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Clay Feet Nov 2015
Forlorn beauty-child
Living in my night
Crying in your dream.
Sounds of sorrow
Linger in the morning mist
Of subdued consciousness.

Troubled water falls
From awakened red eyes
That searched inside loneliness  
Only to find more.


Behind my faceted face
Your countenance lingers...
I glance quickly within,
You disappear!

Your gaze lit my shadowed mind.
Your presence was there waiting
For me…

A Sonata…
A Fantasy  
A Major key bright-shining
Singing sunbeams to lift me.

After the music...

Shards of shattered dreams
Scattered like felled icicles
lying in the sun, melting into mulch      
They dawned bright green
Pipers on Scottish dew.

The mourning moon is
Catchlight in your eyes
Bright Bird...

Captivating sailors
Reaching down evoking vulnerable
Aspects held so long secret...
ja Oct 2014
It’s a puzzle
thinking what is salient
complications become proliferate

Hands on quarter position
evoking my inner senses
too late in one’s niche

It’s my inhibition
brought me in subliminal
My entire life,
without her presence

Cumulative heuristics
with other girls
and other boys
drawing some vague experiences

And I just thought
we can’t hold on
but we can move on

It’s crazy as I think
of you and me again
upon my emotional scrutiny
You're my drama.
jane taylor May 2016
a cerebral grasping of existence’s resplendence
is insufficient

tenuously treading bereavement’s tide
i cradle life

twinkling moments spent on this planet
are hallowed time

i walk in quiet reverence as tears flow
at innocuous occurrences

god’s face aglow in each instance
perspective revived

a bumblebee drifting gently settles
evoking awe

i stand pensive aforetime unaware
in cathedrals we stand

eyes newly uncovered awakened discover
celestial dimensions

people replete with infinite spirit
are all that surround

my senses abruptly adjusting their focus
‘tis an earthly angelic realm

zebra Aug 2018
when life is charmed with radiance
all kicking pony
and summer sticky sweet with instinct
like a head sloped between thighs

moralities privation comes
stirs it's ***
a broth of orthodoxy
evoking a cinematic painting
of Christ's crimson howls
for the ache of life

his blood sacrifice construed
as desire from the embrace of lust
sins cursed maniacal
save the ******* of priests
for little children's ****
the father
stands aloof
as if nothing but helpless black space

the churches history
a coterie of priests
a prancing parade
in black dresses
with rosy *****  

jesus's own little rays of sunshine
religion  adult
AE Wilson May 2014
There is no screaming.
There are no car horns wailing
or tires screeching.
The many understanding
voices of nature
resound softly in my ears,
and that is all.

There is no hatred.
There are no greedy demands
or acts of malice.
The calm caress of a breeze
excites my moist skin
beneath the unyielding sun,
and that is all.

There are no people.
I have no mother to love
and no one to please.
The promise of solitude
weighs down on my mind
evoking sighs of relief,
and that is all.

I do not have to try.
There is no judgment,
and there will be no disappointment,
The unbiased acceptance
of the trees and the birds
silences my restless thoughts,
and I am at peace.
Ron Conway Sep 11
Evoking visions earth removed
Mind in numb defence falls upon love
Obediently facing
The heavens eternal
Imitating; never seeing a naked imperfection that yesterday
Offered falsehoods
Never understanding and never can escape
This is a double acrostic reading vertically and horizontally
"Ever mindful of the insanity of nuance"
Alyssa Underwood Sep 2017
There is little in this world that consistently causes our hearts more pain or which produces in us more need for forgiveness than rejection, especially from those whom it has cost us so much to love. It is universal anathema to the soul, and much of our lives can be unconsciously governed by the fear of it. So we find ourselves naturally asking, "Joy in the midst of rejection? Is that even possible?" Oh, yes! Not only possible but commanded of us who are believers in Christ. And not only commanded of us but ready to be gloriously bestowed on us like the most precious of pearls.

It's in the season of greatest rejection that we enter the season of greatest opportunity to discover the fullness of God's joy by discovering the fullness of His own heart. Walking in intimacy with Jesus through this searing pain may be one of the most priceless privileges of grace granted to us on this earth, for it opens up one of the widest doors for us to enter into the fellowship of sharing in His sufferings, and there is no more obvious chance to die to ourselves and live for Christ than in that holy communion of suffering with Him.

It's there that we're most able to clearly see Him and best prepared to clearly reflect Him, and it's then that we're empowered to live our lives here on earth from the very throne room of heaven, seated in the resurrected presence of our Bridegroom, where the joy always runs full and over. So our deepest heartaches will turn to deepest joys when we embrace them for the sake of Christ, to gain Him and be found in Him, to know Him in intimate detail through excruciatingly sweet experience. We will discover that the Lord entrusts the most luscious of blessings and the rarest of secrets to the most desperate and thirsty of souls, and that He delights to place the loveliest of wings on the lowliest of worms.

The gifts of myrrh's sorrow which the Father pours into the vessels of our lives are poured first into the hands of His own Son and flow through His nail-pierced scars before they ever touch us. And as we choose to graciously receive them as such, we are filled up with Him and enabled to pour Him out into the lives of others, even those who continually scorn and despise us.

The gift (yes, gift) of rejection is the high privilege of being asked by our Commander to become His flag bearer, receiving the esteemed honor of marching beside Him at the center of the front line, into the heat of the battle and into the face of the "enemy" (the rejecter), armed with no gun and carrying only His banner of love over our head for all to see. It's a sacred invitation into a certain death for the sake of knowing His love more intimately and for the service of displaying it more gloriously.

And if tempted to refuse the privilege, let us remember these two things: this life is so much more freely, joyfully lived when we have finally learned to count ourselves dead to it and alive to Christ, and the flow of His agape love through us will only be as strong as what it costs us to demonstrate it. The greater the cost, the purer the love; the purer the love, the more we are made like Him; the more we are made like Him, the more attuned we will be to His own heart's breaking and to our own breaking of it.

Oh, that we might be purged of ever thinking again that our neglecting of His love does not matter to Him! May He cause our hearts to break and break until we see how much it does! May we know the world's rejection again and again until we are finally scoured clean of our own despicable tendency to reject Him in favor of all our worldly playthings! No lover has ever endured more rejection than our Lover at our own hands and by our own hearts. And no lover continues to love through rejection with the determination and desire, suffering and sacrifice, tenderness and tenacity of our own Bridegroom. Can we not endure whatever He has called us to suffer for Him? Can we not allow it to drive us more fervently to His heart?... Lord, capture us by Your mighty hand and consume us by Your mighty flame, and may we pant and pine only for You, for Your love sets us free to dance in the midst of the fire!

How humbling, mystifying and worship-evoking it is to realize that the One we have so grievously rejected is the same One Who so perfectly understands and longs to comfort our own heart's grief when we are rejected. And to not run to Him now for that fellowship of healing would be to reject Him all over again and to break His heart once more. What could hurt Him more than our stubborn resistance to share in both His sufferings and His comfort when there is so much joy and intimacy waiting to be had with Him? Whatever ache our own heart knows, however deep and scathing, it cannot compare to the ache of His own heart when we let anything pull us away from Him, for He is rightly EVERYTHING to us—Father, Husband, Lover, Best Friend, Brother, Confidante, Kindred Spirit, Counselor, Nurturer, Rescuer, Healer, Hero... Behind the pain of every rejection is a legitimate need or desire that He is waiting to fill in us, and we have to let Him get to it by dying to our fleshly ones.

Or do we suppose that we might ever find true and lasting joy apart from dying to ourselves and abiding in Him when He died so that we might fully live in the joy of that abiding? No, true joy will only follow abiding; abiding and dying walk hand in hand, and rejection throws open the door for all three. Man's rejection is central to God's wooing, for it shatters our false expectations of human love and stirs in our hearts the longing for a perfect one. So let us not shrink back fearfully from that which can do us such good and teach us to love as Christ has loved us. With renewed passion, let us ask Him to wrap every affection of our hearts more tightly around Him that every desire might be united with His own and that we might learn to love in a way that sets our lives and the world around us ablaze!

To be despised and rejected and, still, to love—that is the ultimate triumph of Christ in our hearts, for we are never more like Him, never more full of Him, never more surrendered to His heart and His work than when He pours out His love through us to those who will not love us back. When we can stand in the face of bitter, cutting words, contemptuous looks and shaming mockery and still love fiercely but with a gentle and quiet spirit, we will know without doubt that it is His Spirit moving gloriously through us... Lord Jesus, Who so willingly floods our hearts with Your most precious gift, Yourself (and You are Love!), teach us to ever know You more and to rely fully on the love You have for us and ARE for us in infinite supply. Teach us to feast on the abundance of that love, and let it flow freely out of us to the ones who would reject, scorn, mock and hate us, so that they too might one day taste and be consumed by Your perfect love which drives out all fear—Your infinite, immeasurable love which heals all wounds and fills all emptiness and gives meaning to all of our pain. You alone, O LORD, are able to truly and purely love through rejection, but You live gloriously in us, so unleash Your mighty waters through us. Your love is everything, for You are Everything!...

Our all-sufficient Bridegroom is able to work His agape love most perfectly in us when that love poured out to another is not ever reciprocated, for it forces us to finally let Him fill us with Himself alone and to rely completely on His love instead of on the love of another to meet our heart's deepest hunger. The need for His filling IS our deepest hunger, and so our soul comes most alive not when it is loved by our fellow man but when it receives and pours out Jesus' love to our fellow man, expecting nothing in return but more of Him. Thus His love is made complete in us whether they ever love us back or not, and the fear of their rejection is eventually driven out by His perfect and perfecting love.

Even if love is never returned...never even is never in vain, for "love never fails." To love someone, though we mean nothing to them, may seem too cruel a burden for the heart to bear, but the only thing worse than not being loved is to not love, and so the greatest tragedy of love spurned or lost would be to stop loving. For to cease loving that which causes us pain would be to let the pain win, but for as long as we love, really love with Christ's own heart, no matter what else happens, we win.

Love without pain remains unproven and, therefore, is meaningless, but love through pain invokes nothing less than the miraculous and inspires even the incredulous. The purer one's love, the more pain it causes when it is rejected, but only continued love can redeem the pain of loving, and only a perfect Love can heal love's scalding wound; the more scalding the wound, the better primed it is to receive that perfect Love fully into it.

There is great romance to be found in unrequited love that keeps loving, though it is beyond any human emotion or fleshly capacity or mortal understanding. It is a most sacred mystery which cannot be grasped with the head or even the heart but only with the spirit, for it is a love whose connection to Christ remains unsevered. There is perhaps no intimacy to compare to it, for it drives us to Him like nothing else will. It is a love whose longing for the other gives us the greatest insight into God's own aching longing for us. Only when it has cost us everything to keep loving do we begin to understand the smallest fraction of the wildly extravagant love Christ has for us or of the brutally scandalous pain which it has cost Him, and it will leave us in utter awe of Him and in love with Him like we have never been before.

As our focus is turned more and more toward His love for us and toward all of our previous rejecting of it, we will come to clearly see that agape love and rejection have everything to do with the the hearts of the lover and the rejecter and nothing to do with what the beloved and the rejected have done or deserve. For obviously we have done nothing to deserve God's love and He has nothing to deserve our rejection, yet He never stops loving us and we keep rejecting Him in ways we can't even comprehend. No one has ever known more rejection than the only One Who is completely worthy of love. Every time we sin we reject Him in favor of something else, but still He loves us without fail and without end. He loves us because He is love and because He has chosen to set His love on us. We are absolutely and irrevocably loved and accepted in Christ Jesus, and nothing and no one can ever change or mar that love. Our identity is completely secure in Him simply because of Who He is and who He says we are to Him.

Therefore no amount nor depth of rejection by anyone changes anything about who we are in Christ or our worth to Him. We do not need any man's love or acceptance to validate our worth, for it has already been established in the heavenly realms by the only One Whose verdict carries any real and lasting weight. We are significant and precious and holy to God regardless of what anyone else thinks of us or says of us or does to us. What has their rejection got to do with us? Nothing, for we are His! We are chosen and we are beloved! And so we are freed from the fear of rejection when we see that it cannot define us or taint us in the sight of the only One Whose opinion or judgment matters. It's a glorious thing to finally care what no man thinks of us, only the Master, for then we begin to be free to love all men as He loves them and to pray with deepest sincerity, humility and fervor even for those who spitefully reject us.

And even for that one who has hurt us most deeply, who has crushed our heart and thrown us to the wind like chaff without so much as a glance back, we will pray, no longer with only a slight and distant hope that he would return to us but now with a passionate desire to see the prodigal return to the heart of the Father. We will pray, not with a focus on life with him but with a focus on life for him. We will pray for a total and glorious restoration of his life to Christ, even if we will never be there beside him to share in the fellowship and joy of his homecoming, even if we will never get to experience up close in this life the thrill of seeing the Lord make something beautiful yet of his ashes. And this may be the hardest and truest test of our love for him—this painful sacrifice of desiring his absolute best apart from us. It is a wrenching blow to our pride and to our will (not to mention our codependence), for we had so longed to play the Muse and to awaken that beauty in him. So we know we could never yearn or pray for this out of our own strength or wisdom; it is simply too painful to our flesh. We must be led into it and through every delicate step of it by our loving Redeemer, our Bridegroom, as if He were leading us out under a canopy of the starry host and into the most intricate and intimate of moonlit dances. And so we begin to pray and to dance...

But even wrapped in Jesus' arms we are clumsy, stumbling miserably over our own feet. The music is perplexingly unfamiliar and the steps wildly unpredictable, and our toes feel terribly pinched in these new shoes. Maybe this dance is just too hard for us. Maybe we are not yet ready. Maybe we should sit it out for now and try again later when our shoes are a little more broken in or when our heart is a little less broken apart. So we pull away...

But He tenderly beckons us back: Dear and beloved bride, broken-but-beautiful one whom I have made My own, do not push Me away now, not after I have brought you so far. I have many more secrets to share with you and so much more to show you of Myself. But you are not letting Me lead this dance, beloved. Why are you so rigid in My embrace? Why so worried over the next steps? Let go of everything and abandon yourself to My love. Enjoy Me...Follow Me...Lean into Me...Keep watching My face...Let Me move you however I desire us to go...Trust Me...Love Me. Shall we dance, then?

Yes, we shall and we do! As He draws us into Himself, into the prayer of His heart and the dance of His Spirit, and as we give ourself over completely to the impulse of His leading, the details of our words and the precision of our steps give way to the desire and passion of His will, and the pulsating of our heart swirls to the rhythm of His own. The further He pulls us into union with Himself, the more we find ourselves desiring this same intimacy-with-Him for the very one who has so badly hurt us, for we see how badly he himself is hurting without it. We realize now that his running away from us and toward another is just as much a reflection of his insatiable yet misunderstood craving for God as was all of our running toward our own idols (including him). Our soul aches for his redemption and his healing and for his lost sheep's heart to be brought out of darkness and into the marvelous light that shines from Jesus' face, that he might truly know the pleasure of knowing the One Whose pleasure he was created for.

Somehow, through this heightened and mysterious intimacy of prayer for him, we are now discovering a strange and new kind of intimacy with this very one whose intimacy had so often given us the slip, this one whom we had so long loved and lived with but failed to uncover at all, and the fresh wind of it drives us even deeper into the ache of God's own heart for him and for us. It is at the center of that ache that we are finally able to let go of the hurt and the man and leave the matter entirely in God's hands, understanding that the Shepherd's aching heart knows fully all whom He has chosen and will never stop dealing with or seeking after any of His own sheep. And so...

                        We release to Him with a heart of trust
                        This one whom we love and always must
                        We can let go the man and rest because
                        It's out of our hands and always was

But the dance, like the feast, goes on and on, and the more we dance and the more we feast, the more we heal. Our Bridegroom wounds us by His own providence but washes our wounds with His faithfulness and binds them up with His love. The wounds and their healing make us beautiful to Him. They teach us to know Him, to hunger for Him, to enjoy Him and to please Him. And they get us perfectly ready for that most glorious of dances and that most joyous of feasts which are still to come but, perhaps, much closer than we might dare to imagine. It is time to awaken, dear bride of Christ, and to break in our dancing shoes!

"And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him. This is how love is made complete among us so that we will have confidence on the day of judgment: In this world we are like Jesus. There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. We love because He first loved us."
~ 1 John 4:16-19

"And we boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us."
~ Romans 5:2b-5

"As you come to Him, the living Stone—rejected by humans but chosen by God and precious to Him— you also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house to be a holy priesthood, offering spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ."
~ 1 Peter 2:4-5

"He was despised and rejected by mankind,
    a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.
Like one from whom people hide their faces
    He was despised, and we held Him in low esteem.
Surely He took up our pain
    and bore our suffering,
yet we considered him punished by God,
    stricken by Him, and afflicted.
But He was pierced for our transgressions,
    He was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on Him,
    and by His wounds we are healed."
~ Isaiah 53:3-5

"But whatever were gains to me I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. What is more, I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things... I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in His sufferings, becoming like Him in His death..."
~ Philippians 3:7-8a,10

"But He said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong."
~ 2 Corinthians 12:9-10

"For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ."
~ 2 Corinthians 1:5

"'Blessed are you who hunger now,
    for you will be satisfied.
Blessed are you who weep now,
    for you will laugh.
Blessed are you when people hate you,
    when they exclude you and insult you
    and reject your name as evil,
        because of the Son of Man.
Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, because great is your reward in heaven. For that is how their ancestors treated the prophets...But to you who are listening I say: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you...Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.'"
~ Luke 6:21-23,27-28,36

"Make sure that nobody pays back wrong for wrong, but always strive to do what is good for each other and for everyone else. Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus."
~ 1 Thessalonians 5:15-18

"You make known to me the path of life;
    You will fill me with joy in Your presence,
    with eternal pleasures at Your right hand."
~ Psalm 16:11

"I pray that out of His glorious riches He may strengthen you with power through His Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen."
~ Ephesians 3:16-21

zebra Jul 2017
i come to you half mad
with desire
like slithers tongue
i wish
to have painfully stitched
to your silky ****
an act of desires supplication
my *** turned to poison
deprivations effulgent
obsidian flower salivating
your every smile
fleshy bells ringing
warping tintinnabulations
i am a starved incubus
drooling at your knees

behind me
a frothy junket of misdeeds
for loves sake
your feet the scent of lavender and salt
their shape evoking numberless poems
and begging adorations

your belly
a tender cauldron undulating
tummy ***** dancer
sacred *******
temple of worship
the site of your rounded bottom
naked red mouth calling
my sacred liturgy
your *****
velvet tulips for a tremulous kiss

I seed you a thousand times
a raging bludgeon
storming wounded gates Palisades
drenched and florid
fruit and milk ****
until jaws lock
and spire drops
turning me
to midnight cadaver
***** black hollows
a dark eyelid, blink-less
dead **** face down
a slumped snake

then soft dew
and cool ales
clear thickened muds saturation
lighten heat and peel
the warm palate
with agile caress
tender haunches wide and spiced
milk and butter thighs
her hair in mine
rushing river life
again i animate
an embryo id
dressed in fire
all vices and virtues
blood and sky
will19008 Jun 23
lost ardor, long hidden beneath these initial wastes
pinpointing the mines and matters, estimations and worth
your excavation operating on the surface of my bereavement
without any evaluation of its dolorous costs or the extent
of these ductile veins, rivers through our subterranean natures
your shadow requirements, eroded and befouled

now, neither my eyes nor I much love your dark
epicardial secrets, projecting deposits of debris, the chloride fragrance
of our secrets, hidden fires underground; your love, all and away
digging, mining proposed new lovers out of us both; gravels and
pain and gas; ferrous exploration; uranium reclamation anew via
caustic layers of ore and deposits of once-flowing love

alloys of dead flowers and waste form my rocks
seething into scabrous life like bantling cacti after a lover has risen
such risks always require a proportion of love be livid, recoverable;
threads of passion dissolved in the complexities of the body
grains of unconsolidated minerals evoking love and potash
yes, secret metallurgists like you pose acidic dangers
to my soft endocardial things
Waiting around
I converse with myself
Climbed a tree today
Picked some bananas to sell
Or to barter
With shopkeepers
Down at the market
The extra
To part with
Or keep to eat freely
As soon as they ripen
In but a few days
More of boring old life in
My site
Took a hike
To seek quiet,
Imagined these hills
In riot
If I were inciting
An artifice to
See the fires
But as the day ends
And the sun vanishes
From the scene
My passivity banishes
Any a notion
Of causing commotion
And looking for trouble
Where nothing is broken
Evoking instead
Of promoting bloodshed
In its stoking the furnace
Forged steel in my head
Farewell, farewell, farewell unto thee,

Hands of time; 'Tis time to run free.

Though Sun is burning bright to behold

Her sprinkling ripples of opalescent gold

Through trees bedight in robes of green,

Evoking wild lonely leaves to preen

To the sussuration of zephyr's whispers

Sweet as of nymphs beside rollin' rivers,

Nevermore in a pit of thoughts to hide

But far deep in Mandeville Canyons ride.

Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
      Los Angeles, California.
Penned today on riding through Mandeville Canyons. I wish we had an option of sharing poems with pics, only then ye wouldst have known how beauteous Mandeville Canyons in Los Angeles is.

#Mandeville Canyon #Ride #Adventure #Pulchritude
I'm staring up at the sky
from a hole six feet down
even while the rest assume
that I'm more than deceased
a harsh word that's still true
ideation has consumed
remnants of a loving life
now only found in living souls

return me to eternal rest
even while my life is hoaxed
sharing space with a world
then waiting for the dirt to fall
the shell resides while I weep
tears transparent on my skin
the drowning have a better chance
to survive beyond the flood

even while I sleep-walk
stagger upright for a time
evoking forms may confuse
when my desires finally fruit
if you chose to turn away
please put the marker on my grave
while I look up at the sky
just one last time as I pass.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190322.
The poem “Staring Up” is a sad view of suicidal ideation.  I had a conversation with a friend regarding the normative view of life.  People assume that other people will, short of a terrible event, will show up from day-to-day.  A person with ideation can never promise this outcome, even as the world expects the previous regularity.
Luz Hanaii Mar 19
Objects of desire know when to get out
they are aloof with a touch of coldness
air of mystery, lustful taboo
unavailability, unambiguous
psychological exotic fantasies
creating vagueness, evoking yearnings
Oh timeless art, essence never attained
oscarlevi Nov 4
I thought of you last night.
I thought about your words, what you say and how you say it.
Last night I thought of you, just you. And it was a tenderness impossible to forget.
Your skin evoking ivory that I have never seen and your sweet look and firm eyes.
Your face and your hands with short fingers, almost round like the banks of the moon.
I thought of you and my crazy heart wanted to tell you how you are from my eyes.
Today maybe we could be together, and it would be just a flash of what comes endlessly when you speak to me from your voice.
Last night I thought you asleep sounding with your astonished eyes and your hair in silence.
And I would have liked to think your body without clothes, contemplating it silently like soft waves of a sea asleep in an endless wind.
Last night I found you like any other day and you were as you always wanted to be, just between the two
a stream running through the woods until another dawn.
And the perfect edge of your lips and the music of your eyes awakening the innocent eyes of a child in a world where everything is for him. And at that moment an unknown butterfly flutters from another spring and a golden door open, more beautiful and unimaginable and the moment will remain forever and oblivion can never erase it.
Last night I thought about you and without knowing it I stopped being me because somehow I was one with you too.
To sell the body is seen a sin
when the skin is currency
while the buyers flock around
with payment held close at hand

once the exchange has occurred
away realms of chastity
the supplicants deign to condemn
the very source of ecstasy

to decry the pleasures gained
saves the face of holy men
when due fairness is applied
between the partners of the act

their honor clutched is a sham
like the masks devoutly worn
when the imp comes to call
evoking lust in high and low

the urge is fed for a time
few may last when it returns
ask yourself why dogmas lie
when suggesting otherwise

to sell the body is a boon
stooping low to holy plans
only asking for respect
while others wear their saintliness.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190201.
The poem “To Sell the Body” was inspired by a Tumblr article about how mining “takes advantages” of its workers' bodies as much as the *** trade does.   The resulting work deviated from this source material.
Journeys I've embarked on
near and far I've gone
places I've visited
variegated locations
evoking divers emotions
but none could quite duplicate
all the sensations
I feel when I'm with you

-love can almost depict it
but not quite
harmonious shades
and dulcet sounds
can almost describe it
but it is much more
yes, much much more!

This ardour
not boastful
winningly considerate
never keeping records of wrongs

The sweet  sensations
that emanate  from you
leave me with a warm feeling
what on earth shall I call it
it is much more
yes, much much more than the word
He had returned to Hongseong, still robust,
he had returned to care for his ailing brother,
and he walked up the strand of grey
toward Hongju High School, the soccer field
stubbled-green, to his left, still much the same.
2070? Was it 2070 already? Students streaming out
wore similar uniforms, students fresh
as the summer wind expressing a highway
of floating dandelion seeds. His wife passed away
two years before and his two sons worked abroad,
phoning twice, maybe three times a year.
There'd been no explosions, no grand griefs for years.
It had been a convenient marriage, quiet tenderness
blanketing husband and wife now and again,
with Chuseok coming around every year,
with outings and road trips punctuating every year,
with family life, its turmoils, laughter, keeping up
appearances now bubbling forth as so many dreams...

And now he was here, by the soccer field, students
streaming by... He recalled himself, his friends
running in the field, himself swept up in anticipation,
kicking the ball within the thrall of anticipation...
He was going to make a mark in his field
and the school would remember he once studied here.
He'd travel worldwide, invited to conferences,
invited to deliver lectures throughout all of Europe,
and maybe he'd settle in America.
The old man walked on, passed the soccer field, toward
the pink-petalled tree that he hoped was there,
his hope fulfilled. The space underneath flared
with the memory of her whom he wooed and loved,
whom he loved well after circumstances
had parted them cities away.

And the school hallways - how they glowed with her image,
how reddened they were with her laughter...
How deliciously sad her image stood alone...
How strange it seemed that he then anticipated
finer, fiercer loves than his pretty stepping stone.
How many sleepless nights had he slogged it out,
the examinations ******* him...
How many were the anxieties, worries
pressing in upon him...
Yet how strangely faint
and shadowy the memory had become -
and almost quaint.
Even his wife's youthful image, her imagined glow,
the glow of his feelings then, had become
a faded cloth,
his quarrels with his two sons, at times explosive,
more faded patterns on the cloth...

Yet what had moved him here - what intimation
had been stirred in the soccer field's grass,
in the tree's pink petals? What was it about her,
his first flame evoking the marriage
of sadness and delight that eluded the blur?
Though the desks were different, though the hallway walls
and classrooms had different colors sewn,
a different melody rippling from a xylophone,
something of hers remained, a freshness
encompassing the pink petals, field's green,
a freshness whose face spoke of what's serene.
When he held her hand or ran in the field,
though his thoughts had sometimes taken him far afield,
few habits had hardened. He was still a soul
that like the wind passing through the grass and tree
was simply itself, not committed to a goal,
though the mind was a weaver of countless themes,
his mind prone to a rainbow of dreams.
She had moved him deeply: when they were together,
being was strung to being - being glowed -
youthful vigor, moments savored, possibility
shimmering, woven wonderfully together...

Twilight was coming on, spreading throughout the school,
its net reaching the soccer field and tree.
The old man began descending the strand of grey.
As he walked farther and farther away,
passing the street where she once had lived,
passing the multi-colored, blinking score
of PC rooms, singing rooms, and many a store,
habitual thoughts coalesced, clustered again;
he was back with his familiar self again,
the one he knew well for over fifteen years...
The indelible mark not made in his field,
the conferences imagined became the themes,
vibrant ones once again of unrealized dreams.
Still, he was well off, had been served plates enough
of recognition, respect and esteem.
And he was happy to see his brother again -
after more than ten years seeing him again -
happy to help, try to help a brother pull through
whose circumstances bore a darker hue.
Hongseong is a county in South Korea. "Chuseok" is the Korean equivalent of Thanksgiving.
james m nordlund Dec 2018
Transplanted to these '...fruited plains...', grandpa,
One of Gaia's fruits, what was his twinkle among
The countless stars? Here, millions have come
To stay, imbuing us with their place of origin,
Their souls dancing, flying, in a universal way.
For over 60 years Americans to be came through
Ellis Island, headed to who knows where West,
My grandfather, Uru, which means hero, a Fin,
One of three who left a concentration camp that
Fifteen thousand entered, did too, to NYC, NY.

Following freedom's beacon, its first light he saw,
The Statue of Liberties still unscorched torch, thanx
To Frederic Auguste Bartholdi, and the French. Of
Libertas, the Roman goddess of freedom and a
'...Tabula ansata, a tablet evoking the law, upon
Which is inscribed the date of the American
Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776.'
The broken chain of tyranny lies at her feet,
Upon a pedestal, wherein etched words are,
From Emma Lazurus' sonnet, 'The New Colossus',

Which may rise again, only if we embrace them:
'...Her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
'Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!' cries she
With silent lips. 'Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'

Only 151 feet tall, she will ever stand taller, or
Be turned to dust with us, all of humanity and
Large mammals, as well as the Earth, tragic
Members of extinctions annals, if we don't stop
The permanent altering of weather cycles through
Overuse of fossil fuels, the degradation of the
Earth's orbit around the Sun. We can walk in
Nature's abundant balance again, humane beings.
Still, she gives hues to the vast canvas of what
The Big Apple, and its beautiful mosaics' art, can be.
I shine only because he, a Merchant Marine, did.
Thanx to Emma Lazurus' sonnet, 'The New Colossus', quoted above, Ancestors, those who unpaved the paths, immigrants, immigration advocacy, advocacy poetry, reality poetry, statue of liberty, Amerigo for this twig of  powtree
Aishwarya Ezhava Aug 2018
When I'm loved by some,
I think of you and feel blessed.
In your company alone,
I find myself totally unstressed.

I have no one but you,
Only you as my Confidant.
I believe in you deeply,
You won't betray, it's evident.

I thank you, Divine Being.
You took my burdens away,
You kept evoking me that
Tomorrow's another day.

Your Love and Care and Grace,
Knew no bounds.
I fall short of words to praise,
And even If I do, it'd be never enough.

You know me better than I,
I replay and hold on to pain.
Help me, O lord! to get through.
I'll never forget to thank you, again.
Bruce Adams Jul 20
She collected lolly sticks,
        The ones with jokes on them:
        Why did the chicken cross the road?-type stuff,
Which she stained brown and used as floorboards
in her magnum opus.

The Tudor house was the best one.
It had servants’ quarters
And a kitchen with little hessian potato sacks made
of something or other she salvaged from
somewhere or other;
And the floorboards looked so real:
        painted lolly sticks
        but almost evoking the smell of varnish,
        layers of polish on a floor trodden by centuries
        in perfect miniature;

This was the last of the three
                                                or four
                                                        doll­s’ houses she built;
The devil’s work for her idle widow’s hands.
She built this one while you were entering into your final
that doomed dance that sits so permanently
on your conscience now
like a sack of compost
full of water.
        (I choose this metaphor only because
        I found this in my garden yesterday
        and it was ******* heavy.)
On paper it was simple:
        You gave her your house,
        She gave you hers.

And so her house shrunk around her and
became a dolls’ house of your own making,
                        she saw your god-hands reaching in
to manipulate and
extort her.

She was wrong, of course.

You were making good on your promise.
You would come through for her in her old age.
You did.

But it was a promise you made more to yourself than her,
And she let her illogical mind
        never analytical to begin with
        now razed and blinded by grief and loneliness
                        (there was nothing to work with)
poison your good deed
and you were both dolls now.

Eight years later she died lovelessly.

She was moved into her sitting room
        the only part of the house that stayed the same
        after you moved in –
                the walls closed in to contain it
                constrict it
a hospital bed and vinyl chair with commode,
and the brown laminate floor
        just like
        her lolly sticks.

You administered painkillers
Admitted the nurses
Negotiated with your estranged brother.

but her paranoia rotted everything
and your hands cared with compassion but not love.

Gone, now,
the dolls’ houses remain.
An inheritance of clutter but in a house
you bought.

You answer the phone
      ­                                  aggressively.
You have been heaving the big one up the stairs
        that sack of compost
        that heavy conscience of yours.

You will be heaving those ******* dolls’ houses around
until I have to buy your house and care for you.
But I am telling you now:
        I am putting them in a skip
        the moment I have the chance.

They are not imbued with the joy they gave her
any more than
                        by keeping them safe from landfill
                        you can imbue them with the love you withheld.

They are painted lolly sticks and sewn hessian.
They don’t contain any more of her
than the bits of paper she kept
        passwords and bank balances
        dates and instructions for the Sky box
There is nothing left of her to protect now.

        (We won’t mention her
        unscattered ashes
        which have been left with the undertaker
        for nearly two years now.
                They’re not her either
                but they’re more her.)

Open up the hinged false front
                tip out the miniatures
                let the little figures be free,
                                be landfill
                                (isn’t that what dying is anyway?)
all the tangible things she touched and loved
are not avatars for her touch and her love.

The past is not present through the preservation of objects.
The past is not erased by the advancement of time
                nor can it be undone by corrective action.

Now she is on the other side of the road,
        (why did the chicken
She has no further use for the things she left behind.
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