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Rumi Iqbal Jan 2019
He is, the mystery man.
Walking at night.
He is the mystery man.
Always out of sight.

The mystery man, is odd
he comes at night, leaves at dawn.
The mystery man, is as tall as a rod
He is all brains, no brawn.

We spend our time, you and I,
thinking, "Who is the mystery man?"
Is he a cop? a doc? or a spy?
Does he drive a bus? a car? or a van?

The world needs the mystery man.
He makes us all feel safe.
The mystery man always has a plan.

He is always there,
watching.

Some say, we don't need the mystery man,
they say he is a nuisance.
Others say, since he came,
life has been an improvement.

He does not seek glory,
He does not seek fame.
He only seeks a place in someone's story,
to be remembered, but never by name.

Thank you to those who try to make people's lives better, even if they don't know it. Thank you to all the "mystery men".
Quentin Briscoe Feb 2012
The Mystery is....still a mystery...
So i slove what i can...the problems of man...
The Mystery is.... still a mystery...
So i love who I can...According to plan...
The mystery is still a mystery...
So what will i find...Inside my mind...
the answers to some...the questions of all...
Where do you run... Who do you call...
The blessings of life no mystery there...
Just Call out his name for he is everywhere...
The Mystery is whats taking so long...
Let him into your heart thats where he belongs...
#Yahweh!!
MBJ Pancras Sep 2015
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.

I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.

She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.

I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”

I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
About Mona Lisa
MBJ Pancras Sep 2015
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.

I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.

She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.

I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”

I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
Mona Lisa's Smile
Kimberly Aug 2018
There's a Lullaby that doesn't play in a Little Music Box, it roams like a Gypsy Soul, Mystery Lullaby is a Mysic soft song, that plays when and where it wants to play, Mystery Lullaby will take you by surprise, If you hear it play, don't be scared or run, Listen closely to it the Mysic soft sound, As you listen, you'll lose yourself in its song, For than a Lovely Magical Creature will gently take you by the hand, lead you into a Big Beautiful Ballroom, where there are other Lovely Magical Creatures Dancing, As they Dance your Lovely Magical Creature will take you into a Blissful Dance, spinning you around Gracefully across the Glass Floor, to the Mysic soft song of Mystery Lullaby, You will slowly start getting dizzy, and start to fall, As you fall, the Mystery Lullaby slowly fades, and Gone in the Wind, You're back to where you were with your head spinning in a drunk, Don't go searching for it, you won't find it, After all it's a Mystery and this Mystery can't and won't be Solved, As Mystery Lullaby doesn't play for long, For it's off to play for another at a Mystery and Magical Ball to Remember
afteryourimbaud Nov 2017
So you want
to solve a mystery?
tell me, tell me
with all honesty

"Do you want to solve a mystery?"

I could tell you all the pain
darkness, sorrow, eruption
of eternal gloom
but we will become
nothing less than just
dust in this room
our souls will collide
as if there is no end to it
our bones will crumble
one by one,
shoulder to waist
waist to toe
oh, this is all just for a show!

the suffering, the awakening
give me a run for the money
rain on my parade
I know nothing but
we are all slowly sinking.

Mystery, mystery
what good will that bring?

So if I ask you,

"Do you still want to solve a mystery?"

What will you pry
out of your lovely cemetery?
Bonnie Mar 2015
there's mystery in everything...
  mystery in the way you're so perfect and yet you love me.
    mystery in the way that we fell in love.
      mystery in the way that you always wake up so perfectly.
        mystery in the way that you made me fall in love with you so easily.
          mystery in the way that we met.
            mystery in the way that you are.

But theres one thing that I am sure of and that's that I love you with every ounce of me... forever and ever until the end.
xo
Bree Apr 2014
Testing the water, it’s hot and pleasant
Salty, but its waves will not overcome the ocean
For it is small and not quite in sight
It’s power is a mystery.

A box of grey and blue, cooing softly
Silver, but it cannot overcome the hawk
For it is small and like a man’s fright  
It’s feathers are a mystery.

Fluttering bows, bright and colorful
Fun, but it’s flight will not overcome a plane
For it’s small and like a star in the city tonight
It’s magic is a mystery.

But here is a thing, not one described
Powerful, and it overcomes all but the deaf
For it is both small and large, it does excite
To the deaf, a mystery.

Here’s one more, one of five together
Complex, and it overcomes all but the blind
For it’s both wide and near, a strange might
To the blind, a mystery.

It creates an appetite, it can be unpleasant
Indescribable, and it overcomes only taste
For it’s none too large, and not hard to write
To the sick a mystery.

One to go with that, something to crave
Sweet, and it overcomes an appetite
For it’s more than hunger, a thing of delight
To many, a mystery.

Warm or cold, skin to skin it can be
Inviting, and it overcomes weak-wills
For it’s always there, a strange, quiet plight
To the dead, a mystery.

This is not one of five, but a sixth
Confusing, and overcomes even great scholars
For it’s vast as the ocean, something to write
To everyone, a mystery.

Great heart.
norris rolle Apr 2011
.
Mystery woman, without a face.
hard to find. without a trace.
Romantic magic - pure illusion.
Finding her will cure confusion.
Enigmatic. Hidden treasure,
Somewhere out there in the world
Her worth and value can't be measured
Better than diamonds and pearls.
Mystery woman gat me wonderin'
If she really does exist.
So many moons i have been ponderin'
Did i somehow hit and miss.
Did i find her and mistreat her?
Did she have some sort of mask?
Did my attitude defeat her?
Was i just too much a task?
Mystery woman show me plainly
Who you are and where you be,
Cause i am runnin' round insanely
To unveil this mystery.
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
She said, ‘You are funny, the way you set yourself up the moment we arrive. You look into every room to see if it’s suitable as a place to work. Is there a table? Where are the plugs? Is there a good chair at the right height? If there isn’t, are there cushions to make it so? You are funny.’
 
He countered this, but his excuse didn’t sound very convincing. He knew exactly what she meant, but it hurt him a little that she should think it ‘funny’. There’s nothing funny about trying to compose music, he thought. It’s not ‘radio in the head’ you know – this was a favourite expression he’d once heard an American composer use. You don’t just turn a switch and the music’s playing, waiting for you to write it down. You have to find it – though he believed it was usually there, somewhere, waiting to be found. But it’s elusive. You have to work hard to detect what might be there, there in the silence of your imagination.
 
Later over their first meal in this large cottage she said, ‘How do you stop hearing all those settings of the Mass that you must have heard or sung since childhood?’ She’d been rehearsing Verdi’s Requiem recently and was full of snippets of this stirring piece. He was a) writing a Mass to celebrate a cathedral’s reordering after a year as a building site, and b) he’d been a boy chorister and the form and order of the Mass was deeply engrained in his aural memory. He only had to hear the plainsong introduction Gloria in Excelsis Deo to be back in the Queen’s chapel singing Palestrina, or Byrd or Poulenc.
 
His ‘found’ corner was in the living room. The table wasn’t a table but a long cabinet she’d kindly covered with a tablecloth. You couldn’t get your feet under the thing, but with his little portable drawing board there was space to sit properly because the board jutted out beyond the cabinet’s top. It was the right length and its depth was OK, enough space for the board and, next to it, his laptop computer. On the floor beside his chair he placed a few of his reference scores and a box of necessary ‘bits’.
 
The room had two large sofas, an equally large television, some unexplainable and instantly dismissible items of decoration, a standard lamp, and a wood burning stove. The stove was wonderful, and on their second evening in the cottage, when clear skies and a stiff breeze promised a cold night, she’d lit it and, as the evening progressed, they basked in its warmth, she filling envelopes with her cards, he struggling with sleep over a book.
 
Despite and because this was a new, though temporary, location he had got up at 5.0am. This is a usual time for composers who need their daily fix of absolute quiet. And here, in this cottage set amidst autumn fields, within sight of a river estuary, under vast, panoramic uninterrupted skies, there was the distinct possibility of silence – all day. The double-glazing made doubly sure of that.
 
He had sat with a mug of tea at 5.10 and contemplated the silence, or rather what infiltrated the stillness of the cottage as sound. In the kitchen the clock ticked, the refrigerator seemed to need a period of machine noise once its door had been opened. At 6.0am the central heating fired up for a while. Outside, the small fruit trees in the garden moved vigorously in the wind, but he couldn’t hear either the wind or a rustle of leaves.  A car droned past on the nearby road. The clear sky began to lighten promising a fine day. This would certainly do for silence.
 
His thoughts returned to her question of the previous evening, and his answer. He was about to face up to his explanation. ‘I empty myself of all musical sound’, he’d said, ‘I imagine an empty space into which I might bring a single note, a long held drone of a note, a ‘d’ above middle ‘c’ on a chamber ***** (seeing it’s a Mass I’m writing).  Harrison Birtwistle always starts on an ‘e’. A ‘d’ to me seems older and kinder. An ‘e’ is too modern and progressive, slightly brash and noisy.’
 
He can see she is quizzical with this anecdotal stuff. Is he having me on? But no, he is not having her on. Such choices are important. Without them progress would be difficult when the thinking and planning has to stop and the composing has to begin. His notebook, sitting on his drawing board with some first sketches, plays testament to that. In this book glimpses of music appear in rhythmic abstracts, though rarely any pitches, and there are pages of written description. He likes to imagine what a new work is, and what it is not. This he writes down. Composer Paul Hindemith reckoned you had first to address the ‘conditions of performance’. That meant thinking about the performers, the location, above all the context. A Mass can be, for a composer, so many things. There were certainly requirements and constraints. The commission had to fulfil a number of criteria, some imposed by circumstance, some self-imposed by desire. All this goes into the melting ***, or rather the notebook. And after the notebook, he takes a large piece of A3 paper and clarifies this thinking and planning onto (if possible) a single sheet.
 
And so, to the task in hand. His objective, he had decided, is to focus on the whole rather than the particular. Don’t think about the Kyrie on its own, but consider how it lies with the Gloria. And so with the Sanctus & Benedictus. How do they connect to the Agnus Dei. He begins on the A3 sheet of plain paper ‘making a map of connections’. Kyrie to Gloria, Gloria to Credo and so on. Then what about Agnus Dei and the Gloria? Is there going to be any commonality – in rhythm, pace and tempo (we’ll leave melody and harmony for now)? Steady, he finds himself saying, aren’t we going back over old ground? His notebook has pages of attempts at rhythmizing the text. There are just so many ways to do this. Each rhythmic solution begets a different slant of meaning.
 
This is to be a congregational Mass, but one that has a role for a 4-part choir and ***** and a ‘jazz instrument’. Impatient to see notes on paper, he composes a new introduction to a Kyrie as a rhythmic sketch, then, experimentally, adds pitches. He scores it fully, just 10 bars or so, but it is barely finished before his critical inner voice says, ‘What’s this for? Do you all need this? This is showing off.’ So the filled-out sketch drops to the floor and he examines this element of ‘beginning’ the incipit.
 
He remembers how a meditation on that word inhabits the opening chapter of George Steiner’s great book Grammars of Creation. He sees in his mind’s eye the complex, colourful and ornate letter that begins the Lindesfarne Gospels. His beginnings for each movement, he decides, might be two chords, one overlaying the other: two ‘simple’ diatonic chords when sounded separately, but complex and with a measure of mystery when played together. The Mass is often described as a mystery. It is that ritual of a meal undertaken by a community of people who in the breaking of bread and wine wish to bring God’s presence amongst them. So it is a mystery. And so, he tells himself, his music will aim to hold something of mystery. It should not be a comment on that mystery, but be a mystery itself. It should not be homely and comfortable; it should be as minimal and sparing of musical commentary as possible.
 
When, as a teenager, he first began to set words to music he quickly experienced the need (it seemed) to fashion accompaniments that were commentaries on the text the voice was singing. These accompaniments did not underpin the words so much as add a commentary upon them. What lay beneath the words was his reaction, indeed imaginative extension of the words. He eschewed then both melisma and repetition. He sought an extreme independence between word and music, even though the word became the scenario of the music. Any musical setting was derived from the composition of the vocal line.  It was all about finding the ‘key’ to a song, what unlocked the door to the room of life it occupied. The music was the room where the poem’s utterance lived.
 
With a Mass you were in trouble for the outset. There was a poetry of sorts, but poetry that, in the countless versions of the vernacular, had lost (perhaps had never had) the resonance of the Latin. He thought suddenly of the supposed words of William Byrd, ‘He who sings prays twice’. Yes, such commonplace words are intercessional, but when sung become more than they are. But he knew he had to be careful here.
 
Why do we sing the words of the Mass he asks himself? Do we need to sing these words of the Mass? Are they the words that Christ spoke as he broke bread and poured wine to his friends and disciples at his last supper? The answer is no. Certainly these words of the Mass we usually sing surround the most intimate words of that final meal, words only the priest in Christ’s name may articulate.
 
Write out the words of the Mass that represent its collective worship and what do you have? Rather non-descript poetry? A kind of formula for collective incantation during worship? Can we read these words and not hear a surrounding music? He thinks for a moment of being asked to put new music to words of The Beatles. All you need is love. Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away. Oh bla dee oh bla da life goes on. Now, now this is silliness, his Critical Voice complains. And yet it’s not. When you compose a popular song the gap between some words scribbled on the back of an envelope and the hook of chords and melody developed in an accidental moment (that becomes a way of clothing such words) is often minimal. Apart, words and music seem like orphans in a storm. Together they are home and dry.
 
He realises, and not for the first time, that he is seeking a total musical solution to the whole of the setting of those words collectively given voice to by those participating in the Mass.
 
And so: to the task in hand. His objective: to focus on the whole rather than the particular.  Where had he heard that thought before? - when he had sat down at his drawing board an hour and half previously. He’d gone in a circle of thought, and with his sketch on the floor at his feet, nothing to show for all that effort.
 
Meanwhile the sun had risen. He could hear her moving about in the bathroom. He went to the kitchen and laid out what they would need to breakfast together. As he poured milk into a jug, primed the toaster, filled the kettle, the business of what might constitute a whole solution to this setting of the Mass followed him around the kitchen and breakfast room like a demanding child. He knew all about demanding children. How often had he come home from his studio to prepare breakfast and see small people to school? - more often than he cared to remember. And when he remembered he became sad that it was no more.  His children had so often provided a welcome buffer from sessions of intense thought and activity. He loved the walk to school, the first quarter of a mile through the park, a long avenue of chestnut trees. It was always the end of April and pink and white blossoms were appearing, or it was September and there were conkers everywhere. It was under these trees his daughter would skip and even his sons would hold hands with him; he would feel their warmth, their livingness.
 
But now, preparing breakfast, his Critical Voice was that demanding child and he realised when she appeared in the kitchen he spoke to her with a voice of an artist in conversation with his critics, not the voice of the man who had the previous night lost himself to joy in her dear embrace. And he was ashamed it was so.
 
How he loved her gentle manner as she negotiated his ‘coming too’ after those two hours of concentration and inner dialogue. Gradually, by the second cup of coffee he felt a right person, and the hours ahead did not seem too impossible.
 
When she’d gone off to her work, silence reasserted itself. He played his viola for half an hour, just scales and exercises and a few folk songs he was learning by heart. This gathering habit was, he would say if asked, to reassert his musicianship, the link between his body and making sound musically. That the viola seemed to resonate throughout his whole body gave him pleasure. He liked the ****** movement required to produce a flowing sequence of bow strokes. The trick at the end of this daily practice was to put the instrument in its case and move immediately to his desk. No pause to check email – that blight on a morning’s work. No pause to look at today’s list. Back to the work in hand: the Mass.
 
But instead his mind and intention seemed to slip sideways and almost unconsciously he found himself sketching (on the few remaining staves of a vocal experiment) what appeared to be a piano piece. The rhythmic flow of it seemed to dance across the page to be halted only when the few empty staves were filled. He knew this was one of those pieces that addressed the pianist, not the listener. He sat back in his chair and imagined a scenario of a pianist opening this music and after a few minutes’ reflection and reading through allowing her hands to move very slowly and silently a few millimetres over the keys.  Such imagining led him to hear possible harmonic simultaneities, dynamics and articulations, though he knew such things would probably be lost or reinvented on a second imagined ‘performance’. No matter. Now his make-believe pianist sounded the first bar out. It had a depth and a richness that surprised him – it was a fine piano. He was touched by its affect. He felt the possibilities of extending what he’d written. So he did. And for the next half an hour lived in the pastures of good continuation, those rich luxuriant meadows reached by a rickerty rackerty bridge and guarded by a troll who today was nowhere to be seen.
 
It was a curious piece. It came to a halt on an enigmatic, go-nowhere / go-anywhere chord after what seemed a short declamatory coda (he later added the marking deliberamente). Then, after a few minutes reflection he wrote a rising arpeggio, a broken chord in which the consonant elements gradually acquired a rising sequence of dissonance pitches until halted by a repetition. As he wrote this ending he realised that the repeated note, an ‘a’ flat, was a kind of fulcrum around which the whole of the music moved. It held an enigmatic presence in the harmony, being sometimes a g# sometimes an ‘a’ flat, and its function often different. It made the music take on a wistful quality.
 
At that point he thought of her little artists’ book series she had titled Tide Marks. Many of these were made of a concertina of folded pages revealing - as your eyes moved through its pages - something akin to the tide’s longitudinal mark. This centred on the page and spread away both upwards and downwards, just like those mirror images of coloured glass seen in a child’s kaleidoscope. No moment of view was ever quite the same, but there were commonalities born of the conditions of a certain day and time.  His ‘Tide Mark’ was just like that. He’d followed a mark made in his imagination from one point to another point a little distant. The musical working out also had a reflection mechanism: what started in one hand became mirrored in the other. He had unexpectedly supplied an ending, this arpegiated gesture of finality that wasn’t properly final but faded away. When he thought further about the role of the ending, he added a few more notes to the arpeggio, but notes that were not be sounded but ghosted, the player miming a press of the keys.
 
He looked at the clock. Nearly five o’clock. The afternoon had all but disappeared. Time had retreated into glorious silence . There had been three whole hours of it. How wonderful that was after months of battling with the incessant and draining turbulence of sound that was ever present in his city life. To be here in this quiet cottage he could now get thoroughly lost – in silence. Even when she was here he could be a few rooms apart, and find silence.
 
A week more of this, a fortnight even . . . but he knew he might only manage a few days before visitors arrived and his long day would be squeezed into the early morning hours and occasional uncertain periods when people were out and about.
 
When she returned, very soon now, she would make tea and cut cake, and they’d sit (like old people they wer
Jarvis Stack Mar 2016
It’s a beautiful mystery
This cosmic playground we find ourselves
drifting, waiting, searching,
for guidance.
And answers.
To galvanize,
our fear with love,
life with death,
tears with joy.
Yet through this beautiful mystery,
dreams come forth,
from the cave of darkness.
The world is clearly crystalized,
I feel my being, mysterious and pure.
Yes, this beautiful mystery strikes at night,
causes sleepless daydreams,
of what might have been,  
had fear not guided life.
Mystery provides meaning,
and at my end of days,
when my tiny universe implodes,
I had meaning, through a beautiful mystery,
so the beautiful mystery,
is me.
Valentine Mbagu Jul 2013
Marriage is an incomprehensible mystery,
a hidden truth kept secret from the foundation of the world.
It cannot be discovered by intelligence or insight,
but made explainatory by revelation.
Revelation reveals the mystery of marriage,
it explains the mutual relationship in marriage.
It shows the rhema,
light and
love in marriage.
The mystery of marriage is accessed through the throne of grace.
Wisdom, knowledge and understandingof marriage is made known by revelation.
The ability to see beyond the seen,
in oder to see many unseen realities of life.
Revelation unveils the principles of building a blissful marriage.
Marriage is honourable in all,
above all in a bed undefiled.
It's hidden truth is unveiled by revelation from divinity.
It constitutes a platfrom for fruitfulness in life and ministry.
It spreads the continuity of human generation.
Marriage as a divine institution,
solves the problem of aloneness.
It empowers man with resources to fulfil destiny on earth.
It is a hidden treasure not discovered without revelation.
Let revelation inspire the discovery of marriage treasures.
Marriage not only give pleasures,
but
help partners fulfil destinies.
Understanding kills separation and builds togetherness.
It develops unity and oneness among couples.
Understanding curbs separation in marriage,
and
solves marriage mystery.
The manifestation in marriage cannot be explained,
except
by revelation.
Marriage is a mantle not a struggle.
The man must provide for his wife,
the woman must submit to her husband.
Seek love not lust before marriage,
let character and charisma build marriage,
let love and care establish marriage.
Marriage remains a mystery till death.
A
  D
    A
      Y
of mystery
           To be solve correctly
For the mystery
                     is ready
                           E
                           V
                           E
                           R
                           Y
                           D
                           A
                           Y
While it is an terrible mystery
                The day will solve
                       Till it end
                The Day of Mystery.
      
                 By K-mari ©2016
Pagan Paul Nov 2018
.
The hypotenuse stretched
as far as the eye could see,
across a vast lateral plain
an horizon mathematically perfect.
And yet …
In the main square of the hypotenuse
the town crier bellowed out tidings.
The Triangle Triumvirate was unstable,
the discovery, nay re-discovery,
of the Mystery, the most horrific of Mysteries,
the Mystery of the missing
Fourth-Side.

Dweeb was a box standard barbarian.
Quick to anger, slow of wit.
Like last night at dinner.
He had Three potatoes, his sister had Four.
He shouted and thumped the table,
his angry voice expunging his ire.
Then his sister had explained,
to calm and reassure him.
Three was more than Four
because it had Five letters in it.
And Five is more than Four.
He thought about his axe,
then about his abacus,
and then he ate his spuds.

The Fourth-Side drifted in spacial isolation.
Of course now it wasn't a Side.
Being attached to nothing, it was just a line,
but it had some tricks.
It could coil and curl itself
to form rude words in joined up writing.
It floated on reminiscing,
about the **** angles it had made
with all its previous adjacent lovers.
The memory caused spasms
and it formed into a rude word
that should never ever be written down.

Teena, Dweeb's sister, vomited.
She had kissed a puppy,
and was being sick in the morning,
was she pregnant?
But, it was never a puppy, always a stork.
He mum had told her, warned her
'never kiss an errant stalk'.
Her mum died of the pox, whatever that is.
Something clicked in her head.
Oh! Stork and stalk!
Well they do sound the same,
especially in a harsh barbarian accent.
But the puppy had sneezed
as she had kissed it goodnight.
She thought about her axe.
And then she threw up again.


Equations to be solved #7
Vlad the Impaler was a Barbarian
+
Vlad the Impaler was a Libra
=
Dracula was a Librarian?



Right Angle was worried.
Duly so.
If the Fourth-Side Mystery was solved
he'd have three other Right Angles to deal with,
instead of a sixty and a thirty.
The Triangle Triumvirate would cease.
An intense Quadrilateral Mexican stand-off
would ruffle his perfect two-seventy external.
He had to divert attention away,
far, far away, from the Fourth-Side.
By Jove he had it! Bingo!
Let them try to solve
the Mystery of
The Back-Side.

Dweeb loved winding up his sister.
So he hid her puppy in a box.
But now he was worried.
Was the puppy still alive?
Or dead? Or both?
This may sound like a ****** stupid question
but where did that last thought come from?
Yes!
Yes what?
Yes, it was a ****** stupid question!

Teena though it very strange.
When she rang the dinner Triangle
the cat sat on the mat,
Salivating!
Curiouser and curiouser.
Conditioned response or learnt behaviour?
Teena dismissed the thought line,
she didn't ask ****** stupid questions.

It had no idea
about its status as a Mystery.
The Fourth-Side has issues.
Complicated issues.
It had somehow conspired
to tie itself in a knot.
And spacial isolation had become crowded.
Missing links everywhere, the sofa of time,
excommunicated integers, 1970's wallpaper,
it all floated about in spacial isolation.
Above all Fourth-Side was intensely agitated.
Couldn't anyone quieten that yapping puppy?




© Pagan Paul (06/11/18)
.
My psychedelic washing machine mind on spin cycle!

https://hellopoetry.com/collection/29495/strange-world/
.
Shake it
What do you hear?
Hold it
What do you feel?
Sniff it
What do you smell?
View it
What do you see?

The angst to know
What lies inside
Is hard to hide.
It’s mystery,
And it’s ****.

The beginning,
The middle, and,
The end of time
All consist of
Some unknown rhyme,
Unknown reason.

The want to know,
The need to find
Consumes the mind.
Curiousness
Creates motive,
Motive creates
Relentlessness.

Being ****
Leads to lust.
A want to know
Becomes a must.
A mystery
That cant be touched
Is like a star
That can’t be seen.

Glowing somewhere
In the distance
We search and search
For what’s hidden.
Can it be found?
Maybe it won’t,
Maybe it will.

Until it is
The mystery
Remains ****
And a turn on
To the conscious
Lustful fervor.

The dark abyss
Of mystery
Is an ocean
That is raging
With sexiness.
Leseywut Jun 2014
There's something with your flashing smile
And I just can't figure it out

Some sadness was hiding between your eyes
But I just can't seem to catch them all

Those bulging cheekbones, glowing bright
They contain some kind of mystery
They blur all the lines

What were you thinking?
How were you yesterday?

Why was I even asking?
It's something I can't put into words
But I just kept moving forward
Hoping someday you'll tell me
Your deepest thoughts and happiness.

Your mystery, it annoys me
It blocks my vision, I can't see

But I love them with all my heart
It's even fine with me if you'll stay
Just another mystery in my mind
Some misery that won't end
Francis John Sep 2016
A mystery woman named Mystery,
So suspenseful yet so majestic.
A damsel in distress she was,
Who keeps it all to herself.

Pale as the snow that fell one evening,
An evening where I had met her.
Her luscious red lips,
Her black painted finger tips,
And her wavy dark hair has intrigued me.

Her eyes were so mesmerizing,
But so lovely as they were frightening.
Her smile was rare when she showed it,
But her laugh was much too sinister.
Yet I had an urge to sound it more.

A sudden lust I felt for her,
Once she had been flirtatious.
What her motive was,
I'll never know,
But her love making surely was bodacious.

The rapid lust was frightening to me,
As it became an untreatable addiction.
Once lust had turned to love,
I knew it was a bad contradiction.

Once she felt that feeling for me,
She couldn't help it much longer.
She rose from the bed,
Her hands on her head,
Crying,
Wishing that she had lived stronger.

Amazed at what I had witnessed this instant,
I felt a sudden chill.
Her body glowed like Christmas Eve,
And then I started to feel ill.

I don't quite remember,
what happened post chill,
But skeptical I seem to be.
As I woke up with a slight aching head,
My memory was somewhat fuzzy.
Brendan Watch May 2014
Maybe it was fate in the threads of that
skirt as short as temper and temperance
that ended the ellipsis breathing.
A dancer needs an answer
on life enhancers, dear romancer.
Your smile was more than good enough.
I drank of it, the cup of Christ that turned
my blood into whining moments of
insecurity.
Call security, you say, making the call on
what I am because I am transparent,
transdimensional, traversing the bridge
of your nose with my high-risk eyes.
You say that I am, and they cry.
As your hands ticked at your clock-click keyboard,
I waited, passed the time wondering the
difference between naive and navel.
Harm came like rain in winter, the words
of Zephyrus slipping from between those
amber lips, lithe on naked fingertips.
You take the names of gods in vain,
into your veins, let them convert only
the white blood cells. You'd crucify
me for vanity.
You accuse the recluse of abuse,
and it suits you, tailored because
hatred sized you up the moment you met.
The orchestra disbanded, the buds of May
have yet to burst, yet to blossom like you
say you always will,
but the spring in your step when
you walk away from the last word
tells me more than the chirping birds
nesting in your hair.
You remind me of Paris
on the walls of Troy,
thief of hearts and fool indeed.
Bringer of fire, brander of hell,
but only because you were already the
Tartarus Employee of the Month and
enjoying Elysium.
This is the
beautiful mystery
undone as her clothes and
naked as the day Rosemary Matron gave her
to the world.
This is the beautiful mystery
returned to voids as tangled as her hair,
the nonspace between the curls hiding
secrets and conviction.
This is the beautiful mystery
concluded, all the movements of
her symphonic body no longer to allure.
This is the beautiful mystery
answered, the riddle of the Sphinx
leaping from the pillar, a killer
not quite so strong as her eyes.
This is the beautiful mystery
laid to rest, buried alive in a life discarded.
This is good-bye.
An answer to my nearly year old "Beautiful Mystery" poem, which won hearts for far longer than its subject matter cared to keep mine.
Julie Grenness Dec 2016
Do you want a small mystery?
Should I make the postman history?
What is in that letterbox?
Yet more bills, quite a shock.
Or do you want a big mystery?
Why are we here? Ask history....
Good question that,
We just are, that's that,
(Now I sound like ***),
Dumb question that, I guess,
So, next, that small mystery,
When do I make the postman history?
I guess it's all  mystery to me........
Feedback welcome.
Amanda Kay Hill Jan 2017
The pantry that is a mystery
You put food in it and it
never to be found again
Mystery kitchen pantry
Mystery kitchen pantry
I wonder where the
food go does
it go to mystery
World where food
Go to never to be found again
Because I know you buy
Cans of food a put it in the
Kitchen pantry but when you
Look for the cans of food and
Can't find it is a mystery
© Amanda Kay Hill
12/21/16
PerfectTruths Nov 2014
Figure out the password.
The only way you could do that, is if you were the mystery machine itself.
It stands alone, by itself, clustered with other machines.
The mystery machine is an investigator, figuring out what other machines are up to. Their own password.
Then a human comes.
Trying to figure out the mysteries of, Mystery Machine. Why does he cry, when its not allowed to have emotions, why does it fall in love, with whom does it trip with. Why does it have malfunctions, but auto repairs anytime, he comes to find out the mysteries. He has a handbook. He twisted, and turned the ****, gave the ***** a little jiggle, Opened the head and climbed inside. Everyday people would walk by the mystery machine, and try to look inside of it. But all they could see was a child locked up inside, sleeping for comfort, living inside a mystery.
K Balachandran Nov 2014
Are you the surge, triggering the flight of the transcending bird?
the  ultimate mystery, unspeakable, that liberates the seeker.
While awaiting the wingless flight, the moment of soul's effulgence,
you too are a mystery , like the all encompassing spirit, I am one with

The universe is not wholly cognizable,constant transformation
one to something drastically different, and the story never ends.
Known physics, could tell the story,only halfway, the rest is dark
I understand the helplessness of space observatory at Herschel
peering at vast Magellanic cloud galaxy, a mystery in the move.
Is this one/she is the trigger to transform consciousness to super consciousness, wonders the" seeker", embracing each mystic experience
with such eagerness.What he experiences at the time it happens is what the Herschel telescope peering at the large Magellanic cloud in transformation sees!
GuessWho Mar 2017
What can be called a perfect mystery?
Could it be a piece of untold history?
Nothing on this earth could ever be worth it;
Whether it is the death of a prince or a spooky bit!
Can there be a mystery other than the space,
It keeps digging human brain with pace!
No human can ever predict what is out there,
It gives super-intelligent ideas human brains can't bear!
We'd never know whether there are alien mates,
Or world-like fights and quarrels between the states?
What kind of mystery could this be?
Towards it, it keeps attracting me!
Space is certainly the mystery of mysteries,
It has addresses we'd never find in all directories!
Each time I see the star-filled night sky,
It invites me to come over and fly!
It's a mysterious place haunted with alien ghosts,
I wish I was a guest to these ghost-hosts!
This vast sky peppered with stars
Is the finest gown of the word ‘mystery' it garbs! !

By: Guess Who
i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                       Alive
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                       in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                            Will i complete the mystery
                                            of my flesh
I will rise
               After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
K Balachandran Feb 2019
A mystery gripped me unawares,
One without form, shape or color
All I could make out is this dear:
Weaved  out of million fine strands
Its essence is all; all of it a mystery.
No distinguishing mark, you’ll find
Its warm grip transcends limits
In such a state I was left, for which
A name none  has ever invented
Even that’s not a need, of course
Being the one of it’s kind, a name
For the singular mystery won’t suit
It’s beyond the realm  of identities
The mystery is just that,get it right.
Set of cave genes If you could read ... pluri freedoms of the dark light of ignorance teach understand that breathe under the Naturality Natural Nature is not necessary to have an understanding heart and store on their empty heads of knowing ancient rain where wisdom possess. If dance on every grain of chickpea for each foot plant what could a plant obeys; foot, Plant and Plantation ...

Resulting kingdoms on my animals, fungi, plants and protists, media freedom as a seed to reach our evolutionary lack of ceased hopeness ...

First  Ellipsis Angle loneliness"God felt Chained"

Chained down by dragging the last link of its multiple arcane freedom in which transfigured recent swings where he collapsed with the latter being of himself whose life lies lifeless alive but lost. The latter that child not to know and deprived of nascent freedom that will never be born and come knowledge in our genome of Independence.

When the cave man thought to be a complement to the world is enslaved by the mystery of lost in himself .... The born and born, never dies, that's so naive and innocent ... is still full unaware of their free will, rather it is he who must re-literate and be a living part of the ancestral genome Cavernario component. Oh Heavenly Lord of the steppes I look because more of you today without having lived what you lived, as he would have played with my gaze to succor and keep you had fallen into the fangs of an animal, or you had fallen on the glacier cliff where he has separated you from your Clan Cave.

Emancipation means to be always innocent, my blood runs through yours,
I read and understand any phenomenon of deprivation exist without you lack wisdom satiate, if all your generations crushed by ignorance of falling subject will be well, me and my being I take my precognitions as a tormented child's worst nightmare before about sleeping. Sixth Papal almost, almost kneel before the creation memorizes creation. This prerogative Lord lives Bread’s God Minor remaining ... .of whose iconography will not leave this fifth fraternal dimension will not come, if not more will enter the latter end of absolute solitude ... and shorter than the last thousand years of Neandertal.


Cavernary Political and Ellipsis:

On a day of gentle wind and tense rain proclaiming Clan joined, they all shouted running, the ground shook and the children slept on terror ... the 10 infants who were talking about the Sign from above, but the nines they crossed his arms remaining to create solidarity roof that protects the man in your imagination ....
The eighth child of the clan ran quickly into the arms of his mother and she imagined how far, how far would never come ... uncharacteristically who came with his brother seventh had in their hands the word of entertainment of Being, to be a plaintiff political all of braiding them together with lines enabling the hermit may decide that creation is a mass of lines of certain fashions together, everything sings like the slightest cyclamen dew on the line pointy rough fallen fungus. All arms folded on the upper porch of the Vatican Macario in Franconia, saying that many who unite in their fevered requests large modern man ceased to be autonomous when it came out of their caves and charnel pit.

Ran all she enjoyed doing that almost without knowing whether or not they fall ...
Ran because every day the sun ahead them a lesson for man of the future ...
They are running to be released the day of his birth chained to stars of light, to carry him to his mother and father, sneaking to his brothers.

Brother worn eleventh birth to her existence as another being evolved Eukaryotic: Surely those provided beings of cell membranes rhizomes reflected in higher libertary lives purged of ectoplasm walk without discounted subsidiary. Shakespeare in Helsingor appeared immune to a blood brother to all that limits the Draconian feel in the pinnacles drawn 700 greened steeds. From the deepest swoon in the underworld subway Helsingor, follow the prevailing souls presided over by the great ear of hard sand castle, stressed hard Ghosts of Stratford upon Avon.

Freedom plague spits words of pancreatic poisoned exordium, spits verses of confusion disorders without permission, without solid bass sound without liquid sea that resist mad edges followed by solid sound ....
But smaller stones give priority to conjugate final sentence and noble verses Guardian
to missionte how important would Liberation:

Maybe it's synonymy of Astral Solar ...
It is not Solitude, is a free nation that has its own kind prosecutor's office for even when Euthanasia close your eyes to the astral, will run the stones of the Sea of joy believing that neither you dare if there is no healthy grass to clarify the rainy day terror.


Reverse walk creeks aggravated birds feet, walking great playful ruse.
Reverse run my comrades preparing festivity meals with chandeliers and singing lay plenary., Singing Avenue pine port Firenze, Second run subtracting minutes and hours the minute is enough for me with your face in my arms to recognize your longevity anathema times oblique faces for lip smacking hailstones Templars.

In 1297 in northern Italy nearby rural families migrate chalky Venice, Perugia came the exiles walked find their independence south of the Iberian Peninsula. They were so atoned as in the echoing flutes, harps, zithers and harpsichords field temperate; They invited the blunting of intemperate monocordio.

Golden Chariot Carrenio

Golden carriage carrying them came without a single space rather than inheritances acquired goldsmiths of ancient noble and chaste solid shine. Carrenio; the coachman wore on his left arm bracelet thousand mobile travel without stopping to drink more water and to feed their horses. After revamping its gold pieces bartered by slave who was getting Carrenio Christians fleeing the Romans. Well they fled as far as the plains of great earthly squandered his memory and that end of the end should come.

How am away from my land more I learn it's back to her,
There is no ground for the first time, but that which is foreign
Carrenio of Perugia and sensed that ****** was Jewish ashes,
Luther King black paste of burnt forest,
Mandela and Biko Ogre gargra from Victorian Empire,
Gandhi in his humility is always put behind the Sun
to figure out the small
Tagore trashed my heart caressing the entire universe uncorrupted
Hölderlin together in the cabin waiting for his mother at Zimmerman,
That my beloved Borker forest shoild shine a gold teeth with black resin,
Theresa of Calcutta was eaten and swallowed all diseases lepers knowing good taste proverbial dessert psalm,
Jose Miguel Carrera was more than a trench, clay bullets in each of his temples where he received
To be doubly Lonco is to be halved, lacerated by lay his head on his land, not galloping on his back throngs of wit and hope out Nazareth trembles when an F-16 diluted ***** covering landless caravans Heritage continues to lead the people killed but the mosque wall has been Fe Erecta.
Helena plenipotentiary Kowalska at Vilnius, Faustina Divine Mercy Diadema
The agonizing deprivation of millions of people with cancer in every continent of private well-being analgesic, weighed down by increased pain, almost as strong as the Master Hammered Golgotha, so it was that Joshua has cancer always to slow it down on us. Benigno whether metastasis, malignant albeit benign finance.
The death of an innocent little angel devoured by the beast, remains as a fluff hairless sardine in the jaws of a shark baron.
Khalil Gibran writes that with both hands to support the reviewer behind in Bicharri and bohemian Paris,

Salvador Allende Gossens was born since he was deceived by his parents who would heal politics, would rather dig their ancestors in their brains scattered in the currency in face seal or tail of.

Frei Montalva that today has to receive the Macro Augusto Heaven their arms, their sorrows and regrets, although his worst military executioner.

Legion is an offshoot of liquid central gray material, which defers well done becoming but not defeated, it is the decree of the divine threshold space Living or cease to live, that failure does not exist, it is the postponement of success - success .

The Genocide September 11 in New York was a ritual, who produced was a small wrath strength of the Rotary world, as the cam shaft is upset in the history of trying to make more alphabet in schools where the flag hoisting and found scholars in West and East, so they can learn more than reading of both unlettered, lip and water to possess it write with it. The worst disaster is read with the memory that will never happen ... I write my greatest need with lipstick and my greatest need I write eager to participate. Yesterday I passed by a boutique and buy lipsticks that are closer to the language, written with the mouth and not the hand. !

Freedom, debauchery, libration, drawer, Bookstores ..! Carrenio ..: he said see I'm right! Raise and educate has a great synonymy with autonomy, because the ancestors wrote everything that deprived them and made them fear, but do not have to eat the autumn gives me to dress the return of spring, bread orchid and cineraria. Hence by that inner syllabic singing hunger sated that sought sheet to sheet rid of everything until the end of the book as the encounter between night and day without considering oblivious to anything or anyone on the track window swing wind, wind seeping.


It was old Zeus or Hera of Antique,
Cavernal cavern to house geometric polyphonic, angular seeds to create fashions kiss kissed everything that any vertical plane does not fit with the closed horizon
For hands and angels Hebrews inner soul of every carpenter and stonemason shrunk, wash their eyes and cheeks with songs of vibration and idyllic comfort,
Everything resembled and sounded Bethlehem 2.0 deities choirs sweeping grasslands,
Similarity of this clairvoyant child is born in a cave ...
Rising motherly free Soliloquy Papini sitting to the right of ruminant cattle,
So archaic that to be born is not born in a clinic mega Cristus but hundreds of kilometers and hundreds who are born with the undergirding whispers and servitude being.
Where the multi gray impetuous born star is a healthy gauze story in the present tense ... this angelic child grows by Miriam washes his feet in a belligerent abolished stone. His father must wash their hands on a stone which is where measured his ecclesiastical mystical stature, stone Madonna to heal his feet where he leaves to free himself, to free us ... Marble gamete fémina vault, where he sleeps without knowing whether it is due, the ***** fell from the sky.
How wise is the Wise, it makes permissible for much more than two thousand years we stone quarry wheel and wheel, homily and blessing to not wake at night to sleep startle middle and uphill.

