The bench, made of many things, like support,
From loved ones, or others very close, or hopes,
Of the same, etching into the legs, of this bench.

Strongest metal, I dare to say, composes the legs,
Of this bench, upon which I sit, among other things,
Like the wood, from the strongest oak, that's unbending.

Yes I sit, upon this beautiful piece, of collaboration
Of my family, I admire their dedication, but I dash it,
I apologize, but you see I sadly, must reject it.

This because, what sits upon this bench, is not me,
at least, not entirely or only me, but the visitor,
it's silent, an aura of death surround it, ghastly.

It sits, this bench that used to hold, now folds,
The visitor, quite happily enjoys, the sight
Of falling, I'm falling down, onto ground.

Nowhere, that's where I land, for I have done
the deed, I am no more unfortunately, my regrets,
The visitor, he has claimed victory, and I defeat.

I lay, breathless and unliving, quite ugly,
Not only that, but this beautiful bench, a waste,
My last blunder, I've sparked the fire asunder, Goodbye.

I anointed you with the essence
of my deepest love,
my  very being was poured into
your ultimate happiness.

My burning desire was for you
to be exalted to your best,
to be in a realm where you could
surpass mere mediocrity.

Where you could encompass the
totality of unending intensity,
feel the burning emotions
etching your heart and mind.

I afforded you more
than the Lion’s share!
With  me, you could have
walked taller than any man!

I'm just a dreamer under the moon
Etching out lines on a paper, no one knows.
They see me in another world,
Far off, aloof, distant and forlorn.
You look at me, with the eyes of a spectator,
Do I look so funny to you?
Can you see these sad eyes,
Watching you make no difference
As you go on with your taunts
And poorly worded chants?
I'm a dreamer, with a world inside my head
I can create a magic, within.
Then bring it out with just some words.
I am a dreamer, under the moon,
Penchant to writing,
Adding colors and dimensions
To dimly lit corridors,
To green fields that
welcome the morning sun.
Painting darkness and light with
The subtle strokes of my mind.
Sculpturing a woman or a man
Their life, and all their strife.
I am a dreamer, under the moon
The pen, to me, is definitely
*Mightier than the sword.

I am a teenage introvert:

My bed is unkempt and I long for forgiveness - mainly from myself and possibly my mirror

I worship the cynical and complain how much I hate school - even though I hate when I stay home

My fingers are etching maps in my head, while I form an excuse to skip, even though I never do

I look for acceptance, anywhere. No one uses words anymore and the rooms are silent.

Miscommunication starts fights so I never speak up. Late nights on Netflix - succeeding at nothing

I am a teenage stereotype:

I save for concerts and buy cd’s. I long to drive someday and having the prospects of college. Filled with wanderlust I cry myself to sleep. Dreaming of not waking up - but getting home sick at home.

I am confused.

Forgotten flesh behind cold walls,



pressing nose to steamed glass--


With weightless memories,
your ache hides within a dream
like whispers on a scream.


--playing moon games.

a black widow wrapping
flies is the only sound.

The silence roared like fire,
standing in the shadows of surrender...

etching goodbye in the mist.

first glance
beast out of the darkness
frozen in time
majestic seahorse
carrying Aphrodite
grace rising effortlessly
abysses grip released with ease
wielding her magic over moon goddess
while she imagines the first eclipse
illuminated ring circling
shades of darkness
dominating the sky
goddess Selene rests her motion
etching love in eyes
through lasting heartbeats
reflecting the rings
true brilliance
setting the sky on fire
being
one in the sameness

Compiled of all the parts
No one wishes to have
Fiery ropes that refuse to rest
Spidery fingers that worry too much
Freckles etching countless constellations undiscovered
Eyelashes that a cactus wouldn't be proud of
Emerald eyes, woeful, or so I've been told,
that reflect all the unsung symphonies of the past
and of the yet to come
Long, awkward torso that curves in all the wrong places
Skin paler and mire transparent than the surface of a pond
Dancer's thighs with an octogenarian's knees
The smile of a Chinese ten-year-old
paired with the beak of a toucan.
That, at least, is good for something:
Sniffing out your lies and following them
through the thick blue veins that map
straight to my heart.

Eclipsed by ecstasy,
etching ourselves,
from corner to corner,
we drew out the figures of our present,
and scribbled out the plagues of our past.
We marched in unison,
eager to cry out to the world,
All we had learnt,
and all that we had taught,
but could no longer remember.
Faces seemed to exhale wisdom,
Because not only the people,
But the air understood what we knew.
What we had always known,
Yet had somehow trapped away.
Purging our unconscious,
Spewing our fears.
The world as we knew it was in mid-applause
and ready to erupt.

Erupt to only find ourselves,
On the journey back from where we came.
As if we were molten hardening back to reality,
Where regrets and headaches,
fail to numb the truth.

Rest these weary thoughts away
The ones that knock
The ones that stay
The ones that lurk until it's night
Creep and crawl until it's bright
The sun, it shatters the reverie
Of sleepless dreams that never flee
They wait at bay, inching, itching
Etching, scratching,
clawing, stitching
When at night and all alone
They hit the ball, run it home
Leaving bags under your eyes
Thoughts annoy, like summer flies
No sleep, again
A rerun that will never end.

Dreams are beautiful things.
Memories of past's fights,
Hope of a future light,
For a tomorrow so bright.
.
Thus we must work together.
To save our imagination before it rots.
Go out flaunting our true colors
and achieving the dreams we all sought.
.
The fell deeds of men
can be forgotten, words can not.
For they are forever etched immortal.
That's the power of dreams and thoughts.
**- Aks & Vergil.

The way i look at you

I look at you like the roaring fire that we sat together by whispering the tune of the prison we subject ourselves to because that was when i felt every bit of your rare smile projected onto my skin
I look at you like I look at the night sky that we looked up at that one night when you told me you might never come back because looking at you makes me feel a little bit nostalgic in the best way i can muster to interpret you
I look at you the way i look at the waves crashing on the rocks because you bring so much chaos to my fingers when i type out that response to a one word text at 11:57 on a monday night
I look at you like I'm looking at the wooden paneled lodge i survive on because i linger off of every syllable you don't say like i linger off of every moment i don't spend in that room with you on the moon
I look at you like I look at the view from the boat when arriving each morning because i dissect every word that slips from your tongue like I dissect every detail of that island etching it into my brain the way i scrawled every detail of you into my mind, your rough hands, your tanned back, your blue eyes, and the curve of your lips, your coffee order, your taped up converse, your sunglasses, just you
I look at you like you are where I want to be 24/7 because thats what you remind me of

otm.

I stroke these flames,
And pat my tail,
Tapping the dust away.
I whisper to these dead flames,
And look above,
Begging for the relieve by day.
No longer do I glow in Night,
It was sudden, this cold,
And the darkness in here scares me,
The flutter of my wings echo in hollowed oak,
Making me jump,
Making me wish to rip them from this back,
If only I could reach; stretch further,
But ah! I cannot.
But as my heart took another leap,
And I saw shadows on my wooden walls,
I looked to the skies with watering eyes,
As seven billon lights floated in the night,
And the world was lit,
As if it were day.
A smile appeared to my lampyridae lips,
I was barely conscious of the wind leading me away,
I was humming a beautiful melody of my forefathers,
A song sung with the restoration of hope,
The world can light itself during dark!
They are finally here,
People! Man! **** sapiens!
And the world has lit the dark for them,
The sun is warm;
The wind is sweet, for them.
And though sad, we are happy to no longer be needed,
We love this world, but others await, dormant, eager to be lit.
So we disappear this day,
Hardly noticing the return of bioluminescence,
Etching in our memories,
Seven billion stars and the Moon's beautiful crescence.

                      Love and Light
                            from firefly

Two Blue Beams
rise in the twilight
from dark recesses
of a wounded city

astral projections
paint night clouds
in looming hues
of temporal intent

declarative beams
affirm a bold portent
of an insistent will
and timeless aspirations

one thrusting light
projects wanton determination
bequeathed from unhealed wounds
of a lacerated city

the other casts fervent hope
onto the vast celestial sea
boldly etching upon the heavens
an earnest nations highest ideals

the pillars of light
reveal the dual nature
fixing our place
in a turbulent universe

the brighter light
affirms the beneficence
of liberty's eternal grace
so divinely conferred

received by a higher self
accepted with gratitude
the gracious anointing
of freedoms rich abundance

ride this beam with angry cries
conjure ghosts from a dead past
channel a full measure of resent
its power of restoration is quelled

stirred from nagging agonies
nursed with righteous indignation
untreated wounds fester
the weak blue spire cannot heal

a bleak azure apparition
screams for selfish retribution
heed this dire admonition
a promised fury of
full demonic dimension

the rankled city
yearns to come together
united in communion
around these lights

drawn to the blue flames
like swirling moths
unconscious of what
compels shock and awe

earnest yearnings
flutter to exhaustion
struggle toward the light
aspiring to heal in the inviting glow

transcending the fissures
of our fractured nation
the waning resolve
of a national will

a restless Zeitgeist
cannot be repressed
nor will it relinquish
its will to manifest

a city's fondest hopes
entombed in collective memory
is foretold again
around these bold lights

entranced by the light
a solemn urban campfire
transfixed and sealed
we speak our hearts

holding hands
gnashing teeth
we bite into
our bent knees
tucked up
to sullen chests
heavy hearts
bear pains of loss
dreary tears wash
ash stained cloths
crumpled photos
dear bereavements
of faded memories
and expired hope

resolve is renewed
in bursts of pride
incendiary nationalism
suppress dissent
pummel thoughts
of perceived sedition
pump iron fists as
zealous sledgehammers
forged with conviction
in kilns of
righteous indignation
seething with infected
emotional hangovers
from prurient
tribal diatribes

these sweet sentiments
swing between the polls
of the vast pendulum's arc
along a narrow celestial scale

too and fro
angst and expectation
ebbs and flows
in this astral assignation

the heavenly helix
a set of blue axles
a modern vision
of Ezekiel's Wheel

the rung-less vertices
of our Jacob's Ladder
invites all citizens
to climb again

ascend this pathway
in the company of angels
arrive transfigured
renewed again

build new cities
transcendent destinations
new Edens await
pioneers to explore

fearless pilgrims
sojourn onward
moving to secure
liberty for all

conscious stewards
of the blessed good earth
celebrate rich diversity
of all the beloved

descending back
to an expired past
is a ridged stasis
anchored in Hell

witness flitting
nostalgic phantoms
pathetic pantomimes
of histrionic fictions

the downward path
of the lesser light
tethers us to the place
we cannot leave

The upward light
abhors a hells decent
resolved to vacate
acrimony and hate

the dancing helix opens
a blue portal to heaven
don saintly garb
wing upward in light

transcendence calls us
to traverse with angels
touch the luminescent hem
of God's divine robe

Selah

Music Selection:
Aaron Copland: Appalachian Spring , Simple Gifts

NYC
9/11/10
jbm

Graceful swan,
On skates,
You stately glide;
Etching your past
For the world to see.
You exhilarate
In your moment;
Refusing to yield
To the bond of earth.
Twirling, swirling,
Poetry is manifest
Into exquisite motion.
Your rhythm and beat
Cut through the ice;
Body and spirit become
One with the element.

(Dedicated to Michelle Kwan)

Be weary of the boys
that show that they care,
for those are the most
dangerous ones.

They slowly work their
way into your thoughts
until they envelope
your heart with an
iron grip that won't let
go.

And when you plead
for them to just forget you,
they do. But the problem
is that they've left bruises
and scars imprinted on
your skin and in your bones
and all throughout your mind,
permanently etching themselves
into everything you do.

So while the caring boy moves
on exactly as you asked, you're
left to pick up the pieces of
heart you begged him to break.

CHRISTIAN DISCIPLE

Ayad Gharbawi

1995

Silent Martyr!
How can I hear you, then
If all the Tears
You speak of
Burn
My Face
Etching
Their Hatreds
All over
My brain?

Somewhere out in another universe,
I'm 12 years old
and I'm sitting on my bed listening to something through
a hopelessly tangled white headphone string,
flipping through the dog-eared pages
of my favorite book while everyone is sleeping.

The sticky, syrupy air of summer floats through an open window
and nothing bad has happened to me,
no scalding words or hot fingers
etching their prints into my skin.

I haven't menstruated or fallen in love or  yet shrunk myself down
or any of the things that made me a woman.

I am warm in my white tank top
and the blue satin shorts with the printed clouds
wondering about trips to the beach
and sticker placements on my new notebook from Borders.

And I hope she's always able to stay like this,
that she never knows of the kinds of stains
that won't wash out of her white tank top.

And that every once in a while,
I might just catch a second of her laughing
from the room next door.

For it was but a figurine of blue nothing majestic
in its stance until a fateful day upon its happening
of beleaguered figure with eyes that shone beyond
this vacant etching. Without a yearning it picked at
this still supple flesh and devoured the beauty within.

Coexisting motions interlaced from a form of nothingness
to an existence of beauty that birthed in form and a weave
of colour liberated from its anatomy. Once it has given into
repulsive convulsions of what had perspired it saw with
what new eyes. But where one feather lingered it needed more.

A craving of beauty even though needed through means
that weren't intentional. But elegance is an obscurity of
vain ambitions that once reflected upon is need to be kept
within the grasp of moments now corroding at these delicate
frames whisper in sight and where one fluttered now, more do.

So many feathers adorned its foliage, and seen was the beauty
that extended past its virtues that were as corrupted as its on
moral compass that was dipped in blood, you should fear a
Peacock of no foliage for it needs to be hole to see its feathers
grace the air and only the inevitable craving will fulfil this plumage.
For it see with many eyes that aren't its own but fulfil it plumage.

*"So many see nothing, but a world where beauty is constructed
from the eyes of others and even they do not truly see,

I was at an art museum and
I saw these girls snickering around a
Collection of black and white photographs
In a corner of the gallery

As I approached they moved on
But not before I heard one of them say
"Who wants to look at pictures of an old guy's ****"

The photographs in question did have a rather large picture
Of an old man's *****, but there we’re others
Pictures of his hands, feet, face
All zoomed in enough that you could see his skin
In detail

In the wrinkles, freckles, and weathered lines
Of this old man you could see an entire
Lifetime on display
The time etching into his surface
Like the needle into a warm wax cylinder
The song of his years played as lines and furrows

A venerable road map of a life lived

As for the ****
I'm sure that thing had some miles put
On it too.

It's just one of those days;

Those days you feel
the passage of time etching
its mark on humanity,

Days where you
realise how
much the
world has wronged you

Stained your
face and body
with
empty promises
and overbearing
judgment

It's one of those days
where you feel

*Insignificant.

It all suddenly seems to make sense
As you lie in your own filth

Naked, cold, intoxicated
Yet, happy

As you stare at a blank canvas
With quivering hands

Hoping to leave behind
A few stupid memories

Living life for the sounds.

grind i mind

absolute audio-rhythmic beats pound a dance through an etching ring.

beats box across the field and further across a synapse

fill up my cup to the fuzzing auto-metric top

meters into yards into miles into years zoom fumble into wall and leak without gravity.

naked.****.phat.spat you out like good stat.( ic.)