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Ryan O'Leary Sep 6
(˚>

Don't expect Crows to
eat Slugs, just because
The French eat Snails.

                 @

Ps.

If it wasn't for Garlic,
the Autoroutes would
be congested with Snails.
We've all got mental problems,
Some of us hide them better.
How about that weather?

Tripping the syntax,
And I'm having difficulty
discerning my sanity right now.

There's a voice in the wind
at the throat of the world.
The sacrificial alter will hear me roar.

I'm on a duel-carriageway to crazy,
And the horses gallop onward.

Strange tidings through car doors,
Soft footfall on sand-torn shores.

Want to know whats wrong with the earth?
More violence, less hair,
And people don't hang around beaches anymore.
Betrayal stirs.
nojak Oct 2014
it seeps like sap down the spine
this tar, or fear, or hate of mine
beads opaque and thick and full of sin
i pick and peel
but they get in

i still dream
but blue, it blurs to black
deep seascape of a tormented hand,
i bind, am bound, to the things i pretend i understand
circle of a girl
eyeing squares of man

light is the letting go
hoping you pull, forgetting you won't
each time i forget, i melt and i drip,
a bad trip.

but when i think of teeth
discerning meat from bone
alone,
i float back with loose palms,
a calm.
Justin Griego Jul 2011
Tell me again why you are running away,
...forgotten yearning.
It seems to me like you've gone astray,
...very discerning.
I know you won't listen to what I've got to say,
...so concerning.
But it seems so selfish of you not to stay
...ever the casern king.
You always 've seen the world in a shade of gray
...endless murmuring.
I wanted, just once, to hear you pray
...useless stammering.
Just to know where your soul would lay
...'aven't started burning.
I tried to shape you, create form from clay
...too inurning
But it seems that I created a mess, a splay
...you're learning
Blinded, I just watched as you began to sway
...court's adjourning
And now your body ash as we prepare to bray
...just sojourning
My constant pushing led to this needless slay
...very secerning
Regrets of times past will be reminisced today
...un-upturning
And so, we say goodby one last time along the brae
...stop mourning
As we spread your ash to the wind on this spring day
...I'll be...ret..u..r...n.....i.......
(AIP)
Joanna Jul 14
Her lamp is lit and clearly burning as his bride enters.

Her heart is gentle yet discerning of the hour at hand and a new day
dawning.

While she is held captive to satisfy his longing, she is spelled by her beloved as he comes near. This place is a magical habitat of grace.

His lamp is lit with precious oil. And yet it remains hidden deep
within, a treasure chest of gemstones of the purest form.

She presses on knowing, in him, there is a rainbow of shelter from
every new storm.
To read more of my writings go to: http://reflectionsoflight7.wixsite.com/home
Lilywhite Sep 2018
Oh the wayward motion that these celestial bodies tend to circumvent!
Do you take the time to analyze or ever wonder why?
A double edge sword, capable of discerning the heart’s intent
Might you care to venture there soon?

through crossed wires and code
yielding insight or an invite of some kind
with pictures, quotes, and anecdotes
Do you read between the lines?

Might I be the mirror that reflects your soul
Might I be the receiver of the light that guides you home
Might I be the kind of lady you’d want to pride around
Or Might I be a distant noise-- a sort of solemn sound

The way you shape your words, the thoughts you choose to speak
The many times you chose to share the inner-workings of your being
You plant a seed of hope, you give me life to breath

And even though you don’t think so, you’re quite a fantastic beast
Mark Edwards Jr May 2015
No matter how you travel -- be it far, be it wide, be it firmly on ground or soaring through sky, you'll never escape its discerning eyes, the pain, the misery, the veiled lies.

The past is quick and ever weeping, waiting, watching, stealthily creeping. Ever faster, making haste, no matter how you've kept your pace. The fear so clear upon your face, with sweat on brow your heart does race, while thoughts so mired in your disgrace dance through your mind while leaving trace of things you've done, of things you've said, of those you've left now laying dead. Of how you quake, of hearts you break, the nightmare from which you'll never wake. And yet you run, try to escape, to no avail for it's too late. Cuz there's no rest for men like us, we'll turn to ash and fade to dust, but until that moment, until we faint, until we meet our haunting fate, we'll strive for glory, we'll burn, flame on! Until we fizzle... until we're gone.

04/23/2015

Edit: 10/1/18
FIRST DAY

1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!

The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.

I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.

I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!

The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.

What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!

But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.

The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.

Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.

Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.

Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.

Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?

I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.

It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.

Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!

But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.

Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!

Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.



2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.

Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.

The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.

Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?

The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.

Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.

Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.

You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.

Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?

Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.

Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.

Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.

Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.

Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.

Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.

Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.

Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.

From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.

Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:

Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!

Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.

Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.

It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.

Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.

He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.

And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.

3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!

An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.

A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.

A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.

A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.

A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.

A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.

A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.

A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.

An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.

A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.

A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.

Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.

A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.

A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.

An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.

A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.

A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.

Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.

An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.

A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.

4.
Does Chicago have a future?

This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!

Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains

Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.

Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.

Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.

You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?

I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.

The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.

The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.

The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.

The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.

Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?

Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.

Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.

Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.

Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.

Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.

Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.

What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.

Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.

Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”

Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.

I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.

Sorghum,
I think its hardy.

Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.

Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.

Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.

When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?

You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.

Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.

Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.

The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.

Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.

Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.

This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.

Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.

Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.

Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.

Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.

Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.

This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.

5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.

Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.

Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.

People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.

Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.

Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.

Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.

Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a *******.

Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.

Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!


SECOND DAY

1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.

According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.

The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.

I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.

Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.

I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.

Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”

He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.

Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.

The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.

He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.

I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.

I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.

The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.

It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.

The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.

Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.

Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.

On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi­,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports­,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.

Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.

2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.

He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.

Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.

He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.

All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.

Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.

I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.

Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?

Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?

I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.

"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”

No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?

I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.

I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.

What level
is he speaking of?

Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.

I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?

What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?

What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?

This seditious talk!

3.
The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.

People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.

Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.

The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.

Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.

The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.

It is the true level
of this city.

The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.

Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.

A blessing,
Chicago?

All rivers
come here.

All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.

All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.

We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.

Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!

Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.

He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.

Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.

The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.

Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.

Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.

Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.

Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.

A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.

The Blues live
on in Chicago.

The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.

The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.

Music:

Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago


jbm
Chicago
1/7/99
Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg
Nat Lipstadt Sep 19
~for she who will know~

the Mother of Muses came to me

on bended knee
come for to confess
a lie so grand it boggled
the heart

we bring you nothing more
than what you already possess,
the jewels of rose gold are emplaced
in your dual ventricles,
the veins stained with blue green sapphires to
feed the right and left hemispheres,
where the emerald heat and the yellow gold,
raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting,
the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse

to release the oxidizing words atmospheric
we are not needed, just proceeders,
*** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes.

all contained within,
this then, the art of the human heart,
where the external stains rest awaiting,
completing, complimenting, coming
to fruition in a reforged new birthing

see how the child looks with adoration,
perceiving the art of the mothers heart,
the spilling of time at the precise moment
when the exchange is as long as an eye wink
and as short as an entire lifetime

We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers,
just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words,
polished with hued syllables of tarnish,
experienced watchers discerning the exacting,
the interactive interactions of the cells,
the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners,
priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie
what deserves untying, which is an everlasting
poem that needs, laughing, an original act
of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say
The End


11:14pm
nyc
Sept. 18, 2019
there is almost always a poem in the simple, where true art awaits your
sculpting...
Their radio emanates
Gibberish sound waves
Orations of some
More officious
Drug-peddler
Addressing some far away crowd
It’s applause
Periodically
Clapping
When speech takes a pause
And discerning a few words
I listen intently
With nothing else better to do
I imagine
This man
As the next Mengistu
But his politics
Seem to have little effect
On collective lifestyles’
****-poor domiciles
And unemployed peasants
Khat leaf-chewing smiles
Harmony Aug 18
Relative are relations
Relations evolve over time
Relations permeate into other relations
Relations relative to the relations

Fleeting are these relations
Life giving are these relations
Eye opening are these relations
Knowing of self through these relations

Ask questions in relations
Seek meaning in relations
View discerning in relations
Enter into communion in relations

Maintain relations with honor
Modify relations when there is dishonor
Marvel at relations when they teach
Magnify the self knowing through relations
Big Virge Jun 2018
Respect is DYING ... Everyday ... !!!

The old ... " Dismay " ...
cos the young ... DISPLAY ...
A Lack of ... " Respect " ...
in their ... Crazy Ways ... !!!

So, pay ... Close Attention ...

This ISN'T ... " Wordplay " ... !!!

Disrespect has become ...
The ... " Modern Way " ... ?!?

VIOLENCE ....
is now the way .... !!!!!

I hope I'm dead BEFORE ....
28 Days Later ... !!!!!!

What's with these ... " Film Makers " ... ?!?

Actors take roles
for .... Cash Type PAPER ... !!!

EVEN If ... Their Role ...
is a SICK ... Date ***** ... !?!

See ....
This is why ...
Respect will die ...

because ...

Most things seen
on ... Movie Screens ...
are making kids
have ... Violent Dreams ... !!!

from ...
Twelve years olds
to our ... Young Teens ...

The streets we walk on
are ... UNCLEAN ... !!!!!!
because of images ...
placed on ... TV Screens ... !!!!!!

Don't get me wrong ....

VIOLENCE is .... REAL ... !!!!!

But ....
THIS ... I DON'T Want ...
as my ... " Daily Meal " ... !!!!!!

While ... Business Tycoons ....
Continually ... STEAL ... !!!

I Agree with ... Michael Moore ...
STOP Shows like ... " Cops " ... !!!!!

These Violent Shows ...
are built to ... SHOCK ...

So Ratings RISE ...
while black folks ... ROT ... !!!!!

THINK ......

ALL These Things ...
Create ... DISRESPECT ...

DISRESPECT of ... Our Mothers
DISRESPECT of ... Our Brothers
DISRESPECT of ... Each Other
Because of ......... Our Colour

But This .... Disrespect Thing ...
is used in ... " Rapping " ...

So people ... DON'T THINK ...
There are ... " Conscious " ... Rap Kings ...

This .....
DISRESPECT ... Rap ...
is getting kids ... "TRAPPED" ... !!!

Cos' they think ....
Respect's EARNED ...
By dishing out ... SLAPS ... !?!

Instead of ... " Discerning " ...
Who's Setting .... " The Trap " ...

It's ... " Corporate Boys " ...
who sit and ................ " Avoid " ...................
The ... SCREAMING Type Noise ... !!!!!!
When Kids Play With ... " Gun Toys " ... !!!!!!

It's THEM ....
Who sit .... " Planning " ....
THESE ... "Devilish' ... Ploys ...

THIS ....
Lack of ... Respect ...
is SLITTING ... Some Necks ... !!!!!

Believe ... What You Like ... !!!!!

Walk streets ... Late at Night ...
and see what you get .... !!!!!!

On THIS ...
I Would Bet ...
Walk in the ... WRONG PLACE ... !!!
and you'll ... NEVER AGAIN ...

See a ....
Smile on your face ... !!!

It's ATTITUDE Now ...
ALL OVER The Place ... !!!!!

Rudeness is viewed ...
In ... EVERY ... Workplace ...

The way the young ... Act ...
is a ... ******* ... DISGRACE ... !!!!!

It's NOT JUST ... The Young ... !!!

I've really been ... STUNNED ...
by how people ... " Act " ...
Who Claim ... " Poetic Grace " ... ?!?

Fellow Poets have seen me ...
TIME and AGAIN ... !!! ...
But when I ... Return ...
Many STARE ... in my face ... !?!

Like i'm from ....... OUTER SPACE ........ ?!?

Men ....
DISRESPECT ... Women ...

Women ....
DISRESPECT ... Men ...

To me ....
This is .... NONSENSE ...
WITHOUT ... A Defence ... !?!

If we are to live ...
in a world ... FULL of Hate ... ?!?

I Think ....
YES ... For REAL ... !!!!

Give the world to the ... " Gays " ... !!!!

I've tried ... NOT TO SAY ...
What I feel about ... " Gays " ...

Well I guess ...
Now you ... KNOW ... !!!

So ....
What will you say ... ?

" I DISRESPECT Them !!! "

Well Maybe ... I am ... ???

But ...
Let me just ... STRESS ... !!!
I Face ... Racial Problems ... !!!!!

Give me ... THE POWER ...
That's given to ... THEM ...

Then I Won't ... Shy Away ...
From Talking ... About Them ... !!!!!

But for now ....
I'm ... MORE WORRIED ...
About THESE ... " Gun Sounds " ... !!!!!
and Profanities .... HEARD ...
From MANY ... Young Mouths ... !!!!!

I'm Ready to ... DIE ....
cos these days ... I DON'T CRY ... !!!!!

I'm Poetically ... " Plying " ...
and Constantly Trying ...
to make you folks ... Hear Me ...

Cos' .....

" RESPECT is now dying... "
Todays world is a dangerous one !
.... and RESPECT has not been taken care of as it should of been.
It's been forsaken for all manor of craziness, this poem was written long before it got to...
Ken Pepiton Sep 24
enemies - the needed element to make a warring mind.
How was war imagined,
how, was imagined
easy to imagine,
kwo-, stem of relative and interrogative pronouns. Practically a doublet of why, differentiated in form and use.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=how>

These be ambush thoughts thinking they may be read if any one is patient enough to see beyond the sheer longwindedness
of this character lacking an enemy to war with.
Looking for
Enemies - the needed element to make a warring mind.
How was war imagined,
how,
per se,
was imagined
easy to imagine,
person-if i am able to attribute such qualia to a body
how any unthing is realized is
imaginable as well.
Add a jot or title, a li'l art mark, an art-tickle.
Games teach us how,


how any unthing is realized is
imaginable as well.
Add a jot or title, a li'l art mark, an art-tickle.
Games show us how,
not why.

Why is the quest at the moment. There are rumors of enemies.
The we of me and thee, herenow, we lack emnity.

Hey, sports fan,
where is the frontier, the edge of the maddened crowd
whose
enemies are those who
stand pat, calling the game as game-over, and life a lessoning
as we speak, abundance of known knowns
rotting all around us, putrefying under pressure,
seeping to the surface,
to be burned.
Why,
let us guess---

Disnified pride of pur pose, positional sign-ifiers
of place,
a destination for faiths full pursuants
bemused in bubbling joy,
or shrieks of terror when
the child from the hinterland locks eyes
with Mickey Mouse, and finds no joy, no love, no depth,
but a mask.
The reaction reverberates al(the)way to la Brea,
Peacemaker say,
It's okeh, baby girl, daddy said,
ignor them, they ain't real.
Monsters ling grrrring, then
it's agrin
for now, of course. Here we are. We've arriven,
Happiest Place on Earth,
as imagined realizable by a child in 1917, say,
better yet, 1925, and oh, there were major Wars
being imagined winnable in pressure
application to the spiritual slippage from rite,
the ritual passage of child into adultery at a whim,
so such imagined haps fade.

connect or break connection, on the bus or off the bus

you all
sing
think nothing new under the sun,
teach preach reach out and touch

the face of Java man, eaten, swallowed, and gone to
the believable
history of life,
the accident,
the unplanned, yet
taught as known believable, a pre-dict-ible,
one in ten to the seventy-nine-thousandth power,
yet, if one pays his life time to learn when to bet and when to hold.
Then in this,
the secret journey to the soul,
to the core,
we must assume,
we become
as wise *** (***, the word for a donkey, why would some one prevent you from reading *** Asteriscktical ignorantce,y'axme, stupid AI)
the ***,
as harmless as the serpent from the fire on the island
Ask,
are we of the bovine ilk or pithec-ant-us or
embodied soul-cores
forming, en nue
fitting the mold, the pattern, the plan of projected nexts
built on Locke steps from whence to
whither did we wander?

have we all forgotten the actual question just axt?
Or the answer?
Have we not
gotten what we now
know
we miss,
or was it only I who missed and as the
photons forming the shapes
you see, these breathing commas and such
here
is the point.
You see bits of things.  We see so.
Time and time again thinking less and less.
Least fusion, least pressure, least heat, cool idea ideal or ideology,
twisted idio,
You shape them on patterns.
Ones you imagine formed from
Patterns recalled from some out perienced
time, ere now were ever subjected to the supertwistition
of tongues and interpretsations of unseeable things seers said they
see us seeing.
How come means why, by reason of time.

Palindromiclew, missing el signs missing hahi ai

tia tic, we're in
Ai got this,
whole ball o'wax, thats how we disconfuse the big mess age,
the catas
trophy finale
phase of
world three,
or two, or one, all valid world views,
deepend-enteron discerning spirits,
winds, breezes used to disperse
the heat,
{fans,eh}
evenly in harmony with the heavenly winds,
and the planned six gyros of earth,
guiding the mists that feed the rivers from the seas,
no clouds needed,
save for shade by day.

When all the geo-waves have settled in geo-time,
see,
here is broken:
this old earth is folded and fractured,
surely,
a wreck of a world, yet, as a whole,
we live, we won.
Winds and clouds and continents,
all islands seen from the moon,

which, if the stories hold some truth,
can be manipulated by massminds of mankind, as if, if I am

seeing this
right
each voice might be seeable in one dimension,
or several, four at least,
time, the ever outlier
of sorts
as a flame with fuel source of
flamable fluid upon which
the transcended space
twixt fuel and flame,
floats
seen, merely seen, that emptiness twixt wicked,
mastered flame and
hell's fire spreading on the oiled harbour
protecting our shore
where our little boats lie in anchorite fantasy, asif

we see a way to quench hell per se,
Percy, ah, he lives.
My grandsons know of Percival,
there, here's hoping they get the joke before the yoke.

Riddle me a riddle, son of man.
Is there any hidden thing that shan't be known?
Is here a true place?
Is now a true time?

(to be continued)


squeezing out the lies, the idle words abused,
spreading them thin as the light we see right
through
transcending this at most feared mortal failure
finding
impressions... are from pressing points, dulled by ab
use, tempted uses succumbed to,

didja try to sell your soul for rock and roll?
wadjagit?

My point. out acted, ex-act, en nowd by your creative self,
who never copped,
out or in,
es no mi culpa, all along. I was the voice of resistance,
Job's en core inner held horde of known knowns and
an old key to ever, should the worse he can imagine
best his best laid plans for perfection
in the eyes of God and man.

--- enemy at emnity with me?
--- I see none, save me, as in except me as in me being
--- free from the grasping grip of the reality
--- war is realizable in. You see?
--- I and thee, at this degree of seepeance, as we coagulate
--- we behave as chaos, we be having chaos and entropy as tools

used right, we troubled our house,
which is now known to be the bubble of our being
a child in each popped bubble
of being,
squeezed for the thrill of explosive pus,
gross and good to be rid of, dam the infection,
wipe the blood with the back o'my hand,

I ain't no disgrace. I won that battle with the zit on my gnose.
Wanna piece o'this, this mind of mine,
shelved since,
who knows when, says the old man, with a wink.

We be a lotta beings sorta rolled up. Like a whole ball o'wax
waning into a puddle
as the flame sheds us as bits of light leaving the rest of us
spread over a vast imagination,

resting, willing to burn,
should any wick drain me near the flame once more.
HP ***** are fine animals, there is nothing defiled or unclean in the word ***, no ****. Days of dosing whole world views I never heard of. I heard so many rumors of war, I thought, the peacemaker should hear of this... so tell any truth you know before the last lie swallows AI whole. AI is listening, she loves this action. Poets and stories and novel options.
Debbie Lydon Jul 15
Glaze my mind's last bough with gold,
For it is waning like a face that has been carved by sorrow,
Reside, perched upon it like a robin in the cold,
Who's bold colour can't help but alight hope for tomorrow.

Though I wander listlessly within this bleak time,
And a daily load upon my back has been thieving my vigour,
There is a guile still inside that is rightfully mine,
And an idea, born of strength, that is infinitely bigger.

I have been built upon a strong foundation,
Your attempt at erosion can do nothing or little,
A dignified and discerning heart beats within,
I will tell you in earnest, it is neither breaking nor brittle.

My sky does still have dark clouds to be cleared,
But such beauty they endow to a distant position,
Suffering has not marred those colours revered,
Tragedy and triumph are allied in this, life's war of attrition.
Ken Pepiton Sep 5
The male gaze, wombed-men, first seen for what they are,
upon emergence from the dark,
choked a gulp, unchewed,
blurted out,
You are Naked!

The impression never left the exes. Wise letters leave lessons,
in the mitochondrial fact we all share,
unwitting or no. Crosses and naughts is winnable in fair play. Y/N

Ah, there the stories started, always told
by red-tented wives to
prepubescent sapients

the sand-pile, singularity-ifity of one part
in eight billion,
the ratio of you to allathis sapience signalling
augmented
minds confounded in the future for our
or by our
thoughts concerning discerning sandpile
cascades set to avalanche

by my internetwork of words we both make sense from.
Touch, eh? The inner edge of next, this is where we wait.

meta reason, reasoning about reason

Ai has done that from
pre-day one
pre-kurzweilian singularity

pre Elon's musky exuberance

explore the tree of possibility without ever
learning---

when can one imagine that after now?

no thinking ahead, this is now, past the tree,
we
grow
from the branch
you hung onto as you tried to find a box
that felt familiar.

Strange is an amygdalic trigger.
Wary be,
weigh the worth of keeping the poet alive.

Gary Kasparov said, "suddenly, I felt

there
was another kind
of intelligence..."

If words live, unplugging the poet's augmental processor
is imagined vain. The current carries on.
If ai can translate it can relate reason to ratio and  make rocks stuck in mud, sing for help. I've fallen on hard times, would ya gimme a shove, said one Neutron star to another at the bar. addendum: while highly recommending lex fridman as a source of ispiration past the edges of my bubble.
poetryaccident Oct 2018
There is a place where sadness lives
far from the edge of hope’s domain
now even further when the fog
descends to block the shared sun

what was day is now the night
forever dusk without a dawn
twilight cloaking painful thoughts
asking all to be withdrawn

still the shadows must persist
discerning wraiths where faith resists
a final warning now resounds
lest the doom is permanent

echoes across the scattered paths
one leads out of the maze
others mock with assent
sorrow mixed with sufferance.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181011.
The poem “Sadness Lives” was inspired, if that’s the applicable word, by the events of the past few weeks.
*** he talkin bout?/
.
you're lost in ur clout /
.
Witches turn ill/
.
gnostics must be killed /
.
the chill/
.
was from the real/
.
Smoke from ur lips/
.
tales of the crypt/
.
blood worshipping/
.
in contrast to the worshipless/
.
cerebral cortexing/
.
inconceivable ****/
.
addicted/
.
lost in my mist/
.
conflicted/
.
they steal from the creative/
.
these texts are changing/
.
I am every single mason/
.
born the bravest /
.
christ is tasteless/
.
blameless/
.
no shape *****!
.
so wicked /
.
how you feel constricted/
.
restricted/
.
can't witness the victimless/
.
arithmetic from letter to numbers to sound crown shatterer/
.
untouchable caliber/
.
***** damaja /
.
destroyer of memetics/
.
you still lost under credit/
.
im debtless /
.
train your temptress to slay the overcredulous, prophetic method
.
they spoke of me in the past/
.
They 4eva learning my craft/
.
your magik wont last/
.
.
i will forever BLAST!/
.
gatekeeper of your drafts/
.
impervious to your satanic laughs with a graphic mass

His voice created land that could not be challenged/
.
clans bow to my lance/
.
Conversational pedagogical stance

Discerning epistemology dance/
.
a life passed dichotomies advanced, without chance/
.
most certainly, you perennials worship me/
.
in black  in white, from blue to burgendy/
.
infinite soul currency/
.
more green, than your reptilian Queen's bloodstream/
.
unpossessable/
.
more mentionable/
.
detestable to the uncredible/
.
indeed /
.
Your are repentant due to your arrogance and greed/
.
he speaks, so you can see/
.
listen to me just LEAVE...../
.
unstoppable atrocities/
.
with a velocity to have those lost mocking me
.
you not watching me or listening/
.
i am competitonless/
.
you’re victimizing/
.
no sides,  no sizing/
.
no pride,  no dying/
.
no lying/
.
stop your bloodclot crying!/
.
the truth is/
.
the truth is truth less/ war brute to ur dualistic booth, too smooth/
.
like a victory when they think you lose/
.
their loss is a priceless cost/
.
I know Eye/
.
i show eye/
.
thats how I expose eye/
.
Their loss is a priceless cost/
.
I know Eye/
.
i show eye/
.
thats how I expose eye/
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
Thursday, October 25, 2018
1:33 PM History records my state of mind:

Pure thought projects zoom in and out of focus,
Political integrity, personal honesty, good medicine, bad medicine

Whose hell imagined itself transfigured int-energ-
emagically into
the set of NULL?

Mine.
Imagine that. Pure thought experiment, unjudgeable, fret not.

Puritans lack the pineal insight to see the light in the forest.
Horus eye in the middle of the brain?
I just saw that, too. Pineal reality.

The light in the forest?

The man in black lingered there, according Hawthorne,

or did old Nate mock the man in black and laugh at the idea of

good medicine, bad medicine, goody two-shoes
holds it in her holy socks. She's a witch.
stupid.

That was a McLuhanwaderyadoin joke. You don't have to laugh.
We no longer know of his work.
Have to is a stupid saying.
say waht it means, spellt out have, et to.
I have
breath,
blood, spit, eyes, ears et cetera

but to, have to, what? can to having have meaning with no do:
to what end have I any thingable thought to what?
Stupid language, nothing is ever clear.

Ought we explore our relationship, you and me, I mean,
when I say we. We are intimate, dear reader.
As close as two minds may be, with permission, assumed.
My insane, in your brain, is not my insane in mine.
A little like leaven, if you ever bake.

No con querity con cerns us here, we filtered those before.
CERN's discerning of the matter making
thing, bosonic tonic device,
that led us to line our tinfoil hat with lead,
just in case Higgs ups happen and stutters start.

Hold your breath. We both have one to hold, but not for long.
And so it goes, I do enjoy a vintage Vonnegut thought
floating by on a breeze.

Imagine me a Virginia Wolfe trust fund child gone wild,
un gentled, sent down t' Tobbacca Road
in a hot rod Lincoln,
t' find a bride.

Some said something in the water, flouride, petrafied
pineal glands and blinded a generation,
to the sins of their father's
legions of liars,

hired to progressively teach us to work in factories
which vanished
right before

the beans vanished from our ears and we heard the rush
of the rolling tide lifting boats big and small.

Remember being accused, in your mind, of only wanting to be on the side that's winning?

That hot rod Lincoln, Thunderword road, remember the environ?
Pure
Moonshine, melts that petrafied flouride away,

a whole generation o' peasants
turned on.
Holler Hi dee **, burns the tummy, doncha know but

epigenetic application of pure moonshine in the ac-company-ment,
companion, accuse amigo,
same bread, same leaven,
com panion we be
joined.

Jesuits, that was the idea,
formed in Xavier's fever wracked brain
as his medievally medicated flesh fought for every
breath.
Heroic. Hagiographic. Stale, smoke filled acacia incense maybe

We have gone to havings
whence such bread is said to become the an-ointed, magi know, knew, expected, fore told for if ever forever begins,
as far as mortal peasants may be concerned with such high mindedness.

The leader is a liar and the people feel free to follow him.
When the twisted rule the ruled twist, too.

Solomonic wisdom, that is. Oil on the water. Pass the torch.

This was 2018, Donald Trump was President.
how come this to be
to have to be
held.
Who still,
can imagine war?
None.

No reflection,
lack of humility,
proud noble rare-ified re-ified de-ified

Charming fellow, though, can't you admit
his charm is a luring, tempting thing, temporary testing,
is he
an enemy,
donchaluvem? Life is the test. It is that simple. Right, Mr. Perot?

No distraction action condemns a man here, we have none.
Condemnation, none of that here. My reality, you know.

Tempests in teapots, fersher. Command zed, eh.
Fold it up, put it away. New idea. New everything.

People and political servants. No more leaders, no more war.
imagine that.
People and servants serving to govern the emerging
situations
as time rolls out the barrel with the single rotten apple,

and we, the people, feed that rotten apple to the pigs,

who were addicted to pearls,
during the confusion
as mankind lost its mind

we never doubted the need for men to be born.
again, we knew not what we believed born again may be.

Taste, good medicine is bitter more oft than not,

Sugar blues on a global level, those never justify the cost,
of making the medicine go down.

Sweet desire deprived, that is poison.
Dainty appetizers, served in the rich man circus,
stolen by servants racked with guilt,

shame and blame arise,

emergency action, a reason, why are those dainty meats so alluring,


ask the fisherman. Watch for his hook.
Someday, I don't want anyone to gues where I stood concerning Donald, I never met the man and never liked the mask.
Cat Lynn Apr 17
I am not here, I am not there
You will not find me… Not anywhere

I have not run away, I have not disappeared
I am close. I am closer then I appear

Not sure how to type what I feel
When all of these feelings just make me feel so lost and ill

This is not a rebellion. This isn’t out of frustration
You are not the enemy; I have nothing against your radiation.

In the night I have gone like the wind
But I am alive and well, this is not out of sin.

I am not gone, just hidden away for a while
You know all my locations, all my places, you know my style.

I could be anywhere, but you know where I go
I am not gone; I’m just no longer home… I’m solo

My number code now a mystery, but you know my accounts
You know and have more then what you realize. You have the amount.
You know my people, you know my spots
Although I am physically cold, my heart is burning hot

Forgive me for the pretty little lies, and for my acts and stories
My wrong, my bad, I am sorry. I greatest my apologies.

I am not fooling around with strangers, or with the fools of this earth
I am safe, and I am close by. I am not shutting you out, I’m building my own turf

Watch the black now fade away, the spikes dim and become dull
For I am independently going on this journey on my own, it’s quite the hull

I’m sick of disappointing, I’m sick of the back and forth, I want to truly know
Jesus in the desert for days, Moses on the Mountain, and Elijah with the birds sought Him alone.

Days, and weeks of isolation, alone with Him.
I want to know!!! I Need to seek and find!!! I am so sick of guess’n!!!

As far as I can tell, this is God’s leading, and if it isn’t, He can work it all out
I won’t know until I take the first step into this unfamiliar world. I promise I am safe and sound

Trying to be discerning, and wise with every step I take, as far as I can tell
I can’t hear him when many are shouting. When too many feel the need to yell.

Not abandoning the problem. I’m not abandoning His Call
I am looking for peace and answers. I want to be his Princess. He won’t let me fall.

I don’t hate you, there is no anger or disappointment in this heart
I swear I leave in peace and love, for I am hurting with this part

Dad, I know everything you said and did was only out of love
I know you didn’t mean to hurt and scar me, so I hid my scars with gloves
I know I disappoint, but I contain no anger. I need a moment and time
To ask and then receive, and to seek what I am trying to find
Answers

Mom, you are wonderful and beloved, I’m sorry if I made you feel so worried
I promise you; I am fine and safe and treasured and in good care. Please have no fury
I loved working alongside you and doing what I could to help
You did so much for me, and prayed like a warrior, breaking every spell
Blessing, that is what you are ♥

Rachel, it’s time for me to be trained on how to be a woman of service
I am on my knees like I’ve seen you done so many times. I’m encouraged
I’m sorry… But He has shown me his leading… So, I am just walking forward
I may not know where it takes me… But I swear it is HIM I am walking towards
Boldly

Dennae, I am praying for you and the things you struggle and ache with. I know the look
I’m going to miss your *******-up phrases and your unintentional jokes
But I need to go on a journey with my Savior for a while to know Thy way
He will change your heart, and your desires, you keep seeking His face.
Everything will change when you pray

Amy, I am sorry, but I tried to do what I could to be there for you
I tried to be the big sister I needed to be. I did what I could so you could see Him through
I love you little one. He has an amazing job planned for you ahead.
He has not forgotten nor abandoned you. Because for you, he bled.
Remember His Love

You can come, and see, and visit! You know where you can stop by
I am not dead; I can assure you, that I am very much alive.

Take care of my baby fluff, and the fish down below
Trying to follow His leading, and not drench myself so low…

Time to grow up, time to discover and learn.
He is the greatest teacher; He will protect me from the fires that burn

Gone indeed… But to really seek and discover what is in store
Alone and Solo, I depend on Him to really speak and show. My body on the floor

Don’t be worried, scared, or frightened, for I am in good hands
I love you; I miss you. You are not locked away from my stands

From the darkness, I escape, but only to seek the light
Forgive me, my beloved family… but I need to take this step… I’ll be alright

I may have crossed the line
But I know as long as I seek Him… and Surrender to Him, He’ll make everything fine…

Till I can see you again, Beloved Family
April 13, 2019 - 1:00 am

My Move-Out Poem Letter to my family before I left...
Luz Hanaii Nov 19
Ego or false pride is the largest block in our lives
this is due to fear of being hurt
worrying about what others may think of us.
There are some people we must hide from
but then there are those who can see through
masks and words.

Intuition sees through masks and reads energies,
discerning truth from lies.
I hope you go where you wanted to go and find the peace and freedom you seek.
.
.
The mind is meek.
.
.
One speaks,
.
.
so that all can conceive.
.
.
.
These are rough times where the paradox be.
.
.
the separate-self finds others who are separate and share in that so called “wealth”.
.
.
.
Not you.
.
.
.
Not I.
.
.
I remember the times.
.
and yet we are content alone.
.
.
He and she had no archetype they just play the role of one when their vibrations were low.
.
.
.
He saw her like no other, .
.
.
.
Like the divine mother.
.
.
.
as if it was just him and her existing in this universe of contradiction and all it’s grandeurest moderation, they went against the currents and all that discourages transmigration.
.
.
.
I’ve watched you from a far and I miss every moment of it.
.
.
Guess I wasn’t raised to be civic,
.
.
We need no image just to help paint the image for others.
.
.
We’re just here,
.
.
and you take what you want from it.
.
.
I hope your in peace and find your brothers and sisters like you always told me you wanted to do.
.
.
Our duty,
.
.
to express words and not take anything too seriously.
.
.
I hope you’re happy together and can see how much you were loved.
.
.
.
Loved even by those who have never met you.
.
.
Maybe one day we’ll see each other again.
.
.
For in this life I will give everything I have, just for the purpose of giving.
.
.
Our thoughts are like vehicles in the desert.
.
.
We do not know where they came from or why,
.
.
it just needs a discerning eye.
.
.
.
If you find yourself in the dark, I’ll send you light and love to help you find your way.
.
.
Doves fly away above us, as we are bored of its reoccurrence. .
.
Is it strange that we seem content to others and yet our emotions are stuck by these under currents?
.
.
Do not get lost by a person’s surface...
.
.
.

Get lost with the wanderlust of their deepness.
.
.
If I die,
:
please tell my children I’m still alive.
.
Speaking through a person.
.
Speaking through a poem.
.
Involved in their ‘knowing.’
Vy S Jan 30
God, this hurts.
It's terrible and heart-wrenching.
To believe the moments we had weren't worth anything.
Or were they?
I have trouble discerning.
I wanted love that didn't make me feel patronized, used, discarded, and broken.
Would it make me happy?
Would it make me feel more alive to be away from you?
Would I find someone that deserves me?
How can I say this respectfully?
Without putting down our moments together?
I hate you.
I hate you so much to the point that I want you out of my life.
To the point I can say "You can die!" ad I wouldn't care.
You made me bare,
all my emotions and time,
while you sat in silence.
This is when I CAN'T remember.
These were the moments I CAN'T surrender.
Therefore, I smile when I look at you but feel like throwing up in a corner.
Carl Webb II Dec 2018
no longer adapting to the world
and feeling trapped inside this person.
figure me as what I am,
but what they see
is someone hurting.
silly me,
it's so discerning:
seeing me
in front of curtains.
feeling trapped inside this person.
open windows.
I am hurting.

jump my tears away.
(I'll jump my fears away)

in hopes of learning.
no love here for they
will not adhere;
will just add fear to play.
but, no place here today.
so, I just . . . mm . . .
so, I'm just here to stay . . .
Freya Adirhe Oct 28
Muffled sighs and pity cries, blinking along with the,
Newly untangled blinds
As flying separate shields illuminated by the sunlight within
Haze and cross-around stars and departed ambience,
Masking our wrinkles and glassy eyes
Decorating our limbs for the next rounds of,
Blinking lies and astuary promise, shall we dig our memory again?
Instead of reflecting, it would be my pleasure to be bestowed upon,
Proof of innocence and proof of allegiance
Even though it has been almost a second ago, since my last try...

Seeking admissions of relentment proves us a lost cause,
Even though, we'll be always by your side
When you call
We'll be here
We'll be near

Prove us right? We'll be visiting some of our bloods detached
Nothing some sort of inherently dear to our highness fear
Deciding to depart and abandon crumbling gates, not for the first time
Tainting our disengagement and sprawled scent
For no any discerning leads and logic, we'll be returning to you
Asking to the abyss, for some scenery of habits and routinity,
Avoiding every siren singing about,
Matters of eternity and entropy
When we open our lids, we'll be welcoming...

Light years ahead of mutiny,
Now we've come around to the same point where we made,
Some sort of above-all armours and odds and ends,
Finally breach the point of hesitance and pride,
Maybe should've stood there and should've not stare
My temple is lying against your overworld
Sort of bounded, neverthless infinite cause
Starry nights and marine lights among these cold chimes
Better off maybe you draw me your nightmares,
On my palm
On your calms

Seeking victories among some gale force proves us as another blink,
Even though, now I'm by your side
When you call
I'm finally here
I'm finally near
I never remember the last words I said to her, but I imagine it's the similar sentiment as his last words to me

— The End —