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Cné Apr 2018

Many days without a muse.
Whatever shall I do?
Too long away from poetry
and sans a point of view

The moon has been so beautiful.
But words just would not come.
The sunrise has been glorious
the sunsets strike me numb.

Romance is in the air tonight.
Perhaps a muse will see...
And strike a chord that gives
a voice to verses now in me.

I close my eyes and see much more
than sight can ever see.
Colors swirl behind my lids
and rainbows, vividly.

Butterflies and hummingbirds
a ship of clouds glides by
Howling wolves in the wilderness
a pink and azure sky

And so, I find I need no sight
to find my inspiration.
The mind is far more "visual"
and gives its own sensation.

Just writing....
David Adamson Jul 2016
The story began one night in the dark
when most curious minds were asleep.
Sitting silently, only fingers tapping the keys,

“You tempted me like an empty page,” he wrote,
longing for a response of immediacy
that would fill his mind with more words,
the only thing he took comfort in.

She stepped aside from the voices
at her gathering to read his message.
“Emptiness,” she wrote back, “lives in the mind,
the habit of looking for what’s lost.

There is no zero in nature.
Let me tempt you with fullness instead.
Come and see what I see, and share what is there.”

As she sent the message, she swallowed deeply
knowing that what she offered was not quite a lie
but more of an unfulfilled desire.

“I can give you what I never had,” she thought.
Her mind wandered, filling
with all the ways that only emptiness can.

He wasn’t sure what she was offering him.
Whatever it was, he longed for it.
Her words flooded him with a feeling he couldn’t name.
Love? Desire?  Intoxication? Yes.

As the sun rose, he took no notice of fatigue, thirst, hunger.
He forgot the empty days,
the time spent looking in the mirror,
counting the lost years.
He began again to write.
Srijani Sarkar Nov 2017
Let me
Sleep on petals
Flown at papers
When my nights are autumn
And my mind
sheds all
That it grew
Through the day - my springs
I bloom
with feelings
And afternoons
have rained
Rainbows into me and
hues cascading out of me
Now I know what poetry is.

My roots forget
The taste of soil
they keep on digging,
No, love seeped too deep this time.
And my words dew too much
Emotions that
My leaves
now loathe sunlight.
And the birds have left
A home in me,
all empty
I am all alone,
Save me.

And you, like a wind
I feared all these years
Only to lift me up,my wilted verses
Are half dead,muses still breathing
Craving a death so bad
You blow , you blow
Against all my skin and swishing my hopes up
Making me see
The sky again and again.
Let these desires rest
Enough of throwing them at the clouds.
You go, another desert thirsts for life.
My poetry always foliages from memories anyway.

- Srijani Sarkar
Do you know how you grow through poetry ?
Ma Cherie Mar 2017
I have so many musings
my hands they are complaining,
cuz I can't get them all right,
an so quickly jot them down,

An I feel that I'm connected,
to all my friends and my dear neighbors
an all that I can hear is just is that sound!

Of sweet snowflakes as they're falling,
in the silence sweet n pure,
an so softly as I hear them,
touch the ground,

An soon I'll imagine,
oh a winter wonderland,
in a covering in all you see around,

Those lovely floating wisps,
are so intricate-amazing
those parachuting sprites,
here they abound!

If you ever catch one close up,
well you really really oughta,
cuz the labyrinthine in sight
it will astound!

They are happy little ships afloat,
with an octagonal shape,
landing on all  life,
once sorely browned,

Every child and adult,
is now looking up in awe,
as there smiles turning up ,
instead of frowned!

I thought that I was lost,
an I'd never get to see,

but in poetry it seems-
that  I am found!

Ma Cherie © 2017
Happy poetry! Yeah!?  Lol ; ) ❤❤❤ hope you are all well!
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
A night owl in the harvest moon
was awake till the ***** of the dawn
but wasn’t surfing online, wasn’t rowing
the boat in the digital river.
Deep down to a dreamweaving scene
that was, in musing, painstakingly creative.

