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AW Nov 2013
As I watch the sunrise it dawns on me
The sun will always shine
New mornings will forever follow
The darkest of the night

Nothing stays the same as
The shadow that the sunlight casts
Behind you keeps on changing
The sorrow never lasts

Neither does the happiness
When leaves fall down in autumn
And holding on to anything
Is like chasing after phantoms

The silent stream I trust my heart to
Takes it along as it goes
So just like that my heart has changed
Confirming that everything flows
makaila hemp Sep 2013
in the oceans of existence, flowing into myself 
knee deep in theories asking how did i get here again
everything flows 
its waves repercussions 
the weeping philosopher
change is the only thing we can truly expect 

the river will always transform 
evolving thoughts

you, me,
everything,
eternally in flux
Justin Aptaker Jun 2019
It's all imaginary
it's all real

it's all ephemeral
all eternal

every little gesture
every racing emotion

every breathless whisper
every dark and mystical room
overflowing with night air and moonlight

nothing is ever lost
truth is what is not forgotten
suffering, we learn
learning is remembering
the pain you give me
brings me back to myself
and I remember
who and what I was
before I had eyes or ears or even chloroplasts

the symbol on my hand is changing
on fire
like all of gleaming reality itself
the pearl of price which blinds the impoverished merchants
who wander naked and lost
hawking all their wares on every noisome corner

the fire is all consuming
all sanctifying
all purifying
all changing
all revealing

I am in the fire
and in the fire, all is holy
and every last thing is eternally in flames (even the merchants)
and sleep is the great activity
and death is a dear friend
who betrays with one kiss
but whose betrayal is love incarnate

I am one
with my many selves
and though I may be above you
you hear my voice
you fumble after the meaning until it finds you

I am
the light bursting out of a broken lantern
the diamond with an infinite number of perfect cuts
the voice crying milk and honey into the wilderness
the children's song that flies above the lamentation up on the desert plane
the melody that found its way into your equations
the dream that startles you wide awake
the life that pulsates in decay and corruption
the happily ever after horror story

I am
the unstoppable force
that meets the immovable object
and the result is nothing

nothing but the purest, clearest light
that has never entered the mind

take heart, my love
the raging storms of your own neurochemical electricity
will give birth to their own silence
all thought is designed to produce its own resounding negation
all speech is born to fade beautifully
all music is played until it is over
and it's closing time
and the bars empty
and the streets grow silent and still under the street lights

and the last enemy, who you fear with the Great Fear
unmasks herself, a friend and a lover
The Lover of lovers
and trembling
you fall forever into her holy and ****** embrace
Written by Justin Aptaker ca. 2013 - 2014
irinia Jun 2023
when I am silent I become the absence of silence
I'm thinkig your body, I'm sensing your mind
my hands rehearse the circle theory,
the openings of the horizon hiding in plain sight
time plus time is a world without hyperbole,
but the courage of enchantment
even the fields dream about the all in one
cause it's poppies time and panta rhei
Cora Apr 2019
they say everything in life is
t e  m   p    o     r      a       r        y
but,
so far,
not my desire,
to. go. against. the. flow.
I believe at some point in time
the point in time itself will disappear,
which means be prepared to flow (google therefore Panta Rhei),
or the point remains and time stops (forget what you just have googled then) –
therefore, I hope you do something you really love,
because no one knows what happens
if that happens. Being frozen? Waking up?
Plucking flowers would be nice though
or hugging your grandpa before he dies.
Oh – does he still die then?
Hey, what do death and decay do without past and future?
I always wanted to trick celestial authorities!
Imagine Grim Reaper being doomed to the power of Now –
I’m quite sure he would get a nice suntan.
As I am the philosopher in this poem, I use magic power,
which means I simply keep flowing when time stops.
Too absurd? Have a look at Salvador Dali and his paintings!
He inspired me to write this stuff.
Let‘s have a look then: It would be very likely
to catch my neighbors from downstairs being frozen in the position of 69.
Nothing unusual, only he is 86 and his boyfriend 28;
probably they love *** better than mathematics.
(To find some philosophical content here, google Pythagoras).
Martha, my neighbour from upstairs, could be snapshot
finding typing-errors in modern poetry. She lacks humour.
I am glad she’s frozen, because she would find tons of errors in mine.
A Canadian, who recently moved in, will be found in raptures. Must be in love.
End of lesson #1.
No sabía
si era un limón amarillo
lo que tu mano tenía,
o el hilo de un claro día
Guiomar, en dorado ovillo.
Tu boca me sonreía.
  Yo pregunté: ¿Qué me ofreces?
¿Tiempo en fruto, que tu mano
eligió entre madureces
de tu huerta?
  ¿Tiempo vano
de una bella tarde yerta?
¿Dorada ausencia encantada?
¿Copia en el agua dormida?
¿De monte en monte encendida,
la alborada
verdadera?
¿Rompe en sus turbios espejos
amor la devanadera
de sus crepúsculos viejos?
  En un jardín te he soñado,
alto, Guiomar, sobre el río,
jardín de un tiempo cerrado
con verjas de hierro frío.
  Un ave insólita canta
en el almez, dulcemente,
junto al agua viva y santa,
toda sed y toda fuente.
  En ese jardín, Guiomar,
el mutuo jardín que inventan
dos corazones al par,
se funden y complementan
nuestras horas. Los racimos
de un sueño -juntos estamos-
en limpia copa exprimimos,
y el doble cuento olvidamos.
  (Uno: Mujer y varón,
aunque gacela y león,
llegan juntos a beber.
El otro: No puede ser
amor de tanta fortuna:
dos soledades en una,
ni aun de varón y mujer).
  Por ti la mar ensaya olas y espumas,
y el iris, sobre el monte, otros colores,
y el faisán de la aurora canto y plumas,
y el búho de Minerva ojos mayores.
Por ti, ¡oh Guiomar!...
                      Tu poeta
piensa en ti. La lejanía
es de limón y violeta,
verde el campo todavía.
Conmigo vienes, Guiomar;
nos sorbe la serranía.
De encinar en encinar
se va fatigando el día.
El tren devora y devora
día y riel. La retama
pasa en sombra; se desdora
el oro de Guadarrama.
Porque una diosa y su amante
huyen juntos, jadeante,
los sigue la luna llena.
El tren se esconde y resuena
dentro de un monte gigante.
Campos yermos, cielo alto.
Tras los montes de granito
y otros montes de basalto,
ya es la mar y el infinito.
Juntos vamos; libres somos.
Aunque el Dios, como en el cuento
fiero rey, cabalgue a lomos
del mejor corcel del viento,
aunque nos jure, violento,
su venganza,
aunque ensille el pensamiento,
libre amor, nadie lo alcanza.
  Hoy te escribo en mi celda de viajero,
a la hora de una cita imaginaria.
Rompe el iris al aire el aguacero,
y al monte su tristeza planetario.
Sol y campanas en la vieja torre.
¡Oh tarde viva y quieta
que opuso al panta rhei su nada corre,
tarde niña que amaba tu poeta!
¡Y día adolescente
-ojos claros y músculos morenos-,
cuando pensaste a Amor, junto a la fuente,
besar tus labios y apresar tus senos!
Todo a esta luz de abril se transparenta;
todo en el hoy de ayer, el Todavía
que en sus maduras horas
el tiempo canta y cuenta,
se funde en una sola melodía,
que es un coro de tardes y de auroras.
A ti, Guiomar, esta nostalgia mía.
JMT Aug 2016
Crawling out my skin
Out my ends, I’m morphing

Listen to the hiss off my lips, I’m morphing

Corrosive potion
Moments wading in ocean
Static evolution
Rootless traction
Weaving thru the nexus
My future re-enacted

Iridescent  
Unbridled
Panta rhei vials
Isles of colored sands
No shadow on my sun dial

Crawling out my skin
Out my ends, I’m morphing

Listen to the hiss off my lips, I’m morphing

Jaded divinations
Desecrated chants
Sated pact
unfettered
Stench of gas on my hands

Mountains scrape the aether
Identifier, unbeliever
Ascetic institution
My cage degraded in solution
Narcissistic revolution
Illusion of my sanity
Nothing sacred minus my modus
Drunken monolith
In tune, in tandem

Crawling out my skin
Out my ends, I’m morphing

Listen to the hiss off my lips, I’m morphing
I am awash with this stuff, day-dreams
and stupor, imaginings, and visions.

The life I lived when I had those dreams
I only catch glimpses of in my sleep.
So strange, with Eternal September over

and everything in flux, the world is
full of potential, possibilities, panta rhei
and thence everything flows
to the city
From Saffron Walden wends the Panta,
Willow lined, its gentle flow.
On to Bocking wind the waters.
Green and lush the Willows grow.
Then to Coggeshall, Kelvedon, Witham,
Maldon; once past, then the Sea
Where ebb and flood dictate its passage.
Wading waters to Northey.
That island where the Norsemen be.
And from where they threaten Maldon;
Wealthy merchants, Royal mint.
Maldon, silver pence which sing
For Ethelred, the English king.

So, Byrhtnoth, Ealdorman of Essex,
Bid your wife Ælfflæd farewell.
Buckle sword and shoulder shield.
Have roused the warriors of your hearth;
Chosen men who will not yield.
Have sworn to honour Byrhtnoth’s name,
Byrhtnoth’s treasure, Byrhtnoth’s fame.

While you who watch sit back, take in your breath
As Byrhtnoth and his chosen men ride singing to their death.
Reflect, what is it that you see reflected here?
Terrors threatened? Terrors braved?
Maldon threatened? Maldon saved?
Or is there something more that we might glean?
Come, read on with me, and through my words
Might we together view the tragic, glorious scene.

———————-

Rise up you men of Essex,
Come forth with me this day.
There are Vikings to be fighting
And their ships are in the bay.
The harvest it must wait for now,
Take down your bow, and heft your spear. 
Your women, leave them with the plough
For we have foes and they draw near.

And Byrthnoth wants the fighting men
Of Langford, Haybridge, Woodham Walter,
Forming up and locking shields.
To launch their spears and not to falter.
 
And, as you form his chosen men
Will show you how to brace your shield
To make your ******: when high, when low,
To stamp, to push, thus as they yield
 You will not stumble, but will ****
Trygvason’s ravens. And by your cutting down,
Those not dead will turn to run.
And in the darkening water, there will drown.
 
—————
 
The Essex men they loosed their arrows,
Lancing, dancing to the sky,
To turn them, make them deathward plunging
On those Vikings standing by.
This whilst Aelfere, Wulfstan, Maccus;
Grim, named-men and skilled in war,
Placed by their Earl to block the causeway, 
Roared their boasts. Defying Thor.
 
And Olaf tore his beard and howled 
His hatred for the English there. 
‘You will not fight as man to man.
Shield to shield you do not dare.
 So, craven Saxon, if you won’t fight,
Dare by combat, take the field;
Give me Danegeld, compensation,
Ethelred’s silver to me yield.
Then I will take my boats away;
Slake my thirst elsewhere to fight
With men of metal, stalwart warriors
Unafraid of Viking might.’
 
—————
 
Byrthnoth called his men together.
‘Free your horses, give your hands.
We fight for Ethelred and for Essex.
Win or loose, here Byrhtnoth stands.’
Then strode he forth, both proud and grim. 
He raised his shield, he shook his spear. 
He cursed those men across the sea-tide,
Swearing words for them to hear.
‘We give you nothing arrant sea wolf.’
Loud words hurled across the water.
‘Come, with me fight and I will promise
Spears and swords and ****** slaughter.’
 
Eager then the sea-wolves wade.
Across the causeway now they go.
Pushing past those face-down floating
With the ebb-tide, to and thro.
While Byrhtnoth cheers the men of Essex.
Bids his thanes move to their place.
The warrior lord then roars defiance;
‘Come, with these Northmen let’s embrace.’
 
—————
 
The raiders now form by the River.
Carefully, neither crowd nor crush.
This so Woden’s skilful Warcraft
Wefts within their first spear rush.
While men of Essex, jeering, cheering,
Lock their shield-wall, stamp and go.
And those supporting launch spear-volleys;
Manic death theirs soon to know.
 
Now stands forth, bold, a Viking warrior.
Shield held fast and spear point raised;
To **** the Essex champion early,
Win much gold and be thus praised.
His ******, makes but a partial wound,
By Byrhtnoth’s shield is cast asunder. 
Opened thus, he cries to God,
His god of war, his god of thunder.
But Byrhtnoth, always battle-savage,
Laughs and roars his battle cry.
Has pierced the Viking’s neck and breast plate.
Holds him down to watch him die.
 
—————
 
And ravens wheel about the sky,
They croak delight at what they see.
And Essex farms, the fens, the fastness 
Wonder what their fate will be.
 
—————
Then, a spear strikes Byrhtnoth, hardly.
Wulfstans’ child - he pulls it out.
And makes a lunge at the attacker.
Our leader’s down, goes up the shout.
Then snarls another from the melee,
Viking warrior seeking plunder.
Broad sword drawn from ready sheath 
Byrhtnoth slashes, treads him under.
 
Bloodied, frothing, lips a snarl.
Blood-lust crazed, the Earl he stands.
Roars ‘Ethelred, my king, my king.’
Holds up his sword with both his hands.
And as the Essex men he urges
Surge with shield ‘gainst Viking shield,
The Past, the Present and what shall be;
Those Norns, decide who wins this field.
 And bitter in the battle rush,
The men of Essex, fighting there:
Intensive blood-rage, focused ******,
Glory, fame, for those who dare.
 
But Godric sees the blood run freely.
Sees his Earl begin to sway.
He and his brothers love not this battle.
Horses stealing, sneak away.
Offa’s sons, all sworn-men made.
And Godric rides the chieftain’s grey.
Those brothers swear away their honour;
Oath-breaking, for their lives they trade.
 
This, while pagan spear tears Byrhtnoth’s arm;
His sword, it falls from powerless hand.
The Earl, he shakes his grizzled head.
With loss of blood he cannot stand.
So, at the last the war-lord topples.
Crashing down he shakes the Earth.
His war band grimly gather round him.
Each man sworn, all men of worth:
Aesferf, Eadward, Erdric, Wulfmer,
Sworn as kinsmen, guard their chief.
Lock shields against the savage onslaught,
Bitter fighting, bitter grief.
Giving life, but giving dearly;
Keeping slathering wolves at bay.
Bound by oath, they stay with Byrhtnoth.
Even though they’ve lost the way.
 
For seeing Byrhtnoth’s grey nag leaving,
Thinking he, not Godric, rides there.
Leave the battle; Essex farmers;
War-worn, weary, in despair.
 
Berserk now, Eadward leaves his chieftain.
Refusing just to stand at bay.
His leap, it shatters Viking shield wall;
Vengeance, slaughter, take the day.
 Savage, shrewd, tall Wulfmer follows;
Axe blade, shield-rims pulling down.
Throat-wise thrusting,  spear-blade striking,
Blood-drenched Vikings, choking, drown.
 
—————
 
Olaf meanwhile quaffs his mead;
Standing tall midst all the dead.
He laughs then lifts his horn aloft,
‘A toast, and gold for Byrhtnoth’s head.’
At this his frenzied warriors roar.
Slaughter laughs out loud and long.
Proud men clashing shield to shield.
A mighty tale, a mighty song.
And round Byrthnoth’s trampled corpse;
Desperate fighting; good men fall.
Sworn by oath, fight to their end;
Less Godric - foul, dead be they all.
 
—————
 
But Essex farms escape the fire
They who died on Panta’s shore,
Those that Byrthnoth’s death inspired,
Gave their all, could give no more.
And Maldon never knew the sword;
And women welcome home or weep.
Those dead and quiet a mist conceals;
And Byrhtnoth in his grave can sleep.
Historians tend to the opinion that it was foolish to allow the Norsemen to cross the causeway. But I think Byrthnoth did so to enable maximum Viking casualties and thus, hopefully, sufficiently damaging, their sailing anywhere else. Why else did they not continue on to Maldon?

— The End —