"employed" poems - Hello Poetry

"employed" poems

lady craighead played the blues on a stand-up samick in the ***** room along side the parsons project and squabbling dogs and night moves stairs creek up the mezzanine trek wool sheets slide on finished floors little angels play late into the seventh (a closing match nearing the midnight hour) croaking toads and cicada sing in the blue moon musty smells and mothballs settle deep in the vault the kettle boils and cat coils as the pump house rolls its heavy drawl the red phone rings and bird clock sings (behind the ruddy stall) a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez employed heartily by the incomparable master jack marble toast burning wringer wash churning chris craft running near the old carp canoe rooster calls and west wind squalls rustle through the porch screen door chicken *** pies and rogue flies linger a rocker chair placed near the sepia face (softened by the intricate frame) donkey in tow (with a fastened *** maggie in her dreams of green tambourines the nocturnes reflections and whispering gospel bells tractors pull on the grinder stone horses lay still in the mid-day sun a trump card is fingered at the furnace click (crosswords and puzzles are next!) while the sparrow *and that **** rabid fox* are drowning deep in castles well

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Mar 14, 2017

Mar 14, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC

Mulholland Lane

lady craighead played the blues on a stand-up samick in the ***** room along side the parsons project and squabbling dogs and night moves stairs creek up the mezzanine trek wool sheets slide on finished floors little angels play late into the seventh (a closing match nearing the midnight hour) croaking toads and cicada sing in the blue moon musty smells and mothballs settle deep in the vault the kettle boils and cat coils as the pump house rolls its heavy drawl the red phone rings and bird clock sings (behind the ruddy stall) a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez employed heartily by the incomparable master jack marble toast burning wringer wash churning chris craft running near the old carp canoe rooster calls and west wind squalls rustle through the porch screen door chicken *** pies and rogue flies linger a rocker chair placed near the sepia face (softened by the intricate frame) donkey in tow (with a fastened *** maggie in her dreams of green tambourines the nocturnes reflections and whispering gospel bells tractors pull on the grinder stone horses lay still in the mid-day sun a trump card is fingered at the furnace click (crosswords and puzzles are next!) while the sparrow *and that **** rabid fox* are drowning deep in castles well

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Elated to see you aloft in the night sky To what do I owe this enchanted boon. In the merry company of winking stars, Enthralled by this sight as I admire my moon. Bathe me in your streaks of translucent silver. Accompany me through my sleepless nights. Watching over me with unwavering vigil. Swathe me in whispers of peaceful respite. Oh how you govern the raging tides of my soul. Rest your gaze as the waters break upon my shore... Erode and weaken the load strewn over my burning shoals, Sands drowned breathless but craving for more. Few nights now... Smitten as you coyly turn away. Thick strands of shadow clad hair in gentle cascades, Alluringly obscuring a slight fraction of your face. A tiny crescent blanketed away; into the blackness it fades. More nights pass... Now I see only a lesser moon Leaving me with only half; darkness so had claimed. Please make yourself last; you mustn't leave too soon, I'm not ready to be left crippled and maimed. I silently look up as more nights go by. I watched my lunar love dissolving into space. My heart too, torn away a morsel at a time... Finally she had gone; without a sliver or a trace. Every nightfall since is rife with emptiness and despair. I asked the stars if they could soothe my gaping void... But they'd only twinkle in indifference... Regardless of the pleas I've employed. Unsure of how many rises it has thus been. Nights only brought the onslaught of mocking stars above. Still I toy with the promises made overhead, For the awaited return of my crazed elusive love. I know it's frivolous to think I'm the only one... There are others who pine just as I do. But I yearn the most for your sought after attention, For our hearts have sung in every colour and every hue. Anxiety at peak, dismayed almost broken, Then I hear a sweet song sung; distant and far. A song that shared the words we once had spoken, Again enveloped in translucent silver, with relief I sighed..., "There you are..." .

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Oct 21, 2014

Oct 21, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC

Elated to see you aloft in the night sky To what do I owe this enchanted boon. In the merry company of winking stars, Enthralled by this sight as I admire my moon. Bathe me in your streaks of translucent silver. Accompany me through my sleepless nights. Watching over me with unwavering vigil. Swathe me in whispers of peaceful respite. Oh how you govern the raging tides of my soul. Rest your gaze as the waters break upon my shore... Erode and weaken the load strewn over my burning shoals, Sands drowned breathless but craving for more. Few nights now... Smitten as you coyly turn away. Thick strands of shadow clad hair in gentle cascades, Alluringly obscuring a slight fraction of your face. A tiny crescent blanketed away; into the blackness it fades. More nights pass... Now I see only a lesser moon Leaving me with only half; darkness so had claimed. Please make yourself last; you mustn't leave too soon, I'm not ready to be left crippled and maimed. I silently look up as more nights go by. I watched my lunar love dissolving into space. My heart too, torn away a morsel at a time... Finally she had gone; without a sliver or a trace. Every nightfall since is rife with emptiness and despair. I asked the stars if they could soothe my gaping void... But they'd only twinkle in indifference... Regardless of the pleas I've employed. Unsure of how many rises it has thus been. Nights only brought the onslaught of mocking stars above. Still I toy with the promises made overhead, For the awaited return of my crazed elusive love. I know it's frivolous to think I'm the only one... There are others who pine just as I do. But I yearn the most for your sought after attention, For our hearts have sung in every colour and every hue. Anxiety at peak, dismayed almost broken, Then I hear a sweet song sung; distant and far. A song that shared the words we once had spoken, Again enveloped in translucent silver, with relief I sighed..., "There you are..." .

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Listening ears don't come easy Most come with mouths harbouring wagging tongues Pouncing on the chance to retell your story Exploiting your need to empty acrid lungs Listening ears, they're indeed very rare Unidentifiable no matter how well you know Lurking behind a mask of concern and care Sweet words employed so your cards you'd show Listening ears could be just a myth An idiom to quench the thirst to confide Listening ears sometimes come with fangs for teeth Hungering and lusting for your trust and pride Listening ear, oh why you come with a mouth so foul Why the cunning trickery and unscrupulous deceit Kindness as bait, when in fact you prowl Many none the wiser until they are bit Listening ear, in you I gave my trust I bared my innermost and gave my all Hoped that you'd soothe my ailing crust Instead you lifted me high only to watch me fall

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Dec 30, 2014

Dec 30, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC

Listening ears don't come easy Most come with mouths harbouring wagging tongues Pouncing on the chance to retell your story Exploiting your need to empty acrid lungs Listening ears, they're indeed very rare Unidentifiable no matter how well you know Lurking behind a mask of concern and care Sweet words employed so your cards you'd show Listening ears could be just a myth An idiom to quench the thirst to confide Listening ears sometimes come with fangs for teeth Hungering and lusting for your trust and pride Listening ear, oh why you come with a mouth so foul Why the cunning trickery and unscrupulous deceit Kindness as bait, when in fact you prowl Many none the wiser until they are bit Listening ear, in you I gave my trust I bared my innermost and gave my all Hoped that you'd soothe my ailing crust Instead you lifted me high only to watch me fall

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1275 The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed— Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified By every Broom and Bridget Throughout a Christian Land— Neglected Son of Genius I take thee by the Hand—

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12.8k

Emily Dickinson

The Spider as an Artist

1275 The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed— Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified By every Broom and Bridget Throughout a Christian Land— Neglected Son of Genius I take thee by the Hand—

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People cheat, people lie To get ahead or just to get by. They do it out of deemed necessity or have made it a successful habit. Some would feel bad, but some wouldn't lose sleep over it. Some lie to protect... Some lie to infect... With little remorse or full blown guilt. Either way risking all they've built. A lie is an accessory that most tend to abuse. A convenient mask for the ugly truth that most would misuse. Lies are... The bane of relationships Destroyer of trust... Conveyed by irresponsible lips. So have I ever lied? Have I ever desecrated honesty's pride? Have I ever wielded it to save others from harm? Have I ever employed it to boost my charm? No I haven't, now that's a lie... Spouted that so easily, I didn't even need to try... Honestly, YES I HAVE. **I am no exception... I am no saint, I'm only human**... with an ill sense of direction. I have lied... How about you? Search deep inside... You know you have too...

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Feb 10, 2015

Feb 10, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC

People cheat, people lie To get ahead or just to get by. They do it out of deemed necessity or have made it a successful habit. Some would feel bad, but some wouldn't lose sleep over it. Some lie to protect... Some lie to infect... With little remorse or full blown guilt. Either way risking all they've built. A lie is an accessory that most tend to abuse. A convenient mask for the ugly truth that most would misuse. Lies are... The bane of relationships Destroyer of trust... Conveyed by irresponsible lips. So have I ever lied? Have I ever desecrated honesty's pride? Have I ever wielded it to save others from harm? Have I ever employed it to boost my charm? No I haven't, now that's a lie... Spouted that so easily, I didn't even need to try... Honestly, YES I HAVE. **I am no exception... I am no saint, I'm only human**... with an ill sense of direction. I have lied... How about you? Search deep inside... You know you have too...

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You Are the Texture ………………………… **~ for all of you, you, you poet~** Impasto “**is a technique used in painting, where paint is laid on an area of the surface thickly, usually thick enough that the brush or painting- knife strokes are visible. Paint can also be mixed right on to the canvas. When dry, impasto provides texture; the paint appears as if, to be coming out of the canvas.**” <1:47pm> Cut & Paste *is a technique used in poetry writing, we refer back to our visions, heard words, the eyeful, the earful, scents, the reads read, all in the mind’s palette blended, thickly, but when the merging fused, every word~in~coloration, it is unique, reincarnation, copying impossible. The imagery, cut and pasted from thy heart and soul, upon canvas, your poems~pieces each appear* ***as you-are-texture, you becoming out of, you, the canvas. <2:04pm> Postscript*** ……………… it is not lost on me that the scars, our words, herein, as we note all too frequently, almost casually, are, can be, those selfsame words/painting-knife employed for our first and foremost canvas we utilize, ourselves… our bodies, our very selves salved

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Jun 24, 2023

Jun 24, 2023 at 8:06 AM UTC

Impasto vs. Cut & Paste: You Are the Texture

You Are the Texture ………………………… **~ for all of you, you, you poet~** Impasto “**is a technique used in painting, where paint is laid on an area of the surface thickly, usually thick enough that the brush or painting- knife strokes are visible. Paint can also be mixed right on to the canvas. When dry, impasto provides texture; the paint appears as if, to be coming out of the canvas.**” <1:47pm> Cut & Paste *is a technique used in poetry writing, we refer back to our visions, heard words, the eyeful, the earful, scents, the reads read, all in the mind’s palette blended, thickly, but when the merging fused, every word~in~coloration, it is unique, reincarnation, copying impossible. The imagery, cut and pasted from thy heart and soul, upon canvas, your poems~pieces each appear* ***as you-are-texture, you becoming out of, you, the canvas. <2:04pm> Postscript*** ……………… it is not lost on me that the scars, our words, herein, as we note all too frequently, almost casually, are, can be, those selfsame words/painting-knife employed for our first and foremost canvas we utilize, ourselves… our bodies, our very selves salved

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This trumpeter of nothingness, employed To keep our reason dull and null and void. This man of wind and froth and flux will sell The wares of any who reward him well. Praising whatever he is paid to praise, He hunts for ever-newer, smarter ways To make the gilt seen gold; the shoddy, silk; To cheat us legally; to bluff and bilk By methods which no jury can prevent Because the law's not broken, only bent. This mind for hire, this mental ********** Can tell the half-lie hardest to refute; Knows how to hide an inconvenient fact And when to leave a doubtful claim unbacked; Manipulates the truth but not too much, And if his patter needs the Human Touch, Skillfully artless, artlessly naive, Wears his convenient heart upon his sleeve. He uses words that once were strong and fine, Primal as sun and moon and bread and wine, True, honourable, honoured, clear and keen, And leaves them shabby, worn, diminished, mean. He takes ideas and trains them to engage In the long little wars big combines wage... He keeps his logic loose, his feelings flimsy; Turns eloquence to cant and wit to whimsy; Trims language till it fits his clients, pattern And style's a glossy **** or limping slattern. He studies our defences, finds the cracks And where the wall is weak or worn, attacks. lie finds the fear that's deep, the wound that's tender, And mastered, outmanouevered, we surrender. We who have tried to choose accept his choice And tired succumb to his untiring voice. The dripping tap makes even granite soften We trust the brand-name we have heard so often And join the queue of sheep that flock to buy; We fools who know our folly, you and I.

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11.1k

A. S. J. Tessimond

Attack On The Ad-Man

This trumpeter of nothingness, employed To keep our reason dull and null and void. This man of wind and froth and flux will sell The wares of any who reward him well. Praising whatever he is paid to praise, He hunts for ever-newer, smarter ways To make the gilt seen gold; the shoddy, silk; To cheat us legally; to bluff and bilk By methods which no jury can prevent Because the law's not broken, only bent. This mind for hire, this mental ********** Can tell the half-lie hardest to refute; Knows how to hide an inconvenient fact And when to leave a doubtful claim unbacked; Manipulates the truth but not too much, And if his patter needs the Human Touch, Skillfully artless, artlessly naive, Wears his convenient heart upon his sleeve. He uses words that once were strong and fine, Primal as sun and moon and bread and wine, True, honourable, honoured, clear and keen, And leaves them shabby, worn, diminished, mean. He takes ideas and trains them to engage In the long little wars big combines wage... He keeps his logic loose, his feelings flimsy; Turns eloquence to cant and wit to whimsy; Trims language till it fits his clients, pattern And style's a glossy **** or limping slattern. He studies our defences, finds the cracks And where the wall is weak or worn, attacks. lie finds the fear that's deep, the wound that's tender, And mastered, outmanouevered, we surrender. We who have tried to choose accept his choice And tired succumb to his untiring voice. The dripping tap makes even granite soften We trust the brand-name we have heard so often And join the queue of sheep that flock to buy; We fools who know our folly, you and I.

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Cast a Vast Million Colored Words, a Canvas of Solace Dedicated to Tajudeen Shah who wrote those words, a fellow poet, a comrade in words. ---------------------------------------- With words we paint, With syllables we embrace, Tasked and ennobled, We are forever fully employed, Missionaries to all, You too, are one as well, Your fate can't be renounced, So, Before you pen words of Lost love, woe begotten troubles, Nature's royal blues and purples, Spirits, demons, speeches, mumbles, First Write the uplifting sounds, Cast a million colored words, Upon a canvas of solace, Bring one molecule of comfort To the misbegotten, to the downtrodden, In any way you can, form matters not, But let this be our mantra shared, Let this be our only morning prayer, A prayer we are obligated to utter, A prayer we are obligated to fulfill. Solace, given, Solace, granted.

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May 18, 2013

May 18, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC

Cast a Vast Million Colored Words, a Canvas of Solace

Cast a Vast Million Colored Words, a Canvas of Solace Dedicated to Tajudeen Shah who wrote those words, a fellow poet, a comrade in words. ---------------------------------------- With words we paint, With syllables we embrace, Tasked and ennobled, We are forever fully employed, Missionaries to all, You too, are one as well, Your fate can't be renounced, So, Before you pen words of Lost love, woe begotten troubles, Nature's royal blues and purples, Spirits, demons, speeches, mumbles, First Write the uplifting sounds, Cast a million colored words, Upon a canvas of solace, Bring one molecule of comfort To the misbegotten, to the downtrodden, In any way you can, form matters not, But let this be our mantra shared, Let this be our only morning prayer, A prayer we are obligated to utter, A prayer we are obligated to fulfill. Solace, given, Solace, granted.

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Shabash Shābāsh (Hindi: शाबाश, Urdu: شاباش, Punjabi: ਸ਼ਾਬਾਸ਼, Bengali: শাবাশ, Telugu: శబాష్) is a term used in the Indian subcontinent to signal commendation for an achievement, similar in meaning to bravo and kudos. …………………………………………… a poem writ sometimes, oft, snaps back, I was surprising recipient of a commendation in language I knew not the poem spoke well of broken boundaries, between in this instance, Jew and Muslim, capturing a momentary parting of the seaways and walls of misbelief and mischief, normally employed to keep our divisions, parted perpetually I’ve decided to begin to use shabash now, my ‘go to’ word from now on, a small quiet way to say well done it starts with one word, a stretching hand across the face fence, imagining John Lennon’s imagine-world, who lay dying when I was a young father of thirty, me residing less than a mile away from each other little could I imagine then that poetry would pick me at all, especially to write of words in dialects I don’t speak, but imaging their pastel colorations flying by in gentle breezes, eager to be grabbed, plucked from the air, tongued and loved so! when I say to you, in the softest spoke, shabash! to all of us, for choosing this path, using your words in every dialect, to spread the imagination of good will 8-4-2019 10:10 am S.I.

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Aug 4, 2019

Aug 4, 2019 at 10:28 AM UTC

Shabash! (Hindi: शाबाश, Urdu: شاباش, Punjabi: ਸ਼ਾਬਾਸ਼, Bengali: শাবাশ, Telugu: శబాష్)

Shabash Shābāsh (Hindi: शाबाश, Urdu: شاباش, Punjabi: ਸ਼ਾਬਾਸ਼, Bengali: শাবাশ, Telugu: శబాష్) is a term used in the Indian subcontinent to signal commendation for an achievement, similar in meaning to bravo and kudos. …………………………………………… a poem writ sometimes, oft, snaps back, I was surprising recipient of a commendation in language I knew not the poem spoke well of broken boundaries, between in this instance, Jew and Muslim, capturing a momentary parting of the seaways and walls of misbelief and mischief, normally employed to keep our divisions, parted perpetually I’ve decided to begin to use shabash now, my ‘go to’ word from now on, a small quiet way to say well done it starts with one word, a stretching hand across the face fence, imagining John Lennon’s imagine-world, who lay dying when I was a young father of thirty, me residing less than a mile away from each other little could I imagine then that poetry would pick me at all, especially to write of words in dialects I don’t speak, but imaging their pastel colorations flying by in gentle breezes, eager to be grabbed, plucked from the air, tongued and loved so! when I say to you, in the softest spoke, shabash! to all of us, for choosing this path, using your words in every dialect, to spread the imagination of good will 8-4-2019 10:10 am S.I.

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Dear Queen, Are you real? Or just part of my imagination Cos lately you've given my eyes an occupation Staring at you is work, and everyone in the room is employed That sharp dress cut my tongue out and got me speechless If the dress could cut my head open and read my mind The only thing it would see is a reflection of itself Cos all I think about is you, and you may not be real But you're true The silence you cause in the room, when you walk in People stop talking, its akward. You're on stage, you steal everyone's attention, like a thief Attention is really cheap, but not everyone pays attention. Its crazy right? How a queen falls for a pauper The only way I could ever leave, is if I ... Stop thinking. Yours truly the boy at the back

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May 6, 2014

May 6, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC

Letter to the Prom Queen

Dear Queen, Are you real? Or just part of my imagination Cos lately you've given my eyes an occupation Staring at you is work, and everyone in the room is employed That sharp dress cut my tongue out and got me speechless If the dress could cut my head open and read my mind The only thing it would see is a reflection of itself Cos all I think about is you, and you may not be real But you're true The silence you cause in the room, when you walk in People stop talking, its akward. You're on stage, you steal everyone's attention, like a thief Attention is really cheap, but not everyone pays attention. Its crazy right? How a queen falls for a pauper The only way I could ever leave, is if I ... Stop thinking. Yours truly the boy at the back

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~~~ *write the scriptures, the Book of Me, with authorship exposed on the books cover, of every word have ever writ flawed, ignored, rejected, necessary to self-publish upon the unpapered internet, where words are ionized I take an oath, self-administered, oath sworn upon mine own scripture, testify before a jury of my peers, me, myself and I what you read, is not imaginary, I am real, you are realizing each of us has a truthful name, in spite of acronymic disguises employed, and wearing it, here, upon this.....line dotted, place my neck, ready for the executioner* you ~~~ October 24, 2015 7:20 am

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Aug 13, 2017

Aug 13, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC

ready for the executioner/in my own name

~~~ *write the scriptures, the Book of Me, with authorship exposed on the books cover, of every word have ever writ flawed, ignored, rejected, necessary to self-publish upon the unpapered internet, where words are ionized I take an oath, self-administered, oath sworn upon mine own scripture, testify before a jury of my peers, me, myself and I what you read, is not imaginary, I am real, you are realizing each of us has a truthful name, in spite of acronymic disguises employed, and wearing it, here, upon this.....line dotted, place my neck, ready for the executioner* you ~~~ October 24, 2015 7:20 am

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So ….. Who Are The ... ... " Good Guys " ... ? In These Modern Times ... ? Osama … Obama ... ? ? Or Those … Civil Type Guardia ... ? What ... Makes Them Good ... ? The Guns They Use ... As If They ... Should …. To RESTRAIN and ... Defuse ... VIOLENT … Neighbourhoods … !?! But REALLY … Is This ... What They Do … ?!? I've Heard Stories ... That … Relay TRUTH ... About The ABUSE ... Some Guardia … Choose … !!! Like … STRIPPING Men … In … Spanish Streets ... To ... Prove To Them …. The ... Kinda PROBLEMS ... They're ... BOUND To See ... If They ... DON'T Respect ... The ... " Gendarmerie " … !!!!! Good Guys ….. !!!?!!! REALLY … ?!? Or Employed … BULLIES ... !?! The Type Who ... FEED ... of … "ABUSE FILLED Deeds" … !!! The Type That Make ... Young People … BLEED … !!! When ... Guns They … PARADE … Aren't Used … " Properly " … Kind of Like …. " NEWTOWN " …. Where It's CLEAR … Gun Sounds ... Will Now … RESOUND ... In The ... Hearts and Mouths ... of ... Parents Now … Resound With … " LOSS " … !!!!! Cos' A ... LOVED One's Gone … !!!!! WITHOUT A …. Song …. Or Farewell ... "Prolonged" ... So …. ??? What Was The Mantra ... ? of … Adam Lanza ... ? To Shoot REPEATEDLY ... In A ... KILLING SPREE … That Took … SO MANY … !!!!! Was His Mind So HEAVY ... ?!? That His Thoughts … CLEARLY … Had Become … "UNstEAdy" … !!! So … Where Were Connecticut's ... GOOD GUYS … Then … ? With The ... " NRA " ... !?! At A ... Shooting Range … ??? Shooting Guns For … "FUN" … !!! While The Blood of A MUM ... And Youngsters ..... RUN ..................................... Down SCHOOL Hallways ... In The … Middle of The Day ... !?! Now The NRA Says … "Bad Guys with guns, need to face, good ones !" Okay Okay ... But Let's ... Get This Straight … !!! It's ... OKAY For A Man ... Whose Been Paid and Trained ... To ... SHOOT TO **** ... Pretty Much AT WILL ... Cos' It's Been … " Okayed " … By The …. " NRA " …. !?! Who Said ... They Were Good … !!!???!!! I Learnt My Lesson ... Watching … Charlton Heston ... !!! It Would ... Seem To Me ... That ... NRA Peeps … Care ... MORE For ... MONEY ... Than When … Children BLEED … !!?!! It's ... ALL About GREED … !!! Cos' ... Good GUYS ... DON'T NEED ... To Have … " ARMOURIES " ... !!! To ENSURE The Streets ... Are Filled With … "PEACE" ... and I … For One ... DON'T Believe That Guns ... Have … ANY Function … In …. Education …. !!!!!! Educate Our Youth ….. !!! About The ... HARM They Cause ... !!!!!!! They NEED To Be Schooled ... In ….... AVOIDING Wars ............ !!!!!! And In ... Avoiding Depression … That Leads To HARSH Lessons ... !!!!! It Time To STRENGTHEN ... !!! Our Fight Against ... Guns ... And Time To … " LESSEN " … !!! " NRA " ... Type Funds ... !!!!! That SUPPORT … " The Lie " of ….. " Preservation of life " … Through The Use of … ………. GUNS ………… Seeing Blood ... Run … DOESN'T ... Signify FUN … !!!!! NEITHER Does ... ... The Sight ... of Police In Schools ... With A Gun By Their Side … !!! They Weren't In View … When I Was ... Being Schooled … !!! So FOLKS … DON'T BE ... Fooled ... !!! By ... Lobbyist Groups … !!!!! When It Comes To ... ... "Who is Who" … Who Are THEY To Decide … !???! When It Comes To ... Peoples' Lives ... Who The People Should Believe ..... To Be ………………………… ... "The Good Guys !!!" ...

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Sep 12, 2014

Sep 12, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC

"The Good Guys" ... A Poem written by Big Virge 22/12/2012

So ….. Who Are The ... ... " Good Guys " ... ? In These Modern Times ... ? Osama … Obama ... ? ? Or Those … Civil Type Guardia ... ? What ... Makes Them Good ... ? The Guns They Use ... As If They ... Should …. To RESTRAIN and ... Defuse ... VIOLENT … Neighbourhoods … !?! But REALLY … Is This ... What They Do … ?!? I've Heard Stories ... That … Relay TRUTH ... About The ABUSE ... Some Guardia … Choose … !!! Like … STRIPPING Men … In … Spanish Streets ... To ... Prove To Them …. The ... Kinda PROBLEMS ... They're ... BOUND To See ... If They ... DON'T Respect ... The ... " Gendarmerie " … !!!!! Good Guys ….. !!!?!!! REALLY … ?!? Or Employed … BULLIES ... !?! The Type Who ... FEED ... of … "ABUSE FILLED Deeds" … !!! The Type That Make ... Young People … BLEED … !!! When ... Guns They … PARADE … Aren't Used … " Properly " … Kind of Like …. " NEWTOWN " …. Where It's CLEAR … Gun Sounds ... Will Now … RESOUND ... In The ... Hearts and Mouths ... of ... Parents Now … Resound With … " LOSS " … !!!!! Cos' A ... LOVED One's Gone … !!!!! WITHOUT A …. Song …. Or Farewell ... "Prolonged" ... So …. ??? What Was The Mantra ... ? of … Adam Lanza ... ? To Shoot REPEATEDLY ... In A ... KILLING SPREE … That Took … SO MANY … !!!!! Was His Mind So HEAVY ... ?!? That His Thoughts … CLEARLY … Had Become … "UNstEAdy" … !!! So … Where Were Connecticut's ... GOOD GUYS … Then … ? With The ... " NRA " ... !?! At A ... Shooting Range … ??? Shooting Guns For … "FUN" … !!! While The Blood of A MUM ... And Youngsters ..... RUN ..................................... Down SCHOOL Hallways ... In The … Middle of The Day ... !?! Now The NRA Says … "Bad Guys with guns, need to face, good ones !" Okay Okay ... But Let's ... Get This Straight … !!! It's ... OKAY For A Man ... Whose Been Paid and Trained ... To ... SHOOT TO **** ... Pretty Much AT WILL ... Cos' It's Been … " Okayed " … By The …. " NRA " …. !?! Who Said ... They Were Good … !!!???!!! I Learnt My Lesson ... Watching … Charlton Heston ... !!! It Would ... Seem To Me ... That ... NRA Peeps … Care ... MORE For ... MONEY ... Than When … Children BLEED … !!?!! It's ... ALL About GREED … !!! Cos' ... Good GUYS ... DON'T NEED ... To Have … " ARMOURIES " ... !!! To ENSURE The Streets ... Are Filled With … "PEACE" ... and I … For One ... DON'T Believe That Guns ... Have … ANY Function … In …. Education …. !!!!!! Educate Our Youth ….. !!! About The ... HARM They Cause ... !!!!!!! They NEED To Be Schooled ... In ….... AVOIDING Wars ............ !!!!!! And In ... Avoiding Depression … That Leads To HARSH Lessons ... !!!!! It Time To STRENGTHEN ... !!! Our Fight Against ... Guns ... And Time To … " LESSEN " … !!! " NRA " ... Type Funds ... !!!!! That SUPPORT … " The Lie " of ….. " Preservation of life " … Through The Use of … ………. GUNS ………… Seeing Blood ... Run … DOESN'T ... Signify FUN … !!!!! NEITHER Does ... ... The Sight ... of Police In Schools ... With A Gun By Their Side … !!! They Weren't In View … When I Was ... Being Schooled … !!! So FOLKS … DON'T BE ... Fooled ... !!! By ... Lobbyist Groups … !!!!! When It Comes To ... ... "Who is Who" … Who Are THEY To Decide … !???! When It Comes To ... Peoples' Lives ... Who The People Should Believe ..... To Be ………………………… ... "The Good Guys !!!" ...

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Art is opinion masquerading as truth. When I draw a city, I am drawing the city of my dreams, just as the city that is does not exist. Putting policy into words in the hopes of having yourself heard is not the point of the philosopher, and should not be the end of the penman. When I attempt to make the world see, I manufacture my enemy. We should seek instead to illuminate gracefully, to speak the words beyond the void of flesh, and to touch emotions that swim with depth It will get us nowhere to make art political, of which it is propaganda and employed many an artist in the past; whose dreams of good deeds became hung in a museum for all the wrong reasons, leaving a remnant of an unforseen circumstance hanging dry on an empty tour-guide phonecall Descriptive yet lies Argue the dialectic of truth than the present purfume of lies that is fumigated from the salivary discharge of a cetaceous yearning of ********** of thought, that leftover dream of God That all things should be the same, that all minds should think that way-- if they were, we'd be done with the experiment.

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Jul 17, 2018

Jul 17, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC

Political Poetry

Art is opinion masquerading as truth. When I draw a city, I am drawing the city of my dreams, just as the city that is does not exist. Putting policy into words in the hopes of having yourself heard is not the point of the philosopher, and should not be the end of the penman. When I attempt to make the world see, I manufacture my enemy. We should seek instead to illuminate gracefully, to speak the words beyond the void of flesh, and to touch emotions that swim with depth It will get us nowhere to make art political, of which it is propaganda and employed many an artist in the past; whose dreams of good deeds became hung in a museum for all the wrong reasons, leaving a remnant of an unforseen circumstance hanging dry on an empty tour-guide phonecall Descriptive yet lies Argue the dialectic of truth than the present purfume of lies that is fumigated from the salivary discharge of a cetaceous yearning of ********** of thought, that leftover dream of God That all things should be the same, that all minds should think that way-- if they were, we'd be done with the experiment.

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A lie cuts both sides A lie never hides To your naked heart Guile a flying dart A lie once employed Leaves a gaping void Poison soon will win The vacuum within

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Jun 7, 2014

Jun 7, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC

A lie cuts both sides A lie never hides To your naked heart Guile a flying dart A lie once employed Leaves a gaping void Poison soon will win The vacuum within

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Friedrich Claus Owner at Self-Employed All copyright belongs above Tax his land, tax his wage, Tax his bed in which he lays. Tax his tractor, tax his mule, Teach him taxes is the rule. Tax his cow, tax his goat, Tax his pants, tax his coat. Tax his ties, tax his shirts, Tax his work, tax his dirt. Tax his chew, tax his smoke, Teach him taxes are no joke. Tax his car, tax his grass, Tax the roads he must pass. Tax his food, tax his drink, Tax him if he tries to think. Tax his sodas, tax his beers, If he cries, tax his tears. Tax his bills, tax his gas, Tax his notes, tax his cash. Tax him good and let him know That after taxes, he has no dough. If he hollers, tax him more, Tax him until he’s good and sore. Tax his coffin, tax his grave, Tax the sod in which he lays. Put these words upon his tomb, “Taxes drove me to my doom!” And when he’s gone, we won’t relax, We’ll still be after the inheritance tax.

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Feb 20, 2017

Feb 20, 2017 at 6:26 AM UTC

Taxed to death....Saw this poem in newspaper

Friedrich Claus Owner at Self-Employed All copyright belongs above Tax his land, tax his wage, Tax his bed in which he lays. Tax his tractor, tax his mule, Teach him taxes is the rule. Tax his cow, tax his goat, Tax his pants, tax his coat. Tax his ties, tax his shirts, Tax his work, tax his dirt. Tax his chew, tax his smoke, Teach him taxes are no joke. Tax his car, tax his grass, Tax the roads he must pass. Tax his food, tax his drink, Tax him if he tries to think. Tax his sodas, tax his beers, If he cries, tax his tears. Tax his bills, tax his gas, Tax his notes, tax his cash. Tax him good and let him know That after taxes, he has no dough. If he hollers, tax him more, Tax him until he’s good and sore. Tax his coffin, tax his grave, Tax the sod in which he lays. Put these words upon his tomb, “Taxes drove me to my doom!” And when he’s gone, we won’t relax, We’ll still be after the inheritance tax.

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/*h'americans can call it a striptease, but in amsterdam, with legal self-employed prostitutes? we call it a cocktease: because you'd really visit amsterdam for the **** these days?* isabella: the french psychology exchange student - hung up on her ex-boyfriend - really in anime movies - and that american i competed with on an edinburgh pub-crawl for freshers - and lost my virginity to - probably the only time i had the ontological parameters of your atypical man - "hunting", competing - oh so, so, enthralling.... (spot the irony mingling with ridicule, when people "know" how the modern man behaves, with his caveman predecessors: dragging a woman by the hair type of cartoonish depiction) - the other fun time i've had encounters with h'americans was in Soho - two colts, texan tourists asking for directions, or where this or that place was... it almost warmed my heart hearing that twang of the tongue... perhaps someone from arizona? that has that - "mid" western twang of the tongue added to the bite... snub the Boston high-mind eloquence, like: you really really want to sound european... never mind... people say that water is tasteless... hmm... so last night i was heating up one arm of scissors... and sniffing it... then licked the other arm of the scissor... what's in water again? minerals... a subtle presence... magnesium, potassium, iron... you name it... so yeah... water is... "tasteless"... eisenzahn that i am.

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Jul 25, 2018

Jul 25, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

water is, "tasteless" (eisenzahn)

/*h'americans can call it a striptease, but in amsterdam, with legal self-employed prostitutes? we call it a cocktease: because you'd really visit amsterdam for the **** these days?* isabella: the french psychology exchange student - hung up on her ex-boyfriend - really in anime movies - and that american i competed with on an edinburgh pub-crawl for freshers - and lost my virginity to - probably the only time i had the ontological parameters of your atypical man - "hunting", competing - oh so, so, enthralling.... (spot the irony mingling with ridicule, when people "know" how the modern man behaves, with his caveman predecessors: dragging a woman by the hair type of cartoonish depiction) - the other fun time i've had encounters with h'americans was in Soho - two colts, texan tourists asking for directions, or where this or that place was... it almost warmed my heart hearing that twang of the tongue... perhaps someone from arizona? that has that - "mid" western twang of the tongue added to the bite... snub the Boston high-mind eloquence, like: you really really want to sound european... never mind... people say that water is tasteless... hmm... so last night i was heating up one arm of scissors... and sniffing it... then licked the other arm of the scissor... what's in water again? minerals... a subtle presence... magnesium, potassium, iron... you name it... so yeah... water is... "tasteless"... eisenzahn that i am.

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Life is full of mischief and artful trickery The way through never made easy for the foolhardy Misleading gestures only employed to solely distract Left up to you to decipher and hopefully extract Experiences teach much, had you only been accepting and learning That a dove could be made to appear; out of thin air, out of nothing When the road ahead offers no more than mere misdirections Altered trajectories stemming from convenient misinterpretations Your cards may have been dealt revealing astonishing outcomes "Not the hand you get but the game you play," said some Depending on deft wrists and a flick of the wand Overnight you'll wake to find that a new day had dawned Only would happen if into the wind you hadn't spat Hope would emerge like a hare out of a top hat The play on light and shadow, nothing short of dramatic You volunteer onstage, accompanied by apprehension and suspenseful music Faced with an eager audience; you realise that alone you stand Be not surprised to learn that love is life's sleight of hand...

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Sep 4, 2014

Sep 4, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC

Sleight of Hand

Life is full of mischief and artful trickery The way through never made easy for the foolhardy Misleading gestures only employed to solely distract Left up to you to decipher and hopefully extract Experiences teach much, had you only been accepting and learning That a dove could be made to appear; out of thin air, out of nothing When the road ahead offers no more than mere misdirections Altered trajectories stemming from convenient misinterpretations Your cards may have been dealt revealing astonishing outcomes "Not the hand you get but the game you play," said some Depending on deft wrists and a flick of the wand Overnight you'll wake to find that a new day had dawned Only would happen if into the wind you hadn't spat Hope would emerge like a hare out of a top hat The play on light and shadow, nothing short of dramatic You volunteer onstage, accompanied by apprehension and suspenseful music Faced with an eager audience; you realise that alone you stand Be not surprised to learn that love is life's sleight of hand...

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The two collieries where I was employed, Houses now stand winders destroyed. From a window where I controlled the flow, I could see the horizon far and low. I can also see sunrise and set, Pictures past I won’t forget. Through the shifts seasons would go, From summer sun to winter snow. To wake one morning already too late, Decisions were made to close the gate. Work was gone and mates were lost, Ripped apart at great cost. Left us with a grey slurry beach, The nanny goat path we walked to reach. Down to the coast a ***** line, Carried shale from the mine. Through our town they ran so fast, To tip more waste upon the blast. Now I sit where I want to be, Looking out at the great North Sea. From chemical beach to clean east shore, The north east pits are no more. From brownie box in old dark room, To Digital with super zoom. Memories fade but photos show, All we really need to know. St Marys church to Hawthorn hive, These scenes of Seaham will survive.

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Apr 21, 2010

Apr 21, 2010 at 7:48 AM UTC

The two collieries where I was employed, Houses now stand winders destroyed. From a window where I controlled the flow, I could see the horizon far and low. I can also see sunrise and set, Pictures past I won’t forget. Through the shifts seasons would go, From summer sun to winter snow. To wake one morning already too late, Decisions were made to close the gate. Work was gone and mates were lost, Ripped apart at great cost. Left us with a grey slurry beach, The nanny goat path we walked to reach. Down to the coast a ***** line, Carried shale from the mine. Through our town they ran so fast, To tip more waste upon the blast. Now I sit where I want to be, Looking out at the great North Sea. From chemical beach to clean east shore, The north east pits are no more. From brownie box in old dark room, To Digital with super zoom. Memories fade but photos show, All we really need to know. St Marys church to Hawthorn hive, These scenes of Seaham will survive.

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for Alyssa Underwood ~~~ my poems do not trend, go viral, Fast and Furious! yet, they do not die they lay in plain sight pebbles scattered, smoothed by time, upon the surface of the green earth waiting patient, virtuous, purposed for itinerants bards to trip over one one some someday somehow they accrete a readership, slow stepping and steady from, |the seekers and the stumblers, the droplet drinkers, meanderers of the tomes and tombs of prior years, miners for nuggets in the poem pools that form beneath the alluvial streaming of the waterfall crescendo of words I like this when another traveler sends me a like, a petite amuse-bouche bite of appreciation, for a long ago, barely recalled, writ, allowing them to carve their initials upon the external, visible roots of my tree trunk, invading me, by darkening a prior tree internal ring, forcing me to look down, look back, take measure of myself, accepting myself as not wanting, nor lacking in other's acceptance these statements are neither boastful or illusory, *yet still joyous, like caramel pleasures, slow to chew, fast to the taste,* reminding me of old friendships, well valued, though no longer fully employed, their uncovering is my own refreshed exposure, their discovery is my own re-discovery, exposing flaws and fallacies, even fallow, mostly shallow facts about me all of them, a sundae of truths and lies, sharing a happy laugh with and at me, when I think to myself, Holy Crap! did I write that? copyright 2015 by Nat Lipstadt

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Oct 8, 2015

Oct 8, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC

2015: my poems do not trend

for Alyssa Underwood ~~~ my poems do not trend, go viral, Fast and Furious! yet, they do not die they lay in plain sight pebbles scattered, smoothed by time, upon the surface of the green earth waiting patient, virtuous, purposed for itinerants bards to trip over one one some someday somehow they accrete a readership, slow stepping and steady from, |the seekers and the stumblers, the droplet drinkers, meanderers of the tomes and tombs of prior years, miners for nuggets in the poem pools that form beneath the alluvial streaming of the waterfall crescendo of words I like this when another traveler sends me a like, a petite amuse-bouche bite of appreciation, for a long ago, barely recalled, writ, allowing them to carve their initials upon the external, visible roots of my tree trunk, invading me, by darkening a prior tree internal ring, forcing me to look down, look back, take measure of myself, accepting myself as not wanting, nor lacking in other's acceptance these statements are neither boastful or illusory, *yet still joyous, like caramel pleasures, slow to chew, fast to the taste,* reminding me of old friendships, well valued, though no longer fully employed, their uncovering is my own refreshed exposure, their discovery is my own re-discovery, exposing flaws and fallacies, even fallow, mostly shallow facts about me all of them, a sundae of truths and lies, sharing a happy laugh with and at me, when I think to myself, Holy Crap! did I write that? copyright 2015 by Nat Lipstadt

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Lisbeth stands watching The artist as he prepares To sketch. Her elder sisters Stand in shadows whispering. Her younger sister plays With her doll on the floor. Their father said to do as The artist instructed and Don’t misbehave or be rude. The artist stares hard his Dark eyes searching their Every move and expression And body gesture. The elder Girls mutter in shadows Their hands over their mouths Their blue eyes like shallow Pools. Ready? The artist Asks putting charcoal to Paper his fingers blackening. Lisbeth says just as we are? The artist nods. His grim Features express do not disturb. The youngest sister plays Ignoring the artist her eyes set On the game at hand. The girls In shadow turn their profiles Set to mystery their hands on Their abdomens like guardians Of virtue. Lisbeth wonders as She watches the artist’s stiff Moustache and beard the slow Movement of his mouth as he Mouths words and stares hard. The last artist employed some Year before younger and less Brutal in expression and manner Had drawn them each in private Rooms and set them down on couch Or bed and kept their images inside His head. He was dismissed and the Drawings destroyed and nothing said. Lisbeth had thought it just a game Something done as lover might in Private corners or lonely spots on Quiet nights. The artist sketches. His blackened fingers move and Made their mark. Their images Captured. The scene set. One sister In the shadows yawns the other Stares in still contempt. Lisbeth Poses as young girls do. Nothing To show of interest and nothing Hid no secret self no other you. That’s it the artist says we’ll begin The painting another day maybe Next week if all is well. The girls In shadow look away and resume Their secret games. Lisbeth studies The artist’s blackened fingers as He rolls the charcoal sketch and Puts away. He gazes at her standing By herself a glimpse of smile and Glimmer in her eyes like small fires. He closes the tired lids of eyes And smoulders down his old desires.

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Apr 19, 2012

Apr 19, 2012 at 8:26 AM UTC

LISBETH AND THE ARTIST.

Lisbeth stands watching The artist as he prepares To sketch. Her elder sisters Stand in shadows whispering. Her younger sister plays With her doll on the floor. Their father said to do as The artist instructed and Don’t misbehave or be rude. The artist stares hard his Dark eyes searching their Every move and expression And body gesture. The elder Girls mutter in shadows Their hands over their mouths Their blue eyes like shallow Pools. Ready? The artist Asks putting charcoal to Paper his fingers blackening. Lisbeth says just as we are? The artist nods. His grim Features express do not disturb. The youngest sister plays Ignoring the artist her eyes set On the game at hand. The girls In shadow turn their profiles Set to mystery their hands on Their abdomens like guardians Of virtue. Lisbeth wonders as She watches the artist’s stiff Moustache and beard the slow Movement of his mouth as he Mouths words and stares hard. The last artist employed some Year before younger and less Brutal in expression and manner Had drawn them each in private Rooms and set them down on couch Or bed and kept their images inside His head. He was dismissed and the Drawings destroyed and nothing said. Lisbeth had thought it just a game Something done as lover might in Private corners or lonely spots on Quiet nights. The artist sketches. His blackened fingers move and Made their mark. Their images Captured. The scene set. One sister In the shadows yawns the other Stares in still contempt. Lisbeth Poses as young girls do. Nothing To show of interest and nothing Hid no secret self no other you. That’s it the artist says we’ll begin The painting another day maybe Next week if all is well. The girls In shadow look away and resume Their secret games. Lisbeth studies The artist’s blackened fingers as He rolls the charcoal sketch and Puts away. He gazes at her standing By herself a glimpse of smile and Glimmer in her eyes like small fires. He closes the tired lids of eyes And smoulders down his old desires.

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Zeus, your predilection for banishing Titans to Hades... anathema of them--revolt was theirs of you...Titanomachy. Enter Prometheus, second generational Titan, brother to Atlas--Prometheus of whom Titan revolt at first ran no fire through his veins. Thus, Zeus was well pleased and employed Prometheus to put earth to water, water to earth...as to yield man. As so man was, and was unto Prometheus...a fondness entered him of them. And in of passion Prometheus' veins were run through with fire...fire fought fire--thus Prometheus reached out taking hold Zeus' lightning. Hid in a hollowed fennel stalk, to be bequeathed unto man. Torrents of fire now ran Prometheus' veins, and in a fit of infamous mockery presented Zeus with two packets of slaughtered animal parts. A hubris was born in Prometheus that being so halved God-man gave itself fully to that polarity...he gawked at Zeus and bade him choose between the two packets. One of ox meat and innards coated in stomach lining, the other of ox-bones coated in its own abundant fat. Thus Zeus chose, the wretched lesser of the two... inconsumable ox-bones coated by fat. A charged and terrible air cut and heavied all direction, pointing assuredly that Zeus was one given over to the surface of things, a psychological casualty of his own vanity. Zeus overcome with Prometheus' disaffection for the God of him struck at Prometheus' family. At length, this assault could not, would not put asunder Prometheus from the ground he stood. A certain Haphaestus was summoned by Zeus...whose directive was writ in torment. Chain Prometheus to Mount Caucasus...where from on high a sackcloth cloud shall shake loose an eagle, whose homing hunger shall have only a taste for Prometheus' liver. Day in, and day out, that accursed ***** shall be the bounty of itself!

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Jan 17, 2012

Jan 17, 2012 at 6:06 PM UTC

Prometheus, That Accursed ***** Shall Be The Bounty Of Itself

Zeus, your predilection for banishing Titans to Hades... anathema of them--revolt was theirs of you...Titanomachy. Enter Prometheus, second generational Titan, brother to Atlas--Prometheus of whom Titan revolt at first ran no fire through his veins. Thus, Zeus was well pleased and employed Prometheus to put earth to water, water to earth...as to yield man. As so man was, and was unto Prometheus...a fondness entered him of them. And in of passion Prometheus' veins were run through with fire...fire fought fire--thus Prometheus reached out taking hold Zeus' lightning. Hid in a hollowed fennel stalk, to be bequeathed unto man. Torrents of fire now ran Prometheus' veins, and in a fit of infamous mockery presented Zeus with two packets of slaughtered animal parts. A hubris was born in Prometheus that being so halved God-man gave itself fully to that polarity...he gawked at Zeus and bade him choose between the two packets. One of ox meat and innards coated in stomach lining, the other of ox-bones coated in its own abundant fat. Thus Zeus chose, the wretched lesser of the two... inconsumable ox-bones coated by fat. A charged and terrible air cut and heavied all direction, pointing assuredly that Zeus was one given over to the surface of things, a psychological casualty of his own vanity. Zeus overcome with Prometheus' disaffection for the God of him struck at Prometheus' family. At length, this assault could not, would not put asunder Prometheus from the ground he stood. A certain Haphaestus was summoned by Zeus...whose directive was writ in torment. Chain Prometheus to Mount Caucasus...where from on high a sackcloth cloud shall shake loose an eagle, whose homing hunger shall have only a taste for Prometheus' liver. Day in, and day out, that accursed ***** shall be the bounty of itself!

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Atomic energy is a good thing contemplated the good scientist But only for us good people to forget Lincoln's, Hemingway's and Madame Curie's silent voices echoes from the sidewalk Where people idly passes by; lost in tall low fat Frappuccino’s Looking and hoping then ultimately wishing for a visit from Benjamin Franklin Unwittingly employed by all the dead presidents These days’ people know the price of everything But the value of nothing Makes me gallivant; my own memory warehouse As I pose this question towards my own psyche; What is the worst thing I have ever done? In the name of personal achievement career elevation and prosperity All everyone ever wants to be is successful rich and richer Oppenheimer colleague put our modern society in to perfect perspective Post detonation of the Trinity project - after the first nuclear test When he gracefully quoted "Now we are all son of *******

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Aug 22, 2018

Aug 22, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC

People (we are all son of *******

Atomic energy is a good thing contemplated the good scientist But only for us good people to forget Lincoln's, Hemingway's and Madame Curie's silent voices echoes from the sidewalk Where people idly passes by; lost in tall low fat Frappuccino’s Looking and hoping then ultimately wishing for a visit from Benjamin Franklin Unwittingly employed by all the dead presidents These days’ people know the price of everything But the value of nothing Makes me gallivant; my own memory warehouse As I pose this question towards my own psyche; What is the worst thing I have ever done? In the name of personal achievement career elevation and prosperity All everyone ever wants to be is successful rich and richer Oppenheimer colleague put our modern society in to perfect perspective Post detonation of the Trinity project - after the first nuclear test When he gracefully quoted "Now we are all son of *******

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my Mumbai woman ~~~ to my Indian poets & friends all be advised, my piety, my muse, has decamped me for weeks on end to your yon far and fair lands the red dot beside her electronic signature a sign of her absence, seemingly to have been magically transferred to her forehead so perhaps my love poetry will become absent, reticent, quiescent or perhaps it will build brighter, effervescing in my very own Taj Mahal, an edifice built by great love past and yet ever still present, for I testify, I have many times it, seen imbued, lovingly observed between a certain men and women here writ large, who there permanent reside, and in my heart as well spend a minute many, all my fingers and toes employed how many, so many, Indian fellow travelers on poetry lanes and yellow dust encrusted roads, in cities unpronounceable that this illiterate literary fool has come to know and multi-arm entwine to you, I commend and command to you her safety, asking immodestly for an imposition, an interference pray to the local gods, your heads of state and highest nature's, that they be her beside, her unobserved safe-keepers, as she treks your country's Northern pastures let her skin glow from your brighter rays, eyes even wider~wiser opened by the newness of your antiquity, your glorious, poetic place in our world of words

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Mar 6, 2016

Mar 6, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC

my Mumbai woman (2016)

my Mumbai woman ~~~ to my Indian poets & friends all be advised, my piety, my muse, has decamped me for weeks on end to your yon far and fair lands the red dot beside her electronic signature a sign of her absence, seemingly to have been magically transferred to her forehead so perhaps my love poetry will become absent, reticent, quiescent or perhaps it will build brighter, effervescing in my very own Taj Mahal, an edifice built by great love past and yet ever still present, for I testify, I have many times it, seen imbued, lovingly observed between a certain men and women here writ large, who there permanent reside, and in my heart as well spend a minute many, all my fingers and toes employed how many, so many, Indian fellow travelers on poetry lanes and yellow dust encrusted roads, in cities unpronounceable that this illiterate literary fool has come to know and multi-arm entwine to you, I commend and command to you her safety, asking immodestly for an imposition, an interference pray to the local gods, your heads of state and highest nature's, that they be her beside, her unobserved safe-keepers, as she treks your country's Northern pastures let her skin glow from your brighter rays, eyes even wider~wiser opened by the newness of your antiquity, your glorious, poetic place in our world of words

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Kung walked by the dynastic temple and into the cedar grove, and then out by the lower river, And with him Khieu Tchi and Tian the low speaking And “we are unknown,” said Kung, “You will take up charioteering? “Then you will become known, “Or perhaps I should take up charioterring, or archery? “Or the practice of public speaking?” And Tseu-lou said, “I would put the defences in order,” And Khieu said, “If I were lord of a province “I would put it in better order than this is.” And Tchi said, “I would prefer a small mountain temple, “With order in the observances, with a suitable performance of the ritual,” And Tian said, with his hand on the strings of his lute The low sounds continuing after his hand left the strings, And the sound went up like smoke, under the leaves, And he looked after the sound: “The old swimming hole, “And the boys flopping off the planks, “Or sitting in the underbrush playing mandolins.” And Kung smiled upon all of them equally. And Thseng-sie desired to know: “Which had answered correctly?” And Kung said, “They have all answered correctly, “That is to say, each in his nature.” And Kung raised his cane against Yuan Jang, Yuan Jang being his elder, For Yuan Jang sat by the roadside pretending to be receiving wisdom. And Kung said “You old fool, come out of it, “Get up and do something useful.” And Kung said “Respect a child’s faculties “From the moment it inhales the clear air, “But a man of fifty who knows nothng Is worthy of no respect.” And “When the prince has gathered about him “All the savants and artists, his riches will be fully employed.” And Kung said, and wrote on the bo leaves: If a man have not order within him He can not spread order about him; And if a man have not order within him His family will not act with due order; And if the prince have not order within him He can not put order in his dominions. And Kung gave the words “order” and “brotherly deference” And said nothing of the “life after death.” And he said “Anyone can run to excesses, “It is easy to shoot past the mark, “It is hard to stand firm in the middle.” And they said: If a man commit ****** Should his father protect him, and hide him? And Kung said: He should hide him. And Kung gave his daughter to Kong-Tchang Although Kong-Tchang was in prison. And he gave his niece to Nan-Young although Nan-Young was out of office. And Kung said “Wan ruled with moderation, “In his day the State was well kept, “And even I can remember “A day when the historians left blanks in their writings, “I mean, for things they didn’t know, “But that time seems to be passing. A day when the historians left blanks in their writings, But that time seems to be passing.” And Kung said, “Without character you will “be unable to play on that instrument “Or to execute the music fit for the Odes. “The blossoms of the apricot “blow from the east to the west, “And I have tried to keep them from falling.”

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Kung walked by the dynastic temple and into the cedar grove, and then out by the lower river, And with him Khieu Tchi and Tian the low speaking And “we are unknown,” said Kung, “You will take up charioteering? “Then you will become known, “Or perhaps I should take up charioterring, or archery? “Or the practice of public speaking?” And Tseu-lou said, “I would put the defences in order,” And Khieu said, “If I were lord of a province “I would put it in better order than this is.” And Tchi said, “I would prefer a small mountain temple, “With order in the observances, with a suitable performance of the ritual,” And Tian said, with his hand on the strings of his lute The low sounds continuing after his hand left the strings, And the sound went up like smoke, under the leaves, And he looked after the sound: “The old swimming hole, “And the boys flopping off the planks, “Or sitting in the underbrush playing mandolins.” And Kung smiled upon all of them equally. And Thseng-sie desired to know: “Which had answered correctly?” And Kung said, “They have all answered correctly, “That is to say, each in his nature.” And Kung raised his cane against Yuan Jang, Yuan Jang being his elder, For Yuan Jang sat by the roadside pretending to be receiving wisdom. And Kung said “You old fool, come out of it, “Get up and do something useful.” And Kung said “Respect a child’s faculties “From the moment it inhales the clear air, “But a man of fifty who knows nothng Is worthy of no respect.” And “When the prince has gathered about him “All the savants and artists, his riches will be fully employed.” And Kung said, and wrote on the bo leaves: If a man have not order within him He can not spread order about him; And if a man have not order within him His family will not act with due order; And if the prince have not order within him He can not put order in his dominions. And Kung gave the words “order” and “brotherly deference” And said nothing of the “life after death.” And he said “Anyone can run to excesses, “It is easy to shoot past the mark, “It is hard to stand firm in the middle.” And they said: If a man commit ****** Should his father protect him, and hide him? And Kung said: He should hide him. And Kung gave his daughter to Kong-Tchang Although Kong-Tchang was in prison. And he gave his niece to Nan-Young although Nan-Young was out of office. And Kung said “Wan ruled with moderation, “In his day the State was well kept, “And even I can remember “A day when the historians left blanks in their writings, “I mean, for things they didn’t know, “But that time seems to be passing. A day when the historians left blanks in their writings, But that time seems to be passing.” And Kung said, “Without character you will “be unable to play on that instrument “Or to execute the music fit for the Odes. “The blossoms of the apricot “blow from the east to the west, “And I have tried to keep them from falling.”

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From the womb we are taught to idealize the prospect of employment...and everything that comes after is done in attempt to attain a job All the years of school...the pre-job jobs...the extra curricular activities that sparkle like a diamond among shattered glass or dreams on a CV because employed is secure... employed is safe... employed is smart... employed is successful Your mom was hoping you would be an accountant like her but daddy thought you'd be a better scientist...so they made you do everything and by the time you realized that you didn't want to do any of those things...you had spread yourself so thin that the wind carried you in every direction and non of them was right... That didn't really matter as long as you made enough to live in comfort...luxury is like the coin you find under your pillow in return for your fallen tooth...except instead of teeth it's your dreams that you have to trade in... Because unemployed is unstable Unemployed is without purpose Unemployed is poor Unemployed is a failure So it doesn't really matter what you are...just as long as you're not unemployed.

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Jun 13, 2018

Jun 13, 2018 at 2:47 PM UTC

From the womb we are taught to idealize the prospect of employment...and everything that comes after is done in attempt to attain a job All the years of school...the pre-job jobs...the extra curricular activities that sparkle like a diamond among shattered glass or dreams on a CV because employed is secure... employed is safe... employed is smart... employed is successful Your mom was hoping you would be an accountant like her but daddy thought you'd be a better scientist...so they made you do everything and by the time you realized that you didn't want to do any of those things...you had spread yourself so thin that the wind carried you in every direction and non of them was right... That didn't really matter as long as you made enough to live in comfort...luxury is like the coin you find under your pillow in return for your fallen tooth...except instead of teeth it's your dreams that you have to trade in... Because unemployed is unstable Unemployed is without purpose Unemployed is poor Unemployed is a failure So it doesn't really matter what you are...just as long as you're not unemployed.

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