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"stoically" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Paradoxical Tendencies
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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47
How many are there That can quietly put up with death Stoically going through the pain A stubbornness to make death envious Of life and the living! How many are there That can count up to end Breathes where others see death Holds on when there seems nothing to hold onto As if to tell, ‘life is no pity, it’s dignity’!
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Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 6:11 AM UTC
Dignity
My dreams do not come attached to the ideals of my people or the sacrifices of another country. Instead I am poor and mine are clinging to life the very idea of existence. Mundane flashes-- not adventurous endeavors nor flights around the world this is what richly folks do. Simply a mingler someone whose life flourishes around the bends of florescent street lights and panhandling nearby a farmers market just after sunrise. This remnant is few as these are neighbors local countrymen who stoically face the world's deviation and deprivation from coexisting by the bonds of agriculture and personality even as a beggar it is but a joyous memento to a world that no longer thrives.
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May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 3:51 AM UTC
Farmers' Market: The 'Poor'
The Slow-Bullet by rgpage In the early days of  Viet Nam the American draft was going strong. Young men in their prime of life, were forced and herded into world strife. A generation of America’s best, were then brought home and laid to rest. Wall Street smiled, the money flowed the “fat Cats” called it money owed. In towns and cities big and small, families waited, worried, and cried. Groups appeared, dissention grew. "Mothers grab your son’s and hide." There were those who felt their duty strong, to take the leap toward blood and strife with McNamara herding them along. Known to the grunts as “Mac the Knife.” The madness grew to a global scale with those that were for and those against. In bombing, selective targets became the norm keeping the rest of the world from harm. With those who didn’t feel their duty strong, a path to the north they took. They packed what they could, burned their cards and paused for one last look. With this some parents felt relief, while others felt the disgrace. Of  seeing the grief so many went through after having their futures erased. The war took over 58,000 American lives; men and women both, (before we flew away). Wall Street got their wages for blood, with broken lives in pain, many thousands more would pay. With thousands more that were yet to be lost, after returning home. Physically and mentally scarred, even those seeming perfectly whole. Then saying good-by to the ones they loved in their own special way. They stoically waited for the slow-bullet to come to finally take them away… Suicide has taken 3 or 4 times the lives than the war took. My heart cries for every last one of them…Robert G. Page, Viet Nam Vet. ‘66-’67.
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Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
The Slow-bullet
The Slow-Bullet by rgpage In the early days of  Viet Nam the American draft was going strong. Young men in their prime of life, were forced and herded into world strife. A generation of America’s best, were then brought home and laid to rest. Wall Street smiled, the money flowed the “fat Cats” called it money owed. In towns and cities big and small, families waited, worried, and cried. Groups appeared, dissention grew. "Mothers grab your son’s and hide." There were those who felt their duty strong, to take the leap toward blood and strife with McNamara herding them along. Known to the grunts as “Mac the Knife.” The madness grew to a global scale with those that were for and those against. In bombing, selective targets became the norm keeping the rest of the world from harm. With those who didn’t feel their duty strong, a path to the north they took. They packed what they could, burned their cards and paused for one last look. With this some parents felt relief, while others felt the disgrace. Of  seeing the grief so many went through after having their futures erased. The war took over 58,000 American lives; men and women both, (before we flew away). Wall Street got their wages for blood, with broken lives in pain, many thousands more would pay. With thousands more that were yet to be lost, after returning home. Physically and mentally scarred, even those seeming perfectly whole. Then saying good-by to the ones they loved in their own special way. They stoically waited for the slow-bullet to come to finally take them away… Suicide has taken 3 or 4 times the lives than the war took. My heart cries for every last one of them…Robert G. Page, Viet Nam Vet. ‘66-’67.
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39
For nine days the artillery barrage rained down on us that June of summer in the Somme machine gunners like me waited in our concrete bunkers deep in the earth When the shelling stopped we rushed to the surface and began our job of mowing down the slow walking British Infantry stoically advancing as if in another war in another time where they might choose to die bravely and with honour a hero fighting for his life his king and country But here he dies unknown by the chance turning of my gun in his direction at that one moment and the random number of bullets left to fire. © M.L.Emmett
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Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
The Somme Offensive 1916
Things happened, and He bore them stoically, as is his way, He let them shape him, he endured. Things happened, and He battled, shattered, but determined, Born again from grief and pain. Things happened, and He built a fort with a towering wall, Existed inside, with his pain and his pride. Things happened, and He let me in, gifted me his trust, I am more, being his, than I ever was before.
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Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC
Fortitude
The irreveracable state of falling moral Piecing together newspaper dooms dayers Always curious about generalized detachment Yet unable to see the forest for the trees Picket lines are home Raging infernos of injustice and malcontent Laying stoically at their doorstep Wrapped messily in insomniac nightmares at yours Big, BOLD letters voicing the masses We are, We are Oppressed, Depressed, Repressed No longer though Passing out the hymnals of our revolution Unsatisfied but spent I sit back and enjoy the show Saturating my senses with the smell of burning GMO fields
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Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
Inevitable Outcome
At the 206 bus stop I patiently wait For the red bus that's always late. I have now waited over an hour And my mood is surely turning sour. I crane my neck for the glimpse of that bus Which, when moves makes ruckus. I am excited by the noise of yonder thunder Alas it turns out to be a school bus, oh what a blunder. I'm tired, hungry and even ready for bed Yet compelled to wait for the bus in red. If only I had money for a three wheeler Alas I can't afford it on my income meager. My patience is put to a severe T-E-S-T As I stoically wait for the B-E-S-T. A serpentine queue has now formed But come the bus its door will be stormed. My hopes rise upon the sight of something red Alas it's a bus of another route instead. The hunger has traveled from stomach to mind Can someone please a solution to this delay find? At the 206 bus stop I patiently wait For the red bus that's always late!
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Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
The 206 bus
I've been trying to write something of substance for quite some time now, trying to collect fresh thoughts from newer moments of you and rearrange them into phrases that would gift me a new remarkable piece of the puzzle that is the immeasurable complexity of your soul. I've been trying to bottle up this obtrusive, demanding feeling of utter awe that comes when you and I climb into our honesty and wear it to bed, side-by-side. I've been trying to backtrack slightly, wishing so desperately (though stoically!) for the return of those painfully dire professions of unadulterated romance, reminiscing in the saturation of your love letters and how the color red is breathed into me time after time to remind me how powerfully you've shifted the balance of my life. I love you, I love you, by god, do I love you. My fears are still the same, though, Darling, and I feel that with the redness of passion shall also come a redness of a quality that pertains to homicidal gore, for you have, still, that scalpel in your hands, and my heart blooms every moment of my life, not for its love of me, but for the hope that it may one day bloom for the last time cradled in your blood-soaked palms. I've been trying to say anything else for a week but nothing will break from the gates and give me a solid night's sleep anymore. I can't tell you how mad you've actually made me. Though I do dare to hope that I've evoked similar sentiments in you.
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Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
Blooming
Through the miracle of meteorology, up high - little by little parts of me was made, without form within a clouds middle, and eventually, formed in unique designs, lighter than feathers, temperature and water work together to produce, a period of weather. When shapes, never repeated - but in approximation, begin to fall, as snow, feasibly forecasted, sometimes not so, down on to the surface below. And so as blanket laid, across town and countryside, fields and city mews, changing the familiar, smoothing contours, into new landscape views. The material soft, white glistening snow so miraculously delivered, at earliest opportunity is introduced to excited shouts, laughter, and shivers. Fittingly gathered by adult and children's hand, with the goal - to build a man. midst joyful sounds, travellers moans and snowball fights, the creators plan, By rolled ball pile and heaped snow I was born, created by many in several places, some small and really, lovingly made. Others large with various, curious, hats and faces. All - to stand appreciatively of of the makers time, to create me and proudly put on show. Winter feeds our lifetime span with cold wind, colder nights and, temperatures low, we stand as white statuary, where children play, soon - will come the expected day a thaw, will take our sustainability of cool, and so little by little I, and others go away, with saddened countenance creators watch as we bend, wither and slouch, stoically accepting this is, as is. Snowy days will return, snowmen too, I can vouch. It’s a happy sadness for snowman builders and snowmen too, who together wait in anticipation for fun and creativity, the joyful side of snowy weather. From a Snowman Michael C Crowder 23rd January 2019
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Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 5:09 AM UTC
From A Snowman
Through the miracle of meteorology, up high - little by little parts of me was made, without form within a clouds middle, and eventually, formed in unique designs, lighter than feathers, temperature and water work together to produce, a period of weather. When shapes, never repeated - but in approximation, begin to fall, as snow, feasibly forecasted, sometimes not so, down on to the surface below. And so as blanket laid, across town and countryside, fields and city mews, changing the familiar, smoothing contours, into new landscape views. The material soft, white glistening snow so miraculously delivered, at earliest opportunity is introduced to excited shouts, laughter, and shivers. Fittingly gathered by adult and children's hand, with the goal - to build a man. midst joyful sounds, travellers moans and snowball fights, the creators plan, By rolled ball pile and heaped snow I was born, created by many in several places, some small and really, lovingly made. Others large with various, curious, hats and faces. All - to stand appreciatively of of the makers time, to create me and proudly put on show. Winter feeds our lifetime span with cold wind, colder nights and, temperatures low, we stand as white statuary, where children play, soon - will come the expected day a thaw, will take our sustainability of cool, and so little by little I, and others go away, with saddened countenance creators watch as we bend, wither and slouch, stoically accepting this is, as is. Snowy days will return, snowmen too, I can vouch. It’s a happy sadness for snowman builders and snowmen too, who together wait in anticipation for fun and creativity, the joyful side of snowy weather. From a Snowman Michael C Crowder 23rd January 2019
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24
Generous coasting of the west coast leaves me tangled in roots from roads intersecting with waves surfed by long blond-haired beach bums and babes who pant at a muscular man that pushups on the boardwalk next to towels drying on the handlebars of my bicycle. I ride and ride and ride through weather thought to be unrideable by most cyclists even if million-dollar-prize tempted them at the finish line and a set-for-life sponsorship was promised to any and all who could fight through the storms of what I stoically battle. No gear or goggles, just legs of toned steel from nights spent heating them over a log-lit fireplace on spit while keeping intense conversation with lover across my gaze until she escapes unexpectedly into dreams, unaccompanied by me. My legs are on fire, no rain can extinguish them and no slick roads will stop my going.
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Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 10:03 PM UTC
Going
my son is a better version of me i easily break he rides storms smilingly i crumble in a crisis he handles stoically my emotions play loud on face he hides it handsomely i'm doubtful of exploring he ventures courageously i speculate on life too much he bothers not seriously
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Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC
My son is a better version of me
*You sat next to me in quietude But your heartbeats called me deafeningly Reluctant to hear your voice rupture While I waited for my name to echo stoically   You sat next to me in quietude   But you fought the guilt inside you solely Tackled it with a valiant front   As I watched you succumb inside me spiritually   You sat next to me in quietude Acknowledging we love semovedly You succumbed harder in your world And I succumbed in return silently*
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Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
Loiter
Night Train, travel through the world unknown The black hills with a maroon sky thick behind it The metallic sound of friction valiantly losing battle to the poignant silence Night Train, write an epic of the hands that cup around the eyes Of the eyes that talk to the distant light Of the lights that blink and the ones that stay still Night Train, don't slow down for each breath falls faster than the wind outside Night Train, don't slow down for the still is more piercing than the dark blades of grass lying far below The rhythmic oscillation of the half sleeping bodies stacked one above the other The threatening aura of the stiff backbones stoically awake The lone observer is lost in the nightly delusion Night Train, chronicle a dark fantasy of the broken fragments the night narrates Night Train, stop, send a jolt, deaden the incantations Before the dawn or its harbingers intrude
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Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 2:16 AM UTC
NIGHT TRAIN
The thumping and darkness in the bowels of Irene sit lugubriously on the edge of serenity the pounding and the tears through all these years languishing in turpitude and solace from her knowledge unceremoniously, recklessly and without feeling while listening to her tongue lashing and harshness of her venomous and thoughtless words cracking like a whip, “do you think I’m an idiot” Not once but twice while searching through black clouds of disappointment and destitution … no rhyme…no reason. All due to confusing north from south and east from west reality from fantasy as we all feel the sound of her thunder Irene crashes on and above the banks of New Haven, Guilford, Fairfield and the Housatonic lapping and licking at the shores while throwing her magnificent weight in her favor, and the swells explode the question, “how can she possibly know the children” Even though downgraded and ebbing the uneven strength and fortitude asks the question and all my determination fades in the wind. Trees weakened as we begin to dig out and explore power lines and internet down, hampering communication flooded streets and nervous bridges impeached yet Irene serves notice with an ace of her own dressed in her sheer-like vest and turquoise ring her hazel eye filled with scorn and distain while brightness and candor follow her path with her feline temperament scratched and clawed the tears begin to taper amidst her howling breath. Irene begins to move northward stoically away from me. I’m not a victim so I pick what remains of my heart and begin to reattach my churning stomach with the threads of her words of disbelief bringing the force she was most capable of exerting as the storm continues her long, unforgiven journey hatred and disdain replaced by disinterest and apathy as the breath disappears, the light becomes brighter and Hurricane Irene decides to leave Connecticut impact in place, on the broken bows of the sturdy trees perhaps she was right, after all was said and done.
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Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 2:43 PM UTC
Irene
The thumping and darkness in the bowels of Irene sit lugubriously on the edge of serenity the pounding and the tears through all these years languishing in turpitude and solace from her knowledge unceremoniously, recklessly and without feeling while listening to her tongue lashing and harshness of her venomous and thoughtless words cracking like a whip, “do you think I’m an idiot” Not once but twice while searching through black clouds of disappointment and destitution … no rhyme…no reason. All due to confusing north from south and east from west reality from fantasy as we all feel the sound of her thunder Irene crashes on and above the banks of New Haven, Guilford, Fairfield and the Housatonic lapping and licking at the shores while throwing her magnificent weight in her favor, and the swells explode the question, “how can she possibly know the children” Even though downgraded and ebbing the uneven strength and fortitude asks the question and all my determination fades in the wind. Trees weakened as we begin to dig out and explore power lines and internet down, hampering communication flooded streets and nervous bridges impeached yet Irene serves notice with an ace of her own dressed in her sheer-like vest and turquoise ring her hazel eye filled with scorn and distain while brightness and candor follow her path with her feline temperament scratched and clawed the tears begin to taper amidst her howling breath. Irene begins to move northward stoically away from me. I’m not a victim so I pick what remains of my heart and begin to reattach my churning stomach with the threads of her words of disbelief bringing the force she was most capable of exerting as the storm continues her long, unforgiven journey hatred and disdain replaced by disinterest and apathy as the breath disappears, the light becomes brighter and Hurricane Irene decides to leave Connecticut impact in place, on the broken bows of the sturdy trees perhaps she was right, after all was said and done.
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40
Paul Masson. Hot sauce. Colgate - old and stale as puke. Grease. Newports. Former head. Recovery. Country dirt. Pecans. Cotton. A black fist held high. Hope that one day he'll be able to fit his ex-wives into a nice, cordial sentence. Love. Real love. Man love. Type love that kicks *** when it has to. Sears cologne, OG **** Some Christianity, but not a lot, not nauseating and obnoxious, more like quiet and almost not there. More Masson. More Newports. Gold fillings; the Midas Touch on his tongue; the ability to blind you in the glow of his breath. Rotten ***** Real rotten. Rotted to viral nostalgia because it tastes like **** and makes him lick the roof of his mouth to get that smell out, just to make room for it again. Chitlins. Obama's saliva. Collard greens with all the vinegar and red pepper in Satan's ******* Herman Cain's armpits. Fear for me. Love for me. Power. Former riverboat porter. The smell of rich white men that talked about ******* while he stood stoically. Strength like you've never smelled before. Human.
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Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
My Uncle's Breath.
 alarm clock set for early morning wails and peels without fair warning rub my eyes in an effort to see surprised to wake up in the state of VT what is this, where did it go whats a po’ boy doing far from buff’lo where be the park, the lake and da’ strip where are the people with the stiff upper lip why leave the breeze, the squalls, the kimmelweck the taverns where gran’pa drank anisette that sycamore growin’ on Franklin street the angst that consumed a community beat the grimy grey skies to summers impossibly what happened to lead me to the state of VT? {not right to accuse others of conceit why play handball with self deceit? far better to accept the things that be and apply my emotions, stoically} for one place is much like the other careers are for greenbacks, that’s why the bother of numbers and lawyers, of panels of priests up north, out west, down south and back east I am dissolved in a prelude that leads to eternity with so many points available, might as well be VT
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Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
Lake Erie Blues
One person is a multimillionaire Another is a pick-pocket or liar But all become one in they pyre Mingling with the God of fire God's gift is one's birth-place Everyone, his sins will chase God of death shows no grace He will exactly count the days Decide not man's worth by age See whether he is in ignorance-cage To come out, let him just manage To help him, you have to encourage One man is a monster Another is an oyster Yet another is a master Let reasoning stop disaster Knowledge if you accumulate Great actions, you can emulate Noble schemes, you can formulate Let not the beginning be too late Create, invent and discover Pray to God for safety-cover Scent-power is had by a flower Your aims, do not at all lower Edison in his greatest experiment Faced stoically every disappointment One day he invented the filament Then light entered into every apartment In this way, many geniuses were born They initially walked on pricking thorn Their brainy heads, crowns did adorn They were proved to be great later on Just go back in your memory lane Had anyone thought of a flying-plane? Wright Bros were regarded as insane To mental blindness, they gave cane By the Almighty, Sun was invented By Sun, darkness is circumvented By prayer, agonies are prevented By sweat, our victories are augmented. mvvenkataraman
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Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
Great Men Opposed Ignorance-demon
I found myself missing you the other day, So I made you a little figurine Out of clay. It was a little soldier, his sword drawn in Triumph. It was just the type of thing I knew You would enjoy. You could put it on your bed-side table. I painted it to match the color scheme of your Bedroom. I know you told me never to give you anything, Since you knew you would feel the need to Reciprocate. And I remember how you said you hate doing that, For fear of rejection, perhaps. Your pride is inconceivably fragile. I felt this the moment before we First kissed. You stood stoically, waiting for Me to move closer. Waiting for Me To initiate. So I did. Months pass by, And I figure that giving you my little soldier, A tangible token of my affections, Could serve as a similar Initiation. Because really, It is far too late to prevent me from giving you anything. Such pride-salvaging boundaries are impractical when I have already given you the most Intimate part of Me. It was merely my body’s warmth, at first. A throbbing desire, A muscle spasm, A rapturous aftershock, And then, unwittingly, Those things transcended flesh, Becoming the reality of my Soul. So you see, You have already given me more than you Intended, either. And I just needed to give you something palpable, So you could see me, and touch a piece of me Even when I was away. Because I was hoping that you were missing me Too. Until this morning, When I clumsily knocked my little figurine Off of the kitchen counter. All I have to give you now, Is in dozens of Irreparable pieces. So I am inclined to believe That the reality you kindled Within my soul, Was too fragile and too fleeting To be Initiated In your own. I picked up the shards Of clay, and Cried in regret. Knowing that you would really have loved what I Made for you, Had you ever gotten the chance To see it.
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Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 11:55 AM UTC
Little Soldier
I found myself missing you the other day, So I made you a little figurine Out of clay. It was a little soldier, his sword drawn in Triumph. It was just the type of thing I knew You would enjoy. You could put it on your bed-side table. I painted it to match the color scheme of your Bedroom. I know you told me never to give you anything, Since you knew you would feel the need to Reciprocate. And I remember how you said you hate doing that, For fear of rejection, perhaps. Your pride is inconceivably fragile. I felt this the moment before we First kissed. You stood stoically, waiting for Me to move closer. Waiting for Me To initiate. So I did. Months pass by, And I figure that giving you my little soldier, A tangible token of my affections, Could serve as a similar Initiation. Because really, It is far too late to prevent me from giving you anything. Such pride-salvaging boundaries are impractical when I have already given you the most Intimate part of Me. It was merely my body’s warmth, at first. A throbbing desire, A muscle spasm, A rapturous aftershock, And then, unwittingly, Those things transcended flesh, Becoming the reality of my Soul. So you see, You have already given me more than you Intended, either. And I just needed to give you something palpable, So you could see me, and touch a piece of me Even when I was away. Because I was hoping that you were missing me Too. Until this morning, When I clumsily knocked my little figurine Off of the kitchen counter. All I have to give you now, Is in dozens of Irreparable pieces. So I am inclined to believe That the reality you kindled Within my soul, Was too fragile and too fleeting To be Initiated In your own. I picked up the shards Of clay, and Cried in regret. Knowing that you would really have loved what I Made for you, Had you ever gotten the chance To see it.
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72
Sparks fly from the flint crushing as you raise your brow marveling away over which rock you’d rather be I smile, ponder, then laugh at you, in opted denial it’s what you've always been, what I control being a diplomatic ball of ice on flames, with an aura a disarray is it us portraying them in grayscale, chin hanging in the air knowing what we know and pretending to not, yet care queerly scared of change but so sure of getting tired merging and shattering, perpetually deemed on trial and then there exists, at the dawn of my memories your shadow across the bed, lighting up a cigarette its smoke, my first reminder of your existence trying to clasp on to the awry black creases on the wall as they wrap me into the oblivion of your arms now it seldom melts at the genial contact of your voice reckon it might not become hard on being choused the beautiful black creases have dissolved through my fingers it has been conned to stay stoically un-aroused.
0
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
Flaccid
*Death drives fast in stolen car Pursued en mass by cops afar Down motorway of he and she Who drive in innocence, legally. Colliding in cascading mess Of debris, dust and huge distress. Face down upon the tarmac now Handcuffed with glock at bleeding brow.* Whilst winding through a country glade An opulence of deep, green shade, A confluence of peace and quiet Where nature’s art, in beauty, riot, Where squirrels dart and rabbits munch In turquoise grasses, lush, for lunch, And sunspots sparkle in the shade This place where poetry is made. *Juxtaposed, the concrete hash Where ranting politician’s clash, Where each, determined to be right Adopts inflexibility's fight, To hold to ransom common sense Whilst seated stoically on the fence, Committing all to farce and pain Whilst pointing to another’s blame.* White waves wash the pristine sand Where in Bermuda shorts, I stand, Soaking up the tropic sun In holiday, now just begun, Far out I see a distant sail Which tells a fascinating tale Of opalescent crystal seas Caressed by mystic scented breeze. *Juxtaposed, is terrors threat Caste worldwide through Islam’s net, Despite the protestations made By Clerics, genuine, dismayed, Permeated far and wide Through violent death’s perverted pride. Causing misery obscene Whilst rinsing hands in blood till clean.* Hark, a lark on yonder hill It’s song, so clear, enduring till It ends in silence… so pristine, That tears stream down my face, so lean And gaunt, so filled with joy am I With gift of lark song sung to sky, A gift, so sweet and clean and pure If juxtaposed, it will endure. Marshalg Portraiture of my yin & yan in this day. 4 October 2013
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Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
Juxtaposed
*Death drives fast in stolen car Pursued en mass by cops afar Down motorway of he and she Who drive in innocence, legally. Colliding in cascading mess Of debris, dust and huge distress. Face down upon the tarmac now Handcuffed with glock at bleeding brow.* Whilst winding through a country glade An opulence of deep, green shade, A confluence of peace and quiet Where nature’s art, in beauty, riot, Where squirrels dart and rabbits munch In turquoise grasses, lush, for lunch, And sunspots sparkle in the shade This place where poetry is made. *Juxtaposed, the concrete hash Where ranting politician’s clash, Where each, determined to be right Adopts inflexibility's fight, To hold to ransom common sense Whilst seated stoically on the fence, Committing all to farce and pain Whilst pointing to another’s blame.* White waves wash the pristine sand Where in Bermuda shorts, I stand, Soaking up the tropic sun In holiday, now just begun, Far out I see a distant sail Which tells a fascinating tale Of opalescent crystal seas Caressed by mystic scented breeze. *Juxtaposed, is terrors threat Caste worldwide through Islam’s net, Despite the protestations made By Clerics, genuine, dismayed, Permeated far and wide Through violent death’s perverted pride. Causing misery obscene Whilst rinsing hands in blood till clean.* Hark, a lark on yonder hill It’s song, so clear, enduring till It ends in silence… so pristine, That tears stream down my face, so lean And gaunt, so filled with joy am I With gift of lark song sung to sky, A gift, so sweet and clean and pure If juxtaposed, it will endure. Marshalg Portraiture of my yin & yan in this day. 4 October 2013
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It was in a musky instrument shop that I found myself hungry, so hungry. I didn't know any Russian. I told the old cashier, a small woman with a brown bun-top, that I'd really like some food. She cocked her head, shook off the dust, and jarbled back at me. "Please," said I, as dough-eyed as one could muster. She pointed to the door. My belly grumbled. I fell away sideways, walking out all lowly-like. I began through the doorway and the shopkeeper woman screeched. I heard a moan come from above me. There stood a 9-foot-tall, Slavic boy, plagued with acne, hooked nose, and sallow cheeks, with a metal clamp around his neck, right next to the door frame. I thought he was drapes, ragged window drapes, but he existed there and then with hands the size of cantaloupes. The shop keeper whined and pointed at the boy. I looked up at him, and he, down at me. She spat into a tissue and then shooed me again. I grabbed his chain off its hook and stoically proceeded out the door. The boy dragged his feet behind me, begging and crying.
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Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
Dreaming of Ukraine
SURELY A REFLECTIVE TRUTH By Poor Richard’s Son © September 2013 How certain-there appeared whispered pronouncements which proclaimed the utter emptiness of his lonely state. Such a place where he dwelled, propped upright by an inherent absence of self-knowledge that fleetingly explained and defined his reality. A whispering reality, it seemed, that cried out to the god of raw truths regarding bitter human nature and yet, a sublime presence presented by all he would ever encounter. An unsettling serenity tasted of a sweet and sour paradox of which he was possessed, captured by the strangely beatific attraction that lay deep within all things grotesque. Astonishingly, flotillas of startling enigma had emerged from within his memories of youth. They came, flowing with the bitter tide of unfulfilled promise. For always there existed a rather twisted reality. And that was all he really had; a sojourn through the veil of an eternal gratitude which had not served him very well at all. Thus, he quietly peered thru the windows of his pristine prison-once more reaching without reason for yet another promise unfulfilled. There, he stoically stood as a monument to reaching after the unreachable, standing there, halfway through this trial by fire-on his way toward a collision course with failure perhaps, vetted to try once more to survive this proving ground of academic acceptance. His participation was a living testament to the folly which only the fool would ever really know. Yes, he knew all too well the absolute denial of his ongoing failure to thrive, a failure fueled by the utter blindness that befalls those with the purest of faith. A faith that one fine day his ship would finally roll into the bay; success would surely be within his grasp at last . So passionately he watched the desolate streets outside the college, through the immaculate window like a tiger in the rain, knowing the thunder and lightning he can’t explain…can never contain…could never retain.
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Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
SURELY A REFLECTIVE TRUTH By Poor Richard’s Son © September 2013
SURELY A REFLECTIVE TRUTH By Poor Richard’s Son © September 2013 How certain-there appeared whispered pronouncements which proclaimed the utter emptiness of his lonely state. Such a place where he dwelled, propped upright by an inherent absence of self-knowledge that fleetingly explained and defined his reality. A whispering reality, it seemed, that cried out to the god of raw truths regarding bitter human nature and yet, a sublime presence presented by all he would ever encounter. An unsettling serenity tasted of a sweet and sour paradox of which he was possessed, captured by the strangely beatific attraction that lay deep within all things grotesque. Astonishingly, flotillas of startling enigma had emerged from within his memories of youth. They came, flowing with the bitter tide of unfulfilled promise. For always there existed a rather twisted reality. And that was all he really had; a sojourn through the veil of an eternal gratitude which had not served him very well at all. Thus, he quietly peered thru the windows of his pristine prison-once more reaching without reason for yet another promise unfulfilled. There, he stoically stood as a monument to reaching after the unreachable, standing there, halfway through this trial by fire-on his way toward a collision course with failure perhaps, vetted to try once more to survive this proving ground of academic acceptance. His participation was a living testament to the folly which only the fool would ever really know. Yes, he knew all too well the absolute denial of his ongoing failure to thrive, a failure fueled by the utter blindness that befalls those with the purest of faith. A faith that one fine day his ship would finally roll into the bay; success would surely be within his grasp at last . So passionately he watched the desolate streets outside the college, through the immaculate window like a tiger in the rain, knowing the thunder and lightning he can’t explain…can never contain…could never retain.
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Petals fall, wheels roll How swift is the flight of time Lifting the veil of my translucent memory The past comes alive with a rare fragrance Don’t you remember the very first time We saw each other on a Christmas Eve Amid gazing eyes, we stood embarrassed As Time, like an unsteady toddler Crawled away on hands and legs How we simply stared at each other Unable to commune our thoughts in lucid words, Later in the ripe moment, When we solemnly held our hands How dazed we were by that electric touch Memories so green linger my dear As though it all happened just days ago With all the fervor of our young hearts We were pledged to explore life Youth and hope then walked hand in hand Warm blood flowed through every capillary and vein And life glowed in gleams of golden light We were lifted upon wings of love From the terrestrial plain unto heaven’s heights Days flew, months into years fled Amid gusts of laughter and of tears How the stairs of life we climbed Through what labyrinthine paths we traveled Posing undecided on turns and curves But holding fast and never loosening our grip In the ripe season how thoughtfully Had we sown the seeds of love Watering them with our saline tears How excitedly we watched them sprout and grow Memories so green linger my dear As though it all happened just days ago I feel the years have flown too fast Now life’s fire is almost extinguished Somber shadows darken our track The night ahead is darker and colder We have to accept the in eluctability of it Doting on the past is now our pleasure When we look back, we see the thrill of victory And the tears of defeat and heartbreak Life presented us with a mixed bag We have watched the death of spring We have bore the heat of summer, Seen the leaves drop in the mellowing autumn And the chilly shroud of winter is about to veil Without revolt, let us accept the truth But till Death do us part, Oh my Love, Let us hold our hands together And stoically wait for the final sunset!
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Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC
Chugging Back in Time
Petals fall, wheels roll How swift is the flight of time Lifting the veil of my translucent memory The past comes alive with a rare fragrance Don’t you remember the very first time We saw each other on a Christmas Eve Amid gazing eyes, we stood embarrassed As Time, like an unsteady toddler Crawled away on hands and legs How we simply stared at each other Unable to commune our thoughts in lucid words, Later in the ripe moment, When we solemnly held our hands How dazed we were by that electric touch Memories so green linger my dear As though it all happened just days ago With all the fervor of our young hearts We were pledged to explore life Youth and hope then walked hand in hand Warm blood flowed through every capillary and vein And life glowed in gleams of golden light We were lifted upon wings of love From the terrestrial plain unto heaven’s heights Days flew, months into years fled Amid gusts of laughter and of tears How the stairs of life we climbed Through what labyrinthine paths we traveled Posing undecided on turns and curves But holding fast and never loosening our grip In the ripe season how thoughtfully Had we sown the seeds of love Watering them with our saline tears How excitedly we watched them sprout and grow Memories so green linger my dear As though it all happened just days ago I feel the years have flown too fast Now life’s fire is almost extinguished Somber shadows darken our track The night ahead is darker and colder We have to accept the in eluctability of it Doting on the past is now our pleasure When we look back, we see the thrill of victory And the tears of defeat and heartbreak Life presented us with a mixed bag We have watched the death of spring We have bore the heat of summer, Seen the leaves drop in the mellowing autumn And the chilly shroud of winter is about to veil Without revolt, let us accept the truth But till Death do us part, Oh my Love, Let us hold our hands together And stoically wait for the final sunset!
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