"historically" poems
Discoboli of African poetry has now sparked above aphasia
The aphasic silence today breaks eardrums with cacophony
Of the world audience in the by standing duty of workshop tubes,
Executing poetic experiment on the origin of **** poeticus
To link the archaic baboonish proteins to the black chimpanzee
Cradling African man, the sire of all and their poetry.
That when the Chimpanzee blood we poured
Into the African veins of vena cava and aorta,
Feeding the heart with viscosity of nutrition,
And the Chimpanzee blood fell into deadly
Tomperousness like Shakespearean impetuosity
Once seen in Romeo and Juliet, giving timely Birth
To untimely half the yellow Sun
That juxtaposed planet of poetry
Behind the star of tribe as a priority
Condemning to stark oblivion all the fated,
in full uniform of tribal dimunitions, or mimesis.
Ever predated on when tribes form nations.
A time to try the chimpanzee blood in the veins
Of white humanity, battling cynosure
Historically evinced in Antony and his father,
Or Tybalt and Mercurial of mercutio,
Or Macbeth and counterparts
Or Hamlet the Danish and the inheritors of his mother,
As the white blood cells of the white blood,
Militantly attack the white corpuscles
Of the misfortunate chimpanzee,
Converting the later into
A chewer of misfortune.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
An absence reversed
Beheld
Belonging
Fuming lush greenery seemingly
Between the frothing
Soup and lather twinkling
Speaking
"Tradition may act dishonestly"
All and sundry
Trails along merrily
For traditionally
All is how it should be
Belonging to one and only.
Binding
A trade between the thin lines
A baking sheet made sprayed messy
Artists in threes
Shakers of mountains for invisible ease
The truth is simply
Things done traditionally
All-in consuming historically.
Flesh
Released
Is fresh
Relief
Hidden in the fabric's sleeve
A gaping passage of air and breeze
Racing electricity
Breathtaking silk from worms
And worms eaten by birds
Tradition
Sewing the dresses of Empress the third.
Halt
Her plea worth salt and sugar
Still
Like the skater's
Minted odour
Hope
Distances the valleys low dipped to the everlasted rivers
Where a time arrives for eternal celebration.
The embellishments of
Unwavered tradition.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC
all things are useful, bulbs
bring light , denote ideas,
good intentions, spent,
collected.
cotton hankies, frayed hold the books,
yet those with nylon, stretch the skin
resulting in red and soreness.
shy away from dangerous commodities,
use the best, those tradtional artefacts
which are gentle on your soul, bring light.
wipe your nose clean.
sbm.
today we have added notes for your interest.
A HANDKERCHIEF (also called handkercher or hanky) is a form of a kerchief, typically a hemmed square of thin fabric that can be carried in the pocket or purse, and which is intended for personal hygiene purposes such as wiping one’s hands or face, or blowing one’s nose. A handkerchief is also sometimes used as a purely decorative accessory in a suit pocket. When used as an accessory to a suit, a handkerchief is known as a POCKET SQUARE. There are a wide variety of ways to fold a pocket square, ranging from the austere to the flamboyant.
The material of a handkerchief can be symbolic of the social-economic class of the user, not only because some materials are more expensive, but because some materials are more absorbent and practical for those who use a handkerchief for more than style. Handkerchiefs can be made of cotton, cotton-synthetic blend, synthetic fabric, silk, or linen.
Historically, white handkerchiefs have been used in place of a white flag to indicate surrender or a flag of truce; in addition to waving away sailors from port. King Richard II of England, who reigned from 1377 to 1399, is widely believed to have invented the cloth handkerchief, as surviving documents written by his courtiers describe his use of square pieces of cloth to wipe his nose.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial. On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.
Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising
A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.
Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days
So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:
We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.
Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.
Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques
Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock
Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
nerd, dork, no life
Dorks my favorite because practically its my name now
I'm usually buried in a book and I usually. Get asked what's the point?
Honestly I think it'll make me a better lover
Because when I find a girl I'll be able to teach her about science so she can understand the bond that I feel for her
I'll be able to teach her about math so we can view love at a different angel
I'll be able to teach her about history so she'll understand when I say that if my love were to flow into the ocean it would make BP's 2010 incident look like a drop of black paint on a canvas of red
I'll be able to teach her about English especially present participles you know running, jumping, skipping words that describe an action that's ongoing that's why she'll never hear me say I love you but hear I'm Loving you
I'll be able to teach her about art because id love to paint her like one of my French girls
And even thought I'm buried in books there is still so much I don't know about human interactions
she'll be able to teach me about sadness and how to make it go away
she'll be able to teach me about happiness and how to make it stay
she'll be able to teach me about jealousy and how its like a fire that will burn you from the inside out
she'll be able to teach me about lust and how it always leads to disaster
she'll be able to teach me about loyalty and how its the key to perfection
But all this day dreaming was interrupted by my daily bully whose only words were insults
I gave him a look that if I were superman would've left a gap between his eyes
He asked what I thought of him
So I explained..
