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Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
I can imagine her in Aarhus Kunstmuseum coming across this painting, adjusting her glasses, pursing her lips then breaking out into a big smile. The gallery is almost empty. It is early in the day for visitors, but she is a tourist so allowances are made. Her partner meanwhile is in the Sankt Markus Kirke playing the *****, a 3 manual tracker-action gem built in 1967 by Poul Gerhard Anderson. Sweelink then Bach (the trio sonatas written for his son Johann Christian) are on the menu this morning. In the afternoon she will take herself off to one of the sandy beaches a bus ride away and work on a poem or two. He has arranged to play the grand 83-voice Frobinus ***** in the Cathedral. And so, with a few variations, some illustrious fugues and medley of fine meals in interesting restaurants, their stay in Denmark’s second city will be predictably delightful.
       She is a poet ‘(and a philosopher’, she would say with a grin), a gardener, (old roses and a Jarman-blue shed), a musician, (a recorder player and singer), a mother (four girls and a holy example), but her forte is research. A topic will appear and relentlessly she’d pursue it through visits to favourite libraries in Cambridge and London. In this relentless pursuit she would invariably uncover a web of other topics. These would fill her ‘temporary’ bookcase, her notebooks and her conversation. Then, sometimes, a poem would appear, or not.
          The postcard from Aarhus Kunstmuseum had sat on her table for some weeks until one quiet morning she decided she must ‘research’ this Sosphus Claussen and his colleagues. The poem ‘Imperia’ intrigued her. She knew very little Danish literature. Who did for goodness sake! Hans Christian Anderson she dismissed, but Søren Kierkegaard she had read a little. When a student, her tutor had talked about this author’s use of the pseudonym, a very Socratic device, and one she too had played with as a poet. Claussen’s name was absent from any online lists (Were there really on 60 poets in Danish literature?). Roge appeared, and the painter Willumsen had a whole museum dedicated to his work; this went beyond his El Greco-like canvases into sculpture, graphics, architecture and photography. He looked an interesting character she thought as she browsed his archive. The one thing these three gentlemen held in common was an adherence to the symbolist aesthetic. They were symbolists.
         For her the symbolists were writers, playwrights, artists and composers who in the later years of the 19C wanted to capture absolute truth through indirect methods. They created work in a highly metaphorical and suggestive manner, endowing particular images or objects with symbolic meaning. Her studies in philosophy had brought her to Schopenhauer who considered Art to be ‘a contemplative refuge from the world of strife’. Wasn’t this what the symbolists were all about?
         Her former husband had introduced her to the world of Maurice Maeterlinck through Debussy’s Pelleas and those spare, intense, claustrophobic dramas like Le Malheure Passe. It was interesting how the discovery of the verse of the ancient Chinese had appeared at the time of the symbolist project, and so influenced it. Collections like The Jade Flute that, in speaking of the everyday and the natural world, held with such simplicity rich symbolic messages. Anyway, she didn’t do feelings in her poetry.
           When she phoned the composer who had fathered three of her children he said to her surprise ‘Delius’. He explained: C.F. Keary was the librettist for the two operas Delius composed. Keary wrote a novel called The Journalist (1898) based on Sosphus, a writer who wrote plays ‘heavily laced with symbolism’ and who had also studied art and painted in Paris. Keary knew Claussen, who he described as a poet, novelist, playwright, painter, journalist and eventually a newspaper owner. Claussen was a close friend of Verlaine and very much part of the Bohemian circle in Paris. Claussen and Delius’ circle intersected in the person of Herman Bang, a theatre director who produced Claussen’s Arbedjersken (The Factory Girl). Clauseen wrote an important poem on Bang’s demise, which Delius set to music.
          She was impressed. ‘How is it that you know so much about Delius?’, she asked. He was a modernist, on the experimental edge of contemporary music. ‘Ah’, he replied, ‘I once researched the background to Delius’ Requiem. I read the composer’s Collected Letters (he was a very serious letter writer – sometimes 10 a day), and got stuck into the letters of his Paris years when so many of his friends were Scandinavian émigrés. You once sent me a postcard of a painting by Wilhumsen. It was of Clauseen reading to two of his ‘symbolist’ colleagues. I think you’d picked it up in Denmark. You said, if I recall, that you’d found it ‘irresistible’’.
          And so it was, this painting. Irresistible. She decided that its irresistibility lay in the way the artist had caught the head and body positions of reader and listeners. The arrangement of legs, she thought, says so much about a man. Her husband had always sat with the care embedded in his training as a musician at an instrument. He could slouch like the rest of us, she thought, but when he sat properly, attentive to her words, or listening to their sweet children, he was beautiful. She still loved him, and remembered the many poems she had composed for him, poems he had never seen (she had instructed a daughter to ‘collect’ them for him on her passing). Now, it was he who wrote poetry, for another, for a significant other he had said was his Muse, his soul’s delight, his dearly beloved.
          The wicker chair Sophos Claussen is sitting in, she decided, she would like in her sitting room. It looked the perfect chair for giving a reading. She imagined reading one of her poems from such a chair . . .
 
If daydreams are wrecks of something divine
I’m amazed by the tediousness of mine.
I’m always the power behind throne.
I rescue princes to make my own.

 
‘And so it goes’, she thought, quoting that American author she could never remember. So it goes, this strange life, where it seems possible for the mind to enter an apartment in 19C København and call up the smell of brilliantined hair, cigar tobacco, and the samovar in the kitchen. This poem Imperia I shall probably never read, she thought, though there is some American poet on a Fulbright intent on translating Claussen’s work into English. In a flash of the mind’s miracle she travels to his tiny office in his Mid-West university, surrounded by the detritus of student tutorials. In blue jeans and cowboys boots Devon Whittall gazes out of his third storey window at the falling snow.
 
