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Nat Lipstadt Mar 2018
0 followers?

then I'm your man,
your very own first
Northern Star,
the first of a 3 legged stool,
upon which all enthroned poets,
the world, do rule

the honor you bequeath me  
to be, a first follower, your own
first responder,
cannot be
disdained nor diminished

this case, this birth, revival,
heart transplant, makes it
the greatest
to be the first,
the quencher of your thirst
so long in the parching,
the throat burnt by a desert sojourn
of an an ended forty years

so come to me,
message me a message,
find me a find,
a poem so fine,
I here now vow,
our embrace n'ere be broken

give me this honorific,
let us together be terrific,
raise our glasses,
arms entwined toasting you
and all that mind and breast of yours,
bursting full of future~contains,
the full release of,  brings longer life
to us both

I am a father.
I am a grandfather.
I am a First Follower.
I am a First Responder
for all who need a leg up,
step up upon my heart,
the first step upon a ladder
with no top, no end sighted

my legs are as old as time, but,
measure me not by the rings and the
metered scales of gray hair aging,
the shock of white, the cain mark

but by the muscles of my affection,
the solemnity of this,
my irrevocable promise

this,
the blessing we both earn and make
when you write,
while we wait
in quiet attendance -
for all your good works,
your kept promises

Blessed are You Lord our God, 
Ruler of the Universe
who has given us life, sustained us
until just now,
allowing the reader and the writer,
to reach and greet this day.
L B Jan 2018
The snow is thin and pale today
like that girl –
you thought –
from the Home Depot –
the palette of an empty day

I think, instead
to smooth my hand along your arm
extend dominion 'cross your chest
To till the damp ***** of your shoulder
in surging heat
of earthen tones
to find in winter flames
your brow, your cheek, your neck

...your mouth that way...

This is the braille I'm all about
being far-sighted
and just too close
to even focus on you –
your eyes –
and all
the loss
these days
Shofi Ahmed Jan 27
Zero is enduring
zero is deathless.
Nothing is up to it
none can mirror it
though forever
it's an open case.
The eyes are yet to
see an open face!

Because like it's
nothing is in perfect shape
purely a perfect circle!
Nothing matches it
as like Fathima is none else!

Ever more sprawling pi decimals
never go unnoticed propelling
to the end surge before her.
Before the original one
Fathima is yet to be mirrored.

All the planets turn circular
before the unseen perfect circle.
Fathima nails it snapped it up
circled it with her hair!
Before the furthest sighted eyes,
the dot at the earth's centre
at its pool of primitive water.

Fathima embeds in a loop of her hair
thus supercharges the water!
It finds the cut, the golden ratio,
constant continuity in her hair's inner flow.
And the Big Bang happened
there, their breakthrough!
The potential worlds to be
from the first drop of water
she gets them all buzzed out.
From down the rock bottom,
from the zero null
Fathima finds and raises the sun!

Nothing is comparable to it on the ground
nor up on the high, we only see the fire
of a heavenly phenomenon is beyond the sight!
Phillip Walter Jul 2018
She said
you are enough. you are loved.
You are
So much of what you fear can
Never be.

She said
There are no mirrors I can
Hold up
For perception once skewed see all
mirrors spotted

Your eyes.
So fickle and short sighted
That you
Can’t see what lays before you
Or just beyond.

A blindness
To all that is beautiful.
You **** hope
Before it may give you
Another chance.
"One lie weakens a thousand truths."

"Time heals, steals and reveals."

"Karma finishes what revenge neglects."

"The future is uncertain, but we play a part in its design."

"Help when you can, pray when you can't."

"If your life is out of focus, it's time to change the lens."

"Honesty is in the alcohol."

"The only thing better than a second chance is never needing one."

"Sometimes the most valuable company is yourself."

"Instincts over impulse, always."

"The greatest comeback is the one least expected."

"Fear is a light sleeper."

"You can't change the past, but it can change you."

"Some are born with a silver spoon, others with a pitchfork."

"Even the smallest of pebbles has its place in the sand."

"The humble voice resonates the loudest."

"Write your failures in pencil, your triumphs in ink."

"Scars speak every language."

"Two things you should always trust: your gut and your God."

"Every tear leaves something behind."

"Courage brings you to the fight, wisdom wins it."

"Relationships start and end, but the lucky ones get to begin again."

"The devil doubts. The angel accepts."

"Biggie makes you dance. Tupac makes you think."

"Justice is money green."

"The only thing better than good friends are lifelong ones."

"I'm in a fight with life and I'm losing on points."

"We are remembered for three things: the times we did good, the times we did bad and the times we did nothing."

"Every underdog wants to be top cat."

"Love never travels alone."

"Dreams reveal what thoughts conceal."

"The problem with the world is the wolves outnumber the sheep."

"You can't spell tragedy without rage."

"Focus on the valley and the hills will disappear."

"When you ignore pain, it ignores you."

"The past and future are distant cousins."

"Hope is always listening."

"Moonlight is for lovers and devils."

"Nothing will get you in better shape than a breakup."

"Time is a tattletale."

"Sometimes all that's left is a penny and a wish."

"There's a special place in heaven for those who suffer on earth."

"We are connected by smiles and tears."

"The mirror mimics what the mind imagines."

"If infidelity was a crime they would have to build more prisons."

"What the blind man sees, the sighted man seeks."

"The ego is a phony friend."

"Luck will take you as far as fate allows."

"Two things that never forget: elephants and broken hearts."

"My train of thought has no conductor."
mae Oct 2018
I don’t know if being pregnant
Was on my mind
Or the fear of being left behind
Unable to rewind,
Back to the time
In which I was able to make good decisions
To think with great precision
To look beyond  a short sighted vision.

Taking a risk,
Over someone who doesn’t care for you
Lack of resolve to take care of you
A person who doesn’t care for Love
And I simply paying the price
For disobeying the king above
Because I did wrong instead of doing right

His final straw has been cut,
And unfortunately I am out of luck
****.
Yes I am what you call, f**ed
pitch black god8 Dec 2018
I.      the smell of sad

odorless colorless like *****, similar familiar sidewinder effects,
musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted,
saddling sadding, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives,
pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays
and even everyone’s good literature (even Will S’s),
good wishes good intentions and mood prayers
to the nearest lay god
on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends,
still stink

don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer,
your doppelgänger ******, your mirror’s inside hiding out place,
I,
who has your sadness smell into my skin cells creepily crept
waft woof and warp wet weft-woven
into the sad receptacles hidden in my
head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face

there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable
at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable,
so closer than close, so close that the internist
cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first
because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all

this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots;
to eradicate you must dig down deep,
six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment,
uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root
great god gone,
but the saddest truth
stench odor yet present
pitch black god8 Apr 2018
5 Sensory Deprivation Relevations  (Happy Birthday Will Shakespeare)


I     the smell of sad

odor colorless like *****, similar familiar sidewinder effects,
musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted,
saddling saddlng, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives,
pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays
and even everyone’s good literature (even Will’s)
good wishes good intentions and mood prayers
to the nearest lay god
on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends,
stink

don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer,
your doppelgänger ******, your mirror’s inside hiding out place,
I, who has your sadness smell into my skin cells crept
waft woof and warp wet weft-woven
into the sad receptacles hidden in my
head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face


there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable
at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable,
so closer than close, so close that the internist
cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first
because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all

this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots;
to eradicate you must dig down deep,
six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment,
uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root
great god gone,
but the saddest truth
stench odor yet present

II    the taste of joy

the joy of cooking is not a gene in my litany possess,
but the buttery taste of joy I know, I know,
it’s a real princess rarity,
the hard costs of finding and keeping it,
I’ve paid endlessly and willingly pay on

the taste of joy is like presents under the tree,
shock surprises delights lives/life, customized, infectious
(except for socks, no matter how joyously exceptional),
joy to those whose buds never blossomed for its taste
readable on some one else’s, anyone’s ****** expression

I think of it as the taste of fast traveling cumulus whites
upon my eyelashes blinking as they are speeding you by, but happy
for ten more behind before the evening stars takes over

the taste of joy is physical, there can be no denying,
concentrations can be found in the lips and the fingertips,
which you think of as a tandem, someone else’s on mine

but it ain’t necessarily so; the taste of joy, shared I, having submitted to others kisses carried on the wind that
found their mark and were well received,
poems from the heart
that arrive well,
as their intended is sleeping, and
as intended, as waking gifts

the taste of joy in droplet tears
when you are notified that words
you joined in holy matrimony made you cry,
because the reader did, wept for two,
the weeping of contentment released,
free at last from container confinement;
this particular taste of joy is in the  
recovery and recognition that these
are not for you,
just joy peculiar these tasted tears for whomsoever sheds them

III   the hearing of truthful

truth am told is oft served cold and hard up for the hearing,
best avoided tween noon and midnight and any time a
bathroom mirror is in the vicinity; though religious men lie
too easily; bathroom mirrors cannot; a character flaw for sure,
but the truth to be trusted is this: no one is truly contented, always there are the richer, the more famous, the employed and
someone above who has more, more burdens of a different sort,
better quality losses and pains unseen not dreamed of

truth tastes terrible and is awful sometimes noisy painful;
it hides well in the stink of sad exposed to the atmosphere when exposed it turns red humans blue

truth may set you free, free to be what are you are or truthfully
an admission of what greatness you have to release the trick is
use the correct scale, do not let the wrong sized ruler rule you,
the truth, if you hear, hear it unfiltered w/o the bias implanted
by not your people; hear your poet voice growl like a blues singer and be truthfully satisfied like no thing no person only you could hear it as you intended it be spoken

IV   touches of fantasy fantastic
secret confess: touch my fav cause when its juiced with
mental visions of what might be, it Saturday satisfies and let me weep happy smile silly and is mine all mind; yes another’s tip
has sorcerer powers of revelation
but alone by myself I yet
relevate
and flow; my hands are right sized, my arms reach around myself for so designed, and the pleasure is mine to give;
mine to take,
neither better or worse if self-administered,
touch myself anywhere anytime and fantasy over dreams wins,
rise up, touch is a language and I speak six or a hundred;
listen to the sounds of touching and be touched human

V  insights for the sightless

at last we close the deprived
with an elegant elevation
sight overrated when imagination exists,
cannot be restrained
this the revelation
you have proffered and preferred all this time

have pity on me
I crystallize the unseen with the replacements
of my conjuring
the other senses lend a hand
telling me look up look up, be life save life
let your madness blossom in the spring airs,
the coolness of a first fingered ungloved snow
sight,
a mathematical function from the other four derived,
sightless an impossibility for with one alone defeat the
sensory deprivation and give tongues to words

epilogue

read my face
incapable of,
deprivation
but how now silent bow my head to Will
for teaching the way of words
traced upon
a fool or a king's tongue,
two too human,
so that poet may ken
his senses keener,
all for the better,
for the betterment of all
and now you understand how came this poem to be writ
in the pitch black
Nat Lipstadt May 3
the spring mantra arrives with distinctive citified sparkles

a family of ducklings splash, mimicking young children,
shaking, spraying, squeaking, babies bath bathing,
jumping in and out of a fountain pool
of a tall-storied Manhattan apartment building,
the mother-leader attends them well for she recalls
the untimely end of the babies of last year,
lost to wanderlust on York Avenue,
cars and taxis as instruments of mass murdering,
but new spring is the season of new birth

the Cercis Siliquastrum tree trunk (!) oddly sprouts
unusual pink flowers
well before it’s branches grow up into a fully blossoming tree,
a signed spring time ritual, but since it is a/k/a, the Judas Tree,
we wonder if spring hints of Cerci Lannister’s fate betrayed,
in this, her final May dance, oh, which Judas brother/lover
will bring us a winter fin finale

the temperature control dial busted, the variability too wide,
the youngers are skipping the interregnum season,
going direct to elect shorts and T-shirt, while those who no longer bloom in the semi-warm, recall the wet chill of past evenings,
voting to dress defensively, wearing their aging skepticism
aware that all changes are exact crossing line-defined, wrapped in
medium weight coats, concealing embarrassing gloves in pocket,
decorative silk scarfs for non-decorative purposed,
all betting the under/over the spring is here all-in not yet sighted

the streets are busy, the momentary pleasantries
of warm sky and sun push the apartment dwellers out,
a magnetic force pulls us to the outside to exhale, in order to inhale,
guises manufactured excuses appear, a loaf of bread, a latte necessity,
the children desert happily their wintery confinement,
by pushing their own carriages, containing in their stead,
their lilting accented nannies, excited by their version of spring break

Me? toy shopping for this month brings rashers of birthdays,
more May galorey, singing come Dancer and Prancer, Ian and Isabel, Alex and not-a-baby anymore Wendy, and because the weather so pleasant, cautions ignored, the credit card swiped repeatedly, frequently and joyously, xmas reimagined, another May time ritual, rooted in the September month of *******, of staying warm, staving off winter *******, and winter planting for spring harvesting

children score grand-multiplicities for god made in his place
grand parental substitutes, each with two hands each equal,
so both must be filled with maypole ribbon, brightly colored
toy bags, presents wrapped in paper unicorns and all manner of
sporting *****, as we turn 2 and 6, 7 and who ate 8?

all that my eyes did see when we surfed strolled the streets,
vignettes fell like the spring rains, they, now, from daytime banished,
to after-midnight to do their breast feeding of tulips and weeds,
letting little children grow up snuggling in still over-heated rooms,
naked legs kicking off winter blankety snow remnants while dreaming of springing onwards and forward
into the party of life by inhaling nature’s

nature.
5-3-19  606pm
Nat Lipstadt Apr 8
You seem to know where you're needed


to whom this command addressed is a crazy me-man,
a street walking big DaVinci ibearded mumbler,
the kind you would cross the street
before the smell is close enough
to sending you running, not just
politely walking fast but a souped up
hi-yo silver away!

this guise no surprise,
you must and do
already know where I’m needed,
sealing the pact with a yellowtine post-it
writ in simple block letters ordered in a brewed cafe,
my latte arrive states my name as


come see me

come to the time the place and the date

and prepare oneself for twenty and fours
of rigid interoperability as our systems
interface reach the pure state of 100%
ultimate wordless dialogue

communicating
in with by
perfect silence
heaven

you will write a verse,
my reciprocation
is already prepared

this terse repartee
will many spawn poems generational
for your family amazing and extended

an elephnat never forgets,
his servers are a rolling stone
with no direction home,
capacity unknown
every blade sighted retained,
and every sensate glance
a phrase seeded

departure will find me clean shaven,
pressed jeans neat,
and shod in well worn dockers,
cloaking my innate invisibility

when the children ask who was that,
you’ll sage reply

one new who knew where one was needed
April  8  4/6/nought nineteen
10:13 am

https://www.google.com/search?q=da+vinci%27s+beard&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8&hl=en-us&client=safari#imgrc=q3e6G4ijVeXNKM:
Ylzm Apr 26
Weirdly wonderful caterpillars,
liquefy, transform, and reborn;
Wonderfully beautiful butterflies,
Who taught you how to do that?

Mother Nature, the mother of gaps;
Magical hand hides ignorance,
Misdirects from real question:
Why do we even ask at all?

Curiosity satiated we move on,
Forgetting blindness unremoved.
For if sighted, a new tongue to learn,
Mother Nature, the new alphabet.
Sitting on a deck watching the rain over the river I can’t help and ponder!
After a weeks worth of days mostly filled with rain,
And the pitter patter on the roof hardly even noticeable.
Brings me to think how we always complain it’s too hot or it’s too cold and,and, and!
Instead of embracing what we have we seek the negatives!
Is this how we as humans were made?
Or is it our choice ?
We have to see that for every situation, no matter how grave it may seem or how much we are at a loss, there is always a positive to every negative!
We just need to start embracing the positives!
Life is Good!
Life is as beautiful as you want to see it!
For if I wanted to be short sighted, I would have only seen the rain drops on the water!
Yet there be so much more!
Angelina Jan 11
How enlightening is it to think
That our whole world can be altered in a single blink
Life as I knew sighted, now becomes vacant
Driven into an endless tunnel of mystery
Which gratifies my thirst at present
Eradicating any signal of reality
And instead
Focusing on my retained energy

And how easy is it to see
The close proximity between two worlds
One that surrounds me, and one that is within
Within my ability to create my own life, rather than merely live by it  
How wonderfully designated is the life I experience
Inside my dream
Taiwo Olufemi May 2018
I checked my time
It was around nine in the night
I look up at the sky
You should ask me why
Something seems strange
It is not a mirage
The Stars are shining full
The Moon is quarter full
The Sky looks beautiful
This does not happen everyday
It is on the eighth of May
Around nine in the night
And things are looking moderately bright


I stood up from my seat
Just to wonder around
Green grass beneath my feet
This shows good soil abound
I sighted the fireflies flaunting their light
I heard the toads croaking with their might
I saw some flies flying away with fright
I noticed the gentle breeze of the night
I felt alive
This sensation does not happen everyday
It was on the eighth of May
Around nine in the night
And things were looking moderately bright


Something again occur
Nature was showing her Jamboree
When I saw it I concur
I could't help but to agree
A meteorite stylishly slowly decidedly descend
Contemporaneously with an aeroplane cruising westward
Its sound as if it's a firework
Its flashlight merging with the satellites and the starlight
Sizzling the sky with spree of synchronized light
This illumination does not happen everyday
It is on the eighth of May
Around nine in the night
And things are looking moderately bright


Here I am still wondering about
Free I am real round about
This World is not always a beautiful place
Round the years? Round the months? Round the days?
Across all the continents through the Asia
What makes today so special?
I believe the Heavens are smiling on me
Even Earth agrees to it
Cruel creatures couldn't conflict
Nurtured Nature nicely nods to it
All these are on the eighth of May
Around nine in the night
And my star is realistically ready to shine its light
Ormond Dec 2018
.
Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.

Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?

These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To ones most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.
.
Chris Slade Apr 1
What do you reckon? I know what you’ve been thinking…
We’re on a ship that looks unsteady, like it’s sinking…
We’ve made shaky plans to be gung-** and to go it all alone…
But we’re beginning to wonder… are we heading for some kind of danger zone?…
At first we were just floating along - enjoying the passing view
And 2 years off it looked a lot easier …leaving the EU!
But there’s a waterfall downstream…and it looks like a helluva drop.
And once we get too near the edge, well, we won’t be able to stop.

The simplicity of Cameron’s ‘in - out’ referendum question dawned…
Cos, divorce is complicated.  Those who voted leave were scorned,
branded racist, or at least suffering some kind of mental disorder.
“Didn’t you stop to think about the about the Northern Irish border?” (best read in a 'silly', sneery voice).
But - back then there were 2 million Syrians, Afghans, Iraqis all walking toward Calais.
Some thought serious overcrowding problems could come our way.
Single Market,? Sovereignty? Customs Union? What the hell’s all that?
It means you’ll need a visa to go to Benidorm you ****!

Meanwhile Merkel diffused things by taking the refugees in.
But only served to rattle the bars of the **** leaning right wing.
The Spanish got all Oity Toity about us having Gibraltar.
And some of those previously unforeseen problems made Brexiteers falter.
This is David effing Cameron!… Farage embarrassed him into calling for a vote.
And, when the Remainers lost, Dave saw his chance to produce his sick note.
“I’ve done my bit”, he said “so… I’m standing down…  so who do you think should take my dodgy crown.
The Buffoon, the Backstabber, the Right Honourable Lady Home Sec?”
She, the author of  Windrush, Repatriation, food-banks, lower benefits? She got it! ****** heck!…

Hoodwinked by a government you maybe invested your life in, in all the earlier polls
Now we’ve all been tricked by a bunch of, navel gazing, self serving arseholes!
So it’s the blind leading the blind… Well, no.! Misinformed…and maybe just a bit short sighted.
And, you know, Theresa… she’ll most likely still get knighted.
But I doubt this episode will score with generations yet to come,
Deserted by this Parliamentary shambles - sitting on their hands, their collective ***.
The proletariat are cut adrift, and heading for the falls…
So we’re looking for a new saviour - someone with charisma…big *****!

Let’s look forward to this time next year… When some trusty politician re-writes our little story.
When we may be out - but far from down… Well I somehow can’t see it being a Tory…
And if isn’t Jezzer - who HAS got his eye on the prize…
McDonnel, Starmer, Benn, Tom (call me Slim) Watson? Who should THEY try for size?
And, just supposing, by chance, the Conservatives actually crack it
who, amongst the front runners there, could get the job and hack it?
Lord Snooty, Gove, Hammond…Hunt the err… Foreign Secretary,  Javid, Liam Fox (surely not!). Bojo?
With this current stay of Brexicution, for just a couple of weeks… the petition, the march, the chaos, could it still be NO-GO?…
Whatdya reckon?
The complexion of this subject - Brexit (if I hear the word one more time on TV I think I'll unplug the thing and throw it out of the window) changes by the minute so it's hard to pin it down - Here is where we're at up to this point.
Yue Wang Yidhna Aug 2018
I am terribly near sighted
Consciously and subconsciously
I see not what I have saw
And
I hear not what I have heard
Sometimes,
In fact most of the time,
I don’t even feel
What I should have felt

But the mirror of life
It keeps a record of every little thing
And I relive in my dreams
All that I have missed

And much much more:

All I ever need
Is just a little hint of life:

Your lovely little smile
I failed to respond to during the day
Would haunt me
With what would seem like
A whole lifetime of sweet champagne
And
Kisses of cherries and grapes
With a scent of longing that
Fills me to the core with
Twinges that burst throughout
My entire being
Shining brightly from
Every single particle of my
Soul

The little chirps and calls of crickets
That alternate between the oblivious
Moon upon a bed of restless stars
And the wizened sun
Would always take me to a land
Unlived, untouched, unruined
A vast nonexistence
A vast ruin full of life
Where I have never been so alone
Yet so fulfilled, so joyful, and so
Free

And

The dreamless gale that
Would raise me up to mountains
From which I can finally gaze down
With sure and confident eyes
Upon the whole of life
And
See, sense, and feel
Every scenery and every being
With the purest of colours
Rowing down the crimson rivers
In a canary boat caressed by
A forest of ocean blue sequoias
Blanketed with a soup of
Violet stars
Into the heart of the universe

Where everything that have lived
Or could have lived
Never went away

Where nothing is ever gone
But just lost
So momentarily
Like a wandering child
Let out into the world
Seemingly defenselessly
Yet, perfectly safe
Under the hidden watch of
The mother

Where everything I love
Love me just as much
And so much more

Where I am never just me
But a child
A poet
A painter
A musician
An ancient pilgrim

Where I can fall into stars
And float up to the edge
Of the sky
Swim in the air without my feet
Ever touching the ground

Where I am finally
Held by you
The one person
I love most unyieldingly
In a death grip of never letting go.
I Love you through My Dreams
Jan 27, 2018, 6:15 PM
By: Yue Yidhna ****

Used to be a personal favorite so I wanted to publish it, but since I haven't heard back from anyone, and I don't like it as much as anymore  I'll just post them.

(I wish I can pin posts here:
I think these are better poems of mine:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2646158/the-threads-between-every-you-and-me/
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2618377/the-metamorphosis-of-a-bee/
HeWhoExplores Dec 2018
Leaves crumble under unwashed trainers; silence
He walks along the avenue with hands in pockets,
As street lamps pave the way along the lonely avenue
A Hen Party is sighted; their noisy presence noticed
Out of nowhere a taxi rolls up, a casualty is claimed
He gazes at the midnight stars and smiles
Like a fantasy; a big bubble that hasn’t yet burst
Conversing and gentle laughter picks up at the street corner,
Whilst crowds of hipsters and young people dance and discuss
As Friday nights go; rules are meant to be broken
As this quaint little place provides an escape from it all
With its neon signs and hippy vibes,
Its bonsai trees and chandeliers
Bikes hang from the walls and flower pots roam free
He is greeted by an Ola! and a welcoming smile
A piano sounds from within, a cold breeze chills his neck
He rolls up his collar and enters; silence
Kq Oct 26
my students describe me as gentle.
kind. tender. humane.

my professors describe me as flighty.
fickle. erratic. inconstant.

my dad describes me as selfish.  
inconsiderate. uncaring. money-grubbing.

my mom describes me as wise.
sharp. insightful. far-sighted.

my brother describes me as mysterious.
puzzling. hidden. weird.

my sister describes me as honest.
candid. upfront. sincere.

kind & uncaring.
far-sighted & erratic.
hidden & candid.

my lover describes me as perfect.
sublime. brilliant. unrivaled.

i hesitate to describe me, settle at imperfect.
and sublime. brilliant. unrivaled.

all of the above. none of the above.
aside from all of the above.

imperfect. sublime. brilliant. unrivaled.
flawed. exalted. profound. inimitable.
faulty & ideal.
defective & magic.
me.
I have a dream! I have a dream,
To the racial discriminators, said Martin Luther King,
I have a dream! I have a dream!
To the evil-creating economists, I warn and ring.

Globe witness hunger, inequality poverty and unemployment
The world turns out to be bitter,
To all of you, I write this letter.
To create a world relieved from these and turn better.

I am a mad aspiring economist, a fool,
Searching for the right tool,
You turned the world with full of mess,
People are left with nothing less.

To the world, you gave theories,
Pushed us into a vicious cycle of injuries,
About your theories, you boasted,
It has created a few ruling and bloated.
Most of you worked as economic hitmen,
Turned victim laymen to fighting gunmen.

To the realities, your theory is distant,
Served no solution to the dying peasants,
To the few, we remain a psychological slave and servants,
Tuned our lives to a depended migrant.

With your development lecture,
You have killed the entire nature,
In the name of ventures, corporates turned vulture,
Hunted and looted our generations’ future.

We lived a self-reliant community,
You killed us with imposed liability,
Our lives are now placed in intensive casualty,
The word that remains imagination still is equality.



We lost our humanity and identity,
In your eyes, we are just a market and commodity,
Your play with scarcity, was a mere futility,
We finally became a society, filled with atrocity.

Your useless lectures of development,
Put us under frightening & irrecoverable unemployment,
For a few, you got us into a deep-rooted enslavement,
So, now for you instead, we make a replacement.

To my questions, you neglected and ran,
In your eyes, I am foolish stupid common man,
To you short-sighted range,
I say I will bring in a change!

Today, I may remain lower and mere viewer,
A day will come, where you will stand to answer,
Writing a new rule, I would seize your beloved positions,
This will be my lifetime mission and ambition.

I say with all my limited experience,
I will put a test to all your conscience,
Are you just a fat-big corporate’s hand?
With people will you always stand?

I am not an economist,
I am neither an egotist,
I proclaim! I proclaim!
I am a revolutionary economist,

I know you will fit me a label,
I am sure I will be an economic rebel,
A rebellious economist.

I dream a world without huge inequalities,
I dream a world free from imposed liabilities,
I dream a world without poverty and disparities,
I finally dream for becoming an economist with no ambiguities.
The whole world is staring at new difficulties. It is still riddled with poverty, inequality, unemployment and illiteracy. The economists who dictated these rulebooks are the main culprits behind these. I am an aspiring economist. The economists mostly don’t stand with people’s welfare. Mostly they are ambiguous. They know only theories. They work as economic hitmen for many corporates. They are just a bookworm. Without understanding the pain and situation, they put forward new theories. Their theories sometimes serve good for the western world. One food or one dress or even one house cannot suit every person in the world. I have written this poem to the economists. It is better that all economist stay with people and find a solution that is most suitable for their enhancement. Else, people would reject their presence. In short, I say economist should be from the people, for the people, by the people, of the people.
Alaina Moore Jul 2018
When I was younger
I didn't understand the phrase
"I wish I'd never been born."
I thought it synonymous with
"I want to die."
In many ways it is.
Yet the phrase is less saying
"I want to die," and more saying
"I wish my lack of existence
wouldn't cause you any pain."
It's saying,
"only a few I love keep me here."
It's saying,
"I'd give up all I've lived to not have to go on any longer.
But if not for you,
I would choose an early out."
It's as near sighted
as any suicidal logic.
But the depth is something,
I've identified with in these
later days.
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
I take the pain of life, and feed it laughter
Of solace, of crusade vids, of dumb rage,
     Bring fear to a halt, one ha!
Now twice, it may shift the human severed mind
Sighted laughter begets, begets
A nerve pulled to uproar update to joy
Pondered the learned man shy to gilded scoffs
But finds chuckle over Beauty fooled
Over Love's lot bellow to inner fondness,
     Bring fear to a halt, don hey!
Kind Beauty closed her eyes, bumped swollen laughter
Never shy, reside timely laugh till breathing troubled,
It’s wasted bounty near to live without wit's mirth
How worshipped laughter able free fear behind the smile.
REVISITING NO. 31 O'HIGGINS ROAD

Time, that great
wind blew

away all the windows
doors and walls

of the home where
I had learnt to read

until now no house
exists at all.

Only the empty space
that a bird flies through.

I keep the roof
over my head

just to spite time
the one I drew with crayon

it still persists
in the child's mind.

My short -sighted disxyleic eye
can still see such things

a herd of brontosauri
moving from sentence to sentence

across a wilderness
of pages.

My finger tracing the sound
of a name

R.M. Ballantyne
my mouth trying to do the same.

Time too has taken
away the boy

and by some strange alchemy
made me an old man.

But the child's mind
laughs at this trick

the mere aging
of flesh.

The child that
cannot die.

The house that doesn't exist
except for my crayoned purple roof

and a name I still like
to sound.

"Come words!" I command them
as they gather me

hold me like flowers
held in a hand.

The herd of brontosauri
moving now from

one page
to the next.
Daria Aug 2018
so,
breath down my neck
once, twice
caress the line which marks
the end of my body
and the beginning of it --
today i have things to talk about

big, spacious heart prone to aching
singing in stuttering even,
poet of the heart, stop fishing, for
the fish is not yours to fish out-
quit treasure hunting for secrets

as you fly off from country,
I lay in the dark, dreams of dreaming,
but my muscles are ready,
like those of a young athlete,
and your plane I'd see off with my eyes
all the way to Athens for
I have something to say to you,
only the heart is scared-sighted

all my friends elsewhere
like beautiful sculptures
and this summer is pained by
the truth of us all dying
singular& strict& deafening
                           & defying

today, walking past the church
where I said my first prayer,
the thought of magic arose
and i wonder of origins;
i think this is how it should be:
i watch& i remember
and as long as alive is one bit of me
,they'll never go
and when they do, for real,
left behind will be my words
and rosemary will mark ears
of those who listened

also
just how many threads cross
also
how love burns words
onto skin in my sleeping,
and i wake up to read them

in my head i watch from here
yellow field flowers grow
to a techno beat, bewildered
by such shameless heart magic
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