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Samuel Hoffmann Jul 2018
I’ve seen good men die
And bad men cry
And everything far in-between.

I’ve seen hate born of love
And a black feathered dove,
You have no clue what I’ve seen.

But you say things like:
“I feel you brother,”
“trust me, things will be okay.”

But you have no clue what it like,
Behind my brown spherical eyes.
Please stop the stupid things you say.

I’ve seen people given hope,
necks tied with rope.
My world is crazier than it seems.

I’ve had family members lay dead,
Funerals without one word said.
The world just ***** for me.

But you say it’ll all be okay,
As if you’re clairvoyant.

But you’re not.

You say prayer and hope,
Falling off a cliff? You don't need a rope.
“trust me, things will be okay.”

But it isn’t.

It never is,
Never will be.

You have no clue what I’ve seen.
Here's a good one. Enjoy if you want, hate if you want, don't read if you don't want. Just do whatever makes you happy, thats all which matters.
Tommy Randell Nov 2014
I, Now, Here, The Future, This Month, Next Door;
This Chair, The House Over There, Thus;
Sulphur, Spherical, Eighty-two, Angrily;
Brutus killed Caesar by stabbing Him.

Rules are sometimes broken. If I tell you
That and That are That, and That because There it is,
Carelessness leads to Referential failure;
Brutus caused Caesar to die.

Schizophrenia is curable;
It’s not true that Schizophrenia is curable.
The Key is in the box by the phone;
If that Man’s Father is my Father’s Son.

The tableau runs to unfortunate intention
In an attempt to form a logic of likelihood;
Windowless wrong meanings slide probably;
The needle must be somewhere in this room.

I have always been an idealist,
A closed tableau; therefore, inconsistent.
The constituents are then the same as before, except
The number march disappears; Brutus, too.

It is easy to generate bogus inconsistencies
By ignoring lexical ambiguities,
But maybe Truth itself with sword uplifted
Has degrees and blurred edges;

Happy, Expressive, Heavy, Unpleasant;
Square, Perfect, Smooth, Daily;
The differences lie in the emphasis alone,
Borderline cases and bizarre situations.
Having spent many weeks collecting 'random' numbers from bus tickets and etc they were systematically applied to shelves of books in my room in a pre-determined manner to locate and select words and phrases which I then assembled into this poem.
frances Feb 2014
will it take until the day
that your veins are empty as your mind once was
for your skin to flake away, revealing
once bones, now turned to ashes

for flowers to grow from the remnants
rose thorns protruding your eye sockets
your lungs to be soil and your heart
to be a heart, no more

for you to see what I always warned
that this earth is not your possession-
your valuable prize.
your spherical game

look now, while your eyes
in their craters
it is this earth that owns you
and it will take back what you borrowed
The Dedpoet Oct 2018
Inventing the day,
Circular possessions,
All I own cannot be touched,

Everything lost in a fire,
Blazing nocturnal,
The slab of marble becomes
A tin marker,

Watching with stillness
As fleshes mesh with time,
     A poet remains:
The spherical elimination
   Casting lights on dark
I find my axis
      I find myself the epitome
And the footsteps
      In the puddles resound
In my minds echoes;
My body is a transparent verse,
        Night unfolds , I
Can see myself again.

      Listen to me as you listen
To the water,
     I am the unhindered thunder,
The shadow in the light's
     Ignorant glow,

      From my footsteps rise the
I am still The DedPoet,
    As you sleep in your bed
I invent my new homes:
   Nightly I bocome a
Poem of The Nocturne.
Michael Briefs Aug 2017
She moves like life from water!
She springs forth like the bubbling brook,
Splashing free, cool and joyful!
From above she comes, falling from
The grace of the Creator, Mother to Maiden,
From HER to here!

From the lonely droplet,
Clear and oval,
To the lovely rain,
Drenching in elemental purity,
She embodies a universe
Of vanishing, transparent organisms --
All busy like minute motors.
This infinitesimal society of her new self is,
At once, chaotic and harmonic,
Vast in its plenitude
But invisible to entities above.
This is her world within worlds (a cyclical vortex),
Whirling free and purposeful,
Gyrating and making
Things happen!

She grows through her years to the placid pond:
She is calm and open in support of the swimming,
Leaping, floating, flying, green, yellow,
Brown, red, violet, fragrant, sweet and earthy
Communities who have befriended her ---
We surround her, humming our odes maternal.

She evolves to the raging river and plummeting falls;
A being of turbulence --
Rushing, plunging
And exploding into the air!
Submersed within, she sculpts a sharp edge
Of wit and cunning; subsumed inside the surging flood,
She shapes smooth circulars,
The stones of her ideals, hard-won,
Perfected for her slingshot battle-cry!
Her watery voice is now a full-throated roar,
Haughty, rebellious and self-possessed!
With it, she will stand against and subdue the giants
Who dare to constrain her purpose or deny her worth!
Still, the sonar of her soul also emits waves
More limpid:
The lyrical, ripple-pulse of the river,
Melodically mingled
With the shifting sunbeam and the wafting breeze.

There are sensual silences of unspoken longing
That spill, slip and spin upon quieter currents.
She emerges with all these energies…
Our homes may drift asleep in her care.
We move and live over her wet,
Strong, sultry shoulders.
She carries us through our lives.

Her destiny is, finally, joined to Mother Ocean.
Vast. Powerful. Earth-embracing.
She lets go of doubt as she is drawn into it –
Undeniable, unrelenting, untamed.
Caught in the undertow of desire, of
****** rapture, her tinder temple trembles.
She is lost in a clinging, clutching chaos, quaking
From the erogenous flesh and *** of her source.
All of her essence dissolves into a spherical suffusing;
A filling and expanding need.
Darker -- a sounding blue inside her.
The leviathan of lust descends, arriving at a level
Teaming in mysteries.
Here, there are a myriad of eyes searching
In the hot marrow within.  
Above, the thunder, wind and riptide wave;
Below…the deathly, serious
Silence that reveals the primordial
Drone of the universe –
The vibration of the heart of God --
In the midst of all things known or merely intuited.
Wisdom uttered in a language we hear, we understand,
But we fear to speak…
Yet, in a twinkling of the eye, sometime further ahead,
Above the storm,
We will know,
Speak from our hearts,
And be safe, in her fathomless arms.  

The Man: He is a volcano.
He is pure earth, he is unruly fire-lathe.
He is stone, he is air, and he is the gravity
Which girds the foundation.
He is a destroyer and
He is the
New creation at dawn –
Cooled off, enriched, and potent.
He lifts up the trees, the grass, the rose, the shrub.
The birthing and nurturing soil forms around his feet.
Yet rippling amidst the inflorescence and saplings bubbles
A stream or a spring. Her presence is like diamonds, like pearls
In the rich rough -- glinting, splashing and playing in his garden!
He is the green mountain;
He is the red fire within it.
He explodes, in a blinding white,
Causing the new world,
In all its iridescence, to arise!

Woman and the water.
Man and the fire.
Together we are the world, entire.
Our home. Our journey. Our destiny.


This is the final high

The final weekend to get high


Out thru the stratosphere

Looking down at its tower

Sin city on this final


Sunday night Repenting

From such a criminal high

Oh so high

As they read me, throwing

The book at me

Judged by my lackadaisical


It’s the final time

To get stupid to say goodbye

To boy who refuses

To grow up

To heave the load


Of this **** *****!

Farewell to Fun Freely

For serious now

I now do see

Career path open with mindful eyes

For serious now the world

Will eat you

Out there babies in this

Spherical stomach

The digested / dies like

Minutia Flotsam debris

From waves Hi Low


To Tomorrow

Take hold make mines


But for tonight,

Oh my Friday Starlight!

It’s the last night,

To get high / know  why?


Reality will drug test

Taking DNA / The Helix Towers

Through true blue


My serious eyes looking fondly upward




My Friday Night Starlight

On high.
For Beloved most.
nawke Jul 2018
once in my sanctuary
it came in a loud gallop
followed by a wallop
my sorrowful lumbar
detaching the fear
of a clumsy blunder

shifted away from
the law of physics  
an emptied vessel unmoved
like a sealed vacuum
certain a final curtain
pin drop in code of silence

light time alliances
whooshing me into
ethereal plains
a sublime hemisphere
of infinitesimal space, time
an indescribable beyond

gentle breezes
feathery light teases
soon a star-gazing eyes
darted through a
zero gravity galaxy of an
endless empyrean expanse

a’turnin spherical sight
orange white stripes
rosely red spot
churning roiling clouds
speckled dusty rings
what beauteous it shrouds

why am I here
a knowing voice appeared
melodically close but I
can only behold afar
of an ethereally existential
interstellar manifold

questioning mind
told of convoluted ways
as seen and heard
the rhymes and seasons but
for one and the only reason
mankind's whisper'd words

entrance to the portal
as did my dawned immortal  
met a peaceful assembly
I lay in days, this rapturous gifts
what divine effulgence of
a truly cosmic lift
July 2016 - the trip to somewhere
I long soon, to come and see you, again and again
In an internally persuasive discourse daze
of 'Derevaun Serauan, Derevaun Seraun',
down Dereham Road. Dereham Road. Howl Zion days,
when I was porngaunt, scoreborn.

When I was scoreborn to sweet cur boons,
wild enough to grow psychoplasmic clothes
'low Eurolupine, lyricicatriced moon
(sphere rose over spherical rose).

Poignantly porngaunt, less Ly-tran-der
than deadnamed Dirk Diggler w/ pork Trigger's broom.
Phalloplasty patched fiddler's frankenfurter,
'Wayne Karoshi' my clinical nom-de-plume.

Turn on, tune in & grow up a picayun-
icorn, inconsequential & unique. I coulda been
a downtown tribune, downtown tribune,
but the scoreborn pourscorn like a teen.

Down Dereham Road, Dereham Road of dented
leopard, dented leopard roadkill went doom-
dated whelps. They never repented
the nepenthe, coz scoreborn follows scar boom.

Whether '88, '99, zerozero, borngaunt jeune
squelettes, diaspora of scorers crunch
urban recurrences. Pusherman in the moon,
still ivory dealer of youth's lush putsch.

We skinned up on CD cases, the record sleeves,
& upon the vinyl & CDs. Smaze mauve room,
where mauvais foi of paranoia, twigs & leaves
blessed us blandiose blasphemers maroon.

Tales so slight, vignette vinegaroon
- 'least I chased my own, tho' Hounds of Ultrabox
tore out my tindervox at the gag of moon-
set. Most porcelain storm?  Mornshocked.

Urb cubs slowcooked less porngaunt.
Afa, gluggy, June gloom? Rejoice, it's June!
Youth is wasted, but monsters I'd haunt,
acolytes I'd slough? Gone the same/ remain too soon.
We sat under the sweetgum tree;
That star-leaved gum of hazeled-pine
We threw her dried spiked fruit seeds
Across the green, where we roam free
That love of mine; that morning divine
A knight and his vassal, and our courtly deeds

We stood under the cassia tree, that yellow-green
In summer its fronds of flowers are seen!
Like hangings from a festival shrine
A moveable feast of earth's gifts, sublime
And taking up the Orphic rhyme
And debating over space and time

What halcyon peace of mind
To hear the tempest of Jupiter's cosmic cloud;
Spherical music of the cosmos!
Plumes of stars are all we find
Across the glass lake of the moonlit shroud
Sailing between the legs of the torch-bearing colossus

A Delphic paean to a solar love
'Sumer is icumen in'
That courtly rota from moyen âge verse
Like Silvanus and Apollo, those male gods above
Those myths from a time where love was no sin
A litany of praise for you; a morning terce

Those trees are places in our own space-time
Loves will always rise and fall in rhyme
Strike the lyre, light a fire, help me to dissolve life's grime!

The Astra Planeti are the wanderers of time
Beneath them are Zephyros, Euros, Boreas, Notos;
Horses of the wind, yes, beneath those lights!
And you and I are wanderers of the mind;
Our love is a harvest; a benefaction to Kronos
Yet our lives are the courses, the tides of delight
Ken Pepiton Mar 6
A transfer of energy
ye know, in the higgs,
do we still honor the guy
that idea had? Capital letters confer honor,
in my literary culture.
Honor is not always due.
Higgs did the math, so H is honoring
his attention to detail, there for duty to honor
knowns predicted by men augmented
with reason, conlogique, mit prehensile
minds capable of accounting for believable unseeables.

Despise not the day of small things,
the boson thinglet, math says those ef
fect, in fact, make
mass, any thing that ever matters
at all.

( A syllable at a time saves stitches,
don't run with scissors, beware
the concise)

Whet the Mobius edge,
Ping, inside, outside, one side, one edge, light
glint, bent gravitasish, bouncing,
crissing and crossing at every vector in time from this
particularity, a dimensional dialectic duality,

whys and hows dancing

that's the field at work, maybe,
whence things making matter matter rise up,
may be not.
Real quick decicisions happen
in that field idea.

Nur Herr Doctors, Master Professors of
Sophia's Sacred Secreted Truths may enact the
Matriculate's escape from dominion of higgsian rules
by endowing
hidden treasure, for baksheesh,  in power spells
and chants and cheers and degrees of
blood sworn oathz.

E pluribus unem is one of 'em, I learned.
Too spiritual a' idea to be allowed
but to them whose cogitatin'
warn't troubled, them
secret keepers,
the civilizeers'ad vizeers in Teflon tenured towers
overlooked some honorable ideas,
Higgs, so what? We all know
Things be that we can only imagine seeing.

Which reminded me, not all bubbles are spherical.

You know. You have seen big long stretchy
silicon re-enforced detergent
bubbles, on TV.

The higgs field of reality is such a bubble,

to my mind. Can you imagine that?
to my mind away

we went as if we were wind, whispers
in the storm.

Settle down. All that can be de
constructed can be de
solved, dis
cerned, de
As re-al ways made where no way was.
Riddle or rhyme, which is easier to remember?
Riddle locks to keywords
Ryhme locks to a sound and sound locks to
tones, frequency
found, perfect peaks and troughs then
keywords unlock the channel
where living and life are wave and particle,
medium and message sent.
If there were shame on your nation,
was that shame on you, like an extension,
or like a pro jected ob jection...

juxt aposit just a point in the field upon which

the story you know is no lie, it mattered and
may rise,

knave to wizard, if you

tell it funny.
funny only hurts when evil people do it.

Be the clown, bounce into the spot,
"Gotdim, gotdimimim, fuggafuggagubbledy boo"

Magi fool, lies about the futil-if-ity of sisting,
in the world, he will eat you alive, lest you know
the word. Or the riddle.

Inspire, expire, that sort of thing, but
spiritual. A trans fer of con
served en
ergy, via demiurge, per
hapmayhap and
magi transisters

regularizing the flow
through the locks, in
for ward
flow, that's all they know.
Our servants who motivate us,
all they do is use our breath and our blood
to charge up the ATP batteries by the billions,
until we cannot withstand the pressure.

A fugettin' consarnation story teller,
who then lies, and sows discord among bretheren,
by adding to and taking from the story,
pre suming knowns unknown are
mere myth the magi invented
mit wit and subtle twisting.

Novices, apprentices,
those ain't allowed to eat pearls 'til they wisdom
teeth come in,
that penultimate major marker, of maturation,
in the gut
brain input-putout exchange system,

once those have changed the way
vortices of taste
swirl words down the eustacion
spiral, then

The frontal cortex kicks in and God only knows
the tune we sing in ryth'm
with the snow flake rhymes framing my window pane.

If there were shame on my nation, like a ***** snow... then a flood,,,
dark, near no light, shame, shame shame... thick, glacial
filth filtering frozen
liar shame, bully shame, lover of twisted rights shame;
war would never melt it.

Thus global warming. Just in time.
JaxSpade Apr 19
The first moment
Was divided by the total mass

The center of..

The moment of inertia
Rigid in body
How much more torque
Will turn this rotations
                   In a moment

Notice the rotational axis
Of the earths fastest acceleration
Mass times the square
Of the perpendicular distance
To the rotation of our sphere
Can anyone else hear
Could anyone else here
Understand the scalar magnitude
Of a poets Newtonian mechanics
And the motion of macroscopic objects
Circling his metaphors

If the present state of an object is known
It is possible to predict by the laws
Of classical mechanics
How it will move

The spherical harmonics
Are a set of orthogonal functions
Yet periodic functions composed of sinusoids
Is the assumption of weighted summation
Discrete time fourier transformation
In relation to a quills synthesizing rotation
Is the explanation I'm trying to relate in

What do you think I'm saying
Need I explore the atomic orbital electron configurations
Their representation of gravitational fields geoids
Fiber reconstruction for estimation
of the path and location
Of a poems explanation

For the spin of its formation
Is just a calculation
Differing in interpretation
By the readers relation
taken to
  thistle of syllables
  sapphire streaked sky
and cherry blossom shiver
  liquid pastels
  lethargic car exhalations
machines with their seeds of light
  spherical shimmers
  church spire
poet-named sacred place
  nickel slurry
  flour-doused mountains
alone with myself
  just funnels of breath
  passing my refrigerated lips
reminder of time
Written: April 2019.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time as part of Savannah Brown's escpril challenge. The title is Icelandic for 'peace' and is roughly pronounced 'frieth-ur.' A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Nahal Oct 30
She understood
Twisting the rusty tap
Trickling water to sprinting flow
Gravity pulls the earth's hydration intently with purpose
The tub fills to the brim
You pour a coconut-smelling, cheap bodywash
Not even bath gel
It foams and bubbles
Shiny, sparkly, spherical
You're now eight again
Excited by novel luxuries

Room temperature vs the bath water
Your foot burns as you put it in
Acclimatise foot, acclimatise
And now the total dip
The complete embrace of hot water

"The longer I lay there in the clear hot water the purer I felt"
From the Bell Jar
I relate
Emily Jones Feb 20
Sometimes life feels like a rotary wheel
     d        r
    n         o
     d        r
    n         o
it goes.....
The spherical dichotomy fades into monotony
      g           i
   i                  r
     n             c
sdarwkcab into some dark fiction that has become the day to day
Waking to dr
Forwards between a repeat of the next second of last week
Where l-i-n-e-s of memory are /b//l//u//r/r/ed// making each moment a cons?ued mash up key details.
That take energy to pick a p a r t into some semblance of an existence.
“It wasn't just accident.  
  Nothing's just happenstance.

“Like stars emit brilliance for billions of
  miles in all directions.

“I saw your reflection. A dazzling collection!
  Of blazing spherical domes.
  Adorned upon home

“So when I'm alone The Night reminds me…

            “Of all Ive ever known,
                            Of all I'll never know.”
-Luca Ivaldi
The Dedpoet Oct 2018
Walk as the circumstances
That surround me, run me;
I  loosen the reins of my illusion,
And control is a word.

Where the river begins
A mountain captures,
It's cold up there
And though hope springs eternal
I will only be here for a while,

Deep Breaths,
And the universe will survive
Without me,
I reach still....

In the arena of hope
Willing to die in the moment's
In the commonwealth
Of the unreachable.
Deadwood Jawn Feb 18

Why'd you fall on me?

I was only trying to reach for the globe.
A spherical wonder
On the mocking high shelf
Swallowed in the dark

Why'd you fall on me?

Your.. Face.
The innocent, flush look.
Close proximity.
A bubblegum-tinted aura holding us close...

Why'd you fall on me?

Deep, caramel eyes.
Pacing, shallow breaths.
Sweet, empathetic, shoulder-length hair.


I appear to have



                         ­             E x
             ­                                 a
                              ­              r
                                            t i n g . . .

                                                           with you.

That's why you fell on me.
Been reading some romance lately. It formed the basis of this poem. It's a little cute, a little innocent.. Quite romantic perhaps. How odd.
I stand on trial
in a spherical, tightly wired world
enclosed in a wooden, sun bleached box
formed from unintentional ignorance
and mishaps that stem from the inability to change,
details of my charge:
attempting to establish my personal identity
in which I am colorful and sprout wings to take flight
and my footsteps trace to the ends of the earth and back
during the day I soak up people's laughter and smiles like a sunflower bathing in sunlight
and throughout the night I sleep comfortably in a bed of warm solitude underneath the stars
I'm perhaps guilty of knocking on my senses
to think outside the box
and am mischievous enough to peer into other's
enclosed spaces, coaxing out the best in them
like a magician wielding shimmering flowers
out of his sleeve
I am charged for distinguishing distortions
and painful black and white misconceptions from reality
and its diverse colorful rays of magnitude and life
I believe something along the lines that
not everything is what it seems to be,
but instead we're all flowers
who need to be nourished and watered each day
as weird as it sounds,
I'd like for my tears to mean something
during the trial, which I hope will pass quickly enough
for the wind to ****** and carry away

Written upon being questioned on what crimes I may be charged with.
Lusis Nov 8
As the bottle flipped  and rolled  on the table
I heard the hissing sound of carbon dioxide  from the bottle
The vapor  from the tip  of the bottle was visible
Soon I will be forgetting  my sorrows  and worries
I had my first lift of the bottle when  the malt beer was pored in my glass
Second when the spherical  cylinder hit my hard lips
I would smell the enticing sweet aroma of barley
A big swallow ..  I felt chilled as the  liquid rolled down to my ****** hard stomach
And this way I knew this was going yo be the deal for the night
I would be bought buy and swallow the whole night
Temporary  peace  is what I wanted and for sure I got  some

— The End —