"participants" poems
I don't want to shoot,
I don't want to _win_
I don't want to 'fight' the way we were trained,
I'll fight with my heart and a can of white paint.
Wounded flags fatefully fall.
Under the spell your command.
But watch me you will, I'll _make_ them true,
Watch me you will, as I make _them_ free.
_We_ don't belong to you.
I'll _brush_ them clean, with the _truth_ of our tears,
Unwilling participants of the _sick_ game,
We never wanted to play.
I don't want to shoot,
I don't want to _win_
I don't want to 'fight' the way we were trained,
I'll fight with my heart and not with your aims.
I'll fight for us all,
For we all die the same.
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 7:04 AM UTC
A true story of a chance gathering of strangers in the back room of a Gelato Parlor *** restaurant, two years ago, in a little village near the bay, on a land surrounded by vineyards. Come visit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gelato Nation
There is a place,
location secret,
mine to keep,
mine with which
you to tease,
make you envious,
a back room 'office'
jealous guarded
by a barkeep,
whose chosen invites sweeps
you into a reality that is
what you will it to be.
But nota bene, note well,
remembrances of things swell
from your past be the
only tongue spoken here.
Code word entry only,
a shared whisper.
Perhaps One Woman,
may reveal its pleasures,
if she so chooses,
which are:
gelato laughs, poetry snaps,
Beatle songs sung ensemble,
by rag tag strangers
self-collected accidentally,
sung de rigeur off key
by voices lubricated by
cognac, laughter, and
the coldest of white wines,
issue of the very soil
upon which we sit.
Words to value properly,
not in my possess to capture
the few moments in time when;
Strangers transform themselves
into a triple A nation united,
that will never be
S&P; downgraded.
A holy alliance
celebrating July 4th
all night long,
all participants
signatory witnesses to
its gelato conception,
as well as pallbearers
to its last drink dissolution,
the fullness of its lifetime
a vintage of a few hours extant,
a vintage, once drunk, is
a history, forever gone.
Mixologists please record:
One playwright, a psychologist, bond trader and a social scientist
with a dash of museum director,
and do not forget the
Hundred Year Old Woman,
whose Dowager Princess Daughter
(she, a mere eighty)'
from Central Park West
clarifies all of life dilemmas with
the singular analytical tool of:
But is it good for the Jews?
**But t'is the barkeep
who is the leavening
in this evenings human
pastry-petrie dish.**
He makes the pastiche,
the ions of personalities,
coalesce best,
guitar strummer,
singer of songs that were our
multiple national anthems
when we were pseudo-rebels
starting out on our
long and winding roads.
Long the King of the Keep!
Long live the memory of our
Gelato Nation,
may it stay sweet in
our antique collection of
the best moments of
our intersecting lives.
July 2011
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
For the first time on campus, Sisters on the Runway will strut and pose for domestic violence awareness.
Sisters on the Runway will be hosting its first annual fashion show from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. tonight in the Business Building. All proceeds will be donated to the Centre County Women's Resource Center, Layla Taremi president of the organization, said.
Sisters on the Runway is a national student-run organization that raises awareness about women and children who reside in domestic violence shelters. There are over five chapters throughout the nation, each supporting the same cause to local shelters. It was founded in 2009 and has grown since then, Taremi (sophomore-marketing) said.
Aside from the fashion show, which is the biggest fundraising event that the organization hosts, Sisters on the Runway is also responsible for other events. The organization hosts a chalking event where they write facts about domestic violence on sidewalks using chalk. This is a way for them to raise domestic violence awareness, Taremi said. It also hosts a walk where all participants walk a mile in heels for awareness.
The show will consist of eleven female models and three male models, Edie Alexander, the event planner, said.
Alexander said the show is expected to showcase clothing from Connections, Dwellings, Diamonds and Lace Bridal and Harper's, who are also their sponsors. Looks Hair Salon will be responsible for hair and makeup for the models in show, Taremi said.
"There is no theme for the show,” Taremi said. “It will be a wide spectrum of clothing."
The male models are expected to walk the runway showcasing suits and tuxedos, Taremi said. Originally the show was not going to include male models. It wasn't until the owners of Harper's decided to contribute to the show by donating some men's apparel for the fashion show.
All the models participating have been building up their confidence for the runway, Alexander (sophomore-recreation park and tourism management) said.
"I'm excited for our first annual fashion show, I hope this brings more awareness to the Penn State community," Vice President Lauren Shearer (sophomore-supply chain management) said.
The organization’s goal is to get a lot of people involved through different events to help raise awareness of domestic violence, Shearer said.
"We’re trying to push people to come, not just Penn State students, because it's not an issue that doesn't only affects college students,” Alexander said. “It affects everyone as well."Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
Georgiana Seymour,
Duchess of Somerset
crowned _'Queen of Beauty'_
at the 1839 Eglinton
Tournament, the first known
beauty pageant;
W
European festivals dating to the medieval era
provide the most direct lineage for beauty pageants.
For example, English May Day celebrations always
involved the selection of a May Queen.
In the United States, the May Day tradition
of selecting a woman to serve as a symbol
of bounty and community ideals continued,
as young beautiful women participated
in public celebrations; such as the beauty pageant
held during the Eglinton Tournament of 1839,
organized by Archibald Montgomerie, 13th Earl of Eglinton,
as part of a re-enactment of a medieval joust
that was held in Scotland; the pageant was won
by Georgiana Seymour, Duchess of Somerset,
wife of Edward Seymour, 12th Duke of Somerset,
and sister of Caroline Norton;
Georgiana proclaimed _"Queen of Beauty"_;
Entrepreneur Phineas Taylor Barnum staged
the first modern American pageant in 1854,
his beauty contest closed down after public protest;
However beauty contests became popular
in the 1880s; In 1888 the title of _'beauty queen'_
was awarded to an 18-year-old Creole contestant
at a pageant in Spa, Belgium. All participants
had to supply a photograph & a short description
of themselves to be eligible to enter; a final selection
of 21 judged by a formal panel.
Such events were not regarded as respectable;
But beauty contests came to be considered more
respectable with the first modern _"Miss America"_
contest held in 1921;
Still the oldest pageant in operation,
the Miss America pageant was organized
in 1921 by a local businessman as a means
to entice tourists to Atlantic City, New Jersey;
The pageant hosted the winners of local
newspaper beauty contests in the
_Inter-City Beauty Contest_ & was attended
by over one hundred thousand people;
_Sixteen-year-old Margaret Gorman of Washington, D.C.
was crowned Miss America 1921, having won both the
popularity and beauty contests, and was awarded $100_
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
Blinded by the sunlight that shines so brightly,
it proceeds to massage my spectacles,
rinsing the grime away from my eyes,
there lived mankind, buildings, plants, and animals,
but where was I, unaware of the planet I saunter,
I look in amazement, unborn to what to forecast,
but then I distinguished the dark side, somber and bleak,
impoverished skeletons walking hunchbacked, desperately
scrambling for silver, as so to purchase a bottle of liquor and a burger to indulge his vacancy that absents him,
as I trek my way further into this metropolis,
I hear a sudden commotion arising from the right direction,
it begins to steer me that way, luring me in deeply there was a mass of onlookers chanting on, of what seemed to be two individuals pummeling one another into a bloodbath, but then it escalated, the crowd began to all partake in the beating and it caused a mayhem, that was uncontrolled, I bolted the scene, protecting my mask from getting dismantled, as suddenly I hear a very deafening noise, it was a four wheeler wagon, that speedily amtrac it's way towards the locus in which we was in, everyone scattered the scene, as the people who dressed in uniform annihilated the scene, putting an outright stop to the madness that occurred, forestalling future procreation from the participants, my heart shriveled and I gasped for air, I ran aimlessly into a town that was lively and sunny, as I saw mankind playing sports, clubbing, riding nice convertibles, homes were futuristic, plants were vegetated, smiles and giggles were infectious, everyone was cheerful and amused enjoying this utopian I discovered, it was care-free, as folks walked in suit and ties, formal dresses, luggages entering and exiting, dialect as clear as caribbean sea, friendly animals chaperoned by their owner, "where am I?", "what was this strange but yet interesting soil I embark on?", ..... I don't know, but it closes me in like a maze and I'm forced to live as they.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
.
I am the one who walks at the edge of the herd
noting and observing the crush.
The jostling and positioning, and re-positioning.
I see, I watch. As the participants dance,
desperately seeking to be sorted, boxed, stamped and labelled.
The reject of the herd, I document.
I can paint a flowery picture.
I can write an apocalypse.
But its not like that, its not black and white.
Its complex. And it is moving.
Constantly. The only true organised motion.
Infinite individual minds, racing.
Racing towards oblivion
carried by the herd.
The weak, trampled; helping elevate the strong.
The strong, elevated; trampling down the weak.
The battle for posture.
The psychology of a single entity
split, schizophrenically, amongst the countless.
The herd travels as one. Inexorably.
United and scattered, evolution incarnate.
I see the hate, the love, the conflicts within.
I see the pain and misery.
There is danger here, on the edge.
I am the one who walks apart from the herd,
finding my own path.
©Pagan Paul (20/06/16)
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
Is schismatic schematic prophetic problematic differences
a future world
to be unscholarly resolved with arms?
Heresy, is an accusation that requires hanging,
not just participles, but participants,
let us tear apart the baby,
give me half and you, can scrape the pavements.
I see , no communion, no Democracy, no theologian
or Cleric, no Christ, no Buddha, or Mohammed,
coming to our rescue.
No one says, this is craziness, totally religious
schismatic
I may be. But,
give me an alternative.
I cry, today.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
Trauma lives on in our bodies
In sometimes unexpected places
It doesn’t just reside
In the malfunctioning lump
Of electrified meat
Encased in my skull
Each part of my body
Seems independently determined
To avoid
To protect me from
Vulnerable or defenceless moments
When the speaker at a training event
Asks the participants in the room
To close their eyes
Partake in a thought experiment
The trauma resides in my eyelids
Which I cannot will to shut
I stare down at the floor
Eyes open in unwilling resistance
The simple act of closing them
In a room full of strangers
Is more than my body can bear
When going on long car rides
The trauma resides in my jaw
Compulsively chewing gum
To stop myself falling asleep
In the passenger seat
Maybe I can retain
Some small semblance of control
Over my body
Over what happens to it
As long as I remain awake
As long as I remain alert
The trauma resides
In that small space near my nape
Where your fingers curled
That one time
Sinking into my flesh
Leaving marks for days
On the rare occasions
I let anyone close enough
To touch me there
It feels as though
My entire spine erupts
Shooting out jagged barbs of panic
Isn’t it funny how we can train our brain
To forget things
To bury things where they cannot be retrieved
But they will still linger on
In another form
Imprinted into our very bones and muscles
Sometimes I find myself thinking
How nice it will be
To finally be free of this body
Which stopped feeling like my own
Long ago
Do what you like with my body
When I am dead
I tell people
As though
They hadn’t already while I was alive
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 1:41 PM UTC
It might be the pungent steam from a ***
steeping herbs meant to bend its sippers'
minds to potent effect, or an unanticipated
digestive reckoning from that mawkishly flavored
brand of store-bought paste they pass as butter.
However the dough arises, their collective
recollection of storied events, lengthwise sliced
and ritually rehearsed, hops facilely on the ****
of a bucking and overtly nonsensical wind.
Tea parties with slippery perspectives
have been shown quite clinically to induce
heightened sensitivity in participants,
so it's prudent to set about tidying the facts:
The hatter, it's become clear, shifted one place
too many and disappeared with a trace -- leaving
behind his hat to nobody's great advantage.
Lacking a wearer, the headgear's reputation for
producing madness has rapidly diminished.
The march hare pulls off his change in a very
separate and seasonal way: the bunny's
bottom half somersaults its top to occupy
both his spot and the hatter's vacated seat.
The dormouse upon its latest arousal
is re-visioned to be small, but not much mouse
at all. He's plush with the long-in-the-ear habit
of a pink stuffed rabbit, which the crusading hare
furiously declares is most curious, casting
doubt on the vermin's commitment to "no room."
Alice remains foremost in tact and is given
a bonus of two spare feet complete with slackened
bootstraps. She keeps them and her other luxury
items well-sheltered behind a stout table leg.
The absentee hatter doesn't dare shame her
with a radio-show call-in decrying
the waste. She's generously agreed to
cover the medical expenses from his firm flop.
May 27, 2010
May 27, 2010 at 2:54 PM UTC
i was too tender and well-meaning in my youth to understand why each petal plucked from a flower felt so powerful. the way it tugged, the resistance. like a stop sign colored in a light rose pink. it was softly forbidden, you weren’t supposed to do it — but it wasn’t impossible. i didn’t understand power, but i felt it that day.
the flower was my first conquest. i made confetti of anything i could get my hands on — leaves, fruit, toys — i couldn’t stand to see anything whole. to the untrained eye, i was just messy and curious. i was, and i am.
but somewhere along the way, i was the one that was ripped to shreds. someone felt that power i did in my mom’s garden and graduated to people. so did i.
and i so wish i could say i cascaded softly to the ground with a whisper like a petal and not a resounding thud that echoed in the bottom of every bottle of alcohol i drank, in the cramped back of cars of strangers, at the edge of the pitch roof of my house. i wish i had that much grace.
i now understand how the flower petals, the pieces of fruit, the dolls without heads or arms must have felt — to be unwilling participants of a mosaic that didn’t even make a very pretty picture.
but at least i’m sharp if you dare to pick me up and put me on your wall.
Jul 12, 2022
Jul 12, 2022 at 10:33 PM UTC
to reconnect with who i was,
before i was,
who i seem to be.
drab and alone,
left to bear
the human condition.
they award no trophies
to those who yearn
to live serenely.
i'll smash a clock.
or maybe jump up and down-
fluff my pillows.
no, tomorrow i'm cooking.
breakfast, god **** it.
coffee too.
and i'll see an eastern sun.
i know trophies are won
by participants.
Jun 17, 2011
Jun 17, 2011 at 1:05 AM UTC
Souls wandering, Midnight Mass
Rescued hearts, craving less distress
Willing participants, for Gods graces
Sinner or saint, all worth measured
Through the extent to which they
Carry this life
Dreamers & wishers, take a backseat
The strugglers making confessions
Their first feeble steps, starts at one
Plea forgiveness from those
They hurt or betrayed, when they took
This path, to not be with another
Or at one with the life around them
Never in life, will we know another
Truly know all of them, exposed
Even secrets kept safe, between lovers
Parted kisses & naked skin
Flesh on flesh keep them together
How could she know it would
Ever come to this
Walking out the door for his next score
He swore he was done
Baby tears crying into his mummies
Eyes, promises made, broken only
Hours later, leaving mother & child
Losing his family, she remained his last
Hope, those wandering souls
Lost in Midnight Mass
A fall from grace, cupids arrow
Wrapped with a bow
Then later the bundle from heaven
That kept daddy in those meetings
Counting the steps, bronze chip
Sobriety for a year, lost the day the
Door banged behind him
Denial his confidant, only friend
Left behind a mummy cried
Holding their only son
Crack ******* **** or smack
Choose your sin, lose a life
She knew
He knew
This baby was all that was left
With no sign
Or clue.
© Sia Jane
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
Thank you for your time
and participation but
I'm sorry to say,
this was just a test.
A ****** social
and psychological
experiment on how
you handle insanity
in others.
You had impeccable defense
when I said, "I love you."
Immediate silence. Close your heart
like a steel door. The strongest
and most successful
response to
this behavior.
Some participants explode in the
test maze, can't handle any
mind games, loneliness,
suicide threats, pleas for
attention, among
other things.
You were my favorite
test subject. So much potential
I thought you might actually
get it. But, not quite
yet.
I'm sorry to put you through this,
my dear, my lab rat,
I just needed to push you
as far as you could possibly go
in order to maybe, one day,
feel you
push back.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC
Whether we like it or not,
Friendship is a contract
Which, when mutually accepted,
Binds us closely together.
In friendship, we are bound emotionally,
We have a social bond
Which entails a responsibility
To care and be cared for;
To maintain and nuture,
To preserve the boundary's,
Hold to the mould,
And endure....
Endure beyond hardship,
Social discomfort,illness
And even death.
Trust me.....
To be a true friend
You must undertake this contract
And honour it indefinately.
You enter the roller coaster of emotion
Entailed with the close mortal link
With another soul.
Friendship, if taken seriously,
Is a heavy responsibility
But it's benefits bestow the participants
With the sure knowledge
Of a close warmth of contact,
Of understanding and dependability
And a confidence of spirit
In knowing that out there....
Someone very special cares.
M.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
It's late at night when you realize she's not the one you loved,
or anyone for that matter.
It's late at night when your mind,
a towering serpent of indecision and malnourishment,
a rushing stream of water from the broken end of a fire hydrant,
tearing through steel and ice cubes that litter a middle age class of numeral reunion,
discover the over-keyed lock where metal bends and screams.
Covered in flies and rice,
it retains its bondages, exchanging freedom for self-loathing,
Dirty-dying in single file,
a honey-gilded tune not thrice too soon.
I seek the corridor where my true love will wait for me,
breathing me in, yet the cane of a blindman.
A clopping corridor, sleek and cobblestone,
artificial and vast, astral.
My true embrace will be that cold one of death, knocking at my door,
pleading my friendship,
sapping from me ***** and calloused hands.
A wet kiss on the nose, a reddened tongue.
I don't know the latitude of my existence.
I can't feel the reality of my throat,
of the gushing and the breathing of winds,
blocking the eternal stream of air.
The currents broke, and from within blew a heavenly melody,
that pierced cold ears boundlessly.
Again, that same street.
Lit faintly from above and from the participants in its ritual.
They burn the wax together.
And they sink,
O paradox!
Together, with their victories of mental triumph,
they recede further into torment and inefficiency,
quantified and numerical,
arrange themselves by merit and consequence.
Again, they sink and plummet and fall,
deeper into wonder and beauty.
Until it abandons them and spills over the edges,
splattering the circumscription,
dabbing alligator skin and sunglasses.
Inspecting the damage done,
he lifts from within its belly a tattered and worn skull,
that of a Man, no less.
Rusting in the desert, alone and among his gods,
bone-dry plains and dunes of dust,
rumbling agelessly the shaken scared earth.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
It's a speech I am giving...
To honor the guests
To welcome the participants
To appreciate them all
It's a speech I am giving..
Words from the bottom of my heart
My heartfelt gratitude
For all the hard work
finally fulfilled...
It's a speech I am giving
To honor great people
Talented people...
Awesome colleagues..
Whose supports and efforts
created magic!!
It's a speech I am giving..
To thank my amazing friends...
and HIM who is watching
and listening...
and continuously guiding...
and making things happen..
Standing on that extravaganza stage
Fidgeting ...
as I was rehearsing my speech that night
and thinking............
This is it....... CoLT 2013
We've made it possible...
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
The warrior clings,
Claws, fights to fight
Still with bullets in her back
She crawls
The wind howls persistently,
Consistently blows
Against the trees
When they refuse to bow
The water beats and leaks,
Drips on stone
To wear it down, drown it
Even if it takes one hundred
Lives and paths around the Earth
The salmon leap dams
Until their silver flesh
Grows blue and bruised,
Their insides batter,
And still they climb
The birds fly south
A thousand miles from
All they know,
With the threat of frost
On their feathers
When they survive another year,
When the salmon bare children,
When the stone finally moves
And gives way to a new fresh spring,
When the trees crash,
And new life sprouts
From the deadened base,
When the soldier takes the final blow…
These helpless participants
In a world they didn't design
Become the catalyst, key
For a whole new world to blossom and bloom
They're not in it for the thrill
For their health,
While with broken, blackend bodies
They bleed onward
They don't do it
Because they want to
Or because they were encouraged
Or because it was commanded of them
They don't do it because law
And nature demands,
Or because they are programmed to
There's no wealth,
No thoughts of glory
In those moments at the end
When it is "succeed or fail"
They do it because they must.
Because not doing it isn't an option
Because a life without their deeds
Is not life
Because if they don't… their world will die.
It is for this same desire
Same perseverance,
Insistence
Tenacity
Relentlessness
With no option but to keep fighting
No other words but "fight",
No other thoughts but "do"
No other breaths
Than the small gasp of pain
Followed by the determined gulp of air
It is with the same breaths that I cannot cease
Cannot desist
Cannot resign
Cannot send in the white flag
Cannot accept the fate
Cannot let it be
That you are slipping away.
I must take the beatings, and keep fighting.
I must accept the wounds, the bullets,
And keep crawling for you.
I must succeed.
I must keep fighting.
I must keep fighting.
I must keep fighting.
I must keep fighting.
Because dying isn't an option.
The war was won
The new life bloomed
The salmon bred
The birds survived the season
And we will see the light again.
Because it must be.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
*Before discarding
old contract writings
affecting lives yesterday..
spoke of interviewing
employment seekers..
structures prevail
levels of panels
participants gather
level to level..
formal networks
not newspapers
issued the passports
as entry for all..
order Not chaos
top-down and
external this mind
ordered pattern..
Today we hear
of airline tragedy
too little speed
landing made midst
smoke and fire..
passengers assembled
in informal hurry..
a self-organizing
masterpiece
order from chaos
lives saved in
miraculous seconds..
chaos gave birth
meeting our future
urgent self-iterating
in spots of need...*
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
I CALCULATIONS
A bird from the window
Pecked at my papers
Lined with my scores.
Now trees are dead,
And papers are gone.
This is the computer age.
I will break it down for you.
I even made a list,
Would you like to count?
II THE LIST
1.This is the computer age
Of digitized proofs
And
2.Authority attested identies,
With participants' certificates.
3.Our own words have lost meaning
4.We are now vessels
With our definition stapled on screens
And
5.Meagre salaries
Tagged on our foreheads.
6.We are our grades.
7.The given guidelines,
Projects we finished overnight.
We are the cheated test scores,
8.The printed marksheets
From the renowned buildings.
9.We are a bunch of degrees.
10.We are a box of experience
With a reciept of coffees we bought,
We are a cv of what we did.
11.We are the said lies
And
12.The stress calmed by mummbled slurs.
13.We are the second employee
Shouted at.
And
14.We are the hundredth consumer
With company approved needs.
15.We are the salesperson with quotas to meet.
16.We are the owners
Of a dying business,
A pending debt.
17.We are the numerous people
Of covered faces on the streets
18.And exposed bodies in the world wide web.
19.We are the constructed
Digital photographs
With deconstructed heads.
20.We are a bunch of numbers
21.We are a bunch of numbers
22.We are a bunch of numbers,
23.When did we become
24. A 0 or a 1?
People shouldn't even fit in a whole encyclopedia
And yet here,
Are you looking for a number 25?
III RESULT
Well I gave the papers to the bird,
She put it in her nest
And made it warmer.
You call me crazy
But I will always
Call myself a free bird.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
Some of us learn the first time
And some learn by frequent repetition
So what I would like to find
Are more tolerant participants
That are willing to be consistent
When conversing with a mind
That is needing patient assistance
And with a little extra time
We can eliminate resistance
And as one, realign
With our unified mission
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
I find these days my head bows down,
Lost in trees which bear no roots around.
We all continue to strive for their peaks,
That we might find the validation we believe speaks.
Because in a forest of hard line and concrete,
We think all there is, is a standard to meet.
Our bodies are young, but our souls are so old,
And craving some place wild and bold;
Where the forest which hems is ancient with moss,
And the rivers carve streets no foot can cross.
Tall mountains send out the wake up call,
That every man and woman will fall.
At the end of the day, the wild remains,
And strives to survive through mans foolish claims.
Yet I am lost to the toil and to the strife,
Of simply trying to make it with my life.
But make it where? As what? And why?
Because I try to escape the fact that all will die?
No solace can be found in the wealth of a king,
But give me a glimpse of an eagle on wing,
Amongst valleys and coasts where few eyes see,
Where the snow melts and brings new life to be.
A morning crisp with dew, and a chorus of song,
Some place wild where our old souls belong.
So short-sighted, so corrupt and insincere,
We try and conquer all that we claim to hold dear.
Even though we are but fleeting on a beautiful plain,
We are determined to burn, to clear and contain.
What if we were to become who we could be,
Honouring and reverent of all that is unbound and free?
To feel insignificantly small again,
That is the amazing gift of summit and glen.
A simple reminder that we are all but participants,
Not gods, completely unaware of our littleness.
Sitting in awe of the symphony of life abounding,
Lost in our utterly magnificent surrounding.
So I choose to take to the trails, the ridges and paths,
Which lead to the furthest and cosiest hearths;
To meet other wandering souls who have left behind,
The confusion and delusion of a self-obsessed mind.
And be prepared to lose and find myself again,
Away, into a wild embrace, her rugged domain.
My soul cries for freedom, some vision to see,
New life bursting as a bud on every tree.
Swept up in the miracle of a tale much bigger,
Than the measurable wealth of my yearly figure.
For in the wild, can be found the perspective I need,
For my searching soul to truly be freed.
May 6, 2021
May 6, 2021 at 9:58 PM UTC
It is winter.
I am on a bus.
This is the most efficient way home.
When I arrive, I will efficiently relax
and efficiently entertain myself.
The numerous participants of this bus
likely have similar plans.
Though we rattle in unison
like bottles in a six-pack,
Everyone wants nothing to do with everyone.
The bus is stopped at a light.
Two men are drenched in sunlight.
They cross, buffeted by fierce winds.
It is winter.
I am on a bus.
Among two men, four arms are occupied.
One is a shield, guarding from the sun.
One is a white cane, guarding from the earth.
Two are coupled, and together they cross.
The men are not related,
apart from their aged appearance.
They complete the crossing,
and one of the men lowers his hand.
Disability becomes ability,
and a caregiver is left reeling.
For generosity is most rewarding,
after unearthing one's humanity.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 2:41 AM UTC
the local lads
put in a good showing
at the regional
bowling championships
though they were defeated
they played exceptionally well
John won three ends in his match
but his opponent from Armidale
had a better game on the day
he sent many a fine shot
towards the jack
the tournament
was well organized
and all the participants
were able to wet their whistles
on time
when they went to the championships
last year
they all complained about
being kept on the greens
for ages
and none of them
got a beer
until well after
five thirty
as the old bowlers adage goes
it is better to be well up
than too short
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC