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Nico Julleza Jul 2017
Anxious
Dull, a boy is he
names he would not plea
eyes like baby blue-
lips a crimson hue
Feelings like me and you

Reclusive
Outsiders he'd not choose
In his mansions he bore
luring himself-
with enchanting lore's
drifting away, loosing woes

A Xenos
Traveling in his hallways
unknown, ominous
a wretched life he portrays
even in his heart, he'd say-
"Loneliness, such a Cliché"

Forsaken
Befriended, unseen
though he's not a devil
-for I believe
tortured, battered on thee
delude by his mistress' skim

He Left
portals out from misery
gone himself eagerly
then comes back, with such
-A Victory
for now, a statured man is he

Knights & Kings
upon bended knees
and everything he please
from a man to a boy
-in a dream
A Castle, now he redeems
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(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
You love us when we're heroes, home on leave,
Or wounded in a mentionable place.
You worship decorations; you believe
That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace.
You make us shells. You listen with delight,
By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.
You crown our distant ardours while we fight,
And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed.
You can't believe that British troops 'retire'
When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run,
Trampling the terrible corpses--blind with blood.
O German mother dreaming by the fire,
While you are knitting socks to send your son
His face is trodden deeper in the mud.
Sukanya Basu Nov 2012
Its hard to believe to listen to
The sound of silence through layman's ears
For silence,an unestablished thought
Rides the young hearts only through fear.
Maturity, an understanding through beneath
Sediments like evils srata
For if you conquered,it only leads
To the sound of silence,every data.
For as we stare, me and words together,
Silence redeems through the pages
Every drop of ink forever
Can spell the words through all the ages.
The silence that lingers between
Begs me to hear it closer
Its trying to express the unwanted enclitic
The words that will fade never.
And now as i cherish this conversation of silence,
I realize that ink has a spirit
And to know the mistake i have committed
Which on my face like a bright light lit.
And to know the spectacular reason
I'm astonished myself, i must say
Ink helps us when we are not thinking
Flowing on paper without delay.
This sound of silence that i have gathered now,
Must be of great help all through my life
It will let me hear all those unsound-able things
And help me to decide when to stab a knife.
Through my youth scores, a bunch of thirty
Led me through a rugged terrain,
And now i want a plain surface with lots of pleasure
To lead a life, to be truly sane.
The sound is like a hand i want
Which helps me to walk in young years
Through the blasphemy, through humanism
It will strike away all my fears.
Does one realize that i said
The words of silence through every phase
The crumb of bread a beggar needs
The food of life heaven feeds?
They can't be realized by screaming though oceans,
They can't be realized by ending a story
For they are the curse of hearing unknown thoughts,
The sound of silence one and only.
My heart beats are frantic now,
As i have reached the harmonics of music,
Sweet and presentable they are now
Tapping your life like your feet.
They are many fellows who can't sing
So they make you suffer the sound of silence
With every teardrop longing for supper
Fighting their way through all the violence.
For those who have a great voice
It doesn't mean that they have to be proud,
For it may break any time
Like breaking a stone, like rumbling of clouds.
And i may not be an instrumentalist
And i may not be a teacher,
But i can stop the silence and let them hear music
And make them smile, not to suffer.
Without the souls of Trouvere, will he aspire to spheres from where he can replicate himself in the ductile state of the ceremonious Energeia...? The naive action is univocal as the first practice modulated in inclinations and lexical motricities, where they die within their fears, failing to hope and convalesce their desecrated wounds congruent in concepts of Energeia, as an arbitrary neologism to move what in itself is not self- scrollable. Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run barefoot for those who banish needs on the parental scale of his range. Succeeded by the need of Energeia towards the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, and supernatural substantialities that transported him in the Epistle even to his desiring hands, but in natural causes, and kinetic emotionality in the destiny of the principles of a movement that dialogues by a spinning spin; alembicated in particles of displacement time eccentricity, towards itself in the synonymous statics, providing intrinsic angles to be associated with the rotation of time and Epistolary demands so that the quantum light can relate the energetic spiritual emotionality, with the own dissociated relationship in the spaces of appearance; where it is to be believed that there is a moment of bias provided in the emotional-movement rooted in linear memories of the temporality of the Hellenic mental axis. Everything is proper in the coordinates of the speculating, which is adduced and duplicated in Poielípsis or unveiled generation of relativistic emotions. For this reason, Vernarth naughty importunates this metaphysical precognition, alluding to particles that generate dissimilar inclinations in lapses until reaching the threshold from when Stratonice partially divided its material and spiritual origin into stationary diversity, in meditated phases that will not take place nuclear, but in the polymathy of its exteriorized threshold, and of the emotional mass of its free and passionate matter that concerns its strident and impalpable Macedonian origin.

From this moment on, the intuition corresponds to the angular reinforcement of "Poielípsis", in this way the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere becomes present, as pseudo images of the Diadochi, involving magnetized radial movements that will lie in the spheres of physical value., in the garb of the Gerakis and Petrobus, who strived in the sense of the energeia of the Epsilon neologism, not to restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the being towards a mono-sense in this causal, of such alpha that it says the paradoxical, demonstrating the diversity of optics. Faced with this diatribe Vernarth from the naturalness decides to empower Souls that are part of both topics according to Vernarth, it is to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that apprehend the light of genius that coexists with both. What the entity justified us in unfolding will be delivered by divine intelligence, so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming presence of Stratonice still withdrawn in the atmosphere of the Voielípsis (substitute scale of relativistic emotions of Vernarth). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of trends in the specifications, which could be attributed to dimensions of the Trouvere period of souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments, as if they deliberate the naturalness of an expression of who It does not philosophize if something has to detach itself or grab hold of creation to privilege the natural, re-arguing affection when professing, if there is time to express it, so it is intuited what the virtue of muttering simultaneously in the laborious, and in what does not progress. The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to dress the Voielípsis, as an analogous addition of quantum causality and of temporal and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas, heading towards the prop in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls of Trouvere will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics, to deposit effects of the incredulous versatility in themselves, in the sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of San Juan Apóstol, but in subterranean concomitance, under the same axial coordinate that is sustained sub-geological. Namely; They will coexist as long as the Mandragoron of the Duoverso and its Voielípsis are established, but three hundred and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of the Profitis Ilias.

The antithetical line is the verifiable germinability of those vertical events of the plinth settled by the Souls of Trouvere, containing the germinable starch of the growth of the ergonometric stirrup of the Zefian Bolt, which from zero elevation to 308 meters above the Aegean level will form a mega extra parapsychological bilocation, which will be gestated in its uniform vertical chronological numbering, with the pre-Christian Pythagorean and post-Christian representation in the coronation of Carlo Magno, mentioned in royal visions by the Apostle Santiago, in the versant apology of Pythagoras as an entity supra divine, envisioning the scenographic depository, and fragmentability of these three components of this start of the Hellenic Magna in the hydrographic, sub-terrestrial geological and residential basin of the Souls of Trouvere.
The upholstery of the Pythia of Herófila attacks the subtended of the flying buttress that supported the volcanic cavities of the Sub-Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls of Trouvere by its disoriented cognitive dissonance, generating paradigms that traced stones that formulated Aquarian sounds, in a dominant tonality by the minuscule machine of light, more distant from the incommensurability that escaped eclipsed in the resplendent major note that becomes monarchical by the hypotenuse of a rectangle in three subdominant angles. This brings about the thaumaturgy of Pythiais, the mother of Pythagoras who, together with Vernarth's Poielípsis, forge retentive songs given the scarce natural light that was only born from some of Trouvere's souls called Poielípsis, in stories of the oracular Delphians. The Poielípsis remains encapsulated from the thaumaturgy of the banal anti-desires that would make it mortal, for a hypotenuse that makes the gift of poetic prayer tangible, prompting the Bio axiom, by fertilizing scaled suspicions of repeated mortality in the banner of risk. Stratonice well points it out:

“The signal field has been prophesied today for the Apollo tripod. Having to reencause itself in three parts of the support of the oracles, and in clairvoyance in the pre and post Christian insemination of the gift of the word that redeems man from sin, sub-tenant of the flying buttress, from the interface of the supra trinity of sin as a blood element, and difficult to evade or avoid. Here the Hegemonic energy of Alexander the Great has been condensed in the arch of ideas, pointing out that the diseased body of Antiochus; my father…, is supplanted by that of the to happen all the trances and difficulties that are assumed after the hazardous departure in Babylon. Therefore he has to bring all the corollary prophesied in the death of my grandfather Seleucus in the hands of Ptolemy Ceraunos. Wanting to dress up the irrevocable interference that occurred in Judah by his Diadocos gangs, opting for the effect of his offspring, therefore on his spiritual stretch of energetic residual and static mass, ad libitum that will end when unleashed in his son. All will already be consumed in the pathogenic body of Antiochus, and of the love for my mother where she was abducted, and possessed she sees by retaliation from Alexander the Great for proven insubordinate ethical demands. "

Stratonice walks with the sendal that should be translucent by Santiago of Compostela. As an intra-everlasting geometric raconto, subduing fears that slide through the sendal of the dogma of the architrave, where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetarianism or freedoms that turn green in fears that do not illuminate life. eternal, perhaps from the same Matematikoi who doubts a basis for Adfinitas, to understand limitless limits, taking Pythagoras to the soil of Crotona. Always, someone who is ignored of the linguistic power, he plans to rewind spheres that still weave crossed angles, placing himself in scores to consider as an irreplaceable past. The soul of Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception, in the halters of the livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated hypogeum where the high position was, to stir to the embankment where it will merge with the Zefian arrow. This liquefaction should purify all storage of cognitive and circumscribes of those ancestral, becoming reincarnable pre-Christians, who transmigrate in the need of osmosis of universal unity. Atonal music will transmigrate molecules to great sidereal distances, being the same replica of the other eurythmic, in multi-trigonometric periods, vivifying the fractional number residues as souls of the same numeral that finally perish of Pythagorean digits, perhaps at the angles of the Phalanxes of Vernarth or in the oblique crucial moment that slumbers in an elegy, flourishing in those beings that do not Live...! Already under-treated, they will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive and deprived of their morbidity, in a dissociated cause of immortality that will distance itself from the forbidden abstinences, in liberating exercises of any count that ponders in the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae, on the divan of the joys of serving his doctrine, which saves himself, and which will save the Messiah, for those who in the soul have no sacrifice of a lamb that grazes..., nor on the pedestal that goes ahead in the centuries..., pasturing what nobody was capable of ?. The second triad of the oracle of Apollo of the Souls of Trouvere reveal Charles the Great, favored by the Apostle Santiago for the protectorate of Compostela and its spiritual regency, invited Charlemagne from Aachen, in 33 consecutive years of dispute with swords, stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne placed himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence.

In the second segment of the concave wasteland of the straight ascendant of Trouvere, he crowned Charlemagne emperor of Rome and the Franks, predicted by the Apostle James, in defensive papal struggles and in defense of Christianity. In this paradigm it appears how they are transmitted from the dead ungraspable world, they unite here in the axon of Poielípsis for the sake of the times that occur due to the anonymity of a silence that augured to link, and to know within what the endless intrinsically organic movement is, as well as the biological cosmos in the discovery of the Jacobean route. In what better region than the Dodecanese, he will be fused by twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago brother of Saint John the Apostle. Dating back to 778 AD, spreading to Hispania. In the ****** and constant fight against the Saxons, Carlo Magno, entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees, as a preview of the aforementioned Jacobean Route, everything raged witnessing their overwhelmed squares in the fueros of the Trouveres, who were Pythagorean elite soldiers, who had been bilocated in this post was Christian, preceded by the perfidious Basque in the forests, subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to continue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. All escaped from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront, the dynamics will be reflected in the Songs of the French Gesta, to enter the Jacobean Route on the way to Santiago de Compostela, when the Calixtino Codex, in its book IV o Historia Turpini, the apparition of the Apostle Santiago to Charlemagne is told in dreams, pointing to the Milky Way as a way to find his tomb, which must free them from the Saracens to be able to venerate their relics with the enamels and medallions that they issued in the Apostle's crypt in Compostela. The souls of Trouvere, are beings that enjoyed a short life in the Pyrenees, they enjoyed the fortune of originating a liberator of post-Christian inheritances, mechanized by the exquisite citation of Pythagorean antiquity, behind indigo faded in red blood cells, to dress the sendal of the figure of Faith, freed behind those who should have dressed her as a Codex Calixtinus.

Five sections rose along the straight line of the Trouvere pyramidal axon, the base of the liturgical appendix that honors the multidimensional space, with antiphons for the cult of Carlo Magno on the underlying Patmos. Santiago was lacerated in the Holy Land far from his Brother Apostle Saint John, but he came to meet with the Trouveres who came from the rugged Pyrenees. Santiago passed the Strait of Gibraltar and reached Padrón, which is about 20 kilometers west of Santiago de Compostela; there some angels took him to the place where he actively rests. In a boat he arrived..., and always by the Mediterranean he will now reach Patmos, still acquiring the iconography that attempts to find Charlemagne, and a codex that would unite pre-Christians like Pythagoras and Aristotle united in the relic of the taxpayers transformed into three maritime rivers, concerned with a predicted belligerent episode, to say that all roads lead to Patmos, like Locus Sanctus, of all the shepherds who heal their sheep in which they are not of others that are populated with souls white, for the good of others. Thus the souls of Trouvere from the Pyrenees revealed themselves as predecessors of the raiding of the shells 308 meters below the Profitis Ilias, in agreement with Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia, where the passing of the centuries would tell him about the Jacobean Route instructed in confronts, and concordances with the airones of the Trouvere, protected by a rectangle in three subdominant Pythagorean angles in the dissipated darkness of the golden indigo of Theoskepasti, in the meridian of Kímolos.
Poielipsis Souls of Trouvere
Kam Yuks Jul 2013
The beginning of a new day, I want to be positive.  I don’t want to think about festering wounds that become overrun with infection due to a lack of self-care and bad hygiene.

I want to change my thoughts. I want to recognize them for what they are, fleeting and neutral before I trap them within the musty wharf of my psyche.

I want to believe in a god.  I want to believe that something is somewhere that can redeem the involuntary nature of existence. Something that balances the horror of ******, starvation, and ****; or the parents of a missing child who are later asked to identify the only remains found – a decapitated body eerily preserved by the abnormally frigid temperatures lingering long after the advent of spring.  

I want to know beauty as much as I know disgust.  What redeems the isolated ending of someone that no one will ever remember?  What justifies the lives of those who knew nothing but defeat, who weren’t heard, or who suffered the rejection of humanity in spite of the deep desire to feel accepted?  Save us from existing without ever knowing the victory of achieving an intended goal with self-will and perseverance.

What about the countless numbers of lives that have been extinguished and buried in mass graves.  How many people die that will never be remembered…  What meaning does life have then?  Were they here to be recalled as an obscure number?  Their whole life of memories – hope, fear, love, hate, despair, dread, loneliness, doubt, guilt, shame, and unique personality traits - all to be remembered as one of the many who are not remembered.  

Why must I fool myself to find contentment? Not everyone is able to see the silver lining. Must I only know the defeat of a man who could not overcome the prison of thoughts in his mind?

Do not mourn me because of a lost familiarity.  If that is all I am then you will forget me soon enough.
Valentine Mbagu Aug 2013
The understanding of the stewardship of time calls attention to the accountability of time.
The knowledge of time management promotes the accomplishment of God's purpose for man.
The understanding of the time enhances the fulfillment of life ambitions on earth.

Learn to number the days while applying the heart unto knowledge;
knowing any time wasted cannot be regained.
Redeeming the time demands the knowledge of time management,
acknowledging the fact that the time is short.
Understanding the time curbs procastination in every area of life;
knowing that procastination is the killer of destinies.

Be accountable for the time spent with the understanding we cannot turn back the hands of time.
Be conscious of the time spent with the knowledge that time is man's greatest treasure.
Beware of the time spent with the knowledge that time waits for no man.

Let us seek to understand the time while applying the heart unto knowledge.
Let us strive to redeem the time knowing the days are evil.
Let us struggle to fulfil the time while our mission on earth lasts.

Who then can understand the time,
knowing every minute counts.
Who then can redeem the time,
knowing the days are evil.
Who then can fulfil the time,
knowing we are governed by time.

He that acknowledges the time can understand the time.
He that understands the seasons can redeem the time.
He that comprehends the mystery of time can fulfil the time.

Let him that seek to understand the time,
seek the counsel of counsellors.
Let him that seek to redeem the time,
strive to understand God's purpose for man.
Let him that seek to acknowledge the time,
Struggle to heed the principles of time.

What then is the reward for understanding the time?
What then is the reward for redeeming the time?
What then is the reward for fulfilling the time?

He that understands the time will accomplish God's purpose for man.
He that redeems the time will make a difference in his world.
He that acknowledges the time will achieve life ambitions on earth.

Hope you find time out of every time,
knowing we all seek to redeem the time.

Time is a Treasure not a Leisure.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
indeed shakespeare, the world's a stage, but give me
the stage and not the world, give me the actor's proper
compass to define himself in the stage without
the onslaught that bothered nietzsche: imagine speaking
for the entire humanity. i have one for one, where the
"actor" owns the stage, but cares little for the world
in which things are acted according to heidegger's da sein.

inside a room sits a man, reading aloud canto xxxviii,
taking in the funny parts... with ezra's specified decor
of the trilling r, the lip numbing vibrating of m and half m (n),
just to don the evening jacket pipe and waistcoat...
all the way from idaho... losing the accent of course...
like me from the backside of poland, although nearby
the signing of the treaty of *lublin
(1569)...
so there he is, sitting like a crow with a crown,
or a crown that's a crow, hunched, nonetheless eager to enjoin
with the surrounding choirs...
in the room händel's tecum principium (psalm 110) -
if händel never bothered to expatriate to
england... we'd only be left with elgar and
vaughan williams as the sole exports... what shame...
here's to the fireworks! in the room this scene... but outside
a first movement of ηoλιδες by franck...
so indeed the voodoo ****** needed for the giggle
from canto xxxviii (contrary
to what was suggested, and the suggestion
was that i could enjoy music & poetry
as much as i am now with a woman,
to prevent the waterfall from mt. ****,
the boredom, the scaly crocodile the
erasing ink of octopi... all that with a hope
for censored ****... and children and the absence
of private thinking... to appreciate it once is
not enough... and with woman of choice
only one account holds sway... tear jerker at the opera
and furthering this withstanding joy at beauty...
perhaps knowledgeable with an operatic spouse,
but no step further... in that great foundation
of life and grey matter... a tier below the merchant...
the buyer... the exchange of rotten deeds for
glistening goods - with woman the scarcity of
fed inhibitions expressed in the pure inhibitions
of sentencing blissfully haloed loneliness
into the resounding exchange of thought & voice
(esp. of someone else, once written);
no, we dare not invite profanity of such
crescendos as woman is capable of to replace
the ecstasy of the violins harps and trombones...
for indeed with a woman i'd be chained to
hear the worsened sense of symphony...
and more angina or animosity for what i prize
are relevant coordinates of executed choice
that leave no wall of my vicinity cold and
ghostly as if a dialogue with someone
was necessary; but to the poignancy of the canto:
1. the cigar-makers automation requiring recitation
    to combat the capitalistic rat infestation,
    known as mechanisation / automation,
    according to dexter kimball,
2. because of a louse in berlin
    and a greasy basturd in austria
    by name francios guiseppe.
3. on account of bizschniz relations.
4. and schlossmann suggested that i stay in vienna
    as stool-pigeon against the anschluss
    because the austrians needed a buddha
5. der im baluba das gewitter gemacht hat...
6. kosouth (ku' shoot)

and i end with that... there's more but i cannot
spare not inviting this gentleman in smockings
who said:
i say... didn't the english forgo the use of
other europeans the necessary stressors of accent
to singular letters rather than words
or word compounding, all cockney ****-side-up?
i dare say those french bass tarts
put the ' over the e, and the papa turds on top
of the o... while our kin too to sharpening and shortening
things... taking 'em fo' d' fool...
so if there's direct correlation, my german compatriot
said... itz zys: diacritic of french with o and le v. la
is the english of would not with wouldn't.
now i think the modern fictional hannibal
has a mirror proper... without the mexican doctor (
cannibal etc.) but with this villager from idaho,
making it big in london and paris...
as all "little" villager folk do...
given there's less cosmopolitan conversation about
among the slapstick nobility humour scheming
and socialite consciousness with the odd dry martini -
given there's less of all that, where you can
go to sleep at 9pm, and wake with the roosters at 5am
(in summer), milk the cow, feed the hens, pluck an organic
tomato... and get excite about village traffic - tumble weeds
speeding, ol' mcdonald wrote a poem:
a tad bit cornish, nonetheless, the sort of nourishment
that redeems.
Sara L Russell May 2014
Sara L Russell, 17/5/14 00:29am*

I speak, therefore I ****.
Complacent in my seat of ancient learning,
  I can and will
undo your fragile notions,
your vapid little dreams;
I'll pierce your ego with a word.
  Your ego is absurd.

I sleep in blameless peace.
Reclining on my cloud of contemplation,
  I can and do
lampoon your trite devotions,
tug on their fraying seams;
I'll take your confidence away
  with everything I say.

You're weaker than I am,
Regurgitated clichés haunt your writing,
  you know it's true
You wear the same emotions;
no common sense redeems
the foolish things you write
- till I slay them with spite.
Inspired by a war of words between an editor and ex-co-editor of an anthology of poetry. The editor who was dismissed from co-editing wrote a very damning review of said anthology on amazon(dot)com. The original editor was very upset by his words and a battle of counter-reviews began. This poem is a satire of critics in general, especially self-styled poetry critics.
JGuberman Aug 2016
A book of poems
from a dead poet
living words
that keep on living
remembering a life
that has a ghost of a chance
at redemption
but every word redeems
a little something
of the soul that produced it
and in turn
redeems mine
in this life
where there's no certainty
of a next.
My Dear Poet May 2023
father  said
you should
only dream
with open eyes
to see clearly
the rays of lies
dreams are only
made for sleep
not for day
nor light to seek
keep your dreams
beside your bed
and a candle lit
inside your head
keep it there
and keep it where
vision withers
for  no light
redeems or
day delivers
your dreams
once your dead
Sara L Russell Sep 2009
Introduction


Burning pages
Blood-red sky
Rage of angels
Days gone by
The Chosen one, with eyes of searing flames
Is opening the book of Living Names....


I


The turning pages tell of lives gone by,
Furled by the one whose eyes are blinding flames;
Hot ashes flutter to the blood-red sky,
Like burning souls of undeserving names.

Where justice fails in life, death compensates:
Rare Mercy brings the angel who redeems,
While cruelty brings down avenging fates,
Even if conscience sleeps throughout our dreams.

The one with eyes of flame sees everything,
His Book of Living Names is always fair;
Yet every page frail as a fledgeling's wing -
Tread carefully if your name is not there.

There are but two volumes: one leads to light,
The other leads to Hell, without respite.



II


He sat in shadows, working through the night;
A scribe writing in words of ****** red,
While brass lanterns imparted sickly light,
As nightmare voices raged inside his head.

And all the names of those forever doomed,
Of future deaths and those of ancient past,
Were on the page, committed and entombed
In holy blood, scarlet and colour-fast.

All those whom God shall cast into the flames,
Unworthy of Heaven's forgiving grace
Are ever here, in this Book of Dead Names -
Named, numbered souls, each one bereft of face.

Thus, all enjoying notoriety
Shall be vanquished in anonymity.



III


Place copper coins over these weary eyes,
Gather my gold around me in the tomb,
Pray overlook transgression, all my lies,
Cradle me unto death, as from the womb.

Bury my silver at my lifeless feet,
Burn sandalwood, utter my name in prayer,
Drench me with nard and hyssop, bittersweet,
Remember me with lilies in my hair.

Pray write me in the Book of Living Names,
God turn thy face from my iniquity;
Spare me the flail, the pit of raging flames,
But let the quiet waters carry me.

Float me upon the Styx when I am gone;
Erase me from the Necronomicon.



NOTES:

This was inspired by some of the startling imagery in The Book of Revelation from the Bible.
SassyJ Jul 2016
I cannot fit in these circles they build me
I cannot be bullied outside my reality
I cannot be dragged in their dark tunnels
I cannot be drugged inside their quarries

                         FOR
When all fades away the 'self' has to be whole
When all shades the 'self' within has to reconnect
The 'self' has it's own shell that crowns it's life
The 'self' is an open field shielded from the storm

My 'self' will not indulge in the mediocre cranes
My 'self' will not be spotlighted for egoistical tunes
My 'self' redeems as it condenses in the mist of the dew
My 'self' is my ultimate repentant, a repellant from the norm
Let me feel your nakedness,my Lady...
Let me undress you with one single look.
The world out there promises you nothing but bitterness of life.
Behold.....
In my arms i'm holding a dagger of certainty and a rose as red as your sweet blood.
Your lips remind me of those rosebuds that bloomed eternally
Your *******,sacred and pure,i touch with such a lonely desire.
Your fear arouses my manhood charm
This night has no end.
Let us dance with the rhythm of my passion.
The smoothness of your skin i feel with my lips like a heavenly tune.
Your shivering body,my heart beating...
My hands around your waist...
Tighter,closer....bring and bind yourself to me.
My breath runs around your neck,with every kiss you walk closer to the path i'm giving you...
How smooth.... How passionate...
The sweetness of your tongue ,swaggering on my manhood like a golden glass of wine.
This night has no end,my love
Let me see....let me feel your blood drip down  my body...
Let me bathe in your exposed nakedness.
I will kiss the wounds i cut on your heart...
Kiss the pain away as this feeling i bear i can't help it
Your death would be so beautiful as the night grows darker...
Your stream of unconsciousness redeems my lonely soul...
Here on this path,i will lay your sweet  dead body....beneath the stars you can not see
Unto heaven and earth....
After i wrote this i couldn't help thinking of Jack The Ripper...
What did he think of when he was slaughtering his poor victims....
Did he mumble a song in his head? Didn't he have a special woman in his life?

Maybe this poem was supposed to be entitled 'Jack The Lonely Lover'
G Fairbairn Jun 2010
Loving sweetly,
deeply
heart blossoms
softens
graciously
receiving
blessings,caresses
Ultimate Healing;
redeems soul
shadow small
flies free
sky breeze.


Never again
doubt,fear,
hidden
forbidden tear,
pain, emotion
make for long
trail  magic
endless motion.

Loving...weaves
smooth tides,
smiles
dewdrop of Essence
morning gloriously
shines;
Loving...paints
rainbow heart
skies abide
trust entrust
Celestial
Dance
before us
Jamin Feb 2014
My crimson carnation
Bleeding red beauty
Into the rain
Falling from heaven
Ready to make earth it's home

Here in the rain
Flowers wilting away
Love so deep that death was but
A small patch of brown
In a field teeming with lilies
The alabaster field will shout out your name

Like the death and rebirth of a single scarlet tulip,
So was your sacrifice
Never for a moment fearful
That this apoptosis would never return it's beauty

Grace
Never ceasing grace
Can't be twisted and torn
By wind or storms
It will hold when weak are we
Glory to he who redeems
Written in Spring 2013
Edited Feb 18, 2014
Trevor Gates Aug 2013
As the crow flies over yonder
Rusted strings beckoning their call
The wind in the weeping willow sings
Redeems those ugly sins longer

Leadbelly played the midnight special
With Roberta dead and gone

Pieces in the trees, except
For her soul which belonged to another

Devils got my woman tonight
Heads twisting and turning in my sleep

Rising flames going south of heaven
Fear bearing fruits of the womb

Boy, he could play
He could make the wood cry
He could sing and howl like that
With scripture and gospels fly

Prodigal of the rising sun
Voices carrying his wings of charm

Playing tunes whispered by fiends
That mistook his woman for some strings

Willie Brown knows the crossroads
Ages ago in the summer day haze

Watching friends like Robert trade their
Fingertips for sliding bottle licks

Hellhounds got my woman
Dealing cards from under her dress
My body whipped and beaten
With worms squirm in ****** mess

There goes the one, the man in black
Tipping his hat to me
The Morning Star approaching, asking
“Do you want to learn from me?”

The crooked tree like the arm of death
The clouds rising over the red sky
Yellow eyes lingering and staring
Weighing my soul for the perfect price

Mud covered my feet
But it hasn’t been raining

Nightmares crawling from my nails
With crows sounding like my momma

Devil strumming with my woman

Devil grinning, with a mouth like a cellar furnace

Hell wanting a piece of me
Sliding bottle licks and singing blues

Under the crossroad tree
A ghostly soul who can play
For the traveling eternity.
If you have ever lived or passed by the American South, then you might have heard legends and urban tales of Bluesmen and their stories. From the infamous Crossroads, where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil to play blues guitar like no one else could, or the eerie folklore spreading like the tune of a hooking melody, the captivation of such music and spirit can be engrossing.

During my time in the South, namely Central Texas and numerous other states, you see bits and pieces to long that unappreciated idiom. Stories told through the words and phases of pain and suffering. The haunted bridges and abandoned houses where I shared my first paranormal encounter.

Evidence of this classic movement can be heard in the work of Robert Johnson, Skip James, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Leadbelly, Honeyboy Williams, Muddy Waters and many more.

This slow moving poem is in dedication to exactly that.
Eddie Starr Jul 2014
My soul yearns for the Great I am.
Provider of all of my needs everyday.
For you give and you take away.
The soothing Savior to my Spirit and Soul.
Who am I but a man that been blessed.
By you O Lord an ordinary mortal.
With a Super Natural Extraordinary God.
Who saves and redeems all of his people.
Johnnyqu33r Oct 2016
He's a cosmopolitan queen,
He's content on his knees,
He feeds from the screams,
and the souls he redeems.

He's got a complex mind,
He appreciates the grind,
He always takes his time,
A master of his crimes.

He's simple but complex,
He's an incredible wreck,
He whispers on your neck,
And answers to your beck.

He's a cosmopolitan queen,
He'll bring you to your knees,
He'll infiltrate with ease,
and he'll take what he needs.
It's fall, what's better than a ****** demon?
Third Eye Candy May 2013
hurling sherpa into the Sun on a rainy day can open your mind
and your children will wander off from your womb... into the next room.
it's the little things that **** you. and the invisible that redeems.
peeling papayas in a prison is still fruit of the doomed.
if you wish to be free -
i suggest you leave
The Pit.

watch out for Mangoes.
Cedric McClester Apr 2016
By: Cedric McClester

Say it ain’t so
I don’t wanna know
That the beautiful one
Did suddenly go
Embraced so it seems
By a death or a dream
Human not machine
But heaven redeems

Somebody said
That Prince is dead
And I can’t wrap my head
Around that news
So I just refuse
To believe a word
Of what I heard

So this requiem
Is especially for him
The Beautiful One
And I’ve Jus’ begun
Pulling out all stops
To give him his props
The beautiful one
Into the setting sun

Somebody said
That Prince is dead
And I can’t wrap my head
Around that news
So I just refuse
To believe a word
Of what I heard

Even though he’s gone
His music lives on
He was so clever
It’ll last forever
And the legacy
He left you and me
Is a treasure trove
From his record grove

So this requiem
Is especially for him
The Beautiful One
And I’ve Jus’ begun
Pulling out all stops
To give him his props
The Beautiful One
Into his setting sun

Somebody said
That Prince is dead
And I can’t wrap my head
Around that news
So I just refuse
To believe a word
Of what I heard

Say it ain’t so
I don’t wanna know
That the beautiful one
Did suddenly go
Embraced so it seems
By death or a dream
Human not machine
But heaven redeems














Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016.  All rights reserved.
Let's get
A bird's eye view
We'll never forget
Be amongst the few
To climb to the top
Never rest, never stop
Hold my hand
I'll keep you  
Out of the quicksand,  
Just as I won't let you plummet  
From this summit
Together we'll scale
Any mountain,  
In our life; our Everest  
The greatest test
No matter if we fail
We can take it again
And again, anew
Break through the mist
And reach for the sky
Into the air ****** a fist
Catch our dreams
Don't let them fly
Away from us,
As we thrive like a cactus
And our perseverance redeems...
© okpoet
Nigel Morgan Jan 2016
BRUSH

Brush free the carpet
of mud and fluff.

Let’s brush off the hurtful comment too,
that snide remark, those graceless words.

We’re cleaning yet collecting,
straightening up, taking out the dirt.
Repositioning dust. Always temporary,
never the same, brush, brush,
to and fro, again – again - again.


SCOOP

The ice cream tub has one
to make the portion fair
for that ever-observant,
pernickety child.

When walking the dog,
we scoop the ****.
carrying the plastic bag
to the waiting wanting bin.

Yet the all-important wooden
scoop is made from a block
of a 2 by 3, with chisel, gouge
and a steady hand.

This farmer’s friend, this open spoon,
lives in darkness and under the lid
of the deep grain bin,
to feed white chickens.


POKE

Getting it out,
placing it right –
but much is trial & error.
If it won’t go in,
give it a poke . . .
and it might.

Nowadays it’s a software app
to help you cheat at on-line games
and , God forbid, an important tool
in the tattooist’s bag – the hand poke,
liner and shader with standard
8 – 32 thumb screws and
completely autoclave able.


CUT

Hogwimpering drunk
or ****** out of mind.
Seventies slang for
individual incapacitation.

A cut can hurt,
display the inner
through incision
in the outer.
Reveals, opens up,
allows a division from
one to another.

This cut of meat on the slab?
For you, madam?
I can cut it up
nice and small
for the baby to chew.


RAKE

Lying there in the long summer grass,
it needs standing up, its teeth cleaned.
When autumn comes it redeems itself,
clearing the path, letting the lawn breath.

In the hand of sculptor, ceramicist, modeller
it fashions variously, cuts, pulls away, gouges,
scrapes, a multi-purpose stick with two ends:
of wrapped wire, of ribboned steel.


LOOK

To make sure it’s right:
correct and straight,
balanced, in proportion.
The magnifier helps,
the camera too,
getting the angle,
the position , the light
gauged . . . with a little looking.
You have to look,
see?


HIT

Whatever needs placing firmly,
needs fixing permanently,
can do with a hit (or two).
A nail with a hammer,
a door with a foot,
it could be a winner,
and right on target,
strike out the opposition,
disable the enemy.
A killer noun.
I prefer the verb.
These Seven Tasks were defined by the artist and maker Sharon Adams. The poems were inspired by seeing her exhibition titled Natural Makers at the Touchstones Gallery, Rochdale, UK. http://sharonadams.co.uk
Koray Feyiz Oct 2016
I'm not farther from death than you are,
Tender leaf, slender branch.
We all live very close to it.
But my heart has been salvaged.
It's nearly off the map.

The heart doesn't reason this way  
In every man. It doesn't take wings
From its subterranean shell like this.
You are the stars of night,
You are the tree, a ballerina
Of grace. I'm the root.

Now you are exhausted.
You say your load was too heavy.
I forgave you, but you failed
To listen to me, drifting into your life
Of earnest foliage and birds' nests.

What were you saying to me,
To the one who always redeems
Fear has left you just skin and bones
Look: you are the one being tested
And tried. I am the root.

You close your windows feeling
Diminished,  belittled.
Your tiny world is fast disappearing
Into my immense space.

I don't know you well,
But I wasn't so crowded
Just a little bit earlier.
You're a bullet in the barrel,
An irrelevant splash.
I am the root.

The dead summoned their courage
And gathered to find arbitrarily, in one another
Love never seen before,
All-encompassing love without boundaries.

Maybe something will occur in the end
Your farewell imagined its own reality.
Your mouth said:
I am taking wings,
I'm contemplating.

I am a long and narrow road,
And will be closed down sooner or later.
I am the most disloyal traitor
To face your mask. Look now:
Your specter is lost inside me,
As if it had disappeared into a mirror.

You did this. You offered
thousands of lies to me
Instead of the truth. Death smiled
as a way to humiliate. I know
The earth. I am the root.



Koray Feyiz
(Translated from Turkish by Dr.Nesrin Eruysal & Prof.Dr. Kenneth Rosen)
Anna Veronica Nov 2021
Let my grave be unnamed.
Let it be unrecognisable too.
Let my haters remember how I wronged them.
Let the people who love me remember me without a plea.
Let my grave be unmarked,
Let me be just a passing thought.
Let my grave be unmarked,
So all those who pass mark it without a farce.
Let their feelings towards me ,
Of contempt or of respect,  be a prospect.
Let there be no doubt when you flicker your gaze at me ,
When I sleep for eternity,
Or till my souls redeems me.
Let my grave be unnamed,
Let my  people name me.
A liar , a deceiver , unloving child
A lover , a foe , a friend with no friends.
Let my grave be unnamed ,
Let my soul be unclean.
For all the thoughts that cross your mind,
Let those be with what I am remembered by,
Never the good , not the bad but the ugly truth with which I passed .
Let my grave be untouched,
Without grief , as their is no one else to cast your burden upon.
Let me go all alone,
As no one stood by me when I brimmed with life.
With all  my  love to share
Your hatred holding onto  my love
Let my grave be unnamed .
Let my peace be on loan
Let my soul be unmarked
Let my sorrow never follow through
Let me be without a tomorrow.
preservationman Nov 2017
Who says being a Senior Citizen makes us old?
Put on the brakes with a moment of hold
We have worked all our life
We should be retired and relax in stride
We earned our Social Security which is our expenses that Social Security provides
Senior Citizens do have rights
We are designated and don’t have to act polite
It is god that redeems our light
Washington, DC wants to take away in thinking we don’t need
Social Security and Pensions is how we proceed
We are not asking the House of Representative to do a good deed
We do have Medicare power
It is our provider regardless of the hour
All Washington, DC wants to do is be sour
Washington, DC has no plan of its own
The Senior Citizens just want to be left alone
The Multitude of Seniors voices that want to wake up the Capitol
It’s a battle worth communicating about
“Seniors in strength, and voice having an Old Age High”
We are the why and we are in Washington, DC’s face in the “I”
Don’t touch what you don’t understand
This is the Senior Citizen demand
Our fight has been going on throughout the land
So President Trump recognize us Senior Citizens
You are a Senior Citizen yourself
We will not allow you taking away
It is not ok
No you cannot have your own way
We Senior Citizens have the experience and endurance
Our voices conclude being our assurance.
Blade Maiden Oct 2018
Lighthouse shine a light for me
in these dark times it is hard to see
will you shine a light so I might be
(some day)
found

Meaning got lost in the rubble
trust has only brought me trouble
People hiding inside their bubble
(seems like we are all)
bound

Fires would you burn
I got lost after taking the last turn
what is there to find, what is to learn
(we feel like being, being)
drowned

Please, show me a way
it is hard to go, so much harder to stay
I walk, I halt, I run, I stray
(everything's loud but I make no)
sound

Lighthouse, my castle of warmth
how I miss your steady arms
and your happy, glowing charms
(how is seeing you in the distance so)
profound

Like ancient kings and queens
of a wisdom that redeems
though never knowing what it all really means
(in uncertainty, lonely, in melancholy once again)
crowned
digital availability
   around the clock
after a while
begins to feel like
permanent responsibility

your friends expect you
to be online all the time
    whether you like it or not
so they can share with you their daily trivia
of personal condition, discount shopping, their dog’s health,
the children’s good, their problems with their partners,
etcetera etcetera

I know it’s nice to hit a button
and hear the ringing of the other’s phone
the voice responding to your call

it’s fine when there are no alternatives

and yet

somehow the electronic chat
confirms more than redeems
presence of absence of the person

I feel like talking to an avatar
a disembodied voice
that has a virtual existence
yet whose life in the real world
still needs to be asserted
by meeting – and talking –
in a café
or simply on the street
It takes on deaths horrible form thereunto,
Breaching the seas pensively askew;
Spun brutally from troubling winds of false accord,
Ignored by expression but surely explored.

O 'tis madness, voices beat savagely in my head,
Upon quiet of night as insanely they wilfully imbed.
Through mortal fear I am awakened,
There's nowhere pleasant to run 'tis my chastened.

Of life's despairs nor demons wrathful hold,
Hast thereof nightmares foretold.
In the chilling air, killing heedful wisdoms impaired,
Had I faltered, I'd been sadly unprepared.

Pressed onwards I could only dream,
With care it'd be a future supreme.
Deep in my bleeding thoughts I tried to grasp it,
Yet every brutal bound 'twas likely unfit.

Ah, let evil echo through my disrupting mind,
The faces, that blushed mostly unkind.
A hideous desire inexplicable, entombed from within,
Hastily it beckons thereunto an original sin.

The voices, whose horrid duty I deplore,
Of the old vast despairs it will implore.
But alone I am 'tis surely surpassing a realm of rage,
And all I seen, mattered naught offstage.

Regrettably in the valley of despair I have always lived,
Therefrom I am truly a weltered child deprived.
Onto the rough cobble stones bloodied and quite torn,
That tragic wind, caught in hells uproar forlorn.

A sea of red, kept in an eternal twinge,
Through to agonies I'd impinge.
Ah how they weep, the mystic fools they weep,
In fake smiles these too rustle forth and reap.

Though I'm stirred I cannot follow,
O'er endless toil I as wallow.
Unto violent passions, soaring in tempting extremes,
Of pastures buried, a life in poor redeems.

For nothing concerted I came thereafter seeking,
Every question asked it begged a haggard beseeching.
Thus in a dim labyrinth of lies I found some solace,
Here in the direst valley of despair it's my disgrace.
Aditi May 2016
You are the **** itch people get in public and can do nothing about.
You are the left over canned food people throw away to rot
You are the leech that grows at the expanse of another soul
You are the embodiment of all the ill temptations I ever sought

You are the nauseating feeling that can taint the joy of best ride,
You are the single cloud in an otherwise perfect blue sky,
You are the the rose plant that only yields thorn
You are all blackness and cruel storms.

You are the door closed in a helpless face again and again
Like the rain after drought, you have always been inadequate
With every breath, your stupidity redeems itself,
Like a circle, your cruelty knows no end

And I have been a fool, bigger than you,
Worshipping a pebble off the road does not really make it a God.
Time and time again, for you I fall.
You can't keep bleeding forever and call it love.

But this, my friend, was the last straw
I'll let myself feel the pain, and let it all go,
I need space to spread my wings,
You need to strengthen your roots, and atone for your sins

In another time,
In another life,
Maybe our love will win
But for now, I'm a matchstick soaked in gasoline
And you are always too fiery.


Pardon, my biased hatred,
But you can truly hate, what you once loved.
--- Jul 2013
Your arms
Hold me lovingly
You constantly
Forgive me
When I ***** up
All the time.
We all can be forgiven.
All we need to do
Is ask.
That is your love
Other oriented
Self sacrificial
It reaches all of us
And protects us.
**Redeems us
Seazy Inkwell May 2017
How I wish to nestle

In the flavor and smoke of your supper.


When I lived a homeless citizen,

Missing every ingredient of ancestry.


Whenever you string with dexterity,

The oregano, the soil and the wheat.


Filling in my cups a nostalgia worth to weep,

As the motherhood redeems my dying innocence.


The fruition of labors, withered dreams and secret treats.

When food and memories didn’t have to be refrigerated.


Every natural delicacy straight from the earth,

Covering the rooftop of my truth and your cuisine.
to my mother whom i haven't seen for two years.
Damian Acosta Apr 2010
I see God in my garden, but I don't know what He said...
... perhaps a whisper of a warning; just a murmur in my head.
As I open up the back door and come rushing to His aid,
I'm tripping over fallacies-- cursing the attention I know I should have paid.
But no time for theory, no time for pain.
For God lay in my garden quite possibly slain.

Technicolor eyes and watercolor skin,
Just being this close redeems most of my sins.
Lips begin to part-- a breath escapes with a melody of rasping.
Holding His own heart, He is impotently grasping.
The **** is far too deep and the world is far too cold,
It's His life I want to keep, as His blood drips gold...

Should I pray? Should I weep? Where is God in times like these?
A father, broken... A dream, awoken... I fall on to my knees.

His gaze meets mine... He seems pleasantly surprised... He smiles...

And this is how the world ends. Not with a bang, not with a whimper-- not with a fall from grace;
But with the weight of humanity, the universe and existence, lifting from His face...
2009
Jim Timonere Oct 2016
The game was created for us to play
As if we don’t care about the score;
Taking our satisfaction from the moments
We made hard plays look simple
And the simple ones look automatic.

When we fall, and we all fall, we
Take pride in getting up.
When we can’t get up,
Defiance redeems us from our failure.

In the end, we remember the plays
Not the wins and losses, because in the end
We all get carried off the field.

— The End —