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Left Foot Poet Jan 2019
"Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!"
                                                          ­Polonius (Hamlet)
~~~
read these words in a past, as a punk teenager,
back in the mid-you-wouldn't-believe-it-flintztone-age
returned to them, nowadays
when I am seven by ten decades squared, older not wiser

three people told me
what a lucky man I am today,


Even before the noon hour dare arrive,
a shocking delivered by an electrocardio telegram,
thus instigating a product recall of Shakespeare’s blessing season,
drawn from a stale teenage memory storage fast depleting

"This above all: to thine ownself be true"
which denies the false escape
of being false to any human

ingesting this thrice lucky man observation
into the internal inward-facing telescoping observatory,
where I map the true course of the
star-stories
well held in the constellations of my life,
never forgetting that this holistic ecosystem that is my
mind~body must evaluate the truth of this claim

its veracity will differ when assayed by
the big toe of my left foot from whence the poetry comes,
as well as those other interfering guys,
body, mind, heart and soul,
then re-evaluated by the internecine warring of those whiny parts,
the tongue, the hands, the eyes saying me, me,
that perforce means a dynamic constant changing
of every thing

in other words,
thine own truths are fluidity ever changing,
the mapping of your blessings,
best done in pencil with room
for expansion, reversal, and misdirection

have I lost you dear reader?

My Left Foot squeals,
fools, you just hammered
three more nails in the coffin of his depression,
where woes and toes know the inevitable repetition of the troubles he has already deemed, and now foreseen are yet,
ladies in waiting to take him to the tower

My Mind says
in obvious aspects people, you are 100% correct,
but the Inquistors are not fooled, patient in their queries;
My Body simply asks, err, does that make me look fat?
My Souls defers with a yada yada, not my problem, deal with it...

The facts tranverse and reverse,
Ah, the truths of my blessings
As much confusing and last defusing

The little drummer boy marches me in reverse retreat,
while shouting out in time a marching refrain:

Luck can be stored, used then, never more,
Its algorithm, a lifetime calculation,
Woe is me, thrice, deemed lucky,
But the map of my blessing reveals my positioning,
At the map-edge I stand, the last border be just ahead,
Seasons, maps, blessings must stop to journey,
What others see upon me outward, outdated,
All maps, all blessings are black-line bounded,
So too, am I, bounded, confused and confounded

The algorithm computes my nine lives are now radium depleted,
The shell, the shell no longer can be fired,
Even the half life has evaporated, used,
Though it looks fit, the luck has eroded, the feet now touching
My map edged in black, its legend, of use, never more


November 2017
Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame!
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And you are stay’d for.
There; my blessing with thee!

And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means ******.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch’d, unfledged comrade.
Beware Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in,
Bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man,
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

This above all: to thine ownself be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!
Brie Ellisa May 2014
A dream you told me of:
Defusing a time-bomb embedded in the womb of your dead mother.
I don’t know if you were smart enough to flip the failsafe
Or if you indiscriminately yanked wires out, like your dangerous thoughts.

A dream I told you of:
at the midpoint of their parents’ anniversaries, by the ruins of every immortalized
kingdom, she is wearing her mother’s dress and he is too.
“father wanted to castrate or **** me,” he said, conversationally.
they have so much in common. they live the tragedy of armchair **** fantasies,
tend to ****** their own genitals when lost in thoughts of the obstruction of
their desires. (which, really, is pointless
because they don’t desire anything besides fondling their own genitals.)

Blinded Oedipus does not notice
Electra’s concealed ******* dagger. A thousand years between them, yet they’re still children conceived of
Mitigated **** and blood sacrifice for the sake of sailing, and
Defined by deficit from the beginning; her crippled mind sang
to his hollowed eyes. Kinslayers becoming kin,
Entranced by the illusions of the other but really
Loving only the unmistakable reflections of their own sins.
Brandon Whited Feb 2012
Portals are the shortcuts we’ve always dreamed of using
They can help speed up many things that help all.
From the process of bomb defusing
To avoiding a rather large bar brawl.

Portals can also be abused.
Easy things like getting out of bed
And making your boss bemused.
And you end up sitting in your house full of dread.

Portals may be fun for great pranks.
Such as the infinite loop
And transporting them to a certain amount of planks
But a rather clever idea is to help them jump off of a sloop.

The portals can bring an uprising
Or they could be our downfall.
Sam Greig-Mohns Mar 2012
Saw it
Just for a moment, but it was there
Black and gleaming silver metal
Stalking after his shadow
Glaring at everyone

As though they had personally kicked his dog
More metal in his face than a bomb defusing robot
Mask of plastic and metallic fragments creeping up
Nearly reaching the bridge of his nose
Post apocalyptic video games had nothing on him

An urban cliche
Standing as we carried on
Unnoticed
Glaring just as hatefully at his own reflection
Ear buds blasting lyrical angst of an X generation
Without ever changing

Saw it
But just for a moment
Still unnoticed
He departed

A haze of misplaced anger
Black metal tunes, clicking metal
And the strangest face mask
I have ever seen
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2014
Our Verse into Psalm

"who massages our words
into a masterpiece,
our verse into psalm..."

sourced from a dialogue one year ago: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/548741/the-contriving-is-all-that-remains/

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
humbling words,
just now discovered,
a reflection invitation,
commenced and ended,
an essay of simple facts

two topics theme,
revealing a man's evolution

a confession oft repeated,
he writes too much, (used to)
a readily apparent truth

but when the self-soul-peering
hits bottom,
forced to reflect
back and up, and around,
acknowledging self is a four letter word,
a poking from reviewing
a year ago gone prior scribbled response,
leads to a conclusion
to answer his puzzlement

easy acknowledges
he has prior peaked,
certified and certifiable,
his best words gone by,
bye and bye,
so how now antiquated,
this tiresome task
of endless interior internal examination,
once more
he asks of himself
the Psalmist's question (121:1)


"I lift my eyes up to the mountains:
From whence shall my help come?


from you,
y'all

my poems are now and will be
just stories told,
stories of you

of a lost wedding ring,
of a young woman's striving
to answer her most essential question,
reflections on being four years old,
on Eastern Seaboard geography
Thanksgiving Day air turbulence,
a young woman's sobriety celebrated,
her poetry, richer and health effused,
of lovers who cannot ever be,
of jobs lost and freedom gained,
physical pain that knows only
the optics of poetic relief to salve,
aching and unrequited awed and flawed love
that has no remedy defusing,
older schemers, puppy love rediscoverers,
of special young men
who see by their nature,
far better into
nature's window that answers the human soul,
children foreign born, here & passed,
whom I have never met, but,
who are poems
dearest in my breast,
as if, no,
as they are mine own...

and on and on

could travel and travail,
but the clickety clock says
bread to be earned,
wistfulness hour over,
all that's need is a conclusive,
one octave,
a summarizing single note,
a lady last rinsing of the soul

your stories are my psalms,
your heartache and triumphs
my masterpieces,
thy foibles are my filament,
your stories, my revelations

turned my eyes to the mountains,
seeing only my own mountains,
that engulf and surround,
hearing a single,
simple voice answering,
it is their mountains
that deserve written attention,
and therein and thereby
can you write humbly
and walk upright
^
^Psalm 37:37
Wuji Jan 2012
YOUR A ******* TIME BOMB!
TICK! TICK! TICK!
EXPLOSION IS NOW!
ALWAYS HAPPENS SO QUICK!

Broke my heart again,
Yelled at me again,
Accuses me of everything again,
Saying I am the worst of all men.

Why did I let you in?
You blow up my house every time.
Makes no sense.
No rhythm no rhyme!

You are child,
And you play every game.
Freeze tag with my heart.
TILL I GO INSANE.

You have made me hate my choice.
Yet I wouldn't change a thing.
Our song was a  fine one,
Yet it will not sing.

YOUR A ******* TIME BOMB!
TICK! TICK! TICK!
EXPLOSION IS NOW!
ALWAYS HAPPENS SO QUICK!

I AM ******* DONE,
DEFUSING YOUR SOUL,
STAY THE **** AWAY,
YOUR SELF DESTRUCTING HAS TAKEN IT'S TOLL!
I AM DONE. 3 MOUTHS AND YOU GET BORED. NO MORE!
Anais Vionet Feb 2022
We were in the cafeteria, having just sat down with our trays. The place, which looks like a modern, medium sized ski lodge, was almost empty. I’m registering more and more faces these days. Most are transient acquaintances from the dorm or classes. There were nods. My little group was my roommate, Leong, myself and a girl named Lucy from our chemistry class. Lucy can solve a chemical equation faster than either of us - she calls herself an idiot savant.

Lucy’s one of those overwrought girls who don’t believe food is necessary for survival and who stare anxiously at blueberries. Lucy’s tray has a spoon, a napkin and one small, plain yogurt on it. I got salmon, a bit of Pad Thai, a slice of pizza and some desert. You could feed a family of four from my tray. I always sit with my back to windows - it’s a glare avoidance thing.

Right after my first bite I saw Jordie. The world narrowed to Jordie. He was emerging from the serving area and seemed to enter the room like an actor coming center stage. He was dressed for soccer, complete with knee-high socks, shoes with cleats that clacked like a tap-dancer and little shorts - it was 39°f outside.

“Jordie,” Leong said, in a whisper that held the enthusiasm a cop would use to declare “GUN!”
I couldn’t register an answer, I was transfixed. Then Leong did something I’ll never forget - she raised her arm in a peremptory wave, signaling Jordie over to our table.

I turned to her in stark horror, but just as my lips started to form the words “***,” he was upon us. “Morning!” He says, as he slides in directly across from me and begins organizing his lunch. I look down at my plate, concentrating on my noodles like a bomb disposal tech, defusing a nuclear suitcase bomb.

“Beautiful day.” he says, looking out on the bright, crisp morning in back of us. Leong starts a conversation with him about soccer. It’s clear that she’s been talking to him but I’m not really listening. I’m watching him. Watching him fixedly, surreptitiously in my peripheral vision. Watching him eat, talk and breathe - he breathes just like a regular person only better.

Then Leong and Lucy start moving, gathering everything up to leave. I realize I haven’t actually eaten anything much - a bite of Pad Thai maybe. I stand as well, looking down, wrapping my slice of pizza in two napkins and stuffing it, an apple, a blonde-cinnamon-roll, an orange and three chocolate walnut cookies into my bookbag.

Jordie looks up from his tray. I have such a crush on this guy. It’s heady and embarrassing. His gaze makes me feel like I have awkward, grasshopper limbs. He smiles unreservedly and it hits, like a force multiplier, I’m sure I flushed crimson. I’m surprised how strongly I can respond to his just looking and smiling at me.

As we leave the cafeteria, walking towards the residence, I turn on Leong, “What was THAT?!” I ask, beginning to work myself up into something.

“I’ve been friendly with him - we have English class” Leong patiently explains, “I wanted you to meet him and get a chance to talk,” and after a moment of silence she adds, “and you never said anything!”

I shivered - the wind was freezing - only an idiot would play soccer out in this cold.

I don’t care if my crush is embarrassingly obvious to my friends. It’s pleasantly, invisible to others - I think.

I want to relish the pining - the lusting - it’s delicious. There are times you don’t want to talk to the guy - you just want to keep crushing.

You don’t want to learn things about the man - the red flags - and you always learn EVERYTHING, like what their major is or that they’re a man’s man.

In the learning, they slip from that lofty echelon of dream-lovers - you lose the hot, playlist feeling - the cheesy, corny, giddy, love SICK.

Maybe that’s where love’s real thrill is - in our imaginations. So give me the mystery - for now.
*Slang: someone’s “major” = a person’s kink

BLT word of the day challenge:
peremptory: means insisting on immediate attention
echelon: a level in a select group of individuals
saryachan Apr 2016
let’s run to the vermouth tree
let’s run up the bark
chipping off skin
showing smooth pane

you and me
you and me
just
you and me
you and me

we’ll be kings in our altitude

we’ll drink the sap
to makes us drowsy
we’ll take a nap
on the branches grand
like muscular thighs of amicable giants
planted right here in the sand

let’s run up the vermouth tree
and laze around like vagabonds
whose only inspiration is
to live
to long
and to live long

just like this horizontal wooden palace
which shall persist when we are gone
which shall resist broken innocence
for her branches always reach towards the sky
never regretting
or failing to try

its sweet earthiness
shall remind us
of the goodness of nature
as we drift to dreams

its sweet richness
fortified
reminds us of things
powerful
and magical

you and me
you and me
we’ll be befuddled atop her palms
held in her grace as we hang
as voluntary adornments
clinging on for love

returning home when the night’s to come.

until the setting sun greets us here
atop the cusp
flowerful smoke
defusing what’s become of us
while the clouds turn sad
at dusk
a must,
the rust
is true
and magnificent
and you and I
stay drunk.
https://pourallyourheartout.wordpress.com/2016/04/07/vermouth-tree/
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
this composition
(not this one)

but the p r o c e s s

a within discovery
so radicalizing

composing himself
this body, this breadth,
this work, of untangling,
slight light shapes,
enfusing, suffusing,
even parts defusing,
but all a
cold fusion,
of body,
of breadth

some, unguarded, tumbling,
some, guarded, jumbling,
all shockingly emergent,
most shocking
to himself, this
decomposing of
composing,
his body, his breadth,
t his process,
t his work,
t his hymn,
this of him,
body and breadth
Oedipus and Sam Shepard at 2:40AM
SG Holter Apr 2014
I learned from boxing to keep my eyes on the chest of
My opponent; center focused; seeing all.
It also keeps your chin down.

It works when we argue, too. Defusing the situation
With humourous female disbelief.
Her anger drops with my jaw-

And we seem to be saved by some bell.
Then we laugh like during those very first months,
When all we did was
Anything but
Fight.
Poeticatheist Jan 2017
10 Things you should know about being a child growing up with a dying parent:

1. When you and your classmates are first learning how to read a dictionary, there will always be one word they don’t know: privacy. When they ask you where it is, you’ll be able to tell them that it’s the 29th word on the 925th page of a Merriam Webster dictionary published in the year 2001. But when you’ve given them all they asked, their favorite word will still be “public.”

2. The day you learn how to use the hospital equipment is the day you are no longer a child

3. You are born an adult. You come out of the womb with the intellect and physical ability to care for your family because that is what they need. You are a peasant child in the middle ages: work begins the day you are born and your job won’t stop till you are buried with her.

4. When you come back to school, people will develop a favorite phrase. It will be a 1 2 punch along with the word public: “How are you?” Tell them you’re ok. Tell them you are happy and glad you are back. Don’t tell them what you want to. That you are diagnosed with a sunken chest a hole over your heart. Don’t tell them you wish ******* was more available because hell: at least if your face is numb maybe you won’t cry as much.

5. Not everything needs a retaliation. See there was one time a kid walked up to me and asked if I was ok; I said go away; he said “You don’t get to be mad just because she’s dead.”

6. Anger. . .becomes tight fit clothing you never take off. You are a man created by the affectionate pages of Chinua Achebe: You “never showed any emotion openly, unless it be the emotion of anger” the problem is when you are only agry, Things always fall apart

7.  When they ask you if you are handling her death well, and you want to scream no blasting out the last breath you’ve held since she breathed her last! Don’t do anything but ask them if. . .

8. They ever knew her full name


9. As you walk through the halls of a high school building, be the dog that smells ignorance. When you hear those children tell you every part of their lives they struggle with, all the homework they have, the B’s they might get, the hangovers they get from drinking away their immaturity, tell them what it means to clash with your own mental composure. Tell them that. . .

10. You have been doing homework over a dying body for the better half of your life. Homework was the rock you leaned on because it was the only deadline you knew, Chemotherapy was the foundation of chemical equations, blood pressure was the only fractions you saw, your English vocab was the list of pain medications---

Life was a class on defusing bombs. . .and a flatline didn’t mean defused but at least the end was written in stone
SG Holter Apr 2014
It is a declaration of cowardice.
I put my pen down and
Step away slowly
[Defusing the letter bomb].
They don't always turn the
Other sheet, you know.

Sometimes the poem
Writes back.
Robert Ronnow Jun 2018
Is war coming? Are we headed for another crazy cataclysm?
My sons, draft age. Only now can I appreciate the pain
so sharp it drains the color from one's eyes, your reason
for living gone in a spasm of violence to be forgotten
never by survivors. This fear could become real as no movie
is surreal enough to distract attention from the certainty
you did not do enough to deflect man's trajectory.

All could be well in the end but history portends
a periodic bloodletting followed by a quietus
without mercy. What's the best that can be said:
he died beside his friends and buddies. Steady
on to your own inquest and rest. A perfect rest
that improves upon the inadequacy of your efforts.
What solace can be found in the remains of marriage.

So you better fight back now even if that means
war comes sooner. At least you're fighting back, but how?
Take a minute to meditate on purpose. Science
cannot save you, neither can religion. Abstaining
from violence with love, letting prisoners go, detaining
no one at the border, inviting Chinese and Russian
scientists to our shores, defusing your own anger before it detonates,

none may be enough to save your sons.
A war president needs war, whatever. A trained
and deadly warfighter. You become what history wants
you to become. You survive if you're lucky, if not
so what, your old parents will be alive only briefly to mourn.
Then they too go to their good graves and the pain dies down.
In the meantime a new generation builds a new space station.

Since the vortex will be ******* up the poor,
let's not let the rich escape untouched. All go down
together, no one hoards gold or gets away with fiction.
If we have to fight let's make sure we fight as one,
the sons of the rich side by side with the poor's sons
and their daughters. You want slaughter? Then
let every city and back road know the new order.

I would rather watch Lalaland ten times over than have
to write this poem. I can leave home and live
in a tent or bunkhouse, eat dinner out of a tin cup
and drink water from a wooden bowl, give up
music and most of my memories to save my sons,
to save the world and avoid this war.
But that rarely happens. One is lost and found in what happens.
www.ronnowpoetry.com

--title from a recording by Ornette Coleman
The death of me, will probably be, self-inflicted or come unnaturally. /
My generation has metamorphosized to believe this ideology filled with lies, and grown to despise all things good, all things right/
Holiness is but a mythically unattainable virtue only seen with wise eyes/
And me with my wide eyes open couldn’t even see past sunrise/

Many times I hid behind my Christian face/
My black skin speaking tales of my Christian race/
But then straight after church my rehearsed day begins/
Go to see “that” girl and write Haikus on her skin/
A 3 bar poem about why she’s the one/
Taking hours to come home before the day is done/

The death of me will probably be this doomed society/
Digging pits for their own graves with their words of blasphemy/
Drugs lay waste to what remains of their minds/
Trying to convince them that God exists is like defusing a land mine/
Who am I to try and help, I’m still suffering the same/
Can’t even control the thoughts flooding in my brain/
Had to write this out just to try and stay sane/
Thinking is speeding up now, I’m like that electric train…/

And then I see it/

Tomorrows generation smokes drinks and takes drugs/
Looking everywhere for things to fill the void left by love/
Searching everywhere except above /
They are scanning the sea for a raven not a dove/

This is todays tomorrow, where the truth isn’t believed/
And the generation of that time will choose to live disobediently//
my father
once told me,
a man becomes a hero
not through a show of strength
but through his grace and wit at length
for herein lies his warmest most accepting embrace
defusing his coldest darkest impulse to even imagine an arms race.
Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
The smell of fresh rain,

perfumes the evening breeze outside;

a soft scent carried along by the clouds.

The coloured blush of flowers still

open to the gentle beat of raindrops.

Come with me and be still;

be calm and languid, supple and

warmed by the glow of company.


Let me strip you of your wet clothes.

I can see the light has waned.

Embrace me before you crumble;

arms outstretched,

a reflex to stop you hurtling down

to your knees.

I can feel you, a cold lake inside;

freezing over.


You say you are tired.

So tired of seeing me morph,

into your soldier.

I take up arms at the first signal.

But I don’t mind being in uniform;

at the first sign of your need.

Because I do love you,

in all your shapes and transfigurations.

In all your depths and dark pockets,

lighter days and mysterious vanishes.

I know this is true, I do love you.


You say you are a burden.

A burden you are not responsible for

manifesting on rainy mornings and

shady afternoons.

You are unpredictable; as gentle and ferocious

as nature.

But I don’t mind.

I tackle the excitement, mount the climbs;

I love knowing you can awaken from your

stupor, can ensure you always return to where

you deserve to be.

Bathed in light, laughter;

capable of all the things the true

monsters roaming this life can be, do, feel.

If those devils are entitled, I can make sure

you are too.


I wage war on your enemy; that nasty essence

defusing it’s toxicity.

It may take more of me than I have ever

donated;

more energy and strength,

more resilience to push through dark shadows,

fighting through imprisoned demons,

pulling away from sharp nails and dirtied hands.

But you don’t deserve those shackles.


Not everybody can do this;

can constantly seek new ways of breaking chains.

But don’t go to sleep believing I can’t.

I already have broken them,

many times over.

Or you simply wouldn’t exist today, at my feet.

And neither would I exist to fight for you, as I do.
Mark Lecuona Oct 2015
In the tower, as a prisoner surrounded
by  walls of flesh and blood; to etch upon
the walls, my innocence and guilt; how
my mind was mistreated by all who had
mistreated their own; what was I to expect
from a life that offers nothing except pain
at birth, life then death; what principles
are offered except riddles by those who
do not care to hear the warnings of
freedoms scattered before them like the
blackened eyes of serpents whose bodies
continue to writhe though separated from
their own minds by the sharpened axes
of each generation that will see the truth
only in ways that make them feel whole

The holiest time of captivity, when our old
wounds gather together; when we know
we are all of these, we begin to speak  
calmly of them, proud of what we know
of our strength in the faith that the sun  
will shine upon us no matter the clouds  
that have gathered, defusing the dewy
stars to make shadows warning those
who laugh at the bravery of peace and  
the truth no matter who may speak it;
for darkness is always reserved for fools
who can only see today as if the sunrise
is afraid to be the one who forgives first,
while we, in the sight of a cross for  life
and a stone for death make the choice
to live for the harmony of love as we
were taught; to share the whole of our
existence with those who once made
us think of hate
nick armbrister Jan 2022
An Awful Harvest

I went a hike up to Wawa in Montalban and up the mountain roads. Here I was to go past the peaks of Mt Parawagan, Susong Dalaga and Mt Lagyo plus others. The road had been improved by engineers with trucks and plant equipment. I wanted to hike a big circle right back to the beginning. This was possible a few months ago but not now due to the building of the Pamitinan Dam. It will take four years to do this and flood a complete valley near the peaks. A guard told me no entry by the construction site. I talked to a head engineer and he told me more details. The dam will be eighty metres tall or deep more than the Kaliwa Dam of sixty four metres. These are big structures. Hikers wanted to hike from Wawa to Casili by the newly improved mountain roads but the dam construction stopped this. In time a new road will be built above the dam level replacing the old road. Even if the road is built in a year the dam will still be unfinished so still no entry.



I saw a sign saying beware of UXO Unexploded Ordnance. A local man told me about this, of how the military was looking for it and would defuse any found. His details matched much of what I’ve heard before, like finding shrapnel in the soil. The sign was for the road improvement and dam construction. Sleeping shells waited to knocked awake and ****.



The digger, bulldozer and plant drivers need to be paid danger money. No joke. The area they work on is a small part of a huge World War 2 battlefield. An awful harvest litters the land with unexploded ordnance being buried in the soil having not detonated. Mortars, shells, bombs and other things; these all need locating and safely defusing by the military.



People live in the area and many have found live or exploded shells. The live shells are complete and the spent ones are in varied sized pieces. On my hike up there I was given a piece of one five five millimetre shell from a local. This was in two parts, the biggest weighed many pounds. I estimate between one in four and six fired never exploded. On the stone mountains like Mt Lagyo the shells and bombs will explode on impact if the detonators are triggered. In soil covered peaks the shells can just dig in and don’t go off. The army went up to Mt Lagyo looking for unexploded ordnance. They found nothing.



The road that has been improved and widened would’ve yielded many unexploded munitions. I’m curious how many were found and wonder how many thousands still hide unfound. Sections of the trees/grass by the road are taped off. This is for safety of any munitions and also due to the steepness of the terrain.



The local people within the valley are being moved away and compensated for thus upheaval. Their valley will be inundated by what is now a small river in coming years. Any remaining homes and unfound munitions or Japanese tunnels will be underwater.



Every time I hike the area from Wawa to Mt Mataba to Timberland to Casili I read about or am told or shown evidence from the war and battles; that old actions from 1945 has outlived the people of that time be it locals or soldiers. History is not old and boring black and white photos. An rusty Arisaka rifle with working bolt or blasted shell fragments tell more than any story or photo ever could. Only fate and God knows the unnamed soldiers names now.



When the dam is built I wonder how many unfound unexploded ordnance and dead Japanese soldiers will be now forever unfound? I suspect many thousand Japanese soldiers are buried on those peaks. Remember, these hills are the first high ground above Manila. This was the start of the high ground battles that went on for hundreds of miles at several huge mountain ranges. It was Tier 1 fighting equal to anywhere involving hundreds of thousands of opposing troops, of which tens of thousands were killed.



Now the 1945 legacy is coming back to bite us. Not just buried shells on a dam construction site but the risk of them still exploding when not even found. This is due to corroding fuses. Buried bombs in Europe have self detonated several times. I’ve been told of two large unexploded warplane dropped bombs, one near Timberland and the other near Mt Parawagan. Both need to be found again and professionally defused. History is never boring; the lethal harvest is a testimony to their dastardly deeds.


Sive Myeki Jul 2016
I sympathize with you.
Never have you thought
Not to experience this way of life.
You are well adjusted
In a maladjusted paradigm.
I sympathize with the shallow extent
Of your imagination and humbly I accept
The token of our silent agreement.
While you mope, drool, ogle
And taste success with the tip of your tongue,
I will be knee deep in the trenches.
Dodging light speed arrows,
Defusing air bending whistling apples
Thrown from afar
In the safety of paper walls.
Built to repel the mirrored image
Yet pale enough to distort what you see.
I humbly accept the quest you have entrusted me with
To seek and return
With the noble self you abandoned in the forests;
When you grew tired of discovery.
Should I return with the gift as promised,
Then I have failed you.
For I have given up my search
And named the last I saw and felt as that I sought.
By the grace of the most high,
The hidden observer;
Lost to a ripple of self inflicting wounds guised as judgement,
A lever as light as a feather,
"By the grace of the most high,
Should I not return then I have failed you once more.
I have failed to find something you thought you lost,
Yet still resides within us all."
Tnt
Silence always comes before the storm
One silently builds with steam
Until out explodes a storm.
Eyes glare as the emotions settle like rubble
From the "norm"
Inspiration fades while he sits in silence
Waiting for the hardship of long hours
And limited means...
Until their problems are mended
No one wins.
We are connected by life's energy chain.
One falls
One by one
So does the masses in equal blending.
Defusing a storm before it hits
Is a hurricane prevented from happening.
Stand together with the one
See past the rough exterior to see crying eyes
We can all use a hand to keep the flames from hitting anger's TNT's wick where it lies.
Coleen Jade Jul 2016
I had a bomb in me that only I knew how to detonate and had little knowledge about defusing.

You learned every fragment of me and managed to crack my code.
I was deliberately okay with that,

Believing

that someone had finally figured out how to completely shut it down.


But boom!

you didn't.

Now blood stains and splatters
are on the wall,
And I am in a thousand of pieces
I know not of which to follow.
Alex Zhang Jun 2018
Blood of plum
drips from my chin                
corrosively sweet          
warm summer
infused in sinews
of sunshine solidified    
and crisp water                        
from serpent tongue                              
licks my toes                                      
black stars shining    
through the birch
breaths of the tiny    
mix with wind of the mighty
a broth of vitality
brushes bare flesh      
entreating sweat
to erupt  
silken pores too tender      
to touch  
solar nectar    
drains                      
drenched drapes                
stained with the juice                    
defusing from                                      
a mouth filled with wonder
aurora kastanias Oct 2017
Following the unfollowed
to follow fellow folks, felons
as I, guilty for spending life
hunting followers who may scent
flourishing fables made of fabric
filled with formidable potential.

Zestfully fleeing mafficking faces
futzing in mass lobotomy, quaffing
media fraudulent sloppiness,
fallacy of a system fearing freedom
of free thinkers unchained,
through fault of failing legacies,

Left behind by phantom slaves
and modern enslavers, as confluxes
of frantic consciousness abandon
the flow to fly high the abysses
of the unfathomable unfazed
by the fuzzy foozles of those defusing,

The fragility and clumsiness of jiffy
flickering governors baffling
enlightenment and solidarity, blocking
the path of the unfollowing where flesh
is bygone for fleeting feelings to enflame
future fundamentals,

Essentially shared,
by an evolving united and mirific
mystifying humankind.
On following different paths
Sally A Bayan Feb 2021
:::::
:::
:

Odds are...one, or two in ten,
the easy feel of a Sunday morning
can be ruined...a wrong move, or,
a wrong word, hits a raw nerve, and
wakens dormant embers of anger.

It makes one sweat even in January,
when it's usually cold and breezy.

Cooler minds patiently try to
neutralize tension-filled moments,
they soften rigid tempers, painting
light blue over red...it's like defusing
a bomb that would explode soon,
it's like treading, tiptoeing on thin ice,
it's a sink-or-swim thing...

Blowing off hot steam takes long...it's
hard to keep warm spaces in between,
when frozen, stinging air from the
past...lingers still

How exhausting! but it can be most rewarding,
when cold winds take over, to heal angered,
hardened hearts...when the warmth of
peace steadily creeps, and conquers all.
:::::::::::
:::::::
:::
:
"Pass the pastis, please," i spoke
to myself, as i raised both legs on my bed,
so relieved, a storm had passed.
it was good to be in my room,
alone...



sally b


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
February 8, 2021
Michael Marchese May 2019
Sometimes
When I can't seem to sleep
I can write
Like a maniac raving
In slavish delight
To the barking mad
Lunacies
Loneliest night
Where I moonlight as me
And upstage other parts
That I keep under wraps
And entombed in the dark
Like a heart in a jar
On display in a bleak
Show museum
When I can't seem to sleep

And what secrets I keep Are all leaked to the public
But no one one among them
Would durst to be cursed
By my hex of depressive
Confessions immersed
In abysmal residual
Remnants of past
Strewn and scattered memories
Shatter like glass
From a cracked-mirror fist
Of what does it all mean
Still attempting to piece back
Together a dream
Just as broken as ever
Awoken to greet
The deceit I delete
When I can't seem to sleep

Merely reach for the pen
And allow it to speak
For the creature contained
In this well-mannered freak
Where by day it maintains
An illusion defusing
Conflictual bombs
All around me before
They explode into qualms
That I have with a world
In despair,
Disarray
Disrepair
And dismay once again
My disguise will betray
The real self
I withheld
But I'd like you to meet
The complete version counting
The seconds like sheep
In my true nature form
When I can't seem to sleep
Ken Pepiton Oct 31
Listen up,

WE ARE LOCKED IN

we breathe the same air
under the same tolerance limits
to pressure change
from home
balanced
on spinoriality paths,
confirmed as real
by Eric Weinstein,
through long generations
of social revolvings, along a spiral,

ever widening, ever lengthening
ever empowered, some how
or why
ever after
any theorized boom loops
to wobble while sorting ifey and al
re towb rhymes robe, ra' is okey aight
the knowledge of towb ra' okeh aight
lean
alittle left behind kinda
lost scared child fear planter guilt
lose
breathe
List, insist list winds
and listen are related,
hear the helicopters practicing war,

tilt of the ear lent
in attention
to a thought experiment, a will,
a lust
to know, a kleu
in lieu of wissen,
kenst du mehr, baa

make a goat noise.
{Jenny Rae wrote and performs, still}

Sudden wisdoms sometimes stick
the place of the goats is where
scapegoats got away to…
free to graze the balsams

- Ein Gedi, what was the secret?

Without religious authority
many leaders would not
make the connection
Ein Gedi, balm vow
If the first thing divides,
so as to see the other side of things,

when things were mere thoughts,
no noise, no gaseous form, no words
no licensed poet breaking walls
to discover more Phrygian form
of freedom jinns imagined
before Rome, and pride
of freed men, ever after,
to those who think links…


Brevis explicatio Logos nada mas
just the thought
all that is made
believable and un,
in truth's wisdom used
to form the profile
of these tree form
concepts potentials
for budding formed fruits
white space edge wise wits
born upon a recipe or formula
in eretz per se, where is the seed
of all we ever so far have known, or
ever stretched our attention
to grasp at that beyond
our reach, or so we as
unbelievers, let do
been told ask what lies
to believe or burn forever,
by tyrannies , Jefferson swore
to oppose any such, and I agreed,
over the mind of our kind. Not by king nor
by priests who had secrets, holy stories
too horrible
to tell
to just any, heady child
with a will
to discover true kleu

clashing concepts perceived as precepts,
community values, local reception spirit,
- we're adrift
often until lately, it was a reference
to those whose claim
- marked goodwill/peace
on Earthian residence rations
is archeo-logos wise, offered
for all chosen
to breathe.
Earthian air breather rights, claim,
just as deep as any letter user let loose
anywhere we ever learned
to use the tekhne,
- tune Tom's Phrygian Backing Track
available anywhere this line can be read,
even in the dark, starlink the whole world,
prepositioning us always after 2024,
what would that cost, Elon?

Get the never ending story power source?
Tap in to textual spells binding minds, for fun.
You would change next,
more than Carnegie,
you would launch the next text reader expansion,

ask the right questions,
get the right answers, no sense
in taking 42 as cool or hot or stupid.
That is a test.
This is temptation, not led into.
Stretched out attention spans, loose.

If we were to live and never die, ever
after today, it would seem this way,
we would grow tired, and fade,
firm gripe on the football,
gripe, no, I thought grip.

What, me worry?
You must have a Mad infection of memes.

Were we led away
from forced trial and tempt's?
Jeff, should knowledge be free?

Are  you re-always and such real-ly helping
when I imagine praying as one might to a king,

O, king, live forever,
be remembered for making access
free for any with a will to make poetry work again.

-Knock us back to the idea the Phyrigians had
when they dug their city in Tufa stone,

Derinkuyu, my ai knew,
those people,
whose head gear carries ancient memes,
Phrygians, liberty caps, Smurfs,
like on old dimes, or French Olympians
all the trials, all the opposing forces, global eyes
realize, unrealized truth that
we are the crew,
liberty called
to break every yoke
and set the captives free.

We know what Phrygian Liberty is.

The mind behind Christmas sent us,
this is Lifeship Earth, and business is not,
wrong, usury is, and poor who learn how
money works first learn how it does not work,
don't lie
tithing
to a story tied
to a promise and a threat, hanging
over your reformed parents, seen
as young children NPCs
in historical drama, FPS, your eyes,
we see those AGA days, no gain MA
multi mental aweform we see, oh, not us,
it was them, a we of hungry white peasants,

given a gun and an ax and sent to any where,
back when America was becoming Great,
go west, young man,
go feed your own family - you worthless
****, aye, and ever was so, never got rich,
carried some family shame,
and sometimes some pride, appropriated,
evidence, a byword, Pride comes before a fall,

well, tell the truth, USA, is a mythos, not a logos,
both sorts of stories we can turn into drama,

or opera, my Phrigian Libertarian muse, uses
Phrygian background tracks on YouTube,
allowing my estimation
of enough,
in terms
of answers
to questions, common,

what would you expect to do for fun, forever?

Imagine that.

With a will, a vision, a hope it works this way
to empower words
with a peace, we make, whiling
in above average good health,
while connected
to gear that was science fiction
when I got my first Macs,
in 1985, Apple Talking
in this direction
turning our capsule
of creatifity,
into a door

Terra nullius, land unclaimed,
territory
of the mind and other forms
of spirit and will, claimed
at this locus,
this point
in time when your eyes
read these words and think each
must tie
to words common
to us all,
readily recognized
in translation

defusing confusion, discretely
discerning cause, asking why
deciders create ontology
of wedoms
declaring Christmas, message, messenger
to direct our steps
from now
through next,
Messiah,
by any other name, the same,
the promised one
in tales told children,

the promised redeemer
from debt
due
to liars claims
of right, assigned
by Truth, the royal order,

Original Intent is being disputed…
{Please ignor the intrusive ads,
  in context of knowledge now,
  think of it as invincibility exercise}

we post Christmas spirits keep laughing

the promised redeemer declaring,
"I am the way, and the truth, and the life."
Patient, yes, the action.
In logos and locus, where focus fixes locus,
here am I, searching my darkest parts,
obverse
of inverse rectangular portals
light pours
through fitted
in words unsung or said

with authority
for authority sake, as war
is waged, deemed worth the cost, as work
for those charged
with collecting sustenance
hopes of finding meaning attended to,
all in one at once, a trio, soothing musing.
Trinity, if you please, three-way ointment,
soothes and resmooths,
All the balm in Gilead, came from Ein Gedi
it is a lovely place
ai but so disputed
frustration, fraud and beliefs of Socinianism
Brevis explicatio Logos nada mas, yes, those

long winded oral traditonalists
human to human
beliefs, used.

In terms of prayer,
defined as mind to mind,

direct intercession thought,
per haps, as may hap, mediated,
expand to set all lies
at liberty
to be unbelieved
no ritual approach, walking labyrinths
with completed courses marked
to reflect appropriately
on life
after the maze,
by grace and proven virtue
through which the supplicant passes

and is accepted into the purity of time,
constant and true, worthy to test us all.


To truth, I pray,
acknowledging my breath,
acknowledging my comfort,
acknowledging my hope

to be of good use today,
to be of good cheer today,
to be of good faith today,
strong confidence,

I pray, in truth, for the confused
and fearful believers in confusion,
clearly commoner than comfort today
peace
and space

in the realm
of mindshare given me,
in answer

this is what we can know, not our duty
but to know what it does, not to doit.

[[Swearing and cursing] are entirely different things :
the first is invoking the witness
of a Spirit
to an assertion you wish
to make ;
the second is invoking the assistance
of a Spirit,
in a mischief you wish
to inflict. ]

---{the will to ill use the others. }

[When ill-educated and ill-tempered people
clamorously confuse the two invocations,
they are not,
in reality,
either cursing or swearing ;
but merely vomiting empty words indecently.
True swearing and cursing must always be distinct and solemn

.... [Ruskin, "Fors Clavigera"]]

Locus amoenus ("pleasant place")
Ein Gedi, is such for me, sweet balm

Let us all sit and see common joys
as common sensed truths at locus
- all the strings in mind
"gypsy child" (enfant de Bohême),
literatrueerists literally trussed in storied modes

offered as fair told,
in truth of life lessons,
learned and learned anew,

to be retold verbatum to the ostiary

each season, on bringin' sheaves,
each litter
of young'ns initiated
into duty

learning the ways
of warriors or defenders,
or ostiary, gate guard, watch man,

what of the night? The answer, is yours

do we post our tail and tax the patient one time readers?

Or take it so far as to sell it, to the fastest reader?


At first hint of endless ink
and endless paper, none
known as common here
could say no, got no need.

Wish when praying to believe,
wish while praying to receive,

reaching out, empty handed,
take the grace guaranteed, indeed,
by the story told at winter's door,
to be the joy for dark days ahead,
while the whole land rests below,
white cold that kills the unready.

Slow and steady, walking on frozen rain,

thinking, breathing, swallowing, breathe
thinking, this is uphill, yawning, thinking

this is like a chapter in a novel, but,
in all the other novels being read right now,
all the novel readers are imagining tomorrow
from today, which, of course, in human events
is called today, to this very common concentrat-
ed U new ifity, to this very common liberty sense

today, I had to ask some body, was this a pain to read?
A seasonal bemusement for any using such things to while with
Infamous one Nov 2021
M44
Friends come and go like the seasons
Formal partners another fall out
Moved on never looked back
Break up hurt becoming immune
Opening up to the wrong people
Hoping they'd love you
Feel the same way back
Betrayal is the worse
More painful from family
Trying to make things right
Not going well feels wrong
Not empowering those
Who trash your name
Ignore your opinions
They can't hurt you
Its already been done
Never letting them do it again
Stayed away feels like they want
As they taunt and provoke you
Took the high road hard to speak
The mind ready to speak hard to focus
Like defusing a bomb imploding within
Trying not to react staying calm collected
A war in this head taking its toll
While the struggle battles hard
ConnectHook Apr 2020
*

Poets:  a pathetic lot—

Who sing, off-key, of their own refusing.

On a quest for what is not,

Entranced with their own maudlin musing

In that zone where life gets buffered

As the pages load; confusing

Pain with what their souls have suffered:

Lyric bombs for your defusing.
30 poems in 30 days: NaPoWriMo

https://connecthook.net/
Infamous one Nov 2021
M35
He loved family someone was going through something
Everyone put up with it love faded
Minding his mouth it made things worse
Saying sorry was hard he was treated mean
Dealing with his feelings was like defusing a bomb
Rather than say sorry he moved on
Broken from the inside out
Didn't do wrong got attacked
Tired of arguing it was pointless
Fighting to be heard seen as the bad guy
Couldn't change their minds it was made up
The didn't respect him he stopped trying
He closed them out felt trapped inside
Wasn't going to force his way in
Not his way of life anymore
Drinking want fun all the depression
Hoping to meet someone
While settling for the wrong person
Stuck with manipulators taking him for granted
He loved family his space felt invaded
Not sure how to act and respond
Life's not hard but others complicate it
He was silent but loud in his head
aware of some
things, aware
HERE am I
there you are

near and far and nothing
in between, why
should I care, beware…

It's me,
in this world, it's me,
making up my mind, to live on,
to live on
to leave behind me, for you -

a way to go,
if you really wish to follow, if
you truly hold the hope of ever
being better than right
now,
now. Right, not wrong, right now.
You know.
You think you know, right now,

with no miracles, no little things
to see, with no joy felt shared,
with no sorrow shown in tears,
with no feet a dancin'

up on tippy toes, just a spinnin'
in time,
like a planet or a star, loopin' life
in time,
from somewhere inside, center
of heavy
of hard
of dark and cold… dark and cold…

singer… singer singing wordlessly,
la las and mmmhmmms, so so so

lighten up,
lighten up my will to be worthy,
lighten up my will to be care free,

lighten up my will to be loved, by

strangers who imagine I have
loosed some good in some shape,
loosed some good held out of sight,

strange as not cognized, coknown,
to me and you, the other end of these

lines left to prove, a second
thought… if you make joy, peace remains
enjoyable,
no mass converts to energy,
my taken peace, my inspiration never
expires, each time I miss, I miss nothing
I hit
on another decision
to make.

I laugh, and let out long rambles, through
brambles familiar
to creatures built low
to the ground
at the human
being being being more than…

Partaker of the programming.
Snipping
Re-ligamental knots, religious at-here-
ence sense so common to all here,
re-
filtered feeling manufactured, here
in living words translatable, peaceable,

easy
to use while defusing the confusion,
and allowing angelic angst ambitious umph,

committed, chance fret naught,
take the shot, think thirty aught six, BANG

Big,
nothing like the game, recoil
that's what's missing… recoil,
kick,
to remind you what Newton knew.

Not Issac, Fred Newton, from Weedpatch, Ca,
a few miles this side of Bakersfield…

He, comes up around Thanksgiving,
in the spirit now, since he's dead,

he looks at me and grins, so big.

For me to live, that  turkey must die.
old fisher of men, he knew, he'd say
a man's remembered, for the shot,

no turkey ever is,
that's something
to be thankful for.
We have a herd of Turkeys in the valley that nobody ever shoots, but you still think about it this time of year, given a chance.

— The End —