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Jami Samson May 2013
With mechanical portals known to be doors
That either lead to different worlds or take you home,
These cabled vehicles like tunnels on wheels fastened on a railroad track
Stretch to both ends of the universe under a single route.
And as you get in for closure,
You put your trust on the obscure.

Just say the magic words;
It will take you anywhere you wish to be.
Even though magic always comes with a prize,
The only cost are countable units of your time
And also a few dimes,
In return for the travel of your life.

Across the carpeted walkway of reaching out,
Through the glass windows of visible silver lining,
Behind the blank and arid faces that lure the soul to sink in deep wonder,
The lights and skyscrapers, and mist silhouetting the scenery,
All appear in bokeh, all blend in your eyes;
Your eyes that glow brighter than fire on ice.

The coldness lashing perennially on your skin
And shaking your bones to its final breakage,
Couldn't beat the absolute zero amity between these strangers.
But your fascination has enough radiation
To melt the tip of the iceberg
And shine over what's behind their opaque walls.

Settled on the plastic seats that serve as time machines,
They nestle between unfamiliar bodies;
Static, in a state of inertia.
Blocking out force, resisting change;
Like cars stuck on parking mode,
Couldn't bring themselves to unload.

Grasping on loose handles
With a grip more secure than seat-belts,
Some tend to pull away despite of the constant push.
Like engines on reverse, they take time to backtrack.
For all we know, for every action,
Is an equal and opposite reaction.

The brakes hit; there goes a screeching sound.
But when it comes to a break, we don't really hang back
Or fall to a complete stop;
We only slide forward.
For we must keep moving ahead,
In order to keep our balance.

The portals once again unlock to let you out to the open galaxy
And let in another for the same adventure.
You've reached the end of the trip,
But not the end of the road; nor the destination.
For the journey is infinite; you know you are going to ride again and again,
Until you've run out of wishes of where you want to be where.
#18, Jan.18.13
Have you ever been to Nairobi?
What did you see there?
Buildings, people and vehicles?
Uhmmm! Let me share with you my case
Hence I was there yesterday,
And I saw wonders of life;
Jubilant politicians clashing for tyranny,
At the Nairobi parliament,
Making anti-human laws,
Under faked canopy of de-terrorization,
With no tincture of surrender to open truth,
That; in juvenile states like Kenya,
Corruption is a minefield of terrorism,
Corrupt management of state organs;
The policemen and state spies,
Hired on full back-up of corruption,
Gives leeway to thriving of terrorism,
As a security agent hired nepotistic-ally,
Will never fight terrorism with a knack,
Leave police work to policemen with passion,
Not to your kinsmen and loyalists in politics,


I saw jubilant politicians high on nerves,
Excited like a swine on ****** heat,
Or they were possessed by the evil spirit,
Or crushed by the African cult of dictatorship,
Where humanity derives pleasure from political pains,
Scornfully viewing humane governance,
As dictatorship will fortunately give a bloom,
Of swift doors and windows of corruption,
Primitive accumulation of filthy wealth,
And apotheosification of the worthless self,
Into a lull of blind self-made god-ship

I saw a jubilant politician going pugnacious,
Forcefully restoring dark days of Toroitich arap Moi,
Making a law which a monkey cannot make,
Hitting a fellow politicians,
With all might and knack of a devil,
Shredding into laces the trouser of a colleague,
Exposing red lingerie of the fellow colleague,
Partially exposing the tools of child making,
Only to the positive chagrin of us all,
On discovery of the circumcised *****,

I saw jubilant dictator-maniac politicians,
Passing a law of shooting to death,
Him the police feels may be a terrorist,
Or detain at pleasure, without trial
Him that looks ugly like a terrorist,
A suspect is a snake to be crushed the head on sight,
But not all snakes are poisonous Mr. Politico-Jubilant,
Some are ornamental and others poisonously harmless,
Even snakes need fair trial,
Just like suspect of genocide,
Before the international criminal court,
Before a blow of hammer crushes their heads,
Let me ask you my dear reader,
A foolish question as usual;
What are snakes to the jubilant politics of Nairobi?
A political non loyalist who perhaps can chide,
The powers that be from their gusto of power,

I saw jubilant politicians in full gear of idiosyncrancies,
Passing the law to gag friends of the poor,
The NGO’s; the poor man’s uni-source of hope,
They have been relieving the poor man of Kenya,
From horrendous traditions of   epidemics,
In Turkana, Budalangi and marginalized Mandera,
Helping men and women of these areas to be free,
From tyranny of perennially missing basic needs,
This freedom is now thwarted,
Lest it gives these poor men right of speech,
Thwarted artfully in the **** of NGO’S,
Through false label of the time,
That they play *** with terrorist groups,
What a big a lie?

By
Alexander Khamala  Opicho,
Eldoret,Kenya
Silent Sanctuary Jul 2016
Life is a continuous matter of common observation. It enables us to realize, that each one of us, is a vivid and complex mortal living an epic story. One that carries on and on invisibly around you, like an anthill sprawling deep underground with several elaborate passageways to thousands of lives that you won’t have the chance to know.

As time passes us by, we can’t help the rushing flow of frightening responsibilities coming through our way. As a result, we tend to focus more on these perennially problematic things, instead of looking at the bigger picture, which hinders us from exploring the beautifully intricate world we live in. However, as human beings, even if we choose to neglect these duties and just start enjoying the moments we have to explore this diverse environment, we’d always be afraid of what’s going to happen next, or the consequences of our actions to the unknown future. It can’t be helped, as we are all fear mongering creatures, crippled by uncertainties that may never happen and not even affect us at all.    

