your grandma speaks the language of my mother,
joss sticks at the altar to venerate your grandfather,
the more I love you, the more I realize,
we were continents apart but lived the same lives.

"I found my home in you" sounds so cliche,
but it's so much more than just something to say.
It's the truth and it means the world to me
that we can connect both of our histories.

Destiny, fate, sweet serendipity,
It's wonder you wound up here with me,
It only took me eight thousand miles
to find you, i hope this lasts a while.

Here I am, halfway across the globe,
it turns out, not so far from home,
Now homesick takes on more than one meaning,
how lucky am I for this very feeling.
kuala lumpur ----> california

— The End —