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karen champagne Oct 2013
Silly little girls of youth.
With their perky little perfect *******.
Narrow hips and smooth skin.
They look in the mirror and see all their insecurities.
Fantasies about all their lovers to come.
They brag to their friends and feel nothing inside.
But we are the pleasure seekers.
Creatures of seduction.
We brag to our lover
How they race our mind with desire
Turn our lust into reality
Slow our hearts into love.
We are the pleasure seekers.
Our bodies are full and ripe.
We are women
No silliness
Pure honesty
No hidden agenda
Here for pleasure
Not for heartache or pain
No facade of who we aren't
We are the pleasure seekers.
Not needing affirmation in the mirror
The mirror shines back our reflection
Of beauty
Lines only we see
The pleasure is not all ours but our lovers'.
Physical looks not of importance
Its a spiritual existence now
Out of our body of imperfection
Only our lover sees the perfection
We are the pleasure seekers.
We are the women of lovers.
Harriet Cleve Jan 2019

A Skeleton gunslinger, takes on the Unholy of Hell and wages war against his nemesis Hatchet, as a portal to Hell threatens to unleash the putrid, rancid, Unholy hordes onto a desolate planet. "


The bringer of Death arrived in Dakota. Custer's Seventh lay dying on the Powder river. The Ancients had sent him to walk the Earth and help the Ghost-walkers to hold their land. In his mortal days, he carried a torch for Serela, an outcast from the Mind seekers.That's what got him killed in the first place. The saloon was full that night, and he was called out.
He pulled his gun first and knew he would die. His death was foretold in the ancient scriptures of truth. 'The bone that liveth shall slay the flesh and the flesh will become liveth bone'.
Justice will walk the plains and avenge the truth'.
Serela had looked on as a bullet pierced the gunslinger's skull.The spirit of the ancients swept through her soul then, as she watch his head explode, filtering its entrance into the new receptacle of justice.

No one saw the killer shadow draw or witnessed it's departure but John Bitumen's body lay dead, the blood flowing from a hole in his forehead. Even as he died, he was reborn.
The Skull of Death in search of a gunfight, Deathbringer, Cleanser of Evil.


Hatchet looked at his mangy horse, a wasted beast worn out and at the end of it's road.Two years it carried his weight and the saddle dug deep.Whippings were constant and the calloused cruel fists of Hatchet rained down on it's neck if it slowed any.The nearest town was a mile down the road and it was late in the day.
That was all it took to set the anger in motion.Hatchet took five paces away from his horse and hurled his razor sharp hatchet with violence. The horse's head was split in two.
He hauled his saddle, and wrestled his ****** weapon from the dead horse, then walked into the dusk. All the time, Serela had observed from the Spirit's eye, an artefact of the Ancients, entrusted to the Mind Seekers. Hatchet would pay for his offence against Nature's pure beast, for it was written' All Creatures will walk the Earth and all will be held Holy.Swift will be Divine retribution against those who slay the pure beast'.
Hatchet wasn't one to read the ancient scriptures and could not know that the Skull of Death would search him out in the next town.The Ancients had called forth their Gunslinger and a skeletal hand rested on the sacred Gun of Abe. Hatchet would be called out and a Gunfight would settle scores. A chill in the air unnerved him and he took comfort in carresing his ivory handled pistols.


Darkness fell on the land and the half moon shone on the dead horse.The night crawlers made to cut it's remains and scavenge it's carcass. Two hands were raised to the sky, pleading for forgiveness. Horsemeat was forbidden and a desecration of sacred laws.
A knife was produced and held to the beast's throat. In that moment, all became aware of the onlooker.A tall figure in a drab grey longcoat, black spurred boots, an old black stetson. The Sacred Gun of Abe was in his hands. The Skull of Death, the Ancients Gunslinger, walked the Plains once more.
All seven night crawlers stared in disbelief. Their last minutes of life ebbing from them as the eyes of the Ancients warrior scanned their souls and cremated their bodies.Seven figures suddenly engulfed in flames under the incessant stare of the Skull's empty sockets. Amongst the embers, the Gunslinger knelt beside the horse. In his mortal days, this beast was his closest companion.Hatchet had stolen his possession and the sight of it's remains stirred an anguished scream for the horrific end which befell his steed.

Gently the Gun of Abe was placed on the horse's neck. A small bottle of holy oil was rubbed in it's wounds.' Though death may stalk the pure, truly I say to you that righteousness will prevail and the dead will rise'. Even as the words were uttered, a ball of blue flame enveloped the horse. The light illuminated the darkness and from the light the skeleton of a horse emerged, raising itself up on its hind legs, in defiance of death. Approaching the Gunslinger, it nuzzled it's head to his skull, the brilliance of it's chalk white bones radiating a supernatural hue. Mounting his steed, he galloped into the night.Vengeance was coming.Death on a horse was looking for Hatchet!


Raihna woke suddenly and locked eyes withHatchet. She had been ordered to sleep with him, against her wishes. 'Something wrong with me, *****? Hatchet snarled when he'd paid his ten dollars to the House Madam.
'You better be worth it *****! He had roughed her up before falling into a drunken slumber. Now he was standing in his ragged long johns, at the end of the four poster bed.
A manic look was in his beady eyes, as he swigged his liquor jar. Unkempt rank hair covered his weasel like features. Reeking of horse and trail sweat, an ugly belly adorning his uglier frame, he leered for the longest time.Raihna took it all in, especially the hatchet in his right hand. 'Think you're mighty purdy, don't ya! he sneered. ' Let's see what you look like with a hair cut'!
Raihna noticed then that he had pinned her pigtails to the wooden headboard. Realising a scream would be the end of her, she stared back and waited. Hatchet hurled his weapon and it sliced into the headboard, shorning her hair.From the table, he grabbed his bowie knife and aimed for the other pigtail, slicing it off and nicking her neck. 'Well lookee now' he laughed as a trace of blood ran down her neck. 'Ain't you gonna scream, *****?


An eerie blue glow filtered into the room just then and the whinny and snortin' of a horse filled the air. 'What in Hell's name? muttered Hatchet. Looking out of the curtains, he saw the chalk white Skeleton of a horse and a skeleton rider brandishing a pistol. A fiery blue-red low glow radiated from their eyes and it seemed both rider and steed were on fire. Hatchet shouted out ' You one of them Resurrectionists?!' suddenly remembering the old shaman he had killed back in Piebald.
Hatchet had stolen his runes and kept them for trading with the Mindseekers. He thought now that maybe this was him come looking for him from the afterworld. Hot ***** trickled down his leg and he felt scared and sick to his stomach.

The gallows await !' It was almost a whisper as the ancients gunslinger raised his head towards the window. Hatchet grabbed Raihna and tried to shield himself from the spectre below. His mind raced as he hesitated, panic flooding his brain. 'Take them! We be even! he gambled as he threw the runes at the gunslinger. Even as he did so, they were grabbed instantaneously by a skeletal hand and placed around the gunslinger's neck. For these were the runes of time and in the coming trials would decide the balance of power between the Unholy and the Just.


Hatchet had thrown away his trump card and even as he loaded his gun, he was destined to die. 'Pearls before swine' whispered into the room and Hatchet descended the stairs, with Raihna in front. His pistol was cocked and he would shoot it out. If Hell was waiting, he wasn't going on his own. His hatchet lay in his side belt and he made his way onto the street.
The hallway was pitch black and Hatchet cautiously approached the parlour door hoping to get out the back street. He held a vice-like grip on Raihna's arm as he pushed her along. 'You keep your mouth shut ***** and open that door easy' he whispered, his voice betraying his inner terror. Suddenly and unexpectedly, he felt the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed hard to the back of his head. 'You take your claws offa my girl, Hatchet 'less you wants your **** brains spilled where you stand!
Hatchet knew Charlotte, the House madam, wasn't bluffing. He'd seen her do it too, back in Abilene, when China Jack beat up one of her girls. She'd shot him straight through his throat and followed up with a clean shot to his manhood. It hurt Hatchet even now just thinking about it'. Jesus! he thought as he cursed his situation. Things were moving too fast and nothing was going his way.
Hatchet loosened his grip, carefully holstering his gun.As she moved away, Raihna spat on his face and kneed him in the groin. ****! he bellowed and went to strike Raihna. His hearing saved her, as Charlotte cocked the gun and stopped him where he stood. 'Think I'd sleep easy with you on the premises, Hatchet? Take me for a fool? I don't know what the Hell is out on that street but it wants you!' By Christ, you're going out the front door to face it too!. 'Always were a cowardly *******, now move you lousy **** head!
Raihna had gotten hold of a shotgun and had it trained on Hatchet. 'Drop that hatchet right now, she said. ' You're facing that creature with your gun and nothing else! God knows you don't deserve even that much. Hatchet dropped his hatchet. 'Now kick it over here!' He did so and as Raihna picked it up, she hurled it back immediately into his right thigh, gashing him like a pig for the slaughter. Hatchet screamed in agony and Charlotte pulled it out of his thigh as the room sprayed with the red bloom of imminent death. Now move you *******!


Charlotte and Raihna ushered him towards the front door and kicked him into the dark dusty side street. 'You got it coming, Hatchet!, they shouted and there waiting for him was the Ancients Gunslinger. He had dismounted from his steed and now faced Hatchet.The look of death was in the Skull's eerie sockets and it was all Hatchet could do to stop his hands shaking. He threw up and finally faced the spectre before him.

'For those who have suffered, shall be avenged. The Righteous Light will shine on the Unholy and all dark souls shall be driven from the Plains. Fear will walk amongst them and even the shadows shall despise their ways.'
Thus it had been written and now was coming to pass.


Hatchet went for his gun, and time slowed down as his eyes scanned the scene. A chalk, pure white, skeletal hand reached for a gun and the fluid movement captured his attention. Hatchet knew he had been outdrawn and could see the gunslinger's bullet leave the smoking barrell, pristine, crafted by a master gunsmith. He noticed the leather holster, worn and faded, almost an antiquity, strapped to a dark trousered leg.
The long coat, ghastly grey, adorning the bones of the undead. Empty eyes stared him down, as he heard his own gun's sharp report and watched his bullet sail towards the spectre. Just before the gunslingers bullet blew his brains out, he finally noticed the spectre of the horse and instinctively knew this was the brutalised beast he had so callously slain. Blood and bone exploded violently and the mortal remains of Hatchet dropped to the ground.
Hatchet didn't know it then but he too was about to be reborn; for the Unholy were about to unleash the Scourge of Hossana and the Ancients Gunslinger stood in their way. Hatchet would be forged in the cauldron of Hell and in the coming trials would once again face the Sacred Gun of Abe.


Hatchet became conscious, and felt as ill as a cow in a slaughter house. The smell of death was rancid and his vision seemed out of focus. A nauseating, sickly stench permeated his nostrils and he winced as the pungent odour inflated his lungs. He was aware his whole body was bitter cold and he shivered uncontrollably. If this was a hangover, then it was the worst he'd ever been. Terrifyingly, he noticed that he was manacled, face down, to a massive ice block.
Encased within the block was a dead horse, it's head split in two, exposing brain matter, decayed pulped flesh, and grizzled bone. It's mouth was fixed in a ghastly grimace with it's eyes looking back into Hatchet's, it's gory mane matted in dirt.
His screams were hideous to hear and were lost in the din of the thousands of screams echoing within the air.The sound was deafening and burst his ears as the terror built up within him. Hatchet knew then he was in Hell, amongst the thousands of fallen souls now in the possesion of the Unholy.
His whole being was perished with unbearable, intense cold yet he could see flames, blazing blue and orange, feet away from him taunting him with intense glow.
Still the shrieks and squeals of thousands around him assailed his ears! The amplified volume resonated in his brain as his own screams built to a crescendo!
Yet, no light radiated from the flames and the pitch black illuminated only the horse within the ice block and the grimace which would be eternal. Still Hatchet screamed till he felt his throat would explode and his mind begged for deliverance! It was then that his shoulders and back ignited with agonising pain as he felt the sting of a whip.
Again and again the whip found it's mark and his flesh was pulverised. He cried out for forgiveness and begged to be spared and still he was lashed.He prayed to pass out and knew he never would ! For he was in Hell and the blackest deeds were now held to account.
A voice bellowed at him'Welcome Brother Hatchet! We will have a purpose for you soon! Enjoy the interim! Many more punishments await you yet until you are ready'. The eerie voice trailed off as Hatchet continued to be whipped. His agonising screams drowned the air and was unheard amongst the thousand others. Still the horse fixed it's empty eyes and stared at Hatchet and its grimace took pleasure in his suffering.

Seven days passed since Hatchet was despatched to Hell, and darkness fell on the Plains like a widows veil. No light illuminated the Earth and the Lakota knew this was the sign of the coming trials. The Ghost-walkers had appealed to the Great Spirit and no one who witnessed their victory at the Powder River could deny their courage.Truly this was evidence of the Spirit's intervention in their way of life. Reports had come in to Chief Red Cloud of a figure of flame riding amongst the Buffalo. A Skeleton on fire, riding the Skeleton of a horse at full charge. It seemed the very ground they rode upon was a torch of lightning, and the figure was at one with the Buffalo. Red Cloud rode out to witness it himself and noticed the blue-orange glow, like an aura of defiance, surrounding the figure. In it's hand was a gun, and Red Cloud recognised it as the Sacred Gun of Abe.
Many tales had been passed down from his ancestors, and Red Cloud knew this figure was sacred to his tribe.The Ancients Gunslinger would play a role in the destiny of his People.The Whiteman would pay a heavy price for the desecration of the traditions and way of life of those under the protection of the Great Spirit. He knew too that an enemy would arise which would destroy the Whiteman, and all the Earth's inhabitants. Only the Native American would take the battle to the Enemy, aided by the Ancients and the Mind Seekers.
Red Cloud knew his people looked to him for leadership, and he would provide it.They would hear how Red Cloud rode with the Ghost Rider and take pride in his courage. His fate was tied to the Ancients Gunslinger, and this had been preordained in the ancient Scriptures. Red Cloud looked down at the flaming figure and dug his knees into his horse. Charging down the hill, he shouted out a proud battle cry, and rode like the wind to the side of the Ghost Rider.In their trail the Buffalo followed.The trials ahead would be met and the Unholy would do battle with their most dangerous enemy.



**** it Charlotte! 'It don't make sense!
Hatchet weren't killed by no ghost, for Christ sake! Marshall John Lancaster was tired and couldn't believe the events which occurred in his absence. He had just brought in Ned Marlow.Got two of his men killed doing it, and suffered a leg wound himself in the shoot out. Marlow had been holed up in Tinkers Creek and came out unexpectedly with his guns blazing as the posse approached the log cabin. It had suddenly turned pitch dark, and all the horses got spooked, causing confusion amongst the lawman's officers.
Ned Marlow knew Hatchet; had lost an eye in a bar brawl to him once.It was said Hatchet carried the eye around with him ever since.
Ned was closing in on Hatchet, bent on revenge, and swore he'd see him dead. Suddenly a shot rang out, and startled Lancaster.
Ned had headbutted the Marshall's deputy as he was being placed in the holding cell.He had grabbed the deputy's gun then and blown a hole clean through him. Carelessness, or tiredness, maybe both, had cost him his life. Ned didn't give no quarter when his own life was on the line. He weren't going to no hangman's noose neither. He burst into the Marshall's office then and fired off two shots catching Lancaster in the left arm wounding him badly. The Marshall got off one reactive shot catching Ned's left ear.The sound deafened him and he put a slug through the Marshall's head.The fragrance of gunpowder filled the room and Charlotte could only look on.'You're coming with me, Honey!'bellowed Marlow as he grabbed her hair, pulling her close, and made his way onto the streets. A gun was held to Charlotte's head and Ned was figuring his next move.


He was too busy watching the streets but if he'd looked up, he would have seen a hatchet hurtling towards him with violent intent. The hatchet caught his gun hand and severed it clean off his wrist. Ned now had the indignity of losing his right hand.He screamed in agony as blood squirted from his severed wrist, spraying Charlotte in a plume of lifes red wine. Ned looked to the ground and his own hand lay there, holding his pistol, it's finger still on the trigger. Legend would record the severed hand fired off a shot moments after it's horrific amputation. Ned Marlow didn't know it then, but he too would play a role in the coming trials. The Unholy knew it only too well for it had been written 'The Deaf shall hear, the Blind shall see, and the hand of the sinner will turn on the Unholy'.


There the severed hand lay. A ghastly, grotesque, weather worn obscenity.
The gun had been removed from it's grasp since it's horrific amputatation from Ned Marlow. Three days had passed since the incident and no one dared to remove it from the street.cOminously, no decay had festered to spoil that monstrosity;for life still lingered within it's ghoulish flesh. Mangy street dogs looked at it with curiosity, yet kept a tentative distance. The little finger still wore a silver ring, set with a black stone. Once it had belonged to an ancient Pagan High King, who had been slaughtered in battle. An artefact from a distant time, carried across Europe into the America's. Evil had tainted it's properties and the Sons of the Unholy had sought it since. The ring now sought a new owner as the severed hand, an abomination of creation, crawled, like a filthy worm in the dirt. Slowly, laboriously, with uncanny certainty, the wretched hand made it's way towards the room of the one who had hurled the hatchet.


Raihna sat alone in her bedroom.The hatchet lay across her lap and it was emitting a low hum, almost inaudible, but she had heard it. At first she thought madness was setting in, but she realised that the voices communicating with her were real; the Mind Seekers had chosen her.
Her mind and body became a telepathic conduit and she was absorbed in receiving the messages. The Ancients were channelling through her and a deep trance held her almost comatose.
Slowly, sickening slow, the hand crawled it's way towards her., Grubby, thick, fingers inching themselves stealthily, dangerously close, while Raihna was immersed in the communication.
Her eyes were closed in the deep state between the conscious and the unconscious, so she could not witness the fingers wrap themselves around the handle of the Hatchet. Both hand and clasped hatchet lifted silently from her lap. As the hand moved to distance the weapon from her, the ring glowed a greenish hue, emanating the presence of the Unholy. Suddenly the hand lunged at Raihna's throat!
Raihna's life was ebbing into eternity.The possessed, filthy, unholy amputation squeezed her windpipe with the vengence of perpetual hostility. The ring on the severed hand's finger glowed brighter, as her life force lay on the threshold of destruction. It seemed as though the light of a thousand burning suns illuminated that room. A portal to Hell had been created and Raihna was pulled into that abyss. She was neither dead nor alive, for the Unholy had need of a pawn.The hatchet too was ****** into that void as it was destined to be reunited with Hatchet.The light was blinding and it seemed the very Earth could have been swallowed; as though the Gods had abandoned all of Creation!
Yet there he stood! A blazing figure astride a blazing horse.The chalk white bones of a skeleton horse carrying the Ancients Gunslinger towards the entrance to Hell! The ancient scriptures had written ' The Liveth Bone shall ride into Hell, and the Unholy shall cower'.
The Sacred Gun of Abe shall wield the vengeance of the Ages and the Earth and Heavens shall shake'. Thus it had been written and was now coming to pass.
A portal to Hell had opened and the Gunslinger charged into that cesspool of abomination. No Horse ever galloped with such energy and the Unholy prepared for the skirmish.The Gunslinger was possessed with a relentless rage for Justice. Hell quaked as both rider and horse fearlessly charged into the bowels of Evil's pestilent abode.
Furious at this brazen affront, the Unholy now made to close that portal. Even as they did so, Hatchet was resurrected from his tormented existence. His hatchet was reunited with him as he prepared to once again face the Gunslinger.Raihna must be rescued; for her destiny was tied to the Earth's salvation. For now, she lay in a corner of Hell watched over by a severed hand. The screams and anguished cries of all the lost souls in Hell echoed in the stagnant air. Still the Rider charged furiously as he sought to gather Raihna to his arms. A ****** hatchet sailed towards him and Hell looked on.


Hatchet charged from the cage of demons, his face etched with the pain of perpetual torment. His emaciated form like a malignant Phoenix rising from the ashes of Hell. The pitiful creature carrying his burden reared from his weight. A wretched carcass of a decayed horse which had been ressurected for battle. That same horse which had been encased within the ice block;whose ****** head Hatchet had split open when both were mortals on the Earth. Man and beast now tools for the Unholy; possessed by the collective evil of all who now suffered in Hell.cTheir dark energy would now be harnessed for the coming trials. A gruesome grimace was fixed on the horse's face and it's empty eyes stared ahead as Hatchet charged towards the Gunslinger. His violent countenace expressed the deadly intentions which would be borne down upon his enemy.
He had hurled his weapon and watched as it made it's deadly trajectory towards the Gunslinger. As the hatchet spun and revolved through the air, Hatchet emmitted the scream of the demented. The Gunslinger had lowered in his saddle and the hatchet narrowly missed it's target. Continuing on it's course, it landed in the back of one of the screaming forgotten whose souls were doomed to eternal agony.
Both riders now crashed headlong into one another and Hatchet fell from his horse. The Sacred Gun of Abe was now in the Gunslinger's hand and a skeletal finger pulled the trigger.
Once again, Hatchet would witness a bullet discharge from it's revolving chamber. His head exploded as the bullet entered his brain, exiting in one piece and landing in the dank soil of Hell.The blessed relic purified the soil and the Unholy recoiled with revulsion.
The dead cannot die and Hatchet struggled back to his feet. Grabbing the Gunslinger's reins, he attempted to pull him down. It was then that the runes around the Gunslinger's neck pierced the air with a deafening incantation.
The Unholy screamed as the Holy words of the Ancient Scriptures filtered into the bowels of iniquity and shook the foundations of Hell.
Hatchet reeled back and grabbed his hatchet from the spine of the forgotten sinner. He looked up then and witnessed a warrior's lance sail through the air.It violently struck and impaled the severed hand guarding Raihna.
Red Cloud had accompanied the Gunslinger in his charge into Hell!
Janna Jul 2018
There's a hole in my heart

A void in my mind

A deep desire for nothing but want

A need for something like fun

Adventure and thrills

Seekers and pills

Falling into a blackness

So dark I'm turning blue

Such stark it's only true

Helpless and innocent

Forgiving and iridescent

I bond with strangers

Act bold, I'm not the tamest

I am stuck, so stuck

I don't know how to get out of here

This place, this room, this hide

This mask, this facade,

This glass, this wall, this broken bridge

It is all burning up into flames

Watch it, sink

Down it goes deep into

Black Waters

- soulwriterj
Written in a state of fragility and lostness.
IG: @soulwriterj
Becky Littmann May 2014
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!
To all those fake friends we have all had!
CK Baker Dec 2016
~ 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 dawn silent
breathless, bitter cold
the beating hearts
and brahmas
warm the spirit
of pakalolo
Ingrid Nov 2012
Forgive the Seekers
They just have too much
Of dancing flame
Which turns limp clay of bodies into stone
So they stand straight, so that they can
Endure the quest.
As flies in honey stuck in time
They struggle
In strait-jacket of seconds
They revolt
In shackles of duty,  fetters called normal life
They strive
They dream
Of glory generous and vast as starry sky
To wrap their tired souls  

The clocks keep ticking ominously fast
Time-bombs familiar to all, death overlooked
Who hears them but the Seekers, wide awake
As soldiers,
Incurable ill,
And parting lovers.
They shed their skins as snakes do every year
For us to pick and wonder at, try on and keep –
Their books or paintings,
Bridges, wars, or songs.
They leave them easily and change as infants change,
From day to day
Who knows them knows
Their truth that was, and never what will be
And only wind can be their companion  
As fast, as mutable
A wanderer as they
As true
jjcsm Feb 2012
COME with me O, Seekers
and we shall find a Champion

You need not even speak the truth
for we shall know no truths

Seekers we shall become
forever, desire our companion

Loyalty our only friend
that we may pass together

Our Champion shall fight all
comers, they shall be known as

Hypocrisy, greed, dishonor
look about you now, need we

Seek very far
Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
******. No white guy can say that, right.
People who can truly call themselves ******* can. *****-***** ****, W.O.P.,
maybe they can say ******, okeh. But they say it mean,
knowaddamean.
What'sbout Jewboy?
Can the Kaffen kid say ******?
Sand-******, but not ***** ******. Hecan say ****, too. And *** and *****.

Oy vey, okeh. We can take it. We can take it all. Rules is rules.

That's right. Wanna fight? Wanna be my enemy?

--- Grandpa had a play date. ***- Where's the Fun?
These kids got no guns.
And no enemies. Except imaginary ones.


Greedy little master mind sprouting odd fruits from Pokémon.
Can we make this work? Perfect it, in effect?

Marbles, maybe we can teach that old game and go from there to the funnest parts of FTA... Findtheanswer, like God and Adam played. The rules are some same, bounds, fudges and such. Keepsies, ante-ups and such, too.
Risk is right if-I-can-tation.
Losses can be baked, clayballs,
while momma bakes our daily bread.
Poor kids can make marbles in the sun, since forever, I am sure. Rolly-polly patti and johnny cakes roll marbles into spoons,
Momma knew that stuff. She could shake butter into cream, singin' along Que sera, sera, whatever will be
will be,

but it won't be the death of me,
watch and see,
babu boy oh boy
---
We can play war until we die, but don't tell the children.
They are the price we are to pay. They must believe.

We swore allegiance for security. We thought it best
for the kids to lie.

You know?
I believe, you know. It's unbelieving I need help with.

Can't you see? We swore allegiance and taught it has become the  honor-us-course-us-po-deserve-us ritual. A rite we pass for the protection of the eagles gathered around the body.

We are proud of our children who die taking
the courses called for, we never ask why,
except when we cry. Silently, inside.

It's our role to remember the glory
of our children dying for the IDEA that lives
in the statue of Freedom
under which our laws allow
might is right, if God was ever on our side.

You know what I mean.
Say so. You know the lies are being told.

Stop believing that is okeh, eh?

---
Mussleman dominance meme manifests once more to battle the flood of knowing being re-leased or bought, outright, to aid the seekers seeking the meta game.

F.T.A, remember? Find The Answer. Same rules as Hide and Watch,
"All ye, all ye, outsiders hidden in our midst, in free."

"Send me your- poor, huddled masses",
remember being proud of that idea.
Poor thing, lady libertine, so tarnished now that not even Iaccoca's glory loan could gild the actions she sanctioned in the name of the republic for which she (a proxy mate, feminine aspect of God) stands. Sig-n-if-i-cious-ly.

Seig Freud, we say, with the statue of freedom watching over the legislative body, she stands
quite similar to Diana of the Ephesians,
in her role as mob solid-if-er, if I know my mythic truths been told.
---
Trink, trink, trinkits gits the good good luck,
light m'fire witcha spark and see
a light in the night when the noises pending terrors flee.

Rite, we passed those places ages ago, now we hear echoes, only we know them, for we have been taught,
what echoes ever are.
Our own terrors screaming back at us.

Alot of lies are taught wrong
and a sleeping giant in a child may dream
of other ways to see.
New windows on new word worlds expressed in
HD Quad-processed reality
simulations. You know,
child eyes see right through those.

Exactly that happened. Slowly at first.
Good is more difficult to believe
you are expert enough to try doing than is evil.
Read it again.
This couplet or line, as time will tell.

Don't ignore known knowns,
stand up under the weight of knowing good and knowing evil.
Be good.

We know from conception,
we think,
whatever it takes means
take what ever we think right,
pursue happenstances in the favor of my father's world,
provided for me, the kid.
\
The son, a first-man son,
some several thousand generations removed.
Lucky some body stored the good stuff in the mitochon'orhea, right.
We'd be powerless. O'rhea, double stufft, blessusall.

Otherwise lies are left for kids to learn,
but not to
be left true,
as when they first was told.

Our sibyl e-gran mals tol' em true,
as they knew what they passed through, to the moment, then...

Around the fire, dancing shadows, make them play.
All ye, all ye outs, in free!

See dancing shadows, en-joy my joy, be strong,

long strong, sing along, long, long song

and laugh until you die.
---
Some con-served ideas will land a man in a prison with no keys.

Imagine that. Take your time, it is no passing fancy. Be here,
with me, a while. Pleased to meet you I am, no comma needed.
Now, we may wait, whiling away a time or two is common, in mortal pauses. Are you dead or alive?

Is it dark or light? Do you see in color here, or in gray?

Who built your prison? I built mine. You'll love it, I imagine,

whenever forever flows past those old lies striving for redemption,
recycling-clingy static hairballs and ghost turds
touch, once more,
*** potentia amber atoms in cosmic chili for the soul
of the loaf-giver, warden of the feeding forces life lives
to give dead things. There's the rub.

Spark to fire? Watts to fuel the favor, Issac, can you lead us in a song? A con-serving song for when the cons a fided or feited,
defeat my sorrows and my shame,
let me see Christ take the blame.

Confidencein ignowanceus. Worsen dignitatus evawas.

Blow on it. Soft. The spark landed in that ghost **** you thought you swept away or ****** into a vortex of hoovering witnesses,
if you whew too strong, you blow yer own little light out, and have to wait for lighten-loadin' bearers
to take care from you.

That can take time, too.

It always takes a while to get deep enough to see the bottom.

Cicero, old friend...

ne vestigium quidem ullum est reliquum nobis dignitatis 

[not even a trace is left to us of our dignity]

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dignitas(Romanconcept)>

See, from a single spark,
touching a volatile bit o' whatever,
you may see the root of the Roman canker sore
yomamma kistyawit.
And be on yo way,
satisfied minded there do seem to be a way, each day, just beyond the evil sufficiency we find soon after the morning's mercy's been renewed.

And may, if it may be,
ye see a rich man wit' a satisfied mind
and may that man be me in your mirror, as it were.

Carry on, as you were.
Or walk this way, a while,
mind the limp. I'll set the pace.
It ain't a race, y'lil'squirt.

Wait'll y'see.

Waiting is time's only chore this close to shore.

What manner of men are we, who could be our enemy?
What name makes me your enemy?

What peace can you imagine when no words carry hate?
Can you imagine evil peace?
Cromwell n'em said they could make peace wit' war.
They lied.
Their lies remain lies,
evil knowns
good to know, on the whole.

Knowing makes believing count for more than idle
oaths of loyalty to memes mad
from the first of forever to now.

now. stop. This is the bottom. I know the way from here.
Do you?
You can say so, but you never know,
if you never make the climb.

And that can take forever, I've been told.
Fun, for fun. Bees in bonnets and such archaic antics, no pun un intended.
The N word test. I chickened out, but under protest. If I say/said a word to hurt a childlike mind, or an innocent ear, I am not being kind. And the black magi said He could care less, he's moving back to Kingston.
Peter Cullen Aug 2014
In the safety of the shade.
The shadow seekers plot their way.
Thread their course, a careful road.
Hiding from the truths they own.
In the darkness, where they rest,
ruffled feathers in the nest.
Afraid to fly
Afraid to soar,
relying on what shun before.
The light that graced,
that first sweet day.
The light that faded, as they aged.
Dulled by structures on the road,
built by men, to be sold.
In their shadows,
now they live,
living off the crumbs they give.
In the shadows,
in the shade.
The shadow seekers find a way.
Mr X Jul 2014
The ones who get lost midway,
Are ultimately the ones who find a
NEW way out.
Stu Harley Apr 2014
between each
line word or
letter in sight
the thirst for
wisdom and knowledge
shall take a bite
eat you heart out
to all
the knowledge seekers
in sight
jennee Jun 2016
as human beings and consumers, we often seek for contentment
as seekers, we search for satisfaction to fill in missing parts of us we think we need
as lovers, we seek for attention, longingness and to be far off from the void
we search for what is relevant enough to be the food of our soul, and as we consume we are never satisfied
so we seek for satisfaction, wanting more
and with hands full, a heart pouring out of selflessness, we destroy ourselves
as we fall in love, we fall apart
giving and offering missing puzzle pieces that exist within us
as we gradually become into nothing, we feed off of others, consuming whatever it is they have left
we accept their love, and they, our flaws
aware that we are only body parts that are reconnecting
as we heal, we occupy their vacancies, filling in missing parts that have been hollow for too long
we become their musings, their vertebrae of support
they become our sanctuary and our hope
they become the memories that look into the future
instead of the mistakes that shaped who we are

n.j.
Lyz Elysian Oct 2014
I press my ear to the door of the seekers,
flames from the heart of a phoenix light my path like lanterns across the sky is now the glimmer in my eyes.
Hope.
Written July 14 2014
We are born with luck
which is to say with gold in our mouth.
As new and smooth as a grape,
as pure as a pond in Alaska,
as good as the stem of a green bean--
we are born and that ought to be enough,
we ought to be able to carry on from that
but one must learn about evil,
learn what is subhuman,
learn how the blood pops out like a scream,
one must see the night
before one can realize the day,
one must listen hard to the animal within,
one must walk like a sleepwalker
on the edge of a roof,
one must throw some part of her body
into the devil's mouth.
Odd stuff, you'd say.
But I'd say
you must die a little,
have a book of matches go off in your hand,
see your best friend copying your exam,
visit an Indian reservation and see
their plastic feathers,
the dead dream.
One must be a prisoner just once to hear
the lock twist into his gut.
After all that
one is free to grasp at the trees, the stones,
the sky, the birds that make sense out of air.
But even in a telephone booth
evil can seep out of the receiver
and we must cover it with a mattress,
and then tear it from its roots
and bury it,
bury it.
Eleanor Rigby May 2015
Love seekers are matches
Looking for a flame.

It lights them up,
Gives them meaning
And then...

And then it kills them.


F.Z.**N
RJ Days Jan 2014
for all of us, star-seekers, feeling now alive

for those with the ghastly skill of being alone
amid crowds of people
lost in thought but ok inside

for those who see streaks of madness
fly round, illume patterns/puzzles
grasping scales celestial to infinitesimal

for those playing games with reality
snogging smug wealthy boys in stairwells
oxygen bonds breaking the sublime

for those forgotten under dirt, asphalt & spot
buried dates and dashes no splashes of memory
just naked nihilistic Precambrian bones

for those nameless from identity crises
smiling glibly through missing teeth
embarrassed by circumstance and the folly of age

for those trapped in jaunty youthful frames
lacking mind's dessert: veneration (contradiction)--still
wisdom perilously choked plus feared

for those chanceless beings fate sweeps & sooner snips
chuckling at theodicies while they still can
some soothed by snake oil--I mean Purpose--
then just dying

and we're still uplifted? we are still star-seekers.
we, divorced from form and aching for the sky's response
hear nothing, but we know

eyes' lies are all around us and inside
they wear us out and keep us moving
they are ancient dull clichés, tarnished but
they have the audacity to make us shine, aspire
they are what your grandma says to get you to behave
eyes' lies are true:

we are still star-seekers
KG May 2014
When people hear the word, depressed,
They visualize sullen teenagers dressed in black with slits on their wrists.
But, many fail to recognize,
That depression is not always a physical manifestation.
That most suffer in suffocating silence.

Depression is drowning in an ocean poisoned with your own thoughts.
Depression is the guarded prison of your mind with no means of escape.
Depression is the absence of love, the absence of light, and the absence of hope.

It envelops your mind with a blanket of darkness.
It taints your soul with unbearable numbness.
It reminds you every waking second that you are not good enough.

You’re worthless
You’re alone
YOU ARE NOTHING

………………………………………………………………………………………..


When people heard the word depressed,

They visualize attention seekers

But many fail to recognize depression does not stem from desire to be pitied.

That most want to create an illusion of happiness.

Depression is plastering a smile on your face everyday
And releasing a torrent of tears,
Cascading uncontrollably into your pillow every night.  

Depression is saying,
“I’m just tired”,
or
“I’m fine”
When someone asks if you’re okay.

But inside,

You are screaming desperately for help.
Yet you remain silent.

Because you are stronger than that.
Because you’re ashamed of yourself.
Because you think nobody would even care.

You are scared they will tell you


“You’re just looking for attention”

"That’s just life"

“Just be happy”

“You’re so ungrateful”

But, depression isn’t about seeking attention.
It is about waking up, pretending you are okay, and going back to sleep.
It is about isolating yourself from the world.
Closing the door, drawing the blinds, and crawling under the covers in a desperate attempt to shut them out.

Depression is when the greatest accomplishment of the day is mustering the strength to get out of the bed that cradles you in its safe cocoon.

That every morning you wake up, disappointment that you still exist.
Because life doesn’t seem worth living anymore.


Depression is chronic fatigue
Depression is the lack of motivation

Depression is complete and utter despair


Depression is regarded as a lack of personal strength

Depression is considered to be a weakness.

But depression is a real illness

And those who live in its suffocating grasp are the strongest of all.
TJ King May 2013
Jan. 1st,

New Years drowns
its yesterdays with alcohol
and needle ships to
summer paradises made of ice

But in the morning,
when the frost retreats
into the suburban sidewalks-
slides its way down
into the drains-
mixes with the wastes and vomited
dredge-water of a year gone whipping by,

I see the children of the defeated
mothers poking ugly toads behind the shed
with cardboard hats fashioned
from discarded Budweiser boxes,
barefooted on dewy grass
with capes of an old bed-sheet
thrown out when daddy found mummy
in the arms of another woman~

I watch the fathers of men
smoking, sunken, and sitting
                                                    on the docks
of the world's beach-towns
wondering forlorn how they got there.
Their orange cigarette tips-
dying stars over the water.
The collective orange glow
both artificial and desperate
shines forever outward~
                                          toward the pole
where Johnny always kisses Sally
and they love each other
until they don't.

I stumble home at dawn
on the quietest day of the year with
the undergraduates:
Seekers of love
Seekers of purpose
Seekers of seeking,
Glassy eyed and slurring
Memorized facts about underground reservoirs
And the disappearance of the ******* honey bee,

Falling into ditches
And lying there with the sunrise in our eyes
Drinking and smoking anything
That will help us
forget we're watching the sunrise from a ditch

forget that if we're lucky
we too will be sitting on those docks,
flicking cigarette butts into the water,
and hoping Sally thinks about us sometimes.

Now-
the worried porch lights of Orange County
are turning off-
~And the mothers are curling their blonde hair
hoping someone will secretly fantasize about them
at work
~The fathers are covering up the smell
of cigarettes and alcohol with expensive cologne
and fantasizing about that blonde from work

~And the graduates have invested
in more comfortable ditches
Lori Carlson Feb 2010
watching lightening
rip through the tenebrous sky,
anger-filled thunder scorns
the midnight hour.
We only came here to watch...
to breathe in cool night air.

I couldn't distinguish the shock
of your touch
from the wave of currents striking
the window of this sundance
crossing the blackened sky.

A feather-touch:
my lips, your lips, ours;
soft, seductive shivers.
Touches so electric,
we were unaware
of the youth-filled
dodge gunning
towards the embankment...
teen kisses, too innocent.

(They see our mirror image.)

In excited jolts,
like those of lightening raging
through the mountains,
we seek refuge
to thrill-seek
the precarious union
we are.
© 1994,  Iona Nerissa

All poetry under the names Lori Carlson or Iona Nerissa are the sole property of Lori Carlson.
Please seek permission before using any of my writings.
~Lori Carlson~
mannley collins Aug 2014
and looked into the mirror that the Isness of the Universe held before me.
Seeing nothing but the Isness of the Universes indifference
and glee at the ongoing 26 armed conflicts
it has initiated worldwide.
Seeing it possessing all the vanity and all the narcissism
worthy of a "god" or "goddess"or any "religious" leader. .
I am, as are all others,the individual Isness,
which is a small but equal,
individual autonomous and independent part,
of  the essence of the Isness of the Universe.
I am incarnated in this,the latest in a long lineage of bodies
dating back beyond numbers or clocks.
I am incarnated here to realise my true nature as an individual Isness.
Seeing naught but the Isness of the Universes perversity and destructiveness
manifest all around me,
in the various civilisations that have come and gone
and still remain ever warring and corrupt.
It is a hard thing to acknowledge that one is a part of the Isness of the Universe
when you are a separated part of it,
but truthfulness wins over "truth" any day for me.

Truthfulness is the only way to preserve my most precious possession which is my individual integrity.
I looked and saw corruption and shed just the one tear and  
shook my head slowly and sadly.
And I stood up and walked away ******* myself with hollow laughter
at how impotent and nackered the Isness of the Universe has become,
since it created the universe out of its own beingness.
All of us individual,one to each body,each a part of its very beingness.
I,this particular individual Isness, was there at the beginning,as were all others,
living the pure truthfulness of existence--as all individual Isness were.
In Union with the Isness of the Universe--not separated by bodies
Minds and GroupMinds and Conditioned Identities
and Group Conditioned Identities.
The Isness of the Universe acted biggy bangy turning its self into the Universe.
Then came the transition from less than nothingness
into existential beingness in a succession of bodies.
I separated from the Isness of the Universe and took the first of many bodies,
foolishly believing the things we had agreed on before selbst manifestatie would come to pass.
Naively believing that the Isness of the Universe's word would be honoured.
Fool that I was.
How untrustworthy and sly the Isness of the Universe has become,
hiding behind "religions" and the masks of many "gods" and "goddesses".
Using its many surrogate and shallow identities,
to manipulate and mislead my gullible fellow individual Isnesses
into the slaughter of War on an industrial scale.
Lauding the death of decency and honour and integrity
and non-violence and equality and unconditional love.
How vain and shallow the Isness of the Universe has become,vainly
demanding worship and praise and the blood of innocents
as if this petty narcissism is the raspberry sauce
on its cosmic Ice cream cone,to be licked avidly,
gore running down its chin.
How untruthful and evasive the Isness of the Universe has become,
a role model for death and war and criminality
and sexism and lies and untrustworthiness.
Who will help me talk sense into our progenitor
before it destroys life altogether?.
Is there any one out there who can stand with us
and talk back to our erring and errant beingness?.
Where are the real women and men,not the "seekers" with their endless narcissism and gullibility?.
Hiding behind stolen verses and concepts
taken from a million pornographic philosopies.
And please no prancing posturing chattering "poets" with
their fancy stanzas about love and destiny and
eternal bliss.
Oh and their "sincerity".
You against the world!.
more like you against those who would stop
you ******* the very life energy out of humanity.
Oh Cowards.
Are there no other Men and Women of Integrity alive?

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
controlled intellectual tolerance,
considered Golden Age,
became first exchange, wars took their toll
turning point called second Age.
seaside expanding new suburbs
food shortage, riots, rooms had fallen
city invaded, concentration camps
some lived, one girl died, bookcase covered
scarce citizens, countryside foraged
spaces provided improved conditions
restoring entire city
city centre has reattained former splendor
buildings have become new millennium,
flat man is city inhabitant
city limits of foreign origin,
large wave settled asylum seekers
social projects make up the population
eight windmills summarizes open society,
increased influx has strained nationalities,
widest varieties share immigrant ancestry
city centre forms the foundation
Canal boats most popular
million visitors flood inhabitants, travel freely through
only staying for illuminated red lights.
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. source - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amsterdam
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I
And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a ****** sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name,
You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then forced on ****** feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers--
Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
I am yours--your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes,
Into your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.
When a man starts out with nothing,
When a man starts out with his hands
Empty, but clean,
When a man starts to build a world,
He starts first with himself
And the faith that is in his heart-
The strength there,
The will there to build.

First in the heart is the dream-
Then the mind starts seeking a way.
His eyes look out on the world,
On the great wooded world,
On the rich soil of the world,
On the rivers of the world.

The eyes see there materials for building,
See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.
The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.
The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,
To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.
Then the hand seeks other hands to help,
A community of hands to help-
Thus the dream becomes not one man's dream alone,
But a community dream.
Not my dream alone, but our dream.
Not my world alone,
But your world and my world,
Belonging to all the hands who build.

A long time ago, but not too long ago,
Ships came from across the sea
Bringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,
Adventurers and ***** seekers,
Free men and indentured servants,
Slave men and slave masters, all new-
To a new world, America!

With billowing sails the galleons came
Bringing men and dreams, women and dreams.
In little bands together,
Heart reaching out to heart,
Hand reaching out to hand,
They began to build our land.
Some were free hands
Seeking a greater freedom,
Some were indentured hands
Hoping to find their freedom,
Some were slave hands
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
But the word was there always:
   Freedom.

Down into the earth went the plow
In the free hands and the slave hands,
In indentured hands and adventurous hands,
Turning the rich soil went the plow in many hands
That planted and harvested the food that fed
And the cotton that clothed America.
Clang against the trees went the ax into many hands
That hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.
Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hulls
That moved and transported America.
Crack went the whips that drove the horses
Across the plains of America.
Free hands and slave hands,
Indentured hands, adventurous hands,
White hands and black hands
Held the plow handles,
Ax handles, hammer handles,
Launched the boats and whipped the horses
That fed and housed and moved America.
Thus together through labor,
All these hands made America.

Labor! Out of labor came villages
And the towns that grew cities.
Labor! Out of labor came the rowboats
And the sailboats and the steamboats,
Came the wagons, and the coaches,
Covered wagons, stage coaches,
Out of labor came the factories,
Came the foundries, came the railroads.
Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,
Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,
Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,
Shipped the wide world over:
Out of labor-white hands and black hands-
Came the dream, the strength, the will,
And the way to build America.
Now it is Me here, and You there.
Now it's Manhattan, Chicago,
Seattle, New Orleans,
Boston and El Paso-
Now it's the U.S.A.

A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:
        ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL--
        ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR
        WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS--
        AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTY
        AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,
But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,
And silently too for granted
That what he said was also meant for them.
It was a long time ago,
But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:
        NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
        TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
        WITHOUT THAT OTHER'S CONSENT.
There were slaves then, too,
But in their hearts the slaves knew
What he said must be meant for every human being-
Else it had no meaning for anyone.
Then a man said:
        BETTER TO DIE FREE
        THAN TO LIVE SLAVES
He was a colored man who had been a slave
But had run away to freedom.
And the slaves knew
What Frederick Douglass said was true.

With John Brown at Harper's Ferry, Negroes died.
John Brown was hung.
Before the Civil War, days were dark,
And nobody knew for sure
When freedom would triumph
"Or if it would," thought some.
But others new it had to triumph.
In those dark days of slavery,
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
The slaves made up a song:
   Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
That song meant just what it said: Hold On!
Freedom will come!
    Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
Out of war it came, ****** and terrible!
But it came!
Some there were, as always,
Who doubted that the war would end right,
That the slaves would be free,
Or that the union would stand,
But now we know how it all came out.
Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,
We know now how it came out.
There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.
There was a great wooded land,
And men united as a nation.

America is a dream.
The poet says it was promises.
The people say it is promises-that will come true.
The people do not always say things out loud,
Nor write them down on paper.
The people often hold
Great thoughts in their deepest hearts
And sometimes only blunderingly express them,
Haltingly and stumblingly say them,
And faultily put them into practice.
The people do not always understand each other.
But there is, somewhere there,
Always the trying to understand,
And the trying to say,
"You are a man. Together we are building our land."

America!
Land created in common,
Dream nourished in common,
Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on!
If the house is not yet finished,
Don't be discouraged, builder!
If the fight is not yet won,
Don't be weary, soldier!
The plan and the pattern is here,
Woven from the beginning
Into the warp and woof of America:
        ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.
        NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
        TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
        WITHOUT HIS CONSENT.
        BETTER DIE FREE,
        THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.
Who said those things? Americans!
Who owns those words? America!
Who is America? You, me!
We are America!
To the enemy who would conquer us from without,
We say, NO!
To the enemy who would divide
And conquer us from within,
We say, NO!
   FREEDOM!
     BROTHERHOOD!
         DEMOCRACY!
To all the enemies of these great words:
We say, NO!

A long time ago,
An enslaved people heading toward freedom
Made up a song:
     Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
The plow plowed a new furrow
Across the field of history.
Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.
From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.
That tree is for everybody,
For all America, for all the world.
May its branches spread and shelter grow
Until all races and all peoples know its shade.
     KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!
Ma Cherie Feb 2017
Many Winters they have passed,
since you departed from this place,
many years and many tears,
to leave their mark upon my face,
you always had a lovely smile,
a shining bit of grace,

Cooking in the kitchen,
just cooking fear away,
I really wished I'd learned from you,
that you had chose to stay,
we couldn't know the sun,
just wouldn't rise that day,

The pumpkin seeds and love,
you cooked up tasted good,
and you created beauty,
like no other person could,
and you loved every person,
like we all already should,

Don't know how,
I'm just like you now,
I'm sure you think so too,
I share in all our time,
what I believe is true,
the sky is ever changing,
in it's lovely shaded blue,
Cerulean is a favorite,
of her painted sky in view,

So keep an eye on the horizon,
keep a hand to guard the Sun,
rest you in the evening hours,
when a grateful day is done,
even if we die,
our battle clearly won,

So I drink my wine at night,
and I celebrate to live,
I'm thankful for what I have,
and for in what I can give,

A little bit of you,
and the others I have known,
you are all a part of me,
  from the kindness I was shown,
from a tiny budding seed,
what a lovely thing has grown,

For I now have the seekers heart,
a seed from those before,
handed down in kindness rare,
an told in times of yore,

Learning in my life,
to end it all with sage,
so careful take it down,
to write on every page,
to ever have your back,
if war should ever rage,

I will share in what I know,
I give with words and hands,
I will tell the galaxy,
of the universe's plans,

And love will finally find a way.

Cherie Nolan © 2017
Inspired maybe? For an amazing friend I've never wrote of and this came like a flood- literally like spoken word- I don't know if it's good but it felt good. I miss her so for Jenny love you lady see you one day ❤ ❤❤ - Ma Cherie
Matt Berkes Oct 2015
There are secrets
In her stares.
Or am I just seeing things?
Her smiles stream
Like sunlight
And she speaks
In songs
That spin circles
In my head.
I can't stop thinking
That when anyone
Sees those eyes,
We're all reduced to
Single streams of light
Streaking through
Steep shadows
Cast in her mystery,
Suitors left swooning
Over stolen second glances.
We're stargazers.
Sublunary spectators.
Secret seekers.
Emanuel Martinez Jan 2013
Feeling weirdness and warmth
Tingling, everywhere inside
Like something's being born

Just one kiss like a spark
Igniting young hearts' hope
A joy, a desire, a new need

This is young love

Me hugging my pillow
Wishing it was you

You holding me once
For me to wish
I'd be in your arms forever

Being wild and free
Just one kiss
And I've fallen in
January 4, 2013
RAJ NANDY Oct 2014
Dear Friends, kindly read the Foot Notes at the end for
better appreciation. I tried to convey some interesting
information in my verses for my few interested readers!
Thanks, -Raj

THE STORY OF ALPHABETS:
PART ONE

INTRODUCTION
Alphabets are the noblest and the greatest of
inventions of our civilization,
For transmitting human thoughts and concepts
through visible notations!
In the olden days those magical symbols and
signs,
Could be written and understood only by the
priests and scribes !
But with the invention of printing, literacy began
to spread, * (see notes below.)
When people began to read and write with standard
Alphabets!
The 26 English letters with which we read and express
ourselves so easily and well,
Has a legendary and checkered past, and an unique
Story to tell !

FROM PICTOGRAM TO WRITTEN SCRIPTS :
The story of writing can be traced back to over
thousands of years you see ,
From pictogram to ideograms and various cuneiform
scripts!
From the ancient Sumerians and the Egyptians, to
the Semitic tribes;
Up to the Phoenicians, the Greeks, right up to the
Roman times !
Till the Latin script got refined into modern alphabets,
And with 26 letters our literary aspirations were met !

PICTOGRAM & IDEOGRAMS :

Ancient pictogram and symbols were painted and
carved on rock walls and caves, -
But speech sounds and letters remained unrelated !
Followed by the ideographic, logographic, and the
syllabic stages ,
Evolving into written alphabets through these different
phases!
Ideograms expressed an idea through visual or graphic
symbols,
Giving rise to Chinese script without alphabets, but
with only ideographic symbols! @(notes below)
The Sumerian cuneiform and Egyptian hieroglyphs
were the oldest of these,
Let me now tell you something about the Sumerian
script !

CUNEIFORM WRITING :
On that land between the two rivers the Tigris and
the Euphrates,
Which the Greek’s called ‘Mesopotamia’,
Rose the earliest of ancient civilizations called
Sumeria!
Those Sumerians used a stylus, - the head of a
squared-off reed ,
To inscribe wedge shaped angular symbols on
clay tablets - for their accounting needs!
These tablets could be dried in the sun to form
hardened scripts ,
And also recycled if necessary, giving birth to the
Cuneiform Script!
The earliest clay tablets date back to 3500 BC ;
While archeologists and linguists could detect
and see ,
That with modifications over the centuries this
script was also used, -
By the Akkadians , Elamites , the Hittites and the
Uratians ;
And scholars say that it was the forerunner of the
hieroglyphs of those ancient Egyptians!
The earliest clay tablets found in Mesopotamia,
Indicate accounting of barley crops by the Sangu
of Sumeria!
Sangu was the Chief Official of their Holy Temples ,
Who recorded all temple wealth on clay tablets, –
with cuneiform symbols !
Herodotus the Greek historian tells us a story ,
About a letter sent by the Scythians to the Persian King
during the days of Scythian glory!
This letter contained symbols of a bird, a mouse,
a frog, and five arrows;
When translated it read: “Can you fly like a bird, hide
in the ground like a mouse, leap through the swamps
like a frog? If not, do not go to war with us, -
We shall overwhelm you with our arrows!”

EGYPTIAN HIEROGLYPHS :
Hieroglyph comes from a Greek word meaning
‘sacred inscriptions’ ,
Consisting of a large variety of images representing
sounds, as well as ideas and actions !
The images were depicted in rows or columns , -
oriented from right to left ,
And the signs were positioned as if looking towards
the beginning of the text!
They were used from end of Prehistory to 396 AD,
And the last text was written on the walls of the
Temple of Isis, on the Island of Philae !
The oldest one dates back to 3100 BC, - inside the
Temple of Ramesses II at Abydos ,
Where Thoth the ibis-headed God, - patron Deity
of Writing and Scribes is seen ,
Holding a scribal palette in one hand and in the
other a stylus of reed ;
And King Ramesses II holding up a water *** , -
To assist the great Thoth, their Writing God !

HIERATIC, DEMOTIC & COPTIC SCRIPTS :
The hieroglyphics were used for many varied
situations; -
Written on temple walls, statues , tombs , papyrus ,
and as monumental inscriptions !
Through its 3000 year’s long history it developed
into three other written scripts; -
The Hieratic, the Demotic and the Coptic, as
reformed hieroglyphic scripts !
Hieratic script was simplified with a more cursive
form ,
Could be drawn more quickly as over the years it
also reformed !
Though used in administrative and business text ,
Also found its way into literature and religious texts!
Around 600 BC it was supplanted by the most cursive
of all scripts,
Herodotus called it ‘Popular’ so it became a ‘Demotic’
script, meaning 'popular' !
Unlike the Hieratic, which on papyrus with a stylus
and ink was written ,
This 'popular' one could be engraved, and also hand
written, -
On a hard surface, and on papyrus by the ancient
Egyptians !
This script was found in the middle section of the
famous Rosetta Stone, $ = (see notes below)
Which for centuries held the secrets of the Hieroglyphic
Code alone !
And finally, during the 4th century AD, when Egyptian
was written with Greek alphabets,
We arrive at the last stage of the Egyptian language;
Which came to be know as the Coptic Script, with the
adoption of the Greek alphabets.
During the 2nd and 3rd centuries AD , Coptic became
the pre-Christian Egyptian language.
However, after the conquest of Egypt by the Muslims
in 642 AD,
Arabic became the main language of Egypt gradually.

A PAUSE & A BREAK :
It is interesting to note that all these ancient scripts ,
Inscribed on rocks , or written on papyrus or
engraved on wooden strips ;
Were written from right to left, with only consonants ,
Without any punctuations or any break!
Till centuries later, due to the innovative Greeks, -
Vowels got introduced to shape up the Alphabets!
Here friends I pause to take a break .
In my Part Two I shall tell you about those Semitic
Scripts ,
About those seafaring Phoenicians who preceded
the Romans and the Greeks;
Those worthy forefathers of the Latin alphabets ,
Which gave birth to ‘English’ with its Anglo-Saxon-
Germanic roots ,
Happily blending with some French vocabulary, -
Making English as unique as it possibly could !
-by Raj Nandy

FOOT NOTES : -
Friends, I tried to keep it as simple as possible for my readers;
adding Notes as explanations & for all knowledge seekers!
= Johannes Gutenberg in 1440 set up the first Printing Press in
Europe. William Caxton in 1476 set up the first printing press in
Westminster, England, he was the first English retailer of books!
* = Lascaux cave paintings of animals in SW France are 16,000
years old! Similar types also found in Spain and Africa!
= Pictogram date from the earliest cave paintings; represents
concrete nouns. Some civilizations like the North American Indians never
ventured beyond pictogram stage! Ideograms – the next stage, represents an abstract idea and verb also.
The Egyptian word-sign showing image of an Eye +a Bee+ a leaf = meant ‘I Believe’, i.e. Pictogram & Ideogram combined ! Since they did not write verbs, we do not know how they pronounced it!
Logograph = each written sign represents an actual word & Not sound of the word!
A tree is shown by the image of a single tree. A single logogram could be used by a plurality of languages to represent words with similar meanings.
After 3000 yrs of use, a large no. of symbols & the chasm between oral & written script made the Hieroglyphs obsolete!
The Semitic people tried to improvise a better script with limited consonant signs only!
@ = The Chinese use a combination of pictogram & ideograms along with complex symbols, but with only through association of spoken words; instead of alphabets!
$= Rosetta Stone, discovered by the soldiers of Napoleon in 1799 in Rosetta. The hieroglyphics on the stone was inscribed in 196 BC in the Ptolemaic Era. The French scholar Jean Champollion deciphered the script, and thereby solved the mystery of Egyptian Hieroglyphics for the world! .
*
ALL COPY RIGHTS RESERVED BY RAJ NANDY
INFORMATIVE 'FOOT NOTES' HAVE BEEN ADDED JUST AFTER THE VERSE.
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.
svdgrl Jan 2015
He hides his politics on the inside of his jacket,
wears two scarves and has a light British or Scandinavian accent.
I mean- he says poo-berty, for god's sake,
but the man is brilliant.
I never knew a person who can take
what an idiot exclaims in such fervor and falsity,
and let it become something of knowledge.
The concept of understanding
sits in the back of my tongue,
deep in my throat, and it rattles until he calls it out.
He knows what I'm saying when I don't.
And he knows I've got this solution
but I can't put it to words
that do it justice.
So he and that Greg kid- the philosophy major,
and the only other man I really know who speaks of feminism
more accurately than any woman I've ever come to listen to,
extrapolates my shaky speech
into substance.
And I've likened this learning into something like love
-a Platonic but true love,
of all those who know so much more than I,
and are willing to still take me seriously.
It's rare to see with these eyes,
true teachers, true seekers
truth-seekers
truth teachers
and they who learn infinitely,
inspiring me to be poo-pil.
Not any character of the jungle,
At the time power was kept by the single
Lion kind, risked jumping into the lions’ jaws,
Against their rapacity raising paws:
The hares and hyenas they could strangle
And devour; in their minds best were their laws
Providing rights of the mighty
As common and full sovereignty.

The era was worsened by men-hunting,
Whose guns were used the wildlife menacing.
The weak of the forest saw that succumbed
The lions, who were the first shot at, welcomed
The hunters and their faces showed, smiling.
They were deceived when the first seen were harmed
Like the lions by the same haughty
Men set against their sovereignty.

Some lions who survived called the animals
For a meeting, and the men-criminals
Were the main topic of their discussion.
The lions warned, “Will wipe us away those men
If can’t stand together as animals,
Fight them and save lion, hypo, hare and wren…”
Mocked and heckled the assembly
That ne’er had enjoyed sovereignty.

Each one’s motion was that there was no need
Of obeying on the lions, who to feed
Their cubs with their flesh used to take pleasure.
They thought their forest had become seizure
Of the men for lack of unity; freed
It’d be with or ‘thout a lion as major:
They’d trust who would bring unity
And help them enjoy sovereignty.

There came a time and there came protectors
Of the animals to stop the hunters
From destroying on the environment.
They showed in killing there’s no contentment.
So the hunters ceased to be predators,
And the fauna had no more sentiment
Of hating the humanity
That brought them peace and sovereignty.

Some of them were kept in zoo
And the kingship of the lions they did boo.
Cows, rabbits, goats - were domesticated,
And more than ever they were protected.
Such treatment them gave of humans new view:
The protectors or authors of the deed
Looked like who’d brought brutality,
But in their hearts reigned sovereignty.

Later on the lions found that in the strong
Claws dwelt no good power, but can be for long
Which is applied to all comfort giving,
That a king marching in front of trembling
Souls, as if to hell angels would belong,
One day will see his strength brought to nothing,
But where freedom ain’t scarcity
Kings and subjects share sovereignty.

What the beasts failed to know was the keepers
Of the zoo were children of the poachers,
Who’d found unfair deed what their fathers did,
To take good care of them had decided
And did not want to be called game-seekers’
Generation. In the action could read
Great kindness and humanity
The beasts savoring sovereignty.

A former foe may become a good friend,
Who breaks off with the past and turns his hand
Into protector, support provider –
Like Human Rights Activists. No wonder
Where they are from, people’s torn hearts they mend.
A protector has ne’er been intruder
As long as for tranquility
He works and preserves sovereignty.

A sovereign nation is not like a house
With its closed doors, and inside, like a mouse,
A wife is beaten and loses her life
Without neighbours’ intervention as if
Not hearkening the victim, and the louse
Of man not stopping is to save the life.
Is a land where people’s safety
Is denied full of sovereignty?

If at The Hague someone is indicted,
It means not people he has protected,
Nor that he has well governed Liberia,
But ‘cause people’s hearts he has filled with fear
And a lot of trouble he’s invited.
After shedding blood there and here,
The lions who’ve made their claws *****
Should be there washed for sovereignty.

Wherever the lions rage it’s no matter:
Matters the will to keep the world better.
Some Devil’s advocates would call nations
Not in Syria to find indications
Of crimes as if is found a wife-beater
At Holy Land or brothels it opens.
In a place where reigns sanctity
Won’t dwell breakers of sovereignty.


A rot of conception of sovereignty
Reeks when gangrene holds sway o’er a country,
In which Democracy swings at cannons;
Debates are feared that aim ruling with brains;
Wear noose as necklace who would change carry,
And the song “Independence” is hangmen’s.
Where lions and lambs live with loyalty,
There is unshaken sovereignty.
This poem aims to think of what sovereignty is and especially of its true concept.
http://www.amazon.com/author/bonim007
st64 Oct 2013
bildings in roowins
I rite with brokin-hand


it is the year of the unlord-tyms 2085
and skool hadbin abolishd since fyv decades
evrything in disrepair -
                    no hospitills no parks
                    no creche no greens
all grey and dark

now here I lie amid the rubble
I see they took my legs for under-market
what else did they take?
**** *******!
belly rumbles
the last I'd eaten was 2 days on
a chunk of hard-bread whose colour would turn envy in its boots
with artifishal-milk whose curdled smile greeted the back of my arid existence

**** bastarrrrrrds! they put me under, sawed off my legs
left me hobbling with jagged wounds and smirk-pain like hot-rods searing my brand-new stubs
elementary-bandage of an old sheet torn into strips...

wait, I must use this anger as fuel to get me going
she told me so
many, many times..




(I can remember my mother reading to me
reciting from her memory
they had burnt evry-single-book Man had ever known
                My eyes have never been graced with a book
but
she tort me words with stick in sand
and counting with stones
and there were many stones
               she fed me poetry when there was little else to eat
with fainting-body and starving-belly
my mind took pleasure in her ultimate-care
               she told me of a time when childrin took poor-interest
in the blessings of a book.. wen their minds were swallowed wholemeal by what they called media, I think
when they were not saddled with the worry of their next meal's magical-appearance
                (I can spell 'their' at least, yes.. she made sure I knew the difference)
the only pictures I saw were the ones she drew for me
in the volcanic beach-sand when we ran away from the parasitic-city
                I knew nothing of the world but what I saw around me
                        - decay, decay, decay
until she brought me colour - rite into the hart of me -
                           blooms that hurt at first, so bright and giving
                           that it saturated every molecule in my parched-centre
                           and I became a rainbow-suffused capsule in a otherwise drab-society
such wonder she spoke with open-eyes and loving-tones

and I also remember.. the day they took her..
I remember.. too much)




I crawl forward like a snake in the .. wait, what was that expreshin again?
I'll think later when I find a place to harbour my broken-body
                     thought is a luxury here
thers a horrible smoke in the air
          stings me so
and I miss her so
I have nobody left
but I cannot feel forsaken, as so many do
and succumb to self-pity
she made sure my armour grew
                 from the inside.. first
yet.all.the.while.she.watered.my.hungry.mind
and I took it with disbelief painted on my face
the things she told me about..




                I cannot believe there once were -
green fields and trees with chirping birds
a blue sky
blue? not possible
I've never seen a blue sky
I think she was being kind to paint me portraits of psychedelia
   to entertain and distract me
   from the horror of our lives
I heard tales of things called flowers - daisies and things
like vegetables and fruit
it seemed funny to me - little beings in the ground,
                                       growing
                                       standing rooted, awaiting harvest-hands
               just for people??
uncredibill
waaaat???
no..  such depth of kindness I can hardly imagine
for we have had only *
hard
-earth.. most concreted
and drank only brack-water from collapsing pipes
no, an unforgiving-scene is all I know
yet
     she is so kind to feed me such fantasy-tales of deep-imaginashin
     pity she could not tell any others
     for any tenth-of-a-whisper of this to any wrong-ear
and her head would roll
in the gutter.. where we lived in contest with rats
she could only rally my mind and relay things which would die with her
things that she bequeaths
to me

what will I do with it? this legacy of forgotten-paradise..
what can I do?   this wonder-clad heresy..
                I now know thers a way out these city walls
                ther is a life beyond
with valleys and rivers and salty-seas
I must try to find a river
she told of oceans which live - which heave and swell and move!
she said these things too .. they exist
what quaint-things, indeed
oh, for dreems..

but now, I must off the streets
for a double-darkness has begun to fall
when red-eyes will scour the streets for scraps of flesh
        anything is worth a barter
        even a dead-man in a lane whose eyeballs are gone
        harshly-hacked out living - by a previous-visitor
becomes a piece of currency for seekers of the dark

I don't know what they've done to her.. or where she is now..
yet, she always said - keep moving
                                   keep searching
for blue-sky and flowing-rivers and yellow-flowers..
(I wonder if it's real
I do believ her - I must)*




now I scrape on in haste into a darkening-alley
towards a derelict-bilding
whose sinister-interior is the only welcome it can afford me
             I have little choice
             no time for sentiment
plus, I feel a fever coming (perhaps this is all the dreem.. and she is the only-flower I know)
the night-Rats will come out soon
and I hate their stink
it doesn't help I leave a trail of blood..




now
only hoap lives
on
in hobbled-soul

as I rite on with brokin-hand
onto the back-pages.. of my mind





S T -  5 octoblah
awoke with a feeling of piece of broken-building teetering and wanting to fall on me..
with legs gone,
junk, junk feeling :(

(anyway, it's just a nightmare.. I thought I'd plug that energy into this poem)

hoap.. hold on, alright? please :)



sub: thanks be

to the grey of skies I never see
to the squalor of the seas no-one can smell
to decay in every nook you can't tell

thanks be to the beauty of our times
and where none of such deep-calamity
touches our lives

(yet)




(where love-tryst equals getting tangled..
in the stars)
Theodore Bird Apr 2015
Have I found God?
     Where is he?
He is in your hair.
Didi? Gogo? Anyone?
Glenn Currier Jun 2019
She stands at the wall reflecting
on those who were lost at sea
names and poems and words connecting
her to those poor souls and to me.
Beyond those memorial walls
the mighty Columbia into the Pacific spills
whose depth and wealth have called
so many to sail from Oregon's green hills.
From the safety of their home
they left for the great unknown
where writers and poets travel
every time they pen their spirit in word
to explore what God and life has unraveled
what pain, sorrow and joy have stirred.

Her kindness and her reflection move me to write
my poems of wandering from a safe and tidy home
to regions of imagination’s heights
shadows, sorrows, or oceans’ foam.
She reads and lives life’s poetry
knows its canyons and desert sands
she yearns only to be free
of the noise and anger of badlands
to smell the freshness of a cool and gentle breeze
feel the air brushing her arms
to look up and see the greenness of trees
to be free from crushing and brutal harm.

I see her standing and watch her reflection there
with seafarers, poets and lovers at peace
where God’s creative breath stirs air
and torments, terrors, and quarrels cease.

Author’s Note:  My sister Genie who lives in a large urban area visited Astoria, Oregon where the Columbia river ends in the Pacific Ocean and local citizens have erected a memorial park with several walls of polished black granite that display the names of mariners lost at sea.  There are also sentiments and poems about those lost souls one of which Genie photographed and sent to me.  As I examined the photo I could see her reflection on the wall as kind of a background for the poem.  That photo and my sister who loves nature and trees inspired this writing.  I wish I could post the pic here for you to see why and how it inspired me.  

Below is the untitled poem on the memorial wall photographed by my sister.

Weep not for me that I go to sea.
I shan’t be lonely, though vastness surround me.
The brotherhood of the sea shall be my family.
The kinship of the deep my company.

Weep not for me, nor worry over harm.
My heart stays with you, still and warm.
In sunrise and starlight my hearth and home
I carry you with me wherever I roam.

Weep not for me, whether bad luck or good.
Tossed about in a shell of steel and wood.
An ancient salt sea sails within my blood –
I but follow its tide through ebb and flood.

Weep not for me that I go to sea:
in the limitless ocean I am free.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2015
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,

"****, did I write that?"

copyright 2015 by Nat Lipstadt
all true.
sometimes I type in the search mode a word unusual, offbeat,
of my own choosing,
and let it lead me to the older nuggets of others,
familiar and unfamiliar,
from under the trees of their forest...

Oct. 7, 2015
4:21am
Manhattan Island
Lunar May 2017
why look for
true love
when true love'll
find you
take it easy
give yourself time
be free, not in chains,
when you love someone.

true love will always find its way to you
jose large Jun 2012
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.....
this poem was inspired by the tryptich of my artist friend Druvinka
James Lator Dec 2018
Humans are a fake,
A fake can't see the truth.
Humans can't see the truth!
Alas seekers won't break.

Even though it's elusive
seekers will reach for it.
Even though it's evasive
seekers will chase after it.

Truth can never be found
hidden beneath a fake's thousand lies.
But truth will not be drowned
As seekers pull ten thousand truths to challenge in a rise.

Truth will never fall apart...
So long as seekers keep it in the heart.

— The End —