"locke" poems
As I let my mind wander into time, and release these binds that have me confined, I began to feel a great energy, like the sun had been compressed and put into me, and as time tic tocs and unwinds into its trail of infinity. I realize a trinity mind body soul, they burn as a whole, for the mightiest of goals. and as time unwinds it'll leave you behind. unless you get your spot in, a line of legacys never to be forgotten
Confucius, Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein, Martin Luther King Jr, George Washington, Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara, Nelson Mendala, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, Steve Jobs, Stephen Hawkins, Leonardo Da Vinci, Wolfgang Amedeus Mozart, nikola tesla, Wael Ghonim, Jimi Hendrix, Joseph Stiglitz, Reed Hastings, François Rabelais, Archimedes, Sigmund Frued, Charles Darwin, Aryabhata, Bob Marley, Garrett Morgan, George Washington Carver, Aristotle, John Locke, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Plato, Galileo Galilei...and many many more...
Stand for something. Think outside the box. Evolve and express yourself. Make a difference #STEM #LegacyToIfinity
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
The Isle of Print
What a place it can take you anyplace you can meet anyone I met Sandra Locke when she wrote about
Her relationship then her break up with Clint she told about as a child how she sold pop bottles at a
General store that was one that took me back but even more exciting was where she was at a place
Called Shelbyville Tennessee I know it firsthand one reason it is seventy miles from Nashville and is the
Tennessee walking horse capital and all so my wife was born and raised there until she was six we would
Take trips there quiet often until two trips we carried her parents to the family cemetery on horse
Mountain we have my wife’s brother fighting Leukemia he said thats where he wants to be buried but for
Now God’s mercy is preventing that I met a guy and I’m sure you have met him many times also his
Name is Samuel Clemens he got a little more famous name when he had one of his many jobs as a Mississippi
River boat captain they called him just like when they measured the rivers depth mark twain he was a
News paper editor in Calaveras County he brought a simple frog leaping contest national notoriety for
Ever after known as the Calaveras bull frog jumping contest I bought three acres for retirement
Unfortunately I made like a bull frog and jumped off the property I drove a truck several times into
Hannibal Missouri you got a quick leap in your heart and head as you thought about the great river
Running by and all of the characters Twain created two losses are recorded there of course twain met
A fiery personage that was even greater than him a space traveler with a glory all together wondrous went by
The name of Haley the other less known but my heart slows when I think of her eight years old blond
Blue eyed her father’s and mother’s pride and joy he was a pastor in northern Illinois she lays in her
Sacred rest in Hannibal until that great waking up day as time goes on I get less and less patient if it
Weren’t for so many precious ones in danger I would be tempted to pray come Lord Jesus. Well not done
By any means just going to stop for now plan on going and doing some hard thinking
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
Stopper allsh Chub forsh shrame Good Chinwag, yah?
Arsh sieve Combatibles posh Boys bare playe
Shaye, yay Share! Bar score thore Pieces me - bah!
Mayse Lion bare thine; Yare Deer-Berry splaye
Wot cot Beagle-Risen thorse Polliwog
Spout Arms dash Legs arsh instant forsh shore Sport
Water-Rouse, rebound! Spare Skin-Sherry shogg
Staple coach-wires faye John Tom's Report
Behave, tharne! Parallipparel Shape conduct
Pour-Pore noodlesee Six-Squares shrub contesse
Mare beere yorsh Chest torso-avenue locke
Reprodpress marsh baye Bub-Peppers finesse.
Staye-upon-staye bore thoose talkitook borough
Boy-ish-Boy-font-fare-Potiphar-although.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
Morbid nights of endless past and future
A darkness i'd endured in unwavering solitude
A tormenting blight forged with evanascent hope
My identity had all but lost its face
A maiden forged from the scales of heaven
A twist of the warm dark waves of locke
A brown eyed hue of sparkly dews
Sculpted out a beauty divine
A never ending feast, crave my lifeless eyes
A smile is all, darkness be gone
Your laugh it strings every beat of my soul
A glow you eminate, i stray not away
A simple whisper, i waver not from your side
The nights of yore are long forgotten
Unblinking, blinding lights i endure
Hope has taken form, a beauty undiscovered
Deny this you may, an unmarked angel you are
forever mine to protect
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 8:24 AM UTC
I
LOCKE sank into a swoon;
The Garden died;
God took the spinning-jenny
Out of his side.
II
Where got I that truth?
Out of a medium's mouth.
Out of nothing it came,
Out of the forest loam,
Out of dark night where lay
The crowns of Nineveh.
1.7k
Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the Mississippi
down the border
of Mississippi.
The girls with
the purple party beads
and the sax buskers
on the brown streetcars
drink through their
Mardi Gras,
down streetcars named Desire.
Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the slow jams
from the Apollo
during Locke's Renaissance.
The young gangsters
down every block
drop their
fists sticks knives guns
and shake to albee.
Holy Spirits
move through
vast cathedrals
and through
empty pews.
The zealous hearts
and the corrupt voices
all drink
and listen
to the voice
of the serpent.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
I take from the rich
And I give
To the richer
Grow
Money trees
And then watch the world wither
I've slithered
In gardens of green
Dripping red
With a purity hood
Draping over my head
I have poisoned the fountain
Of youth
To retain
My control of this endless
Monopoly game
As my capital gains
A skyscraper a day
To the skyrocket
Stock market
Locke's do I pray
Upon all to be blessed
With lavish excess
But succession of kings
My investment ******
To breed wealthier nations
Uncommon in man
Through unhealthier rations'
Invisible Hand
Do I muppet the mouths
And harp on the heartstrings
As I tug on the chains
Of the slaves
Freedom rings
And that fat lady sings
All she wants
I will cling
To this power
With eagle-lied,
Vulturous talons
Devour
The will
And then **** the bills,
Billing blood that I spill
With impunity
Robbery,
Poverty
Property
I am the law
There is no order stopping me
No cherry topping me
No global powers’
High towers
Are topping me
No master forces endorsed
Are out-shopping me
Spending spree
On the lost souls
Now to bending knee
Fall
And enthrall in the terror
Of my urban sprawl
Making maggots of masses'
Automaton dreams
Into my gilded ages'
New pyramid schemes
You can call me a liar
Truth is
No concern
To the one who reigns fire
With oil to burn
Down upon the deniers
Until they all learn
I'll recruit body bags
To preach life to the choir
And when the screen lags
Train these dogs to play dead,
Lay their own on a wire
In so doing shred
The carnage they desire
So I can play God
And with demons conspire
A masterful plan
To command the economy
Zombie hive mind
Get in line
For lobotomy
My progeny
Multiply to consume
And consume
And consume
'Til the ******* last fume
Dissipates into space
The good fortunes of Earth
All amounting to waste
With the mother who nurtured you
***** and disgraced
The four steeds
Of Apocalypse
Nothing but paste
For I win every time
I with you
Humans race
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 9:01 AM UTC
In my first life, I died
The year I turned 25,
And now that I’m in the hours before I taste my second,
I want to make it all the way to
28.27 years
cause when you divide that by 9,
You’re left with pi.
And because the universe isn’t just a
Straight line, you’ve got to use a formula to get around,
Get all up on that pi d because piety just
isn't logic enough for me, where even the repentant
Are told they’re going to burn in purgatory, sweetheart, please.
Being alive and feeling was
sometimes hell enough for me.
In just a few hours before I’m sent through that
Tight tunnel,
I want to be judged by the god of
3.14159, the baker that made me
Mr. Blueberry Buddah
Master in the art of reincarnation.
I want to be birthed **** with just a dab of pure whipped
cream for a soul,
Drizzled sweet with the blood I never watched my
mother bleed for me
on the morning of my second birth.
But I gotta say, this bardo shit's pretty odd,
Here the sky ranges in color gradients too specific like
“violent salmon” all the way to “lukewarm smoothie”
But once I get out, I know things will be strange,
owning a life that’s not quite mine to lose.
And even though I’ll have no answer to give, I desperately
Want someone to ask,
Stranger, tell me, how did it feel?
Theoretically, I’ll respond,
Well, I was kicked back into some ancestral dream
To meet everyone I will ever be, everyone
I have ever been and
Once I’ve met all of them,
Everyone I will never meet again.
And they'll ask,
Friend, is that why babies take so long to be born?
Yes, its because they’re shaking hands with the universe
On the way out of the womb.
At least, the one who will reach nirvana
After this life cycle circles through.
Lover, if I were to meet you again, will you remember?
Does your soul still have my story
Etched on it somewhere,
Or will you be washed clean of me,
The tabula rasa upon which Locke never wrote?
I won’t remember you, but
I have faith that you’ll find me,
Even lifetimes grow apart after too long.
It’s all about the company you keep because
They never stay.
And if that should happen, well,
We just met each other in an inconvenient life.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
"Two unconnected, discontinuous segments of consciousness are not part of the same person, but belong instead to two different persons."
Lived many wretched lives
But this one takes the cake
Life is but a trial
Remembered most for your mistakes
Out of your reality and out of my awareness
I was dragged by my naked collar
The mystic became violated
As the deity asked for a dollar
Apocalyptic visions come
When I dream by day
Cognizant of many things
But the mystery lies in wait
Their interpretation is prevailing
But they are blind to its function of power
They think the concepts of light and truth
Can be found in a beautiful flower
The sinners wait with bated breath
Measuring my faults on a scale
But the second coming's coming soon
Only He can judge me where I failed
Have enough chaos in me
To produce a thousand dancing stars
You have your way and I have mine
The right way only exists on Mars
Security of conformity you choose
But I was not meant to have that choice
I am just a highly flawed individual
Searching for freedom and a voice
Constantly seeking a fortress, a lighthouse
But I know this must be in solitude
Exile is where I belong
The path home always eludes
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
Looking over my course guideline for philosophy 100 and all I can think of is how I could combine you and documentaries on Plato and Leibniz to cover both love and homework. My mom always told me to "work smarter not harder." The thought it always turning to you like (hour) hands on my (clock) face.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
There’s no arguing that idealism has its place,
For if it does not flower, bloom, and spread its seeds
As the dying dandelion casts downy remnants hither and yon,
Then we have wept our tears and trodden in funereal processions
In pursuit of nothing more tangible than the wind itself.
That said, my boys, we shan’t live out our days
In some misty fairyland where the streams run with single-malt
And the trees are heavy with lamb and rashers;
This world can be a bitter, unpleasant place
(The unconditional love of mankind
Being the sole province of Our Saviour)
Where a man will give his wife a quick peck goodbye,
Then give a swift kick to a limping puppy sitting on the stoop,
Or the kindly veterinary will raise a lovely mouse
Just below his missus’ right eye
Upon returning from his local on a Friday night.
That ‘s the game as it’s played on this pitch,
And injury time has a whole new meaning here, lads,
For many’s the striker who is carried off
With pennies over his eyes.
Again, we have no quibble with Locke, Voltaire,
And the rights of man,
But know this: your leaflets will tear and blow away,
And speeches which roll through Parliament and trade union halls
Like great thunderstorms which blow in from the North Sea
Shall fade into the silence of minutes bound and shelved away
In some corner of the vast library of the forgotten.
You may shun the handwork of Messrs. Lee and Enfield,
Simpering that the rifle is the gavel of the coward,
That the garrote plays the music of the ******
Tell us, then, where the bravery lies in scribbling crimson prose
While ensconced in the warmth and safety of your rooms,
What dignity is gained by meekly dropping your gaze
When confronted by the stare of the Black and Tans?
There is no valor in sighting down windmills.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
Words have less to do
with ideas than actual things,
White, whiteness, and milk-whiteness
are three completely different distinctions,
and comprehension attributed to
connotation falls flat when you say
God.
His name, Empty,
not uttered, small White cot
upon which she rested, at last
—
gathp
—
good fortune, great life,
tangible reality
Destroyed honest(l)y.
Marks on page maneuver different directions
when meaning misrepresents reality.
Locke sent the message, Mill
tagged it, but oblivious you received it;
“Happiness, love, comfort. In no other
way would I have spent life than with you.”
How one can stumble at the Other’s
—
gathp
—
Crumble
A Milk White Whiteness washed over her,
whispered last words, tunneled vision.
The still sheet, face up, veiled eternally
the source of being loved vehemently,
he wept for new empty name.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
"You are allowed
One stupid question
So use it wisely
And would you kindly raise
Your hand if you don't
Understand and then politely
Leave my room
From what I can assume
This room thins out nearly
Yearly -
For Locke's Knowledge Theory
Grows weary on your minds, and
Time and time again I see
You, straight blank and ivory
Pages wilting, crumbling
Tearing to bits and pieces
But
Then I see!
Be it rare, a stare of a colorful
Sheet, lifted, gently gliding
For no writing could hold it down
And all else folds in around
It as it gleams of wisdom!
Of originality!
BREAKING THE MOLD
OF OLD WAYS OF THINKING
CHANGING THE EARTH
AND KNOWLEDGE SINKING!
AND ILL BE THE ONE
TO SEE THIS SON OR
DAUGHTER RISE UP TO CHANGE THE ORDER!
AH-HA!"
achem
"Yes, you there on the end!"
"What am I talking about you mention?
Brilliant, sir, what a wise
Way to use your one stupid question."
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
No child ought to see
Its mother battered;
It leaves behind to
Stew in mind the wrong
Impression. But young
Ceili did, all too
Often; her father’s
Fist through the tense air,
Almost unseen, yet
Captured by youthful
Eyes, keen to view, as
Young eyes are: the red
Bloodied mouth, the split
Lip, the blackened eye
The bruised jaw, the hurt
Huddled body on
The hard kitchen floor;
And if pushed to the
Back of the mind, it
Soon crawled out to scare
And torment her when
The lights went out, and
The high screams and shouts
Replayed themselves in
Her ears, over and
Over, like the stuck
Needle on that old
78 record
Her father played when
Drunk, of Joseph Locke,
As he sat in his
Chair that would go back
And forth and then rock,
Slow rock and slow rock.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
He is an echo of my desire.
The moon reflected in a silver bowl.
A mantle of the finest mink
That slithers over the skin; and
Evokes memories of a touch long gone.
He is a cool breeze in November.
A drop of lemon on the tongue.
He is the taste of quiet pleasure,
circled in the scent of roasted coffee,
To be drowned by the high notes
of a fine whiskey.
He is the wilted rose that scent lingers on.
The dead petals in a basin,
Swirling lightly with my breath.
He is the locke of hair kept safe
In a scrapbook of dying memory
Yellowed by time.
He is a lover lost,
And in the losing
Grows sweeter still.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 3:10 AM UTC
#Mom's birthday, dermatologist's appointment,
and a philosophy test on Descartes, Berkeley, Hume,
Continenetal Rationalists and British Empiricists.
(Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz, Locke, Berkeley, and Hume)
Banyascki has on the ugliest vest I've ever seen in my life.
His hair is getting long, too. At least ⅜ of an inch. Wow. Freak.
Esse is percipi... To be is to be perceived. Yes.#
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 5:14 PM UTC
Disfluencies in thought irrationalize us all
tis noted by philosophers, man’s historic fall
‘tis not in defeat we find ourselves born
but with views of the future, and history forlorn
ceaseless and restless is the toil, man must face each day
for every single citizen, has debt that they must pay
to earth, to man, to all the world, until they part their ways
still less than insignificant each man’s song still plays
to man we pay homage, in spirit and in song
for without the men who guide our thoughts, we would surely be more wrong
the stumbling paths men must take, for sake of being right
is the same tale of humanity, in constant search for light
on who we are, why we’re here, and does it really matter
if happiness is not achieved, I wouldn’t take the latter
so forth we stumble awaiting the next sure step
towards love and to leave the disasters of the past.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
Why can't unicorns be real
Why do parents play make-believe
So happy we were as children
Until a rusted locke was uncovered
Slowly anything from our stories we read
Never took us to our fanatasies ever again
now where did our one horned friends go
they were thrown down a bottomless pit
Since our minds would never again accept them as real
to this day it level us in sadness unbroken
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 7:23 PM UTC
Sandra Louise Anderson (née Smith;May 28, 1944 – November 3, 2018), professionally known as Sondra Locke,
was an American actress and director.
She made her film debut in 1968 in The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter,
for which she was nominated for an Academy Award
for Best Supporting Actress.
She went on to star in such films as Willard,
The Outlaw Josey Wales,
The Gauntlet, Every Which Way But Loose,
Bronco Billy, Any Which Way You Can,
and Sudden Impact. She had worked with Clint Eastwood,
who was her companion for over 13 years.
Her autobiography, The Good, the Bad, and the Very Ugly – A Hollywood Journey, was published in 1997.
Ratboy is a 1986 American drama film directed
by and starring Sondra Locke. The make-up effects
were designed by Rick Baker. The film's scenario
is at times comic or serious, and one of its peculiarities
is that there never is any explanation
for Ratboy's origin and existence
as a human-rat hybrid.
Impulse is a 1990 American thriller
about a female police officer who
works undercover as a **********
on the streets of Los Angeles.
The film was directed by Sondra Locke,
and stars Theresa Russell,
Jeff Fahey, and George Dzundza.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 1:45 AM UTC
this treasured moment
while lover plays with locke of hair
and talks quiet of the day
her smiling voice plays along the
verges of my mind
like a butterfly soaring
on the fading light of the failing sun
her romantic tones
and fingers wandering playful
as treasured moments becomes one
with such tender notions in my lovers hand
she sits with me while i make dinner
laughs with me from her glass of chardonnay
this quiet time between two lovers
living such a normal day
there's an echo following me down main street
it sounds like her laugh but who can
be sure in this rain
we walked all night
these treasured moments between lovers
and at first light standing in the field
we could see the rusted wrecks
of all thouse who have walked this way before us
all thouse who had given into the night
but not us
her hand kept me afloat
her sweet words kept me alive
when the waters had swept away all reason
when thoughts divulged like secrets in the night
between two lovers that never shall part
as i dance to the mornings sunshine
she is the song that plays in my head
just like she allways has been
shes there in so many ways
shes the stars that are the roof to my dreams
shes the bed i keep my dreams in
she the harvest of the bluejay at first light
twin suns rise
one in the sky
the other is my lovers heart
burns bright and hot
for me
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:32 AM UTC
Once Upon a Time there was this boy named Jonathan Locke.
He was so handsome and also calm that I felt like I was doing nothing wrong.
But I always thought about writing a song how my life was gonna go on by writing a song.
Then when I thought to my mind that I was gonna find the right guy , who was one of a kind .
That I've been waiting for all my life, I knew i couldn't keep my eye's off of this guy. Who was waiting all his life❤
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
No child ought to see
Its mother battered;
It leaves behind to
Stew in mind the wrong
Impression. But young
Ceili did, all too
Often; her father’s
Fist through the tense air,
Almost unseen, yet
Captured by youthful
Eyes, keen to view, as
Young eyes are: the red
Bloodied mouth, the split
Lip, the blackened eye
The bruised jaw, the hurt
Huddled body on
The hard kitchen floor;
And if pushed to the
Back of the mind, it
Soon crawled out to scare
And torment her when
The lights went out, and
The high screams and shouts
Replayed themselves in
Her ears, over and
Over, like the stuck
Needle on that old
78 record
Her father played when
Drunk, of Joseph Locke,
As he sat in his
Chair that would go back
And forth and then rock,
Slow rock and slow rock.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
*The Pigeons on Locke Street aren't buying
Little Red's cat wants a bird so bad , forever trying
Our beagle Biscuit still escorts the Garbagemen
to the backyard and back to the truck
Little Bo will be leaving yaw marks with his Big Wheel
at the end of the road
Teenagers still 'hang' with mischievous looks
and sporadic laughter
Dads are still walking home from the bus stop
in the songbird chatter* ....
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
*Post-war digs line Locke Street
Kudzu , streetlights , lamplight
Critters and skeeters , front porch
smokers , stray cats , brown bats
Concrete sidewalks , sacks of One Stop
chicken sandwiches , cold beer and
L&M; cigarettes
A doobie on the wood porch , a
brand new FM love song , arpeggios flying
into space , no regard for the work
week rat race , a smooth young face without
the first sign of a wrinkle , happy and single
A swig of 'Mist , a midnight ride to an all
night 'catfish expedition' on Saturday night* ..
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 10:17 PM UTC