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To ill is scourge hazard of modern man;
The way of life which tricked you leaves you weak.
Before it pounced, prevent you must! You can,
Your visions blur, your limbs cut, your times bleak.
Avoid refined sweetness pure, you should know,
The more you love to eat the more you crave;
Your sweet tongue urged pleasures deals a cruel blow,
The more you indulge, closer be your grave.
This sickness gradual erosion of health,
Like shrinking pools merciless sun would drain.
A diabetic's woe: no amount of wealth,
Could stop the vines that binds and break the chain.
Without remedy and won't heal for good,
So sweat, please monitor intake of food.
Lyn Defelice May 18
Black surges, forges piling emotion,
Foraging, attaining such predicted erosion.
Color the rubies to a diluted amber,
Brittle, dripped gems are toxic, I clamber
To the lamp as to see my implicit devotion.

Vitals ascend, and I can't perceive
This motionless forfeit I often receive.
Aid is essential, it holds potential,
To cure this conflicted, addicted vessel.
My heart on my sleeve, I'm undeceived.

I implore to explore, as breath, I leave,
So close to dying, I'm on the eve
Of darker clothing, and flowers to family,
Hallucinate my abnormalities.
Yet somehow, I am still on my feet-
All feedback is welcome and appreciated.
WS Warner Jul 2014
Corpses proliferate in soaring violence; heirloom of franchise and eminence— perish in erosion.

Timid denizens of derision, cynicism in roaring silence — optimism’s paling vapor—commodity of Indecision, our halcyon days forgotten.

Chosen token of audacity; the onyx maladroit feigns, prevaricating beneath the Sacred canopy.

Etudes of apathy; attrition unlamented; streams of guile— quixotic squall conversely merge — veiled conceit, eloquent arrow of equivocation.

The policy of attenuation.

Treason’s vine obscured beneath the blind surf of consent.

© 2014 & 2016 W. S. Warner
Nat Lipstadt Jul 29
~weary weighted~

flummoxed are the sea watchers;
the long rhythms of sea change reveal only minor modesties,
difficult discerned are the tidal subtleties

though repetitive thrashing extracts it toll,
only the weary-weighted see the true meaning of the beating,
knowing full well,
it beats for them

recalling their early day’d fascination with its endless chaining,
now knowing all are similar
and  the topless churning but a cover up masque,
they need not longer conceal,
an unrevealed confess:

water is heavy-weighted, you cannot forever float,
constancy is of a thing to be wary,
its sadder longevity,
a chipping away erosion of wearing,
‘tis is the knelling noise of  sad respite,
an unlight lighthouse

~for Victoria, a year later~
when swimming with dolphins
lost phase, depth of oceans

recurrence of persuasion
the cavities erosion

a pragmatic extension, the neural hyper tension

grace the evening
split precision aching

remedies for aging

of the alkaline waste
Haiku Donna Aug 12
A catastrophe
deploys ungenetic allure
Tasting sweet nectar

under the wings of
a dove surprised by a mad
raging reclused cloud

mastibating to
a climax of sumner heat
secluded in a

shall town where only
ghosts haunt the dark streets every
night until the stars

collide into a
erosion of blinding sparks
fluttering in sky

until the madman
sleeps forever on the moon
captured by his death
Have no idea where this came from!!
'But posted it to see the response I get  as I cannot make sense  of it x
After a question my dear friend Paul ask me about this poem I think it's now related to a daunting Drama programme that I have been watching so thanks brother Paul :-)))
Hallelujah, this igneous intrusion, this great granite batholith
Nudging its way through viscous crust
This effing great lump
Has settled now
Willingly subjected itself to a million years of erosion, and
It’s conscious
But doesn’t know for sure if it chose to erupt
Or if terra just decided it was its turn
Billions of years, and now just a moment
We all have them, moments
A fell-runner places the final foot atop our friend Batholith
Becoming its capstone
The soul of frantic, frail, human self
Conjoins with peak of inanimate black, sparkling rock
And they become, ‘one’

Perhaps terra will return, swallow them, one, up
Melt them both, one, down; recycle
Perhaps it will

Yes, I guess it will, eventually
It is the nature of things
Working on a large sheep prperty once
On days not much doing way out dig cactus
One day doing just this I caught a flash
Owner on his old horse up a hill for practice

Watching me the old coot he was that day
To see if I on my own  was doing my work
The sun sent me a flash from his binoculars
The old guy was an untrusting kind of jerk

Just below me a soil erosion twent feet deep
That ran for about a real good mile away
I rode down and right up it for a mile
And right up behind him fifty tards I say

Tied up my horse sat under a big old tree
Rolled myself a smoke and watched him
Looking all over away down there was he
Chances finding me down there were slim

He was getting so frustrated binoculars too
Where the hell did that bloke go he said
Looking all about for me that day was he
I just smiled rolled another smoke instead

Him standing in his old half worn saddle
Where the hell did that bloke I ask go
I'll be having a real good talk to him later
Can't trust anyone I said nows a good ya know


terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018
Wade Redfearn Jul 27
It isn't like that.
It isn't a left turn too early,
a lark awake at night,
thick brown light in an open field;
unpredictable: a bad or counter-miracle.
It is only wanton.

You can't drive. You can't be a passenger.
I wrote nothing down, but still
the permanence of a thing written down
freezes your hands.
  You are your own enemy
as I have been known to shake
at a hard thought. Just never at the wheel.
  In that way, we are alike: we trade.

You know how it is
Suddenly, something trapped between your toes:
the world has a strangled voice, it is
unroofed. You want the comfort of normal walls,
normal light, normal noise; in your hand
is a hot brand you'd halfway use
to smith it back together
and halfway swallow.
I had different plans for this vacation
than destruction.

I had plans. You had plans. The earth
planned its axial tilt; the weather planned
its burning; we put aside too little water.
A few plants were familiar -
pinon pine I remembered from the placard
that explained its yen for standing alone.
One lonesuch tree that made a little niche
and defied anything. Now dead, too.
How we thought we could fare better, I cannot say.

Ten feet up by one hundred feet over:
one liter water per mile climbed:
fatigue, fatigue.
The quiet supremacy of all these rules for living like
and the peristalsis pulling down
huge loads of sunlight
into the dirty gully
like bread and meat.

If blood I am, then what kind of blood?
Unsettled and unsettling. The circulatory system
has an apt name: sometimes I can feel yesterday's blood
in the same neurons, saying the same thing.
I have no choice but to repeat it.
Time sheds its significance.
I have no continuity:
I have rhythms.

Erosion: isn't that what made these furrows?
I beg it to unmake me
flat like a seabed and many fathoms green
where the sun will never reach me.

In the penumbra of your anger
I do not fear dying,
only dying unacquitted:
heights are all the same.
They would all break me and none would.
The grasshoppers and gecko hatchlings
all die in their way, rubbed against the hot dry dust.
Parched, I gnash my chipped stone teeth
and tongue of chaparral - I am making
a song that says
die with me
but smile at me.

Then I see it through flashes of temper,
frame by frame, like a fingertip behind a pinwheel:
a dream of something abstract that is also true.
Dreams of freedom alongside dreams of dying.
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