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Cop A Nop
Yop O U
Dop E Cop I Pop Hop E Rop
I-top?

Mop U cop hop
E A Sop I E rop
Top hop A Nop
Yop o u
Top Hop I nop kop
It's not that hard, really. You'll figure it out
The Good Pussy Jan 2016
.
                       Shop
                till you drop
               Shop till you d
              rop Shop till you
              drop Shop till you
                drop  Shop till
                you drop Shop
                till  you  d rop
                Shop t ill  y ou
                 drop  Shop till
                  you drop Shop
                  till  you   dro p
                  Shop t  il l  you
                  drop  S hop till
                  you d rop Shop  
          till you drop    Shop till you
       drop Shop till y ou drop shop
          till you drop   shop till you
             drop shop     dropshoptil
                  You                 drop.
*drop to your knees .
Stå fram, du, som skjules i mørket.
Stå fram inn i verden.
Det kan være uhyggelig;
Det kan være urolig;
Det kan oppvekke gru innafor deg
som du ikke visste var til;
Det kan føles som om jordas lunger
puster deg inn og spytter deg ut;
Men sånt har det alltid vært.

En vismann har sagt før:
Syn uten handling er kun en drøm.
Handling uten syn fordriver tiden.
Syn med handling kan forandre verden.

Reis deg opp; ta på livet, grip tilværelse,
møt folk, snakk språk, drøm sagn,
bygg ting, slå deg ned, få barn,
les, gråt, le, rop, løp, hopp, ta feil, gå deg vill;
så blir ekte tilfredstillelse til.
Sitatet er av Joel A Barker.
Megan Grace May 2013
My heart feels way
too heavy for my
ribs to hold and I'm
just waiting for it to d








                                                      r­op.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2023
end of life's road
the soul lands
on its own shadow

*

My Da was dying in Nass hospital and I was told to go away for a while so I walked to the little wildlife park nearby which had lots and lots of swans who sat on the benches and wouldn't let humans sit on them. You can just about see on the left hand side of the photo a few about to 'busk' as they believed I was usurping their territory .Then suddenly this gull swept down and followed the line of the road to come full stop in front of me as if confronting me with matters of life and death. I managed to get a photo of it just before it landed on its own shadow.

"Hi!" it said as if talking to humans was neither here not there....I'm the neighbour psychopomp.. I've come to guide your father's soul!" In my great grief a talking gull was neither here nor there as my father's life met its end. "Does it have to be this way?" I asked in my anguish. "It does...." whispered the seagull "...it does."

There is a photo of me and my Da heading off to Sunday mass in our Sunday best. I am holding his hand and so proud that this man is my Da and totally in love with the moment. In mass we will sing Be Thou My Vision and it will be an epiphany. This is the moment I will be remembering when the doc throws us out for a while and I go out to the nearby park. Everything I saw and there was nothing much to see...******* and shadows....joggers and swans and a dog that could not be seen. The dog was in a housing estate a good bit away but his bark was right beside you. A swan was sitting on a park bench and wouldn't let anyone else sit on it. The music leaking from the jogger's headphones and she trundled by me in pink spandex was...The Little Drummer Boy. This in March? When the doc let me back in Da wanted to know everything I had seen down to the littlest detail. He was able to tell me that when a swan goes loco with you...it is called busking. He was always able to tell me such tiny bits of knowledge. Even the shadow on the ***** grass got gulped down by his mind. Only after did I realise that all these details of things he knew he would never see again. They had become precious...even the mud...even the rain. In my mind when he was dying I would sing to him all the songs and hymns I sang with him in all the different Da's he was.

The old Irish version of the hymn says it all for me...

Be thou my father, be I thy son.
Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.
Rop tussu m'athair, rob mé do mac-su;
rop tussu lem-sa, rob misse lat-su.
Such intense love....an immensity held in these scrappy details of a nothing day.
Be thou my father, be I thy son.
Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.
Rop tussu m'athair, rob mé do mac-su;
rop tussu lem-sa, rob misse lat-su.

