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it was warm
for a winters eve
unusually warm
but damp very damp
birthing a persistent
midnight mist that
crawled over everything

avenging
halogen angels
flitted down from
streetlight perches
skidding through
bare limb bars
of broken trees
roped in by sagging
telephone wires

skulking
seraphs
joined
ebullient
neon auroras
laughingly
brake dancing,
jittering away on the
pock marked rims
of hip hop streets

the fine drizzle
descending from the
black urban heavens
splayed holy water
over the bodies
of anything
that moved; and
layered mounds
of transparent beads
on all inert things
chiding those yolked
to weighty burdens
to seek relief of
a much needed
breaking point

our
slouching city
mired in a cycle
of a prolonged
historical rut
beavers away
to lift the lid
on tomorrows
tipping point
in a desperate
labor to stop
tripping over
itself...

a dinged up
Sentra’s
flashing spinners
twisted round
our dark corner
nearly clipping
our troop

inside the
yakking low-riders
scuttled along,
their hidden ***** eyes
cruising the stoops
and cyclone alleys
scoping opportunities
for the next
jolly hustle
to feed
a growing
angry fix

tonight
Mother Nature was
running a *****
to the wall third shift,
manufacturing a
stationary low
of gagging precip
churning volumes
of Vulcan smoke
conjuring
convective spirits
from all the
dim places

emanations lit
the balmy January air
rising from
stubborn gray patches
of despoiled snow
and rancid ponds
organic gutter water
composting
in distilled pools
awaiting leakage
through flotsam
clogged sewage grids

Paterson’s
litter police
could close the
city’s budget deficit
if all infractions
were properly cited
and paid in this
neighborhood

this queer elixir of
rising vapors from
evaporating snow
escaping the cracks
lining the bowels of
mordant streets
joining descending
screens of billowing mists
blurs boundaries of light,
diffusing temporal time

people and things
lose precise definition
reducing sentient beings
to moving silhouettes of gray
photographic negatives
framed in dribbling palettes
of pastel hues

our
5th Ward mission
planted in the
hub of a neighborhood
still holding on...

Old WASP’s
of St. Paul’s
long ago
winged away
from this
princely
Episcopate
principality

the abandoned
conical nest, its
chambers filled with
the mud of 50 dead rectors
precariously clings
to its shivering
boulevard corner

its endowment depleted
its earthly treasure rusting
grandiose Tiffany windows
remain the last legacy of an
opulent faith now
shamefully rattling away
in moth eaten frames

once icons of
adulatory reverence
the final sparkling asset
of a distressed religion
begs to be monetized
by flummoxed vestrymen
yearning to extend
a stewardship
over a dissipating
ESL flock

distress in the hood
parades down Broadway
in all directions

a few blocks east
a shuttered
Barnert Hospital
transfigured into an
urban enterprise zone
for health-care privateers
working overtime to
extract federal
corporate welfare
rent subsidies
dutifully fulfilling
fine print obligations of
Obamacare legislation

Old Mayor Barnert’s
namesake synagogue
once hard by
City Hall
is long gone
its absent footprint
now centered by
a thriving
White Castle

near Broadway’s end
on the outskirts
of Eastside Park
Art Deco Emanuel Temple
the last anchor
for the city’s Judaism
lies vacant
awaiting a renewed
purpose

fraught with irony
a thriving Islamic Center
stands juxtaposed
across the street
from the old
Hebrew Temple

we wonder what
will emerge
from the
hallowed chrysalis
of decommissioned
Emanuel?

rumors of a
Great Falls Art Center
trickle like a leaking faucet
failure to secure a mortgage
in the post credit
bubble pop economy
dams the possibly
of a new centers
coming to fruition

will
the city’s
changing
demography of
reverent Muslim’s
genuflecting
across the street
take time away
from prayer to
patronize a venue
offering decadent
bourgeois jazz and
risqué reviews
of retro Borscht Belt
vaudeville?

when Constantinople
became Istanbul they
converted the Christian
churches into mosques

when the Inquisitioners
drove the Moors from
Granada they converted
the Grand Mosque to
the Cathedral of the
Incarnation

what incarnations
will this city’s
twilight bring?

As Byzantine
begets
Constantinople
begets
Istanbul
the links
in the Silk Road
spanned west
to the new world
of mechanized looms
powered by
Great Falls
raceway water
and a distribution
and procurement
chain anchored
by the Morris Canal

Capitalist
modernity
begets
our Silk City
it also bespeaks
its demise

in the courtyard
of St. Paul’s
a muffled chorus
trawls the thick air

a posse of pimps
done wrangling
their stables
of $5 ******
sing reveries to
the evening haul

midnight lullabies
of corner crooners
lift a Capella hosannas
from the dark armpit
of an alley behind
the Autozone

“i said
you say
what can make
me feel this way
my girl”

juiced pimps
cashin in
livin large on
a skanks
50 cent haul

the trade in flesh
of distressed
human capital
remains a
growth industry

Music Selection:  
Temptations, My Girl

jbm
3/1/13
Oakland
Part 1 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Paterson NJ is nick named The Silk City.
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2012
Even to think about such sharp devils stabs your mind somewhat they are plants defense system on the
“Great Saguaro cactus they have been shown to record changes in local rainfall and can be used to

Reconstruct climate and plant ecophsiology over the plant’s lifetime Acanthochronology thorns grow in
Timed sequence” and so doe’s human character beat back held in check this is refining at its tortuous

Best a couple of quotes if you want to be refreshed look up this great man’s quotes here are a couple
All the resources we need are in the mind. Americans learn only from catastrophe and not from experience.

– Theodore Roosevelt a fertile mind aerated by coarseness is the procurement for a fine point
Put to your life the most worthless arrogant person is one who has never struggled for the prize
That is a life lived well no matter what the circumstances they face to bow is not to suffer

Indignity but you present yourself as selfless and deserve the crown of nobility that person
Will have once worn clothes that were torn and tattered by thorns otherwise it is like uncultivated

Land its wildness pleases and feeds the eye it can roll out grand vistas spill and dip hills of
Splendor but nothing to appease physical hunger the warrior must willingly sacrifice his blood

Not a pin ***** but all that it takes to route evil and restore peace that the weak share with the
Strong the United States used these necessary building blocks where nations insert the rich and

Powerful they build with rot that will be their undoing the great story Two Years before the Mast  
tells of Richard Henry Dana JR while an undergraduate at Harvard College he had an attack of

Measles which created problems with his vision he took the action of enlisting as a common
****** feeling it could help his vision he shipped out on the brig pilgrim for a trip around the

Horn to California the initial thorn of measles started a chain of events yes the man already had
Potential but without the thorn he wouldn’t have ending up writing an American sea classic

And also from his experience with the plight of the sailors it instilled in him a deep sympathy for
The lower classes he became a prominent anti slavery activist not to many thorns that big and

He helped found the free soil party and he is credited with giving America one of its greatest
Historical record of early California he has a city named after him Dana Point and several  

Southern California schools are named for him he was on the fast track to becoming a lawyer
Then through encountering the thorns he found out life’s secret the way to unexpected

Achievement is along a path that at first only seems to hold dread but to persevere in hardship
Will lead to commanding heights not of pride and presumptuous arrogance but real humility

That is the fruited fields spoken of in America the beautiful you only rise through your
Willingness to accept abasement it is said God will resist the proud but give grace to the humble

So next time you’re faced with thorns see them as sentinels that bar the insincere but to the
faithful They show a sure path to rich fulfillment
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2013
Thorns


Even to think about such sharp devils stabs your mind somewhat they are plants defense system on the
“Great Saguaro cactus they have been shown to record changes in local rainfall and can be used to

Reconstruct climate and plant ecophsiology over the plant’s lifetime Acanthochronology thorns grow in
Timed sequence” and so doe’s human character beat back held in check this is refining at its tortuous

Best a couple of quotes if you want to be refreshed look up this great man’s quotes here are a couple
All the resources we need are in the mind. Americans learn only from catastrophe and not from experience.

– Theodore Roosevelt a fertile mind aerated by coarseness is the procurement for a fine point
Put to your life the most worthless arrogant person is one who has never struggled for the prize
That is a life lived well no matter what the circumstances they face to bow is not to suffer

Indignity but you present yourself as selfless and deserve the crown of nobility that person
Will have once worn clothes that were torn and tattered by thorns otherwise it is like uncultivated

Land its wildness pleases and feeds the eye it can roll out grand vistas spill and dip hills of
Splendor but nothing to appease physical hunger the warrior must willingly sacrifice his blood

Not a pin ***** but all that it takes to route evil and restore peace that the weak share with the
Strong the United States used these necessary building blocks where nations insert the rich and

Powerful they build with rot that will be their undoing the great story Two Years before the Mast  
tells of Richard Henry Dana JR while an undergraduate at Harvard College he had an attack of

Measles which created problems with his vision he took the action of enlisting as a common
****** feeling it could help his vision he shipped out on the brig pilgrim for a trip around the

Horn to California the initial thorn of measles started a chain of events yes the man already had
Potential but without the thorn he wouldn’t have ending up writing an American sea classic

And also from his experience with the plight of the sailors it instilled in him a deep sympathy for
The lower classes he became a prominent anti slavery activist not to many thorns that big and

He helped found the free soil party and he is credited with giving America one of its greatest
Historical record of early California he has a city named after him Dana Point and several  

Southern California schools are named for him he was on the fast track to becoming a lawyer
Then through encountering the thorns he found out life’s secret the way to unexpected

Achievement is along a path that at first only seems to hold dread but to persevere in hardship
Will lead to commanding heights not of pride and presumptuous arrogance but real humility

That is the fruited fields spoken of in America the beautiful you only rise through your
Willingness to accept abasement it is said God will resist the proud but give grace to the humble

So next time you’re faced with thorns see them as sentinels that bar the insincere but to the
faithful They show a sure path to rich fulfillment
Allison Neal Dec 2009
Yes, I see you.
You like to make your presence  known.
It’s in the flashy, the gaudy and the uncomfortably fake humbleness that  you  project.
The wealth  and championed successes you stuff into your smile and plaster across your face.
Yes, I see you,
You exude materialism with each closing swagger .
Insatiable appetite for your own procurement.--Your “driven”
You’ve everything one might acquire.
Yes, I see you,
I’ve known you in many.

  
As you walk by you politely nod and look away.
And inside my stomach swells until a small smile cracks across my face.
The irony.
You measure your wealth in commodities
and assume I’m envious of  your riches!!
  
Yes, I see you and am moved…
You know nothing of wealth.
Yes, perhaps 'tis true.
Everywhere I go-with all t'ese dwindling thoughts on my mind-
'tis always the same shadows that roam, and moan-
before my eyes: and t'eir never-ending business.
Crawling on t'eir lips,
poisoning t'eir bosoms, chins, and hips-
but unrelenting in their unfolded shades;
with a swamp of bruises like mazes-tangled mazes;
likening them to spoiled, yet uncherished, little pearls.
How despairing-such views I obtaineth, on my every journey!
But shalt there still be space for us, to be outstanding;
to understand this world from a pair of eyes
glistening like unquestioning gentleness; but learning simultaneously
its unvivid perspectives
with such comprehension t'at is crystal clear;
such wit t'at is far from recklessness and greed-
salutations that are pure, and distant from any blighting threats
of equivocation? For t'is world is, in spite of its minuteness,
was framed and brought into life from
awesome darkness, abysmal cells of lifelessness
and hateful ambiguity.
How terrifying!
And often have I enforced myself to wandereth into those shades,
with unmolested poems boiling up in my brains-
and t'ose windy thoughts toppling out into th' paper
on my hand,
jostling through my veins like some ghastly, furious power
t'at's unseen, invisible as it is to th' human eye-
frail and susceptible to th' weather's surly temptations-
and entrapping me in the shrieks of its wondrous grot-
so I could never wane it any further, in my guileless brambles.
How I have dreaded t'ose sights-and t'eir dormant treachery! Lessons of
guilt, teaching of such guilty flakes of harm
and abomination! And how in my following quietude have I pondered-
t'at t'is would be just a balmy prelude to some far bigger strains of
mockery, obstinacy, and destitution. Hark to how those powers
shall arise! And that will indeed be th' abjuration of our splendidness-
everything shalt stop at a halt-everything will become flawed,
and no more poems shalt be liberated-from living souls, and t'eir undamaged
blood, as t'ey still are now! How I shiver at t'ose possibilities, as soon as our
latent enemies be on th' loose-free in t'eir ruthlessness, traces of dark,
unperturbed miseries, and brutal savagery.
And shalt we shine no more-like those summer flowers that are waiting for us-
to be fed daily like th' hungry morning doves;
with their thorns as sharp as love, and innocent gladness
in the arms of their lips-'tis but a scent so dear to the heartbeat
of oureth salubrious mornings.
But t'at danger, danger indeed! And its eyes of glaring monstrosity!
And 'tis just of substantial profoundness t'at we should be
cautious-yes, cautious, my dear fellows, towards t'ose signs
of th' upcoming storm-th malevolent storm of human rage, t'at shalt attack us
one day-at one perilous night, unpredicted and unexpected is its fate-
especially when all th' battling footsteps areth
peaceful in their slumbers-and no more palms dancing around
piles of paper-in th' holy procurement of continual wealth.
How t'at moment shalt be our early Armageddon-awakened shalt be
all rivers of terrors, and waves of hatred. How t'is beautiful solitude shalt end-
in th' fierce burning, brimming death of t'at flame-credulous shalt we be,
disempowered from th' heat-which shalt bring us but our dead feet.
Thus I but sincerely hope t'at gloom shalt not conquer our race-
the noblest of all creatures on earth-on t'is dull earth, fatigued as it is
from all th' uniformed battles, hatred, and anger-t'at untiringly sneer
at th' faces of those dying soldiers.
Peace, peace, my dear mates!
Ought to realize thou now-t'at swords shalt shed blood only if instructed.
So tranquility is but in oureth hands-yes, we are but th' key to our own salvation,
and since it is so, shalt we move forward and be the charms of t'is world's
new foundation: for it is our own life that we shalt save.
Peace, my friends, shalt but break all t'ese unseen boundaries amongst us,
and enrich our fathom of t'eir unspoken presence; so t'at th' small world is but
th' most dwelling of comfort, and aught but ease to our hearts-
our very dear, dear hearts in t'is life.
Dawn King May 2015
I’d like to love again
Days gone by in a
Conceptual state of mind
Realism my best friend
And worst enemy

