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Purcy Flaherty Oct 2018
We rode our horses cross-country,
Through the nations of the unknown,
We survived the snowy mountains,
And lived off the land and the trees,
Through hot summers and cold winters,
Through deserts storms; we circled the trails,
We learned from the birds and the bees,
We hunted the elk, the deer and the buffalo,
We fished to feed the travelling spirit,
We turned acorns into flour,
We set our senses free.

You brought Soldiers, missionaries,  smallpox, the common cold, scalping, reservations, whisky and the rush for gold.
Land grabbing oil barons, fencing, bricks, barbed wire and all the accouterments of your civilized culture!
You made this country your own; and forced it's 1st nation into a 3rd world nation.

Land and minerals reign supreme in a world without shame!
Without equality there is only slavery.!
Meat and potatoes!
onlylovepoetry May 2016
wondrous words,
shades of colorations,
this pain,
artfully slow, steady stalking,
finale staking into
my hardened heart

with tireless twinges
of loss and constant regret,
painstakingly plinking away,
leaving pockmarks of bullets shot
at the concrete ring-fencing,
failing to protect me from just another,

oh god not again,
have no mo' time

for jes one mo' time

love's aftermath regret,
bitter acid wash,
that cleanses nothing,
for you are already nothing
when love loss wrenches/rents your
soul's garments with knotholes of
unfashionable distressed

better not to have loved,
better, better, better,

than this battering silent hurricane
invisible thunderstorm internally,
than respects no seasonality,
for which the meteorologists
can predict neither its path or its
final cessation

did I build my walled shelter,
only to fail-fall to the siege machines
of beauty and desire,
once conquered,
with fire and heat,
they burnt me
from the outward edges inward,
and I am not a

see the stooped slow white walker
more than dead, yet alive enough
existing to be witness to
his own devouring,
his hands wrapped round
the stake in his chest stuck,
protecting it,
lest its removal
be one more undoing of the
painstaking man

“You can only fight the way you practice”
― Miyamoto Musashi, A Book of Five Rings: The Classic Guide to Strategy

His lessons started late
As always, and as always
What is thrown is a question
You grip tightly
around your fingers
as one would,
as one always should.

With a branch he beckons:
“Come” he asks,

“if a stick is struck from this angle,
what would your answer be?”

Always, the old man taught
With each strike, each parry,
Each disarm and lock,
Each time my knuckles
Would hurt. This way
he makes it sure
that my body

This is always
the first step.
My mind might forget.
But the body


“It is difficult to realize the true Way just through sword-fencing. Know the smallest things and the biggest things, the shallowest things and the deepest things.”
― Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings: Miyamoto Musashi

With him, everything starts
The vague quality of nonwords
Taught from pain, simplified
Through science:

the fulcrum and the lever.

Each joint, each turn,
a pattern to comprehend,
all things work in context:

A framework of the undeniable

the world is separate
In only these two words:

Taub at Tihaya

The colloquial words for
Face down and face up;
This is a pattern
of the body.


“If you wish to control others you must first control yourself”
― Miyamoto Musashi, A Book of Five Rings: The Classic Guide to Strategy


The lesson starts
When he presses
His thumb forward
to a hand asking for alms
like turning a doorknob
too far to the right.


when I pull back
four fingers
on a giving hand
too far to what is left.

these are the means
for control.
When I know
How much is necessary
To push or to pull,
To teach or to break.

- 18 October 2017
For my Arnis Teachers: **** Mang Boy of Orabes Henerales; **** Fred Fernandez of Arnis Defense Silat, and Patrick Gamayo, a student of both teachers and combined the two arts.

* Special thanks for Jeffrey Steven Pua for additional poetics
Dark Fjord Nov 2016
to the doe, last night on the lawn
you are me - broke and mending

on her snow write down blank
the hooves color
the clementines you strike

and with your spears
its darling blood drips jumping
the fencing listed toward

and you made me so sleepy,
the tresspass I had wished

from inside each wide eye
was a True Violet, and very wet

each wires my sleepy gloves
hung on you, and then to live
at the end of this, dear season.
love to give
Dark n Beautiful Aug 2018
You must never **** the spiders,
While, they are woven their poems into the likeness of thunder?
Kidnapped the poets, instead of the poems
Therefore, I asked of you to stop all useless riots
On poetry, read them, embrace them, and
Learn from them: poetry is disciplined
And disciplined is the most misunderstanding word
In the dictionary: but somehow it is said that

riots is the language of the unheard:
we must never embrace racial riots,
or racial profiling: reach out to racial equity
stop allowing the messages of hate to go viral
plants row of trees, in the name of love,
I recently came across, ants yes, I said ants

When army ants need to cross a large gap, they simply build a bridge - with their own bodies. Linking together, the ants can move their living bridge from its original point, allowing them to cross gaps and create shortcuts across rainforests in Central and South America.

I recently saw human fighting each other, I recently read somewhere
Where children were locked away in cages
McALLEN, Texas (AP) — inside an old warehouse in South Texas, hundreds of immigrant children wait in a series of cages created by metal fencing. One cage had 20 children inside. Scattered about are bottles of water, bags of chips and large foil sheets intended to serve as blankets.

We must never **** the spiders,
While, there are woven their poems into the likeness of thunder..
Wk kortas Jan 2018
Perhaps it was her voice itself, clear and simple,
Unalloyed by any classically trained fol-de-rol,
Or possibly the nature of her faith
Displayed with such clarity, such transparency
By that very instrument,
But in any case, she had utterly bewitched the populace
Of the place known as Ahwaga by her distant cousins,
And when she stood on the Delaware & Hudson platform
The next morning, they had cheered her lustily,
All but begging her You must return to us,
But the train had lost its footing on a sharp grade
Mere hundreds of yards before making the station at Deposit,
And she was lost in the carnage and conflagration.
The townspeople she had said her farewells to that morning
Were distraught, their feelings a mix of grief
And an odd sense of culpability, a nagging misgiving
That perhaps this was an omen, some augury
Denoting that their own faith was not up to scratch,
And so they had taken her back to their own burgh
To bury her in a manner befitting her piety
(She had been travelling with siblings,
But they acquiesced to the plan, though how willingly
Not wholly apparent at the time,
And made no clearer through the ramble of time)
And so she was laid to rest in a plot
Surrounded by ornate fencing, her grave marked
By an obelisk pointing unambiguously to her Heaven,
And it is said that, on autumn evenings
When the breeze rustle the dying leaves just so,
You can hear the spirits of her Mohawk brethren
Come down from Quebec, murmuring songs
Telling of the spirits living in the trees and hedgerows,
Spoken in the ancient tongue
Of the languid, unhurried Susquehanna far below.
Donna Sep 2018
Red bright green purple
orange black blue beige red white!
Gafetti colours

makes the world a nice
pleasent place to be , people
walk by in bubbles

An old Matress leans
up against silver fencing
Waiting to be gone

Twinkle twinkle star
Up above the sky so high
Tis a cloudy day

The sky is grey , the
sun as vanished , yet the trees
are still blossming

Little brown leaves , Tis
time to fall , fall gently on
pavements of solid

Yee up we go to
the clouds filled with rain , twinkle
it does when it falls

Loving the texture
of old house bricks , flat as a
perfect made pancake

Little birds they fly
upon a tree of berries
Singing sugar songs

O twinkle twinkle
there's a big crane in distance
What a lovely day
Out with my Dean his estimating a job in waiting in van for him , so I decided to write this poem with my spare minutes ** sight seeing with a touch of nonsense I thinks :))
Sayer Aug 2018
my phone battery is dead and so am i
complied with all your demands and ******
if I don't feel like i'm hung choking on her oxygen
a deep wound is an accident and i am an accident and

open up your treasure chest in your backyard
with your dog barking at rodents and your fence
fencing off the easy moments and the hard times
the hard life and the disgusting seconds

measured by every ghost that ever walked her earth
do you know your own worth
what its like to be alone
or catch the bone i throw

a bleeding arrowhead and a cracked leg
brittle bones atone for my sins
All I read is the book of Job
God hates me so
Don Bouchard Feb 13
It's June, 1967.
Nature, still lying through
Parsley green teeth,
Breathes the last of spring,
Hints early summer warmth,
Pre-July's cicada whine,
August's heat and wind.

Crops, still tender green
Quiver beneath a humid sky,
Under a glowing sun.

Bicycles amuse our early lust
To soar untraveled ground,
Entering lazy summer's ennui,
We scan a hawk riding drafts
On the edge of our hill.

Dust, drifting up the graveled road,
Five miles below us,
Piques our interest,
Causes the dog to raise his head.
He ***** an ear
Toward a sound we cannot hear.

We hear gravel slapping rocker panels
Before the traveler's roof rises into view,
Catch our breath as the engine slows,
Start running for the house.

A stranger's arrived,
A traveling salesman,
Better than an aunt
Only stopping in for tea
And woman talk.

Dad keeps his welding helmet down,
Repairing broken things.
The hired man inhales his cigarette,
Acts disinterested.

My memories linger on the past....

Salesmen brought the latest farming gadgets:
Additives for fuel and oil,
Battery life extenders,
Grain elevators and fencing tools,
Produce and livestock products,
Lightning rods and roofing,
Chrome-edged cultivator shovels,
Insurance for everything:
Fire, water, wind, hail.

Pitches came without exception:

"Top o' the morning! Looks like you're busy.
Don't want to take your time."

"Looks like you could use some welding rod,
And I have something new for you to try."

"Have you used chromium additive in you livestock salt?
Guaranteed to put on weight and protect from bovine

"Say, have you heard about the effectiveness of a new
Insecticide called DDT? I've got a sample gallon here
For you to try. Works better than Malathion!"

Dad, eventually intrigued, began the slow dance
Of dickering, haggling over this thing or that.
Most salesmen, closing in for a ****,
Hadn't grappled with my father.

At noon, deals still in the air,
My mother called the men,
And we all trudged in to wash,
Waiting in line at the tub,
Scrubbing with powdered Tide
To remove the grime and grease,
Drying on the darkening towel,
Finding a seat at the table.

The salesmen expected the meal
As though it were their right,
A standing invitation:
Stop in at noon,
Make your pitch,
Sit at table,
Close the deal after.

We boys sat and listened
To man talk.
Eyes wide, we marveled
At gadgets,
Wondered at Dad's parleying,
Winced at the deals he drove,
Commiserated with squirming salesmen
Surely made destitute by Dad's hard bargaining.

In retrospect,
I know the game was played
On two sides,
That the battery additives
Bought for five dollars a packet,
Even with the two Dad finagled free,
Cost about five dollars for everything,
Returned forty-five and change
To the smirking, full-bellied salesman
Who left a cloud of dust on his way
To supper a few miles down the road.
We don't see traveling salesmen anymore at the ranches in Montana. I guess internet sales did them in.
Anonymous One,
The well-woven verse, the brilliant brushstroke,
The singing sculpture, remarkable film -
These are echoes, or so much apple peel,
Sweet, yes, but far from the beauty You reveal.
Reader, imagine if You will, a face,
Beautiful in its proportions, cream-colored grace,
Such as Venus herself might not possess,
But befuddled or bemused, and bodiless.
It might float like moon of white wine on the sea,
Yet it gasps like an asthma patient without an inhaler,
Never knowing even half of what it is to be.
The whole artwork is no less than the entire
Composition of a steady, fulfilled life:
Each gesture, each word, each movement amid strife
Skillfully rendered, each a poem of love,
Or saber fencing with Your beams above.
This poem is included in my book "I Have Been Moved", which is available on Amazon for as little as 14 dollars (paperback).

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