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John F McCullagh Dec 2012
I may have been the slowest child
to ever run in track and field
I was a foodie even then
with not the fastest set of wheels.

I still have the medal that I won
for finishing in second place.
awarded to our relay team
In a two team relay race

I was the anchor(aptly named)
they could have called me 'ball and chain'
The other three were none to spry
We were well matched those three and I.

By the time the baton reached my hand
My competitor neared the promised land
I set out full steam(for me)
as he crossed the line to victory.

I gamely tried to speed in haste
for what I knew was second place
and I was genuinely surprised
when they gave medals to us guys.

I never after won a race
nor finished either show or place.
I prize the medal that I got.
If I was a horse, they'd have me shot.
F White Nov 2012
pull your head out of your own-

you're not perfect
you'll never-

So be Just Enough.

that's all. it's not
a competition.

because we all
eventually still

end up


behind the finish line.
copyright fhw, 2012
You wish for me to put in words
What I have to say
Like the answers that I've given
On their own
Could never relay
They come and go
Touch on fate
Dissipate and replicate
The disingenuous nature
That you frequently necessitate

Extend your olive branch
Then act like you feed me
When the branches are famished
Needy, condescending and deceiving Conceiving that I'm the villain
When I don't respond to how you react
Like you could perpetuate in me
The supposition for your tact

The fact that you lack any original clarity
Is the reason I'd never reach to you
Like I was Seraphim
The simple reason
That I'm writing all of this
Is simply just to prove to you
That I don't have to convince
I don't have to persist
Rehash, then reminisce
Like treading through faded memories with you
Will satiate my daily fix

I resist
Because I know exactly where I'm headed And you insist because that truth
Is what keeps us separate

Every second
You playcate on a pretense
When your intentions are crystal clear
And I can't provide that service
Or serve that purpose
While I'm standing here

To be perfectly honest
I never promised you anything
All I did was sigh and reply
To how your heart would so readily sing
Then you project your insecurities
Directly to my face
As if I was the one who gave them rise
Within the first place

Protecting your manipulations
While contemplating your motives
Are exactly the reasons we're done
Before we even started
I'm sick of being a punching bag
For someone acting devoted

And now it's been denoted
I've written you off, this story is done
This time you're in the subject line
Because you are truly NOT the one
You wanted me to write you something. There you go.
Jay Mar 2013
I unlove you
I don't care if it's a neologism
It's my heart you imprisoned
And I unlove you for that

You were everything I wanted
Because I love everything you're not
I love it a lot, like a lot a lot
And I love what you don't look like
I've fallen head over heels for
Whose personality you don't resemble
I long for the way your kisses differ
How the *** isn't as curricular
But of course that's not enough

I want to want you
And "you" is an easy word to rhyme with
So that's what I won't do
See how easily I'm distracted away
From what you've got, what I can't say?
Because all I know is what you don't relay
How we share a not-so-bad day
I've got a question... if I may

I should love you for what you've got, right?
For all you are and not for who you're not, right?
If this holds true, we'll descend from the spotlight
'Cause I don't care about who you are, just who you're not quite
I unlove you with my whole heart
And I refuse to dig any further
I like to love everthing you're not about
And I pray that's okay with you
Bijan Rabiee Aug 2018
The little bird alights
Near the windowsill
Saturated with
Communing eyes and gestures.
Though she would rather
Lay it all on the line
At best she gets away
With a modicum of her tidings
Knowing the moment's impulse
Shall sepulchre her understanding.
But the magic has been done
And esoteric wheels in gear
To rear the revelation ride.
Maryssa Vasquez May 2012
It's the fragmented relationships and the attempts.
It's the strength you have to believe is in there,
somewhere
It's the hope for the future and the bible verses that hold me,
and you,
together.
It's the tears and the shame and the relatable lyrics
that hold you,
like a warm blanket after hours of terribly poetry in a cold, windowless room,
that cradle us in our flammable youth,
that extinguish the flames of potential misery,
that relay the truth after months of running from just that.
I don't want to feel this way anymore.
The simple lies are, I don't know what I'm blindfolding myself against.

Sense?
What for?
Who needs to make that?
These words are the fragmented seashells alongside the shore of my emotions.
As often as you find a sand dollar whole,
will my poetry (or lack thereof)
appeal to anyone besides the lies personified that reside in my flammable heart.
Jeremy Betts Feb 18
Suicide?
Hold on, I'm sorry,
Are you referring to the barbaric act of hands-free ****** by an inhouse intruder implementing a vicious, self-righteous onslaught
No?
Oh...
Cause that's what I got
That's not what you were taught?
You didn't know each and every thought could be on loop and fraught with a dangerous taunt
No one told you you'd also most likely be the only one within earshot?
It's just thought after thought after thought after thought
And it's nonstop like the whistle of an ignored teapot that's gotten too hot
I ask myself, "is there such a thing as an inner dialogue clot?"
Rhetorical of course, knowing full well that there's not
It'd be pretty helpful though would it not?
A majority of this agony doesn't even seem to originate from an internal spot
But it's held against me that they recklessly destroy all I've fought for as well as rewriting the plot
Turning me into my own distraught subplot
Filming redesignated to the back lot of Salem's Lot
Making sure to make it known I'll only have this one shot
I swear y'all think I was told to bring what I'm gonna need and this is what I brought
So I fillet both wrists and expose the rot
Hoping to relay visually what verbally I cannot
Live stream it for a live audience or not
Copious shallow minds will still produce the same shallow thought
"You either want to be here or not"
Not knowing it has so little to do with want
"You ought to change the way you think"
Oh right, you're right, I must have forgot
OOOOOR
or
Is it that I've been convinced I can not?
Yeah...yeah, that's the caveat
I'd give everything to hit the reset like a robot
But the treason contains some carefully wrought deception that's sent in like S.W.A.T.
Keep that standard victim blaming line you walk taut
It's easier to walk that, is it not?
That's what I thought
Everyone knows the Rorschach test is just an inkblot
I watch in disbelief as my well-being resorts back to just another afterthought
The outlier is no one witnesses the slipping of the knot
There'll be no extension of a helping hand intervention to salvage this broken man by trying to help him reconnect a dot
Because I've lost connection with every dot
A reality checked on the spot
They continue debating amongst each other if it'd be easier to boycott
I bought in, hook, line and sinker,
I should have seen the bait and switch comin' do to all the times prior
THIS IS NOT WHAT WAS SOUGHT!
But here I am,
I guess it's my turn to like it or not

©2024
Zywa Mar 2023
As long as we can we'll walk
in circles together
the youngest in the outer lane

acquire meters and learn a lot
are handed more and more
sticks stories where we are

heading a finish line
behind which no one needs
to run anymore hand in hand

we will walk on we will
live in peace we will all be
winners no relay race anymore

the youngest in the outer lane
grandma's on the inside bend
close to the black hole
Collection "Ifless"
Josh Dec 2012
Perhaps love is as elusive as monetary wealth is to the masses.  
Perhaps love is no more a reality than the endless days we have spent melding our minds to a piece of virtual property that trades us our health for a few moments of excitement and a few hours absent of boredom.

