Ah, Immortal, canst I say no more anything about thee; though I have not to, nor I am allowed to.. For thy heart hath belonged, and shall perhaps belong only, to someone else, forever.. And upon which realisation, still-sadly I am not enabled, by any means, to procure anything; anything t'at ought to be satisfactory to thy love thirsts, and though superficial, hungers.. For I am just, within 'tis bitter reality, that despaired, lost daughter of nature; who, despite my distaste for roses, longest to be one of thine-and thine only, but who shall remainest as the last one-and thus eternal one, forever. Oh, I am cursed, I am cursed, ah-I am cursed too bitterly, my love! As shall I, dishearteningly-and gruesomely, never belongst to any other, any more! I hath been haughtily made redundant by love, and so shall I taste and drink of joy no more; for no marriage joy is not to be dazzling in my hand; and so am never I to be, having a man as more than a calm, soothing friend. Ah, and so not any other one indeed-for the rest of t'is paltry age ahead! And not even thee! But still, that abrupt sweet star is in thy eyes; and what an innocuous, irresistible delight to every pore of my lungs, and the very charms of my senses it is, to my being-yon sweet star which is equal to truth, knowledgeable causations, and delicate forgiveness. Ah, thee, for but to my eyes, thou art the long-sought forgiveness itself; and thy lips and cheeks and tongue makest everything perfect and becoming to the grace; grace-indeed, which is hasty, but mighty-like the thirst, and merriment of its salved undeniable passions. Ah, still-but why, why am I being tortured by these feelings? For I loved thee not, whenst I but streamed my gaze into thee-for the very first time; and for I felt enjoyment not-in our sweet occasional encounters, I felt no shyness, and nor perhaps, any predicaments of curiosity, as I fixed my very sight on thy evaluative eyes! Oh, for my heart but was lazy, unlike it was to thy precursors-and fate danced not at that time, in thy eyes-in those first months, with cold air and flakes of muted snow as rapid as the morning winds that inevitably appeared, after growing out of nowhere-just like a thoughtful apparition-as we sauntered about this morning, and greeted us with its superb, ye' monstrous iciness. Ah, t'is-which is so unfair, indeed! And oh; but why? Why, my sweet? And why is it just now, darling, that I am affectionately faltered, weakened, and turn feeble-at simply making out the notion of these invincible, ye' honourably-infatuated feelings? I, whose cheeks canst now threaten myself-and clumsily boil, 'fore thus turning red-at a very simple, unfearing thought of thee! Ah, unsweet, as itself shall remain ever be! But how I hate-I hate t'is feeling of loving thee-without ever being able to accomplish it. I heart it not-and thy voice, which is elegant with scrutiny, and careful examinations-of my private diligence, as we wandered and twitched and spoke more; for it invites me so, to the grandeur and wealth-of loving thee more and more, and steering myself into this all-too-burdening, though soft-passion; o, thou, who in t'is realness is, though outrageously, is based on every single effectuality of our beings, is worthy of all the forgiveness of presumptuousness, and overflowing emotions of our due spirituality. Ah, thee! Thou, who art the mere persona of my dramatic dreams; and the vitality of my poems; thou art gentler, sweeter, and tenderer than even poetry itself-as well the miracle, ingenious window, and the sole awesomeness which it willfully illustrates. O-love, and then thy soul is duly its obedient flattering mirror, which is forever unmad, sensible, and plentiful-to my questioning soul. Thou art my carved destiny-and the river that permits my blood to flood! Ah, thou art indeed so diligent, provoking, and altogether unbecoming, my sailor! O-And thee! The ever delicate fruit of my heavenly morning; whilst thy fate was-still is, and shall for eternity be treading, and about; o my darling. Thee! Whose fragrant breaths roar with such prettiness, and laughter-so handsome to my eyes, and are a rare, enticing spark of truth when all is but lies. Oh thee! My ever illuminous, equanimious, and on the very whole of thy being-a fulfillingly-delicious star; from whom shan't I be able, for ever and ever and evermore; to stay hidden, nor to stand firmly-though glisteningly, afar.

The calling to witness; the revelation
God igniting a match!
The genesis of time, the mioses of space
The birth of creation,
The vision of darkness shedding light;
An instant that temporarily blinded,
The single second that lasted an aeon.
The awe- inspiring presence that their father created,
The impact of his beauty,
The infinite wisdom of eternity, his glory beheld.
Only a glimpse they sighted,
The vision of a solar eclipse
A momentary lapse of reason.
His brilliance disturbed their divine grace
Yet his will was theirs, and theirs too he endowed
As it was from that moment that they started to turn
Honourably to turn, to turn
From the darkness of truth toward the light of justice,
The knowledge of eternal wisdom; supreme truth
They were able to see upon turning
Reflected unto them by the diffraction of his light,
A vast myriad of light; contained by darkness,
An equinox harmoniously co-joined
By the motion of the heavenly orbs,
Heaven created for them:
Yet things started to change
And heavens legions fought amongst one another
For inner sense, whilst others lost their innocence;
And so hell was born for the deistic
For God could not percieve the disbelief.


1997 ELEETE J MUIR

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and attend them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
clean of all its furniture,
still, treat each guest honourably.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
greet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.


-- Jelaluddin Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks

Love me for who I am.
But when the time comes
for me to end,
Let me be among the dead;
Leave me in the grave.

Keep me in your memory;
don't speak wealth
to my name.
Know that I'm gone forever
Forever, far away.

Love me for who I am;
Leave me for who
I will be.

But when I no longer am,
leave me be
within the grave.

If you love me for who I am,
Let praise be spoken
where praise is due;
Know this however:
I am no perfect man.

Don't try to bring life
to these dead bones.
Don't bring me back to life;
don't speak of my name.

I did not ask to seek fame.

If you love me,
keep this commandment
I give thee:

Don't worship me
nor pay tribute
merely in word or song.
But keep me in your memory
and if you want to honour me,
live honourably, not in vain.

Don't lie to yourself.
Don't think I dwell
in the heavenly heights
even though I may be.
Only God determines my fate;
He alone seals my destiny.

Don't weep for me
but for yourselves
and for your children.

And if you love me,
repent and live!
See the Glory
I've shown to you,
though not of my own.

If you love me,
love me for who I am,
and be thankful
when I am gone.

Was dating a bag of ****
whose first impression was a megahit.
This love story was diseased long before it began.
I recall his swayful love worship was far too pagan.

Could his heart get more colder than winter?
Could his laziness
be better than his deafness?

Ooh! Let me out
so i feel the winds
Let me blackout
so i wont feel the darkness he enwinds.

Its amazing what two persons can cause.
It is honourably
chiefly poetic
to put an end to our present cause.

I’m fed up with Prague, Paris and progress

It’s because I feel like a lonely boy.

I could sweep aside the art and crafts for the day,

pick up my manlier toys,

in an hour of need.

~

Years later I may grow up,

guns in hand.

Yesterday’s fissures show up honourably

on TV, and I may one day be called to fix small arms symphonies

in lands where tyrants trail newly won streets with

glistening gold-plated depleted uranium hypocrisy

~

If they should come close to hurting you, which I could never bear

With titles and a message, or anonymously

I’d stockpile shares everywhere

and raise forgotten silos, for you

in our hour of need,

What’s more, dear

this sniping threat …

I have learned we live more than exist

~

For brief respite we’ll hire those brave, gifted folks to close down this travisty

suspend the dream-merchants

so we can perfect our progeny

(permanence, is, after-all something)

in this, a dark hour of need.

Oh my darling if you would understand just what it takes

to cling on to that last noiseless sigh of power,

to be devoted to all

which will revoke all the old failings

which will enable a better way of equipping

someone to watch for us, with both eyes wide,

as the lesser hand counts round, and again

and inevitably strikes
war

© Copyright David Bosworth March 2014

the journey we've begun has no right end
or so we think since all our hopes are wild
for there are many motives we'll defend
though not all of our charges are defiled
by hatreds of the sort that you reviled
when speaking in plain justice of the fact
that none of us come through the world intact

each of the winners learns just how to bend
the moment that she stops being a child
while he who's wise knows best just to pretend
a temperament that's always calm and mild
just so the watching eye is safe beguiled
none of these matters is at all abstract
keep this in mind and you won't be attacked

not one of us can think now to depend
on those who might be honourably styled
our champions we can't call on one friend
whose name is not in the red record filed
to live full grown and not die as a child
that's all the purpose we will not be wracked
but others must be seen to live and act

dear ms. or ~mr.,

     i am writing for the idea of a forethought,
or however plausible is the allocation
    of prenuptial candescence...
             of what is deemed hushed
should a freak accident de-affirming the lives
of a british cohort of would-be Oasis stardoms
be mentioned via viola beach...
  that's that vague introduction i think all 21st
literature should engage with...
             i have recently published a book of
that has all the certificates necessary to be found
agreeable for the palette of seriousness...
in that a professional minded to give it a due review,
which i congratulate myself on as having
less that 1K number of views, but at least one
serious comment... signature provided.
                if people such as me had the incompetence
of a Herr Mannelig, i'd too be gathering my rosebuds
as i may to the tune of a chanted: carpe diem...
            i conceive that my "letter" is a tad-bit unorthodox,
and suggesting we might convene over coffee and
biscuits... but such is my lot...
               the Baltic affair answers with a diet of
sushi herring... piquant in their acidity,
   and far removed from moss-green horseradish of
wasabi...
                    given i've been writing on the British isles,
i find my "audience" an adieu commemorating these
isles... for i am continentally bound for say at least a hello...
     you see, i have recently published a book of
poetry with my own expense, in the literary world
i guess that might either mean the suggested norm,
  or a vanity that might overcome king Solomon too...
but you will find me in a stratification of bewilderment
i the way i'll formulate the following question:
would you consider publishing more of my work,
or indeed invest in forwarding the already printed artifacts
to a more "respectable" care for an audience affection
given the modern concern for numbering as many
as pope Urban 2nd might have done when giving a sermon
on crusading?
                        once more: i apologise for my informal
gravitas: i could only think of writing a letter
as if i might chance a truancy toward a respectable life
and not a chance meeting in a cafe without anyone
purposively voiding the pride of Diogenes of Sinope...
or he who flung himself into smouldering Etna...
               i suppose i am writing as a case for curiosity...
    i do understand you publication might have
received an epitaph and must have ended its coercion
for an equivalent of a public office,
        but with due respect, i am sending you a copy
of my bookmarked works... merely a p.s. to what actually
exists in digitally invigorating chasm of effort...
        as a simple gratitude and consolation of having
been able to see the 20th century revised with pressed-down
timber and ink, to what is the ultra-conscious
and the hungering-for-haste bypass....
             of course if the appropriate formality is required
i can present it... but unlike a curriculum vitae
my biopic is an informality auto-suggestive of my art,
and if formality is necessary, i will elevate this type
of peacocking in to a formal: yes sir, no madam,
my address is as follows...
                   if there need be a prelude to a summary
whereby i write a yours and state what formality
there's still to be had, whether yours honourably,
or with kindest regards, or with a yours
that counteracts the dear as might a Scouser address
a femme with pet, let alone a differentiation
of ms. and mrs. acronyms...
        it is beyond my consolidation into what is
nonetheless, a medium of acquisition.
                     as is the already understood:
sprechen schön luciferian? oder güt Polnisch?
yoyo or carcass of parabola... eins: umlaut
über ist omega zu...
        i digress, and without due consequence...
    or to provide the sigma:
        i am wondering if this might interest you,
should a rekindling of an avidness to publish be bound to
such tongued leveraging a blank space...
           i can understand that such writing can only
sprout or be agreeable within a niche market...
                  but as a mere suggestion
and as a lack of a gamble i am wondering whether you'd
consider the possibility to further my endeavour...
   and unlike a beggar, i am not imploring
                a chance to further it regardless of
success at it being furthered... for i am blindfolded
and galvanised by the concept expressed by Zatoichi;
i cannot add any more persuasions that might make
my arguments any more convincing than they already
are, most convincing as best: to be discarded.
            but with due concern for the state of things,
i send you a copy of my published work to express
what's but a snippet of the magnum opus...
          if but to revel in the snapshot of what could be
a career move worthy of an autobiography...
             given my complete ineptitude in the publishing
economy, and self-publicising ergonomics...
    but as ever: for want of experience, there's an equal
want for ineptitude.

                                  of what can be kindly regarded,
                        upon a maiden voyage of exchanges
                 to the letter and the date, as a worthy introduction
                          with the sole hope of a dialogue;
    and so with due sincerity i leave my name
                       to be a testimony toward future testaments
         of awaiting an equilibrium of assets;
                                            Matthew Conrad.

Make space for those
fleeing social distress.
Be a link in a golden
unbreakable chain of
all-welcoming mercy.
Give gladly of yourself.
Receive in good grace.
Redistribute your gains.
Reinvest what you profit.

Care first for the weakest.
Assist in every way the
honourably  intended.
Generate hope by
imitating doers: those
motivators of good.
Keep an open mind.
Confound cynic’s doubts.
Generate kindness.

Heal all wounds with love.
Let peace and friendliness
radiate dissolving darkness.

TOBIAS

It was a dark and stormy night, or at least it was for our single-parent family. The rest of the neighbourhood was enjoying the kind of clear skies which meant a hard frost overnight and a slippery ride to school in the morning.

The barometer in our neat, wee house at the end of our short, ordinary street was falling rapidly, as it often did these days. My father, an Iraq War veteran - ’Honourably discharged for dishonourable reasons, and don’t you forget it. ****** fascists!’ - was in charge of our weather. From blue skies with candy-cotton clouds in the morning to an eerie half-light of silent anticipation by late afternoon, we would end the day huddled around the kitchen table waiting for the maelstrom to hit.

We ate carefully trying not to scrape our plates with our knives and forks, and avoiding each other’s eyes. The cauliflower cheese was examined as closely as every other vegetable my aunt Kate - ‘I’ll not have my family eating slaughtered animals!’ - served up to us. You’d think the food on our plates was the most interesting thing in our precarious little world. Peas were my favourite because you could count them over and over...until they were finished.

Wind and rain lashed our evenings regularly. Sometimes we were treated to the automatic-rifle fire of hail, but worst of all were the sandstorms which ****** all the air out of our home and stymied any hope of sleep. On those occasions we all huddled together in my sister’s bed - ’No, Alex! It’s Livvy’s turn to hold the torch. You can look after the phone in case we need to ring Dr Matt to help Auntie Kate.’

We updated our worst-vegetarian-creation notebook and talked in close whispers about the weather. Mostly, we sat quietly and longed for blue skies and sunshine tomorrow, while the captain cowered in the cubby-hole beneath the stairs and screamed into my six-year-old brother’s plastic walkie-talkie. ‘Man down, man down, man down!’

Teaching...


   “If you would have your son to walk honourably through the world, you must not attempt to clear the stones from his path, but teach him to walk firmly over them - not insist upon leading him by the hand, but let him learn to go alone.”


― Anne Bronte

To govern at large, with depth and reason

King Darius ruler of the kingdom

Presidents for a land of size

The king thought Daniel to be wise



Princes appointed honourably

Filled with growing jealousy

Daniel served so faithfully

Others watched him carefully



Faultless find, a call to stay

Devotion daily, time to pray

A plot to have him done away

Of treatment in a wicked way



A king with pride deep at the core

Presidents helped to plan the law

For no requests of thirty days

Carried forth, unrighteous ways



Such flattery, from trusted men

From Daniel’s prayer – into the den

A law in place could not be changed

A callous plan they did arrange



Into the pit, sat unreleased

Sealed mouths of savage beasts

For God knew they were guilty

Daniel saved and rendered free



Injustice that was ensuing

The truthful case of wrong-doing

Into the pit, the men of wrong

For there the righteous don’t belong



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©

I am already dead,
I tell them what they want to hear
I’m fine, thank you.
I love you
They assume that I am gushing,
Overflowing with love
But, am i?
I frighten them away,
I know that I shall act honourably
They know too, don’t they?
That I am a spaz
A dead spaz
But why didn’t you say?
Are you feeling better now?
Yes, I’m fine thank you
Look, I’m naked again,  
I cannot speak,
I cannot walk
I cannot go
I cannot come
I am inspirational, unoperational,
Sensational, creational
And
I am already dead
What a relief.

an overwhelming sensation: like falling...
but more alike to it being
a flowing: of perpetually
undermining of one's integral concern
for "honour": or at least keeping one's
word...

not so much the fear of death:
but a fear of failing in one's attempt
to be wed to it:
beyond the fears of a petty life -
to throw the concerns of the living
to those alive -
all the while... feeding into...
an ******* transcendence of the pursuit
of shadows...

to have the ego **** you:
while still maintaining a
flimsy veneer of normality...
all this pretending
while the mind boils and froths and
bamboozles you:
easier to "think" in third person?

- throwing a glass into a pool of water
"thinking" that it might somehow
disappear...

if one cannot live honourably...
or to live, so... without as much
as a reputation of a plumber to speak of...
what trade... wordsmith?
better to not live at all:
unburden with love...
                                less chances
of passing the day... talking about the weather.

DESIDERATUM



Live simply

think clearly

choose selectively

speak truthfully

tread cautiously



act honourably

practise honesty

give generously

accept gratefully

be humble in victory





lose graciously

praise genuinely

show empathy

cherish dignity

face death courageously

The strong woman
want a man with character and strength
an equal who knows what he wants and what he is about
a gladiator in making hay a learner of essential lessons of life
a saintly honesty caring and sincere warrior for all he supports
the courageous leader, brave and fearless in adversity prepared
and the passionate lover in chambers who gives more than he takes
the real man who either in company or his own stands honourably

who wants the weak men
those coward that blames rather than seek
a spineless make do who hides behind the coattails of others
those followers who can only fare in gangs with other cowards
nursed by mothers who give unconditionally without expectations
no standards set or demanded no discipline just do as you like
look at the inadequate snowflakes who call themselves now men
immature babies as useless as a dead limp salmon in the bedroom
and worse of all lives in envy nd jealousy of those who earn successes
and racked with enough resentments to actively seek to maim destroy
the excellence and successes of true real men

the weak men are the lowest of the low
and women who are generally smarter than men know them
give them contempt they deserve only having to avoid loneliness
Strong women want the strong men, the capable equal partners