The me of the referent of antiquity is not the me of today is polished cobble stone,
Useful weapon quarry road there and back track to have blisters stone and soft thoughts under my pillow soft stone as a whole.

If you're ****** private're living and have a free soul choosing coexist, then you are low in the cemetery on a tombstone of heresies.

Neolithic early 4500 after Hildegard von Bingen and his entourage and prowled full and channeled, swooning in her swoon with flowers in his hands and his followers planting forests on top of Stonehenge.

Carrenio says ...: you see I'm right, we coexist, I die like the worst ****** cancer and then put a tombstone stonehenge conspire in my honor black pain prayers of Salisbury. It blooms in vibrant red rubies that detonate in chromaticity and life. The stream itself is exceeded aquatic plant Macarenia.

Call us and civilize us, outdated as far as my tired feet though I come not ashamed to see my new tracks.

Carrenio says ...;see I'm right Joshua has traces of gold from other Caterpillar shod feet. Antique everything is prescribed according to their legacy today is Lent Pro that came before it was Lent vestige Pentecost came to be a nickname of the mystery of the passion in less than a rooster crows.

Beside it is the mystery of the disappointment of stubborn demon, helps you all carry the cross, but not the entire load. Fire and Light at dawns where the splendor born ...


Genome Freedom, even today every centimeter of my witness of each component, if basic origin of the signs of the primitive world, is that we have lost the bark of the lexicon, which does not allow us to understand the meditations to ask for something, not You need to ask something. Today genome is requesting something because thousands of people who asked for millions of years, now it's time to cater to them. They were wrapped in cloth shroud of spiritual sacredness, today cemeteries mega dance their souls leave no sleepers both much grass on their heads not yet sullied by the puppet Azrael.


Impossible not to decorate the rocks forged empires that fall into the rubble, they bring 476 d. C., a new opening Middle age freedom of travel both in history thousands of years begins a new axis Golden Carrenio’s Chariot.

       Carrenio Wagon

This great colossal ship Carrenio time, is a timber that holds the sky, a beam that does not faint or distended thousands a. C, and the old age of Kings large musings that were forgotten. It is a stride ship millennium, their history of oppression has seen in the wheel, instrument wise rolling like a wheel before 5,000 years ago, here  We fought and prostrated to distant lands millennium after millennium him away.

Golden Chariot is the structure that freedman us to enforce a new life on earth, even the Gods prided themselves move the stars to constellations called her noble Auriga sailing in full the Universes and Cartwheel Galaxy or cart Wheel. As if to say that when the Universe and its own mythology, were visited between them inch by inch by wherever they shine.

Carrenio mask and frame used, had strength, temper and tittle. When the first libertarian squall of antiquity came closer, Rome was already small and nobles populate what is a quote piccola. The executioner always frightened and starts out of his own wickedness. Markos Botsaris as did in Greece, and surrounding towns Messologhi remote, they were free more than tuned in massif Arankithos high wind. He was riding to Kanti once again with the golden rider Etrestles of Kalavrita. According to the Chronicle that came from distant millennia has envisioning promote its neighbors heroic to free Messolonghi of ****** wars. All this I saw with his own eyes Carrenio, every thousand years styling with Etrestles, cleaned their nostrils so that new breed of horses to thrive,

Avignon, in the necropolis witnessed as Azrael was cleaning his wings Jade antipopes, another story begins ... even he seeks to candela who can read this story, and who can provide it from hand to hand cutting semicolons who disclosed.


Second  Ellipsis Angle  New Era:

Ara released the ropes throwing a big ship, History makes man is at the center of the world. Revolutions, thinking, communication and especially vindicate man in his right libertarian. artists with their creations flowing all over the world, mutating classic Renaissance to abstract overlook. Family appearing welfare and needs. As ramble and so many broken laws. Mankind is distracted l film and theater artists of tradition. Art now has sound and movement, then social and political revolutions are industrial that unite everyone behind the pivot deployment of social classes.


Everything evolves until we get tired of doing so. It rests and then continue. This is modern reality, we wrote about the history of events on facts that have never been told. The world has tired all the Eras, but each pause time that has happened has been recharged, nothing finished if not started again. After so many wise lawyers, clergy plunged into great towers bound books. Is evident again can not read or understand. Our realities are missing valid without knowing I close and then open another door. human and civil rights, fair wages, so excessive autocracy monarchy. Free man can walk along the paths, even if they were trenches.

Zephyr soft murmur which clutters in the Irises by Van Gogh, the painter is the biggest star trek, called with his feet images and colors that would make his own liberty to live naturally insane. And many others Brueghel "Triumph of Death" that roam the countryside, perhaps a medieval piece of Tarskovski; Andrei Rublev in futile painters decorating steps in the fontano chignon Androniko Monastery Moscow, extinct Rublev 70 years, Tarkovsky 54.

Early ellipsis - Campo dei Fiori in Rome to see die at the stake Giordano Bruno by order of the Holy Inquisition. Irruption of the Inquisition, but their feet are touching the flowers, the seasoned cassock continues to haunt the universe of Faith Dominica Trastevere, it is seen to lectures on how to be bold with the informers and the Whistle Blower dies without shade in spring , you resist the star on the asphalt on the magical island of holiness.

Carrenio says: Come I'm right, we can not read, because the brutality of the Cosmos is manure per ton weathered in the backyard of the aristocracy. I will continue with respect and persignado in Crete. LiLiA Kedrova means the fear of bunk bed tied to her bed and be free in foreign lands leg. Queen insular matriarchy, she lives more than any Greek Goddess, waiting for his Adonis, to fill out honors. Win an Oscar but lost to Zorba, he loses his house but won a Tony Awards. How many women teach us that to win you have to give everything to lose his brains, and thus count as lost number remains to be retained. Zorba whines in her arms, she moans in the arms of her husband Zeus Steve, proof of a new era. Onyx for his tomb, plate of this great tragedy.

On the evening of December 14, 1964, attended the premiere. Soul of Carrenio was with them, but was denied his attendance at the banquet, finally running out and watching the glasses lips and stoles spent his neck.  

                                            
           ­                      Numbered Mysterious Death
                                                  Mané

If I have to feel floe on my feet and cold in my prayers will be the Dark Glory. What is slimming rays of the day, everything smelled of silence, maybe it was Kennedy, or better was The Mané.

Closure of my glory suffers the wind ...
Flowers lying silence my soul alight,
Thick square displays the song of my voice ...
When they speak Quadratils one to one order their
Spirituous voice.

And the spirit singing fiber of my heart told me:
Never you say I Exist ¡ not exist because they do not exist!
Only face daily the different reflection of your body
In front of yourself with another face and another body ...

I want to talk with the thought
And this same substract my little silhouette,
Lavishes wingless bird that flies only in their theology ...
That is the duty and melt with my look,
Solid colors components
Crunching the altars of heaven retaining its pale warmth of anorexia.

Yellow Glory hair good event ...
If you receive yellow lights, plus I do not sing my own game here in my empty veins,
Yellow my heart ...
Yellow my heart
Yellow my collective heart.

They are run by large green and sunny meadows, children who had Mane in this major milestone in its last gasp. Now she is the mother of his children; it up and them in the last temptation of the mystery of death.

Carrenio keeps rolling, the brightness offered his Golden wagon to the ground. Gold grooves ago, and looking at where it realize that it's landmass light mud. Since he felt whispers from the confins of time he had never felt as if you were finishing your journey, or the world. It raining years and years and continues because nobody mends the mysterious death Numbered.

Heaven and Earth did not hold, the bottom fell precipitously pocket Lord and denied several times uncontained. She shivered in the World and the rooster crowed several times to never be heard or the Pentagon.  

He is walking and knees bent,
we embraced by the golden chariot and oxen nor held
we bent us all lying on his knees,
up shoulders not hear from where came the bad grace of his departure,
numbered all the time of complains of how then she would come,
It is unknown who would be but brought a wine in his hand on crispy mask
We ran from side to side and nothing was real

Everything seemed to sing in chapel on a sad day,
But I hear loudly like Latin and watchfulness,
Those who know his mystery is no stranger to them
They all look, but transgress the sin of silence.

Carrenio still absorbed in the hallway,
Angulo ellipsis she comes winged like a star burning tar,
A high speed to give us the new
No garden can deprive greet in speed visit
Dome comes, it comes on the eve of the new moon.

Numbered Widow mysterious,
Mané is a land of golden color and no celestial whoever wants in his cell,
Breath test, and feeding the Toffy and his henchmen
That sustaining more lively detail, there is no one that can not be targeted

It was modern, it was night, it was his torn life as an accomplice of his exile abandonment in his allegory of tender dismissal. Carrenio achieved so say goodbye to the beams of light that told him of the mysterious death Numbered. He sat on the roadside and drank some wine. Then dry with his handkerchief his neck, and have never wanted to experience such an event in a toast ever drunk.

Third Ellipsis Angle  of  New Era

Independence of Chile, it concern Mapuche atingent case. Araucania pound, then 1818 central Chile. In Brief Earth makes free an entire nation. His naive and primitive braves inhabitants emancipated themselves from all sides, they came to save a people who were just following where nobody can reach. Independence of the United States separates us approximately 42 years, breaking up owners of nowhere. Industrial Abolitionist and South Slaver and Agraria. Biggest event that more than 640,000 men and fallen activists planted safe from repression fields.

In Chile all rule resembled this secession in today's Araucano man prays for his fallen by almost more than 3 centuries in Chilean lands of Araucanía’s men. Lautaro genius and his supporters the heart of Pedro de Valdivia ate; Map ever made to your battle mapping Tucapel. "Initiation and final symbol occurred after 282 years of fierce war" and Mapuche land forever their independence from the Spanish Empire Captain General important in foreign lands never subjected to foreign rule would eat.

The Machis and Loncos make supplications in native forests falling on them pollen on its back as if nothing out 10 times better ...

To Libertas strengthen in the west is necessary to push the limits of the earth beneath his tongue and penance for the greedy entangled in the lines of bloodied sky, rebellions Chieftains death defying all together at the edge of a cliff . 1769 The Pehuenches led by Lebian Cacique, joined the Mapuches razing Yumbel and Laja, the most peaceful Huilliches also joined mass alerting perhaps innocent people land blood stained war and the Mcckay Luchsinger.

No doubt portals portals military rebellion trigger blood, where they opened a tip and swords in the past. Here's reading concern is that the succession is timeless time, sword without a sword, but on the tip of her blood is seen where there were herds and warriors crushed by their own footsteps. Here the phenomenon of freedom begins; Humanity runs treading his own footsteps, to save his family from a threat, but not strange forces that force you to use your defenses, because in the groves populate many helpless souls with his sword unused at the expense of being forced to use .

Freedom genome; It aims to reach where it has not come without looking back,
Chalices pour out is where the troubadours not cuddle her close looks as time, singing while watching the changes are not of a new life


Heaven star,
Come to me,
I ask a sign to see them arrive,
Because I want to thus been dragged
Being together Eager to feel ...
Those respites without being comforted
going to the mouth of the serpent.

About the Garden,
My home is to put my love,
He has to put the days imagining close ...
To enjoy yourself in nonexistent ...

Oh my house tormenting me ...!
Because in it I feel your smell
They are alone lights
Where I would wait for me to be in the dark ...

In the coming future,
You will not see or hear my anger ...
Perhaps my happiness nor peace praying
As the spear in the hands of the perpetrator.

You know a storm of whispers
I do sow your name in the wilderness,
It's because my judgments of hope
They mount up arable land deposited in my frenzy
Misled by love which is my love.

But you never understand,
Because time has invaded my dwelling,
Invading my brain to give
It has invaded my choosing to love ...

On the grass path,
Every time I move away from you,
I turn to see if you have not been ...

Love came,
And I think that leaves us alone to avail ourselves
Ranging in our time ...


But I can not resist his silence,
For my house want the noise of its action,
Why keys to the gates that serve my understanding.

Tramples my heart the fragmenting oddities into smaller pieces,
Your answer that call.

Tur love be like if I had created ...
As if only you had appreciated your beautiful creation.

Do not destroy your work expresses in his mystery give life to your dreams!
Man aiming a better earth, ask some of you to join your dreams ...

! Your wife of this land not procrastinate your misfortune,
I discover far peaceful landscapes like an echo in the spring,
As large and deep as your forgiveness for loving me more


It tells the Earth to the Sun in its perky tear benefactress of new opportunities as good and healthy smile rainbow on the back of Oviedo sheep valleys of freedom of Pietrelcina life.  

To be continued…
Genoma Freedom , by Jose Luis Carreño Troncoso - Under Edition
Brendan Watch May 2013
You're a beautiful mystery clad in gorgeous enigma.
You're poetry that looks good in a skirt.

There's an orchestra on your tongue, playing the sound of your voice like a melody I can't forget,
matching the tempo of the drums in my heart
and the broken strings of my violin compliments.

You are a notebook, a yearbook, a sketchbook, a burn book,
every facet of you written in swirling cursive,
rhymes and famous signatures snaking between cinnamon hair and cleverness.

You are a pen running out of ink,
bleeding dry in Barnes and  Noble Moleskin journals,
but that's okay because I have more ink,
and you can borrow whatever you want from me--
store it in the heart you stole if you're bored enough to hunt my words for the pieces.
You have the key already.

You're the first dream of the boy too scared of nightmares to sleep again.

You are the taste of honey and cigarettes on the lips of the first girl that boy ever kissed,
because she was a rebel and he needed a hero
who wore boots instead of Mary-Janes
and band t-shirts instead of blouses.

You are the rose he drew when he was bored,
an outline with potential,
mysterious, entrancing, incomplete,
not yet ablaze with the red of desire
because he was never good at finishing things.
You are a dictionary. Your picture isn't just under "beautiful."
It's under "dangerous" and "witty" and "myth"
because Medusa bowed at your feet next to James Bond and Edgar Allan Poe,
and you're too good to be true anyways.

You are a poem, a telltale heart beating inside a lesson in vengeance,
temporary only because nothing gold can stay.
You've walked past where the sidewalk ends (certainly the road less traveled by)
and come back far more darling than any buds of May.

(You are the paperback novel he read under the covers,
the flashlight only bright enough to show paragraphs,
and every new page unique in shape and form
while the text remains the same.

You are the raw words read aloud by the daring poet,
standing beneath midnight moon,
the power of the throne,
the breath of a whispered promise falling upon the ear,
the warmth of kisses on the cheek,
the passion of all hope there ever was in trust and truth.

You are the fire in lightning,
the sparkle in the snow and the glitter in the rain,
the fierceness of the wind and the gentle, soothing peace,
the blazing chill of winter and the roar of summer's heat.)

But you're still a mystery.
A beautiful,
beautiful
mystery.
preservationman Mar 2015
Words and sentences taking you on a trip
Each step with an individual scene being your tip
Who done it being the poet’s mysterious ways
A time to wonder, but in how many days
A murdered body was found
There was no movement not even a sound
Yet the Poet’s words have you spell bound
A knife was found in the victim’s heart
This is your clue and you know where you must start
Now please start thinking in being your mark
The question being why was the victim murdered to death
You have a matter of days to thinking left
There was an argument over a particular document trust
The guilty of one in this hands being involved a must
However another name that was put on the document trust
The killer could still be standing among us

This is where it all became a fuss
The Document trust had valuable fortunes that the killer wanted personally to use
The evidence surely with finger prints that won’t excuse
Yet a victim has been eliminated because of a right to purposely refuse
Timing not being right
The killer full of fire and very uptight
The Mystery Poetry Theater became a plight
Again, a Poet’s words to help see the light
Since mystery has been revealed
We are getting closer to the case being a seal
Mystery Poetry Theater with words that introduced the thought
Later it became a mission being a sought
The mystery in shading the light
The obvious being in plain sight
The solve being what was expected and what the outcome could be
You found the evidence of what you did see
Goodbye from Mystery Poetry Theater
The clues you explored and leaving nothing ignored.
PEARL PSYNATCH Mar 2016
There's no mystery about the ******* ******.
Open up
insert instrument
rub it about until
sighs, screams, moans, groans, scratches, scents, and innocence escape.

Pretty simple, the ******* ******. Same with the ******* ****.
It should feel real good or something is going wrong and you'd better check with the someone within.

The resting ******? Well, that is a daily mystery of "how do I feel about this?"
'cause there's a whole bunch of weird nebulous crap going on in the daily world leaving you feeling ****** by the end of the day.

But solve that mystery with something to enlighten and entice the mood and you may just awaken

that ******* ****** again.

(The ******* ****? Well he just seems like a less introspective, more alert and easy up, easy come little fellow. Lucky chap.)
1400

What mystery pervades a well!
That water lives so far—
A neighbor from another world
Residing in a jar

Whose limit none have ever seen,
But just his lid of glass—
Like looking every time you please
In an abyss’s face!

The grass does not appear afraid,
I often wonder he
Can stand so close and look so bold
At what is awe to me.

Related somehow they may be,
The sedge stands next the sea—
Where he is floorless
And does no timidity betray

But nature is a stranger yet;
The ones that cite her most
Have never passed her haunted house,
Nor simplified her ghost.

To pity those that know her not
Is helped by the regret
That those who know her, know her less
The nearer her they get.
Krista Abraham Sep 2014
I'd like to think of myself as an impossible mystery
One that no one can figure out.
He looks at me for one second, then looks away the next, because he can't solve me.
I keep walking on my broken puzzle pieces hoping someone will soon put them together.
He looks at me, kisses my cheek one second, then walks away with a confused look upon his face.
Another loss for me.
Will I forever be an unsolved mystery?
One that will remain impossible and given up on
Because I simply can't be figured out?
Shyanna Ashcraft Dec 2014
Death.
It's said to be the greatest mystery.
That no human has ever truly been there,
And been able to come back to tell of it.
Well,
That may be true,
But Death is not the greatest mystery.

No,
Because that would be life.
It would be to live.
Because no human knows what the future holds for them,
And while in death they may get their answers,
In life they never will.
Written 12-21-14
Random free-verse thing. Weird maybe, idk.
You were magnificent.
Everyone saw danger in
Black jeans with ink black boots
But I saw a handsome mystery.

People said that you were begging
For trouble and that you were
Going no where fast.

My friends said that you would break my heart
And lead me down a path that
Ended in a not so nice place.

You were my first love.
I remember the smell of
Cigarettes and alcohol clinging to you.

You were my first drug.
I injected myself with your presence
And gulped down your lies
Like the cheap beer we bought.

One midnight I creeped out
To meet you at that bar
Where no one in their right mind
Would go.

Smoke was heavy in the air
And *** was going on in dark corners.
Alcohol flowed freely and showed no sign of stopping.
It was there that we kissed.

Two turbulent years later
We had moved up to that section of the woods
Where people got high.
You stared at the stars but
You seemed to see through them.

It was there that I said,
"I love you."
Those little words danced on the wind
And quietly entered your ear.

At first you didn't do anything
Then you slowly moved your face
Towards mine.

The moonlight shone down and
The stars were on fire,
They were so bright.

You stared at me.
No, through me.
In that moment I realized something.

Everyone was right.
You were trouble,
On the fast track to no where,
And danger in black jeans.

My heart shattered to pieces.
I left you
And that dark path that you led me down.

Even now as I lay in bed,
Aching for your touch
I regret nothing.

You are still magnificent.
My drug in black jeans with matching boots.
My handsome,
Handsome
Mystery.
Hala K Jul 2015
She is a mystery,
A mystery that no one has been able to solve.

There is no telling what happens when her eyes distant itself from the world, looking and longing for something deep within her thoughts.

When her deadly silence creeps over her, leaving everyone far away from her wrath.

When she finds herself alone, blocking and pushing anyone trying to get in.

When she bottles up her emotions, leading everyone to think of something far away from what is genuinely happening.

When she strides past those who oppose her way, acting with no care in the world.

When she abruptly smiles that brightening smile of hers, and laughs that fascinating laugh, causing everyone to wonder what's going on behind her display.

When her style doesn't suite anyones, unique and different from the rest.

When she is understanding of anyones situation, curiosity spiking in everyone as to how she apprehends.

And when silence and stares occur every room she shows up in.

Everyone looks to her, baffled about this young creature.

Everyone asks her, yet no reply is answered.

She gives out the littlest emotions and information, yet only that tiny grain of salt intrigues and bewilders everyone.  

Everyone knows of her, they just do not know who she really is.

And as I said before...

She is a mystery,
A mystery that no one has been able to solve.
A Wizard trapped her reflection.
To be within the mirror forever,
She had spurned him with rejection.
Two keys to a mystery box hidden forever.

A brave young Prince wanted to set her free,
Solve that secret of the mystery box.
So he began the search for the first key,
To open the first of the two locks.

He braved a dragon high on its' nest,
But he did not find the key hidden there.
He battled Ice Warriors with his best,
They had no knowledge of the secret to share.

Then he would save a Witch from a Demon Banshee,
She told him all he had to do was ask for his reward.
So the Prince was given the first key,
He searches on, battling a Demon Hoarde.


Years pass him by, until that Wizard he faced,
The Prince was an old man, he still would fight.
The battle was long, the Wizard was disgraced,
Gaining that second key was a victory sight.

The Prince travelled back to the mirror and mystery box,
He was tired and very old, but he would set her free.
So he took out both keys, and he opened the locks,
A light surrounded him from the beautiful sight he could see.

He is young again, he has his life given brand new,
From out of the box, he took out a diamond heart.
Now the girl starts before him with a heart that is true,
The Prince lifted her up in his arms, for they shall never be apart.
copyright Chris Smith 2010
Aryeh Jun 2018
There is no shortage of mystery here
For us, conceived in dying suns
There is no shortage of mystery here
For tiny dancing 0's and 1's

There is no shortage of suffering
Everything is being eaten
there is no shortage of suffering
In our mind's eye only, we see Eden

But there is no shortage of mystery
simple matter makes minds melt
There is no shortage of mystery
The holy spirit is matter felt

We suffer for no reason
And for the same reason, we play
For everything, there is a season
But it doesn’t always work that way

Behold the world is stranger still
Are you sure you know enough to worry
You have not begun to understand
If you are not a ball of tears and fury

And you have not begun to finish
Until your laughter fills the air
There is a field beyond our minds
And I will meet you there
zebra Mar 2018
dangerous woman
she looked good in black electrical tape
with a knife in her hand
ready to yield to a switch blade bite
a red comet
scarring the pale blue sky

trussed like a raveled snake
tight around her belly throat ankles and thighs
her lips sealed shapeless
with a black
X
shut down hard
and needing it bad

a black light
Lilith

the *** slave look
aches to be used
ravished
and amused
head back
*** high, enflamed
maid for love
a moist yoni clam
pushing up from the earth
in pink ******* smeared puce
red rubber sheet
for the mess she wants to be
dressed in salad oil
extra ******
hot pressed
a squandered torso flexed
buttered *****
like a gaping toothless mouth
her pain pleasures dinner
with searing crystal eyes
her mouth fire black
and rabid pink tongue
pink flickering hot
i brawl under her feet
like a mob of bloodthirsty *****
chattering slaves
masters of the taboo
face down in her heat
her musk is in my lungs
i'm
lost in her every twitch and writhe
a ******* bucking *****

can you touch her mystery?

there are many women like her
more then we can imagine
behind stone faces
of shame
in every culture
and innocence

what they do is secret
so dark like clanking skulls between open thighs
dancing goth belly rolls
in a crypt of jerking slick *****
and greased swollen *****

have you met her?

she holds her cards close
but dies in desire
that you may penetrate her
insertions
insertions
insertions
the glory of gory sumptuousness
every hole
a wound of butter and fire

can you feel her at a glance
the whites of her eyes like a flashing ghost
handcuffs razors and a black nine tails
the aesthetic of voluptuous cruelties
barbarous ***** upleaping
a tarnished moon
of broken skin weeping red
and begging mouth for tender kisses too
the hard geometry of red teeth
and milk saliva out of curved lips
through flesh
that brings
tears like rain to swooning visions
that yield relief
like heavy cloud monsoons
plummeting

a dark storm of craven urges
poised dregs and stretched legs
from the black corridors of her soul
a plate of ****** *******
and bruised thighs

service with a smile

squeals and welts
whelping gorgeous
ascending from hell
like temple incense
melting the gates of heaven
with
screaming lady sauce laughing
giving God
the **** of the beast

she wouldn't have it any other way
can you touch her mystery?
For Liz Vicious Dark and those like her

— The End —