Who am I?
I am the Skeptic type,
Surfacing placid as each side creates waves,
Pulling on heart strings for their own self ameliorate,
Heated controversy focusing on Health care, Religion,
and Hunger debates,
Inevitably resulting in ******* up charges for war to undertake.

Equality's repercussions leaving our freedoms at stake,
While inflating our Economy
only the rich take the cake,
Consistently keeping the poor at bay,
One resolution would be to properly educate.

Before you sell into the poison they produce to control and degenerate,
Look into the disputes staged to manipulate,  
Open your eyes and see we're being left with no other options but to obey,
For when they deny you your right to bear arms The Constitution goes up in a fury of flames,
As we sit back and watch as they replay the tape.

I am free yet I am caged,
Caressing the bars of black and white mind frames,
Constructed to destroy thought and leave the masses divided
in a collective state of confusion as their questions remain,
I no longer associate with my neighbors today.

Empathy is a far cry full of ache,
Frayed by the misconception that lives are part of a game,
Monopolies and greed breed nothing but hate,
As a silenced homeless Veteran plays his violin drowning in pain.

We're left searching for some kind of circumvent,
In a country that prides itself upon convenience,
Our golden gates are not always what they seem,
If born into poverty your chances can seem some what foreboding.

Think of the future aside from your own
and find hope in opportunities for the much needed change we all see and know,
With so many imperative predicaments there is plenty of room for growth,
Obstacles only providing the likelihood to overcome and to approach ,
For strength does not accumulate for those who are not familiar with struggle,
With all these unresolved culminations there is plenty to live and fight for despite your troubles.

They sell bundles of clothesline for $6.99.
That's how sad men play shirts from the tree
we named Alice after the ugly old lady
who waters her flowers in postmortem.

Or more likely denial, as water
and love and care and rich soil
is no way to conduct an autopsy.
She saw green when we saw dead.

Yet day after day we drove past her home,
pink paint peeling. White windows whining
and creaking for salvation from her songs.
Alice loved to sing to the floral corpses.

Alice wore pajamas just in case it was time for sleep.
The others called her hag, hippy, and witch.
The others would yell, but we only watched
from down the street or in the park, we watched.

And listened
to Alice
singing.

We sat on the tree named Alice
which hung bent in defeat, an ugliest sin
smoking spewing like milk from our lips
as we murmured along, mesmerized.

She sang low with her tapered watering can
cradled like an infant in her calloused hands
drowning the shrunken bundles of empty stems
just in case, she hoped, it wasn't time to sleep.

And after Alice played shirts
we heard song no more. Just city din.
The empty dead blew away,
the house bought and painted green.

The owners planted hedges in her flowerbed.

The secret irony,
a grand conceit,
was that to Alice
the hedges were brown
and the tree was evergreen.

Drip, drip, drip.
The dripping of distain
Like the rain on the window
And Sweeney Todd's barber blade.

Do you hear the owl calling?
He always asks a question.
Who is there? Who is listening?
Do you dare to mention?

The crunching of the leaves
Under your boots in the night.
Your pace begins to quicken,
Yet you refuse to show your fright.

Crunch, crunch, crunch
The crushing of branches.
Is someone there? Are they listening?
Are they planning their advances?

Why is it in the dark
People's minds begin to wander?
When they are cold and alone,
They can't help but ponder.

The darkness hold secrets,
Mysterious and unknown.
One can't help but fear the night
Even if they are fully grown.

Traveling in a city
Or journeying in a wood,
Fear ignites in the lonely man's heart.
Something bad happening could.

But don't worry, my pretty.
Don't fret, my little pet.
I know the quickest way to safety
If you only heed my threat.

Don't trust the stranger.
Don't trust the creep.
Don't trust the beggar man.
He'll **** you in your sleep.

Listen to the rich man.
Listen to the able.
Listen to the nice man.
Listen to the stable.

But do be careful,
Looks aren't always what they seem.
Because you see, my young friend,
I love to hear them scream.

the rain drowns the city's noise,
all you can hear is the storm knocking on your door.
potholes filled with muddy water,
traffic officers standing without umbrellas.
the poor stand outside and wonder
if they'll get some sleep tonight.
the rich pose for another picture
with a fake smile.
commuters cursing the rain gods and the government
for not using their taxes to fill holes with more cement.
the storm has been knocking on our doors
we've been too busy to answer it's call
but now it has let itself go
and the city has drowned before dawn.

I confess, I am an addict trapped in this cycle of rot.
I drank from the cup, hoping the fill will struck my luck
But just like any other happy endings my mind got stuck

Gave in, to the sweet words that jack had packed,

Silly boy gave in, to the mocking brilliance of ***
Hearing whispers of good music in my ear, drip drip, drip
The sound of smooth whiskey calling, flowing down my throat
Warming my insides, like hell-fire eating me from the tip of my fingers to my thigh

Crawling, silently creeping the lust starts to seep in
Eating my body, mind , heart and soul like the sand with the wind
I am defenseless, can’t fight this craving, the closet to life and heaven I can be
Been here before, but why can’t I ignore its beauty

Alcohol, effervescent, rich, tasteful alcohol. Strong , dark , cunning alcohol
You are divine, a slave to you I am. Goddess divine make me feel again
I fight, slit my gut and fight, but I’m powerless to your might
Sober, never to indulge in this hunger, I drank, from the cup I drank again

Animal,

Wonderful animal,

Poor glorious animal.

Let. Me. Win.

Let me kiss each knuckle,

Goodnight.

Rub your palms against the soles of my feet...

And purity bless you creature

Make you rich

With Play and Excellence

You,

Brilliant beast of burden

Die...but grace this planet softly

Violently.

Be. Go. You lovely piece of wilderness.

It has a new scale of reference
vast, vicious and unforgiving
death for millions will be anonymous
machine gun arbitrary and indiscriminate
shelled and shocked, barraged and buried
no whole corpse to recognise as human
no remains to mourn and grieve
just rich blood and bone for Poppies
growing strong in the Flanders' fields.

Landscape resculpted to barest bone
earth desecrated and destroyed
every old tree and young bush uprooted
tossed like feathers to the blackened sky
debris swirling in the clouds of poison
gas and the putrid stench of burning flesh
in pyres that smoke and stink for days
just fertile ash and dust for Poppies
growing strong in the Flanders' fields.


© M.L.Emmett

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to ****** and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
     So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the ****-ends of my days and ways?
     And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
     And should I then presume?
     And how should I begin?

          . . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

          . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep… tired… or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
     Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
     That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
     “That is not it at all,
     That is not what I meant, at all.”

          . . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

The stars twinkle.
The moon glows.

Our bare feet touching the rich soil as we make our way,
into the Night.
Holding hands, there's only US.

Our bareness laid out for mother natures taking.
Barely breathing, we make peace with the world.

In the Sea of the Night, as we make our way deeper into the world,
we walk among the wicked and the strange.
Among the poor and the rich.
Among the hollow and gluttony.

With our hands clasped tight,
our love bare
our feet bare
our emotions bare
our bodies bare...

We walk into the sea of the night,
with true love,
as our guiding light.

undo the rusty bolts
underlining
  my frizzy hairline
the crummy ones that hold
  volatile turmoil
    within my scalp
the erratic lunacy
  playing
   with my aging brain
using the untangled strings
  to jump rope
   and play
    sorrowful tunes
      for the weeping
        to harmonize

i want you
  to stick your hands
   in my heavy head
as you would
  in a flower ***
    freshly filled with soil
dig into the moist compound
  with your pliable fingers
   amend
     the corruptive leakage
       that toils
         within my own deceit

i want you
  to avidly turn
    the soft claying matter
       how ever you please
as you would
  turn into roads
     that lead you
        running
           straight to me

i want you
  to breathe
     igniting hope
born from the fumes
   of cigarettes
    you smoked insensibly
into the seeds
  you wish to discard
     in this potted cavity

i want you
  to pour oceans
    of poetic sentiments
tainted with gentle kindness
   from those isolated tears
     held back in the sockets
        of your eyes
to water
   my wilting corpse
     so it may flourish
        from your light reflecting gift
          of life (you resurrect me)

i want you
  to trust
     in your
       captivating presence
          to make me
              unintentionally smile
from your caress
  will selflessly sprout
     inflorescent buds
       of rich purplish-blue flowers
          with conspicuous green calyxes

  and even though their coloring
        is rather insignificant
  and they can be easily overlooked

i want you
  to know
   that only you
     hold the key
       to this secret pasture

that
  without you
   there would not be
     such garden
         for us to hide

Through different eyes we see the world.
I see the poor, struggling alone,
Limited by their circumstances,
Held back through no fault of their own.

