SG Holter Feb 2016
For Helene.


Ashes on the water, now.
Love's bones like dust downstream.  
At least it got to see itself in our eyes,
Feel itself between hand holding hand

And whispered caresses.
From pillow talk to fists raised at
Concerts, glasses of Portuguese wine
On her balcony to the sound of magpies

We named our neighbours.
We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Ended gracefully.

I open hands that held hers and see
Nothing but skin worn by labour,
And air.
Ashes on the water, now.

Embers without a chance against rivers  
Cold with melted mountain snow and
Unyielding differences.
Some loves drown with lungs too full

To cry; others float like a funeral-pyre-
Longboat into the night, ablaze.
King and queen, hand upon hand.
Crowns tied from fresh flowers,

We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Slid apart the way a glacier parts from
The hills; slowly, but with the force

Of its thousands of tons.
Ashes on the water,
Where the ghost of our union rests
Underneath the surface of our memories.

I will remember you.
Until the stars burn out, raining the
Dust of themselves like snow upon
These waters that always are moving.
our lives are fraught with numbers

so many fractions of a second faster in a race  
most wins on record   best jury votes
highest flight   deepest dive   most goals
meters of rising sea levels
millions of refugees   and more displaced
tens of thousands  honor killings
thousands of deaths with Ebola  
millions of Zika virus victims next year
billions of deficit or profit in import/export
    or the stock exchange
votes in elections    or for beauty queens

polls    tweets   virtual friends  & followers
likes on the social media    on hellopoetry

we have been taught to measure our status
our importance   and the significance of our lives
in clicks of other peoples’ digital devices

even our time has been reduced to numbers
the digital has long replaced the comprehensive
instead of the round dial that shows 12 hours
    suggesting the duration of a normal day
we have a punctual display  without the whole
the cyclical has lost against the linear

0101010101010101010101010101010101
we all look forward to our numbered future
no past  and very little present

our hands on smart phones    homes    TVs
    pushing a button makes things move
    swishing a screen displays the world

over all that we easily forget
that we ourselves have been reduced to numbers
    of customers for businesses
    of voters for the politicians
    of workers for the corporations
    of citizens for our nations
digital quantities we have become

and if we take a global view
we are part of the seven billion plus
that currently inhabit our earth


all of which do expect their individuality
be honored  and their dignity respected

numbers don’t  honor individuality
they simply count the units
items  or people  are for them the same

it’s left to us to find a way
that leaves the numbers in their place
yet guarantees us dignity
as individual members of the human race
how do I write about the beauty of the world
when barefoot people pass before my window
in search of shelter

how do I share my pleasure of the birds' sweet song at dawn
when I see faces etched with panic
from deafening blasts of bombs

how to rejoice in love and friendship
when meeting people who could barely save their lives
after burying their loved ones

how can I write with passion of the kindness of the human heart
when I see thousands fleeing from the ruins of their homes
only to face police   walls   barbed wire

true words are hard to find
as said a poet of an older war

    when it is a lie to speak
    a lie to keep silent

not easy
The poet from which my last two lines come: John Balaban, Vietnam veteran:
“A poet had better keep his mouth shut,” he writes in “Saying Good-by to Mr. and Mrs. My, Saigon, 1972”:
unless he’s found words to comfort and teach.
Today, comfort and teaching themselves deceive
and it takes cruelty to make any friends
when it is a lie to speak, a lie to keep silent.
I am in love with your beguiling smile.
The thought of you being alone makes
my thoughts jump thousands of miles to you.
i regret that i am not my thoughts.
A busy gun takes lives
Silent leaders do worse
They burn lives
Voice your pain or get blessed with a curse
Blood shed Schools
We elected fools
Wrong leaders to lead us
Pushing useless agenda’s
While feeding us propaganda
Halls covered red
thousands of innocent people killed
At the expense of gun reform laws
Watching news with dropped jaws
We sit in silence
while the voiceless die for peace
Nyl Oct 2017
Raindrops, accompanied by morning coffee’s aroma
Ice cubes and cola, that galaxy on the surface of the fizzing soda
The smell of old books, while reading as you sat on a sofa
Simple joys, euphoria, now free your mind from the entire enigma

Rasasvada, the taste of bliss in the absence of all thought
Maybe the mental state in which your mind experiences drought
People watching, people praying, people playing,
people like droids
Over the course of history, we’ve discovered hundreds of thousands of asteroids

The first one is Ceres; now ask yourself, “Do I exist”?
Are you suffocated by the alienating effect of urban life;
which you still can’t resist?
Inside the neon-soaked metropolis, transgression,
and the ignorance of youth
Truth realizes itself; and that is the truth

Dusk falls, starry night, the slumbering dark will rise
What made you think that you are wise and that you’d never compromise?
It is only while the city sleeps that you can understand its heaviness
Of what? The weight of your consciousness
It was once said that the smallest thing that you’d see is human kindness
And if not, what else will explain mankind and his varied emptiness

Death defies and completely violates the laws of the universe
The prophets did not write their words on papers, in a verse
They are engraved inside the minds of street hooligans and space vagabonds
Wars don’t end wars, trivial things, and worshiping new gods with brands

Humanity, please keep your sanity.
Regress towards simplicity and put away your vanity
People watching, people praying, people playing,
people who forgot what it means to ‘be’

The ebb and flow of life are as strange as
the creases on your sweater
You, a slave of order, creature of magnificent wonder
A being who seeks purpose and solace, in your thoughts you dwell
So long, tonight I hope you sleep well
Cass Indigo Jul 9
What is a poet?
Someone who writes down, well, whatever?
Someone who has ideas come to them every day?
Someone who has published books in stores across the country?
Someone who has hundreds,
To thousands,
To millions,
Of followers on a.. website?

No.

A poet is someone who puts a piece of their heart into every writing.
A poet is someone who will get 5 ideas for a new poem at 2 am,
But may not write for weeks on end.
A poet is someone who no matter if they have 10 books published
Or none
Someone who no matter if they have thousands of followers
Or just one
A poet is someone who puts their heart in soul into everything they do
Someone who manages to weave themselves into someone’s heart
And reach them like nobody else has
Someone that if you look closely in their poetry,
You can see the person behind it.
That is what makes a poet.
Whelp I managed to come up with something (eventually). Took me long enough. Well here ya go. My monthly poem. See you all soon
-C.I.
Slinging the heavy wooden cross over his shoulder, he stood weary and tired; it was fastened to his ankle by a lengthy metal chain. The lights of the pier stood like ancient statues, passing judgment on anemic sinners.  As he trudged forth, he saw a small boy and girl sitting side by side, fishing off the edge of the pier. He knew them as mother and father. A thick moonlight illuminated the backs of their heads; A mournful sensation came over him. Maybe it's the dope that causes him to think this way.

Coming to the end of the pier, he saw all the ocean liners in the expanse of the night.
Carrying hundreds, possibly thousands of people. Lights reflected off the water like some nearly tangible reality. Reminded him of a Bob Ross painting that looked unfinished. He lifted the cross over the railing and let it plummet the thirty or so feet. He sailed over seconds later.

When he woke, he was still in his little hovel. A salty odor came rolling off the Dead Sea. He wakes as an unknown entity. A man in exile.
Not sure about writing poems in this format.
It's a start.
To want is to chain
And to have
Is to give

To bleed is to die
And to love
Is benign

Three pillows for sleep
But I sleep for you
I only want to wake up
With a body that's true

It's not unrequited
Or disenchanted

It's pleasure
And contempt

It's a farce and it's crude
That I'd die thousands of times
For someone that sleeps with three pillows
What's the distance to you?
Roxconscious Jun 14
Bombarding with arguments
Feeling we've past
the very real existence
living next to surgical hands of
reason beseech to
appease them
As we're living on the grease of the
pyramids ceiling
Cheddar chess game
that invents blame
on who's hers
isn't
land
Own soil
impossible notions
words unspoken
They try to hide a paedophile
but they're itching
scratching
catting now
and we're searching for a surface
hidden deep within locust
explosive notion
Time for our language
Our version
Nice guys finish last
can't bother to coerce them
In a dog eat dog World
that's fit to curse em
as refer to each other as lower than the first one
Time for
our brothers
our mother's
our serpents
Its a reptilian brain
that commits the insane
due to sociopathic defected brains
thousands of inbred lines divide
truth can be see from inside
outside
inside
outside
INSIDE
By Roisin aka Roxie Rowland inspired by Occupy London 2011.
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