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ryn Feb 2015
.
    It's here again...
   Heavy downpour...
   I inhaled the rain,
    cloying with petrichor.

      Standing at my window,
     looking out...
    Street lamps struggled aglow.
   People with brollies walking about.

   My eyes reached out to the heavens,
    tracing these glassy beads
      as they'd free fall...
        Falling by the sheets,
       the pattering hastens,
      periodically punctuated
     by the thunder's call.

     Mind is drifting and floating,
       intently listening to a
          million love wishes...
             Liquid beauty...melding, sketching...
           In light entrapped splashes.

         Raindrops descend and come,
         into my still life tonight...
          Won't you will me numb,
             with your chilly bite...

             Wide-eyed enamour...
            Catching a stray droplet or two.
             Riding the tail of a zephyr,
              finding a place where
                no trouble could ensue.

            An errant gust blew
           to meet with me.
          The refreshing moist
         meets my parted lips...
        Inhaling deep in this reverie...
       Into a sea of tranquillity,
        my mind slowly dips...

      Sigh... If the droplets were kisses...
      I would savour each and every one.
      If the moist wind came and caresses
     I would meet it in a tight embrace
   till the break of sun.

  What a sight...
   Almost surreal it seems...
      As the light from the surrounding
         lamps dances playfully...
        Dispersing and exploding into a
     barrage of shattered beams.
    Before it gets subdued in the drops
   caught by the leaves on a nearby tree...

   The drops would trickle
     and fall before merging,
      forming stranded puddles
       unable to flow...
        Rippling... Splashing... Reflecting...
      An image...
     Borne out of a fantastic show.

    An image of beating hearts,
     overlapping one another...
       Speaking of consequential love
          and feelings so true
        Intertwined...
     in the promise of forever...
  Slowly retrieving itself into an...


  image of you...
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2016
A minyan is an assembly of ten Jews.  With ten present, the group can perform a fuller service, adding congregational prayers that an individual alone cannot say, and in heaven, received, as if from a 
more powerful, unified voice.

~~~
Satan laughing with delight at the happy news,
unusually proud of his soul-retrieving,
red state minions,
having scored late in the '16 season,
a long awaited prize,
a high priest of music, a hallelujah singer
just come  cross the borderline,
once a mere earth bound legend,
now to be mockingly enjoyed
in this, his legendary peculiar tier of heaven
~
a banner year it was, a cornucopia of new arrivals,
singers, songwriters, composers, conductors, rock 'n rollers,
itinerant blues musicians,
who as a rule, were not the most faithful observers
of the Ten Commandments and its host of detailed relatives
~
body and drug abusers,
of traditional morals, not such big users,
and as for their *** lives,
best not discussed in front of the baby devils,
just quite yet
~
all this made for easy "pluckings,"
as he smiled devilishly, his own ironic sense of humor,
an added delight for the new American Pie
that would forever serenade him henceforth
~
indeed this Leo-nine most new arrival,
intensifies the pleasure,
for deep in this one had waxed the god-spark,
his own fractured demise,
now allowing the cracks of light to be closing,
lessening by an immeasurable fraction
the despised joy to the world
-
then a raucous rustling heard,
a voice unseen but siren penetratingly heard proclaiming:

**** you Satan,
this time you've gone too far!

return unto me them all,
for you have overstepped the boundaries I have constructed
when birthed I the universe so long ago

these children, mine,
for though they were not perfect in their lives,
they perfected ever so much my designs,
the world I granted them,
with their music, voice and hands,
absolving them of all their sins

Surrender to me them all!

my Prince,
my lion, Cohen, high priest of my temple,
my haggard and worn Merle,
the greyed and Frey'd eagle, Glenn,
Natalie, daughter of the Earth King of Cole,
my rose of Sharon Jones,
my Emerson and my Lake,
Leon Russell,
my white bearded russet
who wrote 'A Song For You,'
the Duchess, Patty,
my Bobby Vee,
the first ro see
'the night has a thousand eyes,'
Frank Sinatra Jr., his fathers torch bearer,
my David, my right arm, my Bowieknife carrier,
who fell from heaven and needs returning unto me,
mine own Kanter,Jeffersonian pilot of my Airplane,
my Michael, George,
my Martin, George,
who never sang a word
but gifted us some Beatles,
My black and White Maurice,
who reignited the Earth, with Wind and Fire

all these mine and all the musicians of this year,
they have died, but not their music,
now to join my heavenly chorus,
my musicians' minyan
Second of a trilogy, but the first one posted,
about Leonard Cohen

Kohen or cohen (or kohain; Hebrew: כֹּהֵן‎, "priest", pl. כֹּהֲנִים‎ kohanim) is the Hebrew word for priest used colloquially in reference to the Aaronic priesthood. Jewish kohanim are traditionally believed and halakhically required to be of direct patrilineal descent from the biblical Aaron. The term is colloquially used in Orthodox Judaism in reference to modern day descendants of Aharon, brother of Moses.

Among the few remaining responsibility of a cohen today is the chanting of the priestly  blessing in the synagogue on high holy days in a special tune, instantly recognizable  by every Jew.   When the  Jewish priest chants the blessing, the Spirit of God is presumed to become present in the synagogue, and all bow their heads, fathers cover their children's eyes, lest one witness  god's image. Ironically, the special way that a cohen extends his arms and holds his fingers in a V  shape, was borrowed by another Canadian Jew, Leonard Nimoy, as inspiration for Spock's  greeting.

see en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Priestly_Blessing

see
//jewcy.com/jewish-arts-and-culture/leonard-nimoy-vulcan-salute-yiddish
ryn Feb 2015
You are the light
That hides below the horizon
I await humbly for your rays
To illuminate this darkened season

You are the beacon
That would build me anew
Equip me with newfound notions
When dreams and hopes are far and few

You are the air
Of a fresh new start
Allowing this body another chance
At retrieving a brand new heart

You are the opportunity
Held my breath for far too long
Soon be granted to live again
And choose the right from the wrong

You are the day
Like many have too often said
Due to arrive after tonight
And embrace me as I laid in bed

You are the tomorrow
The promise of my brand new day
But there have been many tomorrows
That have come and gone away

You are my tomorrow
My future, bearing much needed balm
Maybe tomorrow I may finally realise
**That you would never ever come
jonchius Sep 2015
checking potent aftershock
observing seismic anniversary
checking another tremor
resuming constrained writing

annexing hidebound constituents
hugging incoming eschatologies
fighting pervasive insomnia
battling invasive fatigue

damning incompetent fools
awaiting furtive escape
abandoning corporate wasteland
summoning celestial syzygy

detesting spaghetti code
protruding riparian dolphin
establishing unilinear escritoire
glowing cybernetic cynosure

avoiding eternal invisibility
supporting valued customer
performing lexical gymnastics
scrooping notification sounds

restoring usual happiness
glorifying darkwave fanfares
collapsing old relationships
raising ambient awareness

defining wolf people
propagating yesteryear's spectre
achieving hemispheric virality
testing weekend legerity
installing iron curtain

propagating today's spectre

developing niche audiences
transmitting abstract propaganda
disappearing thought experiments
overusing various condiments

double-checking hyper-real emotions
rubbernecking celestial explosions
observing splendid holiday
exploding volcano day

erupting bucolic mountain
disrupting hectic shouting
perfecting suggestive triptychs
checking festive pyrotechnics

drifting across multiverse
regifting glossy paperwork
writing six-lined hexagrams
liking two-toned instagrams

recalling pygmalion sculptures
brawling tatterdemalion cultures
"rambling corporate shill
rattling rapid prosody"
"battling hamburger hill
ambling hundredth library"
"sensing ideological schism
pending guttural neologism"

glowing verdant background
foreshadowing palmyra takedown
developing geopolitical mess
geminating quasi-couplet stress

"hugging cultural diversity
shrugging irrational adversity"

distancing spooky raindrops
avoiding potential burnout
implementing lexical databank
approaching crash-scene sudser

becoming increasingly selective
escaping tyrannical bureaucracy
perpetuating cut-throat capitalism
purchasing contrived happiness
incorporating chance elements
relaxing rigid structures
reheating your retweet

holding theoretical design
smiling beach life
scrutinizing eternal simulation
rushing artificial apothegm
annexing facetious document
freaking creepy centipedes

writing neural structure
congratulating yestreen's warriors
encouraging seatbelt usage
boosting abstract setting
sensing frivolous ochlocracy

keeping hypothetical metropolis
blurring metaphorical æsthetic
scrutinizing computational festival
memorializing towel day

raising six-fingered paw
eternizing fragment schedule
liking subtextual repository
quoting quintessential quidnunc

finding ideological style
disregarding their slovenliness
planning spatial factoid
spinning glacial ellipsoids

enjoying eternal spreadsheet
deleting repetitive tweet
awaiting festival lineup
gainsaying unethical startups

observing turgid experiment
contemplating conniving contrivances
enjoying dynamic project
dropping two-toned simulation
finding harmonic space
finalizing warring cavaliers

detecting enigmatic apathy
retrieving potential exchange
meddling middling muddling
baking hypnagogic pizza

spinning galactic dinosaur
building trans-pacific partnership
finishing theoretical mission
giggling agog googlers

crashing atypical tessellation
cherishing precious hexagons
proliferating western lottery
cretaceousing funkaholic skeletor

blurring turgid gallery
cancelling tsunami warnings
extemporizing incoherent neologisms
transmitting harmonic rave

gliding black hawks
hiding quacked ducks
archiving animated light
googling moonbow imagery

ignoring relatable messages
observing unfinished world
generating optional content
continuing exponential growth
May 2015
Dennis Go Jul 2010
It's just a state of mind.
One must approach a lady
In phases;
Expressing the love
In words careful
Of retrieving
And believing.
All in a glance
She answers.
The fight for meaning
Is being swiveled
By love's renaissance.
shayla ennis Oct 2016
(Narrator):
Upon a sunny day you see a girl leading a horse up a beach in the heated sun of the Roman Empire. She is a princess to a great roman king. This king’s name be Alexander the Great who in our history died young. The king dressed in white with red sashes covered over it is in the mist of trying to find his daughter a husband, one who will be fit to be king when he no longer can. The beach being sunny and warm princess Auria has chosen to take her horse for a ride while her father speaks to his men of the council.
Princess Auria: [riding her horse down the beach in a gentle stride] [clip clop………]

(Narrator):
Suddenly the horse rears up into the air throwing the princess from its back!

Princess Auria: [haa… … screaming [smacking into the ground] thump!]

Enters: Tibius [walking up to the horse who threw the princess tibius calls for it to calm itself and then walks up to Princess Auria asking… …]

Tibius: dear lady do you need some assistance?

Princess Auria: no but I thank you for retrieving my horse. Asking herself under her breath… What could have scared you so…?

Tibius: I believe it may have been that serpent over there near the sands edge.

Princess Auria: oh that must be the reason, Thank you again. What be your name young man.

Tibius: my name lady be Tibius and you are most welcome.
Princess Auria: Tibius you say. Would you be willing to come with me to see my father and gain his thanks as well for he would be most grateful to you for what you have done this day.

Tibius: I know not why this is needed but I will follow lead the way my lady.

Princess Auria: please call me Auria.

(Narrator):
Princess Auria leading the way takes Tibius to the king her father who sits in the throne room talking to friends and family. Walking up to her father she tells him what tibius has done. Tibius stands there after being shocked that the lady he helped was actually the princess. Not knowing what to say to the king tibius stands before him in silence.
King Alexander: you a man so young and by the looks of it having little coin save my daughter! This cannot be…

Tibius: if I may speak great king.

King Alexander: you may do so.

Tibius: I was walking along the beach when I saw a horse running in my direction but without rider. I choosing to find said owner came upon your daughter the princess Auria and thus I am now before you.

King Alexander: if this be true what my daughter says than you must in some way be rewarded. But how is the question…

(Narrator):
Enters Princess Auria’s mother Dayanara, coming from tending the gardens within the palace walls dressed in a blue dress trimmed in silver she walks towards her husband the king.

Dayanara: my husband may I say a word or two for I have heard what was said and have an idea.

King Alexander: what idea would you have dear wife.

