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A young girl is walking on a sinuous and rough trail.
Wounds and scratches have found its place in her body, so frail.

As she reached the end of the pathway, she began to feel decrepit and impuissant that she wanted to discreetly skreigh.

On a cloudy dark night, a boy appeared in the fog.
He said
Everthing will be okay..
Don't worry..
Just take my hand..

He took her to a place
that is very bright,
dazzling that it hurts
her heavy eyes.

They both sitted on an evergreen
well-groomed grass.
She noticed the beautiful scenery that appeared.
It calmed her mind,
her heart,
her whole being.

The sun shines,
the water by the river is crystal blue,
the breeze of the wind blows her hair.
She have seen the skies,
the birds and the flowers
surrounded by tall trees.

This place is filled with love, joy and happiness.
This is the place that she can choose to be with
or she can be in another world..

                                          - Ella Salvador
(c) June 2018
ryn Nov 2014
Too many** eyes watching
Too many ears listening
Too many ideals capsizing
Too many thoughts sinking...
And dreams drowning.

Too many drops fallen
Too many smiles forsaken
Too many times beaten
Too many hearts left shaken...
And promises broken.

Too many questions asked
Too many answers hidden
Too many faces masked
Too many hands bitten...
And people forgotten.

Too many words said
Too many pacts fade
Too many boundaries laid
Too many rules made...
And games played.

Too many secrets entombed
Too many feelings consumed
Too many ill thoughts bloomed
Too many enemies groomed...
And hate campaigns resumed.

Too many...
A plethora too many
Too many...
We choose not to see
Too many...
Taken far too lightly
Too many...
There's just *too many,
too many...
Mohamed Nasir Jul 2018
The teacher's eyes gathered colours about
The cultured garden scene she knew so well;
She likes the section flowers nicely sprout
Her hidden world where varying colours jell.
Achievers pride she takes with all her heart;
Like outstanding pupils she proudly groomed.
But scrappy lazy ones, never seems to start,
She wished them luck and left alone to bloom.
The sun regardless shines on all juniors.
The bright ones, the brats she pitied a lot.
Through years and wise by age she remembers,
Oft visiting her those she had forgot,
Those she loved and cared have whittled away.
But strugglers now trees they weathered to stay.
Mark Upright Jun 2014
not a religious man
at times, I pray,
times, when the options are severely limited

look, get it, that makes me hypocrite,
instagram-man, shooting photo prayer upwards,
propelling them with all deliberate speed
skywards
thinking a passing angel will pluck'em
and hand deliver them to the correct
deity who will be good mood groomed,
thoughts fly, wishes returned bountiful

mark me upright or not,
mark me man with need for solutions,
mark me asking where should my eyes turn,
when there are none who answer,
mark me not,
for I have already been marked
Cained by life
Tommy Randell Nov 2016
I was always digging up the gold
Up out of the shadows
Of Love grown cold,

Mining the veins of precious blood
Thinking all I did was doing some good -
Old dreams new love.

Staring in the mirror at some distant kiss,
The parting glass, the goodbye bliss,
The cold blue lips,

Toiling there the two-backed beast -
I guarantee no-one resists, in this
Persists the myth.

But there's no happy ending,
A slave's a slave. No more
The delusion in pretending
There is joy in the cure -

I have always groomed for the ****,
Putting pressure on the will,
Be calm, be still.

But I've never loved prey more-so
Than when it fights me blow for blow,
The best Hello,

For the outcome is an anarchy of time -
They, It, What-ever, will be mine,
I'll be defined.

When I am gone from this Poetry
It will be read, I will be yet memory -
Know this of me.

With a logic of indisputability, know this of me,
My hunger will pull your fate to me
Inevitably,

There is no happy ending,
A slave's a slave for sure -
No illusion in pretending
It will be for your pleasure,
Never, not ever a cure!
Christine Oct 2018
I don’t really like to play the victim,
But I'm being failed by this system
7 hours, a hostage to cinder block rooms
With nothing to do but let myself be groomed
Into someone's labor source  

If I don’t have money, I cannot live
But nobody seems to have a thought to give
To my Life being turned into a commodity
Something to be owned, taxed, a luxury  
That sometimes I’m not able to afford.

So much stock is put into democracy
But we don’t matter to bureaucracy
Unless we use the paychecks earned
From the Liberties we burned
To fill their empty promises

They call us ungrateful and lazy
For recognizing that this life is crazy
And resenting all the thought and time
Spent in the Pursuit of a rich man’s dime
Instead of our own Happiness
Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which washes stony structures clean with radiance that laves.

Deserted streets, once dense retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with  faded words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.

Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes...
They frame a frail forgotten tale,  in carved unwritten runes
with symbols hung like halos strung in lifeless, limp festoons.

The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.

A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.

Stilled chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.

Stray footsteps swarm  through church no more (apostates that profane) -
their echoes in the nave ring thin, while chalice cups maintain
a taste of brine in altar wine decaying in the rain.


No face will come with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, or beg lethean balm.


Six steeple towers, steel and stone, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.

No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.

Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in melting tracks.

Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.

Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across a cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.

Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, with no one left to fete.

Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep... a clutch of clammy clouds.


No breath will come  'cross jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.



The castle clock, unwound, defrocks! Those peerless speechless spokes
unfurl the blight of reigning Night by spinning off her cloaks,
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.

Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play –
now voiceless things on phantom swings, like statues made of clay,
mark marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.  

The sun-bleached bones of those who've flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).

The terrors wrought by conscience fraught once stalked and lurked nearby
to rip the shrouds from  curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky –
now wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.

And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears  in sheets of shallow gray.

Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
exhale a gust of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a *****.

A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane,
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.


No souls will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.


EPILOGUE

Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
Dog snores in a dim lit room
His coat is shiny
Just got groomed
He wakes up from a noise downstairs
His curiosity peeked, leads to an inquisitive stare
He hulks up like a pit bull, with nothing to fear
While he’s softer than a teddy bear
His eyes are brown,
round, not square
Shifting himself into 2nd gear
A bark so loud, it fills the air
Danger, I sense danger,
Of that I’m well aware
Times like these are seldom
Times like these are rare
A little like a scare, in a dogs nightmare
Protecter of his masters care
And the noise downstairs
He likes his toys
He’s debonaire
My best friend, with room to spare
Intelligent, would describe him fair
With so much love to give and share
Not everyone can feel this way
Of this, I am gratefully aware
The dogs real name is JJ
He is not my dog, but my roommates
Cronedrome Jul 2018
And may makes brides of little girls
All dressed up in white
From their toes up to their curls
Purity is advertised
Unbroken ***** on display
A veil to keep her gaze at bay
Offered up unto the lord
Who in his Image did make me
And Eve was put on earth for me
To warm my bed and keep me company
Her sin the loss of paradise
So don't be fooled by children groomed in white
Their bodies born in filth and sin
They robbed me of my garden
And so they owe me everything
Their lives, their eyes, their puerile bodies and their hands
Because as we know
‘Man, he did not come from woman
But woman came from man’
We have ridden camels
in the Kalahari,
Flew Eagles over Canada,
walked across the Niagra.

We have boated up the
Nile and pierced the
catacombs of Rome.
We made love by the
red rock in Australia.

Our adventures overlap
memory.
We've spun the Sun and
tossed the moon,
walked on coals,
groomed gorillas and
climbed to Lhasa.

We were married in Tibet,
among the Chinese stalls,
made our way to India
and slept with tigers.

The planet swings
as we kiss, and spins
to the rhythm of Joy.


Caroline Shank
Pooja Jajoo Aug 9
Knock knock
Get up, it's 5.40A.M.

The tired soul
Woke up, half awoken.

Sweat her out
That fresh air on her face
Those cold winds blowing her hair from right to left

It's 7.00 a.m
She rushed to shower
Groomed her hair up

It's 8.30
Felt not to go,
But those eyes dragged her out.

Tired Soul
Rushed to office..

That work load made her overtired
Those lunch break where she could heal

It's 5.30 P.M..
It's time to head back to home
Undressed her in and out
Scribbled her thoughts away.

Tired Soul ..
went to sleep again
Went to sleep again.

-Pooja Jajoo✍
little Dec 2018
Liquid walls distort your voice
They guide me to the undertow
Groomed to be a sacrifice
I close my eyes and let go

Haunted by tomorrow
Glued to the clock
I am not ready to swallow
A life outlined in chalk

I am underwater
People pace above my head
Ready for the slaughter
I am pronounced dead
Tony Tweedy Apr 1
There once was a very fine cat called Flick.
A more respected cat there has never been.
Well groomed, very proud and much admired.
Flick was well educated and some would say both wise and smart.
So well admired and trusted that even fish looked up to him.
Now Flick ran a local school which offered very specialized classes.
Adult fish would drop their hatch-lings off to learn from Flick.
So many hatch-lings were trusted to Flick's care.
For many years and generations hatch-lings came and went.
Flick's prestige and adoration growing as the years passed.
Then one day....
A former hatch-ling... much older and somewhat troubled by life,
spoke out aloud of his time at Cat Flick School and of how the Cat Flick upon the hatch-lings was Fed A Pile.
By any standard all the fish agreed... such is a Cardinal sin.
*******....
Weep no more my child
I can see your eyes worn out with wailing
Your heart bursting with argony
And an exhaustion of hopelessness dwelling upon you

Weep no more my child
For I knew upon my death
You would be shattered within
Floating in a river of unanswered questions
Crashed by waves of regret and sorrow
Looking for a way to make it all stop
Perhaps hope to wake up
And realize it was just another dreadful nightmare

Weep no more my child
There is nothing more you could have done
To stop the jaws of death
From claiming my life
For my time had come
But I depart with overwhelming joy and satisfaction
Knowing you were there up to the very end

Weep no more my child
For I made sure you could stand on your own
Am confident the strong person I've groomed you to be
Can face the tides and storms of this world
And the morals I've instilled in you
Will see you through all things

Weep no more my child
For you're not abondoned
Even though they now consider you an orphan
For through your character and every aspect of your life
Am visible to those who can't see me
And within your heart
I'll forever live
What a beautiful place to stay!

Weep no more my child
In you am alive
I feel my blood running through your veins
My strength radiant in your muscles
I see my courage in everything you do
And in your reflection I see myself

So weep no more my child
For am still here within your own self.
Deb Jones Dec 2018
A lot of people think
That men are like dogs
And women are like cats
It’s really just the opposite

The cat is aloof
And emotionally unavailable

The Dog
“Where you going”
“Where you going”
“Can I go, can I go”
“WhereyougoingcanIgo”
“Ok, I’m going to wait here”
“Wait, right here. Waiting here”
“Ohhhhhhh...Shoooooes”

The cat
“Oh, YOU’RE home”
Then “Ok,this is what’s going to happen. You are going to feed me. Then I am going to stare at nothing on the TV. Then I am going to pass out in the bathroom sink”

The dog.
We clean up after ourselves.
You ever see a dog *****?
She eats it right back up.
Usually does it in private.
No evidence.

The cat.
You will just puke anywhere
And make a huge scene about it. Evidence?
The hacking Hairball.
Even in the middle
Of having company over
Then the cat “Can you clean that up?
That is so gross. I don’t want to touch it”

Here comes the dog.
“I got it, I got it, I got it”

Another thing women
Have in common with dogs
We need to be groomed.
Shampoo,conditioner.
Blow dry. Fluffy!
And perfumed

The Cat.
Licks a paw,washes his face
Calls it good
“What I’m *****. *****?”
“You calling me *****?”
“For two days I will ignore you.
You will be invisible to me”

The Dog
“What did I do?”
“Do you want my favorite toy?
“Do you want my shoe?”
“Why won’t you look at me?”
“Are you seeing another dog?”
“You are aren’t you?”
“Why won’t you let me smell your ****?”
The premise of men as cats and women as dogs. I heard it somewhere and thought  there might be a little truth about it.
If someone bully you,
You don't REACT by bullying back..
Spread peace instead...!!

If someone mistreats you,
You don't REACT by foul mouthing...
Spread forgiveness instead..!!

If someone hates you,
You don't REACT with hatred,
Spread love instead..!!

You can't choose someone's ACTIONS...
You create your REACTIONS instead!!

React with wisdom you are groomed with ...!!!

Sparkle In Wisdom
Dec 2018
One can't control the way others speak to them... They speak with their teaching, upbringing, background, wisdom.

But one can control the way was REACT...!!

Another message for my daughter..!!
On her question, how should I react if someone's foul-mouth with me??
Martin Heath May 17
The Bells In The Meadow -

In the wildness of my western meadow drenched in green
Where as a boy and a boy weary in dreams
Toads wore thorns of Kings roamed beneath black cloaked stars
And stars that then danced in bright milky white rapport
Sun in summer's time soon scorched small minds at play
Laying in wait in the tall old Oaks curled in her crusted arms
Ambushing boys armed with carved wood rifles blood red dried scars
In the wildness of my meadow lay unborn futures unseen

Meadow's wilderness wild washed in false sweet delights
Stalking feeding pheasants 'til fleeing in frantic flight
Fantasies soared 'neath the sun soaking closed narrow rows
Of fattened trees dangling figs for me and the shy sparrow
Wind in winter's time blew until moist warm mornings in May
While the dogs and the dogs of the children still ran
Free to root out red furred squirrels so frightened and
Flee over the meadow's grass green while futures burned bright

Memories quieted on the western meadow
Where as a man and a man of years unknown
Grown the tarnished thistle thick the stained sweetbrier
Cowering in the bright milky waywardly stars
Horned toads gone their tired desperate ways
Carved rusted wood rifles line dried Christmas Tree forts
Hounds their great grandpups groomed in gallant rapport
Memories of my western meadow green where broken bells toll
Emeka Mokeme Nov 2018
Victory over victory
means excellent
and good success.
Smiles over success
can be contagious.
It is a good sickness
to share with others.
It's infection is
really encouraging.
This is the only
disease ladies are
willing to show off when
their men contacts it.
Doctors recommended,
pharmacist orders it,
and nurses injects it,
wives are thrilled by it.
It is a bitter drug
worth taking.
One capsule daily
dose drives poverty
fever away,
and keep ailing
mediocrity at bay.
It attracts mosquitoes,
that's  parasites free.
Without it nothing
worthwhile works out.
Success is everything.
It has an attitude,
It has a voice,
a very powerful one.
Put it into action and
all doors opens,
goes to war and
settles disputes.
Can unlock every door
that refuses to open.
It answers all things.
Children are trained and
groomed to have it.
Pursued by everyone
by any means necessary.
Great risks are taken
because of it.
Those of the dark side of
life kills because of it,
anything can happen just
to possess it.
You are nobody
when success
eludes you.
Even nations goes
to war just to keep it.
To be powerful and influential,
it must be in your abode.
To be successful is awesome.
But you must plan and
work hard to have it.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
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