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Knit Personality Jan 2015
Look on her now: no streak
    Of rosy hue
Blushes across her cheek,
    Now icy blue.

A frigid, wintry bed
    Was made for her
Who seemeth fully dead,
    And dead for sure,—

For her whose rested breath
    Will beat a pulse
Again before with Death
    She spins a valse.  

And doth she lie as fair
    As when her throat
Gave to her stately air
    A breathy note.

Look on her now!  She stirs,
    But frozenly!
And wakes with awful "brrrrr"s!
    Get her some tea!

8===>
Joisha Wuat Co Sep 2018
All stately, all prime
She, who's steady, she who's fine
Heedfully, she's plodding
Yet impassioned, she's overwhelmed
Whilst covertly she's asking
Wherefore am i can't profess?
Abruptly, what's endless, she ended
Clueless, my own demise
To whomever i should be incensed?
Who would've thought she can?
I make music for my poems
https://joishawuatco.bandcamp.com/track/lei-and-antimonan
patty m Jul 2019
Fragile normalcy carefully tended
while my off kilter mind
finds a cat and befriends it.
Railroad track thoughts
turn ever grayer as they wind through the past
and peel back the layers
Behind dull facades
and stately mansions
Do You Want to Touch Me
or is that out of fashion?
Blind-sided heart
torn to Bits and Pieces
brings death to romance
and the hate it releases
Trusted friends
turn out to be players
cutting me open
to peel back the layers.
Hallucinations
of a tatooed star
things slightly odd
soon become quite bizarre.
Trips to places I've never been
incriminations whisper again and again.
My lineage soon turns quite exclusive
and I, it seems too reclusive.
FATE pecks at glass, it's shiny frame
it all becomes a silly game,
as life that cruel rapacious slayer
rips out my heart and peels back the layers.
coaxed by
billow blowing
my back toward
double doors

bloomy blush palms
grace cold chromium
transfixed yet still
slightly froze

by their magnitude
stellar statuesque
ornate etchings
on the outside

engravings tonging
somethings subtly
warbling up vertebra
no longer numb

and I
remember
this hand
this voice
this vibration
this harmony

a fifth or a third
resonant progression
of ordered chords
this same old song
never heard, yet
- known -

buried, now begging
eternal womb
to be born

the want
wavers fingers
in front of the bell
until the know grows
too large to hold
behind stately doors

craving light, space, time
to stretch and unfold

dew-spun carbon
beyond the threshold
William D Hearns May 2018
One glossy raven perched, stately,
atop a snowy hill, Unearthly Long flowing wings, hanging down the *****, framing the hill
on the face of which,
were interposed two glacial ponds of blue.
Between these pools ran a simple strip of sloped marble,
But at the base of this was the most gentle depression in the snow.
In disbelief I observed two rows of strawberries, blossoming,
heavy laden with the richest red.
Each gentle bite of these more delicious than the last.
I continued my survey,
down to a long narrow hill of the freshest snow.
Here I came upon a wide expanse, a plain,
two long, slender berms extended at opposite sides.
But this was no true plain, and all the better for that,
For two equal mounds of snow enchanted the landscape.
The setting sun cast a pink light at the peak of each pale globe,
So beautiful I wept.
As I passed between their valley the snowy distance continued.
I observed an infinitesimal sloping on the Western and Eastern edges.
This expanse, perfect of any true blemish, was punctuated by the shallowest little empty pond at its narrowest width; which only served to enhance the beauty.
The length of this snowed plain was far greater than its width, the edges slowly creeping into the narrowest part before flaring out to a wide expanse.
And there in the lowlands was The Delta,
to the side of which extended two of the longest and most shapely tapering ridges I had ever observed;
each ending with graceful peaks.
But that Delta!
Though snowy, the darkest , shortest scrub had capped its mound.
At the apex of The Delta was a precipice,
on its face a cavern, pink walls glistening with wetness,
at the caverns base, a cave.
Its tunnel, with walls ribbed, was warm and humid despite the landscape of snow.
This is the landscape I cherish most.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns)*

Sittin' on the dock of the bay,
Watching the sun slip, Simon-says, slide away,
Cheeks blushing flushing from orange ray-guns,
Drinking blush rosé to oil our eyes
For the subtle story the sky shortly will reveal,
For the subtle story the sky shortly will revel.

Grievous judgement to make,
Thinkin' skills possessed to praise,
When but yesterday I easy confessed,
At the Blue Canoe I did not.

(The clouds were magnificent. No, I cannot write a poem about the cloud colors. Their shape shifting inexhaustible.  Mine eyes high on their creativity.  I'm just not good enough a poet to tamper with that sky.)*

If you courage enough to
Call yourself poet, then
It is audacity, not blood,
Warming your extremities,
So foolishly try, always be prepared to fail.

No impulse. We pledged that tonight, ours,
One hour of sunset over Silver Beach.
Brought the wine, forgot the pillows,
So Abraham & Sarah went prepared to sacrifice
All feelings in their butts for the greater glory
Of love and one of nature's great poetic challenges..

The conundrum~miracle of every sunset
O'er bay, lake or ocean, is its special,
Only-In-Nature unique way of customizing
Its descent just for you.

No matter where one observes,
No matter where you worship,
Wherever your temple, mosque or church situé,
Tennessee, Rhode Island, the Philippines,
Germany, Colombia, even in the ole U.K.,
(yes, you, know it, yes you)
The very same setting sun we all see,
Sends a magic dazzle gold orange path invitation
To the exact spot you are voyeuring,
One sun, all destinations equal before human.

How can that be?

Trepidation and tremblingly,
The clouds.

She leans on me, a perfect fit,
My back resting against a pylon,
So we see the clouds
With common exactitude,
But it is a quiet time, silence only shared.
Images stored silently within ourselves,
For we see the formation, man, woman,
Precisely and exactly, totally differently.

The clouds.
An armada moving imperial and imperiously
At a stately speed, saying I am awesome, fear me.
The largest cloud bank is an aircraft carrier,
Miles long, painted horizon blue-grey unsurprisingly.

The small white wisps, fast destroyers, stealthy submarines,
Moving fast to protect the mother ship,
Running random to confuse enemy radar and the
Pathetic, limited, human eye.

The colors.
Here I fail willingly, unashamedly.
So many sunsets, so many hearts,
All different, all the same.
Lacking knowledge, I cannot tender,
I cannot offer you tenderness to love
Enough,
The variety of oranges, gold, varietals interspersed
By the pinks, the cornea, singed,
And mock myself for all my meager brain yields is
Good Humor creamsicle comparison...a delicious irony

You who write after midnight
Of razor blades, pills and shotguns,
And not marked two decades even, on this planet,
You want hard,
Write a poem about a sunset in ways never done before.

You, who are wracked with despair
Speak to the man with no job for months
And mouths to feed and a life insurance policy.
Speak to me.

I want to tell you to get over yourself,
But you reject that old saw. Ok.
Get onto to yourself.

I have walked the hallways of deep despair,
Heard the bells ring between periods that signal only the next
Hell,
And to this day, still do,
But still I try to write external of sunsets and greater glories.

How many lives depend on you? Are you proud of your weakness?
Do you hate me yet for acknowledging out loud,
We are both cowards?

I have five mouths to feed,
Before I parse a morsel.
Two less than two,
What do you have but to
Grow yourself?

Yeah coward.
Too yellow to write about a
Yellow sunset, cause that is hard in a way incomprehensible
Until tried.
Or the passing of your mother who could not speak clearly
But you, thru her eyes knew that she had poems to yet recite.
Run away like I did ashamed with frustrated failure.
Why should I coddle, give you easy soft?
.
If you come here to share, well and good.
If you come here to find comfort, good.
So gaze upon these words and feel
The love that only experience has earned.

What do you know of heartbreak?
Imprisoned for decades in a loveless life,
I walked by the water nightly,
Yes, the same waters where I CinemaScoped
Yesterday's sunset, and walked away.

You can read about if you look it, look me, look here,
Look up!

So do something hard, something external.
Fail but love yourself more for just having tried.
Then try something else.

The saddest poem ever wrote
Was not yours, where you titillate with daring words
Razors, pills etc.,
The saddest poem ever writ
Was this one, a meager vanity to capture a
Sunset that keeps trying every day to
Surpass
Supersede
Its previous glorious failure,
Like we should too.
Keep trying

Now, I shall rest,
For I know that soon I shall see, feel, think,
Of something new that will make me eager to
Write a new poem.


August 3~5, 2013
When I am less tired, I wil edit the typos. But life is full of typos, but sometimes you just gotta not look back, even if you leave a trail of typos behind you. But writing this has mentally exhausted me in a different way.  I will rest from writing to recover. Dig out some old ones, maybe

If you courage enough to
Call yourself poet, then
It is audacity, not blood,
Warming your extremities,
So foolishly try, always be prepared to fail.
Krison Oct 2018
I have no time for politics,
talkings heads,
heads of state,
stately hats,
manly gaites.

And on, and on, and on.

With resent for only money,
those jokes so half *** funny,
and sad sack bleeding harts.

Dime store smarts
and trollop tarts,
that do not claim there farts.

Yet i hear were full of ****!

So i've no patience for.....

The hiding of the gore.
The hit and run
the watered down
fake news we abore.

And mostly i've no time,
so I will make a ryme.

For the outside is a gauntlet.
And with pen i post my crime.

So lock me up,
I'm but a blip.
The news will sup and Sip,
and **** there heads
with lock and step.

And find my hate for all.

They are cheating of there proof,
and I have had enough.
Not enough for giving up,
enough for that i tried.

I did,
you see,
It wasn't me,
But you that made this mess.

I only watched.
I only cared.

And now I've little less.

To your regard,
The mass ******.
Of all that could be swell.

It was your head
That doubled size.

And I hope ya burn in hell.
e fields Nov 2018
I'd love to love you, but -
How the static used to glimmer
On our in-betweens

You run behind the high buildings
Sleeping off dreams in a stranger's backseat
You walk toe to toe on fountain edges
While the weathered green children,
Stately lions and long-dead Greeks
Spout water to the sky,
Not theirs but channeled as if
Marbled sentences carried out permanently

You look to the happy pairings
Entangled arm in arm like *****
Scuttling up the many streets
Living advertisements for human harmony
You see yourself and me similarly arranged
Then cloud coverage as always
Shadows strike out the flight of fancy
My ghost, the first to leave
You turn your head to sunspots
Silently bereaved
Make it like you haven't seen

You go back to your old haunts
And you ply rationale with drinks
Just as your idols taught you
That's just like you
That's just like me
You will be the death of me; I will be the culpable one.
Mary Gay Kearns Mar 2019
I saw the Silver swan
Open her wings, glistening
On the top of a white stage
It was noble, stately, nightly
And the stage a circular pond
Let me flow softly, smoothly
Watching the Silver swan glide
Mysterious, beautiful
Silver swan I will swim to you
For with you I am entranced
Mounting a lovelet of songs
Under a starry sky.


Love Mary
Written in hospital just recently.
Greg Dean Castro Jun 2019
Once stately stood we, limb and bough
Our root and trunk, grown thickly strong,
Did thwart the wind. Did check the plow
We all alive, we all a throng.

With glee our canopy was spread
This green a shield. This green a blade
A barrier to place instead
Twixt time and age - twin villains stayed.

Then quick came rust, then quick came blight
Whence went the Oak, the Beech from sight?
Whose sturdy, trusted friendly light
Now gone, now gone. Chased day to night.

Time has sapped and pruned and pared
This fellow's copse. No longer shared

A wistful, longing glance I see,
Bare limb, bare bough surrounding me
With Autumn's fall, no spring in lee -
I am the last leaf on the tree
Harri Jul 2018
I don't want an easy love.
Sure, I want a napping in the sun,
Doing everything and nothing
All at once
Staring into each other's eyes
And giggling at an in-joke
Kind of love.
But not a simple one.
Not one that settles into my bones
With the inevitability of old age.
Not one that grows so comfortable
It becomes ordinary.
I want fire.
I want passion.
I want a love that makes me fight for it.
Over and over again.
I want a love that keeps me on my toes.
That never settles into routine.
Sure, I want a coffee in bed
Cuddles with a film
Soft pillows and warm skin
Kind of love.
But I also want to look at it
And see that it is ephemeral
And changeable
And all the more precious for it.

Sure, I want a lifetime kind of love.
But a lifetime's a long time.
And I want it to be a wild tango,
Not a slow and stately waltz.
John Niederbuhl Jun 2019
Huge, white clouds that drift
Stately, shifting, rounded shapes
Younger days recall
TS Ray Oct 2019
Far away in a stately kingdom of normal people,
when two minds met in the meadows of principle,
while breathing air let out sounds of fipple,
it wasn't scientific to analyze in multiple.
Even questioning purpose was debatable,
By applying logical reasoning as valuable,
Became clear that staying the course was truly cherishable.
Felix Sladal Sep 2017
I see your ghost everywhere
The ghost of who you once were
Before all the **** went down in your brain
The beauty that flowed from you till you woke up from the dream that was your life
That dream shattered right out
Right out from under you
Made you want to forget
Forget who you were
All brought for nought
Fragments still rattle
Behind your eyes

Those candy rock promises someone whispered in the night
Lost that luster, didn't they?
Couldn't find the silver lining?
What was once radiant phosphorescence
Became gangrenous and insipid
Leaving a malodorous taste
Stagnant in your mouth
The feast turned to crumbs left for the rats under your skin
You become to stately for our  unostentatious life
Now you've painted the Petunia's colors of your choice
Rearranged your furniture
To play at being all grown-up

Bit of turpentine blotted on the canvas might smear the lines
But that won't erase your past
Your fingerprints are etched into
Every discarded can of spray paint
Lips carved into the pores of to much skin
You'll slice them off to get rid of the feelling
Keep up your newly minted fascade
That caused you such strife
To grow in the petri dish
Under your mothers sink
While you tryed to burn your
Bridges to ashes
Ashes embedded forevermore under your fingernails


Now you linger in ghosts
Haunting cities you've never been to
Places you're naught to see
In them breathes a
Chilly air wishing to keep you alive
Homunculus Jan 2019
The temperature has been in the low single digits since the early morning hours. As I venture outside, everything is gray and lifeless. The brightest and most vibrant objects in this glum portrait of a day are the snowflakes. They dance; they flicker; they undulate, glistening midair in balletic flourishes, descending hesitantly to the ground, and then scattering back into the winds as they land. One of nature's cryptic metaphors? Perhaps, but who's to say? As my eyes take stock of the world around me, I find that I am surrounded on all sides by death and decay. Time has stripped the deciduous trees of their once vibrant autumn leaves, which have long since abandoned the branches to be raked up and wither into mulch. Juxtaposed against these, every block or so, are the evergreens, which seem at once to mock proudly their barren counterparts, and also to weep quietly in sullen isolation. The sod has become a hazy yellow which resembles straw, brittle in texture, and browning toward the roots. Within this morbid scenery, I understand that in only a few hours, I could just as easily succumb to the forces of nature which brought it about and become but another mere instance of it. A true illustration of the philosophical doctrine of sublimity. As soon as the sting of the cold makes contact with the skin, the brain kicks into survival mode. “I must escape this.” Nothing could possibly be more important. The leisure with which the homeward journey is usually pursued is completely abandoned. Only urgency remains:

        GET IN CAR
MAKE ROUNDS
STOP AT SIGN
“YOU'RE STOPPING, TOO?
        “TOO BAD; TOO SLOW;
        “TOO. *******. COLD.
        “I. GO. FIRST.

“HEATER'S NOT WORKING??!?!?!”
BANG ON DASHBOARD LIKE CHILD MID-TANTRUM
“HEATER IS WORKING?!?!?!?!”
HANDS IN FRONT OF WARM VENTS
“WINTER'S FORBIDDEN FRUIT!!!!!!!!”
“****, NOW IT'S COLD AGAIN?!?!?!
        “TURN. THE VENTS. OFF.”
“WHY EVEN HAVE A HEATER
        “IF IT ONLY WORKS FOR 30 SEC-”
WHY ARE YOU STOPPING?!?!?!
             THE ******* LIGHT IS
             GREEEEEENNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

LOOK OVER LEFT SHOULDER
“NOPE, I'LL DIE:
“NOPE, I'LL DIE:
“NOPE, I'LL DIE:
“NOPE... WAIT, THERE'S MY IN!!!!!!
“FINALLY, A STRAIGHTAWAY!!!!!!”

“THE SNOW'S NOT STICKING,
I CAN GO FASTER THAN THIS. NO COP WOULD DARE PULL ME OVER IN THIS ****...

Well, maybe a sadomasochist on some “sir, please step out of the car” type ****, but I don't see one, anyhow.”

Okay, getting closer now. Can almost feel the loving protection of the stately brick walls, the roaring furnace, the tenacious water heater. Just another mile...
Up the hill- left turn- right turn- pull up- park. “Oh boy, here we go again”
*Rigorously examine pockets and center console to be sure nothing is accidentally left behind

Car door opens
“RUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

­       I reach the door, shivering like a frightened Chihuahua, hands palsied with cold as I fumble desperately for my key and struggle in the darkness to find the lock. “Click” GOT IT!!!!!!! I turn the key and push the door, but experience resistance due to the towel placed underneath to prevent the draft from coming in. I heave with all my weight and the door budges as I violently stagger into my humble domicile. I make my way into my room to find my cats sleeping intently on my bed. One of them looks up at me like “What's your deal?” Oh, Dante, if only you knew.
I've been reading a lot of Pynchon lately. I like the sort of stream of consciousness prose he launches into sometimes, and decided to tinker with it in my daily writing practice.
Also...
I imported this from my word processor, and the HP algo ****** the entire original formatting up; so I hope you'll forgive some of the aesthetic deficiencies.
Evan Stephens Apr 2019
My fingers in yours,
walking so stately.
Cut cloud pours?
My fingers in yours.
Thunderhead roars?
I smile sedately,
my fingers in yours,
walking so stately.
ABaAabAB
Mike Hauser Aug 2018
As I strolled  down Beaker Street
A neon sign flashed in front of me

That said "Only Serious Poets Need Apply"
(Blink) "Need Apply" (Blink) "Need Apply"

So it was I thought to myself
I can think of nobody else

As serious a poet as I

I looked to the right and the left
Feeling pretty confident about myself

And decided to take a gander inside

The room it was totally dark
In the corner was the tiniest of sparks

I did a stately poetic stroll in that direction

Feeling I might have made a mistake
This thought occurred a little too late

But of course this whole scene might just be window dressing

A voice said we don't need a poet at all
Just someone dumb and gullible

That's the moment in my pants I started messing

Turns out it was a mad scientist
With a masters degree in craziness

What were his dastardly plans I could only be guessing

I was grabbed by a couple of ugly thugs
Who highly dislike deodorant and mouthwash

******* and flown off to the smallest of islands

Where they did unspeakable experiments on me
In the first, second, and third degree

All because to insanity they took a liking

When it was they were finally done
With what those nut jobs consider good fun

Don't know how many walls they had me climbing

Daily now I plan my escape
I only hope that I'm not too late

When the opportunity arrives I hope I don't blow it

I find it so hard to believe
That this all has happened to little ole me

And Why?
Because of me being such a serious poet
Julian Jul 2016
Fragile egg-shell mind on dawn’s highway bleeding the segue between times traversed only in momentary dreams or in enduring excursions

We drag our droll and quaint 60s baggage like the luggage of a safari made of concrete girding a cavernous expanse of unheralded ground

With our ears oriented to the floor, we leap out of body never to deplore….never to ignore….never to miss the blue bus of our drafted imaginations, so carefully culled from brash elitism

I trounce the intervening time between being friendless and an ironic end, and an irenic comrade becoming the dearest amazed but always aplomb friend

We simper in our glorious traversal, and though bedraggled through an ornamented cavern we linger just long enough to be celebrated

Then a blues riff emanates from a vapid bar, and finally someone heralds my exhumed memory still rusty with the pavement of encased concrete on an empty or full tomb

So I wander in my mind to that roughshod Paris glassy tincture a romanticized gild of proper sensibility crafted in the tongues of lizards emulating the tongues of serpentine Anglicans

As the power of love transcends the love of power, both are afforded serendipitously upon the stately occasion of a fitful revolt where heads literally rolled and deaths still unfurl from the slippage of a violent malevolent eternity, crafting a new creative way to expedite the smite of preventable scourge

So Jim, I see your picaresque side and your wide-eyed love for a listless ship anointed of a crystal blip just detectable long enough on RADAR to become the statistic to crack the slim WHIP

No wigs are needed at this formality, no figs grow from trees forty-five years buried and almost a full month unsung

Pitiable cretins of an invented insanity, they scoff at my ravenous and portentous heart for its excess and for aligning with an upstart verging on only a specious insanity

Why in all humanity could a month be mustered with every defense of history and yet for it to be so widely flouted as a risible exercise in futility

The irony that the artistic glamor of a past vogue becoming a revival that is often toked only to one song but never to the memorial of great cavernous and commodious imaginations, staggers with dismay where otherwise the mayday would be a disaster but still a great day

Then I look at a triggered-fingered omen of a death so ominous yet so brazenly confronted as the ambassadors of time provide plaudits to a fearless martyrdom

Why such a sad spate, why such a stringent but malevolent fate a malediction on a family whose crest is not crestfallen like rolling waves but ornamented with gravity impounding its own weight

A fugacious tomb, an eternal flame, a swan song announcing an independent authority on a prescient demise mashed and deprived

A single shot rippling through the broadened space between clasped eternity and a histrionic disgrace as a psychological confederate pays lip service to a reiterative applause

A cousin hardly American in a defected record of incendiary plumes of a hoarse hatred of waxen discs and flying discs alike,  climbs out of a bonfire mounted purely out of vindictive spite

Then upon a great white buffalo a wrapped package of Californian love before California ever alighted like something beyond an avaricious dove, saw a rocky park and a hearth of illuminated darkness the singular spark

Captain Morgan knows the jackknife applause of a botched deal morphing into a disbelieved spiel. A shibboleth of enormous mystical weight crashing down from an ethereal abode and heaven heavily saddened cannot hardly appeal

Then a loving spoonful of crystal blue persuasion led me to Ethel’s regimented keepsake and for once in my life nobility and I became a grateful waif. But temerity laughed, splintered spacecraft, and the wooden paws of a bearish applause led to resurgent clarity

Blinking stars shattered by knighted and raw applause punctured the liberated might of a sentient hortatory savior grasped by the internecine wrench of a waxen time

An indie track slides by unnoticed in an aleatory time, and the threadbare whine of centuries of lament becomes a dastardly barn set ablaze with the fury of ancients and the scurry of faineant patents

Perfidy slides in recess, and in gentle forbearance the winged angel lingers like a halo on conifer and spring above a remedial ring

I dial frisky celerity tingling the dangling claws of a raven’s screed and in plunder of all history’s pilfer secrets I eagerly weave a tapestry Indiana Jones himself would be proud to watch

Not the riotous ruin of a mystery tour of verdure crippled by genocide but overcome by the revived life of raised rain razing the moments of indelible pain

But the culmination of a proffered time taken at its word for its every careened bird, for its every brazen gird. The manger of proctored stars calls us home tonight and home forever. Life in quaked timorous stumbles suddenly no longer so fitfully absurd.

The quixotic plundered of pirates and emperors in direct emulation of some crooned pastiche of whittled integrity, surges above any encased blurb and any vain testament to a pyramid rigid in destiny and ragged in desultory and sturdy sincerity

Multiplying the ineffable by the division of arable divorced from edible is too creative to be eaten as pabulum when sparks curdle flickered moonlight crimson and that become golden only to the last laugh of ennobled ragamuffins

Frankly the desert of melliferous gorillas abetting the lark of a heavily vetted camarilla engaged in the sinecure of a rigged wall on a main street to block the tall from the lame bleat. Stocks grazed, costs engaged on a littoral beach at the end of a Bossy promenade

This prayer is a cutthroat collapse of a merry spare, a ribbed ****** waiting to plunge into the antithesis of female despair, but sincere in its restraint that vixens courted in love aren’t courted in litigation of a wagered dare

Ambulances chase Deloreans through the desolate moon-stricken skies of a time agape with fleets of phantasmagoria on a Cliffside too wise to ever mince words or excise cries

Skulking the red-teared caverns of entombed films and lampooned tinctures on a passion vetted only for certain and utter deracinated disguise, I wallop with winged men in a single soul armed to the teeth with inveterate tithes to eternal internments of poached and endangered gazettes

As growth older in wizened skin bets on epithets rather than epitaphs for rinsed peace and triumphant clefts we leap above in orbit of only the bellowing nether of blown tolls and untold souls aggregating the esoteric grasp of Alexandrian tomes

The denumeration of certainty is a carousel of wonder, a splurge of time ripped asunder with majesties of paparazzi scuttled impacts a throttled iniquity of regalia’s indicted blunder frenchified but still clean with inestimable sheens

With twenty-five dollars, a dime an assist and a nickeled reiteration of currency already so personable it is divine and sublime in crazed desist I watch the embroiled natives clash in denatured violence with the warriors of a crossed repast hearkening to an old land much of ire but too much of grandstand to ultimately last

Itching for a holy field husk of peerless ties listed as rumpus and beer, a two-packed smoked by bludgeoned blokes careless in irascible sputters of a muffled doom, a Vegan becomes the author of too many sacrosanct homilies becoming defiled witchcraft brooms dead on arrival too many lionized tombs

In plaudits and the scause of an amplified “what if?” of an olfactory nightmare of petrified fog of effluvium bogged in Wade and in heat it is always clogged, sinewy libations of toasted preemptive revenge become a powerballed hog

A castle in the sky founded on Franklin but scourged of wineskins brimming with a distilled time, a swift repartee becomes the whispered ladder of saints blather becoming not rather other than a Dan Rather spatter

A door breeched by a broached inconvenience of amphigory beyond common reach, I clamber excess and whisk the lingered love into destiny beyond any word other than a beseeched preach of nothing tired but everything inspired of noble love with abundance often to teach

Fireworks of turned tides of fallow tithes to aliens beyond any conceivable bribe the bushwhacker writhes but survives staying alive without even a hint of garbled jive a 27th floor glass elevator is quite a resplendent ride

Wellsprings knowing radical rolled tides of errant dice also themselves guilty of confessional tithes to the monolith of avarice at the nooked cranny of an evaporated time we whine as the police sting the album rained with songs too lugubrious to sing but in their elegy every lonely heart has a propinquity phone of souled resonance ring

Iterative mastery of a mathematics of love, loss decay and the dross of a dental Occidental floss, the sweep of screened queues become questions of inestimable importance to foreign dues on a horse with no name but so consumed with fumes

A fright occultist thriller prowls in a waylaying daylight, masquerading an innocent confection for a rescued triage of a dawn stabbed with knives in our last dying days of trembled plight

He resurrects only the wraiths of detest, squinted at by the putrefaction of summoned cardiac arrest and littered with bullets that somehow can penetrate even impregnable bullet proof vests the wrapped carcass of the mummified husk of ready despair offers itself a ghoulish and raspy prayer

Synchronized in a low roaring swathe of rollercoasters too immersive to ride, the terpsichorean obscurantism of deliberately shattered fragments becoming blurbs dismissed with hijacked deride the carnival of a summer sun becomes the ocean of limitless love becoming endless fun

We forget the drawl of the droll old tales that haunt like specters in the closet and beneath the bedridden valetudinarian of an effrontery of shackled fright, we sprawl the innumerable caverns of prophetic insight afforded by the pantheon of history enter stage left, depart stage right

And with their insight I write and write, I grasp the tusk of democracy and wage an insurrection against the doubt of plodding limitations in otherwise immaculate sight

*** and tyrannosaurus rex, of litigable offenses leading to pardonable arrests, the gated entryway of a poetic splurge leads to the demiurge of a demotic enlightenment and suddenly the frank becomes the frazzled retirement and that haunting hounding bunny transmogrified by a shattered eye averts the car crash that careens ponderous engines out of limitless twilight blue skies.

Diamond lightning in pristine skies escorts the telegraphic totems of riddled modems from 1967 to 2016 and suddenly all venerable personages converge on a teeming scene of a union unified by a universal dream. To become everything and yet nothing and out of light and darkness to become a beatific beam
Corey Mar 2019
With eyes closed to the outside world,
far from the bustling cities;
A child sits beneath the canopy of leaves
fingers sprawled out in the grass,
listening to the sounds of nature.

The child, statue-like, held silent and strong,
sat motionless for over an hour.
And when motion finally occurred
it was a slow and stately rise,
a reach into the pocket.

The child brought out a small notebook,
and scrawled in it for a few minutes,
before returning seated, cross-legged.
Statue-like, silent, strong,
the child sat again for a long while.

As the sun went down, the child stood up
and walked the mile back home.
Inside, taking out the notebook,
sat down at a writing desk
facing out the window.

And for a few minutes, carefully,
the child copied what she had written:
“I’m a child of nature, of written words.
A child that knows no truths.
I’m a child of joy and happiness

One who asks for nothing but a use.
I wait patiently for the inspiration,
for the flood of thoughts to come.
For poetry is not an act at all,
but a knowledge of the constant hum.

I am a child of wilderness, of harmony.
A child that listens to the Earth
I write because I’m asked to
by the world that speaks in murmurs
that I then claim as my own.”
Lawrence Hall Oct 2018
In stately conclave met 1, each in his chair
The board of school trustees arrange their notes
And after an approved, appropriate prayer
They nod in their wisdom, then “aye” their votes

Entrusted with the dear, sweet children’s learning
With attendance down and the taxes up
The trustees feel a deep and mystical yearning
To make your child p*ss in a plastic cup

History, literature – what need of these?
(Make sure the valedictorian pees)

1 Chesterton
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Ira Desmond Dec 2018
Last night,
I dreamt that the friend of a friend had died.

His body floated lifeless on the surface of the Pacific,
tossed about between the Bering Sea whitecaps

like an orca’s seal-pup plaything
while the Arctic wind whipped

and beat the freezing cold water
across his pallid face and through his chestnut hair.

Then his body
began to sink,

its silhouette appearing
against various monotone

canvases of blue
on its trip downward:

a vivid cornflower,
a pelagic cerulean,

a chasm of cold cobalt,
a starless twilight,

a forest of indigo,
a velvet curtain of navy.

Finally,
as it reached the deepest possible shade of midnight—

only a quantum away from black—
it stopped sinking.

There, in that void,
where daylight and color are considered but outlandish theories,

strange fish of all and shapes and sizes
began to surround the decomposing corpse:

Greenland sharks hailing from the frozen arctic,
mantis shrimp from the mangrove labyrinths,

eyeless electric eels from undersea caves near the Galápagos,
vampire squid rising cautiously up out of their World War One trenches,

scores of spindly ***** and pale worms that had ventured far beyond
the safe familiarity of their alien geothermal worlds.

At first, they approached the corpse gingerly,
nibbling only the tips of its hair and fingernails,

and then suddenly, voraciously,
they consumed it—until not even a skeleton remained.

Now, only a single point of light was left
there floating in the void.

And from this single point of light,
where just a moment before the corpse had floated,

a brilliant white lattice structure emerged,
unfurling as would a fern across a forest floor.

It fanned out onto the seabed
and then swept upward, upward

back toward those reaches of sea
where color is known

and fresh air gleefully permeates
that foamy outer membrane that skirts the base of the sky.

Scores of familiar fish began to lift up the crystalline structure—
schools of shimmering sardines,

stately, dignified manta rays,
skipjacks, bluefins, and white-tips,

brilliant cuttlefish, humble pufferfish,
shifty barracuda, gargantuan whale sharks,

all of them
beating their tails in concert

to carry this lattice away,
this measure of a life,

this husk of a soul
at last freed from its earthly bindings.

The fish were carrying it somewhere deeper,
somewhere darker,

to a place that I understood—
even from the inky depths

of my dreaming mind—
that I could not enter.

But then again,
I knew that someday

I would.
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