Gong poems on Hello Poetry

Megan Sherman Dec 2016

The Sky, discordian, like a Gong
Went shifting subtly by
The miniature Birds flit along
Going gaily through the Sky

Crescendo of the summer
Enchanting the Ear
Satisfyingly complicated
Mysterious and fair

Nandish Malhotra Jan 2018

His Last Fight

As he stepped into the ring,
Everyone his name did sing.
They wanted him to win
The title, for the commoners.
The title in his last fight.

He was out of practice,
His reflexes had slacked.
Gloves, boxers, guard, did him justice
There was something which he lacked.
Lacked in his last fight.

Before he could hear his favorite song,
Followed by the nerve-racking gong.
He had a look around
To catch a familiar sight,
Have a look at her before his last fight.

He checked the stands,
Then glanced around the ropes
And before he had given all hopes
He heard a familiar sound
Right before the first round.
Go hubby go! Punch him left and right!
She screamed with all her might.
Putting a smile on his face,
And then he boxed like an ace.
Winning the title, just for her.
The title in his last fight.

In this poem I have tried to capture the role of a boxer's wife to lift his spirits before the boxing match.

#boxing #love #last #fight #win

Elizabeth Hynes Sep 2014

Gong

He was struck and the noise
Was a gong
Calling me to my senses
He is gone

He fell for me
I fell over
It was lucky
Four leafed clover

In his mind I used to stroll
He never bothered
To share how he felt
Though he shared much

As the ending
I left him
He was sitting alone
Tear streaked

My own tears
Were slow to fall
In his wake
I lost it all

#love #breakup #sanity

Alec Astaire Aug 2024

Silence. The Seventh Gong

“Where is it I must go?”,
I ask my mirror’s reflection
Is there truly something missing,
Or do I miss imperfection?
I’ve yet to wander far enough
To dull my soul’s reverberations

My body, a holy temple fueled by resounding purpose

GONGG…..GONGG…..GONGG…..

Do I truly know my calling,
Or is my longing just a comfort?
If I am grateful for my life,
Should I worry time is too short
To spend any of my days
Without some type of progress to report?

I worry I am drifting asleep. I need to wake up before it’s too late

GONGG…..GONGG…..

What if I gave it up?
I fear it might end really bad
Would the universe reject me
And crumble everything I had,
Make sure that I was forced
To fulfill some sort of soul contract?

If I knew which one was my opponent, I could be prepared to fight

GONGG…..

I wonder, will I ever make it?
Is there even an “it” to make?
If there is something I desire,
Then is it something I will create?
Do I focus on my blessings
Or on a treasure that might be fake?

I ask for a sign that I am doing the right thing

…..

Let me know how you interpret the ending. I feel there are multiple interpretations

#gong #purpose #existential #life #deep #question

Joseph Simmons Jun 2013

What is Falun Gong?

A massacre warped becomes justified. A pack of wolves wear the skin of sheep they have killed, as the sheep ran. Swam against the current. Electrocuted, drowned and burnt till they renounce individualism and yell from the rooftop, hanging by their frightened feet, that they were wrong! Then they are sent to a prison to be ***** or killed. A super-power did this because they didn’t like people being themselves and hoping for more. Opposing a regime that wanted no opposition.

Dying foreigners’ swarm wishing that they only had a heart can get one in a week or two. No problem, if no questions are asked.

Those people that only wish to become more than a number become only that which they strive against. A digit in a program. A point on a graph. A blood type can condemn you to death, and have parts of you delivered to those who think kidneys magically sprout out of the ground.

Naivety and gratitude need no backstory in light of their desperation.

Innocence is rewarded and knowledge is condemned.

But, unfortunately this injustice cannot be stopped by signing a petition or shaking a frail man’s hand, so we must ask; is there another way we can mend?

William Butler Yeats

Byzantium

The unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night walkers' song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.

Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miracle than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the star-lit golden bough,
Can like the ***** of Hades crow,
Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud
In glory of changeless metal
Common bird or petal
And all complexities of mire or blood.

At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit
Flames that no ****** feeds, nor steel has lit,
Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,
Where blood-begotten spirits come
And all complexities of fury leave,
Dying into a dance,
An agony of trance,
An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood,
Spirit after Spirit! The smithies break the flood.
The golden smithies of the Emperor!
Marbles of the dancing floor
Break bitter furies of complexity,
Those images that yet
Fresh images beget,
That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.

samasati Feb 2014

pocahontas & mulan

Grandmother Willow said
listen to your heart, you will understand
but when it pounds all I want to do is run

my heart says so many things
one minute it's telling me to climb a tree as high as the branches let me
the next it says hook line and sinker
and when I'm with someone beautiful, it says
nothing, it just
flutters and pitter patters

Mulan was always my favourite because
she had her heart broken and still
She Saved China
all on her own

my heart breaks like twigs and crumbles like dry
stiff leaves
in Autumn
and my heart is also a rubber ball that bounces from
one place to the next
too rapidly,
I forget where I am
and where I just was a moment before I ended up
wherever I ended up

my heart is like ice and sometimes if you are the right temperature,
it will melt for you
my heart is aware of fallacy and sometimes if you try to coax it,
everything I ever felt for you
won't exist anymore

a few months ago I was sitting at the back of
a midnight bus
in my hometown,
with a hippie headband on, accompanied with braids,
a long dress and moccasins of black suede
when a drunk teenager pointed and hollered directly at my face,
"you look like Pocahontas, how many John Smiths love you?"

I don't get angry anymore
I just get tired
my heart goes to sleep for days and wakes up at
the sudden gong of recognition
in eye contact
that lasts longer than just a few seconds;
my heart awakens at sunsets,
when I am sitting in a tree alone
and it awakens each time I successfully skip a stone

I've always thought highly of the two
disney cartoons
and it's not just because they can fire a harpoon
it's something like embodying the female
self-assurance,
strength of the soul,
embracing solitude like wind on a stroll
heart strong from a softening,
heart loved from singing just for singing
heart open like eye contact
that lasts longer than
just a few seconds

JS Clark Jan 2019

The Cosmic Gong

These are lines
Without thought—
I simply choose to be.

I will embrace you,
I will not ignore pain.

I am a human being.
I am no human doing.

I’m found on the mountaintop
Welcoming the sun—

In the valley,
Trudging the over and done.

I take in the present,
Dance with the stimuli.

I vibrate—HUM—
My frequency tuned to
The Music of the Spheres!

I dance into God’s throne room
And absorb the Cosmic Gong!

I touch the face of God,
Relax, and belong.

Steven Hutchison Apr 2012

Stolen Dreams

On April 26th, 372 B.C. Plato was the first man to inflict injury upon his own dreams.
Not the forms casting shadows in his cave, his literal dreams.
At 6:35 a.m. the impish snarl of a water ***** crept into his Utopia of an
all-you-can-eat gyro cart overturned at the corner of his street and roused him
back to consciousness. The ingenious design of his Clepsydra quite obviously complete,
Aristotle came running with the awkward stride of a sleepwalking adolescent
to see what his master had done. When he arrived he saw flying,
two pots of water, an air-compressing submersible chamber and one water ***** reed.
Aristotle quickly collected the shattered pieces and noted
that this broken pottery was more real than time itself.

On September 21st, 712 A.D. a small village just outside the boundaries of
Chang'an, China came dangerously close to taking the life of the palace
astronomer/inventor/sleepyhead. Crowding around the door of Yi Xing, the
townspeople tore their robes and wailed for him to put a stop to the
incessant clanging. Xing, who had apparently overslept and was still
clinging to morsels of fading dreams about his young mistress, stuffed his
face into his pillow, muttering eureka, after first having chucked the
two clay pots, handful of stones and plate-sized gong out the front door,
much to the amusement of the assembly of drooping eyelids and torn pajamas.

In the year 1235 A.D. tortured residents of Baghdad began associating their
daily and nightly times for prayer with the ringing of their eardrums from
uninvited chimes.

In 1493 St. Mark's Clock-tower polluted the once-pure Venetian air with
hourly reminders that we are all yet one hour closer to our inevitable death
and the priests of the day called it humility.

Levi Hutchins of New Hampshire turned to a pine cabinet, brass clock and
mechanical gears in 1787, and for the first time gave himself the ability to
choose when he would hate the morning.

In 1847, French inventor Antoine Redier began making money off of people's
early morning auditory masochism.

Lew Wallace, the morning after completing his masterpiece novel "Ben Hur,"
awoke with a fiendish beeping in his ear and proceeded to invent the paradox
of the snooze button.

In Spring of 1942 the war in Europe raged and all U.S. alarm clock production ceased.

In the Spring of 1943 well-rested factory men, confronted by their foreman
upon arrival at 9:15, erupted the words "my alarm clock is broken,"
forever placing the excuse in the deep pockets of slackers
world-wide.

To all of these respected men of our history
Who have thought with their hands to create
The foundation of a society drowning in Starbucks,
I wish to express my sincerest ingratitude.

I lie awake in bed at night,
Licking the bitter taste of reality from my cheeks,
In the company of Plato, Lew Wallace and Yi Xing,
Wondering what dreams will be stolen from me.

Day 20

SøułSurvivør Jun 2015

gold dust

four letter word challenge*

beat that gong
toll that bell
bent into song
sent to hell

hips have push
sigh over hour
lips live lush
lies gone sour

hand over fist
**** your eyes
cold hard cash
**** your lies

girl into gold
gold into rust
girl, once sold

turn into dust*

soulsurvivor
8/12/2014

Make a poem with
four letter words only
Post on #four-letter-word

Gold Dust Woman
Fleetwood Mac
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YPEGvEttx0w

---

#love #gold #soul #woman #dust #sells #for-money #four-letter-word

Jeremy Betts Feb 2021

~•∆•~ A Population Forsaken ~•∆•~

{Political}

You know exactly who I'm referring to when I say...

They have this habitual political ritual of babbling on
Rambling wrong, your standard God complex politician
Standing in front of a congregation spewin' lies, oozin' corruption through thin skin
Politickin' about a mission we should sht on and skip the Charmin
This is my fck you dissertation, a doctrine based on real time observation
A deep dive into what has essentially become an unhealthy obsession with sin
Holding a position I'm told I have no right to speak on much less be a voice in
But if one life don't matter none, no life matters son
Including your own, don't confuse facts with opinion
Watching your tone would be wise in this situation
Hooked on the slogan defund every police station
Convinced it means let loose the entire prison population
You know, just for fun
Stoke the confusion, skip any and all explanation, no need for a reason
Willfully blind to the sedition, a corporation backed rebellion, it's open season for treason
To quote the law men, "we'll even hold the door for y'all till you're all in"
Then when they're leavin' make sure to welcome them back again
A simple bewildered complexion brings 'em satisfaction
Chaos the reflection of a lagit election
Regardless of the facts within reach, we witnessin' half a population claim fiction
Feel the friction
Destruction is the reaction, falling for a complex distraction
The consumption of our damnation overshadowed by a mutation of this god forsaken nation
How did we wind up in this position? How'd we let this happen?
I reckon we sure weren't just placed in this situation, a fraction of us stumped by long division
It''s by no means an answerless equation but a question we still debate on
Standing upon a soapbox trying to out crazy the competition
What was once neighborly is now seen as the opposition
Someone please just hit the gong so we can move on
Restoration is easier than resurrection so stay strong
Hope has been long gone for so long, maybe to long, a hopeless conclusion drawn
No anti venom for our venomous condition
A symptom raised from conception, taught to the young
We bet on corruption inside a polling station
Ballets a currency printed on different stationery then it's just simple addition
Still waiting on the announcement that we finally won
But that day will never come unless you're higher echelon
Controlled by the elusive free mason, I'm guessin'
Can't know for certain what side they on, influencing our direction from behind a curtain
A mission forgotten, a population forsaken
Praise God as dangerous as hail Satan
That should be a$$ backwards but it ain't wrong, I'm just sayin'
If you were payin' attention you wouldn't need an explanation
Incarceration eludes the criminals behind the walls of that white mansion
Not a single one ever pays for what they've done and that's fuel for frustration
The people scream out objection and beg for a proper ejection of this borderline evil pantheon
But they get to run over and over again every election and instead of serving up a strict ten day eviction
We just turn to digital b*tchin', no real action taken so we're stuck with this dangerous faction
One that holds Rome as its inspiration so you know this nation is collapsin' it's just a matter of when...and if we'll even make it to the end

©2021

#spoken #word #political #rambling #corruption #obsession #confusion #blind #distraction #forsaken

Terry Collett Dec 2013

AN ODD LOT.

Lydia is quiet
going down the *****
by Arrol House
and onto

Rockingham Street
Benedict says nothing
he thinks it best
to let her brood

until she’s ready
to speak
he's seen it
in the films before

where the female
opposite the cowboy
has her moods
or quiet times

and the cowboy
lets her get on with it
while he rides off
into the sunset

to fight the bad guys
or Injuns
or have a shot
of Red Eye

in the bar in the town
watching the dancers
on the makeshift stage
he gives Lydia

a side on gaze
her straight hair
seems unbrushed
her dress is creased

and the cardigan
has a hole
in the elbow
they walk up

towards Draper Road
by the blocks of flats
he says
(hating silence)

the parents
were rowing last night
something to do
with money

or the lack of it
from what
I could gather
through the bedroom door

lying in the dark
seeing the thin line
of light
from the other room

the old man hates
being short
needs dosh
to get

his best suits
and brown shoes
saw something odd
last night

Lydia says suddenly
looking at Benedict
odd? what was odd?
he asks

studying
her thin hands
the nails chewed
my big sister

and her man friend
your sister's always odd
says Benedict
no

more odd
she made me sleep
in the tiny cot bed
which I haven't done

for years as its
too small for me really
but anyway
she made me sleep there

so she and her man friend
could sleep there
he's been turned out
of his digs

as he calls them
and Mum didn't like
the idea but Dad
in his usual drunken state

said O let him stay
a few days
until he gets himself
a place

so there am I
stuck in the cot bed
feet dangling
over the ends

just about room for me
except my backside
gets cold
when I turn over

nothing worse
Benedict says
than a cold backside
well then

Lydia says
after the lights were out
and she thought
I was asleep

I heard this noise
like squashy sound
and I lay there
with my eyes open

looking
at the dark shapes
and hearing
these odd sounds

and the giggles
and snorts and such
Benedict gazes at her
side on

her thin lips
were opening
and closing
like the goldfish

he had which fell
into the sink
out of the fish bowl
and its tiny mouth

was closing
and opening
upon the wet
white surface

then the bed springs
were going gong gong
then silence
as if they were dead

odd
Lydia says
staring
straight ahead

and I never got
to sleep in the end
for ages
what with them

and the cold
on my backside
and the trains
going over

the railway bridge
and the shunting
of coal wagons
so you're tired

Benedict says
that’s why you
were quiet just now
thought I'd done

something wrong
when I first met you
outside your flat
and you came out

with a face
suppose so
she says
and they walk along

Draper Road
to the Penny shop
where he treats her
to a penny pop drink

and 4
fruit salad sweets
and they stand
by the penny

ball game machine
on the wall
and watch some kid
press the buttons

and the ball
goes around
and around
until it disappears

in a slot
and Lydia thinks
to herself
sipping her drink

grown ups
are an odd lot.

