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MeanAileen Jul 2018
It must be so nice
to be cold as ice
and live with a heart of stone.
No need to think twice
in a fools paradise
when your head is so overblown.

Existing so high
you can touch the sky
from your pillar of ivory and gold.
Everyday you lie
just to pacify
an ego which can't be controlled.

You don't play fair
nor do you care
who's heart you might break next.
Another sordid affair
caught in your snare,
treating women like they are objects.

You made love a joke
with vows you broke,
that golden ring is sure to rust.
One day you'll choke
on fallacies you spoke,
then your empire to fall to dust.

And looking down on all
like you're 12 feet tall
does not make you the bigger man.
Laughing as they fall,
watching them crawl,
forgetting where your own life began.

Just keep living in excess,
desperate to impress,
surround yourself with cool ****.
Cause what you possess
when dead from stress
in a few years, won't matter one bit.
Ya...
Once there was a heart
which had been born anew,
out of two hearts that loved
and pierced each other through.

Once there was a heart
with different ways to go,
unable to choose the one to follow
it split back into two.
Continuation of 'A tale of two hearts'
I weep for Adonais—he is dead!
O, weep for Adonais! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,
And teach them thine own sorrow, say: “With me
Died Adonais; till the Future dares
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto eternity!”

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
In darkness? where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,
Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise
She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies
With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.

O, weep for Adonais—he is dead!
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!
Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;
For he is gone, where all things wise and fair
Descend;—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep
Will yet restore him to the vital air;
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.

Most musical of mourners, weep again!
Lament anew, Urania!—He died,
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country’s pride,
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide
Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite
Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified,
Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite
Yet reigns o’er earth; the third among the sons of light.

Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
Not all to that bright station dared to climb;
And happier they their happiness who knew,
Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time
In which suns perished; others more sublime,
Struck by the envious wrath of man or god,
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;
And some yet live, treading the thorny road
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame’s serene abode.

But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perished—
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished,
And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew;
Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,
The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste;
The broken lily lies—the storm is overpast.

To that high Capital, where kingly Death
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,
He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,
A grave among the eternal.—Come away!
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;
Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.

He will awake no more, oh, never more!—
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace
The shadow of white Death, and at the door
Invisible Corruption waits to trace
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law
Of change, shall o’er his sleep the mortal curtain draw.

O, weep for Adonais!—The quick Dreams,
The passion-winged Ministers of thought,
Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught
The love which was its music, wander not,—
Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain,
But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain,
They ne’er will gather strength, or find a home again.

And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head,
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries,
“Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies
A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain.”
Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise!
She knew not ’twas her own; as with no stain
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.

One from a lucid urn of starry dew
Washed his light limbs as if embalming them;
Another clipped her profuse locks, and threw
The wreath upon him, like an anadem,
Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;
Another in her wilful grief would break
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem
A greater loss with one which was more weak;
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek.

Another Splendour on his mouth alit,
That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath
Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit,
And pass into the panting heart beneath
With lightning and with music: the damp death
Quenched its caress upon his icy lips;
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath
Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips,
It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse.

And others came… Desires and Adorations,
Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies,
Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,
Came in slow pomp;—the moving pomp might seem
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.

All he had loved, and moulded into thought,
From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,
Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,
Dimmed the aereal eyes that kindle day;
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned,
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,
And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
And feeds her grief with his remembered lay,
And will no more reply to winds or fountains,
Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray,
Or herdsman’s horn, or bell at closing day;
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear
Than those for whose disdain she pined away
Into a shadow of all sounds:—a drear
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,
Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown,
For whom should she have waked the sullen year?
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both
Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere
Amid the faint companions of their youth,
With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth.

Thy spirit’s sister, the lorn nightingale
Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain;
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun’s domain
Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain,
Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,
As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain
Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast,
And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest!

Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone,
But grief returns with the revolving year;
The airs and streams renew their joyous tone;
The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear;
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season’s bier;
The amorous birds now pair in every brake,
And build their mossy homes in field and brere;
And the green lizard, and the golden snake,
Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake.

Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean
A quickening life from the Earth’s heart has burst
As it has ever done, with change and motion,
From the great morning of the world when first
God dawned on Chaos; in its stream immersed,
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light;
All baser things pant with life’s sacred thirst;
Diffuse themselves; and spend in love’s delight
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.

The leprous corpse, touched by this spirit tender,
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath;
Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death
And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath;
Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath
By sightless lightning?—the intense atom glows
A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose.

Alas! that all we loved of him should be,
But for our grief, as if it had not been,
And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me!
Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene
The actors or spectators? Great and mean
Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow.
As long as skies are blue, and fields are green,
Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow,
Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow.

He will awake no more, oh, never more!
“Wake thou,” cried Misery, “childless Mother, rise
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart’s core,
A wound more fierce than his with tears and sighs.”
And all the Dreams that watched Urania’s eyes,
And all the Echoes whom their sister’s song
Had held in holy silence, cried: “Arise!”
Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung,
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung.

She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs
Our of the East, and follows wild and drear
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings,
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier,
Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear
So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania;
So saddened round her like an atmosphere
Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way
Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay.

Our of her secret Paradise she sped,
Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel,
And human hearts, which to her aery tread
Yielding not, wounded the invisible
Palms of her tender feet where’er they fell:
And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they,
Rent the soft Form they never could repel,
Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May,
Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way.

In the death-chamber for a moment Death,
Shamed by the presence of that living Might,
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath
Revisited those lips, and Life’s pale light
Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight.
“Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless,
As silent lightning leaves the starless night!
Leave me not!” cried Urania: her distress
Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress.

“‘Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again;
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live;
And in my heartless breast and burning brain
That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive,
With food of saddest memory kept alive,
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part
Of thee, my Adonais! I would give
All that I am to be as thou now art!
But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart!

“O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert,
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men
Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den?
Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear?
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when
Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere,
The monsters of life’s waste had fled from thee like deer.

