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mannley collins Jul 2014
I am the Individual Isness incarnated in this body.
I am not the body.
I have travelled through many lifetimes in many bodies.
always learning learning learning.
I have developed nous from my experiences only.
I WILL NOT EVER-
accept a mind in my head.
accept any conditioned identity as being  me.
cede control over my brain centres to any mind or groupmind
that exists anywhere..
I WILL NOT EVER--
cede control over my brain centres to any conditioned identity or
group conditioned identity that exists anywhere.
or accept that any other but me,the Individual Isness, using my brain centres,using my brain the way I,the Individual Isness,want to and can do
to be in charge of the brain centres in the head of this body that I,the Isness,am incarnated in.
I WILL NOT EVER--
be prey to opinion-formers and experts and  pie charts and
focus groups and surveys.
be manipulated by PR men and women in shiny suits.
see Edward Bernays book--Propaganda.
be manipulated by GroupMinds into thinking  their way.
be taken in by brutal security forces posing as "guardians of peace.
respect in any way any member of any military forces anywhere
no matter how fancy the uniforms or excuses for ****** they wear.
I do not respect these parasites anywhere as they are nothing more than paid mercenary murderers on behalf of various Oligarchies..
see Jaques Ellul's book--Propaganda.
I WILL NOT EVER--
take any dangerous addictive cancer causing drugs
such as Alcohol and Tobacco primarily--
food additives...
No one has ever died from any cannabis product.
or from LSD or Mesccaline or Psylocybin.
believe in any so-called "god" or "goddess".
believe in any so-called "prophet" of any so-called "god"or "goddess".
accept any so-called "holy" book as valid or truthful
or valuable in any way except as
emergency papers to roll a grass joint
or to wipe my **** on.
be taken in by depraved words and concepts in any of these so-called "holy "books that have led to endless wars and still ongoing terrorism and atrocities in the name of one bloodthirsty "god" or "goddess".
I WILL NOT EVER--
accept anything as reality unless I can see clearly that
it is beyond duality.
accept any Conditioned Identity as me.
For I am the Isness which is a small but equal,individual,
autonomous and independant part of the essence of the Isness of the Universe--!.
which is not a "soul" or Atman or spirit
or any other religious concoction.
I WILL NOT EVER---
accept Mind as a necessary evil
accept GroupMind as a necessary evil.
I WILL NOT EVER ---
eat junk food of any kind.
drink tap water anywhere except in direst emergency.
eat white sugar or any other pure carbohydrate.
be a hypocritical moralising vegetarian.
become stoopid through bowing and scraping
and stooping at stupas.
I will be just a Self realised man living on a big ball in space
with a Self Realised woman playing and singing and dancing the Song of Our Lives.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
vhcgjhf Jul 2015
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes

the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on

wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades


the purpose
economized

every axiom
americanized

and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range

cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility

closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression


blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake

gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration

dying to know
forget it.
Moon Humor Apr 2014
My body burns to rove far from man-made
buildings, prisons for the modern soul.
I need to traverse the frontiers white man stole
from those who made it their home.

I've been down to the Everglades of Florida.
Fan boats flew through the estuary lines with roots
of mangroves. I've been to the Hoh Rain Forest of
Washington where fog descended on the shoreline
and married the sulfur smell rising from hot springs.

I must experience America's coast to coast beauty.

Every spare seconds I spend luxuriating in the
sun, thinking of all the places untouched.
My list of desires grows as the glaciers
of Glacier recede in Montana, beckoning
me to the Rocky Mountain Peaks.

Old Faithful gushes, surrounded by wolves and grizzlies.
Someday I'll cross Yellowstone's expansive mountain ranges.
from Idaho to Montana to Wyoming. On the arches of
Utah I'll face my fear of heights and find solace at
the tops of time-layered sandstone towers.

Descending the Grand Canyon I'll study beautiful
colors exposed by years of erosion. In winter
Death Valley will be braved. The lowest and direst point
will exhilarate me with scaled creatures as sand
dunes whisper my name with every hot breath.

