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"mammoth" poems
Route 84 would not lend me the light of a star last night Radio blazing at 75 mph nonsense noise to chew gum by Crackling political commentary Static of distance and thick clouds Invisible mountains blocking Memories seeping through the cracks coating the music in a film I rub my eyes watch myself punch alert buttons But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight Roll down the window Watch the heat escape Summer again I am building a castle of ancient stones pulverized by relentless tides Dragged across maps by mastodons and mammoth glaciers The scouring hiss the ocean sighs Time has lulled these smoothly rolling them in the softest hands of sand and gels of life’s comings and goings tenderly tumbling in the millionth moonrise— Time deposits them here wet and glistening For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather Shoulders sun-burnt barely say one week only, one week of the fifty two “It’s the time of the season…” and daddies on the beach are watching…. She has chosen yet another stone And the castle continues— in oblivion to all but her legend…      The queen will be safe here      from the rabble      The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her      Among these lofty cliffs      Between the raging circuit of the tide      Here winds forbid the vengeful mob      Here lovers learn      the debt of love’s bad timing      “Drink ye all of it!”      --the potion that assigns our sorrow….      She will not sleep—      while I chew this gum--  GUM? Roll down the window! Angels escape with the heat Waking me with the brush of their wings As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank And leans on the horn Lights flashing Rude rumbling under right tires Tantrum of snow In the draft of mass and velocity …and the angels? They’ve chosen another good one! They must’ve liked the 80’s Their wings slapping the windshield madly   Their hands steady the wheel
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Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
Angel's Jukebox
Route 84 would not lend me the light of a star last night Radio blazing at 75 mph nonsense noise to chew gum by Crackling political commentary Static of distance and thick clouds Invisible mountains blocking Memories seeping through the cracks coating the music in a film I rub my eyes watch myself punch alert buttons But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight Roll down the window Watch the heat escape Summer again I am building a castle of ancient stones pulverized by relentless tides Dragged across maps by mastodons and mammoth glaciers The scouring hiss the ocean sighs Time has lulled these smoothly rolling them in the softest hands of sand and gels of life’s comings and goings tenderly tumbling in the millionth moonrise— Time deposits them here wet and glistening For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather Shoulders sun-burnt barely say one week only, one week of the fifty two “It’s the time of the season…” and daddies on the beach are watching…. She has chosen yet another stone And the castle continues— in oblivion to all but her legend…      The queen will be safe here      from the rabble      The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her      Among these lofty cliffs      Between the raging circuit of the tide      Here winds forbid the vengeful mob      Here lovers learn      the debt of love’s bad timing      “Drink ye all of it!”      --the potion that assigns our sorrow….      She will not sleep—      while I chew this gum--  GUM? Roll down the window! Angels escape with the heat Waking me with the brush of their wings As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank And leans on the horn Lights flashing Rude rumbling under right tires Tantrum of snow In the draft of mass and velocity …and the angels? They’ve chosen another good one! They must’ve liked the 80’s Their wings slapping the windshield madly   Their hands steady the wheel
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63
* * * * * * * * * Faces of friends, of people i met earlier are  glittering stars on this late evening's dark blue sky...their smiles are tattooed in my mind...they're  hunched, going lower by the days...slowed down by years. it must be hard and painful...the arching, the drooping of the neck, the curving spine, they endure all, 'til each day's end...they rise each new dawn...do what they still can do, lest they stagnate in their aging ponds, diminish to a state, where food, pills, or forgotten information are forced on them, ......like drugs, injected into the veins ........................ these wee hours bring back the years... they  have been good...never mind the hard times...there were, there are good ones life is a long, wide stream of changing hues, flowing on and on....my water bears the colors each new day brings...gray, at times with sadness and gloom....other days, blacked by despair...some summers, red, roseate with glee, or green with life and hope...blue, when trust is spilling, and the tranquil sea and sky overwhelm, with a promise of stability..........white, when accepting......the unacceptable... ........................ the amber grains and i, are alike ripened enough to be plucked be pulled out from an existence...the signs are known...shown...yet, i wait for when it is due to happen...and while waiting, the stalks sway, play and dance   and enjoy the sun and wind...and i, while i still can...walk, jump, climb hills and valleys in this mammoth space of land and water.............called life ................... the sounds of my days, i still hear, i am a lute, a harp, a cello...playing off-key.....out of tune at times, my strings are my graying hair, i still can't stop dying the gray i still want to highlight the dark, but, one day, all these will cease... ............ one night, my face will be in one of those many stars...glittering on a dark blue sky sending a smile, to my loved ones. ................... (there is no other way, but forward all are headed towards an end.) Sally © Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan       June 26, 2018
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Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
Late Evening Echoes
* * * * * * * * * Faces of friends, of people i met earlier are  glittering stars on this late evening's dark blue sky...their smiles are tattooed in my mind...they're  hunched, going lower by the days...slowed down by years. it must be hard and painful...the arching, the drooping of the neck, the curving spine, they endure all, 'til each day's end...they rise each new dawn...do what they still can do, lest they stagnate in their aging ponds, diminish to a state, where food, pills, or forgotten information are forced on them, ......like drugs, injected into the veins ........................ these wee hours bring back the years... they  have been good...never mind the hard times...there were, there are good ones life is a long, wide stream of changing hues, flowing on and on....my water bears the colors each new day brings...gray, at times with sadness and gloom....other days, blacked by despair...some summers, red, roseate with glee, or green with life and hope...blue, when trust is spilling, and the tranquil sea and sky overwhelm, with a promise of stability..........white, when accepting......the unacceptable... ........................ the amber grains and i, are alike ripened enough to be plucked be pulled out from an existence...the signs are known...shown...yet, i wait for when it is due to happen...and while waiting, the stalks sway, play and dance   and enjoy the sun and wind...and i, while i still can...walk, jump, climb hills and valleys in this mammoth space of land and water.............called life ................... the sounds of my days, i still hear, i am a lute, a harp, a cello...playing off-key.....out of tune at times, my strings are my graying hair, i still can't stop dying the gray i still want to highlight the dark, but, one day, all these will cease... ............ one night, my face will be in one of those many stars...glittering on a dark blue sky sending a smile, to my loved ones. ................... (there is no other way, but forward all are headed towards an end.) Sally © Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan       June 26, 2018
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61
**** a polar bear's funky *** **** a racehorse's **** with Heinz Tomato Ketchup! **** a donkey's ****** *** **** a male camel's **** with Hoisen sauce! **** a cheetah's **** **** a cheetah's **** **** a cheetah's **** **** a cheetah's **** **** a European bison's smelly *** **** a woolly mammoth's **** with Miracle Whip! **** a snow leopard's *** with whip cream! **** a hyena's spermy **** **** a cheetah's **** **** a cheetah's **** **** a cheetah's **** **** a cheetah's **** **** a llama's ****** ******* **** a panda bear's spermy ******* **** a sloth bear's bootyhole! **** a greyhound's musty *** ********** **** a cheetah's **** **** a cheetah's **** **** a cheetah's **** **** a cheetah's **** Polaroid, see what develops
0
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
**** Cheetah's ****
Dreadlock Rasta; No like informa, No like imposta, **** smoke; burning da trees Mango scented leaves, Burnt grapefruit scented breeze. Wolly mammoth size locks, Steal wool, ***** tied in a knot, Jamaican colors wrap tie; sitting on top. I and I, believe it or not. No woman no cry, No problem; Him cool as a rock. Charles Dickens by his side, Studying stanzas, deciphering plots. Prayer's meeting; meditation- never stop. Water’s blue waves, Fresh fish after 12’o clock. Under the bridge, find my spot. By his sweet Sugarcane from, Miss Parker Sugarcane shop Burning a spliff, because the **** is his only green; pastures plot. Mary Jane, his only queen be, Never leaving he; love him or not.
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May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
Rasta by the Water
I cried at the breakfast table this morning my father carefully explained, "wives must be submissive to their husbands" "housecleaning is the domain of the woman" "God created woman because man asked for a partner" This past semester I wrote two papers One, a fire and brimstone sermon           I quoted Anais Nin           sending the creators of sexist commercials to eternal suffering           **** them!" I said. "May they burn in hell."           For the women they portrayed were doormats           Misconceptions           Monsters The other, the role of women in the 1920s,            No longer confined to the kitchen            they dropped ballots with their new freedom            they wore short dresses and short tresses            fingers wrapped around cigs            they quoted Wilde instead of Alcott            they danced until their feet hurt         I read of Anais Nin's "new woman," her partnership, not submission to man, I craved a room of my own, neigh demanded it For sheep stayed in the kitchen, The Woolf had a study. I read poetry Sexton, Plath, I wept for their starved, depressed selves caged, suffocating inside the clasped hands of a man. Loved like rib-cage jails. Adrienne Rich made me angry, her daughter-in-law forever trying to fit into a box she was always too big for, spilling at the edges, her shaved legs like "white mammoth tusks" I was finally happy with my womanhood. ****** ****** ***** ******** they are mine. ******* free to move unrestrained, jiggling under my shirt. Wetness between my thighs. Menstrual blood, they are mine. mine. I am not ashamed of what I am because there is no shame. I am woman, I am girl, I am lady. I am a creature with a voice a mind. a creature who endured much abuse, continue to endure. I am woman and I don't have to be wife or mother unless I want to be. I was not created for man; I was created for the same reason he was, to serve the same great purpose on this tiny blue dot. I am not rib. I am ****** ****** ***** ******** ******* free, unrestrained, Wetness between my thighs. Menstrual blood, I am a per. I am a wo. I am a hu. Man and son need to back down, collaborate not dominate, speak not command, for when less are forced into silence, the maddening scream hidden inside skin and bones and muscle-meat becomes song. this world of car horns and tire screeches crying and wailing from raw throats angry protests of indignation could use a little music.
0
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
Father broke my heart.
I cried at the breakfast table this morning my father carefully explained, "wives must be submissive to their husbands" "housecleaning is the domain of the woman" "God created woman because man asked for a partner" This past semester I wrote two papers One, a fire and brimstone sermon           I quoted Anais Nin           sending the creators of sexist commercials to eternal suffering           **** them!" I said. "May they burn in hell."           For the women they portrayed were doormats           Misconceptions           Monsters The other, the role of women in the 1920s,            No longer confined to the kitchen            they dropped ballots with their new freedom            they wore short dresses and short tresses            fingers wrapped around cigs            they quoted Wilde instead of Alcott            they danced until their feet hurt         I read of Anais Nin's "new woman," her partnership, not submission to man, I craved a room of my own, neigh demanded it For sheep stayed in the kitchen, The Woolf had a study. I read poetry Sexton, Plath, I wept for their starved, depressed selves caged, suffocating inside the clasped hands of a man. Loved like rib-cage jails. Adrienne Rich made me angry, her daughter-in-law forever trying to fit into a box she was always too big for, spilling at the edges, her shaved legs like "white mammoth tusks" I was finally happy with my womanhood. ****** ****** ***** ******** they are mine. ******* free to move unrestrained, jiggling under my shirt. Wetness between my thighs. Menstrual blood, they are mine. mine. I am not ashamed of what I am because there is no shame. I am woman, I am girl, I am lady. I am a creature with a voice a mind. a creature who endured much abuse, continue to endure. I am woman and I don't have to be wife or mother unless I want to be. I was not created for man; I was created for the same reason he was, to serve the same great purpose on this tiny blue dot. I am not rib. I am ****** ****** ***** ******** ******* free, unrestrained, Wetness between my thighs. Menstrual blood, I am a per. I am a wo. I am a hu. Man and son need to back down, collaborate not dominate, speak not command, for when less are forced into silence, the maddening scream hidden inside skin and bones and muscle-meat becomes song. this world of car horns and tire screeches crying and wailing from raw throats angry protests of indignation could use a little music.
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82
I need to change the circles I'm in Because I fell into the trapezoid Of trying to fit a square peg in a round hole Making people believe I was a square When I was really a rectangle You just had to look at me from the right angles The shape of things now Is me looking at you from the wrong angles You're pretty hot 90° When you turn away from me your hotness doubles 180° I think my Pompeii worm could survive the temperatures But if you were to turn back around No creature could survive 360° The paradox of the parabola in my pants Will never be solved It's not your math problem We're just two points on this rotating sphere Where time is a straight line And our's is a segment I wish I understood the formula So I could predict the outcome But there are too many variables Leaving my head spinning in circles And myself running in circles Meant to be avoided Because within those circles are triangular trials Where two points create a perfect line And a third point ruins that As points are added to the population Lines only get larger Like the welfare line Mammoth shapes grow wider and more complex Like the Pentagon Lines become more easily crossed Angles more easily tangled And my freezing point becomes my boiling point While I wish for a world more two-dimensional Because once I consider depth I realize I could never measure up to my ruler
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Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 12:35 AM UTC
Circles
Freezing dusk is closing Like a slow trap of steel On trees and roads and hills and all That can no longer feel. But the carp is in its depth Like a planet in its heaven. And the badger in its bedding Like a loaf in the oven. And the butterfly in its mummy Like a viol in its case. And the owl in its feathers Like a doll in its lace. Freezing dusk has tightened Like a nut ******* tight On the starry aeroplane Of the soaring night. But the trout is in its hole Like a chuckle in a sleeper. The hare strays down the highway Like a root going deeper. The snail is dry in the outhouse Like a seed in a sunflower. The owl is pale on the gatepost Like a clock on its tower. Moonlight freezes the shaggy world Like a mammoth of ice - The past and the future Are the jaws of a steel vice. But the cod is in the tide-rip Like a key in a purse. The deer are on the bare-blown hill Like smiles on a nurse. The flies are behind the plaster Like the lost score of a jig. Sparrows are in the ivy-clump Like money in a pig. Such a frost The flimsy moon Has lost her wits. A star falls. The sweating farmers Turn in their sleep Like oxen on spits.
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6.8k
The Warm and the Cold
[Dedicated to George Raffalovich] In the Years of the Primal Course, in the dawn of terrestrial birth, Man mastered the mammoth and horse, and Man was the Lord of the Earth. He made him an hollow skin from the heart of an holy tree, He compassed the earth therein, and Man was the Lord of the Sea. He controlled the vigour of steam, he harnessed the light- ning for hire; He drove the celestial team, and man was the Lord of the Fire. Deep-mouthed from their thrones deep-seated, the choirs of the æeons declare The last of the demons defeated, for Man is the Lord of the Air. Arise, O Man, in thy strength! the kingdom is thine to inherit, Till the high gods witness at length that Man is the Lord of his spirit.
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6.4k
The Pentagram
Within this jungle, which is ours I ride the back of Thunder-cloud, my friend Around and through the thickets thick banyan trees & palm fruit fallen leaves Down muddy earthen paths until everything is green and shadows until inside its heart, the rain forest trees of this jungle are city buildings - tall and choir of fauna high and low do not fear to sing beneath our cathedral's shade In this kingdom of flora and ruby rich dirt belongs to thunder-cloud and dirt-poor me A Mowgli on his elephant, hollars ahead to any that hear "We are free!" Here, far from the whips' lashing, guns, away from the loud business of murderous money They who say that I am nothing in their eyes who abacus my worth with looks with upraising lust of wolves but I a free man, a simpleton for beloved (Earth) I am dark skinned Krishna on my steed of thunder-clouds A native son of brown & green wilderness caterwauling to the beyonds unknown Within our jungle, brother thunder, my elephant of deep clouds gray we are Mammoth and as wild as wide as open as free... with every step forward on this living journey we will take a peaceful kind of smile will only be what is written upon each lovely lovely face *(Within our jungles...we live simply without the Man's hate not today will I hunger, nor will I thirst fed on real wonder, drank clouds of Himalayan rain without a rupee to my name... on the back of thunder my gentle Ganesh - I have no one to blame.)*
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May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
MOWGLI ON THUNDER
Within a world of azure blue, the mantas glide with angel wings, and fly on winds of ocean waves, inside their realm of mystery. Like ancient beings from the deep, they flash and shimmer in our light, with other-worldly mammoth forms; cephalic fins and flattened frames. These gentle giants of the night, draw fishes from the briny deep, their vivid forms flash to and fro, feed on the banquet of the sea. They dance balletic in our lights; exquisite, rings and summersaults, with bubbles lit to guide their path, they glide just past our mortal reach. These stunning marvels of the deep, are but a finite sampling, of what our planet offers up, far past our wild imaginings.
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Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
THE DANCE OF THE MANTA RAYS
Gunboats ahoy there’s pirates about Speeding from Somali’s shore, A fast flimsy boat and some black skinny men With grenade launchers, cannon and more. They’re coming to capture the tankers They’re coming to capture the crew They’re coming to take you hostage Because fat cats will pay cash for you. It’s happening more every day now Ships are held to ransom for gold, This contagion is out of hand now The Somalian pirates are becoming so bold. Hard men in the west prepare crackdowns Gunboats sail for the Gulf as we speak, With instructions to shoot to **** now And make eradication of pirates complete! But you ask, why is this happening? Why does a man, a pirate become? What instigates this crazy morphosis From fisherman to pirate with gun? Somalia has no Government to speak of, It collapsed and went long ago. No law or army in place here, Life is dangerous, chaotic and low. Some fat cats made use of the vacuum They ditched toxic waste in the sea They irradiated the coastline region Making this a poisoned place to be. The coast folk were dying in thousands Sick mothers lost babies and kids Black illness spread madly in villages Then blind panic and pain hit the skids. Some fat cats made use of the vacuum They trawled the coastline clean Somalia’s fishermen were destitute The catch went from vast to lean. The villagers were starving and hopeless And what was pain became death. The leaders appealed for salvation But those with the means, had turned deaf. Who would take this problem on now? Who would make these ******** pay? Most turned around and shunned them, The world had turned and looked away. So hit transgressors where they’re vulnerable. Strike in sea lanes where it’s free. Hit them near the Horn of Africa. Attack with blades of piracy. Hooray for the small man’s justice. Hooray for his skinny, black shanks, Please God help their quest for deliverance For the West has arrived with their tanks. Now I ask you, in all fairness To stand back and view the scene, Where the richest and most powerful are doing something that's obscene For not only are they poisoning The most vulnerable race on earth But compounding it with genocide, And I add, for what it's worth, The West, in righteous arrogance, are crushing poorest fellow man In his struggle for survival Against their mammoth, global hand. Marshalg @theGate Mangere Bridge 25 April 2009
0
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 7:33 PM UTC
Gunboat Pirates
Gunboats ahoy there’s pirates about Speeding from Somali’s shore, A fast flimsy boat and some black skinny men With grenade launchers, cannon and more. They’re coming to capture the tankers They’re coming to capture the crew They’re coming to take you hostage Because fat cats will pay cash for you. It’s happening more every day now Ships are held to ransom for gold, This contagion is out of hand now The Somalian pirates are becoming so bold. Hard men in the west prepare crackdowns Gunboats sail for the Gulf as we speak, With instructions to shoot to **** now And make eradication of pirates complete! But you ask, why is this happening? Why does a man, a pirate become? What instigates this crazy morphosis From fisherman to pirate with gun? Somalia has no Government to speak of, It collapsed and went long ago. No law or army in place here, Life is dangerous, chaotic and low. Some fat cats made use of the vacuum They ditched toxic waste in the sea They irradiated the coastline region Making this a poisoned place to be. The coast folk were dying in thousands Sick mothers lost babies and kids Black illness spread madly in villages Then blind panic and pain hit the skids. Some fat cats made use of the vacuum They trawled the coastline clean Somalia’s fishermen were destitute The catch went from vast to lean. The villagers were starving and hopeless And what was pain became death. The leaders appealed for salvation But those with the means, had turned deaf. Who would take this problem on now? Who would make these ******** pay? Most turned around and shunned them, The world had turned and looked away. So hit transgressors where they’re vulnerable. Strike in sea lanes where it’s free. Hit them near the Horn of Africa. Attack with blades of piracy. Hooray for the small man’s justice. Hooray for his skinny, black shanks, Please God help their quest for deliverance For the West has arrived with their tanks. Now I ask you, in all fairness To stand back and view the scene, Where the richest and most powerful are doing something that's obscene For not only are they poisoning The most vulnerable race on earth But compounding it with genocide, And I add, for what it's worth, The West, in righteous arrogance, are crushing poorest fellow man In his struggle for survival Against their mammoth, global hand. Marshalg @theGate Mangere Bridge 25 April 2009
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Loving someone is a confusing task. Its that point of time when people don't really understand what they are upto. Maybe its because, when we fall in love, we are not only driven by the modern world instincts, but also by traits which we've inherited from our earliest ancestors. Its an amalgam of varying emotions resulting from numerous hormones. We get involved in the act of love either to enrich out lives or to generate lives...its all logic. However, the simplest act of expressing or explaining this strange feeling, appears to be a mammoth task for most. We call it 'love' just like we call God 'God', but its just a verbal pronunciation for things we don't understand, for things which are much greater than just the words... We say 'I love you' but we mean so much more, even the most beautiful poems cannot possibly explain it properly. Hundreds of letters written by a lover cannot compensate for the lover in person, 10000 words cannot compensate for a simple gesture or an act of love. Words are just sounds which transmit thoughts from one mind to the other, But in order to touch the deepest core of the brain, which is the heart, one must go way beyond the thoughts, way beyond those 10000 words.
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May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
10000 Words
O Tulip Tree, Towering titan true, A fond memory I have Of splendorous ventures long ago! O Tulip Tree, Timid and taciturn, I remember when you, Paragon of the forest, Stood tall with power And eclipsed the noontime sun! O Tulip Tree, Tallest tree that be, I recall when you, Pillar of perfection, Were as mammoth in my youth As you are this day! O Tulip Tree, Tremendous yet tender king, I pray for you, Noble giant, That envious naysayer And usurper alike Stay their distance From your domain! And when the hour is nigh, O Tulip Tree, I shall stand tall with pride Between these vile fiends As you taught me to long ago!
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Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 10:04 PM UTC
A Titan's Ballad
train to Chicago... See it from a train. Should have called it the Rust Apocalypse. Endless piles of industrial woolly mammoth skeletons turned red by the rust that never sleeps or blinks. Miles and miles of factory, mills, and foundry corpses. The workers long scattered to $10 per hour ***** jobs. Businesses gone with the workers. Globalization at its finest. The end of the people's value. Amerika crumbles of dry rot. Enjoy your stuff, good citizen. This will all come to you. There is no immunity to endless, mindless greed.    ~mce
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Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
Rust Belt
the narrative does not cling to classicalism of stating whether the pronoun usage is either singular or plural or both to allow an armchair of expression; after all... there's enough for us to bypass the classical philosophical debate about subject and object, simply investigating pronoun usage in relation to singularity or pluralism. there’s a theory where poetry came from, one read: cleopatra wanted to hear sweet-nothings calibrating a razor with a viper’s kiss... another read: she báthory? she báthory? she the one that turned milk into blood? she can burn in hell. i thought we were un-dialectical in the realms of concern? no... you see... poetry came from punctuated-impressionism... or a fear of it... punctuation of course, not from the impressionism... poets fear punctuation... give them a semi-colon and they treat it like a sidelined line of verse. this is poetry in mathematical equations: i had a pear(,) it was a spare(.) i had a care for traffic(-) so i missed( ) the expressions and started using an obelisk to quarter up the mammoth into chop suey... poets simple say: next line! when prose says next paragraph and the prized execution of the 100m sprint . . . (.) that’s universal alpha romeo with alfa bravo charlie delta (echo)... come on in the u-turn... give us a smile......... :), poets says... i need breathing space without sentenced timing of silence, for the toad to feed inspiration and envy! no wonder you came with the alpha - zulu alphabet given that you used ɪɡ and zoʊ... so tell me... where’s this copernican west upside down (this heliocentric west with east being the big bang)?! i'd swear the thing stopped orbiting in circles and a thing that's on it's thought started to become orbital... a fashion sense of the 60s 70s 80s 90s repeated - that's right, the whole thing became heliocentric and we became narcissists instead of solipsists in the geocentric system of worked-up plagiarism with adequate excuses.) it's here it the poets apprehensive of punctuation symbology and instead writing "sparingly," to write, e.g.: i hate         this love                 affair claimed                      to be           the world...                  i rather                          chisel chequers                          into geometry                      of x4               90º. makes sense poets begot fear of punctuation and not grammar, they serviced to explore nothing else, leaving grammar open long enough to ***** mathematics in... remember... poets are firstly concerned with punctuation... secondly with grammar... philosophy for poets is grammar; **** i'm um um so drunk i'll need to revise.
0
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
what poets fear
the narrative does not cling to classicalism of stating whether the pronoun usage is either singular or plural or both to allow an armchair of expression; after all... there's enough for us to bypass the classical philosophical debate about subject and object, simply investigating pronoun usage in relation to singularity or pluralism. there’s a theory where poetry came from, one read: cleopatra wanted to hear sweet-nothings calibrating a razor with a viper’s kiss... another read: she báthory? she báthory? she the one that turned milk into blood? she can burn in hell. i thought we were un-dialectical in the realms of concern? no... you see... poetry came from punctuated-impressionism... or a fear of it... punctuation of course, not from the impressionism... poets fear punctuation... give them a semi-colon and they treat it like a sidelined line of verse. this is poetry in mathematical equations: i had a pear(,) it was a spare(.) i had a care for traffic(-) so i missed( ) the expressions and started using an obelisk to quarter up the mammoth into chop suey... poets simple say: next line! when prose says next paragraph and the prized execution of the 100m sprint . . . (.) that’s universal alpha romeo with alfa bravo charlie delta (echo)... come on in the u-turn... give us a smile......... :), poets says... i need breathing space without sentenced timing of silence, for the toad to feed inspiration and envy! no wonder you came with the alpha - zulu alphabet given that you used ɪɡ and zoʊ... so tell me... where’s this copernican west upside down (this heliocentric west with east being the big bang)?! i'd swear the thing stopped orbiting in circles and a thing that's on it's thought started to become orbital... a fashion sense of the 60s 70s 80s 90s repeated - that's right, the whole thing became heliocentric and we became narcissists instead of solipsists in the geocentric system of worked-up plagiarism with adequate excuses.) it's here it the poets apprehensive of punctuation symbology and instead writing "sparingly," to write, e.g.: i hate         this love                 affair claimed                      to be           the world...                  i rather                          chisel chequers                          into geometry                      of x4               90º. makes sense poets begot fear of punctuation and not grammar, they serviced to explore nothing else, leaving grammar open long enough to ***** mathematics in... remember... poets are firstly concerned with punctuation... secondly with grammar... philosophy for poets is grammar; **** i'm um um so drunk i'll need to revise.
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73
On the platform rolled the morning train, I arched into position like a predator on the prowl, I jumped into the rake and sustained a sprain, and like a wounded dog began to howl. I bought myself to stand and staggered towards an empty seat, as hundreds rushed through the compartment door, I dint get a seat, but space enough for my feet, and that's when my phone clattered onto the floor. I dived into the mammoth crowd, and began to ***** unsuspecting toes, Several people yelped out loud, and i sustained a few hard blows. Wounded and abashed i almost gave up the search, when the phone came into my hand, with relief i grabbed it amidst a jolt and lurch, but soon realized I couldn't bring myself to stand. I sat crouched on my fours, and soon developed knee sores, The crowd was so large, I couldn't squeeze through them all, and to my horror, other phones began to fall. Soon, we were quite a gathering, all perched on our knees, merrily discussing the Lokpal bill and the Cricket match in West Indies, We were soon forced to balance on a single toe, as the crowd began to grow even more. After an uncomfortable half an hour,I brought myself to stand, with delicate ease on the platform I managed to land. Fighting against the oncoming crowd i pushed through with a shove and **** dusting myself here and there I made my way to work.
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Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
Working in Mumbai?
Past rolling hills green valleys and beautiful woods. Over falls wondrous and meadows gold. Through towns and villages snow covered and cold. Over oceans vast and jungles deep Lies, the mountain mammoth. Great stones mere bones before its sprawling feet. Standing in awe at its Gothic magnificence. All creations lying under the shadow of this monstrous heap. They dance in reverence they bask in the terrible embrace, of the mountain mammoth. This far away mountain oh fiery fountain. Oh ginormous mongrel oh hideous evil. Enveloping all life purging all love. Decimating madness the end of all things. Fear erupts from it like water from a spring. Darkness covers the mountain darkness blacker then pitch. Darkness that no light ever can touch not even the stars those resilient lanterns. All hope is dashed at the walls of the mammoth mountain. All hope is forsaken at the foot of the great fiery fountain.
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Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
Mammoth Mountain
I was raised in a house that seemed big on the inside With a garden that was larger than the rest of the earth. My bedroom was shared. But there was more than enough room. So proportionally, I always felt small. The curtains were vines in a furniture jungle The bookcase a tower of riddles. I used to spend my days inside the wardrobe Because I heard there were whole worlds inside of them. The sofa was a cloud, I liked to sink into it. The bathtub an ocean, that I was constantly floating adrift in. The TV screen might as well have been A stage compared to me when I was younger. Even the cupboard was a cavernous place, my sparrowbone limbs Would fold up only slightly, but still there would always be too much space. Space blank as a bullet hole Like the gaps between stars. An absence you're constantly falling through. When you're so tiny, And surrounded by nothingness, its easy to forget that you're not nothing too. I was compressed in the classroom behind a scrawl splattered desk The lines of graffiti looked mammoth. The teachers were giants And I was just jack They ground up my brains to make alphabet stew And gave me only a handful of A, B's and C's back. The playground was Olympus, I was acting atlas I felt as though the whole world was on my shoulders. See I was a really loud kid, always shouting out Because I thought that was the only way to get anyone to hear me. Lungs like an opera singer by the age of just nine And in the habit of using embellishment. I've been where you've been kid, I've seen it all. I know exactly how the sight of a bullies hand-down button-up Can be enough to make you choke... Sometimes it still is enough. And I know I don't look so tiny now I expanded as I grew more constricted. Trying to compensate for the empty place, I had made a habit of occupying. See I understand, I know But I promise you, one day you'll stop standing under things Find your feet and grow. The leaves of your family tree do not define Who you'll be You do not have to hold up those branches all alone. And I know I look so small right now But in here, in here I'm mammoth. And I promise the world is not so nothing filled When everyone is giant.
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Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 3:18 PM UTC
Acting Atlas
I was raised in a house that seemed big on the inside With a garden that was larger than the rest of the earth. My bedroom was shared. But there was more than enough room. So proportionally, I always felt small. The curtains were vines in a furniture jungle The bookcase a tower of riddles. I used to spend my days inside the wardrobe Because I heard there were whole worlds inside of them. The sofa was a cloud, I liked to sink into it. The bathtub an ocean, that I was constantly floating adrift in. The TV screen might as well have been A stage compared to me when I was younger. Even the cupboard was a cavernous place, my sparrowbone limbs Would fold up only slightly, but still there would always be too much space. Space blank as a bullet hole Like the gaps between stars. An absence you're constantly falling through. When you're so tiny, And surrounded by nothingness, its easy to forget that you're not nothing too. I was compressed in the classroom behind a scrawl splattered desk The lines of graffiti looked mammoth. The teachers were giants And I was just jack They ground up my brains to make alphabet stew And gave me only a handful of A, B's and C's back. The playground was Olympus, I was acting atlas I felt as though the whole world was on my shoulders. See I was a really loud kid, always shouting out Because I thought that was the only way to get anyone to hear me. Lungs like an opera singer by the age of just nine And in the habit of using embellishment. I've been where you've been kid, I've seen it all. I know exactly how the sight of a bullies hand-down button-up Can be enough to make you choke... Sometimes it still is enough. And I know I don't look so tiny now I expanded as I grew more constricted. Trying to compensate for the empty place, I had made a habit of occupying. See I understand, I know But I promise you, one day you'll stop standing under things Find your feet and grow. The leaves of your family tree do not define Who you'll be You do not have to hold up those branches all alone. And I know I look so small right now But in here, in here I'm mammoth. And I promise the world is not so nothing filled When everyone is giant.
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50
There is no night like a bayou night, the air pregnant with expectancy and mystery, mingling scents of wisteria, trumpet honeysuckle and gumbo mud - a Dark Ages alchemist seeking an elusive golden fragrance. It's a night dark despite the nearly full moon, a night in which fireflies pulsate as so many flickering neon bulbs and the cacophony of insects reaches toward an unattainable crescendo. Mammoth cypress trees line the bayous, letting fall Spanish moss as strands of ghostly gray-green hair, and the oppression of dark is waiting just beyond the searching lantern. At times the wind moans like a sated lover, at other times it howls wildly, but it's always present and always vocal to those who would listen. There could be fear in such nights, or there can be a love of the mysteries inherent with the bayous - I choose the love of the bayous. *I lived in Louisiana about nine years, and there are many things about that state I still love - bayous being one of them.* --
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Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 4:45 PM UTC
Bayou Night
snow comes early this year in southern climes - records broken radio man talks of a warming globe - a broken record seas have risen many, many times and frozen, too - in southern climes have I shown you my wooly mammoth tooth? it's very old. r ~ 11/1/14
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Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
wooly mammoth
An illusionist by trade, he Could transport her from where she stands To a magical spring rumored To harbor manatees that turn Into mermaids under the sun. He needs only one volunteer To help him spin the great machine Until its wheels move too quickly To see the metal spokes between Its three hubs and rotating rims. Two persons, four legs, and three wheels, Travel through time and cross the space Between the parking lot and springs – Voila! All appear safe and sound At the edge of Wakulla’s gem. And in a moment – close your eyes! Now open them to see the sun Shining for the first time all day, All the way down to the bottom Where the manatees swim and dream. The mammoth manatees awake And begin to grow back their scales. They transform and wait patiently For the human girl to toss her Wished-upon shell into the spring. She finds the one and makes a wish, Then closes her eyes once again, While the practiced illusionist Works his magic hidden by smoke, And the shell falls from her fingers. It floats to the coldest waters, Slowly shifting back and forth as Though it were swimming – and it is! Transformed into a mystical Creature, it sets the mermaids free. The human girl jumps up and down With glee at the beautiful sight: Shimmering scales and flowing hair Dart through water in their delight And invite her to join and play. The girl jumps in and kicks her feet But must come up for air to breathe. The illusionist watches this From the sandy shore and he – **** Bubbles at her feet slowly form Into one glittering green tail And her hair grows several feet, Turning to gold under water. The girl smiles wide and dives to Join the joyful, playful mermaids. They jump and swim and practice tricks, Splashing around under the sun, But the girl missed her life on shore And looked longingly at the sand. The illusionist saw this, too. Since she had been the one to free The mermaids from their trapped bodies, He thought to grant her one last wish And with a puff of brim fire smoke, She was transported back to shore. Her adventure complete, she spun The wheels of the illusionist’s Magic machine and was brought home With the help of her companion, The great entertainer himself.
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Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
The Entertainer and the Mermaid
An illusionist by trade, he Could transport her from where she stands To a magical spring rumored To harbor manatees that turn Into mermaids under the sun. He needs only one volunteer To help him spin the great machine Until its wheels move too quickly To see the metal spokes between Its three hubs and rotating rims. Two persons, four legs, and three wheels, Travel through time and cross the space Between the parking lot and springs – Voila! All appear safe and sound At the edge of Wakulla’s gem. And in a moment – close your eyes! Now open them to see the sun Shining for the first time all day, All the way down to the bottom Where the manatees swim and dream. The mammoth manatees awake And begin to grow back their scales. They transform and wait patiently For the human girl to toss her Wished-upon shell into the spring. She finds the one and makes a wish, Then closes her eyes once again, While the practiced illusionist Works his magic hidden by smoke, And the shell falls from her fingers. It floats to the coldest waters, Slowly shifting back and forth as Though it were swimming – and it is! Transformed into a mystical Creature, it sets the mermaids free. The human girl jumps up and down With glee at the beautiful sight: Shimmering scales and flowing hair Dart through water in their delight And invite her to join and play. The girl jumps in and kicks her feet But must come up for air to breathe. The illusionist watches this From the sandy shore and he – **** Bubbles at her feet slowly form Into one glittering green tail And her hair grows several feet, Turning to gold under water. The girl smiles wide and dives to Join the joyful, playful mermaids. They jump and swim and practice tricks, Splashing around under the sun, But the girl missed her life on shore And looked longingly at the sand. The illusionist saw this, too. Since she had been the one to free The mermaids from their trapped bodies, He thought to grant her one last wish And with a puff of brim fire smoke, She was transported back to shore. Her adventure complete, she spun The wheels of the illusionist’s Magic machine and was brought home With the help of her companion, The great entertainer himself.
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65
I feel like a mammoth sometimes stomping and clomping and trying to find Where all the other mammoths went.
0
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
fabulous brevity
heavy timber fall crushing mammoth stone circle crumbles still regret in living bone air a crackling cage a rack holding tight guilt the thorny blanket gripping iron might where’s the other hope started that same day we ate their dreams swept them all away
0
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
sunbeam
I saw yonder— leaves the colour of rusted coins flattened into the soil, their veins crumbling at a touch. Coffee-stained envelopes lay scattered, their paper-thin as skin, ink bled blue by rain, a Paris stamp whispering 1928 from a corner eaten by time. They kept company with a bruised brown apple, bitten once, abandoned, its sweetness turned to rot in the chill of a narrow room in the mammoth province of Brandenburg, Prussia. The rickety Tudor house groaned— timbers bowing like old men, windows clouded with breath that had not been drawn in years. The past lingered here, a pale thing pacing the halls, knocking without fists, begging to be loosed. Cobwebs clung to my wrists, dust rising like breath as I pried open the forgotten mail— letters folded and refolded, addresses crossed out, sentences that never found their mouths. “Let’s ride the rails,” he said. His voice—young, low, certain— rang through me like iron striking iron. My knees softened. The floor tilted. “We should get going.” Two women in white scrubs smelled of soap and starch, their hands firm, practiced, final. Step by step, I was lifted onto wheels that hummed and rattled, carrying me through corridors of echo toward a place newly named, a place I would never call home. The economy collapsed like wet paper. The war broke what remained. Yet memory stayed— warm as breath inside the chest, refusing burial, refusing silence. It never died.
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Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 5:43 PM UTC
Years had passed.
My Words would have touched U, in so many different Ways and turn both your Hands, Cold and Numb. The Sense of Touch, is so Wonderful to Feel. A Hug, A Kiss, A Nudge, A Pat. add up to a mammoth Sum. I was a Fool to have fallen in Love, Head over Heals and Blind. I went blushing, all through the Day and at Night, I lost My Mind. Love can move Mountains I'm told, it can Calm the Storm out at Sea I had built, a Mansion for both of Us and a Wave took that, with Me.
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Sep 25, 2023
Sep 25, 2023 at 8:27 AM UTC
My Words would have touched U