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"spelling" poems
i don't watch home movies hate them reason being because when i was young i was looking for a movie my mother had recorded for me and accidentally put one in the vcr that i'm not sure i was supposed to see i know the obvious response *"uh oh, **** sorry to disappoint they were only marked with dates   1991 on live television montel williams asks my father *"how can you just throw your child away like a piece of trash?"*    1994 i spend so much time in the emergency room that my parents stop penciling in growth marks on the frame of my bedroom door i always thought it was because they believed i would never grow out of this sickness sometimes i believe the reason that they never bought me a dream catcher was because they never thought i'd live long enough to see them come true    1996 i am eliminated from a spelling bee because i didn't know the 'dad' is silent in 'family'    2013 before i got into poetry i used to do standup none of my jokes were funny one of the other comics tells me my skits are dry sometimes sad he says *"why don't you joke about something like your family?"* so i say *"i never wore any sunblock because i didn't want anything to keep me from my father"* i say *"what do you call christmas without lights or heat?"* before he has a chance to answer i say *"1997. better yet why don't you make like a dad and leave"*    2014 every time we drive past the hospital my mother reminds me how much it cost to save my life like she'd rather have her money back she doesn't have to say that sometimes she wishes it was me who had died instead of my brother i can hear it in the way she says "love you" sometimes i imagine that if i were to die that she would pick out a casket for a child because she never loved the person i became yesterday i told my father how close i'd been to suicide lately and he said *"that's my boy, livin on the edge.."* and i can't remember if i laughed or cried
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Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
there are only dates
i don't watch home movies hate them reason being because when i was young i was looking for a movie my mother had recorded for me and accidentally put one in the vcr that i'm not sure i was supposed to see i know the obvious response *"uh oh, **** sorry to disappoint they were only marked with dates   1991 on live television montel williams asks my father *"how can you just throw your child away like a piece of trash?"*    1994 i spend so much time in the emergency room that my parents stop penciling in growth marks on the frame of my bedroom door i always thought it was because they believed i would never grow out of this sickness sometimes i believe the reason that they never bought me a dream catcher was because they never thought i'd live long enough to see them come true    1996 i am eliminated from a spelling bee because i didn't know the 'dad' is silent in 'family'    2013 before i got into poetry i used to do standup none of my jokes were funny one of the other comics tells me my skits are dry sometimes sad he says *"why don't you joke about something like your family?"* so i say *"i never wore any sunblock because i didn't want anything to keep me from my father"* i say *"what do you call christmas without lights or heat?"* before he has a chance to answer i say *"1997. better yet why don't you make like a dad and leave"*    2014 every time we drive past the hospital my mother reminds me how much it cost to save my life like she'd rather have her money back she doesn't have to say that sometimes she wishes it was me who had died instead of my brother i can hear it in the way she says "love you" sometimes i imagine that if i were to die that she would pick out a casket for a child because she never loved the person i became yesterday i told my father how close i'd been to suicide lately and he said *"that's my boy, livin on the edge.."* and i can't remember if i laughed or cried
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91
It's elementary, my dear This bittersweet affection that I feel From one boy to the next I grew Ladder rungs of broken hearts First grade Blonde hair and disarming smile Recess games and hallway passes A note in a diary and minutes spent giggling Never talking, always watching Fourth grade Glasses frame of brown hair and thin shoulders Curious enigma to come and go A bit more literate diary entrees One year of crossed legs and shy smiles Fifth grade A growing tree of lean muscle and blue eyes Short brown hair and a charming grin Side by side on a rubber track Gray skies and sweet goodbyes A bright dance floor and a shattered heart Miserable nights and heartbreak songs Seventh grade Long dark hair and chocolate eyes This spring has brought a strange surprise Wiry muscle and soft cheeks Once admired, then adored An ongoing thrum of sweet affection Sidelong glances and gym class stares New discoveries and quiet realization Girl can love girl Tenth grade A firecracker packed with mysterious boys And an enigmatic girl A bomb in the summer sky Spelling new names, new faces, new hearts A whisper of 'I love you' at long last returned Names carved on my ribs and pulling my lips A tightened chest never felt so good
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Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
Crush
Above the caldera at Yellowstone, a brittle soil-rock crust caps a lake of liquid fire with only fumaroles and roiling geysers to slake its upward ****** A single heedless step is enough to breech that mantle's fragile seal - spelling death by fire to any hapless soul who fails to guard his steps. Fragile calderas also roil buried in dark crevices of our psyches - brewed of failures, slights and fears dissolved in fiery pools of self-consuming misery. To dress and salve our wounded souls we plant fertile gardens of reconciliation with beauty, trust and charity and kneel to gods of grace and solace. But a despot’s practiced eye knows how to tap our fragile crusts, releasing acrid lava flows from pools where fear and rage reign hot, and reason has no district. Friends and siblings - my flesh and kin, this world is ours to lose or save so let us seal well our Sacred Calderas from bitter foes that stalk us from within. July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018 Robert Charles Howard
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Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
Sacred Calderas
I stood there, Tall and proud, Half yard behind Death drop, Vortex form at toes, Put fish world in spin. Crush moss trees with Splashing feet. One long gaze Left to right, Miles of pool and stream Spelling poetry in cursive Through eroded landscape. Zip down, Junk out. Open gates of flesh tap Muscle relax, Fresh release Of human nectar. Light separation Casting rainbow shimmer, A dancing upright Tower of liquid. Gravity outstretch Palm grip And connect Via web of Golden pour, Chaps eye to Mother earth. A converging Of torrents, Saturating transparent terrain With saffron and lemon. The taste in a frog's mouth Of sweet ammonia. Clench, And donation over. A momentary meld Of man and nature. Those few seconds Putting context into me: At one with the scenery, An extension of environment, A limb of creation.
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Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
******* Down a Waterfall
Julie had never been one to partake in Girly things, dollies and frills Julie was one of those tomboy like girls Who looked out for adventurous thrills She loved riding bikes, down the hill at high speed Screaming loud with her hands in the air But Julie could not play in organized sports Her mum said the cash wasn't there She sat on the  sidelines and watched all the games To not play the game was a sin But Julie Macado would spend her whole life On the outside of things looking in. She knew all the players on all of the teams She wanted so badly to play But Julie Macado would learn pretty fast She was one of the have-nots that day In gym she was better than all of the guys She sank every shot that she tried But organized sports was just out of her league She was still sitting on the outside Her friends that she played with said "Go see the coach", maybe he'll let you join up When she told her poor mother that that's what's she'd do Her mother told her to shut up "I've done my best girl, to give you a life" "And charity...I'll never take" "If you're gonna play then you'll pay your own way "For you learn more when somethings at stake" So Julie went out, hustled, working part time Doing all that she could to make bucks But, when she had enough money to finally join in The season was done...and that ***** Even though she had shown she could be on the team She was finished and did not begin Poor Julie Macodo was still not on the team She was still outside looking in She worked all that summer making money galore She'd be ready to sign up that fall She had enough money to pay for herself She was going to play basketball Her mum lost her job in early July The plant that she worked at had closed Now she too was outside looking in at the others They would move...that was what she supposed Again Julie Macado would miss out again All of her money she gave to her mom She would be an outsider for all of her life Never playing a game...'cept for fun Even though she was better than all in her school She would never be in looking out Until that one day, when a man from Kentucky Had come up to Freeling to scout He'd heard of this girl, who could shoot from the floor She had skills that he had seldom seen He signed her on up to a four year free ride It was all like a really good dream He told her of how, he had gotten a letter About a young girl ..that was her It was written in crayon and a little bid blurry And it stated out with a Dear Ser, the spelling was bad, but he read it completely It told of how Julie could play But she had not school record, no history so He set out to see the girl play He contacted the school and he asked them for game films They said she played only in gym So he set out directly to see for himself The decision would be up to him Now, Julie Macado has realized her dream Her life is all set to begin She did it herself, with a note from her Mother She was no longer out looking in.
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May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 6:20 PM UTC
Outside Looking In
Julie had never been one to partake in Girly things, dollies and frills Julie was one of those tomboy like girls Who looked out for adventurous thrills She loved riding bikes, down the hill at high speed Screaming loud with her hands in the air But Julie could not play in organized sports Her mum said the cash wasn't there She sat on the  sidelines and watched all the games To not play the game was a sin But Julie Macado would spend her whole life On the outside of things looking in. She knew all the players on all of the teams She wanted so badly to play But Julie Macado would learn pretty fast She was one of the have-nots that day In gym she was better than all of the guys She sank every shot that she tried But organized sports was just out of her league She was still sitting on the outside Her friends that she played with said "Go see the coach", maybe he'll let you join up When she told her poor mother that that's what's she'd do Her mother told her to shut up "I've done my best girl, to give you a life" "And charity...I'll never take" "If you're gonna play then you'll pay your own way "For you learn more when somethings at stake" So Julie went out, hustled, working part time Doing all that she could to make bucks But, when she had enough money to finally join in The season was done...and that ***** Even though she had shown she could be on the team She was finished and did not begin Poor Julie Macodo was still not on the team She was still outside looking in She worked all that summer making money galore She'd be ready to sign up that fall She had enough money to pay for herself She was going to play basketball Her mum lost her job in early July The plant that she worked at had closed Now she too was outside looking in at the others They would move...that was what she supposed Again Julie Macado would miss out again All of her money she gave to her mom She would be an outsider for all of her life Never playing a game...'cept for fun Even though she was better than all in her school She would never be in looking out Until that one day, when a man from Kentucky Had come up to Freeling to scout He'd heard of this girl, who could shoot from the floor She had skills that he had seldom seen He signed her on up to a four year free ride It was all like a really good dream He told her of how, he had gotten a letter About a young girl ..that was her It was written in crayon and a little bid blurry And it stated out with a Dear Ser, the spelling was bad, but he read it completely It told of how Julie could play But she had not school record, no history so He set out to see the girl play He contacted the school and he asked them for game films They said she played only in gym So he set out directly to see for himself The decision would be up to him Now, Julie Macado has realized her dream Her life is all set to begin She did it herself, with a note from her Mother She was no longer out looking in.
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72
only an idiot like me, the rain poured down, my socks were wetted,  and i looked at the pavement for glory, instead i found a £10 note and  imagined my right shoe on my left leg, and my left shoe on my right  leg... just to prove the luck. it came from listening to rotting christ's kata ton daimona... i wrote the poem on two tesco receipts numbering them no. 1 - .4, it made sense to just give it a narrative... the naturally apparent lisp of greek is due to... lies between theta (θ) and phi (φ)... check feta cheese... it might be less morbidly fermented... that's why the greeks have a natural lisp... it's theta and it's phi... in english it's like chinese.... w & r... something's rolling something's waving, something's trigonometric... harrison fowd was almost jonathan woss if i care... the chinese in english debate with chin-chin-wanker scissors piece of paper stone good luck on the handshake: lost the price of interest being gained for excavation purposes of dinosaur bones and inflation via the ptertodactyl of the extended mohawk shave... english dicionary makes me confused... it places theta alongside the, than... but then it's therapy... thermometer... too many unique examples i'd have said... that's the lisp there... sidelined phew and engaged in phew in byzantine... english linguistics is filled with too many "unique" examples of expression... coupled with the celebrity culture... i farted and a person took hold of a *** squeeze... how's that?! english language in summary? pleasing on the eye... but the spelling? a burden on the tongue. i know that slavic linguistics would make enlgish that's written ugly... it wouldn't be pharmacology but farmacology... then it made sense, i stopped asking the english dicta written down, the greek θ wasn't a couple of th & etc... a few athenains in death metal said it like i said it... the 2nd f... it was απηθανoν - because it was simply athens - fern fence... and not d... defence, or anything easily acquired as a prescription of zee wee point of german scottish.
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Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
the sweet greek lisp (θ vs. φ) no. 1
only an idiot like me, the rain poured down, my socks were wetted,  and i looked at the pavement for glory, instead i found a £10 note and  imagined my right shoe on my left leg, and my left shoe on my right  leg... just to prove the luck. it came from listening to rotting christ's kata ton daimona... i wrote the poem on two tesco receipts numbering them no. 1 - .4, it made sense to just give it a narrative... the naturally apparent lisp of greek is due to... lies between theta (θ) and phi (φ)... check feta cheese... it might be less morbidly fermented... that's why the greeks have a natural lisp... it's theta and it's phi... in english it's like chinese.... w & r... something's rolling something's waving, something's trigonometric... harrison fowd was almost jonathan woss if i care... the chinese in english debate with chin-chin-wanker scissors piece of paper stone good luck on the handshake: lost the price of interest being gained for excavation purposes of dinosaur bones and inflation via the ptertodactyl of the extended mohawk shave... english dicionary makes me confused... it places theta alongside the, than... but then it's therapy... thermometer... too many unique examples i'd have said... that's the lisp there... sidelined phew and engaged in phew in byzantine... english linguistics is filled with too many "unique" examples of expression... coupled with the celebrity culture... i farted and a person took hold of a *** squeeze... how's that?! english language in summary? pleasing on the eye... but the spelling? a burden on the tongue. i know that slavic linguistics would make enlgish that's written ugly... it wouldn't be pharmacology but farmacology... then it made sense, i stopped asking the english dicta written down, the greek θ wasn't a couple of th & etc... a few athenains in death metal said it like i said it... the 2nd f... it was απηθανoν - because it was simply athens - fern fence... and not d... defence, or anything easily acquired as a prescription of zee wee point of german scottish.
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40
i. Beset next to me Coadjuvant to mine need's; I couldst not asketh for more Mine Reyna's all do I believeth. ii. She compasses me in Dwarf Daylilies Her suntanned dermis is momentous; Wallowed in her oversea's memories A throne surpassing, Hari and Reyna scented. iii. In Luzon, the older part of the firma Betwixt the Cordillera Region, see through pneuma's; Hand-poke tool's, for me and mine dynasty amour' To get tattoos, of her ancestry upon her own shore's. iv. Covered head to toe By these inked protection's; Spelling out the word's Brandon and Jane's resurrection. ©Brandon nagley ©Earl Jane dedication/Reyna of mine soul ©Lonesome poet's poetry
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Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
Tatu ng ang aming pag-ibig ( Tattoo of our love) filipino tongue
you can’t right the same poem twice hell, yes I can in pointy fact, only got one, which gets re-righted morning noon and evening-tide substitute a variant spelling wright vs write vs right and the meaning changes thrice *the only thing i can’t not duplicate is those **** love poems each unique and writ for the woman specific, each love one, custom jiggered, each poem, crafted, to her pulse each poem, drafted, to her scent none alike, and that’s why I believe in the god who commanded "create her" to make love poems in his way, gave me millions of veins, an extra ribbing, of inspiration to pray to... my heart altered, modified, daily* **** poems **** love poems **** love
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Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
you can’t right the same poem twice **** love poems)
Kiss and spell, Well, really, do tell, Witches need spelling, In their caves, for dwelling, Relax and have fun, For super Sunday fun, Only there's clouds, But fun still allowed, Witches need spelling, in caves for dwelling, In each coven of one, Relax, and have fun!
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Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC
THIS LITTLE WITCH....
Ears pressed cool against glass tables and vinyl flooring words score high drained slowly slow like wasps caught in guttered draining not like velvet names etched in casing, but weathered like bricked and beaten graffiti – Waning like wax always melting Tools: spelling and grammar – uncheck Don’t fret too many gerunds grounding air suffocating hearing between the lines that past lower truths out straight in dirt and stinky face: eyes drawn with pensive staring lines drawn global remains of words unused: boycott form because it isn’t daring. Adopt sonar because it traces the smokestack between eaves drop and scrap metal hearing like thorns prickled cut by cleaver. Clink, clink, clank. Unlatch cellar doors of images fixed in meaning: glances slanted heads poked out behind legs enchanting ink under eyelids. Clank, click, click. Wishing: Sunday morning came to rest and the cat perched rest without the windowsill and the space between my legs lost meaning. Forgetting: Painted houses haunting furniture misplaced, training lessons in memory fading.   Dreaming: Sounds dipped in vegetable oil, Van Morrison in teething states caring. Still lost without my last breathe wondering…
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Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
THERAPY IN WRITING
Do you know what ***** Not being good at everything. I sat down at the piano To practice for the umpteenth time Millions of thoughts rush through my head: My form ***** I can't hit the right notes My fingers don't want to work together I can barely read the music I will never be able to do this I **** I was born to believe that I needed to be the best At everything I did To please my parents And get the recognition I deserved. The truthful "well done" from my mother. But there came a time where getting A's is all they expected from me So when I would get above and beyond 100 percents I got nothing No well done, no good job. Yet my brother who would narrowly pass his spelling tests Would get commended for his work. Pushing myself harder and harder to be the best Every second of every day Has lead me to be unhappy whenever something isn't to the level I think it should be. I know that perfection is impossible And that you can't be good at everything. But every time I fail It feels like I'm dying a little inside. Frustration. Anger. Depression. I can barely hold it all together. This pressure to be perfect may seem unbearable, But it's my way of life. Without it, I have no idea who I would be.
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Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
The Pressure to be Perfect
Sometimes we wish We were Americans We would have aced the Spelling B's Been athletes on scholarships Or won beauty pageants Our institutions would compete And we would win prizes For accomplishments If we were Americans We would thrive with competition We would live the American Dream And be rich and famous I just know it Sometimes we just wish Our Scandinavian system favoured people with our talents Our lack of compromise More
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Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC
Ungrateful Sons
If only things were as easy as 1,2,3 A,B,C Like elementary Arithmetic and spelling Simple science Gym was always stunning Recess was revered The swings were sacred Writing on the jungle gym Laughing Running off with friends to play Being enchanted by the smell of coffee and trees Magic every second you breathe Simply because you were somewhere you weren't supposed to be Close your eyes Now what do you see? Darkness? Dots of color? Phantoms of light? Remember when you saw dragons Wizards Whole worlds enchanting When you walked people said it seemed like you were dancing Remember when you were happy? There was no worry about what to do What are you going to be? You had your whole life Figure out what to do Well what now? What's your plan? Too bad Too late It's not elementary None of your dreams can come true You're completely *******
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Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 12:45 AM UTC
woohoo
(you do you, baby boo, i know moms who rather write poetry and spend five bucks on their kids’ mouths lolol) always the act of forgetting the people behind the screen, when you blame me like mingling with lanceheaded dreams delivering pointless blows spelling it like im incomplete unless i bring all of myself to the table alone & the room’s clean, and the kitchen’s clean the birds sing and the sunlight’s cold and bright seems like everything’s where it’s supposed to be when you’re not around now what a paradox that is
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Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 12:23 PM UTC
paradoxical lee
Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words. Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark On the horizon walking like the trees The wordy shapes of women, and the rows Of the star-gestured children in the park. Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches, Some of the oaken voices, from the roots Of many a thorny shire tell you notes, Some let me make you of the water's speeches. Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning And tells the windy weather in the **** Some let me make you of the meadow's signs; The signal grass that tells me all I know Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye. Some let me tell you of the raven's sins. Especially when the October wind (Some let me make you of autumnal spells, The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales) With fists of turnips punishes the land, Some let me make of you the heartless words. The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury. By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
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5.5k
Especially When The October Wind
Heard a hip-hop anthem today BOSS “Michelle Obama… purse so heavy… getting Oprah dollars…” A rhythmic dance beat spelling out Confidence And Respect A baller banner of pride Flung to the ceiling, waving Women’s independence Black women’s power I see it… But Is an album adorned with 5 sultry females Clad only in a man’s shirt and high heels Singing show me the money Sold to the club scene to inspire ***** shaking And Yeager bomb throwing So we forget the work week challenges Relationship pains And Embrace vicariously our entitlements HELPFUL?
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Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
BOSS NOT
Worlds physical? Or worlds mental? It makes all the difference. Without the sciences it wouldn't matter either way The last time I was taken from earth without moving? Excepting when reading, with math. Tesselations and fractals and numbers Numbers have a flow all their own Without numbers, meter and rhyme couldn't be Even now, without numbers this discussion could not be held Even now this typing is numbers It may not look it, but its all ones and zeroes The angle and curvature of every letter defines language I say nay my friend, nay I never spoke the words declaring math and science the crown of humanity And the words stating english its clothes They are important, both in their own way, But think of this: you cannot do math Nor calculate the distance from venus to the Andromodean galaxy without math But think also of this: communication may exist without english Numerical codes and codexes and letters written entirely in numbers or symbols Do exist I dare not refute the value of english, but do you argue the language or the study? The study can be done away with and easily Put to rest, as it had to be created The language too was created and came from Some mother language But we always had math. Does not even an ape know that an even split To a banana is half? Apes have no words as we think of them But still, they do not have english They don't have a grammar and spelling system nor manner of speaking, They communicate perfectly well, even without words But how are they to place value on objects without math? Even some crude understanding of value Is math A banana must be worth less than two, no? English resides on emotion and feeling, whereas math and numbers rest upon fact How does one win an arguement without numbers? Even now you use them.
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Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
the last one (mine)
Worlds physical? Or worlds mental? It makes all the difference. Without the sciences it wouldn't matter either way The last time I was taken from earth without moving? Excepting when reading, with math. Tesselations and fractals and numbers Numbers have a flow all their own Without numbers, meter and rhyme couldn't be Even now, without numbers this discussion could not be held Even now this typing is numbers It may not look it, but its all ones and zeroes The angle and curvature of every letter defines language I say nay my friend, nay I never spoke the words declaring math and science the crown of humanity And the words stating english its clothes They are important, both in their own way, But think of this: you cannot do math Nor calculate the distance from venus to the Andromodean galaxy without math But think also of this: communication may exist without english Numerical codes and codexes and letters written entirely in numbers or symbols Do exist I dare not refute the value of english, but do you argue the language or the study? The study can be done away with and easily Put to rest, as it had to be created The language too was created and came from Some mother language But we always had math. Does not even an ape know that an even split To a banana is half? Apes have no words as we think of them But still, they do not have english They don't have a grammar and spelling system nor manner of speaking, They communicate perfectly well, even without words But how are they to place value on objects without math? Even some crude understanding of value Is math A banana must be worth less than two, no? English resides on emotion and feeling, whereas math and numbers rest upon fact How does one win an arguement without numbers? Even now you use them.
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41
MA KING AME-RICA GRATE AGIN ( for Brian ) "Your mum's an alien..an... ha ha ha ha alien!" the children chant and taunt. I see through tears their sneers and hated etched upon their features like a mask they could/couldn't take off. It is like a thousand years ago all over again. The Age of the thing called Trump when humans were both orange and stupid. Now we have computers built into each whorl facts at our fingertips with just a finger snap we can call up what used to be called videos of the Trump thing teaching humans how to hate. I, unlike my sisters am not green except for a slight greenish hue every now and then. I am more the chameleon and can blend in. I have the necessary arms and the obligatory number of eyes. Only my mum and sisters look like a lurid 1950's comic "THEY CAME FROM OUTER SPACE!" yet earth would not be here if aliens( us )had  not come to save them from themselves back when earth had entered the Age of Dictators as the history apps. quaintly put it Now is come again the hateful hate ma king Ame-rica grate again like a mind grinding its teeth. I'm sorry am the English no good and the spelling as well we will have to hide behind our mind walls that we had to build to keep humans out. My mother taking me lovingly in her tentacles stroking me and drying my eyes and making tea With a snap of my fingers I bring up my favourite video and a Kermit hologram floats before my face "It's not that  easy bein' green!" and I singalong like any human being "...when green is all there is to be."
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Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
MA KING AME-RICA GRATE AGIN( for Brian )
MA KING AME-RICA GRATE AGIN ( for Brian ) "Your mum's an alien..an... ha ha ha ha alien!" the children chant and taunt. I see through tears their sneers and hated etched upon their features like a mask they could/couldn't take off. It is like a thousand years ago all over again. The Age of the thing called Trump when humans were both orange and stupid. Now we have computers built into each whorl facts at our fingertips with just a finger snap we can call up what used to be called videos of the Trump thing teaching humans how to hate. I, unlike my sisters am not green except for a slight greenish hue every now and then. I am more the chameleon and can blend in. I have the necessary arms and the obligatory number of eyes. Only my mum and sisters look like a lurid 1950's comic "THEY CAME FROM OUTER SPACE!" yet earth would not be here if aliens( us )had  not come to save them from themselves back when earth had entered the Age of Dictators as the history apps. quaintly put it Now is come again the hateful hate ma king Ame-rica grate again like a mind grinding its teeth. I'm sorry am the English no good and the spelling as well we will have to hide behind our mind walls that we had to build to keep humans out. My mother taking me lovingly in her tentacles stroking me and drying my eyes and making tea With a snap of my fingers I bring up my favourite video and a Kermit hologram floats before my face "It's not that  easy bein' green!" and I singalong like any human being "...when green is all there is to be."
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71
You can see it already: chalks and ochers; Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines; Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass; Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape; A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though: A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse); On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain All angular--you'd think a shovel did it. So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes; Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes, They carp at every gust that stirs them up. At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow Is rusting; and before me lies the vast Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue; ***** and hens spread their gildings, and converse Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics, Now and then, toss me songs in dialect. In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker; The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff. I like these waters where the wild gale scuds; All day the country tempts me to go strolling; The little village urchins, book in hand, Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging), As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off. The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant Soft noise of children spelling things aloud. The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you! Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live: Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed My days, and think of you, my lady fair! I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times, Sailing across the high seas in its pride, Over the gables of the tranquil village, Some winged ship which is traveling far away, Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds. Lately it slept in port beside the quay. Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge: No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives, Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters, Nor importunity of sinister birds.
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4.4k
Letter
You can see it already: chalks and ochers; Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines; Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass; Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape; A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though: A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse); On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain All angular--you'd think a shovel did it. So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes; Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes, They carp at every gust that stirs them up. At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow Is rusting; and before me lies the vast Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue; ***** and hens spread their gildings, and converse Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics, Now and then, toss me songs in dialect. In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker; The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff. I like these waters where the wild gale scuds; All day the country tempts me to go strolling; The little village urchins, book in hand, Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging), As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off. The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant Soft noise of children spelling things aloud. The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you! Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live: Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed My days, and think of you, my lady fair! I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times, Sailing across the high seas in its pride, Over the gables of the tranquil village, Some winged ship which is traveling far away, Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds. Lately it slept in port beside the quay. Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge: No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives, Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters, Nor importunity of sinister birds.
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44
i know a boy who sits behind me always tapping his pen tapping and tapping fingertips spelling i am anxious i know a boy who walks me to class looks at me before I leave his foot keeps tapping and tapping and I keep waiting for him to tell me goodbye so I can go to class i know a boy who cannot stop like a car alarm on christmas morning like police sirens underwater a boy afraid of the pause the rest, the wait, the halt the slow motion of eyes meeting, elbows accidentally touching words becoming deep breaths, hesitating instead I know a boy who is still a child and over and over, i loved him "still"
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Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
love letter to the boy with ADHD
Above the caldera at Yellowstone, a brittle soil-rock crust caps a lake of liquid fire with only fumaroles and roiling geysers to stay its upward ****** One errant step is all it takes to breach that mantle's fragile seal - spelling death by fire to any hapless wanderer who fails to guard his path. Fragile calderas also roil buried in darkest hollows of our psyches - brewed of failures, slights and fears dissolved in molten pools of self-consuming misery. To dress and salve our wounds we sow gardens of reconciliation within with beauty, trust and reason and bow to gods of grace and solace. But a despot’s studied eye knows just how to tap our fragile crusts, releasing acrid lava flows from pools where fear and rage reign hot and reason has no district. Sisters and brothers of our flesh I pray we find a holy and transforming alchemy to convert our heat to light and shield our sacred calderas from enemies that stalk us from within. July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018 Robert Charles Howard
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Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 12:30 PM UTC
Sacred Calderas (repost)
To relate, to imagine something similar to what is being shown, to imagine what it might be like. A metaphorical meaning is like being a shadow that tries to relate to a star. A poem with metaphorical meaning is written with more effort, research, and a deeper understanding of language. I have written more metaphorical poems than average poetry. I work harder on metaphorical meaning than I would with basic techniques. I love a challenge so that's why you see more metaphorical poems written by me. I have researched many languages and meanings to words, my techniques for writing reflect my efforts. I am a writer who writes with imagery and metaphor so often that I am known to be an eccentric writer. It's an exotic way of expression. It helps my readers to relate to what I am thinking. Also, it is how my brain sees the world. I was not born with language like most people are, I am an autistic person. I don't have a natural language in my mind, I have learned how to express myself through writing because of my handicap. I am not perfect but I try to improve myself by learning and practice. I am still learning not to criticize myself too much. I am never a good judge so I try not to think about it too much. I analyze everything so I think it's good for me to try not to analyze my writing as often as possible. I end up changing my work until it turns into something completely different than it started out if I do. I want people to see the effort and time I give my poetry, so I do my best to show it. I am always happy to do something new and challenging. My grammar and spelling has improved because I am willing to take feedback. I love it when people are honest and tell me if I made a mistake because I can learn from the mistake. To grow and develop you need a plan and a place to go when you need space. I have learned this and I believe that is what helps me to improve. Metaphorically speaking, I am like a leaf I change with the seasons and I am willing to grow within a tight space. I love being with other leafs like myself. That's why I join communities like this one. Thank you, Hello Poetry. © 2018 By Amanda Shelton
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Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 3:39 PM UTC
Metaphorical Poetry
To relate, to imagine something similar to what is being shown, to imagine what it might be like. A metaphorical meaning is like being a shadow that tries to relate to a star. A poem with metaphorical meaning is written with more effort, research, and a deeper understanding of language. I have written more metaphorical poems than average poetry. I work harder on metaphorical meaning than I would with basic techniques. I love a challenge so that's why you see more metaphorical poems written by me. I have researched many languages and meanings to words, my techniques for writing reflect my efforts. I am a writer who writes with imagery and metaphor so often that I am known to be an eccentric writer. It's an exotic way of expression. It helps my readers to relate to what I am thinking. Also, it is how my brain sees the world. I was not born with language like most people are, I am an autistic person. I don't have a natural language in my mind, I have learned how to express myself through writing because of my handicap. I am not perfect but I try to improve myself by learning and practice. I am still learning not to criticize myself too much. I am never a good judge so I try not to think about it too much. I analyze everything so I think it's good for me to try not to analyze my writing as often as possible. I end up changing my work until it turns into something completely different than it started out if I do. I want people to see the effort and time I give my poetry, so I do my best to show it. I am always happy to do something new and challenging. My grammar and spelling has improved because I am willing to take feedback. I love it when people are honest and tell me if I made a mistake because I can learn from the mistake. To grow and develop you need a plan and a place to go when you need space. I have learned this and I believe that is what helps me to improve. Metaphorically speaking, I am like a leaf I change with the seasons and I am willing to grow within a tight space. I love being with other leafs like myself. That's why I join communities like this one. Thank you, Hello Poetry. © 2018 By Amanda Shelton
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70
A dying girl hung her heavy head over a carpet aged to smoker's gray. She collapsed on a floor covered in crumpled clothes, stripped off and tossed aside. She knelt beside a bed that once held goodnight kisses and rosy morning cheeks, now full of tears that dawn turned to braille, spelling slow defeat beneath mourning fingers. Pulling her curly hair taut in tired fists, she freed every bit swiftly from her scalp and nicked her tender skin with tiny rusted blades until there was nothing left but raw flesh. She caught a thief moving in the mirror with body bags beneath her eyes: a ghostly girl, a stolen soul, a blank mask, a hood of bone.
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Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
Bald
I read him one of my poems He complemented my mechanics And although part of me laughed Wondering how he heard me breathe the commas Heard my spelling bee winner's letter placement Still The notion stuck Steadfast Push-pinned in my memory In the neglected space where kind gestures live I told him how I appreciated it I should've told him Boy no no You don't understand My mechanics need fixing No not my grammar boy I should've told him to volunteer Sweet boy I know hands are easier to work with than words Touch me with both Shhhh sweet boy Fix me with your good nature Let it wash over me Wash away my grime You needn't a good speaking voice But a good intention Warming arms To thaw me Couldn't hurt But sweet boy Too bad We all grow sick of licorice And I broke you Like the mantelpiece momma told me not to play around I broke you For a less sweet boy With a politician tongue And words soaked in muddy motives I broke you Hardened you Into a less sweet boy With a polititia- err Salesman tongue And words soaked in muddy motives I left you Gone with the wind You were the Rett In the search for my Ashley But he broke me Like the soldiers countenance heading to combat He left me Wondering Where all the sweet boys could have gone
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May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
Sweet boys
i'm always trying to describe the wrong things, aren't i? describing your voice when it's the words that matter outlining your face when it's the smile that really shatters upon my eyes trying to write this feeling down when it's the reasons that are really important to me and i guess that's when i realize i've been avoiding penning this fear afraid of the reasons, of the causes that led me here and this feeling? it's nothing more than a consequence or so i tell myself as i step carefully over the dark puddles and onto the hard cement, looking for the yellow lines that will tell me where to go left or right? right or wrong? i've been describing the wrong things i know that now, and i have each scene played out in black and white while the real meaning is lost in the spaces between the letters and the missing punctuation gathers itself into the sky spelling out the word i am afraid of fear
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Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
avoiding