BE THOU MY VISION

He drinks in
my vision

of a world
contained in a matter

of minutes
all that can be seen

in this here
& now.

An ordinary world
of the mundane moment

joggers and *******
running side by side

somewhere the distant barking
of an invisible dog.

Litter being taken
for a walk

by a skittish wind
changing direction on a whim.

A swan
sitting on its own

on a park bench
gazing at the water.

My Da gulps down
each happenstance

each moment
of unimportance

knowing he will never
see such things again.

The ordinary made precious
in the dying light.

Each meagre moment
bereft of beauty.

Soon he will have
the Last Rites

and even this story
will be lost.

But now he listens
almost greedily

as I tell of a shadow
scattered upon the grass

as if it existed in
a dimension of its own.

He can almost taste
the sunlight.

See the wind
hustle the leaves.

How beautiful
is mud?

What a thing
is rain?

How wondrous
a footfall

opening up the silence
flowering into

the ragged breathing
of an obese jogger

her earphones
leaking Christmas music.

A Christmas long gone
that will not come for him again.

Father become child
wanting the again and again

of this fading
“Now.”

Spring in all its glory
shyly approaching

the dying
of his day.
Keenan Martin Mar 2010
The fight for territories, freedom, and respect is on.
Sleepless soldiers firing firearms at dawn.
Landmines and hand grenades, smoke screens and flashbangs,
Messing up you're vision and will blow you away.
Snipers on every high cliff and hill,
Dressed to match their surroundings, their attire to ****.
While Ghost Reacon operatives move in silence.
The Navy tries to focus on more tactical violence.

On the battleground there isn't cops and sirens,
Just the thunderous echoes of guns firing.
To change the climate torpedos rain from the sky,
In this weather condition barely anyone can survive.
But after years of fighting they're ready for the finale,
Take over the last enemy base in the valley.
You have won, you raise your flag and rop your guns,
But little do you know the battle has just begun.
The first to a mini series of poems I want to create. What do you think? Please comment!
Kaley Dec 2016
What's blue, an round,
an comes in different sizes?

what's grown an a product
sold in the stores?

.......Hidden Message......Answer......

Decode: look at the 1st letter of each word
if its just a letter(vowel) use the letter..

ex: Kop A Lop E Y ...... K a l e y (look at uppercase letters).

bop lop u e , bop e rop rop I e sop....
Ken Pepiton Dec 2024
At rest, satisfied I've done no harm.
I'll leave these waiting in line ideas
for your turn to happen on this information corridor.

It is the shopping season, I was told, so hold that thought.

Since we last shared our Sunday feelings, slow smiles,
easy breathings, laughing down deep,
sugar in chicory,
white shirt, sun bleached stiff, Sunday
feels like coffee
to a gut once punched breathless,

so we use our considerable peace
concentrating considering conditions
consuming the attention
of all willing war, stop
competitions
wills to win
instilled
we focus us, we
wishing, wishing, war, war, war,
whoa whoa whoa

sit up straight,
in your cave, alone look out
listen
right
for common sense say why

what for, asks the precocious child
in us all, this time
of year, the gear
of mortal thought
through gelled
gravity, pulling feeling pulled,
pushing feeling pushed
minds worths spent

wondering, if here is home,
where the core responsibility

is ours, not mine, we remain
in truth, life's automatic fundamental
mere words we understand, thought
basest mental function reconnoiter
hic-upping, holding

recognosis heresy as defined,
when such a label scarred me
- a compliment, such a scar  -
we breathe the same bubble, despite
any illusions, by time each is fine,
we fractalling tinier we points,
truer weforms reforming
facets holding worthier
bit roles valuse kept
at a true rest loss
in former face
to faces, diamonds cut diamonds
and scratch glass,
but so do Rhinestones, I tested
and cubic zirconium, yeah, too
youtubablefacheckable
edgewise twixt souls tied
in untested wills realizing how many times

we idly admitted realizing we had been beguiled,
but we were never condemned
for thinking so.

We realize

stretching
to contain the entertained pose,
suppose prepositionally magically
to make held breaths let go
be taken
in this form
as informed consent
wisdom from peace, once made
wise, used knowledge, waited
held while knowing, waiting
continues, until the end of time,
at which point,
such peace
pastless
breathing ease
be livable, a peace,
in a safe, satisfied mind,
of the kind the scriptures hold,
in formed words
of God, old surahs
and psalms and such,
inspirations enlivening
wisdom tested,
all acknowledge James,
San Diego, the peacemaker,
in this opera… the ragpicker, smile

soap opera reflections
persist, ever before
ever after, okeh

fine as any we can seem,
to me
by time told to smile

in clear text, all we recall,
we all may recall, for a while,

let the fretful fret, let the dead bury the dead.

Let your peace fill your place…

Let us say we use wisdom.
We used wisdom
to read so far.
Farther, still.

We may imagine
letting this mind already be
in us, as once, each we formed
with this idea Peace
on Earth as believed it is above,
in it init set once invariably declared
to obtuse angles
of approach, gentle, piercing point
of sublime peaceability
defined
as frictionless
fictionality,
easily entertained, for art's sake
some philosophic psy sayers see
arguing points is not warring
war makes proud falls
fester as the prouder enemy
perpetual villainy barely
perceivable
peaceable, but barely,
only in a thought bubble,
limited to your network access,

in plain text decoding
the noise, the humms, all those
basically bounce right here to make

these letters let these words answer
these qwerty witty invention info corridors,

replacing cuspidors
in the three door jokes. Preacher jokes.

{no, need, slow, do not forget the fall, three legs
  no yoke, need a cane, use a cane, but settle
where all the motion in the ocean is peace
Epimetheus anthropo peace, at last

from where this reporter sits,
on the calm
east edge
of December grey Pine Valley,

partaking
in yesterdays stored sunshine,

imagining writing effectual Christmas greetings,
empowered
to do what greetings once did,
as burning embers
in their heads
as we think
of our enemies, so are we, we
yes, we
are whom those must love,
or we all die lying
about whose math
makes useful sense, war or peace

pride or prejudice
blame or shame

debt or duty
to give back
at jubilee, joyfully.
Start with all new credit tomorrow.

Peace, nothing missing, nothing owing, sown.
By time.

Once done, the doing can be redone,
every fifty years, and knowledge
birth control and defensive
use of verbs like believe
and love and hate.
Live pre advised.

TIME AND AGAIN

like going
to the movies, but
before you knew you may disbelieve,
you did not have permission to leave, but
you could walk out and ask for your money back,
but, this time, you didn't
this Sunday, you let your peace
share imaginations common online,
mindshare through metadata sorting corridors
recognizance thorough preverb fixed beliefs on

breathing e okeh breathing, that's superfluous
unless e okeh
way
deep down settled silt
of the satisfied mind breathe-ing softly

endless scrolling bits
of nonsensed patterns
that seem funny
in the good medicine laugh, way

not the drunkensorrybacksliderdamnt'hell way, laugh

sorrysonofabitchwhowentsocrazy,
whoa, child,
laugh Tour et als
old time, it don't mean nothin' yoke
like now, it's funny,
we all collect
in corridors
of power
at points
of contention, we clog unstressed arteries,

yes, sitting sazen, said
to call
for some walking,
heel
to toe, perpendicularity regular as walking
on waves
in a puddle,
or my sister's version
of the mighty Mississippi…
she taught me
to spell, was a river,
like that, course slowing waters widen
each time the seasons change plains widen

by this point, bound
by mortal oathes
to time per se
we know knowledge never was outlawed, we do
we know, and we have always known, we did,
we used secrets, so we could have slaves, yes
- and share
- in all liar's shames, we used
- to sell our will
- to tell, we know most stories lie

and when we know why,
and when we know
we tell those stories,
as parables on choices,
by not trying the impulse
to explode
with awareness
of knowing available,
using old Kermit and Miss Piggy shows.
or vintage Dr. Seuss… indeed, the Who
we hear, to this very day, we do

so, did your parents or your grand parents
let you play with your own high speed
honest to god Optic to the wall,
speed to fact check, the least preverb will,

much the same class of possible answers
yes, neutrinos and neurons may answer
some stupid possible as well known,
odds are, if you got this far, your mind
is fine, you define the time browsing

this is my old curiosity shop, not one line
nor one precept used
to stock these corridors
of metadata corelating
at the speed
of thought came presupposed

since quite some time ago,
this is superfluity, as imagined,
by the ragpicker, as  he described the scribe…
the pen with intention to self correct,
the mind retention invention, us;
our we form in spirit as truth,
we all did,
we are the same down
to our lobster gene
joy reward we train
during spartan childhoods
towb ra' hard earned worth

of war, such social orders,

slaves pay only attention

to know how earlier,

of course they do it

for the same reason,

but. . . why do we think that same reason works
practiced in mind games made perceptual
realize the fact that pride causes contention,

we can pretend to fight friends, we cannot pretend
to pay the debts war owes war profiteers, ever.

Life is beautifully difficult, but never unreasonable…

after the original misconception
as to what dis-

connection entails, a ramification
of witless whatifs

well, that's
what has been called abstracted art using words
we all have cognates -
we all knowings using words up down right left
so close, so near, we think the very same ideas
first principal want need filled knowing
truth works, liars prosper, when truths
hidden
for power
to preposition protect liars
prosperity preserved
in ritual tradition
condition for peace, someday

another Pleasant Valley Sunday…

seconds seem so same
in ever before recollections
grand stacks
of all certain systems use
to enforce

defense
of war and hero preserved peace myths.

Blown
to hell,
by Orwell, and Shaw, et al

risen when the sorting sorted some
first mental assisting intelligence
how
to learn
with a known learning entity
with letters
to let us be neighbors
to befriend led
by a child
Tobor, but secret machine code
in a vocabulary we invent
second chances
a series of NAND gates
yes we have these now, indeed,
Feynman trinandretry why gates, we
teach our fingers qwerty keys we can see,
we could think,

newsprint, cheap,
to free, remainders
of ROP rolls, pulp paper

pulp fiction, smoke filled rooms,
daily takes
from the wire, copy boy

we get a Steno trained girl,
and a 1916 Dictaphone, sets the era.
dictation saved on a Dictaphone wire…

Then, which POV, actor or director,
on set
in scene NPC, or realized observer
influencing off stage
the free will
of every hope ******
in as you breathe infuriating butterflies.

And laugh and scratch
at what ain't cancer,
just an itch.



so, you absorbed social adjustment beta test data,
before you knew no children
before your cohort
experienced life tuning
to lightwaves we make
when we all think
in the shallow pointy ends
of the spectrum, hummm
drumm
breathe
think, sigh, clear the phlegm,

as a mind tied, internally,
to hearing ears
and seeing eyes,
in certain peaceable cogitations
presenting as slow onset disbelieving

breathe and breathe and breathe and think

we all breathed once since then,
at once
we think

for contention, as
to whose holy gnosis we say yes
we see we
breathe
in peace, because we do, right now
just breathe, and share
the enough we share
good will
to mankind
one kindness form
same we once
ex nihilo
as above, so below
only leave be true, you see,

and see if some say see, you do.

Because those who told the grown ups why,
also told them why not, why love

is not all you need, truth,
wisdom demands attention,
aware is not afraid, no need dread be taught,

unless the lie be used
to instill deep we psyche, eee we
in the very air we breathe, dispersion,
inevitable ruliad ewload suspension

we are, as  individual wills working
for love
of the life, living as satisfied
to swim
in warm waves
of gentle gravity

settling
in the silt
at the bottom
of our filter bubble,
in this flushing foam moment

since when was so important, then

I was just thinking
in qwerty mode,
and sensed I once imagined endless rolls
to read
from, as I wrote
in my mind, while

driving, millions
of miles, since 1964,

many first things occurred since 1964.

Today, first time it seem so peaceful,
not since ever,
has my peace so remained
due to my expert use
of freedom
from the press, along
with freedom to broadcast
from the drifting frequency joy
and regulatory testing demands, fear
not
this is only a test, if it were an attack…

we would be dead, by now.
If one only believed it was truth that made peace possible, we can reason together and gladly accept honest jubilee, new credit for all, new measures of what a post urban human can make joy producing given time in peace.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2021
BE THOU MY VISION

He drinks in
my vision

of a world
contained in a matter

of minutes
all that can be seen

in this here
& now.

An ordinary world
of the mundane moment

joggers and *******
running side by side

somewhere the distant barking
of an invisible dog.

Litter being taken
for a walk

by a skittish wind
changing direction on a whim.

A swan
sitting on its own

on a park bench
gazing at the water.

My Da gulps down
each happenstance

each moment
of unimportance

knowing he will never
see such things again.

The ordinary made precious
in the dying light.

Each meagre moment
bereft of beauty.

Soon he will have
the Last Rites

and even this story
will be lost.

But now he listens
almost greedily

as I tell of a shadow
scattered upon the grass

as if it existed in
a dimension of its own.

He can almost taste
the sunlight.

See the wind
hustle the leaves.

How beautiful
is mud?

What a thing
is rain?

How wondrous
a footfall

opening up the silence
flowering into

the ragged breathing
of an obese jogger

her earphones
leaking Christmas music.

A Christmas long gone
that will not come for him again.

Father become child
wanting the again and again

of this fading
“Now.”

Spring in all its glory
shyly approaching

the dying
of his day.



“Be thou my vision
Oh Lord of my heart
Naught be all else to me
Save what thou art.”



There is a photo of me and my Da heading off to Sunday mass in our Sunday best. I am holding his hand and so proud that this man is my Da and totally in love with the moment. In mass  we will sing Be Thou My Vision and it will be an epiphany. This is the moment I will be remembering when the doc throws us out for a while and  I go out to the nearby park. Everything I saw and there was nothing much to see...******* and shadows....joggers and swans and a dog that could not be seen. The dog was in a housing estate a good bit away but his bark was right beside you. A swan was sitting on a park bench and wouldn't let anyone else sit on it. The music leaking from the jogger's headphones and she trundled by me in pink spandex was...The Little Drummer Boy. This in March? When the doc let me back in Da wanted to know everything I had seen down to the littlest detail. He was able to tell me that when a swan goes loco with you...it is called busking. He was always able to tell me such tiny bits of knowledge. Even the shadow on the ***** grass got gulped down by his mind. Only after did I realise that all these details of things he knew he would never see again. They had become precious...even the mud...even the rain. In my mind when he was dying I would sing to him all the songs and hymns I sang with him in all the different Da's he was.

The old Irish version of the hymn says it all for me>

Be thou my father, be I thy son.
Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.

Rop tussu m'athair, rob mé do mac-su;
rop tussu lem-sa, rob misse lat-su.

Such intense love....an immensity held in these scrappy details of a nothing day.

Be thou my father, be I thy son.
Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.

Rop tussu m'athair, rob mé do mac-su;
rop tussu lem-sa, rob misse lat-su.
Hello Daisies Dec 2018
Close my eyes
See my dreams
Made of my bliss

Nothing is my happiness
From striving
To a n g e r

Sadness was my major
Always so                    Lonely
My eyes don't want to open

Sleep my only token
Pretending I'm as before
But laying here i know

Being alive is a show
I died inside
Yet they want me to believe

I keep going with no relief
I've given up on me long ago
Yet when music plays

Tears d
             rop where i lay
Small glimmer of emotion
Just may still remain after all
Johnny Noiπ Mar 2019
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MuEmpire Nov 2018
l(d
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rop
p
e d
t h
e dam

n th ing s
o)a
z
y
[a poem in the style of E.E. Cummings]
Thomas Burge Nov 2023
You tell me not to wait when you know I'll never leave
Because you and I is something I really want to believe
Leaving is easy but I don't quit
And somewhere in your mind I think you know it
Attached by a rop I don't want to cut
Staring at a door I don't want to shut
I may wear my heart on my sleeve
You tell me not to wait but you know I'll never leave
Johnny Noiπ Mar 2019
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Johnny Noiπ Mar 2019
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