I’d like to love again
Evenings pass by in a
Manic state of mind
Memories a close treasure
And haunting burden

I’d like to love again
Years pass by in a
Callous state of mind
Ethos my arduous procurement
And grossly arduous to sustain
this flourishing silence feels more of
a trite hack-job than it is a writing stint.
     my fingers (frenzied, brazen) continue to tap
and my mind starts to spill like a spigot
   left open. I have taken to smoking and laughing
away

       in an obscured day for myself in the parking lot
and sometimes I can do without company; only the snarl
of the well-oiled tractor in front of me.

    the days are full of yellow and the Sun is a dog
on a leash. the roses smell of brine and their slender
stems bones of the young.

    I can see cheeks flushed with red and skirts
neatly trimmed just above knobby knees
   and I know somewhere in that tender flesh,
a man sifts without knowing what it feels to eat
    bone before flesh, flesh after bone. my silently augured
procurement of today’s induced comatose is but
    a Freudian slip – the world with its burly physique
is a chauvinistic man
           drinking whisky in the red light district of hazy Makati.

                 each slapdash word in penitent reprisal
is the moment’s clearest reprieve. I am glad that this room
is darker than the eyes of the love I have lost
     staring back with a mound of the abysmal or the yearnings
      of a chagrined mother startled back to her home;
  it must be dreamy, the dogs outside pant in heat
        and the obnoxious *** of vehicles outside bears the cadence
  of two people   starting to fall in love:  all chaotic and unmoving,
             fastened to the Earth, aware of the passing minutes,
                                         wishing to be somewhere else but there.
Pk Mar 2018
If every noble cause,
Is mocked by the commoners themselves;
If every good inference,
Is taunted and berated relentlessly;
If all one gets by trying,
Is being brought down using the name of almighty himself,
Then
I don't wanna be good in this world.

If every selfless devotion,
Is only to be taken granted;
If egoistic attention,
Is all that deserves love;
If love is no more,
Than a squabble and a source of hideous pleasures:
Then
I don't wanna be good in this world.

If procurement
Has become more important than the heart;
If anxiety,
Is something people use for diligence;
If sympathy and sorrow,
And not care
And ONLY care
Is what one uses for getting love;
Then
I DONT WANNA BE GOOD IN THIS WORLD.
this is something taht I feel from my heart, and want to shout in front of the people concerned
I hope this prove an useful platform.
B Sonia K Nov 2018
Overcome with grief
But with unhushed tears
I dare not weep.
But the gullibility I see
Makes my heart roar like an angry sea
At the Stupendous actions praised
On high a single minded chameleon raised
We have all failed
And our "knowledge", a waste

At night they lay asleep
With sweet dreams on empty promises
In support of a wolf
Indeed covered in roses
I  am of the grass root, he poses
Of his evil deeds, he brags
Down south, his followers, he drags
And on the way down with smiles
And laughter eating rice with chameleon shell topping
They are all asleep.

When will our youths see visions?
Sometime soon I hope
Because it seems the old dreamers are on a mission
To enslave us all with gold plated ropes.

I have seen countless bridges
In multiple nations
And they were built out of necessity
And not stupidity
A waste of our very limited resources
In fact a direct and open robbery of our future
Yet we sit in silence
Our bellies filled with rice and the warmth of a friendly chameleon
With no direction, productivity or creativity
All our natural resources lay in waste.


We need to change our mind set
If we must save ourselves
From the single minded chameleons
Whose goal is self enrichment
And wealth procurement.
We must be weary of those who feed us rice
And rob our children of a promising future
Oh,  What a price.

I want to watch as the cobwebs clears from their eyes
The awakening of a new dawn
A people on a mission
To overcome this impending destruction
Through their devotion
To the correction
Of our direction.

We must empower ourselves
We must stand together
For there is power in unity
And failure in division
We can't continue to live in foolishness
By indulging the chameleon's greediness
And enduring his insults in silence.

If there is a time to rise up in unity
It is now
If there is a time to do the needful
It is now
Sleep and slumber no more
For that is for fools


I'm nobody's fool...


© 2018 Busola S. Kolade
Marshal Gebbie Nov 2009
Dedicated to the Hard Hats, ..for holding it all together.


**** frost on the green grass
There's a cold moon in the sky
The estuary waters black and calm
Where golden ripples lie.
Dawn's horizon lightens up
Bright stars begin to dim
Hard Hats all arrive for work
And with frozen breath...log in.


Work boots crunching on the stone
The men disperse to trucks,
The diesel motors roar to life
Their departures forming rucks.
Swarming in the morning light
Each to his own job's task,
Bridge building work underway
As dawn's first sunbeams bask.


Amazing the complexity
That building bridges has,
Amazing how voraciously
It eats up time and gas.
The planning and design work
The funding of supply,
Those organizational matters
And the labour standing bye.


Digging, lifting, shoving, shifting
Moving this to there,
A logistical nightmare
For the novice, unaware.
Steel and timber by the ton
Concrete pours en mass,
Gravel, sand and aggregate
And reservoirs of gas.



Procurement of supply ensures
A smooth transitional flow
Of successive small procedures
To make the project mesh and grow.
Day after day the massive trucks
Carting tons of sand
Are authorized by gate men
To unload on to land
Where motorway construction
Is steadfastly taking place
And progressing at
A gradual and steady building pace.



From concept to completion
A million multitasks,
Which involves a caste of thousands
And a schedule which asks,
That the finished installation
Be completed by the time
Of the Rugby World Cup kickoff,
Our global status on the line.


Like ants the Hard Hats swarm about
Each does his little bit
And gradually, over time,
The bridge emerges from the pit.
It emergeth like a phoenix
In a drab and sombre gown
But on completion, shines like fire
To be the nation's most re known.


The Manukau Harbour Crossing
A project for the Gods,
Of massive lengths of concrete
And miles of reinforcing rods.
Of an eternity of effort
From everyone involved
And an asset for New Zealand
And a beauty to behold.


Marshalg
@theGate
MHX
Mangere Bridge
14th March 2009

Please view the following link
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzQZ-M90Zig
Unsecured mind-set lashes its core, choosing to ally itself to that of no concern or thought. All sequence we shall herald as noble backlash. Blame shall rest with death of the innocent, for this is where excuse can be rectified Or rather that of fraudulent justification laid before another’s feet.

Insight to rise as we rise to insight, no notice shall be given and no action shall not be undertaken. Vandalisms recruitment takes it course. Internet conscription courses silently through hardy flex. Telecommunications providers enlisted to contrive location as we plan Google’s map attack.

The aim is that of procurement, not for freedom or righteousness, rather that of avarice and self contentment. We shall shop till we drop this eve and at much better than discounted prices. Personal retributions shall also conceal themselves beneath this direst of banner.

Filthy alignments will almost with abandonment unite in evil cohesion. Mass attack at fragmented locations will oppress any and all endeavours to quell this foulest of foul. He who hide his face away is free to loot another day, this seems the lyrical trend that thief and sinner does take this night .

Untold expectance by unlawful propagator is of a world that owes, favours him above others. He feels righteous that he should prevail in this life before his fellow man. It is of no concern to him that others may have more worthy an approach. It matters not what they may suffer.

If for no other reason to doubt he who professes to have nothing, to be cast out by the state and therefore be free to invoke retribution, why should he with nought, cast dereliction in his own manor? Why destroy what you have not got? Why condemn yourself to live in an unliveable state?

Such misdemeanour unto ones self is surely call for psychiatric assessment and asylums involvement? Here now stands a creature pursed to explicate erroneous act for appropriate content and expect audience to quell their disgust and rapturously give applause. I think not.

For not only did thievery portray itself on our streets this and other nights that followed, also violence, arson and ****** were carried along with it, like a leaf in the wind. Families lost what they had so long worked and strived to gain, watching helplessly as combustion condemned their habitat to broken ash.

****** drew its breath on more than a single occasion. Is this the result of political unrest, that is what they would want us to pronounce, to show reason that this is against the masses, such excuse may then be strewn as a just intention.

This is not the reality though in this case it is a the likely truth that rat endeavoured to crawl above ground and spread its pox amongst us, infecting devastation on good peoples lives as it did in centuries past.
17th  September 2011
Ralph E Peck Mar 2012
My predilection of the practicable procurement
Of the positive information
So paramount to your perpetual planning
And the avoidance of my being perceived
As a potent prevaricator, has eclipsed
My proclivity to procrastinate.
Empty hearts and empty heads,
Are leading me to empty beds.
An empty soul no lust to try,
Just watching life rush on by.

A loveless lust so false and untrue,
Feeling less and less a one man crew.
A solo act of sorrow endearment,
The endless game for self procurement.

A life well lived and stories well told,
A life of endless torment sold.
Broken dreams and shattered hopes,
From the start never shown the ropes.

Deja vu a dime a dozen,
A tear in time forever frozen.
A life entwined with pain and grief,
A growing void of disbelief.

A duet sang with only one voice,
Given up on making the right choice.
Losing sight of goals once set,
I'll go all in that's my bet.

Pushing on and breaking ground,
Life and love in fate are bound.
Sit back relax and enjoy the show,
Not much left now time to go.
Shaun Meehan Jun 2015
The poisoned soul, tainted--
victim of its owner's own hand.
Twisted;
tight and coiling as a filth soaked rag;
contentment, elation's enchantment,
wrung like water clouded the filth of grey--
cast from the fibres' binding
binding life to purpose. Worthless.

Popping pills
to cure an invisible ailment.
Smartphones, gems, unhumble hovels,
ineloquent words impotent
to wash the essence sickness--
treating symptom rather
circumstance. Jailing the spirit in
sedation's purchased trance.

The cure found not in
possessions procurement but
by moments in time too brief.
A loving embrace, the hand of a child,
smiles and laughter--
relief to soothe
the poisoned soul poisoned by
sadness.
MV Blake Mar 2015
Fluttering weakly in the breeze

Left in the wake of the train's passing,

George's proud flag hung limp

From the pole,

Weathered and worn,

Like a tired old soul.


It's procurement no doubt,

was a misplaced, ill-thought out

statement of pride,

A belligerent shout

At the fresh-off-the-boat,

Here for the so-called ride.


The flag was once clear,

But Britannia's grey skies had

Poured down their drink,

Washing the colours,

Calming the passion,

From red into pink.


The train swept past,

It's multicultural seats

Brimming in rainbow hues,

As the punters sped

To the proud parade

Of the minority few.


They saluted the flag,

Laughter from lipstick,

Teasing it's impotence,

As the hated flag

Unexpectedly praised

Their innocence.


The train traveled on,

Past gardens like embassy roofs,

Displaying flags in retort;

Their bright bold colours

From every shore

Joined in support.


No tears for poor George,

Confused in his ways,

Run up a flagpole to fall and decay.

So sad to see, thought Union Jack,

As he flew with his friends

And waved at the track.
When I thought of A Home.
I thought Where shall it set?
And its geography be?
In America or at home in Britain
Could it ever someday be?

A place to lay my head.
To be, what I thought I wanted,
With some kind of bed,
Where books would be written and read,
Maybe with a back garden shed.

When I was a kid,
I did not dream of a home,
At least not one of my own.
So many others had shown,
Procurement of one's own
often only makes them groan.

Maintenance of one took  
seasons of work,
used up all of their time,
Something for them,
but surely not mine.

Time passed away, hundreds of thousands spent.
Of dollars, or pounds, for taxes and rent.
Angry old bankers made denial of loans to me
Via something called the credit score
A sport made to block home buying
Just to prevent life for oneself and one's friends.

Pain and despair all came from the homes,
Most never realized their dream which is to own.
The thing they are slaved to and serve,
Day and night.  Where they might,
Get moments of joy in darkness and light.

Power shut off, paint always spread, taxes based on
How well developed it was, house, hearth and place
Home where it stood and it fell. Where we walked
and we crawled into and out of holes
in the walls.

Finally.
All of your family dies when you're old.
Like my family left cash and a house I did
buy. No mortgage, no debt, no payments to forget.
But family all left. So alone to I set.
In this home which is useless though new.

It was supposed to be for me and for you.
But that is now a dream that has fled.
We never put up a small shed.
In the back grarden. The bed, is only
for me now since you left.
halfheartedsoul Jan 2015
It's a struggle, a dilemma;
One that have always been
but a procurement of
emptiness and insecurity,
in the way of a fish out of water.

While life and death was never
brought to front,
it was simply the matter of
awaiting the alloted time.

It would've been good to recognise all the weaknesses and treachery at a glance but in that split second when a point was made, naught came to mind
but a lesson of life.

Of simple humiliation,
of swallowing that lump in the back of your throat and suppressing that gargantuan rise of emotions in the chest, heavy and foreboding.

Because it is then you learn,
of yourself and the world.

No one promises that it'll all be fine,
but there's more to life than
failures and setbacks.

On the day past the point of living,
maybe then you'd understand that it all is necessary afterall.
Andrew Guzaldo c Nov 2018
“I wish to seek the feeling on the banks of our enclave,
It has been a part of our procurement of happiness,
Just my words cannot repair all that is now lost,
The copula as of our time together cannot be repaired,  

My thoughts is all I now have to ascertain moments,
Those fortunate moments we shared in passion,
Bitter is the voice of calamity and sounds of anguish,
A bemoaning of once flourish will destroy ones heart,

Remorse weakens strength from within where love has left,
Cataclysm sounds nothing in the ears of those once loved,
Vacillate music of sadness has no fortitude for the heart,
Delve not the sun above until it sets away from surge,

You were the chapter that I was unable to construe,
I knew it existed then finally upon highest mountains,
Yet were always there to help walk on stormy mountains,
As days pass the nights wear on it is only harvest days,

I strife with the rationale as you grovel in my mind,
I Strife now no more I shall bow down my weary eyes,
Eyes which to all these woes thy hearts have guided,
Adjacent the agitated brine the aqueous banks beat,
Soul tethered debacles in aqueous banks of the brine,
Thus home I draw as death's long night draws afore”
By Andrew Guzaldo 11/04/2018 ©
By Andrew Guzaldo 11/04/2018 ©   #Poem#136
Logan Robertson Oct 2019
Why did his lost love
Find the shoeshine
And not the moonshine
As she polished his walk
With closure
Her tongue ragging his soul
Their arch
His boot
His foot in the grave
Those lost steps are so unkind
We're they not a pair
The fabric of their souls
One lace short of an eyelet
Two insteps short of a dance
Then ... her kiss of wax goodbye
The ***** and spam
The breaking of a dam
He often looks back
At the years
Thirty four unanswered prayers  
At the abyss, the black
The knife in his back
The foreclosure
With no procurement
His mind playing no tricks
To her, it was just for kicks
She, twirling in defeat
The moon, the stars absent
Forever, the lingering pain
His step in time elongated

Logan Robertson

10/29/2019
She wanted marriage unconventional. And when those words reached his ears it broke his heart. He conceeded the seesaw but not the swings.
Wk kortas Sep 2017
We’d make the journey, Hannibal-esque in nature,
Either on foot (even on the most dogged of the dog days
When the antidiluvian tar on our side street would bubble up,
Causing our sneakers to make a rhythmic flik-wump
Until we reached those byways deemed worthy of asphalt)
Or in ones and twos on our bicycles,
Our locks, assuming we were not the wards of parents
Who were devotees of the shorn-to-the-skull “summer cut”,
Flying unencumbered in the breeze
As we paid occasional fealty to the rules of the road,
Our destination being the “variety store”
Shoe-horned into one of the narrow storefronts
On our unprepossessing main drag,
A cacophony of canned goods
And candy bars of uncertain vintages,
Novelty pens and girlie mags two-thirds obscured
In jerry-built wooden shelves toggled together
By some former paramour of the frowzy divorcee
Serving as empress of this nickel-and-dime principality.
We coughed up our dimes, hoarded and guarded
With the feigned nonchalance of royal Beefeaters,
In the procurement of Cokes, handfuls of Bazooka,
And always but always trim foil packs of baseball cards,
Which we’d unwrap breathlessly, greedily, hungrily,
Hoping our efforts would unearth an Aaron, a Mays, a Clemente,
But usually our reward would be some utility infielder,
Some second-tier relief pitcher or third-string catcher
Cards perniciously reeking of stale gum,
And one particular summer it seemed every pack
Contained the card of Larry ******* Burchart,
Clad in his full Indians uniform,
Smiling at some untarnished future
Just this side of the horizon, fully visible and all but realized.
At some point, we moved beyond banana bikes and baseball cards
(Our attention turning to pursuits more expansive and expensive)
Giving up children’s things and boys’ games and fanciful dreams)
And looking back, it seems that the smile on that baseball card,
(Ubiquitous as cockroaches at the time,
Now mourned for its absence)
Was more than a touch on the wan side,
That apparition in the distance undefined and indeterminate
Malignant in its very uncertainty.
Larry Burchart's Major League Baseball career consisted of 29 appearances as a pitcher for the 1969 Cleveland Indians.  In those twenty-nine games, the Indians compiled a record of no wins and twenty-nine losses.  There is a life lesson in there somewhere, but  I would caution against looking too deeply into it.
Andrew Guzaldo c Aug 2018
“As he hears the whisk of the wind coming,
Once again cries mercy my faltering deity,
As the procurement pain of loneliness arrives,
How many more lonely years am I to traipse,

Most blameless I am I feel intensified on this vale,
Memory fulfilling thoughts of her cognizance,
It may be we shall one light reach elated enclaves,
The equal temper of annexed noble hearts,

Though much is taken much abides also,
As that midnight sun disappears afore me,
Now not that strength had which in days of old,
As I sail beyond the sunset Trojan Achilles,  

But I know that in the depths of my heart deep within,  
There is always space for amity to reside always,
For all the joys that once were both of ours,
I do not attempt to get over as she was my all,

There may come a day when that part will finally die,
Feel strong with reclaimed heart new ardor to take my hand,
Until then those capable of devout love also anguish,
By Andrew Guzaldo 08/10 /2018 ©
By Andrew Guzaldo 08/10 /2018 ©  #112
I am a lone Lion.
Running through the Pride Lands
Although my heart is big and quite brave
Lionesses seem to treat me like a loon with
a hospital band.
My age might be of middle measurement
I am still young
Yet the jungle treats me as if I'm of Antique Procurement
An old dusty relic as released from the museum
Darkness such as energy clung
to the muscles of the huge beating heart


Other lions fail to notice the sound of my heart's beating
They exclude me from their pride as I am "Stranger"
A wandering Threat

A hateful movement
I pass by and I vent
Access energy to refresh my enlightened soul
From the judged
who deserves no warm greeting
Through all of this
I remain strong and I run
I forgive and I understand
I shot out of the Roar
A sound to welcome those truly heartened and  open eyes
Glancing to see my stronger and more impressive form
to see the real me. Who offers rewards
Friendship,love, Undying Partnership and loyalty.
Real treasures.
For this Leo offers more..

The king of his life and of his craft
A Lion King
Who never stays defeated and down he stays and lies..
Wade was deep in the grasses.
As he lies there lost in pity
his life and self at a stand still.

Racing past those Prides who cut him out
He starts on his own
A new pride.
Their  members let Roars Sign Happy and Strong Energy
Which shine out
Out

The life-blood of the largehearted  Leos and the Lionesses
Those who refuse to stoop low, believe in the ignorant, or ever
from the heat and tribulations of the  jungle..
They hold their heads up and they  never hide.
They banded together
To care for one another
and forget the other sickness of the lazy and heartless entitled ones.

Their kindred-ship and family shall last for eternity
Unable to be measured
Past the other end.
For these beautiful creatures
Are the Bright and Legendary Ones

Their legends shall be forever implanted in the jungle
As the true royalty that defeats all darkness
The battle for all kind creatures forgotten and neglected...
For them...those battles they helped fight and have always won.





equal to the other monarchs
cast out do to younger trends
Temporary Collections of Faces
Who shall fade to nothing
Once their time and age is past the clock
Measuring the alarm to sound off their limit
to be cast asside and remain "part of the scenery"
enter them into their own museum
KorbydAngyle Sep 2023
God ...Oh my self how I want to break free
sealed up by brackish mortar healed by valid yet flagrant insensitivities
gloaming fronts assailed eyes turned for the morning into rot and clandestine of it
hallow holds on my halcyons hues of melonic powers hasten to the relevance of unending mishaps
in justice yet colliding with friends the glass covered hope shatters and I am named miscreant
what does day and night with procurement mean
for in reality the thoughts lead to desolation and all deliverance is burned to be named appropriate
and codex of the brand or code of arms of the clean
What little of efforts dissuade all these meanings can only truly be virtue depleting
the hold on virtuous rationality and logic I once knew
facing tomorrow sessions and seasons in tow
another morbid divinity attempt of the faith for a better tomorrow
Robert C Ellis Dec 2023
Time rides its great steel grate with
the heavy weight the universes machinery
takes.
Hotter than a call house on nickel night
Cracking the teeth and bleeding gums

on the hate.

I muddy bare arms until I can’t tell them from the dirt
and wait
Life, the gray sound of rolling tires;
procurement, parchment, pamphlets

unlocking the gates.
Ryan O'Leary Dec 2024
When empires collapse
  colonists try to keep
  the colonised out by
 closing their borders.

    Sorry for knocking
   your door now, but
we have as much right
     to be here as you.

   The EU / NATO are
   a club of failed state
colonial nations using
collectivism for survival.

  Populist procurement
  of power is prohibited
and silencing expression
   is a last ditch attempt.

But there's a new weapon
of war which overwhelms
all at the disposal of those
 who cling to dominance.

It is between the brackets.

(                                             )

— The End —