A BOY AND GIRL IN LONDON IN 1950S.

Terry O'Leary Mar 2013

Nun in FRiar Small-Bro's Grave... Yard

The midnight clings to dwarfish kings
while robot drones, adorning thrones,
       kneel, bowing to the Old...Guard.
Arrhythmic clocks and wooden box
       grace FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

The diplohacks, like melting wax,
have swept along the clueless throng,
       some dying for a life...guard.
And Nun, alone, has beached their bones
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

Beyond the streams, a raven screams
at loser fish that swarm and swish;
       Nun slowly drains her dreams...jarred.
There are no thanks along the banks
       near FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

While FRiar smiles and prowls the aisles
the hierarch obeys the bark
       from maw that oozes pure...lard.
There's much ado throughout the zoo
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

Well, FRiar’s pets are in a sweat;
he calls the tunes near burning dunes
       and taps his cloven feet...charred.
They roast in rooms, their future tombs,
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

His myrmidons, they drool and fawn
reciting verse near FRiar’s hearse,
       extolling wild the van...guard.
Remote controls abet the trolls
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

With faces straight, in bent debate,
they advertise their empty lies
       to every passing re...****.
Grey zombies groom white flies in bloom
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

With ghouls, unlearned, no stone’s unturned
to burnish blame with Nun’s proud name
       and leave the midnight sky... scarred.
They raise their hats to copy cats
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

While rumours spread amongst the dead,
Nun stays the pace with saving grace,
       and phantoms keep their face...marred.
The maggot digs neath twisted twigs
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

In tempests strong, Nun rings the gong
but fails to rise in vacant eyes -
       he palms a one-eyed trump...card.
Nun sets her sail, to no avail
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

Nun asks him why a bird can’t fly.
His mouth, a rut, replies “tut, tut”,
       with conscience painted white...tarred.
A mushroom mold has taken hold
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

“To fly aloft," he laughed and scoffed
“lay bare your breast! I’ll do the rest,
       I’ll bless you in the church...yard”.
The golden rule's contrived for fools
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

He cast the bait and wouldn't wait -
once more defied, her wings denied,
       the Kingfish is a bass...****.
A 'no' said twice must pay the price
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

When day’s undone, and night’s begun,
Nun stirs a cup and turns face up;
       she's feeling that she’s ill...starred.
’Tis such a crime to waste her prime
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

Nun plans to dine with sparkling wine
but sips instead a bitter red
       served with a crystal glass...shard,
Behind the bog, beneath the fog
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

Well, minstrels fight beyond the night
and demons fete behind the gate,
       while silence chokes the host...bard.
The angel sings with broken wings
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

The webs are spun neath dying sun;
and caught ensnared, her flight impaired,
       Nun’s thoughts are how they’ll die...hard.
The puppet people storm the stee-
       pled FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

And voices wail beyond the pale
“The old taboo - it echoes true -
       Nun’s bound to have her way...barred”.
The schemes are strange and minds deranged
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

Ms.! Cast your nets, but hedge your bets -
there are no odds, where purple gods
       and hungry idle ghosts...sparred
with nameless gnomes in catacombs
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

Geno Cattouse Oct 2012

Marley

What was it exactly about this rasta.
He seemed so to be out of time an oddity then.
He stroked the gong that resonates still

Nothing can dim his light
His message still reverberates
With all who hear his call.

A natural mystic sinking tap roots from far out.
Kaya budz meets Buffalo soldier and they journey to Transendentia.
Dread lion with Dread locks . Earth shoes and soccer socks.

Ras Nesta walking through di concrete jungle.
Nevah know what sweet rest is in disya concrete jungle.
When you think it's peace and safety.A sudden destruction
Collective security, for surety.

From the Tenement yard to a Pimpers paradise .
Lining up to run in the rat race.
Live if you wanna live .

Glazed over Duppy conqueror. Seeing past all limitations
Rastaman vibration. Positive.

Masterchain Tsabedze Mar 2022

Sanctified Gong

Hi, ladies and gentlemen
You know me!
I am Education me!
Yes, me, I was born standard 9, 10, 15.
Yes, me, I am Starndard 9, 10, 15.
Wise people, there is education in him.
Wise people there is a senior practitioner in him.
Attention ladies and gentlemen;

I was called to be a sanctified gong.
Sometimes I feel like, I'm carrying salvation.
Let me read the word right now;
Psalm 27, are we all there right now.
There Lord is my light and my salvation.
Thank you, I am audible, or just a noisy gong?

Written By: The Senior Date: 23/02/2022

-The Vision

Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014

crave the Briar Thornly, discard the rose petals unless...(read the young poets)

between poems,
an old curmudgeon,
am me-he,
thorny gray stubbled face
available for
knife sharpening and
tongue lashing

cranky and cantankerous,
bad tempered,
ill mannered, me-he,
until they slip me a
paper aspirin

place before me a clean sheet
Presto Chango,
the ole man displaced,
(the boy who remembers to forget,)
in his heart~place, installed,
though the
briar and the thorn
never from his visage depart,
just briefly, Red Sea parted

kiss me surprised,
stumbling about in the
wee of the rambunctious hours,
stubbing me eyes upon
a poetess, a kindred soul
who claims my pointy moniker that
earned I,
only after years
of indentured servitude,
Briar Thornly,
so unnaturally misnamed,
yet she of but,
few and the tenderest years
rights me up
with young words

her poems sweet treats, sweet eats,
departing me delightfully unfairly from
my grumpy good graces,
look below if you dare risking,
a hazardous glancing upon her works,
if you like to, grrrrr, smile

Déjà vu
Oh to write or not to write.
My mind says I don't have a choice.
Love has made a home in my heart.
I suffer not being able to
open the door to my inspiration.
I toss a paper ball into the trash.
Chapters of my life turn into dust.
I bury those words in my mind.
Words that I used to think
were wrapped up in true meaning.
A break could **** my block but
my pencil spins out of control.
I'll conquer all of those lost attempts.
Piano's and violins phase in and out.
Wheels of creativity turning in caution.
The clock sounds gong,gong,gone.
Inspiration died at the start of a vacation.
On the page there was the suicide of passion.
The ghost of my muse will soon reappear.
My emotions need to break free from
the shelter of my imagination.
I"ll write till the dawn of poetry.^

read her poetry till dawn
or face my thorny faced
muse,
and perhaps now you understand,
at last comprehend,

**a rose by any other name
would smell as sweet as a
thorn

Read her. Please.
http://hellopoetry.com/briar-thornly/

One of many done, and plenty yet to come, in my "read the young poets" series. The list is long....

^ http://hellopoetry.com/poem/612091/deja-vu/

Antiquity Vaircome Oct 2014

The Gingerbread Witch

Your skin is softer than silk
Your hair shines like the midday sun
And gazing into your periwinkle eyes
I know that you are the one

One night you finally invite me
Into the place you call home
I shiver with anticipation
As I brush and scrub and comb

But there are bones shoved under the doormat
And blood dripping down from the stair
What horrors I find that night
As I venture into your lair

There are legs hung in your kitchen
Fingers on the dining table
Forever watching eyes on the fireplace
Like some grisly fable

But that is not the worst
Of the torment I endure tonight
As I turn to run from you
You take away my light

There's a knife in my side
As you drag me, so strong
You rip and tear and consume my hide
Until my life is ended like a crash of a gong

#beautiful #torment #cannibal #gruesome

Raj Arumugam Mar 2012

poets with no photos

1
Hey blogger, poet...no photo, ha?
hmmm...no photo...
not even a nose, no eyes
no part or whole...well, that's OK, I guess...

I know there’s a reason - security, privacy...
Or maybe you’re actually
President Obama
masquerading here as a blogger
President Putin practising his English
seeking Russian ******* on the poetry front
Or a Chinese Politburo member
checking out if anyone from Falun Gong or Tibet is here
or a Coca-Cola spy
checking out what new drink
you can concoct for contemporary poets;
or maybe you’re Elvis Presley
retired in Risikesh
with a fair amount of hashish
and a daily dose
of the Anglo-Euro-American girls
who just don’t want to go home

so you don’t want your photo on;
we understand; that’s fine…

2
Or you're just a good woman
in some old-fashioned part of the world
who made a pact with your jealous husband:
OK, no photo, you can blog;
You put photo, you’re out!
And you poor thing, your mother-in-law
sits there during the
supervised half-an-hour
allotted to you at the computer;
and then gives a complete report
when your husband comes home:
She’s been talking to this strange man in Australia –
He’s got a South Indian name but he looks aboriginal
– and your husband turns to you
and he says Who is this idiot Raj Arumugam
you’re reading?
What's going on between the two of you?

Whatever the reason or whoever you’re
fact is I'm human
and
I just can’t help wonder once in a while:
Hey, how do you look?

3
Or all right, you take a shot
and for some strange reason
no picture ever turns out right;
it never captures the true you – does it?
(Come on, you can’t give the world
the wrong impression
of an ogre when you really look
better than the made-up
Bollywood or Hollywood heroes and heroines)

Whatever the reason or whoever you’re
fact is I'm human
and
I just can’t help wonder once in a while:
Hey, how do you look?

4
Or maybe you’re just the best husband in the world...
You know – handsome, rich, secure government job;
does all the cooking at home and still manages to go
to work and earn decent money and
gets the wife some bed-coffee everyday
before you’re off to work - and so, you know,
your wifey doesn’t want to lose you so she says:
No picture, darling; blogging is OK;
all those international evil eyes looking at you
will make you sick
...especially people with glasses...
(when the real text, you and I know, is:
Oh gorgeous hubby of mine -
I don’t want to lose you to some blogging *****!)

Whatever the reason or whoever you’re
fact is I'm human
and
I just can’t help wonder once in a while:
Hey, how do you look?

5
But then it doesn’t really matter –
your company’s good enough;
just look at your screen
and flash us all a smile

Fun verse dedicated to all bloggers without photos; also to those with phoney photos; and to those with outdated photos; and to those with photos digitally re-mastered...
The poem in its current form is updated from a prose-verse piece I wrote in 2007 and posted at some other site...They kicked me out there! No, just kidding - I survived there, and I know you guys here will love me even more after this poem... (:

Annie Potaktos Dec 2011

The Lying Game

There were once men, playing a lying game.
They had no heart, they knew no shame.
Like Sirens, what their songs told,
were stories of flesh on beds of gold.

Merely this, is what their songs were about,
for wine and flesh they lusted sparing doubt.
For all their bubbles, fizzle, show and gleam,
true love for them was but a funny little dream.

Some, it is true, had the voices of blue suede kings.
Yet, danced on rubble, coughing smoke, 'n' kissing rings.
Thankfully, their lyrics were quite naturally cold,
faintly sparkling true hearts, despite their gold.

No songs can, in the spirit, ever remain,
or one's path meaningfully ingrain,
unless dotted by a hearty blood stain.

Still, some blind and sleepy were enticed,
those who dropped their heart, who'd lost their *****.
Much like a robber, who rests his gun in a heist.

Others, scrambled to plug their ears
wishing to avoid both song 'n' tears.
They knew not, that when fighting fear,
'tis not enough to keep it from getting near.

Simply stuffing their ears with wax,
failed to fade the hottest new tracks,
cause tanks groove on these tracks.

As tanks, they pop 'n' roll till you die.
Therefore... relax, pick your time, and lie,
not to your conscience, but on the ground,
so they pass over you, leaving you safe 'n' sound.

"You cannot fear what you haven't tried."
Remember, Odysseus wasn't deaf, only tied.

He, chose to fight and listen to the Sirens' songs,
using threads of logic, to keep from snapping their thongs.
Tightroping on wrong, he but fell to the song.
He wailed and spat, yet, somehow grabbed the gong.

And after a short but needed rest, after this soul defining test,
he did not lament the virgins lost, but carried on with his quest.
He, knew the lying men and their calls were real,
but to forms he didn't kneel, nor aimed to cut a deal.

He, stuck to his dreams doing his best to warn and tell the rest,
that though Sirens charm, they harm. "'Tis Ithaca who gives zest.'"

So, next time you see the chanting men of lies,
and their enchanting plastic bunnies in bow ties,
know that rhyme and shine may polish coal,
but listening to your heart should be the goal.
*"With a twist of logic to correct your steer,
you will run through fear, and forever, keep it rear."

22/07/11

For my little niece Karma & my new hermana.

MST Oct 2014

******

You think you are someone of great strength in mind,
as you belittle all the people around you,
for the sake of not appearing kind,
because it was the only thing you knew.
Taught to be tough and a big boy,
you can go and use a gun as a toy,
become accustomed to the ability to destroy.
As you see nothing wrong from stealing the light in one's eyes,
being the artist of their demise,
as you ruin their families lies.
BANG, BANG, BANG,
goes the gun in your hand,
over a dead body you stand,
just as you planned.
Put that hit on that sonofabitch,
it went off without a hitch,
now you a man who put someone in a ditch.
The only sacrifice is morality,
but you are so young, you don't see the brutality,
only the gangster mentality,
so you can live in the violent normality,
not realizing that you have lost touch with reality.
But that is a life that no longer belongs,
replaced by coke, *** and bongs,
you will never know that what you do is wrong,
until you hear the bell's gong,
and it is you who is gone.

#life #death #lost #****** #gangs

Sonya Ki Tomlinson Feb 2017

Golden Gong

My days are numbered...
the body casts a shadow
penumbra
across the lustrous face
of Time

Soon I will fall,
silent pendulum
prostrate
into Your celestial arms
Swamiji
a Lotus petal
drifting down from heaven

Swollen tears crash against
riverbanks
golden fish swim in limpid, rippling
black iris pools of my eyes

And the wild throbbing of
my soul
cannot contain
this love that
soars unfettered, undying
perpetually
towards...
You

#poetry #god #nature #poems #inspirational #ecstatic

Laura Susan Smith Nov 2012

Timepiece

Gauging the time on my ever ready
Timepiece, I would be vacant without it
Guessing the minutes that miss out
As the second hand moves smoothly
Locking onto with its demonstration powers
How to mark time successfully, second by
Second, a prelude to the minute minder
Merging in with the big guns, the 'On
The hour Brigade' of salutes and silences
Schedules and deadlines.
The.....gong
           The chime
                  The clang
                         The beep
The moment to be woken from our sleep
It's a curse at 'times' (excuse the pun)
The engagements starting point and
Finale.  I wonder what time it is right now?
Would we lose ourselves scurrying to find
Our 'timepiece'.  Do we pick up our redundancy
In favour of technological time and motion?
Even though the 'Wonder World' has not dreamt of....
And cannot conceivably equate.....powerful potent
Possibilities of fake time in an unknown spatial
Rhombus, conspiring recklessly to promote individual
Unreality; time spinning out the hour, through
The minutes, towards the last seconds.....
                                                             of our unreal lives

Sara Leal Mar 2018

Falun Gong

We are all humans right?
Humans with fears,
Humans that shed tears.

Humans that should be treated equally,
Humans that shouldn't have to suffer without reasons.
Humans that have the right to choose what they believe in or not.

So why isn't this happening?
Why are we not being treated equally?
Why are we suffering without reasons?
Why are we being stopped from having the right to choose what we believe in?

Why all this?
This shouldn't happen.
This can't keep happening.

But I know I can't do it alone.
I need you.
They need you.

People are being tortured right now,
They're suffering so much right now.
They need us.

It might be them today,
But tomorrow it can be you or me.
And do you actually feel alright not doing anything about this?
Do you feel good not helping your own kind just because it isn't you or someone you know in person?

Do they deserve this?
Would we deserve it?
Being hurt for wanting to believe in what we want?
For having free will?

Is that a reason to be tortured?
To be killed?
To have our loved ones taken out from us and have them being hurt?
To be thrown away into prison?
To be brainwashed?
To be taken out everything we cherish and love?

No!
It is not,
And it'll never be a reason.

You and me know that.
Now spread the word,
And make the difference.

If you really call yourself,
An human being,
Let's end this tyranny.

It's really out of the world the things humanity can do to his own kind.

#pain #tortured #falungong #brainwashing #deaths #human #world #china #prison #help

Jordan Frances Apr 2015

A Response to Ocean Vuong's "On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous"

i.
In the shower under cold water, I scrubbed and scrubbed
I wanted to rid myself of my own skin
Escape into a mine so I could live among the coal
A fuel almost as ***** as I felt.

ii.
As he pulled away from me
As he broke me into pieces
Shattered glass lay upon the seat of his car
I know what it's like to escape into a stranger's hot breath
The weight of a warm wash cloth upon my back
Pressing down again.

iii.
I prayed my wings would grow back in time
For me to fly to places I could never see
Before, my vision was black in white
Suddenly, I could see in color
His memory continues to pluck the feathers
But once again, I see the value of bone.

iv.
I tried to move on
Forget the thrashing of your memory
Like a gong, clanging symbol
Leave my mind alone
Leave me be

v.
Free me of broken pieces of the years I lost
Minutes, I lost bleeding from the inside out, razor eloquently in hand
Hours, I lost to purging myself of your uncleanliness
Days, I lost dredging my soul in therapy, hoping to dig up something that would do me some good
Years, I lost to the talons of PTSD
Depression
Anxiety.

vi.*
Finally, some hope
I taste it on my tongue like raindrops after the drought
Sunlight after the storm
I find myself
And lose the taint of you, heavy laden upon my skin
You are a cavity
Filled by love and support.
And finally, there's beauty in the struggle
It's anything but brief
Because the fight goes on
Forever.

Bergen Franklin May 2015

Smurfs Dug Tunnels In My Skull

la laa la la sing the happy song!
the smurfs... they told me to **** again...
la la laa, lasing the happy song all day long
noose to the toes popsicle stick up the nose...what great fun!
la laa la la
time to **** again
la la la laa
death is my friend, 80\'s cartoons tell me to **** again...
la la laa sing the happy song...
I have a collection of tongues nailed to a gong...
it rings quite happily with a happy song...
la la laa la la, sing the happy song
i wish i lived in hong kong. thums are in hong kong...
la la laa la... sing the happy song
skin is blue, teeth are red, only one is paint,
smurfs are good people are bad, who says I need meds?
la la laa la... sing the happy song
I lay my feet among human heads
la la laa la... sing the happy song
my walls were not always red,
I like to ring my gong w/ every added leg
it rings quite happily with a happy song...
la la laa la... sing the happy song
take a bow, reach in my pants
not for reasons you think my friend
la la laa la... sing the happy song
decorate the stage w/ happy brains..
sing the happy song!
*BLAM

Aug 2, 2003

Brad Lambert Sep 2013

Prairie Chinatown

We watched the lightning making
paper lanterns of the clouds,
frail globes amidst the Indian peninsulas of the storm.

The thunder sounded a gong hung
amidst that veritably heavy anvil of heaven.

Now that's what I call heaven,
your heart beat-beating off tempo with mine
in the heart of prairie Chinatown.

Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016

Donald Trump Combover / Addams' Family Cousin Itt!

play either gong's flying teapot,
or greenskespers' pleetch at a party,
esp. the song lotion from the latter's
a night prior to your assassination,
and you'll freak people out, for sure.

MrunaliniDNimbalkar Oct 2019

CINDERELLA STORY

In the country side lived a cinder maid so beautiful , simple and kind .
But her step family
treated her ill and kept her in the cellars confined .

Rodents , lizards and geese   now her mates , in the basement a home she creates.
Takes care of all in need , a true friend indeed .
Close to cinders she finds her warmth , a wretched belle of sorts .

Lively , lovely in her domain ,
All smiles intact that they consistently remain ,
Pain and pleasure all taken in a platter , what so ever is the matter only peace she always wanted to scatter .
Benevolence is her jewel ,
Purity of heart is her daily fuel .

A simpleton she is at heart ,
Modesty plays a major part ,
Caring for all is only a simple art ,
True love is the magic she imparts .

Even as each day is passed in total mess ,
the harsh words of the step mother create alarming distress and the ugly step sister's are always
teaming and scheming ,
Off in the woods to be in peace , the damsel in distress meets her prince charming .
Love blooms at first sight , but it's the most difficult plight ,
For the true identities are never disclosed and the cinder girl has to keep her secrets enclosed .

The prince now called for a ball to meet and greet his dream princess in the palace hall .
In a glance the one who stole his heart away , he now wanted to be with her everyday .
A bride she will be in his life for he wanted to choose her as his wife .

News spread far and away , the moment of joy came by where lovely dames wanted to dance and sway .
All dressed in finery they came to impress the prince .
Cinderella dressed in her mother's gown but
was ordered to not come to the town  ,
in the dark cellar she  stayed crying and wishing to get a glimpse.

Fairy godmother heard her cry ,
she came to her aid as magical powers she wished to try .
With the twist of her wand and the magical behest , up popped a pumpkin into a carriage , the goose turned into a horseman , the lizards became the foot guards and the rats turned into horses fast .

Turning the girl into a princess all dressed in shimmery blue ,
beauty shining all through .
A pair of glass shoes she wore.
Godmother warned her to come back at midnight or just before .
For the magic would end at the stroke of twelve and the beautiful princess would turn to her usual self .

At last ! She rode to the ball , stunning the gaping bystanders in the hall .
she headed straight to the prince .
Without taking a chance the bedazzled prince asked her for a dance .
Surprising everyone in the hall , they danced until the princess heard the gong strike a call .
As now the words of the fairy godmother she had to recall .

She ran as fast as she could , in the moment lost one of her glass shoe on the palace stairs ,
She rushed and left with only one of the pairs !

Just at the nick of time she was back at the cellars to see her cruel sisters and  step mother talk about the ball and what a stunning , beautiful princess they saw in the palace hall .

The prince found the glass shoe and choose to find its owner .
He ordered the ministers to find the pretty princess in the kingdom's every corner.
The shoe that fit the dainty foot , would lead as clue to choose his wife the ministers now hoot .

Pretty damsels stood in queue ,
to try their fate and get in view .
None could get the foot in the shoe , with all pain they tried in vain .
The step sister's tried them too , Alas! their feet couldn't get in the shoe .

Each day as the same ordeal went on and on ,
the disguised prince heard a beautiful song and  followed the melody all along .
Lo behold ! to his surprise
He found the lady with the beautiful voice .

As the angered mother and cruel sister's came forth ,
The prince ordered them to stay away henceforth .

Amidst all the hue and cry
With a mellowed voice the prince ordered the surprised cinder girl to come forth and try  .
All present could now tell
The shoe slipped onto the cinder girls foot so
well .

The prince found his long lost love and the cinder girl behest in a stroke of luck .
With a heart of gold all she would forgive ,
From rags to riches she would now live  .
With no more tears hereafter they lived happily ever after .

©Mrunalini.D.Nimbalkar

#25/10/2019#
#fictatiouscharacter#cinderella#fairytale#saga#classic#cinderella rebooted#rhyming #freeverse# #narrative poem #

Cinderella is a folk tale embodying a myth-element of unjust oppression and triumphant reward. Thousands of variants are known throughout the world. The title character is a young woman living in unfortunate circumstances , that are suddenly changed to remarkable fortune.
This classic fairy tale is something that I grew up listening and reading. Building my own version I have tried to turn it into a narrative poem with some rhyme but in no particular poetic scheme..
Love this fairy tale as it's moral is good wins over evil always and positivity is a remarkable feature here.
My own Cinderella story...a small liitle tribute to this classic fairy tale ...thanks for reading !!

Paul Butters Jun 2016

Ali

He floated like a butterfly,
Stang like a bee –
The one and only
Muhammad Ali.
“I’m The Greatest”, he always said,
20th Century Sports Personality,
Put his rivals to bed.

Yes, he WAS the Greatest, that’s for sure.
Above the rest by a massive score.
Faster than a hummingbird,
Slicker than a snake,
Those quick hands of his
They made opponents quake.

He’d get into bed
Before the light went out.
Rarely a whisper,
Usually a shout.

Like a long-distance runner
Ali had the endurance.
Anyone who fought him
Needed lots of insurance.

Ali was great and didn’t he know it.
A witty speaker and amusing poet.
Some of his lines I’ve used right here:
They had his rivals shaking with fear.

No way would Ali fight the Viet Cong.
For that he merits a Nobel Gong.
He was the champion of the oppressed,
A hero with whom we all were blessed.

He had charisma, way beyond sport.
Ali influenced our every thought.
He’ll call into Hell on the way to Heaven,
To knock out Satan, in round seven.

Paul Butters

After a sad weekend during which we lost The Greatest.....

#sport #legends #boxing #ali

Kody dibble May 2015

Gong's Climb

Venus light shows,
Growing in turns and shades of,
Blanketed darkness, brimming trees,
and canopies of islands and such of doves sick cold and lonely

Music my soul can sing to the view
Grossly unfair and the rest of the day
I love it when you have a great way

The films of passion and people
displayed
Guilt's are yours
But bought suddenly like
Rain drops in an ocean
Of Light
And sunrise
Don't dwell on the past unless you
Have thoughts of a sudden urge
To be

Or have you been? Sitting there like always
A fume so entranced in the golden
Dawn

Life does exist

#love #truth #peace #life #time #dreams #grace #joy #peaceful #christ

CH Gorrie Oct 2012

Something for Sam Harris

"If you wake up this morning believing that saying
a few Latin words over your pancakes will turn them
into the body of Elvis Presley, you have lost your mind."

He has often asserted that the thing is absurd:
that someone who does not (whether out of hatred, indifference,
lack of conviction, or frankly *whatever)
accept traditional dogmas
is still, for some reason, capable of wishing that they could.

I think he is right; I’ve heard a staunch atheist say “If only
I could, but I cannot.” So, this is why he aligns himself
as an anti-theist: he simply
was never properly convinced.
This position seems (at least to me) well-supported,

for anyone can quite readily (and easily)
accept what their father or their clergyman has said
(especially as a child, not knowing any better).
Thus, to be an atheist
one must have first acknowledged supernatural power

and then later, after a bit of thought, dismissed it. In light
of this, I propose a toast to the Real Skeptic,
the one who was never really convinced;
of it. The one who, when celebrating the Eucharist,
wondered why God wanted to be eaten,

who , when receiving Christ,
thought of the extreme certainty by which other faiths'
devotees (Islam, Heaven's Gate,
Mormonism, Bon,
Cargo Cults, Shinto, Falun Gong)

live and preach – some even delighted to die.
Thoughts like these always made me feel uneasy as a child
because how could I hope to keep my little mind
from accidentally discovering fallacy after fallacy? So, here is a toast
to the Unconvinced, who can’t possibly help but not believe.

a m a n d a Dec 2019

ok, b o o m e r

hey.
listen.

i'm just a grunt
a cog in the machine
trying to get the same sized piece
of the american d r e a m
that you have.

but you don't see.
the absolute crack in the structure
of reality between
our generations,
and so you think it is e a z y
that we are lazy.

i almost laugh when i see you
scan the exact same insurance card from
20 years ago
you silly, silly babies.

you want to talk health insurance?
i am 39.
i was born in 1980, and at this very moment,
off the top of my head,
i can recall
having at the very least 9
different health insurance
providers since
i was 22 years old.

back then, i made $9/hour
and that was acceptable for the
state of my experience and education.
but much has changed in 17 years.
now, i make $16.50/hour and that,
my friends,
is not a decent salary
for a 39 year old that
is supposed to magically be saving for
a retirement that is getting less and less likely
by the day, because those
crazy things you old coots had
called "pensions" are a no-go in this climate...
while i am over here struggling with shelter,
food, clothing, healthcare, and education.

you have homes and cars
and dishwashers and pools
and vacations and
private schools and plenty of groceries
you don't think twice about going out
giving gifts
buying yourself treats, things
that are unnecessary
some of us only live in the world
of the necessary
and we have
d e b t.
live not even one paycheck
to the next.
there is no luxury
one moment from an emergency
with little comfort
and little hope

because of the things
you voted for. for the people you voted in the office.
the ideas you allowed to brew.
the envy and the greed.
and oh the righteousness.
the hypocrisy is just dynomite.
you done ****** up.
the planet, education, healthcare,
childcare, banks, greed, Wall Street, and corruption.
even for those of us who are
white and privileged and educated
there is no way out of the cycle
so imagine what you have done
to all the brown and black people.
the disabled. the veterans. the homeless. the sick.
the elderly. children. it's a ******* shitshow.

man after man after man after man and
war after war after war after war
and dollar after dollar after dollar after dollar

currently healthcare premiums alone
are 21% of my income after taxes
not including copays, deductibles,
coinsurance, medications, and things they
simply will not cover.

