Elven prince
Tender of trees
Molder of leaf-covered mansions,
And brother to the green and growing;
Older than Dwarves,
Older than Men,
And Hobbits,
Younger than Ents,
Eternally young,
Fading slowly
To the West....

Truer heart
Never surged,
Inscrutable,
Unfathomable,
Anchored in Old Codes,
Time out of human mind,
Hidden motives
Sometimes revealed,
Sometimes blind....
Worthy of fearful trust.

Friend to true-hearted
Hobbits,
Men,
Dwarves,
Eagles,
White wizards,
Hunter of Nazgul,
Blade-armorer.

Warg Enemy,
Orc Killer,
Spider Foe,
Sauron Hater,
Murdering Mordor....

three two one. fade in. you
are a dream                     time
will                   molder.
i return to you each arm.
the wildfire of you; flew rubies.
pitched; and scalded. moonless,
we carried the night like
flying-carpet fabric of our
soul. the way your words
shone, fluttered.

clung to the frayed spine. radiance
and immaturity. counting you
in ribs; starved of stomach. crumbs
                                    like gratitude.
the shades of you in
                                    detuned strings.
                                    you wanted to see

slide. i dream of pulling
focus and zoom but maybe
it is better a dream. yours
were those of emerald;
mine, abstinence.

i watch you fade fast
fire gone grey fire famished
trickle and then
drowning; rhythms of limbs
and limbs, downy limbs
and waterlungs

i close my eyes
you are a dream
                        time will drown
and it feels right. a hollowed-out
kind of right.
fade out

You’ve given me life
And raised me on your own
Because my father’s in jail
And you always felt alone

When I was young,
You paid attention
You gave me love,
And so much affection

As I grow older older
You only grow colder
Brush me off your shoulder
Then blame me as our lives molder

You tell me I’m selfish
And call me a liar
Your love is my one wish
My deepest desire

I crave your approval
But I’m never enough
All I get is reproval
And I can’t take it

I truly believed
You’d be relieved
And you wouldn’t grieve
If you lost me

Because my whole life
You’ve shown little respect
All I did was hurt
And all you did was neglect

You saw what was happening
As the man you married put his hands on me
And yet, you just stood there
You watched as I was beat

When you had found out
That I was harming myself
All you did was shout
And said all I wanted was attention

When in reality, I did it to feel
Because your neglect numbed me
I wanted to know I was real
And you told me you hated me

You said there must be something wrong with me
To need that much attention
So you agreed to take me to therapy
Where I was diagnosed with depression

You stormed out of there
Saying “you have no reason to be depressed”
But you didn’t know me at all
All the feelings I’d repressed

How could you not see
What you were doing to me
All I wanted was to flee
I wanted to be free

I sunk into a hole
Of darkness and pain and anguish
It swallowed me whole
And you left me alone

Then one day you said
“Why don’t you talk to me?”
And I said “Because every time I try
You never listen, just scream.”

“That’s *******, Grace!”
You screamed in my face
I said, “This is my point.”
All I did was disappoint

No matter what I did
I wasn’t good enough
No matter how hard I worked
You made everything rough

“Mother knows best”
I don’t know about that
It took me so long to be happy
And this is a fact

You didn’t try
You made me say goodbye
To the few people who cared
You made me feel scared

I didn’t feel safe
You’re my biggest fear
At night I’d lay awake
Wondering “Why am I here?”

I reached rock bottom
And once I was there
I knew how to dig myself out
It made me aware

I stopped trying so hard for you, Mother
And I instead tried for me
And since then I’ve been thriving
I’m finally on my feet

Because after years of falling
And nobody calling
I knew what I needed
And that I wasn’t conceited

I wish I could say
My mother helped in some way
But she just dragged me down
At the end of the day

So I believe
That I know best
What’s best for me
Now I can get some rest

I can now be happy
With those who stand by me
And for them I’m so grateful
I don’t have to feel shameful

The waves are like dominos and metronomes.
Your fear plays the tide, and I, the sand.
Tortured simultaneously by blundering blows.
Torn and composed from hard to crisp to soft.
Laying there.
Taking it.
You glide across, pulling back with your constant motion.
Knowing you could drown me,
Collapse my core,
Enthrone my solidity and override it.
Still,
You draw back.
Over again, and I know you can cover me.
Weaken me.
Shatter my grain.
But we are one.
We are what everyone knows us as.
We coincide, collide,
Divide.
The foolish sand and her molder.

happily, you decompose
releasing your woes
even as they drag away your laughter

euphorically, you dissolve
losing your resolve
to live, even as your fears leave you

elatedly, you decay
your skin turns ash-grey
and maggots dig into your flesh

passionately, you molder
your recently-cremated ashes smolder
the flame devoured you with all the ferocity of a lover

joyfully, you disintegrate
forget the cold burn of hate
and misplace the memory of love, too

blissfully, you rot
lose your affinity with thought
your mind a directionless searching

delightedly, you wither
there is no time to dither
no time, full sprint to oblivion

reverently, you splinter
welcome eternal winter
relegate warmth to your fleeing memories

earnestly, you break down
your will is to drown
all your issues are a rising sea

fervently, you fall apart
you thought you were so smart
with death comes release, no?

h.f.m.

Dear Swinburne, how fell you if Death felled himself?
Did the wind not last, had the running sun stumbled?
What knocks the stone from the clifftop shelf?
What rocks the sea still since the high tide humbled?
If all that remains remains all that that dies
And immortal soul lies forever relieved,
What am I left that your lyric decries
But bereaved?

The same words grow from your garden grave
Where the thorns of the wrought lead roses jingle,
But rocked by the roar of the wild wave
The words disperse and forever mingle.
Time can unravel the thorns and the weeds
And the wind and the sea and the sun and the rain,
Unravel Death and destroy his seeds
And remain.

I pray that your song stands stable and true
Through the covers I turn, on my lips when I sing
As the first day your meter upon the page drew
And your rhyme first ascended on nimble a wing;
If not, let you molder with meadows of roses,
As lovers are buried by solitary men,
Till I, upon every couplet that closes,
Read again.

I Like Looking Like A Boy

I like looking like a boy.
Those massive locks
That locked in looks
From boys and men –
Well, that was then
And now is now.

I’ve thrown out needs
And taken in
Convenience, suitability
Which looks as nice - e’en twice as nice
To those bystanders’ gawking shoulders
(Appeal’s molder in the eyes
Of the beholder),

Now it’s time for short and neat,
Just as cute
When coexisting with a sweet,
Kind, loving nature;
Character,
Persona’s self charisma
Which as hypnotic, gives off honey’s own melisma,
Charm’s attraction which,
If used correctly
Does more good
Than all the ringlets ever could.
a group of notes sung to one syllable of text.

I Like Looking Like A Boy 11.24.2016
Circling Round Aging; Circling Round Wrinkles; Circling Round Vanities II;Circling Round Woman II;
Arlene Corwin

Drunken tears with lonely fears have felled upon my shoulder
I give you the means, the knowledge, the support to prevent the weekly trend
Yet it always comes down to you wanting to molder

Which is actually funny, in a not so funny way
You want to break the mold
You want to be known as bold

You figure you'll be young forever
Nothing will catch up

Until you're fitting another mold, one you didn't expect

Before you break the societal mold,
you have to break your own

Men say, no one sees
No one hears
Oh, the dead see and the dead they do hear
Oh, evil. Oh, self serving men
How You should fear the afterlife
Oh, how You should fear the life to come after
Don't You know they will meet You there
Don't You know they will put You on trial
And sentence You to a life of woe and pain
in You new prison of flesh
Don't You know the will stand
and point and laugh unseen at You
in Your new prison of flesh
" You murdered us. and for that You will now suffer woe untold
in Your new prison of flesh"
You will lay and not know
the woe that lies before You
As a hand rocks Your cradle in Your new prison of flesh
Your bones will molder in the ground all cold
as a hand rocks Your cradle
in Your new prison of flesh
Oh, woe begotten
Oh, woe all Your days in Your new prison of flesh!!

When I was a kid
It was so easy
To get lost
In the depths
Of my overactive imagination.
I dreamed up worlds
Of saturated colors
In arching storylines
With characters I knew better
Than I knew myself.
They were my escape.
There were "Kristen" and "Melanie",
The sisters who loved unconditionally
In a southern style home
Transplanted to the landscape
Of the Pacific Northwest.
There were "Tadgh" and "Samantha"
Who wrote melodic masterpieces
To match the turbulent serenity
That threatened to pull them apart
With every corner turn in life.
There were so many others
That I poured my time into,
Creating a universe
I so desperately wanted
To permanently live in.
Though I was their creator,
Their molder and former,
I was also a mere visitor,
Just pressing my nose against the glass.

Now sometimes I wonder
Whatever became of those characters.
Did their stories turn into the fairytales
Everyone hiddenly desires for themselves?
Did they wind up finding love
And family and happiness and peace?
Did they struggle and fail and lose at life?

Some say I could go back,
Find the threads of their unfinished tales.
But that isn't possible.
It isn't possible because I've grown up,
And the door in the back of the wardrobe
Has become a flat panel of wood.
And I'm left with my nose
Pressed up against the glass of memory.

Let me write these words pushing mental boulders
Throwing more pencils to the ceiling than Fox Molder
Keep believing in warmer days, it's getting colder
You couldn't freeze these gears, I came to play
Slay these demons without a sword to wield
Don't teach me the game, toss me into that outfield
Out of the cast but stuck remembering my name
Focus, on that single lane life but that satisfaction won't last

So you're trained to live for a dollar sign and that's fine
But me, I live for myself, I live for my family,
I live for those I don't even know and that's why this society can't stand me
I'll never be righteous enough to judge my peers
But when those lights go out, what do you really fear?
I fear that we entered a war against ourselves and losing
Looking at humans as a race, a gender, a label.
This table is not stable, it's leaking
I'm not speaking as a whole but in general, small lights
Shining to each other breaking stereotypes
This is my life, so dull, I created my own hype.
If you want to pull an ounce of my energy
Become an entity hell bent on greatness
You could be greatness, create it.

You've been waiting your whole life for a spotlight
Unable to see anything in sight because all you created was darkness
Every action, transaction, was watched by someone.
Make like a split power line, sparks shooting out a live wire
All it takes is one flame to become a bonfire.
It's all success if you throw your all into that blaze
They will believe you're crazed but shadows emerge and admire
The only reason your dreams are unrealistic
Is because most don't have the strength to risk it
But few fans would buy stock in your story,
With front row seats, they'd never miss it.

2020 - day 146

Monday, May 25, 2020
7:48 AM

A creed of mathematics and mud, said
in what may be
metemperical
utterance from the ghost of the late,
and likely,
no longer lamented,
Sir Leslie Stephen, author, and,
therefore,
authoritative voice in the matter
of his own mind.
He apologized for the state called
Agnostic, lacking gnosis, may I say,

I know more, in fact, if I count my access
to knowns,
along with my access to the sequence
of knowing;
I know more than any prominent literati
in the time before Google's
manifestation as an idea shaping tool.

What do I know?
I know how to use the Internet to learn,

in broad sweeps through the remains of
empires,
into the dustbin of history for which we stand,
ready,
as a nation,

to build new and more destrucively effective
petards.

Blow your mind, hoist, lift-off, on your own farts.

Passing wind,
did you smell it?

❖

Mental as opposed to spiritual,
hmmm

this will need some study...
a little think,
an imaginary journey,

from here to... where? Where,
or when,
if
we were to change the world,
as we know it;
say,
we did. Say we changed the world,

who would know?
Who would care? We have yet,
breath, and fuel, and functionality.

We have movement, and a grasping,
holding, using,
sense
a natural, from the womb, knack
for making a fist.

❖



Womb survivors of the world, unite.

Defined to the finest quarkish sublimnity,
we entangled creative
thoughts being spun into the wind
passing, rising
from bloated corpses,
we all may witness, as real as you may imagine...

in 2020, we have eye-witness visions made plain,
we have seen the bodies stacked in carts,
we have seen My Lai from the sky,
we can imagine

being there... but don't, I mean, Memorial Day is...

maybe, it is... evoking memory of madness,

how is war good? It is good for the greedy, no one else.

We watch our hero's die to stop the evil, then we watch
the bankers free the last Krupp cannon molder,
to spite the facts we can see, as seen at Nurnberg.

That injustice, was done in my name, if I believe I am
pluralized as we, the people who hold truth,

the Yanks, ye' know? Yankin' y'strang, stranger... did you
stumble into our historical records of all the good
war has done? Nay,
we came to remember peace,

in high definition resolution sharper than the
unaugmented human eye can detect,

see that guy's head, or his helmet, look close,
no head remained in the helmet,

but I knew the head the helmet was hoisted from.

I watched PFC. -name redacted - die,

-- did you know, did you learn, ever, the meaning
of being hoisted on one's own petard?

A petard was a bomb. Nothing fancy,
a bit of alchemical magi-knowing of laws yet to be

discovered in the rubble of guesses as to cause,

accusations of arrogance and hubris, combound to whys,

never examined, never lived out in vital awareness.

❖




quenching a flaming spirit, is ill advised...

but it happens,
all the time. A heart pouring hope
into a mind jumbled
with signals and signs and pleas;

stops, stutters, and aches for
more
meaning meaning meaning in the
tinkling bells and crashing cymbals.

Hope, ash of aspirations inspired
by

love, as a thing, a noun, not a verb.

Love is a verb. Not a thing, an act.

Indeed, done, love is easy to think wisely done.
No announcement is needed,

long after the tale is first formed,
the legend rises from resting in peace,

to give a lie an opposing force, not a war,

a flood.

A deluge of lusion, a seeing at augmentedus
resolutions into further and beyond,
all we can think, or ask
into life
dimensions

former-wise, formerly, unknowable, now

known, according to the pundits,
these are not the days of Lincoln,
craming laws into his head by firelight,

calloused digits flipping page after page
of proprietary rules governing

the white man's burden.

---
❖

Staunching the flow, of blood, particularly,

meant stopping the flow, usually
stopping it from
flowing out of course,
flooding
the plain, flat, seeming, surface of reality.

Reality not being as defined as we imagine, in ourselves.
This being the flow,
if we pay attention, focusing on a point,
fixing a line of sight to a distant thing, a star will do,
planets,
no, those won't do, you see, the planets, now we know,

the planets reflect light,
they bounce light back to our eyes, which we invariably miss

when our attention is owed to the habits we hold.
Our daily grind... growing, or surviving in hope

We guess at many next right or otherwise, standing,
based up on a pedestal, a riser,

lift up your head, egregious though you be,
easily seen, so
easily you see as far as I'm concerned, dis
cerned, re
fined to the innermost edge,

ground to a halt... pressing blade to ground to scrape
a living

plowman, plow me a furrow, for the flood.
Maker of ways,  form me a way to flow,
channel my worth to the dying seeds

scattered, so long ago, on the thread of time we ride behind.

❖


a bug, an insect, not an arachnid,
by leg count
class-ift, insect extremely delicate, what use
could this bug be to me,
a mayfly,
that I did pay it this attention?

Did I mention, no,
sequences in re
telling, consider starlight bounces from sunlight,

but reason and gravity suggest, those
waves of starlight intermingle
with sunbeams.

A mote in my eye may have bounced once from the moon,
as a made its point pinging a receptor some where behind

the window of my soul
to make a ligandary acceptence of influence, from the Greeks,
in an instant
Zeno, doncha know, decided, made a cut,

skience is the conscision, the cutting into bits, until

no further cutting may be done,
and we are dust,
at best.

Flakey humans. Homes to literal gazillions of mites,
hunting and gathering epidermal

flakes of us, digesting said flakes, into demodex *****

{demodex, face mites, are as old as **** sapiens}

as we are in didactic tic mode, ******* meaning from flakes
rubbed off during the itching ear phase

of dust mote formations, see

a mite eating the scales of our bodies, our subjective habitats,

where we hold our habitual rituals;
a mite eating those, fecates and defecates, fecation required,

in consequentialist thought, prior to defecation.

Fact or fiction? Science, as we know it at grade eight,
on the global scale of common knowledge,

science is what we are convinced we know in useful ways.
Knowledge is our opinion of

what we think we know. That is a guess. Not quite right, flow

past
the missed try, reach a next un ex spectated, un i magined
ic tic tic

time passing options, while a life away, or wait

wait and see, or come and see.

I say go. Where this river runs, reach that place,

get all salty, then
lay in the sun and evaporate. Ex sciere, rise, sublimated into ever knowing more,

scient-if-ic known knowns within the un gated narrative we occupy.

We live in an atmo-sphere, a bubble, with a core- inward pulling force

which rolls the rock down the hill, as me and Sisyphus spend a pleasant afternoon
watching all our effort play out...

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖


forgive me if you already made all the links, I found the scient bits glittering in Old Norse skita,

science is ific in its will to be known truth holding, bogus science is willing to lie, for prestige.

skei-
Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to cut, split," extension of root *sek- "to cut."
It forms all or part of: abscissa; conscience; conscious; ecu; escudo; escutcheon; esq­uire; nescience; nescient; nice; omniscience; omniscient; plebisc­ite; prescience; prescient; rescind; rescission; science; sciente­r; scilicet; sciolist; scission; schism; schist; ******-; schizop­hrenia; scudo; sheath; sheathe; sheave (n.) "grooved wheel to receive a cord, pulley;" shed (v.) "cast off;" shin (n.) "fore part of the lower leg;" shingle (n.1) "thin piece of wood;" **** (v.); shive; shiver (n.1) "small piece, splinter, fragment, chip;" shoddy; shyster; skene; ski; skive (v.1) "split or cut into strips, pare off, grind away;" squire.
It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: Sanskrit chindhi, chinatti "to break, split up;" Avestan a-sista- "unsplit, unharmed," Greek skhizein "to split, cleave, part, separate;" Latin scindere "to cut, rend, tear asunder, split;" Armenian c'tim "to tear, scratch;" Lithuanian skiesti "to separate, divide;" Old Church Slavonic cediti "to strain;" Old English scitan, Old Norse skita "to defecate;" Old English sceað, Old High German sceida "sheath;" Old Irish sceid "to *****, spit;" Welsh chwydu "to break open."

This place is inhospitable
Misery is the daily ritual
And pain is habitual
Ugliness the visual
I beg for early retirement
In this deadly environment
Where the entire tent
Is a sulfur fire vent

I deal with harsh fellows
While in a marsh mellow
Their dark hell glow
Makes a swell show
But it pervades the air
And light can’t be shared
I foolishly use a flare
To illuminate the lair
Full of grizzly bears
And nifty mares
With shifty stares
Gifting tears
While no one cares
So I retreat to the dark
Of this crime-ridden park

The mud starts to stack
Once the swamp is black
For it’s vision I lack
So mosquitoes attack
Stealing my blood
With microscopic bites
They come in a flood
In the absence of light
After I lost my might
Attached to my sight
Parasites took flight
Like killer kites
In the cover of night
Millions of mites
Entered the fight

The bugs grew bolder
So I grew colder
A subzero soldier
Environment molder
I sparked it
Arctic
Killing the invasive insects
By lowering the heat index
But they leave a heated hex
Leaving me vexed
By the ghostly hiss
Of loneliness
Hoping bliss
Can coexist
With frigid fists
Is a ******’s wish

This tundra provides no nourishment
Only death’s encouragement
I need heaven’s surrogates
To come sing my dirges
Until a flower flourishes
Granting my cure wishes
By eliminating the vicious
Cold air biting malicious
But the locusts in ditches
Start reclaiming their riches
And this endless well
Of go to hell
Show and tell
Rings a bell
Starting a new round
As bugs in the ground
Are lost and found

Burning crown of golden glory, crusade
Cascade down my corpse like water, toppling
Wobbling pillar legs, eroding away

Cliché shoulder chips. Scorch scarf this thin skin
Therein a conversion of faith. Baptized
Eyes, lashless from rapid oxidation,

Imagination draught, greyscale landscapes,
Escape the reaction zone, relapse in
Collapsed dead space. Swallow the prophet whole.

Cajole the gut advice, heed it to heart.
Hot bleached skin, remnant of fever, frail ash
Dashed in the heavy summer breeze, tumble

Crumble under fingers, over myself.
Sulfur-lined lips ignite epiphanies,
Key-locked doors welded shut now ashy piles.

Smile of a statue spilt on veneer
Near the window. Husked corpse of cheap incense,
Scents of lavender, meekly melt away.

Ashtray of a grave, taste the bitter burn
Return again to bury my mortal.
Laurel on the pyre, you sing the hymn,

Swim within thin chapters of a dead flame,
Claim the blame of scorch scars and disappear.
Hear the fire eat. Smell its heat. Consume

Perfume of a personal breed, discard
Charred temple walls. This body, like incense,
Thence an ashen husk, molder from my touch.

Now I'm looking inside out
Real friends stick down
For you til the end
Now a days they just pretend
I can feel your frequency
Its a bunch of static
Now I gotta cocked the automatic
Hey
Mr death Angel I got some
Folks who wanna join ya
House party hardly
Huh I since the world
Growing colder
My feelings growing molder
Already got a tight grip on friends
Now they just tighten up my grip
Never settle for an empty clip
I gotta keep dumpin and dumpin
Til I see blood or something?
Heartless weighs more than heart
Cuz you'll fall apart
If you give it your all so start
Markin' suckas like me any
Body from men to women
Can get it **** up the ****** percentage
I gives a **** about a law
I'm on common ground
Define my destiny in my own hands
They we divine but if you break it down
D I V means divide
Its like a verbal suicide
Can't talk to no one
So conversation Is with the dark
Voice repeating
Let it go
But my triggers say no

Heart beats fast
Blood pressures up
Buzz in your head
Every cell & follicle stands up

Peace on contact
Fire still burns
Laughter in conversation
Passion still churns
Knowledge & ideas shared
Desire holds tight

So much binds them
Yet fear divides

Unknown outcomes
Past mistakes
Current situations
Comfortable yet uncomfortable space

Knowing that now
Liked or not
Seems easier to stay in
Than giving the uncharted a shot

What if it's not
All that they dream
But what if it's more
Than just what's been seen

Should it be bottled
And left on a shelf
To molder and crumble
And shrink on itself

Or should they shirk off
The old ties that bind
And find out what happens
When they give it a try

No one wants to hurt
And no one wants to wound
But what if denial
Brings just what they fear

The loss of someone
Who has become so dear

A favorite line comes to mind
At these times

Fear is the mind killer

Perhaps the heart also withers

Don't lay me to rest in a burial plot
to molder alone and be forgot.
I think that I would rather be
fresh compost for a growing tree.
As a tree let me grow both tall and thin
(two things that I have never been)
There let me grow both tall and proud
and raise my limbs to worship God
Then children, rest beneath the shade of that tree
Take shelter there in my leafy bough.
Hear my voice in the rustling wind.
I'm with you. I have always been.

The dead cannot pray.
They molder in their graves
awaiting resurrection,
the force that creates
the soul’s yearning for
transcendence.

We yearn for happiness,
satisfaction, comfort, rest.
We yearn for meaning,
purpose, a cosmic path.
We yearn for self-consciousness,
preciousness, an open heart.
Death cannot extinguish them.

Our days are strung together
like letters in the sand.
We see the message only
as it disappears.
Night divides the light
into fractal pieces.
The firmament flattened by
the weight of stars.

We rise and recline like
mechanical banks.
Shoot a penny in
the lion’s mouth.
Hear the hunter roar.
Death stalks the living,
sticks its finger in our
ribs: a holdup,
but we carry no cash.

Remember Ozymandias.
Memory sculpts
memorials that crumble
in the sea.
Waves lap the pieces.
Epitaphs erode.

Death be not proud,
John Donne proclaimed.
But how can the fallen
take pride in their downfall?
Extinction awaits around
every corner.
there is no defense.

Death is a theater with
its curtain half-drawn.
Below it, you track
the actors’ shuffling feet.
Above it, only oblivion
and empty stage lights.

The factories rust oxide red,
The parking lots sit cracked and empty.
The vacants molder and rot away.

Manufacturers flounder and fail.
Blue-collared workers flee to warmer climes.
Death stretches on, forever protracted.

Once-proud communities erode away slowly.
A seemingly rock-solid way of life is forever lost.
We used to make something, the forgotten lament.

I don't know about you,
but the architect and designer,
the molder of my earthly tabernacle,
he that vitalise and quickens me,
the God of my heart,
the breathe within my breathe,
dwells and lives inside of me.
He made his abode
and resident in me.
There he reaches out to you through
my tabernacle as his oracle.
My soul magnifies him.
Where is your God residing?
Is he in your heart or
in your church building?
Does he live in the cathedral
of your soul or just walking around
in the garden outside?
Do you manifest him or manipulate him?
How has your life show his existence
and supremacy?
Do you look for him in the mundane things outside the glorious treasures hidden within the heart?
He is not in the material objects
or is he in the midst of all that is acquired.
Search within the hidden mansions
of your heart.
Listen to that inner still small voice within.
Remember there is always light at both ends of the tunnel.
Don't forget to get him involved at your cross roads.
He is an ever present help.
Seek for him as he is also seeking for you.
Oh I know,
you don't believe in the God
of the heaven and of the earth.
If you don't believe in him,
the God of all creation,
then where do you belong?
He who makes the whole earth
and the galaxy with the world to come,
to be and to pass away will restore you back,
if only you could just believe.
His mysteries will be revealed to you
and the miraculous will find you.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

Gods sick threw up all over the floor
The odds slick slidin towards war
A ***** an skin splits with black tar
Tin soldiers march after a dark star
We molder under a tyrants charge
Flickering compliance on the verge
Without defiance suffer the purge
Silent laughter after every surge

A tyrant who defies sense and science
Irate eyes die and fry in noncompliance
Half a brains alliance with petulance
Ants who think themselves giants
A gross death squashed by pseudoscience
Until the breath stills they rave and rant
Many a contrivance for the easily pliant
Really dyin because of words on an appliance

Mighty Jupiter, massive, majestic…
Three hundred times the size of planet Earth.
Shaper, molder of many of our planets.
First planet formed at our solar system’s birth.

Your gravitational pull is completely unmatched
By any other planet that revolves around the sun.
Despite over four billion years since your making,
Your strong influence and your work are yet undone.

How do you manage your many, many moons--
Seventy-nine plus on paths around your sphere?
Callisto, Io, Ganymede, Europa…
Do you have a name for our moon down here?

Where would we be if it hadn't been for you?
Would there have been the birth of humankind?
As you rampaged through our solar system,
Is this configuration what you had in mind?

Protecting us from objects farther out in space,
You could also send us a dangerous surprise:
By hurling an asteroid in the earth’s direction,
You have the potential to cause our demise.

You are certainly a mystery of science--
Baffling, inscrutable. Your power, raw.
We here on Earth respect your magnanimity.
We fear you somewhat, yet we look at you with awe.

-by Bob B (1-25-20)

On the endless freedom of an adult, I dwell.
With gleaming eyes, I yell:
"Can't wait to get older."
Naively neglecting the fact that as I grow older, my body and soul will molder.

"When I'm older, I will change the world!"
Sadly, as I got older, the white flag of surrender unfurled.
looking back, youth was my only chance
to make this world ever so slightly advance.

As a child, I learned the importance of friends.
As a teen, I learned to view the world through the right lens.
As an adult, I learned the importance of a dime.
As an elder, I learned the wisdom that comes with time.

From giggling on the floor with my best friend.
To hours on the desk, I spend.
To watching my friends, one after the other, fall.
Now, I have seen it all.

The dead cannot pray.
They molder in their graves
Awaiting resurrection,
The force that creates
The soul’s yearning for
Transcendence.
We yearn for happiness,
Satisfaction, comfort, rest.
We yearn for meaning,
Purpose, a cosmic path.
We yearn for self-consciousness,
Preciousness, an open heart.
Death cannot extinguish them.
Our days are strung together
Like letters in the sand.
We see the message only
As it disappears.
Night divides the light
Into fractal pieces.
The firmament flattened by
The weight of stars.
We rise and recline like
Mechanical banks.
Shoot a penny into
The lion’s mouth.
Hear the hunter roar.
Death stalks the living,
Sticks its finger in our
Ribs. It is a holdup,
But we carry no cash.
Remember Ozymandias.
Memory sculpts
Memorials that crumble
In the sea.
Waves lap the pieces.
Epitaphs erode.
Death be not proud,
John Donne proclaimed.
But how can the fallen
Take pride in their downfall?
Extinction awaits around
Every corner.
There is no defense.
Death is a theater with
Its curtain half-drawn.
Below it, you track
The actors’ shuffling feet.
Above it, only oblivion
And empty stage lights.

Laugh- consequences of self-propagated misrepresentations
Slow growing desiccation – underappreciated aegis of interconnected
     systems
All infinities filled with infinities of their own
A great push to galvanize an unnecessary molder
autodecomposition