"reproduced" poems
(This poem was discovered etched/burnt into the interior woodwork of a viking ship of around 800AD, discovered in the north of England in the '60s. Quite possibly from the northernmost islands around the area now referred to as Archangel, and originally written in what became known as Runic/Russo Scandinavian, it nevertheless resonates clear Saxon/German tonality. Given that it is one of the first examples of early Runic, and indeed that the actual letter-shapes are unclear, the poem has been reproduced below, using broad phonetic license.
As far as can be determined, the content appears to be a somewhat ribald message from the ships leader to his wife. It was not uncommon for women/wives to accompany their men folk on long voyages. Given cramped conditions aboard, the conditions were likely to be insanitary and it is this condition that informs the subject). WJL
Das andrs zu-almen su-cara
Archezum des hafta confagra
Der ecra zu alpe
En pecra nachte schalpe
Viel ondra der zulpa te bag-ra
Und zortem pur ordour cloabera
Eh-min-te ah solbra schactarar
Sul-phereth zum tinctum
Abroath ah den penk-tum
Bai anthe con anthe ebactah-ra
Zorbuhr genkst canke zer vilk-um
Solginster zep ecra der nep-ehlcome
Calmen-de ser paarte
Eh zin bah die faarte
Confide ah can-de zum schtinc-tulm
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:23 AM UTC
***** girl. godly beast.
I couldn't be
one of those
beautifuls
if I pleased.
tribal bones stained
with European empirico
I am black death disease,
just human trash
that learned to read
& I believe bootleg genius
is being
massively reproduced
more cheaply & as we speak
is being weakened
so as to be spoon fed
to the cool kids.
yknow they
couldn't do it
by themselves.
never sweated.
laughed instead
yes
I seen em
inchin to the edge
but
I didn't
do anything about it.
I kinda feel guilty
cause I didn't
do anything about it.
It's just a ****** up
awful sound,
a whole generation
hitting the ground
at once.
Man. it really
puts things in perspective.
kinda makes you wonder
what's coming next.
medicine medley
ineffectual
malady infectious
witch hunt etiquette,
I think in pictures
disney depictions of
apocalyptic ****
yet to be decrypted
I rip myself to pieces
every day.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
Red is the colour of my blood
Red is the colour of my heart
Red is the colour of love.
My love is the spirit of my heart
My heart is the sanctuary of my soul
My soul is the sacred chalice of my spirit.
My heart is a bouquet of red roses
Red roses, the ambrosia of my spirit
My spirit is the immaculate dove
The dove bearing the olive branch from above.
My spirit descends in the feast of the Eucharist
The Eucharist is the sacred sacrament of Christ
Christ is the eternal spirit of the love of God
For our sins, He bled and shed His innocent blood
And by His blood we have been redeemed.
The blood of His covenant
The covenant of His new testament..
~ By Orikinla Osinachi, Saturday November 8, 2014.
© Orikinla Osinachi. 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this content can be duplicated or reproduced in any format of media and anywhere without the authorization and permission of the author and publisher.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
it is done differently - more is not necessary - more of this -
is too much;
the kissing is an exploration - to a polar destination of
virtual whiteness -
to discover more than this. the kissing is not an end in and of itself - but a fjord unexplored leading to what? yes there are many different kinds of kisses - adaptations to a changing terrain - but the face, the face, the face (not just the lips),
the head entire -
is the first battle in a world war where the
opponents strengths and weakness are
literally uncovered and shape the nature of the war of the worlds
yet to come.
more than kissing, it is a speech and an interrogation;
an ********** revelation
of fine lines and small scars, a writing of a history, a history that existed unbeknownst to the explorer and thus interesting and dangerous - a history composed in a different time and place and almost in a vacuum - for kissing is impactful - outlines of footsteps on never before trodden lanes - but who prepared these paths in advance of my arrival, and was my arrival forecast or just imagined?
