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Michael John Jul 2018

give me my lifes´
the day crowded bright
and the night sumptuous..

give me my pretty wife
where love at first sight
bind us..

give us two souls blithe
fused as light within light
sweet bounteous..

let us soar and dive
like content swallows might
time in lost happiness..

( and let trouble and strife
bind-us the more tight
like our first kiss..)

give then to two one life
white to white
whole as stars

as love unto death
might break apart
and ride the cosmos..


the jonah by james herbert
a heist goes wrong and a colleage
is shot..

just another debacle for our hero
in a long list
that has him transferred to the

drug squad and east anglia..
to live in a caravan..
keep his eye on the locals

and drink strong beer..
ellie his partner
makes him eat

and they fall in love
though various tentions rise
due to his troubles..

some flash backs
a left baby in a toilet
sadistic stuff at the orphanage..

bullies and dodgy collars
his step father is strict
he is an ornothologist..

there are drug related incident
a dead vole
a us pilot bites the farm..

some little boy thinks he
can fly..
the water supply
some pilfering

some heavy knocks
some bad lies
some kitchen

small potatoes
but all part
of mr herbert´ s charm..

a huge storm
the spooky old mill
a wild trip..

and regression
bad men
bad men..

lot´ s of struggle
the raw products
towed in by trawler

assembled by the knights
and a lost twin..

a monster in the flood
where others die
a maitre d..

a ***** salesman and
his girl in a caravan
the fishermen..

helicopters and
victory for
the forces of good..

and the jonah
gone and all
is light..

the end..
I can
Make my CHILD learn
By preaching
By teaching
By giving
Knowledge of

She will not learn
by preaching
She will learn
By my ACTIONS..!!

If I don't
Share MY things
With My

She will learn NOTHING..!

I can make her
learn to share.
By making her give -
Clothes to needy
Toys in orphanage
Candies to the deprived.

But with GIVING she will
just learn to be PROUD
If she learns by seeing me SHARING
She will become HUMBLE..!!

To raise a humble kid is my priority..!!

Sparkle In Wisdom
11 Jan 2019
Inspired by a incidence I heard at friends place.. after the whole episode the first thought that struck was
What actions will the kids remember and grow on??
Now I was young and easy. Led
entranced under plum tree blossoms
drifting along the sloping drive
to white-washed walled Stud Farm.
This ecstasy of being cool pig-pink
sunk happy in a mud brown wallow.
Then I was bold and carefree,
working among the barns
busy about the happy yard
on the farm that was home.
Young once only, in my kingdom
as Time let me live my dreams.
It carried me over and over again
in daytime walking or running,
it was lovely, the sweet scents:
fragrant hay field’s cut grass
and herbage fully sun dried.

Or, I pedalled in evenings
led by bicycle-dynamo-beamed
light under the stars to sleep.
Above me the barn owls were
claiming skies of swallows clear.
Coppice hooting in preludes,
there bats about soon flitted
where  tiny glow worms flickered.

Then to dawn awake: the farm,
mist-shrouded as a roamer white
dew cloaked, returning to hear
****’s crowing from hen coops
black cawing crows in the trees.

Glimpsing the same clear sky
changed from yesterday
into today’s white and blue.
The same sun but born again.
The distant church bells ringing.

Nothing I cared for more
than pink piglets new born,
just meadow-birthed lambs
and black and white calves
that would take up my time:
to hold me to the farm forever
released from orphanage hold.

Oh! I was so young and easy.
In the mercy of its means,
Time held me as I was flying
while I threw off captive
chains - at last unshackled - free.

This poem owes much to the poem - Fern Hill - by Dylan Thomas. I spent 12 harsh years as a foundling in a variety of orphanages. Then I was moved to an agricultural training school - graduating to be a farm worker until aged 21. Then I moved to Belgium caring for life-time TB afflicted survivors from concentration camps.
Sharon Talbot Jul 2018
Doctor Larch peers out the window,
Pulling aside brocaded curtains to hide
The grief that he will not show,
The rending emptiness he feels inside.

As his son Homer rides past the sunset,
Not knowing where he goes
But aspiring to see the wide world,
The ocean at Mount Desert,
Seeing wonder in the expanse
And worlds inside a circle of glass.

He has taken with him his heart,
A dark picture of frailty.
He finds unexpected work in an orchard,
Leisurely harvesting round, garnet jewels.
The nomads, dark and wary,
Ask him to read about death and stars.

There are rules for the workers.
And Homer finds that they apply
To no one, neither nomads or
Curious young men.
He sees in the errant father
The reflection of his own,
The man who made him good.
“You are my work of art”
He wrote.

Like an artist with his painting,
Who resists giving it away,
So Doctor Larch holds on to him
Hoping his adolescence ends
And he returns.
Finding peace at the last.

The lack of rules bring about a sea change,
Allowing forbidden love and pain.
He ventures out once more into the vacuum
Of conscience set free,
He devises his own rules about the womb
And how to help those in agony
But eventually…

With all the rules now open,
There is nothing left for him to do.
So he boards the migrant truck
Just as the pilot returns, broken.
He watches the struggle with a wheelchair
Sees his lover watch him with her yellow hair
Knows her future, years of sacrifice.
And he admits at last
That he has a purpose,

The train to St. Cloud huffs slowly away,
With Homer standing in the wet snow.
There is the old asylum,
The orphanage and home on the hill,
Almost black, with the sunset behind,
Homer begins the long climb.
He approaches slowly.

But then, a burst of laughter
And children from the door
Flock around him, dancing, shrieking,
Some holding him like an errant dog,
Who must be told to stay.
“Will you stay?” they ask.
“I think so,” he smiles in irony.
He is home at the last.
I wrote this while watching "The Cider House Rules", one of my favorite films. Homer realizes that his life on his own is not that much different than it was at St. Cloud, yet it's much emptier.
I was one person last year
Or at least that's what
I had always
I was

But this year I'm
Collecting names
Like stamps

My Birth Name:

Casey (First Name)
Wilford (Middle Name)
Robinson (Last Name)

The Orphanage:

Big Sweet Pea (Male Little)
Evangeline (Female Little)
Little Sweet Pea (Pregender)
Coco (Spanish Little)

The Caretakers:

Ryan (Adult Male)
Ada (Teenage Girl)

The Introjects:

Kali (Hindu Goddess)
The Hive Queen (Alien)
Abbot (Heptapod)


Baby Aslan
Ender's Shadow
Detective Pikachu
**** Morty (Salt Lake, Utah)

New Name Given In The SLC Temple
(Never To Be Revealed):


The Unconscious:
Carl's Jr.
You know that
Stands for
Tommy Smartarse hated smart arses . Especially intelligent smart arses. More specifically he despised the smart arses on the payroll of Narcissist Corp.

He loved to hear the sound of his own voice over the intercom.
'Mr. Tommy Smartarse will commence this afternoons meeting at three o'clock'.

If you weren't paying attention then you didn't get a second chance.
He had formally announced his agenda. End of.

No one though could miss that horrible whiny, nasal, asinine inflected,grating tone of voice.

His demeanour was reminiscent of a disgruntled hangman who had been informed of the abolishment of capital punishment.
The chalk white of his teeth were razor sharp and the gates that held back the venomous bile that swirled from his voluminous bowls.
A real nasty *******.

A swagger in his **** portending the arrival of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.
His office was a cesspool of debauchery and smelled like the disinfected wing of a fever hospital.

His eyes gleaned with the glint of a thousand mad *******.
A small weedy specimen with a comb over from hell.
'Satan's representative on Earth' he liked to refer to himself.
Foul over-tanned wrinkled skin hung from his face.
A flaccid face like a rhinoceros' **** on a sick day.

Abandoned by his mother, it was rumoured, in the back streets of
Peckham; adjacent to 'Nancy's bordello'.

No one dared mention his parentage or the orphanage which spat him out at fifteen years of age.

Yes, Tommy Smartarse came up the hard way and his brain was all he had going for him.

A cunning, devious, three faced pile of ****. All five foot four of him. His vocabulary was borrowed from old footage of Winston  Churchill and he fancied the British Bull Dog was a secret relative.
Tommy Smartarse was a fantasist  to match the best of them.
Delusions of world ******* percolated in his grey matter and instilled a false sense of unbridled confidence in his own abilities.

Some said Tommy Smartarse was devoid of any decent qualities and this was evident in his deplorable character.
A bully amongst bullies. A prize swine amongst pigs.
The slurs and slanders that rolled off his reptilian-like tongue were legendary.

Today though Tommy Smartarse would meet his nemesis.
A new recruit would attend the meeting.
A suave young man with an Oxford education and the artillery of a thousand cerebral Einsteins. A brilliant young man named Martin Christopher Savant.

Tommy Smartarse's life was about to be dismembered.
Harriet Cleve Jul 19
Jesus the Nazarene has died at Golgotha. Now He will return to Earth as a participant in all the Major conflicts in every century since his death on the Cross. He will walk in every continent and witness the horror of War as He desperately tries to change the course of History.

Jesus sat in quiet contemplation in a resting area for deep reflection.

God approached him gently.

'What is it Son?'

