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Chandan sharma Sep 2010
Glorifying amidst the snowy mountains bestowing
rivers  with a splendid shine searching a land
to shower its warmth in a dense grassland,
sun rises with the dawn
like  the spring blooming life in the lawn.

Cold on the cemetery lay like the corpse,
the flower in concealed corner of the lawn.
Life rejuvenates it to exhibit its charisma.
With its exquisite grace,
life fills the daffodils
blooming merrily in the meadows
with the exotic flush of odor enchanting thee .

Life of seven ages leaps and exits slyly like a stranger.
Neither the witty nor the wisest nor do the philosophers
can bamboozle the fate, neither can they preconceive
the lot ,the fate has in store in each slot
hence live the life with fullest enthusiasm and zeal,
the chariots of life bridging
the expedition between birth and rebirth.

Struggle the chill like a gladiator
stand undeterred by the worldly woes.
Life is symbolization of bluebells,lavenders
hedychiums planted on a deserted road,
blend of happiness and agony .
Surrendering to agony is pure escapism.

Each has to surrender on the altar of death
a day or later ,
but till life why not worship the life
like an idol enshrined in the temple
so when thee are asked of
satisfaction in the heavens high
thou may not quote "alas it could have been a day later"
rather thou may be the most enlightened
devotee to stay in the state of bliss and utmost salvation.

Men say life is mortal
But life is eternal you see,
the life is like a divine cascade of holy waters,
one drop dies ,other rejuvenates to life.
Till the nature lives, shall live
the men and generations yet to come.
Life is pouring like the nectar from the heaven's brink,
quite insane it would be to not drink the summary of life.

                                                          ­                         BY CHANDAN SHARMA
Jesse stillwater Oct 2018
Love is more
    than a ballet—

beyond gestures,
steps and poses;
more than a passing
summer breeze
soon forgotten;
a twirling pirouette
in an ever changing
season's  fleeting dream
                            
To really SEE,

— turn a blind eye    
to the incantations
of what we're looking at
— lose sight of all    
    we preconceive —

FEEL the music
dance inside the note,
swimming deeply
inside the rivers
   of its soul —
listen searchingly
to the fomenting breeze
as it fans the
smoldering flame
in your heart

   Love is —
an erupted moment;
an enveloping
burst of flames
enkindling
an uncontainable wildfire

an unfolding chrysalis,
butterfly kisses wafting
in the halo around the moon

a thundering heartbeat
a fiery burning  
    ring enrobes —

an enchanted sunset
vanishing into an
evanescent afterglow

The downward spiral
of a burning ember
erupting in a rising moon;
climbing the rungs
of the twilight horizon

Words may sing a sad song
of love and misery;
some say: “love is forever”..,
a hesitant reminder —
your pretty words
and sweet lies
still linger where
sleeping memories lie:
you never really saw
my world straightaway
peering out through
the corner of your eyes

Looking heart to heart
through the glass reflection
within the window
of a poet’s pages,
when nobody else
in sight seems to care,
gazing right past you
like you're not even there;
only posing words
amongst the untamed
waves of emotional depth

Lying to myself
won't ever make
the truth go away
when you hear
whispered words
      grow silent —

Love is more than a ballet ...
but I don't know a thing about "forever"



Jesse Stillwater ... October 20, 2018
"That love is all there is, is all we know of love" Emily Dickinson
Mike Hauser Jun 2015
I'm wearing dead man's underwear
I ask what's wrong with that
Something you see they no longer need
Where they now are at

From Jockey's whitey tighties
To boxers by the score
Don't much matter to me
What this dead man wore

With the right amount of detergent
The proper amount of bleach
Like I said four lines back
Don't matter much to me

Now please don't rush to judgement
Or my life preconceive
We all have our different ways
Of carrying on their memories

Me...I just do it in dead man's briefs
Had a customer recently die and today his wife offered me some of his clothing along with his underwear...
Did I take it? I'll let you decide...
Jeff Leslie May 2011
His hair is set so every strand
Is perfectly in place.
His costume and his make up
Fix a smile upon his face.
He plays the handsome hero
In the spotlight on the stage
For that's the way the story goes,
He always saves the day.

Applause resounds like thunder
As the crimson curtain falls.
It never stops till he returns
For seven curtain calls.
He's sure to win the Tony
Say the signs and the marquee.
With confidence He calls himself
Sir Tony Nominee.

He lives his life in costume
As he strolls along the streets.
He speaks his hero's manuscript
To everyone he meets.
His longing for applause has caused
His true self to subside.
Now no one can recall the man
Sir Tony tries to hide.

He thinks if he's the hero
That his fans have so admired,
Then he'll receive the love they give
Sir Tony so desired.
And then a friend came up to him
And said, "I have to ask,
Oh, when will be the day
That you remove that foolish mask?

"Do you misunderstand you're not
The man we want to see?
You don't have to be the hero
You pretend to always be.
The only way the face you bear
Will be completely free
Is when you face the truth, my friend,
Sir Tony Nominee."

One night the time had fin'ly come
Our hero feared the most.
For after his finale
Tony's play was going to close.
So what will he become
Without his costume when he quits?
Without his makeup, perfect hair,
And hero's manuscript?

The room was full, the lights were dimmed,
The curtain slowly rose,
But gone were all the sets and props
When time to start the show.
An actor never seen before
Then crept across the stage.
The ordinary clothes he wore
Displayed a man of age.

He stopped and turned toward the crowd
Then fell upon his knees.
With tears of shame the man proclaimed,
"I'm Tony Nominee!"
A hush consumed massive room
As Tony shook with fear,
Then he could not believe the sound
That fell upon his ear.

Like raindrops on a city street
A clicking sound would grow
As cameras flashed like lightning
Till the room began to glow.
Then louder than the thunder,
Like the very voice of God,
The room began to rumble
From the crowd's intense applause.

Then Tony learned the words
His trusted friend had said were true.
The only part you need to play
To face the world is you.
Whoever says to fit the mold
They preconceive of men,
Oh, listen not to selfish thoughts
That you receive from them!

We all pursue perfection
In this journey known as life,
But even when we change ourselves
We're seldom satisfied.
That's why there is such beauty
In a baby at its birth.
For therein lies the hope
Of God’s perfection here on earth.

Reality then hits them
Like they're slammed against a wall.
They find there's no perfection
In the mirror after all.
For each of us will find some faults
As our reflection leers,
That cause us to be diff'rent
From the looks of all our peers.

So never try to measure
What you are by what you see,
For looks can be deceiving
As with Tony Nominee.
The greatest way upon the earth
For you to make your mark
Is find the Truth within yourself
Accepting who you are.

The beauty of a person's life
Comes not from what you see.
Your hair and face and body shape
Can never perfect be.
The love you hold within your soul
Is where your beauty starts.
While man looks on the outer shell,
Our God looks in your heart.
Butch Decatoria Dec 2015
What genius evening keeps secret and moribund...

His foot falls echo the chill of November deep
Tapping, clapping, wrapping
His man heavy fragility in wool

How distant and suddenly wide is the night.

What shrewd skills fear casts--a mask,
That evening keeps him wary, attentive as wax,
For Shadows shed no comfort for this lamb,

His rhythm once lord of the dance.

Pulsing toes as eyes flash to every creak, whispers;
The Depth of sightlessness made paranoid
by twisted twilight shapes, shifting, nerves frozen with haste…

His weakness, not knowing, a pallid winter on his face.

Even now the slow climb upon his back
Carried by the slip of a breeze laying waste,
A soundtrack of dead leaves and black.

His foot falls stomping to clash and map
A stroll as reality saves nothing sincere, when fear
Deepens in his bones resolve to panic...

What genius a weapon: dark flights of fancy

And the conditioning of youth to preconceive,
Strange and delicate spaces between the ears
Defeated before finding a sure foot

Before reaching a well lit street
Familiar and familial suburbs of a mind
Diminished by the subterfuge of fear…

His foot falls turn a corner
And the sound of concrete and conflict
Disappear…




SUBTERFUGE
Edit 11012016
Moonsocket Jul 2017
Sometimes

I feel as if there is something truly profound about love and hate

Both numbing in their exhaustion and best reserved for a proper patron

Both humbling in the fallout

The generations are numerous in this conviction for folly

Other times I feel its merely chemicals reacting in a hungry skull

Navigating lonesome anatomy into collisions for the sake of a secondary pulse


Still

A shortcut in my quiet moments...

When I discard my bulwark and realize I only thrive in seclusion

Is it lethargy or lunacy when I reject connection?

A tick of panic in my crowded moments...

When shoulders mingle in spaces fully saturated with gizmos and vain distraction

How potent is creation?

F*ck away the time and we may call it heaven

****** into chaos and we weave new homes for hurting

The scenes we preconceive are never as fantastic as the actual trajectory

When we come faceless and wanting

we may find time to ponder a perfect rotation

But once the whirlpool winks we can barely grasp the remnants of imaginary
Little children playing games
With innocence where it pertains
They don’t preconceive or discriminate
They only know how to appreciate
The love they have
The love they’re shown
So inquisitive of the unknown
Bless their hearts
Bless their souls
May the love they have only grow.

— The End —