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M Vogel Apr 2021

This place. I don't know.
so many people / want to block..
  their words--
they climb all over me.
one's in particular:

Heart-expressed words bringing down
the healing light of relationship to the parts of me
who up until now
have known little or no relationship of its kind;

      and there is conflict within me  as I fight it..
    years the locusts have eaten; and the opportunity of restoration;
      often squandered. in vanity.

none of that mattered much;

                                 until now--

When the unredeemed heart-parts of myself
reveal to me their dormancy:    left detached
from community  with one another--
  an internal community   necessary
  to withstand  the brilliant light    and glory
  brought down by those here who write as she does.

          but she;

    through her unfiltered heart-writes
    brings down the very magic and beauty and fullness of the
    relational dance of the godhead.

     And it's raw beauty is ****** slayin me.
I so want to block her  for the conflict she creates    in me  
                    .
      but I will  press on

and allow her supremely-smithed words--
(words not even written to me)
to have their beautiful way,

in

and through..
the help that has been all around me;
(each and every one of us)
waiting...  
             all along

   --as  if they were cleaning my soul,
      re-integrating my fragmented, heart-parts.



I'm the innocent bystander..
Somehow,  I got stuck
between a rock and a hard place
And I'm down on my luck
Yes..  I'm down on my luck

--And I'm hiding in Honduras:
I'm a desperate man
Send lawyers guns and money
the **** has hit the fan
https://youtu.be/wT9XlQi0yew?t=57

~The eternally beautiful, Warren Z
Tony Tweedy Aug 2021
Forged by one's own hand so sharp a blade.
Cast by the universes strongest powers.
A forge so intense in heat and fire.
Bonds as strong as any smithed steel.
No artery immune to it's strikes and piercings.
Vulnerability at it's every mortal ******.
Yet still we choose to love.
To risk to live.... to love.
Eleete j Muir Jan 2012
The probity of paraclete malafide
By crocodile tears smithed
Thrawing the wand whilst green
As the chime child of the
Passing bell trips the light fantastic
By hook or by crook in best bib
And tucker igniting corpse candles
Travelling along the soul road
Shroved by guardian crosses made
Of that fatal tree, the gallow of knowledge
Hung by familiar elders
Taking back the breath of life.


ELEETE J MUIR.
Brycical Jan 2015
In the beginning there was the word
and the word eventually volved into millions
and now we talk with flagrant disregard
meanings are lost in definitions
and we no longer honor the words
that have brought us this far.
Well today that stops as I invite all
to honoring the 8 sacred words.

These are the words groked after birth
inherently transparently giving us our worth,
these words are why we are here on this earth;
Feel, Dream, Creation, Faith, Learning, Light, Being and Love.

  (1)
Feel
The real deal, the one that dictates what you perceive as real, a double entendre for the body and mind, covers the basic five and the infinite emotional responses. Such nuances to each like how the olfactory assists with memory like that time I was makin' golden fluff pancakes and hominy with my Aunt and Uncle getting ready for  Sunday School at a grueling five in the morning.
I still remember mourning Grandma Ruth at my first funeral.
Certain feelings are hard, if not impossible to explain, like when a painting or movie moves you to tears, I still get choked up watching Jimmy Stewart in Harvey.
But still I remember the feeling when this girl ran some ice down my spine for the first time. Now imagine being blind-folded as the cold slowly melts and the drips trickle down and the only sound you hear is her breathing and your heartbeat as she monotonously drags the chill down Yeah, I know you feel me on that one now.
That's the power Feeling can bring about
touching our most primal basic instincts to the intricate emotions someone brings upon your being when they sing that song that gets you every time.  

(2)
Dream
A powerful word. They can change people and things, just ask one Dr. Martin Luther King.  

   (3)
Creation
Regardless if it's the idea for the Iphone or baby makin, all life originates at creation.
It's why all are god,
why we all got this reason to be
like a painter paints his wrinkled heart on the canvas,
why a poet like me let's words flow out like a dam that's broken.
Creation births ideas and people with vision, we’re all born with this fingertip power
and a joyous vibe in our voice
the brain overrides by the sacred eyes locked grinding oneness
paper to pen, fingers to guitar, man to woman
all ringing out in a deafening bliss entering this world!
Creation breeds change , ideas that shaped the way we do things
like the first aeroplane and those folks who birthed those to think of said thing.
The brain keeps spinning like the invention of the wheel,
keep thinking and dreaming cause creation is a sacred duty to continue evolving.  

