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Duke Thompson Jul 2014
I look at Sil and start to SCREAM and yell and yammer excitedly with this new idea bursting forth -  Let’s go to Sunday mass hungover, or maybe still drunk. Maybe we can puke in the pews or confess our sins to the pederast priest! Sil, always an easy read, agreed instantly so we left the watering hole in the wall, brimming with stalwart stoic sin and soaking in ***, gin and ugh…pheromones.

“fadder I puked in yer pews. How many hail Marys is dat?”

“fadder I smoked a joint in the rectory.”

“fadder I occasionally sleeps wit men.” I cry,

We see his previously shock beet red face light up.

“Wit MEN fadder wit men.  Not little boys”

Disappointed pederast priest preaching piously about the sins of drugs and alcohol and *** and ****** and y’know, pretty much everything fun ever.

“fadder I sold me mudders dentures for new headshots.”

“fadder I was in a ****” et cetera. After the pederast has a coronary we’ll steal the communion wine and dance on the church *****. You can play a sweet soft soothing melody accompanied soliloquy or Debussy’s Claire de Lune. We’ll remember better days when he could still play and cry red tears, ****** drunk. Stuck in our respective funk ruts our calls to the coronary catholic become more somber.

“fadder I’m afraid. I’m afraid of dying…I’m afraid of living.”

Rolling around on the confession booth floor now,

“fadder I want to die, fadder I tried to **** myself”

Sil shows strong salient scalpel scars that we both still remember suturing shut.

“fadder I should be in the Waterford In-patient wing”

By now we’ve revived the poor old Father…As it happens he’s a rowdy red whiskey noser. Sil’s feeling good, rambunctious and reeling secretly seething I believe.

“So fadder explain to me why it’s a sin to love another man but every other ******* week some ******’ pillar of the community cops for kiddie ****?!” His ire is up, red cheeked wide eyed boiling over.

The priest is mute silent on the subject at first, finally looking up from a leather bound book, he starts to speak in careful, measured words unfamiliar to the impatience of our generation.

“My son, I’ve never ****** any boys, nor do I hate ‘the gays’ and what’s all this about killing yourselves and Waterford Bridge Road?” I feel a lecture coming on…”What’s the allure of this demure throwaway life attitude you have, so many of you.”

This question throws a long echoing silence through the puke stained pews.  A symbol for broken, wasted, busted, beat down lost youth. Or whatever. (Say it like a valley girl honey.)

Breaking the silence I turn to him quietly, “I guess for me I really don’t see the point of any of it beyond a couple of laughs and a lot of highs. I see the corruption that I’m too stupid to fix, that I can’t realistically change.”

Sil interjects “I think generationally we just don’t really have a tether – Everyone exists superficially, digitally we don’t know how to talk to one another we just get drunk or high and crash into each other blindly praying for a little connection on those rare occasions we realize how disconnected we really are.”

“Generationally? Is that even a word?!”

“Shut up milk drinker!” Sil punches me

“Yeah everyone sitting alone in rooms or all together with a *** and coke and a cellphone silently tapping away.”

The pederast nods “you boys need family, children, religion even. You know it brings us together as a community. The ****** of the masses son” He pauses, wagging a finger “and I don’t consider that to be a pejorative.”

Taking a ridiculous swig I nod “I understand the appeal really but I prefer actual opiates  and being alone and not changing.”

After a box of communion wine, (Yes it can come in boxes, look it up) we bid farewell to the swell drunk ‘ol pederast priest, promising to return someday with Irish Mist for his thirsty Irish lips, (Is that bigotry?) the old coot.

“Sil come over and stay in my bed we can binge watch a season of Louie and drink ******’ Borises and I’ll play guitar for you an…” I stammer on

“STOP! You had me at BED” Sil yells at me belligerently as we stagger down Bully Street arms intertwined drunk walking. It’s foggy and misty, our feet soaked and my body is drained of life. Finally we knock into my front door struggling with keys, we must have dropped 5 times.

“I think yer scars are beautiful Sil” (I love it, I do) I tell her softly as I run my hand over them, feeling the slight texture change, the scar raised…We kiss and stare into eyes, not alone not for tonight.
Craig Verlin Apr 2013
stopped for a
smoke on a
bench outside
some gas station off I-75
with nowhere to go
I shot the breeze alone
watching the night grow
it was nice
surrounded by woods
somewhere in Tennessee

went inside
to buy another
pack as it got later
wondering which
poison to go with
and saw this big
hundred gallon
tank
toward the back
of the store
it had a single
lobster inside

I stopped
a brief second
of confusion
--why's there a
lobster here
anyways?--
I couldn't help
but smile
a fellow comrade
alone but not lonely
a stalwart of
the night

walked to the counter
went with wine
paid and walked
back out
to my bench
winking at my
new friend on the
way out

I'll be ****** if
he didn't wag a claw
right back
Nico Julleza Aug 2017
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Seems to be a strange day
a cold in the breeze
in the months of May
screeching’s of the door
a mist at the windows
broken pane

The room was lonely
as the leaves, out whirling
a thump at the ceiling top,
rolling, shackling
like those ogling cats
for a savoring mouse

From an ominous weather
to the whispering waters
a crack brought my most
—attention
uncanny things lurking
came falling within

I saw streamers
faking shimmers
I saw glitters
but aren't gold
I saw diamonds
yet it wasn't snow


A strong wind gushing
hoist the storm came
toiling, warping
heaven and earth
were felonious, winced
and everything was settled

Crystal drops touching
the tender heart abrupt
shattered glass striking
a sorry won't be sought
memories engrave nothing
flagrant it is to mend

Crystal drops falling
true friends come for once,
an astral to a feeling
stalwart is to be keeping
till when, twas its end
and all of this begins again
#True #Friendship #Love #Rain #Crystal #Drop

Yes Dear Poets.. You will know the Feeling of this poem..

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Now there came a certain common ***** who used to go begging all
over the city of Ithaca, and was notorious as an incorrigible
glutton and drunkard. This man had no strength nor stay in him, but he
was a great hulking fellow to look at; his real name, the one his
mother gave him, was Arnaeus, but the young men of the place called
him Irus, because he used to run errands for any one who would send
him. As soon as he came he began to insult Ulysses, and to try and
drive him out of his own house.
  “Be off, old man,” he cried, “from the doorway, or you shall be
dragged out neck and heels. Do you not see that they are all giving me
the wink, and wanting me to turn you out by force, only I do not
like to do so? Get up then, and go of yourself, or we shall come to
blows.”
  Ulysses frowned on him and said, “My friend, I do you no manner of
harm; people give you a great deal, but I am not jealous. There is
room enough in this doorway for the pair of us, and you need not
grudge me things that are not yours to give. You seem to be just
such another ***** as myself, but perhaps the gods will give us better
luck by and by. Do not, however, talk too much about fighting or you
will incense me, and old though I am, I shall cover your mouth and
chest with blood. I shall have more peace to-morrow if I do, for you
will not come to the house of Ulysses any more.”
  Irus was very angry and answered, “You filthy glutton, you run on
trippingly like an old fish-***. I have a good mind to lay both
hands about you, and knock your teeth out of your head like so many
boar’s tusks. Get ready, therefore, and let these people here stand by
and look on. You will never be able to fight one who is so much
younger than yourself.”
  Thus roundly did they rate one another on the smooth pavement in
front of the doorway, and when Antinous saw what was going on he
laughed heartily and said to the others, “This is the finest sport
that you ever saw; heaven never yet sent anything like it into this
house. The stranger and Irus have quarreled and are going to fight,
let us set them on to do so at once.”
  The suitors all came up laughing, and gathered round the two
ragged tramps. “Listen to me,” said Antinous, “there are some goats’
paunches down at the fire, which we have filled with blood and fat,
and set aside for supper; he who is victorious and proves himself to
be the better man shall have his pick of the lot; he shall be free
of our table and we will not allow any other beggar about the house at
all.”
  The others all agreed, but Ulysses, to throw them off the scent,
said, “Sirs, an old man like myself, worn out with suffering, cannot
hold his own against a young one; but my irrepressible belly urges
me on, though I know it can only end in my getting a drubbing. You
must swear, however that none of you will give me a foul blow to
favour Irus and secure him the victory.”
  They swore as he told them, and when they had completed their oath
Telemachus put in a word and said, “Stranger, if you have a mind to
settle with this fellow, you need not be afraid of any one here.
Whoever strikes you will have to fight more than one. I am host, and
the other chiefs, Antinous and Eurymachus, both of them men of
understanding, are of the same mind as I am.”
  Every one assented, and Ulysses girded his old rags about his *****,
thus baring his stalwart thighs, his broad chest and shoulders, and
his mighty arms; but Minerva came up to him and made his limbs even
stronger still. The suitors were beyond measure astonished, and one
would turn towards his neighbour saying, “The stranger has brought
such a thigh out of his old rags that there will soon be nothing
left of Irus.”
  Irus began to be very uneasy as he heard them, but the servants
girded him by force, and brought him [into the open part of the court]
in such a fright that his limbs were all of a tremble. Antinous
scolded him and said, “You swaggering bully, you ought never to have
been born at all if you are afraid of such an old broken-down creature
as this ***** is. I say, therefore—and it shall surely be—if he
beats you and proves himself the better man, I shall pack you off on
board ship to the mainland and send you to king Echetus, who kills
every one that comes near him. He will cut off your nose and ears, and
draw out your entrails for the dogs to eat.”
  This frightened Irus still more, but they brought him into the
middle of the court, and the two men raised their hands to fight. Then
Ulysses considered whether he should let drive so hard at him as to
make an end of him then and there, or whether he should give him a
lighter blow that should only knock him down; in the end he deemed
it best to give the lighter blow for fear the Achaeans should begin to
suspect who he was. Then they began to fight, and Irus hit Ulysses
on the right shoulder; but Ulysses gave Irus a blow on the neck
under the ear that broke in the bones of his skull, and the blood came
gushing out of his mouth; he fell groaning in the dust, gnashing his
teeth and kicking on the ground, but the suitors threw up their
hands and nearly died of laughter, as Ulysses caught hold of him by
the foot and dragged him into the outer court as far as the
gate-house. There he propped him up against the wall and put his staff
in his hands. “Sit here,” said he, “and keep the dogs and pigs off;
you are a pitiful creature, and if you try to make yourself king of
the beggars any more you shall fare still worse.”
  Then he threw his ***** old wallet, all tattered and torn, over
his shoulder with the cord by which it hung, and went back to sit down
upon the threshold; but the suitors went within the cloisters,
laughing and saluting him, “May Jove, and all the other gods,” said
they, ‘grant you whatever you want for having put an end to the
importunity of this insatiable *****. We will take him over to the
mainland presently, to king Echetus, who kills every one that comes
near him.”
  Ulysses hailed this as of good omen, and Antinous set a great goat’s
paunch before him filled with blood and fat. Amphinomus took two
loaves out of the bread-basket and brought them to him, pledging him
as he did so in a golden goblet of wine. “Good luck to you,” he
said, “father stranger, you are very badly off at present, but I
hope you will have better times by and by.”
  To this Ulysses answered, “Amphinomus, you seem to be a man of
good understanding, as indeed you may well be, seeing whose son you
are. I have heard your father well spoken of; he is Nisus of
Dulichium, a man both brave and wealthy. They tell me you are his son,
and you appear to be a considerable person; listen, therefore, and
take heed to what I am saying. Man is the vainest of all creatures
that have their being upon earth. As long as heaven vouchsafes him
health and strength, he thinks that he shall come to no harm
hereafter, and even when the blessed gods bring sorrow upon him, he
bears it as he needs must, and makes the best of it; for God
Almighty gives men their daily minds day by day. I know all about
it, for I was a rich man once, and did much wrong in the
stubbornness of my pride, and in the confidence that my father and
my brothers would support me; therefore let a man fear God in all
things always, and take the good that heaven may see fit to send him
without vainglory. Consider the infamy of what these suitors are
doing; see how they are wasting the estate, and doing dishonour to the
wife, of one who is certain to return some day, and that, too, not
long hence. Nay, he will be here soon; may heaven send you home
quietly first that you may not meet with him in the day of his coming,
for once he is here the suitors and he will not part bloodlessly.”
  With these words he made a drink-offering, and when he had drunk
he put the gold cup again into the hands of Amphinomus, who walked
away serious and bowing his head, for he foreboded evil. But even so
he did not escape destruction, for Minerva had doomed him fall by
the hand of Telemachus. So he took his seat again at the place from
which he had come.
  Then Minerva put it into the mind of Penelope to show herself to the
suitors, that she might make them still more enamoured of her, and win
still further honour from her son and husband. So she feigned a
mocking laugh and said, “Eurynome, I have changed my and have a
fancy to show myself to the suitors although I detest them. I should
like also to give my son a hint that he had better not have anything
more to do with them. They speak fairly enough but they mean
mischief.”
  “My dear child,” answered Eurynome, “all that you have said is true,
go and tell your son about it, but first wash yourself and anoint your
face. Do not go about with your cheeks all covered with tears; it is
not right that you should grieve so incessantly; for Telemachus,
whom you always prayed that you might live to see with a beard, is
already grown up.”
  “I know, Eurynome,” replied Penelope, “that you mean well, but do
not try and persuade me to wash and to anoint myself, for heaven
robbed me of all my beauty on the day my husband sailed; nevertheless,
tell Autonoe and Hippodamia that I want them. They must be with me
when I am in the cloister; I am not going among the men alone; it
would not be proper for me to do so.”
  On this the old woman went out of the room to bid the maids go to
their mistress. In the meantime Minerva bethought her of another
matter, and sent Penelope off into a sweet slumber; so she lay down on
her couch and her limbs became heavy with sleep. Then the goddess shed
grace and beauty over her that all the Achaeans might admire her.
She washed her face with the ambrosial loveliness that Venus wears
when she goes dancing with the Graces; she made her taller and of a
more commanding figure, while as for her complexion it was whiter than
sawn ivory. When Minerva had done all this she went away, whereon
the maids came in from the women’s room and woke Penelope with the
sound of their talking.
  “What an exquisitely delicious sleep I have been having,” said
she, as she passed her hands over her face, “in spite of all my
misery. I wish Diana would let me die so sweetly now at this very
moment, that I might no longer waste in despair for the loss of my
dear husband, who possessed every kind of good quality and was the
most distinguished man among the Achaeans.”
  With these words she came down from her upper room, not alone but
attended by two of her maidens, and when she reached the suitors she
stood by one of the bearing-posts supporting the roof of the cloister,
holding a veil before her face, and with a staid maid servant on
either side of her. As they beheld her the suitors were so overpowered
and became so desperately enamoured of her, that each one prayed he
might win her for his own bed fellow.
  “Telemachus,” said she, addressing her son, “I fear you are no
longer so discreet and well conducted as you used to be. When you were
younger you had a greater sense of propriety; now, however, that you
are grown up, though a stranger to look at you would take you for
the son of a well-to-do father as far as size and good looks go,
your conduct is by no means what it should be. What is all this
disturbance that has been going on, and how came you to allow a
stranger to be so disgracefully ill-treated? What would have
happened if he had suffered serious injury while a suppliant in our
house? Surely this would have been very discreditable to you.”
  “I am not surprised, my dear mother, at your displeasure,” replied
Telemachus, “I understand all about it and know when things are not as
they should be, which I could not do when I was younger; I cannot,
however, behave with perfect propriety at all times. First one and
then another of these wicked people here keeps driving me out of my
mind, and I have no one to stand by me. After all, however, this fight
between Irus and the stranger did not turn out as the suitors meant it
to do, for the stranger got the best of it. I wish Father Jove,
Minerva, and Apollo would break the neck of every one of these
wooers of yours, some inside the house and some out; and I wish they
might all be as limp as Irus is over yonder in the gate of the outer
court. See how he nods his head like a drunken man; he has had such
a thrashing that he cannot stand on his feet nor get back to his home,
wherever that may be, for has no strength left in him.”
  Thus did they converse. Eurymachus then came up and said, “Queen
Penelope, daughter of Icarius, if all the Achaeans in Iasian Argos
could see you at this moment, you would have still more suitors in
your house by tomorrow morning, for you are the most admirable woman
in the whole world both as regards personal beauty and strength of
understanding.”
  To this Penelope replied, “Eurymachus, heaven robbed me of all my
beauty whether of face or figure when the Argives set sail for Troy
and my dear husband with them. If he were to return and look after
my affairs, I should both be more respected and show a better presence
to the world. As it is, I am oppressed with care, and with the
afflictions which heaven has seen fit to heap upon me. My husband
foresaw it all, and when he was leaving home he took my right wrist in
his hand—’Wife, ‘he said, ‘we shall not all of us come safe home
from Troy, for the Trojans fight well both with bow and spear. They
are excellent also at fighting from chariots, and nothing decides
the issue of a fight sooner than this. I know not, therefore,
whether heaven will send me back to you, or whether I may not fall
over there at Troy. In the meantime do you look after things here.
Take care of my father and mother as at present, and even more so
during my absence, but when you see our son growing a beard, then
marry whom you will, and leave this your present home. This is what he
said and now it is all coming true. A night will come when I shall
have to yield myself to a marriage which I detest, for Jove has
taken from me all hope of happiness. This further grief, moreover,
cuts me to the very heart. You suitors are not wooing me after the
custom of my country. When men are courting a woman who they think
will be a good wife to them and who is of noble birth, and when they
are each trying to win her for himself, they usually bring oxen and
sheep to feast the friends of the lady, and they make her
magnificent presents, instead of eating up other people’s property
without paying for it.”
  This was what she said, and Ulysses was glad when he heard her
trying to get presents out of the suitors, and flattering them with
fair words which he knew she did not mean.
  Then Antinous said, “Queen Penelope, daughter of Icarius, take as
many presents as you please from any one who will give them to you; it
is not well to refuse a present; but we will not go about our business
nor stir from where we are, till you have married the best man among
us whoever he may be.”
  The others applauded what Antinous had said, and each one sent his
servant to bring his present. Antinous’s man returned with a large and
lovely dress most exquisitely embroidered. It had twelve beautifully
made brooch pins of pure gold with which to fasten it. Eurymachus
immediately brought her a magnificent chain of gold and amber beads
that gleamed like sunlight. Eurydamas’s two men returned with some
earrings fashioned into three brilliant pendants which glistened
most beautifully; while king Pisander son of Polyctor gave her a
necklace of the rarest workmanship, and every one else brought her a
beautiful present of some kind.
  Then the queen went back to her room upstairs, and her maids brought
the presents after her. Meanwhile the suitors took to singing and
dancing, and stayed till evening came. They danced and sang till it
grew dark; they then brought in three braziers to give light, and
piled them up with chopped firewood very and dry, and they lit torches
from them, which the maids held up turn and turn about. Then Ulysses
said:
  “Maids, servants of Ulysses who has so long been absent, go to the
queen inside the house; sit
treacherously torrid and torrential torrents of totally tangential tumultuous tortuous ; tyrannically torturous adjunct viably salient seethe.    

procrastinating pandemic plenipotentiary prosthesis ; prosaically pragmatic parenthetical predication predilection premise prognostication
                                                                ­      
panoramic tableau preternatural propensity proclivity prestidigitation gesticulation :

gyration guidon ; ghastly gruesome grotesque hideously horrible horrendous heinous

grotty gnarly

diabolically maniacal dementia brusque macabre abrupt

awful

amalgamated anathema analysis agnate aggregate aberrance
somatalogy virtuoso cognate obduracy

worse

rudiment ebullience , confluence effluent effusion affluent , prolific profusity opulence , cogent fecund secular secund , recondite redolence abstrusely obstreperous mesomerism resonance resilience

protractive perpetude futurity
  
blither blandishing blabber burnishing boresome blahs
lithe blithe jabber prattle chatter tithe
morose morsel moribundness
  stolid stoic
stalwart bastion bulwark
Torrents of vapor ridden wind, snatched at her hair.

Below, rattled the rapid, riotous and vast, rippling sea.

Churning, like a chewing, charming serpent's lair.

Once long ago I knew her; with time she left me be.


On the edge she was, with will to leap t'wards the horizons.

The brittle cliff would not give way, for even it was curious.

Dare say all of nature reacted for the most prurient reasons.

Even the sky descended to watch, with a lightning so furious.


She beheld no fear and the sky wept with thunderous applause.

Her bare marble-like features glistened in the gleaning of the gloom.

Why she stood there, triumphantly, tempting, terror, for what cause?

It will never be known, for she never was, in a time before this doom.


The earth shook like the hands of a beleaguered, berated old man.

It erected monoliths. Volcanoes, pluming molten magma skyward.

The red glow brought heat; earth thought to please her, or so was its plan.

The elements wrestled for the better view of that beauty stalwart.


Never had a sight been so majestically violent, so mightily tame.

Where she stood, should and would forever more be a sacred place.

The tempest of the elements raged on, though none would win the game.

A silence, softly, settled the rambunctiousness, and halted their race.


The skies parted with a sad and lowly somberness.

Every elated, embittered, element safely put to rest.

As the sun swept aside all their postulated, pettiness.

Rays of the sun showered her with bright white zest.


The lady, she moved with unfathomable grace.

She tilted her perfect head up to the skies.

With the slightest of a smile shook her face.

Like all before, she left them there surprised... and forever, there she stood.
I wrote this poem back in 2011.

Cooked by the fires resulting from the friction-full schism of a summer romance, the flames of which still linger to this day, I hold this poem dear to my heart, because I would not let those passions abate unless they are proved irrelevant.

And so, on this day that I will consider the anniversary of this poem, I bid you safe travels upon whichever lover's road you roam, hoping that you find love-everlasting wherever your brighter tomorrow awaits.
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
America’s Soul
Through the means of a company trying to appeal to your emotions to make a sale as I watched this
Pass before me I wasn’t taking in the foreground but what it depicted in the background a realness a
Testimony of truth was flowing at flood stage images bathed in purist knowing about place and the stalwart
Ideals that make up a fabric so rich and full family’s not just empty see through nothing really there pay
No mind but you and I our successes our failures caught in the back drop of mountains and deserts and
In a song an anthem a coursing river but one of a unique part of the world’s humanity identified by red
White and blue builder’s fighter’s lovers of freedom that didn’t come by dreamers alone yes they
Dreamed but then they infused blood and sinew muscle onto this lifeless skeleton their efforts are
Attested to by the sacred graves the head stones don’t tell the story of hardship sacrifice on battlefields
Domestic and hostile bone weary against all odds at times feeling all alone and there were those times
This was true but it was always known you were part of a great brotherhood and sisterhood though far
Apart in the physical sense never the less a great spiritual dynamism bonded you together at the
Farthest and narrowest stretching point steel was without equal in its intent and its effort the lowliest to
The mightiest carried the same strain of a heroic undertaking and inwardly looked the same and truly
Were the same there wasn’t class or rank just Americans pushing this grand experiment to its most
Glory filled conclusion and then at lands end the heart would be engaged to its fullest with hands that
Reached around the globe to any that were threatened or abused fear not our brothers we will lend
To you are strength and all of our resources fulfilling a moral duty to those who are less fortunate we
Have fought and achieved and the natural result will be a mobilized caring that endures through all of
Our history making a stronger unified self governing people the envy of the world not through cheap
Pride but the foundational excellence will give the challenge don’t settle for less don’t be reduced to
Settling for anything but the best monuments are built by many tyrants but let the people build them
From the costliest material and they will endure all generations it will push back ignorance send
Down lighting striking fear in those with ill will and promote the human spirit they will peer down from
Lofty heights undisturbed by petty squabbles those that contend for illustrious beacons forged and
Sprayed out from hammer an anvil in the dark nightly skies of heaven performing and making a sculptured treasure
That speaks truth and creates the sensation of a glory that rests on a people like no other that have
Touched the fringes of utopia with just enough realism to keep you grounded and not allow you to
Totter and fall back under false hood that causes the cycle to start all over again of being a slave instead
Of being free
Our souls are enfettered
By an Inexorable Penance,
Sorrows & Lamentations:

In pining for
The Light of Transmutation
The Adamantine Wings
Of Stalwart Bahamut
Unburdened our etherealized hearts.

(Speaking for the future)

Spira has lost its
Yoke of Communion
To this Cimmerian Millennium.

Redemption’s Revelation:

Aeonic sin hath reigned
Under the Cathedral of Deception
Forged by the taught tongues
Of Yevon;

Despotic Lunae
Eclipsed the light
Of a forlorn sky,
Divine Pantheon
For
Numen of Sol.

Cast a
Stygian Shadow of Sanctimonious Suffering for Souls.
Seems eternal; truly, ephemeral.

For,
the Hearts of nations
Are
Sacrosanct Luminaries.

Our tears
Have been shed,
Our vanities
Indemnified.

Skies shall bleed Empyrean Bliss
And
The Opus of Life
Shall cleanse
This wearied Spira of Pernicious Sin.
*

(Amen.)
Inspired by Final Fantasy X. I attempted to encapsulate the story, thematic undertones, fantasy elements, ambiance of the musical piece (of same title as piece), as well as the penitence, sorrow, hope, and mirth set out before our heroes/heroines. Was a bit rushed as I wanted to get this out to you guys as swiftly as possible. Thank you for all your support because you mean all the world to me. Any constructive feedback is most appreciated! Enjoy! :)
Wanderer Apr 2012
Inside my throat expands under water mountain ranges for miles
Sea salt love affairs dance across shell pink lips
Telling all of Poseidon's secrets through drift wood bonfires
I love you
Parts are missing so I gather bits and pieces close
Always in need of more cosmic adheisive to keep you here
Stalwart and worthy your effigy stands carved of whale bone steel
Starry night sky corsets cinching our tied tongues together

We once had a name, a place
Desires and wishes flooded the air between us
Now it's just me constantly rowing against the current
While you glide smoothly ahead riding the trough
I have storm clouds hidden in my sunshine smiles
****** pearled laughter stifled and worn
Too tired to see the nautilus of my thoughts dragging me under
Brett Jul 2021
Summer ice box, bolted to the block like a hustler’s ambition.
King of the corner. Hand to hand to every family man or,
A fiends fever dream. Metal mattress for the meek.
Chill spot on the streets,
For a late-night congregation of labeled freaks;
To people passing by at least.
Neighborhood staple. A practicing painters graffiti canvas.
Crowned with empty coffee cups turned bank accounts for the beggar.
Bent from stray bullets, but never broken.
Stalwart, abandoned bodegas
But the ice box remains.
The signature of a city that speeds away, but
Will never change.
Rockwood Aug 2018
Most late summer days fade into night holding a tepid dreariness in their breath, beating away with the tedium of the sun from late July through early September.
Yet ephemeral as it may be, the life of early summer is purely sanguine in the face of its oncoming age, as willowy saplings sway in the blustering breezes of June, and sprouts of vivid animation appear all around.
This is when the soul heals, and out of the mulch rises new beginnings and the ripening fruit of various works.

In this early season of summer, many taciturn inhabitants of the flourishing earth made their home, and among them, Lily: a creature of reticence and intricacy.
She burgeoned in attitude and character as days crept forward, extending her limbs upwards in an eternal paean to the heavens― as such was her sinecure and quiet delight.

In this, she stood insular to her ubiquitous family, an outsider to the sisters who flitted about carelessly on the wind, satiny gowns of pink and yellow billowing as they twirled.
Always invited into the fray, Lily was evermore stalwart in her choice to keep out of their plainly sordid affairs.

Yet in her isolation, the night whispered to her many a berceuse.
The sleepy stars implored of Lily’s indolent nature as she gazed into their eyes, trailing across eternity into peaceful slumber.
The night sky held wonders and questions that filled her paltry existence but placed her in stasis with the decorated heavens of her dying season,
Left to wither away with the insidious heat and vibrant splendor of late summer evenings.
a short story i wrote for AP Literature. i hope it will suffice for my lack of summer postings.
Slam Jamson Jan 2014
S* is for Seduction, a vast verb saved for flesh,
But in her outer-worldly tune, my thoughts become enmeshed;
Like at the great Salamis, where strength sought strike the feeble,
Seduction marked our birth, their fall—an end without a sequel.

L heralds in some fifty lads, of whom mere five would pass,
Bugsy, Daphne, Sylvester, and Tazzy, above their peers compassed.
The tests were long, the trials were tough, from nothing we had fostered
A team of lucky, noble lads to fight these migrant monstærs.

A is the assault, outnumbered and outclassed,
Our heroes boldly braved their foes until their stalwart last.
Despite their lead by tyrants, such Nawt of Hispaniola,
Our foes were forced unto retreat, costing us Lady Lola.

M is for the ones who’ve fallen, for them mourn reminiscence,
For those who proudly placed their names for our petty subsistence.
The fight is done, the beasts beat back, denied all loot and hoarding,
And so a statue is *****: Honorum Mikael Iordan!
Anne Davies Oct 2014
Golden sand tickling your toes
Pebbles gleaming, glistening, slushing
When the tide comes  back  to shore.
Sand dunes hiding wildlife,
Multitudes of migratory birds,
Safely returning every year to
This beautiful, marshy paradise.
Skies so orange, pink and red,
An artists palette of natural art
Greet you at sunrise and sunset.
*****, kippers, cod and plaice
Shrimps, cockles and whelks,
Mushy, minty peas and chips,
The show at the end of the pier.
The lifeboats and their hardy crew
Risking their lives to save others,
When visitors run into trouble
At the mercy of the cold North Sea.
Crumbling coastlines, cliff walks
And nature reserves full of the
Scent of wild garlic and herbs,
Norfolk lavender. Steam engines,
Fishing boats, river boats,
Paddling boats and cycles
Take you on journeys
Around the Broads or
Past the famous Castles.
Tigers and leopards peer
Through the bars of their
Zoo homes by the sea.
Easterly winds that bite your
Fingers as they whistle and
Howl through the City.
Guest houses closed for
The winter as you stroll
The lonely promenades
Breathing in the air.
Queen Bodicea,  Normans,
Vikings and Romans all
Marched through this
Historical  landscape
And yet we remain
Stalwart and strong
Proud of our heritage,
Our roots,  our birthplace
There's only one place
Better than Norfolk,
And that's the
Beautiful Ozarks.
Torn between Norfolk in UK and the Ozarks in Missouri
Faithful traitor,
My own vindicator.
Loyal to the end,
Still disguised as a friend.

Stalwart paragon,
Among those too far gone.
Betrayal a means to right,
Cleanse corrupted insight.

Faith placed in you,
misguided, yes its true.
A traitor,
makes salvation all the greater.

Now I see,
the pain you caused me.
Was meant to steer,
Your reason, I would not hear.

Faithful to me in betrayal,
Painted a dark portrayal.
Of the kindness you did pay,
What else can I say?

My faithful traitor.
My heart you did break,
Still not free of that ache.
Cast a stone at my brow,
Your love I did disavow.

You take it in,
my failure my own sin.
Saving me from my own-self,
Brought this down on myself.

Traitor yes to my eyes,
brought free from my demise.
Thank you for your trust,
the truth solely your lust.
Leocardo Reis Nov 2021
The most stalwart of loves
go unfulfilled;
a brilliant,
unfettered affection,
purified
by enduring heartache.

They are as
stubborn leaves in Autumn,
clinging to a branch.
As soon as the season is finished,
they shall be pruned without exemption,
yet they persist bitterly.
PoserPersona Apr 2019
The captain held the wheel against the sea
His sails were gashed, but maintained their integrity

And so the vessel found its weary peace
in swaying waves where the birds feel less wind than breeze

The splintered wood would hold its bobbing form
until the husk could be retooled in the home port

And though the repairs will handle new storms,
battle scars of yesterday shall remain stalwart

Lest the ocean deep claim one more casket
of sailor’s lives, goals, and dreams before the maggots
Hal Loyd Denton Aug 2012
Stitching

From a grand church in France to a rustic barn in Sweden the focal point and fascination is the door that
Has a key protruding in the lock but it has with time lost the screws that held it snug against the door
And the door frame there is no flat lumbered board now it is just a very deep splintered lines the color
Of auburn brown with a low gleaming in the setting sun I put my hands out and touch this rustic place in
Time an explosion of thoughts blast the mind a life lived well with purpose that endures with use the
Seasoned is expressed a stitching that is the fabric of life forms over muscle and sinew this outer
Garment does not belie the inner soul but in experience and in action it promotes and assures value
It passes through the vestiges of time the gray mist speaks with whispered mystery bur anchored at
Your center is the intractable character that sets the tone of your life a solid structure presents a forcible
Argument yes the elements have taken their toll but by doing so they have removed the green untried
Wood now the occasional creaking occurs but not of breaking but the stalwart rises in common skies
Privilege gleams the stranger or intimate friend is in the presence of the assured there is no pretense
This truth as sound as time and wisdom crowns walls and bedrock foundation you have come upon
The investment that God has provided and runs deep without constraints you can stand and muse
Here and as an invisible oracle your questions will be answered they will float on silent wind and mark
You as different you will be refreshed a redeeming will surge through you timeless affirmation will
Speak you will know it is sound it is steps that are sure when so much is cheap and just for show you
Will grow strong and tall your shadow will be the challenge to those who waste themselves on base
And worthless misgivings of life you will possess the power to be a place of refuge a fortress where
The powerless and helpless are provided comfort and instruction no longer will evil and its devices
Enslave the helpless there will be that irrefutable place of giving that will conquer a world bent on
Destruction.
Jude kyrie Jul 2016
England 1942

The war was endless she thought it would be over in six weeks when it was declared.
now three years later she found herself in this airfield crowded with young fighter pilots flying Spitfires and the bomber crews flying the stalwart Lancaster bombers.

She was twenty eight now getting to that  age of being called a spinster of the parish. The young airmen were interested in her but really only for one thing.
She worked in the photography department of the RAF and developed pictures taken by the recon airmen of France and Germany and Holland .
Recently an American had joined her in the darkroom.
He was a big man and  had a crooked smile and big hands he lay on the belly of the bomber plane taking pictures he laughed and said he never fired a gun in his life.
And that he had no beef with Germans he just fired his camera at them.
He liked to develop his own pictures and they worked alongside each other in the darkroom all though the war.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands. He got used to her being there.
The war finally ended and he went back to the States. Where he opened a small photography store and built a darkroom with his own hands.
When it was finished he returned to England on a ***** steamer to save money. He knocked on the ladies door that had worked with him in the darkroom.
She answered and he asked her for her hand in marraige.
She accepted his proposal and they sailed back to new York.
When she explored the photography shop she found the darkroom.
On it was pinned a note in his nice neat handwriting.
It said I fell in love with you in the dark my love.
But I want you spend the rest of of your life following the light with me.
She was to be my grandma and he was my grandfather.

My father was born a year later
he had a crooked smile and big hands with a love of photography.
His specaility light and shadow.
I was born much later and did not share the family love of photography and was let off by God with only a crooked smile no big hands.
Instead I used to get into trouble at school for writing poems in the margins of my exercise books.
Grandma passed away a little while ago
i was given the task of clearing her personal items from the house.
In her memory box I found the note
in Grandfathers hand that he pinned on the door
of his darkroom so long ago.
It moved me to write this story.

So Go follow the light Grandma
Look for a big man
with a crooked smile and big hands
Hes waiting for you.
SøułSurvivør Jun 2016
A farmer went to plant a crop
In his ready field
He threw it through and through the land
Preparing for his yield.

Some of his seed fell impotent
Upon a hardened ground
This seed was taken up by birds
Who quickly flew around.

Some seed fell on shallow soil
And sprouted quickly there
But there was no room for roots to grow
So the heat took up that share.

Some it fell in fertile loam
But there was other seed
As it grew it was choked out
By briars and by weeds.

Some of this land, however
Was harrowed quick and sure
The seed fell deep within it
And so the crop endured.

We all know this parable
That Jesus gave the crowd
They did not understand it
For they were not allowed.

But his stalwart followers
Asked the meaning of his words
They were of his kingdom
So this is what they heard...

The trodden soil was as a hardened heart
Which could not accept the Truth
And so it was devoured
By Satan. Foul. Uncouth.

This second soil was spurious
A sprinkling of dirt
Upon a rocky soil beneath
And so their Faith was hurt.

The Third had fatal mixture
Of good seed and of bad
The weeds were a distraction
And so the fruit was sad.

The final ground was fertile
Tilled by God's own hand
So 30... 60... 100 fold
Was the Harvest of that land.

The Word of God is like this Seed
It has much to offer
The Holy Spirit is its Wind

And Jesus Christ its Author.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/11/2016
I was meditating on this scripture today.
It was sent to me by a dear sister in Christ who is on the site. It held much significance to me. I have a few weeds it need to be pulled! Lol!

I will be reading tonight so bear with me. The hurrier I go the behinder I get! XD
Hal Loyd Denton Aug 2013
Once they stood formable stalwart now they are growing faint those barometers of our
Lives they took the temperature of our passions they plumed the depths of our rational
They were sounding boards and they were true assessment of our selves they were not
The work of superficial minds and hands right now if we could get this into our national
Psyche we wouldn’t need politicians in the sense they can be a drawback or detrimental
To the great cause of America of continuing to be the land of opportunity the American
Public is the heart and mind that drives and makes us great small government is all
That is needed if her people engage in real enterprise let Washington take the helm of
State but let the states and their people go back to the landmarks the word even says
Do not forget the landmarks for in them you have knowledge from the past that will
Guide you into a secure and bright future we need to handle an axe handle a *** a
Shovel better yet work with them all this hooey about throwing money at the problem
Reeducate in the fundamentals of hard work go to the land while these places and
Buildings still exist shut up and listen to the groan that used to escape from human throats
In that act of hard back breaking toil listen to the moaning wind allow you’re self to be
Engaged in the great reminding let the panorama unfold see men and women staggered
By the great challenges and with steel in their eye they went to work and insurmountable
Problems fell before their faithful dutiful walk they were building a nation an acre at a
Time they weren’t crying about how hard it was they were throwing themselves into
The notion and belief you can build a better tomorrow but it takes accosting today with
Mental perseverance “Truly the rest from hard labors are sweet” Robert Frost man or
Beast cannot appreciate life without achievement all the small enterprises that dotted the
Land they didn’t match big city terms but string them together you had the strength in
Linear means that were equivalent to those cites that made their mark in the world by
Vertical markers we have lost our way and good intentions or not we don’t need
Leadership that stands and says don’t concern your selves with this we will take care
Of everything for you first off your stupid you can get your army of lame brains but
It will lead to dismal failure our past leaders harnessed the great dynamo of American
Individualism that is self perpetuating mountains rivers great expanses were subdued
Made to serve us all made us the envy of the world quit apologizing and turn around
And look deep into the heart of this country be enthralled and in amazed wonder lead
From that stand point there something sick and twisted when they stand with all the
Landmarks of Jefferson Washington Lincoln in any direction and they feel small there
Is a strangle hold on this nation and it is small mindedness it’s not holding ourselves
Responsible to the landmarks that indicate what was and is possible it’s in our hands
Paul S Eifert Dec 2012
New snow has dressed the dawn in white and veiled as if a maiden
bride this one light. The wind as if a voice whispers unto the dawn,
"Beloved." Beckons, "Beloved." "Beloved," breathes, sighs unto the dawn.
This one light falls upon the naked tree, flush and warm upon its
trembling limbs. Branches as if hands concealing shame implore,
"Look not upon my nakedness. Look not upon the wounds of my nakedness."
Yet this one light moves among the branches, curls upon the limbs,
its restive body soft as grace on tender scars and draws
its veil with its embrace.

Once a stalwart tree arose, forged
in war, opposed before it stood grasping at the earth, tearing at the hem
of heaven's gown. Years etched somber verses on its back, years pleased
to twist and bend what would not break, to let stand this reading of the leaves:
Behold the fate of the last thing. Once a stalwart tree became as if the truth
in ugly nakedness, in stripes and scars, as if the truth in branches frozen open
to absent light to the shame of its members in the horror of plain sight.
Then dreamed a tale and knew the truth no more.

Come one light upon the naked tree, closer still, closer still, until within
its branches then its limbs light as fire upon its naked wounds blushes
crimson white beneath a snowy veil. The wind as if a voice pleads,
"Hush. Hush." A secret union mocks the work of years finding there
an ageless will to be at peace with fire, to become what lies within
suddenly awake by touch of what is wholly other. What is seen,
dawn dressed as if a maiden rises and departs, a scourged tree bears
its sorrows to the light, cold grace, cruel denial, need - or unseen,
the two will always be as one, beloved -
One of these days, the glimmer in your eye that knocks me out will actually break me,
And then my words and reservoir of tears will shatter into shards of truth
That stick into and stain your hands when you apologetically try to sweep them up.

It’s not a ******* secret that I live for the hours that I can pretend that maybe,
One of these nights, I’ll be with you in more than just my mind and yours
As you grip the banister to ascend to silken sheets and wine-fed dreams.

I bite my tongue so words don’t leak, and lick my lips so as to keep them here,
Rather than the curving place behind your ear… the stalwart jaw… the capable lips that draw me near…
The things I’d do were waters clear…

The answer’s written in an inky, contractual ultimatum that squashes the fruit of imagination.
And yet, a fierce, poisonous force rises from the depths of a desirous ***** within,
And whispers to me that with contracts, there are ways to blot, smear, and tear. It scares me.

I lock it in a closet of infectious notions that I’ll slowly dematerialize with clean blood,
But rivers of the stuff won’t run clear when they’re magnetized so close to the sin
That doesn’t feel like sin, and that beckons as a beacon of bright and beautiful things.

It’s a difficult conclusion to arrive at: I must be the bad guy.
I am the mind’s mistress, the secret-almost-lover, the temptation, the promise, the snake…
Yet also the forgotten, the disappointed, the frustrated, the one who MUST keep control, the Saint.

We both know that I’ll keep floating back; my curiosity, passion, fascination, and need to learn and share
Will always countervail the weight of my exasperation and guilt-laden vexation,
Until one of these days when the glimmer in your eye that knocks me out actually breaks me.
08/24/12




An Eagle Creek poem.
brandon nagley Jan 2016
i.

Cometh hither darling, passeth through the enlightened pergola, seeith how ourn moniker's, art carved into the archway thither ourn bower; A chivalrous Noble tower.

ii.

No worrying mine dear, a buckler shalt be close to mine grab, for the attacker's shalt tryeth to invade, steal, and get all in a duetimes hand; though the circlet I shalt place upon thine top, shalt giveth thee shielding, from the Creation's that mock.

iii.

Artista, mine chosen of coëval; chalcedony balconies shalt giveth us visibility, up close we shalt toast, in thine calligraphist theory, in intimacy we'll float.

iv.

The eaves of ourn citadel, shalt be engineered by thine geniusness, none better to build ourn protection, as thou art a stalwart of the age, a queen aloft all name's, an angel upon a seraph's stage, as I wilt espy thee from the window inside thine midst.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
Pergola means- an archway in a garden or park consisting of a framework covered with trained climbing or trailing plants.
Moniker means - our name. Or names .
Thither means - to or toward that place. Or towards a place.
Bower usually means- a woman's bedroom. Or could mean our bedroom.
A buckler is a small handheld shield.
Circlet is- thin band of precious metal, worn on the head.
Eaves means - the fringe of a forest (from the resemblance of the overhanging forest canopy to the eaves of a house); also used figuratively for the edges of a mountain range.
Citadel means- noun: citadel; plural noun: citadels
a fortress, typically on high ground, protecting or dominating a city.
Stalwart means- someone who is reliable, loyal and hard working.
Espy means- catch sight of.
coëval means- having the same age or date of origin;
Vertigo Jul 2014
Your violet iris leaves me naked
as your half-cocked upper lip remains stalwart while
a single drop of salt water backlash slips over,
falling to the ruin
where I tear your ventricles and,
blindly,
walk away.
The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,
There's men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold,
The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there,
And there with the rest are the lads that will never be old.

There's chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart,
And many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave,
And many the handsome of face and the handsome of heart,
And few that will carry their looks or their truth to the grave.

I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell
The fortunate fellows that now you can never discern;
And then one could talk with them friendly and wish them farewell
And watch them depart on the way that they will not return.

But now you may stare as you like and there's nothing to scan;
And brushing your elbow unguessed-at and not to be told
They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man,
The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.
Edward Coles Apr 2015
When did loneliness in a crowded room become a goal?
Eavesdropping on inspiration; indolence.
Like my art, pockets of brilliance are found
in the wreckage of a market town
with nothing left to sell. All those discordant
ideals of escape and of nothingness.
Still waiting for that ***** of light
which must always break through.

Isolation becomes a component of personality;
a need for space in overpopulated surroundings.
Like my art, pockets of living
congregate in moments torn from the clock face,
in lines of laughter and grief; the five o'clock champagne.
All that revel in maladjustment,
all who laugh at death,
those who had given up on The Lie.

When did my life reduce to words and symbols;
stealing poetry from the street-preacher's leaflets?
Like my art, pockets of reason
form amongst the senselessness of meaning;
how love sits different on every tongue,
how wine hits sweetly only in the need to run.
I have grown tired of running away,
this stalwart need for acceptance.
A want for a panic room,
a need to fall to pieces, undisturbed.
C
Mark Bell Mar 19
Shut the door
Don’t come back
Once you were
inside
Now Im covered
In cracks.
I was stalwart
True and fit
Years with you
Now I don’t
want to live,
I was smitten I
Fell for your games
There’s only me to
Really to blame.
So shut that door
And don’t come back
The lights have gone out
In this beaten up shack.
Property been sealed
Now  I must rebuild,
Qweyku Nov 2017
An aged woman her sight waxing dim
Waits at the gate called patience
A stalwart near the inner court;
Whose walls are named deliverance
Bolted by a door of praise.

She watches at the gate intently
Though many hurriedly egress
& fewer enter by it.

She tells those who will listen:
I look for the one coming from Edom
The one dressed in red
The wearer of the royal turban
The giver of the eternal ring.

So old
She is rumoured to be immortal
Her name is Kheftsivah
Though some call her Beulah
But I prefer her sacred name; Wisdom
& the secret one not yet given.

She is there still, they say
Ancient yet standing
Watching & waiting

           © Qwey.ku
Francie Lynch May 2014
I stand sturdy in this room,
Facing you new from the womb.
I press my back against the wall,
To push you back,
To watch your back,
To be your wall.

I keep my heels against that wall
Where others stood before I crawled.
If I'd been dipped in River Styx
I'd linger longer,
But I will fall.

I'd daily bathe in ambrosia
To ward off eternity,
I'd lean forever
Against this wall,
But for mortality.

And so my hands are calloused,
My great grief known;
I have Achilles' burning rage,
I have Achille's heels.

Before that day we'll warm a bench
Near the rowan tree,
I'll wear a cap, carry a cane,
Sit small ones on my knee.

We'll name Lakers, carrying coal,
Fewer now to unload,
And tell silly tales, and get old.

I'll know the joy you'll bring me,
Like letters carved in a tree.

My happy heels press and stall,
I'm stalwart facing you;
I'm backed against the wall.
Edited and reposted.
A silhouette leaned back
Grey smoke distorted features demure;
Swirls riddled—smooth jazz syncopation
Her rouge lips cut through
The darkness.
She took a long drag on her
Cigarette, smoke rings evaporated
A halo around her.
Midnight blue eyes surveyed
The Bijou Café
Carpet pooled on the floor,
Blood soaked with wine,
Enclosed by onyx sheets,
The far wall a mirror.
A reflection of the souled and soulless.
Bar welcome strangers, friends,
The lonely.
Sharing drinks and memories
Vines intertwined customers
A perchance meeting;
Rendezvous of sorts.
Nameless faces and acquaintances
Dotted the room, a familiar skyline.

Lonely tower missing.
Smooth black fedora
Hearts sank ships as
Waves of embarrassment
Enveloped her; disappointment.
Crestfallen her eyes downtrodden
Soared with a door creak.
Black fedora entered,
Smooth—slick as oil

Eyes were hidden beneath
A veil of night;
Silence became him.
Hush fell on the crowd
As the shadow took the stage
Light pierced through,
Illuminating him.
Orbs locked
Reservation started to pass,

Voice velvet smooth
Played every heartstring
Notes of excitement
Tantalized her veins,

Pulse quickened;
Echoing every tempo change.
Music coursed through her being
Sensual; seductive
Notes caressed curves, valleys
Spaces in between.
Emotion—chord dependent
Voice penetrated skin
Music flowed through her.
A mountain peek high
Mind clouded—
Breath escaped her lungs.
Quiet murmur answered her comedown
An empty stage; stalwart eyes
Fingers replaced music
Lips brushed hers; taste—electric
Smile turned smirk; hollow presence
Musky cologne in wake.
Magnetic pull forward
Fedora exited
Midnight eyes transformed to dawn;
Abandoned beneath the awning
Familiar skyline flowed liquid.
Bijou Café
Neon sign loomed dark
Save for a letter
I illuminated.
Heart tendrils retreated,
Back to roots; betrayed
Tears turned to water
Liquid guilt—love died.

Fingers loosed
Memory;
Small matchbook of shame
Lingering of once upon a time
In the gutter; pouring rain.
AM David Jul 2012
Just like ceaseless
Drops of water, that
Over time, wear down the sturdiest of rocks,

So can little lies,
Those clever evasions and half-truths,
Erode the most stalwart of hearts.
Cody Edwards Feb 2010
My newest hobby is telling people
that I have a prom date, watching the drift of mouths
and listening to the refocusing
of eyes. I'm sure they don't mean
to be rude but they certainly make a good show
of their unkempt reactions.

"Really?" comes the pestilential chorus
as trains of thought rapidly switch tracks.

One stalwart, you may shudder
to hear this, expressed profound
disgust when I disclosed the girl's identity.
"I wasn't aware they let lesbians go to the dance.”
he says and I: "Well, you'll find
they cannot bar the doors to any
sort of trash. You're going right?"

Not a thing about this business seems (to my joying eyes)
quite belonging to its proper world. Yes, it's really me.

I, the wandering ******-shaman,
must look quite at odds in their view;
despoiling the *** ritual
by stepping out from behind
the moon's galling rind of half-light.
To beat at my own tides? Oh, god!
The quiddity of my queer mind
is sacred like a water-walking rumor.

I find myself betrothed behind my back,
my role is sealed ere tightness shows a crack.
© Cody Edwards 2010
Timmy Shanti Feb 2017
When still life is vibrant
And landscapes are dead
No beauty at pageants
No glory ahead
No pathways to follow
No pleasure to find
Desires so hollow
And so is the mind…

Be gentle but stalwart
Be kind but robust
Be passion itself
A jolly wind gust
Be flowing like water
Be warm as the sun
Be timeless like fire
It’s all just begun…
II - 2017
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2013
The heavy smoke of war lay across the world it was laced with carnage and had the sounds of screaming
Shells and the screams of the dying men but as it continued its drift at the far edges a cloud and mist
Began to diminish the former and distil a brighter future there was the timid glory sounding the
Harking tribute of childlike memories the power of innocence to diffuse the base and inhumane
To spill across these scathing pages an ethereal presence that was empowering of good that
Could and did straddle time and space with magnificence drawing from exploration and history
That beheld the worst but mined the hidden gold to enrich the world it knew secrets that
Exposed the damnable lies that bankrupted former empires we were created to be conquers
Our mettle is an amalgamation of weak flesh but inherit in the confused and reciprocating
Action ultimately a flash of inspiration leaps from the spirit the dead end near sighted flesh was
At the wall of limitation now we stand at the zenith of the universe at its ever increasing of it
Self this inestimable spring of well being floods the low plains we ford these rich waters
Immediately our impoverished cares taste and smell the high and great call of hope we
Instinctively open our heart and mind as a great sail we find our self in the envious position as a
Seafarer our very sinew is awakened to promise and opportunity we have left far behind the
Naysayers we see gifts of beauty spread everywhere where all before was drear now victory is
Courting us to rise to even higher heights boldness infuses our demeanor we now throw off
Yesterdays doubting with eyes that are no longer dim we see with clearest vision and with
Steeled determination former days of being wistful vagabonds is forever forfeited we have the
Right and the might that Lincoln addressed his generation we align ourselves with the high
Ideals of past warriors and martyrs know this our enemies whatever your culture or ideals you
Have come among a stalwart people and the foundations of our forefathers will defeat you the
Same as others who came with inferior and demonized religions know this truth will and has
Made us free look well to yourselves continue and your destruction is guaranteed check the
Harbinger winds and save your selves from the only outcome that will befall you which is
Destruction
Swasti Jain Feb 2017
" Poltroon " she cried,

While her knuckles were white with rage.
Perturbed,  she was while her father passed away.

Solitude, she chose while earthlings left her dejected, like a stray.

Erratic, were those times when she decided to unravel the intricate stories of life and not get bewrayed.

Lost, she was in the absolute beauty of the cosmos waiting for someone at the bay.

Soon, she realized that a lifeboat would never come her way.

" You're a stalwart , get up and find your own way ".

Much did she know, rest she deciphered.

And found herself flying in the sky of aplomb,  like a mockinjay!

                                        - Swasti Jain

— The End —