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Olive Oct 2018
Sometimes Darkness whispers to me.
It tells me it is a place of comfort,
A place of escape.
No one can find you here, it insists,
You are alone, finally,
Just what you wanted,
Screamed for,
Cried for,
Alone, with me, it looks up
With a smirk
Don’t be scared,
I don’t judge,
Stay for as long as you wish.
When I leave, it whispers to me,
Come back, I miss you,
Escape the chaos,
Be with us...

Sometimes Darkness yells at me.
It questions who I am,
Why I am here,
I don’t belong...
I’m too intense...
I’m not good enough...
What I want is impossible...
It yells at me, until I yell back.

Sometimes Darkness stares at me,
When my eyes are shut,
I see it’s gaze,
It’s lure,
It’s disapproval and longing for my return.
It stares... and glares... until I open my eyes,
And find the light again.
Those dark thoughts are visiting...
Alyssa Underwood Dec 2015
When all of worldly beauty's lost
When form and face have borne the cost
Of life's sojourn upon this earth
A greater glory then springs forth

When vanity is cast aside
With long-dashed dreams and fallen pride
At last a better hope I see
One anchored in eternity

When no one gives a second glance
Or offers promise of romance
I know the One whose love is true
Who looks beyond what most men do

When wit and charm have fled from thought
And company's no longer sought
There's still One friend who longs to hear
My every word, desire and fear

When awkwardness is more the rule
Than competence and being cool
His words I hear so gently spoken,
"Come, poor in spirit and all who are broken."

When those around me criticize
With disapproval in their eyes
He spreads His arms with full embrace
And wears acceptance on His face

When kindred spirit can't be found
And understanding's wayward bound
The One who knows me best will be
Thinking precious thoughts toward me

When foot is slipping, mind astray
From trying to fix things my own way
He rescues me with hourly grace
And sets me in a spacious place

When all my naught attempts at fame
Lie crushed beneath a weight of shame
I seek the fame of Him instead
Who calls my name and lifts my head

When youth and vigor fade away
And triumph seems an ancient day
My strength can rest in One who brings
Fresh power to soar on eagle's wings

When my last breath some day I take
Death's shadowed crossing, hence, to make
Upon Christ's nail-scarred feet I'll fall
To kiss that One who is my ALL
"Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary,
but what is unseen is eternal."
2 Corinthians 4:16-18

~~~

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gtzAciGlgKE&spfreload=5
Lawrence Hall Mar 17
Sweet music on the Mustang’s radio
We’re sitting in her parents’ driveway

And sort of talking about the movie
And sort of talking about poetry and life

Frost is settling on the hood of the car
But all is warm in our bubble of love

Until

Our kiss is interrupted by the flickering
Of the parental, watchful front porch light

We sigh. We kiss. The censorial eye -
It orders me away  - “That’s all! Bye-bye!”

                      (Oh, flick that porch light anyway!)
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2017
When all of worldly beauty's lost
When form and face have borne the cost
Of life's sojourn upon this earth
A greater glory then springs forth

When vanity is cast aside
With long-dashed dreams and fallen pride
At last a better hope I see
One anchored in eternity

When no one gives a second glance
Or offers promise of romance
I know the One whose love is true
Who looks beyond what most men do

When wit and charm have fled from thought
And company's no longer sought
There's still One friend who longs to hear
My every word, desire and fear

When awkwardness is more the rule
Than competence and being cool
His words I hear so gently spoken,
"Come, poor in spirit and all who are broken."

When those around me criticize
With disapproval in their eyes
He spreads His arms with full embrace
And wears acceptance on His face

When kindred spirit can't be found
And understanding's wayward bound
The One who knows me best will be
Thinking precious thoughts toward me

When foot is slipping, mind astray
From trying to fix things my own way
He rescues me with hourly grace
And sets me in a spacious place

When all my naught attempts at fame
Lie crushed beneath a weight of shame
I seek the fame of Him instead
Who calls my name and lifts my head

When youth and vigor fade away
And triumph seems an ancient day
My strength can rest in One who brings
Fresh power to soar on eagle's wings

When my last breath some day I take
Death's shadowed crossing, hence, to make
Upon Christ's nail-scarred feet I'll fall
To kiss that One who is my ALL
~~~

"Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary,
but what is unseen is eternal."
~ 2 Corinthians 4:16-18

***

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gtzAciGlgKE&spfreload=5

***

Repost
zebra Feb 2017
she said
being a feminist
i have forsaken the temples of normalcy
for dark gratifications and base seduction
and discovered that those who know the pleasures
of objectification
and frenzied ****** lucidity with strangers
are wiser then the children of  sweetness and light
as marriage betrays the need to satisfy
secret dark labyrinths desire
and in its place
repeats ad nauseum
blunt fortitudes
in dim sunless rooms
for fear of the transgressive

satans *** nail

is conventions essential creed
exhaustions hand maid
rendered imagine-less
bereft of the new
until a mere stand in
for true desire is left
like a starved ghost
on a dead moon
a desiccated morsel
left for a hungry mouse

is romantic marriage a poetic conception
by love starved victorian imbeciles
vanquished in increments
by petty spats of blood and thunder
who know not the joys of the whips blood toothed kisses
purgation's brutal sensuality
and a creel
of ramming butter **** gang bangs
in secret fetish gardens
of cries and coos
that leave the *** wilted
and the soul lite
like a butterfly in heaven

slave girl asks
as hips sway
to sacred dionysian storms
in the smoldering pangs
of the heart
as backs writhe and arch
flex and sweat rhapsodic
and viscera panic with desire

are not such delicious degradations
pleasures ravage despicable
cause for an ecstatic celebration
kindling
fiery vapors incense
en-flamed dragons blood
for drooling kisses
that talk in tongues
in a language that everyone understands
infinitly preferred
over  the rolling eyes of disapproval
in the tepid marriage bed
Nassif Younes Feb 2016
Yeah.
That’s it.
Give it to me.
Oh yeah.
Just like that.
Wait.
What?
No!

What happened?
Are you getting nervous?
Self-conscious?
Do I look like a ******* mirror?
You’re going too slow
And it’s giving my stomach time
To stretch.
You’ll never be done at this rate.
You’re creating a monster
And you won’t like me
When I’m like that.
You’d better give me something soon
Or else
I’m going to scare all the women out of your bed
From under
Your bed.

Oh, come on,
Is that the best you’ve got?
Are you a skylight
In a blind man’s house?
Do you live in a universe with padded walls?
You have to let go.
Now.
You have to
Let your mind lose you.
If that pencil lasts long enough for you
To memorise the serial number on its side,
You’re done.
If you aren’t getting caught in a web
Of sharpenings
When you try to stretch your legs
You’re done.

It’s just the two of us now.
My lines are the bars
Of your empty cage
And whether or not there’s light in between
Is entirely up to you.
You think everything you say will be wrong
But there’s only one way to know
And we both know
That there is nothing more wrong
Than doing nothing.
I will make that perfectly clear to you.
If you do nothing
I will stare at you with my blank, blinding white
Look of symmetrical disapproval
Until your eyes burn out
And all you can think to do
In your helpless, hapless malaise
Will be to strike a match
And burn me black
Making sure we both hit the dirt
At the same time.

Now,
We don’t want that, do we?
Good.
So come on, my darling
Let’s go somewhere quiet
And you give me that
Rough and careless touch
You know I love the most.

I may never laugh
And I may never cry
But you will.
Gods1son Aug 2018
I look inside, all I see is gold
I try to let it out but ain't bold
I got caught up in what I was told
On the outside, I start to grow mold.

My content is intact
But I couldn't get it out
Disapproval a major factor
Maybe I need a mentor
Or a mental restructure
Falling apart, I need a suture

Started to mine my reserve
I ensured to preserve
Slowly began to serve
All the negativity reversed
A lot blessed by every verse.
Tears…so many tears after my best friend
died. I was 17. Light brown, coarse hair from my
puppy snuggled up to me each night. Crumbs
from many late-night dinners, coupled with
doing homework until the sun peaks
through the sleepy darkness.
My mom’s old white tennis shoes, falling
apart at the seams. Bobby pins.
Snoozed alarms. Text messages I didn’t want
to say goodnight to. Screams,
from that nightmare that felt all too real.
Tears…so many tears. The nightlight I kept
on ever since then. Books. Stories. Adventures.
Gatsby’s blind love. Harry finally defeating his demons.
The matching sock I didn’t have time to find. Dust.
Lots of dust. The phone call when her grandmother died.
My wandering mind dreaming of what the future might hold. Poems,
written and read. The dizzy night I told you
“stay,” and I let you have what you
wanted. Then you told me, “I’m not ready for
a girl like you.” Tears…so many tears.
My mother’s constant disapproval of
me, and my time spent
wasted in her hazel eyes.
Countless nights I wished you
laid with me under my cold lavender sheets.
Misplaced earring backings. Baby blue nail polish dripped.
Bittersweet dreams of a future with you. My puppy’s hidden
treats that he forgot once existed. Phantoms.  
Monsters. Phone calls and Facetime’s that felt like
a moment frozen, but lasted hours. That bright pink
Homecoming dress my mother said I looked
heavy in. Tears…so many tears. Darkness. Months later when you
came back, sleeping peacefully next to me. Forgiveness. Hope.
All the boys I thought were worth my time. Love.

You.

It’s always been you.
Parker Di Salvo Jan 2018
They use their pretty faces everyday
And look with disapproval to the slightest display of  self expression
But there is always a seemless crack
Hidden by lyes of the past and false promises of the future
Flonting their pretty face in the presence of a king
Masquerading their rotting corpses by disguising it with an expensive coffin
As for all the pretentious souls, those pretty faces aren't so pretty, behind the closed doors of solitude
Matt Shaw Sep 2018
Something taken for granted is inevitable,
I gobble up what i'm granted
But I must have missed something
So my flesh-- it is edible.

Sometimes I think
I'd like to give It a snack,
Call it quits
Because I just feel like such an *******.

My tendency for weakness is staggering
My legs are strong
But at the same time, staggering
And I want to let their disapproval punch a hole straight through my life

Sure, they'd say they didn't want me dead
But life is a parasite unto itself
And I'm sure they mean it
But I'm much more certain
They mean everything,

What if that meant I'd take my life?
Dana Mar 27
Purgatory feels like...
A dance with the devil who wears my lovers face. It feels like a disregarded boiling tea kettle of our responsibilities that is ready to burst. You hand it back to me as if it were an unwanted gift, making promises with fingers crossed in attempt to silence me. You force it into my arms and my arms alone as you are shaking your head in disapproval.  Selfish snakes have stolen your once sweet tongue, now sour, as you ignore the fact that I already bare the weight of the world which clings onto my shoulders. Animosity swells inside me as two lives crash and burn. You walk away disconnected from it all, continuing on in your child-like life in a cusioned bubble of ignorant bliss. I am swollowed by quicksand inside this burning fictional house we built - standing here, paralyzed, mouth sunk open in disbelief. As you walk away...
BLT May 9
Boy, does she sparkle when hung around someone's
proverbial tree...

The sad thing is that's the only time she feels value.
Shines with metallic brilliance so bright that you
squint, just a bit, whenever looking her way,
like the noon sun on a summer's day.
Glittering but reflecting the disapproval of her peers
for they've seen her like this for years and years.
Months will pass and she'll be discarded,
used up and sent away, barely regarded,
waiting for another to unpack her again,
wearing her like holiday decoration and then
once more, gaudy, showy and bright,
hoping this lasts for one more night.
Tinsel deserves so much, much more
than to end up in shreds on the living room floor,
swept up and sent to the trash heap as waste-
what once was shiny, now disgraced.
She will count the days, there on the shelf
alone in her box- hating herself
for she can't comprehend that she doesn't have to be
with someone else to finally see
that she has worth, lo and behold-
all that glitters is not gold.


BLT
Nassif Younes Mar 2016
It wasn’t a date,
We were just hanging out.
Texting a bit, but taking it easy
As nobody wants to come across needy.
I left the phone ringing
To keep you in doubt.
It wasn’t a date,
We were just hanging out.

Be cool
Or I’ll break you.
I mean it.
If you go soft on me,
I’ll smash open your stupid little
Mix cassette
And strangle you with the tape.
I’ll set fire to your unopened love letter
And won’t even try
To read the smoke.

We were better than that.
I was blank
And you were blank
And together
We filled each other’s blanks
With what we wanted to see.
I invented you
And you invented me.

I was a bit of a **** to you
Because I knew it was a turn-on,
I was also a good listener
Because I knew
That was also
A turn-on.
I stared deep into your eyes
Like the internet says you should
And eight hours later
You were still wide awake,
Numb between the sheets
In dry sweat
As the morning sun stared
With disapproval
Through my window.

We were always told about how good we looked together
By people who are always saying real beauty
Is on the inside.

They were right about the first thing
Because in not too long
You stopped being
The you in my head.
It happened at that party
When you wanted to to go home early
And I didn’t;
When your madness I felt attracted to
Became the madness that wore me out;
When I caught you watching a programme
About celebrities cooking things
And enjoying it.

I can tell you feel the same.
Yes, you do.
Are you calling me paranoid?
I could swear you just did.
Anyway, don’t think I haven’t seen you with him
You’re giving him the look you used to give me
Before you turned off the lights.
No,
Not him…
Him –
With his muddy footprints round the back door
And him –
Hiding in the closet when I’ve come home early
And him -
Living in the walls behind my favourite poster.

How can you be so selfish?
Has it not occurred to you
That there are other people
Who are selfish too?
Like...
ME
For example?
Why are you thinking about yourself
When you should be thinking about me?
Is it because I’m just as far
From what I said I’d achieve
As I was when we met?
Because, if I am
That’s all your fault.

And here we are again
Tip-toeing barefoot
On a field of broken glass
Trying to salvage what we once had -
What we think
We once had.

We look happy in these pictures,
Happier than we are now,
Happier than we were
When they were taken.

Nostalgia is easy
If it’s for a time
That never existed.
Now that you’re gone
I can make you again
All inside my head.

Because there are no pictures of the time
You chose to break your nineteenth glass
Against my face

Or the time our television froze
And my whispers into your ear
Were as useless as spits of rain
On dry grass
As I pressed desperately
On the on-button
Of a remote control with dead batteries.

And I’m almost sure there are no pictures
Of the time you were having doubts
But chose to hide them
In someone else’s bed.

I don’t want you –
Just the you
That I’ve made in my head.

I know you feel the same.
You’ve been lonely
For days now.
So here we are again.
Staying late in the nearest bar
Sipping along to the serenade
Of a performer we both remember
From the last time -
Average on the guitar
But adept
On the belligeridoo.
He didn’t write those songs
But he plays them like he did.
Thank God
He’s given us something
To talk about.

I’m already lying again
Just to hold conversation -
Lying about where I’ve been since we last spoke.
You can’t know
That I’m still digesting
Pieces of my own pillow.
You tell me that’s what you’re still doing
And I know that’s half a lie.
Just don’t tell me
Whose pillow.

Never mind,
It was a bad idea.
This isn’t going to work
Because I know you too well.
If I want to dream,
Then you are nothing
But a splash of cold water.
Besides,
I’ve met someone new -
Someone I know
Absolutely nothing about.
It’s not a date,
We’re just hanging out.
Lawrence Hall Nov 2018
The dead-bolts on the interior doors
Against the nephews most securely locked
(One is destructive; the other explores)
Ignored by their mother (usually crocked)

The brother-in-law babbles about his bowels
And surgeries over the festive spread
Ignoring his wife’s disapproving scowls
Detailing each grim therapy and med

The puppies are safely penned inside
Because of an incident with a crowbar
And a nephew who kicked and screamed and cried -
He wasn’t allowed to **** the dogs or bash the car

His mother comforted him in his tears
And glowered at me for telling him no
And comforted herself with a few more beers
Her special child is sensitive, you know

The brother-in-law’s colonoscopy
With lurid adjectives of graphic doom
Comes with the pie and more iced tea
His miseries circulate around the room

Then from the living room an expensive crash
“Not me!” “Not me!” More screams and denials and cries
An old family vase – it’s now just trash
“You shouldn’t have glass around,” their mother sighs

The brother-in-law offers to show his scars
He finds his shirt buttons, makes his move
We other men escape outside for cigars
Cigars!? The women uniformly disapprove

One nephew leaps upon a garden seat
And jumps and yells until it falls apart
Their mother says her boy is cute and sweet
“Are you all right, my dear little heart?”

The brother-in-law holds his tummy and groans
And tells us all about his flatulence
And just which foods lead to what moans
(Perhaps he should practice some abstinence)

The women come outside to cough and choke
With practiced puritan disapproval and sneers
About the satanic scent of tobacco smoke
The world’s best mother chugs a few more beers

The brother-in-law explains why he can’t drink
It’s about his digestion (be surprised)
And we shouldn’t smoke; if only we’d think
And we (got a match?) are properly chastised

Then at the end of this mandatory day
Of mandatory Hallmark merriment
All of them finally go the (space) away
And how did the mailbox get broken and bent?

But the brother-in-law pauses at the garden gate
“Say, did I tell you about my new pills…?”
And so dear solitude again must wait
While darkness slowly falls upon the hills
Gods1son Jan 2
It's the start of a new year
Time to embrace a new direction
A new way of viewing things
A brighter and more positive perspective

First is to let go of the past
Because the land to be occupied ahead is vast
Time to consciously make decisions
And prevent weeds from your garden

It's not time to wait for people's approval or disapproval
Time to choose the seeds to plant and cultivate
The season to self-motivate
To use positive energy to irrigate

Love is an energy that we must propagate
A required force for us to elevate
When things appear blurry
Spend more time to meditate
Look within and recalibrate
Lawrence Hall Mar 12
“The F_g with the Bow Tie” 1

            “Only in Russia is poetry respected – it gets people killed.
              Is there anywhere else where poetry is so common a  
              motive  for ******?”

                                                -Osip Mandelstam 2

Spain. Poetry got people killed in Spain -
And still wherever tyrants of delicate nerves
And artistic sensitivities hear
Whispered rumors of whispered disapproval

And so an innocent, fearful and trembling
Must be motored away to a moonless death
Upon orders spoken, written, tweeted
Telephoned, telegraphed, or teletyped

One prays he has a moment to adjust his tie
Perfectly - as an honor to Poetry




1 The slur is attributed to Federico Garcia Lorca’s murderers:
https://lithub.com/dictators-****-poets-on-federico-garcia-lorcas-last-days/

2 Quoted by Yevgeny Yevtushenko in 20th Century Russian Poetry
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Luz Hanaii Sep 2018
The ego does not exist it is only absence from consciousness.
How to measure or discover our level of ego.
All it's needed to know is how we react to adulation or
disapproval and insults.
***
The Crafty Hermit  (story number one)
Long time ago lived a hermit, whose hair was white like foam and  his face showed deep wrinkles that depicted more than a century of life.  Yet his mind was sharp and his body flexible. He had been able to develop great control of his body and developed great psychic powers, yet he had not been able to debilitate his arrogant ego.
Certain day death sent one of his emissaries to trap the hermit and take him to death's kingdom.  The hermit knowing that death does not show clemency to anyone, projected 39 exact replicas of his body.

When the emissary came to take the hermit.  He was shocked to find 40 exact bodies so he was not able to detect the right body and unable to trap the hermit.  He went and told death what had happened.

Death listened carefully and  gave him very strict instructions on what to do.  The emissary smiled and went back to trap the hermit.

Once again the hermit with his high intuition detected that the emissary was coming again.  He quickly replicated the trick again and manifested the 39 exact bodies again.  When the emissary came in he said, "Very good, very good, what a great accomplishment, yet you've committed a small error."
The hermit hurt in his pride quickly responded, "And what is that error?" and this is how death's emissary was able to trap the hermit's body and conduct him without delay to death's dark kingdom.
Translated from a talk about the ego by Jorge Handabaka.   Mr. Handabaka resides in Peru.
Ego is the way that conducts to illusion, to irreality, to suffering,  to death.
Because those ruled by ego are the dead who bury the dead.
Yet let's not sing victory right away.  For as long as we have not overcome, but succumb to adulation and insults we have work to do.
Ralph Akintan Jan 11
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.

Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury

"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"

Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.

Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.

Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.

Akimbo stood l.

Now the verdict!

Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,

"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".

Entreaties collapsed.
Matthew Feb 14
The word t
                  u mbling fro
                                      m my mouth.
A Bold Statement
They stop...
A blood red lie, I kept in my pocket
Their body turning towards the fresh noise
Revealing, laughter
Their expression a stern nod of disapproval,
and a shove aside
I am now a clown,
a mockery
I repeated
those stale claims made in contempt

My tears
Sweet chocolate

Their laughter
joined by mine
The words being
I am ***



This poem is about how I was always called "***" because of my mannerisms and uninterest in women.  When I came out, it was a joke because I always denied it was "the secret I kept in my pocket".  Even though they don't accept me, it doesn't matter.  All their power is taken when you laugh with them.
Surbhi Dadhich Sep 2018
" According to the Earth's gravitational pull
He threw his handkerchief up,
Deceleration would take place as it goes up
And there, It'll always come down
May be hard hitting your head..."
But it didn't as it was stuck in a switched-off fan
Innocous, curious laughs poised the atmosphere
Breezed a wind of arrogance and disapproval
"Wait..", he hopped and uplifted by table
Attempt to rescue, tide, brand handkerchief
As he rotated the fan,
" G' morning Ma'am" bowed the class
There he was
In front of the honorable principal
Sweat-Wet, Stuck on the table
Bewildered in a circle of loopholes
She giggled, wished and said,
" Oh ..My inspections truly reveal me the unseen parts of the story
That must be an integrated fun learning"..
My younger brother told me 'bout this incident in his school..
Integrating consciousness beyond my
Comprehension.
Mental understanding comes in waves,
Too quickly to even mention.
--
Laughing at myself is a pleasant surprise.
It's not exactly what I expected.

For some reason,  I imagined a scolding, stern tone of disapproval.

Instead, a sense of humor.

I receive a hug of reassurance, a tap on the belly and a gentle nudge to
let go.

----

Some say the heart wants what the heart wants.
I say the soul wants what the soul wants & who the Hell are you, or any one else, to stop it?
Restrict the natural order of the evolution of souls, you, yourself, a soul?
haha no!
delaying it, may be possible,  may be.
for a bit.

Until your scared ego receives a hug of reassurance from the true self,  a gentle tap on the belly and a nudge to let go and flow.
8.8.15
BLT May 27
I dare you to go in, he said.
The house so in need of attention.
I'm not afraid, said she.
The ghostly girl who resides, not mentioned.
Shutters hanging like broken tree limbs.
Stripped paint chips scattered on the stairs.
Cob webs so thick they look like curtains.
The railing ornamented with toothy bears.
The door creaking it's disapproval,
entering where none have in some time.
Instant fear grips them cold
as a menacing breeze rattles the wind chime.
Making their way through the foyer,
the room opens up like a canyon.
One giant window from floor to ceiling
being scratched by an evil Banyan.
The mantle blanketed in a layer of dust,
the furniture under covers of bedding.
No one has used the fireplace
since the evening of that fateful wedding.
Father and new bride in the front seat
of the car as they sped along.
Daughter in the back with the dog,
all singing a happy song.
They didn't see the train coming
as they traveled to the lodge.
New beginnings abruptly ending
as the engine met the Dodge.
No one ever came to the house again
save for the spirit of the little girl.
Too much heartbreak for the family,
strawberry blonde hair with one long curl.
And so, as they laid down for the evening
to spend a long night in this place,
a spirit ascended upon them
small in stature and pale of face.
She sat there, legs crossed on the rug,
playing with a doll or two.
Not a single word spoken,
not even a ghostly boo.
Tears ran down her translucent face,
as her puppy ran around her back.
Then as quickly as she came, she was gone,
thunder booming as lightning cracked.
The storm raged on for hours
but nothing else happened inside.
A feeling of loneliness prevailed...
sadness for the family who had died.
This dare didn't have the effect
that the teenager had intended.
All that big talk he had spoken,
now sounded so long winded.
She comes back to this house, so empty,
from time to time and stays awhile.
Comforting both the little girl,
and herself and shares a smile.
Reminds her of when she was young
and of her own childish bliss.
Unknowing of what life has planned,
or who gets touched by fate's cold kiss.

BLT
*Short story in rhyme. I like it, hope you do, too.
Isaac Ward Dec 2018
"Fight back!",
"Don't take it lying down!",
I frown, as the meaning fades and cracks,
Resistance is more than mounting an attack,

"The wheel will turn.",
"The buildings will crumble.",
I mumble, their disapproval stern,
Resisting is failing to learn.
I have a tumblr now! I share my poetry over there too, so if you like what you see, follow me!
Justthispotato.tumblr.com
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