There is nothing in the world as quiet as snow,
when it gently descends through the air,
muffles your steps
hushes, gently hushes
the voices that speak too loud.
 
There is nothing in the world of a purity like snow's,
swan's down from the white wings of Heaven,
On your hand a flake
is like dew of tears,
White thoughts quietly tread in dance.
 
There is nothing in the world that can gentle like snow,
quietly you listen to the silent ringing.
Oh, so fine a sound,
peals of silver bells,
rings within your innermost heart.

 
And she imagines Helge Rode (his left arm still on his right shoulder) reading his poem Snow in the quiet of the winter afternoon at Ellehammersvej 20 Kastrup Copenhagen. ‘And so it goes,’ she thought, ‘this imagination, flowing on and on. When I am really old like my Grandmother (discharging herself from hospital at 103 because the food was so appalling) will my imagination continue to be as rich and capable as it is today?’
          Closing her notebook and shutting down her laptop, she removed her cat from its cushion on the table, and walked out into her garden, leaving three Danish Symbolists to their readings and deliberations.
Leonard Green Feb 2017
Prolog:
Foreplay opens with an aphrodisiac dubbed the mind
caressing private chambers with passion, over time
words stimulating nerve-endings for the ideal tease
like the skin dripping of honey from the nectar of bees
exploiting the fragrances of scented oils and balms
or maybe vib’ing lyrics inducing a seductive calm
compelling forces bombard the intellectual’s sanity
as the proximity of the blackhole distorts humanity

Love’s Play:
Costars entwine heated bodies for love’s embrace
as moments become endless as vectors of subspace
sporadic movements take the form of blissful spasms
while the players combine to mold a single plasm
ringing chimes fulfill the awareness with sensations
too diverse to classify for logical deliberations
yet finally, the mountaintop of cliffs can be reached
where there is no retreat and no return from its breach

Epilog:
Aftermath closes basking from the physical exertion
as two kindred spirits epitomize timeless insertion
gazing deeply into the abyss of the partner’s soul
only to find comfort and compassion ruling the role
can this be the earthly heaven that one truly beholds
written in the historic words as the heavens foretold
feelings ignite once again burning deeply within
opening yet another intriguing act, one must attend.
Dedicated to the lovers on Valentine's Day
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)



In response to the United States versus European Union  deliberations on Ukrainian- Russian stalemate  that were concluded on 25th may  2014 at Brussels , in which President Barrack Obama looked at the Putin’s political  behaviour in global set up of the postmodern era as a weakness, I beg to take my position within my capacity as global citizen, to go contrary to this stand of Barrack Obama by positing that President Vladimir Putin is a fact of global urgency , but instead it is Obama who suffers from universal class intellectual deficiency often  observed as insensitive rhetoric but branded as unmatched eloquence.
Firstly, let me give the sequential enumerations of facts which validate my position and hence this discourse. Barely the facts are; Ethnicity, Islam, terrorism, Guantanamo prison, Sino-African relations,Arab-springs,politics and human psychology and American political culture as state and an international citizen.
President Obama has always refused and rejected his ethnic connexion with Africa, he always refer to Africa as the land of ancestors. This is a stand that has most irritated Africans. Both in Africa and in the diaspora. Obama never learned a simple pre-industrial wisdom that every man needs ethnic identity for positive reasons. Because as per now Obama still stands as a Kenyan and as well as an American. This connotes a political fact that he is neither a complete Kenyan nor an absolute American in terms of political emotionalism. The empirical position of all these abode in the fact that there are a thousand and one Americans who feel politically belittled to be led by a first generation African American. Thus, a leadership fact has to be indentified in this juncture by inferring that, their voter consciousness as Americans is not fit to be crystallized as emotional resource to be enjoyed by Obama politics. In a sharp contrast Vladimir Putin has acquired substantial political strengths from positive recognition of Russian ethnicity. Putin recognizes Estonia, Crimea, Georgia, Serbia, Moldova and all small and poor lands around Russia in terms of ethnic connection to Russia. He calls these lands as the dear burial grounds in which Russian military heroes were buried. In a comparison, America has a lot of racial connection with Africa, but president Obama has earnestly worn blinkers on this. He only looks at Africa skeptically as a land of injured civilization in which terrorists abode. He has been wrong. African folk wisdom has a lesson that, you may not need your tribe in peace, only to need it in war.
Why did president Obama masquerade as a Muslim when he was vying for his first term? Moslems feel that he duped them only to turn around and **** their leaders. In Islam it is a heinous sin to pose as a Muslim when you are not one. President Obama mobilized the plotting which had to occasion the killings of Muammar Gadaffi and Osama Bin Laden. These two incidents fuelled high strength in anti-American feelings among the societies of the Arab world. Reasons are that both Gadaffi and Bin Laden deserved fair trial the same way Henry Kissinger was not tried when he perpetrated macabarous mass killing in Vietnamcong war. Muslim community least expected financial and ideological funding of the political hullabaloo known as the Arab Spring, through which heroic Moslem leaders were killed, to come from Obama government. But the contrary was surprisingly a fact. The meaning of this is that , in this tussle of show of mental mighty between Putin and Obama, All African and Arab states are behind Putin, China is behind Putin. Maybe it is Tanzanian and Ghanaian presidents who are in Obama camp, but not the Moslems in Tanzanians and Intellectuals in Ghana. The perceived rationale for this positioning inter alias is that the Number of North African Moslems in Guantanamo prison is the highest of all the detained terrorist suspects.
China is all over Africa today; African schools are teaching Chinese languages with passion more than they do with English language. The University of Nairobi in Kenya, has established the most prestigious Kungu Fu tze institute. Students in this institute are more self-confident and hopeful than those in schools of English and literature. China has designed a special business city for Africans, known as the chocolate city. Africans are more dignified in this city than their counterparts in Chicago.Negroes in Chicago of today still taste a vestigial pepper of negative racism on daily basis. All these conditions have graduated into appalling status from George Bush high school to Barrack Obama state University. These at times confirm the Russian Joke that Barrack Obama is an avatar of George Bush without a Nobel Prize. A political condition not evident during the Reagan and Clinton administration. Obama did not benchmark the shrewd equation of Vladimir Putin; good politics is equal to putting people at center stage.
Psychology of politics has a theory that being eloquent is not a connotation of political effectiveness. It may be sheer rhetoric. This is not a necessary variable for effective policy formulation and implementation. History of politics also has a testimony in confirmation of the same. The French society goofed when it fell victim of Napoleon eloquence, same to the Germans when they became emotional captives of Adolf ****** due to the razor sharp garrulousness of Adolf ******, which he adopted when selling **** values to German voters. In Africa Tanzania is the poorest country without hope of initiating any development this century. And all this is a preposterous protégé of utopian communalism planted through eloquent tools of prosaic socialism wielded by the articulate Julius Nyerere. The American society has also gone into annals of history to have collectively failed in its political choices as a national society by succumbing to rhetorical but policy insensitive conference management knack of the one Barrack Obama. These have happened in a capitalist conduit in which capitalism is killed by its success, just the same way which ignorance is never murdered but at most commits suicide.


Alexander K Opicho, is a social researcher at Sanctuary Research agencies ltd., in Eldoret, Kenya.  He is also a lecturer for Governance Research Methods.
sheloveswords Dec 2013
You feel you're invincible
being that your sanity is uncontrollable
strolling around with your shoulders past the birds
past the planes
your ignorance succeeds in innumerable ways
your sight is weak
your mind is enable to capture
it's buried under life's adversities and Earth's pleasure
you don't know when to stop so you flood yourself
until you're lame at your ankles
and paralyzed in your emotions

you wend through life this way
well you try
stuck in misery
with no lane to merge
frustration is your best friend
a human is impossible and
incapable of the acceptance
your belittlement draws mankind away
no one wants to attend a pity party
unless their accompanied to your VIP
and to reserve
you are the one to RSVP

Enlighten heads will stray away
pessimism is a curse
rapidly spread by the weak
you have distress and frustration
suppressed
strangled screams
holds your eyelids open at night
deliberations controls your emotions
controls your feet
throughout the day
you are terrified of tangibility
so you indulge yourself excessively
burying your true identity
becoming irritable when bearing your sober mind

if only you knew how divine you are
you would grow to love yourself
in ways incompetent of how you could love so hard
look yourself in your eyes
find who you are
even if you have to savagely search
you'll see the soul people has grown to
love so much
you'll notice your beauty
that covers endless realms
or your strength that could hurl a boulder
No one can help you discover
your destiny
it's your journey you'll have to make alone
but during the expedition and constant footsteps
the process of elimination could be your guide

find your inner child
it can help your prevail that's
where you once had happiness
your joy was established there
because if you continue the silencing
of your heart's cries and
your soul's screams
you'll live a life analogous to hell
and that is

a nightmare's worst dream



                Copy Right 2014
                     ©Patty Ann
Something Simple May 2014
Stay silent or speak,
Glide past everything
Or get
Stuck with stigma
Over originality

Keep silent and observe
Or
Jump in
Get stuck in a fire storm.

Two friends,
Past arguments.
Stress I don’t need.

Maybe I’m a coward.
I see both possible sides,
Always surprised
How vicious people
Get over simple things.

Make changes,
Compromise,
Behave like adults.
Don’t ruin this for more people.
Please.

Not jumping in the tide
will not acknowledge these things
probably never will.
Sia Jane Sep 2014
She was always a chameleon soul
Black Orchid
Eyes, shadows, vulnerabilities
Of heroine chic,
Juxtaposed with an embracing
Self
Of mutual
weirdness
Meshing voices from
The past
Nostalgic memories for
Behind the camera
A lady photographed
A younger self,
Mirrored reflections of
The lady she had graced
Into through the
Ages,
Where contemplative deliberations
Iconic wonders, flashed through
Her mind
With each click the metamorphosis
Click;
        one
                two
                     ­   three
Twiggy, Edie, Kate
Transformations; a sorcerers magic,
Contradictions;
                        body
           ­                       mind
                                   ­         soul
Mirages amidst reincarnations
Never a remnant of the same
For, the lady behind the lens
Unseen
A ghost veiled in black;
The Black Orchid.

© Sia Jane

Dedicated & written for my darling friend Cara <3
For she shall know love <3
I am sorry I am so slow on the up keep. I am trying. Love you all <3
Thou hast nor youth nor age
      But as it were an after dinner sleep
      Dreaming of both.


Here I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I was neither at the hot gates
Nor fought in the warm rain
Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,
Bitten by flies, fought.
My house is a decayed house,
And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,
Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,
Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.
The goat coughs at night in the field overhead;
Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.
The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea,
Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter.
                                        I an old man,
A dull head among windy spaces.

Signs are taken for wonders. “We would see a sign!”
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
Came Christ the tiger

In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas,
To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero
With caressing hands, at Limoges
Who walked all night in the next room;

By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
Shifting the candles; Fräulein von Kulp
Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door.
    Vacant shuttles
Weave the wind. I have no ghosts,
An old man in a draughty house
Under a windy ****.

After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
Guides us by vanities. Think now
She gives when our attention is distracted
And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions
That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late
What’s not believed in, or if still believed,
In memory only, reconsidered passion. Gives too soon
Into weak hands, what’s thought can be dispensed with
Till the refusal propagates a fear. Think
Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices
Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours. Think at last
We have not reached conclusion, when I
Stiffen in a rented house. Think at last
I have not made this show purposelessly
And it is not by any concitation
Of the backward devils
I would meet you upon this honestly.
I that was near your heart was removed therefrom
To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition.
I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it
Since what is kept must be adulterated?
I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:
How should I use them for your closer contact?
These with a thousand small deliberations
Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,
Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,
With pungent sauces, multiply variety
In a wilderness of mirrors. What will the spider do,
Suspend its operations, will the weevil
Delay? De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs. Cammel, whirled
Beyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear
In fractured atoms. Gull against the wind, in the windy straits
Of Belle Isle, or running on the Horn,
White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,
And an old man driven by the Trades
To a sleepy corner.

                    Tenants of the house,
Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.
SE Reimer Apr 2015
~

a sentencing phase?
not really!
it is instead
a punctuation
deliberation!
be it a period
or a comma
to his phrase,
a life gone…
so terribly wrong,
awry!
oats sewn in haste
becoming
tares of waste
for thrashing,
not for threshing!

his acts despicable,
his name
an alliteration
to us unspeakable;
the terrifying
seen as desperation,
now in need of
great deliberation.
his end undertaken
by those he counted
once as peers,
these twelve poor souls,
now gods
with feet of clay;
his determined fate
to destine and ordain.

is any among
these twelve a peer
to the one
so driven
to destruction?
undeserving of
an exclamation point
no peer am i
as i hypothesize,
at most i’d put
his name in
(parenthesis)
not above,
but underneath
that cold, hard stone;
and ‘neath his name
omit the dash
between his beginning
and his ending.

~

*post script.

(Dzhokhar Tsarnaev)

yes, it is a cold, hard subject,
yet one worth discussing
if only for the sake of
reminding ourselves that
some do not, will not ever
respond to the correction
and the instruction of
a civilized society.
the very basis for
the correction system
in a civilized society
should be one of hope...
hope of restoration,
hope of redemption,
hope of a soul's resurrection.
when hope is gone,
what action then?
and in what manner
are we then charged?
Joshua Quinones Dec 2011
I am sick of poetry—
its useless, meaningless strings
of words
elegantly dressed in profound tailored suits
of gaudy fabric.

                                      Who is this who speaks against the soul—
                                      ignorant and foolish, deriding the gem
                                      of thoughts vibrantly propounded into motley lines of literary art?

Ha! Literary art?
Similes are like a bad joke,
alliterations are agitating,
personification ***** and,
hyperboles are more horrid than death

                                      Poems are not simply stanzas of well-contrived writing
                                      Of fanciful sentences stretching the mind.
                                      Each letter spells purpose,
                                      Then in the right lighting
                                      Reads entirely different
                                      Yet still masterfully designed

It is simplicity secreted beneath heaps of perplexity
and effortless rhyme,
bombastic diction contorting
the most puerile of deliberations into virtuosity—
two-dimensional make-up of verbiage—
flinging arbitrary words and
lines left
             and
                    right
Christmas
The entire concept is ludicrous.

                                                             A
                                                         rhyme
                                                    goes deeper
                                                  than its sound,
                                                          ­ and
                                                   a single word
                                            normally goes deeper
                                         than its context suggests.
                                                     A random
                                              notion may not be
                                      as arbitrary an idea as one
                                                     primarily
                                                      a­ssumes
                                                       it to be.
                                      Nothing is simple about it.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Just like I said
It’s easy to do.

                                                        Inbr­ed
                                                        Hypocr­ite
                                                        Misle­d
                                                        *******
                                                        Igno­rant
                                                        Fool­ish fiend
                                                        Vir­ulent
                                                        Phi­listine
                                                        I­nfantile
                                                        ­Aberrant
                                                        ­Juvenile
                                                        ­Miscreant!

True poetry at last!
Stripped down to pure emotion
A lovely ******* manicured just right
The quintessence of feeling etched with furious care
Thought and emotion woven together to make an unlikely masterpiece
And so it is discovered: the marriage of two conflicting entities can and will engender beauty.
Asominate Feb 2020
On the night
At the very early morn
The moon had already risen
Just as a broken gaseous no more sleeps
Somehow, somewhere, a beast trapped, released
No longer is it trapped to the confines of its prison

Eyes that survey
Salivating, wanting,
A prompt to its hunger
Its nostril’s pleasure: my scents
Under a crack of dim, creaming crescent
The uncensored scene of my slumber

The conditions, possibilities, a setting made right for the empty
A glimmer of hope or just the fangs bared for the bark or biting
Once started, the urge, its selfishness to one else, it’ll never lend
The craving has begun; the questionable realism of this game of pretend
A shadowy figure, upon a pair of feet; yours, no, mine, it lurks in the dark

Countless moments to lose the count of, time is held still
Longer and longer, in continuous moments that shows no signs of breaking
Once I had the warming presence of the body of mine besides me, only to be replaced
“A story’s not to be finished without the satisfaction it gives,” is all I find
All we have seen, the sweet smell of lovely dreams still dancing feverously like visions of my mind
Darkness lies beside me, wanting you, cannot be unseen: the ****** features being without a face

What’s gotten is what’s to be deserved: deliberations of the disease that festers the fabric of my thoughts, I pay no mind
At this point, my reality sinks in, run-on sentences roles across the virtual plane called your screen.
Unable to break away from the unrecognizable creature that lies before me, I lose contact with the senses, my nerves have no feeling
The beauty of it all is the art, the science, I love the way how it consumes me, growing over me, light glinting off its fangs still bared
I remember now, I know it, we’ve talked about it before, it calls itself Sherman, our sleep paralysis demon, still I feel the need to be scared
My lovely dreams, he feeds off of, the hunger within, in him, is never satisfied, no matter how many times he tried, he didn’t stop, just enough to make me void, light blinds me, my soul is fleeing.

On the morn,
At the surpassed night
My heartbeat pends
Eternally I sleep, at peace
Those who know me weep
For my plotless reality never ends
Was for Halloween, but better late than never?
Poetic T Oct 2019
Concussed reflections,
    shattered memories.

     Derelict thoughts collapsing.
Standing alone to face all allegations
I am victim of vicious deliberations
In the darkness I can't see destination
This is how I celebrate my incarnation

Love has taken all my life and death
In state its difficult to take the breath
My life is at stake and what life hath
Do I see truth or nothing else but myth

Pain has sapped all my ability,intellect
I am no more if you ask stance in fact
I have no choice just to select or elect
I am in trance my love being in the pact

My Lord is savior under circumstances
Only He can give many more chances
So I hoot care whatever the instances
How can I lose in the positive responses

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
after four decades of protracted debate
as to where to locate a second airport
our federal government has finally made a decision
to go ahead with the construction of the airport

they've not been overly speedy
in their deliberations on the matter
all the public has ever heard
is an endless stream of chatter

now the memorandum of understanding
for its location has been signed off
we the citizens of New South Wales
can't wait for a jet plane to take off

the existing airport terminal is becoming
more and more congested by the day
and a second airport facility
will sweep all the clogging away

we're mightily pleased that the government
have got moving on the airports location
now the flying public of our state
shall afford them a rousing ovation
KorbydAngyle Nov 2020
A perplexing trust for trial ends this endeavor, a blending blasphemy, of me this court does suggest.

As preening voids, the zygotes, blyme, they be gouging the eyes of the word; not hither then upon the afore, tenure observed as a state, which exiled is you.

Now begin in amorous help. Fiend, friend, to begin hath thou the gaul? To annex this; thus we will begin.

"Player, composite, Sauls of my own form... You can't believe how beautifully, grievingly misunderstood is all that a mutual sanctuary stands for...truly is... or unwittingly shall...and is not!"

Priests, clubbers, Demons, usurpers, lovers all envied of miscue(the default form). Their lives of shores of the Sea of Calamities, stern amuck the floam... temerity to continue their negations play.

"Therein thinking a theory of thought. The theory is Daemon of poverty, the emersion of hope, empathetically ill 'con'.. 'truaght'. As
I had thought. Now be seated, all and sovereign thimbles on tinders of papyrus, tinders on kindling, fires of the vanities...so.."

The Judge said, "We begin again."

I warn thee now, Saints of lore didn't enjoy the mentioned or the heretofore.

"Neither Satan nor God, Fairy nor Preacher could'st so understand that I said, ' I couldn't take it anymore, I cast my very last spell and found myself in bed'"

The chamber abruptly decried of calamity and doom. The sanguine despot of evil's charm pleading for mercy. This tale did not end...

"Of majority I inform 'The persecution had formed a **** and shales of deviance of Heaven's abrupt roofs, feln at no mercy...a request.'"

"A mentor is nor promiscuous and the dabbled in victory is ours in study and form!"
So reckoning for further remorse, no time off, no deliberations for jury's recourse.
Cont'd
"Settlers with lanterns, the mocking Tern with letter did bring'st. A written confession entered this forth for duly appropriated evidence..."
Should mercy do require of
my plea, then bickering, is
of how many, of killed. Which
Jury member, flauntingly, tauntingly
it should be!

Another fluster. Time consumed. Wits prancing on Hate's Gate made deference of the decree, but not for the court, of whom, we entrust all our wit!

"Now, now. Simple folks we've all had our drinking sessions and fancy empaths, who lie on erudite chagrin, not the actual words for which a Daemon does hold within." The defense tried falseness, perjury in the evening debate; as cautering of word with unholy terror should be met with.
"If no further evidence is to be beheld, the deliberations can pass into the hasty congress which we hold honored and true. Be returned by the midnight hour, for it's then with this Daemon, dear folks," the Judge complained, "we'll know what to do."

Valkyries, Cavaliers, Angels, innocents wept as time upon the throne, the jury, until churning of clocks, the jury was kept.
Gathered were children, vixens, nobles and common citizens, as abrupt, did begin this midnight hush.

"Have you found a contempt, a fortune 6 for 6 plea 6? A jurisdictional deliverance of which light can not alone ***** the passings allotted by thee?"

"We have your honor"

And so the final waves, as durational salient crying vows, were set to broken upon virgins, churches, and broken tree boughs.

"Not...entirely...perpetually...free.. Guilty is the Daemon, no mercy to be shown. The sentence is passed, a proclamation which we defend as appropriate, all noting to the taken of, spoken of in the heretofore."

All were quieted of vices with meals made for axes and guillotine, as somber looks denied those unfortunate to find; Skink a friend not a fink. Then the words resounded, a damnation did sound...

"Implored of a vice that shant be similar in any such derivation of a humanity which we call binding, the voracious need to be freed under the conviction of the guilty Daemon's bidding."

And so we awaited kilter to the proud. A slurry of legions both curious and in an ironic way evily proud.

"To scour the Earth in no other form than that of the distraught and unwanten, and begin again the vicious cycle of death with no life till thee's crime is forgiven."

Ordinance and plethora's of charm shall never question the Daemon of said name and claim.

They did'st disarm.

As surely as to the very day until in the future no other sentence could take the place of understood powers of the court whom you have been advised of and; if adversary crosses your path you must invoke with no alarm.
fun little archaic partially scheme and poem
Lady Wolf Jan 2014
We don't play dumb because it's not a game and truly very lame.
We don't play blind because a few wants those eyes but if you want to, then pay the price.
We don't play tease because we're not dumb nor blind of the truths that's here.

But if I change my mind I guess it's still and will always be a NO.
I'd build up defenses with no words to throw.
All the obvious has been laid.
Haply stories has to be said.

So this is the battle I should face,
to a place where I'd surely leave a trace.
If the crowd should understand
or if i choose to stay away;
I was too weak to speak and say
but all the decisions are beyond what I can withstand.

I do not hit the blocks just to prove I was right.
because deliberations has been truly my everyday fight.
What takes me aback is rather the truth.
But what scares me more is the possible fruit.
Yet the story that never ends
seems to be a history that never bends.
Now I choose not to be scared.
Vincit Omnia Veritas, Amicus.
Alexander S Mar 2010
The sporadic and spastic
Deliberations
Of chance encounters
On busy streets
Haunt my dreams
Like a raindrop in a well
A mile wide
And a mile deep
Rippling across
As I spin myself
Seeking contentment beneath the sheets
Begging to make sense
Of the surreality
To take something tangible
From thoughts that barely exist
Waking in time
To just miss my breath
And worlds spiral back
Into nothingness
Poetic T Mar 2017
I felt the edge of my nightmare, grasping to the subconscious
worries that were clinging like venomous fangs delving inwards.
Dreams were a potato peeler on the different skins that
were pealed from my normality to what turned metaphorical
hairs white, I screamed in high definition of speechlessness.

Have you ever woken to find that the reflection of what was
coherent within your diluted dreams had clung to your eyelids?
Escaping the dreamscape of illusion and collecting into the
tear ducts of deliberations connecting eclipses of reality
that was a mirage of what I conceived in both verses.  

I had awoken in momentary seclusion, short lived like a
verse of a haiku that versed much but bleed more than it
had versed. I was a paradox of complexity, my tribulations
were collecting in lagoons of reality about to burst.
I was immersed in a mirage of impulses and needed to visualize.

I felt the edge of my nightmare, and it penetrated like
satin fissures on my delicately woven reflections.
Those that stared back upon me, expressing their intentions.
We are a motion of luminosity and twilight and our
dreams weave a thin line that lingers in our dreams..
betterdays Apr 2015
musing on pondering,

cogitating on ruminating,

postulating on speculating,

considering multiple theories,

deeming the discrepancies deniable

positing the petty presumptions,

theorizing multiple condsiderations,

apraising the mediations,

digesting the deliberations,

allowing for freefall meditation,

envisioning the expectations,

presuming the pontifications,

anticipating the asumptions,

comprehending the conclusion,

accrediting the rationalizations,

concluding the comprehesion,

spinning synaptic wheels,

hypothesizing the conjecture,

recollecting of the reminiscence,

adumbrating the prognostigcation,

concocting of the subliminate,

masticating on the cereberal machinations,

of the ocillations, in the agitatation,
apparent,
in an insomniac's maniacal brain,

reckoning not,
on the simple summation,
of the night's wayward,
mental arbitratration,


there is... just too much time,
to think....

and far too little time to write....
expose of free verse style...
a'la betterdays.....lol
WJ Thompson Dec 2017
I'm young and in love
with disjointed sentences
mosaic symbols transforming
deliberations into expository
railroad tracks, crossing paths (with)
black jazz cats in the 20's to write the music a little differently for each note,
to ride a little Titanic eye contact
until Earhart makes it home.

Compress these highs and lows,
into melodic notes, dancing up (and down)
the Christmas tree, ornaments from
the time you were only three.
Days before we met, days beyond our starry-eyed goodbye,
Love is a gentle thing,
and you were such the words I'd pray to whisper in the night, on beaches made of all your favorite colors.
I want to be the way you see me,
I hope you never feel alone.
And what a treasure it was,
to speak with the princess,
instead of staring at the castle.
Soft cheeks instead of hard stone,
(cold glass, icy masks, distant hopes.)
But instead of distant,
You were close.
Poetic T Jan 2017
Deliberations are a veil of pigmentation
as I see the transparency of every thought.
a nebula of ideas woven in view, can you
see the curvatures that expand outwards.

Bright moments illuminate the surroundings,
as reflections are seen as the weave of conciseness
exhales in majestic colours.

A tapestry of interpretations which is visualized
differently by everyone. All is vivid in the lucidity
of all ideas that form and coalesce. I could almost
reach out and touch this moment of reflection.
I've worn the bejeweled crown of a string doll prince worked with innumerable ploys and tricks .
Suffered the false admiration of the disingenuous , robbed blind by great thespians ..
Left my heart to fend for itself among insatiable howling packs of wolves ..
Offered my soul as a stepping stone for ungrateful friends with self centered inclinations and selective memories.
Knowingly trained my replacement without thought of vindication , counseled many fair weather associates in their moment of frailty who have long since forgotten my name and disavow any such deliberations.
I've repaired plumbing , installed HVAC systems , troubleshooted DIY malfeasance and performed every kind of home repair one could ever dream for free on behalf of family members that wouldn't **** on my burning corpse without charging me a fee !
Copyright January 20 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
R Moon Winkelman May 2010
I sit here
on these empty battlements
built brick by bitter brick
to guard around my heart
that most fragile *****.
I overlook the battle of my spirit and will
only to hear your voice
speaking my fears into reality.
As I watch
one foe turns spectral in form,
vanishing in mist.
Leaving me dejected,
frustrated in my deliberations.
Showing me the true nature
of this deceit;
the most horrible kind
that
of the Self.
© October 2003 Flying Lynx Press
Chris Apr 2010
By the thoughts of other's deliberations
By relaxed smile in black torment
By my song in hearts set free to fly
By blind sacrifice in a land of pride
By patient consistence in the dry place
By your dance of joy I watched, and cried
By gritted teath of courage and hope
By every step on the path of truth
By justice and grace when others turned
By heart and will of truth and love
By secret honesty and quiet confession
By invisible watermark on a paper world
By a life spent getting up again
By my life I saw in you
Helen Raymond Feb 2018
More often than not my machinations are little more than fragmented ruminations and disjointed alliterations

Occasionally preoccupied by rhyme, reason, or cravings for another season

Color and light dancing against the doodles left dog-eared among the daily drudgery crowding my deliberations

Purposefully thinking my thoughts more thoughtfully in these days of superficiality and commercialized faux reality

Deliberate silences budgeted between listless noise. On days when everyone's vying for vocal real estate & everyone's talking with nothing to say.. I take a fast from my voice.

I withdraw from myself, deep within my mind.. I attempt to reconcile with that girl I was -forgive myself for letting her leave again. How can I come back to her after what we've been? I've lied to her too many times for her to let me back in.
Vernon Waring Jul 2015
that's him...
squinty eyes, maybe
thirty or so,
trim, fit, hair
combed neatly,
parted just right

mister
congeniality
with a real estate
license, he's a
trifle flirty
but he seems
proud of his
pretty wife and
two kids - plus one
in the oven - the
family ensconced
in a new rancher
in the east falls
section of town

never served
on a jury before,
doesn't want to be
foreman or assistant
foreman, just wants to
absorb the experience,
to fulfill his civic
duty, to serve,
just wants to lean back
in the deliberation room
and listen and learn

on the lunch break,
he talks basketball,
coaching a swim team,
obsessing about his days
in a garage band,
some think he's a little
young to be so nostalgic
but those shifty eyes -
a faded blue like the sea
captured in an aged
watercolor - and
that fast fading smile
reveal something else,
something nameless...
malevolent maybe?
a few wonder
what he's really
all about

juror number eight
whispers to number
six that twelve's
a ringer,
the one who screws
things up, the one who
plays reasonable doubt
tricks right before your
eyes like a smooth magician,
he's the one with the chip
cemented firmly on his
shoulder, he's in this
for the sport,
the mind games,
the unfolding drama

number twelve
spells it out
for everyone:
the cops always lie,
why believe anything
they say? and don't
believe that guy with
the new york accent
who had clearly
tampered with evidence
and tried to cover it up
...and then there's the
defendant's best
friend who sold him
down the river, sold
him out right there
on the stand! don't be
sheep, don't trust
flimsy reasoning, this
whole justice system reeks
of injustice, look at
what they think of
teenagers, parading them
around in the hallways
here in the courthouse...
young kids handcuffed,
walking around in
leg chains, they're
victimized too in
their own way, what about
their rights? think about
it! i said think about it!

juror number eight had to
be restrained from choking
him right there in the
middle of deliberations,
they almost called the
guards in to break things
up, the men and women
confused, terrified

he's become the
belligerent bully
who says no while the
others say yes, the only
voice that goes against
the other eleven, but he's
not a champion, not a
noble iconoclast, not
one of the twelve
angry men,
just one angry man
against the world,
the contrarian with
a hidden agenda,
the wild card,
maverick,
odd man out

he's juror number
twelve, he lives to
explode the case,
be the juror
who hung the jury,
eleven men and women
dangling in the
town square, sunlight
streaming down,
heads swollen,
mouths agape,
eyes wide open,
the last minute
of the last act
The sounds of sorrow :
soft whimpers under covers
late , late on a cold winter's night

Low moans of eternal pain
that one has tried to turn
into  . . ."I forgot"

Long wails that are full
of fury and devastation
as a hurricane's whip cracks

The heart that has been
kicked and stomped
and stabbed to froth

Flipping pages of poetry
fanning the heat
of discourse

Long sighs
sitting in a swing
looking down . . .coughs

Hearing what other's think
what they say
in silence

The scrape of a mental shovel
digging deeper
trying to bury the past

Oh ! Of course !
the frustration of deliberations
throwing and shattering glass

Yelling in a canyon
but there are no echoes
bouncing back

The ******* sound
made from a razorblade
that is in your mouth

and then silence
hailey Oct 2014
it's the kind of darkness that not even the brightest star in the universe could illuminate.
it starts in my heart then proceeds to consume my mind until eventually i am a walking and talking mass of gray and black.
does the color of your soul mimic the piercing blue of your eyes?
i never wanted things to be this way.
you're a thousand miles away riding buses to places unknown
while i'm writing sad poems of how much i miss you
and sitting on this bench that once sat us both
with teary eyes
holding on to every ounce of hope
that this was all only a nightmare.
and my deliberations are like clockwork..

this isn't real
this isn't real
*this isn't real
Poetic T Feb 2019
Breath was exhumed from the corpses
lingering impressions.
   But all were merged beyond
                           the futile emotions of the flesh.

For where reflections were void,
             only true deliberations stigmatized.
                                    Everything of before,
               that  were psychedelic illusions.

Reminiscing of stained windows,
                recently cleansed of the memories of
                                                                ­yesterday.
Only now were remnant fallen dreams buried
                                           beneath falling stars..



                           That crawled like maggots
                                                 in the heavens
burrowing deeper the more they fell...
                And still though falling, there breath still
                                          gasped as death only exhales.
Suresh Gupta Mar 2021
Truths’ dilemma
03/24/2021

Truth, has no cousins not
in duel call for no seconds
that which cannot be fractionalized
nor deliberately sweetened or fashioned
its’ weapon singularly purposed

Lies, with cousins abundant
always fronting seconds when caught
divi itself up in justification
hiding in purposeful deliberations
shape shifting to meet its cause
Bibhu Dec 2014
Oh my my…
Look… there’s the vanilla sky…
In the half remembered dreams
Of chances and deliberations
I have gotten chunks of that but Why?
Oh my my…
Look… there’s the last firefly…
In my moments in oblivion
I have ridden upon it once
And that’s not a lie.
Oh my my…
Look… there’s our most beloved moon
In the times of total blackouts
I've seen it, been there
As if I were born with a silver spoon
Oh my my…
Can you see… It’s me!
Hovering around my nostalgia
Tired of counting sheep
Of countless resentments I wish I could break free
Oh my my…
Look… it’s you…
Telling me not to back down
Stand firm and fight hard and you’ll live
But cares Who?
Oh my my…
I am flying…
I am dying…
When you pontificate
What I did was a coward’s act
But suicide takes tremendous courage
And that’s a fact.
Obukov Etudoh Feb 2014
Feel the sensation
Hear the motion
See true vision
Touch Blue Ocean

Look how devotion
Has made provision
And no delusion
Can stop distinction

Life’s set omissions
Has shown directions
And made deliberations
That birth celebrations

Real heart motivation
Create pure liberation
Sense the inspiration
Life applauds determination.
(c) Obukov
The motivation I needed at one point in my life to drive me into achieving against all odds
AJ Sep 2015
Chaotic words, chaotic thoughts,
Bombastic ideas and pensive deliberations
That float, even fly like volcanic ash,
Pounded out of the molten Earth as if
God were hitting the crust with a hammer,
And the masses of ash and dust cloud the sky,
Streaming like red and black chalk
Across the asphalt of uncharted thoughts.

And they rain, rain down
Like a tempestuous conflagration,
Beating upon the earth like mallets on drums,
Vibrating ever-so tenuously in the ears,
But resonating with verve somewhere within,
And then it stops,
Never to be heard or seen again.

And in its place are the bright rays of the sun,
Shooting light like a harpoon toward the ground,
Digging into the supple soil with a medley
Of confusion and anger,
Of apprehension and isolation,
And they burn caustically,
Warm the body as if they were pockets of magma,
Sliding across the flesh
And trickling into the pores, digging down
Into the heart, shaking it, squeezing it, weeping atop it.

And then the night comes on
As the sun retreats below the horizon,
And it brings with it the complacent lights
Of the stars high above,
That glow gently atop our brows and
Reflect dully off our shirts,
Dotting us with the paint-like
Stains of the unbridled release
Of laughter and intimacy,
Of love and vivacity.

And the placid night lights,
They seem to **** up all the heat,
Seem to save it from its vice,
And they dispel it into the great beyond,
Into the great unknown that stares down on the Earth
And renders it quiet and inhospitable.

Yet for some reason,
For some ungodly or unholy reason,
This night brings peace,
Even if dangers lurk somewhere in the dark.
Poetic T May 2020
Misplaced deliberations,
        oh where did  I leave you?

Like mislaid socks,
              I wear
mismatched thoughts

nicely fitting but not right.
Keith W Fletcher Oct 2019
Someday soon
this space
will be empty
No for rent sign
Will bring to mind
What used to be
The occupant  who
Truly fought to do
All he could
thinking that should
Be enough to sustain
The publics relation
The joining together
Through true considerations
Re•noun•ced  reverberations
Pronoun•ced vowel use
In sentencing alliteration
To solitary inconsiderations
In deliberations or  indeterminant
Interrpretations.
So in the end
resulting  Inclinations  
may have hinged upon
That period
with an overriding Exclamation  
marking the end
extinguishing the flame
accepting that the now dark  emptiness
May have
Tried  to guess... as they did their best
To seek out some exclamation  mark
but in the end, they could not bend
It into a question mark  
For
The end came like a thief in the night
Leaving an emptiness all but unnoticed  
As poem after poem came tumbling down
Torn loose by the very same hand
that  also once wrote us
Someday soon  this space will be empty
With no  "for rent " signs  to  remind 
 anyone
That anything ever even existed herein.
89
Mike Essig Apr 2015
I am weary
of deliberations;
let us get on
with the countdown:
she loves me,
she loves me not...
   ~mce
Poetic T Nov 2018
We must be the Shepheard of our thoughts.

And the only sheep to follow us,
are our deliberations,
that we collect the wool
                  of contemplation from.

For no man should follow another,
          be less than what his worth is.


                           Only side by side are we all equal.
Maryan P Apr 2015
Little bird, hold back your tears.
If you break down in front of people,
People will only sympathise
people will offer free advice.
It’s not easy, doing what they say,
It may seem like it’s pointless,
meeting people, going places,
When it’s easier to just sit there and
Stare at your shoe laces,
But you've got to hear them anyway,
Because you need something to get you out
Of that bad place you've been in all this while.
Baby, you need to get out of your own mind.

Let them flow,
But your friends will soon tire of watching you cry.
They’ll say, “Why don’t you just try?
Try to be happy, try to smile.
Let go of your despondent thoughts for a while.”
But the darkness pulls you away
Into the chaotic emptiness of your mind.
It’s always there, peeking up from beneath your eyelashes.
It only takes a moment to shut down the world outside
and lose yourself in your deep dark deliberations.
Baby girl, don’t go there. Please don’t.
It’s a bad place to be
And you’ll only end up alone.

I know that’s what you want right now.
You don’t want to think about the what, the when, the how.
Breathe. Look up.
You are miserable,
and maybe no one but you
will understand what you’re going through.
That’s ok. All is not lost. It never is.
Baby girl, you've got to believe.
Believe that things will fall into place
You don’t have to win this race.
Take a step, then take another
Keep going till you reach the end of the track.
Little bird, you've got to believe,
Believe, that you’ll get yourself back.
I wrote this for someone dealing with depression. She's much better now :)

— The End —