“The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;
The obscene ravens, clamorous o’er the dead;
The vultures to the conqueror’s banner true
Who feed where Desolation first has fed,
And whose wings rain contagion;—how they fled,
When, like Apollo, from his golden bow
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped
And smiled!—The spoilers tempt no second blow,
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low.

“The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn;
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then
Is gathered into death without a dawn,
And the immortal stars awake again;
So is it in the world of living men:
A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when
It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit’s awful night.”

Thus ceased she: and the mountain shepherds came,
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent;
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
An early but enduring monument,
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song
In sorrow; from her wilds Irene sent
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong,
And Love taught Grief to fall like music from his tongue.

Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,
A phantom among men; companionless
As the last cloud of an expiring storm
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
Had gazed on Nature’s naked loveliness,
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray
With feeble steps o’er the world’s wilderness,
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.

A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift—
A Love in desolation masked;—a Power
Girt round with weakness;—it can scarce uplift
The weight of the superincumbent hour;
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,
A breaking billow;—even whilst we speak
Is it not broken? On the withering flower
The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek
The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.

His head was bound with pansies overblown,
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;
And a light spear topped with a cypress cone,
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew
Yet dripping with the forest’s noonday dew,
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart
Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew
He came the last, neglected and apart;
A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter’s dart.

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan
Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle band
Who in another’s fate now wept his own,
As in the accents of an unknown land
He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scanned
The Stranger’s mien, and murmured: “Who art thou?”
He answered not, but with a sudden hand
Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow,
Which was like Cain’s or Christ’s—oh! that it should be so!

What softer voice is hushed over the dead?
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?
What form leans sadly o’er the white death-bed,
In mockery of monumental stone,
The heavy heart heaving without a moan?
If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise,
Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one,
Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs,
The silence of that heart’s accepted sacrifice.

Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh!
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
Life’s early cup with such a draught of woe?
The nameless worm would now itself disown:
It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,
But what was howling in one breast alone,
Silent with expectation of the song,
Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame!
Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me,
Thou noteless blot on a remembered name!
But be thyself, and know thyself to be!
And ever at thy season be thou free
To spill the venom when thy fangs o’erflow:
Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee;
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt—as now.

Nor let us weep that our delight is fled
Far from these carrion kites that scream below;
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead;
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now—
Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow
Back to the burning fountain whence it came,
A portion of the Eternal, which must glow
Through time and change, unquenchably the same,
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame.

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep—
He hath awakened from the dream of life—
’Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
And in mad trance, strike with our spirit’s knife
Invulnerable nothings.—We decay
Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief
Convulse us and consume us day by day,
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

He has outsoared the shadow of our night;
Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again;
From the contagion of the world’s slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain;
Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.

He lives, he wakes—’tis Death is dead, not he;
Mourn not for Adonais.—Thou young Dawn,
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!
Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air
Which like a mourning veil
Eryri Oct 2018
The idiocy,
Sheer insincerity
Of political apologies.

It WAS meant to offend.

You chose the words carefully.
A dog's-whistle in your mouthpiece.
Your career is your priority.

You are a glorified carnival barker,
With a reputation as an intellect,
But many do detect ******* in your overblown prose
(except those who are equally verbose).

Will your papa be disappointed
If you are never to be anointed?
Your education makes being PM a career choice,
So power for it's own sake should really be a piece of cake.

So how about it, Boris?
Will we hear more Horace?
How much do you want it?
Enough to blow your own Trumpette?
I really wanted to rhyme Bannon and Cannon after the last line.
R L Doe Jun 2015
You are a bicycle,
your rims are rusted;
Rusted to the overblown rubber tire.

Your chain is broken.
We've tried to splice it so many times,
but I'm running out of links and I'm broke.

You broke me, you ran over my foot.
No apologies. Only the reminders you leave like leaches.
"Well, I told you. I'm a bike."

Well, I told you not to hurt me.
Then you deliberately sought out to run over my foot.
Then ask me "Will you pump my tires, will you oil my chain."

I do these things for you, without being asked or appreciated.
Do them because you're my bicycle, and I appreciate you.

For getting me places, and knocking me down
to give me bruises, bumps, and scars
Scars that remind me, I am not a bicycle.

I am the flesh and blood of the world.
I am not a hollow iron cast;
My innards are in motion with my mind and heart.

I gotta stop pumping the tires on this bike, and toss it.
This bicycle gave me tetanus from it's peddles trying to run away.

Stop cutting up my ******* feet, bike.
About a lover and a friend
And here face down beneath the sun
And here upon earth’s noonward height
To feel the always coming on
The always rising of the night

To feel creep up the curving east
The earthy chill of dusk and slow
Upon those under lands the vast
And ever climbing shadow grow

And strange at Ecbatan the trees
Take leaf by leaf the evening strange
The flooding dark about their knees
The mountains over Persia change

And now at Kermanshah the gate
Dark empty and the withered grass
And through the twilight now the late
Few travelers in the westward pass

And Baghdad darken and the bridge
Across the silent river gone
And through Arabia the edge
Of evening widen and steal on

And deepen on Palmyra’s street
The wheel rut in the ruined stone
And Lebanon fade out and Crete
High through the clouds and overblown

And over Sicily the air
Still flashing with the landward gulls
And loom and slowly disappear
The sails above the shadowy hulls

And Spain go under the the shore
Of Africa the gilded sand
And evening vanish and no more
The low pale light across that land

Nor now the long light on the sea

And here face downward in the sun
To feel how swift how secretly
The shadow of the night comes on…
RAJ NANDY Apr 2016
THE  SAXOPHONE STORY
          BY RAJ NANDY

The Saxophone is perhaps the most expressive
instrument next to the human voice.
Was made by Adolphe Sax, a Belgian, through
a deliberate choice!
He wanted to offset the tonal disparity, -
Between the string, wind, and brass instruments,
with musical clarity !
He felt that the strings ones were overpowered
by the wind instruments.
While the wind instruments got overblown by
the brass ones instead !
Now what would happen if the best qualities
of these three instruments types,
Could in a fusion blend and coalesces into a single
instrument type ?  
So finally at the age of 20 years, in March Eighteen
Hundred and Thirty Four,
Adolphe Sax created a magical instrument for the
World to hear and adore!
It had the power of the brass, the flexibility of the
strings, and the woodwind’s variety and tone;
Which got christened after Adolphe Sax as the
SAXOPHONE !

Adolphe’s famous composer friend Hector Berlioz
in Paris City,
Gave this new instrument wide publicity!
In 1844 the Sax was presented in the Industrial
Exhibition at Paris;
And subsequently got patented on 20 March 1846.
It soon got adopted by the Bands of the French Army.
Making other instrument makers to become green
with envy!
The Sax was 80 years old when it became part of the
musical instruments of the Jazz Band.
A small bore mouth piece was created to suite the
varying tonal qualities required by Jazz.
Initially, 14 different sizes of Sax was created by
Adolphe.
Today only five types are in use for us to hear and
see;
The Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass and the Baritone
Saxophone.
They now form a part of our Jazz music's backbone!
                                                      - By Raj Nandy
FOOT NOTES :
Adolphe Sax (1814-1894) , son of famous musical instrument maker
Charles Joseph Sax of Belgium. Woodwind Instruments = Flute, Clarinet, Bassoon etc. Brass Instruments = Trumpet, Tuba, Cornet etc. String Instruments  = Violin, Guitar, Harp, Banjo etc. The Saxophone today has become the very backbone of Jazz Music!
** ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY: - RAJ NANDY
Those who have read my Story of Jazz Music in Verse, are likely to like this true story also. Best wishes, -Raj.
JW Harvey Oct 2014
This current resistance
in our duel circuit is
measured in ohmmms
of my meditated solace,
Mediated by the breaker
of a once-broken man
wary of a blown fuse
too burnt to salvage, a
lost cause to discard,
Replace & repeat with
each carless disregard of
the whattage we're wired
to handle, may a switch
on to off when overblown
prevent the spark that
burns down a home.
His name was David.
I sat next to him in primary school.
He wasn't like the other boys, he had an accent, was sarcastic, really funny;
We laughed together all the time, I thought of him at night in bed.
I remember freckles, and a giant smile,
He moved to America, and I missed him terribly,
Thought I was in love.

I was fifteen and he was twenty-nine.
I wrote his name in schoolbooks, spent hours making mixtapes,
Wrote an overblown and sentimental poem
Which I later showed him, covered my eyes
As he read it; he let me down gently,
I was awkward and chubby but probably endearing,
And it's always nice to be adored.
I didn't mind ego-stroking,
I'd tried no other sorts of stroking, back then.
*** wasn't on my agenda, I don't think I even felt a stirring down below.
Was I a late starter?
Let me know.

He was gay. Well and truly gay.
And he practised flirtation on me.
Theatre school was where I found myself, and blossomed,
We indulged in drama together,
And there was lust, finally;
He made my body boil and churn.
Licked my neck as he walked past me to tap practice:
I melted. A friend, dear friend, my **** gay friend.
I wanted, really wanted a man for the first time,
Did he want me, even a little? Or was it all theatricals for him?
I haven't seen him for years, but I found him on Facebook,
Maybe I should ask?

Tom was a philanderer,
Lived with him and two other girls at university;
He got one pregnant, dated the other,
Secretly had **** fun with me.
I'm not proud, I betrayed a friend for my body's demands,
And not for the last time.
But I was insane for that funny little man.
Now I remember unwashed hair and drunken despair,
Now I remember what destroyed me, for a while.
I should have learned my lesson.
She's still a friend; she still doesn't know.

Andy adored me for months
And I was fully aware, found it thrilling,
But didn't feel the same, I was settled.
He was welsh, weathered and wonderful.
He crushed then got over me,
And suddenly I was smitten.
Agonised for two years, then I was over him.
We're still friends, it is possible
To keep them in your lives,
It is possible to move on,
To have something different together,
To be somewhere inbetween lovers and friends.

I reread those last five lines,
And wish I could apply them to the last man on my list.
Feelings came out of the blue, grasped me roughly
And stole me away from my life, from happiness, from calm contentment.
Intimacy of our era;
Messages in the dead of the night,
Stolen kisses, dark despair.
I. Have. Never. Wanted. Anybody. More.
I'm not over him.
But it's just another crush, right?
it's just another crush?
Ronald J Chapman Dec 2014
I had to put my feelings into soulful words.

I really feel our connection is tightening.
You are my eternal sunshine.
You are the miracle on the Han River!
Especially for you I created this rhyme.

I would rather have you than a trillion billion won.
You are like a white tiger amidst ordinary cats.
You are cherry blossoms in the spring sun.
I am not sure you will like my poem.
But know. That I am completely overblown.

Seoul Korea, you mean so much to me.
I have been so far away.
In this lifetime, I am afraid I will never understand.
I never knew this could be.
“Loving a place, I have never been!”
I anxiously await our time ahead.
For now, I keep dreaming of you instead.

I hope we make it; I hope it will be fast.
Loneliness quickly really lies in the past!
This poem has come to an end.
See you soon, my dearest friend.
Hopefully before this life ends...

My Seoul, “The Miracle on the Han River!”



© 2013 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
-------------------------------

"The Universe is big. It's vast and complicated and ridiculous. And sometimes"very rarely impossible things just happen, and we call them miracles. And that's the theory. 900 years, never seen one yet. But this would do me." - Doctor Who Tv Series
Seoul
http://youtu.be/nIHnSRyQr4o
SøułSurvivør Apr 2016
In the former life I led
I had no way of filling
The empty grave of one who's dead
My pride was e'r willing

I had an ego overblown
In pompous boasts exceeding
But I was lost and all alone
My soul was torn and bleeding

I had abilities and then
Became a prideful bearer
Of all the things that I could do
At last I was in error

Even when I knew The Lord
Made charity my pleasure
My works became my righteousness
Above my only Treasure

Christ died in vain upon his cross
If my beliefs adhered to
And I rejected precious Grace
That was the point I came to

How can I live a sinless life?
I am without that merit
Jesus lived that life for me
So Grace I could inherit!

So here I am to tell you all
Pride is like a cancer
I will boast in Jesus Christ

For He's the only answer


SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/23/2016


*"I will not boast in anything
No gifts, no power, no wisdom
I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection

Why would I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom."

How Great The Father's Love
This poem's rhythm scheme is based on the hymn "How Great The Father's Love". A fantastic "oldie"!

More and more I've been realizing that I've tried to be my own righteousness. I can't do it. Nobody can. That's why Jesus had to die. To reconcile us with the Father. It takes some gall to think of that I could be better than Jesus! But that's what I was doing trying so hard to be "good".

Please bear with me... I'm not back on the site yet. It's late and I have to go to bed. But I will try to be on tomorrow, God willing. Love you all!
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
a.

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

b.

149.6 million years away
                      (earth)                         "               "
etc.

c.

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

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

d.

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

e.

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

f.

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

g.

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

h.

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

i.

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

She wore a kerchief on her neck,
  Her bare arm showed its dimple,
Her apron spread without a speck,
  Her air was frank and simple.

She milked into a wooden pail
  And sang a country ditty,
An innocent fond lovers' tale,
  That was not wise nor witty,
Pathetically rustical,
  Too pointless for the city.

She kept in time without a beat
  As true as church-bell ringers,
Unless she tapped time with her feet,
  Or squeezed it with her fingers;
Her clear unstudied notes were sweet
  As many a practised singer's.

I stood a minute out of sight,
  Stood silent for a minute
To eye the pail, and creamy white
  The frothing milk within it;

To eye the comely milking maid
  Herself so fresh and creamy:
"Good day to you," at last I said;
  She turned her head to see me:
"Good day," she said, with lifted head;
  Her eyes looked soft and dreamy,

And all the while she milked and milked
  The grave cow heavy-laden:
I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked,
  But not a sweeter maiden;

But not a sweeter, fresher maid
  Than this in homely cotton,
Whose pleasant face and silky braid
  I have not yet forgotten.

Seven springs have passed since then, as I
  Count with a sober sorrow;
Seven springs have come and passed me by,
  And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself
  Free just for once from London,
To set my work upon the shelf
  And leave it done or undone;

To run down by the early train,
  Whirl down with shriek and whistle,
And feel the bluff North blow again,
  And mark the sprouting thistle
Set up on waste patch of the lane
  Its green and tender bristle,

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,
  Crisp primrose leaves and others,
And watch the lambs leap at their pranks
  And **** their patient mothers.

Alas, one point in all my plan
  My serious thoughts demur to:
Seven years have passed for maid and man,
  Seven years have passed for her too;

Perhaps my rose is overblown,
  Not rosy or too rosy;
Perhaps in farm-house of her own
  Some husband keeps her cosey,
Where I should show a face unknown.
  Good by, my wayside posy.
Yenson Sep 2018
The Marshmallows decided to have a top Party
Dressed gaily in white, pink, red, green and yellow
They mingled and floated around looking arty-farty
We're going to dance in town not partying in a garage
And guess what, We won't invite Toffee he's not like us

Go melt and burn says Toffee with rightful disdain
who wants to party with a bunch of soft silly buffoons
Overblown and presumptuous you lot melt in the rain
Nothing to you all but egging and hot air you poltroon
Who wants to dance with mixed up softies with no brains

I am Toffee hot and hard and always ready for the bite
You can't lick me in a hurry and I take a while to crack
I am brown with brawn and brains and ready to fight
Got rhythm with the moves, tastes and flavours top whack
Not some boring twirls or stumps gathered together tight

Come try me if you dare and see me squash you down flat
I'll go into you hard your softness yielding like knife on butter
Can marsh you with my strength till you're nothing but mellow
Or stick to your puffy wooly state and squeeze you still flatter
Till you beg and squeal your surrender showing you're shallow

I am not like you and don't think, see, look or taste like you
I am brown and sweet, hard and chewy and I really don't care
For emulsified vain brainless no substance marshmallow tools
Who can only be brave and big when all packed together like
So go party and kid yourselves softies I don't party with fools
Elijah Aug 2015
Soul is immortal
Thick skin is embodied
Mind overblown with intuition
I am a spirit creature.
Ever so sunkissed by grace
illuminating rays carry my bones
through tribulations and wrath,
I’m conquered by warm winds
of pure divinity and
constant love of nothingness.
I’m a spirit creature
#art #energy #happy #life #love #mind #poetry #soul #spirit
O my Lord, long ago I accepted the idea
of being open and accepting of change.
My resistance was ultimately futile, when…
Salvation caused my life to be rearranged.

For my perspective was spiritually altered
and my heart was subtly humbled by You;
when ready, I sought after Your Kingdom,
knowing that I would remain in Your view.

Know that there can be joy in serving others,
which is complemented with learning opportunities;
depths of understanding can be accelerated,
for we’re taught to look differently and see…

the holy lessons Christ has intended for us!
Interactions with the Body of Christ may be hard,
since the religious honing of ‘iron against iron’
can leave one’s soul feeling dulled and scarred.

Spiritual maturity is an important aspect
in the development of faith that can’t be overblown;
for a real relationship with Christ insures that…
His Children are pushed - out of their comfort zone.
.
.
.
Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Matt 8:20, Prov 27:17 and the following commentary from Abraham Israel

At the same time when Jesus said, “Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.” (Matt 8:20), it does not mean that Jesus described how poor He was to not even have a place to rest or buy a pillow and a mat to sleep. Instead Jesus used a figure of speech to convey to the certain scribe who came and said to Him, “Teacher, I will follow You wherever You go,” that when he wants to follow Jesus who does the will of God all the time according to heaven's instruction, then he has to forget about having a permanent place to sleep and a comfortable bed time. Implicitly Jesus was saying to that scribe who was very excited about following Jesus, that in the will of God, persecution might come and he will have flee from place to place, they might catch hold of him and bring him before kings and governors as a testimony for God, then from time to time food will not be placed in a table to be eaten and a time when no proper place to rest also might arise at certain times. And to another disciple who wanted to follow him, Jesus clearly expressed that in the will of God he might have to leave his father and mother and his fleshly family and relatives to go away to fulfill the will of God for his life. Sadly both of these above people did not follow Jesus further because they felt that the cost of the discipleship was great and that they were not able to leave their comfort zones.

But if we are thankful to God in the will of God with a gratitude for giving life as a gift to experience and not just hold on to our ****** comfort as the prime priority even above obeying the voice of God, then we will be very happy, joyful and content like the family above to experience heaven on earth again and again. Then we will also be followers of Jesus and his true disciples in the world as long as we are present. May God help us to be the true followers of Jesus!

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.amazon.com/Reaching-Towards-His-Unbounded-Glory/dp/1419650513/ref=sr11?s=books&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1388058560&sr;=1-1&keywords;=reaching+towards+his+unbounded+glory

(Poem) By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
Alienpoet Aug 2016
Once in a land far away.
Was a woman
she knelt to pray
She prayed for a child who could be
The key to a new dawn of ages

The baby was conceived
Naturally of course
By union of bodies
By lustful souls
The scrolls foretold the child would grow to be
A pawn in the game of prophecy

A peacemaker
A son of the goddess
Most high
Her diamond, glowing bright in the sky
But there would be a price to be paid
Not all the cards could be played
The son could never know
How it should play out
Or his mind would be full of doubt

When the child was in his teens
Daydreaming in front of computer screens
His father asked him what he knew
Of the woman dressed in blue

The boy replied and sighed
Everyone knows the story
Of the man the white rabbit prince
The peacemaker between heaven and hades
The lover who rescues his love from the flames
But who's heart can never be tamed
Or be told because he would go mad
End up sad and old
Not being able to forefill the will of the goddess

Then the father began to stress
The sons importance nevertheless,
The son had an inclining his dad wasn't letting on
the full story
So he had to find one
He looked and looked
And searched and searched
Down dale and over birch
Became a scientist
Overworked

He didn't believe in any more stories
Of space and time
Myths and legends were not on his mind
Til he met a woman
Beautiful and free
A spirit of life's mystery

She would tell him stories
Read him verse
He fell in love with her
So much worse
Than ever a man has fallen before

But what he didnt realise is she had depression
It was her curse
Even with his love it seemed
To get worse
The stories she told
Grew ever more dark and bold
Until she took her life
But not before he had taken her for a wife

Meanwhile the world had become full of strife
Wars and famine sapped Gaia's life
The earth was failing
It's life support System grew weak

But the man was too aggrieved to notice
He wouldn't go outside
His love lost he could never hide
as the world was falling apart
so was his heart

He saw a child crying outside his window
Though
And went to comfort
The boy
Orphaned by war
Then the man realised something needed to done
As he surveyed
The desolate landscape he prayed
To the goddess of blue

She granted him of vision
Where he'd have to choose the life of the world
Or the lover he knew
He cried out you *****
You goddess of the insane
I will not make the choice I will not be to blame
For my lover is my heart but this world has born many souls
Including mine
What right have I to choose
Which side to win which side to lose
I want to be happy

Frought with pain
He made his decision he overcame

He chose to solve the problems of mankind
Preaching to them and showing them sciences
Mysteries in one
Stories of his humanity being different but ultimately the same
Being one
That on top of the people being tired of war
Made peace the law
He sometimes wished he'd chose
The other choice
But then he realised
He hoped he supposed he'd be able with all his knowledge
And wisdom
That he'd be able to help her if they'd ever meet again in hades
Or wherever he'd be able to save the woman he loved from the same fate

As he died of old age
He prayed that hed be reborn
With the wisdom of a sage
So when he was reborn into
Hades shades

He grew to be a wise man still
But he always felt something was missing
Until he saw a woman
Clothed in azure
She was mysterious
but he sensed her heart was pure
He was struck by her allure
So went over to meet her
She told him she was the queen
Of this land that stretched out to the sea
the citadel of tears was her residence
The sage asked why was it called the citadel of tears
She replied because I have been a queen for the longest time
But I have never found a husband to be mine
And there is ghost in my dreams that cries
Because she is lost
In a sea of sadness
Madness her veil of midnight
Hiding her face
She cries for the husband she lost
Her touch is cold like the frost
In my dreams

The sage held her hand
Kissed on the forehead
it was more than he could stand
To see a woman
Clothed in pain
He imagined her tears
Falling like rain
He said I will pray
For a vision today
To save you from your dismay

When he slept
A dream crept
Into his mind
Of a man and a woman very much in love
But the woman was stung with a curse
her mirth was strangled
With tears
With overblown fears
That took her life
And left him lonely
With only the wisdom
To help those around the land
But now he had planned to save her
Then the dream ended
The sage was resolved to save the queen
To speak to the ghost
In her dreams

So the next night
He held the queens hand tight
As she fell asleep
Hours passed she began to moan and weep as if in pain
He prayed he asked the goddess of blue to go into her dreams
And he began to lose consciousness
And fall asleep
In the dream the ghost was weeping
The sage approached her
gently he asked her why she was crying
Fearing her reproach
she replied I am lost and I have lost the one I loved
That is why I had you come and find me
now you must set me free
I am the queens subconscious we are the same person
And we have been waiting for you husband of mine
How do I know this to be true asked the sage
The ghost clasped his hand and lifted her veil
And he knew her face
It was his wife from the previous life
He didn't notice the frost the cold of the dream was thawing melting around them
Smoke was forming then licks of flame began to burn
But he wasn't afraid
He embraced her and kissed her wildly
Flames surrounded them
Touching their bodies but not hurting them
flames of passion
Igniting their souls

The queen and the sage woke from the dream together
Knowing they were meant to be with each other for forever.
Lucky Queue Dec 2012
Maybe its just me
And my megalomania
My overblown ego
But I keep seeing and hearing
Faerie
Fairy
Fae
Fey
Everywhere I go
In chemistry: the conversion faerie
(She don't exist)
In lunch: the tooth fairies
(They might exist)
Everywhere: helpful faeries
(Of course they exist)
So is it just in my head, or are faeries creeping back?
Through the tangles of mental barriers
Near the frontmost of our subconsciouses
Maybe it's my nicknames becoming more prominent
Perhaps I'm just being silly
And maybe I'm simply pigheaded
But maybe it's true
as soon as she sees it she wants it is entitled to it while she is stealing it she begins elaborate lie everybody knows if she truly wants it she has means everybody knows she is gorgeous movie actress celebrity starlet awesome accessory genius she convinces herself she did not steal it the darling delicate chain with finely crafted handcuff clasp and accompanying key she wears it effortlessly just another imperial trifle hanging around her exquisite throat she has no idea how it got there she may have a drug problem a little dizzy even careless but she is no thief what with her magnificent beauty idyllic body prominent discography why would anyone accuse her she is submerged in deep denial why with so much to lose and absolutely nothing but tiny shimmering embellishment to gain why do tell would anyone point a finger at her she probably wasn’t even ever there at that dicey store she never tried on the astronomically overpriced bling it may have been her dodgy handlers or stylist’s suspect mismanagement and subsequent loan hypothesis she is positively not a thief it’s too insignificant an item to squabble about a mere gold necklace the whole incident ridiculously overblown cruel in fact she hates the miserable paltry piece of jewelry here take it back she insists it never graced her illustrious neck if anything perhaps a cheap ploy by Venice Beach shop to enhance it’s value oh the genuine necklace that she stole
david michael May 2012
I have never been a man of many words.

That is you would not call me by any stretch of the imagination bombastic. Nor would you refer to me as long- winded. I try to be as concise as possible.

I feel that most people have a select few adjective to describe themselves.

Personally chatty, diffuse, discursive,flatulent, loquatious, palaverous, pleonastic, prolix nor verbose would be on this list.

My words are not ample aplenty bounteous bountiful generous plenteous plentiful profuse or super abundant.

And when i make a speech it is not oratorical or overblown...

I am not pompous...I try to be as consise as possible.
Shrinking Violet Nov 2014
Do not abandon me,
No do not leave me,
To the wilderness of my mind:
A veritable tundra, a savannah,
Cold and dry and arid.
My soul pants and thirsts for a cool tall drink of somebody.
Give me a man,
Tall, strong, beautiful,
Let him hold me in his arms and croon to me
and sing of star-song and moon dreams
under the blanket of a velvet night.
Let the warm winds come with the salty whisper of sea,
of jungle-scent and overblown jacaranda flowers,
or snatches of arctic breeze
and the high keening cry of the albatross.
Only,
Do not leave me to myself,
For the scent of jungle then fades to mud,
and the jacarandas wilt,
and the arctic spaces chill me to my bones,
And I drown in the unfathomable darkness of emotion
In the lullaby-rocking motion of the sea.
And I cannot see you,
And I cannot find you,
And the night becomes a terrible blackness
And the stars intimidate
And the moon remains impassive.
No, do not abandon me.
PrttyBrd Jul 2010
I don't believe in cartoon dreamgirls
Overblown endowments and matching egos
I never sought perfection
Love always seemed a lie
A girl in a bar,
Seems so cheap and cliche
Yet, the truth is what it is
I turned to leave, the door in sight
A spilled drink and a smile.
Where I once ran to escape
Now I linger in the sweetest gaze
Apologies and kindness silent in the beat
I dreamed of blue eyes
Yet these are twinkling in caramel
I dreamed in shades of blonde
Wisps of raven hair reflect the dancing light
A drink and a breath of fresh air
Reveal humor dry enough to rival my own
She gives as good as she gets
And doesn't miss a beat
Behind those strong opinions
Is a hidden tenderness
There is perfection in that crooked smile
I don't believe in cartoon dreamgirls
Vapid and narcissistic
Barbie doll nightmares
But disguised in reality
I have found the girl of my dreams
For Challenge #2 in the group Up For A Challenge?

copyright©PrttyBrd 26/07/2010
Micah May 2013
I'm walking through crystals of insanity,
Mad I may be, but everything is clear to me,
But still it doesn't look real, feels like a dream.
Strange Insanity.

Strange Insanity,
How when I'm muddled I see your hypocrisy better,
You call me raving mad all you want,
But I'm still more honest than you'll ever be.

I'm still more honest than you'll ever be,
Looking beyond your best,
I call a ***** a *****,
But I'm not perfect.

I'm not perfect,
Little by little my masks peeling off,
In between chocolate sunshine moments of utopia,
A strange frenzy to fill rivers with your blood.

A strange frenzy to fill rivers with your blood,
What can I say, with your chrysanthemum fading away,
Simple Phobia overblown into monster clowns,
Ghost towns of my fury populated with thistles and brambles.

aiufdln asdcnuie dfyvb wiuinvcn,
wafuib You are not what you show me,
No! I'm coming to **** asfduiahnb,
Let me taint the crystals of my insanity with your blood.
Desiree Ramirez Nov 2011
Genuine conversations
were passion's static overblown
through classical lover's eyes.


i.
Confessing unrevealed tries
in variation with grieving cries.
Sighs and moans were touched
and savored everyday, at the same place.

ii.
Unexpected completions
were deviously divulged over
The temptress' despair, while cardboard
arrogance compressed within aluminum kisses.

iii.
Chemical liquids were drawing attention,
fingertips quivering at the sight of your eyes.
Palpable tension cutting through the styrofoam walls,
that we gently established to separate this sweet seduction.

iv.
Demolition began once playful vengeance intervened.
No longer did the requiem delay its flow and crunch,
for its succulent grin was painted on his chest
and carried on his hands.

v.
Cards were drawn to encaustic wax papers,
captivating lover's delight.
With sudden frustration, we searched evanescently,
for a piece of carton to hide from the fiery rains.

vi.
While puzzled Questionnaires were imprinted on catatonic embraces,
we both gnawed on the bone for answers;
barking gently at our feet, we tangled with uncompromising pretenses,
giving ourselves multiple aberrations with heartbreaking waves.

Tonight I cuddle the thorns and the knives,
contemplating lethargic affections,
infected with veracity's confection,
ignoring the ideal that I fell unfulfilled.
In one of those fogs of London
I boarded the East End train,
The mist was a yellow, evil smog
And then it began to rain.
I found a compartment, only two
To bother my peaceful ride,
And placed my case at my feet, in place
With my gold-blocked name outside.

The smell of the fog was drifting in
And burning my eyes and throat,
I said to the man, ‘Let fresh air in…’
He sat and buttoned his coat.
‘The air out there is as bad as in,’
He said with a scowl and stare,
‘You might be happy to sit and choke,
The window stays up, I swear.’

I leant well back, and looked at the girl
Who sat there, opposite me,
She wore her skirt right up to the hip,
I stared at her stockinged knee,
Her eyes were bright, an emerald green
But tears I saw on her cheek,
‘This fog,’ she muttered, and wiped them dry,
‘I think it was worse last week.’

‘But London’s always suffered from fog,’
I ventured, ‘Back in the day,
The Ripper used it to hide his crimes,
He used it getting away.’
‘Overblown,’ he said, the man in the coat,
‘There’s many was worse than he,
The blood ran thick in the gutters here
At times in our history.’

‘But he’s the one who never got caught,
You must at least give him that.’
The man slunk down in his corner seat,
Then sat, and played with his hat.
The girl just smiled, and said in a while,
I think you’re right, he’s the one,
I wouldn’t like, on a foggy night
To meet him, minus a gun.’

The man reached into his overcoat
And seized the girl with a sigh,
Holding a cut-throat razor to
Her throat, with a smile so sly.
‘I said I’d never do this again
But I must admit, I lied,
I noticed the name on your carry case,
You’re Jekyll, I see – I’m Hyde!’

David Lewis Paget
Fresh back
On the street
From prison
A pumped up
Hilarious Hercules
Forced to sleep
Under a bridge
Along with
The broken
And dead
Wind blown umbrellas

Now, yet another
Up-rooted
Member of the homeless
Flashing his *******
At these so called modern times
Not even a bottle of wine
To keep him company

The whining engines
Of passing cars
Echoing off the
Concrete and steel
Ripping and tearing
At his overblown ego
shredding it into strips

He knows it wont be long
Before he returns to a cell block
By his own choice
Not knowing anything
But a life of crime since his youth
Sunny Feb 2018
During the day, I don a mask
One I wear to hide my past
There are so many people around, yet I don’t talk
What else am I to do but gawk?
When I look around, everyone is in a herd
I want to join in, but can’t find the words
Every day, I’m lost in thought
Trying to find this answer I’ve sought

They say I’m nothing, they say I don’t talk
They say I’m a downer, that all I do is walk
with my head pointed at the ground
All of these people laughing whenever I’m around
It just ****** me off
All I want to to do is scoff
I’m sick of everything I do being overblown
I just want to be left alone.

But…when I am alone
When I’m left on my own.
I weep.
My tears, finally dripping through the seeps.
And I feel something, through all this grief.
A sweet burst of…relief.
This is the other mask I wear
The one that no one sees, because they don’t care.
I want to find someone that does.
Joseph Sinclair Jul 2015
My lovely daughter Emily
is fighting for her life.
She may not be aware of it
beneath the surgeon’s knife,
admitting of a doubt
for her is never rife.

I wish I might have half as much
courage in my own
meagre confrontations with
the symptoms that I’ve grown
accustomed to and which
are vastly overblown.
I had to get this down on paper in order to handle the over-pressing concerns that I'm trying to deal with.  Your prayers and good wishes for Emily's recovery from the SCT procedure conducted today are besought.
mirror mirror
on the wall
who has the biggest
ego of all

does this person
before you
like to hear
his trumpet toot too

mirror mirror
on the wall
will this egotistical fellow
take a great fall

has he been
full of himself
and is he in need
of reappraising himself

mirror mirror
on the wall
is this chap
an overblown load of crap

is he a pain
in the rear end
and when will
his personality make amends

mirror mirror
on the wall
will he heed your advice
and drop his pretentious vice
K Balachandran Oct 2013
The girl has a pearl, that she keeps closely guarded,
he knocks her door and she is aware of his ardor
he stands at her door, which she keeps half closed.
They are different, her words ring true to him, he loves her,
and thinks the pearl's worth is overblown, is this her most dazzling thing?
From where she comes, they count the pearl as the thing, she is aware
one huge burden for a girl, to keep it shielded until the time to hand over.
Caution is her shield, the pearl is kept burrowed, yet  it feels too heavy now,
she has two choices; find if the pearl dazzles him or not, 
she has to soon  decide.
Kvothe Dec 2016
This bleak existence
reeks
of cisterns,
it peeks it's leaky head
above the gutters.
Shuttered **** tight.

Death is the meaning of life.

Sylvia knew it best,
resting under home,
bone heavy
and sleepless.
That jar of hers;
irksome,
thirsts on monochrome
bleakness;
needless, overblown nerves.
Smash it!
Crush it!
Whack it!
Mush it!
Classic glassy mess.
Break it!
Fix it.
Tape it.
Place it.
Back now on your head.
This intervention has the feel of déjà vu the record’s spinning forever locked in its groove a way of life reduced to a form stylized routinized to a shallow and shiny norm from revolution to cliché

just superficial stimulation

but what’s different? appearances change but there’s no progress in this apocalypse

everything that rises must converge all the meaningful surprises grow from within and stretch the threads of molded costumes copied, sinned, and said

rags cover neglect and decay veil desire’s all-compelling force generations lived through their eyes dissatisfied with any compromise

the searing balm of burning screens faith in sense impression for ironic equivocation it’s (just) culture, neither right nor wrong a place to hide, from considering

from revolution, to cliché, we lose our way faith in sense impression, ironic simulation so responsible in their noble stimulation

coming down to unchanged reality everything that meets must diverge patchwork king of limited domain stitched and sewn and overblown
PrttyBrd Jan 2011
14
Heart shaped boxes with red satin ribbons
Pink stuffed atrocities that have no use
Sappy lovesick greeting cards
Flowers that always die

Cheap chocolate massed produced
Three months of brainwashing prior
Chalky hearts profess true love
The lonely always cry

Made up days of forced romance
Bullied into mass compliance
Pressured into jewelry sales
Empty grand gestures prevail

Today is a day for puppy love
An excuse to eat by candlelight
Public affection is cool tonight
As we've appeased the Gods of retail

A day like any other day
Rising and setting moon and sun
Though nothing has changed
The heart races still

Though the chocolates are cheesy and stale
And flowers will die tomorrow
Though the world bullied the romance
I've been taken against my will

To the land of cotton candy dreams
For a few heartfelt words on paper
A card that speaks your love
And the truth that is in your eyes

Nervously, the gifts accepted
I am almost at a loss
Tears begin to well a little
And I pray the words don't lie

May I stay in this land of make-believe
Where it feels like a fairytale
Make tonight's dream, forever's reality
Wishes on wishing stars come true

Sarcastically with cynicism
And a dry wit that defines my nature
Hidden deep within the core
Of things I said I would never do

I will savor every chocolate
As if it is your warm lips on my own
And every word and cheesy line
Is the most beautiful I ever read

For you have chosen it just for me
Filled with all you cannot say
So I cherish my pink and heart-filled card
Because it is to me the words are said

From me, there is no cheesy gift
No candy covered sweets tonight
Nothing retail overblown
Just a small white box with a  hand tied bow

A poem in my own hand
As I give my heart on patterned paper
So simple, but it's everything.
Please don't ever let me go
copyright©PrttyBrd 14/01/2011- From 14
Aniq Ahmad Aug 2018
In the middle of the Roman empire
And under the Cesar's throne
No one thought of a story bein overblown

As Pompeii lost his wife and hated Cesar
Cesar got betrayed, killed Pompeii
That was common tragic teaser

But what unfolded the truth?
As the words came out of Cleopatra
Cesar ****** and hooked

But that was too mainstream no?
She was just bound to love him
Cuz she had no support for her own

Cesar, killed by politics and forgotten
Anthony his commander
Took the survey and went Egypt often

The women that he ****** had no honor
A devil in form of a *****
Just some good clothes and venal

Anthony put on the Egyptian antimony
Found love in Cleopatra
Left that *****, filled with insanity

Then as he was hated for loving foreign
Octavian lost faith
And headed for killing the fallen

Anthony didn't wanna die as a traitor
Stabbed himself
Wore the king's robe as  dictator

Cleopatra saw that and cried
She bit herself by snake
And later died

Chaperones picked both up
Sat them on their thrones
Romans came and were blown
what a waste Feb 2017
Let us dethrone this ***** little clone,
put him back in the barn where he belongs;
next to the other dozen standalone stepping
stones collectively gathering dust to the dome.
A collection of crazies chasing overblown
daisies in a field of belated paraphrases.
"Three lines should get you going, Homie!"
Bite down, giddy up, breathe out.
It's savior of the species eager to embrace
the future,but skyscrapers rise like an
oases just to fold like Fathertime's wrist piece.
Where's your patience? Check the back pages.
What's a death race without 1st place?

Crusading sapiens pound their chest
while the invading aliens blend in with the rest
and I'm too pills past drunk waiting
for the impending blimp on your radar
to changling into a Deathstar.
Aaron LaLux Aug 2019
Tea With Yoda [50]

Having a Tea Ceremony,
with Yoda in a pagoda,
they say life’s a ladder,
He says it’s more like a totem,

trying to make ends meet for ends meat,
by exceeding expectations & meeting quotas,

trying to make my six senses see as clear as my mentor’s,
a Sensi with stressless sensibilities yet infinite responsibilities,
He’s a mature mixture of past scriptures & vast futures,
the perfect fusion to provide ideal solutions effectively,
to dispel all of the confusing illusions that currently occur,
so that my six senses can make sense of it & see clearly,  
& that’s exactly why I’m grateful He’s my mentor,
I clear my mind when I enter his temple & listen attentively,

He’s Mr. Miyagi,  Professor X, Stephen Miles, Morpheus,  
Gandalf, Splinter, & Obi Wan, all rolled into one,
His composition is awesome so when taking lessons,
I make sure to be free of all distractions going on,

attempting to not take meetings yet people keep calling,
but phone’s off so I don’t see nor take note of the notifications,
I just go off like a boat on the edge of Niagara with no motor,
got expense taste life’s great though no time to be wasting,

gotta find a way to keep speed without delay & without haste,
because patience is key but time won’t wait,

so I stay totally outta touch with the clubs & the whole scene,
so focused I don’t even notice those overblown cokeheads,
light so bright that I’m always getting it in even when I go out,
light always burns but never burns out even at it’s lowest,
heard them mention a question but didn’t return the gesture,
was unsure of their motives plus the question sounded loaded,
goin' all in outta control only thing I limit is my exposure,
on balance with my talents in a pair of New Balances,
meanwhile they’re still trying to gain their composure,
I swear to God I’m not a rock nor in a hard place,
but I do rock Ohms on mountain tops complete with boulders,
shout out to Colorado though I boast low key so no bravado,
soul sans ego, modest & honest like a Buffalo Soldier,
no need to buy game it’s already in the bag sewed close,
& I’m relaxed shoes off spine upright aligned in the Lotus,
having a Tea Ceremony, with Yoda in a pagoda,

having a Tea Ceremony, with Yoda in a pagoda,
they say life’s a ladder, He says it’s more like a totem,
trying to make ends meet for ends meat,
by exceeding expectations & meeting quotas…

∆ LaLux ∆
@aaronlalux
from THHT3: Dark Lights & Bright Shadows 9/9/19

— The End —