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"fertilize" poems
A man is like a flower Starts with a bud Blossoms into its nature Natural ecstasy and perfection In time it wears out too Finally falls off the tree A natural process A natural phenomenon Naturally the man See as a flower All the nature of being To the base is the same The intelligence the man puts into saying That he is only the creature of importance And everything in the world are the resource Resource to be consumed by himself Is the false flag he is raising And is in the denial of the very nature Anything which is resonant And synchronous to the nature Has the time in nature to the eternity Whereas if not In accordance to the nature Sooner or later On the verse of decay On the verse of extinction I see the human race is in the path of extinction As civilization denying nature rather than glorifying Human beings are far from the true essence And are not synchronizing in the heart Of the very nature The so called intelligence is what humans praise and glorifying A lot full of **** And it is a shame We see the population of human species To rise and rise So may presume the statement I just stated to be false But seeing the thought processes And so called intelligence Is setting the human species To a sense of decay The step to the human race to demolish its own race Is a unjustified intelligence in itself The truth and laws of nature Being in shade Humans incorporating thoughts As a tool of destruction Rather than construction In the field of criticism rather than motivation In the field of extinction rather than sustainability In the field of destruction rather than collaboration And effort in maintaining the continuity Of equilibrium and resonance with the nature On the contrary Making critics and complain about the others Not realizing all are the part of the whole Is creating a challenge to the nature Going off beat with the nature. We shall know Anything not synchronous And not resonant to the nature Nature wipes out sooner or later We cannot accept the very fact it is true Even seeing our own life As a child The bud to the flower The youth The perfection in being and entire existence The new ideas and new world The fruit of generation brings about The generation to come To fertilize the seeds of the existence The old age To be renewed thoughts Nature wipes out as per the plan of its own Accept it as a reality As it is the truth The sharpness of flower Remembered as the youthfulness of flower The bud is treated emotionally With care as it is to be the perfection In the time to come The flower to be wiped out is respected As it was once a perfection Once roared the magnificence of itself Upon this very world The being-wiped flower doesn’t ask For its claim in the now world And indulge the new with its now state But appreciate the perfection once it had   Make believe the youthful flower to blossom And accept its own existence in the present. Every species and beings Are in the nature of being We are no different from the other species We are no superior and at the same time no inferior To the other species And not the other species to us humans Everybody and everything Is the part of the whole The whole is the nature itself.
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May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
Flower of life
A man is like a flower Starts with a bud Blossoms into its nature Natural ecstasy and perfection In time it wears out too Finally falls off the tree A natural process A natural phenomenon Naturally the man See as a flower All the nature of being To the base is the same The intelligence the man puts into saying That he is only the creature of importance And everything in the world are the resource Resource to be consumed by himself Is the false flag he is raising And is in the denial of the very nature Anything which is resonant And synchronous to the nature Has the time in nature to the eternity Whereas if not In accordance to the nature Sooner or later On the verse of decay On the verse of extinction I see the human race is in the path of extinction As civilization denying nature rather than glorifying Human beings are far from the true essence And are not synchronizing in the heart Of the very nature The so called intelligence is what humans praise and glorifying A lot full of **** And it is a shame We see the population of human species To rise and rise So may presume the statement I just stated to be false But seeing the thought processes And so called intelligence Is setting the human species To a sense of decay The step to the human race to demolish its own race Is a unjustified intelligence in itself The truth and laws of nature Being in shade Humans incorporating thoughts As a tool of destruction Rather than construction In the field of criticism rather than motivation In the field of extinction rather than sustainability In the field of destruction rather than collaboration And effort in maintaining the continuity Of equilibrium and resonance with the nature On the contrary Making critics and complain about the others Not realizing all are the part of the whole Is creating a challenge to the nature Going off beat with the nature. We shall know Anything not synchronous And not resonant to the nature Nature wipes out sooner or later We cannot accept the very fact it is true Even seeing our own life As a child The bud to the flower The youth The perfection in being and entire existence The new ideas and new world The fruit of generation brings about The generation to come To fertilize the seeds of the existence The old age To be renewed thoughts Nature wipes out as per the plan of its own Accept it as a reality As it is the truth The sharpness of flower Remembered as the youthfulness of flower The bud is treated emotionally With care as it is to be the perfection In the time to come The flower to be wiped out is respected As it was once a perfection Once roared the magnificence of itself Upon this very world The being-wiped flower doesn’t ask For its claim in the now world And indulge the new with its now state But appreciate the perfection once it had   Make believe the youthful flower to blossom And accept its own existence in the present. Every species and beings Are in the nature of being We are no different from the other species We are no superior and at the same time no inferior To the other species And not the other species to us humans Everybody and everything Is the part of the whole The whole is the nature itself.
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104
An Epithaliamium So Man, grown vigorous now, Holds himself ripe to breed, Daily devises how To ********* his seed And boldly fertilize The black womb of the unconsenting skies. Some now alive expect (I am told) to see the large, Steel member grow ***** Turgid with the fierce charge Of our whole planet's skill, Courage, wealth, knowledge, concentrated will, Straining with lust to stamp Our likeness on the abyss- Bombs, gallows, Belsen camp, Pox, polio, Thais' kiss Or Judas, Moloch's fires And Torquemada's (sons resemble sires). Shall we, when the grim shape Roars upward, dance and sing? Yes: if we honour **** If we take pride to Ring So bountifully on space The ***** of our long woes, our large disgrace.
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8.8k
Prelude to Space
Pull the weeds, plant the seeds this is what the garden said choose what stays choose what goes be mindful when you do the silver oaks darken the sun in the mind trim the trunks, so light may you find the bindweed traps the heart clip the vine, free the art the poison oak stings your delicate hand let the goats eat these weeds right off the land the pompous grass clouds the soul in your eyes pluck these weeds before they set and rise the deadweed piles darken your spirit compost the weeds, lighten your merit plant the seeds of love, hope and color water with nourishment, fertilize with wonder and you will warm the heart of another and then, begin again, pull the weeds plant the seeds
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May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 9:03 PM UTC
Pull the weeds, Plant the seeds
I think I finally understand. I'm the part of you you'd never felt worth venturing And you're the part of me that I always desired, That driven connection we have, Its like two souls intervene so magically , so effortlessly, That magnetic field we resonate , Is connecting us beyond what we ever expected, No pressure, No negative intuitions, Your spirit rejuvanates my spaces of unfurnished emptiness, Your honest acceptance of me is chivalrous, Need i say much about how comfortable we ease ourselves to let it go, That deep spiritual connection we have is something i want to cherish, I love how you throw off your inner thoughts at me, Your love is enticing, so sensual, I want you to indulge in my overflowing appetite of love for you Let me love you inside out, Allow me to counterpoise your darkside, I wish to reside in the space between your heart and loneliness so that the two may never meet again, You started a war in my heart, and I can't let it end now baby, I am going to surrender to your carefree love, Temper me with your protectiveness, I wont be able to resist your soul, I want to be in your circle of growth, Fertilize me with your pureness, Your ravishing personality amazes me, Oh sweetheart, Our craving and desire for one another light's us up whenever we meet eyes now. I never want that to go away, For all that we had in the past, For all that we have now, lets allow our hearts to lead us into this path of perpetual love. <3
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Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
I was lost but you found me and then I found myself within you.
~**My portrait was painted by Jackson ******* <|> “***there are no lines or lies in my writings there are no definitions and perception is only your truth. Therefore, my poems are splats and drips, you make them into paintings that hang in your own private museum, but signed by me as first passenger***” <|> when did I write these words? can’t recall, though undated, they seem all too familiar, and thinking that if I didn’t, I should have… for the title of this ‘poem painting’ has lain in quietude, a resident in my file of “someday writs, awaiting,” when the itch demands you will essay **the admixture of words and swords that will cut a newborn corded reciprocity of thee and me, an unbound bind that ties and frees us from and by our shared senses…** today, an  inadvertent blinding sunlight stumble is demanding a fulsome scratching <|> the portrait of each is the irrational intersectional of splats and drips, each viewer, reader, filters the image through a common uncommonality, which is as it should be, **for if we are each created in His image, how glorious is the diversity of our deities, each of us a tiny drop of paint on a tableau of a small planet, insignificant but uniquely beautiful intelligent species of godlike creatures,** human <|> the précis of this conundrum conversation bewilders, a single word drops, of plaint, paint, blood, a seconds blush blurred that is the building blocks of imagery I state is mine, but now realizations swiftly fertilize, **the portrait is not of me, but of me blended into thee, and this poem, is our composition** that hangs in each of our primary museum, newly re-titled, A Passenger, Realized
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Sep 14, 2023
Sep 14, 2023 at 7:10 AM UTC
My portrait was painted by Jackson *******
~**My portrait was painted by Jackson ******* <|> “***there are no lines or lies in my writings there are no definitions and perception is only your truth. Therefore, my poems are splats and drips, you make them into paintings that hang in your own private museum, but signed by me as first passenger***” <|> when did I write these words? can’t recall, though undated, they seem all too familiar, and thinking that if I didn’t, I should have… for the title of this ‘poem painting’ has lain in quietude, a resident in my file of “someday writs, awaiting,” when the itch demands you will essay **the admixture of words and swords that will cut a newborn corded reciprocity of thee and me, an unbound bind that ties and frees us from and by our shared senses…** today, an  inadvertent blinding sunlight stumble is demanding a fulsome scratching <|> the portrait of each is the irrational intersectional of splats and drips, each viewer, reader, filters the image through a common uncommonality, which is as it should be, **for if we are each created in His image, how glorious is the diversity of our deities, each of us a tiny drop of paint on a tableau of a small planet, insignificant but uniquely beautiful intelligent species of godlike creatures,** human <|> the précis of this conundrum conversation bewilders, a single word drops, of plaint, paint, blood, a seconds blush blurred that is the building blocks of imagery I state is mine, but now realizations swiftly fertilize, **the portrait is not of me, but of me blended into thee, and this poem, is our composition** that hangs in each of our primary museum, newly re-titled, A Passenger, Realized
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50
walking down park amsterdam or columbus do you ever stop to think what it looked like before it was an avenue did you ever stop to think what you walked before you rode subways to the stock exchange (we can’t be on the stock exchange we are the stock exchanged) did you ever maybe wonder what grass was like before they rolled it into a ball and called it central park where syphilitic dogs and their two-legged tubercular masters fertilize the corners and side-walks ever want to know what would happen if your life could be fertilized by a love thought from a loved one who loves you ever look south on a clear day and not see time’s squares but see tall Birch trees with sycamores touching hands and see gazelles running playfully after the lions ever hear the antelope bark from the third floor apartment ever, did you ever, sit down and wonder about what freedom’s freedom would bring it’s so easy to be free you start by loving yourself then those who look like you all else will come naturally ever wonder why so much asphalt was laid in so little space probably so we would forget the Iroquois, Algonquin and Mohicans who could caress the earth ever think what Harlem would be like if our herbs and roots and elephant ears grew sending a cacophony of sound to us the parrot parroting black is beautiful black is beautiful owls sending out whooooo’s making love ... and me and you just sitting in the sun trying to find a way to get a banana tree from one of the monkeys koala bears in the trees laughing at our listlessness ever think its possible for us to be happy Nikki Giovanni, “Walking Down Park” from The Selected Poems of Nikki Giovanni. Copyright © 1996 by Nikki Giovanni.
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May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
Walking Down Park
walking down park amsterdam or columbus do you ever stop to think what it looked like before it was an avenue did you ever stop to think what you walked before you rode subways to the stock exchange (we can’t be on the stock exchange we are the stock exchanged) did you ever maybe wonder what grass was like before they rolled it into a ball and called it central park where syphilitic dogs and their two-legged tubercular masters fertilize the corners and side-walks ever want to know what would happen if your life could be fertilized by a love thought from a loved one who loves you ever look south on a clear day and not see time’s squares but see tall Birch trees with sycamores touching hands and see gazelles running playfully after the lions ever hear the antelope bark from the third floor apartment ever, did you ever, sit down and wonder about what freedom’s freedom would bring it’s so easy to be free you start by loving yourself then those who look like you all else will come naturally ever wonder why so much asphalt was laid in so little space probably so we would forget the Iroquois, Algonquin and Mohicans who could caress the earth ever think what Harlem would be like if our herbs and roots and elephant ears grew sending a cacophony of sound to us the parrot parroting black is beautiful black is beautiful owls sending out whooooo’s making love ... and me and you just sitting in the sun trying to find a way to get a banana tree from one of the monkeys koala bears in the trees laughing at our listlessness ever think its possible for us to be happy Nikki Giovanni, “Walking Down Park” from The Selected Poems of Nikki Giovanni. Copyright © 1996 by Nikki Giovanni.
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64
Women are very strong and powerful No one can convince or confuse me to think otherwise I think Nature is not very nice to her When she chooses to not fertilize her eggs, she goes through pain every month When she fertilizes her eggs, she has to deal with changes in her body for nine months. And then, childbirth pain. Even the society is not very nice to her If she's qualified for the job, give her an equal chance And pay her what she truly deserves Also recognize her for her hardwork But we know that's not how it goes Against all odds, she still stands strong Lots of accomplishments in this world wouldn't have been possible without her Without her, the entire society will fall to the ground Let's give her the respect and credit she deserves.
0
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 2:19 AM UTC
Her
A whole new spiral, Trees upon a coil, Ink from leagues, Written feathers, Drizzled down as oil, Evermore, Nevermore, Less is more, All. Reverse inside-out, Springs before fall, Trojan powered horses, Mother Nature's fickle, In life we really are all, Trapped within a pickle... Steal the base, Capture the flag, Always run the risk, Chess played on a checker board, Hands turned into fists... The endless stairs, Rise & fall, Chutes & ladders, Poles, Elevated, Reciprocated, Orbital magnetic pull... This way, That way, Three rights make a left, Two of either, Horizontal shift, Four times, Stuck in circles... Full Moon, Half Moon, Crescent Moon, **** cheeks... Face cheeks, Two lips, Uranus, **** facts... The Owl asks "Who?" Not how many licks, Cracked. Tongue twister, Riddle fister, ******* fcking dcks... Creation. Destruction. Under construction, Living life, Chasing death, Don't forget to function... Playing hooky, Hooked on phonics, Telephone, Hello? Lose the "O", Cheerios, Rolled away, Hell. Pacific Bell, Pack Bell, Liberty Bell, Cracked. Xs, Os, Hugs, Kisses, Followed crumbs, Smacked... Cacophony of words, Magnified to deaf, Pantomime, Mr. Mime, Jynx, Hypnotic crest... Abra, Kadabra, Apply directly to the forehead... Water your brain, Fertilize, Extra fries, Exercise... A to Z, 1, 2, 3... F*cking A, We say... Today is here, The end is near, All come here to stay... Escape rope untethered, Weather altered sky day. Gaze at stars, Hollywood floor, Rich, Poor, More... Life is great, Life is crap, You decide, Not me... Cause all I see, Is cacophony... No sense inside of "we"... Here we are, We've come so far, RELAX... Have fun at last... Half full, Half empty, Shattered... At least we have the glass......
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Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
Cacophony of words
A whole new spiral, Trees upon a coil, Ink from leagues, Written feathers, Drizzled down as oil, Evermore, Nevermore, Less is more, All. Reverse inside-out, Springs before fall, Trojan powered horses, Mother Nature's fickle, In life we really are all, Trapped within a pickle... Steal the base, Capture the flag, Always run the risk, Chess played on a checker board, Hands turned into fists... The endless stairs, Rise & fall, Chutes & ladders, Poles, Elevated, Reciprocated, Orbital magnetic pull... This way, That way, Three rights make a left, Two of either, Horizontal shift, Four times, Stuck in circles... Full Moon, Half Moon, Crescent Moon, **** cheeks... Face cheeks, Two lips, Uranus, **** facts... The Owl asks "Who?" Not how many licks, Cracked. Tongue twister, Riddle fister, ******* fcking dcks... Creation. Destruction. Under construction, Living life, Chasing death, Don't forget to function... Playing hooky, Hooked on phonics, Telephone, Hello? Lose the "O", Cheerios, Rolled away, Hell. Pacific Bell, Pack Bell, Liberty Bell, Cracked. Xs, Os, Hugs, Kisses, Followed crumbs, Smacked... Cacophony of words, Magnified to deaf, Pantomime, Mr. Mime, Jynx, Hypnotic crest... Abra, Kadabra, Apply directly to the forehead... Water your brain, Fertilize, Extra fries, Exercise... A to Z, 1, 2, 3... F*cking A, We say... Today is here, The end is near, All come here to stay... Escape rope untethered, Weather altered sky day. Gaze at stars, Hollywood floor, Rich, Poor, More... Life is great, Life is crap, You decide, Not me... Cause all I see, Is cacophony... No sense inside of "we"... Here we are, We've come so far, RELAX... Have fun at last... Half full, Half empty, Shattered... At least we have the glass......
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114
Once I had a dream that there was drought, I never believed because I had a doubt; If that soon happens, I might die about, For I am just a vulnerable flower waiting to sprout. The next night, I had dreams that reign; At first, I thought it was a mild and a light rain, Too bad, it became a storm and it gave me pain; Oh no! I am just a vulnerable flower and it might grant me bane. The third night, I had a dream so true, That once a gigantic wind came through; Clue is to be ready but unfortunately, it blew, Halt! I am just a vulnerable flower and it made me blue. By the morning, I realized and already knew, That it was just a flashback of yesterday’s dew; Standing still in the sandy earth as crew, Made me realize, I am just a vulnerable flower and it made me new. Weeds beside me might steal the rain from me, But, still, it’s not enough for them to be happy; For too much rain rotten our freshness’ quality, But I am just a vulnerable flower keeping my identity. When the sun smiles is for me a glimpse of happiness, That even a vulnerable flower must be given sunshine’s bless; Thus fertilize with happiness to avoid multiple mess, For I am just a vulnerable flower who needs caress. What I want is just a particular time, Where rain and sunshine meets in the rhythm of the chime; The rainbow is what I am waiting for a time of prime, For I am just a vulnerable flower who dreams sometime.   If love could be just rain and happiness be sunshine, I’ll give you excess of it and give me assurance that you’re mine; Enough rain and proportion of sunshine must be given to my vine, For I am just a vulnerable flower as balanced as wine. If my contentment be a rainbow, then let it be you, For you have given me rain and a sun’s smile too; More than that, the remains of love is dew, is what I hold into, For I am just a vulnerable flower, contented to have you. If I could be just a flower, then it would be better, I might color your day and make it even sweeter; Brighten your face and make your heart even lighter, For I am not just a vulnerable flower, but I am a flower and a lover.
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Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 4:00 AM UTC
The Flower of Love
Once I had a dream that there was drought, I never believed because I had a doubt; If that soon happens, I might die about, For I am just a vulnerable flower waiting to sprout. The next night, I had dreams that reign; At first, I thought it was a mild and a light rain, Too bad, it became a storm and it gave me pain; Oh no! I am just a vulnerable flower and it might grant me bane. The third night, I had a dream so true, That once a gigantic wind came through; Clue is to be ready but unfortunately, it blew, Halt! I am just a vulnerable flower and it made me blue. By the morning, I realized and already knew, That it was just a flashback of yesterday’s dew; Standing still in the sandy earth as crew, Made me realize, I am just a vulnerable flower and it made me new. Weeds beside me might steal the rain from me, But, still, it’s not enough for them to be happy; For too much rain rotten our freshness’ quality, But I am just a vulnerable flower keeping my identity. When the sun smiles is for me a glimpse of happiness, That even a vulnerable flower must be given sunshine’s bless; Thus fertilize with happiness to avoid multiple mess, For I am just a vulnerable flower who needs caress. What I want is just a particular time, Where rain and sunshine meets in the rhythm of the chime; The rainbow is what I am waiting for a time of prime, For I am just a vulnerable flower who dreams sometime.   If love could be just rain and happiness be sunshine, I’ll give you excess of it and give me assurance that you’re mine; Enough rain and proportion of sunshine must be given to my vine, For I am just a vulnerable flower as balanced as wine. If my contentment be a rainbow, then let it be you, For you have given me rain and a sun’s smile too; More than that, the remains of love is dew, is what I hold into, For I am just a vulnerable flower, contented to have you. If I could be just a flower, then it would be better, I might color your day and make it even sweeter; Brighten your face and make your heart even lighter, For I am not just a vulnerable flower, but I am a flower and a lover.
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40
Swing high, swing low To the different birds I say hello Then monsters come to devour the pretties They grin and show me teeth full of flitties Swing high, swing low A demon pushes me onto a spiky pillow Then cotton candy softens the blow and turns to blood Swing high, swing low I really do not know Why the female body causes so much distress When the moon decides that it's time to fertilize Swing high, swing low There are no seeds to sow, so please, hormones, just leave me alone.
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Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 12:32 AM UTC
Swing High, Swing Low
The writer is                                                               bound by the Oedipus                                           cauldron stewing          can't relax                           --all women are mine--                                                                  but this doesn't stop the bloating bubbles.                      But the writer did not invent Wonderlandia                --no double-sided tape or wrong number or sloppy poetics.                               Wonderlandia was born from the ***** of the stars                                                          --our fathers,                               and the void of space,                                                      --our mother's womb. the writer                                              was busy staring at the girls that walked by                                         ditch diggers for renovations on Euphoria.                 The hippies are disappointed in this current Wonderlandia,    or they would be.                                Their dreams had dirt in the mud,                 they walked upon.                Our Woodstock                                                                 is celebrity interviews,                                                                 reservations failing,                                                                 political satires--the last ring of change              sold at five cents a word. Period. the writer                                         says it understands and writes:                       "Sticks shaped from elitism                         rare.                         Usually a vibe too brittle,                         breaking in battle.                         The bass thundered robins.                         The snare's firearm stabled the swift,                         electrifying beat.                         The brass was addiction                         to the crowd's ears.                         All before the elitism was born,                         a symphony was constructed in the drug's head." the writer                                 knows about D. A. Levy and his revolution,                   we all felt that voice, so the writer replies:                                "Did you hear about the John Lennon poser                                  waving his gun on TV?                                  While listening to the Beatles, you                                  sit and watch the vagabond cry.                                  He says, "Counter-culture is dead, entombed                                  in a metal casket.                                  We need a new flame. Those watching TV                                  get your hands out of the basket." the writer walks with grandma Alice by lakes, thrilling dementia "Don't tell me what taurine and caffeine can do to my heart. I can have alligators in my rib meat eating away at bone marrow. High? That's your question? Hi...I am a float in a useless pond bordered by malnourished trees. By the love of hell you better not fertilize those ****** trees because if I die the alligator of my ribs will dine and take your **** girlfriend straight to the vet. I thank you for asking though." the writer misses the syrup in the tree completely I am not your beatnik or future idol--burn your 1970's classrooms away.
0
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
When dreams had dirt
The writer is                                                               bound by the Oedipus                                           cauldron stewing          can't relax                           --all women are mine--                                                                  but this doesn't stop the bloating bubbles.                      But the writer did not invent Wonderlandia                --no double-sided tape or wrong number or sloppy poetics.                               Wonderlandia was born from the ***** of the stars                                                          --our fathers,                               and the void of space,                                                      --our mother's womb. the writer                                              was busy staring at the girls that walked by                                         ditch diggers for renovations on Euphoria.                 The hippies are disappointed in this current Wonderlandia,    or they would be.                                Their dreams had dirt in the mud,                 they walked upon.                Our Woodstock                                                                 is celebrity interviews,                                                                 reservations failing,                                                                 political satires--the last ring of change              sold at five cents a word. Period. the writer                                         says it understands and writes:                       "Sticks shaped from elitism                         rare.                         Usually a vibe too brittle,                         breaking in battle.                         The bass thundered robins.                         The snare's firearm stabled the swift,                         electrifying beat.                         The brass was addiction                         to the crowd's ears.                         All before the elitism was born,                         a symphony was constructed in the drug's head." the writer                                 knows about D. A. Levy and his revolution,                   we all felt that voice, so the writer replies:                                "Did you hear about the John Lennon poser                                  waving his gun on TV?                                  While listening to the Beatles, you                                  sit and watch the vagabond cry.                                  He says, "Counter-culture is dead, entombed                                  in a metal casket.                                  We need a new flame. Those watching TV                                  get your hands out of the basket." the writer walks with grandma Alice by lakes, thrilling dementia "Don't tell me what taurine and caffeine can do to my heart. I can have alligators in my rib meat eating away at bone marrow. High? That's your question? Hi...I am a float in a useless pond bordered by malnourished trees. By the love of hell you better not fertilize those ****** trees because if I die the alligator of my ribs will dine and take your **** girlfriend straight to the vet. I thank you for asking though." the writer misses the syrup in the tree completely I am not your beatnik or future idol--burn your 1970's classrooms away.
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70
You hear the sound of your skull c r a c k i n g.                                                              That’s                                                                          all.
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Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
fertilize
I wanna grow old with You I am living for You I am serving You But Lord, it's all because of Your grace. Like a tree, I will be rooted in You Deeper and deeper Will fall in love with You The wind will blow But surely, I will remain Standing still Knowing that You are my God. I will grow higher Upwardly, You'll see me Some of my roots Will be lateral Grinding itself to the ground of Yours To Your promised land. I will be like Redwood Tree Interconnected with other roots We'll have the connection of love Of great encouragement To strengthen each other That none may fall. I will grow outwardly That I may bear fruits That will last forever Taste my labor oh Lord May I please You. I will grow inwardly There's a hole in me That only You can fill Lord, I will love You more The more empty I am, The more broken I am, The more you'll move. I praise You And I will rise for You And flourish the Kingdom of Yours Help me indeed Fertilize my soil Give me the living water I exalt You!
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Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
Growing Old with You
Desires aren't ripened tangerines They do not fall off the tree when they are ready They do not fertilize the roots below They do not shrug off the sense of un-pickedness, just like that, Not like tangerines do. Desires unspent are starving termites. They bite into living bark And burrow into the breathing deep Past rings and rings of precious age. They corrupt the tender core And, soon, no new leaves grow And no more fruit drops.
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Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
Desires Aren't Ripened Tangerines
This is a time of separating paths but pacts need not be broken. You and I will know. Know all the cars that cross the border past the weathered sign. Welcome To A Brand New Place I can see your face reading the words but your lips don't move your eyes don't blink. Stand over the bridge and let pebbles fall into the river. I needn't hold on to these former times I find they remain. This is a time. Blessed are those able to relinquish control to the trees. Blessed are the trees whose falling leaves fertilize the soil. You sit there steering wheel in hand facing something and saying so this is God I am a mere child once more.
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May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 6:08 PM UTC
Border Towns
I throw my words to the compost heap with the rinds of so many others. The poetry that has been deciphered til there is no surprise left. I ***** them in to incubate and fertilize the fields of my heart. Then I shall glean them to harvest the poems of my Soul.
0
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
Compost
Some day your rolling obsidian waves will fertilize the ****** shores of my spirit but for now i sit with dead dog eyes turned upward                and opened wide Searching for eternity in the bursting plumage of your midnight lotus
0
Sep 23, 2021
Sep 23, 2021 at 10:33 PM UTC
Obsidian
What man would buy me a ticket, and into a cocoon where moss bites? I would sting like bees on buds, or ***** rushing to fertilize, create an angel no other gentlemen touches with white hair, eyes like sesame seeds: she seems more attractive than the woman he made love with, for certain. Looks unnatural to swim in a pool when a waterfall can pour ice onto his head: just as viney-things drape me. I am but a fair girl, have no color. He could not love me beneath green, there is no comparison, me and trees, but he does, and I feel April will return sooner and ruddier than anticipated. May will bark like a dog: on my knees, cradling children who hold vanities up to my forehead, I boast a bellyful of bugs, brick-hued and even with red stripes; I think they must wear sweaters to bed. How noble in our thirty-six months! We cuddle baby slugs, not counting sap, then burp their brothers, spout-mouths. He is, in fact, the man that would do the unthinkable grey-lipped love, authors gather inspiration from and snakes slip, spiders webbing shapes of: cocoon with our metamorphosis in mind.
0
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 5:24 PM UTC
cocoon
Maybe someday people will speak of a great group of logical poets. It will be a group though. Maybe a help group for the more fragile ones. Not the type of fragile you are...the type that breaks. Carry on army, and tend to your fellow army members' wounds. Maybe someday you will see that you have fake bullets. Fully automatic, with hollow points and full metal jackets You like my poem, then i'll like yours we don't have to call it reading even if yours could heal my sores mine would be all i'm needing i like your whole style of no style nothing to do with form or function you say it's not a one way street when i see you at every junction to be honest, it fills me with fear hitting like becoming my being then i will get roped into even more when less is all i'm seeing because this group is the real world, on a page, in cyberspace. My mind isn't real, because you can't see it, and it can't hit the like button for me. I must be as insane as you think i am. It tickles my pickle to see the same poets that pointed at me years ago writing the same exact poem over and over. Talking about writers block like it's real. I stick to my guns and my guns are automatic. If you have a block, you're not a writer. You are still used for building though. Building what you hate, building what i love. I know some are blocks of **** but they fertilize, at least. Thank you truly. If you hadn't kept putting me to sleep, i wouldn't have had so many awakenings. I do see the good, in blocks. One thing about a big block is that it gets cut into pieces, to make smaller blocks. Then you get mixed in with other blocks that you want no part of. I guess then, you and the other blocks just stand for that one building. You know...the 1 million square foot ranch. It has a basement, but no upstairs.
0
Oct 12, 2021
Oct 12, 2021 at 11:04 PM UTC
Groupthink is Not a One Way Street - The other side of huxley
Maybe someday people will speak of a great group of logical poets. It will be a group though. Maybe a help group for the more fragile ones. Not the type of fragile you are...the type that breaks. Carry on army, and tend to your fellow army members' wounds. Maybe someday you will see that you have fake bullets. Fully automatic, with hollow points and full metal jackets You like my poem, then i'll like yours we don't have to call it reading even if yours could heal my sores mine would be all i'm needing i like your whole style of no style nothing to do with form or function you say it's not a one way street when i see you at every junction to be honest, it fills me with fear hitting like becoming my being then i will get roped into even more when less is all i'm seeing because this group is the real world, on a page, in cyberspace. My mind isn't real, because you can't see it, and it can't hit the like button for me. I must be as insane as you think i am. It tickles my pickle to see the same poets that pointed at me years ago writing the same exact poem over and over. Talking about writers block like it's real. I stick to my guns and my guns are automatic. If you have a block, you're not a writer. You are still used for building though. Building what you hate, building what i love. I know some are blocks of **** but they fertilize, at least. Thank you truly. If you hadn't kept putting me to sleep, i wouldn't have had so many awakenings. I do see the good, in blocks. One thing about a big block is that it gets cut into pieces, to make smaller blocks. Then you get mixed in with other blocks that you want no part of. I guess then, you and the other blocks just stand for that one building. You know...the 1 million square foot ranch. It has a basement, but no upstairs.
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I like to think I'll find peace for me resting beneath a sycamore tree. I can't feel its roots burrow into my body, sapping me of my strength. No     No No     No No Can't you see? There is peace beneath this sycamore tree. Look at how it shelters me in the shade, so I can't see the sun. No     No No     No No What on earth are you telling me now? This is just a simple sycamore tree it is not acting sycophantically. I'm not held down, it's protecting me. No     No No     No No *It wants your death to fertilize its growth. You're rooted to the sycophantic tree.* Just go, there is nothing here for you. I'm corrupted, leave without me.
0
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
Sycophant
Black. Ugly. Growing. It mustn't be allowed to fertilize. It must be felled with a well aimed blow. In the midst of the dozen red roses, It is the Black Rose covered with thorns. Pain. Blackness. Piercing Intensity. I wonder. I beg. I plead. There is no progress, only decaying emotions. The only release possible presents itself. Nonexistence. Thoughts piercing my skull, Whirling 'round, seeking escape. Finding none, they make their own exit. Pain ends in unconsciousness, unconsciousness in.... Nonexistence.
0
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
Nonexistence
When you make a Chili dog you never Forget to slice the onion Into translucent white Slices and make sure Your mustard is dotted With brown flecks Make sure you have a tall Frosty beer the color of October sunsets Lay back in a chair And kick your feet up For me When your song comes On your headphones Dance like a chimpanzee Amongst Ikea furniture for me Don't think of me When the sky is stained Pink orange and aqua Think of something better Something that is real Something whole That doesn't want what Everyone else wants it To want When you stand next to My coffin Throw an orchid for me Or whatever flower is Cheapest because honestly I don't know what you're Throwing Make sure the soil is Heavy and wet Make it clump over the Cross I didn't want On the top of my Pine box Make sure you think about How roots and grass Will grow through me Eat me and grow Without a thought If nature ceased to Persevere Humanity would be Absurd in its Reckless building Destroying and poisoning When you look at my Pine box think about Repetition and death Think about moments Of brilliance and the years That beat them back Remember that hollowness Is its own form of substance Most importantly Remember that a chili dog Needs onions And that one day Your corpse No matter where it lays Will fertilize future life And the circle eats its own tail Its own tail Its own tale Surrender your meager twitching To the echoing riff of the complete Watch yourself dissolve Into the void's cast shadow Let your panic be snuffed By the beating of bees wings And the sorrowful violin Of crickets legs At dusk
0
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
Chili Dogs
When you make a Chili dog you never Forget to slice the onion Into translucent white Slices and make sure Your mustard is dotted With brown flecks Make sure you have a tall Frosty beer the color of October sunsets Lay back in a chair And kick your feet up For me When your song comes On your headphones Dance like a chimpanzee Amongst Ikea furniture for me Don't think of me When the sky is stained Pink orange and aqua Think of something better Something that is real Something whole That doesn't want what Everyone else wants it To want When you stand next to My coffin Throw an orchid for me Or whatever flower is Cheapest because honestly I don't know what you're Throwing Make sure the soil is Heavy and wet Make it clump over the Cross I didn't want On the top of my Pine box Make sure you think about How roots and grass Will grow through me Eat me and grow Without a thought If nature ceased to Persevere Humanity would be Absurd in its Reckless building Destroying and poisoning When you look at my Pine box think about Repetition and death Think about moments Of brilliance and the years That beat them back Remember that hollowness Is its own form of substance Most importantly Remember that a chili dog Needs onions And that one day Your corpse No matter where it lays Will fertilize future life And the circle eats its own tail Its own tail Its own tale Surrender your meager twitching To the echoing riff of the complete Watch yourself dissolve Into the void's cast shadow Let your panic be snuffed By the beating of bees wings And the sorrowful violin Of crickets legs At dusk
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