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GaryFairy Dec 2016
feeling the heat, i'm hiding from desire
i've spent many nights by that fire
i feel alive by the light of my pathfinder
all of the other fights are minor

i set the sights on a climb ever higher
it becomes my mind's flight decider
widening my heights by trying to be wiser
hoping for my eyes to open wider
Larry Potter Sep 2017
Long before we were born
She already stood
In her 3-inch feet
Ready to wear the shoes
Of eldest sister
And firstborn daughter.

Years until her toys were torn
She easily understood
In her little big heart
Happy to share the love
Of father and mother
With her sister and brothers.

Not a single day did she get bored
Watching us grow together
Our heights were swapped
But we remained intact
As a sibling of four
And a family in God's favor.

Three decades after she explored
The world as a pathfinder
She led the flock
With wisdom and skills
The way she knows best
And we're more than blessed.
Happy Birthday to our eldest sis!
Enzo Dec 2018
Jobs that pay and jobs that don't
A passion to work in spaces of uninterest
A yesterday that's the same as tomorrow
A beginning carried over and copy pasted until the end
Stressing over the same thing for days on end
Working 9 to 5 in a pencil pushing company
Trapped in an endless cycle of routine and bore
Find me chaos, find me adventure
Take me out Dear Pathfinder in search of true passion and fun
I found my way then but it wasn't what I wanted
So take me away and make me lost for me to find myself again
If I ever land on a boring job I'll lose myself to find passion again
Jeremy Duff Jun 2015
Body

Two bodies,
in a bed,
on a quilt in a field,
in the backseat of an '88 Nissan Pathfinder.

Two bodies,
touching,
squeezing,
caressing,
biting.

Blood,
pooling under the skin,
rushing to the brain,
rushing to the genitals,
sticky/hot.

****** candy,
the curve of lips around a lollipop,
the drinking of whiskey from the bottle,
the burning sensation of MDMA insufflation.

Clothes strewn across your mother's kitchen,
ice cubes traced down spines, *******, *******.
Oral *** with ice cubes in the mouth.



Frequent ******* and a sense of unwellbeing, if you'll allow me this one usage of an unword (I can't help myself)
I spent years of my life in a fantasy world.

waters inhabited with murlocs
Forests with centuars and unicorns
I had badass armor
Spellbooks, Abilities, Charisma modifiers!

When you live in Dungeons and dragons you finish quests, unlock gods,
Slay Monsters

When my DnD group broke up

I didn't lose a group of friends.
I lost a party of adventurers

Their eulogies pronounced at the end of that final nat one
Will never be forgotten.

Portaits carved like improv comedy routines.
Characatures of our ideal selves
Bound, sealed, stuck on a book shelf
We deserved another sequel.

When the party healer crumpled her car against a Concrete wall at 70 miles an hour
It made sense nobody else knew how to cast raise dead.

In a world that is supposed to play out our ideal realities
it was no question her charecter lived eternal. the way she would have wanted.
The way we wanted so badly to be true.
Nobody felt right taking over her charecter.
And nobody wanted to **** her off.
So we wrote her story.
Every die she had tossed this whole adventure. Each murloc she ran from, each unicorn she rode, etched into a leather bound tome.
Placed Right on the same shelve we kept our pathfinder books.
Her headstone.
We never played after that.
But she did.
When we placed the novel next to the flowers her mother left.
We felt her cast healing song
one last time
And that night
We got a full rest
The Scribe Aug 2012
As real as Monopoly Money....

I'm on Mediterranean Ave, buying sleeping gas, and a bulletproof vest to rob Community Chest. Inside info from Dimples. Cut her out of the money by putting 2 in her temple. Off to the projects, the Marvin Gardens. Special discounts when buying guns by the carton. The back up getaway is on Pacific Ave. Her brother will drop me off, I'll plant a bomb in his taxi-cab. Rob them, he'll drop me at the Waterworks, his car blows. I'll swim a half a mile to Reading Railroad. Give *** Jack some chump change, $500 for the caboose on the train. Low profile as we go through the ave's; Vermont, Oriental, Kentucky, and also Virginia Ave. Robin hood theory, throw out bundles of cash. We can't Stop, we'll be taking a Chance. Getting locked up in the Jailhouse, 25 with an L ****!

Jump off @ St. James church, to stash my firearm. "What if it's closed", I'll crack the burglar alarm. Walk in, see the priest, and for our sins we confess. For the rest of this mission, we'll need to he blessed. With this economy messed up, pockets they lack. Time doesn't pay the crime, they've added a Luxury Tax, to avoid the Electric Company where people get fried Jack. Walk down Indiana and blend with the panhandlers, to No. Carolina, where I'll steal us a Pathfinder(Nissan). Then we'll go, it's a quarter after 4 we got to get to the B&O.; Listen for the Jamaican yelling bloodclot. He'll extract the rest of the plan from his dreadlocks. Park Pl. will take us straight to the train station. Hide all your valuables, it's headquarters for freebasing. "What about the cops watching from the Free Parking Lot"? We'll sneak up the back street called Tennessee, and dress up like some ladies, to hide our identity. "Ooooh that's smooth and just might work, to make it to Conneticut in heels and a skirt". Get on the Shortline to Advance to New York, and lay low at St. Charles Pl., on Ventnor and Illinois.

We're at St. Charles Pl. getting undressed from the lady clothes, and the rest of the plan to pull a hit on the Parker Bros. Rifles issued at target practice, to get what we wanted. When we Pass Go, they'll pay us $200. To rent a room on the Boardwalk Hotel Top floor, to shoot the Parker Bros. as they walk out the front door. We'll lean out the window and have them centered. Since the scope is telescopic, we can see where the bullet entered. BOOYAH, the scope is off, so we missed their heads. Broke down the weapons, while we was running downstairs. Stole their Rolls Royce in front of the crowd. Still in pursuit of the Brother's for laughing aloud.......GAME OVER!
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
How many poetry books = 1 Nissan Pathfinder exhaust
      system.
How many bluebirds? Money is how we thank people for
      what makes them special
How we express our love and gratitude.

Weight and moods, up and down, with weather and outcome
      of meetings.
I am so sick of humanity, people. Wouldn't I prefer
      chickadees?
Then I get home, that is the comfortable tree hole I've been
      longing for.

Aaron pitches and plays piano. Zach likes lacrosse and math.
The mound was soft, sand, with a hole big enough for an urn
      or to hide a plover
But Aaron pitched carefully anyway, slow strikes and the
      opposing team scored.

What would God's work be? Meaningless question. Today's
      schedule:
Write fund raising letters, conserve small farms. Local food,
      local jobs. Don't transport food coast to coast. Save fuel,
      less CO2.
In my opinion the dislocations resulting from climate change
      and global warming will be within man's adaptive capacity.
      On the other hand.
Also, green industry will open a vast employment market, a
      job for every grackle, crow.

The good life, unsustainable, we're poisoning our children
      although my children are not so poisoned. They're bald.
      Unusually bald. Good looking bald. Future of man bald.
      Happy bald.
Bald eagle. Nesting, mating near Karen Sheldon's, a
      conservationist, philanthropist, on the river, whose
      husband recently died. During romantic dinner on a
      second honeymoon in Paris, so I've heard.
That's Jake's spirit come home as an eagle, Karen said. Isn't
      that great, I said, and the she-eagle he's nesting with!
--I'm gonna **** that *****.

Compare Captain Carpenter and In a Prominent Bar in
      Secaucus One Day. In each case the hero's (heroine's)
      body declining
Under life's duress. Anything located in Secaucus, NJ could
      not be considered prominent, could it?
In the end, clack clack takes all. Hard to end a poem better
      than that. Clack clack the crow's beak, upper and lower
      mandibles meeting. From hunger, or it just does. Crows
      clack clack to communicate.
Whitman's greatest poem is Out of the Cradle . . . also
      involving communicating birds, in what is initially an
      embarrassingly emotional display. All that italicized
      moaning and yearning. Get away.
Then, clack clack, he turns on you. Death lisping, straight into
      your eyes. Suddenly you realize you should have taken
      him seriously, been paying attention.

In the meantime, traffic, corn, new exhaust system, ask for
      money, save farms, poor people, sun on garden, whole
      wide world, wars, stars.
I gave up long ago on a quiet world. Now going deaf. Then it
      will be quiet, too quiet.
No more birding by ear. "No more *******." I mean really . . .
      I was moved as anyone by Hall's honest poem about Jane
      dying and I guess ******* can be music to someone's
      melody, stand for living, but not me.
No more birding would have had more meaning. I'd rather
      bird than ****. No more *******, no more worry, no more
      war.

Which is why I'm gonna **** that ***** is so funny, such a
      life-affirming comeback.
At first I worried Karen really believed the eagle is her
      husband. Maybe she does,
But that punch line makes her the kind of woman I want to
      know.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Taylor St Onge May 2021
I’m thinking of the faded checkered pattern that has been
smoothed away by time on the dark cloth seats of a Nissan Pathfinder
                                          driving down Ryan Road on a hot day in June.
My mother, in the front seat, singing along to a Spice Girls cassette.  

I’m thinking: red, plastic, crab-shaped sandbox and
                                      McDonald’s Happy Meal toys.  
I’m thinking: light princess pink, seafoam green, and robin’s egg blue.  
I’m thinking of a framed cheetah cross stitch, hanging on the wall of what
                                      used to be our bedroom at my grandparent’s house.
I’m thinking: Barbie doll houses and Hot Wheels and a cul-de-sac at
                                                                ­                     the end of the street.  

The sweet smell of cigar smoke.  The ice cold splash of the garden hose.  The pop of a bubble.  The sting of soap in the eye.  Dreams by The Cranberries.  As Long as You Love Me by The Backstreet Boys.  A HelloKitty boombox slowly spitting out vapor when the deck builders hit a power line while digging.  The deer in the backyard looking for corn.  The faded wood of a playset that was never really played on.

My father: sitting alone on a splintered bench by the firepit at the edge of the woods, empty beer cans at his feet, chain smoking cigarettes, and humming along to a song that is stuck—forever stuck—on the tip of my tongue.
I do not know if this happened.  I cannot ask him.  
(I’m not sure if I would want to ask him.)  
But I can make an educated inference that that line of
fiction is really nonfiction.  
A memory that feels like a phantom limb.  
                            Sounds like the sharp crinkle of static.  
                                                     Co­vered in a gossamer, dreamlike haze.  

There is a distinct otherness to this memory, to who
                                     I think I was before the trauma.  
We are two different people.  A yin and a yang.  A day and a night.  
The hermit crab is soft beneath its hard shell.
The asbestos is not apparent within the insulation.  
You cannot see the lead in the paint.
The mold inside the fruit.
prompt one for write your grief: who was the person you used to be?
evildum Apr 2015
Sinewed by the the ancient art
of tai chi, he forged the forces of  the universe
to lure a dreamer  into his lair. He stayed
silent as a spider; and with seamless
gliding of  limbs and fingers,
he entrapped  his prey like a moth
entangled in a cobweb. The sky
was bleeding then when she asked:  “How
can I walk  through the dusk?” “Just
follow me, I’m a pathfinder,” said
he. He whispered to her ear:  “Close
your eyes my child and trust your heart.”  
And to the tremor of  his voice he danced
her, deeper and deeper  into the night. Soon  
his lips dripped with her muffled sobs, the stench
of  his slobber drifted  into her pristine dream;
and he confessed:  “She came to me;
I’m innocent.”
What is the dream,
the diary I keep with notes etched to the seam?
What is the goal,
the endpoint at which I determine my role?
The world only skims off the top it seems,
loving only the cream of the crop.

Lost am I,
having strayed from the path,
a world split down the middle,
cut and dry,
and if so,
where can I live,
who can abide my wayward soul?
A soul assembled from the ashes of Descartes and Kant,
a contradiction in continuity,
can I or can't I,
change the hand that I've got?

Listen to the song,
the siren's polyphony,
the refrain rate familiar,
the color tone wrong,
discern for yourself,
what is the bane of the crown?
Stifle your fear and strike at the root,
with shovel in hand bury your sin,
always striving for truth,
rend the tree at both ends.

Yes,
I am a pariah,
***** in purpose and soul,
the wayfarer's failure,
refusing to pay the pathfinder's toll,
and although my map is imperfect,
all roads lead to Rome.

Retreatist,
rebel,
jester,
fool,
gladly I'll claim the whole lot,
each title a badge,
a step towards my goal,
this society is sick and refuses to see,
each individual is a person,
gay,
gypsy,
Muslim,
Jew.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Taylor St Onge Mar 2016
After My Little Black Dog Died of Melanoma.
After the Lumps on Her Small Brittle Body Slowly
Burned to a Pile of Ash in the Vet’s Office.  After My Step-Father
Drove in His Ostentatious Truck to Pick Up Her Remains.  After I Cried
in My Dorm Room and Tried Not to Wake My Roommate.  
Realization that My Loss Does Not Make Me Different.  There Are
Graveyards That Span For Miles and They Are Filled With More
Dead Bodies Than I Have Ever Seen.  There Are Hundreds of
Thousands of Children in the Foster Care System That Have
Never Met Their Parents or Maybe They Did and it Just Didn’t Work Out.
Kids Who Might Have Lived With Their Terminally Ill Parent(s) For Years
Not Just Days.  Kids Who Never Sat in the Opened Up Trunk of Their
Mother’s Black Nissan Pathfinder at the Drive-In Movies.  Kids Who Lived Too Far From Their Too Old Grandparents or Who Lived Too Far From Their Too Dead Grandparents.  Kids Who Were Never Told Not to Throw Snowballs Because There Might be Big Chunks of Ice in Them.  Kids Who
Never Had a Childhood Dog to Cry Over.  Kids Who
Don’t Like to Read Because They Were Never Read
Bedtime Stories When They Were Younger.  Kids Whose
Mothers Never Called Them Tweetie or Pumpkin or Honey or ***.  
Kids That Were Not Told to Just Go to the Bathroom When
Their Tummies Hurt Instead of the Health Room.  Kids Who Never
Listened to the Spice Girls’ Album Spice World on Cassette on the
Way to the Store.  Kids Who Never Got a Peach Drink Out of a Vending Machine at the Pick’N’Save on 27th  Street and Still Don’t Know
Exactly What 50¢ Peach Drink Their Mother Bought For Them.  
There Are Thousands of Dogs Euthanized Each Day Because of
How Sick They Are or Because They Were at a Shelter For Far Too Long
or Because They Are a Pitbull or a Rottweiler or Some Other
Irrationally Feared and Disliked Dog Breed.  We Didn’t Euthanize My
Stage-Four-Cancer-Stricken Dog or Even Get Her Treatment Beyond
Pain Medicine Because We Were Selfish.  We Do a Lot of Things Because
We Are Selfish.  We Waited Five Days to Pull the Plug on My Vegetable
Mother Because We Were Waiting For a Miracle That We Knew Would
Never Happen Because She Stopped Breathing the Moment the
Aneurysm Burst.  My Sister is Getting Married in June and My
Grandfather is Going to Walk Her Down the Aisle in My Mother’s
Place.  My Grandparents Had to Move In With My Sister After My
Grandmother Fell Down Too Many Times and Didn’t Take Her Health
Problems Serious Enough.  There Are Repercussions For Thinking
You Are Safe When You Are Really Not.
Imitation poem of James Shea's "Haiku."  Written for my Advanced Poetry Workshop.
Paul Roberts May 2012
I am not the one..who chambered the final round.
Not the Pathfinder, in the smoke who called the choppers
that lifted the dead and wounded off the ground.
I am not the Chaplain who holds the hand of a dying young man,
struggling hard with his belief.
Not the nurse with ****** hands,
eighteen hours with no relief.
I am not the young widow, now with two children ,
feeling left behind,
not the biker who stands guard in a patriotic flag line.
Not the Sargeant, who with respect, present the final flag,
not the Officer, with wet eyes, collecting the causality dog tags.......
           But I could be!
ANTONIO Ainnoot Dec 2023
My biggest fear was dying, nowadays it's feeling alone. It took me twenty-eight years to peer into the looking glass. Somehow, I found that my habits weren't so destructive. Overly mindful of my own disruption, I was dangerously close to doing nothing.

Struggling, searching for pieces long removed from its subject, led me to the mountains. Time unveiled its wisdom; the pain made me philosophical as the years escaped my grasp. Alas, as the years amassed and the veil slowly faded, I came to understand that trials and tribulations should never foster hatred. It's never too late to ask. Every path you tread should never be your last.

Perfected words whisper through me as the pain comes to an end, and I delve into the depths where habits lie shattered. Self-destructive patterns become easier to distinguish. I knew I could pursue some new beginnings if I quit being distant.

Picture me fitting in. Picture me painting pictures in sync, not as a victim. There are things that I've been missing out on.
I just haven't been living.
I relinquish my resistance—for me.
Brandon Webb Jan 2013
I type in that old address
expecting google not to show a house
to show the empty lot
that from what i heard
was the result of putting a dishwasher
into the kitchen
and causing complete septic failure
that flooded that entire uptown PA acre.
But, it flies me there
and I cry a little
because it's an old picture-
the house is still there,
just as i remember it;
an empty lot to the side,
the dilapidated apartment in the back yard,
the shed at the end of the driveway
(which was just a couple of cement tracks
slightly thinner than the pathfinder tires)
the apple and pie cherry trees we used to climb.
the alley in the back
where we used to skip rocks
and run from the neighborhood dogs (and cats)
looks the same as well,
every car the same,
every empty house still empty,
every tipped trashcan still being tipped each week.
I go down every street I used to walk,
they're all the same,
the bus stop is still where it was
the trails are just as long and dark as they ever were
and each yellow yard looks just as it always did in midsummer.
the ponds in the park are still the same color
with the same algae growing in them
and the same overgrowth hideaways around them.
A mile down the road;
the mini-mart where I bought gum when i had money
hasn't changed a bit,
even the pink umbrellas are still in front of the smoothie bar
but, across the street
the used book store that i would get lost in is gone
and from there i notice subtle changes:
the blackberry bushes by the middle school,
that mom made multiple cobblers from, are gone,
the maternity store moved,
the shed that my stepdad first told us would be our new house,
(before showing us this place)
has been torn down, or fell over
(as i assume it did),
and it doesn't end there,
I practiced my eye in the small details of this small ****** of the world
even though i never talked to anyone
in all the hours i spent walking.
But i guess I remember so well,
because, four-and-a-half years later
I still consider that house home.
that house where my brother was born,
where i first went without my glasses, and liked it
where I was first given the freedom of a bus pass
and permission to leave the house,
where i had my first (and only) overnighter
where i first became addicted to cleaning
where i've packed so many memories
that i can understand why the sewage line broke
sometime after that picture was taken



©Brandon Webb
2012
Autumn Whipple Jun 2015
In my younger
and more vulnerable years
I
                  walked
                   on
I was lonely
        no longer
I was a guide
            a pathfinder
I had that familiar
                  conviction
                         that life
was beginning over
promising to unfold
that shining secret
that only
Midas
               and Morgan
                              and Maecenas knew,
that the wingless
had been overlooked
in a fashion
that rather
             took
                         your
                                  breath
                                            away.
I was fragilely bound into
a murmured apology
of moths
among
            the whispers
                                  and the champagne
                               and the stars
Bantering inconsequence
that was made of
infinitesimal
               hesitation
I repeated blankly
a surprising
shill metallic urgency
Bloomed with light
it sort of crept in on us
that I
               had truly
heard nothing at all
In the unquiet darkness
continually smoldering
with disappointment
in the solemn echoing
green light.
a dim hazy cast
lay upon my love
your love
     belongs
             to me
                 She insisted
its too late now
           he scowled
I could only stare
as
she cried
            A terrible
                        terrible
                                   Mistake!
you ask too much
she told me
I love you now.
you cant repeat the past
he said
why,
     of
            course
                        you can!
I paid a
high price
for living too long
with a
                   single
                              dream.
great Gatsby found poem I wrote in class. I got an a on it, but I need some improvement suggestions.
She is so hot
but
she gets me
spot on.
ScribeMeAName Apr 2020
Materialism, reject it
Consumerism, constrict it
Minimalism, seek it.

Abandon the crowd, become the laughing stock.
Insults and mockery flow through the flock.
Your freed soul a harsh reminder
that they are chained by desire.

Enter a Stanger, leave a stranger.
Do not dare to even take a sip.
You are one, part and whole.
Complete from outside and within.
In your oneness seek him.
There is so much more to life than just consumption. If you're brave enough search deep inside yourself and you will find the answer.
David Nelson Jul 2010
Gambale

he comes from the land down under
a golden axe is in his hand
creating his centrifugal funk
all across his note drenched land

he completed his Italian job
sending everyone high fives
while schmoozing in the white room
high powered electric jives

Nunzia was by his side
he was his right hand man
except of course when making love
inside Lydia's love van

one of the great explorers
of this final wild frontier
like a crouching jaguar
keeping his mind so clear

the magical slinging weapon
faster than an arrow
the vibrations pierced through the skin
down inside the marrow

the thunder current crashing
this pathfinder with attitude
it was dawn over the Nullarbor
at crusing altitude

conducting naughty business
for all those who seek to hear
Kuranda is the place you'll find
his vision so perfectly clear

for his right of passages
a little charmer flying by
a present for the future
noteworker on a natural high

Gomer LePoet...
Delusions of
Futures untold
Created for
Us, you know: the un-bold

Braying our compulsions
To the big ear in the
Sky
As we seek:

Glor if i ca tion
Being meek likely won’t bring
Gra tif i ca tion
Dulling my senses points to
Stu pif i ca tion
But don’t I deserve it, I am a
Hall u cin a tion

So why put in the work?
I’ll wait

<<<PAUSE>>>

The avalanche will find me in perpetuity
Coming in time cause I been shirking duty
Oh, here it is - time for me to be:
Aggrieved

I should’ve known better but I was:
Deceived

I just wanted to tell my truth, I wanted to be:
Believed

Wish I woulda kept something up my:
Sleeve

So how do you rise above?

Do you got what it takes?
Could you climb your
Kilamanjaro?
With a little training maybe
Gut check: find your bravado
Wouldn’t it be nice to have your own number,
Like Avogadro

And I ask again,
How do you rise above?

You breathe it in
Seethe it in
Find a vessel to
Conceive it in
Now that it’s full
And maybe even overflowing

Let it go

Trying to find answers in a bottle
Could point you toward
A 12 step mis-step

Getting back on the right track:

Use a compass
That’s internal
Realign it, maybe
Through a vernal
Equinox, the universe speaks a language
We are untaught
It’s of the Earth and Sky and
Can’t be bought
Maybe it’s me and
Maybe it’s not
I want to commune with my god
Through thought and
Heartfelt overtures that aren’t constrained
By limitations of my brain
Or systems based on economics
My value is not gleaned from
Gross Domestic Products

Answers are found as you expand past the vessel
You may become part of the trestle
Follow the false path long enough
And you get trod under
The false pathfinder becomes the path,
Did you make a few to many navigational errors
Cause you didn’t do the math
And now, as a part of the foundation of which the unending wayfarers
Can use to go a little further and a little longer in the wrong direction
Your hard work has become a bridge to nowhere
But let’s not dwell, cause

Scrupulosity
Will never guide you to the golden city

Maybe its the meat suit that you’re wearing
The overcomplexity of your eyes
That won’t let you see
The unending nerve endings that make you feel so much
You can’t feel, you won’t feel
You could pay heed to Seneca
Consider giving the suit a slip
Taking a trip
Through the underworld
With everybody’s favourite sidekick: Virgil
Kickin’ it, workin’ it
Trying not to let the lost souls hold you down
Throw you down
Now it’s time, let’s start coming around

On my journey, seems
I can’t shake em’
Me, myself, and my shadow-self
Guess I’ll try and integrate em’

Time for a va ca tion
From thoughts that won’t un-
wind, in breezes

Gonna get around to it, to
Writing my treatise
Maybe I can elucidate this false peace
Via an army of one, en masse
Slipping through the bars of false
Beliefs
As the trees
Lose their leaves

Maybe for the last time

I'm working on the unwind
From a labyrinth that is unkind
So sorry:
Guess I'm playing up the sublime

Ah, never mind - it’s
Navel gazing
Self hazing
I ain’t done razing

Roofs and
Telling truths
Or drinking
Vermouth
Cause at my very root I am
Uncouth

Razing?
Or raising!
Roofs
Finding proofs
Telling truths

Ever listen to Ruf-
Us or Martha
The Wainrights
Canadian brain-trust
Listen too hard make your brain bust

Let’s get back to navels, or
Oranges
But nothing rhymes with oranges
Maybe not
Gotta flip it
Tryna strip it
This noose is so tight
Can I slip it?

It’s geometrical
Said Euclides
We got the Greeks
Or do the Greeks got us
Squeezing us into this euro-centric
Box
Can it be un-wrapped?
Can you un-rap this poem?

Busting brains
And taking names
No one to blame, I
Don’t feel ashamed
When I win
Just means I can take it
In my shin
It’s got nothing to do with my
D N A, eh
Nor the choice piece of geography
I made the conscious choice to arrive on,
genetically

But remembering brevity
It’s time to cut the rambling for the sake of levity
Speaking of sake, I wouldn’t mind some saké

Oh, what’s that:
~~~ boom ~~~
Pulled another one out of my medicine bag

Just sitting here

Shifting gears
Confronting fears
Yesterday I was

Bleak
Er

Meek
Er

Should have been a
Streak
Er

Laying out the facts that are
untold
Thanks for listening to me
Another one of the
un-bold
I've got rambling. I've got rambling on my mind
Simon Mathole Dec 2018
Life crumbles my visions asunder,
Ignorance shoves me into clumsy blunder,
Love throws me into the zone of blinder,
Forgetting that I'm a Pathfinder.

When life deprives me off the briddle,
When everything seems to be a puzzle,
When my story goes like a riddle,
In grief, I hear life playing it's own fiddle.

Heavy weight makes my legs jiggle,
My blistered feet make me stumble,
But 'they' see me and chuckle,
While they used to praise me in hotels.

Engineering renders me a plater,
In my own house, am made a janitor,
I date a ****** city bunter,
Money in my life is a gutter.

Physique portrays me of a working Caliber,
So they ask "Do you work here?"
Yet behind the curtains am a begger,
A begger in fashioned attire.
cool, just call me , we are juggling our sanity and the days like paper lanterns on rivers being used as paper weights for a days wages never paid,

and the walking dogs have all their leashes in a knot, but do not fret, I got this thing on a bet and a prayer,

with some help from good friends and one heck of a pinch hitter,
who brings the cows home on the bases loaded and the football bat is all out of whack and did it with a whiffle balled mad  hatter.  

as we are all a tasted disquieted and alarmed silently outloud of the load of horse **** and bravado  of the slightly deranged considerations to any being ******* the dead for their secrets ,

so yeah. But with our werewoof feet , Mohawk eyebrows in the alias mode of method of obfuscation uni-brows and mustaches, cause lets face it, with such stage as to fain the rain of a stain,

we need to rewind the kine and uncage the page of line after line of sweet *** whine, wine and more time blaze all the rage when beards don't do the trick in landing the babe with the need for a tree of good root and a wild spine eyed fool all hillbilly and too schooled in the dark arts of **** knuckling bad ways and stays into a gifted consorted construct while she sigh the not so **** shy, yes dizzy and high, and say, oh ****, who whoulda thought,

,, still I thought you would have been bigger,, like road house in the dancing days of rolling thunder and pouring blames mane all to educate mine eyes and teeth as to what is real to eat and all that is plastic fruit looking all to bitter sweet,  

including all the critters of varied skill, poise and swinging lawn mower blades like, biscuits and mustard, pathfinder style, calculator not needed but ****** is optional, and never forget the nuts that bolt all us fools into a clustered fuckery all betty crocker and country **** legs spread , I can't believe it's not butter said in the voice of Otis Redding ,

Signs of that sweet smile and of **** some body going to get a ******* tonight look in them eyes as they tool away and hint to my silly day and keep me on point like the six tossing a bloodhound a big round steak of shhhh, we are hunting rabbits here,

never mine us six foot white rabbit all werewoofed and donnie darkoed in our get the show on gear, lol, but ****, all that in such awesome packages as the friends and things in my head, all keeping me fueled in the art of war on the undead.

now this my friend is a day in the life of the It Squad, and we hit the **** like you cant quit the **** sqaud, so have a coke and a smile, laugh a while, we got this ****. ;-)  

What, I'm just shakin a spear at a bad bacon boy all francis nancy like... so funk yo skunk up son.

oh, da boy got the lo hold on the roll Soul, ****, son, swing lo sweet chariot, commin for to carry me no mo alone and in a **** good tone with a nice private home to give the good dog a bone.

So, yeah, weak like a good weeks hard glazy nights, all sir and silly, but you cant call me a lil *** ***** with my good hillbilly goofy eyed and swilly, Mooooon Shine on me .

Say love son, Yah to the Jah , Alma. cause you got tha soul sols, and if ya don't get this, then you don't have it. but we workin on that, right?
The Black Keys- Howlin' for you (Lyrics)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPUaQ3homWU&index;=87&list;=PL1X51wyhBF79WF5k6CXQ86Rocxv3E9UCP

from playlist,,  
***yeah, weak and okay with my weak.
h ttps://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL1X51wyhBF79WF5k6CXQ86Rocxv3E9UCP
Ignatius Hosiana Mar 2016
I will travel this world
just show me an airline
that allows payment in poetry
show me where words buy visas

I can be a hero
who restores peace at a battlefield
where the universe is
fighting the war of words

I can soar high in space
just show me where lines
are stitched into wings
show me how to synthesise words into feathers

I can leave my mark on Earth
just have to turn it into
a planet whose species
actually knows a poet's worth

I can move the world
just give me a springboard
where I can stand and spin
the rest of the globe the other way

I can make you proud
just learn to hear my silence loud
even if you don't practically
appreciate that I'm endowed

I can be a president
just show me a nation
whose politics ain't marred
with filth, controversies and lies

I can be whatever you want
just give me whatever I need
give me a people without greed
and I'll find you a Moses or Joshua
,that I'm sure

I can be anything
the ocean, the bridge, the home under siege
the road, the beast of burden that lifts the load
the pathfinder at the Red sea,
if I'm given the rod
Ray Savill Dec 2014
Reptiles the pathfinder of humankind
Come from quagmire cognitively blind
Claws become digits, hind legs took on knees
There eyes looked forward, they wanted to please.

From upright gaite he saw his first sun rise
Walked towards horizones enticing skys
Began to gather, his perceptive root
To plant his rational, interlect route.

Grunts become recognised vocal conduits
Which co-operate with reasons pursuits
For eruditions ultimate clarity
Wisdom works for familiarity.

Knowledge deciphered in words to provoke
The birth of conscience a central yoke.
Terry Jordan Oct 2017
I know what a crash dummy feels
While pouring down rain was humming
Bracing myself with nerves of steel
Eyes wide won’t stop trouble coming

Driving cautiously in the storm
So many cars speeding on past
I’m thinking easy, slow, steady
Not fight or flight before a crash

I know how a crash dummy copes
Eyes wide open with teeth revealed
Safety first face forward bravely
Ever expecting he will yield

Disbelief that it’s barreling
Faster and faster, I lean in vain
No place to go but the shoulder
That whizzing missile blurs in the rain

I saw it coming without the squeals
Pathfinder’s barrel fully loaded
No skidding tires or screeching wheels
Slow motion shards of glass imploded

My little red car lurches forward
In a bang she begins to swerve
That SUV slammed into me
Before dropping back at the curve

I feel what a crash dummy feels
Releasing the damage inside
To let go the past and its sorrows
Straight ahead, there’s nowhere to hide
Even though my car was totaled, hit from behind by a rented Pathfinder driven by 2 French guys rushing to make their flight, I am appreciative to be ok physically-though jumpy about driving ever since-especially in the rain.   Felt there was a poem in there somewhere, but kept thinking of crash dummies.  I  appreciate how so many suffer from PTSD from way worse life experiences than this!
Carissa Dickey Apr 2012
Fire
Eats up the night
Biting the hand that feeds it
Twisting and withering
Dancing and cackling

A source of heat and light
When the sun moves on
Whispering
Singing an unheard melody
Enticing the cold
To enjoy its warmth

Frightening the creatures of the night
When they approach this new sensation

Darkness runs to every corner
To avoid it
Devouring flesh, wood,
And anything else caught in its path

Wicked, cruel, painful
Beautiful, mesmerizing, enticing
"Come share my warmth," it sings
"Rest your tired feet and aching body,
"Soothe your mind and feed your hungry belly,
"For it has not had a good meal in weeks"

A singer of beautiful songs
A melodious sonnet
A pathfinder
Joining souls

Some fear fire and run
Others tame it
Letting it run up their arms, bare chest
And crawl into their mouth
Then spitting out tongues of flames
Playing with it
Encouraging it to bite

A source of entertainment and pleasure
Burning and choking with intoxicating fumes
Laughing at the trapped and helpless
It slowly and painfully takes away lives
"Feed me! I'm hungry!" it cries as it dies away

It mourns when it is not wanted
And rejoices when needed

Keeping your body warm on the coldest of nights
Gives your whereabouts away to your enemy

Treacherous
Beautiful
Cruel
Hypnotizing
Badee Uz Zaman Apr 2016
The hovering
of dark clouds ******
my stale memories,
the exultant memories
of ominous days.
when my breaths scrambled in
suffocated corridors
Of acute treachery,
like the irresolute wick of
a lamenting candle
survives the gushing wafts
of wrathful wind, only to enter
another phase of
unspeakable horror.
Oh! Dear candle,
my candid pathfinder of
apocalyptic nights,
cursed you are.
thawing your being
in service of this
barbaric world,
they blow you off forever
in just one exhale of
tampering frustration
naming you
the heartless murderer
of romantic moths.
Michael Marchese Apr 2021
Ask me two years ago
Where would I be
I could never predict
It’d be close to the sea
I’d have never projected
The future in store
Would be one in which I
Didn’t have any more
Terse objections,
Complaints
Detestations to feint
That I actually care
Still concern myself with
Goings-on in the universe
Dare to commit
To a cause of nobility,
Selfless servility
Not solely self-indulge bliss
Instability
But, maybe its
Ignorance is unfounded
And by its abyss
I’m not always surrounded
Unbound and I’m often astounded
How free
It seems I really am
To choose my
Destiny
yellah girl Apr 2017
You called yourself an adventurer, a
pathfinder, one who like to take risks,
explore places no one else would brave.

You were young & curious,
but old enough to know,
old enough to stop.

You called yourself a friend, someone
to be trusted, but you took away the
cloth, stripped naked the ******, greedy
eyes and hands, slippery words, oiled
whispered consolations, assurances.

Your tongue took paths too raw,
journeyed to depths too young to
understand, but did you care for anything
but the sweet, almost corrupt taste?

Your fingers made of ice and lead,
delved deep into forbidden passages,
ripped through pink innocence,
now bloodied devil red.

You painted kisses on a tender, fledgling
canvas, murmured sweetly to soothe,
but you could not take back the knowing
that she would never again take back
the innocence you had
wickedly Chased.
Raw, unadulterated writing courtesy of my recent nightmares.
mikecccc Jul 2016
Where will you wander
Where can you wander
in this well charted land
all the landmarks are noted
who needs a pathfinder
a lot of folks
oddly enough
they know not quite enough
could use a pamphlet.
Sundrenched Pathfinder, scraping up pieces of the past beneath mossy stone

Trail Bird whistling to the tune of the falling bombs.

Tall proud tree peak flinches at the venomous bite of percussion

Sundrenched Pathfinder, mountains burying us beneath ashes
Satsih Verma Apr 2017
O pathfinder,
you wanted to leave unsung.
One day I will track down your footmarks.

Last night I understood
the unholy drowning of the truth,
before the priests of innocent surrender.

Jealousy was the secret of
downfall.You can use the parenthesis now
to defend the corporate
blunders.

Politics has become a
grammar to cheat the morphology
of gospels.

Do not go like naked truth
in the crowd.I wanted back
my eyebaths to see clearly.

The gap between the lips
was widening..
The air is frosted with a scent of wet fall leaves, the darkness a rich abyss of espresso as we enter the forest of deer.

A mist from the swamp thickens as our headlamps cut through it.

My son passes me thinking I've lost the trail, he becomes the pathfinder, a smile appears on my face in the darkness, I'm happy.

Our steps are synchronized, as the steam from our breath becomes part of the mist.

We cross the stream and reach my stand, now we separate wishing each other Good Hunt, may our arrows be true.

I wait and watch his headlamp gently dim through the dense forest. I contemplate the gift I'm experiencing.

I climb my stand, pull up my gear and settle in ancient weapon in hand truth in my heart all expectations gone.

Time passes and dawn breaks, birds feed, sunlight sweeps away the fog. I hear my son call for deer.

Hours pass, minds clear, time ceases.
You envision what you pursue,
the forest becomes your breath as you wait for your quarry.

As what some call barbarous an unnecessary endeavor in this day of supermarkets, internet and smart phones, lest we forget from which we came, I prefer the meditation of which I partake in and revel in its ability to keep me connected to the soul of the world with reverence and respect >>>====>

Nicholas Finocchio
Bullet May 2020
On the ride of our lives
There’s no reason for switching sides of the lines
Her eyes steer me on a dash boredom trip
Her feet on the dash when we are crossing boarders
Love in the air and we’re breathing in exhaust
Road trips planned out to a double crossing
Set fire to the bond for the gears couldn’t shift
Her eyes grew for another
While mine lost their tint

Bridges burned was well worth the visit
The cars totaled can never amount to this kind of freedom
The trust merged within a group to shoot down a smile
These miles rolled are now thrown down the scrap yard
I had to scrape myself off of a window
Everybody looking through me, clearly a loser
So I’ve set a fire in my pathfinder
Everyone found a way out of the tolls
The evol plugged in the love was found in the start of the spark
Sticks and stones were thrown to cut me off
I’ve pulled over too much
Stepped out to check out the view too much
The love we had was looking too lonely
Do not enters in both one ways of a love light
Now I’m in the street swerving and nothing is stopping me from crashing
Wall bangs from the side panels we now share from the past pictures on mirror panels

Hanging off the sunroof
I just need to see a little light
Gas pedal grasping the air
Destiny holds evil and fear
I’m holding the steering wheel
Driving drunk asking for trouble from a 2seater

You’re trapped in love
I’m trapped in a lx
The ride boxes us both in
There’s fire in both our outlines
Yet I’m the one slowly dying
Check the light of my heart line
xmxrgxncy Sep 2016
It isn't so much the realization as it is the process.
The life blood that contributes to it, the feelings that emanate from every wavelength of it.
It's the doubts and concerns and hopes that line the path with light or darkness, all the pathfinder's choosing.
It's the way.

— The End —