"executes" poems
Age and Grace
Her steps were always slow;
Even in youth she swayed,
Walked with sultry composure
And seductive flow.
Like a heathen goddess,
She tempers movement with grace.
It was not done out of vanity,
But pleasure in the flowing stream of steps
That mark her pace.
The relaxed fulcrum of her hip
Tilts with undulations in the turf;
Her feet tread lightly with a claim
On the summer fields,
On the bending trees
Where beauty still abounds..
She savors the trailing of her skirt
Through unseen paths in drooping grass.
Until the evening mist accrues
From out the forest paths
Caressing her as she yields,
Until she and it are almost one.
Like Whistler’s “breath on a pane of glass”,
She bargains with nature,
Waning to become an aesthetic phantom.
She stops at a window and watches
With a sad smile, the warm light on life,
The laughter, talk and dancing grace
Of her children, who don’t yet know
The bittersweet taste of withered garlands.
Yet she accepts and passes into the dusk.
Now she executes a careful,
Battement fondu as her hands dip
To reach the soaking pods
Of next year’s summer flowers.
Every move must be planned,
To manage every hour.
For they are as precious now,
As her own days,
Fading into glory and reborn,
Into spring and youth’s careless riot.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
Jade helm
"Mastering the human domain"
It's all about control
Controlling human beings
And enslaving us
In the one world/new world global government
Information collection
Pre-crime technology (minority report)
System has no empathy or remorse
Self organizing, vision capable, expectation capable, recognition capable, situationally aware, emotionally intelligent, goal oriented system. The system, thinks, plans and executes.
Back in the late 80's MIT students developed AI technology on a distributed network (CGI lamp taught to dance). It Learned and evolved in 24 hours what would take 1,000 generations to accomplish. They issued a warning of how dangerous this technology is to humanity.
GEOINT
--Jade 2 plus more
--Communications
“smart grid, meter, etc"
Will be connected to this system
Control the environment
“Microchipping”
It Surpasses RFID technology
RFID chips can be removed
Nodes can be removed on a network--unplug printer
Human beings used as nodes
Eliminate connectivity to global information network
Cash removed
One world government
Domain--Human dynamics, terrain, geography
Domestic threat assessment centers
Activity based intelligence
All aspects of human activity monitored
All collected data to be geolocated
And tied to a specific node of the network
Georeferencing
do you will it
will you do it
it will do you
All three of these phrases
Have equal value
In this system
Which is very dangerous!
**Generate answers to questions
That haven’t been asked, or never existed in the first place
“Ominous” A.I.**--according to the source
Gates and Zuckerberg--want to bring technology to third world nations
GEOINT--Collect all data--for human terrain map
No privacy--no encrypted data
Welcome to Orwell's 1984, Skynet or The Borg
Sci-Fi was telling us what would be the reality
Emotional responses trigger the system
It feeds off of fear and anxiety
All the social networking--facebook, etc
All that info has been collected
Placed into this GEO INT system
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
Take me up with you higher than all other existence
your effects enlighten my path
My mind defies limits and executes resistance
Higher, higher, miraculous craft
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
Though altercations of a secessionist sound stern,
Their minds are stuck and never learn.
Through a disabled rebellion their built,
Words designed to deplete one's self are spilt.
Although it's said consummation executes in the leaning vice of the secessionist,
The desecration becomes the birth of the segregationist.
The segregation of closed mindedness with those of the voice.
The voice has sculpted our worlds obedience choice by choice.
The voice has seen demons at their best and angels at their worst,
There is a reason why this world hasn't burst.
You see, our world is seen through a lens,
This lens doesn't defy our worth and script the uncleansed.
It simply sets a standard for the closed minded to follow,
The voice, doesn't have a standard to follow, this voice makes the lens for those left to follow tomorrow.
-Joseph B Schneider
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
Venus cursed but well rehearsed
Phoenix heart destined to burst
Through cleansing flame I'm what remains
Infinite energy that never drains
Past..Forever regrets we sever
Break the pattern release the teether
Listen maybe you'll understand
Our future is held in our hands
Once upon a selfish mind
Saw the light made me blind
Search for answers that's what you'll find
Cast I am I play a fool
Manipulating every rule
Two versions of me in a duel
Both lay dead in a pool
Procreate self reproduction
Initiate new construction
Find a purpose how to function
Don't be a meal to feed corruption
Oh my lord I feel a change
Phasing as I rearrange
Wisdom flowing like a sage
Cursed I am with a life that's strange
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
A short and an earlier popular poem of mine. Hope you like it! Thanks, - Raj, New Delhi.