(4)
Faith
Such a muddied word these days, but faith is where all beliefs originate.
I bet you believe you’ll wake up tomorrow after a goodnight’s sleep.
Even that is faith.
The fires of faith forge burning trust when hands shake
Faith is smithed to wave, but never break
And it’s hilt of hope marries the mind to the heart
Faith is NOT a shield to keep other beliefs at bay or people apart
it is inherently a bond of understanding
and accepting from all parts of one self and others through heaven or hell.

(5)
Learning
There's nothing more sacred than learning, be it about the world or yourself.
A momentary divine buzz as synapses join in realization.
Not everyone can be educated but everyone can certainly learn.

My Uncle used to say he learned something new every day, and I think that's the way it should be,
cause you don't stop learning once they hand that paper to you for graduating school, life is a classroom and we are all the teachers and students but the answers aren't simply in external digital books and slides
a lot of the answers of life can be found inside the classroom of your mind.
If I didn’t look inside I would have never realized my inability to take compliments was technically flat out rejecting kindness someone as tryin to bestow upon me.

Forgive my diatribe but I have a hard time around closed minds cause the brain's a gold mind and info is a much more powerful currency than those political carnies shuffling greenbacks under the coconut.

(6)
Light
A special, sacred word illuminating the world's mind and yours,
forget it's ability to help you find what you seek, like that time I lost my
keys under my bed after an art party or the way it startles your senses
when it first appears out of nowhere
the reason light is on this list is because you can add light to light AND darkness,
Can't ever make something more dark, it's just the absence of light, but you can always make something more bright that it blinds you even at night you can ignite a dark world
with a single flame watch it spread like wildfire then nothin's ever the same like a lightning shock to your brain illuminating your whole world cause now your paradigm has changed!

(7)
Being
Can you imagine just being? That's freedom. To be is free, free from ego judging thoughts from others and your self, free from worrying about social conventions like waiting for permission to eat because the prayer hasn't been said or taking a job because it pays well but it makes all the days melt into a blurry line. Being is now, it's living in each moment and riding that wave to the grave with no regrets. Just being present is one of the hardest things to master cause the barking past and enigmatic future keep jockeying for attention.

Like that time way back when I stiffed some friends for my part of the rent or anxiously awaiting my move to New York pondering if I should tell my parents. Being is freeing that's why I rhyme and write that's why I let my mad scientist hair sway in the wind that's why I run towards an accident that's why I always know what's happening cause I'm tappin into what's tattooed on my soul. And I know you know deep deep down who/what your being is, but it's easy to let others complicate it with expectations like continuing education after high school and labels like teacher or homeless lunatic but you gotta dig and hold on to what you know is true because being you to the fullest is all you can do.


(8)
Love

Love is.
These are my 8 sacred words. What are yours?

Audio version can be found here...
https://soundcloud.com/brycical/8-sacred-words
SELORM DEKU Aug 2015
The soldiers of life ceaselessly  toiled.
It was a dream, never to become soil.
These men saw comrades of old depart to join.


All strengths and skill was churned out in pain.
With paths designed and tools smithed again to gain.
Victory o'er the grave remain the prize they wait.


Scared to end the generational race for victory.
These soldiers of life kept the pace in their chase for glory.
But for the Grace, their lives may have had the same story.


Not dazed by the light of His  holiness.
Them gazed on His gift for the helpless.
Today, praised them for His salvation so selfless.


The battle their bravery failed to win.
His Grace painfully won and gave thru Him.
Those soldiers own peace and for His service are fit.
If you liked this, don't hesitate read again and share
SE Reimer Jan 2016
~

preamble

in this vividly colorless frame
the artist leaves the coloring to us,
and to imagination's meandering waters.


~

a most picturesque
canyon in the dead
of winter's grip;
white contrast of
new fallen snow on
a red rugged rock;
her river’s pacing slowly
a choreographed flowing
yet a minder still
that she is his
ancient sculptor,
her ever changing moods
etched in centuries deep;
carved together,
she rests her head
on his broad shoulder,
as with soothing voice
she lulls his weary
soul to wintery sleep...
she, his crooked river,
winding through his
smithed rocks.

~

post script.

*(nuances of Oregon abound in this.) Central Oregon’s Crooked River flows through Smith Rock State Park... with its easy “river trail” and arduous “misery ridge” hike, they are compellingly reminiscent of a relationship’s lows and highs; a favorite of rock climbers, hikers, and photographers, their views together provide the sweetest hiking companions for my love and i.
the photo and the artist that inspired this... you'll find his photo as my new HP cover photo, his artist's astounding collection on FB, or here: http://www.matthewnewmanphotography.com
TJ King Mar 2013
News Flash:
                     Religious Science has created life!
                     With heat and pressure
                     and Sounds Sounds Sounds!

                     Watch their lead-boy
                     dance and sing
                     recordings placed in his
                                    chest
                   ­  by People Who Know.

                    Listen close
                    to his strictures about what
                    is abominable
                    you can hear their voices
                    in the crackling gray
                    noise:
                    
            ­        The buzzing of cieling fans
                     in offices far away, Oz
                     The humming chatter of
                     "The maid found a dove
                     drowned in the pool!"
                     "Oh, how unsanitary,
                      truely abominable."

                      You really should see
                       him dance
                       in the Starstudded Ballroom
                       where the wicked pace
                       in the side-halls
                       dreaming of childhood summers
                       at the lake
                       and kisses in the morning.

                       Holy Science has smithed life!
                       Holy bullets smelted a fine
                       man.
                       Wholy Holey Holy Bullets.
Icarus Fragmenti Sep 2013
When I go, they'll say how they knew me. That they knew my passion. She'll say she pursued me. The only thing they show is nothing but cruelty. Neglect me, and vexed me, filled me with regret. I expect the fake tears, you've been practicing for years.

You'll say that you knew me, when you were never here. You were never there for me, but I cleaned up your fears. You'll say that you were down for me. Well you were never near. You could've saved me, from the wine and the beer.

You'll tell them they don't know me, when you don't know me too. You left me for some ha-ppiness, the pun's intended too. They'll tell you I was magical. I smithed my words with ease. They'll tell you it was tragical, the pain I pushed on me.

They'll say I was a saint. They'll say I was a sinner. they'll say I enjoyed being the center. They'll call me a hero. They will call me a winner. But I haven't won, I never entered. They'll say was arrogant. I needed anger management. They'll call me a villain, because I lost my feeling. I started talking killing.

Me myself and I have watched you all go by living on in your lives, I don't even get a hi. You never say goodbye, when you walk out of my life. You just keep on walking by I'm not even on your minds. Even though I find the time to sit here and dry your eyes, you'd think you could return the favor sometime. I'd tell you I see through you.

But really, are you surprised? I'm taking the time out for you before my demise. Sometimes I despise all of you guys. So I wonder why, I just wonder why. I wonder why they say they know me? I'm a ghost of their past. I'm losing color fast and I'm fading to the contrast.
rattletaptap Jun 2015
The morning was there, shinning like  
Freshly smithed iron. And I, I
Was in my room, tightly gripping a knife...

The window opened and I saw  
A cat brush against the wooden frame.
"Still the same, still the same" I heard it  say.

"Let me be, and just let me die.
I beg to have the last moments
Of my life; to do so in solitude."

"Fool... still the same..." I heard it say.
Its eyes looked at me as though the void
Was staring at me with its emptiness.

"Leave, ****** cat. All I knew is wrong,
All I had is now gone. I am...
Empty... so tell me why I am a fool."

"All you knew may be wrong, but all  
You did not may be right. Why turn a
Circle into a half one? Tell me why."

"I don't understand you demon, go,
Leave  me, let me die alone, let me
Be at last, at peace. I wish only for that..."

"Still the same, still the same" I heard it say
"Why run and get tired, when you can walk
And feel at ease, and have strength for later?"

"Leave me, whatever you are, leave me
And let me die. I do not understand
Your riddles, and words as empty as my soul."

"You do as others have done, you fail as
Others have failed. Like a cockroach you
Search for the darkness in the light."

"Go away, I am no petty insect... I am less,
A virus, a virus that only kills others and
Not itself. Now leave and let me die alone."

"Blood will not spill your sins,  steel will
Not end your grief. No death will bring life.
And no darkness will escape the light. Now see..."

The morning was there, shinning like
Freshly smithed iron. And I, I
Was in my room, tightly gripping a knife...
SELORM DEKU Sep 2015
Les soldats de la vie sans cesse peiné.
Il était un rêve, de ne jamais devenir le sol.
Ces hommes ont vu de vieux camarades à se joindre départ.


Toutes les forces et les compétences a été égrenée dans la douleur.
Avec des chemins et des outils conçus smithed nouveau à gagner.
Victoire o'er la tombe reste le prix qu'ils attendent.


Peur de mettre fin à la course pour la victoire générationnelle.
Ces soldats de la vie ont gardé le rythme dans leur chasse pour la gloire.
Mais pour la Grâce, leurs vies ont peut-être eu la même histoire.


Non étourdi par la lumière de sa sainteté.
Les contemplaient Son don pour la défense.
Aujourd'hui, les loua pour son salut si désintéressé.


La bataille leur bravoure a échoué à remporter.
Sa Grâce péniblement gagné et a donné à travers Lui.
Ces soldats propre paix et pour son service sont aptes.
Si vous aimez cela, ne pas hésiter relire et partager
#amour
Jeff S Nov 2017
“yes, you can”
they say to we, the writers,

when we are clung to writing desks
and textbook conversations as school naughts—

boys and girls who churn with knowledge in a mad pitch for
the matter of the American dream.

And through it all, this sneaks between the lines:
That dreams and matters and states are smithed by words—

Words that mold the landscape
That plough the fields
That pave the streets
That breach the wild for mankind to explore.

Do you remember the lessons?

I still remember the wheelbarrow, glazed
with rainwater, beside the white chickens…

And I still search for the farmer who
brought them together, whose footsteps cured

the chronicle of white and black,
the chapters of women and men,
the tables of hungry and over-fed,
the acts of untold races and the mix of tribes—

the history of we.

“It is writing on which we walk,” our forebears croon—

“but be prepared not to earn enough
to buy a scrappy pair of shoes.”
Parker Louis Jan 2015
I highly dislike the word love but not the concept
Because hearing others say I love you makes me feel inept
And when some one doesn't say it back it feels like a theft
and after the echo fades what's left?
Was saying it right?
It should be seen not heard since it shines so bright
or felt like a wave of the ocean
since it's just as strong
as any stupid l word song
Stronger actually
At least eventually
since over time it grows
and rollercoasters through highs and lows
While the word stays the same.
Who's to blame?
Whatever self proclaimed linguist smithed the word should be stripped of his name
because it's some thing you feel not some thing you hear
and saying it produces more fear
So just show me my dear.
3/3/13 12:41 a.m.
Tom Salter Jun 2020
Old man Oxford, plump
and merry in shape
and glee, a professor
of all things written
and green, his friends,
wooden and tall,
endowed him a pipe
of oaken skin, gilded
in bark and mirth, and
with this gift, he
smoked their leaves
and painted tales
of wondrous things,
each puff and ember
smithed his words,
carrying his thoughts
up high, where they
ventured in the golden
glitter of the sky, and
onto pages, forever,
in our minds, so,
thank you kind Tollers,
for you are the treasure
at the start of this
adventure.
kj Foster Oct 2014
*
Darling is a word,
smithed for prettier ears.
Eventually, rejection becomes
the familiar hum.

Hope was the thing to be feared.
Possibility  made my breathing shallow.

Turning my back to the moon,
I trained my eyes to ignore
the silver shadows on the black horizon,

Gravity wasn't just keeping me grounded,
it was keeping me safe,
from floating off into unknown space.

"We can't protect you, where we have not been", my Past selves whispered.

At least I think that is what they whispered.
I was preoccupied,
While they whimpered,
I was letting go.
O Columbia , forever in the chrysalis -
of battle , stoking the furnaces of tyranny
with rivers of fire fed from the backs of disenfranchised
labor , her abundant wealth smithed into golden sabers ..
Diamond boulevards , dancing waters ,  pristine
countryside
Poverty , malnutrition , political deflection , genocide

O Wanton Republic  , deceiver of her citizens
Ringing the bell of war to distract her minions
Forgetting the health of her own children in-
pursuit of clandestine missions
Filling the coffers of American Royalty with -
blind ambition* ...
Copyright January 3 , 2018 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Amad Tariq Sep 2019
Reaching into the abyss
Finding the hammer I forged
Smithed from the remnants of a broken soul
Now recommissioned to rebuild the remains
Forge again my broken heart
I wish to feel that love again
Hammer away to recreate that heart again
preston Jun 2020

And from the abyss
of an un-owned, nothingness
rises up the majestic image--
supremely crafted,   from
well-smithed words;

this something..
formed  out of nothing--

this counterfeit  substance
this ancient, hide

this cowardly, self-formed answer
to the Universe's primal core question
this childish refusal to grow up..
to own up,
and face the music

This fooling of the whole world..
this glory  of the moment..

and then, one final  pirouette,
before your unavoidable death-scream
at that final  moment of truth..


Ah truth, baby.. what a concept.

This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. The broadcasters of your area, in voluntary cooperation with the Federal, State and local authorities have developed this system to keep you informed in the event of an emergency. If this had been an actual emergency,  the Attention Signal you just heard would have been followed by official information, news or instructions. This station, Hello Poetry.. serves the whole.hiding world's, area.
This concludes this test of the Emergency Broadcast System.

"yeah, thankyou,, thankyoyverucuchh.."
~Johnny ******, and the *****
Jeff Lester Mar 2019
The Mahogany Ships

by Jeff Lester

1.
In the great court of King Phillip,
the brave twins put sword to the great unknown;
eloquent, they spoke of the right of passage
and the conquest of pagan tribes.
Together, they smithed such fine words
that ball shot from shipboard cannon
made no sound on flesh or chain
- though none thought to ask
of the watermarks that lay within those pages.
None save for the mariner,
who kept his mind quiet
lest they take the chance from him.

2.
In the high towers above the sea,
under lock and key, the wives met chastity
with the midnight lard
- until one of them again forced open her thighs,
this time to spill blood and soil linen.
That infant found much despair
when it met sea air at the gape
and its cry sent the mid-wives running
into the night, lanterns aloft with flames
bravely daring that foul breeze.
By morning, the twins had sent rats
from every town and city
to the mariner’s dock
with every ******* son they could find.

3.
After the Cape, what call came to the mariner
from beyond the unknown precipice?
That proof and others went asunder
with each new bearing from his sextant:
at the late hour of the watch,
the only sound that gave comfort
was the lash for the night watchmen
asleep in the ship’s tower
so that under-decks, all might dream kindly
of trade winds, not Sargasso seas.
But at the dead reckoning, when the mariner
turned hard into the wind
without instruments to guide him,
the voice of twins came uninvited
and without warning from across the seas.
Then, when he needed utmost quiet,
it was the call from within
that disturbed him most
for it was in a language
that he could not discern or decipher
as none of it was countenanced
or considered under the charter’s seal.





4.
Great ships may **** and plunder
for a time, but rocks will break hearts
and ship’s hulls without stars to guide them.
Now undersea, the mariner’s bleached log
speaks not of the long night at the Cape’s turn
nor of those that would mourn his passing.
Instead, the mariner wrote of the frailty
of pitch and mahogany – before discarding
that precious gift to begin again with words
for those sent high into the rigging
in search of the distant shore.
In rhythm with the sea, he wrote
of his fear of footmarks in the sands
and of the solace of burials at home and sea.
He wrote of the calm before the great storm;
of strange lights in the southern skies
and of the uncertain passage of travellers
that confront seas that waken in the dark of night.
All that and more he wrote:
words that might have withstood any test
but rejection – in the end, the sea took it all
in an act of preservation.

5.
On a far-flung coast in Western Australia,
a raging storm from beyond the Cape
wrests another great ship from its hiding place.
The vessel has no name carved on it
fore or aft – and no mast that a fresh sail,
filled with wind, might again take it
to another shore. Though timber and iron
last the vigil for a time,
the voices that called out to the mariner
linger there on that shore
with an improper burial.
It takes a full decade for a patient sea
to bare its plunder, but only an instant
for it to change its mind for the morning.

6.
At low tide on the new day, descendants
from the Old World discover the pieces
of broken pottery that the storm has left behind.
Some wake innocently in the ruins, having spent
that wild night copulating on the shore.  
Others, with fresh paper and instruments
in their hands, search until nightfall
for the great ship that still plies its trade
of war and conquest from beneath the sands.
None find what they seek, though later
some might ***** a stone monument
on the site that others, four centuries earlier,
would have found suitable for a light-house –
if they had foreseen that lonely place
where the shards always flee
with the rising tide of a fresh sea.
Tom Salter May 2020
Old man Oxford, plump
and merry in shape
and glee, a professor
of all things written
and green, his
friends, wooden and tall,
endowed him a pipe
of oaken skin, gilded
in bark and mirth, and
with this gift, he
smoked their leaves
and painted tales
of fantastical dreams, each
puff and ember smithed
his words, carrying his
mind into the cloud-stained
skies, where they danced
in the golden gleams, with
flocks of eagles, and
the blowing westerlies.

— The End —