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K Balachandran Sep 2014
I just stood transfixed, letting her eyes light
the smothered wick in me that needed the oil of love
with  anxious stutter I asked, "Is your name Grace?"
"It really is, you are right there, but pardon me
I am Grace Fallen" I took it as a joke and smiled,
"Dear fallen flower, your grace resurrects my crucified spirit"

I have seen them all, blooms, perfect, fragrant,
the ones that catapult one to momentary bliss
with a wink,  a word that touches somewhere tender
or share love, fresh like butter, that seems gushing from the depth
that not even  expect any kind of reciprocation,
blowing like fragrant  breeze, caressing drooping trees.
Women with such luminance ,bless their ilk
whom one only could think as incarnates
came down  to lift this miserable world
up from the quagmire, the ***** pit  it has fallen
because of the absence of feminine grace in abundance
George Krokos Aug 2013
Throughout all of those vast regions and far reaches of space
God can only be realised or known here on this earthly place.
There are about eighteen thousand worlds that sustain life as we know it
but it's only on this world in a human body will knowledge of God show It.
This information was imparted by the one and only Avatar of the age
who did also happen to be the greatest Divine Personality and Sage.

His name was Meher Baba and the words He has given are true
though He might be unknown unless His love has awakened you.
It was for this reason that He was known also as the Awakener
and those touched by His love regard Him as their Messenger.
He also revealed many other things including the main one that He was God
who incarnates out of love, always in a male form, against many a great odd.

The Avatar always comes when the world is undergoing a spiritual rebirth
and mankind is on the brink of destruction on his home planet called Earth.
It is God's duty to His creation and creatures to maintain and set things right
which otherwise would get too much out of hand according to His foresight.
He also gathers those around Him who recognize and accept Him while He yet lives
helping them all achieve life's Divine goal with the instructions and wisdom He gives.

These followers or disciples thus become the harbingers of world transformation
spreading His message of love and truth far and wide being the New Dispensation.
It is the Divine life lived by the Avatar in the world that inspires them so much
witnessing the things He does and says for the good of all with His loving touch.
Though Meher Baba has dropped the body His spirit lives on for those His words hearken
guiding all people who stumble across His Name which, in their heart, love does awaken.

It is also the first time in human history that a true image of His form was given
being a gift to posterity with a full account of His life, which by love was driven.
He also remained silent for the greater part of His life's stay here
because His words were taken too lightly in times past, far or near.
To those who inquired about Him He would let His silence speak for itself
which is the reason why the language of the heart is love, we do feel ourself.

However in His compassion He communicated firstly by the use of an alphabet board
and then later on through unique hand gestures that those close to Him could record.
He indicated that there are five Perfect Masters on this earth all the time
who looked after the affairs of the universe and this world in ways sublime.
They were after all God's representatives here on earth while He was physically absent
and it would be them who would bring Him down in the flesh for us all as a Divine Assent.

Never before has it been stated in such broad and clear terms
of the role they all play in God's Divine Plan which He affirms.
Though they are all one in consciousness they live and go about doing their own thing
which is none other than enlightenment and spiritual realisation to mankind they bring.
To find and meet such a one let alone to stay in his or her presence is a rare blessing indeed;
if one is fortunate enough to recognize one of them, can win their grace and on the goal proceed.

It's also due to the fact that we have been living in an Avataric Age
that there are also some imposters going around the worldly stage,
proclaiming to those who're misled that they can show them the way
which is back to God being what life is for and as the scriptures say.
If their thoughts, words and actions don't confirm what they preach
we should then keep away from them and thus be out of harms reach.

There are also some adepts who through various practices have gained a little power
who go about displaying their wares which onto the unsuspecting public they shower;
in the form of miraculous stunts or manifestations of objects which most people crave,
usually found to be under closer examination the workings and or illusions of a knave.
One has thus to be careful of these and other obstacles that await and lie ahead on the path
back towards the Goal of human life which is identity with God being the Divine aftermath.

It is by self-purification, selfless service, prayer, kindness, truthfulness, including meditation
that anyone can prepare themself with self-control over their lower nature to achieve salvation.
And this makes it easier to start walking the path at the beginning stages of our endeavour
which also cultivates true virtue and clears the way for our freedom one can feel is forever.
We are all knowingly or unknowingly treading the way back to our true home in some way or another
and must not remain dejected if in life we appear at times to be crestfallen by which fate does smother.

