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Skaidrum Sep 2015
"    Legend has it,
      he could talk the sun
          into setting.    "

    He's a tragedy the zodiacs still gossip about,
               metal wounds glower by the fire,
    flames sneering at druid flesh,
                  crystal bones are decaying,
    wrapping willow branches along my neck~

             Love isn't a prophecy.

Telling time to ghosts who cannot read,
      these shadows ache in the pupils of sunlight~
Lupus showers us in dire blessing;
         so start lighting the torches of war from Osiris,
he's illiterate in your dead language of poetry,

      I can't help but notice you don't pick fights with death anymore.

There's no sunlight on this side of history,
       spider webs become cave paintings to gods~
look north for the tails of dragons and hurricanes,
   cast your doubts to frigid chambers and feverish graves;
A prayer for the day we have no names to mourn,

           His loyalty falters as autumn grows sicker.

You've melted golden eyes upon heavens in ink,
        and he's crippling under silver lightning again;
masquerading demonic skin plastered in snow,
        is a game you like to play to injure gods,
an incredible contradiction between love and lies...

     Pick your poison wisely, wolf girl.

So there's been a few contracts with the dead,
          I swapped my soul with Lupus,
bargained my sins with Sirius,
          traded these miracles with Artemis,
as eight sapphire flames bleed this heart dry from it's curse;

     Don't **** your hopes for the greater good.

Illusions are born when nightmares grow lonesome,
         if the book of the moon spells traitor and betrayal,
then these sinister rouges cannot quell what's been written.
        Our love song was a dark sonata drenched in lead;
discard the sounds that tremble in pianissimo~

    An omen of war divided Yin from Yang.

I'm forcing fangs to ripen by first light,
       while tricking secrets into fusing with fairy tales.
Auburn daggers whine to slither deeper,
      into the spines of star crossed lovers;
beating on drums of moonlight to call me to this world;

    Grief and mosaics relapse in my palms tonight.


"     The birth of a lapis sword
               plunged in the stone
                           of her wolven
                                         heart.      "

"Sometimes love makes puppets of darkness out of all of us.*"
The crow ain't worth much.

<><><>    © Copywrite Skaidrum     <><><>
CK Baker Feb 2017
There’s a silverback haze
on the shallow face
of the Rockwell Ridge
folded brow
puzzled chin
and dark hollow eyes
keeping watch
over the lilies
and crane flies
and will of the wisp

Rust brown ravens
and fisher kings
delight
in the reeds off north bend
(chased by the terraced streams!)
youth blades engrain
on the favoured
and historic
Banka Memorial

Mustard
and pumpkin skies
are clipped
by a call from
the resident loon
the sounds of Buddha Bar
piercing the silence
and shaping the afternoon chord

It’s a time to make way (stream side)
seems the anuran are courting
MJL Mar 9
I’m here
No party
Who’s ****?
I'm not afraid
Everything’s primitive
New baby’s old
Suckling eternity
Carrying his mother
Teaching her father
A universe of historic shame
Threatening
The expanse of senseless
Intolerance
Grasping ignorance by the pores
Infant nails dig in and hold
Evolutions face of madness
Bloodshot
Biding a soiled fate
Biting for more
Sanity
Growing until -ism’s explode
Tears that crave change
Go forward
Moon Star Traveler
Be you
Be here with me
Recede against hate
Be one with the human race
Be one with the universe
Each generation brings us a step forward to ending intolerance.
Mohamed Nasir Jul 2018
O rescue help the boys in dreadful cave.
Those adventurers could meet their demise
Unless in hour of crisis comes the brave;
But one by one emerge and none yet dies,
Unscathed though bruised from historic ordeals,
Escaped the jaws of death. Those left behind,
Our prayers they overcome their perils.
The tears flowing freely cruel minutes grind.
A strange surging water locking them in,
The force push them up to higher chambers.
Upon a mount waited; with anxious kin,
With families, monks believe still embers.
We salute rescuers' courage to save,
And one to God his precious life he gave.
This poem is to the boys and the coach of a football team trapped in a cave in Thailand. But thanks to the rescuers' most had been rescued and one of the rescuers died in this attempts to save the boys. Except a few left behind. Our hope they would be saved and hope all will go well.
Vicki Kralapp Mar 2018
We live in times of greatest fear,  
and hear the echo of the past,
in words of those we can’t ignore,
and lessons of historic years.

Wars and their rumors speak to us,
of violence and the end of days,
as voices whisper in the lines,
of those we join in nightly news.

We stop our ears to those who plead,
for us to listen to their truths,
and point our finger for mistakes,
at those who have the most to lose.

We hide our eyes from blatant facts,
because they don’t affect our lives,
and so become a puzzle piece,
of people's war against itself.

The voices held in mortal screams,
of those beyond our backyard fence,
with children paying for our greed,
the future of our lives foretold.

But now with nowhere we can hide,
from evils living in our world,
our future lies upon the truths,
that are so carefully concealed.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
jane taylor Jun 2016
how i have ached to walk amongst the evergreens
encased by dazzling quaking aspen
in my rocky mountain home

i yearn to fall again while skiing
and catch a wisp of icy sky blue
snow powder crystals
on my tongue
******* feelings
rise and fall
as they melt
and disappear

i long to breathe in your scent
sitting on the peak of wooded ridges
amidst slate colored boulders
sea salt combined with cinnamon
laced with wildflowers
crisply filling my lungs

i hunger to once again
behold again your red rock formations
creating tender hollows
through which timid coral sunsets peer

i crave hiking at dusk
into your jagged emerald forests
and sit wistfully mid the columbine
while darkened sunflowers juxtapose
against the jet black emptiness
enticing the stars
to etch enchanting paintings
on inky cobalt skies

hankering to be at the sundance film festival
coyly peeking into restaurants
covertly spying on the movie stars
on old park city main

itching to experience waiting patiently
for a moose to cross the street
its majesty splashing gingerly
sending chills throughout the galaxy
magnificence abounds

i pine to have memories gently cradle me
like worn out patchwork quilts
warmed by incandescent fires
wrapping me in soft colored canvas
the past craving transformation
by an echo that’s now dim

faintly crying out for
an old familiar artist’s brush
that still lingers
to snag times gone by
and paint the future in

amalgamating the antiquated
with the present
luring in
my destiny

i dream to don my fringed leather jacket
and hear my cowboy boots
fiercely clicking
against charcoal shadowed midnight sidewalks
while i watch the harvest moon

i’m parched too see your autumn chestnut leaves
against the bloodshot auburn sky
as cardinal hues give way to glistening winter
melding into tender spring

your summertime birthing
tingles down my spine
as chartreus aspen leaves
morph to golden bisque
enticing ute country
to blow in
copper colored indian summers
with cherry fragrant wind

yutaahih you were called
by the apaches
their historic essence
somehow ingrained within
my every cell
thirsty to lie enveloped
like a long lost lover
in your rugged western terrain

once having left your presence
i return to you now
my heart flutters
with wild anticipation
to see your precious face again
utah

©2016janetaylor
after a 5 year absence, we are returning to utah at the end of this month
Leonard Green Feb 2017
Prolog:
Foreplay opens with an aphrodisiac dubbed the mind
caressing private chambers with passion, over time
words stimulating nerve-endings for the ideal tease
like the skin dripping of honey from the nectar of bees
exploiting the fragrances of scented oils and balms
or maybe vib’ing lyrics inducing a seductive calm
compelling forces bombard the intellectual’s sanity
as the proximity of the blackhole distorts humanity

Love’s Play:
Costars entwine heated bodies for love’s embrace
as moments become endless as vectors of subspace
sporadic movements take the form of blissful spasms
while the players combine to mold a single plasm
ringing chimes fulfill the awareness with sensations
too diverse to classify for logical deliberations
yet finally, the mountaintop of cliffs can be reached
where there is no retreat and no return from its breach

Epilog:
Aftermath closes basking from the physical exertion
as two kindred spirits epitomize timeless insertion
gazing deeply into the abyss of the partner’s soul
only to find comfort and compassion ruling the role
can this be the earthly heaven that one truly beholds
written in the historic words as the heavens foretold
feelings ignite once again burning deeply within
opening yet another intriguing act, one must attend.
Dedicated to the lovers on Valentine's Day
MJL May 11
Lovers peck wee initials deep in Tulare County bark
Letters grow more historic with each passing tick tick tick
Flitter-flutter tickles the breeze whispering beloved's anthem higher
Chestnut feathered flights of fancy pierce the sweetheart's crest
Juniper berries laced with honeysuckle and rosy sweetness
Will them to taste and savor each jittery moment
Heart beats syncopate with their May swoon and sway
Counter clockwise then clockwise, away then toward Yagura
Taking turns leading then following
They nock their dream
Every nestled embrace they etch deeper
Every page their timber tune ripples rings wider
Every ardent kiss with open eyes pounds louder
Their heart radiates a single fleeting verse
Two wee birds
One lovely voice
One timeless plunge
Begging their tango to last
Wishing their story to always be
Loves mark upon the ages


© 2019 MJL
Etching the largest tree in Tulare County represents creating our lives together. Sequoia is Cherokee for sparrow. The giant redwood is named for a Cherokee Indian of the early 19th century who created the Cherokee language. Yagura is a Japanese high wooden tower used in a May folk dance celebration of springs rebirth.
FIRST DAY

1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!

The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.

I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.

I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!

The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.

What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!

But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.

The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.

Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.

Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.

Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.

Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?

I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.

It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.

Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!

But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.

Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!

Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.



2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.

Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.

The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.

Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?

The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.

Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.

Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.

You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.

Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?

Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.

Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.

Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.

Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.

Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.

Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.

Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.

Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.

From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.

Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:

Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!

Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.

Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.

It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.

Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.

He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.

And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.

3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!

An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.

A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.

A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.

A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.

A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.

A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.

A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.

A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.

An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.

A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.

A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.

Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.

A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.

A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.

An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.

A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.

A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.

Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.

An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.

A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.

4.
Does Chicago have a future?

This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!

Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains

Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.

Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.

Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.

You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?

I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.

The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.

The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.

The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.

The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.

Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?

Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.

Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.

Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.

Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.

Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.

Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.

What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.

Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.

Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”

Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.

I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.

Sorghum,
I think its hardy.

Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.

Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.

Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.

When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?

You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.

Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.

Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.

The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.

Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.

Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.

This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.

Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.

Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.

Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.

Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.

Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.

This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.

5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.

Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.

Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.

People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.

Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.

Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.

Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.

Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a *******.

Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.

Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!


SECOND DAY

1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.

According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.

The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.

I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.

Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.

I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.

Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”

He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.

Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.

The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.

He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.

I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.

I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.

The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.

It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.

The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.

Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.

Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.

On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi­,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports­,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.

Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.

2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.

He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.

Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.

He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.

All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.

Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.

I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.

Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?

Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?

I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.

"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”

No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?

I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.

I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.

What level
is he speaking of?

Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.

I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?

What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?

What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?

This seditious talk!

3.
The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.

People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.

Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.

The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.

Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.

The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.

It is the true level
of this city.

The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.

Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.

A blessing,
Chicago?

All rivers
come here.

All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.

All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.

We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.

Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!

Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.

He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.

Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.

The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.

Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.

Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.

Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.

Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.

A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.

The Blues live
on in Chicago.

The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.

The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.

Music:

Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago


jbm
Chicago
1/7/99
Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
disclaimer: unedited rambling and overly long and frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage
Rambling, unedited, and yet fresh so off to the presses..and at 4:21am,
I frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...
Vexren4000 Nov 2018
A golden era of humanity,
Times of kingdoms,
Great wars of glory and victory,
Times of beast and man,
Of gods and angels,
Lore and fable.
Places placed in historic memory,
Some with secrets never to come back.

©BAS
Marigolds Fever Sep 2018
A Town
Short journey
To blue bird oasis
Sky and earth kiss
Whiskey distilled
Tasty brewed concoctions
Groovin' on a flip side
Village life resides
Divine estates
Pillars of beauty
Garden stroll
Delicate flowers seen
Fragrant herbs of green
Historic hall
Blue light
Glowing every night
Sunsets glimmer on water ways
They walk a trail
Near a bridge of history
And watch a step on a track
Paddle the moonlight
They come back
Tranquility or venture
Life’s thirst quencher
History in a town
Signs observed
To be found
All part of
Dynamic and preserved
Lawrence Hall Jan 11
For Mike Marconett

                                  of happy memory

Bright star, beyond a Sterno stove’s brief glow,
We’ll live forever as we live this night:
Coffee and cigarettes and comradeship,
Our backs against the sun-warmed Sierras
As the cold falls from infinite darkness
To keep the snow in place another night,
To smile in ancient silence back at you,
To make a glowing, slumberous twilight until dawn.
Those C-rations were good after a day
Of scrambling among pre-historic rocks
Made musical by the dinosaur creek,
Water as cold as the dark end of time.
San Diego glows in the south-southwest,
Silently, inefficiently, light lost.
But you, dear, happy star, will still shine down
On dreaming youths, tonight and other nights,
Counting for us, for them, each millennium.
Michael Dean Marconett of Minnesota was a Navy buddy in 1967-1968 through recruit training, Hospital Corpsman ‘A’ School, and Field Medical Service School.  One weekend Mike, Bill, another friend (who was killed in Viet-Nam), and I rented an old car, loaded up our Marine Corps sleeping bags, and went camping in the snow.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.*

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"*

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage
Rambling, unedited, and yet fresh so off to the presses..and at 4:21am,
I frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...
ALC Apr 5
We are two wolves
Tearing at each other’s flesh
Biting in with savage need
Pushing and pulling for dominance.

We are two wolves
Working off of undiluted instincts
Of euphoric animalism.

We rip away our human pelts
And reveal our battle worn skins
Blemished with past wars and historic victories.

We are two wolves
Growling with pleasure and an insatiable appetite.
Digging our incisors into each other’s flesh
And grazing our claws down one another’s backs.

We score each other’s bodies
With nips, kisses, and tongue
Demanding one to admit the others rule.
To surrender and go docile.

But we are two wolves
Fighting each other
Each step of the way
With unadulterated ravishment.
-ALC April 4, 2019
Anne J Dec 2018
The handles of time are wicked, pointy, and blood-lusting
They shoot into me like bullets and never stop their gusting
There is no talk on the matter on how getting out of me
Their marks on my life never disappear and historic shall they be
Oh, the pain of the mistakes done in time coming into history but never going out! Took me a few days to find a way to finish this lol
zebra Aug 2016
while heaven and hell
where engrossed in their own affairs
the light bringer
an incandescent intelligence
was cast down
to this metallic monument of stone
hurled to the depths
mourning star falling
for aspiring
to greater altitudes
the furthest reaches
perhaps some distant
parametric edge
or insensate endlessness
of the northern most realms
Baals glittering throne

Lucifer
stellar divinity
mourning light
enemy of evil
gave mankind its foundations
fire, technology
the signatures of spirits
those vey veys
the voodoo
that Jews do
the secret of
the dark speculum
polished obsidian
for scrying
door to arcane gods
and spirits dark
of great power
Solomons instruments of wisdom
demonstrating that man might live in grace
without watering the ground with tears

now vanquished in the depths
of labyrinths submerged
and contained in a brass vessel
crypt of sigils
the true names of power
reside

as ages rolled over
we lost our depth of mind
became zombies
shadow beings
at first a mystery to our selves
and then the mysteries
became memories
and then even the memories
became dust

no longer could
we conjure or evoke
from the depths
our Jacobs ladder
those Goetic spirits
and  Amadel
of angelic powers
our protectors
and sustenance
lost and bereft of
aladins lamp
leaving men a drift in reason alone
barren religions of flagging faith
desolated
heaven and earth separated
a god absent
based on belief
the words
historic etymology
be-lie-eve
at its very core
it hides its secret for all to see
a lie

science of endless calculus
bereft
a one trick pony
rationality
like a sludge hammer
its only tool
which maps the known universe
but understands nothing
about what things mean
like the subtle architecture
of consciousness
and its interconnectedness
to all that there is
which may be nothing
with no physical properties
no volume
no trans-formative elemental substance
energies of light or force
or pulsating quanta
but inventions of consciousness
it self a light
which lacks volume
and physical quality
all of reality mere dreams
by an unknown dreamer
perhaps the child of another

at the stroke of midnight
the darkest point
in the murkiest age
the Kala Yuga
post modern man
remains conceited
while the world burns
paradise lost

Monotheism reigns
in our back water world
millenniums long night
of honor killings
god of the blade
thou shalt not ****
yet all condemned to die

put that in your pipe
slave makers
over bearing pedagogues
god loving war stooges
your god has a bigger ****
while parents
pack up their
shell shocked babies
there little trampled flowers
forced to
plummet to some dark address
tears fluttering
suffused  by poison clouds
in shady groves
where they only dare exhale

have you not had it yet
with gods mysterious ways
if it quacks like a duck
hello
hell goons
****** spiritual stasis
toxicity and contagion
of the simplistic

their god
a shrunken form
projection of an incomplete  mind

those who live by the sword
die by the sword
and those who do not
die anyway
not a leaf falls with out the will of god
are we not all falling
oh man
cast off axioms
of the addle brained

oh priests
of petrified ideation's
if you have a real god
look to reality to understand it
do you see mono anything
or do you see binary everything
love hate
macro micro
life death
creation destruction
as above so below
the tao
male female

no your god
both great and terrible
can not make you whole
with out her
for she is all of space
creator of all form
our human women
vessels of the goddess
who you have
conveniently subtracted
and profaned
for vainglories patriarchs sake

the universe it self
a multitude of powers
from hells deep shocks
and dismal woe
to adorations from the queen of heaven
and the sacred temple prostitutes
now made sullied
by goody goody minds
shames children
a vice of knives
solar heroes they think
while high minded and ignorant

the synoptic religions
feeding frenzies of dogma
beatings of submission
mouldering skeletons
of the abyss
******* blood loving bats
all dressed up
in Don Trump
plush red power ties
made in china
where indentured servants
in state hell mills
are worked to death

while others
prim men
pretending to love
god
all ostentatious actors
spiritual materialist
fearing hells abyss
outwardly proud
in self righteousness
performing public adorations
while in secret rooms
they ****** themselves
under shadows guilt
blasphemy of gloating piety
begrudging the pleasure of others
there guiding light

there true god
a demon of obedience
bes-tower of agony
ensuring
you gota suffer now
so you don't have to suffer later
dividing man from himself
All of them covering there heads
to obstruct the gifts of wisdom
and freedom
blocking the rays of Luciferic light
and insight
******* in there own hats
so they may remain undistracted
by their gods commands
having forgotten
that they themselves
made them up
pious dullards
that they are

oh Lucifer bright one
i stand before you
embraced by eight
the number of Majick
in arms that proliferate
the true will
Lucifers eight arms
amen
Lawrence Hall Apr 13
A mist, but not of memories or ghosts,
And not a silent mist - a noisy one
Drifts darkly over this altar to the past
The docent pauses for each motor home

Gear-growling up the unexpected *****
Along the road from that point to this one
Well-paved and posted: fifteen miles per hour

For cell-‘phone shots where each historic death
Is marked with stones among the sunlit grass
The docent speaks of her peoples: Cheyenne,
Arapaho, Sioux, and soldier boys blue

With frequent and reflective pauses as
A Winnebago circles Last Stand Hill
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Keith W Fletcher Jan 2016
As I came through the door
Taps the cat  meowed at me
As she crisscrossed the floor space
Staying a foot ahead of me
Glancing into the big closet or tiny room
Whichever ... Dad called it his study
"Hey dad " I yelled at the back of his head
" His quick glance meant "hey buddy"
I noticed moms face on the computer screen
'Oh!"I snapped " mom ... Hey we miss you "
"I'm not talking to your crotch "she laughingly barked
"Sit down ... Move the camera or move your *** Trent"
I compromised by doing all three as dad took a break
The face of someone I truly loved sat there
Looking at me
From over  three thousand miles away.
Three thousand miles away!
"Hey baby " she said in her cooing voice " How are you?"
"Got a job at Dannerlans ... Part time" I proudly engaged
"Don't let it interfere with" ...she couldn't stop and she knew...
I guess my stupid grin finally clued her in as she trailed off
"Half a world away and I'm still mom I guess. Dad musta.."
"He did ... Same thing.. And I won't. But what are you...."
"Don't you dare Trent " mock rage crossed her  face
As a few octaves fell out of her voice and I already knew
Here it comes.....a tsunami all the way from Japan
Putting my nose right to the camera and pushing on
I repeated "tsunami mommy  tsunami mommy  san
What can you do about it . you're way over there and I'm..."
" Gonna get it so bad .. When I get home mister "
:You're gonna look end up looking just like your sister"
"Oh ....Kay...  "I haltingly bounced her words round my mind
"I DONT HAVE A SISTER."
"Exactly"
Then I saw it... Set up and now....
Confusion and pride had my ammunition... just the facts
Dad arrived at that second with a coke for me and his beer
"Did you hear her ?" I asked him
" threating to make me a girl"
As I gave up the chair I heard that cooing soft voice sorta ....
..........GR OO ooowl ?!? While still softly cooing  "oh no no no...
Too good for you Bud...Buuud...Buddy?   You'll just disa..pear!"
Dad laughed first - drawing me in as I reluctantly let go.
"Nice try dear.... but you lost it coming round the outside corner"
What do you mean outside corner ..it was right over but too low
"Bye mom"  I said "got some homework to do " they were merged
Gone now for three month and three more to go .poor dad
His staunch had wilted within forty eight hours of her departure
But let's all pretend that you
never noticed the droop -a bit sad
Poor poor  dad ... Poor poor dad  I chimed as I climbed the stairs
He won't make it another three months . .. Very easy
I  haltingly caught my words as the downer that they were
As I scooped the elegant Taps  from the floor " but they'll make it "
I whispered into her ear. "Won't they girl? "Her answer was a purr

I'm thinking of joining the red cross
That's good...gets you out and about....
In the ...nei..bor....
"Okay .. Whats yet to be told ...spill
"They asked me to run the admin office" She
So you'll have to travel for a while  that's ok" (He)
"The whole admin office for foreign.... "  She let it trail......
Allright so you come back weekends
Ain't that far....to... (He)
      .......... ...Japan ....(She)
Dad........didn't  have any words to say
And the staunch started peeling away...right then and there
The love they shared
Might be compared
To historic qualities
Romeo and Juliet  sans tragedy
Bogie and Bacall  for longevity
Tracy and Hepburn for loyalty
Burns and Allen for ..for the comedy
So I knew.. as..  anyone else who  
Saw him day to day decline
That she was on her way home
By seeing the force of nature
He suddenly became
A human dynamo in preparation
For the reunification.

I walked through the front door
Sharon at my side and lacey in tow
"Go tell your brother to get in here "
So she yelled out the front door
"Trenton Dean Robertson get in here!"
Sharon and I met eye to eye
Bossiest little Seven year old....
"TRENTON now!"  I  yelled  out
"You better do what sis said"
He was now ten and tended to wander about
"I'm here "he said as he appeared
"Come on sis I'll beat you in...."
The last bit muffled
As they closed the basement door
And descending down the stairs

We both glanced into the closet
For that's what it really was
Dad sitting at the computer
And mom was on the screen
So I toted my load of groceries
As Sharon leaned in to say" hi "
And once we had supper going
I went to mix a drink and as I passed by
Dad said "son come here
Your mom wants to talk to you "
Besides we've been chatting  forever!
Then he whispered "I gotta go to the loo"
"Hi mom "I said as he departed
Leaving me to warm the seat
I'm not talking to your crotch
She said for at least the millionth time
There on the screen was the face
Of someone that I loved
Who never made it home that year
The flight was destined for history
Crashing into the Himalayas
Taking everyone on board
And the staunch became so rigid
And reality was simply ignored
He handed me a coke and opened his beer
Before resuming his vigil at the computer screen
That was his reality....his fantasy... and his hex
Some might say an old adage to sum it up
"IS IT LIVE.....OR IS IT MEMOREX?"

AS I drifted from the room they were merged.







..
David Jun 20
Well - maybe I am not what you expected and or wanted

     Or -

        Maybe I am not the flower that you planted

            Life has a way of creating distortion, background noise

   I am me by choice - yes, that is me with the unsure, yet unwavering voice

      Thirty six years of concrete - sure they've made me tough and stoic

          Doesn't mean when you hurt me - my heart doesn't bleed historic

   I've done the best job that I know - though for some, I have apparently fallen short

        Feeling like a frog's relief, on your skin an unwanted wart

Alas I have been made to understand, I guess that..

     I'm the string that's all frayed

    I'm the blue sky that's greyed

    I'm the abortion okay'd

     I'm the gamble that never paid

          I'm a US Marine - Iraq Mosul midnight raid

   But -

I'm the one that's never betrayed

        The one that turns night into day

            But alas.....I still love you anyway !
Marigolds Fever Oct 2018
Night at the garbage dump
Sparkle starlight night
Leaves room for little delight
Speedy legs
Out for a spin
Adventure begs
Drags the wind
Follow a leader
To a place one longs to linger
A flight that’s eerie
What’s in store
Darkness galore
Only four hilltops more
Up up up
Around the bend
Climb to come back again
Clouds through moonlight
Old concrete pebbled on the side
Glow with strange historic pride
Field grasses slow to bend
Smells you would not befriend
Below dark field
A collective treasure of human endeavor
One would not dream whatsoever
Crunchy soil
A perfect spot for the voile
Sit below the grassy line
Take in the oddity with too much wine
Head on a swivel
Watch your back
Never know what’s lurking to attack
Time is up
Must not leave the cup
Only once a garbage dump  
Watch the stump
Fly down in pitch dark
Not mistaken for the park
Former mans duty
Listen closely
To the beckoning tutti
It sings in rare night beauty
RAJ NANDY Dec 2017
THE TRUE STORY OF JERUSALEM IN VERSE :
  FOLLOWING DONALD TRUMP'S RECOGNITION
Dear Readers, to usher in the spirit of Christmas, I wish to
share with you the true Story of Jerusalem in Verse. Based on
Biblical chronology, and several articles about its Early History.
Though the three of our World’s greatest religions have a common
lineage, yet religious bickering and hatred continues to exist in
our present age! Let this Season of Christmas bring peace with
goodwill and love. Let us all pray together for a peaceful World!
If you like this true story, kindly recommend it to all your poet
friends to read this slice of History. Thanks, from Raj Nandy.

   STORY OF JERUSALEM - GOD'S “PROMISED LAND”
                         IN VERSE: By Raj Nandy
                  
                       INTRODUCTION
After reading my ‘Arab Contribution to Science’ and the
downfall of Islam’s Golden Age,
A friend had requested me to write about The Crusades.
Now the Mongol contribution was far greater towards
Islamic Empire’s downfall,
For though the First Crusade besieged the Holy City of
Jerusalem making it fall,
The subsequent Crusades to the Seljuk Turks lost all!
But before writing about the Nine Crusades proper,
To acquaint my readers with the historic city of
Jerusalem becomes my present endeavor.
For Jerusalem is sacred to the Jews, Christian, and the
Muslims alike,
As their holy relics and shrines are housed in that Old
City’s revered sites!
But prior to narrating the story of Old Jerusalem City,
Let me tell you briefly about its early history.
About the patriarch Abraham, whom God led to this
‘Promised Land’.
From where this true story of Jerusalem really began.

                 HISTORICAL  BACKGROUND
The city of Jerusalem was twice razed to the ground.
Besieged 23 times, attacked 52 times, captured and
recaptured 44 times, surprising as it all may sound!
In an era of idolatry and multiple gods, Abraham born*
in the ancient City of Ur,# believed in a single God!
(1800 BC)
So God was pleased and in a covenant with Patriarch
Abraham,
Blessed him to become the ‘Father of Many Nations’
in a distant ‘Promised Land’!
Thus Abraham with his wife Sarah and nephew Lot,
Entered the Land of Canaan as promised by God.
But when a famine ravaged the Land of Canaan,
Abraham had moved onto Egypt on his own!
Having suffered there for some ungodly acts, his
return to the Land of Canaan remains a historical fact.
Through Abraham and Sarah’s Egyptian maid Hagar, -
his son Ishmael was born.
From Ishmael descended the ‘Ishmaelites’, to
become the Twelve Arab Tribes later on!
Next, with the blessings of the Lord, to Abraham
and Sarah son Isaac was born.
Isaac’s son Jacob fathered the Twelve Jewish Tribes,
Who became collectively known as the ‘Israelites’.
From the ‘Tribe of Benjamin’ came King Saul, the
first King of united Israel rising tall.
From the ‘Tribe of Judah’ King David, Solomon, and
several Kings of Judah did rise;
As proud forefathers of the Messiah Jesus Christ!
Thus in Judaism both the Arabs and the Christians
find a common lineage;
Yet unfortunately bitter differences continue to
exist even in our present age!
NOTES: Canaan was the ancient name of a large & prosperous
country (at times independent, at others a territory to Egypt),
which roughly corresponds to present day Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, and Israel. Canaan
was also known as ‘Phoenicia’ between 3200 BC & 539 BC. # Ur = an important
Sumerian city-state in ancient Mesopotamia.


           ORIGINS OF JERUSALEM
Jerusalem has been hailed by many names,
Gets mentioned as ‘Rushalium’ in an ancient
Egyptian text!  (2000 BC)
Also as Salem, Moriah, Jebus and Zion, this capital city
of the Israelites had been known.
Jerusalem as the remnant town of Salem, is also
mentioned in the ‘Book of Joshua’ Chapter Ten.
It was earlier a Jebusite City, which was conquered by  
King David around 1003 BC;
When David shifted his capital to Jerusalem from Hebron.
In Jerusalem he kept the Holy Ark in a sacred Tabernacle,
For which his son King Solomon had built the First Great
Temple.
This Sacred Ark contained the ‘Ten Commandments’,
Which accompanied the Israelites during their 40 years
of desert wandering with Moses, as their guidance!
But since majority of the tribes were hesitant to fight the
Canaanites for their ‘Promised Land’,
God blessed Joshua, the successor of Moses, to lead the
Tribes to their ‘Promised Land’.
NOTE: Jebusite was one of the ancient Canaanite tribes, conquered by
King David.

        TURBULENT HISTORY OF JERUSALEM
Now cutting across several centuries of its dynamic
history, let me continue with Jerusalem’s Story.
The death of King Solomon (931 BC) ended Israel’s
‘Golden Age’,
And this united Kingdom of Israel was split into
Northern and Southern states.
Ten Tribes formed the Northern Kingdom of Israel
with its capital at Samaria;
While Jerusalem became the capital of the Southern
half called Judea.
In unity lies strength, and in division further dissention;
This kingdom of King David and Solomon now becomes
prey to several foreign invasions!
Jerusalem gets attacked by the Egyptians, Assyrians,
Babylonians, Persians, and those imperial Romans, who
had initially built but later destroyed the Second
Jewish Temple!
The cruel King Herod, Judea’s Roman Protector,
Though of unstable mind, was a great builder!
‘The Wailing Wall’ and most of the ruins visible today,
Were built by the despot Herod as Archeologists say!
King Herod enlarged the Temple Mount with a massive
retaining wall around it.
Renovated the Second Temple which finally acquired  
his name!
But in 70 AD the Roman Emperor Titus, razed this
Second Temple to the ground, as Historians inform us!
Jerusalem had some peace under the Christian Byzantine
Emperor Constantine,
Who upheld Christianity, and his mother Helena inspired
the building of many hallowed shrines;
Only to be occupied by the Seljuk Turks later, who
desecrated those shrines!
Till the First Crusade in 1099 captured Jerusalem, to
provide eighty eight years of respite.
Next in 1187 the Seljuk Turk Saladin conquered Jerusalem;
When a peace treaty with Richard ‘The Lion Heart’ allowed
the visit of its ‘Holy Shrines’ by the Christians.
The British captured Jerusalem from the Ottoman Turks
in Nineteen hundred and seventeen;
And in 1948 the State of Israel was born, realizing
Abraham’s dream!
But surrounded by hostile enemies on all sides, Israel
had to fight continuously for its survival as a Nation;
And now I pause to pay my humble tribute to those
valiant Israelites with salutation!

           THE OLD CITY OF JERUSALEM
Nestled on the hollow of the hills of Judea this city
spreads out on a plateau 800 meters above the sea.
With its Dome shining in the sun, dominating  some five
thousand years of history!
The City stretches 0.9 square kilometers surrounded by
retaining walls between 16 to 46 feet in height.
Which includes more than 200 monuments and sacred
sites!
Until the 1860s the Old City had represented entire
Jerusalem collectively.
But later under the initiative of the British, settlements
outside its wall began confidently.
During 1946 when Israel declared its Independence,
The ‘old city’ remained under the control of the Jordanians;
Only to be liberated during the Six Day’s War in 1967!

           OLD CITY GATES AND QUARTERS
The walls around the Old City stretch for 4.5 kilometers,
With its height varying between five to sixteen meters.
It has 43 surveillance towers and eleven gates.
However, only seven gates remain open as on date.
The current wall was built in 1538 by Sultan Suleiman
the Magnificent.
On the southern side of this wall is the Zion Gate, leading
to the Armenian Quarters overlooking Mount Zion outside;
Where lies King David’s tomb, a Holy Site.
The Dung Gate leads to the Jewish Quarters from the south;
And the way to Al-Aksa Mosque inside the Temple Mount.
The Jaffa or the Main Gate is on the west, with its famous
Citadel and the ‘Tower of David’ built by King Herod.
This gate leads to the Christian Quarters inside, while the
road goes to the port of Jaffa outside.
A New Gate was also built further up on the north-western
side,    (in1898)
For entry of the German Emperor William the Second,
through the Christian side!
The Damascus Gate in the middle of the Northern Wall
was the largest and the most heavily defended Gate.
Where excavations have revealed an old ‘Roman Gate’
beneath it.
Through this Gate had entered the Holy Crusade!
Further east on the northern wall is the ‘Herod’s Gate’,
Leading to the Muslim Quarters and the ‘Souk’, – the
Arab markets.
On the East is the Lions Gate, with carved figure of
lions on the gate’s crest;
Both for the Christian and the Jews this gate has a
special significance!
For this gate marks the walk ‘Via Dolorosa’, the path
taken by Jesus from the Garden of Gethsemane to
his Crucifixion Site,
Where stands the Church of Holy Sepulcher built by
the Emperor Constantine.
In 1967 the Israeli 55th Para Brigade entered through this
‘Lions Gate’, after a hand-to-hand fight with the Jordanians.
When they hoisted the Star of David on the Temple Mount  
to reclaim Jerusalem!
Jerusalem was declared as their Capital City,
Concluding a chapter of its turbulent History!

Since the time of the Crusades Jerusalem has remained
traditionally divided into Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and
Armenian sections;
Each with its sacred Synagogues, Churches, and Mosques,
defying the City’s unification!
Yet amidst the gong of church bells, the call of Muezzin,
and recitation of the Torah,
Old Jerusalem reverberates with a unique religious
euphoria!

           SACRED MONUMENTS AND SITES
‘The Wailing Wall’ is the more popular name for that part
of Western Wall built by King Herod during 19 BC,
Around the Second Jewish Temple which he renovated,
for the world to see!
Today only 167 feet of this exposed ‘Wall’ remains,
which is 62 feet high.
As a solitary witness to that once glorious past, which
evokes a deep sighs!
It is the holiest of Jewish shrines today where they
congregate.
To pray in front of this Sacred Wall and to loudly lament,
The loss of their Great Temple which was once made!
Inside the cracks in the wall many folded papers can be
seen;
Coating their petitions to God with prayers from within!

The Temple Mount is perhaps the oldest of all shrines.
Sacred to both the Christians and the Muslims alike!
For here on a rock alter Abraham had bound his son
Isaac,
Ready to sacrifice him when the Lord put him to a test!
Here King Solomon had built the First Jewish Temple;
Which during 587 BC, was destroyed by the King of
Babylon!
The King also took the Jews into captivity lasting nearly
seventy long years;
And Psalm 137 tells us how the Jews remembering Zion
on the banks of River of Babylon, - shed their tears!
That old song by ‘Bonny M’, now rings in my ears!
This was also the site of the Second Temple destroyed
by the Romans.
Who renamed Jerusalem as ‘Aelia Capitolina’, making
the City pagan!
Al-Aqsa Mosque or ‘The Farthest Mosque’, located on the
Mount, was completed around 705 AD they say.
Has been claimed by the Muslims as the site where their
Prophet traveled ‘during the night’ from Mecca to pray;
And from where angle Gabriel accompanied him to
Heaven or ‘Jannat,’ - all the way!
So they constructed the ‘Dome of The Rock’ to mark
this ascension;
Which around 691 AD saw its completion.
The Golden Gate on the east leading to the Temple Mount,
Was sealed by the Muslims during Sixth Century following
their fears and doubts.
For the Jew’s claim their Messiah will enter through this
Golden Gate one day.
Which unnerved the Muslims whatever one may say.
So outside this sealed gate they also built a cemetery;
Let future events gradually unfold in Jerusalem’s Story!

                       CONCLUSION
Now dear readers I conclude this narration, with some
food for thought and contemplation.
‘Jerusalem’ is mentioned in the Jewish Bible 669 times,
and 154 times as ‘Zion’. (‘Land of Israel’)
In the Christian Bible it is mentioned 161 times; but not
once in the Hindu ‘Gita’, the Buddhist Scriptures, or in
the Muslim Koran;
Not forgetting the fact that God is Supreme and One!
The Koran speaks only of “The Furthest Mosque” where  
the Prophet went to pray,
From Mecca we know Holy Medina comes on the way.*
(please see notes below)
The Holy Bible is also a record of Early Civilizations ,
Supported by Archaeological finds, carbon dating, and
countless excavations.
The Jewish claim to the ‘Land of Canaan’ is more than
3000 years old;
And Israel today occupies 75% of that historic piece of
land we know and have been told!
The Old City in 1981 has been declared as UNESCO’s
Heritage Site.
Let the ‘Spirit of Humanity’ overtake all religious divide!
It is true that History has evolved from the Myths and
Legends of the past.
But it is for us to separate the wheat from the chaff.
I have done adequate research of this Ancient History.
Now I leave it to You my Readers for drawing your own conclusions after reading this true Story!
Thank you readers for reading patiently,
From Raj Nandy of New Delhi .
ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE WITH THE AUTHOR ONLY
*** Dear Readers, I have pointed out in the concluding portion that as per all available evidence, claim of the Holy Kaaba on the Temple Mount by the Muslims is not supported by the true History of Jerusalem!
ᏦᏗᏖ Jan 3
I am a broken bridge.
I am lonely.
I am sad.
I was once a necessity.
Now I’m useless.
I’m a waste of space.
I’m a waste to the world.
A piece of something that is damaged.
Who makes everything look ****.
Who is a disgrace to the scenery around.
I am a broken bridge.
When people see me they only see my flaws.
They don’t see the beauty in me.
My historic features.
The many stories I hold.
They only see the broken pieces of myself.
That is something I hate the most.
I am a broken bridge, but I hold the worlds most precious tales.
I am a broken bridge.
stylesclash Mar 10
emptiness that uses those closest to you as building blocks; fog
rolling in, inside you, like gentrification and renovating your home;
the present moment as a viewing, for you have already "cleaned
house" to present yourself; an empty you as the most attractive you

you as historic, only as a skeleton, for you have stood over but
cannot be understood; walls that don't have color, walls that don't
exist until painted by, say, a penumbra of white lies or "no vacancy"
blues; a full house, a houseful of memories spooned, like greens,
into an unwilling child's mouth; flotsam and jetsam blue-blacks

floating, like black eyes, in the silence that follows conversation;
walls that run into you in the daytime, disappearing at night;
isolation shapes, falling like a tetris of delete keys: dropping Ls
and squares and snakes left and right, T'ing up I's at your Q levels

when you come with more question marks, than a Riddler cosplay;
cosplay a conversation, yourself on the other side of your self:
walls that self-articulate, like a spider's web, from the subconscious;
a sense of frustration, when you can no longer find a way to be you.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
DOC. NO. 30060

to you
who

reads me a thousand
years from now

an impossible you...I
could not begin to imagine

survivor of
WW3

the world almost ceasing
to be

and I, a fragment
of history

a few burnt pages
a charred eye

an happenstance of
history rather than

merit where
all words...any words

were made precious
me now

an historic document
that you try to  breath

live into
a me imposible to know

me the so
long ago

eaten by time
devoured by history

the symbolic irony
of the charred eye

the rest of the photo
not making it

and so, my impossible to know
write your academic paper

on this me that has
long ceased to be

but how my thought survives
in my only known poem

words burnt
at the edges

so many unknowns
so many...ellipses

I, Donall Dempsey
artifact No. 30060

returned to the library
at 6.30

Thursday, 30018
the 15th of July
and mankind came together
on that July day

as they watched the historic
landing on the moon's lay

it was an event every corner
of the earth shall recall

the scientific endeavor
did so marvelously enthrall
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