THE SURF-RIDER !
See him riding gallantly the crest of
waves,
With dexterity and poise and flowing
grace!
He rises to descend, to rise once more,
As the waves keep rolling towards the
shore!
Like those surfs the Rider continues his
mellifluous dance ,
Be it in England, in Spain or in France;
Riding high on waves as if in a trance!
The wind churns up the waves as it rises
and swells,
As the Rider manoeuvers his wake-board
riding those crests before it breaks !
Like a gymnast he executes strong cutbacks
- to reverse his turn,
His spirit dominate as the waves rise and
churn!
He did take his time to perfect his art ,
Having loved the sea and the surf from the
very start!
He learnt to live in moments just like those
dancing waves,
Floating on their crests as his blood within
raves!
Those surfs like musical notes rise up and
fall,
Where some surfs are short and others tall !
Like a philharmonic conductor par-excellence,
He commands those waves with his skilful
presence!
Friends, riding on Time’s moments is no mean
art,
But like the Surf-rider one must make a gallant
start !
-Raj Nandy, New Delhi
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
/
When you are growing as a poet
your pain is pining to born a poetry
where there are too many clouds of emotions gathering,
also a pensive mood longing
then the thunder of thoughts growing,
your paper is awaiting for the first word
as I was waiting for you, my love
when you were coming slowly
then words of rain raining,
automatically,
randomly
When the first raindrop pings on the pond
even you don't know when it will be stopped
how far it will be covered
which path it will be taken
even its density,
dignity,
or the diversity
Your first word inks on the paper
you don’t know when it will be finished
which way the words will be taken
even you don't know
its size or style,
its fashion or the scheme
Either it's a long or a short
or even a sonnet or a verse
even its rhyming
or the rhythm
You should not think about its length
of course words grow as long as
the metaphors can travel
through its thoughts of cohesion
and its feelings moving
naturally,
poetically
You should not count the words
or even you can't stop within a limit
it makes your thoughts imperfect
rather you can tell totally
about the life,
or can tell about
the love easily
or beyond the life spontaneously
The words can grow 3,5,7
lines for a haiku
or even it goes for a mile for an epitaph
or more for an epic
Poetry executes through words
words come from thoughts
thoughts come from the emotions
and ends with the wisdom
/
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
We gather in Old London town,
the time is getting late.
The fog is slowly coming down,
the year is eighteen eighty eight.
The Leather Apron stalks this eve
ladies of the night beware.
Such things he does you wont believe
and for your welfare he’ll not care.
Hello Mister have a heart,
a girl has got to earn a crust.
A shilling for this fine old ****
for you look like a gent to trust.
In her hand the coin doth shine.
Does she lead this toff astray?
Here’s a quiet place that’s fine,
as she walks up the alley-way.
Face to face and eye to eye.
The victim happy to be plied
with vigour she lifts up her skirt
but now her hands are occupied.
Seizing strongly at her throat
he strangles her till unaware.
Unconscious although not yet broke
he lowers her by head and hair.
Now insentient on the ground
the Ripper sets about his work.
In the dark without a sound
there is no detail he will shirk.
He keeps the body to his left,
her throat is sliced from side to side.
The woman’s family now bereft,
whilst she lies here without her pride.
Left to the nights illumination
Jack executes his deadly art.
Performing such skilled mutilation.
and leaving plus one body part.
Daylight opens up commotion,
"Whitechapel Murderer", strikes once more.
The peelers haven’t got a notion
who it is that killed this *****
Scotland Yard are in despair
as they try to Investigate
their credibility beyond repair
for they cant find this reprobate.
Eventually the death toll, five,
the murders now come to an end.
Folk are free to live their lives
but could you trust even a friend.
Over an hundred years or more
professional research is far to late.
Jack, can we ever know the score?
"No... All you can do is speculate."
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
I know a man who thinks he can
Talk in circles and still demand
That people rise at his command
The moment he lifts up his hand
Stranger still is his ambition
One he deems a worthy mission
He proclaims that his ignition
Only turns with his permission
He walks around with head held high
And looks at no one in the eye
His body language speaks a lie
As if to say he'll never die
They claim he's always been this way
A man immune to making change
And yet he knows that come what may
He can't escape the final day
The hours pass as time rolls on
And he proceeds to move along
Convinced that he has surely won
He executes his closing con
Now he's gone
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 11:38 AM UTC
Violence is real and natural. Multidimensional, it exists in every form of life. Its visceral, it shears through the thickest ice, survives the coldest vice and won't shatter when thrown from incredible hieghts.
Violence is quick and unjust.
It swiftly infects the blood then slowly turns a useful mind to rust, takes away all that someone is and replaces it with formaldehyde and sawdust, it wants to watch as the body succumbs to deaths lust.
Violence is hard and true.
It's an event, a car crash that forced a woman out of the windshield like a 12 gauge slug pumped straight into the heart of a child who's witnessed skin hanging from the hole his mother just went through.
Violence is in the air like a pathogen, infecting us with an experience that executes our innocence, genocide, created from hate by that precious few.
In one dimension or another, it's the backbone of every great nation and of all life, it's nothing new.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 8:42 AM UTC
She believes in happy things
Invisible beings with fairy wings
Fluttery butterflies make her dance
An endless game of happenstance
Eyes of wonder, transparent soul
The world is cruel but she doesn't know...
She greets me with smiles from ear to ear
To hold her heart I solemnly swear
Gentle touch soothes the soul
In her presence I turn to gold
She holds my restless heart at bay
As she executes her innocent ways...
Her plans get lost in the making
A pouty face when she's faking
Empty cups of invisible tea
Cartoon bandages when she bleeds
Shelves filled with eyes that stare
She loves her tattered teddy bear...
Crayon drawing of sunny skies
She draws me with big wide eyes
Read me a story, she hands me a book
It's past her bedtime but she gives me that look
I tuck her in and read her asleep
And pray my love she'll always keep...
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
In case is had colossal guts
What one wants one gets
When there is bravery
There ends slavery
Surely a brave man
Executes his plan
When boldness comes
Hurdles, soul overcomes
Courage you now bring
I will make you a king
When fear you halt
You rectify a fault
Brave people achieve
As plans they conceive
Dig for worry a grave
And tackle fate-wave
Boldness always wins
As doubts it surely pins
Courageous people
Alone can topple
Anything that is adverse
In this vast fine Universe.
mvvenkatarman
SEARCH mvvenkataraman IN GOOGLE OR YAHOO
Aug 27, 2011
Aug 27, 2011 at 7:04 AM UTC
I have no clue what Krshna taught Arjuna
but I like the name Atman a lot.
Atman. Atman. Where a man is at.
At all times. No matter what.
Gita, get in the action, gorgeous girl,
god is the answer, keep the meter.
Wisdom, none.
What Krshna tells Arjuna makes no sense.
I prefer mathematics.
Knowledge of how things are made and done
more than meditation on the Self
as a manifestation of the One.
I’ll never have to leave this comfortable planet.
We have this asset but can we sell it?
In Paradise Lost, Satan executes his plan
but God already knows all about it.
Still, whether it succeeds or fails is up to Man.
Same here, when it comes to nuclear armaments,
a distraction from the work of making life permanent.
It is all premised on the mystery
of invisible but sentient particles—
little Krshnas and Kachinas
nesting inside one another.
Meanwhile life goes on outside all around you—
WWII, the Napoleonic wars,
the Civil War which we’re still fighting.
Krshna says behead your brothers
without prejudice or justice.
So it transpires in the nuclear fire.
Whatever forever.
The poem has gone to glitten.
Teacher, teacher—tiger!
Jul 7, 2019
Jul 7, 2019 at 9:08 AM UTC
I cannot help but wonder tonight if the archangels have abandoned me.
The universe has a plan for me but executes it unsympathetically.
My nocturnal nonchalance convinces me that I have nothing to lose,
and no one watching over me-
But there is always the moon;
There’s the moon.
I wonder if I will be happy, soon.
If all the lunar rays
I harvest through my labradorite will serve me well.
Whether I’ll hit the ground running or just simply
hit it like a meteorite.
Will I reach for the stars or throw myself
in front of the metro.
I seek solace in the sun and safety in the stars
but the sun no longer shines and the
stars no longer give a **** about my safety.
I have been plunged into darkness and led
astray.
Wandering aimlessly,
using the world as my own ashtray
because what other use does it have for me now that I am drowning,
with my head in the clouds?
Churchill called it the black dog,
I fear I will die within this brain fog.
Oct 15, 2024
Oct 15, 2024 at 3:35 PM UTC
He started it at seventeen
That most fantastic time machine,
Whose power to manipulate
The basic fabrics of our fate
Eradicates the Clock's control,
Who executes the midnight toll,
Whose hands have strangled man's ambition,
Whose sands designed decomposition,
Both talkative and taciturn
Now caged; the ravenous cuckoo bird,
And man, once puppet, now pilgrim, soars
O’er crystal skies and dusty shores
And Dimension's seas with waxen wings,
His fourth realm wrinkling like a string,
Testing theories in time traversed
Of history, life, the universe.
He finished it at forty-two
In subterranean solitude,
A pallid, daily de-livered mess
With faceless pictures on the desk,
So he sighed with earnest evanescence
And scuttled back to adolescence,
To own the life he would have seen
Without that hollow time machine.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 12:44 AM UTC
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Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
How much rope?
for the misanthrope
hang em high
theres no hope
like a high plains drifter
what you seek is what you find
within death there is life
within the pen
there is a knife
and it executes
with surgical precision
when you look into his eyes
know that he's the unforgiven.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
Several seagulls dance across the sky
Weaving in between the clouds as
The glowing red Sun begins its descent.
Hovering atop the sand, she
Points her toes and executes a
Grand Jete
The last of the Sun’s rays light up
Her flowing crimson skirt.
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 9:08 PM UTC
There's a book of saints that has been touched by my fingerprints
But do not worry, it has not been sought open
Not by me
Or any
There's a book of saints and the others have stolen it from me
Translated it in a language that's is unknown to me
That is foreign
One that is on the tip of my tongue but it won't fall from me
Words like that do not belong in a mouth like mine anyway
I've left the notion of rationally a long time ago
Why reason with a stone?
When it will only be used against you as a weapon
The only breath of fresh air I have is my own
And it's dangerously decaying
Flowers bloom in my bedroom
But wilter in my closet
You see sunlight can not find its way in there
And I can't pry it open with my hands
Because every time I try they become flowers
But they are so beautiful
Executes everything so stunningly
That they leave traces of fairy dust
They are the most pleasant thing to see
It makes me want to shower them in gold
Show the world that not all I do is ugly
Or is unnatural
Because isn't it such a nature thing to do?
Bloom in the darkest of places
And isn't it funny?
How choices can be like flowers
Be alive so unapologetic-like
Except they are so fragile
Yet so elegant
Maybe it's morbid for me to compare myself to a flower
Since we all know what happens when winter comes
And I live in a vicious cycle of coldness
Nonetheless, there is no stopping my beating heart when the sun comes
Nor when the rain pours over my love
Drowning me in lavender
Do not worry I have seen what floods can do to fields of flowers
How they swallow up any life and destroy it
Send it to their death without a second thought,
There is horror in this world
That has been left to swim unchecked in these prairies for too long
Ignored and said to be harmless
Ignored when they drowned my fields of violets
So no I will not grow into a rose
I wish for you to follow me with this
Yet words to teach you my language are untranslatable
There's is nothing I can compare to the feeling of making a home out of one outfit
Nothing to make you understand when I say I'm okay I don't need to change
There are no words to transcribe the feeling of being content with your body
And what it can bloom
Oct 8, 2020
Oct 8, 2020 at 9:52 PM UTC
Remember the pitch of the leaky faucet
In the third floor restroom
Neither male
Nor female
Nor both.
Speaking in unison
That pitch
What was the ******* pitch
Dribbling eighth notes
Tears worth pinning on your wall
Next to your unused bottle of sunscreen
From the time we drank in your living room
And I realized you cared.
There is a star on my pocket
But I won’t remember it tomorrow
Nor will I remember why
I connected the six-petaled flower hole
To Afganistan. Sleek. Smooth.
I slid a straw through my ear
Gazing past the green disoperation
And noticed two formings of pimples beneath the right brow
But maybe I imagined that too
Along with the adrenaline and curiosity and false negativity.
Shooting through my ankles
Enveloping every muscle fiber
Every menacing footstep
I approach the door of Debussy
Wading deep into the kelly green
“Open” sign
Sharpied just so no one ever flips it.
Every frazzled hair follicle executes
Frustration towards the poor soul
Entering doom.
Marracas from elementary
I whispered beneath my mustache
“Fancy seeing you here”
Lingering my capillaries over their stitching
A live animal in a dead environment.
Pink toes and the Sostenuto pedal
Beckon my return to civilization
I remember why I’m here.
I remember why I’m not.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
Looking down, I sigh.
Looking up, I smile.
Happily I climb
The mountain of
Separation.
I reach your side.
I hold your hand
I smile at you.
Finally,
We are
One.
The magical feeling that
Swarms me,
Executes my Sadness
And brings forth
The feeling
Of
Solitude.
We banished the mountain
Sure, we harmed a few
Wrecking *****
But,
To see your green eyes again,
It was
Worth It.
I let the
Love into my heart.
It made me grow
It made me light up.
That stupid Mountain of Separation
Is utterly destroyed
Into
Pieces of imagination.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 8:18 AM UTC
I curl up into my softest femininity
and then drown myself in thoughts of warm skin
Im hanging off the balcony
the railing pushes into my stomach
and the sharp pain executes my hunger
but only briefly
I scent myself
with myself
and imagine the tasting of the ocean
the burning of salt water
in the eyes
in the wounds
cleanse
deeply into the barren core
suffocated by the surrounding of nothing but air
molecules trangressed
needing freedom
Im trapped in a jail cell
nobody can reach my hands
I have the key
who will persude me
to drench the curtains
rip them from shoulders
my legs
and my back
damp and heavy
forhead creases
cosmic realeses
joyous wonderful
contraversy breeds heavy sighs
between lover and victim
positioned in between the biting of lips
and the thunder of thighs
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 10:49 PM UTC
Her steps were always slow;
Even in youth she swayed,
Walked with sultry composure
And seductive flow.
Like a heathen goddess,
She tempers movement with grace.
It was not done out of vanity,
But pleasure in the flowing stream of steps
That mark her pace.
The relaxed fulcrum of her hip
Tilts with undulations in the turf;
Her feet tread lightly with a claim
On the summer fields,
On the bending trees
Where beauty still abounds..
She savors the trailing of her skirt
Through unseen paths in drooping grass.
Until the evening mist accrues
From out the forest paths
Caressing her as she yields,
Until she and it are almost one.
Like Whistler’s “breath on a pane of glass”,
She bargains with nature,
Waning to become an aesthetic phantom.
She stops at a window and watches
With a sad smile, the warm light on life,
The laughter, talk and dancing grace
Of her children, who don’t yet know
The bittersweet taste of withered garlands.
Yet she accepts and passes into the dusk.
Now she executes a careful,
Battement fondu as her hands dip
To reach the soaking pods
Of next year’s summer flowers.
Every move must be planned,
To manage every hour.
For they are as precious now,
As her own days,
Fading into glory and reborn,
Into spring and youth’s careless riot.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
Feet flat, knees level, he takes the position:
wrists and forearms relaxed
and shoulders loose.
He begins with a quick combination,
flying like darts from his fingers,
while looking for advantage.
More alert now, he ignores obvious feints
and scrolls swiftly down,
shifting his stance to maintain balance.
He considers his strategy - and then,
sweeping away block-proof pretenders,
focused on his target,
he exhales and executes a precise killer 'CLICK'.
Smiling, he takes a well-earned bow
to sup his scalding coffee.
He's a Google-jitsu,
early-morning Master;
know him and fear him.
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Ascension isn't possible
here
crucifixion only executes the ill
A barrenness cradles only absence
ickle infant obese in its murderous skin
******* its thumbs smell the
generations of sourness
a sliced lemon sits in her right eye
bitter bitter bitter
ascension isn't possible
here
crucifiction only executes the ill
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC