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Peppy Miller Apr 2013
Tallied gifts be given not
They're more to be forgotten
One tear
One tooth
One eye lash plucked
One wish
One chance
One night untouched
One hand
One word
One tender soul
One ear
One eye
One breath to hold
One pulse
One gaze
One brink of dawn
One meadow
One hearth
They'll all be gone
Tallied things be given not
They're only for the taking
Tallied things be counted most
When allied with the breaking

When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.


O powerful, western, fallen star!
O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!
O great star disappear’d! O the black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul!


In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash’d palings,
Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle……and from this bush in the door-yard,
With delicate-color’d blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig, with its flower, I break.


In the swamp, in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary, the thrush,
The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat!
Death’s outlet song of life—(for well, dear brother, I know
If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would’st surely die.)


Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris;)
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes—passing the endless grass;
Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising;
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin.


Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land,
With the pomp of the inloop’d flags, with the cities draped in black,
With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil’d women, standing,
With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night,
With the countless torches lit—with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads,
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn;
With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour’d around the coffin,
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—Where amid these you journey,
With the tolling, tolling bells’ perpetual clang;
Here! coffin that slowly passes,
I give you my sprig of lilac.


(Nor for you, for one, alone;
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring:
For fresh as the morning—thus would I carol a song for you, O sane and sacred death.

All over bouquets of roses,
O death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies;
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes;
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you, and the coffins all of you, O death.)


O western orb, sailing the heaven!
Now I know what you must have meant, as a month since we walk’d,
As we walk’d up and down in the dark blue so mystic,
As we walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night,
As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night,
As you droop’d from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other stars all look’d on;)
As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something, I know not what, kept me from sleep;)
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west, ere you went, how full you were of woe;
As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cold transparent night,
As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night,
As my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb,
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.


Sing on, there in the swamp!
O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes—I hear your call;
I hear—I come presently—I understand you;
But a moment I linger—for the lustrous star has detain’d me;
The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me.


O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?

Sea-winds, blown from east and west,
Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting:
These, and with these, and the breath of my chant,
I perfume the grave of him I love.


O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?
And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,
To adorn the burial-house of him I love?

Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,
With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air;
With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific;
In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there;
With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows;
And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,
And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.


Lo! body and soul! this land!
Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships;
The varied and ample land—the South and the North in the light—Ohio’s shores, and flashing Missouri,
And ever the far-spreading prairies, cover’d with grass and corn.

Lo! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty;
The violet and purple morn, with just-felt breezes;
The gentle, soft-born, measureless light;
The miracle, spreading, bathing all—the fulfill’d noon;
The coming eve, delicious—the welcome night, and the stars,
Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.


Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird!
Sing from the swamps, the recesses—pour your chant from the bushes;
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.

Sing on, dearest brother—warble your reedy song;
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.

O liquid, and free, and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul! O wondrous singer!
You only I hear……yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart;)
Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me.


Now while I sat in the day, and look’d forth,
In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the farmer preparing his crops,
In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests,
In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds, and the storms;)
Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,
The many-moving sea-tides,—and I saw the ships how they sail’d,
And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,
And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages;
And the streets, how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent—lo! then and there,
Falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,
Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail;
And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.


Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,
And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
And I in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,
I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not,
Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,
To the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still.

And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me;
The gray-brown bird I know, receiv’d us comrades three;
And he sang what seem’d the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.

From deep secluded recesses,
From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still,
Came the carol of the bird.

And the charm of the carol rapt me,
As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night;
And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.



Come, lovely and soothing Death,
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later, delicate Death.

Prais’d be the fathomless universe,
For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious;
And for love, sweet love—But praise! praise! praise!
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.

Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?

Then I chant it for thee—I glorify thee above all;
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

Approach, strong Deliveress!
When it is so—when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,
Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee,
Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death.

From me to thee glad serenades,
Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee—adornments and feastings for thee;
And the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky, are fitting,
And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

The night, in silence, under many a star;
The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know;
And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil’d Death,
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song!
Over the rising and sinking waves—over the myriad fields, and the prairies wide;
Over the dense-pack’d cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways,
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death!


To the tally of my soul,
Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,
With pure, deliberate notes, spreading, filling the night.

Loud in the pines and cedars dim,
Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume;
And I with my comrades there in the night.

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,
As to long panoramas of visions.


I saw askant the armies;
And I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags;
Borne through the smoke of the battles, and pierc’d with missiles, I saw them,
And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and ******;
And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)
And the staffs all splinter’d and broken.

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
And the white skeletons of young men—I saw them;
I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war;
But I saw they were not as was thought;
They themselves were fully at rest—they suffer’d not;
The living remain’d and suffer’d—the mother suffer’d,
And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suffer’d,
And the armies that remain’d suffer’d.


Passing the visions, passing the night;
Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands;
Passing the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul,
(Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying, ever-altering song,
As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,
Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,
Covering the earth, and filling the spread of the heaven,
As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,)
Passing, I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves;
I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring,
I cease from my song for thee;
From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,
O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night.


Yet each I keep, and all, retrievements out of the night;
The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,
And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul,
With the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full of woe,
With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odor;
With the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird,
Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I keep—for the dead I loved so well;
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands…and this for his dear sake;
Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim.
Eisen Pacheco Aug 2014
It's so much easier to make the same mistakes
to wage a war upon myself
It's so much simpler to smile in your face
to wish that I were someone else

I'm so **** hurtful
but only to my own skin
I'm worth so much more
but I'll still draw blood again

And when will I let myself go                                                               ­         

And when will I push far                                                              ­                  

And when will It be to late                                                             ­                 

And when will I stop opening the same scars                                              

It's barely past midnight
Red is all I see
A innocent boy who's shattered
A beautiful catastrophe

But who will help him now
Cause he's still making the same mistakes
But who will fight for his life
When he feels he's nothing but a waste

And when does this war end                                                              ­            

Cause I still crave razors against my skin                                                     

When I look into the mirror                                                                            

It's still a reflection I can't withstand                                                        ­      

Back at war again
Under your sleeve is the battlefield
A million casualties
Tallied are battles that have healed

Be a warrior
Scar tissue is tougher than regular skin
Be a warrior
Find your strength from within
Frank Ruland Apr 2015
time ceased to stand still
it passed us by so quickly
one hand gripped our final seconds,
while another toted ink and quill

i tallied countless hours
spent on debating misspent minutes
our sands went sour,
but, oh, how we hid it

my clock reads 11:11,
but it's been broke forever
now, i make my wishes whenever,
though, granted they are never
Hey, guys. Frank here with another series... I get messages asking to explain them, sometimes, so I'll provide some minor interpretation, here.

Bitter Mondays is a series about how life becomes mundane and unfulfilled in the wake of a failed relationship. Often, we spend the week, waiting for the weekend to come around so that we may escape it somehow, but Monday rolls around soon after, and it is once again the start of a cycle where our most bitter realizations come to pass. Thank you for your reads.
Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands;
Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies,
costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
Your true Soul and Body appear before me,
They stand forth out of affairs—out of commerce, shops, law, science,
work, forms, clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating,
drinking, suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem;
I whisper with my lips close to your ear,
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb;
I should have made my way straight to you long ago;
I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you.

I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you;
None have understood you, but I understand you;
None have done justice to you—you have not done justice to yourself;
None but have found you imperfect—I only find no imperfection in you;
None but would subordinate you—I only am he who will never consent
to subordinate you;
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond
what waits intrinsically in yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all;
From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light;
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of
gold-color’d light;
From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams,
effulgently flowing forever.

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!
You have not known what you are—you have slumber’d upon yourself
all your life;
Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time;
What you have done returns already in mockeries;
(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries,
what is their return?)

The mockeries are not you;
Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk;
I pursue you where none else has pursued you;
Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom’d routine,
if these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you
from me;
The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others,
they do not balk me,
The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death,
all these I part aside.

There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you;
There is no virtue, no beauty, in man or woman, but as good is in you;
No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you;
No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.

As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I give the like carefully to you;
I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs
of the glory of you.

Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard!
These shows of the east and west are tame, compared to you;
These immense meadows—these interminable rivers—you are immense
and interminable as they;
These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution—
you are he or she who is master or mistress over them,
Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution.

The hopples fall from your ankles—you find an unfailing sufficiency;
Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are
promulges itself;
Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted;
Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.
Jim Sularz Jul 2012
© 2011 (by Jim Sularz)
(The true tale of Frank Eaton – “Pistol Pete”)

At the headwaters of the Red Woods branch,
near a gentle ***** on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of dry sunflowers flail.

In a grave, still stirs, is a father’s heart,
that beats now to avenge his death.
Six times, murdered by cold blooded killers,
six men branded for a son’s revenge ….

Rye whiskey and cards, they rode fast and hard,
the four Campseys and the Ferbers.
With malicious intent, they were all Hell bent
to commit a loving father’s ******.

When the gunsmoke had cleared, all their faces were seared,
in the bleeding soul of a grieving son.
Ain’t nothin’ worse, than a father’s curse,
to fill a boy with brimstone and Hell fire!

Young Eaton yearned and soon would learn,
the fine art of slinging lead.
Why, he could shoot the wings off a buzzin’ horsefly,
from twenty paces, lickety split!

Slightly crossed eyed, Frank had a hog-killin’ time,
at a Fort Gibson shootin’ match.
Upside down, straight-on and leanin’ backwards,
he out-shot every expert in pistol class.

By day’s end when the scores were tallied,
Frank meant to prove at that shootin’ meet.
That he would claim the name of the truest gun,
and they dubbed him - “Pistol Pete.”

In fact, Pistol Pete was half boy, half bloodhound,
a wild-cat with two 45’s strapped on.
In District Cooweescoowee - bar none,
he was the fastest shot around!

Pistol Pete knew his dreaded duty had now arrived,
to hunt down those who killed his Pa.
He vowed those varmints would never see,
a necktie party, a court of law.

Where a man is known by his buckskin totem,
in hallowed Cherokee land.
There, frontier justice and Native pride,
help deal a swift and heavy hand.

Pete was quick on the trail of a killer,
just south of Webber’s Falls.
Shannon Champsey was a cattle rustler,
a horse thief, and a scurvy dog!

Pete ponied up and held his shot,
to let Shannon first make a move.
The next time he’d blinked, would be Shannon’s last,
to Hell he’d make his home.

With snarlin’ teeth and spittin’ venom,
Pete struck fast like a rattlesnake.
Two bullets to the chest in rapid fire,
was Shannon’s last breath he’d partake.

Pete galloped away, hot on the next trail,
left Shannon there for a vulture's meal.
Notched his guns, below a moon chasing sun,
and one wound to his soul congealed.

There’s a saying out West, know by gunslingers best,
that’ll deep six you in a knotty pine casket.
One you should never forget, lest you end up stone dead,
“There’s always a man – just a shade faster.”

Doc Ferber was next to feel Pete’s hot lead,
“Fill your hand, you *******!”
With little remorse, Pete shot him clear off his horse,
left him gunned down in a shallow ditch.

After getting reports, Pete headed North,
to where John Ferber hunkered down.
A Missouri corner, in McDonald County,
filled with Bible thumpers in a sinner’s town.

Pete rode five hundred miles to shoot that snake,
with two notches, he welcomed a third.
He carried his cursed ball and chains,
to **** a man, he swore with words.

But John Ferber was plastered, and he didn’t quite master,
deuces wild, soiled doves and hard drinkin’.
Someone else would beat Pete, the day before they’d meet,
sending John slingin’ hash in Hell’s kitchen.

There’s a night rider without a father,
under a curse to settle a score.
In all, six murderous desperados,
Three men dead - now, three men more ….

Pistol Pete was now pushin’ seventeen,
just a young pup, but no tenderfoot.
With two men in the lead, he was quick on his steed,
to **** two brothers who killed his kin.

Pete rode up to their fence, with a friendly countenance,
spoke with Jonce Campsey, but asked for Jim.
“There’s a message from Doc, that you both need to hear,”
Pete readied his hands – both guns were cocked!

Pete continued in discourse, and got off his horse.
all the while in an act of pretense.
Jim came to the door and Pete read them the score,
and shot them both dead in self-defense.

With the help of the law, they verified Pete’s call,
then gathered any loot they found.
Laid Jim and Jonce out, in their rustic log house,
and burnt them both and the house to the ground.

Might have seemed kind of callous, but weren’t done in malice,
that those boys were burnt instead of swingin’.
They just sent them to Hell, sizzlin’ medium well,
besides, it “saved them a lot of diggin’.”

There was one man to go, he’d be the last to know,
that a hex is an awful thing.
That a young boy would grow, with a curse in tow,
to **** a man, was still a sin.

Pete garnered his will, with the best of his skills,
to take on the last of the Campsey brothers.
It would be three to one, Wiley and two paid guns,
Pete knew his odds were slim and he shuddered.

At nearly twenty-one, Pete knew he may have out-run,
his luck as the fastest gun.
This would be the ultimate test of his shootin’ finesse,
only a fool would stay to be outgunned.

But Pistol Pete weren’t no liver lilly,
and he loaded up his 45’s.
He rode into town with steely nerves,
maybe no one, would come out alive!

Pete knocked through that swingin’ bar-room door,
Wiley stood there with a possum eating grin.
He said, “Hey there kid, who the Hell are you?”
and Pete shouted, “Frank Eaton! You killed my kin!”

All four men drew quick, with guns a’ blazing,
Wiley got plugged first from two 45’s.
The bar-room crowd dispersed in a wild stampede,
everywhere, ricochetin’ slugs whizzed by!

When the shootin’ had stopped, there was just one man standin’
all four men got plugged, includin’ Pete.
But only a shot-up boy rode out of town that day,
and a Father’s curse, that played out complete –
was a bitter mistress to bury….

At the headwaters of the Red Woods Branch,
near a gentle ***** on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of morning glories flail.

In a grave, still deep, is a father’s heart,
that lays quiet in a peaceful sleep.
And six men dead, who now burn instead,
compliments of Pistol Pete!
This is another one of my Historical poems.   A true story about Frank Eaton, an eight year old, who witnessed the shooting death of his father.    Frank Eaton was encouraged to avenge his father's death and by the time he was 15 years old, he learned to handle a gun without equal in Oklahoma territory.   You can read about this man by obtaining a copy of his book  -  "Veteran of the Old West - Pistol Pete (1952).   Born in 1860, he lived to be nearly 98 years old.   My poem describes the events surrounding Pistol Pete hunting down the outlaws that killed his father.    I hope you enjoy the story.

Jim Sularz
Francie Lynch Jul 2014
Dedicated to John and Bob

From first flesh we move down widening halls
That lead to lives of wondrous walls.

Our spidered fingers gripped walls of brick,
Cruets, cups and candle sticks.
Incense clouded open graves
When we too believed we too were saved.

Between Annex walls we learned our phonics,
On tin-roofed walls we lived our comics.
Garage walls scaled showed different views,
Kitchen walls steamed with soups and stews.
Our school yard walls tallied pitches
That marked our summers of youth and wishes.

Now lift memory's pane and go back
To the white-framed walls of a secret shack.
There, in confusion we would cling
To the unknown wonders girls would bring.
These young boys' walls we both outgrew;
Now new walls sprang, as we did too.

Coffee House walls offered something new.
Wet kisses lingered near shadowy walls,
We heard poetry read in a backroom stall.
Recreationals made our new skin crawl.

Cliff walls were breached by stairs of clay,
Carved by Incas on a turquoise day.
Tent walls echoed with impish fray,
Green walls beckoned at the end of day.
These walls gave rise to hot desires,
Like Vikings planning funeral pyres.
New music, cheers and weekend guests
Stood us ***** to pound our chests.

Those walls no longer ring our shores;
Time swept us forward with worldly lures.
We doffed our coats of suede and frills,
And donned new clothes and workday skills.
The walls of work are a rocky climb,
Stones laid by us, for yours and mine.
Such towers & turrets of heart & hearth
Guard all we know of any worth.

I see distant walls on cliffs, in fields;
Where do they lead? What will they yield?
Yet, there three friends climb one more hill,
Climb one more wall. Then all is still.
My friends John (known for 55 years) and Bob (known for 45 years) and I have grown up together. Altar boys shimmying around the brick of the church, camp counsellors, workers,  Dads, and friends all our lives. We still hang out plenty.
Paul Sands Apr 2015
what the hyena cannot ****

it will steal

tallied on the gritted walls of our toil

their bounty cultivated from the nothing we now possess

and the bodies which must fall once their winter bites

no time left to wail and gnash

we must become as lions that rise

and grip the throat of this thieving class
you know who I'm talking about
Ujwala Iyengar Feb 2015
His kisses were long and soft.
They were softer than the carnations he got her everyday.

But Alas ! Those kisses were false and those carnations were imaginary.
She looked at the watch as she tallied the last account for the day.

His existence was unknown and their love was unfound. She removed his picture which she had lovingly pinned on the wall.

Heavens cry and clouds sing,
She got the prince but she lost the ring.

They never found his dead body.
She still remembers how he chose the carnations for their wedding reception.
Frank Ruland Dec 2014
We live and die on the lie of basis
     in which we believe a day outweighs a second
So safe behind the walls of our faces
     where eternities are tallied, and words are reckoned

We see our seams and scream, before we bleed
     upon the ***** floor--begging for more
So unbecoming are our own conspiracies;
     stuck in worlds we create, yet find a bore.

When we don't know who knows who, or what comes next
     the lines are blurred and we crave definition
But in our desperation, we leave the truth a wreck
     and in its wake, we surmise our own recapitulation
Okay, this **** took me a week to write. If you don't get it, I don't blame you, but it's about lying to yourself. I hope you enjoy.
Gem Oct 2013
I need you to let me know,
That you're ok.
I need you to let me know,
That the trigger isn't pulled.
That the pills are still there.
All 42 of them.
I need you to let me know,
That the drugs are still
In the hands of a dealer,
And that your heart is still coping,
In the hands of your brain.
I need you to let me know,
That your skin hasn't been tallied with
Hyphens and forwards slashes, but rather
Tallied with kisses on all of your punctuation.
I need you to let me know,
That you're breathing.
That your lungs filled with sadness,
Are still coping under 27 cigarettes a day.
I need you to let me know,
That you're still smiling,
And making city lights hide.
Darling I need you to let me know,
That you're ok.
Charlie Chirico Jul 2015
What if you're the addict that has accepted the first step a long time ago, while lines tallied up against years, and once familiar folk have given up hope long after patience; there's you first squatting in the corner of a house you barely know, with people you just met, and you shoot water in your veins, now on bent knees, praying this water is holy enough to ease the pain. The immaculate fix.

Arms outstretched, facing east and west, needles as big as nails delicately caressing the flesh and resting on sweaty palms, emaciating by way of lust and fear. No Will. No Power of Attorney. No Will Power.

They say Adam walked with Eve in the garden, and it was Eve that bit the apple. But you never hear the part about Adam killing Eve with silence. Adam was the snake. And of course above, and beyond, omnipotence comes with the added responsibility of design. "Would you consider yourself a Type A personality or a Type B personality?" The doctor asked.

One suicide and one admission to the psych ward should always be coincidental, but in case it's not and silence becomes deadly you must keep a straight face. Let the guilt mentally choke you, like a murderer choking the life from their victim. You look around the ward to find that there are no staircases. But empathy and keeping that straight face will lead to discharge, and programs, and twelve steps.
And you know when you get to that final step, it takes only one more
to push off and fall away.
matilda shaye Mar 2014
I am outside a high school party with a cigarette in my hand and my sweater trailing on the ground. I belong to the night; to the teenage desperation you find right through the front door inside every single one of those boys and girls eyes. It is dark outside but I can make out everyone's faces simply by the light of cigarettes. I close my eyes for a second and inhale. I can barely make out the silhouette of the person I wish was in front of me. My eyes open. You are not here. To my left there's an alley and a short boy is throwing up the 22 shots that are tallied on his forearm. His best friend is video taping it. I don't think I'm really here. Is this the alcohol speaking? I didn't feel this attached to you 3 hours ago. My mother thinks I am at work. I don't feel bad at all. After everything I have done, lying is simple. I've become accustomed to being a lie. A boy is trying to get two girls to make out and that offends me. I'm not here. I'm not anywhere. I'm with you. I matter to you. I matter to someone. I am something.
I open my eyes.
A guy is handing me a beer, so I take it. I should be going home but that girl looks like you. There are four boys to my right free styling. One of them is actually really good. I try to weave through the people to find a familiar face. I find one, and he's handing me a bottle. I don't know what it is, but I drink. It burns.
I'm outside again sitting on the curb. The streetlight that shines above me is a dark shade of yellow that glows off every wall. It reminds me of the night. The moon is looking at me with an intensity I've never seen before. I have a text from you on my phone but I don't want to open it. I don't want to be able to feel this much. I go to find the bottle again.
I'm laughing a lot now. I found the bottle. The familiar face is laughing too. Her boyfriend broke her heart last week.
Your silhouette is standing in the corner. It's beckoning me. I open your text:
do you need something?
I close your text. I close my phone and my eyes and my arms and my heart and I throw my empty beer can at that silhouette of yours.
I'm outside again. Familiar face is going to take me home.
The cigarette is glowing orange and I'm dancing to her car.
You don't love me. I don't care.
June West Oct 2012
Even when I was there in your arms I knew it wouldn't last long,
I tallied the days and although melancholy knowing that it wouldn't last, I basked in each moment wishing for time to not exist.
I kept each moment like people collect snow globes or baseball cards.
I collect those moments with you, and put them in a box labeled life.
I slipped the rejection paper between the folds of the cardboard.
I was the only one at the funeral.
Abby Sanderson Nov 2014
You cross your i's
and dot your t's
when everyone's watching.

"Have a nice day!"
"You're welcome!"
when everyone's watching.

You sing the alphabet
and count on your fingers
when everyone's watching.

you are
when everyone's watching
Star Gazer Nov 2016
I smiled and stared at lady death
eyes burnt of hatred and contempt
each tallied line of promises kept
And to lady death, I owe a large debt.

Goodbye, for when the star sets tonight
the debt collector will surely arrive.
I did bid not for thee to come
But thee came and took everything away
so come the morning sun
unadorned by light, thy presence have frayed.

Let paintings and portraits lay to rest
touch the stillness of a silhouette
dance to the drums of love and happiness
just never forget- to think of the stars.

I love you all
Let our life, be an Accounts ledger
birth is it’s first opening balance,
death, of course  the closing balance
Intelligence is your assets (Right col.)
foolishness, worthless  ideas, liabilities (left col.)
Heart beats are the current assets
soul seems to be permanent assest
Brain is your permanent Investment
valuable thoughts are current A/C
gaining  success are like stock & trade
Friends are your general reserves
Good behavours, Interest accumulated
Love & affection, your profit,
divided by 50% as below:-
Affection is gross profit,
Love, surely net profit
children are  earned bonus
education is your brand name
Qualification the patent
Knowledge is investment
work experience is premium account
The balance sheet should be equal
to be tallied on both sides of life
without any errors.

By Williamsji Maveli
The Kallettumakara Gblobal Association (KGA), UAE Chapter has announced their first poetry award for excellence to Williamsji Maveli's  third  poetry collection   titled as “Arramviralthumbath …”  (On the tip of the 6th finger,  published by H & C Books, Trichur) .The award has been declared  by Mathew David, Chairman of KGA at their Executive Committee meeting held recently in Sharjah Emirate of United Arab Emirates.  The award has  also been considered for his poetic works scattered in his recently published book named  as “Maa Salama."  ( means "With peace"  in Arabic). The poems have been gathered from different desert sketches,  focusing on his real-time life experiences ,while he was working in UAE for more than 30 years.  Williamsji, (Williams George),   former Ras Al Khaimah based Journalist and lyricist of tester-years has been nominated for a literary award for the first time for literature. The Award is being formulated by KGA  (Kallettumkara Global Association, UAE Chapter) for  outstanding contributions to literature  from the native writers  of Kallettumkara,  a village town in Trichur, Kerala in India.  The award will be presented by the KGA’s UAE Chapter on the grand occasion of their 11th anniversary, which is being scheduled to be held during November, this year,
according to Mathew David, Chairman of Kallettumkara Global Association.
Katlyn N Tester Feb 2015
A girl, a room a familiar song a familiar story. Little girl not even in a form of a woman, she hasn’t even grown into her period yet. Laying on the bed by herself crying biting her nails asking herself why… Her cry wasn’t heard her tears were silent why couldn’t they hear her cryin’ on the inside dying from the outside in… her wrists were clean… innocent. Time flew by with no one at her side, the day turned into night, in the night she began to cry. The so called day was hell for her, nothing she done could help her escape from it. Begging on her knees God help me please and nothing seemed to change… Her world turned upside down what’s wrong is right and what’s right is wrong. The same old room the same old song she sings on a daily… he touches her daily… Running in her mind trying to find a safe haven when all she wants to do is take a trip to heaven she’s done. Giving up finding her own song but the same verses seem to show up every time that he blows up. She cries… in her room under lock and key she takes that blade and whispers the words please… the only love in my life is from this blade or that knife running its bitter sweet over me. She cuts deep as deep as she could go without letting them know she cries… Her pain, she wears it on her sleeves this ain’t no joke she has been begging please for some time now and nothing seems to heal. The screams fill her head with anticipation thinking about the way the blade made sweet love to her now tallied up skin how she invited it in instead of fighting it within she allowed it to touch her… unlike him. She cries, every night thinking about that dreadful night when she had just turned 12… he told her it’s what fathers and daughters do… it’ll bring me closer to you so she stopped fighting. Not knowing what was actually taking place… he forced her into believing that was a daughters place to do those things that no other daughter does… willingly. She’s scared from the inside out, trying to figure out sitting in health class at the age of 13 when her health teacher reads from the board… this is what lovers do. The words oral *** and vaginal *** appear on the screen she hears her screams from the pain in her chest… this is not a request it needs to stop… she begged him please he laughed in her face but didn’t leave her be… it kept on. She’s turning 15 and her tears grow larger and flow longer… her tallies grow deeper the love grows sweeter that she holds for her blade… The drinking and the drugs grow strong, stronger than her will to live she gives up hope… it’ll never end. She’s drunk, not able to stand on her own two feet she forgets that she comes home to him… nobody suspects anything nobody hears her cries for help… he touches her again as she lays on the couch unable to speak because the liquor in her system is too hard to beat… she’s wasted. Trying to scream begging her voice to finally speak as he… he pushes himself on her placing his hands on her throat. Cupping her neck in his hands he chokes her to sleep… waking up in tears not remembering the night she had before she gets another drink. Looking around in a familiar house he lays on her couch… no clothes on happy as could be. Rubbing her thighs she sees… marks that wasn’t there before she picked up her drinks. He smiles… knowing she doesn’t remember knowing he stole her innocents from the night before he took something that wasn’t for his self. She stumbles to the mirror… looks at herself and sees the bruises on her cheeks… not remembering how they happened to be placed there. Crying folded over in the sink throwing up the memories of her past… the memories of when he was just a dad… the memories of before she grew a chest and started to gain thighs… wiping the tears from her eyes. She grabs her best friend the one who loved her the one she let in… kissing it so softly there she goes again. Placing the metal against her skin and gently pulls it back again… scarlet sputtering out of her skin. She cries… from the inside out she dies… slowly killing herself with the misery that he so ignorantly put her through… The words I’m sorry slip off of his lips as easy as the blade slips off of my skin… he says it’ll never happen again as he only rubs his filthy hands back over her skin infecting her soul with pain… She cries… hoping one day she’ll wake up and be able to watch him die… Hatred grows stronger for herself, letting her brain run her life when her heart was just as smart… She blames herself… for something she had no intentions of letting happen… She left… and now he tries to be the father that he claims he always has been… She cries… I… I cry.
Sue Dunhym May 2011
This worm crawls through ****,
Believing it to be mud.
How sad, how quaint.
It toils forth and thus it faint.
Left alone to die, to sleep, to bud.
If only, to could **** from that fortunate ***.

After a tempest, the worm awoke.
The smell had exacerbated,
And now, the worm knew it crawled in filth.
It tallied on, fourth, through the zilf.
It hoped, wished, that it might be alleviated.
Only, it would not: a cosmic joke.

Bacteria and flies swoon around.
Cautious, curious to the worm’s presence.
It looks not like them.
Yet, the odd and unique is where they stem.
But, still, he lacks their essence.
They enjoy the ****, he seeks the ground.

The worm saw the bacteria and the flies.
He did not like them, but he accepted.
He had joined their culture.
So, he greeted a fly, through he wished to punch her.
She smiled, as is etiquette. Yet, it percepted
That this is only the first of the worm’s lies.

There crawls our worm again.
Who began to search for **** across the land.
Confused and an idiot, he misses the soil.
No time, none left except for his toil.
He says he seeks the ground, yet he can’t see past his hand.
To ourselves, we deceive, we’re determined, but it is all in vain.
copyright of TP Flusk
Al Sep 2018
Hitting the bag hard.  Contracting the muscles. Pushing the limits.  Everyday is a workday in the gym. Boxing is a tough sport and injuries do happen, but the main draw is the test, and the endorphin high.

Outside the ring, time is more fluid.  The clock continues to tick but, for most people, the seconds don't count.

A knockout can arrive in the blink of an eye.  You think you know the ropes, the footwork, the patterns, and then wham!

Like a car-wreck.  One minute you're buzzing down the freeway, listening to tunes on the radio, and kaboom, what the hell???

Instant change, up becomes down, and for some it's down and out!

Twelve rounds, the bell sounds, points are tallied, did you make the grade, did you put in your best?

It's everyday life played out as spectacle. Twelve rounds in the squared circle and then your time has passed.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2017
when I turned eighteen
sadness filled my cups,
for carefree was now gone,
laying side by side
with all my companion figurines,
off to rest in a boy's toy chest
in a backyard cemetery hid,
certainty assured
all that I was, so far,
all that I will be,
uncalming coming forevermore,
unwilling borne upon
the newly time redesigned,
heavy load shoulders of adult responsibility

when I turned thirty,
sadder now by the means and meaning of accumulation,
having thrice now measured the length of a stick of life,
denominated as a decade,
wiser now that the children underfoot,
certainty assured,
would have to pay
bills of lading for cargoes,
not of their own choosing,
indeed, selected unwisely,
by men like me, and men before,
all too old or too gone,
to be prosecuted now for the
short sightedness of reckless timidity

when I turned fifty,
the shoulders slightly stooped and gently curved,
my gait and pace slowed by weight,
pockets laden with undesired memories,
unfinished arguments,
dreams that morphed and morted into
failed schemes that with the
certainty assured,
the tallied ache of known losses
will always weigh greater
than the
unknown of opportune

now with seventy,
so near, onrushing to the sounds
of old men and their noisy excuses
of babbling, ironical,
eerie similar to the parental smiling hushing
of a newborn's squeaking,
a youthful brook,
happily to an open sea arushing,
hurrying in the fullness of innocence to
it's demise

the line of sight to the horizon,
far shorter now than ere before,
with greater certainty assured,
that near my god than thee,
my sadness daren't hope to dissipate, nor lift
as once it did,
an early morn mist rising off the river, 
freshly sun burnished, then miracle banished,
sacrificing itself as a hopeful oracle of a new born day

recurring haunted words
like rest, best and tried,
the only legacy remaining to gift,
but one thing yet measures a comforts,
a red cross blanket round the shoulders thrown that with
certainty assured,
the marvy joy of life all in,
be our given right to err and learn wisdom at our own pace

so here I freely confess
with wry, sly smile that we

proved ourselves to be
victims of our unintended tendencies,
successful in being

**all too human
Jan. 11, 2016
Eliot Greene Jun 2013
I. The Search

Pack Light,           A few days,

Some food          Onions, Apples, a Raincoat

Drive till you reach dirt roads,

                Take your time.

Pull over at all the rest stops

All the viewpoints.

Breathe the full bellied blues of our ceiling.

Taste the dirt,

                Flavored like mother.

                Pull back the sheets of sediment,

                                Such a well made bed.

Leave the car.

Find north.

Walk until your legs are tired,

Satisfied with their steps.

Don’t worry if the days slip away,

Take your time.

Pick a tree

An oak,

A maple,

A cedar.

A life

                               A fellow apostle of the sun.

Sit with your back to it.

Let it straighten your spine.

Let it tower above your like desire.

Spin it the only story you know by heart,

Whisper so soft the leaves listen,

Tell it so sweet the bark bends.

Fill its branches with your birth,

Water its roots with your memories,

And when there is nothing left but the leaves lullaby,

Ask for her forgiveness,

And level the head of your ax.

II. The Laying Down

Take your time.

                Swing slow,


As deep as fear herself.

                Chip away at a life,

                This your one ******.

                Your fatal burial brother,

                Who will bear you as a keeper,

Down into the dark.

And when he is ready to lie down for you,

Do not yell timber.

Listen close,       for in every trees last gasp she tells a secret.

A sacred promise,

A final prophesy of wind across leaf.

And when fallen silent,

No longer an apostle of sky

But a servant of earth.

Grant her a name.

Remove the bark,

                Remember she is naked now

                                Be gentle,           Though you will hear no cry

                                She is weeping in those last kisses of light.

III. The Carving

Cut two sections

Seven feet long,

Count the rings,

Take your time.

This is the slow part,

This is where the years gather.

Hollow them out so they fit together,

Like man and wife                   entangled for eternity,

Bound together simply,

Just a few pegs to hold them fast

Just enough room for a man to sleep

And forever dream in trunk of the descendants,

Of that first prophet to reach up to the heavens

And proclaim in many leaved tongues

The roaring ecstasy of existence.

Carry it back to the car.

Take your time.

Let it lay heavy on your back

Enjoy its weight,

It is still lighter then a mother’s tear  

Still lighter then death.

When you get back to your bed

Back to your white washed ceiling  

Climb into your casket

The last house you will call home.

Wear her as a witness to such a thin mortality

Count the rings

That have tallied

The dance of days

Across your skin

Remember her last words

Remember her prophesy  

And in the morning polish her as smooth as the sun.

Bark Brother you have been singing

Long before we knew how to speak.

So bury me in your song,

Down in the dirt

Down in the darkness

We will make a fine duet.
Tyler Loeslein Feb 2013
You were the morphine that filled my IV,
slowly drip-drip-dripping yourself into me,
a strong enough dose to carry me away from reality,
but the hospital bills tallied up quickly,
and I couldn't afford to stay, my money
was depleted, so the needles were freed
from the crook of my inner elbow, I watched it bleed,
crying as you seeped right back out of me.
Devin Weaver Feb 2013
life is a game of science
art collides again with fact
measure each grain, each atom
love is a balancing act
remember all the good times
draw the future from the past
but, oh, the heavy sad heart
strong men toppled by its mass

walk the balance beam with care
tread the tightrope seam so high
thread the needle, if you dare
no room for error in her eye
oh, it takes such steady hands
just to calibrate your smile
see how far our distance spans
i've tallied every mile

the eyes of justice are blind
or, at least that's how it goes
but my darling sees it all
love is unjust, heaven knows
to all you men of measure
never guess or estimate
within the breadth of pleasure
there is room for such dark fate

and in the face of balance
we come to tip the scales
love rains in a troubled boat
no man could ever bail
this water weighs too heavy
for simple hands, silly pails
Kyle Kulseth Apr 2016
A searing night. A price
tallied out and settled up.
I'm sipping down the size
of the smaller plights of times like these
in towns with bloodshot eyes.

Your coyote grin,
the gravel in
my creosote laughter were paving
the longest paths to saving graces
and filling up deaf ears.

I'm spilling every ounce
of all my guts
on your ears in the alley where I threw
               up last year
when I disappeared from your birthday.

Your coyote grin,
eyes glistenin',
you laughed kinda quiet while walking.
Familiar paths. We're talking crazy
through bitter whiskey sneers.

But I think, this hot night,
               I'm ready to believe...

Between the asphalt and the stars

Between the almost-fights
               and rushing cars

Between the blurring downtown bars...

We'll find some common ground.
The town's lit up, we'll trickle down
to a point of least resistance
where we can bid farewell to arms.

Or I'll find my way back home
to 1130 Longstaff
where my walls can close me in.
Tammy M Darby Jan 2014
In human form
Tread lightly on the ground
Cloven hooves disguised
Attired in color of crimson
In bold yellow eyes flames danced round  

Each person he encountered
Left upon them an invisible  mark
Those with unclean souls
Destined to forever dwell
In the blindness of eternal dark

When all had been counted
His brethren tallied up
Sat down in the shade
This hell's seed
On cursed blood he did sup

His task for now completed
Of which he never tired
Destiny called
He returned gladly
To rest in Satan's fires

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Jan. 27, 2013
Kim E Williams Jul 2014
Idol Life

When you've read the holy scriptures of countless wise fanatics
When you've pondered the tallied tales of positive thinkers
When you've sailed the seas of helpful suggestions and poignant promises
When you've chosen choices cast in caring coy iterations
When you've jumped up and down embracing the enthusiasm of enthusiasts
When you've done years upon years of carefully crafted…eating…praying...loving
When you've walked down endless miles of isles to alluring altars
When you've run, climbed and stood in search of joy
When you have nothing more to show for it than a collection of geometric idols and savvy souvenirs
Cast in cried out salt and stripped marrow…
Are you done?
Em Glass May 2013
The New York City skyline
from across the water;
sunsets at sea;
the shadows of clouds
shifting over treetops;
my sisters wishing on
a shooting star;
the sunrise over the desert
from a hot air balloon;
the warmth and light of a
campfire as the voices rise
into the sky with the embers.

And I have tallied up these
beautiful things and kept
tabs on them, memories like
index cards in my mind, labeled,
categorized, logical, the way
I like my things to be:
landscape, cityscape, skyline,
harmony, melody, warmth,

and then somewhere in the back
of the drawer is a folder, a
category that is not a category
and it is spilling into the
other categories and it
is disorder and the absence
of order, the incapacity to
categorize beautiful things

overflowing, not logically

and then, there's *you
John F McCullagh Apr 2015
The old man, grey, bespectacled, with difficulty, rose from his chair.
If he’d come to plead for mercy, I doubt he’d find it here.
He struggled to stand steady with his Zimmer walking frame
As he gave his testimony we all felt his sense of shame.

“I was there when all this happened; I saw the smoke rise to the sky.
I saw the piles of ashes that were once like you and I.
I counted stolen valuables; Money, watches, gold.
I dared not speak objection. I did as I was told.”

He asked for a glass of water; this much he did receive.
He testified an hour without asking for reprieve.
He spoke about those distant days we see in black and white.
Of a Germany destroyed by debt and burning for a fight.
He then was young and good with numbers
He was the bookkeeper of Auschwitz;
He can’t un-see all he did see.

Although he never shot a girl or stabbed a sleeping child,
He’d tallied up their worldly goods to add them to the pile.
When the Russians over-ran the camp, he and the others fled.
They left behind warehouses full of the possessions of the dead.
The Jury must deliberate about what punishment is due
For this ninety year old **** who kept track of baby shoes.
Del Maximo Aug 2010
moving forward from A to B
to eternity
from milliseconds to eons
from a tick of the clock
to a heartbeat
to a lifetime
each measure, a length of string
determined by Fates
or a burning wick
in a roomful of candles
where nothing can be earned

time spent
time left
with universes in between
life's images captured in a puddle
harmonic resonance ripples through the calm
radiating outward
energy rebounding and returning to stillness

reflections of a harvest moon
on white rushing waters
blue electricity crackling on crest tops
as waves unfurl on shores
and return to oceans
a vision viewed since antiquity
moments of time shared with ancients
and generations
tallied by stars and grains of sand
© August 17, 2010
avery Jun 2015
we get it, poets. things are like other things.
this is a familiar concept to us all so why do we speak in metaphor all the time?

it is because when we tell you we feel like our insides are on fire,
we feel as though we are a house that is burning down until all that remains is a fragile frame accompanied by a pile of ash,
it is not a metaphor

it's a simile, notice my use of like or as

but it is not a metaphor

when you stick a cigarette between your teeth you do not fail to light it
the thing that does the killing will **** you
and you will let it

when you write down the exact amount of pills you took and the number of days you felt worthless tallied into your stretch marks
there is no metaphor there

my poetry isn't metaphor
it is a direct reflection of honest to god feelings
I have never written a poem not meant literally

we get it, poets. things are like other things.
but that is a simile.
things are not other things.
we do not speak in metaphor.
Jonathan Witte Oct 2016
We counted seventeen that morning,
driving in circles around Greenbelt Park.
Biding time before preschool drop-off,
we moved in measured paces beneath
a verdant canopy of oak and Virginia pine,
crossing diminutive rivulets repeatedly,
revisiting the same downed tree limbs
and tired park signs, disappearing and
reappearing in mist, our languorous
revolutions seemingly interminable,
each lap lost behind our slipstream.

It was a game we played together,
my daughter and I, circumnavigating
that slight road and counting the deer.
We tallied the bucks, does, and fawns
in plain sight, either ignorant or bold.
Vigilant, we watched for minuscule
movements beyond the windshield,
subtle stirrings in the understory:
a foreleg caught in a confusion of ferns;
a white tail, brazen, above the blueberries
or hovering, a clump of cotton atop holly;
caramel eyes cupped in mountain laurel—
ephemeral proof, woodland intimations.

Most days, we saw nothing
but familiar creatures as we
circled, spinning our wheels.
If we parked on the shoulder,
the black ribbon of bitumen
seemed to move beneath us still,
a vinyl track playing under tires,
daughter and I locked in place—
two diamonds at the tip of a needle,
skipping across prosaic grooves.

But the morning of the seventeen!
The moon hung dilatory in the sky,
a winking crescent eye, opaline.
And with each loop, the number grew.


Two years later, I circle back,
my daughter and I walking
toward a black fishing pier,
gulls etching invisible lines
into an aquamarine sky.

I ask her if she remembers
those rides before preschool,
if she remembers the morning
we saw those seventeen deer.
We pause, waves washing
white sea foam over our feet.  
She looks beyond the breakers,
taking in the horizon’s hard line,
a crisp indigo seam that appears
to stitch the round world straight.
One hand rests on her bony hip;
the other grips a shell-filled pail.
She turns, sizing me up with the
cold skepticism of a six year old,
and shakes her head in disbelief.
She tells me I’ve got it all wrong:
It couldn’t have been that many.

I’m tempted to argue. Instead,
I ask her, why does that number
(seventeen!) seem too high.

She looks at me, incredulous.
What am I trying to prove?
She speaks in small measures,
makes herself perfectly clear:

We were driving
in circles, Daddy,
and the deer,
the deer,
they move.

At once the horizon bends,
azure arc in space and time;
gulls stall in midair, snapshots
above suspended breakers. Silence.
Suddenly I’m back in Greenbelt Park,
treading nimbly, veiled by ivy screens,
leaping broken dogwoods cantilevered
over precious shallow streams,
muscles, ears, and eyes electrified.
I see as the unseen eighteenth deer
would have seen us—two creatures
harnessed in a restless death machine,
recumbent gods marking territory.

Around again. Wait.
Another close orbit.
Scrutinize red taillights
fading to distance and
then explode, vaulting
across alien asphalt,
hard halo of misery:
Payton Nov 2015
Rows upon rows they stretch across this field
Each one so unique from its neighbor
And yet, you asked me to choose just one
My eyes bounced from each one
The tall ones, standing strong and mighty above the rest
The bright yellow ones, gleaming with beauty
I wandered and gazed at them all,
until there,
I didn't find it,
but it found me.
You asked me why that one, it was not the most elegant,
nor was it towering over the rest
And I said to you,
it just was.
It needed no explanation, no defense as to why.
And in that moment I realized,
love is the same.
It requires no justification,
no aspects tallied up that equal a winner.
There is no right or wrong, perfect or imperfect,
it just happens,
without your opinion or consent.
It doesn't have to make sense,
in fact,
it probably won't.
But it's in that confusing and jumbled mess,
that even though your head is uneasy with questions,
your heart will finally feel content.
jason galt Dec 2015
The debutantes unfurl their game faces
For Southern gentleman with fat wallets
Credence is given to long held family names with distinguished pedigrees
They reserve their special womanly charms
For the ones with plantations covered in Spanish moss
And men whose business interests in Savannah and Charleston
Take them away for weeks on end
The slaves toil in the fields and are tallied in ledgers like livestock
But these civilized belles only see the wealth of white men
And the servility of the servants, the burdens of back lashes of no concern
Perspiration glistens off cleavage,
Perfume strategically placed
Wafts through the air as an aphrodisiac to the affluent
The genteel manners mask a well of emotion
Rippling right beneath the surface
It only erupts as the slaves turn in and the guests say their goodbyes
The click-clack of hooves on cobblestones in the distance
Announce it’s time
Then dresses are dropped
Corsets are shed
And the night is pierced by the moans of lovers
The indentured servants take their turns giggling silently
With their ears against the door
Passion begets lust
And lust begets fornication
All manner of depravity is exposed when the manners are off
Women possessed of ****** desire
I have witnessed many things in my day
But nothing is more evil or more beautiful than a Southern belle

Let our life, be an Accounts ledger
birth is it’s first opening balance,
death, of course  the closing balance
Intelligence is your assets (Right col.)
foolishness, worthless  ideas, liabilities (left col.)
Heart beats are the current assets
soul seems to be an intangible asset
Brain is your permanent Investment
valuable thoughts are current A/C
gaining  success are like stock & trade
Friends are your general reserves
Good behaviors are  Interest accumulated
Love and affection, your maximum profit,
divided by 50% as below:-
Affection is gross profit,
Love, definitely net profit
children are  earned bonus.
education is your brand name
Qualification is the patent
Knowledge is secured debentures
work experience is premium account
The balance sheet should be equal
and to be tallied on both sides of life
without any errors.

After giving up psychoactive substances
for a long while, I hoped I might find my
definitive baseline but all I can conclude
is a lack of one. Only in contrast
to an altered state of mind
can we really judge one to be at baseline.
I tried, I really did, sober for months at a
time. I would not eat properly when I was
studying and it would be most unpleasant,
Restless and irritable, I'd say I was 'hangry'.
This hammered home one thing, one thing
alone: as food metabolizes certain nutrients
are absorbed into the bloodstream, some of
which may permeate the blood-brain barrier.
Deficiency or excess of common compounds
contained in food can affect our consciousness,
For example, postprandial somnolence.
Lack of nutrition causes contrasting effects and an
aggravated excitation manifests in a hungry human
just as sleepy sedation occurs in the sated **** sapien.
I do wonder what effects diet has on neuroplasticity.
Vitamins and rich-foodstuffs must have some effects
on cognition. It should hence be essential in building
a nootropic stack that one keeps track of their diet so
that every calorie can be calculated and tallied. Thereby
we might more efficiently measure our natural baseline
and hence perfect a method of stacking.
Keeping in mind what consumables (foodstuffs, vitamins and psychoactives, etc.) have synergy will allow identification and perfection of a stack as well assessing stack-to-task suitability.
Heaven or Hell
Which way to go?
It's all up to you
Above or below

Do unto others
as they would to you
or Do unto others
Before they do you

Are you respectful?
Or are you a ****?
Your first impression
Is one that will stick

No one is perfect
We all try and try
But which way are you going
When it's your turn to die

Angels or Demons
Who shall open your door
Your reputation is tallied
Do you know your score?

An occasional prayer
Might wipe out one sin
But not if you're praying
That your team will win many
Go wrong or go right
Can determine if you
Will enter the light

I am not religious
But I know I'd choose
Which ever location
Has comfortable shoes!!!!
CLStewart Jul 2015
I see fear from the press on the television machine. We are controlled by the regime of mass media. Lies Lies Lies and more Lies! Perpetual motion in a cereal box dormant to many accustomed as we fall in line to our governments power play -Structured by corporate one liners and scripted spread sheets across dotted lines in a room being tallied on smart phones, blogs and scientific calculators- when is the commotion in proper logic to be received? -   Irrigation of the soul type-cast presented in a bow

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