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For all the earth in the world,
For the varied chunks,
shapes and shades
of brown, keep an eye out!

There, somewhere in the dirt,
Next to the writhing worm,
Gasping at pockets of sunlight,
Green life ruminates, and
pushes, pushes up,
through the soil,
intrepid, unlikely.  
It abandons its old husk house,
what little safety it knew,
and, daring to dream,
thrusts itself into existence,
and feels the day's cooling kiss,

a multi cellular masterpiece,
when yesterday, there was only
dirt.
Here in exile thy is separated
Thy kin folk shall see not a sight of me
Ousted from thy friends not feeling sated
Another door hath been opened for me
Others took this wretch into their welcome fold
Thy cast to the winds of segregation
Treading a path on a road so very cold
Thy must suffer in vast alienation
With hopes of returning back to kin
Thy outlook is uncertain this is so
Will their arms accept the one of much sin
All is in the air maybe the signs say no
Thy ruminates on the outer border
Shall past friends give thy an entry order
William A Poppen Jun 2014
His mouth puckers to the side,
his brow furrows when aware
an assumption crawls around
in the wormwood of his mind.
  
Every  misconception,
unrecognized at first
swells within, until
his error bolts forth
like lighting on the prairie
breaks the swelter of
a summer day.

Meditations sooth his disquiet ,
perplexed by her perfection
he searches for scars in blossoms,
and defects in tree leaves.  His mouth
grows dry as he mumbles
"there is no perfection."
If he finds a flaw
upon her cheek,
or a birthmark
on her shoulder
will his love fade?

Eyes staring ahead,
his mind in a trance,
he ruminates phrases
" stay open," "remain tolerant"  
wait for flowers to bloom,
rains to come and
her to remain
incomprehensible.
Wk kortas Feb 2017
It is generally supposed we come to this place
As a just reward for treachery and traitorousness.
Indeed, nothing could be farther from the truth;
Most of my compatriots her have blindly hitched their fortunes
To some flag, some shining dogma, our fates sealed
Through an unwillingness to be sufficiently self-interested,
The refusal to abandon ship once it became apparent
That the experience upon the rocks
Would be neither enabling nor ennobling.
My own case is illustrative of the rule;
My father, noble sovereign ascending to the throne
Via parlor tricks and the rustic embrace of folk legend,
(The fornication resulting in my birth brushed aside
As some accident of mistaken identity or enchantment)
Is celebrated, beatified really, in song and legend,
Yet I, who pulled myself up by my own bootstraps as it were,
Winning his queen’s hand and defeating him on the field,
Am consigned to this unhappy place in perpetuity,
Suffering demons who hiss *******! Usurper!
As they put me through my paces
(One takes their rebukes with a grain of salt;
They are all mad, the likely result of dealing with this glut of madmen.)
As I noted, the presence of myself and my brethren in this place
Serve as a testament to the merits of fidelity,
Which we commemorate daily, some days several times
(I confess it seems more than a touch silly,
But the necessity of creating distractions
Trumps other concerns in a locale such as this)
By staging caucus races, each participant addressing
The ******* in front of him directly,
Paying it fealty--My liege! My liege!--which is answered in turn
By a cannonade of noxious farting
(We assume the smells to be offensive,
As the atmosphere here is somewhat deleterious at all times)
All to the great amusement of those sprites
Who observe our machinations,
They in turn guffawing madly and urinating downward upon us
While we, as the acidic waste corrodes us, also cackle like lunatics,
Fairly shouting Ah, the gentle rain of Heaven--thank you, Lord!
Though, oddly enough, our laughter at times
(Most likely due to the aridity of the atmosphere around us)
Seems to catch a bit in the throat.
Indian mother, small daughter, dowry troubles
kerosene poured drenching them
soaked rage, soaked rags
match struck, flames then death
wrenching

Two crumbs amongst these intransigent
slices of village culture
lost, burnt alive
never even at the table
A slice of life lost in a furnace
fueled by ignorance

American daughter, guilt filled
flees the home that loves her
drug fueled journey, on a treadmill of fear
for the running never ends
needle slices, a lonely son away from his mother
****** coursing the blood vessels
A slice of life, a slice of madness

English man sitting, ruminates on his slices
some with honey, some with not
pens a few lines
reality served up, tough to swallow
late in life, at least he’s realized
he’s the breadwinner and the bread maker
each slice cut, just the way he likes it
a sliced of life, a slice of love
each one chewed to perfection.
Melissa Rose May 2018
I have something to say
but my thoughts scatter
like crisp dead leaves
abandoned by their trees
obscure as ominous clouds
concealing the sun
my wounds bleeding all over time
but these pages remain starkly White
as I’m choking on a mouthful
my mind ruminates
on every last tormenting word
that continues to remain
Unexpressed
5/21/18
Lydia Jul 2022
when I think of regrets in this life
there are more than I could count on both hands and feet
regret is natural and normal and healthy
but some of it is not
the kind that creeps up on you day after day
when your brain isn’t fully involved in something or a conversation and so there is space to fill with memories, ideas, or a bunch of nonsense
or all of the bad things you’ve ever done in your whole entire life
I’m not sure if I’ve ever really told anyone or said them out loud even
the past ruminates in my conscious
waiting to bite me in the most random moments when I least expect it
several sentences in and I still can’t get it out
the words are there right behind my lips but I can’t get them out
I might die one day being the only one who knows
Ever untouched by prying eyes
Your incandescence knows no price
No quantity of gold could wager
Your glimmering translucency

For beauty sits through frosted glass
It knows no mirror image
In sunny spells it lights the way
Just possible to distinguish

At night it sits upon the lake
Which ruminates inside your head
To change you but remain unchanged
To glow when couples wed

You are the anthropomorphism
Of waves on a summers day
You are the moment two opposing
Paths conjoin in harmony

In the instance your cover’s blown
Your reflection sits untampered
For that instant your delicate soul
Lies naked, conserved, unhampered

For all of this I sit in awe
As viscous silver streams
Carve channels at your feet
Ejecting precious molten metals

Which ignite with scorching heat
I find the strength to sit up
Then rise up onto my knees
Put out your hand and pull me up

I feel so deeply of your beauty
I cannot help but smile
When I think of your gift to me
It strikes me that time has passed

Since the sun shone to illuminate
Just how grateful I am to have an
Opposing path through frosted glass
A flower to my unkempt leaves.
“Love? What is it?
Most natural painkiller
that there is.”

- William S. Burroughs
One who feared LOVE
Called it unattainable

One who pondered LOVE
Pressed a rose in their books

One who ruminates LOVE
wraps it around a wick and calls it a lamp

And there is one who contemplates
Puts fire of LOVE
Burns heart to inequable use

LOVE
Serves many purposes
Warmth, care,
Compassion, touch
Companionship, feelings
And above all
LOVE loves...

But humans sold LOVE
In the bazaars of wealth & age
Education & gender
What an exorbitant cost to humankind?
Oh.. divesting LOVE to stupidity!

Fortuitously,
You told me
"Wander not far & wide
In quest of LOVE anywhere
So here I stand
Within YOU- my LOVE"
Wk kortas Feb 2018
i.

I smile, sometimes, thinking of how I liked the old Byrds tunes
Back in my seminary days, for I have come to know
(Mostly by these cucumbers, hostas, and ****** dandelions)
That there is very much a season for all things,
For our run in this plane is strictly proscribed,
And having the end date somewhat fixed
A blessing from God, in fact,
For it makes one focus on those things
That are truly meaningful,
To appreciate when there is need to make fine gradations
(For if you plant the peas and parsley just a couple of days,
Indeed mere hours too early, an unexpectedly still and cold night
May steal all of your labors, leaving you with tiny, lifeless shoots
Slumped over the lip of a clay ***)
And when not to waste sound and fury, as it were,
Over the most trifling of things;
For, when the final ascertainment is made, it will not be as an audit,
(Saint Peter himself staring over his glasses
As he punches the calculator,
Clucking as he reviews the number of bottoms in the pews,
The weight of the collection plate,
The state of the cement or flagstone
Leading to the stairs of the cathedral),
But an over-long movie, the seemingly most insignificant of scenes
Screened several times (if it please God) for your viewing pleasure.

ii.

For I have sinned, yes, most exceedingly,
Dear Saints and My Lord,
In lack of thought and foresight, in the expedient holding
Of my tongue, in the unthinking failure to act.
Mea culpa
Mea culpa
Mea maxima culpa.
Blessed ******, I cannot,
In the self-serving pride of my guilt,
Ask you to pray for my soul,
But I would pray that, perhaps,
I will have had the briefest of moments
Where I was not totally unworthy.


iii.

I was, at one time, a different lifetime to me now
Part of the Bishop’s diocesan staff in Boston,
Great city of pristine churches
Surrounded by blooms of all the colors He could bring
And shanty Irish rough as the day the boat landed
(One size Fitz all, the joke was back in those days)  
I was more functionary than rising star in the hierarchy,
Nicknamed “The Bishop’s Travel Agent”,
My function was to find a place for those priests
Who had become , in the vernacular, “troublesome”,
Sending priests whose comforting
Of the younger females among his flock
Strayed over the line of purely spiritual
To some remote Aroostook village
Or, if such problems ran more to altar boys,
Some convent in the Berkshires.
We were, so I told myself, being judicious,
And all in the best interests of the Church.
One time we were wrong, horribly wrong;
There was a suicide, whispers,
Letters which should have been burned.
Many of my colleagues complained, bitterly,
That I had been made
An unworthy scapegoat for the Bishop,
But I knew in my soul such an assertion
Was merely halfway correct.

iv.

Yet perhaps I will—no, indeed, I must—be saved,
For our Lord is good, and Christ shall have mercy,
And exchange this long walk through foolishness and vanity
With life everlasting, even for those of us
Who have stumbled along clumsily,
Unthinkingly, unheedingly upon Your creation.
Kyrie, eleison;
Christe, eleison;
Kyrie, eleison.


v.


It is good, then; the days have been dry
And unusually warm, the nights cool
Yet without the danger of frost.
The beans and tomatoes should thrive,
And the sunflowers should grow
Well… like sunflowers, one would surmise.
As for myself, the good days
Are examples of His grace,
The bad ones no more than I can bear,
And the doctors (mere men, after all)
Minister to me as well as men can.
I have, blessedly, no trepidation
As relates to the close of my small one-act play
On this patch of earth.  
Indeed, I am often cheered
That I have seen small green shoots
Rising from the years of fallen leaves
Which I have raked up and dumped upon the brush lot
Between the church itself
And the old graveyard at the rear of the property.
Wk kortas May 2021
I have often wondered
(Though this one time out of respect for the deceased,
I suppressed the urge to ask the question)
Why in hell preachers never seem to own any old pairs of shoes;
Certainly, they must be cognizant
That the when the Lord brings rain
(Though never when, where, or in the proportion we would like,
His way being not our way and all that *******)
The mud is sure to follow, and yet I have never seen a preacher
Who didn’t approach an open grave in shiny new calfskin loafers.
To say that having a man of the cloth approach
The solemn duty of uniting a man with his Maker
Like he was tip-toeing through a mine field puts a burr up my ***
Is to make understatement ******* near an art form;
I have stipulated in my will that I’m to be buried
Smack-dab in the middle of my cow pasture
(The farm itself, sadly, a bit easier to reach
Once the town—over my strenuous objections, I may add—
Decided it was necessary to pave
My section of the Crow Mountain Road)
So when the time comes for the minister
At the Presbyterian church over in Delhi
To spirit me away from this vale of tears to the arms of Jesus,
Hopefully he’ll do so with good honest cowshit
Splattered on his suit trousers.

Car-di-o-meg-a-ly.
That is, apparently, what old Doc Cathey
Scribbled down on Henry’s death certificate,
Though I suspect he simply picked a page
Out of his medical dictionary
And wrote the first thing that looked plausible.
Given that the man was big as a house and soft as a newborn,
It’s **** near a miracle he lived as long as he did,
And he sure as hell didn’t do anything for his longevity
By taking on the cares and worries of every loser and fool
Like they were so many stray kittens.
For myself, I learned long ago where value lies:
You come up to my place,
I can show you an Ithaca Double Shotgun from the 20s
With the blue still on the barrels,
Worth **** near a thousand dollars now,
And Liberty Head ten-dollar coins
That you’d swear were freshly minted.
Now that, my friend, is the kind of thing
Which appreciates over the years,
And if I die alone and unmourned,
Well, that’s pretty much how I came in,
So I’m more or less ahead of the game.
What killed Henry? Well, I’m no M.D, praise God,
But I figure it was his failure to take into account
That saintliness doesn’t pay off
Until a body’s gone and become past tense.
Mr. Loomis and Mr. Soames appear courtesy of the John Gardner novel Nickel Mountain.
K Balachandran Jul 2017
Pollinating  a red flower in a frenzy, a blue butterfly ruminates:
"This act,a prompt, nature coincides with time,is hardly appreciated"
"You tickle me, in a way I haven't known ever,Yes, I love it"
twitching involuntarily the flower seems to hold on to that moment.
" After all, we couple in the interest of  posterity, let's not forget"
Dylan B Dec 2012
The Panther scales above the infirmity of the jungle
like a reverent vicar, in her mouth
she clutches an infant. To some this is
the most intoxicating world—so long as you don’t mind
a little ruse, how could there be a day in your whole life
that doesn’t consist of a flurry of happiness?
Below, game lopes abundantly as the ocean tributaries,
each frolicking along a distinctive course, not that
she ever really ruminates over them, or anything else.
The panther has never had to digest a fable,
though her existence propagates an analogous terror.
When predators raid her hearth, they remain
ephemeral, irrelevant – her insatiable hunger the only story
she has ever managed to revisit.
Your skin will never feel her eyes. I cannot say
she is wrong. Piously she prepares her supper,
with its meager, undeveloped vigor, erupting
a contented roar in the conversion of its properties.
She exists the product of her kind, the natural order her excuse
as she scales back above the inconsequence of the jungle
again, to do the same thing
(as I’d longed to do something, anything) perfectly.
CeLlAr DoOr
cElLaR dOoR
cELLAR dOOR
cellar door

Cellar Door:
The most beautiful comprised set of words in the English dictionary

Why?

It could be the similar endings or how the shapes of the C and D are parallel
It could be the double letters in each word that are located right in the middle of both
Yet it could also be the way it, so easily, slides up your throat and escapes you mouth while it still ruminates on the tip of your tongue

But I personally believe it is not the letters or the sounds
It is the mystery of that one "Cellar Door"

What lies behind the "Cellar Door"?
Where does this "Cellar Door" lead to?
Can you imagine the beauty of this "Cellar Door"?

The perfection of this word is that of which the eyes cannot see and the ears cannot hear
J J Aug 2019
the boy has a match
                       in his back poc ket. hovering
                                                     janky steps
                                             sheathed by fluffy ice
                       chest reverb erates
as a single rain drop
                                   trickled in pinful loop...
theforestwaits
                            Undisturbed
not wanting to be burnt but he rations
      not wanting anything at all.
in destroying one makes                                something

                    whence once

     there was                                                       nothing. he

s t r i k e s the match aflame and alive,
    l
      o
         w ering it fit to spread
and surely cause his life some havoc... havoc...
havochavochavoc
                                  HAVOC
                               H A V O C
                                                   havoc;

   he ruminates the meaning of the word a while
and settles
    on it being better than boring old nothing.
Yes,I've read e.e cummings,why do you a
sk ? ?
Brycical Dec 2011
Some aspects of the world
vary...

Yet many tend to forget
the rhythm the world
ruminates.

Cyclical vibrations
rotate--
dance off and on
simultaneously.
Everything arrives
and leaves
and arrives
and leaves
again &
again
& again.
I sit alone on the pond’s ghat in this rainwashed noon.

Her ripples dead
She ruminates once more
In the deafening silence of the crickets’ buzz.

*Came the men to splash upon me
The women within me bared shame
Frolicked the boys in me carefree
Made me alive in their joyous game!

Swam on me hope’s stretched hands
Sunk in me the broken heart
Left over me the girl her hair strands
At the end they all did depart!

Now I must wait for the sun to set
To drown my memories of the noon
Dreaming the stars to open heaven’s gate
Wrap me in night’s ripened moon!
Michael Hoffman Feb 2014
He reaches for the other pillow
but finds no head resting there
looking pretty
ready to kiss
and he feels bad.

She awakens from dreams of him
but there are no arms
reaching out for her
just the rumpled sheets
that witness only sleep.

Each heart breaks sometimes
remembering the precious few moments
when they could embrace
like normal people
and they cry.

And they both keep weeping
feeling so sad and heavy
with anger at the situation
at the other
for not trying harder
to be there.

He ruminates about how
she never does talk about
where she wants to put her piano
and she complains to herself
because he no longer counts
the days until their next encounter
and has so little to say
on the phone.

Each one is obsessed
with worrying about the other
and neither takes
the time to wonder
if the distant partner
also feels the sting
of the empty pillow.
Megan Sherman Feb 2017
O Sappho, prophet of the page
To whom the Greeks devote their age
Humbly true in gentle words
Full of spirit, passion stirred
Poetess, in mind embeds
A fulsome flame of luscious red

On glistening isle, on ******' shores
Sappho ruminates, adores
Rendering the usual world
In to magic truth unfurled
Written cross the sky in stars
Sung in time to ancient lyres

Her descant rings in metaphors
The earliest of troubadors
Enamoured of the wise, sublime
Conveyed in verse that transcends time
A most dutiful and diligent scribe
Gifting us, the reading tribe

Her vision ascends to immortal throne
Throughout time it sparkled, shone
Inspiring the future sages
To lust for verse and give up wages
To be a poet, that's her bliss
To see the sunshine as a kiss
Gabriel Jul 2021
Almost like clockwork,
the bone breaks. This time,
an arm, a warning
against the things that hands
can do. Cut it off not at the disease,
but at the root.

We hope, this time,
that we were quick enough
in the amputation.
That the disease has spread
no further than the floor
upon which the phantom limb jerks.

Last time, it was slow,
an infestation below the muscle
until the patient was screaming
for morphine. We had to cut
the lower leg first, but the thigh
was already prisoner.

The neuroscience department
has been working overtime
on all the brains we lobotomised
before removal. We’re thinking
that’s where it ruminates,
dormant, like a volcano.

The infection manifests
differently in everyone.
In some, it cries for attention,
and we cut the throat.
In others, it’s violence,
and it ends up killing itself.

There’s not much we know
and even less we can name.
When they brought my body
in, they called it loneliness,
and cut out my heart.
The wolves ate well that night.
From a portfolio I wrote in third year of university, titled 'Infestation'.
Adam Mott Jan 2014
What's the price to pay,
An eye for an eye?
This question, it ruminates
Echoing off the sound in this quiet isle
Nothing quite like the enemy
Just like you want to be,
Clearly

Soul too shallow
I was your remedy,
Now I'm just another enemy
Remedies and Enemies all as well
giofuellos Oct 2018
He's seating beneath a big block of stone
On a place where art lays and unfolds
Staring at the passing traffic
Watching at the reality dancing before him
As if he's guarding the ruins
Of the old world crumbling behind
Like the sun slowly fading at the green bay

I can hear him constantly switching
Radio stations on his cheap phone
To pass time, to pass eternity
But never seem to find the song
He's used to dance with in his youth
And now in his twilight amidst
The setting of the great tropical sun
He ruminates on the rising edifices before him

How everything had changed
The thatched roofed houses
Have now become towering cranes
The tall grass have become steel fences
The muddy earth now paved
I can see in the old man's static gaze
That he is wishing and hoping for something
Something he can grasp with
His calloused and wrinkled hands
Something his old frame can lift and hold
Like a moment, or a memory he can be proud of
Until the last of his august days

Yet he found what he's searching for
The last minutes of a ball game
I can hear the ecstatic crowd roaring
As the game dribbles to its end
The buzzer sounds over triumph and defeat
Then the old man closes his phone,
Drinks from his jug, and fixed his things
He looked at me as he stood
Then walks away slowly, losing himself
Beyond a sea of concrete
Amy I Hughes Nov 2014
Mirrored in stark, cold symmetry
Branches shake and entwine in a delicate whisper that ruminates from a place unknown
Our names were called to a white path with the fluttering sureness of a snowflake
Closer we cling in deep breath
Feet shaky on firm ground
Cotton clouds shape and form in a ever changing grey sky
Within dreams of elegant falling feathers and wings
We pray for help through this raw Winter
And there, in each other, we see it
Through every bitter sense and every sweet harmony of the Robin's call we find it
There is beauty
Mirrored in stark, cold symmetry
Having to let the Winter come, face truths & see the hope ahead
Homunculus Mar 2020
I.

Eyes taking survey
of immediate surroundings.
Habitable? Yes.
Presentable? No.
At least not to anyone
lacking the neuroses which
with such resplendent ecology
were given perennial bloom
in the mental landscape
of this peculiar creature. . .  

Dwelling, as he does
within plaster walls
upon concrete floors
beneath fluorescent lights, as they
quietly hum a low B flat and illuminate
filth and fur amassed in quantities
sufficient to reconstruct entire animals,
and perhaps even ecosystems...

Drugs in their various guises and dis-guises
paraphernalia indiscreetly proliferated
Musical implements, instructions, and instruments
supinely littered, almost as profusely
as the mountains of literature courting
avalanche from the rigid repose of
each supportive surface where they rest

Brooms weeping in neglect of their sweeping as
spiders nest betwixt the bristles, but
at least they keep the bugs out...

Records in crates and stacks with
no particular organization. Hmm.
That last line sums it succinctly.
"No particular organization."
Yet he still unaccountably knows
within this squalor where
the minutest of objects reside

His thoughts and actions
are sporadic, leaving linearity
in want of apt expression
For him, it seems the shortest
path between two points
is a frenetic scribble

Getting things done
in a timely manner? Possibly.

Getting sidetracked and forgetting
the original plan? Probab-  HEY
                                                         DID
                                                  YOU
                                                         GUYS

                                                  SEE          
                                                  ­       THAT?!?!?!?!

 

II.

                                And    ­                  
"Whoever lives this way, cannot be well!"
Someone might say, or, perhaps even yell.
Erelong might this assertion be dispelled
                 With them and their opinion. . . . .
                STRAIGHT TO HELL!

For now the music of Debussy fills the air,
  and now this vagabond has found a locus
  a flag and bond of jouissance and care
  arresting him  in implacable focus

Inhaling the aroma of the night
  he raises up his quill with great delight
  and sets the implement in fervent motion
  and bathing in the passions it ignites

He yields to it in rapturous devotion
  and as if under spell or magic potion
  his brain and nerves and muscles all engage
  in spilling forth the fury of an ocean

Society has trapped him in a cage
  ensnared him in frivolity, it seems
  but his ink abounds in freedom on its page
  and guides him to tranquility from rage  

As Luna pours her iridescent beams
  into this weary poet's dreary head
  his mind illuminates with fate's esteem
  and ruminates through labyrinths of dream

As everything he's seen, done, heard, or said
  becomes a tapestry of order, woven
  with chaos as the impetus that's led
  this blessed magnanimity has shed

A light to guide the way; a path to show him
  to Athens' martyred sage whom he's beholden
  who espoused the noble maxim he's now chosen:
"Look deeply in thyself and truly know him."  

Look deeply in thyself, and truly know him!

III.

"If a cluttered desk",
a man once asked,
"Is a sign of a cluttered mind?"
"Of what, then,"
he continued,
"is an empty desk a sign?"
I have ADD or ADHD or whatever they're calling it these days. I was diagnosed as a child, and the condition has persisted with me into adulthood, presenting undeniable challenges and difficulties. This piece is an attempt to illustrate the manifestations, both outward and inward, of what it is like to live with this condition.
Alone within emotional wilderness
(mine) biding leisure time
January 19th, 2020
without reason nor rhyme,
yet woke with sublime

pained acute awareness,
how once prime
merrily rightful autochthonous occupants
their land stole equivalent value
not much more'n dime.

Simple man dwells admiring
mother nature's architrave
home of the free land of the brave
usurped with exacting vengeance
aboriginal happy hunting grounds,
yours truly cloistered within man cave
small medium at large eremite doth crave
indigenous tribes Europeans

did wantonly annihilate
and/or make deprave
viciously slaughtering Native Americans
nsync brutality wrecking
their idyllic enclave
foreigners forcibly corralling
subsequently did enslave
ruthlessly employing sacrilegious travesty

scattered smite stricken survivors
formidable invaders (countless
demoniacal explorers) rendered desolate
pristine unbroken woodland
deceit, guile, iniquitous
jawboning flavor flav,
whether or not ancestors (mine)
even tangentially linkedin

egregious mockery, travesty
yours truly never forgave
horrendous genocide early settlers
wrought onto indigenous peoples
hoodwinked, notoriously
thrashed "noble savage"
feigning burying hatchet until
last proud redman buried in his grave.

Similar saga countless instances played across
four corners of globe,
white man self anointed himself boss
subsequently slaying innocent lives
all in name of Christ crucified on cross
denying original rightful inhabitants
their preexisting misnamed

new found lands
invaders justified execrable massacres
on par with clearing away dross
trumpeting art of the deal (albeit) gross
and unfair, whereat decimated loss
lovely bones long since
covered over with moss.
James Rider Mar 2016
Sometime never around around the corner, with Bukowski's eyes and satin skin,
She waits.
She ruminates the fierceness she will make someone endure while waiting.
Fierceness that only shows it's true nature after safety has been suggested.
Suggestions that come freely, not when asked.
Questions that lie when posed before the wrong ears.
Illumination is only the first letter of a word used falsely to spread truth.
Honesty comes at the bottom of the whiskey bottle, lonely and hurt.
Soon, the nature of her honesty will no longer wait for any other to acknowledge it, but instead, adopt a life of it's own.
Soon.
Soon.
John Prophet Dec 2016
We are the visible manifestation of a much deeper design.
Like the tip of an iceberg most of what we are is out of view.
Science tells us that only four percent of what makes up the Universe is visible to us, ninety six percent is unseen and unknown.
Science calls the ninety six percent unseen, dark matter and dark energy. They call it dark because they have no clue what either is.
Like the tip of a sharks fin if viewed by the unknowing would give no hint of what's below. Our lives, rules and being are ruled by the tip we see. All that we think we know comes from the visible four percent! A deeper dive would
illuminate ultimate reality, and all that we are and know would change.
It's the blind leading the blind in the world of the visible, and, we can only see a fraction of the visible. What then, in fact, do we really know at all?
When the corporeal turns to dust, when the four percent ceases to exist the ninety six simply ruminates and corporeally manifest itself some time/place else.
This is all just postulation you see, unlike the word of others who'll tell you how things must certainly be.
JP May 2017
While
Driving vehicle
I ruminates her memory
One such...
Someday
am in romantic mood
texting her like.,,,
She reply, "Don't have
any other work than texting me??"
am hurt
Went off for few hours
She messaged me, "why
you disappeared??"
am confused....
She know how to shut me off... A way to increase her presence in my mind..
the dirty poet Nov 2023
an optimist calls this a sunny sunday morning
coffee, cats, colson whitehead’s latest
a pessimist ruminates on gaza
the ukraine, sudan, republicans
Gabriel Aug 2020
Havisham’s hands are ******
with the half-squeezed heart
blackened by falsity,
like thick red paint,
her crackling fingertips
keep moulding something invincible;
the permanence of lying.

Altars still stand
after the apocalypse,
registry books torn
to become cigarette papers;
the ash of everything
and a child,
painting the phoenix
onto the acid soil,
until the core coils into chainmail.

The echoes of the innocent
make pews into death row,
where the absence of a void
ruminates, glitching, triumphant;
wedding dresses at funerals
brush away the humid dew
of unmown grass,
as the softness of forgetfulness
crowns each grave eternal.

Havisham’s hands are made of soot,
the woman as the pyre,
long-since engulfed
in bitterness;
one lie creating a fragile universe.
Greek chorus repeating
minor rites
until the dead phoenix
dies again,
and only the smoke
of lie-infested letters
rises.
Something I wrote for a creative writing portfolio in first year of university.
JP Jun 2018
her memories
ruminates me
beyond the gates of
day and night..
dionysus Aug 2017
If I had a glimpse into your soul
What would I see?
A maze of little secrets
Each tucked away under a blanket of denial and lies
Would I see a window of light
Each having a ray of light illuminating you
Thus making you shine from within
Would I see a blanket of darkness
That ruminates your being with each look and word
That spews with judgement and disdain
Would I see the full fruits of a Diviner
Serenity glowing from within
Would I see you for you
Would you let me see every facet of your brokenness and hurts
The darkest parts and every ream of light  known and unknown to us both
If your soul is the deepest part of who you are
Then this is all I show interest in
Not your face
Your legs
Your arms
Your nose
Or anything visible to the eye
My eyes only dwell on what is not visible to us both
It is within you
It is this that concerns me the most
ari Jan 2022
my rage weeps from my pores,
it ruminates from my skin like the stench of *******:
the red blur,
the fire,
the girlhood,
the wound.
i am
spitting up sparks,
exhaling crescendos and
flailing; a dying fish/girl
a frenzied howl, screaming herself into existence
because the noise in her head is too loud,
because a dozen things are being pushed into her mouth
and she'd rather puke
that sit and swallow

— The End —