"manor" poems
Someone stole your ****** and now you're feeling under.
Debriefed but not on how to deal with this outfit.
What to do? go out? fit in? Irked but no shoes or shirt.
Took it off of your back and replaced it
with a lack of faith in what this place is all about.
So you hung up your ***** laundry for all to see and they took it.
No mystery just misery. To the wanderer who said "if home is where the heart is, than I'm cynically homeless" unaware that if home is where the heart is YOU are always home.
They may have taken the shirt off his back but he would have given it gladly, cause that's not the sort of belonging he longs for. Wasn't quite his idea of clothing the homeless, but its done nonetheless.
But you got your head, shoulders, knees and toes so who needs clothes? When you're transparent. To the one who feels alone, take comfort in the fact that someone's now literally walking in your shoes... and socks ... and shirt.
Solitary days still leaving him contemplating underwhere? And underwhy? But what's garment to be will be and he'll be alright because his light shines bright, even if he doesn't see it in the glare. There's something fresh in the air. It's a mean feat, but once he learns to stand on his own two, in the space of a haunted Manor will stand a Man. One that can, will and do.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
I wake and the light of this fine day edges round the curtain.
The birds have chorused and my left foot lies cold outside the sheets.
Standing in my nightgown I draw the curtains and look out at my garden.
Let me pad downstairs, open the front door and walk brief steps
to the arbour of ferns and shells. From a cane chair
I shall view my private corner with its tiny pool and privet hedge:
whilst there is still a little dew; whilst the cobwebs still glisten;
whilst there is no wind, just a grumble of the surf at Porth Neigwl,
the sound my father makes dozing over his paper.
Miniature, enclosed, protected I will place my thoughts
in this dolls’ house garden, amongst the dank, dark shadows
of its many rooms, its parterred spaces.
You don’t walk in this garden; you take a step . . .
and you are elsewhere. Take three steps and you are quite lost.
I hear the kitchen door bang in the manor house,
Meriel is taking breakfast to my sisters.
I think I shall stay here a moment longer.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 2:33 AM UTC
i.
O'
Timely
Apricity;
ii.
Mayest thou
Warm, and blanketeth
Me; as a neonate, as
Thou shalt gorgonize
Me, from within the space,
Ourn embracing is a cataract,
Of heavied chime-together laced.
iii.
Thine speak is comely, Concord
To mine earshot; the copse is
Surrounding, none manor
Needed, just the coney's,
With the delightful tree's,
veneering ourn cot.
iv.
Exhaling all ourn woes
And sorrow's, as if none
Tommorrow; None haste,
And none distaste, house-
Leeks groweth whilst the
Flaxen colored roses follow.
v.
O' oriental Apricity
I'm cold mine lass,
I'm freezing fast;
This winter day
Hath chilled mine
Soul, I needeth thine
Fire-place, to heateth these bones.
Though far-flung, away on stretched water's.
I'm awaiting for thee, mine queen, O' Apricity,
I'm awaiting O' queen, mine swart of the sea, thou holdeth the lock, tis I hath the key, here thou goeth amour', open it up, flyeth on through-setteth me free.
©Brandon Nagley
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
In the depths of the night, where shadows creep,
Lie tales of darkness, so hauntingly deep.
A moon cloaked in mist, a chilling wind's wail,
Where spirits awaken, and courage may fail.
Beneath gnarled trees, a graveyard awakes,
Where restless souls wander, their rest at stake.
With hollowed eyes and whispers of despair,
They yearn for release from their eternal snare.
Amongst the tombstones, a figure does tread,
A specter in black, with a cloak like the dead.
Her name is Lilith, the mistress of fright,
With a wicked grin, she conjures the night.
"Oh! Hear my call," she whispers in the dark,
As she weaves her spells, leaving her mark.
Bats take to the sky, their wings spread wide,
Guiding lost souls, to the other side.
In the haunted manor, spirits do dwell,
Where echoes of laughter turn into a knell.
Ghostly footsteps echo down the hall,
As the present and past collide and enthrall.
The clock strikes midnight, the hour of dread,
When the veil between worlds grows thin, it is said.
Ghosts emerge from their slumber, seeking release,
Their ethereal presence, a haunting caprice.
In the flickering candlelight, shadows dance,
As witches gather, their potions enhance.
With cauldrons bubbling and spells on their lips,
They conjure enchantments, with mystical quips.
Oh! Beware the night, when the jack-o'-lanterns glow,
And spirits arise from the depths below.
For Halloween's magic, a captivating lure,
Where darkness and mystery forever endure.
So, as the moon rises, casting an eerie glow,
Embrace the enchantment, let your fears go.
For on this haunted eve, when the spirits unite,
We celebrate Halloween, in the shadows of night.
But tread carefully, for darkness is near,
And the spirits are watching, with ghoulish cheer.
Enjoy the thrill, the ***** and the fright,
On this chilling Halloween night.
Oct 27, 2023
Oct 27, 2023 at 9:12 AM UTC
We used to play billiards
and fight all the fire.
We'd drink tea
from cheap mugs,
read The Economist
or newspaper,
chat about boyfriends,
girlfriends,
what was and wasn't a rumour?
The printer munched on paper,
lounge about on scratchy chairs.
50% revision, 50% laughter.
Psychology was me
with a group of girls.
How many people, where, when,
and what was it Freud said again?
Spanish was the same,
me, L, C and E.
Picasso's view of war, a bull and a flower,
grammar overload in the afternoon.
And then there was English.
Can you hear me Fitzgerald?
On a row of females (not just one),
roses, four stories and a single trumpet.
On the garish bus
to see the Manor or the specialists,
to walk up and down aisles in Asda,
talking music with baguettes and meatballs.
Two years came, two years went.
Exams, goodbyes, brown envelopes arrived.
After tapas and a holiday
came sly September.
Here I was with fresh men,
different faces from different places.
So I walked up the steps
into the next avenue.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
A large, bony hand comes out of the darkness
And ruffled my hair
I looked up and saw a tall man
He seemed to lack a face
He said, "Do not fear, child. I only want to play."
He took me to his manor and said
"Now, you are here to stay."
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
Justin I forgive you, won’t you call me, your birthday must be coming soon we haven’t spoken since we moved our family into the desert. I just pray you’re not seeking cotton fever yet again, chasing the dragon, or at the very least eating school buses while falling into ‘H’ before you find yourself in bed drunk again, and on Ambien too. Dead too soon. You’ve always wondered why I didn’t introduce you to Ryan, my other incredibly dear and brotherly friend. Well wonder none more, he’s in a padded room at Mt. Sinai in Lakeview or perhaps Northwestern’s adult care unit, there was talk or at least I imagined he could make it to Lakeside Manor right there East of Foster. So it’s clemency, peace of mind, and something to loosen the edge off your back, something to let you fall, something to set your pain at weightless your mind at I-Don’t-Have-To-Give-A-Fuck-Anymore, my friend where have you been? Where have you taken yourself? Please drag yourself back at least a half-step, reverse your position and engineer an out please. I can’t begin to accept losing both of my brothers to two versions of the same disease.
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 1:10 AM UTC
An Archangel dazzled as lightening! Swapped, clasped the wings as an eagle’s talon beneath:
Climbing the thrones of Heaven swapped Lo! “An Archangel” Lo!
an Archangel? Hypnotized a soul with a lance in a trance? The crown
Of
The
Arch type
To
Her
Fingers, flowers in the moor in the hands. The ancient manor
Of Archangels in the palaces of time and space, it takes two to tangle that “Iam…that...iam”; Germania the Archangel!
Sep 17, 2009
Sep 17, 2009 at 5:38 AM UTC
Me and the crew riding around in the PT Cruiser.
Soda oozin' out the cup like the one of Biggest Loser.
Don't let the insults be spiky, like the shell of King Koopa.
Goin' back and forth : we in the movie Looper.
Be chill like the Buddha.
Dude, uh, I think you dropped your burger.
Electric surger blew up like the Time Warner merger.
The inside of our place on fire ;
The officer called us liars.
Wanted to throw us in the manor on the Cliff of Briar.
Yeah, it's an American Horror Story.
Being profiled because of ethnicity,
We're Mexican, see,
But we're not gonna steal something worth $3.50.
Looking at us like monsters of Loch Ness.
Yeah, we may come from a pool of cess
But you're simply too incredulous
To think of a time other than 1955.
You can ruin our lives
And throw us in jail in the blink of an eye.
Don't even need to find
A shred of evidence to kick our behind.
You feel like we're behind your back
Cocking our guns with a slight click-clack.
About to shoot them off with a ratatatat
While we're caressing our "gang tats".
But that's not how it is.
You think we all give weapons to kids?
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
The air is brittle this ominous, wintry night.
The slivers of a life you used to know still haunt you, as surely as you have permitted them to be a haunt to others.
Without question, it is those memories that spur your ruminations; that cause your copious circumlocutions; which compell you to stand on this somber boulevard in front of this crumbling, but once stately manor that now is a languid presence with the solitary purpose of looming over the vast grounds.
It is obligatory that you proceed along the avenue that used to split the yards that are now overgrown and chocoblock with twisted vines, and thistles.
You pause, to gather your strength.
One deep inhailation and then you hold your breath as you grip the tarnished handle and lock leaver.
With a perfect measure of strength your thumb recalls, the mechanism is undone.
Your arm pushes forward.
The silence is disturbed by a warbling creak as the heavy door is slowly opened.
You exhale, then before you lose your nerve you quickly pass through the ingress and enter into the foyer,
which is instantly familiar in the dim, flickering light and the long, slender adumbrations effected by the gossamer encaked voltives jutting from the dusty walls.
Though it has remaned unchanged
throughout all the time that has passed, standing in the ornate room affirms that the warmth with which you used to be recieved here has been abandoned to a frigidity.
You feel as if this room remembers you.
This is as far as I dare go with you, my friend, though I know you must continue.
I have listened to your stories, so
I know you have many rooms to search.
The closier that you seek is in a matter that is not my own.
I will depart upon rendering these words of warning:
When visiting the past,
As you daringly explore these often haralded halways,
Be careful what you leave behind.
Take caution not to lose yourself,
For a shadow lingers in the Suite Sublime.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
Transnational capitalism is a gluttonous preoccupation of the aristocrat. Although Simone De Beauvoir nailed her colors to the metaphorical mast of equality, it is reasonable to acknowledge that our perimeter lies beyond intra-personal vistas of gender identity and ****** preference.
The Lord of the Manor will grant entry to your greasy soul, if you embrace the common denominator of anthropological affiliation.
So, weary pilgrim, on this treacherous journey of presumed arrival: I urge you to identify that spiritual lobotomy of the majority where ontological convenience jeopardises the rich tapestry of our planet’s pulse.
Collectivism has a cosmological duality which will never be reconciled as long as parliamentary ridicule insults the intelligence of equilibrium.
Whatever happened to democracy? And, why do you simply conform to dictatorial messages which sink their teeth into the very flesh of community existence? We may not be able to alter the direction of the wind, but we can truly adjust our sails.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
It was in wander
for not lost was she.
It was in wonder
for without sin
she walked towards
the tree bearing
sweet fruit
enticing her forward
lust sent a lumber puncture
through her spine
upwards it shot to the
brain; cerebral forms
into a beating heart.
It excited her there was
such freedom found
in such innocence.
Pulsating quivers she waited
Adam to her Eve
daisy chains falling from her neck
framing a prepubescent chest
hooks temperately fastening
white knotted cotton hand sewn dress
virginal white
no womanhood in sight
Annabelle’s life, a melody of
melancholic cacophonic raspers
from asylums, former patients
of Briarcliff Manor
residing in her; only misery
innocent running’s from
grave dangers of
stark raving madness.
For, today
she wasn’t embroiled
as Arden’s pet
instead she was the little girl
so born to be before the woman
was stolen, bound by
a physicians sick
nightmarish re-enactments.
For, today
she was free
a starling, passionate
darling.
© Sia Jane
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
As I walk a meandering path
Through woodlands thoughts running through my mind.
This is my time, to reflect, think, smile even laugh.
Halfway to home, down a small trail; I spy a circle of stones.
They appear to be hidden beneath a pile of leaves, under a big oak tree.
And I begin to wonder is this where a family of fairies live.
By day, you may not see them whilst you are walking.
The fairies keep themselves hidden from sight and you would not hear them talking.
But when the sun goes in and the moon comes out; myth has it the fairies play by the pale moon light.
I waited patiently until light turned to darkness.
I was rewarded as I witnessed the most spectacular show;
hidden from view, the fairies did not know.
Three fairies in total, all in sparkly fairy dresses;
their hair fell down their backs in long, tumbling tresses.
The fairies had glorious wings, painted the brightest of colours.
I heard them say their names were Darling, Petunia and Honour.
The eldest one I heard call Darling she had a beautiful voice; you should have heard her sing.
The fairy called Petunia was the pale faced beauty of Exetonia.
Finally, Honour appeared a tomboy with short hair and plenty of dirt on her.
All three of them were very tiny as one would expect.
Can you imagine if I told you they were no bigger than a middle finger?
I watched as they sat in a circle, legs crossed, whispering and giggling.
Then suddenly they clapped their heels, flapped their wings, and took off to the skies.
The three fairies flew so high, suddenly to my eye they looked like three dragonflies.
They glided and swooped, they dived and hovered.
They flew under branches and over treetops.
They raced each other, 1,2,3 go.
Petunia I think was the youngest and she was quite slow.
The fairies continued flying until the moon went in and the sun came out.
Then they flew down to the ground and went back to their home.
Under the leaves, in a circle of stone.
Now when I am out walking.
And a dragonfly flutters by.
I wonder if this is really Darling, Petunia or Honour.
I wonder if the fairies, knew that I had spied upon their manor.
The next time a dragonfly passes you by just give a little wave and say hi – you never know it may be one of the fairies or indeed all three.
Jun 11, 2020
Jun 11, 2020 at 2:37 PM UTC
My sister dreams of flying tortoises,
cockatoos and parrots flapping in a
perfect randomness. She watches
from the porch of her cabin on the lake,
strangely grown into a manor, and recalls
the promise of someone soon returning from
a time on the water. The tortoises make her think
of portobello mushroom caps, frayed and black
against the stainless blue. She wonders what this means,
this tumbling opulence, this message in the night that my sister dreams.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
Sometimes poetry doesn’t happen
Until you’ve fashioned what you want to say
And felt its worth in prose.
You go somewhere a little known
But time newly fashions its affect.
Late autumn then, today summer’s end.
Since early morning the sun has shone.
Heading north, the clouds magisterial.
Spread themselves, ermine-cloaked.
I watch you as you drive:
The pleasing proportions of your seated self,
a warm glow on your left cheek.
*We have become so careful you and I
With what we say and the way we say it.
Hard to keep the conversation aloft.*
After ninety miles it’s good to get out
In a by-passed village, a quiet place.
Bicycles now take us towards the ancient coast.
There it is: the sea. The spirit lifts.
Wind at our backs and grateful to turn
to the pleasure of a minor road.
Now there’s time to take in a distant manor,
the swallows’ dart and spin, a stone tower
from which the landscape’s perspective flows.
A long straight road runs to a coastal village.
Lunch is eaten against a churchyard wall.
As a cloudy afternoon beckons, crows gather.
Turning east will the headwind strain
The morning’s calm confidence? Perhaps.
Have we come too far and expect too much?
At the causeway now, where the tide has left
The horizon-reaching expanse of mud and sand,
It seems a long road to the village at the island’s end.
Briefly, we sit to contemplate a yet further isle
Where, facing the sun’s fall into the folds
of distant hills, a northern saint found solitude.
So tired at the hotel I insist on immediate food
And soon the tension of the day falls from your face
And briefly I catch a smile from your eyes.
*Memory returns me to another room where, newly married,
I caressed your long nakedness in a strange half-light,
My hands and body visiting every part of you.*
As dusk falls we walk briefly to view the sand and sea.
Then bed and hardly a page turns before seeking sleep.
Restless, I reassemble the day, moment by moment.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
Theme: "Laughter for Breakfast"
A Duet by:
Bard Oluwateniola Adeniyi (Faderera)
Fuad Opeyemi (Gemini)
A free Verse Poetry
🚹🚺🚹🚺🚹🚺🚹🚺🚹🚺
Quite a yore, when the snail crawl in the open
The birds fly, oblivious of the stone
The heart so calm,
Not threatening to break out of the rib cage
Yore, when we have peace as the housewife
And laughter for breakfast
💪Gemini💪
Days are gone, when we arise at the hissing of the vulture,
When we patiently wait for the owl to hunt silently at night,
Or joyfully await the folktales of the aged,
And enjoy the moment of moonlight chit chatting while playing 'ayo'
👊Faderera👊
The thunder might clash
Storm may roar,
But the breeze of tranquil,
Still find its way to soothe the raging heart
Indeed, laughter for breakfast
💪Gemini💪
When we assemble at the manor to celebrate our unity,
Wine and dine without fear of being poisoned,
When we dangle our waist to the rhythmic beats and get autem,
Or twerk our butts to the sound of the music and not get *****
👊Faderera👊
Days, when the crop rose,
To kiss the morning light
Plants welcome the dew with joy
Felicity is brought to us on a platter
And the heaven smile its grace down
💪Gemini💪
Gone is the time, when we fall to our knees or one's face to greet,
When we have eros love to opposite gender not same gender..
When we honour the church and respect it's doctrine,
When giving wasn't a problem and kindness wasn't scarce
👊Faderera👊
Time so long, when smiles glint through the eye
Danger not friends with darkness
The chain of slavery,
Not tied to our neck, living fully
In a house not haunted
💪Gemini💪
Long gone are the days, when the richest man is one with a shilling,
and a pence could earn quality education and utilities,
When feeding wasn't a life taking occupation
Or shelter a life threatening need
👊Faderera👊
Now, lost to the feeling of nostalgia
Giving knife to demon of today
On knees, begging to be euthanized
Oh, long gone are this days
When we had Laughter for breakfast
💪Gemini💪
Now,a shilling amount to nothing; even a pence is worthless,
The leaders now dish out war and serve themselves peace,
Corruption is now added to the list on our menu,
Our food isn't complete without massacre,
Favour is now amounted to cruelty or being diabolical...
Alas! gone are the days when laughter was for breakfast
👊Faderera👊
©Oluwateniola Adeniyi™
©Pen of A true Gemini™
Do Rate this piece of Art 🎭 🎭
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 4:21 PM UTC
In a classroom neat as a pin
the sixth grade social studies class
discussed serfdom in western Europe.
Young voices decried
the inevitability of life for serfs. They
espoused running away from the manor,
could not conceive of a lack of options. One
young girl asked if a serf girl could marry
the lord, if the lord really loved her.
She had been sold on an idea of
equality. Marrying a serf, I told her,
would be like a farmer marrying
a cow from his herd. The concept
was beyond her. Of that I was glad.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
Thunder rolled deeply on the morning as the baby boy arrived,
his father typically absent his mother she wasn't surprised.
Early days were troublesome for a single mother to provide
a home, somewhere that was safe and retain some dignity and pride.
The child grew in hardship, in his mother's eyes he saw inner pain,
he often heard his mother weeping and hang her head in shame.
They survived, and into an average youth he learned and he grew,
not so different to others because, his dad, he never knew.
Early teens, he began leaving his concerned mother home alone,
with bravado hanging around places, with kids he didn't know,
from their dark influences, tricks he learnt well, in guile he was trained,
powerless to change his ways, his mother hangs her head in shame.
Attitudes hardened, he became devious, now almost a man,
so involved he became leader of his own pointless, wilful gang.
One night attempting thievery from a store, they almost were caught,
it's not their manor, they can't avoid the local gang, so they fought,
midst fists - kicks - shouts most ran, but he was pinned against an alley wall
scared, choking, grabbed a bottle from a bin and made that bottle fall
mindlessly, again - again, smashing down on his opponent's head,
fleeing the from the scene, doesn't know the man on the ground is, dead.
his gang has gone, his escape is now blocked by shadows of a group
open arms he walked toward them he's unsure of what he should do
he's encircled, the streetlight reflects each drawn blades dull deadly flame,
and later that night, his mother hangs her head in grief and shame
Michael C Crowder
Hangs Her Head In Shame (rewrite of my 1978 song Samuel)
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 7:48 AM UTC
Perhaps his duality would always be
Irreconcilable,
For had he not been made this way
by genetic chance?
A hulking man with gardener's shirt
and biker's leather pants?
He might speed along a coastal highway,
Wind in his greasy hair,
Unchopped Harley shivering,
Eyes watering from the wind,
or was it because of sheer depth of soul?
As he peeled along, avoiding fatal curves,
Did his thoughts of roses blooming
keep him from launching himself
into the fog?
Were the droplets on his face,
full of salt from the sea,
the same as those he saw
in the morning dew on his flowers?
He was a not a Hunter Thompson,
who might return home to drink and write
reams of rage against the foul Effendi,
who beset him at night
after descending from their mansions.
Yet he too needed respite and beauty,
an Owl Farm in his mind,
Or a hotel on Sunset Boulevard,
Safe under the canopy, among the palms,
His security, not a typewriter
but a garden of perfect roses
that he would tend and breed,
Keeping beauty alive to feed
His hidden desire for peace and order.
Like an old man in the country,
The “rose rustler”he played
Lived in a little house,
His unassuming paradise,
with a cat, as secretive as him,
a lone goldfish in a bowl,
who looked out each day on
manicured paths and brick walls,
worthy of any English manor,
with acres of flowers,
dozens of colors...
but every single one a rose.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 2:00 PM UTC
The Flak hits the wings and body of the plane
506th Easy Company
Of the 101st Airborne
The leg bag
Tore right off
They jumped lower than they should have been
Tracer bullets burning holes through the parachute
Tracers spraying around in the air
Firing in every direction
Paul "Buck" Rogers
Lands in a tree
Some worked their way down
Through a farm area
To a hedge row
Easy Company captured and destroyed
The guns at Brecourt Manor
Saving countless lives on Utah Beach
They helped to liberate the Dutch
Angels from the sky
The black and white footage is amazing
The gratitude and love the people show
To the men is wonderful
Finally free after four years
Of Occupation by the Germans
Battling from village to village
Along "Hell's Highway,"
Easy Company crossed Holland to the Rhine River
Nine men of Easy Company
Lost their lives
Battling in Holland
By the End of the Holland campaign,
Easy Company had been on the frontline
For more than 70 days
On Dec. 16, 1944
****** launched his offensive into the Ardennes
The Battle of the Bulge would become
The largest engagement
In the history
Of the U.S. Army
600,000 soldiers would fight in the battle
Easy Company was told to hold the perimeter of Bastogne
Surrounded by Germans
Branches knocked off of trees
Holes in the ground
Artillery attack
88s, mortars, rockets
They jumped into foxholes
He could see all the shells hitting from the foxhole
The wounded got relief from battle
Maybe a ticket home
If they died they were at peace
At Berchtesgaden
They uncovered artwork
In Zell Am Zee, Austria
Easy Company helped secure
The surrender of 25,000 German troops
On November 30, 1945
The 101st Airborne Division
Was inactivated
Day after Day
They fought together
Fought for each other
Knowing some would not return
This veteran said,
"I cherish the memories
Of a question my grandson asked me the other day.
'Grandpa, Were you a hero in the war?'
Grandpa said no
But I served in a company of heroes."
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
Welcome to poetfreak manor
everyone's welcomed here
as long as you never speak
about your anger or fear
please keep down the noise
we like it nice and quiet
please do not speak too loud
you just might cause a riot
we like to talk about flowers
or talk about the lord
we don't care if you're different
we don't care if you're bored
====================================================
Welcome to our poet's humble haven
you may hang your hat on the door
but first, is your soul worth savin?
first, what exactly are you here for?
we are intolerant to other's belief
we bow to only one holy grace
likewise thinkers are such a relief
anything else is way off base
please join us in our holy crusade
and do not show an individual voice
your opinion is far out-weighed
this is our site, this is our choice
This is a series i am doing about people at a tiny site, that sit there and condemn others all day long. Since i am an activist, i am trying to change it. I am not talking about all religious people, just the bad ones as i see them. After all, couldn't a non-christian see them more clearly than they see themselves?
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 2:52 PM UTC
Expert testimony has decreed yellow,
Who are we to speak against those with seven tongues and antlers,
You sleep as the muffin man creeps
Camera in hands and remnants of sickness past upon his clothes
Your eyes Otto Dix, your face like an anguished customer at Greggs.
He, the muffin man, staggers in the night and surveys these barren lands.
At what point will you release your patterned anguish?
Expert testimony has decreed yellow,
Watermelon and disorder for the masses in their lived fury
hunters of the lowest rung,
misery and handbags at the cumulative paces from Newcastle to Carlisle
Flawed Romans and tasty Saxons,
Expert testimony has decreed yellow,
Revolt! bring down the manor!
The muffin man in his element, deckchair reclined
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
Some recite distant waves of their time lines in a scatter
Repressed memories that come and go and fluculate with chaos
Mine are in order, like a precise file cabinet of a New York court house A through Z
1 to a million plus more filed in rigid manor
The room they lie in remains untouched on most occasions
It’s rare for me to make a visit,
But the grey cast of pulverous dust keeps people away
Including myself
Oddly enough, I wish I had the time to extinguish those files,
And completely erase everything that exists
And co-exists together within label
To revive and produce anew set of secrets
That bask in a solar energy structured room
With windows of 8 feet in height or more
So that the sun can give off a plentiful suppelment of vitamins
To keep the energy alive
To have nothing to hide
And showcase my pieces elegantly
For everyday shoppers to stop and glance,
A few applauds here and there as well
To jazz the setting up a tad
But unlike like most
I place the past so far back
It’s like the Rossetta Stone
Before she was found
All over again
When it’s finally discovered, I warn,
It will be rickety and impassible for any eyes,
News papers,
Or media to surpass
Almost as if a high ranked prison
Has just unshackled it’s most dangerous inmate
Set free on good behavior
How unfair the system can be, let alone unnerving
For now my files stay clouded and sunk
Farther than the Marianas Trench
With thousands of species undiscovered
Inaccessible to even think about attaining
So don’t worry about my inner demon being unleashed
Good behavior on good,
It's always on it’s worst.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 1:41 PM UTC
Gargoyles surround our city of masonry genius and a haunting practicality is displayed in its omen simplicity.
We know that fairgrounds can be fountains of doom – obscure environments where innocence may collide with strategic and predatory wiles.
So we must ring the bells in the high towers and allow the town-crier to proclaim his message without hindrance, from ancient waterspouts.
Close the gates of the country manor and focus upon the sophistication of the dance, where captivating etiquette conceals her heartfelt fornications. Will you approach and indulge yourself of that which is available? Come on. You know that you want to.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC