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Lu Wilson Jun 2020
Have I been asleep in a dream full of toil?
Laboring to grow, trudging, but never watering the soil

Years spent clawing and grasping at straws
Never really growing, never really fighting while authority broke laws

So absorbed with existence and future opportunity
Never stopping to think about my earthly community

People are suffocating and dying and with every breath I wonder
How many more lives need to be lost, left squandered in the gutter?

As I watch the images all around me of lives yearning to be free
How is there still this much sorrow and still so many in need?

Looking back maybe it was not sleep, but rather twilight
Consumed with rest and survival, never understanding other’s bigger fight

Just being complacent now after all this rage seems like a sin
There is no going back, there is no rest, but where do I begin

In twilight the stories felt far like bad dreams, but in the end not my own
As bad as life was, my heartache and suffering was still from a throne

As I fully wake I pray the world repents away the shame
With so much hate around us that every dead soul has no name

As this twilight fades may I have a voice for those with none
May the clueless open their eyes compelled to save every mother’s son

As I awaken my spirit to see the pain and injustice
Will those lost souls continue to be hate’s accomplice?

As I hear the masses call out beckoning for equality
May the world hear the audible heartbeat of humanity

The slumber is over and the twilight retired
Leaving only room for justice, love and hope’s burning fire

May we lift each beautiful soul up in glory wrapping their ancestors in light
As statues fall and voices are lifted for justice there can be no sleep not even twilight
I can't sleep. I lay in twilight devastated for my brothers and sisters of the world that fight daily for equality and while I was fighting for my own survival I never realized that there was so much more I could have been doing to learn, grow and stand up for justice.
Sherry Asbury Jul 2015
Morning melts and dribbles
through the blinds,
where it rests
in molten puddles on the floor.
If you are very still
you can hear the tap...tap
of its fingers as it
tries to seep under the door.
Afternoon is a
pyroclastic lava flow...
devouring each bit of flesh,
******* the breath
from laboring lungs...
melting flesh into tallow
for the candles of night,
to be lit upon
the sacrificial altar
of your tongue.
Hide  wherever you want -
go ahead, find a place.
Count to one hundred,
hands over hidden eyes;
childish giggles bubble
from your lips,
but it will find you,
no matter your disguise.
Trevon Haywood Mar 2016
They sent you in to say farewell to me,
No, do not shake your head; I see your eyes
That shine with tears. Sappho, you saw the sun
Just now when you came hither, and again,
When you have left me, all the shimmering
Great meadows will laugh lightly, and the sun
Put round about you warm invisible arms
As might a lover, decking you with light.
I go toward darkness tho' I lie so still.
If I could see the sun, I should look up
And drink the light until my eyes were blind;
I should kneel down and kiss the blades of grass,
And I should call the birds with such a voice,
With such a longing, tremulous and keen,
That they would fly to me and on the breast
Bear evermore to tree-tops and to fields
The kiss I gave them. Sappho, tell me this,
Was I not sometimes fair? My eyes, my mouth,
My hair that loved the wind, were they not worth
The breath of love upon them? Yet he passed,
And he will pass to-night when all the air
Is blue with twilight; but I shall not see.
I shall have gone forever. Hold my hands,
Hold fast that Death may never come between;
Swear by the gods you will not let me go;
Make songs for Death as you would sing to Love --
But you will not assuage him. He alone
Of all the gods will take no gifts from men.
I am afraid, afraid.

Sappho, lean down.
Last night the fever gave a dream to me,
It takes my life and gives a little dream.
I thought I saw him stand, the man I love,
Here in my quiet chamber, with his eyes
Fixed on me as I entered, while he drew
Silently toward me -- he who night by night
Goes by my door without a thought of me --
Neared me and put his hand behind my head,
And leaning toward me, kissed me on the mouth.
That was a little dream for Death to give,
Too short to take the whole of life for, yet
I woke with lips made quiet by a kiss.
The dream is worth the dying. Do not smile
So sadly on me with your shining eyes,
You who can set your sorrow to a song
And ease your hurt by singing. But to me
My songs are less than sea-sand that the wind
Drives stinging over me and bears away.
I have no care what place the grains may fall,
Nor of my songs, if Time shall blow them back,
As land-wind breaks the lines of dying foam
Along the bright wet beaches, scattering
The flakes once more against the laboring sea,
Into oblivion. What care have I
To please Apollo since Love hearkens not?
Your words will live forever, men will say
"She was the perfect lover" -- I shall die,
I loved too much to live. Go Sappho, go --
I hate your hands that beat so full of life,
Go, lest my hatred hurt you. I shall die,
But you will live to love and love again.
He might have loved some other spring than this;
I should have kept my life -- I let it go.
He would not love me now tho' Cypris bound
Her girdle round me. I am Death's, not Love's.
Go from me, Sappho, back to find the sun.

I am alone, alone. O Cyprian...

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933). 3/23/2016.
Quasi-Desolate Apr 2016
Such a leathery lonely and laboring,
Traveling traitor is love,
griping and groveling for favor,
a fair-weather forecaster,
a fickle friend,
a lonely wanderer,
out in the night.
I kindly ask
that you keep kicking me,
With your calloused feet of hindsight.
Stephen E Yocum Oct 2013
The Island Moorea,
backpacking Tahiti,
In the heat, the sun,
The rhythm of my footfalls
crunching loose gravel road,
The swish of pack swaying
in conert to my measured pace.

Breeze pushing branches of Palm,
Ocean waves breaching shoreline long.
Occasional Island vehicles passing, occupant's
laughing, at a man laboring under large pack,
alone walking, who could have been freely riding,
Unthinkable to Island Folk, in hot tropical places.

Some humble homes passed along the way.
Greetings exchanged with smiling faces there.
Not long afterward a new sound approaching,
crunching gravel, rolling up behind me.

A lovely young girl, perhaps nineteen,
long brown naked legs bike a peddling.
Hair jet black, long to her waist, wearing
a sarong, split up the side,
Shoulders bare and brown.
Dark eyes of wonder, sparkling of youth.
A radiant smile adorning a splendid face.

We went for a time at my even pace,
looking and smiling each in our place.
"Hello there," I said, she giggled, beamed
even bigger. Perfect teeth displayed.

"Why you walk?" She asked in heavily
accented puzzlement.

"To get to where I'm going". I replied
This response producing a pleasant laugh
from the girl. In which I too joined in.

"You go One Chicken?" She asked
I stopped then and turned to her.
"Where is One Chicken?" I questioned
with a grin.

She raised her graceful arm,
one finger pointing up the road.
"One Chicken there," she informed.

It was a store/bar, sort of place,
In the very midst of nowhere.
Indeed, more than one chicken roamed,
Many chickens did and a pig or two,
mingling free and doing their thing.

We entered out of the bright daylight,
into the deepest of darks,
Like in a movie theater, when arriving late.
Eyes adjusting slowly to what lay ahead.

A few Island Beers later,
I had acquired several new friends,
The girl my invitation to the party of
already happy people a little drunk on beer.
The Music was mostly of French persuasion,
With a bit of Bob Dylan thrown in.
The Beatles also had a tune or two.
The Liverpool beat resounding down Tahiti way.

Before the light did fail, I shouldered my pack
and walked some distance from Chickens and Pigs.
Found the beach, hung my Hammock for the night.
Built a small fire and opened a can of Spam delight.

She appeared again about ten,
looking beautiful in the new moonlight.
Newly washed hair, still damp and
smelling fresh of Lilacs,
Or some such aromatic scent.
We did not speak, no words were needed,

Made love on the sand, 'till the retreat of the
tide and sand ***** did come out, in their
eerie numbers, to eat what was at hand.
I suppose even us if we were still and let
them.

We retired then both to my hammock,
A pretty neat trick if you can swing it.
And we did.

She was so childlike and yet,
very much a woman grown.
There was no pretense shown,
no false inhibitions rendered.
These were not limitations of her culture.
people that respond to their emotional
impulses. An open and free spirited
people living passionately within each
minute shared.

It all felt more akin to a dream than real,
All around me there was beauty,
Loving and being loved without hurry,
Free of guilt or even a single expectation.
Living in that wondrous moment,
of uncomplicated human splendor.
Like some Garden of Eden surrender.
A real-life Gauguin painting.

In the morning, we swam naked in the sea,
frolicked like kids having a day at the beach.
Made love in the sand, I dozed in the sun.
Upon awaking she was gone.

I waited an hour or two, packed up my camp,
shouldered my load and returned to the road.
A few minutes later, again I heard the now
familiar crunch of rubber tires, rolling road
surface and there she was, a straw basket in
her Bike's basket, a huge smile on her
unforgettable, beautiful face.

We sat in a grove of trees, among birds singing,
in sight of the sea, upon a Palm log and ate fresh
bread and fruit. Drank strong black coffee
(French Roast I presume,) nibbling some
marvelous cheese.

We tried to talk, but she understood little of
what I tried to say, my French was nearly
nonexistent, only adding to confusions sake.

She leaned her head on my shoulder,
the way lovers do and tenderly held
my hand within her two,
As if not wanting to let go,
Those gestures said all there was to say,
And we savored each silent moment.

We parted there, she on blue, rusty bike
and me on "shanks mare",
Off in two different directions,
Each out into the depths of our own lives,
Gone just like that. . . And yet,
Indelible, never to be forgotten or replaced.
Some days and nights, that young maiden of
Moorea does still visit me, in dreams as real
as can be. She never grows old, nor does the
beauty we shared for that one brief moment in
time immortal.

Someplace among the Islands of Tahiti
there is a woman in her sixties, most likely
a Mother, even a Grandmother yet living.
I hope she recalls as fondly the American blond
man with the big Orange Backpack, that in 1972
she met upon the road, near "One Chicken" and
loved freely and completely for two days and a
night, as that man does so fondly remember her.
Up my backyard tree
A family is my guest
In a happy living spree
Cozy in their nest!
I saw them build it strong
With whatever scraps they found
Laboring all along
To beak-pick them from ground!
Secure and steady
The nest was soon ready
To welcome in one morn
Cute little new born!
Rearing them is hard
Feeding the hungry brood
When mother stands on guard
The father goes for food!
Fast they grow sweet chicks
From fluffy to colored plumage
It’s a matter of weeks
Before they turn a new page!
I don’t want them to haste
But I know they would soon fly
Leaving a hole in my heart
For the expanse of the sky!
Keith W Fletcher Feb 2017
So dark the night
And vast the undulating Plains
That to a red eye Rider
The enormous Beast Ablaze with light
Was barely more then a lighter's flame
From 20 miles away and Eight Miles High
In the fluorescent algae Specht water
A party was all-consuming
As the music blasted splitting the silence
Like the appalling amount of lumens shoving back the moonless dark

And yet just beyond the limits of its reach
The ink stain air poised  to Rush into the vacuum left should power fail
Unlike the stately and patient depths
Of the ever patient flashing star like algae filled Sea
Poised not .... content to let be what will be
Collecting trophies was an old Hobby
No rush to interfere
With these ever-expanding beasts Huffing and puffing in laboring air

Unlike the terrafirma and it's  Horizon curve
Where elevation or  terrain
Condenses or expands the vision seen or imagined
That exists just beyond the rise

For virtually flat is the oceans surface
360 degree of a horizon never changing
That can be disconcerting to a newbies mind
Why the sailors of old believe the world to be flat
As a never changing Horizon completely flat and round
Surely means to drop off is always just up ahead

And in that mysterious vast and frightening Darkness
Not much change has a few centuries made
Except the modern vessel pushes the darkness further back
Yet a horizon never changing distance
Flat as a plates Edge
Conjures up illusions of
That drop off ....always up ahead

Aboard the celebrating bobber no one cared
Theirs  was a world of  laughter and Indulgence
And good times to be shared
Safe and secure are the elitists
Giddy with the power carried into marriage from a long Romance
No one picked to pay attention
Upon this lazy pleasure Victory Cruise
So it was it that fateful moment
As the ship rocked  none heard the sudden vicious crack

As any breach will with Insidious skill
Growing by the measure directed by circumstance
So it could be said that those up on Deck
And that at Waters Edge
Were deeply involved in their separate dance
Persistent in their Quest
With joyous abandon the elite who ride so high as to care not
About the underlings the disposables they mistreat
Those very ones they look down on
Until they find they actually need
For the overall success of all involved
But misused abused mistreated and spurned
Not giving the rightful reward of value earned
Unnoticed and unneeded until deemed Worthy
To do for them a manual and demeaning chore

So unnoticed were they in the dark of night
Easing a lifeboat into the dark black ink
Where the joy of song of that multitude aboard
Singing spirited songs as they floated away

Just as those revelers remained
unaware of the ever-evolving crack
That has set its sights on sinking the great ship
Into the arms of  fluorescent splattered black and undulating ink

Until in a sudden and devastating upheaval the crack becomes a ripping tear
And water flowing in ..becomes a devastating disaster
How quickly then the mechanics and generating Power Within
As it sputters then as if to wink to the very patient ink
Flashing light gives way to the impatient darkness no longer held back
And in a pain unknown to those now alone
With wild swings has to right and left it does undo
And at that moment the mass of  mortal coil and Metal is suddenly breached
So Begins the flounder as it sinks slowly into that Darkness below that closes in around her

And even as The Magnificent Lady Liberty goes down
The ones great ship of state lost in the Darkness of more than the night for too long
Even at this fateful moment of last regrets or sudden repentance

Those who were just the elite could be heard to plead
As many cried out for the servants and Expendables that they suddenly  did find they need
Laboring under the strong delusion
That you hold some kind of authority
Only makes you into an amusement
For the rest of your fellow company.

You gladly boast about spending decades
Working a meager, lowly, thankless job.
It's no wonder your sanity seems frayed,
But still, you're acting like a pompous snob.

So what if you became a veteran
Of the local town's pizza syndicate,
You're merely an hourly employee
Who loves to particularly berate

Other workers you still think you're above;
You hold no more power than anyone!
You'll likely stay in this fantasy land,
And probably won't ever understand;

Instead, you'll persist to stubbornly shun
The truth of the matter, which is a fact:
You're just a wretch with a mind that was cracked.
I wrote this piece to basically vent a large amount of frustration I'm feeling towards a  coworker of mine. I don't exactly hate the man. I won't be drug low enough to hate him. However, I do consider him to be a ****-nosed, ****-faced, ****-drinking, ***-guzzling *******. Keith, you'll never read these words, but I sincerely think you're a ****.
Trupoetry Dec 2015
I have so many words for you
Words of truth
Words that tip toe
to the top of my tongue
plunge themselves into my lap
like folded love notes
I am not too nervous to give it to you
I'm far too nervous that I'll have to take it away
Now I understand why women cry during marriage proposals
The laboring and long suffering of getting to know yourself
then trusting yourself with someone else
is enough to make anyone cry. ❤️
My work isn't always about my life but it is indeed always about life!
Michael Donovan Sep 2010
How strange it is to recall the bitterness of a New England Winter's chill
On this  Summer day in Los Angeles, sipping from a glass of water as we both perspire in the heat.

Stranger still, that death comes in the Summer, after all that laboring Spring
When life's breathed out of bodies and gently thickens through the sweet smelling air.

Winter stings the nostrils, quickening the blood -  lets us know we are still alive.

But right now, I am in the midst of a pleasant day dream.
Jo Fo Apr 2013
Puh.puh.puh.puh
little droplets in the sink
each one to reveal the essence of a flower
each one drags sin from your hands instead
laboring in the dirt and dried blood and grease to wash all that is you away
down a rusting pipe
Sayer Jun 2013
coming through the ice
igniting the fire with thousands of laboring logs
to burn through the ice
coming through the ice

falling down the 20th story balcony
down the the sidewalk where it's all going to happen
falling through cracking the sidewalk
coming through the ice

it's nice and the rolling of the dice
coming through the ice
reborn:2:1:0 yes here
time is fantastical time is nice

brings
guitars
rifts
i'm here coming through

the ice is cracking as i fall
falling up towards the sky going up toward heaven almost there rightasiputupmyhand
(coming through)
i think i know this is it stars suns

stars coming falling down now up
over and over turning
reborn i'm reborn smile a little bit reincarnation is nice
coming through the ice
Robert Zanfad Mar 2011
Edgar Allen settled evenings in the room at the rear
at a desk by the window where he could hear
breeze-rustled sycamore leaves sleeping
behind the neighbor’s house next door

through night’s florescent blue moon light,
its mist through low leaden clouds
he imagined the phantom he named Lenore,
and remembered lost Annabelle Lee  
amore he'd left laid alone aside a blackened sea

hers, the voice of a tree speaking, hushed,
like distant waves rushed upon shore,
faintly whispering heart-secrets
the ardent couldn’t keep evermore

was it she who sighed with love’s breathless lips
to flicker the flame of a tortured oil lamp’s light
the words born laboring children
with pen put in service to cover past rent,
refill an empty flask of verdant absinthe
for a nine-dollar-half-column poem -
fodder for fickle romantics to tear over
before a performance of Bellini’s new Norma

hardened, our modern hearts
fattened on diets of swollen bellies
that belie the dour misery of starving
they’ve grown sclerotic and cynical,
hungry for suffering flavored substantial -
a greasy disaster to stain the paper wrapper
enclosing depths of the human condition


sophisticates, we dismissed puerile appetite
for honeyed songs of longing,
the ornamented confections of jealous angels
old drunken poets sang
until dark full comes, alone, and we’re small again

then shadows still speak to starry skies
and fairy tales may come alive
to suspend belief with secret dreams
of the dear, lost Annabelle Lee
In an annual tradition that ended in 2009, a mysterious stranger would place three roses on Edgar Allen Poe's grave to commemorate his birthday.
Harsh Sep 2015
I once read a post that said
something along the lines of
“I do not trust people
who tell me ‘I love you’
and yet do not love themselves.”

And that hurt my heart, it really did.

Who are you to invalidate my love?

Do you not know
of the sleepless nights I have spent,
laboring over my sins of the day?
Knowing that sometimes
I may never repent?
With past regrets
and paranoid overthinking,
how do I rest?

Do you not know
of how I avoid looking in mirrors
throughout the day,
or how I hate looking
at myself in the shower?
Don't you know how
conflicted I feel when lying
naked and vulnerable with my lover?

Do you not know
what it feels like to apologize
for who you are?
Or to have all of
your efforts and ethics
invalidated and dismissed?

If you do not trust me then so be it,
but do not reject the idea that I can love.
I know what it means to have
neither hope nor acceptance,
I know what it means
to regret my existence.

I know what it feels like
at 4am with all the lights out
with the absolute conviction
that I am entirely worthless.

I know **** well
what it feels like to be unloved.
Does that not make my love
*mean that much more?
Lawrence Hall Feb 2019
For Young Artists, Musicians, Scientists, Poets, and Philosophers

Be strong in your Pixies, for some will say
That you are wasting your time on fantasy
When you should be laboring hard all day
As servant to some old master’s machinery

Be strong in your Pixies, yes, even when
You are all grown up, and have a great career
Dream still again each magic forest and glen
And keep your Pixie-knowledge close and clear

Be strong in your Pixies, and sometimes glance
Back to that moonlit realm, where Pixies dance
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
SelinaSharday Apr 2023
Such a manly man very rare
Dripping with forbidden
Luxuries.
Complexities bringing out the besties in me.
Owee
Owee
Touching places imaginatively.
At thoughts of beauty.
Guilty guilty..
Diamonds sparkly out shining reality.
I was driving to the store for some seasonings and something refreshing.
As the sunlight kept appearing rays of bright.
Pulling down my sun visor.
The heat of the evening. Gets hotter temps are steaming.
As my mind starts to reflect.
Trying hard to redirect.
Flowery thoughts best to forget.
Walking down grocery store isles.
Looking for black pepper, and onion powder.
As emotions inside scream for hearts attention gets louder.
I need to get some tomato sauce, parmesan cheese,
Feelings leave me alone please,
hearing that voice "come here baby I'm recalling.
Woman quit running suga your stalling.
He states I see you truly I've been going thru my own
lonely thangs I'm a man. Living day by day
working hard laboring with these hands. Meeting life demands.
Your cool such an Angel Brush me with cool wings.
I do compel.
I admit I fail. Just need water from glowing wells.
Mercy for me..
You run away from me.."
Guilty guilty ..please forgive me if I trouble.
I'm shopping isle hopping escaping. All I want is to find my own paper.
That will belong to the words I scribble on it by my own flavor.
Pen courting simple free good dots careful no out of the line spots.
Finally at the register ready to check out.
Tempting treats thoughts to grab them mind plots.
Don't grab any candy junk at the register. Keep it moving.
Guess who's entering.
As I'm exiting. Beautiful luxury manly casually strolling up to me.
@SelinaSharday_H.E.R POETRY S.A.M 2023
REALITY IN KNOWING YOUR A STRANGER TO SOME THINGS..
SelinaSharday Feb 2018
IS THERE A y.o.u!

Confidently waiting
Confidently hiding. comfortably chilling..
waiting On Nothing but Y.U.O to come along..
I'm relaxing in a tub filled with caressing roses.
Pampering..
Me soothingly preparing me!..
Enjoying me and this time getting to enjoy this new me and
who I've come to be.
Working with dedication, personally I'm sure your relating.
As your working On you too. And laboring hard day after day.
I'm not wasting this time till we are found.
Love waiting to unfold.
Its wanting to be released and be yours to keep and hold..
I'm here and sometimes I do feel that lonely.
Knowing your not holding..Me!
Yet I am enjoying this new Me!
I'm confidently enjoying.
I have my family and my friends and them I'm enjoying.
But can't wait to laugh and smile and be loved by Y.O.U.
Wondering thinking of what would it be like to touch on Y.O.U.
You..You.. You.. Feel the touch of you..
In my heart sometimes I have conversation with Y.O.U.
Thinking what If I never be found by you.
Then I'll be content to live imaginatively with you.
My perfected Y.O.U. Soul mate in you..Perfect for me kinda you.
Blessed to be tapping my fingers musically because of you.
Desiring.. confidently praying.. silently hoping there is this Y.O.U!
By SelinaSharday S.A.M. TM 2018
waiting on H.I.M THE most compatible love..
Lucius Furius Sep 2018
I remember how you used to care for the flowers
and arrange the vegetables at the stand.
How carefully you drove the tractor.
  
I remember you coming out of a cornfield at dawn,
soaked with the dew, laboring under your basket.
  
All the tiny things you looked after --
kittens and toads.
  
And the strange foods you gave us!
  
O Gretchen, wherever you are,
I hope you've found peace.
  
How did you live in that harsh world?
Where did you hide your fragile spirit?
  
O Gretchen, wherever you are,
I hope you've found love.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_013_gretchen.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
Stephen E Yocum Jan 2014
Scant moments after sun rise they appear,
Shadows in a distant field,
Moving like ghosts upon a sea,
Of shimmering dewy green.
They toil, bent onto their work,
No music, no joyful banter,
Only their laboring breaths,
Visible in the morning air.

An aged tractor crawls along,
Out in front of them,
They stoop and toss yellow squash,
Into a trailer bin.

Fifty acres by Noon they're told,
"Get it done, or get gone by Ten!"
"No Medical Insurance here,
No Retirement Plan,
No promises or guaranties,
It's work for the moment,
Only if WE please."
Yells out the Overseer!

Noon brings the heat,
Another fifty acres of zucchini.
Nothing changes,
Not even the scenery.
Hats and hoods,
Long sleeves and scarves,
Shield from the sun,
Yet the new heat they must endure.

Still they stoop and toss,
With ****** hands and painful spines.
"Get it done today or no work for you tomorrow.
Don't get hurt there ain't no Workman's Comp."
They are often reminded.

I watch and read a book upon my shady porch,
My promenade to the world.
Morning coffee giving way,
To the afternoon's ice cold Lemonade.
I observe from my distant knoll,
Like a unfettered bird in the sky,
Being detached and alone.
As if I and the people in the field,
Reside on different worlds.

I sit there in my orb with soft hands and body,
The products of a privileged life being a Native Son.
I worked in three piece suits, shirt and ties,
An education, crafty sales ability, my convenient alibis.

They come from the South,
From poverty and dead ends,
A border or two away,  
Do the work that only slaves would do,
Back in yesterday.
To put food on our tables,
Grease the wheels of our industries.
Put some meager food in their mouths,
and fuel their fantasy's.
Most do not speak our language,
Yet still our life they crave.
We do not welcome them as we should,
They must sneak in like thieves in the night,
Just to be our willing serfs.

What real difference them to me?
Geographic locations of birth, little more.
That's not really hard to see,
If only we stop and care to look.

A ****** to their hardship,
I watch humbled and inspired,
This display of their commitment,
Their indomitable human spirit.

The hours pass and still they follow,
Up and back crossing the field,
Chasing that same tractor,
Walking miles, going no place at all.

While I've done other things this day,
Leisure, cardio stationary bike,
(No need to take a hike.)
Intellectual stimulation enjoyed,
Eaten twice and rested well.
But not those men and women across the way,
They now merely indistinct bent shapes,
Upon, an ever darkening landscape,
Smudges of smoldering black,
In a vast field of breeze tossed olive drab.

Dawn to dusk being their fate,
Their tomorrows all the same.
Hard work and a willingness to do it,
Their passports, to "Possibility",
and for staying in the game.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2016
nearly



"with close kinship, interest, or connection; intimately"


~~~

it's n-early for natty,
dressed for gym penance in his
dress blue
sweats

but instead of working out,

he's working out
a gymnastic, mental, laboring problem,
that the muse mistress musters him out
to out,
and to attend to
the birthing of t-his
composition

a re-erupting volcano that
has gone and got him good,
now he's a man intimately
possessed,
with completing, recording,
an unabbreviated log of
oh so long ago's,
a list of the
oh so many

nearly

line items in his
life's lineage

nearly

went a whole life lessened by being
love less,
which always calculates as
a life lived
forever insufficient

nearly

was intimate
only
with tears self-shed,
on a single pillowcase in
a double bed,
that was unfulfilled,
no intersecting
humanity

nearly

permanentized
kin
ship
as a
dictionary definition official
for a
sunken vessel,
a drowning one man scull,
racing toward a finish line
that had no visible
finish

nearly

lost both sons, lost years, lost friends
lazy living in the slow, low heat
of a burning hell
of zero connections,
thinking the proper cost/benefit solution
was always,
never to be
greater than,
always
less than one

nearly

packed it in,
while overlooking a temptress river,
calling me out swiftly from the
slow lane of loneliness,
offering a

nearly

certain final outlet sale,
a mark-down event,
for clearing the heavy, overladen shelf
of over-weighty
al-one-ness,
a sale of singular single
cell marks upon human flesh

nearly

died a miserable man,
and still may,
from who knows what
pestilence consumption

but

never

from never knowing,
for the lacking of,
the unadulterated love
of a good woman
*

and that is
more than,
greater than,
>
all the unknowable
nearlys

and more
than any other
nearly,*
life may yet
deny me,
or
curse me by


~~~
6:45am
Jan. 18, 2016
NYC
for Steve (Sjr1000) whose nearly always,
inspired comments
reminded me that
nearly
too,
can be
flawless,
in its own right
PJ Poesy Mar 2016
Go, my friend, to Tbilisi, where the War of Roses was won. Run the mountainsides and fall into the canyons of lapsed eons. Sunk in the valley wide, past huddling of trees that open and yawn, sprinkles a misting of sunny, dewy rocks where a certain party of gypsies gather. You will only find them there after the picking of the cherry orchards, and if they welcome you, they will feed you their cherry soup. It will intoxicate, but no more than the captivating dance of cherry stained aprons you may be privileged to witness. Dark haired and dark eyed sultanas, ****** from healthy eating and laboring, do motion a curvilinear spell. Band with the men of that tribe,  if they will have you. Let them choose for you, a server of cherry soup. Though cherry season is short, your life will lengthen.
For Irma and Mookie, thank you for your loving hospitality and the cheer drenched moments.
The Falls of Gods
Have no need for the ephemeral
Tide pools and eddy trails
Of man
And of his fickle creations

Man sees ant
Laboring tirelessly
And thinks how
Ultimately futile these rote
Machinations of nature are

When man can see his own
Futility
Then perhaps his world
Might be expanded
But not before

As the waterfall crashes
Like a primeval storm upon
The rocks
So too
Do I and all of humanity
Crash upon the ant

So what is to keep some god
From being the
Waterfall
To our smooth and
Supposedly wise stones
No more than haughty pebbles
Are we
Sam Lincoln Aug 2012
The car is drifting

On an endless black line,

a dot in the sky

projects it’s feeling on me, empty

A white blank sheet

All veils are pulled off of the windows

While the world is darkly dreaming

and every hole in my life is illuminated

This is truth

This is a void

This is night

This is time for rest

But I just drift timelessly forever thinking of all that should be and all that I’m capable of,

But  I stay in place.

All of these motions and anguish, yet I am laboring, immobile.

Achieving greatness, and wishing for more

I’m drunk off greed, and the world is only telling me to go back and get some more.

No one is going to ******* stop me, and I’m not sure if i should

and all I can do is question if I will ever arrive at my destination

drifting to my destination,

at sea as I swim to the light



My beliefs are destroying me

for I strive for immortality

when I need to lay low

in disgusting serenity

and breathe

But what is noble?

Apparently it isn’t rest

I’m standing in a windstorm filled with misery

With my mouth snapped shut

But aren’t we all?

But aren’t we all?

I tell myself, Life is just perception

perhaps I need some thicker eyelids

before my hands break
Lawrence Hall Sep 2018
A calendar knows little of a day,
Of any day; its arbitrary squares
Mark seasons as they amble on their way
From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs

When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue
Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens
Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens

Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn
For he is merry too, and quick to bless
The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn

Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
And soon comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all
Chesterton, in ancient Huntingdonshire (only those who know not God claim that Hunts is but a division of Cambridgeshire), is the home of my de Beauville / Beauville / Beville / Bevil ancestors.  

St. Michael’s Church was built ca. 1295 and contains several memorials to the Bevilles and the tomb of William Beville, +1487.  I do not know if there was ever any bit of land designated as “Saint Michael’s Fields”; I wrote that in for the sake of an autumn fair.
They call me and I go.
It is a frozen road
past midnight, a dust
of snow caught
in the rigid wheeltracks.
The door opens.
I smile, enter and
shake off the cold.
Here is a great woman
on her side in the bed.
She is sick,
perhaps vomiting,
perhaps laboring
to give birth to
a tenth child.  Joy!  Joy!
Night is a room
darkened for lovers,
through the jalousies the sun
has sent one golden needle!
I pick the hair from her eyes
and watch her misery
with compassion.
I remember standing out on my front porch at exactly noon
I was wearing my pajamas and my hair was down,
Unwashed and wavy,
Framing my face and wrapping itself around my neck at the slightest hint of wind
I remember being nervous--
No, I take it back,
I wasn't nervous
I was filled with dread
I was barefoot out on the deck, holding a single plastic bag filled with your belongings
I gripped it loosely
Hoping that the breeze would blow it away
Hoping that the breeze would ******* away
In my other hand, I was holding a tall, full glass of tap water
And there was an apple in the chair beside me
Just in case you were hungry

I remember watching you make your way up my street
Your jeans were ***** and your long, dark brown hair was plastered to your face with sweat
Your cheeks were red
And your knuckles were white from clenching and unclenching your fist the whole way here
It must have been ninety degrees
But your flannel was neatly buttoned up all the way to your throat

I remember hearing your laboring breaths as you mounted the driveway
I remember reminiscing as I listened,
Thinking of all the times when your breath was hot and heavy on my neck
And how I could taste the sweat of your skin

I remember how your shoes beat a determined rhythm into the wooden boards of the stairs
I remember how far you stood from me
How I wiped at my eyes with the sleeves of my sweatshirt
And I could see your chest rising and falling through your flannel

I remember offering you the glass of water
And how you accepted it graciously
I remember telling you that I wished I could have provided refreshments the last time you were forced to make the inclined journey to my house with nothing but your two feet clad in cheap sneakers
I remember that wincing smile you gave me just before you put the rim of the glass to your lips
I remember watching you as you drained the cup,
Your head tilted back and your eyes closed

I remember you asking me if I was okay
And how that brought more tears to the surface than I had originally planned on showing you
I remember covering my mouth with one hand and shaking my head
I remember how you stepped forward and took me into your arms
I remember dropping the plastic bag and desperately wrapping my own arms around you
I remember pressing my body to yours as close and as tight as I could
For as long as I could
I remember feeling your heart beating against mine
And burying my face in the refuge of your neck,
Smelling your skin

I remember how you pulled away from me
And how I stared into your eyes,
Silently begging you to give me another chance
Silently telling you that I had changed
Because I had
But not in a way that would make you want to take me back
I remember watching you pick up the bag
And make fists with your hands as tears streamed down my face
I remember telling myself not to wipe them away
I remember wanting you to see them so you would always remember how much pain you had inflicted on my heart that day

I remember watching you give me a small, resigned smile
And watching you turn away towards the steps
I remember the word "wait" building up in my chest and clawing it's way up my throat and breaking out from between my lips
I remember how loud my voice sounded in the solemn silence
And how you flinched before turning back around to face me

I remember asking you for one last kiss
And how I noticed that your eyes were watering and your hands were shaking
I remember you coming back up those steps and taking my face in your hands and kissing me with all of the desperation I had been storing inside for the previous three days
I remember kissing you back, hard
And how you broke it off suddenly when I started to trace your lips with the tip of my tongue
I remember telling you that I was sorry
Even though the only thing I regretted was the fact that you had pulled away

I remember you telling me that it was okay and watching you wipe the last traces of my love off of your mouth with the back of your hand
I remember feeling as though someone had lit a match and had forced me to swallow it
I remember you reaching out and brushing the hair out of my eyes and tucking it behind my ears
I remember hearing you tell me goodbye even though it felt like there was so much left to say
I remember you walking back down the street and out of my life
Larry B Jan 2011
The night she was born, her father died
When his car was struck by a train
Trying to get home to his laboring bride
But this news would drive her insane

Her thirteenth birthday, again, she's alone
It was Friday, the thirteenth day
Alzheimer's held her grandmother captive
And her grandfather would pass away

People would whisper she brought bad luck
Cursed by the day she was born
The object of their own superstitions
A victim of prejudical scorn

A rabbit's foot couldn't bring her comfort
For when she held it, things would get worse
The four leaf clover would crumble to dust
And seemed to only strenthen the curse

Nineteen-sixty-three her luck would change
When she met the love of her life
But he was killed on his way to the church that day
Before he could make her his wife

She was destined to spend her life all alone
To keep her loved ones from harm
The day she was born would hold her hostage
And forever be known as Charm

Everything she touched would wither and die
'Til the time she was summoned by death
Ninety years old on Friday the thirteenth
Was the day she drew her last breath
Hank Desroches May 2012
You’re laboring under the false assumption that I’m willing to work at anything right now.
You’re laboring under the false assumption that any part of me is working how it should right now.

Here’s something: When you connect one wire to both sides of a battery, the plastic coating of the wire starts to sizzle and melt and smoke.

When I think, that thought leaves my brain for a while, pulling a new train of different thoughts behind it.
I have a small room, and soon, the train has laid tracks all around the carpet, along the hideous green walls.
Tracks everywhere.

I’m left with a choice I can’t make.
If the train derails, then I can’t think, and that terrible void comes back.
If I let the train lay tracks back inside my head, I turn into the battery.

Is that what going crazy is like?
Is this it?

Didn’t I already say I don’t want to go there?
Senor Negativo Sep 2012
White rain streaks across the black rocks,
A soft palm wipes the hair from out of your eyes;
Red light immolates the room,
We are fun house mirror reflections of each other.
Unlikely, but undoubtedly, compatible.
The weight is released, and I place the laurel of muse, upon your head.
Driven like shadows, across the surface of the day,
We move in tandem with the light, but are not of it.
But, the warm caress of your affection,
It is a light, in and of itself.
The morning breeze is laughing
in your eyes I see a field of shattered suns,
Bursting forth in their brilliance.
The maddening illusion of calm is broken,
By the raging fever laboring inside me.
Engulfing my will, and burning my resistance to the ground,
Until every canvas that I capture, and claim in your name,
Bears an Image of you, and me just the same.
Paige Hatcher Jan 2012
For all those quiet types that sit and listen
To the world’s maddening, deafening roars
And still find time to dream.  
To all those shy, unstable poets dying to
Break free of the confines of verse and stanzas
And yearn for originality.
For those who refuse to take on an identity
Knowing that nothing is certain and
Ideas and creativity is a living thing in flux;
Forever moving, changing, and evolving.
For those that find silence beautiful
And feel no desire to spoil it with
Useless words but instead wait,
Give pause,
Breathe
Then reply with the softest tones
Of enlightenment; not of contempt, but of privilege.
For all those who are sure that all things
Will end, not with a roar breaking through the solitude,
But with a whisper carried across nations.
For those who revere the solemnity of the quiet
And have no urge to break free from it.
For those of us who know we are not bound by silence
But rather, by its absence.  
Where fools abound with spoken words
That fall flat against the black top.
For those who know it’s better to be quiet
And thought a fool than speak and leave no doubt.
This is for you, my brothers and sisters of silent acquiescence
To the cause of verbal restraint.
While it’s true we have every right to speak,
What good can come of uneducated speech laboring off an idiot’s tongue?
To drive others on like cattle in a common cause?
Better luck would be had in asking a befuddled bovine the cause it follows
Than inquiring the same of the herded masses of fools
Who were taught only enough to string words together for the most basic functions.
So to those who know the importance of
Silence, reverence and educated listening,
Spread the word,
But do so, not with a roar, but with a
Whisper.
Don Bouchard Mar 2015
Alight me Paddies! Today the world is Green;
I am in a mood, alas, to gnaw crubeen,
To kiss my Irish lass, and cuddle her awhile,
To hear the Irish Rovers sing their bonny Isle,
To wear a shamrock, laboring o'er a stout:
Murphy or Guinness, to me it matters naught.
Married to an Irish girl whose family hails from County Antrim. The luck of the Irish be with ye, as it has with me! (0=/*
SelinaSharday May 2021
Good morning sunlight!
When you get up in the morning
to go out to work to struggle to fight.
To see you is such delight!
No matter what your personal strife.
Your about that earning a living to make a good life.
Your a man.. Of passion love and support.
Your dedication who could abort.
I admire, Your stability the strength and fire.
Keep laboring hard staying on your grind.
Doing what you need to to have peace of mind.
may our lil naughty behaviors be forgiven.
As grace puts us in a better needful state within.
Meaning keeping emotions in check
spirit cleansed to come correct.
Your passion I can't resist and
your way seems so perfect.
A friendship I can't reject!
If your fat or thin, You'd still be adorable and lovable.
So hard to scold.
Just wanta keep you your so superfly ...
Your so handsome I like your style I won't lie.
Creamy brown sensation
you rock my inner nations,
Hey Mister can a Sista..
Just roll wit cha.
From day One I knew.
There was something special about you!
sharday3.. the rosepoet..
hanging out with u, chilling with yah, can i hang tight wit cha.
Aaron Reisinger Dec 2013
I wish I had digested those butterflies,
You gave to me that day.
Rather than allowing them,
To flutter and have their say.

Oh I wish I had looked at your,
Wrists so scarred and fragile.
And known that my soul,
Would look like your forearms one day.

I wish I had told my beating heart,
To flutter and to die.
For now it beats at half the pace,
From when I first looked you in the eye.

Oh how I wish I had turned around,
Not looked upon the door.
For had I not seen you enter,
I'd have lived much more.

How, oh how I wish,
I had merely kept on reading.
Rather than watch, with laboring breath,
As you spoke your name to the class.

Oh how I wish I had never heard your name,
Or seen the scars upon your wrist.
For had I merely kept on breathing,
I'd know not what became amiss.

— The End —