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"goings" poems
Route 84 would not lend me the light of a star last night Radio blazing at 75 mph nonsense noise to chew gum by Crackling political commentary Static of distance and thick clouds Invisible mountains blocking Memories seeping through the cracks coating the music in a film I rub my eyes watch myself punch alert buttons But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight Roll down the window Watch the heat escape Summer again I am building a castle of ancient stones pulverized by relentless tides Dragged across maps by mastodons and mammoth glaciers The scouring hiss the ocean sighs Time has lulled these smoothly rolling them in the softest hands of sand and gels of life’s comings and goings tenderly tumbling in the millionth moonrise— Time deposits them here wet and glistening For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather Shoulders sun-burnt barely say one week only, one week of the fifty two “It’s the time of the season…” and daddies on the beach are watching…. She has chosen yet another stone And the castle continues— in oblivion to all but her legend…      The queen will be safe here      from the rabble      The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her      Among these lofty cliffs      Between the raging circuit of the tide      Here winds forbid the vengeful mob      Here lovers learn      the debt of love’s bad timing      “Drink ye all of it!”      --the potion that assigns our sorrow….      She will not sleep—      while I chew this gum--  GUM? Roll down the window! Angels escape with the heat Waking me with the brush of their wings As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank And leans on the horn Lights flashing Rude rumbling under right tires Tantrum of snow In the draft of mass and velocity …and the angels? They’ve chosen another good one! They must’ve liked the 80’s Their wings slapping the windshield madly   Their hands steady the wheel
0
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
elizabeth-balise
Angel's Jukebox
Route 84 would not lend me the light of a star last night Radio blazing at 75 mph nonsense noise to chew gum by Crackling political commentary Static of distance and thick clouds Invisible mountains blocking Memories seeping through the cracks coating the music in a film I rub my eyes watch myself punch alert buttons But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight Roll down the window Watch the heat escape Summer again I am building a castle of ancient stones pulverized by relentless tides Dragged across maps by mastodons and mammoth glaciers The scouring hiss the ocean sighs Time has lulled these smoothly rolling them in the softest hands of sand and gels of life’s comings and goings tenderly tumbling in the millionth moonrise— Time deposits them here wet and glistening For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather Shoulders sun-burnt barely say one week only, one week of the fifty two “It’s the time of the season…” and daddies on the beach are watching…. She has chosen yet another stone And the castle continues— in oblivion to all but her legend…      The queen will be safe here      from the rabble      The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her      Among these lofty cliffs      Between the raging circuit of the tide      Here winds forbid the vengeful mob      Here lovers learn      the debt of love’s bad timing      “Drink ye all of it!”      --the potion that assigns our sorrow….      She will not sleep—      while I chew this gum--  GUM? Roll down the window! Angels escape with the heat Waking me with the brush of their wings As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank And leans on the horn Lights flashing Rude rumbling under right tires Tantrum of snow In the draft of mass and velocity …and the angels? They’ve chosen another good one! They must’ve liked the 80’s Their wings slapping the windshield madly   Their hands steady the wheel
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63
Bored. Of people, Of things. Bored. Of commitment, Of flings. Bored. Of goings, Of comings. Bored. Of smiles, Of laughter. Bored Of crying, Of sadness. Bored. Of anger, Of madness. Bored of everything because Nothing that exists is just Quite interesting enough, Not on the ground or up above, To secure attention in it's clutch For longer than a portion of A second.
0
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
QSaint
Something Bored This Way Comes
Bored. Of people, Of things. Bored. Of commitment, Of flings. Bored. Of goings, Of comings. Bored. Of smiles, Of laughter. Bored Of crying, Of sadness. Bored. Of anger, Of madness. Bored of everything because Nothing that exists is just Quite interesting enough, Not on the ground or up above, To secure attention in it's clutch For longer than a portion of A second.
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25
the bus poets we are the modern day chimney sweeps, the ***** black faced coal miners of the city, digging up its grit, toasted with its spit, the gone and forgotten elevator operators, the anonymous substitutable, still yet glimpsed occasionally, grunts of urbanity provoking a surprised whaddya know! once like the bison and the buffalo, we were thousands, word workers roaming the cities, the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds across the land of the brave, free in ways the founders wanted us to be us, the stubs and stuff, harder working poor and lower cases we were the bus poets, sitting always in the back of the bus, where the engines growls loudest, seated in the - the most overheated in winter time, so much so we nearly disrobed, and then come the summer, we were blasted with a joking hot reverie from the vents, but vent, no, we did not! no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard, passion overheated by currents within and without, recording and ordering the snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers, into poem swatches; the goings on passing by, the overheard histories, glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved, inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook, for all eternity what the eyes sighed and saw books ever passed onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket, attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys with our names writ indelible with the magic of black markers if you stumble upon a breathing scripter, let them be, just observe, as they, you, these movers and bus shakers, as they, observe you tell your children, you knew one in your youth, then take them to the attic retrieve your mother's and father's, teach your children how to read, how to see, the ways of their forefathers, the forsaken, the bus poets.
0
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 7:53 AM UTC
bus-poet-stop
The Bus Poets
the bus poets we are the modern day chimney sweeps, the ***** black faced coal miners of the city, digging up its grit, toasted with its spit, the gone and forgotten elevator operators, the anonymous substitutable, still yet glimpsed occasionally, grunts of urbanity provoking a surprised whaddya know! once like the bison and the buffalo, we were thousands, word workers roaming the cities, the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds across the land of the brave, free in ways the founders wanted us to be us, the stubs and stuff, harder working poor and lower cases we were the bus poets, sitting always in the back of the bus, where the engines growls loudest, seated in the - the most overheated in winter time, so much so we nearly disrobed, and then come the summer, we were blasted with a joking hot reverie from the vents, but vent, no, we did not! no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard, passion overheated by currents within and without, recording and ordering the snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers, into poem swatches; the goings on passing by, the overheard histories, glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved, inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook, for all eternity what the eyes sighed and saw books ever passed onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket, attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys with our names writ indelible with the magic of black markers if you stumble upon a breathing scripter, let them be, just observe, as they, you, these movers and bus shakers, as they, observe you tell your children, you knew one in your youth, then take them to the attic retrieve your mother's and father's, teach your children how to read, how to see, the ways of their forefathers, the forsaken, the bus poets.
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59
On days, when time is going too fast, I can't catch up, and there're things i can't get past, I'd pull a chair at the verandah....just sit there To witness, the gentler goings on in life... See, how...why  all plants face towards the sun, On a dimly lit corner, watch a spider patiently spin its web, Underneath the gravel and green grass, somehow, The earthworm, painstakingly, bravely emerges, Finds its way out of the soil...to remind us, "...soil is healthy....it's time to plant!" ::::: I feel, the beetle knows me, as it inches on, Carrying its own body, crawling down the pine tree, I won't ever grasp it, nor tie a string on its body To control its range of movement, As we do to tethered beasts of burden... ::::: While sitting there, i decide: by all means, Towards the flower *** i  lean Take time to smell a rose, feel its rough leaf Not just a quick touch and sniff But hold its thorny body, without daring to blink While deep within, i'd let its fragrance sink ::::: Some early evenings When the cicadas' music are echoing And the moths have started flying Circling round the light at the ceiling, I am warned...soon, it will be raining And.....when it starts to rain, i keep listening Til i'm soothed by the sound of rain...falling, From sky to treetops.....flowing...landing Next to the leaves......cascading down To the concrete ground Spreading quickly, far and deep...and as fate, As nature would have it....the soil, without fail, waits... ::::: Long time ago, we were small, Curious and brave, we tasted glory, and all, Armed with a child's innocence And an insatiable hunger for learning... Our eyes, our minds dilated, Our brains were like sponge... Like the soil.....we absorbed All, that we discovered... ::::: Sally Copyright December 1, 2016 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
0
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 3:28 PM UTC
sally-a-bayan
DISCOVERIES
On days, when time is going too fast, I can't catch up, and there're things i can't get past, I'd pull a chair at the verandah....just sit there To witness, the gentler goings on in life... See, how...why  all plants face towards the sun, On a dimly lit corner, watch a spider patiently spin its web, Underneath the gravel and green grass, somehow, The earthworm, painstakingly, bravely emerges, Finds its way out of the soil...to remind us, "...soil is healthy....it's time to plant!" ::::: I feel, the beetle knows me, as it inches on, Carrying its own body, crawling down the pine tree, I won't ever grasp it, nor tie a string on its body To control its range of movement, As we do to tethered beasts of burden... ::::: While sitting there, i decide: by all means, Towards the flower *** i  lean Take time to smell a rose, feel its rough leaf Not just a quick touch and sniff But hold its thorny body, without daring to blink While deep within, i'd let its fragrance sink ::::: Some early evenings When the cicadas' music are echoing And the moths have started flying Circling round the light at the ceiling, I am warned...soon, it will be raining And.....when it starts to rain, i keep listening Til i'm soothed by the sound of rain...falling, From sky to treetops.....flowing...landing Next to the leaves......cascading down To the concrete ground Spreading quickly, far and deep...and as fate, As nature would have it....the soil, without fail, waits... ::::: Long time ago, we were small, Curious and brave, we tasted glory, and all, Armed with a child's innocence And an insatiable hunger for learning... Our eyes, our minds dilated, Our brains were like sponge... Like the soil.....we absorbed All, that we discovered... ::::: Sally Copyright December 1, 2016 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
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49
crazy idea, silly notion, then again, come back, circle around, why not, you ask yourself now prior to posting hereon, every word with extra care reviewed sharing, checking in with my beloveds, here, those gone/disappeared telling myself telling anyone, talking to you letting you know my grace, your grace, one and the same, my face, your face, my child, my son know you're checking in, checking out, the comings, the goings, knowing full and well, I see you, my face, your face everywhere and everyday our conversation never ending, look for me here, at the intersection of memory and what's up, you see my messages, responding in a thousand different ways, our dialogue unending, formally organized Face to Facebook, your face, my Facebook my child, my son
0
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 6:34 AM UTC
smoke-scribe
Checking Facebook From Heaven
crazy idea, silly notion, then again, come back, circle around, why not, you ask yourself now prior to posting hereon, every word with extra care reviewed sharing, checking in with my beloveds, here, those gone/disappeared telling myself telling anyone, talking to you letting you know my grace, your grace, one and the same, my face, your face, my child, my son know you're checking in, checking out, the comings, the goings, knowing full and well, I see you, my face, your face everywhere and everyday our conversation never ending, look for me here, at the intersection of memory and what's up, you see my messages, responding in a thousand different ways, our dialogue unending, formally organized Face to Facebook, your face, my Facebook my child, my son
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38
Time is measured By machines, stars, Dials, seasons And all sorts Of unconscious, Impersonal equations. When we measure Time by the comings and goings Of people, Then it becomes personal.
0
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
francie-lynch
How We Measure Time
Time is measured By machines, stars, Dials, seasons And all sorts Of unconscious, Impersonal equations. When we measure Time by the comings and goings Of people, Then it becomes personal.
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10
ponces! nancies! veritable egrets of men! people pleasing anti-charismatic animals philistines, every one of them, everyone else a curse upon their forebears and a curse upon their goings-on terrible business, that the world should be filled with boundary pushing eccentrics, that is progress! a plague upon normalcy, a plague upon stagnancy uninteresting, dying off, done ugh! greatness can not be expected of all but at least an attempt should be made how else will we overcome, will we build our utopia? what use is MY struggle when others are defeated in making a move past the remote television is for swine rots your brain and morals I've swell morals, just look at them my morals reach to the moon my morals are so swell I should run the country my morals aren't two millenia old scriptures written by the seers of goat-tenders my morals are modern, they are sleek and well dictated, they represent the future my morals defy the past, my morals create new paradigms why, you could say my morals defy all of traditionalism and a curse upon tradition! who ever learned from the past history is rife with naught but sufferance forwards is the only direction forwards is revealed only to me my ideals aglow with the lumine of the future they are entrenched in idealism me and mine, we are ideal
0
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
machina-miller
XIII
ponces! nancies! veritable egrets of men! people pleasing anti-charismatic animals philistines, every one of them, everyone else a curse upon their forebears and a curse upon their goings-on terrible business, that the world should be filled with boundary pushing eccentrics, that is progress! a plague upon normalcy, a plague upon stagnancy uninteresting, dying off, done ugh! greatness can not be expected of all but at least an attempt should be made how else will we overcome, will we build our utopia? what use is MY struggle when others are defeated in making a move past the remote television is for swine rots your brain and morals I've swell morals, just look at them my morals reach to the moon my morals are so swell I should run the country my morals aren't two millenia old scriptures written by the seers of goat-tenders my morals are modern, they are sleek and well dictated, they represent the future my morals defy the past, my morals create new paradigms why, you could say my morals defy all of traditionalism and a curse upon tradition! who ever learned from the past history is rife with naught but sufferance forwards is the only direction forwards is revealed only to me my ideals aglow with the lumine of the future they are entrenched in idealism me and mine, we are ideal
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30
One Son of 'god' Kills another Son of "god" and the bombs explode in the 'side of the bog'. Let me tell you brothers I can feel it in my groin there are strange goings on in Old Ardoyne. Were ringing in freedom sings the Fighting man. Mr Politician gonna put you in a Can. Mr soldier boy you better go to bed. Wake up in the morning with a hole in your head.
0
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 3:43 AM UTC
mannley-collins
One Son of "god"
One Son of 'god' Kills another Son of "god" and the bombs explode in the 'side of the bog'. Let me tell you brothers I can feel it in my groin there are strange goings on in Old Ardoyne. Were ringing in freedom sings the Fighting man. Mr Politician gonna put you in a Can. Mr soldier boy you better go to bed. Wake up in the morning with a hole in your head.
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10
hey, hi, hello —this is your life, the view is vaguely familiar out of the passenger seat window, two years of autopilot isn't generally recommended— the mind can time travel or so it thinks unannounced comings and goings, quiet reintroductions occur daily as to alarm no one of your departure
0
May 3, 2021
May 3, 2021 at 12:44 PM UTC
eva-encarnacion
(re)introduction
hey, hi, hello —this is your life, the view is vaguely familiar out of the passenger seat window, two years of autopilot isn't generally recommended— the mind can time travel or so it thinks unannounced comings and goings, quiet reintroductions occur daily as to alarm no one of your departure
Continue reading...
10
i want to feel the rush, the tingly fireworks under my skin, the buzzing sparks of awakeness. i want to feel the bubble burst in my chest. i want to dance. i want to ride the music like a rollercoaster, i want the thrill of the next drop, the next wave of euphoria pulsating through my veins like electric current conducted by all the goings-on around me i want your energy and my energy mixing together in the air around us like a glittery galaxy milky-way aura, a sanctuary of our own vibrations, a place where our hearts are huge and our egos small. a place of peace, of love, of unity, and respect, of higher elevations and acceptance for all. can't we just do drugs?
0
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 6:30 AM UTC
CweetaCwumble
can't we just do drugs?
i want to feel the rush, the tingly fireworks under my skin, the buzzing sparks of awakeness. i want to feel the bubble burst in my chest. i want to dance. i want to ride the music like a rollercoaster, i want the thrill of the next drop, the next wave of euphoria pulsating through my veins like electric current conducted by all the goings-on around me i want your energy and my energy mixing together in the air around us like a glittery galaxy milky-way aura, a sanctuary of our own vibrations, a place where our hearts are huge and our egos small. a place of peace, of love, of unity, and respect, of higher elevations and acceptance for all. can't we just do drugs?
