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Alexis Carlston Jan 2014
A passionate touch that I love so much also touches me with an unknown guilt when it comes.
Feeling chills down my back and tears on my face as our bodies meet again.
Filling me with sorrow every time we share that embracing stare.
A simple pleasure that I hate within as I sin a great sin.
Refraining from love with this affair Im in
Green Tea Oct 2020
In the last hour I dealt with a lot
My own definition of why I look dour
Memories I hid six feet under the ground
Came emerging, grasping, and clawing at me 'till I'm found

Saying what's good for me, but my thoughts aren't considered
Ignored by a mother, a father, a neglected child
A child that mimicked Rapunzel locked up in a tower
A child that had gotten their smile devoured

Each day they get thinner, all hopes get hindered
Clouded thoughts, faded scars, and their music gets louder
A habit to cloak emotions, not being able to shed a tear
Refraining from going to beer, avoiding others out of fear

Consolation comes through rose lenses,
A gun held to their head but not packed with powder
I wrote this short poem because the deadlines in my life on top of dealing with emotional trauma and having no time for myself all at once ******.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
and all i ever wanted, was to work in a music shop, to compensate my fancy moving away from Stendhal's scarlet & noir, and into the domain of Nick Hornby's high fidelity... well... that died a very Belgian death, very much akin to euthanasia.

at least i don't
bleach people to mere
pronoun usage.

and yes,
i treat the tetragrammaton
as a superlative,
esp. given
i am akin of Atilla -
and the Visigoths...
such that i am:
of the invading "horde",
because of he
the so-called culture
i see no civilisation on the horizon...
i see no Baroque...
            i hear no Bach,
and will never hear a stance
such that the music be composed...

because what is happening
in no circus of nouns...
people are being bleached,
they are being leash bound
to walk into a pet barbers to get their
hair "done"....
         i am not the one
regarding them as sole
pronoun exhibitors...
   there they are: merely pronoun bound...
and should i call them black,
or care to call them copper skinned
akin to the Indus peninsula...
                       i have forgotten
the agitating "they"...
            
i don't have a cartesian dualism
to mind...
i simply have my own dichotomy
to attend to...
   as Voltaire said: each to his own
garden; and a pair of shoes.
    
once again...
  geometry will never scope beyond the orb...
there is no geometric study to
suggest a shape for the universe...
now we know: there's no thinking
outside the box,
  even if that might ease your "claustrophobia".

  and i rather call a person by their
self-identifying characterisation
that reduce myself to a liberal
censor clot of only managing other people
in the pronoun category, auto-suggestive
of a *we
vs. them...

       i don't see how that makes us
liberal, that having forsaken descriptive
approaches, we incorporated
the additive approach carte blanche
as a guide to treating everyone akin
to being dubbed albino.

   i like talking about ******* a brown-skinned
girl...
    i like talking about ******* a Thai girl...
i like putting cardamom in my curry,
or my cinnamon...
  or my everclear - heartspark dollarsign -
and thus about the time i
gave to flying the kite of full, manly,
****-refraining autonomy...
to the wind itself.

  just when we were about congested,
and lated constipated...
        i wrote this, like a clerk
might, in the bureucracy of the failing
Roman Empire, akin
to the reminiscent W. H. Auden...
      on pink'oh paper that turned boredom
into the origami of paper-aeroplanes...
  neat, folded, against the envelope
requirements... thrown right into
the lap of don quixote,
       recycled, shredded by a windmill...

as if about just apparent...
        at least this dream, this utopia
didn't originate with me...
    oh sure, i believed it...
that we could house the entire ethnically-diverse
populace under one roof...
   i believed it, the world told me to believe it...
i'd love to believe it thrice over...
   i mean, i'd love to have
    duo-ethnic children,
        who spoke four languages...
in the least three...
    but **** how that gets swept under
the rug and forgotten along
with Aladdin...
   it just gets boring, all that masochism
of being an anti-racist social warrior
but at the same time calling oneself
a white-trash stereotype transcendent.

that's me about to puke,
and write my name in diarrhea ink,
followed up by doing the same in
gonorrhea ink.

what happened at the end of the 20th century
was a very well believed
in dream, even though it was a butterfly...
and lasted no more than a few years...
it was worth it... it's when i had my childhood...
and i could have even been a roofer until now
should there be someone who said
they were overworked in a supermarket...

it was very nice for a bit,
great to believe in... how suddenly 2000 years
of history could be forgotten and
let us live in a togetherness...
    but like today, Syria and a civil war...
civil wars are unique...
  a Syrian barber tells a Syrian butcher
to *******...
     and would it be necessary for
     an English politician to get involved?

unless they're selling both
  Israeli uzis (the country where the ***
originated, yep, Israel)...
          i'm not a Syrian civilian...
so what the **** are all these tourists
talking about?! i don't care if they come
from Westminster, what are these tourists
talking about?!
                  i'd like to be a Syrian civilian
first, before i give my opinion...
        i'm not giving a single opinion
as a tourist that was ever in Syria,
or a one: waiting to visit it in the "near" future.
******* tourists...
     you have to use a blunt knife carving
this piece of history...
not point using a well sharpened knife
cutting with eloquence and absolutely
no profanity... given the excesses of ****...
   i say: oaths! oaths!
PNasarudheen Sep 2013
ODE TO  RIOTERS
The clouds rumble , O! sons of Malice ,hear
The smoke of arson and roar of lies
In the name of God in heaven; to the tune of lords near
Ignorant men  , followers of Dionysus fly like flies.
Think ! read ,what the history of man tells
Of fire that Prometheus brought for our happiness
But, ingratitude of satanic forces by  spells
Inflame the fire of Ire and burn the huts; brings unhappiness.
Tempters like Hera of Zeus pleasantly smile
Resting in Bars or legislatures , counting votes on computer screen
Echo of slogans on Equality, Fraternity, Liberty from a mile
Makes in social conscience  a  scathing scene.
The land of Buddha. Abraham Lincoln, prophets of peace all
Sent by God to every race and all clans dull,
Told the people all over to be kind
Loving ,lovable and of service mind.
(2).
O! political crookedness, in struggle for power  you tempt
People to compete and hate and conquer
By communal spirit forgetting  Divine Spirit and contempt
Religious heads and political aspirants together
Like criminals think and twist the holy ideas, even
They hold holy books in left hand and in right hand gun
And advice disciples to die and **** for heroic heaven
For them, as if death is an easy going fun;
The First Estate of France still as  impulses here in world
Reign the countries as rulers  of Democracy mocking
And they jointly exploit subjects ; and devotees of the spiritual world,
Misguide men and women  by prayers rocking
Hope of Heaven and horror of Hell
Make the people, forget all , and yell
When the villainous leaders signal by baton
The desperados become boys wanton.
(3)
O! devilish War-Lords, do you read Vedic Books?
What they mean ? for you mean? as they tell of God ,the sole Creator
The Creator of you and the “Other”  in your hooks.
The Preserver and Destroyer , may not be for you Pharaohs greater,
O! Pharaohs , you don’t  cause rain, make the Sun rise
And the greenery, birds and fish flourish .
When the Earth rumbles and tsunami rages you give the price
The rewards of hatred you sowed nourish-
All around ,as chemical war terrorism-a horrible nightmare
But, Epicureans! All are from Him and unto Him all shall return.
Marketing competitions and sale of arms cause the Wars
As history reminds us :none gained but failed to sustain peace;
Still, the blunder of division of people and exploitation stars
Rise , at the West with the dying Sun’s horses and Mars.
Politics and Economics -two horses of Civilization unbridled
Terribly gallop with men on them girdled.
(4)
O! cruel  egoistic  businessmen ,you globalize immorality
By greed, you trade with  fanatics and  terrorists,
Spur clashes: Multiculturism versus monoculturism  denying plurality
Challenging Eternity; certainty of scientists.
At Saranath,Lord  Buddha told  disciples on the Middle Path of  life
To Torah “The Lord our God , the Lord is One”, so Jesus taught us all
And guided to worship  God in” Spirit and truth “ in our life
No other Lord but Allah deserves worship of us all-
Allah is the Light of the Earth, and of the Sky ,O! Lord
God is the Eternal  Light  to illuminate all  ;to be worshiped
Bhagavat Gita says,"The body is the temple of God
In the Spiritual realm : all are from the One ,the  worshipped.
God is the only One without birth and death
The Unique unlike the creatures on earth
The Force is called “atma” by Vedas no trade and
Sciences  tell: it is Eternal  , cannot be made by human hand. .
(5)
O! the ill -taught  simpletons , think !why shall we spoil life
in feuds communal or political  for the luxury of masters
Suicide never a sacrifice; if at all ,it is beheading of human in life
At the altar of regal, egotist power-mongers.
The Only God is the  Seed of all; names may differ by language difference
Holy books use all noble qualities to the name the Supreme Lord
Then, why the sons of that One Lord, in repentance
Think on action : virtue  or evil and pray: forgive ,O! Lord
In democracy, we are free to believe  the God or not
Still, we can be human by refraining from paining others
Freeing ourselves from communal hatred, the vicious knot
As the political fences   encircle us that make us enemies of others.
Stars in the sky and the Sun and the Moon
Are mortal ones from God for our boon.
Let us be men and women loving all , serving all;
Not severing heads; but lead a life ,culturally tall.
                                             ***********
Note:atma=soul.
Pleasure enclosed noon on a table
A magnolia-soul from opposite chair
Puts on elegant dress
Like a blooming melody dancing on.

Bonsai is a living image of endless dream
I've ever seen a person how far delighted
Simple, extremely white portrait of life
So pretty and so the finest
never have I ever seen.

Billions of small bells are refraining
from entering the dark room
And I'm returning back towards a window
Through which a large a4 navy-blue sky is smiling.



Poem 03
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X
Bijan Rabiee Oct 2019
With an old secret
I sank into her endless eyes
Pondering over laws
That effected such marvel
And leased me to madness
Words were melting in my mouth
She, refraining her turn of phrase
A tear rolled down my cheek
Stirring passion's tongue
A tear rolled down hers
Wielding my soul ablaze
I rejoiced in silence
Lest i betray my confidence
She handled my eyes
Spotting my inference
I could no longer bear
The fruits of my fear
I leaned over and touched
Her sculptured nails tenderly
Freeing my emotion
She smiled coyly
Sealing my devotion.
Steve D'Beard Jul 2014
Silence. Solvent. Substituted;
subsidised
then marginalised
instituted and muted.
And, often
persecuted.

Rationanalised
by abstraction:
every minuscule
interaction dissected.
All that is left is convoluted,
misconstrued
and rejected.

The lucid bewildered.
The disillusioned bejeweled:
rooted in their state of mind.

Effortlessly self-proclaiming
restraining
and refraining
purging the imagination:
the waning of maligned mankind.

And all of his
illuminated limitations.
Eliza Jane Oct 2013
You took a scalpel to me, my dear
Skillfully working your way through the layers
Epidermis to lipids to muscular tissue until
The bone

You carved your name on my radius
Lovers' initials on a tree
Marrow leaked across your hand
A gift of the broken

You tried to sew me up, my dear
Realising you had gone far deeper than first thought
Surgeons hands you have not
A hack job, bound to leave scars

You've left me with bumps
Burns
Itches inside my very being
Refraining from scratching
In fear of what might come pouring out
hyperbole and hyperactivity
Sheeda Sep 2012
To look, or not to look: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to forsake
The entertaining of such fanciful thoughts of love or lust
Or to pursue them against all odds of a benign response,
And by seeking, obtain? To look: to see:
Maybe more; And by a sight to find
In the glitter of an lined eye the interest and wanting
That impels said actions; ‘tis a reciprocation
Devoutly sought. To look: to see:
To see: perchance to lose: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that subtle glance what times may follow after
Whether the ice is broken or the heart instead,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of a choice to peek;
For who would bear the hurt of a scornful return,
A finding that the goddess is a medusa,
A turning of the fancies to stone,
A realization of disinterest, a knitting of the brows
A frown’s beginnings on a face so fair,
When she herself might her peace make
By refraining to meet the intended’s eye? Who would want
To face a rejection that is in all chance,
But for the regret that comes with a chance not taken,
Leaving what could be as what could have been
Forevermore, which makes us turn
And face the one to one million
Than never to face it at all?
Thus fear of rejections makes regretters of us all,
And thus the resolve to be one of a million
Is weakened by weighty o’erthought,
And an attempt to contemplate her soul through her eyes
With this regard are abandoned,
And lost to remain as fanciful thought.
Written for my english class on 09.27.12
nicholas ripley Apr 2010
there are no haunted places;
just people that are haunted
by their past and presences,
by their longing to hold
memories and perceptions
of those loved and dead,
hanging on to the comfort
to the pathos amidst the chaos
of grief and mourning,
as if retaining the empty hurt
will assist in refraining from
the departure of treasured  
thoughts, which is all that
remains, Pacman like
following, ready to pounce
vircapio gale Apr 2013
oli  alolalia, alloilaalia llia
my voice complies to echo
distant emblems of a theory of all fate,
destined  with a syntax  of a mainly nonsense  pedantry
..paling.. beside a string of random words--
whether nature's bare effect,
or some intentional array--
ailololalieae, aellolalia la aolilolalia, allollia allali lllla, alloalia alllaia, allolalia*
--bearing ologies of whim and isms without ambit,
a farce within a sham in a sham in a sham
waiting there atop an abstract, ancient hill
gloriously stale, and always having been to be
what only poor Laplace could see.
the comely resignation siren sings,
her hair of timely strands agleam
and waving as she wails before a wall of necessary moans
aelloliaolia llali, alilaolaloiaa. Lllaa oali, aallolalia, lli ll ol, llolalia lllalia, aallaoloaloia
in dagger tongues of old and new, even divination ends--
anti-grammar soothsaid by the stars,
pointless thanks for all respite
and fortunes womb to womb
in tones of equal portions,
loving and malicious lies
invested blindly in a causalistic chain
compelling freely all to learn
another hyle verse refraining on,
"sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea."
allolalia.
        
allolalia of the soul, for certain.
of what is romanticized as soul. the Incy would know,                         
chosen in fantastic leaps a chorus strips
to vocal altivolant cries
rebounding buttress heights
with savored dionysian sin
the gods descended to revise--
listen, in abandon, an amatorculist's ictus speaks:
allolalia a allaia. Alloolalia allolalia alaloolaleioa
resounding deep beneath the waters, ecstatic envelope of tides
in which the stars reflect the spiral of my inner gaze
chiaster noemes tipping pleasure over domes,
verdant crotches rooted by ephemera of lights
and hazes floated over eyelash swoons
from piercings into satisfaction's desert end,
where sternums drip with scoured lusts
and wide-eyed recollections of the moment's selfhood sight
betray the freedom in the heart, and sacral pride.
***** imagined ease of future tropes
conjoined with inner plights to balance
what the furrowed brow concerns,
and widened visions offer further depths
to penetrate the interweavement of all times--
alone i'm here again, recognizant of wills
familiar as the flaming star i contour shadows from
to reminisce on mentor's sayings,
"exact description of inner and outer reality"
Alelaoolaliai alololialiia, aallolaleia
experiment of worlds, archer of the proper noun
allolalia... beloved allolalia...















.
"Susie Asado" is a poem by Gertrude Stein, with "Sweet... tea" as its opening line.

allolalia
n. - form of aphasia in which words are spoken at random.
or Any speech defect, esp. one caused by a cerebral disorder.

word mutations are taken from http://wordster.onvyder.com/wiki/allolalia.html
Maman Screams Mar 2014
Alarming weather of a stormy coax
Subjected to approval while reposing hoax
Judging panels for this pandemonium chords
Refraining orders for the minority shrouds
All hail I'll never place my dignity down
You know I've always love you
Or am I just your clown

©2014 Maman Screams
Ayaba Babe Feb 2013
If you've wondered why I shy from bathing in your eyes
-it's because I'm terrified of where you'll drain me.
Refraining
Abstaining
From explaining why my brain chains itself to the thought of you.
The thought of you-
Remains coursing through my veins like heavy doses of *******;
I can not restrain the rain that steadily maintains its downfall along the inner walls of my thighs
If I jump inside your eyes,

Will you bathe me?
Hugging the devil, refraining from the Lord:
Filling my hollow and empty life, the gourd
Of my soul, up with the mirth of lechery;
Making frenzied fortune from debauchery,
While the account of my heart is credited
With slush happiness: full, yet never sated.
Lured by diverse lusts; rain do not up fill
A basket. Man is vapid outside God's will.
Installed in the Eclectic Parallel World of the invisible portal of Saint John the Evangelist, everything levitated in his sacred basaltic cavern in Katapausis, in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 / page 114. Editorial Palibrio-USA). They would find themselves in communion with the clan count, resembling being in their proper ectoplasm; conforming to the only part of masonry ruled to redirect them in the messianic workings of the ascension stages. Vernarth; he besieged in the conscious state of him having to adhere to the cavern, after having finished his labors by waiting three months. He risks being consumed by the myriads and conflagrations, retracting them in parapsychological clouded ways, which subsisted to consecrate themselves in the lavish places divided towards the horizon. The iridescence threatens the primary ultraviolet, lifting the carriage of Apollo Citar, a neighbor of the astronomical cave sketch of the Muse Urania. A lame nuance escapes and dissolves from his mathematical prayer, capturing the spiritual intensity that inspired Saint John to build the temple near his cave of the Apocalypse on the island of Patmos, inserted in the death throes of his embryonic revelation, to pour him into the Megaron to build.

The saint appears only on certain days looking at Vernarth from afar, to encourage him in his progress on the rocky rocks of sharp silica, he is seen as a beautiful adonis dressed in a chlamys with delicate pinkish tones. With such scruples, he redounds a psalm of the angel that normally accompanies the Evangelist around him, with greenish and indigo tones in the perspective quadrinomial of heaven, that he was perishing in his most afterlife redemption in the glory of the empyrean. More convenient than the superlative spiritual intelligence irrigated with the aldehyde, and the condensed water of Skalá, in hecatombs that indicated anarchies of the luminous prophetic men and the habit of the exokarstic soil, endowed with a small perforated Epsilon demon, obtaining its chemical weathering in certain limestone rocks, dolomite, and plaster. Diverting the attention of Etréstles that he glowed overwhelmed and charred. He was not stopped by the currents of splendor and the stormy pollutions of Cymopolea, in his hieratic invocation of the scalded typhoons of the drills of Hephaestus. This demon could be Tytillinus timorous in the defections of the deities of Mnemosyne relegating himself from his precepts, which according to this legend induced protervas inclinations of the clergy during the omitted religious services, he is the one that Saint John the Evangelist feared, that he would not give him the Asfalés Pérasma “license” to enter and be able to commission them in tasks that had been predicted for the Katapausis services after the quarterly. The Travertine silica, with residual sedimentary rocks, was partialized from the extrinsic biogenic that is deposited outside, the travertine predicted the monumental rocky karst of Patmos, for the secretions of calcium carbonate, among so much modest certainty taking you through the Invisible Eclectic Portal, and their Mundis Parallel that crashed with attached carbon molecules that, in disarray, manned them. The chasm was a cascade of weathering that became stalactites in the runes of the travertines, Thermo dynamizing the cavities that were conceived in the invisible caverns, under the parallel caves of the translucent travertine and in the sapwood of the troglodyte ghosts, materializing on the top wind tunnel.

Vernarth; I was with everyone working in the building of the Temple near the outside walls of the Cavern of San Juan, there was Etréstles Eurídice, Raeder, Petrobus, and Alikanto immersed in the Aulos who rang about exciting their ears with the royal denotes, which always had a special quality when he remained in Kalimnos. In good ink, knowing that the entire limen of proximity to the cavern was flooded by the enigmatic revulsive with the presence of Tytillinus, all are reordered towards the poles of tangible etherization with Psalms 120 to 132, thus they would give the antipode disposition with the Divine Mercy, to compensate the crown of the fifteen hours in the afternoon, thus disintegrating the agonizing parallel world that coincides with that of the fifteen hours in the morning. Somehow refraining from the northern paragon with the Tytillinus' shadowing, with the hooks of bewilderment and its scathing thoughts. With precisely this conspicuous shape; Vernarth will allow himself to be swallowed by the beast and reside in his abrasive stomach, making him believe that it will be consumed by him, so that he will soon fall close to it when vomited, thus confusing him, to make him believe that he was the same baby from his conceived womb. Vernarth manages to capture this exotic sinister image near the sinkhole, seeing him depressed in the Tytillinus Prisco; where all attentive listened to the textual vocabularies of the beatific, with the fruit of Karpos, for the benefit of a descendant gained by defeating the devil.

The European Sibilla carried the Gladius in his hand but exchanged it with the Xifos alternately for the death of innocents entrusted by Herod the Great, and for the evasion of the Holy family into Egypt. This confirms the liturgical grouping of the Easter Triduum; alluding to the passion of Christ, and perpetrating the pain of the Devout at his death, and triumphant at his resurrection. The sense of surrealism transports Saint John digging in all the layers and hordes of the Faith, his component of tribulation moved in the Egyptian and Greek cartography, mobilizing the triangular areas of the Palan, which moved in a geometric block reaching the edges of the hypotenuse gradient and the wind tunnel that lifted them, cornering the beast that visited them, pretending to be weak and imprecise. The man will carry the simile of his name, with hyperbole more or less in men who dare not to anticipate the conflicts of the gained space.

Vernarth, plots to continue insinuating with his labors, sees with optimism escape from this calamity, calls everyone to be close to the law ..., once they continued taking the steps towards the cavern. He emerges from convulsions on all edges of the cave, leaving everything dark and with vanities deterred at the end of the temporal Mundis Parallel. In the intermission, Saint John towards the response of Psalm 120 to 132, the fiery roar of the playful roar of the Tytillinus interferes, banishing the shaking of its **** to banish it from the Basilisk's egg, avoiding creating its heavy monarchy over them by prostrating them, as if to dissent. by being repentant or beheaded. Saint John the Evangelist will be an egregious demonologist, compiling thick volumes with the names of the attributions of each of the demons of infernal hierarchy. In this Venusian Aion symmetry, he moves them interconnecting with sublime periods where the intuition of the zafral of the human scale is lost, and of the archetype of Satanism or Satagenesis, with austere precision that includes Leviathan, ruler of the demons, to Ukobach, procurator of keeping the infernal flames alive. So that the manumission of slavery finally reigns according to one's own demonized moral individuality. The amount of an invocation of this type is always the soul of the unconscious individual, who will end up going to be squeezed into the underworld. The demons are invoked and they will invoke themselves in their dawn, to walk in their own darkness of the stagnant past, the mechanized present, and the multidimensional conscious future by means of exclusive enchantments that will be found here in the Mundi Parallel of the Invisible Eclectic Portal.
Codex XXIII - Mundis Parallel Portal Eclectic Invisible
CA Guilfoyle Sep 2012
Who shall remain to speak of Eden sleeping?
When gone the earth, our splendid garden
left of backward dreaming
and all the glorious twisty tendril reaches
vines to cling to life, anew the greening seasons

Alone the fields in September shades, grains
of wheat and rye will not play, of fall's refraining
or sing the cat birds strange meowing

Once rows and rows, the fields flowed,
fed heavenly our daily bread
before the GMOs

Unearthly - sick the flocks afield
no bees about, the headless flowering yields
all the gifts, the seeds of life cannot be found again
we've decimated Eden




http://www.greenmedinfo.com/blog/dows-deadly-harvest-return-agent-orange

There's hope:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6P03nNeYiJo&feature;=related
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
1

At peace perhaps too much
a fine Spring rain
we seek news from the desert or capitol
of those who have dedicated their lives to losing their lives
      for us
adventurers, ancient honor, land runners
this campaign a must to advance one's career
a war president needs war

2

All you need to know is the names of things
chambers of commerce and large corporations
elements, products, decay fungi, egg masses
cultivars and their relation to wild grasses and the edge
uses of herbs, languages of mammals,
purposes of insects, placement of rocks
the names of everything by which we know our way

3

I've read about those remarkable souls who maintain
      self-control
among murderers and the unentertained multitude
who may have even spoken persuasively
at the right moment for speaking
and thus attracted a now unwanted immortality
there are only two ways you can tell
a bird of prey from a vision - humor and ritual

4

the Fedex gal
would be unlike taking off Emily Dickinson's clothes
over the counter perfume and spray paint hair
postman's shorts, black socks
a woman's legs are much like a man's
yet she too is beautiful, too beautiful, weekends
boating with her man

5

Suburbs, lawns, blankets
in a long, long nursery of babies
napping, old, blameworthy
and, I say this respectfully, blind
certain and uninterested
in motives more subtle than their immediate comfort
Who am I to complain?

6

Plants, poems: riches
our financial advisor doesn't count. Good and simple
a man as he is. Comes tousled
from early morning golf and puffy
from a late night fight or lovefest with his wife.
Inchworm
letting out its rope down an oak.

7

Late afternoon meeting
like the dry samara, achene or capsule surrounding a seed
how often have I tried to escape
my need, community, chamber of commerce
you cannot drive
the roads are theirs and the signs, perhaps
you can walk if you can name the plants and rocks and are
      willing to die

8

O happy family
there's some contentment in letting community and family
      decide
your place in it. Gatekeepers -
unconscious god, invisible hand, natural selection -
kind when refraining from violence
when not responding with force to the universe's effort
to extinguish us.
--title from lines by Gary Snyder

www.ronnowpoetry.com
inez Aug 2013
I swore to myself I would never let your name weave its way into my mind again, and splatter itself along the lines of my notebook, but darling its late, and I am sad.

I do still remember the day we spoke for the first time. The air felt peculiar and the water tasted different. We stood in the courtyard, love and lust and teenage angst pulsing through our veins. If I do recall correctly, you waited for me. You waited for me and you walked with me back to my room. And that night I waited up and I prayed that you would call. I prayed to a God I previously denied my soul to that if there were a chance in hell of pursuit, you would knock on my door.

The next few days do blend into one, I must admit. I do remember vividly the climb up la tour Eiffel, also our discussions and talks on the boat we took along the Seine. I remember le Louvre and how I cried and how you apologised. ****, I wish you'd apologise. I recall the most mundane things; like how you'd call and when I said I had to go, you'd be reluctant to talk to anyone else.

That phone, we must have spent hours sitting up next to that phone. 1079. I'm sorry, I am so sorry. I am such a mess. It's not your fault. I'm not making sense.

That day we took the bus around the city was a funny day. My boyfriend was mentioned and your eyes rolled. You never quite looked at me the same. I felt that. McDonalds was our destination at one point. ****, how did you make McDonalds seem 5 star? You made everything seem better than it was. Or maybe it was my rose-tinted ******* glasses, I wish I could see without them.

Recollection of glancing upwards and seeing the sunlight dance off the Chanel logo. You point across the road towards a homeless man with two cats; you make a joke and we both laugh. You start to tease me and you hit me, so I hit you back and you hug me. I swear in that second I could have altered the universe.

I never did understand the contrast in Paris. Whether it be the melancholy in Disneyland, the monotony in le Louvre, or the look of boredom on a beggars face, staring at a multi-million dollar clothing line; it was all confusing. I think the most confusing thing was figuring out just what I wanted, just for me to have to give it up, and be expected to give it up just as easy as I gained it. I gained you and you were something I never wanted to lose, and you gained me, you gained me and you felt baggage.

But if there was one moment for you, if there was one millisecond; maybe where you glanced over at me in that restaurant and wished you were sitting next to me, perhaps in the store when you strolled past me and wished you'd have stayed to make conversation, EVEN going to dial my number and refraining - if there was a moment for you, in which you wanted me, but were unsure of my feelings, that is enough for me.

I don't need you to love me now. It's been over a year and it still hurts to hear your name sometimes, but I've learned to laugh with the pain. I just hope there was a moment for you in which you wanted me, and assumed I didn't want you. Because if there was, ******* it if there was, you must know I feel that every ******* minute of the day. Still. And I wish you love and I wish you all the luck in the world for wherever life takes you, and maybe someday we'll meet in a coffee shop, and we can laugh about all this. Maybe we won't. But despite my best efforts to keep this going, despite the downfall and the loss, I wish you the best. And I think that is both the hardest and the most satisfying thing for me; letting go.
Jahanvi Goyal Jun 2014
The sun has risen,
The aims are set.
The road is known,
The bag is packed.
Standing in the doorway,
I am stopped in my shoes,
Around me, something swoons.
This is what I wanted.
This is what I needed.
Today, I know where and how to get it, still
My mind is playing games.

The night has draped the sky,
I stand on the terrace, up so high.
My breathing is quick,
The wind is washing my face,
Self-loathing has left no trace.
I hold the trophy right now,
I have achieved my aims somehow.
I should celebrate and I am, but
I know it is not the beer, then why
My mind is playing games.

I am surrounded with loving people,
I have nothing to worry about.
Situations aren’t so bad either.
A normal day I am living,
No big decisions to make.
Simple chores I am doing,
Why life seems no easy cake?
I know the life I want to live,
I know it is no easy ****, still
My mind is playing games.

It is not that I cannot do it.
It is not that I don’t have enough passion.
It is not that I am refraining from doing my bit.
It is not that my thoughts are not in fashion.
A breath of the freshest air,
A shower of the coolest water,
A hand of the loveliest heart,
A peaceful moment of the most peaceful.
This is all I need, where my mind is paying all heed.
This is how it will stop the games, and
I will rise to the aimed fames.
i need to stop
this silly infatuation
but as much as i try hard
on refraining myself
from liking you
it wouldn't seem to go away
Time is flying towards infinity
As an unknown operating system.

I'm losing programs from my machine
C drive is formatting without command
I'm a tree beside the street
and time is walking in front of me
I'm screaming on and on without sound
refraining without barricade.

Sorrow is a small virus dark blue
spreading spores into my blood
On the dining table a dream
or a yellowish green apple
Putting head under a sharp knife
to slice thickly as salad!

What is existing or non-existing
nothing can be shared
No pains can be measured
Is there anything beyond feelings?
Any flower sweet and unseen?
Any moon within clouds?

I'm losing pockets from my shirt;
Coins from wallet, spaces from hard drive...


Poem 13
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
i was in a pub once, talking to a friend, among other things,
the european union came up, i said: i can understand an economic union,
so that economic migrants are no more, i rather like talking polish after all,
but a political union, with so many contrasts?!
that'll never work. then i hear the news,
and the heavy burden of saying things before they happen;
and unlike the insinuations between philosophy
and conversation, with that one mundane origin
of philosophy known as dialectics,
i find writing necessary in prophesying,
indispensable you might add -
when governing to say: the old roman said to the
new roman: the old member boarders want inclusion,
they want the slavs gone, the dream to unfold by their
terms from carthage! i want carthage gone, erased,
gone from the dream of unification, but there's
carthage dictating to the old frail rome known as the vatican!
no! carthago delenda est!
but no, they are replicating a deletion of the past -
russia predates them in propaganda as necessarily
nibbling and knitting so that, as i might add -
old bulgars and roma will testify in fright to the yugoslav -
why such northern expansions?! the whole revelatory book said
concisely enough to market a roman revival as was first insured by
pestering russia with that famous abnormal foetus collection
of peter the great, who was the sole saint in petersburg -
saint built a city! saint built a city! how can francis assisi ever compete
to sainthood by merely talking to sparrows and squirrels
when peter the great built a city?!
well, carthage moved to raqqa - that's how!
or spot me distancing myself from the bookworm moth
philosophies of the library with shush rather than: two for 'un yer bananas!
i am that i am said: it is what it is, a god speaking of the creation,
but then the interaction within it is what it is -
the predation of all ideas and associations, a single noun, moses.
so i am that i am said inside it is what it is to
a noun who had no cartesian relevant past  in terms of
refraining from swish buckle cat's in high-heels and tutu - ***** up! you
break a spine introducing me, forget the family and the child,
you me, we encounter the world changed -
what i said prior: it is what it is will become it is what it's not really.
hence enter the philosophical lexicon: reality... perception...
bulls buckling against *******... enter moses the grand oration
of this famous dusty lexicon bettered. bettered? no really,
just us the same monkey flashback drunk with barbers and better beards -
maldives under the armpits!
i tell you, there are two kinds of world spirit like that quote
about hegel on foot and napoleon on hoof -
one spirit of the world is shrouded with, is cloaked in philosophies,
in thoughts, in the oughts and the morals of DON'T DO!
the other spirit of the world - filled with musketeers and other
pawn shrapnel - expendable creatures to conform to the dictatorial ditto:
napoleon said: marshal ames said: general maccabee said:
lieutenant general nadim said: major general eban said:
major general saburo said: brigadier taavi said: colonel yakov said:
the rest were man of cadet worth with fancy pink ribbons to sport
the wide mouthed bartender of shell-shock and etc.
those are the two spirits, while in the second realm
we have the false prophets governing - with the residing "god" as devil,
but imagine fooling a false prophet from this realm, e.g. jesus to
descend, what would the devil think?! oh ****, 2d!
so a third realm reveals itself - the pseudo edenic ****** ciphered
in the koran disappear, and we salvage ourselves by not imagining
eternal sundays, eternal idleness in such with such a realm: ***** ***** frisk frisk, lubricant;
what, a ****, eternity, as dictated by the kingdom and the koranic gardens;
peasants' eternal fill, no lion, the witch and the wardrobe in sight -
no valhalla! boring! (insert family fortunes' buzzer of x).
i want to be as worthy as a tree to rejuvenate each day after slaughtering
hel's and loci's spawn!
Xander Duncan Sep 2014
Despite people constantly explainings music theory
I’ve never quite grasped the concept
Of different keys.
Because to me
Something would feel sharp and
Fall flat but
Be all too natural to you

And I had difficulty trying to articulate what I meant to say
Because we had such an interesting dynamic
And dissonance is positive when done correctly,
Right?

Constantly, you played chords on my heart strings
Like the threads wound tightly against the pegs on your guitar.
Beautifully
But never gently
Rarely slow
With some fascinating sort of
Passion
But not always the kind that I understood

And despite believing that your interest was genuine
I sometimes wondered if you got as much of a rush from
Holding the curves of that wooden body close to you
As you did from thriving on the attention that you got
When people saw that you had the skill
To manipulate something ordinary into something unique.


And I’ll admit
It got into my head
And caused me to fret

Refraining from over-analysis
Has never been my forte.
But somehow we always managed to bridge the gap
That our differences created
And accented the qualities that really made us harmonious.

Hoping you would not hesitate to
Pick me and
Bend me and
Guard me and
Let the notes ring loud and frenzied and
Place your hands
Along my neck
To let me be the fine-tuned
Instrument
Of your affection.

With lungs andante
And a heartbeat accelerando
I’d leave it up to you to conduct
A tempo.
While the melody lead us
In an entanglement of musical phrases and lyrical nonsense
That all came together.

I suppose.

But don’t ask me why,
I never understood music theory
I just know what I like to hear.
An old poem reworded to be past tense
Gary Suarez Jul 2011
Shatter the walls of the mime’s hold

Let the riots speak of the crime

The lie, the story never told.



The decimated morals of our fathers,

Disregarded, maligned and deemed untrue.

These men in charge choose not to care

To meet the demands of our due.



The new power has risen.

Already seeming long in the tooth.

Reminiscing of the old ways,

Where nothing could replace our cherished youth.



Ravaged cities fall to the greed.

The people corrupted within.

Mesmerized, refraining from our old creed.



So spawn something new.

Become the voice of the voiceless.

Hold in your soul and breed the castoffs.

Find the kindness we’ve never found,

Our pillars of faith,

That kept our spirits so sound.



Retreat from their molds, let it out

Forsake those rituals and let them down with ease.

Make your own way, leave no doubt.



Don’t be the drone, cease the stall

Because like it or not

Permanence is the death of us all.
Rezium Jun 2021
Years have passed,
Seasons have changed.
Am I an adult yet?
Couldn't say.
Relate?

While pain was brief,
And a cleanse was needed,
I still grow more and do my best to succeed.
Did I pay a bill?
Is it in the budget?
Swear to God I could go for a 20 piece McNugget.

While I shift and work it out,
I'll still ask myself am I good enough?
When isn't your mind...
What kind...
Don't lie...
Stop.
Take a breathe and it's going to be all fine.

Is my flow still the same?
Is my expression more better?
Does it make any sense to you that im still explaining and continuously refraining from resaying a word by rearranging the framing of this here decree I'm declaring?
No, not really.

With exercises and breakdowns,
I've seen it in better ways.
Still in chains,
But looser around the brains.
It's taken time,
But I'm finally in control...

I'm getting used to... New.
David Bowie said it best about changes. So here's mine instead
Ms Sarah ツ Jun 2015
On weekends it would yell at me
Would tell me to get out and set myself free
Ask, aren't you tired of all day glaring at a pc?

During the week it would not complain
Glad that I went back to abuse my phone again
Doesn't mind when I still use it every now and then


My laptop would thank me once again
Says through wires I hear other lappys complain
Their owners eat & drink on top of them with abuse
Thus usually spill, water, coffee and juice
Which seeps through, making them go haywire
For refraining from that, I truly admire

Two more favours I need to ask
You know my battery is always dying
You have to plug me, always while sighing
So would you finally scratch something on your to do list
Get that battery and give the both of us some rest
Plus,you know my temperature always gets high
And with summer here , I'm sure to fry
so seriously ,a cooler for me, you really must buy

You know I have all your life within me
Whether videos,pictures ,chat logs or poetry
Your past ,present & the future that makes you eager
Are in me entrusted,I am your secret keeper
Except when your brother's curiosity gets filled to the brim
That's when things get out of my hand, and you have to blame him
The heart recognized,
And the soul remembers.
An affair that commenced,
A love that grew and blossomed.

And yet refraining was a hopeless endeavor.
So we gave in to a moment’s splendor.
Mere touches that satisfied the yearning,
Stolen moments that lasted a life time.

As the dread of the ending nears,
With the coming of the morning
And the ending of the night
Our steps must go our separate paths.

We play the role expected of us,
Perform the duties that were assigned to us.
And the memory of you and I that once was real,
Remain in the secret folds these four walls.

Though the days seems darker,
And moving on is getting harder.
As playwrights will make new stories,
Of cherished memories of captured days.

But in every whisper of the wind,
Every rain drops that washes the pain,
I’ll be trapped in a bittersweet trance,
A reverie who's only inhabitants is me.
Michael W Noland May 2013
To think its even palpable
Is laughable
In papal
Purchases
Of lurching
Murderers
Searching
The versus
For versions
Viable
To the venial
Ventricles
Of vengeful animals
Toppling
The tiny trees
Just with their being
A seething species
Finding peace
In the pieces
Of enemies
Scattered in the streets
I wish i could say
There was disbelief
But i got a subscription
To weekly casket wreaths
And im singin in the rain
Refraining from profane
Crackling in the rain
Of my reign over sane
Waning in the basements
Flooded with the muck of lakes
Drained sacredly
In the same ****
I go silent
Before violent
outbursts
Squirting the words
On the wills of birds
Chirping the verbs
Of disturbing slurs
That i never heard
If asked
But im keeping you on blast
To unmask the crass
Endeavours of an ***
Fighting fire with fire
First and last to laugh
Burning blurbs on your maps
Every time your lapped
And lapsing in the trash
Itching the rash
Amassed in your lap
And slapped in the face
A disgrace to the pace
Of a space in the haste
Of wasted hate
Too late to change
Into shorts today
To show the ****
On your legs
As your girl
Cries when she begs
For me to *** in her face
But its okay
She knows her place
But do you
In the back of the line
In the grey and the blue
Whispering to you
To stay and acrue
Humility
In militant pedigrees
Of satirical phalacies
From your knees
You need me
The truth

Go ahead
Its on you

...
teenageoverdose Mar 2015
Passionately dancing on a burning blazing pit
Kissing the lips of an unmarked slit
Blood being dazzled across your finger tips
Hearts in a frazzle jumping to find a quit
Sleep dancing nightmares dreaming of monsters
Ripping at the brain you, are ashamed to have
Refraining the truth from the lies being stabbed
Tossing & turning reluctant in the past
Tripping over faith with death in your hands
Running in circles from the beast you create
Sipping the blood of those with your fate
Learning the jokers ways
Killing the innocent for the sake of your brain
Madness in nightmares fears in dreams
Never awaken a beast you can't tame
Sleep dancing sleep dancing the horrid dreams away
Feet not burning on the fiery flames.
Meg B Mar 2016
Lying motionless on the sofa,
eyes fixated on the gray and purple cat clock perched on the mantle,
watching apathetically as the second hand
click click clicks,
stuck in place as the hour and the minute hands
sit sit sit,
as if intentionally to keep time from passing;
sit sit sitting
lie lie lying
stuck in place,
disappointment
click click clicking
in my mind,
so debilitated that
I can't even feel the passage of time,
the clock intentionally refraining from counting minutes so are empty.
Reece May 2013
Rhythmic reiterations and the rats are racing
Pacing, erasing, charging the crowds, bracing
Foul stench waving and vexed kids pacing
Sunshine suicide, the motives need tracing

Milk bottle crashes to the ground so final
Cyanide tears of men at the ******
Crying now, fears, the mother's semifinal
Poison in the veins, poisons tap spinal

Further step back, story needs explaining
Little boy weep as his father keeps caning
Crying over spilled milk, could it be staining
Tears of a boy, bent over, straining, maintaining
The composure in him is slowly draining

A life of campaigning, refraining and engaging,
Little boy sees sunlight painting, so illuminating
And a sunshine suicide is what he's entertaining
L Smida Aug 2015
With the night
Comes coldness
Seeping in quickly
In time
Everything
Becomes darkness
A flicker of a flame
Barely serving a purpose
Silently hoping
That someone notices
The pitiful smoke signal
The slow sad light
Holds my long lost gaze
For countless moments
I am
Alone
And forever thinking so
Numb
And careless to feel again
Broken
And undeserving
Angry
At everything
Refraining from the worst
But the impulse is torture
Desperately in need
Of a body
For comfort
When suddenly
A voice
From the depth of the shadows
Calls out
"Hey"
Too low and deep
That it pokes at my imagination
The voice steps
Into the poor pitiful light
"Do you want a beer?"
He saved my life and didn't even know it
Glenn McCrary Oct 2012
Fondled by the temptation of an autumn sunset
***** stands a woman in the cradle of such potent winds
Quite dashingly contributing colour to the scene
Her silky, black dress enveloping her ever so tightly
Composing the shape of an inviting taboo
Whilst refraining all comely sounds of vernacular
How her lips whisper things of which previously I knew not
Sign o’ the times
HVNTĘR GRAY Aug 2014
When negative things happen to people, they do one of two things; they’ll either choose to bow to their misfortune willingly permitting the consumption of themselves by it, or they’ll see these affairs as opportunities to acquire new knowledge. During a child’s development, it’s so crucial that they be nurtured and cared for properly. A child deprived of affection is just another statistic waiting to happen. Very rarely does an individual with a traumatic childhood rise above to overcome. It’s a shame really, because most people know the universal codes of ethic, they simply don’t have the will power to apply them to their life. Too many feel sorry for themselves and forfeit the race with the mentality that they weren’t given an equal chance to succeed, so failure is okay.
            I see signs clear as day and most really are nice as may, but some tell of trials that lay ahead. A man is tried his whole life by forces. Newton’s third law of motion states that, “For every action, there is an equal or opposite reaction.” To me this not only applies to science, but everyday life in general. For every action you make inadvertently effects so many other things. If ever there were a time in my childhood that I strayed from that line of ethic, my mother was always there to redirect me. She often spoke in terms that a child couldn’t possibly understand, here I am now all these years later still trying to decipher the meaning in her words. I have frequent flashbacks of our conversations. It seems so surreal that I can remember her words even after all this time. I don’t think we ever really forget the lessons that we’ve learned, we’re just comfortable refraining from exploring the archives in which they’re stored.
             Early on in high school I was overly embraced by the upper class-men; out of this came many new friends. I became acquainted with a group of kids that hardly set a good example for me, let alone anyone. Long story short, I experienced so many grown things very early on. I wonder sometimes if I could go back and wait until I was older to experience these things, if I would choose to do so. Although being a witness and participant in these crude teenage undertakings, I feel as though I wouldn’t be who I am without having experienced those things like, relationships, partying, and all sorts of mischief; I won’t go into detail for reasons of national security.
             I started down a path that led to no future for success. Ironically, I’m in the SUCCESS program now and I’ve never been more successful at doing the things I’m passionate about. Once I got suspended from school, I had to make a choice which path I was going to take. The universe gave me a chance to leave behind the sinful things I was becoming a part of and I’m proud to say that I took that chance and ran with it, never looking back. This has been such a great adventure with so many ups and downs, thankfully there were enough positives to balance out the negatives. Most people in my situation would say that they hated high school, but I don’t see it that way at all. Any negative things that happened to me were simply a result of my own doing. I had to sleep in the bed I made, so I can’t really resent or blame anyone else but myself for any bad experiences I encountered.
Sijo Robert Z Jun 2015
Black Gold, liquid energy, a morning obsession;
that here is the question, can we have another session.
Coffee is the great brew to share, an obsession,
with friends and family; and just to re freshen;

The time for the Saturday morning training,
just one-and-a-half hour remaining.
I am not complaining to be abstaining,
and refraining from the brew so sustaining
but it has to wait till one pm, after training.

So, i will see you, after the training of kung fu,
for this liquid black brew and something to chew,
today with my mordi kung fu crew,
so until then when i see you, adieu
Definit Within Sep 2014
Reminiscing about once upon a time
Once in a while; Trying to mend a broken heart decorated with razor blades of separation

Under the paragon guidance of the blue-sky, we used to trade smiles
With a sweet conversation, that used to usher us for miles

Happiness diluted by shyness.
Refraining feelings from showing until deeds began exposing

Like a soul going to heaven time has departed me from a body that used to be a part of me
Cursed with your angelic memories
Slaved me into a dugeon of sad insecurities

I thought I was inlove, but sadly I was just growing up
However, now I'm grown-up, how does it happen that I still feel love?

Like a baby, once upon a time I felt secure melting inside the premises of your warm touch
Now the thought of you registers an ordeal
strike of pain to my heart.

Not listening is a disease, that has left me suffering from the effects of tormenting consequences; I wish I listened to my heart - 'impregnant her'...reinforce the teem of limitations, to engage a permanent connection to her.

Reminiscing about once upon a time
Once in a while; All it took was a split-sec to loose you between short spaces of time.

Time...
verus Oct 2020
my life is not beautiful.
it just is and that is enough.
refraining from falling
into the hopelessness I've created,
that prison of my own manufacture.

I put water over the stove
and sit in this carcass
while I myself,
a cadaver if you will,
wait for it to complace me.

the lost dreams and
suspires wander these walls
that have trapped
every abandoned hope hides
behind these eternal furniture.

how am I supposed
to thread beautifully with
all this weight? my arms
are full, with bruises and plates;
***** plates I carry on
from door to door before
running away holding more.

should I drop, let them shatter?
is it cowardice, or care for the self?
my friend has said they
are no different.

to know there is no expectation present
you mustn't know what an expectation is.
so, do you, my friend?
the flies on the still life
are agreeing with us.

do you allow them dictate
that which is beautiful, why,
when they haven't got a feeling?

do you allow me dictate
that which isn't?
tell me beauty's antonym
and I'll teach you to survive

between humans and the flies
that peck at the remains
of what once lost I retrieved,
and corrupted it came back.

on my floors the plates stay shattered
my soles bleed on every step
on the edge of hopelessness.

it is not for us; romantics,
sinners of massacre, thieves of all kinds.

lives cannot be made beautiful,
yet you found beauty in its lack.
I wanted encouragement yet only found courage—
to write, grieve, and die.
at the late night kitchen

— The End —