"practised" poems
494
Going to Him! Happy letter!
Tell Him—
Tell Him the page I didn’t write—
Tell Him—I only said the Syntax—
And left the Verb and the pronoun out—
Tell Him just how the fingers hurried—
Then—how they waded—slow—slow—
And then you wished you had eyes in your pages—
So you could see what moved them so—
Tell Him—it wasn’t a Practised Writer—
You guessed—from the way the sentence toiled—
You could hear the Bodice tug, behind you—
As if it held but the might of a child—
You almost pitied it—you—it worked so—
Tell Him—no—you may quibble there—
For it would split His Heart, to know it—
And then you and I, were silenter.
Tell Him—Night finished—before we finished—
And the Old Clock kept neighing “Day”!
And you—got sleepy—and begged to be ended—
What could it hinder so—to say?
Tell Him—just how she sealed you—Cautious!
But—if He ask where you are hid
Until tomorrow—Happy letter!
Gesture Coquette—and shake your Head!
7.6k
there's ethical idealism:
where ethics is discussed...
there's ethical relativism:
where ethics is practised...
there's ethical realism...
where ethics is quantified
as an improbability;
and then there's ethical
absolutism,
where we supposedly
"progress" -
in this scenario are
the laws of physics actually
suspended:
whereby oculus qua oculus
is replaced -
a loss of an eye is "relative"
to 10 years in a cage...
really?!
ethics is
ideal, realistic, absolute or relative...
we're encouraged to live
in "realistic relativism"...
never in an absolute realism,
since realistic relativism
only compares itself
to ideal absolutism...
and nothing more...
ever watched that film
secrets in their eyes?
you ever wonder what
ethical idealism is to the ethnical
consequence that can absorb
a realistic libra?
i can only believe in
ethical absolutism,
ethical relativism is horrid to me...
relativism adorns idealism,
absolutism adorns realism...
a life sentence is worse than
a death sentence,
whether justified or not,
prison is sadism,
but at least ****** is simply ******
a space-time intact,
a ****** penalty is not
inhumane, nor a ouija board...
it's time for time,
space for space,
the actual punishment comes
with the missing adrenaline rush
of the unexpected reception of the wielded
weapon...
either send these jealous plonkers to
siberia, or sentence them to death,
for you are no more than they are,
nay, you are more...
you're akin to cats toying,
playing a sadistic games with half-mutilated
mice...
this is why i abhor
ethical relativism of the crucifix...
hence my belief in ethical
absolutism in the paragraph of realism,
which is perfected, by
being exacted, and never, ever,
being leisurely discussed,
on a farcical palette with a grimace
to boot: ******* a lemon;
compensating the horrors within
minutes, is never compensated
with ordeals that last years...
which is why i find the death penalty
an act of authentic humanity,
and not this quasi-humanitarian
act of pardon, ******* hypocrites -
i abhor the caged rat
more than the rat gladly nibbling
on a dead corpse...
at least there was passion
in the ******
waiting for death penalty is like killing
a vermin with poison,
disposing them with nonchalantly...
the wise maxim states:
ledo ferrum sicut id est calidi -
strike the iron while it's hot...
death is the dawn-broker -
a new tomorrow promise -
left intact, the fermenting process
of ethical dynamism takes over...
then again,
the supposedly "evolved"
preferred moral relativism to moral
absolutism,
because there was no
moral realism to speak of,
since morality could only
be talked about in ideal terms of
the supposedly so, supposedly
fashioned via: it ought to never happen to
me...
and then it might, and then:
oops... argument sinks like a wet fatty ****
into shambles of keeping up with
the presupposed pillar of argument
being "impenetrable";
hey, genius, back to the blackboard!
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
Mother Nature broke her water
But the baby never came
Our inundated world
Will never be the same
We watched slowly
With a growing sense of impotence
As an elemental army
Took our innocence
Some left their homes and died
In another place
They never did return
To their own space
Politicians waded 'round
In their wellingtons
What nerve they had to even show
Their sorry skeletons
Pontificated platitudes
Filled the element of air
And those who had been flooded
Didn't really care
To hear the sly sermon
Those words were barely heard
Though so well-written
Practised and rehearsed
Mother Nature has retreated now
To her slumber state
One day soon she'll wake again
We do not know the date
Windermere 2016 February 14th
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
In Mahabharat, Yudhishthira was considered as the most Pious Soul. He was considered as Epitome of Virtue and it is said he did not commit any mistake, except one half lie.
At the End of Mahabharat Epic, when All Pandavas tried to Venture to ascend to Heaven alive, it was the Yudhishthira only, who ascended into Heaven Alive. During the Way to Heaven, all other four Pandavas , including Draupadi died.
It is said that Yudhishthira was so Pious , Vrtuous and so truthful that his Chariot Never touched the Ground. Because of Truthfullness, Right fullness , he practised in his whole life, his Chariot Never Touched the Soil. Such was greatness of Yudhishthira.
However, Yudhishthira had to Visit Hell for some time where he saw all his brothers including Draupadi tortured. Even Karna was also seen being tortured in Hell. Later Yudhishthira was explained that he did committed a half sin in his life as he lied regarding death of Ashvatthama. It is said that this was the only half sin , which he committed in his whole life. This was the only reason, Yudhishthira had to visit Hell.
But what about Betting his Wife Draupadi in Gamble. Mahabharat is totallysilent on this aspect. In Mahabharat , Yudhishthira was not held guilty for betting his Wife Draupadi in Gamble and loosing her. Yudhishthira used his Wife as Good. I think this is one of the most heinous crime committed in Mahabharat. Yudhishthir Must had to be held guilty for that.
But instead, this was rationalized. During the Exile, when Bhim and Arjuna held Yudhishthira responsible for all this, Sage Vyas reached there and told them story of Ram and Lakshmana that how Lakshmana left his wife for his brother Ram. Thus Yudhishthira was protected by Vyasa.
It is a matter of Great Surprise to me that Mahabharat did not consider betting of wife in Gamble, A Sin. In my view betting of wife Draupadi in Gamble , by Yudhishthir is the most heinous crime , he committed and for this he was not worthy of entering into Heaven alive, like other Pandavas and Kauravas.
All Rights Reserved
I am the author of this Article. This Article is my Original work. I hold all the right in relation to my Article, as available in law. No body is entitled the use this Article , or any part thereof in any form without written consent from me.
Ajay Amitabh Suman
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 3:05 AM UTC
Dear friends , this is an old poem of mine which was composed after I learnt that one of my favourite Hollywood actor Richard Gere had become a Buddhist and believed in Zen Philosophy. So having read about Zen, I composed in a simple format about the same. Hope you like it. Thanks, - Raj.
ZEN PHILOSOPHY
With roots buried deep in soils of Ancient India,
And watered by the exotic blend of three different
cultures;
Reflecting the mysticism of India, the pragmatism
of the Confucian mind, and the Taoist’s love of
naturalness and spontaneity,
Buddhism bloomed and blossomed into an exotic
flower called 'Zen Philosophy'!
In 475 AD a pupil of Buddha called Bodhidharma
went to China.
There the Mahayana School of Buddhism mingled
with Chinese Taoism, which evolved into Chan
Philosophy!
'Chan ' derived from the Sanskrit word 'dhyana',
which meant 'silent meditation', -
Through which the Buddha attained enlightenment
and salvation!
Later, in 1200 AD this Chan philosophy travelled to
the shores of Japan,
Where 'Chan' got translated to 'Zen' by its many
followers and fans!
ZEN is the art of meditation to achieve inner awakening,
To gain intuitive knowledge, highlighting the inadequacy
of logical reasoning!
It therefore advocates the practice of 'zazen' or 'sitting
meditation',
For acquiring inner awakening through silent
contemplation!
ZEN could be practised in our daily life,
Without entering a hermitage, leaving behind your
family or wife!
'Gain the naturalness of your original true nature',
- preaches the Zen Teacher through meditation,
'Rather than through mere faith and devotion,
which is contrary to Zen notion.'
'One must awaken to this present moment to feel
this life,
And not waste time in speculations of an Elusive
After-Life’!
The 'Enso' or the ‘circle’, is the Zen symbol which is
often deployed,
Symbolising Enlightenment, Strength, the Universe,
and the Void!
With this 'expression of the moment ' the Zen Philosophy
starts,
And today the ‘Enso’ is also the symbol of Expressionist
Art!
Never ask the Zen Master 'What is Zen, when, or how? ',
For he will always tell you, - 'Zen Is The Instant Now'!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
He thought he saw an Elephant
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
"At length I realize," he said,
"The bitterness of life!"
He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
"Unless you leave this house," he said,
"I'll send for the police!"
he thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
"The one thing I regret," he said,
"Is that it cannot speak!"
He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
"If this should stay to dine," he said,
"There won't be much for us!"
He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a Coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
"Were I to swallow this," he said,
"I should be very ill!"
He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!
It's waiting to be fed!"
3.2k
vulnerability is practised
each night sleep takes over
you are not in control of your dreams
and the body is on tick over
yet you always manage to escape
the clutches of your nightmares
yes you practise vulnerability
each night sleep takes over
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
They hail me as one living,
But don’t they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?
I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.
Not at a minute’s warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time’s enchantments
In hall and bower.
There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
On to this death …
—A Troubadour-youth I rambled
With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
In me like fire.
But when I practised eyeing
The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
A little then.
When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
I died yet more;
And when my Love’s heart kindled
In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
One more degree.
And if when I died fully
I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
I am to-day,
Yet is it that, though whiling
The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
I live not now.
3.1k
He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
'At length I realise,' he said,
The bitterness of Life!'
He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
'Unless you leave this house,' he said,
"I'll send for the Police!'
He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
'The one thing I regret,' he said,
'Is that it cannot speak!'
He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
'If this should stay to dine,' he said,
'There won't be much for us!'
He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
'Were I to swallow this,' he said,
'I should be very ill!'
He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
'Poor thing,' he said, 'poor silly thing!
It's waiting to be fed!'
He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postage Stamp.
'You'd best be getting home,' he said:
'The nights are very damp!'
He thought he saw a Garden-Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
'And all its mystery,' he said,
'Is clear as day to me!'
He thought he saw a Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
'A fact so dread,' he faintly said,
'Extinguishes all hope!'
2.8k
Her bed wouldn't release her,
Despite the alarm clock's vicious bite,
had a late one last night,
hey, Jenna,
Mother called,
time to get up honey,
get your *** moving,
and I'll chuck you some money,
maybe get you fast food breakfast,
won't tell you again,
that time was the last.
Jenna fell out of bed,
chucked on her clothes,
looked like a clothes horse,
with a pierced nose,
She wiped on her daily slap,
told the world that school was crap,
wiped on a phoney grin,
Mamma said she must go in,
In a very loud voice,
She spouted,
only thing worth having,
was not education,
but in her classes gangs of boys.
Had enough of dictatorial teachers,
she could still hang out in bed,
learning from dreams,
instead,
She so hated mother's nagging,
practised in old bagging,
She had no yearning for learning,
all she wants to do is sleep!
(C) Livvi
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 5:46 AM UTC
There it sits
Waiting
Watching
It's a Yamaha
With a Union-Jack back
The last of it's
Kind
It's been a faithful companion
It came to me
When I was six
Not brand new
But second hand
Through all the tears
All the humiliation
All the pain
All the scoldings
All the belittlings
It stuck through with me
With sweat and blood
Shed on the keys
It didn't complain
When I threw
My tantrums
Banging the keys
Even kicking it once
Or twice
It just waited
And watched me
Till I calmed down
And felt
Stupid
After
I practised
Everyday
And not once
Did it
Complain
It has a really bright
Crystal clear
Sound
With this certain
Energy
And depth
I took great pride
In taking care of it
Polishing it
Every other day
Till it shone
Like a mirror
As time went by
One grade after the other
The practises became
Less and
Less
I didn't care for it
As much as I did
Before
A year passed
Then another
Now I'm fourteen
It's twenty eight
Or more
I've had my share
Of performing
On stage
With all types of pianos
But there was this
One thing
That was different
With my piano
Something it
Lacked
The sound is there
The energy is there
But somehow
When I compare the recordings
My dear piano
Just sounds
Tired...
The touch stickier
The keys start failing
On some days
It sounds
Muted
Always slightly off key
No matter how many times
The piano man comes
This is one patient
The doctor can't treat
Is it possible
That emotions
Can be transferred
To objects?
Has my raging
Over the keyboard
Tired it out
By having to
Express
What I play
And what I
Put
Into the pieces?
It's a piano
Of memories
Of thoughts
Of an inexpressable phenomenon
Called feelings
"Where words fail, music speaks"
I salute you
Dear piano
For allowing me
To express myself
Through the written pieces
You help
Materialize
We have grown together
Walked this long journey together
And with all the memories
Sweat
Blood
Tears
That has made me today
I won't part with
Till the very end,
Dear piano
So shall we continue?
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
In the book Going Solo,
Roald Dahl wrote about a woman
Who refused to eat anything with her bare hands
Instead, everything had to be handled with utensils
Knife in one hand and fork in another
She described the satisfaction of fruit cutting
The inexplicable joy at cleanly cleaving peel from flesh
Skill precise as a surgeon
Cutting it up according to Nature's dotted lines
I tried it on the same fruit
Somehow it just didn't feel right
Too refined, too silent
Unlike the practised deft peeling with bare fingers
Fingernails digging into the fruit, both refusing to compromise
Until eventually, the rind gives way and a cut is made
And from that same opening, tearing outwards
Sounding like strips of velcro are slowly being separated
The uneven globe of translucent orange flesh coming naked
Its pith shielding you from its full bright glory
Pulling it apart by halves, and then quarters, and then tenths
Each crescent shaped carpel in its mouth sized perfection
Sacs accidentally bursting, fingers sticky with juice
That is how an orange ought to be peeled.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
337
I know a place where Summer strives
With such a practised Frost—
She—each year—leads her Daisies back—
Recording briefly—”Lost”—
But when the South Wind stirs the Pools
And struggles in the lanes—
Her Heart misgives Her, for Her Vow—
And she pours soft Refrains
Into the lap of Adamant—
And spices—and the Dew—
That stiffens quietly to Quartz—
Upon her Amber Shoe—
2.1k
Retro Morn: Re-Reading Jenny (1.) and Her Purple Hat, (2.), Listening to Vonda Shepard
I am a beautiful woman, and reliably informed so,
by handsome. men, lustful fools, and one too many
sideward glances
in a difference place, musical needs call me out to retro smooth me
away from the waves of nausea of news repeats ingested, the lesser
qualities of human beings basic basest nature, I inhale subdued
Jenny’s defiance of life’s expectations and Vonda’s voice
smooth my discordant emotive candles that won’t stay lit,
add in a touch of melting Joni & Divine Ms. Bette,
gets me slow kickstarting
and I have not reached
the lofty plateau of
twenty five years of age
*but my mom, the Queen Regent, reminds me royalty possesses
very old souls, which Is why I’m caught out listening, dancing
awake to the music of her youth* and hear her discreetly humming the tunes, even though the phone connection broken minutes earlier
she signed off with a practised Elizabethan airy disturbance royal wave of her hand, instructing this raining (no, not reigning)
Queen to “darling go write a poem…”
don’t we all listen to our mothers?*
my name is brandychanning
music inhale subdued kickstarting a poem
Dec 13, 2023
Dec 13, 2023 at 12:35 PM UTC
Why
Did you have to be so god **** talented
The way you walked showed your swagger
The confidence the happiness
I could watch you walk all day
The way you smile
For years I thought you practised
Because a glimpse was all I needed
Before my heart melted for you
I've seen you playing games
The perfectness
The way you seem to never lose
How your eyebrows centre and
your forehead wrinkles
It seems my eyes are trained on you
You look so **** good
all the time
I've seen you grow
As has my love
My eyes may only see you
But your eyes only see them
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 6:57 AM UTC
grotesque old Tomon-go
in that corner he holds in the market
he looks angry, fierce and his open mouth
inside as red as the feet of a fighting ****
Ah, his words fly like arrows helter-skelter
some miss, some strike – he does not know
what missiles he sends, what he throws
and in turn anything he receives he throws back
with quadrupled energy
*He looks fierce, he looks mean
all relatives say in hushed tones -
but he’s really nice, a softie with a hard exterior*
at the market his face is convoluted
there are a hundred writhing beings that make
up his countenance
(each a contortionist)
the energy of the practised old grumpy men
live in his hands
and he unleashes words that make everyone recall
the last tsunami
*He looks fierce, he looks mean
all the women and men in the market say
in whispers -
but he’s really nice, a softie with a hard exterior*
Ah, poor Tomon-go, his words and manner isolate him
he hurts others and is hurt in turn
Poor Tomon-go, poor all who come in contact with him
though they might whisper to one another:
*He looks fierce, he looks mean
but he’s really nice, a softie
with a sharp tongue and grotesque exterior*
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:14 AM UTC
walked across the dunes
to the light house to
clear my thoughts.
the windsailors were
riding the sky,
my son calls them the teabag people.
but to me they are like those seed pods that coast upon the
wind in search of something
beyond.
the grass soughs and if you sit
quietly enough,
you can hear the hungry cry of
the little tern chicks.
hidden in the dunes nearby.
the sand trickles through twining, grasping, tenuous grass roots,
single grains multi-hued,
flow like minature snowboarders down the dunes,
steep slippery slide.
little metallic black ants have the herculean task,
of working this slope for
seeds and other oddments of food.
i watch one stumble,stomp past, sherpa-like, precariously balancing a potato crisp's crumb.
while scaling the acute angle of sliding sand.
the pittering of the sandy ground indicates the presence
of giant skinks, sleek glassine skinned lizards that are at home in the area.
their track patterns, remind me of those old teach yourself
to dance charts seen in black and white films,
you would now find them mostly in antique stores.
the tide is in recess
and the terns are hunting,
mottled little sand *****
in some killer, crazy
game of tig or redrover.
where to lose is to looose!
the windsailor above is surpassed by
the big old seahawk
as he stretches his wings.
it is a comparison of true mastership,
over a poor and gaudy parody.
the hawk with practised disdain, dives,
through the breakers emerging,
with his fish dinner.
as i turn toward home.
i wonder,
was it the fandango the lizards, were trying to master?
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
This beautiful smile conceals and covers
All the pains of disconnected lovers.
This beautiful smile, iv practised for years.
It shows itself now to mask the tears
This beautiful smile has been perfected to hide
All the pains that haught me inside
This beautiful smile is begining to break
I'm not sure how much more I can take
This beautiful smile, believe me iv tried
But it can not take away the thoughts of suicide.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
As their practised shouts and screams can be heard
Her hair tickles my cheek, a laugh so bright
That even from across our boundless earth
Their screams melt away in place of her light
We seal our sweet love with one precious kiss
But yet their hands will turn to fists of fear
I try to ignore them through all this bliss
Her soft and whispered words all I can hear
Religion and prejudice tells us no
Their fists of fear now turned to fists of red
They spit and sneer at us that we must go
Their words banging their way into my head
To their forced love with him I say, no Sir
Because, you see, my love belongs to her
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 6:12 AM UTC
I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost,
Who died before the God of Love was born:
I cannot think that he, who then loved most,
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn.
But since this god produced a destiny,
And that vice-nature, Custom, lets it be,
I must love her that loves not me.
Sure, they which made him god meant not so much,
Nor he in his young godhead practised it;
But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
His office was indulgently to fit
Actives to passives. Correspondency
Only his subject was; it cannot be
Love, till I love her that loves me.
But every modern god will now extend
His vast prerogative as far as Jove.
To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
All is the purlieu of the God of Love.
Oh were we wakened by this tyranny
To ungod this child again, it could not be
I should love her who loves not me.
Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I
As though I felt the worst that love could do?
Love might make me leave loving, or might try
A deeper plague, to make her love me too,
Which, since she loves before, I’m loth to see;
Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be,
If she whom I love should love me.
1.5k
I bet we're going to kiss like addicts hungry for a hit and I'm sorry I'm not made of much except bruises and bleeding knuckles. Your words mostly touch me but I'm begging for your hands to instead. My mind used to be made up of cemeteries and all I thought about was writing eulogies to how dead I felt inside.
I want you to stain my teeth and leave your taste in my mouth permanently. I want you to swallow me whole and take me daily like I'm apart of your well being like you are for me.
A lot of the time I want you naked and quivering for me and a lot of the time I want you wrapped around me so tightly that nothing could tear you apart from me like this god **** distance is right now. I want my name bruised down your spine so you don't leave yourself in ruins.
This is messy and scattered but so are we and I love you more that I know how to breathe.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
Nailed and ******* on hands and legs,
Maimed and marred beyond repair,
Cut and bruised out of shape,
Stripped and peeled, so bare to shock,
Lo, there lies a man! The Son of God,
On a cross erected on the summit of the Mount,
Brutally suspended between Earth and Sky,
Stationed amid thieves on either side.
He slipped and slithered under the yoke of weight,
And tottered the rugged route to Calvary,
Scourged and flogged all along,
He bore the cross with none to help.
Never complained nor cursed but suffered the pangs,
Never whined nor moaned, but drained the cup,
Through His death, mankind was to be redeemed,
By His precious blood, their infirmities to be cleansed
It was for our sins that He lay down His life,
It was our misdeeds that made Him bleed,
It was for our lust that He was painfully stripped,
It was our arrogance that bent Him low.
None could gauge the agony he endured,
No man ever performed such a daring deed,
To liberate mankind, the Lamb was slain,
To lead his Flock, He walked in front.
‘Love your enemy’ was the mantra He recited,
What He preached, He relentlessly practised,
While writhing in pain, He prayed for His foes,
Pleaded with his Father to spare the wrath.
When wrongly accused, never said He a word,
Unruffled remained He on painfully betrayed,
Hard it was to be deserted by those He loved,
Sore it was to be treated so very rude.
The Son of Man came seeking the missing sheep,
He builds from where everything is wrecked,
Rejoice in Him, for He is our Lord!
Adore and worship, He deserves to be praised.
Peace was what He promised the world,
Grace was what He gifted to all,
Look up to the Cross when trials confront,
And cast your burden at His feet!
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC
We were washed in the dim glow of moonlight,
Our heartbeats calm and tranquil,
Serenity beat around us,
And soft melodical jazz that thrilled.
It was a beautiful night,
One that transcended the bounds of reality,
We felt as two stars transported,
Into a sweet magical galaxy.
I felt your soft satin skin touch upon my hand,
And a innocent desire took hold of me.
I put your hand upon my shoulders and grabbed your waist.
We twisted and spun to the sound of jazz,
Our bodies synced in rhythm and grace,
As if two stars that burned for long,
Had collided in a charming embrace.
Your moonlit body glided across the floor like a graceful swan,
Practised and perfected in its movement and poise,
As I looked upon my fate with head upheld and flashed a grateful smile to it twice.
And we whirled and twirled,
Every second abuzz with magic and delight,
Our bodies weary and sweat drenched,
Yet, our soul's thirst unquenched.
As we slowed down,
I had an ardent desire to never halt,
And In that moment fate immortalised us,
And we became the two dancing stars who never stopped.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
The shadows of the railing
By the room I played last night.
The whistle of a siren
And the blood of a lost fight.
And the closed sign on the food store
Brokenwss window, crack of light
And the hurt that won't subside
won't u let me look inside?
And the come on look from a burnt out *****
And the words that split my side.
Everything makes sense somehow
It's all that I expect
The tears I knew I'd always shed
The freight train singing in my head.
The rocks that turned a stranded heart
Into a sunken, flooded wreck.
Yet,
All of this is somewhat new,
Baby I never thought this would come from u,
Ur soul was clean and pure and.....
Jesus Christ am I so lame
That it snuck right up on me?
I who's every move was honed and practised,
1 and 2 and fucking 63 !
Oh here's the rub, the wake up call.
I never knew that dame at all,
She let me think she needed love
And I gave my past, and then my love.
And when her need of me was done
And some other shmo became the one
The line was cut, connection frayed
Her single, final, vail displayed,
she naked, danced into the shade
So I could fall, into the sun
Not laughed at,
But........
Tolerated,
tolerated
Tolerated........
By everyone.
Thank you.
I'm here all week.
Try the soup.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 5:39 AM UTC
Fidel Castro, the secular Pontiff
The day began with sadness Fidel Castro is dead despite the USA's bilious behaviour
And ill attempt to **** him, he was able to create a health system second to none
And also made the country with the highest literacy on that part of the world which
will stand the people well in the coming storm
He had many flaws democracy as we understand it was not on the list, mind the way
it is practised in the west is not impressive
I towering political giant his place in history is assured on a page of its own and not
lumped together with King & Queens and other useless historical figure
We expect the lying Cuban mafia will try to enter, bring their I-Phones
and cheap day loans, one hope when they find life will tear them apart that they will
not forsake the socialist revolution and what Cuba was before Fidel Castro and can
so easily a place for gambling and prostitution again
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC