"seekers" poems
Their mouth NEVER ******* seems to shut up & just stop
& **** snitches don't hesitate to quickly name drop
Twisting everything they'll hear
Creating lies & rumors like it is their career!
SO WATCH YOUR BACK, they are only a pretend friend
They're scary & **** identical when they're an impersonator
Nice & kind so they seem, turn away they'll be a backstabbing hater
NOBODY has time for all that ridiculous nonsense
Just attention seekers, without their usually faithful but now gone audience
Desperately trying to remain in the center of attention, cleary blind to the EXTREME obvious!
You never really deserved to ever be forgiven
I'm done wasting my time & voice on someone who will NEVER listen
Ohhh yah a FYI, a friendship isn't a competition
But more like a dynamic duo always down for a random mission!
Oh well, no coming back now I'm not changing my decision!
Deuces!
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
Spring upon the rose and live on the flow—
delve into the fragrance that goes full tilt
on petals that never drift with the wind.
Let it be—without form,
without a visual show.
Let’s not forget the truth:
even in pitch-dark invisible moments,
the Moon puts up a show.
Believe it or not—around that sweet spot,
the artistic paragon, Paradise, may be the next stop.
The butterfly paradise slips out to fly,
wafting into the enduring scent of a paint so bold.
Lo—on its picturesque wings it holds every eye;
where it reaches, no one knows.
It’s on the other side of the pool—
only Queen Fathima knows that sweet spot!
Any pause is deadly, heavy-handed on that route.
Death is no more; it’s unknown now.
And time—ripe for beauteous sight—is on for good!
If only one can hold their gaze,
walking the secret alleyways of God!
Oh, they flower in the fire,
dip into the sea in a single drop of water,
and pan out to another world within this world.
This time, Moses resists not—
his eyes peep beyond the burnt Mount Sinai,
gazing through burnt kohl,
across the shaded pollens
of the Ultimate Burning Beauty!
When it’s live in the true terra incognita,
it could be beyond the paradise rainbow—
the one show the true seekers sought the most.
Before long, all the rest may fade into the kohl.
Godsent, the most beautiful feminine paragon—Fathima—
lifts the black screen off at once, casting her gaze
from every never-blurred, myriad fractal pixel.
All in all, even the never-known pi digits in toto
soak into the one true description of reality's show!
Be en route—
it’s only the chosen eyes’ wonder-show,
where the handsome swans of Paradise stand on their toes.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 11:17 AM UTC
~ Ode to Joy ~
White gold ambassador
canine past eight
soul seekers ascend
(from cirque to seven)
to peak
to peak
to peak
Saddlerock spearhead
ptarmigan
and flute
Christmas trees
in winter glades
over dusted crystal scape
Fissile (eiger) sanction
open shale and tusk
indiscriminate members
roll the bluffs
and ice falls
above the
north face steep
Dead silent dawn
breathless, bitter cold
the beating hearts
and brahmas
warm the spirit
of pakalolo
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
Beware the Quiet Ones.
The Quiet Ones are the Thinkers
The Quiet Ones are the Dreamers
They’re the heart seekers, thrill lovers, and love givers
They’re the heart breakers, story makers, and life changers
The best heroes, the worst villains, the most notorious saints and sinners
Their hearts and minds are largest of all (But they’ll never control them)
Beware the Quiet Ones, because it’s Always the Quiet Ones.
The Quiet Ones will always listen, even when you won’t do the same
They’ll break your comfort zone, just to make you comfortable
They’ll never ask for favors or a shoulder to cry on
But they will always be there, hanging on every word and tear
They’ll sell their souls to save yours, sacrifice their minds to break yours
They’re the strongest, and the most broken.
The Quiet Ones don’t like to harm you, because they know too well how it feels... but don’t you hurt them.
They’ll always forgive and never forget, and they know how to aim for the heart
All they know is the past, and vengeance is their greatest weapon.
That’s why it’s always the Quiet Ones.
Whether the key to your heart or your greatest fear? The Quiet Ones will find it – Beware the Quiet Ones.
The Quiet Ones are the first to stand up, and the last to point the finger
They’ll stand up for anything, because they have nothing to lose.
They are the champions of love and hate, and if you hate to love them, or love to hate them?
That was their plan all along.
Your deepest plots or darkest secrets? The Quiet Ones knew all along. They’re four steps ahead of you – Beware the Quiet Ones.
They’ll never put you down, but believe they know how, because the Quiet Ones see EVERYTHING
They know what you did, they heard what you said - they were there
Their depth knows no end, yet they’re so empty inside
Their curses bring power, their strengths bring weaknesses
They’ll control you, even when they can’t control themselves
That’s why it’s always the Quiet Ones
Beware the Quiet Ones.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 5:12 PM UTC
for Alyssa Underwood
~~~
my poems do not trend, go viral,
Fast and Furious!
yet, they do not die
they lay in plain sight pebbles scattered,
smoothed by time,
upon the surface of the
green earth waiting patient, virtuous,
purposed for itinerants bards
to trip over one
one some someday
somehow they accrete a readership,
slow stepping and steady from,
|the seekers and the stumblers,
the droplet drinkers,
meanderers of the tomes and tombs of prior years,
miners for nuggets in the poem pools that form
beneath the alluvial streaming
of the waterfall crescendo
of words
I like this
when another traveler sends me a like,
a petite amuse-bouche bite of appreciation,
for a long ago, barely recalled, writ,
allowing them to carve their initials upon the
external, visible roots of my tree trunk,
invading me, by darkening a prior tree internal ring,
forcing me to look down,
look back,
take measure of myself,
accepting myself as not wanting,
nor lacking in other's acceptance
these statements are neither boastful or illusory,
*yet still joyous, like caramel pleasures,
slow to chew, fast to the taste,*
reminding me of old friendships,
well valued,
though no longer fully employed,
their uncovering is my own refreshed exposure,
their discovery is my own re-discovery,
exposing flaws and fallacies,
even fallow,
mostly shallow facts
about me
all of them,
a sundae of truths and lies, sharing a happy laugh
with and at
me,
when I think to myself,
Holy Crap! did I write that?
copyright 2015 by Nat Lipstadt
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
sweet Kali stands before us
an offering she holds
while all the skulls around her neck
sleep in a child's repose
there are many souls in limbo
they wander through our sight
seekers for salvation
seeking for the light
a universe lies waiting
a red planet full of stars
just beneath the lingham
that rests in Kali's arms
the dogs lie waiting patiently
while Ganesh begins to writhe
turning to a serpent
that writhes before our eyes
here's the minotaur from Jambu Dweep
wrapped in a golden fleece
telling stories in my head
the tales of ancient Greece
then Kali holds a severed head
cradled gently in her hand
while beneath the Shiva Lingham
someone lies upon the sand.....
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 4:33 AM UTC
Oh they pleaded,
women, men
young and old,
'let us pass through that sea'
to a place where we could start all over',
yet their voices fall into deaf ears
of their brothers and sisters
from another mother land,
hopeless they remain drifted
in the treacherous sea
feeling unwanted, unloved
forever rejected,
by the policies of the modern
migration...
the unworthy sea-going boat,
becomes their coffin
and the sea and the seafloor become
their graveyards,
the common fate of boat people - the asylum seekers.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
OLD HOUSE
They retain precious memories,
intimate feelings of inhabitants
passing through its sagging doors.
Romantic are seekers of forgotten times
memories encased in hard wood floors;
as lath plastered walls ooze remnants of a
history while we; when inclined listen.
We don't go very often, to abandon houses,
perhaps on a dare, or at Halloween.
Are we passed enjoying extremes into this
another world, musty energy a curious child.
That was the yesterday
which now waits behind
musty, dusty, derelict halls.
I stand I stand at paint chipped banister,
a faded worn carpet once carried dancing feet,
children playing before they sleep. The
broken coat tree on the floor.
From the third floor murmuring,
a wind storm jars
loose fears, of time
once lost to dreams.
Echos billow from
each room, curtains hanging
yellowed by a sun where
dancing light through holes in damask lace.
Mice gremlin's artful droppings,
tracks of nature on dirt strewn floor.
Broken shards from window
panes, confetti after New Years day.
Branches scratched
etched paths, tracks like graffiti
on sill its unread words, a glif
eerily cast shadows trigger echos from the past.
Jagged memories protrude from every corner
mixing with new, enriching our fantasies
bringing us closer renewed;
these musty memories long forgotten.
Like waves rushing back;
flooding a mind like broken
dikes they crash into our world,
Rembrandt's paintings on canvas fading.
Silent footsteps outside a door,
we hear laughter from bedroom walls;
a smell a whiff of hot butter *** silent
conversation coming our way.
Old Doc Masters listened at my chest, as
I read all by candle light, Sherlock detective stories
or the Tell Tale Heart of Poe or
Othello; all masters in the past.
A Grandfather clock
stands silent, keeping time,
lost its tick yet still striking,
it stands tall, upon a clueless floor.
Knowledge lost to a past
in a house so worn,
births, deaths, wars, wrapped
forgotten, encased by neglect,
I visited a house besotted,
neglected waiting to be
remodeled into another century
moving it to present times.
Ajerry
Archival Jan 5, 2011
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
MUMBAI
The monstrous maddening megalopolis;
Obscure and replusive
yet inviting.
Home to a billion- mirage seekers,
who
withstand,endure &nurse;
their dreams
behind the fringes of misery:
waiting for their turn
lest
chase and collapse
at the door frame of a metaphor !
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
Every corner you turn
is another story to be told
eventually the truth will unfold
and will start to rapidly burn
rumors are started by attention seekers
they are as useless as broken beakers
dont hide when people find out the truth
because listen here im coming for you
"ill run through your town
and shut you down"
No more nonsense
It is time to treat eachother with respect
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 6:30 AM UTC
We are young men buried in books
Shoveling words every day
As we are gradually shaped into tools.
Ours minds drained deep in the pools
Of knowledge. So they say
We are young men buried in books.
We find ourselves caught in hooks
Of wisdom seekers shall we pray?
As we are gradually shaped into tools.
Exhausted, some will turn into crooks
While we proudly remain grey
We are young men buried in books.
We bear fruit of hope from the roots
Of pain so follow the rules we lay
As we are gradually shaped into tools.
Are we zombies in schools?
In our paths we never stray.
We are young men buried in books
As we are gradually shaped into tools.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 10:11 AM UTC
I like to sit down and watch indie films
Just to see how others view someone like me
The star that tends to be a loner
But eventually comes out of their shell
Due to love and support from people around them
I realise now that
I came out of my shell
A long time ago
With a wild woman at my side
A best friend who is quiet but strong
The attention seekers who have a lot of love to give
The wallflowers that are too shy to speak up
I knew them all
I was the star of my movie
I may not have a love interest at this point of the film
Or even in the end
But it is nice
My life is an indie film
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
All sorrow is perpendicular occurring
at right angles of tragedy encircling
the grief-stricken with straight edges
only once intersecting across infinite planes—
Don't dare draw the lines between points
or shade the region with limits or curves
because the trajectories of bullets are plotted
on branes intolerant of slightest triangulation
Woe unto the seekers of sine waves
sobbing thinking of filling every trough
believing surely by now we've offered enough
to sate these bloodthirsty Euclidean demons
Cresting won't ever arrive in this course
filled to the brim with asymptotes, cold corollaries
but never spilling over under our sacred
pledge of allegiance to the 2nd Parallel Postulate
No intersections can be admitted with thoughts
& prayers extending outward barely co-planar
serious public policy proposals axiomatic
insistence on the Nirvana Theorem or nothing
A set of all points remains, mutually exclusive
motionless and always incongruent clueless
about their own particular geometries
awaiting radical Pythagorean salvation
Some paradigm we’ve built here though!
Two hundred years of living polygonal hand
to elliptical mouth without tangential reflection
on the unproven flatness of humanspace.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC
Upon a huge, lush garden,
on a cold autumn day...
various leaves fall, in sweet surrender...
some still rise and go with the forceful wind
floating...along with dreams, wishes and prayers
murmured in the air...uttered fervently
...from near......or faraway places
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
papers, leaves, souls, sighs, and whispers
all circulate, dance in the air...blending with nature
like drifters...and seekers, far from their homes
their habitats...their comfort zones,
suspended, in the atmosphere of every season
...yielding...to the will of the wind,
...while the wind obeys...the will of God
they swirl...land, on new destinations
face new dimensions...
friendlier seas...no more running, just waiting,
while winds of change settle down
touching new base, new grass,
hoping, for a peaceful existence,
for some....the end of life's turbulent journey
..........on safe...tranquil grounds...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
somewhere near, or far...huge gardens exist
where leaves fall, where some rise again,
where new beginnngs, new lives are offered...
havens that welcome and accommodate
...refugees...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sally
Copyright August 27, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 2:32 AM UTC
i am of the light
despite
my shroud
that crowds the villains in the toppled telemetry of my steeds
galloping gallantly from the burning cities of my dreams
i shall gleam from her or he
that which delivers
their truths faithfully to their dreams
open wounds turn invitation
in the pity of hungry thieves
who dared to dream
of peasants king-ed.
as we sing
sing
of desperation
in passionate confessions
of jaded wisdom
passed on through every failure
never to falter
in the betrayals of Walters
lost
in loss-less flac files
i have miles to go
smiles to grow
daggers projectiles
from mild mannered children
freshly ridden
of maniacal miracles
spiritual
but not stupid
we are troopin
this lucid movement
grooving
to the repetition of the drum
the gas blow back of a gun
the bursting bubbles of bubble gum
having fun
i learnt goodly on the run
learned nothing in victory
learned nothing in simplicity
complacently
snickering it all away
bullet by bullet
case by case
and eventually the blade
in my compassionate displays
we shall congregate
and hate ourselves
**** the donks to hell
dwelling on the cellar doors
that darkos teacher adored
in verbal massacre
of the written literature
of cracked brain fixtures
seeping the lines
in cold tingles
down the spines of maniacs
just relax
mix it down on a track
spit the thesis into pieces
through the creases of cracked sneakers, and out the speakers
of trouble seekers.
mistakes make us
deliberate chaos
tossed
upon the fakers
who cry to think
the dream
became a reality
mistake us
for serrated blades that rip the hearts from beasts
sometimes i stop to think
while having a drink
conclusive brinks
of sanity creaks
of my humility
secreting
frivolously
the disposing of my jealousy
of your feelings
hellaciously
i rip a felony
from a face
in appealing agony
antagonizing me
in the frenzied forensics
of my oblique
outlooks
none of us
were ever crooks
speaking to self
while being booked
in hell
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
"-*I think we should move him to Mallorca, or some kind of... I dunno, Carribeans? It's too rainy here.
-Oh honey, I don't think it's going to work*..."
These artificial surroundings won't heal my heart.
Transplantation went wrong.
Drip drop, the drops are falling
On leaves
Rain everywhere, soaking everything
Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom
In this garden of mine plants live their lives
Roots and stems and leaves
Lovers of rain; seekers of self destruction
Striving to know.
"-*How is he? I haven't seen him in a while.
-No idea. He's acting weird nowadays*."
The keeper of the values, the guardian of the golden shell
Believe me, I'm very well.
In this waterfall, this foamy-quick stream
Growing bones around me, the self-stems.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC
It's March in California and,
It feels like an early September evening in Virginia,
An owl is cooing,
A nostalgic singsong that reminds me of the woods behind my parents house,
Comfort seekers in my senses inflate,
Disappearing into a heady haze,
Anything to distract myself from the mini self-betrayal I just executed.
I can watch myself as I do it,
Basking in this nostalgia,
The detachment from my pain easing my shoulders,
Making me feel high,
Or maybe it's the serotonin and dopamine,
Coursing around in my body,
Freely,
As it pleases,
Results of.
The owl is howling and my roommate is home,
My phone is silent and I'm blissfully alone,
Detachment, detachment, detachment,
My favorite drug, how I've missed you.
So sickly happy,
So near to trauma,
(my familiar place)
But my perspective saving me from feeling it..
I could be in Virginia in 2008,
My legs a little hairy,
A breeze blowing through my long, long hair,
Innocence teasing me.
Or I could be here, now,
Listening for an owl that has stopped calling.
How delicious. Sweet detachment.
My favorite drug.
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 9:47 PM UTC
Intimidated by political thugs
Prone to insert in one's mouth
The nose of a loaded gun
Or suspend a plastic bottle full of water
On males' reproductive *****
Devoid of freedom of expression
Also denied to his right and
Deplorable condition drawing attention
Shunning his God chosen land,
What is more a bright and warm country
Under the sun ,a journalist dreaming began
Fighting all odds between
The deep blue sea and the angry Satan
To migrate to a better place,
Where for democracy
Avowedly there is a better space,
Inhabited by civilized people,
Averse to discrimination based on race!
Burning his boat,
Crossing desserts,
Crammed with other refugees,
Packed with him in a boat
Some trying to reverse
Their economic lot,
Surfing uncharted waters
Seeking a paradise on earth
He headed to the country he sought
Though some their lives
At the hand of brutal traffickers lost
Beaten and thrown out of the boat,
Also at a port
Suspected of a terrorist bent
Many migrants to prisons were sent.
After a humiliating acid test
Why for a dreamland his country he left
As migrants' bane
They placed him at the foot
Of an ice-clad mountain.
“I will never see
My country again,
You are trying my patience in vain!"
He vowed
Despite the razor-sharp cold untold.
Then they took him up higher
An epitome to a cold fire!
Once more
He put his foot down
Putting on more clothes and
Changing attire.
They placed him
At the mountain's helm
As hell dark
Where the angel of death
Is seen stark.
Then in his head
Something began to bark
“*You rather choose
the better evil
If both your assailants and hosts
Are no two different devil! *"
Seeing first hand
Those with cold shoulder
Assylem seekers adore to attack
Though there are
Few not off humanity's track
At last he decided to return back
And under his country's sun bask
Mum for his rights to ask
Killing his journalistic knack!
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 9:18 AM UTC
A long time ago a very young mother
Named Kisa Gotami gave birth to a son—
A child who was the light of her life.
The mother’s love was second to none.
Not long after her son was born,
The poor child grew sick and died.
“Who can bring my son back to life?
Have pity!” Kisa Gotami cried.
The villagers knew that there was nothing
They could do to help and suggested
That she seek out the help of the Buddha.
“He can do wonders,” they attested.
She found the Buddha and beseeched his help.
“My only son has died,” she wailed.
“Can you bring him back to life.
Everything I have tried has failed.”
The Buddha calmly said, “I will help you.”
The poor woman waited with bated breath.
“But first you must find for me
A family that’s never been touched by death.
“When you finally encounter that home,
Tell the family there’s something you need—
Just one thing to take to the Buddha—
And that’s a single mustard seed.”
With great excitement the mother ran
From house to house—to every abode.
But death had visited every family.
On her face, great disappointment showed.
After a long, unsuccessful search,
The young mother came to realize
That everything born had to die;
Everything had to have its demise.
She understood the law of impermanence
And that her suffering was not unique.
She now saw life from a new perspective;
Her eyes were open, so to speak.
Kisa Gotami returned to the Buddha
And started to follow his teachings--the Way,
Or Path to Enlightenment,
Which still guides many seekers today.
- by Bob B
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
Lights and colors, Lights and colors dwindle in numbers
Set a step in coordination
Fully exasperated
nonsense passes by, through images
Lenses smudged by illusive thumbprints
Who are you
Are you speaking cordially
heart trusted intuition and guts mustered
Seeping into the depths of darkness
see a surprise unseen by eyes of seekers and juveniles
Founded a resolve
Sturdy foundation like a trunk of a tree
Feed me turds quench my thirst with poison
Wrap a child sleeping soundly in a blanket of lava
Let's follow the righteous side even when full of lies
Stray from a darker path were the light of truth is easier to find
Follow the good where everything a light
and turn so you won't have to face the knife
Inject a form of lies and cast the mirage of truth over your eyes
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
grasses brown up nice,
this time of year, Sun slices,
through the spaces of
branches and the love-
ly leaves, shadow seekers,
and sun bathers wait on,
the changing dark shape,
to place their bodies and at
by the end of the day
such justifies the means,
while buckets of water
empty and fill and liquid
pill fertilizer, is a miser
of plant health, wealth
and chaotic growth,
you can't control your
eating or time,
so why should a ****
heed the call to stop,
why should a plant,
slow down instead,
cant toward the Sun
you worship or hide
your hide from, and
your dog or cat, just
lays about the place,
licks your nose or face,
serve wine over ice and
take a couple of ice cubes
from a heart, that there
is never a chance of thaw,
at the temperature of dry
ice and dry eyes that will
not shed tears, will not
shuck fears, like oysters,
on the life that is a beach,
shoals,
rip tides,
confide and confounded,
leave the corpse in the sand
until the waves have pounded
knowledge of gardening and
gardens of life, go on live
beyond the strife, soften the
take on weed(s).
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC