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The snows are fled away, leaves on the shaws
   And grasses in the mead renew their birth,
The river to the river-bed withdraws,
   And altered is the fashion of the earth.

The Nymphs and Graces three put off their fear
   And unapparelled in the woodland play.
The swift hour and the brief prime of the year
   Say to the soul, Thou wast not born for aye.

Thaw follows frost; ******* the heel of spring
   Treads summer sure to die, for ******* hers
Comes autumn with his apples scattering;
   Then back to wintertide, when nothing stirs.

But oh, whate'er the sky-led seasons mar,
   Moon upon moon rebuilds it with her beams;
Come we where Tullus and where Ancus are
   And good Aeneas, we are dust and dreams.

Torquatus, if the gods in heaven shall add
   The morrow to the day, what tongue has told?
Feast then thy heart, for what thy heart has had
   The fingers of no heir will ever hold.

When thou descendest once the shades among,
   The stern assize and equal judgment o'er,
Not thy long lineage nor thy golden tongue,
   No, nor thy righteousness, shall friend thee more.

Night holds Hippolytus the pure of stain,
   Diana steads him nothing, he must stay;
And Theseus leaves Pirithous in the chain
   The love of comrades cannot take away.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
--- as a boy, I explored a hermit's lair
--- the hermit was not there, he'd left nothing but a tin box
--- of charcoal pills, a panacea for curiosity, I was told.

This old bearded fellow who lived at the foot o'thumb butte,
by the burro's water hole,
other side o'the hill from Doug McVicar's Jasper find

Tidal shorelines from my child hood
swirling through the softed rocks

Boulders on the bottom, roll on, crustal waves rise and fall

it all goes back to that 13,000 year mark
when Gobekli Tepi,
was in the building,
long long before
the Hopis were on the Pollen Way, leaving land marks on

Rocks risen above the desert floor

Some thing came from space, something very cold,
a snowball so big it tugged the ocean of magma
through the crust of the earth

nuclear glass, same time. nano diamonds

The younger dryas-

melt water pulse, fire from the sky, men could see that, with their own eyes.
and then they saw the clouds of witnesses

Rituals learned, the story heart seeps from mother to child,

at first touch some say.

Specialized touches were included in the 2.0s.
Holistic wuwu Randall Carlson laughs, why lie? Evidence, see.

What did you see when you passed through hell the first time?
Nothing, you kept your eyes shut.

Are you really
Experienced? That was the question. Ask the experts,
but some of them lie.
Never trust their clocks, that's wise. Time is too temporary to make
much difference
in the long run. Time, least of all powers in eternity. Chronos,
Chaos shattered him, and some story teller on a journey
saw the event
while his tongue was being tamed, a task no man can do.

Fire and Ice from heaven to earth,
whole peoples saw it,
with the eyes in their head

Hope is the key to the heart's lock on reality

The younger Dryad's oak burned,
Drought killed all the others, bugs killed the elms.

Ah spirit to spirit, compare. The heart of the world is weeping
for the ignorant eaters of poisoned poems and stagnant stories

speed kills when it comes to cosmic notes on rocks

patience, under stand the canopy of heaven can, filter
poison from those
stagnant stories's idle words, redemption draweth nigh,

count on it. Keep counting, patience finishes what she starts.

Sacred Geometry, scale invariance, I saw the Mississippi
Carve meandering ant canyons in the dirt
while watching the rain
Nothing's secret anymore, that's a reality that may be beyond

your thought. Textbook in stone. I know geometry Mr. P,

can I come in? She who builds, who destroys, who rebuilds, suggested
my bombs have a Nobel role,
in energizing

the ark
the earth is the ark, but you knew that already, right.

Acacia bush visions from a medium
of messaging the master builder,
who, you know, made this
happen, used to heal with ashes.

Healing war, study it no more, it is
possible man, alone, can imagine.

The Godhead? What's the big idea? You a heretic, Mr. P?

Come and see, leave the clock/phone.
---

This is big momma story, little clay doll with pointy feet
sticks in the dirt, stares at the fire,

the story mamma, shhh

Stands, and lifts her hands up high, pointing
all her fingers to the skies where ashes, glowing
rise,
like we can imagine the stars once scattered by God
and his sons's servants prepping

origins of human conflict taught
Tubalcain by fire light, while Jubal
Sang the very umph umph song from
Taj Mahal' 1970 with Jerry, Fillmore West,

A message to Garcia, from on high:
the imbecility of the average man—
the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it,
That, resist. It is evil.

Angels, imaginable, you know, mere messages, nothin more,

so great a cloud of witnesses
there was a times when  all
imaginations men were imagining heartily
were evil, altogether.

Enki left and went to the moon, or that's the story grandma's
sisters told me
when I was a little boy lost and found from time to time

The serpent on the staff, where's that story from?
Who says their mammy saw that happen.

Time, Hosts of Heaven, time is one of those.

Fan tasty taste, see, the truth is good.

Freedom, responsible freedom, take as granted,
intend good and go.
Seed of the Dream,
I planted that. It contained this fact,

we reap what we sow.

Ambi-Dios, ambit-ion with no hope for something just beyond
the best that I have ever done,
that'll make a child mean as hell, on the average,
according to the data Google smuggled into China
through those super phones,
unavailable in the USA, protected by the wielders
of destruction who eat the world up,
and drink its very blood.

the bread of shame, is fed to slaves to keep them in the queue,

BTW que-eee was the word I used for ****, when I was a child.
I took that word to school.
Nobody knew what it meant. I considered that cool
and kept my secret until just now.

I feel so free.

A builder sees a building and the builder in a single glance.
None may enter here lacking geometry, that's no secret now.
The cultivated Pythagorean mind, simple as pi.

'Cain't get to Romans eight, which is here, now, I think,
with out going beyond Hebrew six.

The measure of a man that is the angel. No comma,
just a jot, then this means that,
to the mind
listening for mystery in beauty found lying around.,
glistening in the sun.
The charcoal pills I found fifty three years ago, these wandering thoughts I found dancing the trail earlier this morning.
storm siren Dec 2016
Your skin
touching mine
your flesh
pressed against me
the rush of your blood
and the curve of your
spine
and arch of your back
and the motion of your hips
and the crook of your neck
is where my lips connect
to your skin
and your flesh

and your heart is b-b-beating against
my ch-ch-chest
and your hands wander
and my mind wonders.

and I can feel you growing ever the warmer,
almost achingly feverish
where my thighs connect to my loving and lustful hunger.

and the world crashes and rebuild and crashes and rebuilds and crashes and falls and rebuilds and then we reach a type of beautiful and extravagant crescendo and the world slowly rebuilds piece by piece
as I collapse and crash with your lips on my skin

and I've never felt more at peace.
Ayesha Oct 2020
a metal plate inside me, ever since—

It wants an escape and so do I
— trapped, we're both trapped.
They told me it wouldn’t come out without melting
So I collected some sticks, set fire to my lungs
—the smoke came out of my lips
in shrill screams— I’m a forest

And my blood, a scared squirrel;
runs up and down my depths
with a blazed tail. burns what it licks
—the bottom of my muddy grounds
trees trunks, branches, leaves and nails.
the bridge between my brain and I

and everything shuts down—all lights go off
in the dark, only fire remains
no one dances where she does, no one lives where—

and I turn the metal sheet over
and over the flames
It heats up, it cooks and turns red
its edges kiss my flesh and he winces
— melts—
dripping into the fire—
gone—
and I turn the metal sheet over and over
It blushes but never bleeds
dry like dead leaves, but never dies
doesn’t melt, nor soften,
doesn’t even breathe—

and the flesh keeps dripping and then rebuilds
and the dripping rebuilds the fire
and the fire rebuilds the smoke—
but the metal never melts

the smoke creeps out and I let it
Someone tells me to stop the noise
but I say I never said a word—
And they tell me to stop the noise
But I say I never said a world—

and the smoke comes out and I let it
and they tell me to stop the noise
but I don’t say I never said a word.

and the metal never melts, the fire never stops
and I never say a wo—

Someone clamps my mouth shut and I fall asleep,
turning the metal over the flames
turning—still turning.
Still turning.

Turn
       ing.
and all in me screams.
                             Turning over
             and over
and
over.
      and
          
—ov
        er.

and all in me screams.
all. in. me. screams.
Pagan Paul Feb 2018
.
The forced tangent of life
became an adventure that lost
and so this shell sits on air
reflecting a balance of the cost.

There was an instant in time
where the physical held its sway,
pushing back the dark of years
and emerging into a sunny day.

But the blush of an eye moment
rebuilds a visage of ancients.
The turbulence of discord asserts
the demise and sin of patience.


© Pagan Paul (02/02/18)
.
Notebook Aug 2014
many days that memory lane rebuilds
for the matchstick, gas, and striker addict
itching for his fixture of crash-and-burn
where fire and brimstone safely heals
anxious hearts in rites of passage
carrying a dream that most hands deter
I’ll start an ember beneath the surface
and forget the reign of disdaining thrill
step firm through flames as memory lane tilts..
Jessica Leigh Apr 2014
There are
Conclusions
Beginning made in my head
And no one sees how
They twist and bend into
Every crevice of
My
Poor
Demented
Head

But that's okay
With every shifting
Thought,
My empire rebuilds
And there will be
nothing
Any of you
Could do to
Stop me...
Not even the
Parts of me that know how
WRONG
This is...
They've come out to play
And this time
Darkness
(Or light, which they fear)
Will not creep
Along the edges of
The pages.
Black and white.
No grey.
I'm either in or out.
And being out hurts
*too
****
much...
Girlie, maybe you will
See this and understand
That I'm doing
What I said I shouldn't.
Don't worry...
I'm not giving you the chance to...
Because no one
Has ever cared
To notice that
I always shut people out...
T Apr 2014
It does not take a good photograph

i would never frame such a thing

because it's beauty is not in it's looks

it does not caress your eyes

or invoke sweet words

the beauty is in the feeling

that takes your breath away

sneaks up and suffocates your heart

breaks you and rebuilds you

better
I wish it came out better
RyanMJenkins Jan 2016
Sometimes I wonder if we are really all listening
Or just too distracted with the African diamonds glistening
Sold to you by Zales, yet every kiss begins with Kay.  
Fat and lazy fast food crazy
Chasing highs blinded thinking they really have it their way

The devices in our possession finally allow us to progress as one people.  We can connect with others oceans away and together rid the world of evil.  The destructive misuse of power is felt when we see the segregation.  Responsibility has been shed for more tax cuts, when some live unsure they will make it.  Fabricated stories facilitate war - on drugs, ideas, and our collective growth.  
So I must ask
When these tragedies happen, who actually benefits the most?  Making sure to add "terrorist acts" under a potential insurance claim just days before buildings imploded to dust rather than be eaten by flames, or severed with a plane.  The man who did this was named Larry Silverstein.  Interviews after he seemed cold, devoid of soul, and mean.  Arms dealers, oil companies, and bank executives, carry out these plots that are now repetitive.  Play with the heartstrings of one's own people, that think they can veil everything but I know we're not feeble, and in all these other places we're beginning to feel.
Cheney's Halliburton rebuilds nations after war decimates the ground.  Yes, let's let our pockets pay any amount, grind ourselves 45 hours a week so with our taxes they can play around.  Still staying stiff in the position promising your wishes will come true.  But again the scapegoat ***** your hope of political action bringing something new.  
While blowing ourselves away the frame becomes unglued.  This cancer is man made and he wants to redesign you. Analyzes with the force of a brute. Built tall walls with his flaws that only allows the seven deadly sins in.  Will he in his mind ever decide to see the sun again?  Can he really say that to himself he is a friend?  Meanwhile a governor of Flint, Michigan is okaying lead be let in to the water system, 9,000 now are poisoned.  We're talking families complete with children.  Speaking on topics like this, I do not have fun.  But the divine needs to shine wherever necessary.  If we don't speak now we could head into a reality that's only more scary.  No more families buried until they carry out their long lives.  I will honor Mother Nature and the life she provides.  As the Amazon depletes, the air needs more trees.  Less chemicals drifting into our systems as we eat and breathe.  Fearlessly pure we become free.  With eyes on the skies we leave our feet, articulated honest advancement.  Through conscious choice and proper management.  
No one owns you or where the lands currently sit, but you'll probably hear different from the government.  

We are all one, and life will go on.
Sun shines on our land every day at dawn
Balances created keep our hearts in motion
Close your eyes and see the focal point of your devotion.  Music gave me a way to see inside there lies the potion - to take my emotion and share the reflections to other oceans
Tomo May 2015
Worlds shaking
Hearts breaking
Iniquity razing
our reality

The castle with
lonely halls
desperate calls
for holy hands

Frustration breaks
your stained glass
pieces of beauty
forever despised

As worlds shake
and hearts break
forgiveness rebuilds
the castle stands still
Allen Smuckler May 2011
Tonight is the night we all dread and fear,
     because of the tensions arisen by them.
Who will be next and who will see me in the
the mirror of the dungeon...
Who breaks it down and rebuilds
       when it ends with the sound of a clatter?
We speak of the danger and peril of fate to
decide on life.  Who wants to know the
meaning  of sounds, the
meaning of love, the
meaning of hate.
Who can pretend to know;
when pretending ends with a clatter...
     Send the village a card addressed to Bill.
He knows the feeling I speak of.
The peace in my mind,
the love in my heart
the spirituality that,
         ends with a clatter...
No one can tell a person in distress;
one who feels with emotion and
confusion.
Confusion of what?
I wish and oppose to know.
I want and I fear the knowledge.
I receive and I squander the thought of love.
But as always fate shows the upper hand;
and by the fury of all mankind,
ends with a clatter....
Copyright, February 24, 1968
This was my gloom and doom period where poem after poem contained the same theme(s) of death, destruction, and finality.  Also, the Bible played a big part in my poetry though I wasn't a religious person.
All the words to my heart they bind,
The chemicals are out of sync,
Chopped down broken link,
Stopping all my flow and show,
The poetic words fight into the pen they go,
All being smoothing to one tone,
Facade of stone,
A genius drone,
Emotion built bone,
Cold mountain air that's dead,
Foundation crashing down like lead,
The tower has seen is day,
The castle rebuilds in order to stay,
The colours flash in a magnificent array,
JJ Hutton Jun 2016
I.

I lay beside the canals in Esmeralda, city of water.
For hours a shadow and an oar and a boat approach,
and in the distance unseen girls hum a melody,
a melody not wholly unlike the sound of the lapping waves.
The sun rises and sets in a matter of moments.
My skin crinkles, molts, regenerates as fresh
as a babe's. I think of father, of mother, the words
not the people. My hands move now on their own.
The left points to the Saint Cloud Bridge and I say,
Saint Cloud. I'm in my body but outside it. A little god.
A deliberate historian. I record everything.
I think I always did. My right hand waves
to an acrobat on a clothesline. Behind
the acrobat a small stucco home crumbles
and rebuilds itself. My right palm
covers my mouth and I kiss it.
The veins running down my arms
appear to be filled with different colored inks,
reds, blues, greens. A shadow and an oar and
a boat approach, closer, closer.
A single swallow flies above the water, dipping down,
wetting the tips of its wings, climbing upwards over the
balconies, the rooftops, the sun setting, the sun rising,
blessing its flight. My right hand traces my uneven
and ever shifting face. What did I look like as a boy?
Did I have many friends?

II.

The shadow offers his hand, eases me aboard
his small boat. We push off back the way he came.
He says a few words to me, the
only words exchanged on our long journey:
I used to live in the city, he says. It nearly
drove me mad. I moved to the country.
I cultivated a garden. I installed a wood stove.
This was healthy.

III.

A small delight, to watch the shadow
command the oar, the grace in it.
I think of a woman's dress. I think
of the word rustle. I feel the word rustle.
My left hand points to the shoreline.
Spanish moss hangs from a bald cypress.
I say the word, Fire, and the Spanish moss becomes
engulfed. I say, Stop, and everything
stops, even the sun. Its position makes
me think the phrase six o'clock. While
Esmeralda, the city entire, is locked
in my rule, I step out onto the water.
I find I can walk across it. I know the
city's name, but I'm not sure I ever lived
here. The blades of grass feel foreign
on the soles of my feet.

IV.

Four has always been my favorite number,
I think. A lightning bug emits a flash of green.
It is the only creature unstuck and I follow it.
It leads me through a snow covered valley,
through a yellowed wheat field, through
a suspended dust storm. I brush away the particles
and they drop to the cracked earth.
I'm in a desert now. A woman sits with her legs
crossed. I sit with her. I feel the urge to tell her
a joke. It's apparent. She feels the same urge.
We both try to get the words out, but we keep
laughing, our minds rushing to the punchline.
Before we finish our jokes, we die. We decompose.
We turn to skeletons, our bony mouths full of ash.
We're born again, our joy and humor now with a depth centuries old.
We laugh, death much easier than we'd expected.
We try to tell the jokes again. The cycle beings and ends and begins.
The lightning bug insists that we move on.

I'm led to a gate. Guarding the gate is a girl
with a red ribbon in her yellow hair.
I ask if I can call her maiden.

I can almost see through the girl.
Rolling hills and a crystal stream
serve as her backdrop just beyond
the gate. She summons me with
a gentle wave of her hand.
I lean down. She kisses me.

You're my first kiss, she says.

I hope I'm not your last.

She takes my hand and insists we walk backwards.
The ground is uneven, my feet unsure.

There's an old saying I'm sure you know, she says.
The definition of madness is doing the same thing
and expecting a different result. This applies to more
than recurring bad decisions. It applies to death.

What are you saying? I've been expecting a different death?

You've been expecting a different consequence of death,
but you keep dying the same way, the girl says. Watch me.
Be curious. But say no more. Don't diffuse death of its
wild alchemy.

We walk backwards through the gate.
I want a secret, something
the girl doesn't know about me, one
dark moment to add dimension. But
the thought lurks that she knows
more about me than me. Time speeds
up. Day turns to night. Snow feathers
down. Backwards we walk into empty
homes, into dry riverbeds, into the unknown.
We begin to fall. From what, I'm not sure.
To where, I'm not sure.
The girl grips my hand tightly.

When will I know that I've died?

Shhh, she says. No words. Only wonder.
Joel M Frye Oct 2014
I will grasp the will to write,
To search my finite vision's span
And find some words for our delight.

Using energy to fight
My body's battles, when I can
I will grasp the will to write.

Shining darkness into light,
Spirit raises up a man
To find some words for our delight.

Simple structure's levered might
Rebuilds a level place to stand.
I will grasp the will to write.

Poems don't bring all things aright,
Just perspective and a plan
To find some words for our delight.

My search for beauty, glowing bright
Will not be taken from these hands.
I will grasp the will to write
And find some words for our delight.
But a quick note of defiance from a wounded bear.
NicoleRuth May 2015
I knew exactly who my husband was going to be
In 6th grade
Daniel Radcliffe star of harry potter
Heart throb of all tweens
We definitely were destined
He was my first true love
One I prayed for every day

Yet as I grew up
Puberty changed things
Love changed
He was now skinnier
Indian
And got beat up a lot
Love needed my protection against bullies
But could always blow my mind with new music
Love wasn't the smooth talker his brother was
And was too shy to hold my hand
But made a permanent seat for me in his soul
Board exams ended and love left me

Only to surprise me once again
Love was fairer now
More childish than before
Love's hair was shinier than my own
And knew none of my 80s songs
Love taught me to doodle
And found pleasure in small pranks
Love never took anything seriously
And always had time to show off

With another round of board exams
I deserted love this time
The pain of being the other one
Far to great to bear
Far greater to forgive

Soon enough it was time for college
As I walked into class full of nervous excitement
There sat love on the first bench
The newest version
A skeleton of the past
Filled with new words and strokes as cover
Love was more different now
Quieter than before
Preferring the company of nature than those he ****** called his own
Love was sweet and thoughtful
But could never open up his heart
Love knew where this was going
But ran away from it in fear

And so love stayed away
For almost two years
Lust slowly tried to take its place
Stealing bits I only saved for love
But I banished it away
Its dark presence my once insecure heart no longer needed

And finally
Just like that
Love stepped in once again
In an avatar I'd never seen before
I almost didn't recognise love
As it stood before me
Scars and happy memories mixed in his tears of insecurity
Love wasn't strong enough
And always needed my assurance and trust
Love was the smartest man I knew
Whose loved verbal bouts dripped in sarcasm
Yet love managed to save my soul
From the depths of dark evil
Pulling me out ****** into the sunlight where we lay naked
Healing our broken pasts
Love contradicted me in every way
His emotions and affections a conflicting paradox I couldn't untangle
But in the end love, could not handle emotions
Love walked away dumping all his promises into the sea with the remains of our friendship

And I realised
I did not know what love truly was
It came and went in so many different forms
Never the same
Never the boring
It walked in the door arms filled with happiness and possibilities
And walked back out soon enough
Leaving a cold silence behind

Love is a contradiction
Of everything we believe in
Remoulding our perspectives
Like a soft ball of clay
It breaks and rebuilds us
With every fated visit
Destroying and creating newer versions
Of ourselves
Stronger versions of ourselves

Maybe this is what love was destined to be
A teacher for our souls
A soothing balm for our wounds
A definite spark to our courage
And an infinite universe for our imagination
Reina J Morris Jun 2013
That’s why I love him!
Because he makes me calm down,
Gives me hope, and rebuilds my faith.
He carries me up a mountain to let me breathe
The clean air, and shows me that life itself
Can be that same clean air – its metaphor!

He closes my eyes and awakens me
To a new life, and tells me that
Everything will be alright.
He’s the blood that runs through my veins
And makes my heart pumps loud and hard;
Food for life – its metaphor!

That’s why I love him!
Because he puts me first, never second
And for sure never last; that was in my past.
I’m the one he adores – its metaphor!
He knows that I love him, never doubts it
Because I always tell him when I’m calmed down,
Have hope, my faith is rebuilt, when my air is clean,
I wake up to new life, everything is alright, when my
Heart pumps loud and hard, food for life –
It’s all about metaphor!

**Creative Writings - Reina J. Morris
as the darkness of the
dreadful nights storm
fades into early morning
the City lays before me in ruins
trees lay sullen and forlorn
like fallen soldiers,
never to see their families again
glass from feeble house's
scatter the ground like dangerous seeds
catching in the bottom of my feet
small whips of winds push back
my soft red hair, as I stand and stare
as the city rebuilds
from the darkness back into the light
Rebecca Carter May 2013
Who am I?
Seems like lately I've had to ask myself that way too much
Why is that?
Hell I don't even know
Who am I?
I know who I was before
I know who I was during
I know who I was after
But now I, I just don't know
I know who I'd like to be:
The me before but less naive,
The me during but with my feet on the ground so I don't hurt
The me after but happier, more hopeful, more alive
Anything would be better than the numbness
I've done things the true me wouldn't be able to do
I've done things I shouldn't have yet I don't feel remorse or guilt
Who am I?
Now that I'm able to smile from my soul once again
Now that I find moments of peace and lightness
Now that I'm not miserable, not stuck in the past
Now that I feel the sun shine and warm my soul
Now, I search and grab for anything and everything
I can to resurrect some of that beauty and grace
Who am I?
Well for now I'm still trying to figure that one out
As my heart rebuilds, I will try to not break all of my morals
I'll try and try; I've failed more than once already
I still continually ask:
Who am I?
Who am I?
I'm really trying to figure it out and fix the bad. Seems like the more I try, the more I find I'm doing wrong.
Nuha Fariha Jul 2013
The problem with being 18 is
simple.
The thing is we feel too much,
too deeply, too suddenly.

Our anger is an earth-splitting motion,
Sadness a thousand and one rain
clouds dragging down
And happiness is the flight of the
new born bird
Love is the wonder of finding
a buried Easter egg.

Each day, anger strikes, sadness
rains and, on good days,
love rebuilds.

We live on shorelines ravaged
Daily and salvage
fiercely.
MS Lim May 2016
Even the weakest among us
will somehow survive
strength even thin as a straw is not to be scoffed at
it builds up to a critical mass with time--- to strive

and not to yield transforms
the most ordinary men into heroes
though unknown they thrive
and stand up to life's loneliest sorrows--

the strong have been too complacent
self-indulgence has weakened their spirit
they struggle to hold their own but sadly
they have lost their vigour and wit--

man is not born to despair
whatever the adversity be
amidst the ruins and misery
he rebuilds and triumphs in his fullest nobility.
* Vladimir Nobokov:  ...' perhaps the most admirable among the admirable laws of nature is the survival of the weakest'
Giovanna Aug 2020
I daydream for multiverse.
The entirety in reverse.
All the enimety,
rebuilds into intimacy.
A place equal to Paradise,
occupied by people with faces less than that of a dice.
Where maybe I wasn't invisible to you.
Where my existence was a little less blue.
A place where you'd love me,
and I could love me too.
A fetish for multiverse.
apollota Feb 2017
You walk through fires,
hot as Hades for the ones you hate
and swim through oceans,
cold as ice for the ones you love.
But when you're stuck at a cliff
and the only way back is a broken bridge
who rebuilds it for you?
2017-02-14
Jack Ritter Mar 2018
Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva -
sit eternally on lotuses.

Shiva loves to destroy the universe.
He has as many arms as it takes.
Plus one, to hold a mirror.

Brahma rebuilds it all as needed.
He has four heads and four arms.
That seems about right.

Sitting between Big Bang and Big Finish
is blue Vishnu,
who symbolizes energy.

Iris and Murray Klughart of Yonkers
don't symbolize anything.
Neither do their children.

All their marriage the Klugharts have saved
for a trip to the Taj Mahal.
Each one secretly fears
the other will be disappointed.

They pray their kids will have more.

Iris lights up the place when anyone calls.
Murray lights up a dreadful cigar,
sits back like a living room ornithologist,
and fully hears her song.

The creature is in full cackle.
He'll tell her about his bad MRI -

      tomorrow.

They are no one,
and their aching backs
prop up every axis,
atom,
and out-of-work deity.

Iris cries when she reads Emily Dickinson.
Iris laughs in her sleep.
Iris.

The Klugharts loved the Taj so much,
Shiva dropped his mirror.
(originally published in Red River Review.)
Jack Ritter  www.houseofwords.com
SG Holter Nov 2014
I love things you dislike about
yourself.
you are more beautiful to me
now than ever.

I watch your details.
discover something new about
your laugh daily.

angles, lighting, a line revealed,
a curve.

collecting every little imperfection,
seeing their whole as

perfection.

your voice soothes me.
your touch rebuilds my
confidence.

any movement you make now,
is dance.
Victoria Queen Feb 2016
The thing about Love is that it swallows you whole,
rather than taking bits and pieces at a time.
It does not ask permission,
it does not knock and wait for you to answer.

Love does not ask if you are ready,
or come at the right time;
it does not settle for
"maybe," or "almost."

Love does not rest, or
soften its grip.
It is not patient.

The thing about Love is that it
crashes through you like a wave;
it fills your lungs, breaks your bones and
drowns the cage around your heart.

Love destroys and rebuilds at once,
and I'm not sure whether to smile
or ache.
Caroline Oct 2012
Morning sunshine mourns of an old age
A past time that lurks in the shadows
of his bewildered heart, trapped in a cage
The light sets upon the empty bottles
Darkening the depths of his gaunt less rage
Dripping through the window ceil,
the light glows upon the purple sage
The dust casts the lining of her
As his tears bleed along the page
The past rebuilds itself as if it were
Yesterday
Joel M Frye Jan 2011
What do I say
when a telephone rebuilds a bridge
I burnt some time ago?
What do I say
to introduce me to a stranger;
someone I already know?

It took time
to swallow pride and understand
some feelings had to end.
It took time
to set aside a love gone past
and see you as a friend.

What do I say?
I know a hundred writers
and a thousand of their rhymes.
What do I say
when all of them desert me;
I create these naked lines?

It took time
to tear you from my dreams
and once again to make you real.
It took time
to be assured that I could feel
exactly as you feel.

What do I say
when life breathes in a friendship
that had died some time ago?
What do I say?

Maybe put away my poetry
and simply say Hello.
I'm not much one for second chances, but....
(c)1978 Joel M Frye
Elizabeth Foley Feb 2012
To find, to keep the one you love
Is not an easy feat, you see.
Tis difficult to locate one
Particularly suited to thee

For though thy love be pure and true
And supposed to last you all your days
Time often shapes a different plan
Forcing lovers to part in ways

Like leaves tossed in the winter wind
So will your heart pieces fly
Revisiting the bitter, barren past
Each touch, each kiss, each sigh

Until the wind doth settle down
And the frost rebuilds what was destroyed
Until thine heart is whole again
Ice filling in each crack and void

So frozen in this time is place
You’ll find your hardened self to be
You’ll miss the coming spring
And ignore each heart stretched out to thee

To find, to keep the one you love
Is not as easy feat, you see.
Tis difficult to give a broken gift
To one who means so much to thee.
Eliza Jane Mar 2014
a city is now renewed
(like a small child taking its first steps towards a redeemed life,
humble and beautiful in its vulnerability)
this city, this late-blooming flower, known to all as one worthy of the highest
praise
praise to the creator of firey orange skies
praise to the ferocity of a beating heart
praise to the quiet sounds of our people rising up,
because the ruins are coming to life
now watch, as He rebuilds.
restores
renews
rectifies
revives.

*but.. for something to be revived mustn't it first be dead?
non-fiction. a response to an image.
Micheal Wolf Jun 2015
Overun, past the max
Taken in to much, tipped the stack
All went well till the last straw
Then there she was on the floor
Work and play got all confused
Then she hit the *****
Didn't go **** up all at once
She looked the part and danced the dance
Then the day it all tipped the balance
Now not her or even near
Her friends don't come near
But a day at a time step by step
She rebuilds the life that she regrets
Alcoholism
Destroys friends
Victor Harvelle Dec 2016
She is home,
four wheels
initials in the back
the boys call her home
she has always been there
the one thing they've always had
the eldest rebuilds her,
calls her baby
the younger falls asleep in her passenger seat
the impala is his home
she has seen the boys at their best
and their worst
And she will be there when it's over.
The feels.
Pandora dO Jul 2012
An iron skeleton
of construction.
Machinery rebuilds
the city.

Buildings rise
from the ground,
they seem to appear
out of nowhere.

Every day,
the workers go home
with satisfaction.
30/11/2011
Chapter **
Decalogue

In the absence of Vernarth's transitory, Sardinia was still burning with lilting water. Already rejoining the plasma from which he saw him depart, he continued in the liturgy with monophonic ideologies, characteristic of trance as an element of his regressive parapsychological transfiguration. Already divided into various personalities and entities, he could have almost been instructed to leave for Piacenza and join Raeder and Petrobus to set sail for the Dodecanese to expand his duties with Saint John the Evangelist. He meets with Etréstles and the participating comrades that when he arrived at the refuge in the morning, everyone was asleep, except Etréstles who was starching some sheets of bread dough for breakfast. Meanwhile, he had sacred fire heating with sacred water for everyone. Vernarth approaches and Khaire tells him, he answers, a joy to see you.

Vernarth says: Beloved Brother Etrétles, I have already taken the notations to begin the decalogue. Today in the afternoon we will board the Sailboat and leave for Piacenza. We are in the final offering. In the Izanna tower, I called upon the powers of the Universe to present them, and I was commissioned to make notations of the Decalogue of the souls that Live in all the ages of time and its vicissitudes.

Everyone starts to wake up, look at him and say hello. They sit in a circle to enjoy breakfast. Meanwhile, outside the shelter, the horns felt moving to the rhythm of the minutes. In such a way, that the last sound of the Doric scale that the storm segregates, will provide the beginnings of each one of boarding the float that will take them to the pier of Cala Cogone. Everyone says goodbye and hugs each other, Vernarth and his brother says Khaire.

Decalogue I                  
Hanael
                                      ­      
Generosity transformed into a crowd. Many stones co-exist emanating the sweet energy of Hanael, and among these is the Onix, known as the stone of truth. Whose objectivism was dreamed of the Value of generosity in its maximum expression in the courage centered on the very vibration flower of the Gerbera, along with its sober goats of the reign of the heights? Hyperkinetic foot and ascension to spiritual psychic growth, which is the real emblem and symbolism of all the virtues of all the planes, the history not traced, or the memory that is mentioned.

Two unicorns alone will be reached by the ****** who will numb them with the perfume of her purity and her chastity, the reason why she will be related to the ****** Mary and the incarnation of her son Jesus by hugging them with her cloak. The Unicorn's single horn is an emblem of the spiritual arrow, divine revelation, the entrance of the supernatural into man, the sword of God, the opening of the third eye, whose vision is projected towards the ends of the angelic world. Hail Regina Sine Labe Originali Spectam.

Decalogue II
Saint Gabriel

Vernarth you tied to a tree with canvases draws himself to the Angel in his name meaning "God is my strength". According to the Abrahamic religions and Judaism. As a result, she became known as "the messenger". Angel Gabriel continues to have a role in the world, helping both parents and human messengers. Blowing the trumpet to announce the return of the lord to Earth.

In his mediumship, the Archangel Gabriel inspires artists, singers, poets, writers, and dancers, helps them communicate on a spiritual level to recover inspiration, innocence, purity, and joy of living. From which this egregious Vernarth Travel Wheel is not exempt until it is consecrated in Patmos as a sacred and lay reference of a spiritual being in gestation. From here he will cultivate the dignity and the Abrahamic mothers so that they can accept their body, awakening in the souls the scriptural power and communicating vigorous forces, which facilitate overcoming fear and lack of decision in life. Sponsoring God's messages to those who worship him.

Vernarth violates the Xiphos sword's decree to shed blood, but rather to purify the gesture of shedding Faith that cuts hopelessness. United in the Templars gripped by their fellow men of the spiritual warfare that never loses, that is always ready to the limit.


Decalogue III
Two premises

From the first two decalogues, the third is born. Both by the glow of the first reactivates the other, which is a rectilinear light that surprises the dark light that tries to invade its luminosity. At very meager kilowatts, the years that separate the times of adding more vestiges of transcending on moral exercise unfold from intertwining; in such a way that in periods of frank over-excited navigation, the energy of the spirit is advanced, only measurable by the actions and intercommunications of the Angels and Archangels.
"Decalogues / ten analyzes" Assimilations of divine inspiration, which will contain ten components beyond an enumeration of premises that expose the visions when justifying a test. This decalogue includes maxims such as "The Angel is the fundamental value of Mystical Perseverance."


Decalogue IV
Where is the North

The North: Biblical scholars have suggested that the north symbolizes the permanent or the eternal, perhaps because the pole stars could be seen throughout the year. It is the place of God's heavenly habitation (Isa. 14:13) and from where his glory descends (Job 37:22) to bless or judge (Eze. 1: 4). He is the true King of the North. But the north, represented by the left hand, is also a symbol of disaster. The enemy of God's people came from the north (Jer. 1:14, 15; Eze. 38: 6), bringing destruction. In a sense, the enemy was the false king of the north who tried to usurp the role of God and who is ultimately destroyed by the Lord (Sof. 2:12; Dan. 11: 21-45). To see resting in Faith, the north does not distract your gaze, it blesses resting the whole concept that shakes the predisposition to arise to all merit given by physical unity, which I inhabit where I will rest, and the glory has to exalt me. Whoever comes from the north bringing destruction, will crash upon him, bringing reparation for the faith that rebuilds itself. The north is an anti-magnet, preventing what it cannot distort from itself in the Christian saying.


Decalogue V
The desert

Vernarth has to consume the desert like a placid arid and inhospitable place when swallowing it. There is nothing in his hands, not even the most elementary thing found. Where you suffer all kinds of discomforts: thirst and heat, inclement weather, sudden changes in temperature, sand discomfort, deprivation, and material deprivation; not only of the futile things but also of the most necessary. It must be supplied in large baskets to serve those who cultivate and protect it. The desert is a meek sheep in periods of drought when it never leaves you.

The physical reality of the desert can be like a symbol of the imminent spiritual life: it is the place of the detachment of everything superfluous; an invitation to austerity and a return to the essential. It is there where man experiences his fragility and his own limitations; the place of trial and purification. But also the most appropriate setting for a renewed and mature search for our personal encounter with God in prayer, in the silence of the soul, and in the simplicity of the essential. It is here that every symbol, more than all its significance, is transformed into a test of loneliness beyond all abundance of Faith, without even having to support it.


Decalogue VI
Vampirism

In the behavior of the person who acts like a vampire, that society prevails that the behavior is dissociated to whoever does it and not. Many vampire souls have made a pilgrimage for good. No one has been able to exclude them from the darkness and stop rising from the dead to roam the night in a bulky black cape and use long, sharp canine teeth to bite the victims' necks and **** their blood. But modern vampires tend to encounter problems of strict uniqueness such as not being happy, believing even more than by dying to them they are more than a fatal vampire. "We are all Vampires in eternity who deal with darkness and light, fear and courage."
Vampire in Sardinia is drinking the same blood and sprinkling it on the earth that nothing conceals or prescribes sin. Then a child appears, picks up the flower that germinates right there, and the cycle begins again.

“When I train myself in writing saying who I am, I only receive from the purulence of the multitudes, in centuries by centuries, not finding a basis to answer me. They say they do not know what to answer because there is no content that compares to those who have no Age, Life, or compassion. That I only have to communicate with the Strigoi messenger articulated with the souls of the dead who come out of their graves at night to terrorize the neighborhood. That it is the same as I condemned to sail and swarm the World of the Nosferatu aristocracy, a survivor of all human vanity, in all the empires of the World believing to live thousands of years without knowing who helped me, because few give me the option of giving what good of me ”


Decalogue VII
Holy incense

I breathe humid air from the superior deities; they opt for my forehead, as practices that replace those that are detonating to expel theirs. Rain of aromas alter or renew low-voltage emotions for high gods, like the Egyptians who used the most precious varieties of incense. These incense craftsmen, in the times of the Pharaohs, knew all the secrets for making high-quality incense. It has been verified that in some of the precious vessels found in the funeral chambers of Tutankhamun, they kept hundreds of kinds of incense that have still retained their magnificent aroma through the centuries. On Sheesham's bunk beds of fire. Wood and Incense with ultra sensory olfactory powers, to design elemental and supernatural hearts, to house and be adaptable to hyper-connectivity. In the Hindu religion, akasha is the foundation and essence of all things in the material world; the first palpable and concrete material element created by the god Brahmá (air, fire, water, earth are the others). "Here he sleeps without waking up when the morning doesn't wake up, and sleeps when the night doesn't get dark"


Decalogue VIII
Mythology

As mythology, it is called the set of myths typical of a people or culture. Myths, for their part, are narrations starring gods, heroes, or fantastic beings, who explain or give meaning to certain events or phenomena. The word, as such, and this in turn from the Greek μυθολογία (mythology) . Mythology, in this sense, is made up of the set of stories and beliefs, relatively cohesive, with which a people has traditionally explained itself. its origin and the reason for being of everything around it. Hence, we can affirm that mythology shapes the worldview or belief system of a culture. Vernarth from Sardinia where he never thought he was undoubtedly opens up belonging to this place more than the hundred millionth essence of his Being. It unites all the elements that melt together the liquid, aqueous, physical, gaseous, and aqueous., To form the mythology of a true verb of a parapsychological regression, like a great condiment that every mortal lacks as opposed to an immortal.
Alikantus paradigm of Alikanto on his astral journey just three days after climbing in Gaugamela...! The corners of anxiety buzz after lightening their igneous hooves by the slippery stones of the footsteps that seemed to be the same projections of their tasks that marked the Tracian soil before arriving at the request of their harangue. He resorts to Medea, before arriving in Thrace after wandering around different places in search of protection and advice to protect his master Vernarth. While He was submitting to his last opioid libations of vivid liliaceous from angiosperms encapsulated by his right pectoral. That was Alikanto's missive. Ask Medea for a potion so that she can supply her master to deflate his breastplate, and thus be able to use his Panoply breastplate in combat since there were three days left for the duel. Medea arrived in the city of Athens on a stormy day with great dark Dantesque gray on the palm of the cliff, previously escaping near the Abdera cliff, whose east was evacuating black poetry,.


Decalogue XIX
Falangist

As a tactical organization for war created in Ancient Greece and later imitated by various Mediterranean civilizations. ... The term is of Greek origin, φάλαγξ (phálanx), which was used for the defensive formation used by the Hoplites, who constituted the classical phalanx.
Almost at dusk over Zeus's beards, the Vernarth Phalanges begin to arrive. The Macedonian Phalanx or Macedonian Phalanx was an infantry formation created and used by Philip II, and later by his son Alexander the Great in the conquest of the Persian Empire. The Macedonian phalanx arose, in fact, as a response to the tactical modifications that the Theban strategists, Epaminondas and Pelópidas of ground forces, developed in the early 4th century BC. C. to oppose the superiority, although already decadent, that the Spartan hoplite formation had exerted in the land combats between the Greek cops until that date.
Nothing depresses me more than not delegating others as if they were my Falangists, making them participate in defending themselves against all disadvantages and worse punishment with the Panoply armor, a superb protector of those who has no defender. "God is my Breastplate, his Gospel protects me by never being damaged"


Decalogue X
Lepanto

Where I have to shelter, says Vernarth, hostility haunts me. Beautiful landscape that is swayed between the rushes of good that tries to be less bad. Policy judgments, how close to marketing peace, and so far from founding true poetry. Still, Vernarth crossed the waters and their customs. From Lepanto, Greece. He appeared exhausted with his eyes reddened by the gassed atmosphere that greeted them in Battle. Of whose intraterrestrial castes it was the one that was in his iron spirit and reappeared in his cape as a gesture of his personality. He arrived cracking the ****** floors of Tel Gomel when he arrived ... he was assaulted by a soldier who asked for mercy to extend his bad fortune. Lepanto is a pre-military senatorial seat, and a great preparatory to the charms of the drama of my duties that will be in Patmos, never-ending dramas.

Falangist: With his helmet in his hands and the Dorus on his cloak on the ground tells him; every single thing I tried the double edge of my sword stained him. The top sheet notified me that my family in Kalidona was in a state of irregularity since my two older children were called to serve in the militias. And the second edge of my lower Dorus I bow before the meanest preciousness of that of observing with a good spirit to cooperate, now with the callousness of my soul that overcomes it exploiting and dragging my wife as easy spoil. I know that my descendants were buried under the effect of the cataclysm of Pompeii in the future. All will emigrate and then flee when they are devastated and the unwelcome comrades return to reintegrate into the Santa María festival. The Patron Saint who consoled me, but prepared me for the resistance of such bad fortune, that one day she would let herself fall with my crops in the culture of peasant angels in fruits and devotions. I sobbed and sobbed rubbing my animals through my empty eyes day and night. They did it next to me, with the singularity of not affecting me; they went to the nearest stream to sob for me so that I would not be affected by the fatal annihilation.

Epilogue
Patmos and Saint Gabriel

Once installed with the vision of visionary brotherhood that characterizes its filial union with Reader and Petrobus. It will begin in its mediumship with the Archangel Gabriel who inspires artists, singers, poets, writers, and dancers, helps them communicate on a spiritual level to recover inspiration, innocence, purity, and joy of living. As an input of character to validation the function of the Troubadour, Juggler, or Visionary. If it were not for the written and not musical notes, nothing would be more than a vision of being closer to almost hyper-reality, established by the prophecies as historical and religious support. With this last decalogue, Vernarth establishes that one in the work of oneself remains the summary of the prototype of the work. And from the work, the summary that allows the common man to be erected, who in his free will, does not deny, but rather power his unshakable satiety of science in his prostrated soul, under the key of dogma and questioning?
Hildegard Von Bingen has sparked the interest of many scholars, mainly because it seems to contain a major contradiction with respect to the rest of his statements about his visionary experience. In that absence of ecstasy that characterizes the visionary experience of Hildegard von Bingen, It also figures the fundamental difference that separates it from its contemporary Elisabeth von Schönau, and some scholars based this fact to deny it a mystical character and grant it the attribute of prophetic. The attention of this specific passage obeys its comparison with Saint John the Evangelist. The understanding of itself seeks a model, a referent, whose wide field of meaning has to be reconstructed in order to restore the full meaning of this statement. The analysis will stop at the following aspects:

1. In the gesture through which Saint John is shown, and by which Hildegard associates herself with the evangelist and, as we will see, according to the identifications of the time, with the beloved disciple of Christ and with John of Patmos, the author. of the apocalypse.

2. Hildegard's identification with Juan de Patmos will lead us to a comparison of both visionaries focused on the modes of their representation.

3. Finally, the content of the images will be reflected on from an example, hoping that all of this will be concluded with a sharper profile of Hildegard von Bingen's visionary experience.
Vernarth says: “I wander from the stony ruins in Sardinia, to go in search of those who gave rise to themselves. When I thought about believing to create them, they presented themselves to me as a whole that prophesies Creation. ”
DECALOGUE  VERNARTH
Laokos Sep 2020
folding the sirens of
eternity in on themselves
as this scant hour
rebuilds its stage
over and
over
in the light of my eyes

already there is a perception
of being caught
in a loop - of a lesson
playing out
before a malady
of ignorance

i am free to see it
and i am free
to miss it

it is the long
breath
of the breaching
whale - an exchange
of currents for
the transformation of
sky into
ocean depths

it is
the
hidden union
in transience

recurring
in beautiful
obscurity
Camryn Claud Dec 2013
Heartbreak isn't a slow process
First come the aches
Aching
Aching
Aching
Until the first crack appears
Then another
And another
And another
Until there are too many to count
Your heart practically screams for relief
Squeezes out its misery in the only way it knows how
It cracks one more time
Then shatters
Splinters pierce your soul
Changing you
Reshaping you
Until you are no longer the same
It never mends
Never rebuilds
It simply waits
For someone to create another cast

— The End —