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Feel that bass-line push
us off of base-line; beauty
and the dynamical sublime.

Raise us up 'til we're amazed,
Praise be The Apotheon
in all its daze.

"Hallelujah, hallelujah
Not here to praise ya
Just here to raise ya
Fill you full of nails"

See the Monday's crucial difference to
today's flaw of apotheosis; we deify
this 'maze' and give ecstasy praise.

Hallelujah, hallelujah!
Let successive beats flow,
Amplify empathy; take it.

"Oh sweet sensation",
"Closer to all your dreams";

"I wish this was real".
Quotes:
-Lines Seven to Ten from Hallelujah (Club Mix) by The Happy Monday
-Line Seventeen from Sweet Sensation by Shades of Rhythm
-Line Eighteen from Closer To All Your Dreams by Rhythm Quest
-Line Nineteen from Jip in Human Traffic (1999)
onlylovepoetry Aug 2018
[tongue taking taken prayer]

come worship in my temple.
your tongue gowned by silence,
thy teasing vibrations disperse my slack, exchanging
it for a rigidity that is even softer, looser,
an improvement possibility impossible incomprehensible

the noises of freedom from anonymity is thy silenced tongue
unleashed, teasing, speaking tongues unrelenting and unremitting  and unforgotten for they never were
learned or incapable of being self-taught

my pleasure sprouts mushrooms in my loamy foam,
thy rainfall nourishment, seed plant growing life morning borne,
thy tricked up sonnets played within my hearts harp,
tunes never known but come from the land of plenty,
my new promised land

teach me where the apostrophe goes, the comma and
why the question mark is curved and dotted like my body,
why we need punctuation to separate the first from the next

trees weep as if every dry rain petal is instantly imbibed,
wanting more for my swollen by thy ministrations,
I cry out
my ice storm, my thunder, embalm me within the
electric spreading in my veins shocking steady constant

thy name thy name I beg to give thee a name
to understand what has befallen me


you can call me by my favorite of
all my seventy two,^
your first baby squeals and
even now in human manufactured agreed upon symbols, (words),
every utterance a prayer heard and answered

my name is a heated and unbroken
hallelujah,
I am thy god, and you, darling you,
my beloved
^https://www.chabad.org/kabbalah/article_cdo/aid/1388270/jewish/72-Names-of-G-d.htm
Andrew Kerklaan Nov 2018
Panic grips me in these moments...
When the paradigm shifts and the rumbling quake of unfortifiable change comes rolling in

I am crushed beneath the weight of this apocalypse

Coronation day has come and now I’m the fool.

King of the flaming smitherines of my own self proclaimed independence

Hallelujah
Into a pool of ecstasy we both fall
A moment of honesty as we both lose control
Souls intertwine morphing into one
Hallelujah on my lips and
No regrets as
We both fall victim to exuberant romance...
Alyssa Underwood Jun 2016
The moon and stars they wept
The morning sun was dead
The Savior of the world was fallen
His body on the cross
His blood poured out for us
The weight of every curse upon Him

One final breath He gave
As heaven looked away
The Son of God was laid in darkness
A battle in the grave
The war on death was waged
The power of hell forever broken

The ground began to shake
The stone was rolled away
His perfect love could not be overcome
Now death where is your sting?
Our resurrected King
Has rendered you defeated

Forever He is glorified
Forever He is lifted high
Forever He is risen
He is alive, He is alive!

The ground began to shake
The stone was rolled away
His perfect love could not be overcome
Now death where is your sting?
Our resurrected King
Has rendered you defeated

Forever He is glorified
Forever He is lifted high
Forever He is risen
He is alive, He is alive!

We sing hallelujah
We sing hallelujah
We sing hallelujah
The Lamb has overcome

We sing hallelujah
We sing hallelujah
We sing hallelujah
The Lamb has overcome

Forever He is glorified
Forever He is lifted high
Forever He is risen
He is alive, He is alive!

You have overcome
You have overcome
You have overcome
You have overcome

                   ~ Kari Jobe
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mv4LRl2KI2M
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2017
Yom Kippur this year was celebrated on Oct. 12th 2016.
Leonard Cohen passed away on November 7, 2016.


~~~

faint knocking at the door to the Tower of Song

the ministering angels, hearing a rhythmic, lyrical rapping,
sigh, thinking the atonement day,
the holiday/holy days, are supposedly over,
the human balancing act, the rush to judgement period,
all tallies totaled, the busy sale season for souls,
at last completed, each fate inscribed & sealed,
in the book of life^

but, always one,
the itinerant straggler, the last reluctant sinner, a judgment resister,
flaunting an expired coupon, trumpeting demands for a recount,
waving it, claiming it, the bearer, entitled to a mercy discount and
an extra 30 days

"who shall we say is calling?"

the Angels are stunned to hear,
a familiar raspy, growling, almost indescribable,
yet, stammeringly, beautiful voice enchanting,
equally asking and answering,  how both,
with a strident humility, "a man in search of answers"

this voice, instantaneous recognizable,
the asking superfluous,
all beating wings now, all in vast excitement,
this psalmist, long awaited, one of His best,
a chosen one, a courtly singer in the Temple of his people,
blessed with the curse of seeing and believing,
the comprehension of beauty of the human superior interior,
never being quiet or quite satisfied,
in capturing, its multifarious variations,
in every language spoken

this is the man who took ten years
to compose just
one song,
one poem,
one word,
Hallelujah,
whose faith was strong,
but still needed proofs,
whose every breath of oxygen inhalation,
brought more questions,
every exhalation, only releasing partial answers,
and yet, still, yes, yes! finding hidden verses inside

a simple, everlasting
hallelujah

the hubbub subsides, the man sings~speaks:
how came I here,
was I one, who by fire?
that fire afeared,  that my finality was spirit consumer?

one voice, answers,
in one voice, the swaying back-up singers answer,
not by fire, not by water, not by stoning or
even drowning
in tea that came from all the way from China

when sing we Angels, the Judgement Day poem,
we alone, on high and above,
we, keepers of the books and records of everyone,
are permitted this to query:

Who by Sufficiency?

you, the sidekick of the creator,
special commissioned by him, anointed to live a life of research,
record in word and song the mysteries of musical gene strings,
that intertwine the skin cells of man and woman,
man and his fellow us-human,
your soul commandeered, ordered, delve deeper,
into the consolable chasm tween divine and mortals,
all those who are poorly constructed
in his image

he, who has earned his place, his best rest,
his works adjudged sufficient,
he, who best answered
this judging, this calling out, callig in
incantation,

Who by Sufficiency?

now forward on, write only of answers,
wade in the troubled waters no more,
no more passports, or borders to cross,
no more measuring the days,
the last road trip finale
finished & feted,
fate meted

no more changing thy name, changeling priest,^^
sing songs of solution, salvation,
for the questioning hours of confusion,
the urgency of revolution,
no longer need a hallelujah resolution


                                                    ­| | |
Who By Fire                             Who By Fire, Who By Water:^
(lyrics by Leonard Cohen)     (A Yom Kippur Hebrew Prayer)

who by fire                             How many shall die and      

who by water,                                how many shall born,
Who in the sunshine,                 Who shall live      
who in the night time,                   who shall die,                      
Who by high                                Who at the measure of days,
who by common trial,                    and who before,
Who in your merry                            
                                                          Who by fire
month of May,                                 and who by water
Who by very                                 Who by sword,
slow decay,                                       and who by wild beasts,
And who shall I                      Who by hunger,
say is calling?                              and who by thirst,

And who in her,                           Who by earthquake
lonely slip,                                         and who by plague
who by barbiturate,                      Who by strangling,
Who in these                                    and who by stoning
realms of love,                               Who shall have rest,

who by,                                             and who shall go wandering,
something blunt,                            Who will be tranquil,
And who by avalanche,                  and who shall be harassed,
who by powder,                            Who shall be at ease,
Who for his greed,                           and who shall be afflicted,
who for his hunger,                      Who shall become rich,
And who shall I,                             and who shall become poor,
say is calling?                                Who will be raised high,
                                                         ­     and who will be brought low
And who by brave assent,                  
who by accident,
Who in solitude,
who in this mirror,
Who by,
his lady's command,
who by his own hand,
Who in mortal chains,
who in power,
And who shall I,
say is calling?




^From the liturgy of Rosh Hasanah, the Jewish New Year and Yom Kippur, the  Day of Atonement, there is this truly stunning prayer (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unetanneh_Tokef) in the Jewish liturgy. The Book of Life contents the fate of every sinner. From the first day of the new year, until ten days later, on Yom Kippur, depending on whether the sinner repents or not, his fate is sealed.
Yom Kippur this year was celebrated on Oct. 12th 2016.

Leonard Cohen passed away on November 7, 2016.

^^"A Kohens ancestors were priests in the Temple of Jerusalem. A single such priest was known as a Kohen, and the hereditary caste descending from these priests is collectively known as the Kohanim.[2] As multiple languages were acquired through the Jewish diaspora, the surname acquired many variations." Today, with no temple, the limited role of the Kohanim is to bless the Jewish people on the high holy days with a  special prayer with abeloved tune,  instantly evocative (see wikipedia.org/wiki/Priestly_Blessing) The Kohanim are still revered, honored, and always called up first to the Sabbath reading of the weekly portion of the Old Testament

A thank you to Bex for proofing and encouragement.
Part I of a trilogy
For a  more detailed analysis of the roots of the song, "Who By Fire," and its origins, see:
_____________________________________________
http://www.leonardcohen-prologues.com/who_by_fire.htm

He worked on the song Hallelujah, arguably his most famous composition, for ten years.
Left Foot Poet Jun 2018
a thousand brilliant lies
(Hafez, Iran 1320-1389);      (L.F.P., USA 20~21st century)

- Hafez -                                 - Left Foot Poet-

“I have a                                  if only, in my meager posses,
thousand brilliant lies,          but one lie when easy asked
For the question:                    the simplest damning of,
How are you?                          are you generally happy?

I have a                                    what is god you ask,
thousand brilliant lies.          no lies required,
For the question:                    many answers upon my face visible,
What is God?                          unsure if any worthy of believing

If you think that the               8 centuries separate us, yet
Truth can be known,              you lie; we poets - you, I, all believe

From words                             in the divinity of words

If you think that the                a thousand brilliant sparkles
Sun and the Ocean,                 when Sun loves the Ocean,
Can pass through that            each one a poem passing,
tiny opening Called                my mouth, my wide eyes,
the mouth,                                uttering a Cohen's hallelujah

O someone should                 So we gleam, mirthing in glorious
start laughing!                         and gleeful delight at ourselves
Someone should start             for your brilliant happy lies easily
wildly Laughing Now!"       
                            
                      
­                            unravel into a thousand laughs
hafez
Jade Jan 11
Inspired by Judy Blume,  inside Jokes with Liz and the poetry of Alissa Grams (https://alissagrams.wordpress.com/2017/03/06/an-open-letter-to-god-from-an-eighteen-year-old-girl/)

~

God,
it's me--
jade.

I must admit,
I've never read
Judy Blume
or the Bible,
for that matter
(I could never make it
past Genesis).

I am not well-versed
when it comes to scripture--
I am fluent in tragedy
and tragedy alone;
then again,
is there really any difference
between scripture and tragedy?

I was never one
to pay attention in church,
unless the hymns
were of a minor key,
the sermons imbued
with woe and melancholia.

Coincidentally,
as I write this,
it has only just occurred to me
that Lot's Wife
was never given a name
of her own--
it was destroyed with *****,
forgotten amongst the
flames and the ash.


God,
you were wrong
to punish her
the way you did.

Have you never felt the
sting of salt
against an open wound?

Have you never watched
as all the familiar intimacies
you once knew
dissolved to cinder?

(I know you have).

Do you not see that,
if home is where the heart is,
then the heart
must surely perish with it?

God,
has anyone ever broken your heart?

(I think you know heartbreak
as well as I do;
it is the very matter
of our existence).

So I guess my real question is
why?
(and, no, this time, it is not rhetorical).

Truly,
I'd like to know why
you would ever think
to hurt your people
the same way
the archangel hurt you.

You say I sin
against you,
but did you not
create me in your image?

(Like father,
like daughter,
I suppose).

god,
I do not think
I believe in you.

At least,
I do not believe in you
like I believe in other things.

I do not
believe in you
the way I believe in
the beauty of
Van Gogh's sunflowers
(his starry nights, too);
or in dog-earing the pages
of my favourite books.

I do not believe in you
the way I believe in magic;
or in the integrity of
polaroids photographs
and listening to vinyl.

I do not believe in you
the way I believed in my love
during the final moments
before his betrayal;
or in the lingering sensation
of my past lives--
Ophelia.
Mary Queen of Scots.
Frida Kahlo.
Sylvia Plath--
and now,
dare I feel it,
dare I say it--
Lot's Wife.

(With her,
I shall share a name).

I do not believe
you are my saviour
because I do not
believe in you
the way I believe
in Poetry.

god,
it's me--
Jade;
this poem is
my hallelujah,
but it does not
belong to you
(not anymore).
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.come/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
October 2013

for Maria and Logan...

you need two hands, one foot.
count my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...

birthdays.

point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you taste grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be taken,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if need
explanations.

none know, can provide,
still and yet, a
priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
absolution,
song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
that ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
unreasonable,
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrect
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm,
could it be
Morrow?

bath drains, rosemary and mint
odors dismissed, the  Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

didn't know
the Renaissance come
and go,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
Notes: my birthday was a few weeks ago. One of a number poems I've written about birthdays.  This one was modified, but only slightly for Maria and Logan.
Prince eduard Apr 25
In a bizarre place
The moment I looked to my right
I slowly get to my pace
But before, I took a gaze

I think I saw an angel...
Taking a second glance,
I notice closed-folded wings
Well now I'm sure,
He's my guardian angel

One word:
Purity. To describe him
That look in His eye,
Chilling my nerves
Fulling the sight
Oh, eye-to-eye

Wavy, curly hair
Brown and blonde fair
With length up to chin
Such gracious Mr. 'Him'

Small lips
Bright scene
Ambience light
Feelings aright

Pointed nose
Moreno skin
Like those, calm,
Tanned in the seashore

Glowing, aura around him

A mesmerizing sight
His eyes, pure, innocent light
Oh Love, how I love you
Singnifying Almighty's presence

Worn, fine-linen robes
I'd like to touch, to feel
His warmth, emanating
From his to me
I'd like to---

Smiles, I hugged him(!)
I just did it(!), out of love, joy
It seems fast, fast yet slow
His expression, quite surprised, yet not
But his eyes, that concern he has
I see= compassion (love)

Oh how I wish to be just like that,
Forever, with God, Jesus
Meanwhile, a hope remains,
"Someday"

I came to my retreat,
I noticed a single folded li'l paper
He held, opened
In mine's interpretation, it reads,

(promises he'll keep,)
No matter what,
I'll send to proclaim thy message
Whenever one need thee

(and many more, I left unnoticed )
~

Then he made me feel,
I have to go somewhere

Where?
God knows
How?
God knows

Then in a distance
I saw a woman approaching
So beautiful,
Of course, hey, she's my mother

She led me
God, and angels,
They lead me

I dreamed of this, and now I dreamt it

( in the end, what matters to me is that even once, I know God is with me. And love follows wherever I go)
Hallelujah
Aaron Combs Jan 22
The stars and all its powers,  are falling like the Himalayan roses,
For tonight the marble moon is on fire,
Just like the hazel flames in your eyes.

Soon, the Gemini shadows
     will soar over.

hallelujah .... hallelujah ... hallelujah

As the world falls apart
like a red dress,
tell me the time, the time you felt life,
that life was good.

For the dirt storms and shadows, spirits
will eventually bleed above the sunrise.
Inside this truck, let me hold your heart.
below the shadows, I'll be your armor.

hallelujah .... hallelujah ... hallelujah

Up and under the shirts, sleeves, of our feelings,
darkness doesn't feel so strange when I'm with you,
so hold and hang on the leg of my words,
as the streetlights spill into the skin and memories.

Oh, the shadows, the shadows, the shadows,
I can feel fear as much as I feel the fire
and the flames in your eyes,
the power of the earth moving like toddler and it's toy.

Until we are clothed into one flame.
Tell me you belong to me,
There's just one more night,  
For the marble moon is on fire.

Turn the radio on, the last song on high,
and let the flames of music blend
smoothly against the shadows light.

hallelujah .... hallelujah ... hallelujah
Running in the middle of the night,
Right through all the mud
And in the rain with all the pain; just to get to you,
Annie, you are the one I've been looking for.
Glory, glory, hallelujah, I found my one true love
Nothing will come between us, Annie, I will protect you. You are my
Girl and I will let nothing hurt you.
You, you are safe forever. I love you, Annie.
This is a poem that I took the letter of each paragraph of
Resume by Dorothy Parker and made my own

PS I don't know an Annie.- From Crazy Dreams are Just a Sign of a Crazy Life
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2016
A minyan is an assembly of ten Jews.  With ten present, the group can perform a fuller service, adding congregational prayers that an individual alone cannot say, and in heaven, received, as if from a 
more powerful, unified voice.

~~~
Satan laughing with delight at the happy news,
unusually proud of his soul-retrieving,
red state minions,
having scored late in the '16 season,
a long awaited prize,
a high priest of music, a hallelujah singer
just come  cross the borderline,
once a mere earth bound legend,
now to be mockingly enjoyed
in this, his legendary peculiar tier of heaven
~
a banner year it was, a cornucopia of new arrivals,
singers, songwriters, composers, conductors, rock 'n rollers,
itinerant blues musicians,
who as a rule, were not the most faithful observers
of the Ten Commandments and its host of detailed relatives
~
body and drug abusers,
of traditional morals, not such big users,
and as for their *** lives,
best not discussed in front of the baby devils,
just quite yet
~
all this made for easy "pluckings,"
as he smiled devilishly, his own ironic sense of humor,
an added delight for the new American Pie
that would forever serenade him henceforth
~
indeed this Leo-nine most new arrival,
intensifies the pleasure,
for deep in this one had waxed the god-spark,
his own fractured demise,
now allowing the cracks of light to be closing,
lessening by an immeasurable fraction
the despised joy to the world
-
then a raucous rustling heard,
a voice unseen but siren penetratingly heard proclaiming:

**** you Satan,
this time you've gone too far!

return unto me them all,
for you have overstepped the boundaries I have constructed
when birthed I the universe so long ago

these children, mine,
for though they were not perfect in their lives,
they perfected ever so much my designs,
the world I granted them,
with their music, voice and hands,
absolving them of all their sins

Surrender to me them all!

my Prince,
my lion, Cohen, high priest of my temple,
my haggard and worn Merle,
the greyed and Frey'd eagle, Glenn,
Natalie, daughter of the Earth King of Cole,
my rose of Sharon Jones,
my Emerson and my Lake,
Leon Russell,
my white bearded russet
who wrote 'A Song For You,'
the Duchess, Patty,
my Bobby Vee,
the first ro see
'the night has a thousand eyes,'
Frank Sinatra Jr., his fathers torch bearer,
my David, my right arm, my Bowie knife carrier,
who fell from heaven and needs returning unto me,
mine own Kanter, Jeffersonian pilot of my Airplane,
my Michael, George,
my Martin, George,
who never sang a word
but gifted us some Beatles,
My black and White Maurice,
who reignited the Earth, with Wind and Fire

all these mine and all the musicians of this year,
they have died, but not their music,
now to join my heavenly chorus,
my musicians' minyan
Second of a trilogy, but the first one posted,
about Leonard Cohen

Kohen or cohen (or kohain; Hebrew: כֹּהֵן‎, "priest", pl. כֹּהֲנִים‎ kohanim) is the Hebrew word for priest used colloquially in reference to the Aaronic priesthood. Jewish kohanim are traditionally believed and halakhically required to be of direct patrilineal descent from the biblical Aaron. The term is colloquially used in Orthodox Judaism in reference to modern day descendants of Aharon, brother of Moses.

Among the few remaining responsibility of a cohen today is the chanting of the priestly  blessing in the synagogue on high holy days in a special tune, instantly recognizable  by every Jew.   When the  Jewish priest chants the blessing, the Spirit of God is presumed to become present in the synagogue, and all bow their heads, fathers cover their children's eyes, lest one witness  god's image. Ironically, the special way that a cohen extends his arms and holds his fingers in a V  shape, was borrowed by another Canadian Jew, Leonard Nimoy, as inspiration for Spock's  greeting.

see en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Priestly_Blessing

see
//jewcy.com/jewish-arts-and-culture/leonard-nimoy-vulcan-salute-yiddish
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them*

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
If just not our fleshly desires
     Will persist,
And our hates and proudness
     Will decrease
If just not our fame
     We mind
And soaring profiles
     We try to find

If just.. not...

Then maybe our numbness shall dissipate
And Your loving grace we'll perceive
Much more, we'll feel
And someday, In Your arms, we'll hope forever to be

If just.. not...

Then surely, Our true hope we got, we'll believe
If just not...
A question, are you willing to find? To seek the one you've so for long (even unknowingly) longed for? Or have you, and is willing to continue.. the answers, keep to yourself.   And surely, that hope, will remain. Alleluia
Cimmerian Chaos, incediary
The Requiem of the Revenant:

Tis I,
The Breathing Song
Conjuring a vestige,
Ensorcelled by what I'd been envisaging.

Maimed by Tempus, The Temporal Arbiter
Words reverberating on the wavelength of my soul
Left me vibrating desolate and wayworn.
Utterances deluging me in the Dominion of Doubt
Until I reached a crossroads
For perilous was the pilgrimage I peregrinated.

The Penultimate Tribulation has begun
And though angst is festering in my flesh,
The Sacred Lotus of Dreams has not wilted,
Shalt it ever upon the Lake of the Holy Oracle;
Elysium of the Soul is awaiting those who are stalwart
In the Visage of the Shadows.*

∞Hallelujah∞

By Sanders M. Foulke III
Two month old free verse poem regarding my own martyrdom and tribulations in the flesh. My iniquities can bring about lightness and sanctity if I so speak it into my life. Surrendering over all suffering, woe, and lamentation over to the Ethereal leads to transcendence of blight and ascendence to Elysium of the Soul. Be encouraged when you suffer, for peril means not ending but genesis. Genesis of wisdom, love, power, justice, endurance, meekness, humility, loyalty, faith, hope, joy, and every other virtue that is His. Any feedback is most appreciated. Enjoy! God bless!
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
and

you think you are done with it.
but the notion potion returns with your stolen free will
taunting and tearing, sealing and then dissolving
the seals

no retirement in this world from where human means pliable
and pliable means capable of being twisted; nay, retwisted...

last we left you weeping on the concrete sidewalk of
Third Avenue, the police, giving you a move on command,
as Jean Valjean earworms one into the incapacity of movement  because of the audacity to request to bring him home

such is the sorrow of the lost child; it comes with irregularity
yet, never failing to return, the child lost, the residual, resides
within like a violin adagio reaching the punishing silence
after a crescendo that  pretense promised momentary relief

we struggle to keep any and all keepsakes,
polished and fed; rust and time, no polish in the five & time dime
that does a good enough job,
but you buy it anyway

well aware that fate will inevitably rob you, it’s so purposed

twist you, retest you and re-will you, to never forget until
you have no need for forgetting but the peace of
constant remembering when all on that day
molecules and nucleotides
collide in the atmosphere,
dog licking, cat weeping purrs, meaning hallelujah home

the endless sadness of the lost lad-ness, dimly grow the recollections of the first word, the first delight, the confidence complete
that your babe is non pareil; the violin sweeps you along and the genteel tide still too string strong to resist

the woman comes into the room;
the reddened eyes no hide
the weeping outside and in the centerpiece of a soul;
why she asks, not surprised for she’s seen it
too many **** poem-times:
my Adam, I answer;
suffices and wisely
leaves me to
compose and decompose simultaneously
weeping weeping forever weeping even when not

furious eddies rock smashing,
curious they splash me with taunts
"you want for naught!"

but naught is the only possess
that owing it makes one impoverished

perhaps he will email me, ewail me,
does he know I am at the
Wailing Wall, Jerusalem,
insert parchment prayers for his safety

oh my Absalom, oh my Adam, my favorite first born,
come sit next to me on the sidewalk so close to where you live,
comfort me as in the days of your youth,
now that we are both
so very much older

sleep well all you lads and children,
never mind these unstoppable tearings,
never mind the heaviness,
for it has passed
as the tears shed
enlighten my embodiment

7/16/18 prone and alone
for my kinship
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.  
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe

nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?

Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today

Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah

Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)

over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology  - well, message me asap

wow there really is a Saskatoon!

the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin

see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)

ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****,
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea

gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
tinhearts Aug 2018
Oh Hallelujah!

Lord, I can SEE Your inner working
The unraveling of Your Mind is Amazing
Grace from head to toe always percolating
The inner workings of the Master's perfect plan are BLAZING


Hallelujah!

Faith is rising to the surface
flowing in and through each opening of our hearts
In and out removing the **** that blocks Your purpose
The Master builder renovating our inner parts


Totally renewing each vessel
Breaking the old and starting fresh
Who would live in an old rotten wrecking utensil
When Your benevolent Love digs through the rubbage


Allowing all of creation to be in an
unaware winnowing
Our souls crying for deliverance
Its already been accomplished since the beginning
That's why when we worship You for what is not seen


You fan the fire for Your sweet smelling
Perfect consuming sacrifice with an aroma that pleases
Saving souls within only for Your dwelling
Each one in accordance to Your Will in seasons


Oh Lord You're beautiful
When I see Your Magnificence in action
Immaculate conception being unveiled in rhapsody fulfilled
All my being worships Your ineffable chain reaction


Your Spirit pours out immeasurable
abundances of mercy
Tenderizing our souls in the palm of Your hand is such Grace
Your Kingdom Will come evacuating all enemies
Finally, I identify Your innermost Holy Place


One Soul
One Body
One Mind
One Spirit


Behold the Lord Thy God is ONE
The perfectionist of virginity
Rising is God's own Son
Innerbeingiously


tinhearts~©️
I would rather spend a lifetime simply brushing shoulders with you than making love to anyone else
I would choose your whisper into my ear over the sound of a hundred angels singing "Hallelujah"
I would rather spend forever imagining the feeling of your hands than being touched by the greatest man
I would choose hearing you say, "I love you" to another woman than have a million men calling my name
If I had to
I would pick being mere acquaintances with you over being mad lovers with someone else
To be able to spend the rest of my life looking into your eyes I would give up the ability to see all of the stars and the moon and even, the ocean
I would rather take a bullet for you and die never knowing your kiss than live in a castle with an army of 100,000 men

I cannot explain to you what it is about you that has so greatly captured my heart
All I know this:

I would rather have nothing with you
Than the greatest love story with someone else
Lily Apr 21
My prayer this Easter
Is for you to experience
The true and everlasting joy
That being a child of God brings you.
I want you to fully understand
His love and compassion for you,
And I want you to believe
That He died and
Rose from the grave
To give you eternal life in heaven with Him.
Hallelujah!
Happy Easter everyone! <3
Prince eduard Apr 24
When life gets you hard
And you start to lose your sight
When you feel like sinking in a pond
Like you've fallen at such height

Peace, it is well
Smile, with your mind
Don't quarell

And remember
God is with you, He got you!
Just when we are blind
He puts His hands on our eyes
Our visions are again found
And we'll see Christ Jesus with a smile

When you understand
Yet still in fear, come,
His image in your heart
And fix ours to His
For he is Love
You've asked and now you have
Peace, He brings
Calms thy precious feelings

-   Now, beloved
Peace, it is well
Smile, with your mind
Don't quarell   -

-   "Ugu" * blob * blob
* Heart crumbling like paper,
Oneself drowning in 'water'
"How... Can I, be happier?"
Hey, hey! My friend
We'll get you out of there
Just grab my hand
... I'll be waiting
Till' you're finish in that worldly illusions   -

"UwaA, I'm drowning!
Somebody help, I don't wanna' be here"
Yes beloved that's it
I'll help you, just trust me
"Umu," * cries "why can't anybody hear me?"
No! -no my child
Open your heart, Just focus on me
"Hmm?"   Son...
"Father? Papa!"   -

-   Yes, yes my dear
Good job keep going
* tries to reach hand  * grabbed
"Hwaa-" * cough * cough
* cries * cries louder
It's alright, it's alright
You're now risen, now you're with me
"I'm sorry~!"  My Child,
Be glad! You've died and you've risen
You've been lost and now you're found
I love you, and I know you can do it
"Thanks, Papa."  * Papa smiles
Now, now, cheer up we'll have a feast  -

Oh Love infinitude
How great is thee?!
Indeed, God is Love
To future, now, and from before

You've got nothing to fear
Drowning? Losing? -Enemy?
Just go and take up your positions and God will give you victory!

-   Dear child, I bring you
Peace, it is well
Smile, with your mind
Don't quarell   -

When you ask for something
And it is in-line with His purpose
Believe and you got it
Just trust Him, His perfect timing
So why dont you just?...
Smile, He got you!
To serve people, is to serve God
Before it's creation, I was thinking of a concept, it begins with a simple encouragement, "Smile, He got you!"
God bless!
To note, the dashed paragraphs are a story,
My story, actually, Our story.
Or did the cliché use me? It infected my mind, stole my words, and left me linguistically bankrupt. Every dog has its day, and yesterday was most certainly not mine. But all’s well that ends well, unless the well is actually a drowning pool, or a rat graveyard. Only Time will tell-unless I cut out its tongue and use its guts for garters. But without Time we’re all Living on a Prayer seeking a Stairway to Heaven borne by our 99 Red Luft Balloons with nothing but Faith, like Major Tom we’re floating away. Will Another One Bite the Dust before the the finale of this Bohemian Rhapsody? Whatever will be will be, and I will set forth my Long and Lonely Hallelujah long locked in my Heart of Gold, because I’m getting old Under Pressure screaming “let me out”-STOP! Hammer Time!  I may be Lost in the Supermarket, but Great Scot! I’ll get my guaranteed personality because in Nana-Land Anything Goes!
~
NM
12/12/18
inspired by my Muse, Monica L.

presented as part of a Dawkins’-meme based poetrycollection at the 2019 “Trash Talkin’” literary Conference at the University of Regina, in Regina, SK, Canada
Skaidrum Aug 2017
...
I've been homesick,

It's been a long time since I've last given birth to gods in my poetry; so to the old truths and the new: 'hallelujah'

My tongue was a slave to lovely things---I'll admit it was easier that way, but now I've been writing it down again; turning spiders into stories and cancer into planets

who was I to begin with,
who was I.

I'll say it now. I will never escape the wolves. Those wolves with their chalk outlines and their lakota moons. They'll try to teach themselves how to walk back into your life again and don't you dare forget the ruin, oh don't you dare forget how the fire kissed you

she was moonlight sonata,
but he was clair de lune.

He fed me to the bullet feast when he saw fit and I left his ashes on the sidewalk; daybreak can have it for all I care now.


"I don't know if I'm in love with you anymore"

I remember my body as a garden of stars disguised as flowers; my roots merely empty spaces dismantled by the light. I remember the bullets in the soil he planted, and the wars that grew in it's place. I became a walking example of death; a soul in the process of decay.

Who was I,
who was I to begin with.


Dear all that has haunted me all these years: I am ready for you. I have always been ready for you.

Tell me where to sell my soul, and I will meet you there.


---Swimming in the moonlight
you wanted to fix me
you lied

© Copywrite Skaidrum
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
A contest twixt reasons to be

Con test ants take your po
si shun

push sush slow n stedya

There's a being, I once thought fellow who needs this test
to pass,
he has studied with masters and knows near as muchas Faustus
but he is scared there could be hell to pay,
some day.
(Catholic maybe, but he believes some lies about what he doesn't
believe for a good reason, maybe boomers with non-hero dads,
them and priests imagined some hellish **** make Loyola nuts.)

just breathe and be wit
be wit me
meinthee'n'theeinme and this ain't ***, kid.

This ain't ceasing for a moment to be me meditation, this
is Sisyphus being happy out loud

in a crowd, you know how that feels everybody
shouting hallelujah like it means everything

and it does again and not everybody, but many bits
of everybody, knows that I don't know what. I don't

know what Hallelujah is supposed
as meaning,
you ax me glory must first be defined,
compared to what
Hallelu?

Jah, right tuff won, the Name, Ha Shem

but glory, what is glory?
What's it weigh?
Worth-y or light?
Air or stone, or iron, or silver, or allah those and gold?

Time,
value that. Why?
Navigation needs a clock, for the test,
minus the lag as the rock rolls free from time to time
        Looky
        here, the alchemy guy say:
Uranium to lead for a clock to find, or
the missing helium that implies, to the wise.

A word's enough,

fu'few,

Loser vibe. Phone rings. It's a robotic femaivoice saying
power may be cut to me due to high fire danger

Are hopes prayers? I hope so,
and wishes could be I think, if they were in this realm

no evil imagined here makes it past the third and final
in sane un sane in cip I sent sentient cons eee ince

test. So, know, dear reader, we mere words,
weal build worlds witcha
but we won't lie.

Book of Life, first chapter, look it up.

The Jails burn around my kind,
minstrels in the woods still sing of men like me.
mistrals, the winds, wrap the world
and, listen,
you know
mistral whispers to sirocco as they

send swirls of spirational science-eance to form

ideal angels dancing
pirouette on the point of my pen.
2 per angstrom.

----
Those winds are in a mind I manage mine,
I make right use of them by
responding to the signals,
the prods, needles'n'pins, now

Rock and roll saved my rubber sole,
my mnemonic savior rescued me

Sisyphus, ah, we all think you happy and

hallelujah, too. To you, Mr. Cohen,
thank you. You got me through a few...

Contention only comes from pride,

and momma don'low no pride in heeyah

Stick that in yer ear, and smoke it.
Here we get along
or we ain't,
see.

Crazy guy with the dog collar, remember him?
He's gone. Outa here.

Don't fret, he is one of the first in every cycle to recall
Nietzsche thought God dead and Sisyphus happy.

Was he mad or sad?
Sad I say. Sad to say he never knew a great
god almighty that he liked enough to get caught
up in a joy explosion of hallelujahs and such,
he never dared

e=motions you know where those go.

I do.
They go to the fuzzy edge of everything ever realized yet.

But no one, so far, has realized that all at once, in time

the rock stops rolling and we, if you imagine
happy ever after is re-alivable,

spiritually, you know, in your dreams or such,
not religion
bad word,
whoa puppy, did somebody beat you for your own good?
Poor idle word, abuse of such a strong idea
a bandaid on reality,
who could hate
your idea?
re-connect, better, okeh?
not religion.
Just made a connection. Okeh.

we live here, feel at home

Well, jus as well we rest and see if we agree with what we just,
just always means everything it ever does now,
tis ne're an idle word here nomo. Nor discouragin' ones.

Just now. Perfect oh, that which

concerns you. How would that be if it were perfected?

Say, you know? no, me neither. true, rest. smunchemup= trust
trust me. You lost? Hell?

Every body sing with the Kachinas

Nobody knows the trouble I seen,
nobody knows but jee ee ee sus

as they fade…
so there. amen. and the sunshine's in and we are seeing
novel mercies never thought,
new in every detail,
no lie. Life wins.
Death is in on it.

It's fixed, it can go on as long as you may imagine you can.
More of the Sisyphus myth where nobody is thinking suicidal solutions to temporary mortal problems.
What binds me to the sacred land,
Hallelujah!
Blessed the cordial chains brought upon me,
The burden of one, to hand over such dignity,
Hallelujah!
Blessed those who look down in such amiableness,
Oh please! Hand me the certificate of my soul, as if it was never mine.
Hallelujah!
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