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22
High on the mountain, overlooking the valley, the valley where I was born, is a wooden bench. Standing to attention are the bottom of the deep V are houses, all the same, all in a row. From the bench the village can be watched It's comings and goings, the neighbours gossiping talking about nothing and everything. Everyone is there down below, John the butcher, Dai the milk, Mair the bread, Oliver's shop, where anything and everything was for sale. A picturesque Welsh valley, where everyone is actually Psychotic, and where you'll never leave except in a coffin feet first. Those of us that get out, stay out. Old feuds still burn, families not talking, not remembering how it started. Chocolate box prettiness masks the tension, the hate, the jealousies, the negativity held in the ***** of the valley. How green was my valley? It wasn't green, it's colour was red, like a hell fire. Oh, the trees were green, the mountain was glorious but that valley was poison.
0
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
Camellia-japonica
Mountain bench
High on the mountain, overlooking the valley, the valley where I was born, is a wooden bench. Standing to attention are the bottom of the deep V are houses, all the same, all in a row. From the bench the village can be watched It's comings and goings, the neighbours gossiping talking about nothing and everything. Everyone is there down below, John the butcher, Dai the milk, Mair the bread, Oliver's shop, where anything and everything was for sale. A picturesque Welsh valley, where everyone is actually Psychotic, and where you'll never leave except in a coffin feet first. Those of us that get out, stay out. Old feuds still burn, families not talking, not remembering how it started. Chocolate box prettiness masks the tension, the hate, the jealousies, the negativity held in the ***** of the valley. How green was my valley? It wasn't green, it's colour was red, like a hell fire. Oh, the trees were green, the mountain was glorious but that valley was poison.
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22
During my second trimester I felt like getting some fresh air. I went out cycling through town in the warm sunny day. Observing the comings and goings of people all around. The flower cart on the corner, lent a lovely lilac scent to the air. The street preacher was shouting out his testimonials, trying to recruit believers to his cause. Further on as my pedaling took me, I saw a group of boys. They were pantomiming their favorite rockstars. Strumming the air for all they were worth and Jamming to the silent music in their heads. Down the block past the Bakery, smelling of cinnamon buns, was the museum.  My favorite place to stroll on a quiet day. The gregarious doorman always wished me "A fine  day, Madam!", as he ushered me into the foyer. He always wore that silly hat that makes me smile.   And, of course, he kept an eye on my red bicycle by the door. Making my way through the corridors, observing the sculptures, paintings and artifacts. Wondering at the archaeologists dinosaur finds, mounted above and behind the glass. Finally, on to see Pandora and her ill-fated decision to open the box.   Letting forth into the world all manner of toxicity.  And then, again, opening the box she set Hope free so we could cope in this danger-laden world.   Ending my museum tour, I contemplated my coming child and what he would find to make him cry or hope or love in this world, as I slowly pedaled through the spring infused day.
0
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
judy-ponceby
A Bicycle Journey
During my second trimester I felt like getting some fresh air. I went out cycling through town in the warm sunny day. Observing the comings and goings of people all around. The flower cart on the corner, lent a lovely lilac scent to the air. The street preacher was shouting out his testimonials, trying to recruit believers to his cause. Further on as my pedaling took me, I saw a group of boys. They were pantomiming their favorite rockstars. Strumming the air for all they were worth and Jamming to the silent music in their heads. Down the block past the Bakery, smelling of cinnamon buns, was the museum.  My favorite place to stroll on a quiet day. The gregarious doorman always wished me "A fine  day, Madam!", as he ushered me into the foyer. He always wore that silly hat that makes me smile.   And, of course, he kept an eye on my red bicycle by the door. Making my way through the corridors, observing the sculptures, paintings and artifacts. Wondering at the archaeologists dinosaur finds, mounted above and behind the glass. Finally, on to see Pandora and her ill-fated decision to open the box.   Letting forth into the world all manner of toxicity.  And then, again, opening the box she set Hope free so we could cope in this danger-laden world.   Ending my museum tour, I contemplated my coming child and what he would find to make him cry or hope or love in this world, as I slowly pedaled through the spring infused day.
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23
I walked past my pantry Late one Friday night To the sounds of what appeared to be The goings on of a party inside I grabbed a hold the latches Swung wide open the door With absolutely no earthly idea Of what was soon in store Colorful lights were flashing Somewhere in the back I moved aside the ketchup and mayo To see where it was at I took out the pickles and saltine's So I could better see What all the commotion was inside Of my food pantry That's when I saw the flashing lights Inside the jar of Nutella I picked it up right away Me being a some what curious fella As I held it at eye level It vibrated in my hands In what felt like a driving rhythm From a 70's Disco band Can't say I wasn't nervous As I loosened up the lid No telling what was going on inside What dangers lay ahead With both hands slightly shaking I removed the rounded top There was a party in the making And it was going on non stop The Nutella had it's boogie on Or if you prefer, it's groove Whatever you wish to call it A party was the mood There was a strobe light and confetti Even a tiny Disco ball As I gazed over the edge of the jar I saw banners wall to wall I guess you could say Nutella Is quite the party treat That may cost you at the grocery store But once home the cover charge is free
0
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
mike-hauser
~Nutella~
I walked past my pantry Late one Friday night To the sounds of what appeared to be The goings on of a party inside I grabbed a hold the latches Swung wide open the door With absolutely no earthly idea Of what was soon in store Colorful lights were flashing Somewhere in the back I moved aside the ketchup and mayo To see where it was at I took out the pickles and saltine's So I could better see What all the commotion was inside Of my food pantry That's when I saw the flashing lights Inside the jar of Nutella I picked it up right away Me being a some what curious fella As I held it at eye level It vibrated in my hands In what felt like a driving rhythm From a 70's Disco band Can't say I wasn't nervous As I loosened up the lid No telling what was going on inside What dangers lay ahead With both hands slightly shaking I removed the rounded top There was a party in the making And it was going on non stop The Nutella had it's boogie on Or if you prefer, it's groove Whatever you wish to call it A party was the mood There was a strobe light and confetti Even a tiny Disco ball As I gazed over the edge of the jar I saw banners wall to wall I guess you could say Nutella Is quite the party treat That may cost you at the grocery store But once home the cover charge is free
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44
the doctor cautioned me… no rough S?x my boy, your coeur très ancien, ain’t up to the task, in fact, i urge you to forgo the goings on you love to write about, leave them words on the page, six to eight inches (!)  from the tippy part of your…nose; for distance makes the heart grow fonder, life longer, when you ticker gets that ‘lost that loving feeling’, keep it lost for now, cause I no longer make home visitations and cancelled, I did, the refills on your ****** scrip, keep your loving confined to the twenty six alpa-bets, so you grow old, well, alive, cursing my name repeatedly with a strong God **** and I’m sure He’ll be listening, cause I know He appreciates a **** good poem!
0
Jul 20, 2023
Jul 20, 2023 at 8:48 AM UTC
ogdiddynash
the doctor cautioned me...
the doctor cautioned me… no rough S?x my boy, your coeur très ancien, ain’t up to the task, in fact, i urge you to forgo the goings on you love to write about, leave them words on the page, six to eight inches (!)  from the tippy part of your…nose; for distance makes the heart grow fonder, life longer, when you ticker gets that ‘lost that loving feeling’, keep it lost for now, cause I no longer make home visitations and cancelled, I did, the refills on your ****** scrip, keep your loving confined to the twenty six alpa-bets, so you grow old, well, alive, cursing my name repeatedly with a strong God **** and I’m sure He’ll be listening, cause I know He appreciates a **** good poem!
Continue reading...
14
14th Feb 2014 They are all around us,  within, without, above, behind and before us; Fanning the flames of the famous, the wealthy and fortunate with secret agendas and infamous fame of their own. I throw a stone send it crashing through houses of glass; I see their comings and goings in the Grove of Bohemia; drinkers and liars; role-playing fraternity fools. There are rules. It takes more than just peeing at trees to be properly manly; secrecy more than life is at stake when the fodder is human, throw off your cares to the punitive furnace of hate. Such ill-fate that begets our world leaders, hatched out of a tangible darkness; parasitic, calamitous, venomous world-gobbling evil Mammon, devourer of souls, will preside at the feast. And the Beast, Fourth Beast of Daniel, squats at the head of the table, fabled for pitiless torture of souls in transgression, slavers and gloats over innocence lost and despoiled.
0
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
sara-l-russell
Illuminati Diabolus
14th Feb 2014 They are all around us,  within, without, above, behind and before us; Fanning the flames of the famous, the wealthy and fortunate with secret agendas and infamous fame of their own. I throw a stone send it crashing through houses of glass; I see their comings and goings in the Grove of Bohemia; drinkers and liars; role-playing fraternity fools. There are rules. It takes more than just peeing at trees to be properly manly; secrecy more than life is at stake when the fodder is human, throw off your cares to the punitive furnace of hate. Such ill-fate that begets our world leaders, hatched out of a tangible darkness; parasitic, calamitous, venomous world-gobbling evil Mammon, devourer of souls, will preside at the feast. And the Beast, Fourth Beast of Daniel, squats at the head of the table, fabled for pitiless torture of souls in transgression, slavers and gloats over innocence lost and despoiled.
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21
humans born a mess, messengers carrying blank notepads, sheet music, brought from within to the without a baby-sized handful of historical residues retained, garnered from all too brief a prelim existence, arriving possessing hints of what may be most emerging crying, crying over loss of the womb security, for seers all, all see unaccountable futures clouded by an inevitable chance of rain and death all of us, no one excepted, covered for months in **** stained fluids , a holy, ***** combination of amniotic nourishment, and our own waste a hint of what is to come? human then spends the rest of life cleaning up after himself, mostly with tasks of addition, punctuating by the occasional cleansing of elimination subtraction making room for the next love, labored birthing of a baby poem, from your womb, midwifed, haunting ghosts of three note tunes, begging for a set of lyrics and a great chorus everybody can sing, a completion competition going along, all along, to the goings on, all our routes preternatural crooked, lived a life of pretense, a straightened out life, which is the nuanced, connected summary of our components which are all curves, dots on a line and the composition source, the secret chords employed, tech installed just prior to birth, effacing glorious sadness, glorious joy, the human building blocks, with the certainty that *everybody knows, that's how it goes everybody knows,* only fools believe, you'll live forever but live at least long enough to sing and write of a man cleaning up his own life's messes, and perchance, after our absence, leaving the world better for it
0
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
For Leonard: A Man, Cleaning Up After Himself
humans born a mess, messengers carrying blank notepads, sheet music, brought from within to the without a baby-sized handful of historical residues retained, garnered from all too brief a prelim existence, arriving possessing hints of what may be most emerging crying, crying over loss of the womb security, for seers all, all see unaccountable futures clouded by an inevitable chance of rain and death all of us, no one excepted, covered for months in **** stained fluids , a holy, ***** combination of amniotic nourishment, and our own waste a hint of what is to come? human then spends the rest of life cleaning up after himself, mostly with tasks of addition, punctuating by the occasional cleansing of elimination subtraction making room for the next love, labored birthing of a baby poem, from your womb, midwifed, haunting ghosts of three note tunes, begging for a set of lyrics and a great chorus everybody can sing, a completion competition going along, all along, to the goings on, all our routes preternatural crooked, lived a life of pretense, a straightened out life, which is the nuanced, connected summary of our components which are all curves, dots on a line and the composition source, the secret chords employed, tech installed just prior to birth, effacing glorious sadness, glorious joy, the human building blocks, with the certainty that *everybody knows, that's how it goes everybody knows,* only fools believe, you'll live forever but live at least long enough to sing and write of a man cleaning up his own life's messes, and perchance, after our absence, leaving the world better for it
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49
Where do I begin? I'm lost. So much is personal you see. I had apps and apps full of feelings, moods, poems, my stories and goings on saved onto my device. Now these apps suddenly disappeared, so I downloaded them only to discover they won't reappear! I don't understand, I can't comprehend. I didn't memorize all of those months in some and years in others to recall so I can't just rewrite. Sure instead I could've used paper & pen & locked them away from peering eyes elsewhere but guess what notebooks on top of of notebooks from all my years also to did the act of a disappear. Yes, burned in my house fire with most of my prized possessions that were photos of some but the photos that meant the most were the photos of a man that loved me most and loved me more than any other could, my dad. My dad the man that died & left me to a cruel family that could only hate... only hate me that is. I was so little when he died and I never understood why I wasn't allowed to take that ride to death... with him. Anyone reading this by chance, do you know how I can get the content in those apps back? If I write the things I wrote there esp of recent events then you'd think it's an improper way to vent not being in poetic form and such. It's pretty weird, different and personal too, but my wounds are deep and writing them gave some relief. Now they've disappeared. No poetry here, just asking for help that'd be much appreciated. Thanks and blessings.
0
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 12:29 AM UTC
SacredInkedBlood
Not exactly a poem, just my insanity
Where do I begin? I'm lost. So much is personal you see. I had apps and apps full of feelings, moods, poems, my stories and goings on saved onto my device. Now these apps suddenly disappeared, so I downloaded them only to discover they won't reappear! I don't understand, I can't comprehend. I didn't memorize all of those months in some and years in others to recall so I can't just rewrite. Sure instead I could've used paper & pen & locked them away from peering eyes elsewhere but guess what notebooks on top of of notebooks from all my years also to did the act of a disappear. Yes, burned in my house fire with most of my prized possessions that were photos of some but the photos that meant the most were the photos of a man that loved me most and loved me more than any other could, my dad. My dad the man that died & left me to a cruel family that could only hate... only hate me that is. I was so little when he died and I never understood why I wasn't allowed to take that ride to death... with him. Anyone reading this by chance, do you know how I can get the content in those apps back? If I write the things I wrote there esp of recent events then you'd think it's an improper way to vent not being in poetic form and such. It's pretty weird, different and personal too, but my wounds are deep and writing them gave some relief. Now they've disappeared. No poetry here, just asking for help that'd be much appreciated. Thanks and blessings.
Continue reading...
2
My home is found not in the affairs of international companies, or the goings-on of diplomatic countries, But, in the confines of my soul, and the reaches of my actions. I do not seek solace in material possessions, or satisfaction from my wealth But, in the depths of my imagination, and the thoughts I allow myself to conceive. We can not tolerate injustice, or those who terrorize our populace, Or, we too shall become unjust, and fall prey to their greed. Until we learn to stand together, and learn to respect one another, The beautiful ideas we create will only fail, and our children will only know hate. You must learn to love your brother, and value your sister Or we will continue to reap the disasters we’ve sown, and we will never know a world less tragic than this. The world won’t change until you have found the internal motivation to change yourself. How much is enough? How far is too far? What will it take to spark the revolution?
0
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 2:15 PM UTC
dahlia
How far is too far?
My home is found not in the affairs of international companies, or the goings-on of diplomatic countries, But, in the confines of my soul, and the reaches of my actions. I do not seek solace in material possessions, or satisfaction from my wealth But, in the depths of my imagination, and the thoughts I allow myself to conceive. We can not tolerate injustice, or those who terrorize our populace, Or, we too shall become unjust, and fall prey to their greed. Until we learn to stand together, and learn to respect one another, The beautiful ideas we create will only fail, and our children will only know hate. You must learn to love your brother, and value your sister Or we will continue to reap the disasters we’ve sown, and we will never know a world less tragic than this. The world won’t change until you have found the internal motivation to change yourself. How much is enough? How far is too far? What will it take to spark the revolution?
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14
America needs a poor, ***** mother for president. We need a Muslim for vice president and a feminist to lead the army. America needs a homeless man with no health insurance and AIDS to allocate food stamps, gays to run the senate, and lesbians to run the house. America needs a president who’s been shot at, ***** and ****** on his whole life. A person who has held their dying child, losing a battle that cancer has already won, buried up to the knees hospital bills. America should be run by a person that wakes up every morning with no heat or air conditioner. Who has fought in a war, shakes in the night, and lives on minimum wage. Someone who takes the bus,  the subway, and owns one pair of sneakers, There is no time or money for anything else. We need an inner city teacher for president. Someone who spends 4 hours on Sundays preaching for president, Just to go home and put on his wife's dress. America needs a straight talker and a street walker to head the FBI. An illegal for the CIA, And a transgender for the DOJ. But that will never happen. What I have realized is that there is no longer a distinction between what is right, and what is real. Real, is a leader is one that has been to the free clinic, waited in line at the DMV, and buys clothes from Walmart. Real, is a president that is no stranger to violence. A vice president who has been to county. That has been fed jail food, strip searched, and wasted years that they will never get back. We, the people do not fly around in private jets, Puffing on Cuban cigars. We, the people do not solely consist of old, rich men, Making decisions for young, poor women. Telling us what we can and can’t do. Who we can and can’t love. Widening the gap between the haves and haves nots.   We the people know hard work, We know blood, We know sweat, We know tears, But what we do not know, Is how to engage ourselves in the goings on in the world around us. Take responsibility, hold your own, and question everything.
0
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
Floaton94
We the Sheeple
America needs a poor, ***** mother for president. We need a Muslim for vice president and a feminist to lead the army. America needs a homeless man with no health insurance and AIDS to allocate food stamps, gays to run the senate, and lesbians to run the house. America needs a president who’s been shot at, ***** and ****** on his whole life. A person who has held their dying child, losing a battle that cancer has already won, buried up to the knees hospital bills. America should be run by a person that wakes up every morning with no heat or air conditioner. Who has fought in a war, shakes in the night, and lives on minimum wage. Someone who takes the bus,  the subway, and owns one pair of sneakers, There is no time or money for anything else. We need an inner city teacher for president. Someone who spends 4 hours on Sundays preaching for president, Just to go home and put on his wife's dress. America needs a straight talker and a street walker to head the FBI. An illegal for the CIA, And a transgender for the DOJ. But that will never happen. What I have realized is that there is no longer a distinction between what is right, and what is real. Real, is a leader is one that has been to the free clinic, waited in line at the DMV, and buys clothes from Walmart. Real, is a president that is no stranger to violence. A vice president who has been to county. That has been fed jail food, strip searched, and wasted years that they will never get back. We, the people do not fly around in private jets, Puffing on Cuban cigars. We, the people do not solely consist of old, rich men, Making decisions for young, poor women. Telling us what we can and can’t do. Who we can and can’t love. Widening the gap between the haves and haves nots.   We the people know hard work, We know blood, We know sweat, We know tears, But what we do not know, Is how to engage ourselves in the goings on in the world around us. Take responsibility, hold your own, and question everything.
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48
Off lone island bay, Outlander waves are praying, Curly in their white caps. Cars and lorries are creeping Into a village still sleeping, Coming in from nowhere. Stones have things to voice, There are stars of rock fish Deep in bays with the moon. Beyond night dream are lochs, Darks and colds of longings, Mountains old as confusion. Birds chime their mouth musics, Churlishly sent over moorlands, All questions ring unanswered. On broke beaches are notions Of days strung to faraways And sands bleached ancestral. Off lone island bay, Simple comings, waves, goings, After sly moon, sun has its say.
0
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
rainey-birthwright
Lone Island
Off lone island bay, Outlander waves are praying, Curly in their white caps. Cars and lorries are creeping Into a village still sleeping, Coming in from nowhere. Stones have things to voice, There are stars of rock fish Deep in bays with the moon. Beyond night dream are lochs, Darks and colds of longings, Mountains old as confusion. Birds chime their mouth musics, Churlishly sent over moorlands, All questions ring unanswered. On broke beaches are notions Of days strung to faraways And sands bleached ancestral. Off lone island bay, Simple comings, waves, goings, After sly moon, sun has its say.
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21
Through tight slits in wooden slats I catch the three-legged wind chime Which hangs by a thread from An overhung roof, by the gutter. The owl - whom keeps watch, Double sided, double gazing At the goings on in the garden and Mirrored happenings on the wall - Sits quietly at the centre of his universe With knotted thoughts so intertwined For years he has neglected Or perhaps forgotten how to Play the jingle resting on the breeze. The legs which dangle from the Moon with noisy knees have Lost their tone or dulled to make Their silent stand against my wanting ears - A fitting punishment. The only steps to stifle my regret are Toward the watching eyes to Shake the clapper; Summoning a tempest to end an age Of silence from the much too long Forsaken keeper of the chime.
0
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
leigh321f
The Silent Treatment
Through tight slits in wooden slats I catch the three-legged wind chime Which hangs by a thread from An overhung roof, by the gutter. The owl - whom keeps watch, Double sided, double gazing At the goings on in the garden and Mirrored happenings on the wall - Sits quietly at the centre of his universe With knotted thoughts so intertwined For years he has neglected Or perhaps forgotten how to Play the jingle resting on the breeze. The legs which dangle from the Moon with noisy knees have Lost their tone or dulled to make Their silent stand against my wanting ears - A fitting punishment. The only steps to stifle my regret are Toward the watching eyes to Shake the clapper; Summoning a tempest to end an age Of silence from the much too long Forsaken keeper of the chime.
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24
Imagine a spherical shield, all sensual swirls of body art and gleaming currents of silent comings and goings. Her path is radiant with skeins of silver slime. She’s discreetly **** inside her shell, snuggling in mystical moisture. A willing captive, She’s self-sufficient, timid yet eager to explore, free to withdraw at any given moment. Admire the courage of her smallness, the generosity of her gifts to the beauty of our skin, our gastronomic delight. She does not fear mortality’s ultimate crush. She lives and dies in the joy of giving her soft, sweet syrup back to the earth.
0
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 5:13 AM UTC
lutindog
Ode to a Snail
Imagine a spherical shield, all sensual swirls of body art and gleaming currents of silent comings and goings. Her path is radiant with skeins of silver slime. She’s discreetly **** inside her shell, snuggling in mystical moisture. A willing captive, She’s self-sufficient, timid yet eager to explore, free to withdraw at any given moment. Admire the courage of her smallness, the generosity of her gifts to the beauty of our skin, our gastronomic delight. She does not fear mortality’s ultimate crush. She lives and dies in the joy of giving her soft, sweet syrup back to the earth.
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18
White boulders laying side by side on the Mad River incline at low tide. Boulders breathing sliding heaving into the waters currents, Inquisitive black eyed faces with perpetual smiles, Maybe they're just built that way. Babies crying their mother's name, But only the River hears their call until mothers as they usually do return to nourish their off spring too. One day not far away these babies cries go quiet. Sand banks fall into the river the only sound as the tide starts flowing back on in. The ocean one way, The river the other, Converging at the mouth, the two mingle singing to each other, Ocean waves River currents as the tide changes from in to out somehow just like life itself. One day not to far away boulders slide moving into the water without a mommy cry, The Mad River by their side or immersed in the comings and goings of the tides sleeping white boulders side by side, Barking from time to time.
0
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
sjr1000
Seal Life On The Mad River
White boulders laying side by side on the Mad River incline at low tide. Boulders breathing sliding heaving into the waters currents, Inquisitive black eyed faces with perpetual smiles, Maybe they're just built that way. Babies crying their mother's name, But only the River hears their call until mothers as they usually do return to nourish their off spring too. One day not far away these babies cries go quiet. Sand banks fall into the river the only sound as the tide starts flowing back on in. The ocean one way, The river the other, Converging at the mouth, the two mingle singing to each other, Ocean waves River currents as the tide changes from in to out somehow just like life itself. One day not to far away boulders slide moving into the water without a mommy cry, The Mad River by their side or immersed in the comings and goings of the tides sleeping white boulders side by side, Barking from time to time.
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52
O peaceful moon, shining gently o'er the fields, In your soft light I see a tree, a hedge, a glistening pond; And the soft night sounds of rustling reeds and swaying boughs Intermingle with the nightly warfare of a million creatures. But hark! From the new housing estate across the park There comes a rather different sound. Through an open window Comes the healthy thwack of flesh on flesh and muffled shrieks of joy As Isaac and Wendy Bumsenfotze indulge themselves un peu. Isaac's got his gasmask on, and his rubber flippers too And (speaking candidly) looks an unattractive proposition Especially now his skinny chest towers o'er his massive ******** All four mighty manly inches of it from tip to curlies. Lying trussed up on their bed, atop its needed rubber sheeting, Lies Sam, their well-trained patient pedigree crossbred donkey, Upon whose good-natured, hirsute, unsuspecting person Nameless atrocities have often been performed in Eros' name. What are they going to do tonight? I bet you'll never guess. Well, Wendy's strapped her ***** on and intends to use it first On Ikey's waiting well-lubricated back end And then it's Sam's turn and ***** the R.S.P.C.A. And while Sam is getting poked by loving Wendy, Old Ike will not be idle: camera-phone in one hand And mail-order sjambok in the other, he'll record Their motions and lacerate them both simultaneously. Underneath his gasmask, Isaac gets a bit sweaty and excited, And once their party's over all three will doze off: A truly lovely scene. But they will be soon by woken by The morning sun glittering on Wendy's cast-off legirons.
0
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
edna-sweetlove
Donkey Goings On
O peaceful moon, shining gently o'er the fields, In your soft light I see a tree, a hedge, a glistening pond; And the soft night sounds of rustling reeds and swaying boughs Intermingle with the nightly warfare of a million creatures. But hark! From the new housing estate across the park There comes a rather different sound. Through an open window Comes the healthy thwack of flesh on flesh and muffled shrieks of joy As Isaac and Wendy Bumsenfotze indulge themselves un peu. Isaac's got his gasmask on, and his rubber flippers too And (speaking candidly) looks an unattractive proposition Especially now his skinny chest towers o'er his massive ******** All four mighty manly inches of it from tip to curlies. Lying trussed up on their bed, atop its needed rubber sheeting, Lies Sam, their well-trained patient pedigree crossbred donkey, Upon whose good-natured, hirsute, unsuspecting person Nameless atrocities have often been performed in Eros' name. What are they going to do tonight? I bet you'll never guess. Well, Wendy's strapped her ***** on and intends to use it first On Ikey's waiting well-lubricated back end And then it's Sam's turn and ***** the R.S.P.C.A. And while Sam is getting poked by loving Wendy, Old Ike will not be idle: camera-phone in one hand And mail-order sjambok in the other, he'll record Their motions and lacerate them both simultaneously. Underneath his gasmask, Isaac gets a bit sweaty and excited, And once their party's over all three will doze off: A truly lovely scene. But they will be soon by woken by The morning sun glittering on Wendy's cast-off legirons.
Continue reading...
28