My friend, love eludes me more and more with each setting of the sun.
I am not so sure that I believe it even exists any longer.
Perhaps love eludes me because I chase a fictional object.  
Perhaps I am living analogous to the ***** addict.  
One pursues the dragon; the other pursues romance.  
I seek a woman who I connect with on such a level that I am unable to articulate the degree to which I love her.  
Yet, she knows in her heart of hearts where I stand and she stands there with me.

Society dictates that our masculinity is dependent on abstaining from thoughts and words that might be construed to lack a rugged demeanor.  
Yet I say to you, every man thinks of what I write of today.  
The vast majority of them are too restrained by society’s trivial notion of a man to even engage their own minds in the thought of the subject.  
They act as if the rest of the world can hear their thoughts and relay what they have heard to others.

The world is a jury, a harsher judge than the most heartless, spectators in a gladiatorial match, watching one's every move, criticizing one's every flinch.  
Yet, they can only maintain a level of hypocrisy for so long before the bounds of their walls cave upon them.

There are those who would state that they are content with the presence of a physical relationship and the absence of an emotional connection.  
They are but fools.  
They are pursuers of immediate gratification and will be recipients of nothing more.  
Their lives will be shadowed by the emptiness that they caused unto so many others and their equation in life will not result in equity.

The love I speak of friend is an emotion that is triggered merely by the most subtle of references to the beloved.  
It is a flooding of the capillaries,  a fluttering of the heart, a sweating of the brow, an inward heave of the stomach, and the settling of an utter bliss.  
These are the physical symptoms of the emotion and the emotion is a cranial symptom of the connection.  Love, my friend, I do believe is a balance of two individuals that is caused by a pairing that can only be so perfectly designed by one who is omnipotent.

So far I must admit to you that I have not felt paired with an individual.  
There were physical connections with many, and emotional connections with few.  
Yet, even in the most intense emotional connection there was something lacking.  
There was a piece of the puzzle missing.  
When her and my eyes met, there was not a parallel connection.  

True love, my friend, is but a connection that shall be made but once.  I have not made that connection yet and perhaps it would be inappropriate for me to theorize further.  
Yet, it is those who dared to theorize that have revolutionized this planet ten fold because their thoughts became an idea.
The idea became a design.
The design grew to be tangible.
The tangible became a reality.

Therefore, my friend, I theorize that I will one day find this obscure love that so many on this Earth do not have in their possession.  
And when I find this obscure connection, my friend, I shall speak of it more.  
I shall articulate it to the best of my ability so that others may know better what they pursue and may find it in due time.
I wrote this piece a few years ago.  Since then, I have found my true love.  This somewhat recent discovery now necessitates a second part to the poem which is yet unwritten.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
.i'm in luck, they're selling it at under 11 quid right now,
stock dry - gone in an instant - laphroaig like -
but not as smoky - but smoked scotch it it
at £10.34 - oh the little joys of having little money to spend -
you end up less picky and less hoarder and
the junk yard.


na głowe sypano mi, tak popiół:
     popiół! a obiecano mi *****!
           popiół! a obiecano mi *****!
                 popiół! a obiecano mi *****!

                  (not my words... lao che's dym)...

me, beer, cigarette, outer-suburbia -
police whizz past, silent with flare
or screaming toddler and Odysseus' 20 sirens
with wax in the ears of oaring company
akin to Ajax'ς vitality -
along the way, my neighbour (who's mother
killed my cat.. listen, i know he had
heart problems, he was on aspirin -
but kidneys, even if complicated are not
real problem, felines take longer to ****
than do the no. 2, pigeons don't have kidneys -
they're always of an **** diet of diarrhoea;
write like Aristotle sometimes,
forget the facts, be wrong, get it wrong,
never put a glass cup into the waterfall of
poetic cascades - get it wrong, be wrong -
get to know yourself - it's not that dumb
to be predictable in yourself -
if you allow self-predictability you will
see certain social events as being pointless -
you'll see friends and "friends" -
self-predictability is a verb, compounded -
i already know i'll make references to grammar
and it being missing in philosophy -
no, not coherence and appropriate arrangement -
i mean undoing the box of thing-in-itself
and the subsequent tennis with a brick wall,
to surprise yourself when something is unearthed,
a little piece of the puzzle - simulating awe,
the genesis of all that's to come, even awe from a yawn
and boredom... it's here somewhere... i'll karate
catch it with chop sticks.... (looking around)...
i don't know, might be a moth or a fly...

Antichrist: or a summary of Antisemitism - a variant of,
or at least a concentration - mainly confiscated
by Christianity - prime complaint:
a democracy of Anointed One (Messiahs) -
obviously a manifested justifiable practice of Antisemitism -
the throng of Golgotha intelligence quotient -
Jew v. Jew, and one convert from the delusional
4 x 4 (in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy
                                         spirit... hold on!
                                    i make four gestures... and make a fifth
                 with Romeo and Juliet talking -
St. Matthew-Luke-Mark-and-John... penta penta pent-up
pentagon - evidently there's a pentagrammaton somewhere:
ah! i b l i s.                       Surat no. via Rumi - 7:143 - veils and
the one - reward in heaven - more veils, gardens veils,
grapes in heaven veils - stomach a veil - hunger a veil -
rewards in heaven also veils - the poem?
praise be Jesus - and Jason and the Argonauts - and whoever
wanted a strawberry flavoured pastiche to lick tears off -
love's apocalypse, love's glory -
         well bloodhound eyes say it all - droop drool -
droop & drool... Jack & Jill... went up the hill, and passed
the Grimm Bro. baton to Hanzel und Gretyl in the 100m x4
relay of Disney Limps - then rabbinical literature to sober up -
Albotini's Sulam HaAliyah (Ladder of Ascent, formerly Jacob's
ladder - to be: Ladder of Skip-rope; Oxford, hello! yes,
can you please consider un-hyphenating what is desirably
a compound worthy word in the practice of German?          )?
is a bracket necessary anywhere and i missed it?
Antichrist - or a very strange form of antisemitism -
be like a Jew, congregate applauding in the right corner: Jesus -
in the blue corner: Crux Golgothia.
export from Portugal - the said book -
key principle (kefitzah) jumping or skipping (dilug) -
and this being applied to the one practice of mystic Judaism -
the ****** gematria; hishtavut (stoicism) -

me - is it still 20 quid for an eighth?
Sim (my neighbour) - yeah, but these days
                                       they sort of cheat,
                                       you'd get an eighth nibbled on,
                                       twenty for a tenth?!
me - ******, well, we can't expect it to not happen,
         we had coin debasement - clippings of silver
         keratin with Siliqua, third stage and
         all encoded authority is gone: Thomas and Anne
         till death and nail clippings be fraud unison in
         the depart (or when narration extinguishes
         a character, the character is worth nothing -
         the narrator wakes up - all the characters run
         like phantom-hares into nonexistence -
         phantom! thin air!
politeness said: only one **** at the wacky wee ö wee
(umlaut O / double oh, 007 - 00'7 - double u... oh!
                                 i get it!                             Jamie Oliver!)
DEI.GRA.REG.FID.DEF.
   "   (-tia) (-ina)(-ei)(-ensor) -
all that would have been clipped - authority of visage -
the courtesan only knew the mint in silver
and the mint in the flesh - hence clipping of coin
to erase the authority from the holy authority of words -
in the beginning - but once dei.gra.reg.fid.def.jpeg /
                                   dei.gra.red.fid.def.gif.