The Badlands of South Dakota will hope I come
backpacking through prairies to watch precious bison roam.
California Redwood trees and I will stand side by side
as friends. Yosemite will call me to her cliffs and I will chase
waterfalls and sequoia groves until I've seen it all.

I ache to explore the terrain that bears
my name, the country I call home.
onlylovepoetry Jul 2016
<>

Hebrew calendar says Summer Sabbath,
the day of rest has, as scheduled...arrived

wryly, ironically, bitterly,
poet rhymingly thinking nowadays...survived

more apropos,
#even survived alive,
for therein is a concomitant, under-the-surface implication,
of the uncertainty of forecast  future,
for no matter how theoretically normalized and organized,
even a trip to a shopping mall...deadly

survive - a far, far bitter...but better fit

not sure of the why-well of my being here,
poem composing scheduled, always on this day of pause,
this week-ending demarcator of the who I am

I am among the many of little understanding,
who having garnered no solace nor rest,
that a seventh day supposedly, is purposed to beget,
for the world is in a ****** awful mess

with neither the rhyme or the reason,
the single breath I expirate, as proof of life,
is this season's perfect, sufficing hallmark,
symbolic of the reign of unceasing confusion that has left our minds
damaged and contused,
secretly selfishly thinking to oneself,
#my life matters


this Sabbath, I speak German,
the language of my father and his father's,
all my ancestors, even unto the years of the Age of Enlightenment,
today, spoken in the ironic dialect of Munich

Am Morgen borning glorreiche
the morning borning glorious

poet seeks an answer, mission to permission,
to rightly explain
how he visions in unsightly confusion
how he divines loving in Munich's tribulations

sitting in the poet's nook, upon the ancient Adirondack chair,
nature listens to the poet discordant chords
of musical tears upon musical chairs,
wet-staining flesh

all around, the other noise makers gone quiet as well
for they are pityingly, eavesdrop listening for what happens next

The Chair speaks:

"this day,
I am happily,
made of wood,
my living cells
long dispatched,
so that I can no longer
weep in time
with my poet-occupant's
struggling lines,
verses upon the decomposing
of the worst of times,
though in compathy,
my silence, by and to him,
is gratefully unnoticed"

the poet  has no visitors this fine day,
none human or divine anyway,
but not alone

for a gaggle of old ones have early come,
from Rebecca's and his mother's Canada dispatched,
my regular geese guests southbound have returned for their
summer stopover,
but so early,
for the calendar must be telling lies,
it says these are the days of July,
so named  for all  to recall
another murdering assignation~assassination,
that of a fallen Caesar,
another-man-who-would-be-god

my summertime flying audience comes yearly to share the bounty
of this, my sheltering isle,
good guests who in payment for their use of our facilities,
honk Facebook  "likes" in appreciation
for every writ completed in the nookery

this year of fear, the geese are newly self-tasked,
seeking solace to share and understand the world weariness,
so strongly encountered in the roughened atmospheric conditions
newly facing all of us

everybody's needy for respite from the next

where next?

a plump audience of eleven
on this grayed sunny day,
greet me, honking, feverishly, excitable honking, but!

auf Deutsch,
in German


full of questions about predatory man
which I fluently comprehend but of answers,
have none completed, none sealed as of yet,  
any writ by my hand to give away or
even keep

so when the temperature cooingly cools,
on their way further south, them,  it sends,
they will not be burdened with the empty baggage
of inexcusably and poorly manmade
naturalized, pasteurized, synthesized,
crap excuses

the poet's own reflection in the fast moving bay waters,
is not reflected,
these, no calm pond waters, but his own internal reflections,
beg him, explain this poem's entitlement,
this designation of confusion and its inflection,

confusion as something lovely?

no good answers do the witnessing waters or the winds sidebar provision,
the geese, the chair, all unfair,
only have similar quarreling questions for him to dare

foremost and direst first,
where is there loveliness in confusion the poems sees?

poet stands on the dock, as if in the dock,
noticed, the waters pause, the winds into silence, swept,
the gulls grounded, the geese aligned in rapt attention,
all to the poet, as jury, they steadfastly attend
to his creation, this poem's titled curse,
an answer even barely adequate, some solution?

In Munich,  ****** born and welcomed,
Dachau, the very first death camp,
sited a mere ten miles away

one could conceivably could demand that

this poet, this Jew, this could-be-Shylock,

having seen a pound of flesh extracted,
might accept this balancing as a compensation
of history's scales weighted by the concentrated demise
of millions of his very own flesh and faith

but he does not...

a nation takes in a million strangers and refugees,
not without peril costly,
visible now, these side servings of risk,
that noble gestures so oft bring

what he feels, why he cries is for the

loveliness of forgiveness,

he unashamedly honest borrows the words he confesses,

any innocent man's death diminishes him

now the winds kicks up, the waters refrosted frothy,
the gulls go airborne, the geese fly away,
searching for another poet to respirate, infatuate and inspire,
clearly, neither satisfied or enchanted with the one
presently available

only the aged Adirondack fair, his aged long time companion chair,
remains moved - but unmoving,
in the domaine of their unity, in the vineyard of
their conjoined, place of quiet contemplation

a woman observes tear stains upon his cheeks,
noticing them upon the chair's open arms now all-fallen,
tho a surface wood hardened,
the tears are softly welcomed and storingly embraced,
absorbed

the three,
the woman, the chair, the poet-me,
all as one, tearfully, no longer cry in vain,
having  found a white coal seam amidst the black bunting
that decorates their glum apprehension of tomorrow's tidings

<>

Saturday,
July 23, 2016
10:29am
Shelter Island
Billy White Mar 2016
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes

the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on

wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades


the purpose
economized

every axiom
americanized

and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range

cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility

closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression


blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake

gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration

dying to know
forget it.
Hilda Dec 2012
Sometimes when ev'ning lamps are ebbing low
And all the earth lies hushed in solemn sleep
Within my lonely heart there burns a glow,
As lengthening shadows about me creep.

My weary glance falls o'er the dismal room
Where with rapturous eyes I seem to see
Beyond thick cobwebs, dust and direst gloom
A merry host of friends-my own library!

Worn musty books on shelves from olden days,
Brittle pages yellowed by hands of time,
Illuminating night with gladsome rays,
Lifting my bleak spirit to realms sublime.

Trooping merrily before my rapt gaze
Into flick'ring lamplight I watch them come,
Quaint men and ladies of forgotten days;
Golden laughter echoing in my home.

Into my eyes they smile, murm'ring with grace
Aerial speech they blithely chat with me,
They seem to belong to another race
Wakening in my heart sweet melody.

Dying lamplight sputters and they are gone.
Vanished! I stare about but find I none
Save a drowsy thrush flutes with hush of dawn
Only myself in the parlour alone.

~Hilda~
© Hilda December 9, 2012
Kitty Prr Sep 2013
I am not a poet.
I have read many poems.
Beautiful, touching,
Clever and meaningful.

I don't use lovely analogies
Or powerful descriptors.
I write lists.
Clear, concise ideas.

I don't leave space
For the reader's interpretations.
No open wandering paths
For them to meander along.

Everything is clearly defined.
With passages precisely laid out
To direst the reader to
EXACTLY what is being said.

Sometimes when a poem wafts into my head
It is more poetic.
But then as I put pent to paper
Only the skeleton remains.

Even this poem
Had a better feel in my head.
Yet another thing to feel
Inadequate about.

I am not trying to wallow
In self-pity (yet again).
I am just not a poet.
I would like to know what I am.
Unsecured mind-set lashes its core, choosing to ally itself to that of no concern or thought. All sequence we shall herald as noble backlash. Blame shall rest with death of the innocent, for this is where excuse can be rectified Or rather that of fraudulent justification laid before another’s feet.

Insight to rise as we rise to insight, no notice shall be given and no action shall not be undertaken. Vandalisms recruitment takes it course. Internet conscription courses silently through hardy flex. Telecommunications providers enlisted to contrive location as we plan Google’s map attack.

The aim is that of procurement, not for freedom or righteousness, rather that of avarice and self contentment. We shall shop till we drop this eve and at much better than discounted prices. Personal retributions shall also conceal themselves beneath this direst of banner.

Filthy alignments will almost with abandonment unite in evil cohesion. Mass attack at fragmented locations will oppress any and all endeavours to quell this foulest of foul. He who hide his face away is free to loot another day, this seems the lyrical trend that thief and sinner does take this night .

Untold expectance by unlawful propagator is of a world that owes, favours him above others. He feels righteous that he should prevail in this life before his fellow man. It is of no concern to him that others may have more worthy an approach. It matters not what they may suffer.

If for no other reason to doubt he who professes to have nothing, to be cast out by the state and therefore be free to invoke retribution, why should he with nought, cast dereliction in his own manor? Why destroy what you have not got? Why condemn yourself to live in an unliveable state?

Such misdemeanour unto ones self is surely call for psychiatric assessment and asylums involvement? Here now stands a creature pursed to explicate erroneous act for appropriate content and expect audience to quell their disgust and rapturously give applause. I think not.

For not only did thievery portray itself on our streets this and other nights that followed, also violence, arson and ****** were carried along with it, like a leaf in the wind. Families lost what they had so long worked and strived to gain, watching helplessly as combustion condemned their habitat to broken ash.

****** drew its breath on more than a single occasion. Is this the result of political unrest, that is what they would want us to pronounce, to show reason that this is against the masses, such excuse may then be strewn as a just intention.

This is not the reality though in this case it is a the likely truth that rat endeavoured to crawl above ground and spread its pox amongst us, infecting devastation on good peoples lives as it did in centuries past.
17th  September 2011
Fay Slimm Sep 2018
Dearest My Lord.
please to read this missive not with haste
but in serious thought.


Come Sire, and view such unholy state
to which thou hast brought me
at being with child and of hearing lately
of thy touring intent mine heart
starteth in great alarm, as I indisposed
must know for sure that thou be
not going away.


Fie upon that scheme mine Liege for
thou hast in me fathered a babe.

Thou shouldest stay, and embrace mine
own confinement to disgrace,
whereby the infant will bear no name
and wouldst thou abandon me to this fate
prithee have pity on offspring shame.


Pray marry me do, thou canst not afford
to blacken my name by
seeing the truth and fleeing abroad
and thus relinquish thy parenthood destiny.

I belong only to thee so do not ill-use me.

Thou sought  thy way, now takest thou mine
for without thy support I must surely decline.

Thus thou ought to realize I live in frightful
dread unless on thee I rely.
This heart beateth only for thine say I.

Thou hast undone me so prithee consider
direst consequence, face thy conscience
and beside me do stay.

I remain heavy with anticipation lest thy reply
dashes all trust and quill thee therefore
to think my Lord on resolving such trouble
as of utmost importance.


Sent in the month of September 1709.
From Mary Elizabeth, distraughtly thine.
1.
My mother hates me!
My father hates me!
Oedipus screams to the
stealthily silent Sphinx.

He scatters riddles like laurel leaves
waiting to be braided into
a playwright's crown. It is too
grandiose to fit his cracked. cramped cranium.

His unconscious mind flies open
like the Sphinx rocketing to the sky.
Sacred haunches soar. Wings beat
steadily to reach titanic heights.

Blind to his murderous fate, Oedipus
cannot know himself. Before the
Delphic Oracle, his life shrivels,  
unexamined by his bleeding eyes.

2.
Freud exults in triumph.
Maternal love births eternal love:
endless comfort and affection
for the newly bloomed beloved.

Soon, comfort metamorphoses
into feral eros, unspeakable, unthinkable,
beyond the bounds of catastrophic evil.
Submerged desire sullies the chastest kiss.

Jacosta embraces her son
as her new living king, her husband's
royal blood bubbling brazenly
on the bitter road to Thebes.

His hands stained, Oedipus strives
to transmute his trauma as our own.
We become him when Freud deigns
to interpret our darkest, direst dreams.