The Grace of God and the Perfect Masters is always available as They have the All-Seeing Eye
which means They can understand, see and know everything; nothing really passes Them by.
They're also the guardians of all humanity and our benefactors along that way back home
therefore it's up to us to please God and or one of Them by dedication on the path we roam.
As long as we try not to harm any of our fellow creatures by either thought, word or deed
we can be assured of Their help being forthcoming if in God we have faith or genuine need.
__________________­__
This is my second poem referring to a person known as Meher Baba (the name actually means compassionate father) and is based around the philosophy presented in two books that bear His name:
1. Discourses
2. God Speaks
there are however many other books written about Meher Baba that are too numerous to mention here save one which is the main biography of His entire life called "Lord Meher" written by one of His followers and disciples named Bhau Kalchuri. Although Meher Baba claimed to be the Avatar of this age He had the compassion and foresight to state and give the information of the five Perfect Masters that exist in the world for future generations as He Himself was the Foremost Perfect Master or Avatar of the age brought down and declared by Them at the time according to information given in the books mentioned above.
Cancer:
You bathe at night; soak
in the indigo twilight.
Exhausted from the
overload of emotion,
the lunar light cleansed your soul.

Leo:
Charming and cunning,
like the lion, you stalk your
prey. Find the weakness
and exploit it; start the fire,
and then claim your innocence.

Scorpio:
You are the end and
beginning of the cycle.
Reincarnation;
Take the heat, and rise from the
ashes in your final form.

Aquarius:
Water bearer, you
bring life to this alien
landscape. Barren and
undiscovered, this is your
chance to change the world. Long live
your work of innovation.

Virgo:
Tree branch rib cage and
ivy veins that nurture your
winter-bitten soul.
Precious sunlight has returned;
your garden will bloom again.

Aries:
The war going on
inside your brain is growing
tiresome. Your strength
is that of the ram, but you
can't always be the hero.

Pisces:
Submersion. Scared and
eye-level with the Angler.
Take pleasure in the
aesthetic. Perhaps a change
of perspective was needed.

Sagittarius (Father Jupiter Would Be So Proud):
Goddess of the hunt,
your need for adventure and
fearless heart combines
and incarnates the wander-
lust warrior that you are.

Capricorn:
Eyes like a doe; she
is wise, nurturing, and vast.
Motherly strength is
the coat worn over bared bones
and bruised knees. She's her own crutch.

Libra:
Neither side of your
scale may touch the ground.
Chaos may welcome
you with open arms, but she
will grow cold and deranged, love.

Taurus:
Though you are stubborn,
your heart is made of feather,
you fierce, burly ox.
Romantic and devoted,
the darkness in you is gold.

Gemini (The Twin Flame):
How exciting and
infuriating it must
be to look in the
mirror to face your best friend
and your greatest enemy.
What's your sign? Can you relate to any of these?
Ochiogu Kevin Apr 2011
When we look deep inside,
Our hearts quaver, our soul
Shiver, our minds doubt,
Our spirit….uncertainty
Of which is which
One in all, all in one
We do not know.
When we worship,
He goes by the Gita,
She, by the Koran,
I… the Bible
All for one God,
Why the differences?
When we pray,
He praises Krisna,
She exalts Moha,
I pray Christ,
Avenues to one God.
When we die,
He re-incarnates,
She enters paradise
I awaits judgment
What injustice!
But …what if I were
To seek out the Unborn
And find the hidden balance?
Bruno

          he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:

Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor.  I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity.  I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy *****,  just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations.  No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.  


     Caspian

  Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies.  Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion.  Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.


Roland

He’s like a Mayan calendar.  Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious.  He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco.  Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples.  You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.  


Sol

His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy.  The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle.  His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and makes the knight groan with exigency.  The weight of his words, the upward convection of  their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant.  He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.


Richthofen

He is manumission, no more the faded vision of  body incarnates ghosts.  He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant.  Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency.  He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******* of pornographic wit.  The incongruous incognito with no moniker.  Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.


PRINTEMPS DES HOMMES = SPRING OF MEN
L'ETE DES FEMMES= SUMMER OF WOMEN
Inspired by Cara de Luna's "L'ETE DES FEMMES".
Farihah F Dec 2013
I feel weepy
That house is creepy
Care less to be cowered
No time to sour

I hear a creaking sound
Under the cupboard hound
Is it a roach?
Or self hallucination that poaches?

I am alone
And my throne is blown
I want to hide and run
When the moon incarnates the sun
The house in front of mine is just too scary
For Cathy and Marc,



The orchid wakes up to the rising Sun
And the aster shines on her his purest lights
She asks, with her blinding smile
“Say, am I the prettiest among flowers?”

And she opens up to him with her light veil
Whose diamond-like reflections are seen on this nuptial cloth
On her wet petals, the dew still falls down
Their hearts are linked, fusional like gold…

The Sun’s enflamed sight desires her
Singing a sweet lullaby to her ears
His honey-like chant reaches her
Empowered, she intensely charms him…

And the beloved dear feels a burning stream
Burning her like a radiating ray
The Earth witnesses in a new gleam of a morning
Two creatures of passion, in the wind, kissing…

To please them, a party is organized
To their wedding, everyone must be around them
They made sure to look sharp taking part
Happy witnesses, so in Love they can depart!

To you, listeners of this ode to life
Did you get the meaning of my rime?
The Flower incarnates the beautiful bride
And the Sun, her groom, his pride!

Translated on August 24 2015
1st place, Arthur Rimbaud prize, “Jeux Floraux du Béarn” (French poetry contest), 2009
George Krokos Oct 2013
You’re the Only One there is no other
You’re our Divine Father and Mother.
You are the One who first gave us all birth
You’re That which made heaven and earth.

You’re the One Who has the infinite treasure
You’re the One That can bestow real pleasure.
You are our Eternal Guardian and Benefactor
You’re the Source of everything and Enactor.

You’re the One Who is without begining or end
You’re the One Whom we need most as a friend.
You are the One Almighty and Supreme Being
You’re That Who is everywhere and All-Seeing.

You’re the One to which all creatures must return
You’re the One Who teaches what’s good to learn.
You are the One we should all worship and believe
You’re The Truth which all our troubles can relieve.

You’re the One Who has boundless Love and Wisdom
You’re the One that can show the Promised Kingdom.
You are the One Who knows everything that we all do
You’re That which can create anything if You wish to.

You’re the One to which all the world’s religions refer
You’re the One with Whom all creatures often confer.
You are the One That reveals knowledge to all those who seek
You’re the One Who favours those who’re humble and meek.

You’re the Eternal Divine Almighty Power and Glory
You’re the One Who has created this Universal Story.
You are the One we commune with by Your Sacred Name
You’re the Only Beloved Who sets all lovers hearts aflame.

You’re the One Who any amount of words can’t really describe
You’re That One Ocean of Goodness from which all do imbibe.
You are in fact all of life and That One Everlasting Infinite Existence
You’re the One towards Whom we all shouldn’t show any resistance.

You’re the One in the Many and also the Many in the One
You’re that One Energy by which everything does get done.
You are the One Who conceals and The One Who reveals
You’re that Ancient One Whom to every creature appeals.

You’re the One Who knows all of the past, present and future
You’re the One without a second to Whom nothing is obscure.
You are the Only One That exists and You are also eternally free
You’re the One whose True Glory very few of us ever get to see.

You’re the One Who is the Only Real and All-pervasive Being
You’re the One Whom those few You’ve favoured are seeing.
You are in fact the Ultimate Goal of all of life and its Sustainer
You’re the One Who is the Unity in diversity and its Container.

You’re the One Who incarnates in a male form throughout time
You’re the One Who is also The Most Immaculate and Sublime.
You are the One That gives Laws for us all to follow when here
You’re the One Fathomless Ocean of Love which is Most Dear.
_______________
Written in 1996. From my unpublished book titled "The Seeds Of Life" compiled in 1996.
Bruno

          he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:

Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor.  I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity.  I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy *****,  just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations.  No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.  


     Caspian

  Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies.  Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion.  Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.


Roland

He’s like a Mayan calendar.  Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious.  He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco.  Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples.  You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.  


Sol

His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy.  The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle.  His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency.  The weight of his words, the upward convection of  their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant.  He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.


Richthofen

He is manumission, no more the faded vision of  body incarnates ghosts.  He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant.  Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency.  He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******* of pornographic wit.  The incongruous incognito with no moniker.  Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Actually I wrote this piece in response to Cara de Luna's Lete des Femmes But she asked me not to post my copy before she quit this site.  Too bad because my response is much more understandable and doesn't seem so chauvinistically banal given her rant.
Crossyde Gimp Nov 2016
We sit here with muscles
like warriors Incarnates
Remembering our glorious past
We steer like peasants
And watch as our glory
before our very own eyes fly pass
Oh lonely sky
on who's back the Eagle once once rode
Who vanquished our symbol of freedom
that above us once soar high?
Oh sacred pride
that now houses reptiles and beasts
Where is the lion
that on thee once ruled with iron fists?
It no longer roars
But in deep sleep it only snores
Oh waves
That once kissed our sandy shores
How mighty
Your hand that now break into our doors
Snatching our young ones
You leave our fathers in painful groans
And our mothers mourning their lost sons
Oh glory, oh glory, oh glory of old
How we speak about you
Like great tales our ancestors told
Bruno

          he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:

Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor.  I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity.  I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy *****,  just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations.  No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.  


     Caspian

  Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies.  Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion.  Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.


Roland

He’s like a Mayan calendar.  Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious.  He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco.  Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples.  You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.  


Sol

His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy.  The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle.  His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency.  The weight of his words, the upward convection of  their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant.  He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.


Richthofen

He is manumission, no more the faded vision of  body incarnates ghosts.  He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant.  Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency.  He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******* of pornographic wit.  The incongruous incognito with no moniker.  Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Actually I wrote this piece in response to Cara de Luna's Lete des Femmes But she asked me not to post my copy before she quit this site.  Too bad because my response is much more understandable and doesn't seem so chauvinistically banal given her rant.
Joseph Timothy Apr 2017
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
The world will drown in blood,
Because they seek chaos.

Hellebores are black,
The hell-born are here,
Blood in their wake,
The world in blinding darkness.


Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Hell is empty,
And sin incarnates walk amongst men.


Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Not all are red,
They come in black too.
Why do the dark ones form so easily? And merry poems not so much?(or is it just me?) Much like the world is, so easy to fall into turmoil but true happiness? Is there such a thing?(Let's be real, do you think it's achievable?)
Lol, I'm a merry person, don't get me twisted, it's just my mind.
Castiel Mar 2015
The chagrin of losing incarnates itself
letting the heart drown and drench
in the pool of shattered hopes
All we left with are those paths we never took
should haves and if only s feeding on our self
and the music we embrace are the silent notes of agony
Welcoming pain as a reminder of being
blinded by the darkness of fate
The doors are open but all we see is the window thats closed
the chagrin never leaves the heart
squeezing out the reminders for a smile
the chagrin of losing kills the hope and
the dreams we adored will be turned to stone
Chapter XIX
Phalanges of Alexander the Great

From here, through the pavilions, he could see from Asia with some of his faithful Alexander crews. There were Bears and Crocodiles coming from the nearby pass from Gorgan. "The Red Serpent" defensive construction, they came with Alikanto's steeds. Provided with large litters of animals to be attached to the cavalry of Alexander the Great. This incredible fortification that begins on the Caspian coast, north of Gonbade Kavous, and continues northeast and disappears in the Pishkamar mountains. They continued on the columns next to the Bears and Crocodiles. They were part of the totemic dreams that Vernarth had when he took hallucinations with his regressive tours of the sacred spaces when falling into a trance and joining in connection with his pet animals, rhythm are from the applause of the drums. Alikantus, came rushing flying almost without stopping and without being distracted, you brought the potions and the armory instruments. He was already ready for the hours that came to fill out the details before taking the game with the Heavy, Light and Thessalonican infantry. Among the most basic of his mission was to perform the potion ritual, broadcast on the harangue with the Woodcutter, and distribute the javelins to Vernarth's soldiers.

Anchoring his blue hooves of unknown fire from the Gods, he manages to catch a glimpse of how Veernarth was pulled from the back of a spirited Elephant. He was also accompanied by Alexander's astute dog guardian named Péritas, who was already hinting at him to get ready and get up with airs of warlike stratagem. Vernarth came from his last Opioid session, to institute his fibrous vegetable lianas that commonly remained some of them and were cut in the jugular vein that clogged his neck, which always had laurels in Rosa, and for the average of substances he had to ingest for some days. He would continue daily to be united with the infinity that saw him born, as the greatest Commander of Alexander the Great, neither imagined nor compared ... !.
The Gorgan wall had a length of at least 200 kilometers, superior to any of the Roman walls that were outlined in archeology as fortification works. It was strenuous enough to surpass it and set sail with the Bears as they were concerned at being close to Tel Gomel, sensing that they were approaching Vernarth's bed; because they were their very adored pets next to the Tupac Crocodiles. The Horses were commanded by a guardian of the Gorgan wall, who, being from the Persian army, was seduced by the bears to fight alongside Vernarth.

Next to Bumodos, Vernarth was already seen playing with his pets, Bears, Crocodiles, and Alexander Magnus' dog; called Péritas. Beyond it, he submissively approached him, shaking his frosty neck, Alikanto or Alikantus, who came with gifts and drugs for his master brought from Medea's prestigious phalanges. Vernarth could already see himself almost emancipated from the trunks of the branches and the strains of his veins, which mostly populated his pecs and both arms full of plague tattoos that had colonized him.
Almost at dusk over Zeus's beards, the Vernarth Phalanges begin to arrive. The Macedonian phalanx or Macedonian phalanx was an infantry formation created and used by Philip II, and later by his son Alexander the Great in the conquest of the Persian Empire. The Macedonian phalanx arose, in fact, as a response to the tactical modifications that the Theban strategists, Epaminondas and Pelópidas of ground forces, developed in the early 4th century BC. C. to oppose the superiority, although already decadent, that the Spartan hoplite formation had exerted in the land combats between the Greek cops until that date.

Alikantus addresses his master : My monarch who lies under the serene of all the sleepless nights! From Corinth to Thrace I have emphasized the metaphysics of the principles of Aristotelian philosophy, and that by greater unity it takes shelter in the nest of the principle of being. Medea subtracted my Being and I destined for it to die in total solitude in Corinth when it fell the Universe over it.

Undaunted Vernarth fell on Alikantus' rear kicks, and hugged him to become the same equidistant. Thus the murky liquids began to decant through the hole in his nose and that of his pectoral, caused by the spear of an unknown person.

The formula of the potion or “elixir” (a term also used by decoction newspapers) is activated. Medea washed in Lete the figure that took Alikantus in an Egyptian amphora, with the water in which some flowers had previously been submerged during 40 days under the shadow of Hipnos, Clovis's father .; later, she had to collect earth from a 200-square-meter cemetery, and thus rub her body with despair.

As filters or elixirs of love they exist from the most remote Thrace. They are present and omnipresent in Medea mythological tales for all Vernarth pets like this predestined in people's daily lives. Let us remember the “witch” Medea who attracts Jason or the magician Circe who turns men into pigs with her wand and holds Ulysses (Odysseus) in her palace, for referring to the Greeks.

This time this longing free of arachnid cloths would transport him with his little beasts to the cooking of the remains of his therapies that would be prescribed from the Bumodos, freeing himself from the liliaceae that hung from his shoulder as a sign of opening his arm to settle in the ergonometric from his burly Macedonian Hoplite breastplate. Another essential element of the clothing of a hoplite and her deer; It was made with bronze tailored to each soldier, weighed about 15 kilos and imitated the muscles; due to its weight. The little mobility it offered, this type of armor was replaced by others.(Linothoorax)lighter. The Linothoorax was made from linen and leather and for the wealthiest, bronze scales could be added, which roamed the souls of Kalidona at night, when Etrestles de Kalavrita was an infant and dreamed of being a disciple of the Greek patriarchs. These body defense portions used to have family shields, myths, and religious relics, they also pointed to zoomorphic protections like the Gorgon Bull on their untamed sphere shields.

There were hours of lunar circles of boiling that Alikanto zealously ordered by Medea, and that he instructed to place the dense condensed heat on the gush of the words of mature magic on an immortal. That they released their twin gases from the clay ***, which stood out to lighten their anxiety as victor Victoria!
Vernarth says: He who is about to die for an unfortunate love if he does not abandon it, to leave him and so he will not be guilty of any funeral. With what courage your sanity does not follow, with my spear Dorus; hangover from my dreams and fantasies that go beyond my resurrection! How I requalify the value of potions and herbs to conquer the desired feat of love, beyond the boast of those who evict the luxury of not dying if I have a Dorus in my two hands.

Like the constitution of the sovereignty of the phalanx in the right hand with the Dorus spear of Vernarth, it endowed it with slightly protected *******, whose main weapon would be the Sarissa. This was a long pike carried by all the Falangists. It had an average length of five to six meters and had bronze points at the extremities; The lower limb had four stops added to plant it on the ground and be able to support a cavalry charge. Due to its length, the Sarissa was divided into two parts, which had to be joined before the battle; To handle it, both hands were required and did not allow the use of the aspis koilé, the hoplite shield, which was replaced by a smaller model that was worn on the arm. That is why they had to translate only movement into torque of both arms, he always warned of having extra strength to autonomously handle the Dorus, which he demanded of his infants and the Dorus, for the incarnates who were predestined to see the drunk face of Zeus' discomfort.

The helmet was made of iron, to drink black rain, and the most common model was conical, the tip of which was rounded and inclined towards the front, in the style of a Phrygian cap; the cheek protections (cheek pads) could be articulated thanks to charnels. The breastplate was exclusive to the officers and could be made of iron.

Culminating from the hull by the supra-ciliary corners of the bronze, he saw himself falling before the whimpers as the bronze smiths ran terrified, and waiting for the results to render account of the immortals with their hands daubed with adverb in their words. Endless cries trickled down the entire contour magnetized profile, and subjugated to the mortal prayer that delivered the accurate blows of the Dorus in the alienating field of gestures and gestures of war the Achaemenides.

To be continued / under editing
XIX ALEXANDER  PHALENGES
Peris Wambui Apr 2021
WHAT IF ...

What if they all behind this?
What if those I call saviors, are the terminators?
What if they know nothing about being loyal but betrayal?
What if they are just making a fool out of me?
What if by telling them my thoughts, I'm helping in their new plans?
What if they all just devil incarnates,
Wearing masks of Angel?
What if they are playing too cool but deep inside with burning thoughts of seeing me crashed?
What if I'm their own game?
What if things that are excruciating to me are exhilarating to them?

What if the events running in my mind are the perfect definition of insanity?
What if this state I'm in, is an excursion to my fate?
What if I'm just a broken record on replay?
What if with this dark poetry is the only way I can rhyme?
What if it's my best method to spit the taming lines?
Or what if I'm just throwing a hissy fit where not needed?
What if I'm just thinking too much?
What if all these are just delusions?...

©tiana... 💔
Lawrence Hall Feb 11
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                              I Don’t Want to go to Mass Today

To be frank (altho’ my name is not Frank)
I just don’t want to go to Mass today:
The perfumed lady who wants (and needs) a hug
The narthex politics of Trump or no Trump

The obligatory Sign of Peace handshake-around
The pimply-backed tattoos on the girl in front
The usual wheeze about the NFL
The altar-servers flicking gang-signs to their friends

But still, God on the Altar incarnates -
We are commanded there, and even better

We are wanted
Bruno

          he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:

Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor.  I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity.  I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy *****,  just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations.  No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.  


     Caspian

  Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies.  Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion.  Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.


Roland

He’s like a Mayan calendar.  Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious.  He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco.  Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples.  You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.  


Sol

His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy.  The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle.  His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency.  The weight of his words, the upward convection of  their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant.  He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.


Richthofen

He is manumission, no more the faded vision of  body incarnates ghosts.  He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant.  Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency.  He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******* of pornographic wit.  The incongruous incognito with no moniker.  Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Actually I wrote this piece in response to Cara de Luna's Lete des Femmes But she asked me not to post my copy before she quit this site.  Too bad because my response is much more understandable and doesn't seem so chauvinistically banal given her rant.

— The End —