There is little in this world that consistently causes our hearts more pain or which produces in us more need for forgiveness than rejection, especially from those whom it has cost us so much to love. It is universal anathema to the soul, and much of our lives can be unconsciously governed by the fear of it. So we find ourselves naturally asking, "Joy in the midst of rejection? Is that even possible?" Oh, yes! Not only possible but commanded of us who are believers in Christ. And not only commanded of us but ready to be gloriously bestowed on us like the most precious of pearls.

It's in the season of greatest rejection that we enter the season of greatest opportunity to discover the fullness of God's joy by discovering the fullness of His own heart. Walking in intimacy with Jesus through this searing pain may be one of the most priceless privileges of grace granted to us on this earth, for it opens up one of the widest doors for us to enter into the fellowship of sharing in His sufferings, and there is no more obvious chance to die to ourselves and live for Christ than in that holy communion of suffering with Him.

It's there that we're most able to clearly see Him and best prepared to clearly reflect Him, and it's then that we're empowered to live our lives here on earth from the very throne room of heaven, seated in the resurrected presence of our Bridegroom, where the joy always runs full and over. So our deepest heartaches will turn to deepest joys when we embrace them for the sake of Christ, to gain Him and be found in Him, to know Him in intimate detail through excruciatingly sweet experience. We will discover that the Lord entrusts the most luscious of blessings and the rarest of secrets to the most desperate and thirsty of souls, and that He delights to place the loveliest of wings on the lowliest of worms.

The gifts of myrrh's sorrow which the Father pours into the vessels of our lives are poured first into the hands of His own Son and flow through His nail-pierced scars before they ever touch us. And as we choose to graciously receive them as such, we are filled up with Him and enabled to pour Him out into the lives of others, even those who continually scorn and despise us.

The gift (yes, gift) of rejection is the high privilege of being asked by our Commander to become His flag bearer, receiving the esteemed honor of marching beside Him at the center of the front line, into the heat of the battle and into the face of the "enemy" (the rejecter), armed with no gun and carrying only His banner of love over our head for all to see. It's a sacred invitation into a certain death for the sake of knowing His love more intimately and for the service of displaying it more gloriously.

And if tempted to refuse the privilege, let us remember these two things: this life is so much more freely, joyfully lived when we have finally learned to count ourselves dead to it and alive to Christ, and the flow of His agape love through us will only be as strong as what it costs us to demonstrate it. The greater the cost, the purer the love; the purer the love, the more we are made like Him; the more we are made like Him, the more attuned we will be to His own heart's breaking and to our own breaking of it.

Oh, that we might be purged of ever thinking again that our neglecting of His love does not matter to Him! May He cause our hearts to break and break until we see how much it does! May we know the world's rejection again and again until we are finally scoured clean of our own despicable tendency to reject Him in favor of all our worldly playthings! No lover has ever endured more rejection than our Lover at our own hands and by our own hearts. And no lover continues to love through rejection with the determination and desire, suffering and sacrifice, tenderness and tenacity of our own Bridegroom. Can we not endure whatever He has called us to suffer for Him? Can we not allow it to drive us more fervently to His heart?... Lord, capture us by Your mighty hand and consume us by Your mighty flame, and may we pant and pine only for You, for Your love sets us free to dance in the midst of the fire!

How humbling, mystifying and worship-evoking it is to realize that the One we have so grievously rejected is the same One Who so perfectly understands and longs to comfort our own heart's grief when we are rejected. And to not run to Him now for that fellowship of healing would be to reject Him all over again and to break His heart once more. What could hurt Him more than our stubborn resistance to share in both His sufferings and His comfort when there is so much joy and intimacy waiting to be had with Him? Whatever ache our own heart knows, however deep and scathing, it cannot compare to the ache of His own heart when we let anything pull us away from Him, for He is rightly EVERYTHING to us—Father, Husband, Lover, Best Friend, Brother, Confidante, Kindred Spirit, Counselor, Nurturer, Rescuer, Healer, Hero... Behind the pain of every rejection is a legitimate need or desire that He is waiting to fill in us, and we have to let Him get to it by dying to our fleshly ones.

Or do we suppose that we might ever find true and lasting joy apart from dying to ourselves and abiding in Him when He died so that we might fully live in the joy of that abiding? No, true joy will only follow abiding; abiding and dying walk hand in hand, and rejection throws open the door for all three. Man's rejection is central to God's wooing, for it shatters our false expectations of human love and stirs in our hearts the longing for a perfect one. So let us not shrink back fearfully from that which can do us such good and teach us to love as Christ has loved us. With renewed passion, let us ask Him to wrap every affection of our hearts more tightly around Him that every desire might be united with His own and that we might learn to love in a way that sets our lives and the world around us ablaze!

To be despised and rejected and, still, to love—that is the ultimate triumph of Christ in our hearts, for we are never more like Him, never more full of Him, never more surrendered to His heart and His work than when He pours out His love through us to those who will not love us back. When we can stand in the face of bitter, cutting words, contemptuous looks and shaming mockery and still love fiercely but with a gentle and quiet spirit, we will know without doubt that it is His Spirit moving gloriously through us... Lord Jesus, Who so willingly floods our hearts with Your most precious gift, Yourself (and You are Love!), teach us to ever know You more and to rely fully on the love You have for us and ARE for us in infinite supply. Teach us to feast on the abundance of that love, and let it flow freely out of us to the ones who would reject, scorn, mock and hate us, so that they too might one day taste and be consumed by Your perfect love which drives out all fear—Your infinite, immeasurable love which heals all wounds and fills all emptiness and gives meaning to all of our pain. You alone, O LORD, are able to truly and purely love through rejection, but You live gloriously in us, so unleash Your mighty waters through us. Your love is everything, for You are Everything!...

Our all-sufficient Bridegroom is able to work His agape love most perfectly in us when that love poured out to another is not ever reciprocated, for it forces us to finally let Him fill us with Himself alone and to rely completely on His love instead of on the love of another to meet our heart's deepest hunger. The need for His filling IS our deepest hunger, and so our soul comes most alive not when it is loved by our fellow man but when it receives and pours out Jesus' love to our fellow man, expecting nothing in return but more of Him. Thus His love is made complete in us whether they ever love us back or not, and the fear of their rejection is eventually driven out by His perfect and perfecting love.

Even if love is never returned...never even received...it is never in vain, for "love never fails." To love someone, though we mean nothing to them, may seem too cruel a burden for the heart to bear, but the only thing worse than not being loved is to not love, and so the greatest tragedy of love spurned or lost would be to stop loving. For to cease loving that which causes us pain would be to let the pain win, but for as long as we love, really love with Christ's own heart, no matter what else happens, we win.

Love without pain remains unproven and, therefore, is meaningless, but love through pain invokes nothing less than the miraculous and inspires even the incredulous. The purer one's love, the more pain it causes when it is rejected, but only continued love can redeem the pain of loving, and only a perfect Love can heal love's scalding wound; the more scalding the wound, the better primed it is to receive that perfect Love fully into it.

There is great romance to be found in unrequited love that keeps loving, though it is beyond any human emotion or fleshly capacity or mortal understanding. It is a most sacred mystery which cannot be grasped with the head or even the heart but only with the spirit, for it is a love whose connection to Christ remains unsevered. There is perhaps no intimacy to compare to it, for it drives us to Him like nothing else will. It is a love whose longing for the other gives us the greatest insight into God's own aching longing for us. Only when it has cost us everything to keep loving do we begin to understand the smallest fraction of the wildly extravagant love Christ has for us or of the brutally scandalous pain which it has cost Him, and it will leave us in utter awe of Him and in love with Him like we have never been before.

As our focus is turned more and more toward His love for us and toward all of our previous rejecting of it, we will come to clearly see that agape love and rejection have everything to do with the the hearts of the lover and the rejecter and nothing to do with what the beloved and the rejected have done or deserve. For obviously we have done nothing to deserve God's love and He has nothing to deserve our rejection, yet He never stops loving us and we keep rejecting Him in ways we can't even comprehend. No one has ever known more rejection than the only One Who is completely worthy of love. Every time we sin we reject Him in favor of something else, but still He loves us without fail and without end. He loves us because He is love and because He has chosen to set His love on us. We are absolutely and irrevocably loved and accepted in Christ Jesus, and nothing and no one can ever change or mar that love. Our identity is completely secure in Him simply because of Who He is and who He says we are to Him.

Therefore no amount nor depth of rejection by anyone changes anything about who we are in Christ or our worth to Him. We do not need any man's love or acceptance to validate our worth, for it has already been established in the heavenly realms by the only One Whose verdict carries any real and lasting weight. We are significant and precious and holy to God regardless of what anyone else thinks of us or says of us or does to us. What has their rejection got to do with us? Nothing, for we are His! We are chosen and we are beloved! And so we are freed from the fear of rejection when we see that it cannot define us or taint us in the sight of the only One Whose opinion or judgment matters. It's a glorious thing to finally care what no man thinks of us, only the Master, for then we begin to be free to love all men as He loves them and to pray with deepest sincerity, humility and fervor even for those who spitefully reject us.

And even for that one who has hurt us most deeply, who has crushed our heart and thrown us to the wind like chaff without so much as a glance back, we will pray, no longer with only a slight and distant hope that he would return to us but now with a passionate desire to see the prodigal return to the heart of the Father. We will pray, not with a focus on life with him but with a focus on life for him. We will pray for a total and glorious restoration of his life to Christ, even if we will never be there beside him to share in the fellowship and joy of his homecoming, even if we will never get to experience up close in this life the thrill of seeing the Lord make something beautiful yet of his ashes. And this may be the hardest and truest test of our love for him—this painful sacrifice of desiring his absolute best apart from us. It is a wrenching blow to our pride and to our will (not to mention our codependence), for we had so longed to play the Muse and to awaken that beauty in him. So we know we could never yearn or pray for this out of our own strength or wisdom; it is simply too painful to our flesh. We must be led into it and through every delicate step of it by our loving Redeemer, our Bridegroom, as if He were leading us out under a canopy of the starry host and into the most intricate and intimate of moonlit dances. And so we begin to pray and to dance...

But even wrapped in Jesus' arms we are clumsy, stumbling miserably over our own feet. The music is perplexingly unfamiliar and the steps wildly unpredictable, and our toes feel terribly pinched in these new shoes. Maybe this dance is just too hard for us. Maybe we are not yet ready. Maybe we should sit it out for now and try again later when our shoes are a little more broken in or when our heart is a little less broken apart. So we pull away...

But He tenderly beckons us back: Dear and beloved bride, broken-but-beautiful one whom I have made My own, do not push Me away now, not after I have brought you so far. I have many more secrets to share with you and so much more to show you of Myself. But you are not letting Me lead this dance, beloved. Why are you so rigid in My embrace? Why so worried over the next steps? Let go of everything and abandon yourself to My love. Enjoy Me...Follow Me...Lean into Me...Keep watching My face...Let Me move you however I desire us to go...Trust Me...Love Me. Shall we dance, then?

Yes, we shall and we do! As He draws us into Himself, into the prayer of His heart and the dance of His Spirit, and as we give ourself over completely to the impulse of His leading, the details of our words and the precision of our steps give way to the desire and passion of His will, and the pulsating of our heart swirls to the rhythm of His own. The further He pulls us into union with Himself, the more we find ourselves desiring this same intimacy-with-Him for the very one who has so badly hurt us, for we see how badly he himself is hurting without it. We realize now that his running away from us and toward another is just as much a reflection of his insatiable yet misunderstood craving for God as was all of our running toward our own idols (including him). Our soul aches for his redemption and his healing and for his lost sheep's heart to be brought out of darkness and into the marvelous light that shines from Jesus' face, that he might truly know the pleasure of knowing the One Whose pleasure he was created for.

Somehow, through this heightened and mysterious intimacy of prayer for him, we are now discovering a strange and new kind of intimacy with this very one whose intimacy had so often given us the slip, this one whom we had so long loved and lived with but failed to uncover at all, and the fresh wind of it drives us even deeper into the ache of God's own heart for him and for us. It is at the center of that ache that we are finally able to let go of the hurt and the man and leave the matter entirely in God's hands, understanding that the Shepherd's aching heart knows fully all whom He has chosen and will never stop dealing with or seeking after any of His own sheep. And so...


                        We release to Him with a heart of trust
                        This one whom we love and always must
                        We can let go the man and rest because
                        It's out of our hands and always was


But the dance, like the feast, goes on and on, and the more we dance and the more we feast, the more we heal. Our Bridegroom wounds us by His own providence but washes our wounds with His faithfulness and binds them up with His love. The wounds and their healing make us beautiful to Him. They teach us to know Him, to hunger for Him, to enjoy Him and to please Him. And they get us perfectly ready for that most glorious of dances and that most joyous of feasts which are still to come but, perhaps, much closer than we might dare to imagine. It is time to awaken, dear bride of Christ, and to break in our dancing shoes!

Dancing at my windowsill she calls,
black bottomless eyes and a jagged smile
tug me from sleep with a broken-glass laugh.
Beckoning, this pixie traces softly across my jaw--
fingertips so slightly ***** the skin.
Wordless but for laughter she pulls at me until
charmed I rise to follow where she leads.

Open evening air greets my night-dressed body
with cool wakening breezes and wild sounds.
Stumbling through rocks and over roots
I chase through the wood behind my manic guide.
Toes grip at undergrowth, slip, falling to arrive
on my knees
scraped and panting slightly
in a clearing otherworldly,
aglow with fey light.

A curious night-shine looms--yet Luna's face is hidden.
All attentions focus now on this central luminescence.
From its core jangles sweet, unearthly music
twisting its way into my heart
teasing at the edges of my fragile mind.
Compelled forward I follow sound--
my waker cannot outstrip me as we hurtle on.
Before our eyes the glow casts shadows
forming structure in this mystifying vision
eyes drink in your very first glimpse:
The Carnival.

Light and shadow compose sweeping tents
striped ebony and ivory, seeming strong as each
element yet smooth, sculpted by a master's hands.
Leaping black flames skip along their summits,
performing their nocturnal dance,
illuminating darkness, engulfing light.

Revelers' song soars and forms carouse,
                                                  lively­--but shadows only--to the eyes outside.

The air bears heady perfumes, enticing scents:            
rich, melting creams and toasting sugar
enveloping baked warmth and intoxicating spice.
Last, encircling all this wonder,
cries of mirth and sights to amaze:
an unadorned, unflinching iron fence.

Drunk with sound and smell and scene
wildly spinning through the breeze,
my rousing sprite whirls ahead
bound as if in a trance
her body flinging against
the forbidding blackened gates--
                                        her laughter only extinguished
                                                         as her delicate form dissolves into smoke
                                         holding momentarily the blue of night
                                                         her wasted shape, lost to the barrier.

But Curiosity will blind
eyes far more chaste than mine,
and Allure sings only such songs
that no heart suffers long.

Heedless mortal as I am, I grasp the solid frame
decay crumbles rough against my palms.
Bodies of other spirits caked by time
or the innocent work of oxidation
I do not pause to wonder,
merely vault myself over the fence
and brush from my hands
the black dust of portentous iron.

Inside the gate, vibrant figures flood my vision
ornately costumed in gowns of orange, violet, green
arrayed in shirts and trousers dazzling in spectrum.
These gorgeous apparitions loop around me
peddling beauty, selling fame.
They mesmerize  the eye with stunning wares:
an emerald beast to carry your heavy burdens
sapphire wine to cool your burning tongue
the music of a thousand crystal seas
kept in a bottle to drown your babbling mind.

                "What do they cost?"
                            "Not a dime, not a dime!
                              Just your Now, just a Moment,
                                                         ­                  only Passing Time."

Wandering deeper into the mysteries of night
a band of revelers swing beside and catch me
laughing, bear my bewildered form in arms
and deposit me into a large tent, wherein I find
a man at a canvas the size of a wall
before which are seven stone bowls.
He dashes his brush before the amazed,
and the canvas remains blank
until my companions urge me closer.
Couching myself upon a cushion shapes appear:
Here is a man who will paint your heart's desires
so vivid you can lose all you have
so intimate you fear to move,
lest any see the embers of your fire.

Spin and turn, the Revelers never stay long,
nor draw too near to any one spectacle,
but only joy for new tents, new delights.
No passion was left to grow cold,
no enchantment to lose its power.

Spin
See the girl of flawless grace,
her body painted like the stars--
                                                  the stars the carnival hid
painted like the stars and lithe as the air
ethereal in her arts,
ascending the pole, traversing the rope!
See her twine around stakes and over fire,
dive through hoops and drop
through that needle-loop in your eye.

Spin
Step up to the tent of glistening blue
the fountain that gushes without source.
Marvel at its lucent clarity, it's chilling foam!
Fill your goblet to the brim and drink!
Drink deep, imbibe sweet forgetfulness.
Long for nothing, cleanse your heart.

Spin
Take the carousel with its living beasts to ride.
Make merry with all on board and erase
any care your heart can hold.
Let the furious pace speed on from you
all that would trouble for a thought.

Spin
A honeyed apple pressed against your tongue.
                                         Just a taste! Just a bite!
See the glistening on the skin
made from the dreams of the greatest hearts
unrestrained and unrequited.
Fresh Desire--they're all the more enticing.

The apple glitters golden, its red flesh shines beneath.
Something familiar, a darker red, flecked across the finish.
I bite down and reel--
Something wondrous, but something queer.

Faithful attendants grab me quickly, dance me
into the mouth of a dark velvet tent.
It swallows me as I fall, waiting for the teeth---

        White mist surrounds with a shimmer
         and I have found the ground.
A Voice, deep as the sea enfolds me
gentle, heavy as with sleep--yet all aware.
It invites me closer, sit nearer
rest from the night's fantasies.
Lulled, I make for the figure hooded in brilliant gold.
He leads me to his table.

Heavy, strangely empty I seek sanctuary.
He offers instead a great promise--
power over my weariness, my desires met.
He offers joy unending,
pleasure without regret, without shame.
A haven promised here, mine alone, if only--
--if only I will stay.

But something tastes metallic in those words
promises that cannot be kept.
No tent could hold so much.
This voice, so warm and pleasing,
cannot mask well a lie,
and the gentle hand holds equally a threat.
                                                         ­                                                             run­
                Awake once more I fly from the shroud
bursting blind into the alley.

But back in the tent, left a piece of my heart
and my eye rolls away into a peddler's cup
blistered bits of my soul flake off, scorched
by fire-eaters food. What's left? Who am I?

                             What did it cost?
                               Not a dime, not a dime!
                                          Just a piece of your heart,
                                                                ­  just a piece of your mind.

Retching, the last of my still beating heart
squelches into my waiting hands.
I gag and sob out the gore, disbelieving
this small bit of flesh is all that is left
of all that I have been.

The blood draws the eyes of comrades
now changing from lovely to grotesque.
Ravenous, their teeth elongate
Eyes darken and colors fade
What was vibrant now decayed.
Sweet cream curdles in my mouth.
Rich meats, choice fruits turn sour--
the apple rots.

A hoard unrecognizable
of starved beasts and hideous beings
bears down for my final offering.

But I must know who I am
and what there was beyond this place!

Sprinting barefoot from the mob
clutching the vital treasure to my chest--
though to there it may not return--
I look now for mercy from the black gate.

Elegant porcelain fingers produce monstrous claws.
What once caressed my wondering skin
now sinks in for blood with crushing force.
A hopeless last attempt, a dead man's prayer:
I fling my body on the gate---


                                                       ­                                I am over. I am free--



Iron that once kept me out, now holds them fast within.

Bedclothes torn, all my purchased raiment turned to ash,
I limp, clutching a fragment heart.
Staggering from the Carnival's screams,
its dissonant music now all trick and terror.
Putrid garbage wafts from its walls.
Press onward, never looking back, through the wood.

So long ago--how long?--a little one led me here.
Her death was her own, but could have been
my salvation, a warning dearly paid.
Cheaply received.

My mind swims.
A body with its heart outside cannot last.
There are many things not of the Carnival
that would have my final scrap.

Faltering feet stumble and tripping find
a mere clear and still: a mirror for the moon.
And Luna's face does shine down
all her attendants watching on
as my naked form collapses beside its calm.
I cannot deserve this resting place,
could not discern a trap if one here lay.
All I can and have and am I offer up to Mercy,
and dip what's left of my broken life
into the cleansing pool.

Myself caught in the heatwave sunlight, brown eyes
furrowed in the sun, scarf loose on my neck/
the transcendental Denpasar morning-birds
are playing their melodies in my head still,
three years post-Indonesia.
        All of my soul to India now,
        sky the pink of painted elephants
        on Jaipur dawning,
        my afterlife was somewhere here
        perhaps two generations ago, chances are.
               Vijay Raghav Rao and Alla Rakha
               playing the Tabla/via earphones/treading the
               Funary Box City (Kashi) future Spring
               hands held together keeping calm pace.
               Looking about, my twenty-two year old face
catches humid wind
S
I
L
V
E
R
S
H
O
P
tattered bike leaning on the gated guest house entrance
     PERENNIAL AZURE SHIVA SITS CROSS LEGGED/
     COBRA NECKLACE IMITIATONS ON THE GODDESS THROAT/
     MEDITATING SHIVA/
dulled from years and corrosion.
Brahmin center of the market street
flapping it's tail,
sweat beads from my forehead bleeding
to oily pavement.
At last the months have come for the river Ganges,
April penumbra/savage thunderclap
while school children uplifting the heart
                 AND MIND
are ROARING in their laughter
the CONTINENTAL DISCORD OF JOY
sleeping with their eyes open
while others are too tired for the Earth.
Sidney Bechet floating swan songs during
the black hour cremations/
“Bechet Creole Blues”
CATERWAUL IN THAT              VOID
THE METAMORPHOSIS OF DEATH/
LUNACY OF LIFE
                     (I've arrived at the simultaneous crossroads
                                                      ­  of both)
searing flesh in open air pyramids/
Manikarnika Ghat,
Asia  F
          L
         O
         W
          S
through dreams
like inevitable prophecy
and as ash blends with stars
the CITY seems fulfilled
and mystifying
in it's
                      (((((RESPLENDENCE)))))

When I was little, I thought barbie was one of the most beautiful humans I've ever seen.
I knew it because the world agreed with her and not me.
So I tried to scrub the dirt off my skin, in hopes that I'd get closer to white purity.
But I'd only turn red like the devil that they said I am
With a sponge soaked in blood trying to wash away my blackness.
The sponge rejected me too.

When I was little, I thought that barbie was one of the most beautiful humans I've ever seen.
Therefore, I burned my hair with chemicals to eradicate my curls.
So I'd be like white blond barbie. You could call me milk and honey. But the chemicals turned my honey into ashes.
Straight but dead.
The perms rejected me too.

When I was little, I thought that barbie was one of the most beautiful humans I've ever seen.
So I figured I should get a ken. A nice white man. Or maybe just a man.
But mommy was single too, so maybe I'm just too black to be loved.
Until, I was 17 and hadn't had my first kiss.
But when my time finally came,
I was just fulfilling his fantasy of a jungle fever, concubine, black object.
So still he rejected me too

When I was little I thought that barbie was one of the most beautiful humans I've ever seen.
So I pledged allegiance to the United States of white America
And to the republic, for which it stands on my body
One nation for eradication of my skin
Under god, a barbie
Indivisible stop making me invisible
With no liberity and justice for barbie

Barbie. A ******* plastic doll.
She's not even the most beautiful human I've ever seen.
She's not even human
And they done ****** up when they wrote those love poems for her.
Can't you see my almond eyes speaking,
While my chocolate strawberry dipped lips are closed.
Don't pretend you love me,
Because caressing my face with a knife
Is no kiss to brown velvet skin.
And I know my curls are too complex for you,
Cuz they're tangled in years of wisdom.
But the wisdom doesn't really lie there.
My beauty doesn't really lie there.
It's my passion, and vulnerability.
My mind and it's ability.
Oh my goodness I know whose one of the most beautiful humans I have ever seen.
It's me.
And I'm the most important person in my life
So before I can deeply love anyone esle,
I must fall in love with myself.
So here's the love poem they never wrote for me.

Oh my gooooooooodnesss. You emulate literal waves of chocolate.
So sweet that your tummy has rolls just to touch your body.
And your smile illuminates your dark skin into a radiance of self sun kissed beauty.
But really, your eyes are smiling and I'm not sure how you can speak so many languages with them.
Please touch me again you have the softest skin. Firm long hug.
But you're actually holding me with your mystifying soul. Vulnerable soul.
You feel everything.
So hot that when the sun kisses your skin, the sun is burning.
So cold that you saved the polar bears with your ice bergs like the mother nature you are.
And your mind is beautiful with all the neural connections becoming fruitful with berries the world never knew existed and have yet created words for.
My god, I love you

<>

Every summer, I relearn a new language.
Every winter, it departs for warmer climes,
Its charms and naked arms,
Its own alphabet,
Clean forget.

Multi-lingual in the summer's peculiar
One language, one aleph bet,
With a mega-millions of dialects,
Know them all, cold,
know them all, hot.

I speak Woman.

Summer is soft, shapely, sweet,
Clean, bare, lush in a sparse way,
And Woman is spoken thusly.

There are no harsh sounds,
Guttural exclamations, nein!

I speak Woman.

There is no ugly in the summer.
Ugly being an ugly word.  
It cannot exist in an atmosphere of
Sun, greenery, sand, carefree days,
vacations, no school, no ways
Is there ugliness in any woman of the summer?

You could take this writ many places.
Most of them wrong,
So sputtering sexist or other labeling words,
Makes you ugly and wrong.

Could not give a good *******,
In the summer of 2013,
There should be no ugly, no prejudice.

In any summer,,
There should be no ugly, no prejudice at all.

Long past my primal,
I still speak Woman
With almost perfect fluency,
Au naturel,
Naturellement, à la française.

Gym clothes, denim short shorts, yoga pants gone mad,
A-line skirts swishing in the breeze,
High, god, so high the heels,
Flats clip clopping, flips flip flopping,
Stilettos making love craters,
All over my heart, like a surgeon doing good work.

It is the bare arms and the fluorescent, mint stripe hints of
Summer Cleavage, the short skirts,
Body hugging one piece fabrics,
stretching from here to down there
That do not hint.

The shoulder strap of the underthings,
Asking, commanding me to
Wonder where these paths lead...

Even the light shoulder wrap,
Casual over bare shoulders slung,
A late night elegance that mocks me,
Like gift wrapping over a
Smile demure, a teasing blindfold...

All these say:

Write us poetry in our very own tongue of
Woman.

Will oblige.

I curve with curve of the *****,
Invert geometry of the S arc of the waist,
Mystifying, how it is the designed place
For my hands to grasp, never failing...never letting me fall

The crayola musical colors of flesh variations,
Boggle the senses...
How can
Tan and pale,
Dark and Light
Have so many
Symphonic variations?

Adagio, slow and leisurely, a pas de deux
For two eyes, following ******* by eyes sparkling,
Timpani crashing heart and thunderous pulse quickening,
Violin heart crying out, joyous wailing need and desire sparking.

Just as Byron wrote:

"Music arose with its voluptuous swell,"

Yeah, just swell,
a voluptuous sea swell.

Well,
Enough.

My eloquence is a poor instrument to portray my
Fluency.

Early May man glorious loves life,
Late July, sadder man,
Knowing  the summer foliage colors will soon, fall-fade,
Come August, my vocabulary, already diminishing.

But
Never forget
how to say in the language of Woman, this:

Without you,
I am nothing,
With you,
I am more than everything.

Tho I can no longer say it well,
It is is still true and
Beyond belief.

My one true language of love
In a world gone mad.


August 2013 ~ July 2016 - May 2017

Recto:

She‘s vacuuming: the dog has leapt, afraid,
onto my lap and sent my papers flying.
Till then I‘d slept. Still half-asleep, I‘m trying,
relentlessly, to finish things I‘d made

a start on yesterday, identifying
slips and errors, trading words or phrases.
Mystifying, the way we go through phases
laid in stone, half-stunned while time goes flying

by and nothing‘s done for days. Is stasis
part of the deal? We‘re drying up, we fade? -
and then, bejaisus! - that small fire we‘d laid
that kept on choking re-ignites and blazes!

Verso:

She‘s vacuuming: the dog has leapt,
afraid, onto my lap and sent
my papers flying. Till then I‘d slept.

Still half-asleep, I‘m trying, relent-
lessly, to finish things I‘d made
a start on yesterday, ident-

ifying slips and errors, trad-
ing words or phrases. Mystifying,
the way we go through phases laid

in stone, half-stunned, while time goes flying
by and nothing‘s done for days. Is
stasis part of the deal? We‘re drying

up, we fade? ... and then, bejaisus!
- that small fire we‘d laid that kept
on choking self-ignites and blazes!

The mystifying howl is irksomely faint yet vividly heard,
Akin to orchestrated footsteps of the undetectable command
As the new dawn illuminates a smoldering fire beyond the horizon-
“A sign of human activity-but an awful omen to the warlord”
Legions called into action, and for every step they take, matter is drawn from the ether,
Waiting for the final caravan of conquest and conquer;
Do the militias now turn their swords into ploughshares to suffer?
When their enemies-without remorse-silently creep up on them in silence,
However the distant shuddery sound of their battle cry is harmless;
But is the shunned “death-valley” an inescapable companion anyway?
With strident herons flying high above the maze-like island…so forlorn!
These shameless war-warriors!
Heroes With-Out!
Villains With-In!
Unlike them-the countryman is truly so fortunate nonetheless;
He marvels at the innate splendor of the single showy tulip in the bucolic wilderness,
Although now the heathen intimidate his terrain amidst his recoil in resistance;

The characters of men and women under this impudent sentence
On the uniformity of fate, however gay were the earlier scenes…
This sense of the seasons and mortality-more tragic in great cities
With mortals forgetting it is superfluous to go in chase of nature’s thoughts;
She comes of her own free will in the passing shadows of the seasons!
The boastful soldier…
The learned doctor…
Footing out of the masses for the qualities they assume beyond the galaxies afar;
The qualities they assume are those that most men admire!
Their hypocrisy, bravery and ingenuity survives more
Even in times of turmoil and war-with satirized lies and rumors
“Giving praise to bloodshed?”
Since when has the sight of blood been a derisory affair?
What a horrific carnival of double standards of power;
No laughing matter!
Doubtless criticism-sinister in origin with a false swagger
Sharper now in the modest gestures preaching feminism
For if modern elegant ladies adorn their bravura torsos in red fashion
Why give acknowledgment to this same reddened “color of death!”

The new world is finally shedding off the aged navel scar
Releasing the “Mother-Principle” instinct to be mothered and to engender!
Are awakening sons of men along with their nations betokening universal grandeur?
These lions among ladies!
These foxes in the fight for freedom…
“The men of Marathon”
Ironists-commonly more “characters” than thinkers,
Irritated further by the hypocrisy than by the ideas of those they portray,
Blind to the verity that modern tolerance might seem to go further than that,
As vengeful souls vanquish and oppress their enemies by craft and deceit;
…if they thought it was a sin, they would not argue about such a mischievous plot.
Finally money has a power above
The stars and fate to manage love:
Whose arrows, Learned Poets hold,
That never miss, are tipped with Gold.

"Unprepared I wondered into her burrow,
My endeavors were useless as her beauty,
Plod into my conscience,
Aghast at what in your beauty I might find,

I couldn’t resist in going and touching her near,
If she were to resist what would I do in interim,
The closer I had gotten the more she toiled my soul,
It is as if I had entered a dream and wit not to awake,

Than finally adjacent deliquesced in each other’s embrace,
Free from iniquity I gave myself deluded to her,  
An archipelago had opened before with her tenderness.
No longer live in dark places as she has brightened all,  

Illuminating my soul with each one of her embraces,
A heart once cold and cruor with such from melancholy,
My only assuagement bad anamnesis gone from mind
For she comes to me in a mystifying incognizant way”

Elusive, mystifying, soft wind sighing,
No stomachs bloating, no children wailing,
No souls sailing,
No fathers beating, no mothers screaming,
Ever dreaming,
Perfect world,
Dreamland.

Satisfying, clear water flowing, clean air blowing,
No tainted blood, no children missing,
No killers hissing,
No hate-torn lands, no bombs blasting,
Peace everlasting,
Perfect world,
Dreamland.

Death defying, careless breeders, self-serving leaders,
Power plays, strategic dancing,
All life chancing,
Ultimate pact, malevolent mushroom clouds,
Vaporized crowds,
Perfect world....

Heart pounding
Eyes leaping
Heavy breathing
Mystifying,

When I look across the room and I see you there,
I glance, I blush, I glance,
Again,
You turn, I freeze. Wow.

I throw my neck around, now look, I've got whip-lash--
Worth it!
For a glimpse of your eyes, I'd gladly give my head.

Her soul is tainted in a dark mystifying mist.
While her body is lightened and beautified by a warm cooling mist

The tile roof gleamed in the sun light after the morning mist left the mix of glint and glistening
The adobe walls ran down to the cobble stones that made the side walk and street above the
Door frame was a single window that had two hanging floral baskets it played favorably when
One recalled Spanish Harlem a place of heartfelt dreams a mystifying groan lay in the streets
And the abodes of those living there Elena had been a frequent guest here now she had broke
Completely with that part of her life but it still swirled up the streets like quiet smoke and when
It fully engulfed her you could see this sadness in her eyes it spoke of a crushed Spanish rose it
Didn’t matter if you had only been a visitor the tendrils are far reaching a place and its people
Those broken glimpses the heavy sense you felt even with the delightful aroma of food and
Laughter in the home oppression race difference was like a dark shadow you resist it in many
Ways but it prevails you are awash in its sadness but here she would sparkle and shine in divine
Ways she brought the sea away with her it seemed to cling to her she had deep soulful eyes
Black as part of the reef her eyes still but full of wonder and mystery were they not as moist as
The sea breeze that gently assaulted their sea side homes there was sureness about her an
Independence that truly rivaled the sea and it tempestuousness her heart was rugged but
Fiercely true and it did seem that great waves broke over and against her life but she remained
Calm and serene as the sea when it set flat as glass this mirror as you behold it you see
Sacredness at its edges life from land here is displayed against such grandeur and vastness you
See large and perplexing problems in a clear bright light at times she spoke in a whisper you
Could swear you were hearing the sea when it moaned as it had problems this continuing
Lapping of waves at times it delivered dreams and then just as suddenly took them back to the
Deep from where their origins are but at that moment you were extended enlarged you were
More than just the small measure of self but wind and water an depths now have become the
New fabric of your life an now Elena doesn’t seem strange anymore but she is a gift most
Wondrous a stranger who comes with emotional weights from her former life now they have
Been weighed and judged by the sea and then all is transformed the intermingling of loss on
Land and then finding the eternal equivalent in the timeless waves of the sea a sea monster  
Didn’t arise but a lovely one that engaged the sea in a love that brought victory and hope to all
Who were blessed to know her and the gifts she had received and with generosity she
Continues To give to all who have needs in this writing she has visited you today be increased
Be happy Know that you are loved my friend no one can truly hurt you is it not spoken by the
Sea by waves that never stop their caressing the brow of land and the wind delivers the life
Giving rain and when you stand at its edge the immensity drives deeply into the soul you are
Immersed to the point you must let go and there is where answers are found when you realize
You are not in control but there is one who controls the sea and He controls your life as well
You are surrounded on all sides by a sea of love float in its healing waters you are a child of such
Matters you can’t even fathom so turn and plunge into wondrous joy of hope and expectation
Adrift look up more than sun and moon are above you but a Holy crown Heaven is His throne
And Earth is His footstool and He is familiar with the mighty deep so you come steeped in
Trouble but the calling from the sea speaks truth and freedom it all belongs and was made for
You so be not a castaway but cast your life on the water by faith and all of earth and heaven is
Yours Elena found it to be so you will find what she found when forlorn she looked and called to
The sea for help all she found now she gives to others

a.

227.9 million years away
                   (mars)                   heliocentric model
i.e. away from coordinates (0,0), i.e. the sun

b.

149.6 million years away
                      (earth)                         "               "
etc.

c.

    standard metric system, alternatively
                        this is the geocentric model emerging
i.e.        one day on earth is equivalent
           of a day and forty minutes on Mars...
  we don't have access
                     to a heliocentric model for this
primarily because of the coordinate of the sun
being (0,0), in Kantian symbolism 0 = denial,
therefore the sun cannot encompass day,
or night, hours or minutes...
                             you cannot apply
the relativity of days comparatively being different
on Mars or on Earth using the heliocentric model...
              
      and to think, all it took was for nautical directions
being blessed by the movement of constellations,
        and that phrase of mine: where's Copernican east?

            we're all shouting at the ****** project,
it's either who write the best concentrated plagiarism
of the masses for the visual effects,
          the glued together parts of iron and oxygen
tanks... or who can write the words behind the images
well enough to capture the imagination
        and shift it elsewhere...
oh believe me, i am living in a 48 hour week,
    i'm not writing science fiction,
                       i'm on earth, but this isn't earth,
it doesn't require a measure of distance,
   but still the figures stand... so i might as well
toy with them and get some bogus answer...

d.

what does life constitute on a "planet" that consists
of 48 hours?
                     today i put on something warm,
the cold finally got to me,
                          i'm the butterfly while a hurricane
rages on elsewhere,
                              quantum humanism some call it,
because the physics never really inclined itself
to treat human emotions well enough -
                    just today,
as i peered into the day's sky -
                     the moon and the sun shared the same
blue horizon -
                           in the summer the moon has the
tides - and keeps them at bay, calm,
         but when autumn and winter come,
and the earth tilts - the moon looses the grip on
the tides in the northern hemisphere -
hurricanes in the west, tsunamis in the east,
              storms at Greenwich meantime -
the time of day? when the moon engages in
profane acts with day, appearing and stunning
insomniacs into coherency, as if asking:
            so if i am being given a very quick
and less romantic sunrise, and esp. a less
romantic sunset, by seeing the moon closely aligned
to the sun during the day:
                 am i seeing the nightly delights of
the southern hemisphere, and if so,
            is that to the east, or is that to the west?
i am guessing it's to the east... for i am seeing
the night in the southern Pacific continent -
              i am seeing their night
                          for the moon has transgressed
its boundaries, and left the northern waters
ready to rebel under the polytheistic guise
complimenting the spacious orbs -
                       when order and monotheism of
the north during spring and summer...
         then Poseidon's upheavals with the watery
rebellious graves during autumn and winter:
or how Hades persuaded his two brothers to
pay due and meet with the Titans in Tartarus:
to thus form a pact against the monotheistic concept:
for the soul of the ancient Greeks said:
                shame be unto you, brats,
for shunning the religion of your forefathers!

e.

indeed the 48 hour day, two days and two nights,
or more precisely: three nights and one day -
sooner or later they'll push the clocks back,
a man will go to sleep in the dark,
   and catch but a glimmer of a day - then too
thrown into the darkness: a 48 hour day on a planet
involves three periods of darkness, and one
period of daylight - and if they said Alaska was
torture... here is a man engulfed alone in it.

f.

strange to think that 78.3 million years between
Mars and Earth only add 40 minutes more to a day...
           as ever, the non-uniform suggestion of gravity,
take but one step on that soil,
                           the curse of the astronauts on the moon:
and then invite the poets of the cult of the moon,
the emblem of the moon that's Islam...
                              an then wait for the consequences
and the ***** dreams of those people and their children...
               even the Atom Bomb seems to have
been forgiven by comparison -
                                but never the moon: or the death
of childhood - lunar crown shattered -
                              death of storytelling for children
some might say: 1001 minutes of advertisement
before Cyrus starts weaving a web of entrenched
consumerism - not even the Belgian fields
and their world war 1 trenches could have provided
such a status quo to continue...
            to continue...

g.

so do i multiply that figure by something?
78.3 million years disparity -
                        times the time difference?
i.e. 78.3 multiplied by 40 and added to
the distance from earth?
            λoγος - no!
                                 what's the distance from
starting coordinate (0,0) to the earth? 149.6 million...
      and mars?
227.9 million...
                                      which means 78.3 multiplied
by taking away the negation symbol due
to the double-negation coordinate that the sun is
(timeless and without space-affirming
                  timing to our necessary comprehension
of the day to day) - meaning the distance
of the planet with 48 hour days (three nights and one
day) is 313.2 million years away from the sun...
               Jupiter stands at being 778.5 million years...
and that's a kept in ****... a gaseous giant...
                 so the distance is plausible...
but like i said before: first comes logic,
which splits into rationality and irrationality -
                      but irrationality still uses logic -
      we all know that irrationality is not reasonable -
          but it is ably-reasoned-with
           or can succumb to some variation
                     of the illogical -
                                              namely illogical rationality:
as in passing Platonic theories down the ages,
or succumbing to the Freudian psychoanalysis -
fashion is simpler, cruder -
                                               it cuts off the missing
points, it desecrates the shrines of famous names
and does the grand thing of keeping everyone
hooked in, rather than out of it nostalgic -
       no one is really winning either side of this point.

h.

and this is really what two beers can do to you
to relax after living on plant H-48 -
                     no yoga teacher can tell you that ***
gets better when you pay alms to this world -
         the yoga fakes are making enough dosh laughing:
*** is good, where there's a billion of them,
not a scattering of what i call the real reason
why we evolved to be so numerous:
     cancerous libidos, or overblown libidos,
   and a knack at ******* each other off - which just
says: keep 'em coming!
                                    and they expect people to really
be awe-stricken when you have such nice names
in biology: chlorophyll and enzyme and hydro and
aqua... and for all life to begin with a big bang?
    i thought you couldn't hear astronauts scream
in space?        or maybe that big bang was just
       a big boo - because aren't we **** scared?

i.

American politics has cracked with this presidential
election, the real dynamic is out...
           it reminds me of
the trinity of ******, the brown-shirts
(Sturmabteilung) thugs leader Ernst Röhm
and the man that replaced him:
               Heinrich Himmler of the
less thuggish and more professional murderers'
brigade the (Reichsführer Schutzstaffel) -
you see, i actually have a better attention span
when i live on H-48... did you notice
that neither of the presidential candidates mentioned
the literature in their debates?
one said: tax evasion, the other said: emails!
but these two sly foxes are toying with the whole
process... they're citing the literature...
   tim kaine and mike pence are the geniuses behind
the scenes... you have to give credit to them...
                it's the ingrained discussion -
the gospels -           it subconsciously will even convince
black voters (of a certain age) to vote for Trump,
regardless of his blunders... which are like ******'s
blunders even though Eva Braun has Jewish heritage
(as seen in one documentary on channel 4) -
                    and you know they're running the show
because they only have one debate...
         that's how important they are...
                       did you ever care to watch a
Ingram Bergman film twice? or three times?
i don't think so. once... and then the butterfly is gone,
gone gone. i'm not here for the entertainment -
American protestant-ism isn't European,
                          it's ultra-Catholic -
                    oddly enough, not in terms of all
the iconic symbolism - that's scaled down -
       but the message is profoundly Catholic -
the two men cited the literature - they're
not thugs, they're not blundering rhetoricians like
the two puppets in their hands...
                        they're the power brokers
or what in England we call the kingmakers -
   i'm not into conspiracies, just the obvious things -
****** had a funny moustache,
          Trump has a funny haircut -
J F K was handsome L B J wasn't and was furious
when Marilyn sang the birthday blues...
                   Gerald Ford is the founder of the Mafia...
Nixon wanted in... oops... didn't happen...
                    ever since Ford it's been playtime after
playtime and no one doing the arithmetic on lives -
               well you know, a washing machine
breaks down, you get a new one...
                  but something came up at the turn
of the 21st century, no one expected it -
this is where i only ascribe one conspiracy:
                                         you can't miss it,
it's blatantly there on the geographical map,
S.A. and that beautiful ornament flag with a pretty
sword and Arabic calligraphy...
                             i'm not wetting my appetite with
these words... it's just common sense -
                money is something that provides the
trans-valuation of all things: it's what the alchemists
were always hoping to find, but it was found
so long ago that it didn't matter how childish they
thought they could be: thanks for paracetamol
though...
                                     what's actually the most
mystifying aspect of this is how there's an ingrained
desirability of a status quo:
      you can have a coin with Rex's head on it,
and no matter what the base metal is,
it will still devalue something more precious
                     and increase value of something more
precious...               it happens in the art world
with the artist being recognised posthumously
                                for the object of his work,
but nothing beyond that...
                                              and since it is painfully
obvious... the question is...
                     do you challenge the status quo
                                          or do you consider yourself
a unit of qua                 -
                                   and that's an open question,
if a question at all...
                                        it's because i have left the
exciting part of this poem,
                                    gravity pulled me down to
planet H-24 (otherwise known as earth), and i see
all this ****** misery...
                                       and i think...
even though my life on planet H-48 can sometimes
feel like torture - i know that i'm in control of
certain perks on it...           and all because i decided
to travel there, with one missing clue as to
why it took me 2 years to escape Heidegger's Alcatraz -
            and why i decided to go back in...
      after reading the previously mentioned book
i realised i was given the key into something else,
           kaleidoscopic even -
worded physics, worded chemistry, worded biology,
  not the physics of equations, or chemistry
of electron-migration diagrams in organic reactions,
or biology and its oops after oops and
a boxing match with theology -
                                           i even considered
buying the Alcatraz in English... but that would
make no sense...
                         given the already bilingual dynamic
being established...
                                     as Dante chose Virgil
to wade through hell... you too must also choose
the one companion, and reject all others...
               and if Heidegger chose Aristotle
i must choose Heidegger - and would i say that
my grandfather was a bad man for being a
communist party member? do you think
a small town boy gets sold the highest form of
Versailles intrigue that culminates in
the Siberian gulag? they got you spinning that old
housewives' tale like a dodo doing dodo
                                           rather than being dodo.

Love,
is like a forest,
so big, mystifying, and enchanting,
yet,
so evil, dark, and dangerous.

Life,
is like a tree in a forest,
one out of many but individually beautiful, with
amazing aspects
yet,
ordinary, overpowering, or underwhelming.

Friendship,
like a branch on the tree.
a part that makes something, different,
and wonderful,
yet,
differing, imperfect, and vast.

We are a part of the forest.

You are that book I love to read...
the one that is unreadable-
no matter how hard I try...
I cant get my head wrapped around you

you are unreadable...

and it's driving me crazy,
because I m sure I am falling for someone
who has no interest in ever catching me...

but I'm not stopping now
id rather fall and get hurt by you...
to take the chance...
than to maybe someday live with the what-if's

and we cant hold hands...
we cant embrace...
there is no physicality involved...
it's lost somewhere in the thousands of miles that separate our hearts
but that doesn't stop me from listening to the saved voice-notes
and saving your photo as my wallpaper

because every time I look into those mystifying
,yet somewhat mocking brown eyes...
my heart skips a few thousand beats
Those bushy black eyebrow's ...
that cute button nose!!
it all makes me hope that someday...
all the goodbye's we text,
will turn into the goodnight's we whisper in each others ears...

but for now I'm fine with smiling at the screen....
for now I'm  fine with crying when I play your voice-notes...
blushing when you flirt with me...
because...
for now...
I'm okay with listening to the harmony...
of two heartbeats in the distance

avalanche, mystifying icon
you are still on my bright screen
yet i no longer linger upon yours

lo and behold i try to
muster up the courage to
approach you
only to fail, flee, or **** it all up.

Dedicated To My Loving Daughter SUZANNA CHRISTY
On her 12th Birthday (08/09/2015)                  
Days rolled on; moments of time trotted; Waters changed shapes;
She walked with His Grace; smiled with His Mercy; grown with His Love.
Eleven nautical miles she hath crossed; might be twisted with ebbs and tides;
Yet His provident Arms have carried her in tender and glorious ways.

I see her seated on the banks of the stately throne with scepter of innocence,
My heart is thrilled with her mother’s heart of her child-like majesty
Envisaged across the firmament with the rainbow colours within.
Each of the rainbow shade dappled with Heaven’s Glory to glow.

I have drawn her in the sky of my fancy with figures of speech in colours,
She hath become a poem in my kingdom of poetry in pageantry.
We’ve been dreaming of her splendor glowing in His Presence
And pray unto Him no blemish shall taint her soul till the day.

My heart perceived sweet smiles on her lips translated from her within:
Every smile is His Blessing showered on her heart - gratitude to HIM.
We planted a garden and ‘ve grown the seed of godliness to grow like His Son,
Our hearts rejoice in the growth of the seed beside the sweet flow of His Love.

She hath grown through lightning, storms, showers and withstood with His Grace,
She’s been God’s Gift’ conferred on us late but in His time mystifying to mankind.
It hath been His Eternal episode that she ought to be in our arms crawl.
And God’s Gift is in His Image to grow in His Shade and fly under His Wings.

We are instruments to lead her in the way of Eternity, and her soul is precious to Him.
All have souls and all have Eternity, and have to choose His Son hung on the Cross;
Yet earthly affinity hath no role to play in His Kingdom, for He is Spirit,
And all His children ought to have His Image ever to reign in His Glory.

We perceive Truth of Eternity on her child-like countenance each day.
She hath stepped on the twelfth way of life and hath years to walk through.
Our prayer unto Him is His Providence be showered on her soul till the time.
She hath awakened us to share the Truth of Eternity in my simple verse.

Some say He is soft,
Others say He is evil.
Some say He is not visible,
Others say He has forsaken us.
Some say He no longer cares,
And some even dare to say that He doesn’t exist.
Many people say things about my God;
The creator of everything and anything since the beginning of time,
The Almighty who was, and is, and is to come.
The truth is though,
That not many people know my God.
I do not even understand fully who He is,
And I can only hope that the words written below do not insult him,
But rather, are pleasing to His ear,
Because this is my understanding of my God;
The maker of the heavens and the earth…

My God is omniscient,
Omnipotent,
Omnipresent,
And omniparent.
My God should not be underestimated,
And cannot be overestimated,
Because for any man to comprehend the power of my God,
Is impossible.
My God humbles the prideful,
And my God deserves all praise.
My God is the same God that created;
The great white shark that reigns in the water,
The grizzly bear whose one swipe can **** a man,
The tiger that haunts the jungles,
And the lion whose roar sends fear through mans bones…
And then said, “It is good.”
My God owns the thunder that shakes your house,
And my God shows the lightning where to strike.
My God can move mountains,
Divide a sea,
And wipe out the earth with a flood.
My God builds up ferocious volcanoes,
And my God carved out the mystifying caverns in the earth.
My God points out the path of raging rivers,
And my God delights in the crashing waves of the Bering Sea,
And finds joy in the force of Niagara Falls.
My God is the light so bright that,
You cannot look at Him without being blinded,
And the darkness trembles in fear at the mention of His name.
My God lodged the stone into Goliaths head.
My God sent Jael’s stake through Sisera’s skull.
My God transformed Moses’ staff into the snake,
Sent the locusts,
And promises fire.

Are you getting the idea yet?
But that’s only half of it,
Because my God has a whole other side.

My God wrote the premier poetry that is in the best selling book of all time,
That oh, by the way,
He wrote.
My God made the snow you sled on,
And the flowers you pick to put in a vase.
My God made the stars you lay out under,
And the planets and galaxies you can only dream about.
My God made the sunrise that is reason enough to wake up two hours early,
And the romantic sunsets you watch with your beloved.
My God painted the skies with the Northern Lights,
And breathed life into the wildflowers for extra decoration on the mountainsides.
My God carved out the Grand Canyon,
And my God sharpened the peak of Mount Everest.
My God put the tropical island paradises in the oceans,
And my God produced the crystal blue waters of Greece.
My God rendered the landscapes of Tuscany,
And my God created the vibrant birds of the jungles.
My God made the athletes you aspire to be like,
And the voices you listen to over the radio.
My God gave Shakespeare his imagination,
And Da Vinci the vision to paint the Mona Lisa.
My God made man and all his features,
And my God made a woman;
Who in all her luster and beauty is the pinnacle of my God’s creations.
My God brings a man and a woman together,
And puts in them a love like no other,
But still that extraordinary love doesn’t compare to His own love for us.
My God gives life to every pristine baby,
And then witnesses every moment of their lives.
My God made the water that quenches our thirst,
And my God fills the void in our heart.

There you have it:
My God is both ferocious and gentle,
Dangerous and loving,
Strong and merciful,
Powerful and overwhelming,
Mysterious and mystical,
Everlasting and present,
A guardian and a giver,
A warrior and a romantic,
A designer and an author.
My God is the lover of the rejected,
The judge of the high court,
The strength for the weak,
The defender of the defenseless,
The shepherd of the flock,
The general of the most opulent armies,
The savior of the broken,
And the redeemer of the lost.
My God will not leave,
But instead will always be by your side.
My God is devoted,
Dedicated,
Unwavering,
And unchanging.
My God is not threatened by your god,
And my God is supreme.
My God created the heavens and the earth,
And my God created you.
This is my God,
The God; Father, Son and Spirit.

I wasn’t born to write
With every bent petal,
and every fallen leaf,
my ma’s sweet kisses
And papa’s gentle smile
I learned to write

A five year old me was once fascinated
by the loop of an ‘e’
and the playful swing of an ‘m’,
The wide smile of a ‘d’ delighted me
Words were powerful and mesmerising,
now they lie discarded and ignored
in broken stanzas of self proclaimed irrelevance

I watch the black ugly marks
That taints countless sheets of paper
They surround me in a sea of ink
That once flowed carefully and slowly
A thousand thoughts with each single word
Drained lies my mind, my breath’s not a whisper but a plea
My heart pumps blood not ink, I’m not a poet, it says
Incoherent scribblings mock me with their existence

As a child, confined spaces scared me
But now, a confined mind petrifies me with just a glimpse
A pen stays gripped in my hand
I wonder what it fears more
My inability to let the ink flow coherently
Or my arrogant ramblings, regardless
And fearless of consequences
While I stumble on disjointed verses

A paper aeroplane is my best accomplishment
In my two hour search for freedom and thought
Who cares for pretty words and mystifying couplets?
When the idea of a paper boat seems much more exciting

-പ്രിയാന്ഷി ദാസ്‌

and if i made any mistakes in the process... is that: sorry, or... oops?! if i were truly English i'd throw in the: dodging Badger to boot... but since aye ain't... **** it, arms in the air: the sheriff called the deputy while Honey called the Winkle and all is just a Safari gag: toothless lions, my god, talking monkeys and actual termite architects! it's one of those trips you don't take Seer Attenborough on... risk of contagion of acquiring narrative you see... finally a time when england became wholly proletariat... or simply immigrant... but is the left really left in that you mean a: slav? current year: the expression of the left in western society is alienating me from the experience of what my grandfather is: a unit of authoritarian solidification of post-scriptum **** rule; i don't understand what the current climate conceptualises as "the" left, other than the reemergence of the petty bourgeoisie... that's no "left"... well not the left i know my grandfather to be.

    - at such precise times:
   no wonder men turn to utilising colours and shapes -
     not that writing this has been
bothersome - only that:
      it's just much easier to reduce the use of
language worth asking for a pint of milk,
   thank writing a poem:
imagine having to stand naked,
  while actually being attired...
     darting to & fro when actually
standing fixed to an orbit focus -
          to have to explain the colloquial...
or to establish the colloquial...
   as if using language cannot be,
in comparison: when
paintings require the "*******"
of an art historian or an art critic...
but poetry: oh, ****, that needs
a milkman to get!
or some ****-pants 14 year old teen!

- how can you approach the modern
**** sapiens with his grasp
of technology?
     one way would be to:
    approach him like a monk,
       a puritan, or merely as an:
                                                 animal.
yet modern man doesn't
        deserve the curiosity he fashions
himself with...
            instead of watching a rex genus:
i'm watching
          a bewildering scoop of
inhibition awaiting a proper scope
to find: outlet...
          with the internet being
a minor source of said
                      context of
                    available expression...
for a long time man has lived
to appreciate yet at the same time abhor
living in a society that
hides knowledge of its technological
advances, while freely distributing
an access to them...
       simultaneously mystifying
                           the use of a it;
a ******* ape is starting to counter-perplex
itself regarding a stone,
and use it,
      while i am thinking about
a levitating keyboard!
        which is supposed to translate
into a precipitation's worth of a hammer!
collectivism is a type of
pedagogy...
         that being said: i'm no rex genus...
       i'm starting to think whether
i'm competent with language...
                  and there was a cue where
i was supposed to say: what?
- and then i retire to Samuel Beckett's
Watt* and concise myself to:
   far from *******...
             because why would a ******
concern himself with intro- or retrospect?
the "no offence" is part
of the fact that: i don't know
              how to identify a pseudo-...
                  but it's a pleasing thought,
mind you,
       that i'm as "*******" as the next person
not wishing to go to a Star Trek
convention... maybe i just like
the sliding doors, or the escalator...
or: **** me... vapping...
               i'm still going to adhere to
the mantra: smokers' cough does not
exist on continental Europe...
              this air is wet, it's foul,
    damp... a ******* mushroom incubator!
        hell-spawn of: yes, i am experiencing
excess phlegm!
                       what sort of idiot
would want to conquer this sort of place?!
******* fungus people!
           they exfoliate an aura
                     for you to need to curse!
            at least Winters on continental Europe
are dry!
            i'm sick from the damp!      
seen a wet dog before?
   England is a wet dog...
           it's like gagging watching
a video of a carrot being peeled...
              which ends up being more funny
than a Monty Python sketch.

- and what's because ******* did what?
i hate to have to reduce an art form
into a colloquial ***** to fit "purpose"...
colloquial is not a poetic technique...
    but this art is having to resort to
making itself colloquial -
   it is gagging to be written into the codex
of an IKEA manual to put
                     up a ******* chair!
        
- suddenly language can't be akin to painting...
suddenly every Kandinsky must
fit into a tight-knit paragraph...
    the sort of **** your grandma knits for
you to don a sweater and call it
                        the village bicycle gag...

- i am also supposed to feel guilt with
regards to the moral question of prostitution,
having paid a *******,
   while subsequently giving her an ******...
now that's a real
    huckleberry finn moment of:
oh, gee gosh... you think she baked an
apple pie while he was at it?

- some paint... some write...
      and some just manage to imitate marathon;
but i'm **** sure fewer have
managed to creep up to Kraszewski and
ask: so why do "they" hate you?
    which he replies with:
             so why do "they" bother reading me?

- it's worth noting that i don't
know any Ukrainian, Lithuanian,
Estonian or Latvian writers...
       so with regards to "fame"?
                   i'm trying to look for these people,
foremostly.

tailing off / trailing off poetry, or signature poetry prior sleep
is usually filled with too many prepositions,
and by being filled with too many prepositions
the prepositions tend to be repetitively used;
nonetheless, a study of language is provided,
not everyday you get to see language
in such quanta; yes, quanta, because
physicists will not get away with smartphones
by mystifying words with all those theories
in the subconscious working on the word idiot
consciously in argument with an antagonist;
well it would be hard not to express mystification
of a word in the standard vocabulary package
of conversation, without having so much quanta quarks
stork butter and curd cheese to mash up:
for a thrill in the trill... yar yarn pi's randomised counting rates.
because not everything you read is technically
within the framework of an addressee, or read aloud,
and no one wants to read **** like a bog standard
newsreader prompt on auto-queue of flimsy pages of lies:
i mean, it happened on a monday, but not a joycean monday,
it was 4pm, one gun shot was heard a minute prior,
but then jules anno domini came along and said: stern!
make the eyes stern! then gregory the pauper of paupers
said: it was actually 9am and the gun shot was heard a minute after:
but still the man at the market shouted: '*** yer bahnanas,
toe fo' 'un, *** yer bahnanas - toe quid bunches fowl's worth!'
yes, the h in english is an elongation "umlaut,"
now say it *****, say it *****: bahamas.*

most people wash their faces in the morning
for the eager 9 o'clock slap of reality
for the bossy 8 hour toothpaste feel
on the vertical, without the whips and chains;
i only wash my eyes, knowing that
i'll probably "say" something *****
but see all too squeaky;
then i fuse a hangover with a bit of alcohol
to ensure the hangover stays longer
and feels like the previous night's binge;
we apache and aboriginal down here,
we don't ask for cruise shipments of thoughts
on the sunny side of starboard with the pensioners
under blankets of deceit.

so the first time they tried to **** me was
in a hospital cot,
the nurse almost suffocated me, gave me a heart
condition, fearing the monster with the chernobyl
birthmark.

the second time it was my childhood companion
conrad, who pushed me into a deep dark well
but having clung to the edges i managed to not fall
and climb out, conrad's mother was there too
(sunlight in a sugar crystal, or the punkin for a
pumpkin in canto xii from chicago breezy,
now the poem, reflected with the pumpkin in mind,
or that rowntree pastille twinkle of bleached tooth
and thumbs in thumbs up the ****
for things sold with audacity past the use-by-date;
cold-air balloons nearing titanic!).

the third time? south american poison, brain damage,
the entire prompt for my writing expedition
into ***** wonka's factory of candy tooth smiles.

or as i say of darwinism with relief: am i watching
the athletics or am i simply watching a chemistry experiment?
shouldn't it be called anabolics instead?
a needle to the puzzle muscles of aesthetics without
greek ship oar, *** horse reins, the scythe of wheat,
and we turn protein into carbon dioxide covered
by some plastic surgery on the sheen of lost wrinkles
in balloons on film - well obviously - given the tractor
and the aerodynamic future of fifty hundred different
speed mechanisms - the lax and laze of the populace
requires constant intellectual stimulation:
the 100m record was downsized from 10.5 to 9.5seconds
over the past twenty years, the mob rule is?
talk talk talk.

On a sunny, warm day,
Under a blue sky, with,
White puffy clouds on the horizon,
On a seaside beach,

Sitting alone, thinking of what life will bring.

I glimpsed an Angel,
Dressed in white.

Her wings spread wide, like she just arrived.

So mystifying she is,
Walking through the ocean mist.

She appears in front of me,
She lifts me up,
How can I feel trust for someone I do not know?
She says, “Hello my friend.  Do you remember me from long ago? Please walk with me.”

"Tell me how has your life been?"
"Tell me of your happy times,"
"Tell me your sad times,"
"Tell me of your lonely times,"

We walked and talked for hours.
Then she said, “Don't ever feel lonely. I will always be here to lift you up. Just remember me.”

I turn to give her a hug and say thank you.
Where did you go?
She has vanished into thin air,
Have I been talking to myself?

A strong ocean breeze pushes my head down,
Then, I see two sets of footsteps in the sand.

Yes, I remember you from so long ago my Angel...


Copyright © Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.

Lucid silhouettes melt the air into psychedelic fluorescence,
realities cast upon fleshy darkness forgotten by the light of day.
Look on with distraught eyes as we dance through dark pleasance.
I wonder of God and Lucifer, good times they had in their heyday.

We race towards an apparent end; it's no apparition.
Return to your mother and her blessings, its time to meditate,
you've almost seen reality; can you finally see the evil of your disposition?
War, I mean ******, only perpetuates the hate.

Coercion and lies spread like wildfire, mystifying mind, body, and soul.
Buy that item, it looks cool. Six months later, obsolete, you fools.
If you've learned anything in life, don't get ****** at the troll,
and don't be scared at the screams at night, just demons and ghouls.

My mind is one hell of a maze, just got lost in a schizophrenic phase,
or was it spirits in the transparent haze, plunging back into my cosmic gaze.

The premise of this write God is eternal He is in the eternal now He is in the past present and
Future Victor Hugo was in all senses the same he spoke and it held and revealed that the past
Was unlimited knowing in the present it speaks volumes to the future “A warrior of words. I don't
Know of anyone who better fits this description than Hugo. Everywhere, in his office, in the street, in the
Literary salons, at the National Assembly, even in exile, this great writer couldn't keep silent. He couldn't
Keep from writing. No chains could imprison his soul. No threat was great enough to silence this voice
Which cried out for justice. No wrong escaped him, be it poverty, injustice, lack of freedom of the press,
Inequality of political rights or the death penalty” Timeless like the vastness of the ocean enter another
Vastness your own inner self Monet paints not for the eye but for the all knowing inner vision he begins
The moment we look at his work distinctive intricate alive every color every shadow of light is newly  
Applied enchantment rapture emotion derailed from present thought of the obvious to the master and his
Vision and then encounter the first garden by trekking across the pass that takes you up and out of
Honolulu to the back side of the Island a convertible instantly changes into a carriage of fable the mist has
Descended hovering within six feet of the road you feel oneness and freedom the dark lava rock at the
Side sparks primeval thoughts you feel at deep places you feel the peoples of Polynesia and see them
Coming over great ocean waters in their outrigger canoes to these islands you richly smell sea water and
Even feel the spray on your face and feel it in your hair and the multiplicity of the plant life encourages
Lapses into dreamy worlds where undergrowth soothes and invites lucidness truly bewitching tiny
Molecule size bubbles burst against your soft skin lifted from a reality moments before that held all the
Tensions of the modern world your heart wonders what world what tensions then to perfect and further
Translate you to creation’s dawn a gust of trade wind comes in a down draft it intoxicates with the
Blending of Papaya, Coconut, Pineapple a stirring that instantly makes you beholding to the Creator
Nature is adorned and inviting you have come to the high peaks of enthralling then a black luminous tree
That has occupied the soul from birth it seems and behind such grandeur a black caldron with a deep
Valley and sides as steep as hills causes a shudder something so great it creates a state of fear
Aloneness is about to be forever shattered on this wise great parts of day and night are forged with a
Twinkling of star and a streaming of silver moonlight that would always play its own romantic musical cord
Then you turn how confusing at first destructive portents are troubling what breaks about you is for your
Greatest blessing laughter joy mingled with the extravagant touches of an identifying soul not unlike your
Own poverty flees takes night wings that are dark and filled with sorrow and loneliness and expels them
In forgetfulness a new start a new life begins yes the same as at first when unity was given to Adam and
Eve when first the words were formed home and family she stepped from legend and myth and that long
Growing tree began to move with such power in the heart as in a tempest it felt as it would be up rooted
This long anticipated tree of love that would flow out into such life and it all began with such a  
Pronounced voice that was truly beguiling it rose softly and steadily it was noticeably the empty half
Finding fulfillment longing comes and spills and thrills what elegance and grace whispers and drifts
Mystifying it calls to the heart in that secret language we all must hear the great substance observed in a
White water River the purity as it flows over these great boulders lying in the river bed it speaks of
Continuance permanence abiding glory the foundation for all relationships or the caught beauty of a red
Sorrel horse with the sheen of the sun as it races with freedoms delirium across land that you own now
Together it is a testament not easily broken and words you speak it penetrates great gulfs of mystery the
Mist lifts at the most perfect places so you see life clearly and trust surges with the strength of honor you
Avow all that is Within and it binds you together you have formally tied the two eternities together with life
Secure in the middle

So you're riding in this car, and you feel this kind of feeling. Like the wind is softly caressing your skin as curtains drawn over a freshly opened window on a spring day, blowing in soft spurts up and down your skin, subtely undulating to the ryhtym of natures heartbeat in harmony with your own. At a stop sign, it's second nature to stick your cigarette out the window and flick, but at full speeds you should have known. You should have known that the sheer movement all in one direction would be enough to wipe that ash straight away, revealing a new and beautiful burning ember, bursting with life and oxygen, beckoning up at you with the long lost pleasures of your most recent inhalation of life into those black heavy lungs. You stop to think and realize that life, with it's many shortcomings and speed car races, is a mysterious enigma, with an ultimate prize when you solve the puzzle.



But that last puzzle piece, oh how elusive it remains over the years. Be it love? Or loss? Perhaps musical inebriation or an exceptionally deep relative conversation with a complete stranger. The kind that leads to dancing eyes and an incredible variation of ****** expressions that you hadn't even thought possible from the tiny muscles below your cheeks, pulling the strings from somwehere up above to show you the right complexion to wear at any given moment or pause.



I still think that love must have something to do with it. More intoxicating than the ripest wine from the most exotic vineyard. More majestic and mystifying than the school bus ride with your fresh smelling brand new pleather/plastic superhero backpack and matching shoes on your first day of school back in 1995. More powerful and tumultuous, yet unpredictably moving, than the first time it hit you like a ton of bricks remembering in mid adulthood that some place, some where in time, you had a real home, with a real family, with real holiday tradtitions to celebrate and commiserate about each and every year, but that's all gone and done for. Yes, love must be involved some how, the invariably escapable little *****. She must be hiding somwhere amongst the tree lines and leaves, the rivers and valleys, the shooting stars and comet tails brightening the dull black of night. Yes. She must be somewhere.

Maria Yuryevna Sharapove
Cuantos amore y tu?
De Donde eres?
Soy de Estados Unidos, un poco en la Florida.
Es muy bonita aqui, Yo pasar vivir en Tampa, FL.
Currente en Orlando, FL.
Sus ojos me gusto muchas.
El feo es muy beauty-full.
Las flores de unas manifestaciones have certainly done their NUMB3r on me.
Die.
Fur.
Ewigkeit.
eternity.
Everlasting.
eruptions.
Elliter­ation eh?
wet Yet?
I bet you sweat for a Poet?
I certainly hope you adore an actor.
I beumse you to be a mused by musicians musing over you alone.
Marriage isnt so tough when you I toughed it out this long.
Have Your Veins ever felt like Runaways?
Meow.
Me, OWWW?!
(;
peace//love
X//0
sugarpova?
sharapova?
more like supernoavs!
excuse me
supernovae
eh?
I could do this alllllllll day (:
Wuv youuuu
Lov u?
I wish I knew russian
Yuryevna is the only world I need to understand.
The sun swirled my whole life
Arent you the sun incarnate
and
immaculate of course.
we gloridifed all the benches
killed all the 'rockstars'
I Am augustus, antony, another one?
it goes on
ad infinitum.
I have a perfect soul.
So do you.

'I want you to notice when Im not around. You're so very specialllll :(

I wish I was Special

But Im a 'creep?
Your the creep!

Your the ******.
But its okay
I like 'Polka" dots.
Ill 'CRUCIFY' you wink any ******* time you want. BELIEVE ME.
Now
Testify

Run
Run
Run
RUŃÑŃ Uhm
Are we done yet?
Nope

"Whatever makes you happy, whatever you want, a child as soon as possible of course. Youre beaitful. The most beautiful princess a 'prince' of 'peace' could corrupt. (;

Lets Let Love LIE, Live.

Everything in its right place Maria.
I know Im a Tangential Thinker, diagnosed by Grace itself.

Ive been through prison, kail, solitary confinement.

and guess what

it wasn't all for you
but it was and i never knew

My lost lenore.
Quoth the Raven.
ALWAYS.

Flying upon the sea
Mystifying as the aqua gleams
Body at freeze
Ego at ease
Soul at peace
Plunging towards the captivating vibration, I go
Clicking towards the mind, is a bowl
A metallic bowl within mere space
Flowing with the vibrant, warm water
Deeper and deeper below
No time no 'life', as everything is at slow
Deeper and deeper the faster I *****
Bubbles glistening and popping into my skin
Not knowing how or so thus had begin
Deeper and deeper below
Near, under, and through my physical barrier
Gliding through, swimming, diving upon my soul
Just as I am doing towards the bowl as the closer I go to meet a hole
Cyrus!
Cyrus!
Feeling a distant call
Very distant, very low
Bubble, bubble, pop pop
Sliding out every aspect of barriers I seemed to have
They met at the open
Thus my ego Cyrus, were formed as a token
Deep whispers through his ears were spoken
Telling him
Holding his very sanity
Keeping his sense of vanity
Explode
Particles within the tank
Within the bowl
Meeting every physical barrier it had
Acid
Burned and burned until all there was, was a purple smoke

Death is eternal.
We Fear it,
We hold it,
We embrace it,
But we can never,
Truly face it.