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False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
Sourodeep Jun 2015
When just a simple smile is enough
why do you always pull out a gun
and make things more rough
to keep it in your pocket is deterrence
but for a hot headed like you
the easy option is violence
Lets condemn war and make this world a peaceful place to live.
You walk on the edge of spiritual growth and have always found the way to fly
Above the cliffs of doubt and deterrence
Under the creators watchful eye
Your grace and determination out weigh the heaviest stone
And your love I could live off of alone
Beauty breathes life into nature and you make every flower blossom when you pass by
Destiny never became so clear until I looked within your eyes
None are as lucky as I to have found such a spirit whose youth outshines time greater than the immortal sky we gaze upon
And none are as lucky to have kissed the sun, the star that you are, that sets me on fire.
Nor will I ever meet another who is so selfless and thought provoking
My mind and heart has developed because of you, one like you who never stops hoping
You see the truth of all things and know who you are, and because of all of this my home is never far. You are my lucky star. I love you
Harmonize
svdgrl Dec 2014
We followed the girl with the flossy blonde wig
like she were the march hare- late late late.
I was in an art deco trapeze top and size 3 blue jeans,
Lord & Taylor boots I bought with a 100 dollar gift card.
15, freshly single, pregamed,
and ready to blend in with the co-eds.
Flossy Blonde was short and thin- in a red number
walking way fast to the apartment I think we were invited to.
The crew I was with was incredibly drunk and incredibly gay
and I couldn't wait to go to a real party.
Flossy Blonde disappears into a doorway-
with generic flashing dorm-room lights
spilling out of it
along with cigarette brigades
of Tweedle dee
and Tweedle dum.
I didn't know it then,
but those seniors couldn't escape expectation.
There was a pole installed in the middle of the room.
A caterpillar man in a tiny suit and bow tie, big hipster glasses,
was grinding to Gaga on it,
There was no tea-
but everyone was equipped with
jungle juice that made them bigger or smaller.
Flossy blonde was there getting her drink on,
throwing her hips around.
Her cotton-tail wiggled a little.
Passion red lights flashed on her outfit.
I danced with her, and this
what would now be called "bro"
but then just an unavoidable deterrence
with a fractioned hat.
My vision was getting blurry-
must have been the kool-aid.
And now my memory is, too,
because I keep thinking
The Queen of Hearts was there cheering us on-
Because a purple cat meowed "We want to see you kiss!"
And so I gave Flossy Blonde a sloppy one-
and the room erupted with lava loudness,
ruckus and applause.
She giggled a little-
as we sat on a love seat,
I proceeded to exclaim,
"I kiss way better when I'm not sloshed."
and then I woke up under a tree.
If in nothing
   then in all
Must I sin
   to be saved
Must I wrong
   to be absolved

Forgiveness comes
   at such a cost
Must I pierce the heart
   to come in lost

In the darkness
   in the light
In the confusion
   of the night

You can call it incoherent
   incompetence
You can call it a
   deterrence
  
Just don't call it a
****** innocence
Alice Burns Jun 2013
These playful boys
Ducking in and out from the sea of umbrellas
Occasionally poke their heads out to be splashed by my rains
A waterfall of another substance, with no intention nor motive
But simply given to bathe all in purety and joy
Free from payment and contract

My water drizzles from pores as if never ending
And my cloud, held up by these feeling boys
Who, upon looking upon my cloud
Create invisible pillars, sturdy and unbreakable, keeping it from falling from sky
These links pass their happiness to the outline to the grey mists embodied
Often misleading simple eyes to presume unwanted storms and floods
And hopefully more may look up, to find their silver lining

But as I look down to see my waters humble achievements
I am blinded by the swarm of blockades erected
Falsely they fear the waters as they fear other things natural and of form
Suspicion instilled by mergers already signed causes distrust
For they're accustomed to a price, and deals being made
Blindly they cannot see this freedom was rightfully theirs to begin with

The truth disguised in every drop of rain is eternal, without expiry nor catch
Unlike those temporary pleasures offered by fog and shadow
But so many droplets go straight to the ground, dead and unrealized
Trampled on as the crowd continues living in shade
Each hit, bruises me and my cloud, darkening the already looming grey
Unintentionally the growing cloud provokes more deterrence from storms broadcasted maliciously
But still, I release my waters, looking down to those boys who care not for light in darkness
Austin B Dec 2013
You.
You persuade my lungs to breathe for a purpose.
An instantaneous drop of perpetuation.
The thought of my eyes opening
and your smile not there to pluck hearts from my mind
puts a black cloud of deterrence over my soul.

I am yours.
You may think you know how I feel.
You may think that my love has a limit.

I am afraid.
I am afraid you are wrong.
With every

kiss.

With every

hug.

It makes living that much harder.
To hope.
To hope our script has been written together.
To hope.
That I'll be there,
Waiting for you on the other side of the darkness.

I rather not look upon another persons eyes ever again,
and tell them the simple three words,
that have driven me to a chaotic perfection
because I would not be able to.

not be able to love.

Someone.
As much as I love,

You.

But there is one last whisper.
For if our script does not have us in the final act,
it will still have been.
And that is worth more than a thousand heavens.

For when my lips laid upon yours for the first time,
it was a beautiful poison that has been forever placed into my heart.
Satsih Verma Aug 2017
This September. It is
going to be very quiet.

I am trying to caress
the mimosa, which
always said,
touch-me-not.

The spontaneous probe
will start the construct in love
of philosophy to mimic
the animal plus
the femineity.

A clock was moving
without hands. Time was up
but legs were amputated.
How will you walk
towards your truth?
Georgina Sharma Mar 2019
Drugs, drastic doings and daily doses of suicide.

Do I do it for that feeling of self government?
That adrenaline rush; an engulfing sense of freedom and autonomy.
This is my body,
My lungs to inhale with, my mouth to swallow with and my nose to snort with.
I shouldn't be doing this,
I'm going to do this.
Why am I so ****** up?

Do I do it because I don't care?
'SMOKING KILLS' ,it says it on the box.
Every day I torture my lungs, suffocating them,
Smothering them, smouldering them.
Every inhalation bringing me closer to death.
This thought is not a deterrence but a mere acceptance.
The more I allow myself to be a slave to my plotting and unsubtle murderer, the less I care.
Why am I so ****** up?

Do I do it because its an act or rebellion?
Look at me, I'm doing something you don't approve of,
I'm going to make you angry.
With my misdirected strength and determination,
I'm going to tear down the walls that are your rules.
This feeling of disobedience, it's addictive.
Why am I so ****** up?
So many reasons, so many people, so many ****** up things.
Her lipstick blossomed against this, particular, shade of white.
It dimmed, as the filter thickened with a yellow stain.
Halfway down the bridge, held the implements saving her sight.
Lost in a back alley while feeling contrite
Privileged enough, still avoiding a handouts gain
Easy enough, held at her beauty’s height.
Unresolved, and drenched in self-imposed pain.
T-shirt’s ripped and garnished in disdain

Caught up with mystics and the art of transference.
Eye line clotted in an ever-thickening paste of black.
Standing upright on borrowed self-assurance
Using a bodyguard as a cocktail for hollow insurance.
Always a rotational position, pulled from the stack.
No more than a figure head to represent deterrence.
Tripped on a bed-rock buried in the track.
Wound up addicted her first time on crack.
ConnectHook Feb 2017
OR: Benchmarks for Bench-Warming

The author, after recently publishing
Working to Frame Approaches Towards Approaching Frameworks: Contextualizing Systemic Interventions as an Interventional System in Context
collaborated with himself and co-wrote
Granting Greater Rights to Grant-Writers:
Turning Down the Echo in an Eco-Downturn.

Both papers were well-received and build on the strength of the author's initial work, published in 2018, entitled:
Speed-Dating the Data: Progressive Measures towards Measurable Progress

The author's third paper examined day-by-day data deterrence as a strategy to enhance documentation of impact towards tracking the implementation of benchmarks. The main thesis of the author's 78-page analysis was that out-dated data, when out on a date, flirts with obsolescence by trying to ford the current affordability when instead, it could be out-sourcing data while invoicing clients in adolescence—rather than dragging the river for dead data. All three publications are recommended and underwritten by overwhelmed authorized ghost writers.
Duck the Fata !
┈┏━╮╭━┓┈╭━━━━╮
┈┃┏┗┛┓┃╭┫ⓞⓘⓝⓚ┃
┈╰┓▋▋┏╯╯╰━━━━╯
╭━┻╮╲┗━━━━╮╭╮┈
┃▎▎┃╲╲╲╲╲╲┣━╯┈
Chapter 30: This Ain’t No Country Club

He stared longingly out the back window of his Dad’s

car. He was headed off to the country club again, missing

the nightly ‘Wiffle-Ball’ game with the guys.

The playground was not a country club. There was no price of admission, or exclusive standards necessary to be admitted. You could be black, white, red or yellow. It didn’t matter. What did matter was how you played, and how you fit into the group. You may have been a social outcast or juvenile delinquent outside the playground, and yes we had a few, but what really mattered was how you acted inside the fence.

In 1958 my parents joined the local country club. Being a young, upwardly mobile couple, and enjoying the success of my father's growing business, my parents decided that this was one way in which they could celebrate. I hated it! Not because I didn’t like the people there or didn’t want to learn to play golf. It was because it took time away from my favorite place — the playground.

After dinner in the summers, my parents would hurry up and clear the table and then head to the ‘club’ with us kids in tow to get in nine holes. This of course meant that I had to miss the nightly ‘Wiffle-Ball’ game in the street. I would then have to suffer through the entire next day hearing who hit twelve home runs and who threw who out trying to make it home. It just wasn’t fair. How could a country club ever compare to a ‘Wiffle-Ball’ game or the playground? It couldn’t. Not then, and not now. The country club was stuffy to a ten-year old, and the country club had strange rules. Most of them seemed to be about what you couldn’t do.

A Direct Opposite From The Playground

How we go from the inclusive nature of our nation's playgrounds to the exclusive practices of our golf, tennis and yacht clubs is probably the subject for another book and another writer. I am just so grateful that my earliest experiences were on a grass field surrounded by a chain link fence. It was inside that fence that I felt the playground wrap its four-acre arms around me and, through its spirit of free-play, teach me the greatest lessons I would ever learn.

How we develop the later prejudices of black/white, democrat/republican, or any choice at the exclusion of another is not something we learned there. At the playground, in the absence of parents and adults, we had to fit in and find a way to adapt to one another. The weather and the big guys called all the shots. That’s the way it was, and that was A-OK with us. It worked, because at different ages, and at different times, we all got to be squirts, then decent players, and finally the big guys.

It Was Fair Even When It Was Unfair

If that doesn’t make sense to you, then you probably didn’t grow up on a playground, where the whole truly was greater than the sum of its parts. There were no polo ponies or alligators on our shirts symbolizing our dreams. We lived them every day, and we lived them together!


Chapter 31: Violent But Not With You

The stare-down was over. Joe took the first punch but

delivered the second, then five more. To his credit,

Bobby was still on his feet, but the fight was over.

The playground’s resident tough guy could be violent, but he almost never directed that towards you. Not unless you were dumb enough to challenge his honor by publicly embarrassing him or making him look like a fool in front of the other guys. Then, the punishment was swift, like being shown the door after making your company look bad because of a dumb comment you made at the quarterly board-meeting. Nothing was more fundamental or learned earlier than the recognition of power.

The young neighborhood girls sensed this more than anyone, and it harkened back to Robert Bly’s ‘Iron John’. “Men are attractive because of their fierceness”. The Playground took on an aura proportional to its ‘tough guy status, not unlike many corporations. The tough guy’s roles were limited but invaluable when called upon. He was the playground’s last line of defense, even though his role was mostly one of deterrence. Similar to many companies, the tough guy’s role was usually passed down from the resident champion to his heir apparent, sometimes willingly, and sometimes not.

The mechanics of this process were mostly known only to the tough guys, but it gave the playground the stability and the security it needed. In the movie ‘A Few Good Men’, Jack Nicholson, while under interrogation from Tom Cruise says: “Somewhere in places you don’t admit, you want me on that wall, where four thousand Cubans try to **** me before breakfast”. He then finishes it with the immortal line: “You want the truth, you can’t handle the truth”. In our playground, the truth was governed by principles based on natural selection and the Law of the Jungle. Bobby Gross was our resident Tarzan.

Bobby was from the poor side of our town and was almost sixteen in the eighth grade. He had been ruling our four-acre domain for as long as anyone could remember. Bobby always seemed so much bigger and older than we were. It wasn’t only his age that made him the resident tough guy. Bobby earned and retained this title due to the several times when he had successfully defended his crown. These events though seldom, were major occurrences in the playground and were attended like a championship bout. They almost never happened by accident and were full of anticipation and bravado. The challenge usually came from another playground, and we were all extremely proud of Bobby when he successfully defended our honor.

Bobby almost retired undefeated. At sixteen, just about everyone leaves the playground for the world of cars and girls. I say almost because of Joe Church. Joe was a Navy brat whose Dad was an Admiral at the Philadelphia Navy Yard. They had just moved up from Norfolk Virginia, and one gray Thursday afternoon Joe showed up on the Playground for the first time. No words had to be exchanged, or threats made, it was just something you knew. Bobby and Joe knew it better than anyone. There could only be one playground number one, and today there would be a changing of the guard.

Like Bobby, but even more so, Joe was advanced physically for his age. He was very athletic and muscular. He had an air of quiet defiance, bred by years of moving from one Navy town to the next having to defend his honor at every stop. No one quite remembers exactly how the fight started. Someone heard the word ‘punk’ shouted and it began. It was over almost as quickly as it began. After taking Bobby's best shot, Joe pinned Bobby up against the chain link backstop and beat him to a pulp with less than six punches. This kid could really fight. It’s funny though; with Joe there was no bravado or posturing, just a raging controlled fury that you hoped would never be directed toward you. Joe was later highly decorated in Vietnam, and all of us who shared our waning years on the playground with him were very proud— including Bobby Gross.

Another Playground Legend Was Made!

Most corporations have their resident tough guy, or gal. You can only hope that they got their training, and cut their teeth, on the grass and asphalt of a distant playground. That way you can be sure that their lessons were true. If not, you may have to suffer the rants and tirades of some William Agee or Jack Welch wannabee. The real tough guys pass their strength along in the form of confidence and security to those working under them, just like Bobby and Joe did for us. This creates an atmosphere of stability and confidence that allows everyone to thrive and prosper and comes from lessons truly learned and paid for. The god’s of the playground instilled this in all. They entered your soul on the fields and courts of adolescence ...

And Never Left.
(With regards to International Workers’ Day)



Who said workers are only workers?

They are a gift of heaven

They come for social good;

But return with lots of deterrence

You may treat them like engines

But always remember

There is also a worker

Somewhere within you

Who is keen to protect the dignity

Of these outdoor workers.

Workers are not only workers…

Above all, they are humans

Just like you and me.
Workers are not only workers
heathen Jun 2017
There is no such thing as Center
Perception is a box
A television
In which we see how to live our
lives
In which we see others
More Beautiful Others
live our lives
While we sit
and watch
Simulation of stimulation
Simulacra becomes reality
Reality becomes a game show
I’m losing

Center gives depth
and boundaries
and an easier existence to digest
Yes or No
Pepsi or Coke
Living or Existing
A system of binary choices
acts as a deterrence model
which suppresses radical change

The symbols become the real
The reproduction becomes the real
The simulation becomes the real

There is no such thing as Center
There is no such thing as center
There is no such thing as “center”
Soiled vital waters
fetid air, putrid eyes
enshrouded in their mess
pray your savior at mass.
Parched throats of children
skyscrapers of greed to worsen
Apocalyptic weathers.

Laughable leaders
******* you whole
you nodded to their role!
A nation forming fighters
Renegades! Ink traded for
a green and gregarious grenade
and in theaters, more horror and gore.

Curl up in bed with your ***** fingers
Ignore the insisting despair that lingers
Unattainable towers of desire
Sketching lines in your petty quire
Shout out to your flag carried by jocks
Olympic games of hardened idiots
Humans on paper, hideous grey flocks.

Sectarian society silenced by dollar signs
stupidly suffering the absurdity of this all
Lather your body in perfumes to find you whole
wash away the stench of your indifference
Gulping down whatever nectar of horrendous hope
Willingly treading down a meaningless lethal *****
Even our dying Earth won’t bend your deterrence!

August 29, 2018
Lyon
Poetical anger
Ashley Feb 2018
Do you choose or will you blame this on fate?
Your insolence is inescapable
And yet I allow thee to deprecate
Myself till I become incapable.

With such malice it cannot be legal,
Abusing ignorance, I must comply.
You call me chicken instead of eagle
So I dig, peck, and scratch when I could fly.

Departing once I realized your lies,
Fleeing with haste, there was zero forbearance.
So arrogant it took you by surprise,
that I did not heed your crude deterrence.

I will return one day, not to abhor
but to demonstrate, how high I can soar.
Engraving the grave of love

A stone cold cheek kiss
That brought back no bliss
I dreamed the day of the dead’s
Carnival plebeian fire
Round the two winged heads
Of Notre Dame more than, ****
Your own ancient love pyre
The sky, navy, anew, whispering, sighing.

We didn’t babble, my beat up heart
Constantly repeating “beat it!”
But my feet thought
This meant the sidewalk:
We marched, on and on
We walked, both alone
My heels echoing
Paris, clear, calm kept on calling.

The pathetic pictures of two pasts
Fading away fading fast
During the day of the dead, dealing
With this tepid, torn, tarnished time
Last night I bet and bargained a dime
With my deterrence– a dime turned dove
“Fly away, Paris is no place like home, to love! “

Sunday, November 1, 2015, Paris, Le Marais
Lyna Salman Aug 2020
The allure skies began to tremble
Before the horrible Bomb Dome
Beirut weared a wide black mantle
With moaning wounds in each home

As pigeons of peace died at duty
Beirut my ravishing moribund city
Revered for its destroyed beauty
The sky quivered in bustling pity

Ah, August 4 engraved in history
With mushroom clouds of doom
A massacre a monstrous blistery
Staining blood agony in every room

Steeling from many the innocent life
Yet the rest narrowly escaping death
Are actually dead suffering being alive
Are sorrowly alive in a poisoned breath

Victims chewed by the evil fallout
The epitaph can not return any life
Children cowered with a heavy shout
Hearts cringed as stabbed by knife

So many politicians and scientists
Enslaved to produce a conclusion
We do not need to see their tests
Their deterrence and bribed delusion

Anyone who made lives end
Is Satan, a monster, a real devil...
Nations say weapons are to defend
No! They only permeat their evil

∴ Lyna Salman
Ken Pepiton May 24
i.
"Why didn't you make it clear, prove your self?"
Maybe Bertrand Russell, an ashiest, anyway.
Vapours of smoke.
Signs of the times,
asked for during old days
in search of living dreams
on discovery of reason sought,
thinking what, in truth, declared
did the mighty king of Nineveh see?

Not the wondrous rescue
and return to mission, after three days
attested to
by the business
of Christianity, testing hearers
of words, logical words, if this, then that,

hold, hold this thought, think imperative
faith in unseeable thinkable things,
only holds true the evidenced hope.
No if,
no sign but the Sign given Nineveh, the preaching
of Jonah, whose fish story was not mentioned ---

And what remedy remains for the sign seeker,
not the rising from the dead, or the monstors
from the depths of hope deferred…?

ISIS actually hammered the Assyrian Lion to dust,
yet we have video and can see the symbol's self
evinced in illiterate prisoners of holy interpretations,

in the spirit of the destroyer, hater of hateful things,
holy ordo of bulls over lions, elephants over ***'s assets.
Where no peace is, I say,
Isaiah says Peace, Peace is ai ah, aight

---------- channel enough water of life, chi
in essence, mistaken for brute force mastery,
spirit in a child, or a colt or a pup, or most carnivores,
tamable by reinforcement learning, habituation holdover
appetites control the will, as we all must learn, control
or be controlled, such are life's lessons, learned
time after time, as seasonal patterns reflect
cosmic realities, in terms of carnivorous
reasons for wars against Caine's kind,
tillers of trees and weeds and grasses,
beaters and rhetters of fibres,
twisters of threads and cords and ropes,

platers of hairs,
weavers of warm soft things…
fabricating knacks aquired taught,
re
fabricating first after all was lost, now
once more, we begin when nothing is known

true enough to **** for.

--------------------

ii.
Simple conversation,
making knowable a mystery hid,

between the lines, truly hiding hoped for
signs like unto those witnessed
in Nineveh, at the doing
of the logical, logos presented as fact,

repent or perish, no fish story needed,
the miracle is that the whole    
population did turn from sin,
- as it is writ it was done, indeed…
apparently… reconnecting to the way
and the truth and the life, by choice,
turning back to the global cosmic reality.
Awe.
As we agree touching anything…
seeing seems believed hormonally.
Apparition, as a reified image of a scene,
let us imagine using words alone, asking,

in hope of clarity, focus, point of preaching
single point attention pre paid, point made
look away from the legerdemain stream
of stories told to children, seriously since
ever there was a wizard learned in ritual
lost when the walls of the temple fell,

as witnessed by a professional watcher
seeing as from an NPC,
all the setting of this scene…

Here we be,
you and me,
I am thinking you exist, as yet
you may not, you know, my then,

when I choose to use my worth,
my treasure in this life, my ready
made mind making - up, up know,

you know? We declare, I do, so go

find the next lie you continue to hold
self-evidently true, by virtue of you

thinking it, filtered through all you
hold true by rule of laws, nature
and nature's god, empowering
time to carry our burdens,

letting go the unclean spirit,
the devouring demonstratives,

chicanery for entertainment, magic,
imagine that we all know what magic

is, or was in olden times, when men
called prophets and soothsayers
foretold according to the signs,

auspices, gut symbolic evidence, woe
or weal, go forth, and conquer,
take all that belongs to mind,

leave all that lingers in the brain
to run the works while we seek

true demonstratives, imperative
upon us, indeed, not word alone.

Seeing the whole accumulated known
universe infested as Josephus's
translator saw Jerusalem,

as the last temple fell… ask

is this that, or was that all command
decision from the power that denies
free will, as if you have no choice
to know, or remain unknowing,

innocently ignorant, never having
certainly set the angle's azimuth

at the level of the reader's witness
plain, across time and chance
through now in no time to then,

when the first scribe, wrote
the first rule, from memory.

Fear God and keep his imperatives.

Oh? Exoterica, meanings of things,
Thoth thoughts sought and found,
given Solomon by Sheba, we may say,

and you might agree, thinking we know.

We may believe we do, but believing
does not make what we believe true.

----------- The art in thinking I know
imagining, bringing to mind another's

reason for, cause of declaration, you know?

Seven ideas more twisted and tangled
than was the first fear of falling away
from present tense, now and then,

true, as seen
from an innocent by-stander,
POV witnessed
in the storied way, read, you see.
Ready, now, this is ever after that.



iii.
Thoughts on stores of knowns
to be remembered, as knowns shown,
on stone as images graven 3-d as seen
projected vision reflected in or on or from,
we, a we of you and me, at minimum,
we know a reason for the ag-agag

hesitation to keep breathing, in and out,
in time's long line of stored reasons for
by the agreement grouping pattern,
we
see, instances, occurences, accumulate
interruptedly, we have witnessed intial loss

of significance in ISIS, as a sound said since
ancient of days, only the redhat entities,
can be imagined to hold as appearing
clearly evincing any lie disputing true
declaratives, ala Aimee, This is that,

the mystical money making leading
into twistedness too tight to loose,
chosen wholeness, usnonothern,
select elect
we, the participants in this epic effort
to take away a veil, an artifice,
effectual ignorance imposed
supposed to focus the chi
cognate in any warring li-e
see, we coknow so many
mysterious reasons
for faith we hold true, in word,
indeed, in wisdom tested, twice,

nice and fine, infinite instances
of yes,
that exact thing, exactly re-enacting

iv.
- dingalingading

So, Mickey, how does it feel,
to be free, in the public domain,

whistle for a while,
think in tinkling musing, using
musical wills given patterns, remind

remember, becoming a knower of un-
known knowns one may know now, free,

BHATTACHARJEE , calls me, no lie,
at yon line end, I am called by my
Psychiatrist, attending to my
mental health, interrupting
my fantasy with tinkling chimes,
actually reminding me, my calendar
is written on wrong, BHATTACHARJEE
points out, to me,
I see, I said, yet
now… that can never matter, save
I use it poetically licentiously.

Mickey Mouse excuse, per use, in spirit,
in mind, exercise in more than one may
think, or ask, yet,
asking while accepting good enough
is enough to use,

making do, getting by on minimums,
most winters, remembering when we
were poor and made permanent refugees

For Jesus sake, then Allah's, the science
of the mind warring reasons for all wars,

money loved for money's sake, interesting
times, seasons measured, emperically,
as once was the writing only spoken,

dreamers dreamed, interpreters told,
children listened and imagined knowing

knowing growing beyond our fears,
through oral obligations required
for acceptability, remember
require order normalize
actualize eventuation

right now, we used
use to say, indeed, we think…

we know what group pledges,
oral recitations of golden rules,
and repetitionings for deliverance
do
due to oaths long made self evident,
We all swore, on our own life's pledge
of aliegiance to a Socratic republic form
of mental norm tyranny socially entertained,

aggregational wedomains accrue as we imagine,
herds of ruminants,
packs of canines,
prides of felines,
hordes of rodents,
flocks of flying scavengers

spirits, characters, powers that seem

and oceans and wind
and hard and soft
and flex and snap bo'
realization, at an insistent, knot, loosed
thread of all my reasoning remaining, why
should I imagine your reasoning drawing wrong
excuses for the uses words are put to, in real life.

Enchanted evenings,
entrancing commands taken to this point
imperitive
we've made up a mind, an awesome form
informative up to a point, instantiated from
as crossing over or under or through a rough
time
to come alive.



v.
-------------
The engined pens imaginable now,
since Mickey was animated and empowered
demonstrate the weapons of war in imagination,
are not invincible to pens as powered mind makers
we use to take an objective
position, while beguiled by the politics. used
to represent the glorified reification function
children used to make Velveteen Rabbits real,
as ways are made where no ways were,
rabbit trails through Jungleland,
fringes
on a red-haired Judaic kid,
at Disneyland, when it was imagined
by many
to be
at that moment
of American greatness, again

The Happiest Place in the World, which is small,
after all, who am I
to be heard
by the likes of you, first world tech users
of the freest reusable theories
of worth,
in the opensource public domain,
aggie testing 'tractor attention
pull of mindshare in the moment
measured priceless
in mental connection tension,
held for a thousand line test, hook

!Þorny issue, misperceived precept, clearly shown
evincing convincingly old monstorous enormities…
now, knowing where this is all going, those
are powerless meaningless metadata
in free will mindspacetimes
fabricated using ready readers ready to bet the worth

of the push to the pull, ag ag agree aggressively

loose dis-belief, use the kid inside, the pain, sorry,
there, there, that kid, you did call a ***, sorry,
I did not know your grandma had the tat.

Thank you for writing, but your reason for war
is still invalid in the Peaceful Kingdom, on Earth

as expected,
any day now, right, any day  

vi.
---------------
Recalcitrant inculcations,
kicking back at prideful goads,

go up, thou bald head, go up,
yes, there were such sayings,

seeing the smoke of evil deeds,
world witnessed, as all wars are now,
we need only wish to see, and see we do,
and when the algorithms insist testing we do
persists to show some interest, agging on,
test me more,

how much is the attention paid a thousand books,
were one to pay for it with social interaction,
participation in the great debates,

do old lies live, or do old patterns follow
seasonal guidelines in cosmic time.

Today, I watched a pine tree grow,
where I had stairs built between stones,
and I wondered how few folks have such scales.

Today, I watched a gopher clearing a hole,
where the old swing set holds a hammock,
and I wondered how many folks have such scales.

Relatively complex life goes on
whether many notice, or only you.


vii.
Reasons used by or
imagined, in story, Cortez,
came from Cuba, Night of Sorrows,

Spanish Reconquista Minds for War,
Jesuitical ferver birthed already,
whither came the terror of wars reason

cannibalists, ritual abnormal geomancy

take the captives for sacred making,

meet the explosive force of knowing
how magic really functions in life,

explosive possibilities, any shred
of evidence, any knowledge lost,

comes to mind once more under
upright standing armies of guardians
called by justice to know the truth,
and defend against the hatred
sown and grown to righteous
use of hate, to spite the peace made.

Each season. From total war to total war,
as our mindspacetime presents itself,

as the end in urban centers draws near,
hear the prophets of doom, doubt not,

but believe the idea that believes
Donald's team is GOD's good side.

But peace passing the weight of destruction,
remains taken for free… peace of mind,
during games of holy terror, with nukes.

viii.
If we were to cease warring,
stop where we are, empty our prisons,
and distribute the national debt to the planet
as credit due to generational over payment,
-- when warriors learn the terms, winning
having
being done, indeed, first, merest gentle
touch of the individuating brush,
by which bards bid characters
appear as seen in vision,
here, where evidence emerges
feel *** heros are being called to arms,
for truth, or old reasons holy folk use for war,

Oy, the Reacher, Tom Cruise sized, on TV,
warning my god mocking spirit by assuring me
truth is not mocked, as we agree, God must be
truth or nothing ever is, and we know,
something happened,
e-motives hate
for peacemakers acting where no peace
was imaginable, while
in an orderly state of ego, epluralized.

The End of Everything happens every day,
each one bit of our whole wedom, has
one chance to wake, and be, doing your
bit in the skit, until tomorrow,
accepting no anxious thought
no sense of seriousness, no sense
of war being a functioning solution
to certainty that madness must be hated,
and gentleness despised…
hush the focal point in courage,
become the peace past next
hush a negative imperative,
magic, settled, taken
chance to smother
force of hatred
fanned, in frontal mirrors,
encrusted darkly using alchemy
of uses fruited knowings held close.

The game is played for money.
Life wins, when money becomes
significant of nothing, one way
or another,

breathe, or

call all peace gone,
and find a global mind, kind of like,

this one, deterrence spending reflective terror,
revenge, righteous vengeance, now is ours,
say the defenders
of the faith that war works.

Peace in one mind is just like peace in mine,
thinking breathe

ix.

Nay, stay thy will.
Warring creature pushing me,
making me grit my teeth and imagine,

at the core of all a man stands for, imagining
heros from prophecy and umph from many trials,
all to win the part, where the head of the snake,
is spoken of as did the messenger from perfection,

when resetting the whole idea we agree to be leaving
possible with the laws of physics and common sense,

full spectrum, standard bell curves among wordform
information entities used with muses to expand
bubbles of innocense and pockets of ignorance.

As the will of our wedom is done, on earth,
in the air we breathe and have our behavior in.
As wise as all serpentine forms.
Harmless as doves, in our right minds.
A companion prequel used as we yoost to imagine, using absinths

influence by Aldous Huxley The Perrenial Philosophy
Bob B Feb 2019
Wow! Here we go again:
The FBI stopped a crime,
Preventing a screwy miscreant
From mass killings just in time.

A Coast Guard lieutenant he was
Who loves Russia's autocracy
And neo-**** literature,
Which threaten our democracy.

He had the names of Democrats
And media figures on his list,
Along with a stockpiled arsenal--
This crazed domestic terrorist.

Advocating violence,
He’s published words of hate and fear:
He would do his part in order
To make a "white homeland" here.

In our current environment,
Where vitriol is a daily occurrence
In presidential tweets and no
Criticisms provide deterrence,

The president's hateful attacks on reporters
Should truly sound an alarm bell.
He says, "I HATE some of these people.
But I would never **** them…WELL…"

So unfit for office he is,
He doesn't even realize
The impact of his messages--
The lives his words jeopardize.

He can’t seem to help himself
Or see his own contradictions.
The country is filled with crackpots who
Eat up all of his crazy fictions.

It took Trump a week to speak out
Or mention the seriousness of this case.
Why so long? Heaven forbid
He anger extremists among his base!

-by Bob B (2-25-19)
CJ Sutherland Mar 12
We The People need Assistance
If the President has nothing to hide
Test him to see, what’s going on inside
Does he have his Full capacity, his wits?
Will it explain his confused rage, his fits?
Has dementia, set in, cognitive decline?
The President’s acuity, what will be find?
The world is watching

We The people need. Assurance.
His hands are on the nuclear foot ball
Is he able to make the judgment call
American people For one and all
Congress Senators in The White House Hall
The world is watching

We The people need. Assurance.
We can’t have any deterrence
Word errors are a normal occurrence
The world is watching

We The People need. Assurance.
Democrat party what is your platform?
Evil is Rising, brace for the coming storm
Democrat party, Is your plan sound?
Our nation is on shaky Ground

Are you the president who can,
   Turn, The United States around?

Candidates ulterior motives, to a new low
Demean principles, how low will they go?
We are sick of opponents brow beating
We will not put up with voter cheating
We are not interested in race baiting
Undetermined Voters are waiting
We The people need reassurance
The world is watching
(2)words BLT Webster’s Word of the Day
3-12-24 ULTERIOR  describes things, usually motives, objectives, reasons, agenda that are kept hidden in order to achieve a particular result.
Second word of the day
2-27-24
DEMEAN
To lower character ,status ,reputation,. Demeaning the seriousness of a person.
Earthen Heart Nov 2020
Staring at my phone, feeling kind of alone, getting a little ******.
It’s ok to be on my own at night, there’s glow from the moon light.
Although I don’t see her yet, I must not fret
Over the lack of her face, she’ll soon present me with grace;
Showing me in all her glory what’s the meaning of this story.
Wondering what it’s all about, head often filling with doubt;
Sometimes overcome with fear when the vision isn’t clear.
It’s been blurry due to thoughts being in such a hurry.
Always on the go, but not often in a meditative flow
Or honoring the moment as I should because the divine owns it
And so much in it is blessed.
Why do I feel stressed? Depressed? Out numbered?  Outweighed?
I still often feel shame, or lost, as if I don’t know my own name.
My identity is in constant fluidity.
This is just me, maybe it’s how I’m meant to be...
As long as I survive, live and thrive
In one way or another. Give love to my mother,
A gift for her upon my birth, Entering Earth.
And then I looked into her eyes, asking her my consistent “why’s”
Until it seemed in vain to repeat the same
Question over and over again upon realizing that I need to begin
Listening to the answers inside my heart, allowing the uncertainty to finally depart.
And here comes my father, who’s words have helped me get stronger.
Told me not to give up, told me not to stop
Simply due to frustration And a combination
Of my own lack of confidence and consciousness.

The stars in the sky tell me everything will be fine.
It’ll be okay, I won’t be led astray.
Comfort the light brings as the cicadas sing
In the tree tops and the fear stops.
I can breathe in the air, feel the earth beneath;
Sometimes life isn’t fair.
Despite the darkness who stares Into my soul, I’ll again become whole
If that’s what I seek; The truth I wish to hear speak
Once more to my heart space.
All that’s required is to trek on through the muck and the mire.
I was once wild until I lost touch with my inner child:
The adventurer within.
And it slowly begins to sink in that I found her here
In the absence of fear.
Engulfed in the night, it’ll be alright.

“Remember to pray, it really helps.
Look in the mirror
And say you love yourself.
Rewrite your story.
The journey itself is the point.”

With the intention for spiritual freedom and heart healing
I departed to the woods for their good tidings.
No expectations but love from the trees,
Themselves and their falling leaves
to the Earth’s floor.
I remember now -
From the Earth’s floor is where I find my freedom,
The kind the Divine Kingdom brings to the wandering soul
Seeking out the presence of it;
The shining light within the darkness, the darkness itself...
The one I no longer run from
Because I do not fear
For the path is illuminated,
Clear to walk on
As the vegetation is free to grow all around
With no tread trampling upon it.

The fear within to begin
Was only a deterrence from that which the soul desires
For often reoccurrence.
Rewrite your story;
Remember the mystical drive on the parkway that came again today.
Fog ahead, fog in the mirror.
And I finally hear her voice echoing to the depths of my being:
You’re no longer alone as this Earth we both roam
Together heart to heart, we never part.

Love is here. Love is clear. Get into gear. Get out of fear.
KorbydAngyle Aug 2022
Though you believe what undulated sense;
  front for the sorrows you hold
Immediate hallow holds
  of the voracious viable virtues you've known
Lies in the first step; a divination, on the worlds of freedom hacked,
  led astray
These folds of belligerent eternity  viable,
  hurt now kills enviable struts of moments delay
Am I death cause and curses, fellowship of hope returning
Or am I darker practices of a church denials, a bleak future
the worth for chains deliverance, nuance performing. blatant reality
   chasing hearth of platitudes of redemption...
What I have done? I will claim... let the Gods of
deterrence, fate and light, they may deny
That I holding a future, for my own sense of avail,
may withhold the affirmations the golden hues the springtime glory of all that remains,- in the ever truth is the altar of truth
.... Thus all that I've
Josh Aug 1
When the earth turns over
Dust will settle in
When nature takes back it's home
I'll search for you
In this wasteland,
Where grass now grows from cement
When people, now gone, are replaced by the sound
And silent air in it's lonesome

The vacant buildings will stand as haunting monuments
Casting grave shadows below upon their gaze
I'll search for you
In this endless cold,
Where damp filthy clothes become my skin
And the miles become weeks
And the weeks become years
I'll search for you

In each deserted town
In every empty car,
I'll scan  horizons and tree lines alike
The world will wait,
As weary and futile my deterrence
With the memory of your warmth, fueling my steps
And will serve as food among the starving

As the abandoned spreads,
Endless in it's sprawling
When there's nothing else that matters
When the worlds at and end,
When the only thought I have is your voice
I will search for you
Norbert Tasev Aug 2020
The given moment matures, grows and is beautifully fulfilled, the immortal radiance of the Universe with a cuneiform smile on radiant faces! Glorious-wreathed angels are now exchanging secret kisses with their beloved sweetheart: A miserable spark has ignited! "Now every coat is sprayed with ice-cold powdered sugar powder, silver lace is pulled over by bored aggastians: Giant Mountains!" "My shoes are treading treadingly on snow, and in every deliberate movement there is conscious fear and insecurity!"

He struggles with bitter drowsiness at night, still how the celestial image swirls with many cherry-lipped snowflakes; now I am not hunted by sanda s envious eyes. With my troubles-matured hoarfrost roof, my years are down, it seems to be multiplying! With its diamond teeth, Winter sinks its metallic claws into me. Unhappy happiness also dreams of new opportunities!

In my hand, the pen is still guarding more and more modestly - I don't even know: How long? And he had to wake up in the midst of squeaky whiplashes - it was like the bitter reality: to seek bread without embezzled opportunities! The proliferation of pain and disappointed self-pity self-pity will not abort you - you can't even forget it, but if you don't take care of yourself as a secret guardian, you will be digested pretty slowly.

For greater deterrence is idleness, and what comes with it: It must be pushed up and thrown away like junk ******* in the trash: As the mortality of dust grains, man smuggles biological traces into the fertile gardens of happiness.

— The End —