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jane taylor May 2016
precious innocent soul
skipping rocks
on cobblestone roads
vulnerable untarnished pure
no residue of earthly soil

return me to that naiveté
unburdened by layers
of fake masks
and perfect capped teeth
in narcissistic societies

but I shan’t grasp
at ethereal edges
of nebulousness
and ephemeral
innocence

i shall endure
what I abhor
a master’s soul
cannot be forged
in paradise

wisdom’s essence
‘tis not pristine white
hints of ivory
tinge the effervescence
of the sage’s breath

©2016janetaylor
somewhere between the fourth and fifth

load of laundry,

sometime after breakfast~lunch,
now served in the USA at home,
as an all day meal, per the edict of Mcdonalds,
start fixing dinner, take a break, walk to the mailbox,
retrieve the post and quick retreat back inside,
ah that Texas sun, bilingual chili hot,
toss the unopened on the prior weeks pile,
cause everyone loves company

the home-cold-brewed ice coffee needs a filling
for the fridge has decided not to help
by automatically refilling the pitcher

even if it could
I, busy folding,
needing two hands
and all my teeth
for folding my master’s rocket ship

sheets

my master observes with one of his alternating demeanors,
this one, super silent watching, announcing that  I need a nap:

“don't you always say, baby,
take a nap when you can, baby,
for when you need one, baby,
you probably won’t be able, my baby”


with selected-hand-led fingers,
he lays me down to sleep,
bids me to slow slide to dreamland, dinner will keep,
curling inside my frame, hands a-cupping my *******,  
telling me a drowsy tale, inherited from his mother’s womb
and his granddaddy’s tongue, mindful of his family’s history

there, is where, they find us,
dinner fixings burnt,
me and my five year old baby boy,
still sleeping fast, around 5pm, bodies enwrapped,
tied by blood and entwined in old nursery rhymes,
Texas tall tales of Pecos Bill,
me and my very own

nap-ster master

<•>

p.s.  and they call me by my other name to wake me, momma
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
A lover like an impressionist masterpiece,
stroked with a loving hand and
painted by its master,
dressed in its finest to frame the beauty within.

You, my love, were like that master
painting me to reflect the person you saw inside,  
creating a world for you to hold,
molding me into the ballet of colors that dance in your eyes.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Melissa S Feb 2017
Master Manipulator
Parading around with all his strings
Trying to control
Persuade  
Use her to carry out his way of things
Why does everything always
have to be on his terms
Why does she even listen to  
all his mean and careless words
She is a real person
not just a puppet for his life
Now on to him and his ways
She finally sees the real him and understands
and is why she now carries scissors
in her hand :)
MaxiM May 2018
Why am I the only one who notices the insincerity,
As if I am the only one who sees clarity,
He/She is a lie.

Master manipulator has the blind thinking they see,
It is not their fault they are easily deceived,
For me I know not to trust just my eye.

Fake smiles and wild guile,
The audacity truely amazes me,
A smudged window of clear opacity.
We all see and know him/her, just as we feel for the deceived, never for the deceiver; The Master-Manipulator.
Grace Dec 2015
Maybe this is what trust is
Your scorching hands
Searing my shoulder blades
“I could if I wanted to”
Turned my insides gray

Thirteen year old skin
Stretched thin
Ached to peel away
Where your fingers had played

I was an instrument
But that’s not how I preform
I can only make symphonies now
Alone

I loved you
With every pulse behind my skin
Family
Blood didn’t have to make the bond
My protector
Becomes the predecessor to all my fears

If you’d press your ear against my chest
A reverberation of no’s would pound your eardrum
Freshly thirteen
Stolen firsts
I can never right again

“Don’t act like you don’t want it”
But it was you
Who mastered in pretend
Every word I write makes you more and more fictional.
Stephen Purcell Sep 2015
The eternal tango of the maestro manifests itself in nigh infinite ways.
With the flick of the artist's brush, the stroke of the novelist’s pen or the chicken scratch of the scholar’s nib, legacies are etched, history is written and the world is shaped.
The astronomer, the craftsman and the physician all have one thing in common: Mastery.
Such pinnacles of skill have decades of their lives consumed, nay devoured in the pursuit of perfection, of greatness. Like grains of sand slowly falling into a furnace are the seconds of our lives, trickling, melting into puddles. But as sand melts, it forms shapes; therein lies the potential. Moldable puddles, colourless, devoid of naught but a clear medium.
Classical ideals of education and life. Miscellaneous cultural connections.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
I am not the master of my writing

-
my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;

the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional

so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;

I offer the she-muse two choices:

give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,

bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance

my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant

muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services

weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad

the muse-***** cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh

there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost
Carter Ginter May 2013
He asked me if I'm really as okay as I seem,
Surprised at the fact that I seem unchanged;
And I could honestly not answer that question,
Not to where he'd understand.
I knew going into the situation that rejection was likely,
But I just needed an answer.
So am I ok?
Well I'm not visibly down,
But I've stopped caring about things.
And I'm not crying,
But inside I'm burning.
So no, I'm not ok,
But I'm not not ok either.
I'm in this state of nothing.
And that's just ok.
I recently asked someone out who I've been close with for awhile. As I knew was likely, I got rejected. My best friend knew how much it meant to me and he was pretty shocked at how okay I seemed today. So he had to ask of I'm really as alright as I seem; I am and I'm not. I'm definately not as ok as I appear but I guess I'm just good at wearing a mask (title reference)
S Bharat Apr 9
The Master

The Master had a dog
And a docile goat.
Once he went through
Jungle in the boat.

There, he left his dog
Known as bad hat.
The dog returned home
And received a pat.

The Master's was then
A sweet darling pet.
It made the dog happy,
The goat very upset.

The goat annoyed none,
Made no mistake.
Still she was ******* to
A rusty-iron stake.

S. Bharat
Leal Knowone Jan 2015
LOST NO LIGHT, LIFE IN VAIN
CARRY LIARS INTO THE FLAMES
DREADED MEMORIES OF HORRIBLE PAIN
BURY MEMORIES ALL THE SAME

HOPEFUL HEARTS OPEN TO THE SUN
AS A NEW DAY DAWNS
AFTER ALL IS SAID AND DONE
I'M A BULLET WITH NO GUN
I'M ALIVE AGAIN
AT THE END BACK WERE WE BEGAN

WHATEVER GODS MAY BE
I'M THE MASTER I CREATE
MASTER OF MY DESTINY
THE MASTER OF MY FATE
I AM THE CAPTAIN OF THIS SOUL
YOU CAN NOT VIOLATE
YOU WONT MAKE ME COLD
I WONT FEEL YOUR HATE

wrong & right its all the same
you still have somewhere to place the blame
lost in forbidden realms of the brain
it all seems different but still the same

LOST NO LIGHT, LIFE IN VAIN
CARRY LIARS INTO THE FLAMES
DREADED MEMORIES OF HORRIBLE PAIN
BURY MEMORIES ALL THE SAME

HOPEFUL HEARTS OPEN TO THE SUN
AS A NEW DAY DAWNS
AFTER ALL IS SAID AND DONE
I'M A BULLET WITH NO GUN
I'M ALIVE AGAIN
AT THE END BACK WERE WE BEGAN
Co wrote by Brad Huston A.K.A. Arcontas Blank
Master builder of hanging audio of the hearts,
Tapping and mapping
a
kind of music through the vocabulary of arts,
in
conducting  the harmonious sound of unique violin orchestra
a crowd of fiddlesticks rima …
up… and only ups…
never downs.
Audio
Audio…
I will go…true or false.  
That’s what you ask for it. If you ask me to stay, I would never say no.
Have you ever seen me on the occasion of disobeying you?
Neither yes, nor no…
Thirsty and aridity,  
Words dance glamorously in the silence of the mud of bricks
You will construct the magic towers of the world gust (crust).
On the apex
Trapper of heights
you
Shaking hand for all ant size human shape creatures
In down.
I’am member among.
Time flies and melts in icy doom of the word “why”… burning agitatedly on the white eyes.
Don’t look at me.
Whatever had been shaped, like thunder of emotional burst digs …digs in insomnia of rapid nightmares
of mine.
O' liberty…
Don’t be dubious of what you are going to do, Master architecture of heavenly domes of long treatise of eloquence and good sounds.
Hissing….sooozzzing….biippping ….buzzzing….moooppping….murmers….
Claps and shouts.
Ant shaped creatures gather under the grand dome and waiting for miraculous mesmerize.
No more I am among.
Master builder of raw materials
in vivid shape of “new oregano (m).”
Time runs and I am not “going to catch a falling star.”
Time of demise.
Heavy lock on mouths. Death of both of us in constructing the luxurious roads never ended in dead end of not being honest and neither being wise.
Master designer of unique arches…domes…abstruse stairs…
Audio…audio. I will go…for you and ours.
Derivations:
Master Builder:  a drama by Henrik  Ibsen
Go and Catch a Falling Star: a poetry by John Donne
Novum Organum: a philosophical book by Francis Bacon (16th century)
timmyxholiday Feb 2018
and he put the last stroke to the canvas
a tear fell
his wife called forth the family
now mostly unknown to him and generations younger than this,
his masterpiece

it was finally finished
so many of his friends had passed on to wherever they believed
and now so could he too
and so he called him
'It's finished' he said
'I will make the arrangements' responded the voice
and then the master smiled and left.

