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"impotence" poems
the world sits on the wing of a dove being swallowed whole by a fiery goddess descended from heaven on a chariot of ivy i am incarcerated by shaking flesh and itching cloth the road before me is giant and knows no bounds the graveyard is warm and wet with spirits and dew and red clouds are born from fire in the dawn there is an intelligent horse being ridden by a snarling insect and this man has come to claim our souls our sunset blood burns boils blisters until a million animals wounded i'm still alive, transfigure me into a creator choke up my nostrils with the scent of your *** invade my lungs with the burn of your god caress my toungue with the infinite promise enter my brain from above, and regurgitate your anxiety on me slimy worms devour a psychadelic tomato laughing into transendency, an eyeless eel has dissappeared into a pocket i speak from balconies, from terrible heights, from hastened windowsills in a million desperate quarrelling cities this is where i **** up illusion, i give up to despondency i ring the great iron bell that resounds with corruption, with hatred, with hideous *** and admiration, i scream and cavort on rooftops alone with a black & blue midnight covered in electric lights and gunpowder tongues here comes the disintegration of my mind disgraced by the eye of the earth and spat into a realm of salivating light i am swimming through digested heartbreak and melancholy livers sickened by madness and homemade bombs and ****** the rainclouds carry a truckload of babies' hearts and it's raining eyes over the city now the cry of the mind escapes from waving mouths in impotence as millions of bacteria invade the brain may these lines be answered by the bird of the sun by the worm at my ear by the sight of my skeleton by the stench of ***** in the air by the dead gong shivering through midnight by the bleeding eye of abandoned dreams by the prophets in proclamation by the god of all my sorrows
0
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 9:55 PM UTC
david-badgerow
intelligent horse
the world sits on the wing of a dove being swallowed whole by a fiery goddess descended from heaven on a chariot of ivy i am incarcerated by shaking flesh and itching cloth the road before me is giant and knows no bounds the graveyard is warm and wet with spirits and dew and red clouds are born from fire in the dawn there is an intelligent horse being ridden by a snarling insect and this man has come to claim our souls our sunset blood burns boils blisters until a million animals wounded i'm still alive, transfigure me into a creator choke up my nostrils with the scent of your *** invade my lungs with the burn of your god caress my toungue with the infinite promise enter my brain from above, and regurgitate your anxiety on me slimy worms devour a psychadelic tomato laughing into transendency, an eyeless eel has dissappeared into a pocket i speak from balconies, from terrible heights, from hastened windowsills in a million desperate quarrelling cities this is where i **** up illusion, i give up to despondency i ring the great iron bell that resounds with corruption, with hatred, with hideous *** and admiration, i scream and cavort on rooftops alone with a black & blue midnight covered in electric lights and gunpowder tongues here comes the disintegration of my mind disgraced by the eye of the earth and spat into a realm of salivating light i am swimming through digested heartbreak and melancholy livers sickened by madness and homemade bombs and ****** the rainclouds carry a truckload of babies' hearts and it's raining eyes over the city now the cry of the mind escapes from waving mouths in impotence as millions of bacteria invade the brain may these lines be answered by the bird of the sun by the worm at my ear by the sight of my skeleton by the stench of ***** in the air by the dead gong shivering through midnight by the bleeding eye of abandoned dreams by the prophets in proclamation by the god of all my sorrows
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40
Fatima Latima I had wished I had no gift of sight That the worst I could endure is hear you speak And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation You may not be a thief Nor **** daughter of the dayspring But definitely my heart you stole I speak of the daughter of Arabia Aesthetically, she rocks The queen of the pilgrim sands And aeonian desert stones Beyond the hijab Artistically knead with consummate craft Like the relics of Mecca Blest by the prophet’s bones The blessed I see torches Beaming with intelligence Within those mascaras Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant A lulu class botany She fixes a searching gaze As she saunters close And the stride and tread Beats a drum entrancing Soothed in her solacing spell I give in, to her lullaby She halts her perambulation Stands magniloquent and stupefy Like some pop diva magazine pose Or Victorian secret shot A tactical derangement of her gluteals As she rests her palm in its cleft I feel contractions, my dartos muscles The blew of summertime Gently beats her exceptional form Her belt submerge her thigh crevice Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat Built by the dainties and delicacies Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef As her silken dress slithers and gowns Under the breeze bulging and blooming Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore As she bends down To assuage the burlesque The sun specula lilts her sensational Her smile apologetic bids me stillness I am caught staring Guzzling down her scent and Feasting on empty imaginations Of What If that accentuate the mind and Speed a hormone And I pray I sin no more Next time we meet and I see her again For I am but a writer Learning to use my pen and paper And hope you but forgive My linguistic impotence When I make my confession Employing too plain a language When I say thus; Her smile is classical Her walk magical Her beauty celestial Her stride sensational Her religion ethical Her character spotless And that leaves me breathless And forgive if I step on broken toe And try speak of the unspoken Her ****** is sacred Her being a type that dresses up In the milliards of brutes dressing down And shamelessly style it fashion I must see a priest One confession I ought to utter And even vociferate abroad For once I had fallen in love With an Arabian Beautie A ****** of Mecca.
0
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
pat-pakla
Fatima Latima
Fatima Latima I had wished I had no gift of sight That the worst I could endure is hear you speak And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation You may not be a thief Nor **** daughter of the dayspring But definitely my heart you stole I speak of the daughter of Arabia Aesthetically, she rocks The queen of the pilgrim sands And aeonian desert stones Beyond the hijab Artistically knead with consummate craft Like the relics of Mecca Blest by the prophet’s bones The blessed I see torches Beaming with intelligence Within those mascaras Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant A lulu class botany She fixes a searching gaze As she saunters close And the stride and tread Beats a drum entrancing Soothed in her solacing spell I give in, to her lullaby She halts her perambulation Stands magniloquent and stupefy Like some pop diva magazine pose Or Victorian secret shot A tactical derangement of her gluteals As she rests her palm in its cleft I feel contractions, my dartos muscles The blew of summertime Gently beats her exceptional form Her belt submerge her thigh crevice Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat Built by the dainties and delicacies Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef As her silken dress slithers and gowns Under the breeze bulging and blooming Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore As she bends down To assuage the burlesque The sun specula lilts her sensational Her smile apologetic bids me stillness I am caught staring Guzzling down her scent and Feasting on empty imaginations Of What If that accentuate the mind and Speed a hormone And I pray I sin no more Next time we meet and I see her again For I am but a writer Learning to use my pen and paper And hope you but forgive My linguistic impotence When I make my confession Employing too plain a language When I say thus; Her smile is classical Her walk magical Her beauty celestial Her stride sensational Her religion ethical Her character spotless And that leaves me breathless And forgive if I step on broken toe And try speak of the unspoken Her ****** is sacred Her being a type that dresses up In the milliards of brutes dressing down And shamelessly style it fashion I must see a priest One confession I ought to utter And even vociferate abroad For once I had fallen in love With an Arabian Beautie A ****** of Mecca.
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80
854 Banish Air from Air— Divide Light if you dare— They’ll meet While Cubes in a Drop Or Pellets of Shape Fit Films cannot annul Odors return whole Force Flame And with a Blonde push Over your impotence Flits Steam.
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4.4k
Emily Dickinson
Banish Air from Air—
854 Banish Air from Air— Divide Light if you dare— They’ll meet While Cubes in a Drop Or Pellets of Shape Fit Films cannot annul Odors return whole Force Flame And with a Blonde push Over your impotence Flits Steam.
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13
Mother Nature broke her water But the baby never came Our inundated world Will never be the same We watched slowly With a growing sense of impotence As an elemental army Took our innocence Some left their homes and died In another place They never did return To their own space Politicians waded 'round In their wellingtons What nerve they had to even show Their sorry skeletons Pontificated platitudes Filled the element of air And those who had been flooded Didn't really care To hear the sly sermon Those words were barely heard Though so well-written Practised and rehearsed Mother Nature has retreated now To her slumber state One day soon she'll wake again We do not know the date Windermere 2016 February 14th
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Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
sean-hunt
The Flood
Mother Nature broke her water But the baby never came Our inundated world Will never be the same We watched slowly With a growing sense of impotence As an elemental army Took our innocence Some left their homes and died In another place They never did return To their own space Politicians waded 'round In their wellingtons What nerve they had to even show Their sorry skeletons Pontificated platitudes Filled the element of air And those who had been flooded Didn't really care To hear the sly sermon Those words were barely heard Though so well-written Practised and rehearsed Mother Nature has retreated now To her slumber state One day soon she'll wake again We do not know the date Windermere 2016 February 14th
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29
The possibility of free declamation anchored And lucid, inescapable rhythms Do have meaning. They're strong as rocks In the deep-toned Aeolian mode For the listener, who listens in the snow, A Poet could not but be gay, The Impotence to Tell – Still makes a poem a surprise!
0
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC
norm-deplume
Writing in the Closet, a Cento
The possibility of free declamation anchored And lucid, inescapable rhythms Do have meaning. They're strong as rocks In the deep-toned Aeolian mode For the listener, who listens in the snow, A Poet could not but be gay, The Impotence to Tell – Still makes a poem a surprise!
Continue reading...
8
I lurk on social media. I post all day and night. It strokes and stokes my ego to pick a verbal fight. When I see inspiring stories or such videos I watch, my cruel and vicious comments will take them down a notch. Oh feel my power and my wrath, my insults, mean and shocking, like "Loser", "Snowflake", ****** *** (do you tremble at my mocking?) I hate the world, I loathe myself, my friends all went away. Girls say I'm scary and a creep. My rage grows every day. My impotence consumes me, I respond with posts of rage. Anonymous through GMail and my fake Facebook page. My hatred grows as my soul shrinks and so my spleen I vent. Safe, deep within my bunker, down in my mom's basement.
0
Apr 22, 2020
Apr 22, 2020 at 9:23 AM UTC
Uncle_Phil
Social Media Troll
I lurk on social media. I post all day and night. It strokes and stokes my ego to pick a verbal fight. When I see inspiring stories or such videos I watch, my cruel and vicious comments will take them down a notch. Oh feel my power and my wrath, my insults, mean and shocking, like "Loser", "Snowflake", ****** *** (do you tremble at my mocking?) I hate the world, I loathe myself, my friends all went away. Girls say I'm scary and a creep. My rage grows every day. My impotence consumes me, I respond with posts of rage. Anonymous through GMail and my fake Facebook page. My hatred grows as my soul shrinks and so my spleen I vent. Safe, deep within my bunker, down in my mom's basement.
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24
“cold winter sky— where will this wandering beggar grow old?” — Issa I. Stories A ranch north of Spain, his woman, their child... a dream painted over, gone. His... (unrequited) ...own tragedy for himself— young death in Paris. Quiet night at nine, inside a café... gunshots— being... nothingness... II. Histories A cold monochrome, the winter hue of darkness: umbra of despair. Portraits of torment: beggars, drunkards, prostitutes, 1901— Lapis lazuli thinned, turpentined—bleu de France— ennui of sorrow. III. Images Melancholia —the impotence of the will— in Barcelona. Barefoot on the street corner, sitting on the ground, he leaned on nothing. A half-stringed guitar...... Germaine’s ******* distracted him.. he laid his revenge. IV. Meanings No can a beggar... no steel strings a guitarist... —a friend’s eulogy. The cadaverous curves of the bones torqued the flesh— tedium of old age. An allegory: artists, poets, mendicants... ****** or broke oglers? V. The Painting His evocation: the grave of Casagemas— a guilt exorcised. A mute’s discontent, a blind man’s desolation, an oil masterpiece! An old guitarist, blind, begging for an audience— a blue Picasso.
0
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 7:22 AM UTC
MissCassWriter
ThE OLd GuiTaRiST
“cold winter sky— where will this wandering beggar grow old?” — Issa I. Stories A ranch north of Spain, his woman, their child... a dream painted over, gone. His... (unrequited) ...own tragedy for himself— young death in Paris. Quiet night at nine, inside a café... gunshots— being... nothingness... II. Histories A cold monochrome, the winter hue of darkness: umbra of despair. Portraits of torment: beggars, drunkards, prostitutes, 1901— Lapis lazuli thinned, turpentined—bleu de France— ennui of sorrow. III. Images Melancholia —the impotence of the will— in Barcelona. Barefoot on the street corner, sitting on the ground, he leaned on nothing. A half-stringed guitar...... Germaine’s ******* distracted him.. he laid his revenge. IV. Meanings No can a beggar... no steel strings a guitarist... —a friend’s eulogy. The cadaverous curves of the bones torqued the flesh— tedium of old age. An allegory: artists, poets, mendicants... ****** or broke oglers? V. The Painting His evocation: the grave of Casagemas— a guilt exorcised. A mute’s discontent, a blind man’s desolation, an oil masterpiece! An old guitarist, blind, begging for an audience— a blue Picasso.
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54
Alexander K Opicho (Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected]) There are more and more misfortunes in the world Known to you dear people in your diverse conditions, But my life and experience has taught me unique lessons Of kindred to befit me Elizabeth, a daughter of Zinjathropus Hailing in the savannah desert, Turkana County of Kenya, I have graduated in to a single lady without test of marriage, As desert men look at me in their irritating impotence, **** clothes wrapped around their slender waists passing on me Like a dog passing on American dollars; cursed be desert men, I thought my beauty of dark African complexions will give them a ****** tease But to my chagrin; desert men have a fear of beautiful ladies My conscience tells me that my beauty is an eye sore to them, I thought my bulging hips will entice them as is a promise of fertility Leave alone not to mention my concupiscent ****** warmth, uhmmm! Desert men have dared not to see and appreciate my **** bossom, They often pass on me driving their donkeys and emaciated carmels, I thought my ***** sharp pointed ******* assign of virginity Will call them to me into a treat of love, affiliative love, But sadly enough; these dudes are erotically blind, They they nonchalantly pass on my **** ***** Wielding a begging bowl in their ***** long hands Running like drunkard chimpanzees going to Oxfam stores to beg for food, Cursed be Oxfam an imperialist agent, it has crashed flat The testicles of our desert brothers into ****** insensitivity, Oxfam has made African desert men to beg like Hebrew lepers Other than standing up on their feet to feed their women, Normally as men would do from the sweat of their brow, I thought my education will attract them to me, To love me with those romantic University kisses, But desert men have crude cultures and slavish religion They rebuke girl child education as if it is a devil, Oh my dear God of the forsaken desert ladies Of the forsaken African daughters, Take me out of this ****** desert Take me out of the city desert of Lodwar, Take me to the equator line and give me a husband, My eggs are pretty ready to conceive and sire children Sons and daughters for your own glory O almighty God, Take me out of this ****** desert, Where no man treats a modern woman, Take me out of here and give me a fresh man of my dream. Because I have known from today; It is accurse to be a woman in Africa It is a curse to be a beautiful lady in African deserts It is a curse to be a woman graduate in the African desert It is a curse to have ***** ******* in the African desert, O! Help me God.
0
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
alexander-k-opicho
MELODY OF A DESERT SINGLE LADY
Alexander K Opicho (Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected]) There are more and more misfortunes in the world Known to you dear people in your diverse conditions, But my life and experience has taught me unique lessons Of kindred to befit me Elizabeth, a daughter of Zinjathropus Hailing in the savannah desert, Turkana County of Kenya, I have graduated in to a single lady without test of marriage, As desert men look at me in their irritating impotence, **** clothes wrapped around their slender waists passing on me Like a dog passing on American dollars; cursed be desert men, I thought my beauty of dark African complexions will give them a ****** tease But to my chagrin; desert men have a fear of beautiful ladies My conscience tells me that my beauty is an eye sore to them, I thought my bulging hips will entice them as is a promise of fertility Leave alone not to mention my concupiscent ****** warmth, uhmmm! Desert men have dared not to see and appreciate my **** bossom, They often pass on me driving their donkeys and emaciated carmels, I thought my ***** sharp pointed ******* assign of virginity Will call them to me into a treat of love, affiliative love, But sadly enough; these dudes are erotically blind, They they nonchalantly pass on my **** ***** Wielding a begging bowl in their ***** long hands Running like drunkard chimpanzees going to Oxfam stores to beg for food, Cursed be Oxfam an imperialist agent, it has crashed flat The testicles of our desert brothers into ****** insensitivity, Oxfam has made African desert men to beg like Hebrew lepers Other than standing up on their feet to feed their women, Normally as men would do from the sweat of their brow, I thought my education will attract them to me, To love me with those romantic University kisses, But desert men have crude cultures and slavish religion They rebuke girl child education as if it is a devil, Oh my dear God of the forsaken desert ladies Of the forsaken African daughters, Take me out of this ****** desert Take me out of the city desert of Lodwar, Take me to the equator line and give me a husband, My eggs are pretty ready to conceive and sire children Sons and daughters for your own glory O almighty God, Take me out of this ****** desert, Where no man treats a modern woman, Take me out of here and give me a fresh man of my dream. Because I have known from today; It is accurse to be a woman in Africa It is a curse to be a beautiful lady in African deserts It is a curse to be a woman graduate in the African desert It is a curse to have ***** ******* in the African desert, O! Help me God.
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49
Did it take us long to walk over to the broken people, Letting our compassion change us for a while, I have not become a saint with an act of kindness, I am still looking for my oasis in this wasteland, Everything else is a passing breeze. The sorrow that filled them in those dark hours Was my elixir, as I walked forward, writing my testimonies in the lives I meet on my way. I have felt grains of sand with my fingertips, my blood is fatigued, in its course through my flesh, My veins are distended, toughened, and yet, They do not tear, and this limbo between Pain and liberation is Peace within a calamity. My soliloquy is a bare rasping breath of wind, Coursing through the streets which led home once, But are now the lanes of memory, stale in their impotence, Stinging in their truth, that my existence left behind marks in the water I bathed in, in the bed I slept in, in the books I read, which I held, in the bandages I bled, over the wounds I tried to heal. On the flag I tried to save, I have wept, Longing for this journey to end, so I may rest a while. The diseased have suffered their sickness with stoicism. I have tried to heal them, succeeded, failed with a few, and wondered in the power of Mortality. My oasis lies in the peaks of the wasteland, I can see it now, A haze, a sliver of sunlight in this dark wasteland, Past this murky slush of relationships, Beyond the cliffs of defeat, and past the rivers Of Self-loathing criticism.
0
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
thinking-doc
My Oasis in the wasteland
Did it take us long to walk over to the broken people, Letting our compassion change us for a while, I have not become a saint with an act of kindness, I am still looking for my oasis in this wasteland, Everything else is a passing breeze. The sorrow that filled them in those dark hours Was my elixir, as I walked forward, writing my testimonies in the lives I meet on my way. I have felt grains of sand with my fingertips, my blood is fatigued, in its course through my flesh, My veins are distended, toughened, and yet, They do not tear, and this limbo between Pain and liberation is Peace within a calamity. My soliloquy is a bare rasping breath of wind, Coursing through the streets which led home once, But are now the lanes of memory, stale in their impotence, Stinging in their truth, that my existence left behind marks in the water I bathed in, in the bed I slept in, in the books I read, which I held, in the bandages I bled, over the wounds I tried to heal. On the flag I tried to save, I have wept, Longing for this journey to end, so I may rest a while. The diseased have suffered their sickness with stoicism. I have tried to heal them, succeeded, failed with a few, and wondered in the power of Mortality. My oasis lies in the peaks of the wasteland, I can see it now, A haze, a sliver of sunlight in this dark wasteland, Past this murky slush of relationships, Beyond the cliffs of defeat, and past the rivers Of Self-loathing criticism.
Continue reading...
31
Symmetry, balance- Perfection. It is possible. You have to know how to blend. Shade the yin with the yang. Redefine--------------------------------------------- Never say the curse. Politeness... You must know the truth. Mix the knowing with pretend. Now, choose your words well. They listen. The light from the screen Pulls the dark From within my mind. It asks me what's on my mind. If only you knew... I type lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. LIES. LIES. LIES. LIES. LIES. LIES. LIES. Because they don't want the truth. You don't want the truth. I need lies. I can't be myself. I am sin. Worse than that, I'm wrong. I can't ever change my mind, Because there it is, Forever. I show what you crave- Perfection. It's all tremendous. This life full of happiness. No gray, only white. For your eyes. When I power down, I'm weeping. Tears of confusion. Tears of impotence and rage, Because I know - Truth. Perfection. Each day, I fear death. Wish for it. Each day reminding, I take a shot for sugar Because I was weak. Misguided. Each day, I am weak. I pretend. I want to lash out. Want the world to feel my pain. But I don't do it. I love you. What is on my mind? Hate, anger/ No one really cares. If I die tonight, who cares? The world keeps spinning, Deletion. Programming to cope, Coded hope- Trust we'll meet again. But I'll be in the ground soon. Fed on by the worms. No more words. So I stay hidden. Sit with the truth That I am pointless. All of this is just pointless. Symmetry of good And evil. I'll be what you want. To save you. I've figured it out. Perfect in isolation. I'll stay here and wait For the void. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Even more----- I don't really love. I don't have true empathy. No, those are all LIES! No, I choose. Can you see me now? Do you know? My eyes are of fire. My thoughts are vitriolic. But my words are sweet. So pleasant. Do you understand? Who am I? If you say, "Devil"- Oh you, so full of terror. You fear yourself too---- Do you not?
0
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 8:55 AM UTC
Jabin
Perfection
Symmetry, balance- Perfection. It is possible. You have to know how to blend. Shade the yin with the yang. Redefine--------------------------------------------- Never say the curse. Politeness... You must know the truth. Mix the knowing with pretend. Now, choose your words well. They listen. The light from the screen Pulls the dark From within my mind. It asks me what's on my mind. If only you knew... I type lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. LIES. LIES. LIES. LIES. LIES. LIES. LIES. Because they don't want the truth. You don't want the truth. I need lies. I can't be myself. I am sin. Worse than that, I'm wrong. I can't ever change my mind, Because there it is, Forever. I show what you crave- Perfection. It's all tremendous. This life full of happiness. No gray, only white. For your eyes. When I power down, I'm weeping. Tears of confusion. Tears of impotence and rage, Because I know - Truth. Perfection. Each day, I fear death. Wish for it. Each day reminding, I take a shot for sugar Because I was weak. Misguided. Each day, I am weak. I pretend. I want to lash out. Want the world to feel my pain. But I don't do it. I love you. What is on my mind? Hate, anger/ No one really cares. If I die tonight, who cares? The world keeps spinning, Deletion. Programming to cope, Coded hope- Trust we'll meet again. But I'll be in the ground soon. Fed on by the worms. No more words. So I stay hidden. Sit with the truth That I am pointless. All of this is just pointless. Symmetry of good And evil. I'll be what you want. To save you. I've figured it out. Perfect in isolation. I'll stay here and wait For the void. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Even more----- I don't really love. I don't have true empathy. No, those are all LIES! No, I choose. Can you see me now? Do you know? My eyes are of fire. My thoughts are vitriolic. But my words are sweet. So pleasant. Do you understand? Who am I? If you say, "Devil"- Oh you, so full of terror. You fear yourself too---- Do you not?
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96
I pledge to Nigeria my country. From between the heavens and the earth lies. I pledge to not be a betrayer, but loyal. Even when our leaders turn slayers. I pledge to be the voice That echoes above a mere noise. I pledge to fight off vices with my pen. To inspire, educate and liberate all our countrymen. I pledge to be faithful, loyal and honest. Even thou, our leaders proved to be dishonest. To serve Nigeria with all my strengths. In times when we were left with impotence. And to nourish the great work of our forefathers. As she stopped being a douth mother. I pledge to defend her unity, Uphold her honor and glory. None will be left out- not a single entity. Moment speaks, as all now become a past story. Together we shall conquer. Together we shall strive. Together we shall set the pace right. Together we shall rise up to the light Nigeria @ 60—TOGETHER is the theme. TOGETHER WE SHALL STAND……… =====SO HELP US GOD.
0
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 2:53 AM UTC
DeTreasure-042298
TOGETHER..... NIGERIA @60
I pledge to Nigeria my country. From between the heavens and the earth lies. I pledge to not be a betrayer, but loyal. Even when our leaders turn slayers. I pledge to be the voice That echoes above a mere noise. I pledge to fight off vices with my pen. To inspire, educate and liberate all our countrymen. I pledge to be faithful, loyal and honest. Even thou, our leaders proved to be dishonest. To serve Nigeria with all my strengths. In times when we were left with impotence. And to nourish the great work of our forefathers. As she stopped being a douth mother. I pledge to defend her unity, Uphold her honor and glory. None will be left out- not a single entity. Moment speaks, as all now become a past story. Together we shall conquer. Together we shall strive. Together we shall set the pace right. Together we shall rise up to the light Nigeria @ 60—TOGETHER is the theme. TOGETHER WE SHALL STAND……… =====SO HELP US GOD.
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25
Dylan is dead. no, not Bob, you Philistine, Dylan Thomas who implored us to rage against the night; so are a passel of poets and penners, but not I Emily heard her fly buzz, well before her eyes shut; she was a wee bit obsessed with the reaper Hemingway's also a goner; guts enough to shove a shotgun in his mouth--mostly I wonder if he tasted blue gunmetal like I did, and who cleaned his brains off the wall? nobody had to clean a red dollop of mine, for the firing pin was askew and all I got was a click, and a sense of shame, and impotence more flaccid than the one which put the barrel in my mouth hell, how hard is it to **** yourself--I guess harder than I thought, since I never bought another rifle so Dylan is dead Em and Hem too, but you are reading these lines without contemplating your own demise I suspect after all, it's early spring and a time of new things clawing their way into the light thinking nothing of the terminal night -- but it's just a sun dip away: ask Dylan or Hemingway, or even JFK but I wouldn't bother the Belle of Amherst she would make parting sweeter than sorrow, and she never tasted the cold lead, or spoke with fear or dread of the dumb and the dead she never murdered men in black pajamas   in a forest primeval... I didn't see their spirits ascending, in ribbons of light, only rivers of their red blood soaking the green ground, yet today ravenous for more it seems why would she rage against the good night, when her carriage waited patiently for her, and immortality, her vessel bound for a light Dylan and I will never see
0
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 6:42 PM UTC
spysgrandson
Dylan is dead
Dylan is dead. no, not Bob, you Philistine, Dylan Thomas who implored us to rage against the night; so are a passel of poets and penners, but not I Emily heard her fly buzz, well before her eyes shut; she was a wee bit obsessed with the reaper Hemingway's also a goner; guts enough to shove a shotgun in his mouth--mostly I wonder if he tasted blue gunmetal like I did, and who cleaned his brains off the wall? nobody had to clean a red dollop of mine, for the firing pin was askew and all I got was a click, and a sense of shame, and impotence more flaccid than the one which put the barrel in my mouth hell, how hard is it to **** yourself--I guess harder than I thought, since I never bought another rifle so Dylan is dead Em and Hem too, but you are reading these lines without contemplating your own demise I suspect after all, it's early spring and a time of new things clawing their way into the light thinking nothing of the terminal night -- but it's just a sun dip away: ask Dylan or Hemingway, or even JFK but I wouldn't bother the Belle of Amherst she would make parting sweeter than sorrow, and she never tasted the cold lead, or spoke with fear or dread of the dumb and the dead she never murdered men in black pajamas   in a forest primeval... I didn't see their spirits ascending, in ribbons of light, only rivers of their red blood soaking the green ground, yet today ravenous for more it seems why would she rage against the good night, when her carriage waited patiently for her, and immortality, her vessel bound for a light Dylan and I will never see
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59
the curling smoke from warming fires rise into the slate gray sky of the Beqaa Valley sheaves of rising prayers expire in twisted plumes dissipating into the gloom of an ever looming winter overcast refugees from the Arab Spring's uncivil wars gather for warmth around waning embers, smoldering in the underbelly of the lowliest bottom of rusted steel drums, tended with scavenged debris some thought better suited to fortify the faltering hovels of last resort the fires join us in communal rings straining the tenuous links of brotherhood, the politics of men assiduously tear asunder we count ourselves among the fortunate, blessed exiles recused from the acrimony of desecrated cities, welcoming the residencies of bewailing lullabies of colic infants, the searing hunger of stunted children and the incomprehensible babble the elderly eloquently speak in tongues of a desperate exasperation our nagging impotence swaddle us in ambivalent inabilities to master circumstances profanely denigrating our humanity privation is our daily bread the bitter manna feasting on the animosity the banquet of rancor generously prepares for peace starved pilgrims in these refugee camps the cold cuts deeper hunger pangs grow sharper our blighted dignity, vanished livelihoods, and the presence of recently interred loved ones trudge through our mean encampment as fully enfranchised citizens in our distressed kingdom what was lost can never be recovered our homeland leveled yet doors still stand open silently pleading all to cross a new threshold the full restoration of our hope, the reconstitution of our flagging humanity, the spark of the holy spirit willfully uniting us in the salvation of reconciliation is nigh we are the divine children stoking the embers tending the fire that light pathways through the cold darkness of a broken world Oh come Emmanuel, dwell among us Oh come Emmanuel ransom once again the poor captives of Israel…. Selah Music Selection: L'Accorche-Choeur, Ensemble vocal Fribourg Veni Veni Emmanuel Everywhere Christmas 2013 jbm
0
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
james-bradley-mccallum
Emmanuel
the curling smoke from warming fires rise into the slate gray sky of the Beqaa Valley sheaves of rising prayers expire in twisted plumes dissipating into the gloom of an ever looming winter overcast refugees from the Arab Spring's uncivil wars gather for warmth around waning embers, smoldering in the underbelly of the lowliest bottom of rusted steel drums, tended with scavenged debris some thought better suited to fortify the faltering hovels of last resort the fires join us in communal rings straining the tenuous links of brotherhood, the politics of men assiduously tear asunder we count ourselves among the fortunate, blessed exiles recused from the acrimony of desecrated cities, welcoming the residencies of bewailing lullabies of colic infants, the searing hunger of stunted children and the incomprehensible babble the elderly eloquently speak in tongues of a desperate exasperation our nagging impotence swaddle us in ambivalent inabilities to master circumstances profanely denigrating our humanity privation is our daily bread the bitter manna feasting on the animosity the banquet of rancor generously prepares for peace starved pilgrims in these refugee camps the cold cuts deeper hunger pangs grow sharper our blighted dignity, vanished livelihoods, and the presence of recently interred loved ones trudge through our mean encampment as fully enfranchised citizens in our distressed kingdom what was lost can never be recovered our homeland leveled yet doors still stand open silently pleading all to cross a new threshold the full restoration of our hope, the reconstitution of our flagging humanity, the spark of the holy spirit willfully uniting us in the salvation of reconciliation is nigh we are the divine children stoking the embers tending the fire that light pathways through the cold darkness of a broken world Oh come Emmanuel, dwell among us Oh come Emmanuel ransom once again the poor captives of Israel…. Selah Music Selection: L'Accorche-Choeur, Ensemble vocal Fribourg Veni Veni Emmanuel Everywhere Christmas 2013 jbm
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122
Life flows down to death; we cannot bind That current that it should not flee: Life flows down to death, as rivers find The inevitable sea. Men work and think, but women feel; And so (for I'm a woman, I) And so I should be glad to die And cease from impotence of zeal, And cease from hope, and cease from dread, And cease from yearnings without gain, And cease from all this world of pain, And be at peace among the dead. Hearts that die, by death renew their youth, Lightened of this life that doubts and dies; Silent and contented, while the Truth Unveiled makes them wise. Why should I seek and never find That something which I have not had? Fair and unutterably sad The world hath sought time out of mind; The world hath sought and I have sought,-- Ah, empty world and empty I! For we have spent our strength for nought, And soon it will be time to die. Sparks fly upward toward their fount of fire, Kindling, flashing, hovering:-- Kindle, flash, my soul; mount higher and higher, Thou whole burnt-offering!
0
2.4k
Christina Rossetti
An Immurata Sister
Life flows down to death; we cannot bind That current that it should not flee: Life flows down to death, as rivers find The inevitable sea. Men work and think, but women feel; And so (for I'm a woman, I) And so I should be glad to die And cease from impotence of zeal, And cease from hope, and cease from dread, And cease from yearnings without gain, And cease from all this world of pain, And be at peace among the dead. Hearts that die, by death renew their youth, Lightened of this life that doubts and dies; Silent and contented, while the Truth Unveiled makes them wise. Why should I seek and never find That something which I have not had? Fair and unutterably sad The world hath sought time out of mind; The world hath sought and I have sought,-- Ah, empty world and empty I! For we have spent our strength for nought, And soon it will be time to die. Sparks fly upward toward their fount of fire, Kindling, flashing, hovering:-- Kindle, flash, my soul; mount higher and higher, Thou whole burnt-offering!
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28
Wellspring of blood and gold In flame and glory ever Doest thou faithful rise Cast off thy vapor shrouds Radiance of ancient godhood undimmed Magnified by singing ice As prophesied in the late darkness thy Hoped triumph heralded while Bearers chained on metalled rails Muttered protest under Hoary breath of polar air But lo! The brazen promise of thine Image graven in beholder's eye Rings hollow in the bitten ears And the stung flesh Feels thy boasted fire Not at all Above thee stands the city's goddess proud So virile once thou smilest Upon her white clad shoulder now Ceres scorns thine impotence turns not But fixes her steeled gaze On the frozen north
0
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 10:46 AM UTC
juhlhaus
Heart of Empires
Wellspring of blood and gold In flame and glory ever Doest thou faithful rise Cast off thy vapor shrouds Radiance of ancient godhood undimmed Magnified by singing ice As prophesied in the late darkness thy Hoped triumph heralded while Bearers chained on metalled rails Muttered protest under Hoary breath of polar air But lo! The brazen promise of thine Image graven in beholder's eye Rings hollow in the bitten ears And the stung flesh Feels thy boasted fire Not at all Above thee stands the city's goddess proud So virile once thou smilest Upon her white clad shoulder now Ceres scorns thine impotence turns not But fixes her steeled gaze On the frozen north
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23
For sustenance we trudge on Just to sustain This callus equilibrium of fragile crystals swaying in the wind, falling constantly Employing the cleverest techniques of fleeting upward momentum Short-lived displays of affection bleeding the small offering received at birth endlessly replayed to our children's eyes Despondent indentured servants scribbling through skin and tendons Just to feed their families the rice they can no longer grow And sending these fairy tales to the rosy-cheeked offspring of their oppressor's store bought dreams To keep the oppression alive . To operate at peak efficiency. To transfer honest muscle through wire mesh. And fatten. And enfeeble Enforce the prerequisites to match the scale's testimony. Testify! Oh, Lord. We thank you for this meal stolen from our inferiors. Please Please Please. We demand pleasure. IT IS REQUIRED. For if we feel sadness, then we have failed. And we'll lay down what we don't have space in our engorged bellies for. It will be placed, with all due honors, to our greatest shrine. Where we are honest with our real Mother. Where the proud, twicely worn, footwear of our warrior-spiritless cows rests Where erections limp as collapsed towers, respected by false jihads, sleep. Where dream's plastic refusal composts never; nourishing nothing. Where potential is pure impotence. The bed we all share.
0
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
klaus-baumgarten
Valkyrie Vapidity
For sustenance we trudge on Just to sustain This callus equilibrium of fragile crystals swaying in the wind, falling constantly Employing the cleverest techniques of fleeting upward momentum Short-lived displays of affection bleeding the small offering received at birth endlessly replayed to our children's eyes Despondent indentured servants scribbling through skin and tendons Just to feed their families the rice they can no longer grow And sending these fairy tales to the rosy-cheeked offspring of their oppressor's store bought dreams To keep the oppression alive . To operate at peak efficiency. To transfer honest muscle through wire mesh. And fatten. And enfeeble Enforce the prerequisites to match the scale's testimony. Testify! Oh, Lord. We thank you for this meal stolen from our inferiors. Please Please Please. We demand pleasure. IT IS REQUIRED. For if we feel sadness, then we have failed. And we'll lay down what we don't have space in our engorged bellies for. It will be placed, with all due honors, to our greatest shrine. Where we are honest with our real Mother. Where the proud, twicely worn, footwear of our warrior-spiritless cows rests Where erections limp as collapsed towers, respected by false jihads, sleep. Where dream's plastic refusal composts never; nourishing nothing. Where potential is pure impotence. The bed we all share.
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28
He lay within a warm, soft world Of motion. Colors bloomed and fled, Maroon and turquoise, saffron, red, Wave upon wave that broke and whirled To vanish in the grey-green gloom, Perspectiveless and shadowy. A bulging world that had no walls, A flowing world, most like the sea, Compassing all infinity Within a shapeless, ebbing room, An endless tide that swells and falls . . . He slept and woke and slept again. As a veil drops Time dropped away; Space grew a toy for children's play, Sleep bolted fast the gates of Sense -- He lay in naked impotence; Like a drenched moth that creeps and crawls Heavily up brown, light-baked walls, To fall in wreck, her task undone, Yet somehow striving toward the sun. So, as he slept, his hands clenched tighter, Shut in the old way of the fighter, His feet curled up to grip the ground, His muscles tautened for a bound; And though he felt, and felt alone, Strange brightness stirred him to the bone, Cravings to rise -- till deeper sleep Buried the hope, the call, the leap; A wind puffed out his mind's faint spark. He was absorbed into the dark. He woke again and felt a surge Within him, a mysterious urge That grew one hungry flame of passion; The whole world altered shape and fashion. Deceived, befooled, bereft and torn, He scourged the heavens with his scorn, Lifting a bitter voice to cry Against the eternal treachery -- Till, suddenly, he found the breast, And ceased, and all things were at rest, The earth grew one warm languid sea And he a wave. Joy, tingling, crept Throughout him. He was quenched and slept. So, while the moon made broad her ring, He slept and cried and was a king. So, worthily, he acted o'er The endless miracle once more. Facing immense adventures daily, He strove still onward, weeping, gaily, Conquered or fled from them, but grew As soil-starved, rough pine-saplings do. Till, one day, crawling seemed suspect. He gripped the air and stood ***** And splendid. With immortal rage He entered on man's heritage!
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2k
Stephen Vincent Benet
Portrait of a Baby
He lay within a warm, soft world Of motion. Colors bloomed and fled, Maroon and turquoise, saffron, red, Wave upon wave that broke and whirled To vanish in the grey-green gloom, Perspectiveless and shadowy. A bulging world that had no walls, A flowing world, most like the sea, Compassing all infinity Within a shapeless, ebbing room, An endless tide that swells and falls . . . He slept and woke and slept again. As a veil drops Time dropped away; Space grew a toy for children's play, Sleep bolted fast the gates of Sense -- He lay in naked impotence; Like a drenched moth that creeps and crawls Heavily up brown, light-baked walls, To fall in wreck, her task undone, Yet somehow striving toward the sun. So, as he slept, his hands clenched tighter, Shut in the old way of the fighter, His feet curled up to grip the ground, His muscles tautened for a bound; And though he felt, and felt alone, Strange brightness stirred him to the bone, Cravings to rise -- till deeper sleep Buried the hope, the call, the leap; A wind puffed out his mind's faint spark. He was absorbed into the dark. He woke again and felt a surge Within him, a mysterious urge That grew one hungry flame of passion; The whole world altered shape and fashion. Deceived, befooled, bereft and torn, He scourged the heavens with his scorn, Lifting a bitter voice to cry Against the eternal treachery -- Till, suddenly, he found the breast, And ceased, and all things were at rest, The earth grew one warm languid sea And he a wave. Joy, tingling, crept Throughout him. He was quenched and slept. So, while the moon made broad her ring, He slept and cried and was a king. So, worthily, he acted o'er The endless miracle once more. Facing immense adventures daily, He strove still onward, weeping, gaily, Conquered or fled from them, but grew As soil-starved, rough pine-saplings do. Till, one day, crawling seemed suspect. He gripped the air and stood ***** And splendid. With immortal rage He entered on man's heritage!
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55
we all remember where we were watching the towers burn and fall knowing that things would never be the same at all disbelief at first, or had an action movie slipped into the news no, it was real and then twenty years of vengeful repercussion of military posturing of suffering for many we watched the baddies being painted good and evil being redefined virtue confused impotence and power conflated lies and spin consecrated truth alternated idiot rich guys promoted tax for the poor promulgated democracy desecrated climate destruction accelerated by denialist complacency inequality more concentrated goodness and morality infiltrated by posturing political pus weasels venal vultures of self interest grasping for short term dominance and then .. complacency pervaded as absurdity was accepted as our new state of normal and the height of compassion was owning a dog and tut tutting as refugees marched across our news screens and now we bemoan being isolated from being contaminated we are mostly relegated to stay in our mansions while dinner is contemplated have you been vaccinated?
0
Sep 11, 2021
Sep 11, 2021 at 4:32 AM UTC
rick-warr
when the world changed ...
we all remember where we were watching the towers burn and fall knowing that things would never be the same at all disbelief at first, or had an action movie slipped into the news no, it was real and then twenty years of vengeful repercussion of military posturing of suffering for many we watched the baddies being painted good and evil being redefined virtue confused impotence and power conflated lies and spin consecrated truth alternated idiot rich guys promoted tax for the poor promulgated democracy desecrated climate destruction accelerated by denialist complacency inequality more concentrated goodness and morality infiltrated by posturing political pus weasels venal vultures of self interest grasping for short term dominance and then .. complacency pervaded as absurdity was accepted as our new state of normal and the height of compassion was owning a dog and tut tutting as refugees marched across our news screens and now we bemoan being isolated from being contaminated we are mostly relegated to stay in our mansions while dinner is contemplated have you been vaccinated?
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63
It’s funny how The universities are still in business Of producing graduates That speak funny English And hardly make invention And the stock market falls Down street tumbles That lets people buy And make profit Like grandpa used to say, True intellectualism died In the year 1929 With the rise in acumen inflation It was then that This Federal Reserve of Ignorance The true villain of this quandary Traces its genesis Hope that explains succinct This universal impotence
0
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:17 AM UTC
pat-pakla
Crazy World
It’s funny how The universities are still in business Of producing graduates That speak funny English And hardly make invention And the stock market falls Down street tumbles That lets people buy And make profit Like grandpa used to say, True intellectualism died In the year 1929 With the rise in acumen inflation It was then that This Federal Reserve of Ignorance The true villain of this quandary Traces its genesis Hope that explains succinct This universal impotence
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19
To tell the story of the nice-guy is to tell a tale of unlost innocence.   There is no complexity that circumstance can’t remedy.  There is no effort to niceness; only a ****** world that blossoms on genetically mutated ideology, growing larger than generations past. Tomorrow, in Houston, a butcher will wake up to slaughter a cow he may have named.   There will no be no tears when he grills steak for the wife he wooed and the children he prescribed himself.   Three daughters, from fifteen to twenty-two.   Tiramisu for dessert.   Ten guns in the cabinet beneath the stairs and innocence buried behind the woodshed. Pretend now, that you are forgiven.   Mistakes fade like snow angels, regrets float like chemtrails. You love you as much as the world always did.   You have not seen friends struck down by powders or lunacy, you have only lived in the glow of their light.  Hearts remain full.   The word swagger hasn’t been hijacked by hip hop and bluejeans still mask imperfections.  Sunsets are memorable, and so are first dates and last kisses.   Sun won't blister fragile shoulders.   Fields blossom just in time to suit your irregular taste buds, satisfying sweet corn cravings on Christmas. Forget your father’s words or a stranger's hand.   Forget improbability, impossibility, impotence, importance, impatience and improper goodbyes.   Forget the tears cried alone into ***** filled sheets at midnight.   Forget the effect but remember the cause, camouflaged like a landmine of good ideas.   Forget the fights and slow-turn walk-aways that turned words flaccid.   Forget friends ******* ex-girl friends and amphetamines crashing into hallucinations.   Nice-guys vanish like good ideas, lost in the shuffle, looking for pen and paper, just like house cats die on the forth of July, and all that’s left are ashes on a mantel alongside fraudulent grins.
0
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 7:42 PM UTC
brett-jones
Spontaneous Human Combustion
To tell the story of the nice-guy is to tell a tale of unlost innocence.   There is no complexity that circumstance can’t remedy.  There is no effort to niceness; only a ****** world that blossoms on genetically mutated ideology, growing larger than generations past. Tomorrow, in Houston, a butcher will wake up to slaughter a cow he may have named.   There will no be no tears when he grills steak for the wife he wooed and the children he prescribed himself.   Three daughters, from fifteen to twenty-two.   Tiramisu for dessert.   Ten guns in the cabinet beneath the stairs and innocence buried behind the woodshed. Pretend now, that you are forgiven.   Mistakes fade like snow angels, regrets float like chemtrails. You love you as much as the world always did.   You have not seen friends struck down by powders or lunacy, you have only lived in the glow of their light.  Hearts remain full.   The word swagger hasn’t been hijacked by hip hop and bluejeans still mask imperfections.  Sunsets are memorable, and so are first dates and last kisses.   Sun won't blister fragile shoulders.   Fields blossom just in time to suit your irregular taste buds, satisfying sweet corn cravings on Christmas. Forget your father’s words or a stranger's hand.   Forget improbability, impossibility, impotence, importance, impatience and improper goodbyes.   Forget the tears cried alone into ***** filled sheets at midnight.   Forget the effect but remember the cause, camouflaged like a landmine of good ideas.   Forget the fights and slow-turn walk-aways that turned words flaccid.   Forget friends ******* ex-girl friends and amphetamines crashing into hallucinations.   Nice-guys vanish like good ideas, lost in the shuffle, looking for pen and paper, just like house cats die on the forth of July, and all that’s left are ashes on a mantel alongside fraudulent grins.
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48
I say to you, I grow in your garden  as you grow in mine. I grant order and chaos, no move is yet to play out. I am All, all in All.... beginning ending, beginnings endings.   Co-creating in this non-creation, between blurred lines. It is there as Humankind you stand..      Male and  Female,     galaxy amid galaxy. I give you azure for pleasure,   darkness abides in good measure beyond this world waits great treasure. The service I ask of you is short lived and simple.. Love,  love yourself, love one another,  .. just love.          I am not away on business as some would suggest, I have not forsaken any of my Creation. I am always moving in, always moving out.. forever turning on, forever turning off.                  It starts and it ends and it starts again to end again, Impotence amid Omnipotence, a Mystery never to be solved, always to live and to die moment by moment.                  I am beyond your Imagination, you dwell in my imagination..         in my image you have your Being. You will never stand alone, you are always a part of this dance in the endless stream of much more. I carry you gentley through soft currents as well as rocky rapids. My words to you do not dwell in a book, They are alive and bring life. You were born to create this day, this Day, the only thing new under the sun.. Your freedom of will leaves you to create evil as well as good, your choice yet not your choice being forged out of my choice. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, you are the Light passing through the tunnel. You have forgotten who you are, who you were, who you will be. Fret not... I come to remind you of the abundance that is at your fingertips. To help you to turn away from the notion of scarcity. All you need, you have.. All you will ever need you already have.. you will it to be At times not knowingly. I am here to move you towards clarity. You can end the fight bleeding and on the ground or just not get in the ring... your choice yet again. Free will is just that.. it is not without consequence. Ignorance of Universal law is no excuse, the domino being pushed they tumble  into a future which is here along side the past, only the moment... infinite.
0
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
irving-macpherson
God's Tweet
I say to you, I grow in your garden  as you grow in mine. I grant order and chaos, no move is yet to play out. I am All, all in All.... beginning ending, beginnings endings.   Co-creating in this non-creation, between blurred lines. It is there as Humankind you stand..      Male and  Female,     galaxy amid galaxy. I give you azure for pleasure,   darkness abides in good measure beyond this world waits great treasure. The service I ask of you is short lived and simple.. Love,  love yourself, love one another,  .. just love.          I am not away on business as some would suggest, I have not forsaken any of my Creation. I am always moving in, always moving out.. forever turning on, forever turning off.                  It starts and it ends and it starts again to end again, Impotence amid Omnipotence, a Mystery never to be solved, always to live and to die moment by moment.                  I am beyond your Imagination, you dwell in my imagination..         in my image you have your Being. You will never stand alone, you are always a part of this dance in the endless stream of much more. I carry you gentley through soft currents as well as rocky rapids. My words to you do not dwell in a book, They are alive and bring life. You were born to create this day, this Day, the only thing new under the sun.. Your freedom of will leaves you to create evil as well as good, your choice yet not your choice being forged out of my choice. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, you are the Light passing through the tunnel. You have forgotten who you are, who you were, who you will be. Fret not... I come to remind you of the abundance that is at your fingertips. To help you to turn away from the notion of scarcity. All you need, you have.. All you will ever need you already have.. you will it to be At times not knowingly. I am here to move you towards clarity. You can end the fight bleeding and on the ground or just not get in the ring... your choice yet again. Free will is just that.. it is not without consequence. Ignorance of Universal law is no excuse, the domino being pushed they tumble  into a future which is here along side the past, only the moment... infinite.
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67
We're in this together At least for now that is Too soon to say When we will finally decide To go our separate ways Routine Ebb and flow As we traverse hallow ground We make it look easy Together yet apart Fluid in symphony Floating soap bubble Stretching Swirling Waiting to erupt Make no mistake Should you falter I will fly Unleashing such calamity You will hunt me down Crush me for my Ignominy Swallow me whole Embrace me in your fold Act as though It never happened Sweet indifference My insolence My impotence Click back in place Smile disguised grimace Hold on For Just another Turn
0
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC
john-reilly
Criterium
We're in this together At least for now that is Too soon to say When we will finally decide To go our separate ways Routine Ebb and flow As we traverse hallow ground We make it look easy Together yet apart Fluid in symphony Floating soap bubble Stretching Swirling Waiting to erupt Make no mistake Should you falter I will fly Unleashing such calamity You will hunt me down Crush me for my Ignominy Swallow me whole Embrace me in your fold Act as though It never happened Sweet indifference My insolence My impotence Click back in place Smile disguised grimace Hold on For Just another Turn
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37
Wake up sleeper! Your summer days are over. Tidy up and prepare for winter, lest you be caught off guard. For we have a steeple with lots of faces, and symbols and catchphrases, and pulpits and pews —but never a Duluoz and Kerouac. And do not mistake silence for absence. And patience for impotence. For just as the sun rises from the east. So shall justice be served for the least. So then, let us say: May our days be numbered, and our troubles few. And may this sweet surrender bring us life anew. iamthe_avatar ©2017
0
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 2:59 PM UTC
iamtheavatar
Duluoz and Kerouac
Wake up sleeper! Your summer days are over. Tidy up and prepare for winter, lest you be caught off guard. For we have a steeple with lots of faces, and symbols and catchphrases, and pulpits and pews —but never a Duluoz and Kerouac. And do not mistake silence for absence. And patience for impotence. For just as the sun rises from the east. So shall justice be served for the least. So then, let us say: May our days be numbered, and our troubles few. And may this sweet surrender bring us life anew. iamthe_avatar ©2017
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23
The three of us sat on the disused, plastic patio chairs. Their white facade had faded into a malformed sort of grey, with grazes of mud and collected rainwater erosion further condemning them. We were blind drunk after three-and-a-half beers that were tempered with lemonade. The dreary five a.m. dawn threatens daylight, bringing an end to the party. In a few years’ time we’d be here again; coming down off drugs and talking about missed chances. Tom and Amy are in my parent’s room, as we whisper conspiracy theories about his impotence, in the light of our lonely morning vigil. I barely remember what else was said, after we spoke of *** and love, and of our life beyond home. “There has to be something more, somewhere…” we would all insist. Yet, one by one, we have turned to shrugs, and those left to insist, do not. What I do recall is the coffee (I never drank the stuff then) and dry crackers. As the sun came to rise and patterned the skies, we had seen one day slide into the next; we aged brilliantly in a moment. I stared out at the Rugby field just beyond the overgrown allotments; you could only make it out by the floodlights that towered over the trees. I knew then, of where I had always been, yet knew not where I needed to go. I still don’t.
0
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
Edward-Coles
Being Sixteen
The three of us sat on the disused, plastic patio chairs. Their white facade had faded into a malformed sort of grey, with grazes of mud and collected rainwater erosion further condemning them. We were blind drunk after three-and-a-half beers that were tempered with lemonade. The dreary five a.m. dawn threatens daylight, bringing an end to the party. In a few years’ time we’d be here again; coming down off drugs and talking about missed chances. Tom and Amy are in my parent’s room, as we whisper conspiracy theories about his impotence, in the light of our lonely morning vigil. I barely remember what else was said, after we spoke of *** and love, and of our life beyond home. “There has to be something more, somewhere…” we would all insist. Yet, one by one, we have turned to shrugs, and those left to insist, do not. What I do recall is the coffee (I never drank the stuff then) and dry crackers. As the sun came to rise and patterned the skies, we had seen one day slide into the next; we aged brilliantly in a moment. I stared out at the Rugby field just beyond the overgrown allotments; you could only make it out by the floodlights that towered over the trees. I knew then, of where I had always been, yet knew not where I needed to go. I still don’t.
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4
I am quiet in front of the ambient lights. Confronted among these Ambien nights, with alluvial life, a hot bed of technical idolatry- It is hard in the valley of the sun the people who over-extend self, carry impotence and a loaded gun- The land of geriatrics filled with frolicking snowbirds who cast out their alcoholic offspring to grind under gears of the economic machine. Modern man is genuflecting in the sanctimonious pantheon of self.
0
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC
B_Lid
Arizona
I am quiet in front of the ambient lights. Confronted among these Ambien nights, with alluvial life, a hot bed of technical idolatry- It is hard in the valley of the sun the people who over-extend self, carry impotence and a loaded gun- The land of geriatrics filled with frolicking snowbirds who cast out their alcoholic offspring to grind under gears of the economic machine. Modern man is genuflecting in the sanctimonious pantheon of self.
Continue reading...
11