You, however, are convinced
That laziness is the cause of their plight.
Denying your privileged life, you see
The situation as black and white.

I see climate change as a threat,
Affecting us now, but mainly hereafter.
Considering the whole matter a hoax,
You respond with derisive laughter.

I see people in desperate need
Of medical care that they can afford--
Care that's not a privilege but
A right leaving no one ignored.

You, too, believe in health care
But not as a right that people deserve.
With you it seems as though the idea
Of helping others strikes a nerve.

I acknowledge the importance of
Necessary regulations.
You see the government having
Too much control over corporations.

I see the need for high standards
For clean water and clean air.
To you such regulations are
Burdensome and also unfair.

People who make large amounts
Of money can therefore afford to pay
Higher taxes than the poor.
To me it just makes sense that way.

You are more concerned that the wealthy
Keep more of their money, which
Is a common refrain that we hear
Coming from the lips of the rich.

America's diversity
To me is beautiful, and yet
To you it seems as though our great
Diversity is a threat.

I want to strengthen our public schools.
When saying that, I see your hostility.
You want to strengthen the private ones
With little or no accountability.

Another giant issue that comes
From seeing the world through different eyes
Is the notion that what I call facts
Are to you nothing but lies.

It's not a matter of good or bad;
It's just a matter of point of view.
Based on all our experiences,
We see the world the way we do.

- by Bob B (2-5-17)

My sisters are world wide
brothers too

not forgetting those relationships
where some have passed over to the spirit world(but no less family)

and my faith in a Creator God )of love
allows for
sisters and brothers of other worlds,
other Planets
and this is the rich faith
I have been handed down.
Believing in the Human Race
to slowly come around to love.

each night
while i rest my weary head
god comes and counts my hair
carefully he inspects each strand
to his gentle touch my strands reveal there secrets
the reason for pre-mature greying or braking
his eyes become watery in conversation with my strands
he so wants me to tell him what he already knew
he is the all knowing
he just want me to talk to him
to tell him i need you
to tell him i love you
to tell him thank you for being my father
in return he is always Faithfull
as the night gives way to the new day
second change is revealed in the new sun
enter the chamber of the king
let his favour fall upon you
in bounty rich overwhelming

Till I get it right
Choosing the right people
To be friends with
I feel that it will not be an easy
The task for me to do
But I am willing to try
I just have a couple of friends
In my life
And I want to grow
My circle of friends
From small to large
I am not choosing the rich
People to be my friends
Because they hate
Poor people like me
Also the rich people
Are workaholics
And they also work
48 hours per week
Yes the rich people
Live also a miserable life
Because they are also
Slaves of their money
I just need poor people
In my life
That wants to be my friends
Also, I hope the poor people
I choose to be my friends
Will accept me the way
I am
Also, I feel that I can't change
Things in my life just to please
My friends
I feel that I am just fine the
Way I am
Also, I don't have much money
To live
My friends are looking after
My money
I only purchase some used clothes
From the second-hand store
Because that is also what I can afford
Also, I am happy that I am wearing
Second-hand clothes
And they look good on me
Yes I always go to the barber for
My hair cut
My friends always tell me
To shave my head
I tell them that
It is not my style
I just like a short haircut
And that also looks good on
Me
Friends I never talk behind you
Back
Because that is not the right
Thing to do
Also friends I want you
To respect me
And I will also respect you
Friends I go to bed early
Every night
I am not a night owl like you
I know you go to bed at 12:00 am
In the evening friends
Also, I think you must be used by now
Friends I hope you are also looking
After you health
If you want to live a long life
I am sure friends you don't want
To die young
Also friends it was God that gave
Us our lives
After he had made us
With his holy hands
Also placed us on earth
To live
Friends tomorrow will be another
Day that will also arrive early
For us

There, is a story little known,
Which came to light when the ruse had worn.
Of membranes torn;
And gallantry ill-worn.

Now you see, Snow-White as all of you’ve read,
Was not as boring as you’ve been fed.
She was a maiden fair,
That to question I do not dare.

But, besides that there is more to the tale,
Which is not as stale,
As the same pompous banter.
That, without having uttered two words, they lived happily ever after.

There, you see is a simple formula to this potion,
Of grand love, and romantic notions.
Where the man is a Prince, Oh! That simply cannot be altered.
And a fair maiden whose virtue has never faltered.

He is rich, she is fair.
All’s well with the world, so have no care.
They will see each other just once.
It does not matter if he be a dunce.



Love will certainly flow, there’s no point in taking it slow.
So off they will go,
Riding into a mandatory sunset.
With satiated readers and expectations met.

Now, as you know, in this tale of love and woe,
There must be a wicked woman, there is no other way to go.
For, it is a fact known to all.
Women are the wickedest of them all.

For, how could step-mommy leave it be?
That Snowy was getting prettier than she.
Tell me, have you heard of such a rarity,
Where women who are so full of vanity,

Managed to love a child that wasn’t her own.
Hence, stepmothers are the stock villain, and that is a fact well-known.

Now, Snow White was, as you’ve guessed, white as snow;
And being fair does a long way go.
Mommy dearest couldn’t stand that, women are petty we all know,
Even if they don’t always show.

So, she sent her lackey to chop off Snowy’s head;
And the queen was sure, Snowy was dead.
But the lackey had gotten soft and fuzzy.
And had let Snowy run-off after getting a little cozy.

Now, Snowy ran and ran and came to a small house.
Fit for none but a rather big mouse.
But dainty as she was,
She crawled through the moss.

She entered the little house and saw a warm cozy den.
She had run a long way; and was in a good deal of pain.
So, she lay down on one oddly small but cozy bed.
And slept for hours as if she were dead.

When she awoke, Snowy lay amidst stubby little men.
All in all they were seven.
They weren’t ugly little midgets at all.
But granted, they weren’t really that tall.

Well, they did look quite good.
Sadly, Snowy’s stomach lurched only for food.
Days went by, the little men kept Snowy safe and sound.
And now a strange feeling in her heart was found.

Snowy had a courting Prince back at home.
Funnily, who hadn’t even noticed that she was gone.
But all the while as she thought of her Prince and his face,
He faded far off, and she went into a daze.

Now, there was this handsome stubby dwarf, his name was Sneezy,
And his manner rather gallant and breezy.


He wasn’t the plump, bulbous nosed oaf so old.
As you’ve so often been told.
He was a jaunty good lad,
Snowy liked him better than the Prince; even if a tad.

Snowy in her heart felt warm and fuzzy,
And her little bed was amply cozy.
One day when the other six stubbys were off into the forest,
Sneezy professed his love for his dearest.

Snowy was smitten.
The pompous Prince forgotten.
One kiss followed another kiss,
On that odd cozy bed, they found their bliss.

Snowy and Sneezy lived happily for the time being.
Till, her oblivious Prince was alerted of this scene.
Of a happy Snow-White living with her chubby, little mate.
He rode through the forest, and knocked at their gate.

He was livid to see that Snowy had found, of all people a Dwarf.
The thought itself made him ****.
Better dead than compromised he frowned.
“Oh! I wish you were drowned”.

“How can you live with men?” he blubbered.
Now, here is a maiden with virtue altered.
To avenge his honor, he challenged Sneezy to a duel,
Seeing that he was half his height, wasn’t that rather cruel?

Now, somedays before this had occurred.
Snowy’s news by the evil stepmother was discovered.

Learning she was still alive and well,
With anger did her heart swell.
She decided to take matters into her own hands.
And thereby took up a disguise, as it stands

She set out with a poisoned apple.
Well, there again for every mischief an apple is a staple.
On Snowy’s door she knocked to peddle.
The crimson, yet deadly apple.

Now, Snowy here was smarter than she did look.
Didn’t I say, she wasn’t as boring as mistook.
Having well recognized mummy dear,
She took the apple and tossed it near.

Presently, with a repentant look, and show of care,
Before the Prince she laid out her snare.
Knowing well her beloved Sneezy,
Though gallant would die in a tizzy.

She offered this apple to the pompous Prince,
Who bit into it without so much as a wince.
Believing it to be an abject offering,
For her indiscretions, and virtue faltering.

His Royal Highness plonked on the ground.
In a deep slumber, so sound.
Thus, was saved her little Sneezy.
Gallant, stubby with a manner so breezy.

Well, the Prince, he slept in utter peace.
Awaiting to be woken by true love’s kiss.
But fair maidens you see, do not kiss.
For fear their reputation go amiss.

As for Snowy and Sneezy,
Their love kept them busy.
And they lived as happily as one could.
When living in a small hut, down in the woods.

I feel it creeping
the urge to bleed
to drink scotch
to wear tight leather pants
and tee shirts or ripped tops
or some dress that leaves little to the imagination
with a corset and a garter underneath
matched with towering heels or thigh high boots
I want to skip town
to kiss new men and ladies
to rouge my lips and cheeks
to cut my hair short
or grow it so long
to cut my arms deep
and buy a motorcycle
and date a guy who smokes
who swirls gin
who always takes charge
has no problem making decisions
and outwardly looks down on me
who calls me young and naive
and loves me that way
and says i'm sexier for my innocence and youth
and is much older
and flaunts that he could leave
who pulls my hair hard
and picks me up with ease
and kisses my neck
with smoke rich on his tongue
and likes me better in flats so he can feel even taller and stronger
and who keeps an arm around me when we go out
so that everyone knows i'm his girl
and loves to kiss me on the subway and relishes in the looks we get
and looks at other women
But he loves me
and knows what i'm worth
even if he wont say it
he needs to miss me when I leave him
when I skip town again
he will miss my voice
my kisses
the sweet words I use
my laugh
my body
the way I move
what I do when the lights are out
and how he let out some ****** deviant from within me
And the simplicity of my love you's
how nothing in our relationship was a show
I want to break outwardly
to make these mistakes
to stop clinging so much
to the past
to ideals of true love
to my virginity
and everything i'm told to want
I want to wear black instead of pastels
and bleach my hair white
and make the boys want me
for once, let them want me
I feel the urge creeping  
but instead I will stay home
slippers on my feet
Earl Grey in my hands
record scratching out some Fleetwood
with my sweet flowery clothing clinging to nothing
I'll do my yoga
clean my room
and finish all my homework
I'll call my boyfriend who loves me dearly
who I think I love, though others tell me that is not so
because I want for a different life
though I deny that he needs to become my life
I'll write some poem about human nature
and tell my perfect boyfriend not to smoke
I won't tell him how hot smoking is
I will spend time with my parents
do some more yoga
take my anti depressants
do the exercises my therapist told me to do  
and wish I could change my life

Little is known about Graham
I see him everyday, yet, I know nothing about him
Nor does anyone else

He sits in a circle, the circle includes himself and stuffed animals
He sits there, in the yard of his beautiful house

Although he seems content, with his home and... friends...
I can't help but feel an aura of sadness around him
Why though?
He has it made! His parents were rich, he's never worked a day of his life for anything

I have heard rumors, however, that he's a nice man
Loving
and quite congenial
But how could anyone know that?
No one knows him!
People judge Graham based on what they see
And they see contentness
They walk by his home a glance over to a seemingly happy man
Surrounded by his stuffed animals, err, friends

Then why do I feel this aura of sadness around him?


Surely he knows they're not real...
That if he were to leave them, they wouldn't call for him to come back...
He must know that
He must...

But, there they are. Gathered in front of his perfect house
Happily chatting away, as if nothing is wrong


I'm sure one day he'll wake up and realize it
Realize that they're not real, the stuffed animals
are not real
That they don't care for him
That they can't care for him
All he needs
is to just
snap out of it...
and wake up






Hey guys! That was a poem that took me a long time to write, I know it's probably pretty bad, I'm only 16. But that poem was about me, how I'm surrounded by friends that aren't real friends, but they're there. It's true, I've never worked a day of my life for anything. Never worked to have friends, people just naturally like me I guess. But deep down I know im not who they think i am, that im not truly happy. Anyway, please leave feedback if you think i could've worded something better, anything is appreciated, I'm very new!
~Thanks,
        -Graeme

[Bilex]
Giovanni on the edge of the window,
have a bad fall; Glory for children; Most violence
is from the love of reading in the Senate;
This is the best partner. you are the one who came
to help; guard, I did not want to burn with joy;
This is my first time around the world and Sports -
Sky Box and Albatross Compatibility,
cups of wine and cognac. or; Radio Wedding
But the wedding. Some of my assignments. All words
Why it is not. and find out how; Read a book on
Wall Street where you can buy a product. other
Restart the application, restart it, in addition.
The radio will be here. take care of it.
And the best way to do that is to Rest. More points
on my own. It is a. Memorial 1, like John Rose;
Perhaps Pavol was the author of radio waves. radio
Wedding Vincebus Water. if you are forbidden
I do not think why - love. I do not know thousands
of people; But it's ready for the winter
temperature of the whole affiliate business
bridge. Alcohol and cups in boxes. or; wedding
ceremony on the radio; Is that so
It seems like it's time for seniors.
If the caretakers have eyes, you will know
all the words. Where education is; New Wall Street
Dutch artist - rich fish - the best house;
even a black ball. Which is the best way
to get more and more of the other
does not. own materials - and Eli stepped
out of the radio. Where iam I n one place about myself?
color; Let's look in the mirror
left, 4 g 2; Female artist and John Rose
in a dark spot in England,
San Pablo-Fb.             With radio waves.            Radio.

Adam and Eve

Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths, ...
--from Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning"

In Eden fair did Adam and Eve
live in perfect harmony.

"No plant or animal devoureth we,
only ripe fruit as falls from the tree."

By bright-green lily-pads in sphagnum bogs
the herons waded gracefully,
bullfrogs croaked their deep, clear calls;
bluebells, delicate yellow buttercups
were rampant; larks sang in the mulberries.

"No pain or hunger knew we there,
only the sameness of Eden fair."

Even the bounty, the beauty, the civility,
the rich perfection, stretching out like the wall
of the great oval garden, day after day,
year after year to eternity,
grew tiresome.

"No shame in our nakedness knew we ...
nor lust, nor desire, nor carnality."

It's the exogamous, the unfamiliar,
which stirs in us the deepest passion,
the basso continuo of mortality
which gives to desire its piquancy
--of which they knew nothing in deathless Eden.

"We wanted to look outside the wall.
We didn't mean from God's grace to fall."

Their lack of control, their disrespect
invited tragedy....
But to deny what one feels,
to deny what one is
is to risk even greater calamity....

"God expelled us from the Garden.
Now we'll know death and all that's human."

Discord ... despair.... Are you better off?
Coaxing grain from the cracked, parched earth?
Maybe you paid too much for your freedom?...
Maybe you wish you were back in the Garden?...

"There be good inside the Garden;
there be good outside....
There is no perfect Eden."

A Christmas Carol

the year 35AD

The Romans had crucified him.
But he was just a baby in his mother's arms.
They had gone out to see the spectacle of the man from Judea.
He was to be crucified a horrible death designed to control the people.
It worked there was no worse death known hanging for hours and days
Until the cramp stopped the heart.
He went past them in the crowd
The little boy wept
He stepped and the Roman soldier flogged his naked boy.
But as he got up just before the hill at Calvary
He stopped and dropped the heavy wooden cross
He kissed the baby on his head and pulled a sliver of wood from the heavy bloodstained crucifix he carried.
The whip cut his back but he did not flinch.
You are chosen he said.
My father calls your name.
Take this wood and bring his flock to his home.
The mother took the sliver it was bloodstained.
And sewed it into the baby's cloths.
It was in the leather coat she had made for him
And a light glowed from his head like a halo
Your name is love he said
And then they killed him.


2001
New York
Christmas was around the corner just a few days left
But she had no joy no spirit no belief.
She did not want the miracle for her
It was for the little girl.
At three she was dying
not even the Christmas trees lighting would she see.
They were rich full of modern worldly goods
A big house a rich husband
And cars vacation homes.
You are so lucky her friends said.
But she would have given everything away
To save her baby from the ravages of leukemia.
She held her close
the hospital sent her home
It's days they said just days.
She wrapped the little girl in a soft warm blanket.
And tucked her into the stroller.
Her husband held her arm tight for her support.
They walked to the lighting of the Christmas tree.
Looking for a bright moment to show their child
Before she slipped away from them into oblivion.
They were agnostics non believers of any religion.
Just a cheap way to control the masses said her husband.
She noticed in agreement.
What kind of god allows a beautiful baby to die.
At the center the tree was decorated
But not yet lit.
A boys choir were humming softly
Oh! Holy night it was beautiful.
A young boy his voice still unbroken sang beautifully
In a soprano voice that would pass into oblivion
the next year just like her little girl.
Then she felt someone push against her
It was a very old man.
He looked poor and lost.
She felt in her purse and gave him a hundred dollar bill.
Eat something this Christmas
she said kindly not knowing why.
He pulled a little leather coat
from under his ragged overcoat.
Place this on the child she needs his warmth.
The first snowflakes dropped from heaven
Perhaps to welcome her child to heavens doors.
Seeing no harm she put the coat on her baby.
She saw the child smile her cheeks flushed pink.
She held her arms out
But it was to the old man
He kissed her head?
What is your name
she asked the old man
is Abraham my lady
Abraham Love.
The lights exploded in a mirage of colors.

Fifteen years later she walked to the soup kitchen
The poor were congregated to escape the cold of the new York winter
A poor homeless lady held her baby in her arms she was crying
What's the matter honey the pretty young  girl said
It's my daughter she is dying.
Her heart is not working
and she will be dead by Christmas.
The young woman opened
her large carry all purse
And took out a small jacket
Put this on her she said.
It will keep out the winter's chill.
And it did wonders for me as a child I am told.
The woman looked at girl.
Silent night was playing softly and sweetly
from the salvation army brass band.
Who are you ?
what's your name she asked?
I am Jenny Williams ma'am.
But I changed my name to
Jenny Love.

You played a note,
swung a pendulum,
hypnotized me; I knew.
Flowers grew.

They grew in every corner.
They grew on the bedroom ceiling.
They grew down
your soft arms.

Another life grazed us once
with gentle hands.
Another life robbed us
of our time.

It’s never like it was.
The world turns:
colors fade,
canyons widen.

Pain leaked away
to the placid stream.
I fought for the freedom
you couldn’t give.

Pain leaked away
and I grew daring,
enough to even embrace
the night you brought.

I hid myself in its
blues, violets, blacks;
I’m no longer
chained to your wall.

Time passes,
flowers wilt.
Days end.
One day I’ll be glad.

when i go down to the creek
flowers sing at my approach
shades of grey escape within
until i'm whole again, vibrant
crystals for teeth and strength
to hold my truth between my own lips
my love like honey, slow and rich
enclosed in this jar of clay, my soul
so ready to overflow
the banks of the creek
covered in stones, strong
and yet fragile, like me
easily eroded by the water of life

Always right with me, behind my back,
The enslaved don't have hope,
I go, I read, but it stuck with my skin, with me,
The shadow ransacks behind, a nervous contour.

Always to us days conceal a pressure,
There is no ease of space on rising,
The invisible soldier squeezes hoops,
The security guard constant in a campaign.

Steel locks without knowing a tightness,
We live, we slide, meeting on the road,
But shadows..., shadows in a trace thoughtfully look,
Without us they aren't present, without us they a trifle, - dust on soles,
That stuck on a threshold.

"Be rich, or die, trying to become," -
The line in number Ferrari is punched,
The shadow can do everything, doesn't dare to fly only..., -
To the earth an iron chain chained.

.
Pillars of sand start shifting,
the loving spoonful curdles tourmaline,
and the moon will be as blood,
darker than the inside of night.
Resonance as Death's hourglass screams
where a blade slices through flesh.
Angels are not supposed to have ******
on clouds of orange musk.

Poems fall like mountain rain,
excellent in obscurity, rich primal green,
reflecting olive trees in starlight,
glancing twice with Capricious intent.
A butterflies wings kiss the breeze,
Free. Serene. Long ago and far away.
In a circle of hearse black tulips
I lay down my shattered heart to die.


© Pagan Paul (16/02/17)