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Jeremy Bean Jul 2014
I was raised into the heavens
only to be lowered into hell
by silver tongues
flapping behind sharpened teeth
With the backbones
of snakes
slithering through
my psyche
gladhands holding daggers
coated with the poison
I have become accustomed to
leaving what is behind me
unguarded
Constantly shaken awake
from these dreams
as I lie in bed
contemplating which side
is the wrong one
to rise from
atrophy
begins to take hold
Squintin' at the moon
I feel so lonesome
moodily morose
and positively pensive
Cool light is beamin' down
Chills me to the bone and soul
not so very uneasily
Just a bit lonesome.

I need a bit of warmth for my belly
So very late at night
Won't you be so kind, good sir,
To rest a while, share a drink?
I know your mama said don't take candy from strangers
But we're both just travelers
on our long and dusty roads
Come over to my side
and walk with me for a while.

If beer dulls a memory
brand sets it burning
but wine is the best for a sad soul's yearning,
What can I get you? Tonight I'm drinking wine, the very best.
Share a glass of memory with me, bitter and sweet.

Let us gaze back together.

Do you remember the three hour drive back from the choir retreat?
I'd baked cookies for you and everyone, but forgot them in the trunk of the minivan. When I came back, you'd stolen my seat in the sweet spot and doomed me to the front passenger seat by the parent driver and a kink in my neck. You didn't even eat my lemon bars. Everyone loves lemon bars.
We listened to three hours of pop music. It all sounded the same, except Ed Sheeran's A Team. You had to explain why it was so, er, salacious. I got it subconsciously, I was just to tired to understand the lyrics just then. I'll never forget the look you gave me when I initially protested the song's innocence.

Do you remember how we used to argue every day?
We were both used to being right, I think. I can especially recall convincing you that nothing could be proven. That disappointed me. I wanted to be disproven.
I remember debating the concept of infinity, and the shock of being proven to be, quite conclusively, wrong. You were smug; I was chagrin-full.

Do you remember the first time we danced?
You didn't know what to do, and I was two inches taller than you in killer heels. I kicked them off to dance on the grimy sticky floor, to put you more at ease. It's tough being taller than the boys at your high school.
Then my only friend there left, and you and your best friend went upstairs to play the pinball machine, and I sat alone for the rest of the night.

What do you remember of me?
How did I come off?
Was I satirical, or sarcastic?
Was I funny, or tasteless?
Was I graceful, or chilly?

It does matter to me.

See, what I need to warm my belly this evening isn't drink nor memory.

What I need is you.

Sit by my fire, hold my hand, kiss my lips.
Tell me a story, write me a poem, sing me a song.

Tell me you need me too.
g clair Dec 2015
When I was a child, heard many a thing
'bout God in His Heaven and angels who sing
of streets paved of gold, and the one at the gate
whose keeping a record of me on a slate

I wanted to know how the God of great love
could measure our worth by the things we think of
the things that I do and the things that I say
It scared me to think that I'd sin anyway

Deep in my soul I longed, from my youth
more than religion, the absolute truth
so I prayed to the One, asking right from my heart
tell me true, are you there, have you been from the start?

can you please help me sort through the myth and the magic,
my doubts when I'm faced with the hopeless and tragic?
can you meet me right here, just where I am
in my darkness and failures, are you really I AM?

and what of the others who labor for nothing
who have not and hunger for turkey and stuffing?
on the streets, in the cold, stumbling drunk in the alleys
red-handed, white lies, and deep blues in dark valleys?

at our weakest, and numb from the heartache of losing
the ones that we love, left behind with a bruising
will I find you in throne rooms in the back of my mind
like some Wizard of Oz that I'm seeking to find?

A whisper, an answer, a thought I just had
was it me, was it You, could it be, that I'm mad?
But wait, there again, as I stifle my pride,
"Open the door and invite me inside".

"Ask Me, I'll tell you, I'll lead you along
Not a word which is written disproven or wrong"

"And as for the poor and the weak and your past
Your sins are forgiven, the first shall be last."

"I've chosen the weak things to confound the wise
I turn it around for the greatest surprise"


The ONE that I love, the dearest of all
the babe in the manger with the horse in the stall
He grew to a man and we know him as Jesus
fulfilled the great plan and wow, how he sees us

He bore all our burdens and gave us the ring,
we are his bride and HE is our King
and the more that I trust him, the more I debate
I need to ask questions regarding our fate

Is God all around us, is heaven for real
does He care for our flesh and the way that we feel?
is one day like a thousand, as thousands are lost
in the floods and the fires and the wars and the frost?

I'll wait for the answers and try to be still
like the child in the manger and the cow on the hill
I will study to find myself well in Your sight
while we sit by the fire and chat through the night

and when Christmas has finally dawned on our days
and we celebrate giving in so many ways
I must keep in mind how you wiped clean the slate
for once and for all you reopened that gate

and I must not forget though I'm often at fault
that you want me to shine, to be light, to be salt
and always remember that You are the reason
I celebrate Christmas, no matter the season.
Amanda Stoddard Apr 2016
1) I still have not erased the imprints your hands left all over me. These days are numbered, just like the times you tried to ruin me. I've stopped counting on you to let me down again. I've stopped counting period.
2) I compare every single guy I meet to you, so far I'm doing my best at avoidance. So far none of them have made my stomach scream outside of my throat when they kiss me.
3) These pills are taken because I want to get better now, not because I don't. Milligrams don't always equate to death. I'm learning the language of recovery and self-discovery from a bottle and a progress book.
4) I can't see your face behind me when I'm naked inside the mirror, or under the sheets of ****** desire, I do not find you there anymore.
5) You do not control me- the reigns have loosened and your voice no longer lingers upon my tongue. I am no longer afraid of big crowds without alcohol. I am my own form of stability and sobriety.
6) This face does not need to be masked by propaganda in order to leave my bedroom, confidence has accumulated into my conscious now and there is no room for criticism.
7) You have left me for dead, just weeds upon an empty field- you made me feel as if my existence was a nuisance, like it was too minute to even recognize fully. But I will not let you be my deforestation, I have spent too much time growing these roots in a place where I will flourish- you will not be my wildfire, landslide or any form of natural disaster. You are a single raindrop at best.
8) *******.
9) *******.
10) You don't even deserve to know I'm better than what you did to me. But you need to know that when my father objectifies women, it cuts a knife deep into my spine that makes me slouch a little more and when other men do the same- it makes me stand up straight again. We are not a product of those who make us, we are just a result. But with repetition those results can change. All of us are theories, not to be proven. Always changing, collecting new data. Ready to be disproven. So test yourself, push your own boundaries and don't be afraid of change.

I got out of the box someone else put my innocence in- I found my way back to it time and time again but I realized it was only to get back what I had lost. Only to find that the box was empty, only to realize they never really had a hold on me. It was just a theory, you are just a theory.
Mark Lecuona Feb 2012
Old school is old school

He still knows who he is and who he was
At least until that too is taken away

He explained that there are things between men and women

     That will always be so

But she cannot accept this in todays world
The one he cannot remember
Except for a woman's place and how he honors her

He once told me that to turn a woman down

     Is considered to be an insult

I mocked him for his ways
"How convenient for a man" I exclaimed
But he gave me a knowing look

     "You don't know how it is son"

He cannot remember what he had for breakfast
But he remembers how life should be
A man is a man
Even when his mind betrays him

He is not impressed with my progressive ways

     "You cannot change nature son"

Everything that was disproven and discarded
Has come alive again
The old world is the world
For those who cannot remember today

How can I teach him that what he believes will end his life?
How can I reach him when his identity is more important that freedom?

     How can I?
My Father has Alzheimers and his jealousy is threatening his relationship with his wife.... he needs her but it's too much... I've had hard conversations with both of them about this... real life problems.... I don't know how it will end... but it will....
g clair Sep 2013
when I was a child, heard many a thing
about God in His Heaven and angels who sing
of streets paved of gold, and the one at the gate
whose keeping a record of me on a slate

the things that I do and the things that I say
It scared me to think that I'd sin anyway
and I wanted to know how the God of great love
could measure our worth by the things we think of

not knowing Him then, well I listened to men
who knew less about God than they did their own end
so I prayed to the One, asking right from my heart
tell me true, are you there, have you been from the start?

can you please help me sort through the myth and the magic
the lies of religion, the hopeless and tragic?
can you meet me right here, just where I am
in my darkness and failures, are you really I AM?

and what of the others who labor for nothing
who have not and hunger for turkey and stuffing?
on the streets, in the cold, stumbling drunk in the alleys
red-handed, white lies, and deep blues in dark valleys?

at our weakest, and numb from the heartache of losing
the ones that we love, left behind with a bruising
will I find you in throne rooms in the back of my mind
like some Wizard of Oz that I'm seeking to find?

A whisper, an answer, a thought I just had
was it me, was it You, could it be, that I'm mad?
But wait, there again, as I stifle my pride,
"Open the door and invite me inside".

"Ask Me, I'll tell you, I'll lead you along
NOT ONE WORD WAS WRITTEN, disproven or wrong"

"And as for the poor and the weak and your past
Your sins are forgiven, the first shall be last."

"I've chosen the weak things to confound the wise
I turn it around for the greatest surprise"

The ONE that I love, the dearest of all
the babe in the manger with the horse in the stall
He grew to a man and we know him as Jesus
fulfilled the great plan and wow, how he sees us

He bore all our burdens and gave us the ring,
we are his bride and HE is our King
and the more that I trust him, the more I debate
I need to ask questions regarding our fate

Is God all around us, is heaven for real
does He care for our flesh and the way that we feel?
is one day like a thousand, as thousands are lost
in the floods and the fires and the wars and the frost?

I'll wait for the answers and try to be still
like the child in the manger and the cow on the hill
I will study to find myself well in Your sight
while we sit by the fire and chat through the night

and when Christmas has finally dawned on our days
and we celebrate giving in so many ways
I must keep in mind how you wiped clean the slate
for once and for all you reopened that gate

and I must not forget though I'm often at fault
that you want me to shine, to be light, to be salt
and always remember that You are the reason
I celebrate Christmas, no matter the season.
PERTINAX Jul 2016
There are times when sound can seem empty
And the seams of our reality appear seamless
As they wind and twist upon themselves
Creating a multifaceted facade of perception
About the world
Both full of optimism, yet also very skeptical, and pessimistic
When it comes to life

It is within these moments that clarity can be found
Between the mores of an individuals foundation;
Where action speaks louder than words and time looses all relevance
Like the beat of your heart as I lean close to purge the monotony of the silence
That pumps

Thump
.
Thump
.
Thump

Not at all dissimilar to the steady eyes that stare back for long loving moments
Saying more than any cleverly designed line or stanza
Penned by a poet looking to quantify human expression
Into the rapid compression of words that can neither be proven
Nor disproven
Amongst the extreme variations or iterations
That reiterate the same base emotion that motivates the pen
As the paper runs out of lines to spin I begin
Again to listen to the empty air that, in my mind, has became paired
And aware of the natural connection that supercedes and transcends
My thoughts as I'm lying next to you
g clair Nov 2015
when I was a child, heard many a thing
about God in His Heaven and angels who sing
of streets paved of gold, and the one at the gate
whose keeping a record of me on a slate

the things that I do and the things that I say
It scared me to think that I'd sin anyway
and I wanted to know how the God of great love
could measure our worth by the things we think of

not knowing Him then, well I listened to men
who knew less about God than they did their own end
so I prayed to the One, asking right from my heart
tell me true, are you there, have you been from the start?

can you please help me sort through the myth and the magic
the lies of religion, the hopeless and tragic?
can you meet me right here, just where I am
in my darkness and failures, are you really I AM?

and what of the others who labor for nothing
who have not and hunger for turkey and stuffing?
on the streets, in the cold, stumbling drunk in the alleys
red-handed, white lies, and deep blues in dark valleys?

at our weakest, and numb from the heartache of losing
the ones that we love, left behind with a bruising
will I find you in throne rooms in the back of my mind
like some Wizard of Oz that I'm seeking to find?

A whisper, an answer, a thought I just had
was it me, was it You, could it be, that I'm mad?
But wait, there again, as I stifle my pride,
"Open the door and invite me inside".

"Ask Me, I'll tell you, I'll lead you along
NOT ONE WORD WAS WRITTEN, disproven or wrong"

"And as for the poor and the weak and your past
Your sins are forgiven, the first shall be last."

"I've chosen the weak things to confound the wise
I turn it around for the greatest surprise"

The ONE that I love, the dearest of all
the babe in the manger with the horse in the stall
He grew to a man and we know him as Jesus
fulfilled the great plan and wow, how he sees us

He bore all our burdens and gave us the ring,
we are his bride and HE is our King
and the more that I trust him, the more I debate
I need to ask questions regarding our fate

Is God all around us, is heaven for real
does He care for our flesh and the way that we feel?
is one day like a thousand, as thousands are lost
in the floods and the fires and the wars and the frost?

I'll wait for the answers and try to be still
like the child in the manger and the cow on the hill
I will study to find myself well in Your sight
while we sit by the fire and chat through the night

and when Christmas has finally dawned on our days
and we celebrate giving in so many ways
I must keep in mind how you wiped clean the slate
for once and for all you reopened that gate

and I must not forget though I'm often at fault
that you want me to shine, to be light, to be salt
and always remember that You are the reason
I celebrate Christmas, no matter the season.
Rileigh Shanks Mar 2018
Once in the midst of a bleak October, as I wandered, meek and sober,
Over the piles of crisp and crunchy leaves on the lonely forest floor–
I began to ponder what was true, when suddenly there came into view
As if someone carelessly threw, through the forest’s ****,
Some wood and glass and shingles, amidst the forest’s ****.
A House, there stood, with a solitary door.

“A lonely House,” I muttered, and promptly thereafter shuddered
At the whisperings I had uttered, and the weight that each word bore.
This lonely House seemed haunted, yet part of me still wanted
To carry on undaunted, and discover what was in store —
What, beyond the creaky porch and faded walls, did lie in store.
I approached the solitary door.

Trembling and trepid I clambered up the stairs, poised for any future scares.
Each shaky breath lingered as I faced the lonesome door,
With a **** I began rapping, gently — ever so gently — tapping,
Hoping that my slapping, admission beyond would implore.
But it soon became clear there was no one to implore.
With that, I opened up the door.

As my eyes to this new dim lighting did adjust, I noticed first the layer of dust
That covered every table, every curtain, every drawer.
Photos hung on all the walls, from floor to ceiling and down the halls,
I could nearly hear the calls from the faces framed in the House’s decor;
From every piece and parcel of this House’s aberrant decor.
Behind me closed the lonesome door.

It was then that I first noticed, abruptly and in the remotest,
Something even more erratic than before.
The walls — they were breathing! The lungs inside were seething.
I could even hear a beating, beating beneath the floor;
A heartbeat — I swore it was! — beating beneath the floor.
I turned and fled toward the door.

Locked! The door was locked! I recoiled as if struck and balked.
In my panic to escape I stumbled and swore.
I felt the House around me shiver, every photo began to quiver,
A shuddering sigh it did deliver, as I stared blankly at the solitary door.
The single, lonesome, solitary door.
My efforts to escape were no more.

Slowly then I turned — I could not deny I was concerned —
As an eerie creak alerted me to the opening of a second door.
Without warning the ground beneath me bucked, and I nearly lost my conduct
As through this door I was ******, and taken to its core;
Deeper into the House I was drawn, and taken to its core.
Behind me closed the second door.

In the next room, I noticed straight away, the House was in much less a state of decay;
Beneath the layer of dust and drear, there were elements I did adore.
Though still ramshackle and broken, this room appeared strong — oaken —
As if it held secrets unspoken, and desired me to explore.
The House, I think it trusted me, and I desired to explore.
The fear I felt — it was no more.

This room was full of closets and chests, all of them locked to prying guests,
Each one a mysterious piece of the House’s hidden lore.
This House, I felt, needed to be known, though its secrets were rarely shown
And it was accustomed to being alone, so I wanted to know it more.
The curiosity inside of me longed to know more.
Yet I was wary now, unlike before.

“How could something so exquisite,” I murmured as I paid the pictures a visit,
“Be left so empty, so dark and dusty, so completely uncared for?”
Again I felt the walls throb, releasing a sound like a strangled sob.
“I once had caretakers to do the job, but they ravaged me and left me sore.
Yes, they rattled and ruined me and left me sore.
And for that, newcomers I do deplore.”

I was startled at first, I will admit, by the House’s unexpected wit,
Though not dissuaded even a bit by her poignant roar.
I was more determined than ever to know this House’s heartbreaking tale of woe,
And I longed to in some way show that not everyone wanted war —
This House deserved to be loved and shown that not all people wanted war.
Her confidence I wished to restore.

“Your story is horrific, to be true.  Why would anyone wish to harm you?”
And with sincerity anew, I continued, “Please do not abhor
The state of my ubiety, nor misinterpret my dubiety.
I do not desire to cause anxiety, nor for you to suffer anymore.
I will do my utmost to guarantee, you shall not suffer anymore.”
To this I swore.

“House, you are a treasure. You were meant for so much pleasure.
I can see the perplexities, all the wondrous mysteries in store.
I know you have been hurt, and to outsiders you stand alert,
Your pain has caused you to invert, but I want to know you more.
To study you, to hear you, and to come to know you more.
Only this, and nothing more.”

The House moaned and trembled, “I’ve come too far to be disassembled;
I’ve been whipped and whacked, and been made into a *****.
I used to be addressable, to everyone I was accessible,
My love and trust were irrepressible, once in the days of yore.
I was open, but misunderstood and unexplored, back in the days of yore.
That was all before.

“You see, my design is ever-changing; my rooms are constantly rearranging;
I have closets and chests and attics and cupboards galore.
For most it’s just too much; too much work, too much effort to touch,
So they abandon me as such. For them I became a chore.
Tiresome, irksome, heedlessly rushed through — to them I’m just a chore.
Only this, and nothing more.”

It was here that every wall then shook, every niche and every nook.
“I only long to be truly known, and for the torment I once bore
To be completely disproven, and for a second chance to be given
For someone honorable to move in, to appreciate me to my core.
Someone I can entrust with my rooms, who will know me to my core.”
Then I heard the opening of every lonesome door.

From here the House guided me, and slowly relinquished every key,
Acquainted me with every banshee, and accompanied me to every floor.
Never once did I desert her, it never crossed my mind to hurt her,
And all her scars that once were, after a time were no more.
The longer I stayed, the deeper I knew, and soon her scars were no more.
I daily felt her spirit soar.

It’s been years since House and I first met, and I’ve never been to her a threat.
She’s never had reason to fret, because this haunted House I do adore.
Some days are hard; sometimes I find she’s on her guard,
Or a window she has barred, but I never have need to implore.
No longer do I wonder and fear, nor ever have need to implore.
For I know what lies behind every lonesome door.
Vijaya Balan Oct 2014
It begun like any other beginning of collective days,

A gathering and the usual greetings,

A gathering of the faithful,

A toast to the New Year,

For peace, love and many other happy thoughts.



Yet, it wasn’t to be.

A break and a permanent ending came early.

A distasteful exchange of words,

No beating around the bush,

Though many hidden feelings were buried with silence.



Routines became routines still, but with sad endings.

It was routines overdrive

A new assemblage formed, from interrupted ships,

Based on a common driving factor,

It was a new routine, still in overdrive.



The celebration carried on,

Inside and outside the building,

New found places and new found faces,

A bond that became tighter over time.



A spark here and there,

But nothing special,

A desire here and there,

But nothing that would move a person.

Feelings conflate, and smoke appeared,

From a fire, no one admitted to have started.



Events unfolded and secrets were shared,

Torrents of an upside-down curve,

Nothing was straight for a while,

A downward spiral loomed,

The voices around never helped,

Instigating more than resolving.



Still, routines it became, in overdrive,

A path might have shown up, or two,

But nothing permanent,

Experience that needed to be learned?

Feelings that needed to be masked?

A sorry and a reason should have been given.



In time, the actors and actresses changed characters,

Perhaps time did play a role after all,

But they know the play has not ended,

They met and left for a reason,

They might know it then, or later,

But there was one.

It will continue,

Since the prophecies of doomsday were disproven?

They pick up where they left and continue their act.

For a new year is coming up.

For a new routine needs to be drawn up.

In overdrive. In extreme.

Beneath that sea of chaos,

They seek to find some solace

They seek to find some kindness,

They seek you, HOPE.
Anton Stonelake Sep 2018
Perceptions of identity in internal conflict grow by the shared fear of being disproven.

Resistance, in the form of denial, turns into desperation and anxiety before it reluctantly ceases.

But sometimes it happens during the mental battle and human hardship that the most pressured of these perceptions fires a distress-rocket out of its protective trench.

Something instinctual in man appeals, and if need be demand an opportunity to express what has happened.

The signal often depicts itself in ways of expression already chosen at birth, without regard to the self-image's rigorous, albeit nervous defense.

And so the poet dictates,

the artist sings,

regardless if one never dared before, one dares now.

The feelings are preserved long after the battle has passed,  
thoughts fade out of memory,
lost in one of the eternally sealed archives of the organism.

Yet the fragment that made it out is a beautiful remnant, an undeniable testimony that a creation of the soul can leave man.
This text is about things created during hardship.
Its about a thought i had, that maybe the things we create are the expression of our internal processes, needing to be heard by someone.
C J Baxter Oct 2014
The conscience does creep when wake feels like sleep,
But dreams could have never appeared as such steep
     steep a hill as this woeful wander,
Past the dark caves of pity to where the sad fellow saunters.

With sleepless thought they wake there forever
In the coldest of knot tied apart and together.  

The hollow will follow someone else on this journey.
But we stepped so careless with our caution less selves.
Made a game out of the danger. Got going a wee tourney’  

Past the poets and swore we would return to their shelves.
So far out we fell of some kind of edge they swore disproven.  
Now Down past the devil our story meets us at it delves.

Welcome to the world that stays still as it does its movin’ .
We scribble on each others faces the reasons for our still.
Chill burns, time turns back and forth for the sake of doing.

Have you ever filled yourself much to full upon a fill?
Have you ever dreamed a different morning sun?
Well I found pity- she was sat at the bottom of’a hill.

I begged to bring her home but she had only just begun,
She wanted to hear my head in his bedroom stirring,
But with pity it collapsed him as he heard's sad song sung.

The hill looks less steep, less frightening from the bottom.
Conscious lost himself from me as I came tumbling down.
I could have sworn Id fallen like an apple from tree to turn rotten.  

Everyone who walks here, walks here with crown.
The words of CJ Baxter edited by my humble self
g clair Mar 2014
when I was a child, heard many a thing
about God in His Heaven and angels who sing
of streets paved of gold, and the one at the gate
whose keeping a record of me on a slate

the things that I do and the things that I say
It scared me to think that I'd sin anyway
and I wanted to know how the God of great love
could measure our worth by the things we think of

not knowing Him then, well I listened to men
who knew less about God than they did their own end
so I prayed to the One, asking right from my heart
tell me true, are you there, have you been from the start?

can you please help me sort through the myth and the magic
the lies of religion, the hopeless and tragic?
can you meet me right here, just where I am
in my darkness and failures, are you really I AM?

and what of the others who labor for nothing
who have not and hunger for turkey and stuffing?
on the streets, in the cold, stumbling drunk in the alleys
red-handed, white lies, and deep blues in dark valleys?

at our weakest, and numb from the heartache of losing
the ones that we love, left behind with a bruising
will I find you in throne rooms in the back of my mind
like some Wizard of Oz that I'm seeking to find?

A whisper, an answer, a thought I just had
was it me, was it You, could it be, that I'm mad?
But wait, there again, as I stifle my pride,
"Open the door and invite me inside".

"Ask Me, I'll tell you, I'll lead you along
NOT ONE WORD WAS WRITTEN, disproven or wrong"

"And as for the poor and the weak and your past
Your sins are forgiven, the first shall be last."

"I've chosen the weak things to confound the wise
I turn it around for the greatest surprise"

The ONE that I love, the dearest of all
the babe in the manger with the horse in the stall
He grew to a man and we know him as Jesus
fulfilled the great plan and wow, how he sees us

He bore all our burdens and gave us the ring,
we are his bride and HE is our King
and the more that I trust him, the more I debate
I need to ask questions regarding our fate

Is God all around us, is heaven for real
does He care for our flesh and the way that we feel?
is one day like a thousand, as thousands are lost
in the floods and the fires and the wars and the frost?

I'll wait for the answers and try to be still
like the child in the manger and the cow on the hill
I will study to find myself well in Your sight
while we sit by the fire and chat through the night

and when Christmas has finally dawned on our days
and we celebrate giving in so many ways
I must keep in mind how you wiped clean the slate
for once and for all you reopened that gate

and I must not forget though I'm often at fault
that you want me to shine, to be light, to be salt
and always remember that You are the reason
I celebrate Christmas, no matter the season.
Mark Apr 2018
Your 4-month-old kitten got stuck in the hollowed out tree
Half a mile into the woods behind your home
The one where you used to stash old
Board games and magazines
He died on top of a stack of TV guides
Overnight

You get used to leaving more things unsaid
With each appraisal of the stones you
Mean to leave unturned
How the quiet moments in the margins of the night
Dry up in reverse burgeoning
And you fear them shriveling to show
The insulation beneath;
You wish you were more cynical of the outside world,
And more trusting of those close to you.
Aside from the hope you stockpile
In hidden shrines between your synapses,
Silence invites nothing worth fearing
And organic silence cradles the crumpled-up papers
Disproven hypotheses and stories from another life

Your mother left the soup on low
As long as it took you to return,
Thistles hanging from your jeans and forearms.
You are not yourself, and never have been.

You want to pull off the same trick now,
Keep the burner going long enough so that
The quiet moments carry, the soup stays
Warm enough for both of you enjoy.

The loose-leaf lectures remain unnecessary.
You wrote a eulogy that day, but never recited it.
The tree continued to grow.
what a waste Jun 2017
Magic is not an illusion, it's a mouthful of music
you chew and keep chewing 'til the world starts moving
and the rain that plagued you plays see through
When the bruised ozone loosens then opens to reveal
a sky scholars thought disproven, look through it
It's there you'll find your feet even if your head
feels like an anchor sinking in concrete
I can only bend these words so much before
they or I break but that wont stop me from
abusing the pressure points I'm trying to make
I'd swallow a thousand pills so long as they looked
like you and never would I puke no matter the pain
even if I felt Death's embrace pull my name
I don't know what I need, but if I did
I'd crawl like a dog through the dirt to its feet
and beg for mercy, just keep me from the brink
I don't want to think
N.W.O.-owned corporations promote the freshest of youthful faces
having Hillary F. Clinton lesbian relations in crowded public places
Moral citizens must subdue these shrub-scouts with military maces
then bind them together with cheap lamp cord, twine & shoe laces,
before scrubbing the scene clean to obliterate all ****-diving traces
from mobs bleeding the white-funded black & sallow yellow races,
they take up  phony causes in nine of ten clinically-disproven cases
running Manchurian patsies & *** kittens through menticidal paces
A rosy future belongs to normal people, the more normal the better,
folks who appreciate normal things: normal pets like an Irish setter
and paying a street ***** with cash because she's a chronic debtor,
and yet her ****'s an amiable fellow: truly a self-starting go-getter
who crochets booties for newborns & obeys some laws to the letter
How many movies in Maine feature a crapped-out Joan Fontaine?
How much glucosamine does a diseased cow's leg bone contain?
There were no gregarious bean bakers in Hooterville's Green Acres
nor big queen Quakers, fatuous lean takers, spliced spleen shakers,
seldom-seen fakers, farmers as keen rakers, men called teen takers
Low sugar metabolism makes a chick act like Portland Hoffa Allen
in that she'll scarf like a starved pig, piggishly hogging water melon
or muskmelon or any melon that Montreal-melon sellers are sellin'
to your average Trenton mobster, fugitive or romantic paroled felon
who'd **** with depleted uranium Arab babies by incessant shellin'
& get away with it because America's corporate media ain't a-tellin'
just like they didn't tell when 1-dollar milk sold for 1 buck a gallon
and Americans wondered if Michael Jackson & Billy Jean'd marry
civilly in Dominica even though he was a pæderastic-gay-bait fairy
preferring to make it with some 11-year-old paper boy named Gary
in the ***** fields of Michael Landon's Little House on the Prairie
where S.A.G. cows grazed to produce cream for N.B.C'.s T.V. dairy
that made Victor French's fancy ice cream: French vanilla & cherry
that even Melissa Gilbert couldn't resist, who was so often contrary
on the set 'cause her adolescent mood swings did menstrually vary
in the '70's when broads were sexier as they were much more hairy
than “Johnny B. Goode” singer & women's room spy Chuck Berry,
who married a cousin who was flittier than Heinz queer John Kerry
& 6 points stupider than the porcupine stooge: old anti-Christ Larry
who chose his sister-in-law's sister as the bride most likely to marry
whose dipsomania meant that she'd imbibe fortified wine & sherry
as one could be subbed for the other when all choices ain't arbitrary
within fashion statements decrying the sci-fi of Gene Roddenberry  
while taking pseudo-fictive writings as celestially lunar and literary
masterminded by T.V. cockroach from Hogan's Heroes: Bob Clary
Give to me the possession of my hormones back for full absorption
as I'm keen on resuming the bony splinter means of bone resorption
while admixed by neo-commixed protocols of bio-ecleptic sorption
Let's stomp sun-burnt faces 'cause J. Edgar Hoover was the riddled
manufacturer of Malcolm X from a ***** mulatto known by Little
who scrounged while Jersey burned its cheap, girly skirts for a tittle
No one plays guitar more melodically than does cuchi cuchi Charo
whose passion for nature out-natures that of the lovely Al Malinaro
& the crapped-out juvenile actor who was known as Frankie Darro
whom all Californians knew was as straight as the straightest arrow
unafraid to stay the course & to keep righteously straight & narrow
under the same moral code that's served so well María Mia Farrow
who has sworn off the making of stew using vole, llama or sparrow
yet not excluding the animal delicacies of pancreas & bone marrow  
enjoyed by robbers Bonnie Parker, Buck, Clyde & Blanche Barrow
who, as bandidos Mexicanos, were obliged to steal Mexican dinero
☹ A wild man's on the loose who's hurting tourism as a tourist ******
☹ He's tall & menacing like the guy on T.V.'s F Troop, Forrest Tucker
☹ A ****** is on the prowl and he's ******* tourists as a tourist ******
☹ He looks like that F Troop sergeant O'Rourke, actor Forrest Tucker
☹ A wild ******'s escaped from ******* prison & he's a tourist ******
☹ He is a bad ******* **** like the ****** on F Troop, Forrest Tucker
Thomas Dressler Nov 2021
Blessed are the broken, because in them there's something to fix.
Blessed are the destitute, because their arms are wide open.
Blessed are the blind, because they truly appreciate the light.

Blessed is the homeless man you glared at last Tuesday on your way back from work, because his soul is searching for a real home while yours is watching netflix in bed.
Blessed are the simple-minded, because they seem to be the only ones who can understand the promises given them by the eternal deity anymore now that science has disproven the infinite and almighty creator's existence without the least understanding of what infinite even means.
Blessed are the ones in the background of your selfish and 'significant' lives, because they are the colors that God uses to paint the masterpiece that is the space between the physical and spiritual realm, the elaborate painting that we get to walk and breathe and live through each day, the one with the smell of winter's cold and warm fires, the one with the flowering cycles of the most beautiful orchids and the ripeness of a fresh mango, the one where the oceans dance with the shore and the great cliffs watch in awe, and the one with the tender autumn snuggles on a chilly goodnight. They are the reason the poets have anything to write about at all, and the reason they take joy in writing what they do.

Blessed are the empty vessels, because I am in love with the humble and weak, and I wish to fill those who seek me and give them life and joy everlasting.
My take on the Beatitudes of Matthew chapter 5. There's something missing in our current accepted understanding of those words, and that misunderstanding tends to pull us away from the real, loving Christ. Is this really an embodiment of that, though? Probably not, and for that I ask Him forgiveness. I write these particular words for myself more than anyone else.
Michael Marchese Nov 2019
Drag this indolent
Listless existence
From bed
Gotta integrate with
What I hate
And I dread
And I said
Would be my
Calling
Falling on deaf ears
And leaving me hauling
A sack full of empty
Ambitions
And goals
Aspirations and dreams
Not worth sacks full of coal
Smoldering in the ash heap
Of youth disillusion
This trash heap adulthood
Disproven diffusion
Of two cultures’
Toxic pollutions
In union
When only mine
Keeps buying more
Of the ruins
And only theirs
Keeps bearing unfair
Disparity
Barely survivors
On dollars a day
Frailty pales by compare
To deadweight of dismay
And despair parodies
What these maladies
Do to me
Any joy left
Before death
Is excluding me
Nothing is new to me
Home is eluding me
Vexation
Interrogations
Confusing me
Losing my
Last of lost worlds
Of ideal
To the fasting on costs
Of living
All too real
Kurt Philip Behm Jun 2019
If God and Heaven don’t exist,
  their facade is fine with me

The simulation of a thought so pure,
will satisfy my needs

So take your theories and quantum math
painted corners left to dwell

I choose the beauty of a life divine
disproven—not dispelled

(St. Thomas of Villanova Chapel: June, 2019)
Quash David Rockefeller's C.F.R. & New World Order mobocracy
Reject the totalitarian 51-over-49 rule that's modernized democracy
that sets in stone by presidential directive this American plutocracy,
through indoctrinating pederasty & lesbian *** to beget pornocracy
N.W.O.-owned corporations promote the freshest of youthful faces
having Hillary F. Clinton lesbian relations in crowded public places
Moral citizens must subdue these shrub-scouts with military maces
then bind them together with cheap lamp cord, twine & shoe laces,
before scrubbing the scene clean to obliterate all ****-diving traces
from mobs bleeding the white-funded black & sallow yellow races,
they take up  phony causes in nine of ten clinically-disproven cases
running Manchurian patsies & *** kittens through menticidal paces
During 1 bowel movement it was Martin Luther King, Junior's day
Quickly I finished a bowel movement as I worked for neighbor pay
These broad swords are no bowel-movement match for slim sabers
as all mates in the throes of bowel movement sing like Jim Nabors
on steroidal ointments that haven't made normal pigs into gay boars
sashaying along wharves in the guise of San Francisco Bay ******
soliciting gay Rabbinical Jewish mariners on sight-seeing day tours
while propositioning ******-hating, Jesus-loving Christian sailors
conceived Gerty F. Stein

Jane Birkin's Bare Bush
Chablis is number 2 in wine
White is the cheapest of pine
Bauxite is the hardest to mine
Careful, Natashka, your fork's got a bent tine
Nylon screening comes with substandard spline
Prostrate yourself to digitize my spine
Let us sup as we communalistically dine
No one proceeds to ten without acknowledging nine
Though ivory be bright—ebony do shine
Alice Babette Toklas conceived Gerty F. Stein
Vitamin B17 renders cancer curably benign
Words long-neglected grow hard to define
Around a willing neck is strung a line;
  around the block: electronic soup line
If it be not yours—it be not mine

In the movie Don Juan (1973): Bridgette Bardot held a lit cig 3'' from Jane Birkin's bare bush. It happened in a ***** yet no one died; no hairs were singed; no men were implicated; no courses were diverged; no plans were scotched; no blood was transfused...

Jinsei Iroiro
Catch a ship, one that won't tipple
Get a grip, one that's metagrippal
Poison without sincere apology
**** as a practitioner of cancrology
Steel yourself to the futility of frustration
And feel the freeze of useless cryo-ablation
Have cannibals taught us nothing?
Nothing that McDonald's hasn't disproven
Over a Happy Meal, Ronald preaches the word of Lord Jesus
Honesty was the policy of Murray Humphreys
Let us sway beneath the palms
Sing of Christ through hymns & psalms
On the backs of Jews we exploit their good will
Tricking them into paying for everything

Cup my bra while I snap your *******
On the backs of farmers ride the urbanites who target to pillage
Leftwardly along the left-handed path bores not a missed turn
Through a borough, a hamlet, a class-2A city and a dumpy village
it's legislated to fluoridate each brook, well, spring & cistern
without regard to code, codex, exception or percentage of millage
Should I lance, squeeze, ablate, extirpate or let this cyst burn?
Helpless dejection, abject poverty, silken hose put me in a mood
to wring the necks of stolen chickens; to raise cats on dog food
I rise not by the sun in perigee, nor by the tolling of a church bell
not by Nicky of Cusa on squaring circles or the harrowing of hell
Dermatologically, chiggers and mites nourish by parasitic function
So unlike priests & bishops who decree extreme Catholica unction
It's the affront, prayer-toil & misery what feeds a cold compunction
Hydrogen peroxide is keen for punctured wounds & blisters busted
For disinfecting Negroes and Hebes who muse with brown mustard

*** Phillips has crapped out!
With what shiftily amounts to disgustingly sycophantic loyalty
The teleprompter readers drool over themselves praising royalty
When Lizzy scratches her fragrant, pocked *** to satisfy an itch
Brown-nosing T.V.-types stoop & curtsy to the devil-loving rich
Who better to rut, whelp & back-scuttle than a back-alley *****?
Who better to cut the throat of, eviscerate and toss into a ditch?
Who better to ****** than a ***** in an alley as black as pitch?
N.W.O.-owned corporations promote the freshest of youthful faces
having Hillary F. Clinton lesbian relations in crowded public places
Moral citizens must subdue these shrub-scouts with military maces
then bind them together with cheap lamp cord, twine & shoe laces,
before scrubbing the scene clean to obliterate all ****-diving traces
from mobs bleeding the white-funded black & sallow yellow races,
they take up  phony causes in nine of ten clinically-disproven cases
running Manchurian patsies & *** kittens through menticidal paces

— The End —