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Justin Griego Dec 2011
Fly, Dragonfly, fly!
Spread your wings and flex your tail
take off to the skies, follow the blowing winds!
Leave behind the Wicked Men of Hollowing Trail
and escape the poisons of their worded sins
Fly, Dragonfly, fly!

Race, Dragonfly, race!
Sweep your wings back against the windy skies
Let your heart propel your spirited sprint faster! Faster!
Escape from the Forest of Unnerving Lies
and the creatures of the Lost Souled *******
Race, Dragonfly, race!

Hunt, Dragonfly, hunt!
Beat your wings to the sounds of the butterflies
Feed your hunger for protecting the meek
with the haunting taste of Honey-Soaked Flies
and the sting of Sugar-Coated Bees
Hunt, Dragonfly, hunt!

Rest, Dragonfly, rest!
Allow the venom to still your beatful wings
Let the swift death claim a Hero's life
Beckon the Raven of Heaven to blissfully sing
to the tune of the Stalking Sparrow's whistling knife
Rest, Dragonfly, rest!
(AIP)
Ellen Joyce Jun 2013
In the murky depths of muck and mire
hope flickers in hearts
courageous enough to believe;
sending out ripples in the waters
like a domino effect rewound.
Insignificant seedlings to the cruel eye
filled with light and promise
as yet unseen turned
Fragile sprouts in healing green
reaching up and out
to rest hopes on the water front,
as if to console one another -
we are not alone.

Against all odds, bean of India,
Keep going –
Power through the sluggish resistance
Of this darkened plane.
Though life seems lost in loneliness
Listen closely,
Hear the Whispering rumours of life beyond the deep
Of basking in light and life
beneath the welcoming heat
of a dancing sun.

A triumphant act of faith indeed,
to content oneself with growing,
never really knowing
what lies beyond the darkness.
I weep for you
with joy, O little pocket of hope
as you propel yourself forward -
such strength, such courage
for one who as yet knows not
of that rosey happiness,
that snow white purity
that lies beneath your shell.

I stand in awe of you;
You with your absurd elegant beauty
tracing your journey
accepting it as part of yourself
embracing who you once were.
The original rags to riches tale;
Roots in putrid, ravenous foundations
yet you yourself remain unstained.
The journey every bit as beautiful
as your glorious destination –

a testimony to your essential self.
I see you take up your stance
Front and centre, finally ready
to declare yourself to the world.
Budding beauty of new life
awake! open your eyes, your heart,
you dont have to hide anymore
the world is missing who you are.

And time births healing and growth.
Every flower blooms at her own pace;
Tentatively unfolding - delicate and fragile still
with gentle colours begging will I do?
Caught up in a lighter life
becoming bolder, blessed, nurtured
blooming bright, opened out
hello world, here I am.
Your wary days drowned, you claim your space,
Fill your space,
Make it your own.

The ethereal splendour of your gentle petals
Succeeded only by the loveliness within,
As you build up your legacy of hope
So wonder will not be lost in the falling petals
but made more beautiful still
in the healing gifts,
in nourishing others,
in the gifts you give of yourself
back to the world.
Written 2011
Dedicated to the circle of warrior sisters who carried each other through such dark days and remain connected in this world, and in the next.  Death is no match for sisterhood.
Tumimchunu May 2014
Where did the innocence go?
Doves turned to ravens,
Juicesboxes turned to bottles,
Toxic beverages leaving poisoned bodies to roam these streets,
Possessing personalities of *******,
Suckers turned to joints,
The high replaced the feeling of love,
Which could propel you to places beyond any hallucination,
Virgins mimicked, giggled at,
Wide eyed stares penetrate their skin as they stroll on streets,
Whispers fill rooms as their sealed bodies strut,
Jealous viewers stand, shattered,
With no purity to share with their loved ones.
Thinking their assets can be displayed for the public to adjudicate,
Maybe we're to young to know about love,
We're young, yes we are.
But what good is a young nation,
With poisoned , broken youth.
What good is a nation with no future leaders.
So I'm asking, where did the innocence go?
Tell me so I can know.
So I can replace the demons that lurk in these infants,
With the innocence that should gleam,
From their flesh.
An old poem written when I was a bud in the poetry biz (retro)
ryn Dec 2014
Cradle my emotions in the gentlest of whispers
Lace my heart with sultriest of ribbons
Fill full my sail with the worthiest of winds
Engulf my being in the sweetest of notions

Colour me beautiful with the most vibrant of rainbows
Propel my universe into the farthest reaches
Soothe my aches with the most abundant love
Carry my vessel to the sandiest of beaches

Embed my thoughts within the fluffiest clouds
Let soar my dreams on the bravest of kites
Set my destination in the furthest horizons
Present me with life's buffet with the tastiest of bites
Mariam Paracha Oct 2012
The warmth of the sun settles, hugging the lake.
The dragonfly flies low, hovering above the tranquil water
the light seeping through the paper thin skin,
it hums across the lake, refracting light off its wings,
An array of colors make patterns on the wings,
wearing it like a cloak, a rainbow embedded within.
The colors tilt and shift as the dragonfly gracefully cruises through life,
laying close to the water but letting the air propel it forward,
floating between two different worlds,
it is like a dream where our thoughts are separated from reality,
and are scattered like refracted light for us to assemble.  

Through a screen of our dreams, a world can be seen.
A world of hopes and desires that is dormant within
The light of life just soaks us bare,
our skin turns frail,
under the scorching glare,
the glare of eyes that want you to be,
someone that is accepted by society.


the dragonfly bathes itself in the sun,
the iridescent colors shine on its skin,
flying and floating, he’s determined to win
a predator, determined to get what it wants
nothing blocking its way or paving its path
making the most out of life and never holding back

spread your wings like the dragonfly
that hums its way through life,
dipping its wings in the sun to shine,
breaking free a life of colors,
that we leave locked and forgotten,
behind a reality made of black and white,
the black ink seeping through our minds,
injecting us with ideas of the 'ideal life'
where money and fortune, and status define.
Bathe your mind in the wonders of the world,
soak your heart in life's warmth and glow,
and pave your own path,
with the dreams you sow.
Life
Wes Mills Nov 2017
I propel the mallet through the air
To land bluntly on my hand
But still I feel no freeing pain
And I continue to be ******
To a world of expired meaning
And a body where I cannot feel
So I search for my forgotten drive
By drawing blood and skipping meals

At times it becomes too much to bear
The weight of bearing nothing
So I shield myself from expecting hearts
And turn to the one thing loving
A silver knife with a glistening grin
“I’m always here if you need me”
And once again I propel the blade
And finally find feeling
Mymai Yuan Sep 2010
I was born a sickly, screeching baby, two months earlier than expected. The doctor and midwife did everything they could to keep my little limbs moving and to keep my tiny heart beating, fluttering like the wings of butterfly.
“Is it a boy?” my mother whispered through her pale lips, as they bathed my naked body in hot water.
“No, ma’am, it’s a girl” The midwife struggled to add on something that would make the wailing creature seem more desirable. “With exquisitely shaped feet, so perfectly miniature”
She let out a croak of conflicting emotions: the joy and pride of a newly-founded motherly love, the fear of presenting a girl as a first-born, the relief that the hours of agony in childbirth were over and the dread of facing her husband once he found out about me.

My mother was not healthy after my birth for a long time; and when I was only one and two months old she fell dangerously ill, and the house whispered footsteps running to her room late at night and muffled voices of different doctors. Mercifully, she survived but was left barren and forever unfertile.
I can not imagine my father’s fury. He believed in having sons to carry on his old last name of thirty-one generations; it was his religion and had I been a son, I would have been worshipped as a god. I can imagine how my mother prayed and thanked her ancestors that her dowry was of a large one.

He could barely tolerate being in the same room as me during my toddler years. Every time he entered a room I was playing in, nurse would sweep me to our garden out side; answering to my startled queries, “Be an obedient daughter, don’t bother your father and don’t ask questions”
My body had been born frail, but my natural spirit was as healthy as could be, full of inquiries, wonders of the world around me and everyday I would learn something new just wandering around the neighborhood observing things, with my nurse trailing with a worried eye behind me muttering, “Girls are not supposed to be exposed to this” she spoke the words as if they were sour, “you should be sitting at home and accompanying your mother.”

Every day at dinner, the two females of the house, me and my mother, were silent while my father ranted on and on. My appetite being very delicate, I often just sat there as still as I possibly could and listened to my father talking about politics, jobs, money. Things he called ‘men business’. I longed to ask questions about these ‘men business’, especially ‘university’ for I had an inquisitive sort-of nature but was refrained with a sharp, piercing look from my mother every time I opened my mouth and sometimes, she pinched me under the table leaving purple splotches which flashed, “Don’t question your father”
Sometimes, he would talk about the future he had decided for me, “You will marry off, sixteen at the latest, to some one rich and beneficial to our family. You will do as I say till I marry you off, and then you will do as your husband tells you.”
“Yes father, for I should repay everything you have done for me” I replied as sweetly as I could.
“Yes, you’re a good daughter. Bear lots of sons for him and your house will be one of happiness.”
I was proud that he had given me a compliment. “Yes father, for it will make you joyful as I always wish to make you so”
My childish heart did not understand why my mother turned her head down while her left eyebrow twitched, and why that night, as she tucked me into bed, I thought I saw a tear roll down her cheek and why as she kissed me that night she whispered, “Do not love me so; love your father. The men in your life are your gods.”

My physical health would constantly limit the desires of my free spirit. I could not to do what others who were as free of spirit as I was could do, and couldn’t socialize with them and the rest of the children in my neighborhood had their siblings to mingle with, causing me to become the pitiful outcast.
I saw children around my age, around seven or eight, climbing trees and wanted to do so as well, but my white feet did not have grip enough to grasp onto the fat branches.
Father caught me once trying to propel myself up a tree and his expression was both of a resigned anger and sadness before he turned him and his face away and back into the house without a word.
That night, mother told me not to climb trees ever again. I noticed a faint bruise on her cheek bone that had been covered with white powder.

When I was eleven or twelve, and was allowed to wander further out into the neighborhood with my nurse I saw the boys fishing in the nearby pond and wanted to do so as well. Starting that day, every week I pocketed the three coins mother gave me until I could buy the best fishing rod in the little store and ran as fast as my skinny, weak legs could carry me to the pond. I mimicked the way the boys flung the fishing rod out over the water but the metal pole was too heavy for my pale, shaking arms. I tried over and over again as my nurse watched, biting her lip in anxiety. I held the fishing rod with trembling sore arms till  I felt a bite; I pumped my small arms to reel it in, but they were so tired and I was far too slow, losing the fish I had spent half the day trying to catch. “Ah, just bad luck, don’t worry! It was a smart fish, I tell you!” nurse exclaimed, though her eyes flashed a look of pity and I knew she knew it wasn’t just bad luck or a smart fish.
In anger, I sold the fishing rod to one of the boys for two-thirds of the price I had bought it for. He was delighted with the bargain and I watched with a lump in my throat as he caught three fish with the tug of his healthy, muscular arm within fifteen minutes. “This is a beautiful rod, and the pond is just filled with fish today, Little Sister!”
Wanting to spend the money jingling inside my pocket, money that to me was just a reminder of a painful memory, I headed off to the collection of little shops close to my house where I was guaranteed distraction. Nurse, sweating and complaining of the heat, followed me.
An ageing man with a bunch of filthy hair working away on a piece of thick, rough paper with wondrous colors inside a shop caught my eye as I peered inside the window. He turned the picture upside down and continued blending in the dark colors of the shape to create a shadow along the curve of it. I entered the shop. “What is that?” I asked of him.
“A face” he replied back absentmindedly.
“Doesn’t look like one to me” I confessed with my honesty.
He looked up at me, “No, it does not to you, and maybe, neither will it at the end. To me, it looks like an angle of a faded face. But slowly, with time, it will become clearer and clearer, yet only to me, and as it does, I will be able to choose more colors to make it yet more beautiful. The outcome of this painting is entirely up to me.”
I felt my challenging self rising up. “But what if you imagined a certain color in your head but couldn’t find it or be able to mix it to your mind’s perfection?”
“Then I would create my own paint color.”
“You know how?”
“No, but if I could not find the paint color already made I would make it myself, and no matter what, would learn how to. So far I have always been able to compromise and mix different colors to please me.”
“You do an awful lot of shadowing light colors with dark colors”
“Why do you think I do so?” he questioned me this time, with bright eyes.
I pondered for a moment to give as good an answer as he had given me and then told him my answer.
He nodded with impress, “Yes, yes, absolutely right. I never thought I’d hear that from a child” and looked at me with his head cocked in curiosity.
“What would you like to buy from here, Little Sister?”
Still deeply interested in our conversation I pulled out the coins I had in my pocket. “How much stuff can I buy with all this money? I’d like those crayons, I’ve tried them once before and they are so creamy and smooth.”
“Oil pastels?” he asked, a little confusedly.
Feeling ashamed of my ignorance, I nodded. The tutor father hired evidently bent to father’s strict rules of what should be taught and what would not be taught. Father disapproved of women painting, and would’ve dismissed nurse had he known that instead of taking me out for a little walk to smell the blooming daffodils, she in fact let me explore the environment around me to the best of my ability even in disgruntle.
The man gave my red-patched cheeks and undeveloped translucent frame a sympathetic look and when he spoke, his voice was gentle. “Little Sister, I’ve a whole basket of oil paints that I’ve used but rarely and so are still in perfect condition. Would you like to carry the whole basket home for all the money you have in your pockets?”
I handed him all my golden coins, “But first I must see if I like it.”
“You won’t be disappointed” he chuckled and walked with an imbalanced limp to the back of the store. I noticed a wooden stump protruding from the bottom of his long, black pants. My heart throbbed achingly; he was ****** limited too. I turned to his painting and smiled from deep inside, a smile I rarely wore.
He came back tugging a huge brown basket filled to the brim with sticks of oil pastels, some longer or thicker than others. He lifted an orange one up and showed the tip of it to me, which was stained with a black mark. “Sometimes when you blend colors this will happen, but it’s easy to rid off. Just softly, and patiently rub it off on a cloth until it disappears.” He demonstrated upon his black pants.
“Thank you. It’s kind of you. But...I can’t carry this home myself. It’s heavy.”
I turned to nurse and smiled my best pleading smile.

The basket was toiled up as nurse undressed me from my shower and father and mother were otherwise occupied. That night, with my precious basket safely under my bed, I cleaned all the multi-colored oil pastels on an old shirt, and as soon as the house was ringing with silence, I locked my door and flicked on the lamp light, and started pressing the smooth colors into the paper to blend and make a picture of kissing colors on a relatively large piece of white paper. A thrill ran from my finger tips and along my arm, and made my palms tingle as I held the colorful sticks in my hand to the paper. I hid it underneath my bed just as a rosy sun was rising.
*
I was sixteen, and I was thought beautiful: for now, at this age, it was considered beautiful to be so pale of skin, so small of feet and hands, graceful to have tiny limbs and charming to have little strength for it was now considered ‘feminine’.
It was three weeks after I had turned sixteen and for dinner, father had brought over an ugly man with a bulging waist and shiny bald head who continually made ****** jokes at the dinner table while he believed I did not understand them. He was infamous for the two wives he had had (before they died from sickness), and how he not only hit them but kept other lovers too. Yet he was desirable for his vast richness. He leered at me obnoxiously, in an attempt to smile.
Father caught him looking at me, “She’s incredibly silent, never says a word of defiance and will be a most dutiful wife.”
“Yes, she is beautiful”
My heart froze and my brain was stimulated to work twice as fast. Him?! Him?! The man who’s wives were killed through an illness called ‘abuse, neglect and disloyalty?!’
I cast my eyelashes down in order to appear a calm, modest young lady while my heart hammered in fury, disgust and a rising hysterical panic. I shot a look at my mother whose left eyebrow was twitching as she stared down at her dinner plate, and I knew she was having the same thoughts as I.
“I would be glad to have you as my son-in-law. You would have no trouble with her, and would be embraced with open arms into our family.”
They continued this path of talk through dinner while he eyeballed me in a way that made me cringe. I felt his foot nudge mine under the table and in haste tucked it under the chair with a little gasp. His eyes glittered at my gasp and I was furious with myself for letting him feel a rotten triumph. Though I had always felt an extremely strong dislike towards him from what I knew of him and sometimes saw of him with an immoral lady, something pushed in the pit of my tummy, and I knew it was pure hatred.
When mother tucked me in she was being strange. On closing my door she whispered, “I love you… so I wish you to know… don’t ever contradict men”

As I was secretly drawing a picture as I did every night till dawn, I heard my father’s voice roar in the dead of the night. In a sudden, I shoved my portrait under the bed and threw all my oil pastels into the basket, hid it, and switched the light off. I heard his voice roar again, accompanied by a thud. I was wild with fear as I crept to my door and pressed my ear against it, barely even shocked at my own daringness as my instinct, love, took over- my instinct of must knowing what was happening to my mother.
“How dare you say I’m wrong!?” there was another thud, and this time I heard a soft whimper. “She is worthless to me, not a son. And I will marry her off to a rich man who can actually benefit this family.” He roared.
There was a whisper which I strained to hear, “He will **** her”
“From the moment she was born she wasn’t made to live!” he yelled.
A hiss escaped my tongue and I coiled like a serpent, flinching as a thud was heard yet again and an immediate cry of pain escaped from both my lips and my mothers’.
A fire awoke inside me, burning my temples and my whole body and my eyes stung with hot tears; tears that burned my face as they splashed down. My whole body was shaking and my tightly squeezed eyes were going through spasms. I was no longer wild with fear, but with anger.
I turned my light back on and tugged my basket of oil pastels out. I yanked my portrait off from a thick of pile of different pictures I had drawn.
My breath was coming in quick short breaths as I finished my portrait to the utmost perfection, using every oil pastel in the basket. Every time I heard a thud, I colored with more fiery… shadowing my jaw line with the fat black oil pastel, in the crook of my ear, the corner of my mouth… where the light shone upon my fore head, how it reflected in the color of my eye and glowed on my cheeks.
When I was finished, the house was deadly quiet again and dawn was breaking. I looked down upon it and realized something that changed my life.
In frenzy I swatted out all the things I had ever drawn and stared at them in an awakening.
The colors on them were the events of my life, the things that characterized it, the decisions. They were beautiful for they had been chosen and controlled by me … I had chosen the colors I wanted and thought best for my pictures; and spent thought over how to blend different colors to the color I wanted.
And everyday, as I worked into the drawings with time, they became clearer and clearer on what was the right thing to do, and how it should possibly look like in the next stage.
I leaned over and kissed the thin lips of my portrait that didn’t look exactly like me for not even the most skilled artists have complete control over what they draw.

Then I remembered what I had told the one-legged man in the shop a few years go:
“Lights not only illuminate, they also cast shadows. The contrast makes you able to appreciate the power of both.”
Now it was time to truly let the light illuminate my life, and let the shadows let me appreciate the light that shines upon me; I color my own life, and choose my own colors.

To pull out the colors underneath the darkness of my bed…
And spill it to the world outside.
Fah Aug 2013
Sailing in a dhow at sunset after snorkeling off Mafia island, Tanzania.
'
SPILLAGE
The tree’s don’t sleep at night
they photosynthesize , by moonlight.
Leaves drink in the cool wise light
And give off dreams of softly fading starlight

Whispers of secrets , monthly unfurl
A single blossom falls at new moon
Hurtling to the ground, awake before noon
Ever noticed? The very word has the circle
Curled up in the centre , twice to make sure we remember , two full cups , not one.

Geko’s slip off old skins
And the croaking frog adds to the din
As thunder rolls in
Triggering the dogs bark
Guardian of the stark naked couple
Asleep in their parallel worlds
Together under the umbrella of ambient lighting
Not the natural kind either
But a shameless copy of pure sunlight
That emenates when their bodies collide
On the material plane.

Astral visions lead the way to headquarters
The address? Fax? Phone number?
I’m afraid you’ll have to dial again ,
Unless you’ve meditated on the vibration of emancipation
Then you would already know, you are already there
Doors are open , for those who care to try
No lock on this baby ,
Ain’t no safe to play safe
We bask in our humble glory
Under the shores on undulating tides
Rhythmic pulsations
no where to hide
The emanations come from within,
Without , a shadow of a doubt

There is a war coming , infact we’ve already been fighting for decades
Just like the change of winds, nature knows her stuff
Tip the seeds too soon and you’ll end up with a field full of fluff
But just in time and a harvest with enough to reduce every super market shelf to dust
Even though they already stock that kinda stuff
Clean up on Aisle 4, Aisle 3 , Aisle 2 , Aisle 1
Return the purchase , we’ve discovered the ****
In the cake
And we found the frog in the salad,
At least their habitat is intact
Or did you think I was still talking about the shops?

Ok , I’ll change tact
Change of pace.
No , no I will not join the Human Race
Running to where? Why all the running?
From what? To where? From whom , to whom it seems like we run straight to our tombs, without a second glance at perhaps the chance that legs can walk…
Wanna know where I’d rather be?

I want to be on a motorbike heading 70 miles an hour down empty roads
An island paradise , holding the hips of my dearest
To arrive at another home ,
where our friends relax to the forlorne strums of the blues
Tripping on love we depart ,
not without slightly heavy hearts
Peace , friends we’ll see you anon.

Pull into the golden arches , I tell myself ‘I can’t kiss those lips now they’ve touched that burger’
then I remember you’ve been working all day
before you came out to play , I wasn’t up for a dance I was too entranced in my own madness
But. Always the **** , walk up those stairs for me, softly you moan.
I agree in a semi tone. Secrets are meant to be shared,
we quietly told each other of love in the parking lot at 4 am. The pain in your eyes still wakes me up in the middle of thunderstorms.

Awoken to sorrows from the motherland, monsters creep to the door,
peep in the keyhole.
Oh,
I forget,
your door is activated by credit card numbers that spiral from lips of z-list celebrities.
So we’ll waste away the morning in each other arms,
you watch me as I dress. No underwear no less. Put on your bra properly, suddenly you get kinda frosty.
Not far from where we sat to have a Japanese lunch , pretty close to where I walked to meet you for tea , where you held my feet and handed me a phone I left in your brothers car.
Well that’s where we have breakfast coffee and papaya whilst tourists ogle at the dog guard.
Deaf to our calls , luxuriously taking his time. He didn’t find the secret beach either.
Although the sea was good for a float, and to hear the space journey’s musical manifestation
at every crash of every wave, the magnetic pull playing her crooked beat as she bypasses our feet.
Then, there are two nights with two Amsterdam gals , one smoked lucky strikes and had scars across her wrists , the other photographed trees for a living.
Both blonde , both fair , both with their own flair.

Expect the unexpected , beach raves full of people I don’t really want to be with , so we get tequila shots instead
and stand outside a shop selling knock off clothes when the bar needs to shut.

She took a break to the bathroom , we finally let out the kisses we’d been holding in all night,  
until she got back.

Who said we couldn’t control ourselves? Although to be fair, I could feel you reaching for me wayyy back.

Why should we be selfish? Why shouldn’t we? I still went home with you that night, there really was no two ways about it.
I had *** with you, slightly drunken ***, that was by no means gentle, by no means candle lit , by no means rose petals laid out on the bed, infact , if my memory holds true, there were no flowers apart from the ones on my dress.
I’d say you were lucky , but then I cried at home.
So much pent up emotion in that one act.
Enough to propel us in into another night and untold eons beyond, I’m skipping ahead now,
Where we drank red wine on the shoreline , I used the staff bathroom and noticed all the things that could be improved – seemed like work was wearing off on me.
Still, the best part was yet to come, yeah the *** was fun but nothing compared to the games we played. Dress up and salsa ,
mysterious temples
natures tickles leading to giggles at the foolish endevours of two ***** humans., smoke a spliff , enough to unwind the mind to a new point of time. A flash of something I’ve never seen before, nor have yet to be graced with again.
I guess that was divine. Well, wouldn’t you say….
It was about time.

So , am I still talking about the shops?
Or who wore what with kate moss?
No disrespect
she’s adept at her art but i don’t wanna read about boring old farts
Lets hear about the underground collective of conscious minds who are rewinding the clock , who won’t stop ,
warriors.

Well quite frankly

How long have we sat , year after year to be told the same **** and bull story.. my ears, my ears! MY EARS!!! They yearn for the sweet serenade of the truth

behind the crumbling arcade of rigged lottery tickets and games of black jack where the house always wins.
Fortunately we’ve been coming since we were five , we know the cards without seeing the faces, we hold all the jacks and aces, we’ve got time on our side

So…that’s why they are running , finding places to hide.

We’d only be stealing from the house to give to the houseless…
With the tools the house gifted to us…doesn’t it seem ironic?

I laughed until I cried the day I discovered the universe had a sense of humor. A dark , ironic , sarcastic tone that involves  a major chord. Maybe a G or a D.
For some reason , my first poem i ever posted here i cut short
i felt that the whole poem was too close
i thought i lost it on my old laptop
but seemingly here it is...

funny,

what i seek seems to be seeking me....
Kiernan Norman Nov 2013
He was born defeated.
For eight months he sat at the delta to the world,
stargazing in amniotic fluid.
Sharing oxygen with another passing,
it back and forth like a gas mask in a chemical war.
how familiar he would become with the chemical war.
he did not propel into life the way everyone expected,
like the first, iron soldier to  dive
from a helicopter into the bush; all displaced rage
and camo flags waving behind him.
he was made to wait. made to drown just a little bit.
made to appear to the world a little blue.
no gas mask this time. just some weak lungs
and a bald head. not raven-dark and tumultuous like his six-minute predecessor,
but quiet, sullen and sentenced to a week in an incubator;
teaching him how to be alive.
maybe that was the first time he got mad. he more or less stayed mad for 17 years.
Found comfort in Peter Pan, a boy with no future- no past,
and juiced up men performing soap operas for a living;
sweating on their audience and quick to blow
a folding chair in to the enemies face.
The same pit-stomach drop of a terrible math grade,
And of realizing an idea if terrible halfway through completion-
Dazed at on knees at3am, half of the bedroom carpet ripped out
With a carving knife.
He beat up his other, left her trembling behind doors that didn't lock for years.
Full weight pressed against cheap wood, hoping this time it wouldn't open,
and leaving in the wake a girl-child, of 20 years-
terrified of testosterone and emotions.
There was the comfort in war movies; men with purpose, and the quirky
anime of a culture not his own.
Darker pagan books dotted pubescence. They sat like coffee mugs
filled with sludgy water, a place to dip paintbrushes in when it was time to start over.
Drugs come in folds. dealt like cards over the years- grappling for anything.
Their names ring out first like a memoir, then like a psych ward.
He would probably snort dirt if an escape from hardwood floored, leave spun
world in which he lived.
the place where dead batteries rolled around in for years in drawers and
tape never came off of wallpaper.
and the other one- the one who cut him off and turned
him blue at the very beginning; she's frozen too.
she stumbles through cities and ghettos and ancient worlds,
hoping to find something, anything that gives her a purpose.
Back to strong wind on 6th Avenue between classes,
Eyes sting and water against it but comforted by the smell of snow and
Bus exhaust. In that moment doing a good job. Being a trooper.
Swiping IDs that show a real, accounted for person underneath
The Goodwill feather-down coat and expensive Arabic textbook,
But in the quiet hours still grasping at straws,
at braids that don't quite work and flowers tangled
in hair that won't quite stay in place.
Singing with a voice a little too novice,
too rough. Looking dumb in sunglasses and boots.
She starts and quits things a lot.
gets exhausted. predisposed for enormous depression.
greek-tragady like.
****-yourself-to-spare-the-gods-your-being like.
finds glimpses of life in things, mainly when submerged in a daze of not-getting carded and  incense. Hair falls over pages of books, hanging one handed on an R to Queens,
or collecting cigarette butts from the side of the road
in the prairies of Dakota-land, helping kids collect enough tobacco
for their drunk fathers and zombie mothers to roll and smoke for the night.
She’s turning around in circles in grocery stores
Picking up food-stamp broccoli and sliced cheese in Harlem,
Going everywhere with sleep in her eyes and
wondering how others manage to exist.
but who is a killer from the start supposed to be?
At the mailbox, again:
“Who loves me, baby?”
Well, let’s see: there’s a flyer from Mercury Insurance,
Reminding me that most middle-income customers
Save an average of $4 million smackaroons when they switch too.
The Penny Saver USA.com is here,
Thank God, almighty!
So now I know that Thomas Roofing & Paving
Is having a special on 20-year leak-free flat roofs;
"All work guaranteed & insured.
No job too big or small.
Free estimates/Emergency services/License # I8U-69."
And thank you, Jesus,
For another $4.99 Farmer Boys 3-Egg Breakfast
Combo with Coffee coupon, and that
Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready, $5.00 cheese or pepperoni,
Mae-West-“why-don’t-you-come up and see me sometime?”—mailer. And, of course, another technology Siren’s song:
Verizon FiOS delivers entertainment this big,
Dish me up some dish NETWORK, $19.99 a month . . .
Are you ******* me?
For 12 ******* months?
AT&T;: whack me off on 120 channels.
DIRECTV.com - DIRECTV® Official Site‎
Worry-free 99.9%  . . . cue Joe E. Brown,
"Some Like It Hot“ Osgood:
"Well, nobody’s perfect!"
Time Warner/Sprint/T-Mobile;
And ******* Leather, Polk Street, San Francisco.
******* leather?
Must be for my neighbor: that ***** ****!
And here’s the weekly 8-page color fold-out from Stater Bros:
Lowering prices every day, large cantaloupes
(Jessica Lange, are you back?)
10 for $10.00, 32 oz. Gatorade
Or 24 oz Propel in 30 assorted varieties @ 79 cents
+ CRV: California Redemption Value?
Nice euphemistic cover-up for a TAX.
Nice, nice, very nice, CA elected state officials;
Nicely done, Sacramento.
Everywhere else in the country you get real money—
A fixed number of pennies, nickels, or dimes—
For your plastic bottles and aluminum cans.
But in California, the licensed recyclers
Get to pull the market price out of their *** each morning.
California Redemption Value?
What ******* genius government kleptocrat thought that one up? Conspiracy Alert: who gets all that CRV money?
And what are they doing with it?
Feeling plain, Jane?
Marinello Schools of Beauty, want you,
Offer you hands-on training in cosmetology,
Skin care esthetics, manicuring and vaginal deodorizing—
Just kidding, Babaloo.
Food tip for the Third World:
Never try to write poetry on an empty stomach.
Sizzler 6 oz juicy & succulent.
RENEGADE DEAL:
El Pollo Loco guacamole chicken sandwich,
Coupon free, small drink and small chips,
When you purchase a guacamole or jalapeno sandwich,
includes pepper jack cheese and a southwest sauce.
Gardenas sandia con semilla, 7 lbs 99 cents.
GARDENAS: “en precios, servicio y calidad, nadie nos iguaia.”
Bud Gordon’s Quality NISSAN:
One at this price after a $1500 factory rebate.
TERMINIX: get them before they get you!
The Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Arthropoda, Class Insecta
Bug up my *** again.
And a form letter from the VA
Asking me to please update my whereabouts.
And a form letter from the VA asking me
To please update my whereabouts.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Bite me, Mr. Frost!

An outing, at last.
I am going for a walk around the inside of my gates.
I live in one of those gated over-55 lunatic asylums.
There are gates. It is gated. Get it?
GATED! We feel safe here.
Probably a good thing at our age:
Self-imposed institutionalization,
Putting oneself in an asylum to ferment and die.
The fact that so many of us
Need it so bad at only 55
Says something itself about the current state of
Baby Boomer metal-fatigue.
I am now standing at the far end of the golf course.
I wait at the far end of the 18th Hole.
A ball bounces past my head and
Rolls off past the green into the far rough.
The 18th Hole is perched atop a small plateau,
Out of sight, far above the horizon for anyone teeing off.
I am Puck, invisible and impish.
I pluck the ball up.
I scamper to the green.
I pop the ball into the hole.
Which is better than popping a hole in the ball,
Surely, kind of a drag,
As we were once fond of saying.
Deflated Ball.
Deflator Maus.
OPERA can be ****.
Bodice-ripping corsets, whorehouses and naked ******!
Hardly what you might expect from
A night with the Welsh National Opera,
But they found their way into this production of "Die Fledermaus."
Ripe language, contemporary jokes and
Toilet humor thrown in, adding immensely
To the pleasures of Strauss’s operetta.
"Die Fledermaus," or The Bat’s Revenge,
Is all about drunkenness and adultery.
Despite being written in the 1870s,
It remains equally pertinent to today’s pub culture of excess.
Daring; Colorful; ****: PGA golf.
I steal a golf ball on the far end of the 18th Hole.
I pick up the Titleist and stick it in the hole
(Steady Jessica, not yours.
I hide behind your bush.
(Cue up PSA, First Lady Bird Johnson’s 1960s
Nationwide Beautification Campaign:
“I want everyone in America to plant a tree,
A sherrrr-rub, or a booosh.”)
The golfer now searching frantically:
Why is the cup always the last place they look?
Then, wham, bam, he looks:
A legend is born.
A hole in one,
His name forever immortalized
On a plaque over the bar, the proverbial 19th Hole.

As you know, I speak for all mediocrities,
Safe in my 55+ gated-community.
I go next to the Club House,
"The Lodge" as it’s called.
Each afternoon, the usual suspects
Claiming first come/first serve tiered mini-theater seats
Where Netflix matinee gems are screened.
It is two minutes to DVD show time.
I walk to the front of the room.
I stare at my audience.
I count the house slowly,
Making meaningful eye contact with each wrinkled face.
I cup my hands behind my back and speak:
“I assume you are all here for my lecture on Kierkegaard.”
No one reacts.
I turn to leave but do a double-take and smile.
One old woman in the top right corner of the amphitheater laughs, Perhaps the one other human being within the gates
Who has also smoked a joint today.
For an instant, I am overwhelmed with paranoia,
Perhaps I’ve gone too far over the line:
No longer “oh-he’s-a-character;”
I am now “that creep is ******* nuts.”
Is it time for someone to approach my family,
My next of kin, my “who-to-contact-in-event-of-emergency” number? Who will make the call on behalf of the HOA—
The Homeowner’s Association—
The Tsars, the Duma, the Supreme Soviet in these parts?
They are the power inside the gates;
Those who determine the state’s enemies,
Who govern its community norms.
Power within the gates.
Law within the asylum.
Little Hitlers one and all.
Hopefully they reach my sister first.
She’s been briefed.
KEY POINT IN THE NARRATIVE:
The new narrative is non-linear.
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We grow more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen;
We become more intimate with a legion . . .
Did someone say a legion? SPQR:
Am I having some sort of genetic-linguistic seizure here?
Am I channeling Benito Mussolini again?
Il Duce speaks to me from the grave,
Still blowing smoke up my Hopi-Jew-*** ***,
Filling in my insecurities,
Plugging the holes in my character
With delusions of classical Roman grandeur, glory and empire. Hmmmm? Quite an appetizing pitch for the average *****,
A message so completely, so ethnocentrically slick,
Olive oily, and so seductive.
A non-Italian would have thought
American Legion or Legionnaire’s disease,
Or The Foreign Legion, The French Foreign Legion.
The French: a virulent, promiscuous people.
Do you want fries with that, Simone?
No, I don’t get out much.
Only an occasional brisk walk around the asylum,
In and around the golf course, around but inside the gates. (LINKS) Bill Gates. Daryl Gates. Billy Bathgate’s Gates? Ghiberti’s Gates? The Hot Gates? Thermopylae? 300 Spartans/700 Thespians:
“The noun causing idiots to think of
Two girls sloppily eating each other’s mighty vaginas,
When they hear mention of someone being an actor.” http://www.urbandictionary.com
Not even close.
No, I rarely venture out.
This is Hemetucky.
There are methamphetamine-stoked
Teenage zombies at the gate.
Note to costume control:
Perhaps camouflage clothing is the safe choice?
No loud red Hawaiian.
No garish Indonesian batik.
Fleet of feet are these Hemet tweakers,
These cranked up Riverside County teenage barbarians,
These Huns & Visigoths,
These amped up, ravenous jackals.
And why stop there?
These Vandals & Vandellas.
A Motown flashback:
“Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.”
With or without Martha—
They remain dangerously lethal.
Yes, let it be camo clothes for me.
Those **** heads may be young.
They may be fast.
They may be able to run me down
On a dry grass dog-legged fairway savannah,
Tearing the meat from my carcass.
But the sons-a-******* have to see me first.
Besides, we know who are real friends are.
Hooray for our media peeps!
We become more intimate with a legion
Of television personalities on 125 different channels.
Most of these we know by name and context.
We know their families, their friends,
Their histories, their tragedies,
Their favored hyperbole and manner of speech.
Sometimes we establish intimacy with celebrities
Strictly on the basis of universal body language.
At times–in the absence of any other
Empathetic facility of identification–
We connect on instinct alone.
Instinct: perhaps animal at its core,
An animal kingdom affinity group,
Connecting on a bio-linguistic level,
Particularly when the Korean, or Spanish,
Mandarin, or Arabic,
Japanese, or even Hebrew language version is broadcast.
All languages cryptically alien,
A dense boundary, a barrio border wall,
Undecipherable, impenetrable concrete.
But we’ve never spoken to our neighbors,
Nor do we know their names.
Celebrities are the neighbors we know best;
Although the intimacy is an illusion,
Permission to invade their privacy presumed,
Tacit in the relationship between celebrities and their fans.
I am an independent contractor now,
An outside consultant to the NSA.
Try as I might I cannot crack the enigma,
Kim Kardashian remains far beyond my code-breaking prowess.
I repeat myself:
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We are more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen; we become more intimate with a legion . . .
Back to you, David Ulin:
“Sometime late last year—I don’t remember when, exactly—I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read. That’s a problem if you do what I do, but it’s an even bigger problem if you’re the kind of person I am. Since I discovered reading, I have always been surrounded by stacks of books. I read my way through camp, school, nights, and weekends; when my girlfriend and I backpacked through Europe after college graduation, I had to buy a suitcase to accommodate the books I picked up along the way.”
Thank you, David L. Ulin.
I cannot help myself.
I grow more eccentric each day.
My eyeballs glued to that flat screen!

Cosmo Kramer: "The bus is outta control.
So I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat,
I get behind the wheel, and now I’m driving the bus."
Jerry: "Wow!"
George Costanza: "You’re Batman."
Cosmo Kramer: "Yeah, yeah, I am Batman.
Then the mugger, he comes to and he starts choking me.
So I’m fighting him off with one hand,
And I kept driving the bus with the other, ya know.
Then I managed to open up the door,
And I kicked him out the door, ya know,
With my foot, ya know, at the next stop."
Jerry: "You kept making all the stops?"
Cosmo Kramer: "Well, people kept ringing the bell!"
(Share this moment with a stranger.)

I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.
Boom Chaka Laka. Boom Chaka Laka.
Boom Chaka Laka. BOOM!
Isn’t it time Salieri tempted Constanze–
Frau Mozart–with a plateful of Capezzoli di Venere:
“******* of Venus.”
You had me at hello, Kidman.
I know you too well, Nicole.
I knew you from before,
Way before Tom’s Oprah couch freak show.
Listen to me, Nicole:
We are face to face
With the most profound question in American literature:
"What is the grass?
The flag of my surrender?
The flag of my disposition?"
I resort to Socratic maxims: Know yourself;
The un-****** life is not worth living.
Is it stress? Is it lack of conviction?
Everything Jeff Lebowski neither wants nor needs in his life?
I watched you *** in "Eyes Wide Shut," Nicole.
Now I know you with my eyes and your legs wide open.
Thank you, Sidney Pollack.
Sidney knew.
Sidney dealt us cards
From his Hollywood Tarot deck.
We are intimate, Nicole.
I watched you squat.
Heavy Hearted Jun 2019
the gentle lapping of salty waves, break onto the shore,

The wave of change is coming fast-
into the tide contentment's cast
it's the only way to sail from past
to brightest futures; A risen mast...

and a seagull, somewhere, sings in F minor.

no human can ignore:
no matter race, religion, class,
that the waves propel us, or
drowns us beneath their mass.

The wave of change's tolling tide
has come again for us, we tried
to keep using whatever we
  contrived,
to surf  change's wave,
 wildly we ride.
me and you
Lucanna Feb 2013
If I ever see you again
I'll spat insults and hope they
Spray on your aviators
like the bugs that squashed against
my windshield the last time
I drove away from you

If fate destroys me
and I am in the same pub one night
as your wormy self
I'll tell you how you're the most
arrogant, vapid, shallow, womanizing,
******* male mascot
I've ever had the disgust to know

I'll slap you hard across the face
Oh and not like Scarlett O'Hara,
you demon darling
No crushing kiss will follow
and I'll mean vengence
vile will seep through my mouth
instead of the sweet saliva
I let you taste
long ago

If I ever hear your voice
or see your mocking manequin
among my tele again
With disgraceful force
I will lift that 50 lb set
and propel that ******* screen
across the state
The way your black static apology
shattered the brightness
that used to reside
within
me

If I hear of you
one more dispicable time
I'll grow bombs maticulously
within my empty core
and time them so perfectly
that all of your dysfunctional doormat
confidants
will explode the second they come near me
and their manipulative cells
will burst
and be burried among the soil
of ***** words
you whispered in my ears

****, if I ever see you again
I'll shatter every martini glass around me
and down a fifth of fireball
and breath venomous fire
and burn you, you beastly boy
And I'll pretend beauty amongst you
and walk away, a tall glass of water
That could diffuse
that angry licking fire
that is swallowing you up

When I see you again
I won't acknowledge your existence
and I'll be dressed to the nines
and I won't do a ******* thing about it
Because you aren't worth a sentence within this stanza

But I know I am.
I would give anything to have the last say, but I wouldn't...not myself.
Daniel Magner Nov 2012
She is sleek , a little battered
scar across her back
but in her silver dress
whoa, never had a girl like that
long legs propel her fast
in any direction I turn her head
She lets me press her buttons
she lets me turn her on
just one flick and she'll be roaring
or one twist and she sits
motionless

When she breaks down
I pick her up, fix her up
god bless
She's hot in summer
frigid in winter and
always in that dress
She soothes me when I'm stressed
blares out my worries when
I've got them on my chest

She yells out songs at
the top of her gravelly voice
or she whispers lullabies
it's my choice
loud, quite, she doesn't care
I could be rich, or broke
she'd still take me anywhere

I've cried in her arms
I've loved in her lap
I even let her wear
my favorite baseball cap
and see my feet
Once she kept me warm
during my sleep
watched my eyes shifting
underneath my lids
If she lasts long enough
someday she could hold my,
my kids
© Daniel Magner 2012
AJ Robertson May 2013
solid congealed masses of fat sit
balloons filling within joints
stagnant extremities feel as if they are solidifying
the man becoming a statue; a watcher
here lies a perfect specimen of 21st (and in the latter half to a third) a  20th century man seated before the primary means of oral, aural and visual communication.  Oral pertaining to the man's ability to only speak of it and the programmes displayed on it . . . .  .
as still as the brain is telling them to be
as still as the brain wants them to be
it doesn't want to be left out you see, feels secluded when dormant
alongside a healthy, active set of limbs and torso
so it persuades them ever so gently to become as lazy as he
so he feels more at home in his body; the brain he lords over the body tyrannically and purposefully.


Extraneous effort can be avoided, in all manners of life; whilst sitting, whilst working, whilst running.  Being properly lazy has to do with how little you can do without doing something else.  It is possible to run at a speed that does not cease to be running but it is not walking.  You can sit only so still before you are asleep.  Being properly lazy is being able to sit precariously on this line so perfectly you don't slip backwards or forwards into a useful action or being in the top percentile of the new lesser action which you are in essence, lording over physically.  An extremely intelligent man can be extremely lazy in an activity that would take a long concentrated effort from another less intelligent man, but in essence, he is really just avoiding falling asleep.

Laziness can be misappropriated; attributed to men who are not lazy at all.  A man at the enth of any discipline could not be considered lazy; the same could be said about a man at the enth of his ability.  We speak of course in terms of natural ability.  Actions achieved in ones current capability; carried out without carrying on other efforts to cavort himself into a higher category of actions (a laziness compared to ability graph could be constructed/plotted and then correlated if one could be bothered).  Of course, it goes without saying that the achievance of these goals necessary to propel or descend a man into the new upper or lower segment of before described laziness are in turn harder or easier to achieve depending on the man's predetermined stature; position in life even, considering we are talking of afflictions that affect a man and not a boy, and therefore we are assuming that the formative years are not thus (formative) and are but a compulsory precursor, a cross that every man must bear; not a development that pertains to the quantity of laziness he possesses.

with a sea of unachieved tasks/goals laid out before him he resides to sit patiently waiting for something to happen in front of him, sometimes clicking a mouse, sometimes a remote
sometimes he is angry that he is boring
sometimes he calls a friend to be angry at the boxes with him
sometimes he feels sick that he is a *******
sometimes he laughs at people on the boxes who are pieces of ****
but most of the time he is a ******* happily, content that he is at least part of a healthy digestive system, whether he is the result/byproduct of, or the action that produced the **** in the first place.
Felicia C Jul 2014
I love roller coasters.
I love the old rickety ones that jar my spine and push me into my little sister and i can feel our ribcages collide with the
click-click-click as they slowly build suspense and propel me towards the sun.

my last boyfriend hated them. He felt that his stomach couldn’t stand up to the drop of gravity so he ran at the sight of the climb up to reason and fled the line when i unbuckled my seatbelt.

i love waiting in line for a **** good thrill, and i count down the minutes until the spill of my scream echoes into the hairspray of the woman in front of me as she holds the hand of her cut-offs husband.

i guess you aren’t one to pine for the wooden tracks of thrill, either. but last night i lay in bed, on my side, trying to memorize the planes of your face, trying to calculate the angle of your nose as it leans slightly to your right, you tell me it’s crooked, i tell you it is lovely. it is the finest architecture this side of eiffel tower and you run your hands from the top of my collarbone, down the valley of my waist to the top of my hip, and you tell me you wish you had a tiny car to run along the line.

most of all i love the fall.
September 2013
Larissa Nov 2013
Rose Tyler, Bad Wolf, blonde bombshell.
Through time with the Doctor she did propel.
She loved the Doctor and he loved her too.
If it's my last chance to say it,
Rose Tyler, I--

Jack Harkness, the flirt, the man of men.
He pops up at the Doctor now and again.
They met with a lie,
Now he can't die
Forever here now and then.

Martha Jones, the doctor, the woman that heals.
Her time in the TARDIS caused all kinds of feels.
She pointed a gun to save the Doctor's skin
Yet in the end, her and Mickey did win.
All kinds of fun and all kinds of sass.
Martha Jones, one badass.

Donna Noble, ah, how does one describe thee?
Married a creeper and set the Oods free.
Through the Daleks and Rose, it seemed to end the world
Until the Doctor's DNA and her's accidentally swirled.
Of all the companions, she was a supreme member
Most important woman in the universe,
Too bad she won't remember.

Of all the companions, no one remembers Ms. Astrid Peth.
Her one and only appearance ended in death.
She stowed away on the flying Titanic
With passengers, aliens, and angels that were satanic.
Astrid wanted to travel and see the stars.
Her death seemed to add to the Doctor's scars.
He wasn't able to bring her back in the flesh
For the Doctor was the cause of her final, last breath.

Finally we come to little Amelia Pond.
Waited twelve years for the Doctor's bond.
She sat on her suitcase, face raised to the stars
Thinking of Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars.
He came back when she was supposed to marry Rory
But she still snogged the Doctor, being predatory.
It was Amy and Rory Pond in the ends
Even when the stone angels did descend.
Some mainstream Whovians say Ms. Pond's overrated,
But after all, she was the girl who waited.

Melody Pond, also known as River Song
She was fair, cunning, and strong.
Amy's daughter, but looked years older.
Amy wouldn't believe her no matter what River told her.
River Song, a time lord herself.
But even her story went to the shelf.
She was put in jail for killing a good man.
But even then, with the Doctor she ran.
The Doctor and River, hands fastened tight.
She still didn't want to let go with all of her might.
Dr. Song and the Doctor were on different tracks in time.
Hopefully, she'll be back, witty, fierce, and sublime.

The mystery. All the loose ends come to Clara Oswald.
The latest companion to be installed.
She once was a woman, mind in a machine
But now she's in the flesh, cruising the scene.
Oswin Oswald was a governess and a barmaid
Until she came back, unashamed to be afraid.
Even though she is a mystery to be solved,
Here's to our angst, Ms. Oswin Oswald.

But one day all the companions will be gone
And the Doctor will be alone again.
He will think of all the lives he's withdrawn
Hoping for a lifelong friend.
Though his intelligence, sexiness, and brilliant mind
There are no other like him, he's the last of his kind.
The man who travels around kissing strangers;
The impossible doctor meeting some painters.
Many wonder how long he can cheat the clocks
But until then, he's just a madman with a box.
CONTAINS MANY SPOILERS
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who or any of the characters affiliated with them.
Dorothy A Aug 2012
I am constantly reminded of that popular Bible verse in I Corinthians 13: And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love. It is a verse that I highly cling to in faith and hope, something that I truly love to hear and ponder upon. Otherwise, I could easily give in to despair and cynicism, as it is prevalent in this world like a cancer. A good combination of a good dose of faith, hope and love is surely the medicinal treatment required for the cure.

Whether you adhere to this Biblical statement and belief, or absolutely do not, anyone can understand that we need faith, hope, and love to rely on. No matter what our walk is in life, whether we are Christians or of another religion—or have no belief in God or the spiritual life whatsoever—we all must have faith, hope, and love. Must!

Our very lives, and the world, depend on it.  

The religious aspect aside, who can exist without these three, without faith hope and love? Take the sun, for example. Even the staunchest atheist has faith that, without fail, the sun will reappear on the horizon, each and every morning, dispelling the darkness of night as the earth revolves around the sun. It’s like an undeclared promise, a brilliant, seemingly miraculous occurrence that should never cease to fill us with awe.

Until we take hold of these thoughts, how soon we do forget.  

Can you imagine if you woke up tomorrow and you never saw the sun again? Never? What would it be like if there was nothing but bleak darkness as we looked up into the sky for its beautiful blue canvas and infinite greatness? Our meager light bulbs and man-made lamps would pale in comparison to the blotted out light—the desert in the sky. Life would cease to be, and the thought of it seems almost incomprehensible—the utter void, the earth’s destruction, the deathliness, the icy cold and chaos. How we often take such things for granted! And the life-sustaining sun is only one of the countless things that we often take for granted as we dwell upon this magnificent earth. One may use his or her own analogy to compare.  

Along with faith to spur it on, who can survive without hope?  Hope reminds you it is still there when you cannot envision it there or feel its presence. It offers fresh, new pathways when your hopes have been dashed, and urges you to move on from false hopes that are imposters to the real deal.

I certainly cannot live without hope, nor could another living soul.  Having no hope at all feels like a living death, one I know of firsthand much too well. Inside of me—in my own being—when it seemed that the sun in my soul, with all its nurturing and guiding light, had entirely disappeared from within me—I experienced that vastly void, and dark, bottomless pit. In complete horror and pain, I felt my life would always be this way.  I liken it to having your lungs being ripped away from you, the wind ****** out of your spirit.

Oh, it is a dooming, crushing thing to have no hope!

But the thought of having not a shred of hope was something that I just could not bear nor accept. Thank God, it was an illusion, not really gone for good. It is the very fuel to propel rockets of dreams and goals, and it works hand in hand with faith and love. I believe wholeheartedly that hope is there for anyone’s access, no matter how low life seems. For like that eternal sun in the sky—sometimes seemingly doused out by menacing clouds—a temporary mirage, no doubt—hope is an invincible, precious and extraordinary gift, one that outshines despair by a thousandfold.    

Imagine if there was no love. Many of us think love is an illusion, a ***** trick to avoid. People often were supposed to love us, but failed. Surely, we can often fool ourselves into thinking something is love, when later we find that it is clearly not. Often, we feel burned when we show our vulnerable selves, simply on our quest to love and be loved.

But we want love nonetheless. We have to have it.

Love is as messy as life is. Hate often seems triumphant as we turn on the news. It seems to outshine love, and we grow weary by the cruelties we witness through the screen or from firsthand experience.  And by taking a good look in the mirror, we often question how loving we really are, for our guilt is reflected back at us for how we have failed others in a lack of love. Sometimes, we are just too scared to love. Sometimes, we just don’t want to make the effort. But love is still the greatest of all. There is no way this earth could spin well without it. What would be the need of it's ordered structure if not for such a high attainment as love?

Like I Corinthians says, if I have all knowledge or have faith, but have no love, it as if I have nothing—nothing at all. How many people have been taught that they are not worthy?

Again, like that sun, love covers everyone—encounters all at different times of reach—even those who are seemingly incapable of its power.  

And yet again, what if love had simply gone away for good, like faith and hope? Like that sun in the sky? What if hate truly reigned and ruled the earth?

But the battle is never over, and love must always fight on.  These can't just be words that I am saying to fill up space. I truly fight to believe this!

Again, that sun in the sky represents love to me, as well as it does faith and hope. It is warming and enriching. It is a pathway out of the restful night and into the ongoing world. Like it is a living entity, it doesn’t demand our constant attention, and nestles itself into the clouds before it makes its entrance once again, takes yet another bow.  It continually feeds the plants, which feed the people and the animals. And to imagine that this greater-than-life ball of fire is capable of creating rainfall that sustains life, too.  What a glorious contradiction!

With my poetic mind always churning, and the imagery flowing, I share these thoughts to you. Faith, hope, and love—I am truly amazed!
Alexis J Meighan Dec 2012
Knock knock
Who's there?
Mr.Harris
Mr. Harris who?


Mr. Harris whom lead women with elegance
Tied minds and hearts with verbal excrement
Pondered their looks as well as their flesh
Decided to touch which lead to a mess
For his brain and hands were shaky at best
Floundered around inside of their chest
Slicing and skinned the meat of the breast
The last thing they saw as they took their last breath
An extreme way to deal with life and its stress
Just a mad insane killer you couldn't reject.
Harris is the  man who is there at your door
Knock Knock! Who's there?  Not you any more.
Mr. Harris with blood on his shoes
Mr. Harass you that's who!
Love.
-Xin-

Jessica;
Behind close doors he was a cruel brute.
In the public view he smiled and spoke soft
Laid the trap with a simple hello.
Sprung it with a slash
Took his trophies and placed it in his stash
Tonight he stalk a petite country gal
A texan tone and expecting child
Brunette, fair skin and smile you could eat
Perky, quirky with dainty hands and feet
He sat in her car and stakeout her yard
Sneaked in her house while she bath and smelled her towels.
She was a standing appointment on his to do calendar
For 3 months he pondered how to handle her
Caress her flesh and kiss her toes
Asphyxiate! Hand over her mouth and pinch her nose.
Or
Suckle her perfect breast, brush her hair with short strokes
Look into her wide eyes, face to face, then slit her throat
She passed him on the train and he became,
Paralyzed by her fragrance, almost ashamed.
It became obvious, now that her baby bump showed
He had to **** her fast before it grew any more
And like that 9pm drew near and on his table she appeared.
She begged for her life but he didn't care "please I'm pregnant" I said I don't care
He chose option one for his method of ******
Soft and polite until life ignored her.
Now all left to do is to savor the taste of her essence
Then into the river and on to the next lesson
She was Jessica.
-Mr H.-


Bridgette:
This night his head ached, he sipped wine and ate
Clenched his brow and grunted and tried to concentrate
This night his heart ailed for a particular face
Some one he knew from a particular place
Blonde hair, tattooed skin and frequent bizarre encounters
A spunky one she was, always on an adventure
She constantly moved which made it a task to learn her
But he was persistent and eventually impaled her.
5 years he tracked her with laid roots just to leave again
He even befriended her friends. But nothing came through them
With every new home she kept, and new ink she bared.
He would be right there sharing her air.
A secret adoration, a crush, a unrequited love
He would scale walls to procure her safety and guard her till she was his alone.
Outside her window snapping photos and collecting her things
Setting coincidences and craving her limbs
He's sneaked in one night and restrained her to the bed
Counting her ink from her honey *** to the kissing undead.
Rubbing her hour glass and slicing through her haunted castle
Penetrating her clover and stabbing her dracula.
For she was his best creation.
He mourned as her flesh he torn
When it was all said and done every tattoo was massacred
Her body of work now a body of hurt
Bled out at the hands that knew her the most
From a distance so close from a distance so close
She was Bridgette
-Mr. H-

Jen:
She was so much more than a craving
More than a friend.
Its by accident that she met her end.  
They shared a bed, shared a home, shared there love
Now they share his secrets, but not her tomb
She stumbled on his collection of trinkets
And he confessed all thinking their bond and life together would lead to an exception
Shame on him, as to his surprise she screamed and grabbed a weapon
"who are you" she yell and ran to the door.
He screamed in response "I don't know but don't go"
Frantic she struggled with the door lock
Panicked he hit her face with the cutting block
Oops
She fell
So did his heart down his throat
This was his partner, his lover, his other half
In every day before his reason for life, his only plan
No way to recover this act of passion so he finished the job.  
Crying and kissing her asian lips
Squeezing her neck till she was gone gone gone.
She was Jen
-Mr. H-

Kaylani:
As he progressed and perfected his method
He broadened his pallet and obsessed on this venison
He heard her words sent men to their knees
Both in praise of her power and to lap at her Mahogany
She was clever and sharp like his finest cleaver
Voluminous in her cleavage, firm in her actions like a verb, Poison to her distractions
For him it was her words that overwhelmed his desires
Call to arms, yell to god,do my bidding and "I promise I'll be yours"
She wrote poems like he did, spoke truth like he do
Broke hearts like he could, and swept the world away like he should
He sent her a poem she accepted with joy
Blew her mind with crafts he assembled like schemes, plots, and ploys
She gave him a secret, he gave her a line
She confessed her emotions, he confessed a lie
She showed him her body, he shrugged and denied
She caved and gave more, he enslaved her with compliments, task and more endeavors
She wanted him so bad that for the first time she fell to her knees
He arose from his own. Succeed indeed
He gave her one night, yes one night
8 years of famine, for only one night
He kissed, massage, fingered and caressed
Demanded her mouth as he got undressed
His contact was of malice and encounter of a deranged mind
An anomaly of his needs, a poetic way to propel her demise
He entered her slow made her safe in his glow
Then with a wicked grin the nightmare did begin
He took control, pinned her down, put big things in small spaces
Made her a scream queen with no crown as he laughed and mocked her desperate faces
A little cut here and a little punch there he accepted her fear
On the night stand he had a special potion
A blend of deadly poison
Told her it would end once she breath no more
"Its your choice my dear" then made her scream some more
He took a break said he'll be back
Went to the kitchen to get a snack
"When I come back we'll start again"
Upon his return he gazed the beaten, ****** goddess
She drank her escape route, now she is lifeless
She was Kaylani
-Mr. H-
This is actually something I wrote for one of my close friends Justin Harris. His Birthday is on Xmas so I've been writing people stalker letters and death threats and signing them with his name and address.
Some may not see the humor in this but if you knew the dynamics of my friendship circles you would know that this is normal behavior for us.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Magnificence blasted

I came to this with a title and then formed an Idea then got out the heavy hitter books all founding fathers thought it would be
A good touch to reconnect with our country and it history at this time of the year well it didn’t proceed that way I did find the very
Word that serves as the title in G. Campbell Morgan’s book an exposition of the Bible don’t get excited I will just use that to set the
tone and it will give you a head start on what I want to deal with the place where life is at odds with our peace and well being He starts
the first chapter of Job now he is one that can at least give us a great example it’s all about winning getting the results we need instead
of the pain of failure (In magnificence of argument and beauty of style this book is one of the grandest in the divine library the story
of Job is presented in dramatic form) I want this to serve two purposes give understanding to the point we all can use these stories
to make us victors and in a very small way have a readable escape from drudgery or outright problems to that end I will start at this
Point I already wrote about the Dutch businessman who got fed up chucked it all started a journey to circle the globe by human
Power alone so to that end he made a boat that by pedaling and that alone would be what would propel him through great waters and
Grand adventures but for this one were going to stay on land I did meet a eastern traveler years ago from New York he was on this side
Of Shelbyville his ultimate goal was the west coast I think he had been at it a little over a month and he was on horseback we talked
but way to briefly to be able to use it here so go to one I know a little more about Jack Kerouac he was in that idea and wrote the
Book on the road first problem the guy had very bad language steeped in the sixties drug culture an iconic figure of the beat
Generation but he was human as we are and when you get down to the soul you catch the part I want to use this is going to play
Like an old family recipe that is hardly readable and the family is the human family but Jack was a writer a full blown saga that had to
Be read had to be listened to a solitary seeker a poor outward drifter who was deeply lonely man a sad melancholy drifter one writer has
Said “and if you read the book closely you see that sense of loss and sorrow swelling on each page” another penned why Kerouac
Matters he matters because he is one of us he ran the course with large gains and ultimately ended with his magnificence blasted.
Taking the cue from Jack I will take you on the road to another life of magnificence Steven Beckerman he was a neurosurgeon I met
And worked for well his wife Sandy she was such a tragic figure she was so fragile high strung would be a good description if you didn’t
Know better you would think she saw the future the first blow to this couple was there pricey home was gutted by fire everything was
Replaceable but the two Doberman guard dogs and another dog that was their family they were childless but before this fire Steven
Was not a snob but he was only a few degrees higher than Sandy on the fragile scale he had these beautiful hands he seemed to
Always be guarding them he would walk in the back of the house down by the fence always faraway I’m sure he was thinking of
The patient and the operation that waited on him at the hospital he had a vulnerability he entered other peoples troubled places and
Gave them back their lives but his own he couldn’t seem to walk divided it was all their concerns and needs.Their dream was to leave
The Bay area where neither was happy and go to the southwest New Mexico where people were laid back the pace was slower
Then the fire happened they weathered that resumed life then Steven was near home a car accident this wonderful gifted surgeon
Was left a paraplegic he went to the bedroom placed the gun between his legs then with those fingers who helped so many others
Pulled the trigger on the shotgun his magnificence was ended he couldn’t overcome the reality and fact of his situation he could have
Became a teacher so many things could have been we need to take from this a lesson of guarding our mind and heart we don’t know
What the future holds if only Steven would have measured his worth kept and made a powerful ally as Job had, his magnificence
Would still be shinning today to finish up the last piece talked about Yvette being shot with Zack in the desert her injuries included
Right side nerve damage a metal plate in her head that prevents her from getting private health care we heard what her dad said about
The Grisly listen to the wise words of her mother her mother said you have to mourn the person you were before up to the time of the
shooting that person is gone you need to turn and start a new life she did that as much as possible started out to do sports casting found
It totally unsatisfactory changed to law and now is a lawyer and victims advocate she said she never tells her story to her clients but
She has a compassion for them she found her way through giving and serving others to keep her magnificence stellar.
Catrina Sparrow Jan 2013
a candy apple red heritage soft-tail classic
on a rusted dirt road
i am built of where i've been

the mango groves
the east and west coast
and every camp-ground in canada
this map is my home
let me tuck you into the folds
and sing you to sleep
some place sweet
where the air smells of earth and rain

don't let the concrete tame you

the road under foot is not measured by the steps necessary to travel it
but the way one migrates over the breaking soil
resting between where we are and where we'll be
when our dreams run free
and the tent's set in the pines

barefoot
running shoes
doc martens
thumb to the sky
pack on my back
black top under bridgestones

let us fly

let us soar

s'go

i'll take you with me
like my sleeping bag
and skinning knife
and canteen

be the water that i drink

fuel the fires that propel this engine
drive me to the end of the road
where one can only go by foot
and feather
and foolishness

let's disappear in the fog of the north
the mud of the east
the heat of the south
the haze of the west

let's find ourselves in the topography of folded bodies
tangled up in a flesh scented tent
~Bardic magistry
Woven unto
Sage & Seeress
Whose vision
Penetrates
The Temporal Expanse.

The Crowned of Epistemology
Reigns sovereign
Unfurled upon the Seven Seas,
The Firmaments,
And The Gaian Mother
Aeonic & venerable:

Dedicated to the
Sagacious, sapient, source of sonority;
Mine Matriarch Mavenette
Wielding wisdom
Pristine, amidst
The Chaos of Chthonic,
At times, adjacent,
NetherRealm:

Valhalla of the once Valiant Soul
Twas I
The Wound-Bearer;
Convalescing in Light
Of the Simulacrum of the Sun,
Until
Greater Eden arrives:

Through lore the soul is lifted unto heights once denied;
The onerous edicts of Gravity begotten to be defied.
We peregrinate this plane searching for Lovelit Life;
We depart in ascendency beckoned by the rapture of the Divine.

No soul knows all, yet by lore, we come to rise, rise
In our excellency sired by the Empyrean Sublime.
By the exhalation of our Exodus we ne’er know how to fly,
Yet the Wings of Phantasmagoria are bestowed upon the Wise.

Let reverie propel you eternally into the Baptistery of the Sun,
for His love is infinite, His light needs ne’er be won.
The Ages are ephemeral & the Zeitgeist like Winds of Time:
Yet the Sciential is forever & wisdom transcends time.

Know that there is more than seen with the eyes;
In this boundless cosmos, precepts are meant to be defied:
Make history therefore of thine bygone days,
For the unborn waxeth thine present: a time-transcending sage.

O, She is the Millennial Maven
Transcending Space & Time
Rising through the Exosphere; Excelling Ether
into Mind’s Fire.

O, She is the Sage of Dreamscapes, Summoning
Luminaries unto Gaia:
That the Wisdom of the Ancients
Illuminate Orbis Terrae.

O, the Impossible is Possible,
Through Amazonians such as thee,
Waging Warfare through Wisdom
That her Clansman might live free.

O, Rapture in a Zephyr
(Aromatic & Fragrant Winds)
She harnesses the Tempest of Futility, that
Ineffable splendor is borne in stead.

O, the Tapestry of Eternity unfolds
(Through the hands of thee)
For through thine counsel are souls made stalwart,
In the Visage of Shadows made to see.

O, been hazed, been dazed
Mine entity hath been flayed,
Until incarnadine raiment arrayed
And through Nox & Somnus, mine heartsease is betrayed.

Lo!  Yet as a wraith in pining
For the Land of Living & Immortal Truth,
O, the Priestess of the Sacrality of Sapience
Doth forge a revenant anew.

O, continue upon thine Pilgrimage
For thine spirit, it gleams:
Upon the Feuillemorte Leaves of Autumn
The Sacred Lotus, impregnable, breathes.

The Hiemal Sun glistens brighter
As discernment and time wax Sovereign Reign; knowledge is
The Diadem of The Epistemic Empress:
  The Monarchy of your claim.

May Splendor and Mercy
Be promised unto thee,
May you promenade life’s trek in credence
That the Wings of Manumission make thee truly free.

If by chance you findeth enfettered
Your soul through sentiments strewn
Wonder upon the liberation
You’ve woven into mind’s renewed.

O, the Soul shall reapeth,
That which it sows,
You’ve harvested the Seeds of Liberty,
Let the Diadem of thine Ascendency thus be made to grow.
May the sacraments
She confers,
Alight upon
Her
Own soul,
May She
effloresce
in the Light of The Empyrean One
Excelsior
Forevermore.

~Happy Holidays Beloved Ones.~

"Therefore, become imitators of God, as beloved children"

-Ephesians 5:1
Mike Hauser May 2013
I've been collecting ear wax
Since the belly button lint dust fire went bad
I lost all my dignity in that fiasco
So ear wax is all that I have left

Believe you me, it's not easy
Coming up with another scheme
After burning the whole town down to the ground
To get a single soul to look or even listen to me

But that fateful day that I dug deep
And pulled a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of my ear
I knew that fame and fortune lay before me
My time had arrived, my time was here

Who should I call first over my artful discovery
The Post?  The Enquirer?  The Times?
No I would call The Museum Of Modern Art in NYC
For the Art World would soon be mine

I knew I had to ratchet it up a notch
One piece of ear wax art might be a fluke
So I got out my brush...the Q-tip
And removed a portrait of John Wayne AKA The Duke

Since I live in a hippie commune in the woods
Little furry creatures would always stop by
To gaze upon the artful process
Squirrels can be the best of critics...no lie!

Which gave me the idea with all the left over ear wax
I sculptured a mini-amusement park with mini-arcades
And charged the woodland creatures nuts and berries
Which helped feed the hippies with whom I stay

It wasn't long after that I received the letter
Stating that art had a need for me
I've become known as The Andy Warhol of The Art World
With abstract ear wax being my specialty

Now I go to all the major "Who Does"
Where everybody knows my name
As I create masterpieces right before their eyes
Just don't hold it to close to the flame

Who would have ever thought that ear wax
Would be the perfect medium
To jet propel this Simpleton
To Art World stardom and beyond
If you need to catch up on this insanity....
The Great Belly Button Lint Fire of 93' is down deep in my pile of craziness.
Good Luck!
Amelia Jo Anne May 2013
I have a habit
of hypnotizing myself
I like to put on my veil
a shroud of alteration
marry myself to the haze
again & again
I baptize everyday before I
light the world on fire
lose myself in the afterglow
live in the confusion

I love the girl who is
the sister of Leila, Ophelia, Astrid
o, Sweet Mother Mary
pray for me, stuck in melancholy
& losing ground
unity in Heaven's Rose
you are euphoria
mostly because I have
arranged my wills
to center & propel
those wills of yours
think for me
show me I can't live without you
can't
do for myself what you do for me
let's swim in the river
where I forget everything for a little while
enrapture me
all day every day all ways
We tried to feel the warming flame in the curving waves of dawn
Never had we given evening the love of our faces
Our arms of passion closed and withdrawn
Seeking warmth in future places

Within our wishes we held alone more love than precious angels
Together our voices could create a flooding melody
Alone, we waited for dawn to propel
A warmth, into our need

We believed we were empty shells, waiting for the dawn
Blank faces floating in the evening cold
Distancing ourselves from the most beautiful song
Together we could have sang as in old

We could not feel the warming flame in the curving waves of dawn
Because the warmth was held in our faces
Back to back we sought the warmth of a song
We sang separately together
In different places

If you and I would turn around and look into each others eyes
Create this melody together as our song
Perhaps we could feel the warming flame that never dies
And stop waiting for the curving waves of dawn
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
www.changefulstorm.blogspot.com
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Changefulstorm
theaphile Aug 2013
LOVE? Connotative of so many different things, one conjures up vastly intricate definitions of the word. To what extent their truth reaches is indicative of their author’s own relationships, childhood, future and past. To be asked what love truly is, is to allow another to peer inside of your soul, to reach the depth and breadth of your entity and to relinquish your fears and dreams to them, simultaneously. Asked today for my opinion, I deferred my response, realizing I myself hadn’t considered a solid definition. Seemingly such a simple concept; really a foundational core, underpinning our self worth, self adoration and self identity.

Love is unique, to everyone. It can be explained through the use of analogies. Stereotypes. In some ways, our ‘idealistic love’ is a window for our selfish, impeded selves to climb out of. We expect our lover to propel us into some sort of surreal, unchallenged fairy-tale romance, irregardless of the modern day reality we’re living out. We expect worlds to stop, planets to align and stars to shower upon us in some picturesque dream come true.  However, referring to love in stereotypes can be impersonal and superficial. I find love can be best defined by a persons own experiences, dreams, fears and desires.
A lover can help realize and form these definitions.

To me, love is resting my head between the curve of his shoulder and my sheets. Love is watching a summer storm roll in together, dry and safe. Love is observation; of passion, of fear and of delight. Love is acceptance. There’s nothing more beautiful than knowing and being known. Nothing more beautiful than opening yourself up to someone, being with them in complete serenity, complete coexistence and honesty.
Rolling over and looking into their eyes, and silently whispering, “I love you.”
That to me is love.

- c.m
Matterhorn Dec 2018
the other night,
i had a dream;
usually,
i don’t remember
my dreams—
those unconscious
musings
of my mind—
but this night
was different;
maybe it had
something to do
with the fact
that i had fallen
in the shower
half an hour
before laying it
down on the
pillow...

...a trickle of
blood running
down my forehead,
transforming quite
alarmingly into
a babbling brook
consisting entirely
of chocolate milk;
my raft bobbed
up and down,
the demon who
haunts my nightmares
now clad in a
tuxedo—
a nice change
from the bright
pink trench coat
he usually wears...

...the demon’s
strong hands
propel the
craft forward
with a rather
Huckleberry Finn-like
affectation;
i turn my
attention from
my oldest friend
to the shore,
sparkling with
broken glass,
thumbtacks,
and mathematical
equations;
there,
i glimpse my classmates
doing burpees...

...suddenly,
a car crash
occurs;
the chocolate milk
becomes a very
narrow,
winding road,
the end of which
is obscured by
an angsty cloud
of disappointment;
the elevator
plummets horizontally toward
the 3rd sub-basement
of the shower;
my friend in
the tuxedo offers me
a steaming
cup of hot chocolate...

...which burned
my tongue,
causing me to cackle
wildly
and toss the
mug into the
abyss;
“******* cup!”
i scream,
utilizing my
full lung capacity
as i begin to
fall again,
down,
down,
down;
and then i was awake,
sweating, bleeding;
i may have a concussion...
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2018
Dondaycee Mar 2018
When I was a child, I asked the question, “what is life?”
Mama said: “A journey back towards heaven.”
I asked Granma, “what is heaven?”
She said: “A place with love-“
Okay look, that’s all I heard; the rest was above my level of comprehending for at the time I was only seven,
But love… love… that’s the one thing I never questioned,
That was the one thing that gave me unlimited lessons,
Because “What is love?” became the daily question,
Which gave me this experience of putting one before me,
After promising myself I’ll never put my “self” second,
If you’ve been reading my work, tranquilizarse,
If you’re new, this may seem foreign,
This is where I give a side note,
A quick lesson to help the reader recognize the tools needed to decipher the message before we go on,
There was a trinity,
If you missed it, don’t worry, here’s where the cycle is reborn,
If you noticed, then you know that the trinity is a oxymoron,
And this is a lie, because it’s the only word that fits,
A journey back towards heaven isn’t a contradiction,
It’s just a mission to remember the things we normally forget,
Like how we’re god, we’re created out of love, and before this incarnation, previously exist,
I didn’t say existed because we’re only a piece of our true self, another part some missed,
Because I promised my true self we’d never be second,
Which is why I put one before me,
Because if I see myself as individual, I would only ignore me,
If I’m only a piece, then there must be a collective that make up the one, whole, true me,
Again there’s no contradiction, because the meanings are not separate but simultaneously existing,
It’s like time, I’m only selecting a space, part, section that’s existing to explore me,
So if heaven is where god is, and I am a part of god, which is love,
Then myself is never in question, because “who am I?” is love,
A discoverment that happened after I questioned the meaning of love,
Because it’s a word recognized endlessly throughout the world by all whom theoretically propose it’s something that exists above,
I blame looking up being the reason we look down on ourselves,
We love god so much that there’s no room to give each other help,
Selfishness is the reason we can’t accept self reflect and frown on others,
If able, we’d see that we’re a reflection of one another and that we’re response able, to be responsible for each other; in order for our self to propel, all must remember ourselves,
We’re the trinity, God (Divine Mother and Father simultaneously existing) Omni,
We’re the trinity, Jesus (The children of the Mother and Father, Christ Consciousness) Godly,
We’re the trinity, Holy Spirit (Divine soul body that’s physical and non-physical (astral)) embodied,
We’re the trinity that we worship, another oxymoron that defines we,
Story time:
When I was seven I prayed for love, and that prayer lead me to the central coast,
I asked for someone who was a reflection, so that myself is evoked,
A coincidence that I will not speak of guided this story from hope,
This was a dream, but it was real, because now it’s reality and some of the details invoked my attention to note,
To write down these experiences so that others can understand how we write the songs we sing , and that it is practice that allows us to hit every note,
Again we create our journeys on how we get back in harmony,
There’s no auto tune, if out of tune it’s practice you need,
Have faith, remember the joy in being a kid, how you felt, how you gave before speech,
Lucky for me, being in the right place at the right time,
I laid eyes upon she,
It was love at first sight, because it wasn’t a moment of lust but a moment of us that displayed as an image of I, I mean what life, this experience, could be if I gave it my best shot, my best thought, and regardless of the outcome, had her by my side to magnify the experience of being me, and growing to a peak where we would live in this bliss filled state of being,
And after seeing, stood two thoughts that sparked all my curiosity;
“How do we get there? Does she feel this too?”, for these are the unknowns that lead to precocity,
It’s not that I couldn’t see,
It itself was just another experience for we,
I was very certain, which is why preparing was urgent,
I urgently needed patience for our realities to merge and,
Start a new unknown experience, a quest that’s divergent,
Those last two lines are for the *****’s observant serpents,
You’re not dumb for missing the clues,
All you have to do is use the tools you now have to solve the problems that you previously, unintentionally, unconsciously, created like an excuse,
It’s never too late to reflect on why and how you became you,
Because that type of questioning will only lead to discovering the truth,
And how you’re the lie you told yourself to keep life borin,
Because you’re everything you are and everything you’re not, and that’s an oxymoron.
Life love choice experience knowledge you self
Ashley Nicole Jun 2015
I want to take a dive in to your psyche
Tread past every memory and thought
Ride the tides of your emotions
And every tsunami you've ever sought

I want to take a deep breath and immerse,
Propel myself to your ocean floor
Where the darkness and the unknown
Has always existed but was never explored
I want to pick your brain.
Esther Mar 2017
It’s easiest to write about the rain
As it rains
And it was easier to write about the pain
When there was pain
But now I don’t write much
Because there’s
Nothing
And
Everything
To talk about
More than enough to doubt
Very little to figure out
Sometimes a personal critic to fight
Before any work is even done
Let alone done right
Levying with the fatigue to propel
To propel forward
For ****’s sake, not back
And it’s not so easy to write
When you just write
And it was not so easy to write
This right
13 May 2014
It consists of this,
all of it and none
I found solace in that
which I could not hold
but only cherish as fond memoirs
of a terrible moment in time

Never full, never empty
it turned into an addiction
derogation of the unwise, with no premise
bawls and shrieks have no place here
this is silent lucidity capsized
hundreds of expressions explaining one thing
one thing that explains it all

Destination: lost
with no means to propel the self
into a promising new day,
pray tell, what will break down the wall
self loathing and misanthropy creates
alone in a crowd, here, but far away
none of it is that important anyway

The smile stealer, grin eater
mood killer, running short of edification
It's never alone; in bed with misery
the smallest things distress
the grandest of thoughts
wanting reprieve, searching escape
as if you could
die and stain pride?

No

Cowardice is lower than this
not worse, just pathetic
but please, ignore my terrible advocacy,
everything is half off today
I'm feeling generous.
Posted on October 28, 2013
Nnaemeka Mokeme Jul 2018
Just the other day,
I would never have
thought that it
can be done.
Couldn't believe
that it is possible.
Never imagined I
would come out
victorious with my
dignity not messed up.
How can this be done
for the sake of posterity.
With enthusiasm we
can do wonders.
Positiveness is vital
to propel you
to the miraculous.
It can generate you
and powerfully send you
to a spiritual high.
Anyone who has
not experienced the
darkness will never
appreciate the light.
You will never know
the beauty of heaven
until you pass through
hell to overcome evil.
Enlightened mind is
a determined one and
can't be stopped by
the frivolous feelings
of the weak mind.
Uprightness must be
a priority in its dealing
with the worldly things.
Separated from the crowed,
he becomes more in tuned with
the divine and the fantastic.
Trusted with the fabulous,
the mind is tested for strength
of purpose to be fully accepted.
No weakness is tolerated
for the inner beauty of man is
made visible by the power
beyond the ordinary.
The innate power within man
is called forth at a time such as this.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Eroshu Homaj Mar 2011
Propel me,
Send me sailing,
Every word you utter,
Is a rudder that steers me,
Be my gale, my fair wind,
Pushing me like a father his child,
I am a sailor and wish to die out here,
God, my true Father,
Water me with the ocean
Let me grow, supported by you in all that I do.
With your waves and whales
Tell me when I have become misguided,
Before I crash into these rough waves and rocks,
Send me a signal, a simple sign to stay clear from that place God.
May my anchor resemble my desire to remain fixed in you Lord,
May those that come aboard this vessel of God,
Find wonder in your waves and words whispers and water,
Father as I fish for fish,
May our nets reap your blessings Lord,
May I be a fisher of men,
And catch them all,
Amen.
© Joshua Ohmer 2011
Original work: Dec 14, 2009
Sarah Writes Jan 2013
I live at the bottom of a lake
I am a fish
There are gills in my ears
‘Cause there are things my blood needs to hear
I have fins in my mouth and they propel me so far
The only way to stop is to bite down real hard
Sometimes I miss the air, even though I’ve never breathed
I drive around the lake bottom in my little moving machine
I call it a Notcar
I try to find my way to the other side
It’s blue out there or maybe grey

I died at the bottom of a lake today
I ran all out of imaginary air
I fell asleep at the wheel of my Notcar
And drove right into a telephone Notpole
My friends all gathered round my little fish-shaped grave and I learned something
They don’t tell you in books or movies,
That Dead speaks a different language than Alive
So I couldn’t understand a word my fishy friends said
It sounded like this:

I’d always hoped my death would have some meaning
Or that at least my life would
But mostly I just tried to understand things
Like all the different rooms in my brain and why underwater never smelled like rain
I loved a few boy fish, had some very fishy affairs
I loved my friends the most, they were such pretty colors
(Dead sees colors differently than Alive, so now they look like this:                                    )
The day I died was special like every other day which is to say
That it was not Notaverage
And I died in a pretty Notspecial way
And because I can’t hear Alivewords, or see Alivecolors
I’ll never be sure if I left any mark

I live at the bottom of a lake
Most days I think that I’m an alien
On Tuesdays I feel pretty human
The lake I live in died
It left behind little shells in the sand at the playground
And pretty rocks with ripples
It left rings on the mountains but not like rings inside trees
These rings mark a countdown to death, rather than a count out from birth

The lake is a ghost
It sings to me in my sleep, but I don’t speak Dead
At least not yet
And furthermore, I don’t speak lake
I speak a language called Notdeadnotlake
And so do all my friends
Sometimes I wonder why the ocean was so thirsty that it called my lake back home
And I wonder if I’m part of Something Bigger too,
Whether Something Bigger is feeling thirsty
I think I might be part of a big strange creature made out of all the things I sometimes feel like:
Lakesludge and matches and sunshine and fish with sharp little teeth
Notgoods and notbads and spiders and bats
Sadhappys and angryfucks
Starsparkles and earthworms and fairywings and dinosaur bones,
It has really big ears and stubby toes
And all it needs is some alien or Tuesdayhuman to feel complete
Or maybe it’s made of lakeghosts and fishghosts
And wants nothing to do with me
I live in what used to be Glacial Lake Missoula. This poem was inspired by that, a dream I had, and a book I was reading at the time.
Athina Mitchell Jan 2016
--------------------

When red ran from the sand.

From the depths, rose a creature quite old.
Solemn and slow, not a care to be bold
It anchored itself, and gave no expression
The strength of its shell, shook in depressions
Tall extensions: its lifeblood, its protection.
Found scattered, on its shell, in cert’n sections.

The pride of Madagascar—the creature by name—
Are Rosewood and Ebony now mangled and maimed.

--------------------

When red ran from his hand.

Trees are felled, and the humans displace:
Lemurs are losing, they can’t find their space.
Hear the creature wail, its shell echoes with grief—
The sounds of its guests, find little relief.
For its pride is valued, and cut for a price
Hard decisions made—it is life’s device.

Wooden splinters bite back trading flesh to save flesh.
Living masses are caught in our culture’s great mesh.

---------------------

When red in hand and land.

Oceans to flood, new depths to behold
Our desires to fill, balk: “Don’t let them fold!”
She tires of our, meandering session;             
Beating-out paths, to varied oppressions.
Laugh at the onslaught, of one great convection!
As humans propel, in that direction…

In all this, Gaia shrugs, naked-apes are to blame.
Fruiting, of hand and land, need-be one and the same!

---------------------
I mean to use Madagascar as a vehicle to express some of my compounded frustrations. Above all, this poem is an address to all our fellow ***** sapiens*. If we insist on digging our own grave then so be it. The earth will spiral on with or without us, and that is the simplest truth... if there is such a thing. We might think less about our inalienable right to plunder, and more about the stewardship of diverse lifeforms if we truly care for our lineage. People have been beating this drum for so long, who cares--right? I defer to Kurt Vonnegut: "Had I been a Bokononist  then, pondering the miraculously intricate chain of events that had brought dynamite money to that particular tombstone company, I might have whispered, 'Busy, busy, busy." *Busy, busy, busy,* is what we Bokononists whisper whenever we think of how complicated and unpredictable the machinery of life really is" (from *Cat's Cradle,* pages 65-6). At the end of the day, we do what we feel we must... busy, busy, busy...
Gene Wilder's ***** Wonka once asked me
to step into a world
of pure imagination
and I danced to his voice
of sugary imperfections.
The swelling strings drizzled
on top falsetto inflections
captured me childishly
with candy-coated attentions

But even the finest chocolate melts,
and I learned to let purity be
pushed by treacly lyrics
or stern midgets secure
in their fudge-topped zealotry.
It sifts too pretty for me,
powdering my grown-up
infatuations with petty
wants, getting a little messy

What I crave instead's stained-glass contraptions
to propel me past the stretches
of biblical proportion
where light and dark don't mix.
I'm no Idiot, good-hearted
in the veins of Fyodor
or Akira, and I can't see
beyond the pure tedium
of a blurredly driven snow

I like my mental drifts grime-choked and splotched
with some savory do
dropped in to dissolve flossy
confections to a salted soup
of imagined impurity.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Hugo A Sep 2012
In this moment, notes so crisp
Propel and move, my inner self
Melodies of my youth
No words convey, this one feeling
Energy, that floats in waves
Mystery of its whole beauty
Bliss compared, to no other
Hurt is vanished, with this song
No sleep outlasts, my urge to smile
To be again
A phrase so weak, in your presence
My soul unites, with no guilt
To understand nobody can
That is the beauty
of it all
A friend plays her piano like an angel
the Sandman Feb 2016
Our city
of forts and malls and cinema halls
is littered with the filth of our minds
and our mouths.
We are lost; we are broken;
we are muffled and soft-spoken.
Big city dreams
of art and changing the world
slip away every time we wake up
on grimy beds we’ve never seen before
with soot on our feet, and our hands
bound with ***** hair,
backs bent under the weight of all they’ve left us.
The mud in our fingernails leaves us a mess,
in the shapes of the night's sticky, grubbiness:
a twisted Rorscharch inkblot.
We see it all replaying,
—flickering, as we’re swaying—
on grimy ceilings, where the light bulb
seems askew, and dangling
in an effort to hypnotise us,
left, and right, and left.
Every day is a repeat of the same,
chai glasses, and cigarette butts
with redlipstickstains,
rickshaw rides (exactly thirty rupees steeper
than the rate on the meter),
cat calls that slap in one ear and slip spit out the other.
Our roads are lit by TV-light,
a muted glow that follows us everywhere.
Anonymous blankness follows blankness
and the dark dankness
of grocery stores and souls
that can’t recognise each other anymore.
Silly young things dreaming of bliss,
And new couches, and tiny feet
Instead hear only
"Scrub harder," "Needs more salt," and
"Turn over; come closer; be quiet."
Bare feet in splotchy grass
with brown and green ankles
are replaced by sore heels and push-up bras.
Pens scratching on paper
are replaced by knives slashing skin
and flesh and bones
hitting sharply so that the onomatopoeia
of the shlick-crack-crack
draws out delighted laughter
from blackened, smoky mouths
— and peals of screams that no one hears,
the afterthoughts of parking lots.
The fire of fingers leaves marks, scars;
and their tips grow spikes
into the goosebumps on our arms;
knuckles peel away skin,
everywhere they trace;
and fists clench
around our bodies,
that don’t belong to us.

But we know, one day,
our spring will come
and we will leave the heat on our backs
in dust.
We will go down with Persephone
and take our flowers with us.
We will swim upside down
so we feel like we can fly.
Every rock laying unturned, we know,
has a cosmic universe throbbing
patiently under it.
We will lie, resilient, awake at night,
dreaming cautiously, softly,
so no one hears,
but dreaming nonetheless.
Dreaming of our wings melting
over and over again,
when we get too close to the denied,
day after day, until
we can build wings strong enough
to hold the heat of the sun
inside them, and then propel further.
We’ll show them
— tell your sisters and daughters and friends!—
we’ll show them,
Because your sticks and stones
Can break only our bones
And not our minds. We are
Goddesses, even in a dimly lit bar
Or the back of a fast car,
Just as in temples. We are
Goddesses, whether we whisper in soft tones
Or shout it in the streets,
Whether we lie in strangers' sheets
Or break our backs bending
to ***** feet.
When we're beaten by a spouse,
Or changing tactic,
We'll be both your angels in the house,
And your madwomen in the attic.
Sonia Ettyang Sep 2018
We are flaming hearts
under the twilight
burning like wild fire
let our spirits fly
like kites in the sky
Surrendering to the winds of love
let the fires of our hearts
ignite  the skyline  like a phoenix rising
touch the moon
and reach for the stars
as our souls intertwine
and propel to the outer-space
loose control and find our destiny
©Sonia Ettyang
AprilDawn May 2014
forward
I have to feel
  this moment
as it throbs  with life
cannot  take  
a step or two back
without colliding
full throttle
into  a sad void  
of hazy days gone by.
Written in 06 or 07 , finished today.Grabbing my future  with two hands   after  tragedy  , was  something I had to force myself to do.Try not to live in yesterday.Appreciate  the  present  and  future  , because  I can.Not everyone  has  this luxury to be alive ....
tangshunzi Aug 2014
assistenti

cane in un propel matrimonio detto matrimoni in cima alla lista commovente .I cani in realtà solo rendono tutto più felici .non è vero ?Quindi ero già innamorato di questo matrimonio .grazie al cane dolce .quando ** letto le parole della sposa e si innamorò con la loro storia .Sprout .la signora dietro i bei fiori .era secondo insegnante elementare dello sposo .Everest Strada Fotografia stato un consigliere campo con la sorella della sposa .L'intera giornata è stata un ricordo in divenire .uno Sono sicuro che la coppia e tutti i loro ospiti potranno guardare indietro per sempre con affetto



.
Condividi questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsSummerSettingsHistoric HomeStylesCasual Eleganza

Dalla bella sposa .Mi sono innamorato di Fredericksburg attraverso la mia damigella d'onore Cori Dickie frequentando il 4 luglio parata durante il college ed è diventato una tradizione annuale .La sua mamma ci compra sempre corrispondenti camicie bandiera americana al Walmart .Cori e sono diventato amici incollaggio su DQ Blizzard e aveva mensili "Date DQ ".Una volta Riley e ** iniziato datazione è venuto con me per i festeggiamenti .Non abbiamo mai pensato di sposarsi qualsiasi altra parte .Il Ruff Haus è stato il primo luogo che ** visto e mi era innamorato .Non ** mai sognato che avrei sposarsi al di fuori .ma era perfetto per Fredericksburg e noi.Volevamo qualcosa di casuale e invitante - come una grande festa nella nostra casa .Insieme essendo un matrimonio abbiamo voluto che fosse una festa dove tutti erano lì per divertirsi .I bastoni di incandescenza erano uno dei miei tanti preferiti sulla pista da ballo e per l'uscita .Sono venuti su .perché il luogo praticamente non ha consentito buttare nulla o qualsiasi tipo di fuoco - e quindi abbiamo fatto la nostra propria luce .

Riley e io laureato presso la stessa scuola .a tre anni di distanza .I nostri genitori vivono a pochi isolati l'uno dall'altro e non si conoscevano .E 'stato così divertente vedere le nostre famiglie si riuniscono e il divertimento nostri genitori hanno insieme e matrimoni cristiani che hanno modellato per noi.Mamma abiti da sposa corti di Riley .direi il più timido del gruppo.ha avuto l' idea di eseguire un ballo a sorpresa al matrimonio .Hanno preso 8 settimane di lezioni di danza coreografia di " Shake Your ***** ".Purtroppo .la band non ha avuto la canzone giusta in modo che non erano molto soddisfatti delle loro prestazioni .** detto loro che non ti preoccupare faremo lo si esegue ad ogni festa importante da qui in abiti da sposa corti avanti .

Riley vende articoli promozionali per le aziende così ci è venuta l'idea di fare un logo per il matrimonio e metterlo su tovaglioli .tazze .koozies .borse di benvenuto e biscotti .** creato il look che volevo e font e uno dei dolci amici di mia mamma aiutami invertire le lettere e convertire il formato .Siamo quasi ripulito tutti gli obiettivi a Dallas cercando vasi di muratore .Volevamo successivamente a causa del calore e così volevamo tanto illuminazione possibile.La mamma di Riley è incredibile con fiori e lei ha fatto alcune delle disposizioni sui tavoli .

Quando abbiamo deciso di fare un matrimonio fuori sapevo che abbiamo dovuto avere il nostro cane .il giudice .in esso .Abbiamo preso il fine settimana che Riley ha proposto a casa di William Faulkner a Oxford .MS .Mio fratello treni laboratori di nero e ci ha dato il giudice e il suo cane Tex è come parte della famiglia .Averli nel matrimonio è stato uno dei migliori e più stressanti cose .Il giudice ha trascorso l'intera cerimonia cercando di ottenere la mia damigella d'onore Abbie per lanciare il suo bouquet per lui recuperare .Mio fratello ci ha dato anche in modalità pianificazione di nozze ed ha trovato e ha condannato i collari per cani corrispondenza di un amico .Uno dei nostri ospiti libri era acquerelli e abiti da sposa 2014 storie di Oxford e l'altra photography era da Texas Hill Country .

maggior parte dei dettagli è accaduto lungo la strada.Non ** mai pensato che avrei arancione come colore e non avrebbe potuto essere più soddisfatti .I fiori sono stati fatti localmente da Sprout .di proprietà di Michelle Hodges - che abbiamo poi messo insieme quando i genitori di Riley si sono incontrati con lei che era la sua seconda maestra elementare a Dallas .Inoltre .ero così entusiasta di scoprire il mio bonus - sorella era un consigliere campo con il nostro fotografo.I piccoli collegamenti come quello reso molto speciale .

Per i fiori non avevo mai sentito parlare di Dahlia .Questa primavera Southern Living ha fatto un articolo su di loro e sapevo che sarebbe la misura perfetta per il nostro matrimonio .Programmi

- sapevamo che sarebbe stato caldo e quindi pensano i fan sarebbe una grande idea .Erano - tranne per il fatto che li assemblaggio è un po ' più difficile di quanto avevamo previsto .Abbiamo avuto una festa incollare una notte e mastice usate che non attacca a tutto .E 'stato un processo di apprendimento .

mio DIY preferito .se si può chiamare così .è i registri le torte erano su .Riley e io stavamo camminando giudice una notte e qualcuno aveva tagliato un albero nel loro cortile e registri non erano stati raccolti ancora .Siamo tornati a casa e abbiamo preso il suo camion e li raccolse .Non sapevamo che pesavano una tonnellata e ha ottenuto il suo sedile posteriore super- sporco .Lavender

- mia mamma amicizia il proprietario di Urbano di erbe e abbiamo avuto solo per avere lavanda cose profumate ovunque .Il mio patrigno si avvicinò con l'idea di ghiacciato giù di lavanda asciugamani profumati .Egli può essere più orgogliosi di questa idea di ottenere la sua certificazione online per essere un ministro

Fotografia : Everest Strada Fotografia | Coordinatore: . Jasper Eisenberg | Fiori : Sprout | Abito da sposa: Bridal Boutique di Lulu | Torte : La dolciastro Chef | damigella d'onoreAbiti : Donna Morgan | Catering : Delicious Dettagli | Abbigliamento Groomsmen \ 's : Jos A. Banks | lavanda Prodotti : Urbano HerbalSprout è un membro del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Sprout VIEW
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Fredricksberg Wedding da Everest strada Fotografia_vestiti da sposa
India Chilton Jan 2012
I.  Father
A folded spiral delicately assembled, nestled in modernity feigning a place in nature. Round and round her made and found ingredients turn, creating a circle whose beginning and ending sit so close that they almost touch. Her circle extends far beyond the nest she is building, extends without shifting into her mother’s laden cycle. Bird, earth, man; at the extremities of their existences they are separated no longer. The old man’s limbs sit heavy, their frailty relieving them of the weight of gravity that had, in their youth, banished the wind. Quietly he sways, lost in the rhythm of terrestrial orbit that seems to beat louder with each passing day. I see the thoughts move about his stoic face, like midwinter ice-skaters whose tracks become his wrinkles and whose unraveled scarves are caught in the same current that graces his cheeks like a kiss. I think he must have found the answer for which I am still seeking the question. I think he must know that the feathered ***** of native energy that speed like backyard bottle rockets through the air and pull worms like loose threads from the fabric of our mother’s coat will see morning’s glory blossom, and drink of its sweet nectar, and that he will become those flowers and breathe their roots up from  humid soil. I do not know where he goes when his eyes close like the wooden shutters that will soon be taken from the old brick house’s covered windows to close over a more somber cradle. I know when I mimic his tacit gesture I am in the singing robin’s nest at which he so tranquilly gazes, crying to the universe from the raw cords in my fragile neck for nourishment, for some magical substance, some divinely instructive stardust that would explain to me why the leaves shake just so and why, when our brilliant star hides his smoldering stare behind curved lids, I follow suit. I am new and unrefined and awake, and I can count the days of my existence like my still-wet and vital feathers that are too young yet to catch the wind. In this place God is a burgeoning emotion in my chest that speaks to the earth’s fertility, an abundance fed by the bodies of her fallen children. I am all of this and I know that in truth the old man thinks of nothing but the glowing atmosphere that fluctuates in both temperature and hostility, but is, at this moment, swaddling his broken form like the arms of a mother he will soon reclaim. The still branches of night are so laden with stars that they threaten to snap and come crashing down on the planet that sees them only as the ripened fruit of cosmic energy. Out of the night the emancipating wings of my consciousness flourish and are carried on stronger tides to see human expiration as the agent of enduring rebirth. Flight of body and soul bridge the gap between what was and what will be, closing the circle and guiding my solemn realization to fruition. The old man sleeps amidst a shower of home and sweet ****** bird-song. The wind that fails to wake his aged form smells like beginnings.



II. Son
The man is an ocean. He is reaching out to distant shores, spreading himself so thin at the edges that people can’t see where he ends and his country begins. The boy is a buoy, caught in a tide that never stops to wonder about the things it is moving. Buoys trust the ocean because they have to, they never had a choice. The two stand soul in soul at the crossways station of anticipation. The boy is silent. “He must know the way”, he thinks. “We’ve fought this war before. It was in a dream I had. I wrapped your arms around me like a cape and gravity couldn’t tell us what to do anymore. It was raining, I thought. Now I think those might just have been your tears coming back down on me. When gravity returned that was the first thing it took. It was so easy to cry when we could pretend the distance was only physical.” In this hub of passing voices and trans-Atlantic potential fear is a wide-eyed monster pretending to be a saint, wishing to be a child.   boy leaves Siddhartha’s white and glowing temple. The temple is surrounded with iron birds like transformers let loose from the pages of his comic book, rolled and folded like a hammer in his fist. His mind is an iron kettle whistling in the dark. His changing voice walks miles with words like his father’s back pocket bullets, shouting “I loved something once. Its name was a feeling. Its hands were the way the wind feels when you’re far from home. Its loneliness was a stone tower that I’m still trying to climb.” He sings an ode to a modern ocean, oily verses of pollution and corruption sinking morals like ships to be consumed and reborn to a better earth. He calls it a lullaby. I did not hear the last note played. His father forgot to sing it before his heels turned towards the old continent.

III. Spirit
Broken colors, reassembling, slow as the breeze that wanders and mocks the stationary world. I’m caught in a metamorphosis of mind, dancing a waltz of confession towards reality. Faces have faded, have bloomed from myth to speak in mortal voices, though their tongues be made of steel. Clouds of dust, caught in stray rays of northern sun, hang low over the aquatic murk, the impenetrable field of elemental strangers, and through them appear two figures. The first, his shoulders a bit too hunched and his gait a bit to staggered to be of this last generation, traces the perimeter of the pond with a studied poise; the latter figure comes into focus as he approaches the shore. I hear him calling, asking. I know he is asking even if the language he speaks is a foreign one. He pulls from under the surface a log, bent and creased like the aged arm that reaches out to assist. I am a ghost. I observe but rest immobile as if I am alive only in essence, existing for a moment in the corpse of the past. A fly on the wall whose chiseled stones tower over this piece of eternity. There is so much of forever piled within these walls, and in a desperate search for meaning I am left to drift away on waves that crash miles above this fortress of sand and early-summer expectance. The two continue, the boy taking two steps for every one of his grandfather’s. The possibility is never brought forth that they will reach me; I am not a part of the scene unfolding, I do not hold a piece in this game. Still… the wind coaxes the breath out of my silent lips, left powerless by the immensity of the incommunicable. I’ve forgotten the boy, forgotten his red jacket and his boots that slap the mud and his legs that propel his body up and down just to hear the sound the earth makes when he lands. He is beside me. I know this like I know the location of my own two feet, currently sunk into the shaded conglomeration of dirt and fallen leaves that makes up the bottom of the inky pond. I turn and for a moment wonder if he can see me, for I am but a ghost in most modern senses of the term. But he doesn’t know that- he has yet to see death or destitution. He knows nothing of ghosts, and therefore sees me clear as the blue eyes through which he looks in wonder. Those eyes! How could I forget their inquisitive stare, whose innocent gaze stole from my image all that it could not accept, all of the melancholy reflection and grief of which it knew not. Long and long he stayed unblinking, tugging on loose threads of my being, ever unaware of their significance. Somewhere by the path-side, under trees that bow and sway his grandfather calls- his voice is heavy with a familiar tone that I am unable to identify, like the call of a bird whose name you remember only when you are asked to recall it. Old and young part, hands intertwined in their forever-dance of humanity, playing games with age and expiration, laughing at the distance as if it were only there to make the known road less hospitable. The world is still. I am a spirit, no longer a ghost, rid of darkness, at least for the time it takes to refill my lungs with the gold-spun fabric of the universe, all bluebells and stardust at this moment and forever, and exhale away.

— The End —