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English Jam Feb 2018
She is a ruler, proud in her glory
Sets hearts to flame, turns lovers to screams
Her nails alone are ripped from a story
Reduces soldiers to men without mean

Eyes marble-black, with sharp slits in the centre
Hair that waves as though in water
Glistening red as crowds begin to enter
They know her tales, but none have caught her

What she requires - they all deliver
Her voice is a choir - that makes all shiver
She doesn't walk
She struts

Bends over in a seductive style
Caresses villainy in her seat
Crooning, intentions hidden all the while
Inaudible but the tread of her feet

March, march, march on to the drums
The Dark Majesty never forgets
Absorbing herself in hymns and hums
Oblivious to drunken admissions of regret

Queen of tyranny will never rest
But for serenity - she fails the test
She's majestic
But joy eludes her
There's a song by Queen called The March of the Black Queen that was the chief inspiration to this. Give it a listen, it's simply amazing.
Growly Wolfus Aug 2019
A single raindrop falls from the sky,
depressed in its loneliness as it descends.
It lands and drips down a grassy *****,
alone and forgotten.

A single raindrop falls from the sky.
It falls from dark clouds and gloomy air.
It brings nothing but sadness to the earth below
and desires only to be heard or seen.

A single raindrop falls from the sky,
felt only by a stranger.
It's wiped away, declared a nuisance,
and cast away from existence.

A single raindrop falls from the sky,
mistaken for a tear.
Thought to be from an angel of a lost age.
It merely stirs the dust.

A hundred raindrops fall from the sky,
all lonely but together.
They cause a splash and demand attention.
Still only felt by one.

A hundred raindrops fall from the sky,
unable to quench the earth's thirst.
They disappear, taken by the ground,
embraced for the last time.

A hundred raindrops fall from the sky.
Not a head turns to notice them.
They cry out loudly but cannot be heard,
vanishing as they land.

A thousand raindrops fall from the sky.
The clouds gather to watch the spectacle.
They grow darker as they bunch together,
warning those below of the coming.

A thousand raindrops fall from the sky
and tap people on the shoulder.
"Come watch us," they whisper before leaving.
Few people are left behind.

A thousand raindrops fall from the sky,
looking for an audience.
The people have left and taken their friends
to hide in the buildings they made.

A million raindrops fall from the sky,
and joyously, they sing.
They hit the ground, the cars, the roofs,
and make music for those in hiding.

A million raindrops fall from the sky.
They dance and cheer and smile.
The sun decides it wants to watch.
The light dances with raindrops for awhile.

A million raindrops fall from the sky,
accompanied by rays of gold.
They bring new color to the city of gray
and rejuvenate all of the old.

A gentle rain falls from the sky
and makes art upon the ground.
It quenches the earth's thirst and hums in our ears,
dancing to its own sound.

A gentle rain falls from the sky.
People watch with awe from behind glass.
Ignored by many, precious to captivated few.
They long for it to last.

A gentle rain falls from the sky
and gracefully sways in the breeze.
It brings forth calmness and a sense of peace.
It blesses the green fields and trees.

A gentle rain falls from the sky,
watched by a child with wonder.
It sends the breeze to lift the child
and brings them out from under.

A gentle rain falls from the sky
and splashes on window panes.
It plays with the child and hums sweet tunes
as it makes puddles in the traffic lanes.

A gentle rain falls from the sky
and ripples in the water.
A new world created, impossibly calm.
It makes the child an offer.

A gentle rain falls from the sky
and whispers in the child's ear.
"Wait for me.  I will return.
I won't leave you alone here."

A gentle rain falls from the sky
and sings goodbye to the child.
The clouds dissipate as the sun takes over.
The departing rain simply smiles.

A million raindrops fall from the sky,
murmuring farewells and goodbyes.
Each gives the child a tender hug
as the color returns to the skies.

A thousand raindrops fall from the sky,
then a hundred, then one.
The single raindrop kisses the child
standing alone in the sun.

No longer do raindrops fall from the sky,
but a child waits for them.
To dance and sing and draw and play,
with the gentle rain again.
I LOVE the rain.  I wrote this after a gentle rainfall and listening to one of my favorite songs.
The child in the poem does not necessarily represent age, but more awe and feelings I have when I watch the rain.  It's so peaceful.  I feel like a child whenever I watch it or sit in it.
Kiss the Rain - Yiruma
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=so6ExplQlaY
The Noise, it drills through me as if I have become the subject of the vicious hammer.
Its piercing din never fades.

As silence looms, and the stillness of nothing hums
It soon begins again.
The sharpness suffocates me, smothers me, chokes me.

And then it’s too late. You chose her and your words destroy me.
In the morning she hums.
She makes her coffee and
butters her toast.

She opens her newspaper
and submits herself
to the daily crisis.

She pleases herself.

Digests the news she
is reading like a seasoned veteran
returning from a war.

She sees a picture
of the Prime Minister.
He's somewhat handsome she thinks.

She likes the way his eyes sparkle
when he fabricates a position to follow.

One day she might take herself
to Ottawa.
Sit in Parliament and follow
along with the story, live as it were.

Maybe she'd shout down from
the Visitors Gallery her opinion
on the matters of the day.

She would not get evicted.
The RCMP would not bother with her.

She knew the Prime Minister would
look up at the interruption and, upon
seeing her, would become enamored with her.

He'd leave his wife and family.

She'd be responsible for the
marital collapse of the man.

Sighing, she smiled inwardly
at the plans she was making.

Of course, in order to make
anyone fall in love with her,
she'd actually have to leave the house.

How could she do that?

There were too many cats to feed
and take care of.
Anyway, she didn't do well
with real people.

In the morning she hums.
She makes her coffee and
butters her toast.
Brandy Nicole Mar 2015
Sleep
with no tomorrow
Sleep
with no desires
Sleep
your only passion
Sleep
with your last breathe
Sleep*
as the darkness hums
your name
Mariam Paracha Oct 2012
The warmth of the sun settles, hugging the lake.
The dragonfly flies low, hovering above the tranquil water
the light seeping through the paper thin skin,
it hums across the lake, refracting light off its wings,
An array of colors make patterns on the wings,
wearing it like a cloak, a rainbow embedded within.
The colors tilt and shift as the dragonfly gracefully cruises through life,
laying close to the water but letting the air propel it forward,
floating between two different worlds,
it is like a dream where our thoughts are separated from reality,
and are scattered like refracted light for us to assemble.  

Through a screen of our dreams, a world can be seen.
A world of hopes and desires that is dormant within
The light of life just soaks us bare,
our skin turns frail,
under the scorching glare,
the glare of eyes that want you to be,
someone that is accepted by society.


the dragonfly bathes itself in the sun,
the iridescent colors shine on its skin,
flying and floating, he’s determined to win
a predator, determined to get what it wants
nothing blocking its way or paving its path
making the most out of life and never holding back

spread your wings like the dragonfly
that hums its way through life,
dipping its wings in the sun to shine,
breaking free a life of colors,
that we leave locked and forgotten,
behind a reality made of black and white,
the black ink seeping through our minds,
injecting us with ideas of the 'ideal life'
where money and fortune, and status define.
Bathe your mind in the wonders of the world,
soak your heart in life's warmth and glow,
and pave your own path,
with the dreams you sow.
Life
cait-cait Aug 2018
imagine —
you are the last of your species,

an angel, who dances on
ice.

like
a
film that protects
this earth ,
your wings are broken ,
and these are the pieces of you that cannot go
home .
.

so on
tiptoes, this cracked marble
does not shatter,
and
everyone gets to watch you perform ,
unknowing of the cold truth that you are shackled
to ,

like
a ballerina in a box
that hums a sweet tune —

you still dance ,
even as the last of your species,
even though
you are all that you have left.

and
even though
you have decided that love is a form of
betrayal.
.
i didn’t know what to title this but my comedy lit class was assigned plato’s the allegory of the cave and i loved it.... this is somewhat a different style (or concept) for me but i hope you still enjoy. this was another poem where I wrote the ending lines before the beginning ha ha. Meaning Is up for interpretation
Sally A Bayan Nov 2019
Still without sleep this early hour,
watching waves of scenes,
almost there, atop a soundless calm,
lines, within my grasp....when
suddenly.......and loudly,
flapping wings and proud crowing
shatter dawn's placid moments...

those waves of scenes just froze
my climb....is now broken

the slumbering world has stirred
eyes open, and follow the rules of the sun
coffee-woken senses obey...

morning's peaceful hums give way to
morning's rush, and morning offerings:
sunny-side-ups, pancakes, frizzled bacon,
there's  clinking of spoons with  plates and cups
shortly, cars start revving...honking school
buses eventually fade in the moment's
busy-ness......heavy footsteps and loud
voices yelling orders take place...very soon,
dust and debris will float in the atmosphere,
grounds, buildings and bodies will quiver...

it would be difficult to defy,
huge sacrifices, progress requires,
for the good of all, we patiently succumb
.................to life's changing hums...
::::::::::
i await sunset...for much-needed aplomb,
to welcome...new waves of poetic hums...



Sally

Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August  2019)
(one dawn in August)
Did you know you sound blue
That I feel yellow when you laugh
That your small hums make the air orange

Did you know your handwriting is pastel
And the way you run your hands through your hair is aqua marine
And the way you walk is every shade of neon

Did you know that when you fidget I see sparks of silver
And your smile is scarlet red
And that when you look at me
I feel violet in my finger tips

Did you know that you are the number 7
Or that I smell amber when I read your name
Or that I can't call you just one,
Because every colour comes to mind
Whenever I think of you
tia Jun 2020
i hear the whisper
of his candid soul
that saunters in my dream

and it hums,

it hums gently
and fills the entire room
with wordless melodies.

his lips create
the softest of tunes
that drift away into
the bubble of fantasy,

and it hums,

it hums until i’m able
to coalesce into
the song he’s singing.
Claire Howes Apr 2014
Every day is the same; they wake up in the same bed, at the same ungodly hour, to the same monotonous ringing from the alarm clock.

They grumble their ‘good morning’s; whether they believe it is or not, rolling out of opposite sides of the duvet.

They dance around each other in the bathroom, the heat of the shower creating a fog through which neither of them can see; causing him to stub his toe on the toilet or the counter, and steaming up the mirror so she can’t apply her make-up.

They continue their ritual into the kitchen; flicking on the kettle, popping in the bread, pouring the orange juice; stirring the tea, catching the toast and spreading the butter and jam. Crunching and slurping together at the table, mumbling about what their days have in store; tapping texts on their phones, crinkling newspaper in their hands.

They peck each other a kiss goodbye and mutter a ‘see you later’ before going their separate ways.

But then Monday comes...

Mondays are different.

He knows she doesn’t like Monday mornings. It’s the very beginning of a new, long, tiring week. She never looks forward to Mondays.

So he changes that.

He sets the alarm on his watch a little earlier than other days; shutting it off before it can wake her.

He slips silently out of bed and tiptoes quietly into the bathroom to shower; leaving her smiley faces and love messages on the steamy mirrors.

He creates her favourite tea and makes her toast with raspberry jam; just the way she likes it. Picking a flower from the garden; whichever one looks the happiest and brightest, he places it all on a tray and pads back up to the bedroom to wake her.

She no longer sets her alarm on Mondays. She knows he’ll not let her oversleep.

He places the flower in her hair and drops delicate kisses; full of his love and affection for her, to the corner of her mouth, until she stirs gently.

She smiles on Monday mornings.

They eat breakfast in bed, covering the sheets in crumbs and giggling contentedly as the cat licks them up.

She hums in the bathroom while he clears away crockery, and always re-emerges with the flower tucked behind her ear.

It remains there ‘til night fall.

They never once look at their phones or the paper, far too focused on each other to pay anything else mind.

Their kiss as they part reminds them of their love for each other and of the good things in life; like strolls along the shore, strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, smiling sunflowers that open to a beautiful summer’s day, and of course, Monday mornings.
tc Apr 2018
of one thing
i am sure
and that is
that i am
unsure of
myself
and it’s funny
how i can’t
sleep but my
chest closes its
eyes and hums
with a heartbeat
that is unsure of
itself, too.
i try to morph
into a body
i don’t feel
belongs to me
just so i can
fit somewhere
fit in somewhere
and i tell so
many stories
about the
universe, it
forever feels
like i am trying
to remain lost.
i am unsure
of myself;
connecting the
moles on my
skin as if they
will spell out
something bigger
so i can feel
like i matter,
at least for
a little while.
i sleep beside
myself, stare at
a reflection
so unfamiliar
i couldn’t even
identify it in
a crowd of
strangers, but
i am trying.
and one day
i’m sure i’ll
be sure
of myself but
until then,
i’ll morph into
someone i can
be proud of
and hope that
the universe
sends me back
to myself.
Madisen Kuhn Apr 2014
i guess you only like girls who are broken
and want to be hurt, like your hands
around her neck, want
bruises and cuts
in the shape of a heart,
inhaling and choking on your affection
like she needs it to breathe

translucent skin stretched across
veins that pump nicotine and you
you, you, you, you, you

judgement clouded by hyper-dependent
infatuation and the need to heal her
hollowness, although you’ll only ever be
another teardrop on her pillowcase
while she hums herself to sleep
with midnight lies

“the loss of you would be the loss of my life”

and the saddest part
is that i almost let myself fall
back into becoming that
lifeless, empty girl
once more because i thought it might
make you love me again.
written on 3/22/14
Kuzhur Wilson Sep 2013
My poetry, which knew it was
the cry of a lonely bird
on a solitary tree
in my village,
asked Spring its name.

Spring began to speak –

The fruit laden Vayyankatha, her thorny pangs, hijab-wearing  Guf, her minarets, Thondi  blushing red with kisses,  her moist lips, orphaned Adalodakam, Nellippuli in a polka dotted dress, Pulivakawaiting for the breeze, Anjili   head towards the south, yawning Cherupuuna, Pera with the names of grandmas scribbled on her leaves, Ilantha blowing into the hearth, Ilapongu rubbing his eyes, Irippa, Atha laughing noisily,Cholavenga in tattered clothes, Irumbakam, Padappa catching his breath after running, Pattipunna wagging his tail, bare footed Pattuthali, Thekku the noblest among them, Thekkotta, Neervalam  recollecting her last birth, Neeraal, sobbing Neelakkadambu, Pathimukam, lazy thanal murikku, Karimaruthu, Karinkura, Asttumayil, Velladevaram, Kattukadukka, the gluttonous Badam, amnesiac Vazhanna, boredVarachi, Nangmaila, Eucalyptuswith a sprained back, viscous red Rakthachandanam, saffron robed Rudraksham, Vakka, Vanchi,  Parangimaavu nostalgic of his ancestral home, Vari, Nedunaar, Marotti with a hundred offsprings, Malangara, Malampunna ,Nenmeni Vaka trying his luck in a lottery, Nelli with a sour smile.

Kadaplaavu doing sketches with leaves, Kari straying from the queue, Kattuthuvara buying things on credit, Kattutheyila boiling over, Kattupunna with a pus-oozing sore, Kumkumam putting a bindi on her forehead, starving Ventheku, Vellakadambu making a missed call, Kattadi standing aloof, her feeble hands,  flowering Ilanji, her fragrant trunk, sighing Aalmaram, Pachavattil, Pachilamaram  gossiping with the chameleon, Panachi,Pamparakumbil, Kadambu memories adorning her head, Kudamaram carrying provisions for the home,  Punnappa,Poongu, gray hairedChuruli, Chuvannakil  singing a folk song, dark skinned Vattil, Kulaku, Karinjaaval, sozzled Pamparam, Chorappayir, njama, Njaaval  tempting the birds, Njaara, Alasippooscratching his palm, Ashokam  humming a sad song.

Ezhilampala chewing on a masala paan, Peenaari wearing a tie, Peelivaka, Pulichakka with a broken leg, Pezhu demanding his wages, Kumbil, Kurangaadi, Kasukka with a dislocated elbow,Valiyakaara, Vallabham, Chavandi, stunning Chinnakil , Chittal with a failed brake, Vidana, Sheemappanji, the loan shark Odukku, Oda  on musth,fatherless Kadakonna, childlessShimshapa, Sindooram with a flushed face, Karinthakara singing the thannaaro, Vellappayir high on grass, Poothilanji showing off her blossoms, sour faced Kudampuli.

Wet in the rain Kulamaavu, Kudamaavu circling around himself, Pari from the netherworld,Poopathiri in a priest’s robe,  Poochakadambu on all fours, Kulappunna covered in a blanket, Kundalappala checking his astro forecast, Pachotti, ******* Perumaram, Perumbal  thinking of the sea, phlegm clogged Anathondi, Anakkotti, Cheruthuvara, Ilavangam, Thanni,naughty Thirukkalli,  Karappongu, embracing Kattadi, Thudali, Thelli, Kara, Malayathi,Malavirinji, shameless Kashumaavu,mud slinging Karuka, Vedinal, suicide prone Attumaruthu,Attuvanchi  who glides on the stream like a fallen shadow.

Mandaram  dressed in white, Vanna, brazen Mahagani, Karivelam doing the accounts,Jakarantha, Koombala, friendless Koovalam, Kattukamuku with his hands around friends, Kolli, Paruva,Krishnanaal with a crooked smile, Cocoa with no one to turn to, Cork,Palakapayyani, Pavizhamalli wearing necklace and bangles, a lonely Mazhamaram, Mangium, Mathalam exposing her *******, Chemmaram, Pashakottamaram, Malavembu, tearful Chamatha, Vatta, Vattakoombitired of running around, smoking Pine, Porippovanam, Kaaluvnthatherakam, Thembaavu, grinningDantaputri, Narivenga, Navathi, grumbling Mazhukkanjiram,Arayanjili,  Arayal playing a game with the wind.

Choola kissing the sizzling wind, Arinelli, Maavu reciting sadly the poem Mampazham,  Chandana vembu, Peraal stretching its back, Pulivaaka, Unnam, Naythanbakam,Karpooram in a slow glow, Naaykumbil, trumpeting Pongu, outcast Pottavaaka, bursting Poriyal, vagabond Ponthavaaka, Plaavu lost in some thought, Pootham  head covered , Ethappana  greening while yellowing, Manjadi, Mullanvenga, Mullilam lifting his dhoti to expose his genitals, Mullilavu hopping around, Moongappezhu, Neermaruthu saying enough is enough, withered Neermathalam ,Moottikkay, Ithi, Ithiyaal, Vella velam, Kalppayir, Kallar, Majakkadambu singing a lullaby, Choondappana wary of fish bones.

Stooping Punna, Matti scared of her big brother, Paarijaatham watching the midnight movie, Paalakal, Paali,Paarakam doing cartwheels, Viri, Athi showing off  her seeds,Ampazhammassaging his chest, Ayani inlove with her son, Manjakkonna, Manjamandaram in search of something, Chullithi with eyes closed, Kallilavu like an oozing rock, Malamandaram eyeing the vultures,Velleetti cursing the thunder, Venga,Veppu, Vraali, Akil, sighing Acacia,Balsa, Blanka, Beedimaram with a rattling cough,  Agasthi, Cherukonna with a sheepish smile, Kambali, woundedNagamaram.

Pathiri, touching his forehead to the ground, his eyes heavenward, Ankolam ruined by debts,Kattumarotti, Kundalappala, Aattumaruthu,Poovam, Erumanaakku, Karingotta, Vediplaavu his salary still unpaid, Venmurikku, Manjanaathi, Manimaruthu jolted awake, Mathagirivembu, Karaanjili  escorting his daughter, Karakongu,Karappongu, Ilippa on her way back, Ooravu half-awake after a dream and with a sucker smile, Ennappana about to immolate himself, fattened  Ennappine,Azhantha waiting for someone, Chorapatri with a cracked head,Sheemappoola,Poovankara, Malampuli, Puli with sharpened stakes.

Obese Theettipplaavu,Malambongu, Chorimathimurikku, Irippa bailing out his friend, Irumbakamwho lost his job, Kunkumappoo, Karinthaali, Scoot, Rose Kadambu, Aamathali, Aarampuli,Attilippucaught in the crowd, Irul  blessed by the elders, Vellavatti, whistling Mula, Kattukonna in a hat, Kaniiram learning the alphabets, broker Cheru,Kattuchembakam exposing his arm pit,Thandidiyan, Neeroli, Ezhachembakam waiting for her bus, Karimbana in a newly constructed house, Karivenga,Karivali writing a poem, Ungu in a baby frock, Udi, Plasha, Elamaruthupromising to meet later, Chembakam dying to hug.

Vellakil who bathes the kids, Vellavaaka who forgot his umbrella, Attuthekku who failed the exam, lustful Aattunochi,Malanthudali with her legs spread, Malanthengu with chest ****** up,Malamanchadi who is learning to count, Malambarathi exposing her *******, intoxicated Aval, Arana reciting the poem Karuna, insane Alakku who dashes off to the temple, Cheru who cannot stop washing clothes, Kudappana ready to elope, irreligious Jaathi, Silver Oak laughing boisterously, Kattuveppu waiting for the kids, Sumami ******* on a toffee, annoyed Parappoola,frightened Pinar, Ithi stopping her ears at swear words, Ithiyal with lots of smiles, Kovidaram with music in his mind, Ilakkali showing her belly, blossoming Ilavu, Chadachi who ***** sadistically, cool fingered Chandanam.

dominating Charakkonna, office going Cheelanthi, Gulgulu glued to Kochu channel, Gulmohur with dyed hair, Irul with a fuming face, early rising Kanikonna, Kanala who has a sound sleep, Karingali  who pees standing, Kambakam with an ***** *****, Kallavi  beseeching to stuff her up, Karanjili  quivering in lust, calm Karaal, Kaari who hums while *******, Kaavalam who naps after the toil,Thannimaram showing off her petals, Thambakam kissing the ****, Thellipayar savouring a *****,Neerkurunda in post-****** languor, Malaya breastfeeding her kid, bullying Kathi, mad hat Eetti,Cheeni  not remembering his mom,  Kunnivaka showing his gums, Kuppamanja who laughs in sleep, Othalanga swallowing poison, blooming Poovarasu.

Spring went on,
reeling off names to me.
The rain the sun the wind and the cold
Rolled in one after the other.
Spring kept pulling out
names from its memory.

People got scared of
my poetry gone wild.
They stopped passing that way.

A snake goes slithering away.
A hare finds its own path and dashes away.
A poothankiri, from a bush, flies away.



(Trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
1.      Mampazham (Ripe Mango) is the title of a famouspoem by Vyloppilli.
2.      Karuna (Compassion) is the title of a long poemby Kumaran Asan.
3.      Poothankiri – A white headed babbler.
4.      Thanaaro - An obscene devotional song.
There was an old man of El Hums,
Who lived upon nothing but crumbs,
Which he picked off the ground,
With the other birds round,
In the roads and the lanes of El Hums.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
By This Sword 911 Is Avenged
This was written right after 911 now I’m rewriting it from the time that has passed a cooling a distancing has occurred in us not in our
Enemies I will write the first paragraph basically as it was written then go from there. They have cells; we have wells and mines, Wells
Of emotion for God, flag and country the mines are far flung and close at hand. From these mines, the blacksmith is hammering out a New sword of liberty the material comes from all of our battle fields in our national history. These make up the strong wide back
part Of the sword the sharp keen edge that is terrifying to behold this material from the Pentagon, Trade Towers, and from our four
American commercial airliners filled with Americans. The dross of the terrorists have been skimmed off and purified by our national prayers
And solemn vows for justice now stands one giant the sum of us all. The sword has just been placed in his hand. Let’s talk about the
Sword it cuts both ways-coming and going. The giant holds it flat, moves it back and forth in front of him underneath the land is
Pictured perfectly back up on the blade it hums like a dynamo let’s start it from the place the atrocity and carnage occurred I wrote
More about Miss Liberty in Imposter you ought to read it one of our greatest minds for freedom and liberty Lincoln said these should
Be taught to every child and from every pulpit and school house and every public arena should resound with the truth about this
Great enterprise and experiment in human government. I also wrote Freedoms Citadel and Fertile ground about Jefferson and the
Constitution the reading of them was tepid they mean little in today’s conscious mind but in these very matters freedom live or dies
The blade appears out of the black smoke that stunted and muted Miss Liberty and her awesome record and history here is where
Hell left its signature. I will after all add a part of what I wrote in Imposter America proud land of liberty; too long it’s been just a
Veneer, freedom you espouse, to have this you must clean prejudice from your house. True greatness finally you will know, when it
Shines through all colors, to do this you must rediscover the bedrock of your heritage. Truly believe the words that say "We the
People words that shook the elements, only being surpassed at creations stage. To long our apathy has been collaborating with our
Enemy’s no more, this challenge is given to restore. Opportunity’s open door let us our energy out pour. That freedoms passion soars,
As in the past ******* it tore. Land of light continue, Miss Liberty your lamp burning bright. Oh great nation receive your benediction
And knighthood from her continuous burning flame now advance our freedom and liberty through the bright rays of truth that founded
This nation the blade shines and burns away all deceit it tells truth and shows our mistakes and so when it passes the white house one
Who comes from the fount and central place where Lincoln’s Shadow is so pronounced if Lincoln could rise he would make short order
Of the junior senator from Illinois he would Exposé his political views as not true American but a hybrid who speaks a world view not
A Central American one his history makes him Espouse thoughts and ideas that are not held by most Americans they are contraire to
What the founders envisioned but with Personality and ability to speak well he has made inroads especially in a liberal setting the voters
Will realign this error the blade passes on inland it moves across the coal mines of Pennsylvania it stops and hums with a drowning
Sound at the site where brave Americans Fought in the sky and died saving many others here is a great place to show the difference in
The two different swords battling for Rule in our world today yes they have a sword it is one that beheads their own people or at
Times the lives of the innocents must perish to it savagery forged in hell it gleams but with every conceivable power of evil the more
They use it the more they destroy they burry themselves in the tangled web that no man can escape from a recent telling of Liberia’s
Civil war will cast true light on the sword they wield with such relish one of the Generals in this conflict and let me add here the same is
Going to happen in to the drug lords in Mexico in one form or another salvation or destruction from Him who is really in charge so this
So called General in Liberia was doing what he did best slaughtering the innocent and helpless two of the nuns ***** and killed with
Their three companions had just attended our worship service two days before their deaths. But into this evil spectacle He who is all
power and holy spoke general you are nothing more than someone who is being used by the devil and the devil had one other to ****
Three hundred people a day add that up to three hundred and sixty five days he did it to keep empowered by the devil but our general
Couldn’t get away from those simple but true words he came to the united Pentecostal mission church went to the altar first he lay
Down the defiled sword went to a church that preached baptism in the titles instead of Jesus name the bible says if you desire truth on
The inward parts you will be led to all truth he argued for six months saying he saw no difference but he called from Nigeria all excited
There was a difference God gave him the revelation the bible says Christ is the beginner and finisher of our faith he starts and finishes
What he starts this former butcher went to the altar in the mission mentioned repented was rebaptized in Jesus name filled with the
Holy Ghost spoke in tongues as the bible said this is the only way to remove the sword from a deceived and dying race born to blood
And cruelty because the master liar entered the world as a false religion in the desert an unexplained terrifying light is gleaming
As a mirror but this one is shaped as an eagle with its talons inches from the back of a unholy fiend his life is an insult to all eastern people
That love their country as we love ours pray that we honor our dead by not making widows and orphans of the innocent. Bin Laden
Stand if you can we did not desire blood but you cut open our veins made us replace our loved ones with marble stone we hear a new
Sound in the desert, groans of death, and your fixed lot by our God who is true and holy.

The lion mentioned is not the man but the
hate and the source of all hate is Satan “Bread corn is bruised” Isa 28:28 Ignatius
Martyred in Rome after being taken from Antioch, who is better to speak to our recently martyred people He said God has made me
Bread for his elect, and if it be needful that the bread must be ground in the teeth of the lion to feed his children, blessed is the name
of The lord a new Christian foundation is being laid and within the walls of this our national home. There is a sacred field with deep
Furrows the victims and future military dead the precious seed. Our tears and their sacrifice will water this future harvest, from this
Rich grain the baskets of spiritual bread will overflow, we presume not to feed ourselves but our enemies also the Arab world cries
from Hunger and evil agents of Satan feed them poison. However we know the great physician who will heal us from this blight.
The blade has passed to the end of our land and back prayer alone can keep it pure and sharp and it will devour the enemy of us all the sword
Satan wields an ineffective beaten sword if we but pray for truth and light for all.
Allison Apr 2018
I hold the feather’s weight of your artery in my pick-ups,
and tiptoe the tightrope about which life and death abuts.

You’re a 2 AM trauma and we still don’t know your name,
the social worker’s thin lips had mouthed: “estranged.”

I read your anatomy like a text as you flat-line:
your hands turn blue as your heart falls still in mine.

The monitor hums "out of time," but by Epinephrine,
and Grace, your chest resumes its rise.

I leave trauma bay in prayer: for the surviving, not the knife;
for the closeness of my hands in your chest, our joining in this life.

Tonight I see you at the Kroger, buying TV dinners and beer.
I hide behind cereal, admiring the life I’d held dear.

But you look so tired, and my heart breaks for how when you died,
I would’ve sold the shoes off my feet to buy you more time.

I wish you knew how precious was each of your heartbeats,
I wish you the wisdom of my view:

How fragile the stent is where your veins meet.
THIS is the song I rested with:
The right shoulder of a strong man I leaned on.
The face of the rain that drizzled on the short neck of a canal boat.
The eyes of a child who slept while death went over and under.
The petals of peony pink that fluttered in a shot of wind come and gone.

This is the song I rested with:
Head, heels, and fingers rocked to the ****** mammy humming of it, to the mile-off steamboat landing whistle of it.

The murmurs run with bees' wings
            in a late summer sun.
They go and come with white surf
            slamming on a beach all day.

  Get this.
And then you may sleep with a late afternoon slumber sun.
Then you may slip your head in an elbow knowing nothing-only sleep.
If so you sleep in the house of our song,
If so you sleep under the apple trees of our song,
Then the face of sleep must be the one face you were looking for.
extasis Jan 2010
Crackling criss-crossing blue in mind. It scissors down the lanes through the pipes and tubes and little dividers. Electrical mind numbing beauty. Veins-bursting in excited anticipation. Convulsions and scenic skittering routes. Into the Nexus! Here simmers what we are thinking and believing. Our mind's eye focuses and drips into the pool until completion. Psionic figures dance flicker through life existence. Pulse-width fluctuations. Tiny menagerie of our Will. Scribbling through dusted panes of time interface. All afire with ourselves once we have discovered ourselves. Nano-tech emotions. Hope fear anger mercy curiosity buzzing swarms of grey goo jibbering and bubbling in an artificial mind-****. What is all this allusion? Nothing complicated. Speculation on future times where sensual technological biological singularity is paramount. In my room where the clocks are taped over and the sun is dark and dim. Through the windows I see myself. The boxes on the floor emanate simple clickings with melodies intertwined casually. I myself appear redundant. I have done this and so have others. To discuss oneself is worthless unless you become convinced you are another entity gazing back across the room. I feel I am being watched. I become cautious as he may have noticed. Tingling weightlessness tickles in waves in both heads. The Jazz Classic appears. Old dark men and women in hazy environments. Organic supposition or cold observation? Both hold importance so let us appreciate it all. The cello quivers and hums with vibration. Fingers callused and riveted like the age-old corn field bother still strings. A child hums to just myself. What does he want? I never asked him for an audience. Yet he freely gives it to me. Now he multiplies. Or she? Children confuse and cause one to be apprehensive. Nothing and silence. Silence in movement. Cease my visual stimulation for a couple seconds each. The child is back. What does he speak? Pray inside the rubble? Heal in this place? In disgrace? I do not know. His octaves are meshing together. Whining and thrumming with strange alterations. Some madmen tweaks my ears. Maybe he knows the child? I'm not sure. Let us continue on. The flute is the child. Old cello, you have stopped? These musings mean nothing. I would look upon them in a year and think nothing of it. Yet it feels as if this time is important. Da Vinci knocks on the door. Not as if I wanted to talk to it. Wouldn't mind I suppose. He is gone. We talked but I do not remember the conversation. Perhaps we've all talked but we just don't remember our conversations. That's ridiculous though. Then anything is possible. We could have flown to the moon on scarlet weasels outfitted with the latest nano-pores that secreted pure liquid indulgence. And we did because I just imagined we might have. However, I don't remember actually doing it. Just what I thought it might have been like. How frustrating. My thoughts are the same as all others who write out their thoughts when under the influence of yourself. It always seems like some thing is scuttling near my feet or under the nightstand; just out of view. Strange. I would be afraid. No reason to fear that which doesn't bother me. No reason to fear much of anything. That's been said before. Why are we so often concerned with saying that which has been said before? Cliche? auump-ump auump-ump auump-ump little thumping noise in my ears. That vibration is calming. Every night I am awake. Every day I seem asleep. I do not like it but I do not care yet I allow it to be what it will. Vision defaults to out of focus. My eyes always cross if I cease trying to control them. People are strange. Animals are strange. Same thing I guess. Someone will find that clever. Someone will find it cliche. This someone won't care. ****** fantasy permeates day to day. More entertaining than living a fantasy though. ***. Not that entertaining. Perhaps no one knows how to do it properly anymore. Maybe we never did. Maybe some people are just disenchanted with it. When I'm by myself, I never have any ****** desire. When around others, I generally think of it out of curiosity: what would it be like to please the person in front of me? The only enjoyment I've had with *** would consist of pleasing another or observing another ****. The human body is intriguing. Definitely. I really do think so. Sometimes I look at my own. Not out of appreciation really. Just the fact that I have body allows me to investigate it and understand it more. Pain is merely a stage one can get past, so I suppose I injure myself sometimes to see how I react. It's like I need to check I'm still working properly. I can't tell when I'm tired. I feel something, but when I ask myself if I'm tired, I murmur back, "I don't know." Maybe that is why I stay up till early mornings? I wanted to add again that the human body is beautiful and unappealing all in the same space. Perhaps the unattractiveness and softness and strangeness produces attraction. A negative and a negative equals a positive. Three negatives likes to fluctuate. In my mind at least. I may ask another to remove their clothing and whatnot during those intimate moments. Eh, never quite feel like having *** though. I like the emotions and sensuality of just looking at someone. They usually want to physically play around with each other. I think I enjoy fighting more. One day I'll leave everyone except I'll reminisce on those I enjoyed meeting. Maybe come back and visit? I would like to ride something quickly through an empty desert. Find my own food and water. Create shelter. Think by myself. My room is the smallest desert I have and the biggest. I have more in my head but I only occupy one at a time. I suppose I like I do like things like all others. I mean, materials can be nice. If I impart meaning on to an object it gains importance. I see it vital to also say that if it were to be lost, then I wouldn't mind and I would obtain something else or nothing at all.The constitution. Just mentioned by some woman in my room. Or in my ears would be more correct. Constitutional Rights. I honestly don't see the need for them. I was criticized for burbling that once. We should not need a constitution. We should be able to do what we like to do without fear or concern. Unless natural fear and concern appears. Now that may confuse a bit. Right to bear arms. I shouldn't have to be told or allowed to massive bear arms if I feel the need to have them. Big hairy bear arms. Curious little mishap. Freudian slip as Johnny said once? Danger Danger. Anyway, Right to bare arms. I shouldn't have to be told, as I look back,  go back and throw in that comma after told, that I'm allowed to bare arms and defend myself. I'll just do it if the need arises. Freedom of speech. That already has many issues these days. However, there shouldn't have been a need to tell people they have freedom of speech. Speech should have been freely allowed and never oppressed in  the first place. Theme? We have erred so much in the past and I would think sometimes we ignore that and just try make little cosmetic fixes by saying it's okay. Another point. Hold that: side discomfort. I sometimes feel like a little spider or creature is crawling or skittering on my leg under the covers or I'll change the music to Galaxy 2 Galaxy 90's hi-tec jazz there we go. Done! Now back! Or I forget what I said about the spiders. Another point: what? ******, curse damnable ****. Can't recollect what it was I was connecting together. Something that tied in to deceiving people into things are okay. I could go on about consumerism and all that jazz. Instead I'm listening to some techno-jazz whatever-decided-to-call-it. Hyphenated phrases are fun when I decide they are appropriate. English and grammar in such can be cool but at the same time I want to say **** it and stay proper. Do both. Acknowledge how to write and speak "correctly," but as long as someone understands what you are trying to say, then why correct more? Someone large doesn't like the fact I make a lot of noise in the morning. I stole some speakers and subwoofer from the room next to me as I was going to say Austin.  They are on the floor and whichever large person lives below me is probably annoyed or was. I don't spend any of my actual time despising them, but I'll easily say I despise them when someone asks. Otherwise it isn't worth wasting time on. Perhaps the vibration quivers downstairs and shakes them silently. The greate beast is perturbed and sneaky vibrations cause electro-annoyance! Her pulsewidth as I understand it must be like a super-saw as I think it. Silence. Some woman said it's just a feeling. HEA not sure what why I put that sounds like a garageband song. Switched to Inspiration! That is what I did this night. Finally start writing and making things again. Even though I never did and always did. My head sometimes hurts from thinking. Never truly though. Gotta say those things to keep the conversation going. That is really the only reason I say anything. To keep the conversation going. Otherwise I'd just watch people and be just fine. Just yelled "bahh," out loud (didn't sound the comma) because I felt the need or the want. Same. Wrong keys erased. sdas=a====dddddddddd Sorry. Oh well. Oh My. How the time flies goodbye. Going nowhere. Could write more but I felt the slight flicker of wanting to stop. So I do. What an ending. Now I'm only typing to continue the conversation with myself. Just thought ******* sounds good melody. Do as I sayt way to go good job. STOPSDMFA

****** a

Guess I'll read this little conundrum I wrote up. Stop writing ******. Stop EDITING
There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men
With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen
Their baaing vanities, to browse away
The comfortable green and juicy hay
From human pastures; or, O torturing fact!
Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd
Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe
Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge
Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight
Able to face an owl's, they still are dight
By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests,
And crowns, and turbans. With unladen *******,
Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount
To their spirit's perch, their being's high account,
Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their thrones--
Amid the fierce intoxicating tones
Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd drums,
And sudden cannon. Ah! how all this hums,
In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone--
Like thunder clouds that spake to Babylon,
And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks.--
Are then regalities all gilded masks?
No, there are throned seats unscalable
But by a patient wing, a constant spell,
Or by ethereal things that, unconfin'd,
Can make a ladder of the eternal wind,
And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents
To watch the abysm-birth of elements.
Aye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate
A thousand Powers keep religious state,
In water, fiery realm, and airy bourne;
And, silent as a consecrated urn,
Hold sphery sessions for a season due.
Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few!
Have bared their operations to this globe--
Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe
Our piece of heaven--whose benevolence
Shakes hand with our own Ceres; every sense
Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude,
As bees gorge full their cells. And, by the feud
'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear,
Eterne Apollo! that thy Sister fair
Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest.
When thy gold breath is misting in the west,
She unobserved steals unto her throne,
And there she sits most meek and most alone;
As if she had not pomp subservient;
As if thine eye, high Poet! was not bent
Towards her with the Muses in thine heart;
As if the ministring stars kept not apart,
Waiting for silver-footed messages.
O Moon! the oldest shades '**** oldest trees
Feel palpitations when thou lookest in:
O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din
The while they feel thine airy fellowship.
Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip
Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine,
Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine:
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes;
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken,
And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf
Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief
To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps
Within its pearly house.--The mighty deeps,
The monstrous sea is thine--the myriad sea!
O Moon! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee,
And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load.

  Cynthia! where art thou now? What far abode
Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine
Such utmost beauty? Alas, thou dost pine
For one as sorrowful: thy cheek is pale
For one whose cheek is pale: thou dost bewail
His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost thou sigh?
Ah! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye,
Or what a thing is love! 'Tis She, but lo!
How chang'd, how full of ache, how gone in woe!
She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveliness
Is wan on Neptune's blue: yet there's a stress
Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees,
Dancing upon the waves, as if to please
The curly foam with amorous influence.
O, not so idle: for down-glancing thence
She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about
O'erwhelming water-courses; scaring out
The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright'ning
Their savage eyes with unaccustomed lightning.
Where will the splendor be content to reach?
O love! how potent hast thou been to teach
Strange journeyings! Wherever beauty dwells,
In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells,
In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun,
Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won.
Amid his toil thou gav'st Leander breath;
Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death;
Thou madest Pluto bear thin element;
And now, O winged Chieftain! thou hast sent
A moon-beam to the deep, deep water-world,
To find Endymion.

                  On gold sand impearl'd
With lily shells, and pebbles milky white,
Poor Cynthia greeted him, and sooth'd her light
Against his pallid face: he felt the charm
To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm
Of his heart's blood: 'twas very sweet; he stay'd
His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid
His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds,
To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads,
Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes' tails.
And so he kept, until the rosy veils
Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand
Were lifted from the water's breast, and fann'd
Into sweet air; and sober'd morning came
Meekly through billows:--when like taper-flame
Left sudden by a dallying breath of air,
He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare
Along his fated way.

                      Far had he roam'd,
With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd
Above, around, and at his feet; save things
More dead than Morpheus' imaginings:
Old rusted anchors, helmets, breast-plates large
Of gone sea-warriors; brazen beaks and targe;
Rudders that for a hundred years had lost
The sway of human hand; gold vase emboss'd
With long-forgotten story, and wherein
No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin
But those of Saturn's vintage; mouldering scrolls,
Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls
Who first were on the earth; and sculptures rude
In ponderous stone, developing the mood
Of ancient Nox;--then skeletons of man,
Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan,
And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw
Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe
These secrets struck into him; and unless
Dian had chaced away that heaviness,
He might have died: but now, with cheered feel,
He onward kept; wooing these thoughts to steal
About the labyrinth in his soul of love.

  "What is there in thee, Moon! that thou shouldst move
My heart so potently? When yet a child
I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smil'd.
Thou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we went
From eve to morn across the firmament.
No apples would I gather from the tree,
Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously:
No tumbling water ever spake romance,
But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance:
No woods were green enough, no bower divine,
Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine:
In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take,
Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake;
And, in the summer tide of blossoming,
No one but thee hath heard me blithly sing
And mesh my dewy flowers all the night.
No melody was like a passing spright
If it went not to solemnize thy reign.
Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain
By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end;
And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend
With all my ardours: thou wast the deep glen;
Thou wast the mountain-top--the sage's pen--
The poet's harp--the voice of friends--the sun;
Thou wast the river--thou wast glory won;
Thou wast my clarion's blast--thou wast my steed--
My goblet full of wine--my topmost deed:--
Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon!
O what a wild and harmonized tune
My spirit struck from all the beautiful!
On some bright essence could I lean, and lull
Myself to immortality: I prest
Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest.
But, gentle Orb! there came a nearer bliss--
My strange love came--Felicity's abyss!
She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away--
Yet not entirely; no, thy starry sway
Has been an under-passion to this hour.
Now I begin to feel thine orby power
Is coming fresh upon me: O be kind,
Keep back thine influence, and do not blind
My sovereign vision.--Dearest love, forgive
That I can think away from thee and live!--
Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize
One thought beyond thine argent luxuries!
How far beyond!" At this a surpris'd start
Frosted the springing verdure of his heart;
For as he lifted up his eyes to swear
How his own goddess was past all things fair,
He saw far in the concave green of the sea
An old man sitting calm and peacefully.
Upon a weeded rock this old man sat,
And his white hair was awful, and a mat
Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet;
And, ample as the largest winding-sheet,
A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones,
O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans
Of ambitious magic: every ocean-form
Was woven in with black distinctness; storm,
And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar
Were emblem'd in the woof; with every shape
That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape.
The gulphing whale was like a dot in the spell,
Yet look upon it, and 'twould size and swell
To its huge self; and the minutest fish
Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish,
And show his little eye's anatomy.
Then there was pictur'd the regality
Of Neptune; and the sea nymphs round his state,
In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait.
Beside this old man lay a pearly wand,
And in his lap a book, the which he conn'd
So stedfastly, that the new denizen
Had time to keep him in amazed ken,
To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe.

  The old man rais'd his hoary head and saw
The wilder'd stranger--seeming not to see,
His features were so lifeless. Suddenly
He woke as from a trance; his snow-white brows
Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs
Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead large,
Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge,
Till round his wither'd lips had gone a smile.
Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil
Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage,
Who had not from mid-life to utmost age
Eas'd in one accent his o'er-burden'd soul,
Even to the trees. He rose: he grasp'd his stole,
With convuls'd clenches waving it abroad,
And in a voice of solemn joy, that aw'd
Echo into oblivion, he said:--

  "Thou art the man! Now shall I lay my head
In peace upon my watery pillow: now
Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow.
O Jove! I shall be young again, be young!
O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierc'd and stung
With new-born life! What shall I do? Where go,
When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe?--
I'll swim to the syrens, and one moment listen
Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten;
Anon upon that giant's arm I'll be,
That writhes about the roots of Sicily:
To northern seas I'll in a twinkling sail,
And mount upon the snortings of a whale
To some black cloud; thence down I'll madly sweep
On forked lightning, to the deepest deep,
Where through some ******* pool I will be hurl'd
With rapture to the other side of the world!
O, I am full of gladness! Sisters three,
I bow full hearted to your old decree!
Yes, every god be thank'd, and power benign,
For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine.
Thou art the man!" Endymion started back
Dismay'd; and, like a wretch from whom the rack
Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony,
Mutter'd: "What lonely death am I to die
In this cold region? Will he let me freeze,
And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas?
Or will he touch me with his searing hand,
And leave a black memorial on the sand?
Or tear me piece-meal with a bony saw,
And keep me as a chosen food to draw
His magian fish through hated fire and flame?
O misery of hell! resistless, tame,
Am I to be burnt up? No, I will shout,
Until the gods through heaven's blue look out!--
O Tartarus! but some few days agone
Her soft arms were entwining me, and on
Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves:
Her lips were all my own, and--ah, ripe sheaves
Of happiness! ye on the stubble droop,
But never may be garner'd. I must stoop
My head, and kiss death's foot. Love! love, farewel!
Is there no hope from thee? This horrid spell
Would melt at thy sweet breath.--By Dian's hind
Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind
I see thy streaming hair! and now, by Pan,
I care not for this old mysterious man!"

  He spake, and walking to that aged form,
Look'd high defiance. Lo! his heart 'gan warm
With pity, for the grey-hair'd creature wept.
Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept?
Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought
Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought,
Convulsion to a mouth of many years?
He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears.
The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt
Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt
About his large dark locks, and faultering spake:

  "Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' sake!
I know thine inmost *****, and I feel
A very brother's yearning for thee steal
Into mine own: for why? thou openest
The prison gates that have so long opprest
My weary watching. Though thou know'st it not,
Thou art commission'd to this fated spot
For great enfranchisement. O weep no more;
I am a friend to love, to loves of yore:
Aye, hadst thou never lov'd an unknown power
I had been grieving at this joyous hour
But even now most miserable old,
I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold
Gave mighty pulses: in this tottering case
Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays
As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid,
For thou shalt hear this secret all display'd,
Now as we speed towards our joyous task."

  So saying, this young soul in age's mask
Went forward with the Carian side by side:
Resuming quickly thus; while ocean's tide
Hung swollen at their backs, and jewel'd sands
Took silently their foot-prints. "My soul stands
Now past the midway from mortality,
And so I can prepare without a sigh
To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain.
I was a fisher once, upon this main,
And my boat danc'd in every creek and bay;
Rough billows were my home by night and day,--
The sea-gulls not more constant; for I had
No housing from the storm and tempests mad,
But hollow rocks,--and they were palaces
Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease:
Long years of misery have told me so.
Aye, thus it was one thousand years ago.
One thousand years!--Is it then possible
To look so plainly through them? to dispel
A thousand years with backward glance sublime?
To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime
From off a crystal pool, to see its deep,
And one's own image from the bottom peep?
Yes: now I am no longer wretched thrall,
My long captivity and moanings all
Are but a slime, a thin-pervading ****,
The which I breathe away, and thronging come
Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures.

  "I touch'd no lute, I sang not, trod no measures:
I was a lonely youth on desert shores.
My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars,
And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive cry
Plaining discrepant between sea and sky.
Dolphins were still my playmates; shapes unseen
Would let me feel their scales of gold and green,
Nor be my desolation; and, full oft,
When a dread waterspout had rear'd aloft
Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe
To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe
My life away like a vast sponge of fate,
Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state,
Has dived to its foundations, gulph'd it down,
And left me tossing safely. But the crown
Of all my life was utmost quietude:
More did I love to lie in cavern rude,
Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice,
And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice!
There blush'd no summer eve but I would steer
My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear
The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery steep,
Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep:
And never was a day of summer shine,
But I beheld its birth upon the brine:
For I would watch all night to see unfold
Heaven's gates, and Aethon snort his morning gold
Wide o'er the swelling streams: and constantly
At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea,
My nets would be spread out, and I at rest.
The poor folk of the sea-country I blest
With daily boon of fish most delicate:
They knew not whence this bounty, and elate
Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach.

  "Why was I not contented? Wherefore reach
At things which, but for thee, O Latmian!
Had been my dreary death? Fool! I began
To feel distemper'd longings: to desire
The utmost priv
Sitting in the car
Waiting for traffic to move
The cold rain tumbling down the window
The drops collide into a single line.
Inside my father and I wait in the warm heat.

We probably just left to get pizza,
Or Chinese food,
A regular Friday night.

The sound of the radio hums softly in the background.
The soft rumbling of the engine.
The drumming of the rain.

Not a word is spoken
between my father and I,
Each of us just ******* up the silence.
Breathing peacefully.

Over the radio comes a song.
A little old, though well known.
Ee-e-e-um-um-a-weh
Wimoweh, wimoweh, wehoweh, wimoweh.

We both know this song.
Grinning we turn the radio up.
Singing along. Dancing along.
Um-um-a-weh.

With each beat of the drum
My father touches the brake.
Quickly, rapidly
Making the car ****.

The car behinds us honks the horn
Making us laugh harder.
My dad persists.
Continuing in this child’s play.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter,
that it is pouring, or
that we are stuck in traffic.
It only matters that we are having fun.

The song ends.
The radio gets turned back down.
We return to our former silent state.
Kevin May 2017
the barrier between sound and silence,
a hum.
when lips refuse to move
but heavens harp must sing.

attentively inattentive.
a simple sway, an arcing breath.
she hums outside of prudence
an angel made of strings.

gracious loving hips.
portrayed by tender flesh.
auditory faculties,
flooded of her love.

filled with more than lust,
tread her blissful sea.
conserve this simple thought,
she sings with hums, filling me.
Kelly EC May 2015
Your finger through my belt loop
A smirk across your face
Your shared not stolen sorry
A deep, inviting gaze
A cord wrapped 'round your doorknob
Quick then deeper kiss
Your country songs
My hipster hums
A wide smile spans your face.
TD Oct 2016
Splayed across the eyes
memories unfold like brittle, sticking pages.
Lingering, the familiar musty scent lifts
repelling the casual observer.

Yet I,
I inhale and sigh.
Lips up-turned
I sail a thousand oceans for a moment.

A moth-eaten cloak, tattered, frayed
is stroked with reverent fingers.
Thread-bare, stories
tickle at neurons like a pressing fog.

Tendrils of thought  
follow trailing strands of poignancy,
swaddled in the warmth.
where treasures wait expectantly.


Pulling at loosely woven strings
I pluck at tears and joy.
To harp on.. to play
the strumming song that experience hums.

The aching deep begins
as pixels fuse and blend.
A face all but gone,
there a beautiful heart remains.
This was a tribute to a sweet person who I knew for just a little while, but that person made an impact on my life just the same.They recently passed on.. too young. Yet I can still remember how they made me feel even though their ****** features are a blur. Someone who made me feel confident, secure and respected, there are so few people who have impressed upon me so much. His kindness will not be forgotten and in that his legacy I hope in me lives on.
VESebestyen Jan 2011
You.
You've undone,
me.
Each
thread
snipped.
carefully and thoroughly-
not to miss a single
one.

They don't make them
like this,
anymore.
They patch with glue,
and nothing really combines-
really meshes-
anymore.
They squeeze tightly
to what they hold
but
they hold
nothing
compared to these old threads
bound
stitch by stitch
through canvassed paper.

Etched into my heart
woven
into my hips,
they don't make them
like
this
anymore-

they patch with glue and print
on thin
flimsy
sheets
of shredded tress immune
to routine they know so well-

Slice
Shred
Print.

In my days,
it was woven,
it was thick canvas paper that
paint couldn't bleed through.

It was woven into the spine,
threads of teeth
stitch by stitch-

Behold,
somehow-
you managed so easily
to
un
do
me.

Unbound
and with each
breath
another thread
slithers
loose
and
inhales, then hums
and settles.
-V
Larry Potter Sep 2013
They say, in the wheel of life, you'll spend half your years rising to the top and the other half tumbling to the bottom. I guess they got it all wrong. I believe life is a crooked tire that can never roll up and down. Pretty sure, it is nailed to the ground where weeds could grow to entangle it forever. Until now, what they keep trying to say remains a puzzle to me. Perhaps I can never understand what they mean. Or maybe I just won’t. Why? Because from the moment our eyes opened for the world, we’re already stuck down below and I’m afraid we’re trapped here in this limbo for all eternity.

We’re just simple people living an ordinary life. Like every family who seeks refuge from the storm, we do have a place we call home although it’s not much of an architectural delight. However, for some reasons, I find our roof appealing like a real work of art. Patches of cardboard embellish the underside while a combination of tarpaulin and ad posters works in harmony to provide an extended shelter. On bright mornings, we’ll wake from the sunbeams piercing through its many gaps. On rainy days, however, the sound of raindrops falling from the gaps down to our water containers serves as our wake up call.

To jumpstart ourselves for another day’s challenge, we could either eat breakfast (if there were any), or just sing our skipping meals away and spend the rest of the day with sacks of scraps and rubbishes on our back hoping to make a good deal with Mr. Gomez, the junk shop proprietor. He reminded me so much of my father but without the alcohol problem and violence, though. During nighttime, we bring with us our drum to sing carols on the lonely streets. If our feet become too weary to walk, that’s the time we head home. We rush all together, eager to count the coins we’ve collected that night. We make sure to put a plastic cap underneath two of our table’s feet so that it won’t lean uncontrollably and spill the tiers of ten, five and one peso coins we’ve dedicatedly piled over. Then the next part does the trick. A portion of our collection for the night goes straight down a big jar and joins in the many others which fill more than half of the container. The remaining part is used to buy supper to save our hungry tummies from
shrinking again. However, during slack nights when drivers and busy people decided to become miserly, we’re fortunate enough to have a pack of noodles for supper. But if we ran out of luck, we just set our untidy beds ready and drown our raging stomachs to sleep. I know there’s not pretty much but this is where our lives revolve. And as they say, life must go on no matter what.

Together with the three most important persons of my life, I continue the journey for a better living. Along the way, we try to search for the good things out of life’s bitter truths. We never let misery **** our hopes and dreams. Instead, we work harder and tougher. Take Islay, for example. She’s cheerful,
clever, aggressive, talented, a model of hard work. She’s got most of everything. Well, except for height, probably. I wanted to be a doctor so I could help the needy. Islay dreams of becoming an elementary teacher. She said she really likes kids and teaching them would surely be a more exciting thing to do.

Then there’s Nova. Her looks may require you a little more time to think and consider, but she has a good heart. However, she gets a little, uhhm, what term do we use for an unsociable person? That’s it! She’s a bit of a Killjoy!

Islay and Nova caroled a store swarmed with drunkards. It was always Islay who’ll find every creative idea and propose it convincingly to Nova, who in turn hesitates and rejects it but then ultimately respects it in the end. Islay always has the winning edge. Maybe that’s one of her abilities. Her convincing power deserves a credit to the list.

The two didn’t mind the ***** that welcomed them. Inside her mind, Nova asked herself how many people could waste their money on a doze of liquid or spirit that can poison their mind and bring them to imminent danger. If only they have given it to the poor and needy, they could have saved a lot of lives instead of ruining their own.

But Aling Nena, the wicked storeowner, unleashed her witchy wrath to the two. She looked at them with eyes of contempt, of prejudice and disgust. She accused the two as jinxes and blamed them for the
store’s unprofitable end. If only she could look at herself and discover a chest of shimmering blame, she might shrink into shame. Islay and Nova ran off not because they were afraid of Aling Nena or the drunken men but because of what Aling Nena said to them. They cannot defend themselves from such
an attack. How could they when they were surrounded with eyes of ridicule?

And of course, there’s my dearest sister, Juaning. We’ve only got each other since our mother’s death. It has been months already. Juaning was still 15 when mama left us. She’s 16 now. It’s been quite a while and I know she misses mama a lot like I do.

And so they fought life’s bitter realities. They begged and implored to the unconcerned passers-by, almost falling to their weak knees for one very important thing - to live. But even if the three of them were sitting, lying, and rolling down the cold pavement, these people with more graces just pass by without even sparing a glance of concern. Wouldn’t it be happier if they shared their God-given blessings? But as the day continues, they have to endure the hunger, the contempt. Because other than filling their
hungry stomach, they have a sibling, a friend to support.

That’s my part of the story. It has been months now since I caught a serious illness which bound me
to this bed, flat on one’s back, weak, inutile, and useless. Every time they come home, I wish I was with them to taste the sweet and feel the pain, not just a good listener to their stories of survival and moments of friendship. Someday, I’ll become strong again, and this curse of a disease shall be gone.

I woke up to the longing for water. I’ve never been this thirsty before. I called out their names but my voice just echoed deep in the four dark walls of our crooked house. With no one to help me, I summoned my strength and decided to get a glass of water by myself. But my legs aren’t as strong as my will. And as I attempted to stand, they betrayed me. I collapsed and plodded down the floor. Luckily Islay came and helped me get back to bed. She scolded me for being careless. I cried. I can’t help it. I pitied myself all
over again.

The cold evening wasn’t a problem for Islay. Seeing me cry like that crushes her heart. I know, as a friend and a part of our family, she wishes the best for me. And that’s why she’s still out there in the middle of the night, working late to earn more for our better future. She ignored the chills and the exasperation. She knows she has to work harder and she’s more than determined for it.

But something happened to me while she’s away from home. I cannot move my body, not even my mouth. Tears just fell from my weary eyes. And before it’s too late, Juaning caught me unresponsive and paralyzed. My sister cried for help. Nova sprinted to get the jar. Juaning told her what to do. And wasting no time, Nova rushed to the nearby pharmacy to get me some medicine, and most probably to save my life.

But Nova’s effort was in vain. Prescription drugs cannot be bought that easily. The pharmacist closed down the only lining of hope for me. The security guard felt pity on Nova and he suggested her an alternative decision that will change our lives forever.

Islay was still busy serenading the busy streets with her chants of joy and sweet hums. But the clouds become unwelcoming. And by the sound of the thunder, big droplets of rain started pouring down the highway. She ran as fast as she could and sat on a corner where she thought of something deeply. She hugged the drum that she was carrying for five hours or so and tried to remain calm in the presence of the bad weather.

After half an hour, Nova came back with a pouch of medicine on her shaking hand. She handed it carefully to Juaning whose faith and hope were hanging to the tiny bottle of miracle.

Days gone by and my condition wasn’t going any better. It turned out that my medicine was consumed to the last drop. Still I remained immobile and my hands are going number by the days. Slowly I was losing hope. I wish they weren’t mad at me. I’m trying my best to live on. That’s why I’m still here. But Nova shared something worth listening to. She revealed how and where she got the medicine.

It was from a quack doctor on a stall put up on the corner of Rizal Avenue. She said he was well versed and very convincing. And that she spent all of our savings for a bottle of deception. But we can do nothing about it. We did not have formal education. We were fortunate enough to meet kind children on
the streets who would try to teach us something they have learned from school. We would attempt to read newspapers and the description in the carton boxes we spread beneath the Badelles overpass.

Nova cried in guilt and shame. Islay was still angry at her, and it can be understood. My sister, Juaning, comforted Nova with a promise that everything will get better in time.

December 27. It was my birthday. And more than anything else, what I wish is for the four of us to be happy. Nothing in this life is more important than seeing everyone you love smile with absolute
happiness. Juaning never forgot her job and that’s to buy me a cake. Every year, they will try to surprise me with every creative possible way. But that’s how their surprises become predictable with my age.

They sang me a birthday song. But this time, they were the ones waiting for a surprise. As my sister was about to hand me the cake waiting for me to blow the candle, she noticed something she was least expecting for. My lips are pale and my eyes are shut from the light of the world. I caught my last breath and before I gave it away, I left a smile on my face that can never be changed forever. That is how I want them to remember me. Not that heck of a frown clown whose audiences are stricken with sadness.

They say, in the wheel of life, sometimes, you'll spend half of your years rising to the top and the other half tumbling to the
bottom. Maybe they were right. It was then that I’ve come to understand what they were trying to say.

Our life’s wheel revolves around things way beyond just money, food, and shelter. It is about the moments you spend with your loved ones, friends and family that will be forever carved in your heart. We can never know when our life here on earth will be over. So let us cherish every bit of it. And for me, even if we skip breakfasts and eat only noodles for supper, I have realized in these last fleeting moments that my life has always
been on the top of the wheel after all.
Sam Luna Mar 2015
She stares out the window each day
Before the sun sets away
Drinking tea and wondering
What could other people be doing?

There was nothing to see
Just buildings
And hanging clothing
On other people's housing

The wind blows
Her eyes blur
She sips tea
Her mind leaves

The images of yesterday comes
The emotions of today emerges
In her mind she hums
And with the wind she surges

No one could really understand why
This girl would want to fly
All her thoughts are recurring
But only the window knows what she's thinking.
i need a good friend
Francie Lynch May 2016
A honeybee hovers
Over my lawn,
Scouting nectar
Like a drone.
He hums a song
I love to hear:
Honey, he hums,
I'm coming home.
A bit of poetic irony.
Indian Phoenix Apr 2012
Brown sugar sapotas
Blending with custard alfonso mangos
And bold sweet lime juice

Georgette saris
Pairing with uncut diamond necklaces
Mixed with peals and rubies

Gently sloping palm trees
Swaying in balmy sultry air
And hazy golden sunsets

Frenetic yellow autos
Competing with dusty zipping mopeds
Mixed with ambulating pedestrians

Aromas of cumin
Blending with the sewage
Other times with incense

Glows of brass oil lamps
Singing in hums of prayer
Added with turmeric's incantations

Brightly-patterned salwars
Accentuating gemstone bindis
Comfy fitted leggings

Savory masala dosas
Coupling coconut chutney
Meter-high filter coffee
Sam Oliver Jul 2010
Hums of swinging blades and axes,
Wailing of voices,
Ricochets of guns.
Secrets whispered in private,
Declamation exclaimed in public,
Hymns sung,
Words spoken.
People are the weapon.
We must not doubt ourselves.
All conflict,
No matter the position,
Comes from a common source.
People are the weapons.
All else, extensions-
Of the arm,
Of the leg,
Of the mind,
Of the heart;
All extensions of the person.
By extension,
A person is an extension
Of the people.
Let the power of the individual
Never lie unknown,
For in one person
Is the concentrated power
Of everyone.
Grace May 2018
This is just a boring sadness;
a low-lying, flat sort of sadness,
just a grey sea on a drizzly day.
There’s nothing major going on here,
nothing monumental, nothing tragic.
It’s all just a bit blue round the edges.

This isn’t an explosive sadness,
it isn’t a torrent and it isn’t rock bottom.
It’s just a boring sadness that hums steadily
and it’s fine, really. It’s fine.

It’s just a sort of storm globe sadness,
willing to become tempestuous when shaken.
The waves rush, lightening darts, thunder bellows,
but it all happens behind glass.
And it’s fine, really, because it settles itself quickly.
The sea goes flat again and it’s fine.

It’s just a monotonous sadness,
the sort that makes life dull and hopeless.
It keeps you in your bedroom
and it ticks off the years and still,
you’re in the bedroom,
yet to have your first kiss,
your first heart break,
your first night out,
your first airplane ride,
your first concert,
your first car,
but it’s fine, because it’s a sadness
that comes down like a fall
of paper snowflakes and it’s fine.
It’s all fine.

It’s just a boring sort of sadness,
so you watch other people’s misery instead
and you wish you could spare them the pain.
You become a twisted sort of sadness covet,
a sadness thief, stealing sadness that isn’t boring,
stealing sadness that seems worse than your own
And it hurts you and makes you feel worthless,
all these bungled attempts to rob sadness
but it’s fine, really. At the end of the day, you’re fine.
It’s just another bit of boring sadness and you are fine.
'Well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
Count your blessings. Better than that,
buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
Take up dancing to forget' - Margaret Atwood

It's fine, just another quick poem about sadness, what's new?
A night sometime in mid-July
and darkness hums between the trees.
My eyes look across sodden grass
for another life to waddle past.

A creature,
a ball of bristles
appears from the bushes,
listen out for a snuffle, a mumble.

There, by the fence,
a wooden coat speckled with milk.
Its movement lazy like a man
on a summer Sunday walk home.

Does it come often? I wonder
as a breeze races over my lawn.
A sniff of a fallen branch
before shuffling along.

The evening crawls on,
a caterpillar over a leaf.
I decide to wait a while,
watch my guest awake, alive.
Written: May 2013 and April 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Inspiration - Ted Hughes's 'The Thought-Fox.'
Colin E Havard Mar 2014
Not an enigmatic smile
Like the constipated, condescending smirk
Adorning, and inexplicably adored, on the Mona Lisa's smug face;
But a smile to justify God's existence;
A smile that, when dazzlingly bestowed
Upon one fortunate soul, caught rabbit-like in its
Wondrous radiance, infinitesimally, and cumulatively,
Increases the World's joy. Where every living thing -  
Whatever exists on the planet, imperceptibly hums
To a new, more celestial pitch -
An effervescent vibration celebrating Life's mysteries:
A reason for existence.

It's a smile to make an Alchemist cry -
Turning a leaden heart to gold in an instant.

It's a smile to make a mediocre poet struggle
To articulate an adequate description
Using all the hyperbole, simile and metaphor at his limited disposal.

Inestimably more brilliant, and more valuable,
Than the most flawless diamond ever found -
And, perhaps, just as rare.

Thankfully, a renewable resource,
Enabled to enlighten and heat
The recesses of any beneficiary's
Heart and invigorate their soul.

Helen may have caused a thousand ships to sail,
Destroying a nation as a consequence;
And Cleopatra nearly caused the collapse of an Empire;
But Tao's smile, unleashed in all its glory
Could melt the Antarctic ice-sheet -
Drowning us all in its magnificence.

Mayan's have a myth that states such a smile
Only comes around once every twelve thousand years,
In the Great Galactic turning.

Einstein's General Theory of Relativity
Is often mistakenly considered to concern gravity,
But is, in fact, concerned with one's relative position
To Tao's smile - an inescapable vortex of pleasure.

No music conceived of the fabled Celestial Spheres
Compares to the silent, ethereal harmonies tattooing my heart
Whenever, beacon-like, that smile flashes fleetingly in my direction.

And Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle has not a Quantum core,
But revolves around the statistical uncertainty of being blessed
With the ephemeral thrill of a benign grim.
25/4/2009
The Missing Link - Gaia's Boy Toy
Sarina Feb 2013
Twenty seven months of sunlight showers,
and I am still white –
can he pull me into vinegar?
Make my skin peel into another shade?

No one will recognize.
Our relationship is an oasis, not on a map
but I can spread like an ancient one –

used to being fingered and opened,
garden is a home of myriad wedding vows
when the wind gusts, he feels a promise
touching concealed cartilage

of his ear. No one has spoken so low and
has been heard by anyone even if
the feeling hangs like ferns from a rooftop.

And our body, our single form
hums in a similar silhouette with him above.
No one can amputate his seed from me:
I keep growing into last December
katharine elle Mar 2014
She lives a life of pretend fantasies.
She twirls in her private kingdom of solitude.
Then, a door slams.
Screaming commences.
She stays in her land and hums to herself.
She was used to the sounds.

She prances in her kingdom.
A crown made of dreams apparent upon her head.
Glass breaks and windows shake in fear.
She keeps prancing and hums to herself.
She was used to the sounds.

She lies awake on her satin pillow.
A broken heart shatters in her soul.
Tears of silver stream as the door opens wide.
She closes her eyes and hums to herself.
She was used to the sounds.

Her eyes open once again.
She glances around and smiles for the first time.
This land she dreams of is no longer a fantasy.
She spins and twirls.
Her wide eyes gleaming with joy as she hums to herself.
She was not used to these sounds.
These sounds of pure happiness and love that filled her kingdom.
Her now real fantasy.
I wrote this at about 1 in the morning. It's content is about a little girl and her mother's abuse from her father. I hope you enjoyed it.
baz Feb 2015
You see her tousled and knotted hair falling in her face,
But I focus on the soft melody she hums to herself as she paints the world.

You say that her eyes squint too much when she laughs,
But I find beauty in the way they flicker when gets my jokes.

You say she reads too much and should get outside more,
But I see her brilliant mind twisting around concepts of beauty and truth.

She is flawed in all the right ways.
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
Phone rings, only breathing
Landlord yelling, dog barking,
Mexican music, nosey neighbors
Long cigarette and goodbye girl
She’s absent and she’s catatonic
She’s boiling in unwanted fever
She hums as she irons unplugged
She hums as she cleans up the blood
She’s levitating against her will
She’s nailing the door shut with a candle
She’s rolling him up in a carpet
Yeah, your high horse and your sports
Are just heavy metaphors
For something a lot sweatier
****** Made Her Menstrual
You supplied the weapons
On a sheer peak of joy we meet;
Below us hums the abyss;
Death either way allures our feet
If we take one step amiss.

One moment let us drink the blue
Transcendent air together—
Then down where the same old work’s to do
In the same dull daily weather.

We may not wait . . . yet look below!
How part? On this keen ridge
But one may pass. They call you—go!
My life shall be your bridg.
Kaitlyn Oct 2013
She likes to listen to that song
With the sleepy quiet rhythm
On Sunday afternoons
Before light hides behind peaks
While snow drifts towards the road
That the car hums along

Because for 2 minutes
and 53 seconds

She doesn't feel
*so
empty.
Desperado Dan
Is a man with a plan
To cash in a bit of Kensington
On some high grade *****
Cos right now he's got a couple of scores
But not a great deal more to loose

You see, our Dan is a master of the modern day quill
He works an open office, clocking in and out at will
But after reading all the greats from his and every bygone age
He lives in a time where the mp3 subverts the written page

So night and day he hums away
Searching for that hit chorus
And he knows you can't cut corners
When it comes to tanking up on creative juices

A Desperado is larger beer spiked with tequila
Some say it's for scoundrels to make charming girls easier
But our Dan's quest is noble.
He has a dream we'd all like to believe in
He simply wants to do his whole life’s work in just one evening
And a Desperado seems to conjure all six hats within one head
So if two minds are better than one...well, nuff said

He dilutes them at first, pulling the wool over his own eyes
Until, catching reflections on the glass, he sees through the disguise.
And before long you'll find him chugging straight from the bottle
Then, in a blur of paper and pen, Dan writes like there's no tomorrow.

He writes and writes and writes some more
a couplet, a bridge, an underscore
Ploughing verses like trenches through the ****** white paper
Dropping napalms just to see what pops it's head above the wreckage.

Then, surveying the new landscape, he quarries in every direction…

Linearly; because it's most straightforward like that
Circularly; because they used to think the world was flat

Logically; because... Well duh!
Laterally; which gives the brain a stir

Diagonally; some kinda a + b = c rap from back in the day
In reverse; because sometimes we unknowingly face the wrong way

Unapologetically
Down dead ends
Just to see the view

He picks up clichés and looks under them for clues

Desperado Dan
Calls for desperate measures
As the evening wears on
He indulges all his earthly pleasures

And down they go with a Yo ** **
What a ***** desperado!
***** I say! Now he's mixing with ***
Still his pencil flies with a blistered thumb

'E starts to drop 'is H's
And forgets to cross his l's...sorry t's
He paces back and forwards
An he talks like mushy peas

Rummaging frantically through chaotic pockets
Conjunctives falling to the floor
He can't find the word he's after, but who cares? There’s plenty more!
He begins to vengefully split infinitives in two
And hurl metaphors across the kitchen
Sending mountains of ******* up ***** of paper flying
Like snowballs after the thaw
Which slowly melt into puddles of lonely vowels and consonants.
Long after he has gone.

----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------

But all that was before the "Doodley Dee"
And his dream came true with a change of key
The song which people can't help to hum
From OAPs to the I-generation
And people hummed it all over
And in all sorts of weather
Until someone decided we should hum it forever.
And they paid Desperado Dan for every hum
Not bad work for a blistered thumb

So now our Dan seems a lot less desperate.
From time to time he evens finds an hour or two to rest a bit
Sitting on the veranda of his studio in the south of France.
Applying the finishing touches to another comedy romance.
Sipping a very fine Sauvignon, no Desperado in sight.

They're all safely packed away in the cellar

Just in case he gets the urge

Late at night.

— The End —