Every summer when I was a kid,
I learned a new way of whispering to the trees.
In my backyard, there was an apple tree
I named him Marlow.

His tall shadows would swallow the grass whole and consume the clouds,
His wooden teeth biting into the innocent knees and elbows
Of those who underestimated his strength.
Marlow had grown with giants, his roots flat and strong like ancient coffee tables,
And I am confounded.

I reached for his belly only to feel the warmth of the Sun,
Basking in its glory,
the purity of the grass littered with gum wrappers and popsicle sticks.
The kids across the street never took the time to say hi to Marlow,
they felt more suitable with their irises glued to their black boxes in their black living rooms.
I'd lean my body onto the trunk of Marlow, as his roots would tell me stories,
Stories of how my Tarzan belly flops would leave Indian burns on my kneecaps.

My bones became soft and compacted like Italian yogurt,
I was immortal before I could finish grade school.
We spoke incomprehensably to each other,
As if we were fearful of what was being said by those kids
But I never cared, and neither did he.

For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of *****-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dog tag,
Or better still a dog, a colossal pet beast,
A humongous Harlequin Dane to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is, after all, dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes and boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.

We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo, they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?

You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
He leaves you on the ice floe,
Remembering not to leave the sled,
The proverbial Sled of Abbandono,
The one never left behind,
As it would be needed again,
Why not a home in storage while we wait?
The family will surely need it sometime down the line.

A dignified death?
Who can afford one these days?
The question answers itself:
You are John Goodman in “The Big Lebowski.”
You opt for an empty 2-lb can of Folgers.
You know: "The best part of waking up, is Folger's in your cup!"
That useless mnemonic taught us by “Mad Men.”
Slogans and theme songs imbibe us.

Zombie accouterments,
Provided by America’s Ruling Class.
Thank you Lewis H. Lapham for giving it to us straight.
Why not go with the aluminum Folgers can?
Rather than spend the $300.00 that mook funeral director
Tries to shame you into coughing up,
For the economy-class “Legacy Urn.”
An old seduction:  Madison Avenue’s Gift of Shame.
Does your **** smell?” asks a sultry voice,
Igniting a carpet bomb across the 20-45 female cohort,
2 billion pathetically insecure women,
Spending collectively $10 billion each year—
Still a lot of money, unless it’s a 2013
Variation on an early 1930s Germany theme;
The future we’ve created;
The future we deserve.

Now a wheelbarrow load of paper currency,
Scarcely buy a loaf of bread.
Even if you’re lucky enough to make it,
Back to your cave alive,
After shopping to survive.
Women spend $10 billion a year for worry-free *****.
I don’t read The Wall Street Journal either,
But I’m pretty **** sure,
That “The Feminine Hygiene Division”
Continues to hold a corner office, at
Fear of Shame Corporate Headquarters.
Eventually, FDS will go the way of the weekly ******.
Meanwhile, in God & vaginal deodorant we trust,
Something you buy just to make sure,
Just in case the *** Gods send you a gift.
Some 30-year old **** buddy,
Some linguistically gifted man or woman,
Some he or she who actually enjoys eating your junk:
“Oh Woman, thy name is frailty.”
“Oh Man, thou art a Woman.”
“Oh Art is for Carney in “Harry & Tonto,”
Popping the question: “Dignity in Old Age?”
Will it too, go the way of the weekly ******?
It is pointless to speculate.
Mouthwash--Roll-on antiperspirants--Depends.
Things our primitive ancestors did without,
Playing it safe on the dry savannah,
Where the last 3 drops evaporate in an instant,
Rather than go down your pants,
No matter how much you wiggle & dance.
Think about it!

Think cemeteries, my Geezer friends.
Of course, your first thought is
How nice it would be, laid to rest
In the Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey.
Born a ******. Died a ******. Laid in the grave?
Or Père Lachaise,
Within a stone’s throw of Jim Morrison--
Lying impudently,
Embraced, held close by loving soil,
Caressed, held close by a Jack Daniels-laced mud pie.
Or, with Ulysses S. Grant, giving new life to the quandary:
Who else is buried in the freaking tomb?
Bury my heart with Abraham in Springfield.
Enshrine my body in the Taj Mahal,
Build for me a pyramid, says Busta Cheops.

Something simple, perhaps, like yourself.
Or, like our old partner in crime:
Lee Harvey, in death, achieving the soul of brevity,
Like Cher and Madonna a one-name celebrity,
A simple yet obscure grave stone carving:  OSWALD.
Perhaps a burial at sea? All the old salts like to go there.
Your corpse wrapped in white duct/duck tape,
Still frozen after months of West Pac naval maneuvers,
The CO complying with the Department of the Navy Operations Manual,
Offering this service on « An operations-permitting basis, »
About as much latitude given any would-be Ahab,
Shortlisted for Command-at-sea.
So your body is literally frozen stiff,
Frozen solid for six months packed,
Spooned between 50-lb sacks of green beans & carrots.
Deep down in the deep freeze,
Within the Deep Freeze :
The ship’s storekeeper has a cryogenic *******
Deep down in his private sanctuary,
Privacy in the bowels of the ship.
While up on deck you slide smoothly down the pine plank,
Old Glory billowing in the sea breeze,
Emptying you out into the great abyss of
Some random forlorn ocean.

Perhaps you are a ******* lunatic?
Maybe you likee—Shut the **** up, Queequeg !
Perhaps you want a variation on the burial-at-sea option ?
Here’s mine, as presently set down in print,
Lawyer-prepared, notarized and filed at the Court of the Grand Vizier,
Copies of same in safe deposit boxes,
One of many benefits Chase offers free to disabled Vets,
Demonstrating, again, my zombie-like allegiance to the rules.
But I digress.
« The true measure of one’s life »
Said most often by those we leave behind,
Is the wealth—if any—we leave behind.
The fact that we cling to bank accounts,
Bank safe deposit boxes,
Legal aide & real estate,
Insurance, and/or cash . . .
Just emphasizes the foregone conclusion,
For those who followed the rules.
Those of us living frugally,
Sustaining the zombie trance all these years.
You can jazz it up—go ahead, call it your « Work Ethic. »
But you might want to hesitate before you celebrate
Your unimpeachable character & patriotism.

What is the root of Max Weber’s WORK ETHIC concept?
‘Tis one’s grossly misplaced, misguided, & misspent neurosis.
Unmasked, shown vulnerably pink & naked, at last.
Truth is: The harder we work, the more we lay bare
The Third World Hunger in our souls.
But again, I digress.  Variation on a Theme :
At death my body is quick-frozen.
Then dismembered, then ground down
To the consistency of water-injected hamburger,
Meat further frozen and Fedex-ed to San Diego,
Home of our beloved Pacific Fleet.
Stowed in a floating Deep Freeze where glazed storekeepers
Sate the lecherous Commissary Officer,
Aboard some soon-to-be underway—
Underway: The Only Way
Echo the Old Salts, a moribund Greek Chorus
Goofing still on the burial-at-sea concept.

Underway to that sacred specific spot,
Let's call it The Golden Shellback,
Where the Equator intersects,
Crosses perpendicular,
The International Dateline,
Where my defrosted corpse nuggets,
Are now sprinkled over the sea,
While Ray Charles sings his snarky
Child Support & Alimony
His voice blasting out the 1MC,
She’s eating steak.  I’m eating baloney.
Ray is the voice of disgruntlement,
Palpable and snide in the trade winds,
Perhaps the lost chord everyone has been looking for:
Laughing till we cry at ourselves,
Our small corpse kernels, chum for sharks.

In a nutshell—being the crazy *******’ve come to love-
Chop me up and feed me to the Orcas,
Just do it ! NIKE!
That’s right, a $commercial right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Do it where the Equator crosses the Dateline :
A sailors’ sacred vortex: isn’t it ?
Wouldn’t you say, Shipmates, one and all?
I’m talking Conrad’s Marlow, here, man!
Call me Ishmael or Queequeg.
Thor Heyerdahl or Tristan Jones,
Bogart’s Queeq & Ensign Pulver,
Wayward sailors, one and all.
And me, of course, aboard the one ride I could not miss,
Even if it means my Amusement Park pass expires.
Ceremony at sea ?
Absolutely vital, I suppose,
Given the monotony and routine,
Of the ship’s relentlessly vacant seascape.
« There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea,
And I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates. «
So said James Russell Lowell,
One of the so-called Fireside Poets,
With Longfellow and Bryant,
Whittier, the Quaker and Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.,
19th Century American hipsters, one and all.

Then there’s CREMATION,
A low-cost option unavailable to practicing Jews.
« Ashes to ashes »  remains its simplest definition.
LOW-COST remains its operant phrase & universal appeal.
No Deed to a 2by6by6 foot plot of real estate,
Paid for in advance for perpetuity—
Although I suggest reading the fine print—
Our grass--once maintained by Japanese gardeners--
Now a lost art in Southern California,
Now that little Tokyo's finest no longer
Cut, edge & manicure, transform our lawns
Into a Bonsai ornamental wonderland.
Today illegal/legal Mexicans employing
More of a subtropical slash & burn technique.

Cremation : no chunk of marble,
No sandstone, wood or cardboard marker,
Plus the cost of engraving and site installation.
Quoth the children: "****, you’re talking $30K to
Put the old ****** in the ground? Cheap **** never
Gave me $30K for college, let alone a house down payment.
What’s my low-cost, legitimate disposal going to run me?"

CREMATION : they burn your corpse in Auschwitz ovens.
You are reduced to a few pounds of cigar ash.
Now the funeral industry catches you with your **** out.
You must (1) pay to have your ashes stored,
Or (2) take them away in a gilded crate that,
Again, you must pay for.
So you slide into Walter Sobjak,
The Dude’s principal amigo,
And bowling partner in the
Brothers Coen masterpiece: The Big Lebowski.
You head to the nearest Safeway for a 2-lb can of Folgers.
And while we’re on the subject of cremation & the Jews,
Think for a moment on the horror of The Holocaust:
Dispossessed & utterly destroyed, one last indignity:
Corpses disposed of by cremation,
For Jews, an utterly unacceptable burial rite.
Now before we leave Mr. Sobjak,
Who is, as you know, a deeply disturbed Vietnam vet,
Who settles bowling alley protocol disputations,
By brandishing, by threatening the weak-minded,
With a loaded piece, the same piece John Turturro—
Stealing the movie as usual, this time as Jesus Quintana—
Bragging how he will stick it up Walter’s culo,
Pulling the trigger until it goes: Click-Click-Click!
Terrestrial burial or cremation?
For me:  Burial at Sea:
Slice me, dice me into shark food.

Or maybe something a la Werner von Braun:
Your dead meat shot out into space;
A personal space probe & voyager,
A trajectory of one’s own choosing?

Oh hell, why not skip right down to the nitty gritty bottom line?
Current technology: to wit, your entire life record,
Your body and history digitized & downloaded
To a Zip Drive the size of the average *******,
A data disc then Fedex-ed anywhere in the galaxy,
Including exotic burial alternatives,
Like some Martian Kilimanjaro,
Where the tiger stalks above the clouds,
Nary a one with a freaking clue that can explain
Just what the cat was doing up so high in the first place.
Or, better still, inside a Sherpa’s ***** pack,
A pocket imbued with the same Yak dung,
Tenzing Norgay massages daily into his *******,
Defending the Free World against Communism & crotch rot.
(Forgive me: I am a child of the Cold War.)
Why not? Your life & death moments
Zapped into a Zip Drive, bytes and bits,
Submicroscopic and sublime.
So easy to delete, should your genetic subgroup
Be targeted for elimination.
About now you begin to realize that
A two-pound aluminum Folgers can
Is not such a bad idea.
No matter; the future is unpersons,
The Ministry of Information will in charge.
The People of Fort Meade--those wacky surveillance folks--
Cloistered in the rolling hills of Anne Arundel County.
That’s who will be calling the shots,
Picking the spots from now on.
Welcome to Cyber Command.
Say hello to Big Brother.
Say “GOOD-BYE PRIVACY.”

Meanwhile, you’re spending most of your time
Fretting ‘bout your last rites--if any—
Burial plots on land and sea, & other options,
Such as whether or not to go with the
Concrete outer casket,
Whether or not you prefer a Joe Cocker,
Leon Russell or Ray Charles 3-D hologram
Singing at your memorial service.
While I am fish food for the Golden Shellbacks,
I am a fine young son of Neptune,
We are Old Salts, one and all,
Buried or burned or shot into space odysseys,
Or digitized on a data disc the size of
An average human *******.
Snap outta it, Einstein!
Like everyone else,
You’ve been fooled again.

Part 1 Down the Rabbit Hole:

He had faith in exceptions
He was optimistic
He “believed in six impossible things just before breakfast”
and had his cake.
He mused of the bunny farm
and fought the jabberwocky in his dreams.
These things failed him.
He woke up, and was crushed with the mice
In a snap of revelation
and
Under the weight of truth.
He was shattered, along with the coral corpses
Of the paperweight

Part 2 The Paper Weight:

A coral in the glass paperweight
A hummingbird shielded by twigs
The fragile illusion
A naive illusion
“The beautiful illusion”
Quoth Marlow, our dear friend Charlie.
Through the looking glass
His world, the Poet’s world,
was shattered,
Not by “a sea of trouble”
Nor by words of a mature revelation
but by Silence.

Part 3 The Horror, The Horror:

The wrath and sorrow of the composers
Were expressed
In the requiem of silence.
The conductor threw his hand open
In the final flight of the dove
For the poet, the dreamer,
Who, and whose ballads and odes
Were silenced on the battlefronts of the nouveau era.
No one followed when he chased the seagulls.
No one answered his pleads and screams of wrath and sorrow.
In the end, there was only silence
For the poet, and his poetry.
To this he whispered:
“The Horror, the Horror”
And then
Nothing more.

The after life part 6


After sending each soul to their next lives, Cronus has been totally busy and his next soul was afl player jack reinstein who played for Ipswich in the 1960s and made himself a lifetime member of the Brisbane lions for playing in the QAFL back then, jack died peacefully in hospital at the age of 88 and when he entered Cronus said what or who do you want to be in your next life and jack said I would love to play afl footy in the Auskick to see if my spirit in my last life can make me grow stronger in the game
I would like to be good enough to be a footy player because I am spiritually good enough to play this game and Cronus said yes you were good at play and you were a good coach as well, and jack said even if I start up in the USA to play basketball it will be fine, my soul was made to play sport
Please please please let me tough and skilful enough to play sport, I used to get drunk a bit as a kid and there are a few things I did I am not happy with but I never killed anybody nor did I hold anybody hostage, just a few drink driving fines but I paid my debt to society and I should be able to play more sport a lot of sport and Cronus said yes I remember that but I am not judging you and Cronus sent jack to Athena for a soul check and to Buddha to make sure he gets what he wants and then jack went to start coaching a team on Jupiter called cosmos kings and then serial killer Noel thengate who killed 123 people between the 1950s and 1980s and when he was arrested in 1992 he was sentenced to life imprisonment till he died just now and Cronus said I am going to not give you a choice who you are, you will have cerebral palsy in your next life and Noel said ok but you are putting the future of the world into sadness but Cronus said no I am not, you did and if you want to improve your next life’s condition you have to be a good person up here in the cosmos but if you don’t you won’t live very much longer ok and Noel said but if I died I will come up to you again for another life and Cronus said yes but the same old ****** life untill you could prove to me you have changed and then Cronus said because you made the emotional part of the world really bad back then so you are being punished for your crimes and Noel said but you don’t want to destroy a baby’s life for my crimes and Cronus said yes I do because what you did back then was awful and dreadful, so I am not giving you what you want, and Noel said I went to church in prison so I should be in heaven but Cronus said yes but you still punched a few people in prison while you were in church and Noel said ok but they were worst people than me mate and Cronus said yes go to Jupiter and cause a hurricane because that is what your soul wants to do and Noel said crap mate and Cronus said you will go to Athena for a soul check and then Noel went to Jupiter and a hurricane hit California but Noel Denys wanting to do that but Cronus said I am not reversing my decision and then dean Marlow who was 45 died in a workshop fire came up to Cronus and Cronus said what do you want to be in your next life and dean said I want to be a seagull because I want free fish and chips without having to worry about it, please give me that, cause 46 years ago you gave me this ****** life after I came off my horse as a little girl, and Cronus said, ok I will see what I can do, but being a seagull is a tough job, you have no strong muscles to protect unless you Charge over on people and dean said yes I know but I live for fish and chips so I want to attempt to steal them from the humans and Cronus said no seagulls don’t do it like that, you won’t survive like that, so I will make you a seagull but because of your attitude I will give you problems because you need to change, mate and dean said ok make me a rich man
I am going to powerful, no matter where you send me and Cronus said no you will suffer, mainly because of your attitude, the world is about helping people by mending each blade of grass one by one and if you don’t know what that means you need to change and Cronus sent him to Buddha for a morality check and then to Athena for a soul check but the decision wasn’t what dean was wanting, so he headed to Saturn to get high on methane and dance to bon Scott in the club hoping he gets what he wants in the end
While Cronus was thinking as he sent more souls to where they wanted, hoping dean Marlow gets to where he is needed

Dear friends, this poem was posted on the ''Facebook'' last month along with maps and photographs, and was much appreciated. Unfortunately, I am unable to post any maps or photos on this Site! I post on the 'Facebook' these days which provides greater visibility & interaction! Hope you like this composition, - Best wishes, - Raj, New Delhi. Feb. 2022.

DATING EVENTS OF ANCIENT HISTORY : BY RAJ NANDY

FURTHER WE GET BACK IN TIME, WE ENTER THE FOG AND MIST OF THE PAST,
WHEN KNOWLEDGE BECOMES INSECURE, AND SPECULATIONS AND GUESS WORK STARTS!
WHEN WE ENTER THE REALM OF LEGENDS AND MYTHS
TO ENTERTAIN OURSELVES WITH FANCIFUL FACTS,
WAITING FOR HISTORY TO TAKE SHAPE, BASED ON RESEARCHED WORK AND VERIFIED FACTS!
IN OUR NOBLE PURSUITS AND ENDEAVOUR OUR ARCHIEOLOGISTS, GEOLOGISTS, ANTHROPOLOGISTS, - ALL COMBINE TO HELP US;
AND THEY HAVE INDEED HELPED OUR MODERN HISTORIANS, TO UNRAVEL MANY HIDDEN MYSTERIES
OF THE PAST!

NOW WHEN IT COMES TO DATING EVENTS OF THE ‘ANCIENT HISTORY’, IT MUST BE REMEMBERED BY
ALL OF US,
THAT EXACT DATES OF EVENTS CANNOT BE MADE AVAILABLE TO US!!
SINCE DATES ARE BASED ON INTERPRETATIONS OF ARCHIEOLOGICAL FINDINGS  MADE BY OUR  
LEARNED SCHOLARS,
WHICH HAS KNOWN TO VARY BY A CENTURY, OR
EVEN BY MANY MORE YEARS!!
SO IT IS WITH FACTS OF ANCIENT HISTORY, WHERE
WE CAN NEVER BE ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN,
WETHER HOMER WAS REALLY BLIND, OR THAT HIS EPICS WERE DICTATED BY HIM OR WRITTEN?
THE TROJAN WAR IS THOUGHT TO HAVE TAKEN PLACE BETWEEN 1200 AND 1150 BC,
BETWEEN THE MYCEANEAN GREEKS AND THE TROJANS,
IN THE NORTH-WESTER CORNER OF PRESENT-DAY TURKEY.
IT WAS A PERIOD WHICH SAW THE COLLAPSE OF THE MYCENEAN BRONZE AGE CIVILIZATION.
COMMENCING THE 400 YEARS OF “THE DARK AGES” IN GREECE, -ABOUT WHICH WE HARDLY HAVE ANY NOTION!
SO SCHOLARS HAD RELIED ON SEVERAL ARCHIEOLOGICAL DIGS, WHILE COMPOSING ANCIENT TROJAN HISTORY.
WHICH WE NOW GET TO READ, THOUGH SURROUNDED BY FEW MYTHS AND MYSTERIES!

NOW THE SEVEN LAYERS OF THIS TROJAN CITY WAS DUG UP  IN THE 19TH AND THE 20TH CENTURIES AT PLACE CALLED ‘HISARLIK  TELL’;              (Tell = is a mound)
WHICH WAS A MAN MADE MOUND BUILT ONE ON TOP OF THE OTHER, WITH MANY HIDDEN MYSTERIES AS WELL!
SO THE CITY OF TROY DID EXIST, AND A TROJAN WAR MIGHT HAVE ALSO TAKEN PLACE.
BUT THE REAL CAUSE FOR THIS WAR REMAINS ELUSIVE,
AND OUR  SCHOLARS CAN ONLY GUESS!
WE GO BY GENERAL CONSENSUS AMONG SCHOLARS WHO SPOKE OF MARTIME RIVALRY BETWEEN THE MACENEANS AND THE TROJANS,
FOR CONTROLLING THE SHIPPING LANE TO THE BLACK SEA UP NORTH, BY SAILING ACROSS THE WATERS OF
THE AEGEAN.      (Map here cannot be shown on this site!)
NOW AS FOR “THE FACE THAT LAUCHED A THOUSAND SHIPS” WHICH WE FIND IN CHRISTORHER MARLOW’S ‘DR. FAUSTUS’ DURING LATER DAYS;
WELL, IN THOSE ARCHEOLOGICAL DIGS THERE ARE NO TRACES OF ANY ADULTEROUS LOVE, OR OF FAIR HELEN’S BEAUTIOUS FACE!

FRIENDS, LET US NOT FORGET THE BRITISH AUTHOR JK ROWLING,  WHO BECAME ONE OF THE RICHES FEMALE NOVELISTS OF OUR WORLD;
WITH HER ‘HARRY POTTER’ SERIES WHICH DESCRIBES A LEGENDARY, MAKE-BELIVE AND A FANTASY  WORLD!!
NOW AS A POET I DO LOVE THE MYTHS  AND LEGENDS OF THE PAST, IMAGINING THAT THEY ARE TRUE,
BUT WHEN IT COMES TO ‘DATING EVENTS’ OF ANCIENT HISTORY MY FRIENDS,
I REMAIN AS SKEPTICAL, OR EVEN AS GULLIBLE AS YOU!!
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
NOTES:  IN ANCIENT GREECE HISTORICAL DATING IS SAID TO HAVE COMMENCED WITH THEIR FIRST OLYMPIC GAMES HELD DURING 776 BC, WHICH FOLLOWED A CYCLE OF A FOUR YEAR PERIOD, WHICH HELPED IN THEIR SUBSEQUENT DATINGS.  ARTIST’S IMPRESSION OF THE OLYMPIC GAMES HAVE BEEN POSTED FOR YOU.   - By Raj Nandy, New Delhi, Jan. 2022.

The Death of the Poet
By: Yue Xing Yitkbel ****
9:38PM
10/21/2013 TO, ON

Part 1 Down the Rabbit Hole:

He had faith in exceptions
He was optimistic
He "believed in six impossible things just before breakfast"
and had his cake.
He mused of the bunny farm
and fought the jabberwocky in his dreams.
These things failed him.
He woke up, and was crushed with the mice
In a snap of revelation
and
Under the weight of truth.
He was shattered, along with the coral corpses
Of the paperweight

Part 2 The Paper Weight:

A coral in the glass paperweight
A hummingbird shielded by twigs
The fragile illusion
A naive illusion
"The beautiful illusion"
Quoth Marlow, our dear friend Charlie.
Through the looking glass
His world, the Poet's world,
was shattered,
Not by "a sea of trouble"
Nor by words of a mature revelation
but by Silence.

Part 3 The Horror, The Horror:

The wrath and sorrow of the composers
Were expressed
In the requiem of silence.
The conductor threw his hand open
In the final flight of the dove
For the poet, the dreamer,
Who, and whose ballads and odes
Were silenced on the battlefronts of the nouveau era.
No one followed when he chased the seagulls.
No one answered his pleads and screams of wrath and sorrow.
In the end, there was only silence
For the poet, and his poetry.
To this he whispered:
"The Horror, the Horror"
And then
Nothing more.

You sometimes have to believe
not to be frightened any more
for what is rejection
when you love what you are

Touch me for I live still
a Mozart in the making
I wonder if Marlow thought the same
before murdered, what a shame

I gave up caring about myself, years ago
and what I write is the way I go
where is my life
for all I am is poetry

You sometimes have to believe
and I need to believe
for what is life
without my love of poetry


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris

© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)

You loved her in the womb,
Until you saw her face,
Then you decided she was an ugly baby,
You loved the story until you saw the person,
Then you decided you don’t believe them,
Because of their Race.
You wanted them teaching your children,
Until you saw their sexuality,
Their appearance their beliefs their eyes.
You loved them until you saw who they love
And how they choose who and how to love,
Then you decided they weren’t worth hearing.

You decided that they Are crazy.
You decided that they belong in a box,
Because we know “how to deal with people like them
How to fix people like them”.
But what you don’t do is listen.
You are so quick to change your opinion,
When you judge with your eyes.

You are so quick to tell call them worthless,
And to say, “YOU’RE FIRED”,
For believing something you didn’t.
You are so quick to ostracize them, to hate them,
To say that something is wrong with them.
Because you judge with your Eyes,
And forgot your heart.

Copyright Ashley Marlow ©

In marlow be he lopped of puneth steff
und marked léath in toper laked breath.
Larned of gyre within underparried smoth,
Through nigh for lone barnit do such men.

One sclarms in great hooroopalées
To know desous that legemont criney laves,
Und staphe und bemolie dank for tiny ravings
lund for farnitulobomy maketh scathing lathes.

With gear und glem Sten over themble tee,
Class teeblon fra noy in silver nins.
For durng broy al mar laked schees
Lar tophe maynansi tipple skins.

Thar léath ti maynansi ouvrer tair
Lop scollomis trayver lorna frayn.
Ab lasci nordich mosa far tibu glar.
Rate olvo vraydon seem us legemont clane.

A Poem: Pride....

She's beautiful and intelligent
She moves with people of her level in affluence contingent
Who's understanding is shallow
She hates poor boys but loves Prince Marlow

My color is beautiful
I love those who get "kala kala", they mustn't be dutiful
I want those who will take me to Dubai
Spend on me and keep me in "no skin pain" fry


Life is not all about living wealthy
Wealth without experiences that leads to wisdom is *****
Love is not all based on money
Your attitude alone is honey

Beauty fades in a twinkling of an eye
Intelligence is ignorance if not in good attitudes style
Humility is the ladder of Greatness
Pride, Dear Singles, lies only in the house of foolishness.


© Daniels Pen ™ ✍️✍️✍️✍️ 2020.