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Claire Elizabeth Aug 2014
Dear J,
   I may be at a loss for words half the time, and the other half I might have too much to say, but I can almost always say this; I love you. I have felt fear and I have felt bravery and I have felt loss. I can look pictures of us and I can recall everything we did that day. I can listen to videos of you and I can tell what you felt. And I know that you didn't think I was paying attention, but I knew how you looked when you thought something was unfair. And I knew the look in your eyes when you saw the light just right in a sunset and you knew that nothing could ever be recreated quite like that. I felt the same way about you.
   Wherever you are, know that loving someone isn't a matter of feeling something or not feeling something. It's a matter of knowing what you're feeling and when you need to let go.
   I think that people know that letting go involves unfurling your fingers and watching something fall from a great height. It's the act of following that objects downward motion that gets to us. That once it meets the ground or whatever surface it is deemed to hit, it's gone. What was there is gone. And once you think about that you think of what could have been there. That one last touch, that one last feeling of bliss that comes with knowing that the moment you wake up the sun will be shining in rivulets through fingers that tangle in hair fresh off the pillow. It's sad to know that nothing like that will happen again.
   The sun won't shine the same way. Instead it may simply fall. It won't cascade, it won't flow over the edges of noses or smiling lips. It's the same way water may lose a stone from a riverbed and from there on after it doesn't run quite the same way. But another stone, another pebble will fall in place because replacement happens.
   I guess what I'm trying  to say, is that letting go is letting someone else take a spot. In order for something else to happen you have to let your joints move out of their grip and unfold from their hold on something that wasn't meant to be held by you anymore.
   Sometimes you have to let them land somewhere new.
I only hope that it's somewhere even more beautiful than before.
            Claire
Amitav Radiance Aug 2014
So many colors on nature’s palette
There are many moods and emotions
Picturesque gallery of many paintings
Forever framed in the travelers mind
Masterpieces cannot be recreated
If we only hold onto black and white
Immerse the soul in nature’s color
Many shades will color the spirit
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2015
A Birthday Poem for Sally B:
what-matters-can-neither-be-created-or-destroyed

~~~

the principal thing about principles,
like the concept of time,
that in time, with time,
they come to reflect our
immutable essence's own best reflection,
come only, round or square
come only, too little too late
come, too much too soon

so the simpler, the better,
so the matter
of what really matters
needs capture in some
capsulated summary form,
a daily vitamin for the soul

so I thank you for
the gift
of your birthday,
the anibersaryo of a day of naissance,
this one solo, kakaiba,
among the many,
a present presented to the world

*so on this particular day,
we must thank you
for the wonder of wonder
that justifies existence,
for what truly matters

cannot be created or destroyed,

and your matter, mass,
your presence's  Grace upon this earth,
graces the hearts of thousands,
today and forevermore

this is what matters and
can never be recreated,
can never be destroyed...

~~~
Oct. 24, 2015
6:24 am
dispatched from NYC
~~~
Oct 6, 2013      October 20, 2013
The Banyan Tree (A Tribute to Sally)
I am a man, grandfather to four.
Adherent to the same religion,
Poetry.

Breathing through mine eyes,
Exhaling carbon words,
That with time and pressure become
Poems, verbal musical notes upon life.

Each motion, from tiny to grand,
A capsule of expression,
That if examined under microscope,
Familial DNA, interconnected tissue,
Discovered, tho logic says,  
Time and distance render impossible.

But this is a diamond
This is a writ to be slipped
Upon the finger, the heart, the essence,
Of the only Banyan tree I have hugged.

This poem but a fig,
In the cracks of kindness,
The crevices of caring,
It has slow germinated.

You dear, Sally,
My host,
A building upon I can lean,
When wearied spirits uproot
My surficial composure.

Your seeds carried from east to west,
By a fig wasp, a bird unknown,
An ocean voyager, of indisputable vision, strength.

This seeded messenger, word carrier,
Supplanted in me, and your pupils,
Jose-Bolima-Remillan
Xavier-Paolo-Joshh-Mandrez
Whose very names breathe poems,
in others too, like me and Atu,
Seeds to become new roots, but you,
Our Host official and forever
Planter of trees of loving kindness.

You already know with love and affection,
I call you Grandma Sally,
And when you ask, beseech,
I cannot refuse.

Together we will will banish the sad,
Acknowledge we, that life's ocean,
A mixture of many, even sad, a necessity.

But I promise that will turn it into
Something simple, something good.
For you have asked and I answer you
Right here right now - your wish,
My objective, deep rooted like you,
Like an old banyan tree,
Your roots spread far, spread wide.

So some eve, when to the beach, to the sky
You glance, smile, no matter what, troubles dispersed,
For the reflection of you, seeds, full fledged trees now,
Bending skywards, in search of your rays of expression,
Your maternal wisdom rooted, spread so wide, globally,
All over this Earth, is visible from your
Beloved Philippines.


---------------------------------------
In her own words..

I am a widow,
with five remarkable granddaughters....
all beautiful, intelligent girls.
It is such a waste not to write....
each morning that unfolds is filled
with things to write about....
the people, the birds,
the trees, the wind,
the seas,
everything we set our eyes on,
they are all
poetry in motion.
Life itself is poetry,
I always have pen and paper within reach.
My past experiences are a
never-ending source
of ideas and words for my poems....
I shall write until time permits me,
"til there's breath within me."
-------------------------------------------------
A banyan (also banian) is a fig that starts its life as an epiphyte (a plant growing on another plant) when its seeds germinate in the cracks and crevices on a host tree (or on structures like buildings and bridges). "Banyan" often refers specifically to the Indian banyan or Ficus benghalensis, the national tree of India,[1] though the term has been generalized to include all figs that share a characteristic life cycle...
Like other fig species (which includes the common edible fig Ficus carica), banyans have unique fruit structures and are dependent on fig wasps for reproduction. The seeds of banyans are dispersed by fruit-eating birds. The seeds germinate and send down roots towards the ground.

The leaves of the banyan tree are large, leathery, glossy green and elliptical in shape. Like most fig-trees, the leaf bud is covered by two large scales. As the leaf develops the scales fall. Young leaves have an attractive reddish tinge.[6]

Older banyan trees are characterized by their aerial prop roots that grow into thick woody trunks which, with age, can become indistinguishable from the main trunk. The original support tree can sometimes die, so that the banyan becomes a "columnar tree" with a hollow central core. Old trees can spread out laterally using these prop roots to cover a wide area.
Stephen E Yocum Sep 2013
Returned flush with excitement,
From a ten mile bike ride,
On a day near perfect,
Out along the river,

Temp in mid seventy's
not a cloud in the sky.

Beside the river I ride,
the water summer calm flat,
Scents of wet mossy rocks,
and dogwood trees non relenting.
The perfume of the Valley,
the River damp, sweet and pure.

Ride as I did the trails,
some on paved surface.
most on wood chips and dirt.

Shifting gears to suit the,
changing terrain and the
resources within my aged knees.  

The wind from my speed,
blows refreshingly in my face,
Dark glasses slipping down my nose,
yet keeping sun glare from blinding.

I pass some people,
I smile and wave,
they reply in kind,
Maybe we even
exchange brief
verbal greetings,
Some lost in a blur
of movement.

Easy for us all to smile,
we are happy in our work.

Half way there,
I stop for a drink,
Ease my burning legs.
The spot I pick is under  
cover of a huge old walnut tree.
It's massive umbrella shade,
an embracing sanctuary.

Across the way, a little lake,
On the far bank there stands a
metal skeleton outline of three
buildings that once stood there.
This recreated site of the first
European settlement in Oregon,
Clear back in the year of 1837.

Methodist Missionaries they
were, came overland West,
from North East by wagon.
Bringing so they thought,
Needed "Civilization" to the
poor "heathens" here about.
Almost as always a very,
mistaken, arrogant notion.

There effort lasted only
four years, the locals
responding not so well to
their well intending invitation.

In historical retrospect,
one can not but applaud
their self scarifies, hardship
and strife, some of them even
died still trying.

However they did open
the door, to a new beginning,
Be it for good or ill.
Soon other settlers
made the long journey.
Becoming "Oregon Or Bust"
for many.  

As I reflect sitting beneath
this tree those early people
no doubt planted,
from seed or sapling,
brought so far to this
new land of beginning.
It stands here still,
176 years later,
a wonderful living,
still growing testament
to human efforts of trying.

The breeze livens,
stirs sweet pungent
scents of brackish water,
forest, and Valley,
hints of crocus,
ripe black berries and
summer flowers blooming,
All these scents mingle,
and grow ever stronger.

Off in the near distance,
a strengthening breeze whispers,
Approaching through forest trees
coming ever closer and nearer.
Reaching me in a refreshing
gust that lasts for only a minute.
The sweat upon my face
cooling at it's touch. As I smile,
in grateful acknowledgement.

I have seen this day,
two kinds of squirrels
one red, one grey colored.
Coveys' of doves taking flight,
from my approaching bike,
And birds of many description,
A Red Tailed Hawk on wing,
Harassed by two small pursuit birds
protecting their nests from him.
A huge Bald Eagle diving for fish.
And one of my very favorites,
a spindly legged Blue Heron.
Standing in mud, fishing.
Even a smart fox,
scurrying back to hide
in the foliage, too shy
and too fast to be viewed
for too long by a human.

Thankful as I am,
for this one more
glorious day of living,
In the ***** of nature
so inspiring, so splendid.
I embrace Life and in return,
it grants me, continuation.

I plan on returning soon,
maybe tomorrow if my legs
let me.
To those new agers, young hip and maybe even a little
judgmental friends out there. I'm a plain simple old guy,
not word fancy, I write pretty much like I speak, a little
old fashion but straight from the hip and heart. No pandering,
no pretense, no ******* and surely no apologies intended.
It's not pure, maybe not even poetry, but what I guess I'm
saying is consider the source and take it or leave it.
It was written and intended all for me, from the beginning.
Which is what all writer's and poets should always do,
write for themselves not a Jury. There is a real freedom in that.
Scarlet Niamh Feb 2015
If grass was a girl,
She'd be so beautiful
That words wouldn't justify her.
They would have to be unwoven and recreated
For them to fit her.

She would shine and grow in the light,
But feel all of the pain in the world
When in the darkness.
It would make her wither away into nothingness
And disappear.

But, out of the blue,
She would appear again
To always be there for everyone who needs her.
Those people, however,
Would not appreciate her love
And would trample over her as if
She were nothing.

If grass was a girl,
She would be crushed by the world
And see a fractured image of it
Through a long broken window.
Her happiness would be stolen by the selfish,
Who take for themselves and never give back.


That's the thing
About the girl named "Grass".
She's broken, unable to differentiate
Between those who care about her
And those who do not.
She becomes isolated in a cocoon of sadness
Because no one appreciates her for who she is.

However,
A drop of rain later,
She is happy again
And becomes even more beautiful than she was before.
~~ This is about a friend I was once very close to. I'm sorry for abandoning you,  I'm sorry for hating you. Despite everything you did to me, despite how much you ruined me and destroyed my wellbeing, I still love you with everything in me. I wish I knew how to let go. Forever and always. ~~
Steve D'Beard Jun 2013
Farewell Govan -
bathed in a baking sun
littered with betting shops
and no win/no fee criminal lawyers
and a myriad of pubs caked in years of libation
steeped in history of industry and shipbuilding
blackened smoked walls etched with gangland symbols:
tooled-up local carnivores who ride shotgun on a BMX
swapping discrete envelopes for indiscreet wads of cash.

Farewell Govan -
you fractured my ribs once in a moment of mistaken identity
I didn't heed the advice to not walk through the park at night
I didn't hear the pitter-patter of adolescent feet
speeding my way in brand new trainers across the grass
but I did feel the clunk of something solid on my head
as the ground rushed up to meet me in a concrete embrace
and watched as 4 bags of overladen shopping spewed out
lying face up spread-eagle in Lilliput fashion
and a mobile torch-app in my face with the repeating words
“Ima tellin’ you man its naw him, its naw him”
I reassured them frantically that I was definitely not him!
as the hooded troupe picked up what was left of my shopping
and even gifted me a couple of cans of super strength lager,
a cube of dubious council estate hash
and an usher to leave immediately
(and think myself lucky).

Farewell Govan -
you got me blazing on cheap beer at the local pub
which had recreated a holiday beach scene
with a hand-written sign that read: Better than Ibiza!
awash with carefree children
and pit-bull terriers wearing bespoke Barbour dog jackets
and brand spanking new Adidas white trainers
purchased from Tam out of a nondescript blue plastic bag
who always passes the day's pleasantries
while topping up his pension
chatting with auld Billy who was in the war (don’t you know)
via the Merchant Navy
and the version of how he was gunner on an oil boat in Vietnam
via the umpteenth pint that afternoon.

Farewell Govan -
your late night shadows harbour an underlying tension
masked with comic humour only if you can understand the lingo
words that are distasteful anywhere else are in fact a term of endearment here
I shall miss the odious vernacular and doth my cap to your spirit
the Salt of the Earth and the Lifeblood of the Community
with at least 40% proof liquids mixed with Irn Bru
purchased at the 24/7 corner store along with a can of processed peas;
one of your five a day.

Farewell Govan -
I go to the sunny side of the Clyde
where it rains just as much
but you don’t get mugged for carrying an umbrella
or asked for the time from a watch-wearing tattooed sailor
and joy-of-joys there will be actual fruit & veg shops
where I don’t have to explain what fresh coriander is
and what you use it for, other than on a pizza;
I was offered dried bottled parsley instead.

Farewell Govan.
Govan - shipbuilding heartland of Glasgow, a hard-man reputation but if you look under the surface you find good people with stories to share
Palpating the empty cavernous realm of intellect and morality,
I find a restricting noose constructed of the finest strands of insecurity, but it's more proportionally comprised of self-doubt. Each fiber's soaked in a vat of social restraint, the ineffective capability of people to deny injustice. Choosing instead the intoxicating mirage that hereditary lies has handed down throughout the centuries.

Helping the constructors of irrationalism build their platform upon supports of popular opinion.
Equipping it with the ingenious trap door many a potential scholar of entropy and fatalism has fallen through. Snapped necks they suffocate on the breath of pseudo-liberty; as the French have, and Americans still do.

Hands bound behind their backs by indecision, latent anger, the belief in a system far from progressive. Where morals and codes of conduct are tempered, and deliberately shaped into devices of torture sugar coated, and worn pridefully without knowing the restrictions nor the pain, any form of progressive thought is absent. The mass majority select intellectual stagnance over the enlightening evolution of attempting to understand the human condition.

They are not to blame.
For shame and resentment are left for frugal debates over each new candidate, sheered from the same wormwood poisoning the stream of consciousness ****** by a nationalistic fervor full of flavor, no long lasting integrity, only iron clad walls of discretion and misrepresentation.

Traveling great distances, shoulders encumbered with regret, apathy, and triviality; the phantom that is a patriot has left his burden laden tracks for the next poor sap to find his way far from freedom, closer to slavery. The yoke fits loosely but unlike the bumbling oxen his purpose is indiscernable, his capacity to think of a way to escape is neutralized by the bag of oats and blinders he himself accepts; by abhorring what he’ll call disrespect and irreverence toward a slave driving body masked by the right to live fruitfully, albeit sedentary.

The joy of complacency is not holding responsibility, not feeling accountable for any choice where the dangers of rational thinking may awaken the bitter, savage realization that he is merely a by-product, a cog in a larger scheme to keep freedom a longer journey than it is according to the whip holder’s theory. The excruciating knot is pulled tightly together by hunger, so the worker satisfies this hunger with more intricately designed knots. His concentration isn’t in untying it, it’s merely compounding it with greater enigmas he’ll leave for the omniscient to decipher, and untangle.

He’ll wash his hands of the assignment and swallow what he deems nourishment, but the hole is never plugged. The hole grows and the abyss growls, the sounds of thousands of souls in constant traction, but this man of many fantasies can have no distractions. His focus remains selectively aimed upon projects the future will later ruin, yet without foresight the ambition has no name so the cycle remains the same.

His lifeless body now swings to and fro above gallows where the omnipotent applaud the writhing spirit of free will convulsing violently; gyrating while the sedated world of the executed continues being recreated to disguise the sincerest, deepest pain he’ll never know, because knowledge is will and the power struggle is one of isolation and possible destitution. So only when he wakes after his fate has been sealed will free spirit, and free will assault his no longer inebriated body, showing no mercy and reminding him of every time they tried to save him.

He’ll scream in utter agony placing his voiceless soul amongst those bellowing from the abyss he never tried to close. What’s more, choosing to ignore such an enormous expanse of nothing, makes the punishment perfectly sufficient, and succinct with every bit of skepticism he had that such a void of expression, virility, and endless suffering even existed. The twisting twine that holds this wretched, still body of reason securely above the wastelands of awareness makes the most insidious noise. It’s like rubbing famine and pestilent ridden bodies together; the crunching sound of bones absent of mass, riddled with brittle chip marks where the consciously aware soldiers of misfortune have attempted to shape spearheads of vindication, but are then left where they were found because even the potential tools of warfare are less sturdy and strong than the flesh bound mind of sterility from whence they came.

So there is nothing this heap of biological ingenuity and imagination can offer, but to swing in each gusting breeze like a sign posted “No Loitering,” “No Trespassing” would when pushed by the conglomerate gales of assembled hundreds. Ignorance prevails, those who fight are made to accept this evil mantra not out of doubt, but hope that once one awakes before his/her spirit and will has been completely removed, they’ll feel the refreshing irony of those who prayed silently that their army of insolent rewriters of justice has grown by one more.

Still breathing, within a masked struggle fought on separate planes of reality, behind curtains weaved of Kevlar, lead, and iron, many perverts of theory co-opt covertly in absolute anonymity fashioning plans: the plans of liberty, freedom, and prosperity.

They’re his only means of acquittal. Slashing the ropes and allowing those long since dead to die in peace, and those whose breath still has a bit of resistance to fight; the chance to view in full honesty and tragedy the gallows where weary travelers of theory are beaten by conviction and moral restrictions.
Heike Borgard Jul 2014
as fortune turned his back on him
and hope got out of sight
the sun eclisped and love escaped
into the fading light
all on his own, betrayed, alone
no one even near
had denied the truth for too long
he stood and froze in fear

His silent screams remained unheard
they just died away
than finally he lost his faith
his whole world turned to grey
Shades of pale, diffuse light
colourless and dim
soundless echoes, ghosts of the past
whispering to him

How could he leave this zone of grey
He started to walk paths of shadow
substance blurred, he went astray
and for every step he stumbled on
he had to give a piece of his soul away

soon he'll be a wraith himself
last tribute left to give was his fear
awakening clearness stroke him hard
this would not be his end – not here

Ravishing beauty, colourful shades
how could he have been so wrong?
ignoring the welcome that twilight did offer
this was the place where he belonged
embraced the twilight, felt libidious power
recreated, completed, transformed
into someone new
but Twilight's kiss demands its own price
Now he'll be haunting you.
( © Heike Borgard 2014)
Sia Jane Jan 2014
"So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."

Shall I compare thee...

...to the Iguazú Falls River, where legend serves that a serpent; Boi, demanded a sacrifice each year of a young female, and the day two lovers; Tarobá and his beautiful maid Naipí, took to escape, and in revenge of such an act, Boi exuded such anger that he parted the river, thus forming the Iguazú Falls, splitting the river and condemning to two lovers to the falls.

or

...to Cristo Redentor; Christ the Redeemer, the Art Deco statue, protecting and looking over the city of Rio de Janeiro, to whom in all its glory cannot escape the force of nature, struck by lightning, causing damage irreplaceable.

or

…to The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, hundreds of metres into the sky, a place that to this day is unknown, myth being that King Nebuchadnezzar recreated the homeland of his precious wife Amyitis, who was deeply depressed and homesick, allowing her to find comfort and happiness.

or

…the Taj Mahal, of Pradesh, constructed using marble by the emperor Shah Jahan, in loving memory of his third wife; Mumtaz Mahal, the *jewel of Muslim art,
a calligraphy written Great Gate reading; "O Soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you.

or

…the Temple of Artemis; Istambul, on sacred land in honour of the Greek goddess Artemis, the most apotheosized of Greek deities, the supposed daughter of Zeus and Leto, the temple also known as Diana, one of the goddesses who vouched never to marry; alongside Minerva and Vesta.

or

… the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, of the Persian Empire, whereby Mausolus ornamented four sculptures created in relief for his wife (and also his sister); Artemisia II of Caria, generating an above ground tomb that would become to be listed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

But of all,
I compare thee to the Goddess of Love, Beauty and Sexuality; Aphrodite
arising from the sea, floating ashore on a shell;
Venus rising from the sea,
a lover of many,
later depicted as a painting of the Birth of Venus,
by the sufferer of unrequited love; Botticelli,
using his muse Simonetta Vespucci as a model.

© Sia Jane
Daniello Mar 2012
The matter is that the matter is that
breaking from the constant that is
breaking from the constant that is
constantly breaking constantly

patterns into even patterns into even
language of odd symmetry in the
language of odd symmetry in the
symmetrical language symmetrically

recreated again and recreated again and
seeping from what is unobservably
seeping from what is unobservably
unobserved seeping unobservably

over layers folding over layers folding
the matter over the foldings over
the matter over the foldings over
folding matter folding.
judy smith Mar 2016
Capturing scenes from fashion shows in the past, Glamourizing Ladies And Men modeling hosted their annual spring fashion show.

The event was a runway-style fashion show, with looks recreated from GLAM’s past. The show also featured talents ranging from poetry and singing to painting.

Patrick Davis, a senior general studies major, and Christina Brown, a freshman biological sciences major, hosted the show.

The introduction of the show was called “Once Upon a Time.” The scene was from a 2012 show and centered on a little girl’s favorite fairytales taking a twisted turn in her dreams.

It opened with the little girl getting told bedtime stories from her father.

After getting the stories read to her, the rest of the GLAM models emerged from under her bed and began to torment the little girl.

The ladies of GLAM then emerged for a scene named “Pop Art.”

“Pop Art” was created in 2012 and incorporated the use of recyclables such as newspaper, duct tape, water bottles, cups and more in the model’s outfits.

The models were dressed in outfits that they created.

The first model wore a dress made out of a plastic bag and yellow caution tape.

The next model wore a dress that was fitted and made of plastic bags and duct tape.

There was a flare skirt made out of newspapers, and another skirt was made using old magazines.

There was also a fitted skirt made only of caution tape and a flare skirt made of white foam cups.

The final outfit of the scene was a dress made of black plastic bags and caution tape. The caution tape was also made into a necklace.

The following scene was titled “Lust/Burlesque.”

Burlesque was created in 2013 for GLAM’s Halloween show “The Seven Deadly Sins.” It incorporated tasteful dancing and runway style walking.

This scene opened up with three models dressed in all black attire, performing a dance routine.

The models hit the stage in several costumes, many of which were handmade by the models themselves.

One model wore black shorts, a black cropped shirt and blue high heels with blue and white wings.

Another outfit used a cheetah print swimsuit, with pink coverings and a back piece made of twigs and feathers.

Alexis Scott, a junior pre-nursing major, performed her poetry piece titled “Honest Truth.”

In her poem, she spoke about a broken relationship with her father. She also spoke about hiding all of her feelings and often putting on a fake smile to the world.

“Yesterday I tripped on my self-esteem and landed on my pride,” Scott said.

The next scene of the show was titled “Concrete Jungle.”

This scene was adopted from a 2014 show and featured business attire with a fashionable twist.

Outfits from this scene included a pleated black dress with white stripes at the bottom, a gray handbag, and black heels.

Another outfit included a purple blazer, a crème and yellow floral printed top, black dress pants and black high-heeled shoes.

A model wore a blue fitted miniskirt, a black and white cheetah print satin shirt and black heels.

The scene after this was titled “Criminology” and was taken from a 2011 show titled “FAME University.”

This scene gave a glimpse into the mind of a woman when she has snapped.

The scene opened up with red flashing lights with four models doing a dance routine to Beyoncé’s “Ring the Alarm” and a monologue.

The monologue told the story about how each woman killed their husbands. The models wore outfits such as black shorts, black leather shirts, black boots and black high heels.

In a talent section, while Keyana Latimer, a sophomore sociology major sang, she was accompanied by Taleiya Baker, a junior music education major.

While they were singing, D’Ajah Douglas, a freshman studio art major, and Yasmine Washington, a freshman studio art major, painted pictures while Latimer also performed a tap dancing piece.

The show concluded with a final walk from all of the GLAM models wearing black and purple shirts with GLAM Modeling written on them, blue jeans and high heels.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses
Angie Christine Oct 2018
He recently shared something with me about holding hands. Everything written in the piece was true. From the start, his hands have made me feel safe, nurtured, needed, adored, wanted, and healed.
See, I rarely let anyone touch me before. Human touch was not something I craved until him.  I didn’t know how much I needed it until I wanted it, but he did.
      As he reached for my hand yesterday , as he does countless times, I began to notice things on a deeper level. I saw the structural beauty and strength of his hands; his skin color, his beautiful fingers, the veins, the hair pattern. I reflected on how many keystrokes they typed and words they’ve written. I thought of how many times they played the sax and played video games with skill and passion.
     Then, I remembered this past year. Those hands created a beautiful room for me in his home. Those hands literally moved ALL my physical belongings exclusively on their own. They held my hair as I was sick with my head over his toilet. They actually mopped up my cats’ ***** when it was overflowing at my old house.              
They have painted, caulked, sawed, sanded, created, recreated, cooked amazing meals, chopped countless veggies, cut every piece of meat he served me, taught me to use his PS4 controller, dried my hair, colored my hair, massaged away my pain, and given me love I didn’t know existed and more.
     His hands have been blistered, scraped, calloused, cut, pricked, sore and he doesn’t complain; they never stop giving nor does he.
And I’m so grateful and honored to be the one whose hand he holds forever...
Written 1/18/18 at 10:29 am
Sequoia C Aug 2012
There are no wilds. The most dangerous
places where I live - are inhabited only by humans.
The woman with the most plastic surgery
sits idly by
as each day her features are torn down
and reassembled by someone who
obviously has other plans for her face,
carefully plotted on blue paper.
Where once her pores gave us shelter,
it is now her plastic features which we hide behind,
forgetting the simple beauty of a woman without makeup
or a tree, in a forest of others.
The woman with the most plastic surgery
sits and weeps -
for she was once powerful and magnificent, omnipresent
Mother Nature we have recreated
in our own likeness, instead of hers;
We are the ones who cover the dirt in cement.
Michael McLean May 2014
I always felt inadequate around her

she tickled a piano like a child

composing a beautiful laughter in the winded chest

of a string instrument with no agenda

these are the times that I’m grateful for huge siblings that see everything

global surveillance

for these chance moments that are only ever recreated

in scripts mandated to what we wish for

reeling in net-fulls of the hopeless that

though have had their hopes tested are unmoved

their hearts caressed and back-rubbed out of

the misery of a reality that is only so if it an be seen on a screen

who’s Eden stands in the clay of a dream
LizO May 2018
It wasn't a ****,
Honest!
It was my shoe rubbing the floor,
I promise!
Ok,
So the noise can't be recreated,
I still don't want this debated.
I.
Didn't.
****.
I hope I don't get asked to leave HelloPoetry for this one! If I make just one person laugh I'll be happy :-)
Someone told me to write about something I'm passionate about, I hope they don't think this is it, haha
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2017
for Jul
<•>
your style, it is who you are

some can dance only to the music of haiku,
some, in anger birthed, can only call out, cursing the world,
with poems beginning and ending with a rousing fk you

your style, it is who you are

most guilty of only perspective inward,
micro-scoping to the cellar cellular level
where in glass stained slides everything revealed, criticized,
the tissues of selfish, the cancerous fears, the shocking
discovery that we are mostly mineral water of kindness galore glory

your style, it is who you are

a few see a solitary leaf,
gravity kissed, flutter to mother earth,
and write of a voyage re-versed,
life in ascendancy,
upward bound, and cyclically, seasonally hopeful,
a reminder that the straightest lives are but a composition,
a series of rainbow colored curved lines,
connected dots on an arc of two by two,
say it's so, Noah!

your style, it is who you are

a handful see the morning daily in their first cuppa,
thinking
"when I look up it is quite possible,
will see the moon and the sun simultaneous occupying
a sunrise and surely more miracles
are possible, unseen, unnoticed, god bless"

your style, it is who you are

some will have their inscribed words endure as long
as the Georgia granite, their retainer, resists the elements,
overlooking the marks left on the human brain that
are a poetic monument invisible but far more
everlasting

your style, it is who you are

one or three, will write daily, chasing music, trying to forget
what just cannot be, and the abased case, there is no
The End
when offered a choice
to chase reborn every time, or not, always choose,
just another photo or poem continuum
for memories are multi-generational in both

your style, it is who you are

are you the one who loves to write, but more so,
writes of love over over repeatedly, for the words
exotic, ******, poetic and ultimately infinitely~intimately,
one and the same?

are you the young one who needs to expiate the sin
of a broken heart, a broken home, a brokenness so
persuasive there will be no relief until someone
person n e w will be a stumbled-on, and the earth will be
torridly recreated and the prior ache just a discarded bandaid,
come the go-morrow

your style, it is who you are

some write to heal, just to feel, to be sure,
they are who they claim to be, wise old young men who've seen too many big rivers that cannot be man-made dammed,
and even the tiny eddy flows of their skin will generate electricity
in praise of nature, never realizing that the human kind is
always the ever greater

your style, it is who you are,

those who are confined by the ropes of rhyme,
or to a script pentameter beaten and measured,
to you, gift the freedom to scream any way, any time,
that pleasures us all with words jointly treasured

your style, it is who you are

some in their garden write in both wistful
contentment and dissatisfaction of things
never to be crossed off, sallied forth, on the list,
but no mind, no matter, the generational ladder climbed,
looking ahead is a looking back of a life richly deployed,
and even the many...in between the poetic words,
and the poetic days, when one day, will be filled in,
these...
will be will be the pits, the seeds bearing still
more of the ripened fruit of that tree

your style, it is who you are

me?
as if me mattered, the littlest bit,
surely the o'clock nearest,
a boundary that cuckoo states
like a good ole friend,
dummy, as usual, you've gone on too long,
but that's your style, it is who you are, so leave some choice,
Grade A, poetic cavalcade of noises for the better poets,
who come everyday, new babies for a better day,
leaving me behind, so happily contented, to be just another scribbler

in my style, it is who I am
  
<•>

September 3rd, 2017
2:01am ~ 3:01am
the message I guess is best
to stick to who you are,
especially in our writings


"keep me where the light is"
John Mayer
JWolfeB Feb 2015
The day that you passed was the only time I felt close enough to understanding why you are gone. It made sense to me because your hand was in mine. The curvature of your fingertip figured times tables into my palm that I will spend the rest of my life decoding.

Each day since then I question each footfall I conquer. For I can find your footprints upon this sandcastle heart yet all I see are my footprints being eaten by waves. Everyday has been a dislocation of hope, wondering why they took you and not me.

Asking my cells to work musical chair patterns to fine a cure for the algorithm I can't remember. Your nails. I remember them. Pictures. I have them still. You told me, in a house fire it is your 2nd item to grab. For a photo can't be recreated.

You never wanted to be recreated. So we cremated you. Burning ash tray loneliness into the humid smoke upon these lips. So why does it feel like I am jigsaw puzzling you back together in each picture. Attempting to take pieces of the past and walk into my future.

My feet are wet from walking through the watered down alleyways of yesterday. I have robbed myself, beaten the best senses senseless, and found my ****** self laid up in darkness. Interrogating the best reasons to walk into the light.
A recap of the emotions and warfare that take place due to losing my mother many years ago.
Effloresce

Lift up your eyelids; unlock the chasm of your heart.
Let the deluge of fervency cascade within you; submerged volcanoes begin to erupt.
A world devoid of feeling; a world devoid of golden thread.
A realm full of disassociation; it’s illuminating and yet so dark.

The soil beneath me pulsates with anger at the core; the heart becomes sanguine, the soul is crimson red.
Night and day bear no variation and the twilight is all that exists; this world has a Cimmerian existence; a vivid look of despair.
Trepidation is my captor as the Earth becomes my abyss; vehemence overtakes me and an inferno consumes me whole.
For a while I am nonexistent; feelings are a thing of the past; I am no longer myself but merely a vessel of something than can’t be seen.

Ethereality envelops me and my quintessence is conjoined with God’s soul; I am being guarded by His spirit and with to it’s elixir I have been exposed..
Cognition is my purpose and I’m recreated being void and null ; I await my resurrection, Phoenix pinions shall subjugate the world.
Seconds have already passed and time has allowed my soul to bloom; it is time for efflorescence and I become one with the moon.
A purple aura emanates from nothingness and fire bolts start to fly; heat becomes unbearable and light pierces as a sword.


A silhouette of the light and airy exudes colors from all around; a shift from on realm to another and like a bullet you hear a bang.
I’m standing here in darkness but my heart is filled with light; spheres of different colors await me in anticipation of a brawl.
One by one I face my demons, one by one they are hurled into the sea; with each abomination that is subjugated, I become less an less of a vestige.
The past is filled with corpses in a sea tinged with reds, blues and greens; I am grappling with vehemence; now the gunk no longer weighs me down.

One more final battle, one more to defeat; the abomination is merciless and it corrugates me from within.
The darkness is a Dictator, I am under it’s totalitarian rule; The Kingdom of Obscurity has been set in place by The Sun.
A prayer leads to certitude and certitude leads to faith, faith leads to action and action leads to sight.
The wind is my messenger and with it’s power I beseech the Sun; I must tap into heartfelt desire and make an earnest request.

“Please help me subjugate the darkness! With your eminence please intercede! Please rejuvenate the dank and hollow! In your light I rest my hope!”
Spheres of light are lifted into the stratosphere and within them rests my hope; I watch them depart from the terrene till’ I sense them fuse with The Sun.
Rays drop from the heavens and the dark fortress is revealed; it’s safeguard of mendacity is no match for the truth.
My sword was encapsulated within the confines of a cloud, now the clouds have been broken and the blade is in the ground.

I sit here in anticipation, I wait for The Spirit to break free; my heart is pulsating with divinity and it courses through my veins.
Wisps of ethereality are slowly released from my pores, now the holiness will be a barrier; soon the darkness will be more.
I tightly clasp my weapon and my shield is in my hands; He tells me that I am detoxified, now the vitriol is no more.
I charge towards the kingdom, my breath goes in and out, hearts are in there waiting; my barrier is my guide.

The doors are right in front of me and The Abysmal lies in wait; fear is slowly building; time has yet to cease.
Malevolence overtakes me and evil is within the eyes, the doors break off their hinges and an anomaly ***** me in.
Strange sounds are all around me; there are echoes in the fabric of time; when emotions come back to catch me then my fate will be revealed.
Dereliction runs amuck here while perverse joy is in The King; He believes subjugation imminent; He does not know that I will win.

The dark has no bearing over that which pushes it away; soon He will become a shadow and I will lead Him along The Path.
That shadow will become a sheep whose wool is thick and black; he will break his way into nothing and I shall guide him into naught.
He will walk along my pathways and as a shepherd I will guide; we will walk into The Sun together and that sheep will turn into light.
Iridescence will last eternally and my love will effloresce; The Sun shall be my Master and in his rays I shall forever bask.

*By Sanders M. Foulke III
onlylovepoetry Jun 2019
head to toe kissing


I   the mundane

moonlight madnesses, a possessive noun,
commissions gravitational pulls that disobey and obey
laws of interstellar loving. The antique modalities once and forever, forever laying still, stilled in places of antiquities and historical need, are thundershower and hail rudely reawakened, the undertow of
pull and push, the yanking hands  of need for others, for others,
it’s the explosive-knowledge, the opening of the old kitbag of perpetual principles, that crazy head to toe kissing is no less necessary, more so, than the computation of the total breaths mundane, unnoticed even now as I write of them, that we will count from that very first, in deed, they are one and the same, like the same
kisses given from head to toe

II   the profane

at the first, the body insists, I am but a long haul trailer, no taxi me,
cargo and passengers, are my quatrain accompaniments,
traveling companions boon, my own toons, too soon disembarked,
songs of parents and lovers, children and others, your visage passed
without your permission, but with your happy encouragement,
to generations that will see things that futurists dare not
even mention, but the profane urge to warn them all, kisses from head to toe, elevates, and overcomes...so when most of my names dusted with forgetfulness, lost in the waves, my scorching soft lips will be recalled just as an airy flight of light brushing upon a newborn’s eyelids just at the moment of birth.  A rustling more felt than heard, the ****** and bruised carrying body will sensate and instantly forget, but nonetheless transmit genetically, that the profane of birth and life renewing can be only washed away, when past and future, recalled and recreated, kisses from head to toes, dripping with softening saltwater tears, a chemical organic reagent of creation,
inside the histories of head to toe kissing

III  the insane

so when, somewhere, some place, a man’s body prepares  
tous ses adieux, his memory foolishly sane and strong,
his wasted paper bag container ship, rust bucketed,
crinkled and wrinkled, skin folding in on itself, hanging to bones
by stretched sinews and tendons that no longer tend to business,
loosened and gangly, they hang on barely to the bare nakedness of
evolutionary processes, mostly not, offset, by the tenderizing effects of kisses, from invisible attendees,  unconscious they,
willingly and unwillingly, offering farewells in actuality...
head to toes, noses to belly buttons, tatted, tattered, and still tasted by dying cells.  It’s insane to think it’s even possible  one retains each and all, but he does, those few given, those few  millions he gave away for cheap belly laughs and poems, decade upon decade accumulated are the totality of him, all of them free and sealed in kisses from head to toes
a perfect fare thee well love poem to add to the pastures lying fallow on mountain ranges of kisses from heads to toes...June 3, 2019
onlylovepoetry Jun 2018
dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect

no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap

me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants

which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then

morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing

over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall

with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:

forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles

blessed and cursed I thought!

too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it

and never let go


6/23/18
Shadow Paradox Sep 2014
~
Sitting on my rhinestone lotus pond floating around in my oceanic bedroom
The haunting begins its sinister buzzing with a silent ‘vroom’
Wooden door opening by itself
My jeweled heartbeat falls from a bone frame shelf

Demons hanging like poisoned vines from the painted ceiling sky
Gods then pours their breath inside my empty soul, drowning all insinuated lies
Butterfly piano keys fluttering their enchanted melodies
The notes dripping pearls of discarded lullabies into my hidden pleas

Lost dreams entangled in my seashell hair
As I sit cradling broken memories in my emerald iris, the ones I’ve forgotten to share
Dead skin peeling from my fingertips as I turn a dusty page in my notebook
Loose frays of secrets coming apart, falling away in my Underland outlook

I remember the day I recreated my being, as I drew Self into a mermaid rose
Piercing my revolving face with a jagged pen,
**** fairytales bleeding from my lips, a new world I chose
My dress of ivory seaweed has caught onto a sharp end
I sink into the onyx murky depths of my rhinestone lotus pond, wishing for a friend

Discarded
Bombarded

Licking death, seeing the dead
My attire drifts in the sulphide air, swirling with the essence of dread
I now leave my surreal sanctuary
As rhinestones melt, the pond drains, the lotus folds its metal origami

I’m back from the world I created
Back to reality where a sententious poet is constantly hated
Back to a butterfly wallpapered bedroom where hallucination spend
Yea I’m back, but not for long, not until inspiration comes and I swallow my pen
And into my notebook realm I will be back in my own world again…
~
This is an oldie when in yesteryears I was tangled in a nightmare of a fairytale~
Hollow May 2014
Subject of forced indoctrination
Given a placebo of hope
And made to look at society
Through artificial eyes

Just another disfigured mind
Molded through the
Systematic eradication
Of constitutional freedoms

Walking with a knife in your spine
And shackles on your head
And the force-fed propaganda
Giving a false notion
Of a peaceful reality

Is this what you want?

Step away from the wires of captivity
The Automated Deity of our future

Be one with yourself

Be reborn

Not recreated
Emeka Mokeme Aug 2018
I come before you Yehoshua
with my hands lifted up in holiness.
All I ever have is my faith in you.
You know my heart,
and my emptiness you know.
You understand my feelings,
and my follies you forgive.
I am renewed and recreated daily,
transmogrified into a new creation
like I've never existed before
because of you Yehoshua.
My weakness are before you,
my past you erased and forget.
I am nothing without you because
you are my strength Yehoshua.
Your presence is comforting
and reassuring for you are
my glory and my salvation.
All power belongs to you.
Everything fails when you
are not with me.
You are the breathe within breathe
for your Spirit dwells in me.
There's no joy within without
your presence.
Your touch restores all things,
and cause everything to heal.
We cannot fully worship you
when health fails,
restore our brokenness Yehoshua.
Your supremacy confounds the heart
of man for no one can challenge you.
You reign as King in the castle of
my heart where you dwell in Majesty.
The glorious beauty of your existence
transcend and pervades all things.
You transmute the gross material
from nothing into gold.
Every created things ever made
resonates to you.
All creatures above the earth,
in the earth and,
beneath the earth adores you
and sing of your glory.
Your awesomeness is a wonderful wonder.
Thank you for everything that you do.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2015
~~~
to whom do I address this?

to whom do I
forward fling, weep and sing,
this bequest~request,
prayer~***~worship~***~blessing~***~
howling
to and upon?

where shall I commence?

for there is no beginning or end,
resurrection,
a continuum,
a progression permanent,
from inside out
to harmonize, coordinate,
what the outside has taken leave to
inject, insert,
to our selves query,
our life hood very,
impoverish our senses
and still, and yet,
to ever inspire and seed
relief

do you possess that requisite
belief?

that all
that is illogical,
beyond sensory comprehension,
that all
is a steady running creek
of fluid starting points,
none that can be deflected,
nor forever held

that all,
being demands unchosen but acquired,
that all,
demanding constant reflection,
and realization
that the acceptance mystery is but a
molten crucible
wherein wonderful and awful
must of necessity,
coexist

so you alone must construct,
what chance desires to destruct,
weld the joints of new iron works that
require the bonding of a special solder
of asking and acceptance,
to be the special soldier
of acceptance
overcoming that which we can never accept,
yet must

be purposed to build high the edifice,
to stand upon the crane,
to look down on what
has been lost as well as
not yet gained,
and that
requires saving

to see the far, observe the near,
merging both into a single point ring alloy,
manufactured in order
to never forget
to be forever certain,
it is within our assured power
to comprehend and apprehend
belief in blessed resurrection

where there is no birth nor death,
no start nor finish,
just the
munificent satisfaction
of lawful acceptance,
that all we build of any matter,
that which we create,
cannot be destroyed,
but will be recreated,
for that is the purposeful meaning
of resurrection now
and every day forward


Atlanta, Georgia
Nov. 16, 2014
for E.R
Let me live in my own little Dreamland.I've Recreated it.I love dreamland because when darkness looms around me I can imagine a better world.Just like I always wanted.Your always there.But I think I'm starting to come to the realization you don't belong in dreamland any longer.But then what joy will I have?That's why I hold on because the memories keep me smiling even if its only a Dream.A Dream of You...</3
RyanMJenkins Dec 2015
Had a stellar time last night at the Rhymesayers 20 year anniversary show.  
A lotta these cats have done so much for my soul, that I finally remember the me in the dream that I forget to know. With inspiration so deep we can tap into this eternal flow.  I now see into the water clearly, all ripples calmed and all 3 eyes are no longer dreary.  This goes to anyone that can hear me, you must let the walls fall to notice all of life's endearing.  I have a collection of blurry pictures of mindful Mic wizards, that I have so much respect for - just to shake their hands I would walk through a blizzard.  My lover Meg and I drove 12 hours altogether on very little sleep.  The amount of appreciation I have for her only grows more and more deep.  Even when we're cold she'll still fan my flames.  On the path we're on, we still have so much to gain.  The amount of love that surrounds us, an overly-rational mind would deem insane..  But you can never see the big picture when you're staring at the frame.  Ty Kraus and Mr. Nick Ramsey joined our adventure.  Through beautiful December weather, to have a great time and witness magic was our only endeavor.  We did what we set out to, mission accomplished.  Sat astonished and basked in Brother Ali's dropping of knowledge.  All act's crafts were so polished, and I feel like Micheal Larsen, was right there among all of this.  I don't think anyone said R.EYE.P once, probably because you weren't resting.  Inside the good vibes of the alive family you were nesting.  Eyedeas never die, which is why rhymesayers came to life.
They paved the way for many artists' lives to walk in to the light.  Building a metaphysical castle one intent at a time.  I may not be on the label, but I've been recreated through my own saying of rhymes.
Got to tell Slug once he inadvertently saved my life.  This groundbreaking moment ended with, a photo, and a signed tee I wore for the first time last night.  For me, there really is no end in sight.  We've got the Blueprint and Abilities to know all is and will be alright.  I just wanna thank you all, for helping me see my stripes.  I hope I can do the same without being a stain on your might.  Thanks for helping me believe in me, and please keep painting with your divine insight.
One love~
Lauren Leal Jan 2016
It was your **** eyes alone that recreated my universe.
ATC Apr 2015
Three evenings ago,
I blasted my music so sharply
that my melancholy heart
began beating to the rhythm of that old song
I used to play when I was trying to forget about you.

This is the second goodbye.

The first goodbye,
there were whirlpools in my heart and
tsunamis in my eyes.
My words were barbed with unexpected truths
that grazed deeply,
don’t worry your words in response required
medical assistance after as well.

The first goodbye was displaced by a deafening silence
that forced me to write so that
I would be comforted by listening to my pen slide
along the paper or my fingertips
skate along the keyboard.

The whirlpools in my heart and
tsunamis in my eyes brought you waves
three months later
but by then I no longer desired noise to help
cover up the excruciating silence for I
was finally sleeping peacefully at night.

Three months later you acted
as if I was a lighthouse and you
were a sailor longing for the shore because
the waves you felt were too strong,
as if I could and would help guide you out of this.
You sent me messages hoping I would give
the signal to bring you back,
but let me repeat myself,
you weren’t longing for me, you were longing for the shore.
You were searching for guidance
that would then bring you to safety and then
once everything was sound and safe,
you would abandon the shore and
discover the roads that people drive on and forget their way back.

Time in one way or another had shortened the distance between us.

But now this is the second goodbye.

The sun is shining, the air is warm and flowers are blooming.
This may not be rambunctious and crushing like the previous tsunamis and whirlpools but do know,
it’s as constant as the waves crashing on to the shore,
day after day after day.
The waterline being recreated wave after wave
acting as a quiet banner that reads:

“I’ve made it this far without you and
I’ll do it again and again and again.”
fatemadememortal Nov 2017
i am in awe when i look at you
not at your flame and your feathers
but rather the way you choose to sever the tethers
people tried to use to bind you to the idea of who they thought you were
and rather than get caught up in their perceptions
you chose instead to rise from the ashes of those misconceptions
alight and alive with new purpose
without a trace or shadow of what you left behind
the old you was incinerated, turned to ashes in the fire of your passions
as you recreated yourself
a man of ambition
whose intelligence and tenacity
veracity
burn so bright you can't even look right at him

you remade yourself into who you wanted to be
did the thing that so many others strive and fail to
and somehow it's like you forget how far you've come
because the man i'm talking to, he has no idea how to be kind to himself
how to silence the voices within him that lie
and tell him that he is not enough, doesn't do enough, will never be enough

remember whenever those whispers start up
that say you're a loser, a disgrace, not enough
that when i look at you i am truly inspired
by the events in your past that i know have transpired
leading up to this transformation that begs the comparison
between you, my friend, and a mythical bird
both reborn from a ghost of who you were
into a fiery beacon of hope, inspiration
remember that it was all you and your ambition that led to this recreation
you are enough.
Michael T Chase Jul 2021
The rule of the self is exalted above
any adherence to any thing/feeling.
Their notions of doubt ruling over existence and
is in the supreme station of reason and power.
It sheds the former existence of yesterday
inasmuch as we are always recreated.
The philosopher's stone which
can conceive of no other thought
except the originality of the self.

It drinks the seven seas as if a drop and
asks, "Is there yet any more?"
No authority save the intimate friend
can find its way here.
Every stranger is betrayed and
its chariot becomes outworn for the rider.

And when they look at themselves
they behold their powerlessness in
the face of every nation, which
simply makes them embark on
the conquest of their own heart.

Every listener is as a bullet to their
enemy.
Every truth is as a fallen warrior
for their Cause.
No wind is sufficient to curtail their
sense of direction.
Every human acknowledged is as a piece
of sand supporting their path.

There is no end to their perturbing of the skies.
The poem is unfinished as the scribe of
their tale is astounded by the
regeneration of their march.
autodidactic
samantha giang Apr 2013
She was a whirlwind.
A beautiful flurry of kindness and compassion and sympathy stitched on the wings of an angel never meant to touch the ground.
She was a woman whose outstretched hand reached out and touched the lives of many like droplets of paint on a white canvas.
She inspired, recreated.
She molded her children to become what she was - maybe to become what she always wanted to be.
But she was everything. She was the best she could be.
But the best was not enough to protect her from falling onto that hospital bed. The best doctors. The best nurses. The best medicine.
The best was not enough to heal her pain.
The morphine which ran deep through her rich veins and engulfed her was not enough to cure her from the ****** aching in her.
The oh, shuddering throbbing that raked and wracked her body. The throbbing that shook the empire inside her, knocking down the little soldiers in which supported her and made her who she was.
And all this. This hurricane unfolded, as the children she made stood by and could only watch in anguish.
In regret, her son slams his fist against the grainy counter, tears like floods erupting as if a dam had been broken inside him.
"I'm losing her!"
He screams and shouts, throat raw with emotion.
As her daughter can all but stare, a string seconds away from snapping and back lashing like a flashback of her mother playing in her head, slapping her in the face back into reality.
Because just a month ago, in the sweltering heat of June of 2011, her son had graduated high school. He did his best.
And her daughter graduated middle school. She did her best.
Their mother was proud, clapping loud and clear through the faces of those in the crowd who did not matter to her children.
But the best did not save their mother.
No text book or diploma or certificate from the children or degrees or credentials from the doctors could cure her.
The woman laying in the practically snow white hospital sheets with the eerie beep beep beeping of the only lifeline she had was not saved.
By the best doctors, the best nurses, the best medicine.
Not even the kids she considered the best things in her life could do much, either.
However,
She was my mother.
She was the best.
Just something a bit personal. I wanted to try my hand at something like this, haha.
Nat Lipstadt May 2014
Plane Poetry: I go to Barber*

aisle seat C 14,
an emergency exit row,
forced to solemnly swear
that for the extra legroom,
I will solemnly assist to open
the exit door, me first as my reward,
and keep my terrified screaming
below an elephant's trumpeting mating call

what hast this to do with a trip to Barber?

you Brits and Aussies, ever economical,
say went 'to hospital,'
leaving we Ameddicans
to dignify that august institution
as going to
The Hospital

Thus advised, be apprised, a
Nota Bene Benidictus:

I go to Barber,
Not
I go to the barber.

Samuel Barber,
Adagio for String Quartet, Barber

If unfamiliar with this piece,
you will recall it well
if "Apocalypse Now" registers at all

If not stop immediately,
return to Go,
start here,

www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRMz8fKkG2g


be prepared to surrender your mortality,
listen and if effected,
if you find yourself on your knees
weeping, recalling the days of loss,
the early empires of hope,
the first kiss
of your firstborn
and unknowingly,
the last you gave
a loved one

if you have the courage to
be touched and impacted,
as I,
then welcome back to
right here where why...

I go to Barber
where violins soar me heavenwards,
where violins rip open sores long since scarred over,
I go to Barber
and float, eyes sky'd, as water
fills and departs my body simultaneously,
I go to Barber
to know that art can rise beyond,
that my weakened, wrecked human flesh, surpassable  
I go to Barber
to harmonize my disconcordia,
romantic lyricisize my waning days,
I go to Barber
to voluntary confess, admit my impoverishment,
to acknowledge that they, my days, yet are capable,
I go to Barber
to remember and to forget,
to mark and unmark time
I go to Barber
to be created and recreated,
to be destructed and despaired
I go to Barber
to acknowledge, as human, better is forever possible,
for of the god spark, yet unextinguished
I go to Barber
because there is no plane as fast as his slow adagio,
to transport me to the who I am and should yet be
Over the Carolina's? 3+ years later, came
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2250737/yet-another-violin-adagio/
Hinata Jan 2015
I think the reason why we live is because of death. We fear death, we fear the unknown. One could even dare say the unknown is the future. It's the reason why we cling onto the past so much, we fear the unknown the most. I believe without a doubt that reincarnation happens and some could say that people's souls grow older and wiser. Yet why do people commit suicide? One could say that they are new souls, new creations of life. However as I think about it more and more, could it possibly be because the soul is starting to realize that life is too unpredictable and too unbearable? Maybe those who commit suicide are the souls who are actually a little mature. Maybe the reason why some people look forward to the future is because they are actually new souls. Then there is those who are wise beyond their years and still look forward to the future. Perhaps souls that grow too old become energy and become recreated into new souls to continue on. Perhaps the evil people with souls are being cleansed to create a new start. Perhaps that's the reason why sociopaths exist. Maybe they're just old souls who have seen many lives and are starting to lose the vitality it once had. Perhaps they are in the process of getting their souls cleansed from all they have done after they have been punished. The real reason why we would seek immortality is because we fear death. However I believe that even after we erase the fear of death, we will end up growing a new fear. Fear is inevitable. We will end up growing to fear love. Sounds funny, why would we fear love? If you're immortal, you will start to see the beauty of life and death. You will watch the people you grew up with, you laughed with, you work with, you care about, and you loved die. You will start pushing away all of them, everyone for fear of getting close. If you're immortal, that doesn't mean that you don't have a heart. Your fear of death is nothing like the fear of love. Unlike the fear of death, you will be alone if you fear love. The fear of death only makes bonds between those who also fear death. However to fear love will cause you to alienate yourself from the people around you. A soul cannot live on it's own. It will only disintegrate and get it's soul ripped inside and out. We must have death in order to live. Because life without death is miserable and lonely.
CharlesC Mar 2013
Imagine, if you will, a swirling energy
Dancing around a core
Forever compelled to enter one end
Of a doughnut-like hole
Converging, traveling up and
Flinging out again in a creative burst
Spreading in all directions
But pulled by an irresistible force
To follow semi-circular paths
Back to the base
There to be reunited, renewed and then
Flow up and out again
And around and back
And up and out
And around and back
Again and again
And --

Can this Torus imaged energy be universal
Both encompassing the cosmos
And small carbon units like myself
Did my atoms arise from the core and
Manifest in a splendid journey
Through colorful space and finite time
And will my spirit go back
To coalesce in the core
And spring up again
And again and again
And --

Are black holes in space
Magnetized entrances into a doughnut hole
where compressed energy races up the core and
Spews out in a sprawling light show of universes
Until it is all called back to the base
To be fused again, transformed,
Recreated and sent up and out
And around and back
Again and again
And --
by a friend, Thelma
Taylor Mar 2012
it's just the creature that goes bump in the night when the lights go out,
so please reconstruct my mind to create a type of innovated frankenstein.
it's not just about the longing and the crave for change but
it's also about the emotions and fingerprints i'll supply for your testing range.
so don't worry smoke another bowl and it's like your whole life will unfold.
but you won't even need that thc to realize your thoughts aren't completely free.
so let the dopamine soak in until you become the fiend
pop your benzos and snort that line, parachute that powder until you reach cloud nine.
is that what you need to survive your recreated scene?
at least before your whole body morphs into benzene.
what is it about becoming a monster, is it you who creates the tragedy or is it your creator?
i wish you could tell me where we go when we die, but you can't open up your subliminal mind.
now you're nothing but a sweet smelling liquid, so drip your thoughts onto my own canvas and lay it out for me.

— The End —