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The Dragon's Blood Tree standing cross the Horn
Shedding its Bark to reveal those Red Tears
Crying for its Content and its Forlorn
Why such Organism left out its Years
Truly a Wonder did this Being adjust
Where Needed Friend Man requested its Juice
The same Crimson Drops whose Benefits must
Recycle to Dye and other Good Use
But as it thought of its Charity gave
Thinking how it could graft a New Best Friend
It remembered its Roots; Thus it re-made
Bearing Bright Flowers would last till the End.
Mama Africa smiles. You made her proud
Despite the Pirate's Threats your Leaves sing loud.
Dawn of Lighten Feb 2017
Dimension beginning of vile ****** exposed,
And the Emperor has no clothes,
While helplessly strut a mighty walk without a shame.

Course of history repeating itself,
Like the flow of water meeting in the river of streams,
But recycle through the clouds and back to the ground it flows.

Are we so blinded by the glimmer of the mirage of oasis in the desert,
We toast with sands of dune to quench our thirst of our plight,
And all is but a fickling light ducktaped by words of unintelligible muddled murmur?

This is truly the flawed design of our time,
When we no longer promote arts and crafts of philosophies,
And religious cults of zealots condemned the science and Academia by berating it's achievement.

Likes of ancient times of Agora and the height of it's human enlightenment,
There are forces of deconstruction of society of choas ensued by hateful fear mongers,
And systematic inward of national fevor of berserkers leveling progress.

Maybe another dark age is inevitable,
But little seed of hope I feel tangible,
And sometimes event maybe a phoenix.
Religion is all sense of purpose is a illumination of hope in human plights,
But those who seek absolute power by controlling devotees, then it is no longer a religions but a cult of designed by vanity.
Umi Apr 2018
All present in the stream of time,
Connected they build a line, a river which flows uninterruptedly,
The here and now, is the future of a pasts dream, a wonderous reality,
It is the futures past, the memories recorded within the depths of it
Gravity distorts time, causing it to slow down till it's stopping point lensed from a black hole, lurking within shadows of remorse in space,
Fished out from the sea of passing events, it keeps flowing, but now it does so while not including the fallen one who embraced a blackhole,
Time only knows one path, straight ahead with no slips and turns,
The present is the pasts future and what was thought to be possible,
It is the little wealth every living being possesses yet it is overseen and forgotten, until the moment of ones death drives gladly near,
From the **** to the tomb, drowning within the waves of a temporal lengh, the event of an entity's existence and its period.
A pace for an allotment, given from the complaints of an worldly life,
Spend it well, unlike the spring we cannot turn the tide, recycle again!
But for that matter the world of dreams holds a sweet embrace to all,
After all, you don't need to die in a dream.

~ Umi
Steve Page Jul 2016
Father is a verb.
- Let me explain:

Father's Day; and
Father Christmas 
have tried to convince us,
but don't be fooled:
You can, may or will father, 
depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.

It only works in the transitive;
you can't father alone,
only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort
when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume
drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard
with jokes on recycle.

[insert joke here]

Yes, father is a verb.

It's something we each do,
despite the hour,
it drives right on through
the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten finger nails
to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation. 

It turns manliness
into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength 
with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.

Be sure, whoever you are, 
it works in the singular:
I can father;
You can father
    (I'm not talking *** here;
     that takes a partner.)
But also, 
-  it works in the plural -
we can father;
and they can father,
because, you see, in this village
it's an joint activity:
we father (and we mother) 

It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "LATER!".

It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter;

sometimes active:
directive, protecting;
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening;
...holding, and, hugging;

it responds to need, you see,
but works best proactively,
works great 

For example, 
though it cost him dearly,
God Fathers us
and through us daily.
And one day, suit pressed, 
He'll proudly walk 
with the bride of Christ.
And as Father of the bride, 
He'll host the party and blow the price;
(- BIGGEST - bar-bill - EVER)
And we'll be sure to save at least one dance
for Father.

Oh yes, you heard,
Father is a verb.
This is written with thanks to all the men who have fathered me over the last 50 odd years and as a salute to those of you who father without borders.
With thanks to Godfrey Rust and his poem, Church is a Verb.  Go on, search for it.
usagi Sep 2018
We wreck havoc on one another in the name of love. We leave inoperable scars upon each others souls and leave one another strangled for air, plundered of all vitals. We call this love, and we recycle these events, these feelings onto the next person without realizing that we are generating and regenerating feeble souls, stripped of their ability to love. What a tragedy love has become.
jiminy littly Feb 18
I have a plan to go mad
It will not take time or money
You don't have to do a thing
But bring me lunch
A sandwich, maybe, on the train.  
No, on the steps to the platform
You will see me.
No, you do not see me,
tu me sentiras

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

I put my best bottles in the recycle and I was proud watching you take them.  
I thought to myself, they are doing a service, and I them
by washing the bottles out first, I write this until it whistles in my ears.

There are two typos in my last poem
There are two types of poems, my last one and the one that is being written.

I am serious about the ringing in my ears.
Traveler Mar 3
Stacks of memories
In a recycle bin
Pulling 'em out
Putting 'em in

Remember whens
Where we like to go
Never forget 'ers
Imprinted on soul

Lost in piles of files in flesh
Moments we were not at our best
Dark nights come and slowly fade
Until grey matter triggers spark replay

Up front the nows
The essence of living
The thankfuls to be
The resentful misgivings

The never forgets
Forgives and regrets
All the wins, the losses
The deaths
Yet there's still plenty of room
For those good memories
We haven't made yet...
Traveler Tim
Parker Nov 2018
The shattered pieces of stained glass reflected in her eyes, unleashed the secrets of all the pages burned to preserve a stoic heart
After she painted me grey, I wanted to set fire to all the stages for tricking the audiences into believing the paper cutouts were love
A world full of cardboard wings and failed flights has little hopes of landing in the recycle-bin
It's useless to continue attempting to use an eraser to remove the permanent ink that replaced your shadow
Äŧül 7d
I visited the same beach,
The beach of our sobriety,
It's there in my memories.

I touched & felt there the sands of time,
The time that we spent in togetherness,
It's a time in that recycle bin of the past.

I shall forget you forever, soon,
This tide of time will help me,
It's going to immerse that sand castle.

I let my ship find her angel,
The angel of my dreams,
It's not long before I touch her.

