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"prophesying" poems
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me That with music loud and long I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed And drunk the milk of Paradise.
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Kubla Khan
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me That with music loud and long I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed And drunk the milk of Paradise.
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54
If you ever die If you ever die from me Looking at my longing eyes In guise of a mystic veil Dead drop at the twilight hours White longish fangs Of the piercing moments Will unfurl its wings of fire Setting sail in an invisible gondola At long last to carry you home To the isle of your birth Even if you ever die at all from me I will stand upon the deck of noontide All alone in my aloneness, all alone Staring vaguely at the rushing gondola Surfing invisibly away from me Tearing apart the veil of grazing mist At the twilight hours casting spell on me To diminish myself into you And with you I too diminish away From you, all away from you In a shroud of love and longing As if you never died away from me In my longing eyes for you, only for you And like The Prophet beloved Prophesying on the blue mountain From his never ending well Of wisdom depthless and deathless I will remember you as silently As the sound of scorching darkness And I will remember your heart As saying for ever to me, only to me: “A little while, A moment of rest upon the wind, And another woman will bear me." * * (The italic quotation is from Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet)
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Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
An Invisible Gondola
What guile is this, that the Inventor of Change is cruel, He invests not his ears on the sweat of the poor and helpless; Like a tyrant, he feeds sweet tears to ants for a gruel, Is he not guilty of false hope of Change to the hopeless? How is it that he's different from his own self In that he considers not the interest of the termites, And being voted in by ants, is now a Mighty elf; Is he not deceptive in his honest dealings with termites? We must change the CHANGE, for cunning is his agenda, Henceforth, must we not be enslaved in his guileful net In that he entrapped the poor ants to enrich his blender, Out of his duplicity, must we by all means be fret. Folly it was, that he promised us as Change To covet beacons of wealth, from the hopeless ants, Is he not guilty of prophesying false prophesies of Change? We must Change the CHANGE for the safety of the helpless ants. He pledged Change, but chained the CHANGE, and left us hopeless, Is he not guilty of duplicity, and sabotage of the nation's economy? None of his agenda was in the interest of the poor and helpless; We must Change the CHANGE, for CHANGE threatens the economy.
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Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
CHANGE THE CHANGE
human revelations in our sleep poses she sleeps with both arms back, murmuring,   flung over her hearing head, as if she is surrendering nightly me slip away for a few, only to find   her left hand ****** by her arm crook'd, fit to her temple, as if to bear the weighty weight of a heavy head plein des thoughts, dream-mares, tales and talks, too dense to contemplate without assistance, armed support to hold on, hold up, fighting/ accepting as a unwanted outcomes or retrying old misdeeds (no, no, oops, that’s me) stirring, she swift motions/crisscrosses her arms into an X, a human parts tiara atop, on blond tresses, that fully messes any remaining daytime efforts and her nighttime wild dancing^ no one reveals me, none inform on me what positions my containership adapts, adopts when my woke-guards are dismissed/released and lay unprepared to disguise my innermosts exposures ow, early am resting comfortable with a six poem-pack of slept hours on my tool belt, so far this weekend one shot fired before the day officially is belle rung and these poses thoughts are upon what my eyes alight can’t decide if knowing how I dance in the bed at night, reflationary, deflationary, worth fact facing, for this is no secret *my sleep hours are colored, admixture of moving pictures, punctuated with stills of past and future, the poses of how to greet, were greeted, withstood upheld ran from wept, murdered, faced up, faced down, go unrecorded and the poems residuals and the poem prophesying- both! fearful confessions for acts committed and foretold* Decision: I don’t want to know
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May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC
sleep poses
human revelations in our sleep poses she sleeps with both arms back, murmuring,   flung over her hearing head, as if she is surrendering nightly me slip away for a few, only to find   her left hand ****** by her arm crook'd, fit to her temple, as if to bear the weighty weight of a heavy head plein des thoughts, dream-mares, tales and talks, too dense to contemplate without assistance, armed support to hold on, hold up, fighting/ accepting as a unwanted outcomes or retrying old misdeeds (no, no, oops, that’s me) stirring, she swift motions/crisscrosses her arms into an X, a human parts tiara atop, on blond tresses, that fully messes any remaining daytime efforts and her nighttime wild dancing^ no one reveals me, none inform on me what positions my containership adapts, adopts when my woke-guards are dismissed/released and lay unprepared to disguise my innermosts exposures ow, early am resting comfortable with a six poem-pack of slept hours on my tool belt, so far this weekend one shot fired before the day officially is belle rung and these poses thoughts are upon what my eyes alight can’t decide if knowing how I dance in the bed at night, reflationary, deflationary, worth fact facing, for this is no secret *my sleep hours are colored, admixture of moving pictures, punctuated with stills of past and future, the poses of how to greet, were greeted, withstood upheld ran from wept, murdered, faced up, faced down, go unrecorded and the poems residuals and the poem prophesying- both! fearful confessions for acts committed and foretold* Decision: I don’t want to know
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48
What has become of my lost brothers? Trimmareus, the insane voice of the sensual pig,      who fled from his blue mural      to the land of jazz and muffaletas      only to discover the senselessness of clothes... Peter, the pine tree apostle,      who paved the way to indifference      on a needle point, silently      prophesying the burning of Atlanta (in Atlanta)... Time Crisis, the first disciple of      the salt or pepper Antichrist,      who physically assaulted his mind      in an attempt to defy gravity,      finally settling for three      squares and a cot... Amante, the disturbed and uprooted lover,      who, by some accounts, fancied      urinating in the face of his      keepers. All of these brothers have fallen, cherub wings or no, and the meek are left behind in quiet speculation of our vain attempts to ***** out these small campfires of insurrection. We have taken the low road, carrying our hearts in wicker baskets and our monkeys on our backs, spitting and cursing about time love money *** school work life the safety bar money *** violence apathy love and time when we discover we do not have the ones we feel we need.           (do you want peace?) We cried over the death of the apostle knowing he had martyred himself for no particular reason, and after vilifying his role and path, attempted to follow his lead into the night regardless           (I make peace.) We vomited on the lover's dossier in response to repeated professions of innocence and conspiracy at the hands of the merciless system (created by sensuous hands). The outsiders can see the dragon, rising out of the depths and whispering our demise like sweet nothings in the ears of the desperate hopeful;           (Come and be free in my sunshine.) the beckoning of the crashing surf and the beauty of the half sun radiating and filtering our reservations into happiness at the acts we commit in its name           (Sacrifice to me your children's tongues and hearts,                send them away bleeding and crying.) We are the pure of heart in this sick land of Golgotha, where the rain is only the urination of our higher powers, the soap we cleanse our souls with and witness to others so that they too can enjoy this ancient bliss.           (Visit my website and see...)
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Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
Chrysalis
What has become of my lost brothers? Trimmareus, the insane voice of the sensual pig,      who fled from his blue mural      to the land of jazz and muffaletas      only to discover the senselessness of clothes... Peter, the pine tree apostle,      who paved the way to indifference      on a needle point, silently      prophesying the burning of Atlanta (in Atlanta)... Time Crisis, the first disciple of      the salt or pepper Antichrist,      who physically assaulted his mind      in an attempt to defy gravity,      finally settling for three      squares and a cot... Amante, the disturbed and uprooted lover,      who, by some accounts, fancied      urinating in the face of his      keepers. All of these brothers have fallen, cherub wings or no, and the meek are left behind in quiet speculation of our vain attempts to ***** out these small campfires of insurrection. We have taken the low road, carrying our hearts in wicker baskets and our monkeys on our backs, spitting and cursing about time love money *** school work life the safety bar money *** violence apathy love and time when we discover we do not have the ones we feel we need.           (do you want peace?) We cried over the death of the apostle knowing he had martyred himself for no particular reason, and after vilifying his role and path, attempted to follow his lead into the night regardless           (I make peace.) We vomited on the lover's dossier in response to repeated professions of innocence and conspiracy at the hands of the merciless system (created by sensuous hands). The outsiders can see the dragon, rising out of the depths and whispering our demise like sweet nothings in the ears of the desperate hopeful;           (Come and be free in my sunshine.) the beckoning of the crashing surf and the beauty of the half sun radiating and filtering our reservations into happiness at the acts we commit in its name           (Sacrifice to me your children's tongues and hearts,                send them away bleeding and crying.) We are the pure of heart in this sick land of Golgotha, where the rain is only the urination of our higher powers, the soap we cleanse our souls with and witness to others so that they too can enjoy this ancient bliss.           (Visit my website and see...)
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69
I’m sorry for the little hidden things I’m sorry for the secrecy and shame I’m sorry for waking up too late I’m sorry for not prophesying the pain I’m sorry for this apology
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Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 8:10 PM UTC
I’m sorry
{ “Awareness : He began to decipher the instant that he was living, deciphering as he lived it, prophesying himself in the act of deciphering the last page of the parchments, as if he were looking into a speaking mirror.” - Gabriel Garcia Marques } _________________ Mirrors of Mercury Who is Shams and who Rumi                                                           is like asking who is fork and who knife when apart they sing not a single song to nourish blood with versal love mercurial reflect                                                                                                                                            Who is mirror and who reflection                                             Is that me ? I ask you                                                                       watching your slender bones                                                 move in soiled leather boots                                                               wild slow eyes reflecting YES !                                               when maiden across the room                                               gives wicked laughs of NO !   mercurial translate                                                                                                                                                                Who is this dissident beret alongside the chair ?                             Is it self ahead on a future road .....                                                   will someone stroke my back                                                         give ear, lip or cheek                                                                                   urging body to be young in                                                   takkies and snazzy jacket ?   mercurial question goals Aah ! Poetic Mirrors ! inking reciting assessing                                                               give respite from a million images of Self  as I circle an unveiled Flow of Fate                                               fully awake to naked                                                                       poet mercurial observe catalytic soul Copyright © Ghairo Daniels | 2017
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Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 4:59 AM UTC
Poetic Mirrors
{ “Awareness : He began to decipher the instant that he was living, deciphering as he lived it, prophesying himself in the act of deciphering the last page of the parchments, as if he were looking into a speaking mirror.” - Gabriel Garcia Marques } _________________ Mirrors of Mercury Who is Shams and who Rumi                                                           is like asking who is fork and who knife when apart they sing not a single song to nourish blood with versal love mercurial reflect                                                                                                                                            Who is mirror and who reflection                                             Is that me ? I ask you                                                                       watching your slender bones                                                 move in soiled leather boots                                                               wild slow eyes reflecting YES !                                               when maiden across the room                                               gives wicked laughs of NO !   mercurial translate                                                                                                                                                                Who is this dissident beret alongside the chair ?                             Is it self ahead on a future road .....                                                   will someone stroke my back                                                         give ear, lip or cheek                                                                                   urging body to be young in                                                   takkies and snazzy jacket ?   mercurial question goals Aah ! Poetic Mirrors ! inking reciting assessing                                                               give respite from a million images of Self  as I circle an unveiled Flow of Fate                                               fully awake to naked                                                                       poet mercurial observe catalytic soul Copyright © Ghairo Daniels | 2017
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36
I lie awake, listening to the unearthen trees whisper their rose petalled lies prophesying the return of my hope. Whilst the wind's mournful kisses die gracefully in a futile attempt to form the epitome of happiness.
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Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
A weather of bliss
Thou Messiah preaching Change, art thou true to thy words?  Fighting bribery and corruption yet with cheap sentiments,  Judgeth thou not thy biased - honest actions to be corrupt?  Thou that prophesied an economy of sweet change, How is it that thou considereth not the masses interest?  Inventor of Change, thy prophesied words art without works;  Even thy supporters yearn in regret for voting thee in. Is this the change that thou for long prophesied?  I yawn tears for the future of Nigeria and her unborn child.  Thou art trusted to be the man after the peoples heart And loved by all cause of thy prophesies of change, But how be it that thou art different from thine own self? Savior of the people, why art thou adamant to the peoples cry?  Thy poisonous deeds have caused much great pain and suffering,  Why not invest thy ears on the sweat of the poor and helpless? Did ye deceive the ants and termites that voted thee in to save them?  Remember thou thy words and promises made before being elected.  Thou surrounds thyself with chameleons occupying seats of filtered ambitions, Woe betide thee for thy conscience have refused to judge thee.  Art thou not guilty of prophesying false prophesies of change?  Thou that killeth the rosy wealth of the nation's pride, Why doth thou not consider the sufferings of the poor ants?  I mourn for the bitter death of the nation's sweet economy. Savior of the people, why art thou so heartless a Messiah? Howbeit in thy regime, hunger and suffering is the income of ants? The marketplace has become an ocean of expensive - cheap items, Cost of petrol waxing hot and higher amidst the harsh economy;  Savior was thy coming to destroy or redeem the helpless ants? Thou promised hope to educated ants and graduated termites,  Yet not an iota of thy prophesied promises or words art come to pass;  Chancellor of Change, judge it if thou art true to thine own self. Thou that prophesied promises, howbeit thy words art not fulfilled? Mind thee the poor ants and termites voted thee in to save them, Messiah did ye deceive the ants with thy deceptive - genuine lies? Savior thy heresies has become a poisonous venom to the poor, Wilt thou not resign seeing thou be not true to thine own words?
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Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 7:12 PM UTC
Is This Change?
Thou Messiah preaching Change, art thou true to thy words?  Fighting bribery and corruption yet with cheap sentiments,  Judgeth thou not thy biased - honest actions to be corrupt?  Thou that prophesied an economy of sweet change, How is it that thou considereth not the masses interest?  Inventor of Change, thy prophesied words art without works;  Even thy supporters yearn in regret for voting thee in. Is this the change that thou for long prophesied?  I yawn tears for the future of Nigeria and her unborn child.  Thou art trusted to be the man after the peoples heart And loved by all cause of thy prophesies of change, But how be it that thou art different from thine own self? Savior of the people, why art thou adamant to the peoples cry?  Thy poisonous deeds have caused much great pain and suffering,  Why not invest thy ears on the sweat of the poor and helpless? Did ye deceive the ants and termites that voted thee in to save them?  Remember thou thy words and promises made before being elected.  Thou surrounds thyself with chameleons occupying seats of filtered ambitions, Woe betide thee for thy conscience have refused to judge thee.  Art thou not guilty of prophesying false prophesies of change?  Thou that killeth the rosy wealth of the nation's pride, Why doth thou not consider the sufferings of the poor ants?  I mourn for the bitter death of the nation's sweet economy. Savior of the people, why art thou so heartless a Messiah? Howbeit in thy regime, hunger and suffering is the income of ants? The marketplace has become an ocean of expensive - cheap items, Cost of petrol waxing hot and higher amidst the harsh economy;  Savior was thy coming to destroy or redeem the helpless ants? Thou promised hope to educated ants and graduated termites,  Yet not an iota of thy prophesied promises or words art come to pass;  Chancellor of Change, judge it if thou art true to thine own self. Thou that prophesied promises, howbeit thy words art not fulfilled? Mind thee the poor ants and termites voted thee in to save them, Messiah did ye deceive the ants with thy deceptive - genuine lies? Savior thy heresies has become a poisonous venom to the poor, Wilt thou not resign seeing thou be not true to thine own words?
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36
Louder than my voice, You have spoken in me Deeper than my longing, You have sprung eternal Beyond my foresight, You are prophesying to me After all my reason, You are unimaginable (unfolding unimaginable things) Before my expectation, You've exceeded what is conceivable In the most secret place, You consume completely And deep calls out to deep Above a kingdom's reach, Your reign overcomes Beneath the meaning of existence, Your laws dictate reality At the moment of seeking, You have sought and found Greater than my strength, You uphold the infinite (and I within it more carefully) In the fulfillment of time, You are waiting With the wisdom of ages, Your ways are everlasting And deep calls out to deep, whispering your fullness: "If there is faith, You are believed." "If there is hope, You are looked upon." "If there is love, You are reflected."
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Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
You (in memory of Clifford H. Banks, a poet)
In Xanadu did Whatsoever a stately pleasure planet decree Where Amazon, the sacred River run through Forests, measureless to Man. And here were trees tall as the sky and leopards, snakes and birds of the brightest colours. But oh! Mankind began to burn the trees, drill dramatic chasms, build walls and towers Melt the polar ice and turn the oceans into lifeless seas. So in this tumult, once, a sixty nano metre string of RNA came, invading thousands and thousands of humans and prophesying the end of our kind. A vision in a dream then I had: a simple utopia of rare device. Could we revive our lost ties with Nature we would heal our world and soul And so with voice loud and long, with flashing eyes and floating hair, I say: Hey you out there. Beware, beware!
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Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 9:02 PM UTC
XANADU
** why do the white gulls call? (everyday must have its poem)** <> the cries are intelligible, each a separate story of: patient waiting, of seas unending waving, unchanging, cycling, waiting, prophesying, propelling history, retaining a staining past, future similar... why do the white gulls call? for evening tide rapid approaching, we may even have a decent sunset, first worthy of being drunk toasted, all reminders that this ordinary Monday, has nearly escaped without an extraordinary composition, you prone position negates inspiration, so rouse yourself, rise taller tribute due, tribute demanded, tribute needed, that is why the gulls screech, fearful of lapse, that poet will suppress what is compelled, no, compulsed! the senescent days offer no excuse, indeed, the time of limitation is nigh, is here, the gulls know their history human, its lore, needs foretelling, retelling, and keeping humans come and go, but gull generations require the prescient precision of their words, to define, to record each day’s unique way of living/dying, so they can become forebears of the future, the passers down, of that they cannot exclaim well, we humans are their heroes, living close by, we carry the gulls thanks given, for skilled appreciation so they cry out, is our poem be readied, for the day’s end comes closer and* every day must have its poem!
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Jun 15, 2020
Jun 15, 2020 at 6:56 PM UTC
why do the white gulls call? (everyday must have its poem)
"Forever?" she whispered. I closed my eyes and held the bridge of my nose. I sighed, "I don't believe in forever" She gasped,  "You don't?", her eyes became watery "The concept of forever scares me, The idea of looking deep into your eyes and prophesying forever only for it to not be forever", I cleared my throat. "I don't want put us both in an emotional disaster, I'm not about building ourselves only to be the main destruction of this utopia" "I love you in a way that I have never loved anyone, you're my first" "My first kiss, my first spark, my first intensified butterflies, my first everything, I can't let a promise of forever get in the way of that, I won't and I'm sorry but I can't promise you a forever, I love you too much to sell each other dreams" I sigh "I lost my best friends to a forever, The first one committed suicide and I don't know what happened to Rhea, she's closed off, she's gone, she's all ****** up and here I am recovering from the worst kind of pain because I found you", I sniffed, clearing my throat to force the silent whimpers down.  "I'm not ready for a forever", I bowed my head. "I'm not ready to lose you", I whispered
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Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
Forever (Toms story)
*The Moonlit Aethers bleed Titanium Rays As mine Forlorn Eyes Saunter thine Porcelain Skin: Platinum Matriarch upon Swarthy Expanse reigns Azure Luminaries cascade Upon The Forested Glades of my Airy Soulwaves. Ensorcelled is that Sylvan Shrine, The Reliquary of the Starry Wish. (O, that            Loveless Blight                                   might cease) I Besought the Firmaments From Dusk to Dawn Lamenting in Dirge Of the Revenant Skies; Eons transcended yet no hand to hold The Benediction of Romance An Ephemeral Throne. The Pandemonium corporealizes Wraiths in my mind; (Perdition is Thew       The          Poltergeist's Might) Ivory Visage of the Impearled Hallows my Spirit Quells the Abyss. The Thew of Deities Purged from my veins Quaking my quintessence, I fathomed I was naught. A mere figment, An existential vagary: ~BUT NOW I SEE We are All But a Dream Clinging yearningly to the Promise of Hope (The Covenant of Ensouled Dust) Groping for Eternity, Memory, and the Lightwaves To be Vested in our pulse; For Corporeality; Ascendency To the Chrysalis of The Astral, The Cradle of Cosmogenesis: Our Cosmos, Our  Zephyr, Our Magma, Our Torrent, Our Tremor, Our Thunderclap, Our Time, Our Space, Our Nexus to Efflorescence, Our Incorporeal Sublimity~ I shall surrender to Providence of the Supernal His Empyrean Wings (An Impregnable Aegis) A Strewn Vestige once was I But the Somnolent Beloved was roused Whence I glimpsed into thine eyes. The Vagrant Loveless is resurrected Reawakened as a Doughty Knight Warring against sequestration (Until by Nirvana) Abeyance devours this blight. ~Dream        You starry-eyed wayfarers,                 Surrender sovereignty to credence              When Star-crossed                    Conspire against the Fates                           For when Elysium                                     Is your Beloved                        The Ancient of Yore                                 Shall lead you nebulous streams                               To the Holy Oracle                                       Prophesying the fulfillment                                                Of your Intemerate Hope                                 (For Love, myriads doven the skies)                                                                          Please Believe,                                                     Just,                                                   Believe in me.~*
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Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
The Cradle of Cosmogenesis
*The Moonlit Aethers bleed Titanium Rays As mine Forlorn Eyes Saunter thine Porcelain Skin: Platinum Matriarch upon Swarthy Expanse reigns Azure Luminaries cascade Upon The Forested Glades of my Airy Soulwaves. Ensorcelled is that Sylvan Shrine, The Reliquary of the Starry Wish. (O, that            Loveless Blight                                   might cease) I Besought the Firmaments From Dusk to Dawn Lamenting in Dirge Of the Revenant Skies; Eons transcended yet no hand to hold The Benediction of Romance An Ephemeral Throne. The Pandemonium corporealizes Wraiths in my mind; (Perdition is Thew       The          Poltergeist's Might) Ivory Visage of the Impearled Hallows my Spirit Quells the Abyss. The Thew of Deities Purged from my veins Quaking my quintessence, I fathomed I was naught. A mere figment, An existential vagary: ~BUT NOW I SEE We are All But a Dream Clinging yearningly to the Promise of Hope (The Covenant of Ensouled Dust) Groping for Eternity, Memory, and the Lightwaves To be Vested in our pulse; For Corporeality; Ascendency To the Chrysalis of The Astral, The Cradle of Cosmogenesis: Our Cosmos, Our  Zephyr, Our Magma, Our Torrent, Our Tremor, Our Thunderclap, Our Time, Our Space, Our Nexus to Efflorescence, Our Incorporeal Sublimity~ I shall surrender to Providence of the Supernal His Empyrean Wings (An Impregnable Aegis) A Strewn Vestige once was I But the Somnolent Beloved was roused Whence I glimpsed into thine eyes. The Vagrant Loveless is resurrected Reawakened as a Doughty Knight Warring against sequestration (Until by Nirvana) Abeyance devours this blight. ~Dream        You starry-eyed wayfarers,                 Surrender sovereignty to credence              When Star-crossed                    Conspire against the Fates                           For when Elysium                                     Is your Beloved                        The Ancient of Yore                                 Shall lead you nebulous streams                               To the Holy Oracle                                       Prophesying the fulfillment                                                Of your Intemerate Hope                                 (For Love, myriads doven the skies)                                                                          Please Believe,                                                     Just,                                                   Believe in me.~*
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88
three houses stretching from gnarly bow to      copper-greenish branch – only dropping one or two at a time      sweet seeds enough to breed tree houses a sylvan hotel on the outskirts      of town looking on the steeple of a country church – its sabbath psalms echoing painfully      on the tympanum in number two green houses hidden in summer’s glory      days to shield the men from pesky folk intent on taking aim – trying to test Josiah’s mettle and break      him into baby twigs poor houses in spirit and pocketbook      yet each armed with steely latch guarding unknown contents – at dusk the shadows of one      candle cannot reveal light houses suspended at risk of plunging      mere meters down – the common room looking after ill-fated siblings      huddling together in fear and shame glass houses no brick or mortar – under lock      and key and susceptible to the raps of Isaiah the seer’s allegations:  “and what is it you guard with fastened doors?” the arborist poses slaughter houses tremble at the shock – major      prophesying at the door’s weak and rusty hinges now wet with dishonor      and ruin and guilty sobs making a last long dirge             © Lewis Bosworth, 2013
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Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
Houses
⁛ i am a sentimental physicist. observing the gravity of emotion. noting the subtle lensing of light, as it filters passed you and distorts my star weary eyes. i must crunch the equations & check them twice before i don aluminum, endure your endless cold, & shoot for your moon.• ○. ⁂⁖ . the mass effect of you consumes. hypothesis: your spirit’s path is visible light, racing towards a cosmic wall; to decorate galactic sky as microwave impressionism. •°. . to make sense of your dark, i spend my nights measuring boundless black matter that surrounds us. enraptured by the scented skyline prophesying: jet propulsion, serenaded, and lemonade rainfall; Armageddon upon another acid planet. your pain upon the reaches still unpinned by travelled telescopes; dying technologies making me jealous of all the places where the universe sees the parts of you i am physically incapable of being. ° •. ⁖⁕ . as love moves in ellipticals it eclipses my heart, eventually. always, the awe never ceases to inspire me. invokes my muse. devote my life to translating the beauty of its euphoria into the English vernacular. ceaselessly. to release the burden of it’s memory like the sun burned into my retinas. i compose & compute each intangible equation. nuance comprises itself onto endless notations. converting numbers, filtered through my limbic system, into colloquial prose. closest words to illustration, as my cerebellum can surmise. • . •°. •. code the sentences unto my poems; my theories of everything. presenting my poetry to everyone as my thesis. phantoms obsessing my mind my only tangible evidence. am i still the only person who can see how perfect we are? the only person who sees our future written in the stars? -six pm
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Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 3:44 PM UTC
*sentimental physics
⁛ i am a sentimental physicist. observing the gravity of emotion. noting the subtle lensing of light, as it filters passed you and distorts my star weary eyes. i must crunch the equations & check them twice before i don aluminum, endure your endless cold, & shoot for your moon.• ○. ⁂⁖ . the mass effect of you consumes. hypothesis: your spirit’s path is visible light, racing towards a cosmic wall; to decorate galactic sky as microwave impressionism. •°. . to make sense of your dark, i spend my nights measuring boundless black matter that surrounds us. enraptured by the scented skyline prophesying: jet propulsion, serenaded, and lemonade rainfall; Armageddon upon another acid planet. your pain upon the reaches still unpinned by travelled telescopes; dying technologies making me jealous of all the places where the universe sees the parts of you i am physically incapable of being. ° •. ⁖⁕ . as love moves in ellipticals it eclipses my heart, eventually. always, the awe never ceases to inspire me. invokes my muse. devote my life to translating the beauty of its euphoria into the English vernacular. ceaselessly. to release the burden of it’s memory like the sun burned into my retinas. i compose & compute each intangible equation. nuance comprises itself onto endless notations. converting numbers, filtered through my limbic system, into colloquial prose. closest words to illustration, as my cerebellum can surmise. • . •°. •. code the sentences unto my poems; my theories of everything. presenting my poetry to everyone as my thesis. phantoms obsessing my mind my only tangible evidence. am i still the only person who can see how perfect we are? the only person who sees our future written in the stars? -six pm
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187
Take wanting for, abandon – and then one will begin. Who is approaching close enough to devise an entrapment will not see image clearly: him, as he will offer you a face and a hand to desolate – put a lacking so you can flinch, and a hand to brace you from it. Prophesying that a body and another body cannot be singular. To hypothesize an effort as a sharp encounter. To be given the world to know its limits when a border has been reached, to slowly unravel a form and a shape from the scope of its representative and bend a spoken dismissal precisely to generate content. To take wanting for, abandon then, so you can begin to reserve a function for the body to elope with and thin into an arbitrary.      So when you begin from an instruction, reshape a simulation so your actual body could hold you in for your yearning – to begin again, so you can abandon a want to remember how slivering a house is when two cannot be one and does not admit it so to be true – facing each morning delighted the walls each moment when together  to untangle, meeting, surprised that we have still become remainders.
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Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 6:28 AM UTC
Failures
Ads for ski resorts in Parnassus Use stock photos and puffery. Tragic Greek heroes have been reincarnated as Tragic drag lifts. Stony Dionysus, with his hilariously Small ***** laid down one day and died of disbelief. With him went epiphanies. With him went the Maenads Who once tore their own sons apart with their bare hands In the name of the shadow of their drunken god. Gone is the time of performing sparagmos in the open Or brutalizing the self-righteous prophesying. We can’t abide gleeful brutality anymore, can’t hide Our base instincts behind self-defense, can’t claim We hallucinated our children were lions, that’s why we dismembered them. It’ll be reborn. All sacred ground is, eventually, Through the eternal unimagination of our collective Unconsciousness. We never developed anything better Than the cycle of, “Look, the evil Titans came and and ate permanence Then the Deus ex Machina cut their stomachs up, saved and reassembled Our ideas personified, so that at a later date they could be Moulded into tourist traps and eaten again.”
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May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
Parnassus
it’s like that the beatles v. stones or the *** pistols v. the ramones question, i know that hendrix was pure at 27 (joining the haloed crowd fronted by the quasi back in black femme fatale), but he was simply a virtuoso, what i got was melody from kravitz: the piano and the drums, got me tapping, air pianist that i am for the drums on my collar bone, and it was all pristine blue one sunday afternoon, i stopped dreaming, ushered into a pauper artist definition, and felt more love than i could have wishbone’d, or fortune cookie’d for that matter, because i knew, there and then: the world can end with someone crucified forcing the atom bomb explosion on a postcard from 34 a.d., but only because there’s ******* and worship involved, the last man to bend the knees of others readied himself for torture admiring the pyramids hoping for a revival, and he got it, the near extinction of ourselves, tortured and crucified, instigator of celebrity culture, the posing duck-faced messiah with hands spreading and soaring across the entire diameter we call the equator. you can surely end the world, listening to the dirges of the egyptians with sympathy about how a thousand miles of living love built a monument of death, and then invert in the vortex of ***** love love that’s tortured the additive of missing jealousy - three thousand phalluses entered and one more - but still the greengrocer felt no metal on the finger readied; because who would be jealous of a ****** love when so many noble women debased themselves to ******* and false prophesying of men? let’s end it with: lenny’s my love stands shoulders above in height above any hendrix output, it is above whatever lottery wish in tremor of finger aching crossed could ever burn to with a guitarist doing crescendos in a#, or toothing the horse’s mane; ‘cos kravitz is a lyricist and not a virtuoso - as his piano signatures prove - genteel; hendrix give me your best signature rhythmic rubric! oh wait, you can’t, ‘cos so so much solo!
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Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
it's like that beatles v. stones question
it’s like that the beatles v. stones or the *** pistols v. the ramones question, i know that hendrix was pure at 27 (joining the haloed crowd fronted by the quasi back in black femme fatale), but he was simply a virtuoso, what i got was melody from kravitz: the piano and the drums, got me tapping, air pianist that i am for the drums on my collar bone, and it was all pristine blue one sunday afternoon, i stopped dreaming, ushered into a pauper artist definition, and felt more love than i could have wishbone’d, or fortune cookie’d for that matter, because i knew, there and then: the world can end with someone crucified forcing the atom bomb explosion on a postcard from 34 a.d., but only because there’s ******* and worship involved, the last man to bend the knees of others readied himself for torture admiring the pyramids hoping for a revival, and he got it, the near extinction of ourselves, tortured and crucified, instigator of celebrity culture, the posing duck-faced messiah with hands spreading and soaring across the entire diameter we call the equator. you can surely end the world, listening to the dirges of the egyptians with sympathy about how a thousand miles of living love built a monument of death, and then invert in the vortex of ***** love love that’s tortured the additive of missing jealousy - three thousand phalluses entered and one more - but still the greengrocer felt no metal on the finger readied; because who would be jealous of a ****** love when so many noble women debased themselves to ******* and false prophesying of men? let’s end it with: lenny’s my love stands shoulders above in height above any hendrix output, it is above whatever lottery wish in tremor of finger aching crossed could ever burn to with a guitarist doing crescendos in a#, or toothing the horse’s mane; ‘cos kravitz is a lyricist and not a virtuoso - as his piano signatures prove - genteel; hendrix give me your best signature rhythmic rubric! oh wait, you can’t, ‘cos so so much solo!
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43
A laureate once wrote of how earth's pale history runs, Equated it to "the trouble of ants in the gleam Of a million million suns." Frankl lived the **** curse, abused and almost killed; Yet spoke of his countrymen's sins As a father scolds food spilled. I'll neither justify or condemn actions, many or the few; My righteous judgement is saved for me, What holiness have you? Have you walked the steps of the Austrian man who took Power to avoid abuse? Lived to love the torture For which your fragile childhood shook? What god or demon lifted you from the despair you only knew, That you'd blindly follow - just for thanks - Upon the corpses your hand slew? Ideally, pundits and anchors both are true in what is spoken, Yet only the blind, the deaf, and fools Blame the builder for what is broken. Instead of pallid horror...instead of prophesying to the doomed, Maybe we can pause a second, take stock of all that's blessed, And expend a little effort to leave callousness entombed.
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Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC
Empathy Entombed
Life is like a camera, so,   We must capture each moment Like a pro, with the important Of being sweet and innocents as   We held them closer to our hearts, the eyes of her grandmothers The fingers of her father, Said its all, a princess of both worlds Our number one girl, Nyla And old saying, if we raise our children right And without spoil them,   We will not have to end up raising our grandbabies, Her mother smiles when her baby smiles A grandmother laughs out loud   When her grandbaby gurgle at her As she coo and make eyes contact, We just have to listen to find real poetry, As we make any day with Nila our favorite day, Pink looks well on her, as we capture, The beauty of an adventure future Queen, I saw adventure, I saw the colors of the rainbow,   I saw Ilene smiling in heaven, I saw prophet, prophesying,   I saw two families coming together from different world, The cool color of pink symbolizes the joy of happiness As I listen to the sound of real poetry My cousin, our sweet pea, my cotton candy,   Our baby Nila.. ,
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Jan 8, 2023
Jan 8, 2023 at 12:22 PM UTC
Nila
Long before I noticed you, you selected me, and there you set in motion a star-crossed destiny. I miss so much the playful rhythm of our countless conversations, and the spark I felt each time we’d jinx a phrase, sans hesitations. I miss the sweetness of your voice, once ever-present in my mind, and now the recollection of that reassuring rapture I cannot find. * I see you; still, I see you: I see you sitting on the outskirts of my thoughts throughout the night, and your expression is unwavering: please give up this fight. Solitary moments bring me so much fear, as I know if I thought long enough, I would bring you near. Wrapping your everything around me as my gestalt, and rebuilding us piece by piece with not one fault. I realize, in peril, I could wish you back into my arms, for I secretaried all your nuances, your soul, your charms. What joy to spiral down and acquiesce to my obsession, and spin my life around a faux-world of a secret, strange transgression. Our dialogue would resume with near perfection, and would cultivate within me that lost affection. Boxed-up artifacts and memories would produce intoxication, but once unleashed would in time transmute to devastation. My neurons and synapses were shaped by every expression of your love, and it’s now impossible to undo a decade’s etchings and rise above. * Even as the months have s-kate-d by so quickly, I now realize that during our first innocent adventure together, Emily was prophesying to me: “I love you all, everything –I can’t look at everything hard enough.” In her death, she became aware… and now so am I.
0
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
Unauthorized Resurrection
Long before I noticed you, you selected me, and there you set in motion a star-crossed destiny. I miss so much the playful rhythm of our countless conversations, and the spark I felt each time we’d jinx a phrase, sans hesitations. I miss the sweetness of your voice, once ever-present in my mind, and now the recollection of that reassuring rapture I cannot find. * I see you; still, I see you: I see you sitting on the outskirts of my thoughts throughout the night, and your expression is unwavering: please give up this fight. Solitary moments bring me so much fear, as I know if I thought long enough, I would bring you near. Wrapping your everything around me as my gestalt, and rebuilding us piece by piece with not one fault. I realize, in peril, I could wish you back into my arms, for I secretaried all your nuances, your soul, your charms. What joy to spiral down and acquiesce to my obsession, and spin my life around a faux-world of a secret, strange transgression. Our dialogue would resume with near perfection, and would cultivate within me that lost affection. Boxed-up artifacts and memories would produce intoxication, but once unleashed would in time transmute to devastation. My neurons and synapses were shaped by every expression of your love, and it’s now impossible to undo a decade’s etchings and rise above. * Even as the months have s-kate-d by so quickly, I now realize that during our first innocent adventure together, Emily was prophesying to me: “I love you all, everything –I can’t look at everything hard enough.” In her death, she became aware… and now so am I.
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28
Poet, For thyself can speak great murmurings and swelling's from thine aperture, Tis, That's easy for anyone!!! But canst thou expatiate prophesying philosophy???
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May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
ποιητική γλώσσα ( Poetic tongue) greek translation..