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Budding Dirt Oct 2017
Osogo chiewa gokinyi tula ruto e wi tado,chunya penjoree nyakwar kibiere ang’o ma dwa yudowa ma awinjo duond jachein machiegni ni? Achiewo amanyo ang’uolana mane agolo ka pok adonjo e od nindo.Awuok oko agoyo ****’a koni gi koni ,aneno minwa oa turo bando e puodho ma path ot,’minwa oyaore?’ amose gi luoro apenje ni,to ma winy ochiewa gi ruto modhuroni to kare ang’o madwa timore,”Nyathina ing’eyo ni asebedo ka aleko lek moko mag tho chalo ni masira nyalo yudowa machiegni ni.”Wewuoyo kamano minwa nyoro ka koko ayiko nyabila osiepa mabuonjo mos to ong’eyo rito nyikwayo ,omwolo nyakamaye,ok adwa winjo wach tho kata matin.Ne, we keta gi wach tho gokinyi chiew owadu ma ababa mondo udhi e puodho ridho bando, wuoyi ber machiewo to yudo gi matimo ka chieng pok obedo makech,awuok achiko e od steve omera kuma ababa tinde nindoe karito ’ ,Ababa pok ichiewo,? mama wacho ni en nindo manade ma sani pod ng’ama dichwo ninde?Bro,nyoro ne anindo modeko nadhi e thum kaseda loka aduogo saa apar ga riyo asayou weya uru anind matin okatamora puodho to adhi.Ababa we tugo koda dalaka. kwani wan ema ne wakoni ni idhi e thum? Chung na malo ka pok achopo kanyo apami.Awera kode Awuok Oko Tiego Kwer ,nyundo pisore to goyo lweta malit ‘Uwi Uwi ****’,Fred en ang’o? Minwa goyo koko,Ta ang'ise gi lit ni " ok nyundoni ema dwa bamo lweta yawa',Ababa nyiera ‘Hehe mama nakoni ni jo town gi bure kata tiego kwer gikia’.Omera we losona kaka ilosonano idhi ****’o iya gokinyi.Mama to nyathini kamaye ekaka tinde onindo dalaka ? Saani dekoro wasechopo e puodho? Fred, in to ema ihero lungo wach,Nyoro donge nang’isi ni aseda mawuon Erick ne onindo e bade? D.O Misiani ne biro goyo ngolo kanyo gi joka shirati band,makoro imedo chumvi e wach dhina e thum ni? Ne ok awinjo maber ababa yawa,yani "Aseda ne osewewa ? To nyaka ne bi dalaka asebedo mana ka awuotho to shemecha gi ok kona ni wuod awino ratego osewewa,mayie we adhi sani agone gi mos puodho ok ringi pod an dala ka.Mama? Ababa ng’isa ni aseda kare ne ong’ielo orengo? We adhi agone gi mos mondi? Fred Okadwa Walo Ochuno Ni Nyaka Idhi Sani ? Dhi nenore marach ni asebet odieng' ariyo dalaka to pok adhi gonegi mos,we adhiya adhiya mama asayi?Kare dhi to kik ibudh kono,Aneno wuonu ma ngoto kono ohero minoni mang’eny gi penjo mag pimo wich,Tang' kode? Awinji minwa.Omera ? Mano fred maneno kalo e rangach kanyo no? Adwoke gi gero,'Mano ng’a magoyo koko gi nyinga E gweng’ no?An bena omera kwani ikia dwonda ? Omera kare in e gweng’ ka ? An Nabiro nyoro. Achopo ka owad gi baba u ma aseda kagoyo mos.Mano ber ,yaani freddy eldoret ka omiyo ok unenru, chakre john ma wuonu tho yawa,uweyo nyauyoma ema puro dalaka  kapunda? Ok kamano baba “nyaka wamany omera, piny oidho ma  ka ok imanyo toinyalo inindo kech kata kwelo.We an achop ago mos koka aduogi,Kapok idhi  Freddy miya gimoro kanyo adonjgo kisii ka amorgo chunya? Omera Benah, sani to atwo ok awuotho gi wallet lakini mak mia moro nikaa ikwe go wiyi, abiro neni maber godhiambo.Erokamano wuod baba, in gi chuny mana ka wuonu ma john. Sasawa Bena we an Aweyi.Hodi ka? Karibu! Karibu !  Freda,To in Dalaka? Antiye min akoth nabiro nyocha neno nyara matin gi minwa ,Mos  kuom gimoyudi ni? Nyathi john,mae e yo manyaka ji duto te nelu,nitie kinde nyuol gi kinde tho, wante wan jokalo e piny ma mwalo ka,mano adier min akoth.To ne  odhi nade ? " Kik iwach nyathi nyieka,an nachiewo gi sime koa kisumo ni wuon akoth wakoche ne oyang’o ng’ute gotieno koa tich.Gichinje matindo tindo." Mos yawa, pinyni  ne waresre nade? En mana kamano nyathi nyauyoma,to piny majan kono udhiye nade ? Siasa awinjo ni liet kono mapek piny otur ji dwaro lokruok? Nandi, dhi maber lakini nasewuok kono an eldoret tinde.'oh nisewuok kono ? Mano ber tek ni iyudo kamoro ma chumbi wuoke."Min Akoth ok awuotho machwe ahinya lakini mak rupia moro matin ni, iyudgo kata sukari moro ne nyithindo."Erokamano nyathina nyasaye ogwedhi,to pok iyudo min ot nyaka nya min nyathini wewa? Hahhahaha ! Naseyuto,Nyasaye ogwedha gi jaber kendo achano mana harus.Pod apime ka en miyo manyalo pur ma kojwach ka.Pod Antiye Dalaka Wabiro Wuoyo Kayudo Kinde. We an aweyi? Erokamano nyathi nyieka.
John F McCullagh Jan 2017
Chewie hasn’t touched his food
I hope he’ll be o.k..
It hasn’t been the same for him
Since Leia passed away.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly

Twas bad enough when Obi-wan
was struck down by Darth Vader.
But it’s no surprise when an old man dies
That’s expected, now or later.

Our Princess was a force you see
Bringing gales of laughter
which is why we want her here
and not in the hereafter.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly.


I hope one day we’ll meet again
In Mos Eisley’s Cantina
That gold bikini may not fit
But we’d still be glad to see her.
Carrie Fisher requested that Harrison Ford sing at her memorial Oscar nod.  She suggested he sing "Melancholy Wookie" so i took the liberty of writing his song
―Go Forth
Flourish in The Light
Of The
Estival Sol,
Elysium of the Soul,
Once you have vanquished
The Stygian,
Your Soul
Awaits You―


~I bid you
Immortal Heartsease
And
Armistice of Ataraxia:
The Reverberation of our Souls
In the Key of Elysium~.





I. Archean Prelude

The echoes
of your
Memories of
The Light & Airwaves
Pine to
Bloom in Reminiscence
Over the
Days of Yore.


II. The Echoes of Existentiality

We are all atomic particles;
Molecular Particles,
Of an aromatic
Omniscient,
Omnipotent,
Omnipresent Mist:
The Cosmo-Plexus of Empyreal Love

―Echo forth comrades―

~Evanesce,
Into the Empyrean,
Etherealized Lightscape
Until the
Visage of Creation
Enskies us
To the exalted
El Dorado~



II. Tempus Fugit

The Promise
Of the
Morrow
Is nigh:

The Yesteryears
Wax
Distant Ages,
Wax
Archean Aeons;

(Eventuality of Existence)

Our Bygone Days
Of Lovelit, Loveless Life,
Antiquate and
Our Soulwaves
Wax
The Spirit of
The Ancient of Days.


III. Nova Cosmogony

Betwixt the Realms
Of the
Beneficent Matriarch Mirror,
Beyond
Terraqueous Gaia
Unfurls the Vista,
Your Fulgurant Dreamscape:

Only the Sapient of Sages
Doth denude:

The Incorporeal Incarnation
Of
Virtue, it’s vesture,
Na’phesh

The Decrepitude of Withering
Dovens the Divine
In the
Vestibule of Vanity,
Sanctimony & Superciliousness
Thence deliquesce;
Bearing womb of Light.

IV. Celestial Morphology

Unveiling the Substance
Of Space and Time;
Spirit and Soul;
Euphony, Harmony;
Atrophy, Intrepidity
All are Entity

Once
Pristine yet vacuous,
Flourishing into
Mystical and shimmering
Nothingness, gropes
For Meta-Astral ―form;

Ventus Divinitas,
The Cosmogonist’s Agenda
Resonates
Through the
Inchoative Universe.

V. The Temporal Hither:

Her Genesis
Waxeth
Vestal Vicissitudes:

She is
The Twilit Quiver
Uprising in
Darts of the Dawn,

Until
Arrows of Antemeridian
Light Cascade
Our epidermis
With the incendiary
Sovereignty of Sol.

Dusk:
Chars the Canvas
Of Ethereal Skies,
Garnetiferous,
Moonlit, Martyred Mind’s Sky;
The Eve’s Imperator
And
Inquisitive Spirit Eyes.

By Luminaries
We’re ensorcelled
Corpulent with thought.

~Wondering upon,
Vacuous a fathomed
Cosmogenesis. ~



VI. Tempus et Spatium:


~There are
Edicts unseen
The Esoteric of the Macrocosm

Only the
Transcendent of Tellurians
May tell of
The Life-Rending,
Sunder forth:

Semantics in Constellations;
Gaian Whispers of Sylvan Tale
The Arboreal Wisdom,
Musicality in Zephyrs ruffling Trees of Vale
Hearken unto further
The Winged-Symphonic Bees
(The Bombinating Orchestra)
Soul Untethered = [ Meta-Consciousness ^ Spiritus de Liberty]

Einstein’s General Relativity= [Spatium ^ Matter ↔ Energy ^ Motion]

~

(Time & Space
The height,
The width,
The depth,
And
The breadth)
The Empyrean One
Enshrined in Pantheon
Our Virginal, Vestal Souls
Efflorescent Eternity
In our hearts?
(Ecclesiastes 3:11)

Time is fickle
A
Hydrean Leviathan:

Whilst ye
Voyage her
Seven Seas,
Moor naught
In her
Elapsed chronology;
Her caprice
And ire
Shalt not
Be quelled.

Be roused
From
Somnus,
Unto her
Perpetuity of
Aqueous Abyssal, Dream Deep Sea;
Tenuous,
Diaphanous,
Rare,
Tender,
Instinctive,

∞ Her Moments ∞
∞ Extinguished ∞
∞ At Birth. ∞

∞ Eternally, ∞
∞ Reincarnated; ∞
∞Anew.∞

∞The Cosmic Spectrum∞
∞Is Infinite∞

∞Excelsior, Godspeed∞

∞ Elo’him ∞





VII. Ultima Thule:

We
Empyrean souls,
Doth abide
In
Pearlescent raiment.

The Cosmogenesis is our Dreamscape:
.
We are all a cosmos,
Expanding, contracting;
Ebbing, flowing;
Hitherto and thitherto;
Red-Shift and Blue-Shift.

Until the Mellifluous Morn,
Whence the
Zephyr of Life
Reverberates the Musicality
Of The
Arboreal Sages.

Terraqueous Gaia
Whispers
The Hope of the Ages.
Spirits betwixt
Greater Eden and She’ol.

Count the stars,
Enumerate every
Constellation in The Cosmos
Of your Soulscape scintillating
Upon thine Mind’s Sky.

Whence Luna and Sol
By the Wisdom
Of your starlight.
Are benighted, beseech
The Ancient of Days

For within The Supernal Wavelength
Of the Hallowed Dove.
We glean refuge
Our Aegis,
Providence.

Awaiting the
Golden, incendiary pinions
Of the
Revenant Phoenix to resurrect us.
Allow the Holy Spirit
to be your Polaris,
― to Elysium.

~By Agape’s Armistice:
Ascend,
The Peaks of Heartsease.
Commune with the Cosmos,
Wax
Salvera y Jiustizia
Brethren,
I plead.~”


~This Sacred Lotus seed
Was sown
Into the
Into the Soil of your Souls
, ―By the Astral.

You are a melody,
Sung by
A coloratura,
Burst into a
Tapestry of Fioritura:

Of Hope,
Faith,
And
Love



(May you
Reap
The Virtues of the Lord)

Betwixt

Na’phesh,
(The [Your] Living Soul)

&

Kos’Mos’
(The World)

The Apotheosis of the Astral Flame
Awaits
You
Starry-Eyed
Phantasmagoreans~
Celestial Morphology © is the multi-epistled poem which I sired during the Estival vicissitude. Twas an ineffable cadenza that exhales of the incorporeal essence of mine entity. I had been toiling in sweat, blood, and tears over a written project at the time; consequently, this is the thematic poem begotten.
     It transmutes the zeitgeist of my summer into the Golden Raiment of Polymathy. The oppressed coals of my woe erupted from the igneous core of my heart as these adamantine words. This starry soundscape is the astral crux of my work during 2018.
      I think that there was a vast expanse of my understanding of the world that had been repressed. It had almost been veiled from the heightened sight of my Over-Soul. This was in my sheltered, infantile longing to elude heartache. To keep the flesh- sundering maladies of the world outside my apartment walls: love, passion, iniquity, penitence, forgiveness, piety, cultural fission, intolerance, injustice, indignation, divinity, melody, mysticism, schism, mania, trepidation, faith, wisdom, darkness, and temporally transcendent pain.
          This was my transcribed anarchy against a Fascist Regime. A country exalting body that calls its denizens creationists whilst they slaughter every creation under the sun. The sociological edicts that dictate how art should be produced, the pace, that tell us not to speak of discrimination and mold us to turn a blind eye to the harsh realities of 21st-century postmodern society heavied the air. I just needed to vent and let every bit of internalized asperity or self-directed hatred out in a beautifying paradigm.
      I'm realizing more and more that life is tough and quite frankly, short. I'd rather write for an infinitude on one poem, for the sake of saving myself, rather than compromising my own integrity (and creative latitude). The writing was becoming a drag: less about quality, and more about quantity. Thus, after months of phantasmagorical drought, I bestow a glistening glade of sterling words.
I hope this poem reverberates upon thine soul waves. Please comment as I am open to any feedback; moreover, I beseech it of thee. My deepest gratitude comrades.

Excelsior Forevermore,

Sanders Maurice Foulke III
Kyk met horlosie swaai
kom wysheid , op een of ander manier...

Wanneer hardebaard hardehout fyn skuur
en boeta begin skuim pis-
dan is dit mos als goed en wel...

Jy's nou volwasse en verandwoordelik
vir jou kak, vir my kak en sommer die kakbak...

... en dan mag jy mos nou nie bloedkook nie
want daardie potte kom moeilik skoon
en behoed jy kort van dtraad raak
want as iemand nie aan jou been trek nie - wel ja

maar soms kom  daardie klein
snotkoppie gees deur
as ander "volwassenes" vergeet
om die plooie die dag aan te plak.

Dan draai alles terug
en ek wens dat ek weer oud en koud
onder die kuwe kon raak,
want demoer in raak ek gougou
vir grootmens doeke en dommies.

Kyk  ,sommige kak
moet maar net kinderkak bly,
want as my kinderhart weer vlam vat
is ek weer die duiwel se kind.

Dan draai ***** en giggles vinnig om
en wys ek *** snaaks dit kan wees
as mense val en seerkry.

Laat ek nou maar asemhaal
my das regtrek en heut...
ek is nou groot,
moet mos eintlik van beter weet.
Fernanda Savaris Dec 2015
Acaso
criou o caso
que nós criamos

Sintonia, simpatia
A mão leve e o riso frouxo
Fantasia
Dos que vem
Dos que vão
Dos que vivem

Vivemos,
Vivemos bem
Apesar de outros alguéns
E do imaginário que nos retém

A cumplicidade sutil
Dos olhos que sabem
Que não se verão mais
Que sabem dos momentos de paz
E da vida quando está à mil

O carinho na base
Dos sentimentos puros
Na positividade
Do desconhecido, do não vivido
E ainda assim natural
Na pureza, na conexão
Daquilo que não cria o mal
E que aprendeu a entender
Como se comporta um igual.
Dis nou die tyd om te babbel
En my mond verby te praat
, want hulle sê mos
A drunk man's words is
A sober man's thoughts...
En wie weet dalk vind ek
Die antwoorde in ń diep gesprek met myself...

Sien ek is nie een van daardie
AA lappies wat skeinheilig
Sit en slukkies suip om
Geluk onder in die bottel
Op te spoor nie.
Ek rook skaamteloos en
Omhels die intense stank
Van 10 jaar se lewe wat ek
Mors en longkanker, want
Dit herrinner my an oupa se
Skoot en *** veilig ek was
In daardie asbak woonstel
Waar ek soos white-trash eers my brood moes inspekteer vir
Indringer kokkerotte wat ook
Maar net teen ons kompeteer het
Vir ń krummeltjie kos.

Ek babbel, want wat anders kan mens doen as vrees jou aangryp as die koue staal jou hande brand -
En nee ek praat nie van lemme en inspuitings nie,
Want lemme maak merke waarvan ek reeds te veel het wat nou oor my polse uitgesprei lê en my herrinner *** swak ek was, maar *** sterk ek was... en inspuitings los ek vir die dokters en susters en die bloeddiens
Wat my leeg wil tap om een of ander sad case se lewe te red met bloed van ń bloedjie wat self nog in die verdoemtenis rond dwaal.

Ek babbel, want dis social anxiety en scary stuff om in ń kring te sit en Russian roulette te speel met al 5 van die mense wat ander van jou verwag om te wees. Want wat gebeur as ek myself in hierdie hoerasie van persoonlikhede raakskiet. *** weet ek watter een is ek as elke een die sneller swaar trek en hoop en bid vir ń blank... *** weet ek.

Kliek...
Kliek...
Kliek...
Kliek...
Bang!!

En nou babbel ek maar weer
...
Want ek het so pas agtergekom ek weet ook nie juis *** dit voel om dood te wees nie.

Wie is ek...
-*** sal ek weet

Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
...

Ek weet.
RyanMJenkins Jun 2014
Gaining wisdom,
Listening to Mos Def
Not to be boxed in by the quadrant of the bass clef,
Because I like the melodies of the treble.
If Eye am to live a life to be confined, then call me a rebel.

Letting out all that was repressed
Counting blessings instead of stresses
Picking up messes &
Preparing for the test
To invest in myself,
in you
~
Diving below the depths to see what's true~

The interest accrues
But there's no use -
in paying these taxes to factions
When they should be subtracted from the equation
For exacerbating trivial situations

til we see the answer is One

You have the control, a full mind\body/soul collaboration

Sort out ya chakras and rebuild your nation
Plant seeds and reverse the deforestation

Let creativity fill your wounds and be captivated by fascination

Follow your own soul
Guided by sensation
Close your eyes and breathe, if ya need, some quick elation
...Away from frustration or the contemplation on the
"right" choice.

Just share your innermost genuine voice,
Keep the soil moist,
& the stem strong in order to stay poised

Lose the armor
For you are formless
In a state of vulnerability,
We are never dormant
But rather, open to the occupants
that we can't even see
Let your heart explode with love and you'll know what it's like to be free.

Don't open up though, and we'll be doomed to repeat

Be not afraid to call upon the Youniverse
Disperse what you rehearsed
before your vessel is within another in the confines of a hearse.

Weird to hear, but we can't wait for one more day.
It could be anyone's last grain of sand,
So by all means,
Say what you have to say~

You have a gift,
& It's called the present
Living with the ability to lift,
and make others' lives pleasant.
Muster every ounce of love and drift,
Right into another's essence


You hold the power in your hands, reach out~
..You'll never go hungry..
*Giving vital lifeforce to those experiencing drought
Hudson Everett Sep 2013
In ruins. In tatters. That is what we are.

Tonight.

Tomorrow.

Forever

Ripped up and beaten down.

Tormented but forgiven.

I am not crazy or even headed in that direction

My consciousness is a stream

I catch a river raft and ride the rapids.. White water and we are all going down. Shipwrecked in my mind. Abandoned by rational thought..

This direction is not even a direction. It is several.



"Where do we go from here?" doesn't matter if we can't find where here is.
elvin ado Feb 2020
BY; ELVIN ADO

SIMULA PAGKAMUS-MOS PAGKAKAALAM KO AY SA LANGIT LANG MAKIKITA,
PERO SA LUPA’Y PWEDE RIN PALANG MAKITA,
KAYA HALINAT BASAHIN ANG AKING TULA,
TUNGKOL SA ISANG ANGEL NA PINADALA NI BATHALA SA LUPA.

DAPIT HAPON, NAGLALAKAD MAG-ISA
SA LUGAR KUNG SAAN PURO KAHOY ANG MAKIKITA,
TAHIMIK , LUNTIANG PALIGID ,MGA IBONG NAGSASAYAWAN SA SANGA
NA NAKAKABIGHANI SA MGA BILOGAN KONG MATA,

MGA HUNI NG IBON NAGPAPAIGTING NG TAINGA,
PERPEKTONG LUGAR PARA ILABAS ANG MGA PROBLEMA.
TINGIN SA KANAN ,TINGIN SA KALIWA,
HANGGANG SA NAHAGIP ANG HINDI PAMILYAR NA MUKHA,

NAPAKA-AMONG MUKHA NA TILA BA ISANG DIWATA,
NAPAKO ANG MGA MATA MULA ULO HANGGANG PAA,
KARIKTAN NA SA BUONG BUHAY NGAYON LANG NAKITA,
MAGULONG ISIP AY NAPALITAN NANG KUNG ANONG SAYA,

PAA’Y DI MAPIGILAN LUMAKAD MAGISA,
PATUNGO SA ISANG PRINSESA NA NGAYO’Y NASA HARAP KO NA,
SARILI’Y DI MAPALAGAY KUNG BAKIT IBA ANG NADARAMA,
KABOG SA DIBDIB AY IBANG-IBA.

NGAYON AY KAYLAPIT NA NAMING DALAWA,
BIBIG AY BIGLANG NAGSALITA ,
AT LUMABAS ANG KATAGANG ANGHEL KABA?
SIYA’Y NAPATINGIN AT NAKITA KO ANG MAPUPUNGAY NIYANG MATA.

MALA ANGHEL NA TINIG NA LALONG  NAGPAANTIG NG KABA,
ANO BA TONG NADARAMA PAGIBIG NABA,
TILA BA SILI NA KAY BILIS MADAMA,
MGA LUNGKOT AY NAPALITAN NANG  SAYA.

SA UNANG PAGKAKATAON UMIBIG ANG MAKATA,
PERO ISANG SAGLIT DUMILAT ANG MATA,
NAPAGTANTONG LAHAT AY PANAGINIP LANG PALA,
AKALA’Y  LAHAT AY TOTOO NA SA ISANG IGLAP AY NATAPOS NA.
Knuppeldik gaan slaap die stad
na 'n feesmaal van smaak en kleur
vloei die reuke deur die strate
in 'n Brown se beweging van geur.

Alle trommels , trommeldik maar maak 'n lee geraas
en in die donker , agterstrate begin die ander nou te aas

Kom die honger hande uit die sakke
en krap met rook-geel vingernael
soek die skummel in die swartsak
vir 'n laaste dissipelsmaal.

Maar jy is skille , jy is doppe
jy is alles wat laat gril
nie genoeg vir koningstafels maar vir my
net genoeg om die  knaagdiere te stil.

Onerfare soos ek is , vat my hongerbrein ook mis
watter mens kan so dan lewe? watter mens kan so dan eet?
van die lykswa en die straatveers
het hierdie boemelaar vergeet.
Ek is mens en nie 'n vark nie,
(al moet 'n mens ook eet).

En stil vergaan die boemelaar
wat kieskeur ook wou wees,
nog 'n straatkind se ou lykie
nog 'n honger kinder gees...

ek wat was het mos gesien
*** kos op tafels lyk,
en het sodanig hart verloor
op kosse kleur en ruik.

Met 'n bord vol knubbels le die lykie
voor hom , onaangeraak.
Al was kos ook wat kos was daar
het hy te lief vir die droom geraak.

Eerder kwyn en dood verslaan
as om die droom te ruineer.
Eerder dood van honger,
as om hierdie kos , as sulks te eer.
Dit was daar
Ń knal in die nag
Skerper as die dop-klank
Van dinamiet in dolomiet
En gevaarliker as klapperskiet;
Die knal in die nag...

"Dit was daar op stemdag "
, sê ek.
Dit was... ekt gehoor!
Skiet ek my siel uit
Teen die leë gehoor

"Dankie my bokkie"
,Met x'e gekys
Help nie my hart nie
X'e is ook maar ń tipe kruis
Ñ tipe graf in afwag
Ń tipe nood, ń stille dood.

Dan tref die waarheid my hard
Soos ń gewyde plathand
Van ń skietman of ń doodsman
Dis jou land , dis díe land
Hoekom nou skielik bang?

Ekt dit gehoor, ekt dit gehoor
Ek sweer op die graf
Van die gesneuwelde stem.
Maar nou kom noem-
Moet ek erken...

Ek vrees die geweerskoot
Meer as die galg
Wat stil is soos slange
Wat my wurg en my walg.
Ek is banger vir die knal
Wat die hele buurt vang
As die halfpad val
En heeltyd hang
Soos kleintyd speeltyd
Van rodswaai en my lyfie
Aan toue op hang.

Wats ñ geweerskoot nou
Teen die monsters van binne
Wat klou om te hou.

Raak rustig , haal asem
, toe nou bedaar.
Jy weet mos jou denke
Was maar nog altyd
Jou grootste gevaar.

- wanneer geweerskote in
kopskote verander...
Raak die wêreld donker
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2014
"Nothing is so healing as the human touch."


Started:    June 21, 2011
Finished:  August 14, 2011

"Nothing is so healing as the human touch."

Purportedly, the final words of Bobby Fischer, the reclusive, oft bizarre-acting Chess Grandmaster, whose life deserves your examination.  

I wasted decades of my life in a loveless, sexless, miserable marriage. I read his dying words, and the poem~notion was born, but the words had their own timetable and it made me crazy.

All the facts you need to read this old poem are now in your possession.
~-----------------------------------------------~
Mos­­t poems used to just tumble out,
Sudoku words combos,
Gunslinger I was,
poetically licensed to shoot
from the hip (the lip?).

Then you go mute, until that second,
When once again,
Machine gun stanzas fall like
Cheerios
Spilling all over the kitchen floor,
As they always do at Two Am
When quietude is in high season,
And the whole house is sleeping.

Once in awhile,
The title~idea recorded,
But the poem unwrit,
just won't come.
*** but no ******.

The words smack you,
Write me, I deserve it,
A challenged duel glove
Goes kissy kissy on your face,
But the words,
The choice of weapons
Eludes for weeks, months.  

So Bobby,
Your challenge
Long ago accepted,
But my reply imperfect,
Has lain bound and gagged,
A poem-in-progress
Hid in the trunk of my heart,
Unable to escape, even when
Escape attempted, unsuccessful.

From June till August moon,
Your dying words have been
A cancer growing, within,  
Hiding from my bullets
Invented to radiate,
Your final words, explicate,
Explode and expose.

Your life,
An essay on life in solitary,
Anti-social would immodestly describe your life best.

How came you then to exclaim,
Re the glories of human touch?

Ah a dying man's last regret,
A simple cri du couer,
Nothing extraordinaire,
A basic 101 shoulda/woulda
Of "I coulda done it better,"
What's the big deal?

Until this exact second,
Sunday rain jolted body from bed
Do I instant understand my obsession,
The import to me,
The need to capture
The haunt of the healing
Of your dying words.  

Life is small, miniaturized
When numbered in decades -
Five, six, seven,
Maybe,
Eight nine or even ten.  

How came I to pass so many,
Discarded whole decades,
Of the few we garner
Without the sustenance of
Human Touch?

How came I to allow this disaster to pass?

How did I advance to the next grade/decade,
When a failing grade was scarlet tattooed
In ****** scars upon my chest?

Would be easy to dismiss as just another whiney rant
That is no longer relevant to you,
Lies I told myself, no longer resonate, over, now.

Never.  

Everything matters.  

Summation.  Accumulation.

Day Counter Totals  reveal gaps of years
That cannot be refilled so your accounting
Must include a retelling of the
Wasted days and acknowledge with your dying breath,

Nothing is so healing as the human touch.
~~~~~~~
Happy 3rd Birthday poem.
Thank you my love
Preech Mar 2013
Mos Def addict practicing my mathematics
multiplying gross deaths stacking high in my attic
banishing, your batting eyelashes in my hatchet
brandishing a reflection of death nothing can match it,
a packet of matches, three cans of gas am I mad *****?
I’m a man mastering cracks of dark arts from a sad witch,
tears of evil, blasting apart marked hearts, sew they can’t stitch,
so I can cross your eyes and harvest every last inch
of your body I’ve got hauled high with my crass winch.
Dangling like abattoirs meat hanging upside down by your feet,
never is the time that I will retreat,
secreting discreetly in your petite physique,
desecrated secretly I never cease with the heat.
I’m a clever beast with the sweet smile of a pre-school teacher
I’m a leach, I’m an evil preacher,
I’m worse than a priest with someone not quite senior in reach.
I beseech you to keep my smile in mind when I breach
the regular limits of sin, an when the victim begins
spinning within the rhythm of my limb precision
positions a physician would think weren't natural
constructions. Causing concussions with my bone crack percussion
discussing the disgusting repercussions of being obstructive
with a kind as destructive as mine its reductive to imply
that I’m stuck with a mind superior to thine, let the subtleties shine,
you’re an inferior design, obsolete, so the premise is supremacist
there’s no preventing this, the evidence is left in every crevice of the premises.
Jy wys nie die son vir 'n blinde wat weer kan sien nie.
Dis mos nou kinders-kry dan trou ,
'n priem baba se : Ek is lief vir jou.
Verby nog voor dit begin het.
Of is my hart nou wiegiedood wat
doodluiters my eie galg om die baba hang.
Breek ek die glas-skoen? voordat die lewe dit kan breek?
Of het ek nou maar oulaas 'n manier
om al die goeie goed - uit vrees
van stapel te stuur?
Ek kan jou volg... sal jou volg;
sou jou volg tot waar die wind ons waai
en saam jou kan ek... sal ek
sou ek heeldag rondomtalie en tiekiedraai,
maar *** gaan ek die onbekende in
as dit tussen my en die horison le?
My hartklop eikehout in die gang,
hy klop nog koud , maar hy klop nou!
En jy praat van altyd en van later en van dan:
verder selfs as wat my sig durf reik!
Jy is my nou.
Jammer dat ek more jou gister gaan wees;
probeer verstaan, ek verlang nog silwer en plooie
en die wereld is my lapdoek en die lewe is my lee papier
en ek wil groei.
Ek kan nie die trouring dra nie
,as hy nog koud aan my vinger kleef...
my hart is dalk nog prematuur ,
maar ek wil graag uitgan
en die koue skouers en spervure
vir my self gaan beleef.
Moet my nie die son wys nie
Ek leer nou eers *** om te sien...
en moet nie se jy is lief vir my nie,
want more is dit verby nog voor dit begin het.
En dan hang ek die priem.
Carlo C Gomez Mar 2023
~
...he dreamt of her,
the one who could dance about
twin suns in cantina lace,
course through the veins
like power converters,
and scare far more
than a pack of raiders on the prowl.

...she who laid out
in the sands of Anchorhead,
and became a seductive sculpture,
her howls mixing with the wind
through Beggar's Canyon,
and turning into flame,
ascended like nomadic campfire
in an ocean of night
as far off as Mos Eisley.

...the one resembling Camie,
who bought farm water
for her off-world thirst,
he dreamt of her, you know,
he dreamt they would inevitably marry,
and settle down deep in the feral
of their desert love.

~
Tosche is pronounced Taw-SHEE
Zero Nine Oct 2017
Left my heart in one with you
now, it's in two.

I return to find
the foundation
of my life

Ripped up
Roses clipped
The garden
closes in
a bed of grey

I return to find
the foundation
of my life

Removed professionally
Disconnected
Cautiously clamped, and taken
from the veins

Why!?

You're the
empty
meadow
in my
memory

The tome forgotten
The lost home

Why!?

Ani - mos - ity
grows over time
Ani - mos - ity
grows old and cold

I plead my case
to time,
"Be kind."

Thunder:
the resounding,
"No."

I return to find
the foundation
of my life

Ripped up
Roses clipped,
the garden
spoiled
under your shoes

Left my heart in one with you
now, it's in two.
Hersch Rothmel Jun 2013
Bob Marley says when music hits you you feel no pain
But when I feel music I can feel the pain of so many suffering artists
I can feel the pain of Nas, Mos Def, and Talib Kweli.
I can feel the pain of Isaac Brock.
I can feel the pain I feel inside of me
Music is my independence, or one of its many manifestations
The universe has no limits when I am being blanketed by the warmth of music
And to me this is the greatest form of independence
I can experience myself through someone else’s experiences
That to me is interconnectedness
So how can I be interconnected yet independent?
How can I feel the warmth of music while at the same time it chills my bones?
Music is like life full of contradictions, but without them would cease to exist
Music is like life so personal, but shared by all peoples
Music is like life it takes courage to listen to your own as well as other voices
Music is life because for so many that is all there is left to live for.
Kom ons wees oppervlakkig
Kom ons verbeel ons dit was niks
, 'n nag vol stampe en stote
dis al , - dis al

Kom ons wees naief
en jonk en dom
, en ... ag ek weet nie
ons leef mos net eenkeer?

Kom ons wees koud en
hard, soos die plaiveisel
en die mure waarteen jy my
vasgedruk het as ons soen!

Kom ons bou vir maande
aan iets en verloor dit
in jou hortende stem
wat soms die sprong
oor die berge kon maak,
maar nou wegkwyn in
kuberstiltes -stiltes -stiltes
waar jou ***** se echo
in die verlede verdwyn.

Waar is jy nou?
Nou dat my are al
lintend- swerwend in
die wind agter jou wapper
en my hart knus in jou
glas bottel le...
nog 'n glas bottel,
was al wat jy werklik wou he.

Kom ons wees verlief
Depressief
Agressief
Neem inisiatief en
vergeet van my...
,want diep binne
het ek jou
nog eintlik lief...
Hello Genisis
Kom ons wees oppervlakkig...
Mark Toney May 2023
St Simons Island, Georgia USA
East Beach, 12/4/2011

"Your focus determines your reality." —Qui-Gon Jinn


Witnessing an
amazing low-tide
phenomenon,
as if a walkway to
a parallel world
has suddenly appeared,
extending one-half mile
from East Beach
out to sea

People are slowly
gathering, walking, stopping,
stooping, staring in silence,
speaking softly—
I'm as eager
as Simon Peter
to join them, yet
somewhat afraid of
walking where
there has been
only seawater
minutes before—
Chattering dolphins
beckoning in the distance
instill confidence

So I join them,
stepping from the
beach onto the
other-worldly terrain,
first 42 steps confirming
we are not alone!
Surrounded by
a menagerie of
sand *****, clams,
beach flea amphipods,
sea roach isopods,
ghost, hermit, and
fiddler *****, even
cannonball jellyfish—
shades of the
Mos Eisley Cantina
on Tatooine
in miniature

But beware of
semidiurnal
tidal cycles—
Twice a day
at high tide
the sea, like an
unstable vortex
of a Chappa'ai,
consumes the
phenomenon,
even the beach itself
to the edge of
the dune


"The mystery of life isn't a problem to solve, but a reality to experience." —Frank Herbert

"So long and thanks for all the fish!" —Farewell message from exiting dolphins, translated by Douglas Adams



Mark Toney ©️ 2023
5/21/2023 - Poetry Form: Free Verse - ‘The Georgia coast is geographically the westernmost point of any Atlantic coast region, and part of the area known as the South Atlantic Bight, the coastline that curves from Cape Hatteras, NC to Cape Canaveral, FL.  St. Simons and Jekyll Islands are at the inward-most point of the South Atlantic Bight and thus experience the most severe tidal ranges of 6 to 9 feet. The Atlantic Ocean's tidal range, miles offshore, is just 2 to 3 feet.' —National Park Service | Fort Pulaski (nps.gov/fopu/learn/nature/hydrology.htm)
Sy vra: "Hoekom is jy nou so n non"?
Ek sê: "**** is mos eintlik net vir die lewendes".

Ek is my eie memento mori.
Jy is die oorsaak van dood.
Laat dit so op my graf geskrywe staan:
-Hier lê die skerwe van iets amper heel-
,want nou sit ek weer aan jou tafel
en my laaste maaltyd is n herkouing
van spoegsels vergete tye saam met jou
En ek kou en ek kou en ek onthou:
*** warm jou hande was teenoor jou hartskou
, *** gretig jy was om my vas te hou
en na die tyd toe te snou.

"Ek sit nou waar jy gesit het"
, grinnik jou wellus oor die porselein rand
en ek wil vir jou sê staan op en gee vet
want almal wat daardie stoel beset
wals met die noodlot en wink vir seer.
"Kom ons probeer , nog n keer"
Sê jou hand langs jou ritsluiter
, maar ek voel n veer
, want kadawers ken nie lustigheid nie
en ek is oorgebalsem met n gelofte.

Los die dooies dat ons rus,
Los daardie "ons" begrawe in die kis.
Keenan Martin Mar 2010
What is a Blackstar?

Is it you or me? Is it we?
I think it's much more than Mos Def and Talib Kweli.
It's what we can be with unity.
They are turning us against one another, but won't fool me.

What is a Blackstar?

Is it  the folks on the corner?
Shining from the things they sold there.
Fleeing the scene when the blue and red lights flash.
Knowing they have more strikes than the batter at the plate.

What is a Blackstar?

The astronomy? is it the Milky way?
The formation of a star to cross or be in line?
The explosion that creates a tragedy,
Destroying mor than different galaxies.

What is a Blackstar?

Is it the church going man who's an educated ****?
Spitting game at the club that saturday night
To make you, the woman, his wife for that moment.
Hoping you awake by his side, but you find him missing.

What is a Blackstar?
Eric Pudalov Aug 2014
lost in red
delusional labyrinths,
her bulbous eyes depict an
undiscovered fear
       within.

walls built
to be impenetrable,
soundproof, stand
permanently - forming
a psychotic structure
preventing communication,
     the trans-
             la  tion
of drows rutsegse guothhst
(words, gestures, thoughts)

and she pushes with anorexic
     fingers against
             the cinder
          blocks, as the
   at    mos     fear
           cringes
         around
           h e r...

does escape exist?
This poem was partially inspired by the painting "Landscape with Figures," by George Tooker.
Homunculus Jan 2018
Dear literary journals:

I'm a millennial American male
who came of age in the aughts.
Do you have ANY idea how much
RAP MUSIC I GREW UP ON?!?!?!?!

And now you want me to write some
sort of rhyme devoid, metrically impoverished
modernist dross which is REALLY

just prose that's written in line
and stanza break, in order for you
to publish me? Please do clarify:

HOW THE HELL DO I DO THAT?!?!?!?!

I have SOOOOO much more in common
with Mos Def, Talib Kweli, and MF DOOM
than I do with any of that ridiculous nonsense
that your stuffy Imagist deity Ezra Pound
(who was also an ardent FASCIST, might I add)
churned out page after page. I mean, look

William Carlos Williams:

"I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold"

Now, look at Kweli:

"Yo, I activism, attackin' the system
The Blacks and Latins in prison
Numbers have risen, they're victims lackin' the vision
****, and all they got is rappin' to listen to
I let them know we missin' you, the love is unconditional
Even when the condition is critical, when the livin' is miserable
Your position is pivotal, I ain't bullshittin' you
Now, why would I lie? Just to get by? "

and please explain to me, just exactly how the former
is SUCH a higher form of art than the latter?

It's beginning to seem to me that
The REAL issue here is that rhyme and meter
were co-opted by a group of writers
who evolved
the usage of
said literary devices
to such an advanced degree,
that many of the older styles
paled in comparison, and
ESPECIALLY in terms of technical prowess

It just so happened,
that to the great misfortune of those
brilliant auteurs
they just so happened to be
not only POOR,
but also BLACK,
thereby barring their innovations
from serious consideration
by those in the ivory tower
of so called "HIGH ART"

As if to say:
"Oh, RHYMES?"
You mean those old artifacts
of the outdated formalists, and
favored staples of the lowly rappers?

In a way that as if by magic, makes Williams'
Inane single sentence about eating plums
written in line and stanza break, somehow
better, more enduringly creative, and
of greater importance
, than
Kweli's incisive social commentary.

But, you know. I'm always open to being wrong.
Since, I usually am wrong about most things.
But, it seems that every time I pick up a lit journal,
it's the same type of broken narratives, with
the occasional token verse or rhyme
thrown in for good measure.
Maybe I just don't read enough lit journals,

but I can just about GUARANTEE that in 100 years,
people will have a much more distinct memory of Nas's
"Illmatic" than they will Ezra Pound's "Cantos"
And in point of fact, most people with whom I speak these days,
do not even know who Ezra Pound WAS, but they SURE know Kendrick's verses from "Alright"

So what gives, lit journals? It seems obvious at this point
that rappers are now creating the most successful and
widely disseminated forms of oral poetry currently in existence
So why is it that your publications seem so averse to
styles which bear a written resemblance?

Just a touch of
CLASSISM, perhaps?
Or am I just being ignorant?
Paranoid?
Look, some of these newer types of poems ARE really good, and I don't mean to slander ALL of them. However, some of this **** is just word salad and passes as genius and I JUST DON'T ******* GET IT.
My rowe lê al spore
Op my palms wat klou
Aan die yster wat my brand
Ń vlam
In die droewe kou
Ingehok, binne my eie land

Tralie hart staan ongeweer
Teen vloedwater emosie
Wat verbeeldingloos probeer
Om te rebuleer teen die seer
In my terugslag verval
My moed. Ek sal dit
Bymekaarskraap
vir ń Volgende keer.

En my vingers trek nog
Lyne en koppel my
Sondag-oggend sins
En versprei my laaste
Bietjie dignity in
Die zoo se trash bins
Terwyl ek nietig gan confess
-"Oh Father I have sinned"
Kom Jesus more weer om
My in my verlore toestand te
Kom vind....
Koop maar ń seisoenkaartjie
Vir versoening en vatsoene.
More sin ek weer.
Eks mos die duiwel se kind
Molha-me os lábios até me deixares sem folgo. Molha-mos até que a minha respiração esteja ofegante, até já não conseguires mais.
Vamos a todos os cantos do mundo, e em cada um deles tirar uma foto aos beijos, uma foto em que demonstre o nosso amor. Sei que não são precisos beijos para demonstrar carinho, amor ou paixão, mas é a forma mais simples de demonstrar o afeto que tenho por ti. O amor que sinto e que sei que nunca acabará. Normalmente gosto das coisas mais complexas, mas este "amor" é tão difícil de explicar da forma correta. É tão complexo... Por isso gosto de o explicar da forma mais simples, da forma que todos percebam que tu, tu és especial. Que tu és aquela pessoa que eu amo e nunca deixarei de amar. Tu és-me tanto, meu amor. Meu querido e eterno amor.
Meu amor, peço-te uma coisa, só uma coisa: molha-me os lábios até me deixares sem folgo.
When the raps are givin'
Lyrically by me
I'll leave ya  head spinnin'
Like a disco ball
Haters on the gall
But all I do is make one phone call
I got homies to hoes pack 44s
Check the iced chromed door
Of jeep four by four
Ya sweet as a nectarine
When I hit the scene
I turn ****** skin green
Brooklyn bounce more to the ounce
The drunker I get
The harder I hit
The more some ones bound for a casket
No remorse check the source
I was credited before I was edited
The Black Capone
I'm raps chaperone its my love jones
Me and my ***** my gun
Close like lelo and stitch
Got multiple attitude so I'm rude switch
Personalities
So nobody can keep a tally on me
Its me the big the biggest competitor
Leave ya competition in sweaters
Cuz I'm cold as anartica
Glocks stay blazin' hot than africa
Bomb flows like Boston massacre
Who asking ya?
About me the only yosef mos def
With the mathematics statics
I crash it if ya show y'***? I'll cash it
Put you on the corner
Reckless ruthless as Ike to Tina Turner
Embrace the dread **** the feds
Still taking my daily bread
Born sinner this is the philosophy of a winner
Ya unknown like Brian Skinner
Thinner ya need up ya weight son
Cuz ya falling lame son uh the don
Back to set the record straight
If ya gotta problem I'll.make ya death date
U see me I see u
Bullets hit ya temple now ya in ICU
Cuz I'm young witty and nasty and clean
Saw ya ******' head off if ya know what I mean??
Joana Jul 2014
Molha-me os lábios até me deixares sem folgo. Molha-mos até que a minha respiração esteja ofegante, até já não conseguires mais.
Vamos a todos os cantos do mundo, e em cada um deles tirar uma foto aos beijos, uma foto em que demonstre o nosso amor. Sei que não são precisos beijos para demonstrar carinho, amor ou paixão, mas é a forma mais simples de demonstrar o afeto que tenho por ti. O amor que sinto e que sei que nunca acabará. Normalmente gosto das coisas mais complexas, mas este "amor" é tão difícil de explicar da forma correta. É tão complexo... Por isso gosto de o explicar da forma mais simples, da forma que todos percebam que tu, tu és especial. Que tu és aquela pessoa que eu amo e nunca deixarei de amar. Tu és-me tanto, meu amor. Meu querido e eterno amor.
Meu amor, peço-te uma coisa, só uma coisa: molha-me os lábios até me deixares sem folgo.
Este texto estava publicado na minha outra conta.
on to new things Dec 2013
I think if we cant stop these feelings and emotions for each other....its *** we should be with each other or so to speak...
Its hard for me not talking to you.....*** I want to know about things since I care...Like how was your day and what did you do....but it doesn't matter now since were through.
Id like to know how you are since I miss you  like the moon would miss a star.
I hate that I start each day without my "K.P.B" saying to have a great day.  I miss all the little things that youd do......they may have been dumb or bothersome but I loved that you always said the sweet things u used to.
Sometimes I still hope u will call and or text me but then on twitr I see what you say in the "sad" acct.  I know that you wont since talking **** is what that's all about...
Why do say things like that? Don't you have any compassion for others? You should say it where It cant be seen....*** you do it on purpose and that just flat out mean..
I don't know why you want to act like you hate me and not have the feelings you do.....If we've been feeling like this for over 2 mos...theres a reason and you should accept it *** its gonna  haunt you.
I wish we could talk even just once more ....even if to say goodbye *** its wasn't handled properly before...
If you could only see inside my heart.,, youd know what we feel is real and that we are never to be apart.
I don't claim to be a poet and nor do I try...im here to say how I feel and it helps the ache and yearning I have for another not be so intense.
Scott A Grant Oct 2009
Tweet this way
Keep your head up
Ablaze of excellence
Bring the truth
Life is mos news
Twit Da Script
Follow your Dreams
The ink ain't never dry
(c) 2010- From Born Scripts Others Tell
Ken Pepiton Apr 2019
here's the deal:

I love you. That is something and
that is doing something and

beings of my kind, men, woumbed or un,
are love enabled,
graced with whatever

cognitive and hormonal turbulence
reporting system
signals the truth, I love you
yet I've no
trite ryhme at
this time

love truth way of life
all one
alone

and now, here we are, dear reader.
learning what our minds do,

how might we do this better, this co
munication
mit hi-def meanings and
things
old secrety now archives
pointing
aitia cause accuse response to that
which is unknown abil-ifity

hop

this is where my God of the Bible put his foot down

as I wrote that down, a meteorite fell through
the plane of my point of view,

I noticed:
I do see all I see as scenes in movies enacted
originally

on frameworks of stories we let be true.

Thus one who chooses not to obey an urge
to pray for patience when patience thins,
never learns
this:
waiting is being in reality ification,

wait for it, reread, rereward (a cry to the rear guard)
Read. Comply. Reply. Fore
Read. Comply. Reply. Aft.

Hey, wee accuser imp, where y'bin, lad?
''''''''' (translate) Going to and fro on the face of th'earth
signaling for a runner
to run
with a well told, detailed, message thus
saving the sender, or re
quester, the gesture of shouting from the housetops.

reread,  Shout back and Back reread
the message moves, a runner come, pass it on.

You are new acquaintences to the person I am,
you know what you think you know,
and that works as a mirror works,

reflexitifative, you see. Some things are ideas.

Some ideas are new.
Few words are new
so, I thought we could add a fresh batch of the
old meanings for captive and idle words,

by deeming those once meant, mean, meant
words taken captive by lies and outlaw legends.
Those  are mined for redemption.
All words can hold a fine meaning.

Lost? Words once meant, mean dung.

***** giver. Queer. Gay. Are we five?
Give recrudesence some
relevance, re deem this a word children should know.
Wounds do re open raw as ere the miracle
hemoglobin and oxygen and fibrous proteins
manifest, on signal, damnear speed o'light,
to staunch the flow
where hatred

Stabbed me in my mind,
slew me;

yeah, mebbe, like if y'did in y's mind's
like
ye did it in y'heart. Bad, man, real bad,
Heart-
head-tension all twistednshit

Real, right? Keep on. We role-in. Anono, mos'o'us.
Got voice? Gotta ryhme?
Well, not althetime, that is criminal
crime in al
right
we won. This is the dance, afthshow
incrim-mental criminal be

haviour or havyer be and have as linked
words, that must not be what the first thought was. I struggle with behaving, having been.

{Footnote from etymonline.com crudely placed
exactly where my next step was
meant to be taken}
have (v.)
Old English habban "to own, possess; be subject to, experience,"
from Proto-Germanic *habejanan(source also of
Old Norse hafa,
Old Saxon hebbjan,
Old Frisian habba, German haben,
Gothic haban"to have"), from PIE root *kap- "to grasp."

Not related to Latin habere, despite similarity in form and sense;
the Latin cognate is capere "seize.

Sense of "possess, have at one's disposal"
(I have a book)
is a shift from older languages,
where the thing possessed was made the subject
and the possessor
took the dative case.

You know (as in Latin est mihi liber"
I have a book," literally "there is to me a book").
Everybody knows that.

Used as an auxiliary in Old English,
too
(especially to form present perfect tense);
the word's taken on more functions over time;
Modern English 
he had better would have been

  {Too dense sorry, but better is a good idea to have, if you can hold it.}

Old English him (dative) wære betere.

To have to for "must" (1570s)
is from sense of
"possess as a duty or thing to be done"
(Old English).
Phrase have a nice day 
as a salutation after a commercial transaction attested by 1970, American English. Now,
fifty years hence, have a nice day,
followed by thank you, then replied to
to add a layer of common courtesy,
where "you are welcome" played in1970,
"No prob"
now has that role, replacing "you are welcome" as welcome ceased making sense,
you notice.

Phrase have (noun), will (verb) is from 1954, originally from comedian Bob Hope, in the form Have tux, will travel; Hope described this as typical of vaudevillians' ads in "Variety," indicating a willingness and readiness to perform anywhere;
exemplar gratis,
"Have gun, will travel". On Craig's list.

Possess. Have. Same same, okeh.
Have idea. Idea have. Possess idea. Idea possess. What samesame?
Your behavior signals action,
so that Idea possess you. What to do?

Last time I tell. Ideas have men, not other way.
--Think new idea
-- Create new song, sing it, inside outside

Word.
I am the portal,
he who approaches Mot from Maya must
enter
here.

Other wise, he is not here. Simple. Love it.

For a little while.
No wish to be taken for fools, we, the
manifested sons,
watch,
are watched, targeted, it's been said.
We are watching, I say, we who see

and have alwise known at the gnostic level,

we are born to behave this way.
As luck might have it,
were luck a factor. But life's not fair.

The good guys win. Really win, as
opposed to
virtually win, as in a game.
This is ever. This is living.
This is what we have to do.
It takes practice. Old guys know how to
twist grammar into con
fessin', just in time.
---
maybe memes are angels,
awaiting recepeption, old man.
Having and holding
an we watch light become our thiughts
our thighs

our times

her thighs
and movement

a movement and

i dont know

but i know tonight

i hsve

been laid

with urgency

without me

mos importantly

you were not the he

the stitch in her

melody

but i shall

but i couyld

tell you who thinks of me at night
but no

not tonight

i feel mydelf coliiding in the  orning

with the things i gave myself to

laswt night

'
a bill

a fold

a fold in my innocence
tragedy
Basko Mar 2014
If we are completely limited to the
mind, the body and are questioning whether
we have a soul than we cannot quietly tell the others
how we are, by what we are

But we can commune silently,
where everything vile is out
of the darkness within, or the vacant feelings
we feel. How are we, by what we be

Some exist while some just endure
very less live in the present,
and mos people rift in waves, drown
in the past or make dams for the future
for "Me, My and Mine"

How we are by where we live in the time frame
How I am, how are you?
If i am being me than so are you.
Are you me? Or me that you are is you
Our name's declined us of our commune. Otherwise,
How we are, is by how we become
A lesson learnt in life.
On May the twelfth of nineteen forty-two,
A project was started by Franklin D.
A plan was penned to make the bombs we threw,
On Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

The bombs were named after a boy and man,
One of them little and one of them fat.
Both of them made by project, Manhattan,
No one can guess why they named them like that.

The project was held in three locations,
Hanford, Los Al’mos, Oak Ridge, Tennessee.
And with sci’ntists from three diff’rent nations,
The US, Great Britain, and Canad-ee.

The bombs that ended the second world war,
Began as the scientists’ idea.
They didn’t see then the fam’lies they tore,
They didn’t hear the “Ave Maria.”

The project was kept top secret for fear,
Of Germans, Japan, and all the Russians.
That all those countries’ spies would steal and hear
Their newfound ideas and discussions.

The morning of August six, forty-five,
The Japanese city, Hiroshima.
People awoke with no thought to their lives,
Just after battle in Iwo Jima.

Little Boy fell, over nine thousand pounds,
Plopped from B-29 Enola Gay.
Pilot Paul Tibbets in far above bounds,
Dropped Little Boy to heed orders that day.

The Fat Man fell just a few days later,
August ninth on city, Nagasaki.
A bomb of this force, made by traitor,
Not so, it’s made by those from Milwaukee.

Thousands of pounds of explosive power,
Tens times efficiency of one before.
Dropped on a village within an hour,
Explosion, explosion upon the shore.

By Robert Oppenheimer it was led,
With help from General Leslie R. Groves.
They felt great regret for all that were dead,
Those people they killed in shadowy droves.
Tammy Boehm Aug 2014
Tendriled nightmares coil
Writhing blind knots
Restrict my inner vision
Peripheral blurred neuroses lurk
Morbid melodramas spin symbolisms
Of a tragic ending
Beyond the memory of moonlight
plaintive note of hope recedes
In the saturnine breeze
I am Lost to lower oscillation
Vestigial presence of the divine
Inert
My racing pulse thrums a dirge
for the waning day

You are the fulcrum
Levo mihi per vestri lux
The arbitration of angels
My inner spirit luminesces
Hope regains her tenuous place
I turn my tearstreaked face
To the memory of light

Amo Deus perficio lux
EGO mos orior iterum

TL Boehm
052608

Lift me with your light
Like God's perfect light, I will rise again
feel free to correct the Latin. Even though I may appear ancient - Tis not my mother tongue.
on to new things Dec 2013
who has met someone and they had such a strong connection that you change things about ur self.....
like from buying Michael Jackson stuff....I met you I told u I spent like 2000. on mj stuff...and u said I should cherish memories not materialistic items..
or how to spell certain words....or how to appreciate being with family even though they make u want to be high or drunk...
or to watch movies you wouldn't normally.....like ''DEARLY BELOVED'". Or to read long paragraphs on Ludwig Beethoven or that I need to read between lines and that taught me to anaylise (don't care) things people say so I could find u....
you taught me that I shouldn't always be so miserable and think bad things ,,,,,which made me watch closer ...*** I thought u were up to no good and u were....all kidding aside though....
You told me if my one boy kicks the other one in the {privates} crotch then if he ***'s right after it will make a lot of the pain go away...if it works I have no idea....but if I see that happen...I always think of what u say....
the main thing is.....u taught me how to love someone....and I never knew I was doing it wrong, but I was....*** no one has made me feel the way u do...but its over now *** u wont allow urself to love me....very sad...*** were our souls keeper and if my heart after 2 mos.....still feels like this then were suppose to be together...or something...I don't know...but I love u.
just want to tell u ur like a teacher to me as well...in a good way.
Marvin Paul Feb 2016
After the pain her tears became so much that it flooded her heart cutting off the outside world. The only way to cross is by boat or when the water freezes. But the journey is still treacherous.

Those who tried swimming drowned. Before you can get to her heart you have to pass a ghost town. The sound of an old clock tower can be heard in the background.

He passed a wishing well which ran out of wishes for her to love or forgive him. The picture looks grim for him. A long widening road that runs through all the abandoned places in her heart.

Walking past that old abandoned theme park where I bought her a gift. From atop the old ferris wheel you can still see her hearts mansion. That she won't forgive me I couldn't have imagined.

The field that is on the way to her hearts front gate is covered in pink and purple flowers. When he arrives at the front gate he sees the sun shining on an empty mansion. The one part is still standing and the other part is falling apart, what he sees is just sad a decaying mansion.

On the outside its surrounded by thick brick walls. The silence is blocked out by the wolfs calls. The only way to gain access is to pass a huge iron gate that seems to have no key.

The other side is completely surrounded by a steel fence. To protect her heart it make sense. That entrance is blocked by a huge iron gate. Still hanging on the gate is her name plate.

There are warning sings on both sides of the gate. No one wants to buy the mansion even though it has a for sale sign in front of the gate. On the front gate there's a warning sign which reads warning keep out.

Plants have grown so thick that the mansion is completely covered. The mansion looks completely undiscovered. The grass in front of the mansion isn't cut so its waist deep.

The gate might be open but the place doesn't look inviting. A passage of trees leads to the front entrance. Memories of her seem relentless.

Plants has grown in front of the front door blocking the way to her heart. I had to clear the it, I needed to gain access to her heart. The wooden veranda has started breaking because of wear and tear.

A front door that hasn't opened in centuries. I had to see her so I broke it down with one of those huge trees. When I finally came inside I saw a big mansion with a lot of empty rooms.

I needed to be careful. There's an empty hallway and a lonely staircase that leads to the next level. On the ground floor there's an abandoned study where I used to write her all my poetry.

On the second floor there are different rooms. There's a forgotten room, the next room is flooded and it filled completely with water. The other rooms are filled with plants, snow, dust, sand and there's a room with a lonely tree growing inside of it.

The floors of one of the rooms has fallen in representing what pain and rejection does to the heart. Because of all the pain her heart fell apart. The one room has mos on the floor and the bed with the paint coming off the walls and the roof is broken.

An old room with an abandoned piano. At certain parts of the day the piano can still be heard. An abandoned fire place to keep her heart warm so it doesn't turn cold.

Connected to a long hallway which has been decaying over the years. One of the doors to one of the rooms have fallen off. Her hearts power has been completely cut off.

The third level is inaccessible because the stairs are completely broken and the floor has fallen in. I walked through the whole mansion but I never found her. I found a letter in an old mailbox telling me that I should forget about her. ©M.P.Jacobs
Wrote this poem after so much rejection
Racheal King Apr 2019
hamisha asar, hamisha asar
vena vermos vamos cantar
labalabaya mosas perta
con quince platos de fruta
labalabaya mosas perta
con quince patos de fruta
ben dichosu nombre sinor del mundo
frutas de Israel
be dichosu nombre sinor del mundo
frutas de Israel.
Hamisha asar, hamisha asar
vena vermos vamos balyar
labalabaya mos a pera
la bak la bai cave
labalabaya mos as pera
la bak la bai cave.
ben dichosu nombre sinor del mundo
frutas de Israel
ben dichosu nombre sinor del mundo
frutas de Israel.
This i also one of the songs that I sang with my choir, it is basically Isralian with some Spanish and different languages!!

— The End —