Its in these waters, when I was merely a Parr
Or as you might refer to me as a fry,
This wise but young Brook Trout cruised the slow water with my kinfolk fry.

Moving to and fro hiding among the biome vegetation
The sunlight supported my living space and warmed my growth rings.
I dart in and out of the oxygenated seams which help me flourish.

Some days, I had to use stealth to outwit the pine marten and warblers,
I shadowed the cattail and watched them fill their bellies with those around me.
But I felt fate had a purpose for me to be something special.

And When the time was right, I'd propel myself above the water into the night air.
The large circle of orange light filled my eyes and the night sky was filled with luminary.
I imagined what it must be like to live outside this riffle domain.

This morning, through my refractory vision I spot some floating objects,
And through an inherited sensory recall I can see these are hatching green Drakes.
I immediately shoot to the surface and fill my stomach, then swim back to the undercut for cover.

As the years pass by and maturity abounds,  I find my self settling in behind a large boulder
Right at the tail out of the back eddy, providing me with an ample food supply.
And it's here I prefer to live my life in the slow current, content and peaceful.

And one day as I swam into the current seam, I spotted what appeared to be,
A different looking bug with yellow belly,  so I make my move.
He's not moving much so I decide to raise my head above the water line and sip.

As I grab the hopper I start to slide back behind the boulder,
When I feel a pinch, as if someone try's to pull me towards the surface
I fight with all my might but this force proves to be stronger than I.

It's now I realize a human reels me towards the shore line, and I'm fearful.
This one called a human, grabs my tail and places his hand on my under belly.
Pulling me from my home, he dislodges the hook from my mouth. I gasp for oxygen.

He looks me over from nose to tail, smiles and says how beautiful I am.
He looks me in the eye And says " This was a wonderful fight my friend, enjoy the rest of your life,
He places me back in water, gently reviving me and finally lets me swim away.

I dare to turn and look back at him for a moment and as he continues to watch me,
I hear him say " I fish, knowing everyday on this stream is a gift."

Death, darkness, despair, that how I found you.
Stardust, gunpowder, riffle, nine, I’m glad I came in time
Loss, anger, no fear, no care, oh dear!
I stared deep in your eyes and wonder, wonder, wonder and wonder
Why oh why did I let you go
Why oh why did you tell me no
Time, ring, cell, nothing can keep it in
Tears, pain, emotions I wanted none
Gun, run, no fear, no fun, in a minute the bullet left the gun
Into the darkness you retreat, leaving no trace of light not even from the sun
Walls closing in, dark as night, that’s where I found you
Clinging tight to the pain, let me be your knight
You took my hands and we drifted, drifted out of sight

Sly: The Duffle bag part 1:
His Days Were Not Like Most!  
It was a typical summer night, not a single cloud to gloom the gloomy sky. The sidewalks reeked of a smell that most would consider disgusting, the smell of prostitution eclipsed by drug infested buildings highlighted by the scent of *****, made for a fun night out on the town. Sly was the type to take advantage, and he did. His rough external features were perfectly matched his all black outfit and black trench coat. He was a man of few words, few emotions, and few delights. Each step he took that night echoed through the streets so loud the wind it self would stop. His eyes were red, drained, tired, he had been up all night thinking, wondering, but now he was ready for action. The old warehouse downtown had been abandoned for sometime now. Its cold and unfriendly, a place Sly could call a home, an urban retreat of sorts for him and his duffle bag. His red duffle bag, that duffle bag housed an arsenal, an arsenal of weapons so treacherous, it had intent to inflict immeasurable amounts of misery for a common denominator. Sly was Hungry, angry; his scope was set at the top of the old warehouse. Sly had climbed the catwalk with precious percussion. He set the red duffle bag down next to him. Sly sat down on a beam that barley supported his weight. A large window 45 degrees to the right of him, made a great position. He opened his red duffle bag! A ****** riffle laid cold and dormant waiting and wanting the touch of existence. The energy felt by his emotional bond to his riffle was indescribable. He loaded the piece. Each bullet loaded the clip as if tenors were in harmony with the alto. The voices that sang revenge sang with an unholy cry, yet the confidence in his faith would serve him as he uttered the symbol of his determination. Slowly he made love to his weapon, cleaning and feeling it’s every corner. Across the road no more than a mile, stood a house. House where political propaganda represented it’s housing guests. Senators of Satin! See Sly was in a very particular business; a business most don’t even know exist…Sly was in the business of killing Demons!
.

friends or frenemies (feminist safety instruction card)

a coastal flight, boredom has me riffle through the various
offerings in the seat pocket, and on the safety instruction card
come across this...
<•>

she’s blunt, direct, proffers me an either/or choice,
game on either way, pick door A or B, up to me,
she’s no lady, but a hipster shooter using semi-automatics,
three lines of verse, rat-a-tat-tat, your guts spilling,
hoho you’re dead or kicked in the *****, at the minimum

if only she knew what she was up against

I got words for which there ain't no antidote,
can whip her into a lovers frenzy with cooing metaphors,
slap her with stingers so that she’ll retreat hasty to another site

friends or frenemies, how juvenile, how sweet, how absolutely
childish girl, no interest, play in my arena, I have studied with
the masters and lionesses and offer you no terms but this:

be my lover

extend your reach, speak slow and soft, open and willing,
my sonnets demand close attention, slowing and holding,
building links into chains that make boundaries into a single
tie that binds, not for now and not for later but for the only measure that poets alone command: forever

concede and give up that conceit that tough is a defense,
lose everything for rewards you have yet to witness, conceive,
in my circle is in my circle where the intuitive rules and gasps of shocking come so frequent, they are normal breathing

be my lover

knowing that we will never meet never see the inside of
the furnace that can be dreamed-created with tonguing verbs,
adjectives that dance intertwining pas de deux,
oh my femme fatale, my agent provocateur,
let us learn together how,  to teach each other
come,
will be the only action word ever required

come
come write me
come together
come close my eyes
come open them wider
come free me to be a one two

anger is false brevity - loving is the languid forever languishing flames of golden burning orange caramel, word chips of
liquidity that verses, penned passioned calculations,
see how takes many stalks needy to  birth bound into a
single sheaf, count the wips of smoky wispy slivers,
combine and separate, the calculus of recombinant,
offering a unique poem with a momentary invitation,
an equation of equality and there is no diverse different


<•>

the first class steward sh/wakes the dozing body
with an apology;
“landing soon, would you like some breakfast before we land?”

the sleepy soul replies,
come to me with water,
just water...for my dream

Moving again.
Packing and suffocating
just to hoard awhile.
Unleash and prop in the next chapter.
How many more times
will I have to revolve around the clock timer?

Displace my comfort.
Stir up and riffle my stability
just to watch for the final sunset.
Until the explanations to my pebble have to dust
out of my mouth again.

A gypsy life not for three.
So hard to handle for anyone but me.
Practice, practice, reset and stay.
It's a cycle I'm tired of.

Grown accustomed to delay and anxiety.
Longing for roots and more tomorrows.
Fly me away with wings of fire.

To disintegrate left behind memory
that's tying up my feet.
To ignite a blazed landing...

To grow from,
to be content on.

A place to be when my pebble wants to fly.


*© NDHK

The thought of losing myself
to the point of a riffle
in both of my hands
are crazy enough to
make me break down
in my own mind.

No tornado circling
around this neighborhood
but I feel wasted around my head
while thinking about things I shouldn't have done.

I keep blaming people around
when the problem is actually me
and I keep flaming fire
and that's just a waste of time.

Grab your bags Azfar,
the problem is here,
it's time to run.

I dream a million fireflies transporting me to this space
A Moon shadow casts a light upon my face.
A Young boy dreaming of tight lines on this Kinderhook NY stream,
Water droplets on frozen fly line, cast a prism sunbeam.

It's this time and special place that etches a constant memory,
Of Standing on that rock casting tight loops across the estuary.
Practice makes perfect as I make a presentation towards this riffle,
I can see a smile on my face, a moment in time that's purely transcendental.

With hope on the rise and a pheasant tail nymph tied to my tippet,
I make my way past the roily water to a calmer spot I'll inhibit.
Stripping line I load this feather chucker and place a nymph on the breezers nose
Zzzzzzz screams my reel and I scramble to fight this foe

As the snow begins to fall, I gaze upon this look of contentment in my eyes
And hover from above to watch myself learning to fly.
I whisper to myself, " Man life doesn't get any better than this",
As I kneel to release my catch, I watch him glide into the abyss.

And at day's end, I find myself walking beside the memory of Lou, Theodore, and Jack,
Three mentors who showed me the way, part of my Wulff pack.
Some Say "if I fished only to capture fish, my trips would have ended long ago",
And now I have something that money can't buy, the gift of learning to fly.

Trapped within this heat there’s an
Ocean of thoughts defeating me.

Suicide has come and gone even death
Is confused. I am awake yet the whole
Of ikasi is half-asleep.

Conflict between races: black, white, yellow,
I mix these colors and get red for bloodshed
Bombarding my mind as I choose my artillery:
Butcher’s knife or bread knife? Mxm **** it, I opt to
Load my machine gun as I take no prisoners.

I live only by one rule “spare not the feelings of those
Who have none.”

As my stu-stu-stu-stuttering riffle goes “tat’ i cover lova,”
They blaze to bushes with rampaging speed and seeing as my weight
Constitutes a majority of ten, I choose to be democratic and side with its
Vote, by not running but instead sending a hail of bullets.



Voetsek, Voetsek and Voetsek I say!!

As dusk breaks into dawn I am shattered into reality as prison introduces me to myself. I started shaking like the last shivering leaf on a dying tree and came to realize:  The person whom I slaughtered was not only my neighbor, but was also my brother and if I have to suffer for my brother whom they call ikwerekere to survive, then I say “give me pain till I die!”.

between a bottle, and a woman... i'd always take to the bottle quicker than might suggest a care for a wife, and had i the mind to mind, i'd think quicker: but then again thinking was never a "mind-game" worth of sprinting to a horizon of known oblivion.

a response to intelligent response:
seems hard then the audience are forced
to laugh...
   how hard to bully an audience into
laughter, how staggeringly similar and
the thrown into the argument:
you're as imperfect as all all of us!
       perhaps:
    but not as ******-up as you'd like
me to be, akin to you.
           i still hold unto the stronghold of
a two parent family: you?!
     a disregard in the convention of
the bootsales of divorce: hope you're well:
in that magic act of making your
grandparents your parents,
  and leave me in custard foam
to attest the mud... of a fool's fair share
of cradling the auschwitz innocents.
the auschwitz survivors seem not to matter,
only those who make the image:
the ones mingling the friction of reality:
with the smothering of fiction...
           the unsaid being said,
the said being unsaid...
       i am the perfect forged from the thought
of being perfect...
      the response to "intelligent" comedy
in response = a nervous laugh...
              the result of a nervous laugh:
truancy of authentic laughter -
              comedy is unto laughter what
tragedy is unto crying...
             true comedy comes
with uninhibited laughter: it doesn't
come with canned laughter...
that's cheap... that's really cheap,
and sad... sad beyond wanting to cry...
          the comedy you speak of
is that of inhibited laughter:
  a one of a doubled-up nervousness -
smart comedies and intricacies of
drama spell out the same conclusive
columbo diagnostic;
oh **** me, have the *****,
i have as much attachment to it like
i have to acknowledging
a tissue...
           take this ******* near me and
i'll tell of your "motherhood"...
                 no, i don't acknowledge
an "intelligent" comedy...
drag me back into the rabble...
    the mob rule, the theocratic dream of"
man has no law above the quake,
no law above the wave, no law
above airy twirl dance, no law above
the forest fire, man is included to state
his sensual distaste, but with
the elemental per se: cower my dear,
into a pill shaped box...
                        the response of
intelligent comedy = a nervous laugh...
the laugh of the inhibited -
   never the laugh of the free-fall uninhibited...
and such a shame...
that it should be excused as comic -
to riffle nerves and somehow "laugh"
is no laughter at all...
  a man ought to laugh uncontrollably -
but to make joke into nuance
so that he might laugh controllably -
what's the point of telling the joke,
in the first place?!
    i want to laugh uncontrollably -
than nervously -
   because even though there's a "joke",
i'm half as serious about the "joke"
being a joke, as i am in attesting:
this is worth more a nervousness
in choking on a laugh,
with attempt, than
the uncontrollable lack of effort
that leaves me in paralysis...
        i'm not supposed to excuse myself
at this point, but i am apparently
having to muster up an apology
for comedy, and the comic strip of
of *lee evans doing the goose strutting...
it's still comedy, but not really,
monty python was clarity in
pig-head ******* cameron phelatio
in eton: outside?
can't be smart: you're not an insider:
it's an insider's joke:
they're not funny, they're eton.
     next time i find them funny
i'll be making the most perfect:
poached egg.
             americans take the **** out
of ***,
the english take the **** out of ***:
the subject matters of:
either - we have enough of the former
and lack of the latter,
or we, have enough of the latter
and lack of the former...
        to say that english humour is
funny is to also say that shakespeare didn't
exist, like jesus!
                     who knows,
give it enough time, enough
*****-akin historiological define-
     (definitive moment) -
   and that being?
is history a convict in the prison of space -
or is time a convict in the same space?
by comparison, is history a medium of
artefacts, with history the one owning a fingerprint,
and time, without one?
      it's silly to talk of an afterlife,
given that we live our lives with the same
impetus of *****: a tsunami barrage of
constant refraction and reflection -
        man in a microcosmos is the totality
of man,
                  man exists in a microcosmos -
what man is in the macrocosmos is what
we deal in terms of the misnomer attache akin
to god...
         it's good to have forgotten
one's original point, having written
such dribble...
        time is only linear in history -
but what are the truer dimensions of time?
if space has its 3...
    then as einstein suggested:
time be squared -
                        i only wanted the first
few words...
  nervous laughter is the response to
"intelligent" comedy...
      but saying that:
        i'd prefer "dumb" comedy
and allow myself uninhibited laughter
than "smart" comedy,
   and only allow myself *inhibited" laughter;
as i'd prefer imagining ***** flicks
than imagining myself welsh,
counting sheep:
   does arithmetic really beat insomnia,
**** me, too bad for the efforts of
the chemists:
  so we did all these experiments
to craft the pills, for general practitioners
to reach for the tarot cards of
       astrological readings?!
              **** it, sign me up for a cave.

By Nabs

XII. December
    A woman was humming a winter hymn.
She wore a thick Russian cloak, and her fingers were tapping the stained glass. Snowflakes framed her eye lashes. Vicious wind were hitting her old bones, weariness settled deep in her chest.

She had been away far too long.

Looking at a window, she saw her reflection.
Her eyes were sharp cold blue, but it was sunken and there were frozen tear tracks on her cheek.

Her fingers were gnarled, and wrinkles marred her face. Her used to be golden hair, was as white as snow.
She barely remember the days now.

A baby wail could be heard coming from a house, lit with thousand warm candles.

Looking up, she realized that she's a grandmother now.

XI. November
  The man pulled out his cigarettes, his riffle by his side. Sitting in front of his porch, with a glass of scotch, remembering the horrid symphony of gun shots. His shoulder was aching.
He had been a soldier, he had been at war, and now he was in his house.

But he was still lost in the desert.

He gripped his glass tighter as the deaths that he had caused flashes before his eyes.
He felt cold at the knowledge that settled in the pit of his heart.

He was not a war hero, he was a murderer.

The glass shattered.

X. October
  The wind blew her bright hair. It was similar to the color of autumn leaves and burning fire. She was wearing a scarf the color of lion, Lilies crowning her head.

She was holding up a shield.

A feeling of warmth, like one would get after drinking warm chocolate, washed over her. Her bright green eyes was filled with fondness at the sight of her stag cooing over her baby.

Ravens were cawing over her head, an omen.
Her face was grim, she knows they're not going to last any longer.

Death was arriving.

IX. September
    A bright yellow dot could be seen moving in the forest. It was a boy who was wearing a rain coat.

He was running around, playing by him self.
Diving into a pile of leaves, jumping over tangled roots, climbing trees, and picking apples.

He didn't tell his mother where he had gone.

The sound of trickling water lulled the freckled covered boy away. He stood in front of an old abandoned house. The smell of ginger bread was wafting through the air.

He ignored the hanging body on the tree, and put on the fallen hat.

For the first time, he felt he was home.

VIII. August
    He was named after the emperor. The one history called a legend. His parent had hoped that he could escape the chain of slavery that had shackled their family for generations.
He wondered sometimes if he skinned his skin, would he stop being a slave?

After all he would be pink instead of brown.

They branded him like a cattle. Passing him down from one master to another. Calling him pretty for his species. The marks always burns when he felt like his dignity was stomped on as if it didn't matter.

He knows it didn't matter to them.

The day he broke the chain, the grass turned red instead of withering

VII. July & VI. June
    They were born from the same chrysalis. Spun from silk and privilege. Yet one got tossed away and the other were put in a gilded cage.
Separated.

The boy with corn silk hair and gleaming pearly wings was staring out of his room. He was locked with gold in his little cupboard. Only to be let out when they needed to show him off.

He stared down waiting for his shadows.

The girl with iridescent eyes and tattered black wings had lived in the ruins all her life. Her small frame was littered with cuts and the harshness of life.
But she stood strong, her back unbending.

She stared up at her light, and asked for his hand.

Fate decrees that neither could fly, with out the other.

V. May
    The market was bustling with people. A middle aged woman stood in her stall, selling vegetables and fruits. Her nephew was bringing her baskets full of wild berries for jam. He was 6 years old with a gap toothed grin and untamable hair.

His eyes were electric yellow.

The woman stared at the boy sadly. Remembering that day on the moor when wolves slaughtered her sister's family.
She thanked him and ruffled his hair. The boy gave her an abashed smile.
She noticed a man with a nasty smile, shooting her nephew a predatory look. The man approached her stall, asking to buy apples while looking at her nephew ravenously as if he was hungry for him.

She understood what she have to do.

She put on her sweetest charm and gave him an apple for free. The man nodded, appreciating the offer. Said his thanks and went back to the shadows.

The man didn't notice that the apple he had just bitten were kissed by Belladonna.

VI. April
  A mute girl was sitting in the palace garden. She braided flowers into her hair, adding pale green ribbon with a flourish. She wore a white dress with lace on it's border. She looked like a sacrificial lamb.

A knife was lying on the floor, she had just cut her hair short.

As she keep braiding, she dreamt of home.
Of the deep blue water, gentle waves lapping at her body, sea shells that she liked to collect, pearls braided in her hair, about exploring the oceans with her sisters.

She could barely move her legs, now.

She realized, belatedly, that maybe the price was too heavy.

III. March
    The marching band passed the town that day. Trumpet, drums, cymbals, and xylophones were shouting in harmonies. A marvelous fusion of sound, creating joy behind them.

A teenager, with curly hair and sun kissed skin, was staring at them in awe.

A violin was clutched on his hand, the last gift from his father. It was his first time seeing a marching band. He wonders if the delicate moan of his violin would complement them.

He knows that it won't, but it wouldn't stop him from wondering.

He was not his father.

II. February
  A family of three was preparing their dinner in the kitchen. It was the birthday of the son.

The mother was busy preparing the roast, cutting up vegetables and spicing the meat. The father was helping the mother preparing the roast, he was making the mashed potatoes. They were dancing around each other, as they navigate the kitchen.

Their son, who have a cherubic face, watched them with adoration.

One threw an onion at the other, the other caught it. Exchanging tools and spices with an easy glide. Kisses were traded, intricate steps were taken.
They both move with trust on their heel, and souls entwined.

Love was still in the air, even after all the storms.

Their son understood that no one can take the matching arrows embedded at his parents back.

After all, they stabbed it them self.

I. January
    A mother was lying on a hospital bed. Green buds were peeking out from the snow.
She had just given birth. Her breathing was labored as she struggles to breath. A frown appeared on her face when the nurse gave her a bundle to hold.

It was her baby girl.

The baby opened her eyes and let out a gurgling giggle. It was the most beautiful sound the mother had heard.
Big doe eyes, that resembled her mother's, watched as wet tears were falling from her mother's eyes.

The mother clutched her daughter tight against her chest.

Realization struck her like ligtning,
She knows that she couldn't give her baby away.

I remember summers ago with a boy, who wasn’t so sweet but could read aloud like a gypsy and read your hand lines like a priest. I’d kick off my shoes and we’d spread a huge blue sun-bleached towel on the sand and prop up a chair. The metal grew hot in the sun. I remember a cooler full of Coke cans and plastic cartons of strawberries; we lived off those for days at a time (along with the occasional Hot Pocket) because we were too lazy to bike out to town, and it was too hot to leave the wooden floorboards and ice towels of our house. The windows let in the evening lights from a few miles away and the distant sounds of Spanish street guitarists. Sometimes we clambered up on the roof to hear them better, and you memorized one of the songs they’d play every night, spinning out a rough version on your guitar. But you couldn’t pronounce the words as well.

When we went out on the beach, you hated the waves so you stayed high from shore while I waded out until the water reached my belly, feeling the coolness seep through my shirt and the sand riffle between my toes. I’d always wanted you to join me. I wish you didn’t hate the waves, but you did so I just stood there alone, taking in salt from the breeze and the laughter of two sisters dragging buckets of water they could barely carry from the ocean to their sand castle. Again and again they came and went so that they could fill up the moat, because you couldn't have invaders from the next kingdom over to be able to kidnap the princess so easily.

Marcus wiped the sweat from the long strands of greying hair on his brows, laid down on the ground behind a thin covering of overgrown bush, and leveled the Winchester's stock against the potmarked cheek of his face and firmly planted the **** of the rifle into his shoulder. He squinted his left eye closed and focused his right thru the mounted telescope until the crosshairs and his target became clear. He eased the index finger on his right hand against the trigger and carefully began to squeeze until he heard the satisfying bang of the rifle and felt the kick in his shoulder. He watched in slow motion as the bullet left the barrel of his Winchester, spinning in its rotation, burrow into the thick left chest muscle of the animal he had been tracking for the past four days and rip out with a geyser of blood on the right shoulder. The animal staggered in a stupefied daze for a few feet before collapsing where it stood and resigning itself to its inevitable death.

Marcus stood up and dusted the dirt off of his tweed hunters jacket and cotton canvas pants and slung his Winchester over his shoulder and began to descend the slight hill that he had shot from. He felt a breeze pick up from the west and knew that a storm was on its way and that he had only a short time left to collect his trophy. Marcus began a slow jog towards the downed animal when the terrain leveled out and noted how quickly the breeze had picked up in its coolness when it touched the exposed skin of his face. It was going to be a heavy storm. He ran a little faster, his riffle swinging and bumping across his back as he quickened with every step until he started to feel a burn in his side. He slowed down enough to a comfortable cadence and continued on towards the beast.

Rain started to fall from the low ominous looking clouds. Slowly at first so that Marcus could barely feel any trickle of wetness hit him until it suddenly became a downpour and he had to seek refuge beneath the low hanging branches of a pine tree. He dried his face off with a handkerchief and watched the rain berate the ground from between the pine needles.

He kept watch on his prey and the weather and after thirty minutes of continuing rain decided that he could and should make his way to the wounded animal and left the safety of the tree just as a bolt of lightning shot down from the sky and stuck the top of the pine, lighting it aflame and sending a loud crack thru the air around Marcus. For a few moments he forgot to breathe until his basic instincts kicked in and his brain screamed at his lungs to inhale.

Marcus stalked carefully towards the animal, following a blood trail that had been left when he had shot the animal in the leg a few moments before his wounding shop. He came upon the animal attempting to hide in patches of overgrown grass and, removing his riffle from his shoulder, parted the grass with the barrel of his gun until he was looking into the scared blue eyes of his ****. His blonde hair was matted with drying blood and his body smeared with dirt and fresh blood. Marcus looked at him and let a derisive laugh escape his mouth as he watched the mans lips twitch and heard the gurgles in his throat as he attempted speech.

"P-p-plea-se don---'t k-illlllll m-eh," the blonde man finally managed to spit out between splurts of blood and death rattles.

Marcus unsheathed his Bowie knife and knelt down beside the man and cradled his head in his arms.

"Hush. Hush. It will all be over soon. You've been a good hunt. You've evaded me longer than anyone else ever has. I commend you for that. I appreciate your sacrifice. But it was inevitable that I should **** you. You know this don't you? There was no escaping. Surely you knew this?" He looked at the mans face and saw a resigned hatred in his blue eyes. Marcus was taken aback for a moment but quickly gathered himself back together. "Now, now. Don't be like that. You gave it your best. You really did. It's just...that I'm better."

Marcus took his knife and put it against his ****'s throat and quickly plunged and slid the blade across his neck. He listened closely and relished the sounds of the mans life leaving his body.

Marcus sat there smiling, holding his trophy closely; as the rain continued to fall.

Sometimes, I cannot help but sigh
and wonder--
wonder deep inside of me
whether I could ever be like you.

I riffle through the pages of my soul
and find a lot of them empty
Unlike yours, which seem to be bursting, blinding,
bursting, and still continuing to burst with brilliance...

So much so,
that your soul's light
has spread far and wide,
very much like sunlight's fingers
opening the morning sky curtains,
touching and warming
those who need it.

Tanglaw
each step that you take,
each breath that you exhale,
each prayer that you whisper,
each beat of your heart
Tanglaw

I receive a smile,
and chat
with that man
who you've helped change...
Because of you,
the silent man now speaks, smiles.

You sit down to rest,
I see you talking to someone,
and I am almost fooled,
since you seem like old friends.
Because of you,
the lonely strangers become kindred.

It mystifies me sometimes,
of how you never seem to get tired.
It seems like I am the one who gets tired for you,
who gets worried for your own strength...
Then I see that glow from all around,
and I am reminded how you glean from this glow.

I see you as this beautiful ball of energy--
Never static,
bouncing from soul to soul,
illuminating parts of themselves
that even they never knew existed.

It is so amazing seeing this at work,
since the next thing I know,
the place is lit up,
Alive.
...and it is all because of you.

It makes me feel unworthy at times,
but oh how it also makes me feel so proud,
that I am a part of you,
and you are a part of me.

I have a lot of catching up to do,
since it seems I am lightyears from where you are

But I will try.
I will catch the tail end of your light,
clutch to it with my life, winding it around me,
let it embrace me--tight, so tight.
And I will never let it go. Never.
Until I also begin to glow.
Until I too, become that ball of light.

Hopefully when someone
riffles through the pages of my soul,
they will not find it blank,
but filled with gilt pages of light.

Just like yours.
Bursting and brilliant just like yours.

a good bullet never saw a good war
a good bullet never felt the hammer strike
a good bullet never heard the thunder
  never felt the heat of the explosion
    that sent it like lightning
      flying from the chamber of a gun
       the barrel of a riffle

a good bullet never tore a hole through flesh
a good bullet never shattered bone
a good bullet never bite into a heart
  and held it in its teeth
   until it stopped beating

a good bullet was never made
  
  was never made

was never made to steal a child’s smile away

not your sons
not your daughters
not at any age

a good bullet was never made

  a good bullet was never made

a good bullet was never made
to turn a playground into a graveyard
where a mothers eyes drained
of all their colors but grey
fill with storm clouds
that endless pour down
tears of grief over the dug open earth

a good bullet was never made
to turn a school into a war zone
where a fathers chest is emptied
of everything but the pains of loss
for his daughters smile
that he will only see
in photographs of memories
and haunted dreams

a good bullet was never made
to turn a traffic stop into an obituary
where blind hate and fear
flows from heart to hand
to trigger and hammer and...

****** will somehow
not be considered ******
when the hand of the killer
wears a badge
and the training manual
says shoot to ****
as it is more cost effective
and the deceased
will become just another name
to be lined up behind a hashtag
and a slogan...

a good bullet was never made

   was never made

to feel the hammer strike
to leave the chamber off a gun
to steal a life away

A good bullet was never...

Oh, pull me from the shelf
And riffle through my pages
Read my words
Caress my spine
I haven't been touched in ages

Oh, pull me from the shelf
And take me out for tea
Sip your cup
Forget the world
It'll be cozy, just you and me

Oh, pull me from the shelf
And let's go to the beach
Set me down
Bask in the sun
Just keep me in arm's reach

Oh, pull me from the shelf
And take me up to bed
Close your eyes
I'll tell a tale
And let dreams dance through your head

I hear the crash of the avalanche. Some keep time to its rhythm, there's a lot to do before it hits. I catch the swaying of snowflakes. I can hear the roar of the wind. Before they found benzene rings in the well, I could say who had broken a whole in the oil rig. Some found themselves staring at their faces, picking their destinies away, smoking themselves into a methamphetamine oblivion, until they cleaned the skin off of their faces. I hear the submarines starting in the South Fork, God's Riffle is under, so don't try to join them. Some speak until their lips are the color of bruises, some never speak because they're afraid of finding bruises trapped in their hair. America is spending in darkness. Knowing in foul tradition. Burning at the testicles, and calling in sick. Go home to Wyoming, drink your nuclear family into a white courtroom with a fickle jury of out-of-towners. Be on your best most calm behavior. The denim is up in the air, the snow is coming in shingles, the grizzlies and black bears are choosing which young they ought to hide.

I hear the cruelness of amphetamine users, through and through. You don't want to know them, I don't- I doctor up my circumstances so I don't drive ourselves crazy observing and swerving up and down and off the road. I am the Prince of Bell-Air. I keep my pockets oozing with four colors of black and nothing darker. Something is sharpening the beats of a generation, and no one is calling. Where are my friends in the darkness? I can hear their sides when they cough, but there is nothing like laughing in  glitter, aside from the wildness and toil of this dusk.

Every night I load my riffle
take my post
and wait

The waiting is the worst part
it's like fishing
you have too much time
to think about ****

I usually think about my life
and how much of a loser I was
living under my brother's perfect family home
like a troll under a bridge
distracting myself with Call of Duty
and beer

But then the world ended
and it was the best thing that could have happened
for me, that is

Not so much for my brother
who met his demise while on an evening jog
on an otherwise insignificant Saturday

I didn't know any of this until two days later
coming out of my cave to get more beer
to realize that the only one still there
was my brother's beautiful inconsolable wife
she thought I'd been dead
like everyone else
and awkwardly hugged me

She had just gotten word about her two missing children
the ******* little boy was found
gnawing on his little sister's arm
the rest of her was motionless, on a street a mile away

Killing them is too easy
way easier than I thought it would be
you just follow the rules laid out for us in the folklore
aim for the head
keep your distance
don't second guess yourself
double tap

I'm not a religious man
I have no particular thoughts about the soul
I leave those questions for the priests and philosophers

I don't care
I do my job
and I do it well

I've won
I've taken my prize
I spend my days with the woman I've always  loved
but could never have
and my nights doing what I do best
playing a game

I pull the trigger
it's head explodes
in a gust of red mist
...just like in the movies

I kicked an ant today.

It was coming right for my bare foot, so I kicked it. The thought of its tiny feet tickling my giant feet made me feel ill.

Generally insects don't bother me, but ants. Ants, with their underground tunnels and their abilities to carry a zillion times their body weight, with their appearance in my kitchen every spring from seemingly nowhere even though my kitchen is clean and inhospitable to them - I hate ants.

I was outside, the ant's domain, on my back patio enjoying the beautiful weather and the newness of spring. It wasn't fair of me to kick him like that in his own domain, and yet.

I wonder what I would do if I was kicked by a giant. I would probably die, land in a heap and break all my bones and die. That ant almost certainly didn't die, but I wonder if it hurt. Do ants have very many nerve endings? A question for the ages.

Before I kicked that ant, I was reading some old poetry and letting the sun warm me and the light breeze riffle through my hair, avoiding work and thinking about my life and the big question marks that punctuate my waking moments with their soft severity. ******* this brain and it's forever worrying.

The worrying is the problem. I should spend more time doing.

But I don't. Instead I write poems and kick ants and daydream about finding a home where I can begin my Real Life.

Because this isn't it, is it?
Is it?

Kicking things out of my way that make me uncomfortable? Finding the sunshine and basking like a lizard? Reading poetry?

Actually, I think I can live with that.
That, and fewer ants.

Unfamiliar furniture trims the parlor room
embellished with odd relics
of histories past.
Their eerie faces haunt me
incriminating
this momentous hour
my mother’s voice fades away to gray
Be strong, be strong . . .

It has begun
Are there telephones in heaven?
Maybe it’s a one-way call.
My cryptic eyes dart a heavy daze
hiccupping on salty streams that overflow composure
But he is the essence of grace,
a beautiful surrender.

Step forward into the light
that shines upon infallible judgment,
my turn to wager peace
with this glorious king,
this King of May!
Blooming virtues in my ears.
I am still the apple of your eye.

I riffle through timely prayers
that floats aloof to I don’t know who?
I say old man forgive me
for you are right:
I will forget what you have said.
Nor will I remember things you’ve done.
But I will
never forget how you
have made me
Feel…

WARTHEMATICS

The road to war a reserved grave. The beginning of it, a hell aforementioned. Household goes to firm with the best anticipation of celestial ascension above. Pick three to make two, bury wit, never to mar chew.
Beat from the heart
The very voice to define Riffle’s
**** can’t be so dumb !
Not to be mistaken as a strong explosion on the Sahara

Whining of the Babies send a gravy message
All is read in silence, even in seconds

Paths, so crowdy like no Adam was ever made
Pests, Lizards overthrow the market around,
Roads are best ridden by goats
Scary heartbeats dominate the atmosphere
Ever befitting chorus,
Remains the sweet songs from Guns.

Eye above lost counts of Donts
Does seem scarce like the touch of Saint in Gommorah

If it lasts more than months,
You will miss the look of your Edifices to bulldozed yards
The bests you cherish now lay in pieces,
If not far gone become a story
If you still tell the stories,
Let’s meet on the alter next Sunday
All !
In the Art of War.

I have been walking this long dark road for a while
Waiting for the sun to show up, so I can find my home some sunny day
All my friends are gone they didn’t see the goal ahead
Even my baby has left me, I got no women to hold my hand

One day there stood a man with a riffle in his hand
He said; give me your money or I shoot you dead right where you stand
I took my gun out, to show the man I won´t be bullied around
But as I pulled the trigger all my bullets were gone

So now I lie dead on this cold dark road
The sun is about to show up but I will never find my home

Standing on the ground of riffles
Raising flags, cheering
Caping down for a beast launch
We watch the end of us being showcased
Best snippers can't  hide their smiles
Hunting  is what they're  born for
My hand was meant for this pen
Theirs for that riffle
The same way I  enjoy inking down my heart
Is the very way they enjoy pulling the trigger
We all have a weapon
They're  born with riffles
We are born with pens
The riffle kills you once
The pen kills you in bits.
We all made a pact
I just chose the pen.

_Going back
and forth >>
The dark
pool jaw shark
Darth_(War)teared

Her drink feared
The moon split
Two people

Crook/Brook-Streams

Spilled water-soul
words
the Grecian river
Thorn Rose
birds

Will I return?

Devil dug
Deep- thought
Millionaire swamps
2B streamed
Suddenly

Forestal sweetness
FLipping homes
Hopscotch jump
Flipper Gumps
Mister brook the 
 measles
Water spots
How her foot met
Sunny-side
Eggbeaters
Morning 2 B Sure?
Turning-star
Cornered-shore
A sure pleaser
Cheater's foot
The river of
no return
(Monroe)


She is so perpetual
returning
in his
fantasy
everything

Misery
loves cooks
Baked tan
brooks
company

Poetical downright
mystical rivers
Joan of Ark

All bricks to blow her
home down dark
He's the Adonis
Superlative
most bodeful

The bridge over
***** war of
her laundry
In Cahoots,
Tired torrential rain
Tranquil water
Streaming air

Glorious shape
Her brook

But he is
never by
her shore
Not even once
to stare or look
Water Wands
of faires

So many
***** men
Drinking the
Holiest
water
Mrs, clean
Cult life
Stepford Wifes

Her cheeks like petals
Estee Lauder eyes of
Blue velvet
Lady Brook the banks
of the channel;

No contamination
water
Channeling
Like finest truffles
By the water riffle

So Shallow
Abdominal water
Hurricane shakey
Speaking
words
of wisdom wishing well

Streams overloved
Still, Diana Wales
running reliving
Lucky charms
they're married

Orange segments
Water the juiciest
Be calm
Nick the Knickpoints

Mister and Mrs. beds
The high tide
of turbulence

Poems are
all a stream
Our oasis
Deer Creek
came to
Love her more
than he
could ever seek

Kurt Carman May 1985
A Rise on Neversink
NOTE: It's important for the reader to know that Theodore Gordon was an American writer who fished the Catskill region of New York State in the late 19th century through the early 20th century. Though he never published a book, Gordon is often called the "father of the American school of dry fly fishing. The poem " A Rise on Neversink" is about a boy and his Grandfather fishing on this famous river called Neversink. The spirit of Gordon, who now lives through nature, encourages and speaks to the boy through wind and water.


A RISE ON NEVERSINK

We head upstream past fallen Hemlocks,
Crawling recumbent through advancing grass.
Wetness prevails from the night before,
And seeing us, the Groundhog shakes his head in disbelief.

Sun perched on Doubletop Mountain,
Shown the rising Brown sip his prey.
I wait, another rise boils the riffle.
My eyes question when, Grandpa gives the nod.

The shooting line breaks the winds path,
Invisible leader curls resisting gravity.
The Skater finds its mark, spinning without authority,
Setting a course through the waters force.

Emerald moss, dripping wet jewels,
Deepens the blue-green pool,
Theodore Gordon's reflection shown now,
He smiles, the breeze whispers "tight lines".

Scrambling from my knees I find
the Brown makes his approach, only to show his back.
My heart pounds and only my gut tightens.
Disappointment whelms over, an encouraging nudge prods from behind.

Gordon's voice once again calls,
Performed by the spruce needles murmur,
Patience s s s s s s  
My hands begin to steady, premise clear.

Double hauling as if my life depended.
As beautiful an object of lavish nature produces,
From underneath the Brown assaults, Skater devoured, groping,
Grasped with bent snout, outmaneuvering his prey.

Tippet strained, reel whining fervent praise,
Moving for swift water, he surfaces briefly
Seeking the currents leverage.
He educates his pupil with the magical ploy.

A broken fly rod hangs down in contempt, against the tender Payne rod.
The evening hatch finds sanctuary,
And only the Catskills angling legend lingers in the air.
This lesson complete, the boy dreams.

                                        And Theodore awaits the mourning encore.

The boy who cried wolf
No begged for one to appear
Dangerous and disgusting
With eyes that cut through the night
With teeth bloodthirsty
Rip his clothes and skin to shreads
Reminding the boy
Of everything he wished to forget
Oh dear wolf
Prove that I can be your worthy victim
Share this life with me
And swallow the punishment
At the end of my riffle
So I can be legitimately
Disappointed

What is the difference between—
A double-edged sword;
A loaded riffle and;
A sharp tongue?

To work at the peak
of the desert heat

The adults told him he’d need
an injection for that
and the man dressed in white
grabbed his arm and lifted it
and stung him with the needle in the shoulder
and injected the serum

It took away all doubt
from his mind
and all weariness from his heart
and limbs

He was ready

“Good boy,” the adults said
and patted him on the back

They gave him an assault riffle,
one he’d held and used
before for practice,
and sent him out of camp
and towards the enemy soldiers

It’ll be fine

Now days...
Rush hour is the daily routine
We wake up to the weather channel
but won't stop to feel the sun on our faces
Smiling at Facebook and Instagram feeds
but walking with a resting ***** face in the streets

Now days...
Our Moral values are based on a trending topic
Authenticity is an endangered specie
Social acceptance is our top priority
And love, just another lie to proclaim an ownership

No days...
Pride is the riffle
And money the ammunition  
-Custodio

Comrades of tomorrow,
the battle cries are lost in oblivion,
the rusted riffle got swept in mud,
the manifesto is lost and forgotten,
for the guerilla, lord comes thy way.

the wounds of love and revolution.
Thy Latin America to every generation,
the lord is resurrected from the holy grave,
Thy Christ is lost and mine got awaken.

The baptism of truth and revolution
will engulf every soul of this generation.
The lost revelation and the prophet of truth
"CHE" our brother in arms we stood.

A Poem: My New Bloodline*

My second, my sister from another mother
The hands that didn't let me shatter
The egg shell that never allowed me scatter
The tree that covered me when rain wan scatter

The generating set that powers my Faith in God
The riffle that shot out the gift in me without an officers rod
The friend who never backed down
Even when other friends gave me a frown


I hate to flatter in  stutter
Things I know, are not true in the shutter
But your love for me has given me this spinal cord
You're really sent from the Lord


I now have a new sister
Who's faith in God knows no baby sitter
I have blood bloodlines but this bloodline
Is the heart of my heart, my new bloodline.

© Daniels Pen ™✍️✍️✍️✍️✍️ 2020.

Lying by the windowsill, it feels lonely, true?
The sky took a somber turn but you've been here since it was blue, you came in exactly at 3 'o' 2 but here we are, my love.

Resisting the cold wood you get up and stare, your eyes now dare to look around and care, two books lie in a pair over your table antique and rare. You were supposed to welcome morning with eyes bare, and here we are, my love.

Riffle through the pages attempting to learn,
Yet in some sorrowful heat you burn, believe it or not you're thinking of someone. The one who calls you hon, it flutters through your memory like some sort of gun, yet two whole chapters of the first book remain undone, and here we are, my love.

Pick up your phone the chatbox yells some name, you look through an image and still feel the same. Love flutters in mind but you  send something lame, it's not you but the fear of getting judged is to be blamed. A "Hey" with a "Bae" is what you wish to claim, which is rightful and no shame, and here we are, my love.

Electricity's out and so is the lamp, your emotions and wire connections both seem to be jammed, though suddenly somewhere around 12 AM, you utter an unusual but seemingly-happy "****!", a reply to a text saying, "Here I am!" 9% battery thereafter 9 hours of Instagram, and yet here we are, my love.❤️

- Utkarsh Upadhyay