Blindly, we mimic him: carnal union
with the mother, lethal rage against
the father. Mourning Becomes Electra
beckons to the wary second ***.

3.
The Sphinx belies its own riddle:
How can prophecy spring from
the sculpted, smooth stone
of these perfect *******?

Only blind Teiresias plumbs the depths
of Oedipus' fate: Judgement lies blinded,
action lies blinded by the ventricles of
violence, the twisted telos of the mind.

Humans sin against the world, against
nature, siphoned of joy. They sin without
a sacred perch to rise from. Blood and *****,
mud and blindness fashion their Oedipal souls.
It takes on deaths horrible form thereunto,
Breaching the seas pensively askew;
Spun brutally from troubling winds of false accord,
Ignored by expression but surely explored.

O 'tis madness, voices beat savagely in my head,
Upon quiet of night as insanely they wilfully imbed.
Through mortal fear I am awakened,
There's nowhere pleasant to run 'tis my chastened.

Of life's despairs nor demons wrathful hold,
Hast thereof nightmares foretold.
In the chilling air, killing heedful wisdoms impaired,
Had I faltered, I'd been sadly unprepared.

Pressed onwards I could only dream,
With care it'd be a future supreme.
Deep in my bleeding thoughts I tried to grasp it,
Yet every brutal bound 'twas likely unfit.

Ah, let evil echo through my disrupting mind,
The faces, that blushed mostly unkind.
A hideous desire inexplicable, entombed from within,
Hastily it beckons thereunto an original sin.

The voices, whose horrid duty I deplore,
Of the old vast despairs it will implore.
But alone I am 'tis surely surpassing a realm of rage,
And all I seen, mattered naught offstage.

Regrettably in the valley of despair I have always lived,
Therefrom I am truly a weltered child deprived.
Onto the rough cobble stones bloodied and quite torn,
That tragic wind, caught in hells uproar forlorn.

A sea of red, kept in an eternal twinge,
Through to agonies I'd impinge.
Ah how they weep, the mystic fools they weep,
In fake smiles these too rustle forth and reap.

Though I'm stirred I cannot follow,
O'er endless toil I as wallow.
Unto violent passions, soaring in tempting extremes,
Of pastures buried, a life in poor redeems.

For nothing concerted I came thereafter seeking,
Every question asked it begged a haggard beseeching.
Thus in a dim labyrinth of lies I found some solace,
Here in the direst valley of despair it's my disgrace.
yne Jun 2017
she have to die a thousand deaths,
for people to laugh a thousand smile.
she have to bleed a liter of blood,
for her name to be remembered.
so never underestimate poets and their poetry,
for they have to underwent direst of circumstances,
to be solely accepted.
Misti Gottsch Oct 2011
Once or twice I believed that I have become i n sane.
Overly o b s e s s I n g
Trying to hard to fake that what I am doing is perfect.
OBVIOUSLY
Causes me to fail even worse.
I am vain.
From this I have made myself more INSECURE!
I DON”T SLEEP ANYMORE
I don’t like to be at home,
But during the direst times for me to be away,
Here I am, Stukc here.
My body is suffering.
I’ve been coughing up sllliiiiiiimmmmmmeeeeeeee.
My teeth are
F
A
L
L
I
N
G
Out.
I made many mistakes.
I’ll probably never learn.
Keertana Aug 2015
Love fuses like lightning
into the clouds
Fading away into unknown shades of
Petrifying beauty, enthralling movements
Slivers of sliver
Trickle through my body like a gentle waterfall
Sending me shivers shrouded by happy hopes.
High above from the heavens it strikes unexpectedly,
Magically, like love that comes suddenly
Like a miracle in the times of direst despair.  I need
This lightning, this silent love song
Of my deepest desires and my cheerful child,
The introverted innocence and the melody inside
Every breath I take rises
From that lightning of love that fusions into endless oceans,
And breathes them into beings of fantasy.
I feed on this fantasy, look for that love and seek that sun-like light
Blending with the nightly stars.
That’s why I live.
David Plantinga Feb 2022
He’s cruel and stupid, and ignores
His omened doom, pronounced, decreed,
And mine with his, no ranted screed.  
Though I must speak, I pray it bores.  
The direst warnings couldn’t save
My family, or those I loved.  
When prophecy failed, I should have shoved
Them from the palace to some cave.  
Now it’s too late to intervene,
And force can spare their murderer.  
I should prevent, but I’ll demur,
And perish too. I’m just sixteen.  
I’ve suffered, but don’t want to die,
Especially not matched with him.  
Even so, I’ll meet my downfall prim,
Trojan royalty too brave to cry.
And a song for poor Cassandra too.  I never faulted Clytemnestra for killing that **** Agamemnon but why did she have to **** Cassandra too?  She was his *** slave not his paramour.
Jara Jones Feb 2016
Good luck to all and everyone here
Because reaching for the stars was never quite clear
No title or description, just a three word mission

More like a word of advice
"Don't get hurt" and watch yourself slide
Everything I got show over your head
Going to look for it may render you dead

So just keep right there sitting
With that blank look on your face
Like someone somewhere will help
You finish the race

And all I can say is God speed
And God bless and watch out for that hallow design
When you tread with heavy feet,
Mind the signs

"Watch your step" "thin ice" "There's a bump in the road"
All put up to help you get where you need to go

But those thoughts weigh more
Then you were expecting to believe
And you'll never make up the ground
You don't even have a place to stand

No little place to call your own
No place to warm your feet
Or lift you off of the street
Or give you a pause to call it home

Just a "Do me one better" and a
"forgive her or forget her"
Or a cross over the heart and
A promise from the blind
That you'll get your wits back in due time
And keep the things the way they aught to be

This status quo **** so quickly taught to me,
Talking too fast to have time to disagree
So I'll just stay here with the ink left in my pen
Let it bleed out with the stories that it wants to send

I'll open up- Read the lines behind the black, poured out like that.
Because I'm manic in a moment
A loose cannon you might say
One brick shy and two minutes too late

Tastelessly obsessed with a new kind of mess
Tangled up, twisted and lost in total direst
Blank minded thoughts and directionless flaunts
Point me the way back to the west

New aged grooves are the next big thing
Too poor-a boy to buy my baby a diamond ring
So I'll just sit here to pass the time
Write my stories to explain the rhyme

The situation to fill up my gut with complication
A matter of patience, prefaced with-
I do not possess
A position of authority dealt to me with a weighted deck

The house rules say I'm no winner today
Let me know my place
When they empty my pockets with gestures of graciousness

Leave me empty handed, empty headed
Empty belly and empty soul
Urging to come back for the next roll

A heart filled with a new world consciousness
Sinking my drinks for a two minute connection
Lucky as a new star in the sky
I'll keep my distance as I watch you shine

From so far away it only seems OK
When I couldn't make out the blood stain
In the corner of your eye

That for so long you stumbled upon a new kind of credit
Relax and you'll forget it
So you keep it tense,
And full of drama

Backing it up and keep it caught
Loosen your grip and it will slip
From the corner it is barred in

Trapped, Backed to the point, inverted totalerian
Sub terrain, below the grid where we once played the game
There are a thousand little things
All mixed together
One on top of one on top of one on top of the other

Belief in God
Hate for your father
Knowledge of love
Talking to your brother
Failed business plans
Failed to your mother
Finishes gone aerie
And deprivation of air

Going belly up
Digging threw the junk
That made your life something,
Or more then a nameless lump
Unnamed Jul 2018
Oh, what a grave mistake!
I can’t retrieve,
My soul forever carried
By a limbo of memories and hopes.
I’ve become but the shadow
Of my long deceased self.
Mirrors don’t recognize my features,
I don’t recognize them either.
I am but a mild reflection of those times,
Though distorted it may be.

My eyes, now fond of the aridity,
Lower their gaze from a glorious beige;
They are ashamed,
For a grave mistake they have made.
Lord! Have they fallen in love?
Perhaps I’ve learned to love
This barren soil beneath me,
The brownish, unearthly sand
Burying my feet and dreams.

The children born from the sand
Too embody my direst misfortune.
Those brutes!
How dare they exist?
This sentiment which I hold deep within-
Disgust, remorse.
The sons and daughters
of the blazing sun.
They have been my curse!
I blame them, and only them
For falling in love.
I blame him, and only him
For making me grasp what love is not.

Covered heads, unwieldy hairs;
Olive trees and olive minds;
Sun-kissed skins:
Why have you conquered me?
I decry this land,
For it has captured my heart.
Oh, what a grave mistake!
For I could never forget
The sand caressing my toes,
The vehement sun biting my eyes,
And those brutes penetrating
My feeble soul.
This poem comes from the most pleasurable experience of my life: moving to the valley of sand.
S I N Dec 2019
The cold and metal sterility of
Aisles as if the cobweb is stretching its
Threads in every direction of Wind Rose
All coming from core of the building
Prewar being pretty but now such a pity
To behold such a sight devoid of all bright
-ness and joy and just silver alloy is
Covering walls that just barely hold
The hulk bulk of this place O ‘Tis better
Erase every one and a-last my remembrance
Of past of this place O no grace was in
This nor in taking a **** in a sink or a
Bathtub a hot tub of water so scald just
To peel you off skin yours in a moment
Like this click-clack your body wrap
Around your bones though y’all are gone
From this den of all vilest and direst of
Creatures this world ever descry and was
Witness O no ‘tis place now occupied
With all fears and a fright of being
Dragged ‘nto that mess where no room
Was for lest you’d be one of their kind
But you need to get rind off these wall
And to fill all the holes with the bodies
Of moles yes of all moles in the world
You piece of O never mind a was just
******* and a **** in the sink
Of a bathtub whence water from time
Ago had all gone like o hell like you know
Vaporized leaving no trace for a plate
With a bread to be fed to that ones
Wretched dwellers who were all
Rolling Hellers till one day this one
Fellow ain’t show up in this joint
With his strap and his oint and
O no I just can’t I just cause you’re my
Friend but I can’t o please stop o
Please no o stop I can’t take i orghs


This one is out; bring another
This pile of **** to the others outside
Burn them after we done here
poetryaccident Mar 2019
Look to darkness for a laugh
chuckles pulled from the pain
sadness has a new lease
loneliness in the extreme
their companion is not light
when the absurd is brought forth
to contrast with absent joy
survival discards the empty smile

the void demands something else
on the altar of the felled lives
if existence must proceed
beyond the phantoms of deceit
monsters of direst dreads
provide the truths few accept
except when the veil is dropped
pulled from the rod to the floor

when holiness becomes absent
the profane will take its place
forcing choices among the scraps
some are better than the rest
a sacrifice is brought to bleed
as the basin collects the drops
an offering of darkest taint
extols the pure that it’s replaced.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190307.
The poem “Look to Darkness” is a poetic investigation of the nature of personal darkness.  Beyond the threatened doom, the gloom is both an ally and a teacher.   It becomes the sanity that’s lost when the remainder of the world is proven to be the greater grimness.
Lawrence Hall Jun 28
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Except for the title none of this is mine; the direct quotation following is from Shakespeare:

                                              Jill Macbeth

…Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood,
Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
Th’ effect and it! Come to my woman’s *******,
And take my milk for gall, your murd’ring ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark
To cry, “Hold, hold!”

                                         -Macbeth I.v.41-62

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Macbeth, by William Shakespeare
After the unhappy presidential debate of 27 June 2024
Dr Peter Lim Jan 2019
Don't call these, days
but shadows of night
sorrows are worn in every place
mankind struggles in direst plight-

where have they vanished, joys and grace?
what should be done to set human life right?
why are hearts lost in tortuous maze?
would the morrow bring the awaited sunlight?
Dr Peter Lim Sep 2018
It's not about
outgrowing myself
I would rather cultivate
my in-growing
within the garden
of my heart.  The dry
part has to be watered
the weeds have over-grown
they have to be discarded
leaves have browned and withered
many decaying on the sod
so long left neglected
the fence has fallen
(how dismal it looks
in the autumn rain!)
if I look away in indifference
that which I once loved
would die in the direst pain-

do I have the will
and when should I start?
the sun is at midpoint
soon it would be evening
and then follows the dark

the tools are waiting
myself I am testing
now I must embark
this shall be my redeeming.
Davyd Adejoh Jun 2019
©PMcCoywrites

If some days were longer,
Today would be the longest,
And direst day for me.
All annoying activities lined up.
Like it was made up.
To mess the day for me.
I know the day didn't mean to dare me.
She didn't mean to upset me.
But, it was worth a one very long day for me.
Bijoylakshmi Das Feb 2020
THE TRAVELLER OF THE TRANSCENDENT
(Bijoylakshmi Das, Maha Shivaratri,21st February 2020)
With the blue of the Vast and the green of the Mind,
I sate for the insatiable Quest of the rarest kind –
With hunger for the summitless summit and passion for the passionless Ineffable,
I sail my life’s little boat in the solitude’s journey unassailable.

I seek after the inexpressible ecstasy hidden behind the heavenly height,
I crave for the crown of the Kingdom of Bliss in my highest soaring flight,
I now unlock the Joy of Paradise upon the turmoil of the earthly toil,
I meet my Supreme Beloved behind the mask of man as Godhead.

The touch of the Intangible in all things ephemeral and transient,
The Voice of the Unknown heralds the Dawn of the immortal golden moment,
The bound of the birth that baffles man since time immemorial,
The shadow of Death which casts the direst dread abysmal.
All is so swiftly vanishing behind the New Wisdom’s hem,
I do stand alone in my Soul’s uninvadable Supreme Ken.

The alluring glance of the Invisible and His enticing lips,
The unreached Rhapsody’s deep-hidden distant enrapturing kiss;
Enlivens my journey towards the Goal of the timeless Infinity,
I reveal the unwritten chapter of the Unseen’s sovereign secrecy.

My shivering strokes of the brush on the Creation’s Canvas of Art,
With blissful pang and the endless agony of my Being’s ever-grieving heart;
My inmost desire to draw a few legible lines of Love on the Olympian Blue,
On the mortal tenement ever aspiring to rise above and reach the deathless hue.

The fugitive madness to rise from the fall in the abyss,
The courage indomitable to cradle the emerald empire of Elysian Delight,
All feelings insentient: the camouflage of the desireless Absolute Alone,
Seek the sunlit glamour and the moonlit mirth far away in the in the uninvadable kingdom.

Unimaginably large is the Ocean, endless its expanseless shore,
My sail in the tumultuous tempest, half-broken my mast and its oar;
Still the touch of the Transcendent in each leap of the ascent vast,
I’m spell-bound by the supreme splendour’s seraphic Art.

Just a bundle of quantums are Time’s tenebrous moments,
The Divine Algorithm rules the highest in the unique Supernal descent,
I seek after the Certitude unshakable with the passion of passionless blithe within me,
I journey towards the One timeless Time that bounds the timeless treasures in limits of Infinity.
………………………………………………………………………………………….
Joseph Sinclair Jul 2021
The shepherd is departed, and his flock
now wander on the fell,
or hide within the thickets
wherein the bleakest shadows dwell.

And when the black night fills the heart
with direst trepidation,
they know the purport of their loss;
the heartbreak of a nation.

So has it been, since time began
when leadership has vanished
and newcomers, that now adorn
the peaks, are simply planished.

Attend us shepherd from the grave,
we have need of your guidance
to keep us from a weaker hand
and ominous subsidence.
Kurt Philip Behm Sep 2020
While bending the rules,
and strattling the line
I pushed every limit,
calling it mine

Tearing down fences,
defiantly proud
The direst warnings,
rebutted out loud

One last price to pay,
its ticket to stamp
Shadows concealing
my spiritual ramp

Each vow that I’ve broken,
those things left undone
The man I became
—a life zero sum

(Bryn Mawr College: September, 2020)

— The End —