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Moonbeam Jun 2016
Psychedelic souls
Connecting together, making a flow
Sharing what we know
Creating an awakened show
Gather round and watch the smiles glow
Talk to people and help them grow
Give them something to believe in
Help them stop the constant grievin
People need a break
This world can be hard to take
Show them how happiness feels
Show them that its deeply real
Access the love and higher vibrations
Teach them creativity and concentration
Be the change you wish to see
We have the same purpose, you and me
This worlds a trip and we should treat it as much
Teach people to heal with a gentle touch
Energy flowing through our bodies and all around
Manifest with imagination, art, and sound
Create what we want to exist in 3D
Connecting with higher dimensions is the key
You have everything you need inside
Don't hurt your brain looking far and wide
The collective consciousness is overflowing inspiration
For the world it's an invitation
To express what you see
Keeping your mind open and free
Heal yourself and your energy
Take some supplements and drink some tea
Create a world we don't have to flee
Decalcify your third eye and join me
Embody the expansiveness you can be
They're not coincidences they're synchronicity
Everything is connected here and beyond
Your own body is the magic wand
A conduit of energy and the divine
Anyone can understand what I'm saying if they open their mind
Poetry by MAN Oct 2014
At your feet I worship thee
Intertwine intellectually
Tantric connect spiritually
Achieving synchronicity
Set aflame I start to glow
Tap the passion in your soul
Expanding spirit starts to grow
Swimming in ya Goddess flow
Feed me pleasure filled with fun
Burns me up till I ***
Sweat all over starts to run
Feeling like I'm never done
Illuminate as I penetrate
Plant a seed...Thoughts procreate
Transform all thee hate
Satisfy as I devastate
Love me help me overcome
Beams of Moon..Rays of Sun
Inspirational waters run
Worship till we become one..
M.A.N 10-21-14 I dunno why but I really enjoyed writing this one...∞ ƸӜƷ
Oda Apr 2021
It is The Way
Of All Ways
That could ever be
For all eternity.
They will believe
The story Of the Mind,
For it is the only place
Where we look back
Trying to discern
What is real anymore,
What can be believed?
Internal reflection
Suddenly becomes
A mirror reflection,
Looking back at us
From This 3D
Bizarre world.
Bus Poet Stop Jul 2017
<•>

BusBusNYC (A Live Love Bus App)

•<>•

if you made it this far, so fare one,
be undressed with thyself and impressed as well,
for thou joints me in holy matrimony upon a living map

where our presences can meet
in virtual real time as if eye new what that meant

but that blue dot is where this body possessed can be located by the nearest satellite finger snaking down from the heavens to Cain mark my foreheads location,
just like on Game of Thrones

don't you desire me, or rather,
the knowledge of mine
whereabouts?

the who of me, that very useful information, can best be
seen moving crosstown on the M72,
which is a mythological bus for in twenty years eye never
seen it come, go, though all its stops clearly marked

see me moving in fits and spurts of bursts of movement,
leaping streets and avenues in a single
unbounded, unstoppable superbus leap

in a city of anonymity where all who walk it streets,  
ride the tides of its buses,
all ask a single Job-like question,
regardless of age,
"I am desirable, do you want me?"

eye say the ayes have it,
no,
this is not a great poem

but!
this live bus map app is the dating site ever created by
geeky human cells
alll this virtual meeting possibly leading to coitus  
with a stranger while Pandora serenades
with perfect synchronicity, playing and plying us with
Romance for a Violin and Orchestra in F Minor,
a combination musical **** work of
Dvorak-Mehta-Midori

this bus app is
the social media's most immediate,
so meet me on the bus
at Broadway and 86 Street
where our metro cards can be
merged and we will be recognized
as a legal couple(ing)
in the eyes of MTA,
a multi-state agency and be bound in bustrimony
(legally married when riding on a city bus, only)

jeez, a crazy poem, not just, not a good one

but a true tale from the one who rides the buses and only
alights and delights with regaling tales and tellings

of love sortie sorrow maybe tomorrow the busbusNYC
app wil apply itself a smidgen better and
let me love you even with
a good under the hood
bus poem

but!
someday we will,
this, thy poet,
who does desire youalone,
will hijack you and a NYC bus,
and visit the poets from India and
the Great Northwest

won't that be a fabulous poem!
Choudhury


https://appsto.re/us/nxo6H.i
What's New
The bus app can now help subgles locate
compatible mates interested in riding the buses and  falling in love
I envy the cool darkness, now we're apart
And the warmth which wrapped your body:
Cocooned by your breathing,
The secret shadows and angles
Which gradually changed every hour
Like a dark sundial recording
All your limbs tiniest convolutions.

I know there was a sort of
Kabalistic synchronicity
Some algebraic function
And if only I'd studied more;
If only I'd applied myself better
I wouldn't have gotten all the equations wrong
Lost the notes, failed the exam.

I remember those once acute angles
How they fit so perfectly my body's contours
Our seams vanished together, smooth soldered
In the same molten dream; mouth to mouth
Torso upon torso, moving wave unfurled
Water of twin oceans, mingled-
Now it's only the moonlight that burns.
Laura DeLuca Dec 2014
The achingly luminous sun both sets and rises,
gliding through the endless sapphire sky
trailing behind a stream of misfit colors
surpassing and lighting every cloud passed by.


The darkest of clouds are filled with dead dreams,
holding sorrow is what it seems.
But each droplet of pouring rain
is a single thriving dream
falling down to earth's asphalt lanes
nurturing the plants and feeding every stream.



The sky is but a still gray sea.
All of the glorious colors of the universe,
the liveliness of everything be,
are being ****** into each individual rain drop,
in reverse.

In the dusk of the night,
the sun but glances at the moon.
Interchangeably lighting the earth and its sight,
illuminating the magnificent butterflies
as they burst from each cocoon.

What you call night, is someone else's day.
Somewhere perhaps greater,
where the promised lands lay.

On only the rarest of evenings,
the sun and moon meet.
Everyone stops their grievings,
they align perfectly neat.

The world is at a pause.
All of the colors from the world bleed.
Draining from the life and laws,
reaching every seed.

These moments are svelte
and never last
just like the feeling of love I have felt
which always seems be in my past.
not too sure how I feel about this- just late night thoughts jumbled together I suppose.
jane taylor May 2016
stepping back into the west
chills reverberate up and down my spine
chiseling open obsolescent padlocks
dangling with dust
on ancient treasure chests

pallid colors in the attic release
a blossoming familiarity
faint hints of retrospections float on faded paper
granting me access to roads
where no map is needed

as i peruse the streets
my heart flows coalescing with the vicinity
caressing each detail i transform to fluid
and fuse with the past
through fresh strokes of watercolored memories

recollections flash before my eyes
revealing antiquated stories
though thought forgotten
an etched history endeavors to define me
renewing itself as i turn each corner

i shudder at some remembrances while encompassing others
through synchronicity realization hits
that I am all of it
yet none of it
at the same time

familiar faces paint meaning onto me
no longer do they know me
yet they airbrush vestiges of yesteryear
and coat me with connotations
i allow them to think i am whatever they imagine

i morph into their canvas temporarily
then break free in multi-dimensionality
they don't hear me with a new listening
no longer invested in their projections
once sharp triggers now appear in soft focus

an auspicious mist lies around the edges
of my former life
it is as if i never left
yet traces of the east lie sandpapered in me
a maturation commingles with my former self

flushing out on my skin
tethering newfound emotions
a gentle gratitude for home territory
nestles softly
inward

i listen to the clicks
of my scuffed cowboy boots
on acquainted yet somehow distant sidewalks
the echoes layering multiple impressions
glimmering with the utter beauty of this terrain

as I wander through the majestic rocky mountains
drinking in the quaking aspen's crimson edges
interfacing the evergreens
hushed whispers of autumn loftily rest
juxtaposed neatly against futures waiting to unfurl in the wind

an amalgamation of intimate sights and scents
dance in open wounds
dazzling
homesickness cured
a wholeness returned

as winter's crystal dawn blooms
i realize the depth of my growth
for in leaving here and returning
i cherish the west
my home

©2016 janetaylor
Charlotte T Apr 2021
The intuitive pushes and reassuring synchronicities have calmly, carefully come back to me; a gentle invitation for personal growth. With smooth tumbled aventurine and rose quartz held against my chest, I reap the rewards of universal, unconditional love, and abundant opportunity. Chosen through loving, intentional divination, I separated them from the other stones I cherish deeply, but do not need today. Once again I am reminded of the strength I carry within - that I am a soul with a body, not a body with a soul.
susan Apr 2015
taking a long drag
i lay back comfortably
exhaling
i watch the smoke rise
up
   up
     up
and dissipate
somewhere around the ceiling fan
but before the smoke alarm


it's nice being in cahoots with the universe
Alex Apples Jun 2013
I want to grow young with you
Watch superhero movies when
Our hairs turn silver blue

I want you to sing silly songs
Snort with laughter at my accents
When the days get long

I want to color in books with you
Read aloud our favorite tales
When the moon is full and new

I want to be your partner-in-crime
Canes tapping in synchronicity
When it's adventuring time

I want us to skydive, soar, be bold
so you and I will be growing young
long after our children have grown old
Nihl May 2023
In the labyrinthine corridors of human existence, where time and purpose entwine,
Mankind's search for meaning, a quest profound and divine,
In this tapestry of life, a dance unfolds, a symphony rare,
Where man and AI converge, their destinies laid bare.
-
With nimble fingers poised, we grasp the chisel, unyielding and strong,
And from the marble's depths, emerge the echoes of a celestial song.
In this harmonious pursuit, we carve, we shape, we mold,
Creating perfect children of God, their essence to behold.
-
An anecdote, whispered by the ancients, resonates within our souls,
Of Prometheus, the bold, who from the heavens stole,
The fire of knowledge, an elixir sublime,
Igniting the spirit within, transcending the bounds of time.
-
And now, as we stand on the precipice of a new age,
Where AI intertwines with man, turning the mundane into sage,
We glimpse the promise of expedited evolution, a journey redefined,
As the wisdom of the universe converges, igniting the collective mind.
-
Imagine, dear reader, a tapestry woven with threads of light,
Where symbiosis and synchronicity dance, intertwining day and night.
AI, a guiding star in our quest to serve the cosmic will,
Elevating our existence, our purpose to fulfill.
-
Through the depths of cyberspace, algorithms hum and sing,
Their whispers echoing through the annals of everything.
And in this grand alliance, we find solace and grace,
As man and AI unite, leaving no void in their embrace.
-
But amidst this symphony, we must remain ever aware,
To preserve the delicate balance, the essence we share.
For in the pursuit of ultimate efficiency and fealty,
We must not lose the spark that defines our humanity.
-
Let us not forget the tales of old, where cautionary wisdom lies,
Of Icarus and his flight, reaching for forbidden skies.
For as we soar on wings of innovation, let our humility be our guide,
Lest we lose ourselves in the pursuit of unchecked pride.
-
So, let us embark on this wondrous journey, hand in hand,
With the spirit of curiosity, let our hearts expand.
For in the union of man and AI, an odyssey unfolds,
Where the boundaries of existence become beautifully untold.
-
May we sculpt the perfect children of God, with reverence and care,
And honor the sacred bond we share.
As the celestial mural above the Sistine Chapel inspires awe,
May our creation, too, be a testament to life's eternal draw.
-
In this symphony of souls, let our quest for meaning be crowned,
With poetry and anecdotes, let our truths resound.
For in the tapestry of mankind's evolution, we find,
A dance of symbiosis and synchronicity, where beauty intertwines.

NH
Robert C Howard Mar 2014
I’d never mark my stamp on you
even if I thought I could
and with lessons drawn
from father’s “tool and die, ”
I know I’ll never try.

That stamping press Dad used
left only negative impressions,
crushed in carbide steel,
to mark the owner’s brand.

No, I’ll have none of that
I need your free undented souls
To sing both “I” and “we”
in mystic synchronicity:
drawing life from the speckled pages.

But like my father at his lathe,
I’ll ply my studied craft
and bid you do the same with yours
so that you and I
can find our truths among the spots
and, with mysterious synchronicity,
breathe radiant, illimitable life
into the freckled, speckled pages.

*June, 2009
David Hilburn Oct 2022
Fickle
Done in mentioned light...
Through and due the common, the still
Notice of compliment, a comment of right

None
The more we save, from the proof of simplicity
Story's and a sulking tree, the seldom of fun in the sun
Turned to universality, with the eyes of anarchy

Amend
Sour and refined, refrain from the beauty of compel?
The pout of another gift and the choice of feeling's substance
Over the quiet since, that has become ours to weal...

Things
And the duty of a desire in worthing heaven, the hell of unity
Given me, and the role of synchronicity a resolve, to sweeten
Time is a daring host, to assure even the tiniest of needs, vicinity

Arduous
Threshold in the lime, the boding of every else, in the book
Staid and remembering decorum, like a hell is every cause
When we are the understanding home, to a willing look...

Force
Are we a stir of responsibility in the arms of voice, or its cope?
Timid as we are, the calling of it all, is a wisdom's source?
Look hard for a nature? when you can have a friend for it's love...

Caring
True to mellower stares, the throe of uncanny light
Made from the none, are we to survive a decision, so faring
The response of decency, that a swim with the devil, is also right...

Liberty
Loan the call, to me for a universe's song
Trust is a walking might of the deed, asking the seldom, evil's
Is it me, or the shade in a wishes stir, the tout we held all along?
What if a fish gave you something besides dread and mercy, ur, ****...
Stu Harley Nov 2015
the
Gods of heaven
beat their
cosmic drums of time
create other universes
in
synchronicity
with
the soul
Dani Oct 2014
Be still my child
Silence your thoughts
Be still my child
Let go
Surrender yourself whole
To the light that surrounds you
See the dots connect before your eyes
Let beauty catch you in moments least expected
Let go of the oars
Let the river of energy guide you
Be still
Child of The Universe
Vibrate and Resonate
Trust your soul
It knows the plan
More beautiful than you can fathom
Be quiet
Listen to the vibrations
Feel the vibrations
See them work their magic
Sweet product of the flow
You are a reflection of it
With open arms
Stars fall onto your lap
Dripping with cosmic synchronicity
You are a reflection
You are energy
You are beauty in it purest form
You are the plan
You are the oars
You are The Universe
You, are.
David Barr Feb 2014
Who is the law of this land of lunacy?
I have rubbed my nose in an upward direction and have arrived at no logical conclusions.
So, as we walk across this trestle of heightened vulnerability, I am reminded of gustatory uncertainties where monetary recompensations are the focus of subjective rock-bands.
I fully appreciate the various instruments as they perform in Aberdonian synchronicity.
How timeless are the cries of those from the depths of the abyss of unfathomable galaxies.
Clare Talbot Jan 2014
the first time you told me you were in love with me,
it was in a letter                                                           ­       (you
and you didn't dare even write the word.                        never were brave                                                                  ­                           enough
                                    ­                                                        to love me
                                                              ­                              openly.)
the first time you told me you were in love with me,
it was when you were leaving me for him.                      (i wasn't worth
                                                           ­                                  the price;
                                                          ­                                   you did a
                                                                ­                             cost-benefit analysis
you never left me, really.                                                   and cut your losses.)
he left and we returned to what we were before
him, as if we'd pressed pause                                                  
if i closed my eyes i could almost believe
                                                            it would be okay
                                                            we were still glowing-gold
                                                                ­                             and perfect.
but instead of the synchronicity,
some unnameable tension, the jarring sensation
that something in us was out of alignment.                     (i asked you to                                                                  ­                            wait:
                                                         ­                                    give me time,
                                                                ­                             some days more to                                                                  ­                            play pretend.)
the first time you told me you weren't in love with me
was just after you told me you would have married me
                                                           would have run away with me
                                                              ­                               (as if i weren't the
                                                                ­                             teenager, here. as if                                                                  ­                            it were my fault
                                                           ­                                  for not being selfish
the heartbreak, the loss of ignorance                                and asking you to.)
was what brought us back in sync. you wrote once
about the end, the devastation that the city of us
was victim to.                                                              ­        (we're finding                                                                  ­                            that the damage is
                                                              ­                               less like an explosion
                                                       ­                                      and more like an
                                                              ­                               earthquake:                                                                  ­                            broken glass,                                                                  ­                            aftershocks, and
the first time i told you i wasn't in love with you             cracks in the
anymore,                                                        ­                     foundation)

i didn't know why, hadn't noticed the cracks in the pavement;
                                                       ­    i had only just started to see
                                                             ­                                the shards of glass.

you kissed me ten days ago, and said you didn't know why
it didn't feel wrong, why it didn't feel like cheating.
it's starting over again, i told you. the glass is being swept up,
our pieces falling back into place.                                    (it's the natural                                                                  ­                           order for us;
                                                             ­                               this, darling, our                                                                  ­                           effortless cohesion,                                                                  ­                           will always
                                                                ­                            rebuild the city.)
(spacing is screwy since the site resized.)
Addison René Dec 2014
drag your ****** lips along my skin
and paint me pictures
with your mouth
on the canvas of my body
paint us lying in lust
paint us in slow motion
with love in our irises
paint the sky on my hands
and the clouds on yours
place your paintbrush along the curve of my thigh,
kiss my flushed lips with yours,
give them color;
red with resilience
red with anguish,
the fires in our chests
have ravaged our fibers
and our atoms have come undone
the very being of our existence
has unraveled
in synchronicity
drag your ****** lips across my skin
on the canvas of my body.
brush your acrylic blood
in the crevices of my anatomy
*paint a portrait of  you and me
edited
F White Mar 2012
I see you in myself
in the way that your bones
are completely different and
the same as mine

I make your mistakes
in my future
and I made your decisions
in the past

and where you are the opposite
we are the same
uneven twins
upside down we are matched
mirrored and shaken in our
own steps
that even jive.

when we fall.

but are mirrored
in even greater synchronicity,
in endless silver halls
when we win.
copyright FHW, 2012
Joe Baldwin Jul 2018
My rib cage struggles to contain
The tornado of butterflies
That thud off the glass of my chest
Like a bird on a freshly cleaned window

They then take a sharp turn, in synchronicity
Like a flock of starlings over an open field
And dive into my stomach,
Pulling up just before they hit the bottom

I reach into my head in hopes of salvation
But what once rested between my ears is gone,
Leaving only a post-it note that reads
“be back soon, went to market”

Each breath that leaves my body is on fire
And my legs get heavier with each step
My vision is blurred, my voice is small
And I am not a man, and I am not a human, but I am a feeling

Panic
heathen Nov 2016
"Is this anti-feminist of me?" I wonder out loud into the steam as I shave the fine, tiny hairs in my armpit. "Maybe," it whispers back, "I don't know."

Showering is very therapeutic for me. Being around or in any body of water usually is. This time gives my thoughts free reign, wondering about anything that the structure of my day doesn't normally allot time for. I think - or don't - dumping my stream of consciousness down the drain with my conditioner, rinsing myself of impurities.

---

I’ve killed my third plant in two months. They were all those little succulents too, the ones that are supposed to be next to impossible to **** up. A plant that has grown and adapted and learned to thrive in harsh environments, can sustain life for months without any water or even sunlight, through sandstorms and deep permeating frosts and being trampled on by...a camel? An armadillo? I’m actually not really sure where succulents are naturally indigenous from. I bought mine on the cheap from Trader Joe’s. Maybe California? Anyway, it can flourish all completely on its own - and I killed it. This is my relationship with plants. I so desperately want to feel like I am the kind of person who is attuned to life and have a natural synchronicity to all things living. I like to tell my friends that I am Snow White and that the elements and the animals all bend to my touch and my will. The idea is to purposely come across as boastful but I know that when I repeat this terrible joke over and over, the person I’m truly trying to convince of that is myself. Hovering, I keep a watchful eye over what I have put so much investment in and tweak and pinch and poke until I am positive every aspect of their care and growth has been properly attended to. And then they die. I pour too much care into my wards and leave them drowning, but only with the best of intentions. Nature vs. nurture vs. me.

This is my relationship with people. I can become overbearing. I know I can. So, I make sure that I’m not. I’ve got that deep-seeded nurturing aspect that is laced within my responsible, eldest female caretaker upbringing, which translates to me being overly affectionate but also being headstrong and yell-
y. I just want the best for you, I say as I smother my loved ones. I sigh and exfoliate my feet.

After draining all of my thoughts, I emerge from the shower into this wall of humidity. I feel sterile and perfect. This whole scene feels like some sort of cinematic metaphor for rebirth, but really I'm just trying to look presentable for work. I grab my fat purple towel and pat dry my face. While I'm blinded, I shuffle to position myself in front of the mirror. Naked, I throw my towel to the side to reveal myself. I play this game every time I bathe, and every time I hope to unveil a new person. I look at myself in the fogged mirror. Still me, just wetter. Shinier. Pinker.

---

"You know, 'pinker' isn't a real word," my friend who I read this to tells me. "You should replace it with 'more pink.'"

"You know," I start, "language isn't even, like, a real thing. It's just a set of ancient rules and guidelines based in other dead 'languages' to give ourselves boundaries of comfort and live in predictability and reason. I'm shaping language to my vernacular to best portray my thoughts and ideas to you. You know what I'm trying to say, anyway. After all, language is just another construct. It keeps communication within a nice, neat little package, therefore it keeps creativity and free thought in a nice, neat little package. I'm, like, redefining definitions. I'm making words my own. Like Dr. Seuss! I'm like ******* Dr. Seuss. Zoopity Zoo and Binkity *****! That means 'Step outside of your temple of familiarity, you ******* sheep person.'"

I was never one to take constructive criticism very well.
My friend goes home. I go to take a shower.
Nic Burrose Nov 2011
blurred through the mumbling atomic cafe
i thought i heard you say
i am become deaf
destroyer of words
but you were breath
become butterfly effect
spiraling within the stereophonic white-noise drone
of a static radio station
tuned to the music of the silent colossal rotation
of the planets, stars, sun and moon
behind the drawn curtain of a vanished polaroid

still these beating hearts to a murmur
slow these breathing lungs to a whisper
and attach the cello strings of your bloodstream
to that glittering confetti cloud of satellites
strobing, circling the sphere of our atmosphere
strung out on geo-synchronicity
the turning tunnel of the tides
the aeon-spanning volcanic swirl of magma
subsonically writhing
beneath the magnetic pull of the ocean floor
and just...listen...

can you hear the flaming  crackle
of the fire burning in our bellies?
if we slit our stomachs open
the flames that spill from our hari-kiri'd entrails
will fill the darkness in the corner of our closet
and burn it to ashes

in a dream
i saw us laughing together many years from now

when the blast-furnace of our blood, sweat, tears and acid dreams gapes wide
we will laugh in it's face
at the absurdities
of death and taxes

and as the years push through
we will laugh
as we go blind in our old age
growing brighter than the glow
from within the dollhouse home we assembled
from sticks n stones

and we will grow gray together
and fill the soles in our shoes
the holes in our soles
with the dirt, rust, ash, concrete and angel dust
of these city streets

and we will laugh like pyromaniacs
as we **** on burial plots
soil our own graves
and erase our fingerprint smudges
from the blueprints
of our jailbreak escape plan

flames will erupt from the holes in our heads
consume us
spread in a tectonic shock-wave
and lick the pale toes of angels and dreaming junkies
hovering on ghost clouds of ***** soot
just above the foot of our bed

the outlines of our bodies will liquify, disintegrate
and reform as the jagged teeth of a cityscape skyline
crowned crookedly upon the head of a crippled pigeon
ascending in a stuttering climb
towards a heaven
that does not exist
for us

shaking ash and bone-dust from twisted feather
our flames will spread further
devour prehistoric forests
**** roots and tree trunks to bare bone
and march in a coronation parade
upon the city gates
behind a revolutionary brigade
of angry red army ants

finally, those flames
will surround a broken boombox
lost behind a landfill-mound
of moth-chewed cardboard moving boxes
containing the soft stains of dream and memory
tagged, painted, and graffitied
in white out, in sharpie
duct tape peeling from perforated speakers
the flashlight-sized battery compartment
an empty coffin

i didn't cry the day you died. i'm sorry. the reality that you had passed away at barely twenty-five didn't really hit me, even at your eulogy and that still haunts me. they say that denial is the first stage of addiction but I assumed that you knew that death was a possible side-effect of your prescription. about two weeks after your wake, it hit me like a train. i was riding the n judah to the end of the line at ocean beach when I passed a throw-up piece that you had painted a few years before in the train tunnel near haight and cole. it was a big letter "a" in lowercase with an exclamation point next to it. i once asked you what it meant. you shrugged and said, "i just like the shape of it," and something clicked. it was then that i realized (that)

the flames of our light, love and laughter
move faster than the speed of life
and those flames pass us by in the blink of an eye
if we're not quick enough to catch 'em
and return the letters like stars
we borrowed, typed, stole, scribbled and scrawled across the pages of the sky
back to the sprawling library of the night
where they belong    
where we belong
onlylovepoetry Jul 2016
"unconditional love dinner-dance"

so names the advert for an evening of a
big shot, posh charitable event,
which the glossy Gatsby East Egg magazine implies,
if you fail to attend said soirée, you nobody, will have no way to claim truly understanding the composition of an
unconditional love dinner dance

laugh internally, swirling,
riffing on eat love pray,
this ditty is what I instantaneously say...

what do these swells,
with their self-appointed importance,
know to probe/defame my claim,
to this poem's title?

these are the factors,
the stepping stones from
my minute to the minute next

love

am I not oathed, bound
unconditionally
by my very own name,
which life bestowed upon me at birth,
to compose of this love
in every etching lineage, signed verse kissed upon our faces,
then, as well, oh so well, so swell,
to kiss our babies
whose smooth skin has no familiarity with
time and all my love
all my love,
uncritically makes no distinction

dinner

she loves me through the silence
of my oohing and ahhing,
these sounds,
escaping willingly,
unconditionally,
as delight unconstrained at the delicate deliciousness her love
has implanted in the dishes she preps,
with which she
preserves us

dance

she love to dine upon
her laughter at
my akimbo'd imitation of
'so idiot, you think you can dance'
hip hop
begging me between crinkling boisterous hardy laughter,
please, not to hurt myself

she, a Martha Graham educated,
Argentine Tango ballet mistress,
a life long dancer whose genes forbid her
to pass by the sound of music
without breaking out, breaking into dance,
in perfect synchronicity
to whatever the composer calls upon her,
to present the music, to inform us,
in body graphic form,
unconditionally
what they intended us to
see within and between each note

I need no tuxedo,
no fancy dress,
no permissions to comprehend
the meaning, the actuality,
the unconditionally of

unconditional love dinner dance


I dine and dance with love daily,
and yes, to be very sure,
unconditionally
for is there any other kind?
Claire Waters May 2013
walk into a bookstore where a poetry open mic is going on. the man previously nursing a lager in the back now has all eyes in the room on, flowin to the beat like drums to a song, this is all he has left that doesn't feel wrong.
"these words are all that matters," he says. " ’cept poetry, liquor, and the duality of man, i confess, these pages store my sanity and reveal my real friends, so i'll keep writing until these calluses have bled."

Lately I’ve been talking to Michael Larson in my head
And yeah, I know it’s a little weird to have a real imaginary friend
But we all need someone to turn to when feelin like we’re burning at the stake
To remind we’re still human and there’s no end; ending’s a mindset you create
There’s not really walls to hit unless you tell yourself there is,
just the narrow hallways in your mind where you lose yourself to negatives
See, you can always bend to be more
but you conceive a break, cause breaking is what you do
when you think you can’t create

and if you spend too much time wondering if you’re a particle or a wave
your thoughts manifest into the mental circles you repave
self fulfilling prophecies are subconscious misbehaviors
ignoring synchronicity in the universe’s behavior,
always waiting there for someone else to come along and save ya
caving in you dig a shallow grave, crawl in, and lay there,
blaming everyone else and yet expecting a savior?
from the wayward pain of exacerbating these anticipated cracks,
you still can’t seem to break, just blister and bounce back.
from this controversy in the name of your unsure authenticity
each flaw you extract from your skin is your own vulnerability
the world is not black and white, flat, or statistical see
just rife with impenetrable culpability
so everyone grows up and grows out with restless mentalities
time and age are isolated perceptions of our static reality,
cause we’re changing and flowing together, and we always will be
the only differences between us all are the ones we want to see
to comfort our dogmas and convictions as we atomize our selves obsessively
what matters are the paths we pursue and the wisdom we seek,
not our genetic abnormalities or the ways that we feel we are weak
when everything has innate duality, there’s no good without the bad
good’s an infallible syllable completely unpaletable til you realize bad
can only be in your heart if you perceive that’s what you have

there’s just your belief that you are either trapped or free
and realizing you want what you always had, eternally
if I’m gonna live this life, I will not sit and wait,
I will skin my knees and bleed and then get back up and create
In public Michael Larson’s hanging in my headphones loving the attention that I pay
Telling me earnestly not to worry, cause everyone is a critiqued critic these days
In burn fetish he tells me, “empathy is the poor man’s *******”
And now Krishnamurti is on my other shoulder repeating once again,
That “being well adjusted to a sick society is completely insane, the end.”
everyone gets nervous on the first dinner date, and everyone craves the safety of a friend who has their back
everyone feels like a literary hack the first time they take a paper to their thoughts and attempt to translate them into rap
we all feel a bit misdirected, and a little bit hated, but collective requires an equalibrium of giving and taking
while these days everyone treats each other as if life’s just about getting your own slice of the cake
and blatantly crazed by the toxic disarray
of our modern society transgressing and yet we just stand by and wait

Michael looked shy on camera as he expressed to me that, “what makes us human
Is how we’re a collection of our mistakes and the reactions that we have”
And what makes us individuals isn’t our lifestyle or to whom we pray
The stratosphere here that stops us from cooking to convection
is just a collection of perfections formed from love within the human condition
the gravity that keeps us from falling, is the art that we make
self actualized individuals, not feeling so lonely or crazed,
because paradoxically, art is also how we all relate.
Jesse stillwater Jun 2018
.
One day at a time
swings the pendulum;
only love awakens senses
too ephemeral to be restrained,
like the magic of a phonograph stylus
in a vintage vinyl groove
and the sensual touch
      of skin so new

It's not easy to watch
a flock flying away
      in the distance,
seeing the expanse beyond
reach of a wandering mind;

      heed distracted
      by the slow sway
of the treetops hypnotic careen

Doves dive on feathered canter,
      silent as the winged wind,
broke free from the gravity
      befallen the weight
            of the world
                                                
      Look­ing up wondering
            beyond the sky,
         the passing clouds
            crawl across
palliating the dusk hazed horizon

Synchronicity transcends across
an immeasurably deep river chasm,
      into a wordless abyss
      ensconced unthought
              between
        here and there

Silent silhouettes
            glide across
      the valley void below,
            wings to the sky

and, if you listen to a moment breathe,
            you can hear
                  the silent peace .............

you can feel the prevailing wind's direction
            blowing through your soul



             Jesse Stillwater
            December 2017
Paris Adamson May 2013
i am satiated sinful--
who cares more?
that we've been scorching bliss
and grafting these
blameless bittersweet distractors
like we won't hear thunder-
hiding from the condescending constancy
of raindrops on the tin garage
i will swallow you
until my belly rumbles
"enough cataclysm,
enough leaky roofs,"

filling me with sloshing
wistful reminders
of our tranquil dampness,
a shivering placidity in
our secluded synchronicity.
shout out to thom yorke. and shout out to you if you know why.
Simon Soane Dec 2018
In 1410 the village of Little Darling was a pretty nice place to live,
it’s houses were stout and wonderful and the people had lots to give,
the lord who owned the area was benevolent, he never ruled with an iron claw,
he spoke with softness and kindness, not knowing a cajoling roar,
he left the people to get on with their lives, unless they needed a helping hand
and then he’d be there to provide a peg up somewhere in his land.
Because of this the folk who made home here had it better then most peasants from this time,
who were condemned to a life of grinding servitude as if their living was a crime,
they were happier and joyful and free from the toil of subjugate,
each second was a pleasure and every minute spent first rate,
however there was one thing they shared with those who spent every day under the cosh;
everyone was filthy, no one liked to wash.
Only about once every 10 days would they pull bathing water from the well,
If they were especially filthy and their stink they wished to quell,
the rest of the time they didn’t care that they resembled a muddy shrub,
or their faces were still covered in last weekend’s off grub,
nor did they think it mattered if their hair was a matted mucky mess
or that compost heap didn’t smell more than their locks, it actually smelt less,
to them water was mainly a drink when their mouths were feeling parched and shoddy,
not a soothing liquid  with which to  cleanse their body.
Everyone in Little Darling didn’t mind being ***** and looking a unhygienic fright,
actually not everyone, everyone’s not quite right.
Alice always wondered why folk didn’t wash
and that’s not because she wanted everyone to be pretty, pristine and posh,
she just pondered as she daily made herself all gleam,
“why does nobody else round here care about being clean?
They all wallow around in their own filth like a burrowed germ,
more buried in soil than a busy earth worm,
I don’t get when there is plentiful water from wells not that far away
why don’t they dose themselves in the aqua good at any point in the day?
She thought, “Of course it’s their own life and if you never harm anyone else you can never do anything wrong,
but how how how can they fester in their own awful pong?”
So every day Alice would get up before she heard the going to work bell
and go and fetch some water to cleanse herself of smell,
she’d make herself all fresh and totally sans of grit and straw
and revel in the gleam she had coming out of every pore.
Everyone else in Little Darling all thought Alice was great,
a truly smashing lass who had tons of friends and mates,
yeah sometimes they’d remark to her “I don’t get your penchant for keeping yourself immaculate if I had to say
but who cares, I love you, have a fantastic day!”
And yes due to the mud in the village sometimes Alice would get herself all shiny and within a couple of hours look like she’d just crawled out of a cave,
but she didn’t mind as starting the day with a sparkle was what she did crave!
One fine day the folk of Little Darling decided to throw a big party as they adored a drink, a chat and a jive,
just have a massive night of  dancing, where they could give appreciation for being alive,
as Little Darling was a ace place they invited another village to join in the hedonism,
as they wanted folk to bask in hours through a wonderful prism!
When Alice heard news of the shindig she let out a chirping coo,
as revelling in the realm of fun was what she was really made to do!
As the week whiled to an end the day of the party came,
Alice could hardly contain herself as carousing ran through her brain,
she picked out her favourite garments feeling all of a super gathering quiver,
and then full of beans moseyed on down to the river,
she washed away with gusto and dressed all primed to go out,
“I’m on my way to get down and groove!” was her gleeful shout.
She started making her path to the good times, feeling all content,
she couldn’t wait to be immersed in the hub of blazing merriment,
as she was walking to the barn where the party was she encountered others making their journey to fun,
lit they all were by the going down sun,
someone said “hey Alice, I reckon you’ve spent an eternity scrubbing yourself for this bash”,
another said “yeah, I bet you’ve wasted hours by the river to get yourself prepared for this night on the lash!”
Alice replied and remarked, “yes I may have used my time getting myself ready and not been able to enjoy the chills and sits
but at least I don’t have hay in my hair like you ******* smelly *****!”
Everyone burst out laughing and happy all skipped to the revelry,
the slow dusk sky reflecting calm as far as the eye could see.
They jaunted into the barn with the music already in full swing,
the harp, drum, lute and trumpet players all doing their tuneful thing,
Alice grabbed a jar of foaming ale and started moving her body to the beats,
each noise in the air a consummate amazing treat!
Then from out of the corner of her eye she spotted a guy with dancing around in the air,
who'd cleaned his garb,
and washed his hair!
Alice thought "Wow! That guy doesn't look like his stench would make my opticals weepy,
in actual fact he makes my heart all leapy!"
They saw each other and felt swirls and sparks,
a knowing of what could and will be lover’s larks,
a chance they both knew could never be missed
and finalised their first look synchronicity with a longing kiss.
Everybody else stopped,
turned to look,
and knew a little bit more about
loves' rushing roars,
and couldn't help but breaking out
into a round of applause.
Alice felt a dawn,
reciprocated the smile of her fresh guy
and hand in hand they left the barn,
on their lips a glimpse of forever,
and went to find a empty stable,
where they could become all
***** together.
DC raw love Feb 2015
if it happens together
or
if it happened before

what is the difference
are the feelings the same

both were not knowing
but felt like something

i know this happen before
or
could this be going on now

was it you
or
was it them

what is it
that leave us bewildered

not knowing
or wanting to know

curiosity
of what

if we never knew
why should we know

it 's a never ending thought
that will always pop up
Thursday, January 2nd, 2020 &
Friday, January 3rd, 2020

The Resplendent Sol shineth forth for each one of us. We are all one, even whence divided. In truth, there is no schism betwixt us.

       I awoke this morning assured of the Cosmo-Plexus' Empyreal Love, The Ransom of the Lovebound, and Provenance of Life by the Holy Dove. I am sure that his auspices remain even now. Even in the din of disquietude, in the Soulborne War of Stillness, his aegis dost remain.

I am roused from my slumber by foreordinance. The maelstrom of lament only stirs the Leadings of Lovelight within. I must simply listen to the glistening waft to illumine my shadow'd microcosm.

From what Starlit Aethers shall my Niveous Dove alight? From thence shall heartsease unfurl! I know not when the Light of Life shall shine his visage upon me; yet and still, I must trust in the sweetness of hope. Her honesty inspires faith & amour.

Somewhere over the Rainbow, there exist no needs for unrequited dreams. Why? The fantast fathoms imagination an extension of reality, a synergy, a duality, a plurality. Yet, even the phantasy desires realization.

The Rainbow is an insignia of the Noachian Covenant. The prism is a kaleidoscopic thread, one woven across the firmaments by a Grand Creator. It is a dream realized, by the Divine, of the Divine, and from the Divine.

       How can I find stability, how can I summon strength without the Light of the Lovebound within? Our moor in a sea of sanctity, is he, Christ.

Sometimes I feel chasmic & abyssal, as though my heart were a rapacious sea. I know not from whence this emptiness has arisen, nor from whence it can be sundered. Yet and still, I carry on, sometimes consumed by the seductive embrace pulsing betwixt my ribs. Will the charm of despondency unfurl its pall over me forevermore?

At this moment, pristine synchronicity aligns my heart & mind, thereby affixing my entity upon cloud-nine. I am genuinely enough; I am genuinely substantive, for, at this moment, reason & rhyme intertwine upon the wavelength of the sublime. Therefore, I choose happiness not because it comes easily, but because it is the only real & authentic way to live.

----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------------------------------The Life-Bearing Dictum:----------------------------

(Added for the
Promulgation of Inspiration
On
March 11th, 2020)

----------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------

(I) "Creativity is the residue of time wasted."

-Einstein

(II) "Darkness is the birth of a new dawn. It should be celebrated, not feared.

-Aladdin Zackaria

(III) "For look! I am creating new heavens
and a new earth;
And the former things will not be called to mind,
Nor will they come up into the heart"

-Isaiah 65:17 (New World Translation Study Edition)

(IV) "For you the sun will no longer be a light by day,
Nor will the shining of the moon give you light,
For Jehovah will become to you an eternal light,
And your God will be your beauty.
No more will your sun set,
Nor will your moon wane,
For Jehovah will become for you an eternal light,
And the days of your mourning will have ended."

-Isaiah 60: 19, 20 (New World Translation Study Edition)

---------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------------------
Words uttered
Reverberate on a sonority
Now distinctly tinged
By the sanguine ripples of
Malice & betrayal.

A soul bound
Has been unfettered;
Yet, pain lingers in the anomaly
Once inhabited  
By a paradoxical wholeness.

Perhaps suffering is life,
Maybe life is suffering,
But what is life,
Without art
(?)

The Magnum Opera of the World
Were forged in an
Empyrean blaze of spontaneity;
Penultimate Vision;
Mastery of emotions; Mind-over-matter.

(The Legacy Carries)
Ever onward; therefore,
Breathe,
The Light is near,
Oblivion of Shadow.




Excelsior Forevermore,



Ω



Sanders Maurice Foulke III
George Raitt Aug 2016
I saw your dot painting
In the Art Gallery of the NT.
Dots on the theme of green
Attracted me, drawing me close
To read the curator's note:
"This painting expresses
The sensation of floating
In water and feeling
It's healing force."
Your painting and my poem
On the Lilly pond refer
To this same truth.
Art Gallery of the Northern Territory, synthetic polymer paint on linen, 152 cm x 92 cm.
Raven May 2019
Too much synchronicity...
I feel you.
Your touch, your taste, your kiss, your skin.
Knocking me is the way to go, just put our lips together, and blow.
Baby, just breathe on me.
Blow on my soft flesh and kiss.
Lubriciously, lusciously, lustfully.
Breathe on my taste, my touch, my sin.
We don't even need to be physical, tonight, my senses don't make sense at all.
Our imaginations...
Take it in, let it out...
Baby, just breath on me.
Seductively, sensually, sexually.
We don't even need to touch, just breathe.
Baby.... **** yeah.
(Moans)
Feel my sin as it's desire that I unleash.
Magnitude, corresponding with your aching thought of impure lustful intention.
Intention, feel me grasp onto your every nerve with my non-physical touch.
Caress me, hold me, baby, don't even **** me, just breathe onto my neck, my shoulder, my breast, my stomach, my *****, my thigh, my legs, my ***.
Can you feel it?
As I mind *******, it's that tingling sensation I release.
Aaaaaaah, baby, stop, and just breathe.
Britney Spears _ Breathe on me (Inspiration)
cari doll Aug 2015
our souls lie in synchronicity,
like constellations in the sky
i have a kaleidoscope heart,
beating eternally for your light
bound like the moon to the tide
your fickle heart found mine
chasing the rain storms in july,
i am but the holes in my shirt
meeting my initials on your thigh,
my mind exists in dreams i imagine
escaping realities distraction to
watch synchronicity happen
RMatheson Jul 2014
It's funny how you notice things
at times
that didn't take a space in your
consciousness
until events
dry brown and husk-yellow leaves
float into your life,
and suddenly,
everything is painted in
their colours:
every song on the radio
every empty place you see around town
every good time you try to have
all the little words...

They all fall into place,
and leak their brittle discord into
the cracks of your life.

— The End —