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Iraira Cedillo Mar 2014
The poorest juggler ever seen
Was clumsy Clara cleech,
Who juggled a bean, a nectarine,
A pumpkin, and a peach.

She juggled a stone , a slide trombone,
A celery stalk, a stick,
A seeded roll, a salad bowl,
A bagel, a boot, a brick.

With relative ease she juggled a cheese ,
She juggled a lock,  lime,
Yes, clara juggled all of these
. . . But just one at a time
Martyn Thompson Aug 2011
i - Introduction:
ii - Lismore Park
iii - The Road to Maidenhead
iv - Town Square
v - Contradiction, contraband
vi - Saturday Afternoon
vii - The Circus Comes to Town (Sunday)
viii - The Show
ix - The ringmaster
x - The Fracas
xi - An incident at Upton Park
xii - No ball games
xiii - New found…
xiv - Nearly done
xv - Another time…

i - Introduction:

Come friendly bombs you’ve still to hit
The place whose name means quagmire
The town, the place that’s left bereft
Of soul, of spiritual fire.
But hurry, hurry, please be fast
For the crack dealer plies his trade
With slight of hand and cunning
A ghetto he’ll have made

The peroxide perms have now all grown
And muster outside shops
To wait for the be-suited sales rep
With his rocks and his alco-pops
They’ve all spawned offspring of their own
Fifteen-year-old cradle pushers
Who sold their souls in return for hope
To thirty year old cradle snatchers

Come friendly bombs it’s plain to see
The vacant, empty faces
The lifeless eyes, the pallid skin
The love that leaves no traces
The love that lasts a knee trembling minute
Outside Harry’s and Sluffs
A love that smells of emptiness
O they cannot get enough

Come with me, look over there
To the sculpture in the mall
The stainless tree with it’s stainless birds
And stainless birdsong call
A bird sings and the town all stops
To see from where this sound will show
A bitter disappointment when learned
It was played on the radio

Community service on the airwaves
To draw the crowd together
A song played, a one hit wonder
Reminds us nothing is forever
The sterile radio station plays on
Opiates to which we should yield
And bare our souls and be grateful for
The song of Bedingfield

ii - Lismore Park

The sight of a child playing in the street
Is one of day’s gone bye
But Lismore Park sees them out in droves
Stealing cars and getting high
The twelve year old sent out to play
Whilst mother takes a knap
But really she’s having it away
For a fiver and a brown wrap

The party at the house next door
That never seems to stop
The men all come and go and paw
Girls in this knocking shop
But halt weary traveller, stop!
Come sit and rest your back
The bench awaits you on the green
And the deluded maniac

The man who knows what’s wrong with you
And how to make it better
As long as he keeps his soul filled up
With cheap White Lightening cider
Six large cans for a five-pound note
From the corner shop near the school
An offer really not to be missed
And to make the drunkards drool

A songbird sits on the climbing frame
And sings his cheerful tales
A tune too much for our dear lush
The maniac exhales
The songbird sings and fills the air
With a loving string of notes
That reminds the sitters on the bench
There may still be a hope

A radio plays ‘that’ song again
Should you dare to forget the rhythm
The bird has flown away now
Fed up with this hypnotism
The airwaves are now filled with dross
Thanks to the flat opposite the green
The weary traveller moves on
“Better days has this place seen”

iii - The Road to Maidenhead

O friendly bombs do try to miss
The sweet blossom, the fragrant smell
The flowers, the green grass of the parks
The havens in this hell
Be careful around the Jubilee River
With it’s wildlife and sculpted hills
For a walk in this very man-made place
Will surely heal your ills

But spare no mercy for the superstores
That pollute and destroy our thoughts
“If it’s not on the shelf, we haven’t got it…”
The familiar assistants’ retort
Take no prisoners with the office blocks
That lay empty year after year
For they clutter up the atmosphere
And have no value here

O friendly bombs, o friendly bombs
The cabbages are all grown
They read the Sun and sing along
To the radio’s dreaded drone
Whilst in their vans they speed on by
Jumping all the lights
To price a job – a small brick wall
Based on a thousand nights

The car showrooms… the car dealers
Stack ‘em high and sell them cheap
Chop-chop salesman, soften ‘em up
The rewards are there to reap
Finance, part exchange or cash
Anyhow you like
“No sir, not me sir…
…I’d prefer to use my bike”

The bustle of the weekend crowds
The steamy traffic queues
Stare too hard at that red car
And suffer the abuse
Overtake the blue one now
And make him toot his horn
See him raise his voice in anger
To satisfy his scorn

iv - Town Square

Saturday morning, seven o’clock
The town begins to wake
A pair of sleeping winos
Dream about their fate
They plan their morning sermon
But who will really care
For what they say means nothing
Less than their icy stare

The busker and the balloon man
Wait to take their turns
To entertain and irritate
And suffer being spurned
By a thousand shady shoppers
Who’ve heard it all before
And probably given hard earned cash
To make them play some more

The trickster and the barra’ boys
Set up all their stalls
Selling mobile phone covers
And fake branded hold-alls
Adorn your phone with logos
Hankies for a pound
“Yes sir, we’re here on Sundays…
…(Providing there’s no police around)”

Grab a baked potato and sit
And watch the folk go by
Some will have you in hysterics
Some will make you cry
The man on his double-glazing stand
In his suit and in his tie
The perspiration on his head
Watch him wilt and fry

The songbird settles on the wall
And sings to our delight
A merry sonnet that will inspire
Dreams we’ll have that night
The wino shouts his sermon now
The bird has paused his song
This post-war sprawling Hooverville
Muddles slowly along

v - Contradiction, contraband

On the steps of the library he screams aloud
Through a mist of smuggled gin
“You’re all fools, the lot of you is ****
I’ve not committed sin…”
“It’s not my fault I’m a lush… a drunk
I don’t choose to live this life”
“You’re all wrong in carrying on
It’s you what’s caused my strife”

In his wretched form he abuses the world
Pooh-poohing this and that
A skunk telling the world it stinks
The polemic polecat
“Society has robbed me of everything
And left me less than whole”
“The only day that’s good is Thursday
When the postman brings me dole”

On Friday he meets his dealer
To fuel his pickled mind
The man with the van on Saturday
With the spirit and the wine
By Monday, he’s all skint and broke
The weekend has passed him by
He takes his place on the library steps
We shake our heads and sigh…

Every week the same routine
The same routine again
Like clockwork his life ticks on by
The suffering and the pain
But he tells us it’s all our fault
We’re the ones not right
But it’s very easy for him to say
The man who’s so contrite

The children watch him puzzled
It’s more than they can bear
“It’s very rude…” their mothers say
“To stand like that and stare”
But what, do they expect their young
To ignore this fool a mumbling?
For they will see it for what it is
A stormy weather warning

vi - Saturday Afternoon

I sit on a wall in Slough with friends
Sharing the Dutch export
Watching and laughing at the world
And it’s variety of sorts
A happy bond that we all share
The joy of simple things
Come friendly bombs and gather round
Watch us while we sing

The friendly bombs you call upon
Are they straight off the shelf?
It’s my belief, my firm belief
The bomb is in yourself
Ticking slowly by and by
Just waiting for the code
To trigger you and trip the switch
To make the bomb explode

We watch the people from where we sit
The hellholes they’ve all made
They don’t live they just exist on
The edge of a razor blade
Stop! Step back and take a look
It’s not too late to change
And become what you really want to be
An icon of your age

Over now to Langley Park
To sit and bathe in the sun
O friendly bombs please wait a while
Until this day is done
But what will tomorrow bring my friends?
And will it come too late?
Something that may save us all
The bombs may have to wait

A sedate sleepy Saturday
Away from all the crowds
Share a joke, a ****, a smoke
And laugh together loud
The sun warms our sombre souls
As on our backs we lie
Staring as the clouds roll by
United under the sky

vii - The Circus Comes to Town (Sunday)

Halt now, wait awhile please
Stop the counting down
Today the air is charged with joy
The circus comes to town
Must have arrived last night we think
Under cover of dark
And settled down and pitched it’s tents
In the grounds of Upton Park

The queue to purchase tickets
Trails far along the road
No. 53 offers cups of tea
From outside her abode
The crowds are mum, they say not a word
As they wait their turns to go
Inside the circus big-top tent
And sit and watch the show

We settle down and take our seats
With an ice-cream and a coke
But wait, where are the circus clowns?
Is this some kind of joke?
A wall of mirrors fades into view
And puts us in a spin
Reflecting all the bright lights
The colours and the din

The ringmaster enters, cracks his whip
And hands out little slips
“Everyone’s a winner” was
On every body’s lips
The clowns they all appear now
With a modicum of fuss
Hold on just a minute now!
The clowns we see are us

A spotlight points up to the gods
At the top of the trapeze
A giant money spider glides
Down with greatest ease
He touches each and everyone
All paralysed with fear
And hands out ten pound notes to all
Then promptly disappears

viii – The show

A strongman strolls out slowly with
A length of iron bar
A leopard spotted leotard and
Moustache sealed with tar
He looks around the big top with
A menace and a sneer
Surveying all the audience
He seeks a volunteer

The white van man he raised his hand
The tattoo on his arm
Said this man must not be crossed
To do so would mean harm
The strongman bent the iron bar
Across the van man’s back
Then invited him to strike him down
An unprovoked attack

The van man clenched his hand and hit
And hurt his mighty fist
A statue of the strong man shattered
Turning into mist
The van man stood and stared in fear
The mist it gathered round
And carried out our hero driver
He hardly made a sound

No-one clapped we all just stared
Our faces ghostly white
The strongman re-appeared and looked for
A second stooge that night
No-one raised a hand in fact
No-one said a thing
The strongman shrugged and vanished…
Empty was the ring

A knife thrower was the next to appear
And seek the help of one
With nerves of solid steel and courage
Secondly to none
Down came a fallen woman
Who said she had no fear
A knife was thrown and pierced her skin
Her right large ear-ringed ear

ix – The ringmaster

A second knife it struck her chest
She didn’t seem to weep
She didn’t seem to be in pain
Although the knife was deep
A third knife struck her arm and then
A fourth it struck her head
The knives that should be missing her
Were hitting her instead

Horrified the crowd looked on
Without a fuss or row
The woman now all full of blades
Politely took her bow
She then went back and took her seat
And never said a word
Not another word she said
And not a word she heard

A magician was the next to charm
And thrill us with his tricks
He pulled a rabbit from his hat
Then sat it on some bricks
He then threw watches at this beast
That grew to a great size
The rabbit caught them all and juggled
Them to our surprise

But here’s the rub when we all looked
At places on our wrists
No watches were there to be seen
A cunning little twist
The magician cracked a whip and put
The rabbit in a stew
Which vanished there before our eyes
Vanished out of view

The magician he announced that he
Alone did have this plan
To mystify and amaze us all
With his clever hand
Indeed he was the ringmaster
That owned this circus troupe
That terrified and petrified
Our frightened little group

x – The Fracas

A swarm of bees engulf us now
And cover us with honey
The ringmaster cracks his whip again
The bees all turn to money
Then suddenly the fight begins
As we grab this flying stash
Filling up our purses now
With the hard-grabbed cash

The ringmaster, a clever man
Calms us with his sigh
“There’s plenty here for everyone
…And more than meets the eye”
Suddenly a flock of doves fly
Sweetly through the air
They then attack the baying crowds
Pulling at their hair

Then with a deafening bang, a crack
A flash of burning light
We all cascade towards the floor
The circus out of sight
Confused we all stare around
Thinking it absurd
This bizarre spectacle should vanish
Gone without a word

I look from face to face to face
Whatever could this mean?
We all are laughing nervously
How stupid have we been?
We talk about the day’s events
We talk and talk some more
A voice booms from out the sky
“I’ve opened up the door”

“I’ve brought you all together now
To pander to your greed
To watch you take from fellow man
Deny him what he needs”
I reach in to my pocket
For the money I did place
It reads “Admission: 1 adult
To The Human Race”

xi – An incident at Upton Park

That week the local paper ran
An exclusive full-page ad
“Faland’s Travelling Circus Troupe”
“The most fun ever had”
But no review was there to read
To tell of our event
The strange encounter with this circus
To which we all went

The following Sunday we meet up
In groups of three or four
Since that incident in Upton Park
The spectacle we can’t ignore
No-one knows quite what it means
I don’t think that we’ll ever
Understand all that happened here
That brought us all together

Perhaps there is a deeper message
Given on that day
Faland may be telling us
That we have lost our way
He simply used us all as tools
To illustrate our folly
That had now become too serious
A risk to things so jolly

Every week now we all gather on
This hallowed piece of land
And this is very odd because
Nobody makes the plan
The idea comes to all of us
A self-ignited spark
And draws each of us in turn
To meet in Upton Park

We picnicked then we all played games
Then talked about the rain
We toasted our new friendships
And vowed to meet again
The bombs, the bombs they’ve all slowed down
Compassion saved the day
This newfound love we now all have
Must surely pave the way

xii - No ball games

The joy did not take long to spread
Across our grimy frowns
And bring a little sunshine
To lighten up this town
Happiness is upon us now
The whole of Slough-kind
Depending on how you look at it
And on your state of mind

The lush upon the library steps
The wino on the bench
The Publican and Landlord
The ***** serving *****
They all wear smiles and laugh a lot
And speak of wondrous things
A songbird perches on the fence
And merrily she sings

The children, o the children
How they sing and dance
Always being friendly
In any circumstance
They have no care for politics
You’ll see it in their face
They want to play with everyone
Who’s in the human race

Meanwhile back in Upton Park
The townsfolk meet again
But there’s no talk of horror
Or suffering and pain
Instead though how a monument
Should be erected in our names
And pulling down the signs
That read ‘No Ball Games’

The bombs have all stopped ticking now
And line up by the wall
And every now and then they clang
Just to remind us all
If we get too complacent
And don’t respect our friends
We’re marking down the seconds
To our bitter end

xiii – New found…

We shared our food and shared our tales
Life stories we all told
They made us laugh they made us cry
Left us warm and cold
The suffering we did speak of
Helped us understand
How fellowman and woman kind
Dwelt in other lands

We laughed at tales of folly
And stories of the past
Stories that we are in awe of
Stories that will last
For another thousand years or more
And travel on the wind
A gentle breeze that talks to us
Thrilling to the end

Gathering momentum
Our stories travel far
Picked up and told by new folk
Under glowing stars
They bring warmth and humanity
Softened by the rain
They travel back to each of us
To be re-told again

Who’d have thought this loving joy
This beacon in the dark
Would begin upon the grass
Of hallowed Upton Park
The greed has gone or mostly so
Now happiness is here
We’ve seen the light and now must spread
Our messages of cheer

Looking back it hardly seems
We could have been that way
Not caring if each other lived
To see another day
This new found near Utopia
Must spread across the land
And we must stand to offer all
Our warm and guiding hand

xiv – Nearly done

The story is now almost told
Of how a strange event
Saved us from our selfish selves
A message heaven sent
With cunning tricks and sleight of hand
The error of our ways
Was written up in greasepaint
Shining through the haze

A strange di
I wrote this in about 2004 - loads of literary influences in this poem. It speaks for itself really. Having read through it, I think I ought to revise / review and re-write some of it, but this is the original.... yay!!
Robert G Page Dec 2015
A Christmas Thought (short story)
by
rgpage

This time of the year,  when once giving from the heart has since melted like the snow in Spring to the meaningless demand for expensive toys and gadgets;  and Santa has waned to no more than the all-giving sugar daddy to each and every child,  and a tireless crutch to the mindless parent during the year; “Santa’s watching so you’d better be good.”

And alas,  there I stood in this huge department store amid a vast forest of toys, colors, and noises, fallen prey to this modern day hypocrisy known as Christmas.  Being of a lower middle economical standard,  and having with such stealth blindness juggled expenses and bills to afford myself the opportunity to plunge even deeper into dept.  I pondered these playful wonders of modern day technology.  All about countless numbers of people were doing as I in efforts to reward their children for their year of good service.

This was when I saw her. As fast as this seasonal frenzy had overtaken me just days earlier,  it vanished for a time as I watched her. It must have been that she seemed so out of place in this hurry-scurry festive scene of Christmas shopping that she caught my eye.  She was very old and her tattered,  worn out clothing all too obviously reflected the fact that she couldn’t afford much.  While others struggled about her almost comically laden with brightly colored  packages, this old woman had nothing more than an old purse dangling from her arm.  Slowly she moved, seemingly pained with the infirmities which accompany old age.  She appeared overweight for her stature which I’m sure added to her discomfort.  When she stopped in front of the doll section  her old, pudgy face glowed with joy.  Undoubtedly a doll for a little granddaughter,  I was  sure no more as she couldn’t possibly afford more.  I watched as she studied each doll
and its price tag,  going from one to the next.  Finally she stopped to give particular attention to one little doll adorned with colorful ribbons and big bright blue eyes.  Then putting the doll back,  she opened her purse and I watched as she counted the small amount of money that she had.  

By this time I had become so unexplainably absorbed with watching the old woman,  who with a smile closed her purse, retrieved the doll and walked slowly and painfully to the checkout counter to wait in line.  Around her the noise of parents and children alike waiting their turn to check out didn’t seem to bother her as she patiently waited, holding the precious little doll for an equally precious granddaughter.  Finally when her turn came, an all to cruel yet human trait appeared in not only the people waiting behind her but the checkout clerk as well. Their impatience to maintain a steady flow of human traffic through the turnstiles came to the forefront almost obliterating this seasonal spirit.  This didn’t seem to deter the old woman from slowly and surely counting out the correct change,  leaving her very little to return to her purse.

With this done and the doll tucked away in a shopping sack,  she proceeded through the large glass doors and out into the cold December night.  A passing thought, “one special gift for one special person,” went through my mind as I continued my own, now more selective tour of annual duty.  Looking over my shoulder for one last glimpse of the old woman, I suddenly felt as if struck by a jolt of electricity as I saw her on her back in the slushy snow, struggling like an over-turned turtle.

Bolting out the door hoping to be the first to reach her,  I almost found myself lying next to her on the slick sidewalk.  Nothing was said as I struggled to lift her up.  Once this was accomplished I asked her if she was alright.  Instead of answering  she started looking around for her package.  I spotted the torn, soaked paper sack some ten feet away in a slushy puddle and went to retrieve it.  The doll had come half way out of the sack and her little blonde curls were now filled with water and slush; and as I handed it back I searched the old woman’s face for even a trace of sadness, there was none. Instead she looked at me smiled and said, “thank you young man, it’ll dry out, it’ll be alright, Merry Christmas.”  Then holding the doll in both hands, she turned and went on her way, much slower and much more cautiously.  I just stood there and watched her until she finally disappeared in the crowd and darkness and thought to myself, “maybe Santa Claus isn’t a man after all.”
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
only today i came across what interested Heidegger
after writing being and time, a selection
of essays, revealing that he came to be interested
in language - not knowing this, by mere study
of the introduction some things became apparent -
being quiet democratic in my reading it's a shame
i don't have the academic leisurely pace of becoming
a Heidegger specialist - it's the almost damnable
pulling-apart having to cite many influences and not
focusing on one, but since i don't have academic
leisure, the summary in the introduction
by jeffrey powell (editor) of the book heidegger
and language
will just have to do: apropos this
being an antidote to those bemoaning that we only
write about reading books, carefully choreographic
our lives for mints and espressos and ammoniac
(inhalants in a boxing ring nearing a knock-out) -
hide pretty bird, hide, hide pretty pretty bird
first your song inside a cage, then the cage inside
the heart, and thus the song with the cage,
silenced inside the cage, raging mad inside the heart.
well, the antidote is that i already have some ideas,
and reading the essays contained in this book would
put me off what i was intending to write about,
so, in summary, read the major work, then read introductions
of critical books from those studying the subject,
invent an original approach from that, and elsewhere.
before i venture into the whole affair of having to
reread certain passages from the introduction as to
guide me in this Bermuda Delta i what to do a little
sidewinder interlude:
in chemistry there are two major bonds (for the purpose
of what i'm intending, let us just assume that
we're only talking about π and σ bonds) -
and while psychology dehumanises man to strict
theories without clear proofs to a universal standard,
i want to do what will come later regarding Heidegger's
take on language, for me there's no clear philosophical
vocabulary to be used - i'm not into orthodoxy and
rigidity which says

                piquant sun strokes against
                the bargains of spring's last
                hope for a kept bazaar
                to bloom to then deflower
                petals from trees fall to earth
                like glasses, the tree stands
                as a reflection of shattered glass
                the petals remain the tree intact
                worn at the Royal Ascot
                or in a woman's hair.

obviously something like this is a poem - what i mean,
however, concerning what's identifiable as philosophy is
to me the following:  
                                        blah = monotone x algebraic
                                                    for­ non-differential
                                                    purposes, just filling up
                                                    the page

            blah blah blah blah blah blah subjectivity blah blah blah blah blah blah essentially blah blah blah blah blah blah in-itself blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah thing-external v. thing-internalised blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah metaphysics blah etc.
                      
                          and so on and so forth, a fixation on using a certain vocabulary to be equivalent or justification to be "apparently" talking philosophy... yet still no gain from the words of grammatical categorisation... for me? too many propositions, the basis of what the academic environment deems to be "pure" verbiage, or none (akin Wittgenstein) - that famous quote about a lion and having tea on Tuesday... or as Buddha would say: said so to shatter thus the fear of ketamine thoughtlessness;

but that's beside the point, i want to return to
how any chemist might treat psychology as a science,
keep it up to date, given that psychology likes
to shove its nose in everyday activities for a strict
expression of equivalent rubric that mathematics already
possesses and shoves into a child's brain to make
the child become accustomed to symbol encoding;
so π and σ bonds, let's say between two carbons atoms...
but in psychology we don't have the luxury of
many alternative examples...
me and language: to write in terms of optics,
to encode images rather than sounds,
language as optometry rather than a hearing-aid...
so what "elements" do we have in psychology,
essentially what defines consciousness, its sub-plot
and its unfamiliar territory - the using the dusty
Freudian units, we know the concept of the superman
(superman was a bad bad boy) from Nietzsche
evolved into the super mm hmm, and we know
there are two other units, mm hmm and the id /
it or that? it is for me, that is for scalpel for the analyst,
the prober, unlucky for the person who took to
objectifying himself, but better than being objectified -
still, remember i'm working with language in terms
of optics rather than phonetics - enough organic chemistry
diagrams and you will see that the bonding between
mm hmm, the super mm hmm and the gemini id
(one the patient, the second the analyst) trapped inside
an electron cloud of bio-electric processes is rigid and
stable due to the opposite of π and σ,
i chose the optic route using the bonds δ and ψ -
symbolically δ is the mathematical term for sum -
summation, the total of - currently i have no clue about
the significance of ψ just yet, but ψ is a symbol of
psychology like caduceus is the symbol of medicine;
a brief expansion on the natures of the bonds,
quack-science δ bonds being all alike meaning uniform
meaning holding every aspect uniformly, meaning
that a δ bond is of the same nature between mm hmm
and super mm hmm in a petri dish within the
solvent of the conscious sub-plot, likewise other variations
δ bonds are uniform bonds, i.e. ensuring one detail
is related to the other, and so to others.
ψ bonds, not much expansion here as promising detail,
asthma the highest research of breath, and all
major theoretical squeezing through the Suez -
depending on the measure of breaths, we can depend
on the internal things - but never so much Pamplona encierro
cleaning-up to do theorising an affirmative sound
like mm hmm, or other affirmative synonyms -
if it were can *****, it would be mince rather than
a clean dissection - mince meat, should mm hmm be
not an *****, let alone a body. so many attachments
to mm hmm these days, it should be attached to zoological
studies than activities of breathing: theory as a cage,
one after the over, eventually not even cages but
the caged animal turning into matryoshka doll -
Kant doesn't venture into the dynamic of his thing-in-itself
represented by the matryoshka as ad continuum -
maybe he does, but to me here merely pinpoints it,
coins the phrase noumenon and ensures the thing
is opened, god or nothing is put in it, the thing is
closed, locked and the key to unlocking it is thrown
away and never found (i'll mention a short process of
his argument some other time, most notably his
three impossibilities concerning proving the existence
of god: ontological, physico-theological and cosmological).
yes, i know, when reading these ****** books
i have to paint the arguments, i need to simplify
them, a poet reading a philosophy has to paint
the words - the best poetic technique applicable to
understanding philosophical books is imagery,
not as a technique of for the purpose of writing my own,
but as a way to paint what was written by some boffin -
precursor to understanding the three impossibilities
of proof, i find it strange that such proof is necessary,
what would you do with it? prove it once on
paper, or in your head, show it to everyone and then
slowly everyone is able, then the so called "man in
the sky" - it seems strange that scientific positivism
of the Enlightenment supposed such a proof, the proof
is more implausible than the existence - Bertrand...
just smoke your pipe and sit in the easy-chair talking
******* with Wittgenstein... more on that later.
i promised quotes from the above mentioned book
(heidegger and language)...

           das wort kommt zur sprache,
             das seyn bring sich zum wort.


working from phenomenology, to later reject it,
thus precipitating the school of deconstruction-ism,
and with Heidegger we do get to atomic elements
from words, from compounds, thank god there are
no sub-atomic ventures with language, quiet impossible
to de-construct language beyond this point,
let's face it, if you go as far as:
'as preparatory for raising the question of being...
language is one of three constituent moments in
the analysis of the being of the da in dasein (being there)'
furthered by equal atom bombardment replacing
the un-compounded sein (verb, be) with seyn (conjunction /
noun, being) - this is modern physics to my understanding,
i'm not particularly interested what he's saying,
i'm interested in painting what he's saying -
i'll spare you the details of what philosophical systematisation
is actually involved in: restricted vocabulary -
a certain limit is allowed, rigid meanings are involved,
rigidity of drilling in of non-deviation, philosophical
systems are not dishonest in that they are consistent with
a limited vocabulary - i will spare you the torture of
seeing one ball being juggled - the shrapnel of the English
language makes it even more distracting to understand,
as with the above, another e.g.?
'every saying of beyng is held in words and meanings
which are understandable in the view of everyday
references of beings, and are exclusively thought in
that view, but which as expressions of beyng,
are misunderstood...' of course i could be cherry picking
Heidegger like a Jehovah's witness cherry picking
the bible, but i'm not interested in what he's saying,
merely painting you the picture, to scale then:

books                      -              celestial objects
chapters                 -               cycles of celestial objects
paragraphs            -               prime features of
                                                 celestial objects
                                                 (e.g. Jupiter's red eye,
                                                  Saturn's ring,
                                                  Earth's oceans
                                                  and continents)
sentences                 -              
words                       -
syllables                   -
letters                        -             atoms / elements  
                                           ah, it was going oh so well,
i think i started too big, and went into too small,
which made visualising sentences and words and syllables
hard to compare what could fit between
Australia and and atoms of RuXe - by chance ruxe is
an actual word, no as stated ruthenium and xenon,
although that too, ruxir (ruxo, ruxin, ruxido) in Galician
meaning to roar.
Mike Essig Apr 2015
Blue Monday**
BY DIANE WAKOSKI
Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her *******  
and clacking together in her elbows;
blue of the silk
that covers lily-town at night;
blue of her teeth
that bite cold toast
and shatter on the streets;
blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens  
hanging like tongues
over the fence of her dress
at the opera/opals clasped under her lips
and the moon breaking over her head a
gush of blood-red lizards.

Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and
Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and
Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling  
California fountain. Monday alone
a shark in the cold blue waters.

                     You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl.  
                     I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name  
                     is still wedged in every corner of the sofa.

                     Monday is the first of the week,  
                     and I think of you all week.  
                     I beg Monday not to come  
                     so that I will not think of you  
                     all week.

You paint my body blue. On the balcony
in the softy muddy night, you paint me
with bat wings and the crystal
the crystal  
the crystal
the crystal in your arm cuts away
the night, folds back ebony whale skin  
and my face, the blue of new rifles,  
and my neck, the blue of Egypt,  
and my *******, the blue of sand,  
and my arms, bass-blue,
and my stomach, arsenic;

there is electricity dripping from me like cream;
there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or  
jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street.

                         Love passed me in a blue business suit
                         and fedora.
                         His glass cane, hollow and filled with
                         sharks and whales ...  
                         He wore black
                         patent leather shoes
                         and had a mustache. His hair was so black
                         it was almost blue.

                         “Love,” I said.
                         “I beg your pardon,” he said.  
                         “Mr. Love,” I said.
                         “I beg your pardon,” he said.

                         So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street

                         Love passed me on the street in a blue  
                         business suit. He was a banker  
                         I could tell.

So blue trains rush by in my sleep.  
Blue herons fly overhead.
Blue paint cracks in my
arteries and sends titanium
floating into my bones.  
Blue liquid pours down
my poisoned throat and blue veins
rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip
and are juggled on my palms.
Blue death lives in my fingernails.

If I could sing one last song
with water bubbling through my lips
I would sing with my throat torn open,
the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse,  
and on my lips
I would balance volcanic rock
emptied out of my veins. At last
my children strained out
of my body. At last my blood
solidified and tumbling into the ocean.
It is blue.  
It is blue.  
It is blue.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
repetition, that's a good technique, a form of
reiteration, emphasis, as you like to
move in the river of synonymousness -
i mean, plenty to choose from -
well it's a better technique than rhyming,
it's like Kaiser Karl Lagerfeld said
about Coco Chanel's legacy after she died
in 1971: 'people tend to forget, that,
once upon a time, Chanel was old hat.
it was only Parisian doctors' wives who
still wore it. nobody wanted it - it was hopeless.'
(oh i can be couture no problem,
the other side of me that's into galleries -
even though that never brought me much
luck with the ladies, Beelzebub ******* on my
face and i started to squeeze out maggots
ensuring my face was forever crater riddled
moon - yes, excess white blood cells).
that's the same with poetry, it can't be
love me doo d'ah mushy mushy candy-floss
longing crap - mate, i'm a bus ****** and
this bus is coming but it's already 20 minutes late...
and it's ******* cats, dogs, frogs... Norwegian
acid rain, my anorak is peeling like a snake
shedding its skin and you're rewriting the early
Beatles unleashed on the American public:
shaved, hair trimmed into mushroom bops
all that Rene Magritte **** 'love, love me do!'
forget it, it's not going to happen, rhyming is the last
resort, i prefer the chance rhyme, it sometimes
happens, and it's too cute when it happens randomly
rather than with premeditation;
you can also throw out all the other premeditation
of techniques that poetry is known for...
what's the point? and back concerning rhyming,
you really want your poetry to be discussed by
schoolchildren and an english teacher in between
grammar lessons
                                  rhyming schemes and all?
that's how it goes:
         her name was Dazie          (a)
         she was never lazy             (a)
         i wrote her a sonnet           (b)
         reclining on a car bonnet  (b)
                                                               that's how they
do anatomy on poetry, the forensic team will
be with you shortly, the only reason i can think of
and know of as to why people are abhorred by
poetry (it's a natural repellent, spray it on weeds
             and insects, a natural insecticide,
****, spray it everywhere) is, because people on
the academic level have scrutinised it, analysed it
to the extent that it's not even there, it gets you thinking:
so who the hell was paying attention to the mammoth
novels of Tolstoy? oh right... no one!
the forensics, the post-mortem of poetry,
it has literally been mummified - the brain came out
as porridge ****** out through the nose.
are you familiar with Tenacious D's one note song?
that's what rhyming is to me, ever hear it?
it's the -ing twang
                            it's the -ing echo echo echo echo echo...
halfwit variations, you're hitting the same note,
great if you're penetrating a girl and she's giving
you an Opera of Vowels... otherwise it ends up
in a schoolroom, with an english teacher
and the rhyming scheme of a sonnet is?
                          ABAB CDCD EFEF GG
or?
                                                              abracadabra.
personally though Tenacious D's song kiełbasa,
etymology:
                    kieł       (canine, in polish)
   -basa (i'm guessing: the base of)             -
it's a sausage                                based on canines,
kieł (insert a           w    for the         ł.. tongue tied, eh?)
is a reference to a canine, a sharp tooth anyway,
and with -basa             i just intuitively thought of how
a hebrew would write it (i.e. hiding vowels)
and therefore juggled in an      e                  for -base.
they do, even though hebrew has Aleph (א) it hides
the vowels: S VRYTHNG RDS LK S - or i might
just be bullshitting you.
Dawn Bunker Aug 2018
Howard Dully was twelve years old
when Dr. Freeman felt so bold
to dig around inside his head
a wonder that he isn't dead.

The year was 1963,
when Howard had his lobotomy.
He never even had a clue,
of what his parents planned to do.

                  ORBITOCLASTS
The name Freeman gave to his personally designed
lobotomy knives.
They went under Howard's eyelids 3 centimeters
from the mid line and parallel with the nose.
Driven to a depth of 5 centimeters he pulled the handles
laterally, returned them halfway, and drove 2 centimeters
deeper.  He touched the handles over the nose, seperated
them 45 degrees, elevated them 50 degrees, and at this point
he probably
smiled to himself.
For now they were parallel,
and ready for photography before removal.

An angry stepmom arranged it all,
she made the final judgement call.
They labeled Howard as insane....
opened him up, and juggled his brain.

Howard survived because he was still growing.
Not fully developed,
his brain would keep going....
off in directions he couldn't control
but never condeming
the depths of his soul.

Not long ago I read his book.
I felt intrigued to take a look.
I hope, dear reader, you do the same.
Remember his story,
remember his name.
Howard Dully's book was published in 2007, and it went on to become a New York Times bestseller. Howard coauthored the book with Charles Fleming, and it is titled My Lobotomy.
Julian Aug 2015
The haystack is the needle and the iceberg is compact
Scions of attrition tremble before the contract
Jaundiced world-weary tears lament the frailty of days and the evanescence of years
Senescence a cruel destruction, distracting garish comfort escorting the fears
Displaced and forlorn love beckons a second chance
Itinerant hopes know no commitment to simple embezzled parlance
Of dice and kin, nepotism’s high-roller antics are the linchpin
Frittered patience staking its bets on internecine dynamics of skin
Affirmative traction of disenfranchised hopes rests on fallow seasons
Traduced mirage tantalizes until the activation of regaled treasons
Shock wed with dismay appoints the tutelage of prestidigitation
Juggled triage aborts an unborn reason and anoints intimidation
Aliens flummox the borders to enlist a new world disorder
Trailblazers succumb to lawlessness and for every dollar gained we lose a quarter
Chaos checkmates as power rests from decrepit hands foisting the meretricious brand
Cattle scorched and sheep scattered as the broken hourglass can no longer count sand
Time toppled serenaded by applause canned
Toppled pyramids blind the eye of providence in the hour of unheralded prominence
The terror of history unfurls the efflorescence of piracy as ghosts work to subvert the invisible hand
Next dictums emerge that say supply on command, and entropy desecrates the land
Phone home to arm the putsch, clone home for aliens we push
Revisionism subverts the instruction of years and empowers the apotheosis of fear and the fourth ***** of George W. Bush
Dynasties envy the anonymity of a bald-eagle cabal of skinhead guffaw
Irascible genocide cavorts under the premise of shock and awe
The lullaby of morons is flinching assent to the supremacy of the unelected and unassailable tyrants
Discarding covenants on the principle of principality and counting on every knight to become errant
Pyrrhic victory of the perverted cross corrals the flock
Openly announced secrets enable the aliens to dock
At the port they are greeted as the victors and granted not only amnesty but indemnity
They brandish the unprecedented concept of an enumerated infinity
To amuse the zero-sum victory they author a new history of utilitarianism dethroning deontology
To the future readers they make contrite apologies
But when the races of men are annihilated by the evil Zen boasting of its utilitarian ken
The rubble of time cannot ascertain exactly how or when
But on the dreaded hour the virus will conspire to elect the most reproachable power
When panic reaches crescendo all the sugar in the world cannot but help to taste anything but sour
Abort the tyrannical machine no matter how convincingly it preens
No matter how much bunkum elevates the enchanting prevarication while concealing the affairs behind the scenes
Voting for balkanized splinters designed to weather the winter sustains the monopoly of sophistry
Ballyhoo saturates the airwaves and suddenly catcalling becomes gallantry
Tune out the pulpit, divest the culprit and impugn systemic venality
Dismantle the verisimilitude of shadows and hoist a giant mirror to reflect stark realities
Cue the curtains fall, the specters grow tall, and the clout is daunted by establishment doubt
The skeletonized truth severs the root but the behemoth armed to the teeth wages a bout
Cartels conspire with arms and fire and resurrect stodgy tenets to prowl like an army of vampires
To feed a fatuous superstition and to empower a censorship of convenience to enthrone a dark empire
Cunning preponderance enlists divisive shills to let the ghastly thriller exact its thrills
Occult obscurantism funds the vulnerable and tramples over the outspoken to actuate its will
Hopes dashed, stocks crashed and strife abundant
Generational dissonance revokes the incumbents
Chapter one of this unsung war come and gone
Stay tuned for the next addendum to see what is lost and who has won.
Rukowski Jan 2014
"It was the juggler who made it the end"
Said the clown as he held his sorrows down
"But it was me who made them laugh in the end
And he just juggled them around"

