"indiscriminate" poems
~ Ode to Joy ~
White gold ambassador
canine past eight
soul seekers ascend
(from cirque to seven)
to peak
to peak
to peak
Saddlerock spearhead
ptarmigan
and flute
Christmas trees
in winter glades
over dusted crystal scape
Fissile (eiger) sanction
open shale and tusk
indiscriminate members
roll the bluffs
and ice falls
above the
north face steep
Dead silent dawn
breathless, bitter cold
the beating hearts
and brahmas
warm the spirit
of pakalolo
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
on tuesday,
dylann roof was sentenced to his death.
on tuesday we tried
to make one body feel like nine.
to make one body feel like justice.
on tuesday we said
there has got to be some price to pay
for entering the house of god
with a sinful tongue
and a handgun.
today,
six days later,
we remembered the rev. dr. martin luther king, jr.
we looked at the world,
called it a place with potential for change,
called it that because there has to be some softer way
to look at bloodshed,
for sanity’s sake.
if not then
all that remains is a solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave because he knows,
knows that breathless black bodies
are a constant,
are transcenders of time,
whether sunken in rivers,
hung from taut ropes,
or bathing in blood on historic church floors,
singing, singing, screaming, shrill
for some messiah bringing mercy, mercy, mercy.
felicia sanders wants mercy:
prays for it, wills it down from up above,
unfolded from the hands of god
so that it might fall upon the head and in the eyes
and within the very being
of the man who killed her son.
it takes a certain grace —
one so foreign to me i can hardly write of it —
to see god in such men who deliberately defy Him,
to ask that heaven’s gates
be so indiscriminate and overt.
i would want him to burn for this.
but it is not my say,
not my life,
not my long, resounding, unflinching “hallelujah!”
not my certain type of grace.
breathless black bodies
are a constant,
are transcenders of time, a recurring motif.
but so too, then, is the black body full
of breath,
that inhales and exhales faith
without ceasing.
such is the black body
that sees a little bit of god in dylann roof,
that prays that he prays for forgiveness,
that thinks there to be but one kingdom,
and he, too,
a worthy subject.
the solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave
is not a surprise.
the black body has always known
so well
how to die.
but felicia sanders hopes her son’s killer finds mercy.
perhaps the one thing the black body has always known better
is how to love.
(a.m.)
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 8:07 PM UTC
a draper is someone who creates garments or patterns by draping fabric directly onto a dress form (Wikipedia)
~~~~
I am a draper,
by trade, by nature, by instinct;
a fling of one arm across her body,
while she dreams and sleeps, rambles, mumbles,
and even convulses,
to hold her tight with two, with both,
soon grows discomforting as the blood ceases to flow,
the heat breeds unsweetened sweat,
and the snuggling impact,
is too fast subsumed by the pins and needles
numbing, deadening,
and ironical attenuation
this is my pattern,
how I address her,
how I dress her,
draping my contiguous,
drawing five fingers
upon her form,
reshaping her in her sleep,
the arm flung, there, and then
there,
to be hung,
at varied places across her body,
higher lower, above below,
but her face,
free and clear,
so not to interfere
with her sensory preceptors
and as I draw my pattern upon her skin,
her body whole,
listening her to indeterminate utterances,
to determine
which
pitter patter pattern
to which.
she feels best suited,
then,
I prepare my
invoice
for her,
for services rendered,
to present upon awakening,
demanding
in voice,
by her voice,
payment in words,
of her own chosen
amuse-bouche,
mmmm, will it be?
good morning my love?
hello you!
or just an indiscriminate
but yet,
a discriminating
sound of
having been pleasured
by unknown forces
in her deeper sleep, using her lips
to say, to hum, to sing,
a genteel unspecific
but, and yet, a
terrific,
deep from within
guttural remittance,
the sound of a delicious,
mmmmmming
greeting
a new equinoxal gale
of a refreshing fresh
birthing, fulsome
already satisfying
draping of the
day
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 5:01 PM UTC
The gift of giving indiscriminately
is a gift we should give indiscriminately
There's a secret to a good life and here's the key
The path to happiness is generosity
Happiness doesn't dilute when you give it away
and it constitutes in everything you say
You can literally have your cake and eat it
depending exactly on how you treat it
take it, use it, split it, pass it on
every time you do that it will be twice as strong
happiness is a virus we need to learn to spread
a pandemic of the head
A vaccine shot straight to the heart
infecting you with a flying start
secret to the deeper hidden meaning of living
that happiness is caused by indiscriminate giving.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 9:04 AM UTC
The purest sense of understanding that allows two hearts to move beyond the borders of the conscious, thinking mind.
Without the thoughts that twist the words, that distort perception; what is conveyed, is... is... unconditional acceptance and love. In this simple concept we find solace, we find connection, we reach the precipice of and stare in awe at the beauty of the humane soul. Everything seems perfect.
By this perfection, given face value, we draw the ever permanent distinction between what what is black and what is white; what is wrong and what is right; what is virtue and what is moral travesty. For inherent to humanity is the eagerness, bias and extremity with which we represent the good and evil of this world. For who would believe that the "caretaker", wrought of good intentions, could be soiled in his actions?
The caretaker that empathizes with the troubled or broken soul is a testament to the honesty of a human heart; but he who enables others with his empathy becomes not the caretaker, but the "jailer". Through his conviction to ALWAYS be there, to sooth the hurts, to understand the pains and to maintain control... by those actions, he belittles them. The relief of empathy is only temporary. Empathy does not enact change, it is mere salve and bandage, it quells the aches for but a moment. And when they return, in their woes, the service of the empathizer becomes requirement.
For though empathy may be needed, with the power to forge a bond of deep understanding, its indiscriminate use only stunts. Personal growth, it is found by many paths in this world. We must grow and mature; let others do the same. Life is a journey with many opportunities but also many hardships, we are defined by these. If we are stunted by the empathy of others, in their quest to protect us, we will never grow, never achieve that which is greater, and never leave our "prison".
Virtue or vice... once again in the hands of the beholder.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 2:04 PM UTC
sweet
Drive into the countryside
Buy granny-green apples along the roadside
Wave to jolly farm workers in verdant fields
Smile and look up...greet the beautiful sky.
ceiling of the heavens
Share some (yellow) Lays in the car
Pass the packet around, mmm..crunch crunch
Feel the wind and see it, like sails...whip your hair
Inhale sweet air, while cool music taps into ear.
tranquil reaches
Cannot hear the indiscriminate noises
Cannot see the dust and dirt
Will not touch the pulse of pain
Can see only....pure sunshine.
pure sunshine
S T, 2 May 2013
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
Social chaos metered out through tiers of population stung
By indiscriminate battle wrought lifeblood, incessantly, is wrung.
Why so the need for Assad’s torch, your Syria so needlessly debauched ?
Nameless causes fuel the fire, Shiite, Sunni intervention. Hezbollah and al Qaeda spew
Vindictiveness to streets of rubble, Toxic, killing vapours stew.
Misery to gasping children, horror in the dying eyes….
Condemnation points it’s staff to you, Assad, where vile blame now lies.
Why so the need for cities torched, Damascus needlessly debauched ?
Inevitably the missiles cometh, raining incandescent death and blast,
International righteousness throws intervention’s unknowns vast.
Why so this need for man debauched, Your Syria, once so beautiful, now scorched ?
Marshalg
Pukehana
7 September 2013
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
A flourish of red,
a bold stroke of yellow,
and thin, black dots
Form the image on the canvas.
The artist washes his brush
in a bowl filled with water,
now murky, brown, and indiscriminate.
He lifts the veil over his mind
and paints what he sees:
A girl twirls
among the towering red petals
of the flowers.
She laughs,
throwing her medium-length,
black hair behind her.
Her pale, tan skin
reflects the brilliance of the Sun
as she dances with her partner,
a fair boy born deep within the wood.
Mirth. Cheer. Joy.
These emotions swarm the picture,
like bees buzzing amid the daisies.
The painter withdraws again from his masterpiece;
a vibrant Harmony.
He smiles.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 5:04 PM UTC
. what's the difference between
thieves, and magicians?
not much...
both have quick hands...
and an awake,
yet asleep public communal
presence...
the thief has a public of
the victim,
and the c.c.t.v. "stage"...
the magician?
has a public of the crowd,
and the "dajjal" stage of
a camera replenishing
a concept of:
not enough public...
thieves and magicians are
bedfellows...
you allow one to flourish...
the antithesis will come
along, and in an indiscriminate
fashion...
allow the "magic" / "thieving"
to take place...
what is a magician,
a public figure... compared...
to a thief?
i can't see the difference...
the audience was fooled
by the magician...
the individual was fooled
by the thief...
are they... so much unlike
each other?
magicians can own
a theater stage...
thieves, sometimes... just sometimes...
own the, basic...
pointlessness of english
c.c.t.v. mechanics,
to make police officers make:
a follow-up investigation...
oh, but i have genius
interrogation practices...
no one wants to listen to...
like 10 hours straights of listening
to stefan molyneux...
or 48 hours, sleep deprived...
listening to BBC 24 hour news reels...
that **** could crack anyone...
what the americans did to the Iraqis?
last time i heard...
they blasted the slayer oeuvre
down headphones into their ears...
Americans... feeding conquered
Iraqis with a slayer oeuvre?
BRAVO! BRAVO! ENCORE!
and didn't the encore come?
******* retards...
crows feeding seagull chicks
with sinew and
regurgitated scavenger meat!
if only they played them some
Bach...
i'm pretty sure...
the Iraqis would still be left...
disorientated...
but the American army "interrogators"...
ha ha!
played them the slayer oeuvre!
WEE-TARDS!
anyone... and i mean anyone:
will relieve themselves as being
"tortured": doubly charged up,
and ready to ingest hyper-coffee
in the form of the Luftwaffe tactic
of ingesting amphetamines
(pervitin) -
night-raids... the londoonoirnischt
blitz, sloth krieg...
ya ya yawn...
urgh... burp...
and always... those poncy -
english, gay, aristocratic men...
and their... psychotropic women...
so what's the difference between
a common thief...
and a spectacle magician?
one "owns" cctv footage,
the other owns a stage...
yet both share a: quicksilver
take on, what cannot be
interpreted in either handwriting
or stenography...
hmm...
can't be sure whether
both could be considered legal.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 12:16 AM UTC
Birthdays are for nostalgia
and Kings of the desert
Like Moshe, Jesus, and Xander the Great
who came and saw and tried too hard
to mend some ever important scar
that much too late had been
left too long
to settle in the pyramid of our sleeping parts
Birthdays are for reading Hart Crane
and in his fashion, an attempt to become
indiscriminate as the wind that turns the weather vane
atop the roof where snow may fall
in an imagined winter,
lethargically covering all
in it's bitter farewell to Fall
as its grave-site is buried
by the Winter who loved it most enthralled
Birthdays are for thinking about you
The voice that remains
inside and always before the lights go out
and it's the end of my day
It's there, indiscriminate and howling
just like the wind that turns the weather vane
or the imagined winter
that only falls on my nearest window pane
in the pyramids that sleep beneath my very veins
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 3:52 PM UTC
-Audience!
Prepare for the magic act
*Hypnotically launching attacks
upon the helpless masses*
Won't pull a rabbit from a hat,
Rather false-flaggish gaffs
Practically exposed to radioactive madness
*(Feel the hurt disappear like doves
Gloriously soaring out your ***
Hijack these hijinks
Whilst laughing maniacally
Tornado alley to the trailer-park mentality
I call this a helluva brainstorm,
High-velocity lethality
Compose yourselves
Are your brain-stems intact?
-Okay. Now
*f
o
l
l
o
w
the swing
of
my pendulous
p e n m a n s h i p
Drearily drift into dreamy trance,
While I attempt
to initialize a feat
of mass hypnotization
Enchantingly dip
into deep illusory corridors
of thoughts limitless*
(Pay no attention
to any slippage,
Mental or otherwise
It's already dripping out your ears
& the seat of your pants)
Real ****
no gimmicks!
Abracadabra
Propaganda
Extravaganza
Gaze into my crystal ball
Mouths agape in awe
While I slay and lay waste
indiscriminate to the faceless plague
Come one, come all!
Phantom sorcerer I am, conjuring
unfathomable horrors
To the collective mind
procured through sleight-of-hand
Voila!
Still with us?
Alright, hold your breath
until you finally wake up
And illuminate the bogus
Hocus pocus front
♠ ♥ ♣ ♦
Shuffle the deck,
Reset Earth's debts
In a fabulous show
of m i s d i r e c t i o n
♠ ♥ ♣ ♦
Now, Ladies & Gents!
For my final performance
With this rope,
Suspended from the throat
I am going to bulls-eye myself
In the frontal lobe
Dead-center
In front of all you people
With this
.40 caliber desert eagle!
Graciously donated by our very own NWO
(applause)
This one's sure to be mind-blowing folks.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
time governs
you and me
treat it not
irreverently
chance the unknown
while you can
sands of time
pause for no woman nor man
one and all
quick sticks
the time piece
it ticks it ticks
dithers and dawdlers
hear the alarm
wasted days
do each of us
irreversible harm
of the calendar year
we are sure
but moments in time
are pending trapdoors
make every venture
your stock in trade
lest time render us
uncertain and afraid
in reality rosters
and agendas do vary
devilish time
oft wickedly contrary
speed up Jack and Jill
sundials are on a roll
time is indiscriminate
exacting
a costly toll
governor time
is carefully deliberating
our pendulums
remonstrating
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
Here in the west borough, down three or four blocks from the epicenter, the shocks come to you in tides — little, electric, delightful in some alien way. Even the sounds of instant decay ring pleasant. The concrete, the bricks, the mortar, the Corinthian columns, the suspended ceiling tiles, the florescent bulbs, the coffee cups, the desktops, the family portraits all fall from their stations, screaming toward the cool pavement. It’s a temperate Thursday in January and the weathermen continue to talk in stunted disbelief. A car catches fire on Malcom X Boulevard, and weather is the wrong word, you think, for this phenomenon. It’s rage. It’s bitter. The violence of the sun-catching glass smacks of vengeance and this whole thing is man-made or, at the very least, god-made but not anything so indiscriminate as weather.
There’s still the pleasure of it though. The collapse of the old world. And there’s nothing but rubble on the corner of 9th and Dominican, and for the life of you, you can’t remember what stood there before. In your evergreen bones you know one thing: whatever anodyne brick institution reigned will be replaced by that glorious glass and that glorious steel, 100 towers impaling the sky. The future is now. A tremor. A cloud of dust.
For about ten seconds the windshield is worthless yet you speed up, hurling yourself through the fog of destruction into a **** world, feeling essential and brilliant and and and.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
I couldn't know you'd need me then!
Just a human with all frailty and much fault....
Do you think the wind blows differently
When it passes over leaves and trees?
That it says: "Wait, lemme stop here a bit
And blow on this one leaf in a special way"
Hardly! Time to get with the manure beneath
And see that sunrays shine on everything
And indiscriminate clouds shimmer on all,
How haphazard, the way the wind blows.
So, don't hang your head and moan so much
Time dawns for you to get over yourself
Don't you see that I'm still here?
Now quit getting your knickers in a knot!
You rant and rave while I pant and slave
Dissect my every move, make me aloof
How can you possibly go counting
And re-arranging all the marbles in my head?
You're so insecure, you make me mad
So exhaustive are your constant jibes
So tiring to soothe your unfounded fears
I'm having to placate you so often of late.
Before it all gets blown out of size
Sit a while in (h)arboured thought
Confront the dreads which cause disquiet
A trove may wash up....but broken, on your shore.
The wind comes not with tardy tidings
For it isn't the what you say or do
But forsooth, the how which carries weight
Let's not over-whip each other so.
My thoughts may be wanton, wild or reckless
Telling tigs bend on a riotous grind
Yet feckless deeds don't follow suit
Pardon my slightly-misbehaving mind.
Patient and respectful, I remain to be
Just guard against esurient whims
Paucity of faith and clockwork trivial'ties
Will lead us down a road of trials.
Fallen martyrs should not feign, see
The wind makes no pretense. It just blows....
Now, I really couldn't know you'd need me then
'Cause, baby, that's the way the wind blows!
S T, 5 April 13
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
monstrous sound slashes silence
the bellow of a giant beast,
the flutter of a thousand wings
elevation and indiscriminate creed will not heed
sinister stirs the mix, the rise of wicked extravagance
black feathers flutter to bewilder against the pale frontier
the mock of a starlings flight, the fall in a sparrow’s might
countless sullen wings unfold, to rally their squadrons for show
a mobbing cry meets a redeeming sky,
their rising tones mimic heaven heralding high
contrast to the core, countless black rap-tor destroy
the fading blue sapphire display
a rebel twist in the storm suspends them again
harbingers dawning
a verge of wonder, stands close
the small dark outlines, bask a golden shine
peripheries slight motion, a graceful shimmer
perched as an alert, the slight snap of the fingers
a single feather cascades
turning in the elegant dance of a ballerina's descent
laying at the step vaguely pointing to the entrance,
the pride of a black bird,
there is no place for an Omen here,
one last frailty, is my secret near and dear
Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
I like to think your eye is at the keyhole,
Your sloppy brain conjuring make-shift realities
for your majick to paint into thin air
from your lies.
Bald-faced whoppers or sneaky half-truths,
You twirl them around your illusion
expecting
a fantastic creation
with which to delight yourself.
A pitiful white smoke jin,
dissolving
almost as quickly
as it rose from the flame.
You honestly believe you've stolen my illusion,
kept it just long enough to smudge,
a chalk drawing.
You honestly believe
I've let you do it, unwilling and unknowing.
Your fingers are *****
the powder won't wash away.
All for nothing.
You only erased the memory of what I once felt for you.
Ah, your makeshift majick works!
Well done and thank you.
How long will you keep squinting at the light on the other side?
Your eye must be getting tired.
Why don't you just open the door?
It ain't locked.
I've a feeling you've got a wicked temper
and a lot of hate built up inside that you
refuse to acknowledge,
try to ignore,
Until you're secure in the darkest corner of your prayer closet.
Facing a mirror,
Worshipping and damning
at the same time
That's when it boils over.
***** **** dog, frothing at the mouth...
Mean drunk, indiscriminate for a fight,
but there's no one at the bar.
Only a witch's cruel mirror
and all it says is...
"You aren't the Golden Child,
"Your majick is a sham
"No one cares enough to read you
"You're a thick, boring book
"The worst kind: a book about a book
"A book about yourself
"A book called 'Look What I've Done!'"
So here I sit, on the other side of your peephole view
Wondering what I should do next,
Knowing I'll never be strong enough to tell you
to your face
that I've known all along...
I walk through streets in your dreams...
Of this I'm certain
even as I know you're watching me right now,
with all your wasted mental projections,
charms, chants, lusts, cravings, desires, needs,
Casting that covetous spell my way but I guess
The keyhole must be too small
Because I don't feel a thing
and as I sit here,
naked in my own secret place,
I could care less that you live for these moments
of disappointed voyeurism
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 11:19 AM UTC
a soft grey blanket flows through the peaks of green pines
silencing the celestial voice of the moon
while steel horses restlessly paw, panting gas fumes
the volleyball desert, at first glance barren
reveals a complex terrain of mountains and cigarettes
to the watchful eagle's eye
a wooden temple towers, built on artificial ground
cool stone poured into aesthetically pleasing islands
a forty square foot-print
a holy site of human ingenuity
with offerings from the clans of Miller and Busch
lying scattered like bones on the monolithic plain
anbaric lamps imitating miniature stars cast shadows at night
and the once vibrant world takes on unifying hues of blue
I guess the old adage that
"misery loves company"
is indiscriminate of nature
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
Terrible divides, steep creatures fishing from the fissures.
Devil ties, honor cries telling of fable able love lies.
Red rug **** from… Ah stomp down pound twice round.
Let me in dearth harp melody killing me true internally. Over me, you do du thee or in one to learn to unseen these say said twas. What then spoke big loud a proud voice e bound red to set the turns in a state of decay. Spread death red pestilence.
Broken brains with bad temperaments. To know this clever myth, in definitely one word siphon spell check commiserate in-consumption
Only fitting to continue after that, twas broken in two-tone spits of *****
Oh how one can be so indiscriminate, yet be so in to it
Suckling finger to finger, the artist and his soul slip through one another
And **** there it is… why I am drunk, why so earthbound?
No, No, that la-la-di-dah sing song, nickname, sick game
Ah… already this is where I end, lying before the gate, spread in sprawls of my final death thrall, the spastic convictions, emotional token, so wholly holy that I am certain of this and this alone; they, folk of blend and contrast so steady will carrier this body through the gates, this world or that, bounce and then back, splendor in form, surrender to utter the weight of universal, expressions in the shade of totality
Goodnight too.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC
As a child in primary school
curled beneath a black coat
with neon-pink and -yellow zippers, empty pockets
holding my chest
beside two gray recess doors.
I’d pretend it was my living room,
with no visitors.
Watched t.v., mainly, and not talk on the phone.
Drank apple-juice beer from my concocted fridge
on my green recliner chair
until the doors opened and my building fell
apart.
I moved to an apartment
on a busy city street-- no green
recliner:
no beer, no t.v.
Stealing internet from Burmese-jungle refugees
to read about food shortages, and indiscriminate mass killings.
Beside the doors with
zipped zippers, and isolated goosebumps--
Monkey bar plucking, screaming
running and jumping-- trip and fall
in love, dancing haphazardly-- well
until the sound of a bell.
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 7:29 PM UTC
Bristles, glide delicately...
over cold refuse.
Random bits,
of detritus:
and your broom devours them,
indiscriminate
a placidly lurking monster,
with an unchoosy palette.
It's almost a mindless,
shuffling dance,
with failure, for a willing partner,
while regret, lingers sulkily,
in a dark corner of the room,
and watches the two of you
locked,
in a very forced
minuet.
The world feels like it's over,
and every brush stroke, feels
like its own humdrum ending.
Then,
all at once,
when you least expect it, to
your agitated trash ,
lifts its papery little wings,
takes flight,
and flutters gently away,
in a storm of linen,
beige, and white.
The faintest flicker of hope,
rises, from the discard pile:
a wildcard moth
seeking its own, besotted flare,
of quavering torchlight.
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 9:56 AM UTC
Today is
Trash Collection Day
on my avenue
and the raccoons
and feral cats
and unleashed dogs
and diverse rodents
are rejoicing.
It’s a jamboree
of indiscriminate
gluttony and
the lip smacking
stickiness
of furry jowls
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:03 AM UTC
When did the soil give birth to ideologies of hate?
Floating thoughts taking hold of tempestuous souls
To wreak destitution and abject destruction upon City slabs
Intangible ideas, not to be grasped, squeeze hard
On curled metal, give birth to flying shells
Hit hard on soft targets
Stories held within forms, never known to thy perpetrator
Indiscriminate fury built upon muddled theory
How powerful a virulent ideology
Minds clash in spoken wars, yet the earth does recoil
As fragile limbs confronted by flying shells
Limp, lifeless hand stretched forth
Pleading for continuation of a life not contemplated to end
Not here, in this way
Crudely broken by the stench of decay
I remember when Friday night was for play
Humanities throat pressed upon not by religion
Knife drawn not by capitalism
Shots fired not by secularism
Yet a common strain persists in all
That of power seeking
Corrupting hearts, dividing parts uneven, the spread obscene
Impose a will on another
Crush fledging life pursuing what is best to you
Oh! The clouds I plead beneath pass me by
Your ‘best’ is but yours, permit me to fly by
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
Hi Syria,
How are you feeling today?
I've heard so much about you
How strong you are
Enduring six years of illness
And counting
Of how high spirited you've remained
Watching children play in the
Midst of turmoil;
Indiscriminate shelling
Heard of the many chemical baths
You've been subjected to
Assad believing you have
Cancerous cells
Needing to be exterminated
Not realizing HE is
The cancer and you;
You the victim
How I wish I could help you heal
From your trauma
Yet I heard an injection
Was given you today
With the hope
The chemical baths can end
Because it is killing you
Slowly rotting
Destroying your body
Taking away your beauty
The side effect of corruption
How beautiful you once were
How long will it take you to heal?
I wish for peace of mind
And a healthy future for you
Syria
From JM 4/7/17
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 1:57 PM UTC
Ignorance, bliss, an indiscriminate kiss
Gracefully balanced atop a bone-crunching fist.
A sleuth in the shadows, a looped rope in the gallows
Awaits to hang the one who climbs it toward the hallowed.
The stairs on which you ascended with the promise of heaven ended
Abruptly, unjustly, and with heavy fists corrupting
The body and soul, your constitution…
In contrast with your ego’s delusions,
Have shown themselves to be
The antithesis to illusion.
The reality belief is a cold-blooded thief,
That will rob you of your senses and leave the Self defenseless
To the distortion of optics, the twisting of oral…
Succumbing to illusions of evil and/or moral.
Of course, one would ask, “What am I to do?”
The answer is simple: Do not look within,
For the sought-after lies through.
Heighten awareness to see through the hallowed,
For the beast in you cannot be drowned
If it forces the waters to shallow.
Consciousness is heavier than the act of mere existence
If it is heaven is you seek, you’ll need much more than sheer persistence.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC