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1.
From my
uneasy bed
at the L’Enfant,
a train's pensive
horn breaks the
sullen lullaby of
an HVAC’s hum;
interrupting the
mechanical
reverie of its
steadfast
night watch,
allowing my ear
to discern
the stampede
of marauding
corporate Visigoths
sacking the city.

The cacophony
of sloven gluttony,
the ***** songs of
unrequited privilege
and the unencumbered
clatter of radical
entitlement echoes
off the city’s cold
crumbling stones.

The unctuous
bellows of the
victorious pillagers
profanely feasting
pierces the
hanging chill
of the nations
black night.

Their hoots
deride the train
transporting
the defeated
ghosts of
Lincoln’s last
doomed regiments
dispatched in vain
to preserve a
peoples republic
in a futile last stand.

The rebels have
finally turned the tide,
T Boone Pickett’s
Charge succeeds,
sending the ravaged
Grand Army of the
Republic sliding
back to the Capitol,
in savage servility,
gliding on squeaky
ungreased wheels
ferrying the
Union’s dead
vanquished
defenders to
unmarked graves
on Potters Field.

The Rebels
joyous yell
bounces off
the inert granite
stones of the
soulless city.

The spittle
of salivating
vandals drips
over the
spoils of war
as they initiate the
disassemblage,
the leveling and
reapportionment
of the grand prize.

The clever
oligarchs
have laid claim
to a righteous
reparation
of the peoples
assets for
pennies on the
dollar.

Their wholly
bought politicos
move to transfer
distressed assets
into their just
stewardship
through the
holy justice
of privatization
and the sound
rationale of
free market
solutions.

In the land of the
pursuit of property,
nimble wolf PACs
of swift 527, LLCs
have fully
metastasized
into personhood;
ascending to
the top of the
food chain in
America’s
voracious
political culture;
bestriding
the nation to
compel the
national will
to genuflect
to the cool facility
of corporate
dominion.

As the
inertial ******
of the plaintive
locomotive
fades into
another old
morning of
recalcitrant
Reaganism,
it lugs its
ambivalent
middle class
baggage toward
it’s fast expiring
future.

I follow
the dirge
down to
the street
as the ebbing
sound fades
into the gloom
of the
burgeoning
morning,
slowly
replacing the
purple twilight
with a breaking
day of cold gray
clouds framing
silhouettes of
cranes busily
constructing
a new city.

The personhood of
corporations need
homes in our new
republic; carving
out new
neighborhoods
suitable for the
monied citizens
of our nation.

First amongst
equals, the best
corporate governance
charters form
the foundation of
the republic’s
new constitution.
Civil rights
are secondary
to the freedom
of markets; the
Bill of Rights
are economically
replaced by the
cool manifests
of Bills of Lading.

The agents of
laissez faire
capitalism
nibble away
at the city’s
neighborhoods
one block at a time;
while steady winds
blows dust off
the National Mall.

Layers of the
peoples plaza are
plained away with
each rising gust.  

History repeats
itself as the Joad’s
are routed from their
land once again.

A clever
mixed use
plan of
condos and
strip malls
is proposed
to finally help the
National Mall
unlock its true
profit potential.

As America’s
affection for
federalism fades
the water in
the reflection pool
is gracefully drained.

We the people
can no longer
see ourselves.

The profit
potential of
industry is
preferred over
the specious
metaphysical
benefits
of reflection.

The grand image,
the rich pastiche,
the quixotic aroma
of the national
melting ***
is reduced to the
sameness of the
black tar that lines
the pool and the
swirling eddies of
brown dust circling
the cracked indenture.

From his not so
distant vantage point,
Abe ponders the
empty pool wondering
if the cost of lives
paid was a worthy
endeavor of preserving
the ****** union?  
Has the dear prize
won perished from
this earth?

Was the illusive
article of liberty  
worth its weight in
the blood expended?

Did the people ever
fully realize the value
of government
by the people,
for the people?

Did citizens of
the republic
assume the
responsibilities to
protect and honor
the rights and privileges
of a representative
government?

Now our idea
and practice of
civil rights is measured
and promoted as far as
it can be justified by
a corporate ROI, a
shareholder dividend,
an earmark or a political
donation to a senators
unconnected PAC.

The divine celestial
ledgers balancing
the rights and
privilege of free people
drips with red ink.  

Liberty, equality
fraternity are bankrupt
secular notions
condemned as
expensive
liberal seditions;
hatched by
UnHoly Jacobins,
the atheist skeptics
during the dark times
of the Age of Enlightenment.

Abe ponders
the restoration
of Washington’s
obelisk, to
repair the cracks
suffered  from
last summer’s
freak earthquake.

I believe I detect
a tear in Abe’s
granite eye
saddened by the
corporate temblors
shaking the
foundations
of the city.

2.

The WWII Memorial
is America’s Parthenon
for a country's love
affair with the valor
and sacrifice of warfare.

WWII forms the
cornerstone of
understanding the
pathos of the
American Century.

During WWII
our greatest generation
rose as a nation to
defeat the menace of
global fascism and
indelibly mark the
power and virtue of
American democracy.

As Lincoln’s Army
saved federalism, FDR’s
Army kept the world safe
for democracy.

Both armies served
a nation that shared
the sacrifice and
burden of war to
preserve the grace of
a republican democracy.

Today federalism
crumbles as our
democracy withers.

The burden
of war is reserved
for a precious few
individuals while
its benefits
remain confined to
the corporate elite.

Our monuments
to war have become
commercial backdrops
for the hollow patriotism
of war profiteers.

We have mortgaged
our future to pay
for two criminal wars.

The spoils of
war flow into the
pockets of
corporate
shareholders
deeply invested
in the continuation
of pointless,
destructive
hostilities.

Our service
members who
selflessly served
their country come
home to a less free,
fear struck nation;
where economic
security and political
liberty erodes
each day while the
monied interests
continue to bless
the abundance
of freedom and riches
purchased with the
blood and sweat
of others.

America desperately
needs a new narrative.

The spirit of the
Greatest Generation
who sacrificed and met
the challenge of the 20th
Century must become
this generations spiritual
forebears.

The war on terror
neatly fits the
the corporate
pathos of
militarism,
surveillance
and the sacrifice
of civil liberties
to purchase
a daily measure
of fear and
economic
enslavement.

It must be rejected
by a people committed
to building secular
temples to pursue
peace, democracy,
economic empowerment,
civil liberties and tolerance
for all.

Yet this old city
and the democratic
temples it built
exulting a free people
anointed with the
grace of liberty
is being consumed
in a morass of
commercial
polyglot.

3.

During the
War of 1812
the British Army
burned the
Capitol Building
and the White House
to the ground.

Thank goodness
Dolly Madison saved
what she could.

The new marauders
are not subject to the
pull of nostalgia.  

They value nothing
save their
self enrichment.

They will spare nothing.

Our besieged Capitol
requires Lincoln’s troops
to be stationed along the
National Mall to defend
the republic.

The greatest peril
to our nation
is being directed
by well placed
Fifth Columnists.

From the safety
of underground bunkers,
in secure undisclosed
locations within the city’s
parameters, a well financed
confederacy employing  
K Street shenanigans
are busy selling off
the American Dream
one ear mark
at a time, one
huge corporate
welfare allotment
at a time.

The biggest prize
is looting the real
property of the people;
selling Utah,
auctioning off
the public schools,
water systems, post offices
and mineral rights
on the cheap
at an Uncle Sam
garage sale.  

The capitol is
indeed burning
again.

Looters are
running riot.

The flailing arms
of a dying empire
fire off cruise
missiles and drone
strikes; hitting the
target of habeas
corpus as it
shakes in its
final death rattle.
I make a pilgrimage
to the MLK Jr.
Monument.

Our cultural identity
is outsourced to
foreign contractors
paid to reinterpret
the American Dream
through the eyes
of a lowest bidder.

MLK has lost
his humanity.

He has been
reduced to a
a Chinese
superhuman
Mao like anime
busting loose from
a granite mountain while
geopolitical irony
compels him to watch
Tommy Jefferson
**** Sally Hemings
from across the tidal
basin for all eternity.  

MLK’s eyes fixed in
stern fascination,
forever enthralled
by the contradictions
of liberty and its
democratic excesses
of love in the willows
on golden pond.

Circling back to
Father Abraham’s
Monument,  I huddle
with a group of global
citizens listening
to an NPS Ranger
spinning four score
tales with the last full
measure of her devotion.

I look up into Abe’s
stone eyes as he
surveys platoons
of gray suited
Chinese Communist
envoys engaged
in Long Marches
through the National Mall;
dutifully encircling cabinet
buildings and recruiting
Tea Party congressmen
into their open party cells.

This confederacy
is ready to torch
the White House
again.

Congressmen and
the perfect patriots
from K Street slavishly
pull their paymasters
in gilded rickshaws to
golf outings at the Pentagon
and park at the preferred
spots reserved for
the luxury box holders
at Redskin Games.

They vow not to rest
until the house of the people
is fully mortgaged to the
People’s Republic of China’s
Sovereign Wealth Fund.

4.

A great
Son of Liberty like
Alan Greenspan
roundly rings
the bells of
free markets
as he inches
T Bill rates
forward a few
basis points
at a time; while
his dead mentor
Ayn Rand
lifts Paul Ryan
to her
Fountainhead teet.
He takes a long
draw as she
coos songs
from her primer
of Atlas Shrugged
Mother Goose tales
into his silky ears.

The construction
cranes swing
to the music
building new private
sector space with
the largess of
US taxpayers
money; or
more rightly
future generations
taxpayer debt.

Libertarians,
Tea Baggers, Blue Dogs
and GOP waterboys
eagerly light a
match to the
the crucifixes
bearing federal
social safety
net programs
to the delight
of NASDAQ
listed capitalists
on the come,
licking their chops
to land contracts
to administer
these programs
at a negotiated
cost plus
profit margin.

Citizens
dependent
on programs
are leery
shareholders
are ecstatic.

To be sure
our free
market rebels
don disguises
of red, white
and blue robes
but their objectives
fail to distinguish
their motives and
methods with
some of the finest
Klansman this
country has
ever produced.

5.

DC is a city
of joggers
and choppers.

Corporate
helicopters
wizz by the
Washington
Monument,
popping erections
for the erectors
inspecting the progress
of the cranes
commanding the
city skyline.

USMC drill team
out for a morning
run circles the Mall.

The commanding
cadence of the
DI keeps us
mindful of the
deepening
militarization of
our society.

A crowd  
rushes
to position
themselves,
genuflecting
to photograph
a platoon on
the move.

I try to consider
the defining
characteristics of
Washington DC.

DC is all surface.

It is full of walls
and mirrors.

Its primary hue
is obfuscation.

Open
communication
scripted from well
considered talking points
informs all dialog.

The city is thoroughly
enraptured in narcissism.

Thankfully, one can
always capture the
reflection of oneself in
the ubiquitous presence of
mirrors.  

Vanity imprisons
the city inhabitants.

Young joggers circle the
Mall and gerrymander
down every pathway
of the city.  

They are the clerks,
interns and staffers of
the judicial, executive
and legislative branches.

They are the children
of privilege.

They will never
alter their path.

You must cede the walk
to their entitlement
of a swift comportment
or risk injury of a
violent collision.

These young ones
portray a countenance  
of benevolent rulers.  

They seem to be learning
their trade craft well from
the senators and judges
whom they serve.

They appear confident
they know what's best
for the country and after
their one term of tireless
service to the republic
they look forward to
positions in the private
sector where they will
assist corporations
to extend their reach
into the pant pockets
worn by the body politic.

6.

Our nations mythic story
lies hidden deep in the
closed rooms of the
museums lining the
Mall.

I pause to consider
what a great nation
and its great people
once aspired to.

I spy the a
suspended
Space Shuttle
hanging in dry dock
at the air and
space museum.

Today America’s
astronauts hitch
rides on Russian
rockets.

America rents a
timeshare from
the European
space agency to
lift communication
satellites into orbit.

Across the Mall
I photograph
John Smithson’s
ashes in its columbarium.  

I fear it has become a
metaphor for America’s
future commitment
to scientific inquiry
and rational secular
thinking.

I am relieved to
discover a Smithsonian
exhibit that asks
“what does it mean
to be human?”

The Origins of Humans
exhibit carries a disclaimer
to satisfy creationists.

The exhibit timidly states
that science can coexist
with religious beliefs and
that the point of the exhibit is
not to inflame inflame religious
passions but to shed light on
scientific inquiry.

I imagine these exhibits
will inflame the passion of
the fundamentalist
American Taliban and
provide yet another
reason to dismantle
the Moloch of Federalism.

The pursuit of science
remains safe at the
Smithsonian for now.

7.

Near K Street at
McPherson Park
a posse of
well dressed
lobbyists, the
self anointed
uber patriots
doing the work
of the people
stroll through
the park
boasting a
healthy population
of bedraggled
homeless.

The homeless
occupy the benches
that have been
transformed into
pup tents.

Perhaps some of
the residents of this
mean estate were
made homeless by a
foreclosed mortgage.  

The K Street warriors
can be proud that their
work on behalf of the
banking industry has
forestalled financial market
reform.  

Through it exacerbates
the homeless problem it has
allowed these K Street titans to
profit from the distress of others.

Earlier in the day
I photographed
a homeless man
planted in front of
the Washington
Monument.

I wonder
if my political
voyeurism is
an exploitation of
this man’s condition?

I have more in common
then I probably wish to
admit with my K Street
antagonists.  

In another section
of the park the
remnants of a
distressed OWS
bivouac remain.

The legions of sunshine
patriots have melted away
as the interest of the
blogosphere has waned.

As the weather
improves Moveon.org
and democratic
party operatives
pitch tents in an
effort to resuscitate
the moribund
movement.

They hope
to coop any
remaining energy
to support their
stale deception,
a neoliberal vision
based solely on the
total capitulation
to the bankrupt
corporatocracy.

I heard someone say
a campaign lasts a
season; while a
movement for social
change takes decades.

If that metric proves
correct, and if the
powers don’t succeed
in compromising the
people’s movement
I’ll be three quarters
of a century old
before I see
justice flowing like
a river once again.

8.

I circle back to
the L’Enfant and
find myself
tramping amidst
the lost platoon
of Korean War
soldiers.

My feet drag
in the quagmire
of grass covering
the feet of this
ghostly troop.

My namesake
uncle was a
decorated
veteran of this
conflict and Im
sure I detect
his likeness
in one of the
statues.

The bleak call
of a distant train
sounds a revelry
and I imagine this
patrol springing
to life to answer
the call of their
beloved country
once again.

Yet they remain
inert.  

Stuck in a
place that the
nation finds
impossible to
leave.

The eyes of the
men stare into
an incomprehensible
fate.  

They see the swarms
of Red Army infantrymen
crossing the Yellow River
streaming toward
them in massive
human waves,
the tips of
sparkling bayonets
threatening to slash
the outmanned
contingent fighting
to bits.

They are the
first detachment
to bravely confront
the rising power
of China many
thousands of
miles away
from their homes.

America like
this lone company
is overwhelmed
and lost in the
confusion
that confronts
them.

Looking up
I perceive the
bewilderment
of my muddled image
reflected on the
marble walls
surrounding
the memorial.

I am a comrade-in-arms,
a fellow wanderer sojourning
with th
anastasiad Oct 2016
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it seems we live in times
when helping hands extend only reluctantly
to those in dire need who had to leave
     the ruins of their devastated homes
     not waiting for more bombs to fall
to those who had to save their lives
     from the barbaric rule of self-styled prophets
and those whose simple love of education
     was met with inane terror and oppression

why is it that so many people
     are afraid of them and think
     these desperate refugees are perpetrators
          not the victims

why is it that the nations most responsible
      for chaos and destruction in these countries
           far from their own safe shores
      are the least willing to accommodate
      those they have driven from their homes

good Samaritans have become scarce
only a few today share their possessions
     with those who are in greater need

our humanity has been outsourced
to NGOs and sundry other institutions
to whom we donate so they feed
the hungry   poor   and the displaced

it makes one wonder whether shameless greed
has indeed  
    and without any saving grace
become the only goal of our race
Nathan Alexander Aug 2018
I wake up, it’s a beautiful day!
Changing clothes, putting my stuff away,
Nothing to ruin it today,
Hey!
Gonna make the most out of today!
Yeah!

Going to the bathroom, brushing my teeth, and-
(80% of the happiness you feel, comes from genetics.)
...Uh...
(And life is ultimately meaningless.)

Okay, going on the bus!
It’s a little tight, but it’s not that much of a fuss,
No reason to go nuts,
Yeah!
(69,000 bus accidents occurred in Europe, in 2014 alone.)
...What?
(Not to mention that the carbon emission is killing the atmosphere.)
...Jesus...
(Oh, and at least you’re lessening it by using public transit.)

...Well, alright, it’s time enter the school!
Gonna learn, till I pass everything!
My grades are screaming in my face; “it’s all cool!”
(You know what’s not cool?)
Bring it on, tell me anything!
(98% of what you study is a waste.)
...I mean...

...Nevermind that,
I get to hang out with some of my friends!
My friends are the bestest of friends!
Can't think of a better way to spend my time!
(Your brain is flawed, you’re bound to drift, and in any case all your friends will die.)
...Uh... Then...

I can live in the moment, use up every second!
(At any moment, you could get clinical depression.)
You’re wrong, I'll just be happy, no matter what's in store!
(It's quite genetic and we have no cure.)
...Uh, at least...

We are young!
(Not for long.)
Life is great!
(It only goes downhill.)
We gotta make the most of it!
(You’re likely to regret it.)
We are young!
(For now.)
Life is fun!
(For some people.)
We gotta make the most of it!
(Good luck.)

I got a brand new job today!
Doin stuff that'll help the economy!
I'll save money, and buy things at the store-
(Banks can crash and capitalism is flawed.)
...I... uh...

Um... and it's all because of my hard work!
(And the thousands of advantages you were lucky to get at birth.)
I put loads of effort in my resume!
(Good thing you don't have a black person's name.)

I've at least got a nice stable job!
(Until it's outsourced to China or replaced by a bot or robot.)
...Well then I could relax a bit!
(You'll be empty, with nothing to distract from it.)

But man, I'm a passionate teen!
I can be different, and I have career paths to pick from!
I could be a programmer, or a game maker, or even a YouTuber, if I'm lucky!
(Even if you really could be any of those, neither would make you happy, trust me.)

At this age, I’m still able to choose what I pursue!
(That’s a lie, and you're always a slave to people born richer than you.)
Then ***** it, I'll keep going,
And I'll party on the weekend, and sing!
(You’ll either get laughed at, or receive applaud, thanks to autotune.)

We are young!
(Not for long.)
Life is great!
(It only goes downhill.)
We gotta make the most of it!
(You’re likely to regret it.)
We are young!
(We still die.)
Life is fun!
(Until you’ll die.)
We gotta make the most of it!
(Because you'll die.)

Life is a wonder!
(You'll never know the answer.)
Nature is a miracle!
(Natural disasters.)
It's great to be alive!
(You could wake up with cancer.)
But I'm healthy...
(No matter how healthy, even healthy people get cancer.)

I love this show!
(It's probably the last episode there’ll ever be, or you have to wait weeks or months for the next episode.)
The sun is shining!
(It's going to explode.)
Every species is beautiful, and unique though!
(Children have malaria thanks to mosquitoes.)

I met a cute girl, with a ponytail!
(Statistically speaking, even if you two get into a relationship, it’s going to fail.)
I have a wonderful family, it's like no other!
(Considering your luck, your thinking is not special, and one day you'll bury your mother.)
No matter what happens, I can find a home!
(We will all die alone.)
Alan McClure Mar 2016
In line with recent policy
we are outsourcing
our poetry services
in a bid to increase efficiency

This will make savings
and improve the service
just as it always does.

Daffodils

Out a walk
saw some flowers
there were loads of them
they were quite pretty

APPROVED

Dulce et Decorum Est

War's *******
and it's no fun
being gassed

APPROVED

To a Mouse

Sorry for wrecking your house, mouse
but we've all got problems

APPROVED

The Raven

I miss my bird

APPROVED
vea vents Sep 2014
If you want to find out about someone’s character you ask them how do they gauge truth, or how do they know something is true?

Most will say because so and so said so, some variant of outsourced knowledge. Some "Religion." Some "Scientist." Some "Dr." Some "Guru." Some "Parent." Some "Mother." Some "Father." Some "Thought triggered by someone else." Some “Theory.”

Rare people will say they don’t know, they’re a bit more evolved because they see the conditioning. They see the confusion.

The rarer people will say they know because they’ve observed for themselves, not blindly, but with purity enough to observe correctly.
What caused you to write a book and have it published?
Thankfully, I’ve enjoyed a career in IT (Information technology) for over 25+ years. However, I’ve been downsized out of a job four times – the last time in 2005, I was unemployed for nine months. During that time, I looked at over 19,000+ companies to find one job. With more jobs in my field being outsourced to lower wage earners overseas, I decided I needed an exit strategy from the corporate world to launch a more stable career and income.


2. How long have you been writing?
I started officially writing poetry in January 2001; it was a natural progression from working on my website. I started my website (Bunganut Lake Online) back in 1999; as I added content over the years, I started writing short stories about fishing, followed by haikus about fishing and Nature; then I started writing senryus about traffic (see honku.org) and later about God.


3. How long did it take to finish your book?
I spent about 13 months to write the manuscript of my current book; once I initiated the book making process with my publisher (BookSurge), I had the final product in hand in 3.5 months.


4. What is the name of your book and what is it about?
The name of my book is “Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory”; the ISBN numbers are: 1-4196-5051-3 & 978-1419650512. It is a book of poetry, geared to inspire people to develop or strengthen a relationship with God.


5. Do you want to write more books and have them published?
Definitely; I have four completed and unpublished manuscripts; in addition, I have five other manuscripts started. All of these writings are poetry.


6. Who or What was your inspiration when writing your book?
Jehovah is my inspiration; He’s always been my Source, Redeemer and strength; most of my life, I’ve blessed to attended Church and receive Salvation in my youth.


7. What is your favorite author and book?
After the Bible (KJV), my favorite book is: How to Rule the World: a Handbook for the Aspiring Dictator by Andre De Guillaume. (It’s a humorous look at people and their desire for power.) Most of my reading is technical stuff from sources such as PC Magazine, so I don’t have a favorite author (in the traditional sense). There are number of poetry writers that I do enjoy [who are too numerous to mention, such as PDK (AllPoetry) and Gershon Hepner (Poem Hunter)].


8. What is the best thing about writing?
The best aspect of writing is the freedom of expression and the power to choose words, conveying ideas and concepts that bolster one’s imagination.


9. What are some of your other hobbies?
I love spending time at the lake in Maine where I own a summer property – activities include swimming, fishing, campfires and working on my website; I also enjoy board games, such as backgammon, scrabble and others, as well as computer games (ranging from pinball to Wolfenstein).


10. What caused you to use BookSurge?
I looked at a number of publishers and was disappointed at their offerings and reputations. For me, BookSurge was chosen because they are owned by Amazon.com; in addition, they provided all services required for the bookmaking process. Although I spent a fair amount of money, to me it’s worth it. For now I’m tapped into a global economy with a quality product. No one wants to spend their hard-earned money on an inferior product – so I did what was best for me.


11. What would you tell others that wanted to become an author as well? What steps would they need to take to get started?
Now that I’m published, I find myself more than willing to share my experiences. The first step is to have a notebook or clipboard to store and write down thoughts and ideas. Second, one must identify what one has passion about; one’s writing must come across as sincere and knowledgeable; third is to produce the manuscript; once the manuscript is complete, then start the bookmaking process that is most affordable. Once the book is published, the real work (and reality) of selling comes into focus.


12. How does your family feel about you being an author?
Some family members are very proud and supportive, while others are still mute on the subject.


13. Do you have a website to promote your book?
My marketing plan employs the use of multiple websites; I’ve posted my writing on a number of poetry websites, such as AllPoetry, Poetry With Meaning, Poem Hunter and others; in addition, I have created a “lens” on Squidoo.com. At some, point, I’ll advertise on my own website. In the future, I would like to develop a personal website geared towards marketing my books.


14. Can people buy an autographed copy of your book if they wish to? If so how would they go about doing that?
Yes, people can purchased autographed copies; the best approach is via my “lens” on Squidoo.com; the link is: http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/


15. Do you think in the near future that you may write and publish more books?
Yes, I am planning to publish more books of poetry.


16. Is it hard work being an author?
That depends on the goals one sets for himself; for example, if one’s desire is to earn a comfortable living from one’s writing, then yes it’s difficult. With the presence of the Internet and related technologies, it’s very easy to be published, but no guarantee to make money.


17. What are your dreams and Goals in life?
The ultimate goal is to become the Christian man as seen by God Himself; after that, I would like to assist others to publish their own books, continue work on my website and develop my own business software for the marina operator.


18. Could you tell us a little about your book and what caused you to want to write it?
My book is a personal expression of faith; The Word tells that we are “more than conquerors”; in a sense, I achieved that ideal since my humble book is “now available worldwide”.


19. Is your book non-fiction or fiction?
I would classify my poetry as non-fiction. To me, a relationship with Christ and having faith is real.


20. Could you tell use where we could get a copy of your book? What bookstores are carrying it and what online stores are carrying it?
None of the brick & mortar bookstores are carrying my title as yet. My book can be purchased via Amazon.com, Borders.com or from me directly via the Squidoo.com “lens” at: http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/


21. What kind of promotional tools do you use to advertise your book?
I am using several promotional tools; my work has been submitted to two book contests; it is part of the Beijing International Book Fair (in China); I use the Internet and have set-up consignment arrangements with several businesses. I also have printed marketing materials, such as business cards, postcards and bookmarks.
Shanekwa Nov 2011
Each morning
close to ten.
I get a call from Egypt,
                                        or India.
Exotic places, that I will never see.
Flooding with people I will never meet.
                                But Ahmed calls everyday.

When the phone rings, and I see the number.

I want to sing him a song.

                       Picture message him masterpieces.

                                                           Text him epics.

In a sea of instant hang-ups,
              and hot-headed drunks.
                      Poverty stricken parents,
                                                    and last straw leaps.

In the ocean of anger and grief,
I want to be the voice that reads poetry.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2017
brexit didn't actually for the populist reason
that are cited all the time -
                 the story becomes clearer with
a date... 2004...
                     suddenly the panic struck
the opulent countries...
            when a people with a work ethic
that is only second to german
came, singing the mantra:
   praca uszlachetnia -
                       work ennobles -
  arbeit veredein...
              you can watch an lefty media outlet
and find how the english people feared
being outsourced more than being
culturally defeated by former colonial
satellites...
                    considering how the same
people have the maxim:
        no work is demeaning -
         nein arbeit ist erniedrigend -
i still remember the child who wanted
to be a bus driver,
   the teenager who wanted to work
in a music shop,
     or the lesser man who wanted to become
a vet...
                       there's also the ethic
of: go in, do your ****, get out...
     the english find a synonym in working
their excessive hours as a need
to work and socialise...
             talking on the job is the most
precious ethos of the english working day...
and the english are prone to
      revel in workaholic character...
        not all, but there is a class of them
that do... is it even worth
  mention the glaring example
      of the comedy sitcom the office?
you could say it's sad than the south eastern
construction industry is in a dire
of natives... but then again so few natives
actually work the construction industry...
maybe that is an exaggeration -
             but there came a fear in 2004
that... no one "pities" economic migration...
yet there's a freedom within trading
goods that doesn't seem to bother people
seeing 90% of goods with the tag
         MADE IN CHINA...
                             which seems like reverse
migration of sorts...
          former job posts have emigrated
to cha cha cha land...
                  not because they wanted to,
but because they were forced to -
       it's hardly a reason to blame the migrants
from. say, bulgaria,
who act as cheap labourers,
   when... wasn't capitalism focusing on
competition?
                so first blame the people,
then the economic system,
  or rather embrace the economic system
and celebrate competition but blame
the competitors... ugh...
   this is such a ******* poem...
i can't believe i even wrote it...
              if it wasn't for the maxims
it wouldn't be here...
                        then again, maybe it should,
since my internal narrative has
just become custard.
    it happened because the english started
to become outsourced in work...
but now they can't be bothered to do the work...
it's not being "outsourced" culturally -
these hard grit ******* have merged -
the problem is being outsourced from work...
and the only protection against any lack
of tact, is that little body of water,
known as the english channel...
            but **** me... this story is stretching
out so much that it feels like less
a victory and more like shackles
           that hasn't precipitated into anything
resembling the celebration of nationhood...
   23 years of my 31 of my "career" in this world
and i'm literally gobsmacked...
   how long did it take for the soviet
union to collapse?
                     certainly not this long.
mike dm Jun 2014
I give zero ***** anymore.
I have no more ***** to give.
I'm totally absolutely incontrovertibly
fresh out of *****.
My supply of *****
is completely out -- see??
[cupboard door swings open
Only to reveal
a fuckless cupboard]

Even the **** Store is out of *****.
I called them just now,
The guy on the phone said he was
Fresh out --
He told me:
The production and manufacturing
Of ***** has been outsourced
To Shenzhen China,
And the workers are striking
Because they are getting paid
Fifteen cents an hour to produce
6 ***** a second --
Which is inhumane and just wrong.


I asked him why they didn't pay better --
He said, ***** if I know! Like I said,
I'm fresh out of ***** to give
So who gives a ****?
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
it's a common theme, a pastoral even... a sing-along with the words: when i was in Rotherham... i was never in England... when i was a Rotherham i was never going to imagine myself eating falafel. yes, it's that ****** ugly, which is why i'm hardly a premature ejaculator into assembling myself as bulldog Brit - use the language: well, obviously... but assemble the other bits and bobs? can't happen... it's like asking: tell a Jew to not be a Jew by sitting in one place for a long period of time... the nomad in him will evidently counter that proposal and say: **** it! see you on Mars! and to think that i could have actually invested my life into a diameter that's Poland... people still find it a bit odd: oh, wait, are they back on the map? that's us, Jews of the north... can't believe we're being blamed for the failure of the treaty of Rome: all because the English stopped flirting with the idea of Turkey being in the union: even though they dabble in a lamb kebab after binging on *****... but hey, no one want to be a hypocrite these days... that's of course provisional given your Jose Mourinho relationship: is as special as you suppose with the lady and the trump; someone tell Disney to stop writing those ****** scripts! how thoughtful of a prophet-merchant (merchant of Mecca, Shakespeare should have written that one) to have encouraged the sigma-bleaching-project: one world, one book, one something or other: either the telescope or the microscope answers: otherwise evolving into ****-naked baboons and elsewhere furry Gucci to strut the feline ****; it's not like i want to go back to the past, but i certainly don't want to experience a Monday in the year 2086 either.

i wouldn't have been one of them, their services required
a nobility, which i can partially claim,
but partially discredit as:
a family squabble, where the Eden
project would have flourished -
because of the lies -
         but you know, no biggie,
or the notorious -
one part of my family actually did
settle in america with my seven
tongued great-grandfather *sprechen güt

it's necessarily applied here:
hence it's not gút: miracles!
                     who would have thought
that trigonometry bit into the *****
of those pixy, foxy whatever clot in the
English department....
that's the thing with immigration and
integration and ethnic cleansing:
when i write,
    the desk is as rickety as a bed when
i **** a *******
and she tells me i'm a decent chap -
and says a variant of awe because i paid
£10 extra to pucker her floral arrangement
and she feels ashamed at having had
an ******: and all the feminists are
out there, in the cold, with their banter
     slogans that reach Zeno via
turtle, as snail, to compete with Achilles:
yeah, that hurt, because you enjoyed it
on the hobnob you call a job.
******* pretty enough for you now?
   well: two ***** and a smoking ****** later:
it better be!
               people think that you can just
"integrate" into a foreign land...
they coerce a foretfulfulnes that you
sometimes practice etymology -
        and find yourself a bit like a Jew
but more of a Slav, feeling at most romantic about
the land that is cleft to your ***** in terms
of language patriotism still leech-like,
because you can't forget the asking
that's already there: from the Baltic Sea
toward the Black Sea: our commonwealth was,
and could have been!
          globalisation is so Emi ******* M -
you bleach throughout, and so suddenly,
people get bothered -
         like a Cluedo but unlike who did it?
who's who?
             i write this on a rickety table,
like i might **** an Amsterdam dame of the credo
in all that's left: red -
       baby, that brickwork with your chub
layers does it for me: always a Puerto Rican to
have a laugh with...
20+ years in England and the roses are still
roses, but nettles in some obscure Greece island
designated for offshore debauchery -
hey, no one is a saint: but give a little -
   have at least the remote humanity in you
to breed the ******* Beatles rather than an antiquated
variation of Breivik.
                obviously not to be.
i payed because i wasn't getting any:
hands up, sycamore! so scythe so more -
i just feel uprooted and Jew -
  dispositioned like i have to have an inferiority
complex tattooed on my **** designated for
halal butchers -
           there's a problem though...
i have patriotism with regards to the tongue:
but to the people? a true Conrad (minus the Joseph)
would sell you out, like you already
have: to the highest Saudi bidder -
           ethnicity reemerges - strangely enough:
even after all that ethnic cleansing that's politely
called globalisation: because English cultural
emphasis is plain said: ****!
                      a bunch of fairies say i can't feel
a certain way because it will hardly become economised
and benefit an inbreeding:
so i outsourced you there,
   Dover Monsieur without his Turk and Mongol
invaders -
                   you could call it romantic:
but i'm not writing from an ivory tower within
framework of the land that needs tilling by
a familiar hand,
                 the last time i spoke to a Pollack -
it was in a shady alley at night, debating the clues
to making a living on Ebay -
                  so much for the romantics -
fair game in learning the tongue, but to attack
ethnicity? you have to be ******* me...
they call it the exotica in England:
all that coconut milk went to their heads -
   Baltic coconuts? sure... once you start eating
the pickled herrings like us: quasi-Scandi devils.
     so ******* twinned with Israel:
they said Amsterdam was the Venice of the north
they said Edinburgh was the Athens of the north
they might as well call it Tel Aviv Warsaw
and Jerusalem Krakow - too little to be said
otherwise.
             you could say Moscow and St. Petersburg:
oh sure, seen a bit of the world: ought to be
a *******...           really?
       does the world need another Golgotha
congregation? i just don't see why i require
to give more than linguistic acumen -
i'd never sing god save the queen
because i'd probably sing queen save the taxman...
and it really is a shame i can't engage in
any sort of nationalism - whether over there
or over here, it's a true shame...
           well i do have a grand history to aspire to,
variously interpreted with what gets my heart
thumping:
          ogniem i mieczem - hussaria ginie
(with fire and with sword - winged hussars die) /
          krzesimir dębski:
which i also translate in feeling within
the framework of Górecki's (3rd symphony?
fun-*******-tastic reassembling jazz's double
base, or bees, or other variations of humming
drones: anti-thesis of the crescendo)
three olden pieces, no. ii -
and yes: without cinema classical music would
be dead... the only classical music these days
is cinematic transcript -
                 the complexity of a Liszt or a Chopin
is frowned at, what has remained and endured
is a Satie yawn - a brushing of a piano like
a dustmaid: a sort of accenting the silence -
nothing with a technical claustrophobia of
smug finger litanies of the abacus:
that swamp women's feelings with eerie ahs
and yesses in would be marriage proposals.
   i wish i could be a lazy Welshman
or a Scot that forgot Celtic in order to glorify
a Glaswegian idiosyncratic-syllabalisation
    of wee, as in small: high off my rockers
on the Afghani thought train that's *****.
  i wish i were that ****** lazy...
  as to simply let go of where i was and where
i wasn't...
       as someone in Cardiff once said:
never been to London -
or as someone in Glasgow once said:
           a banch of ****** all with the Edinburgh
Judases.
              i don't think i could ever
have enough lost self-respect to not play the ethnic
joker card without a romantic agitation -
but it's still the piano that truly survives in
the modern world of pop **** trance i-wish-i-were-shot,
any other name from american beauty -
once again: the minimalism is self-explanatory.
no, i don't think i could ever fully integrate:
and happy are those who have their
lives filled with the existentially trivial:
never moved home, never descended a class below
or rise a class above their parent's status -
what a grand scheme of lotto!
                    i love these squamish pixies -
i love them so much that i experience nausea when
hearing about their lot in life...
  after which i turn to a lullaby, handpicked,
christopher young's - something to think about
from the hellraiser franchise, or as i like to call it:
i like these sort of tracks, these life infuriating
   chattering:
              like throwing yourself into either
nouns or onomatopoeias:
                           and yes, art is difficult:
because it's supposedly lazy -
                   oh the plumber in me that never was,
oh the roofer of industrial sized roofs in me that
somehow was, but then wasn't...
            the part of me that writes like Joseph Conrad
but actually wants to scream:
                       zzé skury odrzeć! (variant: ob-      +
-drzec)    to strip the skin.
                 a z tym: nadać ducha gniew alter solo
wbrew temu co mówi, czyli: razem;
                    nawet katedra św. piotra nie jest
                   minimalizm zwany: Golgota.

              (and with this: give the ghost's anger
alter solo, against that, which says,
namely: together; even st. peter's cathedral
                 isn't the minimalism of Golgotha).
Francie Lynch Jan 2018
These verses filled the void;
Contributions from 'round the world;
From men and women, young and old;
Creating something out of nothing.
A prosaic mosaic, a collaboration,
From HP poets, a celebration.

A blank line
Awaits my thoughts
A blank line
It’s an invitation
A blank line
Patiently empty
A blank line
It calls on creativity
A blank line
[sic writerunblocked]

To comment on this I cannot resist
The daily poem takes a new twist
At the top slot a poem that's not
A poem that doesn't exist
[sic. Martin]

For the life of me -
I cannot think the words -
refilling blanks, and slots -
not coming across, absurd -
at least, not in, so many, words
[sic Temporal Fugue]

Farts are nothing,
but previews for ****,
just like most
Movie
trailers
at
the
theatre.
[sic Hasani]

Please fill in is the Story of My Life The Invisible lines the Unseen pain I walk among the crowds but I am not there all they see is a shell when the truth of myself is withdrawn deep inside lost between the invisible lines [sic James M. Vines]

When at 12 midnight
And my heart beats a certain pace
I finally turn off the lights
As tears stream down my face
[sic jace]

the vacuum
Empty yourself of
From...
What u retain
What u contain
What u detain
What u abstain

Draw the lines of...
Your Boundary
Your territory
Your trajectory
Your sanctuary

You....
Draw your lines of action
Define your confinement
Create your vaccum

And now....
The love flows in
The bliss moves in
The happiness gushes in
[Jugnu-the-firefly]

THESE underscores from a your keyboard--
Bored-as-hell I can see
The creative act has been forced-in
This outsourced work, taking our
Outsourced words, during work-hours
[sic Sean Murray]

Lines
Lines Blank call
like void of creation to birth.
They grab my attention
luring poet mind
to commence firing away.
It fires in blasts of gratitude,
jarring empty spaces of thoughts
Phases that have no connections
until pen touches paper
or fingers touch keyboard.
Until I shout out to another writer
named Francie who inspired
to fill the void.
[sic Star BG]

i would have described my frustrations
what i expect from u
but i decide to keep my lips shut
its not what it seems
sometimes my lips cant depict my problems........
[sic Gucco]

It's a new year, yet are we, new people
although many others have been extinguished,
my star still shines and twinkles (although not as valiantly)
and so does yours
and I pray that it may twinkle,
for the longest time indeed.
[sic sincere humble cowardly Song]

Words can be over-rated,
its the blank page that often inspires,
images tumbling over themselves,
waiting to be scribed by word-squires.
[sic Pagan Paul]

Like this goose of a poem I'm holdin'
The deliberate silence of this is golden

Now don't be cheap
and don't be crass

hold your words until the last
without donkey ears your still being an a...
[sic Green Trees]

The symmetry of her eyes collapsed into the void............
....sixteen teardrops spilled on the morning sky............
............Colorless and absurd............................
............the sunrise misplaces past happiness............
Future was you
[sic Kyte]

Your poem is good but mine is better
You should feel the poem, writing doesn't matter
[sic Daman Singh]

I do nothing
Others do it for me
[sic Dennis Faulk]

To all the confusing things that roam my head and heart that I cannot read what it’s actually telling me. [sic Sara]

The eyes sees genuineness that mind yearns
The heart feels what it needs to learn,
Yet all is but God's ultimate plan!
Life amidst it's hustsles goes on and on.
[sic Saumya]

Broken Chains
Free me,break these chains of *******
Chains that bound and confine me to rules
Shackles that control me against my will
Fetters that make me submit to emotions
Irons that make me less humane,free me
Till all that's left are broken chains.
[sic Abi]

Feelings so fierce as they swarm inside
No escape as theyey spin and spin
I try to open a door
To let them out
At last, the page is blank
[sic Lin]

light for sure
shy of ardor
less is more
why try harder?
[Ian Woods]

And thus the blankness left,
And the void was filled.
Just in case you don't know what "sic" means, it's just a short way of saying I've copied and pasted exactly what was added in the comments section of the original, "The Invisible Poem: Blank Verse."
Special thanks to all the above contributors. I apologize for not asking permission to repost your verses. Any poet wishing me to delete his or her contribution can contact me to do so. But why?
mike dm Dec 2014
People exchange looks
Swiped like credit
Adrenaline limps edited
To look like Like

It gnaws
It crushes candy
Pixelated abyss twist twirl leap
Strawblurry tasty taste me taste me

It gnaws
It packages insanely
This that those them

It gnaws
A fate
Us
Them

-Hate-
Keeps it going
Uncut uncut
See the seams unsleeped
Stitch forever and always
Eyes rise in the east
Sweatshoply ran zombified slum slam

He is fat
He is jovial
He laughs he laughs
He has them sow sow
Make make
Makers of joy ploy
Slaked boy fingers foaming at
Mouths unfed calloused heart grips it

Dread

Roofs collapsing
******* sing ******
******* sing
anastasiad May 2017
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T'was a night before Christmas, Not the one that we know
When the big guy came forth,From the land full of snow,
He'd been summoned down south, to a lawyers..no less
There were some concerns that he had to address.
First was the doll that was known just as Dinah,
It was looked at because it was all made in China
The paint would flake off, so it stayed on the shelves
It was obvious that it was not made by elves.
There were problems as well with the way that it looked,
From the make-up she wore, you would think that she hooked
The lawyers all said she should look more demure
And the manufacturers need to lose the fake fur.
To show off its privates, there wasn't the need
So it came off the shelves, and it was done with real speed.
The next toy examined was a gun that shot caps
But the chinese translation said it was used to shoot cats
PETA had phoned and was all up in arms
That Santa believed in "The right to bear arms"
"Santa", they said "you can't sell guns as toys"
"They're dangerous for all the girls and the boys"
But Santa just sat and he had nothing to say
Their arguements meant things would not go his way.
So he sat and he watched as each toy was brought out
Though deep down inside, he just wanted to shout
"What happened to Christmas, it's supposed to be fun"
"Where is the harm in a little toy gun?"
"Expenses kept rising and the costs all went nuts"
"I had to lay off the elves as one of the cuts"
"I outsourced to China, Taiwan and B.C."
"How would I know this would happen to me"
"Wal-mart's successful with importing from there"
"In fact, they all do it with nary a care"
"I can hire some back as consultants as such"
"But, with the cost of production, I can't pay them too much"
"You all once were children and you broke what I gave"
"Now production from China is the new fad and rave"
"The toys were more dangerous in years all gone by"
"There were parts you could swallow and choke on and die"
"The paint was lead based like the stuff you all fear"
"You all ate it as children and yet your're still here"
"Now come and tell Santa what this is really about"
"I've got contacts upstairs, you know Santa has clout"
"Did I miss you one chistmas, getting you G.I Joe?"
"I'm really confused and I really must know"
"There's no time to dawdle because Christmas comes soon"
"I now have to leave early so I get home by noon"
"I'm down to four reindeer from my original eight"
"And with half my contingent, I'm usually late"
"Now please tell me all, what it is that I missed"
"We just needed to see you to know you exist"
"As lawyers our spirit is little to none"
"And the whole Christmas season si no longer fun"
"They've banned the word Christmas in court and in Schools"
"In fact we all feel that we all look like fools"
"We used this sad tactic to get you down here"
"So you can do something great to bring back our cheer"
"Christmas once was a time for belonging"
"When carolers sang and went out all ding donging"
"It's now just a season for retail and sales"
"Where people just eat and they look like beached whales"
So Santa sat back and he thought  what to do
How could I make Christmas Special, can I make it brand new"
He then said "I've got it, I'll bring back the elves"
"I'll make stuff on consignment and I'll fill the shelves"
"I'll go out on tour signing books to mend fences
"All the money I make will help drop my expenses
"The toys will stay dangerous, that never will change"
"But, I'll make less noisy guns and I;ll reduce their range"
"I'll advertise Christmas....yes that's what I'll do"
"I'll do it up as a sequel....Call it Christmas Part Two"
And he rose from his chair and he said with a grin
"I'm off now to China to fire ten guys named Chin"
And those lawyers all heard as he flew away East,
"Who'd have thought three small presents would create such a beast?"
Poverty,
food in the reclamation yard.

Life's tough,
it's hard to be  full of energy when
the meter is empty and all you see
are the toffs who scoff at society.

Poverty,
cardboard caskets in the cemetery.

There's a niche between the have and the have nots,
the place they throw away food and it rots,
bread, bread but not for the dead and the mould
we can give to the weary and old,
it's share and share and **** them, they don't count
and we don't care.

Circumstance gives a fat chance and the fat cats get the fat other than that all is well for the poor and the needy who dwell in the dark because the meter is empty.

Poverty,
in the park, on the bench, what a stench,
why don't they bathe, why don't they shave, why don't they save the pittance they get or better yet why give them a pittance, give them ****** all?

Poverty,
call for ticket number forty three, your benefits have changed please come to booth B.

We are being outsourced to be the dampcourse in some old Etonian duck pond, all expenses paid by another raid on the 'workshy' who in any case will get by
because we're all in this together dontya know.

Poverty
is just a name they use to defuse the ticking bomb,  
castigate the poor, exonerate the rich,
build another workhouse and life's not such a *****.

We know differently, we who live poverty, we who see inequality but we still and will
**** for a dime.
Dylan D Jun 2012
It's rounding three-forty in the morning
And my reason for sleep is tugging at me like
Gravity to everything

Or a late-night host absolutely convinced
His guest is wittier than himself
And pulling the curtains as if to say "I've failed you"

Really, the only continuity here is the drumming purr,
Outsourced by the shuffling footsteps opposite my door
Of which I am deathly afraid

If they knew what I really did in here
And at this time of night?
Can't even think about it

"Probably *******" they would chortle
Shaking their heads in disappointment over my
Weakness of mind and overall
Failure to hide the sound of skin

But there are better things to do, are being done
Like paper poetry, terrible fortune cookie words
Stitched blindly so to sound nice
To feign significance
But there are better things to do
You walk into a supermarket
The one with the
Fake
No wait! This sounds better!
Faux
British name
And look at the candy display
For Christmas
With the Styrofoam snow
You see the big
Self-important sign for
Raisinets, which is sold for thirty pesos
And say to yourself,
“Sounds god!
I mean good!”
You get your wallet and pay
Dismissing cheaper alternatives
That are equally tasty
And not reading the back of your Raisinets
To see where it’s manufacturing
Was outsourced
Without blinking
Without questions
Without batting an eyelash
Without thinking it’s unreasonable
Without realizing Raisinets
Is just chocolate-covered raisins
The kind you buy at some
Random movie counter
(A value of fourteen pesos a bag)
Given a classier name
I wrote this on a blank examination blue book five years ago in uni. Yes, I just bought Raisinets when I scribbled the first few lines of this.

Again, I no longer write this way.
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Qui Transtulit Sustinet

There sat CONNECTICUT, a twit
blue nanny-state, and doomed to sit
on welfare-warrens of the ******
her social service on demand.
She withers on NEW ENGLAND‘s vine
a bygone has-been, and a sign
of democratic overkill
where her once-dear and verdant rill
now stagnant flows: polluted stream
a moribund New England dream.
The richest state with poorest heart:
the Northeast’s saddest story. Part
of history’s renowned revival,
now irrelevant. Survival
chains her children in dependence
keeping back the state’s ascendance.
Apostate Puritan, grown old—
for LIBERTY, no longer bold;
a slave to Man, where once God’s WORD
awakened greatness. Souls were stirred
in ENFIELD (of all strange places),
Christ beheld in radiant faces . . .
Edwards held their spellbound souls
like spiders over flaming coals,
in gratitude for Gospel grace
renewing thus both town and race.
But I digress. Connecticut
is what I came to speak about:
forgotten dull colonial matron
yoked in failure, plebe as patron
nostalgic for her Charter Oak
whose deadwood limbs went up in smoke
along with dark tobacco wrap
while the plantation took a nap.
Her social programs overgrowth
pose forest fire-risk. Under oath
her public servants signal virtue;
sign which really should alert you
to the democrat-machine’s
impending failure (ways and means).
Nutmeg-addled Tax-and-spenders,
dollar drunks on welfare benders
widen economic rifts;
force single moms toward double shifts
while Latin Kings hold court in prison
waiting out their royal season:
fiscally unsustainable—
yet totally explainable
(nutmeg is a drug for witches
spendthrift warlocks, bankrupt *******).
Oh HARTFORD, city of the dead
which dies at five, then home to bed,
insurance once assured your rise;
but now your ghosts haunt sadder skies.
Your life displaced, outsourced, out-dated;
so, it seems, your fall was fated.
Meanwhile, close to New York City,
fairer fields are growing pretty
long on corporate commutes.
Data-driven growth computes
as data-drivers flood the roads
and enter by Manhattan-loads
from golden coasts’ Atlantic shores
and posh patrician golden doors
to bite the apple of our time:
a number-cruncher built on crime.
New England’s puritannic granny
(data-driven tyrant ******)
seeks to harbor tropic isles
with blandly bureaucratic smiles.
Your poor dear heart cannot afford
to welcome every island lord
who looks to better his estate
and so decides to emigrate.
Displaced Jamaicans outta yard
compel the soft verse to get hard.
Boricua separatists, dispersed
show nationalities reversed
and dwell between two foreign lands
in Spanglish no one understands.
Such nutmeg gets the covens high
to soar the stormy Liberal sky.
It’s Yankee hubris: condescension
taxing plebes for such dissension.
Though you connect, there I would cut,
excising from New England’s gut
metastasizing social tumors:
clueless and obese consumers,
teenage moms, pajama-clad
whose nenes wait in vain for dad.
QUI TRANSTULIT SUSTINET—truth . . .
but that was was in our nation’s youth.
She’s gotten worse with passing years
confirming citizens’ worst fears;
showing her colors every vote
her monotone, a droning note
on which the blue-bloods hang their hue
when hope and change are overdue.
Her atheist zeal meets Yankee pride:
a most progressive broomstick ride;
oblivious to her Christian past,
an enemy of God at last.
Senryu and Haikai:
Basho-san, can you get me
another beer, please?
Alienpoet Sep 2017
Existential views
Church bell blues
Christian old news
Messiah complex
Respectful specs
Saviour syndrome old tech
Love in the heart of the wild
A sky cannot be outsourced or out styled
It has millions of vistas and views
I will never be old news
We are the sky
We will never die
Or sink into religious why's
Who is Daniel Hooks?
Neither a robber or a crook
Just a man who looks
Into the depths
like the mind who crept into a unfinished novel
I keep your secrets in my hovel.
James M Vines Jan 2016
Punching before the sun comes up, 9 hours on an assembly line. Feet that ache from standing up all day. Two kids and a wife to feed. Thirty years in one spot, going through a hundred pairs of shoes. Then your job is deported instead of those who took it from you, now what do you do? Up a power pole in the wind and freezing rain, keeping the lights on so children stay warm and dry. Union blue runs through your blood, until your job gets outsourced too. Things that made America great, make it great no more. Most who built the country have went from blue collar to being poor. American pride has been forgotten, for real hard work is to a rich mans shame. Sometimes you just want to forget the title, and find another working name.
Arihant Verma Jun 2017
I wish I could be a book
I could send myself to you
in envelops and postcards
over a laconic lifetime
rungs of ladder climbed
waded through like the push
of legs in the water, over sand
chewing on the words you sent.

We, are a family now,
some privileged in the boundaries
of grandiloquent bags and pouches,
some forgotten in the drawers
before relocations,
versions of a person’s state of mind
over time, we make history books
capturing people in the making
of an indistinct next moment

sometimes we carry our own praises
outsourced by the wits of our writers
like love they did find not in the other
but their own selves, blind still.

Does your reader pause too?
basks in the glory of an empty wall
staring at nothing in particular?
I wish we had will and means
to write ourselves on ourselves
so that we could reach other and do that.

Instead like our creators, we are
dilapidated ruins of yellow bodies,
left to live and die on dirt and air
once they are gone, aren’t you scared
of death?

Seeking Reply
Letter A
I found a prompt written years ago on google keep. When I was deleting notes and reminders I didn't need anymore, I found it and wrote this on it.
ConnectHook Feb 2017
┈┏━╮╭━┈╭━-━-━--━╮
 ┈┃┏┗┛┓┃╭ⓞⓘⓝⓚ┃
┈╰┓▋▋┏╯╯╰━-━--━━╯
╭━┻╮╲┗━━━━╮╭╮┈­

Fata Morgana !
Crunch the numbers and look at the data. I’m like:
Measurable outcomes for pleasurable incomes—
incorporate outsourced inhuman resources in-house. I’m like:
indicators for vindicators.
It’s all about the data, mama—
so man up, sit down, and move forward
like hard apps on software, like ram on a gigabyte. I’m all:
sit up, move down, man forward;
benchmarks as milestones, stone benches as mile-markers
measuring the change-talk: obstetric metrics
played out for pregnant pauses.
It’s about throwing out the carry-on
It’s about unpacking the lost luggage
It’s about documenting best practices of undressed actresses
until the data-driver fails the breathalyzer.
The data tells a story: memes of mastery cast in plastery.
DUCK the FATA (morgana) !
Celery w/Bleu Cheese data-dressing
Deborah Downes Feb 2017
I wish…
for bygone days
when folks put families first
Not jobs
Not climbing a corporate ladder
Not competing with the Jones
for bigger homes, better cars, smarter kids.

I wish…
for sublime satisfaction
thru the experience of God’s creation
Not from computers & video games
Nor TV & movies
smart phones or social media.

I wish…
that people did not suffer
When their jobs become obsolete
outsourced, redesigned, or restructured.
When they are pressed into conflicts
in their cities, states, or countries
For the sake of another’s perceived privilege
or personal gain.

But the Genie is out of the bottle…*
Set free by wasted wishes
Carelessly contrived
Without lasting purpose or value
Graff1980 Jun 2017
I outsourced
my inner turmoil
to this medium,

all the conflict
of trying to fit
and not fit
maybe dangling
between two *****
that I can’t give.

Rhyming and non,
never posting anon
because even though
I know that
I don’t belong
when I am gone
I want someone
to know me.

My identity
is complex,
crossing
ideas that
are counter
to themselves.
So, I identify
as the poetry guy
dying to stay alive.
Jeremy Betts Jul 3
Dreams provide the building blocks for nightmares
Working with outsourced puppeteers,
Freelance shiit talkers
And unlicensed engineers
Incorporating in-house failures,
Stacked to the rafters,
To orchestrate such fears
A passion project with plenty of volunteers
But after 40 some years
Missteps and heartbreak are full blown careers
With daily bonus checks awarded for tears

©2024
Hank Roberts Dec 2013
I'll stand around with a sign
that says, "free the rights"
when America turns to
the United States of America Corporation:
Where the trees, mountains,
and even coral morph into dollar signs.

As supplies last morality is quantified
into algorithms and sold in vacuum sealed
plastic while the president rules
all cellphones must be attached  
to the brain because it's affordable for
taxpayers. Direct connect,  instant
success, calls to any mind, anywhere, even
up on the cloud. mother and the pope are
on line two while  politicians will only
be 5 minutes away with the 100 percent
satisfaction guaranteed customer
service team, on the clock
24 hours and seven days a week,
while the black suites and white hair
earn credit for troubleshooting and calling
everyone unpatriotic because no one wants
to be outsourced to the next course of war.

Meanwhile, being a scientist is
secular progressive and doesn't meet
requirements for the 3 year warranty
but guarantees rush delivery, overnight twenty-four
hour shipping right into hell because
the business of women created from
mens' ribs didn't seem like viable coverage.
Barton D Smock Apr 2013
while his children sleep, the father spins three bowls onto the kitchen table and waits for each to still.  he circles the table as a shell shocked circus dog.  from a box he is scooping handfuls of dry cereal into the bowls when he is informed by a memory how it’s happened that the milk is gone.  gone since the morning before last because a fourth bowl was needed.  his three children can now be heard upstairs shoving each other under the run of the shower.  minutes later three boys wrapped in towels watch as their father gags himself into convulsions on the love seat.  of the three, it’s my towel mother removes to swipe the sick from his mouth.  I get my father a glass of water.  something I’ve done before.  

looking back, I can see the empty bowls.  ahead, the outsourced eating.
Lawrence Hall Aug 2017
Uncle Vanya and Lady Godiva

Uncle Vanya came strolling down the road
Wishing he had made something of his life
His young friend Anne loquaciously agreed
And with remarkable vehemence urged him

     to endeavour to remediate his perceived inadequacies in the    
     many precedent matters that burdened him…

Don Quixote suggested that worries were giants
Cassandra said, “There is only one page left”
Nick Adams whispered, “Shh! You’ll scare the fish!”
Ambrose Silk asked the way to the world’s end

And young Lady Godiva, sans chemise
Outsourced her image on souvenir tees
Seranaea Jones Jul 2021
-

Posit


a forging of youths
into un—potential works
of future creativity
so they may
negatively contribute
to
human foundations
for generations to come
-
outsourced
to become forgeries
of their parents
by allowing them to be
~programmed~

by-way-of
software updates
from developers with
foreign interests


?


you should know
by now how these things
will usually end up—

having watched enough
television to recognize
the ancient ruins of
tomorrow...


.
eatmorewords Apr 2017
Icelandic diets and tiny woman in big cars - oriental twins stand next to bad graffiti - sick children in the exclusion zone

- the end of the family tree

- the branch snaps


two holes have appeared at opposite ends of the earth


they have give weapons to all those over 15 and told them to protect the city


God has been outsourced to a call centre in India

his Facebook page keeps crashing

                       emails go unanswered
my book was called "the eternal twitch of the nervous millennium"


the death of the happy polar bear, 1983 - 2016
preservationman Sep 2015
No worries in being unemployed
Working for the Lord with continuous praise and joy
The Lord Boss perks always being under God’s care
He is the Lord for all to share
No worry in a job being outsourced
The Lord being the superior one with the only force
Yet the spirituality is a feeling beyond compare
I don’t mind working overtime
Because I am involved with the Lord’s blessings combined
God’s power that will stay with me
It is something my fellow Christians shall see
I don’t have to think on man’s corporate name
Because God is the one with the name and is fame
My health care under God’s complete control
If I get sick I will be the witness of look and behold
My Boss being the Lord and not man himself
Man thinks only about himself
God is not like everybody else
My Boss being the Lord knows how to teach and extend knowledge
The voice of Heaven in have you heard
Opportunity being a privilege
Promotion in fairness served only by the Lord
The value of compensation needing no charge in praising our Lord
Just stand back and watch as God helps to preserver
He is the protection when the enemy wants to come near
A Heavenly Boss I appreciate, and as a servant I will always participate.
Amanda Stoddard Dec 2014
I try to push it away,
the angst in my heart and my overwhelming desire to run-
run far away from whatever makes it hurt so much to be alive
and the only thing that makes it worth living
is being outsourced and ostracized
and I can't seem to shut out all the negativity that comes with it.
In the dead of the night as the sun rests easy on my side of the world
it is working twice as hard somewhere else
and the moon continues to remind me of that.
Resting is never in the plans for the sun and the moon
and the ocean and the sands
because the sun always rises and sets
and the seas always reaches out for you to touch it
and I think that's what we both have in common..
always wanting to be felt and seen and touched
just admired and appreciated
for these tides make the world a better place
and these hands make your world a better place
I don't mean to be bigoted when saying that-
It's just the light in my life was dim
before you went and changed me
and yours was scolding with heat
so no one would ever want to try and change it
but hands heavy, and fingers that have written about darker days
I took the chance and changed you anyways
and now our days spent together are filled with light.
We are no longer two dimly lit rooms-
because there is me and there is you
and together we make mountains
glow upon the sunrise
and darkness seems just like a distant memory.
My hands press these keys so vividly
like Beethoven and his symphonies
and moonlight drifts through the air
like a silhouette and we dance with our bodies intertwined-
because I am yours and you are mine
and this darkness doesn't exist much anymore
only on days when the mind that writes these words
can't think of ways to write the inner demons away
but I know when that time comes
and I want to drown in the seas that once saved me
I will remember you are here with me
and we can float together to make oceans
of what we have been through and just swim.
Just swim until we know we are at our destination
because we are no longer two dimly lit rooms-
we are spotlights and sunrise-
the florescent shine in your eyes
when you're awaken by a brand new day.
We will eventually burn out-
but worry not because when the time comes
we can change together.
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Virtue’s dairy-maids take a bow;
Such maids, the farm can well-endow
To milk that multi-culti cow.
Paste some banner upon your page . . .
You belong to a nicer age
An age where conflict is suppressed
And truth can never be addressed . . .
Malign diversity enforced
Upon the masses—who resist;
Their own prosperity outsourced:
Maintaining aliens in their midst.
Just one more haiku
for the road—I mean, the hike
down April Mountain
Parable Dying with God: “In the seventh year BC, a Bedouin was going through the desert of the rabbinical princes, this man was going with his beard of a scribe or rabbi hurrying him, consequently and obtaining a doctorate in the law of the flock with camel hair that strangled by the neck and marked him with a thick and contoured baldric, for the first manly minutes of his vocal settlement that invited him to fully insert himself in Judea, in the Holy Spirit and in the fire of two Glasses of Vine, before two heralds and Masters who carried in their hands a silver dressing table, with kites of Abraham's vines, and which also hung from his back in gutted viper hides, shaking with proselytes that unclamped more life from a root and from the angelic tree. When he approached with a ceremonial formalism, the Bedouin focused between them, in the universe that separated them from the fangs of the vipers that surrounded him from the outburst of their fangs that he smeared with ink and litmus to write again to his family that in the vicinity awaited him. In case he did not arrive before the sixth day of the birth of Mariah of Nazareth, saying in his epistle: “Pretended and worthy tree of my family, I reveal to you a few days after my arrival in Nazareth, that I carry with me a good flock and vines that they are scattered in his Phylakterion, in two wineskins that supported following my epistle - continue with a pistol…; “Between the offense of my past lives and how not to separate myself from the water that still flows under it, I manifest miracles before my disciples, breaths, and before the rite of writing to them between two sitting next to me in the middle of the desert, to toast in two wineskins with wine and sticky fats drained from the Mezuzá, to then sit in front of you, in the distance of my arm that is not greater than the hand that separates from my wrist, and she herself from my elbow, telling them that in the saddlebags in my pantry, I carry the custody of two heads of crows that flee from the prejudiced pitchfork of my flock, separating the litter that splashes in my mouth with sieves and appropriates, with grains and wines that the fire will never extinguish "

Knowing that the heralds who accompanied him saw how they were exalted from the rancor of overseas and their designs, they became monarchical in their adherence by protecting them from where they were, without knowing if they were with their family, but if they were paralyzed by an idolatry of the sun and his fever in the ordinance of the Bedouin genre.

It continues: “with an irregular viper's tooth I write my feelings to you, as in daring baptismal purification of water that runs through the grains of the sands without evaporating, only in the cushion of Wine between Two, which I support with my heralds and their intricate gargles, with humility among them, shouting the ardor of the dove that will come from heaven with its holy solitude, individualized in the beings of the straying of the truth... "

Impelled by his epistle, the Bedouin absorbed himself from the beasts of the sunset and his communal patronage in other Bedouins who sat in their alleys through the desert, from other quarantines of wine and prayer, that tormented their thirst and hunger, before the surviving limb of devouring children who will never die for others who will satisfy their appetite, to control thirst and hunger, in bodies that will never feel it.

The Bedouin continues; "As the birthright of food in the bread and wine, during long episodes, I have separated from you. Today I proclaim myself in eternal patriarchy for the kinship of purging in this life, and their abstinence from death, mother and children will be seated on my right and my flock on the left, merging with the remains of the right hand...; in the anguish of my flesh, which cannot shine in yours, to supply them with miracles, isolation, and constraints of the attribute of a God-Man in the hoarse opening of the night "

After gathering the ink from the viper's fang…, he raised his arm that dripped the same other sooty serum, which differed from the smiling night to warm him with sweetness from what remained to write. Perhaps it would be Dying with God, prevented by himself that he did not do it in a hundred or a millennium where he declared the independence of a spirit, or in another faculty that provides extra-personal satisfaction of flushing on the battlements that awaited him to make crows and doves rest, and in all the lapses that do not speak of another chance that is not his own figure of breath, knocking on the gates of heaven to extend his prayers in existence and his sacred appointment with the most illustrious mystique.

The Bedouin continues “neither hunger nor thirst I will entrust to whoever does not know how to guide my flock, less the guardian who does not pick me up from stumbling from the empty desert that hurts and cuts more to whoever wants to be rescued from the pillars of the chandelier. I cannot resist your opinion, but I know that they are far from doing it, as father and son in golden graves with doctrines of name, before my superiors desire to catch on from some capes in Jordan, prompting the temptation to run between fires and mists of black prodigy and to die with God in the dry grass of the Lily "

Before the sophistry of probabilities from a quantum of the desert, this same one contracted and invigorated his ring finger to finish the lines that separated him from oblivion by his divine wine, which remained in his wineskin and then finished it together with his heralds, which They solemnly outsourced themselves to take them with the strength of the Simun that evaporated from the sweat and the suspension of the silica that suffocated them, rising swiftly for a third Wine proposal between two, inciting themselves in the power of their plenaries and the herds that they carried to their children minors.

The insolence of the person who called himself or named himself did not possess the incarnate verb that made him release the viper's tusk from his right hand, pre-existing elegies that held him in servitude, suffocating in the dark clouds, pointed out by the lamps that held him. from Aorion, as part of a gaunt progeny of immortal spirit. In this unthinkable way, the Simun withdrew absorbed, taking the viper and its inked tusk of speculation and triumphant apocalypse, to some corners of some prostitutes who were undermined in the keys of the redeemer's free will, depriving themselves before all who remained in the shin guards of man, and what is vulnerable from head to toe. The Bedouin, forcing himself to reconcile, jumps on the little blade of the Simun and climbs on it, to go after the viper's tusk, burning with courage in the ministry of temptation and the epistle that sinned before his eyes wanting to rewrite himself, to revive in it and leave aside the razors that circumcise the urgency and disobedience, on the hair of the camels that went with him, the honey that was in his head next to his hands that had stowed it, with some bees full of holy water feeding on temptations in which they have to flourish and in the hives of derision that were hung saying to him save yourself "

(Procorus was forced to deal with the battlements of the Bedouin station that wanted to continue in him, but determined to take the place of his consort, to finish drinking the wine of two and to help him Die with God)
Parable Dying with God

— The End —