Dayanara: I speak this let him guard Auria from this time forward both within the walls and without them so as we her parents need not fret so when she goes off alone. I know it may be much for so small a thing. Let him be her personal protector. My other words spoken, I have word of someone who wishes marriage to our daughter.

King Alexander: this is a wondrous idea about Tibius being a protector, let as my wife speaks be done. Do you agree daughter? What about this marriage you speak of Dayanara? Who?

Princess Auria: yes father it is a pleasing reward.

King Alexander: and you Tibius. What do you say to this?

Tibius: I can do nothing else but agree for not too would be a dishonor to both you and your family king Alexander. So yes I say to what has been spoken.

(Narrator):
Scene changes to a battle on the high mountains behind the palace near the ocean. Hundreds of men from Rome and far off Greece that comes by ship battle on the damp sands and grasses of roman earth to take what is not theirs the Greeks wish. Blood and life be spilled at all ends and innocent’s being slaughtered without care. The roman princess waiting in the palace by her mother’s side wondering what is to become of them because no word has yet come about how the battle fares.
[On the battle field]

King Alexander: men raise your blades, your shields, do not yield! Do not I say!
[Clashing, banging of armor and weapons]

King Alexander: men forward March, lances and horses ready. [Forward……!]

(Narrator):

Enters: solder sadeen

Sadeen: my king the battle falls not to us but our enemy we lose men to fast.

King Alexander: we must find a way to get them into the water and then hit them with fire and oil that will burn greatly.

Sadeen: we could place oil along the hills and light it aflame this may drive them back if we make it strong and high.

King Alexander: see it done sadeen; see it done fast for I fear we will lose as you spoke before if you do not.

Sadeen: [riding away from the king at full gallop towards his men to carry out the orders given]
[Gallop… gallop…]

(Narrator): Sadeen follows the Kings orders by lighting aflame ***** of hay covered in oil his soldiers pushing them down the green grass hills where battle takes place to weaken the Greeks ground and might. [Greeks screaming]
[Outcry…… Shrieking…… Men dying]

King Alexander: [praying to himself that what he has asked of his men does not fail] you boy over their go to my family and give them this letter see to it that it is only to them you give it.
[Yes my lord]

(Narrator):
The boy with the letter runs as fast as his legs can carry him back threw the roman streets to the palace and gives the letter to the queen. The queen opens it and read the news of how the battle fares and the instructions given if the king falls.

Dayanara: [calling her daughter] auria… auria…

Princess Auria: what is it mother? Why do you yell so?

Dayanara: your father has written of the battle he pleads with us to leave and go to the villa where you grew as a child for the battle does not fare well and he fears that they will lose. He speaks to us that he will send someone to find us if they win. Come we must go.

Princess Auria: I will find Tibius he can see us to safety out of Rome and to the villa.

Dayanara: go to him in silence speak to no one else only him.

Princess Auria: yes mother [off she runs with her footed sandals slapping on the marble floors as she does].

(Narrator):
Princess Auria runs to the solders corridor and finds Tibius telling him in hurried breath that they must leave fathers words for they are in danger. Tibius gathers up his things and follows the princess back to the royal halls and they silently leave threw the gardens heading to were the villa rests dressed in peasants clothing they be. The king back in the battle hopes that the letter he wrote as found them in time. [He once more prays]

Tibius: come my ladies this way but be careful and quite

Dayanara: we walk silent but you must call us by our names not by title Tibius

Auria: mother is right do as she says for doing so will make others think we are peasants and family. It be less likely they will look our way with suspicion.

(Narrator):
[Suddenly Greek soldiers come of darkened shadows intending to strike and **** the ladies Tibius raises his blade to stop them].

Tibius: [Crash…… his blade smashing into another]

Soldier: his blade striking back [Clashing……]

Tibius: striking the soldier down leaving blood pooling upon the marble path [rushing away]

(Scene):
Days later the three peasants make it to a quite villa outside of Rome and begin a new life as mere workers for those who live there. Any who ask about the owners the peasants simple tell them that they are away due to the battle. They being servants were made to stay behind to keep the place clean for when the owners returned, when that is they do not know. Weeks and more months pass with no word from the king they begin to fear that all is lost when one day a man wearing roman armor rides up asking for the lady Dayanara. Tibius stepping forward asks why? They must return this man says for the king calls them to him.

Tibius: who is the king?

Stanger:  King Alexander of course

Tibius: wait here go nowhere else

Dayanara: what is it?

Tibius: there is a roman outside he says the king calls for us

Dayanara: then we go; this is the sign, find my daughter and gather our things.

Tibius: yes lady right away

(Narrator): They return home going back the way they had left, but through the city rather than the village.

(Scene change): they are home at the royal palace before the king once more, but he was not alone.

King Alexander: you have returned safe, this makes me happy, and rushing to them he smiles [giving them fierce hugs]

Dayanara/ Auria: we are glad to be with you once more, it was worrisome and lonely without your presence being with us.

Dayanara/ Auria: who is this man that stands before us with Greek Armor?  Why is he not dead or imprisoned like the others?

King alexander: he is the prince of the Greek people and the son of King Simentos. Please be polite let me explain what has come about from the great battle on Mount Tear. [He explains]

(Narrator): alexander tells both his wife and daughter that the battle was won due to the son calling up a white flag of truce and asking that no more blood of their people be shed. (Enters Brontes).

Brontes: I am the son and prince of Greek and I wish to come up with a way to unite our lands and people. Your father mentioned that he was looking to finding you Auria a husband; I know that me being Greek may not seem a pleasant thing but I hope for a chance to prove my worth to you.

Auria: I know you be Greek but what does that have to do with the man you have become I see not. The place we are born and live helps us to grow but does not make us who we are.

Dayanara: husband I believe that Auria likes him and they seem to be getting along well [she whispers to him].

King alexander: do you think then that the idea of marriage to Brontes will suit her well, that she will love and or care for him as he will to her.

Dayanara: I do, but let them decide what their choice will be.

(Scene):  the princess and prince wonder into the garden that is covered with the roman flower called the Gladiolus which means sword lily. Speaking of many things that have happened in their lives they continue walking. She tells him that she would hope to see both her homes often if she were to say yes to this peace proposal.

Alexander/Dayanara:  we must speak with the two of you. Have you come to a decision about what this marriage may mean?

Auria/Brontes:  we have come to a final choice after our long talk. We believe that this marriage would be well placed for both of us to accept. We have chosen to wed here and stay till the spring then to travel to Brontes’s home and have a smaller wedding there to please his father. Though this set of weddings we will sign a truce treaty combining our to lands and people.

Dayanara/ Alexander: that is well thought of from both of you. Well done, I believe that this is going to be a very happy time for all of us. Let the wedding be within a months’ time.

(Narrator): the wedding takes place upon the hill where the battle was once fought this is where they will make peace and sign the treaty. The wedding is beautiful and the flowers that are thrown around them show their unity. Both are dressed in the colors of the ocean and their prospective homes. {This is the end of their tale and perhaps a new beginning for us all on earth}.

THE END
playwrite
anastasiad Jan 2017
Within the 1st the main content, most people had taken a review of software programs intended for regaining details through common hard disk drives. During this subsequent part of the string "When Software program Might Help" wel discuss flash-based (solid-state) storage area, reasoning storage methods and online storage solutions.

Solid-State Drives (Solid state drive)
Solid-state pushes are sometimes included in location of regular drives. Solid state drive hard disks give smaller sized capacities however better quickness, specifically when unique entry pace is involved. Without moving components, SSD drives tend to be powerful automatically. They could tolerate better bumps, causing them to be in particular best for lightweight applications. One more laptop-friendly feature can be a much lower electric power use as compared to magnets harddrives.

SSD moves do come making use of their discuss with challenges which affects loss of data files retrieval conditions. These complaints tend to be highly dependent on the methods Solid state drive drives track record information and facts. Using Solid state drive pushes, retrieving data deleted a few moments previously is a lot from your granted. Same is true of methodically arranged devices; on the other hand surprisingly, damaged Solid state drive could possibly be restored just as well as regular hard disks. Nevertheless make intricate.

The key reason why Retrieving Deleted Information from Solid state drive Devices Might not Do the job

Many quite new SSD drives implement a unique group of treatments letting them optimise their particular creating overall performance. These kind of methods contain track record waste series along with Cut.

Why is it that SSD hard disks need to have garbage choices and magnetic pushes dress in? Since pen potato chips have much quicker apparent produces when compared to erase-then-write moments. Put simply, pen tissue that contain information and facts should be removed (emptied) prior to completely new details can be coded in, which eliminate procedure is quite slow-moving in comparison with plain generate procedure. So that you can increase the speed of a contributes articles, solid-state hard drives clear off expensive solar cells populated with wiped facts within history. In the event the program has to write nearly anything to the hard disk drive, the particular write business in that case features plenty of empty skin cells to try and do easily.

How exactly does a disk realize a certain field becomes available? The operating-system informs the particular get through the Reduce receive. The Cut demand is issued each time the device deletes written documents or perhaps formats some sort of level. The get will include launched industries in to the junk variety queue, clearing off their own at ease with zeroes slowly and gradually nonetheless certainly.

Recall exactly why recovery will work? House windows per se won't wash or perhaps eliminate this content of the report remaining taken out, but scars it's disk space available. Well, that isn't the case using SSD devices anymore: SSD devices may clean out there computer groups in just a few minutes after having a submit will be deleted.

Whenever Solid state drive Is usually Reclaimed

Solid state drive retrieval can always do the job in the event the Cut get hasn't been released. This can be true or no 1 (or more) on the adhering to does work:

Previous kind of Windows. Home windows types previous to Vis would not assist TRIM, consequently Solid state drive work pretty much like permanent magnetic hard disk drives, and could be recoverable.

Corrupted info. In the the event of damaged files, harmed report procedure and other alike items, this Reduce order is just not released, plus the data continue being recoverable.

Outside SSD generate. SSD drives hooked up using a USB, FireWire or maybe Ethernet interface tend not to offer the Reduce get, and could be recoverable together with recover file program.

RAID arrays. Toned is just not recognized around RAID layouts.

Report system rather than NTFS. Presently, House windows just can handle Reduce about NTFS-formatted Solid state drive moves. In case your Solid state drive commute utilizes a distinctive submit technique, this Reduce control is not really issued, as well as commute is still recoverable.

Tools to get Regaining Data from Solid state drive Devices

So that you can heal information out of the Solid state drive travel, you need to use data recovery applications for instance Hetman Uneraser, Hetman Partition Retrieval, or Hetman Photography Healing depending on your correct needs. Consider Hetman Uneraser in case youe dealing with a normal commute who has definitely not also been formatted or maybe repartitioned. When you do formatting or repartition ones SSD drive, or if you present an unavailable product along with broken document procedure, make use of Hetman Partition Recovery.

Clouds Hard drive and on the internet Products and services
Foriegn storage space systems are becoming more popular for all forms of customers. Online back-ups, online photograph compact disks (Reddit, Picasa), on-line file sharing and on the internet report running (Yahoo Docs) are in the location.

These are good because "Desktop", "Mobile phone" as well as "My Documents" copies, great as well not required safe-keeping, and absolutely irreplaceable pertaining to sharing facts and also interacting. Having said that, reasoning safe-keeping devices will not be accurately good since your primary storage space. Put simply, in order to substitute an enormous hard disk drive with the The amazon online marketplace fog up storage space bill ?go on a re-evaluation.

Given, clouds storage solutions will not be prone (or perhaps a lesser amount of inclined when compared with single-hard-drive methods) to help hardware defects and malware strikes. They can be fairly unnecessary and still have exceptional self-backup establishments. Important computer data might be secure at this time there?for quite a while.

Reliant entirely upon some sort of cloud-based storing signifies letting go of comprehensive treating details. Your data is going to be controlled by somebody else plans (that may adjust with no warning). The number of storage space obtainable may be confined, whilst plans making it possible for larger than only one hard disk worthy of storage area cost you actually above the money necessary for a similarly scaled hard drive, per 30 days.

Last but not least, when you erase written documents, possibly the whole accounts is actually compromised plus cleaned by way of nuller, there is absolutely no solution. No recovery resource can easily reestablish removed info on the fog up. This is usually a classical scenario wherever data retrieval instruments usually do not assistance.

