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Alyssa Underwood Jul 2016
It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.

Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.

Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.

It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate
fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is
everything we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.
~~~
simpler times require furious mastication
shall we fight or dine on our own enthusiasm
sad are the owls who shift their feet in the snow
remove their clothes to feel the cold
in bony holes they hoot and moan
stones are lovers in their own right
the ferns creep on mossy streets
between the sheets of ice and rock
lichens scream and cast their tiny voices
into locks of lakes and hillsides
side-swiped the prisoners swim gladly down the current
smell the jasmine in the air and whisper you are certain
that the mystery is alive and well
while cemeteries are overflowing
smoking pyres of yesterdays heartache
collecting staples on the road
stroll over bricks laid in quick drying cement
the mesentery layers are no longer
under our proprioceptive control
L B Jul 2018
For my cousin, Chris Goldrick

Lacing my skates
after walking two miles
in girl-strictured delight
Mom's stories of Sonja Henie--
No, not ever

Lacing my skates
with  snow-ball pompoms
felt skirt
and nylon tights
Cute little hat with matching scarf
My thighs and fingers
already freezing
icy burn
from miles on foot

to get there
the lake where--

I must get out
I must get OUT!

Knowing what
to expect from my body
the quick-twitch of muscle
Could always sense
specific--
gravity of water    
at 22 degrees

Desiring to feel
the motion between ice and steel
Read speed's vibrations through my body
The brain registers relation
to weather's effect
Tell of velocity
possibility of fall
Feel the slash of the blades beneath me
Throw my weight sideways, sudden
to hear that furious hiss
An object in motion tending, dire
to stay in motion

Threatening to stay there
always
in its heights-- of speed
away--

from the crowds of skaters
swirling distant in the lights

Seeking instead
the farthest reaches of Porter Lake
speed and speed and more
to overcome
inertia
of what it is to become
undone

at the outer edges, of humanity
A force  
centrifugal unto myself

Avoiding

Pregnant and slow
with years and babes....

The best
must be broken and tamed
of what it takes to stay free

catching the edges with every stride
catching my toe in the quick
180
spray of frost
to the sudden still

Listen to the frigid chill

and the heave of my breath
tumbling into evidence

Gliding
Once

Forever--

on, into darkness
of woods on frozen water

The wildness of it all

So infatuated with flight
so full of grace

I forgot Sonja

The moon rose
from her seat in the treetops
and applauded
Wrote this immediately from a dream a couple months ago.  With all the heat and humidity, it sounded good to go today.

This dream was an actual relived memory of being 12 years old and skating at Porter Lake in Forest Park of Springfield, Massachusetts.  22 degrees F is minus 5.5 C --Just a reference
Alyssa Underwood Nov 2015
It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.

Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.

Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.

It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate fullness
and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is everything
we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.
~~~
Strung Sep 2018
You are vilanizing me
You are punishing me
Evil
You realize you’re hurting me?
Pain like fire
Against every vein
You’re holding me hostage
Manic
Manic
MANIC—
You screamed at me,
“I can’t survive”
You accused me
Of prosecuting you
Well, prosecute my ******* love;
You might as well.
My pain is collateral in your manic mind
Hold a gun to my face,
It’d hurt less, the bullet.
*******,
I’m not punishing you
You are toxic
Toxic.
And absolutely off the edge.
You are manic.
Say it,
Manic.
— And for ****’s sake, apologize.
Anger is a bitter tea, take these words with a grain of salt... It was an angry day.
the other day
I occupied a chair
at a sidewalk café
watching the vanity fair of the quotidian
float by in quickly changing apparitions

an endless flow of different ages, nations, fashions,
skin colors, miens, ****** expressions, postures & gaits
kept passing through  my field of vision

it made me wonder why
some people get so furious
when they  just hear about
    not even meet
    the ‘others’ different from themselves
that they start dropping  bombs and shooting rockets

I think they rather should be curious
and eager to discover
how the immense variety of humankind
can help expand a locally grown mind

and recognize
that we are all of the same kind
L B Mar 2017
Freezing a glance
Wind cuffs down-white heliums
Sweeps contrails
Separates cirrus across the moon

Cresting wave tormented
wind against steel
movement in movement
sprays of hair

Blizzard of petals from the apple
Furious snow
drifts off—  garage roof  
Fog that haunts the river on the coldest nights
___

The walk across the alley
took—
so long—
A lifetime from the doorway
of someone else’s impatience
Prints of motion
record the loss
a single set in snow

But there!
on the icy, shoveled surface of night
lies the snowflake of a bird
impossibly molted
Song of a feather
caught—
Flailing! Helpless!

More than lovely for its lying there!
Lying there!
Repost for the cold nights
We all have something to disguise
beneath this corporeal face,
Something we keep hidden from all
social grace, some barbarities would
not fade, some malefactions are too great.

I do not condone the violence
of such furious vengeance,
There is no solace to be found in it.
That does not mean I cannot appreciate;

The Champion Nemesis.

[I]
Grand theft auto on a cold night,
But we're not playing video-games tonight.
With lights off but the engine on,
Roll out and get your gameface on.
[II]
Get to hunting right off the bat,
Play hide and seek with the grass.
Mow the lawn of low-lives who said
he'd gone to ground/wants to be found?
[#]
I'll catch up to you later
with my conversation starter
and her best friend.
Who's praying you'll defend
those feeble lies again?
[III]
Heard about a movement so we scoped it out,
Ditched the fiesta and came about.
Silent under the dark while on the hunt.
Found you now, [REDACTED CONTENT].
[#]
Told you I'd catch up later
with my conversation starter
and her best friend;
Watching you
spin your end.

"What a tangled web we weave
when first we practice to deceive."
Quote:
-Line Thirty-Three and Thirty-Four from Marmion by Sir Walter Scott
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
and

you think you are done with it.
but the notion potion returns with your stolen free will
taunting and tearing, sealing and then dissolving
the seals

no retirement in this world from where human means pliable
and pliable means capable of being twisted; nay, retwisted...

last we left you,
we were weeping on the concrete sidewalk of
Third Avenue, the police, giving you a move on command,
as Jean Valjean earworms one into the incapacity of movement  because of the audacity to request to bring him home

such is the sorrow of the lost child; it comes with irregularity
yet, never failing to return, the child lost, the residual, resides
within like a violin adagio reaching the punishing silence
after a crescendo that  pretense promised momentary relief

we struggle to keep any and all keepsakes,
polished and fed; rust and time, no polish in the five & time dime
that does a good enough job,
but you buy it anyway

well aware that fate will inevitably rob you, it’s so purposed

twist you, retest you and re-will you, to never forget until
you have no need for forgetting but the peace of
constant remembering when all on that day
molecules and nucleotides
collide in the atmosphere,
dog licking, cat weeping purrs, meaning hallelujah home

the endless sadness of the lost lad-ness, dimly grow the recollections of the first word, the first delight, the confidence complete
that your babe is non pareil; the violin sweeps you along and the genteel tide still too string strong to resist

the woman comes into the room;
the reddened eyes no hide
the weeping outside and in the centerpiece of a soul;
why she asks, not surprised for she’s seen it
too many **** poem-times:
my Adam, I answer;
suffices and wisely
leaves me to
compose and decompose simultaneously
weeping weeping forever weeping even when not

furious eddies rock smashing,
curious they splash me with taunts
"you want for naught!"

but naught is the only possess
that owing it makes one impoverished

perhaps he will email me, ewail me,
does he know I am at the
Wailing Wall, Jerusalem,
insert parchment prayers for his safety

oh my Absalom, oh my Adam, my favorite first born,
come sit next to me on the sidewalk so close to where you live,
comfort me as in the days of your youth,
now that we are both
so very much older

sleep well all you lads and children,
never mind these unstoppable tearings,
never mind the heaviness,
for it has passed
as the tears shed
enlighten my embodiment

7/16/18 prone and alone
for my kinship
Smoke Scribe Aug 2018
The Violent Storm by the Water
(Do You Trust Your Imagination)

was not unexpected
but its fury was without compare,
poet awake in semi-preparation

living by water should be a human right for all,
even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to
perspective

we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children

a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in
an IMAX 3D  theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined,
sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands

miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment

stand before the screen,
poets arms outstretched as a supplicant,
the light of the lightening passes through him,
yet , behind me, she still sleeps

then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say:


”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth”

bold poet window worshipping
risky answers:

“but who will know
if even a poet cannot declaim sights
no one else has seen?”

”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly,
do you trust your imagination human,
to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?”

write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles

”then you may call yourself
a miracle too,
a poet

violent #storm violentstorn
A furious typhoon
slipped through the heavens.

The unraveling of time is a linear process,
Prediction is not.
Dynamic instability in the system
caused by the chaotic theory of thought.

Lost in dissociation,
We see the lines
that transcend time.

Infinity:
I can't give it up,
Because it's not enough.

2-CB typhoon run amok.
Quote:
Lines Eleven and Twelve from Infinity by The **
Tammy M Darby Oct 2014
The night descended upon the day
Inhaling the goodness
Smothering
Murderous
Diseased and dark

.Mankind swallowed down the perverse evil and sickened
Desperate for the emotions once felt
No longer remembered
That will once more warm and quicken
Dead jaded hearts,

Rose from their bank's angry rivers
Now rocky dry brooks
The ocean overcame the land
Islands sank to sea beds below
The earth furious heaved and split
The coals of the sleeping volcano's were lit

Humanity shivered in moldy damp caves
Counting their once thought endless days
No longer gods of the earth
Of green rich ground
Or untouchable stars
The world was falling apart


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Oct. 8, 2014
Ellie Jul 2018
she's an angel
but
her wings are wings of the devil
her smile is inspiring evil
her glare was piercing , furious
hiding behind a mask
lacking affection
seeking love
that broken little heart
that poor little girl
a deafening noise
a blinding light
rose her head
a warm perl ran through her cheek
a sarcastic curve on her face
kept walking
yet walking towards a wall
Sylph Nov 2018
This fire inside me Burns
Like Sticks in a fire
The color of ember
The smell of black smoke
Filling my lungs
Fueling my anger further
All i can think is
I
Hate
you
when i know its not true..
This fire inside is growing
Almost too big to control
Enough to consume
More then just me or you
But enough to consume
Every light thats near and every shadow close
I wont let it take control though
I wont
I wont
I cant
But how do i stop it
When the flames Rise at every
Word or sight of you
Every time i hear your name
The flames grow wild
The heat unbearable to hold in
The smoke making it impossible breathe
How can i control this
abecedarian Jan 2018
happy are the moneylenders

happy are the moneylenders
who charge the egregious rate
of friendship

they sleep with furious calm
their principle well invested, its return guaranteed,
for this lit pinpoint pinprick in their sleepy cerebrum
is the mini red light that illuminates the otherwise
dark bedroom of the mind so they can see and say with
equality and equanimity
I too, am, who I am.  

Does this answer the question?
1/7/17 12:56pm
happy are the moneylenders, but why
labyrinth Oct 4
******* wake-up! You’re dying over here
Situation’s already a serial killer

US, China, Israel, UK or France
Same tune all over, but different dance

New world order’s conquering the soul
Anyhow it’s long been the initial goal

The Media numbs and The Capital reaps
I shortly call them the filthy creeps

Lousy news, soap operas, sports and such
Good enough to make you lose mind touch

Your brains got a lot of poison injected
No further questions stand objected

Deeper than deepest y’all have slept
Exactly the way you’re supposed to be kept

Designated countries are using democracy
In such a wise manner covering hypocrisy

In your midst, their ******* agents’re dwelling
How and why your wounds keep swelling

Hospitals, schools, medicine and food
Seems like serving you for their own good

Don’t you see? All at your expense
Sixth went bankrupt, you need a seventh sense

The enemy is in fact in your jurisdiction
What the hell is wrong with you? Show’em some reaction

Nine/Eleven, health-care, Federal Reserve!
You honestly believe that’s what you deserve?

Man! Quite visible. Yet, you don’t see
Who or what stops you from being free

Named John, Linda, Mary, Stephen and Bob
They look like angels only; they’re the hob

You’re from wherever; I’m from Istanbul
Lemme put it this way!! They love it when you’re fool

As George Carlin manfully put
Your owners led the souls go kaputt

Good times will be gone, far away
Punishment will be your regular day

As it has been for some time now
Come on!!! Be brave!!! Or simply ciao!!!

You know very well who the **** is responsible
What you don’t know is, they’re not indispensable

Quit ******* and moaning, do something on your own
Remember the darkest hour before the dawn

Pay attention *******, I can talk forever
Do me a favor, and stop saying WHATEVER

Because when ILLUMINATI beats
The very day, you’re mere dead meat

It’s not just you! Still proliferating!
It’s your kids too, why procrastinating

Every passing moment makes you lose hope
If not you or me; who the hell will cope

You mortals, listen!! To break this deal
First gotta get rid of lack of zeal

Unless you peeps begin holding hands
And walk in the direction right against

Nothing’s gonna change towards the good
You’ll soon be left with should, would and could

I’ll anyway share with you one more prescription
Hear me out. So clear! No **** encryption!

To see what the hack’s really going on
Give up being illiterate, idiot, *****

Read and learn AND learn and read
That’s the vicious cycle you need indeed

On the verge of a choice to resist or assist them
Last piece of advice kindly **** the system

Get ready otherwise for some **** blood shed
Labyrinth said it all, either pursue or dread… *******
Copyrighted work
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
The Sounding Foam of Primal Things

*(The title and the poem, taken from and inspired by
Carl Sandburg's "Who Am I?")


wind and rain pound the surf.
snow falls on the beach, on the shore.
man-observer cannot tell:
has the earth gone mad, all wet?
do the seas rise, whipped up, filling the heavens,
or does the white rain replenishes the very body,
from whence it came, and now returns?

this matters greatly, yet nothing answers this, his question.

the furious soundings, the green foam churn,
the silence of no response inebriates,
drunk on the tempest's hard wet liquor,
weighed down, sodden with the despair,
solitude, silence, absent answers,
his natural walking companions!

No Stopping signs on almost every corner,
Do Not Pass, Do Not Enter,
One Way, Two Way, No Thru Passage,
but the one sign he seeks,
"Stay On The Path" absent.

Eluded,
dispassionate endings,
the essential quietude among
furious surround-sounds of creative destruction
he ceases to ask, for unanswered, undirected.

Concluded,
either
their is no one listening, or,
there is no one caring, or,

Deluded,
illusion is truth,
he is an illusion.

------------------
Who Am I?
By Carl Sandburg

My head knocks against the stars.
My feet are on the hilltops.
My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of
     universal life.
Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
     reach my hands and play with pebbles of
     destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs
     reading "Keep Off."

My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive
     in the universe.
moonboy Jun 2014
rumour has it mirrors shatter
at the thought of you having your fathers eyes
I hope you know that if you're looking for a sign
you might find it tying to choke out one last goodbye
at the end of the night
you'll find it wherever home is
I know you hate the smell of smoke
but cigarettes are all I know
so I'm asking you to put up with it
you have every reason to be furious
but I'm hoping you'll take deep breaths and see
how calm they make my blood stream
I only started smoking to ease the pain
it was that or a needle to the vein
a bullet to the brain
too much going on up there anyways
it all just needed cutting out
so cigarettes just made sense
I talk about them in the past tense
but the one between my fingers seems to disagree
open your eyes and see
through all the smoke and mirrors lies me
a double entendre for how things used to be
and how they are currently
the writing is on the wall
in every ****** love song lies a promise
to make the next one stronger
and they keep promising that but the time between gets longer
and all of a sudden the bands broken up
and the symbol of love you used to **** to
is broken like the bond of your parents love
I love you is an apology
forgiveness is given with every similar reply
I love you means that I forgive you
for being broken and for breaking me
because picking you out in a crowded room
is something I've become accustomed to
god I can't stop thinking about the look in your eyes
on that night in July with fireworks in the sky
the last time I remember you saying goodbye
because I shattered at the thought of you having my fathers eyes


smoke and mirrors
06/22/14
9:10am
j.s
Bus Poet Stop Apr 2015
this is not a ten stepper essay.  You are, and you admit it, full stop. Addicted to HP.  No help here.

but to answer the question...

the writing of a poem,
no matter what your style,
eye dropper word selection,
slow methodical,
or furious expelling, frying oil
until crescendo is achieved
is clearly a fulfillment of
a ****** type of need.

Afterwards,
after words,
when you repeatedly
check the number of likes,
it is just you asking me

was it as good for you
as it was for me?

Usually, eventually,
the answer is a
quiet, soft spoken,
very few reads version of:

"Uh, just let me sleep"
which means you will try again
in the the morning suncomeforth.
eye put the vin in vignettes
Tammy M Darby Dec 2016
Call to me gently, laughing
Rules Death the King

Beckoning me fiercely onward
Vixens of love spurned sing
Their voices tempestuous and stormy
Furious as madman’s dream

The unceasing strum of insanity’s strings
Dementia led many poor souls astray
They pass through the ingress of the forgotten
A pity never more see the life of day

Powerless to resist the satin coffin of coldness
Or the music winged harpies sing.
Doomed to the end of eternity
To bear the misfortune
Of the unceasing strum of insanity's strings


All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Dec. 22, 2016
You'll hate this
And I can't blame you,
Cause I'm attacking who you were
in your darkest, most vulnerable, hate-fueled moments
of angst and depression.
And I'm telling you we'd rather ignore it,
Deal with it and destroy it. I'm sorry.

But please let me be honest
and ask,
"Why do so many of us deliberate
on the negative aspects?"
They don't want to know.
(I'm sorry if this strikes home;)
That's not even me talking. It's them.

I've seen beautiful, heart-wrenching things put to paper,
And they deserve to be there.
I've read furious, misguided anger in pieces,
And it can serve to inspire. But,
The masses that surround you
never wanna know what's eating you.
For that I apologize.

I'd ask you to consider my words before you dismiss them
but that would contradict my entire point of view.
Please ignore this, you'll be better off for it.
No one cares about the depressed part of you,
Apart from those who are just as bad as you.
****, that's dark.
And it's all I've got.

Here I am sprouting a futile work,
A poem, hah,
More like a farce.
This is either deeply ironic
or incredibly dumb.
Does it matter?
We're still numb.

So why all the death and misery?
And why the anger and fury!
You gotta express your sadness?
You gotta expel your madness!
Story of my life.
I'm starting to think that
they really hate us. Why?

Because we dare to hope.
One last thing for those
who will not be dissuaded so easily:
Bring back the rhyme,
Rhythm will follow,
And then the jive.
And never give up.
Would you censure a nightmare?
Angge Mar 29
it's hilarious
how a single statement
can make you curious

it's piteous
how a single statement
can make you furious
Marisol Quiroz Sep 2018
be angry,
be furious.
a storm of torrential rain and hellfire.
but when you’re done
and your seas have calmed,
come home.

— i'll be waiting by the docks
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