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howard brace Sep 2012
He'd been conceived in Flamborough, so his little sister assured him some eleven summers ago, which was a tad hard for Rocky to swallow, she was a whole eighteen months his junior and then some... and at that age, well... what did she know, she was only a kid, "on this very rock" River insisted, kicking her heels in delight, "next to this very rock pool" they were both sitting beside, "one sunny afternoon eleven years ago..." and that was how he came by the name of Rocky... she taunted as the rest of the colourful story unfolded... and that she had it all on the best possible authority... although the more she thought about it, had she meant concealed... she wasn't quite sure now, it was all so very confusing at her tender age but thought it sounded close enough not to matter too much and that she would just wait and see which way the wind blew.
        
     It was conceivably an ill wind that blew no one any good that day, especially if you were a boy and just happened to be sat by a rock pool next to your little sister...  Having just taken a well earned drink from a neighbouring rock pool, Sockeye the floppiest Springer Spaniel this side of the Pecos decided that he was going to dig a hole and that he would be digging it deep, then changed his mind mid-dig and decided to have a more down to earth back scratching wriggle instead... then promptly flopped over and slid into the hole... life was sweet.  Now covered from nose to tail with every species of deceased shore life usually found frequenting the high water mark Sockeye, in a blinding flash of canine inspiration judged it would be in everyone's best interest were he to have a really good shakedown which always appeared to go down well on these occasions... and give everyone a good peppering, just so they could see exactly what they'd been missing all their lives.  

     "A rock of all places, for goodness sakes..." and what's more, it was this rock, "Yuk..." he jumped up and wiped his palms on the back of his jeans in disgust, then onto his tee-shirt, then sat back down again and began exploring his left nostril in quiet contemplation before finally jambing his hands back into his pockets... what in Heaven's name had his parents been thinking of..? what on earth was his little sister talking about..? and more to the point, what in fact did conceived mean..?  these were the questions that were uppermost in Rocky's mind as he poked an exploratory stick into the rock pool...  a baby crab marooned by the tide scampered sideways beneath a large pebble and stuck one beady eye out at him... Rocky's sister, seemingly in a world of her own, much like the baby crab sat on the edge of the noteworthy rock kicking her heels, an innocent smile curled the corners of her mouth as she quietly hummed a little song of tuneful bliss to herself and considered what further mischief she could possibly pass her brother's way.

     Rocky tossed a piece of driftwood over his sisters shoulder at a nearby flock of seagulls, squabbling over what appeared to be a discarded bag of fish and chips... Sockeye, simply knowing that his little master wanted to play a game of fetch gambolled after the stick, his ears flying courageously in the still Summer air and burst, amid a melee of feathers into their midst, only to romp back moments later, the stick all but forgotten in the excitement but now proudly sporting the derelict bag of leftovers and the odd splash of guano, his tail lolloping magnificently from side to side... and for the moment at least, leaving the fratching seagulls wheeling noisily overhead and to go about their daily business without further interruption... as for Sockeye, it had been a no contest situation.

     After fourteen years of valiant endeavour his father... Red, so named for his vivid shock of wiry hair, was still engaged in man's eternal struggle to win his significant other half's approbation with the manful art of deck-chair assembly, beach barbeque and other significant gentlemanly pursuits, all while strutting his manly stuff, sporting top of the range beach wear in accordance with the social etiquette of the previous decade... his masculine paunch slumping gallantly atop his waistband...  

     After the same fourteen terms of domestic servitude and the same thirteen identically overlooked anniversary cards a certain someone had no intention of allowing another certain someone to forget so much as one of them... his better half, so she insisted would ride rough shod, administering her own brand of justice at every given opportunity, in much the same way you'd brandish a royal-flush on poker night... or better still, a loaded revolver... and that she personally carried the burden of every ill-fated card that Lady Luck had dealt strung about her neck like Adam's original sin on Judgement Day.  

     Red much preferred the shorter, more condensed name of Rock for his son, rather than the longer more protracted Rocky, as he struggled with the wood and canvas lounger badly trapping the mound of his thumb in the process, "Aaargh...!!!" plunging his throbbing hand deep into the cold, soothing rock-pool "aaah...!!!"   Still marooned by the tide, the baby crab stood poised and ready for action as it considered giving this latest intrusion a good offensive nip, then hang on spitefully as it gave Red the final withering once over with the same baleful eye it had successfully used earlier.

     Acknowledging her husbands misfortune with a perfunctory grunt as she rummaged in her beach-bag for the thermos, she refused to be drawn in where thumbs were concerned right now, after all with his DNA sequencing she was convinced he could probably grow a new one within the month... whilst Tina, well... she was just plain worn-out... but still rejoiced in telling anyone who cared to lend a sympathetic ear in her direction... and who in turn was more than happy to listen to the woes of others and went somewhere along the lines of... 'and had she heard any more of poor Mrs Dorey's lingering martyrdom recently..? you know, the downtrodden lady who lives in the next street but one... and how they would all miss her when she was gone... and how she couldn't wait...' and as rumour had it, neither could her husband...

      Feigning to be otherwise engaged, Tina... as her husband, now blowing frantically on his mangled thumb, stumbled backwards over the half erected lounger and with a spine jarring "Ooomph...!!!" landed squarely in Sockeye's subsiding earthworks... professed total disassociation with the entire fiasco as she plunged her nose even deeper into the overdue library book she'd purposely brought on holiday for just such an occasion, making it perfectly clear that she was a tourist and furthermore, planned to stick with the same itinerary once they returned home... and that while she was here, she did not under any circumstances wish to be disturbed, the notice was clearly displayed hanging from the door handle... but if anyone should, then whoever it was did so at their own peril... and she was keeping score... although a mangled thumb she luxuriated, with the same roguish smile curling the corners of her mouth as the one normally found playing around her daughter's... was equally as heart warming.

      All Tina wanted was one week of uninterrupted peace and quiet in Flamborough, preferably with a certain someone out from under her feet then spend what might pass for several undisturbed hours sitting quietly by the rock pool comparing notes on eye makeup and the feminine merits of pedicure with the little crab who, still marooned by the tide was now sat busily knitting four pairs of matching leg warmers in the cool, still water but that was only if that certain someone... a shrill  "AAaargh...!!!" somewhat more desperate than the first, ****** itself upon the as yet unaggressive afternoon as it gyrated across the warm Jurrasic rock and recoiled out to sea... "now where was I", twisting her book uppermost "oh yes..! someone was going to pay..." only now it was going to be sooner rather than later, but only if that certain someone didn't finish the seating arrangements before the Sun disappeared and drift into some backstreet tea-room before all the lemon cheesecake sold out, or was that she reflected, simply too much to ask.

     It was his Surname that Rock found so objectionable, or it had been right up until his little sister's enlightening disclosure, now it was both names Rocky disliked, it would have been far kinder had Rock Salmon been sandwiched between sliced bread and given to Sockeye... who's solemn duty, from the first mouthful to the very last, was to gaze up beseechingly from beneath the kitchen table  and devour anything that passed his way, even the postman had to be quick about his business or have his arm follow the mail through the letter box... then Sockeye would just smack his lips and help himself to seconds.  

     All Rocky's mum had thought about for the last fourteen years was seconds... every last solitary one of them since she'd suffered with an infection of matrimonial neurosis which had deprived her of common sense and her maiden name, from Chovey to that of Salmon and how with hindsight she should have taken an Aspirin instead, wedlock she asserted was everything the name claimed to be and was without doubt the worst move she'd ever made... and what's more was seen as a bad move in whoever's wedding album you just happened to be paying your condolences to.

     Rocky would never be so fortunate on that score, unlike his sister he was stuck with Salmon for good, his grandma-Ann by all accounts had been dead set against the union from word Go and saw his father as someone who would always be out of his depth in whatever rock pool he found himself in, swimming against the tide as it were, rather than going with the flow... and it appeared that Rocky, almost eleven years into a life sentence, was about to flounder in the same murky undertow as the rest of the Salmon family... only he couldn't swim.

     "There"! her husband exclaimed "all finished... better late than never eh', who fancies trying it"? his wife luxuriated over the words 'better late' and wondered whether her new earrings, her latest acquisition would complement formal mourning attire.  Red dusted off the palms of his hands with the certain knowledge of a job well done and cautiously took one step back, looking with justifiable pride at the outcome of his manly exertions of the last two hours, this was what holidays were all about he declared, one man pitted against insurmountable odds...  His wife meanwhile was getting to grips with more odds of her own than you could safely expect to shake a stick at... her husband being one of them.  

     Having gathered her offspring with the promise of verbal earache if they didn't... and finished packing the beach-bag, Tina finally located Sockeye peering out from the shade of an adjacent rock, wisps of feathers poked tellingly from the corners of his mouth, his tail beating mischievously on the shingle decided in one further blaze of canine brainstorming, as Tina attempted to slip his collar on that a game of tag would just about round the day off nicely... Tina then devoted the next ten minutes chasing him amid unrestrained salvo's of cheering from the rest of the family... then bid goodbye to the little crab who, still marooned by the tide waved a friendly pincer in return... and trusted that she wouldn't have too long to wait for the next rising tide back home, then she slid off the rock with a corrosive... "the deck-chair attendant would have shown you" she snapped "and don't forget the deposit when you take them back" then double checking that she landed squarely on his foot she marched past, her floral sun hat jammed resolutely on her head at what she considered a jaunty angle with her equally jaunty, angular children scrambling in hot pursuit, back in the direction of their lodgings.  

     "Woof "..? said a bewildered Sockeye, bringing everyone to an abrupt halt... and with paws the size of place-mats, he wasn't going anywhere he didn't want to... he hunkered down with a look of hurtful accusation on his face, "oh yes you are my lad"! said his mistress "I've met your sort before" and knew exactly where to place the toe of her dainty size-5 as Sockeye, digging his heals in even further created swathes of canine furrows up the beach, leaving her husband the unwitting holder and in sole possession of the overlooked guest-house keys... and somewhat resigned to clean up his own masculinity and dismantle the recently assembled, now redundant deck-chairs by himself... as for Tina, well... she'd had quite enough excitement for one day thank you very much.

     Morning register was always the worst he thought, as they trooped back along the shingle beach, Rocky making surprisingly good furrows of his own... but the rest of the class loved it and saw it as the highlight of each day... Rocky's form teacher, despite showing a brave face was always hard pressed to avoid bursting into hysterics every time she worked her way down the register to the letter 'S' and would attempt to bypass it altogether, jumping from 'R' to 'T' and just prayed that no one else had noticed, but it hadn't taken the class very long to point out her oversight and... "please Miss" they'd all chant "we haven't had Salmon all week" and while the rest of the class were having convulsive fits, Rocky would elbow the lad sat at the next desk in the ribs... and promptly get one hundred lines for his trouble... thank goodness it was school holidays.  Why couldn't they have been given respectable names like Seymour Legge, Rock wondered, who sat over by the window or perhaps the teachers pet, Anna Prentice or even, Robyn Banks at a pinch, but definitely not what they'd been given and certainly not Salmon, they were the most hilarious names he could imagine and if someone was looking down on them right now he thought... then they had a very unique sense of humour indeed and Rock said so... "why" his little sister asked sweetly, "what's wrong with River Salmon".

                                                      ­                         ...   ...   ...*

a work in progress*                                                        ­                                                              240­6
Terry O'Leary Sep 2015
1
Though still within our infancy,
we strive to thrive, but woefully
we flash and flaunt our 'primacy',
display our trophies pridefully.

Our terra firma ecstasy
destroys survival's harmony,
lays waste to life on land and sea.
Mankind, thy name is vanity!

By doubting Nature's regnancy,
defying laws with levity,
we strain our spheroid's symmetry
(perhaps a fatal fallacy?)

for, swallowed in the 'world of we',
we feed on vain insanity
with thoughts beyond eternity -
so strange when looked at mortally.