http://www.passwordmanagers.net/ Password Manager For Windows
Shannon McGovern Aug 2011
I crushed it, and it regrew anyways.
The hypothesis, was more romantic,
than tossing and yearning all night
over losing teeth in a giraffe fight.

Your hypothesis, was more romantically
worded, than a thesis on how birds die on impact
when colliding with a glass windowpane,
retrieving teeth lost during a giraffe brawl.

Worded, like the thesis about how birds die during impact,
each line of the letter dripped with invisible ink,
like colliding with a glass window. Pain
is only fleeting, if the end comes close behind.

Every line in each letter, drawn with invisible ink,
doesn't sound in the pronunciation, which
is only fleeting, if the end line draws closed behind.
So close your characters behind you, and don't let the draft in.

Does it not sound in the pronoun, the annulment of which
leaves every thing indefinite, and incomplete.
So clothe your characters before you, so they don't let in a draft,
and catch a cold from ****** or being indistinct.

What leaves everything indefinitely incomplete
other than the ability of the mind to hypothesize,
and catch a cold in the **** state of being extinct?
The inability to reconcile your metaphorical heart and instinct.

The others, they, have the ability to hypothesize,
about what makes us toss and yearn at night.
I forgave your inability to reconcile. My heart: pure instinct.
So you crushed it, and still it grew anyways.
As I am exiting the Abandoned Castle to retrieve what Aziel asked me to get for him a thought comes to mind.. - I wonder what he is going reward me with- I follow a short trail that quickly leads me to the Forest of Whispers suddenly I hear Aziel's voice echo in my head. Aziel: "Frank follow the Trail of Tears Northwest about 12 miles from where you stand there you will find yourself in front of a small creek follow it to the end and to your left there will be a small cave and to your immediate right there will be a huge stone that's been there for thousands of years it's practically impenetrable. However, I will land you my power to pass thru it but first you must enter the small cave and retrieve a sacred relic from it. Good luck my Mortal friend." Frank: Aziel what if I get lost? What about this relic and what do you mean you'll lend me your power?" Aziel: "Don't worry I will explain everything in full detail once your at the site and don't worry about getting lost...A raven will follow you from now on and if you get lost just whistle as loud as you can it will fly ahead of you to show you what route to take" Frank: " Thank you Aziel I will keep all that in mind." As I press on deeper and deeper into the Forest I am fascinated with its Beautiful scenery.

It's 11pm and I class start to get weary so I sit down in the midst of the woods in the Forest. Suddenly I hear a weak gallop like some sort of horse coming closer and closer to where am sitting...so I get up hesitant and finally I see a figure come out of the wilderness and to my surprise it's a creature half man half horse and I whisper to myself "Whoa it's a centaur...." The centaur gets closer to me and it speaks to me in a cold voice....
"What are you doing here in the middle of the Forest almost at midnight human...don't you know it's dangerous to be out here?" I look at the mighty centaur his lower part of the body is indeed a horse with furs at it's feet and the color of his full fur is golden yellowish. I examine his human half and he is covered by battle scars and he seems quite strong in his upper body. I also notice he has green eyes the color of emerald and what seems like 3 claw like scars in his face. I sit quietly for a moment then reply ... Frank: " I made a promise to retrieve something for someone and I am here to fulfill my task." He smiles at me and proceeds to talk. Centaur: " My name is Neur Blackthorn I am the Leader of the Golden Centaurs protectors of the Forest of Whispers. You see am looking for a sacred relic known as Ghruthemtox it's a breast plate made out of the skull of a Cyclop known as Mathalam who lived 3000 years ago here in this very forest and was the Creator and protector of this very place known now as The Forest Of Whispers. Legend tells that whoever finds all the pieces of the breast plate and wears it will be granted 1000 years added to his life span and tremendous magical power. I want this relic in my possession. I heard there are 5 pieces to the breastplate all scattered in this very Forest. If you are able to come across the relic itself it will guide you to all five remaining pieces so legend foretold. It's some sort of magical map the relic itself...but I heard it can only be touched by human hands because if it's touched by anything else the creature or being itself will perish immediately." -Neur looks at me attentively- Frank: - " So let me get this straight...you want me to get this relic for you? Am I right?" Neur: " That's right...in return I shall grant you what you seek from the forest. So tell me what is it that you want to retrieve?" Frank: " I want a vial of her blood from the Goddess of the Forest...Nabyah." Neur: " I will talk to her in your behalf...but I cannot guarantee the blood itself." -I look at Neur with some disgust and disappointment- Neur: " Fine Mortal I will do my very best to retrieve this for you as long as you can find me the relic..." -All the sudden I hear Aziel telepathically communicates to me and he says "Frank what are you doing meddling with Centaurs you cannot trust them...It's a dangerous task he asks of you plus he might **** you after retrieving this relic I advice you play it safe and tell him you will do what he says but with your own mission." Frank: -I speak to Aziel telepathically and I can do this due to the fact he lands me his power to do so...in order for both to speak to each other without no one else knowing...- "Right don't worry I am going to pretend to aid him then do my own thing..." Aziel: " Smart young lad ...don't worry he won't know nothing and by the way I advice you try to stay away from this Centaurs I think they might be linked to the Goddess herself...somewhat." Frank: " Right...now I will proceed..."

All the sudden Neur looks at me with curiosity...Neur: " You look like you where day dreaming for a while...fine I will leave you alone, but please find this I will reward you with what you seek I promise. Now get some rest I will come back to you at midnight" -He dashes towards the darkness of the Forest and disappears in the wilderness...-

--->TO BE CONTINUED

KEY


Trail Of Tears the path where many knights from the Order have shed blood sweat and tears. Many of them have never made it out alive.  Golden Centaurs Protectors of the Forest of Whispers who settled in the Forest 1000's of years ago. Accursed by a Powerful Witch they where once human but no longer have retained their humanity. Now creatures of the forest some of them seek to lift up the curse.
Ghruthemtox An ancient relic worn by a Cyclop Shaman Creator/Protector of the Forest Of Whispers that gave him strong magical prowess.
Protectors Forest Of Whispers ...they where those should work something out. Thanks man.
Poetoftheway Jun 2018
weeding ‘n planting,
(ten rows of garlic, waiting to bite caressing hands)

<•>

unsurprisingly to me
garlic native to northeastern Iran,
so says the arbiter-know-it-all, Senor Wikipedia

did you know that,
amongst us,
a young woman whose back
is bent,
bent over,
weeding and weeping, while picking,
retrieving the fruit of the plain earths plane

spending days
retrieving spring-planted bulbs in the sun,
a mysterious poet residing among us
conjuring up poems and, ****, even
plants questions
with granted permission

asks a strangers gasping queries
so simple she renders his
body from soul, makes him
disclose his crazy ill-at-ease
showing
his own
general roots,
slumbering deep in reddish brown soul’s earth

one whose only great escape
through the written poem
when his back is straight,
straight against the wall
backed up,
and ripe for the picking

in reparation

the favor will be returned
three inquiries will be fedex’d
if I ever learn her address

for now, in the  throes of soil resting within,
my need knowings just nurturing
until the calendar declares time!
harvesting is now

when we ready shake hands
when you say

“here is the garlic tended,
and here are our hands,
bitten and caressed”

till such time I get
the answers from
the farmer herself,
I can patient wait

further research needs
original sources,
till such time,
make up tales
that will hold in abeyance
my half contented garlic dreams
for was it not written centuries ago:

Even After All this time The Sun never says to the Earth, "You owe me." Look What happens With a love like that, It lights the whole sky.
Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī
(Holding fire and water together)

I don't know why the rain keeps writing the
name of Nigeria on the ground in every corner.
I don't know why we are this broken and
tortured like the fragments of the dust.
I don't know why the Dapchi girls returned yesterday while their chikbok friends are
still in captive.
I don't know why every street in Nigeria is
known with an imprint of good leaders.
I don't know why we cry yet point accusation. fingers back to ourselves, who is fooling who?
I don't know why the sun cry here with a
closed lips.
I don't know why we keep writing love stories
while our brothers and sisters perish in shame!
I don't just know why but I think you should know.
Are you not the one that collected a cup of rice, clean notes and Abrahamic lie from them?
I won't speak ill of this land again,  I won't!
I won't judge any one, no, I won't for  the
sake of my unborn children.
No, I won't for the sake of what happened to Dele Giwa and Saro Wiwa.
We poets are abnormal psychologically.
We paints abstraction from the abstracts creating fears that might hurt those true patriots.
My muse fell out from me yesterday night,
When my television opened to a scene of genocide.
Men on pants, women on trousers painting out the tears made for people inhabiting hell.
Their laughters and smiles were printed to be archived among themselves.
I won't speak ill  of this country, no, I won't!
Because of my unborn children,
I won't!
But I will tell just one tale for them to remember
Of how monkeys carted away with our monies!
Of how Snake swallowed our currency!
Of how good our leaders are, I think you know!
I have been holding these demons in me until last night they came out horribly in fierce protest to revisit this land again.
To tell of those girls ***** under the bridge,
To ask why boys like me are named after me,
To speak against shadows of death lurking here and there.
Nigeria is grey and black, red and violent,
Retrieving this oceans of mysteries from the hidden abyss of grave corruption is the passport tabled on the pyramid top to recreate a versatile muses of a lyrics calling for a right to write our rights.
Take a walk to memory lane pass your shadow,  that of your father,  mother & grandmas
You will see a Nigeria in another angle trying to free herself from the grip of corruption, then, revisit her tears and struggles you will know we are the cause of our own misfortunes.!

©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustrations
Dorothy A May 2016
They could practically be heard arguing throughout the whole diner, but they were oblivious to their small audience of onlookers in the heat of their conflict. Tori stood there with her hands on her hips as her husband, Hank, made himself clear that he was upset. He was sitting up at the counter on one of the barstools eating his chili. On the other side, Tori poured herself a much needed cup of coffee.

“You’re a waitress, not Mother Theresa! A mother with two hungry mouths!” he bellowed out to her. “That’s less money that goes into our pockets! What the hell were you thinking, Tor?”

“Was only helping a poor guy out!” she shot back. “He looked hungry and—big deal—so I bought him something to eat! So forget it, Hank, cuz I’m not sorry!” She remained defiant in her stance, unapologetic in her Good Samaritan role. Her boss never allowed her to give free food away, so the food was on her. It was a hot dog and fries, one time, some bacon and eggs, another.  She got the man bagels, donuts, toast, oatmeal—whatever she could supply with his usual cup of coffee he ordered. It was obvious from the word go that he had little in his pocket, and he could barely put a tip on the table—usually a nickel or a dime, sometimes a few pennies. He wore the same shabby tee shirt, flannel shirt and bummy jeans. And those pitiful shoes—with his dingy white socks poking through at the big toe of his right foot—that was pitiful.  So what if she had two young children? Nobody was going into the poor house because she bought a poor guy a few meals.

“Well, stop buying him food! No more!” Hank commanded. Tori gave him her best you’re not the boss of me look as he put his spoon down and walked over to the booth towhere the man with unkempt, silvery hair, and an untrimmed beard, sat.  That was his usual spot, and that was Tori’s booth to cover.  

The man just stared at him, not seemingly startled by the younger man who boldly confronted him. “Hey, look!” Hank said, lowly, yet sharply, “Straight up and no *******. Get a job. Get a life. Just quit taking advantage of my wife. Got it?”

It didn’t seem like the intimidation was working. The man just stared at Hank, his deep, soulful, brown eyes could penetrate right through him, and Hank wanted to shift his gaze away. He didn’t though, for that wouldn’t have given him the menacing upper hand. “Well!” he demanded, fidgety and frustrated, “What’s your problem?” The response was simply the same silent stare and Hank blurted out through clenched teeth, “Don’t take nothing no more from my wife!”

Unexpectedly, the man placed his hand upon Hank’s and said, “My son, don’t be angry. Sin no more. I give you my blessing, and go now in peace”. Hank quickly pulled his hand away, his face burning with embarrassment. A few guys at table nearby snickered at the sight of the pair.

“The guy’s nuts!” Hank got up and moved back to the counter. “What does he think? He’s Jesus or something?”

“Hank, quit stirring up drama or you gotta leave! You’re gonna drive out business!” Al chimed in. Al was in the kitchen helping the cooks in the back to get out orders. Now if anyone had a right to kick Hank out it was him. He owned the place.

Hank, still enraged, pointed his finger at Tory and promised, “We’ll talk later!” He quickly stormed out. Tory was not to be dictated to, feeling vindicated for her kind actions.

Well, everyone thought the man who tried to bless Hank was harmless, off kilter, maybe, but harmless. He didn’t seem to cause any trouble, and he minded his own business—only spoke until spoken to, and it was always with grace. Was there something special about him? It was only Tori and fellow waitress, Bonnie, who put more stock into this than anyone else would.

“And what if he is God?” Bonnie asked.

Al scoffed, trying to keep the conversation at a low minimum.  “You sound just as loony as he is”

“Well? And what if he was?” Tori backed up Bonnie. “Or maybe even an angel! You know they can come in many disguises! Maybe God is trying to test us to see if we really give a ****. Did you ever think of that?”

Al shook his head. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. “Test us?” he asked back as if Tori had no sense at all. “You’ve watched too many TV shows!” He raised his hands up in a grand fashion of showmanship, knife in hand,” Or maybe I’m not the owner of Al’s Diner, but I’m really God myself”, he mocked.  “So, as God, my dear little children, I command you back to work! Come on, now! Chop, chop!” He started to shoo everyone away. “How you think we are going to feed the masses, huh? With loaves and fishes? Customers! Customers! Get those orders moving!”  

The smells and sizzling sound of hamburgers on the grill were enticing to the senses. Tori and Bonnie went back to busily retrieving orders, and Al went to chopping some tomatoes, but soon he was playfully tapped on the shoulder.  It was Amber, another waitress who never seemed privy to the conversation.  “You remember this song?” she asked him, singing the tune in an off-key way, “What if God was one of us, just a slob like one of us….”

“Just a stranger on a bus, trying to make his way home…” Tori sung along, cheerfully moving about, adding a pretty, more melodious tone to the song.  

“Exactly”, Bonnie exclaimed, enthusiastically. “Like God’s gone undercover!”

Al rolled his eyes, for he thought he made himself clear he was done with this talk. But he couldn’t help but get a kick out his quirky waitresses. “Sure I know that tune—a few decades back—blonde chick—what’s her name?” he asked, smirking.  

“Joan Osborne”, Bonnie proudly stated. “Cool song, too. Makes you think a bit…at least for me.”

“And so why not ask him who he is?” Joey asked. “He’s got a name.”

It was like everyone forgot Joey was in the room though he was busily busing tables and sweeping floors. Tory, Bonnie and Al stopped what they were doing and intently looked at the teen. He seemed to ask a sincere question.  Al burst out laughing. “Now someone’s talking sense, and chalk it up to the kid with good wits. Yeah, Joey, these ladies just want to exist in fantasy land. Go, Team Al!”

Joey shook his head and said, soberly, “Not taking anyone’s side. I just think he’s got a name and he’s got a story behind him…and it isn’t what you think, Tori…or even you, Al.”

Al waved his hand to dismiss the whole thing. “Yeah, his name is probably Ralph, or something. Even then, I bet Tory would believe he is the Almighty right there in the flesh!”

“I would!” Tory shot back. She looked at Joey and answered, “Maybe you do think I’m as bad as Al does, but you’re too polite to admit it…but…yeah…I did ask him his name.”

“And, so?” Al asked, pretending with wide eyes to be full wonder, like he was clinging to every word, anxiously. “What’s his name?”

He was simply finding humor at her expense, and Tori wished she never said a thing. She reluctantly replied, “I am what I am.”

What?” Bonnie asked. “What does that mean?”  

Al replied, “I am what I am! Well, that sure don’t mean Popeye, sweetie!” With a comical, gravelly voice, he did his best Popeye imitation, “I yam what I yam and that’s all I am!”, squinting up one of his eyes he teased Tori, “Got that Olive Oyl?”

Bonnie and Joey laughed along at the sight of him, and Al added, “Look! I may be practically an atheist, but I’m not ignorant to the bible. That’s just what God said to Moses when he asked the same question!”

Tory defended the poor man that she so proudly helped. “So what if he does think he is God? He’s not doing anyone any harm, is he?” Al completely ignored her, so Tory to turned to Joey, and asked again, “What harm is there in it?”

Joey slightly smiled at Tory, trying to remain respectful to her beliefs, and said, “Truth be told, I don’t know much about God. I’m not a churchy person. He pointed over at the poor man in the booth and said, “I just know if God existed, it’s not him.”
  
Tori was saddened by Joey’s words. It was not that because he didn’t believe her ideas were feasible—that maybe God was testing them—but that he didn’t even know if God existed. The youth nowadays—who did they have to look up to?  Who guided them? The internet? Their cell phones? So many people seemed to have walked away from their faith or had none at all. And Al reminded Tori so much of her own dad. She grew up in a home without religion. Her mom had a vague notion of God, but her dad was a huge skeptic that had the same mocking spirit that Al had. Neither her father or Al were bad guys, but there were no miracles in their worldview. There was nothing divine, and everything was so ordinary and practical.

But Tori always felt awestruck by the world, nature and the animals, a curious minded child. She was the one who had that childlike faith—even now as a grown woman—and she yearned to know God, personally, not just know about Him. She just had to believe that this world and the universe were not all just for nothing, not at all a happenstance, not a just a brief journey on this earth and then that was it. It was after searching and yearning that Tori went to her friend’s church, and soon became a Catholic. She might have been alone in her family in this endeavor, but it gave her life more meaning.

Tori would look at the figure of Jesus upon the crucifixion and oddly was comforted by the sight of him that might bring others revulsion or doubt—the nails piercing his hands and feet, the thorn of crowns, the blood, the tragic sight of his lifeless body so cruelly tacked up upon the cross.  She raised her own two children to know God, and Hank’s lukewarm feelings did not match hers. He wasn’t much help in that department at all. But she knew by looking through the bible that true life was about helping other people, that God loved the poor and the downcast. To find your life, you had to lose your life. To feel exalted, you had to humble yourself. To give your life, to save someone else’s—well, that was the greatest gift you could give. That means you gave it all.  She might not have been the smartest person in the world, but she didn’t need to be bible scholar to figure such things out.  

Well, it would be a while before Tori would see her special customer again. But one day she ran back into the kitchen and told Al, excitedly, “His name is Bill!”

Al shot her a strange look, and then he got the connection. “Oh, so that’s God name?” he said jokingly.

Tori pulled him by the arm and took him out front, summoning Bonnie and Joey over, too. Bill was sitting in the same booth he often did, but there at the counter stool sat a petite, sixty-something-year-old woman whom everyone was about to meet. “Al, Bonnie, Joey, this is Bill’s sister, Mary”, Tori introduced her. “She shared with me about Bill’s story, and I think you should know, too.”   She looked like Bill, but had black dyed hair and was better put together. There was a warm and gentle way about her that intrigued Tori. And she sat there to shield her brother by keeping him out of the conversation, for she didn't want to upset her brother by mentioning something that might cause him pain.

Actually, they all were intrigued by her story.  Mary had told them that Bill once had a family, a wife and two sons. He couldn’t keep a steady job, though, and he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. His wife divorced him years ago and moved out of state with their two boys. His sons never tried to contact him, and he hasn’t seem ever since. For quite a while, Bill lived on his own, but he didn’t take good care of himself. He was living more poorly than ever—not eating right or caring for himself, erratically taking his medication, and so it wasn’t a surprise that he lived a deluded life. “He does strange stuff like that, think he is God”, Mary admitted to Tori. “He’s been made fun of a lot for acting that way, and it’s my job to watch over him and see that he is safe. So now I help take care of him, and he lives with me. Bill’s always been too proud to accept my help, but the doctor says being with me will help to give him a better life”. Mary was a widow, and she didn’t have much money herself, but she did what she could to protect her brother.  

Al looked embarrassed, knowing now the truth about Bill and realizing he was making fun when he should have known better. Mary gave Tori a huge hug. “And thank you”, she said to Tory, “for looking out for my brother, too.”  Everyone, even Al, was deeply touched by their embrace.  

“You know that Tori is a saint”, Bonnie bragged on her behalf to reiterate the same sentiment. “There should be more people like her.”

Tori remained humble and disagreed, “No, I’m just doing what we should all do in this world. If anything, it teaches me that we should all see God in every opportunity.”

Al whispered into Tori’s ear and told her, “You want to give him something to eat again, well now don't bother paying for it. It's on me”.  She smiled at him like was ready to give him a big hug, and he added, “Don’t think this makes me all buying all this God stuff—or anything”.

“And why not?” she asked.  

He replied with his own question, the ultimate question that people have been asking for ages. "Why would any god allow a man to suffer like that? Just look at him! How could that happen and you still think there is some guy in the sky that's all warm and fuzzy, like some invisible Teddy bear?"  

"Oh, you mean so how can God be loving, fair and merciful?", she snapped back, hurt that Al would make faith sound so childish and idiotic. Tori thought a moment, and simply replied, "I could ask the same question. Is life fair? Is it just wishful thinking? Actually, all my life I've wondered such things. The difference between us though is I don't know all the answer any better than you...but I still believe."

Al waved his hand away at her, "Whatever..."

"Wait!", Tori commanded him as he walked away. Al stopped and turned to face her like he was more than through with this conversation.  She said, "Maybe if us mere mortals did our job on earth of helping others, it would better a whole nother story. You'd probably have a different point of view, Al."

She didn't expect Al to have some bolt of enlightenment when it came to God, but before he went back to the kitchen he left her with words she wished he didn’t say. “All those people way back then…all those prophets and saints…supposing they were around today. You think they'd they stand up to today's world? I don't. Wouldn’t they on meds, too? I'd say we wouldn't see them any differently than we'd see Bill.”  Blindsided, she never did know how to follow up with all that. Al just knew how to rain on her nice parade.

Joey never said anything about that day, but when Bill came in again, Tori surely took special notice of them sitting together for a while. When she passed by the table, Joey was watching Bill walk around, and she quickly noticed the new black and green athletic shoes on his feet. Even on him, they looked sharp.

”They fit alright?”  Joey asked. Bill nodded, and shook the boy’s hand. He never said anything about it, but his silly, old grin—along with a few missing teeth—was priceless. He truly was happy to get those shoes. The old ones, with the hole in the toes, remained on the floor to be pitched out.  

Tori had to ask Joey, “You bought those for him? That’s so sweet of you!”

Joey smiled. “I just never could stand those beat up, old shoes”, he replied. “They are a good brand, but didn’t put me back that much. I’m not making a big deal about it, though. I’m not even going to tell anyone I did it. Only telling you, because you asked.”

“Makes you feel good, doesn’t it? Like it really makes a difference”.

“Yeah, it does. It’s like buying God a pair of shoes.”

Did he just say it was buying God a pair of shoes? How odd to hear that from Joey, but how that statement impacted her, and Tori would never forget that.  She gave Joey a peck on the cheek and a hug. He was like a little brother to him. She didn’t feel old enough to be a mother figure, but she felt some kind of sisterly feeling for him.

Joey went on to explain, “Yeah, I’ve been thinking a lot about Bill, lately. He lost his job, his family—he lost everything. No, he’s not God, but I was thinking…though I don’t know that much about religion or God, I thought that if you do
onlylovepoetry Apr 2019
don’t leave me!
(the leaving is in the writing)

she whispers in his ear,
after they’ve climbed into bed,
their tiring bodies both embraced,
soft sunken into, by, a familiar mattress,
after a sophisticates city night out seeing stars,
stars, human and astral,
city lights dusk heightened the vocal sparking,
singers singing songs of love from
radio days long ago

don’t leave me

she intones, a prayerful demand,
equally a command and a begging behest,
puzzling what prompted this pressed request,
spoken with urgency born in her breast

don’t leave me
drifting off and into his thin place,
but tugged back by this cri du coeur,
unsponsored and unwarranted,
nothing recalled that justly provoked,
a statement topping of anguish and fear

don’t leave me
he repeats in a rising questioning inflecting
puzzling riddling unbefitting a mellow-toning sleepy ingredient,
whatever do you mean, I leave you only
to dream, to purify, refresh and deep rest reset,
and return come morning with new poems,
what angst comes to stir this asking,
delaying my adventure to nightly restoration?

don’t leave me
repeated and repeated, dressed in urgency,
for I see the little things,
the wavering walk, the slowing of the thinking,
the walls, black n’ blue, whining about your into bumping,
the instant eagerness with which your body accepts
your voyage to dream places where
one goes and gone and must go unaccompanied,
some who are chosen and some who choose, not to return

don’t leave me
for the signs are ample, a certain weariness
dresses your face and crowns thy graying mane,
the slight labored breathing from steps once
bounded and leapt, the seeing and the hearing,
each slightly weakening, two orchestral instruments,
together off key and lessened in their triumphal vigor,
these words of mine, a royal guard,
keep them in your dreams

don’t leave me
minor missteps in the elongated negated of dying gracefully,
my tuning forks are sensitized,
and any slowing motion
both visible and hearable, and filed under inevitable

I will not leave you tonight,
my body warming as per usual,
your cold feet intruders indicate it’s you have left
for your own nightly visitors, occasional terrors,
you’ve woken me from my allotted sleep hours,
many poems now retrieving and in need of scribing,
while the fingertip digit flys across the digital keyboard,

I am more alive than I have ever been;
the leaving is in the writing,
each poem a steppingstone,

but the poems come fast and furious,
sometimes two at a time, the muses are bemused,
the prognosis is for thousands more and warn:

do not wear out your olive oil anointed forefinger,
the lubricated pointer of the way, wherein is contained

through that index
finger,
your body of works in the
“yet to arrive, yet untaxed filling station,”,
must be seen to fruition,
for it is only then that,
only love poetry
is ready for long lasting
eternal realization





5:36am 12th April, two thousand nineteen
mike Feb 2013
hi again. my names mike. im scared. ive been recently diagnosed with acute paranoid schizophrenia, i think. however, the doctor(who is not a real doctor)was inaccurate. setting me up to be his personal test dummy. well, its not gonna happen again. im looking for a team to enact a certain duty. a job for those who seem qualified.

the qualifications?: experience in violence and time travel.

the job?: to never divulge secrets of the job, which involves kidnapping said doctor and retrieving a small metal instrument from within his skull.(i have the needed information for the retrieval of this device.)

the time?: any time before the future. once we've orchestrated then enacted our team meeting, we must use our time travel facilities within the same minute of our arrival, as i have already set our return time for the mission to one minute after the last team member(gregg) arrives on location of said meeting point. we will(once gregg finally arrives, 28 minutes late!) pile into the 8-man machine and activate, sending us to our destination: february 2nd, 1989. this is the date that(we'll call him doctor octopus) doctor octopus received his supposed doctorate from stanford university. we will then obstruct the way between his home and his graduating ceremony by means of designing a car crash scenario. he will be knocked out cold, allowing us easy passage into his car, excavating his limp frame, and bringing it to a secure location(walmart)where we will then inject his brain with a bio-mechanical agent, leaving him there to wake up, confused, and minus a degree. we will then travel to april 2nd, 1999, to re-engage with doctor octopus, to kidnap him in order to extract the mechanism from within his skull, which at this time will be fully grown and functional, having been implanted by us through the injection of the bio-mechanical agent 10 years and 2 months prior. once obtaining said device, we will use it to communicate with the inter-dimentional beings doctor octopus has done the bidding of. we will pose as doctor octopus to gather intelligence as to how to travel through time, allowing the mission success, bringing us back to the original point of departure, arriving exactly one minute after original departure. leaving us with existing alibis(for i know everyone was with their families on groundhog day, 1989. and my birthday, 1999.) and no traceable evidence or witnesses, including yourselves, for i HAVE taken the liberty of going back to all of your days of birth and murdering your mothers with said team still unborn in the wombs, yet have gone back to said dates again to stop myself. allowing for success and no traceable links.

the place?: nowhere. the mission has already been completed. good job team.

the compensation?: 7.79 per hour.
Yesenia Acevedo Sep 2015
Six hours later the sun rose in Peach Springs shinning down on the little busy police station in the middle of town. Eve sat in a tiny well lit room hand cuffed to a bar attached to the wall. She felt dizzy from the tears she had shed unsure how she could still produce them, one after another they fell. The door opened announcing the police officer who uncuffed her and lead her to a room with a table in the center surrounded with chairs. She sat silently gripping to what was left of her sanity as the tears continued to fall. Minutes later two detectives entered, one female, one male, they sat down looking at each other stating their names and titles. The female detective asked Eve her fist question,

"Do we have you permission to record this conversation?"

"Yes, you do."  

She pressed the record button and the interrogation had officially began.

"Tell us what happened prior to you arriving at the hospital."

Eve began to tell her truth fading in and out of the memory as she told the events before and after she decided to get out of bed with Sam. Six hours earlier...


Eve and Sam were restless unable to return to their dreams. She hoped Matt would come back to bed and realize he was being a ****.


He doesn't even know what the situation is between me and Jake.

Eve decided to leave the bed with her son oblivious to the consequences that awaited. She kept her shoulders square, her eyes on the path that lead to the kitchen as she passed Matt in the living room. She peeked in the master bedroom searching for Julie when Matt's  mother spoke in an overpowering voice,


"I'm in here, close the door."

Eve felt her son squeeze his legs around her and quickly closed the door. She walked towards the back door listening to faint voices coming from Matt's room. She joined them sitting across from Julie with her son in her lap she asked,

"What are you up to Jewels?"

Eve wished she would've stayed in bed when Julie pointed to the coke offering  her some. She refused it but knew it wouldn't be that easy to get away with. Like with most things Julie told her to try it and stop if she didn't like it. Eve asked her what it felt like then agreed when Julie told her it felt good. She placed her child on the bed opposite to Jake, she shooed Jake"s hand away when he tried to grab her. Agitated she walked over to Julie who held the foil steady while she inhaled her hit. As she exhaled she washed the taste clean from her lips. When she looked up she realized Matt was sitting on his bed drinking a beer. Eve shook her head at Matt agreeing with his sister who was telling stop or he'd go back to jail.

******* *******, he's doing this on purpose.

she told herself when he downed four more. Eve followed Julie's lead yelling at Jake not to  give Matt any of the ******* when he offered it to him. Eve held her anger while she watched him as he snorted the fine white powder. Julie told her brother,

"Your ******* stupid."

Eve shouted at him,

"Yeah you are."

"Why do you even care.",

he asked in voice that stabbed at Eve. Lost in her thoughts she barely notice when Amanda walked in. Eve heard her whining but couldn't make out what she was saying. She looked up in time to hear Julie invite her somewhere. Automatically she refused using the excuse that her son was awake. Amanda threw a fit telling Julie to leave Eve behind then she turned to Eve glaring at her as she left the room with Jake following behind her.

"Ignore her. Lets go.",

Julie insisted.

"I can't.",

Eve pointed to her son.

"Ask Matt to watch him",

she told her. Eve looked at Matt who was shaking his head with his answer no.

"It's only for a few minutes Matt."

Julie told him. Eve walked towards Matt telling Julie,

"It's okay Julie, Amanda doesn't want me to go, remember."

"**** her."

Julie said laughing. Eve reached for her son taking him from Matt, but Matt pulled him back telling her,

"I'll do it."

"No, it's okay, give me my baby."

Eve insisted pulling on Sam. Eve frowned at Matt when he refused to let go of Sam. They both tugged at him til he started crying, with sounds of his cries she let go of Sam.

"Are you sure Matt? I can take him, he's my baby, just give him to me. "  

Eve studied him, Matt pouted saying,

"I'll do it, I always do it anyway?"

Feeling uneasy Eve handed Sam's bottle to Matt then left the room with Julie. They met Amanda, Jake and Jeff at the curb where the cream colored Cadillac was parked in front of the house.  Immediately Amanda threw a fit at the sight of Eve. Eve shrugged her off as they drove to the store. Jake went in then returned empty handed explaining it was two a.m. and the store clerk refused to sell him alcohol. They drove the four blocks back to the house with Amanda pouting a fit that had them all in distress. Upon arriving to the house Eve smoked a cigarette on the front porch with Julie keeping her company. She finish the cigarette proceeded to the kitchen retrieving a yogurt from the fridge. Eve step out on the back porch listening for Sam. She stood there for several minute while she ate her yogurt thinking,

Sam's probably asleep. If i go in that room and end up waking him Matt will flip. I'll just wait a few more minutes and smoke another cigarette, if Sam cries i'll get him, if he doesn't i'll leave it be.

She finish her cigarette certain everything was perfectly fine. She believed Sam was sleeping in the safety of Matt's protection. Matt had always referred to Sam as his son ever since Eve's belly began to show she was pregnant with Sam, she trusted him. With her mind at ease she returned to the living-room and out the front door.  The Cadillac took off leaving Amanda behind. She watched Amanda walk along side of the house heading towards the back yard. Eve followed Amanda until she turned snapping her words she instructed Eve to leave her alone. Eve turned around entering the house through the front door.  Amanda entered the house through the back entrance minutes after eve had sat down next Julie. Amanda joined them in the living-room visibly upset making it clear she was not happy that Jeff left to take Jake home. Soon after Matt ran through back door yelling ,

"Help! He's not breathing, he's not breathing!"

The girls met him at the frame of the door leading to the kitchen. They shouted at him demanding to know what had happened. He told them Sam must have swallowed a rock. Everything swirled into a blur and Eve took her baby from him grabbing her coat on the way out running, following Julie.

Eve blinked through tears returning her to the room where the detectives sat in front of her. She shook head resting her arms on the table saying,

"That's all i know."

"Tell us again, from the beginning, what happened?"

The detectives took turns insisting she tell them over and over again what she knew. After the fifth time through the events of that night she lost her composer. Eve slammed her hands down on the table as she stood from the chair screaming,

"I already told you what happen. Why are you doing this? How many times do I have to tell you?"

She hung her head low clearing her mind making sense of the situation. She looked up at them, in a confused voice she said,

"You think i killed my baby?'

Her voice hardened raising slightly.

"Is that what you think? Is that why your doing this? I didn't **** my baby, I didn't **** him."

Defeated she fell into her chair. The detectives looked at each other then turned off the recorder.

"We're finished."

They both said softly standing then leaving the room. Some time later a police officer opened the door leading her to another room with a table in the center surrounded with chairs and a two-sided mirror next to it. Her eyes leaked endless amounts of sorrow flowing, falling with every step she took towards the chair she pulled out sitting so that she faced the mirror. The door closed with the officers exit and she let out a wail of enormous heartbreak, sorrow, and just flat out pain.

What happened? Oh god, bring him back. Tell me what happened. Why?

She pleaded silently with her God. She watched herself in the mirror thinking,

I should have never left the bed. I should have made him fall asleep.

Feeling faint her eyes throbbed making her head pound deeper pulsing down her neck. Eve pushed two chairs together curling on to them making her hands her pillow. She closed her eyes wishing that when she opened them she'd be next to Sam in bed. But she open her eyes and saw the carpet of the room, she began to sob. The door opened with the familiar face of the officer who lead her to the exit of the police station informing her she was free to go. The light of the sun blinded her sending her into a daze. Nora and Julie soon joined her and she asked Julie's mother Nora,

"Where's Matt?"

Nora turned to Eve shushing her with a finger to her lips. When they arrived home Nora requested the girl join her in her room. Once there Nora instructed the girls to sit on the bed. They did as asked then Nora faced the floor slowly and clearly she said,

"Matt killed Sam!"

With the sounds of those words Eve's world turned, crumbling. Nora informed the girls what Matt had done to the child. They all cried in pain knowing nothing could ever be the way it was before. Now those loving feeling she felt for Matt in the darkest corners of her mind echo'd, slithering, completely tainted by the unspeakable evil he committed against her son resonated throughout her being.
C Dec 2010
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.

Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..

Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
don’t
look

I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.


I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
blushing prince Jul 2018
my belly grows the size of a bag of apricots
there is a will at the bottom of a lake that needs retrieving
the car sank but the body made it to the shore and changed her name by midnight
come springtime the ice melts and the water is back
crawling upon shy ankles
there are growing pains who find a home between nettles and
the hives of adobe wasps
i never could cohabitate with nature
when they ask at parties where i've been
things that are at rest stay at rest
Ellen Bee Sep 2013
The feathers of the trees turn to ash
The wind dances coldly
The air smells of summer's death
And winter's rebirth
I realize the earth is a phoenix
And I am happy
Hannah Larson Oct 2013
For one month Odysseus toiled and
Built up the house that stood so great before,
Clearing away the cobwebs that had been.
Twenty years since truly being a home,
Twenty years since being filled with laughter
That was more than lust of insolent men.
And so Odysseus sent for his son
That they may set out on an angling jaunt.
Whilst they were making their way in the deep,
A strange singing filled the air and they were
Surrounded by fog as thick as the stew
Telemachus’ mother often prepared.
Out of the mist strode a Nereid with skin
The color of the purest of milk creams.
Silky hair fell in lush amber waves down
Her flawlessly curved back, flowing smoothly
Such as the Nile river in the wind.
And she said unto them, “Friends, do not be
Frightened, for I shall bear you no harm. You
Who have come from years of fear and anguish,
I now call to bear a terrible task.
There is a great daemon in these waters,
An archfiend who calls herself Lamia.
She eats any children who dare descend in
Waters where she lurks hidden in shadow.
She snatches at the ankles of the young
Like a solicitous epistle grasps
At the heartstrings of those who read it. She
Is a sickness that has no remedy,
A war with no end. She is the dark thought
One cannot be rid of. She is pure death.
Please, great Odysseus, vanquish this thing
Haunting every step of the innocent.
I give to you this costume that one may
Receive the breath of life underwater. ”

Upon agreeing to the colossal
Undertaking, Odysseus and his
Progeny initiated their search
Across the marine for the beast behind
The mask of trepidation. However,
‘Twas not long until Lamia herself
Appeared to them and made to devour
Telemachus himself, for he was a
Young man, young enough to vex her temper.
This thing that had risen out of the depths,
She had a beautiful face matched closely
Only by Venus herself. But beneath
The splendor is that of an animal
With the scaled, winding tail of an immense
Serpent and talons ending her long hands.
She apprehended the son of our great
Hero in a clawed fist and began to
Raise him to her massive gaping gullet.
Before the harm was done, Odysseus
Seized a sarsen from a near formation
And heaved it at Lamia’s beautiful
Head. The boulder succeeded in breaking
All of her shining teeth, preventing her
From consuming Telemachus. She
Fulminated for a moment, and then
Hastily withdrew to her cavernous
Space.
           Odysseus followed, retrieving
A bronze sword from a shipwreck he passed in
His haste. Brandishing his weapon fiercely,
He charged. Managing to scarcely avoid
Lamia’s lashing tail and slashing claws,
He climbed to the base of her neck and plunged
The sword into the soft flesh that was there.
He tore the blade back and forth, severing
The pronounced head from her ghastly body.

After slaughtering the daemon, the two
Swam for shore, Telemachus breathing by
Way of keeping hold of his father’s suit.
Once at the surface of the sea, they were
Met once again by Amatheia,
The Nereid who’d charged them with the duty,
Who rewarded Odysseus with a
Magic bag that could hold any item,
Size or shape, and never got heavy, no
Matter its load. When given, it held 100,000
Drachma, a great deal of money for them.

After thanking her freely and being
Thanked in return, the men were magicked back
To their home on Ithaca, where remained
Penelope, wife to Odysseus.
They lived quite happily off the money
Gifted graciously to them, and were graced
By the great Gods forevermore for the
Grim duties performed by Odysseus.
Growing up, as a ten year old, was nothing new to me, for that’s all I felt I did at the time. I was, and still am, the oldest, but now of 5 and the two after me are now twelve turning thirteen within the next six months. Man, really makes me feel like an old hag… no offense to any elder I don’t literally think you and or any other elder is a so called “hag” its like the saying “old farts” your older but not really old and you don’t… really… well, you know… never mind, anyways, as a child or when I was ten or eleven years old to be exact, I use to have the same dream or more like nightmare every night, for years. It wasn’t something that happened spontaneously, it was every **** night for three maybe four years. And uh, it had its effects on me, for as young as I was I didn’t quite know how to take it other than horrific and again at the time didn’t know how to interpret the dream either. Well, it might sound a little goofy but if you read into it, it’s pretty dark. I remember lying in bed most nights contemplating whether or not to close my eyes, fearful of what came after once the dark curtain fell. On nights that I’d lose my endless battles I’d fall into a world, much like the one you and I live in, but with a twist… go figure. It was kind of trippy, like it was one of those dreams where like you don’t exactly know how and or why you got to the place your at or how and or why things got as bad as they did, you just sort of jumped into it. Which ***** may I add? I remember it was nice and sunny out and at the time my mother and I, along with my little brother David, baby sister Deanna, my step dad, my grandparents and my tia and tio all lived together in the same house… ha don’t hate, us ethnic people… well I don’t know why but that’s just how we do. Anyways the house we lived in was huge and actually really nice for a home being in the area that it was in… 48th and Southern, yup good old border line Tempe and Phoenix. We were all just chilling like on a normal Saturday at the house when we’re all home, some adults sleeping their hangovers away and some of us children playing in the Arizona room and my tio trying to, simultaneously, watch all of the ESPN programs all at once, you know normal stuff. There I am having a grand old time, when I suddenly get this off, cold, abnormal feeling of just somebody watching me with eyes that are filled with just pure evil. I sit frozen on the floor waiting for what’s to come next; everything around me is bright and sunny, warm and cozy then all of a sudden it warps and I see it before me just leaving… everything then feels dark and hopeless, cold and frightening. My brother is no longer sitting next to me on the floor and I no longer hear the TV screaming penalties on the previous play, the once simmering rice now smells burnt to a crisp and all curtains are now closed. I try to get up in a hurry to run to the door to see where everyone has gone, but time and space is not of existence, as I am now slowly running through the archway of the kitchen I find that I have again jumped but to another part of the house. I’m now standing at the very end of the hallway in front of the door to my room, I can now see the sunlight again and this time everybody is in their rooms, just sitting there waiting… for something. Suddenly, **** gets weird. All of the pirates from the Disney movie Peter Pan came barging through the front door, making their way down the hall, retrieving my family members as they walked past each room. My mind was quick to react, but again almost paralyzed, I couldn’t move a muscle. I could have sworn I screamed or said something, it just didn’t come out clearly or loud enough or maybe even at all. Before my little eyes I watched as these large, animated men took my family away from me, once they turned their backs to walk out the house, then was I able to run after them, but by the time I reached the door, they were already outside and the door was closing before me. I reached out as far as I could in hopes of maybe opening the door to pull all of them back in or going along with them, but instead helped slam the door shut as I was suddenly ****** or pushed forward by an angry force, with my fists pounding into the door I watched as they chained up my house and mocked me. It was weird, the house was then floating I was just chilling in the sky, the closest thing I could think of relating it to is when Dorothy is caught in a storm. The next few moments are kind of a blur, it slowly goes dark again and as tears roll down my cheeks, leaving a burning trail of confusion and a sense of abandonment, I am pushed back to the end of the hallway, curled up into a ball, with arms wrapped, hugging my knees closer to my chest, feeling helpless. I let out the most painful, gut wrenching sob that turned into a scream releasing every ounce of oxygen my body was capable of holding and back into a whimper once I was able to catch my breath. I then wake up to my mother standing over me shaking me profusely tears ran down my face and as my whimper turned into heavy breathing, I realize I’ve woken up everybody in the house and to see all of their faces, in one room… the same room I myself occupied, turned tears of absolute terror and confusion into immediate tears or relief and happiness.
I didn't really know what to name this one... so that was the first thing that came to mind (:
pitch black god8 May 2019
~

dark early pre-dawn

body suspended between the-dark ochre earth tones of night,
and the teal pealing notes of warning of an impending morning,
signs aborning, me rising with urgency of the leaden half deaden,
torn from the bed casket to venture into a different kind of twi-lights,
nature demanding both intake and outtake, a restoration of balance

but first a bumbling wobbling, the body as carnival bumper car,
installing soon-to-be-bruising for later examination-exhumation,
lurching from handhold crevices in the walls like crazy cliff climbers,
my balance disturbed, eyes try  tearing apart the sticky glue of night,
my sense of direction keeping me from free falling into green glass
edges of glass tables, barely, and not always, red cuts evidentiary

“my balance disturbed” words fresh formed, and a poem expulsion
required to balance the unjust scales of spirit soul and the body cage,
patch an negotiated agreement between warring cousins, just a
twenty four hour ceasefire to retrieve the wounded and the
corpses unfounded in the small copses of false shelter,
like my ancestors expelled from Spain, making escape to be
strangers in strange lands, or remain hidden in place neath disguises
of clothes of new poems, prayers for old and new gods

this new poem comes quick like a young man making first love,
for the poem has been written by thousands nights of practicing,
so ready for quick retrieving in a smattering of a few minutes,
expulsion expulsion
what a perfect verbiage to capture the night terrors, the differentials,
the procession path between what was and what will be,
when my balance restored and this poem’s completion installation
in the body of my work, as a nail disguised in the works of my body,
entering by command of the pitch black gods
5:29am April 24th
Your inferior intellect disgusts me. While I have some trouble verbalizing my own, I know that it is far more than what you display. Your immature actions and juvenile conduct will get you into trouble some day; real trouble. You may not even notice, because you are too stubborn to face the fact that you aren’t a goddess. You have bad intentions and wicked tongue. Your fuel is jealousy and your eyes are blind. But we’re both growing older, and one day you will realize that everything I’ve done has been good.  Or maybe you won’t realize - if not, I will pity you, but I will have no mercy. We all have a choice. We all choose who we want to be, and I’m not disregarding DNA; I know it plays a role, it plays a strong one, but we feed on experience, and I expected better from you--of all people.

You’ve been put through the same evil that you construct. Why? I only want the best for both of us, for everyone. You seem to differ. I’m not sure if it’s selfishness, envy, or determination to make a point, but it’s something. I’m not sure of its irrelevance to our confrontation, but I sure as hell know that it is irrelevant to anything else. So, why? You know as well as I do that we all have our different skill-sets, different opinions, and different incentives, so if you’re trying to prove something, stop. You know the human can’t be tamed once his or her mind is set in place. You’re apparently set in stone. Maybe I am too, so do you understand now? You can’t change my mind. I will do as I please, just as you will. We are a lot alike, you and I. The only difference: yin vs. yang. And you know I’m right. Your inadequate hands, reaching out, just so someone will notice. Well I notice, okay? But I will not submit. Neither will he. So, please stop. I understand your apathy and your care, but is it genuine or is it all a lie? After all these years, I feel that I should know the truth, but now I feel that I don’t know you at all.

I’ve watched the change creep up your spine, and I don’t blame you, completely. I know the storm has been rough, but don’t you know that it covers the whole sky? We’re all getting rained on and all you seem to care about is your own umbrella. Sure, you may hand it to me every once in a while so I have a bit of cover, but I know that you’ll be retrieving it soon, just like always. I just hope that some day the sun comes out for you, because I want that for you. I want you to be okay. I want you to be happy. I  want to be happy. I want your interference to cease. From one empath to another: I know you can feel it. You know you can be better. I’m not sure if it’s fear of failure or simple carelessness that’s getting in the way, but something is. You can control it. I would never intentionally disrespect you; you’re almost like a sister to me, an older sister. So start acting older. You have a substantial amount of potential in this life. All you have to do is let go of all the negativity and you’ll be set free. Just like me. I love you, so please understand.
This was written by me a couple of years ago and no longer applies to the intended reader, but I found it and it caught my eye. Give it a chance, because the first paragraph is a bit harsh..  I hope some of you can relate and enjoy.
Francie Lynch Jan 2015
Those dog days of summer
Near forgotten and gone,
Are stored for the winter,
And remembered in song.

The dogs' days of winter
Tell a different tale,
Of dogs pulling sleds
In Alaska for mail;
Or searching the Alps
Bringing whiskey and ale,
Panting and pulling
In hills, waters and dales.

Siberian Huskies,
The Great Pyrenees,
The Alaskan Malamute,
Run off their tails
Battling death and disease.

The Keeshond  
Doesn't wear
Wooden clogs,
Like the Newfie
And Wolfhound,
They're winter work dogs.

If working in snow
Isn't enough to freeze fur,
Look to the Lab,
In frigid waters
In layers of warm flab
Helping fishermen,
Or retrieving a lad.
These warm furied friends
Will work til their end.

The dog days of summer
Ran off with the pack,
Leaving the dogs
Of our winters
To haul, trail and track.
Our best friends.
Musty kisses, so much like cologne with a musky smell, leave a lasting aftertaste—an indication of a man desperately trying to conceal his insecurities. Rumors have circulated that he has resorted to manipulation and mind games in his interactions with women, resembling a predatory elite, a muskellunge lurking in the depths of a freshwater lake. As nightfall approaches, he prepares himself for the evening's activities, donning his goggles like a skilled diver ready to plunge headfirst into the murky waters of awkward conversation and those all-too-familiar first impressions. With an air of self-assuredness, he boasts about his past athletic achievements; "Hey I used to be good at sports," obviously spelled out on his letterman jacket as evidence of his once formidable sporting prowess. "While I may have retired from the game, but perhaps tonight you can play ball, and be the one to play with my *****," he slyly suggests, fueled by liquid confidence provided by a few shots of courage. Unfortunately for him, the weight of his words pales in comparison to the value of the drinks he has been offering the object of his attention. So of course she won't pay attention.

As her patience wears thin, she cannot contain her frustration any longer and resorts to throwing the last swallow of her drink in his
face, an act meant to deflate his ego. Instead of swallowing his pride, he bounces back like the reverberations echoing through the empty club. Retrieving a cigarette from the left pocket of his coat, he ignites a flame and engulfs himself in a cloud of smoke, attempting to find solace in his self-imposed camouflage through his chimney neck.
Without skipping a beat, he beckons for another glass of whiskey and casually whistles a tune before every sip, as though seeking comfort in the familiarity of his routines. In a fleeting moment, his gaze meets mine, almost as if we were old friends sharing a silent understanding.

Little does he know, I am acquainted with the man behind the facade, aware of the pain he actively conceals behind his bravado. There is a tragic narrative woven into his life, one in which he has been consistently belittled by a brother, leaving him with no choice but to compensate for his perceived shortcomings by pushing boundaries. Within him, there is an unmistakable sense of being lost, drowning his sorrows in a bottle. Tomorrow, he will consume his own words, choking on the regret that accompanies his intoxicated state and *****. It is a sobering tale indeed, one that asks us to consider how we may overlook fragments of our own pain reflected in the brokenness of others.
Filmore Townsend Aug 2013
losing thoughts to the margins in
some great depression of creative
outlet. taking inked works from a
revered Shakespeare born of the
Moorish states, filling out cata-
combs of this one's entombed
thoughts. and pondering Paris
of some earlier century, how
those writers flocked together.
how this one loathes his current
centuries other writers.
and these, are we, birds of a feather?
flocking, so to be better caught
by twelve-gauge scatter shot?
perhaps we are of a generation
lost, with blinders grown thru years.
expats stranded in a sea of comp-
lacancy in isolation with warring
souls raising higher parapets for
safety? this one's soul may have
raised too high fortifications,
forcing attrition upon the inhab-
itants. this one's soul may have
slaughtered the others for fear
of a low-cat staring up to
the eyes of its King. and
lone heart-beat echoing off
solid stone walls built of mortar
mixed with sweat and tears from
desecrated - of the desolated - and
now forsaken culture only a
quarter-century out. this one's
dogma consisting of self-martying
psychopomps pre-proclaiming ..
     'I went out myself into
     an immortal body, and
     now I am not what I was
     before. Now born in mind.'
this one's canonized martyrs only
seeking migration and division.
seeking the Kepigori for hopes of
retrieving knowledge lost - placed
without qualm of forgetting - the
ancestors bore unto still setting
mounds of clay mixed blood. and
when finally set, when finally full-
formed, when finally upright and
springing forth the common know-
ledge which was taught once in
truth. and, now breaking in thought
while this one's hours rot, while this
one leaves an abrupt end.
Oscar Mann Oct 2015
What happened to the dandies
Those gentlemen of the grandest Culture
Destroyers of dreaded boundaries
Mockers of meaningless morality
Inquisitors of a profound lack of imagination
Guardians of good taste
Messengers of modernity

What happened to those 19th century hipsters
Who so gracefully dissected Society
And whose wit and wisdom
Shook the foundations
Of mainstream hypocrisy
Of inept intellectualism
And lamentable lies

We are in dire need of retrieving
The lost art of being a dandy
To shake the foundations once more
And to revoke the righteous rage
Of the cultural creed
To set society aflame
With wit and wisdom
Chris Voss Jul 2014
When he entered the room, she was naked. She sat stripped of her mythology and the bare curves of her hips made his hands shake. He hid them in his pockets like seizures in winter and told himself it was just the morning coffee.

"Jesus Christ..." His jaw slacked and tightened and he waited for a response; something witty like, odd time to pray or not quite, but maybe his cousin or oh, honey, he moved out years ago, but we still get his mail.
But soon waiting gave way to waiting, as waiting is wont to, and things became uncomfortable. Her deadbolt eyes. She blinked in slow motion, no lash out of place, and he felt foolish.

See, he never expected her to be a woman, and he almost said as much, had the look on her face not shut him up beautifully. Besides, at this point he was pretty certain that cities definitely don't speak--not English anyway--and even then, his concrete dialect was, at best, as atrocious as cracked pavement. He lisped with too much wind and not enough asphalt.

He looked around for somewhere to sit but the only chair wasn't even really a chair, it was a stool with a questionable third leg that sat over-turned and tucked in the far corner and he found himself at an impasse. Retrieving it would not only involve taking his hands from their linen hideaways, but she hadn't even offered him a seat and he didn't want to be rude; he being a man of manners with the cotillion lessons to prove it. On the other hand, there was a more-than-decent chance that his knees would buckle at any moment. He cleared his throat.

"May I?" he motioned and crept around her with a weird, dainty tip-toe. He would later reflect on and regret this odd step choice because it was undeniably ladylike, unlike this lady whose face seemed carved from marble and gave nothing away; she just cast her eyes slightly downward. He uprighted the chair that wasn't really a chair and checked the sturdiness of the questionable leg and shrugged in questionable approval and dragged it back to where he was and returned his hands to where they were and felt, aside from the girly walk, that went surprisingly well.

So it was in silence that he was left to sit. Sit and think. Think about small things, trivial ****. He thought about the small stain on his pants and hoped to God it was toothpaste. He thought about the itch in the dead center of his back where he can never scratch without looking like he has a severe case of cerebral palsy. He thought about his pockets, full of trembling leaves that fluttered with spare change winds and hung delicately from his autumn tree arms. He thought about bigger things too, like how if two people on exact opposite ends of the earth simultaneously each dropped a piece of bread, for a brief moment the whole world was just a really big sandwich. But mostly he thought about the difference between hard and mean.

Hard is the bottomless tumblers of American dream fathers, breathing scotch like fire and promises that were only ever half-way held true. But mean... Mean is a different kind of machine entirely. Mean, he realized, is one solid kick in the nuts past hard. Hard is when your ice cream drops mid-lick and falls in the cinematic drama of a-hundred-and-twenty frames per second to the unforgiving pavement, and even though there is a split seconds chance to reach out and catch it, you don't because, let's face it, sticky hands are gross. But mean is the little junior sonofabitch dog that comes a-waddling on in, laps up your deliciously sweet sidewalk treat and stares you right in the face while he does it. Mean makes you realize the sticky fingers would have been worth it. And before he could decide which category this Angel City would fit in, she stood, with a slight smile curling at the corner of her mouth and one hand behind her back. She slinked over to him with snake ankles and reached out and ran her fingers along his jawline and hooked his chin upward and kissed him.

It wasn't the delicate, thin-lipped kiss of embarrassed virgins and ex-stripper-turned-born-again-Christians. It also wasn't the Californication kiss filled with carnal tongue that he might have expected had the idea that she was going to do anything but intimidate the utter **** out of him even crossed his mind. It was somewhere between the two. Between shelter and apocalypse.  Viperous with a tinge of motherly protection (which, actually, gave him some confusing feelings). When she pulled away he felt the slight clink of metal against his teeth.

A bullet. Round and smooth, he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger and watched his fingerprint peel off and mark the lead skin with little, oily mazes. He looked up to her, unsure of what to say or what to make of whatever the hell just went down. She stared silently because, you know, that's her thing and he felt he had to say something because, you know, manners.

"I thought we said no gifts." He laughed. She didn't. He felt like an idiot immediately. Then, like the other half heart of a best friend necklace, she drew from her back a snub-nosed revolver. Her thumb flicked with outlaw elegance and the empty chamber rolled open.

"Let's play a game."
It was all she said. He didn't pay attention to whether she spoke in impeccable English or if the words were lit in the electric neon of Sunset Boulevard. It didn't matter and he didn't care. He didn't even notice when he took the gun and slid the round in until after he spun the chamber and slung it shut. When she lifted his arm without touching him and he felt like he was her marionette. When the snub nose found it's way to his mouth, he was certain of it. The feeling of the metal barrel against his bare teeth made his skin crawl and his stomach turn, yet even still he grinned.

He grinned because he saw his hand and his hand grinned because it wasn't shaking, not anymore.

He grinned and cocked the hammer back.
©2014
Zead Apr 2015
One splashes rainbows before my eyes
                                                               Another tries to save me before I die
What do we want with you
                                                                              As if you’ve ever gotten old
Making the world go down
                                                     Your broken gears will never be forgotten
Clean is what I wear
                                                                                              Filth is what I seek
Is it that I’m really seeking for the grace of God? is it that I’m just too scared to live? What is wrong with me?
                            The narrow gate is wide to me. What is wrong with me?
Perpetually oozing **** out of the only place I can find
                                                              I should have never started this cycle
My best friend
                                                                                                             My savior
My idol
                                                                                                     My best friend
   Who is my best friend God?    
                And why do I care so much
                     He is a joke
                              Gosh dangit!
                                    I want to live in the light
                                                  I want to walk in the Light
                                                                     I desire the LIGHT!
                                                                               God is everything beautiful
What is seen as beauty, truly is beauty:            
                                                                                             one way or another
Your response
                                                                                                           Harmonize
GreenTea Nov 2012
"I didn't mean that..." he said retrieving his coat
that was resting on my shoulders
Protecting me from the wind and sleet coming down

I can deal with a lot in a relationship
the dates spent with you crying on my shoulder
me, constantly wiping away your tears
The ninja star you through at my picture
reassuring you I said "It wasn't my favorite picture anyway"

but when you sent me a bar of chocolate and the poem
Every day for two months, without much a word
or a minute in your company
a replacement for your heart
a gift that you retrieved
what are your words,
without your actions holding them up

You later told me "I didn't give anything in the past half year to you out of love"
what did you give it out of?
Pride?
revenge?
Pity?

You know better then anyone
I don't need that 5 dollar chocolate, that just goes down like a weight
or the poems, long words that meant nothing, a long way of saying
here is a page with words on it for you.
because you can't tell me in person
"You mean nothing to me but a five dollar chocolate and long words on a page"
To whom it may concern:

I’m sure you have a million questions running through your mind, much like I did before making this decision. I’m sure that deep down inside, you are hurting, just like I was. You may never forgive me for what I did, but just know, I held on for too long. This wasn’t a decision that I made on impact because I was having a bad day. It had me thinking for quite some time and I finally came up with what I thought was best. I was tired of waking up every morning and faking my smile. I was tired of waking up with swollen eyes from crying myself to sleep. I was tired of constantly washing my pillow case from all the mascara marks that had appeared from crying myself to sleep. I was tired of telling you that nothing was wrong and that it wasn’t your fault. All that had been a lie. Everything was wrong. And it was your entire fault.

Sincerely, I’m sure you know by now.*

Imagine waking up and finding that note lying on the soft white sheets next to you. Imagine the thoughts that ran through my mind. Imagine seeing the blade covered in blood on the nightstand that belonged to your girlfriend. Imagine my heart start racing.

I looked around the room. All was quiet like any other normal Sunday morning. But instead of waking up next to Sutton, I woke up to the note that had replaced her.

Sutton had a history of depression and had cheated death only twice as far as I knew, so upon finding the note, I almost had a heart attack. She’d been released from the psychiatric hospital about a month ago. The doctors thought she was better, everyone thought she was better. Whenever I went to visit her after work, she’d seemed happy to see me. I noticed her face light up several times. I’d hold her hand, just to make sure she hadn’t cut herself again since the last time I’d been there. And as far as I could tell and see, she’d been clean. So a month later, when I got the call that I could go pick her up, I was more than thrilled.

After picking her up, we had gone out to lunch, and spent the day together. We walked around the lake, holding hands, talking about what each other had missed. I fell even more in love with her, as if I didn’t think it was possible. She was back to the girl who I’d fallen in love with my senior year of high school. Happy, smiling, enjoying herself, just the way I liked her.

I threw the covers off of me.

“Sutton.” I whispered at first. Then, realizing she wouldn’t hear me, I said it louder. “Sutton.”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and got up. I went to the bathroom where the door was closed and pressed my ear against it. It was silent and I didn’t think she was in there. I tried the ****, but it was locked, proving my previous assumption had been wrong.

“Sutton.” I said into the door. “Sutton, are you okay?”

There was no answer and my heart started pounding even louder.

“Sutton.”

I went back over to the nightstand by our bed and opened my wallet, retrieving a credit card from one of the many slots. My dad had shown me this trick when I had been just a little boy. Taking the card back over to the door, I slid it through the lock on the door and heard the latch move, allowing me to twist the **** and open the door. Sutton was sitting on the side of the edge of the bathtub with her head in her hands.

“Sutton.” I whispered, opening the door wider.

She continued to remain silent.

I went and knelt in front of her. Trying to look up into her eyes, but they were closed. I reached forward to take her hands in mine and she pulled them closer to her.

“Sutton, don’t push me away.” I whispered. “What’s wrong?”

She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head the slightest bit.

“I can’t help, if you don’t talk to me.” I whispered.

She sniffled a couple times, and wiped some fresh tears away from her eyes. I took my hands slowly towards her again, and when she didn’t pull away, I softly grabbed them and held them in mine. I squeezed a little tighter and pulled her gently into my lap, wrapping my arms around her.

“Talk to me.” I whispered before I placed my lips on her forehead. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s hard to say what’s wrong when nothing is right.” She whispered.

I squeezed her tighter and started rocking her back and forth. After a couple minutes, I pulled her arm away from my chest and examined her wrist, where I discovered fresh blood from cuts that would soon turn to scars. I tilted her chin up, making her look at me. Her eyes started watering from tears that would soon begin to pour. I wrapped my arms tight around her and pulled her close to me, as I heard her begin sobbing. Rocking her back and forth, I rubbed her back.

“I need help.” She whispered into my chest.

“Shh. I know. It’s okay.”

Strangers in every day clothes continued walking back and forth in front of me, as I sat in the most uncomfortable chair there could possibly be, with my head bent in my hands like Sutton had been that day. Holding back tears turned out to be harder than what I thought. We had stood at the front desk, preparing to check her in, when she had suddenly had a change of heart.

“This is a mistake.” She said.

I looked at her, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t need this.”

“Sutton, you wanted this.” I said, “it was your idea. Remember?”

“But, I don’t want it anymore.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I just don’t.”

“Well, that’s not a good enough reason.” I explained.

“Please, don’t make me stay here.” She pleaded some more.

“I’m sorry, Sutton.” I said.

“If you love me, you won’t make me stay.”

“No, if I love you, I’ll do just that.” I explained. “You’re not healthy. You need this. It’s not permanent. You won’t be here forever. Just until you get better.”

“So you’re saying there’s something wrong with me?”

Playing the guilt trip had always been something she was good at. She had me wrapped around her skinny little fingers because I was so head over heels in love with her, but there was no way she was getting out of this one.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“No denial.”

“Sutton. Stop. I love you.” I said. “I’m doing this because I love you.”

“No, you’re doing this because I’m broken.”
I may or may not add more to make it a longer story. Let me know what you guys think so far?
Eloisa Jun 2022
And she danced to the gorgeous melodies of the ocean waves.
Echoing grace in her courageous and forgiving heart.
Retrieving what she lost in the darkest cave of the past.
A song of promise
to her most bearing self.
All the love that she deserves.
Everything she forgot
to give herself
before.
Edna Sweetlove Mar 2015
A famous "Barry Hodges" poem!

I was strolling along the Normandy beaches
In the close vicinity of Caen one day
With a very tasty piece of arm-candy to hand
When I found a bleached human femur on the beach.
Oh dear me, what thoughts this conjured up in my brain
As I imagined whose bone it might have been!
Perhaps some pathetic soldier boy landing in forty-four
Who got slotted by a gallant German gunner,
His eyes feasting on the sacrificial cannon fodder
So foolishly supplied for his target practice.

Then, as I grabbed my lady friend's juicy ****,
Causing her to turn and sink her tongue into my earhole,
We sank onto the sands in order to sate our lusts,
(enflamed by a very delicious meal of *moules marinières

and a bucket or two of well-chilled Muscadet sur Lie)
I thought, what the **** does it all matter?
This is now, and that was then, and this old world
Has become a much nicer place nowadays;
But how mistaken I was in that fond thought;
Oh what an idealist I am in a world of woe.

For, all of a sudden, a contingent of fat dwarfs appeared,
Totally naked apart from their luminous Uncle Sam hats
And the Stars and Stripes hanging from their arseholes;
How I marvelled at their disgusting shapes
(and how surprised was I to find their genitals
were of normal measurements and thus
rather intrusively large by comparison
with the rest of their miniature bodies).
O dear Lord and alleged Father of Mankind
Forgive their horrid ways verily and forsooth.

With a whoop, those demented military retards, [see note below]
The famous 118th battalion ****** Marine veterans,
A contingent of whom emerged from a portable toilet
(which must have been a bit of a tight squeeze),
Chopped my girl-friend up with their bayonets,
Whereupon I crapped myself in terror and pity,
Before retrieving the purse from the eviscerated corpse,
Realizing that her PIN number was still useable
Until 'les flics' discovered her unfortunate remains
After the shore ***** had partaken thereof.
NOTE *: The 118th ****** Marines were a very brave battalion of dwarfs of whom unfortunately 91% drowned on the Normandy beaches on D-Day as the water was too deep for them. Their tiny descendants visit Normandy from time to time to commemorate this sad event and usually get totally rat-arsed on too much Calvados (being gnome-like in stature, they have a smaller capacity to absorb large quantities of *****). It was my bad luck that my visit coincided with one of their trips as their brutality is world-famous and their lack of intelligence is wondrous. They are basically retards and best avoided.
Damian Acosta Jan 2013
Dear Love,
How dare you? Keeping me in the dark for so long... Blinding me with expectations, toying with my Ego, leaving me to fend off Fear-- and all for what? So I could grow? So I could see beyond this world of illusion-- beyond the farce of fame, the unending stroke of Time, the loneliness of pain, the screeching void of darkness? How dare you?

How dare you break the comfort of the weak man I'd learned to be? Stripping off the habits from my body-- only to send them back in a tighter, sexier dress. Replacing the sweet nectar of oblivion with the sweeter taste of empty knowledge. Giving me false hope so I could see hope as false... How dare you give me life and just as swiftly take it back?

How dare you test my patience, bow my will and give me faith? Making me responsible for my body, mind & soul-- granting wishes long enough to see them turn to dust. And all for what? So I could learn? So I could fall? So I could stand, so I could fall?

As if your endless tide of giving and retrieving, over thousands of lives, could make me be like you. As if your never-ending understanding could ever make me bloom. As if by every test of strength you've sent, has been to know me true. As if by pain you'd see me gain a wisdom, such as you....

Love,

Damian
Sabila Siddiqui Apr 2018
She wrote his name on the seashore, along with what she never told. Taking a step back, she let the turbulent waves crash upon the shoreline and wipe away it all away. She let the words be taken back by the retrieving waves, letting them be lost in the sea. Inhaling the cold air that made every cell of her shiver she hoped one day the words will be whispered by the breeze from the sea.
Ayeglasses May 2013
What have I done?
What did I say?
I fear it is broken.
For I can already see.
The chips and the cracks.
To know that if anything.
I had to lack something.
Something that is far too lost to retrieve.
b for short Aug 2015
When I was a little girl, I occasionally loved to wear dresses. Not because they made me feel pretty, or because that’s what the damning norms of society taught me I should wear—I wore them because I loved how it felt when I would spin myself around. I’d scuff my Mary Janes, litter my tights with runs, and twirl around until my balance ran out and my little knees met the ground. No scrape or brush burn kept me from the thrill of that momentum, smiling wide as the material rose up to meet my fingers while I flew around in haphazard circles. I’d watch the colors of this huge, painted world blend and blur together, amused that, for a moment, I was out of my own control.

Eventually, much to my dismay, I grew up in nearly all of the ways a little girl can.

I realize, as an adult, that it’s important to harbor the mindset that we should regret nothing. After all, every experience typically gifts us with a little wisdom nugget, right? We collect them and look back fondly on the good and the bad, carrying our souvenirs with us as we move forward. Well, I have the nuggets (heh), but I can’t help but feel some regret as to how I came about retrieving them. Recently, there have been so many instances where I want to hop in the Doc’s Delorean, go back in time, grab the hands of little me, and spin ourselves into oblivion. We crash in the grass, eyes closed, world still spinning. In the midst of giggles and grins, we lay on our backs, watching the clouds come back into focus. I turn my head and look at her, fully prepared to tell her everything she needs to know to protect herself from all of the hurt and pain I know she’ll come to endure in the next couple of decades. I want so badly to save her from it all, but before I can speak, she does.

“Don’t worry, I can see it,” she looks at me, warmly.

“See what?” I ask, catching my breath.

“I can see all of the cracks in you.”

I don’t have the words for her, as she searches my face. She traces the outlines of my cheeks, somehow still as round and rosy as her own. Her eyes are my eyes; a bewildering gray green—unchanged, even after all of these years. In that moment, I realize that I’ve forgotten just how young I actually am.

“You don’t have to tell me about them. I know they’ll be mine someday.” She smiles and turns her eyes to the sky.

I’m in awe of this child—her understanding and intuitive nature. It left me perplexed.

“You already know what I’m going to tell you?” For a brief second, I relived the heartache, the fear, and the anger—and I wondered if she understood, I mean, truly understood what she was saying. “But if you know, then how can you be smiling?”

She turns back to me, lips curved sheepishly into a grin—an expression we had come to perfect. “Because where you’re cracked is the prettiest part of you. You fill them with gold and silver and all the rest of the glittery colors. They’re not empty—just spaces replaced with things that mean more to you than what was there before.”

I imagined this—a map of myself, sporadic damage branching out in all directions, repaired in technicolor brightness, more eye-catching than ever. I fell in love with the thought of my tattered soul, patchworked into something my heart could use to keep warm.

I kissed her, lightly, on her little forehead—a thank you for the words I still didn’t have, and hugged her tight.

“You should get back now,” she said, still grinning, “you don’t want to miss it.”

I don’t know what she meant by that exactly, but I had this unmistakably good feeling that she was on to something.
©Bitsy Sanders, August 2015

I realize this is not what we'd call a "poem" but rather poetic prose. Either way, it had to get out. Thanks for your understanding.
emma joy Aug 2013
I'm not going to be a teenage wasteland forever
Someday I'm going to stop polluting my body and hating my mother
I have an addiction to those
toxic remedies
like hair dye
nutmeg
and bleach.
I'll be taking calcium supplements
for dwindling marow
and for once I'll actually care about politics.
Daddy had a habit of calling me a
super-feminist
just because I wouldn't bring him his slippers
when he got home
from retrieving the mail.
I've always hated dogs in the house
so I became vegetarian.

My subscription to Cosmopolitan has long
been expired.
Instead I stick my fingers inbetween the crevices
of the fan

There's a secret to resentment:
Hang it up in the closet
on the hanger
next to the apron.
It's wanting to pour wasabi down pants
so they feel the kick
so they can hear

— The End —