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Vanessa Gatley Nov 2014
The ring defines power and marriage of love
        The necklace defines the heart and neck
       The pendant styles it up
        The bracelet is wraps around the wrist against the veins
        Ankle bracelet kinda means like I'm Hawaiian
     Earrings resemble how your choices can dangle beyond your life a hole in
      Life where there can be light or darkness
Breaking down what I think jewelry is meant in my mind & I think its pretty clever how it came to be
MY FROG MASTERS

How thoughtful were the rainfalls
To water our gardens and flowers
The flowers spread wide garments
To celebrate their terminal beauty

The joyful frogs occupied my pond
To orchestrate their vocal prowess
They taught me to take blind leaps
Like lightning bouncing in the skies

Squatted, stretched, beeped down
I was a millstone on the pond floor
My slippery pond mates wondered
How soft I was in the maritime arts

Mortally rescued in a muddy mood
The clouds sent in rescuing showers
To confirm my firm loss to the frogs
Like a grain of salt cast into the seas


673. MONEY BAGS IN THEIR BODY BAGS

The money bags shopping for their body bags
Waggled through the makeshift supermarkets

Their ancestral homes they plotted modernity
Like the general gathering fine forces together

To the villages they made to return with pride
Like pregnant elephants caught up in the mud

Their desolate villages are deep and sickening
Glowing flamingly in the crucibles of local gins

The dusty and gravy pathways are like furnace
Burning the leather off from their frozen souls

Traditional birth attendants cut off their cords
And zipped the money bags in their body bags

674. A GLORIOUS DAY

The new day spoke powerfully
Like a war making superpower
And his voice roared forcefully
Like the skies forced to shower

The sunrays came dynamically
Like love responding to silence
Beauty crawled in submissively
Like the mixed arts and science

One eagle soared energetically
Like lions feuding in the colony
Far clouds relocated peacefully
Like souls betrayed to harmony

The breeze sighed thoughtfully
Like horses galloping on the lea
Inspiration unfolded thankfully
Crowns monuments with a pea

675.  THE FOG BANK

The sun had gone to pay our bill in the fog bank
The world foggily crawled into the strong rooms
Darkness demonstrated her strong mindfulness
Provided for the strong gale with lurking shrieks

The black paint billers snowballed to our dreams
With the bill of exchange for wild sunny excesses
Ghostly bats emerged with the bill of indictment
In demonstration of our acrophobic dispositions

We packaged the sunrays for our folk memories
To reassure the day of our eternal followerships
We cherish our follow-throughs in our dark beat
To usher the sunlight out of the hollow fog bank

676. THE PROTRACTED INTERNECINE FEUD

These things had happened before we were born
Like sulphur deep into our fresh hearts they burn
Now we stumble on the bumpy terrains in horror
Like one frightened by ghosts in a standing mirror

The internecine feud has razed our men of valour
With their carcasses dumped in their cold parlour
Our community cattle graze in the barren pasture
Like the unrepentant sinners awaiting the rapture

For our plight the once glorious sky is grown pale
Like the ***** fetching territorial waters with pail
The storms have rolled off the catalogues for rain
All our efforts to mop up the mess end up in vain



677. THE AREA LEADERS

They cracked coconuts on the heads for the crown
And embraced our days with their castaway pollen
Sadness and sorrow have dyed our garment brown
With the strongest song sung when night has fallen

These are the blinding dusts from our barn’s grains
They breed cunning serpents in the soft pasturages
They are failed cargoes on our broad societal trains
They dedicate our common committee to outrages

Now our days seek deliverance from their tentacles
Like the colourful fields immersed in gloomy beauty
They play our eyeballs with the stenciled spectacles
With our consciences to sight and found us off duty

To rescue us the colossal clouds were born gadarene
Our communal life was willed to pageants of gaieties
Then moonlight stories held us for a larger gathering
Now all the objects we sight dress up like cold deities

678. THE LAST DESCENDANTS

The rapacious thunderstorms ***** the skies for their tears
The hot embers were born to glow mourning the late forest
The moon crawled out of the blue like a great grandmother
Cuddling her descendants wrapped up in her ancient shawls

The wild waves were weird weavers weaving withering wails
The captioned wigs gyrated on stunning shoes upon auctions
The little creatures crouched in primeval baskets of the night
To gnaw at the generational tubers in the creative farmlands

The dazzling specimens of dentitions relaxed in water basins
Like bright red artistic architectures on potent ocean boards
Golden hearts glow in the threatening prisms of the furnace
As beautiful sunset defines her beauties in her nightly corset

It had been a sweet pill for the past descendants to swallow
Depending on the colonial masters for loaves, lore and lures
Our creativity had been packaged in their mortal depravities
Like the tranquil days resting sorrowfully upon the dark oars

The centenarian thunders downgraded our minute whispers
We had been kept upon our toes by the eternally sworn foes
At last our worthy artworks have worn their wormy catwalks
The refreshed dawns greet our easting days in their greenery



679. VICTIMS IN THE VALLEY

The victims in the dark rally
Caged, dried and browning
Therein their meanings tally
With waves born drowning

In the depth of a cold valley
Horrible nobles are cultures
Like pilgrims in the dark alley
Willed to ravenous vultures

The victims all robed in tears
With hearts like potter’s clay
For pains they have no fears
Only mimed games they play

For victory awaits the victims
Alien to a blind mimed game
Glorious are eternal rhythms
For death Christ died to tame

680. THE GIANT SCARS

These are our giant threatening scars
Engraved on our demonstrative heads
Our sympathies crawled on superstars
Weeping for us on their moonlit beds

They threatened us with nasal sounds
Like thunderclouds seasoned to burst
For us their galleries are out of bounds
Behind the iron bars plagued with rust

Our patience passed their wildest tests
Like the lions roaring in the thick jungle
On the heart of the Lord our faith rests
Like numbers posted on the right angle

681.  A LADY

In a lady’s handbag
Is her hidden hunchback
Stuffed with her heart ache
For the pains relieving groom

In a lady’s tender smile
Is hidden miles of similitude
Marked with the zebra crossings
For the ever winning marathoner

In a tender lady’s heart
Is hidden her cowboy’s hat
Soaring within the white clouds
To soothe the earth with the latter rains

682. BRING BACK OUR GIRLS

Bring back our homesick girls
Their vacant cradles are bleeding
Bring back our innocent girls
On the chariots of fire descending

Bring back our suckling girls
Their feeding bottles are weeping
Bring back our infant girls
Their mothers’ ******* are heavy

Bring back our harmless girls
The united universe is thundering
Bring back our dewy girls
In the sharp sun rising in the skies

Bring back our beautiful girls
Like light plucked from darkness
Bring back our glorious girls
Aboard the shore-bound waves

Bring back our worthy girls
On their fresh faces our lights seek to glow
Bring back our living girls
Our fountains of joy are bubbling to burst

For our returned girls the skies shall bear
Roaring rivers, singing seas, chiming clouds
With gongs and songs, pianos and praises
Dulcet dulcimers and documentable dances
With healthy hymns and eloquent embraces
All nations shall into a common cathedral flow

683. ****** GENEOLOGIES

They electrify their demonic high tables with old fears
Only their ****** genealogies are bookmarked to reign
The sight of their portables whetted our eyes to tears
We are reinforced by the clouds born to the later rain

Our skins have renovated the sickening cattle wagons
With our dreams flying upon huge smokes in the skies
Beneath their tables we abridge their creaking jargons
Upon their floors with our generational landmark tiles

The dew drops dropped like old crops upon our brows
To soften the veils falling to the flaming edged swords
The flaming hearted sword of the penetrating sunrays
Born to pluck us alive from our hotly bandaged bruises

684. LET US SPEAK UP

The light is climbing downstairs
And danger is sprouting abroad
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is melted on the glades
And terror grazing our eyelashes
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is late and lately buried
The mourners are on danger list
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light has divorced the grave
Her grave clothes are dew dyed
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

Silence is a forgotten tombstone
Lost in the din of cold morticians
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

685.  THE SUN

The sun smiles on all prescriptively
Like the waves spreading on shores
The green grass glows descriptively
Like the full moon upon dark sores

The sun is a tailor fixing the buttons
Preparing the sky for incoming stars
Like the weaverbird weaving cottons
To conceal the day’s damnable scars

The sun is a marker on diurnal pages
Tall grace he bestows on the flowers
The sun retains his graces for all ages
Bees and butterflies are his followers

Our common laughter is endangered
When sun bows down in big setbacks
All mortals have the starlets fingered
When the night comes on drawbacks

686. UNTIL HERE

(For Lou Lenart and his team)

Their floods came seeking Jewish bloods
Like streams they roared for our dreams
They emerged as columns of soldier ants
Like whirlwinds they zoomed towards us

Until here we were crumbs for the reptiles
Until here we were like airborne cloudlets
But here the sudden change unveiled to us
From here the elusive victory embraced us

With skeletal jets we fought like bold lions
Soared like eagles and spoke like thunders
We conquered columns of invading armies
The bleeding armies turned back and blank

From here we turned from victims to victors
From here enemies’ defeat our greatest feat
Upon this memorable bridge it all happened
Victories leapt upon our pool like joyful frogs

687.  JOY UNLIMITED

The fledging sun offers its rays
And the rays offer golden trays
For our joy a platform to spray
Rowdy paratroops like thunder
To scoop roses from pure oasis

Our joy is ripe upon celebrations
Our celebrations with decorations
Decorations with documentations
Documentations for all generations
Generations in our joyful habitations

688. ANOTER RAINING DAY

The dark clouds are wandering river basins
Spiral bounded by breakable outer casings
The rivers and the seas display empty cups
For the swift blessings descending the tops

The rains come as defense troops’ missiles
And the drowning lands look like imbeciles
Now we are groaning in the watered claws
With the liberated scales marking our flaws

The retreating clouds crawl away in a belch
Dumping the missing cargoes on the beach
The winds bow in a state of shock in a cord
Praying and fasting for a visit from the Lord

689. GRANDMOTHER

Grandmother, please wake and get up
The sky is quarreling with her husband
Soon they will spill their freezing sweat
On our bodies for us to catch dead cold

Grandmother, please sneeze not louder
The sky and her husband are quarreling
Soon they will send old floods like gales
To sweep mankind away from the world

Grandmother, you are everything I have
My moon, my sun and my morning stars
Provoke not the couples with your cough
Lest they refill their greasily wraths again

Grandmother, the big reptiles have come
With their lethal grandchildren following
They are laced with secret burial shrouds
With sympathetic tears tearing their eyes

Grandmother, I kiss you a shaky goodbye
With broken pains roaring within my soul
Grandmother, where are your groundnuts
To conduct my solo heart as you sing away

690.  A NIGHT WALK THROUGH THE FOREST

Lured away on an alluring dream by fables
I trudged along the grassy paths with fears
Upon my steps spilling the prevailing dews
The shadows bowed their heads in silence
Like the soul issued with a death sentence

The night crawlers emerged above boards
Throwing light upon contrary communities
In their hearts and eyes were painful tears
Crawling down their exaggerated eye *****
Like a handbag filled with rotten cosmetics

The shadows were bold animators’ shelves
Stage managing the horror motion pictures
In the ghostly commodities I met wild hosts
Lifeworks evaporated from my fresh breath
Like foreign tragedies in common comedies

The sorrowful shadows cast away their veils
Like the candles letting go of the weird wax
Sadly I sat in the sack for conflicting fetuses
Another sun appeared like a serial divorcee
Counting the testicles of another naked day

691.  SUBJECTIVE SUBJECTS

The sad sun descended upon her haunting melodies
Reeling from mysterious layers for electoral riggings
To harden the flowerbed for flower girls born tender
Disenfranchised voters came weeping in barren polls
Dressing the blank nest for the fat electoral parodies
With the mourners the faulty bells they came ringing
Like the angry water castigating a ****** port fender
And the smokes climbed upon their wide aerial poles
Arching over the emptied shelves with liberal singing
They subjected their subjective subjects to all objects
I told my mom that I wanted to go to New York after I graduate.
But she said no because I have bad anxiety.
Now I know that she just means that she won't support the idea.
Or if I asked, she would say no.
And I understand that she's just worried about me.
But if I don't go due to anxiety.
Then all that does is say that anxiety controls my life.
That it controls how I act.
Basically,  that means that it defines me and who I am.
And even though I have it.
It DOES NOT define me and who I am as a person.
Anxiety is just a PART of me.
And saying that I can't go because I'm anxious isn't right.
That means that my anxiety wins.
That means that it limits what I can and can't do.
There are things about New York that I like and wanna see.
There are people that go there.
And I would like to see them when they go there at times.
Also, there are colleges there.
And I know that they have colleges for acting and/or singing.
And those are two things I love.
And I'm not gonna let my anxiety keep me from going there.
I know that my mom means well.
But once I turn eighteen and graduate high school.
Then it's my decision.
Then I'm the one who determines if I can go or not.
And unless I don't have money.
There won't be anything keeping me from going.
As long as I am calm.
As long as I take deep breaths and know that I'm safe.
Know that it's big.
But it's also a great place where I can learn and have fun.
Which makes me excited.
I know this means that I will need to get a job.
But I will get one.
And did I mention that there are colleges in New York?
I mean, of course there are.
Don't get me wrong, I mean, I've known that all along.
But just never really thought of it.
Not until now when I'm in my Junior year of High School.
One more year and that's it.
One more year and I am out in the real world 365 days.
Every single day of my life.
And I know that I will be a stranger there till I meet people.
But that's nothing new.
The only thing that'll be new is how I handle being alone.
I can hide in the corner.
Or I can face my fears and go there with my head high.
I can say hi to people.
I can smile and nod at others who acknowledge me.
How will I get there?
I'm not sure about how I'll get there at the moment.
Maybe I'll get accepted.
A college might like my application that I send to them.
Or I'll just visit.
Get a job so I can pay for travel and to see a show there.
Or my YouTube Channel.
Yes, I have a YouTube Channel that I use twice a week.
That might help me.
Maybe I can make a career out of my YouTube Channel.
Now, don't argue with me.
I know that it's rare when people make a career off of that.
But I still love it.
I love making videos of myself singing and/or talking.
Not because of my voice.
Because those who know me know I don't like my voice.
I don't know why.
I've just always thought that I wasn't a good singer.
But I think that out of those who know me and teachers.
And then some online.
The only one who truly doesn't like my voice is me.
I'm my own worse critic.
If I see something negative about me I delete it.
Not because it's rude.
Well, that's part of it, but mainly because of me.
My mind will absorb that.
And then I will eventually will start to believe it.
Which is a form of anxiety.
Feeling anxious about how others think of you.
But the truth is.
If people are saying negative things about you.
Either to you or near you.
Or if they are saying something negative online.
Then don't listen.
Because they don't know you or who you are.
They just see the outside.
They don't know how you think or feel.
How could they?
They've never met you or got to know you.
All they know is online.
What they see in a three to ten minute video.
So don't listen.
Don't let what they say that's bad hurt you.
But if you do listen.
Then let it fuel you to be better than before.
Show them who you are.
Don't pay attention when they call you names.
Because they're wrong.
It doesn't matter who you are, they're wrong.
Pay attention to some.
The people who are praising you online.
Who like your voice.
Who like your style and are interested in you.
They want more.
They wanna see you twice a week, they like you.
Your videos mean a lot.
They mean a lot to those people who subscribe.
And they subscribe to you.
Because they like your videos and wanna see more.
Post what you want.
Sing one day and then talk the other, it's your choice.
It's your channel.
And that's what I have to tell myself when I upload.
Whenever I read comments.
And I do read all the comments I get when I get'em.
I don't get a lot.
And I still have a lot to learn when I respond.
I gotta learn to stifle.
Just say thanks and then be done with the person.
I need to do that.
Sometimes I get happy though and forget to.
But I'll get better.
For now, I need to focus on what I wanna do.
Which is make videos.
Wait a minute, what am I talking about now?
Sorry, got off topic.
This is about anxiety, not my YouTube Channel.
Okay, back to anxiety.
As I was saying, I will do what I can to manage it.
I will go there.
I will go to New York one way or another.
Not because I have to.
But because I want to for more reasons than one.
Even if my anxiety is bad.
Which I can admit that it is at times every day.
But I'll get through it.
Anxiety is not going to control me and define me.
I'm going to New York.
The only one who can control that destiny is myself.
And I will get there.
I don't know how or when, but I will.
Let this be a message.
A message for anyone who has to deal with anxiety.
It's not your life.
Anxiety doesn't control you if you don't let it.
Anxiety is a part of you.
But that's all it is, it's just a part of you that sticks.
But it gets better.
And if it can get better for me, than it will for you.
Wow! That took an unexpected turn. I was trying to say that I wanna go to New York. Well, I hope that this message makes since and that this whole thing was something that you enjoyed reading. Thanks for reading, bye!
Styles Oct 2014
Searching your mind,  
Revealing your soul.  
A piece of my mind,  
Making you whole.  
The depths of your feelings,  
Defines the depths I will go.  
I know what I know,  
Time for me to show,  
How well though.
Like never before,
Here I go.  
Persuading your body,  
In so many ways,  
You're powerless to evade,  
The prowess of my ways.  
Caressing your tenderness.  
These moments your memory will replay;  
Haunting parts of your body in a special way.  
Reminiscent of this very day,  
Our parts bonding as we lay.  
Still influenced in ways you can't see,  
Rather feel, so its as real as can be.  
These unique pleasures bestowed upon you,  
Impaling your reality with my point of view.  
This abundance of energy; this vitality.  
A reflection of you and me.  
Enticing you mentally,  
controlling you physically,  
releasing you and me chemically.
Claire Waters Dec 2013
i
you say i am honestly not the same person
i say one day i woke up honest
and i do not know how to undo experience
my own eyes and ears and nose and mouth
cannot be undone at the moment
how do you do it?
push that pressure to the back of your mind
like that
how do you all manage to laugh with a straight face
at things that you know aren't really funny
i can't fathom it. where you go
when you are stomping and ripping
and ****** and jeering
and laughing and running
it's exhausting to watch you

ii
i apologize if it doesn't make sense
that i can't play along
but playing along
doesn't make sense
i could never win a grammy
with this tight lipped smile
laughing at the expense of others
makes me feel more like a paparazzi
placating insecurities for currency
leeching off the vulnerability
you may not think i'm smart but
i am smart enough to know this is not 'normal'
and there is nothing wrong with staring at you in the rearview
and saying "i wish that was really sarcasm"
i'll tell you the truth
and you don't have to like it
and you don't have to like me
and i don't have to like you
because if there's one thing i know about myself
it's that i don't dislike anybody
until they show off their callousness
hoping it's the right party trick
to gain respect

iii
we watch comedy tv, and you are worried
by the way my spine cracks
when i let out a uncontrollable laugh
dragging on, beginning to spill, and as i try to quell it
my whole body shakes with the pressure
of it bubbling inside of me
you feel all of this beside of me
a small volcano with a bent back
quaking absorbed by pillows and flowers and cushions
not quite right for you
wondering why i couldn't laugh like this earlier
when we were not alone
everyone is looking for something more porous
more willing to let in effortlessly
and absorb tirelessly
that can simply laugh like a stream bubbles
and let go of the undercurrent
yet we are sharp and uneven and course like logs
and the weight of our actions carries much further
being shunted downstream by tides of gravity
every intention runs it's course
every intention speaks volumes
if you feel that in your core
every day you will uncontrollably think of how
every intention defines the quality of the laughter
stuck in someone else's head
and you will save it for things that are funny
Big Virge Aug 2014
So …. What's In A Word ?
  
Well A Word Like ... F**K ...
Can Possibly Mean You've Run Out of Luck ... !!!  
    
Now A Word Like  … ” LOVE ”…  
Gives HATRED A SHOVE ..… !!!!!  
And Can ELEVATE You ….  
To The Sky With … “ THE DOVES ” … !!!  
    
The Words We Use Can Be … BEAUTY FILLED …
Like An Evening When The Chardonnay’s Chilled …
Or The Day That Your Lifetime Ambition's FULFILLED … !!!!!  
  
But THIS Word … KILLED …  
Means NEEDLESS BLOOD ...
Once Again Has Been SPILLED ... !!!    
    
When You Hear The Word ... TUNE …  
You're Probably In A Music FILLED Room …  
  
While A Word Like … BOOM …  
Explains Moments of DOOM … !!!  
    
While ASSUME I Associate …...  
With Those Who See ***** … !!!  
    
But The Words … FULL MOON …  
Describe A Sky CLEAR of ... Gloom ... !!!  
  
While The Word MONSOON …  
Means The Weather's Gone CRAZY ...  
Like … Bugs Bunny Cartoons … !!!  
    
While A Word Like INSIGHT ...  
Describes The Style With Which I Write ...  
    
While Words Like ... “ GET OFF ! ” ...  
Means A Girl's Had ENOUGH ... !!!  

And When A Girl Uses ... NO ... !!!    
It Means ... You'd Better GO ... !!!  
  
Or DOES IT ... Well THEY KNOW … !!!
    
But A Word Like ...  " **** " ...  
Means OH OH It's ... TOO LATE … !!!  
It's Time For You To See A MAGISTRATE ... !!!!!  
    
While A Word Like … “ COURT ” …  

Used To Mean .....  
Alluring A Woman To Help Build A Man's FORT ... !!!  
    
While A Word Like ... "short"…  
Can Define A Vertically Challenged Type TAUNT …  
    
Now A Word Like … VAUNT ...  
Defines Arrogance You FLAUNT … !!!
    
While A Word Like  … COLOUR …  
Is Used To Separate People From Each Other  …… ?!?  
    
So ...... When I Hear The Word UNITY …  
It's A Word That Makes Me Feel TRULY HAPPY … !!!  
    
But GUILTY BELIEVE … !!!    
Is A Word I DON'T Wanna Have Said TO ME … !!!  
And VANITY Defines How Most Young People Be ...  
    
But That ... Just ISN'T Me ... !!!  
I’m Just Using Words That May Play A Part In Our DESTINY …  
By Helping This Thing We Call ... HUMANITY ... !!!  
    
Now THAT'S A Word That Fills Me With GLEE … !!!    
But It Seems These Days ...  
That This Is A Word From Which People ..................... FLEE ... ?!?  
    
We're All Caught Up In … “ TECHNOLOGY ” …  
A Word That REFLECTS Much of What We Now See ...  
From Laptops To Phones To .... WIDESCREEN TV’S ... !!!  
But These Are Just WORDS So I Hope You Can See ...  
Words Can Define YOU And Can Define ... ME ... ?  
    
But Words Like POWER Can Make People COWER ... !!!  
And Can Turn Weak Men Into CROOKS By The Hour ... !!!  
    
And Then Comes The SHOWER ...  
Leaving A Taste In STARVED MOUTHS ...
That's ... EVER SO SOUR ... !!!!!!!!!!  
    
While ….  
BEAUTY And PEACE Define Words Like FLOWER …  
    
So What's In An Hour Well ... Sixty Minutes …  
See Time Like My Rhymes DEFINES ... Infinite ... !!!  
    
INFINITE Skills With Keyboard or Quill ... !!!
So Is There A Word That ... DEFINES My Will … ???  
    
NOT Will As In ... DEATH LINE ... !!!  
But WILL As In ... What Runs Through My Mind …  
    
So With A Quivering Quiet Quintessence ….  
These Words I Write Like Hip Hop Lessons  ...
    
My Words Are Wrapped Like Christmas Presents … !!!  
What's With All This NONSENSE Defence To Offence … ?  
Why Don't People Just Use Some ... COMMON Sense ... !?!
  
Cos' Words Nowadays Are Misused And Abused ...  
By FOOLS Who Could Do With A LIFETIME SENTENCE …. !!!!  
    
"Sorry sir, not deferred, you're gonna do bird,
cos' your usage of language is truly absurd !"  
    
While My Style of Linguistics .......  
Is Now The Preferred .....  
Way of Passing On KNOWLEDGE …  
    
So …….  
    
" What's In My Words ? " ..........
This piece was basically about me moulding and developing my style, and learning how to weave words into verse, thus, this was part of my early learning curve ...
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2017
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


This is not a poem.  This is about a poem.

Poems require words.  This poem does not require words.

This poem requires memories' muscles.
This poem requires what is called colloquially love.

Learn that what we share here is not poetry.

Your poetic senses that produce the words that mark you present
are but surgical tools to extract, release the whole and the parts of you that help shape that single sense borning in your chest that defines you at any particular moment.

Quæ est mater Laureat.

She is the Mother Laureate.

She is the boundary you must learn to cross to be more than a re-arranger of letters and alphabets, but a translator of the human essence and fill our veins with the a sense of awe and wonder felt when we read each other and think aloud,
"yes, exactly, that was and is precisely what I was feeling."

She is the glue that keeps us sticking here, sticking together, each of us sticking to it.  

You do not know her?  
No worries, she will find you when you least expect it, perhaps
when you need it.

This is not a poem.  This is a human who's a poem.

Understand the difference and then you may begin a journey
that has no destination other than weaving the connective tissue that makes us anticipating excited when we log on.

Happy Birthday Mother Poet Laureate!

I do not think I can write a better not poem for you.  
Forgive me then, if going toward, I repost this every
October 24th as long as the chemical composition of
blood, God, spirit, logos or reason runs free within,  
exiting as words encased in tears that formulate into
human poetry.

nattyman

P.S.There are 800 poems here with Sally in the title, and least 700  are about Sally B.   If you like, please  feel to free to add yours, old or new.
Matilda.
The light of my life.
The poem of my tongue.
The fire of my chest.
The wind of my *****.
The hate I loathe.
The beauty I view.
My lady.
My dream.
My hesitant rainbow.
My fearless tears.
My coverlet and starlet;
my blanket and dainty amulet.
My distant promise and cautiousness;
but in all my darling; looking ever so stately-
yet not like yon faraway, morning dew.

Matilda.
The hands I adore;
the fingers I want to kiss.
The solitude I live in;
the fate I was born in.
A pair of eyes ever to me too divine,
A charm that loyally strikes, and glows and shines.
A lock of hair that petulantly sways and sweats.
A midday tale of love; as how it is mine,
a beauty that this world ensures,
but cannot adore.

Matilda.
Even the brisk turquoise sea
is ever less glossy than thy eyes,
for their calmness is still less harmful,
unlike unbending, thus insolent tides, at noon.
Ah, Matilda, thou art yet too graceful,
but tricky and indolent, as the puzzling moon!
Thy purity is like unseen smoke,
tearing the skies' linings like a fast rocket,
making me ever thirsty, turning my heart wet,
but still this attentive heart thou canst not provoke;
thou art a region too far from mine;
but still luck is in heart whose fate's in thine.
And as thou singeth a tone I liketh to sing
I cannot help but more admiring thee;
And as thou singeth it genuinely more,
thou capture all my breath and give it all a thrill;
for I realise then, that thou canst be stiff, as sandless shores;
but thy beauty canst so finely startle,
and whose startledness
canst ****.

Matilda.
But deadness, and ever desolation
are vividly clamouring in thy eyes;
Thou art but distinct, distinct indeed-from serenity;
for thou warble thyself, but gladly-away, from thy sullen reality.
Ah, Matilda, how canst a soul so comely
be hateful to fame, and dishonest just from its frame?
Matilda, to those merciless hearts indeed thou beareth no name;
Thou art a shame to their pride, and a stain to their bitterly fevered, sanity.
Yet still, thou art to innocent to understand which,
and in love naively, as thou just art, now-
with that feeble shadow of a pampered young fellow,
Whose stories are also mine,
for his father's money is donned,
and coined every day-by my servant's frail hands;
The sweat of my palms obey me in doing so-
I am my master's son's poor sailor,
and he his sole heir-and soon is to inherit
an indecent boat; full of roaming paths, doors, and locks
And at nights, costly drapery and jewels shall be planted in their hair-
yes, those beastly riches' necks, and skin fair,
And thou be their eternal seamstress,
weaving all those bare threads with thy hands-
ah, thy robust ****** hands,
whilst thy heart so dutifully levitating
about his false painting, and bent even more heartily, onto him.
Ah, 'tis indeed unfair, unfair, unfair-and so unfair!
For such a liar he was, and still is-
Once he was betrothed to a bitter, and uncivil Magdalene;
Uncivil so is she, prattling and bickering and prattling and bickering-
To our low-creature ears, as she once remarked,
She who basked in her own vague hilarity, and sedate glory
And so went on harshly unmolested by her vanity, and fallibility;
But sadly indeed, occupied with a great-not intellect,
As not sensible a person as she was;
At least until the winds knocked her haughty voices out-
and so then hovering stormy gales beneath,
took her out and gaily flung her deep into the raging sea.

Still he wiggled not, and seems still-in a seance every night,
whenst he but cries childishly and calls out to her name in fright.
Her but all dead, dead name;
'Till his father tears him swiftly out of his solitude
And with altogether the same worried face
but drags his disconcerted son back into his flamboyant chamber.
Ah, and I caught thee again, Matilda,
Bowed over the picture of yon young sailor;
'Twixt those sweet-patterned handkerchiefs
On thy lil' wooden table, yesterday
And curved over yon picture, I was certain;
I caught some fatigued tears in thy eyes-
for from thy love thou wert desperate,
but still unsure even, of the frayed tyings of cruel fate.
Ah, Matilda, your hair is still as black as the night
The guilty night, though nothing it may knoweth, of thy love,
and perhaps just as unknowing it seemingly is;
as th' tangled moon, and its dubious arrows
of unseen lilies, above
Shall singeth in uncertainty; and cordless dignity
And which song shall forever be left unreasoned
Until the end of our days arrive, and bereft us all
of this charismatic world-and all its dearest surge of false,
and oftentimes unholy, fakeness.
Oh Matilda, but such truest clarity was in thy eyes,
And frightened was I-upon seeing t'is;
As though never shrouded in barren lies
Like a love that this heart defines;
but never clear, as never is to be gained.
Ah, Matilda, and such frank clarity dismays me;
It threatens and stiffens and chortles me,
for I am certain I shan't be with thee-
and shall ever be without thee,
for thou detest and loathe me,
and be of no willingness at all-
to befriend, to hold, or to hear-
much less reward me with thy love,
as how I shall reward thee with mine.

Matilda, this love is too strong-but so is, too poor
And neither is my heart plainly bruised;
For it is untouched still, but feeling like it has been flawed
Ah, why does this love have to be raw-and far indeed, too raw!
I, who is thy resilient friend, and fellow-sadly never am in thy flavour;
for in his soul only-thy love is rooted;
And this love is forever never winning-and it is sour,
Like a torn, mute flower; or like a better not, laughter.
And my heart is once more filled with dead leaves-
Ah, dead, dead leaves of undelight, and unjoy;
Whose cries kick and bend and strangle themselves-
all to no avail, and cause only all its devouring to fail,
For his doorless claws are to strong,
Stealing thy eyes from me for all day,
and duly all night long.
How discourteous! Virtual, but too far, still-
corrupting me; ah, unjust, unjust, and discourteous!
Tormentingly-ah, but tormentingly, torturously, insincere!
Ah, Matilda! But soon as thou prayeth,
every single grace and loveliness thou shall delicately saith;
Thy voice is as delightful as nailed, or perhaps, cunningly deluded vice-
Which I hath always feigned to be refuting tomorrow,
but is only to bring me cleverer and cleverer sorrow
'Till hath I no power to defy its testy soul,
that for no reason is too shiny and bold,
but so dull, and bland as a hard-hearted summer glacier,
and too unyielding as hurtful, talloned wines.
Oh, but no appetite I hath, for any war
against him-for he is fair, and I am not,
He is worthier of thee, than my every word;
He who to thee is like a graceful poem,
he who is the only one to smirk at
and hush away thy daylight doom.
Matilda! For evermore thy heart is mine;
and mine only-though I canst love thee
only secretly, and admire thee from afar,
Still cannot I stand bashful, and motionless-too far,
For I wish to hath been born, for thy every sake
Though it shall put my sinless tongue at stake
And even my love is even gentler then blue snowflakes;
and more cordial than yon rapturous green lake.
Ah! Look! Upon the moors the grass is swirling,
so please go back now; and be greedy in thy running.
Still when no music is playing,
all is but too painful for thee,
which I liketh to neither witness, nor see,
for upon thee the moon of love might not be singing,
as it is upon all others a song,
But somehow to nature it not be wrong,
for he cannot still be thy charm, nor darling.
O-but I hate thinking of which affectionately,
when thou crieth and which sight, to my heart, is paining.
Ah, Matilda! For even to God thy love is but too pure;
for it is faultless as morns, and poisonless-
like those ever unborn thorns;
Of yon belated autumn melody,
But is, somehow, fraught and dejected
With sorrow, for it is him, that yesterday and now
Thou loveth softly and securely,
Two hours later and perhaps, in every minute of tomorrow.

Matilda! But still tell me, how can thou securely love a danger?
For I am sure he is but a danger to thee, indeed;
Once I witnessed how his face
grotesquely thrusted into furtive anger
As he burst into a dearth of strong holds,
of his burning temper-under the blooming red birch tree;
And as every eye canst see,
He is only soft, and perhaps meek-as a butterfly,
Whenever the world he eats and sleeps and feeds on in-
Tellest him not the least bit of a lie;
Ah, Matilda, canst I imagine thee being his not,
ah, for I shall be drowned in deflating worry, indeed-I shall be, I shall be!
I dread saying t'is to thee-but he, the heir of a ruthless kingdom,
and kingdom of our God not-within their lands and reigns of scrutiny,
His words are but a tragedy, and a pain thou ought not to bear;
O, Matilda, thou art but too holy and far too fair!
Thy soul is, so that thou knoweth, my very own violin-
To which I am keenly addicted;
I am besotted with thy red cheeks-;
As whose tunes-my violin's, are thy notes
as haunting and sunnily beautiful,
And cloudless like thy naivety,
Which stuns my whole nature,
and even the one of our very own Lord Almighty.
Ah, Matilda, even the heavens might just turn out
far too menial for thee;
and their decorum and sweet tantrums idle and unworthy;
Thou art far, far above those ladies in dense gowns,
With such terseness they shall storm away and leave him down.
But why-why still, he refuses to look at thee!
Ah, unthinking and unfeeling,
foolish and coquettish,
unwitted and full of deceit-is himself,
for loving should I be-if thy smile were what I wished,
and thy blisses and kisses were what I dreamed;
I wouldst be but warmer than him,
I wouldst be but indeed so sweet,
I wouldst be loftier than he may seem;
and but madden thee every sole day, with my gracious-
though sometimes ferocious-ah, by thy love, ever tender wit.

I hath so long crept on a broken wing,
And thro' endless cells of madness, haunts, and fear,
Just like thou hath-and as relentlessly, and lyrically, as we both hath.
But not until the shining daffodils die, and the silvery
rivers turn into gold-shall I twist my love,
and mold it into roughness-
undying, but enslaved roughness;
that thou dread, and neither I adore;
For for thee I shall remain,
and again and again stay to find
what meaningful love is-
Whilst I fight against the tremor
and menace this living love canst bring about-
To threaten my mask, and crush my deep ardor.
Ah, my mask that hath loved thee too long,
With a love so weak but at times so strong;
and witnessed thee I hath, hurt and pained
and faded and thawed by his nobility
But one of worldliness; and not godliness
For heavens yonder shall be ours, and forever
Shall bestow us our triumphs, though only far-in the hereafter;
Still I honour thee, for holding on with sincerity-
and loyalty, to such contempt too strong
For thou art as starry as forgiveness itself,
and thus is far from yon contempt-and its overbearing soul;
And perhaps friendly, too unkind not-
like its trepid blare of constant rejection, and mockery
And as I do, shall I always want thee to be with me;
For thou art the mere residue, and cordial waning age of the life that I hath left;
For thou art the only light I hath, and the innate mercy I shall ever desire to seek;
and perhaps have sought shall, within the blessed soul of my 'ture wife.
Oh, Matilda, thou art the dream t'at I, still, ought not to dream,
thou art the sweetness I ought' only charm, and keep;
As thou art the song, that I may not be right'd to sing;
but the lullaby; which in whose absence, I canst shall never sleep.
Dondaycee Oct 2018
I’m a new kid,
I have a new name.
A new game?
I’m; here…
Undisputed,
I can’t reMember My Old name-
-I’m… Here…

Why do adults live with separation?
I mean; people don’t communicate,
“Consuming assumptions so you can hate”,
But know it is only the variables that are even exchangeable when reaching solutions in mind,
Peep thee illusions of time,
If we live in the moments, it’s fine-
Until we come across a choice and we’re absent from our voice,
It’s the voices we’re fed that sides;
Uhh DECIIDE!,
(“be humble”)
There’s THREE TIMES,
(“sit down”)
Now breathe…
The dreams I’m having, reiterated “I” in past;
But yet, I’m here,
Right now, my last thought is the last, last,
Cause says be; clear,
On my intentions,
I want love and affection,
That’s why I put myself sec (secondary) and,
Call me Reese Bobby;
In a world of duality,
“If you ain’t first-”
-You’re definitely not second,

What is transgression?
-If we were made to be,
Why does the resurrection of thy self only exist in make belief?
How can I indulge and embrace realities that weren’t made for me?
Especially when I was giving my own, it seems foolish to trade my ability to see,

I experienced her;
It’s a blessing, how she’d hold me tight,
I experienced him,
I never questioned who he was, inside,
I never fight… unless it’s by side,
It is beside, I fought with them; I speak of internal conflict,
Control accomplished,
The ego beyond it; we realize it’s the experience that takes us to a place in time, I speak of a space in a line that curves on a geometric plane that consists of circles intertwined that is often perceived as the fabrics of the universe but to save us the stretch of time, we see that it is the experience that defines life,
So who am I?
That question’s redundant,
It is all that resides in me;
I.e. abundance,
It is because of everyone in my reality, that I was able to see the cohesion, and it is because of that reason that I experience oneness,
I’m simply done with,
Using other people’s beliefs to constitute how I interact,
Because their realities are incompatible with what I essentially, intend to attract,
Certain interactions can remain abstract,
I can no longer take opinions on thoughts, if I’m the only one experiencing thoughts;
Your imagination shouldn’t be programed to be comprehensive with the past- extract,
There’s no math in that,
You’re just rearranging the variables, there’s no flow towards the conclusion;
Perspectives placed in fact,
And although this realization can be an impact,
We’d only turn our focus into a debate on what you did lack rather than embracing the thoughts that occurred that would only exploit one thing,
The solutions to the equations that you did have,
As the creators of our realities,
If it is problematic, the writer of the problem encodes an Easter egg that exploits how it is; it was you who did it,
How can we enjoy new thoughts, if they are the old thoughts?
We revisit.
It’s impossible to allude in digits if it is one we elicit…

People love my personality; they obviously love themselves,
Seeing myself in them is why I became an advocate for the conscious body of thought...and it’s health,
I.e. I express our extrinsic abundance of wealth;
I’ll reiterate; I.a. free man,
That’s: free thought, free love, free plan,
I’ll obliterate the mean-in; AI by using IA,
U-no reverse cards was the cause of humans comprehending backwards my friend,
We live backwards because we look back first,
So I’m confused on the AI fuss,
If an Artificial Intelligence is constructed based off our current level of intelligence, and is only responsive to our negligence because of the installment of IA (information architecture), then there’s no possible way for this room to have an elephant being that an AI is just an extension of us,

Who do you love?
-Is it enough?
-curious in, experiencing experiences other than lust…

I’m hearing some things,
“Who do I touch?”
Rhetorical questions; my love is a gift which seeded from trust,
I’m not one of them, I’m one of us,
One of a kind yet mind; innumerous,

I was born and knew nothing,
Only sure of my existence,
I experienced life and only found myself,
Time is only distorted when mind is missing,
Be mindful of your thoughts, it is the structure of your personality,
We just went through seven chakras expressing rationality;
I think we all can agree that T-B.O.P’s in another dimension,
And all she wants is for us to merge into our bodies potential extension...
PHI
Tumelo Mogotsi Sep 2012
(Inspired by the poetry, music, culture and rhythm of black people in the movie "Love Jones". As i play my imaginary guitar, enjoy.....)


I wanna be my own definition of a real woman
it’s in the way my hips sway to the beat
Or the way I smile when something touches my heart
It’s my excited face that I make when something inspires me
The look of adornment in something I love
I wanna be that classy lady at work
That's in full all black suits
strutting around in her heels like a real boss should
I wanna be that woman with ***** hair who isn't afraid of her curls
Who rocks her hair, untamed and wild like the first day she was born
I wanna be that woman who is street and unsophisticated
Who talks her mind as she pleases and holds nothing back
I wanna be that woman to screams when she wants to and doesn't care who listens and who doesn't
Who cares and who does not
I wanna wear skin tight little black dresses
Like they do in all first dates in every single movie
I wanna wear the smallest pair of cut-off jeans
I want to embrace my sexuality and push the limits of what I can and cannot do
I want to do what my soul speaks to me
And listens to that quiet song my heart sings to me when I'm alone
And best of all, I wannz laugh louder that the lion can roar
I want my melody to be felt higher than the giraffe can see
I wanna be on that stage performing the words most of us are scared to admit
I want to be the locksmith that fixes all locks
I wanna be the all in one
The nubian queen and the classic timeless beauty
I want the mountains to echo my statements and the sand dunes to quietly whistle with me
I want the swish-swash of the waves in the sea to bear testament of who I want to become
And I want you all to witness
Attest
and help me achieve
My quest..To be
my own definition
of what a real woman should be.
I wanna be that woman that defines a mother
whether I define it as letting my breast hang so that my child can suckle on it
Or feeding them a bottle
Whether a mother’s love lies solely in breast feeding or in shaping your child’s character
I wanna be that woman who refuses to labour extensively on hot coals in the scorching African sun to prepare a meal for a man who shall never wholly be mine
just because its expected
I wanna be the brave woman who dares tell her in-laws "Nay"
That brave woman who dares to rock up at her first meeting with her to be in-laws in pants
And refuses to wear a skirt on days her blissful soul doesn’t tell her to
Simply because a man who never wears a skirt has defined that as womanly
I want to be that daughter in law
My husband's mother hates because she never does as she is told
My husband’s sisters shall despise me as they shall know
That I don't believe in that stone age tradition that the amount of house work they do shall be reduced upon my arrival
I wanna be that woman, my own uncles hate for not allowing them to take part in my bogadi negotiations
I wanna be that woman who will have no bogadi negotiations
I am that woman who doesn't need a man to whistle at me
Like a man would calling a hound dog
Or a man still living in the rough west would calling  their horse
To know that I am beautiful
I want to be that woman whose character and words will stand the test of time
An oracle of enchanting wisdom in my old age
And a pillar of strength for generations
Which shall come after me
I am going to be that woman who refuses to let her boss take credit for the I did
Especially after spending years sleeping a four hour night working on my college degree
I wanna be that woman, my neighbours wife hates
Because I salsa my way to the dustbin to empty my trash
I wanna be that woman who doesn't need a cameras flash to know their eyes are upon me
Watching me as my move my melodious  *****
In total and absolute bliss at the woman I can be..
So then I want you all to witness
Attest..
And help me achieve
My own definition
Of what a real woman should be.
Defeating the power of pain by resilience,
and defining themselves
by the number of times they
get back up ,
they are making a head towards
cherishing the every moment
they still have in their own life.
Mistaken for being numb,
They not even feel
the intensity of pain
that comes with life,
Socially detached ,
they feel nothing .
Oh but they do feel something ,
In fact they feel everything,
The feeling of loss ,
disappointments and regrets
with heavy heart .
But the power of resilience
does not let their pain to define them ,
Instead it defines their tenacity and strength !
brianprince Mar 2017
the classic. defines his essence.
has class but wears slip-on airwalks with a corduroy finish.
he is the un-official fragrance of California.

the blend. defines his unique musk.
creates his own signature scent. the aroma of lust.
he’s there. but not in the center.

the freshest. defines his presence.
casually sensual, yet professionally down-to-business.
his look. that stare. hearts he hypnotizes.

the drift. defines his confidence.
distinctively driven. to be assertive, yet ever so cleverly subtle.
she loves it. he knows the ingredients.

the scent. citrus and verbena.
‘herbal’ with a dry-down of jasmine and thyme.
bound to a hint of petuna’s hide.

the content. 12% oil blend for a compelling long last.
that won’t overpower the girl who’s time is spent basking
in another place. the great lakes.

the dirt. front row parking.
richness of the earth. fresh sea. warm sun.
acqua di gio. gendarme.
Previously published at
ditch poetry / International Feature — May 18, 2009
A ball player and a thief
Will likely be pregnant by age 16.
Lives in the ghetto and is poor,
Often identified as a *****.
Runs fast and does drugs,
Hangs around with gangsters and thugs.
Has a gun or a friend with one.
Speaks in slang, must be part of a gang.
Mess with her, she'll pull a Sharkeisha on you.

If you were to picture a person of any race,
That fits the description that just took place.
A baller and ****, hmm... what race matches that?
Yeah you're right, that person is probably black.
Is fast, does drugs, and speaks with slang?
Lemme guess, is he also in a gang?
A young mother who is also poor?
Bet she doesn't know who the dad is, what a *****.
All these negative stereotypes associated with being black.
Its disheartening, sicking and its really sad.
And whats sadder is that if you are the opposite of all of that,
You are often told that you're not really black.

Does your skin colour change for going to Harvard?
Will it change for speaking like an English scholar?
Because I play hockey and not ball, does that make me white?
So what if I'm the type of person to run away from a fight?

You don't have to be irresponsible and rude to be considered black.
It's your ethnic background that determines that.
And to some people, all we are is the complexion of our face.
Light, dark, somewhere in the middle, to some, the bad of a few defines
our whole race.

Does running away from a cop, and being black give someone grounds to shoot?
Why is it that my skin color is what is most important to you?
Is asking a question when getting arrested for no visible reason really resisting arrest?
Does struggling to break free from restraints to catch my breath, give someone a reason to grab on tighter to strangle me to death?
The actions of a few don't define the actions of a whole group.
And this assumption that all black are thugs, thieves and liars has done clear damage to,
Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Trayvon Martin and so many more.
They didn't know it, but just by being black, they put their lives at risk when they stepped out their door.

Don't you think it's gotten too far when we have to prove Black Lives Matter, or when we the saying of a movement is Hands Up, Don't Shoot.
Should people have to be reminded that blacks are real people and that our lives matter  too?

We are athletes and musicians.
Lawyers and physicians.
The leader of a nation.
An anchorman of a news station.

We don't all fit into that mold that is preset for us.
You can and should expect great things of us.

Because we don't have to be a ****, or a baller to be considered black.
We define what type of black person we are, we determine that.
Amanda Kay Hill Jan 2017
Yes I have a disability
Special needs
I don't let my disability
Rule my life I might have
A disability but it doesn't
Defines me because it is
Not what I am as a person
I have a disability but I am
Humans too I get sad and
Mad too I can be mad at
God but I not mad at god
Because he creates people
With disabilities to teach others
You do have to be perfect because
The way you are is perfect to god
Yes I am a child of god people with
Disabilities are gifts from god I am
I fine that I am different because
Everyone is different and unique
In there own way on ones are the
Same because that how god want
It because he see everyone as beautiful
And he love everyone unconditionally
I am blessed to have a good friends and family
In my life and I am believe in god ours savior
© Amanda Kay Hill
1/22/17
Pink Hat Apr 2014
Was it an illusion?
Words that trigger an attraction
A reply that lays a connection

Was it an illusion?
A look that exposes a sensation
A whisper that defines an emotion

Was it an illusion?
A touch that pushes a button
A kiss that captures a moment

Is it an illusion?
To transform words into reality
To turn moments into eternity

It is an illusion
When words are lost in silence
When affection is met with fear
When All is subsumed in memories

Whilst memories may fade
The illusion remains
We hope for those moments again

Poets love the illusion
Though  Cynics judge us weak
We shall silence their mocking speak

Thank goodness for poets
Dedicated to my curly haired beauty
Charlie Hazels May 2014
language warning*

So what.
I am a person, with hobbies
Interests

We need labels to understand, but I don't remember anything about labels to discriminate.
How can a feminist be racist? Or any other paradox

They are just labels- to explain and no more. **** all of those *******

So... I'm bisexual
Shock!
Horror!

Nothing more anymore
Identity limited- Why the **** should it be?

To say that just one of my labels defines me, it makes me inferior- well that makes you as a ****

The Jewish labelled with their numbers- me with a word- do you see what you do to me
And to yourself.
Im not in any way reducing the holocaust. It was a horrific thing but so is dicrimination because of labels.
Mike Adam Oct 2016
Only the moon
Defines our day
With orbit

Only sunshine
Allows our life

Only our ***
Creates our people

Only your love
Made me whole

Now moon drifts away
3.87 centimetres
Each year

The night shall stretch
And die

You left
All at once

Only I cry
I cry
I cry
Light brownish **** lip stain to match the season,
Gold eye liner to make my brown eye color lighter,
Concealer and foundation to even out the skin tone,
bronze pink blush to add a bit of color and define my cheek bones,
Medium brown eyebrow pencil to perfect my eyebrows,
A stripped black and tan shirt with a brown scarf, blue jeans and black boots;
Hair is in a delicate curly updo so that my face gets more attention,
Burberry perfume to bring a soft delicate trail of her aroma,
my make up looks natural yet it adds color and defines the beautiful features of my face.
I do this not to cover my flaws,
not because I am insecure,
not for attention,
Simply because I want to pamper myself.
simply because I deserve to look pretty.
simply because I want to be as beautiful on the outside that I am on the inside.
Girls can wear make up when ever they want, doesn't mean they're insecure
Ted Scheck Jan 2014
She visited my house, home
Wife, Boys:
Soaking up what little she could of Little Brother’s life;
And I hugged her, I put my arms around her frailty,
My big sister, now tiny and ravaged by the word
That shouldn’t rhyme with
Dancer, but
Does.

Here in her last September, last
September.
A
Final tour of her
Favorite Places, a
Preacher’s Mountain.
And looking into her
Eyes kind and squinty,
I had the feeling that
One hand held the
Times I would see her.
I was off by two,
minus the thumb.

Forward-fast to Dec.
27th, my Niece’s Wedding
I held her again, and
She was more frail
And unsteady and her
Eyes rimmed red with
Spreading Pain;
The rain relentlessly
Hammering on the roof of the
Membrane-thin
Quonset Hut-Shell.

Walking unsteadily steady back
To her Dear Friend’s car
My heart in tatters, sad, yet
Glad for her to visit that
Distant Shore
That her eyes so longed for.

And now, in this frozen January of
2014
Wintry-Mixed Nut Group
(That is my family)
I enter her ineptly-named
Living room, where she is
Laid prostrate before God
And everybody.
And I enter into such a blender of
Sweet-sour-bitter-salty
Emotional juices.

I take her hand
And kiss her cheek, and an
Eye perks up at the sight of
Little Brother.
Yet that eye is tired of
The uphill worn treadmill that
Life has turned into.

(Please God take her away
With You. Deliver my
Sister Amy
From the planet’s
Gravi-pain-tiful
Pull)
And that prayer flew out of
Me driving back to Indy
Sunday at about 2:00 pm
Central Time.

And at 11:30 pm UGT
(Universal God Time)
An Angel wakes a
Slumbering Saint.

And Amy Scheck closes her
Eye on this world
(And opens the eyes of her
SPIRIT
To the
Next)

(And we are in the presence
Of God’s Messengers,
That Warrior Race of
Angel Guardians).

He is of a height much,
Much greater than her
Small yet intensely curious
Form.

He has mysterious and utterly fabulous
Wings tucked and tightly-sprung
Beneath impossibly-broad
Shoulders; his sword
Gleams like a hundred
Suns glistening on the dew of
A thousand worlds.
Radiant! Radiant and
Mighty is he!
And he is here
For her.

A voice of velvet thunder, low
Mixed with music and fury.
“Rise, Little One.
Child of God!
Rise, and grab hold
Of my tunic!
It’s time to enter
Into the Throne Room of
The Most High!”

And, forgive me for imagining
(What cannot be imagined, but
Longed for, yes. Longed for
By countless numbers).
I write in faith, hope, and
Love for my dearly-
Departed sister.
I use the tool
God gave me
Before I was born.

I imagine the transition
Of death to life
Of life from death.

A unimaginably-large soul
Trapped in a dead husk of
A Mortal Shell
Winds down like the biological
Clocks we resemble; metering,
Measuring heart beats of time,
Of counted breaths breathing
No longer. Of pain, and suffering,
And the emotions swirling off both
Like streamers moved by the wind.

Amy Winifed Scheck
Dies. She breathes in/not out, or
Opposite so.
Her heart goes
Blub/Dub
And then stops
Forever.

But something amazing begins to happen.
In her soul is a key.

This key has a name unknown to us.
That name defines the soul of
Her New Existence.
To me - to us - it is...
UNSPEAKABLE.

The fleshy fleshly tongues
Are as worthy as uttering it
As slugs are equipped to hit
102-mph fastballs.

It’s her soulprint, though it does
Not belong to her;
It’s the print from the Soul
Of Jesus Himself.
HIS mark. HIS claim.
HIS.
It is the manifestation of
Amy’s Name
(Written in the Book of Life).
There can be no better assurance
Than to know, without that
Demon of Uncertainty, known as
(Doubt?)
That YOU are in THAT BOOK!
Are you?

So Amy’s soul is
Delivered, birthed, taken-
TRANSFORMED and
Enters the Waiting Room
Of Heaven.
Holy, Holy, Holy...

Feathers weigh millions of
Tons compared to the
Lightness of Being
Amy feels as, nearly
Transparent, she is a more
Solid creature than the largest
Pod of Blue Whales ever to
Swim and sing.

Her Angel takes Amy
To the Throne Room.
Falls prostrate for a moment,
Amy sees a burly tree
Fall, then, instantly,
Stand; the tree rumbles words.
“I have done my duty,
Precious Little One, as
Your Angel Guardian.”
He bows his head,
And then is on one knee,
So that his great shaggy head
Is nearly level with his
Little Charge.

His voice is surprisingly gentle, for
Before Amy was created:
This supernatural being was
Assigned this precious little bundle
Of joyful humanity, and he fought:
Fought! Fought the great battles
Against the ravages of the earthly
Realm; the seizures, the sickness, the
Angel Guardian was inside the baby's
Heart as it struggled to do its job, to
Deliver the blood to the extremities, to
Live, to grow, to fight, fight!
This one, in a little over half a
Century, became close to Jesus,
And, by proxy, close to the Being
Who created Angels!
Man! Woman! Child!
Did she not have the heart of a
Lion?
Did she take on the Spirit
Of a prayer Warrior?
Yes. Indeed she did.

Heaven's tears are thick, syrupy. Alive
With the Immense Sadness and
Immeasurable Joy of Christ Jesus.
They flow slowly down the shaggy
Angel's scarred face. God only
Knows how close this Angel was/
Is to Amy.

His voice is choked with emotion.
“It was my pleasure to serve and protect you,
Amy Winifred Scheck.
You must Wait."
He wipes tears from his eyes,
Knowing he has done his job,
HIS job, protecting, serving,
Ministering to this Little One,
As he soon will Minister to
The next Little One.
"You must wait. Wait upon the Lord
You heard His Call
In your life on Earth."

The Angel looks gravely
At the tiny, frightened
(Yet terribly excited)
Little Child of God.
And does something rare,
Even for the Guardians.
He spreads massively-wide arms and
Draws the trembling
Child into his protective embrace.
Her small hands grasp mountains
Masquerading as shoulders,
Hugging the Being with surprising
Might.
And Amy does quite an amazing
Thing. She senses her Angel's
Distress, and gently, lovingly,
Pats his shaggy beard, his cheek,
Praying! For the Messenger and
Deliverer!
Her little form squeezes strength
(Love)
Into her own Angel Guardian.
And Jesus, Everywhere,
Smiles and wipes tears of His own
From his face.

The Angel speaks in a
Whisper as gentle as a soft hush of
A breeze after the first
Spring shower.
“You will hear His Call
Again.”
And the Angel does not
Vanish comically in a puff
Of cloud; it is as if he
Fades away into the
Multitude of the
Heavenly Fold.

Seraphim, and Cherubim,
And fantastical wing’d and claw’d creatures
Amy has only dimly dreamed about,
Sing, and shout with sound-ful colors that
Could never exist on earth, for
They would melt the bonds
Of reality itself
And drive mad all the ears and eyes
Which suffered to sense it.

Off in the strange
Far-close distance
One Figure Stands
Above, Most High Above Every Thing
He created:
The Most High
Being Who Was Ever,
Is, Will Be,
And Is To Be.
It is Him

Jesus Christ
(And the people of earth,
Myself included, sing, sing! SING!
Blessed is the Name of the Lord!)

“My Child, Precious child,
Enter the Holy Throne of God.”
And in steps that cannot be
Measured by any earthly
Standard, Amy Winifred Scheck
Enters Her Savior’s Throne Room.

With her new feet, Amy
Walks bravely, surely, securely,
Eyes low, her countenance recognizable
To the One Whom it resembles;
And:
All around her is a Living
Chorus of Beings shouting
Holy! Holy! Holy is The Lord!”
Yet within the cacophony resides
The Still and Quiet Presence
Of The Lord of Lords.
The Prince of Peace.
Upon His Throne, He sits,
Waiting and Being
Waited Upon.
Worshiped.
As only God should be.
It is Through Him - Jesus Christ -
That Amy enters into the Kingdom of God,
The Presence of the King of Kings.

Amy speaks, using a voice that she never dreamed
She had with her long-gone forgotten
Vocal chords.
“Here I am, Oh Lord.
Oh Lord, I am Here!”
Her life is Measured
Judged.
Because JUDGMENT
IS HIS!

Of:
The Judgment Seat
Of Christ:
I will not insult
My Creator
By imagining the content
Of my sister’s
Heart,
Or what goes on there,
In the most important moment in the history of a human being.
I will experience it;
So shall you, Dear One,
Who reads and contemplates the meaning
Within these words.
(ALL will experience
The very same thing)
So, human beings, get
Your affairs in order, for
We know not the hour
Of our demise.
If there is any doubt about what
Happens to you when you die...
Seek Him!
Accept Jesus Christ as your
Personal Lord and Savior!

Amy Scheck
Loved Jesus, and spoke His Name
With a rare form of deep and wide
Conviction.
She was a Christian, a Child of God.
She had a smile for everyone,
And most everyone left her
Smiling.
She loved Jesus on earth.
She was an obedient servant.
And what do we take with us
To Heaven?
What is in our HEART.

Jesus loves us all, all of us.
So I will believe,
Believe, I will, that
Amy’s love for Her Savior,
And her acknowledge, public,
Amidst scorn, ridicule, love, and
Acceptance
Were the Words
That Jesus used
To write
Amy's Name in His Book
She sowed and reaped, and
Reaped and sowed, and led
Others away from sin,
And, more importantly,
To Jesus Himself.
Amy’s life was full of
Good Fruit from
The Vine.

Interlude: The Other Side of Grace
And Jesus Christ spoke to Satan,
Who said, of this new soul:
(As he says to EVERY single
New soul entering into God’s
Eternal Kingdom):
Because, you see, we are fallen...

“What of THIS one, Lord?
She is MINE, I should think!
I have a long list of her
Considerable
Sins.”

And His voice the Thunder of Heaven,
Jesus stands for Amy Winifred Scheck.
(As Amy counted times stood for Jesus)
Her love for Him in no way can equal
HIS love for HER, but that is the great
Sacrifice that Jesus took upon Himself
On the Cross-the staggering weight of
Humanity's sin.
The equation does not have to be
Equal to be right, and true, and real.

So now Jesus raises His voice, and
Speaks, and the Foundations
Of Eternity shake, and every One
Within Heaven’s Realm
Trembles at Glory
Personified in Voice,
At Love, walking upright.
“CAST YOUR GAZE AWAY FROM HER, SATAN!
GET THEE BEHIND ME!
THIS ONE BELONGS TO ME.”
And Satan slinks away, knowing,
Knowing the answer already,
Yet eagerly awaiting one of
His
Coming to him soon, soon...
Soon.
Satan is, if anything,
Patient.

“You are Amy Winifred Scheck,
Born to Ed and Mary Scheck on
January 11 of the year
1960! Your body died
January 27, 2014.”

Amy is simply in the State of
Eternal Awe.
Jesus. Is speaking. To her.
Her new tongue must not be
Functioning properly.

“Well done, good and faithful Servant!
You have been faithful with what
I bestowed upon you! I gave
You a seed, which you
Planted in good soil, and
Tended it; watered it; pruned it
So that it
Multiplied many, many times over!
The Fruit of your life resides
All around you!
You led many who were
Astray to My Kingdom!
Enter!”

“OH! MY JESUS!”
She exclaims, her voice
Accompanied by the blasts
Of trumpets and a chorus
Of Angels.

Amy runs with joy as her feet and
Hugs the shoulders
Of The Almighty, feels
Scarred hands cupping her
Tiny face, as eyes blazing
Brighter than a thousand
Stars gaze into hers.
Everything that ever mattered,
That matters now, that will
Matter on down mortality’s
Road
Resides in the Sweet, Lovely
Kind eyes of Our Savior,
Jesus Christ.
He speaks:
“I’ve a place prepared for
You, Dear One.
For there are many rooms
For the Names in the Book of Life!
I have great
Adventures planned for you!
Eternity awaits! Does your new
Spirit thirst? Are you ready for
Your celebratory banquet?”

Amy can only cry and weep and sob
With joy so pure she will have
To learn an entirely new
Vocabulary to give it substance, depth, and
Clarity.
She looks around, seemingly,
For the first time, and sees the
Familiar form of Mary Elizabeth,
Her earth mother, now
Transformed, as she herself has been
Transformed.
Amy sees her new form in
The form of her loving mother.
They embrace, Mother and
Child.
And the applause of Heaven
Is Sweet Thunder.

Amy’s earthly father,
Edward James, is there,
Joking and smiling
With his older brother
Michael and his wife,
Tess.
He sees his daughter,
And shouts with Joy.
More embraces.
Heaven is a place of
Embraces, the birth
Place of Joy itself.

“WELCOME, TO HEAVEN’S TABLE,”
And Jesus speaks Amy’s new name.
“LET US REJOICE, MY FRIENDS,
FOR AMY IS NOW,
FINALLY,
HOME.”
MAJD S Nov 2012
Today through the desperate shouts of man our equality is defined as rain pours down like cries
Cries of those who died and still dying; cries of widowed eyes
Today we are all the same…everyone is prone to be soaked by the drops of truth resembling rain
And maybe we all feel the pain
But as the raging voices shout and scream, they are perpetually shattered by every single drop of sky
Every man is alone, today... every man on his own today…
The rich get richer devouring all our rights and confiscating all our sense of security and hope
And the poor get dumped in wells of their own regret; wells unlike the theatrical scenes do not include a savior or that miraculous rope
Genocides are no more Armenian alone, for death knows no nationality
And we stand here waiting for our time to end, accepting the methods of brutality
They've killed our minds, the children of our thought
They've killed our conscious and with money they bought
All the days we fear the unknown, and the unknown is not death for death is safe and obviously common
For death is known and sacred yet the informal is rotten
We are lost inside fake walls
And long halls
Loathing ourselves within those fake walls and longs halls
And the unknown follows us, it's high time we realize that it is the thing we despise
With all the deception of outer images, and human disguise
At least we still have an ascribed right, at least at some days
Today through the desperate shouts of man our equality is defined as rain pours down on our self inveterate ways….
Latiaaa Apr 2016
Hi, my name is female.
I might not fold my hands the way she does
Or flip my hair the way that girl does.

Hi, my name is female.
The width and length I am shouldnt define if I'm qualified for Vogue.
The way I lick my lips may not be as attractive as the next female,
How my eyelashes flutter may not appeal to you.

Hi, my name is female and I like mashed potatoes and Thai coconut.
They say “eat less, its prettier. Where this, it shows more.”
Why?
I shouldn't have to balance myself on misleading scales that does nothing but swallow my pride up.

Hi my name is female.
Because one chicken breast is smaller than the other….it's not the same?
Because another person's peach is plumper than mine….its better?  
They're still the same and we should treat them the same.

Words get thrown at us everyday and its expected of us to pick them up and change the way we are.
No.

Hi, my name is female and I shouldn't be talking this way just for a guy.
I shouldn't be crying for this guy,
I shouldn't be kissing up to this guy,
I shouldn't be changing for a guy,
I wasn't made for a guy.

Because I can't reach my toes like the next female, shouldn't mean a thing. Because my palms may ash more or my bones may creek more, shouldn't define how pretty I am.
Her hair may reach her elbows, her hair may touch her neck.
Her skin might love the sun, her skin might hate it.
Its still beautiful.

Hi, my name is female and I like mashed potatoes and Thai coconut.
Just because you may not like it, doesn't mean Its gross or Im repulsive..

One female can say, “I am” while the other girl across the street can say, “I is.”
“No I won't”
Or
“No I ain't”

I can still smile just like the next female,
I can hold a laugh,
Cough,
Sneeze,
Wink,
Eat like the next female.

We're all one conjoined masterpiece.
One cannot make me feel low of myself.
One will not tell me she's better than me.
One will not let me cry my eyes out.

Hi, my name is female and I have a name.
My name defines me.
I am beautiful just like the next girl who likes mashed potatoes and Thai coconut.

Embrace your beauty, honey. You're gonna have it forever.
vircapio gale Jul 2012
"
"nor is this a fact," nor is my syntax the 'true.'
i can't use quotations in the way i'd like to,
to allow the paradoxical to seep through
in the sly act of revising 'this' honestly--
merging truth with falsity, to silently see--
grammar become a means to shatter certitude

"i can't tell the 'truth' with these ["i can't tell the 'truth'
with these{...} very words"] very words"; i really can't...
it's somewhat unfair to communicants, this rant.
let me bolster your trust by not telling it slant:
in fact, it's not poetry, not from this angle.
maybe when you read, this 'this' will be poetic?
meh, i'm relying on telling, not showing. so...
quiet's often better than such entanglement

but this is not about value, it's about truth.
sincerely, i doubt i'll keep those two separate

perhaps... if you pretend i'm a prolix parrot,
who happened through some acosmic accident
to be the transmigrated daimon-soul of Sappho,
or Hypatia, Gertrude Stein or Plath even...
(yeah, i'm like a Cretan for going on): they weren't,
'your gobbledygoo,' or 'Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.'
stripped bare at the Caesareum, being murdered
for the crime of godlessness or female wisdom
spoken in the scapegoat-hungry rule of Rome...
this is not what they were, not the whole truth, at all
and though from winds of ****** she spoke in verse
that her vast poetic fame 'was no delusion:'
and that, 'dead, I won't be forgotten,' i fail,
painfully fail,
to trace into a verbal womb
the seeds of those that transformed all, yet now entombed...
for to remember them in me is to revise,
reduce, sadly in that poetic untruth found...

"this" is a gestalt, i guess i'll have to say,
a "figure-ground," a floating 'shape' in some context,
one that you embody too, somehow, not in text;
even through a distant sharing, it's realized
(hold onto the random metaphors you find,
they're probably better than what's in my mind)
and to share this with you now, to hypocritize,
it's lunacy. i mean, the moon, the poetic moon
is not a meme, is not a custom, is not a poetic fact,
in fact, it's not in this poem, and if it were--
being televised with some authentic ontic pixel-space--
here between the lines augmented mOOn for you
it would prove how unpoetic the poem is, and how
very true the moon is, if it were here, right quoteunquote"here"
ineffably punctuated
            -- well, let me try
and fail again to make Erasmus proud:
the quotes would hang about romantic beams
parentheses to echo adjectival spectra streams,
an underscore horizonal and asterisks for stars.
but not these * asterisks,
or those_types of underscores--
better (parentheses) and far more "quothy" "quotes"--
the punctuation would literally ^punctuate^ the sky of my text.
time would stop.                                                            ­                   and that would be poetic.
you don't need to breathe, even; not this 'you,' in this moment
(the one i've failed to capture):
'i will put you on the moon' i say,
'and sit you buoyant by the buddha-astronaut, who,
in answer to the question sprinkles moondust in slow motion,
symbol-guiding realness, my "finger" for solution,
to present to you again, what is present to me now.
the Russian names, the rest of names, the 'face' some say cries, "sweetly,"
as if we could use the moon's sympathy,
or as if we should feel it for the white rock that elliptically defines us,
dances to our rhythm, (the tides, the ****** huntress)
the one that taught us to dance,
the one that taught us to yearn darkly in surreal eclipse
more hopefully for the chance of cataclysmic doom
some Greeks thought it was a disco ball, after enough *****, that Dionysian night,
some Greeks thought it was a disc,
like a coin that flipped just right
to match it's dance about our pearoid earth
in synchrony's anachronistic mirth.
i would lick each Bacchant clean to learn the mysteries of poem
i would lick each Bacchant clean. period. no music or noema known
this 'poem' is not a "poem"
in a very real sense
i did not make this,
nor did i compose or create it.
if you're not following it's ok, i'm barely there myself -- i'm trying to refer to...
the elliptical shape that certain publishers use
to refer to fundierung
the double-founding,
reversibility,
the flesh of passive
the flesh of active
enfleshed perceiving
the common meaning we contribute
but can't attribute to any source we express!
(however distorted) after the fact, yes! --
either all that, or the meaning you get from "this" act
doubly-enfolded, with two pairs of hands kneading the same dough,
two pairs of eyes weaving the same lOOm,
another Indra's net to sew,
in meaning you give now,
the techne of your reader's mind
and the meaning i'd wish to know,
if i were still writing what you are reading,
doing my best to ignore the title
and to write something worthwhile...

i do wish i could show it to you the way i love it in your own poetry,
but you would know that, already, without my love

without my unpoetic lack of facts, my rhymes.
free of poems, free to flout the literary sea.
free to be unwordly, and let the contradictions fly
"
-a version of the Cretan's or liar's paradox ('This sentence is false.') inspired this write and took on a life of its own and isn't meant to be an argument for anything. just an exploration of the problem of representation, a universal distrust of language and my associations. hope it didn't drive you crazy like it did me :)

-i quote Sylvia Plath's "Daddy", Stein's "Susie Asado", and Sappho's very short,

"I have no complaint"

I have no complaint
prosperity that
the golden Muses
gave me was no
delusion: dead, I
won't be forgotten
Sappho

-Erasmus wrote "Praise of Folly." the title alone comforts me

-when asked 'what is truth?' by one of his disciples, the buddha is said to have picked up a flower.

-our moon rotates at the same rate as its revolution (not sure why please inform me), so one side always faces us. the greeks thought it was a disc, literally. and when the Russians got to the 'backside' first, they got to name all the craters.

-noema:
the objective aspect of or the content within an intentional experience. NL, fr. Gk noema perception, thought understanding, mind, fr. noein to perceive, think
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
only today i came across what interested Heidegger
after writing being and time, a selection
of essays, revealing that he came to be interested
in language - not knowing this, by mere study
of the introduction some things became apparent -
being quiet democratic in my reading it's a shame
i don't have the academic leisurely pace of becoming
a Heidegger specialist - it's the almost damnable
pulling-apart having to cite many influences and not
focusing on one, but since i don't have academic
leisure, the summary in the introduction
by jeffrey powell (editor) of the book heidegger
and language
will just have to do: apropos this
being an antidote to those bemoaning that we only
write about reading books, carefully choreographic
our lives for mints and espressos and ammoniac
(inhalants in a boxing ring nearing a knock-out) -
hide pretty bird, hide, hide pretty pretty bird
first your song inside a cage, then the cage inside
the heart, and thus the song with the cage,
silenced inside the cage, raging mad inside the heart.
well, the antidote is that i already have some ideas,
and reading the essays contained in this book would
put me off what i was intending to write about,
so, in summary, read the major work, then read introductions
of critical books from those studying the subject,
invent an original approach from that, and elsewhere.
before i venture into the whole affair of having to
reread certain passages from the introduction as to
guide me in this Bermuda Delta i what to do a little
sidewinder interlude:
in chemistry there are two major bonds (for the purpose
of what i'm intending, let us just assume that
we're only talking about π and σ bonds) -
and while psychology dehumanises man to strict
theories without clear proofs to a universal standard,
i want to do what will come later regarding Heidegger's
take on language, for me there's no clear philosophical
vocabulary to be used - i'm not into orthodoxy and
rigidity which says

                piquant sun strokes against
                the bargains of spring's last
                hope for a kept bazaar
                to bloom to then deflower
                petals from trees fall to earth
                like glasses, the tree stands
                as a reflection of shattered glass
                the petals remain the tree intact
                worn at the Royal Ascot
                or in a woman's hair.

obviously something like this is a poem - what i mean,
however, concerning what's identifiable as philosophy is
to me the following:  
                                        blah = monotone x algebraic
                                                    for­ non-differential
                                                    purposes, just filling up
                                                    the page

            blah blah blah blah blah blah subjectivity blah blah blah blah blah blah essentially blah blah blah blah blah blah in-itself blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah thing-external v. thing-internalised blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah metaphysics blah etc.
                      
                          and so on and so forth, a fixation on using a certain vocabulary to be equivalent or justification to be "apparently" talking philosophy... yet still no gain from the words of grammatical categorisation... for me? too many propositions, the basis of what the academic environment deems to be "pure" verbiage, or none (akin Wittgenstein) - that famous quote about a lion and having tea on Tuesday... or as Buddha would say: said so to shatter thus the fear of ketamine thoughtlessness;

but that's beside the point, i want to return to
how any chemist might treat psychology as a science,
keep it up to date, given that psychology likes
to shove its nose in everyday activities for a strict
expression of equivalent rubric that mathematics already
possesses and shoves into a child's brain to make
the child become accustomed to symbol encoding;
so π and σ bonds, let's say between two carbons atoms...
but in psychology we don't have the luxury of
many alternative examples...
me and language: to write in terms of optics,
to encode images rather than sounds,
language as optometry rather than a hearing-aid...
so what "elements" do we have in psychology,
essentially what defines consciousness, its sub-plot
and its unfamiliar territory - the using the dusty
Freudian units, we know the concept of the superman
(superman was a bad bad boy) from Nietzsche
evolved into the super mm hmm, and we know
there are two other units, mm hmm and the id /
it or that? it is for me, that is for scalpel for the analyst,
the prober, unlucky for the person who took to
objectifying himself, but better than being objectified -
still, remember i'm working with language in terms
of optics rather than phonetics - enough organic chemistry
diagrams and you will see that the bonding between
mm hmm, the super mm hmm and the gemini id
(one the patient, the second the analyst) trapped inside
an electron cloud of bio-electric processes is rigid and
stable due to the opposite of π and σ,
i chose the optic route using the bonds δ and ψ -
symbolically δ is the mathematical term for sum -
summation, the total of - currently i have no clue about
the significance of ψ just yet, but ψ is a symbol of
psychology like caduceus is the symbol of medicine;
a brief expansion on the natures of the bonds,
quack-science δ bonds being all alike meaning uniform
meaning holding every aspect uniformly, meaning
that a δ bond is of the same nature between mm hmm
and super mm hmm in a petri dish within the
solvent of the conscious sub-plot, likewise other variations
δ bonds are uniform bonds, i.e. ensuring one detail
is related to the other, and so to others.
ψ bonds, not much expansion here as promising detail,
asthma the highest research of breath, and all
major theoretical squeezing through the Suez -
depending on the measure of breaths, we can depend
on the internal things - but never so much Pamplona encierro
cleaning-up to do theorising an affirmative sound
like mm hmm, or other affirmative synonyms -
if it were can *****, it would be mince rather than
a clean dissection - mince meat, should mm hmm be
not an *****, let alone a body. so many attachments
to mm hmm these days, it should be attached to zoological
studies than activities of breathing: theory as a cage,
one after the over, eventually not even cages but
the caged animal turning into matryoshka doll -
Kant doesn't venture into the dynamic of his thing-in-itself
represented by the matryoshka as ad continuum -
maybe he does, but to me here merely pinpoints it,
coins the phrase noumenon and ensures the thing
is opened, god or nothing is put in it, the thing is
closed, locked and the key to unlocking it is thrown
away and never found (i'll mention a short process of
his argument some other time, most notably his
three impossibilities concerning proving the existence
of god: ontological, physico-theological and cosmological).
yes, i know, when reading these ****** books
i have to paint the arguments, i need to simplify
them, a poet reading a philosophy has to paint
the words - the best poetic technique applicable to
understanding philosophical books is imagery,
not as a technique of for the purpose of writing my own,
but as a way to paint what was written by some boffin -
precursor to understanding the three impossibilities
of proof, i find it strange that such proof is necessary,
what would you do with it? prove it once on
paper, or in your head, show it to everyone and then
slowly everyone is able, then the so called "man in
the sky" - it seems strange that scientific positivism
of the Enlightenment supposed such a proof, the proof
is more implausible than the existence - Bertrand...
just smoke your pipe and sit in the easy-chair talking
******* with Wittgenstein... more on that later.
i promised quotes from the above mentioned book
(heidegger and language)...

           das wort kommt zur sprache,
             das seyn bring sich zum wort.


working from phenomenology, to later reject it,
thus precipitating the school of deconstruction-ism,
and with Heidegger we do get to atomic elements
from words, from compounds, thank god there are
no sub-atomic ventures with language, quiet impossible
to de-construct language beyond this point,
let's face it, if you go as far as:
'as preparatory for raising the question of being...
language is one of three constituent moments in
the analysis of the being of the da in dasein (being there)'
furthered by equal atom bombardment replacing
the un-compounded sein (verb, be) with seyn (conjunction /
noun, being) - this is modern physics to my understanding,
i'm not particularly interested what he's saying,
i'm interested in painting what he's saying -
i'll spare you the details of what philosophical systematisation
is actually involved in: restricted vocabulary -
a certain limit is allowed, rigid meanings are involved,
rigidity of drilling in of non-deviation, philosophical
systems are not dishonest in that they are consistent with
a limited vocabulary - i will spare you the torture of
seeing one ball being juggled - the shrapnel of the English
language makes it even more distracting to understand,
as with the above, another e.g.?
'every saying of beyng is held in words and meanings
which are understandable in the view of everyday
references of beings, and are exclusively thought in
that view, but which as expressions of beyng,
are misunderstood...' of course i could be cherry picking
Heidegger like a Jehovah's witness cherry picking
the bible, but i'm not interested in what he's saying,
merely painting you the picture, to scale then:

books                      -              celestial objects
chapters                 -               cycles of celestial objects
paragraphs            -               prime features of
                                                 celestial objects
                                                 (e.g. Jupiter's red eye,
                                                  Saturn's ring,
                                                  Earth's oceans
                                                  and continents)
sentences                 -              
words                       -
syllables                   -
letters                        -             atoms / elements  
                                           ah, it was going oh so well,
i think i started too big, and went into too small,
which made visualising sentences and words and syllables
hard to compare what could fit between
Australia and and atoms of RuXe - by chance ruxe is
an actual word, no as stated ruthenium and xenon,
although that too, ruxir (ruxo, ruxin, ruxido) in Galician
meaning to roar.
Ghazal Feb 2014
Never will I be covered in tattoos

My legs and toes shall forever stay bruised.

I’ll never paint or carry a tune

Forever and ever, I’ll wear a tutu.


I won’t dye my hair pink or blue

My piercings will stay as the simple two

Nails cut short and hair in a bun

In ballet, this must be done.


Pink tights by the mound

Bobby pins all around

Leotards on the floor

Pointe shoes by the door.


Toes taped so tightly

Smiling big and brightly

Red lipstick adding to her beauty

The dancer moves so smoothly.


Turned out from my hips

No words coming from my lips

I dance sweetly to the sound

Ooh ballet, to you, I am bound.


Full of grace, never haste

Filling perfectly my costume of lace

Ever so sweet, my dancing feet

Step after step, I repeat and repeat.


Obtaining perfection is my key

It’s what I strive for, it’s all that defines me

Pushing harder and harder to reach my goal

It’s what I live for, ballet is my soul.


My toes may bleed

And my knees, grow weak

But I’ll never stop dancing…

Not until I reach my peak.


Pirouette, Pirouette

Dancer’s silhouette

Practicing at dusk

Dedication is a must.


Stretching my limbs

Choreographing on a whim

Alway aiming to be stronger

To hold my arabesque longer.


When I do finally reach that triple pirouette

and all is done and all is set

I put myself back into class

Aiming for a fourth, to be better than the last.


This is the life of a dancer en point

Risking the health of her feet, legs and joints

Just for that one perfect moment on stage

Where the ballerina stands tall and all are amazed.
please please write a comment
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
Why I Always Carry Tissues

To My Children:

I'm laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.

There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.

When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.

Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.

It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.

Back-to-me.
That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,
Back-to-me.

But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.

These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Then looking ahead.

No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.

When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d'etre is unfulfilled.


These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.

That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.

The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n' fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best...

Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one's fears.

If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep
When tears fall...



2008
1. Written in 2008, updated today 7/2013, adding a word here and there.
2. When I wrote this, there were no more babies in my life; now the next generation, a new set of boo-boos
3. Yes, I still, always have tissues on me someplace,
a habit started over thirty years ago,
when my children where toddlers.
4. The poem I love the best.
Although outward beauty may be seen all painted on with a brush so fair its shallowness can be revealed in our actions unaware,but inner beauty is much more rare and it comes from God above. It is shown in how we act and we show His love. Like an oyster in the ocean its outer shell so plain and dull but when you look inside of it there's a pearl so beautiful. I hope to be like the oyster when you look inside you'll see a heart so warm and beautiful and see God's love inside of me After all it is the inner beauty that defines a person,it is the one that matters.
You can be physically beautiful all you want, if your heart is cold and bitter you are ugly.
Pagan Paul May 2018
.
Aimlessly wandering
   with a feeling of agitation,
      caught somewhere between
         browsing with interest
            and prowling with intent.

Distressed and unsettled
   like anticipating trauma,
      mooching with an emotion
         that something is imminent
            yet its nature remains veiled.

The horizontal line defines a stability and yet,
it has started to list off to one side.
Tiny perforations promise fragmented logic
by osmosis revealing the storm implied.
The tap of excitable energy is dripping slow
threatening balance with a flood rip tide.
Empathy walks with the expectant father pacing
and coils of despair knot so deep inside.

A nervous anxiety
   grips psychology and waits,
      caught somewhere between
         bleak submissive acceptance
            and stark naked panic.



© Pagan Paul (22/05/18)
.
Jordan Rowan Aug 2015
There's a chill in the air and wind 'neath your boots
There's clouds in the sky and trees with roots
If all were to fall onto your crying head,
Would you carry it home or lie down dead?
The strength you have defines your choice
Will you whimper and cry or show your voice?
Through sorrow and pain and happiness and joy
You either run and hide from all those you employ
Or show them what you're made of inside
For what you do becomes who you have to hide
Not what you say with fury or a gentle tone
But the actions you take when you're all alone
When you're down and out, almost recluse
And you feel as if you have no use
If you still get up and challenge yourself
You will become prisoner to no one else

There's a song in the air and dirt 'neath your boots
A song that carries on down to your roots
Back from the days of no chores or worry
When nothing was done in any sort of hurry
You can hear these words in the back of your mind
And it takes you back to a simpler time
These little moments, spontaneous and surreal
Show you how you can always feel
Feel good and joyous even through the worst
When tired and hungry, they give you thirst
These little moments are found throughout life
They can break you free from worldly strife
And these things define who you were before
And change who you are to forever something more
Harkening back to when you were innocent and clean
Can make you try your best to better your scene

Your moments in life are yours to keep
When daydreaming or your lost in sleep
The worst will come and so will the best
The dark before the dawn always sets to the west
You can succumb to the pain that comes with years
Or you can fight back the stress and fight back the tears
Through everything that comes your way
Only you can change how you live out your stay
Others will come and others will leave
But what holds together is what you believe
Strength is within and without you
Within is taken while without is beside you
Hold onto a grain of meaningless sand
And notice how it's light in your hand
Just for that moment it's harmless and vain
But if you hold on forever it builds into pain
Word *****. Complete rambling of someone trying to make themselves feel better by trying to describe with actual strength is.
Izzy Broaden Oct 2015
Crazy, dumd, ugly

Give me another word to through in this poem

This **** describes me
This **** defines me

Don't you know?
Haven't you heard?!

Disappointing, unworthy, AND useless!?!?

           Okay....

(Schizophrenia, learning disability, drug use etc.)

**** I guess I found an excuss for almost every defining, outlining, "description" about me!!!
Written by: Izzy broaden
LC Oct 2014
Is it the artist or the art,
That defines the contents of the heart?

~LC~
Rashma Jul 2020
What is beauty?

Growing up I was told
lighter skin, bigger eyes, smaller nose thinner lips, straight black hair
thin body, smaller frame
smaller shoe size

There was no embracing of
my brown skin, almond-shaped eyes
longer nose, fuller lips, wavy voluminous hair thick thighs, larger frame
not size 6 shoes

No celebration of my own beauty what forms and defines me
until now.
I choose to not be the subject of another’s judgement of what is considered beautiful or not
to be molded into what is acceptable and approved by my culture, my society, people around me

I choose myself
my uniqueness and my acceptance of myself just as I am
is true beauty.
Cartwright Feb 2010
Art is An Inspiration of Life,
Dreams are Passages through Strife,
Love is as You make it on High,
and Family is how a Person is Defined.
So What Defines You as a Whole?
Who are You in Your SOUL?
Do You Know who you are?
Maybe your Looking from afar?
Don't be afraid;
get up close and personal with Yourself,
Get to Know Your OWN Mind,Body,and Spirit.
Like some of the greatest of people say
"You are You worst Enemy"
I fell they forgot to complete that PHRASE,
so Let me inter vein on there Wisdom;
" As well you Can be your greatest ally"
so remember the Rhythm of the Night
as well the Rhythm of your Life
to the tune of You.
IF at the Time there is no Tune
don't be afraid to ask Cause
"The only Stupid Question is a Question Unasked"
so Don't Be afraid Of wisdom,
Don't be afraid of You;
If you already are Just remember
"You can be Your Greatest ally or Your own worst Enemy"
So stop Living a Lie and Find your truth.
Lay down your burden and get off/out of that prison you call "THE BOX". Get to Know YOU through and Through,
Love your self Cause IF no one will You always Have YOU.
                                     DON'T BE AFRAID!!
        Christopher Nathaniel Cartwright
         Copyright © 1983-Present
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i don't know why i found redemption in the tetragrammaton, sure, my mother cared for two elderly jewish ladies, one escaped the Holocaust (surname Roßhandler) and the other of established English rooting (surname Rockman... thanks to her, upon completing my g.c.s.e. exams i got a complete collection of Bernard Shaw's plays) - but i find it there, ping-pong salvation every time, translating it akin to arithmetic: 1 + 1 = 2 is very much akin to Y              H            W          H, which i started calling the perfect chirality - chiral meaning non-superimposable:
                                       A                      &                  E, i too ventured to call the double H dualism a déjà vu - but i know see them as vantage points, more electrons and quantum physics than protons and neutrons - well, it ****** well fits the schematic: sine (M) and cosine (W) - sure, crude, but i'm not looking at the geometry of the mouth... language on the base of pure optics... and no, not necessarily adjective noun compounds for emphasis to argue a point, just easily an easily accessed point of reference...     so quantum physics calls it the non-independent ontology of electrons: a. particles (Y, centre 0 on the x, y, z graphs - apart from the heliocentric and the geocentric models, here's another one of similar causality)... and b. waves (W, the formerly stated trigonometry suggestion) - and hence the two vantage points bound to H... apart from Adam and Eve lodged in between... which suggests that the geocentric analogy of electrons is bound to electrons behaving like waves... while the heliocentric analogy of electrons is bound to electrons behaving like particles: microcosm Copernicus blah blah; well, more like pseudo-Aristarchus of Samos.

20th century literature is, quiet literally
something akin to the cave paintings at
Lascaux - big brother isn't watching -
nor is the publishing old guard -
i just find it unreal that so much rests upon
the internet these days, the people have no
idea what power has been granted them,
they petty the use of the internet with
their earthly squabbles of a marketplace,
while, running parallel: the lost infatuation
with democracy as necessary organisation -
turns out it's unnecessary organisation:
because we ain't go anything better -
hence political disillusionment - rampant in
what western society deems the pinnacle
and the Libra of a fine balancing act -
religiously? that famous: "mystery of lawlessness"?
that's the internet - imagine a time when you
could bypass some publisher, some adherent
to a state doctrine, when you could turn poetry
into physics, not the waffle of metaphysical Keats
waiting for a kettle to turn into a volcano
or a whistling horse, but to turn the dial to
point at the reality of things:
quantum physics (derived from quanta,
a variation of datum: particularity of input
energy) gave poets breathing space,
metaphysics became shadowy, Hades like
learning, obscure and all the more necessary
to build-up its strength while puritan physicists
lost their sway of power with the fears of
the atom bomb and all things quantum -
so while the physicists became dazzled with
all things quantum, the metaphysics took off...
entombed in an apathetic (without pathos)
subjectivity: a calm heart, much more than an
embracing heart - yes, i am aware that i have my
wacko moments of feeling, but this ticker is
made of stone - and that usually means a chaotic
thinking process, spontaneity being the key
in involving yourself with real-life narratives
then never suppose a character study: what you see,
is what you get: my sanity plateau?
talk about music rather than make poetry musical,
it's a pale shade of red or blue when you
have guitars and orchestras and the poet,
a voice in the wilderness - nothing but pins dropping
to exemplify the talk... i don't understand
the need for poetry being a kindred of musicology,
i don't understand rhyme, i don't understand
being conscious of poetic prescriptions of technique
very much akin to language's artefact minded
grammar: noun
                                v. poetry's pun
grammar's verb
                                       poetry's metaphor... etc.
my deviation? being an adherent toward music,
and returning poetry back to its true purpose:
puritan narrations - not conscious of what's
expected, or what defines the art,
very much the beginning of cubism and later
innovations in art, i just can't stand rhyming poetry -
it's too conscious of itself by what it's defined by,
we have learned of a new subjectivity:
the unconscious - we might as well exploit it
while objectivity gets crushed into bewilderment
by quantum physics -
thus said: i feel like i'm a dervish spinning
counter-clockwise in a chaos of tornadoes spinning
clockwise while listening to two songs:
tool's *right in two
- and muse's stockholm syndrome:
i can't be bothered translating the feelings
entombed in these two songs with a rhyme...
poetry should be less stuffy than it already is...
it should be a statement of the supreme effort: freedom.
all of this? spurred on by rereading passages from
Jung's gegenwart und zukunft (1957), alter:
          the undiscovered self (1958) -
it's seemingly odd (but not too odd) that books
written by psychiatrists are more popular than
philosophy books in the anglophile culture -
as already stated, i can't read philosophy in english -
maybe this is why psychiatric literature is so easily
accessible in this tongue, what with the self-help
movement, it the grandest prescription that no pill
(unless it's a sleeping pill) can be prescribed -
i'd say, if you want to read philosophy in english,
i'd start off by reading a book from psychiatry -
Jung is by far more adaptable than Freud
(Freud's for the rich people who have ***
written on their foreheads in permanent ink -
        and: daddy didn't care, mama was
                                     struggling feminist who
     forgot to breastfeed me) -
       but of course the 1960s Scottish superstar
(who drank, rightly so) from Glasgow: Laing.
well, sure, the Hungarian Szasz (shash, not sas,
or zaz... shish kebab... it ain't the difficult) -
impromptu deviation: what's funny about Heidegger?
he says: you need to study Aristotle for 15 years
to get him... and that's very much true for him also...
two years... TWO YEARS it took me to read his book.
that's what's interesting about this book,
a literary anorexic, in at 79 grams (pages) -
the interesting point? in physics, there are things
that are not independent of observation -
i like that conundrum, the mere idea of it is titillating -
running joke for the past two years: ***** ***** tat for tat
months later -
                          well... i'm not the one trying to
dress you up in a straitjacket with a label: this is poetry...
can't see **** for miles with how i write.
so there's a purpose, some things are depending on
being observed - which is a good thing, which means
that this world could not be independently sustainable -
its dependency on existing lies akin to our
desire to be independent of it - so all the religious
blah blah means something - even after 3 years
of rigorous studies in chemistry i come back into
humanism with a furore of agitating religious paraphernalia -
mind you, i do have a scientific approach toward
language - grammar and algebra combined -
meaning? certain words have become post-grammatical,
i.e. algebraic - not categorised as nouns or otherwise,
but as algebraic signatures: primarily because no one
really knows what to do with them, apart from
church yoga, standardised: e.g. x = god,
            i = y                  and the                  world = z,
predictably transcending the casual use of language
when shopping for cheese in a Parisian grocery store...
err... je ma'pel gorgon, avoir vous fromage?
nope, took to English too much - i was learning French
in primary school, but i had an existential crisis
aged 9 or 10... my brain refused to learn another language
after having just learned one from scratch -
                               the mute in class soon turned into
an avaricious reader... so parallel to my life, i now hear
stories about children being diagnosed with depression...
try being thrown into the deep-end of the pool
with your former development using a language
automatically, into having to learn the language without
no major influence of a teaching authority...
                                  no wonder the accent game
   sort of imploded and i started speaking sometimes tosh,
sometimes posh, and sometimes east London oh'rite?
                             ale casem tes jak rolnik -
                            owszem, czasem jak mieszczanin też.
Stefan Smith Jan 2015
I break through the barriers
You set in my life
Look past the decisions
That took your future out of sight

You didn’t see the hope
That could’ve made your breath matter
You just took that needle
And watched your dreams shatter

I was always told
That your laugh was contagious
You’d light up that room
Like nobody else, they’d say this

I wish I could just see it
To see you at your best
Even when you hid the scars
Buried underneath your chest

I wish they didn’t judge you
I wish they just loved you
I wish they didn’t show you hatred
But told you,
you could make it

Because even a gloomy moon’s reflection
Can show the light
A man with no direction
Still has a reason to fight
A man with no good intentions
Can still choose what’s right
A man with no vision
Still has sight

You just had to look.
Look past the corruption
To understand that the
Idols led to nothing

The ****** that filled your veins
That caused you pain
That controlled your brain
That made you go insane
Was not an unbreakable chain

People tell me I shouldn’t
Think about my past
They say it’s only my future I should grasp
They say I can’t learn anything
From the life you lived
Cause the decisions you made
Have nothing to give

But dad,
I don’t listen
I think of you often
I try to understand
The purpose of your coffin
I try to understand
Why you wanted to be forgotten
I try to understand
Why you thought your life was rotten
Because that is far from the truth
You were just strapped to a bomb
You didn’t know how to diffuse

So you did teach me something
That no matter the mess
I will never give up on the people
Society defines helpless
Or turn my back
on someone who’s in distress
Because they’re lost
And they forget what it feels like to be blessed

And so I want to live
My life so I can prove
That no matter your situation
It can be renewed
And no matter the chains
They can be removed
Because the life we live
Is not a life to loose

Because even a gloomy moons reflection
Can show the light
A man with no direction
Still has a reason to fight
A man with no good intentions
Can still choose what’s right
A man with no vision
Still has sight.

                           You just have to look.
For my dad.
Ayad Gharbawi Dec 2009
THE STORY OF SARA


AYAD GHARBAWI


CHAPTER 3: BEING AN ACTIVIST

  
Gradually, we become ever more radical in our burning quest to uproot every conceivable element of the corrupting culture of the oppressors.
  We soon started to call these oppressors 'Pigs', because that is exactly what they were: overweight, bloated, filthy animals who live simply eat and consume all day, and who love to live in their own excrement.
  The Pigs had to be removed, because you cannot negotiate with a pig.
  It was so obvious to me!
  Some people did, indeed, argue that diplomacy and negotiations were the way to achieve our blessed equality-based society, but that was pure idiocy to me; because, for Heaven's sake, a pig will remain a pig and cannot become an 'enlightened' pig! These criminals, who are creating poverty, and who are killing people, because they do not allow them decent health services, must be completely eradicated, or else, ordinary people will continue to suffer.
  One day I heard Tony give a speech in front of a huge audience: "There's no point in cutting the tail of the snake. No, you must go straight for the head, and that's how you **** it!" And there ensued roars and cheers, from the mainly young crowd. "And, if someone is trying to **** you, what do you do? Negotiate? Talk to them? No, you **** them first, that's what you do! That's who the Pigs are, my friends. They are out there killing you, and so many of you tonight are simply not even remotely aware that you are dying slowly – so, you must, first of all wake up, and realize that someone, somewhere, is draining out the blood of your life, and next you must identify the cancer that is killing you. So, who's the cancer?" Tony screamed, and the by now delirious crowds immediately responded with a thunderous and hate-filled, "Pigs! Pigs! Pigs!"
  "The Pigs talk and teach us about 'morality' and 'respect' and 'decency', and other subjects like that. That's laughable now, isn't it?! I mean, the blood stained mass murderer is teaching us etiquette here?!"
  "No! No!" roared back the audience. "**** the pigs! **** the pigs!" they suddenly and somehow instantaneously started to chant. So, I must correct what many people think about Tony, and that is, he 'invented' and popularized that phrase, '**** the pigs". No, he didn't; it was the audience that night who spontaneously came up with that really exciting and vibrant phrase!
  From then on, violence became more common along with the never ending chants – if not screams – of '**** the pigs!' Every day, and all over the country, the movement had flourished, and there were the most refreshing and gloriously destructive riots in almost every major city.

  It was at this time that I first heard a speech from Omar.
We waited for the man to appear, but he seemed nowhere to be found.
  My God, I heard from so many people that he was the most radical in the deepest sense of the word!
  Apparently, he made Tony sound like a child!
  He also had a well disciplined party – unlike Tony.
  Here was a place that I can find the ‘cause of my life’!
  I could work for Omar and that would be the point of my life!
  The thought thrilled me – because I was already a convert to their ideas, but with Omar, there was a real party that was actively fighting the government, whereas Tony and other leaders like him were independent activists, but with no party behind them.
    Then, Omar suddenly appeared.
  He was of medium height, average looks - but it wasn’t long before you noticed his inexpressibly burning, fanatical eyes!
  I was about a few metres from him, and I could feel the sheer intensity of passion and rage within those eyeballs!
  This man must have absolutely the words of truth, for no Man could look like that and be a liar!
And then he gently spoke:
  "**** the pigs, I hear you say. Well, that's not good enough for me. People like that make me yawn. And, I'm bored of yawning every day. We need more. We need to move on faster. I need speed. It's not just '**** the pigs', it's '**** the cops!', because the cops defend the Pigs and attack us every day; '**** the teachers!' because every teacher does nothing except to teach us with pointless information'. And, '**** every human being' who sides or serves the establishment!”.
  Omar’s eyes were literally able to stab right through your heart and soul simply by staring at you!
  I can well imagine that my reader will not believe me and will say it was because I was a convert to Omar’s ideas that I found his eyes to be so abnormally powerful – but, what do you say to all those people who did not like him, and who met him, and yet, they, too, all said that his eyes were profoundly piercing?!
  So, you see, reader, do believe me – it’s not because I was emotionally enthralled by Omar, that I am describing him to you the way I do!
  He had beautifully framed fingers – I don’t know why I noticed that!
  He had a rather longish nose – maybe, that was one defect in his face, but you hardly noticed that, given the other attractions in this man.
  And then he possessed the deepest, most guttural, and yet so sweetly melodic voice, that I had ever heard, and when he spoke, he simply entranced me – not to mention the thousands of others.
  Omar continued, beginning to raise his ragged voice:
“And, so I order you, tonight, and tomorrow, and every day, to fanatically and ruthlessly exterminate every visible sign, agent, artist, writer, philosopher, painter, sculptor, journalist, teacher, professor, lawyer, doctor, surgeon, banker, engineer, everyone who works in the mass media like the television, every film maker, every scientist, and every single employer and employee of the Pigs."
  The audience now simply shrieked the verb, '****! ****! ****!’ while Omar went silent, amidst this wild orchestra of hate being played out.


  I noticed, that unlike Tony, Omar wouldn't gesticulate or move his hands at all.
  Actually, he just stood there, rock solid, like a statue while only eyes and mouth spoke!
  The man, I swear, looked like a 'human rock'!
  He was the absolute epitome of boundless hatred; of unrestrained defiance against the rulers ruling us!
  Yes, I do admit, and I hesitate to say so, but, yes, he almost did like completely maniacal – were it not for his self control and the beauty of his words!
  The audience relaxed.
  Omar waited until there was silence, and he continued:
  "Do you see the difference between what I am saying and what brothers like Tony say? People like Tony demand from us to uproot the pigs. But what Pigs does he, in fact, mean? Who does he mean, when he says 'Pigs'? He means the rich. That's it.”


  Now, Omar abruptly went silent.
  Tension.
  He was staring at us.
  I could feel that the audience felt nervous precisely because Omar was staring at them.
  Finally, he continued:
  “Can you imagine the limits of his intellect?! To Tony and his misguided followers, the solution facing the problem before us is simple enough: you simply wipe out the rich, and suddenly we have the beautiful society!"
  Omar was sneering, being utterly sarcastic in his voice and tone.
  "So is that it, Brother Tony? Is that all we need to do?”
  There, he stopped again, with a sarcastic, wicked smile on his face.
  The man’s body simply had no motion in it!
  I was waiting to see, if Omar would, at some point, move his body or his arms, but so far nothing!
  He continued:
“My goodness, I never knew that the gigantic problem facing us was to be solved in such a simple manner! But, no, you're being fools. Or, maybe you're fooling your selves. Either way, I don't know, and more importantly, I don't care, because, as I told you all out there listening to me,” suddenly, he began to scream with his rasping voice:
  “I'm a serious man, with a serious mission, and above all, I'm a man in a hurry!"
  Again, Omar went suddenly silent.
  I could sense, that he was deliberately teasing the audience, because they were obviously desperate for him to continue speaking, while he, would every so often stop speaking, thus adding to the tension in the atmosphere!
  The audience laughed, loving the biting sarcasm; obviously there were lots of rivalry and jealousies between the two camps, and so Omar's followers just loved to hear the buckets of insults being poured upon the followers of Tony.
  The mocking tone continued:
  "These fools are retarding our own path to victory! These followers of Brother Tony, are doing the dumbest acts that I have ever seen. I mean, what do you mean and what are you trying to achieve, when you have his followers going to restaurants and disrupting the place? I mean, is this what the definition of 'stupidity' is, or what?!"
  The crowd cheered: "Yes! Yes! Idiots!"
  "Listen here Brother Tony; I would like to say, 'it's all right, you're still young and you'll soon grow up'. But I can't say that. You know why?"
  The audience waited as Omar paused.
  He was staring at his audience.
  Suddenly, he erupted with his deafening scream:
  "I can't wait. Didn't I already tell you that? Didn't I tell you I'm a man IN A HURRY AND I'VE GOT TO DO MY WORK! DON'T YOU PEOPLE OUT THERE GET IT?"
  He roared, and the masses applauded furiously.
  "I don't have time, for children like Tony, and for his own little children, to stand in my way, and wait for them to grow up! I don't have the time, because I have an enemy out there, that needs to be completely, ruthless and fanatically exterminated, root and branch, do you now follow me?"
  "Yes! Yes! We follow!" screamed the masses.
  Silence.
  And then, Omar continued:
  "So, we know who Tony defines as the Pigs. What about myself? We must talk the talk of the brave. If you're scared, then get out of here. Why do I say this? Because this struggle requires the most ruthless behaviour on our part, and to be ruthless, you need to be brave, and to be rave means you have no fear."
  It sounded almost as if he were singing.
  Or maybe it was my imagination.


"So, who are the Pigs, you ask me? Simple. The Pig is a man, woman and child who has any Pig Attributes. What do I mean by 'Pig Attributes'? Very simple. Any human, who has in his brain, any idea, concept, believe and acceptance of any value from the rulers who rule us all. And, what are these 'values' that come from our dear rulers? They are ideas and values such as: there are the simple ones, like the belief in the right to profit, belief in the right of property, inheritance and so on. Then, there are the other beliefs, such as, belief in compassion for the rich, or cooperating with the rich or socialising with the rich. You follow?"
  The audience was silent.
  "That means, any human in our sick society, poor or not, who in any way, not only physically interacts with the rulers is a Pig himself, but also any human, poor or not, who has in his heart and mind, any empathy for the rich is a Pig himself, and so therefore, it follows – and I hope you people out there are listening to me – it means, therefore, that a poor human being who has any Pig Attributes, is a Pig himself, just like the rulers themselves. Do you understand?"
  Silence.
  And then he walked out.


  It was so sudden, because I expect a really screaming end from Omar, but to the surprise of everyone, he ended and simply walked out!
  But, I, understood what he meant.
  Basically, he was enlarging the definition of what it meant to be the 'enemy'.
  This struggle was now going to be infinitely more difficult. With Tony, the war was simple enough.
  We were 'right' while anyone belonging to the ruling class was 'evil' and that was it.
  Obviously, no member in the ruling class can deny that he's in the ruling class! They can even change their accents and their clothes, pretending to be poor, but there are computers and archives, such as birth certificates, school records, and it doesn't take long, to find out a person's origins.
  But now what Omar was proposing, that a Pig is any human being who interacts with the ruling class is evil.
  Also, anyone who has any thoughts that have any Pig Attributes (for example, being pro-ruling class), are also evil, and therefore, had to be eliminated.
  In other words, the poor can be Pigs as well.
  I loved that, because, I was never comfortable with most other left leaders, including Tony, who only focused their ire against the rich.
  To them all the poor were ‘blessed’ and ‘sinless’, and I knew, from my own background, that they simply romanticised the poor, probably because they themselves were all rich people who had never lived one day of their lives in poverty.
  With Omar, being impure, or sinful could be anyone in society – and, your background or class didn’t matter.
  That was far more logical to me!

But with joining Omar’s party, came other problems for me.
How were we supposed to ‘find’ a Pig, or an impure person?
  How can we be sure if a person has the Pig Attributes in his mind?
  It seemed ludicrous to me!
  I had doubts because as attractive an orator that Omar was, once you went home and thought about what he actually said, a lot did not make sense.
  I had so many ideas that contradicted what Omar had to say.
  For example, can’t we achieve our goals by peaceful means – rather than choosing the path of violence?
  And if we must use violence, then why don’t we attack military targets and not civilians?
  Wasn’t it wrong to target civilians and civilian places – like factories, farms, and shops?

  
  There he stood; eyes blazing as ever.
  What makes eyes 'blaze' I wondered.
  They don't actually emit any light, do they?
  So how can one man have such penetrating, piercing eyes that go right to your innermost heart?
  Omar seemed to be made of steel.
  Or, maybe it was all in my imagination, as Sanji would always be telling me.
  It was his personality and also his body language: that stern, stiff way of standing, that seemed to be the epitome of defiance against the evil in the world!
  His whole body seemed to be chiselled from the purest marble; there he stood, this heroic rock, against the tyranny of the storms and the oceans that were crashing on him; and still, there he stood, not only in supreme piety, but also, there he stood, waging a struggle against these very dark forces of evil.
  He will rid our society and our nation from evil, and one day, we shall live in a truly happy country.
  This nation and its sad people, this nation that has so many miserable, poor and unhappy people, will soon be able to live free, happy lives, without the burdens and the shackles imposed on them by the ruling elites.
  He spoke:
"They need to be utterly, and without a shred of human mercy, be exterminated, or else, it is us, who will be exterminated! It is either them or us! We need to cleanse our entire body from these cancerous cockroaches. Don't you people understand? Call it '******', call it 'exterminate', call it 'butchering them' – I do not care; what I do care and what I need in order to breathe uncontaminated, fresh air,  is to surgically and methodically and blindly eliminate the very existence of every Pigs on our land! That is why we have no choice but to fight. The criminals leave us with no choice. If they surrender their corrupting ways agai
Amitav Radiance Aug 2014
Claim freedom from innermost fears
Shackles, which binds the heart to tears
Mind’s boundaries keep you in confines
Courage is beyond, and your act defines

— The End —