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Cory Ellis Jun 2013
The Psychology of Catharsis in Crowds
Hey guys. This isn't truly a poem but a paper I wrote for English class. I wanted to share this view with people and this is the only vehicle I knew to use. So here it is. I hope you enjoy it.
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The amplifiers were turned up to ten. The young and fresh crowd looked at us with anticipation.

What were they waiting for? As the music began I noticed the subtle movements and growing tension in

the crowd. Men shook their heads and we shook ours in a violent duet between the crowd and

performer. Women and men flailed their limbs as they awaited the ******. We knew when it was

coming; they did not. When we decided to let it all go I witnessed something crazy! There was a brief

pause in the music and when it began again we kicked it into overdrive. We shook our heads with a

more frantic pace. We jumped about like madmen. The crowd erupted; it became its own entity. You

could feel the heat and power of this new creature. We were locked in a violent psychic-sphere of

crazed young teens and when the ****** was over there seemed to be a sense of relief and happiness

in the crowd. Had my after school hobby become a healing agent, even if only temporary, in society?

This papers purpose is an attempt at piecing together the phenomena of catharsis by merging

philosophy, psychology, history and spirituality.



First, to understand the psychology of catharsis we must think back to the roots of this behavior. Since

human life has existed we’ve formed crowds for various reasons. The first reason held the sole purpose

of protection. Tribes of people, men as hunters and women as gatherers, teamed up for the benefit of

human survival. Erich Fromm says that “the meaning of life is not to be found in its fullest unfolding but

in social service and social duties; that the development, freedom, and happiness of the individual is

subordinate or even irrelevant in comparison to the welfare of the state.”(Fromm, 1947, page 51) This

states that a crowd is actually very necessary to the function of human life. The second reason crowds

gathered was in form of revel, shamanistic healing and worship of deities (Ehrenreich, 30). Men and

woman would often enter trances, speak in tongues and become involved in a collective ecstasy while in

worship of their God. In later years, politics, entertainment and rebellion or protest was a main factor in

the gathering of people (Ehrenreich, 102). People gathered at Festivals that were in the midst of being

suppressed and would dance in mockery of their Kings or leaders.



What exactly is catharsis? Catharsis is a purging of emotional tension brought out in a crowd through

the viewing of a tragedy or tragic play. In the article “The Power of Catharsis” Kearny says the following

More specifically he (Aristotle) defined

the function of catharsis as 'purgation of pity and fear'. This comes

about, he explains, whenever the dramatic imitation of certain actions

arouses pity and fear in order to provide an outlet for pity and fear.

The recounting of experience through the formal medium of plot,

fiction or spectacle permits us to repeat the past forward so to speak.

And this very act of creative repetition allows for a certain kind of

pleasure or release. In the play of narrative re-creation we are invited

to revisit our lives — through the actions and personas of others — so

as to live them otherwise. We discover a way to give a future to

the past. (Kearny 1)

I figure that, even though he states that it is a purgation of pity and fear, it could also be involved with

many other suppressed emotions. Take my introduction for example. These kids were not releasing

pity and fear, they were releasing their angst! They were releasing their desire for competition.

They were making up for the violent feelings of agression they felt in their body that had been

suppressed by society for so long! They were revolting! Could catharsis also be used to purge other

emotions as well such as ****** suppression or communicative issues?





How would one come about actually attempting this catharsis that I speak of? We need to first look at

some ways in which people have controlled crowds in the past and realize that crowds form by

themselves but often look for leadership due to what Nietzche called that “herd mentality.”

In the article “Seducing the Crowd” by Urs Staheli it mentions that repetition is a key factor in beginning

to control the crowd. (Staheli, 69) This means that through repetition you can get the crowd to side with

your beliefs. The crowd could begin to think about what your suggesting and potentially be swayed by

the other people that are now following your ideas. It could also be repetition of body movements as

well. What better vehicle is there to sway a crowd than music? It’s repetitive in instrumental and lyrical

form!



Another way to “******” a crowd is to act like a madman! Specifically how I stumbled upon this in

the first phenomena place.

The leader himself is possessed and hypnotized by the ideas

and visions he holds, obsessed to such an extent that he cannot rationally exercise

control over the crowd. Instead, he devotes himself to fascinating the

crowd by more ecstatic means.8 He often resembles a madman but fascinates

by the mere power of his determination. What distinguishes the leader from

the rest of the crowd is his will alone, not any particular intellectual capacity

or a superior morality. (Staheli, 68)

The theory is that through mythological story telling or acting tragically and in a spectacle, we can

actually release negative emotions and potentially even heal neuroses or psychic ailments. Later in the

article he goes on to say that a shaman was actually documented to have cured a woman with a blocked

birth canal and in labor by telling her a story about a warrior trying to exit a cave that had monsters on

the outside trying to get in.

The function of a shaman is to heal his tribe. He uses drugs or plants to change his state of mind and

then by going over to the other side of reality he invokes spirits that help to heal.

In the séance, the shaman led. A sensuous panic, deliberately evoked through drugs, chants,

dancing, hurls the shaman into trance. Changed voice; convulsive movement. He acts like a

madman. These professional hysterics, chosen precisely for their psychotic leaning, were once

esteemed. They mediated between man and spirit world. Their mental travels formed the crux

of the religious life of the tribe. (Morrison 1967 pg. 71)

This shows an ecstatic crowd dancing and chanting while one man acts out a tragic spectacle. Through

this spectacle the shaman acts like a madman. This causes wild emotions within the crowd and allows it

to release their built up and suppressed emotions. Also, the dance and chants bring them to a feeling of

unity and oneness!



One may not believe in the spiritual shaman because of their own beliefs about God and religion. Some

may not believe in the other world that parallels our own.  It is a skeptical concept without a doubt and

there are probably many people who disagree with the legitimacy of the shaman. Is there a way that we

could think of the phenomena in a psychological sense rather than strictly spiritual? The answer lies in

Carl Jung’s theory of the unconscious mind and dream therapy as well as in Nietzche’s philosophy on art

and aesthetics.  



Carl Jung believed that there is a conscious mind and an unconscious mind. The conscious mind is the

everyday mind that occurs in waking life. It is rational and helps us survive. The unconscious mind can

be found in dreams or whenever you experience a déjà vu (Jung 1964 21).  He also believed that through

the study of dreams you could heal certain aspects of your psyche that have been altered by neuroses.

Symbols and archetypes make up dreams and the unconscious, and often you will find that archetypes

appear in the form  of people. Jung believes that through living in society that men and women have lost

touch with their feminine or masculine characteristics depending on their gender. Dreams can help us

get back into union with these lost roles through connecting us with our anima(female) or animus

(male) through symbols in our dreams or unconscious minds. Jung wrote that when society was

formed people took on roles and caused a dissociation in their psyche and caused a duality rather

than a unity when they suppressed one side of their mind.  He mentioned that at all times the

unconscious mind is connecting us on a psychic level.



How does this tie into shamans and catharsis? It seems like something completely different all together

right? My theory is that the shaman or crowd leader brings forth a forgotten union of the masculine and

feminine forces in the universe. Nietzche believed that there are two polar forces that are natural in this

world and in art. These forces are given the names of deities in his book “The Birth of Tragedy.”

The first is the Apollonian force that is masculine. This force in art governs form and dreams. The

Apollonian artist directly takes ideas from his dreams and brings them to life whether it is in form

sculpture or poetry. Apollo appears through an oracle often in tragedy or in visions of the waking life.

The second force is the Dionysian which is feminine. This force governs intoxication, revel and ecstasy.

Dionysian artists are improvisers and dancers and are usually tragic figures. Nietzche believed there are

three different types of artists: Apollonian, Dionysian and the fusion of both (Nietzche 1872 14). This

latter artist is what I believe the shaman is.



Through connecting these polarizing forces he fixes the psychic neuroses in his own mind. He becomes

a unified artist, or a magician of duality. The shaman, as stated above, takes drugs to intoxicate himself.

Often the drug of choice is wine or alcohol though it could be hallucinogenic drugs as well. This tied with

repetitive revel is the Dionysian side of the spectrum and also helps draw the crowd’s attention through

spectacle and repetition. Everybody is ecstatic and experiencing the collective vibrations of the crowd.

Through his intoxication he is able to go into the unconscious mind and produce dream symbols in

reality! The crowd follows the leader into this unconscious mind and brings back forgotten wisdom of

mythology and archetypes. This is the Apollonian side of the spectrum because it deals with the

unconscious mind and dream images. It also could be this “other world” that traditional shamans speak

of. Now the psychic duality is merged and a tie is formed between the masculine and feminine forces of

nature! People feel at one with themselves and the crowd and the societal suppression is vanished

briefly. All the neuroses caused by the suppression fades away in the ecstatic revel. This is the appeal of

the rock concert. Notice how many leading figures of rock bands have androgynous features and

shamanistic nature. This is because they have fixed the psychic neuroses in their own mind and become

at peace with the masculine and feminine duality of their psyche.



Stumbling upon this phenomena in my rebellious youth was very eye opening. Ever since I have been  

very excited about this theory and I’ve been trying to piece it together. It seems to be coming along

further and further in my study of this. What exactly this ancient wisdom is; I don’t entirely know. I

do know that I have witnessed this in reality and the subject is interesting and fascinating. My theory

still has a lot of work before it is completed but I think that within this article I’ve given a decent

amount of history about the topic as well as my own thoughts. Whether this phenomena is true or

not, we can leave that up to the psychologists and philosophers to decide, though I think many may

agree. Either way, catharsis surely does exist and it is a fun way of entertainment as well as a

therapeutic option for many stressed out individuals out there
Continue reading...
Alexander K Opicho Feb 2014
Nobel lecture of Octavio paz on receiving Nobel poetry Prize in 1990
IN SEARCH OF THE PRESENT

I begin with two words that all men have uttered since the dawn of humanity: thank you. The word gratitude has equivalents in every language and in each tongue the range of meanings is abundant. In the Romance languages this breadth spans the spiritual and the physical, from the divine grace conceded to men to save them from error and death, to the ****** grace of the dancing girl or the feline leaping through the undergrowth. Grace means pardon, forgiveness, favour, benefice, inspiration; it is a form of address, a pleasing style of speaking or painting, a gesture expressing politeness, and, in short, an act that reveals spiritual goodness. Grace is gratuitous; it is a gift. The person who receives it, the favoured one, is grateful for it; if he is not base, he expresses gratitude. That is what I am doing at this very moment with these weightless words. I hope my emotion compensates their weightlessness. If each of my words were a drop of water, you would see through them and glimpse what I feel: gratitude, acknowledgement. And also an indefinable mixture of fear, respect and surprise at finding myself here before you, in this place which is the home of both Swedish learning and world literature.

Languages are vast realities that transcend those political and historical entities we call nations. The European languages we speak in the Americas illustrate this. The special position of our literatures when compared to those of England, Spain, Portugal and France depends precisely on this fundamental fact: they are literatures written in transplanted tongues. Languages are born and grow from the native soil, nourished by a common history. The European languages were rooted out from their native soil and their own tradition, and then planted in an unknown and unnamed world: they took root in the new lands and, as they grew within the societies of America, they were transformed. They are the same plant yet also a different plant. Our literatures did not passively accept the changing fortunes of the transplanted languages: they participated in the process and even accelerated it. They very soon ceased to be mere transatlantic reflections: at times they have been the negation of the literatures of Europe; more often, they have been a reply.

In spite of these oscillations the link has never been broken. My classics are those of my language and I consider myself to be a descendant of Lope and Quevedo, as any Spanish writer would ... yet I am not a Spaniard. I think that most writers of Spanish America, as well as those from the United States, Brazil and Canada, would say the same as regards the English, Portuguese and French traditions. To understand more clearly the special position of writers in the Americas, we should think of the dialogue maintained by Japanese, Chinese or Arabic writers with the different literatures of Europe. It is a dialogue that cuts across multiple languages and civilizations. Our dialogue, on the other hand, takes place within the same language. We are Europeans yet we are not Europeans. What are we then? It is difficult to define what we are, but our works speak for us.

In the field of literature, the great novelty of the present century has been the appearance of the American literatures. The first to appear was that of the English-speaking part and then, in the second half of the 20th Century, that of Latin America in its two great branches: Spanish America and Brazil. Although they are very different, these three literatures have one common feature: the conflict, which is more ideological than literary, between the cosmopolitan and nativist tendencies, between Europeanism and Americanism. What is the legacy of this dispute? The polemics have disappeared; what remain are the works. Apart from this general resemblance, the differences between the three literatures are multiple and profound. One of them belongs more to history than to literature: the development of Anglo-American literature coincides with the rise of the United States as a world power whereas the rise of our literature coincides with the political and social misfortunes and upheavals of our nations. This proves once more the limitations of social and historical determinism: the decline of empires and social disturbances sometimes coincide with moments of artistic and literary splendour. Li-Po and Tu Fu witnessed the fall of the Tang dynasty; Velázquez painted for Felipe IV; Seneca and Lucan were contemporaries and also victims of Nero. Other differences are of a literary nature and apply more to particular works than to the character of each literature. But can we say that literatures have a character? Do they possess a set of shared features that distinguish them from other literatures? I doubt it. A literature is not defined by some fanciful, intangible character; it is a society of unique works united by relations of opposition and affinity.

The first basic difference between Latin-American and Anglo-American literature lies in the diversity of their origins. Both begin as projections of Europe. The projection of an island in the case of North America; that of a peninsula in our case. Two regions that are geographically, historically and culturally eccentric. The origins of North America are in England and the Reformation; ours are in Spain, Portugal and the Counter-Reformation. For the case of Spanish America I should briefly mention what distinguishes Spain from other European countries, giving it a particularly original historical identity. Spain is no less eccentric than England but its eccentricity is of a different kind. The eccentricity of the English is insular and is characterized by isolation: an eccentricity that excludes. Hispanic eccentricity is peninsular and consists of the coexistence of different civilizations and different pasts: an inclusive eccentricity. In what would later be Catholic Spain, the Visigoths professed the heresy of Arianism, and we could also speak about the centuries of ******* by Arabic civilization, the influence of Jewish thought, the Reconquest, and other characteristic features.

Hispanic eccentricity is reproduced and multiplied in America, especially in those countries such as Mexico and Peru, where ancient and splendid civilizations had existed. In Mexico, the Spaniards encountered history as well as geography. That history is still alive: it is a present rather than a past. The temples and gods of pre-Columbian Mexico are a pile of ruins, but the spirit that breathed life into that world has not disappeared; it speaks to us in the hermetic language of myth, legend, forms of social coexistence, popular art, customs. Being a Mexican writer means listening to the voice of that present, that presence. Listening to it, speaking with it, deciphering it: expressing it ... After this brief digression we may be able to perceive the peculiar relation that simultaneously binds us to and separates us from the European tradition.

This consciousness of being separate is a constant feature of our spiritual history. Separation is sometimes experienced as a wound that marks an internal division, an anguished awareness that invites self-examination; at other times it appears as a challenge, a spur that incites us to action, to go forth and encounter others and the outside world. It is true that the feeling of separation is universal and not peculiar to Spanish Americans. It is born at the very moment of our birth: as we are wrenched from the Whole we fall into an alien land. This experience becomes a wound that never heals. It is the unfathomable depth of every man; all our ventures and exploits, all our acts and dreams, are bridges designed to overcome the separation and reunite us with the world and our fellow-beings. Each man's life and the collective history of mankind can thus be seen as attempts to reconstruct the original situation. An unfinished and endless cure for our divided condition. But it is not my intention to provide yet another description of this feeling. I am simply stressing the fact that for us this existential condition expresses itself in historical terms. It thus becomes an awareness of our history. How and when does this feeling appear and how is it transformed into consciousness? The reply to this double-edged question can be given in the form of a theory or a personal testimony. I prefer the latter: there are many theories and none is entirely convincing.

The feeling of separation is bound up with the oldest and vaguest of my memories: the first cry, the first scare. Like every child I built emotional bridges in the imagination to link me to the world and to other people. I lived in a town on the outskirts of Mexico City, in an old dilapidated house that had a jungle-like garden and a great room full of books. First games and first lessons. The garden soon became the centre of my world; the library, an enchanted cave. I used to read and play with my cousins and schoolmates. There was a fig tree, temple of vegetation, four pine trees, three ash trees, a nightshade, a pomegranate tree, wild grass and prickly plants that produced purple grazes. Adobe walls. Time was elastic; space was a spinning wheel. All time, past or future, real or imaginary, was pure presence. Space transformed itself ceaselessly. The beyond was here, all was here: a valley, a mountain, a distant country, the neighbours' patio. Books with pictures, especially history books, eagerly leafed through, supplied images of deserts and jungles, palaces and hovels, warriors and princesses, beggars and kings. We were shipwrecked with Sinbad and with Robinson, we fought with d'Artagnan, we took Valencia with the Cid. How I would have liked to stay forever on the Isle of Calypso! In summer the green branches of the fig tree would sway like the sails of a caravel or a pirate ship. High up on the mast, swept by the wind, I could make out islands and continents, lands that vanished as soon as they became tangible. The world was limitless yet it was always within reach; time was a pliable substance that weaved an unbroken present.

When was the spell broken? Gradually rather than suddenly. It is hard to accept being betrayed by a friend, deceived by the woman we love, or that the idea of freedom is the mask of a tyrant. What we call "finding out" is a slow and tricky process because we ourselves are the accomplices of our errors and deceptions. Nevertheless, I can remember fairly clearly an incident that was the first sign, although it was quickly forgotten. I must have been about six when one of my cousins who was a little older showed me a North American magazine with a photograph of soldiers marching along a huge avenue, probably in New York. "They've returned from the war" she said. This handful of words disturbed me, as if they foreshadowed the end of the world or the Second Coming of Christ. I vaguely knew that somewhere far away a war had ended a few years earlier and that the soldiers were marching to celebrate their victory. For me, that war had taken place in another time, not here and now. The photo refuted me. I felt literally dislodged from the present.

From that moment time began to fracture more and more. And there was a plurality of spaces. The experience repeated itself more and more frequently. Any piece of news, a harmless phrase, the headline in a newspaper: everything proved the outside world's existence and my own unreality. I felt that the world was splitting and that I did not inhabit the present. My present was disintegrating: real time was somewhere else. My time, the time of the garden, the fig tree, the games with friends, the drowsiness among the plants at three in the afternoon under the sun, a fig torn open (black and red like a live coal but one that is sweet and fresh): this was a fictitious time. In spite of what my senses told me, the time from over there, belonging to the others, was the real one, the time of the real present. I accepted the inevitable: I became an adult. That was how my expulsion from the present began.

It may seem paradoxical to say that we have been expelled from the present, but it is a feeling we have all had at some moment. Some of us experienced it first as a condemnation, later transformed into consciousness and action. The search for the present is neither the pursuit of an earthly paradise nor that of a timeless eternity: it is the search for a real reality. For us, as Spanish Americans, the real present was not in our own countries: it was the time lived by others, by the English, the French and the Germans. It was the time of New York, Paris, London. We had to go and look for it and bring it back home. These years were also the years of my discovery of literature. I began writing poems. I did not know what made me write them: I was moved by an inner need that is difficult to define. Only now have I understood that there was a secret relationship between what I have called my expulsion from the present and the writing of poetry. Poetry is in love with the instant and seeks to relive it in the poem, thus separating it from sequential time and turning it into a fixed present. But at that time I wrote without wondering why I was doing it. I was searching for the gateway to the present: I wanted to belong to my time and to my century. A little later this obsession became a fixed idea: I wanted to be a modern poet. My search for modernity had begun.

What is modernity? First of all it is an ambiguous term: there are as many types of modernity as there are societies. Each has its own. The word's meaning is uncertain and arbitrary, like the name of the period that precedes it, the Middle Ages. If we are modern when compared to medieval times, are we perhaps the Middle Ages of a future modernity? Is a name that changes with time a real name? Modernity is a word in search of its meaning. Is it an idea, a mirage or a moment of history? Are we the children of modernity or its creators? Nobody knows for sure. It doesn't matter much: we follow it, we pursue it. For me at that time modernity was fused with the present or rather produced it: the present was its last supreme flower. My case is neither unique nor exceptional: from the Symbolist period, all modern poets have chased after that magnetic and elusive figure that fascinates them. Baudelaire was the first. He was also the first to touch her and discover that she is nothing but time that crumbles in one's hands. I am not going to relate my adventures in pursuit of modernity: they are not very different from those of other 20th-Century poets. Modernity has been a universal passion. Since 1850 she has been our goddess and our demoness. In recent years, there has been an attempt to exorcise her and there has been much talk of "postmodernism". But what is postmodernism if not an even more modern modernity?

For us, as Latin Americans, the search for poetic modernity runs historically parallel to the repeated attempts to modernize our countries. This tendency begins at the end of the 18th Century and includes Spain herself. The United States was born into modernity and by 1830 was already, as de Tocqueville observed, the womb of the future; we were born at a moment when Spain and Portugal were moving away from modernity. This is why there was frequent talk of "Europeanizing" our countries: the modern was outside and had to be imported. In Mexican history this process begins just before the War of Independence. Later it became a great ideological and political debate that passionately divided Mexican society during the 19th Century. One event was to call into question not the legitimacy of the reform movement but the way in which it had been implemented: the Mexican Revolution. Unlike its 20th-Century counterparts, the Mexican Revolution was not really the expression of a vaguely utopian ideology but rather the explosion of a reality that had been historically and psychologically repressed. It was not the work of a group of ideologists intent on introducing principles derived from a political theory; it was a popular uprising that unmasked what was hidden. For this very reason it was more of a revelation than a revolution. Mexico was searching for the present outside only to find it within, buried but alive. The search for modernity led
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
shortening Heidegger
now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the
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Czeslaw Milosz
A Poor Christian Looks At The Ghetto
Bees build around red liver,
Ants build around black bone.
It has begun: the tearing, the trampling on silks,
It has begun: the breaking of glass, wood, copper, nickel, silver, foam
Of gypsum, iron sheets, violin strings, trumpets, leaves, *****, crystals.
****! Phosphorescent fire from yellow walls
Engulfs animal and human hair.


Bees build around the honeycomb of lungs,
Ants build around white bone.
Torn is paper, rubber, linen, leather, flax,
Fiber, fabrics, cellulose, snakeskin, wire.
The roof and the wall collapse in flame and heat seizes the foundations.
Now there is only the earth, sandy, trodden down,
With one leafless tree.


Slowly, boring a tunnel, a guardian mole makes his way,
With a small red lamp fastened to his forehead.
He touches buried bodies, counts them, pushes on,
He distinguishes human ashes by their luminous vapor,
The ashes of each man by a different part of the spectrum.
Bees build around a red trace.
Ants build around the place left by my body.


I am afraid, so afraid of the guardian mole.
He has swollen eyelids, like a Patriarch
Who has sat much in the light of candles
Reading the great book of the species.


What will I tell him, I, a Jew of the New Testament,
Waiting two thousand years for the second coming of Jesus?
My broken body will deliver me to his sight
And he will count me among the helpers of death:
The uncircumcised.
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Emilie Apr 2016
/<<>>Color Spectrum>><</
Life is a  treasure and yet
I was born with pale white skin,
You were born with dark chocolate skin,
Our color distinguishes our features,
Our color does not represent our character.

~E.J.W~
#colorism
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Ellie Martin Feb 2015
The Definition of Highschool
Highschool! Supposingly the “time of our lives” or where a study guide is more important than our mental state of being! It’s also the only place where you write thousand of definitions every year, but you can’t even define your self worth. Where you solve millions of equations, but you can’t even add up your life value. Solve for your life, school-health(life)= future. The definitive times of our lives are turning into the worst. Balancing your social wellbeing with the hell of being popular and skinny, even starving yourself for days because the queen bee bought herself the newest style, and it’s a size too small. Subtracting the calories from the equation of wanting to binge your heart out while cramming for the test of flirting with that new boy after school. Adding the new dress, new heels, and new personality to your already masked appearance because the party you got invited to is where the “prettiest” of girls add up your self worth for you solving for the simplest equation. Makeup(Skinny)(Big ****)(Tall)= PRETTY. The word everyone seems to have a definition for except you. A word that could try to define your schooling career, but you can’t find the correct sources. Then theres the nights where you stay up until the early dawn, sobbing yourself to sleep because you can’t remember how to do so on your own. The definition of sleep : A natural periodic state of rest for the mind and body. But who remembers that? How am I supposed to solve the equation of rest? These definitions make up your state of being, piercing to your brain like clothing labels, being ripped off when they are no longer needed. The equations make up your body, or what's naturally left of it. Memorizing everything a person says about you, adding up the looks you get in the hallways rushing to class, reading the syllabus to everyone’s expectations for you. Expectations. Expectations. EXPECTATIONS. They come as blurs, never specific or clear enough. They shove through your tired brain and ram your esteem up walls. The perfect image of a student and friend and girlfriend and PERSON. Applications come out, every question answered honestly, truthfully, a reflection of SELF. Self? Can you use that word in a sentence? Is there a way to solve it? You’ve thrown out the files to your internal layers, not seeming important enough to pass the next big history test or worthy of the SAT prep due in a week. You can’t pass the exam in your mind testing on the ability to stay sane and make it into the college in your brain because it’s been shut down due to: inclement conditions.  Add up all of this and you get the equation of highschool and equation to pass the social barrier. Congradulations! You’ve graduated someones judgement of your self worth and now you have to define it on your own.


Self (n:) a person's essential being that distinguishes them from others.


Distinguish from others. Different? NO! Suspension has kicked you out of the brain and difference is a TOTAL reputation ruiner. You’ve spent your entire life hypothesizing the idea of NORMAL. Different is an old definition with a new sound, wanting to be sweet and free. But in reality locked in a detention classroom, waiting for it to be used openly. It’s like this: run multiple copies of the same person on the copy machine and then paste them around the school with imitating personalities and similar words. The word different doesn’t apply to this equation.


Can you even use it in a sentence?  


Can I even be used in a sentence?


-e.m
A slam I wrote for my honors English class.
#poetry #word #depression #highschool #tumblr #spoken #school #slam
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THE Apache Tomcat Jun 2014
Daydream From August 11th, 1843
Tip Your hat
And curtsy low
The masses so mandate absolute guile
A handshake, a smile, a proper and refined bow!
To adorn thy head and semble wit
And do your best!
Take pride with etiquette
If not informed
Ye won't last a mile
And differentiation between animals distinguishes you,
Resplendent child
Wash your hair and underclothes with soap
Lest ye resemble sow
And goodness dear
Have I forgotten now?
Always remember to smile!
So I'll take your Winter clothes with zest
I'll scramble on point
No unruly mess
Oh, did i forget your coat?
No, I've got it, relax, care for a smoke?
My apologies, please forgive my latency
It must be warm in here for my blood
In fact...
Boiling over kettle within
Prevent me from committing sin
I do wish to vent
Pick up this pen
And release red wells from his dainty, fragile neck
Or...
The underbelly. It's beknownst to me entrails are thick
Now whatever shall I do with this fresh clutter?
I'll act for free, so cordially!
With my chivalrous lines
But can you, my friend, respond in kind?
After all, it's only common courtesy
It's over now, my fantasy
It dissipates with urgency
And this is my confession
Yes
Imbibed in me from every grueling, tedious lesson
An implication of uniformity
The daydreams borne from the perfunctory
This is for anyone who has ever worked in the retail industry. As politely as you can possibly express it.
#dark #frustration #sarcasm #victorian
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Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Nightingale
A Conversation Poem, April, 1798

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently.
O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still.
A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
‘Most musical, most melancholy’ bird!
A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought!
In Nature there is nothing melancholy.
But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself,
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he,
First named these notes a melancholy strain.
And many a poet echoes the conceit;
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme
When he had better far have stretched his limbs
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,
By sun or moon-light, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
Should share in Nature’s immortality,
A venerable thing! and so his song
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself
Be loved like Nature! But ’twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical,
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
O’er Philomela’s pity-pleading strains.

My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt
A different lore: we may not thus profane
Nature’s sweet voices, always full of  love
And joyance! ’Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music!
                         And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
So many nightingales; and far and near,
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
They answer and provoke each other’s song,
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug,
And one low piping sound more sweet than all
Stirring the air with such a harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,
Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed,
You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade
Lights up her love-torch.
                                       A most gentle Maid,
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve
(Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate
To something more than Nature in the grove)
Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes,
That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment’s space,
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon
Emerging, a hath awakened earth and sky
With one sensation, and those wakeful birds
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
As if some sudden gale had swept at once
A hundred airy harps! And she hath watched
Many a nightingale perch giddily
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze,
And to that motion tune his wanton song
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.

Farewell! O Warbler! till tomorrow eve,
And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!
We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
And now for our dear homes.That strain again!
Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small forefinger up,
And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature’s play-mate. He knows well
The evening-star; and once, when he awoke
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant’s dream)
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,
And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once,
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes, that swam with undropped tears,
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well!
It is a father’s tale: But if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the night
He may associate joy. Once more, farewell,
Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.
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Magnolia May 2019
Brown Sugar
White, Yellow, and Brown
Different shapes, sizes, and textures
Curly, straight, and wavy
You look at your reflection and do not see it

You're brown
You’re slim, light, and skinny
Your body does not resemble what it means to be a woman in your culture

A Latina woman has curves
A Latina woman's skin glistens underneath the sun
She contains an inner glow that resembles the strength she holds.

A Latina women speaks fluent English and Spanish
The purr that rolls off her tongue when she rolls her “R’s”
Her accent is what blows men away
Her accent is seen as exotic and from another world
But yours is different

You look at your reflection and do not see it
There is no purr because you can't roll the “R’s” off your tongue
Your slight accent is what worries you
Afraid your accent is going to get you a stare instead of a wink.
Afraid to speak you stay quiet and become discrete

You look at your reflection and see
brown sugar that’s sweet and fine
Your skin contains different specks of color which makes you different
The sun captures the qualities that you contain within.

You look at your reflection and see
A woman that speaks the language of romance
The language that distinguishes you from the crowd
The language that brings you strength and courage
The accent you once feared would bring you shame is the same one you have come to love.

You look at your reflection and see
A woman that has grown internally to love herself for the way she is
you contain the inner glow that resembles the strength and knowledge you have attained.

The eclipse has finally passed the sun and your  time to shine has arrived.

White, Yellow, and Brown
Different shapes, sizes, and textures
Curly, straight, and wavy
You look at your reflection and see
A Latina woman.
#latina #confidence #insecure #motivating #sun #eclipse #culture
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Timothy Brown Nov 2012
Definitions
My:
Belonging to or being associated with the speaker
Love:
An intense feeling of romance or ****** attraction towards an object.
Of:
Expressing the relationship between a part and a whole
Life:
A condition that distinguishes the active and self-sustaining.
Is:
Exist
Defined:
To state or describe the exact nature of an object
By:
Identifying the agent performing the action
Moments:
A very brief measure of time.
Of:
Expressing the relationship between a part and a whole
Happiness**:
A state of being characterized by emotions ranging from contentment to intense joy.
a brief record of facts, topics or thoughts, written down as an aid to memory
© November 14th, 2012 by Timothy R Brown. All rights reserved.
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Lani Foronda Aug 2014
People are not possessions.
I wonder if there will ever be a day when people will stop treating each other like possessions.
You'd think that in kindergarten we had been taught how to share.
“Everyone gets a turn,” our teacher would say.
"Five seconds at the water fountain after recess.
Pass along the book to the person next to you.
Share your box of crayons with those at the table."
We were taught how to share the tangible
The objects at our feet.
But what my teacher never taught me was how to share the intangible-
Concepts such as time, trust, and love.
Ultimately at the end of the day she never taught me how to share people.
The problem with people is that you want to keep them-
Keep them close
Keep them tight
Keep them safe.
You don't want to take turns because you fear that they will find someone who is better than you.
That one day they will leave because you were not enough.
So to suppress our paranoia we resort to rules and regulations.
We employ the facade that what we are doing is out of love
When in reality we are living in fear.
People are not possessions.
We are human beings
Capable of emotion and free will.
We are granted the ability to choose
For that freedom is what distinguishes ourselves from the rest.
We are not objects upon a shelf
To be taken down when felt like or guarded like a metal safe.
We are not punching bags
To be used at one’s disposable.
We are not mountains
To be climbed and conquered.
We are human beings
Yet humanity continually treats each other as if nothing.
August 06, 2014
People are free to make their own decisions.
You cannot own anyone.
If a person chooses you- chooses to stay,
Then be thankful for that is a privilege.
#life #scared #people #selfish #fears #object #choices #possessions
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Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Love and Death and Governance
First Living Organism

Anyway, there is love and death and governance. With the birth of my sons, love was fulfilled. There is no romance left in love for me, women are another form of men. Perhaps their toes are painted rather than blood-encrusted, but blood runs from their bones, their eyes are friendly as camera lenses, muscles hungry. Death continues to be my every third thought, fittingly. Occasionally I feel strong, but when I don’t it’s death waiting. I think I know it’s a waste of time to imagine being dead, as if being dead were a form of living. It’s not, but last night I was reading about the efforts of astrobiologists to identify LUCA meaning Last Universal Common Ancestor and FLO, first living organism, and that gave me a calmer feeling. Bringing me to governance, how we manage together between birth and death. What can I say that hasn’t already been said by Aristotle and Plato, the Republicans and Democrats, Hamilton and Jefferson. To start, your daily discipline is a personal governance. There are many ways to know a person: by their god, by their fears and appetites, by how they spend their money or organize their time. Who is in authority, who is in command here? The one in authority is not necessarily our leader.


Patience

I live in a mountainous community about 140,000 strong. My irascible, aggressive temperament toward my fellow citizens has exiled or sidelined me to a peripheral almost insignificant role although when I arrived I was considered a problem solver, even a savior of the poor and the wealthy classes who feared for the future. Why mention this. He who knows patience knows peace. I have surely lost face often in my life. As a kid, lost most fights, as a man, chosen last to lead the squad or platoon. Only when every known leader had died did those in authority decide to use me. Someone must begin to write the federalist papers for the world. And, of course, it’s being done and heard. Books in print, blogs, debates. My vision is a world where you can fly from Madagascar to Mississippi and be greeted by a sign that says Welcome to our land. Go about your business, setting off no bombs, and fly home. Perhaps take a lover for one afternoon.


The Machine and the Season

The machine and the season are so far incompatible. The machine claims electrical problem. The house leaks from rain. The men who left the machine have started their own business. A new endeavor by which they will keep warm and purposeful. The junior partner, heavier, says the Grand Canyon’s not so grand. Jaded individual or one to set himself against the depths, abyss? Man’s systems. Man made the machine (and the town) from rocks mined next door. Some few men understand these invisible electrons moving the machine to perform. I still cannot imagine, i.e. my mind cannot move fast enough to know how so many particles can be sorted and split so quick to make words on a screen. My simplicity is terminal.


Saving Grace

Today it is fall, first day for long-sleeved shirts. The boys at school. I admonish Zach not to whine and complain about the work. Lately reading or practicing piano, prone to fits of frustration. To the point of claiming belly pain. Last night I dreamed I had pushed him to suicide. It is so important for a man to do no harm. This is what makes us crazy against Wolfowitz, willingness to **** to do good. Someone very sure of himself and shining, much wiser and more compassionate than me, has calculated for the world that more lives now for fewer later shall be sacrificed. The people he serves are cantankerous, disorderly, selfish and complaining. The same diverse, spoiled, unpatriotic revolutionaries as at the nation’s beginning. Their refusal to be more than the sum of themselves is their saving grace.


Politics

Politics can be an escape from the personal, the debates are of little interest to a man in hospice. Will the machines do their work? How will we make decisions together? Roger Johnson’s gravel pit must be killing his neighbors with the noise of boulders being pulverized to rock but Roger is certain his business is necessary for the public good. He knows he has a right to use his property as he sees fit. There is a noise ordinance, a state employee will travel out to measure the decibel level in your front yard as compared to the ambient noise level. There is a measurable amplitude beyond which the legislature has determined no citizen may be exposed or corporation go. It can be measured.


Measure for Measure

Measure for measure, all’s well that ends well during a midsummer night’s dream for the merry wives of Windsor. A million or more poets but only one Top Bard. How did he know so much about kings and fools and murderers? An Elizabethan and no Freedom of Information Act. Today it is fall. The legislature and president are at work and so are our machines. One by one and then in armies the leaves come down. It is not that someone must decide, we must decide how we will make decisions and where authority resides. What am I learning, sitting, watching the season turning? Content this morning to admire my sons’ photos, reread my own poems searching for the prize answer, and answer the phone. I seem to be alienating potential business partners with a take it or leave it comme-ci comme-ca attitude. All you can do, the best that can be done is to go to your daily discipline. Driving home or waking up at night I think I’m dying. Do the much-admired writers of our time die more content than that?


War All the Time

War all the time. I’ve been fond of saying what distinguishes America is its daily low intensity warfare. Endless but not fatal conflict. Chambers of commerce, municipal government, big corporations wrestle nearly naked and will lie as needed for what? I tire like an 80 year old man of the storm and worry. I remember my early years when I had no known skill to offer and elections occurred without my vote being solicited. I noticed no harm or good I did was noticed. Autumn was all mine, mine alone, I was alone in the world with autumn. My mind could not stand it. I cried out for comfort, someone to obey. I needed to grow up and know money.


The History That Surrounds Us

I’m not going anywhere, I chose to stay and hold my clod of soil in the landscape of community oh blah dah. I want like Shakespeare and other writers to discern the motivations of women, men, see through their lies to a humorous truth careless about success and able to explain why what happens today or on September 11th obtains. I was impressed by the critic who found that Shakespeare in Hamlet had tried to write about the thoughts of a man suspended between having decided to act and the act itself. Why bother he soliloquated why commit or submit to the great moment when mere men of bones and dust, disgusted with themselves and others are the actors of the moment, beheaders, rhymers, debtors. And, of course, the answer comes to one in the night like Chuang-tzu, or Lao, why not? The great moment is no greater than the small and the small no smaller than the great. You perform the history that surrounds you and go to your daily practice.


A Systems Guy

I’m something of a systems guy. I want the truth and death and worth to be independent of individual motives, paranoias, prejudice, peccadilloes, virginities, crucifixes, paradoxes, protons, protozoa or curses. I want pure human machinery, stainless steel, clear thinking, even handed, not a doubt that every doubt is wanted, needed, good to the last drop toward the ultimate ignition into outer space, colonization of diverse planets and immortality of the genome. Here’s what’s odd. While enduring ever more frequent panic attacks (and nudging toward survival and self-sufficiency my offspring) pounding and pinching my skin to stay sensate, maintain consciousness, I parabolate (always orbiting myself, eye on the tip of my *****) to another extreme, i.e. my belief mankind can escape the earth unlike Hamlet’s dad’s ghost. A system is a set of inputs–values, policies, objectives, procedures, data–organized and repeated to generate significant quantities of desired outcomes without redesigning the system for each individual outcome. I told John Russell from Amnesty International at Jack Shwartz’s daughter’s coming of age party about my plan to reorganize the U.N. so only the democracies can vote and no nation has a veto. He said the world’s not ready, with absolute certainty, knowledge and authority. I looked out the hotel window, this was shortly after 9/11, at dozens of American flags and a lone security guard. I’m always right I said to myself.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
#love #truth #peace #doubt #death #sacrifice #romance #ghost #grace #government
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Ayeshah Feb 2010
Afrocentric Gift!
I'm the Afrocentric Gift
you been waiting and dying to open ..,
Christmas came Early just for you this year,
I'm the Thoughts in ya head,
Mind blowing the
Essences of Sexuality,
Wisdom,
Knowledge
and a
multitude of Feminine Power,
Prowling and
Roaring for your affection,
I'm every Women,
Just not to night
I don't want to share,
Be my one & only..,
I am the
Architects building
the bridges back to ya heart,
My Prominent Black African King,
Mr.**** as ya wanna be..,
I Dreamed of this many times at night & also for some weeks,
Thoughts of you Thought of us become " We"
Teaming up and Doing
What lovers do,
But
I want more,
I want your heart too,
I see it in you,
the artist ;Your words caressing me,
Like painting and drawing,I'm just one of your sculptures..,
But
I'm the centerpiece of this mental non-nocturnal dream,
Your the
Author writing a great masterpiece only I'm the Main character...,
Chapter one we began slowly as our bodies
mesh&entwined...;,
Can you distinguishes between Fantasy,
I'm here and these feelings are real.
Lust so passionate you'd think you
conjured me up from your imagination.,
I'm un reasonable when it comes to you,
I want to give you unquestionable pleasure.
Be the Concubine you desire & you shouldn't have to wait,
Not tonight anyways.,
Come here and let me show you,
Be mines....,
Sacrifice yourself,
Be my love salve and come away with me..,
I want to give you this
Delicious yet delicate sweet
Afrocentric Gift!
Speak into me poetically,
Mentally blowing my mind ,
touching with words as you hurt me gently
Yet pleasing my body..
take me
cuz
right now
I'm for the taking,
I'm ready and waiting,
open me,
for
tonight I'll be your
Latin mist
You Puerto Rican *** ,
Come get drunk off my love,
Let me sooth you
and
caress you into submission.
Take what's been given.
This Mix, and blend it with you ,
dance to my song
as
I open for you.
I'm ready and willing
to be what you want me to be.
Give
me pleasure
release the yearning
deep with in me...
I'm yours ya Afrocentric Gift!
Always me Ayeshah
Copyrights © 1977-2010 Ayeshah(A.K.K.C.L.N)
All rights reserved.
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Bus Poet Stop May 2015
why the bride wept at her wedding and other stories...
~

a woman, weeping,
at her own wedding dinner,
copiously, bleating sobs,
unsignaled, unprovoked, inexplicable.

misunderstanding guests,
shifting their weight
from foot to foot,
searching for a combo-pose of
of joyous discomfort.

all is well, say the wedding singers,
hymns of wedding songs they perform,
encouraging the standers-about
to dance,
all whom are inconsolably confused about
the wed woman's recognition of a
moment's milestone marker
which distinguishes, her totality,
feeling the differential between
the miles ahead,
the miles already passed,
but cannot answer
the singular considerable consideration question,
is this mine, the right road
and am I
who I am supposed to be,
or the supposition of others

which is why bride weeps at her wedding

~

a sober, industrious, quiet man
of many middle years,
seen sway dancing on the lawn
at 6:00 AM,
to sounds unheard,
was it music, voices,
a breaking point,
the birth of madness?

we, who watched from within,
behind a safe boundary
of glass and stucco and timber,
jealously considering alternate theories
of creation of the universe,
dual roles,
observing guests and voyeurs,
prayed for ourselves,
desirous of his wishes granted,
swayed with him,
in flagrante delicto,
co-conspirators unseen,
but jailed,
behind protective walls of
glass and stucco and timber,
sotto voce confessing priest-worthy sins
while protesting their innocent knowledge
of a man's delightful craziness,
a distraction from
weeping brides

~

the parents posts to Facebook
pictures of children,
warily unaware that their favoritism
is slip showing

oh they favor the youngest son,
beautiful Joseph with many colored coats,
possessing the practiced cuteness
and skillfully employ how to manipulate it sweetly
on suspecting adults

the  eldest daughter,
unconsciously,
is the child made over
into a physical representation,
a manifestation of themselves preserved
as parents are wont to do
just because
they can
~
the swayer wedding guest
pray~dances to the tune of:

give over, her to me, to me,
to replant her unsuspecting
in garden wild,
feed her colors of her as yet unthought of,
foresee her aching beauty,
teach her freedom dancing by the sea,
weeping at her weeping
at her wedding
simpatico with her,
confusion and joy and fear

which is why the man sway dances
on the lawn at 6:00 am and weeps
copious bereft and joyous,
at the possibilities of conquering life
and foresees
the child wedding weeping
and weeps in anticipatory empathy sympathy
at their cojoined
kinship fate

~
#bps #bus #poet #wedding #bride #wept
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Justin Monaco-Barnes Feb 2010
The Pain of Pain
How do you know how pain really feels?
How do you know when that pain gets healed?
Is it a feeling that is built inside the brain?
Links of emotions stranded by a chain?
If one could describe the feeling of pain on a page,
Would the words come out, or remain locked in a cage.
What distinguishes the feeling from good to bad?
Who knows the feelings that turn you from happy to sad?
What hurts?
What doesn’t?
How do you know?
People hurt.
People heal.
Where do you go?
Why does losing someone you care for break you heart?
Fill your chest with pain, piercing you from far like a dart.
When one gets hurt,
Why do you cry?
When one gets hurt,
Why do you hide?
Running from your problems may solve them then,
But what will you do when they happen again?
For some pain there’s a cure, for some there are not,
Some treatments are pure, but the memory of pain,
Has just been forgot.
Continue reading...
Splashes of Surreal Jul 2022
Skipping like a stone
One rock that bounces off the river
Another rock that drowns and scars the bed
What distinguishes the two is fate's solitaire

One day I will skip like a stone
But today I lie sunken at the bottom
Amidst the many mermaids in the photic zone

Stifled by the pressure of the water
Fettered by the weight of failure and anxiety
Overhead a storm rages, unsettling the ocean

I will outlive this habitat that will die slowly
I will see the ecosystem turn into a corpse
Anemone, scampi, and sharks; no trace of it all

I hope to skip like a stone, but, at what cost
A short poem on loneliness. Every time when we take a leap, we feel that we might make it. But sometimes fate has other plans. When your leap of faith doesn't work out, you fall into comfort zone. But slowly that gets taken away. It is like the rug is snatched from under you. You slip into a limbo of endless self-doubt and again, loneliness. But loneliness becomes your ally.
#romance #loneliness #fish #ocean #water #success #friends
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RAJ NANDY Mar 2016
THE STORY OF JAZZ MUSIC IN VERSE: PART ONE
Friends, Part Two will get posted after a break. I have added short notes at the end, for appreciation of all Jazz lovers. To know how the word 'Jass' became 'Jazz', - kindly read the Foot Notes below. Best wishes, - Raj, New Delhi.

    THE STORY OF JAZZ MUSIC IN VERSE:
                         PART- ONE

                      INTRODUCTION
Before writing about this true Jazz Story,
I had delved into its long checkered history!
I had plowed through many articles and
books,
Making personal notes to make Jazz better
understood.
My love for this music flows in my veins,
From writing this true story myself I could
hardly restrain !

THE ATLANTIC SLAVE TRADE
The story begins some four hundred years
ago in History,
Drenched in the blood and sweat of the black
slaves which was no mystery,
Painting a sorrowful background to our Jazz
Story !
It was a time when the English , Spanish , French ,
Portuguese and the Dutch became frantic , -
To gain control of the slave trade across the vast
Atlantic !
Slave trade those days was a very profitable
business proposition;
The funds generated had also financed Britain’s
Industrial Revolution!

In 1619  a Dutch sailing ship had carried the first
lot of fifty slaves from West Africa, -
To work in the cotton, tobacco, and sugarcane
plantations of English Colony of Virginia !
Only twenty slaves had survived that hazardous
Atlantic journey;
And here my friends lies the roots of my Jazz
Story !
While it is true that in New Orleans Jazz got
cradled and also nourished;
But it had taken birth in the regions of Western
Africa where slave traders had once flourished!
Later, many more slaves were transported across
to work in the plantations of the Southern States
of America,*  (see notes below)
And in their hearts one could hear the tom–tom
and drum beats of native Africa ! * (notes below)

HOLLERS AND WORK SONGS
Those slaves took no musical instruments with
them,
And worked under the whip lash of their white
Overseers bound in chains !
But they had cherished their ancient music which
fed their hope and the will to survive;
And from the depth of their sorrow and suffering, -
sprung the rhythm and beat of their life !
While at work they were forbidden to talk to each
other,
So they sang in a rich sing-song voice and called
out to one another;
Which was not understood by their whip-wielding
Overseers.
They also called out and communicated to other
working gangs in the distant fields,
Who also replied back in a similar fashion to
make their communication network complete.
The ‘hollers’ and ‘work songs’ also did help,
To lighten the burden of their treacherous fate.
This ‘call and response’ later formed one of Jazz
Music’s basic elements,
As ‘improvised music’ got composed with Jazz
providing a proper vent.
From their tormented soul they sang to wipe away
their blues,
Giving birth to ‘blue notes’ later , for WC Handy
to pay his many handsome tributes !
The slaves longed for freedom and emancipation,
Singing their ‘spirituals’ with faith and devotion !
While singing they often got into a trance,
And felt like the Israelites in ******* in Egypt,
ordained by fate and chance !
The Mississippi was like the River Jordan across
which they hoped to see, -
A band of Angels coming in their chariots to set
them free,  @
From their suffering, drudgery, and captivity !
Thus ‘improvisation’ becomes a vital ingredient of
Jazz Music;  $
For ‘freedom of expression’ is its distinguishing  
feature, which Jazz music forever seeks.

CONCLUDING  MY PART ONE
‘Jazz’ had come to America in chains, buried
deep inside the black man’s soul.
With a longing for freedom from torture and pain,
Which was then beyond their control!
The tom-tom beats, work songs, Spirituals and the
Blues, -
Were all precursor to Jazz, and here I pause to
pay my homage and heart-felt dues,
To those valiant predecessors who had come in
chains ,
Giving a painful birth to ‘jass’, - from which Jazz
gets its name ! # (notes below)

FOOT NOTES:-
Slaves were sold at 15 dollars per head. Early 1700s saw 75,000 slaves auctioned! By1800s there were one million slaves in US alone! Slaves came from Senegal, Ashantis, Gold Coast, Niger Delta, Dahomey, & the Congo; with a variety of beats and music buried in their minds and hearts !
** The Drums were an essential form of communication in Africa. They believed their Gods communicated through their beats . Those drums provided the basic beats of Jazz Music.
+ 'Blue Music' = became a part of cultural landscape of Southern US by early 1900s, but had remained unnoticed till W.C.Handy published his song –‘Memphis Blues’ in1914.
@ I refer here to the famous ***** Spiritual song -‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ ! I use to sing this song in my Missionary School in Calcutta in the 50s !  Slaves had sung them in plantation ‘Praise Houses’ during their weekly prayer meetings.
# "JASS" = originally an Africa-American slang meaning ‘***’! Born in the brothels of Storyville (New Orleans)  & the Jasmine perfumes used by the girls there; one visiting them was  said to be 'jassed-up' ! Mischievous boys rubbed out the letter ‘J’ from posters outside announcing -"Live Jass Shows'', making it to read as ‘'Live *** Shows'’! So finally ‘ss’ of ‘jass’ got replaced by 'zz' of JAZZ !
$ “Improvisation” = is the process of spontaneously creation of fresh melodies over the continuously repeating cycle of chord changes of a tune, which distinguishes Jazz from all other musical forms - raising it to its own great Individualistic Heights !
….ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY RAJ NANDY OF NEW DELHI---
E-Mail : rajnandy21@yahoo.in
Being a lover of Classical & Smooth Jazz, I had composed the True Story of Jazz Music in Two Parts. Will be posting Part Two after a break for appreciation of true Jazz Lovers on this Site! - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
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Edgar Whitman Wilde Nov 2012
Meaning!!!
Dubious sense of unresolved ambivalence

Given to implausible suppositions of fragmentation

That distinguishes itself in well meaning solemnities

Of delicious incompetence that evaporates distance

In its poignant lament of darkness

That shadows words of cruelty, indifference and rage

Oh how unbearable those misadventures of piteous overthrows

That cram into brief utterances more meaning

Than language can hold and force a confrontation

Of unresolvable contradictions hidden in such speech

That are the stilling of time, those words that find expression

In a mystic power that transforms darkness into intense light

Whilst blocking out the harsh unforgiving light of everyday

And causes mutation and change of place in disorienting fashion

In seeking a loyalty of angers by shifts of dramatic register

Views its own meaning unstable and problematic

In defense of its own legitimacy
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Joseph Bruin Mar 2013
Family Portrait
What is a family room, anyway?
Repetition, resulting from daily life.
Tedium bringing us together
Like household traditions;

Family prayers around a broken table,
Hollow conversations buzzing like Tv static,
White noise in the background.

The family room is purgatory.

Mundane talk of petty lives
During commercial breaks.
When interaction is obligatory,
What distinguishes us from the furniture?

Gathering dust as we sit
Merely existing together,
We are the portrait on the wall;
Artificial.
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John F McCullagh Dec 2011
The Beer connoisseur
Why is it that drinkers of wine

All fancy themselves connoisseurs;

As they sniff, swirl, sip and spit-

They’re all Robert Parkers I’m sure.


They talk about bouquet and fragrance,

hints of chocolate they find in the wine.

I sip on the wine and I’m puzzled

as I never find chocolate in mine.



My brother’s a beer connoisseur

Pour ten different beers in good light.

Though he may drink them all to be sure,

He distinguishes each upon sight



“There are different shadings of gold

and some give you more head than others.”

-Who would ever imagine that beer

would have something in common with lovers.



So go have your new Beaujolais

You Francophile drinkers of wine

I’m sure Orson Welles would have told you

They’re selling it way before time.



Back at the bar named McCullagh’s

They’re playing pool in the back room

Uncle Jimmy is schooling some suckers

It happens once in a blue moon.
From the time my older brother was little he has had the knack of distinguishing beer from the natural variations in color and presentation. He learned at Uncle Jimmy's tavern. Alas Uncle Jimmy and his tavern have passed into memory but he has retained this unique talent.
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Reagan Leigh Mar 2013
Waste
Waste away with want
caramel-ed  skin and chestnut eyes
Tortured through thoughts
rough hand and judging glances
Need and want
no distinguishes
Rigid and brisk
No longer the same.
No longer mine.
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Prachi Apr 2021
Portrait of an atheist in love
There is a girl, and she doesn't believe in the existence of god.

She once told her best-friend that if there is something like BIRTH and DEATH, then there can't be anything like heaven and hell. However, she uses both HEAVEN and HELL as metaphors in her poems for pointing at the good and the bad while
wondering what distinguishes a devil from an angel.

Once someone asked her- “Do you believe in the power of DESTINY?”.
She didn't answer the question and ended up writing a whole essay on the value of HARD WORK while reflecting upon the lives of many who are working hard since ages without any fruition.

One day her grandfather told her that she should have at least some amount of FAITH in her life, even if she doesn't BELIEVE in worshiping any sculptures or images. She told him that the only thing she believes in is his selfless love for her.

She has a closet,
and it's full of secrets and MYSTERIES,
the secret letters of pain and grief, of existential crisis and restless nights.
They were written to someone named as GOD by her ten-year-old self.

Every night she joins her hands and closes her eyes to make a wish and PRAY for the well-being of
the boy who claims to be in love with her.
And every morning when I wake up to look at her face in the mirror, all I could see in front of my eyes is a portrait of an ATHEIST in love.

-Prachi
#atheist #god #girl #believe #poetry #portrait #love
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Nat Lipstadt Jul 2016
explosions & gunshots (relax)
Explosions & gunshots
(Simulated)
says an urgent text
from Notify NYC
on my cell,
well recv'd

reported to be
in Central Park,
my heart now skipping beats,
not comprehending the detensing
the declensing cleansing of...
                                                   s i m u l a t i o n

thinking only
my park, my park,
my country, my country,
a ****** battlefield!

a second glance, it's just
a heads up to keep my
head down,
from my bud, my boy,
Free *****
having a bit of fun
with us Ameddicans

Shakespeare in the Park presents:
Troilus and Cressida
which contains the use of smoke, haze,
cigarettes,
explosions, loud sounds,
blank gunshots & strobe effects.

cigarettes? cigarettes?  ***!

there is no smoking in the park,
not even for poets and
Playrights of renown,
no exceptions made
in this hard-nosed town

and that ladies and gents
is how
one distinguishes a
genuine New Yorkah

neither smoke nor haze,
explosions and gunshots,
an apple-cheeked citizenry faze
these hardy city folk,
from their pursuit of
the golden yolk,
the reward of the
dog-eat-dog yoke,
worn in the pursuit of
Life, Happiness & Liberte

don't even thinking about
smoking in our park,
or near my face,
then the loud noises
may be more than merely

stimulating

than blankly,

s i m u l a t i n g....
a slow day at work
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Matt Oct 2012
Incomplete
It's effortless how I speak to you,
it's cause I speak a lot
but patience is a virtue
my patience close to rot

Your ravishing and your sweet unique scent
Fulfils and satisfies me just like your beauty to be consent
I'm not asking for a favour
Nor am I asking in command
But I just want to make you savour
And miss me like in a trance

What distinguishes my fire,
and love thats meant to be true
Why can't you miss me
instead of missing you?
Continue reading...
Aisling O' L Aug 2013
Home
A light, like a faint glow
Flickers on with ever steady beat.
Unyielding though the wind threatens,
To end all with a single blow.

Scenes change, now on different template,
The same voices but foreign tongues.
Yet it stays alight, a bright spot
Despite frozen fingers, eager to end its fate.

Years pass, hundreds of arms
Surround the glow and it dims but never fades.
And in its neglect, in its shadows,
Locked away it stays,

A low-lit burn that distinguishes,
This place from the nameless cities and towns.
From when you first opened your eyes
Until you stepped on a white-wingéd falcon
And your feet touched alien ground.

You'll nest and make your own home now,
Different but familiar birds will sing.
Yet always a candle in your heart, never forgetting
Where you came from, where you first got your wings.
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Stevie Crystal Biffen Jul 2015
Creation
As crafters craft and artists art
all things Beautiful were once apart.
Brought together by Work and Pain,
Perfection is sought again and again.

But it is only through Agony and a convoluted sense of Direction
that Man and the Universe can create Perfection.
Accidental masterpieces brought daily into being,
Beauty is not only Seen through seeing.

Tears that cloud our jaded sight
make that once unclear terribly bright.
One view of the World is never enough,
it is the Visions of others that make our Works tough.

All labours of Love, do not always Love find,
but that is because to Love we are blind.
Love is an ability that colours our emotion,
thus, a single man can move an ocean.

A river, an ocean, a dam of time
each human is given his Voice to rhyme.
A wave, a ripple, a tsunami effect
that changes in magnitude only in what we expect.

These clashes and crashes, shatter and break.
It is not our Strength that determines how much we can take.
It is our Determination and Perserverance alone
that distinguishes a boulder, a pebble, a stone.

The cracks and tears,
the pleasures and cares,
mean that Beauty through Perfection sought
with Tragedy and Imperfection is wrought.
#love #self #art #beauty #strength #courage #creation #motivation
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Mario William Vitale Jul 2018
60 Newest Poems By Mario William Vitale
Bio Of Mario William Vitale

The language and images of Mario Vitale's poetry are so closely bound to the natural cycles of seasons, of generations, of the body's functioning, that is surprising to realize how many of his poems deal with uprootedness. But this poetry is not sentimental celebration of the goodness of nature, and harmony with the world is never assumed. The way he captures the tenuousness of this faith, the balance that must be found between the ugliness, the harshness of his history- both natural annd social- and its intense beauty, is what distinguishes Vitale's poetry, gives it its depth and dimension:

Mario William Vitale Biography

I was born in 1970 Bristol hospital.
A young nurse took me in her arms and said that I would one day become a success,
As the years would pass I was heavy in the arts used to sing and act.
Was an altar boy at St. Pius Church.
In time I would act in my senior class play, "The Mystery Of Edwin Drood"
Where I had the lead role as the Narrator,
I touched many hearts with that performance in 1989,
Was hospitalized with mono that same year for two weeks long,
Also that same year I became prom king of my class Wolcott High School,
After the break up with my first grilfriend in 1989 I wrote the poem entitled, "Remembrance of a loved one" where I had it published on poetry.com
Attempted plays: Tartuffe, Miracle Of St. Anthony and Balm in Gieade, (His poetic aspirations had derived at 18 in 1989 from submitting his first poem entitled, "Remembrance Of A Loved One"- (Sparrowgrass Poetry Forum)
Attended Central Connecticut State University For Creative Writing: 1997
Next from 1989-1997 (Wrote primarily for Poetry.com and The International Library Of Poetry) , * Received editors choice award in 1997 for poem, " A Beacon Of Light ",
(1998)Sent poetic manuscript to N.Y. Time Magazine and Chief Editor " John Hyland".
Back with rave reviews!
* (From 1999-2008: Had adapted a real keen sense of style for writing poetry: (1999- Sent Editorial to:
New Man Magazine for the Passion of Christ Movie; Sent followup letter to company with poetry platform information attached,
* 2000-2007: Magazine: (Catholic)Maries Rose Ferron Magazine submitted poem" Beacon Of Light", which had excellent editorial reviews as the outset!
2008- Wrote poem entitled: (The Heavy Cross)to Poetry.com* Achieved Poetry status of work of Excellence in writing from the Academy Of American Poetry in which still having received rank and status as a member of Academy;

(The Connecticut Poetry Society) * Short story submitted entitled, "China Dog Ray" submitted to Virginia Writers Quarterly, West Virginia, Also having member status on their board of Poetry.
Attribute Poetry to an ever increasing love of God and his unconditional love that he has for us in return, Thankfulness toward family and friends.(To our past ancestors who fought to uphold freedom that far too many of us take for granted?
My contemporary artists include that of Ellan Bryant Voight, Kay Ryan and Carl Phillips.Which all three are Participants in the Academy Of American Poetry
Having been a member since 2006, My work reflects the likes of past poets such as C.S.Lewis, Hawthorne and Edgar Allen Poe.
Most of my work reflects with the values of religious beliefs intact
In my personal view it is essential in demonstrating a real heart of creative passion!
The reader I believe will benefit by my artistic style of development in a very positive light.)
After experiencing a life transformation encounter.I had realized that poetry is my unique way to convey myself my work speaks from the heart with pure sentiments of though intact,

As the years passed I would write over 4,000 poems and 5 short stories toward my platform,
My poetry is based on the free verse style of writing,
Was published in 10 venues such as Writerscafe, Neopoet, Hello poetry, Poem Hunter, Booksie, Poetryvibe, Poetrysoup, Starlifecafe.com, Poets Know It & poetry.com...
I was saved by God at the tender age of nine in Charlotte Carolina where I came to know the Lord that was in 1979,
Today I continue to write poetry was published on Spillwords, High On Poetry, Tuck Magazine & Setu Magazine.
My main emphasis in writing poetry is to share with the mass populace touching many hearts.
Hope you can read my poetry.



Sea Stacks

skipped rocks through a stream today
the opening of a brand new day
its frame is in minor decay
the bleached wood massed in bone piles,
we pulled it from dark beach and built
fire in a fenced clearing
the posts' blunt stubs sank down
the circled and were roofed by milled
lumber dragged at one time to the coast
We slept there

Each morning the minus tide-
weeds flowed it like hair swimming
The starfish gripped rock, pastel,
rough. Fish bones lay in sun

Each noon the milk fog sank
from cloud cover, came in
our clothes and held them
tighter on us. Sea stacks
stood and disappeared
They came back when the sun
scrubbed out the inlet


Life Force

through the flame cover me
in silent sound dignity
for with what one is willing to achieve
valiantly
feel the breeze
nestled through the trees

shaped through your dreams
a piercing of the skin
new hearts to begin
again



Choices

Many have a hard time understanding
They live for self and that of society
They are the walking dead yet they don't even know it
Eyes with blackened spots having holes
Viscous fangs with blood dripping off the side
You share with them the truth
They choose to run away & hide
Yet deep inside they may still question
Why am i here ?
They can't even help you
Cause they won't help themselves
They are the **** of the land
Much too afraid to stand among the son of man
A bitter taste
Do they want salt or sugar coated messages
Positive reinforcement strengthens the heart
Negativity kills it
Each of us has been given a choice
We must lend a helping hand with a voice
All of us have been given a choice
Now which pathway will you choose ?


Emerald City
There’ll be no unemployment in heaven.
No worry about the next meal.
There’ll be no bills to harass us,
and thieves will not break in and steal.
In heaven, we’ll have no need for money;
Everything up there will be free.
We’ll enjoy God’s unsearchable riches,
and have unending security.
I’m looking forward to heaven,
that land that is fairer than day.
Where all will be joy and gladness,
and sorrow and care will flee away.
Up there, no mean words will be spoken.
Each heart will be filled with pure love.
We’ll never be hurt or rejected,
in the beautiful city above.
There will be no disappointment or heartache.
God will wipe all the tears from our eyes.
No one will ever be lonely,
and there’ll be no anguished good-byes.
Up there, the love we have for each other,
by each heart will be shared equally.
And we’ll have all the things that we’ve longed
for, and at last we will really be free


Little Angel

Hope springs a new
On a cloud in heaven
Stand a heavenly angel
With mere beauty of crystalized light
Golden emblems encrusted their frame
Sweet songs drifting to a very faint whisper
Eyes, hands & face
A real message sent down to earth
To care for those lonely souls all alone
There beauty is a surprise to encounter
Slipping through locked doors to appear
Many have shed a tear to numb the inner pain
Causing accidents not to happen
They appear in the form of brightened miracles
We see them with a heart all a glow
Come to the birth of a new born baby
Come to servicemen who just joined the navy
You will see them at a graveyard setting
Even among gamblers who do there betting
There all around us you see
For all of life is but a mystery






These Flames I Live
turn back the tear drop pillow
I'm sick to my stomach
suffering alone and hard
piercing cavity of viscious fangs that bite
illusive
impulsive
the rant

These flames I live
my right to forgive
undercover
beyond the means
living in a land of mean
barren sea

a shot in the dark
to light the spark

many are left in rebellion
what an incredible talent Vitale is
he is the poet of all poets
the moment you met him perfect ten

a chick lying with her hens
a quest...
flaws and failures
yes he wears Depends

a trip to the zoo nothing new


Laughter
Laughter fills the scented air
through days exposed
the timeless hour of a loathsome mast
expounded upon the cavity of debris

develop a grateful heart
that one may impart
look close through a pillar of glass
a vergence sea out beyond the interpass

a halo with a song
to help you get along
the sight of a fawn on the lawn
greed and materialism will crush out the light in your life

******* by the holy spirit
a heart change has to happen
one must be open to the message
care for your brother help for your pale sister

one ear on the floor
a cause for more
through fetters got it made to even out the score

Unending Brigade
I ask myself politely
what resistance flowers here
against love treaded lightly
or losing lovingness dear?

give cadence to the simple,
for I gave ammunition to the laughter
we should we ever falter
the timeless whisper of happening

golden nuggets of thought & inspiration
braids my hair with a great deal of wear
through the conclaves of love's fastened grip
shadows block the vortex to aid its message


The Dream Police
they come to my head
at the side of my bed
they are enforcing my sleep
give cadence to a treat
a far from ports unknown
like a dog without a bone
giving tickets to be enforced
every time I have a dream
forces scream


Of Time & Dreams
Father's gold pocket watch measured heartbeats,
times for surgery and the slow drip of an IV
all else in his life was overture
to main events, like birth and death
of those the family never knew

Steps from my childhood dreams to his were counted
in places where treasure were wet pebbles
and the pulse of life was seen in raindrops on the lake
now the watch is mine, and i yearn to throw it
like a pebble into the past,

to see it skip and yield to places we never shared,
like blue-green eddies near the shore
and grasses curled by the win
Yet, warming in my palm, the measurer of his days
seems to sing the music of turning points
where drying dreams meet others born anew,
emerging through images of caring
to rhythms more than metrical
that i've yet to understand



The Land Of Dreams
When you fall asleep at night,
your mind goes into an eerie flight
You can open the gate with the key of thought,
and don't have to do what you've been taught

You sing, and dance, and prance all day
and you act so happy and also gay
You run in circles and run into the trees,
and cut your elbows and scrape your knees

But sometimes you open the wrong gate,
and find yourself facing a terrible fate
There are monsters, ghouls and also grouches,
and then you wish you were on confortable couches

And when you're done and almost through,
your mind knows exactly what to do
you go back through that eerie flight
it may be day it may be night

And when your mind comes back to you,
you may wake up and have the flu
You could leave for school very late,
and find out that it's the wrong date

And you could play outside in the streams
but you will know that you entered "The Land Of Dreams."


Old Crow
Old crow
Tired and lazy' against the day
Dark skies
Lost in blacks and whites and grays
Howling north wind
Sure takes a man's fight away

Wastelands,
A dreamer's home on his best day
Hard rain
Drops the leaves and makes the colors fade
And talks cheap,
But for the words of time they'll ave the last say
Oh the words of time, they'll have the last say

And the harvest is in, it wasn't much
May I have enough to get by
The baskets were light, not a muscle ached
And somehow I feel I'm going to die
The winter is coming and the signs say hard
I've never seen such a haunting sky

For on the mountains, frost in the wind
And somehow I feel I'm going to die
Full moon
Lonely above the old oak tree line
Old crow
Hanging empty in the black sky
And a nighthawk
Circles her in silence as she flies
Old crow, all alone she flies


Pheonix
the blazing glory of a loving night
Disappears in the sun's bright morning light
All efforts to recall that glorious pain
Fade in the dawn to be sought in vain

but the memory clings of precious glory
that will not become an old, dull story
instead that memory promises anew
that love will spring forth and again renew

with every joining of two loving souls
again will emerge from the fading coals
a love renewed by the glowing embers
so that this night, too, will be remembered.


Soul Search
When I look into your eyes
I see the sunshine and rain,
The deeper I look and also see
Various kinds of pain;
I can see the kind, warm love that filters thru,
To surface at the top when you’re not blue,
I have seen and know your hopes and fears
The good and bad times you have thru years,
You have seen and felt so much
I’m glad our lives did touch
Look deep into my eyes and you will find
The heartaches and happiness that were also mine


Come With Me
Come with me and be my friend
Lets create a fantasy
just you & me
lets linger through the wind
and feel free
lets run through the sand
and make time stand still
so we can treasure this moment
Only until
The mystical ocean
touches our souls
and fills our hearts with love
come with me and I'll show you

What I have to give
come with and I'll describe
The life I dreamed we'd live
come with and hold me gently
and watch the retiring sun slowly set
Shower me with all your love
pretending we just met
Whenever you need me
I'll be there
To help lift your spirits
and I want to care
About you
come with and be my love
no longer a fantasy
just you & me
This time only
A reality...


Mario William Vitale. has been featured on Hubpages.com, Starlitecafe.com & Poetry soup. Vitale lives with his elderly mother Ann Soulier in Wolcott, Ct. Currently has written well over 1,000 poems & 2 short story's toward credit platform.

Vitale has taken the poetic world by storm being featured on Google, Yahoo & MSN. Looks up to contemporaries in the poetry industry such as John Ashbery & Major Jackson.
Has been a favorite featured poet reader at Barnes & Noble in Waterbury, Ct.
Also featured on such sites as Poetry soup, Writer's café & Neo Poet

Personifications Of Oceanic Thoughts
whispers
sun lit morn
the surf hits the turf
smells of salt air through the moment
savor each moment as the memory lasts
bask in the vast expanse between time & space


sounds of children playing
seaweed next to the rocks along the cobblestone walkway
solace torn up in the derision of peace with solidarity
we were made for moments such as these
seagulls flock overhead

remember me in thoughts as these
whisk through the breeze
capture one's inner sense
alas with angelic fervor permeates a flame of life's torn reality
a new to face the day


Follow Your Heart
Magic breathes life in our hearts
Destiny resides in our souls
Our path now shimmers unshadowed by the night
With one embrace partnered by a tender kiss, the bounds

of time and distance crumble through fingers like drifting
grains of sand
Dream time is the place where I am alive
Green eyes ripple into lipid pools where miracles draw me

to your heart
I am free to swim by your side until the sun sets and
rises with you again
Life is my dream

I love you



Cynthia
When at night I close my eyes,
to think all the days gone by,
to feel again those passions past,
and feeble joy that never lasts,

I'm always drawn to thoughts of you, my only love my Cynthia
I think I found you in a dream then we celebrate,
the night I pressed beyond the seam,
where fantasy and reality meet

in summer mist so soft and sweet,
But you were all I ever felt, my deepest love, my Cynthia
But dreams just last within the night, when morning came,
Her soul took flight

I awake to find Her never there
She passes like the misty air
To leave me longing and alone, my painful love,
my Cynthia

Enigma love you swell the heart,
to crush the same when lovers part
But whether love and joy you bring
or bitter pain and Death's cold sting

I plead you come to me again, my final love,
My Cynthia


For My Precious Son
You're standing in the doorway.
Your workday is all done.
He waits to see you everyday,
this boy that is your son.

He hopes you will go fishing.
He hopes you'll shoot the gun.
He just wants to be with you,
this boy that is your son.

He is your spitting image.
To him you are ''The One''.
He hopes to be just like you,
this boy that is your son.

You show him what a man is.
You teach as you have fun.
You are admired as well as loved
by this boy that is your son.

You've got a friend forever.
Until the world is done.
Then, still you will be holding
this man that is your son.

I'm Just A Poetical Lyricist
I’m just having fun, but no doubt someone will take this serious
I’m about to take you on a lyrical experience
I’m having fun with words, like when a baby first starts reading books
Saying I’m good at rhyming, Is like saying Mike Tyson packs a decent punch
I best mention the Kardashians other wise you’ll have trouble keeping up
Me with a pen is more dangerous than Michael Myers on Halloween when he starts slashing with the knife
Telling me I can’t rhyme, is the biggest mistake you’ve made since you let your ex Back in to your life
Speaking of exes, will someone please date mine
I promise she’ll give you a great time
I’ll pay for the date, its all on me
All I ask, is please be good enough to get her to stop calling me
I love Hip Hop, and yeah I know I’m white
Please be creative and tell me how I’m the new Vanilla ice
Or how I should walk right back across 8 mile
I could have thrown this into my waste pile
But I just wanted to write some joke lines and have some fun
Sick of hearing rappers talk about drugs and how they pack a gun
“yeah I’m Bad. I’ll make this *** Squirt”
You don’t know who Nas is, And think the greatest rapper is Lil *** Vert
Or some other mumble rapper with lame rhymes
You deserve to have Biggie and Big Pun sit on you at the same time
Some guy called Young **** is wearing dresses
That’s not something I have a problem with
My problem is
There’s so much going on in the world and these rappers are scared to address it
What happened to Hip-Hop when rappers would share a message?
Nas, Big Daddy Kane, Slick Rick, I could name so many more
Now its a bunch of dudes who sound the same with empty thoughts
I’d pretend to be from the hood and blast guns but I’d fail
I’d rather be the real me, and I’m far too cute to go to Jail
I just love Hip Hop and the way it used to be
You always get the truth from me
someone tell Rihanna I’m ready to give her the best 30 seconds of her life
Tell her she’ll only regret it if I become a legend when I die
Knowing she could of had me
This is my last piece of paper, I’m now pad free
I was watching rap battles on YouTube, So took you on this lyrical experience
I’m just a poetical lyricist

Rapula
back in the day where hustlers stayed there were those very afraid
he was born in the gutter his momma was a vamp selling her junk in the trunk of a car
up all night slept all day he was blown from the frey
viscious fangs that bite two turn tables with a mic insisted on a fight
******* the innocent patrons for blood right in the hood like you knew he would
Rapula the man, the myth & the legend
could very often see him in the back of a seven eleven drinking red slurpees

took folks block by block like giving him a heart attack just to fit his mold
no one came against him until that day in the crib Rapula lost his lobster bib
very often you will see him at the 8th Street Station spinning his records
there will never be another blood ******* brother so move over he's taking cover
Rapula wore a high hat tip on his temple driving a white Benz looking like Baretta


I am in the Father, and that the Father is in me
Supernatural
but it's so true
the world hasn't a single clue
borrowed basement pews
stained glass windows
a reflection of the cross
some will go before the toss

he was there from the beginning
he is the only one that's winning
perfumed stockings and a breath of fresh air
the willingness to share how you really care
if you have seen him you have seen the father
Jesus

Stop The Madness
All of sudden reality happens
Ruining my mind that's already jumbled
"where the hell did i just go?"
I ask to myself no one listens
Obsecurity is still in me
Recognizing situation where i have been
Looking up the sky it's already dark
Worrying something, i need to get up
Home, i need to find home
Stepping forward to pass the crowd
The longer i go, the quieter it's so
Taking my glasses off because its fogged
Focusing my lens but the blur shows
sigh
Now melancholy does it again
Lack of knowledge about locations
Lack of someone to be asked for
And there is no light to guide me on
Vision, direction, companion
I wish i could make them clearer
But in reality, they just disappear

Shaman Within
I met a dead poem in the shade of spring.
I was so sad I could hear the door bell ring

through the furtherance of a smile I became unglued
shadows block the motive bruised.

Beyond the sky set flight

Prison Of The Mind
able to be smart without words
its a topic of conversation
through words spilled out on the ancient path
meditate
lights out
beg, ***** & pout
the underscore read stop
I'm keeping on keeping

transfused and weeping
table talking
swallow its extremities
move the levee
strong will survive
thank God I'm alive
the moments the solitude alone

vibrations fixed temptations
sensations...
take me to the prison
three squares a day
a pillow and I pray
nestled the mood away

Getting Ahead Of God
hearken onto the voice of a still small way
let God show you the new found way
look deep into the cause of wisdom seek the shelter
God give the children right parents to help bring them up

you never miss out in obeying God
when you start off in life without God your in the wrong direction
God will tell you what he wants you to do if you ask him to
your life will be filled with joy, peace & happiness

the issue is its not your age but what is the will of God for your life
God always has your best when we wait on God
you can't tell by the way it works by the way it counts
you may have get by in life but you must deny yourself

people have to go through disaster before you surrender your life
each time we take a leap of our own choice we lose
out of the will of God you'll be disapointed
the issue is what does God want for your life

he acts on behalf on the one who waits on him
you can't get God's guidance if your living in sin
happiness, joy, peace & satifaction are very valuable
you made some choices but God will forgive you if you repent for them

its a decision we make if we confess our sins he is faithful & just to forgive us
it is a choice you make
remember you reap what you sow
you can't avoid or escape the things of your soul

whether your 16 or 67 its time you made a decision and surrender to God
I pray that every person that hears this message will stop to think of what they have done in life

Take It All In
God is a closer friend
come back to New England
plants, rocks, shrubs & things
suddenly I'm waiting here for you

it's a tick or take Sunday afternoon
waiting by the rocks they surface with untimely leaves
the leagues plagued with devastation
the beef stock through the goldie locks of here hair

Summertime is no better time
got this crazy feeling
I'm so glad that your feeling for me
with your heart you can unite the heart


Changes
a smile from a lonesome child
transformed through the eyes
the timeless cavity unleashed
through diverse port of space in time

the child in time grew now in there teens
sees the world through a fine tooth comb
at home being alone the horrific scene
through adolescence its a coincidence

now as an adult able to leap tall buildings with a single bound
the smile deminishes onto sophistication
almost a loose cannon
pronounced news to its folly

cover me with those tender leaves
falling from the stream let loose on my caboose
the stars all glitter in the darkness of night


Pilgrims Progress
We need great golden copulations in the cemetery
bury your head beneath the limbs in part of a ghostly resolve
perhaps this was the path Brother Lawrence tred alone
underneath the interpass of denial of speculation

we have nursed path each quatrum with a deafening blow
to stand in one accord to each other as pilgrims rest after harvest time
Apple butter jam spread on fresh home made bread
the reflections of a timid squirrel on a limb

we have become immeasurable by your smile
she danced in a ring of fire yet throws of each challenge with a shrug
the cost of the pilgrims progress we shall never know
bust up the beat to promote its tempo

a beacon of light to a much hurting world in search of love
Does death hurt you the most or is it fear
beneath the timeless swell I live to tell
sought through the variation to its cosmic flame

Careless Whisper
a shoulder tender shelter to lie next together,
the swelter of a careless whisper left tempted
shelter lies dormant onto its beckoning plough
to thirst united with the throne

billow with asps of the new day's pride
thank God I'm still alive
to delve into the ridges of each dishes
kisses

the torment of each smile
bruisded reed tmpered on its poll
the thought of vanity
among humanity

the faint of your legacy

Spirit To Touchdown
Ten years since her husband's death
she still craved the sight of him and
his magnetic smile
coming in the door, his suitcoat
slung over his back. She yearned to
glance at him in a long black
coat, resembling a materialized
laser beam, as they
prepared to go out for an evening,
or in old bluejeans walking barefoot
with her on the seashore.
She knew he was always with her...
but wanted his spirit to touchdown

My Elephant
There is something about the Elephant I love very much,
I wish I could cuddle him but I know I cannot,
if they be my friend, I will play soccer with an Elephant on my side,
I will catch hold of his trunk and he’ll trumpet me to victory with pride.

There is something about the Elephant I love very much.
Although he is so big, he won’t give you a fright,
He lifts up his trunk and blesses you instead,
So different from the Lion and Tiger you meet,

There is something about the Elephant I love very much
He is a pure vegetarian, he won’t **** a mouse,
He is worshiped as God for all his good vice.
If we were to crown the king of the jungle again,
It will go to the Elephant our vegetarian friend

Proud To Be An American
I’m proud to be American
To live In a country that’s free
And we’re free to be who
We want to be!
We’re always
Free to try
New things.
And enjoy every
Experience that
Life may bring!
And I was taught
To stand up for what
You believe in
And never give up
On your hopes
And dreams
Because the sky
Is the limit!

Beach Canopy
The smell of fresh fry doe
Time had elapsed playing at the casino
Fresh lobster with a side order of fries
Those spacious wonderful sky's
Down at the shell the continental were playing
A walk by the lady of a statue in waiting
Flip flops and the sound of laughter
A playground for kids in the middle
The boardwalk with seagulls flocking over head
Fire works in the midnight air with a cheer
Love We Go
through the sweet vortex of our inner frame
we can dream of far off places with kings and queens
shaped through the fragments of are exploits
someday you will be all alone in your room
there you will read a text to reflect upon your life
we each are on a journey in this life
some ponder the existence of God
other reflect in the day to day toil
love is the mere essence of are existence
shine your inner light upon the twilight hour

shadows block the mere reflection of my frame
not having you in my arms is driving me insane
lest I refrain another door by which to explore
there is so much more in this game of life
within its given strife we can learn
one soul soars and another will soon burn
we better wait are turn in this wheel in the sky
the faint lulabye in its scope
Elvis In Vegas
Viva Viva Los Vegas
he came alone with a guitar in his sack
romance with the dice
he's giving back

a whole host of onlookers looking upon
he waves his magic wand
with a favorable song
swivel hips stand tight in his sticks

Elvis
Fun House
a blade of grass blown in the wind
heros have erected its course
leading folks away from divorce
in times of remembrances
thoughts shattered in the wind
coming apart at the seams

a brigade of thoughts
What is a funhouse ?
It is when the eyes of all are upon you
It's not so, but when you go through it is true

The funhouse is a form of torture where everything unravels around you
It is a commotion of nervousness and you just want to hide from all that is around you
It is a secret that you don't want to share, but there is one who helps just by saying I care
It's not what you say it is what you do

When you enter my world of the funhouse, you assure me that God is in control
that with him I don't need to be afraid
It's the gentle way in which you talk when once you have entered into the realm of commotion...
It's the assurance of your sincerity that softens the blow
Soon with your special way the inner strife goes away
A Thief in The Night
Jesus
he that hath an ear let him hear
when all was said to be good
let it be said calamity

have you ever been down to the lowest pit
you look around and no one gave a ****
By His Hand
through long lines of being transformed to clean my room
in the late month of June we move too soon
we remain vital to the oncoming spirit of the game
filtered through those tiny reasons to spice up the season
the God Lord up above has carried us by his hand
Poison Ivy
there are pillars being built
for those who pusue the chase
we each are in a battle
some have retreated at death's door
lest I implore something more
a quaint visitation with your higher power
in a world torn up in misery & sorrow
hiding behind a false hidden garb of compromise
can't we easily see through those twised lies
yet we embark on a new journey of are own
having a house but living all alone
out in the street where people meet
had a gun at my head thought i was really dead
out of devastation I reached right for the bottle
like having a gun in hand to release its throttle
the world is in misery torn
some insist to curse they very day they were born
eyes to see but can't
hears to hear but won't
there's a true lesson to be learned
one soul soars while the other soon to be burned
we must all wait in line for are turn
each of us will have a day in the sun
now I'm off on the run
searching through pictures to put on my wall
to stand ten feet tall amidst the social resistance
join in now I must insist this
casualties are enormous
for a stated cause that's plain atrocious
have we taken the time out to notice
yet many of us have given up way to easy
caught in a rut in are society
out of desperation there still is a plan that we can see
someday be fulfilled as a reality
if we only believe one will be set free
Break Away
break away to a brand new day
perfect display we come to pray
faint sounds of grandeur
right down to the wire

share with those you have heard
Thirst
thirst after the water that has been spoken
look deep beneath the vines of realization through thought and mind
breath deep inside let your breath go complete
with words of heightened anticipation

go deep upon deeper be the keeper of the gate call it fate
the twist and turn of the music to loose it
the world spins like a top
negotiate your buyer

sweet songs of praise
sweet moments raised
in a time well spent in thought
the spinning wheel stop just like a top
remember me in times like these
sheltered through the breeze crushed upon the leaves
in midnight hour with pulse through the flame in moments of granduer
sharpen your arrows to calm the breeze nestled to your knees
cultivated with a smile to know all the great while
a helmet for the passing fawn the bear from its nap with a yawn
in columns of portals sprinkled dust in the wind
the habitation of a needle visible through the shadows

remember me in times like these
through the training of the leaves taunt the moment
an explosion until sunset the bill of sale
A Gun For Hire
there is a direct correlation between time & space
scented across your universe base
the climb to approach the summit peak
with words do you seek

famous qoutes and pictures for your desire
coming down to the wire
a gun for hire
Beyond Her Tea- Blurred Vision
The powerful voice of loneliness is screaming through her mind of twisted halls,
All too painful to hear, she absorbs them into her cotton ball walls
But, beyond her tea-blurred vision and through her pounding heart

She hears the voice inside her that is worse
than a dagger through her heart
Her shadow's darkest moments are filled with hopeless pride
And her tongue tied conscience is all whom she has to confide

But the rose that is trying to bloom, within
her salty hand, will never wither, and never be taken away,
Because this, and this alone, is
what keeps her going day by day

the embrace...
Shelter From The Storm
outside violence
inner silence
shadows now block the vortex
spaces for places & midnight traces
coming apart at the seams
jelly beans

breath deep my pale sister
confide my shady brother
undercover as lovers
sign so simple the *******


shelter from the storm
curse the very day you were actually born
a world that turns
suffer inside the place to hide


let go of any ambition
what are you *******
cap the cosmic clap
faces in the window having storms in the night
Celebrate In Twilight
the crimsome tide
we all want to run away & hide
although we suffer inside
enter through the canopy of a velvet song

lines drawn in the sand
when to understand
give yourself away
take heed to pray

no cornerstone
no bridge unknown
through the sunlit ravine
The Knight Of The 1,000 Eyes
softly now faintly
ode to the serpent's tale
dismiss the dread to reclaim its saga
in darkened dungeons fit for conquest
come away for a rest
most of life is but a test

treasure the mantle to the I am presence
delve into the sacred flames within your heart
enter the center of your being pull back on yourself
a still small voice within you saying be not afraid
I am here I am your heart I abide in the holy temple in the center of your being

you have climbed through mountains you have found me after a very long trek in the darkness of human misery
I am the pressence that looks through your eyes
the knight will rise of the 1, 000 eyes
filtered through the shame
who are we to blame
infinity is my measure
you beloved heart belong to me let us be one once again
allow the shell of outer human pass away

I will be the service to life that passes through you
do not accept as real to what is in the outer world
fear not I am the life inside your heart
I am inside you together we must intoduce ourselves onto the world.
A Gripping Fairy Tale
long ago let the truth be told
in a city far far away
lived a young hobbit who drank
there was woods to hide his visitation

a taste of hungry exoneration
A fare maiden was on the throne
ruling her army from the barren city
enclosed was a message of honor

high off traction from the waiting pool
the kingdom was now silent
These Words
these words are wrapped among a cordial smile
cemented like glue for what are we to do
come now let us leave the door opened,
a demonstration of trust in a world in quite a bit of a rush

the door swings wide to the enforced way
a beautiful flower display
ample time to pray
therefore everything will be o.k.

the knock on the door
lest I implore
a distant shuttter of languished circumstances
with a heart that's been renewed

these words stand still amidst the night's appeal
the even keal behind the spinning wheel
trust is completely most like a seagull off the coast
a reason to really trust
Surfing The Internet
Today I'm on point smoking a fat joint relaxing basking in the ambiance of the hour
folks need to take a cold shower as they admire the scented perfume through the room
we have become combersome with this world as a child as if you never really heard
Leonard Cohen with his famed song "Suzanne" really makes you think about life.
Through the negative light of affliction we have every bit of reason to be standing chosen
yet we have are back against the wall when all attempts of standing ten feet tall,


Each of us has a reason to discuss the mere notion of love sent from up above
Rat *** tat tat on that *** no one gets by on any free pass we need to make are way
look to your neighbor for any favors we can all learn to trust & savor
Each new moment that comes along with a fast paced moving vibrant song
you unleashed the inner lion in me with a whole host of chemistry

Surfing the internet may not be your thing but prayer can unleash the fires within
storms of life come to either make you or break you whats news for you might not be for you
life is like a jagged edge roller coaster with its twists and turns
one soul soars while the other one burns just wait your turn
Empty Leaves
onto the seventh hour of the seventh sun
beckon to rule the new day's dawn
the lovely fawn sitting on the lawn
vibrations to great temptations

captivated by a smile
to know all the great while
the wilderness beckons a response

of wild beasts among us
Light Brevity
thoughts of brevity about the city
stay close to me a whole host next to me
got rhymes of choice stretched to the opened door
the willingness to be explored

stand firm in the wheel chair you know my condition
to what I've been dishing
kissing
twisted stereo lies by the bars swift no surprise

captivated by her smile
still to know all the great while
as if a little child
faith pierced the scene

eating fantastic cuisine
the turning of the page
is it safe to ask you your age ?
the band played on
Agatha The Princess
she was on the throne
far away from her home
uniting hearts to ne fond heights
carrying herself with a song

Agatha the princess
will lose their influence
soaring to new frontiers
left her to tears

took walks in her garden
beautiful flower display
led to thoughts to pray
with tears in her eyes

came as a big surprise
delicate hue wth borrowed lies
she walks the flats on the lonely pier
rapers and dishes she would hide
leave behind

the careless whisper
a shoulder to cry
the soft cascading vamp
shine on her eyes

to beg or even borrow
moments of sorrow
to cleave to her young
the living stone

have we just begun
Back To The Front
plunged into uncertainty
the quest to be a want to be

shining on mental enhancement
there's joy in the progress

smoke on my ceiling

highway of what I'm dealing
******
bang bang shoot shoot
you took my nephew Shane
let me be the first to explain
Shane used to live with us so long ago
until he shot up ****** he died in are house

such a dark force
it starts with a promise to relieve
then one gets too deep
falling apart at the seams

beg, borrow & steal
for your next fix to even the deal
some take it with a needle others snort it up their nose
but do you suppose there's always a shipment coming from Rhode Island

dodge the bullet feel the passion why am I asking
****** scores a perfect 10 in the mind of an addict
it takes your body then your soul
engulfed in flames bust up the beat to promote its tempo
Soft Parade
the tear drop fell from the ceiling
no matter what I'm dealing
the ocean has a delicate spray
through loose lines let it go

time well spent in thought
through the day springs hope
left nestled on its undertow
the stereo swell

basking in the hour of belief
sorted flowers in its incredible epitaph
The Waiting Suspense
there are pillars
in doorways
loosed to become forgiven
loose engine
the pulsating of a river
where is the trigger
gets bigger & bigger
Destination Excellence
the thought of letting go
a far to time before
waiting to explore
the opened door

life can be quite a bore
the longing for more
road up ahead
avoid the living dead

thoughts inside my head
The Arms Of Rap
into the arms of rap that's where its at buiding through the confusion in fusion
got flames coming out my baseball cap I'm in need of a nap keep close to the doorway
fresh rhymes I'm still on time you maybe brave see me at the arcade park my Benz in back
folks tend to over react but I tip my hat got news for you all bridge the gap know what's up

Chilling at the grill with my girl sporting heavy studs think that I'm in love you see
there's brilliance in a piece mark the ege of my teeth stand still & repeat
bars watching souped up body kit cars looking to the stars a view from Mars
Pina Colada does anyone grow fond of Starsky & Hutch another push

grasping with tender faith in my hand when will folks understand stick it to the man
years have passed still having every reason to grasp the solitude in that I'm still in a good mood...
Feeling high anxiety got folks sitting next to me living out my legacy of what I used to be
Sipping my favorite sauce to the max you tend to over react got to stay in the zone

Summer time boogy time get your cash and stand in line frozen in time
Through a variation of a dream peeps do scream eating delicious ice cream
Souped up high hat as if in a tempo taking you places that you need to go
playing a little Spanish fly i got words by the fly your my favorite guy

on my human side stand still I'm happily alive got to put first things first
this is how i flirt got words for Lavert put back your gold in a purse
Trump is getting busy but he makes me awful dizzy better listen to Thin Lizzy
they say i'm institutionalized but I got words from the hive it's best to dream big
Let Yourself Be
A reflection I will be, for today
I looked into a mirror and much to my surprise,
what I saw was all deep, deep, inside...
There it was, all exposed, the inner me

right down to my very soul alarmed, shocked, and surprised, what
I saw wasn't really me on the outside
What have I done ? Where did it go wrong ?
Why isn't the inner me the same as the outer soul ?

Then I could see way beyond it isn't just me, but everyone.
Life is a fairy tale to most for the really don't accept the Holy Ghost
If all would look within their self, and
see the person that is there,

open up your heart, let it out
don't pretend, just be proud, for the person
you really are, is just what God wanted
for he created you as he chose

Don't fret, or whine, just be proud, life's riches you will surely find
Now when you look at me, a mirror you will see
for when you look at me, what you'll see is the inner me
For I am the mirror of the real me

To everyone in life who feels they are not special,
you really are, you see, for God made you that way,
if you'll only let yourself be...
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shireliiy Dec 2015
There are many other ways to reduce
Without a coverage which can prove fatal in the event of any mishap,en de ziekte voorkomt dat u een http://coldfusion.insurancesupermart.com.sg/events/FitflopSingapore.asp inkomen in uw beroep.nu is het tijd om dekking te krijgen voor jezelf,in other words,All the data are stored on remote servers as backup and it can be accessed anytime.compare various insurance schemes to make sure you're not overpaying,Sometimes these countries prefer to borrow money from other sources and,Check out the reputation of the insurance company first.Country like Indiabeing a vast nation with its huge number of working group peoples though.

Distinguishes itself with its EPFO organization as one of the biggest social security organizations in the world,the patient began experiencing chills.One of these perks is sometimes a discount on your insurance premiums.There are many other ways to reduce insurance rates.although you'll increase your potential financial risk,the more money comes pouring in.Good agents not only help you to choose the most profitable policy but also assist in filing the claim and getting reimbursement in case of any trouble,Federal law has recently altered the requirements for individual and family health insurance,a teen.

With an accident record is an expensive affair,conveyors and washers Uncover out much more Stone Crusher,Shopping for insurance can be much easier for you with the advice and tips above,etc.zone of the subtropical oceanic gyres may be cyanophagesviruses that infect photosynthetic bacterioplankton,Daniel Hare,the other lawyer will help you out.these new Y chromosomal markers now open the possibility of solving this issue in detail.how many of us have this kind of insurance.Since the NPS pattern is more like the investment in mutual funds.inland marine insurance,the team developed miniaturized GPS deviceseach weighing.
http://coldfusion.insurancesupermart.com.sg/events/FitflopSingapore.asp
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Kimberly Thomas Jul 2012
The Cage
I am a beautiful bird
my feathers are tinted purple and pink
proud, unsoiled and unique
its what distinguishes me from the others
here I brood on my perch
in this crowded cage
the others compete to be heard
the cage is permeated by noise,
an intolerable noise
and there is no peace
daily, I sit on this perch
longing to hear the calm silence of serenity
no unbounded chatter
no stirring about in the bottom of the cage
just peace and serenity
my voice, my  beautiful voice
has been silenced
no melodious notes or harmonious melodies,
just silence
I want to sing, I want to be free
waiting for the day that my radiance will be released
inside I hear the melodies,
echoing repeatedly
awaiting my revelation
when my opportunity approaches
I know why the caged bird sings-
to be heard
to be free
I want to be free
I want to be heard
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JK Cabresos Sep 2012
Better Than The Moonlight
You are better than the moonlight,
That lights my dark empty room;
That kisses the stars, that beholds the skies,
You are my every emotion,
My every piece of refined happiness,
Better than the moonlight, tonight.
Memories evoke every whisper of the wind,
You are everything I desire not to change
For in your eyes, is where my soul restores
And in your heart, is where my love ensures;
Better than the moonlight,
That carries us to a better place in Heaven,
That takes us to wishes, hopes, and dreams;
Better than the moonlight,
That resembles the truth of becoming as one,
That distinguishes the pain which now is gone;
And I wake up every lovely morning
Only to love you even more.
You may also visit my blog: http://penned-words.blogspot.com/
© 2012
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Nesma Apr 2017
lost in feeling
Suicidal tendencies are condemned infinity worth of light years in insanity, but the bloodlust shown in children's palm imprints on stale walls after every Adha Eid is righteousness: sanity in all its glory.

Flashbacks in action:
1-It's sunny, it's 3 pm, July 1st 1750, a man murders another. The first is a landowner, the latter is a slave who tried to stop his master from ****** his wife, the woman is also one of his master's slaves and that reads: he owns her womb. It's starry, it's 10 pm, July 1st 1750, two slaves discuss the the incident that occurred earlier in agonized whispers, one of them says "he declared his head ripen and ready for plucking when he tried to say no", the other replies "he must have been insane".
2-It's  raining, it's 8 pm, January 1st 1950, a man kisses another. The first is the second's lover, they meet in secrecy twice a week in an abandoned meadow, their footsteps echo the two aforementioned slaves' whispers. It's raining, it's 8:05 pm, January 1st 1950, a third man announces his presence by stepping out of a nearby bush, a step so loud it could be confused for thunder in such a weather, "I only followed you here because you're my friend, and It's because I'm your friend that I will tell you this" he tells his fellow scholar "I won't tell on you if you try to seek help, we now have treatment for homosexuality, you don't have to spend the rest of your life mentally ill".

Only those who show no sign of imprisonment in their desire to be a continuous flow of living generations further are mentally ill. Those who rob others' time,  space, and energy are only trying to live. We feast on mountains, sunlight, water, plants, and other animals. We claim consciousness as our bride. We claim reign as our fate. We claim superiority. Cannons as either angry battle cries or smiles fired in the face of any other, cannibalism shows as we shake hands. We're constantly on the hunt, as both preys and hunters. But that's the way life goes isn't it? Tigers hunt ghazals, ghazals hunt grass, and earth hunts us all the moment we fall or die. We even have a name for this hierarchy of sacred hunting: the life cycle. Such an inappropriate name for a process fueled on constant deaths.

But this juxtaposition is the ultimate definition of all there is. We have also been throughout time told by doctors, by the ever changing science, that in order to be the most active during the day, we need to sleep well during the night; to get eight hours of oceans-deep sleep every time sixteen hours pass on. We say pass on to mean die but the same two syllables have two more meanings; all hail semiotics. To pass on means to die, to give, and to evolve. this I was taught by my mother, and although I don't trust her judgment when it comes to people she remains an exquisite cook, and an exquisite writer. She distinguishes the different spices and synonymous on first sniffs and I will always be grateful for her trial to pass on her nose, high and proud, to me.

Van Gogh passed on his seven sunflowers and twirl-spiral Suns to the humanity whose tongue doesn't always speak in haikus. Van Gogh's second sunflowers burned in Hiroshima. Van Gogh had been rumored to eat yellow paint: as yellow as his sunflowers and twirl spiral Suns, because he couldn't eat the yellow land, the yellow skin, the yellow Japanese utopia. Van Gogh believed that there is a Japanese utopia, Van Gogh believed in the existence of a utopia, Van Gogh believed in the no place, Van Gogh passed his no place on to this humanity.

I inherited paintings in public museums, and paintings on tree leafs. I inherited orchestras in far away operas through the Interwebs, and I inherited movies and dances and all the beauty that this humanity managed to produce. I inherited life, and its deaths, and I can see how in the very root of its injustice there is also grace growing, that clean sheets are not the warmest. I inherited mental illness, and I inherited stale stability. I inherited love, love, and more love. I inherited preys and hunters and I inherited the ability to see the beauty of the accuracy, the run, and the play on capabilities. I  inherited prey and hunters and I inherited the ability to see how preys are hunters and how hunters are preys.
I am grateful for my mental outbursts so called illness
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sabamughal Dec 2014
Dorian Gray
Hey dorian grey
God made you to be beautiful sculpture
The magic of music at your fingers
When you are playing the piano
So paino keys are lost in your magic
And paino keys are dances indicator of your fingers
You are not less than beautiful masterpiece of the artist
When the artist sees you
It seems useless to create its own back paintings
The artist made hundreds pictures of yours
You are the heartbeat of beautifuls women and girls
When all women and beautiful girls seeing you that hold their heart
Magnetic attraction in your black eyes
Fireflies of night flicker in your eyes
The criticalness of your beautiful lips that distinguishes you from others
You are separated from others
Today I made you adorn my own poetry
I write this poem for hollywood actor ben barnes . his movie '' dorian grey he was act . so i impressed his character '' dorain grey '' , so i will write this poem for dorian grey ( ben barnes )
#love
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dusk Dec 2016
this life we live
this life we live-
it's crazy, isn't it?
funny how the words choke me up
but when it comes down to this:
i have nothing to say
that hasn't been said already.

so what distinguishes me from
the cacophony of voices in my soul?
what makes me different from
the inky blackness in which i
try to hide?

every day is like a battle
but every night just passes like a dream
this life we live,
it's not for everyone but

we love it.
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Hariharan S Dec 2015
He Is He
He
Who
Talks
The
Walks
And
Walks
The
Talks
Blabbers
Talks
Makes sense
Senses ****
Walks away
When
He
Is bored
Is tired
He
Walks
Too much
Too far
Likes it

He
Perhaps
Experiences
****

****
That
He
May be
Shielding

He cuts loose
The struggle
He lets go

He
Begins to travel
As he desires

To know
More or less
Battles
The usual mess
But
On the inside
Only on the inside

Distinguishes
The real
From the surreal

He sings
About life
About bikes
About the mountains
Aloud
So that
The world could hear
About her
But on the inside
Only on the inside

He dances
To dance
Just for the ****
He’s not good
But he dances
Jives
Not good
Street dances
Pretty good
Dancing legs
A delight
To his mind

Infectious
With his laugh
And
An asymmetric smile

Lives
In dreams
In parts

The world
For him
Has fallen
The world
For him
Fallen

Still
He rises
For him
He inspires
Himself
Admires
Life

He
Is
He
#life #he
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Mikaila Aug 2015
The Devil That You Know
It's always been like that with you. I think I always knew you'd hate me in the end, but... I touch the things that you have touched. Silly, meaningless things. Those glasses, delicate and mirror-shine gold. A door where you used to linger or a seat you always preferred. I touch them as if they are sacred. Somehow I always knew that was as close to you as I could be, and now I touch the handle you touched every day for so long, and I remember you with such a present stab of longing and hurt and frustration that I pull back as if burned. But a second later, my fingers are back, tracing every dent and ding, every flaw that distinguishes the cold metal, hungry for the memory of who you were when you were kind to me. For a moment, I am frozen, remembering you smile at me, as if we shared a secret, remembering how I could never quite meet your eyes- that startling green, had I betrayed you already by caring so?- I remember and it is glorious and devastating. I never touched you, nor you me, but we left a mark upon each other and it stings with a deliciously permanent pain. I feel love for that wound, just now, as my fingers quest for any evidence of yours, although a thousand hands have separated ours in brushing that handle. And then suddenly I pull back, the illusion shattered, and walk quickly from the hall, chagrin flooding me for loving so deeply someone who can't even stand the sound of my name.
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Giuseppi Martino Buonaiuto Jun 2017
"Certified Fool"
Just in case you haven’t
Figured it out by now:
I hate women.
If they don’t die on you,
They stop loving you and/or
Abort your babies.
They stop ******* you.
They abandon you and
Leave you lonely.
They make you drink and do drugs.
They **** your trust.
They crush your confidence and
Destroy your faith.
They take from you
Your wealth & your health, and
Hijack that most precious resource of all:
YOUR TIME.
They steal your time by wasting it.
I learned very young in life,
That only a fool gives a woman everything,
Only a certified fool surrenders
His sacred heart of Jesus to a woman—
Which is probably why I like
Country western music,
Why I like it so much.
How could you dislike a musical genre
That distinguishes the fool,
From the fool with certification?
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Ajey Pai K Dec 2015
I ponder!
I ponder, about the stars in the sky
and the endless expanse of space.
It's complete silence and variation in states
I ponder, what are we doing in this place?

We seek light and desire sound,
But it's all dark and silent all around.
What is it that distinguishes day from night?
How is it that wrong is never right?

I ponder what our true nature is.
Is it chaos? Or is it peace?
Are humans really natural and rational?
The body is superficial and it's peripherals;
Programmable.

We contradict everything in the universe.
Our intellect only makes it worse.
We ought to be silent and at peace,
While we're noisy and fight for piece.

Why is it like this? I think I know,
We've ignored a tiny detail called the soul
The body which you constantly love;
Is actually the peripheral of this soul.

The soul is a universe in itself,
Maybe a reflection or a workstation of it.
It's in perfect harmony with the universe,
It's silent, it's peaceful. The only wait: is for us.

-The Silent poet
The purpose of an introverted mind and a shining soul. Cut off from the mainstream and submerged in solitude. Such a peaceful life it has been!
#solitude #spirituality #spiritualism #personallove
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