"entertainments" poems
If the "Twinflame", or what is better known as the "Soul Mate Theory" rings any truth,
then I believe I have felt this, even within my own disarray of natural human emotion and connections.
The "Love" emotion, in particular, defines the world "Soul Mate" to its truest definition, without question.
I'm a true believer that I have/had or maybe still will encounter this sort of spirit and that any lifetime spent with such a kind soul was a lifetime of riches and happiness beyond what anything mad-made could deliver.
I hope when we do find these people we let them them know and I hope they recognize this sort of bond as the most infinate form of respect and compliment.
I never imagined my story being a love story, but if I prove to be, not as smart as I feel, that is a flaw I would endure in every lifetime, just for the benifit of Love and Friendship.
When "THEY" say, you must love yourself, before you can love another, I like to quote Oscar Wilde, who said
"To love thyself is the beginning of a lifelong romance."
Take careful consideration to this.
When you get to know yourself
and I mean, REALLY get to know yourself.
You learn not only your darkest fears, but you learn your most powerful comforts.
You literally create a world that only exists from within.
You are learning and loving yourself into an "inner beauty" so fascinating that modern "entertainments" become nothing more than mere distraction.
You become your own best friend.
This is the goal and perhaps the key to life.
You can be homeless, unwanted, and completley alone in the world (or so it feels in dark hours) and still have a place to run to, when you close your eyes, you're already rich.
Now add another person.
Who can compete with yourself and know your every move.
Every thought.
Every intention.
Every guilty pleasure.
Imagine someone else, who knows you in such a way.
What a concept.
Its real. You just have to be patient. Take the time to love yourself.
I'm not there, but I have an adventure of a lifetime awaiting me. How could I ever fear life, when life can be so beautiful.
With this other person...you can see them, touch them.
Conversate with them.
Educate, learn and lean on them.
You will never find that, until you know what you are looking for.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
Went for a cruise on the maiden ship Titanic,
A wonderful ship everyone said would be epic
I was not scared because it was unsinkable
To be in fear would for me be unthinkable
Wanted to sail far away to another land
Where my life, I think could be quite grand
Unpacking my suitcase in a luxurious liner
This is the one yacht that could not be finer.
Passengers enjoyed dinner, dancing, and other entertainments.
All the days of the trip they would enjoy the embellishments
I heard that people like Astor, Guggenheim Straus, Thayer and Gordon
Would be on this ship including Stead, Fulrelle, Gibson and Morgan
On April 14, 1912 I was that evening returning to my room
Walking down the corridor I heard a deafening boom
Went to find an RMS crew member
When I was told on deck to assemble
He handed me a life jacket just in case
And to get in the lifeboat because there was space
Passengers were lowered down by the crew
The first little boat had just a few
A man started quickly paddling our tiny boat
Once far away he stopped and we would just float
Everyone watched as we heard screaming, crying and yelling
Amongst the chaos we heard music and saw the flares flying
In the early hours of April 15, the ship’s lights flickered out and then went straight up vertical
We all heard the moans of the iron and watched it break in half and it sank uncontrollable
From quite a distance I saw an ocean of people
Out in the middle of the sea, no one felt hopeful
Soon there was no sound
As we all looked around
Shivering crying and wondering
If we are going to live or die pondering
published in the Crawfordsville, Indiana newspaper
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
Butterflies were her favorite thing.
Her pillows had Monarchs in full winged flight
Needlepointed by an artful hand.
One perched on a perfume bottle’s cap
It’s crystal wings composed for rest.
Her jewelry box was full of them
In precious stones and colored glass
In every size and metal base.
If they all rose in magic flight
The air would shine with rainbows.
§
Today I found a tiny golden brooch,
Set with green and yellow stones
With tiny diamonds for the eyes.
It was dropped by someone rushing home
From entertainments where I do my work.
Will it be missed and my phone ring,
Or is this a message from my Mimi.
The minute that I saw it
She was in my mind
As gentle as the butterflies she loved.
She settled on the flower of my heart
And cocooned the little moth of me
And wrapped it up to metamorph
Into the unique butterfly I will be.
ljm
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
within the lunar and stellar
landscape's terrain
the dreamer shall reach
a marvelous domain
an infinite amount of possibilities
live in this plain
journeying to its wonderland
our ultimate refrain
children we can be
in the ginormous playground
we'll giggle at all
the amusements that are found
there will be lots
of entertainments e'er around
plenty of happiness will reside
on its merry go round
this though has grabbed
many a child's attention
to take a magical carpet ride
to a celestial dimension
we adults recall the fantasy
of its inception
our young hearts filling
with joy's cheery invention
the inner child breaths
in our mind's eye
sometimes it likes to fly
like a kite on high
in this amazing realm
dreams never die
their potentiality lifts us
with a sparkling spry
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
In an otherwise quiet snowlit night
the chelloveck ahead has shuffle-skitch shoes.
I have clock clock boots.
The fog train to Voksal at this distance
hoots like a toy. Some meters trailing
someone’s step is a sticky squick-squick.
As I turn left, I think of nothing
save cognac, cognac and koshka (Marusya),
the mild entertainments of loneliness so far removed
from my mother tongue:
through snow-covered courtyards the dogs hours ago abandoned.
What good is it to be fluent in one’s own language
when the mashrutka slush and hiss
down Yulitsa Kikvidze in the distance?
At home, the cat chews the cords to the blinds
of the kitchen window, her wants
more important than mine.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Some days the canned laughter gets to be a bit much;
Is there any authentic laughter left, in this post modern Rome?
Even the real sounds artificial now-
Perhaps we’ve stayed at the gladiator games too long?
The sun’s already burnt us, we're tired and thirsty,
While the entertainments keep playing on and on,
Growing ever thinner, transparent, predictable;
With each dreary season, the same debacle song.
At night we dream, that we’re the newest slaughter,
They're readying to come for; that banging on the door:
No longer far away, swords drawn and at the ready,
The four horsemen are coming; the apocalyptic four.
It doesn’t matter if you’ve never had religion,
For famine and scourge don’t belong to one creed-
But we're still too busy now, gorging ourselves
On endless dreams of supremacy and need.
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 5:40 PM UTC
The Spirit of Winter carefully tiptoes her way along the continuum of forgotten Gaelic intensities, whilst mischievous laughter resounds throughout the geographical conveniences of complacency.
How gorgeous is the anatomy of madness, as she perches on gorgon ledges of sophisticated depravity.
I do not even hail from the land of the Gauls.
Yet, ghastly and seductive are those flittering silhouettes of fortitude and perceived harlotry, as they penetrate damp walls of ancient entertainments with multiple partners.
Harken to my lament and do not banish my soul into eternal blackness, as we conjure the sword and kiss with fivefold and unconventional intensities beyond the circles of the forest.
You are now given permission to ring the bell sevenfold, Oh master, where scientific inscriptions are splayed with the blatancy of wanton chastity.
I was born by the river that is never the same whenever it is stepped into with more than one dribbling expectation.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
the words only come
as she turns and walks barefaced
into the deluge of night
but they fail to turn her path from
this motorway travesty
the traffic gives no appeasement
and so i retreat alone back to the civility of light
the waitress from the dinner
in her crisp black uniform is a soft vision of
transient beauty in this dark world display
her sharp step on the tiles is made clear by
the click of high heels
with genuine concerns painted vividly
on young face hovers over me
with instruments of refreshment
and implements of less casual soul meats
she gives comforts and care
to my wearied thought
she defines the end of her entertainments
with her sharp pencils pendulum scratchings
with bill in hand
i am loosed upon the night once more
now alone to roads delights
homeward bound
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
a dark enlightenment forms in her mouth
its pure sanity's not tainted
a dark enlightenment mouthed with her bright ruby lips
letting it fall to the carpet
where it slowly rolls in the dirt
it ashen face weakly weeps
a dark enlightenment
lay on her treasured spiral notebook
college ruled
she lay pallid and limp in the setting sun
flea infested glitterboys lay all around her
for her entertainments
they watch her with weak eyes
waiting for her soft hand
the dark enlightenment
is five civil words uttered in profane mannerism
that showers the speaker with the knowledge's unkempt
by malice's smooth grandeur hand
malice is an old pro at this sort of thing
leasure suit in lizard lounges
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
Greate is thy Sin, since Sin is never Small:
And Monstrous Moles of Sin Call home thy Soule.
About their Mountainous Molehills they do Crawle.
Play thou (and win) a Game of Whacke-a-Mole.
Unto the Moles be Deadly as an asp.
Beware, take Care, nor Swat the pettish wasp.
The Harebrain'd Sinners Sins to him are toyes;
Theyre Entertainments, Gambols, Games with Dice.
The Madbrain'd Sinners Sins to him are joyes
Untill he's made to paye in full their price.
The Crackbrain'd Sin-addicted Scarab bug
That liveth but for Sin to Hell is Drug.
May 6, 2024
May 6, 2024 at 9:13 PM UTC
Marriage was intended to make babies
not statements!
Marriage is a covenant before God
not governments!
Marriage is a promise to family and future
not quick investments!
Marriage is sacrifice and hard work
not daily entertainments!
Marriage is a mortgage and college fund
not tax entitlements!
Marriage takes a Father & Mother for a child
not village managements!
Marriage is lived and enjoyed in private
not public amusements!
Marriage is between husband, wife and God
not life partner arrangements!
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
***Marriage was intended to make babies
not statements!
Marriage is a covenant before God
not governments!
Marriage is a promise to family and future
not quick investments!
Marriage is sacrifice and hard work
not daily entertainments!
Marriage is a mortgage and college fund
not tax entitlements!
Marriage takes a Father & Mother for a child
not village managements!
Marriage is lived and enjoyed in private
not public amusements!
Marriage is between husband, wife and God
not life partner arrangements!***
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The War on Books
The war on books, codified by Stalin’s functionaries
at the Soviet Writers’ Conference in 1934 and ruthlessly
waged by the secret police for the following fifty years,
was finally coming to an end, and Zhivago’s insurgent
guerrillas were winning.
-Duncan White, Cold Warriors:
Writers Who Waged the Literary Cold war
What books will America purge this week -
What childhood adventures, what scholarly works
What entertainments of an idle hour
Will be forbidden to us in this Land of the Free?
We pray that nations blessed with liberty
Will smuggle books to us, stories and poems
With innocent ideas that give delight
And in their innocence threaten tyrants
What books will America purge this week –
And when did we become afraid of ideas?
Mar 29, 2021
Mar 29, 2021 at 9:16 AM UTC
*sometimes writing poetry
purges the brain
like the mourning toilet ritual
like shock treatment
or a whopping good lobotomy
gets the cockka demons
and snails out of my ears
refreshes like
sweet dreams dryer sheets
and gives one a sense of having
accomplished something
when one has not
i'm purging
the hobgoblins of deep grooved nuro patterns
a stunted caged mind
that keeps me safe
like a lidded box
for small entertainments
trivia and vast ****** ****** of *** prancing
girls on girls
leggy acrobats begging me for diabolical
**** and tongue gymnastics
a small time writer
haunted by picayune ideation's of craft
daunted
in the midst of nowhere
i seek the asylum
of
rangy jungles and great stone cities
that languish in depths
of word mists vainglory
as i hide from dark storms
fearing doom
and mythic hells
fumbling through
labyrinths
vacant, isolated
a crying mouth*
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 5:02 PM UTC