and in the great hall in the main room it hung
freed from the decades of it's creation
and people would walk by and say
'oh my god,'
'what type of wood is that frame made out of?'
'I don't know,' they would say, 'but it looks cheap.'
and they would move on to the next masterpiece
zebra May 2017
serpent girl dancing    
on a red stone cobbled hill    
ritual of
Leviathan    
trident to the belly    
on stained alters bleached    
blood and sweat sacrifice    
candles burning    
from the bottoms up    
dipped in tears and pearls    
      
nothing she won't do    
swaying her hips    
rhythmically    
while toothless mouths sobbing    
gum her body    
a curse of deification    
      
necromancer    
*** pact    
gorgeous fornicator
walking under water
her heart like a diamond    
player of the infernal tarot    
creeps daughter down on all fours    
eating ***** with her butter *** up    
quantum jumping    
doing the planetary bunny hop    
on vacation in a fire red bikini  
and la dolce vita sunglasses    
shes a guest of the sage of pyramids    
catching solar rays    
reading    
from the book of doom    
and fake dogmas    
      
lips like obsidian fire    
that eat bad children    
especially ankle biters    
scryer of black warped mirrors ranting    
singing in the Vatican of the dead living    
worm girls kissing muscular arterial shafts    
and ***** in a twist    
while making vampire paintings    
in dark ritual adorations    
    
****  
of    
oodoo    
voodoo    
i    
do    
to    
you you    
plying your soul    
with dreams    
of    
Hollywood    
cinema    
and headless swiveling  
Bollywood    
jitterbug    
      
beating devils gory    
with harrowing archfiends    
and ****** heels    
for  
love money *** and combat    
      
gods above    
angels to the flanks    
north south east and west    
seventy-two demons below    
a crystal floor of vice gripped cherubim    
with steal shewed pentagrams    
holding dominion  
with golden ring    
enclosed in a synagogue of will    
she's my hot randy *****    
in leopard *******   
      
don't **** with her    
she eats souls
like taffy    
while posing    
as a kitten    
outside her window
Allen James Sep 2018
Silly little wishes,
Fantasies and dreams,
Who but me to make them true?
Or so that way it seems,
Twice a day, a minute spent,
Begging my soul's master,
Oh I could count a thousand prayers,
Without a single answer,
Kneeling down on tender knees,
Beneath the mercy of a rope,
Wishful truth may set me free,
But the cruelest lie is hope,
So of these vacant, mystic promises,
I've grown weary and suspicious,
If I am God then God is dead,
And so are all my wishes.
Elisabeth Sep 2018
Little whimpers escape your lips as your fingers reach toward the moon

Your wrists are gripped and forced against brick

Breaths coming and going quickly

Yelps from your throat leave you raw

Teeth in your neck leave you rigid

Aching, eyes drooping

Cold and heavy

You drop
CK Baker Oct 2017
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park

combine shavings
in crack rust brown
scissors chips
fall to the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts)
give thanks

joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull at the seeds

wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
blood rush churns
in a chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound

jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball park empty
with pennants past

barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch

brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from timber tops
3 wick candles
set the dinner place

shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return ~
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
OpenWorldView Jul 12
made us money slaves
control our narratives
divide and conquer
we live in a crazy
nearly surreal time
it plays like a bad movie
in front of our eyes
September Roses Aug 2018
The satin gown of hope a myth
      
   The heroes fallen                                      
                                    to the abyss

The bloom of death, no longer risen
Our souls trapped in endless prison

        Existence the master of all
        masked curses
    
              A song of tragedy with endless
              verses

   So if dying breath comes anyway
                  What's it matter
                 How soon the day

All suns set
Some plan no dawn
They care not for those who mourn

           I wish myself
      The blood to stop
     To soon not hold
   A single drop

So I promise you my heart for free
       If you swear
   You'll rip it out of me
why doesn't hello poetry like metaphorical Shakespearean poetry? its so pretty?
Mary Gay Kearns Apr 2018
Falling about in a shamble of giggles
As the quiver tipped her inside,
The Art Master had passed by
She was interrupted.

Taking the path next to the library
Where students poured out
Their sorrows over dissertations
In the Summer heat.

It had come to her slowly this
Sense of embarrassment
Unable to communicate with fluency
Or look into blue eyes.

Love Mary
Remembering Alan Simmons my Art teacher at Wallhall Teacher Training College in the 1980s in Hertfordshire.
Lovely , genuine , kind person. Had a beautiful garden.
Xaela San Jul 2018
Come forth shall Master of Souls
For I, unconquerable soul
Shall live eternity lives
Neither Reaper cease me
Nor the God of Gods **** me
Even centuries of eternity collapse
Though heaven and hell collide
Nothing but the Master of Souls
He alone shall vanish my history.
i wrote this ages ago...
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