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Robin Carretti May 2018
Maybe I could write a book all

Stares of people creamy tons
Eating dark bonbons
Find your nitch and call
The silk milk  switch
The"Cat Eye"
People come and go
But the sunset stays
The play up or play
down the love of life
An eternity of hearts
of your wife
The family

The boy ship ahoy
(Patch-eye Pirate)
Robin Almond Joy
And she just loves
them Tomboys
all lacey eyes

Masquerading
"Almond Eye's
flavor of soy
Lactose tolerant

Paintbrush deviant
He is so creamed for her
Dark sunset stimulant
Come on drink it all

Inside of my mind do
you dare to wink
and call

Take a look?
Are we losing
our scruples
Coconut milk
Smiles and dimples

A mystery of
illusions  more darkness
of confusion
The plain ordinary people

So on and then on?
Met our confusion of people

Right on # target
_


Are we still creamy
stir it on

Darkest sunset
way beyond
Soothing so distant and just
like that
gone
___

We cannot click on
anything creme
De La Creme
The computer magnet
like a crazy clone,
all lost being alone

Staying obedient trying to
find the way
(No God) what

No Man?
The cream in your cafe
The Prince
She's the angel dust
hair rinse
((Garnet))

Creamified sonnet

Dark sunset Jade Hornet
on so on her lips so on etc
They met the sunset
head on right time
She's on
All Laced
He's on
What a kisser
Is right time on?
Did he miss her?

My heart was on
the line

Robin birds of throbs

Losing so much time

being robbed deplorable

Like an abysmal

Disgraceable hum
Shady money sum
Banging drum yum
Dark sunset color gum

The dark silhouette
asylum

The sin or the sunset

Being straight jacket
Suzette

Minds breakdown
Heart Silk Crown

"Pennywise clown'

*** in the Cat milk
movies

Remembering the
The seventies

Peace signs and
Groovies

My sunset dreams
depleted

Was this the book
I needed to
be completed

How I armed myself
Finger lake creamy

Fate and time stood out
Dreammmmy_


My brain was fried
scrambler

But sunny side was up?

At midnight rambler

The Brooklyn Bridge
sunset heart dividers

Cosmic globe riders
Dark spell mentors
Spilled the creamy
Goddess of darkness
robe

This ancient Roman sunset
The lover of Darkness
Lace me the darkness hour

The tower high rise sunset
bad spirits gave us
wits to live it

We have it made what
we see
Sometimes Illusions
Creamy silk hands and
The rock bands
How her Darker?Cream
Saw the sunset in between
lips met

Face to face they land
Her place lacy demands
Her spell eyes of a bet
Her lipstick on his collar
She was ready to set
He see's the specks of colors
Through her headset
He yearns for her to
holler
__

The peek reddish
Sushi-pink
The darkest of sunsets
"Freshly Raw' she sipped his
Sunset drink

When our light will come
will be
protected
Forevermore patiently

The darkness became us
the goodness

Of a better time of rising
The darker the sunset the sweeter place love was perfectly set
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
I sit in the sun room, I am shaded for the sun
is only newly risen, low slung, just above the horizon,
behind me, over my shoulder, early morn warm

Slivers of sun rays yellow highlight the wild green lawn,
freshly nourished by torrential rains of the prior eve

The wind gusts are residuals, memoirs of the hurricane
that came for a peripheral visit, your unwanted cousin Earl,
in town for the day, too bad your schedule
is fully booked, but he keeps raining on you,
staying on the phone for so long, that the goodbye,
go away, hang up relief is palpable

The oak trees are top heavy with leaves frothy like a new cappuccino,
the leaves resist the sun slivers, guarding the grass
from browning out, by knocking the rookie rays to and fro,
just for now, just for a few minutes more,
it is advantage trees, for they stand taller in the sky
than the youthful teenage yellow ball

I sit in the sun room buffered from nature's battles external,
by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization,

and my thoughts drift to suicide.

I have sat in the sun room of my mind, unprotected.
with front row seats, first hand witness to a battle unceasing

Such that my investigations, my travails along the boundary line
between internal madness and infernal relief from mental pain
so crippling, is such that you recall begging for cancer or Aids

Such that my investigations, my travails along the sanity boundary
are substantive, modestly put, not inconsiderable

Point your finger at me, demanding like every
needy neurotic moderne, reassurance total,
proof negative in this instance, of relevant expertise!

Tell us you bona fides, what is your knowing in these matters?

Show us the wrist scars, evidential,
prove to us your "hands on" experiential!

True, true, I am without demonstrable proofs
of the first hand, my resume is absent of
razors and pills, poisons and daredevil spills,
guns, knives, utensils purposed for taking lives

Here are my truths, here are my sums

If the numerator is the minutes spent resisting the promised relief
of the East River currents from the crushing loneliness that
consumed my every waking second of every night of my years of despair
                           divided by
a denominator that is my unitary, solitary name,
then my fraction, my remainder, is greater than one,
the one step away from supposed salvation...

Yet, here I am sitting in the sun room buffered from
nature's battles by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization

I am a survivor of mine own World War III,
carnaged battlefields, where white lace curtains,
were not buffers but dividers tween mis en scenes,
variegated veins of colored nightmares, reenactments of
death heroics worthy of Shakespeare

Did I lack for courage?
Was my fear/despair ratio insufficient?

These are questions for which the answers matter only to me,
tho the questions are fair ones, my unsolicited ******,
they are not the ones for which I herein write,
for they no longer have relevance, meaning or validity,
for yours truly

I write poetry by command, by request, good or bad,
this one is a bequest to myself, and also a sidecar for an old friend,
who asked in passing to write what I know of suicide,
unaware that the damage of hurricanes is not always
visible to the naked heart

These hands, that type these words are the resume of a life
resumed,
life line remains scarred, but after an inter-mission, after an inter-diction, an inter-re-invention
in a play where I was an actor who could not speak
but knew every line, I am now the approving audience too...

But I speak now and I say this:

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away what belongs to you,
do your own sums, admit your own truths
query not the lives of others, approach the mirror...


If you want to understand suicide,
no need to phone a friend, ask the expert,
ask yourself, parse the curtains of the
sun room and admit, that you do understand,
that you once swung one leg over the roof,
gauged the currents speed and direction,
went deep sea fishing without rod or reel
and you recall it all too well, for you did the math
and here I am, tho the tug ne'er fully disappears,
here I am, here I am writing to you,
as I sit in the sun room.

Memorial Day, 2011
hard to believe this poem will be 8 years old, soon enough; I well recall writing it and will return to the sunroom soon for inspiration and an afternoon nap.
extasis Jan 2010
Crackling criss-crossing blue in mind. It scissors down the lanes through the pipes and tubes and little dividers. Electrical mind numbing beauty. Veins-bursting in excited anticipation. Convulsions and scenic skittering routes. Into the Nexus! Here simmers what we are thinking and believing. Our mind's eye focuses and drips into the pool until completion. Psionic figures dance flicker through life existence. Pulse-width fluctuations. Tiny menagerie of our Will. Scribbling through dusted panes of time interface. All afire with ourselves once we have discovered ourselves. Nano-tech emotions. Hope fear anger mercy curiosity buzzing swarms of grey goo jibbering and bubbling in an artificial mind-****. What is all this allusion? Nothing complicated. Speculation on future times where sensual technological biological singularity is paramount. In my room where the clocks are taped over and the sun is dark and dim. Through the windows I see myself. The boxes on the floor emanate simple clickings with melodies intertwined casually. I myself appear redundant. I have done this and so have others. To discuss oneself is worthless unless you become convinced you are another entity gazing back across the room. I feel I am being watched. I become cautious as he may have noticed. Tingling weightlessness tickles in waves in both heads. The Jazz Classic appears. Old dark men and women in hazy environments. Organic supposition or cold observation? Both hold importance so let us appreciate it all. The cello quivers and hums with vibration. Fingers callused and riveted like the age-old corn field bother still strings. A child hums to just myself. What does he want? I never asked him for an audience. Yet he freely gives it to me. Now he multiplies. Or she? Children confuse and cause one to be apprehensive. Nothing and silence. Silence in movement. Cease my visual stimulation for a couple seconds each. The child is back. What does he speak? Pray inside the rubble? Heal in this place? In disgrace? I do not know. His octaves are meshing together. Whining and thrumming with strange alterations. Some madmen tweaks my ears. Maybe he knows the child? I'm not sure. Let us continue on. The flute is the child. Old cello, you have stopped? These musings mean nothing. I would look upon them in a year and think nothing of it. Yet it feels as if this time is important. Da Vinci knocks on the door. Not as if I wanted to talk to it. Wouldn't mind I suppose. He is gone. We talked but I do not remember the conversation. Perhaps we've all talked but we just don't remember our conversations. That's ridiculous though. Then anything is possible. We could have flown to the moon on scarlet weasels outfitted with the latest nano-pores that secreted pure liquid indulgence. And we did because I just imagined we might have. However, I don't remember actually doing it. Just what I thought it might have been like. How frustrating. My thoughts are the same as all others who write out their thoughts when under the influence of yourself. It always seems like some thing is scuttling near my feet or under the nightstand; just out of view. Strange. I would be afraid. No reason to fear that which doesn't bother me. No reason to fear much of anything. That's been said before. Why are we so often concerned with saying that which has been said before? Cliche? auump-ump auump-ump auump-ump little thumping noise in my ears. That vibration is calming. Every night I am awake. Every day I seem asleep. I do not like it but I do not care yet I allow it to be what it will. Vision defaults to out of focus. My eyes always cross if I cease trying to control them. People are strange. Animals are strange. Same thing I guess. Someone will find that clever. Someone will find it cliche. This someone won't care. ****** fantasy permeates day to day. More entertaining than living a fantasy though. ***. Not that entertaining. Perhaps no one knows how to do it properly anymore. Maybe we never did. Maybe some people are just disenchanted with it. When I'm by myself, I never have any ****** desire. When around others, I generally think of it out of curiosity: what would it be like to please the person in front of me? The only enjoyment I've had with *** would consist of pleasing another or observing another ****. The human body is intriguing. Definitely. I really do think so. Sometimes I look at my own. Not out of appreciation really. Just the fact that I have body allows me to investigate it and understand it more. Pain is merely a stage one can get past, so I suppose I injure myself sometimes to see how I react. It's like I need to check I'm still working properly. I can't tell when I'm tired. I feel something, but when I ask myself if I'm tired, I murmur back, "I don't know." Maybe that is why I stay up till early mornings? I wanted to add again that the human body is beautiful and unappealing all in the same space. Perhaps the unattractiveness and softness and strangeness produces attraction. A negative and a negative equals a positive. Three negatives likes to fluctuate. In my mind at least. I may ask another to remove their clothing and whatnot during those intimate moments. Eh, never quite feel like having *** though. I like the emotions and sensuality of just looking at someone. They usually want to physically play around with each other. I think I enjoy fighting more. One day I'll leave everyone except I'll reminisce on those I enjoyed meeting. Maybe come back and visit? I would like to ride something quickly through an empty desert. Find my own food and water. Create shelter. Think by myself. My room is the smallest desert I have and the biggest. I have more in my head but I only occupy one at a time. I suppose I like I do like things like all others. I mean, materials can be nice. If I impart meaning on to an object it gains importance. I see it vital to also say that if it were to be lost, then I wouldn't mind and I would obtain something else or nothing at all.The constitution. Just mentioned by some woman in my room. Or in my ears would be more correct. Constitutional Rights. I honestly don't see the need for them. I was criticized for burbling that once. We should not need a constitution. We should be able to do what we like to do without fear or concern. Unless natural fear and concern appears. Now that may confuse a bit. Right to bear arms. I shouldn't have to be told or allowed to massive bear arms if I feel the need to have them. Big hairy bear arms. Curious little mishap. Freudian slip as Johnny said once? Danger Danger. Anyway, Right to bare arms. I shouldn't have to be told, as I look back,  go back and throw in that comma after told, that I'm allowed to bare arms and defend myself. I'll just do it if the need arises. Freedom of speech. That already has many issues these days. However, there shouldn't have been a need to tell people they have freedom of speech. Speech should have been freely allowed and never oppressed in  the first place. Theme? We have erred so much in the past and I would think sometimes we ignore that and just try make little cosmetic fixes by saying it's okay. Another point. Hold that: side discomfort. I sometimes feel like a little spider or creature is crawling or skittering on my leg under the covers or I'll change the music to Galaxy 2 Galaxy 90's hi-tec jazz there we go. Done! Now back! Or I forget what I said about the spiders. Another point: what? ******, curse damnable ****. Can't recollect what it was I was connecting together. Something that tied in to deceiving people into things are okay. I could go on about consumerism and all that jazz. Instead I'm listening to some techno-jazz whatever-decided-to-call-it. Hyphenated phrases are fun when I decide they are appropriate. English and grammar in such can be cool but at the same time I want to say **** it and stay proper. Do both. Acknowledge how to write and speak "correctly," but as long as someone understands what you are trying to say, then why correct more? Someone large doesn't like the fact I make a lot of noise in the morning. I stole some speakers and subwoofer from the room next to me as I was going to say Austin.  They are on the floor and whichever large person lives below me is probably annoyed or was. I don't spend any of my actual time despising them, but I'll easily say I despise them when someone asks. Otherwise it isn't worth wasting time on. Perhaps the vibration quivers downstairs and shakes them silently. The greate beast is perturbed and sneaky vibrations cause electro-annoyance! Her pulsewidth as I understand it must be like a super-saw as I think it. Silence. Some woman said it's just a feeling. HEA not sure what why I put that sounds like a garageband song. Switched to Inspiration! That is what I did this night. Finally start writing and making things again. Even though I never did and always did. My head sometimes hurts from thinking. Never truly though. Gotta say those things to keep the conversation going. That is really the only reason I say anything. To keep the conversation going. Otherwise I'd just watch people and be just fine. Just yelled "bahh," out loud (didn't sound the comma) because I felt the need or the want. Same. Wrong keys erased. sdas=a====dddddddddd Sorry. Oh well. Oh My. How the time flies goodbye. Going nowhere. Could write more but I felt the slight flicker of wanting to stop. So I do. What an ending. Now I'm only typing to continue the conversation with myself. Just thought ******* sounds good melody. Do as I sayt way to go good job. STOPSDMFA

****** a

Guess I'll read this little conundrum I wrote up. Stop writing ******. Stop EDITING
Joel A Doetsch Jul 2012
I arrived at the church at 5:30.
It took me a bit to find the place

  there were only a couple half-inflated baloons
  to mark the occasion.
  Those, and a small sign with an arrow, which led
  
      down some stairs and into a cafeteria.  An
      older lady greeted me.  She had a calm smile
      on her face.  The kind that comes with age, that
      says that you've been there, done that.

"Are you here to give?"

           Of course.  Why else would I be here?

  "Yeah"

She leads me to a table that has a number of tall dividers
set up on it to prevent people from peeking at someone
else's personal life.  Like I care if you've had syphilis in
the last year...well I might if it weren't all men in here.

I start filling out the form.
No, I don't have an STD
No, I haven't spent a time totaling more than 5 years in the UK before 1996
No, I don't use drugs
No, I haven't had a fever in the last 24 hours
No
  No
    No
  No
No

I do admit that I have been out of the country recently.

I hand my sheet to another lady.  "Where did you travel to?"

    "Japan, mostly Tokyo and a few places just outside"

    "Carol, could you check Japan on the list?"

She turns to me.  "I'm almost certain that's OK, but I have to check".  Another contented smile.

I sit down to be interviewed, we go over the questions once more.

    "Alright, I just need a small sample before we begin"

She takes the sample with a small contraption that
fits over my finger and jabs a small hole.  She runs
a quick test with the blood, letting a droplet fall
in a test tube filled with a blue liquid.  

The droplet sinks to the bottom.  She checks a box.

Apparently we're good to go.

  I'm given an empty blood bag and a number of rubber-banded vials
and pointed towards a circle of beds in the middle of the room.

I walk up and a portly gentleman takes my bag and asks me
which arm I'd like it in.

"Right"

I pause.  

I want to be able to check my phone while I'm doing this.

"Actually, let's do left"

He gives a grin.  "Here, hold both your arms out"

I comply.  I immediately notice that my right arm
has a very accessible vein.  We're doing the right arm.

Oh well.

   "Let's go with the Right"

I smile and sit on the plastic seat

He swabs my arm with that wonderful orange/yellow dye
and gives me a stress-ball to squeeze, to help the process go
quicker.  He comes back with the needle.

I look away as I feel the uncomfortable breach of my skin.
It's a small pinch followed by a dull sensation, my body
telling me "That isn't supposed to be there, get it out".

         I hate needles.

I feel a light sweat break and my breathing quickens
ever so slightly.  It's ok because the hard part is over
I squeeze the stress ball every few seconds and I chat
with the man.

His name is Nick, and he's been doing this for a few years.  
He used to work in a restaurant, and then he worked for a
flooring company.  
He remarks
    on the fake grouting that the floor in this room has.  

You  can tell that he loves his job, that he's satisfied with life.

He comments on the t-shirt that I will receive for doing this

(because who would do it if they didn't get a t-shirt, right?)

He says it looks like a blueberry snowcone and tells me a
rather entertaining story from his youth about blueberry
snowcones.  

I pipe in with my memories of the Tropical Sno  shop we had
when I was a kid.  

The bag is filled, the needle is removed.  A bandaid is placed,
and then my arm is wrapped with a smily-face bandage.

I give him a left-hand shake and go sit at the refreshments table

I drink a Pepsi.  I hate trail mix.

After about 10min or so, I get in my car and drive home.
I put on the blueberry snow-cone colored t-shirt and sit
down to read a book.  I think about the people working
at the blood drive, and I think about how happy they
seemed.

I wonder to myself what the difference is between someone
who gives blood and someone who gives time.  I have friends
that travel the world for the Peace Corps, living in third world
countries with no running water, no niceties.  I think of friends
who could sit in blistering heat, helping to build a house for
someone they don't even know.  I think of myself, who thinks
that donating money to the Leukemia foundation and donating
blood to the Red Cross is somehow equivalent to donating sweat
and an able body.

I should really do more
maybe then I'll earn that smile
that those folks wear so proudly
Cynthia Jean Jul 2016
Only ONE RACE
the HUMAN RACE.

The dividers
and conquerors
all trying to convince you
otherwise.

And they are
NEVER
on the frontlines.

They
manipulate
you
stirring up
emotions
hatred.

That people should die
for the mistakes
of the few.

God hates those who stir up strife.

The only
so-called
winners
are the manipulators
the millionaires and billionaires...

those who orchestrate
the mess
who PAY people
TO HATE...

turning them into mercenaries
MERCENARY
HATERS
AND
MURDERERS

and NOT for the reasons
they think.

The ORCHESTRATORS
don't care
ONE WHIT
about the cause

ONLY
about the
POWER and CONTROL
they
HOPE TO GAIN

when they
"HAVE TO"
quell the mess
and put out the fires

Which
THEY CREATED
by
THEIR MANIPULATIONS.

BEWARE
how people
try to use your emotions

for
THEIR GREEDY GAIN

TO CONTROL
YOU.

WE ARE ALL
ONE
RACE

THE HUMAN RACE.

Reach out
try to
LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR

YOUR BLOOD IS ALL THE SAME!

WOUNDED

ONE
DROP OF BLOOD

IT'S
ALL THE SAME.

cj 2016
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.  It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices in the truth.. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

It's like a magic formula.  Apply it to any situation, and improvement begins almost immediately.  Think of what the world would be like if we all used this as a guideline--never rude, always kind, patient...We would have heaven on earth.---Debbie Macomber
Leiak, omnipresent vague pneuma-dancing spirit, ductile pious water of epiphany and extraordinary example, lives on the water with his parasitic chin in the Vernarthian epigram; he is seen with his jocular back, breaking the lines of the swamps between muscles and silhouettes. Before the First station..., primitive of the three remaining nights before reaching the volcano of Patmos, its deluge begins. "

It bathes in the Davidian, Alexandrian, and Vernarthian rains. A little touched he is seen and insubordinate in the astragali that he has gained in his allegories, squeezing his chest, exactly for the good of a wonderful Hellenistic city statue of the Dyticá, where he imbibed Vernarth's putti, adhering to the hydric spheres that fell over the ceilings of the heavens that Eros himself and his crush, which struck the heart axis of Medea, totally extracted from Zefian's quiver, constricted in Borker's nanotechnological sub-mythology. From the comedy of Attica and in the superb speeches of endo-adverbial satire, he stigmatized verbal changes of creation, superimposing them on tops of excesses carried by heavy drops inside some amphorae brought from the eastern sunset, tracking happiness that arrived on the western shores, waiting letters of sigh and loneliness stretched out on the thalamus full of stretch marks. So Leiak expanded, where everyone made fun of him being a satyr by essence, but being unaware of it. Perhaps as a unitary gesture of shadows when going to dawn, before having the best light that they put in figures or pirouettes, without disgracing him as a satirical minority in the Epicurean doctrine, he is inquiring a happy life through the intelligent search of innate pleasures, the ataraxia and in apocalyptic friendships with Zefian, Borker, and Kaitelka.

Borker did not intend to heal himself of trifles at all; it will be a habit to venerate the revelations against polytheism, to then cling to an interiority that points to corroded execration from the root to the top of the fallen tree, with force blinded by the blindness of the Automaton, as far as it is concerned. By itself, of identical significance in the background; but with so-called change that he tends to totally eliminate the last trait of personification of the divine. From this dilemma, the values will be spikes in his hands, sheaves in both, and what he envisions of Hellenism will be the property of nano-technology, submitting under the lens of time dividers that have never been pieces of rest under the Duoverse-Universe., the lens will be your Iridium and the microbes that govern us will be the atomic force, to discover them. What atomistic world will there be between Borker and Leiak, if in this nanoworld; The nanometer is one-billionth of a meter ?, What will be enough to start being tiny in this great epic, which is called Vernarth intra-spaces and inter-Verthians of the universal macrocosm, which will now approach the microcosm of human consciousness, and the laboratory of Epicurean affabilities in Ataraxias decreasing the passionate intensity of the Hypothalamus, and the supra desires that can alter the mental-corporal balance, strengthening in misery that they reach said balance, and finally happiness, which is a meta-plane of Epicurean convergence that runs after the lost. Ataraxia is, therefore, tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability analogous to Vernarth's soul, reason and feelings in his dislocated world, and the hemispheres of himself that will be rationalized in their slightest longitudinal measure, in what fits and in the precarious!

Passionate laboratories were magnetized every time Leiak walked on its extension, and his hands went beyond his fingers, touching the Constellation of Aorion, to indicate that the longitudinal metric of man is measured beyond the fingers of the Duoverse, where it appears the Extra-Cosmos in the proximal of a nano-scale is a submultiple of the conferred means of the Saint John the Apostle pattern. The scientific notation will be the safeguard of the magisterial scientist exponentiated brain; 10.1 mm = 10-3., the kilometer or km, is the opposite equivalent in what submultiples of the meter are called a micrometer: 1 μm = 10-6 m. In this scale we find bacteria, which constitute the main group of microbes, hence the name of the submultiple between observation scales of the macro and micro world of this being of Holographic Lux called Leiak, having the composition between this nanoscale, and the opposite of 1 μm = 10-6 m. projected onto a bacterium, which in turn is ten times larger than a viral body. Sizing enough to balance the biosphere that will surround the Automaton Mandragoron.
Leiak's world is an outpatient virtual laboratory, as it is valid in colloquial language, adhering to measures that differ by the conception of transliteration or decimal mathematical positioning. The letters and lines have been interpreted by Leiak, they are Vernarthian Parapsychologies that oscillate gaps of mismatch of billionths of wasted knowledge, in displays of ghostly reigns and in no-man's-land. This nanoscale makes us nano-poetize themes of ultra interference of the Epicurian decree, of tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability, with the meagerness that we know of the enlightened after a thousand moons writing under the stars:
"Woman when you touched my life with the grace of your fingers, I could see how the kind nights closed my eyes, caressing the entire Universe." This is undoubtedly Epicurean Nano Poetry, but the Author is Tagore "

The exponential oscillates in the parameter of the outstanding Astronomer of the divine verb and poetic thinking, in the most intimate and dynamic Hindu techno-language. Quantum mechanics here is the debit of the iconic remnant reached, by parameters not achieved below the average intelligence, providing lost data far from collecting and storing. Tagore's logic is nano-poetry, which balances billionths that are not achieved by occupying the Corporal Dytiká (poetic sunset) and the synchronic soul, rather the material simultaneity of the fifth element of will, emotional and objective desire, condensing into matter already conferred consciousness, in gaps in fit at all times, but linking it to her divinity as intelligence never before out of date; V.G. The Mashiach is always linked to the vertebral and communicational axon of the plasma nano-particles by grasping its infinite numinosity, making this scale it's one billionth, and being within the Eras that will be the largest average of the macrocosm, in the quantum itself of the Christian Era and in other Quantum worlds.

Strictly speaking, the molecules are angels without a will, but the dispensers are the consciousness of Leiak, which transfers hybrid consciousness, for purposes of regulating and shaping the ravings of intelligence and atheistic consciousness, and for purposes of the great remnant always present and active in the emergency. Spirituality of the Mashiach-revolutionized. The by-product will be Zefian's Tetra Sagita with its ergonomic tip, opening up doubts and tracing the future of a rewritten bible in the same character and fidelity, but with the omnipresent Mashiach of a Scientific Eucharist.

Leiak walked through minefields, and in some, he saw universes come out that exploded in livid colors, among them Vernarth, who had been recovering from malaria, and who helped him create a culture composed of a great artifice of immutability, for those who are close to his Greek spirit. Overwhelming those who lack the will, clarifying where the great art galleries of the world will be, not because of their current works but because of those they will have to exhibit? From the rushing philosophical delta, germs of dominance were trickling, distinguishing properties that did not germinate under his feet. Bread and water of the hundredfold fruit of all the lesser forces that resist on the thirty and nine with fever, more than the narrow borders to be discovered, in democracies that will prosper in the hands of kind tyrants, and not in the unitary Ecumene. Vernarth did not denationalize from his grass crops, he was Hetairoi more than all the commanders of Alexander the Great because his native country never sank next to him, he only prospered in centuries where he had to rise again silenced and prostrate oblivion.

The chaos of an absence accuses a majority of sadness that greets the Celtic Gauls for the axon of the anointed cosmos of the divine autarkic world. But not in seditious wars devoid of bread and water that does not support them, nor by papyrus did nets that do not contain them either, in the spiral retransform the land of all, as a plural work done here, by the Mandragoron Áullos Kósmos, intends. The male rectors will trust their works in the widespread Greek language, called koine (common). A language that writes has its own feet to write new divisions, and ordinal paragraphs to fulfill in proskínesis or obeisances in those who have golden knees or not! They will continue to make separate book stores or libraries for Filososfia or science sub-themes that will tackle the top of Profitis Ilias. For all large cities and nations, it will only be Leiak's legacy, of having large spaces for dialogues where no one can resist his man-made preaching, holographic rain forest, and times that not even in billionths will make him melt spaces of ignorance, diverge from the juxtaposed principle of unpopulated urban schools do not deserve.

Says Leiak: “Every time it is more intense to turn the dislocated nature of man, my literary idylls are at the end of everything with his genre works. Life and it's agitated think idyllic of removing the talus, which is not swayed in my chest by the Metelmi..., but by my breath of death! "
Dyticá Leiak's twilight
Meka Boyle Sep 2013
God is watching from beneath a department store window display:
Six floors lined head to toe with glass sheets and metal dividers,
Holding up the paper town- a city hall
Of half off summer sales.
The translucent sheets encompass the cold air conditioned empty space
That seeps in between the wheels of rolling racks, and pushes up
Against the impenetrable windows
That reflect the ash tray gray office buildings,
Looming in the backdrop
Square cubicles full of 9-5 daydreams
And lukewarm non-fat lates,
The iridescent shimmer of the dark exterior
Casts a shadow over the entire block,
Dancing in the reflection
Of a little Asian girl three floors up
Running in between the clothing racks-
Pitter pattering above the ceiling of a five star
Macy's restaurant
Packed with narrow tables and people
Alone and comfortable:
A spectacle to anyone across the street
Brave enough to look up.
Is this what the world has become?
Row after row of sorry complacency:
30% off signs and colorful adds
Drop into a diner waiting room;
The black-clad waiter paces back
And forth, oblivious that his every movement
Is being observed by someone perched on a ***** step of union square.
Safety comes in numbers,
And we forget ourselves
To the dull drone of elevator music
And neon ceiling lights projecting onto
Our downcast eyes.
Slouched against a fashionably bare
White metal chair, at a white table with white walls,
Echo the same vibrato of an asylum.
Arms bent over your head,
Brown rumpled shirt and blue jeans,
Who is watching who?
You look out of the window, just the way
The elderly man in the green vest does,
Two stories up,
The same ***** square glares back at you,
As a few teenage boys take a picture
Of the very architecture you are having
Your overpriced conversation and lunch of some sort of past.
The observer is also the observed,
And nothing goes unnoticed
Except the spectacle, itself.
Hand in hand, we carry our insecurities to the mall
And let them wander off on their own
As long as they're back by 3pm
And haven't done anything drastic
That would betray us.
Comfortability and conformity dance across the sleek walls of the Cheesecake Factory
As a homeless man drags his feet across the littered floor below,
Angrily sighing as stops and darts his eyes
Quickly scanning the moving forms within the indifferent architecture,
Before he abruptly picks up pace
And carries on.
The best view in the city:
A roof top full of anxious visitors
Who only look out over the top,
Afraid to look down and see themselves
In the reflection of the face
Of a blurred and changing crowd,
Hurrying away from now
Avoiding eye contact and fiddling with their jackets.
Don Bouchard Apr 2013
Thrift Shop Confessional

Old carts squeak down re-sale aisles
"One of," "two of,"
Sometimes "three of" items
Tempting treasure-sifting shoppers,
Bargain-needing families,
Women seeking up-brand names at low-brand prices...
Our wives, followed by their husbands,
Acquiescent, but quiescently seeking
Seeking a thrift shop oasis.

A cast-off dining set beckons,
Sturdy enough, if a little battered,
To make us solemnly content to wait
Carted clothing trundling
Off to fitting rooms.


He shuffled up with a foolish grin.
"I think I'll join this convocation of
Waiting gentlemen.
My wife is a shopper...
She'll close the place down."

I moved a chair and gave some space;
Strangers become brothers in this place.

Five minutes on,
I knew he was a vet:
Army, Vietnam Nam...
"I don't like to think about it,"
Cleared his throat,
"Never can forget."

I turned to look at him.

"A little girl came running,
With her hand behind her back.
She only stood this high," he said,
And showed me with his palm her height,
"They carried grenades that way...
All of 'em...couldn't tell which ones...
Sergeant told us, 'Don't ever check...just shoot.'"

The voice trailed off....

I sat sweating in a thrift store,
Captive of my own politeness,
Half a century,
Half a planet,
Transported in his words
into a soldier's Hell.

"So I shot...
Nothing else to do."

Silence then.

A total stranger staggering
under the weight of having
Murdered his Albatross....
Of having carried this thing,
This memory,
Inside him all these years,
Of finding me,
The unsuspecting thrift shop guest
Who'd listen to his lonely tale,
Perhaps so he could earn some rest....

I, his unwitting Confessor,
Uncertain what to say,
Certain something must be said...
Certain nothing could be said...
Sat dumb, but understanding
The wisdom of confessional dividers,
The private comfort of two booths
Where prayerful exchanges
Intersperse uncertain silences,
Present in the overhanging need:
Demanding sorrowful returns,
Impending memories of sorrows...
And lonely trudgings home....



(Connections with Fr. Laurence's "Riddling confession finds but short shrift," in Romeo & Juliet, and Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner")
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2014
for Stacy B.,
who is both, of course*



a third floor
walk-up,
to wake
us up,
really up,
perhaps obtain
a provision
to a question,
someone knew
needed answering,
needed us,
also,
to witness and testify

is the dancer,
a diplomat,
or is the diplomat,
a dancing naïf?

hard by the East River,
in a building unheated,
the Brooklyn Hipsters
patrol the streets,
drinking hard,
their homegrown lager,
against the
December winter chill,
all wearing their
very long or very short
hair heads,
in unisex
watch caps

so too,
we have come to watch,
but we are,
uncapped,
open minded,
needy to get it straight,
once and for all

we crossed an
olde Dutch bridge,
having come,
to a land almost overseas,
traveling recklessly,
without our Manhattan
diplomatic immunity pouch

looking for answers for
questions long lingering
in a tall women's New Orleans soul

no biggie -
be both
says the rational fool

irrationally
failing to understand
the logic that
dancing
is more than
just a
single daily, caloric rich,
ration,
but a
blood type,
that doctors
don't easy recognize,
needy for
constant spice transfusions,
perpetual transformation

is this your answer then?

the diplomat departs soon
first, and not before,
having danced in a black hole,
where all is annexed, animated,
but also, annihilated

a dancing metaphor message,
reflective perfect,
of a too oft,
cruel world,
to our official
US of A messenger
of, by and for,
we, the people
of our mutual states,
her audience and employer,
nota bene:

Morocco and Tunisia
beckon you,
lands where dancing is
not a shouk spice for sale,
but we,
our country,
needs someone who can
nonetheless fluently teach and speak,
dance interpretively,
a précis of
how to dance to
reveal our best,
American song

so I have my answer,
and perhaps,
she does too

a dancer first,
a dancer always,
in a national troupe
that I am a member of,
even though I can't dance a lick,
and my Arabic is but
a few healthy and choice curses,
a linguistic skill of mine,
from traveling in many unfamiliar climes,
always, a handy tool

proof positive,
we need specialists,
who can cross boundaries,
real, or cartographer-drawn,
artifice dividers that demand
diplomatic dancer skills in overcoming
a resistant world to
American ideals

so we train our dancers
to be diplomats,
our diplomats
to be dancers,
flexible, but all possessing
that mark of a ramrod carriage,
the upright walk that
is the passport of joy,
of those who dance
for all the world,
an answer so good,
it simply makes
good
a true story of our friend, who took a year off in her diplomatic career, to come to nyc and live her true dream of being a dancer.  She performed last night, in Brooklyn, in a small dance "theater" and is in a few days, off to Washinton D.C.,  then Morocco, then Tunisia...having served in Iraq and places I can't pronounce...
Mellow Ds Feb 2011
The concrete depresses with each small step I take in the Arco parking lot
I fold this song up into my pocket and my schoolwork starts to rot.
Your hair hangs loosely by your eyes as you ration out my shots.
I wanted to remind you that your nails give me goosebumps, but I forgot.
Your legs laced up and shining in oil are sculpted out of bronze
Lying naked in aphids as we strive to be shameless among your father's front lawn

You are sunlight disguised by a sheet on a clothesline
In the middle of meadows made of wheatgrass and starshine
How can something so beautiful share a species with me?
A shopping cart overflowing with grace given away on the streets for free

My jeans are turning into strings of flayed fabric under your yellow moon
I'll shower you in music, if you promise to abuse it, within my crimson room
Lock me in my comfort stall with dividers emitting petroleum fumes
Break down all the walls with your desperate call as your temple, I consume
From within towers where light is devoured, against all odds, I bloom,
For a skeletal mastery with ultraviolet eyes crawls into my tomb.

You are a symphony of epiphanies for a boy made of concrete
In the midst of a city of asphalt and batteries.
You splat on my canvas and blast from my headphones
And if you opened me your name would probably be on my bones.

Keep the covers at bay
So I can admire your frame.
(c) Ryan Bowdish 2010-2011
Jack Mar 2015
.

On the wings of adventure
and channel planned visions
In bonafide pockets
with envelopes streaming

When sidewalk dividers,
the colors of sunset
bring peace to the valley,
now penned in a post card

          “…wish you were here”

And bricks line the mansion
with cats in the garden,
alongside the seashells
and beaches we’ll wander

I look to the sunshine
to see its reflection
upon your sweet features,
your beauty it holds me

          “Vacation photographs cannot do justice”

In rhythmed oasis
of sweet waters churning
and moments we’re seeking
in all we are wanting

With shadows behind us
as we go out walking
to love every minute
adventures are flying

          “We find that our dreams lead us on our journey”

I follow the smiles,
that don’t belong to me
of hot seasoned concrete
and t-shirts emblazoned

With images captured,
yet still fashioned frowning,
until you arrive
and my heart swims the shoreline

          “My vacation destination is your heart”

Feathered dunes outline
finding the side streets amazing,
hibiscus and bougainvillea
and fragrances swaying

When every sunrise
does find you here with me,
of bright painted post cards
and moments eternal

          *“We shall forever live in love…”
rebeccalouise Oct 2012
it’s a place

it’s a time

it’s a memory

it’s a smile

it’s the changing of leaves

it’s the scent of a wood-burning fireplace

it’s a moment

it’s a laugh

it’s a kiss

it’s that anxiety you get in your throat right before you’re going to cry

it’s a dog panting and wagging it’s tail

it’s a flash of colour through the black

it’s a pair of pants

it’s holding hands

it’s someone’s arm around you, pulling you closer as you fall asleep

it’s falling

it’s strength

it’s a river

it’s an ocean

it’s a waterfall

it’s rain

it’s dancing

it’s uninhibited

it’s passion

it’s an old, crackled picture

it’s a friend that you haven’t seen in three years

it’s a road, the yellow dividers ticking by

it’s a mountain

it’s a birch tree

it’s an aluminum boat

it’s a view

it’s a pitcher of beer

it’s a bottle of wine

it’s a drinking game in an old cement basement

it’s a rooftop

it’s a pair of sunglasses

it’s those old shoes that you wish you’d never donated

it’s grandma’s jewelery

it’s a cat’s tail disappearing behind a couch

it’s a song that your mom used to play on the piano

it’s grilled cheese and tomato soup

it’s a summer

it’s a season

it’s treading water

it’s christmas

it’s playing hookey

it’s a cup of tea on a foggy day

it’s freedom

it’s the windows rolled down

it’s humidity

it’s waking up under the sun

it’s waking up under the stars

it’s legs intertwined

it’s a flashlight in the forest

it’s ghost stories

it’s that concert, the one you swore changed your life

it’s running naked down an old wooden dock

it’s a song

it’s family

it’s then

it’s goodbye

it was.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2014
These special summer afternoons
have no time markers,
no human dividers,
no watches watching
or clocks clocking,
just grins and smiles,
divining the divide,
painting lovely
the one canyon
of humanity and nature
attending to each other

These summer afternoons
have no time markers,
but drift perfectly sequentially
from sun to nap to
black striped grilled franks,
and red watermelon,
orange cantaloupe,
cold coronas,
and desserts of
indeterminate beach walks,
and quiet talks

These summer afternoons
are as close
as I remember,
what it was like to
be seven or eight,
years of age,
knowing only
carefree summer months
that were
carelessly treasured,
thinking there is
always another,
looking forward to tomorrow
to do nothing in
exactly, happily,
the same way innocently

I am an adult
and that means,
cares are ever present,
ever fair or fear not,,
they lurk and
attack the goalie,
with noisy or subtle unrelenting attacks

but as I overlook the waters,
scenario soul gentling me
under the cooling coverlet of
the perfect breeze and
what lurks
is the moment
the eyes and heart
are fulfilled,
satisfied by what they see

The bay,
dotted with the boat traffic
not too much,
but just interesting,
a right tiny armada
to entertain,
all of us,
inattentively observing
the submerging
descent of
summer daytime friends,

and I think of you only,
at this perfect second

and I am besotted
with grief
and guilt
why can I not grant you the moment,
that I desperate wish to share

my arm is not, not,
careless slung, but
grasping firm with squeezes tight,
finger under chin chucking,
come friend be with me,
and for just this moment


your anti-toil tool here,
your plight beyond my comprehension,
though I live a life on the unknown edge,
what matters is the relativity of us,
and I relate to your weariness,
I weep with desperate knowledge
transporting you here is still an
impossibility

though my eyes see glory,
though my heart cannot refuse
the scene's peace invading me,
it is not fair, it is not fair
and I want you
to have this more than me
so I can keep it too

until then it is a glaze,
surfacing the coating,
that is me
but substance is untouched
until this guilt morphs into a
shared pleasure
And I mean it...just reread this a few weeks later, and, well, I really like this poem
Mitchell Horvath Jul 2010
To the old man buying oranges,
          We have never spoken,
                    But I owe you my thanks.
You wandered into the store,
          Locking onto the produce section,
                    You demand the honor your age grants.
Carefully you inspect the fruit one by one,
          Examining every dimple, checking every rind,
                    Scouring for flaws in your beloved items.
Placing the chosen few in your basket,
          You set out for the lines,
                    And ****** yourself into my spot.

Because of your age, I do not object.
You transfer your citrus treasures to the belt,
          Locking them in place, between the dividers.
You glance back at me with a scornful expression,
          I look away feeling guilty, for what I didn't know.
You release from your wallet only what is required,
          And quickly bury it back out of sight.
You hand over your money sourly.
Latching onto your bag of chosen keepsakes,
          You march out the door glaring at the ground.

I pay for my items and head out as well.
As I exit the store I see it in an instant,
          Your tiny frail body tumbling through the air,
                    Landing onto the car that almost missed you,
                              But sadly it did not.
The crowd rushes toward you, lying there quietly.
          It all happened so fast.
I watch as your oranges flee from their bag,
          Rushing away from the tragedy that freed them,
                    Tumbling quickly away with your life.


To the old man buying oranges,
          We have never spoken,
                    But I owe you my thanks,
                              For taking my place in line.
Claire Waters Feb 2014
the quietness of content
between two people
walking down the sidewalk
after splitting a pint and a crepe
is something new to me

the quietness of unsettled
emptiness in the dregs
of heaving lungs in a public toilet
is familiarly foreign
and suddenly unwanted

i occupy booth seats
instead of the space between
two metal dividers
and a toilet paper dispenser

i study the dimples of your cheeks
and the scent of your hair
i've become a student
learning the feeling of having
instead of a teacher of wanting

i do not see any crookedness
to your teeth or my own
i taste lager and nutella
strawberries on your breath
and don't ask
what else?
no sign of do not disturb
in my eyes
only, please continue
speaking

when i sway to the counter
and ask for the check
i am surprised by our obvious pleasure
when the waitress giggles
"oh i'm sorry,
i didn't want to disturb you"
i didn't realize we looked so happy
so together in a moment
shared over candles and two forks
on a coffee shop table

i admit it was
effortless

i see now that
food, love, humans
the things i made complicated
were

effortless
z Dec 2016
twin gulls at the ready!
resting and fidgeting atop a rock outcropping
sister galactic spaceships from cowboy bebop
ancient cutters of the sky, cloud divers and dividers
efficiency is key, swiveling in crisp circumferences
feathered razorblade acrobats
mother nature’s surplus fish-killers
spend their days as lazy air athletes
never in the sea deeper than their beaks
Brian O'blivion Aug 2013
4 enclosed walls of liquid
in a fluid web i want you
the veiled ivy shadows
in a crowded headspace
the saint of dilated seas
met
the princess of abandoned oceans with daughter
on moonrise cheeks of spilt milk
in the lobby of the chelsea hotel

through 40 days and nights of rain they swore
on a bed of clotted blood and see through chinese silk

her black widow memories lit a flickering path
from attic jets
to basement trickles
20 years before
when the saint lost all trace
where did you go that day?
after our butterfly fields
(sarah vaughan and dinah washington and ella fitzgerald
gathered) a crowd
around you
all wondering where you came from
and where were you going
that day
when Jesus rolled back the stone
from a juvenile womb
the populace of a billion worlds
inside a temporary tomb
the shallow points
between childhood legs
don't add up to what God paid Satan
for your devilblack eyes


the princess' daughter
i
dripped from plasma
source such of
inner working lips
the DNA of the cosmos
in my mother's hips
unending lines that never touch
parallel dividers live lives like
my born father of the full eclipse
as i
make mine this pilgrimage
deep to the overlapping ages
undercurrents rest in tidal pools
the shallows smallest stages
Overwhelmed May 2010
Arches tall lead from
Little dividers keeping
Some out and others
Trapped inside

Pink birds with weird
One leg stances stand
In clumps taking wonder
From the people that
Come and go like farm
Cats

Black and white bears
Lazily pick away at hard
Bamboo sticks and are
Content with being the
Last of their kind

These are the beast of
Far away and this is the
Ark carrying them over
The sea of life

For they
Have lost their
Fight

Their instincts
The things that make them
Animals

They are the peaceful wonders
Staring out of fish bowls and
Wondering why people come
And stare at their simple lives

All they have is time
The lion sleeps softly on a rock
The tiger swims, but with no prey to catch
The elephants walk about seeing the
Crowd’s shock with each of his
Thundering steps

The monkeys swinging from artificial
Vines not caring that we (their brothers)
Have given up our childhood games we
Used to play

Opting, instead, to walk lazily in the hot
Summer day and stare agape at the beasts
Who are not beasts that wonder at our
Funny ways and the food that appears
To them each day but who do not care
And decide to sleep instead
Jack Sep 2013
Free as a bird ~ now




“If I leave here tomorrow”


Lonely days of glass dividers and tissue boxes
Pecking away like a chisel on some old piece of granite
Feeling the pain of each sorrowed sentence
Carving words on obsolete paper in faded scratch marks


“Would you still remember me?”


My reflection finds me a stranger of warped shapes
Names bounce off of walls and scatter to the stained floor
I have read those pieces of promised hope and lover’s sins
Said my peace in volumes straight from my heart


“For I must be traveling on now”


It seems the shadows have faded into a still breeze
Hectic lives infuse dancing dreams with left over cottage cheese
Faces are seen, hiding in plain site, hoping not to be found
Bins overflow with the un-perused and wishful thinking


“Cause there’s too many places I’ve got to see”


Beyond this horizon is calling in a faint echo
Winding paths offering more than what I have, whispering on slow winds
Forgotten, in due time, as another sun sets
And a mourning dove coos my sad farewell


“I’m as free as a bird ~


now”
Oco Jan 2014
I thought about always
On the train that day
As I rushed across state lines
To be by your side

And I thought about always
When I got your calls from jail
Counting down the days
Until I could hold you again

And I thought about always
When I had doubts
After coming face to face
With your addiction
Watching you weaken in a way
I didn’t know was possible
For a substance I don’t understand
But that knows you all too well.

But always means
The fight is no longer yours
It is ours

And always means
I love you through the weakness and pain
And monitored phone calls
And thin glass dividers
That might as well be miles thick
Because either way
I can’t touch you.

And always means
You're the only one
Who could ever make me brave enough
To think about always


*ojc
Harry J Baxter Feb 2013
It is so **** tempting
to leave this place
these pages
and these faces
just pack everything into my car
and drive west
for as long
and as far
as possible
never stopping
until I reach sunnier pastures
when life is like broad street
in rush hour traffic
and I'm trapped
stuck to street dividers
it seems like a good idea
to stick up my thumb
and see where it takes me
but I'm scared
scared that whats out there
will swallow me whole
a forgotten poet
penning his words
on the inside of a whale
and the truth is
I've been running for a while now
never moving anywhere
I carve at my insides,
hallow out this heart,
rearrange the lungs,
squish tubes,
and realign things that can't be removed,
and I do it willingly,
its you I do it for.

I scrape at my out sides,
I tear out things I have no use for,
at-least I think I don't,
I restart this heart,
over and over,
hoping to line up the rhythm of my life force with you,
and you give me scraps,
when I am hungry for the loaves,

you cause my attack on this life,

and I move things out,
to elicit a response from you,
to con you into conviction,
I do it for you,
I do it for me,

why don't you love me?
I hallowed out the chambers,
I've knocked down dividers,
unlocked the cabinets,
given you the keys to every arena,

but you have no knowledge of its use,
or maybe its you pretend,

they tell me to take it back,
that I give to much,
that I love to much,
to strongly,
to soon,

but to you its not enough.

**I'm I ever going to be enough?
The water Is wide, white as ******* eyes. And I stand at the road pleading to god to see headlights.                              

Stand cold and shivering. Insecurity, Center dividers and purgatory.    

This is what we know and it wont change anytime soon.                                  

My cup runneth over.

Our Armories,                                                                                            

We are all just mirror images, ugliness clearer then your eyes laid shut while you’re tossing and turning at night.

Its all pain seeping through wires, in my veins and onto my skin.

The pain, It fills me up. Fills me up like this waitress fills my coffee cup.

I pray to god you make it wine, sweater to the tongue.

And if this may pass, god grant me the power to see past insecurities.

And this may pass please throw away all my ***** bed sheets.

This is the differences between cancer and divorce.

This is your soundtrack to a ****.

This is your abandoned song.

Breath cancer and bend your own will.
Michael R White Jul 2011
The water Is wide, white as ******* eyes. And I stand at the road pleading to god to see headlights.                              

Stand cold and shivering. Insecurity, Center dividers and purgatory.    

This is what we know and it wont change anytime soon.                                  

My cup runneth over.

Our Armories,                                                                                            

We are all just mirror images, ugliness clearer then your eyes laid shut while you’re tossing and turning at night.

Its all pain seeping through wires, in my veins and onto my skin.

The pain, It fills me up. Fills me up like this waitress fills my coffee cup.

I pray to god you make it wine, sweater to the tongue.

And if this may pass, god grant me the power to see past insecurities.

And this may pass please throw away all my ***** bed sheets.

This is the differences between cancer and divorce.

This is your soundtrack to a ****.

This is your abandoned song.

Breath cancer and bend your own will.

- MW
Jeremy Betts Feb 3
I don't have any answers
I can't recall the right questions
Even with makeshift blinders
I find myself open to suggestions
I've had enough with these reminders
I catch a glimpse of the problem in reflections
Dark and light are missing critical dividers
Please help, can't tell angels from demons?
We three share the same voice as Pinocchio nose liers
What road is it they say is paved with the best intentions?
Something about a destination of eternal fires...
Eh, it's a moot point now,
I fly by the stairway, going 107 on the highway, it's one way, no need for directions

©2024
Jack May 2014
~

“If I leave here tomorrow”


Lonely days of glass dividers and tissue boxes
Pecking away like a chisel on some old piece of granite
Feeling the pain of each sorrowed sentence
Carving words on obsolete paper in faded scratch marks


“Would you still remember me?”


My reflection finds me a stranger of warped shapes
Names bounce off of walls and scatter to the stained floor
I have read those pieces of promised hope and lover’s sins
Said my peace in volumes straight from my heart


“For I must be traveling on now”


It seems the shadows have faded into a still breeze
Hectic lives infuse dancing dreams with left over cottage cheese
Faces are seen, hiding in plain site, hoping not to be found
Bins overflow with the un-perused and wishful thinking


“Cause there’s too many places I’ve got to see”


Beyond this horizon is calling in a faint echo
Winding paths offering more than what I have, whispering on slow winds
Forgotten, in due time, as another sun sets
And a mourning dove coos my sad farewell


“I’m as free as a bird ~


now”
Written with the help of Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Free Bird" lyrics.
Left Foot Poet Jun 2020
_____


another mourning morning, usual signs of warning,
wanted to wash away the distress signs of no sleep,
turned on the tap, out came only troubled waters,
my only friend, the voice from the mirror, pretending
to be coming from me, speaking: Oh Lord, Oh Lord!

is there no surcease for me, somewhere, can I find,
little bites, small plates, pieces of peace, the kind
of kindness that eases, repairs the dividers of mind,
the country stone fences that been growing wilder,
when, troubled child of 10, window breaking, beyond
youthful mischievousness, evil streaked, so deemed


Give me a boat, give me a bridge, give me a road, a home,
one of those things poets, songwriters about, wax lyrical,
Oh Lord, give me time, 45 seconds, even two or three,
Being strong, being confident, am I not entitled to that,
a boat, sturdy mast, cause sailing from storm to storm,
just glimpsing dry land, is that too much, a pale beyond?

love, nah, a bridge too far, not even on the menu, not blinded,
I am off key, not well enough, between the peaks between,
I am out of sync, bubbling discombobulated, a **** besided, behind,
lend  me a finger, not even a hand, a kernel, not even a cob,
a string, forget a rope, a washcloth to bathe and dry,

lay me down, lay me down, to live, even just not dying.
When you’re weary, feeling small
When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all, all
I'm on your side, oh, when times get rough
And friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
When you're down and out
When you're on the street
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you
I'll take your part, oh, when darkness comes
And pain is all around
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Sail on silver girl
Sail on by
Your time has come to shine
All your dreams are on their way
See how they shine
Oh, if you need a friend
I'm sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Paul Simon
Julia Brennan May 2015
Sunlight's abrasive presence
provokes a heated isolation
stewed together in a
cauldron of perishables,
stoney partitions
metal dividers
bind, slay
serene slumbers
cued by the waning sol,
an aubade crooned
by Mr. Bluebird
shifts crystal puffs
harnessing Skinfaxi
Julia Barrell Aug 2020
“Stranded Strangers”

The life raft rocked from one
Careless wave to another,
As I drowsily lay
On the damp floor and ponder,
Helplessly holding
My heavy, eternal sin.
My sin of originating in a country
Careless of my life expectancy.
My sin of coming from a country
Where it’s illegal to be free.
My sin of fleeing a country
Where war rages on every street.
My sin of not belonging to a family
That could spare me from this barbarity.
So I ran.
I ran with
my bare soles
to the shore,
with the hope
that this boat
Would save me.
From the inhumanity.
But the indifferent sea
Will not guarantee
A secure journey.
Still,
This isn’t a sacrifice for me.
For my country ruthlessly robbed
Everything that was of value to me.
My family and my identity.  

But I’m afraid.
Much more than you will ever be
Of me. You see,
I have no power.
I can’t chose my future,
Like you chose to shoot our heads,
Like you chose to turn your head,
When you see us drowning at sea,
Land only meters ahead.
Yes I am afraid.
That no one will set us free
From this strangling tyranny.
You know it’s a bleeding tragedy,
But you turn your head,
And shoot our heads,
And deny. Dare deny
This clandestine genocide.

So I float between countries,
Balancing on cold water,
A stranded stranger
Begging to belong.

Millions of hefty diamonds
In the deadly silent nightfall
Are scattered on the unreachable  
Celestial crown.
They look down
on us with disdain,
All proud and pretentious.
Mocking
My muddy skin,
My blistered soles,
My ragged clothes,
My ruffled hair,
My hollow cheeks.
As if to remind me,
Of the riches I’ll never see,
Of the happiness I’ll never feel,
Of  the safety I’ll never get,
Of the home I’ll never have,
Again.

So dear cherished official,
I am a stranded stranger.
You could easily be me.
But I’ll never be you anymore.

‘Cause I’m Discomfort, and you’re Warmth.
I’m Sorrow, and you’re Hope.
I’m Fear, and you’re Peace.
I’m Servitude, and you’re Freedom.
But I’m also a Crisis, and you’re also Ignorance.
Because I am Muhammad Gulzar, and you are a Greek official.

So I float between countries,
Balancing on cold water,
A stranded stranger
Begging to belong.

All this to say, I’ll never be safe from here on,  
No matter where I run,
They only care ‘bout where I come from.
A burden I got no control upon.
Rooted before I could even say “Mum”,
Why do we run? On and on?

Why do such meager differences
Develop colossal separation,
An impenetrable iron wall
Between Us and Them?
Why are you more worthy
Because you stand on the other side of the sea?

I wondered who, over there,
Understood the horrors we saw,
When they don’t seem to  know more
Than what the dividers of mankind
Instilled in their minds,
To form such cruel people.
Do we have to be rivals?
Just tell me your cause!
Is it because fate willed me to be born
On the other side of the wall?
And is it because fate willed me
To have a different complexion?
And is it because of my weird religion?
Oh, you think I don’t know your intention?

I’m a victim of the imperialist wars
To control oils, and other raw materials.
You exploited, oppressed and devastated my land
Simply to expand your sphere of command.
Where are your morals?

You western imperialists
Bear a decisive responsibility.
And I will not cross you off my list
Until you have done your duty.

Greek officials robbed and beat 30 migrants yesterday.
1000 others were abandoned off Greece’s bay.
And 8300 are gonna be thrown away
From their homes in greece. Did you hear?
Boris.J wants to legalise sending away
Refugees who reach the UK.
But today, I want to see you change your twisted ways.

But today, my last handful of air
Was taken away.
My body’s too bony
To hold a head so heavy.
I collapsed into the cold sea.
Weighted thoughts dragged me.
Sinking into eternity,
I did not dare to break free.
I was finally reaching Heaven
To join my long lost family.
There at least I would belong,
It had ached too much and too long
To to be abandoned by a world,
Drifting from country to country,
Begging to belong.

‘Cause you stuffed your words into my mouth
Since as long as I can recall.
There was no space for my own.
So they scratched my throat
As they tried to climb up
Desperately reaching for the door,
Ready to inform you
How much it wounds
To be nothing,
To be a phantom figure,
Worse, to be a number.
But they never get to the exit.
And time turns them
Into a bitter taste.
Until we suffocate,
In our unsaid words.
We die from remaining unheard.

So you’ll probably think it’s absurd.
But in these forgiving waters,
I am free
of  your merciless grip.
Quite ironically,
I can finally breathe
Out. The unsaid words stream
Out of my lips.
Role into the current.
They sing in the sea
The pitiful story
Of my suffering existence
Of unacceptance.
But still,
These words
Will never be heard
By your oblivious ear,
Dear cherished official.
How many more bodies like mine will it take,
To make you understand what is at stake.
Lives are not living,
Because of your domineering
Xenophobic habits.
You’re tearing the world to bits.
Tell me,
Where is your humanity?

‘Cause dear cherished official,
I’m all the innocent bodies
Sunken in the depths of the sea.
I’m all the stranded strangers,
Who ran away from danger.
You could easily be us,
But we will never be you anymore.
So you can turn your head,
But our world will not move ahead
Until you acknowledge your responsibility
And accomplish your duty accordingly.
Only then will our bodies
Rest in peace.
So Prove,
Prove to us you’re capable of humanity.


{A stranded stranger’s closing contemplations}
- A poem by Julia Barrell
This is a poem I wrote, dedicated to the Greek soldiers and all the countless others who mistreat migrants, in hope that they be held accountable for their crimes.

This is a tribute to all the refugees who lost their lives on their way to a safer land.

This is a reminder that it’s not the refugee’s fault if he is running for safety in your country, nor is it his choice. It is the fault of his government, our governments, of the western imperialist countries, who fail to admit their fair share of responsibility.

This is a plea for acknowledgement of the horrors happening all over the globe to refugees in search of a safe home. LET THEM BE HEARD.

This scenario could happen to anyone. So this concerns everyone.
d Mar 2019
lately,
my heart
has been louder
even in echo than my head and
i am here
trying to navigate the oceans between
too much and not
enough.

looking ever-closer to where i think
the peaks of mountains
can be measured between fingertips;
measured between dividers;
backed by a steady needle’s weight.

a sea claimed Bering
through a marshy coastline
lit only by oil and torch -
where buoyancy can balance
treacherous watery routes and  
rough, shaky hands can trace the  
pulling of sails through knots
towards the exhaling light of an imminent shore.

though i am unsure of the differences between finger-lengths,
am i holding back
because i cannot accurately predict
the pulls of the moon;
the swells of tides;
the seasons of rough storms?

perhaps even the spark of embers against my heaving backbone -
and what of the humming gears of sentience
in my chest?

am i holding back because
what i lay in permanence always meets
a spray of waves?
the crash of undercurrents against the breath leaving
your lips? -

currents that unapologetically meet
the rise of the earth and the
curve of your back
forcing the Weems
to stretch for topography that maybe even my knees cannot lock against.

go down with the ship,
i will swallow the grasp reflex that builds
in my throat and in my palms.

a million times over i will meet the breaking of every tensile structure in my body
if it means catching your swell.

and like the greek merchant’s ship cast deep into the dead sea’s belly,
i will be overcome with every ounce of your pressure
even if every time
i am fated to lose the rise and fall of my lungs to salt water;
to a watery grave;
to knit sheets and a sailor’s prayer;
a promise of ever-lasting life.
cypress Nov 2020
measuring surface dividers

forms itself in a haven of morality

bred on the surface between incompleteness
                                                             &
                                                    independence
Cynthia Jean Nov 2016
Only ONE RACE
the HUMAN RACE.

The dividers
and conquerors
all trying to convince you
otherwise.

And they are
NEVER
on the frontlines.

They
manipulate
you
stirring up
emotions
hatred.

That people should die
for the mistakes
of the few.

God hates those who stir up strife.

The only
so-called
winners
are the manipulators
the millionaires and billionaires...

those who orchestrate
the mess
who PAY people
TO HATE...

turning them into mercenaries
MERCENARY
HATERS
AND
MURDERERS

and NOT for the reasons
they think.

The ORCHESTRATORS
don't care
ONE WHIT
about the cause

ONLY
about the
POWER and CONTROL
they
HOPE TO GAIN

when they
"HAVE TO"
quell the mess
and put out the fires

Which
THEY CREATED
by
THEIR MANIPULATIONS.

BEWARE
how people
try to use your emotions

for
THEIR GREEDY GAIN

TO CONTROL
YOU.

WE ARE ALL
ONE
RACE

THE HUMAN RACE.

Reach out
try to
LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR

YOUR BLOOD IS ALL THE SAME!

WOUNDED

ONE
DROP OF BLOOD

IT'S
ALL THE SAME.

cj 2016
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.  It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices in the truth.. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

It's like a magic formula.  Apply it to any situation, and improvement begins almost immediately.  Think of what the world would be like if we all used this as a guideline--never rude, always kind, patient...We would have heaven on earth.---Debbie Macomber
#love   #hate   #patience   #kindness   #emotions   #manipulation   #rudeness
Mark Tilford Oct 2015
"Hello"
That is all it takes
To cause a smile
Going the extra mile
Every once in awhile
Nice to hear
"A Thank you"
"How are ya"?
Up lifting it's the way we all should be  
It starts with you and me
After years of it's me, it's me all about me
It's time to be
"Kinder"
Taking off the blinders
"People" this is a simple reminder
To make a strangers day finer
Something so simple so miner
Just to be a little "Kinder"
No one should ever be treated as an outsider
We need to be the provider
Of all words "Kinder"
Close the gap of this world being wider
It's starts with you and me
To be "Kinder"
Drop the dividers
Our minds we need to reconfigure
After all these years
"Go figure"!!
All it takes is us to be "Kinder"
"Change"
Wait' a minute
This reminder of being "Kinder"
It starts with me
!!
It only takes a hello, a thank you, how are ya , a smile
Remember to be "Kinder"
Westley Barnes Jun 2019
A spectacular butterfly
splendid in its monochrome, leopard-print reflecting armour
flies unto the lavender branches
recently budded in my garden
Fancying myself a faithful reader of Nabokov
and drawn to anecdotes of self-glorification
I thought I should become a Lepidopterist
and catalogue its striking corpse
beginning what could become a masterful collection
Me, the quarter-tanned Irish bopping all in tennis whites
with mock-radioactive web of butterfly doom among the wooden yard dividers

But where should I keep it?
this hype-building collection of one
amongst my dust-collecting books
my backdated journals and flaccid-worn glossy magazines
my "value-appreciating" vinyl records
the more prettily curated and precision-hung images that curate my partner's collections?

No, it is not for me
to stop it succumbing to dust, to allow it turn into something beautiful again
if a tragic kind of beauty
amongst the dirt, for something becomes more wonderful when
it's beauty is not forced on show
but produces itself through more layered, yet uncomplicated means
returned back out of the dust, without any of our artificial light
recording again it's eventual demise
John Silence Sep 2016
Last night we were together again.
You moved into my house,
flooded the living room
and stocked it with giant carp.
I watched orange and black fish
twist, swirl and peck each other
through water dyed brown
by the hardwood bottom.

I am in a city of wide avenues
and boulevards with island dividers
all pointing to the west,
where the sunset casts angular light
across the stern facades.
A few tall trees die
of dutch elm disease.
Most of the sky is stolen by rooftops.
One thin figure
paces, scratching his scalp, leaning
to sniff for wind, tossing
handfuls of meal
to hungry pigeons.

Sometimes I forget your name.
I will always know your face,
your white spiked hair,
the blazing morning light through white drapes,
how clean it all felt.
Your sweet sweaty nape frightened me.

The night before, we’d rode an hour on the subway.
Ocean Parkway, you said. I remembered that.
Now I’m back. There’s still no traffic,
like a Sunday morning, or an August evening
when everyone in the world
is at Coney Island or Jones Beach.

— The End —