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"practitioners" poems
☮ ☮ ☮ **Society needs more Social Justice. Humanity needs peaceworkers.** Peace and Social Justice must be promoted aggressively. There are inequities that must be addressed. Power is not equally distributed. Neither are resources or wealth. Neither are poetic gifts or vision equitably distributed. Unearned privilege is rampant. Poetry must confront this global crisis of capitalist exploitation and manipulation. Poetry must speak to the masses. Poetry must radicalize and inform consciousness to new levels of social change. Marginalized citizens must be empowered. All ****** gender-based, racial, religious, age-based, homophobic, xenophobic, and gynophobic bigots must be brought to see in a new way through our poetry. Community building and local empowerment are of the order. Our poetry must be global in scope – yet rooted and grounded in local community empowerment. Selfless acts of service to promote and increase Social Justice are needed. Lives selflessly devoted to establishing social justice are called for. Our poetic lives must be laid on the altar of the dis-enfranchised and unrepresented. We, as consciously aware poets, must advocate and speak out for those who have no voice. We, as poets, must, through stirring words of Social Justice, embody through our radical verses the burning hope of a just and sustainable future. This future must become increasingly collective as formerly marginalized consumers become empowered community-builders  –  through our poetry. As poets of the sustainable future we will empower and inform. Our poetry must collectivize, entitle and enslave. We must speak with ONE VOICE: the voice of change and social justice. Our words will rise with healing in their wings and lift whole communities from despair to radicalized self-awareness in communities filled with strident, intolerant and maniacal practitioners of PEACE & SOCIAL JUSTICE. All poets who do not lay their entire creative and lyrical selves on the altar of struggle to bring CHANGE and SOCIAL JUSTICE will be LIQUIDATED by our own EMPOWERED POETRY. IN THE END WE WILL WRITE A PURE POETRY OF SOCIAL CHANGE, ALL IN CAPS, AND THIS POETRY OF SOCIAL JUSTICE AND EMPOWERMENT WILL BE READ OVER THE GRAVES OF ALL SELL-OUT, CORPORATE, FASCIST, SNITCHING, SELFISH, UNEMPOWERED AND UNEMPOWERING TRAITORS AND ENEMIES OF SOCIAL JUSTICE.  IN THE END THERE WILL BE NO PUNCTUATION OR EVEN WORDS ONLY PURE IMAGES OF CHANGE + VISIONARY COLLABORATION IN SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION/MAYBE SLASH MARKS/OKAY MAYBE EXCLAMATION POINTS TOO BUT ONLY THOSE ! WHY? BECAUSE THE ONLY GOOD POET IS A LIVING POET WHO HAS LIQUIDATED EVERY FALSE POET NOT COMMITTED TO THE STRUGGLE FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE ! LONG LIVE POETRY IN ACTION THROUGH CHANGE! WRITE/SPEAK/AGITATE FOR  SOCIAL JUSTICE  & EMPOWERMENT ! **POETRY IS STRUGGLE☻ STRUGGLE IS CHANGE☻ CHANGE REQUIRES SOCIAL JUSTICE☻ SOCIAL JUSTICE BRINGS PEACE☻ PEACE BRINGS WAR☻ WAR BRINGS CONFUSION & DEATH☻** (SO DON’T BE CONFUSED)
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Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
Agitating the Spin Cycle
☮ ☮ ☮ **Society needs more Social Justice. Humanity needs peaceworkers.** Peace and Social Justice must be promoted aggressively. There are inequities that must be addressed. Power is not equally distributed. Neither are resources or wealth. Neither are poetic gifts or vision equitably distributed. Unearned privilege is rampant. Poetry must confront this global crisis of capitalist exploitation and manipulation. Poetry must speak to the masses. Poetry must radicalize and inform consciousness to new levels of social change. Marginalized citizens must be empowered. All ****** gender-based, racial, religious, age-based, homophobic, xenophobic, and gynophobic bigots must be brought to see in a new way through our poetry. Community building and local empowerment are of the order. Our poetry must be global in scope – yet rooted and grounded in local community empowerment. Selfless acts of service to promote and increase Social Justice are needed. Lives selflessly devoted to establishing social justice are called for. Our poetic lives must be laid on the altar of the dis-enfranchised and unrepresented. We, as consciously aware poets, must advocate and speak out for those who have no voice. We, as poets, must, through stirring words of Social Justice, embody through our radical verses the burning hope of a just and sustainable future. This future must become increasingly collective as formerly marginalized consumers become empowered community-builders  –  through our poetry. As poets of the sustainable future we will empower and inform. Our poetry must collectivize, entitle and enslave. We must speak with ONE VOICE: the voice of change and social justice. Our words will rise with healing in their wings and lift whole communities from despair to radicalized self-awareness in communities filled with strident, intolerant and maniacal practitioners of PEACE & SOCIAL JUSTICE. All poets who do not lay their entire creative and lyrical selves on the altar of struggle to bring CHANGE and SOCIAL JUSTICE will be LIQUIDATED by our own EMPOWERED POETRY. IN THE END WE WILL WRITE A PURE POETRY OF SOCIAL CHANGE, ALL IN CAPS, AND THIS POETRY OF SOCIAL JUSTICE AND EMPOWERMENT WILL BE READ OVER THE GRAVES OF ALL SELL-OUT, CORPORATE, FASCIST, SNITCHING, SELFISH, UNEMPOWERED AND UNEMPOWERING TRAITORS AND ENEMIES OF SOCIAL JUSTICE.  IN THE END THERE WILL BE NO PUNCTUATION OR EVEN WORDS ONLY PURE IMAGES OF CHANGE + VISIONARY COLLABORATION IN SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION/MAYBE SLASH MARKS/OKAY MAYBE EXCLAMATION POINTS TOO BUT ONLY THOSE ! WHY? BECAUSE THE ONLY GOOD POET IS A LIVING POET WHO HAS LIQUIDATED EVERY FALSE POET NOT COMMITTED TO THE STRUGGLE FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE ! LONG LIVE POETRY IN ACTION THROUGH CHANGE! WRITE/SPEAK/AGITATE FOR  SOCIAL JUSTICE  & EMPOWERMENT ! **POETRY IS STRUGGLE☻ STRUGGLE IS CHANGE☻ CHANGE REQUIRES SOCIAL JUSTICE☻ SOCIAL JUSTICE BRINGS PEACE☻ PEACE BRINGS WAR☻ WAR BRINGS CONFUSION & DEATH☻** (SO DON’T BE CONFUSED)
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***a morning conversation with surprising anecdotes of unique explorations.. reported confrontations by science practitioners' sudden dates with death.. now authoring testimonies of their dimensional truth.. much comfort growing from ample recordings of bright tunnel experience.. let us now inquire are these flashing NDE's consciousness leaps..? might they point to death's vital role.. at last finding real self-awareness.. life in this moment..? asking then.. is not each breath our moment experience of near death...?***
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Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
Near-Death-Experience
Are humans inherently evil? Does it go right to the core? Do we always need to prove ourselves? Do we need to settle the score? I watched a documentary With people doing experiments On other people just like them Callous with their detriments The lower class The prisoners The foreigners By practitioners And now we have this information Torture, surgery, chemical weaponry Some classified, some out to view Is it their duty of citizenry To share that information with me? To tell me how and when and why To share results of tests gone by? Do I even want to know? Do not let them die in vain Maybe I should share the pain (maybe you should share it too) To learn To see And   NOT to do
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Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
In the Name of Science
The flesh lusts daily against the Spirit and the Spirit wars contrary to the flesh. The opposing tenets of grace and iniquity can never with each other… completely mesh. For the redeemed sinners operate by grace, while the practitioners of unrighteousness prefer the dark, ungodly ways of wickedness and will not inherit the Kingdom’s fullness. Fleshly works are clearly evident: adultery, fornication, idolatry, sorcery, uncleanness, contentions, jealousies, ****** immorality, hatred, envy, revelries and evil-mindedness. Fruits of the sinful flesh are plain to see and spirits cringe- at their being mentioned. Can we expect others to pursue God’s holiness, when people are upset- from being questioned? For we live under God’s grace and not His Law; His righteous wrath will be eventually revealed. Acceptance of His gift of Salvation can insure… that our lives will have been redeemed and sealed! . . . Author Notes: Loosely based on: Gal 5:16; Rom 1:18-32, 2:1-16 Learn more about me and my poetry at: http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
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Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
Poem: Pursuit of Holiness
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she                                                struggles to intubate a cat.   I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage, pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than                                                       practitioners are with humans— hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,                                                                      the sternum sore.   Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.   After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week. Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue        after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.   The flip of the coin.  The thin line.  The blessing or the curse.   The absolute darkness of a body bag.  The cold chill of absolute zero.   The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the brain shoots off minutes before death.                                                                          The eleventh hour,                                                                   isn’t that what it’s called?   We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.   We have to, but it won’t register.                                                               After a loss, after a trauma,                                                                    we are on autopilot.   I think of my mother,                                         six feet beneath frozen soil in                                       a pink padded casket and think:                                                                                              I don’t want that. I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out next to her in an above ground crypt and think:                                                                                              I don’t want that. Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.   Putrefied flesh.  Bones visible.  Muscles eaten.  Tissues disintegrated.   We don’t talk about it.   We try to think the opposite.  The positive vs the negative.   (But that’s not always possible or healthy.) I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes on a clipboard in the back of the room.   I couldn’t do these things.                                                  My hands tend to break what they touch.   The glass bowl in the pet store.                                  The clay project in art class.                                                               The succulents, the basil, the orchid. I’m good at things I don’t have to think about: good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,                                                                                     good at trauma.
0
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 2:47 AM UTC
It’s Not Fight, It’s Not Flight, It’s Freeze
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she                                                struggles to intubate a cat.   I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage, pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than                                                       practitioners are with humans— hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,                                                                      the sternum sore.   Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.   After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week. Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue        after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.   The flip of the coin.  The thin line.  The blessing or the curse.   The absolute darkness of a body bag.  The cold chill of absolute zero.   The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the brain shoots off minutes before death.                                                                          The eleventh hour,                                                                   isn’t that what it’s called?   We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.   We have to, but it won’t register.                                                               After a loss, after a trauma,                                                                    we are on autopilot.   I think of my mother,                                         six feet beneath frozen soil in                                       a pink padded casket and think:                                                                                              I don’t want that. I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out next to her in an above ground crypt and think:                                                                                              I don’t want that. Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.   Putrefied flesh.  Bones visible.  Muscles eaten.  Tissues disintegrated.   We don’t talk about it.   We try to think the opposite.  The positive vs the negative.   (But that’s not always possible or healthy.) I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes on a clipboard in the back of the room.   I couldn’t do these things.                                                  My hands tend to break what they touch.   The glass bowl in the pet store.                                  The clay project in art class.                                                               The succulents, the basil, the orchid. I’m good at things I don’t have to think about: good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,                                                                                     good at trauma.
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This things are made for idling transparent in their quotidian splendor: A Buddha statue at the receptionist desk golden skin, red robes welcoming all yogis with its gaze eyelids closed The candle, a guardian of an aim an intention that moves within a flame over the palms of the wooden hands Incense smoke dance softly around the entrance like a dream seen from wakefulness immersive enhancer of the humor filling the place with soft calmness Nag champa smell and serious air The bamboo doors from Monday to Sunday open the way to Indian sounds and the voices of blooming teachers guide the way until shavasana when practitioners become gently moving statues and glowing air goes breathing in and breathing out daily efforts and daily hopes.
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Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
The studio
beard-red explorers pillaging-horror practitioners tribal-family groups insurgent-nomadic roots that trailed wave-rammers across never-ending spans, continuously-toilfully matters not the demands women and men side by each beastly-feasters no table safe stand up for yourself or be a weak-waif in the bloodshot soul-panes, fierce pagan-purveyors by rites despised-womanizers siege-setters monk-murderers a blood-spilling bee treasure trove crash n’carry Thor had his hammer every wave-rammer had an oar for every pair of life-stained hands, the stains were borrowed and the very life-drained out of others blood-smitten berserkers, heart-stoppers and yet discoverer’s children wandering wet-wilderness found a Stormy-Stop, a few actually, and one be Newfoundland may-haps they settled in peace.
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Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
Family-first a tale-Twisted
Astutely speaking, we all at some point Ponder on matters spiritual, the kind In the realms outside observable phenomena. Even to some extent, we can’t help Consulting various spiritual practitioners to Extrapolate circumstances prevalent in the future. Otherworldly beauty is not only a matter of Fascination it’s an obsession too. Hallowed space in today’s world is Exceedingly limited, an abundant scarcity A paucity of meaning attached to it. Various denominations exist to Entrench a semblance of piety to counter A rather stack waywardness. Neverland, is it real?
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Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 2:00 AM UTC
A piece of heaven.
“Mistakes were made.” I quote at least three recent former U.S. Presidents, Who wrote or spoke infamously in the passive voice. Here’s a bit of history: The words spoken by automated phone systems, Were code written by computer programmers. Computer geeks, revered for their cold logic and impartiality; Like scientists taught to maintain objectivity, When studying fascinating subjects like Base-2 Binary Codes, Disk partitioning and hard drive defragmentation. Impersonal, the passive voice avoids sentiment, Steers clear of pesky opinions unfounded on certainty or proof. Unsurprisingly, the passive voice seeped quickly, Into the language of politicians, Our beloved rogues and rapscallions, Hiding truth, avoiding accountability and culpability. Practitioners of political science, They bob and weave and spin. Yes, mistakes were made.
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Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
"Mistakes Were Made"
I just go beboping around happily until I come to a dharma gate which is an obstacle that can be inside or it can be outside and I think the purpose of these gates is to test us practitioners to see if we can continue on, so this morning I came to a big, nasty dharma gate put there inside by a pretty lady and as I have discovered along the path the only way to get through one of these doors is with love.
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Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 11:18 AM UTC
Dharma Gates
Peerless profundities profusely proffered,                                    Produce prolapse and propensities pro-fluent, Presumption presides, practitioners pilfer,                                    Perception perfunctory, penance penurious.
0
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 11:10 PM UTC
One For The File
Blood tests are something I could do without But they are alas a necessary evil And though it’s really not a thing to shout about They haven’t so far (in my case) proved lethal. However it was with a deal of trepidation That I presented myself at phlebotomy today. The result did not match up to my anticipation; The perfect vein was quickly pierced I’m glad to say. It did, at least, give some sense of direction To medical support for my ongoing treatment Avoiding, to my great relief, any infection Or disconcerting prospect of impeachment. While the symptoms are improved by the procedure, The condition, sad to say, is not remitted, And the problem, even sadder, gets no easier, While the health practitioners remain committed To additional probing examination, And are calling me for further tests next week, Despite the blood flow’s vast immoderation That required a lot of plugging of the leak. When they put me into my final casket And thus dispose my bones and body once for all I can imagine someone there will ask it: “We wonder why his body seems so awfully pale.”
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Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
ON HAVING A BLOOD TEST
Crowds gathered and the noise of disobedience shook the neighbourhood whole. I was in the southern part of the city, where sinners sinned and the practitioners groomed the bars and off licenses solely to quench their thirst for liquor. It was almost midnight and hordes of young and old alike chanted and sung merry making song that rang through city; and what a noise it was. And it was on this night I met a lad who dressed as if the night belonged to him. A tall, slender fellow who hadn’t a care in the world. His Caribbean afro would bob up and down as we giggled to anecdotal stories of the past. We were rebels of the night, breaking away from the fragile unity that was the friendship circle. A few stragglers in the form of Chavs had joined. Many of them formed bonds with the pretty girls, rivalling us out in the end. Deciding momentarily on what our next plan was, we split away from the group and continued midnight drinking into the Holy Lands. We could hear the barking of neighbourhood dogs tangle with the distant explosions of fireworks in the sky. It was beautifully chaotic. But as midnight sinners it was like music to our ears. “I’m off mate, take care of yourself.” The fellow said as he guzzled his last remainder of his bottled Budweiser. “You heading home, aye?” I smirked, clearly egging him on to stay out just a tad longer. But, this was to be it. With a hug and a good luck, he was off, towards the mystic backstreets and towards the Ormeau Road. I never caught the young lad’s name, nor did I ever catch his age. It was a strange meeting between the two of us. As if, for one singular night we knew everything about each other yet knew nothing at all. I recall sitting back down on the sidewalk and smiling, before looking up towards the decorative sparkly night sky. And, what turned out to be a spontaneous and random night ended up as a completed final chapter, to a superb little story.
0
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 8:06 AM UTC
St Patrick's Day '14
Crowds gathered and the noise of disobedience shook the neighbourhood whole. I was in the southern part of the city, where sinners sinned and the practitioners groomed the bars and off licenses solely to quench their thirst for liquor. It was almost midnight and hordes of young and old alike chanted and sung merry making song that rang through city; and what a noise it was. And it was on this night I met a lad who dressed as if the night belonged to him. A tall, slender fellow who hadn’t a care in the world. His Caribbean afro would bob up and down as we giggled to anecdotal stories of the past. We were rebels of the night, breaking away from the fragile unity that was the friendship circle. A few stragglers in the form of Chavs had joined. Many of them formed bonds with the pretty girls, rivalling us out in the end. Deciding momentarily on what our next plan was, we split away from the group and continued midnight drinking into the Holy Lands. We could hear the barking of neighbourhood dogs tangle with the distant explosions of fireworks in the sky. It was beautifully chaotic. But as midnight sinners it was like music to our ears. “I’m off mate, take care of yourself.” The fellow said as he guzzled his last remainder of his bottled Budweiser. “You heading home, aye?” I smirked, clearly egging him on to stay out just a tad longer. But, this was to be it. With a hug and a good luck, he was off, towards the mystic backstreets and towards the Ormeau Road. I never caught the young lad’s name, nor did I ever catch his age. It was a strange meeting between the two of us. As if, for one singular night we knew everything about each other yet knew nothing at all. I recall sitting back down on the sidewalk and smiling, before looking up towards the decorative sparkly night sky. And, what turned out to be a spontaneous and random night ended up as a completed final chapter, to a superb little story.
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Amid the restlessness of a blood enthused crowd Stood two gladiatorial practitioners both battle proud From the inner arena a barking summons rang out Calling the combatants to engage in battle's bout The blood lust crowd wanted sport without delay No quarter was ceded in the gladiator's display Slashing lashing swords flayed high then to the midriff Shields clanged and clinked in alternate shift The foot-work of battle was magnificent of flair Both took the onslaught with a disdainful air Around the arena walls went a deafening cloud The performance of the gladiators intoxicated the crowd While in the bowels of the arena lions and tigers roared Battle fervour rose to the gladiators they who are adored Striking like a lightning bolt the victor's sword kills His opponents chest dies in blood's gushing spill Enthused by the spectacle of blood the crowd cried for more Other combatants offered themselves to the gladiatorial floor Battle Gods gathered at the celestial fray Sang songs of battle to the arena's clay
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Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC
In The Arena
Ambassadors of peace- practitioners of terror, Alas, the fighting never will be done! Their parachutes deployed- the cargo was destroyed, Too bad there won't be chutes for everyone!
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Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 2:02 PM UTC
the folks who run the world
when it is my final time, i make it here clear. for my first choice my wish, is to go like all the critters we see, lying in the woods, enjoying a last long, lingering Final look. this body once warm slipping into Mother earth in its very own time. second way i'd like, is to go like the ancient Zoroastrianism practitioners did do. or the monks high among the peaks of the snow covered Himalyan peaks of Tibet once so Free. i'll take a hot firey burning if that is what you must do. mixed in thoroughly, with those of my puppyhead and her magficient ancestors. fling theses ashes high overhead, while the winds are blowing strongly along. hike to the top a high and lonely peak, open the little baggie of plasticky. release these ashes, of us who loved each other  So, to ride the winds forever together, throughout all of  eternal time!
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Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
Final Resting Time version 2
****** sharp nay! blunt A sword tamed with cruelty ****** wounding my hand For five years! I can now let go Adage! Blunt the sharp edge No fear! enough warmth ****** first pretty flowers ****** then adders! Mine plea ****** out! appease my voice Adage! With a trumpet Singing the truth! ****** performed magic "Paved" the maddened path!, "sobs" "Lowered" the hidden cut!, "sobs" "Admonished" false approval practitioners!, "sobs" "Amused" my growing siblings!, "sobs" A blossoming flower apprises Colored with lines of liberty Preaching smiles! adage! Breaking the spell of thorny roots ****** gone future Roots come future Blood soiled hands gone future Smiling painted flag come future
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May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 8:41 AM UTC
LIGHT
Take a look at all of you down there So sure of yourselves So full of the hustle-bustle of life itself Never stopping to see what could be Potentially the greatest things of your lives Jutting through the stream like hot knives No all simply let life pass them by Not seeing all the things Looking you in the eye And will watch even when you lie asleep For the final time You all think you’re hot **** All hit and no miss No questions All answers Obsess with self worth Convinced that you’re dust with a value Just because a god you’re not even sure exists told you so When the urge to **** is gone What’s the difference between you and the dirt you walk on You all rise and fall like the waves in the oceans Like a glissando of smoker coughs New ideas are thrown against the scoffs and scrutiny Of those obstinate practitioners of organized ignorance You are the only one who should impose sanction on your life Not some pretty news anchor Who nods at the teleprompter with total belief You all chase after superficiality like a poor animal At the snap of some fat fingers Call yourselves Pavlov’s pet You fattened the hand that feeds you yourselves Have you met the total of life’s offer Have you looked at yourself in the mirror And not seen cheap narcissism winking back Self-imposed limits are acceptable to live by A moratorium of thought is not You have free speech Now learn free thought Explain the intricacies of a fast food drive through To the children of Darfur Explain how you didn’t want to learn how to finish your schoolwork To the little girl who can’t afford to buy pencils for hers She will tell you with chagrin how she aspires to be a writer and a poet But can’t afford the books to help her help herself You express yourself by exerting as little effort While she isn’t able to put in the effort to express herself It’s the ultimate irony Religion ceased to be the ****** of the masses When it got it reached one-million views You all can ask where do I get off And I will only smile and tell you how I am just like you I watch the same TV Eat the same food Wear the same clothes The only difference is you can be different And by simply choosing to do so or not is a step in the right direction You are your own Atlas Carry your own world Anyone else is just liable to drop it
0
Nov 20, 2010
Nov 20, 2010 at 11:38 PM UTC
Us
Take a look at all of you down there So sure of yourselves So full of the hustle-bustle of life itself Never stopping to see what could be Potentially the greatest things of your lives Jutting through the stream like hot knives No all simply let life pass them by Not seeing all the things Looking you in the eye And will watch even when you lie asleep For the final time You all think you’re hot **** All hit and no miss No questions All answers Obsess with self worth Convinced that you’re dust with a value Just because a god you’re not even sure exists told you so When the urge to **** is gone What’s the difference between you and the dirt you walk on You all rise and fall like the waves in the oceans Like a glissando of smoker coughs New ideas are thrown against the scoffs and scrutiny Of those obstinate practitioners of organized ignorance You are the only one who should impose sanction on your life Not some pretty news anchor Who nods at the teleprompter with total belief You all chase after superficiality like a poor animal At the snap of some fat fingers Call yourselves Pavlov’s pet You fattened the hand that feeds you yourselves Have you met the total of life’s offer Have you looked at yourself in the mirror And not seen cheap narcissism winking back Self-imposed limits are acceptable to live by A moratorium of thought is not You have free speech Now learn free thought Explain the intricacies of a fast food drive through To the children of Darfur Explain how you didn’t want to learn how to finish your schoolwork To the little girl who can’t afford to buy pencils for hers She will tell you with chagrin how she aspires to be a writer and a poet But can’t afford the books to help her help herself You express yourself by exerting as little effort While she isn’t able to put in the effort to express herself It’s the ultimate irony Religion ceased to be the ****** of the masses When it got it reached one-million views You all can ask where do I get off And I will only smile and tell you how I am just like you I watch the same TV Eat the same food Wear the same clothes The only difference is you can be different And by simply choosing to do so or not is a step in the right direction You are your own Atlas Carry your own world Anyone else is just liable to drop it
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59
By this time 2019 the onslaught had begun.. devastating attack on mankind not carried out by guns.. just a virus, tiny yet deadly ravaging the world.. not an equal monster in decades, Covid-19 it was called. mysteriously crept into our world, inexplicable origin.. lurking around rails, trails and air just to gain entry.. wrecking down all systems immune, nervous and circulatory.. sniffles life out of victims at the early stages, men was scary. left us so terrified  in our towns and in our cities.. grounded and brought to a halt economic activities.. built up a partition of no solid material.. amongst us all, rich, poor and even the influential. Once crowded streets in its wake were lonely and desserted.. nice playground activities and symposiums neglected.. for the dread of the global monsterous virus.. oh! no! never again we hope we beat the virus. It took from us loved ones both promising and elderly.. frightening mode of operation, collapsing the lungs steadily.. trailing wails world all over from the healthcare facilities.. universal pandemonium, we were overwhelmed seemingly. Emotionally traumatising was the unpleasant experience.. of watching its victims gasping in the midst of abundance.. I cried like many many others seeing a menace to existence.. and all we did was pray for return of peaceful ambience. till date still place a limit on human interactions.. medical practitioners working their ***** off.. to get a cure for it although now there's vaccination.. was an era in human history, covid-19 what a distraction!
0
Jan 13, 2022
Jan 13, 2022 at 10:39 AM UTC
Covid-19
By this time 2019 the onslaught had begun.. devastating attack on mankind not carried out by guns.. just a virus, tiny yet deadly ravaging the world.. not an equal monster in decades, Covid-19 it was called. mysteriously crept into our world, inexplicable origin.. lurking around rails, trails and air just to gain entry.. wrecking down all systems immune, nervous and circulatory.. sniffles life out of victims at the early stages, men was scary. left us so terrified  in our towns and in our cities.. grounded and brought to a halt economic activities.. built up a partition of no solid material.. amongst us all, rich, poor and even the influential. Once crowded streets in its wake were lonely and desserted.. nice playground activities and symposiums neglected.. for the dread of the global monsterous virus.. oh! no! never again we hope we beat the virus. It took from us loved ones both promising and elderly.. frightening mode of operation, collapsing the lungs steadily.. trailing wails world all over from the healthcare facilities.. universal pandemonium, we were overwhelmed seemingly. Emotionally traumatising was the unpleasant experience.. of watching its victims gasping in the midst of abundance.. I cried like many many others seeing a menace to existence.. and all we did was pray for return of peaceful ambience. till date still place a limit on human interactions.. medical practitioners working their ***** off.. to get a cure for it although now there's vaccination.. was an era in human history, covid-19 what a distraction!
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Be careful all you free-versin’ poetic hook-up artists and practitioners of unprotected textual *********** There are pernicious poetic maladies out there online. Casual cruising of ****** sites might infect your soul with bad verse. The wages of sin is death; but I would spare you AND your muse any viral  regrets. Random coupling with unstructured lines you just picked up at some postmodern poetry site is NOT a healthy lifestyle in the long run. Go ahead–-call me a Victorian ***** Make fun of meter and rhyme schemes. Hoot at message-oriented versification. Throw inchoate drivel in my face… but when you come down with a compromised semantic system or an embarrassing case of nihilistic verborrhea, don’t come crying to me. This has been a poetic public health reminder.
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Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
Textually Transmitted Diseases
Dark Blue fingers run wildly Across my listless chest scratching me mildly Like an impatient birth, insidious babe Crawling on fingernails down to stain the rug In this room nicely snug Left the husk on the bed to sleep instead Looks at the books who sit all left unread The tall fingers wipe across the walls making rhymes Shouting out the window chimes Sitting on that window pane making legs out of dust So the sun set on these larks And the evening takes its remarks The city will never likely see Such grime encrusted treachery Dark Blue fingers run wildly Across the wood fence where children cry at me They long for their mothers who take them indoors So the fingers ***** the glass of the home And gaze to see the tomb Of those who invite the starved fingers in For some company and mirth over gin And take in the crooked dark blue smile that stretches The kids are crying wretches Drinks are done, no more fun, for the monster's run Is but only at a start And the dark blue blood pumps through his heart The city will never likely see Such grime encrusted treachery Dark blue fingers run wildly Across a mantelpiece quite familiarly The room is a laughing mad struck sickening The monster is by the fireplace stealing The looks of the practitioners and reeling As the party booms on through the evening The fingers run across those who are leaving And wipes his bald and grimy face on their own Taking all their thoughts they've shown Until they each subside and then wave goodbye Leaving the monster all alone Muttering curses on his own The city will never likely see Such grime encrusted treachery The city will never likely see These fingers running wildly
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Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
Dark Blue
Dark Blue fingers run wildly Across my listless chest scratching me mildly Like an impatient birth, insidious babe Crawling on fingernails down to stain the rug In this room nicely snug Left the husk on the bed to sleep instead Looks at the books who sit all left unread The tall fingers wipe across the walls making rhymes Shouting out the window chimes Sitting on that window pane making legs out of dust So the sun set on these larks And the evening takes its remarks The city will never likely see Such grime encrusted treachery Dark Blue fingers run wildly Across the wood fence where children cry at me They long for their mothers who take them indoors So the fingers ***** the glass of the home And gaze to see the tomb Of those who invite the starved fingers in For some company and mirth over gin And take in the crooked dark blue smile that stretches The kids are crying wretches Drinks are done, no more fun, for the monster's run Is but only at a start And the dark blue blood pumps through his heart The city will never likely see Such grime encrusted treachery Dark blue fingers run wildly Across a mantelpiece quite familiarly The room is a laughing mad struck sickening The monster is by the fireplace stealing The looks of the practitioners and reeling As the party booms on through the evening The fingers run across those who are leaving And wipes his bald and grimy face on their own Taking all their thoughts they've shown Until they each subside and then wave goodbye Leaving the monster all alone Muttering curses on his own The city will never likely see Such grime encrusted treachery The city will never likely see These fingers running wildly
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44
Some para-normal practitioners Claim to have Out-of-Body Experiences. They say they're left Feeling beside themselves. I concur, They could be next to an idiot.
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Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 9:08 AM UTC
Out-of-Body Experiences
endless miles of dark pavement hours of white knuckle horror illegally transporting pounds processed into oil curing her cancer – new age family doctor with a medical card and an interest in chemistry distilling Everclear creating hope 1 gram a day rear-view mirror road-rage only wishing to be safely home 14 hours to go with a life on the line watching a plant heal all that ails – networking growers into family practitioners dropping the bottom out of Big Pharma one human being at a time freely functioning as philanthropists looking only to see families restored Robin Hood as a pothead – nothing could be simpler than curing cancer just grind up **** pour 191 proof over the top strain and keep the liquid low heat cook it down until only oil is left 5 drops of water and a coffee warmer decarbonization then eat it a grain of rice at first then increase to a gram a day 60 grams in 90 days just try to die – watching her gain weight and coherence in front of my eyes seeing it again knowing the truth living in a lie saving lives as I cross them modern day travelling physician carded but unlicensed –
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Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
sharing the cure
What is a doctor to you, Is he your guru? Or does he write a script, Off to the pharmacist, Symptoms he treats, Do healers you meet? Or does he turf and bounce, Off for pathologist's amounts, Then back to the doctor to you, Is this your local guru? Then does he turf and bounce, off to a radiologist's amount, Then it's all clear, Good photos of your limbs here, Time for poisoned jellybeans, Modern medicine, it seems, All with a copayment fee, Is he your guru? What is a doctor to you?
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Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 8:21 PM UTC
General Practitioners.....
_Hire purchase, Hewlett-Packard, hand phones and - just maybe - Harry Potter have got nothing on Hello Poetry. A house party of honey pies, head pixies, and horizontal plotters hot piping their harmonic power from Hyde Park to Hunter’s Point, the High Plains to Himachel Pradesh. Household profilers, home porters, health practitioners and - it may be said - the odd human particulate here to engage in high-priority human performance. P.S. Heart points and historic preservation aside, what the hoi polloi is up with those hit-by-pitch holding patterns, Eliot?_
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Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 2:33 AM UTC
HP: Disambiguation