Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Tristan Currie Jul 2018
I don't believe in being humble anymore
Righteousness is the key ingredient in ignorance.
And in the hands of the righteous
innocence becomes arrogant misdirection.

To care for people is hard but crucial;
so have compassion,
and have anger.

I feel not, exactly the same
as you feel
nor exactly the opposite,
because a supposed majority don't.

I feel compassion
I feel anger
because, on balance, feelings guide;
They hurt, they're inconvenient
they bleed,
they can even die.

But nurtured and given time to develop,  
given a protective but non-insular infrastructure of thought
a feeling grows to reflect more than what is inside you,  
so you can overcome self-doubt -
and thwart unneccessary suffering the world over
What begs a Sonnet if not to Express
But Expression alone Good Fame depends
If Maps such as these confuses the Rest
Then Life's Published Theme will begin to End
These Girls do not just a Heart label so
Pressing the Rewind back to Robin's Day
But Issues pressed onto Paper, and go
Feed the Bird's Stem and regulate their Say
Someone like me must care about these Things
And Mark at how their Chemistry reacts
Prudence, the Ingredient I must now bring
To set my Items from Falsehoods to Facts.
It would be Easier if you just Spoke
Perhaps my Attitude made me go Broke.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
For Al, who left us, Nov. 22, 2014

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, 
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
__________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)


__________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
Egeria Litha Nov 2014
Nothing can influence
A Man
Stronger
Than a Woman
It's a difference
Through yin
That causes
Yang to become
Whole

It's like the beast
Crawling towards
The beauty
She need not
Use force
Or violence
To get the animal
To draw closer

Her prescence -
A flower
So sweet
Anything with a nose
Wants to inhale

The influence of
A woman
Is a journey inward
Where the flow
Comes in

I could show you where
You begin
Where it begins -
In the formation
Of a wave curling
To form
An infuriating
Break
Soaring through
the wind

She gets him
Contemplative
Her words
Sound like Sanskrit
She knows what he needs
Beyond what his ego
Believes

And maybe gentle
Or crying
Should not be forbidden
The influence of women

A females touch delicious
A Man's counterpart
And producer of souls
The answer to family
The true love gaze
An access to divinity
The missing ingredient
Of the recipe

A Woman's influence
On a man
Is the way the world
Transitions
RK Aug 2018
Even in the depths of medication and depression she saw a glimmer of light , She must have! I knew her children meant everything to her. Her husband held fort, through thick and thin and I witnessed him. We helped him at times when he too was worn down, visiting his wife in hospital, tme after time, after time...

He couldn't go to work, not for a long time. The nature of her depression so black, he made sure his children were protected, fully engaging with the important issues in life.   Loving care, being present, showing strength at his best.

He managed on social welfare, knowing well what  his priorities were.  He took them to school, their lunch boxes filled with nourishment. The main ingredient being love. And he collected them too, with a loving smile and huge hug.

I felt so proud of him.

And in school they did well,
a straight A - in every subject.  In the later years they went to university, and excelled beyond excellence. He was always right beside them. Finding the way whatever way he could.

I felt so proud of him.

It was depression that stole her beautiful soul. We did our best to lift her, and we did.  We saw the best in her,  And she knew we cared and loved her.  Later she took a stoke that fully paralyzed her.

He continued to care for her at home. Even when his own health failed he tarried on and he prayed that God take her, before him. He was amazing!  When I'd ask him how he was doing, his  eyes would tell me, but his words said;  ”oh! I'm just fine”
And I so admired him.

The Elegy...
Their son spoke in soft loving words about his Mother's life and the goodness of his father care.

" If I can be half the man my dad  is...

Half the father my father is ...

Half the husband my father is ...

Then I am blessed”

And in the silence, you could hear a pin drop!

Peace
Thank you for reading. I'm doing my best to see all sides of life and death. And I feel writing is cathartic .
Peace
I’m terrified
Of falling for you again
Rekindling the beautiful fire
We did once before
Those feelings haven’t left
But fear is in my heart now
A new ingredient to the mix
I despise this new feeling
For I know we are connected
But I hesitate at your gestures
Of reconnection and love
Please, I beg you
Don’t break my heat again
For it wants you and you alone
I ache for you, your presence here
Your voice, calm and fluent
Sending chills down my spine
I lose breath at your sight
Resuscitate me, or leave me here
And I’ll be free of pain

-AJT
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2018
based on the essay below received from Liz Balise**

all poems and their accompaniment sauces begin with onions
start by fouling the air, bringing forth only unrestricted tearings
then...

the slow cooking elicits the sugars hid within,
the unpleasant odor, refined into something
minted new sweet and savory.

so too, the poem must simmer, slow cooked,
harmonizing the caramelizing,
even if some ingredients
claim the first born birthright of the eldest first essential,
despite the collective harmonizing.

the ripened color of the blood red tomatoes,
the ruddy cheery sanguinity of
certain words in each poem,
are the coloration of its entirety -
the ones your never forgive for never letting you forget them!

what matters not but how, the daring to substitute the new how,
how you chef see it and color it with the crazy way how
you beckon us over one by one to the big *** for a tasting
accepting critiques and suggestions, a thousand pinches
of your salty sweet essences.

and the recipe is dog stained and pointy corner ear-edged,
cause you cannot exactly write it down, and you bend the corner
for every substitution and variation,
cause every poem
made to taste the how of us,
each one a subtle different.

everyone understands metaphor,
even the society of the reticent ones in the back row,
just say the “trapdoor of depression” and they’ll nod knowingly,
so say to them a poem is a metaphor for you,
and spaghetti sauce is how you see, recreate in words,
how you need to add an ingredient of yourself
to this one,
a word, a phrase, becomes you in it, in you,
you in it are both poet and poem
and a simmering new and different
————————————————————————-


A Well Written Essay— The Spaghetti Sauce Method
As a teacher and a learner, I have always wanted to see the "nuts and bolts" of everything. Yes, it slows the process down, but the learning is more complete, and a person becomes capable of making endless connections of understanding, branching to other  creative possibilities. Writing like dancing, and all that is worth learning, deserves all of the pieces and steps of the process.
I remember telling my students every year that grammar could indeed be a dry bone, but necessary in the process of good communication. Told them that I would teach writing by the "spaghetti sauce method" (Visualize their perplexed faces here.). "A well-written essay should be like a really good sauce-- smooth, fine textured, with a complete harmony of meat, sweet, tomato, and seasonings-- not one overpowering the others, but all in marvelous union of great flavor and aroma."
I continued, giving the example of my mother's
(God rest 'er) Irish spaghetti sauce" as a contrast. "Mama would throw in onions, peppers (if she had ‘em), hamburger, salt and pepper, fry it all in corn oil, and mix with two cans of plain tomato sauce. This was all okay with me," I went on,“ till I experienced the epiphany of garlic, basil, oregano, pork neck bones and a cup of wine; in the kitchen of an Italian neighbor, who walked me through the process and ingredients of real Italian sauce that was simmered for hours."
I continued to nudge them with the comparison: "Excellent writing is more than talent and passion, otherwise a tirade of curses, knotted ideas, and copied paragraphs of someone else would always do.” "No," I went on, "It is clear thought, captured, slow-cooked in the labor of mind and understanding— and in good time, expressed, in a way that others can comprehend -- with great attention to the cardinal rule: It is not as much WHAT you say-- but HOW you say it."
Through the year I focused on one or two aspects of better writing at a time for each paper. It was an uphill battle, often teaching against the mediocrity of the expectations in the PA State Standards of Assessment. It would add ten hours to my work week to grade and comment on a set of a 115 papers.
JS CARIE Nov 2018
Home and contentment are synonymous
The desire to reach,
while innate or evident
quiet or curious
keeps a continuum over discrepant cultures, the world over
An opulence of love and warmth
Having one ingredient can make fertile the other
One without the match, make an ordinary or secondary batch
Making one rich with joy, their other can be broke and remote
seeking satisfaction

Home is not a location
or bricks of residence
But a written word in deep established sentiment
An atmosphere cloaked in the unfalter
The taking of arms to conclude their hold
developed in elements of the affectionate
No disaster, constructed or natural
could alter

As I am now,
locked in the shadow of shades lost
surrendering independent power in a momentary yield,
On hands and knees, bloodshot and in need of a shield...
In need of my one...
the imperative relevance of feeling her
That selfish influential significance that creates safe harbor at journeys end
Generated by the glow of resolve
in the home of her arms contentment
Steve Page Dec 2018
I'm not so very special
I'm no way near essential
The world can cope without me
Blink and you just may miss me

I'm not a key ingredient
I'm pretty much redundant
It continues to amaze me
that God can bother with me

I find He always has the knack
to dig deep way down in the sack
and lift up what he finds there
to a place He has made where

no matter how far you've fallen
how far lost you have become
He clearly still remembers you
the uniqueness that He placed in you

So don't listen to the hecklers
don't dare settle for any less
Tune in only to His voice
and know this: you are His choice
Dont believe the hate.  You are chosen.
Seema Dec 2018
(I)
A word unspelt
The words unsaid
A wrong turn again
It may be bad
From one end to another
The evidence makes no sense
There could be another way
Why feel tensed
The heavy clouds will soon fade
And moon will give us the way
It's gotta be somewhere
Not so far away
Whoever has laid hands on
The buried old scripts
Have gone missing
On their adventurous trips
What is in it,
That one craves to find
Is it a treasure map
Or a portal of any kind
I feel it isn't a good idea
To join this group of five
It is still time
To run and be alive

But wait...

What is that noise, I hear
The other five lanterns
Seem to have disappeared
Like being swallowed
By some form of evil
I may be wrong, coz am quite behind
To even reach the grounds
Where, burried are those scripts
And a curse that bounds
I decided not to continue
Any further and put my life in danger
So I waited for day break
And that's when, I met a stranger...

(II)

An unusually dressed figure
That like of an ancient priest
With a hood covering
Emerging, from behind the trees
May be, he is one of the five
But how can I be sure
As the figure looked strange
Or perhaps, trying to lure
I sat next to a big rock
Keeping my eyes fixed
A sudden brush of winds
And the place seem to be mixed
I blinked to clear my view
Of that of dirt and dust
Pieces of rags flew
In the wildly gust
Intoxicating scent caught my senses
And I seemed to be drowning
From below my feet
Hours later, opening my eyes
On a hard solid ground
Surrounded by
Unearthly or earthy crowd?

(III)

Whispers of death
Rang in my ears
Blurred vision gave way
To my crouching fears

Where am I?

Above the ground of below
Is it my grave
Or a tomb
Like cave
Dim lights sprawl
As I try to stand
The ground suddenly shakes
And on my chest, I land

Is it my end?

Glitters and shine
From the passing ray of lights
A graveyard of buried treasures
Below many heights
It, definitely must be a dream
Yet, I can still feel
The chill of hovering death
Crawling beneath my heels
I dare not look down
To scream my head out
So I slowly, crawled
Towards the faint light
From where I heard the strangers call
Standing slowly,
not to disturb the peace
I followed the voice
That led among the trees...

(IV)

The moon was bright
And I felt the cold breeze
Brushing enough
For my ears and nose to freeze
Then a voice cracked
Of that of an old man

"he who bares no greed,
shall walk free",
"he who dares to steal,
shall be buried alive"


The stranger -

Your life is spared
From the cursed wrath
Your soul is pure
In the eyes of death
You lack the ingredient
That most posses
So have perished
And left lifeless
It is the greed
That is cursed in a being
Thus, all five got buried
With their share and sin
You walk free unharmed
Return to your people
And let them know
Whoever walks through
The path in search of scriptural treasure
Shall be cursed and buried
Within the treasure

And I, blink -

Far from the place
As I was in the night
Back to my senses
Welcoming day light
Life of mine is precious
That no penny or treasure
Can ever buy
Who wants to live a cursed life
And live behind their lies
I lack the seed
Of greed
That I don't intend to plant
I shall read
And educate
On how harmful, is this
Greed...


©sim
Spilling imagination. A story poem.
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
We are not on a schedule
But we are working
Ivory skills of mastery hard
We can not afford to lose
The Elephants hearts diary
The Zen of topiary
      Details
  The good luck

The hard worker making
True buck the husk of fruit seed
The Peking God of duck
Superman of gifts of steel
The movie superstitious eyes
Everyday good earth cries
Elephant Trunk
Bring on the Holiday
The tuxedo the Elephant Tusk
Godly task the top rank

Anomalous

Questioning the situation not
so delicious
Sensual so moving vivacious
The comedy of errors
Ridiculous to the sublime

The compromising position
Waiting for the next
      "Crime"
Mens of romance
Holiday the gracious gray
Taking risks

*Gallivanting never separating love
Of the tusk, life holds too many risks

Smiles and baking
more loving
The harder you mix
    Wonderful Ivory
   An elephant is a true
   ingredient
Holding the whisk over creamed
Looking high up the
white feathers
Like a beauty, I have never seen

She loves to pick his holiday
Elephants circles the tie he's
her dream
There is no truth when its a holiday
when people
Laugh between there lies

Start running toward
Elephant Tusk
Moms homemade apple caramel
pecan pies
Conflicts subjects
to paint talk to the "Elephants"
With the dreamy ivory tusk

The fragrance of Ireland
Spicy Greens musk
King hand card player tough skin
*Holiday Queen got numbered in
The men million stars of
musk saved the day it flew in

You make me feel brand new
I never made a mistake
Never one that I couldn't explain
Running towards or afterward
Those love words
Before the Gods
The veal chops
Emperor of emails
The Cops and robbers

So modest and shy with demure 
 Holiday spirit world of hands galore
What allure dreamy contentment
She got holiday advancement

The contrast between
Holiday family love the honesty
but our government magical
mystery all bribery
Go for the tour just pour
your words
Quite a mystery white baking
flour messy
Moon and the Star handkerchief style
dressy

The Astronomy we need
to build a better
Here and the now
Wondering how?

Deep brown hazelnut
coffee royal bow
Seeing through the
Gray starting to pray
The parade of the Elephant
The day we can trust
This isn't a Fay Ray
not my kind
of town
The holiday comes and goes
too quick
There you are Rick and
his cousins
It felt like a holiday of
*Tombstones
The gathering with the finest
rhinestones

More sound of silence
Please no I phones
Shut them off enjoy the
Elephants tusk and
their home turf
Not the bluest sea
Make it the lovely
    (Earl Gray)
Bringing surf and turf
More conflicts those predictions
More spiritual afflictions

Just find your peace within
His Elephant pants win
You got the whole tusk
in your hand
"Snow White Huntsman"
Affection like a
housewarming
My holiday transformation

Neon Lion light of crystal ball
The spiritual Tree elephant
Touched a part of me the art
All the fine elements bring
us closer, not the copy
of an imposter

Something to smile about
The myriad
The full length of the camera
The Elephants has a heart
no drama
Flying so Ivory gown sheer
Moms roast will not
come next year
Red devil computer
Telling me there are
Ghostbusters and
travel gliders
I am the true
Elephant lover
More homestayers
music players

Men looking astronomically
Feeling silly
in their whiskers
The world is horrifying
But there is no denying
more praying
Her heart is very thick
Elephant skin close to her
heart is luck
What is happening
to our economy
The sad thing people are selling
Elephant's
Tusk for money we need
to stop this

Lucky Elephant tusk is
turning to good luck
We pray for the world
Holy bless
The holiday Spirit there is no Scrooge here this was done differently do you love Elephant husk please save them they are beautiful and good luck this cruel world is selling them we need to stop this
derailed-trains Nov 2018
hey. the morning skies looked like they held the secret ingredient for a perfect day. should have taken that as a bad sign. harmless mornings don't always translate into lenient nights. i think i'll never get over this hurdle that keeps appearing on my chest. i'm always anticipating that the ship we're on is bound to crash and sink even when the seas are calm. i'm tired of looking for handkerchiefs in the places we cried in, or in waiting for an embrace after falling off a cliff. i knew that it would hurt, but you were supposed to make the impact a little less painful. i think i'll always long for that reassurance that never came. you made me familiarize abandonment. who wouldn't? when you always sailed away every time i needed an anchor. this was supposed to be another apology letter, you know. even if you should be the one doing the apologizing. well, here goes my apology. but only because this turned out to be a confession. and... **** it, i admit, i, too, have failed to do right by you.
this thing in my chest keeps on feeling, i don't want it anymore.
for the ladies who liquid lunch

<>

the finest young women of the wild west,
(the best of course just might be in Texas)
don’t always get educated in the things best,
no private schools, so somethings sometimes,
like the upscale training of the taste buds,
must be learned on the job, training the palette,
by growing up, self+taught, thank god, yes!

<>

your salty taste
reminds me of ruffled potato chips, bugles, beef jerky
and
your very own brand of
loving tears

it’s true you know,
impossible to eat
just one, which is
why my tonguing
of your body parts,
is unceasingly seizing

I will always be found
attached unbreakably,
to your moving image,
moving inside of me

so sweet your salt,
it’s your story,
your flavored lives living on
in poems unnamed, to disguise
but the authorship of whom,
in body, in mind, so obvious,
cause in all your poems is a tangy
salty

impossible to eat just one

****
<>
p.s. you tease me mean,
cowman,

bbq and béarnaise,
sassafras and edible petals,
molasses and kosher salt,
ingredient combination
which of course
you just made up,
so I show my appreciation
biting your arm so my permanent
teeth marks,
will remind me,
and you too,
just how salty
biting Texas heifers who
can or cannot be salt cured
when
it’s their turn to write some
real good tasting
poetry

****

back for more already?

****
Kiprotich vinny Aug 2018
What a name! what a joy! To have her called by Mrs yours,
What a beauty! to load over a a man,
Nayanoi is the name, brought up by a mother who is embedded to tradition,
It carries all fame and this is not a game but another ingredient  to tame monstrous heart union.

There is indeed  touching  love after perennial failures,
Rejection over rejections builts emotion-shielded heart,
It kills dangerous emotions,it destroys
barbarians.

Such is life, don't you know,
Nayanoi demonstrated the saying,
Marrying a man not for money but love,
I have came to admire the Maa community,
They don't fake around they are what they are.

Unlike ******* who are really cheap indoors,
But fear displaying it in full glare of  our cameras
Nayanoi won my heart, As a true African woman,
She is the wife of my kinsman.

Am not lusting for her, she deserve all the earthly praises,
A woman sired and raised perfectly,
She wears all the smiles in her face,
Knowing she is a beauty queen and not a braggart.
Myra May 29
Sometimes I wonder if
I'm good enough for your love
Like a missing ingredient to the best batch of cookies,
I'm looking for something between us that I fear isn't whisking in your veins
Stir, stir
Passion is a rare ingredient
Often improvised with lust
But passion is the concrete between our building blocks of what's US
It's the egg whites holding everything else together
And yet this egg isn't cracking
This flower isn't blooming
Or is it in my mind?
Am I thinking too much?
The looking glass of social media only steals happiness while we compare strangers to a timeline that isn't now
It isn't now
And while I'm asking myself "why did he publicly debut her presence in his life but not me?"
Stir, stir. Remind yourself of the kiss you shared on your couch in your dim candlelit apartment when he kissed you. REALLY kissed you.
Yeah. Remember that?
Passion is a rare ingredient and I'm just cracking the egg
Mike Hauser Sep 2018
Hello Mom, I'm lost here in IKEA
It's been fun but I may never see you again
They say the arrows point the way
but they've been pointing the way for days
Swedish Meatballs, the only saving grace there is

In the linen section, I've been circling for hours
Waiting for landing instructions from the tower
As big as this place there has to be a runway
In a fog, quickly running  out of power

At a later date, I finally make my way
At the seventh gate, I see Dante wave
As he's pouring over plans assembling a pair of white nightstands
I'll come back and check on him in a few days

In housewares, there are too many cooks in the kitchen
I look around and see something here is missing
The main ingredient, food...still waiting for those meatballs dude
In that special sauce that does more for a man than just glisten

I should have known the way the front door ****** me in
I'd never see my family and friends again
As I wander through the halls of prefab furniture at low cost
My days of sanity are quickly drawing to an end
And even with IKEA's plans, I'll never be put back together again
Bj May 17
He’s amused by the irony of having fought hard to live and now placing only one bullet in one of the six chambers of his revolver.

That one bullet has been fuelled by hate and as his mind descends deeper into a dark place, he gambles with his own fate.

He begs the bullet to heed his sorrows, and to make him come alive again as he can only ever feel when death is by his side.

An Assassin does not sell his life cheaply so seemingly he is being selfish by gambling with his own life, which could be sold for a king’s ransom

He has paid dearly for the privilege of playing this game with the psychopath, who resides deep within his heart.

The psychopath has won one too many games, when gambling on either being loved by a woman, or being excited by despicable acts of ******.

Loneliness decided his methods and his special army training helped his inner psychopath to win the games.

A bitter pill to swallow  while being loved by a woman and being controlled by his inner psychopath.

His blooded soul awaited the penalty of hell and his conscience told him what goes will once come,
yet his bullets continued to strike relentlessly.

He made attempts to explore the secret passageways in his mind, but he stopped for he dared not venture into the deepest reaches of his soul.

Instead he continued to hunt the ones breathing, no grace given, simply a bullet in the brain before leaving.

Good is simply an ingredient of an evil recipe with blood the intoxicating part.

Savouring the moment,
he spins the barrel hoping that the chamber is empty, but quietly praying that it is not........
city of flips Jun 25
Letter to Cinderella (and her Texas Fairytales)

~for EJ Love~


now lookee here, girl,
slow down pardner,
blanket love-spells need to be addressed,
especially if a return requested back to
the great state of big ole Texas

as I am loved in Texas, I’m well aware
how hard it is to find love in wide open spaces,
more trucks and cows than people,
which is NYC in reverse,
both hard places in different ways
to make angelic fairies appear,
released intact from busted soap bubbles

so here’s my idée fixe,
to the reading, less,
to the writing, more,
command thyself to march towards
the seventeenths poem, and many more
to arrive at the promised
hallelujah

take the formless visions, potions,
drifting in you, figure them into words,
shaped with passion and cunning, twitching in
a creme of teasing, a dollop of wanting,
a whimsy, sense of humor, stir with another’s pinky finger,
bigger than the ineffable lone star of lonely,
an eye tear for flavor, a salty secreted ingredient,
that needs, requires another’s hand to wipe away

and a flashing neon sign:
Texas Red Amber,  Chops, and
real good loving desired!

only good loving people,
steady on their feet,
need apply, poets favored,
but a certain kind of cowboy,
ok as well

what be my expertises in matters these,
why I am your chastened, mean no more,
sweet sister who see your spells flying by,
who writes to you with newly learned humility
Desmond Baker Mar 18
No bundle greater
Love, strength, wisdom, and wrath

Bring the scales
To which ingredient lies your allegiance?

At times I wish I was as the clouds
So welcomed, but also feared at my coming
To bring shade or thunder
But where is the wisdom?
Guided by fickle wind.  

At times I wish I was as the butterfly
A star on earth
So elusive predators scatter when I spread my wings
But where is the strength?
A mere rain drop would destroy me

At times I wish I was an octopus
I can bring down sharks
outwit any human
Nothing is out of my reach
But where is the love?
I hurt my own brethren.

Who balances these ingredients masterfully to create this awesome recipe?!

I’ll tell you. He made fire and the flowers.

No behemoth gets away unpublished to lick their paws in peace!

No eye gets weary of seeing his work.

All beings fear his coming, even the idols dare not be animate.

All adore his qualities, they searched tirelessly for deceit.

He took the venom from vipers as if they bit a sponge and satisfied the flaming sword of heaven.

attempting to balance these ingredients is a mockery.

To choose one over another is death.

To honor the one who held them
Perfectly

That, is to be without hypocrisy
Mitch Prax Jan 28
There is nothing
on this planet more beautiful
than seeing a daughter's smile
in her mother's eyes
even when heartache is an
ingredient for something so heavenly.
The sun and moon could learn so much
from this baby girl’s warmth and glow.
ConnectHook Apr 1
(this festive traditional Central-Italian dish serves entire populations of citizens)

    INGREDIENTS:
     ♦  faith in God
if unavailable, any stable moral-ethical framework can be used

     ♦  esteem for traditional cultural values

     ♦  willingness to say what you think

     ♦  hatred of Political Correctness

1)   Wake up in the morning and breathe
rinse your mind and other ingredients well from previous day’s brain-washing

2)   Refuse to believe media propaganda
ask friends/family members to ignore mainstream media & close Facebook accounts

3)   Believe that God created Man and Woman in Genesis

4)   Refer to God as He
main ingredient, beware of fire if Feminists/Genderqueer activists are near stove

5)   Define family as 1 man + 1 woman joined in marriage producing children
let ingredients simmer. Add a pinch of absolute Biblical doctrine if desired

6)   Critique Cultural Marxism in ALL its overt & disguised manifestations

7)   Dissent from the One-World Techno-Narcissist mindset
algorithms and search-filters complement this dish, but feel free to serve it on its own

Persona Non Grata pairs well with a full-bodied Tuscan Chianti, or Montepulciano, but is especially enhanced by any vintage where the Grapes of Wrath are stored.
Prompt #1: provide the reader with instructions on how to do something.
It can be a sort of recipe…
The job market is a farce,
and for the poor, money is always sparse.
No longer a child, I have to stop kidding myself -
now a dad I have to pass on Santa and elves,
the tooth fairy, and the economy,
a lineage, and a history.
I've been a ******* in more ways than one,
America's sociological experiment of a son,
whose dream wasn't tied to a flag,
a political party, nor ****.
But I understand it takes strife to fulfill life,
an ingredient in the recipe that creates might.
El sueño Americano es el mismo Chicano,
sueño Colombiano, Asiático, y Africano.
Ain't no difference when it's all a Google search away
and the world works to pay a debt it never owed.
Be free, baby, but before you do -
you gotta figure out what that means to you.
for my daughter
don’t leave me!
(the leaving is in the writing)

she whispers in his ear,
after they’ve climbed into bed,
their tiring bodies both embraced,
soft sunken into, by, a familiar mattress,
after a sophisticates city night out seeing stars,
stars, human and astral,
city lights dusk heightened the vocal sparking,
singers singing songs of love from
radio days long ago

don’t leave me

she intones, a prayerful demand,
equally a command and a begging behest,
puzzling what prompted this pressed request,
spoken with urgency born in her breast

don’t leave me
drifting off and into his thin place,
but tugged back by this cri du coeur,
unsponsored and unwarranted,
nothing recalled that justly provoked,
a statement topping of anguish and fear

don’t leave me
he repeats in a rising questioning inflecting
puzzling riddling unbefitting a mellow-toning sleepy ingredient,
whatever do you mean, I leave you only
to dream, to purify, refresh and deep rest reset,
and return come morning with new poems,
what angst comes to stir this asking,
delaying my adventure to nightly restoration?

don’t leave me
repeated and repeated, dressed in urgency,
for I see the little things,
the wavering walk, the slowing of the thinking,
the walls, black n’ blue, whining about your into bumping,
the instant eagerness with which your body accepts
your voyage to dream places where
one goes and gone and must go unaccompanied,
some who are chosen and some who choose, not to return

don’t leave me
for the signs are ample, a certain weariness
dresses your face and crowns thy graying mane,
the slight labored breathing from steps once
bounded and leapt, the seeing and the hearing,
each slightly weakening, two orchestral instruments,
together off key and lessened in their triumphal vigor,
these words of mine, a royal guard,
keep them in your dreams

don’t leave me
minor missteps in the elongated negated of dying gracefully,
my tuning forks are sensitized,
and any slowing motion
both visible and hearable, and filed under inevitable

I will not leave you tonight,
my body warming as per usual,
your cold feet intruders indicate it’s you have left
for your own nightly visitors, occasional terrors,
you’ve woken me from my allotted sleep hours,
many poems now retrieving and in need of scribing,
while the fingertip digit flys across the digital keyboard,

I am more alive than I have ever been;
the leaving is in the writing,
each poem a steppingstone,

but the poems come fast and furious,
sometimes two at a time, the muses are bemused,
the prognosis is for thousands more and warn:

do not wear out your olive oil anointed forefinger,
the lubricated pointer of the way, wherein is contained

through that index
finger,
your body of works in the
“yet  to arrive, yet untaxed filing station,”,
must be seen to fruition,
for it is only then that,
only love poetry
is ready for long lasting
eternal realization





5:36am 12th April, two thousand nineteen
Look at me now dad, never thought I’d get to this point in life
Where I no longer hate you & now understand the lesson you taught me in life
See the thing was, I resented you because you were never there
sent $80 a week but that only made me think you didn’t care
Mama was strong enough to deal with the pain & raise me right
but inside I was lonely & sometimes I couldn’t sleep at night
You were that missing ingredient that I needed for a healthy life
& I believed that being my father came with a price
It’s funny how I hated you for so long just to see that I was like you
making common mistakes of a man just like you
but no disrespect, everybody gotta make mistakes when they grow up
stumble a few times in life before their maturity begins to show up
I don’t know the full story, I just know I lost my dad before knowing who he was
feeling like a lost cause because I was always looking for his love
I’m still your son, you’re still my father, that’s something we can’t change
but I forgive you for not being there even if this means things won’t change
I see you have other kids that you’re raising & I’m happy that you’re being that man
that they need, glad that you’re giving them a chance
to know the man that I never knew but I’m proud of you
& I pray that God keeps watching over you.
And with that being said, I’ve grown up tremendously & I no longer hate you
☆ Poetic Venom ☆
It takes a very mature & strong person to forgive the first person who broke their heart in life but we must all learn to forgive, right? Took me a long time to get to this point in life but what can I say, I'm getting too old to keep letting things stop my happiness. Moral of the story, forgive & let go but never forget.
Next page