Despite our poor condition as temporary mortals in this world, we must always keep in mind that we exist in this universe to see our world unfold on its own beyond our imagination. To be risky enough to find our own adventure to keep us sane from the struggles we face in life, to see beyond barriers that others find to be a simple dead end, to draw things you love close to empower you to do the best of what you can with your abilities, and to find your true purpose in this life to be able to feel alive with zeal and vigor. That, to me, that is the true meaning and quintessence of life.
Timmy Shanti Jul 2017
But for some cruel jest are not we all perennially ailing…
Are not our lives just pictures passing by?
We, blindfold, in their wake are trailing,
Are hardly ourselves… And at the best of times
We solely hope yet for another handout
At someone’s twisted mercy and before
We ever realise it’s us we cede so freely
It’s far too late… We sob and try no more.

Shall not we fight, defiant, our doubts and envy?
Shall not we hold the fastest to our dreams?
And from our deepest selves shall not we draw our powers
When all is lost and there’s no life within?

It’s down to us to down the cup we’re given.
There is no shame in failing. All we can
Is to keep going on, perennially ailing,
However cruel and short our span.
July 2017
In Memoriam Bradley Lowery
Cunning Linguist Dec 2013
Won't you shotgun blast me to the face?
Though do tell, don't I make you celestial?
-It's my specialty,
Spectacularly, I see you dancing in the clouds
Spectrally resembling and unsettling
An unfurling semblance of reality

Breathe in me, Goddess of my dreamscape
Eclipsing my fate and alleviating waking life
Admirably divine,
A collision of concupiscent melodies
As we perennially intertwine among stars
Ghazal Nov 2014
A soft, pink, closed bud
She lay in my palm,
Her untouched, unexplored,
Sparkling pristine charm
Made me desirous of uncovering
The little secrets her innocent depths held,
Though surely there wouldn't be too many,
She was but a little flowerlet.
So, slowly and gently I
Let my fingers unfold
The sheets of her petals hiding
Her stories untold,
I drove into her likes and dislikes,
Her passions, her fears,
I thought that was all but I
Was guided again, into another layer.
A little darker than before, with
Melancholic tales, guilts and regrets,
Punctuated by naughty quirks and unique mirth,
******* me deeper into her nest,
Her nest so ruffled, how she hid it
Within her kempt exterior,
Each depth bizzarely twisting
Into yet another dazzling sphere.
I lost myself inside of her then,
And continue to be, perennially-
Amazed, astonished, perplexed, dazed
At the extravagant flower she turned out to be.
Andrew T Hannah Mar 2014
Even a World So Ugly As This        
  
  
                  Is Full of Beautiful Things.  
  
  
  
  
It was one of those evenings  
when men feel that truth, goodness and beauty  
are one.  
                            
  
  
  
  
  
Waste no day with too-much sleep,  
              Darling,  
The wilderness beckons.  
  
  
Let us rustle the trees.  
Remember to laugh, Remember to sing.  
  
Fill again my head with constellations.  
Fill again my head with consolations of sound.  
For i am inseparable from you, and you from me as well.  
  
  
Remember to dance, Remember to dream.  
Remember to listen, Remember to see.  
For even a world as ugly as this  
      Is full of beautiful things.  
  
  
All other questions of the mortal coil  
More or less become clear  
In the unwinding.  
  
Hushed and heedless,  
The sunflower, chico, and the fountain  
Twi-lit with honey.  
Forests grand with oaks, and the lunar zig-zag which paints the mountain.  
  
  
The slow dripping noise beside you,  
The cool *** of night become icicle morning.  
  
A thousand thousand impish clamors call out!  
The elfin quietude.  The flighty bird. The brotherhood.    
  
The mirror changes with moods.  
  
The brother, the sister.  The merry-go-round of laughing children.  
The daughter with a bouquet of curls beaming gold, red, brown sincerity.  
The freckled enchantment of lovers perennially in Idumaean night.  
  
  
The artistry of female radiance on which all things are born and balanced.  
Beauty such as to drive a mind to madness.  O  
And the splendid metaphysics of the male,      
The shimmering brandy of honed muscle and action.  
  
I am recalling, the ebony of her form,  
Perfect in inexhaustible allurement!  
  
I am recalling, the pale fragility of another,    
Perfect in exquisite pulchritude!  
  
The friendly mutt whose voice exalts sonnets of pure love.    
The great haunches of colts at full run.  
Tendrils of primordial music bloom on the wind!  
  
  
Under the water the world drowns and continues on.  
Yet the measure of mocking men produces only sand  
Fit to fill a broken hourglass.  
  
Let not gladness be empty banter amongst us  
Ye city of perplexed imaginings!  
City of labyrinths, curves, catwalks, and spires.  
An elegant evening strolling with you produces charming memories.  
  
In abandoned churches the ***** blessed us heathens with greater timbre and romances  
Than a thousand caterwauling religions.  
  
  
With Juliet's rose between my teeth  
My jaunty daydream burst out laughing !  
In the snug lamplight of home again  
Vines and evergreen ropes of oleander twined up to the roof and quite through!  
& Together we climbed it to find the proof.  
  
  
Refine your strength, refine your shame.  
By all means, breath deep, lustily!  
  
Even the body which drags weary feet.  
Even the nervewrack'd hours dark and steep .  
Midnight strikes quickly and time melts away, completely.  
  
Apprehend again the heart  
Before it washes away in the storm.  
This and all things that we cannot untie  
Should not bind us to an early grave.  
  
  
Here i grow too old for fearing frivolous shadows.  
The eyes fill with sleep - and then reopen.  
The eyes fill with sleep - and then they do not.  
The conversation carries on .  
  
At times perhaps we hear the ocean  
      grinding grinding  
Those orphaned spirits of old Edens,  
What soon again we are to become.  
  
  
But what is a home unwanted?  
                       it is nothing!  
  
And what is a life unlived in?  
                  it is nothing!  
  
  
The surgeon with steady and learned hands.  
The mechanic with hard and learned hands.  
The soldier. The mother.  The strength of one in solitude.  
The strength of those whom lean upon each-other.  
  
Bubbling bedfellows of rivers rambling  
in a forest of Birch and wildflower.  
The Odyssey in the park with you, under a pagan serenade of moons.  
The red blood of pomegranates passed between.  
  
The throb and churn of engines is lovely in its way.  
The darkness is lovely in its way.  
The present, the past, the future - all the sunsets,  
Sonorous in their way.  
  
Weep and weep into the dusk.  
But what do you imagine bitterness shall win you?  
  
    
The natural harmony and dis-harmony.  
Towers of strained hardening.  
The mud and the water.  The fire which governs.  
Grapes upon the vine, and diamonds in the mine.  
I provoke myself onward.  
  
And say let us speak hastily, neighbor,  
For what time is there to waste  
On expectant verses, and platitudes to over-made faces?  
  
I for one do not care much for dawdling beneath false skies.  
The realist parts of me know too well of life's harsh cruelties, and yet,  
                  realize also that reality is the theater of artifice.  
                  - and you are ever free to see it as you wish.  
  
  
The mirror changes with moods.  
  
  
I for one prefer the perfume of the moment.  
Nothing simplified, and perhaps, yes everything!  
The human smells and earthy musks.  The animal abruptness.  
The persisting imagination, the infinite onward.  
  
I for one prefer to hear the music outpouring  
loud and rockus,  
            Rather than the bells that morn us.
And so...
...From the Benevolent Ashes, We Rise!
Raj Arumugam Nov 2012
you row, row, your wooden boat,
rough, sturdy, hardy, made for wear and strain
you yourself
gathered, determined, as tough as nails
as uncouth as your boat
how long have you rowed?
How much is time, what is space and distance
as the ship behind you is never reached
for it forever recedes, as you row, row
and perennially speed the prow
towards
Towards what?
Towards that
Which forever recedes, as you row, row
You row, row, the wooden boat
And all time and effort, all will and motion
is but oil and canvas
A picture, an impression, an illusion
A verisimilitude
of what?
Capturing what?
To embrace what?
That which eludes
Past time, past space, past mind and body
you row,  row, your wooden boat
rough, sturdy, hardy, made for wear and strain
you yourself
gathered, determined, as tough as nails
as uncouth as your boat
how long have you rowed?
poem based on painting "The Rower", 1883 by James Sidney Edouard, Baron Ensor (13 April 1860 – 19 November 1949)
Snehith Kumbla Nov 2016
duo
two yellow butterflies
in the sun, entwined,
apart, chasing, diverging,
hovering hypnotic
over the first summer
bloom of the trees,

the wonder that is
travel, paving thy
own path in the air
stream, yet finding
each other,
perennially...
Nico Reznick Jan 2017
Hard frost and treacherous footing.
Nobody wanting to admit
that the new year
tastes an awful lot
like the old year.

None of our heroes
have been supernaturally resurrected.
There's the same
rank toxicity to our fears.
The jaunty carnival of ****** and maiming
continues unabated.
Death remains as senseless.
The corridors of power
are still slippery with slug trails and viscera,
and all the janitors have been
indefinitely furloughed.
It's cold, and
the bus is late again.

Still we persist in believing that
today will be different to yesterday,
that all those wrongs will be righted,
that the proper order - as we each individually, as
thin-skinned gods of our own personal
nuclear universes, perceive it -
will be perennially restored,
the buses will all
run on time,
and no one good
will ever die again.

But the truth is, this year
tastes an awful lot like
the old year.
I could be wrong, I guess.
Maybe everything will
turn out
fine.
K Balachandran Aug 2012
"Why"
is an agave  plant
raising its many hands
towards sky,
shaking in urgency,
as if demanding an immediate answer.
This "why"
I note,
it keeps asking perennially;
in tequila haze, I guess
that the spirit of that "why"
is that keeps me high
though the agave mysteriously seems pained!
"Why?"
Bless the blue agave, for its questioning spirit, of even the heaven yet  still being generous resulting in our daily
drink of tequila, with out any hindrance.
Eliana May 2014
Snapdragons are one of those
flowers that wilt in springtime, not
because there is
anything wrong, it's just
that their season is over.

I wonder whether
snapdragons ever fall
in love with the hawthorns,
though I really shouldn't
have to.

I know all too well the
feeling of having to love
someone perennially as
you both alternate dying,
for lack of rain,
for want of sun.
From the physiognomy that bruises the vertical from Gaul; axiomatic metempsychosis elements were transferred from corporate primaries to third parties after the incipient expiration of Vernarth. This orphistic or mystical enchantment was brought by Wontelimar from Valdaine, emerging from insane drunkenness on the Ardeche Mountains, transmigrating euphony and medical justifications that were united with the reincarnated Helminth reminiscent of Vernarth. Such was a verme or worm that classified itself in his arm, munching in his elder veins elongated by parasites of commendable colonies and idiomatic, retro-emotional, and lyrical heights. Knowing that its baluster made capital letters in steps and life-giving questions by means of beads, and the oratic chain of Luccica's godmother that awakened in him translating expirative and presumptive psychophysical Zionisms of the eloquent millionth perspectivism of re-trance, when his putrid upright arm was recorded. and landing in his Abrahamic physical departure, dissociating his body, separating and alternating with his dexterous spiral Aorion tri-bracelet between the arm of Sagittarius and the arm of Perseus, liquefying into indissoluble modular stratagems for three bodies, plus the one that accompanied occupying triplets in posthumous individualities. Unconscious metempsychosis singularities brought the right-arm picking him up several times from the discursive hive of Wonthelimar, to convince him and tell him that he had not been with the Hexagonal Progeny for some time, without hindrance it brought him from Ardeche in lasting and concerting sets, gray senses looking at the valleys of Valdaine in pilgrimages towards the expectant Patmian plains. His expiration was reborn from the appendages of the water lilies that were grasped by the recessed lumbar powers and were trans-mentalized into related memories that subsist reincarnationist and degressive in plausive longing when re-advancing with revived intelligence, to indoctrinate themselves when raised from an emetic absolutist consciousness, and free from the greatest breaths of judgment is constant waste and reciprocity on shelves that started from an initial discipline already transmigrated, on skinned ardors eroding from astral ellipses in decayed individualities expiring in the Ego-Xifos (Ego-Sharps), that transpose the gorges that even through Hellenic geography that has not been shed by the blood of a Hetairoi.

Wonthelimar says: “hold on to my lazy arm and embrace Lazarus and his decayed fierceness! in different bodies I have seen your blood hang itself on banners with different super-life monarchies, in the germs of the Valdaine valley avoiding their retreat into fatuous materials that vilified the acrotera of your descended Megaron. Remarking on the genetic tricuspid, and emanating lineages of surviving to invigorate in the dexterous appendage of Aorion, which has to wail from the armpit of Betelgeuse with insensitive patches that mock to see him bleed for more than two thousand years without coagulating in possible anarchies more than nothing, before speculating from where the meager blindness of compassionate triple restraints has germinated, like a split Psychí or soul three times before predicting about the valleys and a castle, in infamous beatifies that do not bleed with me…, Wonthelimar ”. It is possible that they have sublimated us from the apathetic and brief radiance...?, Only in some moor or headland before tearing us from the banners or Vexillum of the inaugural that stuffs its already subsisted vehemence in spaces that are already acroteral, resting on peduncles in floral capitulars. And the immobile ones mold the support pustules…, the sap that runs horribly towards you and behind you! Incontinent to your dehydrated past lives redeeming subsistence and rubbing it, then excluding themselves healed properly from their wounds settled in muddy dreams of reviving them expired. Resulting from its origins from the Mysterium or Musterium as an enclave exacerbated in civil disproportions that were established since the Neolithic, without having sealed the doors of all the species that were trapped in the mysterious ice ages, based on ritualistic doctrines, through eager entities to obstruct lapses in the open air of the Spilaion Apokalypseo, having to be returned in possession of physiognomies and of all the enclosed species of the Neolithic Age ”. The bumblebees loaded with spherical honey in their legs, flew by the assembly of the warriors, crops, pastoral assemblages, and sharp stones that cut the wind that disturb the infants who fear the night sleep in the rough quarries that made them sedentary of venerable thermoregulated and climatic seats. Making of them and us revolutionary discoveries, for the interconnection of cooled flints in forests of Memento or Vademecun, to be erected on the megalithic plains, from where I come, rolling like a circular stone that moves the rocks of the World away from a near east, making some timorous and Asian oratics, I was able to get close to you Vernarth, who since the Neolithic I appear following you without giving up in the horticultural and in bovine frights. In this way, the water lilies and peduncles cordoned off the semoviente, full of thrones to conquer them, almost after having lost the calculations of the plasma that were being innovated from a Hetairoi by being reformulated from its incendiary essence, with such spasm being pardoned in the orbits of those who it the sustain themselves and wait for them bringing elaborate anonymous spare parts. Thus Wonthelimar spreads Greek fire over his golden breastplate, entering his transmigrated soul there, as fiduciaries of naphtha, sulfur, and ammonia in treats of previous and speculated oxygenated suitability that was transmitted in suffocating atmospheres by his deltoid when he detonated hatred in his eyelids.. His ***** inhibited signs of fear and hissing of freedom in fields of glory from a mythologized go diving between desolate flames of excretion, and throwing fuel that was not conceived of the same troubadour in the final redemption. (Among waters, minerals and ureas from the Hephaestus braze where dead proteins of cell warheads were stained, nitrogenizing acids that were from the common verb of Wonthelimar) ”.

The double V merged and intertwined forming an inverted double V, being the metric bulbar of Wonthelimar raising awareness of the upper and lower Vernarthian blocks, night falling towards a density of the same that moved raised on the north deck of the Eurydice ship, while everyone slept in the understand the "V" residing and originating from the annihilating biological duo of the immemorial of Vernarth and the Bumodos river, contemplating the suggestive salvage of sap after overcoming lymphomas in the battle of Gaugamela. Wonthelimar in tender loves misrepresented what he would achieve with his ****** healings next to the bold tributary, leaving in the vanguard and in starts from all the gigs that had condemned to Halicarnassus to be truncated next to infallible Canephores in disgrace to their executioners, branching all the branches of holm oaks of the articular of Wonthelimar that had been sheltering from the head, girdling itself in old debt collector and of souls in pain on the sleeping Nyons. The carriage perennially transshipped hesitant and unconscious individuals that the Falangists invited them to order, and spend the night shining in their Xifos in the bow with the inverted "V" to open up to the abundant exciting sea and find it in some Eden, being assembled in the primary kicks of an anonymous withdrawn, among all the cattle cooked with herbs that did not manage to sprout between one and the other.

The brawl is the symbiosis of the Megaron that exhibited the “M” united with the two inverted “Vs”, conceptualizing in Wonthelimar the vigil of early properties and phobias fragmenting in numerous odes in Thessaly, which were already re-agglutinating attracted from a patriarchal image from Hellas, under the pretext of Hellenistic consummations as a vocational institute race in primitives of Alexandrina Magnus, derived a few nautical miles to approach Patmos. The ship sailed across the sea, pre-conceptualizing the very universal being that revived in the Tracontero, looming out of all the waters like a nubile breaker that spoke to each other with words from Mageireméno Kefáli Votánon, "head cooked with herbs." Speaking in primitive alternate erudition and in tidal waves with more than twelve meters of territorial Argonauts making similar corvettes as the Gulf of Tarnetino, possessing distant and comparative sixty miles of the base that colonized Wonthelimar for new sources when encrypting in the Megaron. They persevere, captaining the Immature Polis that would be documented in Patmos, and in the town councils of the assemblage with ****** ceased battles, climbing towards a great cogitation height of the Megaron temple and the Theater of the Epidaurus, under the three darkness of the lilies bordering the Spilaion Apokalypseos.

In the hemicycle Theater of the Epidaurus, the stars worked for the nations of Asclepius together with Wonthelimar, thus healing emigrated musical sessions in palmistry and Parapsychology, where burdensome marks of interveners expectorated in vast impellers on the Koilones and in their softened and purged bleachers, from where each one was shouting towards all the winds and the advent of all the auditoriums absent by past and future generations, cheering lives in salvific voices, for those who cheer them with additional sheltered and attentive spectators from ultra-semicircular bleachers, not being on stage, better absent more than the actors of a drama to stay alive when they prowled towards the Diazoma, or corridor where all the spectators suffered from the same ordeal of Vernath's right arm and pectoral in decreasing lymphomas, in a greater capacity of incentive and saving grace. After this incident, Wonthelimar became a cause and effect of the Vernarth saga, but of transmigrated formality for the purpose of corresponding survival and of cellular restitution of what had died in him..., thus, everything would begin to be reborn towards a prop in a double aspect. The former commanders who were once his faithful servants would appear before this affront, to antagonize him and make him desist from joining as a Proceriato and Gigantum Form of the heroes of Gaugamela on Patmos.
Wonthelimar
JR Rhine Jul 2016
Jam
Can we jam, brothers and sisters?

Dare we meet at the impalpable chat room
that exists beyond our third heaven?
Dare we to speak in tongues and timbres,
our skin taut across hollow shells,
our veins strung across cadaverous bodies?

I'll grab my drumsticks if you grab the guitars,
and there's somebody on the bongos
slappin' the skins with zealous fervor--
where my tambourine girls at?

Don't worry, I haven't forgotten our forlorn hero
sitting behind the keyboards--
Tickle me those ivories with pious hands and aching fingers,
shake em down sweet Jerry Lee!

And so we begin--
I lay down the drum beat that bops heads and scatters feet,
and the bassman always on top of things
slaps and slides and skips and sizzles
hot diggity dog!

I hear that sweet guitar scream and moan,
praying for death under hazy lights
and we all coast with eyes rolled back into our skulls
and torpid lips drooped open over slack jaws.

Not a word is said from a human voice,
we speak through hands and feet,
basking in colors eking from every kick drum stomp
and the desperate wail bleeding from amplifiers.

Feedback sings and screams, fighting the silence we taunt
and hold at bay.

Around every corner the colors trail
coursing through our vesselious bodies
propelled along the dizzying venture.
We somehow spot every pothole and take detours,
embarking down backroads and backalleys--

We can turn the wheel,
but don't think for a moment we know where it's going.

And the mirror's have all vanished,
we know not from where we came.

Someone shouts from the discovery
as we exit a phrase to enter serendipity,
toying with destiny, clay in our hands,
stretching out the ****** perennially--
We laugh as the gods try to remind us we are Man.

And the screams and the moans
sensing the ****** is getting close
so there's a crescendo I ramp up the tempo
ahhhhhhhHHHhhhHhHhHhHHHHHhhhETERNITY IS NOW AND WE HOLD THE KEY TO HEAVENS GATES AND TIME STANDS STILL AT HIGH NOON IN THE TOWN'S SQUARE WHERE TRIGGER FINGERS TREMOR AND WE SPEAK TO GOD ON HIS PRIVATE CHANNEL COMING THROUGH WORN SPEAKERS CELESTIAL CREATURES IT WOULD BE SACRILEGE IF WE WEREN'T SUDDENLY SO HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY

So I say again, brothers and sisters,
can we jam?

SO I SAY AGAIN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS,
CAN WE JAM?

SO I SAY AGAIN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS,
CAN WE JAM?

So I say again,
brothers and sisters,

can we jam?
“Honey you got yellow pollen all over your nose!”
exclaimed the cashier at Walmart  hurrying to hand me a tissue.
I had stopped to ask her if 4 O’Clocks did well here in florida.
“Oh-h-h” I giggled, “that’s from sniffing the Easter lilies.”
Lately, I have been trying to figure out how to
to add more fragrance to our southern garden.

There is plenty of color, the hibiscus has donned her frilly, coquettish
tangerine and red petticoats
The double begonias are showing off gorgeous salmon pink bonnets
much to the chagrin of their ******* clad penta sisters in
neighboring ceramic pots

Cape May daisies twirling dozens of yellow parasols
caper coyly across the lush terrain
and the newly planted milkweeds hold the promise
of glorious monarch butterflies alighting
on their burgeoning buds

For me the paradise of having a garden
right outside my door is a blessing of
huge proportions
a native New Yorker, I clearly remember
gazing out my window only to be greeted
by another building blocking any scrap of
green or organic color the cluttered urban landscape
had to offer

Thanking the sales lady I dashed off to Lowes
and found a jewel hiding amongst the rows
of spring plants and avid garden shoppers
Star of Tuscany a rose-like jasmine with a
perfume scent only angels could have designed

Whisking her away along with the enchanting
confederate jasmine I hurried home to plant
and welcome our sweet new companions

Later that evening while
swinging in the jhoola at Easter sunset
scarlet, gold and purple hues
cast a glow of hope over the garden of eden

Mother Nature renews herself perennially
shedding all that is not needed or useful
she leaves the sepulcher behind
wrapped in the throes and ecstasy of eternal love
she gives birth to eternal life
CharlesC Apr 2017
This tradition seems lurking
as the real Theory of Everything..
It is a pull toward recognition of
the real Self which we all are..
This sacred Tradition
places our Self and our
seeming self-separation..ego
in a perennial dance
which has always been so..
This is the Illumination within
which all of our religions their
temporary patterns express..
Science has neglected
this Formula until it was found
that an Observer has been hiding
and must be revealed
for further advance..
We seem to be on the threshold
of a startling discovery:
Our Self is Everything
the real TOE for which
we have perennially
been seeking...
epictails Aug 2015
Out of the bedroom window I looked
At the story seamed like paint splatters before me
Squandered in Monday grays and heavy lidded beams,
Skinny trees half pirouetting with the Northern master ,
Wet linens like rainbow dilettantes in their nylon pole slumber beds,
The wide sheet that overlooks all now turns in orange luster
That mundane truth from the pink sill (I see, I see)

An electric post stands above the swampy rice fields
A modern mammoth, the millennial miser
Perched in its lumpy wires birds mirrored each other like a pair of stilts
Whispering like Romans in spite of a forgone Caesar (political and free)
That mundane truth from the pink sill (I see, I see)

The night creeps like the batting crickets in the yard
Harmonizing in crooked ears a silly little hum
What I had heard when I was ten, as how everything had
Become known strangers scraping at the back of my pendulum
That mundane truth from the pink sill (I see, I see)

Out of the bedroom window I looked
At the story seamed like tell tale signs before me
The spit on a once young fool's clarity
Sealed in tight frames perennially set in a single motion
The old withering passenger squirms in his dinghy
Tides of chaos hooding that rage against the universal engine
That mundane truth from the pink sill (I'll see, I'll see)
This poem is easily one of my favorites despite the fact that this will probably have people confused.
Snehith Kumbla Oct 2016
the pigeon has not
just lain two eggs,

it has lain the
promise of flight,
pairs will take off,
float and land
with adroit skill,
feverishly mate
to fast-flapping
feathers, curve
an avian circle...

now if I may ask,
as the human
on whose area
you roost,
prospective
mother, what
exactly are
you doing
about hygiene?

like when will the
next pigeon
generation be
toilet-trained?

after all cats
dig a hole and
cover afterwards
so you see -
ablution evolution
is certainly possible
in the creature world

I have no other
complaints,
winged sister,
you take
little space,
may your
children prosper

we are sorry
for the trees ,
by the way

for our species,
frequently intimidated,
perennially afraid,
build fortresses
of dismay, that you
have to conjure
your nests on them

I do hope your kids,
god willing, when
time ripens, built
their nests on
branches, lay their
eggs on huge trees,
take flying classes
off stout branches...

by the way,
don't spread
the word to the
rest of your kin,
that our balcony
is the nesting kind

you see we humans
are still animal,
still territorial,
once is fine, but
another time,
we are not
so jovial...
i) i write about 'love', 'romance' and 'intimacy'
like the bounce of pebbles on a train track
so perennially, so frivolously, so rashly
yet the only sentiment i am truly riveted by
is the hollow static of 'desire' -- one that
washes off with the grime from your body
at the end of a high

ii) everything is transient

iii) and so i think i am
Hold my pulse,
Oh my Sweetie,
Feel my heart homely,
Keep yours too firmly.

Let us toss our love,
one to one,
over the net,
under the net,
off the net,
or no net,
foul or fall, not to fail
to dwell, deal and delve
in bits of bouts.

gravitate mutually,
gyrate gradually,
private cordially,
permeate perennially.

Heavens may break,
Let not our hearts!
Our times may crack
Let not our minds!
TinyMtn Nov 2010
Blacker than the kohl of her eyeliner is the state of her soul
She lives in that darkness perennially but it's getting old
She’s tired of carrying the weight of her world but not done fighting
Trying with the strength of five thousand mother *******
Trying, fighting, carrying what was given to her by DNfuckingA
She pleads for succor,
But always;
“There’s a void that the boys can’t fill, the tipping of the bottle or the popping of the pill”
And she’s feeling the urge to regurgitate the bile created by swallowing one too many tears over a few too many years
Some nights when she lets the salt roll, functioning gets too hard to breathe...
She knows that “loving somebody won’t make them love you” but she loves away
Works towards the proverbial brighter day, struggles for the right words to say:
“I’d let you be my everything”
She knows she should be her own One and Only
If only the mirror didn’t leave her so lonely
But she’s a plain girl who knows too much cowardice and not enough self-respect
If you saw her you might detect some self-neglect
Or not
But you can bet she’ll lift others like gods
She’ll believe in the few and far between against significant odds,
Pray for strength, guidance and grace,
Keep trying, fighting, carrying hope for something to fill that empty space
And above all (if you let her)
She’ll love you better than you’ve ever known
But first her little figure will have to spurn itself until it learns what she truly needs
Videlicet, to love the garden of herself beyond its copious weeds
Jennifer Arbo Sep 2013
This is to divert the current feeling to that which chases the wind-blown dandelions. This is something which reminds you that the world lives in uncolorful things, too.

This is not to write and be Pablo Neruda. This is not to love and be Romeo. Or Juliet.

This is to be like something that perennially changes.

This is to divert and re-divert. Be displaced or disengaged.

This is to end a line in a way it should not be ~ like a hanging phrase that really isn't.

Yes, this is.
Humble Dec 2023
Once dubbed 'number two,' a label, a haunting echo, a constant reminder,
From a third year’s Scrabble match that left me second best, the genesis of a nickname I hated.

The bitter taste of second place, a memory stark,
A reminder of striving, of yearning, yet falling short.
Averse to the shadow of 'not quite,' 'almost there, but...'

It's funny how being second haunted me,
Always striving to escape my past and secrets.
I've hidden the truth about my family,
A split that's more than what the world knows, I’ve always been ‘the secret child’
A narrative whispered, diluted, for ears unacquainted.
Universe never seize to mock me with it.

Contemplating the roads I could have paved better,
Guarding what was precious, fortifying with fervor,
I’m here , pondering the 'what ifs' and 'maybes,'
A lament for the present, with heavy eyes and teary-eyes. Regrets linger for not trying harder.

Three years invested, hopes were shattered,
I don't blame you for trying to rebuild, giving it another try.
Instead, I blame fate, the ‘Universe’ A relentless orchestrator, marking me perennially 'two,'
Even when love briefly eased the burden.

Now, in the quiet of night, in sorrow's embrace I write,
Words once sweet now tinged with pain,.
I've been through a rollercoaster of emotions,

For days now, you’ve witnessed my descent and ascent, I blamed you, I tried being strong, became a wreck, got drunk to prove a point, isolated , sought validation from internet, found myself overwhelmed by the attention and tried to convince everyone ‘I’m fine’,  I felt numb.
Right now I’m just a shattered soul seeking solace in poetry’s embrace.
Every emotion, a verse, every thought, a line inscribed, writing seems to be my only solace.

To the boy I loved and wanted to give it all to, I’m thinking of you and I just want you to always be happy, being second doesn’t mean I can’t still be your number one cheerleader.
We always thought alike and wanted the same things; I do not wish to hate you as you don’t want it too.
I want to keep you as much as you want to do with me ,
Let's move past this, erase the awkwardness,
Let not animosity tarnish what affection once graced,
I hope we can salvage our friendship soon.
Love
TheMystiqueTrail Sep 2018
You woo me deep
into the ecstasy of your pristine chasteness...

where dry leaves of Aspen and Beech and Birch
sussurate to the music of a lazy breeze,

where Hummingbirds
**** in frenzy
nectar from the orange glees
of the flame-of-the-forest trees,

where Hawthorns
lure the breeze
to weave its vibrance
in their domes of green glory,

where shrunken streams
bask in their white pebbly flourish.

Like an enchantress,
you lure me to the depth of your
rapturous bliss!

To say farewell, my heart pains.
I leave a beat of my heart
to ramble with the roving breeze
perennially in your alluring meadows!
aurora kastanias Jun 2017
From my thoughts to my lips and in my veins,
I am sickly besotted with you. Without you
I’m in pain. I crave for you from dawn to dusk,
Finding relief only in my slumbers, when I dream
Of others, not of you.

For you don’t pertain to my hours of darkness,
There are limits to what you can give. When you sleep
With me I don’t, I fidget and tremble, toss and turn
In bed as you flow right through me provoking shivers.
I hence lie without you, longing to awake.

When I do rise to the morning beams penetrating
My windows overpoweringly, my mind gallops towards
You commanding my feet to follow, my eyes to find you.
You are there. You are always there. Faithfully waiting
For me where I left you.

Your loyalty besieges me and I surrender to the smell
Of your strong black hot body, yearning for you taste,
Gulping your exotic essence to the last drop, smoking
Cigarettes before, during and after our ritual *******.
I say I love you, they are worried I’m addicted to you.

The last time we accidentally drifted apart I was afraid.
Four days without you drove me insane, perennially drenched
In a cold sweat, devastated by stomach cramps and panic
Attacks, feeling ill beyond remedy. The doctor sentenced
I was suffering from withdrawal symptoms and I had to be

Strong. I ignored him and came running back to you
Promising I would never live you again, toying with
Your powdery texture slipping through my fingers,
Inebriated by your vapours as your liquid substance
Produces that oh-so-familiar gurgling noise.
Just in case it is not clear, this poem is about coffee!
brooke Apr 2013
It's strange to think of you
with a straight-haired girl
as if my curls were unique
between your fingers, but
I still do not know how to
deal with these thoughts,
these scenarios I find in
every photo, wouldn't
you be happier with
a girl with birds on
her back like the
ones on your
wrist?
I'm terrified
that my beliefs are
walls to keep people
out, because people have
always been better off with-
out me, finding new pieces
of themselves in others who
share the same scars, I have
not learned to live with the
fact that my God scares
people away and while
they pacify my needs
with words, with
promises I know
I should not
believe I
believe
but their vows
are temporary, and
fleeting, it is my own
fault. I continue to suppose
that everyone will be happier
in the [         ] of someone
like me, who stays tethered
to the one thing I know to
be perennially safe.
(c) Brooke Otto


but I still feel every ***** when someone leaves.
Bohemian Feb 2019
Nights when the Sun bereaves
The moon in between the graveyardshifts
He is boundless enlightening her
While her baits are never unleashed
Moon,"A Midas touch,
Burns who touches him as me.
He's the Anno Domini worshipped,
While I'm a mere eclipse.
Perennially furious,
I stare at him."
The moon hoards his strength and perquisites that she gives.
brandon nagley May 2015
Psalmist of refuge and timelapse,
Can thou stop the ticking tumultuous hand?

Insidious to dietie's
You've come short of hypothetical stand!!

Provisions make space for new coming shouters,
For lovers and doubters of Napoleon like complex!!!
Wherein grievers grieve,
Where gravestones are scene,
Thy gowned mate gets half their respect!!!!

A selah for every area skipped young founding Father!!!

Can thou brand thine own?

No more broken homes to match beautiful daughters to their monsters!!!

Polaroid imagery seiging the bathing rooms of suited men's palaces,
All chalices tipped,
Finalized,
None more chapping to cocoa tasting lips!!!

Engine made supreme star beings,
Control the blood and flesh,
So what good's left ?
Thou faithful of sighted pics!!!

Art thou choked to thy hold?
Simmered to thy own ***** stated bliss!!!

Hath thou blossomed continually?
Perennially you topple towers of watchers view!!!
Release thy stamen among the grass,
For love is renewed!!!!

Times not through,
Thy hedging was meant to last!!!
Ken Pepiton Aug 2021
Time makes no resting places,
such occur in time spent, unredeemable,
waiting to see the effect,
suffering now to be,
wait, a call, yes
or
no, I have no terms to offer. Redeem the time
you have,
don't feel the need to borrow on eternity.
----- jump cut ---

Salve on the wound, ******* spits out the bit.

Mount up old man, we got an old tale
stuck in a Shalomic message state during
an ego war.
-- there are those scribes
-- wrestling, like kittens with the yarn…

Heir of winds am I, in mind to be.
What would I do,
eh, Jesus, what about you?

peace, be still, I'd say, in a voice so small,
few feel the call to listen to the first word
plied off the point in ever outward,
pearling, pear shapes,
stem to pollinator,
being all we may imagine,
in a given moment of peace past understanding.

With a prosaic drumming mixed in the humms.

Bees at ease in my perennially
blooming rosemary hedge. These fingers tapping.
Peace made for a moment -in some future, moment redeemed.
It has been 13 years since anyone told me to get a job.
Valsa George Feb 2021
I wish I were transported to a world of pure fantasy
Where life is far removed from all harsh reality
Where one can roam like a bodiless spirit, weightless
Like a floating, drifting feather to escape all banality

Become an entity like an alien from another planet
Reside in an ethereal realm where no physicality exists,
A fairy land where the sun never rises nor sets
A world where beauty surrounds and all wonder persists

Reality is a tether where one is perennially tied
I pray..carry me to the world of fantasy on wings of poesy
Where I can indulge in pleasant reveries all through
A realm, a prosaic man might call one of idiocy

There let poesy come to me in rainbow hues
My verse creating in me and others waves of delight
Levitate me to a plane higher above the mundane
And curl me in the folds of a dream like an invisible spirit
Hold my pulse,
Oh my Sweetie,
Feel my heart homely,
Keep yours too firmly.

Let us toss our love,
one to one,
over the net,
under the net,
off the net,
or no net,
foul or fall,
not to fail
to dwell,
deal and delve
in bits of bouts.

gravitate mutually,
gyrate gradually,
private cordially,
permeate perennially.

Heavens may break,
Let not our hearts!
Our times may crack
Let not our minds!
ZT Aug 2014
I want perennial infinites in
finished sentences. An understanding
of some certainty. But promises
promise only the opposite.
The ends of thoughts tell me
to only trust the unuttered
letters and not what it lends
to voice because
human touch only destroys
and dissolves, like snow
on your skin. The one thing I
am perennially missing.
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping *******, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian

puppeteer pygmy, peevishly *****, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,

parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements

projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,

polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial

principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball

players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote

phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
Pacific, pacifist pampered papa
parading par excellent paragon
parent (parenthetically parochial
particularly partisan) parvenu
passive, passionately paternalistically patient,

paunchy, peaceably pepped, perfectionist,
perceptive, perennially perky, permissively
persevering, persistently personable, perspicuous,
pertinent, phenomenally philanthropic, philharmonic

picturesquely pious, pioneering, piquantly pithy,
playfully pleasant, pleasurably plucky, plummy,
poetically poignant, politely pontificating, popular,
positively potent, powerfully practiced pragmatist,

praiseworthy, prayerfully precious, precise
predominant, preeminently preferable, preparedly
preponderant, presently president, prestigiously
prevailing, priceless, princely, principally pristine,

privately privileged, prized, proactively procreative,
prodigiously productive, proficiently profitable,
progressively prominant, promisingly prompt,
prophetically propitious, prospectively protective,
proudly proven provocative, prudent psyched, puissant,
punctilious, punctually purposeful.
Timothy H Sep 2016
awaking in the middle
of an early walk
it matters not
what I do today
it matters not
if any thing matters perennially
in intent or outcome
worth not a while -
for the leaves golden
just below
an autumn september expanse
of still steel light
and my lungs get filled
to capacity with life itself
three strides - in inhale
exceeding walking meditation -
walking rumination
meager wisdom illume
that today's matters
are too wonderful for me to understand
and so
I understand it all
competently, completely
as the bishop knew jean valjean
as the universe knows a seed
with each abeyant breath
Dr Peter Lim Oct 2015
It's not what I say or declare
but for others to judge--am I
good or bad, or neither
then what?  the why of things in life
is too often shrouded
in deep mystery and is monstrously vexatious
the heart has reasons of its own and is unimpressed by logic-
the question of what is or should be is perennially contentious
NIL
aurora kastanias Jan 2018
I was born in green valleys to the effort of strong hands
roughened by the harshness of ungentle wintery gales.
Delight permeated space as they smiled to see me flourish,
Showering me with attention, care and compliments.

Perennially making sure I had all I needed as if I was
an incomparable incomplete treasure. For me they went as far
as killing storm clouds to shield me from hail, keep me
warm and protected. I thought they loved me for too much

energy, love and courtesy were devoted to me. Yet,
as soon as I started creatively sculpting blossoms, gems
of garnet concealing ancient praise, on an autumn day,
a distinguished man came to judge me prepared.

And that is when, my gratified father gave the order
to take me to the cellar strip me naked, ****** me
in a large basin, to be trampled over and crushed, shaped
for the pleasure of others. Vampires awaiting a chalice

of blood as my lymph, delicately streamed into barrels.
In agony there I was abandoned, for years secluded until
My release, from wooden prisons to glassed cells.
They dressed me up and took me out to bars,

Sold me to the best bidders promising I would quench,
their thirst and make them forget, sorrows and worries
if only for a night. To date you can still find me at hand,
I’ll be your inebriating servant as I slither into your mouth,

intoxicate your essence with mine.
On vines, grapes and wine
Andrew Guzaldo c Oct 2018
“Legacies come and go,
Material items are not an  egalitarian legacy,
For they will dissipate and be relinquished,
The Legacy that never will go away,
Are those that in helping another person?
Help that makes him or her continue,
To fulfill their GOALS in life’s legacy,
Those are the legacies that are afore,
Perennially valiantly present for all times,
These are TRUE Legacies well an enduring”
By Andrew Guzaldo 10/8/2018 ©
By Andrew Guzaldo 10/8/2018 ©   Short Poem #129

— The End —