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Julia Nov 2014
A pleasantly bubbling creak murmurs softly, complacently flowing as a creak does, day in and day out
By the crumbling bank stands a strong willow tree, rooted by the prolfic stream
Thoughtlessly taking the water of which it needs, a simple commodity to a tree of such stature and poise
And gracefully, beautifully shivering at the base of his trunk, there lives a daisy, white and pure
The willows roots indulge themselves, thirsting, thirsting for more
Negligent to the flower below who makes its view that much more lovely
Than just a simple stream, and who provides to the animals and children a blustery smile
Beckoning them to the shade where they might play and the daisy might watch over them
And as the roots take and take they choke the misguided flower, leave her to wither
One soft petal falls to the grass rendering her no more than a tainted ****
No child will ever present her to his good mother now
Not now that she is no longer the pure beauty she once was, not with such an imperfection
And though she may beg for mercy, she must weaken and give herself to the strong roots of the willow
Until she is but a dying cause with browned stale edges and though she lay so close to life, stable life
She does not possess the power to take rein so she the sage awaits the logger in silent knowingness
ryn Sep 2014
Like a grain trapped under the eyelid
Impairing the vision, in heart and mind
Flush it out with rivers, woeful and turbid
This grain still there; rendering us blind

Tiny and inconspicuous; No one sees the grains
Everyone's 'gifted' with their own to nurse
Doubling over we see each others' pains
Hidden and embedded within the poetry laden verse
My response to Joe Cole's - A Grain of Sand Challenge
X A V I E R Nov 2014
Bring your body and give it
as if it's a weekly allowance,
a favor you owe or do you,
perhaps, yearn for a place
back inside his heart?

What does it take to stay
warm on a cold night?
The smell of burning wood
or something more - your
knitted wool blanket that's not
just a piece of cloth?
It's soft touch became the
liaison between two young bodies
and let you truly feel.

Feel his gentle touch and
the warmth of his eyes.
Legs tangle and long sighs
ignite the room rendering
your knitted wool blanket
useless. Compassionate
whispers of half truths clutter
the mind as his head clears:
"Please, be the love that I am sure of."
Rendering Tears of painful knowing
beyond human endurance
her tiny nose pressed to the window
her little breath clouding over
shortness coming to her little form
in a voice of inky blackness
in a small voice she cried
till the very end ...

Her tortured heart becomes a shadow
Understanding blindness
just means another
Even in the vast darkness
overcoming the death of her blackness ...

The sky so blue changing colors
turning black to the touch she feels numb
Those were times she had wept so silently
never knowing what was to become ...

"Never go", she whispers softly
As the Angel sat at her side
holding the little one so gently
knowing the hurt she did abide ...

The dawn was coming
beyond the night
singing softly
a little song
Little Serenity was dreaming ...

She has now outlived
the pain and sorrow this day so long,
The Angel sat long and hard
Purple clothes had she
Holding the child in her arms
crying softly 'Why? Oh how could this be?" ...

Delivering the child softly and tenderly to the arm's of the Queen
She stood poise waiting for the blessed command.

Debbie Brooks 2014 Copyright
Fenix Flight Feb 2015
.               "Peter Look at me." Lexi whispers moving closer to him, The hot spray from the shower head scalding her back. Peter had his back flushed against the back of the shower, his eyes, the red of an Alpha wolf, wild with pure animistic rage. He's lost his humanity, she thinks, I have to bring it back, Peter Snarls and lunges for her. Lexi just holds out her palm and water tentacles from the streaming water behind her snake out and wrap themselves around his wrists and ankles, locking him in places, vicious snarls escaping him, his eyes burning red. Anger wells up in her chest making her own eyes Flash violet, her powers rising inside her. She closes her palms and the water restraints tighten cruelly against him, a small whimper coming from him. She looks him in the eyes and steps even closer, leaving the comfort of the water. "Peter please, come back to me my love." She whispers moving closer still until she was standing right in front of him, his breathing echoing off the shower tiles. She stretches her hand out and touches the hard muscles of his stomach, making him flinch violently, struggling against his restraints as he tries to move away. Lexi thinks back to the time when he would have done anything just to feel her touch, now with his humanity lost,  and the wherewolf taking hold he couldn't bare it. She splays her hand across his abs, tracing the hard muscles, trying not to wince as sounds of pure distress came from him. Looking back up into his eyes she searches for the Peter she had fallen in love with, imprinted with, and found nothing but a cruel cold hearted Animal staring back at her. She takes her hands away and sees the distress turn quickly back into a murderous glare as he pulls against the restraints trying grab her, his claws glistening with spray from the water. With a flick of her wrist the tentacles pull at his arms until they are spread out, far from touching her, another viscous growl, more tugging against them. "Peter I know you can hear me,try to fight this I know you can." She says pleading to any shred of humanity that might still be lurking within his soul. For a split second his eyes lose some of the bloodlust as her words penetrate the wolf that was rising, his face twists in concentration

               "Lexi- I can't Save yourself" He gasps through clenched teeth, His eyes begging her to run before he closes them. She steps near, her heart soaring with hope that she might be able to save him. When he opens his eyes again though all hope she just had shatters as the cruel animal returns. With renewed strength He lets out a harsh howl and yanks his arms, the water tentacles turning to puddles, slipping down the drain with the rest of the water, in the small space of the shower he lunges toward her. Fear ripples through her but she quickly shakes it off and once again lifts her palm stronger tentacles obeying her command wrap themselves around him just in time, as his sharpened fangs came three inches from her face. His body is slammed back against the shower wall, his head bouncing painfully off the tiles. As he trashes and pulls at the restraints Lexi moves back close to him, shutting her eyes in concentration. "His ego cuffs concatenata bestiam, relaxare scintillis humanitas seen, With these cuffs I chain the beast, only loosen with sparks of Humanity seen." The Latin words falling easily from her lips as she casts her spell on the water, knowing they would hold and only lessen their grip when the Peter she knew and loved came back. Her strength leaves her as the spell takes hold and she sags against the other wall, seeking its help to keep her upright. She leans her forehead onto the water slicked tiles and breaths in the steamy air, her eyes drift close. Knowing she was safe from anymore escape tempts she turns her back toward the beast that wore Peters face and steps back into the scalding water of the shower, letting the heat seep into her cold riddled body, and washing away any remaining fear as she lifts her face to the spray. Anger toward herself bubbles up inside her, how can she be afraid of the man she loves? whimpers fro behind her make her sigh and step out of the comforting spray. Turning around, she opens her eyes which were flashing Violet with her rejuvenated powers, she once again faces the love of her life. Hope once against swells inside her as she faces her task of Being Back Peter's humanity.

               "Peter I know you are still in there, I'm going to touch you now." She says with confidence as she steps closer once more. Hot spittle flies from his mouth as a deadly snarl comes from deep within, his fangs fully elongated, his claws at full length, clawing wilding at the air trying to tear her apart. She ignores the snarls and the beast and focuses souly on her task, She reaches out and touches his chest, right above his pounding heart. Moving her hand upward she runs her hands up his muscled well toned arms and with her left hand she places it carefully on his cheek, keeping away from his deadly venom coated fangs, knowing that one bite would have her transforming into a werewolf like him. The terrified whimpers he made makes her heart squeeze, knowing that the touch of a human in his wolf fill brain was torture for him. She looks in his eyes and silently pleads for this to work, knowing that with each touch the Peter she loved would have a fighting chance to break through and once again take hold of his body. She steps closer and kicking his feet apart she presses flush against him, the roughness of his soaked jeans rubbing against her naked body, his shirtless upper half smooth against her own chest. A strangled growl leaves him as he tries to shrink away from the closeness. She takes her hands and places them on either side of his face yanking it back to look at her. "Peter come on love FIGHT THIS!" She hisses pressing herself closer to him. The blood lust fades slightly, his arms sagging slightly as the restrains register a spark of his humanity. Her eyes shine with joy when she realizes it was working. She takes her hands away from his face and wraps them around his neck, stretching up on her toes to reach his mouth with hers. She kisses his mouth, not afraid of the snapping teeth, and feels the growls dissipating in his throat, as his arms continue to sag with the loosing cuffs. She watches as his eyes close and feels his lips returning the pressure to hers. A small gasps escapes her as she feels his arms finally wrapping around her body crushing her to him.

               "Lexi Stop, I can't fight this for long," he pleads against her lips, and on Que his arms are softly yanked from around her as the restraints sense the animal rising again. Going against her intuition she lifts her hand and the spell is broken letting his arms sag fully to his sides, giving him full use of them. He growls "That was a mistake, Lexi AH" He chokes out shutting his eyes and shrinking away from her half turning his body, trying to keep himself from slipping away. She moves, easily deflecting his feeble attempts to push her away, she takes hold of his arm and turns him to face her again and softly pushes him up against the wall which they had started to stray from, pressing herself firmly against him.

               "You can fight this Peter," She whispers in his ear before claiming his mouth again. It was her mistake. He kisses her with desperation trying to fight back the Wolf that was clawing it way through him. IN a split second He looses control and the beast takes hold. Giving off a murderous howl he sinks his claws deep within her back, Her scream tears through her, echoing off the tiles. She sags against his claws, making them sink in deeper as whimpers of agony spill from her kiss swollen lips.  With a grunt he rips his claws out and watches as she crumples to the ground, her strength deserting her. She splashes in the water built up in the tub , barely noticing the sting as her knees and hands hit the porcelain. Her arms wobble as she tries to keep herself up, her eyes cast down as she stares at his bare feet, the hem of his jeans dark with the water sloshing around him. "Pe-Peter Fight, pl-please" she mumbles as a fog starts to creep into her mind. Her arms fail her and she splashes face first into the ***** water. The water was tinged red and tasted like cooper with her life's blood as it oozed out of the ten claw marks on her back. Her breath quickens as it become shallow, the fog creeper faster, her vision starting to unfocused. Tears spill down her face and mix with the ****** water as she realizes she was going to die, and without saving Peter.

               "I failed you Peter, I'm sorry, Forgive me," She whispers unable to lift her head to look at the beast that claimed him. " I- I love You" She manages to sputter out before the fog took hold of her, rendering her unconscious.

               Those three words reached the beast, traveling down to Peter who was growing weaker by the minute LEXI! he screams mentally and pushes past the beast. He throws his head back, letting out a tortuous howl, as his eyes go from blood red to the Ice blue some Beta wherewolves posses, his original state. The beast retreats, never fully gone, just hibernating until the next best moment to strike. Peter looks down at the naked girl at his feet, and he drops to his knees in the red waters.

               "Lexi My love" He whispers his voice full of agony. He lifts her limp body out of the water and cradles her in his arms, He wipes away the hair that was plastered to her face and rests his hand against her cheek. "Open your eyes my love, you didn't fail me, you saved me, I'm right here, just open your eyes." He says, his voice choked with unshed tears. When she doesn't respond he cries out , placing his head on her chest, taking his hand away to wrap around her body in a tight grief stricken embrace, his blond hair making a curtain around his face as his grief pours out of him unchecked. A strangled Gasp makes her chest rise and he wipes his head up to find her eyes fluttering open, focusing weakly on him.

               "Peter, you're-" her words fade away as her strength seeps out of her. she lifts her hand and he quickly grasps it in his lifting it to his mouth kissing the fragile pale skin before putting his face in her hand, trapping it between his face and his hand.

               "Yes Lexi I'm me, I'm here, Don't give up" He says smiling through his tears. A faint smile spreads across her bloodless lips as she closes her eyes, her breathing was struggled but she clinged to the last bites of life in her as she pulls her power in, drawing strength from the water around them, the air that fought it's way to her lungs, the Fire from the small candle she had lit in the bathroom earlier for strength, the minuet grands of dirt that always managed to find their way in the house. But most of all she Draws on the Spiritual world the one that swirled around every living creature. She draws all this power inside her and wills her body to heal itself, Fighting for her life. Her power pulls and a soft warm glow fills her body as the wounds slowly pull themselves closed healing themselves. Her breathing becomes easier and she gulps huge mouth fulls, coughing as she takes too much in. Peter tighten's his hold on her and stares at her in wonder as she pulls her broken battered body together. "Oh Lexi," he gushes as color returns to her body, making it flush a pale pink, her eyes going from their crystal green to the purple as she works her magic. Finally the wounds were sealed shut, and her eyes return to their crystal green, her body sagging in exhaustion in his arms.

               "You're you, you're really you." She whispers, happiness ringing in her soft sleepy voice. Peter smiles at her and strokes her cheek, his fangs had vanishes and his claws had retracted.

               "Yes Lexi I'm really me."

               "I thought you're humanity was lost,"

               Peter just shakes his head at her, tightening his hold on her he stands up, carrying her bride style he steps out of the shower, not bothering to shut off the water. Holding her close to his body she rests her head against his bare chest and sighs as she hears his heart thumping at a normal pace. Leaving the bathroom he pads down the hall to their room. Once inside, with one hand he pulls back the covers on their king sized bed and gently deposit her onto it. going to his side of the bed he quickly strips out of his wet clothing and slides under the covers with her, drawing her close to his body, skin to skin. Lifting her eyes to his he smiles at her.

               "NO Lexi, I don't think I can ever lose my humanity again, want to know why?" He says, his eyes hypnotizing her. She snuggles closer to him, her legs tangling with his,

               "Why?"

               "Because YOU are my humanity." He says as his lips crush her in a passion filled kiss.
This was A Dream I had. I have no other back story or anything This was jsut my dream and I was Lexi. Peter was Peter Hale From TV show Teen Wolf. ( IDK why but my dreams awalys end up staring someone from that **** show)
SO BRIGHT and soft is the sweet air of morning,
And so tenderly the light descends,
And blesses with its gentle-falling fingers
All the leaves unto the valley's ends--

It brings them all to being when it touches
With its paleness every glowing vein;
The wild and flaming hollows of the forest
Kindle all their crimson in its rain;

And every curve receives its share of morning,
Every little shadow softly grows,
And motion finds a melody more tender
That like a phantom through the branches goes--

So bright and soft and tranquil-rendering,
And quiet in its giving, as though love,
The morning dream of life, were born of longing,
And really poured its being from above.
Janelise Sep 2012
it surges through her.

the ability to bring you to your knees

with a single, longing look,

with a deep, lingering kiss,

and with an unbreakable, loving spirit.

rendering you helpless in her palms;

desperate to understand her qualms

and wishing

you were in her bed,

tossing and turning, but waking

next to someone that would cherish your everything.

your power.

Your sweet, moonlit eyes, bold hands, and a careful heart;

capturing any light

that she had shone on anyone else.
zuolim Apr 2013
In my Times column Thursday, I reviewed a new generation of LED light bulbs. They last 25 times as long as regular bulbs, use maybe one-eighth the electricity, work with dimmers, turn on instantly to full brightness and remain cool to the touch. A big drawback has always been cost, but now, I noted, the prices have fallen.

This column generated a lot of reader e-mail, probably because LED represents change. And change is always scary. Here are some excerpts, with my responses.
FDDP
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* For LED bulbs, the biggest issue that most consumers will notice is the color. You correctly point out that you can get different colors, and also different shades of white, from warm white, to cool white, to daylight. However, not all white is the same. Two bulbs, both of which measure 2700K (warm white) color may create a completely different impression in the room.

The difference is C.R.I. (Color Rendering Index). Incandescent bulbs have a C.R.I. of 100. Really bad LEDs have a C.R.I. of 50; average ones (most of them) have a C.R.I. of 80 to 85. The really good ones have C.R.I.’s above 90.

C.R.I. is a way of expressing how many colors in the rainbow are actually contained in the white light. Incandescent bulbs contain every color in the rainbow, all in equal measure.

With LED bulbs that have low C.R.I.’s, the color of objects looks wrong, and everything “feels” ghostly. It is not a subtle effect.

Wow. Well, I’d never heard of C.R.I., and it certainly isn’t listed on the package.

I can say only that I’m completely happy with the light color of the Cree bulbs. They look nothing like the weak, diluted light of the compact fluorescents they’re going to replace. I don’t perceive anything ghostly or wrong about them.

But if you’re worried about C.R.I, maybe try out one bulb at home before you replace the whole house’s bulbs.

* Why I don’t have LED bulbs: I have yet to see one that puts out close to the same lumens of an incandescent bulb rated at 75 or 100 watts offered for sale in my area.

Many of you made this point: that the 40- and 60-watt bulbs I reviewed are not bright enough for aging eyes, reading, detail work and so on.

That really is a good point. You can buy 75- and 100-watt-equivalent LED bulbs — online, they’re plentiful — but they’re still expensive ($30 to $45 each).

* At my home, CFLs don’t last half as long as stated on the box, and when CFL electronics flame out, they leave that nasty burnt electronics smell, strongly disliked by my wife. A few friends have reported CFL flame outs that have set things on fire.

Sorry to hear that! However, my column was about LED lights, not compact fluorescent light bulbs. Compact flourescents are basically curlicue tubes filled with gas that lights up. LED bulbs use tiny light-emitting diodes, of the type you have seen in some flashlights and the “flashes” of smartphones.

* Why didn’t you write up the LIFX bulbs on Kickstarter? Are you some kind of paid shill for the light-bulb industry?

Mainly, because I hadn’t heard about LIFX bulbs. Now I have!

Looks like it’s a lot like the Philips Hue kit I reviewed, in that these are LED bulbs you can control from a phone app: brightness, timing and color. The beauty of LIFX, though, is that there’s no router box required. The networking electronics are right in the bulb.

And the LIFX does more, too: changes color in time to the music, for example, or notifies you when you have new e-mail.

These bulbs did super-well on Kickstarter, so they’ve obviously captured the public’s imagination. I’m in touch with the creators, and they’ve promised to send me one to try out when it becomes available!

* You have done what many before have done: Praise LED light bulbs — without touching on the quality of light.

It doesn’t matter whether the light bulb is $200 or 50 cents. If the light is ugly, and it hurts your eyes to read, then why should I buy it?

Compact fluorescent lights have an austere blue tinge. Some give a “warmer” shade of yellow. But the quality of light they produce is atrocious.

I did, in fact, mention the quality of light; in my opinion, it’s wonderful. You can choose “daylight” (whiter) or “warmer” (yellower). With some, like the Philips, you can dial up any color you like: white with a touch of blue or yellow, say.

But I’m not sure why we keep talking about compact fluorescent lights. LED technology is completely different. There is zero relationship between a compact fluorescent light bulb’s light quality and LED’s light quality.

* You neglected an important point: because of heat issues, you’re not supposed to put LED bulbs into enclosed fixtures, like ceiling “cans.”

Actually, I asked Cree specifically about this. The representative says the bulbs are fine in ceiling cans. “The Cree LED bulb can be used in any application that would use an incandescent bulb. As long as there is an opportunity for air to circulate, the bulb is designed to work properly.”

I’m aware that not all bulbs meet this criterion; I’ve seen warnings on 3M and Philips bulbs, for example, not to use them in ceiling cans.

* Is there a potential issue with RF (radio frequency) interference from the circuitry? I know someone who put the LED bulbs in his garage door opener and then had trouble with the remote control.For more information, please visit cree led flashlight
I stand here
Open, with every thread of security within me unwound
The bitter words upon my tongue have been swallowed
Rendering a vacant mouth dry
With all the world ready to spill from me
With every tear contained within
I gaze at you in silence

(So is that alright?
Take it from me, rip it from my feeble fingers
Don't steal it, don't take it for yourself
You've "lived a charmed life,"
haven't you?
Don't lie to me, don't uproot the little truth
that I seem to know
Skirt chaser, *******, womanizer
Great to know that I was only points to score
in the game you play
     So is that alright?)
PS Sep 2016
A kiss
Such a small gesture
Lips touching each other
tender
and fierce
melting together
and teeth clashing

Such a small gesture
So much meaning

Good morning
and Goodbye

I love you
and I'm sorry

Full of longing
and fear

Rendering words
unnecessary

A kiss
Just a moment in time
With so much meaning.
Me? Overanalysing? Haha never...
Austin Sessoms Jun 2012
to live a life so brief as this
and beg for less
is to acknowledge
that life must be beautiful
or else death take its place
rendering the body immaterial
the soul inconsequential
only the circumstances remaining
to form a memory
of our brow-beaten brothers
who felt for so long and hard
that their passionate resistance
of oppression
became nothing
JM Jan 2013
Look at where we are now.
We have **** stores on every corner.
Our fifteen year old pipe dreamers
just collectively **** themselves.

We have dubstep finally.

Who the **** needs
an instrument
or training
or talent
when
I can steal fruity loops
and make my own ****?
I make dope beats at the same place
I
"write"
"poetry".

A cold fog is seeping into the park
across the street and I like to say "****" a lot.

Google makes me feel like a ******* king,
ordering my minions
to go and fetch me
the whys and wherefores of
how butterflies communicate.

Why?

Because *******, that's why.

We have countries revolting
against *******
who have been in power
for decades
but now we have
Facebook,
*******!
Take that!
You can't get away with ****.
Ask Osama.
How long will it take before peace sets in?
Will it take as long for the machines to take over?
Both outcomes seem inevitable.

We have as much ***
as we can download
and pretty soon

our reality will be completely virtual.
If you got the money, honey.

I see our white bloated
underbelly
sagging and scraping
****
against ***** beer stained floors,
a crimson trail,
bodies in the swath
of decadence
and a most
revolting pursuit of debauchery,
Thank God!

It's fun to go off the grid sometimes,
like when cable
and the interwebs
become that luxury
that you can't justify,
you know, reality.
Ha! What a joke.

It wont be long until some clown
figures out time travel
and we all burn up in
the resulting feedback loop.
That's what the big bang was.
Some other clown,
some other place,
figured **** out.

It's not gonna be me, Jack.

I'm on the cusp.
Not really, I am a full on scorpio,
*******.

But

I was lucky enough
to remember
rotary phones
and lite brites
and playing ******* outside.
Sounds nostalgic and sweet, right?
**** that,
those hours I spent
burning some heavy metal logo
into that stump outside mom's house?
With a ******* magnifying glass
*** we didn't know what cable tv or mp3's were?
I was dreaming
about **** shops
and making weird ****** up
noises that sound alarmingly
similar to fuckstep.
**** YES!
I was bored as ****
and couldn't wait for a day
when I could plug in a new
******* universe,
my universe,
my way,
I create the characters and the storyline.
My internal apps do the rendering.
Get it?
I was thinking of that ****
way back when,
so it makes sense that
someone
a little more ambitious
and well funded
was making that stuff,
even back then.
The farmers don't let the sheep know much, do they?

That's all well and good mate,
but how happy are you gonna be
when you lose all your **** because
some 22 year old knows more about
binary than you do?
How ******* awesome is your pabst
collection and your dad's old 45's gonna
be when you are *** out because you
thought you could become an internet
billionaire and your sister just got tired
of carrying your ***?
This world is ******
and we are growing out of our pants too fast.
Even the smart ones aren't gonna be able to keep up.
Have fun mother *******.
Do it now,
NOW!
Get laid as much as you can
with as many as you can,
but love them all,
and mean it,
you *******,
this **** isn't gonna happen again.
We are on the cusp of the singularity
and it's gonna be one hell of a ride.
Joshua Quinones Nov 2011
It rained a lot that June,
and July,
and August,
but mostly June;
probably no more than any other start of summer,
or middle,
or end.

But this time I was there
to feel it;
to hear it; to smell it,
and to watch it from a splintery chestnut bench
beneath the sheltering arms of Blueberry.

It was an eyelid-drooping-day
(that day we arrived),
and I remember well
the syrupy spread of hazy heat
o’er that frog polluted lake (or pond)
and the perspiration, all but dripping from every spruce
(or hemlock).

“And this,” David said, “is the Barn.”
Cracked and shaky it stood
like a dusty, weathered book,
unwanted, tossed into the woods.
“Here stay the pigs and the horses.”

“And this,” Daniel said, “is the animal pen.”
Where goats and sheep of black and white
roved their cells with passive acceptance,
and puppies pawed and nipped at each other’s ears,
and ducks awaited the arrival of a hungry fox
(that blasted, blasted fox)

And then the Taj Mahal
like a jewel protruding from the forest’s earthy *****,
sporting its sparkling bathroom
stretching on as a football field,
complete with stadium seats
of the finest porcelain.

Through the burning day we rambled,
every inhale, a different experience—
for me: aromas of the new
to someday fashion potent memories,
for them: a blissful return.
Like coming home
(as in fact it was).

And though it had a night,
that day could run forever
on a thin white track
picked freshly off the stack,
but it won’t
for it was but the first domino
and maybe even the one that is blank on both sides.

Lazily we fell
as if onto the moon
through mornings of sluggish scrubbing,
afternoons of anything, anything at all,
and bare-chest-bonfire nights.

And that rubber ball
loving no one like it did Philip.
With solid swings; fantastic flourishes
his hand was as God’s—
directing the perilous orbit with ease
and the care of a diamond cutter.

And so it was us,
the four:
I, the brothers, and the ruler of the tethered pole
conquering seven foot ping pong tables
and seven acre deer fences
and mountains.

So passed weeks, and we were diminished
to a trio
for David had stepped off of the continent
to the land of the “highest” religion,
but we didn’t miss a beat
and plowed through month’s end, ridding our bodies of water
through nothing but sweat.

And we held every moment for ransom
forcing the next to give us better
so by sunset we were rich as kings,
and then Robin Hood would slip out of the woods
and rob us blind ‘til we awoke
and stole it all back.
    
So came July,
trotting in with bloated pride
upon his mighty steed of white
and red
and blue,
and us:  riding cheerfully behind.

It was a splendid night on moon-streaked shores
where once again we fell
to one less than three,
and Daniel with his ancient mandolin,
    and I with hearty laughter
played the night a song more lovely even than those steady, falling waves
under bottle rocket stars.

Then celebration folded
as peace made way
for mighty conqueror’s return,
and we paraded through the streets
(gravel strewn, and dusty clouded),
four flags raised high on their posts
once again.

Our arrival was rejoiced
and met with days of games and feasting,
and we embraced our loyal subjects
and friends
and family
and bathed in bliss until our skin wrinkled.

The festivities were a glorious potpourri
of doctor ball and bombardment,
frisbee goal and son of prisoner’s base,
but one kicked dust in all of there faces
and was known to only us.

The most dangerous game,
in expansive fields of ferns and fiery thorns
and rivers of knotted rhododendrons
was played,
and we were darting swallows, prancing fawns, and stealthy owls
hunters and hunted
wielding broken hockey sticks.

Our war wounds burned
when merged with the salty grime
of humidity and blood
and ravenous gnats.
Gritting our teeth, we brandished our staves,
Hacking through brush, towards survival.

Each quivering breath—
an alarm
-to prey or predator-
‘til we discovered it was just our own,
and then a snapping twig
would bulge our eyes and wretch our heads
to put us right back on our guard.

And when the chase was on
it was a race against the beating of our hearts
(whose footsteps may have ran a mile
in a minute).
With flailing arms, wildly we sprinted
grateful to the wind
for tending to our wounds.

And it always came down to three:
two to make the wolf
against one to make the timid hare,
and our brilliant, clashing swordplay
out-rang the tick of the clock
until our arms were merely crutches
held firm against our quavering knees.  
      
Hungry, weary, we returned
to eat our fill and drink
nearly twenty glasses of water,
and Nate: his nine cups of tea,
and Sarah: her mug, larger than the coffee *** itself,
and Rhodan: the entire pond
for his sweat-rag had ****** him bone dry.

We sat impatiently
conversing through our grinning teeth
who yearned to navigate the textures of the awaited food.
And then it arrived,
shoved out onto ebony countertops,
accompanied by salt
and pepper.

We downed every morsel
in a single,
hour-long gulp,
then cursed our gluttonous guts
for expanding far beyond their boundaries
and sat
for walking was as thin a hope as eating dessert.

Rhodan then reached his charcoal hand
and swiped the salt from where it had static stood:
beneath the feet of its dark companion.
I watched in wonder as the dropped container swayed and swayed—
a drunkard with his shoes nailed firmly to the ground—,
then righted itself with a final shake.

We all declared it simple
and stacked the salt atop the dusky survivor.
Swipe after swipe, we beat that pepper ******
and left the pale mineral to gravity’s mercy,
rebuilding and razing again and again
our cookies n’ cream totem pole,
but not a soul prevailed.

Finally, Rhodan interrupted our failures,
and between squeaking giggles voiced,
“Well, you can’t do it that way!”
and gently helped the milky shaker to its feet
and retrieved the other battered building block.

“You see,”  
he said while delicately setting his stage
“the pepper must always be on top.”
With a blink he swept his hand across the table
rendering the black bottle dizzy
but securely parked in its place.
“It’s the only one that can land on its feet.”

Amazed, we tried again,
of course
and succeeded for the most part,
both perplexed and delighted—
a combination that is
a magician’s best friend.

Although, Rhodan was no magician,
just a giddy boy
who understood simple physics
and lived for moments where he could explain
his confused and jumbled symbolism
(the kind that you know you could discover
if you searched for half of a Summer).

Then August
Where time, not at all anxious to win,
slowed tremendously on the homestretch.
Every day that passed was a cloud
who emptied all of its contents
before waving goodbye.

The water slowed our falling bodies even more
(as water tends to do),
and David with his quiet disposition
sung the loudest, danced the wildest
at waning firesides,
and soon we all began to wish
that we would never land.

And as the ground rushed ever nearer
we made our final mark
on brim of mighty mountain
whose shadow had generously cooled us from the sun
all Summer.

And the skies leased a stronger storm
than any we had ever beheld,
and gazing from that towering peak
into the face of midday’s cloud,
we thanked God
for not dropping us as hard as he did that rain.

And now, thinking back,
I would say it rained more in August
than in June
for that single afternoon of thunder shattered skies
must have drowned the earth a thousand times over
and then some.

And when we made our dripping descent,
I heard the echo of a gleeful voice
revealing the secret,  
and I knew then that we were pepper,
that we would land feet first
so as to leap straight up again.

That we would soar
  from the chalky flats of that pallid moon
to discover planets of lower gravity
and more rain
and greener forests
and higher towers.
Lily Karter Feb 2013
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Poem by E.E. Cummings
POETRY AND ITS IMPACT ON HUMANITY

Today the word poetry evokes images of love and sentimentality, but the term romanticism has a much wider meaning. It covers a choice of developments in art, literature, music, dance and philosophy, spanning the late 20 th and early 21 st centuries.

The romantics would not have used the term themselves and the label was applied retrospectively, from around the middle of the 20 th century. Man was born free in this virtual environment of real life but, everywhere he is in chains. During the romantic period major transitions took place in culture, as dissatisfied intellectuals and artists challenged the establishment.

Almost all the romantic poets were at the very heart of this movement. They were inspired by a desire for liberty, and they denounced the misuse of the poor.There was a highlight on the significance of the individual; a conviction that people should follow ideals rather than imposed conventions and rules. The romantics renounced the rationalism and order linked with the preceding clarification era, stressing the importance of expressing authentic personal feelings.

They had a real sense of responsibility to their fellow men: they felt it was their duty to use their poetry to inform and inspire others, and to change the humanity and their social attitude. Poet Rumpa Ray Ghosh believe in this theory on life and poetry of this time.

A PASSIONATE POET OF THIS TIME

For Poet Rumpa Ghosh, even a quatrain is what in a verse, which makes someone to cry or to laugh, or just be silent, makes your twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own.
Poetry is taking at the heartstrings, and making music within our solitude in life. Rumpa Ray Ghosh is a poet of profound obsession towards composing lyrical form of poetry. Her poetic enthusiasm makes her verses, extremely impressive and highly alluring. She is fast budding poetess of wisdom and emotional response. She had completed her Masters degree from University of Calcutta, though she is from Calcutta currently living in Mumbai.She started composing poems since her young age.

Intentionally or innocently, many of the poets are most often trying to fill a vast space with things that cannot satisfy fully. We look forward to fill the void with our own possessions for comfort, but unfortunately we normally end up wanting more and more. We try to fill it with relationships or pleasures, but we end up feeling even more empty and further more depressed than from the point where and when we commenced the discontentment as these thoughts were well presented by Rumpa Ray Ghosh in her poems, namely, “ The Roof”, “ The broken house “.
The only place that we can really find true fulfilment and gratification is in the hands of divine God. We need to recall and allow our convictions, not in circumstances, to govern our sense of contentment. The anthology freshly illuminates many excellent lyrics and short poems and are highly valued regardless of its freestyle genre.
For both the poet’s, self-consciousness is connected to the new eminence established to poetry by the feelings of the self, which truly resembles the title of the anthology, “ The Musical Marvels of Self “. Her poems are lyrical, close to heart, soft and romantic. The scrupulous flow in her rhyme magnetizes the readers. Her works were widely published in many national and international journals. She is a regular blogger. She takes the images of her writing from simple every day incidents, uses metaphors and imagery to add grace in her skill of presentation.
Her language is simple, easily understood by lay man, quite touching and heart rendering. Her first book " Musical Marvels of Self ", an anthology of 43 poems came out through Zorba publishers.

The anthology was a combined effort in association with honourable poet Dr Ujjwala Kakarala during September 2017 Besides, being a talented poetess of lyrics, she was an excellent singer Proficient in Bengali folksongs, Rabindra Sangeet and Nazrulgeeti and ghazals and has sung in numerous local stage shows. Rabindra Sangeet merge gracefully into Tagore's literature, most of which—poems or parts of single scene plays alike—were beautifully transformed or converted to lyrical formats. Influenced by the “ Thumri “ style of classical vocal music, this has made the entire scope of human emotion, ranging from his early songs-like Brahma devotional hymns to human soul.
This has emulated the tonal color of classical “ragas “to varying extents.
Earlier, She had also the chance to attain a position as Quarter-finalist in BBC Mastermind Family Quiz competition aired on Disney Channel.Poet Rumpa Ray Ghosh, an Indian by nationality, she hails from West Bengal, the “ City of Joy “, but currently living in Mumbai, Maharashtra, India. She is by occupation a teacher, content writer and a blogger. By obsession she is a poetess and a singer. She has completed her post-graduation and B.Ed. from the University of Calcutta. She has worked as a teacher in St. Thomas School, Mumbai, as a content-writer for ‘Pratham’ (NGO) and as an English curriculum developer in Vibgyor High School in Mumbai.
She publishes her writings on her own blog with a name ( fragmentofimagination). She is also a writer for some literary groups. Some of her poems have been published in national anthologies. Recently one of her poems has been published in a US e-magazine "Beyond Borders” in a popular poetry site. She has also participated in an open-mic poetry reciting performance in the Prithvi theater arena in Mumbai. Being Proficient in classical vocal music, she had the opportunity to perform in classical vocal music on various musical events. She is a Sangeet Visharad from Bhatkhande Sangit Vidyapith, Lucknow and is trained under Late Pandit Vinayak Vohra. More tha a Poetess having a deep passion in writing, she enjoys dance, music and teaching his students as part of her professional skills. Stay blessed in all ways at all times.

WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Chinedu Dike Jan 2020
In a wayward adventure in curiosity —
lured away from savvy of cooler judgment,  
he oversteps the bounds of reality 
into a state of altered awareness.

Overwhelmed by a rapid beginning of
a buzzing sensation — The Rush;
emanating from deep inside him, 
surging along the veins streaming 

euphoria through cells of his entire body:  
inside the body, with warm pleasure
waves flushing over the now tingling skin
soughing off all unpleasant feelings.

Mouth numbed, limbs heavy, eyeballs 
rolling back from hitherto unimaginable
bliss, he savours the calm explosions
of the pulsating bubbles in his head.

A magical moment of sheer ******* 
rapture—that ends in a lasting sedation—
ushering him into 'well-being' in which
he's covered by a cozy blanket of content.

He falls in love with the insidious drug.
And he begins to relish its sweet fruition,
in a seemly pattern of use that is put
in the shade to protect his best interests.

A stake in normalcy that seeks to restrict
his usage of the opioid to a social activity.
But soon enough he drifts towards a regular
recreational use — indulging on weekends;

floating, flying, and soaring in wonderful
ripples of pure delight, feeling very mellow
and satisfied, in an illusionary paradise of
forgetting where nothing hurts any more.

Bit by bit as time goes by his body builds up
a tolerance for the sedative; prompting his
intake of higher and more frequent doses,
to feel as well as to sustain the desired effect.

This occurs because his body attempts to
adapt to the presence of the drug, by quickly
breaking it up and purging it out of the system;
thus causing it to be less potent as it was before.

At this stage of his drug abuse he's still able to
control whether to use the stuff or not, where
and when to use it without stress. He could
also abstain from the opioid fairly responsibly.

But at the limits of his body's flexible response
to the mind-blower, he begins to suffer from
the terrifying side-effects of the narcotic
which show up a few hours after his last use.

The pleasurable but short-term therapeutic
effects of the insidious drug is now being
overshadowed by several of its undesirable
withdrawal symptoms that manifest as:

fatigue, irritability, cold chills/sweat, itchy skin,
muscle spasms and tremors, body ache, and
stomach cramps among others; with an
increase in his body's cravings for the opioid.

The on set of these torturous side-effects of
the stimulant marks the beginning of his body's
physical dependence on it, as he now relies
on the drug to fend off the terrible affliction.

He has bitten at the bait of pleasure oblivious
of the hook beneath it. The casual user who
thought he could quit the habit at will without
stress, has progressed to problematic use.

The drug is now a major part of his daily routine
that is slowly becoming chaotic by the day.
Regardless, he's still able to go to work
and take care of his day to day responsibilities.

In time, a new sickness begins to fester
inside him: the insidious drug is tightening
it's grip, as his body's physical dependence
on it is now generating an addiction to it.

This psychological dependence on the drug
has set in with anxiety disorder accompanied by
emotional, mental, and behavioural problems:
the trio classic signs of a progressive disorder.

The drug has become something he needs
to sleep or to fully wake up. His sleeping
pattern has also been altered; up at night
and intermittently napping during the day.

As dosage of the narcotic rises, so does
the severity of the painful lows and other
symptoms of addiction, making his cravings
for the depressant increasely more intense.

As it is, he's needs several hits of the drug to
make it through the day. All at once he wants
to use! He begins to look forward to using.
He would ingest the drug in risky situations

such as, while at the wheels of his car
or working at his job; always desperate to
to avoid withdrawal as well as to revel in
the bliss of the drug's comforting warmth.

At times he'd skip work 'chasing the dragon':
pursuing the out-of-reach elation levels of
his initial euphoric high — swinging between
feelings of mediocrity and that of ecstasy.

Always, his body would afterwards crash
below baseline, barely able to cater for his
daily needs. The habit has long ceased
to be the fun that it was intended to be.

Like a vicious cycle the relief from the drug,
which is not justified by external reality,
is being obtained at the expense of the
worsening addiction and a spike in distress

whenever his body system is low on it.
The more he indulges on the depressant
to calm his racing mind, the more
its comfort zone seems to be desired.

Disoriented in the rigours of his vice,
he strays in the abyss of drug addiction:
a dark, weary place where priority disorder 
is dictated by events outside of his control.

It is this corrupted impulse control that
causes his sick obsession with the opioid,
rendering him unfit to articulate rational
thoughts — a chronic brain disorder.

In this harmful shift away from reality,  
utmost in his mind is the insidious drug:
ahead of his job, his goals, family, love,  
friends, hobbies, personal hygiene.

Oddly enough the foremost essentials of life
like water, food, and sleep are not spared.
He could be ill and he won't care.
No other thoughts can cohabit in his world.

Emotionally invested in his fantasy-world,  
the toxic substance has kindled in him
an inner turmoil — setting off an overriding
feeling of emptiness that aches in his heart.

The habit much harder to lose than it was
to find: his ongoing attempts to wean himself
off the drug are negated by a dysphoric mood
and sickly comedowns that intensify in severity.

These horrifying withdrawal symptoms
are a result of the sedative's induced
alterations in the biochemistry of his
brain's system of reward and punishment.

Rather than a mild, blissful flow of the brain's
happy hormones, as is experienced while
one indulges in a tasty food, on receiving
a great news, or engaging in any other

kinds of novelty that fill us with a delicious
pleasure, the opioid whose chemical structure
is similar to that of the natural chemical
messengers of the brain (happy hormones);

by mimicking these primary drivers of the
brain's reward system, the psychoactive 
drug sends a false signal of euphoria to
the complex *****, triggering an instant

and fast secretion of an abnormally large
amount of the feel-good hormones, that
begin to surge along its pleasure pathways
overwhelming the reward centre of the brain.

It is this huge outpouring of happy hormones
in the region that elicites in him a sudden
burst of energy, a pleasant state of mild
drowsiness, mental alertness, relaxation, ...

This already intense, euphoric effect of the
opioid is further amplified by the drug's
blocking of the pain partways of the reward
system, thus dulling his emotions and worries

by eliminating any feeling of sorrow, regret,
guilt, fear, or loneliness. Upon intake of the
mood-altering drug, he would feel warm when
cold, calm when angry, bright when grumpy,

filled when hungry and happy when irritable,
with almost a total refrain from the tendency
to view anything in a bad light. This dramatic
result makes every normal thing look better

and brings forth a deep sense of satisfaction
as though all his needs have been met.
However, this almost perfectly desirable 
body and mind experience is an artificial

feeling that only lasts a few hours at most.
When the drug's effects wear off, because
the brain which has come to rely on the steady
supply of happy hormones cannot adjust

all at once, it gets stuck in overdrive which
results in the withdrawal symptoms. It is so
because his brain whose system of reward
and punishment has been tampered with,

seeks to counteract and accomodate for the
delicious thrills of the drug's euphoric high,
by secreting much less happy hormones while
the foodgate of pain hormones is thrown open.

Just like a huge surge of happy hormones
elicits unnatural levels of euphorical pleasure,
the spike in flow of pain hormones produce
in him the torturous withdrawal symptoms.

These unwanted side-effects whose rise and
fall are subject to drug levels in the system,
are the debt he has to pay for the supreme
bliss that is relished during his opioid highs.

It's all about his brain seeking to maintain
a normal, healthy body function (Homeostasis).
Once he's able to amerce with penance due,
he'll feel good again with no need for the drug.

Another flip side of the illicit habit is that
over time, the regular surge in the 'pleasure
juices' disrupts plasticity in the reward region
of his brain, causing physical changes that

have drastically reduced his brain's ability to
synthesize happy hormones, or respond to
any other stimulus other than the ones being
triggered by the psychoactive substance.

This is clearly seen in his lost of interest in
activities that he once enjoyed, since his brain
suffers from lack of happy hormones which
influence one's capacity to be in a good mood.

Because the narcotic has also disrupted
activities in the control region of the brain,
his whole thought pattern, perspective and
behaviour, all radically change along with it.

It is this reprogramming of his brain that has
altered the interior reality of his mind, in ways
that result in him going into 'survival mode'
in the absence of the drug during a withdrawal.

While in this irritable, aggressive and erratic
state, he would forego anything and everything
to obtain the narcotic because he's thinking
of his drug use the same way an individual 

who is parched with thirst thinks of water.
This desperation in seeking out the drug as
a vital lifeline, is due to his compromise brain
'thinking' it needs it as a matter of survival.

A habit he had maintained at the outset
because it made him feel extremely good
has tuned against him, very often coercing
him to use for the avoidance of pain.

The sedative as dear and painful to him
as an imbecilic child is to its mother,  
he continues on the foreboding route 
for which he has no power of deviation.

Despairing in the clutches of addiction,
the drugs traumatize him, they infuse
toxins into his spine, and they curtail his
ability to feel real, authentic pleasure.

He's kept on saying to himself, 'I'm going
to quit for good after using one last time.'
But that remains to be seen as the drug
goes on dulling his inner light day by day.

In a downward spiral that stuns those 
acquainted with him, he loses job,
his car is repoed, and he's evicted from
a nice home that had been stripped bare.

Drowning in unpaid bills and desperately
in debt having blown an entire life-savings
on the drug, the loss of everything and a few
remaining friends leaves him fatally devastated.

The dangerous drug has evoked a negative
ripple that is felt throughout all that he's
part of. An awful realization that settles in
with cold clarity, eliciting a lurch of dismay

over his dire ignorance about the drug
which has led to the ugly entrapment.
In deep, sorrowful thoughts consumed
with self-loathing, he puts a curse upon

the day he first laid eyes on the hard drug.
With the best resolve he's able to muster
driven by exasperation to kick the habit,
he strives to make his will like stone —

a facade that is soon razed by his urgent need
for the ****** to stave off withdrawal. With a
burden of guilt and shame that can't be faced,
he retreats into the haze of his own misery.

With more problems and stresses than ever
he plunges from troubled life to no life,
losing touch completely with reality as the
disorder assumes a more dangerous form.

His fixation on the ****** has gone beyond
a combined desire to ward off its painful
comedowns and to experience its euphorical
pleasure again; it has become more crucial

than ever for him to keep his emotions
constantly desensitised to life, by numbing
the agony of living to ease the passage of
day with purchased relief from the sedative.

Locked in this highly destructive pattern of
drug use, he would stop at nothing to relieve
the cravings for the opioid: he would cheat,
steal, lie or betray no matter who to get his 'fix'.

Like the spreading of cancer in the body,  
his affliction has metastasized way 
beyond him, chipping away at the sense
of wellbeing of everyone around him.

As frequent and ready targets for theft
his family have to always watch out for him,
in a resentful relations where they have
to sleep with their wallets under the pillows.

Jewellery, gadgets, or any other easy
to carry household valuables that are
not safely locked away, will go missing.
For weeks at a time he, too, will vanish.

He'd eventually return like the 'prodigal son'.
Always, he's found the door open after
such prolonged periods of avoiding home,
even on occasions when he'd been kicked out.

In the many months gone since losing his
source of livelihood, he's been pushed
into a number of rehabilitation facilities,
but as yet has failed to clean up his act.

He's also been in and out of rehab thrice
following hospital discharges for drug
overdose. On the last occasion, he was
found passed out in the family's bathtub.

Timely arrival of the paramedics had saved
his life. Notwithstanding, a nagging urge
to 'use' continues to feed and reinforce
the habit after every discharge from rehab.

It's been most upsetting to the parents
who have had to watch him visibly change
before their eyes: from a good, healthy
son who had always had his act together

to as it is, a thin, patchy-skinned loner with
a baffled demeanour — who timidly buries
his head in low self-esteem to conceal
bloodshot, dilated pupils from mutual gaze.

Nothing points more to the helplessness 
of the family's plight than having to finally
admit to their little or no influence over
the ravages of the stigmatized disorder.

A harrowing experience for a household
whose life-savings along with compassion
for him, have completely been exhausted
with no more tears remaining to shed.

The hurting family at the end of its tether
confronts him with an ultimatum:
to get his life in order or face the music.
Coldly, they all watch him leave home.

His descent into the final stages of rock-
bottom has been swift. He starts with
crashing on friends' couches and floors,
but soon his welcome quickly wears out.

Now among the ranks of the homeless the
hobo would wake up feeling sick, and his day
would consist of shoplifting, petty thefts,
begging, and struggling to find others ways

to obtain money in order to feed the habit.
At nights, even on stormy ones, the rough
sleeper would retire wherever there's shelter,
never worrying about waking up the next day.

A hellish existence on the street that has
provoked a string of run-ins with the law. 
Nabbed stealing on ill-fated occasions,
he's manhandled in a most indecent way.

Broken, sick, starving; the erstwhile ray of
hope, who once had a strong sense of self,
is presently a nervous wreck who envisages
life through the lens of opioid stupor.

Much beyond his ability to ask for help, 
his loved ones proceed to rescue him.
Under the humbling load of drug addiction,
he staggers into another costly rehab.

But the often slippery climb to recovery
is never easy. It's yet another chance for him
to submit to a slow and delicate therapy
on his brain, whose structure and functions 

are badly impacted by years-long use of
the drug. The healing process is a labour
of commitment and discipline, coupled with
patience to allow the brain to adapt back

toward normalcy by gradually regenerating
and rebalancing itself. In a gruelling task,
he's expected to learn to care for a body that
now must struggle to work in a different way.

Desiring to put their lives back together, many
addicts have been able to crawl their way out
of the sinister shadow. A big chunk of them
through the guiding light of structured help.

Amongst them are 'walking corpses' whom
possessed by their 'enough is enough', are
enabled to find the inner fire vitally needed
to rekindle the cold embers of self-image.

There's the fella cast adrift feeling wholly
disconnected from self and the world.
He's mourning the loss of a vital lifeline
that has always helped him cope with life.

He had been through it several times before;
the fatigue, stomach cramps, aches, itchy skin, ...
But, he's in the early stages of withdrawal when
cravings for the narcotic are at their worst.

This initial withdrawal agony is the biggest
hurdle any addict has to overcome in the often
stop-start journey to recovery. If he could
somehow find the courage to suffer through it,

the fierce and ceaseless cravings for the drug
would be considerably reduced, making
them easier for him to deal with. Eventually,
they will dissipate the longer he stays sober.

He's being offered a way out of his captivity,
but he's unable to embrace the opportunity
with open arms because the addiction, which
convinces him the only option is to carry on

using the drug, is blocking him from seeing
the avaliable escape route. It has shut off
his ability to get up on the inside to face
the seeming overwhelming barriers to sobriety.

Like one in the grip of Stockholm Syndrome,
he has developed a type of trauma bonding
with the treacherous drug: the more it enslaves
him, the more his irrational affection for it.

With his consciousness constantly revolving
around the insidious substance, he just
can't imagine a chronic user like him
being sober and happy again without it.

That being the case, he fails to see any point
in struggling to remain sober — when in such
times he's beset by an awful illness attended
by a serious depression that is no help.

Regardless of the wreckage of his past,
everything that is dear to him plus the very
essence of life on the line, he's left convinced
that giving up the destructive habit would

mean endless suffering and feeling deprived
for the rest of his already sad existence.
Over and above all other reasons, he just
won't quit because he's powerless to resist.

In default of any dreams of ever recouping
losses that are manifestly out of reach,
the drug with a firm grip on him serves 
as a buffer to keep his ugly reality at bay.

All that he wants is to return to the 'loving
arms' of the opioid, very much aware that
the feeling of the drug's high now that he's
in pain can be one of the best things ever.

But even so, as tempting as the desire to jump
the healing process may be, he's bitterly
mindful of horrors of the street life that
loom upon him with such frightening aspect.

Savagely trapped with no good choices
he slips into a real fear of relapse. In anguish
withdrawal and cravings plague him daily,
and they won't allow him a moment's peace.

Utterly incapable of rising from the ashes 
to hold it all together—no hope—
nothing to hope for—everything out 
of focus—mind spiraling out of control...

In a fit of extreme anxiety, the now rampaging
urge to 'use' prods him closer and closer to
the brink of nervous breakdown. And suddenly,
his need for a 'hit' becomes most vital as.

Sweating profusely and trembling all over
with fear clutching a pilfered smartphone,
forgetful of future suffering, the rehab
jumper hurries along the forbidden path.

All alone with the merciless companion: 
nowhere to go and no one to turn to. 
Wretchedly wretched in additive agony,
the ****** fades away into nothingness.








AUTHOR'S NOTE


The Abyss Of Drug Addiction is written in 112 non-rhyming quatrains.

The rendition is a poignant story depicting the sad existence of many drug users. The verse uncovers and illuminates, step by step, the different stages of drug addiction and the mental processes of the unable to function drug users.

The paramount aim of the work is to shed some light on the sinister shadow of drug addiction. To unveil to all and sundry, especially teenagers and the youths, the hazards of drug abuse and the vicious downward spiral that can be caused by it. 

Just as the euphoric experiences of all kinds of hard drugs differ significantly, so are their withdrawal symptoms. Despite their seeming surface unrelatedness, whichever hard drug it may be, the creation of an illegal and dangerous dependency in users is a common denominator.

[The Rush is described as a feeling very much like a heightened and prolonged ****** ******. A great relieve of tension. It is mostly felt when ****** or any of it's derivatives opioids/opiates is administered intravenously].

In quite a disturbing hyperbole, a ****** addict described the drug's EUPHORIC RUSH as follows:

"Take the best (******) ****** you've ever had, multipy it a billion and you're still no where near it... "
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
all my life
wanted to write just
the way
Joni (Mitchell) sings

seesawing
rising unexpected,
write the changing temperament
in the pitch,
of now

yawing, oscillating,
speedy slow,
enunciating the whip of
love crazy

twist to fall into a
double-time
bass baritone insane
from and into a higher pitch,
switch on the
en garde,
blue ink
onto cloth napkin poetry

plain plaintive,
rendering the scene,
rendering my heart,
it's crazy high-lows,
emotion backyard
swing set

Oh Joni!
I could drink a case of you


that is was what I
told the single girls
when I was a wooing man

send me home,
high and crying,
thinking uneven,
creatively,
drinking you,
pounding the dashboard,
sing our palpitating poems

thinking up
the in-between
songs of
till next time

that they loved so much
they begged,
sing it again and again

I drank them all
and think now of poem love songs,
vintages that never caged,
never aging,
those songs I wrote for them,
back in the day
when Joni
taught me how to
see life in verse
6:05am
janelflorendx Jan 2017
i saw you
i saw your fiery eyes
it was like looking into a cup 
unstoppably filling up to its brim
yours, abundantly filled with vehement grim

so uneasy it was conjecturing your mind
gave me a reason to unwind for a little while
tell my why
all the pretends and quiet sighs, enshrouding whats from behind
what it is there inside
why do you need to hide


thy precious heart with no choice
but to turn itself into an agitated smoldered iron

strengthened  heart, furnished like art
you are a burning metal amenably hammered by many foes
far more drowned with the empty souls

where are you, where is the real you
how did your soul turn so blue
let me condole
drilling poles amidst the cold
rendering you a hand and something to hold

I will find yours
along with all the lost
long hoarfrost
waiting to be accost
along with the alley of souls
growling down the holes
in line, next to mine
unleash a shine, your spirit so divine

let your caliginosity be replaced
all be thy grace shall be embraced
this time, fearlessly
without minds controlling slavery
cutting the negativity and
ignoring life's declivity

see yourself walking through the flame
no more lames
without the shame and doubt getting burnt
stepping on with something learnt

now you are changed, well-transformed,
someone born to aspire,  died meant to inspire,
honey you are retrofire, firing in the night sky
but not as heaping as an empty pyre
but as fierce as an enraging forest fire
Hussein Dekmak Aug 2021
Feeling good is:
Greeting a stranger with a smile,
Chatting with your elderly neighbor's,
And treating them with care and compassion.

Soothing another's pain,
Feeding hungry stomachs,
Standing with the oppressed,
Rendering service to others for no return.

Exploring a new idea,
Enriching your knowledge,
Reflecting and pondering,
Planting the seeds of positive change.

Listening to the whispers of love,
Inspiring the next generation,
Being around intelligent people,
Enjoying the company of soft-hearted friends.

Restoring people's shattered dreams,
Be their candle and their lifeboat,
Listening to the cries of innocent souls,
And showing them the way to a new dawn.

Lifting the spirit of the broken-hearted,
Delivering them through a helping hand,
Dressing your soul in a garment of giving.
Lifting your voice to be the champion of the forgotten.

Counting your blessings,
Reciting your prayers,
Contemplating the universe,
Listening to nature’s songs with muted words.

Hussein Dekmak
Edited
mark john junor May 2016
she is a rendering in darker inks of lighthearted subjects
the eloquently illustrated surrealistic seduction of the heart
demure yet ravishing sexualization
the ideal of beauty offering itself up like a sacrifice
at the alter of some wanton hedonistic temple to gods of lust
she looks up at me from her practiced good girl gone naughty dream
and tells me that she wants me
wants it all to be perfect
like in the paris magazines
wants it all to be crafted in perfumed perfection
near to goddess as human can be
she is rendered in darker inks
but i am captivated by the lovely
entranced by the beautiful
enraptured by the perfection
as only darker inks can be
timothy harding May 2010
the scribble
[it was her phone number]
on the cardboard coaster
meant alot
{cuz}
i could reach out
and AlmOst touch her hand
as i withered in the winter weather

and now here... the spring
and the earspace will not dwindle as
i walk towrd the sounds, all steady
i walkward sounds already

and my slow steady ***** of pacing is sure to win
[i always win - even if it's last place]
I am an artist
i paint brilliant pictures for you to see.
i sketch out curves and shade
the world as i see it.
i do this to please and entertain.
you. me. anyone who is willing to
take a step into my mind

I am a life drawing artist.
Through techniques of rendering and
cross hatching, i authenticate the
skin of beauty mind and soul.
my **** canvas in front of me sits perfectly
still, yet is always moving.
it blinks and slowly breathes with each passing minute.

I am a 3D sculpter.
No 2D for me.
i want what is there for me to touch.
i want to grab it. turn it. inspect
every angle and then proceed with
my decision.

I am an abstract artist.
i see things differently.
I dont want to follow the norm.
no conformity for the strong and independent.
i will choose my color, my stroke, my paper, my pen.
i will choose my own pathway.

I am an artist.
i do not use a brush.
i dont like pastel, or paint, or charcoal.
my medium is my voice.
i use my words to describe the bitter sting
of love, life, and wonder.

I can paint any picture in your mind.
I can shade any thought into your head.
I can sketch any emotion so vividly into your heart,
that it will melt into the sweetest pool
of crimson.

I am an artist,
through my words, description, and mind.
i need no colors or paint
only my pen and paper.
i need no history of Van Gogh
only my imagination and creativity.
I need only what makes sense to me.

Through my writing,
I am an artist.
Thank you for the read. Comments and criticism are always welcome.
The expansions of space
the matrix we learn to re-create
lucid dreaming conquers the mind
lust drains the mind rendering it blind
past issues fade like clouds
pedestrians pass in the confusion of time
inner thoughts expressed aloud
surrounded atmosphere all around
limitations is what keeps humanity underground
infinity: a number of fantasy
kept up like gasses and when the bubble pops acid drops
slipping into the abyss till gravity stops
amid the ashes is where life crashes
so long as it stays concealed in darkness
everything comes out to light
in such sparkling moments
in energy in rebirth
the fallen jaguar rises taking the form of night
chosen by the stars
given divine right
THIS YEAR 2013; IS THE YEAR OF GREAT DEATHS


Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)


This year alone world society has lost more that ten great intellectual and political leaders. They have been lost to death in a deeply wounding manner. Human society has indeed been robbed. It is so sad. Three of the leaders have been Nobel laureates and the rest are leaders of intellectual, moral, political and spiritual stature in their respective capacities.
It began without any stampede in early part of the year some where March when Chinua Achebe, a Nigerian and Francis Davis Imbuga a Kenyan, both succumbed to early deaths caused by stroke. Rendering not only the citizens of world of literature, but also African society as well as global intellectual communities to the most desperate bereavement. Thereafter, within short while of the subsequent days, The Venezuelans president and Marxist intellectual, Hugo Chavez also succumbed to death caused by throat cancer. Even though the Pravda, the daily circulating paper of Russia contended that Chavez was poisoned; it is dismissible as only a Russian stand attributed to ideological hangover, because the Pravda also made similar allegations in relation to deaths of Yasser Arafat, Pablo Neruda and Frantz Omar Fanon, but it did not go a head to establish the factuality of this very allegations.
What we know is that human life is in most cases contested for by the three spiritual forces of fortune, fate and death. As decried William Shakespeare in his Romeo and Juliet. This time round in the year 2013, the angel of death has dominantly reigned with its untimely consequences in form of fangled early death of our leaders. Herman Melville will remain classical in his concern in the Moby **** about death that; O death! O death! Why are you untimely?  
Sadder is when the Al shabab terrorists killed the Ghanaian born global literary citizen Kofi Owonor. Kofi Owonor the poet and author of This world my brother was among the people killed in Nairobi during the terrorist attack at the Westgate mall. Of course he had come to Kenya to celebrate in literary festival organised by a society of publishers in Nairobi. This is an eventuality of some month ago. In September 2013, the Irish born literary Nobel prize poet; Heaney Seamus died. He died prematurely when the world society most needed his service to literature and his literary service to human society.
A couple of some weeks ago again the world loosed two prominent artists, political leaders, human rights crusaders and intellectuals. These are none other than Doris May Lessing and Tabuley Rosseuru. Lessing was a white African living in London, literature Nobel laureate and a feminist as well as an anti apartheid crusader. She is known for her firm stand against communist utopia, championing for the  courses against dehumanizing  human behaviors like racisms , but mostly Lessing is known for  her  great literary works like ;the grass is singing, Golden Note book, Dann and Mara as well as so many other works. Whereas Tabuley was an African Congolese , a musician , a businessman , once a husband to Africa’s most beautiful songstress Bellia Belle. He was the composer and the vocalist of African Rumba music. His song Bina Mudan which we in Africa always pronounce as Simbukinya was actually an artistic and cultural bombshell. Tabuley has been a politician, who enjoyed a gubernatorial position of the city of Kinshasa for ten years (two terms).
Most disastrous is the currently trial-some moment for the world community as they all commissarriate the death of Nelson Mandela.Mandella died early decemder 2013 at his home in the Johannesburg city of South Africa. The death of Mandela is an open sore to the society. It is a window for social, political, intellectual and family abyss in Africa. It is indeed a sad moment. But what can we do? For it has already happened. We can only swim in the consolation inherent the wisdom of the Babukusu people found in the western part of Kenya that; Mis-brewed wine behooves volunteer carousers. And truly, I have personally joined the world community to commit a poetical kamikaze in volunteering to drink this sour wine of humanity .May god give us and our leaders in their diverse capacities long live. Amen.
Part in peace: is day before us?
Praise His Name for life and light;
Are the shadows lengthening o’er us?
Bless His care Who guards the night.

Part in peace: with deep thanksgiving,
Rendering, as we homeward tread,
Gracious service to the living,
Tranquil memory to the dead.

Part in peace: such are the praises
God our Maker loveth best;
Such the worship that upraises
Human hearts to heavenly rest.
Owen Phillips Apr 2013
It's all gone out of me, the hammer falls and I'm not ready to answer
Trembling, weakness supporting a tub of jelly
The pollen-filled air flies past like the
Pelicans at the edge of the harbor
Taking us gliding for an unpleasant ride
Down the corridors of plastic colors
Through the one word answers that bubble forth from
10,000 years away in hyperspace
Where the mechanisms of language become so convoluted
That they disappear completely out at the vanishing point
Coming up behind you again to drag you into that smoky allure
You remember hating and pinching your nose from
And hiding in the car, but the new fear is of becoming addicted to it
Just like your addiction to ego games and
Intellect, just like your addiction to pleasure and constant validation

The validation's there in the eternal self, they say
But I'm an intellectual
Too impatient for meditation
And lost along the way to enlightenment
That I truly want,
But then I'll never have it if I continue to live this way

It's wilderness calling from a tame fool
Sticking up for you the overgrown horoscope signifies
The shapes of skydives,
He comes in and out of our dull lives
And there's an electric current that solidifies between
Him, Us, and his music
Iron rods jutting up from scorched earth
A broken paradise
Crumbling in a whisky tumbler
Blackened by fiber filters, creations
Unlocked by flowing ontological
Caricatures, open wounds gnashing
At attention-seeking osteopaths
Fortune seekers clamber down
Soccer field bleachers,
Somebody lost his sneakers in the woods
Once there was a set of barbells along the trail
We fell in line and started
Counting each other
One by one it seemed like the green apples would never fall
It was up to us to wait for the shower
It would feed our kin
We'd begin to rise up together
But it could never keep up with our pen
We wanted the ghosts to follow us and overtake our mortal foes
But we couldn't command the armies of the dead
We derive all our pleasures from films and campfire stories
We contrive our adventures but we wait for them to happen to us
We take a passive role in finding love
And it blinks lights at us across suburban streets through windows in the dark
The mind begins to writhe with new memories it composed of old
An idealized time of a child with the perverse mind
Of a hogtied adolescent
Guessing that the course of existence
Isn't determined by the speed of your calculations
Testing the warm water on a naked toe
We could dive in and forget to breathe
And the water could carry us forever
Alleviating gravity
All the obstacles we perceived in past lives
Remain with us like
Chimney swifts on the bottomless April days of a
Klu Klux **** telephone operator
Who believed in the spirit and the holy ghost
And burned a quiet altar to Satan's minions every Sunday night
Drinking nail polish and
Obscure references to the films of the
Ancient Greek philosophers, who
Saw the medium as a means to a message
And patronized the elitest filmmakers to study the ancient Runes
And reveal their findings to a power-hungry public
That would not outright reject it
But that would have to follow it down the rabbit hole
Through the wide mouth of the trumpet around brass fixtures
And into the tight hot moist mouth of the trumpeter
And the elemental warriors would strike oil beneath the whole affair
Ending the time we spent hoping for any entertainment to create itself before our barren psyches
Busying ourselves with incomprehensible tasks and letting our indolence take the reins until we found our heads again out there amid the vapors of
New car chem trails and old railroad bunkers where spruce and cedar grow through cement earth, they force apart the ground with just their roots

We weren't ready to keep watch the following weekend but we
Had no choice when the government bond expired
And we had only technological solutions left to hope for
And wrongly we abandoned our research posts to fight the enemies
With giant weapons and uncreative slogans
Our drummers played so fast we marched along and killed all that remained in record doubletime
Rendering the events of that victorious day immortal in the ingenious accounts of
Philosopher/poet/historian Michael Jackson
Who gave one final performance
To save himself from what must not be
The passionate propensity
   of waxing moons' passages,
I crave your poetry
    as the air I breathe,
vital spirit aches within intention
    hungering the  blissed taste
       of essential Neruda -
midst the significance of
  rose and topaz
    arrows of wildflowers,
whence your own  scripted
   inclinations unfurl
     searing 'neath my flesh,
   rendering me speechless
      'tween ***** sighs
   I surrender in the exhale
      of a thousand blazing suns
Janette Aug 2012
Touch me...
Beyond the blue silhouette of still shadows,
Press against this body, that shivers
Beneath your journey
To find me...




Shadows sleep beneath dream,
lingering
Where darkness surrenders to wind plows
That pulse and surge, purl-binding; moon gold
Upon midnight's breeze...his name
whispered in silk, hushed;
Hollow and waiting...




See me...




Whispers wrap satin strands across heartbeats
Flowing to islands found within his sepia pools,
Where my soul's veil falls,
And shadows splinter shards of ebony, banking
The creek of my desire;
Breath escapes, a slow push past lips that bite back a whimper;
A voice under my tongue; tastes release...Swallowing his darkness
In liquid heat, taking him deep, body, to body, raw into the recess of moan...




Touch me...



Falling ****** on  goose-bumped flesh;
His deep mocha voice,
Suckles sweet, words flow
And the flesh of his tongue,
Lingers on the breath scent of a rose,
Pulling petals,
Painting my flesh blush-traced...
I breathe ache,  exhale his name, breathe, his taste, as
Pulse quickens tasting the storm of embrace
Beneath fingers, painting subtle brushstrokes
Upon a pool of liquid moonbeams, his tongue,
Hotly insistent, lathes upon waiting skin, where
Veins pulsate isolated desires;
Flesh upon flesh, whisper wetness to oblivion....



Reach for me...


Desire resounds from lips that ache to taste
His love against my heated skin;
My tongue remembers the flavour of his ***,
The familiar of it's heat,
The Smoothness of its slide;
My pout mouth sounds, beg with woman/child sighs,
Laying whispers of my confession, softly
Against his skin, drowning his face where
He is bent to taste;
The glistened spell,
Provoking, unceasingly...lacing through
Soft down to the blossom plundered;
The trickle, of trailing beads devoured, like the restless wind, rendering me breathless without pause,
Stroking tempest against skin, lingering, claiming....



Find me...


The moist of fingertips glide,
The meridian between here and ecstasy,
Lending the pulse of grasp, as I am
Held down hard to
Curve where pearled puddles moan incessantly..
"More! More!" my silent scream;
Melding tight, the succulent berry stirs;
Lifted high above lust, to where the moon sleeps,
And passion's breath dwells,
Lost in a slow dance, surrendered to untamed tides...



Awaken me..


A sharp exhale of breath
Precludes the pleasure-pain
Arcing down swiftly,
My flesh between his lips;
"Oh touch me, kiss me, stroke me,
Keep me here beneath these masterful hands,
While I succumb
To moans within the slide of tongue;
Sipping my mounting desire"...
Arched across the canopy of my offering,
Sighs, etch, beneath the surface of hushed colour
Bleeding need, through cascading hair,
Scarlet passion lit between thighs,
Greeting his touch, lavishing the breath of want....



Spill me...


Oh the heated cry that rushes past these
Trembling lips; the
Tremor trail beneath touches...lingering
For just a moment to capture heart sighs
Awaiting the soft gel of weeping submission,
Brushstrokes, excite, incite, the
Moist rivulets, where musk lies indolent;
Arching beneath sumptuous urgency;
His softly scented slow kiss, wet with my taste....



Bleed me...


I am, outstretched in a questing mark against the moon,
Tumultuous desires
Slaked....oblivious to this milky harvest,
Slipping the crimson unlit depths
Of wet petals;
I embrace and tremble amidst the melt of limbs tossed and spent,
Unveiling whispers and whimpers, as we love in ways that breach the starving soul;

This night is for you..........
EgoFeeder May 2013
Good day my friends and Salut to you!
Time to play herald and this is my cue
So, here comes my woe in a rhythmic fashion;
as this was written in the era of post-passion

And for the curious readers who know not of I
Seemless and keen to write I will try
You need not comprehend all that is meant;
yet, for a moment or less your time will be spent

Let me begin with a synopsis of my vision
It was far from forgiving and was lost in decision
I could never be quite sure of the light or dark;
For in the absent and present my sense would embark

Continually being coated with an artificial Gleam;
Rendering my wakefulness as a fragile like dream
Which in-turn lit the path to my lack of importance;
Painting the illustrated guise for my willful ignorance

And, The descension of unstable ethics I had once grasped
I new inevitably would meet their eventual relapse
Into what I predominately labeled as a Karmic curse
A constant role disassociation fixed in reverse

If that indefinite definition didn't tickle your fancy
Then maybe a second look will decipher real from fantasy?
Or rather not and maybe so; but atleast I try...
Fine! I'll move past this rant and attempt not to pry

I must confess that the strain of guilt was an essential tool;
For supressing the need to an end that wasn't simple to fool
Although, as the days came to more and the weeks into age;
I could barely relate to anything that I had inked onto page

The mind I had always and sincerely held in such awry regard;
Stood to spoilate my sorrow and to watch as my guard
To forget all that had ignited the suspensful act of survival
Forming the catalyst for this decrepit rebirth of revival

What I have just stated is immersed in the human condition;
Can you not remember the awakening of your own re-invention?
I suppose for some it may be subtle and largely unnoticed,
but to me and several others it isn't so easily dismissed

For I had not fully acknowledged the diversity of duality;
Until that morning when I had lost my will for frivolity
Every pleasure of my past rotted out from the inside
Revealing the inner workings of what I falsely wore as pride

I finally came to terms with what had substituted as my mask;
discovering that the pursuit for belonging is such a hopeless task
Like searching for a lover in the midst of a masquerade;
As the sunset fades our flaws are free to roam from the shade

To most it might seem as if I'm entirely self-centered
and perhaps the art of indulgence I may have mastered
yet, If you're putting my concern for your well being into question;
Then just maybe we've stumbled across a universal Contradiction?
st64 Jul 2013
Claw beneath your ribs
Hold down wild you
Just for a little while
Feel the anguished flutter
Begging these gruff hands . . .


1.
Fear takes commotive hold
Makes wooden legs
Delayed dance…..so delayed
Causing silent attendance of synchrony

No use stepping out for flight just yet, if alone
Will meantime practise wing-span
                           iron out brittle energy
                           attempt to fortify links
                           ..

2.
Careless snubs to fragile sapling
Did *absolutely nothing

To the course set out
Only hypocrites squander even half-truths
and wallow in obsequious words
rendering paralysis and decay

I will continue to claw beneath your ribs
Covert trove awaits us
In the tormented form of
Crashing waves on a broken coast
Hacked to near-distraction by potent searching


3.
Loss is not wasted
unseen by its absence:
evocative presence felt …with penniless eyes

I challenge you to visualise our melting:
                 perched on fate’s right shoulder
                 re-sent to this basic arena as buoyant token
                 summoned by that primordial, blue light
                 ..



the sun may well baulk and melt
at the ruddy sight of
such intense clawing beneath your ribs
(like your customary digging into my bristling blades)

To find my foetal place
within the calling drumbeats
of imperative you . . .





S T, sunsday . . . 21 July 2013
What is loss?
Just cos we may not see a person any more, really doesn’t they aren’t there: why, they’ve just assumed a different form, not so.
But we persistently fail to accept that change lies at the heart of progress…letting go.
Why do we battle so… with the inevitable?
Always acquisitive….acquisitive…must own… yet, we own plain SQUAT !!

(just yesterday, I was astounded to read that M. Jackson owns a piece of property ...on the MOON!!
Who the hell sold it to him? Who on earth owns the moon? How's this even possible?? lol
Yeah, we're crazy, really....that's for sure.)

Hey man, I’ll see you …on the other side…if I’m lucky enough to recognise you! Lol
Chillax!  





Sub-entry: You're A Lady  
Songwriter: SKELLERN, PETER

Now the evening has come to a close
And I've had my last dance with you
On to the empty streets we go
And it might be my last chance with you
So I might as well get it over
The things I have to say won't wait until another day

You're a lady, I'm a man, you're supposed to understand
How these things are often planned to be
You're romantic, I'm a fool,
You're the teacher, I've come to school
Here I sit and hope that you'll love me

You're pure magic, unlock my chain
Nothing ventured, nothing gained
And so I say with no restraint, be mine, be mine

Hard to answer, I agree
But then, I've got to know
I'm not asking you to marry me
Just a little love to show
Oh, I know I could make you happy
So the things I have to say
Won't wait until another day

You're a lady I'm a man
You are supposed to understand
How these things are
Often planned to be

You're romantic, I'm a fool
You're the teacher, I've come to school
Here I sit and hope that you'll love me
You're pure magic, unlock my chain
Nothing ventured, nothing gained
And so I say with no restraint, be mine, be mine


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=
- Feb 2019
The sky is aflame.

To the west, it burns crimson.
A warm gradient that seems like a massive forest fire,
turning to a bright copper in the middle
and ending as a quiet mahogany.

To the east, a near-blinding white.
With no gradient or change as it rises,
simply dying down eventually,
propped up by unholy spotlights that pierce the atmosphere.

The north is charred a mute maroon,
a short glass of auburn carelessly splashed to the horizon.
To the south, pale bone paints away the stars,
spattered with shades of pewter and smoke.

I cannot see the stars through all the light,
and I do not know which way to follow.
The sky is aflame, lit by so many sources,
rendering it empty and dull, burning away.
Brian Oarr Feb 2012
They had begun to question consciousness,
turning solid matter into fuzziness in their brains,
rendering not atoms, nor photons, nor particles,
only cold energy, halucenogenic stardust joints.
For the exclusionary few to whom the material
had never meant **** to a tree or a **** to a rabbit,
it was the cash-cow of quantum reality,
ambiguous poetry for a Beat Generation,
Uncertainty in free verse chapbooks.
So they wrote of our interconnectedness ---
the Ginsbergs, the Levertovs, the Ferlinghettis ---
till the gravity of space-mind curved imagination,
a nation falling unheard without a whimper in the forest.
"You've got to pick up every stitch,
The rabbits running in the ditch,
Beatniks are out to make it rich,
Oh no, must be the season of the witch"
                           --- Donovan Leitch
Julia Spohn Mar 2011
You are like sweet pickles.
I prefer dill,
Always have and always will
And your taste will never be enough.

But I choose you
Because you are the
Only thing on the table
That looks familiar.

Your skin is just as
Pleasing as a dill pickle,
But this little similarity will only
Sour my smile,
And my disappointment in your taste
Will become quite apparent
As it echoes through the tunnels and channels of my
Lips and eyes.

But I’ve passed up cheeses
And wines for you
(The cheeses are unfamiliar,
Smelly, and fattening; the
Wines turn me red
And stupid).

Yes, I have chosen you.
I hope your eyes dilate at that
And the growing and enveloping blackness
Takes over your vision and your will,
Rendering me invisible
But twice as lovely and
Four times as dangerous.

With you blinded now, sweet pickles,
Let me tie you up in my fingers
And **** you.
Kennedy Taylor Dec 2014
A          feeling          of         claustrophobia         has        begun         to         confine         me.

This swamp of ideas thickens inside me,  the murky clay mud making each step twice as demanding as the last. The once clear flowing waters of my dreams seem to be crystallizing, clouding and freezing over, ceasing the stream of my escape. My brain is callusing over incarcerating me, forcing me to experience the hardening of my own being. A reaction inside halting my imagination and depriving me of the ability to call out for help. These thoughts and words I evacuate onto this page only act as a catalyst speeding the process of my inevitable silence. There will come a time when the swamps have solidified, and the waters of my dreams become frozen clouded crystals trapped in place. My brain will develop into a callous, rendering my mind mute, I can feel this metamorphosis materializing yet there is nothing I can do to stop it, the development has already begun, all I can do is wait until a feeling of...

A          feeling          of         claustrophobia         has        begun         to         confine         me.
Sean Critchfield Jun 2012
We are big.
Like mountains.
If I am the mountain side, you were the wild fire.
Hot. Piercing.
Rendering my solid flesh to molten liquid and then to dust.
But only that I might grow again.
And more beautiful than before.

We face our compulsion. Spinning like mad children, in a ring of rosies, dangling dolls in the infinite black of space.
My binary star. My coupled light spinning my opposite.
Twice as bright.
Twice as beautiful.
But from a distance, we seem as one.

Perhaps this soft light I imagine surrounding you are our gods. Mouths open. Shamed by your beauty, that they could not have created you. Only dreamed you into being. They seem like fate, don't they?

And I am consumed with the constant reminder
of your absence. It plays on my tongue like bitter wine.
Leaving me drunk with want and yearning.
And so much more.


And this madness. Like a force undefined. Hurling our bodies. Like freight trains destined to collide. We can be bigger than mountains. We can be the trees and the sky and the pulse and the moon. All lit by twin stars spinning.

Your lack of light is desperate. A quiet void.
If I were a black-hole. You would be the event horizon
of my unmaking.
A voiceless abyss.
Incomplete.
And slowly growing.



If my eyes were moons. You would be my eclipse.

And this pulse. This landscape caught by rhythm. This thump. Like beating bodies. In carnal rhythm. Remembering each caress like history.

You are my legend. Your touch has written confession on my body, that I read like litany. Cuneiform.
Your fingerprint, an ancient code, written on my eyelids. Spoken on the tip of my tongue that I eat like Eucharist. That I drink like communion.

And my morning prayer is a mourning dirge.
Sung like a sailor for your return.
That you might find the wind of my breathlessness
And return to me
once more.
For I am motionless without you.


Yet.
I am mighty. Like wild beasts. I am stronger then before. I grow wise. I expand my eyes to encompass the horizon, that I may see every curve of your landscape. That I may feel every burn of your wild fire.

My longing is armor, that I wear. To conceal my beast. Like desire. Hungry. Waiting.

Tame me.

I miss your mane.
I miss your smell.
I miss your pulse, beating opposite mine.
I miss your light.

My shadow was massive. Stretching to the corner of maps.
My arms, a wingspan, that crossed time. Waiting to encircle you to me.

I have no light to cast a shadow.
I have no reason to fly.
My heart is barren.
Kept vacant for your return.
If not for you then always.
A singular place that once held your step.
A precious palace that you once danced in.


Spin.
Spin, Wildfire.
Devour my skin again with your hungry touch with your wanting kiss.
I wish to be reborn as yours.
Again.

Circle me that we may light the sky again.
And grow our horizons to outstretch the corner of our eyes.
Until we are blind.

Give me sight.
Let me see.
Let me see you.


That we might see our own light.

As one.

As yours.

Burn brighter than before.
A wife her husband's tool did sever,
Causing him in court to file for divorce
From his cruel and heartless smasher.
And ere the Magistrate with a voice
Mellow the man narrated how his mate,
Prior to that brutality, has been starving
Him of ***, that except to procreate,
She rarely allows him conjugal gendering.

Another pair about which I read, this time,
Howbeit, it was the wife that sought for
Split from her hubby, whose chief crime
Was, again, appertaining to the succour
Of copulation, telling the court that for almost
Six months straight, her man never did her
In the buff behold, let alone upon her crust
And crumb feasted; wherefore depriving her.


Is love acclaimed nought but a fancy fad,
That at last in divorce it at times ends?
The above accounts are no tales, though sad,
By a drunk told. How heart commends
Itself to lovelorness' rack! What about spouses
Also that did their partners ****** for a reason
Dark? Why will married couples their houses
And homes turn into affection prison?


And those couples initially, at first, when
They in courtship were, would truly seem,
The very best peacock and peahen
To themselves--a groom and bride dream.
Was this sight silly and that heart foolish
When they did settle for that guy and girl
Of all babes and blokes admired and cherish-
Ed then, for whom they did daily whirl?

Marriage dissolution is a grave malady,
Rendering relation, keeping parents and kids at
Bay by breaking a once very close-knit family
Apart, and, which also pierces God's holy heart
With anguish; yet we seem to be making light
Of our vows sacred: for worse and for better,
To love indeed forever in good and ill plight,
Uttering promises at the altar that no sooner alter.

Though marriage is beyond the bliss of bed,
Enduring nay by just rolling in a deep hay
Ever and anon, and smooching to the red,
For couple cannot in that mood every day
And occasion be; yet of coitus, each other
Must they not deny for some excuses bogus,
But should sate their oats promptly, rather
Than yielding to concupiscence or divorce.

And what is the mileage of marriage
Betwixt man and wife upon this earth,
Who with their lips did cheerfully pledge
Before witnesses present,--is it the dearth
Of reasoning when to each other said: "Till
Death do us part"? I cannot it truly fathom
Whole, how marital unions break up. But still,
Know I, relationships do persist with wisdom.

Meanwhile, that man's stitched willie will
Not rise as the sun and be on a nymphet
Set again, save by a miracle. But his evil
Ex-wife can go on to relish in ****** couplet.
Thank heaven, he has three offspring from the
Pact; while the latter story produced only one
Child. Many do take a petty lust for a pretty
Love, playing their queen and king like a pawn.
Dorothy A Oct 2011
Objective and Subjective decided to hang out together at the park one day, to get to know each other and to try to become friends. Soaking up the views, and watching the people go by, they just sat and relaxed on a park bench.

Subjective broke the ice, first, and said to Objective:

It is getting a bit nippy outside isn't it? I forgot to bring my sweater with me.

Objective replied:

The daytime high will reach 67 degrees with a NW winds of 12 mph. Humidity is 68%. The weather is forcasted today for a 20% chance of rain, but it is not due until evening.

Subjective replied:

Yes, that is good to know...I guess. Now I know why I am cold. Hey, look over there on the right! Check out those roses! Boy oh boy! Did they ever come up colorful this year! I am getting a good whiff of them right now. Don't they smell like heaven?

Objective replied:  

I have never been to heaven, so I can not give you an accurate report. Roses, though, come from a thorn bearing shrub that typically produce fragrant flowers of various colors. Roses are native to north temperate regions. They are widely cultivated for unpractical reasons such as objects of adornment.

Subjective gave Objective a good sidelong glance like, Are you for real? There was a long period of silence as both appeared awkward in each other's company.

Subjective finally broke the silence and said:

The birds are really chirping up a storm today! Oh, I don't mind at all! They sure tweet nice and sweet! But these pigeons I can do without! I don't want them around me! You know what they say, don't you? Pigeons are just rats with wings!

Objective replied:

Actually, rainstorms are not caused by chirping of birds. Rain is produced when water is condensed into clouds from the water evaporation of oceans, lakes and rivers when the heat of the sun activates the process.  Furthermore, there is no such thing as a flying rodent. Even flying squirrels don't actually fly. Birds and rodents are two separate species that cannot produce offspring. Therefore, a rat with wings would be impossible.

Subjective was now beginning to get red in the face. Maybe this was a bad idea hanging out with Objective, after all. Could he really learn to understand him by getting to know him?

Both Objective and Subjective's attention was soon diverted by a tall, slender woman with blonde hair walking by. She now became the center of their focus. Wearing a form fitting blue dress, that came well above the knees, her shapely. long legs were quite appearant as she walked along in 5 inch, spiked heels.
  
Eagerly, Subjective whistled and said:

Wow! Would you get a look at her? What a knockout! Hey, Objective, I think you just saw heaven, after all!

Objective shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and replied:

Beauty is said to be in the eye of the beholder. Back in history, it was the full figured woman who was upheld as a virtue of beauty. Her size represented a desired lifestyle of affluence. For example, in the Classical period of art, as well as the Rennaissance and Baroque periods, it was the more voluptuous female that was often the subject of an artist's rendering.

Now Subjective was really ready to blow smoke through his ears, like his blood pressure was going to go through the roof.  No way could he take this for much longer!

He replied:  

That's it! I tried! I did! I really did! But you know what? You are the most annoying being on the planet!

Objective looked stunned at Subjective's outburst of anger. So Subjective continued on in his verbal lashing.

He yelled out:

Yeah, you, Objective! You just don't get it, do you? You really get on my nerves! I can't stand being around you! It is so infuriating!

Objective was at a loss for word. He attempted to utter a reply but could not.    

Subjective added:

I got to get out of here before you drive me crazy! What are you anyway? A walking encyclopedia? A walking dictionary? For the love of Pete, talk like you're normal!!!

As Subjective was ready to storm off Objective meekly replied:

Inanimate objects, such as encyclopedias and dictionaries, cannot realistically have body limbs, nor can they function as living organisms....unless, of course, they are presentated in imaginery situations, such as cartoon figures in cinema, television, comic strips, or storybooks. Also,  I must tell you that I personally don't know anyone named Pete.......

Furious, Subjective got up and stomped off, muttering complaints to himself all the way down the street, leaving Objective sitting on the park bench, by himself. There Objective remained, wondering what he did that was so wrong.



THE MORAL of my LAME story is..........................

OBJECTIVE AND SUBJECTIVE JUST DO NOT BELONG OR GO TOGETHER!!!
SG Holter Mar 2015
As suggestive a ******* as the
Thought of ink kissing paper kissing
Eyes kissing

Ink back. Letters drawn describing
The sound of drip-dripping drops onto
Parchment to form

Circular inkless stains on it, or perhaps in
These days rendering a touch screen
Untouchable;

Do you really wish to delete this
Draft?

"No, idiot machine. I just cried on it."
The best mistake I ever made
Was opening that tattered black book

There I sat in a pub
On a mission to forget the world

6 or 7 drinks in
and a bartender all to happy
To pour what ever the roulette produced

thumb, thumb, flip
flip flip

Stop

Category is shots

To the new friend next to me
"why yes, I am to get **** faced"

"oh, you came here for just an occasion"
"well dear sir if you are brave enough next ones on me"

"Hot ****!" he exclaimed

As I close my eyes and say a silent prayer

I slowly count 4 pages
and place my finger on the page

I call Gwendolyn over and request
With eyes closed the item of my demise

"***!"
She cried

"I love ya but I won't do that to you"

I slurily open my eyes and focus

MEXICAN BLACK JACK

1 part tequila
2 parts whiskey
151 floater

"Double Shot"

I think out loud

whats a lil' ta'****-ya?

vhiskey? bah.

151 it's just a floater ppppssssshhhhhhh

After a few minutes of convincing
With many a hoot and holler
From my new friends

She takes my keys and reluctantly agrees
Even kindly offers me a chaser and some limes

I will not forsake the liquor gods

Ever get a whiff of turpentine and diesel?
Well that could be gardenias compared to this.

I sit in silence sniffing it
eyes closed lapping at it with my nostrils

I look over at my new buddy
"well chuckles it's now or never ready for this lil' endeavor?"

"Well ****" he muttered "I'm a man of my word"

"to life" I exclaimed

head back as that little bit of ******
started it's course
over my tongue into the throat
(why are my sinus' burning?)
don't breath boy
(you know better)
don't
you

eyes pop
and just on cue
flame ever rendering flames

I'm not blind
I'm not blind
I'm not blind

ok I was just squinting
really hard

I look over and my new friend
is now drinking my free chaser.

my game my pain...

Hey Sven leh's go again...

It's a good thing she loves me
I complain to no one

if she hated me I don't think I'd drink here.

2
hours and
4
shots later

I needed a nap good thing the loo was warm

I salute you Sir BlackJack and when I call your name
It's never in vain

— The End —