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Umi Mar 2018
Go on with haste and fly through this undawning memory of love,
What is the moon looking up at, perhaps a dance of pulsar stars ?
What is the sun looking down at, perhaps the life growing from light?
An eternal sinner wanders under their light, with no aim, no goal,
All he carries shall be the pride in his heart, with undying love burning as bright as a hyper nova in the nearby young nightsky,
Lingering sadness seeps it's way through, to the surface of the moon, forever to be bound in an orbit, overshadowed, shining in lesser light,
Yet does it oversee, what beauty it brings to the night, or what it would be if darkness reigned supreme without it and the stars to rise?
Enlighting the darkest of nights for us, forgotten it keeps up his duty,
For maybe, even if just one is touched by his luminosity it would be enough to keep going, until the time comes to greet the break of dawn
The milkyway alike a river of stars, each with their own story to tell,
Stars stand with their secret hidden, an orbital parent to many planets
The sky is the eternity in a land of pure fantasy and hope after all,
A dream which knows no death till its termination draws near,
But isn't waking up the commencement of something far greater ?

~ Umi
Alex E Dec 2010
I am overshadowed
By my desire.

I look up to it.

Its longings
Dwarf my abilities.
Pax Dec 2016
Rock with double shadows
******* is hard to swallow
Sea of Pebbles in the sands of time
Roses hunt something that shines
Powders of snow shine in the dark
But it did not shine by just anyone
Alone, hidden in a sea of pebbles
------------Will you find it?-----------
Or it's just another thing lost
In the sands of time
© 2012 Pax
this was one of my older piece when i was starting to used imagery in my poetry. It was the First part of my Concrete poetry series, it was supposed to be a pebble shape, now im not sure(smiles). As i re-read it now and post it here, i realized something that i never thought of when i wrote it. I was writing it on a fantasy genre on mind, but now i know deep inside, even before, i am looking for someone who i can connect with, to share something with, to be with someone you can relax and trust upon... i become the rock who is lost in the sands of time, because the roses have gone away, or never got to find my shine.
Ratna Nov 2014
A presence that's physically not there.
Though it's lurking pretty much everywhere.
It's harmless, they say.
But I don't want them to stay.
Being overshadowed is scary.
And seeing the shadows of the past is painful to me.
Though they're physically not here, their shadows remained.
Trapping me inside an invisible cage of fear.
Violet Mason Dec 2012
It's funny, no one knows about that one day I went to the Guidance office
And I cried for an hour
I was sitting in a corner
On the floor
There were black linoleum tiles
Coated with a fine pelt of dust bunnies.

I tried breathing in the problems people came to discuss in anguish and the tears and despair of my predecessors
To fill that empty space in the back of my throat
That you get when you cry for too long and your face is stiff with tears and your eyes sting, because  you've been holding a staring contest with reality, and you lost, but after you caved, and blinked, the sting still lingered.

The space at the back of my throat stayed empty and it stayed that way all day.
When I went back to class and my eyes were rimmed red and occasionally my breaths would come in short gasps like a marathon runner- I guess I was running a marathon- although one of a different sort,
And nobody noticed I had been crying because on the day I chose to break down another wave of bad news hit the school and so I was overshadowed so they all had trembling jaws and glistening eyes as well and,

I still can't decide whether or not I wanted someone to notice that I had been crying.
Sayer Mar 2013
I don’t need to look it up if the room is dark and hysterical

crazy as it will ever be and out of my peripheral vision comes the world’s longest highway

a place where no indicator will tell me if she wishes to tell me something important

a place where people go and ride forever into the breeze of the crying air



just the one part lets me drift alone into the words once again

I can’t remember anything about riding on that highway but the inspiration it gave me

for it would be my transport to years in shadows (if I only could control it)

but it looked at me for I am unrecognizable to the river below it

                                                    

by the beaches of the longest highway in existence I snapped a glance at you

your beauty flowing with the air; the wind blowing gently across my hair

the sounds of cars and trucks above us and you smiling made me assured

that anything is possible if i just put my mind to it



all that time I just sat there imagining the walls breaking

only to find that those dreams were reality (and this is a dream?)

the answer to my problems, the end to and

I won’t keep the car running if I don’t have to



the colors start to fade as night falls in the city overshadowed by the longest highway in the world

lights up the world from the Universe’s point of view

I begin to follow you where ever you go

to find myself with you the whole time



I don’t need some assurance to know if this real or not

this moment, this truth is reality

no matter how much I want this city to be

tonight I will wish I can visit once again

but the sky keeps falling and will shatter into a million pieces

piercing the air making it cry tears of blood

with that nightmare I’ll wake up

one day

next to you.
Umi Apr 2018
That shooting star,
Loved the earth so much that it crashed right into it, burning away in passion, lethal, poisonous passion, to be with what it really wanted,
It cut through the darkness with our hopes, with our deepest wishes,
Before it vanished, like a long lost dream, or a overshadowed memory
As time ticks on, reality and illusion melt together, sharing a heart,
That too is a sign of death, as each lost its meaning by just doing this,
In order to heal my aching chest, I too must be to death in sweet love,
So I will not lose to anyone, daling, after all, once you give another a home within your heart, a part, yet small dies and fades into shadows
I know I am not alone, because I am reaching out for your love, dear
A last remote of lonesome fear, engaging the thought of losing what you hold so dear, is what makes it morbid, burning even hotter now,
But a fire burns out faster, the higher it reaches, so be very cautious,
Envy is for love the metamorphosis to turn into pure fury or hate,
A ****** devotion to be the only one your darling ever will desire,
As you fall, to death in love

~ Umi
elle jaxsun Jul 2018
i escaped 2,226 miles away

in hopes of finding
what i've been missing

in hopes of escaping
your
deadpan
tight-lipped
cold stare

in hopes of
peace

what i've been missing
all along
is me

overshadowed by the
hatred of myself
built by you

overshadowed by the
thoughts of suicide

why would i want
to be me when
my own family doesn't
seem to want me

and i know i'm not
the only one with a
story like that but

knowing so doesn't really make
this much easier to handle

i will admit that
i've had a lot of help
and i'm beyond lucky
to have the family i chose

they teach me things like

just because you used to be
doesn't mean you have to be

and

patience and kindness can
tear down the tallest walls

the ones i’ve spent my whole
life building just so i didn't
have to feel all of that **** again

but i’ve been
getting better at getting better
at 2,226 miles away

i think i’ll stay
I moved a year and a month ago. I live with some of the best people I know. I'm so thankful to be here.
Peoples’ lives are dying in consistency;
Greed in their pedestal has corrupted this world’s societies.
A fruitful opportunity, a gold rush was encountered!
Underlying the main ambition of many unfortunate ambitious desires.
  
Persistently seeking an object of materiality,
Children have become contracted to labor endlessly till mortality.
The corporate pose has overshadowed humanity,
Predetermining existence through living in a vision of obscurity.
  
Freedom has evolved in many attaining their dreams,
Yet, failing to realize their limits in overstepping boundaries.
Morality has been compromised to new opportunities.
Ultimately, corrupting one’s essence in living spiritually.
  
We have eluded to perceive the subtle communication they have established you see.
Projecting honesty while planting a seed, they enrich themselves invulnerably.
Enabled through the loophole of ignorance attracted by social mediocrity,
Revealing a battle between each other secretly disguised as insecurity.
  
Asking how do I seek success, freedom, and happiness endlessly.
Indubitably, the answer relies inside, secreting awareness internally.
Discovering that the war begins within may end the violence indeed.
Extinguishing eternal destruction of the world through peace and harmony.
  
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
John Shahul Oct 2018
Whenever  I am not seeing you
Lethal void is my heart
Like the monolithic art
Of a sculptor;
Like the figures of Mona Lisa,
I tried to engrave you
Again and again in my heart
And rehearsed you many times
In my memories.

To reconstitute
Your beautiful image
Inside of my mind
I behold you thousand times,
Yet all loving and languishing
Nothing could be captured
To match your perfection
As you were seen in person
Nor could be remembered
To your many dimensional figure
Of youth unclaimed.


You are just beautiful but demure,
Seductive but unrevealing
A love that slips down
Near your lips were forbidden?
And be never told?

Like two balsam flowers unfold
Opening from their buds,
Your eyelids are open wide.
Like two bees ******* honey
My eyes were seeking yours
To ferret out the secret
Of your true love and desires;
Neither did they come out
Nor did they flutter
And never reached out
My beehive safely.

Seeking out for your true love
In your eyes, in your lips,
Cheeks and chin far and near,
Everywhere  all over you,
Looking at you all the time.
You are open to interpretation
Of your true intention
Of your love and desires
Like the secret smiles
Of Mona Lisa.

Until you make confession
Of your true love,
I will behold you thousand times,
You are just beautiful but demure
Looking for you all the time.
You make me dream about you
While in my sleep or I am awake.

My discrete memories
Are overshadowed by time,
I cannot fight with my feelings
Whenever  I am not seeing you,
Lethal void is my heart,
Come and meet me in person!
Neville Johnson Jan 2019
Sue Venir loved Hugh Biquitous, but he was unreliable, so she confided this to her friend, Di Namic who confirmed he’d been seen with Penny Farthing and Miss Chevous. Then she ran into Ken Tucky, who’d just broken up with Jen Erator, and was known to hang with Mel N. Choly. Together, they and Dan Ube went to a party thrown by Perry Winkle at the house of Dana Point.

Con Valescence introduced Sue to Marine Layer who asked Mr. Tucky to join the conversation, and they’ve been conversing ever since. Lou Kemia couldn’t make the party as he was ill. This was confirmed by Nick Knack who’d been informed by Conrad Alert.

Penny Saver left early, heading over to the home of I. Stan Bul, who was throwing a celebration in honor of Hazel Nuts and Grant N. Aid, who were to be married by Will Power, though Miss Givings, his former girlfriend, did not approve. Celebrants included Buzz Saw, Ma Larkey, Ben E. Diction, ***** Pack and of course Ann I. Versary, who deemed it worthy of being remembered. Tom Foolery was always good for a laugh, which was appreciated by Art I. Face, Dee Vice and Tess Osterone.

Some chose to dine alfresco, notably Flora Fauna, Heidi **, and Ed U. Cate. Barb Ituate was a downer, though Ma Larkey tried to cheer her up, watched by Cliff Hanger who wanted to see what happened, until a dispute arose between Ana Conda and Ann Ticipation, who’d both been vying for the attention of Billy Goat.

Meanwhile, in another part of town, Terry Dactyl was in a dispute with Billy Club over Lilly White because of something Miss Conception had reported after hearing from that duo, Caesar Salad and Reuben Sandwich.

Junior Mints tried to mollify the situation with sugary statements, but was interrupted by Yuri Nal, who said he had to go, and then left with Jay Walking and they were off to congregate with Diane Tomeetya.

At the next table General Jive held court in a warlike mood,  that Cary Cature tried to lighten.  With them were Tex Arcana, whose accent was amusing to Bill Collector, Al Gorythm, Tim Buktu and Marv E. Lous, who always had a great time wherever he went.

By then, Bobby Pin, the luscious seamstress, had given up on Peter D. Out, after seeing him clowning around with Butch Wax and Slim N. None, all of them malcontents and disrupters.

In walked Daisy Chain, newly arrived  from the Southern Hemisphere, along with Sydney Australia. Klaus Trophobic had initially agreed to travel with the two of them, but said he had to stay at home. Frank O’Phile overhead this and confided to Phil O’Sophically that there is sometimes merit to such position.

The restaurant was owned by Ty ****, managed by Chuck Wagon, with the food delivered by waiters Clay *** and Terry Aki , assisted by busboyTara Misou.

The next morning, everyone gathered at the home of Dawn Patrol, who was there with her new husband, Earnest Money, after divorcing Perry Mutual. Deb Enture was her maid of honor.  Nick O’Time was nearly late to the party, driving in with Stu Debaker, via a shaky Uber driver named Manuel Shifting.

Al Acrity was his usual sunny self, but not when Den O’Thieves interrupted his conversation, which was shut down by Kay O.

Sherman Oaks and Van Nuys were late, having gotten mixed up on the location. Cliff Hanger was worried about the falling stock market, and as a result was getting drunk with Jack Daniels. Stan Dup was his usually assertive self, but was overshadowed by the always munificent Cy Pres.

Claude Hopper was dressed in yesterdays’ styles, but that didn’t matter to Dov Tail who  was going into business with Matt Chabox, known for his incendiary personality. They had two other partners to round the group out, **** Ular and Ben E. Fit.

Gar Gantuan loomed large, and was unstable when paired with Mo Mentum, who said in such situations, they needed to involve Otto Matic.

Terry Cloth was wrapped around Jan U. Ary, ogled by Barbie Queue and Coleman Lantern.
zebra Oct 2017
Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

............
Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

................
SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

......................

.
IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
...............
PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

.............
OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition
Just Melz Jan 2015
It's a nightmare
Being the burnt out
Shooting star
Replaced by the light
Of a full moon

It's a nightmare
Being hidden underneath
Clouds and overcast skies
Replaced by angel eyes
That makes you swoon

It's a nightmare
Being darkened
By nights that glow
Replaced by a shooting star
Brighter than you ever were

It's a nightmare
Being overshadowed
By dreams of the sun
Replaced by love,
Hope, joy, life... **with her
SassyJ Jan 2018
I want to tell you a story of the rainbow
that faded on the rays of the sun stroke
ohh the ground that I walked all the way
torrential rains on the side of the river bed
eroding all there is over all that is ever was

They see, see numbers sinking  
inside the tray of the memory
fixtures of the broken marbles
overshadowed by the cardinal

I want to walk you in the green forest range
that ever rising vocal lullaby mileage
of love and true redemption certainly
the harvest a triage of unlost path
eroding all there is over all that is ever was

They see, see numbers sinking  
inside the tray of the memory
fixtures of the broken marbles
overshadowed by the cardinal
For audio follow:
https://soundcloud.com/user-367453778/overshadowed-by-a-cardinal

about transitions of a divorce
Lavender & Honey**

You know the age old question:
If you were a drink
What would you be?
I must be alcoholic.
My highs and lows are so extreme.
And it seems i've been transforming
A lot of good little ****** girls
Into blood lusting sirens
As of late.
I would come in a tall glass
Brimming with lavender & honey.
Honey is usually sweet,
But sometimes
Can be overshadowed in bitter.
And much like nectar
I didn't care for myself as a child.
Lavender
Because I try to be soothing
And envelop you in love
You can tell me of your pain & fears
And I will hold them closer than my own
That's what lavender is for, you see.
Comfort.
I suppose I could have
A hint of bergamot as well.
Though I swear i'm not pretentious.
I'm just trying to make things Interesting.
So what do you think?
If I was a drink.
Would you drink me?
"I love it, and for the record,
yes, I absolutely would."
raingirlpoet Dec 2016
my sister has always been above me
18 months older,
she's larger than life
a social butterfly fluttering non-stop and here i am, still trying to spin my cocoon

you can hear her laughter from the next room away,
(the next five rooms away, if she's with a friend)
always smiling, groaning about something, or ohmygoshhaveyouseenmyigottago-ing
she's got a mane of hair half her height
her keys jingle jangle on the state university lanyard she wears around her neck
she's always home before 1 am but some nights, she doesn't sleep
other nights, she's out like a light
she was always so good at sleeping

me, i'm short hair don't care
anti-socially awkward
perpetually clenched hands covered in paint most of the time
beat up toms on my feet, ***** glasses on my face
come winter, her forgotten beanie until it's on my head
i phrase things oddly, have a dry wit about me
i keep to myself because i hate the way i sound/look/talk
i have one friend my own age in real life.
the other ones are about 4+ years older or younger than me and our method of communication is typing on screens, thousands of miles away from one another
i prefer this method

today she told me how weird it is that my "real" friends are strangers on the internet "like ten years older than you"
i told her that's as weird as her being friends with guys a year behind me if i were still in high school
she says "ummm i don't know why you can't just socialise normally like a normal person"
she says she doesn't know why i'm so painfully socially inept
i remind her i've been out of school longer than she has and haven't been around anyone other than my doctors and mom for more than a couple awkward minutes in over a year
dramatic sigh "yeah but you like dropped out so that's different"

she's so very lucky she can't see into my mind
she'd be terrified and disgusted by what she'd find there
too many monsters, too many thoughts, too many girls, too many raindrops to pour on her parade

there are so many things she takes for granted like
smiling, laughing, talking normally, not having to stress over whether people will be able to understand her
"just go up to someone and say hi"
yeah sorry, i kind of can't.

one day i decided to wear my dad's old button down shirt and khaki pants
i gelled my hair into spikes, just to see what kind of reaction i'd get if i started dressing to match how i felt about my ****** orientation
"here let me roll up your sleeves it'll look cuter that way"
"ohmygosh you look like a lesbian you need to go change right now"
she was only half wrong
i didn't change.

she's short and muscular while i'm tall and freakishly thin
she's able bodied, athletic as heck and my body is slowly deteriorating but at least my mind is still sharp

when we were kids,
i followed her everywhere
when mom dressed us up alike
i loved it while she hated it
one time we bought matching dresses
i wore mine all summer while hers collected dust in the back of her closet
the next year, i bought it off of her for $4.

before I left school, we took an AP Psych class together
she thought Psych looked so interesting and wanted to major in it
i was in the middle of a downward spiral and just wanted to understand what games my mind was playing on me
my sister memorised and studied hard
i didn't and got a higher score than her
i started missing class, more and more and our teacher asked her where i was
she was too embarrassed to tell him the real answer
in bed, eating about 5 crackers a day, in a cloud of depression, sleeping and wasting away
the kids at school thought i had cancer

a year and a half later, she's gotten her diploma and i, my GED
we're both taking classes at the community college now
my end goal is art therapy
hers is undecided

i'm not comfortable in my own skin
i've been in the dark for most of my life, be it shadows or my own man-made perpetual nighttime
my sister has tried and is trying her hardest to look out for me
but i'm not some clay that needs to be molded into her perfect little box
i'm sharp edges and bony crevices to her soft welcoming shell
i am the dark to her light, the yang to her yin
and one of these days,
i'll be okay with that.
-
-z.z
Kam Rayefski Jun 2012
A circuit land,
Overshadowed by late, orange, blooms.
Tough powers tower high,
Mirroring fear to passersby.

Forest rich with opportunity,
Potential plots for growth,
Short showers bear us fruits,
Of evermore enriching schemes.

Spikes of hopes, dreams and wonders,
Base levels of lost sympathies,
Crying wounds of hungry symphonies,
Howls of jeer, malice, and thunder.

A shattered system holds us together,
A web void of its structure, and spider,
Leadership is not without its tethers,
Binding back what was once deep.

Inside those who  not heed,
Of the instincts that lead to their greed
We need you dreamers, to help us gaze
And see the stars again, through that lamp lit haze.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | Y| | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |

        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an
From the womb of the night
Births the Sun ,
Admist the wails of rays and light
Overshadowed in might the night
Slips away in amazing grace
And in good graces goes  
The last fleeting breath
of our last night's dreams
The epimonic clatter
We hear year after year
"Goodmorning to all far and near"
may the way that gives way to this accord of may be in awe of truth and not the fruits of disarray

I shall be meditating upon the roads travelled and many discoveries gather that I have unravelled

I shall curl my high excitements and misguided ambitions to unfurl what the calls of the wise unfurl and admonish

In the mist amidst the tricking twists of fits and false gists, may I hold up fists that will seize to desist and delete the disease of fallacy in curtailed wit

In the shadows dark, some pale
may I not fade into the tales of lies and manipulative games

In the guise of dames so modern and fabulously inclined to fame,
may I guage and carry my animosity into the mystery of my identity where only the genuine and real can relate

In the encounters with material and all that deters from the mystic and ethereal,
I hope to remember the real surreal to surmise the reels of fantasy thrills in graphic frills and euphonic trills

However the gigantic systems of the world in money, greed, vanity or lust, may doctor sickness into the souls of the lost and weak:
may my heart remain meek and my vision bright and led by the lens of the soul....

With or without I pray not as a religious pilgrim but a sage seeking neverending Light... ever the more grateful, harnessing the grapes of creation, worshiping a servant's code in humility.

hustling about this rash hassle of life overshadowed by pyramids and castles
remaining true to the cause even when temptation is endlessly bustling about
remember remember the hustle when you were down and out without
I pray
I meditate
I search
I question
Sarah Riordan Feb 2012
Where the grapes you eat are red and green
But the ones you draw are purple

Where you love your parents with all of your heart
But pretend you’re an orphan when you play with friends

Where the monsters that lurk in closets and under beds
Can be destroyed by the light of day

Where a stinging, aching cut or bruise
Can be healed by a kiss

Where a girl can transform into a fairy princess
By slipping on a voluminous pink tutu

Where a boy becomes a conquering hero
By arming himself with an intimidating roll of wrapping paper

Where a slightly unkempt yard
Becomes a jungle full of tigers and serpents

Where an in ground pool
Becomes an ocean whose depths must be explored

Where winter
Is a season for snowmen and presents

Where summer
Is a season for ice cream and beaches

Where Mommy
Is the best chef, nurse, and storyteller

Where Daddy
Is the great protector, hug giver, and handyman

Where science has no bearing
Because rainbows and lightning come from magic

Where logic doesn’t make sense
Because the powers of love and fantasy are illogical

And there is no place for suffering
Because pain is overshadowed by innocence
Thirty floors up, rifle in hand
windows blown out, a view of the land
she sighs... eight years of war, no end in sight
darkness prevails, gunshots in the night.
she's still there, provisions nearby
listening for the enemy's cry
she's cleaned her rifle a thousand times
two hundred tick marks, etched in fine lines
one down, an army to go.
she prayed to god that the flash wouldn't show.

this city's been dead for over a year
yet theres still so many who cower in fear
of her fifty cal blast in the dead of the night.
the enemy falls, no more need for fright
shes been here for nearly a year,
ten thousand rounds and an airdrop every moon
with a note that says the war could end soon
the food is bad but you hardly notice
the company's good, after all theyre the closest.
her spotter, a man, was all she had now
he swore he'd protect her no matter how
theyd been lovers, and friends even too
after all... it gave them something to do
a single shot rips through the night
tearing apart the enemy on the right
one more down, an army to go.
she prayed that the flash wouldn't show

she looked through the scope of her closest ally
the fifty cal's sights perfect to her eye
watching for movement, always alert.
as she felt his hand slip beneath her shirt.
she grinned a little as he crept towards her neck
shivering tingles made her a wreck
as she lie in prone, watching the town
glad to have this man around
"wait" she whispers, a target in sight
she lines up the shot and it echoes tonight.
one more down, an army to go.
she prayed that the flash wouldn't show.

she sigh's again, back to work.
watching wherever shadows lurk.
a flurry of shots rips through the air
straight past her face, singeing her hair
the flash gave him away, as he fired unaware
that he'd woken a ****** coaxed out of her lair
one more down, an army to go.
she prayed again that the flash wouldn't show.

the letters stopped coming, but the packages came
she knew what it meant, but everything's the same
this is life for her now, nothing will change
the war will go on, its nothing strange
theres five hundred marks on the .50 so far
theres more in their army, wherever they are
one more down, an army to go
she prays ever still that the flash wont show.

fifteen years later, its been days since a ****
everything was silent, all was still
instead of a package, a chopper came in
set down on the building with the ****** within
the rifle now had a thousand marks on its frame
almost all of them white, one red streak bright as a flame
she packed up her gear, the rifle and ammo
wiped off the dirt on her old urban camo
she made her way up, the general awaits
wondering what happened, her spotter's fate.
the one red streak, the mark of her friend
she was there, but he wasn't in the end.
driven insane by the constant fight
she'd put him out of his misery one night.
she said not a word as she boarded the ride
one single tear fell, with no attempt to hide the pain inside
one more down, no army to go
she prayed no more that the flash would show.
(epilogue)
her beloved fifty cal, now hung on her wall
rewarded to her for answering duty's call
that one red mark overshadowed the rest
he'd stuck with her so far, he'd done his best.
she was the best, the greatest marksman of all time
the dreams never ceased, the memories never ended
the death of her beloved, and the years she'd spent with
never left her, nor did she want them to
she got a call one day, she had a job to do.
the rifle came down from its spot on the wall
the time came again to answer the call
one more down, an army to go
she prayed once more that the flash wouldn't show
Kris Prevel Jun 2014
Why are you so complex?
Why does covetousness never snooze?
Why stir emotions into a vortex?
Why inflict this mental bruise?

Must you always be larger than life?
Must you always overshadow?
Must you act like a desperado?
Must nothing in your life be adequate?

You don't see me frown
You don't seem to see, you clown
You don't seem to empathise
You don't seem to realise

Always it happens
Always it's happened
Always I'm sighing
Always I'm silently crying

Overshadow my quiet mind
Overshadow my sadness
Overshadow my gladness
Overshadow any recent find

Everything must jointly entwine
Everything must not be out-rightly mine
Everything must glow!
Everything does not, it's in your shadow

Why? Oh! Why?  do I end up feeling like a sideline?

Written
By Kris Prevel
June 2014
Jaclyn Nov 2014
Yesterday,
Tender pursuits
Ordered
by shortened expression
And personal amusement.

Pleasure was channeled
by uncanny imagination.

Ignorance was developed
with years
of sheltered nurture.

Endeavors were focused
Through heartened dreams
Waiting eternities to age.

Today,
Life is starved of dignity,
Lead by the breath of humanity,
And trailed by my past.

Kindness overshadowed
by needless mockery.

Confidence diminished
Through thoughtless faults.

Purity saturated
with uncertain willingness.

Competence choked
from the flairs of society.

Tomorrow,
Independence is a necessity
Steered by Today,
Speckled by yesterday.

Motivation should dictate
my verdicts,
And challenge perils.

Agonies lifted
Through sanguinity

Virtue grown
Only through praise
From the satisfaction of many.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow
Immersed in today
Is the root of my future.
Jordan Rowan Nov 2015
I don't want to be another guy who writes love sick poems about the girl he loves
Why can't I just be?
Why can't I just think?
They become the same old song
The same old line after line
With broken-hearted solemnity overshadowed by immaturity

I will now become a man that no longer waits in the dark for someone to bring me a light
I will make my own light
I will make my own breaks
I will fight for what I want
I will live with how it ends
Or I will smile when it lasts

I will face what I want and I will let it be known how I feel without ambiguity or veils
I will face my fears
And I will forget they exist
If love ends forever
Then forever is not for me
Today I am a man, naked and known
So the son of Menoetius was attending to the hurt of Eurypylus
within the tent, but the Argives and Trojans still fought desperately,
nor were the trench and the high wall above it, to keep the Trojans in
check longer. They had built it to protect their ships, and had dug
the trench all round it that it might safeguard both the ships and the
rich spoils which they had taken, but they had not offered hecatombs
to the gods. It had been built without the consent of the immortals,
and therefore it did not last. So long as Hector lived and Achilles
nursed his anger, and so long as the city of Priam remained untaken,
the great wall of the Achaeans stood firm; but when the bravest of the
Trojans were no more, and many also of the Argives, though some were
yet left alive when, moreover, the city was sacked in the tenth
year, and the Argives had gone back with their ships to their own
country—then Neptune and Apollo took counsel to destroy the wall, and
they turned on to it the streams of all the rivers from Mount Ida into
the sea, Rhesus, Heptaporus, Caresus, Rhodius, Grenicus, Aesopus,
and goodly Scamander, with Simois, where many a shield and helm had
fallen, and many a hero of the race of demigods had bitten the dust.
Phoebus Apollo turned the mouths of all these rivers together and made
them flow for nine days against the wall, while Jove rained the
whole time that he might wash it sooner into the sea. Neptune himself,
trident in hand, surveyed the work and threw into the sea all the
foundations of beams and stones which the Achaeans had laid with so
much toil; he made all level by the mighty stream of the Hellespont,
and then when he had swept the wall away he spread a great beach of
sand over the place where it had been. This done he turned the
rivers back into their old courses.
  This was what Neptune and Apollo were to do in after time; but as
yet battle and turmoil were still raging round the wall till its
timbers rang under the blows that rained upon them. The Argives, cowed
by the scourge of Jove, were hemmed in at their ships in fear of
Hector the mighty minister of Rout, who as heretofore fought with
the force and fury of a whirlwind. As a lion or wild boar turns
fiercely on the dogs and men that attack him, while these form solid
wall and shower their javelins as they face him—his courage is all
undaunted, but his high spirit will be the death of him; many a time
does he charge at his pursuers to scatter them, and they fall back
as often as he does so—even so did Hector go about among the host
exhorting his men, and cheering them on to cross the trench.
  But the horses dared not do so, and stood neighing upon its brink,
for the width frightened them. They could neither jump it nor cross
it, for it had overhanging banks all round upon either side, above
which there were the sharp stakes that the sons of the Achaeans had
planted so close and strong as a defence against all who would
assail it; a horse, therefore, could not get into it and draw his
chariot after him, but those who were on foot kept trying their very
utmost. Then Polydamas went up to Hector and said, “Hector, and you
other captains of the Trojans and allies, it is madness for us to
try and drive our horses across the trench; it will be very hard to
cross, for it is full of sharp stakes, and beyond these there is the
wall. Our horses therefore cannot get down into it, and would be of no
use if they did; moreover it is a narrow place and we should come to
harm. If, indeed, great Jove is minded to help the Trojans, and in his
anger will utterly destroy the Achaeans, I would myself gladly see
them perish now and here far from Argos; but if they should rally
and we are driven back from the ships pell-mell into the trench
there will be not so much as a man get back to the city to tell the
tale. Now, therefore, let us all do as I say; let our squires hold our
horses by the trench, but let us follow Hector in a body on foot, clad
in full armour, and if the day of their doom is at hand the Achaeans
will not be able to withstand us.”
  Thus spoke Polydamas and his saying pleased Hector, who sprang in
full armour to the ground, and all the other Trojans, when they saw
him do so, also left their chariots. Each man then gave his horses
over to his charioteer in charge to hold them ready for him at the
trench. Then they formed themselves into companies, made themselves
ready, and in five bodies followed their leaders. Those that went with
Hector and Polydamas were the bravest and most in number, and the most
determined to break through the wall and fight at the ships. Cebriones
was also joined with them as third in command, for Hector had left his
chariot in charge of a less valiant soldier. The next company was
led by Paris, Alcathous, and Agenor; the third by Helenus and
Deiphobus, two sons of Priam, and with them was the hero Asius-
Asius the son of Hyrtacus, whose great black horses of the breed
that comes from the river Selleis had brought him from Arisbe.
Aeneas the valiant son of Anchises led the fourth; he and the two sons
of Antenor, Archelochus and Acamas, men well versed in all the arts of
war. Sarpedon was captain over the allies, and took with him Glaucus
and Asteropaeus whom he deemed most valiant after himself—for he
was far the best man of them all. These helped to array one another in
their ox-hide shields, and then charged straight at the Danaans, for
they felt sure that they would not hold out longer and that they
should themselves now fall upon the ships.
  The rest of the Trojans and their allies now followed the counsel of
Polydamas but Asius son of Hyrtacus would not leave his horses and his
esquire behind him; in his foolhardiness he took them on with him
towards the ships, nor did he fail to come by his end in
consequence. Nevermore was he to return to wind-beaten Ilius, exulting
in his chariot and his horses; ere he could do so, death of ill-omened
name had overshadowed him and he had fallen by the spear of
Idomeneus the noble son of Deucalion. He had driven towards the left
wing of the ships, by which way the Achaeans used to return with their
chariots and horses from the plain. Hither he drove and found the
gates with their doors opened wide, and the great bar down—for the
gatemen kept them open so as to let those of their comrades enter
who might be flying towards the ships. Hither of set purpose did he
direct his horses, and his men followed him with a loud cry, for
they felt sure that the Achaeans would not hold out longer, and that
they should now fall upon the ships. Little did they know that at
the gates they should find two of the bravest chieftains, proud sons
of the fighting Lapithae—the one, Polypoetes, mighty son of
Pirithous, and the other Leonteus, peer of murderous Mars. These stood
before the gates like two high oak trees upon the mountains, that
tower from their wide-spreading roots, and year after year battle with
wind and rain—even so did these two men await the onset of great
Asius confidently and without flinching. The Trojans led by him and by
Iamenus, Orestes, Adamas the son of Asius, Thoon and Oenomaus,
raised a loud cry of battle and made straight for the wall, holding
their shields of dry ox-hide above their heads; for a while the two
defenders remained inside and cheered the Achaeans on to stand firm in
the defence of their ships; when, however, they saw that the Trojans
were attacking the wall, while the Danaans were crying out for help
and being routed, they rushed outside and fought in front of the gates
like two wild boars upon the mountains that abide the attack of men
and dogs, and charging on either side break down the wood all round
them tearing it up by the roots, and one can hear the clattering of
their tusks, till some one hits them and makes an end of them—even so
did the gleaming bronze rattle about their *******, as the weapons
fell upon them; for they fought with great fury, trusting to their own
prowess and to those who were on the wall above them. These threw
great stones at their assailants in defence of themselves their
tents and their ships. The stones fell thick as the flakes of snow
which some fierce blast drives from the dark clouds and showers down
in sheets upon the earth—even so fell the weapons from the hands
alike of Trojans and Achaeans. Helmet and shield rang out as the great
stones rained upon them, and Asius the son of Hyrtacus in his dismay
cried aloud and smote his two thighs. “Father Jove,” he cried, “of a
truth you too are altogether given to lying. I made sure the Argive
heroes could not withstand us, whereas like slim-waisted wasps, or
bees that have their nests in the rocks by the wayside—they leave not
the holes wherein they have built undefended, but fight for their
little ones against all who would take them—even so these men, though
they be but two, will not be driven from the gates, but stand firm
either to slay or be slain.”
  He spoke, but moved not the mind of Jove, whose counsel it then
was to give glory to Hector. Meanwhile the rest of the Trojans were
fighting about the other gates; I, however, am no god to be able to
tell about all these things, for the battle raged everywhere about the
stone wall as it were a fiery furnace. The Argives, discomfited though
they were, were forced to defend their ships, and all the gods who
were defending the Achaeans were vexed in spirit; but the Lapithae
kept on fighting with might and main.
  Thereon Polypoetes, mighty son of Pirithous, hit Damasus with a
spear upon his cheek-pierced helmet. The helmet did not protect him,
for the point of the spear went through it, and broke the bone, so
that the brain inside was scattered about, and he died fighting. He
then slew Pylon and Ormenus. Leonteus, of the race of Mars, killed
Hippomachus the son of Antimachus by striking him with his spear
upon the girdle. He then drew his sword and sprang first upon
Antiphates whom he killed in combat, and who fell face upwards on
the earth. After him he killed Menon, Iamenus, and Orestes, and laid
them low one after the other.
  While they were busy stripping the armour from these heroes, the
youths who were led on by Polydamas and Hector (and these were the
greater part and the most valiant of those that were trying to break
through the wall and fire the ships) were still standing by the
trench, uncertain what they should do; for they had seen a sign from
heaven when they had essayed to cross it—a soaring eagle that flew
skirting the left wing of their host, with a monstrous blood-red snake
in its talons still alive and struggling to escape. The snake was
still bent on revenge, wriggling and twisting itself backwards till it
struck the bird that held it, on the neck and breast; whereon the bird
being in pain, let it fall, dropping it into the middle of the host,
and then flew down the wind with a sharp cry. The Trojans were
struck with terror when they saw the snake, portent of aegis-bearing
Jove, writhing in the midst of them, and Polydamas went up to Hector
and said, “Hector, at our councils of war you are ever given to rebuke
me, even when I speak wisely, as though it were not well, forsooth,
that one of the people should cross your will either in the field or
at the council board; you would have them support you always:
nevertheless I will say what I think will be best; let us not now go
on to fight the Danaans at their ships, for I know what will happen if
this soaring eagle which skirted the left wing of our with a monstrous
blood-red snake in its talons (the snake being still alive) was really
sent as an omen to the Trojans on their essaying to cross the
trench. The eagle let go her hold; she did not succeed in taking it
home to her little ones, and so will it be—with ourselves; even
though by a mighty effort we break through the gates and wall of the
Achaeans, and they give way before us, still we shall not return in
good order by the way we came, but shall leave many a man behind us
whom the Achaeans will do to death in defence of their ships. Thus
would any seer who was expert in these matters, and was trusted by the
people, read the portent.”
  Hector looked fiercely at him and said, “Polydamas, I like not of
your reading. You can find a better saying than this if you will.
If, however, you have spoken in good earnest, then indeed has heaven
robbed you of your reason. You would have me pay no heed to the
counsels of Jove, nor to the promises he made me—and he bowed his
head in confirmation; you bid me be ruled rather by the flight of
wild-fowl. What care I whether they fly towards dawn or dark, and
whether they be on my right hand or on my left? Let us put our trust
rather in the counsel of great Jove, king of mortals and immortals.
There is one omen, and one only—that a man should fight for his
country. Why are you so fearful? Though we be all of us slain at the
ships of the Argives you are not likely to be killed yourself, for you
are not steadfast nor courageous. If you will. not fight, or would
talk others over from doing so, you shall fall forthwith before my
spear.”
  With these words he led the way, and the others followed after
with a cry that rent the air. Then Jove the lord of thunder sent the
blast of a mighty wind from the mountains of Ida, that bore the dust
down towards the ships; he thus lulled the Achaeans into security, and
gave victory to Hector and to the Trojans, who, trusting to their
own might and to the signs he had shown them, essayed to break through
the great wall of the Achaeans. They tore down the breastworks from
the walls, and overthrew the battlements; they upheaved the
buttresses, which the Achaeans had set in front of the wall in order
to support it; when they had pulled these down they made sure of
breaking through the wall, but the Danaans still showed no sign of
giving ground; they still fenced the battlements with their shields of
ox-hide, and hurled their missiles down upon the foe as soon as any
came below the wall.
  The two Ajaxes went about everywhere on the walls cheering on the
Achaeans, giving fair words to some while they spoke sharply to any
one whom they saw to be remiss. “My friends,” they cried, “Argives one
and all—good bad and indifferent, for there was never fight yet, in
which all were of equal prowess—there is now work enough, as you very
well know, for all of you. See that you none of you turn in flight
towards the ships, daunted by the shouting of the foe, but press
forward and keep one another in heart, if it may so be that Olympian
Jove the lord of lightning will vouchsafe us to repel our foes, and
drive them back towards the city.”
  Thus did the two go about shouting and cheering the Achaeans on.
As the flakes that fall thick upon a winter’s day, when Jove is minded
to snow and to display these his arrows to mankind—he lulls the
wind to rest, and snows hour after hour till he has buried the tops of
the high mountains, the headlands that jut into the sea, the grassy
plains, and the tilled fields of men; the snow lies deep upon the
forelands, and havens of the grey sea, but the waves as they come
rolling in stay it that it can come no further, though all else is
wrapped as with a mantle so heavy are the heavens with snow—even thus
thickly did the stones fall on one side and on the other, some
thrown at the Trojans, and some by the Trojans at the Achaeans; and
the whole wall was in an uproar.
  Still the Trojans and brave Hector would not yet have broken down
the gates and the great bar, had not Jove turned his son Sarpedon
against the Argives as a lion against a herd of horned cattle.
Before him he held his shield of hammered bronze, that the smith had
beaten so fair and round, and had lined with ox hides which he had
made fast with rivets of gold all round the shield; this he held in
front of him, and brandishing his two spears came on like some lion of
the wilderness, who has been long famished for want of meat and will
dare break even into a well-fenced homestead to try and get at the
sheep. He may find the shepherds keeping watch over their flocks
with dogs and spears, but he is in no mind to be driven from the
fold till he has had a try for it; he will either spring on a sheep
and carry it off, or be
Farihah Fuaad Dec 2013
She laughs, he smiles.
The black forest taste he could only taste at the peak of light beams
Her laugh seems similar, quite similar.
Her haha's outcasted the glooms and dooms
Just as the black forest melted on his taste buds when sun rays streaked upon his shoulder blades.

She cracked a joke, he laughs and nods
Intellectual is what they might say
A brainy maniac she is, who could co-host a sitcom
His Friday nights would now only be filled with her wits
Replacing all the beers and stouts for a while
His once bumpy and rocky throat is nil compared to the highly raised cheekbones visible during a good laugh

But one day she cried.
The guilt he carries overshadowed his sympathy.
Her big swollen eyes
Her pinkish and warm face which was covered in dribble
Hadn't he known?
All those time he made somersaults, he was drown deep below
He could breakthrough,
but was too mesmerized by the mermaid's blinking fishtail and scaly skin.

And she saved him
From being turned into a merman
Only then he was back to square one
Where her laughters, her jokes and her sobs are actually his sugar crush, his Gatsby gold
As always, she was after all, his soul saver.
There was a kingdom by the sea
that had a name
but most called it just
The Pearl of the Coast,
because that is what it was.
The riches within the city walls were more than an outsider could fathom,
and a bustling economy promised to keep it that way.
The Pearl had been led for half a century
by a wise King
and a just Queen.
Between them, they had one daughter,
who was pretty enough to truly count as one of the riches of their city.
Suiters came from far and wide, hoping to get
just
one
glimpse
of her fair beauty
before the fickle girl brushed them off her shoulders like mosquitoes.
It had no true spoken enemies,
for the walls and army were too great to conquer
but riches
bring dark men
to plotting and scheming.

There was a band of other kingdoms-
all prosperous, but not quite as much so as the Pearl
who were jealous and greedy
and coveted the jewels of the Pearl
all for themselves.
They would plan together,
but none could quite figure out how to get past the huge walls
and the spears of the watchmen.
But once, to their conniving company came
a Dark Magician
feared all around for his power and his wit.
These Kings of lesser kingdoms, though,
they saw only and opportunity to be seized.

They promised the Magician a share of the riches
if he would help them bring the Pearl to its knees.

The Magician, after little consideration,
obliged.

From their greed, he fashioned a Homunculus
shaped it like a handsome young man
more handsome than anyone could be born as
and sent him to the palace.
The Princess was vain and swept off her feet
by this new young man
and soon took to calling her.
There was one, though, who saw through him.
Perhaps it was his own jealousy that cleared his eyes,
but a young Sorcerer,
the closest friend of the Princess,
and the only man who had ever loved her truly,
warned of the Homunculus.
The Princess, smitten, was outraged.
The warning given by a friend only encouraged the relationship,
as those things often do
for children love to see themselves as Star Crossed Lovers
and the fickle Princess estranged herself from her oldest friend,
though the Sorcerer stayed loyal.

One night, however,
the King and Queen,
who themselves were quietly against the union,
were murdered.
The cause was clear:
Magic.
The guard turned to the Sorcerer,
for he had been turned down by the Princess,
and was, as they said, Hungry for revenge.
Only his past friendship saved his life,
and he was imprisoned in an empty tower a mile outside of the Pearl's walls.
He howled to be set free,
and the Princess would listen from her widow's walk.
Only when the howling stopped and was replaced
by a bitter silence
did her heart break.

After her marriage to the Homunculus
she started to wither
and hid herself in her chamber.
The guards would often see her wandering the grounds at night
wringing her hands and moaning in sorrow and paranoid fear.
"He might come back," she would whisper
and then burst into tears.
Often she was mistaken for a ghost,
and her parade of visitors slowly trickled to a stop.
Meanwhile, the Homunculus had taken control of the Kingdom.
He actually did more for the economy that the past King and Queen did,
for he had opened up trade with a shady band of kingdoms
that everyone had sworn that they had been in a Cold War with
just yesterday...

It had been nearly twenty years
when the Magician demanded that the band of kings
pay him for his work.
They had been ruling the Pearl from the shadows for some time now,
and he was ripe for his due.
The Kings' greed though had only inflated after they had their prize
as had their pride.
And they,
foolishly,
declined.
The Magician was outraged.
He called back his creation one day in March.

The Homunculus knew that the sword of Damocles was ready to drop,
and hastened in his escape
but
over the years
he had grown attached to his Queen
and it pained him to think of her suffering along with him.
He warned her himself
that the Pearl was to be destroyed spectacularly
and then he fled,
and she never saw his face again.

The Queen was horrified
and looked out over the people who she had neglected for twenty years.
No longer a beauty,
but a frightened old woman.
She knew what she had to do.
Grabbing her travel cloak around her,
the Queen rode as fast as she could
to the tower outside of the walls.
Her old friend was still sitting there,
chained to the wall.
Never had the woman seen such squalor, and it broke her heart all over again.
His hair was long and matted,
not peppered, but smeared with gray.
His robes were those that he had worn on the day he was taken away
crusted with filth.
The tower was falling down around him;
huge gaping holes where windows had been
mocked the poor Sorcerer
and the fireplace that should have been maintained by guards
was nothing more than smoldering coals.

The Queen fell to her knees and begged his forgiveness,
begged him to save the city that he had been shunned from.
But so many things about him had changed,
and all of the kindness had leaked from his eyes.
He rose onto his feet, and the rats skittered away.

"You fool!" He cried,
"I cannot save them!
The Magic coming has already been set in motion, and I,
I have not eaten more than rats and the dirt from the floor in more than twenty years.
I am hopelessly weak, with only the strength for one more spell. "
He grabbed the Queen's hands, the sorrow of his broken heart overshadowed by rage.
"You will watch this tragedy, for it is one of your own making!
I curse you so that you may never die,
never sleep,
not till you have worked the labors of every servant
of the world begins to burn!"
With that, he pushed the shocked woman aside
and, scrambling to the fire,
swallowed the hot coals
and died there in front of his betrayer.

The Queen could do nothing but watch
as the sky turned black,
and the sea rose up
and swallowed the Pearl.
The screams of her people were silenced quickly,
leaving her alone
with her thoughts
and the body of the only man
who had ever
loved her.
Chandre De Wet Nov 2014
I will praise You for all that You are
For You are more than everything
I will praise You regardless of what I feel
For this is bigger than emotions
I will praise You no matter who’s watching
For You are my song, and can’t be quieted
I will praise You for all of my days
For my day,my years,my life belongs to You
I will praise You early in the morning
For You have given me a brand new hope
I will praise You in the darkest of nights
For Your light will never be overshadowed
I will praise You when my heart is broken
For You are the healer of wounds
I will praise You when I reach higher heights
For without You I am lower than low
I will praise You for every good thing
For that simply means that it came from You
I will praise You for every grieving trial
For if I made it through it only means I’m stronger
I will praise You for every good friend in my life
For it only means for each friend put in my life,You have thought of me
I will praise You for my family
For You love me enough, not to leave me alone
I will praise you for every smile and laugh that comes from my lips
For it is only the joy of Your Salvation that makes me happy
I will praise You for every tear, and broken heart
For it is then that I feel Your comfort the most
I will praise You for my every breath
For it means that You have a purpose and hope for me
I will praise You even in my death
For it means at last I can be with you

I will praise You no matter what.
For You are everything,
My life, my being, my comfort, my strength, my love…
My God.
written by me before 2002
Steve D'Beard Feb 2013
Technology:
how I love you and loathe you
in the same breath

your phonic ears
listening out for
a babble of distress
from a childs vest
sleeping soundly
in the next room

your ten tentacle arms
purge my words
and shelter emotions
across vast distances
for long lost friends
to find comfort
in 140 characters

your innovations
are the respirator
the breathing lungs
the beating heart
the bionic limbs
that help without want
to walk again

if only you could
just once
guess my words
correctly
just once
is all I ask

I invited that girl
for a pint
not a riot
and the black berry
ripens in the east
is now an improvised
IED

Technology:
will you ever be perfect?
or will you always
be evolving

how will you know
that you have not
stepped back
to be overshadowed
by an ape

punching numbers
searching for Shots
and finding Pints
in the middle of
a dusty Riot
This is inspired by the love/loathe of technology, and the calamity of sending a text message where the auto-checker has decided what you wanted to write before you wrote it. Ironically, Pint comes between Shot and Riot, on a mobile phone, hence the title. Again, this poem came out of a comment from a fellow poet on here - D A - who kindly responded to my poem about text-speak. So yeah, cheers.. you can read their work here: http://hellopoetry.com/-d-a/
Africa, Oh Africa!
Africa, Oh Africa!

My Motherland,
Why not take pride
in who you are?
When you converse,
You use the language of the West.
The offspring of the same parents,
And still use the language of the West.
Your own children try to distance themselves
and dress and talk like
Those from the West.
Your airwaves are filled with music,
Fast beats, foul language
and heavy metal from the West.
Even the food you eat
All processed and purchased
From the West.
Your fields are dry.
You laugh at traditional foods and ceremonies.
You have forgotten who you are.
Your heritage cries out
From the depths of the tombs
you're filling up with immorality
and your self-destructive ways.
You despise who are,
You ridicule who you are,
You try so hard to change
Who you are
Your heroes and comrades
In entertainment and politics
In the community, the society
Have been overshadowed
By those from the West.
Remember them,
Revere them,
More so alive than after death.
Resurrect Ubuntu,
Show a little compassion
For a fellow who needs it.
Stop the hate, tribalism
And racism.
This path of destruction
Will get you nowhere.
Let peace rule in the Motherland.
Respect your elders,
Salute the teachers
Who try to lead your youth
In the right direction.
Teach your children well
Violence is not the way
The pen is still mightier
Than the sword
Eradicate illiteracy
End child labour and
Marriages.
Honour, love and protect
Your women and children.
They will give you respect
and happiness in return.
Follow the footprints
Of your forebears.


Live in harmony with
Yourself.


Africa, Oh Africa!
Africa, Oh Africa!


Take note
Before it's too late!
I'm not at all criticizing the West, but I feel as Africans we're forgetting our culture and heritage. Our youth do not like talking in their mother-tongues. They do not like anything to do with our tradition... we will soon be a people without roots if we do not retrace our steps now.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
having applied myself to two languages with different parameters of execution: writing in primarily in English, reading fiction and poetry primarily in English enabled me to gain strength in reading philosophy and conjuring up white-rabbits from a top-hat in Polnisch - i can't read philosophy in English - which explains why few interests in philosophy exist - the English have undermined the worth of philosophy, oh sure, David Hume is the rave in Scotland, because he's Scottish - but the English took to solely understanding the world via Darwinism - image deciphering accounts of how the natural order of things is attached to inanimate materials propelled by falling apples - the continental procedure is less concerning Darwinism and more akin to a mental fashion statement, as in: what's vogue these days? what's the cognitive vogue? the English "philosophers" with their rigid Darwinism are like priests - which is why they attracted biblical literal interpretation - the creationists - there's no other explanation why the creationists emerged - it was because of militant atheism, atheism without individual originality - invoked by a sense of herding the sheep to the grazing hills of nihilism - the pillar that became the crutch - of course i admire and know it's true - no Genesis story that's merely a p.s. in history is ever going to undermine the naturalist's fascination with the world in every minute detail - i'm not against that... but at this moment i was thinking of a cult idea for a naturalist - take a pornographic movie, and give it to a naturalist to assess - after all... we're just mammals - i think this could turn out to be a real daytrip for a naturalist - oh sure, it must be ease with organism that apparently do not derive any pleasure from procreation... give two beings that apparently do derive pleasure from procreation... to later debase it with the malignant forces at work in the Encyclopedia that's 120 days of *****... the naturalist narrating a pornographic scene would be bewildered as to why these highly evolved creatures are exponentially higher-up the tiers of evolution, needing so many complex adaptive techniques - boredom for one, people have created more distractions than they have created tools of necessity - but perhaps they're equal - our evolutionary drive? the thing that makes us tick is not necessarily physical discomfort - we exercise for the pleasure of physical discomfort - the drive is boredom, the fear of it drives us mad with constant ingenuity taking form - like a ballerina in a salsa bar... sadism in the aura of hot-sweat-and-coconut-***-shaking as if playing dice in Las Vegas... Don Quixote (the ballet on three days away)... we're done with the empirical satisfaction of Darwinism, we know it, we need a humanistic approach to it, something that goes against the English priesthood - Darwinism will never be vogue in continent Europe, continent Europeans just say: Egyptology is as far back as is necessary to go... our lives are more important and more complex than those of primates... our lives are more important and more complex than those of primates... we want to write history, not look at history as a burden and therefore try to erase it, placing ourselves in a garden of awe and glass; honestly? Darwinism is a bit like creationism - it all starts with a garden, awe, and the grand spectacle - only the other includes a need to procrastinate by doing some ritualistic mumble and Hosanna Hallelujah in the highest - and the other tries not to yawn.

so onto my favourite topic... rich boy's slang -
do you really think a *prince
of Egypt would speak
slave tongue Hebraic?
do you think **** & 'arry could speak Bulgarian
or Romanian? let me think... no.
they might speak French... maybe German...
but certainly not the eastern tongues -
now, whoever wrote that book wrote it in ancient
Egyptian, the chronologically speaking
yes, female genital mutilation was practised first
in Africa, notably Egypt, prior to male genital
mutilation being instigated by frustrated Abraham -
the collision was bound to happen -
see how pretty prince slang looks?
it's poetic - the rich boys call it poetry, the poor
boys call slang - which is why poor boy raps
and over uses rhyme - or perhaps rhyme is easier
to remember than free verse poetry -
rich boy brings a page on stage and recites because
he's too lazy or not bothered to memorise,
poor boy says yeah a lot in between his lyrics
without a page so he can the the bowling aisle
movement as if he's rolling in a convertible Cadillac -
sing ***! yo! ***! yo! so the chronology matches,
Eve first, Adam second - but not as in: they did it first -
later down the line they cut off the precious skin
and hence felt naked, they fell, they revised was not
to be revised - sure, the man got the favour right -
he was the winner - but at the same time, the loser -
hence the good & evil bit - we don't really know -
is it really necessary to have good *** to later have
a fickle partner and laws being in her favour via what's
called the missed prenup thought? to me it's just a literal
reading of the text - looking for laurel leaves to cover
the revision of the genitalia - not the actual genitalia per se,
just the revised versions - so if the female variation is
whatever it is - less pleasure from *** and what not,
for man that also means counting the stars and weeks
and having no pleasure from ******* when her period
arrives and you have to try a diet of **** or something -
well of course it's slightly uncomfortable with it -
but at the same time you increase your endurance with it -
a slight sadomasochism, no whips no ******* women,
no leather, no adventure, just raw meat and raw meat -
no fantasy no role play - just a little bit of skin making all
the difference - can you imagine Marquis de Sade writing
as frankly as this? well... every time i revise my thought
on the book of genesis, i obviously become a covert literal
reader of it, deciphering the eloquent slang of a prince of
Egypt would use on such "delicate" matters -
but with that being said: it becomes all the less fascinating
a myth-making engine, and given he was forced out of
his comfort zone (and i mean a comfort zone) he would
cite God as the word (reason), but by word alone and
the word only - the reasoning behind what entered the land
of Egypt as being the same as what entered the Garden
of Eden... and tempted... the temptation came with the pyramids -
oddly enough only the Eiffel Tower was higher than
the pyramids - look at the time it took man to become so bold again!
look at it! massive - and in some weird quantum physics
interpretation of the mythological past becoming the actual
future - the tower of Babel... and... yep, you guessed it:
the Burj Khalifa (or the Khalifa Tower) is its equivalent;
but ****, only the Eiffel Tower overshadowed the pyramids -
something must have happened back then then,
if man was so shy in rising his structures too far up into
the sky - but i guess the Enlightenment spurred him on...
later to crash back down with the atom phobia of the second
part of the 20th century, which in the 21st century morphed into:
well, how will wars be profitable if we drop a nuke?
e'oh! no, sorry, one nuke will make us bankrupt -
we need tanks, guns, bullets... huge bulks of them!
stockpiling nukes ended up a bit like stockpiling too much...
ah crap... don't have a good analogy - just started thinking
of a desert of sugar - sugar dunes... imagining a desert
like that... well, partially true - with the Arabs not drinking
alcohol and eating too many sweets, diabetic amputees throughout
the desert land.
Stanley Mungai Feb 2012
Just two Bananas,
And a flower.
Dripping sweet thick nectar,
Hidden between the supple Banana boughs,
The soft Petals cushioned in a dark web.
The twin boughs give way to the tongue,
That reaches in below the stigma,
For a lick of the now dripping sweet,
To and fro for more.
Just two Bananas,
Covered by the thin leaves of chlorophyll,
Blowing away in the wind of a touch,
The two stick out for a sensational caress,
Just two Bananas,
And a flower.
United in pleasure
Of the tongue,
And the hand,
Moaning the Banana tree for more,
Crying sweet tears,
Moving in the direction of the eager wind,
Engulfed by a groan,
And overshadowed by Passion,
Just two sweet Bananas,
And a Flower.
the Sandman Jul 2014
The sky’s a light carnelian’s shade
and, as the brightness starts to fade,
from carnelian to carmine he turns, too-
soft to vivid tones of the hue.
Looks into the ‘windows to my soul,’
     (‘windows to one’s soul’ he called them)
The intensity nearly swallows me whole-
his windows a pair of solitary gems.
Eyes the colour that fire should be,
a fury to turn flames green with envy.

So as carnelian turns to carmine
and the heavens light up with his glow,
a firefly’s brightness is overshadowed,
but the yellow is whitened down in snow

A lone, saphhired rhododendron in full bloom
unaware of its death in a pluck so soon

The furious ball of rage sets
and us (three!) need to return
-a lingering gaze for a moment too long,
cheeks of crimson and burn!
For too long have we tarried,
our hours have wasted the day
Find no longer a reason
nor any excuse to stay

Peer over the edge a last time
     (indecision, in control)
At the vast expanse of cerulean, sublime
     (pause to contemplate my goal)

Tucks the blooming rhod’ between a lock and an ear,
breathes, “it looks prettier still here,”
for another second holds ( ) near
and in parting’s ‘sweet sorrow’ starts to disappear

A gunshot echoing, a resounding sound,
as he turns away from the mead’.
His body slowly hits the ground,
and I know I’ve killed him dead.
For the first time, a lamenting tear’s grace
rolls down one side of my face
and all I see is red.


A gunshot, a second time, lying in bed,
*brow, hair, pillow- all soaked in red.
at the break of the dawn
the dusk dawned, *****,
overshadowed, and devoured​
the golden splendour of the
morning.

trees of darkness appear from the
silhouettes of the sky, skedaddling
beyond the eyes, destroying the
visage of the holy sun

and the dawn breaks through with
the offering of a thousand sacrifices
consuming the deep darkness,
rolling sapphires​ into emerald with
the light of a gold-diamond.
Pearson Bolt Apr 2017
when you only
see the world
through the prism
of an Instagram filter,
the spectrum's
overshadowed
by black and white
vignettes.

brick-by-brick
you build that wall
around yourself,
closed off to the plight
of every one else.
who needs borders
when you refuse to see
beyond the periphery
of your iPhone's screen?
refugees? border patrol?
endless war?

merely fragmentary
snapshots
in off-kilter
snapchats
casting grim light
on contemporary
outcasts, rebels
built to outlast
the vitriol leveled
at modern-day martyrs
by tyrants and overlords.

'cause when you neglect
to read the passages
of history, you scapegoat
the brave, can't see
the forest for the trees,
reduce the complex
to Manichean binaries
of Good vs. Evil,
Left vs. Right,
an infinite etcetera
of demagoguery.

noses glued
to illuminated screens,
ignoring the visionaries
for illusionary fantasies:
one-click—purchased
happiness, bread
and circus.
advertising
has us chasing
a feeling fleeting
as a riptide when we
ought to be rallying
on the front lines,
punching Nazis.
a black bloc
tossing bricks into
storefront windows.
There is a time for reciting poems and a time for fists.
~ Roberto Bolaño, "The Secret Detectives"
karin naude May 2013
what should be rejoice filled days
have become my most controversial and agony filled
to i comply with the charade,
do i withdrew from judgemental eyes,
since becoming an adult this decision has brought me more discomfort than poverty
i tried and could not find one compliment to give my dad
his parenting is overshadowed by mum's on every level
mean while the unseen battle continues for my soul
Jesus vs logic
love and forgiveness vs fruits from past actions

in my mind i will always be 25
that year my life rocked to a shattered stop
the anniversary of my arrival is no longer celebrated
my loss, agreed

what to do? oh what to do?
usually i put my head in the sand and pray the day to end
while wearing one of my best masks
that is the cowards way, i should behave like an adult, right

— The End —