I see myself visiting her lands,
The lands of beauty and Bihu,
It's just that I realized ships must sail.
My HP Poem #1738
©Atul Kaushal
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
34/3 Pleasure [III] (II ,,,,,,,,)
Learn more; Therefore, MD-ICC
and Spanish, Click on 200 MIV C,
Time, Compatibility. MDCLXXXIII
Circuli CD, et Atater Ksi (III) c |||
XXXIV friend! (Third ABC)
12163168 XVI MMMCCC III (C),
which also; He succeeded
with his Warm eyes; Greece, Italy
(Shiba) X, A 2008 (60) 12, C, which are involved:
University of North Carolina, and was the most
famous jumper. This island is in the village. Other
obligations of re-use. The University of California
is located in North America, the most popular
one in a small island village, but only a few spores
are on the level. Prestonian Colorado, maintaining
a five-year commitment to the University
of North Carolina. On the island of Lazarus,
which is on the road. I am the oldest ruler,
and in the future I will use my obligations.
The American University in the North
is the largest city of Colorado and is famous
for its famous island. And then, when I salmon
and I believe that the concept of quality,
that Paro Einstein on the nature of the man are still high.
University of Colorado,
North Carolina and the most popular nooks.
This island is in the village.
And the commitments will be the first to come
to the next post I use. Very popular for training
and sports games in North America.
Place the top of the small island.
Five losses and commitments end time.
The most famous organization of North Carolina
and Colorado University.
Place the top of the small island.
As he promised again.
Ut and Musiciens University North Maxime
by car EST Colorado vulgaris former oppida,
insulate, Gaudium 34/3 [III] (II ,,,,,,,,,,,
Learn more;                                      Therefore, MD-ICC and Spanish,
Click on 200 MIV C                                             , Time,  Compatibility.
MDCLXXXIII Circuli CD, et Atater Ksi (III) c
XXXIV friend! (Third ABC) 12163168
XVI MMMCCC III (C), which also
He succeeded                                              (Warm eyes)
Greece, Italy (Shiba) X,
2011 (60) 12, C, the highest in the world.
Colorado, the University of North Carolina will become the most popular dancer. Located in the highest island of the village. She re-uses the drops that he promised to manage. Colorado University's most popular dance will be from North America. It is located in the highest island of the village. In Colorado she will be the most beloved dancer, University of North Carolina, for a five-year commitment to recycle. Liza located in the highest island of the village. Her salmon promised to reuse the five rules. The North American University, the world's largest city in Colorado, the island's village and more popular, will come to dance. His salmon reusing the terms the blonde promised in the spring; always high with sapphire, Einstein and Kale. Colorado University, North Carolina, will become the most popular dancer. Located in the highest island of the village. She has promised to reuse the drops. The Colorado University's most popular dance will come to North America. It is located in the highest island of the village. She grabs the five deadlines he promised to recycle. North Carolina University will be the most popular Colorado dancers. It is located in the highest island of the village. She promised to recycle herself. North American University goes to dance, the most popular in Colorado, the island's village, which is the highest in the world. She has a blonde promise to recycle the discipline of drops, only with a head high with sapphire Einstein's Kale always comes up in the spring. The University of Colorado, North Carolina, will become the most popular dancer. Located in the highest island of the village. She has promised to reuse the drops. The Colorado University's most popular dance will come to North America. It is located in the highest island of the village. She grabs the five deadlines he promised to recycle. The North Carolina University will be the most popular Colorado dancer. It is located in the highest island of the village. She promised to recycle her. North American | University goes to dance, the most popular in Colorado, the island's village, which is the highest in the world. She has a blonde promise to recycle the discipline of droplets, only at high a altitude with sapphire Einstein's neck always in the spring. ||
. i arrived from communism, and then came across the western stigmata of post-colonialism... i tried to think of something, then i began to, "forget" my tongue... migrant Pollacks: or at least the ones that i know... don't tend to congregate... but it broke the camel's back... a people moved, ingrained with a Germanic proverb that taught them both communism & arbeit macht frei... and the english just couldn't compete... i remember taking my grandmother to the hospital with my uncle: yeah, i know, having family relations is deemed ******, backward... and i met this one Pollack... worked a stint of five years in a recycling factory... guess how he made a living? he collected *** toys from the conveyor belt... washed them, packed them, and then resold them to the unsuspecting public "back home"... funny... me? i'm pretty conscious of my recycling... to recycle glass? i have to walk a decent worth of a kilometre... drop the bottles, remember my staple menu: whiskey, some pepsi... he called the anglos: over-sexed... me... slav... me vork... me do nut-in else... be good, yes? then something like ****** blut song comes out, and i start to feel... perfectly normal... too bad that my grandfather was a communist party member, indoctrinated to even involuntarily cry died... i've met one Greek at university who made it adamant that Istambul was to be called Constantinople... like i dated a Russian girl, a monarchist... who said: the evil that happened at the gates of Hermitage... and i'm supposed to congest, all of this, like a 5 year old's worth of a sponge for a mind? hmm... interesting! i'll do my best... so why is england filled with so many accents? psst... it has no diacritical markers... not clear syllables... the french did one better... they did a bigger ****-up of their language for a sense / purpose of syllable clarity, but they used diacritical marks... or at least... applied them, for no other reasons other than a pedantic aesthetic... buffer-zone extraordinaire... the pollack... in England "we" were the ethnic group that caused Brexit... oh... i know so... hard to compete with a people who were first subjected to the maxim arbeit macht frei and subsequently the communist project to put brick on brick and let Warsaw stand, re-erected... frankly? i go back to Poland, having to experienced my parent's self-imposed exile... and i feel... nausea... back in England i much succumbed to my isolation... a society like a prison... i just... kept... forgetting to succumb to clinging to a "mein besitz(en)"... so i left satellite status extension of the Soviet experiment, and i, come, zu dieses?! i forgot to cling to roots... i forgot there was a community of similis hund... i learned the language, perfecting it to the point, where, i awoke a desire to strangle myths into submitting, by licking the wounds of the deutsche zünge in the mass graves at Ypres... i've become a namesake akin to konrad I of masovia... or a sacrificial lamb... readied to experience both the land, the culture and the language of a post-colonial people, namely the English... and to, return, to die land und die volk... shrouded in anonymous robes... the integral part of the hive... and then shoved back into English society, citing my observations of the limitless curiosity of the paradox between the universal... and no longer the particular, but the individual... under psychiatric scrutiny... should anything normative allow me to settle with the rest of the people consumed by and involved in the stated times, the tide.

               to find air bubbles
in the general crust
of staring at
a blank piece of
or as i like to call it:
peering into
           an eye of Belzeebub...
pixel fabric...
        listening to some
of the concerns of the natives...
awful east...
          when the Hebrews left
Egypt they didn't conquer
by simply subjecting
the bodies of the conquered...
the minds
and their high-esteem "geometric"
variants, pillars,
of the gods...
           came along with them...
thank you, dear ***...
for peering into phoneticism
of your sacred word...
the one word that i will not
utter, before i will utter
a racial slur...
      for no apparent reason,
me: not involved
in what could give me relief...
   bound to...
    believe me...
every time i go back
to "inspect" the homogenous
of Poland...
       i sense a bidding
to return to
             my beloved England,
   sure... the atomised man...
but the same man already
atomised out of a coherent
and what could have been
his basic principles
for the motiff of freedom,
and will...
             de facto:
from a presupposed belief
in a superiority in not
    with my "kin"...
         in England...
the pollacks hide...
              i know i do...
but every time i make
a public stunt a congregation
of weirdos convulse
me to speak...
                   how else would
you mingle the music
of tasmin archer
   and... something akin
to wumpscut?
       you know...
once upon a time...
psychiatrists were called
               in England...
bilingualism can be deemed
        i don't mind the mind-numbing
drugs to give me the:
nod nod, nod nod...
          i can find myself
content the next morning
having punched myself
   to sleep the previous night...
oh... slight plum brush-******
just beneath my eye...
   outrage of emotion...
   **** me...
   i tend to appreciate feeling
something, and keeping my mouth
shut about it...

pauper i...
                    a feeling of gravity
bound to a melancholic complex
of a claustrophobic heart...
a constriction...
        and pang...

             just like:
i'd love to appreciate the dream
medium: within the safety
confines of the unconscious
to counter having to think about
taking a psychadelic...        
to alleviate myself
from measures surrounding:
"the quick fix"...

              or as due to the now...
writing for a purpose
of toying with per se...
        for a completion
of uninhibition
            from the constraints
of language
     by those who...
               could not pass
through this sly narrative ploy
of concentrating
on the a priori ad priori ex nihil...

i'm a mongrel of a contained
   thank god that death is an
       subjective experience
waiting for me...
   and nothing but the dry
objective fact
                       the trodden body,
the vague sense of reality
within the confines
of stating the animated body...

diatribe... sure...
if poetry was to be a burden
on the cohesion of
grey everyday language,
i would have
begun with a

dear sir / madam


and ended with

   yours sincerely,
                              then it would
have made sense...
      i do know how to
make the tongue formal,
  but, for the matter at hand...
******* Kandinsky et al.
MicMag Aug 2018
World lays in ruin
Our enduring monument
Plastic-covered shores
our plastic will outlive us all

— The End —