'You must know,  Father'

'I fear we will lose them. I must go back'

'Back to Earth'

Jesus wept as He looked up at God.

'I must find a way to see what divides them'

'What is it in them that is destructive to life'

'Look at them!'

'We must find a way to save them'

God said nothing for a moment.

Then after a moment looked at his son

'Have you forgotten the scourge of their whips'
'The piercing spear in your side!

'The Crown of Thorns on your head!'

'The nails as they hung you on a Cross!

Silence settled momentarily

'Perhaps there is a way, Jesus, despite my anger'

'I have noticed that even in war they are capable of deep and profound love for the sanctity of Life'

'They will even help their enemy when they realise their common humanity. It is a paradox'

'I too have thought about this yet I could not bear to see you in another Golgotha'

'If you wish it so much then I will permit it'

'It will not be as a second coming, Jesus'

'First, we must send you amongst them'

'Into the greatest conflicts of every century since you sacrificed
yourself on the Cross'

'You will not go to bring them redemption. I want to see this continuing desire for war through their eyes. I will see it through your eyes'

'Each time you are killed in a combat zone it is then we will meet each other again directly'

Jesus was astonished.

He was eager to please his Father and place his confidence in Him.

'Shall I know of your presence while I am on Earth, Father?'

'Will I know I am your son? The Son of God'

'You will know it, Jesus. At all times you will know that I am with you' God replied.

'This time though you will not disclose your holy name to anyone'

'If at any time I feel their is need for divine intervention then I will come to you'.

'You can ask me any time for intervention if you feel that it is critical I intervene'

'Jesus, my Son, you will feel at times I have forsaken you. That you are alone amongst the carnage.

'This is the way it must be'

'Only they can help themselves'

'I understand,Father'

'I will find a way to see through their eyes.

'Remember, Jesus that once again you walk amongst them'
'Your love for them will be tested to the limits'

'I cannot permit you to take arms against them. To **** them'

'You will be an army medic in every situation. Perhaps a priest'.

'It may be you are an officer at a desk. There you will do what you can to diminish the time frame and carnage of each conflict'

'Where shall I go to first?' said Jesus

God looked at his son. His son he loved so much.

This son who loved the human as much as He did.

'Your first steps back on Earth will be in America'

'You will be born and come of age at nineteen'

'Son, you will be trained in a place called Paris Island'

'You will enter one of the greatest conflicts in American History'

'As a recruit in the Vietnam war as a medic'

'Your name will be Joseph Arimathea

'Remember that each time you are born on Earth it will not be of woman. You will first become aware of in an orphanage'

'No one will know your background'

Jesus embraced his Father. He would be a young man soon.

Time passed quickly.

Joseph Arimathea was stared at by the drill sergeant.

'Look at the state of you! Your hair is a disgrace to the Nation!'

'Are you a man?! 'We will make you a man soon enough!'

Joseph shouted 'Sir! Yes! Sir!

His training would be hard and his heart broken in his tour of duty.

The coming events would test his limits and his faith in humanity to their uttermost extremities.

His hair was a military cut. He stood six foot in his American uniform. He looked good.

His hands were scarred. God said it would remind him to always be aware of treachery. For Judas was in every century. In every conflict.

Another young man walked up to him that evening. A young slim good looking man.

'Hi! my name is Henry! Henry Iscariot'

Joseph looked him in the eye and knew God was with him.

'Don't let the name scare you' laughed Henry

Soon they would be in the thick of war and in this conflict Henry would prove to be no betrayer.
This is an on going story. Next installment sees Jesus in basic training and his first hand experience in the Vietnam War
Original Title: the Haunting

I feel lost remembering looking at you in tears
heartache at the memory
Why do I torture myself by listening to the last song
that had you sobbing
and it broke my heart to see?
I can still picture the color of the walls dark orange
the hot humid night in Honduras
on the front patio of the orphanage

I remember the morning you were laying in bed
when you told me you had had enough
We had sold or given away everything
Returning home to the States with $1000 in my bank account
Thank God, for my stepdad..still had a place to stay

Tears stream down my face
Hard to see the notepad as I write


I look up at the sky..first full moon night
Who, exactly up there decide I should be born human?
I thought you were supposed to be a Good God...
What curse did I deserve for you to let me feel this pain?

In the background:
Roette: "Yeah, it must have been love but it's over now.
It was all that I wanted, now I'm living without.
It must have been love but it's over now,
It's where the water flows, it's where the wind blows."

and yes the wind blows...well more like it *****!

Broken, did i break you?
Was I so cruel?
Never meant to hurt you but the road to hell is paved with good intentions

Was it my silence or..
the burning lust I could never quell
..which I wonder at times if it will not lead me to hell...
and worse to a hypocritical Christian..the judgement on those who know the truth
is much more severe than those who have not heard.

Martika sings in the background:
  "when you tear temptation call..
    it's your heart that takes the fall"

The irony of it is
it started as a dream for us
one to share for the rest of our lives
I cared about you...listened to you
You were there to hold me in my dark moments
wipe away the tears
We danced, we had fun...
Years later when you were telling me how much I had changed...
you reminded me that when we first met..I sang to you at the beach on a starry night
Trapped in the romance and I was so far gone
Funny how different we were then almost twenty years ago
You had such high hopes for me
I changed from telling you I would never darken the doorway of another church to a full-time missionary
--15 years later I realized who you needed was a man I could never be

The wolf tattoo I got after the divorce
was because I never wanted to be so nice
or vulnerable again

You were so beautiful in that wedding dress
the way your eye shone
at the moment we were happy and it all looked like a promise

It's hard lesson when heartache becomes real enough
that it is an burning ache in the center of your chest  

This is an open wound
It feels like the pen should be writing gangrenous vile dark grey/green ink
as it lets the poison out

**** it.
   Time for another **** and a sip of wine
   Enough of this romantic ****

J Geils Band...singing about how love stinks..
music to my ears

Does make me wonder why
I let this internal drama play out
or worse get the better of me

And the songs go on
Brett Michaels - Love *****
Lily Allen sings smile - along with a video of her paying some guys to beat up her boyfriend

Not entirely sure..and maybe it's because it's one of the first times I have done this
But listening to other peoples anger and misery damnably helps
--and it amuses me that she got the cheating *******'s *** kicked

Cheating is the one thing I never did
though my ex would argue the point and call **** my mistress

Strangely, I will always admire her for giving so much
and how truly she was committed
Though it stings when she said she did it for God and not me

I know how deeply I hurt her
Yet I don't know if she will ever undertand the sacrifices I made and just how hard I tried

Somehow at the moment
Getting ******* is more fun that whiny assed *******
...and there's something to be said for some good **** and two buck Chuck

Love for  a human (and yes there are times I wish I was an alien..god knows that is how I got treated all the way through high school)
Reminds me how you make a statue
Simply carve away all that is not the statue

So it is with us
   what we must learn about love is as much what it is not
   as it is what we think it is
or what we think it should be...

I so want to write something deep and profound to impress everyone
Which it is the best time the write the last line and to...
Got just a bit ****** and found myself pouring my heart out
Weird form of therapy but the only way to deal with a pain I have not been facing.
andru Jan 3
A circle speaks volumes.
Revolutionize and tidy up.
Instruction manuals are read automatically.
Privacy parts the talon and now,
how the sky blinks a feather ever so unusually.

Ever wake up in your sleep to your head fully stuck in the sixth sense
stomach of a pillow, and thought to yourself in bed about how much of
a dream it must be to be stuffed turkey?

I haven't.

Or thought to your self made bed how making the bed as an edible
symbol of thanksgiving
is like taking a stand
on a landmine,
for eternity?

I haven't.
I also lie and lay awake to myself.

Although a traveler tends to do all of the above,
below the radar.
A farmer tends too.
Eats an earthquake,
aftershock, rattled rim, pacific clarity, clear the oceans, tremors, tremors,
Noah's ark is a humpback funeral home.
Noah riding a hearse by the hubcap, clean teeth grip.
Noah in my mouth, reciting odd numbers on my taste buds.

Noah licking a polished nail, course matte for me,
three by three, the poor
poor bones of a humpback whale singing sad on a mountain.

You have to wonder about coffins when it's death out.
And water among amidst when your lungs are thirsty.
And since it seems the tried and tested walk has all but run away,
some metal wood rubber leather latex silk wool boxes spit out tickets.

A materialistic downer on uppers levels off at acceptance.
And yeah, smoking will **** you, but this is about me and I need to inhale.
This is not about me, but about you, or was that nature?
The nature of nurturing seems as good a point to start this conversation.
But it's dead end talk to talk in line segments, and well, ****,
it's time for an advertisement:

This cylinder tin is full of everything your life is empty of!
Forget the cost; be content with the contents,
rehearse the ingredients, unload the all and do it again.
Infatuation is hot-air gas inflated in the belly of outer space.
I love the way those stars look and those stars love looking at me.

The cut and paste of our human race is unfairly lopsided.
The northern blade has a tumor the size of misdirection,
the scales are tipped, the whips are tipped, and the weapons are gripped.
Sudan doesn't own scissors; Angola is the axis of axe-less
but their ******* skyline is incestuously bright,
their constellations all make sense,
and their astronauts haven't lifted off, to jump and jive in the very
same sky we share with them.
No, not yet, there are animals to be slaughtered sedimentary still.
Ones with tribal names that come off the tongue like mouth sound effects,
they are almost people, without horns hammered in their heads.

Eating on all fours from a license plate.
Dig in, Donesia.
How is life in amnesia, brain pulp square?
Psychologically disturbed map and memory loss, southwest Asia?
Your address is a long walk, but the **** citizen on the roadside exhibit
is a refreshing remix to our boring, bragging billboards.
And your suffering is art to the skull and cross-bone pale cube galleries
that we call home sweet, home sweet merchandise.
And rest assured, your lack of rest will insure western survival,
North America will steal your toddler corpses
and sell them at the front gates of your orphanage ghettos.
It's the least we can do after gouging out your eyeballs.

I didn't even write this, it was drawn by a blind boy in India.

The black market pencil case people are going to a blow-out sale.
The sales on them and the jokes a bomb.
The jokes on them and the sales a bomb.
The bombs on them and the jokes a sale.
The female holds her breath and suffocates a male.
And the genders collapse in heaps and heaves, recycled and broke
like natural leaves caught in a mythological fighter
jet's propeller.
Like aeroplanes, several even, oddly amount conclusive crash-like.
Like, like, like, if the globe of green and blue were to still be alive
I would colour co-ordinate accordingly, and wear whatever hue
the big bang theory wasn't.
Dust particles getting it on and such.
Finger painting *** with a rag and pan pencil case.

The black market Darwin drawin' is on fire in the pockets of our youth,
elderly lint in same corduroy bent knuckle nameless, places
an introduction to i.v. and a never un-shook from his hinges
living room magazine holder.
So the flinching milli-metricks betwixt our beloved booklets brings
gratification, satisfaction, and eternal life.
And gravity with a runny nose.
Oh, oh!  My first ever and last edit: Make that ******.

So I'm infinite pass-time, tedious rusty grime
and dead llama on the zoo-way.
"Look Ma, a dead llama!"
"No dear, she is just sleeping with her blood out
and cage on".

No more rides for the unknown, let it be known.
Call your superiors, mega-impose their posteriors, an emphasis on
brittle lives.
And chew the fat, chew the fat, **** the marrow, narrow
weight-scale bound in chain-mail, accidental prediction protection,
magnify, mortify, modern sill overdosing on wake pills, horticultural hi.

I am coherent when the setting is all tens, when
the plot is all tens, when the characters are all reaping tens.
The catch is in the ******, looking scared cloth-less elevens.

Judges, what verdict gives you
the right to wig wear an oak arm chair
with an all too obvious worn-mallet-beating-desktop syndrome
bashing your would be innocent until proven rich-boy lashes, err, guilty?

Was that even a question,
or merely a stir-fried rant?

The master chefs are coming after us all in our under garments,
over bridges and mountains and tiger stance wisdom and
we need a Messiah like we need horseshoes on our foreheads.

Mule yoke split on the frying pan of till death do us cook.
Separation nation; a river plain, a barren abstract.
And the artists are painting droplets on their toes,
kissing themselves after a game of Chinese checkers,
determined to squirm sweet nothings while riding
question mark shaped seats from Sweden.

And under a hail of Mary's, Jason's, William's, Susan's, and missiles,
they touch their ankles where they know
nails should be,

A circle sounds off,
a sky sounds awful,
a bomb sounds right,
a body sounds circles,
and a circle speaks volumes.
JP Sep 2018
Opened a book and  started reading, a strange awareness my eyes reading to my ears.

The eyes help our senses to triggers and connect all feeling enzymes in our brains.

I admire bookstore as admire a female celebrity. I go near to the rack and closely run my eyes on every title and I know some books always hide like a shy girl. Touching and opening was an initial part of ecstasy for book lover.

Some book invites you to buy like an orphan attracts you to adopt from orphanage.

Few books avoids you as if it's not for you, and communicates it's waiting and committed for someone like an married woman reserve her staring on strangers.

Once I had an experience, when I selected the book and for some reason could not able to Bill. I got disturbed and then after a month went and enquired. The reply was it got transferred to other branch. I don't know how I got the book on later date. I saw a marking  and happy to get the same.

Book has life, they never part from us are more like friends. I always hide my favourite book from shelf from the eyes of my guests because they are my girlfriends..they are for my eyes only..
With their pups and kittens
In boring cardboard boxes
An orphanage
Runs in the deserts
Creates hopes through
Providing food
To well-watered flowers
Children just keep blooming

— The End —