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Shofi Ahmed Oct 2018
God ensures everyone a shore
floating on the sea of the soul!
No stone is as solid
lying in any temple.

Light up the flame lay it on
the passage to the truthful
selfless human conscience.
Unleash from the unseen
the one true enduring origin!

The more one understands
the universe's more meaningful!
Hails from the one yet to expose
the utmost intelligent of all!
matilda shaye May 29
If I was a coffee drinker
I’d balance your body like a rosetta
I’d kiss your cheek with my
Colombian coffee breath
the flavor of our love like
your crema on my tongue-
notes of rich chocolate evenings
and salty, very salty
your bitterness like the very first time
notes of my coffee cherry-
no, your coffee cherry
the aftertaste like high acidity
your complexity gets lost on
my caffeine intolerance
but I still feel your finish
each time I swallow
I still find notes of you,
cupping me
I don’t drink coffee
KnudsonK Sep 2013
Your actions
speak like knives
that carve away at the soul of my being.
They stab the tender flesh of my faith.
Your words force their way
through my heaving chest
From the fork of your tongue
and rip out my battered heart,
Leaving a gaping cavity
of tangle arteries
that ooze out scattered emotions
from deep within the shredded
bloodied tissue that remains.
Exposed and vulnerable
to the elements of your
ramped terror,
the wound quickly festers
from the stench of your
infectious hatred
that slithers it's way into
the detatched arteries
and consumes any thought
of compassion.
And is diseased with
progressive revenge
and retaliation
that becomes the driving force
of strength that remedies
the  forgiveness
that unconditional love's
natural immunity  produces
and is temporary remedy to
the heart retching incurable
depression and permanent
lifelasting pain.
That haunts me
it taunts me
again and again.
...... And so begins the plague
Sam Lylin Jan 23
I am from stories
Stories and fantasies woven by my cousins and I
With characters we built on ourselves
In worlds of our own, the only rules of our making

I am from hurt
From chronic depression and panic attacks
Too scared to be open or to not be alone
With parents who cared, but didn't know what was wrong

I am from care
From a therapist after four years of needing one
From connecting to people as lost as me, holding their hands
Being an anchor in the hellscape we share

I am from being queer
Having a crush on my best friend and not knowing where to go
Not feeling the label of "woman" fit
Scared to be hated for being myself
Hating myself, but knowing I shouldn't

I am from acceptance
Accepting myself as I am
And leaving those who could not accept me
Making way for the person I want to become for myself
Rising to be my own

I am from stars
From looking up with wonder every clear night
From never seeing a sky that wasn't beautiful
And if the sky can be so open and free
Then maybe so can I

I am from myself, and the story I write
Hoping one day to be healed in mind
Hoping to someday find the sky and stars in someone else
Regardless of gender, or anything else
I will be okay and I will be happy
I had to write a "where I'm from" poem for one of my classes and this kinda just happened. I have a weird history, I guess.
<A manuscript detailing a new origin>

There is no Rok-elixir or any magic, no, -Nazis, Hydra...there are no super-soldiers."

-Captain America

Chest-size aside, let's be clear here; I know because my father was the head of that super-soldier program...

That, honestly, birthed you, "America,"

I know this because they tried and failed to **** my father stealing it."

There is not now, nor was there ever, a Nazis or Hydra super-soldier program. Ask any German Nazis?

-Tony Stark

FADE OUT

1858

Rudiger Bannerstein plays.
Plays in the woods. Alone...
Jack Ritter Aug 2018
A baby boy shuts his eyes and sees
bull continents drift,
collide, startle, spin around.

Prehistoric bucks suddenly accusing-
(Did YOU just back into ME?)
They jam head-to-head,
gouge, reconcile, then confer.

The boy likes what he sees.

The beasts get down to business.
They iron out earth's future
with special bellows, & lots of musk.

Above this caucus
of nodding, naying heads,
clacking antlers mesh
into a burgeoning thicket.

He calls for more!

The thicket shudders,
sprouts into a dagger forest.

It shoots up recklessly,
like a baby's legs,
and jabs the sky
with young ideas:

New species, struggles, lies.
Whole societies in the air,
too busy to teach their children
about the bellowing below.

           The weight of so much life is too much.

There is a final SNAP
of prehistoric backs.

Not a grain remains on which to carve
the memory of all the things
that passed before this boy's eyes.
A friend called it a Darwinian myth. Highest hurdle was anthropomorphizing continents.
CK Baker Feb 2017
There were dividing lines
between springfield
and mariners gate
soft, subtle lines
that spoke of origin
and code
and biting union

it was all
the reason
for being;
alive and living
dead or dying
deep in a pack
of pint size resistors
hell bent on the
marsh crow
and cannabis tower
jumping the rush
with *** shots
and anchors
and tribunals

camouflage creepers
and transient floaters
marked rebellion at the gates
(skullduggery and taunt
high on their favor list)
jack straws and flat paddles
for the evening charade
beakers and flailing hands
from the foot washing baptist
(the pleasant street conservatives with their
own something to say…“there’s gonna be hell to pay!”)

there's a
lingering effect
to this sentiment
(evident in the pump house stride)
the river winds
blow gently
into the night
as the huddling packers
and **** backs
chase the evening hours

it’s a bitter sweet
end of an era;
those traction bars
hood scoops
and nickel bags
will always
be the rage
Shofi Ahmed Jun 2017
Not once upon a time but now
among most innocent ones,
an Arabian voice is buried
in the thick wall of bricks
furnished with glory,
floating in the oasis of money.

Yet, when it switches to it's origin
then maybe is a poor Arab speaking.
Still the rest of the world
                                 can forget the oil
                           it's no sad story anymore
the sand beneath his feet shines
                                 brighter than the gold!
Mystic Ink Plus Sep 2018
Before
He knew
What patience means
Before
He believed
Just a step away dream is

At least for the One
She could be
a good cause
a savior
a hope
an example
that love
If had thought
With a kind heart

He felt sorry
For being patience
He felt sorry
For the trust
He felt sorry
For being uprooted
He felt sorry
Unable of undoing
Towards that Idol

Far away
Holding the breath
Genre: Dark
Writer's note: For female reader, replace she with he, and he with she.
zebra Aug 2018
im a self describing a self
a face on a liquid surface
a plasticity
a brain
a three pound infinity
always remodeling itself
and making new copies

a copy
of
a copy
of
a copy

a massive  accumulation of copies
each a slight distortion
from it's original eminence
a history of minute alterations
all subtle deceptions

my so-called reality
a memory
of
a memory
of
a memory
a repetition pouring the self out
self corrupting the self
until it is somebody else

a fibbing shifty double-dealing soft machine
trying to remain intact
it's signature
a disjunctured awareness

my cells talk **** about each other
i'm more microbes than human
every synaptic light of the divine casting a shadowed past
a devil to the true origin
a mangled remembering
my pillar of reality
spirit from matter
not the other way around

i no longer recognize myself
am i human
or perhaps a robot
an alien
a walk in
that left the original inhabitant
disembodied
to wander perplexed in a netherworld
lost and crying

or, just a bad copy
of
a copy
of
a copy
of
a co

py

of

a

a

co
Sobbingsoul Jan 23
Sitting In front of the mirror
Letting my tears flow
I watch drizzling drops  glow
Asking my heart
Origin of pain to show

©️Sobbingsoul
Whoever architect
The Universe

At first
With a noble purpose
The Sun may have been made
Then
The human may have been
Designed

Among human
They may have decided to gift
Some as an artist
Among Artist
With the soulful ink
Came Poet/Poetess

That time
Something may have gone
Wrong
Most had writer's block
Most often

Finally
A moon may have been made
To amuse the poet/Poetess

Since then
They are musing
They are mused
Genre: Observational
Theme: Stimuli
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
Shoulders rolling, rising
as icebergs from their glacier calf to sea—
as men, we fend the rimless wilds

With force, flung, withheld,
intelligence, ancestral songs of origin,
of prophesy, returning avatars

Overhead
white seabirds
wheeling
.
I guess you’re on your own with this poem. I can tell you where it begins. The scene is set in ancient times, and as near as I remember— a northern, coastal region following the spring equinox. A few of us had embarked upon a quest to find The One.
.
The One: Everyone knows what "The One" means for themselves, whether they love or hate or are indifferent. Of course, "The One" was not what we called such a Being but it serves to communicate. The name does not matter for the purpose of this poem. Most of Earth have heard it anyway, in one incarnation or another.
Calf: The offspring of various large mammals, such as cows (cattle), elephants and whales. Also, a piece of an iceberg or a glacier that breaks away or the action of this happening.
Fend: (figurative) To defend or attack with skill, make one’s way.
Avatar: The manifestation of a deity or released soul in ****** form.
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)
October Dec 2018
I had a different name
It was "Undiscovered"
Now this name, no longer my cover
There's a darker truth as to why it's updated to "October"
Tears of joy, tears of sadness
They all share this amber month of blackness
A deep history of sight
The pain and origin of why I write

Her name was Erin
She was beautiful
She was young
Erin, was special
and Rhett's, without doubt, the devil
The disease rendered her without brain function
Resulted in physical mutation
Erin, had an expiration
The day came
In the same month born
She would, from this life, be torn
I love you Erin
Tradition! The Pope's Grand Inquisitor
And Champion of Tories and White-Hats alike
Long have we burned by Gomorrah's Sponsor
With ***** salt our Nails to crucify
That you by nature have never been wrong
Since from my origin I took Respect
But that Pink Exercise training that strong
Was too much for your Pride to interpret
So you sent your Armies to **** our Cause,
Those Innocent Seeds we died to preserve
Quoting the *****'s Functions as our fault
Then getting the Whipping we all deserve.
My Message, kind Sir, is that Object
Which you must Observe; Which you must Reflect.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
DivineDao Aug 2016
The origin of life

Water

Translucent silky body coat

Waterfalls cadence beating

Head jump dive in blow out

Sparkling bubbles so fine

Fountains humming

Refreshing tiny drops

Kissed by sunrays playfulness

Fractured into candy rainbows

Delicious movings in chill out

Fiery blazings

Blinding summertime days

Drying up all colours

Bikinis and bathing suits

Shimmerin time fractures

Captured wonderfully through

Soaking wet eyelashes
Jeff Lewis Sep 10
Do you recall being stardust?
I don’t.
But, that’s what they say.
Elements forged in fusion’s crucible;
atoms born in the hearts of stars.
Do you recall being a comet’s tail?
Do you recall a time in space?
I don’t,
but then, it’s been a while.
Do you recall the lakes and streams;
swimming as fish,
or being water?
Do you recall the plains
when we roamed as beasts,
great and small?
Were you an antelope, a butterfly, a bird?
Were you a flower?
Were you Cleopatra?
Was I…Anthony, or just
some tea in Cleopatra’s cup?
(Did Cleopatra even drink tea?
I don’t know.)
Do you recall when you said
you loved me?
I do.
They told me,
“don’t fall in love with stardust.”
But then, what choice did I have?
we are all star dust.
L Aug 2018
Meticulous and true. They are so careful. So skilled. Deftly and with a swift and sure hand, the words,    
Oh the words, they flow like a brooke. The one in the forest, you know the one. The one out there, out far. In the deep of the wood, over root, under canopy. Through the branches you have to look real hard. And the hard part is not knowing at all what youre looking for. And then there,    
After an eternity and in an instant it is there infront of you. What you have been looking for. A vast clearing. Wide and open. The sun glints through the salt-and-peppered leaf roof. It crawls and stretches and lightly caresses everything you lay your eyes upon. Even matte mossy rocks, they seem to shine. You look down and it caresses you as well. Gentle and warm the embrace that you cant quite put your finger on. The location. The origin. It is everywhere, it surrounds you. Close your eyes. Embrace the sun back. But i digress my digression. The brook. It flows over, around, through. There is no stopping the water. It is relentless, it WILL get to its destination. You cannot change its mind. It is immovable.

That is what it is. It is beauty.

I know i should not compare. There is beauty in it all. But, goodness, the feelings invoked when reading others' poetry in admiration.
Brooke brook, glints?
Yeah my grammar. I break the rules sometimes. But im allowed to because i have learned them.
Maaz Jan 30
Upon the tree of eternity a man laid his gaze,
A sight that caused his thoughts to haze.
The words of the devil he could not trust,
yet gazing at this tree his heart filled with lust.
He stepped forward and took from the damnable tree,
A mistake, he soon realised, to doom him eternally.

Alas, the forbidden fruit had been consumed,
the dissolute nature of man finally exhumed.
As the consequences began to loom overhead,
"Oh, forgive me for my sin", he said,
"I have taken a bite from the forbidden fruit,
yet still I wish to confute,
The idea that I am inherently bad,
For I cannot bear to lose all that I've had"

To go from a world so green and lush
to one where the ground was covered with dust,
was the price this credulous man had to pay,
banished to earth,
to live out the rest of his days.
Our story of origin
am i ee Oct 2015
\ih-SPAHY-uhl\
noun
1. the act of spying.
2. the act of keeping watch; observation.

Quotes

The landlord of the house had not withdrawn his eye from this place of espial for five minutes, and Barney had only just returned from making the communication above related, when Fagin, in the course of his evening's business, came into the bar to inquire after some of his young pupils.
-- Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist, 1838
s
Origin
Espial is related to the word espy, which comes from the German word spähen meaning "to spy." The suffix -al forms nouns from verbs, as in the word refusal.
july hearne Oct 2018
i like to listen to bobby womack
singing "fly me to the moon"
and think of jeff's blue origin rocketship
exploding in the air

all his pride
crashing down in pieces
recorded for the whole world to see

because i have walked
unhappily down the streets
of soulless south lake union
where clueless people walk by
dumbly raising rents
congesting traffic
thinking they are off to change the world

crying about peter dinklage
yellowfacing herve villechaize,

their stupidity knows no bounds
always hard at work in south lake union
producing nothing that won't be obsolete
the second it is completed
purposely designed to make our lives unaffordable

**** jeff and all his tech bro henchmen
who do nothing but steal the sun from the poor
a white european actor
a white european actor
Äŧül Dec 2016
They Call It Heresy,
We Call It Genuine Science

We designed the genes' primers,
Ordered them along the oligomers.
Our aim is an elaborate one,
It involves molecular cloning,
Sequence characterization, and
Relative expression analysis of
Bovine Trefoil Factors.

Now we hope to clone the gene,
The gene which is of a bovine origin,
By extensive working hours input,
And bearing in mind the risks,
Of not getting the desired output,
The possibility of failure always therein,
But pregnancy, healing & immunity it's governing.

Three types of trefoil factors there are,
TFF1: It suppresses gastric carcinoma,
And also helps in pregnancy,
TFF2: Helps exclusively in cancer research,
TFF3: Helps exclusively in pregnancy maintenance,
And also our prime interest.

After cloning the genes,
We have to sequence them,
And after characterization,
We have to analyse them,
After relative expression.
My M.Tech dissertation research topic is molecular cloning, sequence characterization, and relative expression analysis of Bovine Trefoil Factors and we will be working with water buffalo species.

I completed this work under the guidance of Dr AK Mohanty with additional working guidance from my dear elder sisterly lab mate Dr S G Chaudhary neé Rana.

The complete 2nd year was a research year.

HP Poem #1306
©Atul Kaushal
KiraLili May 2015
Father of free verse
Let's celebrate himself on his day
Observe the deistic naturalism surrounding us
Meditate allegorically in his woods

Seek to understand this bisexual man of temperance and acceptance
Ardent abolitionist and poetic revisionist
Nurse to fallen soldiers and journalist
This breaker of poetic boundaries

Father of prose to Jack and Allen
A true poet of democracy and nature
Behold him as he passes, hear his voice and approach
Stop this day and night with Walt and possess the origin of poems
Walt Whitman
1819 - 1892
Val Ajdari Nov 2013
Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native poet by poetic luminosity.
A verse in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the poet does not care.
So, take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the poet seeks to hear,
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
This inquisitive writer infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin; abysmal.
Rejecting fables history’s assassins inked true,
The writer seeks fair chroniclers, but wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here.
Land said "not to exist," but its roots still reappear;
Fabricated history most poets cannot fathom,
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
Calling curious minds to ponder this heck of a theory,
First, consider the writer's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent,
Not man-written "guidance" begging cents to repent.
Since Illyria’s rebel ship sailed onto history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Around Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails.
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her Godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
Her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem the native conspirator of ultimate treason.
So,  while the State buries the poet's piercing wits,
The treasonous dog barks, upon foreign command he *****.
The dog's filthy betrayal, painted by his foreign master,
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species,
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces.
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease,
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves (those below made to inspire)
The ***** dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This ****** work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
As today’s political pawns (in corruption they engage),
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage.
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play,
Our minds confined to idiocy as the socialist's prey.
So,  a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a "finger."
It no longer exists.

The wind; a passing gale sweeps
my laurels.
The desert is filled, too many
my voice.

Origin, a return to birth.
A sword of blazing fire, winged
halts me.

Where are you Eden?

I look and look,
the desert is filled with voices too many,
which is mine or do i have any?

The sun no weeps, I sing.
Myself, I find, thick of leaves
I carry, it sings no longer green.

Winged fire sword ablaze,
use I, leaves dry. Outstretched,
brown, my arms, fail to sky

afire. Feet my burns, I no walk longer.
Stiff, I root my tree to flower.
Fragrant white flowers, settle.

Pray I to you, of hope I joy.
Bring life to water, Frame of sky
Bring, Abba, Father.

(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal - February 1, 2011)
I...I think of it as a prayer. Read it line by line, each line a pause at the end.
*Title renamed from 'Finding Eden' to' Garden: Eviction'
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
controlled intellectual tolerance,
considered Golden Age,
became first exchange, wars took their toll
turning point called second Age.
seaside expanding new suburbs
food shortage, riots, rooms had fallen
city invaded, concentration camps
some lived, one girl died, bookcase covered
scarce citizens, countryside foraged
spaces provided improved conditions
restoring entire city
city centre has reattained former splendor
buildings have become new millennium,
flat man is city inhabitant
city limits of foreign origin,
large wave settled asylum seekers
social projects make up the population
eight windmills summarizes open society,
increased influx has strained nationalities,
widest varieties share immigrant ancestry
city centre forms the foundation
Canal boats most popular
million visitors flood inhabitants, travel freely through
only staying for illuminated red lights.
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. source - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amsterdam
Hello
I have placed my feet in this place
I have no intentions of leaving
For it mesmerizes me with its beauty

Hello
Am just a stranger
Wishing one day I could call this place my own
For through its dazzling nature
I can see the rises of mountains
And falls of valleys of my village home

Hello
I open the doors of my house wide
To embrace the "Ubuntu" of the place
And to remain rooted to my origin
For everyone is welcome.
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