"granting" poems
Young people can you feel the suffering?
roca wear, gucci, apple, facebook, mcdonalds, apple bee's,
honda, lamborghini, harvard, Community College
american express, pnc bank, walmart
Wage Slaves, ceos, owners, lenders, renters, indebtedness
Structural dehumanization, systematic mechanization
Exploited labor feeding blood to your hungering consumerism
Young people you are embracing MISANTHROPY!
Embracing the hate of your own humanity! Why the hypocrisy?
Wealthy children, poor children
Trying for enlightenment through education
Parents garnering wealth through the oppression of their victims
Parents garnering debt through the oppression from economic inequality
Still you invest and promote the only legitimization of your being: CAPITALIST UTILITY
Capitalism engineering unrelenting misanthropy
Vicious economic system discarding humanity
Perfecting the concentration and accumulation of wealth
With the expansion of human alienation and murderous competition
Prostituting your body to labor exploitation and consumerism
Where does your wealth end up?
multinational companies? financial corporations? military arms contractors?
Loyalty lies in their pockets, backstabbing everyday tactics
Killing you through the exploitation of your body
Because they know the birth of another proletariat or bourgeoisie can replace you
Entities, not human, how much have they bought you for so that you cannot see!!!
Beware of these misanthropic missionaries granting your body power and agency
When your body can no longer be plundered for profit you will taste tears and blood
Young people will you deliver your forefathers and fathers
From worshiping capitalist misanthropy?
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
September's child is special
born in autumn's gold;
brother to the pumpkin
sister to the cold.
September's child is lovely
the heart's in the right place;
born in the changing leaves
adorned with God's own grace.
September's child is full of love
for family and for friends;
granting each an honored spot
with love that never ends.
September's child is filled with life
for enjoying nature's touch;
relishing the autumn rains
not too little, nor too much.
September's child is special
between the heat and cold;
graced with special beauty
graced by autumn's gold.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 1:12 AM UTC
this kids,
is how you do it
in the mid of the dark hours,
when two am is your new oldest friend
when sleep, your oldest old one,
left town on the midnight train,
taking your peace of mind
though she is far away
lost in dream-thoughts caught,
but only twelve inches close,
granting you an unasked permission,
you ok to stroke her hair,
undisturbing her, yet comforting yourself,
every voice in your temple'd altar praying,
one glorious chorus godly chant:
Oh Lord, what would I do without her?
and you stroke her hair and are saved.
2:51am
May 2014
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
Quietly hanging above my head,
You protect me from myself.
The shadows, escapees from my darkest thoughts,
Get trapped in your web,
Unable to disturb my sleep
Your feathers shift with the sweetest dreams
Of love and flight
Granting them passage into my slumber.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
The essence of patience
The patience of light
The travel it takes, knowing
It must last for eternity,
Beaming forward, granting anew.
Patience the virtue.
The status to achieve, allowing now
So that next can just be, as it will.
The patience to leap.
Courage carries patience clear,
Fears weight sinking below.
Patience for death, for one again.
The longing for You, to know us again.
Patience to see clearly, open my heart
To now.
Moments always planned out.
Patience for the ******
Patience for the touch of your skin,
The relation of kin, of natural senses.
Of the things that flow, easy.
Of titillating tickling of the, everything.
Your smell will bring me in.
I know it well… the musk of Earth
Wrapped in the forest, deep dug in my gut.
Dug down patiently to prepare my ground
To rise my crown, patient now
As maturation continues to take place.
Dug down, spine curled out
Back arched, heart opened…
Patient, awaiting your trail
My tribe hunts and gathers,
We know we need each other,
And so we hunt, and we create
And we locate…patience for
The revolution taking place…
Cyclical naturals, cycles of nature.
Back to the Earth we all go.
All things have a cycle.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
The scattered words disturb the silence.
I prefer written pages with my left hand,
But it is trembling too much to write slowly
I miss him, his calm hands giving juicy oranges.