Wait till you snap up a witty aphorism.
The darling buds of May will be in bloom.
The tickled pink nightingale too will
give out its voice, singing a song.
Save a copy and tweet it to all,
but do give us a demo, tell us a bit more.
Where does it shine and sizzle?
Where did the winter tuck away the rose?
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Semicolon Apr 2018
.                               “I
                            lo­ok out
                        side the window
                      and there
                   I see the
                moon, and
            that makes
           me wonder,
            ‘why would
              such a beauty
                   always want
                     to hide a part
                       of herself, why will
                             she want to?’
                                     ”
Chris Neilson Jul 2016
Attended a dinner party with poets departed
secured a place in a fantasy scenario self created
Dylan Thomas did not go gently to the event
discussion with Yeats was heaven sent

Conversation with Shakespeare was ***** and lewd
even brawling Brendan Behan found him crude
Wordsworth wandered in as lonely as a lakeside cloud
faced with his eloquence before me I bowed

John Cooper Clarke's showing brought mouths open wide
Jim Morrison spoke, "You've broken on through to the other side!"
The Salford Bard looked dead so they let him in
as refusing him entry a gratuitous grave sin

Heaney was asked for his views on Brexit
a number was taken for dear Seamus to text it
"Here come some female poets?", exclaimed Sylvia Plath
as Browning, Dickinson and Rossetti walked up a path

When I shuffle off this mortal coil
with relics scattered in suitable soil
eternal musing with all the above
would bring evermore everlasting love
you walk into the room
shutting the door behind you
your hands tremble with fear
as the orange tinted street light glares across the window
it's been days since you last saw him
and now you are filled with this weird emotion; somewhat like withdrawal
everyone said that you need to let go
but did believing them mean that you were ready to walk away from the idea of him?
how could you
you felt it
you felt him
the way he caressed your bare skin
while you took a sip of your coffee
he never seemed to like coffee
or maybe it was just the one at your house
he would walk around the room
looking for that book he bought you
and then he'd give you a sly smile
as though he knew exactly where you hid it
he said you were the only one who could see him
he said it was magic
and you
darling, you needed the magic
and as sinister as it sounded
you wanted someone to rise from the shadows
you wanted someone to embrace your darkness
and he was right there
but they,
they tried to cast him out
and you brought him right back
were they jealous of your happiness?
how could they not believe in your magic?
he existed
he held you
when they did not
as your eyes wandered back to the glare on your window
you saw your mother standing at the door
you saw her eyes red with tears
but you're angry
how could she banish the only man you have ever loved
your vision starts to get hazy
you see him standing there
two steps behind your mother
you scream in delight and ask your mother to turn around
he warns you not do that
he warns you that she cannot stand him
he assures you that you can only be together when she is gone
your eyes widen with fear
could he be more important than her?
was blood not as thick as water?
you wanted him
you wanted this
you tried to run towards him
you could not stand the distance
but you seemed to be drowning in a pool of blood
but he did not save you
he just stood there
and watched you turn red
the glare on your window started to fade
you saw him walk away into the dark
one moment he was there
and the next moment he wasn't
you screamed
but he was an eternity away
could he hear you?
did he not want you?
you wanted to hold your mother and weep
and soon you realised
that is exactly what you were doing
as you moved away in horror
the glass from your table fell on the ground
amidst the shattered pieces
you saw the water mix with her blood
it was art
but the water could not save itself from being engulfed
as though a victory of good over evil
and that is when you realized
that blood is thicker than water
but it was too late
Aishwarya Ezhava Jul 2018
I just want to go through the uncertainties,
I want to take the unfamiliar paths,
Maybe it'll lead to desired destination,
Or else, whatever, walking matters.

I just want to wash out my pains,
I want to undergo the depths​ of ocean,
To lose in its mystery and beauty.
What a beatitude! yeah, indeed.

I just want to be the wanderer of desert,
To walk through the sand dunes,
In solitude and silence all around,
Just to beware the struggle of life.

I just want to hover in the air,
Higher and higher over the layers
With open arms, walking in the wind,
To look up from there, in search of thee.
Terry Collett Nov 2018
Maggie watched Sara sleep;
she was dreaming;
she could tell
by the eyelids' movement.

Being out with Edward alone
had shown her how much
she was missing;
missing of life out there,
parties, concerts, dinners.

Sara was draining
her emotions;
her younger,
slightly demented sister
was dragging her down.

Look how she behaved
when I got back
this evening with Edward,
Maggie mused,
like a child whose mother
had neglected her.

Who would
look after her,
if I didn't?

She watched
the rise and fall
of her sister's *******;
the eyelids'
rapid movement;
the hands on top
of the bed-covers crossed.

Edward had kissed her
while Sara had been
in her room,
probably listening
at the door.

He had gone;
she had wanted him to stay,
but it was impossible
with Sara around,
tip-toeing, trying not
to make a sound.
A sister muses on her sister sleeping in London in 1922
Arianna Dec 2018
The evening breathes softly in slumber,
Stirring the branches of the crepe myrtle
And the rose briers bared
Against the frost of the coming winter.

Searching for the bashful moon among the clouds
As the earth exhales,
What traces of the sea remain on the breeze?

                    None can I discern.

The letters of Petrarch glisten, black-on-white,
By the moonlight,
And hidden sing the troubadours of the hours late.

          Et il y a quelques siècles
          Depuis j’ai dansé le passamezzo,
          Mais ce soir, je suis émue
          À danser
          À nouveau.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3onO9ZG7io
Jesse stillwater Jun 2018
Time is fleeting
as the spring river runoff
that gushes out to sea

A heart trickles out
a moment,
minute by minute,
in a timeless ink drop;
unmeasurable expanse
     immured in spilled ink ―
   manifest in the lexicon of poetry

For only purged words
cannot quench this thirst
that is loneliness;
it's a hunger that gnaws
like an unsatisfiable ache ―
a starving emptiness
all hearts
do one day taste

Left in the sight
of doubt
and eyes that fail
to believe what they see
lain fallow in the silent
indifference

Lost in a lingering void
unburied all around,
bespoken out loud
alone in plain sight
a feigned understanding;
reticent letters shape
reluctant words
to hold forth
enunciated breathe

The only words
that still echo unstilted ―
uttered  words
indelibly felt
from lips once sweet
as daybreak dew
    upon musing tongue ―
tasting the only
voiceless truth
that ever broke my heart

a vanishing wave
that moved an ocean
   deeply ...


Jesse Stillwater ... 06 6 2018
Notes:   unstilted:  Adj. - flowing naturally and continuously

Thank you for listening to my 2 cents ...
Cné Aug 2018

Souls embroidered with sweet sighs of passion
Musing of nights in lace & white satin
On a vista of flesh, flushed with desire
Riding the flames on a passage of fire

The beating of drums, commanding the night
To the rhythm of hearts, passion ignites
Wrapped in immortal flames of the sun
Burning together, two become one

Flesh upon flesh, a spirited dance
Welded by whispers of love, of romance
Temperatures rise in a fever of ****
Stoking the flames, ****** after ******

Riding the swell, in a race to the shore
Try to repress, but needing it more
Virtue be ****** in the rage of desire
Flames rise in hunger, higher n' higher

Charging the crest, temperance slips
Drawing the reins in a white knuckle grip
Crashing of waves unleashes the flood
Quaking the heart, and searing the blood

Spewing of flames in the crash of the tide
In a warm sheen of sweat, fervor subsides
Energy spent in the throes of release
Collapsing together, the story complete

Shofi Ahmed Oct 2018
It’s on everyone's eyeline
where the flying clouds
look down time and again
on this perfectly placed mural.

King Solomon keeps an ear on the ground
the Queen of Sheba tiptoes on this way.
Only to find seas of silent blooms already
musing dipping in sun-kissed dews
on gently tilted roses that won’t drip down
not from this a picture perfect navel-high!

Velvety rose up from the ground
forever green earth is hanging low
in the dew on the rose that won’t fall.
Blossoming, eying on an acute high
evermore hopeful to scale high aspiring
to the faraway awaiting houris’ pool.
They will move neither to the north
nor south nor they go up or down until
Queen Fathima the Queen of Heaven
shows up there on the ‘as above so below’ *****.

There too the newly resurrected earth be primed
to loop into the Golden section at the same height.
Laying the stepping stone on before her
mosaiced to measure on the phi adhered navel-high!
Houri: The Beautiful native woman of paradise.
The Math Behind the Beauty argues that "Leonardo da Vinci's drawings of the human body emphasised its proportion. The ratio of the following distances is the Golden Ratio: (foot to navel) : (navel to head)".
Bison Jun 2016
I've got vines for my veins and roots for my laces
Leaves for my hair that hangs over empty eyes, graceless
It's coming from up under my branches
All this air could've been wasted on dead faces

Tell me what you're thinking
Put it into words for my inkling
Tickle me with jokes
But watch out for my ribbing

Power only consumes
But love it always feeds you
And I love it
When you breeze through

And I'm moving
To windy grooving
As you sing me
All your favorite musing

So baby won't you cut me
Down but don't you burn me
Wear me as a locket
Don't you ever lose me

Or I'll lose me
I'm not really sure.
Michael Marchese Jul 2018
I need only to smirk and you’re mine
Anytime
If it’s god that you want
I have dozens in mind
Devilishly divine
Bending time like a grandeur delusional
Spine  

In a mad hatter ectoplas-mystical slime
A prismatic drug addict’s first nursery rhyme
Of accursed hearse verses of graphic design
Now to lay to rest intellect spectacles musing
Of selves glorified more than those of my choosing
To deify Destiny’s
Deathly serenity
Plentifully sending me vibrant surprises
And penning my ending in violent demises
Disguises surmised by the climate arises
Girl always there riding my similar waves
As I try to save face digging mechanized graves

But the cloud tentacles
To the depths
Drag me down
To demented ascension
Black holes in the ground
Where disciples of light
And my huntress in white
Vivify me by day
Resurrect me at night
To instruct and deduct
Reasoning in a state
Of a being supreme
Contemplating its fate
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2017
A message heart delivered by a musing troubadour
left footprints upon a well weathered rivers’ rocky shoal

the lazy days of the summer’s simmering
ethereal breezes lazily waft astir

Unknown distance ‘tween yonder skies azure;
thoughts of nebulous distances fearlessly ignored to be sure,
connectedness sown and deference’s soar from high above,
yet beyond vast breadth afar the great divide

His brimful heart in hand fulfills passersby thirst

needing love here, hearts on sleeves sincere,
wellspring sensibilities handed out willingly here
voids filled by word of quill …
right now is the known needed time

Glasses half empty suffused to their half full brims;
do unto others you will reap just what ye sow,
a poet beyond the bounds of his own demure,
bearing immense understanding

The quintessential essence of family love
drips from heart like heavens rain,
testifies the heart's purpose for being

A poet’s voice speaks in soul’s timeless tongues
unknown breaths from another understanding realm
too deep for words;
yet the word sayer struggles to see his forest ‘s poetic beauty
for to see beyond the pendant beauty
within its magnificent grandeur
of his own gifted heart’s nurtured trees.

~

The Twist

This poem was not written by me.
It was written almost four years ago,
lying fallow in some passing cloud.

Writ for me by someone effervescently more talented than I,
and one of the poets whose quality of work, and command of our shared language is something to which all of us should aspire.

I post it now as yet another homage to the true author.

For in reading it, never was a poem was far more clearly,
an unwitting self-portrait.

It was written on August 21st, 2013
by Harlon Rivers


for Nat Lipstadt
one of us, his tongue Moses-stung, with a hot coal of language's divinity
~
this would-be poet,
weighty troubled by misdirected words
of a musing troubadour,
for if ever a reflecting pool ought be
a two-way mirror reconfigured,
this poem is deservedly reversed
and of him homaged

by time, well weathered the poem above,
it's simple elegance tips and tilts the scales,
double blinding the justices supremely,
binding them for honesty for the subject,
is the auteur, one who sees too well
and yet l!
cannot perceive himself in his own words,
when now needs the judgement of their verdict
and your worthy recognition

now I ken better distance 'tween artist and art,
I, a workingman's daily dallying in simplistic machine craft,
my works deservedly lost in the waterfalling
of the endless also rans

non-nebulous distances.between skies of
Oregon country blue
and
the worldy worn asphalt grayed words of a graying man aging,
then let clarity speak, in plainest harmony,
know my deference’s soars to the high above,
one of us at birth, god gifted,
not I,
one of us, his tongue, like Moses-stung
with a hot coal of language's divinity

blessings, the keenest of nature,
where they divide and how they intersect
his brimful heart in our eyes fulfills the passerby's thirst
for revelations, small shards of shared sensibilities

my voids filled by the words of his quill

"to see his forest ‘s poetic beauty
for to see beyond the pendant beauty
within its magnificent grandeur
of his own gifted heart’s nurtured trees"

This was written April 15, 2017
for Harlon Rivers
by Nat Lipstadt

behind the poems,  travels another world…
Vinca Feb 7
sweetest dream,
masterpiece of mine
that I live to perfect,
to sculpt, to polish.

sweetest dream,
masterpiece of mine
that would make Calliope cry,
we aren't her fault, are we?

sweetest dream,
masterpiece of mine
that is a heretical creation,
a compilation of lies.

sweetest drug,
******* of mine
that lulls me into life,
we snuggle with my defeat.
Nico Julleza Sep 2017
with all this sleepless night
wide eye like butterflies
fields of yesterday's pain
take a step to look
feel the whispers at the back
memories again haunted me

with all your pretty lies
words of shredded disguise
a promising of dreams
only to have realize
a state of foolish paradise
storming forever haunted me

with every blinded glass
musing images of our past
infatuations overtaking
wondering why it never last
weeping every tear to fall sleep
a finished love that haunted me

with every sickening heed
a figure keeps to overdue
fragments, a drowning sea
twisted disenchantment
on the floor, now gently fading
ending, but still haunted me
#Haunted #Me #Fear #BrokenHeart #Melancholy

What a better way to Haunt you. Is your Very Own Fear

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Emmie van Duren Nov 2018
The Race That Stops A Nation is an exaggeration promoters love to trumpet out - but it’s imagination. ©
Mary Gay Kearns Nov 2018
A silver dale stagelit on silhouetted horizon
Treasured musing in grassy hedgerows at dask
A walk under spells of secret cat calls
And hark the birds take night in flight.

You pretty of shade and hour have hope
Thank goodness you now fair long to become
The flower of days when Summer you danced
And woods rang gaily to the tuneful hum.

Love Mary ***
Arianna Dec 2018
Where do knowledge and theorizing integrate,
Or do they remain separate,
Illusions of realities reflected infinitely,
         Perpetuating mirror follies, endlessly,
                    Of enlightenment?

What is this, 'enlightenment'?
Is it but a presumption?

And how could it be, when so heavily weighs
The anchor of gravity?

For despite all the pondering,
The musing,
Analyzing,
Speculating,
And reading of books,

Still

It seems rare,
An honest thought to find,
Cogitated for its own sake
          independently discerned,
Neither of, nor about, nor for
The ponderings of another,

And thus,
Still I wonder
How to think freely, though perhaps
I'm just thinking too much.
In other words: "What does it mean to truly think autonomously?"
Temporal Fugue Sep 2018
Musing away at the counter
retail a nonsense type job
selling his soul, filling a hole
throwing away DNA swabs

The guy just wants too talk
he spends four hours each week
talking the talk, unable to walk
a simple man, chalked up as meek

No life beyond the moment
sad and lonely he cries
tears that he hides, alone he abides
desolate and pitiful eyes

We see them as old and decrepit
maybe memory fleeing their minds
not dim of soul, just kinda slow
their history buried, inside

Listen a moment for honor
you'll hear it in pitch, and in pride
a person of heart, and of merit
not sure if it's true
or a
lie
Who am I to criticize those who came before
Who am I, to look in their eye
of those who were better
and knew so much more
as their gifts and memory
die
:(
Ken Pepiton Mar 2018
No quibbling siblings musing in the shallows, patriotism must be dealt with at it's route markers. They are all twisted. It is the duty of right thinkers to untwist
and shout,

All ye, All ye or Oy ye, Oy ye Outs (never Ox) in free. The ransom has been paid, the game of hide and watch is played. Touch, eh?

Nature's what? Original state? Perfected state? Fractured state patched with circuit breaking dams and weirs.

Nature's God, the mind behind Nature.

whose were the buffalo the servants of christmas replaced with sacred cows offered and eaten in Outback Steak Houses at Indian Casino Super TAs from sea to shining sea? Whose God commanded that? Whose God permuted that?

Who has sown bullheads in the squash? Shall we pull them up?

Let the children pull them up. Teach them to see the tiny round leave, which is to be squash or watermelon, sosweet, or water-stealing, sticker-making ****. Goatheads in little running feet all summer long, ouch. ouch. ouch.

Knowledge is power. Power is not lost. Is that enough to know and grow to know more and to spare? Is enough abundance enough to spare and share? Yes. On a broken planet, men of both model may make enough of anything they desire, or sire in their best happy ever after scheme or schema. That part never broke. The tongue-mind interface, that fried. Listen. Wisdom never shouts, you know.
Part of a series with Indian, American Indian, Native Aboriginal whisperers
Mystic Ink Plus Dec 2018
A name of yours
Caress the thought
With the magical vibes
Then the musing begins

A stolen moment
An enchanted realm
An iconic reflections
A pristine elegance

A trust in life
A genuine smile
A perpetual bliss
Nurtures the soul

Finally
A confession begins
To whom
It is concerned
Genre: Reflective Art
Theme: Everything can't be written. Some are felt. Open the senses.
Jade Bartlett Sep 2018
VI. I, Ophelia
___________________

­{The Drowning}

It was her--
Flower Child.
Weeping Woman.
Crazed Ophelia--
who taught me that the
drowning is in the letting go
and not in the doing.

Ophelia did not flee to the riverside
with the intention of
drowning herself, no--
it was merely a promise of bouquets--
daisies, violet, rosemary,  rue--
of wild, velveteen petals nestled softly
against tear-stained cheekbones;
pine needles--
ticklish--
beneath raw feet
(do you recall how The Little Mermaid
danced upon knives
in the name of true love?);
and the train of her nightgown
a focal point for dewy leaves
and frayed bird feathers.

For it was flying she thought of
as she climbed the scarred willow
and cradled herself atop its highest bough,
severed blossoms in hand,
legs dangling precariously over
blustering currents.

But
when the bough
b r o k e ,
the cradle did   f
                              a
                               ­   l
                                      l,
and down came
mad girl
cradle and all.

But you must understand--
the dismemberment of the
willow's flailing limbs
was not her doing;
when the rapids dragged her down
to the belly of the murky river bed,
she merely gave no struggle
as death lapped at her ribs--
she merely submitted,
allowed the snivelling maw of the river
to swallow her whole.

Now,
I think it suiting
that I ponder the demise of the
Flower Child
(wilted in her ruin);
Weeping Woman
(tears reunited
with the eye of
the water lily);
Crazed Ophelia
(forgotten)
and all she has taught me
of drowning
as I let myself
fall asleep in the bathtub
at three o clock in the morning,
all the while a little drunk
and so very sad.
(You'd might have even thought
I wanted to drown myself. )
__________________
{Th­e Resurrection}

Doused in the pallid wash
of blue stage light,
and the clamour
of imaginary tides
growling in my ears,
I metamorphosize into
Hamlet's Ophelia
and all the other Ophelias
who came before me--
mad.
broken.
lost.
women.

Women who were never
capable of quieting
the sea trembling
in their veins;
the barbaric deluge festering
within their souls;
the siren songs
musing to the cavernous twists
of their hearts,
piercing through artery
with stalagmite precision.

These women succumbed,  
not to the water,
but to the burden of their own
desire.
love.
heartbreak.

None of them survived.

Except for me,
of course.

And, I must admit,
it took my
writing this poem
to finally understand
why that is--
why--
how--
I have managed
to stay alive,
despite dreaming of that
same siren song
that lured my foremothers
to their destructions.

See,
alone,
Ophelia could not weather  
the tempest seething over her.

But I different--
I am not alone.

Because I carry with me the spirits
of all the Ophelias
who came before me,
the fragments of their beings
melding together to create
a brilliant gossamer of hope.

And that is why,
together,
we can breathe underwater.
____________________
{­Blackout}

Ophelia Bows,
her performance immortalized
through the remembrance
of a standing ovation.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer for optimal experience)
Arianna Nov 2018
They say 'twas once the Temple of Fire,
Blazing over all;
That behind its radiance
The grey-violet dusk of the heavens
And the churning of storms in the clouds
Masqueraded,
As the sun deceives us
To that endless Night
Which permits its light.

Now, ascending the steps, worn with age,
The arches of stone leaning weary overhead,
Shadows embrace me as one of their own.
.
But strange! Some form yonder sits
Upon the ledge, a silhouette,
The spectre of a man
Musing upon the distance
Between the ledge and the earth below.

Softly I tread,
Careful not to disturb
His reverie,
For this is a sacred place.

Yet, strange again! A bright ornament, there
In some faded crevice:
Of all things,
Wildflowers
Blue and white
With ribbon bound!

Mine eyes must err,
Or perhaps they fade,
For this is a sacred place

Of death

Wherefore
The temple fires have slumbered long,
And all has fallen to shadow...

But, hark, stranger still! A movement arrests me
Rising
From the corner archway:

A bird

Tawny wings and two-feathered tail,
Strange nightingale-of-prey
In this place once of prayer,

Rising

Higher and higher...

I glance back...

But no shadow-man
Perches still upon the ledge.
Inspired by a very strange dream I had last night. I still see that bird spiraling up, and up, and up...
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
Axt would I, I sed yah soyam

Signing a song played in the white noise that surrounds me

nights like these past 7043,

Who chounted en chant em, enchantemgood

So no we are at what is a befinning place.
beginning (90's too ****, U2 too Northern Euro,
Green Day, Coolio,
Noise to a message dying to be heard
welcome to another
imaginary garden in an ever expanding mind

field of unthinkable things,
back then

we have whiteout but it doesn't work here

My culture had near simultaneous eruptions of supermarkets

and Fords.

This guy, his culture had near simultaneus disruptions of progress and
interruptions of information
some os were lost in the middle synchrony
instance if I cationic plus or minus
simaltan

Oh, I get it. You, dear reader, have been
out of it.
We went public with the entire plan for public
key distribution,
through six palanced stacks of energy stores

Chakra, chi, science make ya think eh. Polarize, see

everything groovy --no
[contemprayery idle intense ify AI keep us current]

lie, good, no lie is always safe. Don't wanna stumble any souls.

I was mentioned, my being a speaker in a story, I was said
to have said something, upon a time,
on the cover of the Rolling Stone,

I witnessed a lie being told and said my ears weren't garbage cans,
like a brainwashed cult

no, **** I was a cultivated follower of a confessed
follower cultivator.

I bloom when I imagine being treated as a mushroom,
I never paid much attention,
I never felt
insane
but
I can imagine
wee whatifs crept in… aha

The Olde Deluder, Satan, Act

that, a tiny gleam, a single ATP gone ADP

but there was light. A story I lived is now being told
without me,
oy vey Jah knowaddamean.

There was a wiseman, who,
by his wis-dom saved a city, and no one knew
that same wiseman's name,

proverbs are intentional games, the rules,
hiding a thing, done by God, glory ifies him
seeking out a matter, done by a being translated king,
transmutes that seeking into honor

Honor is hard to compare to the war flavored twists,
knots and tangles where woof and warp held

long long long before war was imagined, honor was.

A medal of honor for valor, what does it mean?

Leonard Wood got one. For his part in solving
the Apache problem.
He also,

Flash I had my wires crossed, in a way, it may
enlighten.
You see, I had thought that I had read Leonard Wood,
be cause I had imagined he was in New Jersey, but that
was Lord Amherst, Jeff

He tweerted ( wrote in a letter on paper we've a fact simile):
"to try Every other method that can serve to Extirpate this Execrable Race."

From <https://www.umass.edu/legal/derrico/amherst/lord_jeff.html>

Could be the source of the whole shores of triple ease retirement lure/trap/moneymoneymoney makeit fakit

I asked once, who's to blame and whose to blame,
samesame came an answer, I sware, quick as

next, twixt being and being possible,

realize

we do change things, in time, which,

if we can agree, is limited for us,
to now, no thens behind

mere, mere, mere ifs and whens ahead

be

--so there's been music all along
life's the song

skip a decade, like skippin' a grade

grad Harvard at a prepubescent 12

If I had a Hammer time, one message

one valiant try to be will smith,

Live and Learn, old man, say the dude on the radio
in he's hammaheadphones, cain't touch

Bomb. Jesus lent me Jael's hammer,
radioman nailed it.

If I had a hammer was the prayer,

MC, he was the Godsmacked nail in the coffin

Dark inside gothish messages hurgle and gurgle
guts twisted in freak pride love hate list ****

dichotomies of choice in ever learning
good citizenship worth honor and glory

of the sort men dare to die for, facing darkness,
the NULL set ***** and ***** and *****

This ain't gravity tuggin me,
this is that monster who lives forever in top forty radio

When/then Radioman emerges, Like the Mighty Quinn from

deep beneath Gibson's darkest ever imagined ICE wall…

What's on? (ellipses, do those mean POV shift or selah?)

I forget, s still all alchemistry t'me, if allyagots ahammass,

realize, if it matters, t'me, bubble bustin' need no nail.

I gotti'd a hamma, gonna hamma in the moan

O.G., mighty man of valor, where'dyew arise from?

We, the integrated us, non autonomous, inarrogant
We were dancin' to that I'm a Loser, Baby

so why don't cha killme, knowwad i'msayin

This old man been wandern in the desert far far far
side the madding crowd
making minced
meet
broken spirit. we goin together to a re-pair place

at the center of you'n'all you know, yo bubble but

--- everlearning everclear outlawed, good lawed
--- moon shine spiritment lauded out loud
--- the world all ways works when a garden is

beyond the pale,
Irish
rye whiskey, wheat bread liqui
if I were an
old *** ninties guy drinking ***** laudnum
singin'

on the corner with the hourus girl's c

Making the Con Next Ion, watchathank,
is it The Nineties A to Z , ending wit, it’s a hard
knawks life, or

a Bohr-TED talk or
a video of Schrödinger's  
verdamte dead cat?

Or am I surrounded by so great acloud of witnesses that some times I spend

simply hummin' along, life's beat me to the ground,

which gladly,
I'm so glad, I'm glad, I'm glad which

loses its meaning if you never experienced such a fall
ending in absorption of it all.
****** Baker, slam that cymbal, CRASH1

Life, in every key, there's a clue. Some where,
there's a lock on a true thing we need

to, eventually, know all things.

Keywords lost givitawaygivitawaygit it back tenfo'

Black spirit-filled tongue talkin' grandpa friend of
Johnny Walker, Red not Black,

He challenged me ye see. I recall what was on TV.
Nixon sayin' he,
honest he,
anti-****** he,
bombin invadin he was Notacrook, the super hero
he imagined

Bio is building energy, all the time does is
test the effort.

Is life lived this way worth the effort?
if/then/else

Who chose, integrated me, all the masks and voices I have accepted as ideas that can have apiece of me.

BTW, kids, even if an angel of light asks you to take a little piece of my heart, don't

yer killin me and I know where the next story started,

you are lost without me, fretnot, I'm the way

I heard that, that's no claim I mist'tok as my response.

Deeper, are we absobbing any thing, deeper tincture
of time, t'me see

POV
SameYesTodayForever (SYTF) protocols have been in place, as far as we know,

since words made sense naturally, eons ago, at least.

If you want my future then forget my past
musing medium messages sayin

what the ****? A game, you sayin' life's a game?

Ja, was oder vice nicks versus universal soldier godlet

Jump when I jump, remember… don't cry

I woulda danced with wolves to have changed
one mind that followed me

beyond that point,
no return, is such a mortal POV, you see
as far as you cansee

Deep. the gem. all the meaning ever was was
in that gem.

Dare me for no reason? Is that reasonable,
ration my tears to test my mettle

I went mad in 1995, have I made that plain?
Things crumbled around me for ten years,

I was helped by hoping I knew a truth about those
manifested imaginary gems
given kings and potentates
said to possess great powers and the meaning og every mystery unknown to man

eh, say again
gems
given kings and potentates
said to possess great powers and the meaning OhGEE every mystery unknown to man

lies lies lies they all were lies lies lies lies

I told you so, and it is still sweet to say
you know

You heard it all before, greatest test story ever told.
That was no test.
this is.

Jump when I jump, remember… don't cry

Epic stories deserve more than mere words,
but, you know, click,

words are what we make things from.

Tell me your stories,
she woulda seemed to whisper, woulda drained me drownd me
in just if I'd love linked

to the money machine of your dreams

had I not rode the grey dog outa Nashville,
back in '82,

I'da missed seein' flyover country that feels like mine,
when I take this POV.
I wandered into a sattelite radio 90's A-Z, kinda like those histories of philosophies old people listen to when they're ******. Oh, the moonshine experiment worked, FYI
Terry Collett Jul 2018
The two nurses
***** me off
for a blanket bath,

said Grace,
I lay here on the bed,
my blind eyes

staring at blackness.
They lift each leg stump
and wash them gently

and with care;
they wash me where
only mother ever touched

when I was a child;
they wash me
with the warm water all over,

talking between themselves;
they talk of the bombing
the night before,

of the people brought in
from the raid;
of the many dead

who lay
in the mortuary now.
One talks of her night out

with her boyfriend
home on leave,
the other asks questions;

I fail to listen to.
I think of Clive
and the last time

we made love
in my bed
before he went off to fight

and was killed at Dunkirk,
and the night my house
was bombed and my maid

was killed and I lost my legs and sight
and thrown into this dark night.
They dry me gently

and dress my stumps again
and the put on my nightie.
They have gone

and I lay here
musing on Clive
and the man Philip

who came with Guy
and who talked to me
and promised

to take me out.
Why would he want
to go out with a legless,

blind woman?
And where
would we go?

He never said
and I may never know.
A blind? Legless, woman in 1940 London
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