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“death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”

a puzzling, troubling line in a personal message,
instantly isolated for further review,
needy indeedy for a second medical opinion,
for it’s a description of two,
an actual place and a state of being

a place where death seems more commonplace,
not from agedness or honor,
but from a madness drunk from a special cocktail of
heat, guns and pseudo-rock stars, with beer chasers

imbibed by those who imagine themselves INRL  
in a movie genre of specialized urban cowboys,
subset horror flick,
self-appointed angels

part of a world view
so pervasive that it infiltrates the mental water supply
and modifies the pure children early on

demeaning existence, with a sense, a sendup,
life is unreal, cheap, so taking it-is ok,
justice delivered, for we angels,
are subset,
angels of death

in a country where
seven out of ten believe in angels,
and one in four confident that
the sun revolves around the Earth

look to blame
polluted water
the ever-overheated atmosphere,
bringing typhoon and storm,

I do not know

how be sun and water,
the essences, the originations of all life
today come to the planet days still
clear and warm,
yet can not infiltrate our personal mystery,
respire, re-spark the notion of the spirit,


the simple sanctity of life peculiarly human
call me by my other name
mystified momma
Hadiy Syakir Mar 2018
I want to open a business
but I will never trade
every words of sanctity
for it.

Teach me,
on how to open a shop
without a table
without a sign
without a premise
is it all done just
to break the promise?

I want to be like them
but I can't sell my words
on a tee, on a tele
becoming part of
the rotten machinery
is a sign of chaos
and profligacy.

even if I have to wait
at the end of the line
, I will do that.
ryn Mar 2015
This smile that makes your day...
This undaunted smile that seem to say.
Show me yours too so we both could play,
On a plane where everything is fine...
Everything's okay...

This smile that reaches out to you...
With nothing but invisible arms.
Caresses your eyes and draws you in.
Entices you with the sweetest charms.

Whispers you tales of a brightly lit future;
Where we're trapped in dance with each other...
Supporting...
Leading...
Lifting and,
Seducing one another...

Let the music ring clear,.
Over the thumping of our heartbeats...
Aggressively segmenting, framing the dance into seconds that would elapse.
Like two duelists entranced into committing tender jousts and retreats.

But know that...
This smile screams only lies.
For it is but a routine mask.
So well worn and adequately rehearsed...
You'd never see the need to ask.

Instead you'd just allow yourself be taken,
To a place where the tide gently beats...
Upon the shore our two ailing hearts.
A place where earth and sky would meet.

When in fact,
It hides the turmoil and agitation.
Guarding the storm that brews incessantly.
Continuously threatening
To breach this shared sanctity with me.

A haven would've then be erected.
That very instant we allowed...
This dance of smiles
From time of first contact to the time we bowed.

This smile... Only took a second
To paint a peaceful picture upon my face.
Free from the pressures building behind my pursed lips.
Just take this smile so that in that second,
We could get lost in the promise of a heavenly place...
As soon as I primmed this Hard-Composed Verse
Of Thanking her for her Un-Condition
I saw the Door locked; My Key in disperse
For Reasons whose Respect I Rendition
After all, Random be my Identity
For Some who chose those Caves after the Park
Why not? They're there, hoarding in Sanctity
Cry for Silence from this Friendly Remark
Which makes me Wonder - What Error I commit
Save my Recurring Frequency to Love
Such, attitude bid, much Energy admit
Waste the Good Lord's Tears healing from Above.
All, I defer, pry what should not be mine
Interpret, by sudden, your Patience in thine.
#toniacouch
Come, O Love for down the vale,
Where moonlight frocks the lovers’ tale,
Where moonlight mulls the staves of trees
And shreds the fuschia from the leaves.

Come, O Love for down the vale,
Where cleave and stumble long prevail,
And woolen grass reveals the press
Of all that slept there shorn of dress.

Come down the vale for it is known
The miller’s grain was never grown
Here below long-shadowed stone.
Come, O Love, and come alone.

Put down your labor’s winnowed sheaf.
Lay down in heaven’s gentle brief.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2016
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt

Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.

From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive.  But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.

His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.

Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words,  confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.

                                                
~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mirror by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
with gratitude for the inspiration from, to:

"Words are his instrument, poised to deliver, sometimes
infinity's mirror,
sometimes a word or two for you,
reality is on its way...going to come through and fit for you."
SJR1000

for Patty M, who swore me to never, and only, give up to you, my best.

for Sia, who loves her Sylvia so.

Born on April 24~25, 2016

and of course, for Sylvia
Hadiy Syakir Jan 20
intelligence is
the new authority
resistance is
the new sanctity
velvety memoir
of the patchy ride
in a rainbow rollercoaster,
left everything prime
on the outside
sink into the wagon with
wild, visceral inside
embark on an odyssey
observing the past,
questioning the future.

future is a distant memory
of all the anachronistic glory.
Yaser May 2018
It was brought to our world from a primordial ether
that bore no resemblance to anything the human mind could ever know,
let alone comprehend.
And all those that looked upon,
stood before it, uncertain,
not of the creature,
but of the sanctity of what they once held above all as their truest sanctuary: the mind.

To feel it slip away
into an abyss not much unlike
the birthplace of the blasphemy with which they were assailed,
was a welcome turn.
A new escape.
An impenetrable sanctum
Insanity…
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2013
In my real life,
not a poet,
just an astronomer,
an observer of
universes, bodies,
places, faces,
visited, discovered,
named and oft,
best forgot.

I observe:

Some never find true love.
Some never fly first class.
Some of us
never see the
South of France.

Some of us wear
hand-me-down pants,
white lined creases when “let down,”
mocked, we never forgive ourselves
the shame of it.

Some never experience
reckless abandon.

Yet, some of us are
recklessly abandoned,
and never forget,
and never forgive.

Some of us lose
children, husbands,
avanti nel tempo,
before their time,
and
the anger is
forever, palpable,
costly.

Some of us
were raised by
someone else's parents,
and never rest easy,
the abandoned taste
always nearby,
a cruel living, breathing
teasing wasting

Some we can pass over
with ease,
as new tissue grows,
those cuts marked -
emotionally healed.

But the ones that scar,
the ones that visible scar
permanent reddened,
are the
holocaust deniers
that there is a real
promised land of
peace of mind.

Peace of mind -
not even for a second,
foretold but
unrealized,
a biblical myth,
a promised land,
a capitalist paradisal hoax.


Some never feel
public victory,
adulation, adoration,
always wearing the T-shirt labeled
Property of Someone Else.

Most of us remain
unpublished, undiscovered,
unremarked, blanketed,
cloaked in bills to pay;

Living a triumvirate of
heart ache, loneliness, worry,
our normal table fare
consists
of hand to hand
into the mouth
combat MRE's,
we engage,
to survive,
just stay alive.

We are not digitalized,
nonetheless,
we are
but digits,
our faces hidden, and
in no one's heart book
are we recorded,
friended,
yet our viewing habits,
purchases, secret sites
are enumerated, captured.

Some of us live
exclusively
in the real life,
never to escape to the
province of Wifi,
in the landscape
of the electronic mind,
an option for which
we are
untrained.

Perhaps sanctity of separation,
safety of text, email,
avec the ******* intrusion
of tweets are
the real life today,
games are always won,
and what we don't enjoy,
we just delete away

But In My Real Life
getting up is trying,
IMRL,
the trying is trying,
IMRL,
delete buttons don't exist      
in the keyboard
of our brains,
IMRL,
all we have is a
measly twenty six aleph bets
to find new ways to say
that living is striving and
what we feel is
oh so real,
not digital

IMRL,
when I laugh out loud,
the neighbors
beat the walls,
complainants,
registering their feelings
in my face,
in my book,
so to speak.

IMRL,
I got a friend,
maybe two,
all I need,
voices to help soften
the 400 blows of RL.

Their synthesized silence
of their breathing
on the phone
is precious unto me.

IRL,
limp from Friday
night to
Friday
night,
a bottle of Medoc
my weekend reward,
my bedrock cushion
in order to sleep.

After all these years,
gains and losses,
conversations with God,
I look up,
see the risk,
the slightest breeze
is a
hurricane wind.

The shaft,
of the
the sword
hanging above me
the hilt,
swaying in living color,
is no legend.

But what I have is
the ability
and maybe
the responsibility
to let anyone know
that
in my real life
anyone who touches me
with fine and good intent,
a momentary glancing blow
or a gunshot to the ventricle,
is part and parcel of
my real life.

This makes you real too,
savior, and hereby notified,
that you are not
just an observer, but
a poet of me,
an astronomer of my heart,
and namer of
a secret universe
inside of me.


Sept. 1, 2010

_____________________________
US Army jargon: meals ready to eat
nine  years ago I wrote like this.
Willow shade Mar 5
I took care of others, walked in their shoes,
got their trivial pains and forgot my loyal legs...
If I present you the baneful thorns I have trodden,
would you be ready to follow me again and barefoot?
My mind will always be bitterly cold
as an intact valley and never understood...

Though I am sure that you do not care,
I feel well, very well, except longing.
Your dreams are flying even everywhere
while I try to stop contemplating...
You know, I am a bit chatty when I am inspired
and the poet inside me never gets tired.

You can't grasp how painful it is to emanate a poem,
how you go out of your infatuated mind...
When 'clevers' seek for justice, but only for themselves,
there is nothing else purer than the tears of madmen.
So, happiness would have been an evident injustice,
if all of the people attained their desires.
I have faced many types of mental battles,
but no war is harder than the lack of love inside.
Love is living your life for another one's sake,
sacrificing everything with honor and pride...

Now I am sure that there exists no hate,
but just does the love of hatred indeed.
Before the absurdness of irrevocable fate
only love will save us in eternity...

No feeling will help you to be deeply blessed
while mass is spurious and loners are obsessed...
As you **** your hopes you gain fake freedom,
but free slavery will still be going on,
sometimes feeling oppressed, depressed, repressed...

However,
Invincible I am before such odd jobs
and I have found ways to keep myself up.
Now I live slowly till the time begins to blur,
paradoxes take place within my dark thoughts,
I divide the time to its perpetual aeons,
all the rules and limits I swear to deny
and save the endless time when we were eye to eye...
Through your looks the heavenly sky is clear
and all the possibilities are real there...
My benevolent angel,
let the eternity recur from the start,
only the eyes of blinds do not show their hearts...

I feel very sorry and deeply upset,
when the human inside silently regrets ...
Yet I am too clumsy to move mountains,
to achieve sanctity which I want to serve.
I wish I made you happy at my any chance,
But I can only make you happiness itself...
mariamme Jul 2018
1
step into my soul, but
don't tread on my sanctity.
gaze at the formations of
mi miedo y fantasía
like spires on a church tower
calling the faithful to pray.
i come crawling, patético
to set myself back in my bonds
& beg again for banality
to replace the poisoned truth
of who i know myself to be.
"otherness". something even i in all my privileged existence contend with and fail to conquer.

i am tired of cowering in my safe spaces (they've been unsafe for months anyways). this is who i am.
This is not a poem.
This is a rant.

I will put on my rage face,
And paint the town red,
And "just go crazy, man"
With the company of myself
In the comfort of my own home
Because I can tear my shirt,
Or draw a knife
Or shout shakespear off a balcony
And I openly scream at the shadows
Who answer politely with silence
I can behave badly
And if I am my only witness
I can sleep at night
Without the peace and solitude that comes from iron bars
And padded cells
I can fight with myself and indulge in the guilty pleasures
That make me feel sullied and stupid
I can argue with a hundred dream girls
And when I sleep,
They are still there in my dreams
There is no loss or losing
I can spend three hundred dollars
Monthly on alcohol
If it saves me three thousand
Monthly on sanity
I can look in the mirror and see a hundred different faces
Each more honest to its emotion than the last
I can bite my tongue to spite my face and
Laugh that it was my reflection that drove me to do so,
You never know what that ******* will say
When i am not looking
I dont spend the night on the town
Because I no longer need to surround myself with people.
I no longer need to go out to buy a hat
That suits me and makes me look interesting or meaningful
When I sit alone at the bar
I have no one to impress except myself
And myself already knows I am unimpressive.
There is no one to disappoint
And while this seems like a sad tale,
The truth is that it is the free-est I've ever felt.
In the sanctity of a space that is mine
Surrounded only by people I disagree with
My reflections
And shadows
And to be able to write this while wearing underpants.
Bukowski was right
God is dead
The last line is ironic. If you get it.
SteamPhunk Oct 2018
Angels are no longer the celestial beings they once were.
They are not glorified.
They are nothing more than rumours, whispers, legends.
Lost in the mists of a forgotten time.
Angels gave up their ideals of perfection.
They hung up their halos and accepted their lives of sin.
Here, they have forgotten their sense of righteousness and incite brawls, fights and even murders.
Where Angels are weary, tired-eyed men and women, roaming the streets with no indication of their previous sanctity.
They are spiteful, vengeful people.
Nothing more than empty prayers and burnt wings.
In this world, Angels are not our saviours,
Crowned, holy, divine beings.
They are our undoing,
Broken, ungodly beings.
I wrote this as a sort of prologue to a new story I'm writing.
atptla Feb 2018
Days passing by without talking,
Hours passing by yielding to a timid longing.
A longing that cries like a brute in chains wanting to be free,
Killing each of the desires and wishes in me.

I have a place where I watch all my dreams be immolated,
Beneath enhsrouded clouds having a story needs to be recited.
I have a burden inside that I can't dare to elude,
As I require it to feel safe and appease my feud.

Millions of hollow words spoken sincerely and tended to be forgot,
And millions of broken promises burried in my heart,
Echoing in blank last and going astray,
Nothing left for me to hold on and hinder the decay.

Weaker now, the modest sound in my chest,
Drowning meekly but in suspense at death's behest.
Fading strength, and falling a pearless snowflake,
Beseeching this cold sanctity to ease my ache.

My tenuity can't strive with time's withering,
And I hear an ominous whistle's whispering.
While the last light dies out into dark,
You will be lost in time without leaving a mark.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2017
once upon a wrote


here and there, in fables and tales,
some in no guile and others
in chancier disguises,
some sine-known and some sign-unknown,
some dead in stillbirth,
some penned these words,
some a few decades old,
some of but a moment ago eyelash distant,
making me think that
someday I will scribe,
cobble some truths and
some falsehoods into one
leaping heaping melting scoop,
letting you decide,
which for better,
which for worse...


<•>

"No matter that plain words
are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say,
about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?"

<•>

the reason we say so oft,
in whispers emboldened,

I love you

to our children
is not the utility of
its summarizing brevity

no, no.
it is because
the eloquence of simplicity
supersedes any other poem
any of us could ever write...

<•>

is this craft that chose you,
not defined by machine millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye-pleasing,
they demonstrate no tolerance
for tolerance of the ordinary?

the skill of words, too, cut so fine,
find the  extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused,
discard the instant recognition,
unusable

<•>

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the
whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away
what soully belongs to you,
do your own sums,
admit your own truths,
query not the lives of others,
approach the mirror...

<•>

The Truth Burden
is the accursed need obligatory,
the sacred sanctity requisitioned,
when the whenever,
chooses to drop in and upflag the mailbox,
an uninvited invitation,
announcing with precise bluntness,
that precisely now,
is the tool crafted moment
and you fool,
the selected tool

you must render unto Ceaser,
by your own hand,
render your own rendering,
do your own undoing,
go forth and in haste,
will thyself into the cauldron of the
Great Mystery of Creation

you cannot lie in poetry

<•>

come, sit for awhile, in poet's nook,
soft pillows for our hard Adirondack chairs,
situe hard by the bay, if too hot, we'll slow
drift to the sun room of
lace curtains and suicide poems,
still we'll observe the water, the rabbits, the cacophony low,
listening to all the noisier, nosier
creatures asking themselves,
and the trees and leaves,
where did all those poets come from?

<•>

to the interior delve,
via brush or limb,
pen or music,
the exposition, the exploration,
the reconstruction of composing
one's self, creation and destruction
of your own myths

movement of arms and legs,
sparseness of simplicity,
subsidiaries of centricity,
tributaries of complexity

<•>

how cold are the carpenter's hands,
the weather, but an added obstacle,
this heat, makes dying different difficult,
the wood bearing cross requires additional nails
and flesh, for the extra load he's bearing,
when it snows blood in Jerusalem

the whole world can transition
when one man dies and another is risen,
where oh where lies then, the juxtaposition?

there is none, for man is man,
his divine spark, embedded,
to his maker's mark, welded and wedded,
neither snow or sun,
can ever extinguish


<•>

now I ken better distance 'tween
artist and art,
I, a workingman's
daily dallying in simplistic machine craft,
my works deservedly lost in
the water-falling
of the endless also rans

non-nebulous distances.between skies of
Oregon country blue and
the worldy worn asphalt grayed words of
a graying man aging,
then let clarity speak, in plainest harmony,
know my deference’s soars to the high above,
one of us at birth, god gifted,
was not I,
it ain't me babe, but
one of us, his tongue,
like Moses-stung
with a hot coal
of language's divinity


<•>
Sharde' Fultz Mar 2017
I decided I'm goin in.
Yall dun' slipped up and left me with a pen.
It seems lately I been under-drinkin'
Over-sober over-contemplating what's been really happening.

I'm usually a lot more subtle.

I give the benefit of the doubt like I'm a Catholic priest absolving ******' sins.
Confusing my honesty for reckless abandon-in
To your chagrin, just hecause you're unable to comprehend.

You don't move through this world in the shoes I'm in.

I bet no ones ever called you a sub-human.

Did that election make YOU question all your caucasian friends? Their motives, their thoughts, biases,
Lookin for Microaggressions?
Now those relationships are withered at the ends and it depends on larger hearts and open minds to try and mend and re-begin?
Because someone you love insulted ALL your kin.
Supporting someone who blatantly hates them.
Tunnel vision.Could only see what they wanted Sanctity of life only applies to babies aborted
Christians were thwarted!
How someone with a thumbs up from the Ku Klux have anything to do with what the Lord did?!

Granted, the deed is done and hey the truth is out!
They were wolves in sheep's clothes till the Pres. Came out
in broad daylight
He basically made it awright
to grossly generalize a race AND do so in plain sight
Now ALL the racist crazy folk are poppin  at the mouth.
On social media like the 50's in the segregated south,
Spewing hate behind a screename sittin' on they mama's couch
'cept we millenials are rowdy and we'll roll up at yo house.
How's it 2017 and we still schoolin' folk?
Gotta tell you Black  lives matter cause you actin like we dont.
In retrospect, it was for the best cause now we ALL woke!
Possum living Oct 2018
I am sorry for what we have done to you
I mourn the loss of your short lives, nullified for our barbaric arrogance and gluttony
Your children taken to meet the same fate as you
Your bodies eviscerated, never knowing the hand of compassion or a ray of sunshine

There are no merciful abattoirs

No red barn with it's open doors, and no motherly blue sky

There is only brutal indifference

Mechanized slaughter

The lies we tell our children and ourselves will breed this hell on earth into our legacy
And we who see ourselves distinct from beasts prove with our actions otherwise

This is not food

This is war on the sanctity of being
This is not a fanatical demand for universal vegetarianism. It is just a poem decrying the modern industrial practices of factory farming and the way the animals suffer in this system.
Ralph Akintan Dec 2018
Saintly cassock,
Glittering altar
Ornamental pulpit.
           
 

Driving the congregants
            in a paroxysm of fib,
Gullibility enshrines adherents
            hearts.
Do you know the Messiah more
            than the apostles ?
Thou traders in the temple.

Parrotic tongues set out
            commands
Loquacious sweet-coated mouths
            misdirects faithfuls.
But the uncreated Creator who
            creates creatures watches
Dreadful silence astonishingly
            permeates the entireness
           of the universe.
Do you preach love?
Do you follow peace with all?
Ye robbers in the temple.

Command darkness to produce
            light.
But you turned moonlight into
            tale.
Can you display Davidic dance
            steps on the road?
Profanity of sanctuary with
            false homiletics.
Merchants of dross in tabernacle

Speak.
Let us hear you.
Preach
To the congregants.

Righteousness afar from the
          apron of faith.
Charity locked up in the
          tunic of hope.
Sanctity of holiness sprinkled
          into the tributary of sin.
Commanding the stars to turn
           to sun,
Captains of night in light.
Ye robbers in the sanctuary.

Pastoral advertisers of chattels
           in the tabernacle,
Merchandising gold dross in
            sermonic hymns.
Sugar-coated doctrine wept in
             the tomb of Lazarus.
Prompting Him to weep again?
Ye merchants in synagogue.

Disentangle faithfuls from the
          webs of worriment.
Dislodge congregants out of the
          shackles of sin.
Deliver ignoramus from the
           isle of incendiary.
Let the sifter of strength
           separate out afflictions from
           feebleminded faithfuls.

Ye robbers in the temple
You love prayers more than God
But who answers prayers?
Here is what I want to tell people about the ghastly
the grim the macabre the morbid
the grinning skulls we draw on pages
at desks far from fields of skulls set rigid:

You cannot negotiate with silence.
You can only
look at it

however
you like.

There is no sanctity dead or living.
Though, for all of us, I would wish it so
(we never cease in making monuments to swear it is so)
(look at these monuments--
and see it is not).

A natural law requires no belief.

You don’t listen.
I said:
Let go.
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