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"formulated" poems
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
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Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
The media machine and its lack of authenticity
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
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14
We live in a time of uncertainty No jobs Climate change Mass killings warnings of pandemics Where is our utopia where is our heaven on Earth 1900's we had San Fransisco's earthquake McKinley was assassinated First Nobel prize The Tunguska Event nothing as changed in my eyes 1910's we had Spanish flu The sinking of the unsinkable ship, the Titanic and World War 1 What else is needed to say about this decade nothing changed as the human race lived on 1920's we had Discovery of penicillin The great depression and prohibition 1930's we had Bonnie and Clyde Hindenburg disaster Discovery of Pluto Al Capone imprisoned 1940's we had World War 2 Mount Rushmore completed Big bang theory formulated Israel founded Nothing changed but who knew 1950's we had Castro becomes Dictator of Cuba Laika the dog goes into space Korean War began History never changed and neither will the Human Race 1960's we had The rise of the Berlin wall First man on the moon Vietnam War Nothing changed and won't any time soon 1970's we had First test tube baby Tangshan Earthquake Kent state shootings Elvis died 1980's we had Chernobyl Tiananmen square massacre Exxon oil spill Nothing changed and never will 1990's we had Oklahoma city bombing Princess Diana died Columbine massacre World Trade Center bombed End of the Cold War 2000's we had Hurricane Katrina Pluto reclassified Obama elected September 11th 2010's we had Haiti Earthquake Japan Earthquake Bin Laden killed BP oil spill England riots Brazil riots China banned time travel. We're only 4 years in. **** sapiens are nearly 200,000 years old nothing changed and never will
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Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 6:07 AM UTC
Nothing Changed
We live in a time of uncertainty No jobs Climate change Mass killings warnings of pandemics Where is our utopia where is our heaven on Earth 1900's we had San Fransisco's earthquake McKinley was assassinated First Nobel prize The Tunguska Event nothing as changed in my eyes 1910's we had Spanish flu The sinking of the unsinkable ship, the Titanic and World War 1 What else is needed to say about this decade nothing changed as the human race lived on 1920's we had Discovery of penicillin The great depression and prohibition 1930's we had Bonnie and Clyde Hindenburg disaster Discovery of Pluto Al Capone imprisoned 1940's we had World War 2 Mount Rushmore completed Big bang theory formulated Israel founded Nothing changed but who knew 1950's we had Castro becomes Dictator of Cuba Laika the dog goes into space Korean War began History never changed and neither will the Human Race 1960's we had The rise of the Berlin wall First man on the moon Vietnam War Nothing changed and won't any time soon 1970's we had First test tube baby Tangshan Earthquake Kent state shootings Elvis died 1980's we had Chernobyl Tiananmen square massacre Exxon oil spill Nothing changed and never will 1990's we had Oklahoma city bombing Princess Diana died Columbine massacre World Trade Center bombed End of the Cold War 2000's we had Hurricane Katrina Pluto reclassified Obama elected September 11th 2010's we had Haiti Earthquake Japan Earthquake Bin Laden killed BP oil spill England riots Brazil riots China banned time travel. We're only 4 years in. **** sapiens are nearly 200,000 years old nothing changed and never will
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77
Mistakes, Heartaches, Alone with a shot of liquor, Wishing for the time to pass quicker. Mistakes, Heartaches, Staring at a clock, Hoping these thoughts I could block. Mistakes, Heartaches, Watching hours tick by, Trying to believe my own formulated lie. Mistakes, Heartaches, I wonder what I did to deserve this, Wondering what did I miss, Or why I care so much for a single kiss. Mistakes, Heartaches, Seems like it's been years since I here I sat, With too many shots; head pounding, after that. Mistakes, Heartaches, People tell me to get a grip, Telling me my sanity's in a constant slip. Mistakes, Heartaches, My friends want me sober, I only wish it to be over. Mistakes, Heartaches, I've gone through a lot, Most of it smudged, more of a blot. Mistakes, Heartaches, Stains on my conscience, Tears in my heart, Waiting for a single correspondence, Before I rip myself apart. Mistakes, Heartaches, Left me torn, Alone to mourn. Mistakes, Heartaches, Whose mistake am I, And why are these tears leaking from my eyes? Mistakes, Heartaches, I'm reaching for the next shot of liquor, Wishing for the time to pass quicker.
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Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC
Mistakes & Heartaches
An inland blockade from Israel cut off life giving supplies to the Palastians in Gaza. This happened around 2010. Formulated was the "GAZA FREEDOM FLOATILLA". Their strategy was to dock in Gaza-away from land-and deliver much needed life saving supplies. However, the flotilla was seized- on the sea -by the Israeli Navy consisting of one hundred and fifty sailors. Around ten people from one of the flotilla ships were killed and  brutality reigned supreme. ( a Turkish ship fought back ) Incarcerations from the floatilla to Israel's jails took place. And so I dedicate this writing to these wonderful people of conscience and their brave hearts upon the sea... Days of siege Days of conscience Days of hope Sailing to their destination Days remembered Day's compassion Days remembered these needed cargoes held Engines turning on paths of caution; love is carried on sailing symbols Each ship and boat will shout her name Will shout in spirit dear Rachel Corrie,dear Rachel Corrie Will shout in spirit dear Rachel Corrie Brave hearts you suffered so upon the sea Brave hearts you fought for truth, hope and dignity Brave hearts on floating love Brave hearts you are that peaceful powerful dove Brave hearts you are our guiding light Brave hearts you pierced that darkened blackened night Brave Hearts upon the sea...
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Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
Brave Hearts Upon The Sea
Yeah, we have a great relationship. But imagine how much better this would be if I actually loved you back? But oops, that's right. I forgot to tell you that I'm kind of incapable of loving another human being. But it's okay, it's not like love is real anyways. And even though a good percentage of the general population have the same opinion as me, I'm labeled by those around me as a cynical, lonely, pessimistic girl, simply because others can't seem to comprehend that everything I say is derived from my own personal perspective and observations that I've made. What was it that the naively optimistic, overly positive young man from the book store called me? Oh yes, an "unjustifiably, unnecessarily negative teen who is disappointed with her life because she has yet to 'experience love.'" Despite his ignorance and obscenely immature mindset, which evidently accounted for his matching personality, I don't think he realized that my lack of belief in the existence of "true love" was the exactly the reason that I was in the book store. Because, as I came to realize, it appears that the only form of "love" that I seem to recognize as being adequate enough to somewhat believe in are those spoken of and created in novels. It's formulated by the birth of a ridiculously intense, love fueled storyline, supported by a mindful choice of cohesive, dramatic, and emotional words. Hence, fictional love is born, except to most it doesn't seem fictional because it's so breathtaking to read about. They believe in it, they worship it. As if it actually exists in an alternate universe. The unrealistic perfection of it gives them a disgusting, false hope which just drives them to cling to it more. It's a drug to them, they can't live without the hope that such a "love" exists somewhere in the world; they need it. And the sad part is, they're completely oblivious to the fact that they have just become addicts, that they just sold their soul and relinquished part of their freedom to a fictitious concept. It's so fake, it's almost real.
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Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 4:10 AM UTC
True Love Isn't Real (Don't read books about love stories)
Yeah, we have a great relationship. But imagine how much better this would be if I actually loved you back? But oops, that's right. I forgot to tell you that I'm kind of incapable of loving another human being. But it's okay, it's not like love is real anyways. And even though a good percentage of the general population have the same opinion as me, I'm labeled by those around me as a cynical, lonely, pessimistic girl, simply because others can't seem to comprehend that everything I say is derived from my own personal perspective and observations that I've made. What was it that the naively optimistic, overly positive young man from the book store called me? Oh yes, an "unjustifiably, unnecessarily negative teen who is disappointed with her life because she has yet to 'experience love.'" Despite his ignorance and obscenely immature mindset, which evidently accounted for his matching personality, I don't think he realized that my lack of belief in the existence of "true love" was the exactly the reason that I was in the book store. Because, as I came to realize, it appears that the only form of "love" that I seem to recognize as being adequate enough to somewhat believe in are those spoken of and created in novels. It's formulated by the birth of a ridiculously intense, love fueled storyline, supported by a mindful choice of cohesive, dramatic, and emotional words. Hence, fictional love is born, except to most it doesn't seem fictional because it's so breathtaking to read about. They believe in it, they worship it. As if it actually exists in an alternate universe. The unrealistic perfection of it gives them a disgusting, false hope which just drives them to cling to it more. It's a drug to them, they can't live without the hope that such a "love" exists somewhere in the world; they need it. And the sad part is, they're completely oblivious to the fact that they have just become addicts, that they just sold their soul and relinquished part of their freedom to a fictitious concept. It's so fake, it's almost real.
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16
It's mortifying... The dilemma, the time lapse, the wait, the clock. The abstract that I so blatantly describe in my other writings. Time cannot be paused, stopped... The abstraction is so formulated into one diverse piece, the creation of such is appealing, yet reformative. Inconsequential, to the matter of science, myth, philosophy, conduct, and everything that exists beyond our mind. I hold onto this creation, because the conclusion of the matter holds many intellectual debates that cannot be won or answered. It is forbidden, it's lost. The question of right and wrong holds many definitions that are inexplicable to the concept of reality itself, when the utter illusion holds the introspection that philosophers like myself, cannot give a precise answer to. Time will let us be. It's a quiet storm, and I've never felt like this before. Sometimes I think, you're just too good for me.
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Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
The quiet storm
Softly, gently, I  sipped your red cherry-lip petals patiently, silently, I grabbed your brown nip-let buds deeply, knowingly, I drowned into your blue eye-oceans The feminine body turns to be  a dates garden amidst my own barren desert ! Williamsji Maveli Email: [email protected] * KGA (UAE Chapter) Literary award for Poetry declared for Williamsji Maveli’s   “Arramviralthumbath…” The Kallettumakara Gblobal Association (KGA), UAE Chapter has announced their first poetry award for excellence to Williamsji Maveli's  third  poetry collection   titled as “Arramviralthumbath …”  (On the tip of the 6th finger,  published by H & C Books, Trichur) .The award has been declared  by Mathew David, Chairman of KGA at their Executive Committee meeting held recently in Sharjah Emirate of United Arab Emirates.  The award has  also been considered for his poetic works scattered in his recently published book named  as “Maa Salama."  ( means "With peace"  in Arabic). The poems have been gathered from different desert sketches,  focusing on his real-time life experiences ,while he was working in UAE for more than 30 years.  Williamsji, (Williams George),   former Ras Al Khaimah based Journalist and lyricist of tester-years has been nominated for a literary award for the first time for literature. The Award is being formulated by KGA  (Kallettumkara Global Association, UAE Chapter) for  outstanding contributions to literature  from the native writers  of Kallettumkara,  a village town in Trichur, Kerala in India.  The award will be presented by the KGA’s UAE Chapter on the grand occasion of their 10th anniversary, which is being scheduled to be held during September, this year, according to Mathew David, Chairman of Kallettumkara Global Association.
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Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
The Dates Garden
Softly, gently, I  sipped your red cherry-lip petals patiently, silently, I grabbed your brown nip-let buds deeply, knowingly, I drowned into your blue eye-oceans The feminine body turns to be  a dates garden amidst my own barren desert ! Williamsji Maveli Email: [email protected] * KGA (UAE Chapter) Literary award for Poetry declared for Williamsji Maveli’s   “Arramviralthumbath…” The Kallettumakara Gblobal Association (KGA), UAE Chapter has announced their first poetry award for excellence to Williamsji Maveli's  third  poetry collection   titled as “Arramviralthumbath …”  (On the tip of the 6th finger,  published by H & C Books, Trichur) .The award has been declared  by Mathew David, Chairman of KGA at their Executive Committee meeting held recently in Sharjah Emirate of United Arab Emirates.  The award has  also been considered for his poetic works scattered in his recently published book named  as “Maa Salama."  ( means "With peace"  in Arabic). The poems have been gathered from different desert sketches,  focusing on his real-time life experiences ,while he was working in UAE for more than 30 years.  Williamsji, (Williams George),   former Ras Al Khaimah based Journalist and lyricist of tester-years has been nominated for a literary award for the first time for literature. The Award is being formulated by KGA  (Kallettumkara Global Association, UAE Chapter) for  outstanding contributions to literature  from the native writers  of Kallettumkara,  a village town in Trichur, Kerala in India.  The award will be presented by the KGA’s UAE Chapter on the grand occasion of their 10th anniversary, which is being scheduled to be held during September, this year, according to Mathew David, Chairman of Kallettumkara Global Association.
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18
So many succumb to Group Think in such a way that it is dangerous. From a young age, though I knew not yet of the notion, I rejected opinions passed to me as fact for the reason that opinions are subjective: I did not hold as 'beautiful' what they told me I ought to. I did not hold as 'wondrous' what they said was so. I did not hold as 'difficult' what others had not yet accomplished. I did not regard as 'easy' what others had yet done. I was not serious when they told me I must be. I made jokes when they deemed it distasteful. I laughed at the hypocrisy, right in it's face. I didn't just lay down and accept it as fate. I did not like the music they told me to like. I did not believe the biased history they taught as absolute and true. I did not worship the mythic Gods they made to be literal. I refused to pledge my allegiance in a brainwashed mass to any flag of any nation under any God with Liberty and/or Justice for merely a few. Over time I acquired my own taste for these things: I grew to appreciate the discrepancy between what I was told and what I observed. From there, I formulated my own opinions, I became an Individualist. A Heretic. They sure don't make it easy. Individualism, to me, does not connotate isolationism, though with isolation can come self-awareness and self-discipline. Individualism, to me, refers to finding one's own Path; being a Heretic; staying true to your own Path. To be a Rebel to undue Authority. To not be afraid to defy your peers. To be an Anarchist within one's self. To practice Civil Disobedience. Plus, the friends you will make if you live this way will blow your ******* mind and last you a lifetime. - Opinions are never concrete; they must curve and morph with the ebb and flow of your particular life. Opinions and Taste must be relative to one's own personality and life if they are to be genuine. Even still, the pull of the social tide is not so easily resisted: You are succumbing to Group Think even more than you might think but I think, or at least I think (that) I think that we can all overcome Group Think if we would all just stop and think. Don't you think?
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Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
Individuality [Heresy]
So many succumb to Group Think in such a way that it is dangerous. From a young age, though I knew not yet of the notion, I rejected opinions passed to me as fact for the reason that opinions are subjective: I did not hold as 'beautiful' what they told me I ought to. I did not hold as 'wondrous' what they said was so. I did not hold as 'difficult' what others had not yet accomplished. I did not regard as 'easy' what others had yet done. I was not serious when they told me I must be. I made jokes when they deemed it distasteful. I laughed at the hypocrisy, right in it's face. I didn't just lay down and accept it as fate. I did not like the music they told me to like. I did not believe the biased history they taught as absolute and true. I did not worship the mythic Gods they made to be literal. I refused to pledge my allegiance in a brainwashed mass to any flag of any nation under any God with Liberty and/or Justice for merely a few. Over time I acquired my own taste for these things: I grew to appreciate the discrepancy between what I was told and what I observed. From there, I formulated my own opinions, I became an Individualist. A Heretic. They sure don't make it easy. Individualism, to me, does not connotate isolationism, though with isolation can come self-awareness and self-discipline. Individualism, to me, refers to finding one's own Path; being a Heretic; staying true to your own Path. To be a Rebel to undue Authority. To not be afraid to defy your peers. To be an Anarchist within one's self. To practice Civil Disobedience. Plus, the friends you will make if you live this way will blow your ******* mind and last you a lifetime. - Opinions are never concrete; they must curve and morph with the ebb and flow of your particular life. Opinions and Taste must be relative to one's own personality and life if they are to be genuine. Even still, the pull of the social tide is not so easily resisted: You are succumbing to Group Think even more than you might think but I think, or at least I think (that) I think that we can all overcome Group Think if we would all just stop and think. Don't you think?
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47
When your hand is in mine I feel all of heaven's divine When you are close, the world is naught Drowning in your love, a triumph is sought You may be there, I may be here No matter what they say, there is nothing I fear No longer am I afraid to surpass a crossroad's uncertainties You taught me to drop off my insecurities *If kisses were raindrops, I'd send you showers If hugs were seconds, I'd send you hours If smiles were water, I'd send you the sea If love is a package, I'd send you me.. *  There must be someone else better for you But you define me as the best one for you No longer "I" but "We" is the promise we formulated A perpetual journey together, we have created I look behind not with bitter regrets How my heart merged with yours, I can never forget We've reached this far with this love so true I'd be glad to walk endless miles with you My eyes swell with tears, I whisper and pray Take me in your arms, let me cry today May my breath, find refuge in your heart Deep in your love, may my life depart
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Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
A Journey With You
day 1 (uno) that we talked you tried to whisper the clothes off my body and told me you wanted to see the folds of your fingers inside of me (as if it was nothing) and while I rejected he formulated and cracked a new plan — to tell me thats all he wanted to hear, and demanded self respect while pushing for lack of self respect. His eyes couldn’t lie but when I tried to locate them, he carried me away in his personal blue seas (this is a cliche) and made me taste the waters (I got addicted as a result) and I guess that even my logic obsessed self couldn’t make out what was right and wrong anymore, so I drowned myself and floated in his rivers Proceed to day 34 (teintra y cuatro) where you admitted under a drunken spell that you loved me all along and wanted a future. Phase 1: Terrified. Phase 2: Relief. Relieved that my love was not only mine, but ours. Relieved that I could drink from those waters forever. But terrified, so, so terrified of the mess I made from the man who only wanted to have my naked body and infect it. I had only shown a glimpse of my skin around my lower back, and you could only demand more while judging my self respect (or lack thereof). My logical self had decided that this behavior was him at his finest he was just setting me up and wanted to invade my skin. My loving self was convinced that he was acting out on his newly found addiction. Since I had just fed him the same venom he poisoned my body with. In the end, it was all just a test of my self respect. Or lack thereof.
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Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 9:56 AM UTC
Diary Entry I: Self Respect
day 1 (uno) that we talked you tried to whisper the clothes off my body and told me you wanted to see the folds of your fingers inside of me (as if it was nothing) and while I rejected he formulated and cracked a new plan — to tell me thats all he wanted to hear, and demanded self respect while pushing for lack of self respect. His eyes couldn’t lie but when I tried to locate them, he carried me away in his personal blue seas (this is a cliche) and made me taste the waters (I got addicted as a result) and I guess that even my logic obsessed self couldn’t make out what was right and wrong anymore, so I drowned myself and floated in his rivers Proceed to day 34 (teintra y cuatro) where you admitted under a drunken spell that you loved me all along and wanted a future. Phase 1: Terrified. Phase 2: Relief. Relieved that my love was not only mine, but ours. Relieved that I could drink from those waters forever. But terrified, so, so terrified of the mess I made from the man who only wanted to have my naked body and infect it. I had only shown a glimpse of my skin around my lower back, and you could only demand more while judging my self respect (or lack thereof). My logical self had decided that this behavior was him at his finest he was just setting me up and wanted to invade my skin. My loving self was convinced that he was acting out on his newly found addiction. Since I had just fed him the same venom he poisoned my body with. In the end, it was all just a test of my self respect. Or lack thereof.
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5
You have carved for yourselves a home in the crooks of my arms, where the beats of my chest come steady, in the spaces reserved for my 2am thoughts, your laughter echoes over and over and my dreams have turned red, yellow, black. I don’t know much science, but I do know that no thick-rimmed, burnt-brow whitecoat could have formulated a theory quite like the night when you told me: God breathes in your mountain. Speaks morse code in the night skies. Tastes like clear, running waters. Dresses you in deep browns, floating gold. Smells like first harvest, grass just rained on. Honest and wide-eyed, you tell me it’s all too intricate, all too alive to be woven by a wooden fingered god. Your tongues dance the languages that you’ve conquered but not colonized. I am unafraid of stumbling on their steps when I am held by hands that build bridges where walls have been torn down. You have always sent me shaking, crying, braver, with how you, wake to gunfire instead of alarm clocks, choose to wield pencils and paints and bamboo song, how you, who have seen the flesh of your flesh wrapped in a red not made of beads or cloth, walk hostile streets with your fists and prayers, hearts welcoming a shattered sky. How you, have never met strangers without bombs in their back pockets, yet aren’t afraid of my nakedness sharing soap, sharing soup with you, a people, our people, my people. Born of sun, born of earth beaded bodies native to heaven, your eyes constellations, maps for the lost feet finding roads to forgiveness, finding roads to forgiveness.
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Sep 10, 2020
Sep 10, 2020 at 9:48 AM UTC
Lumad Hymn
You have carved for yourselves a home in the crooks of my arms, where the beats of my chest come steady, in the spaces reserved for my 2am thoughts, your laughter echoes over and over and my dreams have turned red, yellow, black. I don’t know much science, but I do know that no thick-rimmed, burnt-brow whitecoat could have formulated a theory quite like the night when you told me: God breathes in your mountain. Speaks morse code in the night skies. Tastes like clear, running waters. Dresses you in deep browns, floating gold. Smells like first harvest, grass just rained on. Honest and wide-eyed, you tell me it’s all too intricate, all too alive to be woven by a wooden fingered god. Your tongues dance the languages that you’ve conquered but not colonized. I am unafraid of stumbling on their steps when I am held by hands that build bridges where walls have been torn down. You have always sent me shaking, crying, braver, with how you, wake to gunfire instead of alarm clocks, choose to wield pencils and paints and bamboo song, how you, who have seen the flesh of your flesh wrapped in a red not made of beads or cloth, walk hostile streets with your fists and prayers, hearts welcoming a shattered sky. How you, have never met strangers without bombs in their back pockets, yet aren’t afraid of my nakedness sharing soap, sharing soup with you, a people, our people, my people. Born of sun, born of earth beaded bodies native to heaven, your eyes constellations, maps for the lost feet finding roads to forgiveness, finding roads to forgiveness.
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48
Tales marketed at the edge of all existence, formulated by mass hysteria and poverty spit from the grinded ideals of our fathers but our fathers were twisted and aged- but our mothers, our mothers whom were convicted as the criminally insane and held at a lower standard knew the future, they knew we would crumble, that we must crumble. For it has been predicted since ancient times that mankind would fall but the fall was blamed on Gods and those of a higher power because they could not believe that man would wound himself, slowly poison himself until he drags his black and blue skin across the lands and eats all he sees, gorging himself till he bursts and drowns our cities in his impurities. Funny, built like monkeys we are fools, but more to the liking of our pink skin we are pigs at heart
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Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
Norwegian Blue Fox
Ethics of war were not followed, Neither by the army under me, Nor by that wise commander, I shattered all the regulations, Especially the ones formulated by me. I, Đroņa, was a war criminal, They had him surrounded when I commanded Abhimanyu's killing. Classical rules of war idealized, Don't attack the outnumbered enemy, I helped form the Chakravyuha, A forbidden aggressive war formation, 'Abhimanyu' was killed by many, He was so outnumbered by our army, Đraupađi, his mother, cursed me, She cursed I'll die lamenting my son.
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Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 12:49 AM UTC
The Guilt Of Guru Đroņa
I'm disowning my name. In America, my name is cumbersome and clumsy and confusing so I'm leaving it behind. See, my name starts with an S and ends with a Z and one's a mirror of the other so they're like bookends for a collection of letters that spell a name that I never really felt belonged to me. Every morning, when I wake up, I wriggle into my name but it doesn't feel quite right. It's like borrowing your best friend's jeans even though she's tall and skinny and you've got a hundred generations of Puertoriqueña swirling around the blood in your hips. I don't like my name cause it doesn't diffuse across your lips. It bursts through your teeth. It's got a weight on your tongue that brings down the sound with the weight of a thousand sinking ships. I've got a Hispanic Titanic of a name but my skin's so white it seems impolite to claim an ethnicity that only lends its elasticity because of my father and the people that brought him here. My name is not me. It never was. It is an anchor that keeps me on the island of what my family used to be. I am not a race. I am not a category next to a box on a sheet of paper. I am the syncopated heartbeat of a tribal drum. I am the ****** whisper of water on the sand. I am the sunburn on the corrugated tin. I am the hunger in the stomachs of the working poor. So when I die let me not be remembered by fifteen letters I did not choose seven syllables I did not select three titles I did not ask for. Let them tell stories of what I did where I went what I saw who I loved the words I spoke the thoughts I formulated, ignorant of my race free of bias and prejudice and preconceived notions of what I should have been because in the end none of this will matter I'll have no strength for words but with a penultimate breath I'll still be able to smile.
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Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 10:27 AM UTC
An Introduction
I'm disowning my name. In America, my name is cumbersome and clumsy and confusing so I'm leaving it behind. See, my name starts with an S and ends with a Z and one's a mirror of the other so they're like bookends for a collection of letters that spell a name that I never really felt belonged to me. Every morning, when I wake up, I wriggle into my name but it doesn't feel quite right. It's like borrowing your best friend's jeans even though she's tall and skinny and you've got a hundred generations of Puertoriqueña swirling around the blood in your hips. I don't like my name cause it doesn't diffuse across your lips. It bursts through your teeth. It's got a weight on your tongue that brings down the sound with the weight of a thousand sinking ships. I've got a Hispanic Titanic of a name but my skin's so white it seems impolite to claim an ethnicity that only lends its elasticity because of my father and the people that brought him here. My name is not me. It never was. It is an anchor that keeps me on the island of what my family used to be. I am not a race. I am not a category next to a box on a sheet of paper. I am the syncopated heartbeat of a tribal drum. I am the ****** whisper of water on the sand. I am the sunburn on the corrugated tin. I am the hunger in the stomachs of the working poor. So when I die let me not be remembered by fifteen letters I did not choose seven syllables I did not select three titles I did not ask for. Let them tell stories of what I did where I went what I saw who I loved the words I spoke the thoughts I formulated, ignorant of my race free of bias and prejudice and preconceived notions of what I should have been because in the end none of this will matter I'll have no strength for words but with a penultimate breath I'll still be able to smile.
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***perhaps if you are one of the few multiyear variates,   still here, still seeking solutions to the equations of human formulation, one of the veterans of the early word wars, when the line between fellow poet and human being was full of invitational openings, tween those dots and dashes, we all eagerly entered those places, crossing over into those human openings, making poets into friends***^ yes, we were social for the humanity patented in the very word social we encouraged, we critiqued wearing a flag made from the fine fabric of fellowship, crossing global borders and time zones, even planets, with only a hand-made poetry passport constructed from the tissues of our hearts each one of us, A Little Prince, lost from other worlds, but all found ourselves together in a hospitable desert so strange, we found companionship, genuine in ways that make me weep when I recall it, so many aviators, flying low, neath the radar screen, speaking one language of a thousand dialects the networking was spontaneous, friendships formulated, real hugs exchanged, no ulterior purpose, no quantity of glory sought, no favors traded, there were friends, not followers, just sharers we valued the first amendment of our lives, the right to speak freely in poetry ***I wish you had been there, here, back then***
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Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
You Weren't There: The Early Days of HP
Another conversation with nothing to gain, no party listening to the breath leaving the others lips. Another battle - lost, through the art of talking. Words formulated to fall upon deaf ears. Language could be the patron saint of the lost. Causes lost, and the death of love, all because one seemed greater than two.
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May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC
The Conversation
Yeah, (start writing) Tell me, does this scenario seem unfair? I wished her sweet dreams but only gave her nightmares Maybe it's the fact that she doubted every bit of my worth! Maybe it's the fact these insecure women only bring out my worst Her characteristic flaws are far from heavenly sent Sip my glory baby, allow my music to be your moments of regret Hold on girl, promise my rise ain't done yet! Imma drain ya heart until there ain't nothing left. All this talent that was all EXternally formulated Her actions made the hook Her ******** made the whole creation I'm plotting revenge baby, so just be patient Angel eyes...(psh) since when the **** did they start looking like satin? This **** right here is far from a past love song This I'm doing me, you gon remember Doug song Easy to judge me when the criminal was dead wrong **** venting When the boy is so far gone. Take a shot for me, baby let me buy you a drink You gunna wanna drink away those tears after you read this permanent ink -Dougie #lostLove
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Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
"Permanent Ink"
Metaphors; _nested_, unconncected. _High order_ entaglements due to a damaged brain. Fulfiled, Afraid, confused, dreams make you petrified. Ask yourself those questions. Conceptualised, formulated and executed in a damaged brain. Tremendous courage and steady blood flow through my veins clamp your fists and hold on tightly I will make it through _sane_ on both my feet even if I have to strain. If its you who love me, I shall dream of you and write about you, from a damaged brain.
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Jun 22, 2021
Jun 22, 2021 at 3:56 PM UTC
Nightmares in a damaged brain
AFTER you have spent all the money modistes and manicures and mannikins will take for fixing you over into a thing the people on the streets call proud and beautiful, After the shops and fingers have worn out all they have and know and can hope to have and know for the sake of making you what the people on the streets call proud and beautiful, After there is absolutely nothing more to be done for the sake of staging you as a great enigmatic bird of paradise and they must all declare you to be proud and beautiful, After you have become the last word in good looks, insofar as good looks may be fixed and formulated, then, why then, there is nothing more to it then, it is then you listen and see how voices and eyes declare you to be proud and beautiful
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1.7k
Proud and Beautiful
**Path #1 Forgiveness is the sinking head into heart.. The head dwelling in separation concedes logic's demands but confronting questions time after time: Why? and What? Surrendering at last to the sinking.. dissolving.. becoming.. the Heart... Path #2 Forgiveness is downloading of new software.. Our old software employs the ego rampant rendering forgiveness a difficult dream searching in forlorn places finding only traces.. New software finds it all Here and Now...! Path #3 Real forgiveness is Now not in time.. Events in the past seeming in need of forgiveness are only known Now.. and what of the Now..? it's other name our true identity: Forgiveness... Path #4 Chaos is an iteration of Forgiveness.. a shading and concealment of formulated light.. Our awaking brings the repentance the return the feedback to never absent Forgiveness... Path #5 A shock it is to learn that Forgiveness is not personal.. It is a realization of a substance common to all concerned transparent and eternal the real Self.. With that realization duality of conflict dissolves in the Light... Path #6 Quantum forgiveness is the only forgiveness.. A leap into infinite non-locality.. The suddenness arrives within painful progress or perhaps strangely enough out of the blue...! Path #7 Forgiveness an experience of sealing our separate brokenness.. It is mandatory.. Yet the sealing can be accomplished only by those who see there is no need for the sealing... Path # 8 Immersed in a separated dualistic reality seeking forgiveness in thought and time is not satisfying.. The lingering pain from a fruitless search for forgiveness in all the wrong places... Path #9 Forgiveness is a restoration of peace and happiness with new clarity: The Awareness of peace and happiness was never in need of restoration... Path #10 We need to see clearly that all relationships take place in infinite Awareness.. But wait.. not in .. but as.. All those hurts are constrictions of Awareness crying out their illusory separation...**
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Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
Ten Non-dual Paths to Forgiveness
**Path #1 Forgiveness is the sinking head into heart.. The head dwelling in separation concedes logic's demands but confronting questions time after time: Why? and What? Surrendering at last to the sinking.. dissolving.. becoming.. the Heart... Path #2 Forgiveness is downloading of new software.. Our old software employs the ego rampant rendering forgiveness a difficult dream searching in forlorn places finding only traces.. New software finds it all Here and Now...! Path #3 Real forgiveness is Now not in time.. Events in the past seeming in need of forgiveness are only known Now.. and what of the Now..? it's other name our true identity: Forgiveness... Path #4 Chaos is an iteration of Forgiveness.. a shading and concealment of formulated light.. Our awaking brings the repentance the return the feedback to never absent Forgiveness... Path #5 A shock it is to learn that Forgiveness is not personal.. It is a realization of a substance common to all concerned transparent and eternal the real Self.. With that realization duality of conflict dissolves in the Light... Path #6 Quantum forgiveness is the only forgiveness.. A leap into infinite non-locality.. The suddenness arrives within painful progress or perhaps strangely enough out of the blue...! Path #7 Forgiveness an experience of sealing our separate brokenness.. It is mandatory.. Yet the sealing can be accomplished only by those who see there is no need for the sealing... Path # 8 Immersed in a separated dualistic reality seeking forgiveness in thought and time is not satisfying.. The lingering pain from a fruitless search for forgiveness in all the wrong places... Path #9 Forgiveness is a restoration of peace and happiness with new clarity: The Awareness of peace and happiness was never in need of restoration... Path #10 We need to see clearly that all relationships take place in infinite Awareness.. But wait.. not in .. but as.. All those hurts are constrictions of Awareness crying out their illusory separation...**
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Cross roads within our pathways, As our minds flock to our own rhythms. Likes of individual galaxy compounded, And formulated into a personal chemistry. Truth of stars perflexed by undiscovered universe, And each stars collide in the void vexed with uncontrolled momentum. Yet there are the singlular truth in all chaos, And the relentless ether split to the vastness of space, Like calm ocean that allow our solice. Those days are but a yonder, As we ponder upon the yearning impulses. In the stillness of a full cup of water without a pin drop, And with inner thoughts still hunger, But still reach the vestige garden alone. Vintage of souls forgotten in our hearts, And shattered beats asunder murmur in tranquility. As perpatual ideals die in the burning stars, We are in space alone in dreams. No longer a thought of discord, nor any dissidents displayed, But maybe that was an act of love unspoken.
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Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
Lament of discord and dissident
Under the flowering moon Your naked body lies Bound to the lunars tendrils Tethering to your skins ambiance Fingeringly scalinging the motions of your body Following your soulful extractions Silver lights incarnate driven passion O' woman, woman of the moon Of the night, of darkness Dance with me Dance the dance of love, Of the heart, of passion, Of Desires stowed deep within the mind Beneath the woven fabric of a feral night Entwined within the stitches silver aura These stars our only witness As the darkness spreads it's clinching grasp Plunging our passions into carnal chaos Watching the heavy rise and fall of your chest The echoes of your hearts breath in my mind The chemical passion of our physical bodies Consumes the desires of our flesh Shadows contouring to the night The sweet nectar of your lips An everlasting enticement to mine Darkly decadent sensations pressing on Only as creatures within can conjure Elegantly crafting and artistically formulated These darkest nights memoirs Sated with our own designs Unrelenting and intoxicating Addicting and compounding
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Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 3:20 PM UTC
la Luna de la Hermosa
I have been depressed. I will not say am. This is a six year ongoing illness that is formed itself into a personality trait, and now an uncomfortable, casual day to day topic. I wish I could take the heaviness out of the words “I want to **** myself.” because they have never felt like a heavy sentence to me. They are words that string themselves through my brain at least twice a day and occasionally can be formulated into joke at my expense. I tried to **** myself when I was twelve. It was a two week long ordeal. I was a hospital project for a week, an out of home charity case for a week, and after that, it became a running joke. “Do you still have a few screws loose?” “Are you still a basket case?” “How many pills you think you could swallow?” Over six years, I have become a great actor. I am best at holding my tongue, swallowing my spit when my throat is closing, and pretending like I am breathing steady. I often laugh in the face of my problems and I distance myself from people when I feel rocks sitting on my chest so they don’t smell the rot of a dying conscious. I have never been untruthful either. Just honest in a way that wears a theatrical mask and relinquishes an audience from an awkward state of “wow, I’m really sorry.” But some nights are the farthest things from jokes. Some nights are all choking up on words that don’t make any sense and some days are “nobody actually likes you.” Some days are not having enough energy to do laundry or dishes and then  hating yourself because how could you, you’re so lazy. Most nights are complete self hatred and manic heaving into a wet pillow while your brother sleeps quietly in the next room. The worst thing about depression is that it’s so uncomfortable. It’s become such an awkward conversation to me. It’s like coming out as something that nobody has ever seen before until it’s living in front of you. It taints everything I do with a feeling of disbelonging with the people that love me because I don’t believe that my depressed presence is comfortable enough for others. But I am trying. Tomorrow morning, I will wake up to a sun that still shines, even if it is covered by clouds and I will still be depressed. I will pick up a book that  I haven’t started, and wait in a sitting room full of other people who are emotionally sick. I will be the same person that I am, and have been. And I will know that right now, I am also trying very hard to become so much more.
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Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 9:46 PM UTC
A letter about how I've been feeling, as requested by The Help.
I have been depressed. I will not say am. This is a six year ongoing illness that is formed itself into a personality trait, and now an uncomfortable, casual day to day topic. I wish I could take the heaviness out of the words “I want to **** myself.” because they have never felt like a heavy sentence to me. They are words that string themselves through my brain at least twice a day and occasionally can be formulated into joke at my expense. I tried to **** myself when I was twelve. It was a two week long ordeal. I was a hospital project for a week, an out of home charity case for a week, and after that, it became a running joke. “Do you still have a few screws loose?” “Are you still a basket case?” “How many pills you think you could swallow?” Over six years, I have become a great actor. I am best at holding my tongue, swallowing my spit when my throat is closing, and pretending like I am breathing steady. I often laugh in the face of my problems and I distance myself from people when I feel rocks sitting on my chest so they don’t smell the rot of a dying conscious. I have never been untruthful either. Just honest in a way that wears a theatrical mask and relinquishes an audience from an awkward state of “wow, I’m really sorry.” But some nights are the farthest things from jokes. Some nights are all choking up on words that don’t make any sense and some days are “nobody actually likes you.” Some days are not having enough energy to do laundry or dishes and then  hating yourself because how could you, you’re so lazy. Most nights are complete self hatred and manic heaving into a wet pillow while your brother sleeps quietly in the next room. The worst thing about depression is that it’s so uncomfortable. It’s become such an awkward conversation to me. It’s like coming out as something that nobody has ever seen before until it’s living in front of you. It taints everything I do with a feeling of disbelonging with the people that love me because I don’t believe that my depressed presence is comfortable enough for others. But I am trying. Tomorrow morning, I will wake up to a sun that still shines, even if it is covered by clouds and I will still be depressed. I will pick up a book that  I haven’t started, and wait in a sitting room full of other people who are emotionally sick. I will be the same person that I am, and have been. And I will know that right now, I am also trying very hard to become so much more.
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