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If only we could begin again and slow down the pernicious pace
We ruin our oceans, the land, our air even outer space.
If only we avoided such precarious paths that may lead to disparity
If only we knew what action is needed now, to deal with the reality.
Ecologists warned, yet still observe with ever-growing anxiety
the growth of harmful long-term effects on Earth's biodiversity.
If only the air wasn't gravely polluted, so the atmosphere begins to fail,
so wreathed by carbon dioxide layers, extremes to climate may prevail.
If only Earth's lungs cease being shrunk by profits heedless exploitation,
existing relationships are considered scarcely in these aberrations.
If only a solution for discarded synthetics which float in **** hordes
on oceans global drifts, disaster occurs wherever it reaches landfall.
If only we can do something, a belated but resounding universal call,
If only we can safeguard the future before there are no options at all.
If only we could begin again and slow the ruinous pace... if only

If Only

M C Crowder
@scorsby
19th November 2018
I first wrote song lyrics in 1978, song lyrics not so long, but it's message hasn't changed
Sally A Bayan Aug 2018
..


Save from the hidden nests of birds,
it was the only one there...isolated,
like an isle...crested on the leveled
top of a gorge...its way down or up
was through a hand-carved series of
steps on its *****...at its front was a
curved gorge......one would think,
it was trying to cross over

the cottage was small, weather-beaten,
desolate......its wooden walls seemed to
have shrunk...its faded colors proclaimed
its age...its having survived past storms....
from its window, the stream was seen,
and heard, flowing on and on between
these two precipitous valleys.

light came from the sun...and moon,
music was provided by the murmurs of
the forceful wind, the continuous flow of
water on the stream, the stirring of the leaves,
the crackling of branches and twigs, the birds'
singing in the spring...the pounding of heavy
rains on its roof...and countless other hymns
of nature......the dweller had heard them all...

beneath a lonely moon glow,
when nights were cold,
there hovered low 'pon its aged roof,
rounds of layered fog...like a series of
steps....like a stairway to the sky...
fog slyly crept, and wilfully shrouded
the cottage.....it vanished from view,
the two gorges and the stream, hushed,
in the dark loneliness of that secluded
spot......their vulnerabilities, trapped
inside....misshapen silhouettes...

in light and in dark,
the whistles of nearing and departing
boats....were wailing, haunting calls,
piercing the peaceful calm of the valleys, or,
maybe, the stilled complacence of the cottage,
or...of the one living in that lonely cottage,
...lost, or gone astray, now weary and worn,
willing to be found...longing to be reunited
.......with the light and warmth of love...

the cottage, the gorges, and the stream
would be loneliest,
without the cottage dweller...


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 27th, 2018
"...no man is an island..."
Tay Jul 2016
It's called anxiety.
Sometimes, I can pay attention to you.
Sometimes, I can't.
Some days are better than other ones.
But the others,
Well, the other ones look a little like trains Going a little too fast for their tracks
Like clocks that break their glass fronts
And cartoon characters with smoke
Coming from their heels when they run
Running faster than the 60 seconds a minute allows
It is my body moving too fast for me to Catch my breath but I'm just sitting at my Desk tapping my pencil and I can feel the Teacher drilling holes into the back of my
Skull
I know the God-awful sound is killing her
But it is keeping me from going insane
It is chewing away the insides of my Cheeks
And scratching at my forehead
Looking for answers
But always coming up with hungry hands
It's hearing white noise
And glass shattering
And candles flickering
I know I should not be hearing a candle
Dance
But I do
It's just me spinning out of control
I know you've noticed I'm no longer using Punctuation but this is how I always feel
This is how my mind is
It is always racing
My foot swings back and forth like
Poe's Pit and the Pendulum swinging faster and faster towards my chest and it's Always on fire
My hands fumble with puzzle pieces
Because I identify with the one that's
Always missing
It is being lonely in the hands of someone
Who loves me
I feel his calloused hands hollowly like I
Don't have a right to them
It is wanting to scream to the hooded
Figure in the door "I'm scared" but it
Coming out as an inaudible crack in my
Voice
I find solace in the cracks between tile
I'm looking at my reflection in black Screens wishing I could just pick myself Up
From the bottom of orange bottles with
Safety-***** lids
A doctor once told me one day I would be
Okay
But one day seems to be miles and
Years away
I've shrunk to the size of a stick
My bones jutting out every which way
Paper-thin and too many words to fill the
Hole in my confidence a man once bore Into me
My hands shake when I step into a church
Like I've done something wrong
My mind goes over every event up until
Now wondering why my hands shake and
My chest drops below the floor
Grandmother tells me I will go to hell if I Do not act right and my mother tells me it Is
All in my head
But again a doctor gave me
An orange bottle with thirty tiny white pills And told me one day everything Would be
Okay.
I just want it to be okay.
My mind is always racing like the way "Normal"
Ones do before taking a test not studied for.
I'm sure you will consider this an episode
Of marked depression, but this monster is Anxiety.
Sometimes I can pay attention to you.
Other times I can't because of this
Infinitely.
Running.
Mind.
Jun 2014
Title

Mr. Ketchup was ready and waiting for the first tram to run to the Burgh Street airport. It had been years of utter chaos with all the road works and the endless track being laid on every road in Butterworth town.
  ‘About time too - my feet are killing me’ said Ketchup.
  ‘Yes,' answered a bleary eyed Haggis.
  ‘Oh I do wish that these people would stop shoveling’ snapped Ketchup.
  ‘Be patient otherwise we’ll all land up on the floor’ said Haggis.
  ‘It’s hardly surprising, look at everyone all packed in like sardines.’ groaned Ketchup.
  ‘Oh Mr Ketchup why do you have to complain about the least wee thing? Torn-face Tomato frowned.

The tram took ages before reaching the first station, and poor old Ketchup was desperate for a cold drink. He certainly looked annoyed in fact he seemed like he'd pass out at any second. No one could get moving and soon it would be time for the journey to end. But oh dear Mr. Ketchup felt dizzy and stars were floating in front of his eyes. Slowly he lost his balance and landed on the next lot of passengers, knocking them to the floor. Haggis looked like he’d seen a ghost. Well as you can imagine it wasn't a good experience for Mr Ketchup and his friends. The conductor stopped the tram while the other passengers got off in disgust making complaints to the conductor.
Mr Ketchup slowly came around while Haggis returned with a glass of cold water.
   ‘Eek ...what happened, my head feels a bit funny moaned Ketchup.
Neaps and Haggis hardly had time to explain when the ambulance arrived to take him to the hospital. Mr. Ketchup made a big fuss about lying on the stretcher but Haggis insisted on it. He lay wincing all the way to the hospital because of all the bumpy roads. They shouldn't have spent all of that money on the trams - it was shocking. It would have been far better to fix all these holes in the road he thought to himself.

After a long day Mr Ketchup climbed into bed and fell fast asleep. The very next morning the incident appeared in the local newspaper. The transport department were blamed for overcrowding the tram. The council were looking into the health and safety rules. Due to the very serious injuries that poor old Ketchup had suffered, he would be in line for a huge pay out or so he thought.
It wasn't until the first hearing in the court that he realised it would only be a pittance.
   Well I might have known it was too good to be true. He thought If they think that they can fob me off with sweets then they have got another coming. He smirked.      
  ‘What do you have in mind Haggis?’ he said looking worried."
  ‘Just you wait and see’ said Ketchup grinning.

The very next day Ketchup got up early and he had written half a dozen letters to very important people. One too the prime-minster to start with.
Within a matter of a week he received the letter that he longed for, inviting Ketchup to the prime-minister’s office. Mr Ketchup couldn't find his best suit, ‘Oh bother he thought the only one I do have has shrunk at the legs. It looks like my cat has died in them.’ he wailed.
  ‘Oh just look at you’ laughed Neaps and Haggis.
  ‘Why are you laughing at me?’ frowned Ketchup."
  ‘You're going dressed like a *****’ he roared with laughter.
  ‘You do look rather strange Neaps’ he said and looking away trying not to laugh again.
  ‘Well I suppose so if you say so’ he nodded.
  ‘Look why don't you all come down to mine, and I’ll sort you out smiled Torn-Faced Tomato.

Mr Ketchup couldn't believe what he was hearing, had Torn-face turned over a new leaf or maybe she had a soft spot after all. Half an hour later Ketchup looked fit to see the queen, neatly dressed in a tweed jacket with matching trousers and a white shirt with a green tie. He looked ever so smart. Ketchup whistled but oh dear he never noticed the cat tail and went flying, landing right in the cats dinner.  
Oh dear it looks like Mr Ketchup won't be going anywhere for the time being.....
What do you think?
I keep replaying the day you left.

A normal, almost pleasant morning until you tore that final rift.
Cool summer air mixing with despair upon finding your
note.

And my sudden flow of tears blurred most of what you wrote but,
It doesn't take much to know I don't make your cut.

And I've yet to address all of the stress or how much I have shrunk.
Most nights spent drunk, I've found the best listeners to be stars.

I tell them of gashes fading into scars.
Tip-toeing around the most painful parts has become a form of art.

What a fool to think I could trick the moon
with this broken heart.

No amount of alcohol can take me from these dizzying heights so,
I guess you were right.
Mari Jul 29
There she was
standing in front of the mirror
with pale skin, showing ribs
and a shrunk body.

There she was
standing in front of the mirror
starving, listless
weak and powerless.

There she was
standing in front of the mirror
comparing herself with
all the girls on the internet.
"You're beautiful just the way you are." ☄
CoolLen Nov 2018
Last night I kissed the butterflies on your back in hopes that they would calm mine.
I held you in my arms to hold myself.
I drummed words of love in your ear hoping the echo of their syllables would be heard in my soul.
Each day you seem grander than life.
What is an ant to a giant.
honey I shrunk my ego.
You haven't grown as I have diminished cause I fear the dark more that I'm confident in your light.. Our light.
I am cut from a different cloth but I'm breaking at the seams.
I need you right now. I need you to tell me who you thought I was.
Tell me lies, cause the truth hurts.
lX0st Nov 2018
You hid me like a secret
Eyes sheltered, wreaked havoc
Inward. I memorized
Marbled copper and silver
Bars, so small
I shrunk to fit
The space. Enough to
Slip through and
Escape. Layers clutched by
Sharp, chiseled rust
Unraveling, revealing
Silhouettes of dust
you listen to what passes for the TV news
you read some
but not all
of social media views
you notice that
despite all internationalism
it‘s mostly old sensationalism
combined with more or less suggestive speculations about
how many people may have died in forest fires
to what imaginable depths the president aspires
whether the North Koreans have more rockets
     despite the wonderful achievements
     of the national superdealer
who of the leader‘s staff might be the next
      to lose her job or his credentials
etc. etc.

in short
the world has mostly shrunk
to domestic politics and power games
plus a few places on the globe where
U.S. soldiers still are dying
     in order to protect their country‘s interests
     in oil, assorted mineral resources
     or allies of political expedience
or a few thousand refugees from countries plagued
      by persecution or dictators are
      marching for weeks to claim asylum
           in the home of the brave and the free
           under the statue of liberty
     only to discover that they are seen
     as an invasion threatening
            that blesséd city upon a hill

visions have grown smaller
more petty voices dominate the talk

a nation made of immigrants
faced with the poor who flee from their oppressors
decides to close its borders to the immigrants‘ next wave
oblivious of the times when they themselves
still searching for a better life
found a new place where they felt safe
led by the statue‘s torch that shone its light
upon a poet‘s words of welcome:

"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
The last stanza is a quote from the poem „The New Colossus“ by Emma Lazarus, written in 1883. - For more information, check https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_New_Colossus
India Apr 2018
There's a gap in my window that lets the world in,
a crack that leads to the rest of me that I haven't quite worked out how to widen enough to jump through.
This little gap lets in a breeze that whispers of fancy's I'll never see but can envisage,
tangible to my mind but not my fingers.
I believe that sometimes my soul has shrunk so small it can slip through the crevices that bar my body.
It slithers away and leaves me cold,
too numb to notice its absence,
but I can feel the blood gush from the abscess over my heart.
My soul climbs back in from time to time,
just enough to feel the agony of being reunited with me but snatched from the world.
I think I should wait until it's gone again,
and then seal the crack with the blue tack I use to stick pictures on my wall so the faces won't haunt me.

04.04.18
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
'Put my hand in the hand of the man from Galilee,

that song keeps playing in my memory, and I recalled

Or I thought I did, I imagined he'd walk with me
and talk with me
Along life's merry (or was it narrow?), way

a light touch, his arm around my shoulders,
as boys are wont to do,
I axed 'im,
help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which I think may have been blind, at that time,

I have memories like that.
packed away in old memes. That mean something...
Gold-something...
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom.
Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, Howard Bloom,
where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but these,
heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Here a seeing being done, words appearing...

fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made,
and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble collapses by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tension-power-loss collapses the bubble?

You should think, you know atoms work, this way.

Touchy bubbles disappear when their form is disinformed,
the wall of a bubble,
one quanta of power thick,
vanishes
as the charge that formed it flees.
That bubble,
not cloud-based, random super positioning,but
elect
tric-magi-tech, a touch screened
at the quantum accounting point of real-ification,
but, probably,
a bubble,indeed,
powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
(I charge thee, son Timothy, go)
That's all an electron does.
It goes, as soon as any sense can be made of it,
outa here, oughta hear it, clear,
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...
No, ah, when I think about that..

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin musta hapt one time,

but ya'll take no heed, this voice,
m'fallin angel, Tantan, droppin' in ol-fren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth
found in wines that moved themselves aright,
slurry tongued, and laughin' but pisstoff.

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Old story, God damened 'em, not me, I just
built the box.

Who told you I was naked? Noah queried Shem.

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe could be forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.
Forgot can't be forgiven it seems, sometimes...

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

I've looked so long through that lens,
that I began to see the bubble formed around me,
charged powerfully with fear,
'yond my bubble monsters lurked.

But, my bubble bumped another,
purest of happenstance,
the bubbles merged and merged again,
their power building to a wave,
crashing to the shore and no more
was I bubbled in my safe place.

I found this trail up from the beach.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
Did you regret the defeat at Ai,
or were you
Aachen, bold?

No, irrelevant, obtuse allusion to Yahshua,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Information unformed begins to boil deep in me.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick. Elect trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening as an event, in the Deep Field,
is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  
Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,
to learn. Fifty year'r longer.

Everything that's old and still works is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the potential worth of all your eyes behold,
behind the curtain,
lies the prize.

If, if, if you are a luckywinner and
you arise when I call your name
to come on down,
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, 'smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize, what's the diff?
How comes a thing to be worthy,
in your estimation? Tell me no lie.

A feeling? What's it worth?
Depends.
Safe? Priceless! Don't shout. There's money to make.

'Got a busy-ness pre-positioned high above the rest.
A super-positioned superstion. The darkness.
See, safety is a human right.
So we sell walls, impermeable. It's always, lights on
within, then
We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened
by those we make
feel safe, from the dark unknowns seeping in.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we saw the Power in Myth and
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Within these walls workers will work for food and a feeling.
And Facebook.
They choose a place and stand, and do what comes to hand.
Heartily
grip what's easiest for you to hold on to,
they are told.

Attendants bring the meds, settling every disruption
of the peace the patient craves in his comfort.
The price ain't right, m'mouthmumbles...

You are absolutely co-rect-allatime, tekayepeel.

There are wishes being made,
on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters.

If wishes were askings, what if
connecting to the source of haps which,
every expert knows, haps are
all happiness can possibly
consist of.
Oh, consist.
That sticky, gluteny idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand.
Sistere. Shield-wall and all that. Turtles all the way down.

A disruption!
Day room Now! Granpa's shouting,

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!
I'll drop it. I swear.

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted... in my meander.

What if, nothing is immaterial,
as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
If nothing can go wrong, it won't.
Ask the pilot flying by faith in his checklist.

What if,
asking for help helps?
Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea? An answered prayer?

Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore,
quoth the raven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories,
telling eventualities that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,

Stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
Grandpa made some sense and we built a fort, of pillows
This is a reworking of Good news from a far country, I am attempting to rein in my scattered mind. Let me know if you see improvement or parts in need thereof.
Its Love I'm not sure of

People and places,
Life's got its own races,
Good or bad, life gives chances,
Mine with you, never noncoincidence.

Things happen for a reason maybe,
But with time I just knew you'll be,
Something I've envisaged for thee,
A partner for who you'd be.

Many things go for a sight to heart,
Yours did for a hair at that,
My preferences subdue to that,
Yours worked on me like a ****.

I'm indulged,
I babble over thoughts of us, I overindulge,
Man up I say, as affections bulge,
To a lone night of clean "thoughts with no smudge".

Oblivious to a public scene,
I make my first words seen,
Chivalrously I ask "to be seen",
Optimistic of a positive answer forseen.

You shrunk my optimism,
Hallucinated my pessimism,
With thoughts if I'd pulled a solecism,
Thoughts that rhyme with barbarism.

A turn off? I thought less,
My heart taught me to care less,
And to mind less,
Cause you'd still "come first".

Trust your heart,
guard the parts,
It assumes the innermost thoughts of both paths,
And coerces the being to act.

You trusted your heart,
Guarded the parts,
Your were coerced to find my path,
I was happy to have you back.

It all goes good,
Feels like hunger found food,
Thoughts drain like words in a big book,
Out like a baby, 9 out of the womb.

Loves in the obscure,
Not too bright to be lured,
Maybe its too early to sense pure,
What about...we're just not sure?

Conversations glitter,
Feels better than never,
We found ourselves, 'cause we talk better,
All nights, its ours to getter.

But wait, I'd assume time rather hop's,
With that, we can account for times we never talk,
When daft blue ticks are the norm,
Emoji replies bare the nigh-dialogue.

You initially thought we had something,
I did think so too, same thing,
But we look lost, close to nothing,
Maybe we aren't doing the necessary "fighting".

For a while its lost,
We're gone, for short!
Maybe we should have taken a shot,
To keep our life span for talks not short.

But things fall apart,
Maybe only when Achibe laughs,
But life has its own true paths,
Maybe for who compulsorily have to cross paths.

Little fires spark a big flame, indeed,
Maybe we realise we both are in need,
Of each others warm needs,
Maybe were both tired of a boring deed.

Lets rekindle us. A date?
Sounds good. It definitely deserves the wait,
Love talk, you'd guess, or? lets not exaggerate,
The day schedules a good date.

Alas, she's late, but its queen,
She deserves the big scene,
With a nice dress in green,
She'll pass as my queen.

Fun food time goes quintessential,
Night time in urban city? Cinema is essential,
Got us dazzling with thoughts of us not in denial,
Possible lovers? we did the conventional.

Cozy moments, things get sweet,
You'd actually feel love's heat,
It burns, rather internally in the heart,
Its an affection you'd never want to thwart.

Trigger triggers, what's triggered?
Ardour, lust, infatuation, love fad, love, what's desired?
Passion grows for each other, both admired,
Actions? Long talks no one gets tired.

Do you call it sudden love, lust, infatuation?
The words are lost find one with a good definition,
Feels are strong and great, feels like never diminishing,
But experience says, its love I'm not sure of, finishing.
The poem talks primarily of an unsure love I have for someone. I narrated poetically how we met, and how things have gone since. Up and down. Wasn't a strong bond even tho we both had a crush, but it recently and suddenly has become an inevitable affair and you'd ask? Is it love? Well I'm still not sure of.

Some stanzas explained.
"Many things go for a sight to heart,
Yours did for a hair at that,
My preferences subdue to that,
Yours worked on me like a ****." - I basically meant her nice Afro was what influenced my crush on her. I like Afro hair a lot.

"
Oblivious to a public scene,
I make my first words seen,
Chivalrously I ask "to be seen",
Optimistic of a positive answer forseen." - In a full class I go to her and ask for her number, hoping she'd give me.

"You shrunk my optimism,
Hallucinated my pessimism,
With thoughts if I'd pulled a solecism,
Thoughts that rhyme with barbarism." - My bad she didn't.

"You trusted your heart,
Guarded the parts,
Your were coerced to find my path,
I was happy to have you back." - She later took my number from a friend and texted me.

"But wait, I'd assume time rather hop's,
With that, we can account for times we never talk,
When daft blue ticks are the norm,
Emoji replies bare the nigh-dialogue." - We stop talking like we used to.

"But things fall apart,
Maybe only when Achibe laughs,
But life has its own true paths,
Maybe for who compulsorily have to cross paths." - I believe things can go wrong. Chinua Achibe is the Auhor of the book "Things fall apart", and on its cover he has this nice smile. So maybe the book's title makes him laugh (smile). And I believe perhaps maybe life thinks we definitely have to get something between us. Even for once.

"Little fires spark a big flame, indeed,
Maybe we realise we both are in need,
Of each others warm needs,
Maybe were both tired of a boring deed." - Our usual texts are "how are you". That's it. But looking at our chats we both do realise we need more than that.

"Lets rekindle us. A date?
Sounds good. It definitely deserves the wait,
Love talk, you'd guess, or ? lets not exaggerate,
The day schedules a good date." - We try and plan a date in one of our conversations.

"Trigger triggers, what's triggered?
Ardour, lust, infatuation, love fad, love, what's desired?
Passion grows for each other, both admired,
Actions? Long talks no one gets tired." - Something's changed! After the date! Its so intense you wouldn't know what it is. Is it us?


And as a thinking boy, its headache - A "love I'm not sure of"......
AN ONLY AND ALWAYS NOW

The future
could hardly be

imagined
it lay

an hour away
which for a child

was a small
infinity.

Time had
no divisions.

The clock didn't tell it
what to do.

The world was only
and always now.

The moment made
of sunlight and that was all

that was needed
to be known..

It was summer holiday
land

and Time so to speak
stretched endlessly away

world
without end

ahhh men
running up the hill

all rifles
and shouting

trying to be soldiers
boys pretending to be men.

Oh look - a dog!

His mother's voice
lassoing him with her voice.

"Stay there!"
he commanded the world.

"I have to go in for bit but
...I'll be back!"

The soldiers shrunk now
to a dot in the distance.

The world  become
the dog's bark.
ConnectHook Nov 2018
Sarah Josepha Hale  (1788–1879)


We bring no earthly wreath for Time;
To man th’immortal Time was given—
Years should be marked by deeds sublime,
That elevate his soul to heaven.
Thou proudly passing year—thy name
Is registered in mind’s bright flame,
And louder than the roar of waves,
Thundering from ocean’s prison caves,
Comes the glad shout that hallows thee
The Year of Freedom’s Jubilee!
‘Tis strange how mind has been chained down,
And reason scourged like branded sin!
How man has shrunk before man’s frown,
And darkened heaven’s own fire within!
But Freedom breathed—the flame burst forth—
Wo to the spoilers of the earth,
Who would withstand its lightning stroke,
And heavier forge the galling yoke;—
As well the breaking reed might dare
The cataract’s rush—the whirlwind’s war!
Ay, thrones must crumble—even as clay,
Searched by the scorching sun and wind!
And crushed be Superstition’s sway
That would with writing scorpions bind
The terror-stricken conscience down
Beneath anointed monarch’s frown;
Till Truth is in her temple sought,
The soul’s unbribed, unfettered thought,
That, science-guided, soars unawed,
And reading Nature rests on God!
This must be-is-the passing year
Has rent the veil, and despots stand
In the keen glance of Truth severe,
With craven brow and palsied hand:—
Ye, who would make man’s spirit free,
And change the Old World’s destiny,
Bring forth from Learning’s halls the light,
And watch, that Virtue’s shield be bright;
Then to the ‘God of order’ raise
The vow of faith, the song of praise,
And on-and sweep Oppression’s chains,
Like ice beneath the vernal rains!
My Country, ay, thy sons are proud,
True heirs of Freedom’s glorious dower;
For never here has knee been bowed
In homage to a mortal power:
No, never here has tyrant reigned,
And never here has thought been chained!
Then who would follow Europe’s sickly light,
When here the soul may put forth all her might,
And show the nations, as they gaze in awe,
That Wisdom dwells with Liberty and Law!
O, when will Time his holiest triumph bring—
‘Freedom o’er all the earth, and Christ alone reigns King!’
Thanksgiving's Poetic Muse and Matron:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N1m5gUSRyTc
Mr Ketchups first trip on a tram
A Story by ROSALIND






Jun 2014

Title



Mr. Ketchup was ready and waiting for the first tram to run to the Burgh Street airport. It had been years of utter chaos with all the road works and the endless track being laid on every road in Butterworth town.
  ‘About time too - my feet are killing me’ said Ketchup.
  ‘Yes,' answered a bleary eyed Haggis.
  ‘Oh I do wish that these people would stop shoveling’ snapped Ketchup.
  ‘Be patient otherwise we’ll all land up on the floor’ said Haggis.
  ‘It’s hardly surprising, look at everyone all packed in like sardines.’ groaned Ketchup.
  ‘Oh Mr Ketchup why do you have to complain about the least wee thing? Torn-face Tomato frowned.



The tram took ages before reaching the first station, and poor old Ketchup was desperate for a cold drink. He certainly looked annoyed in fact he seemed like he'd pass out at any second. No one could get moving and soon it would be time for the journey to end. But oh dear Mr. Ketchup felt dizzy and stars were floating in front of his eyes. Slowly he lost his balance and landed on the next lot of passengers, knocking them to the floor. Haggis looked like he’d seen a ghost. Well as you can imagine it wasn't a good experience for Mr Ketchup and his friends. The conductor stopped the tram while the other passengers got off in disgust making complaints to the conductor.
Mr Ketchup slowly came around while Haggis returned with a glass of cold water.
   ‘Eek ...what happened, my head feels a bit funny moaned Ketchup.
Neaps and Haggis hardly had time to explain when the ambulance arrived to take him to the hospital. Mr. Ketchup made a big fuss about lying on the stretcher but Haggis insisted on it. He lay wincing all the way to the hospital because of all the bumpy roads. They shouldn't have spent all of that money on the trams - it was shocking. It would have been far better to fix all these holes in the road he thought to himself.

After a long day Mr Ketchup climbed into bed and fell fast asleep. The very next morning the incident appeared in the local newspaper. The transport department were blamed for overcrowding the tram. The council were looking into the health and safety rules. Due to the very serious injuries that poor old Ketchup had suffered, he would be in line for a huge pay out or so he thought.
It wasn't until the first hearing in the court that he realised it would only be a pittance.

   Well I might have known it was too good to be true. He thought If they think that they can fob me off with sweets then they have got another coming. He smirked.      

  ‘What do you have in mind Haggis?’ he said looking worried."
  ‘Just you wait and see’ said Ketchup grinning.



The very next day Ketchup got up early and he had written half a dozen letters to very important people. One too the prime-minster to start with.
Within a matter of a week he received the letter that he longed for, inviting Ketchup to the prime-minister’s office. Mr Ketchup couldn't find his best suit, ‘Oh bother he thought the only one I do have has shrunk at the legs. It looks like my cat has died in them.’ he wailed.
  ‘Oh just look at you’ laughed Neaps and Haggis.
  ‘Why are you laughing at me?’ frowned Ketchup."
  ‘You're going dressed like a *****’ he roared with laughter.
  ‘You do look rather strange Neaps’ he said and looking away trying not to laugh again.
  ‘Well I suppose so if you say so’ he nodded.
  ‘Look why don't you all come down to mine, and I’ll sort you out smiled Torn-Faced Tomato.



Mr Ketchup couldn't believe what he was hearing, had Torn-face turned over a new leaf or maybe she had a soft spot after all. Half an hour later Ketchup looked fit to see the queen, neatly dressed in a tweed jacket with matching trousers and a white shirt with a green tie. He looked ever so smart. Ketchup whistled but oh dear he never noticed the cat tail and went flying, landing right in the cats dinner.  

Oh dear it looks like Mr Ketchup won't be going anywhere for the time being.....
What do you think?




Jun 2014

Title



Mr. Ketchup was ready and waiting for the first tram to run to the Burgh Street airport. It had been years of utter chaos with all the road works and the endless track being laid on every road in Butterworth town.
  ‘About time too - my feet are killing me’ said Ketchup.
  ‘Yes,' answered a bleary eyed Haggis.
  ‘Oh I do wish that these people would stop shoveling’ snapped Ketchup.
  ‘Be patient otherwise we’ll all land up on the floor’ said Haggis.
  ‘It’s hardly surprising, look at everyone all packed in like sardines.’ groaned Ketchup.
  ‘Oh Mr Ketchup why do you have to complain about the least wee thing? Torn-face Tomato frowned.



The tram took ages before reaching the first station, and poor old Ketchup was desperate for a cold drink. He certainly looked annoyed in fact he seemed like he'd pass out at any second. No one could get moving and soon it would be time for the journey to end. But oh dear Mr. Ketchup felt dizzy and stars were floating in front of his eyes. Slowly he lost his balance and landed on the next lot of passengers, knocking them to the floor. Haggis looked like he’d seen a ghost. Well as you can imagine it wasn't a good experience for Mr Ketchup and his friends. The conductor stopped the tram while the other passengers got off in disgust making complaints to the conductor.
Mr Ketchup slowly came around while Haggis returned with a glass of cold water.
   ‘Eek ...what happened, my head feels a bit funny moaned Ketchup.
Neaps and Haggis hardly had time to explain when the ambulance arrived to take him to the hospital. Mr. Ketchup made a big fuss about lying on the stretcher but Haggis insisted on it. He lay wincing all the way to the hospital because of all the bumpy roads. They shouldn't have spent all of that money on the trams - it was shocking. It would have been far better to fix all these holes in the road he thought to himself.

After a long day Mr Ketchup climbed into bed and fell fast asleep. The very next morning the incident appeared in the local newspaper. The transport department were blamed for overcrowding the tram. The council were looking into the health and safety rules. Due to the very serious injuries that poor old Ketchup had suffered, he would be in line for a huge pay out or so he thought.
It wasn't until the first hearing in the court that he realised it would only be a pittance.

   Well I might have known it was too good to be true. He thought If they think that they can fob me off with sweets then they have got another coming. He smirked.      

  ‘What do you have in mind Haggis?’ he said looking worried."
  ‘Just you wait and see’ said Ketchup grinning.



The very next day Ketchup got up early and he had written half a dozen letters to very important people. One too the prime-minster to start with.
Within a matter of a week he received the letter that he longed for, inviting Ketchup to the prime-minister’s office. Mr Ketchup couldn't find his best suit, ‘Oh bother he thought the only one I do have has shrunk at the legs. It looks like my cat has died in them.’ he wailed.
  ‘Oh just look at you’ laughed Neaps and Haggis.
  ‘Why are you laughing at me?’ frowned Ketchup."
  ‘You're going dressed like a *****’ he roared with laughter.
  ‘You do look rather strange Neaps’ he said and looking away trying not to laugh again.
  ‘Well I suppose so if you say so’ he nodded.
  ‘Look why don't you all come down to mine, and I’ll sort you out smiled Torn-Faced Tomato.



Mr Ketchup couldn't believe what he was hearing, had Torn-face turned over a new leaf or maybe she had a soft spot after all. Half an hour later Ketchup looked fit to see the queen, neatly dressed in a tweed jacket with matching trousers and a white shirt with a green tie. He looked ever so smart. Ketchup whistled but oh dear he never noticed the cat tail and went flying, landing right in the cats dinner.  

Oh dear it looks like Mr Ketchup won't be going anywhere for the time being.....
What do you think?





Jun 2014

Title



Mr. Ketchup was ready and waiting for the first tram to run to the Burgh Street airport. It had been years of utter chaos with all the road works and the endless track being laid on every road in Butterworth town.
  ‘About time too - my feet are killing me’ said Ketchup.
  ‘Yes,' answered a bleary eyed Haggis.
  ‘Oh I do wish that these people would stop shoveling’ snapped Ketchup.
  ‘Be patient otherwise we’ll all land up on the floor’ said Haggis.
  ‘It’s hardly surprising, look at everyone all packed in like sardines.’ groaned Ketchup.
  ‘Oh Mr Ketchup why do you have to complain about the least wee thing? Torn-face Tomato frowned.



The tram took ages before reaching the first station, and poor old Ketchup was desperate for a cold drink. He certainly looked annoyed in fact he seemed like he'd pass out at any second. No one could get moving and soon it would be time for the journey to end. But oh dear Mr. Ketchup felt dizzy and stars were floating in front of his eyes. Slowly he lost his balance and landed on the next lot of passengers, knocking them to the floor. Haggis looked like he’d seen a ghost. Well as you can imagine it wasn't a good experience for Mr Ketchup and his friends. The conductor stopped the tram while the other passengers got off in disgust making complaints to the conductor.
Mr Ketchup slowly came around while Haggis returned with a glass of cold water.
   ‘Eek ...what happened, my head feels a bit funny moaned Ketchup.
Neaps and Haggis hardly had time to explain when the ambulance arrived to take him to the hospital. Mr. Ketchup made a big fuss about lying on the stretcher but Haggis insisted on it. He lay wincing all the way to the hospital because of all the bumpy roads. They shouldn't have spent all of that money on the trams - it was shocking. It would have been far better to fix all these holes in the road he thought to himself.

After a long day Mr Ketchup climbed into bed and fell fast asleep. The very next morning the incident appeared in the local newspaper. The transport department were blamed for overcrowding the tram. The council were looking into the health and safety rules. Due to the very serious injuries that poor old Ketchup had suffered, he would be in line for a huge pay out or so he thought.
It wasn't until the first hearing in the court that he realised it would only be a pittance.

   Well I might have known it was too good to be true. He thought If they think that they can fob me off with sweets then they have got another coming. He smirked.      

  ‘What do you have in mind Haggis?’ he said looking worried."
  ‘Just you wait and see’ said Ketchup grinning.



The very next day Ketchup got up early and he had written half a dozen letters to very important people. One too the prime-minster to start with.
Within a matter of a week he received the letter that he longed for, inviting Ketchup to the prime-minister’s office. Mr Ketchup couldn't find his best suit, ‘Oh bother he thought the only one I do have has shrunk at the legs. It looks like my cat has died in them.’ he wailed.
  ‘Oh just look at you’ laughed Neaps and Haggis.
  ‘Why are you laughing at me?’ frowned Ketchup."
  ‘You're going dressed like a *****’ he roared with laughter.
  ‘You do look rather strange Neaps’ he said and looking away trying not to laugh again.
  ‘Well I suppose so if you say so’ he nodded.
  ‘Look why don't you all come down to mine, and I’ll sort you out smiled Torn-Faced Tomato.



Mr Ketchup couldn't believe what he was hearing, had Torn-face turned over a new leaf or maybe she had a soft spot after all. Half an hour later Ketchup looked fit to see the queen, neatly dressed in a tweed jacket with matching trousers and a white shirt with a green tie. He looked ever so smart. Ketchup whistled but oh dear he never noticed the cat tail and went flying, landing right in the cats dinner.  

Oh dear it looks like Mr Ketchup won't be going anywhere for the time being..
What do you think?


I drank YOUR SOUL
From your intoxicating eyes
I became dazzled by your beauty
I called YOU
"My BELOVEDz God/dess"

I became an INFIDEL LOVERZ

As an INFIDEL what I will say now
Will remain as "THE TRUTH"
Because a LOVER on cross
Sacrificed for LOVE
Never utters a LIE,
Only narrates the Sacred Word
Of The Creator All-Mighty

My BELOVEDz existence is
Like hundred SUN shining

The whole world is
annihilated by her illumination

The one who stands on feet,
Without fear or without being scared
The one who faces
The inner LIGHT of BELOVEDz Noor
Becomes an INFIDEL LOVER

Ready to face the cross and crucifixion
Vulnerable, shy, shrunk,
Surrendered and cut to pieces
The infidel LOVER will not run away but
Stand firm to the POST to claim

The INFIDEL cries for "BELOVEDZ"
"I am BELOVEDz, BELOVEDz is me"

Sword, arrows, enemies of LOVE
Attacks, sticks, punches, strikes
Shocks, cut, blade, beatings
Scars, bloods, limbs and pieces
And the INFIDEL dies
Just like that... with

"BELOVEDz breathe rested in
INFIDEL LOVERz half-open eyes"


Watching this spectator of
ENDLESS ETERNAL AGAPE LOVE
The world's anger against INFIDEL
Flows away like a small twig

They realize that
Cutting a LOVERz into pieces
With humiliations and weapons
Was of no use

Because they realize that
They not only killed an INFIDEL
But also killed LOVE and humanity


Infidel: (noun) A person who has no religion or whose religion is not that of a majority/ Adhering to the religion other than the majority
Jamison Bell Dec 2018
Here is what I’m drinking
And why yes I have been thinking
In your eyes, between your thighs, I find myself just sinking
So here’s what I goes
Let’s see where this thing propose
On your nerves, along your curves, I might just bite your toes
No way am I too *****
I’ve still got lots of drunk
But now you’ve gone and brought up kids and my ***** done up and shrunk
sandra wyllie Jul 22
only seeing it
in magazines
on shelves
in bookstores
or TV?

Do you wish that
you could be
shrunk
down in size
and climb
into the scene?

Do you hate the life
you’re living?
And all you do
is dream?

Welcome to
my reality
michael cera Nov 2018
the leaves fall like i did for you,
let them float back,
to their broken branch.
turn this grey sky blue,
warm the deathly cold air,
crash the sun,
through these winter clouds.
keep the bottle full,
seal unbroken,
my soul has spoken.
**** the dizziness from my head,
let all lost things be found anew,
all the love that life stole, too.
beard hair shrunk back in my skin,
feeble nerves unshakened in wind,
kindle fires i left dim.
bring back my broken kin,
turn my eyes from tempestous skin.
erase the scars on my arms,
i meant them no harm,
in their repetition lies the real sorrow.
take me back,
before i know who you are.
escape through adolescent exit signs,
maybe then i can finally restart.
Amanda Aug 2018
Letting go all I know is difficult
Didn't expect you to leave
Looking back on that fateful day I gave you my heart
Feel dumb for being naive

Your eyes had me spellbound
How your kiss made me melt
Hands leading me through late-night talks
Always knowing words to match how I felt

Made you dinner though I couldn't cook
We would drink with our friends when we could
Every small insignificant moment
Burrowed deeper than I thought they would

I knew you had flaws, same as me
I noticed you'd down too many beers
Still stayed by your side til the night finished
Would not leave the guy I held so dear

This corsage reminds me of simpler times
Stumbled upon it today
Wondered what you were doing
If you remember that chilly spring day

I thought nothing would be as good as you
Watched hopelessly, you chose to depart
Step by step your silhouette shrunk
You walked away, but not with my heart
I dont know why im randomly writing about my first ex, i have no feelings for him whatsoever now, i guess i was just reminiscing
Bruce Adams Jul 20
She collected lolly sticks,
        The ones with jokes on them:
        Why did the chicken cross the road?-type stuff,
Which she stained brown and used as floorboards
in her magnum opus.

The Tudor house was the best one.
It had servants’ quarters
And a kitchen with little hessian potato sacks made
of something or other she salvaged from
somewhere or other;
And the floorboards looked so real:
        painted lolly sticks
        but almost evoking the smell of varnish,
        layers of polish on a floor trodden by centuries
        in perfect miniature;
                                                Almost­.

This was the last of the three
                                                or four
                                                        doll­s’ houses she built;
The devil’s work for her idle widow’s hands.
She built this one while you were entering into your final
        stalemate
that doomed dance that sits so permanently
on your conscience now
like a sack of compost
full of water.
        (I choose this metaphor only because
        I found this in my garden yesterday
        and it was ******* heavy.)
On paper it was simple:
        You gave her your house,
        She gave you hers.

And so her house shrunk around her and
became a dolls’ house of your own making,
Irrationally
                        she saw your god-hands reaching in
to manipulate and
extort her.

She was wrong, of course.

You were making good on your promise.
You would come through for her in her old age.
You did.

But it was a promise you made more to yourself than her,
And she let her illogical mind
        never analytical to begin with
        now razed and blinded by grief and loneliness
                        (there was nothing to work with)
poison your good deed
and you were both dolls now.

Eight years later she died lovelessly.

She was moved into her sitting room
        the only part of the house that stayed the same
        after you moved in –
                the walls closed in to contain it
                constrict it
a hospital bed and vinyl chair with commode,
and the brown laminate floor
        just like
        her lolly sticks.

You administered painkillers
Admitted the nurses
Negotiated with your estranged brother.

but her paranoia rotted everything
and your hands cared with compassion but not love.

Gone, now,
the dolls’ houses remain.
An inheritance of clutter but in a house
you bought.

You answer the phone
                                        breathlessly
      ­                                  aggressively.
You have been heaving the big one up the stairs
        that sack of compost
        that heavy conscience of yours.

You will be heaving those ******* dolls’ houses around
until I have to buy your house and care for you.
But I am telling you now:
        I am putting them in a skip
        the moment I have the chance.

They are not imbued with the joy they gave her
any more than
                        by keeping them safe from landfill
                        you can imbue them with the love you withheld.

They are painted lolly sticks and sewn hessian.
They don’t contain any more of her
than the bits of paper she kept
        passwords and bank balances
        dates and instructions for the Sky box
There is nothing left of her to protect now.

        (We won’t mention her
        unscattered ashes
        which have been left with the undertaker
        for nearly two years now.
                They’re not her either
                but they’re more her.)

Open up the hinged false front
                tip out the miniatures
                let the little figures be free,
                                be landfill
                                (isn’t that what dying is anyway?)
all the tangible things she touched and loved
are not avatars for her touch and her love.

The past is not present through the preservation of objects.
The past is not erased by the advancement of time
                nor can it be undone by corrective action.

Now she is on the other side of the road,
        (why did the chicken
        behave.)
She has no further use for the things she left behind.
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