that ****** moth is here somewhere! there it is! catch it!
                                                             ­   catch it!
SLAM!          and the job is done )                                      ).
i really waiting a bus stop pretending to wait for a bus
toking on a joint - joint is mix tobacco and wee wee
and spliff is pure? i forgot the slang - haven't been
addicted to it in years.
Sim - yeah, that's how it is. work in central london -
         have to get up early in the morning.
         corporate finance - no that's a commercial firm,
         corporate finance - McDonald's, etc.
me - oh cool waiting for  ghost bus - never get paranoid
         then?
(police cars whizz by)
Sim - n'ah, a perfectly decent area, got stopped once,
          three years ago.
and the price goes to the laziest narrator in history - absolutely
no engagement with characters - it's too real, everyone's
lying - this is the second time i spoke to my neighbour properly
in the past.. ooh 2002... 14 YEARS - it's not even funny -
no amount of marijuana will make you feel comfortable -
you can mate and make Kingston handshakes and what not -
this is purity of absurdity and western isolation,
we went against the maxim: no man is an island on purpose,
not by chance like Robinson Crusoe -
at least Crusoe had a talking Friday - we have a ghost
of Michael Faraday on Friday - ******* disco blink blink -
poet... or alt.: the narrator complex - inhibitions toward
character craft and pseudo-schizoid symptom -
believing in ghosts is easy, fiction writers and their ghosts
and abortions, hardly a way to escape from that -
poetry: rebellious narration - just anything with narration,
modern fiction is read like a chess match between deep blue
and Kasparov - or Pavlov v. Jezebel playing gynaecologist.

blank.... blank... wait for the atoms trilled R to make
their toady presence felt -
the more pricier the whiskey the more pristine water,
i.e. you get drunk more easily -
anyone that smokes marijuana and thinks
they're clever are stupid; how many people are out there that are
stupid!
- resounding hearsay-hooray!
drugs, ******, crack, blow, marijuana, ****, ***,
  cannabis, dope, ******, mary-jane, 13, M - herb shake -
Humphrey saying to Bogart - that joint.
as said in Saudi
Arabic - a Ferrari G.T.I. and MeKubalim HaMitbodedim
                  )
                                  -chism - schism - sky - ski -
                                  cha cha, cha cha - kilo or 100th -
                                  1000 thd. - hundredth a thousandth -
                                  - where then the acute,
                                  timber from Czechs -
                                  kebab from Mesopotamia -
                                  and the Trojan horse to boot -
                                 chatter - chopper whopper -
                                 astoikism - not chew off
                                 curve into cherish but
                                 cravat chew in -
                                 Slavic mining zed - czarna
                                 ciasność - blackened claustrophobia.
a Buddhist clap
                   immersion -
left handed the right hand claps against air
                  )             )              )               )            ) ) )            )
a night at the Opera, right handed the left hand claps against air
(                       (        (            (               (          ( ( (            (
scimitar Luna - so they said, would like an audience with the
further unmentioned mention -
you're mates with neighbours who over 14 years you only
spoke to the count of thumb and index on occasion -
and thus necessarily high -
i was going to write something really important before
i finalised this draft... but i forgot what it was...
got almighty this whiskey is good...
i'm smoking salmon and pickling reindeer hooves and antennas;
a bit like practising Chinese miracle medicine with
whale blubber and Mongolian nostril hairs.

it's not about loving your enemies -
this love sinister must be invoked as: making your
enemies bearable.

i'm sure i had something concerning poetry and narration -
ah! it was... poetic compensation -
a.d.h.d. narration - attention deficit hyperactive disorder -
true - all psychiatric terms are metaphors -
at least outside the psychiatric realm -
poetry as a.d.h.d. meaning: shrapnel narration -
a custard pie of missing characters -
poetry: i.e.: the inability to believe in ghosts
or write characters - claustrophobic or agoraphobic narration?
a mix of both - poetry - the inability to conjure
Ouija fancies - poetry, the over-specialised gift for
narration, but an inability to invent characters -
poetry, the truth of the narrative, and the truth of un-invented
characters, poetry: the ability to narrate, coupled
with the inability to create characters -
fiction and the dumb narrator - poetry and the exquisite
narrator - fiction and the exciting characters -
poetry and the God - our focus is based on that vector,
or bias to that vector - fiction and the Oscars -
narrator and director - when to change from first person
to third person - again Burroughs was right -
images 50 years ahead of writing - a bit obvious,
nothing spectacular with that phrase -
lightning and the sons of thunder: 12 of them -
made the tetragrammaton less spoken and swear words
fucken-uppen censored so the crucifix and **** could
collide - a fine fine excuse - the Boeing 747 first
and later the quasi-sonic broom shoo' 'mm -
poetry as fiction disguised when fiction was given
a seance with pure narratives - splinter group:
philosophy's juggling with pronouns esp. the plural deviation
from first person as if to proper punctuation -
psychiatry and the theory of pronoun usage -
poetry and the pronoun rōnin (macron = umlaut -
count to two, or prolong - reasonable man / **** sapiens, pre-noun pro-adjective / adjective attache-noun, noun counter-noun es duo-adjective, Kellogg's sunrise cockle-doodle-dip-in-tartan-chess) -
only poetry mediates the parallel vectors of prose-fiction and philosophy - it consolidates the use of pronouns, art of poetry alone -
pure narration we're talking about,
the narrator and characters of its fancy,
philosopher and dialectical placebos (character equivalence)
with self-conscious moments, mono-pro-noun - alone i name -
the sacred squash wall of lecturing an invisible audience -
rummaging epitaphs in a graveyard along with birth dates
and live by dates - yes, that sacred we philosophers use -
an entire theatre was summoned to continue in appearing
sensible when writing without fictive apparitions -
enabling a fluidity in pronoun use, without sensible letter
writing, as in dear sir,
                                       me in reverse, thank you.
w
Josh Hall Dec 2013
Quake before your ruler if only for an hour!
He rules your mind with the echoes of this audible power!

Praise him like you would the faith of your mind,
But the faith of your body and soul shall be aligned!

Praise the bass-line as the endocrines race.
The drugs in her pocket with ***** you'll chase.

"**** our futures!
We're young!
We'll rave til the sun!
Our happiness this moment won't relay the deeds done!"

They won't rant while they rage,
Like humans trapped in their cage.

The animals are free 'til they sleep in their grave!
Abandon your god and pray to the rave!
gleefully he rubbed his hands together
goodly dough inflows would ring the till
generous amounts from wallet leather
greatly bolstering the enterprise's gill

lots of quids a bank rolling treasure chest
loving the sound that the money word made
liberally taking it for the poet's nest
leveraging what they'd place in his lade

only a select few owning credit line
oh and their income got good will galore
opening the site up as a gold mine
Olive went on about ops at the store

now an abundance of fees buys backing
negotiations are done this very way
never forget what's been in her tracking
noteworthy is the story's candid relay
thymos Feb 2018
i find it, like a book finds its reader.
like the reader finds an old friend between the pages.
and the friend, their love returned in full.
and love, its givingness become relay.
and searching, its pilgrimage.
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic.  Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness.  But what of stint-ness snities?  Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums.   Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied ****.  Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums.  We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture.  And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums?  Do we only dream about dexterous articulation?  Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary?  What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton?  We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache.  Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology?  Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward.  Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective.  Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable.  Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue.  Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh.  Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered.  Infusing all with the capability of  aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others.  I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection.  Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony.  Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual.  Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist.  We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
A dream I had about explicating eventuation evocative's expletives.  The amalgamated anathema android.  The cure for pseudopodia interruptus.  At those plastygoop nosed gumby ******* ***** mongers.  Teleportation's telepathic tout will augur the demise of the shallow water scrod ******* dogs.  Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma.  Enigma entity's identity crisis on the futurity fatidic.  Grimacing gremlin greaves and gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts.
The conveyance of the mind , carrying you to the previously unknown ..
To the seas of Europa , the mountains of Mars ..
Open your eyes to the wonders of creation , release the moorings of your imagination...Nature provides the vehicle to attain the light , freedom to escape the limits of our physical being , cross conventional parameters and expectations minus fear nor hesitation ..Disregard ancient rituals , seek the teachings of every religion ..
Take a powerful work of art , free your mind as if opening a well remembered door ...
Transform music into pulses of light , telegraph our universal neighbors throughout the night ..
Let your personal reflection relay the image of great peace and meditative bliss .. Retain , relay these gifts through song and poetry without end* ...
Copyright December 12 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
I seek in Prayer that you would Forgive
This Uttering Whisper cense your Penance
By the Cross and Wheel for this Dharma, live
My own Locked Fortress that Demon's Seance
Mindful do the Scriptures from Heaven remind
That once a Duty to my Sister's Lord
Invoke this Baptist; To Salvation find
The Enfavoured Trust to your Bandaged Word
Then by your God's Hopeful Mercy relay
My added Petition you both be well
Across the White March Doves mirror that Day
You and his hand - Magnificent we tell.
Such was his Title. And Excelled at that
Knowing your Wound heals, I tip-off my Hat.
Isabella Bachman May 2011
Classroom Discussion
Raucous noise vibrates across
The surface of my ear
Not daring to enter and disrupt
  The train of thought
   That processes as a machine
    Turning, creating, assembling
     The wheel of thought spinning round the axle

          -------A **** on the rope, a pull on the subconscious

The pulley recognizes the intrusion of an applied force
  The wheels halt, as if rust jeopardizes its advance.

The thoughts scatter, a snapped electrical wire snaking in shock;
a cooper waving current racing back to a reality
through black rubber nerves.

          The noise registers,
confirming the split of a once continuous wire
Insignificant words- not quite processing,
  failing to relay information,
   refusing to form a sentence,
    still trapped in a realm of limbo
                 wanting to return to the rhythm of a reverie.

Slipping, falling
the mind surrenders, the electricity dies.

  Materializing in a classroom
   The cage for intellectual minds
    Discussing about.
From one world to another - act, adapt

The bright scientific lights burn
The eyes of the dreamer
Who creates from the dark,
   Objects exposed, judged, determined.
    No place for the dreamer, who loves
      warping reality.

            Within the metal box this reality is set.
Bars on the window, an indestructible verticality
Plastic seats, beige, blue, cold
Sit this way, look up, right, like that.
You are my animals now speak, raise a hand,
perform a trick, tell me what I want to hear,
Speak my language of intelligence, be my machine.
Danielle C Sep 2012
solo piano and contemplation
songs in D minor to distract desolation
and turn it into poetry
bittersweet, solemn, raw emotion
encapsulated through rhetoric
into the sound waves, into the billows
a letter read aloud, a message in a bottle

with melancholy rigor,
and the finest of pledges to sentiment,
a vow to exhibition and art,
and commitment to fighting trespassers

but please, dear, don’t escape,
the woods of stability is for the wild
and those who are lifetime trained
so toast to passion, stay for the verse
delay the sojourn for the song and show
often rest is the answer to unsettling dreams

sip the grape vine, if you please,
but not forget the pen and paper by your bedside,
never neglect the manuscript,
not ever cease the creation

write away the man that left you,
destroy the character in your prose,
demolish the utopia he once yearned,
a poet’s fists are stronger than the fighter’s
for the writer’s battle continues beyond the ring

step out of the sorrow,
relay the violin’s lingering echo,
and one day the call outside will pause
for a tranquil summer day when you are not alone
Curt A Rivard Sr May 2012
I write words with passion, I write words learned from wisdom
I study the works from the greatest; I even study the stars in the sky
Look to the North West on a dark Southern Autumn‘s night
Hanging side by side with the king of the jungle and holding a *** of honey
A relative to the one in the deserts with stinger in its tail you will see
A Giant that walks on ocean floors with meat that is ever so sweet
Constellations that fill the sky all been given a specific name at an earlier time
Many a being read the wise man tales in the daily papers
They live there day to look to see if there predictions come true
Your visions can only come true if you search without looking
My journey today took me to the second floor I’m in a ward
Doors open exposing many smiles and many, many frowns
Team Poppy’s Ride for one dollar I bought into yes I did
Relay for life fight the silent killer and have fun doing it as well it says
A dozen silk roses pull me near to the table to touch them
Fur lined slippers; ports open on his body, one in his neck
Another in his arm with plunger attached I can see
Flush him clean and pure I pray aloud rid him of his pain
Give it to me I cry as I looked into his eye
Tapping red heels with anxiety she’s called in next
Chairs with wheels fill the room to capacity
All with hoses and green cylinders attached given a fresh breath of life to inhale
Delicatessen of food on a low cart is now delivered from the one with child in the womb
Smile she puts on my face for there’s another life to keep the circle of life going
Journeys not over for they have just begun
Stacks of Danielle Steele books are scattered all about
Comforting the mind, comforting the soul they do
Precious words are better than man’s medicine I believe
Come to me, my written words are stronger then the script you’re looking for
No ringing of the bells here to mark the toll
To the left I see a three leaf clover hanging in the window
On the Next there’s a hanging cross
Waiting is the master, to do your part
He welcomes you and your soul.
CELEBRATE, REMEMBER, AND FIGHT BACK!                                                                                                                                            (CARSr. 5-21-12)
preservationman Nov 2015
It was a pan and bake
No it wasn’t going to be a cake
Something new in holiday cheer
Encourage travel and not draw fear
The idea came to create a Gingerbread Hound Bus
Even the Greyhound racing dog wouldn’t even fuss
Craftsmanship of the mold and ingredients in producing the Gingerbread Hound Bus
Gingerbread Hound Bus in being steady
A welcomed holiday treat
The highlight being the lights
Fresh from the oven being sheer delight
All aboard in the kitchen
The Gingerbread Hound Bus has reserved your seat
No need to push as there is plenty to eat
Yet the Gingerbread Hound Bus looks too good to put in one’s mouth
It should be mounted and on display
To my fellow bus nuts this is a relay
Giving thanks should be every day
The Gingerbread Hound Bus is spreading the word
It’s the Gingerbread in wanting to be heard
“A Gingerbread Hound Bus filled with sugar and spice, and it is also bringing the holiday spirit with the feeling of nice. Yet the Hound Bus in giving advice. The Gingerbread Hound Bus welcomes you to dig in, but remember it is the Gingerbread Hound Bus that says when”.
uv Apr 2022
If a pen could relay all my thoughts
All those tiny speckles and threads that get often lost
My eye would like to describe the tinest details
And my hand would want to draw all its artistic tales

If my heart could realy what it thinks
All those flutters, its strongest strings
My beats would tell those feelings,to share
And my touch would make the world watch and stare.
Denis Martindale Oct 2013
Across the hills, across the plains,
Across the sands and seas,
He searched for poems and refrains,
For wonders never cease...
While there's a child within God's heart
And His remembrance, too,
The Poemhunter scans for art,
Esteems each point of view...

Across the noblest hopes and dreams,
Ideals and fancy thoughts,
The spectrum of Man's mad extremes
Proves that it takes all sorts...
While there's a vision, judge or law,
Or simply self-control,
The Poemhunter must explore
Their sanctity, their soul...

He reads the rhythms, rhymes and rules
That writers would relay,
He heeds the wisemen, sighs at fools...
Lets God guide him His way...
While there's a cherished childlike prayer
That words can somehow bless,
The Poemhunter's search will share
God's Truth and happiness...


Denis Martindale, copyright, August 2010.

Denis Martindale 1300 poems
http://www.poemhunter.com/denis-martindale/
Lee Janes Jan 2013
You removed your delicate hand away
From your *****, and sprinkled
Stardust upon the moon tonight.

While the clouds obeyed her secret palms,
She parted them enough
For her borrowed light to shine through.

Her beams glittered cataract diamonds,
As any found within Leone’s chest;
Upon boulders centred within this field.

So I approached, aloft, pedestal-like,
And mimicking David’s marble form
Gleaming bright in the Florence midday heat,

With no less than a thousand eyes
Gazing upon his dreaming stare,
I perched and mused of my lady-fair.

While above, each star hummed
It’s distant faint tune, and twinkled
Their beat towards Earths gentle breath.

I inhaled the air freezing this night;
Into, not only my lungs,
But my heart reached over to lend her appetite.

Aided by the cool soft wind,
My voice was never the more raised
Above a lonely child’s whisper.

Thus I began: ‘I thought of how
This glorious globe, with her wondrous hue,
Is the envy of all these great spheres,

‘And to muse with the ebb
Of immeasurable times flow
Over the laments of my darling dove,

‘To relay through my mind,
All the moments I could
Have been with your willing body,

‘The many scenes I should
Have been with you. Those times
I should have said exactly

‘What I felt when you were with me,
When I possessed you
Within my gaze. I rue those chances,

‘And missed opportunities. Know that
You occupy my slumbered visions
From when sleep closes my eyes,

‘Till the birds of dawn awakens them.
And as the year closes,
Since first I kissed your smooth cheek,

‘Know humbly, within your breast,
That you were the shining beacon,
A light which guided me over stormy seas.

‘I pray, realise my words,
Softly spoken from the pages sent
To your hands, were meant for your heart,

‘And your smile, mixed with glances,
Were always a true delight
You bestowed on to me.

‘I let you bathe in my soul,
And I truly thank you,
And forever sing your name aloud.

‘I sit alone here under a chilly
Suffolk night and think
The heavens bright of you.

‘Months have fled, and ease of
My sorrow toward the sky
Is a gift I must offer for my changeless love.’

And ending, ‘Take what you wish, my dove,
But please, I beg on bended knees,
Please, do not take my memory of you.’

These words were cupped on the north wind,
While the moon spread a veiled
Duvet of polished silver over the field,

Spilling dew upon the grass
Bleeding from her sheen, moist,
Velvet sheets of liquid nectar.

Before my eyes, the grass stood to attention.
A million green-eyes begged
More from my heated pores.

Amazed; for rooted to the soil,
Adding immense weight to the ground;
They calmed their sway to my measures.

Clouds rushed over to hear, even
The rested sun-chariot peeped
Back over the forbidden western shores.

The birds of day appear, crying
A chattered song for the suns yearning.
Clouds began to weep uncontrollable tears.

As a ripple from a pond, speeds
Over the smooth surface towards
The shade of the blessed river bank,

As did a wave flow from one end
Of the field to these boulders,
And with fresh breath, these blades spoke,

And graced my ears with speech:
‘Oh soon to be spirit, we can sense
What is about to come on to you.

‘Your love, you love, with every
Drop of blood that beats
Within ones heart, we envy you.

‘Can there ever be a time,
Where eagles roar; when lions fly;
Lambs bite; or wolves graze on us?

‘Ever an instance, a time to come,
Where the moon becomes the sun,
In turn, the giver of life, the moon?

‘When the earth, herself, slows,
And rotates back along her axis?
Men born old; death at birth?

‘Hills, majestic sloping hills, iron flat?
Rivers become grain; ocean freeze over;
Skies, and air, turn to solid?

‘Science; vain in being,
Predicts too much; and beauty
Is lost forever in her words.

‘May some farm boy look through
A hole in that there fence,
And sneak a peak at me,

‘May he run to his herd and tell
The leader of the flock the sight
His eyes just bore in witness.

‘For your cries; may a sudden
Rush of blush greet your lady’s cheeks;
May her legs tremble; her hips grow weak.

‘Let the once ferocious deep blue
Calm his waves, and in his face,
Mirror the skies glorious expanse.

‘The moon; may the moon, believe
That she is not eternally alone,
Swimming in the inky black;

‘Let her study her reflection;
And fall in love with her new mate.
May the stars, count not all, shrink

‘The distance between themselves,
Place tender arms around one another,
In a much longed-for embrace.

‘Finally; may Orion, when touching
Western waters; let him relinquish his sword,
And stem the rains from the bellowing east.

‘We feel your pain!’ And they ceased.
They too, felt my joy.
For my wonderful words spun;

Mingled with undiluted wine placed in a
Golden goblet from a heart-stricken tongue;
Which lapped the chilly air while I spoke freely.

‘I knew once a sweet tender maid,’ I began,
‘And without diminishing
The daughters of this night away from you,

‘I will swiftly say she became my voice.
And as the buds burst free
From winters icy hold; and as around

‘Earths eternal prisioned orbit
Spans another of her quarters,
When the sun strikes intense onto Saharan sands;

‘I was with her, and she with me too.
She graced my songs with galloping mane
And eagle striking ***** of wind.

‘She tenderly flowed through my veins,
As any stream from high sacred fountains;
Any river that deposits into sea;

‘Any artists stroke from his brush
To canvas, that paints oil drenching
Figures of unrivalled beauty.’

I paused my strain, and glanced
At our moon, hung high; hung also;
On my every word, halting her route.

‘And with this’, I continued, ‘and your tones
You gifted to me upon these boulders,
I take this poisoned flower from out my pocket.

‘My young blood presented this to me,
Long ago; for the sun has yoked
His steeds passed four full moons since.

‘He too, my brother, calls aloft
To the tunes of music; he too,
Guides his hand to the strums of natures beats.

‘Against that aged oak, with acorns
Spread at its feet, my brother, leaning
His back to its wrinkled trunk,

‘Plucking in harmony strings which,
In his blonde presence never lay slack;
And flinging away his melodies on the breeze,

‘Spoke thus; “If any time on your travels,
A day presents itself, when you find
Yourself sitting upon those boulders there;

‘“And the moon in her glory,
Glows a frosty crystal white, and the voices
In their millions sway to your laments,

‘“Eat this; for your time has come.
One night waits for all of us and all must
Walk the path of death, and walk it only once.

‘“Look to your moon, and bade it goodbye.
Glance at the grass, and bid it adieu.
And say, above all, farewell to your lady.”
So I eat, and sing farewell my love, with a kiss.’
Dianne Guerrero Apr 2014
My vision see me through this spin called life.
All  paths our labeled by your chances to be.
Keep your soul and walk enjoy all that is real.
Touch your mind to expand your light.
Take control your air "Breath" all that's yours.
Doubt can told you without pushing it out of site.
Make it. Believe all the is ...... Peace Of Mind.
For all the goodness this screen provides;
for its instant gratification;
for the evolved digital relay of self-published creativity;
for the immediate responses and comments
from half a world away.
For its space saving mastery.
I long to hold all your words, verses and rhymes intimately
within glossy or plain protective coat of hard card
Your spine dunked in the cup of palm
headcap to tail resting in crux of arm
or nestled like a lover upon lap.
I could take you to bed.
I want to thumb through your pages
Pages once mashed and pulped and pressed to dry.
I long to feel the weight of words physically
to smell the freshness along each hinge crease,
and caress the texture.
To return to those most fond
charactered with dogear
underlined with ballpoint
and pencilled margin notes.
Even the mild smudge of finger tip dirt
when I simply could not wait to picking you up before washing.
If only this screen was a page
One of millions ever changing
I could hold all your work close
and fall asleep with your words
waiting in rest beside me
always
beside
me....
I mean every word
Lawrence Hall Oct 2018
-Houston Chronicle, 10.1.2018

A robot wandered the mean streets alone
While lighting up and smoking his last transistor
Remembering an IBM long gone
“Buy me a WD-40, mister?”

A ****** thermostat took him to Radio Shack
And talked about some Texas Instruments she knew
A Compaq sent them to a room out back -
“Do ya wanna undo my phillips *****?”

He paid the thermostat some gigabytes

And then…

He was mugged by a relay who put out his lights
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Omarcito Jun 2022
‘twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas,
Humidity can’t be seen
As the sun whirled
Its final twirl.

A flock of pigeons stand by Midnight’s Trolley Trail.

I am my own eye,
Staring at taught veils
'tween cotton gaits.

The clouds are no more,
Spirits remained encaged in rose sepultures,

A transformation so chaotic, they cackle at their false fear.

MY BLURRINESS SEEMS TO BURN
STEADY. ready,
For what to behold.

I have left Universe to relay ,
As the subtle sun one did in its day.

I am left
To react.

React to what?
React to wee?            React,
to relationships,        React,
to their degree of nobility,
So fruitful, so radical in concept indeed.


Of all these perspectives
I am one.
One paper, one tree cut for endless possibilities.

The treasure remains underneath,
Where I weep
In the deep,
In the deep.

There is nothing to find,
And that made all the difference.

'twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas.
preservationman Jun 2017
Half way across the globe evacuate
Get moving before it’s too late
It’s the mighty winds that blow
Don’t let your escape be slow
Winds are beyond a refreshing breeze
Trees are being uprooted with the feeling of being unease
Heavy rains are pounding the coastal towns
There’s a silence of citizens in having no sound
A time to pray
Eyes up to Heaven being the relay
Winds upon blow
No it isn’t some reality show
It’s the elements against man
The strength of God bearing on the land
The Typhoon being a reminder for the world to pray
Have courage and wait out the storm
Some parts of the world this is the norm
Yet stand firm with Faith
Typhoon’s come and go
Where there is a Typhoon and rain, skies do part and sunshine is what remains.
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic.  Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness.  But what of stint-ness snities?  Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums.   Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied ****.  Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums.  We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture.  And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums?  Do we only dream about dexterous articulation?  Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary?  What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton?  We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache.  Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology?  Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward.  Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective.  Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable.  Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue.  Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh.  Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered.  Infusing all with the capability of  aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others.  I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection.  Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony.  Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual.  Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist.  We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
A dream I had about explicating eventuation evocative's expletives.  The amalgamated anathema android  The cure for pseudopodia interruptus.  At those plastygoop nosed gumby ******* ***** mongers.  Teleportation's telepathic tout will augur the demise of the shallow water scrod ******* dogs.  Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma.  Belligerent barbarian berserker.  Enigma entity's identity crisis on the futurity fatidic.  It's graspy greedy on the stingy frugal aimed mingy minions.  Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician's proximity parameter's perimeter peripherals.  Propinquity habitation's harbingers of harangued.  Terrestrial equestrian tellurian's terrene.  Grimacing gremlin greaves and gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts.
Marla Apr 2019
Nineteen years ago,
I was born to a woman
I've yet to know.
She would holler and cuss me
Up and down,
Beating me into a mist
With an open fist
And her furrowed brow.

I tried to expose her vanity once.
She broke a mirror 
And slit my throat with the biggest shard.
As she did so,
I heard her say
"Toughen up, because this life is hard."

My tears drove the blood off the glass
As I sat flat on my ***,
Reflecting upon who I was
As the mirror foretold
Who I would not become:

A horrible woman
Destroying what she was meant to love.

Now, I sit abandoned in my car,
Low on gas and not going far.
My soul has gone
And passed me by.
O lord,
Am I misery's child?
I still remember what she last said,
Those violent words echo in my head:

”Apologies, but you're no longer our problem.
We held up our end by getting you in debt,
It's not our fault you don't know how to spend.
We at least try to pretend like we care,
But you're so inconsiderate and spoiled.

It's not so hard to get a high paying job,
I've had one here since at least '03.
Seems like you're just pretty lazy to me;
Go to unemployment if you're hungry. 

Don't complain or try to change it,
You shouldn't have been born
If you're not "man" enough to make it.
Millennials like you are all the same,
Getting in the way of my retirement. 

Your generation has really gotten lost,
Homosexuals now have their own **** cause.
They're protesting and lying
Saying that the world's dying,
I really don't have time for all their *******. 

Now I guess it's time for you to go,
Have fun being homeless and broke.
I wish I could see the look on your face
When your world crashes down
And your sanity faces extinction."

My existence is a heavy one,
But I simply can't resist
The burning temptation
To look back and reminisce 
On how much of my childhood I miss.
The toys were for playing,
Sick days for faking,
And holidays lushened my savings.
The world was full of wonder
As well as excitement,
Nothing could pull me under
Or tamper with every precious moment. 

Hindsight is 20/20,
But nostalgia is more a rosy haze.
That's why I know that with 
Every jolly laugh or hearty smile,
My parents beat me down
So that I'd forever stay mild. 

The scars in my psyche still mix
With what I want to believe
My past really is,
But time has taught me
That wishing for a better past
Won't help us save the future.

I read a poem many years ago,
It's message of hope and freedom
Seems to have gone the length it could go.
Feeling the author's ethereal dismay,
I adapted it to our modern age:

Not unlike the monster for which it was named,
With debaucherous whims that divide foreign lands;
Here at the briny, gilded portal to our home now stands
A hollow woman with a torch, whose warmth
Has become faded and disheartening, and her name
Mother of Philistines. From her once guiding hand
Emerges world-wide distaste; deranged eyes ransack
The smog-filled harbor that dystopias fame.
“Keep, other lands, your progressive pomp!” shrieks she
With welded lips. “Take our tired, our poor,
Our huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of our teeming shore.
Take these, the homeless, tempest-tost from me,
Lift your lamp as a guide and take them all!”

Heavy as it all may be,
I've witnessed this to be reality.
They drive around
In fanciful cars,
Acting profound
And giving us scars. 

Don't trust them for a minute,
our commanders in chief.
They'll leave you diminished-
Hollowed like Swiss cheese.

My routine now is so hollow and boring,
I've made a list and by god I deplore it:

Awaken
Rise
Walk
Empty
Clean
Kiss
Goodbye
Drink
Eat
Sleep
Aw­aken
Boredom
Silence/Music
Boredom
Loneliness
Sadness
Arrival
Hello
Kiss
Talk
Smoke
Lo­­ve
Eat
Watch
Goodbye
Watch
Smoke
Sleep
Awaken

(Repeat ad nauseam)

At least now that I have a new job
I can feel productive and not be a slob.
Rise and shine, time to cruise away;
Rushing out in the dollar's name
As my life is used in vane
For poor commerce's sake.
"It doesn't matter if your heart aches
Or if tragedy gives you a teary shake
You better not be late
Or you’ll eat from an empty plate
And starve until heaven's gate."

Arrrrgh! I can't bear the aching strain!
It seems I'm stumbling yet again!
My mind is slipping swift-like;
Kindly please step in this time.
Taking a bend distracting the pain;
Faking solace standing in rain.
Let’s sink a hearty round o’ drinks,
Glasses half full with a browned out tint.
Pipes smashed as stability abruptly shatters-
Life’s abashed daze subtly ceases to matter...

But then,
A calming voice
Guided my head
And decided my soul
It was to mend:

"Breathe deep
And digress painfully
As the slow burning march
Of time's progression
Takes your soul."

Then a message that came
From the ether one day
Did tear my soul sore
In a way I cannot explain:

"You can't stay young forever
___

Life will try to leave you behind anyways"

And so, I posed a question most should:
"Why live life if it's joys are no good?"

But ARRRRRRRRGH!,
THE AGONY, THE PAIN
I've suffered so much and it feels all in vane.
Fighting my demons within a cage
While this mounting plume of rage
Boils up throughout my veins.
If I could snap now,
You bet I would.

Learning to live with ancient pains
Scarring my feeble brain
As she soaks in her bloodstain.
If I could snap now,
You bet I would.

Standing out on the edge
Wishing I was dead
As the wind pushes my head.
If I could snap now,
You bet I would.

But my life ain't history
There's still plenty left to see
Like a day when I stand free.
I know I can't snap now,
I've got to see it through
So that one day this tale may reach you.

I'm much wiser now than I was long ago,
It's been 8 months that I've been taking it slow.
If I know anything now, it's that life isn't a trap;
It can be more of a trip if you learn to fight back.
But you have to love yourself first
Here, I'll let you see
The words I wrote for you to read:

"Be kind 
Every time
Your reflection
Meets the eye-

Who you see
May just be
The person
To set you free."

That's all she wrote about her life and journey,
So many times it could've ended with a gurney.
Now take my heed as a call to arms
For our armies are millions thick and much too strong.
Let us relay this message to our tormentors,
Who have ****** at our souls like feasting dementors:

We, The Progeny
Have toiled too long
&
Shouldered too much

For us to deserve
The moniker of
"Children"-

Henceforth,
Call us all "Atlas,"
For we carry your 
Trespasses against this world
Upon our bloodied shoulders.
The adapted poem is based off of "A New Colossus" by Emma Lazarus, which is immortalized on a plaque at the base of The Statue of Liberty.
All other poems and musings in this suite were written by me.
Vivian Sep 2013
she won't say a single accursed word to me, those angelic lips won't even curse me out. I think I'm upset but ?? it doesn't really matter. I've still got her black lace ******* hidden away in my second place in the 800 meter relay trophy: metaprize. they still smell like she tasted; I still know that she was fantastically insecure about her gorgeous *****, so much that she spent the majority of her summer researching labioplasty under the guise of a newfound interest in cosmetic surgery: her parents would never understand. I still know she takes deserved pride in how her deltoids flex beautifully in her mirrored closet doors with her hands on a boy's chest, not mine any longer but that's okay, as she rides him not like a cowgirl but like a demanding coach, like a kid freed from training wheels, like the Hell's Angel of epifemme ***. I still know she's the best thing that ever happened to me and I still know that I ****** it up. I still know I loved her and I still know I love her. I still know.
Brian Goosen Jun 2016
As I sit here and reflect,
Reflect back on the changes.
The changes life brought from my stubbornness,
which left me crumbled and attainted.

From waking up in the morning,
& crawling to the washroom.
Only to set myself up for a day,
a day I wished I could step through.

The agony of humanness,
relentlessly pierced my brain.
The pain set a foundation of misery,
which snuck out & made me plain.

The rust around my bones,
framed my lack of lust.
The lust to live vibrantly;
could it be cured? I'd grow to trust.

A time of immobility, I wished I could relay.
Relay the message to the One,
Only to curse His plan, yet obey.

Obey the principles of gratefulness,
is what I was told.
Told to let go of what I can't control;
Yet these words seemed entirely dull.

The unwillingness to carry on,
from an internal cascade.
Unable to unleash my anger & frustration,
& failing to convey.

Convey my state of mind,
to the people I love most.
Before they thought I'd overcome anything,
but this me was a ghost.

A ghost of who I am,
departed from uniqueness within me.
Bearing my helpless mood out on caring hearts,
even those dearest to the.

The, as in I,
or the other way around.
Separation from oneself was desired;
but I realized the gates of self shall forever surround.

What was brought forth was an opportunity,
& a revitalization would occur.
Problems did arise from my setback,
But in this moment, I pulled out each burr.

Happiness from the thought of what will be,
while having to endure what was.
In this moment my eyes opened wide,
like the strength of a strong wind gust.

Patience is a virtue,
at least this is what I'm told.
To hold onto anger is useless,
& the point is to unfold.

Unfold the despair,
& find faith in the cycle.
The events of life are ever-changing,
& like earth's marks, are insightful.

Movement is progression;
it can be painful, yet pure.
Erosion happens with time,
& we were placed here to endure.

Endure life with patience,
where faith will persevere.
Life is not a movie,
where problems can't be severe.

We must accept change as part,
part of our little world.
What surrounds us is vital;
alike the three letter word.

A word stemming from trust,
the word stemming from faith.
The three letter word is His,
and this, we must not mistake.
This is the story of how a year long injury can take control of your every thought. I was depressed along the ride but finally came out of the funk with patience and faith.
by Roger Turner on Thursday, 5 July 2012 at 19:43 ·
In the year of our lord
Sixteen Hundred Fifty Four
There were no papers
delivered to our door
No radio, no TV
Media was rather slim
If you couldn't read or write
then your world was rather dim
One person brought the info
To the masses as he could
For he read out proclomations
Told the people, as he should
"Hear Ye, Hear Ye" he would yell
"Come gather, hear me speak"
"I have the words you need to hear"
"It's been a busy week"
The Crier came and took his stance
The crowd had come to hear
Their attention captured by his voice
And his bell rung oh so clear
"Oyez, Oyez praise the Lord
Today in the Town Square
An exhibition of archers skills
Take heed, now all be there"
"The King proclaims this Saturday"
"To be a day of feast for all"
"Prepare for this year's carnival"
"I am sure you'll have a ball"
The Crier held the crowd at hand
Dressed in the finest coat of silk
Green he was, from head to toe
With a belt as white as milk
For forty years he'd held this post
His father did before
He'd relay all the news there was
And all that had come before
His voice boomed out the words
That the people had to know
He was half a wealth of info
The other half was show
Until the mass production
Of papers and of books
This man was instrumental
In conveying what folks took
To be the truth not fiction
To stop rumours as they spread
To share important messages
From the peoples Royal head
Without the mighty Crier
People would not know just how
Their world around was changing
I think we all owe him a bow
500 years have passed since
The Town Crier is still here
And to most he's as important
As he was back in that year
They still make their proclomations
Still come forth and hold the crowd
Still yell out "Hear Ye, Hear Ye"
Still yell it mighty loud
Behold the Mighty Crier
Give him the praise that he has earned
For without those before him
Many people would not have learned
I dedicate this small verse
To a Crier for us all
He's the Town Crier For London
"I present to you Bill Paul"
Dedicated to our friend, and London Town Crier, Bill Paul. Bill has been a fixture on local radio and cable television for 30 years, broadcasting over 10,000 interviews during that time. I was lucky enough to be one of the 10,000. He is a town icon, philanthropist, man about town and entertainer. I have been lucky enough to have known him close to thirty years, having performed in two of our annual Halloween Haunted Houses that his group, The London Laffguards runs for charities every October. I hope you enjoy the verse, and if you have a Town Crier you know and love....share this with them and please comment on my poem.
Sjr1000 Dec 2014
Fire
fire
in the sky
burned so bright
burned so high
how was I to know
it was the end of time.

Meteor predicted on
its way
flashed incandescent
as it made its way,
shattering into a
million fragments
atmosphere burning
fires starting
nuclear winter
envious of its
power.

A lone figure
on a hill
never knew
such loneliness
as this,
took your hand
and
one last kiss.

The meteor bright
brought the end of time
rendering all of our
fears, petty jealousies
brutalities and stress
our issues
our loves
irrelevant.

If I had known this
before
freedom wouldn't
have been that painted
she-male *****
seductively calling
to me for more -
but could have been
a moment before
that meteor made
its call.

The fires have melted
the stars have
been renewed
the planet continues
its spinning around
the sun
the deepest ocean fishes
continue evolution's marching orders
while a cell phone alarm
flips on
and
the icon shows "no signal"
while beneath
the rubble a
malfunctioning relay
finally finds
that call made
hours ago
and the phone
rings and rings
beneath the
ashen snow
until the last
silence
no one is home.

Mother Earth
finally restored
to
its
silence
once again.
Filling up, wide eyed, breathing deep
Avoiding the spillage, the jerking motion
Rowers giving elbow grease to churn out sobs
Of substance, grandiose design to sorrow
Bold, emblazoned tears of texture, relay
Racing to the jawline finish, backup tissue
Business flourishing, mopping up the fast flow
Red eye fostering their talents with  expertise
Glooping globules on rain dance alert, dancing
The tango, the rumba, the belly dance parade
Of unchained dam busting, snot ravaging
Sodden and damp, choking its route outta here
All cryed out, on empty, exhaustion reigns, eyelids
Closing the stop tap to the off position, rearranging
Priorities to sleep mode, sinking down into sprung
Heaven, resting heavy lashes to bed, curling up
To while away the hours, silencing the alarm
Of solitude and inner turmoil, resting the think
Tank, cells charmed habitat of hybernation
Booked and paid for, down payment secured
OnlyEggy Jun 2011
In this modern world of seldom proper and overused punctuation
the smallest of them all seems to leave the biggest connotation
the dot, or period, as some would say under the proper observation
has given text-ers and type-ers of this technology driven generation
and easy way to send a message in a short-hand communication
One dot can signify the end of the certain conversation
and three dots can lead one to believe that there will be continuation
Five dots can relay the writer's growing frustration
as he believes the recipient might not've read his brief annotation
and with growing anger at the recepients subtle procrastination
he can send the word 'hello...' as a sign of quizzical agitation
Three dots can be used to signal a reader to use insinuation
as in 'They went into the bedroom and then...(use your imagination)
Professionals use the multiple dots when invoking exaggeration
by skipping parts in a speech to warp the innocent quotation
such as 'The senator voted against the new... school legislation'
We know that dots after every letter are a definite implication
that the word is an acronym, and there's one for every situation
for example P.O.R.N.O. People Often Require Numerous Osculations
Yes, the period can be used so freely, with such adaptation
depending on the context, it can symbolize a sigh of exasperation
It is a punctuation so versatile, it has almost no limitation
and more than one of its forms can be found in every publication
I don't hesitate, as you can see, to submit this postulation
flexibility will always be in the period's reputation...
(Another Insomniac Poem)

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