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robot mom Jan 2016
Admire the proportions, the features, the confidence.
These are supposed to define the ideal male.
These things have nothing to with my perception of ideal.

When I put myself in that position.
I call myself Michelangelo, David in front of me.
I admire his proportions, his features, his confidence.

I throw myself so far into the fantasy, reality becomes a fog.
Enamored by him, his features, our closeness.
I am entranced by him, we transcend into the unknown.

I return to reality, and realize that I've gone too far.
I can't take back the words I've said,
or the time I've spent staring into his eyes.

But I'm no Michelangelo and he is not David.
My inspiration is much closer to my heart.

The love in my heart.
The passion beneath the gaze.
Justin Apr 2013
My father was carved from a mountain,
his features were etched from the stone,
but like all mountains my father will crumble,
he was in need of an heir to his throne.
My mother was born of the ocean,
like a flower she bloomed from the sea,
but when the tide overcame the mountain,
all that remained on the shore was me.
My brother was forged of hot iron,
no straighter a path could he walk,
he draws all his strength from the mountain,
his veins run deep through the rock.
My brother was grown in the forest,
so vivid, alive and in sync,
he draws all his strength from the ocean,
his roots thrive on the water they drink.
I was born of my father and mother,
I crawled from the ocean and stone,
and when my father finally crumbles,
his two heirs will inherit his throne.
I will travel to nations of bloodshed,
I will not let my death go to waste,
I will lay down my life in the desert,
to keep my fathers throne safe.
DT Brewer Apr 4
Honestly, I loved you from the moment that we met

You were everything that I had been wanting but I just didn’t know it yet

Shared vague ideas about your store and I  initially wondered if it could be a success

Made very good use of my business card and boy, did you make me laugh

After listening to all of your messages, I realized you were on the right track

It was the perfect partnership in the making and I cut you some more slack

You have the aesthetic vision and I have the good management sense

We really compliment each other and the opening day crowd was immense

I’ve never quite met anyone like you before

Let’s celebrate your birthday together and begin to explore

What’s possible when we spend more time together outside the store

Wait . . .

Did you know way back then after our very first kiss

That we would find in each other everything that we had wished

And that I’d be here in front of the love of my life today getting down on one knee

Or that you would be crying and saying yes, that you want to marry me
Poem inspired by the progression of David and Patrick’s relationship on the TV show Schitt’s Creek.
RCraig David Apr 2013
From my "Bestifreadaloud" series about a girl that got away that Spring because I waited too long.

Part 1 The Past
A case made now faded of a simple place, a time, a space,
a perfect moment let pass in haste.
Clasped in clashes,
brash in passion,
rose from ashes,
desire fires every second's essence as it passes,
a ton amasses.
Fast bloom,
Blast!! Boom!!
The past relapses.
Notably lesser song notes float hopeful, emotional ends and remember whens.
Sent us spinning, then spin adrift again.
Sprung in spring, we fell,
Some are reasons to recall.
Summer's season breaks, we fall.
Flocks fly down and fallen callings fade to Winter's south.
How fate related still debated.
Re-Sprung the next Spring' rise, chance misses fate this date.
I weighed and debated and waited too late

Still all these years alone, the "one", the "purpose" unsought.
Capturing thoughts,
The ones I caught and tossed,
Things I was taught and lost.
Proof framed and embossed for a cost.
Coping through the unabashed hopes to one day cash in on all this stashed trash I clash with.
"Smash it?" ...the thought crossed.  

Unimpressed by my evidence of self-less requests,
pursuit of self-evident truth proves a most ruthless abuse.
Even less are my skewed protests for “selfish quests" at the behest of the very strangers I sought to impress.
I digress.

The years compound, bossed around, kicked down but soundly employed,
I turn cold, blaming Freud for defining my non-violent, intolerance threshold on page 23 of some textbook I should have resold.
I go silent. Grow old.
"While your whining and shunning your shinning,
They're sinning and winning." Bad timing.

Girls come, go and follow this shallow, hollow fellow on the run.
While preyed upon...I paid a ton. I play.
The sum never more than the cost of rented fun.
Without insight but consent forthright,
my 30 years of intent were spent in a fortnight.
Still bent on shedding every pound of one first-moment's ton I lost not won.
Can't buy happy for less than the cost of your one-ness.
While prayed upon...paid a Son, they say.

part 3

Ohh the wait....
Ohh the weight...
My set-adrift-soul's mending depends solely on tossing
lost cause cost-spending into thrift.
Well it's a beginning.
All the amassed notes, quotes, boat-floaters,
and sailboat hopes spun in one 1-ton loss moment sprung that one Spring.

Now and again, it creeps in,
like slowly growing stinging nettles around a squelched,
once steaming scorched dream kettle.
Still stays packed away in my heart's darkest parts.
Blurred by time and place,
this burning, misplaced furnace space lays in wait.

Such compiled cold-case denial files from other life trials, lay piled in haste on my proverbial, "less pressing" messy desk of "not ready to face."
Too scared or daring to date, try to relate or contemplate
how to best equate this great weight.
Wait?... Wait.
Elation brewing from pursuing future fruition or ensuing
pure ruin gates these fates from moving, year-to-date.
For the sake of trying or dying forsaken,
another day awake is another day gained or taken.

I found her again,
the town's she's in
but she is taken and then
She learns of my wait, it's weight, my fate, she's shaken,
another ton amasses again. I pretend.
Lay down.
Drown the score of sounds surrounding.
Furthermore, slow the pulse-pounding abounding your core.
Fill your breath.
What is less is gone, tomorrow more.  

by R. Craig David-Copyright 2012
Aaliyah Houvener Aug 2018
let's end our relationship the way we started
not in love but honest with our feelings
her milk is him

her eyes are full of good tidings,
washing my body with lavender soap cake,
all the dirt crumbs of a hard life drained
into a circle of holes that carry away carings,
to places where their squeaking can’t be heard

her hands, pillows for a head so sorrow-weighty,
her body, her hips, a bed upon to rest,
and he wonders,
how did he exist before she become his nest,
her hair of grass, now, a coverlet for twigs and strings,
when then he laid his body down for disturbed sleep

her milk is him, a restorative that refreshes his content,
how did, once upon a time, he let existence subtract
his time on earth without any relativity, time unrecognizable,
he was in no one place, pathless, subsidizing nothing,
unable to distinguish tween the straight and the curved

her milk in him, whitens his soul, she calls out,
you are my shepherd, my king, my David,
my white marble sculpture of our current existence,
when you drink the white of me, it is I who is fulfilled,
when you write of me, your milk is me

Luke 24:44
Then he said, “When I was with you before, I told you that everything written about me in the law of Moses and the prophets and in the Psalms must be fulfilled.”
Caro Sep 2018
Sometimes I miss the holy grace of ignorance,
Sometimes I miss the comfort that I felt when I read about David and his caves,
About his moody eyes and his harp,
About his *** addiction and his soft, musical heart that only a god could love,
About the way he loved with abandon, taken aback in naivety, balking at those who disagreed with his unwavering need to be as he was

David made me ***
David made me feel closer to God and my mother
David told me a story of lust and ****** and protection and angst and a sweet tortured easily patronized self

Maybe in all of this, one day this flawed, beautiful man who murdered a giant and sang to lambs

Would be me

A woman, self possessed, soothing sheep and culling sleep in her victims.
Passion dripping from her honey harp.

David, thank you for the awakening and for the saturated hedonism that you spoke to in me.
by David Patrick Mowers

Been together a long, long time,
your heart and hand held close to mine,
but after fourteen years,
and you know some thousand tears...

I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore.

Had some problems in our life...
times I weren't your Man, times you weren't my Wife,
..but after Fourteen Years,
and you know some thousand tears..

I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore.

Oh no more..

No, no, more-or

Still have to think about,
all the things we couldn't talk out....
..but I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore...

Oh I know I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore.

Now the end is finally come,
new things have now begun,
funny, I still think of you,
...and all the things that we've been through,

But I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore.

No, no I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore.

I can't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore,
no more...
...I don't wear it no more,

I don't wear it!

I don't wear it no more....
This song was written by my father about his relationship with my mother. It was his one recorded track after a lifetime of playing music as a hobby. The title of the track is Carole. Anyone who messages me will receive an invitation to DropBox to hear the live recording which contains two versions as well as jam material.
Alyssa Underwood Feb 2016
Awakening will find me
through the daily mundane
faith's step in front of tiny step
for the sake of Christ's great name
Even David the brave did not set out
with a lofty ambition to see the giant slain
but walked forth instead with a servant's heart
obediently for his father, carrying cheese and grain
and as he went in faithfulness about this simple errand
God raised him up with sling and stone to champion His fame
*Inspired by this morning's sermon from Doug Rutt
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
Someone is singing a song, it's somewhere written.
The ocean breaks in billowy dances, the seas open up
Get it off the chests, put a notion through onto the cloud
that won’t just fall, won’t just stop and drop: it will float
to the measured moves, only then will it roll in,
pop into the million blooms, wreathed rosy lips,
set out bowls of colours before the one is pouring in!

A song like King David sang and everyone heard.
It’s the sweet song sang in every mother tongue;
a perfumed speech is heard sweeter than the nectar,
wreaths round each patch of earth as part of a tongue.
In all different variations, directions it’s being sung!

Mathematically composed that rhythmically spans
fashion in both, or you choose science or arts.
It’s a lyric sung with finest curvy swaying dance.
Feel the thrills deep down through the atomic level.
still the variety motions in various directions turn on,  
and nowhere near that looks, drawing a pause!
RCraig David May 2018
You can remember more than the day
the hour, the second, right down to the blink
When you were on the brink
that moment you decide to ignore your basic instinct, your gut.
Your soul starts to sink.
You stop to think...
know you’re no longer in sync with what your soul needs,
your heart feels,
your mind thinks.
Your lack of love for yourself allows you to put all your dreams goals and ideals on the shelf.
There are no reasons or logic or causes to be known.
There is no legacy or growth or seeds to be sown or thrown,
and so the seceding, succeeding that sits on “Her” throne shall be well known.
Your last flickering candle exposed to the cold dark windblown unknown as you walk alone in the black.
Why did you make this decision alone...because you always were the minute you abandoned your own.
But somehow this nonsensical, unremarkable **** slipped in equipped, betwixt too simple beseeching of your heart.
Phillip Walter Jul 2018
"Being heard is so close to being loved that for the average person it is nearly indistinguishable"
(David Ausberger)
maybe love is what melts us into one.
and im so frozen into myself that this melting seems impossible.

they say love heals.
if so I keep running
in fear of this healing.
Kris Fireheart Oct 2018
This mournful sky,
An endless grey.
Mother nature knows how I feel today...
My kindest friend
Has passed away...

His gentle smile,
The largest heart.
It's hard to believe you're a world apart...
What I would give,
If you could stay...

But what to do?
What can I say?
Every time we met, you'd always brighten my day.
We'd laugh and cry,
We'd drink and play...

With shining eyes,
You'd be my guide,
A part of me was lost on the day you died...
I hope, in sleep,
You find some peace...

The nicest man
I've ever known,
Taken too soon from a love- filled home,
The prime of life
Before your eyes...

But one day,
We'll meet again.
We'll share a drink and reminisce,  two best friends.
I'll see you there,
At heaven's end....

There has to be,
A place to see,
Somewhere they take in people even like you and me,
To keep us safe,
And set us free...

But just tonight,
I think i'll cry.
I'll say a little prayer and I'll whisper goodbye,
To a gentle man,
A friend of mine...
This poem is dedicated to the memory of my friend David, who passed from this world last Saturday.  I'll be missing you, big guy.  You have no idea...
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's *** of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
RCraig David Nov 2017
Two hearts encased,
chased by a full moon overlooking the black and lucid night.
Like a bright contrasting white light spotlight on things to be.
Mine to yours and yours to me.
Two hearts into one,  
the one moon spills a mana spell akin to an infinite, everlasting spoken rune over the ages.
Our stories into one,
Our hearts bond,
It’s skips progressive stages,
beyond words on pages,
in this quiet moment past the reach of the Sun.
The fullest moon,
the furthest reach,
high in the sky contrasting the black lack of light,
night’s version of high noon.

Emboldened to fold into and hold onto you so often,
transcending so tight even our souls share light.
Eyes shut, sealed from light,
we feel and grasp and clasp and clinch at every body-inch,
sparking darkest days into brightest nights...
then, all over again, I see you, I pull you close,
and so it begins again this morning or this day or this night.

The ****, salty taste of your waist encases a place in my brain forever.
You depart...we’re apart...
Miss you fiercely,
love you deeply,
to hold you near,
feel my fears leave me,
if only I could just see thee.
My next morning starts anew with more thoughts of you and how completely I see thee as part of the whole sum of who I suddenly aspire to be.

With every rolling tumble and sweet embrace,
with every chanced glance to give chase,
with every coy kissing peck on my neck,
with every wept tear of joy
with every breath or soulful laugh you employ,
I beseech you,
Mate to my soul,
woman to this man,
girl to this boy,
my heart,
my love,
my trust are yours to have,
to hold,
to embold...
laid bare to infirm or destroy.

By R. Craig David-Copyrighted 2017
Alyssa Underwood Jun 2016
“Come, all you who are thirsty,
    come to the waters;
and you who have no money,
    come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
    without money and without cost.
Why spend money on what is not bread,
    and your labor on what does not satisfy?
Listen, listen to Me, and eat what is good,
    and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.
Give ear and come to Me;
    listen, that you may live.
I will make an everlasting covenant with you,
    My faithful love promised to David...”

Seek the LORD while He may be found;
    call on Him while He is near.
Let the wicked forsake their ways
    and the unrighteous their thoughts.
Let them turn to the LORD, and He will have mercy on them,
    and to our God, for He will freely pardon.

“For My thoughts are not your thoughts,
    neither are your ways My ways,”
declares the LORD.
“As the heavens are higher than the earth,
    so are My ways higher than your ways
    and My thoughts than your thoughts.
As the rain and the snow
    come down from heaven,
and do not return to it
    without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish,
    so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
so is My word that goes out from My mouth:
    It will not return to Me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire
    and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.
You will go out in joy
    and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
    will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
    will clap their hands.
Instead of the thornbush will grow the juniper,
    and instead of briers the myrtle will grow.
This will be for the LORD’s renown,
    for an everlasting sign,
    that will endure forever.”

~ New International Version
RCraig David Oct 2018
Where I was then?
Where was I when I decided to “be” according to where I thought I wasn’t, but should be seen.
Who was seeing me and why?
A stranger’s approval superseded my own deny...but why?
Doesn’t matter now ,
the story’s “how”, driven by eyes not mine, saw me there then, not now....
Don’t remember the why, when or get the picture.
A situation, a moment, a scene,
Where I thought I would “mean”,
make an impact or at least when I thought I was making efforts to intervene.
The scene, alas,  conveniently never convened to pass because it was not of truth-tried substance but flammable gas.
Whether my “right here, right now” approach would be enough for the price of smell, taste and touch...
too stubborn to be coached,
too proud to see myself beyond reproach...
A rhetoric heretic riding coach facing every new horizon I approached.
Later I learn better.
Bitter I turn hater.
Creators that steer clear of best interests,
bent to mechanize.
We consent but don’t recognize.
“Society-interests second”,
their intent to capitalize.
Funders will shake any baby or kiss any hand to get you to say yes to “this is why they’re bad”,
but never is positive change brought in “this is how we can”.
Thunders will quake any wonders if they’re felt without Lightning’s blinding flash to closed-lash eyes.
Sliced, Spliced, Splintered and splendidly split.
Thrice not twice I was hindered to commit to give but not get.
Crises without advice,
a soul’s Tendency to admit quit, at least, so is writ.
Heresies cost,
scarily tossed across the lost sea’s vast length crossed.
I know now forever forward my voice is not a choice.
To die and be right is more noble than to lie to yourself and die in comfort with the quit, the cost and no voice.
SJG Jan 29
(The wind is whistling
Hear it now)

Did you see the ship float in unweathered?
Did you see the ocean solid, baby?

Did you feel Mercury rising?
Did you see it shine upon this priceless junk?

I saw blackstar projected upon the white wall,
Ascending like the happiest man.

I saw his writer's room,
A birdeye's view upon a rocky coast.

He asked me for a lighter.
He asked me for some light, baby.

He told me he was simply dying.
Dying to twist the knife, baby.

What's this Hollywood?
What this Hollywood do
That you and I can't?

Why this arrangement?
Why these stars on screen?

I could have grown up a killer.
I'd have barked the truth at ivory rooms.

I should have stirred things up somewhere.
I should have been an unhappy man.

The wind is whistling,
The song is sowing,
The tether has snapped loose.

The dog is dying,
The actor is crying,
The tether has spoken loose.

Oooooooooh. (Oh.)
Oooooooooh. (True.)
(This stupid house.)

Oooooooooh. (Oh.)
Oooooooooh. (True.)
(They think with their mouths.)

The novelist curves (True.)
Back upon himself (Tru-oo-ue.)
And the work reads like a cave painting.
True. (True.)
They've occupied the stage
Like improper little maniacs. (True.)
(True as blue.)

I saw him cry in a music video
And that's the truth, I guess.

True. True. True.
I read such monotonus verse
From a critic dying to be heard
And begrudgingly respected.

"Truth is true!"
– (A hobbyist seeking a star
And a second verse.)

I saw blackstar on the bay.
I saw blackstar from a passing train.

I saw him on a talkshow,
Grinning like the unhappiest man.
I saw him on a lifted stage.
I saw him slip out from the ether.
Well, that's great,
So you killed the ****?
Did it crow or miss the dawn?
Did you get out in your shoes?
Or limp bare-footed across the snow?

It's been forty weeks of this **** and schlock.
Dogs barking at some kid in management frock.
Five cameras, four lights, a backing track,
Your agent's sat on the line:
"It's the season to be talking smack."


Nice going, kid. Six star reviews are in.
Journalists are clapping and looking thin.
Such amusements. Duh.
Such amusement, begging beliefs. Duh.
Boo. I've got your shirt.
I've got your shoes.
I've got your house.
I've got your past.

I've got your grace.

But I'm too dumb to form the words.
Like you, I am dumb.
It's a fallacy. It's a comedy.
It's a tragicomedy for some.

I shot a deer
Then I shot the deer's son.
No loose ends – a real professional at work.
I built a shrine.
I burnt the shrine.
I fell asleep in my jeans.
I woke up at 2am.
I wrote a song. It went:
"Hey, genius!

Hey, genius!

Hey, genius?"
I stayed in and I wrote a song.
I stayed in and I wrote a song
From here to the heavens.

I swan around, feller,
Like a priest in a cashmere sweater.
Like a dog on a diamond chain.
Like a bullshitter with an acoustic guitar
Singing to you about the night.

And here, love, is God's love.
Three chords, a golden voice, and a muse
With an *** like a mule,
And a face like a slapped arrrrrrr

I swan around, feller,
Like the wine spoiling in your cellar.
Like baby's first love letter.
Like a classically trained actor
Phoning through Lear each night.

History, as they tell us from above,
Was a circus of love;
Performed by malcontents in search
Of a bridal suite, a night of sweat and smoke,
Panicked horses going for broke.

I swan around, feller,
Like an off-form fortune teller.
Like a joke at the dinner table
Which b-b-bombs.

I followed the ocean all the way to the river.
I panned a hunk of gold.
I shivered.
I froze beneath the rain:
"There's good work if you can find it, son."
"There's good work if you can find it, son, son,
son, son, son, son, son."
Ira Aug 2018
Demon Fang and angels wing,
All those below them are to be taunted with string,
They are of the most powerful beings.

Before the Satan and the God,
The seven representatives of each are to be awed.

For David,
He has his son,
Ira, The Sin of Wrath.

For Jesus,
He has his daughter,
Phi, The Virtue of Hope.

Under Wrath,
He has,
And his Trainee,

Under Hope,
She has,
S­he is yet to have a trainee,
But many believe she hopes for it not to be.

Of demon and angel,
Hellspawn is the strongest when all laid out on the table.

As angels use weapons and craft there armor,
Demons fight with magic and fist,
Along with taking hits like common fodder.

Of demon fang and angel wing,
Hellspawn and Human Reflections,
They are opposing each other constantly,
And are the balancing act of reality.
Ehhh... Would Improve but I like it the way it is.

You know that you are, *******, crazy?

Think up a new grand goal to meet,
then drop the blotter, -to compete.

Are you movin' on up?
to the top, to a deluxe compartment in your mi-ind?


Saul admired David...



dissolved him in, David.

You know that you are, *******, crazy?

Look at the hands, -they swirl in, ceiling paint...
Thinking like this the world is NO constraint.


Pick a pickle Whitley Streiber.

Gasp, rinse and repeat.

Then Devil for the Heaven's seat,
and find a tiny child to eat,
for tasty things water mouth with treat,
nothing stained by water's meet or tendered strangely as complete.


Carpet fibers tickle my neck.

I am a house.

Household item.

Bleach feels funny on the fingers,
they still won't change color back?

Think up a new grand goal to meet,
then drop the blotter, -to compete.
Then Devil for the Heaven's seat,
and find a tiny child to eat,
for tasty things water mouth with treat,
nothing stained by water's meet or tendered strangely incomplete.

Crazy you know that you are... that wall supposed to be flashing?

You cannot just dip a finger in the dark because darkness will not let you go. Are you sexually attracted to circumstance? Then I have something for you. Life is easily hardened....those that know, know me.
By David John Mowers

Oceanus, Acheron, Styx and Gyges, Phlegethon,

Phaeacians lament, mourn the loss, Scheria, dissolved in froths.

Virgil’s tale, found correct, a land too good, a nation wrecked,

Nausikaa, burn the ships; their minds released, cool airy nips,

Below the wave, watery grave, submerged to bottom, fathoms by stave,

Fathoms some more, until the whorl, descending to, another world.

Through Omphalos, to Land of Sleep, awaits a beast, where time has ceased,

Darkness here, underworld, cold and frigid, below the whirl,

In solemn grave, souls released, judged and counted, by the beast,

Deeper than, the deep itself, past drowning fairies and dying elves,

Who did mourn them? Those golden men, magic mariners, Mino's kin?

What wrong was seen? What vice not true? What awful sin? What did they do?

One thousand years, first black age, Two thousand more, to find the stage,

Cast off Aries and cast Orion, to find beginning, of Golden Lion.

Man of Heavens, Beast agrees, Bull of Sky, Ox of seas,

Land of Punt, Land of Éire, Ogyges blue, hearts on fire,

All the seashores, all the mines, Tribe of Dan, from ancient times,

Port of Sais, Port of Thera, Port of Lagash, bygone era,

Sailor’s horse, Minotaur, a lyre is crying, strummed guitar, nation dying, abattoir.

Ochre foams to sanguine depth, there they rested, where Kronos slept,

He’ll never answer, he doesn’t care, we’ll never know, if this was fair.

Our hearts in sadness, hands on the gates! I curse you Poseidon!

. . .and your Sea of Fates!
Every historical and mythological reference to the kingdom of Atlantis which was destroyed by it's founder; Poseidon. All of the characters including the archaeological agreement on the historical basis along with Geo-location as well as an approximate age of occurrence, extent of the kingdom set to metered rhyme.
Yenson Feb 28
" The world does not need any more white saviours. As I've said before, this just perpetuates tired and unhelpful stereotypes. Let's instead promote voices from across the continent of Africa and have serious debate. "

Ah David, oh David my son
don't you know by now that white supremacy is the old black
they don't want  the educated black like you
they don't harbour the progressive talented intellectual black
only place acceptable is the sports field, the drug den and their beds
but please remember.......
your only worth to them is your enormous member and passion
your hot chilli drive, your fabled great stamina and that shiny
gleaming mahogany hue, the stuff of dreams, no brains required
if you dare turn down a bed invite in East London by cockney wenches on heat
Say good-bye to any life you had and welcome hell's miseries
How dare you, who the hell do you think you are
You think you're better than us, you think you're superior

We will take you down a ****** strip, we will make sure you'll
never have another woman in your life
We rule the world, you better know it, you black *******
How dare you
We will wipe you out, erase you, swat you dead like a fly
We will make you wish you were never born

Bro, you're not supposed to talk back
Know your place even though you're an MP
You are still a TOKEN, still a minority, still a ****** blackman
Just thank your lucky stars and shut up!

WE are the Supreme beings and we rule your ***!
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