No use to seek a remedy
ensconced in ancient prophecy
for if not handled skillfully,
as clay we'll pay the penalty.

                              2
The Moguls rule with cruel decree,
control the crowds like puppetry,
pursuing greed addictively
with no accountability.

The wind, it reeks of Royalty
(awash in waves of perfidy)
while blowing ’cross the peasantry
(eclipsed in clouds of treachery).

The Queen, well steeped in snobbery,
sits, preening proud Her pedigree,
on throne of sculpted ebony
while sipping Sect immodestly;

to sate Her Regal Majesty,
a caviar clad canapé
is served with golden cutlery
by maidens bent submissively.

The King is bailed from bankruptcy
by Knaves who hoodwink artfully
the down-and-outer evictee
who wallows in their lenity.

Forsooth, the Money Monarchy
exalts the dollar dynasty
engaged in highway robbery
by Peacocks plumed in finery.

Yes, Jesters and the Fools agree
to truckle to duplicity
and laugh about it witlessly.
Long live the peon's penury!

                          3
To champion an oddity
(like two times twelve is fifty three)  
one reaches to theology
through paths of circularity.

In bygone trials of travesty
the doubters, draped in blasphemy,
endured the pain and agony
inflicted by the papacy.

Inspired by the Trinity
fanatics bent cosmology
in geocentric fantasy
while Bruno burned for heresy;

and aged women, randomly
accused of wicked witchery
by justice framed in infamy,
were racked and shown no clemency

That epoch of credulity
(when savants fostered sorcery
and practiced ancient alchemy)
arose in dark age quackery

as clerics dripping piety
(while raging, raving rabidly)
pervaded thralled society
with callous inhumanity;

'repent', they bellowed, 'verily,
forsake the world's iniquity,
live lives of want and chastity,
and give your gelt to God through me'.

                    4
The Masters make a mockery
of freedom and democracy
by holding down the uppity,
released from shackled slavery,

now fettered in a factory
else strewn across the Bowery,
still chained in bonds of bigotry,
immersed in seas of poverty.

And colliers, tapping balefully
in sunken-mine solemnity,
yet thrum a mournful monody
some call the digger's elegy.

To children, pale and raggedy
(behind a day of drudgery),
the boss man, oh so gallantly,
bestows a penny, niggardly;

though some are fed (belatedly),
their eyes recede in apathy
while bellies bulge, inflatedly,
with mothers watching, wretchedly.

When met with health adversity
or broken bone infirmity,
the pauper dangles helplessly
with no insurance policy;

and those engulfed in lunacy
are ailing blobs left floating free
in ******-dream obscurity -
a mired madhouse odyssey.

Ignoring mankind's unity,
the rich and poor dichotomy
breeds dismal doomed finality,
eventual nihility.

                        5
Renewing days of chivalry,
wild warriors fighting valiantly
bring freedom neath the gallows tree
while blending blood and burgundy

to toast the slaughtered enemy,
and so convince the colony
to cede with smile on bended knee
and yield her diamonds, silk and tea.

At first they call the cavalry
and then again the infantry,
so proudly primped in panoply,
with arms from finest armory

(embraced in hands so tenderly
bestow benign atrocity) -
and soon atomic weaponry
will extirpate posterity.

                          6
Misusing high technology
(to feed the face of gluttony)
depletes our Rock of energy,
now slowly dying thermally.

Our gadgets breathing CFC
fuel ozone holes' immensity
while cloud bursts, raining acidly,
wilt woods in their entirety,

and rivers, tainted chemically,
polluted biologically,
refill our cups methodically
and drown our souls organically.

Adjusting genes mechanically
may well blot out the bumble bee
annulling fruits' fecundity,
but brings big bucks reliably.

We wager perpetuity
to revel momentarily
in shadow-like obscurity
ignoring the futility,

but if we bet unknowingly
on fickle fate's contingency
and thereby act haphazardly
we're doomed to lose the lottery.

                 7
The modern day bureaucracy
abuses trust egregiously ,
embeds itself in obloquy
and offers no apology.

It paints the past in reverie
to camouflage the tendency
to strip away our privacy
which paves the path to tyranny.

With earlobes lurking furtively
that listen surreptitiously,
and eyeballs peering piercingly
we've lost cerebral sovereignty,

and those who dare to disagree
must hide away in secrecy
else crowd a black facility
(with water board anxiety).

                  8
Yes, sans responsibility,
our marble in this galaxy
will crumble in catastrophe
ere ever reaching puberty…
Raphael Uzor May 2014
The intermittent, distant rumbling in the skies was suggestive of chronic flatulence. The sun struggled in futility to shine – like a crying child who had been forced to smile. Lightning flashed in quick successions, momentarily throwing brilliant streaks of white light across the room. The angry growl of thunder that followed was enough to send a troop of Howler monkeys scampering for safety.

The lights flickered as though unable to make up their minds to stay or not to. But apparently, the wind had zero tolerance for such petty indecisiveness. And like an enraged, stimulated, demented animal, it gusted through the windows and doors, hauling loose papers, light bulbs in every direction, shattering the bulbs to smithereens, as if to punish them for being so fickle. The lights died.

Thick black blankets eerily stretched across the skies with gusto, menacingly extinguishing whatever was left of the sun’s brilliance. More rumbles and flashes followed in royal herald of the impending storm. And in no time, slick sheets of rain torrentially came pouring down, cascading the roofs to form puddles almost as soon as they hit the ground.

​I looked in horror, fervently praying that whoever God had appointed to build the ark in our time had not diverted the funds. I was trapped in the office, and I knew exactly what this meant…flood, scarcity of buses, hiked transport fares, heavy taffic and very likely, at least one month of blackout.
It would be another three hours of steady downpour before the rain eventually stopped, as gracefully as it had been ushered in.
I picked up my bag, rolled up my trousers in earnest anticipation of the inevitable flood, and made my way home.

​To my utter bewilderment, there were no floods! The lights from the street lamps cast a soft golden glow on the slick roads, seemingly creating mirages of pools of water from afar off. But they were mere illusions. The gurgling sound coming from the underground drainage was proof of where all the water had gone. It was a strange sight. Like some alien cyborg from space had been fiddling with a time machine that had accidentally propelled us twenty years into the future.

My new world was a three-fold utopian dream. So surreal!
I could see beautiful, high-rise, state of the art edifices with mind-blowing architectural designs that blatantly seemed to defy the laws of gravity. I could see world-class hospitals that admitted ailing dignitaries from around the world and top-notch schools that offered scholarships to deserving indigenous and international students.
Sure enough, this was Nigeria! The Nigeria we all dreamed of.

And there was light…electricity! - In myriad of colours that seemed to have been dispersed from several colossal disco ***** via *“wireless fidelity”
technology. I strained to hear the noise from generators, but I was disappointed. I couldn’t even hear the all too familiar cacophony of horns blaring, conductors shouting, loud discordant music, rattling vehicle engines etc. It was like everyone and everything had taken a crash course on orderliness.

I saw a vibrant transportation system that included high speed railway lines, paved road networks that looked like a child’s doodles, first-class air strips and efficient sea transportation.
I saw a working government - one that had provided the critical infrastructure for her people.

I saw a nation with a large industrialized economy, where the dividends of democracy had been delivered to the people by their government. One consciously founded on equity and honesty of purpose, and courageously sustained by unfaltering faithfulness and unwavering patriotism.      
A nation whose economic boost did not come solely from crude oil exploration and production, but also from crude oil refining, agriculture, manufacturing, infrastructure, food, services, tourism, automobiles, transportation, education etc.
A nation that thronged with international investors from all walks of life, who were not in the least afraid to invest in her.

And then, I saw her people. A people proud of their citizenship.
A people proud to be called NIGERIANS.
A people who were not given to religious, political, or tribal bigotry.
A people who individually and collectively, gallantly bore the torch of the vision of their heroes past.
A people who earnestly and persistently worked to see only goods “Made in Nigeria” sold in their markets.

Where there was once despair, I saw hope. Where there was once fear, i saw security. Where there was once disgruntlement, I saw satisfaction. Where there was once poverty, I saw wealth opportunities and where there was unemployment, I saw jobs. Death had given way to life and life to hope.

I started, as I felt something cold and wet trickle down my forehead. It was droplets of rain from a leak in the roof just above my head. I was still in my office, I never left. The rain had lulled me to sleep. Even more sadly, I realized it had all been a dream.
Slowly and regretfully, I packed my things and left for home. It was pitch black outside as I carefully waded through the polluted waters, jauntily holding my bag, more because I was afraid to lose it in the flood than in a hopeless bid to dignify the situation.

Two hours later, I crawled into bed. I did not have to turn the lights off…the electric poles had gone for a swim. A very long one.



© ONUGHA EBELE VICTORIA
This is NOT my work, but I found it amazingly share worthy.
Ah, Nikolaas, my love for him is not the same, as my love for thee;
My love for thee was once, and may still be, sweeter, purer, more elegant, and free;
But still, how unfortunate! imprisoned in mockery, and liberated not-by destiny;
It still hath to come and go; it cannot stay cheerfully-about thee forever, and within my company.

And but tonight-shall Amsterdam still be cold?
But to cold temper thou shalt remain unheeded; thou shalt be tough, and bold;
Sadly I am definite about having another nightmare, meanwhile, here;
For thy voice and longings shall be too far; with presumptions and poems, I cannot hear.

Sleep, my loveliest, sleep; for unlike thine, none other temper, or love-is in some ways too fragrant, and sweet;
All of which shall neither tempt me to flirt, nor hasten me to meet;
My love for thee is still undoubted, defined, and unhesitant;
Like all t'is summer weather around; 'tis both imminent, and pleasant.

My love for thee, back then, was but one youthful-and reeking of temporal vitality;
But now 'tis different-for fathom I now-the distinction between sincerity, and affectation.
Ah, Nikolaas, how once we strolled about roads, and nearby spheres-in living vivacity;
With sweets amongst our tongues-wouldst we attend every song, and laugh at an excessively pretentious lamentation.

Again-we wouldst stop in front of every farm of lavender;
As though they wanted to know, and couldst but contribute their breaths, and make our love better.
We were both in blooming youth, and still prevailed on-to keep our chastity;
And t'is we obeyed gladly, and by each ot'er, days passed and every second went even lovelier.

But in one minute thou wert but all gone away;
Leaving me astray; leaving me to utter dismay.
I had no more felicity in me-for all was but, in my mind, a dream of thee;
And every step was thus felt like an irretrievable path of agony.

Ah, yon agony I loathe! The very agony I wanted but to slaughter, to redeem-and to bury!
For at t'at time I had known not the beauty of souls, and poetry;
I thought but the world was wholly insipid and arrogant;
T'at was so far as I had seen, so far as I was concerned.

I hath now, seen thy image-from more a lawful angle-and lucidity;
And duly seen more of which-and all start to fall into place-and more indolent, clarity;
All is fair now, though nothing was once as fair;
And now with peace, I want to be friends; I want to be paired.

Perhaps thou couldst once more be part of my tale;
But beforehand, I entreat thee to see, and listen to it;
A tale t'at once sent into my heart great distrust and sadness, and made it pale;
But from which now my heart hath found a way out, and even satisfactorily flirted with it,

For every tale, the more I approach it, is as genuine as thee;
And in t'is way-and t'is way only, I want thee to witness me, I want thee to see me.
I still twitch with tender madness at every figure, and image-I hath privately, of thine;
They are still so captivatingly clear-and a most fabulous treasure to my mind.

My love for thee might hath now ended; and shall from now on-be dead forever;
It hath been buried as a piece of unimportance, and a dear old, obsolete wonder;
And thus worry not, for in my mind it hath become a shadow, and ceased to exist;
I hath made thee resign, I hath made thee drift rapidly away, and desist.

Ah, but again, I shall deny everything I hath said-'fore betraying myself once more;
Or leading myself into the winds of painful gravity, or dismissive cold tremor;
For nothing couldst stray me so well as having thee not by my side;
An image of having thee just faraway-amidst the fierceness of morns, and the very tightness of nights.

And for seconds-t'ese pains shall want to bury me away, want to make me shout;
And shout thy very name indeed; thy very own aggravated silence, and sins out loud;
Ah, for all t'ese shadows about are too vehement-but eagerly eerie;
Like bursts of outspread vigilance, misunderstood but lasting forever, like eternity.

'Twas thy own mistake-and thus thou ought'a blame anyone not;
Thou wert the one to storm away; thou wert the one who cut our story short.
Thou wert the one who took whole leave, of the kind entity-of my precious time and space;
And for nothingness thou obediently set out; leaving all we had built, to abundant waste.

Thou disappeared all too quickly-and wert never seen again;
Thou disappeared like a column of smoke, to whom t'is virtual world is partial;
And none of thy story, since when-hath stayed nor thoughtfully remained;
Nor any threads of thy voice were left behind, to stir and ring, about yon hall.

Thou gaily sailed back into thy proud former motherland;
Ah, and the stirring noises of thy meticulous Amsterdam;
Invariably as a man of royalty, in thy old arduous way back again;
Amongst the holiness of thy mortality; 'twixt the demure hesitations, of thy royal charms.

And thou art strange! For once thou mocked and regarded royalty as *******;
But again, to which itself, as credulous, and soulless victim, thou couldst serenely fall;
Thus thou hath perpetually been loyal not, to thy own pride, and neatly sworn words;
Thou art forever divided in his dilemma; and the unforgiving sweat, of thy frightening two worlds.

Indeed thy godlike eyes once pierced me-and touched my very fleshly happiness;
But with a glory in which I couldst not rejoice; at which I couldst not blush with tenderness.
Thy charms, although didst once burn and throttle me with a ripe vitality;
Still wert not smooth-and ever offered to cuddle me more gallantly; nor kiss my boiling lips, more softly.

Every one of t'ese remembrances shall make me hate thee more;
But thou thyself hath made more forgiving, and excellent-like never before;
'Ah, sweet,' thou wouldst again protested-last night, 'Who in t'is very life wouldst make no sin?'
'Forgiveth every sinned soul thereof; for 'tis unfaithful, for 'tis all inherently mean.'

'Aye, aye,' and thou wouldst assent to my subsequent query,
'I hath changed forever-not for nothingness, but for eternitie.'
'To me love o' gold is now but nothing as succulent',
'I shall offer elegantly myself to not be of any more torment, but as a loyal friend.'

'I shall calleth my former self mad; and be endued with nothing but truths, of rifles and hate;'
'But now I shall attempt to be obedient; and naughty not-towards my fate.'
'Ah, let me amendst thereof-my initial nights, my impetuous mistakes,'
'Let me amendst what was once not dignified; what was once said as false, and fake.'

'So t'at whenst autumn once more findeth its lapse, and in its very grandness arrive,'
'I hopeth thy wealth of love shall hath been restored, and all shall be alive,'
'For nothing hath I attempted to achieve, and for nothing else I hath struggled to strive;'
'But only to propose for thy affection; and thy willingness to be my saluted wife.'

And t'is small confession didst, didst tear my dear heart into pieces!
But canst I say-it was ceremoniously established once more-into settlements of wishes;
I was soon enlivened, and no longer blurred by tumult, nor discourteous-hesitation;
Ah, thee, so sweetly thou hath consoled, and removed from me-the sanctity of any livid strands of my dejection.

For in vain I thought-had I struggled, to solicit merely affection-and genuinity from thee;
For in vain I deemed-thou couldst neither appreciate me-nor thy coral-like eyes, couldst see;
And t'is peril I perched myself in was indeed dangerous to my night and day;
For it robbed me of my mirth; and shrank insolently my pride and conscience, stuffing my wholeness into dismay.

But thou hath now released me from any further embarkation of mineth sorrow;
Thou who hath pleased me yesterday; and shall no more be distant-tomorrow;
Thou who couldst brighten my hours by jokes so fine-and at times, ridiculous;
Thou who canst but, from now on, as satisfactory, irredeemable, and virtuous.

Ah, Nikolaas, farther I shall be no more to calleth thee mad; or render thee insidious;
Thou shall urge me to forget everything, as hating souls is not right, and perilous;
Thou remindeth me of forgiving's glorious, and profound elegance;
And again 'tis the holiest deed we ought to do; the most blessed, and by God-most desired contrivance.

Oh, my sweet, perhaps thou hath sinned about; but amongst the blessed, thou might still be the most blessed;
For nothing else but gratitude and innocence are now seen-in thy chest;
Even when I chastised thee-and called thee but an impediment;
Thou still forgave me, and turned myself back again into elastic merriment.

Thou art now pure-and not by any means meek, but cruel-like thy old self is;
For unlike 'tis now, it couldst never be satisfied, nor satiated, nor pleased;
'Twas far too immersed in his pursuit of bloodied silver, and gold;
And to love it had grown blind, and its greedy woes, healthily too bold.

And just like its bloodied silver-it might be but the evil blood itself;
For it valued, and still doth-every piece with madness, and insatiable hunger;
Its works taint his senses, and hastened thee to want more-of what thou couldst procure-and have,
But it realised not that as time passed by, it made thee but grew worse-and in the most virtuous of truth, no better.

But thou bore it like a piece of godlike, stainless ivory;
Thou showered, and endured it with love; and blessed it with well-established vanity.
Now it hath been purified, and subdued-and any more teaches thee not-how to be impatient, nor imprudent;
As how it prattled only, over crude, limitless delights; and the want of reckless impediments.

Thou nurtured it, and exhorted it to discover love-all day and night;
And now love in whose soul hath been accordingly sought, and found;
And led thee to absorb life like a delicate butterfly-and raiseth thy light;
The light thou hath now secured and refined within me; and duly left me safe, and sound.

Thou hath restored me fully, and made me feel but all charmed, awesome, and way more heavenly;
Thou hath toughened my pride and love; and whispered the loving words he hath never spoken to me.
Ah, I hope thou art now blessed and safely pampered in thy cold, mischievous Amsterdam;
Amsterdam which as thou hath professed-is as windy, and oft' makes thy fingers grow wildly numb.

Amsterdam which is sick with superior lamentations, and fame;
But never adorned with exact, or at least-honest means of scrutiny;
For in every home exists nothing but bursts of madness, and flames;
And in which thereof, lives 'twixt nothing-but meaningless grandeur, and a poorest harmony.

Amsterdam which once placed thee in pallid, dire, and terrible horror;
Amsterdam which gave thy spines thrills of disgust, and infamous tremor;
But from which thou wert once failed, fatefully, neither to flee, nor escape;
Nor out of whose stupor, been able to worm thy way out, or put which, into shape.

But I am sure out of which thou art now delightful-and irresistibly fine;
For t'ere is no more suspicion in thy chest-and all of which hath gone safely to rest;
All in thy very own peace-and the courteous abode of our finest poetry;
Which lulls thee always to sleep-and confer on thee forever, degrees of a warmest, pleasantry.

Ah, Nikolaas-as thou hath always been, a child of night, but born within daylight;
Poor-poor child as well, of the moon, whose life hath been betrayed but by dullness, and fright.
Ah, Nikolaas-but should hath it been otherwise-wouldst thou be able to see thine light?
And be my son of gladness, be my prince of all the more peaceful days; and ratified nights.

And should it be like which-couldst I be the one; the very one idyll-to restore thy grandeur?
As thou art now, everything might be too blasphemous, and in every way obscure;
But perhaps-I couldst turn every of thine nightmare away, and maketh thee secure;
Perhaps I couldst make thee safe and glad and sleep soundly; perfectly ensured.

Ah, Nikolaas! For thy delight is pure-and exceptionally pure, pure, and pure!
And thy innocence is why I shall craft thee again in my mind, and adore thee;
For thy absurdity is as shy, and the same as thy purity;
But in thy hands royalty is unstained, flawless, and just too sure.

For in tales of eternal kingdoms-thou shalt be the dignified king himself;
Thou shalt be blessed with all godly finery, and jewels-which thou thyself deserve;
And not any other tyrant in t'ese worlds-who mock ot'er souls and pretend to be brave;
But trapped within t'eir own discordant souls, and wonders of deceit and curses of reserve.

Oh, sweet-sweet Nikolaas! Please then, help my poetry-and define t'is heart of me!
Listen to its heartbeat-and tellest me, if it might still love thee;
Like how it wants to stretch about, and perhaps touch the moonlight;
The moonlight that does look and seem to far, but means still as much-to our very night.

Ah! Look, my darling-as the moonlight shall smile again, to our resumed story;
If our story is, in unseen future, ever truly resumed-and thus shall cure everything;
As well t'is unperturbed, and still adorably-longing feeling;
The feeling that once grew into remorse-as soon as thou stomped about, and faraway left me.

Again love shall be, in thy purest heart-reincarnated,
For 'tis the only single being t'at is wondrous-and inexhaustible,
To our souls, 'tis but the only salvation-and which is utterly edible,
To console and praise our desperate beings-t'at were once left adrift, and unheartily, infuriated.

Love shall be the cure to all due breathlessness, and trepidations;
Love shall be infallible, and on top of all, indefatigable;
And love shall be our new invite-to the recklessness of our exhausted temptations;
Once more, shall love be our merit, which is sacred and unalterable; and thus unresentful, and infallible.

Love shall fill us once more to the brim-and make our souls eloquent;
Love be the key to a life so full-and lakes of passion so ardent;
Enabling our souls to flit about and lay united hands on every possible distinction;
Which to society is perhaps not free; and barrier as they be, to the gaiety of our destination.

Thus on the rings of union again-shall our dainty hearts feast;
As though the entire world hath torn into a beast;
But above all, they shan't have any more regrets, nor hate;
Or even frets, for every fit of satisfaction hath been reached; and all thus, hath been repaid.

Thus t'is might be thee; t'at after all-shall be worthy of my every single respect;
As once thou once opened my eyes-and show me everything t'at t'is very world might lack.
Whilst thou wert striving to be admirable and strong; t'is world was but too prone and weak;
And whilst have thy words and poetry; everyone was just perhaps too innocent-and had no clue, about what to utter, what to speak.

Thou might just be the very merit I hath prayed for, and always loved;
Thou might hath lifted, and relieved me prettily; like the stars very well doth the moon above.
And among your lips, lie your sweet kisses t'at made me live;
A miracle he still possesses not; a specialty he might be predestined not-to give.

Thou might be the song I hath always wanted to written;
But sadly torn in one day of storm; and thus be secretly left forgotten;
Ah, Nikolaas, but who is to say t'at love is not at all virile, easily deceived, and languid?
For any soul saying t'at might be too delirious, or perhaps very much customary, and insipid.

And in such darkness of death; thou shalt always be the tongue to whom I promise;
One with whom I shall entrust the very care of my poetry; and ot'er words of mouth;
One I shall remember, one I once so frightfully adored, and desired to kiss;
One whose name I wouldst celebrate; as I still shall-and pronounce every day, triumphantly and aggressively, out loud.

For thy name still rings within me with craze, but patterned accusation, of enjoyment;
For thy art still fits me into bliss, and hopeful expectations of one bewitching kiss;
Ah, having thee in my imagination canst turn me idle, and my cordial soul-indolent;
A picture so naughty it snares my whole mind-more than everything, even more than his.

Oh, Nikolaas, and perhaps so thereafter, I shall love, and praise thee once more-like I doth my poetry;
For as how my poetry is, thou art rooted in me already; and thus breathe within me.
Thou art somehow a vein in my blood, and although fictitious still-in my everyday bliss;
Thou art worth more than any other lov
Joe Workman Aug 2014
The radio alarm is a bit too strong
for his afternoon hangover taste.
He goes downstairs, sets the coffee to brewing,
rubs his hands through the hair on his face.
As he sits and he smokes, he can't quite think of the joke
she once told him about wooden eyes.

The coffee is ready, his hands are unsteady
as he pours his first cup of cure.
He tries to be happy he woke up today,
but whether being awake's good, he's not sure.
Outside it's raining, but he's gallantly straining
to keep his head and his spirits held high.

As soft as the flower bending out in its shower,
fiercer than hornets defending their hives,
the memories of sharing her secrets and sheets
run him through like sharp rusty knives.
He decides that his cup isn't quite strong enough,
takes the ***** from the shelf, gives a sigh.

He goes to the porch to put words to the torch
he still carries and knows whiskey just fuels.
Thunder puts a voice to his hammering heart.
Through ink, his knotted mind unspools,
writing of butterflies and of how his love lies
cocooned under unreachable skies.

From teardrops to streams to winter moonbeams
to a peach, firm and sweet, in the spring,
he writes of pilgrims and language and soft dew-damp grass
and how he sees her in everything.
He rambles and grieves, and he just can't believe
how much he has bottled inside.

He writes how the leaves, when they whisper in the breeze,
bring to mind her warm breath in his mouth,
how when walking through woods he loves the birdsong
when they fly back in the summer from the south
because she would sing too and he always knew
he wanted that sound in his ears when he died.

He writes even the streetlights, fluorescent and bright,
make him miss the diamond chips in her eyes,
how the fountain in the park plays watersongs in the dark
when he goes to make wishes on pennies
and while he's there he gets hoping
there will be some spare wishes
but so far there haven't been any.

He writes that the cold makes him think of the old
hotel where they spent most of a week,
lazing and gazing quite lovingly,
and how he brushed an eyelash off her cheek.
The crickets and frogs and all of the dogs
sound as mournful as he feels each night.

He writes about chocolate and fun in arcades,
he writes about stairwells and butchers' blades,
and closed-casket funerals, and Christmas parades,
then sad flightless birds and tiny brigades
of ants taking crumbs from the toast he had made,
and political goons with their soulless tirades,
old-timey duels and terrible grades,
strangers on  buses, harp music, maids,
the weird afterimages when all the light fades,
the pleasure of dinnertime serenades,
sidewalk chalk, wine, and hand grenades.

He writes of how much fun it would be to fly,
and saltwater taffy and ferryboat rides,

sitting on couches, scratched CD's,
pets gone too soon and overdraft fees,

the beach, the lake, the mountains, the fog,
David Bowie's funny, ill-smelling bog,

jewelry, perfume, sushi, and swans,
the smell of the pavement when the rain's come and gone,

and shots and opera, and Oprah and ***,
and tiny bikinis with yellow dots,

stained glass lamps, and gum and stamps,
her dancing shoes on wheelchair ramps,
that overstrange feeling of déjà vu,
filet mignon and cordon bleu,

bad haircuts at county fairs,
honey and clover, stockmarket shares,
the comfort of nestling in overstuffed chairs,
and her poking fun at the clothes that he wears,
and giraffes and hippos and polar bears,
cumbersome car consoles, monsters' lairs,
singing in public and ignoring the stares,
botching it badly while making éclairs,
misspelled tattoos, socks not in pairs,
people who take something that isn't theirs,
the future of man, and man's future cares,

why people so frequently lie
and bury themselves so deep in the mire
of monetary profits when money won't buy
a single next second because time's not for hire,
and that he sees her in everything.

Then unexpectedly, unbidden from where it was hidden
comes the punchline to the joke she had told him.
He laughs -- it's too much and his heart finally tears
as a blackness rolls in to enfold him.
The last thing he hears is birdsong in his ears --
the sound brings hope and is sweet as he dies.
r m Jul 2015
as vast as the galaxy
with stars swarming
like a blanket of cloth
with twinkling dots of threads
we roam the earth
gallantly
with hearts individually beating
with breaths individually taken
and in the middle of the crowd
is me, thinking of the statistics

seven billion people in the world
and i chose to love
the one
i
cannot
have
thinking of that one person, again and again, like an after-thought that lingers until i cry these feelings all out
// july 2015
Andre Baez Aug 2013
Everyone Has a Story… Here’s Five.


Part I: Cousin

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

I was on the island,
At the very top,
Looking down from our mountain,
It was night time,
And the lights shined clearly,
Little holes from the bottom of heaven were penetrating the world,
As they did so I peered on,
Never truly understand what heaven was,
This was my element,
The curiosity which was placed in me,
Since the birth of my being,
Has never been one for being quenched,
Even if my parents tried to beat it out of me,
After a time they kind of hit a fork in the road and decided to go right,
But at the last second I side stepped and ran my behind to the left,
Because the right side isn't always the right way to go,
I felt that their minds died some time ago,
But I was a kid, in the hoods of Puerto Rico,
Only visiting, never witnessing,
The day to day realities,
That came from living so rapidly.

I met my cousin for the second time the days before that night,
He took me under his wing almost immediately and I was happy to follow,
He was a tall man, tattooed from head to toe,
I thought the second I laid eyes on him, that this was my role model
As a lover of Hip-Hop I thought this was how everyone should look,
He would cuss, and spit, and drink, and have several women on deck,
While rolling a couple of joints,
This was the MAN!

However, this view didn't last for very long,
Because on that night,
I witnessed the devil for the first time,
I crawled from beneath my covers,
That my mother had so carefully put into place,
As a safeguard against the realities of the world,
That would come true in my childish fantasies of the boogie man,
The only bad I knew was what was told to me by the news,
People falling left and right cause of wars and other endless fights,
But in my mind they could be brought back to life by the Dragon *****,
Unfortunately Goku wasn't here this night,
I snuck through the house silently,
As the noise would be drowned out by the singing of coquis,
My bare feet hit the humid pavement following the rush down the stairs,
I only wanted to see my view,
The view of heavens holes peering through the vast and dark sky,
It was located at the edge of a cliff that looked over a ravine and then the wilderness,
At the precise moment I stopped to realize my will,
My dream was disrupted by a voice,
Followed by a sound that sliced through my mind and deflated my childish intuition,
A sound that penetrates my adult mind and echoes in the silence to this day,
Muffled screams echoed out after I heard the gunshots ring,
Beneath the sounds of the forests singing,
My heart was pounding slowly,
I was strangely calm rather than panicky and fearful,
Not that I was a brave child, but I remained curious,
Until I saw the blood…
It was then that I saw the dimly lit lamp beneath the moon light,
Resulting in the two bodies casting elongated shadows against the dank Earth,
Followed by a larger body standing over them,
One body was completely still,
While the other one was rocking back and forth,
The terror that took me was shear and raw,
The only other time that I had witnessed such a fear,
Was through the appearance in a pig’s eye,
As my grandfather drove a machete through its heart,
I heard the second shot ring out,
In the same amount of time that it took me to blink,
The other man had been murdered just the same,
And before I knew it the gun was pointed at me,
I stared back and started shaking,
This had to be pure fiction,
But no, this was reality,
I turned to run, but stopped when I realized who it was,
Looking up at me as he exited the thicket and the shadows,
Was my cousin, my role model,
He cocked his head up and looked at me with concern,
But said nothing,
As I ran home breathlessly,
Under the holes into heaven,
That had been put there by bullets,
My childhood was finished…

And I'd never see him again.


Part II: Brother

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

As a child,
I thoroughly enjoyed,
Playing around outside,
I enjoyed getting into play fights,
I loved feeling like I could overwhelm any opponent, but I couldn't.
My brother was way stronger than me,
He had the height advantage,
And best believe he had the weight advantage,
But still, I thought I could manage,
It never really crossed my mind that my brother was a bit off,
To me he was a big kid,
A quiet companion,
My best friend,
My heart.

That was more than enough,
Until one day I went too far,
See my brother had one toy that he loved,
It was string; he'd tear up clothes to make string,
He'd cry up storms at department stores if he didn't get his string,
He'd hit my mother and punch my father if he didn't get string,
I just always thought the exception was me,
I was his play mate, he smiled at me,
Something quite rare for my big brother to do as a result of his condition,
And the medication he was taking,
You see when a child has autism they kind of want to do their own thing,
They want to be on their own,
Enjoying whatever it is they enjoy doing on their time,
But I had a child's mind and a child's ego,
His toys were mine too,
Share with me,
Play with me,
Look at me,
ME, ME, ME!
So he punched me right across the face,
I went flying into a sliding paneled glass door and began crying,
When my mother entered the room,
She asked what was going on and tried to calm me down,
I wouldn't listen so she told me shut up before the neighbors called police,
And we were both taken away,
Being that my mother was a single parent, I believed her,
With that being the case, I closed my eyes and didn't look at my arm,
Nor the blood slowly dripping down it onto my fingertips,
Down to the floor below,
I didn't play much anymore after that,
I was too childish to blame myself,
So the fault was his.

The fault would end up being mine,
As this action being a culmination of things done by my brother,
Led my father and my mother to do what I thought was unthinkable,
They chose to let him go,
Giving him to a group home,
My young mind couldn't even begin to comprehend the pain they felt,
But to me all I could see was two adults giving up on their son,
I saw love and hope dissipate right in front of my eyes,
He was playing with his string in the back seat of the car,
While I sat beside him just watching him,
Saving every movement of his,
And his joy into my memory banks,
To be left to gather dust; because the pain was too much to harness,
But with respect I chose to re-open the chest,
And hold my brother in my arms once again,
Before he was ripped away from me,
And given away to the monstrous people,
That wouldn't let him hug his mother nor me,
I didn't care if this is what was needed to be,
I was losing my brother!
My blood!
My playmate!
My best friend!
My only friend!
My HEART!
It didn't matter that he hit me,
It don't matter if he hit my mother or father,
Because the beating my heart was taking was too much,
For my slim frame and still developing body to handle,
As such my growth was stunted and I gained heart problems,
On top of the asthma,
Autism meant nothing to me,
He was everything!

But it ended with me sleeping alone,
At home he was gone.


Part III: Father

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

I never felt much towards you,
I was taught to love my mother solely,
As she was the one always there to heal my bumps and bruises,
The only memories I have of you from my childhood,
Are of you feeding me God awful food and teaching me to ride a bike,
But I forgot how to ride a bike,
And I could cook what you cooked on my own,
Burnt hotdogs, and pasta, and cereal never really fazed me,
Every other memory is a blur,
Your love was like a line or two painted upon a Mona Lisa of love,
That I had gathered from the various sources of inspiration in my life,
I could always gain appreciation for them,
But not for you.


As I entered my adult years,
You tried to make up for it,
I knew you had pent up guilt inside from not seeing me,
Yet you bought presents and rose up the seeds of another tree,
Seeds that I don't blame,
I only wanted to smell the same flowers that you gave them,
So you were trying to give them to me while I could still smell them,
But that sense was long gone along with my sense of sight,
Literally my vision was fading, but my mind was expanding,
As I was witnessing the world around me quite clearly, and the soul within me,
Just wouldn't release me, from the overwhelming feeling of needing you,
A father figure I could depend on,
A monument for what a man should be, and truly believe in,
As it comes to issues of morality, love, and loyalty,
Up until this point you had only taught me resentment,
Resentment leading to hate,
But I wanted to honor you in place,
So I hide the parts of me that you don't care to see,
I hide my relationships,
I hide my true feelings,
I hide my poetry,
Because if you found those things,
I would no longer be free,
And I refuse to submerge my soul into slavery,
Just for you to feel like you rose up the brightest son,
When truly the darkness is where I was brought up and where I belong,
Moonlight is the only thing I can touch with my pen,
As I compose the paintings residing in my head,
Of wordsmiths and demons battling,
Because words are my angels,
And they have always been there in every instance,
Whenever I've needed a piece of wisdom,
Or a calming presence that would come from the essence,
And recollections of stories of glory,
Stories that helped me forget you,
I love you, and hope our relationship can bloom,
But I no longer wish to speak on you.


Part IV: Mother

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

I was taught to feel love towards you,
And it still remains as strong as ever,
From when I was a child,
Your sacrifice made my life exactly what it is,
Exactly what I needed it to be in order to grow and explore my soul,
To reach for my dreams,
You have always given to me,
Even on your last two cents,
Both would be for me,
You were my mother goose,
Even if I seemed like a young rooster,
Because we were always so different,
You always wanted to mold me into your vision of me,
While you instilled in me many things which cling tightly to me,
You've made someone completely different from what you expected,
I hold different views and truths that are separate from you,
Which is fine, but for a time it would keep me from being who I desired to be,
Because you could never cut the umbilical cord.

In fact, it was wrapped around my neck,
The death of me was coming slowly,
Due to the inhibitions of my creativity,
You loved that I would write, but you hated what I was writing,
Hip-Hop, home to me, was looked at as purgatory,
You couldn't see why I would want to listen to these stories,
Stories of struggling and hustling and juggling jobs, drugs, women, and friendships,
These ships were all sailing gallantly through my mind; the wordplay was so sublime,
And the fact that the words blended with their worlds were so unkind,
Appealed to me, but you were blind,
This changed my perspective,
However what really taught me to be a man,
Was when you began pushing opposing women out of my life,
I would be deep in love, buy-a-ring love,
But one thing would be enough to trigger a string of insults,
And a manikin-like regard for the person of whom I adored,
This was too much for me, you were systematically ending my dreams,
I thank you for your love and for everything that you continue to do for me,
But the cataclysm that was forming in this poets mind,
Was becoming too much to bridge,
If this feeling was to be ongoing,
So as a desperate act of love and care,
I left you behind,
But the love is forever there,
I'm a man because of you,
Your heart will forever reside with me on my journey,
You’ve no need to be frightened,
I’ve got you, I’ve got us,
My senses have been heightened.


Part V: Lover

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

We met after a string of accidents,
Accidents that nearly cost me my life,
These were love losses, blood losses,
Things I’d never thought I could recover from,
The experiences had me going numb,
Until you found me… or did I find you?
It's hard to tell it just seemed like we were two lost souls,
Looking to quell our young hunger for the opposite ***,
Each and every day was spent together,
First on the stoop in front of your sister’s house,
The place where I first kissed your mouth,
Second on the park benches,
This is where hours flourished from minutes,
Third was along the streets of the world,
You were my diamonds and my pearls,
Indestructible and irreplaceable,
Once you met the paper you were there forever,
With that ink blood that flows through your veins,
A fellow poet whose love would stain my mental,
Instrumental in gifting my simple world with a new understanding,
It wasn’t how I imagined, but God laughs at notions of planning,
I finally found out what it meant to be in love,
I never had two people show me what it was,
Honestly the many descriptions of hate,
Is what would be seen at the gate of my consciousness,
As such, I believed this same fate would await me,
It was once the singular feeling with which I could relate,
But the euphoric hands you laid on me,
Made me lose an awake thought process,
As I was in a lake filled with your waters,
That would flow to rivers,
Followed by seas of your loving,
Seas consummating your body,
As I laid on the beach,
Believing it to be a dream.

But it wasn't, and it shouldn’t have ended,
In reality, love has ways of being reprimanded,
I was so lucid, and the picture was candid,
It was the simplest of pleasures that I'd ever been handed,
I learned right away the right things to do,
To flow from my heart and work my way into you,
To take care of my lips,
A rough kiss can't ******,
Nor find proper pleasure,
Along a woman's surface,
You’d allow me to peruse your mind,
Sending shivers up your spine,
As I embarked on my conquest,
Explorations of lustful aspirations,
Symbolizing and synthesizing,
Each and every stroke,
Representing a new letter,
In the alphabet of love,
Allowing our tale to unwind,
To combine the breathlessness of our exploits,
With our hearts desire for choice,
Which declined to lend voice,
To the greater work to be done,
The acquisition of newer positions,
Are symptoms of the journey,
Keep going, never surrender,
Be tender and conquer,
Mental foreplay is stronger,
Than any physical touch.

Love of a poet both bold and stoic,
Is a simplistic view of unfolded vibes and rhythms from the inside,
This could never subside to anything less than genuine spirit of heart and signs,
Among the winds, trees, stars, because you are the art,
You are Moses parting the red sea of my subconscious,
You are the dark sphere which encircles me,
You are the light that penetrates me,
You are harmonic melodies and sweet remedies,
You are rude symmetries and cool symphonies,
You are a lesson learned and an angel untouched,
With exception of me,
Hushed whispers or high pitched screams,
Mean nothing, without the mind following the body to finality,
The fluidity of our ****** motion,
Is a reflection of our mental state,
I seek not to pass through you,
I seek to become one with you.

That's how I feel about poetry,
That's also how I feel about ***,
That's how I feel about you,
You showed me the way,
You are my soul mate,
One with the words I write,
And the memories that I seek the convey,
You are the sun pouring through with the rain,
You are my miracle, one year my junior,
Fifty years older under the skin,
Deep within, your soul, my solar,
Not an eclipse, but a shimmering glow,
Always for my love and never for show.

I fall in love with people's honesty.
Their smile.
Funny jokes.
Tears.
Scars.
Passions.
Eyes.
Dreams.
Their spirit.

Word to Marley Soul.

Five steps in my growth,
Five indispensable cogs of my sou
Timmy Shanti Jun 2012
To smile at the carnation,
So gallantly growing,
At peace with this world.
In silence...
I tune in a short conversation
Between minds and bodies -
Incredibly cold.

My heart has surrendered
To nightingale's song.
I dream of Rhode Island...
I'm leaving! So long!

The winds of Sonora,
My nannies and friends.
My love for Evora -
My tears know no end.

The shadows of Mordor,
With sunrise they fade.
Grace, Kindness and Splendour:
Three Buddhas in jade.

I feed roastede pidgeone
To poor ryebread crumbs.
Avoiding curmudgeons,
I'm playing professional dumb.

Caressing the grass-blades,
I live in a drop.
Arcadian arcade:
There, God has no job.

In hurting the Nature
We drain our souls.
Let’s all at once cease
Being ignorant ghouls.

...To stroke the carnation,
To gently kiss buds.
To eat simple meals
Like lentils and spuds.

To carry some water,
To chop down some trees.
To stop feeling rotten.
My soul is at peace.

The time is forever,
The purpose is now.
No “when” and no “where”,
No “why” and no “how”.

The light effervescent,
The sound circumaural,
The hearts ever-pleasant,
The dreams polynomial.

...Collapsing eternity,
Upheaving humanity,
Rock-bottom fraternity,
Defying the gravity.

Creative destruction
Is staunchly forbidding.
The wisdom of ancients
Is widely-misleading.

Depleting our anger
Is key to survival.
Harnessing the hunger,
Improptu revival.

Combustion of senses,
Precarious laughter.
Incurable sepsis,
Delirious canter.

Regrets are forgotten,
Bright days are all-cherished.
Let’s live unbegotten
Until we all perish.

13.06.2012
LIKE a huge Python, winding round and round  
The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars,  
Up to its very summit near the stars,  
A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound  
No other tree could live. But gallantly        
The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung  
In crimson clusters all the boughs among,  
Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee;  
And oft at nights the garden overflows  
With one sweet song that seems to have no close,          
Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.  

When first my casement is wide open thrown  
At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest;  
Sometimes, and most in winter,—on its crest  
A gray baboon sits statue-like alone        
Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs  
His puny offspring leap about and play;  
And far and near kokilas hail the day;  
And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows;  
And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast          
By that **** tree, so beautiful and vast,  
The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.  

But not because of its magnificence  
Dear is the Casuarina to my soul:  
Beneath it we have played; though years may roll,        
O sweet companions, loved with love intense,  
For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear.  
Blent with your images, it shall arise  
In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes!  
What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear        
Like the sea breaking on a shingle-beach?  
It is the tree’s lament, an eerie speech,  
That haply to the unknown land may reach.  

Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith!  
Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away        
In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay,  
When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith  
And the waves gently kissed the classic shore  
Of France or Italy, beneath the moon,  
When earth lay trancèd in a dreamless swoon:      
And every time the music rose,—before  
Mine inner vision rose a form sublime,  
Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime  
I saw thee, in my own loved native clime.  

Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay        
Unto thy honor, Tree, beloved of those  
Who now in blessed sleep for aye repose,—  
Dearer than life to me, alas, were they!  
Mayst thou be numbered when my days are done  
With deathless trees—like those in Borrowdale,        
Under whose awful branches lingered pale  
“Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton,  
And Time the shadow;” and though weak the verse  
That would thy beauty fain, oh, fain rehearse,  
May Love defend thee from Oblivion’s curse.
Cory Ellis May 2013
Ego death
Death of mind
Death of body
Death crawls gallantly
Gallantly crawls death

Seated in a wooden chair
Breathing in smell of candle wax
The sweet aroma trickles into my nasal
Gently
Like a sweet secret whisper

Memories strike
Fear of the night
Death of all light
Combustion of dendrites.

Death happens rapidly

A spider; well groomed and ready to feast
Pulls his venomed victim from the steady arm of life
Fangs drawn
Body of insect brawn
Of skeleton armor
Penetrating easily

Devour young Dermaptera
The victim is dying
Slowly and painfully

The spider finished his meal
BANG!
he looks up towards the light
A nervous giant approaches
with intuition to ****

The boot overcomes the life of an arachnid
Another life has come to a stop
Crushed armor lays silent on the floor
Bow to the human God

Animals growing to fear
The moth captures the fear inducing look
of human eyes
The most feared Tyrant
of the insect jungles

Grasses higher than skyscrapers
Giants roaming on their chosen paths
Crushing any live that stands in the way

The Ocean

Boats in mass amounts
Distorting the predator balance

Innocent shark
Pulled from its domain
by alien hands
Slicing off fins and cutting throats
Leaving you drowning in your own element

Cruel human torture

What lies beyond the dawn?
Karmatic destruction
for torture of nature?

Torture of men
Crushed by gravity
Ripped from earth
Blood drawn
Gods angry and willing
to provoke death on the wicked

Disturbances in the valley of life
Heartache in the valley of life

Thoughts of torture to loved ones be your punishment
Eternal sorrow and regret
That is what the wicked get
RAJ NANDY May 2016
A short and an earlier popular poem of mine. Hope you like it! Thanks, - Raj, New Delhi.

       THE SURF-RIDER !
See him riding gallantly the crest of
waves,
With dexterity and poise and flowing
grace!
He rises to descend, to rise once more,
As the waves keep rolling towards the
shore!
Like those surfs the Rider continues his
mellifluous dance ,
Be it in England, in Spain or in France;
Riding high on waves as if in a trance!
The wind churns up the waves as it rises
and swells,
As the Rider manoeuvers his wake-board
riding those crests before it breaks !
Like a gymnast he executes strong cutbacks
- to reverse his turn,
His spirit dominate as the waves rise and
churn!
He did take his time to perfect his art ,
Having loved the sea  and the surf from the
very start!
He learnt to live in moments just like those
dancing waves,
Floating on their crests as his blood within
raves!
Those surfs like musical notes rise up and
fall,
Where some surfs are short and others tall !
Like a philharmonic conductor par-excellence,
He commands those waves with his skilful
presence!
Friends, riding on Time’s moments is no mean
art,
But like the Surf-rider one must make a gallant
start !
                                          -Raj Nandy, New Delhi
Having read about surf riders and having seen them in action, I was inspired to compose this short poem for you. For reading thank you! -Raj
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
i am of the light
despite
my shroud
that crowds the villains in the toppled telemetry of my steeds
galloping gallantly from the burning cities of my dreams

i shall gleam from her or he
that which delivers
their truths faithfully to their dreams
open wounds turn invitation
in the pity of hungry thieves
who dared to dream
of peasants king-ed.
as we sing
sing
of desperation
in passionate confessions
of jaded wisdom
passed on through every failure
never to falter
in the betrayals of Walters
lost
in loss-less flac files
i have miles to go
smiles to grow
daggers projectiles
from mild mannered children
freshly ridden
of maniacal miracles
spiritual
but not stupid
we are troopin
this lucid movement
grooving
to the repetition of the drum
the gas blow back of a gun
the bursting bubbles of bubble gum
having fun
i learnt goodly on the run

learned nothing in victory

learned nothing in simplicity

complacently

snickering it all away
bullet by bullet
case by case
and eventually the blade
in my compassionate displays
we shall congregate
and hate ourselves
**** the donks to hell
dwelling on the cellar doors
that darkos teacher adored
in verbal massacre
of the written literature
of cracked brain fixtures
seeping the lines
in cold tingles
down the spines of maniacs

just relax

mix it down on a track
spit the thesis into pieces
through the creases of cracked sneakers, and out the speakers
of trouble seekers.

mistakes make us

deliberate chaos
tossed  
upon the fakers
who cry to think
the dream
became a reality
mistake us
for serrated blades that rip the hearts from beasts
sometimes i stop to think
while having a drink
conclusive brinks
of sanity creaks
of my humility
secreting
frivolously
the disposing of my jealousy
of your feelings

hellaciously
i rip a felony
from a face
in appealing agony
antagonizing me
in the frenzied forensics
of my oblique
outlooks
none of us
were ever crooks
speaking to self
while being booked
in hell
I hate the dreadful sight of the moonlight,
and wish that it could soon fade away into sunlight.
'Tis all but too coherent-far too lovely and too bright;
such a flaw indeed, to my mood and my womanly night.

Unlike the whole silence of the morn;
Whenst no'ne shall speak but the comely red thorn.
Whose soul is far too genuine-and one too like thee,
Clumsy but witty as thou strolled startlingly by me.

Ah, thee, whom I once loved, and now still do,
Whose love I cannot resist, neither can subdue;
But to whose charm I know I must desist,
For neither shall I be thy snow; nor ever, thy mist.

Ah, as not even abruptly in thy mind,
I snare thy conscience nor make thee blind.
Forever and ever to her thou choose to be bound,
Even when this world remains loud, but emits no sound.

And to her, her feeble soul thou art committed,
Into whose fingers art thy varied souls submitted.
And thy palms, both palms entwined whilst walking hand in hand,
Making herself proud, of claiming such a heart-of a perfect man.

But not to me, I-who thou detained too perfectly,
and turned to when all proved to thee, too beastly.
I, who shall forever be a distant friend,
I, who hath no right to thee, nor thy sweaty bare hands.

And not to me; I, who love thee all the greater,
I whose love for thee is but much sincerer, and cleverer.
I, whose passion for thee is too genuine, and tenderer;
Ah, but which to thy senses, might never even matter.

I, who love thee like I love the summer;
I, whom to thee a mere sanguine poet and a cold writer.
Ah, thee, but do thou know not-that my poems are alive?
They speak of my feelings, they speak of my noble life.

I, who love thee as deeply as I love my poetry;
I, who secretly wish thou could only be with me.
I, who shall love thee still-in my maidenhood and later wifery,
But whom to thee sadly nobody; and clearly no more-
Than a bewitching fellow, and on Sundays, a thoughtful young lady.

Ah, my soul is but crossed by this uncivil noise,
Noise in the night, noise that possesses even no voice;
Noise that hath no desirous wishes, and gravely no bliss;
Noise that is born not, out of a deep, passionate secret kiss.

Silence, oh thee; all-too-unmighty voice!
For thou only trouble the mind,
with an unconsciousness that make me blind;
within a joy my soul cannot retrieve, much less rejoice.

Angry, angry am I-with all these burdens of jealousy,
Ah, besotted I am, with those galleries of envy,
And their echoing portraits and songs of undefined melody-
Full of sorrow; and bloodied fits-of uneventful tragedy.

Hungry, hungry then is my soul-for love,
Which hath never come, nor ever seemed enough.
I am deterred, unlike those free giggling starlights above;
From joying in affection, from rubbing myself against love.

So gross, gross is how my blood-looks like;
Bereft of its breath, unloved by its might.
And its impure conscience that now only troubles the light;
Provoking my innocence, torturing my fair sight.

I hate the dreadful sight of the moonlight,
and wish that it soon fade away into sunlight.
I better hope that morn come daintily earlier;
whenst spring comes back into view and so turns everything, lovelier.

And t'is hope, hope for thee shall spring again;
As I shall pray before yon vase of sweet lavender
Which stays still-and loyally to the windowsill, unbent;
Even when it shrieks gallantly, and makes all not by any, tender.

For morn shall refine those current tides of summer,
so that the lake shall blow again-and grow stronger;
And as it does, my love for thee shall return, and be better,
For t'is time it shall bloom; like words that I write, and thou decipher.

And all this noise shall fall into poetry;
Which every day grows statelier and comelier.
For as we kiss, only thy eyes that shall speak onto me;
That our love is true, and shall remain so, forever.
I know I have been happiest at your side;
But what is done, is done, and all's to be.
And small the good, to linger dolefully--
Gayly it lived, and gallantly it died.
I will not make you songs of hearts denied,
And you, being man, would have no tears of me,
And should I offer you fidelity,
You'd be, I think, a little terrified.

Yet this the need of woman, this her curse:
To range her little gifts, and give, and give,
Because the throb of giving's sweet to bear.
To you, who never begged me vows or verse,
My gift shall be my absence, while I live;
But after that, my dear, I cannot swear.
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
Strumming the untuned strings, he stares drunkenly into the setting sun of yesteryears songs, sung of lost dreams and the birthed ambitions of the dark, dark days to be.

Happily,  he tears up in the fortunate tragedies, of the reclamation in his dreams, as he seethes out the damnation of his steeds, galloping gallantly through his being.

All seeing, in the finite fleeting when he sings, of strummed dreams to the rhythms of heart beats lost, embossed on the epitaphs of kings.

Sad songs of dreams once had.
Be glad for that, which does not **** you, only to bestow upon you, the gratitude of the weirding ways, in passionate display for us all to play nice.

Shake these dice and jump aboard this bus of wandering poetry, from the porches of poets singing to the sun.

From the morning Moet, to the afternoon beer run.

we sing of dreams

of better things

we blaspheme

and spin the scenes

of our murdered dreams

and just clean the guilt away

I am so awesome as to be devoid of fault.

I am a god that cracks the asphalt.

I am the angel signing the clause, of deserved harm.

I am the indentured servant sounding the alarm, with the charm of a Trojan horse, forced to adhere to the most righteous path.

The first

The last

Laugh of inevitability

Honing in on the ability to capture the longevity of dream warriors, in the lock of predators, in the employ of a senator, from the center of the heart, to impart on you the fear from thieves caught in the plight of those fraught with the graces of an exterminator, exterminating the pro-creators of your world. Soldiers unraveled in the lavished gavels of real criminals drowning in their own subliminal theories of the self imposed heresies of intention.

Free will

A fragile blessing

I cracked, all so long ago, as i gently bestow my  belligerence upon your innocence and **** it all away.

I'm the ******* son

Strumming for the only one.

Once.

Before the lore of the storm.

Born of the swoon of a gun.

More than one.

Once.

As the day faded into night, his strumming turned plucking, as he slightly eased from reprise to silence, in the whisper of nights words, easing him into the blur, of sleep.
Vernon Waring Jul 2015
Explosions of grief won't greet her death
Great men won't be summoned to speak
Bands of mourners won't wail at her passing
These gestures she will not seek

Just mingle the day with music and madness
Make the day one drooped in frost
Children must carry her down winding roads
Clarinets must moan her loss

Then at an hour no one knows
A man must visit her grave
He'll kneel and touch her tombstone
And smile a mysterious way

He'll be dressed head to toe in somber black
Conveying his grief gallantly
Just let him place one pink rose at the site
And rejoice in his memories
High-mindedness, a jealousy for good,
A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,
Dwells here and there with people of no name,
In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:
And where we think the truth least understood,
Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"
That ought to frighten into hooded shame
A money-mongering, pitiable brood.
How glorious this affection for the cause
Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly!
What when a stout unbending champion awes
Envy and malice to their native sty?
Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause,
Proud to behold him in his country's eye.
Eddie Crochet Oct 2012
The yellowed dome cracks upon the surface
Of the moistened soil that stretches  to make
Their way, emphatically filling most base
Space between dried stubs of flesh - never fake
Fruitless fingers - cracking, brushing, but now
Healing by comforting the path I pursue
          With the wake of the rooster.

Home left warming behind, I gallantly
Saunter toward more humid, fume-fed airs
While leaving the thoughts that so quaintly
Filled my head, forgot to ingrain, and failed,
          Allowing growth to myself.

Sun hung, high-noon, the dew fades all too soon
Creating a creaky concoction kept
Together (of sounds) by bare breaking-bones
Feet against gravel, dusty, rocky steps.

Sky set so wearisome and pink, I fall
To my knees in the midst of high terrain
Marked by thin grasses and rolling hill plains;
As I beg for mercy, not from this all-
Endowed sight, but from God(s) who seem only
To make this life right - I'll collapse further,
My hands move mountainous dirt and holy
Diadems of twig, while I decide - worth
          When shall I dig?
Shalini Nayar Nov 2014
A perfect man for me was never moulded by a box,
A box that screamed multitude of labels
To satiate the chaotic minds of society,
A belonging judged by feudality, no rhyme or reason required or questioned.

A perfect man for me was never measured by material things,
He gives abundantly by just being around,
An illuminating source of comfort on the other end listening,
Empathising and leaving a trail of laughter that makes me fall even deeper.

A perfect man for me was never masked crusader (okay, maybe Batman sometimes),
He is maskless for the world to bask in his genuity,
No bounds or limitations set on his acts of kindness and love,
Selfless and generous with his time, blind to any creed or pedigree.

A perfect man for me was never one to run away from problems,
Valiantly facing the raging bulls head on,
Inner strength personified by his poise and determination,
"I will get through this unscathed and no one will stop me".

A perfect man for me was never an owner of a cold crackled heart,
Headstrong, gallantly keeps the family together in a bind of unconditional love,
Lovingly adores his sunshine, making sure she knows she is loved with the same fervour,
Day in and day out, void of complains and pettiness, as the world turns.

A perfect man for me was never perfect,
Owning up to his flaws and shortcomings and being aware of mine,
A cycle that is never vicious but one that is laced with acceptance and non-judgments,
He inspires the best version of myself as he aspires to better himself.

A perfect man for me spells Y-O-U,
And the way that you are is exactly how I love Y-O-U.

Shalini Nayar
24.11.14
(C) 2014
topaz oreilly Feb 2014
across the canals we gallantly roamed
our engine horse drawn
the quilt of the bubolic defines us,
basking under hazy willow
the scattering of cowslip and orchids
purveyed through the bankside,
with the staggered moon
pacing our miidnight dreams
amongst croaking frogs
and the knowing water vole
GaryFairy Nov 2013
Agony of the fantasy, so lazily, with no probability
the ecstasy so randomly seen with eyes of atrophy
my heart beats so rapidly for the sake of catastrophe
so i gallantly step on the travesty of the compatibility

i casually see my casualty through eyes of calamity
searching so actively for a canopy of rationality
my mind thinks abnormality is better than conformity
actuality meets versatility or circumstantial amity

thinking elaborately not organically, of reality
a tapestry so naturally put together differently
visually vivid quality is a visible consistency
no commonality,  critically crushed by normality
Hear the banners, blaring,
In a Castle, sun-bathed white.
Wrapped in the golden sunsets
of both East,
and West.

Come closer, into this Castle's realm
see crops blazing with activity,
what might be prosperity,
or laughing children
and screams of joy, and laughter.

Talk to a farmer girl, of this Castle,
Listen to her tale:
I was wrought from Issac and Portia,
a Nobleman, and a Common-folk.
Together, they brought me,  16 years ago.
From the dusty deserts, that bloom green plants,
I sit lonely on a bench,
and by chance, I had a glance,
of a poor person, but, not a common-*****.
A man he is, and he stands tall,
with black slick hair,
and muscles all.
I looked at him,
and he looked at me,
or so it seems.
The next day,
in the market streets
of Camelot.
We met,
face, to face.
Though it were a dream.
And seemed fair around us,
though that was not what it would seem.
We spoke, in the corridor,
to the church,
and we learned of each others lore
and kept close each others worth.
The Next day, by midnight,
as I slept in my bed,
He was there.
He knocked on my window,
and I invited him in,
with suspicion,
and lusting,
for my anticipations.
And he spoke to me
"I will return, Christine, dearest,
but I must embark, upon a quest,
to the neighboring town of Cornwallis,
to discuss neighboring policies,
and alliances.
By 3 days shall I return,
and should I not,
then my death will you learn
has come.
And so he came,
and so he went,
William his name
who's life not spent
walked gallantly mile after mile
to reclaim his fiance
and raise their child.


Continuing,
upon the walls
of Camelot,
their lies what they
might call a mote,
but it has been torn,
and it might be plagued,
explaining the lack of
crocodiles.

Knocking on the Gates,
of Camelot,
leads to a few strange noises,
one of them, being,
no noises,
as you hear
distant voices,
as if they were sleeping,
and you look up,
"The moon, of course!"
And so you climb the wall,
with a vine you found in the forests nearby.
And you stumble and mingle
with the vine wrapped
around your ankle.

Alas, your free,
You look up for the first time
within the boundaries of the city,
and find,
inscribed houses,
and minor commotions,
and by mere chance,
the sun arrives
though late, he seems,
and later he rises
the brilliance and the blare like a clock
starts the peasants up as flocks.
Love round the village clean and fair
and animals rolling in parks they share.
Where birds sit in pair-trees.
Where dogs chase cats for fun,
Where bees entertain the children free
Where parents admire the creation they've done.
And as you walk these streets
in wonder, and satisfaction,
You find that street
is layered in sparkles
and clouds of snow-white dust
that enhance the atmosphere
of this,
Haven,
so to speak.
Their, in the middle,
bewitches thine eye,
with all fantasies of this Earth,
and all beauties that have worth.
For in the center, lies a fountain,
which speaks 'Heaven' to your heart,
its marble is smooth as doves,
the presence of the fountain,
creates, or so you believe, the dark
mood around,
like a ominous breeze,
that is being blown away,
infinitely stretched,
like a monkey-chain of rubber bands,
the features of this fountain,
excite your mind with wonder,
enough wonder,
that makes your life feel whole,
though man has at least one worth,
should the world fail
and all prove evil,
then at least, they praise this devil.
The shape is but a breath-taker from
what could qualify, as a statue
for to lie in God's Plaza, or something
similar. The water spraying from the Queen,
Gaia, with a lively green vine,
my apologies,
that is pure and uncut emerald
that wraps around her hair,
which is so defined,
that you could give Gaia a new definition,
Perfection.
And from Gaia's hands, holding a vial,
comes out water, seeming longer,
and more endless then the nile.
And should you lean upon this,
architecture, of majesty,
unbearably beautiful,
and unquestionably
promising,
you'd see,
the mirroring,
of Heaven, the Stars,
and all the cold void within this reflection,
that miraculously could ever dare
to try that deception, in say, 4 feet length,
that mimics the unending of space,
time and infinity.
and,
you turning your head,
you see creatures,
though creatures they be,
they, if the fountain represented God,
then these creatures represent his Archangels.
As Swans float gently,
upon the water's tip,
and even Salmon, and other fishes below
are gray, silver, or diamond clear.
And the water their, remains,
untouched,
despite the audiences
of romantic teens,
adorable, and innocent children, laughing and playing in this pool,
and adults sitting by it, enjoying  their mate's company.
Inscribed in Gaia's vial, reads
"The Fountain of Youth".

But these fond memories no longer supply me,
with the passion and love of this Earth,
I once fondly knew,
for all, even the fountain is pillaged,
and two lovers that loved each other were hewed.

But pride, forgotten,
and beauty marred,
live forever,
in glory
and love.
The Terry Tree Oct 2014
A master magician at hiding
While running and gallantly striding
Your message is strong, you gallop along
With spirit continually guiding

Independent you move with the group
Making headway you learn to recoup
Ready to bolt, to rebel and revolt
If your light should get caught in a loop

Your harmony steadies in trouble
A clean break away from all struggle
Lessons are taught, even when you're distraught
As you truly embrace them and juggle

When problems arise in the east skies
You remember the sun also dies
And though it falls down, it comes back around
To greet us the next day with bright eyes

Spirit Zebra be with us to find
Let our strength and our courage unwind
Into all of the holes, deep in our souls
That we carry throughout our lifetime

Teach us patience to love every side
So that we may enjoy how we ride
Some days we will glow, some days will be low
Love will teach us to rise not subside

To see everything, just as it is
To live the truth of this regardless
Return stronger yet, from any upset
With a chance for new growth and progress

You teach us to seek balance and truth
Till the end of our days from our youth
Standing confidently, strong as can be
Building skills that will calm us and soothe

With every step forward we've taken
Your wisdom unfolds and awakens
All of our needs, teach us how to succeed
Good or bad, we shall not be mistaken

We are shifting between light and dark
We are always igniting the spark
A few steps gone back, will put us on track
With pure faith we will soon disembark

tHE tERRY tREE

Photo | Google Images | Poetic Form | Gwawdodyn
Poetic Form | Gwawdodyn
Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat—
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed:
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves!
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering,—not through his presence;
Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre;
Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
One more triumph for devils and sorrow for angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life’s night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we pierce through his own;
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
1562

Her Losses make our Gains ashamed—
She bore Life’s empty Pack
As gallantly as if the East
Were swinging at her Back.
Life’s empty Pack is heaviest,
As every Porter knows—
In vain to punish Honey—
It only sweeter grows.
We mourn the loss of our little pet,
And sigh o'er her hapless fate,
For never more by the fire she'll sit,
Nor play by the old green gate.

The little grave where her infant sleeps
Is 'neath the chestnut tree.
But o'er her grave we may not weep,
We know not where it may be.

Her empty bed, her idle ball,
Will never see her more;
No gentle tap, no loving purr
Is heard at the parlor door.

Another cat comes after her mice,
A cat with a ***** face,
But she does not hunt as our darling did,
Nor play with her airy grace.

Her stealthy paws tread the very hall
Where Snowball used to play,
But she only spits at the dogs our pet
So gallantly drove away.

She is useful and mild, and does her best,
But she is not fair to see,
And we cannot give her your place dear,
Nor worship her as we worship thee.
ROBBED BY TIME

Once upon a time,
A friend in need at all times,
Time was such my best friend
And so we hopped till the end.

To my castle he'd come,
For he was always welcome
Any time he ever wanted to,
Something my queen loved too.

We'd ramble woodland paths together
As he reeled off one story after another,
All day long having a good time
Till when castle bells could chime.

Time was not of this world,
But a great war lord
Of a very far away land,
King unto the realm of fairy land.

He who had a novelty crown
Bestowed upon him by a fairy clown,
A crown not of gold but of palest silver,
A precious gem from the fairyland silva.

With lurve in the air one morning,
My friendship with Time died aborning
When he chose to do something frivolous
Just when the Sun's rays were so glorious.

Time emblazed my heart,
Something that didst hurt
When he smiled unto my wife,
Such a great shock unto my life.

He gravitated towards her after a deep sigh,
Like a whirlwind, my mind whirled high.
He thus gallantly asked her for a dance,
And was granted a golden chance.

Keenly I watched this flint-hearted boy,
Thought him skint but feared not nor coy.
With alacrity and in broad day light
Together they cwtched in delight.

He whom I always enjoyed with the wine,
There enjoying with a queen of mine
Whilst committing mischief;
This friend of mine such a thief.

Time whispered thus into my Queen's ear,
Whispers I could hardly hear:
Alas! He promised her the moon
For they'd eloped by noon,

To places strange I might never have a clue,
To where mortals have never dared walk to,
All the way to the realm of fairy land,
Such, such a very far away land.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros
10th Aug 2016.
I've been sick for the past days though thank God I'm here to share and sip from the well of poetry once again. Oh how i missed you my dear friends! Honestly, I'm all thankful to the Almighty for "TIME" didn't vanish away with my life all the way to fairyland the same way he did to my queen!

#Time #Lonesome #Me #You #Relationships #Melancholy #Fairyland
Ria Bautista Sep 2010
take me to those troubled seas
you have so gallantly sailed
those high-brick walls you alone have climbed
where others seem to have failed

show me how to create rainbows
pine trees and candy bars
landscapes of silver and gold
even diamonds that look like stars

teach me how to appreciate life
beauty and love
tell me about mermaids and faeries
or even angels up above

for how wise you truly are my fragile one
a lot can be learned from you
in your own little world you have become
an artist with a different point of view

how i wish i could understand
these wonderful things only you can see
but with eyes like mine it's as if i'm blind
and this is all that i can be

but you my child with your poetic soul
the universe that you'll create
will be filled with joy and laughter
and a million reasons to celebrate
A piece I wrote a couple of years back. It's unfortunate that I failed to write down the exact date that it was written. It is for a friend's school project about a mother dealing with her child's autism.
Dark Jewel Nov 2014
Precious gem,
Gleaming so gallantly.
Streaming light into streets.

Luminescent gem,
Containing Dragon souls.
Shining on her neck,
Breathing fire down on the world.

Precious gem,
Agonize thy souls.
Never to be free again.

In this human world.
Josh Koepp Oct 2012
Talent.
So so Far I've seen the talent-less and the talented
**** heads until their skulls cracked and we peered in
and saw a garden growing green leafy creativity
Gallantly trotting across the right brain like the  breezy morning wind
And as we looked away and declared the winner had won
but cracked his skull on the stubborn brick wall
the talent-less had spun
out of hard jealousy and mortar crafted from their own lack of self discipline
The sun even sighed
died for a second
then came back alive only to find the talentless
still forrunning their forte
up every frigid full soul he found on his way
So the days saddened into rainy Saturdays
19 in a row
with the downpour too vicious to even kiss on the cheek as a pity way of putting across that
"you should really go"
the rain rained down boulder sized bouts of concentrated creative energies
only able to be ****** up by sponges with cracked skulls
and thus made into uncracked skulls
mended skulls
Talented unabridged uncensored skulls
that may drown out the talentless
just like the rain and storms tried to muster a try at
And by that we only see the talented come out walking with rain pouring Into their brains
getting ****** up by extracorpus veins
Not because they were born with contraptions
but because they avoided distractions
and gained traction in this multiverse where everything happens with struggle
and pain.
beth winters Jan 2011
i was going to write a piece using the word we entirely too often. talk about the slip of your palms down my cheeks, the floaty high after you don't sleep for forty-eight hours and then skip gallantly through the albertson's parking lot. i was going to write this immense prose with weaving metaphors and phrases that begged to be spoken. a piece with a moral, about a boy and a girl, or maybe two girls, or an animal and the voice that haunts it. about a willow bride with gauze wrapped firmly around a puncture wound. describe the inner monologue of a park bench. but maybe not, because that would be deleted.

i could write you a letter, because you know who you are. or the empty waterbottle that is staring mournfully at me, or burlap sacks, or the words that i speak of constantly but never speak.
From the helter skelter
In a helter skelter dash
For solitude at the esker
I strayed in a labyrinth
Of dark soaring woods

Here-upon, trees begun to move!
An optical illusion it seemed to be,
Though a moment my eyes did love;
But in a mean time, out of kilter
Was the avenue to the esker.

Wandering midst soaring woods
Serendipitously there I beheld
An elegant creature,
A creature with a velvety
Pale unblemished skin,
Lilly white as porcelain,
Gaily yet opalescent as an opal,
With curling glossy auburn hair,
Mellifluously whispering a lullaby
With verve in the wanton air
Whilst flapping her wings
To take wing.

On feasting about her impeccable face,
It thus dawned upon me:
"She was not of this our world
But an alien, an angel rom outer space."

Swiftly, I gravitated towards her
And unto her said I was lost,
Lost like leaves beneath the frost
Upon my way for solitude at the esker
However the sheer cynosure
She'd taken my fancy
Hence moonstruck for sure.

She gagged me, cwtched me,
Enveloped me in her wings
And merrily took wing
Whilst I gallantly kissed,
Kissed her nectar kisser.

Past mullbery skies we soared,
All the way unto her land of bliss
Where upon we swam naked,
Naked in halcyon waters,
Waters of her land.

Together, we made poetry
Of love and life so blind,
Cherishing moment after moment
One could search forever to find,

Whilst gallivanting from star to star,
Only alone by ourselves on yonder
To a very distant colourful clime,
Yonder beyond restrictions of time.
# A pie in the sky  #Dawn of love  #Pulchritude #Fantasy #Helter skelter  #Esker #stars
  #Poem  #Poetry
#Moonstruck
little moon Apr 2014
little feet dashing across the playground with light-up shoes and arms raised and poised to hold our weaponry. swift movements mark the territory with memories of traipsing through our makeshift castles. when we’re children we gallantly save princesses with long tresses who cry from the tops of towers, fearing uproarious dragons and the darkness of the sky. we protect the princesses from terror, and some of us grow up to become them and learn to protect ourselves. the tall dragons shed their prismatic scales and flinch as they feel the girth of our swords. after much opposition, we face our fears and instantaneously make the final strike and become victorious. we turn and look through the binoculars of our hands and spot nimble thieves stealing the shimmering scales in exchange for their own greed. they climb medieval walls and we try to catch them. impulse clutters our line of vision and we go because there is no time to waste, we don’t want to lose them. sometimes they return the stolen treasure and sometimes its a lost cause. we learn the latter later, through long sighs at lonely 2 ams after seemingly infinite words have spilled out on paper and out loud out to those who can’t come back and those who can but won’t. but the former fleshes itself out when we experience moments of kismet. these days where we share conversations with people who satiate the hollow corners of our hearts and walk outside and breathe in the petrichor just as the sun has wriggled its way into the sky. we learn life is as vivid as any story we become momentarily enchanted by. people come and go as fast as the pages that inspired our childhood adventures turn, and everything happens at once. we face demons as beastly as our dragons but we have our warpaint on no matter how hastily drawn it is, and we convince ourselves of our strength until it’s real to us.
we were the heroes of the story then, light-up shoes running across the playground, and we are the heroes of the story now, playing and living in the light-up world.
i guess in hindsight, this can sort of be seen as a prequel to 'the park'. i definitely had this in mind while i was writing 'the park' but as you can read that poem evolved into something else entirely. i wrote this some 2 am last summer
Jennifer DeLong Feb 2019
Upon my soul
he gallantly walked
he gave no mention
nor sensation
so here , I am left
to question
what , I couldn't feel
no warning
that I was his victim
he'd leave me questioning
ever moment
how'd I not know
this stranger I thought
I knew
So gallantly he walked
So to never make a sound
so I never could ?
till he was out of sight
that I'd then dare find
All that was never true
© Jennifer Delong 2/2019
Jack Rosette Apr 2011
I have ye to thank,
all ye actors and poets and marvels
(and DCs and everything in between)
for I have lived with ye, and amongst ye,
and ye have gently inspired genuine genius
in all ye holes in the wall
and all ye pens and strings and voices.

I thank you for the endless memories
of conversations of unnecessary furor and consuming hysteria
of brilliant surprises from elegant unknown talents
of tossed salad people and places and history and interaction
of a night lost in glowsticks but preserved in pictures
of a time my time in between periods of blank walls
of a blinding bolt forward in presence of mind.

For was it you
who told me about your grandfather
a man so brilliant that a mere conversation with the dean
at sixteen granted him admission to Columbia?
who told me of Canadian interlocutors
intimately engaged, only after your party had left?
who told me of amazing cliffside adventures
in education and nature's nomenclatures abound?
who discussed my heritage against that of a concrete world
of exploding dreams and collapsing stars at once,
where you take a bite but might get the proverbial worm?
or you, against that of a simple hicktown
where tractors run tandem with buicks in school lots?

Might it have been you
who watched with me psychedelic documentaries
and named canaries after variations of drug store medications?
who gallantly tolerated my most obnoxious outrageous disgusting
interesting unaffected out-of-their-mind friends?
who took me to absurd spots at absurd hours to breathe absurdity,
then churted we'd go, back the building we'd known?
who brought me in groups to feast on uncomfortable meats,
but between the awkward and networked gossip pipelines,
were enjoying the food and friends and flattery?
who drunk on dreams, droned on into darkness,
and dripped into ears of a man in his cave,
a man playfully perplexing you by pondering preposterous?

It must have been you
whose beautifully woven music reached my ears,
enveloped my being, seldom alone, and even when solo,
scattered brains with banter and brilliance combined...
who, with an open door and wide smile,
welcomed me to the mind's great opera house,
and gave audience to my own logical saga...
who in the weekend's weak end became crazy dazed amazings,
lazing in listless lack of activity, or senselessly celebrating
sins and kinship, all ways seeking erasure...
who gave me so many names against the grain,
jrosay or nerp or j or jackattack or just plain jack,
your classmate hallmate roommate or just plain friend...
who sat and sang and slew, dragons myths, moods,
and hit and clicked and ripped and spilt, toxins, guilt,
and hurt and failed and walked with me...


at least i hope it was you
you who paved platforms and bridges to raze amazing
and left vast caches of spectacular aptitude
or you who spread brilliance like plagues defined loosely,
grossly self-aware in great stares of embarrassed arrogance
and defeated demons crying freedom and bleeding love
you gave worlds great engravings, new meaning
to be me in new worlds new dreams new things
nooses spread shredded across mind fields
you lovingly led leaders over languid anguish
dangled carrotsticks and heritage bringing peace
you found you finding a place in space in winding time
under universal roofing aloof of stinking sewage
found a truth around music and beauty

shopping cart hearts that gather dust and poetry
blissful obituary tears splashing across my memory
loco rangers of brilliant oblivion armed with toothy news
slaying my molded upbringings refreshing genius

fair chance soul trade and daylong flatlines
double barreled shotgun roulette
blank charge buckshot
noisemakers both

that trigger
firing
you
?
I dedicated this poem to the people in my freshman year living-learning community at the University of Michigan. There are many references to specific moments from that academic year, but you certainly don't have to understand them to understand the poem's message. It is structured to mimic the progression of the academic year, and then beyond.
DaRk IcE Apr 2015
She howls at the moon in the midst of the night. Seeking lost souls trapped and screaming in fright. Her cries play melodies of melancholy trials lost, her spirit stolen callously at a grave cost. Roaming the dense fog on hallows eve Watching the dead rise, I'm sure many were known to be wise. As she so gallantly skips past ancient tree's they whipser vintage stories about Victorian times and all its glories. Tree leaves construct reenactments of ****** wars riddled of death and destruction among differences of the people, only wishing to gather and come together at the church steeple. Her howls are searched among the hollow lands above makeshift graves of innocent people seen as second rate, not suprising of their final fate. Beings born with no guidence for a undeniable ratchet societies views, she howls as she hears the news. Her ravaged heart however battered still beats, I am She Wolf.
Homunculus May 2016
These politicians aren't even people,
They're machines fueled by money,
Whose conquests relentlessly propel humanity,
Ever nearer to the brink of its demise,
While a lucky few at the very top
Rake in unfathomable fortunes, and
Consolidate their power at the expense
Of those common men and women,
Who strive only to build themselves
Honest and virtuous lives.

We are always told
That crime doesn't pay, but
On an unbiased inspection of
The world to which these forces
Have given birth, it becomes
More and more apparent
With each passing day,
That not only does crime pay,

But that it is the linchpin,
The essence and Truth; held in
The very highest esteem, and
The foundation, upon which,
Every structure of influence,
Constituting this wretched culture
In whose shadow we all stand,
Is built, and gains stability, but
Which crime pays? For whom?
And for what reasons?

Crash the economy through manipulation and deceit,
Get million dollar bonuses, and taxpayer bailouts.
Because your wealth is of prestige, and
You are the herald of progress,
Not to mention the fact that you
Own the judges and regulators, and
Your bank account is big enough
To bribe anyone you please, but

Resort to theft because,
Your family is hungry,
You go to jail or prison, and
Become a source of cheap labor,
To build products for the same ones
Whose greed crashed the economy,  
In the first place.

Then, when you get out;
You can be sure that the court costs
And legal fees will drive
You even deeper into debt, and
Compel you to offend again, but
It's not systemic; it's your fault
Because the poor are the wretched of the earth,
Who have earned their misfortune,
By means of their own iniquity, and
Thus undeserving of sympathy.

Meanwhile, from birth to death
From womb to tomb, and
From cradle to grave
The narrative is spoon fed, to
Every man, woman and child,
That hard work and
Honest aspiration,
Are the keys to success;
Study hard,
Get good grades,
Follow the rules,
Give it your all, and
Prosperity will become
Your dearest friend.

Yet, John Q. Public
Works for 40 years,
While Congress loots
His social security and pension, and 
Is ultimately  forced to choose between  
Buying this month's medicine, or
Paying this month's rent, once
He finally does retire

Sarah C. Student,
Follows the same path,
Only to live for subsequent decades
In the desert of a new serfdom,
Born of the iron will of finance capital,
Ending with little but a sense of
Betrayal and resentment
To show for all her efforts.

But on the flipside, just across town
Uncle Moneybags is tormented
By his painful choice between
A private jet, or new yacht, and
The prince of Crude Oil-istan,
Frets over which jewels will
Encrust the statue of his likeness,
Neither of them ever having
So much as broken a sweat
In the service of labor,

Now, tell me how it's sane that
We all take this for granted?
Perhaps the specter of democracy
Has led us down a blind alley, of
Illusory choice, counterpoised
Against the despotism of the past, but

Dig a bit deeper and it becomes obvious,
That one tyranny has merely replaced another
In the grander scheme, and so now,
Every 4 years, we march gallantly
To the polls and cast our ballots to vote
On whether we want to die of AIDS,
Or maybe cancer, instead; all while
Pundits stand at their podiums,
Regurgitating the same old worn out,
Platitudes hailing the triumph, of
Our serene and beneficent system, but
  
I wish someone could tell me,
Plainly and honestly:
When the 62 richest own as much
As the 3 billion poorest
Where does it stop?
What is the limit?
How much longer can it continue?
When do we finally decide
That enough is enough?
Venting helps sometimes.

Hear it read: https://soundcloud.com/iliveinyourhead/a-long-winded-and-cathartic-rant
A sword of awareness can be drawn to deflect all sides
Averting misleading deception
Striking immense fear into the heart of those
Who can see your apparent perception

A razor-sharp discernment will cut straight to the chase
Shrewdly seeing all in undying motion
Rendering powerful blows to break down a charade
Bringing a swift end to chaotic commotion

The spirit of instinct wields your sword of awareness
Sharpened by the vision of your third eye
While knowing rules the heart of the sword bearer
Gallantly fighting through chaos and lies

Do you have hold of the hilt of your sword of awareness
Lifting your blade of discernment up high
Are your edges of perception sharpened and ready
To slice through the chaos and lies?
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
www.changefulstorm.blogspot.com
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Changefulstorm

— The End —