Well scientifically speaking you and beauty are like a magnet with the same charge
Mathematically speaking your ego is like the number 5i .. imaginary
Historically speaking how you manage to speak with a lack of a brain is the 8th wonder of the world
But in plain old English you're always looking for someone to actually love you back
And by the way its Mr. Dork to you
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
First I fell for your eyes
With hazel specks and inviting guise
Then I fell for your laugh
Uneven and hearty and somewhat shy.
Soon I fell for your hands
Then your lips, your brain, and incredible drive—
Your truths, your dreams, your curious smile
Your biggest regrets and most convincing lies.
And now I’ve fallen for you.
And all at once it feels jeopardized—
I fear to confess
Those 3 little words that
Historically have been so weaponized.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 12:50 AM UTC
Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.
I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?
It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
I declare rebellious action upon the evils in authority.
Strength in my voice rises like the fist I lift up in the air.
Taking a stand against the machine!
Your democracy is bomb first ask questions later.
I got the right to protest if my government becomes a failure.
If continuing poverty is progress then you must be rich.
In a country historically rooted in corruption maybe its time we change history for the better.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
*It's Socrates
The best philosopher
who died in poison
For his believe
With lots of questions
And zero answers
Socrates died historically!*
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
Because it's really ******* degrading to put your
work everywhere, often times for free,
and to not even get **** back.
I'm also really ******* sick of teenagers.
Yeah, that means you too.
Here's a poem called,
**** the Patriarchy!";
"Someone told me it's just as
reasonable for men to fear ****
on the streets, as women. I've
been dropped into place and now
I realize I'm a radical feminist.
The kind of feminist people
check for under their beds at night.
The unapologetic type of feminist
who doesn't believe
in a "loud minority" of men haters,
but an eager audience listening for them.
The kind who doesn't play for your
culturally and historically inept ********
The uncompromising feminist.
Patriarchy is a cage,
feminism is my hammer;
I'm not trying to get out,
I'm going to **** this place up".
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
To live is to research happiness
and homes for the pleasure of ending.
People, through illusions, can shape
happy possibilities from speech and position.
Don't write it out.
A life more useful than tragic
is original in a moment,
can transcend as well as
fall into mistakes and experiences.
To get your body to lean
as far forward over the
insurmountable bubble as possible,
Is to create magic that consists of gateways
and actions -- the outcome of which
can place a thinker with only few
leaps stranger than your enemies.
Always forgive.
Magic sometimes longer than a pause
between morality and naked minds
influences the two ways a relapse synapse will run.
The true temptation of safety can be
carpeted by play dough and play grounds.
It's better to not sustain interfering manufactors,
to not pirate the lies a man historically risks
on quality of thoughts,
But instead depend the nature of your virture
on exploration at the heart of echoes.
Why should you quit?
A human's greatest obstacle is finding the principles
we don't discover with the jailer listening and
men afraid to rock the boat.
Give better than you dare have.
Reset the age of the mind and give parallel
truths at the point of sweeping tides.
To understand the laws of popular drifting,
compromise the art of part establishing,
occupy an ambitious ideal;
You will lose an elevation over not being, not remembering.
Sometimes treading water becomes a nuisance,
and you'll lose a choice in the dungeon.
Don't abandon your force.
Don't regret the pursuit of circumstances.
Don't delude a reputation of bridges and evidence.
Empathy is traveling the world for imagination and salvation.
We are here for a spell; one equality
shreds the ears ready to get you in trouble.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 10:21 AM UTC
Historically this history is my Thucydides,
And when I need that leadership, where is my Pericles.
Philosophies are just to please all my Aristocles,
And when I need a lover, where are my Persephones.
A thousand hordes with blazing swords descend to vanquish me,
I sit and pray that this today's not my Thermopylae.
The gateways hot, they say that's not the way it's meant to be,
So Ill just float here in my boat in my Aeagean Sea
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 5:58 PM UTC
I was daydreaming about the hoverboard that was promised to me
in the sequel to Back To The Future when you big-banged my mindset
with a universe of thought that I was not ready to comprehend.
All you said was, do you think koi fish were typecast?
As if some ancient Japanese fisherman noticed that that fish in particular
was more reserved than the others. I can picture him
paddling quietly across the Caspian Sea as he notices these fish,
looks down through his own reflection and says, you seem artfully shy.
You remind me that historically and geographically speaking,
my story makes no sense. And that the fisherman would not speak English.
I remind you that at the rate we're going, we'll probably die
before we find out how this life ends.
You remind me that we're all fossils in waiting.
This was on the back porch of the house you lived at in Santa Barbara.
There was a mountain to our right and an ocean to our left.
This was in between puffs of your cigarette.
I remind you that sometimes you throw yourself out there like propellers
so I threw myself down like a launch-pad-made-for-landing-
not knowing anything about trajectory- hoping to show you
that there are some people out here who know the importance of landing whole.
You retreat to your smart phone, search Google, load a satellite image,
point to the smallest blue pixel, See that? You say.
That's Earth. Everything we will ever know happened on that dot.
I thought about Newt's completely feasible moon colony and the first moon-born human.
I thought about illegal aliens and inalienable rights.
But I didn't say anything.
We just sat there in perfect silence
like two ukuleles wanting to be acoustic guitars,
perfectly tuned, painted in moon reflection, I said, what are we doing?
And you didn't have to ask.
You knew. When I said we, I meant the species.
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 12:55 AM UTC
whiteness is GMO
genetically modified genocide
like and from fascism
psychologically modified
historically modified
purely incestuous
time loop
amphetamine
attention span
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
She arrives in high stilletto’s
And a miniskirt so taught
That the boys are all distracted
And our job becomes a rort,
And the office girls get ******
And production spirals down
So then our new Middle Manager
Rolls up her sleeves and goes to town....
She sticks her oar in frequently
And stands with jutted hip,
She’s territorial dynamite
And serves us gloating lip.
She often curries favour
With Department Heads and such
And makes a fuss at our expense
Which irritates so much!
She has a way to circumvent
The types she will not face,
In using her authority
To snidely put them in their place.
Her manner is too sharp
And too dismissive for my taste
And the condescending smile
Has me grinding teeth to paste.
And the way she stands and taps her toe
And glares beneath her brows
Has the office juniors panicking
And avoiding, as allows.
There’s an issue over paper
And the telephone account
And the petty cash, though balanced,
Is a questionable amount.
Historically our working week
Has employed a give and take
With an easy flexibility
That allows us all a break,
But the new Middle Manager
Has reversed the mode of work
So that everyone competes
And the roster’s gone beserk!
Her manner’s often strident
With a whiplash to her voice
And the snarl of her vindictiveness
Leaves us all with little choice
But to bend our backs to labour,
Work our fingers to the bone
And suffer her till knock off
Then, thank God, we’re fleeing home!
There’s a memo in the “In box”
Rumour has it, from on high,
That due to overdue restructuring,
That some redundancies are nigh.
And though there’s great reluctance
And some measure of regret...
It seems our new Middle Manager
Has got her notice...Sorry Pet!
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
15 January 2011
Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 4:38 PM UTC
A hundred, a thousand to one; even so;
Not a hope in the world remained:
The swarming, howling wretches below
Gained and gained and gained.
Skene looked at his pale young wife:--
"Is the time come?"--"The time is come!"--
Young, strong, and so full of life:
The agony struck them dumb.
Close his arm about her now,
Close her cheek to his,
Close the pistol to her brow--
God forgive them this!
"Will it hurt much?"--"No, mine own:
I wish I could bear the pang for both."
"I wish I could bear the pang alone:
Courage, dear, I am not loth."
Kiss and kiss: "It is not pain
Thus to kiss and die.
One kiss more."--"And yet one again."--
"Good by."--"Good by."
Note.--I retain this little poem, not as historically
accurate, but as written and published before I heard the
supposed facts of its first verse contradicted.
2k
Yellow spheres are terror to the daydreamers
whirling past faces disgraces grazing ears
Recollections of multipurpose room taunts
And Mr. Neptune's rolled eyes as he gives up
Just send me to my fortress of books n poetry
Let me slip away unnoticed and forgotten
between the blue carpet and shelves inside
Let me bang my head on the laminated particle board
I disappear in here where it's just me and three thousand years
floating historically through black & white epochs
Alone, the world is heavy but not so much as my feet
planted and feigning mobility as roots become weeds
I think how dumb it is to talk of my Soul or to sing in the shower
or my car or alone in my apartment with stereo blasting
It's strange how the red is everywhere and I can't imagine
any longer when I'll finally need to draw a line
For you are not with me as I am with me and I'm green
But I can't say if it's in my stomach or in my eyes
And despite the heaviness I feel like I could be swept away
I could flutter up like one of those winglike seeds in Spring
Heaven is no place outside either, and I suddenly remember
That this all started with a love for the color orange
And I realize the silliness of red and yellow by themselves,
still wondering if I am bathed or baked in the warmth.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
I'm a medium poet
my temperature never rising too high
and that's okay my darlings, that's okay
historically, greatness seems to require more misery than i'm willing to wear
anymore. I let it go with
forgiveness
sold my soul to the angels so
i can stand in the garden in my
purple bathrobe to hear
trumpets blare see
little strip-ed bees crawling into the
foxglove, smiling dandelions
500 square feet of mystery and
i'm struck, once again, by
awe
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
As the halo icicles melt
From the slender fingers of the trees,
They reassemble themselves
As sharp shards throughout my hair
And make me feel enshrined
In the Snow Queen’s palace;
Although slightly confused
As to whether her spell has worked on me.
For rage bubbles up inside of me
Like the volcanic lava of Vesuvius
As I carefully remove the icicles from my hair
And attempt to reassemble them
Into miniature castles,
Under the Queen’s command.
But then once the Vesuvius of my mind
Erupts,
Innocent soapy bubbles float out
And children shriek with laughter
Leaving Pompeii safe from harm.
But the ancient people worry anyway
Since historically-speaking,
Molten lava is scheduled to surface.
Should I then worry?
It hasn’t yet singed my pores
But rains have attempted to fabricate themselves.
Yet something has managed to hold them back.
I am not so grateful.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
More economic problems
On the way
As I read in this article today
Here it is
You can read it too
I'm no financial expert
But world economies
Seem *******
Lol
“I think it’s pretty obvious that the top is in,” the Reagan administration’s OMB director said Thursday on CNBC’s “Futures Now.” The S&P; 500 has traded in a historically narrow range for the better part of 2015, having moved just 1 percent higher year to date. “It’s just waiting for the knee-jerk bulls, robo traders and dip buyers to finally capitulate.”
Stockman, whose past claims have yet to come to fruition, still believes that the excessive monetary policy from central banks around the world has created a “debt supernova,” and all the signs point to “the end of the central bank enabled bubble,” which could cause a worldwide recession.
“The larger picture has nothing to do with the jobs report [Friday] or even the September decision by the Fed,” said Stockman. “It has to do with the the fact that the world economy, including the U.S., is heading into what is clearly going to be an epochal deflation to the likes of what we have never experienced in modern time.”
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
with each passing day, I understand less and less, for
who could ever claim to know it all, yet, the simplicity
of our base-ic basest instincts makes evil so easily attractive,
that now, I forgive almost nothing, anyone for the cruelty
inherent in on the surfacial skin of our normalcy, so easily,
revealed, and reveled in, wrecks me, and the poetry
sparks are not doused, but wick and ember shriveled
oh the irony, that foolish me should write of the
commandment to love just as the world displays
old levels of hate historically deep… .I am hated,
to many who would know me only as Jew,
and this refresher course in my brain, reminds me,
that love thy neighbor as thyself, can morph into a
generational opposite, that my former degree of comfort,
beliefs, was only skin deep…and Tolstoy was a naïf, a romantic,
a royal, who hoped for the best in each man, and that
cannot ne achieved for hate is so easy digestible, so sweet a treat
for humans, who desire no compass other than simple baseness
to know which direction to take….
————————————————————————————-
”There can be only one permanent revolution—a moral one; the regeneration of the inner man. How is this revolution to take place? Nobody knows how it will take place in humanity, but every man feels it clearly in himself. And yet in our world everybody thinks of changing humanity, and nobody thinks of changing himself."
Tolstoy
”To perform evil deeds a person must discover “a justification for his actions,” so that he can regard stealing, humiliating and killing as good. “Macbeth’s self-justifications were feeble,” and so conscience restrained him. He had no ideology, Solzhenitsyn observes, nothing like “anti-imperialism” or “decolonization” to allay pangs of guilt. Solzhenitsyn concludes: “Ideology—that is what gives evil-doing its long-sought justification and gives the evil-doer the necessary steadfastness and determination . . . so that he won’t hear reproaches and curses but receive praise and honors.”
Solzhenitsyn
Oct 20, 2023
Oct 20, 2023 at 3:08 PM UTC
A universal force leading you to the crossroads
To sell your soul and finally live within potential
Or pass it by, blinking lashes
blocking dust and truth
It takes three things and only those three
Everything else is fluff
You gotta be ugly - you gotta be blind
Can't see or fathom the linear substance
The concrete holding, your bricks in the wall
Either in a literal sense or on the inside
Prominent features surpassing character
hard to look at but don't you worry
You gotta be blind
so it's no concern to you.
Next you gotta depart with your core
Strip away hope,
a skinning between body and soul
No longer will it be yours but if you're lucky,
you may get to keep it through layaway
There's always a price though, hidden fees
Steep, unsubtle , a fat moon face hiding behind a child's mask
I wonder though, was it really ours, this soul, to begin with?
To sell?
Self entitlement lingers second thoughts
That's the biggie though. Ultimate collateral, this soul you carry.
Finally, I'll only touch the tip.
Driving, animal instincts seeking warm comfort
You gotta answer to a new title,
a southern anatomy most of of the species glorifies.
it dominates in a protruding and brute external hang
A tangent but have we considered this tender piece to be the answer to vulnerability
instead of historically jarred ********** of wit
and wealth?
That's all it takes, folks. At that fateful railing
Get used to hot, sticky and sweet breath
Always chasing, caressing the back of your neck.
The void in the center where you had it
The soul you had
before you sold it.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
All intellect is dissected
Through the tunnel visioned perspectives
Stretched thin
In a stream of feed
Producing the illusion of need
Projected from old men
Who grin
Below the suicidal idols
Of the rivals
And glutton in the maniacal sins
Commenced
By brain dead Americans
Painted in the amens of the dense
Commending the hymns
Of spent casings
Atop the blood of babies
And maybe
One day
It can be better
Than the clever endeavours
To sever the head of the predators
Washing our hands of their sedatives
And delivering the skulls to the slavers
But we are pay dirt
Shoveled into trucks to work
For a leafless tree
Ready and wanting to believe
In anything
That doesn't see our deeds
As we
Are manufactured with the greed
Of sleeved wisemen
With five of a kind
In the fight for life
Putting our souls
Upon our rites
We bet
Despite the path of right
Infringing on the height
Of success
In excess
Of the tests message
We are the blessing
Of a warning
Within a forgotten story
Historically denoting its anointing
We are the disappointment
Of the warrior
Defeated in a court
Of corrupted consorts
Sorting out the blueprints
For a new fort
Distorting the borders
Of moral disorders
With orders to ****
The hoarders of will
We are the shrill screech
Of a dying world
And we are alive
But dead
Born to ****
Batteries of a shield
Building hell
To sell heaven pills
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
I went for a walk
At my old junior college
While the sun was setting
Outside
A corridor is formed
A building on the right
Classrooms on the left
The Sun shining down on the right half
Shade on the left side of the corridor
People walking to and fro
Going to class, Or going to their cars
I was just enjoying the sunset
A maintenance truck drives away in the distance
A guy with Yankee hat walks by
As I walked back the other way
I saw the most gorgeous brunette
With a gorgeous body
I wished I could have hugged her
The bell tolls
The bright colors
Of the people's clothes
There are certain moments
And this was one
Where you know
You are seeing something truly rare
I took a mental photograph
Of that moment in time
The way this outdoor corridor
Was half light and dark
I walked where the setting sun was shining through
So mysterious this moment was
So rare
I almost cried
It's all I have
The times
I think I will go back there
To see the same time tomorrow
I love the Tao
The Tao is wise mother
It is good to see
To really look
So beautiful
It is so wonderful to watch people walk here and there
It is said a man who understands the Tao can die content in the evening
The shurangama mantra
Is a most holy mantra
The mantra was,
According to the opening chapter of the Shurangama Sutra, Historically transmitted by the Buddha Shakyamuni
To Manjushri Bodhisattva to protect Bhikshu Ananda
Before he had become an Arhat.
I included the link
I hope you enjoy Shurangama Mantra too
There is only the present
Truly live in the present
And you will find eternal bliss
The present is the only place you will ever be
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
Original thought is not knocking at my door. It seems there's very little original thought at all any more.
Put my brain back in storage up on the musty shelf. Seems everything I believe in is learned from someone else.
I just simply repeat back the things I've been taught. Year after year repeating thought after thought.
A collection of opinions, words of others that I spout. Seems the easy way, so I open my mouth and they fall out.
The politicians and teachers and experts and the news. Have radically systematically denied my freedom to choose.
Unwitting copycat and imitator who historically repeats himself. Without a genuine idea, put my brain back on the shelf.
Has everything I've learned and believe and everything I know, produced an unauthentic me, God help me if it's so.
A wealth of original ideas, that would be my kind of wealth. If not take what I've got and put my brain back on the shelf.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 7:45 PM UTC