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Bus Poet Stop Jun 2018
~for those who will read this and weep~

the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-Job experience

localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!


the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life *****” advertisement

I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs


summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created

so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)


but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early


got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind

these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived
Nylee Mar 25
What is buried so deep inside
A memory so entwined
many lines and differing angles
The same frame can be seen
Differently with different lenses
Different outcome for every scene
Can alter all the things
And I would not remain
as the person I am
Sutherland Jan 9
The waves pull part,
our sails fill,
our ships depart.
Off you crest,
the marble's arch.

Away, away,
the swirling mass steals thee.
Away, Away,
my sail steals me.

To opposite bay.
To differing stars.
The infinite plane,
the blue in the bars.

Away, away,
oh, gem of the sea.
Away, away,
me.
This has caught a lot of attention so I’ll give a background as I do with my other poems. My significant other and I are separated most of the year by work and study. I wrote this days ago when she left again.
“The love betweenness^ a mother and her son”
when it’s healthy strong and ancient,
like this, is for me, and it seems,
for you as well, almost a supernatural force in certain ways.
I know many other women who understand this.
It’s been probably the best surprise of my life.” Medusa

sometime, a poem commission needs a quiet time rumination,
a seventh inning time out to birth a perfect game,
a mental stretch mark,
did your know your commentation was a commandation,
write me up, punch my ticket and jump back into murky waters,
where a hu-man boy child only gifted me a tertiary imagination, comprehensive incomprehension

this look upon differing and different, parenting parts of me,
with the bright den mother’s sun gazing eyes of a new motherland,
promotion to an incessant guardianship,
an ordered mathematical centrality,^
a forever buck private’s uniform shoulder stripe pointing to mom

maternal rhymes with eternal

for children go off and go on about their lives,
occasionally glancing backwards,
but a mother’s eyes are an all encompassing, an all white canvass painting that the artist continue-ously slyly forward refreshes,
forever white repainted with each perpetual glancing thought added

this mother woke, sensing her make-male creation
is a gender separate separation,
a mystery needing learning, genes requiring a crisper adult education, a breast refilling is a sharing, eye to eye,  
****** to mouth, transferring a transformation,
between a new meaningful, an analogy of understanding that
swims in both directions, across a uniting natural division that unites,  better called an open boundary

daughters are different but the insanity~same,
a poem for another day

a supernatural surprise that occurs daily,
that you rightly appel it, as ancient  is correctly unsurprising
for the knowledge is in every cell recorded, time immemorial

apologies;
my insufficient words
can’t explain this
dotted line division,
only that, I too am a student driver mother,
my son, a teacher,  a natural scholar,
the understanding we shared is instantaneous and confusing,
as we go back and forth together,
travellers tween the dotted line spaces,
absorbing his milky ways,
informations that were not obviously ****** in me, or if they were,
awaited this suckling’s coronation and education, invitation


our differences are not a true division,
but a new manner of best embracing

which is why with good humor, our private joking, is that he
is my very own  nap-ster master,^^ we are an ordered centrality^
march 31 2019 9:37am
^Definition of betweenness
: the quality or state of being between two others in an ordered mathematical set

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2714533/texas-my-very-own-nap-ster-
master/
sir humbug Jul 2018
one more for Joni and the one who accuses me of
"owning the courage to care so blatantly."

<:>
accused of writing with blatant courage,
a  4 credit requirement for caring

blatant is a word of merger -
open obvious unsubtle and unashamed

and a dissembling misleading one!

it is all of these  and yet can be a contradictory mask of
opposing, differing faces

my blatant is none of these
but appearance only

**** muses keep me coming back
to a particular lyric,
keeps seeking me out, so successfully, wherever I go,
I hear it
it’s invading my both sides now

the dizzy dancing way you feel

you think I have my own blatant courage, untrue!
so oft you mistook my dizzy dancing,
all fluff all humbug so obvious so ashamed,
a cover up, a most subtle cosmetic pretense of the truth -
  of
no courage at all
and yet (they mock)
you do care...

just another of my peculiar
life’s illusions
(self-delusions)

  I really don’t have blatant courage at all
ryn Oct 2014
Are we fated to dance to the same tune alone in our separate universes?
Is it true that we must silently keep to our preordained curses?

Are we destined to swoon at the beauty of the moon at differing time slots?
Why were we given invisible ink to connect our lives' dots?

Must it be that our lives revolve around the whims of the sun?
Isn't it ludicrous that we won't see the intricate webs we've spun?

Was it the plan that we exist only in our minds and hearts?
Why do we have to tolerate starting when the other's ending and end at the other's starts?

Has it been written that we can only afford to infinitely chase each others heartbeats?
Was it foretold that we're trapped in a singular notion that never really fits?

Is the game set as such that we can never emerge as winners?
How is it that the ocean was made out of our tears that flowed from rivers?

Why is it that with our entirety we believe but do not know?
What's the reason for the path made clear but we're too afraid to go?

What does it entail to possess the very least but yet you covet it the most?
How do you pride yourself in something but not allowed to boast?

Why do we frantically scramble to piece together jagged shards?
Can't we just play this blasted deck of lousy cards?

Is it destiny or cruelty to have found then lost?
Why does it seem absurd that we have all its takes but can't afford the cost?

Is it the thoughts that **** or the emotions that debilitate?
Is it the challenges we take on or the curveballs we anticipate?

Why bother when sheer folly is all it seems to be?
Why tarry when the heart is free and the mind is ready?

Is it ridiculous to have found myself still very bothered?
Is it wrong to question fate that had always bound us tethered?

Why is the good always bad and the bad becomes worse?
Is it true that the harder we fight, the deeper we immerse?

Has life turned to be but sad little rhetorics?
Are we but performers on stages coerced into theatrics?

Is it time for me to surface this one-man submarine?
Will it be so that if I do, my journey would then begin...?
A host of rhetorical questions from my older writes...

"Surface this one-man submarine"  isn't mine... It's Brandon Boyd's.
Taken off Incubus' " Love Hurts"
Nat Lipstadt May 2015
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...

that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows the when and why of differing
cuddling styles...

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows when to leave a man alone
alone in his man-mourning time,
distance needed,
letting his ex-rage dissipate or
watching his red and blue football
redefine ignominy...

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when the man low whistles, eyes adrift,
she heartily agrees and is
reciprocity rewarded regularly
with hunk alerts of
"hey-check-him-out!"

that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
a tigress in the bedroom
she asking, try this, I'll love it,
served with a desert demo of awkward afterward,
his less-than-perfect cuddling abilities

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who doesn't abhor partner silences,
comforting they are, in their own ways,
lying side by side, interrupted only by peccadillo body noises unexpected and
sheepish apologies and loving arm stroking

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who lets the man roar, top of voice,
when imprisoned in car,  
his voice, un enfant terrible,
performs with Creedence Clearwater
a sing-a-long in traffic, asking
"Have you ever seen the rain"
while amidst Israel-leaving-Egypt
Sunday beach traffic on the L.I.E.

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
when it's pheromones  alternative mode day,
he celebrates Carole King day,
she demonstrates her cuddling abilities,
par excellence, with kisses and tissues

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...

a woman, plain confident in her abilities
no matter the situational status,
when confronted by
less-than-crazy-impetuous,
she smiling says "why not,"
when he proposes,
a movie and dinner in a fav haunt?
"plenty excellent enough" her answer,
spoke in a rising voice
full of unfeigned delight

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
accepting the unexpected airport embrace
on a moving sidewalk, unexpected delays
with the aplomb of a well lived life's
long term sustainability perspective

when he kisses her hand for no reason,
while driving 75 miles per hour,
she only winces internally,
the other hand vise-grasping
the other door's handle,
who brushes hair wisps in a dark movie,
celebrating her Bathsheba Everdeen's
duality of strength and tenderness

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when on second date he proposes
a non-exclusive relationship,
confident enough to high-five respond,
and laugh about it,
seven years on

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when she reads it,
analyzing the oeuvre as
"too **** personal and
as usual
too **** long"



that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her
cuddling abilities
in everything...
even a little occasional criticism
Entirely fictional, of course.

L.I.E. is the Lomg Island Expressway, a/k/a, the longest parking lot in the world.
Red and blue football team, the NY Giants.
Bathsheba Everdeen from Hardy's "Far From the Madding Crowd."
Alternate song choice, the Eagkes "Take It Easy."

Inspired by this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/05/10/style/modern-love-tinder-swiping-right-but-staying-put.html?rref=collection%2Fcolumn%2Fmodern-love&contentCollection;=style&action;=click&module;=NextInCollection®ion;=Footer&pgtype;=article
first I smell myself.

the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings


then I smell herself.

sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure

then I smell our sharings.

lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh

then I smell our combinations.

the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem

it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite


Friday, March 29 2019
Aroma olp musk balsamic paprika sea salt ***** martini olp
Yenson Apr 20
What does a Prince
have in common with some fake stooge
pretending to be an Asian in Mumbai
but for oxygen
Prince doesn't need a Chia Wallah
and they belong to differing caste
stay below as you've always been
you are not important
This is about Rajarandu  Bandirajastan, a poet that attended a poets workshop I was at, who writes the most ridiculus poems and seem to think he makes sense, he was an old colonial servant who was slimy, sly and has pretentiousness in abundance. I have since discovered his brother visits this site and hopes he recognizes his sibling.
Johnny walker Jan 11
Whilst differing In mind last night somewhere trapped between asleep and awake visions flowing through my head of times that have long since passed me
by
Whilst laying on my bed somewhere between reality and fantasies and finding I no longer no the difference between the too think I spent to much time walking In my
dreams
I need to come back to reality to live again In the
real world, for now I've probably used all my dreams up unless I can dream some more then It's back to reality I
go
Sometimes admit spend so much time  between dreams fantasies reality don't know what I'm In, but sooner or later later reality It will have to be
Andrew Dec 2018
You’re a shooting star
Disappearing afar
Once I realize what you are
From inside of my car
Traversing the tar

In an ocean of dark matter
The monotony you shatter
Then just as quickly scatter
Leaving my world flatter

Your aerial displays
Through varying ways
Are like bullet strays
That leave me phased
Missing the sun’s rays
In a delirious daze

You’re like a lit cigarette hitting the ground in space
And your embers fall like freckles upon my face
Burning my view of the entire human race
After you disappear without a trace

You’re a diamond on fire
Flying somewhere higher
Somewhere I’d expire
I say you’re debris in the air
So I don’t have to care
You won’t allow my stare
Towards your elusive flare

My understanding of you is slippery
When you’re always in my periphery
Acting like a total mystery
In an atmosphere differing
From mine here on the ground
Living in my desolate town
Looking like the moon all around
Inside a vacuum of sound

I yearn for the beauty
Of seeing you shooting
It’s somehow soothing
But also dooming
With no one clueing
Me in on how to find you
Or even how to define you
But I imagine the divine choose
And that’s how I know I’ll lose
Can be found in my self published poetry book “Icy”.
https://www.amazon.com/Icy-Andrew-Rueter-ebook/dp/B07VDLZT9Y/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Icy+Andrew+Rueter&qid=1572980151&sr=8-1
Cristi Jun 2017
♡♡♡


"TEACHINGS ADVISE AGAINST FORMING ATTACHMENTS."
To avoid it as much as possible;
Nothing or no one is guaranteed to last forever.
One must avoid materialistic ambition and luxurious desires,
Blink and rub away their hungry, dollar sign eyes.
Greed and longing for possessions that are often obtained
To impress people that do not even care about you
For one could never place a numerical value
On the breathtaking

                                              wonde­r

                                              that

                                              is

                                              you.
  

♡♡♡


"ATTACHMENT TO PEOPLE LEADS TO DISAPPOINTMENT."
One cannot rely on another for happiness;
For people may leave you, abandon you, hurt you.
You cannot ever truly know someone's thoughts and feelings;
Whether their ill intentions and snake eyes are hidden well
Behind pearly whites and cold, empty embraces.  
Those who you would gladly endure hardships for,
Bleed, cry, sweat, fight, suffer for,
Could abandon or betray you whenever they choose;
Thus, ultimately

                                              leaving­

                                              you

            ­                                  truly

                                              empty.


♡♡♡


"Y­OU SHOULD FIND HAPPINESS WITHIN YOURSELF."
For you will always be there for you;
A simple guarantee that is overlooked and forgotten
As one's perspective shifts from minimalism to materialism.
Love the way you capture thoughts and ideas,
   The way you intertwine two differing sides of your brain with ease
   Intelligence, creativity, peculiarity and individuality is exercised
   In the imagination of your bewildering, complex mind.
Love the way your physical body safeguards your untamable spirit,
   The way it coats the essence of your being in a protective shell
   Like the undying tenderness each speck of stardust
   Has for the immensely astonishing galaxy that it composes.
Love the way you are able to feel raw, passionate love
   That ****** and tugs at your delicate heart strings
   And gallops down each vertebrae of your spine
   In a jolt so vigorous that your mind, body, and spirit
   Unite to form an explosive feeling that can only be experienced
   When you watch her jaw drop in awe at the beauty that is

                                              within

                                              a

                                              fiery

          ­                                    sunrise.


♡♡♡


I SUBMERGE IN THE INTRICATE BEAUTY THAT SURROUNDS ME.
I become deeply infatuated, captivated, inspired
At the mesmerizing magnificence that constructs a single being.
It may just simply be my tendency to pay attention to detail
As a perfectionist's mind can appreciate small things
Oftentimes timidly, quietly, and from afar,
But nonetheless immensely deep and passionately
To the point where I cannot find words for such beauty;
The most I can do is curl the corners of my mouth upwards
And allow an exhilarated sigh to

                                              escape

                                              my

                                              parted

         ­                                     lips.


♡♡♡


I WANT TO CONTINUE LOVING, UNDERSTANDING, AND CONNECTING.
Hopes, dreams, fears, thoughts, personalities, quirks, mannerisms;
Every single aspect of a being who I am blessed to exist with
Sparks a curiosity in me that is unmovable and insatiable.
It gently takes my hand and journeys me through an alluring dance
Of exploration, adoration, and understanding
Spinning and swaying to music that reverberated in our unified souls,
Who's tune and melody sparked and crackled
Magma and fire in our core,
Who's beat and rhythm soothed and eased
Streams of water through our veins
Until we

                                              collapsed

                                              in

                                              the

                                              most

                                              beautiful

                                              way.


♡♡♡


I have never felt so free,

So happy,

So alive.
Sophia descends the cotton-white corridor
That icy Reason shall be more than celebrated;
Descends to remind that all is nothingness,
That a thing of beauty is not a joy forever,
Nor an evil as evil as it appears,
Flowing dried leaves into balletic swirls,
Forming peaceful choirs of phantom snow,
And lays her Robe of Grace upon the human soil,
And smiles her return to the stars.

The people, saddened by her silken flight,
Strangely droop in awe, unable to perceive
The merciful white of Her Light and Robe.
"Why has She abandoned us? Where is our globe?
Why are we frenzied, and waltz with unease
As the wind whispers its snowy requiem to the trees?
We are captive in a crowded room, all alone,
In a hysterical white of cubic monotone.
Oh Sophia, airy Wisdom, where and why have You flown?
We forever try and forever fail, ever bent to beg,
Like frustrated clowns playing Ping-Pong with an egg."

The bubbling of orange words shakes their sky:
"What of eternal Chaos that dances out its infant star?
Knowing the dance, how then can you and eternity be very far?
Why make false beliefs the extensions of your simple eyes
When simple physics tells you to rationalize?
To be divinely free and never alone,
You must see the dancing love in a slate of stone.
The star, the human, the insect - all are children of wonderment
Disguised in differing degrees of order or arrangement.
A whiter soul cannot be nor come about;
It unveils itself slowly, slowly sheds its doubt.
Since it has no corners, why imagine a room?
Why allow illusion to nurture your gloom?
Yet trapped by the senses and desires, your minds blindly spin and spin,
Hearing nothing save the tremulous sad persistence of a violin..."

The scattered Night darts their room;
Blades of blue skate on the walls, assuming the karmic Womb.
"What are we but puppets, animated dross?
What else but white-eyed gory dogs having seizures on the cross?
Let us be children playing with their Eden smiles,
Bouncing their dreams against the walls,
Melting away imagined corners with their inner Eye
To follow the long-evasive Butterfly.
Let us glide through the Light that laughs on the shimmering green,
Till dissolved into the Boundless of blue serene.

For we long have dreamt and dreamt
of drowning stars in the fathomless water
As its mirroring azure surface slept,
And felt as though each breath of space overhead
Had leapt.
We have dreamt of luminous globes in the nightly sky -
Each a receding echo of the Word,
Each space between the center breathing undisturbed -
And we cried, 'At last, no questions left to crucify!',
But woke to the dead surprise of the material dream,
Resuming our doubt and asking of many a useless theme.

Could we shun the beauty of a material thing?
Or shun the temptation to cling,
Knowing things come and things pass away
Under the bliss of God's eternal play?
Seeing these shadows undress
To reveal tranquillity and a little less?
Could we do our duties and not digress,
Waiting dumb and numb for God to bless?
No! Let's not wait for answers from the sky,
Nor attempt to squeeze Coca-Cola from a cow,
But rest content within the Self, gazing beyond the Fly
That diverts our Eye from the Now.
Let's fix our minds on the moment and be free,
Acting unattached in pristine clarity.
Clear... calm,
We shall become but music of the Halo's breath,
Unheard to those who only hear the bird."
This poem is included in my book "I Have Been Moved", which is available on Amazon for as little as 14 dollars (paperback). It was written in 1995, when I was 21.
SteamPhunk Oct 2018
I write poetry because... it is everything I will never be.
It is everything I wanted to say but never did.
Without it, I feel like scissors to violin strings.
Pulled apart, as if I was some case study, just waiting to be dissected.
Some unwanted biology lesson.
I pour my heart into these pages.
Crisp, white pieces of my mind.
Sometimes you just have to stop and observe the world.
Like you aren't in it.
Like you're watching some old black and white film.
Watching all your friends laughing together.
You feel as if you aren't in it.
The fact that you aren't there doesn't change a thing.
They're living their lives, all of them, together in that room.
While you watch.
Not alongside them.
Feeling as if life is truly a movie.
The other times you are part of this movie as a whole, you don't notice the other people who are all looking at the same things.
Thinking the same stuff.
That life is just a movie, with its actors and actresses, it's differing scenes.
It would easily go on without you if you didn't take place in it.
At that point, you realise that being afraid that somebody else will take your place, is irrelevant...
Cause somehow, everyone's place will be taken anyway, and that's because the movie is setting a new cast, and this time it's one thing you might not take place in.
Weird... I know.
Everything just seems to slot in perfectly without you there.
Almost like you were born into the wrong film.
Or handed the wrong script.
Like this isn't your life.
I attended a poetry event recently and left feeling so inspired that I couldn't help but write ( this is inspired by The Neighborhood song Afraid )
I welcome dissent,
Disagreement is vital,
To democracy.

Personal attacks,
Are also acceptable,
When grounded in truth.

Malicious attacks,
Are launched by liars to hide,
Inconvenient truths.

We must condemn lies,
Used to defame good people,
With differing views.
Johnny walker Mar 31
So strong was the smell of flowers today being Mother's Day such a beautiful sunny no
clouds
In the blue shy kind of day birds singing happy rejoicing of the fact that summer Is
here
I laid my flowers at my sweetheart's feet all graves around were covered In beautiful flowers perfume from the
flowers
differing through the air a thought crossed my mind
I though If I 
we're
to become resident on beautiful day that I wouldn't
mind
so peaceful and so very quite but for the birds who sing for all the residents
here
Birds are singing there gorgeous tunes for the residents and for my wife I laid flowers on her grave on this Mother's Day
Tony Tweedy Mar 15
I have spoken with young men,
who were forced to up and run.
Seen the wounds they carry,
from the barrel of someones gun.

I have Spoken with women,
women with tears in eyes that burn.
As they relate what was done,
because they wanted just to learn.

Ive seen teenage girls running,
in fear for their own lives.
Because someone has told them,
they must become someones wives.

I sat with the old men,
whose spirit would not yield.
And heard how rains of bombs,
were dropped upon their field.

I have heard the many stories,
of families torn apart.
Heard of those still missing,
and the pain in fragmented heart.

I've heard of persecutions,
because of the differing of views.
The scores of people disappeared,
without even making evening news.

I met with many others,
and watched and heard them pray.
Running in fear because for them,
it means death to live your life as ***.

I have talked with the children,
all facing life alone.
Parents not seen,
since the houses all got blown.

These most horrible of all things,
most of you will never see.
But someone needs to tell you
these are the lives lived for many a refugee.
So many stories.... be thankful of where you are born or live... I am.
This poem could have gone for pages more. I spoke with hundreds of asylum seekers over 13 years. edited 17th March 2019
Yenson Oct 2018
Criminal Gang Stalking

Definition:

The crimes committed through gang stalking an individual are covertly done, hence little in evidence is left behind of the crime, and the target is left with little in the way of resources to defend him or herself.

Isolation, through disrupting socio-familial ties in an intense slander campaign, is usually achieved once the actual stalking begins.

A pervasive slandering campaign takes place, projecting the target as an unstable individual, child molester, a person with hidden dark secrets, or a person prone to psychopathic behavior.

The criminals planning a gang stalking endeavor study the target long before the stalking begins. Psychological profiling is done, and this is to assist in the overall campaign that includes intense psychological harassments and demoralizations. Tactics used go well beyond fear, demoralization and psychological harassment.

The tactics used have been the protocol in campaigns against common people implemented by the KGB in Soviet Russia, Nazis of **** Germany, and the KKK in the early to middle of last century in America.

The accumulation of all the tactics and events in this dangerously hurtful organized crime against an innocent human being can led to trauma and will emotionally bankrupt the targeted individual, and may lead to death, as suicide is often induced through the assaults. The perpetrators of gang stalking are serious criminals who do great damage, and the acts done are very serious crimes by any measure.

Gang Stalking is a highly criminal campaign, one directed at a target individual, and one that aims to destroy an innocent person’s life through covert harassments, malicious slander and carefully crafted and executed psychological assaults.

Gang Stalking deprives the targeted individual of their basic constitutional rights and destroys their freedom, setting a stage for the destruction of a person, socially, mental and physical, through a ceaseless assault that pervades all areas of a person’s life.

What drives such campaigns may be revenge for whistle blowing, or for highly critical individuals, as outspoken people have become targets. Other reasons why a person may become a target individual for stalking: ex-spouse revenge, criminal hate campaigns, politics, and racism.

Gang Stalking may be part of a larger phenomena that may have loose threads that extent into a number of differing entities, such as government, military, and large corporations, though it is certain that organized crime is one of gang’s stalking primary sources, or origins.

The goals of Gang Stalking are many. To cause the target to appear unstable mentally is one, and this is achieved through a carefully detailed assault using advanced psychological harassment techniques, and a variety of other tactics that are the usual protocol for gang stalking, such as street theater, mobbing, pervasive petty disrespecting.

Targets experience the following :

A total invasion of privacy
Pervasive and horrific slander
Isolation through alienation that is caused by the slander. 4.Destruction of, or alienation from all things that the target holds dear.
Ground Work: A discrediting campaign is initiated long before the target is actually stalked. They, the criminal perpetrators, twist and fabricate reality through such a campaign, displaying lies that paint the target as a child molester, a person with hidden dark secrets, an highly unstable individual who may be a threat to society, a *******, or a longtime drug user, etc.

The slandering or discrediting campaign sets the stage for the target to become alienated in just about every social-familial- work environment, once the actual stalking begins. This slandering campaign is instrumental in eliminating all resource and avenue of defense for the target, before the actual stalking begins.

This stage is one that sees people close to the target, family, friends, neighbors, and co-workers recruited by the perpetrator criminals, who will pose as law enforcement officials, private investigators, or a groups of concerned citizens.

The Gang Stalking is aimed at achieving one or all of the follow:

induced suicide
financial devastation
homelessness
institutionalization in psyche wards
Once actual Stalking begins: The target will endure a vast array of tactics: gas lighting, street theater, drugging, gassings, scent harassment, mobbing, subtle but frequent destruction of property, killing of pets

Psychological profiling will be done so as to initiate an intense psychological harassment assault. Staged happenings and planned or directed conversations will take place around the target in public or places of work, and serves not only to undermine the targets psychology, but also may be used to cause the target to thinking that he or she is under investigation for horrific crimes.

Stalkers will have studied the target to such a level that they know and can predict the person’s behavior. Again, often the target will think that they are being investigated for crimes that would be absurd for the target to have actually committed. Not knowing what actually is happening, the target is isolated and lives through a never ending living nightmare.

Once the target finds out that they are a target individual for gang stalking, or multi stalking, they may have some relief, but from what I have read, the stalking simply changes dimensions a bit, and continues.

Identifying the exact people who initiated gang stalking campaigns is difficult, or near impossible, and this makes it very difficult for people researching this phenomena to discover, in certainty, the roots and genealogy of the crime. Investigation of a “Gang Stalking” crime would require a great deal of resources, and intensity similar to ****** investigations.
WHAT THEY DON'T WANT YOU TO KNOW....THIS IS THE TRUTH.

Background information, please read 'Where Is Justice' by same author on this site.
This horrendous situation is happening in our Great civilised Nation,
What is strange, after all
was said,
and done,

the story seemed
forgotten
and

no one idea remained alone, as an if,
a
possibility,
never even imagined, one,
which alone made
each
hap or happenible, imaginable as an aspect of reality
appear to
happen, in your reality,
now,
and this
happened to be, one possibility,
wit' me
and you In it. it
seems
we can't

discern a granular differing christalization,
for, we know, it
looks like one of us loosed the grip on knowing,
realizability, actual-al-ity, virtually,
for sure,
at eye level.
See
qubic zirconium looks like diamond,
to naked eyes,
in certain light;
and magic seems scientif, with at least
six spin opt-in on the
referendum
passed for truth to exist in California…

Prop. 13 covered us, property tax wise,
so this reality looks
as if it worked,
see,
the effort to not die, remember?

Life goes on.

This is all we got to make the best of.
Your guess, as good as mine, I bet,
it's worth breathing
again;

but don't **** me, if I'm wrong,
joke,
no worry.
I never was,
under
those circumstances, you are crazy.
Not me. Breathe.
It was scheduled for a Tuesday in August, 1970
Ben Tol Feb 13
Well.. Take: Two has fallen through,
Should they try for Take: Three? Or just let things be...
People say that the third times the charm, but is it worth the harm,
When the second crack of the whip made them lose their grip.

There's a heavy deposit of skeletons in their closet,
Without a shadow of doubt, once the dooors opened the demons will come flooding out,
No control of emotions, numerous times have they caused extreme commotions,
Surpressing their memories, has caused problems in a multitude of territories.

Each corner turned, has left them perturbed,
At the front of the race, constantly chased by disgrace,
Cannot evade the past, wearing a smile as a mask,
A negative mood is nigh on impossible to elude, when corrupted thoughts continuously intrude.

Reliant on a bottle to release their full throttle,
Narcotics are an escape, ingested to alter the view of their own mindscape,
An array of illicit highs, have been used to speed up or slow down time,
Multiple mental chokes, caused after ploom, after ploom of differing smokes.

The director has tried more than once to call cut, but that pathway was shut,
Family and friends shouting to not let the show end,
The final curtain was nearly drawn, but the show still goes on,
"You have to continue! Let the world know the talent that's in you!"
Out on the horizon from Iskeroon,
there are three rock formations, all
titled in Irish folklore.

Differing in size, with two together,
the other off apiece as if it were a
field, the bull, the cow and the calf.

There is a lighthouse on the former,
beckoning, I sometimes think, to the
others away in the distance.

It has is a certain pathos, to the scene,
especially in the night, when I apply it
to the reality of human beings.

We are all part of this analogy, away
on our own or isolated conjointly, it
can be simply, a reluctant symbiosis.

The sea has a certain sadness about
it, tidal debris has always given me this
feeling, an ocean of content, discarded.


ps.

From the shore of Iskeroon.com
Not all yours but at first glance it looks like they are your fine pile
Lanzarote, Greece, even the Tower called Eiffel
Clumped together like a map of exceeding heats
From Lisbon down to Cape Town
Tell me of these differing seats

Did you really fly through the depths of the Grand Canyon
Or take a helicopter to that quiet place known as the Scilly Islands
Yet venture the climbing follies around Ben Nevis
And take a gondola ride around the canals of Venice

The adventure parks known as Chessington and Alton Towers
Where the rides left a taste that came out as sour
Your friends have bought you such distance as OZ and NZ
Where they'd be flying in the sky and you'd be at home in your bed

One day I will have the money and aspiration to fly to such a place
For now I will let the young adventurers fly away with such grace
As I seem to be grounded without the bank-to-fly
Do I really want to thoroughly say goodbye?

Hmm, Well I know what you mean
I'm slightly batty to have crazy yet ambitious dreams
So don't poke around my passport looking for stamps to check
As like lies on my fridge magnet door, I haven't been there yet

Fridge Magnets (most of them are fibs you know)

JJB
Do no take this poem seriously. If you do then you need psychiatric help
Michael Mar 9
In Memory of My Beginning
We of fitter gun were harassed in our youth by the file, the use of which is an art. It’s not just rubbing the file back and forth. Every stroke should count and move you one step closer to a smooth, polished finish without gouges or abrasion marks. Just like growing up really; like life. Hence:

At Arborfield, remember where we learned to use a file
On a wicked lump of mild steel they gave us for our own?
Reduce its size they told us, and that without a smile.
So we set-to with hands that ached, stiff fingers and a groan.
Two inches square it had to be within a 'thou' or two.
Push fitted through an aperture, eight differing ways all told.
And by miracle (craft) that metal was transformed by me and you
With a Four Inch smooth and lots of chalk, and even though now old
I recall as though I were still there, bent over at the bench, and still
Unsure of what my life might be, what even I should dare
With this feeler gauge and set square, scraper, tap and drill,
The which to shape this wicked lump into the perfect square.
The perfect square, what a hope; that shape for which we then aspired.
Compelled, it's true reluctantly at times but which by none the less
Were laid foundations for the lives we've subsequently had;
And the which by some admired.
Johnny walker Mar 21
I've seemed to have developed a wonderful
Imagination and able to write what I Imagine
down and then turn It
In to
poetry
This Is probably nothing
new to those of you who
write and have done for a long time but for one like me who at one time couldn't even write  
poem
It's amazing I never would have never dreamed not even for a
second I'd be writing poetry, but I'm truly hooked addicted every day to
writing
Found so much pleasure In
poetry reading gained so much
Inspiration
from others so much variety differing style of poetry writing a whole new world
opened up to
me
Oh such an  amazing world has been opened up of poetry reading and writing so many different styles of poetry never ending array of poetry
JaxSpade Apr 19
The first moment
Was divided by the total mass

The center of..

The moment of inertia
Rigid in body
How much more torque
Will turn this rotations
Secondary
                   In a moment

Notice the rotational axis
Of the earths fastest acceleration
Mass times the square
Of the perpendicular distance
To the rotation of our sphere
Can anyone else hear
Could anyone else here
Understand the scalar magnitude
Of a poets Newtonian mechanics
And the motion of macroscopic objects
Circling his metaphors

If the present state of an object is known
It is possible to predict by the laws
Of classical mechanics
How it will move

The spherical harmonics
Are a set of orthogonal functions
Yet periodic functions composed of sinusoids
Is the assumption of weighted summation
Discrete time fourier transformation
In relation to a quills synthesizing rotation
Is the explanation I'm trying to relate in

What do you think I'm saying
Need I explore the atomic orbital electron configurations
Their representation of gravitational fields geoids
Fiber reconstruction for estimation
of the path and location
Of a poems explanation

For the spin of its formation
Is just a calculation
Differing in interpretation
By the readers relation
Within every verse,
  many meanings reside

The reader determines
  in which couplet you hide

The words both descriptive
  with colors aglow

The eyes as important
  as what the ears know

When backed in a corner,
  don’t ever explain

Words beckon discovery,
  refusing one name

The same reader may leave
  with a differing view

Each time he goes over
  and finds something new

A question once opened
  can never be closed

And verse penned inherent
   forever to know

With time of no consequence,
  your poetry waits

For the next searching pilgrim
  —your words to relate

(Rosemont Pennsylvania: May, 2019)
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