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ShFR Oct 2018
8 fifteen in the morning,
huddled around a wooden framed door,
awaiting today’s moderator,
another professional development,
Restorative Practices,
the art of inclusion,
the art of accountability;
Skill building,
Cooperation,
The mutual hate among us as we stare into a dark room,
windowless,
Awaiting another 7 hour day of ice breakers,
We clutch our coffees and populate the lone corner —
— 12 capacity room in the basement,
All 15 of us,
Good morning: let’s begin
© 2018 by S Fraz All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of S Fraz
we gathered in a lighted tower
of a lower Manhattan promontory
seminarians listen
to discursive ramblings
of bank industry experts
on the finer points of
Basel II
Tier Three
op risk

towards a better better
best practice
we pique our ears to hear
the critical
dispassionate annunciations
of expert expertise

a panel of practitioners
a panoply of knowledge
networking opportunities
and hands on insight
we are granted
institutional affirmation
nesting warmly
in a corporate cocoon
13 flights up
off West Street
10 bucks a seat
30 for non-members

we settle
in soulless white rooms
divided by long
horizontal wall panels
bleached of all humanity
visualizing phantasmagoric vistas
of changing regulatory landscapes
in strait backed chairs
resembling the blanco armor acrylics
of Imperial Stormtroopers

on watch for Black Swans
the panel's moderator incants
if one appears
we told you so
if one fails to materialize
risk managers
have earned their dear keep
seminarians chuckle

the dais backdrop
a massive SONY plasma screen
stares down seminarians
with ruminative bleakness.
no digital blips or power points
will convey any meaning
turn a clever phrase
sprout a statistic
paint a pretty picture,
just the plain spoken word
of highly credentialed
speakers with bios
many paragraphs long
confers license to speak

the screens blackness
a perfect counter point
to a rooms spare whiteness
and pedestrian furbishment
save a day glow Warhol Print
of the heroic MTV moon walker
and a predominant majority
of Far Eastern attendees

questions from the floor
drizzle the panel
tied tongues
use tight selective language
of lexiconic colloquialisms
speaking a queer vernacular
of erudite bombastic bunk

questions are mumbled
with increasingly greater acuity
dancing around bank meltdowns
and global economic catastrophes
with a self anointed smug absolution
and poignant failure to acknowledge
a failures paternity
pink elephants and 800 pound gorillas
remain dance hall wallflowers


to be sure language evolves
the moderator instructs
as regulatory guidelines converge
to address market flux.
Is everyone comfortable with
the current acronyms
we devised
to describe our
present situation
best laid plans
and timely initiatives
to safeguard capital adequacy
and institutional solvency
right here in our own
little tower of Babel?

My tie is too tight
to clear my throat
I can't ask my question
of apples to apples
dust to dust
and oranges to tangerines
while the halting speech of others
is broken up
by timely ring tones
from Jeopardy
and Gene Autry's
Don't Fence Me In

every once in awhile
a chuckle is raised
we laugh about the score
in this inside baseball game
of capital requirements
regulatory Nexis
and smart *** traders
plying bold arbitrage strategies
blowing us back to Basel I
after the global bank implosion
oh the hilarity
of credit crises and crashes
the jokes on us
the joke-sters R US

some begin to
urgently finger blackberries
sending confident commands
to be dutifully carried out
by young back office minions
impatiently waiting
hanging on every word
of unintelligible texts
eagerly biding time
to take
the solid senders warm seat
in these cold blanched rooms

Closing the seminar
the moderator's summation
offered the thought
that her fondest hope remains
scenario analysis,
stress testing
and the new
emerging paradigms
will become
embedded in
risk management
best practices
and that fewer regulators
will be needed to regulate
and we will continue
to be employed
(nervous chuckles)
clapping
reception for networking
to follow
questions
and
cocktails
in the next room

I move quickly
to fill my plate with brie
English tea crackers
and a smoky tangy cheese.
A fellow seminarian
approaches me.
He smiles and asks,
Whats your name?
What do you do?
I tell him
and ask the same.
He says he is 50
and unemployed.
He sounds unsure
and frightened.
I bite into a chunk
of exotic cheese.
******* crumbs fall
onto the lapel
of my freshly pressed
pinstripe suit.

Music Selection:
Miles Davis
Red China Blues

jbm
NYC
03/03/09
Lawrence Hall Feb 2019
a HOME credible THE BISHOP accusation ADMINISTRATION is PARISHES one MINISTRIES that, SCHOOLS after RESOURCES review SAFE ENVIRONMENT of EMPLOYEES reasonably CAREERS available, CONTACT US relevant MAKE A GIFT information BISHOP’S FAITH APPEAL in LOVE AND JUSTICE consultation AFRICAN AMERICAN MINISTRY with CATHOLIC CHARITIES the PLANNED GIVING Diocesan CHANCELLOR Review OFFICE OF CONSTRUCTION Board HISPANIC MINISTRY or CAMPUS MINISTRY other CRIMINAL JUSTICE MINISTRY professionals, STEWARDSHIP AND COMMUNICATIONS there YOUTH MINISTRY is FINANCIAL SERVICES reason MODERATOR OF THE CURIA to MAKE A GIFT TO THE CAPITAL CAMPAIGN believe SOCIAL MEDIA POLICY is FAMILY LIFE MINISTRY true VOCATIONS

The soup today is not what it could be;
We’d better search out the old recipe


Explanatory Note:

I fear the poem as written fails, which is my fault (perhaps I have lapsed into fuzziness from reading  Leonard Cohen), so here is a bit of exposition:

The words in small print are a quote from the Bishops of Texas (long may they wave), generated by some in-house scrivener, about what constitutes a "credible accusation."  "Credible accusation" is not a title in civil, criminal, or canon law, and it appears to be some sort of Article 58 (cf. Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago), a means whereby anyone is guilty because he has been accused.  It stinks.

Also stinky is the behavior of some few priests and religious.

Anyway, I pulled the quote from a diocesan web site, and scattered among it in LARGE TYPE categories from that site.  I stirred 'em all up in a soup because the matter of paedophilia and the bishops' responses seem to be a soup, making it difficult for a "good simpleton" (cf A Canticle for Leibowitz) like me to understand.

May God have mercy on us all.
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Heidi Kalloo Apr 2016
If I was a provider of the content I like
Like I wanted to be I’d never have gotten that
Surgery that ****** up my mammary glands
      I’d gush a milky **** for all audiences
    Even the ones that knew me before I turned bad *****
And spoilt
Even my great aunt and grandma and mom
who have finally befriended me
on Facebook
The ***** in me covers up and cuts off these
Lady parts
But I heat up and cant hide
The spark in my eyes when I see a girl
Unafraid of her ******
Wearing lingerie on IG

Feminism to me is radical or bust
Is ******* your ****** ****** and
Taking lots of pictures as proof
Of your own ****** occurrence,
Reposting if I get taken down,
Moderator of my own **** self.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2016
one thousand poem children



one thousand poems has mine soul commissioned,
a thousand more neath stone vault doors do attend,
patiently waiting revisions, rescission, catch and release permission,
waiting room patients, looking to buy a more favorable diagnosistician

this prolificacy,
nether curse or blessing,
this profligacy,
poem children fathered by single mom mothered,
borne nightly in dreams borne
from the northern, the southern,
the brains twilighted hemispheres,
who coordinate, drawing deep,
consulting a bartender's manual
a creation guide of mixology,
'how to intoxicate the brain'

cheap gin, multi-generational scotch,
visionary vermouth, the reddened cassis of life,
memories in the white grapes of possibilities,
futures unrealized, colorful takes and retakes,
a directors bespoke make-believe tales,
impossibilities, divine and mundane,
all into one admixture into the venous cavities poured,
nerves to blood to consciousness,
courtesy of the ganglia

the brain stem transmits them
fully formed to my
good morning sunshine
cracked and dried lips for re-emission

nigh head upon the pillow,
the hair trigger,
my rapid eye heartbeats, each a demanding sweetheart,
some performed to a discordant metronome,
in a controlled rage, my mental waste,
eliminated

the residuals,
purified with language as the
orchestrator, debate moderator

dreams, once recoded, once accorded,
the disordering tempestuous,  
neurons cease-to-fire,
now just words, just words, just womb excretions

did I admit to a thousand?

more like tens of ten,
one, two per eventide,
have washed  ashore, for some thirty years recorded

my brain pixilated,
its big shot game controller,
demanding purchase of more;
more storage space, more games,
not admitting in advance,
that it filters blends, conflates and purges

by combining
psalms and ditties, infantile rhymes and
new vocabularies of  human aging idiocies,
though newly acquired, immediately forgot,
so always room enough for
one more episode


I study the brain, I study sleep,
study living and dying occurring at
their point of intermediation,
dreams


*this more knowledge gives no relief,
it becomes this poem becoming,
testifying that I prosecute myself
based on the evidence,
and if insufficient,
dream up nascent visionaries
from places that come unlocked,
tales from the vault vivisected,
the proper verdict
assured

sixty six years
of accumulation,
and still know so little of
proper space utilization,
writing poems proper

but nightly come the dreams,
nightly comes the trial,
comes the judgements,
comes a man-made customized
whitewall tired judgement,
and to you
submitted for
judicial review

strange that each one of you
becomes, adopts, adapts my visage,
my words in you, reflected,
a jury of my peerage peers,
which is why my appeals are
always returned in the file labelled
"denial"

until the next nights dream
Mary McCray Apr 2019
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 20, 2019)

“Everybody who likes to make a Plan B,”
the moderator said, “stand over here.
And everybody who doesn’t like Plan Bs,
stand over there.

There were two groups of us:
half the department on one side;
half the department on another.
Our directors where both on the same side.

So the moderator asked them,
“Why don’t you like to make Plan Bs?”

And the head of marketing said,
“I don’t like to make Plan Bs
because plans never work out.”

I really wish I could add a rimshot to this poem.
Prompt: write  write a poem that “talks,” slangy, based in spoken language.
"AND did you really walk," said I,
"On such a wretched night?
I always fancied Ghosts could fly -
If not exactly in the sky,
Yet at a fairish height."

"It's very well," said he, "for Kings
To soar above the earth:
But Phantoms often find that wings -
Like many other pleasant things -
Cost more than they are worth.

"Spectres of course are rich, and so
Can buy them from the Elves:
But WE prefer to keep below -
They're stupid company, you know,
For any but themselves:

"For, though they claim to be exempt
From pride, they treat a Phantom
As something quite beneath contempt -
Just as no Turkey ever dreamt
Of noticing a Bantam."

"They seem too proud," said I, "to go
To houses such as mine.
Pray, how did they contrive to know
So quickly that 'the place was low,'
And that I 'kept bad wine'?"

"Inspector Kobold came to you - "
The little Ghost began.
Here I broke in - "Inspector who?
Inspecting Ghosts is something new!
Explain yourself, my man!"

"His name is Kobold," said my guest:
"One of the Spectre order:
You'll very often see him dressed
In a yellow gown, a crimson vest,
And a night-cap with a border.

"He tried the Brocken business first,
But caught a sort of chill ;
So came to England to be nursed,
And here it took the form of THIRST,
Which he complains of still.

"Port-wine, he says, when rich and sound,
Warms his old bones like nectar:
And as the inns, where it is found,
Are his especial hunting-ground,
We call him the INN-SPECTRE."

I bore it - bore it like a man -
This agonizing witticism!
And nothing could be sweeter than
My temper, till the Ghost began
Some most provoking criticism.

"Cooks need not be indulged in waste;
Yet still you'd better teach them
Dishes should have SOME SORT of taste.
Pray, why are all the cruets placed
Where nobody can reach them?

"That man of yours will never earn
His living as a waiter!
Is that queer THING supposed to burn?
(It's far too dismal a concern
To call a Moderator).

"The duck was tender, but the peas
Were very much too old:
And just remember, if you please,
The NEXT time you have toasted cheese,
Don't let them send it cold.

"You'd find the bread improved, I think,
By getting better flour:
And have you anything to drink
That looks a LITTLE less like ink,
And isn't QUITE so sour?"

Then, peering round with curious eyes,
He muttered "Goodness gracious!"
And so went on to criticise -
"Your room's an inconvenient size:
It's neither snug nor spacious.

"That narrow window, I expect,
Serves but to let the dusk in - "
"But please," said I, "to recollect
'Twas fashioned by an architect
Who pinned his faith on Ruskin!"

"I don't care who he was, Sir, or
On whom he pinned his faith!
Constructed by whatever law,
So poor a job I never saw,
As I'm a living Wraith!

"What a re-markable cigar!
How much are they a dozen?"
I growled "No matter what they are!
You're getting as familiar
As if you were my cousin!

"Now that's a thing I WILL NOT STAND,
And so I tell you flat."
"Aha," said he, "we're getting grand!"
(Taking a bottle in his hand)
"I'll soon arrange for THAT!"

And here he took a careful aim,
And gaily cried "Here goes!"
I tried to dodge it as it came,
But somehow caught it, all the same,
Exactly on my nose.

And I remember nothing more
That I can clearly fix,
Till I was sitting on the floor,
Repeating "Two and five are four,
But FIVE AND TWO are six."

What really passed I never learned,
Nor guessed: I only know
That, when at last my sense returned,
The lamp, neglected, dimly burned -
The fire was getting low -

Through driving mists I seemed to see
A Thing that smirked and smiled:
And found that he was giving me
A lesson in Biography,
As if I were a child.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.you do know that the light emanating from the moon, at night, absorbs the clarity of relevance when you're squinting your eye... of a camel absorbing the light of the sun, in a desert storm of gushing winds... the moonlight become shrapnel... but a distinct ray of light, passes the eye, and penetrates your forehead... as if... the travel of light... bends much more than time... squint your eye when looking at the moon, the uttermost tier of moonlight shrapnel... it misses the eyes... and heads straight to the forehead; funny, eh?

dude... i heard that before, white dude?
that's new...
only Lebowski is a, "dude" aged
over 40...
         me? readied for the wrinkly old
man...
        and it's not Lay-bouw-skee...
               *******...
                               Le-bov-skí -
tightening longbow men's tugs of war,
strings, ****...
  a job for a semi-glad tailor...
playing the violin or shooting
a bow?
                     ah... ah! that's what was
the problem!
          the modern man is just as afraid
as the ancient Greek with
regards to expressing a dialectics...
mind you...
um...
            modern technology?
****... sorry... but this is actually
accurate...
       a "public" debate...
no bench, no park, what the ****
is public about it?
             i couldn't give a **** about
free speech,
i'm a tier above the argument for
free speech,
  me? i care much more for dialectics...
which counter rhetoric...
which counters speaking freely,
or as freely as freedom "demands"...
see...what i find...
free speech that exists in an
echo chamber,
a free speech without
a dialectical engagement...
no... the comment sections
do not count:
i never left any, or if i left any
they're complimentary...
because?
   now... why would i find it necessary
to troll someone,
when i have no reason to do so?
just for the per se?!
just for the per se reasons?!
**** that...
                 it has become a ****-show
of pseudo-solipsistic "dialectics"...
oh... look    a hyphenated word
and "air" quotes...
                        -    "      "
kinda looks like Braille...

                   free speech is one thing,
but engaging in dialectics, another...
right now i'm spewing opinions
that are not defended by dialectics:
i.e. counters...
     but rather...  solipsism...

              there is no modern "dialectics"...
there is simply a pulverizing overt-presence
of sophistry,
again the rhetoric,
  again the rhetoric,
again the rhetoric...

       me? i don't require myself to
the avowal of speaking in public...
         i'm not the one for constitution market
of ideas to become dogma...
but let's face it...
freedom of speech is one thing,
but what counter a freedom
of speech is...
isn't freedom of speech simply
a monologue?
    can't that be wholly internalized?

the critique comes with the concerns
for dialogue...
a dialectic...
           hell, speak whatever the hell
you want...
            but that isn't the point,
the point is, the ability to entertain
a dialogue, a dialectic,
an intellectual boxing match...
it's no good exploring being offensive
by being offensive
in the ideological ring with
a lax on using boxing gloves...

        did sports take over our
perceptions?
   and kissing our middle-man
point of exit for talking out
our differences?
   what the **** happened?

dialectics has died, a boring death
worthy of: in his sleep, aged 84...
if we can rekindle the basis of
dialectics, replace the, "moderator"
with a simple park bench...
     you'll be me...
talking about bicycles,
grand-children, and drinking
alcohol in public with some
retired cockerel...

                 who's old age...
bred an insomnia he's trying to wake
from, by dying.

no... this is not a war against
free speech...
this is a war for free speech,
within the confines of dialectics,
an exercise of...
    why?
      free speech presumes
the posit of undefended opinions...
unchallenged opinions...
oh i'm pretty sure...
      with however many comment
section narratives...
everyone's sheepishly nodding
along...
              
i abhor the case for a "freedom of speech"...
here's my posit:
i am complying with a defense
for dialectics...
which implies a freedom to speak,
but also a freedom to counter,
subsequently begging for a debate /
a resolve / a momentum of what
will forever be known as: forward /
the cyclic ontology of time.

we're all bound to solipsistic / cyclops
echo-chambers of opinions,
whether challenged, or unchallenged,
rarely discussed within the confines
of the canvas of civility...
when the civilians become more
militant than the actual soldiers...
    that's the problem of the citizen stature...
not all civilians are citizens...
some civilians are counter-productive
to the status of citizen...
British Muslims are civilians...
but with their views?
              they're not citizens...
given they're also militarily subversive
of the status: civilian...
hence... hence?! home-grown terrorists!
what?! the status quo asked
me to refine nouns...
     and pronouns...
                  my hands are tied...
              something hits me,
i react by hitting it back...
i.e. this language... in the wrong heads,
mouths, tongues, hands.

p.s.
   oi! white western girl!
"dude" my *** the next time you see me;
savvy?
don't worry... hand does the same
as ****; i don't know,
but i'm sure of the same firm cavity.
betterdays Jul 2015
i write poetry
from the collective,
that resides within my mind

they gather often,
at the water cooler
or for coffee, tea
and a bit of a natter..

all my idio's and syncranicities
my ego,
and my shy shuffling humble-bumbler
the flambouyant quirke,
the little girl memories

all get the memo and out they come.

earth mother, surfer chick,  
daughter of despair,
moderator, instigator,
wanna-be litigator
acerberic premenstrual ditzbitch,
all represented there.


so in the end,
what you get to see;
are the minutes from the meetings,
or the gossip from the gatherings
the intimate murmurings...
from the musings.
of the legion, that ...
collectively
call themsevles
me.
Luis Mdáhuar Aug 2014
Joel is a doorkeeper
for a rusty warehouse
and has a wife
a very angry spouse
and a son
one day his hip was out
two bodies going
on different directions
his blue uniform T shirt
floating in the powdered air  
barely walking up and down

he fell
while cleaning the murky water
that flooded the region
of cement factories and grey hills
two weeks without his employers
to even pay for the pain killers
or severance pay and no off time
his face had the expression of a struggling
red snapper

together
we would watch a gossip show
on the TV
while he ate spiced dry beef
boiled eggs and rice
the stories on the TV were mostly about
spouses, children, abandonment and
violence and
girls sleeping with their step dad
a psychologist and the skinny loud mouthed
blond moderator
who acted as the defender of society
completed the act

Joel could not stand up to open the door
a doorkeeper who couldn’t open the door
finally, after two weeks of silent pain
they gave him an assistant
we packed the last China bound container
bellied up with modems
to be refurbished and resold
to a billion internet hungry
Chinese beings

My job was done
two weeks past and I came back
he was not there anymore
but I found him
200 yards away under his shack
a crammed cardboard cluster of homes
he was in bed
lost 40 pounds and was
piped up, draining blood
from the chest
and a bag of ***** attached to the waist
someone was laying next to him
sleeping the afternoon
he smiled at me
missing two front teeth
skinny as a mummy
had three tumours
one trapped between the kidney
and the spine
one more in the stomach and the last one
next to the liver
he was to be taken to the hospital
with a danger of loosing
the kidney and his life
I gave him a kiss on the forehead
and left

It was the same pink sunny day
the same old trick of a life
but something was not right
it never usually is
Kassiani Jun 2011
I’m in the business of invention
In the art of new intention
Making something out of nothing
And falling back on no convention

I’m a spontaneous generator
A clumsy, crude, and crazed creator
Deftly dodging laws of physics
And without a moderator

Unchecked I grow my thoughts too fast
Too big, too bold, but built to last
Fed on dregs and trivial words
And made of insecurities vast

I’m in the business of spinning tales
Of conjuring roaring mental gales
Convinced my happiness can’t stick
And swallowed up in false travails

I’m the master of complication
The reigning queen of brute frustration
The duchess of dismantled plans
And dreams that fell to degradation

See, my mind invents its own dismay
And cannot think a simpler way
Assuming all must fall apart
Thus keeping hopefulness at bay

I’m in the business of delusion
Hooked on sinking in confusion
Stuck with a mis-wired brain
That treats all joy like an intrusion

I’m a wild contradiction
Anxious over bits of fiction
Wishing for the chance to breathe
When this rush is my addiction

Worrying is what I know best
Accustomed to distraught unrest
Small wonder that a happy thought
Is treated like a passing guest

Small wonder that my frenzied mind
Assumes that Fate must be unkind
So even when the tides have turned
I cannot leave Distress behind
Written 6/13/11
kelly rai Oct 2018
Different voices
Speaking at once
Who am I
Too many opinions
An entire society.
Ruanz Dec 2013
Been a blast til ****** up poet stole poems.
That's ****** up by any definition.
Site owner sit in England chilling, he no ******* care.
Site moderator way too busy posting classic poems.
My friends pack up poetry bags and say bye bye.
I pack my poetry bag saying bye to ****** up site.
Site can keep my Tom cat poem and poem robber can
steal Venus man trap I dedicate poem to losers like her.
Last deed before I go is dedicating Venus trapping man
poem to woman with no talent stealing poems and wishing for rich white men.
Wise man say "Rich white men run fast from poem robber and all gold diggers."
Luis Mdáhuar Jul 2014
Joel is a doorkeeper
for a rusty warehouse
and has a wife
a very angry spouse
and a son
one day his hip was out
two bodies going
on different directions
his blue uniform T shirt
floating in the powdered air  
barely walking up and down

he fell
while cleaning the murky water
that flooded the region
of cement factories and grey hills
two weeks without his employers
to even pay for the pain killers
or severance pay and no off time
his face had the expression of a struggling
red snapper

together
we would watch a gossip show
on the TV
while he ate spiced dry beef
boiled eggs and rice
the stories on the TV were mostly about
spouses, children, abandonment and
violence and
girls sleeping with their step dad
a psychologist and the skinny loud mouthed
blond moderator
who acted as the defender of society’s
completed the act

Joel could not stand up to open the door
a doorkeeper who couldn’t open the door
finally, after two weeks of silent pain
they gave him an assistant
we packed the last China bound container
bellied up with modems
to be refurbished and resold
to a billion internet hungry
Chinese beings






my job was done
two weeks past and I came back
he was not there anymore
but I found him
200 yards away under his shack
a crammed cardboard cluster of homes
he was in bed
lost 40 pounds and was
piped up, draining blood
from the chest
and a bag of ***** attached to the waist
someone was laying next to him
sleeping the afternoon
he smiled at me
missing two front teeth
skinny as a mummy
had three tumors
one trapped between the kidney
and the spine
one more in the stomach and the last one
next to the liver
he was to be taken to the hospital
with a danger of loosing
the kidney and his life
I gave him a kiss on the forehead
and left
It was the same pink sunny day
the same old trick of a life
but something was not right
it never usually is
MdAsadullah Nov 2014
Saleel suggested his name for moderator,
It increased my curiosity, and I understood he must be lover of our creator.
One day a man with same name entered a thread.
His opponents were angered and became red.
He was merciless and continued with his onslaught.
He didn't give up until the lesson was taught.
He held tightly the rope of Allah in his fist.
Very soon he was in Taskeen's friend list.
He believes in the policy of '*** for tat'.
He loves animal specially big round cat.
Now I see a different side of him.
He is polite, kind, lively and not grim
In both worlds may Allah give him fame.
Amir Mustafa is his name.
Ciel Noir Apr 2018
My mind is full of thoughts and sounds and words
It's influenced my mindset a great deal
I can be understood, or at least heard
It's easy to express the things I feel

And this extends to every piece of me
Even the pieces that, given the choice,
I might have rather lived with silently
Than shiver in discovering their voice

Sometimes it's just one track, a monologue
Sometimes a duet, chorus, symphony
I cannot see the raindrops for the fog
I cannot see the forest for the trees

Some other people have tried to give names
To all these whisperers between their ears
If God is the wise voice that keeps us safe
The Devil is the part of us we fear

The id speaks only in short sentences
I want, I need, I love, I feel, I hate
The superego blunt but coherent
Dodecahedra do not tessellate

Sometimes they go off and do their own thing
One solves a math problem, the other dreams
Sometimes I catch them speaking, arguing
One speaks in monotone, the other screams

And I stand in between and keep the peace
The moderator, I, the ego, me
And when I create art I can increase
The interplay which flows ever between

When I combine the various powers
It fosters in me love and harmony
I listen to my roots, leaves, and flowers
But I am only one; I am the tree
Steven L Herring Sep 2016
So the debate is coming soon.  I'll sum it up for you:

Clinton to trump:  you're a racist white sexist biggot rich guy who hates immigrants

Trump to Clinton: I am rich.  I do hate illegal immigrants.  I've seen all of the highly edited commercials about how "sexist" I am.  Where did you get the racist biggot part from?  Oh ****!  I'm totally white.  My bad!  You're repugnant and you lie about everything you possibly can.  The proofs in the emails.  Oh yeah!  We can't read those.  You BLEACHED YOUR HARD DRIVE!!!  Oh.  And you're a liar.  Just wanted to reiterate that.

Clinton to trump: I didn't know the emails were classified.  I thought the little "c" stood for ****, so I deleted all the derogatory emails in protest.  Whoops.  I shouldn't have said that out loud.

Trump:  starts to go off on a tangent about how great he is and how many ******* people he knows.

Moderator: palms his face, stands up, and walks away (in his mind).
Reminds the candidates to answer the questions and stay on topic

Clinton and Trump in unison: what questions?

The American people: bend over, lather up with some KY, and bite down on the leather strap for another 8 years of ******* *******.

Obama: drives by on his way to go play more ******* golf with a smile on his face.

Steve: tosses a coin, picks heads, and votes for his own ******* in protest.  They'll probably do just as good a job as any of these other **** nuts.

Good night America.  It's been real!
So tired of these *******!
wichitarick Jan 2022
Gregorian Birthday

Stop for a day to reflect on minutes passed away, plan for a future to grow and mature

Wisdom comes with days caressed, will we know what was lost when distressed

Ten to twelve cycles marked by Caesar. leap year leaves out thirteen, seasons cycles part of mother nature

Hold fast wave bye  to the past, making it happen is not dependent on happenstance

Pleasant periods bordered by moments of raw emotion,unknown future will be shown good or bad we are our own moderator

Dates do not wait, progression never caring about personal recession, happiness dependent on whether we take a chance

Counting with clocks or calender's or handily with our fingers, stars make their mark from far away, while the sun is always the common denominator

Many claim to know what it takes to help us grow, be great or atone our sins away, might as well tell your troubles to the moon, real truth is upward in that great expanse

Facing ourselves not always viewing the same reflection, mirrors also show bad with glad, only internally do we know if we are a giver or taker

Resolutions dependent upon revolutions, marking moments, making memories, how we hold up relies on keeping time when life is a dance

Reasons for seasons shadows really have a tale to tell,images cast depend on earths revolution

time passages playing on personal calender's, make today count for tomorrow, from lost minutes we can never borrow, smiling for the future we will never be a failure. R.C.
Meant for the NEW yr. a little late so hopefully not telling of my future:)
Could have used a few more examples of our current calendar or way we mark time! also listening to a few philosophize on meaning of life,time etc.left me wondering if they really get "it" time,evolution is a little more simple than all that ,those leaves are green from the sun not a gov. conspiracy :) Hope have a "brighter" future happy NEW year. "Peace takes Practice" thanks for reading your comment are helpful. Rick
Me, yes me!
I am the answers,
To all my irresolution.
Solving the puzzle,
Around my girdle,
Only the person, taking me pinnacle
May be the factors, can influence
But only me, can be the moderator.
Let Change Ourselves for Peace
Love has different shades which culminate
On oneness of humanity on the color of blood
Let us purify our hearts to be the associate
In violent human emotions like vehement flood

Peace of soul and heart totally refines mind
Inner eye sees the things in light with real clarity
Steps in love makes it easy to declare,find
Hearts start to beat in a trance but with solidarity

Let us initiate love for peace and peace for love
Let be frank, free and straight in our approach to life
Let listen to our heart and symphony from above
Let us abolish the barriers of hate and carriers of knife

Let us celebrate each day as the World Peace Day
The absence of war and violence is the only solution
Let us join hands from all shades of humanity to pray
This may be the only pact and contract for resolution

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2018 Golden Glow,
Muhammad Khalid Khan is a celebrated poet who has published three English poetry books namely,Feelings,Chains of Life and E.book Golden Glow.He remained Editor of 4 Pakistan Army Magazines namely Army Green Book,Pakistan Army Journal ,Pakistan Defence Review and Rising Crescent.He is Editor on Poem Hunter.Com and Moderator on World Nations Union of Poets ,
Nemo W Mar 2020
an INDIVIDUAL
unbound by standards set
a POWERHOUSE
driven and driving
a CREATOR
conduit of unabashed life
a LOVER
passionate and nurturing
an INTELLECTUAL
keeper of solutions and remedies
a MODERATOR
just and reasonable
a FRIEND
shoulder for tears, ears for support
a SECRET
unbeknownst and ignored
a GODDESS
being of unlimited prowess, divine, absolute beauty
made for a celebration of women im involved in
The Mashiach opened the Shamaim from the conception of the position of the Himation as an investiture of the Greek-Hebrew World that subsisted at the expense of the Tragigonia or Generation of the hyper-stellarization of the Himation particles. He did not stay alone wandering in the city of Kosmous, he would continue to fervently contribute to his Heroic Death that was already imminent. He structured his hereditary Submitology as galactic chaff; similar to the chaff of the Olympus Marble. Vernarth, before being invested, transfused as an exasperated Substance that teleported him to Olympo with his destitute feet but crammed with the chaff of the Kosmous where Orpheus and Dionysus received him, one with the chaff of tinsel and the other with the chaff of Eleusis, conforming to the metempsychosis where centuries became rectilinear of the immaterial conglomerate of both, but if in the liqua aura it would gradually refine from Britannia, which could be replaced by the patronage of hyperboreal islands, moving to the Dodecanese, perhaps instituted by the Romanesque Voice of the same Empire but with the dazzling Hellenic or Helleniká root in the Last attempt to approach the insular inheritance of other reverse islands called “Pretanniká Nesiá”, right there on top of Olympo. Suddenly by factions of immortality, they made tragedy and lethality, which implied parking for thousands of millennia trying to decipher the true identity of the ahistorical mythological beings, who now survive together with Vernarth in the ethons or screens that would reflect the composition of a living being. that instantly dies for its exuberance of life.

Vernarth, would go with his noctilucent Himation to the Krystallina monopathia or the Paths of Crystallization that made up the Olympo like a pantheon that was assimilated with rancid and weightless fungiform fluff, all this wild persuasion carried him on his decals by the crystal silica of the Olympo. The Himation was made of shoes and thrones that were not clearly related to the Olympic heights, and of not fearing with more heights that would exceed the interstices of the exaltation of everything that existed in front of its doubt that was clarified with the presence of the Souls of Trouvere. Everything seemed easy to explain in the hands of the circumlocution that Orpheus and Dionysus would make him in the luminosity of the Olympo, which is Ohr transliterated from the Olympus as the prominence that will be torn from the unstitched Himation, beating him with exulcers in the altitude of the Balkans. , and adhering to the tripartite relationship of the elevations with Delphi and Patmos. The quantum of time condensed the atmospheric hailstorm that had been decaying from Aurion, thus creating the orographic leveling of these converging quantum elevations as a flood subject to the Makryrema river, and as tributaries that will be activated with Delphi; specifically with the Kassotides and the Profitis Ilias in the concomitance of the Fifth Chalice of the prophet Elias who would come to challenge the glories, to mend the foothills that united them in this Monopathy or Pilgrimage of effort with essentials of superiority, which could be linked to the Agia Triada. Vernarth walked in complete solitude through the southwestern subterranean and bizarre mounds, figuring he did not feel that way at all since he did not measure more than a hundred meters in radius where Orpheus and Dionysus followed him, snooping in his Monopathia that would make him unreceptive before the advent of his A body destined to the method of objectively glimpsing knowledge that was extremely neophyte to its bustle, it was only motivated by praiseworthy essences that emanated from the Agia Triada string, which supported them with its beautiful channel by dressing what became lavish when walking and dressing naked, and also what made him ragged as he squandered his creed kits with dogmas that were instigated in his unleashed tragedy. His Purgation was an onslaught of his somatization that was renewed from his epidermis and that was totally transgressed by the Himation filigree that was unstitched in Golden fleeces, in the presence of some heroics who fought in the fallen fratricide of Olympo. Everything accused a brotherhood of Lineage that superimposed investiture or secular genes, over the science of accounting for their monopathies made by more than one parapsychological and Submitological regression. Undoubtedly, the factotum of the preludes of his Parapsychological end would be present before him, of what would **** from the ******* of the Renaissance after being subjugated by the Roman Empire as its decline, protocolized by the authorship of the scribbled hussar, trying to be the moderator with new castes that would reign in the surrounding Romania and Hungary for an extraditable rebirth in 1436, becoming resurgent reformed antiquity. From this perspective, the cursory Uttukus in the umpteenth parapsychology would appear in this trace together with Vlad Strigoi and Wonthelimar, who for so much quantum and excessive composure would let them know of a Reborn in the Olympo of the Olympos by knowing how to conceive that their heroes would have the life of its own and independent of universal mythology unified to the world, which in these elevations had great consonance with those of the Kantillana of Sudpichi, Kingdom of Chile and its Transverse Valleys / Regency of Horcondising with this rhetoric that would be strengthened in the placement of its Vampiromagia Automata Iconoclastic. All this heritage would lead to pastiness in all the corny monarchies that were intermingling with the eastern empires ..., specifically Hellenic and its perceptible quantum isomers, which were thrown from the veins with magnanimous elephantiasis masses that were falling from submithology Aurion.

Vernarth continues the intrusive internment of the suffocating aid of the Olympo, and of the profuse victimization that he believed to delight those who had only saved them from the axiomatic spark of beatitude and his predestination, which was only sponsored by Orpheus and Dionysus who were distant from him. , to see what would happen with his enchanted Himation, in the face of any setback that reinvented himself par excellence of the Vespers of his Triumph in the face of Death, everything has happened after that in some Brueghelian folios. This would testify that his leap towards the Renaissance was peremptory “And why not say it of the Kafersuseh of Ein Karem, that from where the stereotypes of a Mashiach would be based that would be reborn as many times as possible of the chained isomer of its quantum in Vernarthian parapsychology, being able to and to be warned from a virtual halter, to hold the infractions that consanguineously raged between life and death, and between the transgression demanded by the origin of error and naivety. Vernarth continues to transfer areas of the Olympo from which nothing could be ascertained if any shallow abstraction of its undeniable orographic height, perhaps a demiurge would make it, secreting par excellence the greatest mesocratic powers and the most abandoned demiurges in all their glories, lacking everything that makes his complete foolishness, and radicalized alterity due to the savage dominations of poorly contained wealth; That is to say, giving off the stunned Vine from where the monarchs would serve their henbane in vessels of the same servants, and their same harvests, and of their same vines that par excellence constitute the negligence of a right of territorial change with the basality of an inborn right that emanates from the vertical culture of the end of the Middle Ages, which is served in the same chalices that are the Kli or containment vessels for the eternalization of the Merciful Light or Ohr Hassadim. Behold, the Brughelian Death becomes Vernarthian in the unhappy planes of being born or reborn that is intricate from its Alpha and Medieval chaos ..., where nothing and nobody will be able to restrict the unbegotten Vine goblets to serve them in the original Servus Gleba vessels or Servants of Gleba, inborn with the Hoplites of Vernarth, who with large detachments kept vigil for him from a meager spiel from the Ohr ..., cheering their Lord on the Olympo directed to the tripartite, and towards the Delphic and Patmian.
Triumph of Death
Let There Be Peace
Love has different shades which culminate
On oneness of humanity on the color of blood
Let us purify our hearts to be theassociate
In violent human emotions like vehement flood

Peace of soul and heart totally refines mind
Inner eye sees the things in light with real clarity
Steps in love makes it easy to declare,find
Hearts start to beat in a trance but with solidarity

Let us initiate love for peace and peace for love
Let be frank, free and straight in our approach to life
Let listen to our heart and symphony from above
Let us abolish the barriers of hate and carriers of knife

Let us celebrate each day as the World Peace Day
The absence of war and violence is the only solution
Let us join hands from all shadesof humanity to pray
This may be the only pact and contract for resolution

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan Pakistan
Copyright 2018 Golden Glow,
Being Published in An Anthology of World Peace by WIP



Biography

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan is a celebrated poet who hails from Abbottabad Pakistan.He has published three poetry books in English namely Feelings, Chains of Life and an e.book Golden Glow. He remained Editor of 4 Pakistan Army magazines namely Army Green Book, Pakistan Defense Review,Pakistan Army Journal and The Rising Crescent.He is Editor on poetry website Poem Hunter.Com and  Moderator on The Gallery of The World Union of Poets-First Gallery
he had that for dinner
she had that for tea
he's got myocardia
but
It's Facebook and it's free.

there's nothing here that I can't see
and no one who I'd rather be
than the moderator
on a thousand bucks
who gives no *****
for every hour that he works.

if you cannot see that we're slipping away
and they're chipping away every day at your
little grey cells
you
deserve to be here
and on the street map
you are.

I'll get banned for this, **** 'em.
You might, as your notion of little knowledge and wisdom gives you play the game,
But I, for one play the truth.
Given out wasn't a crime,
Given in wasn't a crime too as all pends on the condition of puppetry label as a Fool cheating the wise.

There is love in sharing, sharing it with a free mind without the involvement of brain circuit, but it's hard to bale out the lies
I have seen it in the sponge in your your eyes,
Sense it through the shrine in your heart,
Your stingy flesh ignored me a trillion miles away
While your delicious tales is sweet and softer than the honey bee to safety; and the bitter is your look, Is as though as usual!

I can't believe the snudges of my eyes while standing on this fimbriated extremity watching her noble itchy impression effect surreptitiously on my possession,

I beseech you, don't change the motion,
Here I am, in a snidging fitted being to propose the motion
To my final moderator, Is as though as usual!

Meditating in this shrine of patience, amid the precipitation that's befalling on,
My stream of consciousness is heavily exist to know of the scamming mode of saying'Hi'to love!

— The End —