I went to school for 7 years,
have a master's degree, and
currently make $7.50 more/hour
than I did when I was 22 years old
(17 years ago)
with no experience whatsoever
and a bachelor's degree.

now i have a master's degree
over a decade of expertise and experience
and student loans that have gone from $80,000 to $120,000
and for that i get $7.50 more/hour
for a job
not in my field.
that doesn't even give you insurance for 3
months during which time
you just quite literally hope
no one calls an ambulance on you cuz
there is no way you are going bankrupt
for passing out from anxiety
over the state of your life, and besides, if you get sick
you are not allowed one iota of personal time
for the first 90 days

i will not even embarrass you
with the hilarious student loan repayment options.
we won't even add the proposed $1800 payment to the
monthly analysis just to be jokesters.

rent is 25%
(for a ******, ugly, place)
not including heat
water, electric, internet,
cell phone

gas alone is 9%
i haven't even mentioned
food, car payments, and car insurance

can you see where the desperation might creep in?
you didn't go to college, or if you did,
tuition was truly affordable
on an average person's salary.
you expect things to be easy because they were easy
for you even though you think
it was hard.
it was not hard.
children and adults fully
financially stable on one average person's income?!
"middle class" is a joke.
it is not what it once was.
and to me, now
it seems quite
an impossible dream.
getting one job and keeping it practically
your entire life?!
stop it, my side hurts!
a bonus?!
please!
a union?!
comprehensive healthcare for your entire family
with no deductible and little to no copays?
girl, you sure is funny.
an affordable home?
****,
we haven't even talked about
credit card debt!
outrageous taxes, tolls,
and fees.
for-profit prisons
and for-profit healthcare.
why what a wonderful idea,
surely will do the most good
for the most people.
3 billionaires
own more wealth
than the entire bottom half of americans.
read that again, please.

your tactics have brought us corporate greed, corruption,
a failed war on drugs, a failure to teach equality
and comprehensive *** education in schools
untold wars, mutilation, torture, and death
the suppression of women.

my life is the proof of your oppression
and the heart of your discontent
but you could never live it and survive
you delicate little flowers
the system is ******
and the very foundation is crumbling
As of December 1, which is the 335th day of the year, there have been 385 mass shootings in the U.S., according to data from the nonprofit Gun Violence Archive (GVA), which tracks every mass shooting in the country. Twenty-nine of those shootings were mass murders.

your thought are gong backward
and it is painfully obvious to
the rest of us
that you are simply]
of no use to us,
the people looking
toward a better future.

you did not prepare us for
the world of your making
you prepared us for your world
and that is why there is a disconnect.

but ok, b o o m e r

ok, boomer
whatever you say

david badgerow Jun 2015

road trip with the girl

i'm searching for the comfort
of an old flame to keep me warm
tonight knocking on familiar doorways
to foyers where my boots have already rested dripping
with snow or shedding beach sand and all i want is her
the one i remember in bouts of photographs
bright hair hidden in a knit olive colored snood
with big blue eyes set on full power
as we set out on the open road together car
packed full of soft blankets groceries illicit drugs
cigarettes and the fumes of santiago ***

she convinced me to quit smoking saying
she hated kissing the marlboro man and
i'll take you to the coast i said meaning
every single one because i had harbored
my love for her in a million ways of secrecy
and only survived on a currency of torture
pain inflicted
pain withheld
pain drugged away

she was absolutely perky for the first thousand miles
hair haloed and face lost in shadow as we drove
into the sun out of a cocoa beach condo
leaving behind bikini squeals and smiles
she was with me like an ethereal dream
eating scones on the boardwalk beach
in bitter cold new jersey and that night she was
a long legged american girl astride me
sweaty hollering in a secluded gazebo

she was a blur of parrot colors to me
spending most of july dancing in a daffodil field
in oklahoma while i changed tires on the
hyundai her daddy bought one after another i
just gave her the pink slip to my heart
under a pavilion of light pink fractal fabric
pitched on high beams ascending into
pale gold otherworldly billows

she's sweetly ****** and surrounded by patchouli haze
hanging off my back like a monkey wearing a
wide high fashion soft brim hat she found before
i surprised her with a bunch of freshly picked
wild violets from the roadside she
cripples me and we go tumbling
wrinkled and aimless both exhaling plumes
into the paisley purple sky already full of clouds
blowing straight north hair tangled together
full of windswept snarls barelegged now
and writhing creating craved friction
just two souls of pure energy on the loose

but the best memories i have of that trip
are the nights we spent in joshua tree
not-sleeping beneath a meteor shower every
night for a week when her *****
was still running the show and i
was just a poison rash itching her
calf muscle before i became the master of myself
we were a flurry mess of long naked limbs
tuned to the exact same frequency

she was a fresh meadow flower naked
under taupe corduroy overalls cut ragged
into shorts walking with her arm twisted through
mine and i thought i was the happiest man alive
when we crashed in colorado for two weeks
and every morning i woke to her incandescent
hair sprawled lazy on the karastan rug under
the turquoise glare of the television or to
the smell of a gong sized breakfast casserole
consisting solely of her dreams the previous night
and i would kiss her good morning with her hair
up in curlers and my face between her knees

but she started to grow wings in montana
little nubs etched out on either side of her spine
i noticed them one night while she was sleeping
face down chest stretched across my chest
i watched them grow the further south we got
and by the time we reached the heartland
under those glistening river cypresses
or the banks of that great muddy river
canopied by huge florida palms
she was itching and molting them all over the car
and she finally flew away from me
said she was born for the city but i hope
she's waking up now not under skyscrapers but
a metropolis of oak strands governed by the tyrannical sun

and since that day i've painted her lips on
every girl i've ever seen in the morning every
face that emerges from indigo ambience is hers simply
i hear her nothing-to-lose laugh in every fog or faint haze
after every lunar prowl through a mushroom ranch by the coast
my eyes get shined up with dew every time
i find seagulls nesting in a cypress grove holding
some kind of seance for the flash of sunlight off the nape of her neck
in front of the watery green sunrise of the atlantic
and in my teeth-grinding night terrors i have
a hard-on and i can plainly see her dancing
luxuriously on a deck stretched out over a shaded creek
tight and smooth like the skin of a djembe drum

and sometimes when i feel very weird
with something like sick stomach hunger
churning in my gut i shave my ******* clean
and trim my ***** hair into a crude cave-painting
version of a mountain lion just for her
i wade out into the sea passed the orange trees
and wait for the moon or her lips
to rise and lick me full on my face but
she doesn't return my calls suddenly
having phone
trouble i
guess

Autumn Rose Aug 2016

The Empress

The last firebird flied
over her as she stood
on the last crumbling
mountain.
Prickley pine trees
shivering above the dew,
the first breath of the
winter in her soul was
icing through the flowers.
She fleed the Golden-emerald
city, heart broken by the
gong of war.
Sinking her nails deep into
the ground.
Sheding tears of a dragon
from the crystal eyes
of the universe.
Falling down
her porcelain face.
A work of art.
Her lips red,to seem like
cherries in the spring.
Casting a glance at the pale moon
while the wild wind was
howling to the north.
Ruler of the skies
as the morning stars sang together,
looking different today.
In the shadows of her lace fan,
the silky blossom on the
kimono dress.
Embroided with the silver thread
of moonlight, encrusted with
the diamonds of night.
The great ocean waves can't destroy
her purple throne.
Although left all alone, she will
never surrendor.
The obediance will suffocate
from her light, rising like the sun
after the dusk once again.
Because she is... the Empress

William Butler Yeats

The Statues

PYTHAGORAS planned it. Why did the people stare?
His numbers, though they moved or seemed to move
In marble or in bronze, lacked character.
But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love
Of solitary beds, knew what they were,
That passion could bring character enough,
And pressed at midnight in some public place
Live lips upon a plummet-measured face.
No! Greater than Pythagoras, for the men
That with a mallet or a chisel" modelled these
Calculations that look but casual flesh, put down
All Asiatic vague immensities,
And not the banks of oars that swam upon
The many-headed foam at Salamis.
Europe put off that foam when Phidias
Gave women dreams and dreams their looking-glass.
One image crossed the many-headed, sat
Under the tropic shade, grew round and slow,
No Hamlet thin from eating flies, a fat
Dreamer of the Middle Ages. Empty eyeballs knew
That knowledge increases unreality, that
Mirror on mirror mirrored is all the show.
When gong and conch declare the hour to bless
Grimalkin crawls to Buddha's emptiness.
When Pearse summoned Cuchulain to his side.
What stalked through the post Office? What intellect,
What calculation, number, measurement, replied?
We Irish, born into that ancient sect
But thrown upon this filthy modern tide
And by its formless spawning fury wrecked,
Climb to our proper dark, that we may trace
The lineaments of a plummet-measured face.
April 9,

Reece AJ Chambers Oct 2013

Three Lots of Nonsense

I.

A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****.
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.

II.

A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.

III.

Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.

Written: October 2013.
Explanation: A poem in three parts written in my own time. I guess this is aimed primarily at young children - written mainly as a bit of fun. Although the language is fairly simple for a child to understand, some words will obviously be unfamiliar, but perhaps if read aloud a definition of the word could later be provided to the child. It is unlikely a child would use the word 'ziggurats' for example, but nevertheless, these more challenging words might be interesting to a child, simply because of the sound and unfamiliar nature of it.

Curt A Rivard Sr Apr 2014

And This is What I Told the Class….

In the beginning of the college class semester we all were asked to read and inter operate:) a poem and at the end of the semester we were asked to re-inter operate:) it and see how all of our thoughts and feelings were changed after taking a class on Death and Dying. The poem is called “The Angel of Death is Always with me” by Morton Marcus. My thoughts did not change and I took over the class with my interpretation because everyone else said it is something like a reaper knocking at your door ready to take you away.

THE ANGEL OF DEATH IS ALWAYS WITH ME

The Angel of Death is always with me
the hard wild flowers of his teeth,
his body like cigar smoke
swaying through a small town jail.

He is the wind that scrapes through our months,
the train wheels grinding over our syllables.
He is the footstep continually pacing through our
chests,
the small wound in the soul,
the meteor puncturing the atmosphere.
And sometimes he is merely a quiet between the start
of an act
and its completion,
a silence so loud
it shakes you like a tree.

It is only then you look up from the wars,
from the kisses,
from the signing of business agreements;
It is only then you observe the dimensions
housed in the air of each day,
each moment;
only then you hear the old caressing the cold rims of
their sleep,
hear the middle-aged women in love with their pillows
weeping into the gray expanse of each dawn,
where young men, dozing in alleys,
envision their loneliness to be a beautiful girl
and do not know they are part of a young girl's dream,
as she does not know that she is a dream in the sleep
of middle-aged women and old men,
and that all are contained in a gray wind
that scrapes through our months.

But soon we forget that the dead sleep in buried
cities,
that our hearts contain them in ripe vaults.
We forget that beautiful women dry into parchment
and ball players collapse into ash;
that geography wrinkles and smoothes
like the expressions on a face,
and that not even children
can pick the white fruit from the night sky.

And how could we laugh while looking at the face
that falls apart like wet tobacco?
How could we wake each morning
to hear the muffled gong beating inside us,
our mouths full of shadows,
our rooms filled with a black dust?

Still,
it is humiliating to be born a bottle:
to be filled with air, emptied, filled again;
to be filled with water, emptied, filled again;
and, finally, to be filled with earth.

And yet I am glad that The Angel of Death is always
with me:
his footsteps quicken my own,
his silence makes me speak,
his wind freshens the weather of my day.
And it is because of him
I no longer think
that with each beat
my heart
is a planet drowning from within
but an ocean filling for the first time.

And This is What I Told the Class….

Adolf ****** and the **** SS come to mind after reading the clue riddled poem, “The Angel of Death is Always with me”. Hiding between the lines I find there are many reference points to the holocaust and feelings of how it might have felt from a prisoner’s point of view.

If my assumptions are valid with this interpretation as far as the relationship of “death to Life” is concerned, one would think that after witnessing all the atrocities that one saw in those concentration camps, one would almost welcome death as soon as possible as a way to escape from their living nightmare and be welcomed back into being a part of the earth so they no longer have to whisper softly, “We are the dead” and pray that they become a victim of an accident of birth.

I normally don’t comment on other people’s works in poetry for the simple fact that I try to jump into their shoes and try to understand just what it is the message they are diligently trying to convey to the reader, and in the doing of so, I feel that I might misunderstand just what it is they are trying to tell the world and in the doing of so I would then not be able to make the ranks of a poet with originality.
(SirCARSr. 4-7-14)

mannley collins Mar 2015

Am I a Poet?--but I just dont know it?.

Yes that's right--I am not full of *****.
Yes that's right--I write words with a bite.
Yes that's right--I contemplate during the night.
Yes that's right--I revel in being untight.
Yes that's right--I can bring you delight.
Yes that's right--I can cause you fright.
Yes that's right--I look such a sight.
No that's wrong-I sing only the Isness of the Universe's Song.
No that's wrong-I am where I belong.
No that's wrong--I have a medium sized *******.
No that's wrong--I am very mixed among.
No that's wrong--I could be the next poet along.
No thats wrong--I only smoke in a ****.
No that's wrong--I can beat the gong.
Maybe I could be your baby.
Maybe I would like my hair wavy.
Maybe I like my Pork Chops with gravy.
Maybe I should be nearby.
Maybe I want my horizons hazy.
Maybe I will float away with the navy.
Maybe you can call me crazy.
I once had a friend called Wavey Gravey

— The End —