Shattered glass falls in slow motion,
Screams in the apartment,
Just the neighbor next door.
Another struggle,
Another soundless fracture
From the outside,
It’s not visible
What really hurts.
I have my refuge.
My piano and fingertips
Strike the rhythm,
Racing to speak in time.
What I want to repeat to myself
It isn’t lush or gentle,
Only barren,
like thoughts hung on a dry twig.
I trace figure eights,
Locked in a simple shape.
I stare and cannot fathom
The logic of a cold two plus two.
A thought-form circles
Around the blue planet.
Something pointing,
With its mercury finger.
It speaks in an unknown dialect
It shows the place to live
And huge fluorescent deserts.
The clouds’ minds —
A piece of earth
Soaked in different
Kinds of screams.
This is my blind chance.
I was born here.
In my mother’s paradise garden
Spinning in dawn’s glow.
Sometimes I just write
To ease personal and common guilt.
I hear tattooed numbers,
Granting citizenship of the lower caste.
And here,
The fresh scent of good life in the morning.
Blackbirds and thrushes fell silent.
My mother knows how to speak to them,
I know how to speak with trees.
Everything pulses,
On this small piece of earth,
Giving shelter to creatures
And stones no one throws.
I am here in a place I can happily bear,
Without cold speculation.
I can still dive into metaphors,
This is my greatest luxury,
The gift after so many disturbing lives.
It would be better to create a world
With only diverse breathing gardens.
I don’t need too much for living,
A naked soul is enough for me.
So, I am sitting in this landscape
And I peacefully hope
That my daughter will remember me tenderly
As I remember him, my father
And all who passed away.
The simplest thing is
The presence of every human being
It's like a celluloid film strip
Left behind the broken ribs
In the left ventricle of the heart
That never lies, never cheats me.
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
She loved her special prince
Her soul belonged to Maelon
But her father would not allow it so
For she had been promised to wed another
She prayed to her God to forget her true love
And an Angel came down to visit her
Granting a sweet potion to erase his memory
So that she could forget him forever
But it also meant that Maelon would be trapped
To be encased within a block of ice
Then her God decided to grant Dwynwen three wishes
And she knew for what she had to do
She wished for Maelon to be thawed and saved
She wished for the hopes and the dreams
Be granted for all of the true lovers
But the third wish, she would never marry
She formed her convent on Llandwyn
This is where she stayed, until Death took her
The remains of her church can still be seen
She will always be our patron saint of lovers
5th Century saint ... copyright Chris Smith 2010
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 6:11 AM UTC
dear me,
this is you.
me.
get up.
the ground is your reward
it will hold you when
you are done
hold you with all force
you
are not done
put a silencing finger
to the singing
of all fat ladies
this is not over
real in all finish lines
steal the sound of the
metal ringing hanging in the air and
put back in the bell
one more round we go.
get up.
there are sunsets that need
to be signed off on
snowfalls that need your approval.
starry nights like sad
lovers who's beauty
has gone unnoticed in the glare
of television sets
they are looking for
volunteers to notice them
raise your hand
step forward
you will not be chastised
for staring some beauty some beauty
wants to be seen
get up.
as if the simple act of
standing has brought you closer
to the cosmos as you
have ever previously been.
as if all the stars you've seen
busy looking back
taking notes and keeping track
of which wishes need granting
they heard you ask for
strength
show them you havent wasted it.
..
s.d.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
It's not really a window
but a picture of a boy--
that somewhere in my counselor's past
allows the kid to peer into his future,
into a time that is no longer here.
Maybe it reminds my counselor of better times
or the opportunity he is lucky to have now--
the boy must represent something
but I would not know for sure, as I am not him.
Although I did ask my counselor one day
about this window that watches him work--
this young boy, nothing but a child
normal as most youth always looks
the photo only granting an image
not the whole picture.
"He was a spitfire"
must have been only four foot five,
if that probably shorter
he was rough and tough
not even the Seniors were willing to bother him
those same seniors became
the boy's friends took care of him
they had lots of fun when they could.
The boy. The Window.
Was not the usual ghostly clouds
or the average bleached pale Caucasian
as their defects were in their circulation
the wind cannot move through mountains
and neither can blood pump through chambers
without the right gust.
Sometimes children
lay down to never wake up again--
maybe it's in the hospital
for another heart surgery
that just happened
not to catch the wind quite right.
The boy was a student--
his counselor was there for him
at a different school in a different time
that even as it flows
the counselor has a window
for this boy
to watch the world from.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 4:11 AM UTC
I was your Hazel Grace
Because I thought I was a grenade
I was in my final year in high school when I started liking you
And soon I would leave the same school we were into
I, and the people around us
We became dependent of your actions
And you made us believe that you liked me, too
So much depends upon this boy I really liked
behind his eye glasses were his eyes that had
always been sending me love letters
that I always wanted to reciprocate
his stunning smile made him look grand every time
So much depends upon this rebel heart
that I was ironically obedient to
Because not granting what this heart wanted
would **** me a hundred times
Until the day came that I needed to leave you
I thought leaving would hurt harder than a heart break
But you were the one who left
And that was when I started believing
that I was not the grenade I once thought I would be
but it was you
You left me wounded
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain
gently pattering upon my pane
creating rhythm in my sleeping brain
encouraging chaos bordering insane
I blamed it ,Lorraine, on the falling rain.
A vison arose of a windswept plain
saddleless riders in the north of Spain
granting a stranger a sultry dame
standing in the pouring rain…
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain.
Her eyes expressed complete distain
looking at fools pretending to reign
over lands with dragons left un-slain
me, I could only sit and complain
I blamed it, Lorraine, on the falling rain.
I heard a ghost howl in pain
bitten by a rabid Dane
fleeting images of regret and shame
flashed across my face again…
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain.
I blamed it, Lorraine, on the falling rain
the day you told me I was your bane
you wished to see me die alone in pain
with nothing but the falling rain….
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain.
Like the blackest tar running through my vein
the three a.m. creature threw me on a plane
sent me sailing down the next of a Crane
U-turn careening into the oncoming lane
I blamed it, Lorraine, on the falling rain.
When at last our eyes met her dusty mane
created an aura I can’t explain
but enveloped the world in love without shame
giving the people joy without pain
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain.
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain
which fed the stranger on the train
looking to rob the Spanish Main
a thought I considered to be to framed…
I blamed it, Lorraine, on the falling rain.
Left in the twilight listening without restrain
these visions creep into my insomniac brain
as drip after drip crash upon my pane
I think, Lorraine, it was the rain…
I blamed it, Lorraine, on the falling rain.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
what is worse for a dandelion?
to lose its soft, seedy ball of cotton,
blown into the wind
by a whispering dreamer?
or to fail in granting the wish
of a small child, too young to realize
that a dandelion is only a pretty little ****
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
It's been so long since I've used
an elementary school wish granting time
like "11:11" or "12:34"
But I noticed it by chance today;
I thought fondly of you
And I was pleasantly surprised
That you so easily sprung to mind.
I didn't wish for anything in particular
It's not that kind of night
But your name came up
And I was reminded
That everything always
turns out alright.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:15 AM UTC
1.
A star-shaped
patch of snow,
achingly white,
rests against the base
of the little white
pine, wrapped
in glittering
golds and reds, gifts
for the Christ Child.
No claw or paw
or beak or wing
has touched the snow.
Only a hidden pitch
of grass pushes
it skyward.
It shirks
its shrinkage
north
of the pine.
It will not
winnow until
the bright star burns.
*I pass the snow
and think of nothing*.
2.
Lightning split
the hide
of the 80-year-old
oak that shaded
our little tan house
each summer.
Its bark ripped
apart like
wallpaper,
life leeching out
of its crooked limbs
in sap-soaked
streams of sorrow,
making room
for the little white pine
to thrive
in the dead of winter.
*Nature is not
our friend*.
3.
The pine prays to preserve
some piece of the oak
I used to love. Its needles,
like shark’s teeth,
fend off friend and foe
alike, granting it
the right to grow
wherever it likes,
even here,
at the foot of giants.
Dead, the pin oak loans
its beauty to no one,
boasts only of its hard,
straight wood,
an abiding abode
for birds and squirrels
and barking boys.
I climb to its top
each Christmas,
straining toward
the Epiphany star.
*The tree sways, and
I think of nothing*.
4.
The burgeoning pine
pines for such power.
You cannot cut it
without exposing
its darkened knots,
like aging spots
on my hands
and face.
It rises bright with
anemone-like cones
dappled on its coat
of single color:
evergreen,
ever young.
Ever gone,
my pilgrim oak.
I stretch toward the star
of Bethlehem,
dreaming my way
to Heaven, saying No
to the punishing
star of snow below.
Hanging high
above the Earth,
I sense the Christ Child
in my branches.
*Wet, wild grasses
brush His cradle,
push me skyward,
His star my home*.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 10:16 AM UTC
on fine paper,
quality paper,
deserving of thoughtful
care and consideration,
summon courage,
write for one,
even if too many will indifferent read
write for the one,
who will wait for you,
long after closing time
for the need to say
Something
of thanks,
something that cannot go
unsaid
write for the one,
who cannot say
what they needs to say,
and in their stumbling style,
fumbling unsuccessful reach,
says it better than anyone
write for the blind and
sing for the deaf,
be their guide,
be their intimate,
aid them to escape boundaries,
by granting them the saws
to cut loose binding emotions,
share with them your most
intimate courage
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things."
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Dear you
This world is not a wish granting factory
But please believe that you will get everything you need sooner or later
And remember that the things you needed, are not always good
It may be bad, because what is good when there is no bad, right?
In your sixteenth birthday, I wish you could be wiser
You could be more mature
To face everything in your life
Happy 16th Birthday **
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
I find myself in a daydream about those lips
Slowly caressing every inch of my body down to my hips
Leaving me in such a state that I cannot control mouth
Deep moans of yes and no and baby please don’t stop
I find myself surrounded in your arms, lost in your voice
I’m not fighting the mood but it takes m y body by force
Blessing my ears with such a tone of memorization
Sending me into a ****** state of confusion
That only you control and I dare not fight the hold
Cause everything you are doing is like food to my soul
As if I need it to continue for my own survival
The thought of you stopping and leaving gives me a taste of dehydration
Hogging this glass of water to the death of me, you hydrate me
Close my eyes as I continue to steady my breath
So much water I’m drowning in my water flow
Trying desperately to keep my head above the current only to be dragged down to the bottom
The water overtaking my body granting me the pleasure of feeling every desire you have
Reaching out for your face to pull you close, gazing into those eyes
Seeing the passion you have for me only takes us to new depths of waters
Suddenly the effort to breath becomes easier as we are exchanging an never ending oxygen support
Legs wrapped around you waist, squeezing to keep you near
As my body is shaking with overwhelming pleasure from this sea we have created
Wanting to bring you to the edge of the waterfall and watch you overflow your self
Both of us deep underwater submerged in love
Suddenly floating to the surface again
It seems we overdosed on love, in our own sea we drowned.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
~
*Memphis
and the King,
plagued up
to his neck
in denial,
turning remote
controls
into staffs,
staffs into snakes,
jackals,
and hounds,
shaking the sistrum,
singing gospels
full of mystery
to a god,
a girl,
and state of mind
he will never solve,
asking skies
of transulent
orange,
from the far corners
of his world,
for pharmacopia,
then granting
Moses
his freedom
in exchange
for a box
of hot glazed
doughnuts,
and always
his little
wild petunia,
painted face
and percolating
body,
skin smooth
as the eastern Delta,
her weighted down heart,
his tyranny,
his self-destructive tongue,
her asp*
~
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 9:38 AM UTC
So celebrate with bread and wine,
With meat and lager,
With laughter and song,
And the slippery kiss of that woman,
Eyeing you from over there.
Outside your door ... another awaits.
One who has always been near,
Persuading you with stars.
Promising nothing, yet granting everything.
It is inconceivable,
So I won't even bother.
But with each passing day,
You step closer to that revelation,
Whether by choice or by fate.
And when the door opens for you,
You may find yourself holding a cold hand.
Her skin is stone, unforgiving, and rigid.
Her silent steps follow close behind.
Your shadow. Your mistress.
Regret
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
May Day
Fertility way
Beltane honours life
A peak of Spring
Earth energies are most effective
Let it begin
All busting with potent fertility
The wheel of the year,
potential becomes conception
Nature is fair
Fire festival glare
Ireland celebrations
Feast of Beltane
Latter times,
Mary's day,
it was called in the rhymes,
they say
Bonfires marking,
the coming of Summer
Granting luck to people's livestock,
without mock
The first day in May Irish holiday
Beltane rituals,
counting young men and women,
picking blossoms in the woods,
lighting fires as the evening stood
Matches for marriages all good,
right there and then,
or Summer Autumn would be when
Medieval modern Europe holiday
Return of Spring observance
Probably originating anyway,
in ancient agricultural roots
Rituals and perseverance,
The Greeks and Romans,
held such festivals
People and their cattle,
would walk around bonfires,
and between rattle
Sometimes leaping over,
embers and flames
All households,
fires doused and re-lit
from the Beltane bonfire
Accompanied by a feast,
with some food and drink,
offered at least
May Day also called Worker's Day,
or International Worker's Day
Commemorating the historic,
struggles and gains made,
by workers,
and the labour movement,
reins without jerkers
In the United States and Canada lakes,
a similar observance known,
as Labor Day partakes on the first,
Monday of September not May
Beltane also sometimes,
goes by the Name May Day
This holiday strongly,
associated with Pagans,
they say,
for fertility come what May
The origins are in ancient play,
across the world this May Day
© 2022 Carol Natasha Diviney
May 1, 2022
May 1, 2022 at 5:45 AM UTC
"Memory is more indelible than ink."
—Anita Loos
~
*Europe, after the rain,
the sun lending warmth and comfort.
fringes come into focus.
shadow journal,
fiscal dreams,
becoming ****** lines on a page;
procession bells
for young brides,
veiled in lace.
a touch from her
outstretched hands,
this honeymoon phase
running up the thigh,
the holding quite still until
she smiles for pendulum.
at first light, breakfast in bed,
granting pastel wishes on
boxing night,
then a letting go of the kite string.
new fingers in the medicine bottle,
tiny geometries
inside a house of reciprocal numbers.
paradise in mnemonic children:
cartwheels and handstands,
coloring books of
neglected spaces,
future ruins.
one hundred violins
play to isles of ignorance,
stray embers settle
along the solemn Chemin De Fer (railway).
a catalogue of afternoons
on the bike path
thru propeller seeds and dragonflies.
arriving in the haloed flesh:
skin dive,
the place of couloir descent;
**** beach,
the place of odd glances;
gun chamber,
the room of secondary light;
all horizon variations.
an algebra of darkness,
this dense Roman twilight,
their exiles unreflected
in blind lanterns.
our brightness will become
refracting silhouettes,
a broken yolk in the incendiary sky.*
~
Aug 29, 2022
Aug 29, 2022 at 12:38 PM UTC
How much pain
Can one heart take
Burning battle scars
Every time
I don't hear your voice
I'm lost
How could I fall so far
Always afraid to kiss you
Now there's no you
Aimless and alone
Hell in my heart, an upheaval
Power of my being, without appeal
Granting you freedom
How could you still steal
The whole of me
Shadow of me, walking
Acknowledging the best of me
Stored deep inside of you
Everything else is hopeless
As no distance or time
Has murdered my love for you
Veins chocking, turning blue
As my heart walks about within you
Leaving me here dying, its true
Aimless and alone
Hell in my heart, an upheaval
Power of my being, without appeal
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 5:40 PM UTC
Dear Mr. President
This is a letter from me to you. There are many who are displeased with you....but I'm actually quite proud of you.
You helped the automotive industry get back on track......even though you had the naysayers upon your back.
I feel many people put too much of the blame on you.....especially when there are other's involved. You can't achieve success alone....you need a team. Just like Dr.King.... I know you also have a dream.
I recall your visit to my state and eventually my city. You blessed my neighborhood with your presence. I saw people of different ethnicities standing as one. Everyone was smiling even the sun.
You bellowed words of inspiration into the mike. My family was gathered on the sidewalk and for once everything seemed to be alright.
I like how you are just a regular guy and love to play ball. I admire the fact that you get to play with the superstars who will eventually enter the Hall of Fame.
Your name has been etched in history .....I'm honored because I never thought I would see this in my lifetime. An African American giving The State of the Union Address in primetime and granting interviews on Nightline.
I love the example of marriage and fatherhood that is on display. It is often stated that "we" don't commit and are dead beat dads.....from what I've witnessed you aren't doing bad. Thank you for the positive image you have provided me.....it's a form of motivation for me.
I saw a picture where you had your feet on the desk and you were on the phone....but I knew that you were a hard worker from the hole in the bottom of your shoe. You were about the people and walked where we lived..... not in Hollywood or Rodeo Drive with your finger in the air doing your redition of ' Staying Alive."
Mr. President...the thing that really gets me upset....is the blatant form of disrespect. They continue to call you by your last name....You earned the title of President yet they deliberately leave it out. I often hear Mr. Obama or Barack.....how is this cool when you are obviously on the clock.
They showed respect to President Clinton and George Bush.....both of them even though he tried to steal a whole state....but no one will discuss that issue.....I guess I'm a few years too late.
You are highly educated and intelligent more than the media would like to say. I'll make sure to add you to my list of leaders when I pray.
Thank you President Obama for the example you have been. I believe that you deserve the opportunity to do it again.
Sincerely.......a struggling poet.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 1:09 PM UTC
*stepping back into the west
chills reverberate up and down my spine
chiseling open obsolescent padlocks
dangling with dust
on ancient treasure chests
pallid colors in the attic release
a blossoming familiarity
faint hints of retrospections float on faded paper
granting me access to roads
where no map is needed
as i peruse the streets
my heart flows coalescing with the vicinity
caressing each detail i transform to fluid
and fuse with the past
through fresh strokes of watercolored memories
recollections flash before my eyes
revealing antiquated stories
though thought forgotten
an etched history endeavors to define me
renewing itself as i turn each corner
i shudder at some remembrances while encompassing others
through synchronicity realization hits
that I am all of it
yet none of it
at the same time
familiar faces paint meaning onto me
no longer do they know me
yet they airbrush vestiges of yesteryear
and coat me with connotations
i allow them to think i am whatever they imagine
i morph into their canvas temporarily
then break free in multi-dimensionality
they don't hear me with a new listening
no longer invested in their projections
once sharp triggers now appear in soft focus
an auspicious mist lies around the edges
of my former life
it is as if i never left
yet traces of the east lie sandpapered in me
a maturation commingles with my former self
flushing out on my skin
tethering newfound emotions
a gentle gratitude for home territory
nestles softly
inward
i listen to the clicks
of my scuffed cowboy boots
on acquainted yet somehow distant sidewalks
the echoes layering multiple impressions
glimmering with the utter beauty of this terrain
as I wander through the majestic rocky mountains
drinking in the quaking aspen's crimson edges
interfacing the evergreens
hushed whispers of autumn loftily rest
juxtaposed neatly against futures waiting to unfurl in the wind
an amalgamation of intimate sights and scents
dance in open wounds
dazzling
homesickness cured
a wholeness returned
as winter's crystal dawn blooms
i realize the depth of my growth
for in leaving here and returning
i cherish the west
my home
©2016 janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC