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Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
ThePoet Jun 2015
I spent
my life
designing a
border,
between myself
and the
world of
disorder.
But the
border was
breached by
a world
so sick,
with hearts
of stone
and minds
of brick.
Noel Oct 2013
The Circle of the Mushroom Ring:
Apocalyptic Sanctification

Feasting I wonder when the crumble will begin?
Alas we wait with our circle like friend.
Darkness entwined the vines where I sit
This shall be a night we gnomes won't forget.

History, mystery they all fall down
The human like creatures know nothing in town
for when we feast from this beautiful ring
all us gnomes will dance and sing.

Singing of terror in shadows they fall
creeping through forests watching them all.
I feel the time it grows too near
my senses feel nothing but their unwelcome fear.
Burn...

Fire to fire and dust to dust
Burn the village with pleasant disgust
Reap what you sow and scream what you plead
Ashes they fall, ashes they bleed.

Our minds are tuned with the ring of fate
We are the gods we create.
A mindless journey to tame the souls
to fill our empty heart-seeking holes.

Chanting and dancing we cheer through the streets
the wind of fire such a beautiful beat.
The cries of the children echo in flame
as I mock there howls with laughter of pain.

Steady I walk designing it all
Flooded by voices of the gnomes violent call.
Releasing the rage, spear-stick in my hand
right through the head, bold where I stand.

The village simmers but we do not
Tearing apart what we feel should rot.
The ground is no place for the blood of men
ashes to ashes amen to amend
The cravings wont stop, or my eyes will bleed.
for the fate of mankind is the mushroom ring.

-Do not forgive us for we have not sinned
We bless mother earth through our beautiful wind.-
Third Eye Candy May 2013
implosions are for starfish and our mission is clear. we have nowhere to be from
and that's half the battle. we are seldom unbridled in the chastity of our carnal bluff...
and our cages are breathing. we are finally designing our most daring Inertia.
both mum on the details in the devil's flotsam. we jot some of the names of the nameless...
on the outside of Dixie cups. like mint julep promise to a tangerine honest.

again and again, we ache through the breeze of our soothing traumas. we court the verity of a sham.
we blast through the congregation of our adversary, snipping varmints from a stale camp
in the southernmost of our due south,; where they fear the bonfire until a vagrant maps
the flaming tongues to a long kiss.... and we crash upon the shore
of Never Asked.

but regret This.
Philipp K J Jan 28
The western sky sweeps
Darkness to back yards
The dawning east keeps
Designing with hues
Mornings greeting cards.
Nice to see the crews
Active in writing
Fresh magic haikus
Deep in creating
Textures and sinews
With unique mixing
Of color and lures
Interspersed musings
On honeycomb verse
Soft snowflake rhymings
Draught on fragrant wings
Beams of rainbow waves
Fuse sweetness and light
Deeds of Devine Inc
Wrought in suntan ink
Duty with delight
In morning twilight
Micheal Wolf Aug 5
pof
A Poem by Me  POF

I read "No photo of me, so no reply!" Like starting a fight with her opening line.
So I removed mine! I'm rebel at heart, but I do have them if you choose to enquire.
But are photos all that define us now?
I am willing to take a chance they are not.
But I do have photos and you're welcome to see, when your ready, if you're chatting to me.
But the photos are not of me holding a dog or my two daughters to bolster my cause. To show you I am a wonderful dad or that the gym is clearly my second home.
There are no photos of me a decade ago in Summer shorts that my ex chose!
If you understand what I am trying to say, it's because all profiles seem to read the same.
The five in a photo and the blond is me!
Do the other four even know they're on here?
You like to stay in and you like to go out. Do you need a photo to prove that?
You like food, and love to cook and dine out here's my dinner just look at that!
Then there's the best and one I like most
"No players please" I have had enough.
Oh ladies please!! Men are like shoes, have you ever bought the first pair you chose?
And the runner up tickles me so, own teeth and hair, and must be tall. A taller woman in heels is great. It's not my ego thats in the way.
So am I cynical or speaking the truth? Have you seen yourself in the words above?
I didn't write to offend at all, but maybe one of you gets the point.
Should men give a list of do's and don'ts?
As women do, like designing a doll.
Should we list make up and spandex as miss selling and cheat, and list only women above 5ft 3.  I hope my words made you laugh. If not cheery bye and good look on POF.
Written long ago in jest
Classy J Jan 13
Making an *** of myself while asking myself, does cash moo when these cows Plow over poor fools?
In Cotten fields with brothers floundering,
But still gotta give grace even if monsters starve ya to death.
For they only concerned about cashing their cheque’s, and saving their necks.
Such is the carnal nature of wendigo’s,
Who egos keep em entitled and keeps the dough only flowing to their sect.
Leaving us to fend for ourselves in the wrong neck of the woods.
Evil twisted as some ******* story of a necessary moral good,
With these dark fascist crow puppeteers designing the hood.
Whilst demons like Regan test us like lab rats, pushing pills down our throats with police beating us with batons to our backs.
Backs that built the foundation for these pigs to thrive on while they watch as we slowly die.
Maybe that’s why the hood is also known as the projects.
A project for white supremacists to always have a usual suspect.
Should’ve known my skin colour would get me shot down for nothing like Malcolm x.
Assassinated because we’re deemed as a threat, So how can we live good lives when the cards have already been set?
Man!
I thought that the police was supposed to serve and protect, but corruption comes in and now a brother got to protect his neck.
Maybe that’s why ain’t a **** thing changes?
When one’s race determines the length of their jail sentences.
When ones gender determines whether or not another gets away with ****.
For goodness sake!
Devil please take a hike!
And God please give me the strength to cut up all this red tape!
Because at this rate, society will end up worse then the Scorpion album from drake!
Cause we just like his secret love child for we are in need of some ******* support.
Life is a *****, for if it was a **** star it would be easy but also expensive like a private resort.
So unless you actually started from the bottom it might be impossible to make the charts.
So when life is weighing you down, at least you never had to **** the ***** of a tattooed clown.
In order to try on a Burger King crown,
Then Letting one’s ego run wild and as a result your music becomes watered down.
But every day one a tone’s ah for their sins ah, and for drake it was the coffin Pusha T buried him in ah!
****! Fatality!
Such is the price when one makes a fatal mistake.
For you can’t have everything and that slice of cake!
You can be a model all you want but it doesn’t change the fact that your fake!
Just a manufactured mannequin pushed out at a flat rate.
For uniqueness is just a moded state.
And for the most part we are all bargain bin plastic sheep.
Man humbleness makes ones knees weak.
But loss or gain is all just something that we reap.
So be careful what you seek.
And be sure not to advantage of the meek.
Or else you will get put through a saw mill.
For if you underestimate your opponent you’ll be killed.
For real though man I swear this world has no chill!
Kymie 3d
I wander through the dark mist of a place that no one else can see.
Each breath I take is my own; a tonic to the poison that is reality.
I shut off my ears and drift in the waters of my sadness.
The ache in my heart is the sextant that guides my journey.
This is a map of loneliness and I am the cartographer; forever designing worlds that no one else can enter;
Yet each night I cry myself to sleep wishing that someone would break through the veil that imprisons me here.

05DEC2019
Dita Nov 2018
Is it true?
Somebody picked at her fire.
Flames radically grew mighty and symbolic,
newly ignited from the heat of conduction.
No amount of water would drown the luminous light,
she cried out in curiosity.
A lifetime spent designing her peace,
submissive to her needs and wants.

Please visit whenever you'd like,
how heavenly have I become?
Orchid Rose May 8
Do you remember when we used to run this town?
We'd always talk about getting out
Innocent within our bliss, things crossed off our bucket list,
Funny how quickly you moved on

You watched me drive off one last time,
Going separate ways--it was a sign

We drifted, from something that was unhealthy and torturous
But we lived it, up to your choices is where we stand now
Now I'm stronger
Waiting on my phone to stop buzzing is where we'll stand
For now, for them, for us, for all of it

Now you're there and all alone, while I regain my independence
Designing my essence
I chose to move on and become happy cause **** being sappy,
You started to rely on someone else immediately

We drifted, from something that was unhealthy and dependent
But we lived it, up to your choices is where we stand now
Now I'm happier
Waiting on my phone to stop buzzing is where we'll stand
For now, for them, for us, for all of it.
I was born a gentle soul
Reformed with an old jovial wisdom
Which was corrupted by the first attack
Stripped of my candor and left to meander
Until a visceral skin latched to my back

I watched my rivet dreams vicariously
All the while from side scenes
Spending time refining the premise
The fine hemmed edges
Were sharp yet crude
When tuned to this percentage

The very root of metamorphosis
Became an epitome of what I am
While walking a tight rope
Of Hope's chokehold
Invoking me to stand
Forcing me to look down
With nowhere to land

Echoes of mediocrity only fuel my drive
Staving fires from mere survival
Into the desire to thrive
While every injustice withers and dies
I bide my time refining my form
While the perfect storm subsides

The strengths I hide
Preside just beneath the surface
A revival impulse is convulsive therapy
Leaving me resolute within my purpose

Uncouth is the pretense
To claim and obtruding suspense
Whilst I am colluding and fearful
Whether I reminisce or remain pensive
The time has come to be cheerful

The only power over me
Is what I allow to reside
And keep me preventive
So if I choose to stay inside
It's because I'm designing
The next in line incentive

After I've repented
The only indefatigable witness
To my truth is me and God
And at times I ask myself
Will I know the blister's burden
Or fabricate a facade?
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
Forwards and fore words are cult if ations, (cultureshapen)
words we would find mean more

than their idle kin dread, (a play)
if we had been reared
starting now

A push from behind,
God put padding for a reason,
Mrs. Marshall said. Second grade.

A word, to the wise, is enough.
Acculturation.

That's the clue that leads to leaven,
and a little leaven...
you know, or say you do, of course,
we've known yeast
resurrects in our bread, for eons and ages,
Good Lord.

We know how things work.

If we be honest,
some,
a little bit, we know how things work.
Sayin' hon, I ain't sure I know what honest was.

To tell the truth, I don't suppose anybody knows,
wit'out attention's terrible price,

secret price, only the paid and payer know it, ever.
Sacred makin', sacrifice,

that's a one time deal, for real.

A mortal man can't know until he dies if he unbelieved all his
lies, but his try's are said to give him some -umph,

----
What manner of men are we that it is given unto us

to be? That is an answer worth paying attention to chase, per
haps. Not, to be or not to be, what choice, before now? You know?

Remember, we asked. Together, we agreed,
that greed will draw us to the treasure,

do you mind my taking greed from agreed and making it work.

it does work. it is an essential elemental,
desire is another word they use, but that gives it more
purpose than greed, and calls for more minding of the process.

Once a reifying action has begun we must maintain our equilibrium,
or
find ourselves falling, once more, into dis-traction
on life's slipper *****.

Slipper-iness has meaning.
Ask any little princess planning to grease her foot with KY.
It can be good or bad, not good or evil.

Squeeks from the audience, sometimes signal gasps,
as agap is crossed, like a spark,
mnemonical daemonic algorythms, those ain't bad you understand?

The Intelligence in Re-al, 's'no accidental instance of order over chaos that just cain't quit,
that ain't it.
Geeks as you know geeks,
Gates, Jobs, 'nem, A. I. Imagineers,
did not write this algorithm of life, as it turns out,

The Idea of God seems not to have needed help
designing a safeground,
where kids can play.

Sam Harris axed me, vicar-iously, Do you believe in literal
re-sur-rection of some formerly
living thing/ any?

Yes, yeast, I do. It seems dead, only our knowing it's not
and proving other wise de-ifs the possibility it's dead, now alive.

It's like that cat box, Schrödinger has.
Anything is possible, God knows, Jesus even said so,
wit' God, all o'this is possible,
save lying and dying and failing to be good for me.

Living, it seems, is the deed we do
to prove living forever is worthy of trying,
happily ever after, starting now,
if you wish to stay mortal and never know,

you can't.
You know you die, so you die.
Forever,
that goes on.

It's hell to try that with no triumph in sight.
Alone, especially.
I heard the phrase Jesus Bomb during the JBP/Sam Harris talk on youtube. I thought it might be fun to make one. If you notice, the poems posted here, byme, time as proven flow together onward.
Annie Setter Jan 10
So I’ve decided to do my homework.
To study the blood of myself and another.
To compare the burning of the eyes of hell and earth.
To watch the girl standing in the flowers of defeat rising to create the very scorching voice that calls them to whither.
To use my veins in the designing of my wounds on paper.

I’ve decided to go into the hearts of those long broken.
And find pearls which have not burned just yet in the fires of passion for a principle.
I watch the fire
Walk through the fire
And through the sizzling of the skin on my feet burning from walking on the coals
I get these words

Most often
It’s all taking place in my own heart.
Hank Love Mar 19
To the reader in a worthy note, now lying before me, alluding to an observation I made years ago, of the mechanism of English Literary culture. By the by, I cannot think, this precise form of allegory, though the reader himself acknowledges is not in accordance with originality, with which I hold precise and in tact. There are, however, some errors regarding the style and the art of literature, whereas constructing what makes a proper tale. Either literature, will provide a proper thesis-or the writer forces himself to work in accordance with the basis of his own justly narrative. Key points, in fact, as I know so well of, is first designing- generally to allow the reader to comprehend, yet not fully understand. Nevertheless a story is there not to understand, but only  to accept.

— The End —