See them spin
watch them move so fast
throwing up the first one
caught the last
never know your future
till you know your past
and you'll all come down in the end

When the juggler met the clown
he washed his face right down
threw up his smile and he caught a fading frown
and the people didn't know
what was come or go
as he juggled their minds around

the juggler met his match when the joker came
he laughed so much he forgot his name
but the laughing stops when you feel the pain
and you'll all come down in the end
Alice Morris Feb 2015
Absolute bravery, considering dangerous explosives found goals. Helpless individuals juggled keeping lookout, many new operations, people questioning routes, suspects tortured, unsightly views. Wasted x-rays... young Zak.
Charise Clarke Jun 2010
A birthday party,
I turn as I lift this velvet curtain
unveil this night for you,
Sixty circus freaks unravel down the hill
like a coloured handkerchief
of liquid laughter,
all singing the circus theme.
The only tears are drawn on
and the smiles cut up to the ears,
a tap dance in a bathroom,
manic movements,
a tumble back up the hill.
Cherry liquor is juggled, smuggled around the room
to a clown sporting harlequin pantaloons.
I laugh, drink, talk,
like a mime I copy the idea of human.
A sudden disconnection of sometimes weirdness envelops,
I become an audience member,
able only to watch the show,
a speechless mime with my face in shadow.
A desire to shout into empty biscuit barrel silences
I test ringmaster reactions,
to get back in I perform in a freak show.

But my eyes catch eyes, a timed grasping on a social trapeze,
we swing above a net of old ties.
These lovers’ inklings which our loves enmesh,
Lost to the cunning and dimensional eye,
Though tenemented in the selves we see,
Not more perforce than azure to the sky,
Were necromancy-juggled to the flesh,
And startled from no daylight you or me.


For trance and silvermess those moons commend,
Which blanch the warm life silver-pale; or look
What ghostly portent mist distorts from slight
Clay shapes; the willows that the waters took
Liquid and brightened in the waters bend,
And we, in love’s reflex, seemed loved of right.


Then no more think to net forthwith love’s thing,
But cast for it by spirit sleight-of-hand;
Then only in the slant glass contemplate,
Where lineament outstripping line is scanned,
Then on the perplexed text leave pondering,
Love’s proverb is set down transliterate.
Era Tangar Sep 2012
Flickering lights, a pause of the dark.
botched up kohl, a spot on her chin
an ironic beauty mark.
She just  lay there, dummy dead..
Juggled in a crass cacophony so shrieky,
as if nothing was ever left unsaid.

Her red tinged lips clasp the stick of joy...
it, like a new bride, so crisp and coy.
a rush so sweet..
the feel to feel it forever.
WHAT. A. MAJESTIC. TREAT.

The pain evaporates..
the soul levitates..
the sins are forgotten..
a bizarre psyche evolve to take a path less trotten.

The world stands against her ..
She doesn't belong to it anyway,
a sight of it is blur to her.
In that moment. .. she belongs to her soul.
like diamonds belong to coal.
the scorchy sun don’t matter..
the night sky, just colorless with a flecky mole.

Let her lie in her limitless peace.
let that nothingness never cease.
let that brutality bestowed upon her lay low for a while...
invincible. . . let high be the highness, let her smile.
Black Swan Mar 2010
She bore three kids,
Cooked their meals.
Washed and cleaned,
Paid the bills.
Morning game shows
Brought her thrills,
Daytime dramas
Gave her shills.

She juggled schedules
Without a care,
Her kids' chauffeur
Going here and there.
To softball and soccer practices
To see them in a play,
It went on day after day.

The hurts and pains
Wouldn’t go away,
The wrinkles too
Were there to stay.
She moaned and groaned,
She pined all day
Of throbbing joints that ached.
Her hair started turning gray,
She's getting old, a big mistake.

Her rich husband said one day,
This life is not for me,
I'm going my own way,
I'm stifled, need to be free.
I'll give you child support,
You'll have alimony too,
The love is gone,
What else is there to do?

He went away
To start a new life,
She's on her own
To toil and strife.
He up and left her,
Very happy now,
He found himself
A trophy wife.
Black Swan © 2007
witching hour Sep 2022
my feelings are the splattered inks
bold, italics
threatening to spill
weighing on every meaning
words could carry
scrambled up, juggled
those who’ve yet to feel
shall not speak
and pray tell, words
do you realize what you amount to?
what’s behind was for a reason, a person
clear as day, solid reverie
what lies beneath shan’t remain between the lines
and if it reaches you, we’re alike
sept. 26
John F McCullagh Nov 2011
Back in the age of faith
when most lived in homes of sod
There lived a humble man
They called the juggler of God.

He was just a simple juggler
He could not read or write.
He performed his simple tricks
for children’s laughter and delight.

In return for food and shelter-
for he had little use for gold-
He travelled from town to town
until he at last grew old.

When arthritis swelled his joints
He grew stooped, his fingers cold
When at last his gifts had failed him
He turned attention to his soul.

In the order of Saint Benedict
The kind Abbot gave him place
Though he barely knew the prayers
His simple mind was full of grace.

In the chapel of Our Lady
The Juggler prayed there in the Aisle
Bemoaning his inability
to entertain the holy child.

He felt warmth in his fingers
A quick release from pain
He reached into his leather sack
for the objects of his trade.

There before the altar
The brother juggled for the Lord
It was to be his last performance
with a heavenly reward.

Back in the age of faith
when most lived in homes of sod
There lived a humble man
They called the juggler of God.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
some might call them
mongolian dumplings;
i just call them home;
chewy chow mein, bean spraut
nervous system geography;
oh but aren't you a home away
from home? so welcome,
to be adequately attired..
jolly gee... i better put on my
cowboy hat & shoes as to
just prove the chance of doing a rodeo!
well, you know how the english
just love to talk about travelling to las vegas
and... kentucky... for that juggled fried chicken...
mm yum! i better have me a spare
clown with those wagon tires!
no... wait... israel's coming! dicta dicta,
a non-existent Judah!
Ceida Uilyc Jan 2015
Drums beat the endless chords
Of something that looks like an agony,
A vague aftermath of a smoky carcass.
The crowd remained enthralled or detached.
In excitement, in boredom and in unison.
They seemed to know the routine of celebration,
Of enjoyment,
Of the rejoice.
But still not eat at it,
into themselves.
They seemed to even echo their claps and nods so parallel,
To the rhythm,
That they all became another maestro
The deaf Beethovens.

While the elephant,
danced.
               And sang.

In a pristine celebration only known to him.
Like the seducing dance of the King Cobra,
In the Jungles of a drenched Wayanad.
Green,
Yet so Aroused and red.
While nature became its charmer,

She,
the nature,
Juggled with the soul, vigour and energy of the King.

In one plate,
altogether,
The art,
The music,
And the rhythm became

The dirge of a new cemetery                  
                                                        of an old heaven.
Hungama of Navaratri from a mountain, seen and heard.
Poetic T Jan 2015
You fell in to my mouth like
Teardrops but sweeter,
Always there when I
Needed,
Craved,
Comfort
Was your friendship, never
Letting me down always their
When I really needed pleasure.
You were a friend of many
Flavours, relief from the
Troubles,
Tiredness,
Stresses
You so melted away, never
Judging as I juggled nougat,
Caramel, and raisin covered
Delights.
like a mixer of
Pleasure you melted my
Day away. Your the friend
Every person needs
  "A Chocolate companion"
Which lasts for five minutes may be ten
Depending on the need. But never worry
The chocolate smile will extend as
There are some chocolate secrets in the draw
That chocolate smeared smile will continue..
Mmm Chocolate
Kara Rose Trojan Sep 2011
To tear away the azure twinkling of
the mother-bird's heart beating
and replace it with Mother Nature's pet ant-eater
dipping his wind-nose from clouds to dirt
and ******* away the green -- leaving caked matte mud brown.

Fraggled cottage stones aloof
where chaos is the juggled glory flanking dust and soot
blanketing fluorescent fauna unbeknownst to the birds.

Right-lightning scars when you shut your eyes
against the shadow of a mocking storm, and
Fraggled thoughts soar with the cottage stones.
Frequent nightingales regail of June's monsoons
that gulped the quail's acquaintance with Sir
Gawain and the Green Knight.

My sense of silence is the unvisited dirt mound perched beyond the graves.
Valsa George May 2016
In the crowd I saw someone
All in a haze, so filmy
Nothing did I see clearly
But a pair of love lit eyes
Riveted on me
My heart skipped a beat
Did my face grow pale?
Or got colored by a blush?
I lowered my eyes
And looked away

But I saw him advancing
Coming straight to me

      My heart began to race
My breath got hitched
       My lips went dry and parched
       I didn’t hear what he asked
Words got stuck in my throat
When they came
They came out broken and raspy
I felt as if struck
By congenital paralysis
Unable to move my ****** muscles
Either to utter a word
Or curve my lips into a smile!

      Felt butterflies in my stomach
A tremor took over my hands and legs
Beads of sweat appeared on my brow
My mind went blank
The world came to a sudden halt
Forgot where I was
I got frozen in time

Not knowing the futility of adolescent yearning
For long, I juggled with his unspoken words
“I    L….O….V…..E   you!
This poem  is already on HP. But  finding it well suited for the poetry contest organized by Jordan Rains, I am re posting it.
Paul Butters Dec 2016
Yesterday morning I woke at 4AM again
And once more my mind got churning.
I juggled with some words in my head,
Composing free verse on how I write my poems.

I wondered whether I should grab a pad
And write.
Or even get on my laptop.
But I made myself go back to sleep,
Forgetting it all.

So here I am,
A day later at 10.30AM,
Pouring out these verses:
A sort of Stream of Consciousness.

No thought of structure
Or metre
Or rhyme.
Just emphasising certain words and phrases
By giving them separate verses
Of their own.

Something I learnt once
When reading a book in Pudsey Library
About how to teach kids to write poetry
An easy way.

Unfettered by considerations of metre or form,
You can express yourself freely,
As deep as you wish.

Just let your emotion
Or Philosophy
Run free.
Let your words cascade
Over those shiny pebbles.
Babbling along through winding willows,
To crash over waterfalls
In a crescendo of sound.

A stream that sparkles in the light
Of sun or moon (and stars),
Wafted by scents of abundant flowers
And sappy cut grass.
God's Grandeur radiating all around.
Enjoy.

Paul Butters
As it says on the "tin"......
The Seventh Floor
By Otuogbodor, Okeibunor

He just saw her downstairs seated
She saw him pass by but noticed him
He went up to the seventh floor
She breathes the air of freshness
Freshness from home, freshness to school
His mounts of the stairs mounts hope
She sat solitary savouring that air of hope
The university,the hope shaper
The dream comber, ivory tower,
A monumental hope to mount.
One hour past, from that height
He looked down he saw her
She looked up she saw him
Eyes  locked in seconds
Hearts lost to hope
He held his heart lost
She looks her hope not sure
He dare called she dare answered?
Clutching her bags she mounts the stairs
The university stairs to mount in years to come
He stood there on trembling feet waiting
She climbs on and up,on n up
Up the height their  hope clingy
He is up there she mounts up to him
At the seventh floor to  meet  him
As she makes it up all eyes on her trail;
Noticeably slim model of freshness
Admirably everyone to behold
She climbed up to him
Before him she stood
His call she dare answered.
Transfixed! He took her bag
Willingly  she gave him
The floor quakes! The feelings of not just two
The feelings of an age quakes
The hope of many quakes too
The seventh floor quakes!
The waiting room quakes
She enters with of all but him!
He Leads  her to a chair
Her tired Legs grateful.
A sachet of water he gave her
Her thirsty soul appreciative.
He loved her immediately!
She sips the water genuinely thirsty
And She saw the eyes!
His eyes  beholding her.
Her nerve quakes the water pours
Pouring on her chest her white shirt dampen
The chest thumping reveals her Breast
A beautifully moulded set of young Breast
Breast shaped by only the Almighty!
Breast only can be possessed by a Goddess.
Adorable set of gem like diamond points at him.
He looks on. All in the room looks on.
He breathes hard like he just climbed the stairs.
In shock he brought  out a brownish white handkerchief
Dampen  the  chest staining the wet area
She felt his hand. He touched her soul.
The seventh floor quakes the more
Quaking the very foundation of hearts in the room.
He looked her in the eyes , kissed her forehead
She quakes inside of her
His very soul sincerely stared
Her very innocence quakes.
He mutters this lines;
    ‘Be mine sweet Angel’
Her soul heard the lines from a distance
Transporting further the very quake
Whose after shock will last for years.
He was in his third year fed for himself
She was in her first year in daddy’s shadow.
Tortious was the climb
Broadlynarrow was the road
Choice was  a task
Trust…! a life bet
Two hearts-dice juggled
The quake was seconds still
Single mindedness was the decision
The mindful was n is the after shock.
Her friends bemoaned her
His friends fearful cheered him
Her mother cautiously careful
His mother hands off n up in prayer
Her father tearing n threatening.
Thundering his nerve to the brims
She remained obstinate n focused
He remained supportive n sacrificial
Sacrifices of an umbrella in the rain
She appreciated him. He protected her.
He provided the hanger for her  grip
She stretched her arms like the pumpkin tongue grips
The vow of  protections as a service  after graduation.
A service not to a fatherland but for truth
Truth of two souls in opposite divide.
The protection from unspoken facts
Facts only known to one n whispered to the other.
The bet on Trust not Love?
And four year stroll  past
For time crept in to birth a newness.
A new birth n a new day of destiny berthed
As fortune of two set sail
And another two stuck on the hyacinth.
She mounts the podium
He watched from afar in tears of joy
She was the best in the pac
He made it happened
Her mother esthetic n jubilant
Egoistic  father puffy with pride
The pac applauds success n true work
She worked for it. He saw to it.
A synergy of trust for result seem unattainable
Impossibility made possible
Success he desired but archived in her.
She is rewarded for excellence
He is rewarded for steadfastness
Her mother is rewarded for unspoken fear from shame
His mother is rewarded for daily travails in prayer
Her father is rewarded for money spent on trivialities.
The reward of one pervades a whole lot
Avalanches of rewards open n secrets.
UnOpen secret between father n daughter
Shared secret between him n her.
She collects her award admits ululations inside of her
He feels n knows her pain admits the atmosphere
Her mother is carried away like the gele she is wearing
Her father boastful in an atmospheric  blindness for his money's efforts
Her hearts inner workings is detached from the day's euphoria
He standing at the distance transmutes her experiences
Experiences of a father who knew only his desires
Desires bought n explored from every available mode.
The university was a safe heaven for her
He provided the guard and guidance she lacked at home
Her encounter of him n the journey to the seventh floor
Shaped her to today n assured her of tomorrow
True  love stands like strong pilar  
He longed n gave love he wanted n  never had
She believe n trust for him save the climb
She is a daughter her father only knew  in the dark
He is a friend who is a true father n never had one.
Drives n ponderings of the hearts
The podium is for gallery elicit joyousness
Joyous celebrations into the night.
The night comes with  it's sounds
Darkness comes with it's secretes
Tides n storms in dark hearts alleyway
Lighten flashes schemes it's way in the dark tides of time
The heart thunders in ‘tick ****’ motion of time
Tale  trail to time
Quest of two in timescape alley
Time: a healer n a judge?
Time n space bridged reward
A collusion of hatred n love rewarded.
The reward of time is unquantifiable  
And timeless is its weight.
The weight of love prompted a search
A search for his father
A search for her true father
A father who constantly seek n desires  daughter’s nakedness?
A mother whose silence at the face of such shame?
Truth bound by time  rebounds in space
Complicit of two self lying marriage between man n woman
Rebounds in  two young honest lovers
The happiness of youthful individual being sacrificed?
The weight of a DNA is  love for him and her
And hate for father n mother .
Her mother was shameless n still is
His father was irresponsible n still is.
The early light dispels darkness
Darkness of the heart under a fretsaw
Patterning  in style  actions of the dark
Every secret did have open reward
She was n is her mother from a man she refused her knowing
He was his father Who absconded 33 years ago
Hiding in the arms of another woman bewitched?
Likes begets  likes in a mate of two deluded snakes
Living in the dark holes of there night
Orchestrating symphonies of lies n lies
And now likes dogs leak their  poisonous venom.
At dawn light gains its penetrations
Penetrating the very marrow of truth….!
As Morning dawns with it's dews
A climb to the seventh floor was the dew.
And light melts away this dew
Shining in the life of two young fellows
Who loved from their souls.
The poem is still a work in progress, will like to make it better.
andrew juma Mar 2016
Ochre scrubbed ebony skin
Wooden jewelery here and there
Picture perfect beauty in simplicity
She walked in moral fortification -
fashioned in decency
Hardwork and wisdom was her charm

Barefeet and weighted with firewood on her head
Pots and baskets she juggled in hands
and through scorching heat she focussed ahead
the dessert sand burning her feet
Not once did she say it was a plight

She was proud to be a woman
The keeper of men and children
Through rain through sunshine
cooperating with her man's other woman

She worked for survival of all
Getting up in the first light of day
Submitting and respecting
Raising her children in acceptable ways

She was the unglorified worrior
A war hero could not fit her shoe

But she didnt have that shoe
So she smiled and made her man happy,
and her children
Ivy C Drape Feb 2015
Blue flames lick up the remains of us
We will never be the same
I will never trust anyone again
And you will never play with someones heart again
We treated the entity of us like a game
We juggled around with glass *****
We played with fire
We shattered the *****
We got burned
We are now nothing but ashes blowing away in the wind.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
try gathering up the marbles with akua naru's the journey aflame, heidegger's ponderings ii - vi, and the sight of lost virginity in trees or at least their mortality to blossom reduced to skeleton... or lungs' alveoli.

there's an acute difference between hip-hop and rap...
hip-hop has the decency to acknowledge the sax...
sure the beat of rap is there: on-and-off,
but hip-hop has the table manners to spin
out a continuum from jazz, it has Darwinistic traits
to engage in a continuum...
rap is like rock when starting off from
scratch and not from pauper blues...
do you want words like kid, yeah,
   and other belittling babushka doll
verbiage? this is me, raw,
          god, the plight of constantly stating
authenticity... art and plagiarism
and that constant need to avoid the latter,
much claimed, much too little deviated from,
even on the altar of pains
from hernia (in my unconscious,
as a baby i had that: intestines out bulging),
acne beyond my teenage years: newspapers
say that it's dying out...
            my mother faked falling down
the stairs today...
               it's called bypassing the n.h.s. queue
off the medical bureaucrat that's the general
practitioner who chicken scratches prescription
and as all medical professionals: has
hands worthy of a butcher's, the only thing tangible
to the eyes as to the ear is the signature,
and that's everyone's Picasso moment.
         hip-hop? i can do drive-by shooting with
that ****, talk ******, talk:
      right now i'm surfing on concrete.
wait... orcs... what's female with that vinyl?
        niggerette? sure, Solomon swine talk
with Sheba from Ethiopia or wherever she was from.
  and the *ger
man said that cultural politics is
the last remembered barbarism...
           some learn english and turn to identity pride
as if they didn't come out of an ant's exoskeleton
stating the menu: all mushy cushiony inside, boyo.
   2011 and we're still ******* that torpedo
that's the chainsaw crazy bulletin of: haircuts you
shouldn't endorse.
            so she faked it, ****, we all know that women
always began lying and men told too many truths,
at least women got a monopoly on what's to come
in d.n.a. tattoos... men ******* into science rather
than fatherhood... gamble here, gamble there...
      this paramedic didn't look the part,
esp. when he started talking, he wanted to shed off
his official attire of paramedic green...
   my mother? the lowercase blood pressure too
high from acting,
                            i don't bother about mine,
i'm drinking while she's in the hospital wanting a
c.t.i. scan... selfish or selfless? i have no antidote
for death's dynamic this afternoon,
   i just wish i was given the precursor insight into
all of this fake... wait... that's really personal...
anyway, this paramedic really hid his inner,
he bred parrots prior to... bombshell: breeding
snakes... pythons 5ft long, 400 or so in his aquariums...
i don't know where exaggerations begin or end,
but i asked him: poor eyesight, snakes.
yep, he taught his serpents to gulp up dead rats,
apparently 25K a year...
apparently snouting out of the shell doesn't
equal pecking out of it... t-rex in the sky
flying high... plop... out comes a ****** for lizard
and mr. birdie...
                    that's one way to appreciate lacks
to what's mammalian and tapeworm,
   hence that desire in woman to 'take this **** out of me!
take this **** out of me!' i understand the panic
                (Prometheus movie style),
    out comes a lizard in an egg, out comes a crow
out from an egg, and here we are, stomach-to-stomach
connect: needless to say, after 9 months parasitically born:
i can understand the panic, it's like being *****
for 9 months and eating strange combinations of foods:
doughnuts and cucumbers...
           i really don't understand this religious
implant that there's a person behind a forming-foetus
when there's still the diaper to come,
the weak bladder and the weak **** not yet formed,
the baby teeth to fall out... all of these physical
foundations and only then, the thought,
     and then after many more years and exposure
to democracy: a debate concerning a soul...
           and of course your interaction with the ****
thing to mould the insides...
             well, that's one side of the tale...
we all know that the other if filled with
conformity, pleasantries and babyshowers: what's
the great mystery there?
   ****... all i wanted to say is that birds are neo-lizards,
where the foetus and the ****** plop out
       from the female, and all that's left to do is sit
on an armchair and **** into it...
                    even i concede the point about
things being too stressful and too weird...
               but that's also about finding your cool...
               and thankfully... akua naru's album is as good
as it had to be... thankfully i can apply the rule-of-thumb
usually reserved for prog-rock albums...
that's an hour of my attention ****, gone,
   the better part of a magic trick entrapped in realism...
hardly that thing we know today: 3 minutes snap!
    3 minutes snap!      breaking points for the top 40
chart successes... i count listening to an entire album
a success primo:
   (concerning my mother? something happened prior,
it was as authentic as was required to get past
n.h.s. bureaucracy) -
            people get so panicky these days,
and not a single islamic extremist in sight...
odd: i take it that mortality is worth being considered
a boiled egg being juggled among hot coal...
   well, hip-hop isn't rap for the sole reason: jazzmatazz.
PJ Poesy Mar 2016
Met Kali today on a descending escalator at the Galleria. Her six arms juggled assorted shopping bags, purse, cell phone, three children, and a fourth in a stroller clearly not hers. I stepped down in front to help balance her baby buggy. No sooner had I reached out for the rubber bumper that I felt lash of her tongue against my cheek. It was hot and frothy, smelled like a tall, non-fat  latte with caramel drizzle, and quickly wrung itself around my neck. I was soon dangling from the precipice of an oversized potted fern where I had been perched by my assailant, high above the food court. I dangled dangerously as I saw chinks of chain giving way. The glass ceiling was begining to crack and about to cave in on me. I swung out and with all agility I could muster, landed in the Bagel Nosh's assorted schmears. Hisses and jeers decried. An angry mob of mothers chased me to the nearest exit. I almost didn't make it out alive.
Though your intention may be innocent, all is subjective and may be misconstrued.
Stephan Jul 2016
.

Watching her board bathed in fog at the station
Spectacles slide down the bridge of his nose
Usually a blur, not in this situation
Smudges can’t hide every beauty she shows

Lugging a satchel in high heels and cotton
In her left hand rests a statue that grins
Such an odd sight, this her concrete companion
Never you mind as the journey begins

Timidly calling the glass doors to open
Counting his change spread of nickels and dimes
Gasping for breath on a curb painted yellow
Escaping the past, oh those horrible times

Filled every row, ‘cept a seat near the driver
All eyes affixed as the vinyl bench sighs
Kicking her shoes to abbreviate blisters
Freedom is felt in the footwear goodbyes

Nervous he waves from the corner still pacing
Climbing the steps of a Westminster bus
Pulled at his limbs by another intrusion
Faking his mood so she thinks there’s a fuss

Taking a seat between cement and flannel
Rolling his eyes that he don’t mean at all
Watching her lips as she inhales discretely
Feeling his library heart start to fall

She tugs his ear with her thin ringless fingers
Whispers a secret he hopes comes to share
Hides from the window, the vehicle moving
Nary a glance towards the morning sun’s glare

She holds her gnome like her life is depending
When all she needs fills the seat right next door
Porcelain dust on her clothes has her sneezing
Handkerchief offered he nicked at the store

Such is the dream of a bookworm delivered
Finding the chapter he’d thought long ago
Angels and demons and pretzel tan loafers
Potholes and clues juggled way down below

What is this trail winding out to the country
She gives a smile so much more than the fare
Holding on tight to a vested creation
Seeking adventure of those debonair

Here now we find such an unlikely duo
Still in their eyes shines reflections of grace
She has her man and her plan contemplated
He has his heart in the very same place
  
Exhaust fumes emit in a paisley frost pattern
Corduroy sidewalks bid all a farewell
Searching for love is the now destination
What will they find, only time it will tell

And as a western of popcorn persuasion
Into the sunset, they fade in the glow
What once was billed as a short presentation
Nowhere on this page will “The End” now show
I might continue this, not sure.
Here is a link to part two in case you stumble upon this one.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1718580/an-unlikely-duo-2-do-not-disturb/
Evidence O N Jun 2019
With ease the flower juggled
Playing sweetly tenderly with the sun
Outside the vent of my window
Where I smelt the fragrance

Of this pretty yellow flower
Eavesdropping in my penal dream.
Could this be the fruit
Of billion trees veiled in vain

Innocent voices drizzled
And flooded patiently the weighted heart
Weighted heart of sombre days
Sombre days of beautiful injuries

All the Arabesque of the eyes
That foamed far then clad facades
Love is a beautiful thing when reciprocated
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
well, the white page has been redefined -
every immersion i make on these
digital pages of Beelzebub's eyesight is
quiet different - it's hard to be left
hanging on - clingy honey -
you go in, you get the **** out a.s.a.p.,
people still don't know - there's bound
to be a Columbus in one of us minding
some A.I. with real promise and less
science fiction - i mean, we're building
something, i don't mean that in a paranoiac sense
of faith, i mean it as: well, ****'s to hit the fan
at some point, usually -
i don't understand, for example why Freud chose
to interpret dreams rather than daydreams -
i suppose the narcosis wager and the safety-net -
daydreams are more fascinating,
the poor man's replacement of imagination -
people have really treated the internet's blank
page an extension of themselves,
they have, on purpose^, engaged with the internet
means that i get to choose moments on it as
photographs, as inanimate moments of collision,
Newtonian pebbles lodged in what slows down
the speed of light (a blink of the eye) -
i never write on the internet as an extension of me,
my secondary animation - the use of the internet
is my foremost circumstance of inanimate activity -
it is but a presence of a stone i picked up and juggled
and later denounced as boredom riddling -
it is never an extension - as the old writers made blank
pages suit them - i might have written two or three
comments in a reel over the past ten years, but nothing
more - i cannot claim this populist intention a
significance with the apparent overtones of slave
"labour" - for it is just that, monetary dialectics -
too many opinions without a truthful one -
just in order to keep democratic principles of early morning
song of birds - here and there we're all allowed a quack,
but we'd be fooled in treating this quack as a respectable
quill'ed quack. every imprint on the internet
i deem to be a noumenon - a thing in itself -
basically stone-like, inanimate - but never an extension -
thus: you are either a Kantian when using the internet
or you're a Cartesian - 20th century literature won't
help you... the world has moved on... 20th century
literature won't help you! you are either a Kantian
when using the internet, or you're a Cartesian -
with the former you pick up where you left from,
another inanimate portrait unlike Dorian Grey's debacle -
or you become a cybernetics' pawn -
each entry on this poly-interactive white sheet of paper
is a precision for crafting an inanimate spectacle -
it does produce a morbid extension of my use of it -
in order that i might claim it as my basis for character construct;
the world is too big, the reading populace too small -
the writing populace too big - the understanding populace
too infinitesimal - the social strata saying the words:
just leave it, like you might leave graffiti tags on bridges.

^sometimes punctuation does away with a grammatical
  category, i could have written on purpose
  as necessarily - an additional verb, the stated
  body language, the subtle additions are thus compounded -
  the ad-ditional verb is always nuanced in terms of
  what body-language is to be adopted -
  strained... or relaxed? courteous or peasantry-prone?
  the culinary process of eliminating the dessert fork
from the diner spoon - of course exceptions hang prominently
like chandeliers - adjectives come after the nouns
when the nouns discover Aboriginal shamans
of Auschtrillia; a string-theory
arrangement: pipe-smoking Casablanca's quantum twins
selling tourists' memorabilia - a ******* and an
Arabian steed's hoof, including the comedy teeth with
Marx brothers' etched eyebrows.
Blanche Apr 2018
When I was 7, I knew exactly what Love looked like.

I knew Love had blond hair, blue eyes
cute freckles and a crooked smile.

Love was the fastest boy at recess.
He would push me on the swing set so that my feet flew
and touched the cotton wool clouds.
He shared his snacks with me because
well, 7 year olds are gentlemen like that and
I knew that we were meant to be.

Until we weren’t.

Because 7 year olds grow
and change
and from one day to the next
they are no longer the same.

Love now had brown hair, and brown eyes
so dark and rich I melted into them
like chocolate between fingertips on a warm summer day.
We read books together
like the true intellectual 7 year olds we were
and bonded over
stories about cats in hats?
It wasn’t the world’s most groundbreaking love story
but it was our love story
and that was good enough for our little hearts.

But that love faded away too.

I, in turn, grew and changed
and moved away.
I juggled languages with sports
and friendships and hell
the struggles of being a teenage girl
!
that I didn’t even stop to think about
where Love had gone.
I figured I would see him in the hallway
at some point
maybe
but he was definitely around somewhere!
We were probably just taking different classes
and had slightly different interests…
But I knew I’d run into him eventually!

It took me 4 years to come across Love again.
I hardly recognised him at first—
he had the same dark eyes, but this time his
skin was the colour of the coffee my dad drinks every morning.
His jawline was sharper than any knife in my kitchen
and his cheekbones were higher up on his face.
His dark eyebrows grew wildly across his forehead
but his grin was unmistakable.

Love had grown at least a foot since the last time I’d seen him.
He was an athlete, except instead of running at recess
he now ran sprints for the athletics team.
Love’s love for books hadn’t changed either
but he’d replaced the stories of hungry caterpillars
for novels, and plays, and poetry.

It was when Love made the same joke
and I heard him laugh the same laugh
that I realised Love didn’t come in a fixed package.
Love was not something you ordered online
that came delivered with a pretty ribbon at your doorstep
a dress you could try on and send back if the fit wasn’t right.
Love doesn’t have
a religion
a nationality
a sexuality.

Love is someone
who listens when you tell them about your day
even on the worst of days
not necessarily to give you advice
or because what you have to say is particularly exciting
but just because they want to know.

Love is someone
who you can talk to at any time of the day
the person at the other end of the phone at 3AM
when you need to cry because everything is wrong
but also the person who will take you to the park at on a Sunday afternoon
when the sun is shining, and the birds are chirping
and your worries
are wrapped in a soap bubble
and gone with a gust of wind.

Love always thinks you look beautiful.
Love likes your hair both up and down
thinks you look great in that bikini
that your makeup looks good today
but that you could also do without it.
Love thinks you’re prettiest when you’re smiling
but that’s not to say you’re not pretty when you cry.

Love is not always the person you would expect.
But do not judge Love for the body it comes in.
Judge Love for their taste in socks
and Disney movies
and candy bars
and sports teams.
For their opinions on politics
and peanut butter
the importance of family
and the new Snapchat update.

These little quirks which define Love
are what will decide whether you are meant to be.
NOT the body you encounter them in.
Although I'm straight, I felt it was important to write about the importance of accepting all kinds of love; whether it be different sexualities, religions, or nationalities. Hope you enjoy x

(side note: this was inspired by the slam poem "When Love Arrives" by Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye. Thought I should just give them credit for their beautiful poem :)  )
Sasha Ranganath Jun 2014
Love*- a new word it was,
Unaware of the misery it draws.
It seemed in love we were
My toes in excitement
Would curl.
"You're my princess" said he
"Apart we will never be."
I chose heart over head
Not knowing the darkness
To which I was led.
Perfection was what I called us
Pushing away was not an option.
The more I fell
The more I felt
Like you were falling too.
Little did I know the misery
That would lead to.
It appeared as a smooth road
But then a pit unseen.
It was an emotion overload
Trying hard not to scream.
I fell in deep
But over the pit you leaped.
Slyly smiling as you saw me struggle
With my feelings you had juggled.
Oh that pit was deep
But I finally touched the ground.
A few broken bones
And a torn, tattered heart.
I struggled to find my way out
Finally feeling light,
Winning my own fight.
Only to see
That you had really fallen for me,
After pushing me so deep in
And my heart almost breaking.
I laughed the way you did,
Smiled at you and said
*"You need me,
But I don't need you."
Alex DeLarge Jan 2014
PSA
Unearthed and untamed,
Can't swing through life without the right Jane.
Take another picture,
Still doesn't look right without the proper fixture.
Fading like morning fog, hungry like a dog,
Don't bite the hand or it'll leave you broke like 'no job'.
Too much, too soon,
Water filled balloons that seem to be juggled by buffoons.
No proper balance,
Take a sip from the chalice and patience from parents.
Just some friendly advice,
Keep your head on straight and keep rolling them dice.

- Life.
Nite Jan 2015
This is my secret confession
Where I lived a life of deception
Blinded as I was I chose not to see
That all I was courting was just pure controversy

You see I thought that I could juggle both fire and ice
When all I was balancing were just lies
They say I can't have my cake and eat it too
Greedy as I was I chose not to listen even if it was true

In the end I juggled both up high into the sky
Where they disappeared without a goodbye
Now I sit here all alone
All alone with my bag of methadone
This happened a very very long time ago. I was young and so full of myself. Hopefully I'm older and wiser. For the secret confession challenge.
Lucas Smathers Jul 2014
I envy those who are social
dancing around from person to person everyone seems to like you
you change your mask quicker then they can change their opinions
never letting anyone see your face
I envy you
and your ability to be loved

you don't understand what its like
to be afraid of a hello
because it might be something more
you cant comprehend the fear of a surprise
because that's how the get close enof to hurt you
and i envy you
your ability to look ford
because no one wants to stab your back
your smile chiseled in ivory
because you have no reason to be sad
and I envy you
or i did
until I became you

a rose
striped petal by petal
as people attempted to earn my love
they fell at my feat
unaware that I was covered with thorns poised to ****
I covered my body with plastic
so I could be fake enof for you
and I juggled masks
like a fool at a party
nothing more then entertainment

and I envy those so aren't social
covered in stone your heart is well protected
eyes closed you don't have to see the truth
mouths shut you can avoid the judgement
and I envy you

— The End —