first time kissing oft portrayed as excited glee - but this is a grievous error - a wild display of wasted resources - it is not to meant to be pesky single shots of damp I was here where next? it is a drawing, nay, a sculpting of map to be reproduced in limited quantity for only the map rooms of the greatest museums.
each individual kiss is more than an act, but a marker
connecting the previous
to the future next -
exactly a map drawn by an explorer - meant to be shared with others who love history, discovery and women creatures.
be wary of unmarked crevasses and pools where
no one has measured the depth -
novice sailors without proper charts upon unfamiliar faces -
too oft drown or are somehow sail as lost forever.
but the notion of being the first, even if you are not the first,
is so intoxicating
for the brainstorming it provokes - the envisioning of
more than kissing but of unlocking
a new nature, creating a creation born in the intersection of two waters - where fresh waters joint the brine of the ocean -
and there are untold different kinds of waters and no two terrains though similar - are ever exactly the same.
here does my entry in my log - my journal - end - though the notation of than
is comparative and therefore unending.
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 9:46 AM UTC
667
Bloom upon the Mountain—stated—
Blameless of a Name—
Efflorescence of a Sunset—
Reproduced—the same—
Seed, had I, my Purple Sowing
Should endow the Day—
Not a Topic of a Twilight—
Show itself away—
Who for tilling—to the Mountain
Come, and disappear—
Whose be Her Renown, or fading,
Witness, is not here—
While I state—the Solemn Petals,
Far as North—and East,
Far as South and West—expanding—
Culminate—in Rest—
And the Mountain to the Evening
Fit His Countenance—
Indicating, by no Muscle—
The Experience—
2.6k
**I have this
feeling**
**I'll not try
to explain it**
**Deep inside
me**
**It's telling
me
not to**
*trust
you*
I admit it
**I've been
hurt a great deal**
but seems here
**You're
playing a game
only you can**
win
**You hold all
the major cards**
**SO
of course
You'll win**
**Only one's
that'll work**
**In this game is
the pair of**
Jokers
**Which doesn't say a lot
then again it says;**
I'm the Fool
**Not once
but
twice over**
**I've been a joke before
unbeknownst
to myself**
**The other players knew
&**
They've cease to inform me
**SO I've had no choice
to be lead on these string's
forever**
**&
Danced
to a foreign tune**
**This time
I'm a Joker
&**
long as you're amused
Guess I'll play my part.
Act II Scene VII
© 2015-2077 by Ayeshah K.C.L.N.
All rights reserved.
No part of this may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,without prior written permission of Ayeshah K.C.L.N.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
I shed tears
You shed humanity
I dread and fear
Your unstable insanity
You loosen your compassion
Like it's your belt
For it's in your fashion
To inflict welts
On the ground I knelt
Doubled over in pain
From a punishing rain
My eyes welled up and my vision got blurry
I was unable to break your encryption of fury
My mind was in constant examination
Of your gift of violent contamination
Lines were crossed on my back
Living life on your torture rack
You become my God
You never spare the rod
My brother may be able
But I'm on *******
I turned the tables
By torching my brain
On the ****** train
I invented a game
Out of ruining your creation
My veins experienced deflation
Until I saw the error of my ways
Adopting your negative craze
You wanted me to get used to pain
But I'd rather get used to change
The effects of corporal punishment are felt
When society hits us with a conveyor belt
Convincing us if something worked it must continue to
Our childhood experience this is imprinted through
We figure our children must be belted
After our minds have been smelted
Forged in fire
Our hearts retired
As we grew colder
The beaten grew older
And reproduced
And re-introduced
A punishing perception of the world
They beat the clam that holds the pearl
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 6:06 AM UTC
In a place where everything and everyone
is shallow,
your eyes alone are left with a depth to them
that no-one could have ever guessed.
In a place where hard work is an excuse
to be superior,
you value interior in a way
quite ulterior.
In a mirror you're just as good as them,
but your beauty will stem
from things other than your physicality.
It comes from the fact that you make happiness
a reality.
The totality of your devotion
to something as simple as a smile
makes every second spent with you,
instantly worthwhile.
Sure, there have been guys,
who have had their own ideas.
Used lies like a blade
to cut their way into your heart,
but you've grown wise since then.
You've been hurt before,
but your determination to stay happy
is worth more than any man could be.
I'm only around you three hours a week,
but your smile shines through any attempt I have
at keeping my attitude bleak.
If I can be completely honest,
you leave me absolutely star-struck
and it was just my luck
that I was born four years before you.
Our worlds run parallel from my view,
but the way I can connect heart and mind with you
is a treasure that cannot be reproduced.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 9:51 PM UTC
Recollections by the window
darkness at the door,
a spent cigarette,
a dried up memory bank-
a laptop lying purposefully in the grass.
in between the moment is the event
The wood is riven by foxes
whimpering with cloven paws
the newly accommodated ******
rakes up a new home
the water vole scurries into the infested water
in between the moment is the event
reproduced in the computer
action and moment have ceased,
action and intent no longer connected
time and thought perpetually adjusted
hollow rain signifies emptiness
a blank screen eternity.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
There will always be someone who wants what you have, for its easier to steal from someone who has already performed the work, whether a material object, idea, or talent, etc.. Someone who takes credit, where it isn't due, for what you have accomplished, worked hard to attain, or saved for a special purchase. Hence, the PLAGIARIST!
The counterfeiters, whether it be money, or the reproduction of the "Old Masters" oil paintings, claiming it was purchased at a garage sale, or found in an old trunk in the attic of an old house they purchased. Many scenarios, many such events, and mostly untrue. Plain, and simple, they are nothing but "THIEVES." They have been around for thousands of years. Aggravating, yes! Frustrating, absolutely! Discouraging, you bet! The difficult part is knowing"they don't care!", as long as they get what you have, or think they can.
To my friends at HP: Regardless of whatever name they wish to use at the bottom of your piece, your signature is still inside the piece itself. Whether it be a particular phrase or word meticulously placed, the style of your writings, the way you approach your thought, the rhythmic flow of your prose, the softness or harshness of expression. All which has created "your signature". That, cannot be reproduced.
To those literary "thieves: You will continue to try and steal our work. But, for each letter stolen, for each word stolen, only creates another rung on your ladder, leading you deeper and deeper,further down into your abyss of loneliness, until the blanket of your depression, discontent, and hatred suffocates you. That is when your name will become known only as, "WHO?"
copyright: Richard Riddle September 08, 2014 10:00am(CDT)
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
Dearly departed,
Pray for me
In life I still need to excrete
Not only faeces but thoughts
Just like food in my mouth
I chew possible sounds
Until they are… reproduced
I think
What I thought was art
Is now a bit bitter on my tongue
The saliva must be tainted
With odours I’ve inhaled
Because this ******* I taste
Is too flavoursome
I know this isn’t appealing
But neither is the finished product
Unwrap what you can
Of what we toss down to you
And swallow what you think is sweetest
You know it will all be… sour
I think
What I thought was lasting flavour
Turned out to be flesh
And even as I write this
I feel the unpicked hair in my teeth
So that when I create
I am secretly painting in words
From the inside out
I am closer to you in this way
But in that way-
Not so much.
Dearly departed,
Pray for us
In life we must run to you
But in living we must wait
Amongst the rotting peels
We left in our backpacks
For too long
We’ve learned to speak
About the smell
But in doing so our breaths
Stink up the air
And our legs are getting stiff
Sitting cross legged and festering thoughts
Bubbling images we wanted
To forget
God, this is a witch’s ***
But she forgets to stir it on hot days
And we decay
Faster than you do, I swear
The curses don’t become me
I know, the curses
Must be me and them.
Dearly, Departed,
Pray, and still listening
I’m sorry about the foulness of everything.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 4:12 AM UTC
i've been washing myself
in John Baptiste's fury
more precipitation
of our seasons
saturated by the come'n'go
wait and see
the white swans before we die
crashing naked bodies
in a ***** L.A.
swimming pool
we succumbed
to their glamorous scartissues
carving our egoic existence
that time when you
soaked your hate in
the summer sun
died over and over
like a fish jelly scattered
on the hot sand
we still remembered
our mother's womb
the development of
the caterpillar
butterflies only lived
in our stomach
reproduced on rusted
trains towards
divergent universes
towards
the infinite self.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
Why did we meet?
Wanted love but I'm faced with defeat
Souls confront at the moment of separation
Hours of captivation lured my makeup to sedation
Homecoming brought aspiration for our unities firm imminents
But elapsed time left liberty for another's feelings of intense sentiment
Fortune brought the tides of our fates to fasten in sync anew
For the light of your sheath left my lips to never mutter another adieu
Lack of presence molded every ambition to conclude with you
Fondness for your heart carved no room for our courting to undo
Your very structure reproduced in facsimile to my psyche
Bountiful love influx my spirit bounding my soul from defying
Uncontrollable passion awaited the culmination of my hour exile
Expecting the ripest of the body but faced with something more juvenile
Incandescent feelings brings pain to my mind, body, and soul
Waiting patiently for these long awaited feelings to unfold
Into heartless darkness robes of a man without compassion
Or someone unlovable but masked with false face of a former gentleman's attraction
Forced the realization true love is not attained through a man's unchangeable chivalry
But a savage bleak mind that seeps more and more through open pores unwillingly
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
I would have sneaked
In from the pores of a net.
I would have wrapped you in a prose
Poem that lacks precision and laid you to sleep
Under the covers of my bed.
Quietly.
So if love was to engulf me
And a longing rises from my soul
I would stretch the fingers of my hand towards
you and dabble with the words of the poem,
Letter by letter.
If I was truly a poet
I would have limped to the Lord by now
And sat by the foot of his throne
And held on to it
With both hands
And whispered: ‘you are the Greatest,
most Beautiful, most Wonderful and Capable,
Will you create a lover for me?’
I mean only for me.
But I know
That my prayer will not be answered
Not because it is impossible.
More than that really,
Since I have never known
A man
Who has never betrayed his lover.
*************************
Translated by Dikra Ridha
© Copyright 2016, by Faleeha Hassan. All rights reserved under the Copyright laws of the United States of America and international copyright agreements. No portion of this book maybe reproduced in any form, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Email: [email protected]
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC
Oh, elegant verse-
As one might stumble upon
Some striking thought or connection;
A comet fallen, burning hot as it strikes,
But cooling with each passing second.
As one stands transfixed,
Aware with every fibre that this cannot last for long,
It is you that captures the greatest of these moments.
For with the words that spring to mind
And twirl and morph and stick,
The meaning may change but
Burn bright still.
Reproduced to new form in every mind
That stumbles through the lines,
With some brighter still, than ever did descend
By nature’s hand alone.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
a huge strong wind in the street
on the street and in the squares and even on the mountain
where I was where I sang songs at all
recently today where met evening where
watched the sunset and yawned and tired and raged
a huge huge strong wind outside the window
as if the fire no longer holds the frame
as if the fire had completely forgotten what it was
it was as if I was losing myself once and for all
and forever and to the end and forever and forever so
and today many different sounds were reproduced
many different sounds and minor and major
but most birds and I was like birds in flight
and shouted and sang I and I created a huge parade because
that the wind never leaves my heart
12.10.18
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
Words arranged through other’s egos
Plethora of personal shop windows
Designed by one who loves ego most
Reproduced on a sickening scale
Pictures show worthless lies
All tailored for ***
Perhaps they will grow to learn; or Die?
One of which I know will occur first.
A life like this is all but life
Existing in cruise ship grandiose
Lost in narcissism; who pays when you are a *****
Whose biggest customer is yourself?
Others feed on your looks and holes
What are you to them really?
They most certainly aren’t feeding on your mind.
Success is gauged by a bias meter
Measuring your ability to rely
Physical attributes; a smoke screen alike;
Your life but a cheap end flight
Buy your ticket! Wait in line , bland is the word of the day.
When the flight is over make way for the next
Pray your not on there when the **** crashes.
Isn’t that what you all worry? That you’ll be there,
To see how you turn out?
It’s best you continue to sleep
You would wake to find your angels and demons never were
Who would lead you then? The plane was on autopilot,
The whole **** time.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
Inspired by Jason Silva
There is a revolution in the way that we think
Each day we push our bodies, thoughts, and voices to the brink.
Most of us most of the time, see the world through a very small set of filters
We must break these filters and let our thoughts flourish instead of die and wilter.
This is a time of communication, connection, and collaborative innovation
This will bring us progress and give humanly thought salvation
You use perhaps one millionth of the potential energy that’s inside your head
Lost in vibration, are the ideas that are said.
In my mind it is life that gives meaning to life and what we do with life
By preserving knowledge and science with the creation of music and art are the gains of our strife.
In the science of today we become artist. In the art of today, we become scientist
We use this to progress our species to become worldly finalist
There are no boundaries. There are no fears
We use this to accomplish and not look to our rears
Imagination allows us to think beyond our limitation-
It allows us to conceive of what might be -
And go farther that we ever thought possible
No idea ever to grand or radical
The point is in order to use your head you must go out of your mind
In order for you to gain the knowledge needed to unbind
You have to get beyond your routine ways of thinking
In order for your mind to be free of pollution and shrinking
We can break free of our genetic heritage
We have circled the moon, artificially reproduced DNA, and cut our death percentage.
Why should death itself our last enemy be considered beyond conquest?
We as humans have defined ourselves by overcoming biological contests
We are teaching people how to use their head
And have their thoughts ultimately shed
You are ready to have your perspective about yourself and life dramatically changed
And have your body thoughts and life go beyond the possible range
Because you will be a different person, and you should be ready to face this possibility
Because soon we, ourselves will become whole new entities.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 11:16 PM UTC
To raise a seagull would be no small task – do you know why?
Because both you and I are not seagulls.
If an individual is perceived to be revolting, then the question arises as to whether non-conformity or debasement are the identifiable issue.
Like those cheapened activities which are secretly laid bare within the hotel hallways of Sin City, my immeasurable and baron liaisons have also been revolted by scorpion-like stings, as the wind promotes her seductive and tantalising thoughts through the brushwood of Autumnal celebrations around the vicinity of Nevada.
It is important to understand that the fullness of sound involves the synchronicity of isolated connectedness, and that we validate both the message and the messenger.
Balancing acceptance and change is horribly attractive.
Do you know why, my reciprocal affiliation of that which is considered to be humanity?
For that which is conceived, formed and reproduced within the solar system of Nirvana is not so readily articulated within the parameters of epistemology.
Aren’t ornithology and psychology both flighty?
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
In the beginning when Adam met Eve beneath the canopy of paradise
they agreed on most things.
They basked in the perfection of all that surround, laughing at each other's jokes.
One day Adam carved a gift for Eve.
Tirelessly wildling the branch of an oak tree.
"Tools", he boosted as she stroked the small utensils.
"I'll call them forks," said Eve happily setting the table.
What came next sparked an age old debate, as Eve grasped her fork in the left hand, Adam in his right.
"What are you doing?" he vexed, scratching his head.
"That hand is incorrect!"
"Tis not my sweet, it is the hand I use to eat, I am in my right mind my dear, you are the uncultured one here!"
And so it began, as they reproduced.
Cain was right handed as was Seth, but poor Able was born with his mother's fondness for left.
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 2:34 PM UTC
I thought to acquire
A piece of wall art;
Reproduced in mass would be fine
As long as it’s attractive, yet honest,
without tasteless jest,
And appears to be organic,
Cultivated
At the artist’s discretion.
In the catalogue, my attention falls
To a print
Of an anatomical drawing
From a botanical field guide,
Colored with pencil: the perianth
A pastel pink
That yields to a gentle yellow
Just before
the petals are enveloped
by the green sepal coat.
High on the hanging stems
Round buds of emerald and buttery cream
Follow their elders
In gradient lines of expansion
To the end where the eldest
Bend into blossomed bells;
All come together and seem
As a pink and gold Easter dress.
From the petals stretch
The pistils and stamen.
Reaching
Reaching
Gasping, I can nearly hear
The flower’s patient breathing,
Waiting
For a kiss
From a fluttering errant proboscis.
The pistil aims for the ether,
To another’s anther and
Pollen dusted petals.
Tempted now am I
To wear always
A corsage about my neck.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
My innocence nudges me
As she points to the creases of my bedding on the ground.
While the bed itself, with the imbecility of its sheets,
Lies rejected in the corner of the room.
My parents’ smiles widen with the stupidity of the covers.
They alone, and the bed
proved to me my innocence and the idiocy of a tidy bed.
Even if I inherited the furniture, children
And the creases under the eyes,
Every time my bed rubs in the carpet’s weave,
I am still baffled by the wideness of their smiles,
As I lie between my children
On a stupid, tidy bed.
By Faleeha Hassan
Translated by Dikra Ridha
© Copyright 2016, by Faleeha Hassan. All rights reserved under the Copyright laws of the United States of America and international copyright agreements. No portion of this book maybe reproduced in any form, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Email: [email protected]
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
Spilled pill pieces
like crushed up Reese’s
I found my thesis;
in an empty stomach.
I formed some habits,
they reproduced like rabbits
and if I couldn’t stab it
I’d try to make it plumbic.
Decide to destroy at any cost,
I can’t hide or play coy; I’m my final boss.
I’m so messed up that I used to enjoy the battle;
while I lost, I lost to myself so I’d win.
Lamb to slaughter but too much guilt for the cattle,
maybe a sort of pacification that we can begin.
No cheat codes for this game we play.
All we sow is the seeds for another day.
Blurry scenes
and forgotten dreams,
no ends to a means,
but it started quite simple.
It began with quiet sighs
and tired bagged eyes
my grin would rise
but it seems I lost my dimples.
I was stumbling and swaying yet so lost,
fumbling while playing; I’m my final boss.
I was so messed up that I used to enjoy the game;
while I lost, I lost to myself all the same.
There’s no contra code and no extra lives,
no easy mode, no new game plus to replay twice.
No cheat codes for this game we play.
I keep wishing I could pause, wishing I could just stay.
There’s no save spot in sight,
no shrine and no campfire.
My hands gripping on so tight
my mind and my eyes tire.
I wished to be the hero of time,
always scared that I’d become a Ganon.
It took some work but my Zelda’s mine
I hope that ending stays canon.
But life is something that can’t be cheated,
destiny can’t ever be defeated.
Oct 29, 2024
Oct 29, 2024 at 9:58 AM UTC
As the welkins turneth grey, and the night becometh day, man fall's back to Noah's time; where sin in men
Displayed.
Where chain's became one's grave, whence giant's roamed the earth, making babies with lustful ladies;
Making the world their settled
Church.
As the fallen one's layed their seed, to stop ourn saviors means, as humanity calleth them God's;
In reality sickly beasts.
Men reproduced their deities, out of clay, hand-dug gold; bowing to breathless idol's, just as Christian's
Sold their soul's.
Making creatures from the pit,
Their daily water and their spit,
Knowing not the god, who
Made them in his image.
Clean clothed new world order
Grinches.
Bleating out for their king, O' the truth thou seekest, though the truth's unseen.
Because tis yeshua thou hath rejected, ear's made shut,
Worldly infected.
Technology and pleasures
Hath replaced the almighty
God, Jehovah, Elohim, yahweh;
Jesus his son.
©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poets poetry
©prophetic poetry.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC