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Shlomo Oct 2018
Emerging economies.

What they’re emerging from I don’t know.

My guess, the depths of hell.

From the frying pan, right into the fire, or worse; a well.

A deep hole stronger than gravity, the force.

To be forever under the thumb of remorse.



A modern era of endless acts, policies and bla bla bla.

Shut up with all your platitudes.

I see what’s really going on. Aha!

You speak of sustainable development.

Nice to know that you’ve led by example.

Carried the mantle for all these years.



Centuries of ruthlessness, now veiled in sheep’s clothing.

But you won’t shut up. Because you don’t speak.

You never have. You just do.

Each day that goes by, you carry on anew.

Behind all the talk of hope, equality and more progress,

it seems the wolves are lurking.



Cooking up the next tool to subdue countless.

This time, not behind closed doors. But in plain sight.

It’s scary to imagine such spite.

Each year that goes by it becomes clearer that you never cared.

You sold guns, drugs and all kinds of war.

And each time, you kept coming back for more.



You’ve built up antibodies that ensure your survival.

But sometimes I wonder if you’re alive at all.

But what do I know?

Maybe you’re more alive than ever.

Doing what you do best but always more clever.

That not even the most stable of geniuses can evade your pressure.



A strong enough foundation that each break makes you stronger,

So strong that not even the Gremlin can take you under.  

Against this dreary background, foregrounded is nothing short of magical.

Beyond hope, prayers or a thoughtless radical.

Or maybe this is all just fake outrage.

An attempt to evade the boredom of this endless monotony and baggage.



Or maybe, the term is out of date.

Like every other, that makes me increasingly more irate.

In which case, this poem is at least ten years late.

Or maybe there are too many maybes’.

And I’m perfectly suited for this time of vague uneasiness and indifference.

In which case, my imagination probably needs more sociology and less a lesson in rhymes.
Piano backed narration @ https://anchor.fm/shlomotion/episodes/Emerging-Economies-e1s1a6
JP Goss Mar 2015
Such to break surface, the framed glassy pool reflects
With me, upright, the still-life foregrounded as its own
Pale imitation. But I see it, there, between my vague eyes
And evaporating pores populating a single empty window
Devoid, a full of life—or so I am to believe.

That tree is happy, incomplete and passive, wayside,
It contemplates its own dream, nostalgia is its willful present
In the moment, there are but ripples in which the tree smiles
Happy to know it is here, it is alive, it is me—just as my fading
Bliss is real in the glass. I am happy for the tree: being of difference.

What never can be, it shall, in spite of metaphor
To be like is to be, but too pure be is to abhor.

It turns, a rebel, from the pool: no fiction of cast nor questioning;
That plastic Narcissus cannot hear the Echo of a captured face:
Where Exit signs sigh in their own irony trapped, here, there,
It is by its own imitation it must comfort the erraticies—
Sadly, she weeps uttering the same mantra on her lips,
But by design, she has curses on her brow, anger at her mimicry
Which hides her from the dream she lives, still weighted by
Wonder, still holding onto God. She sees nothing but the calling back.
Is but the voice of a Lover, of trapped souls in a tenement window,

She can only hear herself talking infinitely
Presence to the water, commune her ‘I’ unto me.

While I am free to glide about the room, the panoramic view
Of two minds’ madness, I, too, feel a pool on which my beloved Self
Reveals to me the seconds it took to create,
The voices which, vague, came as mine
And I stole away quietly, to believe me a tree, and to go ahead and dream.
Lachlan Kempson Jan 2018
I call to you, with stars
in my eyes, and a hope
that takes over my timbre.
Giving voice to the void

that separates internal
from
external,
through the minuscule aperture,

like a photograph with no light behind
but only foregrounded you.
No leaves or trees or paths
or edits to the memory -

natural
and glorious
and vivid
and you.

You alone.

I call to you alone
when you are all -
marks of tread through my heart
and love, a whole lot.

All I need, and no less
despite the behavioural
incongruence (hushed
and veiled).

So much says otherwise,
but does not so much
say as such?

I call to you, drowning
beneath the surface of
a puddle;
no, a pool;
now a lake,

impossible to fracture
the top frosted over,
beating my hands endlessly against.
The water blue flows crimson.

My heart beats,
until it stops.
And in the quiet,
she breathes.

I breathe too, and
my heart restarts,
her exhales electrochemical,

jolting me to wakefulness
and bringing my heart
to life
once more.

It's the nothings, the calm,
just the way she is
that gives you the breathless love.

Let her in. Gosh -
just let her in.
Let her love you because
she does.

Oh, slow your heart
or she will know.
Slow,
or the dream will end.

Let her love you
without loving you
the same.

Let it be, ok?
Let it be ok.
Let it be.

There is love
and it is bright, vibrant,
and it will shine through
any darkness.

She is everything in herself -
let her evolve.
That is life;
that is love...

That is love.
What is truth?

Unfortunately –

No one can be told what the effect is.
You have to know for yourself.
What if this was your last chance?
After, maybe there is no turning back.
You can take the red pill and the story ends.
You wake up in your bed and believe
Whatever you want to believe.
Or you can take the blue pill
And stay in wonderland as I show you
How deep the rabbit hole really goes.

Science says that we are made of detritus
Stuff exploded from distant stars.
Get over it, I say, celebrate it.
After all, what nobler a thought
Could one ever cherish
Than the knowledge that the
Universe lives within us all.
So look up into the stars and with each
Twinkle, wink back to the ancestors they truly are.

There is nothing for which I have
Painted out for myself so joyously
A riot of my affections as in this journey
Through the inner part of my dreams.
Sometimes my thoughts are gated away from the
Dreams which suffers me to be somehow unfit.
But as I gain an awareness of each and every
Mindset, a festivity arises in me with a knowledge
That the father is in the background
Of my every foregrounded piece.

But sometimes those gates are not so easily opened.
Somehow, with each line the locks open and I vibrate differently -
A feeling so deep inside that the effects render me entwined.

That's when I sit up and shout,

“Oh, eternal fountain of feelings,”

I place my hand over my heart and repeat:

“Tis here I trace thee,
Tis here that thy divinity stirs within me.”

I move my hand to my forehead and continue

“Dear God, is love just some pomp of a word?
You, are you not the great sensorium of the world?
You know my languish and you also know of my symptoms.”

Taking my hand from my forehead sitting now Indian style
With my hands on my knees facing upwards.

“I come oh Lord just as I am, without a plea
But that thy blood was shed for me, so I come.”

Closing my eyes looking down in reverence
While thinking the thoughts of the master.

“Would God place a boulder in front of the blind?”

“No my Lord.”

"Would God speak out loud to the deaf?”

“No my Lord.”

“Would God put Love out of reach?”

“No my Lord.”

And then in this concurrent dream state
One sage after another appears to me.

“You will ***** around in broad daylight, just like a blind person groping in the darkness and you will not succeed at anything you do. You will be oppressed and robbed continually and no one will come to save you.” Deut.28:29

“My heart beats wildly, my strength fails and I am going blind.” Psalm 38:10

“Let their eyes go blind so they cannot see and let their bodies grow weaker and weaker.” Psalm 69:23

“So I let them follow their blind and stubborn way living according to their own desires.” Psalm 81:12

“Is there one who made your ears deaf?
Is there one who formed your eyes blind?” Psalm 94:9

“For the wise person sees while the fool is blind. Yet I saw that wise and foolish people share the same fate.” Eccles. 2:14

Looking up from my inner self,
I see the darkness gaining its entry in.
The battle that is without is also within.

“I sleep but my heart waketh : it is the voice of my beloved
that knocketh saying, open to me my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled:
for my head is filled with dew and my locks with the drops of the night.” Song of Solomon 5:2

“And it shall come to pass that in the last days, saith God; I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh and
Your sons and daughters will prophesy and your young men shall see visions. And your old men shall dream concurrent dreams.” Acts 2:17

Rising to my feet I know now that it is
In my blindness that now I see.
It is in my deafness
That now I hear.
And in the darkness
Like the stars at night,
That is how I see the light.
In these many, many concurrent dreams.
Only the spirit lives on and ones' spirit - when released - sheds religion like a worn out pair of shoes.

— The End —