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Adam Latham Sep 2014
King Neptune sat upon his saline throne
And cried out loud to all the sea drenched sway,
"More sport, more sport" he yelled unto his own,
"That I might ease the boredom brought this day.
You, Dolphin, bring your wisdom unto me
And pray tell of that light, that coastal hue
Which cuts the dark asunder to my sea,
'Cross leaden skies to blind us all we few."

A hastening fin and quickly to his place,
The wise old Dolphin, gripped with fear and awe,
Bowed solemnly, then with a gentle grace
Explained what shone upon his master's shore.
"The glare, those slicing beams that shine at night
Warn pending doom to all who sail to near,
The jagged teeth of rocks are such a sight
To instil e'en the hardest men with fear.

Men's hands, those mortal gems the gods employ,
Have seized upon the danger of it all,
And built a structure warning of the ploy
Of all Sea Lords to bring about their fall.
And so the Lighthouse, named with ample sense,
Can only mean a blasphemy to thee,
So sailors can quite safely trespass hence
From port to port, unto the open sea."

(Neptune)
"No more! My once cool spirit rages hot
And boils a fury charring to the bone,
I see the House of Human has forgot
That they are ours, amusing us alone.
We Gods, we masters of their finite lives
Demand their will, their thoughts, their breathing souls,
To serve without regret our divine hives
With worship, prayer, and swinging incense bowls.

Strange feeling, 'tis the curdling of my blood,
The clotting of my rage to pure disdain,
Revenge is stoked where once pure anger stood,
Enough to charge mankind to think again.
Come trident keeper, serve my thrice pronged arm
And gird my ***** with implements of war,
The time has come to use such lethal charm
That foolish men like these cannot ignore.

A bellowed word, the tide is at my tongue
And wave on wave is mercy to my feet,
Children of the sea rise up in song
And on the Lighthouse moorings thrash and beat.
Seek victory, seize woe upon that hill
And raze in moistened load their pillared sin,
My kingdom shall devour this bitter pill,
'Til it shall be as if it had not been."

On land a Priest, Tiberius by name,
A servant to the Goddess of the Hunt,
Meanwhile had climbed the saturated frame
To view with nonchalance the ocean front.
These seven days had seen Diana's shrine
Find several hundred pilgrims on its plot,
And feeling soon the strains of the divine
Had hoped the walk would ease his troubled lot.

Upon the coast he'd found this Titan's torch
When from his daily burdens he had fled,
A walk one hour from the lunar porch
Where tithes were paid and healing prayers were said.
And from the top he surveyed all the world
Around about, inland and to the sea,
And marvelled at the way the water curled
Itself onto the shore so constantly.

Though mesmerised, his senses were not dulled,
A sound, a buzz, a percolating hum
Fell on his ears until his eyes were pulled
To ripples forming in the salty ****.
A tremor was the herald he surmised
For one whose habitation was the sea,
But even then what 'rose before his eyes
Was something that he thought would never be.

A giant crowned with royal ornament
And plates of golden armour on his chest,
Reared up out of the depths in quick movement
Which saw the waves removed and pulled abreast.
A thunderclap and lightening bolts galore
Along with all the earthquakes there could be,
Made our heroic priest fear all the more
As Neptune stood astride the choppy sea.

The stature of a God cannot be ruled,
But here Tiberius measured a mile,
From sandalled feet to head and hair bejewelled
With water droplet gems set regal style.
He noticed that this ocean deity
Well placed amongst the swells of his domain,
Now roll his eyes towards him hatefully
And bellow words the skies could not contain.

"Six nights in seven I have seen the light
From this abomination cast a spell,
And give to those that would not have insight,
A knowledge of the coastal rocks that dwell.
Tonight I will destroy it piece by piece
And reclaim once again the water's grave,
The perils of my realm will then increase
And men of ships I once more shall enslave.
I call upon all life of which I rule
And Mother Nature's elemental froth,
Join with me in the use of anger's tool,
Tear down each brick with undiluted wrath!"

Tiberius was quick in his reply,
His nerves suppressed to give a hardened look,
Inside a churning stomach would not lie
Yet somehow courage managed this rebuke,
" I care not for the wars of Gods and Men,
But hearken Neptune, hear this heartfelt pledge,
Strike not your hand against this lighted den
For by that action you would cross the edge.
The earth beneath my feet is holy ground
And sanctioned sacred at the throne of Jove,
I prayed my blessing when I heard the sound,
That ****** of rushing water in your grove."

The Sea God boomed displeasure with a roar
That pierced the cooling air with heated might,
A calmness quickly soothed him to the core
Though whitened knuckles gripped his trident tight.
"How can this be from one whose station's known
To beg the favour of the King of Kings,
Your faith is to one God and one alone
And subject only to the gift she brings.
I do not recognise the swift dictate
You prayed unto my brother in the heights,
Your life is therefore forfeit to The Fates,
As I condemn to death your house of lights."

No more was said but actions stole the words
Before Tiberius could speak again,
This Sea Lord with his head amongst the birds
Now caused the air to turn, the sky to rain.
He strode towards the object of his ills
With nothing but contempt within his eyes,
Incanting as he went the magic frills
Positions such as his can realise.

And so our priest expecting deaths divide
To halt the smooth meander of his life,
Stood firm with very little hope inside
That something could release him from this strife.
With quickened breath he ****** the salty air
To calm a body gripped with cold and fear,
His final thoughts would be in silent prayer,
Preparing for the end that drew so near.

The wind blew stronger and the rain lashed down,
A mix of spray and torrents from the sky,
The wet had found his priestly robes and gown
And now they clung unlike when they were dry.
One footstep, two, three more and then no light,
As all of Neptune's bulk eclipsed the sun,
The Lighthouse trembled in the pseudo night,
Lo Judgment Day for our brave priest had come.

And so the scene, a God engulfed with rage
About to battle mortar, brick, and bone,
Freed from the bonds of his salt water cage
By mortal acts that he could not condone.
With one hand raised and trident poised to strike,
The King of all the Oceans took his aim,
And without pause he loosed the three pronged pike
So that it flew unhindered to the game.
It did not falter, neither did it swerve
Nor did it slow by friction of the air,
But straight and true, devoid of any curve
It sailed towards the Lighthouse that was there.

And all Tiberius could do was watch
And wait the lethal throw by Neptune's hand,
Closer and closer, ready to dispatch
His sorry soul to Pluto's hallowed land.
In seconds all he knew of life on Earth
Would perish at the will of the divine,
And that which had been granted his from birth
Would disappear into the sands of time.
So spake the Son of God; and Satan stood
A while as mute, confounded what to say,
What to reply, confuted and convinced
Of his weak arguing and fallacious drift;
At length, collecting all his serpent wiles,
With soothing words renewed, him thus accosts:—
  “I see thou know’st what is of use to know,
What best to say canst say, to do canst do;
Thy actions to thy words accord; thy words
To thy large heart give utterance due; thy heart            
Contains of good, wise, just, the perfet shape.
Should kings and nations from thy mouth consult,
Thy counsel would be as the oracle
Urim and Thummim, those oraculous gems
On Aaron’s breast, or tongue of Seers old
Infallible; or, wert thou sought to deeds
That might require the array of war, thy skill
Of conduct would be such that all the world
Could not sustain thy prowess, or subsist
In battle, though against thy few in arms.                  
These godlike virtues wherefore dost thou hide?
Affecting private life, or more obscure
In savage wilderness, wherefore deprive
All Earth her wonder at thy acts, thyself
The fame and glory—glory, the reward
That sole excites to high attempts the flame
Of most erected spirits, most tempered pure
AEthereal, who all pleasures else despise,
All treasures and all gain esteem as dross,
And dignities and powers, all but the highest?              
Thy years are ripe, and over-ripe.  The son
Of Macedonian Philip had ere these
Won Asia, and the throne of Cyrus held
At his dispose; young Scipio had brought down
The Carthaginian pride; young Pompey quelled
The Pontic king, and in triumph had rode.
Yet years, and to ripe years judgment mature,
Quench not the thirst of glory, but augment.
Great Julius, whom now all the world admires,
The more he grew in years, the more inflamed                
With glory, wept that he had lived so long
Ingloroious.  But thou yet art not too late.”
  To whom our Saviour calmly thus replied:—
“Thou neither dost persuade me to seek wealth
For empire’s sake, nor empire to affect
For glory’s sake, by all thy argument.
For what is glory but the blaze of fame,
The people’s praise, if always praise unmixed?
And what the people but a herd confused,
A miscellaneous rabble, who extol                          
Things ******, and, well weighed, scarce worth the praise?
They praise and they admire they know not what,
And know not whom, but as one leads the other;
And what delight to be by such extolled,
To live upon their tongues, and be their talk?
Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise—
His lot who dares be singularly good.
The intelligent among them and the wise
Are few, and glory scarce of few is raised.
This is true glory and renown—when God,                    
Looking on the Earth, with approbation marks
The just man, and divulges him through Heaven
To all his Angels, who with true applause
Recount his praises.  Thus he did to Job,
When, to extend his fame through Heaven and Earth,
As thou to thy reproach may’st well remember,
He asked thee, ‘Hast thou seen my servant Job?’
Famous he was in Heaven; on Earth less known,
Where glory is false glory, attributed
To things not glorious, men not worthy of fame.            
They err who count it glorious to subdue
By conquest far and wide, to overrun
Large countries, and in field great battles win,
Great cities by assault.  What do these worthies
But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave
Peaceable nations, neighbouring or remote,
Made captive, yet deserving freedom more
Than those their conquerors, who leave behind
Nothing but ruin wheresoe’er they rove,
And all the flourishing works of peace destroy;            
Then swell with pride, and must be titled Gods,
Great benefactors of mankind, Deliverers,
Worshipped with temple, priest, and sacrifice?
One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other;
Till conqueror Death discover them scarce men,
Rowling in brutish vices, and deformed,
Violent or shameful death their due reward.
But, if there be in glory aught of good;
It may be means far different be attained,
Without ambition, war, or violence—                        
By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent,
By patience, temperance.  I mention still
Him whom thy wrongs, with saintly patience borne,
Made famous in a land and times obscure;
Who names not now with honour patient Job?
Poor Socrates, (who next more memorable?)
By what he taught and suffered for so doing,
For truth’s sake suffering death unjust, lives now
Equal in fame to proudest conquerors.
Yet, if for fame and glory aught be done,                  
Aught suffered—if young African for fame
His wasted country freed from Punic rage—
The deed becomes unpraised, the man at least,
And loses, though but verbal, his reward.
Shall I seek glory, then, as vain men seek,
Oft not deserved?  I seek not mine, but His
Who sent me, and thereby witness whence I am.”
  To whom the Tempter, murmuring, thus replied:—
“Think not so slight of glory, therein least
Resembling thy great Father.  He seeks glory,              
And for his glory all things made, all things
Orders and governs; nor content in Heaven,
By all his Angels glorified, requires
Glory from men, from all men, good or bad,
Wise or unwise, no difference, no exemption.
Above all sacrifice, or hallowed gift,
Glory he requires, and glory he receives,
Promiscuous from all nations, Jew, or Greek,
Or Barbarous, nor exception hath declared;
From us, his foes pronounced, glory he exacts.”            
  To whom our Saviour fervently replied:
“And reason; since his Word all things produced,
Though chiefly not for glory as prime end,
But to shew forth his goodness, and impart
His good communicable to every soul
Freely; of whom what could He less expect
Than glory and benediction—that is, thanks—
The slightest, easiest, readiest recompense
From them who could return him nothing else,
And, not returning that, would likeliest render            
Contempt instead, dishonour, obloquy?
Hard recompense, unsuitable return
For so much good, so much beneficience!
But why should man seek glory, who of his own
Hath nothing, and to whom nothing belongs
But condemnation, ignominy, and shame—
Who, for so many benefits received,
Turned recreant to God, ingrate and false,
And so of all true good himself despoiled;
Yet, sacrilegious, to himself would take                    
That which to God alone of right belongs?
Yet so much bounty is in God, such grace,
That who advances his glory, not their own,
Them he himself to glory will advance.”
  So spake the Son of God; and here again
Satan had not to answer, but stood struck
With guilt of his own sin—for he himself,
Insatiable of glory, had lost all;
Yet of another plea bethought him soon:—
  “Of glory, as thou wilt,” said he, “so deem;              
Worth or not worth the seeking, let it pass.
But to a Kingdom thou art born—ordained
To sit upon thy father David’s throne,
By mother’s side thy father, though thy right
Be now in powerful hands, that will not part
Easily from possession won with arms.
Judaea now and all the Promised Land,
Reduced a province under Roman yoke,
Obeys Tiberius, nor is always ruled
With temperate sway: oft have they violated                
The Temple, oft the Law, with foul affronts,
Abominations rather, as did once
Antiochus.  And think’st thou to regain
Thy right by sitting still, or thus retiring?
So did not Machabeus.  He indeed
Retired unto the Desert, but with arms;
And o’er a mighty king so oft prevailed
That by strong hand his family obtained,
Though priests, the crown, and David’s throne usurped,
With Modin and her suburbs once content.                    
If kingdom move thee not, let move thee zeal
And duty—zeal and duty are not slow,
But on Occasion’s forelock watchful wait:
They themselves rather are occasion best—
Zeal of thy Father’s house, duty to free
Thy country from her heathen servitude.
So shalt thou best fulfil, best verify,
The Prophets old, who sung thy endless reign—
The happier reign the sooner it begins.
Rein then; what canst thou better do the while?”            
  To whom our Saviour answer thus returned:—
“All things are best fulfilled in their due time;
And time there is for all things, Truth hath said.
If of my reign Prophetic Writ hath told
That it shall never end, so, when begin
The Father in his purpose hath decreed—
He in whose hand all times and seasons rowl.
What if he hath decreed that I shall first
Be tried in humble state, and things adverse,
By tribulations, injuries, insults,                        
Contempts, and scorns, and snares, and violence,
Suffering, abstaining, quietly expecting
Without distrust or doubt, that He may know
What I can suffer, how obey?  Who best
Can suffer best can do, best reign who first
Well hath obeyed—just trial ere I merit
My exaltation without change or end.
But what concerns it thee when I begin
My everlasting Kingdom?  Why art thou
Solicitous?  What moves thy inquisition?                    
Know’st thou not that my rising is thy fall,
And my promotion will be thy destruction?”
  To whom the Tempter, inly racked, replied:—
“Let that come when it comes.  All hope is lost
Of my reception into grace; what worse?
For where no hope is left is left no fear.
If there be worse, the expectation more
Of worse torments me than the feeling can.
I would be at the worst; worst is my port,
My harbour, and my ultimate repose,                        
The end I would attain, my final good.
My error was my error, and my crime
My crime; whatever, for itself condemned,
And will alike be punished, whether thou
Reign or reign not—though to that gentle brow
Willingly I could fly, and hope thy reign,
From that placid aspect and meek regard,
Rather than aggravate my evil state,
Would stand between me and thy Father’s ire
(Whose ire I dread more than the fire of Hell)              
A shelter and a kind of shading cool
Interposition, as a summer’s cloud.
If I, then, to the worst that can be haste,
Why move thy feet so slow to what is best?
Happiest, both to thyself and all the world,
That thou, who worthiest art, shouldst be their King!
Perhaps thou linger’st in deep thoughts detained
Of the enterprise so hazardous and high!
No wonder; for, though in thee be united
What of perfection can in Man be found,                    
Or human nature can receive, consider
Thy life hath yet been private, most part spent
At home, scarce viewed the Galilean towns,
And once a year Jerusalem, few days’
Short sojourn; and what thence couldst thou observe?
The world thou hast not seen, much less her glory,
Empires, and monarchs, and their radiant courts—
Best school of best experience, quickest in sight
In all things that to greatest actions lead.
The wisest, unexperienced, will be ever                    
Timorous, and loth, with novice modesty
(As he who, seeking *****, found a kingdom)
Irresolute, unhardy, unadventrous.
But I will bring thee where thou soon shalt quit
Those rudiments, and see before thine eyes
The monarchies of the Earth, their pomp and state—
Sufficient introduction to inform
Thee, of thyself so apt, in regal arts,
And regal mysteries; that thou may’st know
How best their opposition to withstand.”                    
  With that (such power was given him then), he took
The Son of God up to a mountain high.
It was a mountain at whose verdant feet
A spacious plain outstretched in circuit wide
Lay pleasant; from his side two rivers flowed,
The one winding, the other straight, and left between
Fair champaign, with less rivers interveined,
Then meeting joined their tribute to the sea.
Fertil of corn the glebe, of oil, and wine;
With herds the pasture thronged, with flocks the hills;    
Huge cities and high-towered, that well might seem
The seats of mightiest monarchs; and so large
The prospect was that here and there was room
For barren desert, fountainless and dry.
To this high mountain-top the Tempter brought
Our Saviour, and new train of words began:—
  “Well have we speeded, and o’er hill and dale,
Forest, and field, and flood, temples and towers,
Cut shorter many a league.  Here thou behold’st
Assyria, and her empire’s ancient bounds,                  
Araxes and the Caspian lake; thence on
As far as Indus east, Euphrates west,
And oft beyond; to south the Persian bay,
And, inaccessible, the Arabian drouth:
Here, Nineveh, of length within her wall
Several days’ journey, built by Ninus old,
Of that first golden monarchy the seat,
And seat of Salmanassar, whose success
Israel in long captivity still mourns;
There Babylon, the wonder of all tongues,                  
As ancient, but rebuilt by him who twice
Judah and all thy father David’s house
Led captive, and Jerusalem laid waste,
Till Cyrus set them free; Persepolis,
His city, there thou seest, and Bactra there;
Ecbatana her structure vast there shews,
And Hecatompylos her hunderd gates;
There Susa by Choaspes, amber stream,
The drink of none but kings; of later fame,
Built by Emathian or by Parthian hands,                    
The great Seleucia, Nisibis, and there
Artaxata, Teredon, Ctesiphon,
Turning with easy eye, thou may’st behold.
All these the Parthian (now some ages past
By great Arsaces led, who founded first
That empire) under his dominion holds,
From the luxurious kings of Antioch won.
And just in time thou com’st to have a view
Of his great power; for now the Parthian king
In Ctesiphon hath gathered all his host                    
Against the Scythian, whose incursions wild
Have wasted Sogdiana; to her aid
He marches now in haste.  See, though from far,
His thousands, in what martial e
Question on everythingAnswers to nothing
The life of a child is filled with the uncertainties
The loyalty of dog is never questioned
WhyThe price of lifeStill undecided
Or
Could it be the price or happiness
Cheap to some
To other worth their life
The isolation of the world and the selfish desires of the consumers the Demons of the selfless
The red dragon slayed once more by saint George
The red fox once more outfoxed himself
And the red wheelbarrow once more pondered
The silence of spring is not yet know
Yet its warning were simply filibustered
The Constitution of man is on cannabis
And the brain yet free is still bound to earth
What is seen is not believed until the other Senses can agree
We can’t even trust ourselves
The world is full of Thomas’s
But where are the geniuses of sin
In the powers of state
And the archangel of the sinless is a minority
Caste to the chasten life of a three headed god in the temple
Of Zion on the River Tiberius
For the eagle flies in the fog led only by the call of Self indulgence
The root of all evil
Yet the reason for survival
The green frog jumps across the road But what is on the other side
That is the answer to the question
Sofia Kioroglou Jan 2016
On the Western side of the Sea of Galilee
between Tiberias and Capernaum
the apostle of the apostles was born.

O holy myrrh-bearer, Mary from Magdala
the red egg in your hand Tiberius Caesar's debacle
would be of "Speak now or Forever rest in Peace"

* The poem is based on the Paschal eggs' tradition. During a dinner with the emperor Tiberius Caesar, Mary Magdalene was speaking about Christ's Resurrection. Caesar scoffed at her, saying that a man could rise from the dead no more than the egg in her hand could turn red. Immediately, the egg turned red. Because of this, icons of Mary Magdalene sometimes depict her holding a red egg. Also, this is believed to be an explanation for dyeing eggs red at Pascha.
With your eyes so grand and a rose in your hand
On board a mystery ship that I do not understand
When I see the moon rise above the land
I can see your eyes again.
Last night in a dream I met a roman queen
With a mask of gold and blue.
And I could not help but wonder and even kinda ponder
If the roman queen was you.
I never really showed when they laid you to rest
In the stone of early May.
Far passed a dozen trees in mud bending knees
To the gods wishing you would stay.
I once saw an angel with the glow of a lamp
She was lighting up a loansom hall.
And I saw her for awhile running with a smile
Past red lockers in the time of fall.
Today I saw a shield covering a field
Like a dead poets badge of grace.
Upon the ridge I saw this light
Turn radiance from night
And the glow was Samantha's face.
I had heard of her tomb one sad afternoon
It was a cast iron work of art.
Then I heard them close the lid and I ran away and hid
With hot swords drove through my heart.
I see you floating through the heavens passed the stars and the moon with you're hand on a green balloon.
With my eyes up to the sky I can not help but cry
The princess had left too soon.
I saw the crossing guard weeping very hard
Of the pain that was in the ground.
And then I saw him sleeping through the flood that was reaping with sweet spirits and their speaking sound.
I sat down and saw a wolf making his call
To the loved one he could not find.
Oh, beast I hear your sound Tiberius lost the crown
And your trumpet sounds just like mine.
Out of all of these ghosts my brain waves and hopes
For the drifting we all shall do.
And on the other side we look forward for a ride
On a stagecoach that will lead us to you.
When the rain goes away making blue skies from grey
You'll paint colors in the sky.
And we will ****** the color blue and a purple paintbrush too and make life from things that die.
I just hope that you know wherever you may go
That I'll always think of a girl.
There will be flowers all year long and a man who writes a song of a young lady who lit up the world.
Bunhead17 Jan 2016
I said I wasn't going to do this today
but again for the third time you asked for it.
Ranger Rick you thought that
if you used your Woody account
I wouldn't know that it was you.
You thought wrong.
Yea I **Blocked
Marcus Darcy or should I say Deena/Vicki..?
Angelina Lopez or should I say Brandon Nagley, Tommy Jackson, Tiberius Paulk...?
Frank Rizzo or should I say Gary L..?
James or should I say r,woody, tophat, Wilf Sporrat..?
>Wilf Sporrat is a complete wannabe Wolf Spirit<
Jake Muler, Bill Murray and ten others are also fake

....................
The things that you are inboxing Wolf's followers,
aren't true.
So Stop.
You guys are stalking him and his followers

Thanks Woody for the Community Guidlines reminder,
maybe you should read the guidlines too or Shut up!
and stay off my page.
Its actually very funny how you blocked me but you still go on my page and leave comments...? Huh maybe we all should take a moment to ponder on that.

----> FYI <----
*I was not put up to this by Wolf Spirit or anyone else....and I got my information from many different reliable sources.....
Sorry again guys! :/ #Mood NonPoem
EssEss Sep 2021
Italy's Capri admirably fits the bill as an enchanted island,
Nestled in the Bay of Naples, it's apt to call it wonderland,
It is famous as a coastal resort and a celebrated beauty spot,
Little wonder of it being touristy and a location often sought

The isle is seriously beautiful, sans any blemish in its splendor,
So little room for any shortcoming, chances of which are slender,
Breathtaking views from any angle makes Capri appear so scenic,
Futile to draw comparison to any other isle that is so panoramic

Capri is known as the isle of the sirens in Greek mythology,
It has very little to do though with any aspect of theology,
Long considered a preserve of celebrities and the super-rich,
The small precipitous island is a must-visit travel agent's sales pitch

Accessible only by ferry or hydrofoil from Naples and its surrounds,
The idyllic isle with sheer cliffs and dazzling seascapes visually astounds,
Steep cliffs rise majestically from an almost impossibly blue sea,
That the isle has that tangible deluxe feel, is for all to see

The island has a mythical charm with its jaw-dropping natural beauty,
Stunning landscapes from rocky caves to the horizon's edge lend to the popularity,
Shimmering sea views, secluded grottos lure visitors in droves to be on board,
Amazing cuisine, world-class shopping are bells and whistles; lest you get bored

Blue Grotto is an oceanic cave at the water's edge with an opening to the sea,
Optical effects created by sunlight bouncing on the cave walls, is a sight to see,
Water lit turquoise hues from below, by the sun, creates a magical atmosphere,
Shimmering cobalt-blue light images beckons us to a virtual optical stratosphere

Through the water on the floor of the cave, Roman remains are clearly visible,
Supposedly used as a bathing place by Emperor Tiberius, a reason nigh plausible,
This lagoon was probably a Roman villa with statues decorating the whole floor,
Other entrances to the grotto were created to improve irrigation, per Greek folklore

Capri's standout are three rocky peaks emerging from the azure blue water,
Called the Faraglioni, the limestone stacks are discernible to any spotter,
Formed by erosion, separated by water thro' collapse of solid land mass,
Emerging as steep rocks rising out of the sea, surprisingly not as a morass

La Piazzetta, aka chiazza, is a bustling diminutive square in the heart of Capri,
Table settings of the handful of cafes are meant for one to be carefree,
The colorful clock tower chimes every quarter hour throughout the day,
With thronging crowds at all times, little surprise why the place holds sway

Post ferry drop-off at Marina Grande, a road trip from Capri to Anacapri is a must,
Brace yourselves for a 3-km. stretch of hairpin bends en route in the mini bus,
On the slopes of Mount Solaro and at a higher elevation than Capri,
The more authentic side of the island and less crowded, is Anacapri

Piazza Vittoria in Anacapri town is the bustling bus stop square where one alights,
Sauntering thro' colorful bougainvillea, geranium festooned lanes is sheer delight,
Behold a mix of Neapolitan tailor shops, artisan shoemakers and souvenir shops,
Enjoy the aerial whiff of the town's lemon groves pervading everywhere, nonstop

Museum of Villa San Michele is a building articulating at various levels,
Ancient artifacts, Roman paving, marble columns are sights that revel,
An elevated garden with granite Sphinx and Greek tomb is a perfect setting,
For a sweeping view of the Bay of Naples below, that looks so enchanting

Continuing downhill, the Church of Santa Sofia is the pride of the town,
The adjoining Piazza Armando Diaz bustling with activity is a place of its own,
Locals chatting and reading newspapers presents such a wonderful sight,
Seated on hand painted majolica benches, as if conveying life is so bright

A visit to Capri is incomplete without tasting the famed Caprese salad,
The taste is so exquisite that one tends to break into a ballad,
Tomatoes, milky mozzarella, aromatic basil leaves are the sole ingredients,
A drizzle of sharply flavored olive oil does little to serve as an impediment

Restaurants abound the lanes with crowds' incessant chatter,
Panino Caprese being made in a jiffy is no laughing matter,
So popular is the salad that it can be found on every menu,
Strolling along past excited visitors, makes for the perfect milieu

It is with a heavy heart that you ferry back to mainland at the trip's end,
While enjoying the panoramic stunning views again, as if there's no end,
It is not without reason that Capri's famed "cliff beauty" is so majestic,
The only describable feeling of the experience is that it is "ecstatic"!
Travel poetry

Whence do ye derive from all destiny so great and gigantically,
Within thy Shakespeare’s eye - doest ye see all that love is intrinsically?
Like, “Pummeled inside so many a verse we ride along for better or worse.”
Only the faithful remember where from that line dost come.
And if thou art my good and faithful friend, pray tell me, what is this curse?
Oh I’ve scored your sonnets, I’ve played your plays passing so many a day
Emulating your way and yet all I’ve written is bound to decay.
But my good and immortal friend - is all that you possess at home with me?
Ever is destiny as blind as the righteous are *******.
If the righteous met you on stage would they not see you like Yorick - beheaded?
But ‘tis only this stage which hosts your heart, to your enduring greatness.
And as your spirit comes to me in my pen, help me set it right again.
Here - I, the buskin of old that has not vanished, I push my pen
Toward thy inward powers and feel within my fingers - you move -
Doubtless swells of ink and chalice with words meant to soothe.
You trace my heart within your palette and as I watch - we appear -
One letter after the other in the affected black knowing nothing of fear.

But do I not have two hands Sir, William?
What say I scribble with the right whilst thou writest with my left?

And with the left hand I write...

At great length I consider Aristotle’s thoughts mighty -
When sewn onto a lamp shade - but he himself is not as easily seen.
Round him were seen a flock of birds screaming
Of my tragedy’s with the wailing of a dog’s bay marking my dramas
Around as by chance, by chance I stood giant over all my terrors.
My bow is extended, the lock bolt released, words affixed
On the string, steadily aimed at your heart.
And hast not the line, “Alas, poor Yorick” found its eerie way into
The lines of Hamlet – lines that I never wrote into that play?
For they only doest exist in the collective minds of the readers.
Oh, aye, I wished for my soul that I had written that line
But it is one that I cannot claim exists in my play.
Doest thou venture forth with a hardier action now?
Thus to descend to the departed souls found in the graves here.
‘Tis here I lie in broken words to ask the prophet of where
My soul relies – to see Tiberius I come – the old Grecian –
My nature to be amused but vainly so conveying up my drama.
Oh nature, my nature, hast not thy stage tread me ventured?
Aye, and naked besides so that each rib does count.
What? What truth of old is to be seen in truth set on this stage?
I come to fetch mankind out of his own doom for there is more
To this tragedy, it scarcely is over the horizon and once it begins
It will move countless souls to a harness clad misery.
‘Tis well this philosophy of doubtless sensations refined
From the humor of the blackest infections.
Aye yes, it beats in jest of stolid and barren sorrow until
It is sufficiently moist and exhibits a graceful dance.
There entwines a solemn step which a Demigod moves
Neither for naught as we love what is Christian and moral.
Here – in the nether world - popular is homely, domestic and plain.
There are no Caesars, no Achilles, no Aristotle which appear on the stage.
Neither is there any to be seen of executives or cynics of commerce.
Only secretaries, per chance and brick layers and lieutenants read the lines.

Then with my right hand I write...

“But my good and faithful friend, tell me, what can such people meet with
That which can be called great? – that is - what great can they do?”

And my left hand answers...

What greatness? You ask – Aye, they form the cabals, they pay the mortgage
They pocket their savings and fear not where the stocks be placed.
Whence they come they oft return and derive their form from destiny’s greatness.
Greatness which rises a man up on high even when it grinds him to an incarnate dust.
Everything else is mere nonsense and not worthy of any acquaintances also,
All of our sorrows and wants – they too are here.
Wherefore then fly to yourselves if ‘tis truly yourselves you seek.
And then on that stage you shall meet your own contemptible incarnation.
There the poet is the host, the fifth act rendering the reckoning
And when crime doth become sick, virtue sits down to the feast.

Here I am trying my best to write/conjure up a master of the written word - however futile that might seem to you. Hopefully I didn't make Shakespeare roll over in his grave.
tread Apr 2013
the killers shoot lyrical
koans on the bar delicate,
I amble for a pint of
Dungarvan beer, whatever
the where that means.
There's a sunset here
and a sunrise there,
and lunchtime somewhere
in the middle as the mahogany beneath my elbows reminds
the Romans that I'm unsure
as to whether or not they made
it as far as Ireland.

General Tiberius,
are you awake?
I was not prepared for this
My position so flawed
Fatally overlooked
I was not prepared for this

My broad bravado
Now enfeebled
By harsh realization

My situation is untenable
The force against me
Is greater than  anticipated

I am called Tiberius
I have sold my foe short
I have little doubt
Of that which brings me down

I came here sure of success
I came to make war
To conquer all that is against me

Yet

My head hangs low with defeat
My spirit is weak
My morale in shambles
I am broken

My arms
Once readied for battle
Hang limp at my sides
My hands
Once armed for war
Now empty and weak
I am broken

My eyes
Once alive with passion
No longer leave the ground

The battle is lost on all fronts
I am surrounded by defeat
I watch as the line crumbles
No match
For the force brought against it
I am broken
I am broken
I am broken
I am broken
I am broken
I am broken
I am broken
I am broken
KathleenAMaloney Mar 2016
Incredulous Female Power
Born for shredding...
Her own  offspring First.

Atelier of weavers looms..
Tiberius Rope built of a thousand lies of Hate and Envy
Nothing Like it, So Fantastical its Creation
Tied around the minds of the fury cows that walked inside the caverns of her teachings,
Greek Chorus, Mooing loudly at the spectacular dime of each allegory .. Like a spell was placed..
Each made more dramatic by the hissing that came from under tongue with every Holy Speech

No Woman with any SIGHT allowed
Only boys, for breeding....
And with their mates.. Never
No challenge met or allowed
Loves Imprisonment by the Unsexed One
Lust  of Greed
Giuseppe Stokes Oct 2016
Alas fair Barns, draped b'twixt gilded gold,
sat on underground for riches untold.
Defense of the Nation'list he began
While scorning folks faces glazed'n'deadpan;
Fair Barns did muster up afearful roar
He'd told it once, Now he'd tell it once more:
Since the dawn of us, in modest abode
Have suffered missed hours, suffered plans unsowed
These pesky tube drivers, hath goest to
The deep pits of Hades, not yonder blue!
The storm he musterd set Aeneas to flight
As river of Tiberius sowed sweet delight.
The sybilline wisdom he did doth bear
Got him kicked off, without said recompence fare.
An inverted Petrarchan sonnet about a guy who hates the Proletariat
Uncle Jesse James Tiberius Kirk Douglas MacArthur Park Overall
will stun you with ethics till spring stumbles into summer then fall
into 2014 stroke mode for the near-nonagenarian hag Lauren Bacall
who seldom took a dump without wearing her Bogie-knitted shawl
at Kmart, Sears or the prettiest, cleanest, white-people-loving mall
where Ninjas practice Moslem prostration & the evangelistic crawl
spanning 12 lifetimes along the width weft-wise of a soft rock wall
where Sonny Bono tempted a political hit in horse-face Cher's stall,
as midgets beat the bejesus out of men who're 6-feet-something tall
Season of the Snake
on the mountains of the Moon .
We ride on the wind
like vagabond drifters and are
lovers of  inter-dimensional time

Across three civilisations
and tortured dark centuries in
between ,
from the reign of Queen
Hatshepsut
and in the time of Tiberius
Caesar
when Satan himself was
     delighted and then deceived .

We saw the Great Plague of  Vienna
in the year of our lord 1679 .
Then , slowly moving west
toward Paris and the eighteenth  century ,
we would lay dreaming
of hermetic clockwork and love.

But it was back in Old Vienna ,
surrounded by pestilence and
death ,
you became a being of light ,
in the Hospice of the Brothers
of the Holy Trinity ,
A pulsating emerald aurora ,
and I remembered how much  I loved you .
Give me your hirsute/textile/hombre love you lovely hairy rag man,
with your pointy nose, unlimbered leg & warts from Larry Hagman
who from the horse's mountable side snuck up like an airy stag ram
Don't take what little's left via state Santa Christmas merry bag ban
Let's dress like women in debt at the oldest Chuck Berry drag stand
My happiness is easily seen in blood-letting cirques as corpuscular
while my rippling backwards frontage is of a physique so muscular
that it is known by fat aunt Joan as socked-in and highly avuncular
Uncle Jesse James Tiberius Kirk Douglas MacArthur Park Overall
will stun you with ethics till spring stumbles into summer then fall
into 2014 stroke mode for the near-nonagenarian hag Lauren Bacall
who seldom took a dump without wearing her Bogie-knitted shawl
at K-Mart, Sears or the prettiest, cleanest, white-people-loving mall
where Ninjas practice Moslem prostration & the evangelistic crawl
spanning 12 lifetimes along the width weft-wise of a soft rock wall
where Sonny Bono tempted a political hit in horse-face Cher's stall,
as midgets beat the bejesus out of men who're 6-feet-something tall
exhibiting syndromic Parkinsonian tremors that deliver restive rest,
in vales, dells & knolls made greater by craters marking flood crest
Dwarves are closer to ground-in filth as the average giant can attest
making 1% of nothing seem more like freeing compounded interest
that dialyze the failing kidneys of flitty Obama's E.V.D. ebola guest
Let's not be hostile, malevolent, vindictive, vengeful, edgy & mean
over the fact in Bali brassieres are for keeping peanuts nice & clean
& because poverty forces negroes to use pigeon **** for Afro-Sheen
the sympathetic Balinese must dance in ritualistic limbo in between
butch hustlers & ****** in drag that for sober Johns is readily seen
especially when darkies scarf squirrel intestines like a ghetto queen
who lacks the get-off-food-stamps-and-find-a-job-to-pay-rent gene
or the smarts not to get knocked up 5 times while you're still a teen
The sun's setting for my ******* to vent her Black Panther spleen
as it's from the udder of masonic exploitation that a **** must wean
I'm a freak with words, I use phrases you've never heard.
Absurd it seems like a curse when I speak a viral lyrical verse.
It feels like a crime when the rhythm doesn't rhyme, but this is a time for change.
An exchange of my poetic range. Tell your neighbors there's stranger danger, the game's got a new player.
An old voice to a new generation, a new leader to an old federation.
Tell Hater nation to leave the station, cause I run this town from the stars to the ground.
When I speak you make no sound. You call me king, but I need no crown.
Already crowned from birth, royalty of the Earth.
Started off grimy, brushed the dirt off my shirt. Transported in my swagger like Tiberius Kurt.
I've got too much class after I turnt it up. Glass too full I need another cup.
Young pups got no bark and no bite. Best keep their distance cause they can't win this fight.
I'm out of their leagues and above their level. I could sell your souls cause I'm the real Devil.
So lick your wounds and get gone. Your pride can't ride when it gets close to dawn.
The song is finished, so let me get to the back and count my stacks like Popeye counts spinach.
- From Adaptations of an Imperfect Evolution
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2022
i've moved through several "mentors" in my life, i obviously started with someone like Milton, seriously, on poetic matters, i didn't start with Shakespeare for the sonnets, i found then too... too claustrophobic, rhyme in general is claustrophobic for me, it's such a lesser expression, i much prefer playing squash, squash over tennis, every single single, playing it... id est, obviously watching a tennis match is rather enjoyable, a bit like watching a magnolia tree bloom in spring, or any spring blossom when taking a walk at night: it's great watching it... but the practicality of playing tennis "goes missing" when you turn from spectator to player... let's face it... there's a football team's numbers' worth of aids... let me count.... dot dot dot: 6 ball girls / boys... an umpire... 6 vertical line judges... 4 horizontal line judges... what's that? **** me... more than a football team of assists... more like a rugby team... i started with this mentor... that soon passed... Bukowski... Will Alexander... i did a whole year of Ezra Pound and opera... why bemoan the trans-Atlantic slave trade?! any jazz... coming out of Africa... can you envision a world whereby music was explored as it was explored... by African-Americans (****** conjunctions, just the "retards", plough-labourers sold by their own tribesmen to instill a fervor for up-keeping their high status polygamy... mind you... no white girl can compete with this sort of Calypso... a Harley Dean... nope... not ever... car-nage)... can you? any new jazz coming out from Nigeria, or just the same, similar, ethnic *******? that's being overlooked... jazz was never ever to be born in Africa's *****... the antithesis of classical music... it required Africans to be forcibly moved to the "newly discovered" continent of America for jazz to be given birth... painful: like most original births are... but... we had the reconstruction of classical music through jazz which opened / paved he way for all the "other" / subsequent music genres... if i had any black fwends i'd tell them: **** it up... you don't realise what you gave us... compensation? for slavery?! oh sure sure... the Jews got their compensation payments for the Holocaust... and what did the Polacks get?! as, ahem... compensation? communism! we, "we": received diddly-squat! ******* and your "compensations": "reparations": ******* with your Marcus Garvey or otherwise: shut the **** up... this new born Christianity of the African continent is somehow sickening... no! i will not shut up... it is what it is! pranking supremos... grifters! spindlers! can you imagine? people have so little interest in music that they have to resort to talk-radio... they need to be talked to... and then they return: en masse... as a public decry of government policies being shuffled in shadow... beautiful world... a world so beautiful that it only requires one to **** a ******* to level the playing field... i keep myself intact: i focus on what's to be loved: first... id est: children and animals... that's it... it's not a sinking Titanic motto of women and children first... no... nothing's sinking: children and animals first... women... 4th... what's 3rd? male on male camaraderie... drunken men at public events tell me all the things women tend to "forget" to tell me: i do... although some... i have three tiers of women... the wedded ones, clearly bored... still doing: whatever... Lolitas and... prostitutes... obviously i champion the last of the three because the rest are too timid and by too timid i'm looking elsewhere... charm a totem... a fox... let a fox feast on your leftover food from dinner for a month: not a dog... but... maybe... either he was run-over or he figured out a "thought" of: well... isn't this weird... running drunk with deer... a harem of deer... that created a traffic conundrum... can i just be blunt? women aren't mysterious... they're just a ******* drag... drag... boo-ring... i watch married men pandering to their wives' demands and i'm thinking: not all fools are horses... some are just ******* donkeys... me? i tried... i failed... i tried i tried... i failed i failed... that's the beauty of rejection... there must be a chemical formula akin to adrenaline whereby you stomach rejection all the more easier... it's sort of on a whim... a: eh?... whatever... you start gluing your eyes on that Zeno paradox race between a turtle and a hare... or... reimagining... what if horses had to compete with camels... or... what if.... man tamed the bull and not the horse for battle?! hmm... the world is truly my oyster... but no... i don't do rhyme i don't do haikus... i think i'd find writing a haiku very: unsatisfactory... perhaps it's a relief to read... but writing one? no conversational overtones?! none of the blah-blah effect?! what?!

i never write from a source of "inspiration": forever the mu dane "rezoning" of me (N - ease honing: of reasoning)
i never write from a source of "inspiration",
reading the Latin classics taught me this one
"thing".... to never reiterate a square
of -ing                            -ed




    -ed                              -ing

first come the children, second the animals,
3rd the camaraderie, 4th, the women,
to un-stiffen: myself....
hell... if Walt Whitman could get away
celebrating himself... i guess i can too...
let's dance... facing the music...
to hell with tired old men writing poetry
once upon retired, salvaged.... "happy":
SAFE: yes... now is the ripe time...
the time to craft banknote meanings...
  whisper to the ******* wind!
i need myself in my youth:
in an element of brute!
      free! freed from ever having
ever stolen or murdered or otherwise...

children, animals, camaraderie, women....
a bit like women....
  Lolitas, wedded women...
prostitutes... the rest?! pass...
  seriously, pass... i rather be chasing deer
drunk in the night...
timid is not not mystifying...
timid is just boring...

  but in terms of language...
                the ancients knew a thing or two...
sure... they lived in a world governed by
geocentricism... but...
they could figure our minute patters in
physiognomy without making
a ******* science out of it!
of making an -ology: authorities on:
the reminder of the recluse super-intendant:
*******! seriously...
****-off...

if you were to give Atlas the weight of earth
by...
tectonic... shrapnel...
rather than the whole globular...

dead-weight... stones...
imagine carrying a dead-weight...
compared to... alive-weight...

same distinction between mass
and weight...
gravity... is dead? is dead? gravity prone?
***... imagine filling up a skip...
of stones...
then imagine...
  ******* a *******...

i have bruises on my arms
as if i were over-shooting too much ******...
goddess...
i peered at my shadow trying to
to unpeel it into nothing...
watching it... merge
with the shadow of trees: disappear...

i'm not a god... to hell with the Olympians:
i'm a TITAN!
i can see the pulsating blood in my protruding
veins as i liberate Sisyphus from
his slumbers... as i irritate:
wait a minute...
if the ancient Greeks deplored the Titans...
and invited the gods...
what did Christianity do...
if not make angels into saints?!

  i hate Christianity...
              it's a hatred with a passion that
leaves me... unable to find a girlfriend...
"unable"...
to hell with it... i can cook, i can clean,
i know how to iron shirts...
i do most of the d.i.y.
  and by then... the ones that are available are?
single mums... ****** is ******...
i'm not getting any replicas...
    so... so... as far as ancient customs go...
i'm not a Tiberius Caesar...
  ha ha... no no...
        fostering ******* is not on the menu...
although...
fostering... what's the equivalent of
a daughter born out of wedlock?

    me? i have a healthy mind... a keen mind...
that's what happens when you read Stendhal
and Marquis de Sade in your teens
and leave Ovid till your 30s?
******... "******"...
            i'm not investing in anything beside
an idea... a succulent thought...
something that's beyond a mere squeeze...

dość! enough!
      but no ść in Russian...
akin to šč
    i.e. szczypiorek - green onions...
chives even...
ever smell chives in bloom?!
bothersome addition of a "comma"
to the already defeated epsilon
  щ...
            or... strict woe woe Woe...

the most beautiful letter i ever came across?
Plato... Theaetetus... SO...
not in katakana... not in Hanguel...
in the near extinct Glagolitic Slavic scriptum:

M: Ⰿ
too many ******* vowels!
that's my reply?
the Germanic "question" regarding Slavic
languages employing "too many consonants!":
you people have been ****-hurt over
an Afghanistan-likeness inclusion
into the Roman Empire for for long
that all you get to say: too many consonants...
i say? i say?! you use too many vowels!

but i'm nice in person...
that's why i've decided to to this job...
i want to hone in on my crowd authority
"skills"...
**** knows... one day i might feel like
i want to perform!
i need good target practice!

i just woke up at 7am: the skip was supposed
to arrive between 7:30 and 9:30am...
i have "tattoos" on my arms from the dead-weight
i was lifting...
it's a bi different when you're making yourself
mandible during live-weight sessions of ***
with a "proxy"... *******...
i don't see the problem Jack the Ripper had a problem
with...
last time i checked?
prostitutes?! most hygienic creatures
there are... almost **** about it... like i'm
a **** about hygiene..
i seriously don't care who you sleep with but
at least i don't need to care about
having unprotected *** with one...
  because that's the best *** there is...
          and just imagine:
  when you can build-up such mutual trust with
a perfect stranger:
she judges your hygiene... and you judge her hygienic
standards: you meet on common ground...
an immediate trust bond ensues...
              it's oh so lovely than with some random
stranger picked up in a nightclub...
after all: she probably lives with flatmates
or still with her parents...
  and you still live with your parents because:
you're sort of good friends and the whole mother / father
son relationship is a bit post-modern...
but... well... the brothel is the middle ground...
you're not there to work in the garden
or cook dinners or do household chores...
  or read the Sunday newspaper...
  you're in a brothel to... basically do what
a butcher does in a butcher's shop...

long gone is the mentality of a Jack or
  for that matter Samuel Little...
                      why would i moralise women by way
of moralising them through: killing them?
at least these women... well... out of the... how many
i have slept with... only about 2 had a genuine
(nymphomaniac) love for the act...
    maybe 3... the rest were in the profession and still
hadn't managed to love the idea of ***
like the idea of *** was loved back in the 1960s...

i must have mentioned it once:
i'm not a gambling man...
but i am: when it comes to gambling with a ******...
it's more fun-tub-goochy-goo...
why take the thrill of life from life?!

she sends me a picture of herself behind
a driving wheel: no make-up...
she looks... hmm... as fresh as spring...
i send her a picture of blooming chives...
almost rosemary-like...
no... not rosemary... lavender... no!
quasi-fuschia!
most certainly fissile-like!
          that "rose" without the spines
of a mantis... the chives...
but most certainly the bishops' attire of bloom...
THISTLE! ****'s sake! THISTLE! THISTLE!
THISTLE THISTLE! THISTLE!
FA FA... FI FI... how many surds?!
fizz... isle... burg... doughnut... a load of *******!
did i, at least, get the spelling of fuschia right?!
chances are... no...
  
FUCHSIA...
                  bull riding... ****'s sake...

      but that's what it felt like: the inversion of rock climbing...
carrying these heaps of stones
from the garden into the skip...
    that's why i could never go back to the gym
and pump iron...
                    swimming, tick...
bicycle riding, tick...
    maybe i should revisit my former past-time
and hit a climbing wall in Hackney...
      
  but *** is also great exercise... between than doing
stomach crunches...
    only today i was coming back from a shift at Wembley...
late... late... just came in at 2am...
i was thinking of stopping over to see Khedra...
but then...
  oh you know... if it isn't some ancient perverted
evil of being stimulated by ******* as you groom
your female cat and she sticks her **** up
as you brush her... which wakes up a desire for a woman's
body by way of recoiling to the idea of *******...
then it's... the newly discovered "fetish" for south American
women... Argentinian women: milk-cows...
i don't think i've seen so many well-endowed women
in one evening...

  but... hmm... i can't go in for the act without untrimmed
***** fair... plus... i needed to see my Turkish barber:
yesterday...
  it will have to wait...
  plus pay-day today...
    finally! i've returned my my mental safety-net
of having the minimum £3000 in my now two bank accounts...

sometimes i walk up to a cash machine and people
print their statements and forget to take them...
my £3000 in "savings": they're not savings...
i just like to have this amount of money on the ready...
but other people?
my god... they really are living from pay-check
to pay-check... i don't think i've ever seen a statement
that read: £500+ on the account...
it's usually in the range of £10 to £200...

      on a daily basis this life is somehow worth living:
i'm being reminded of my literary diet...
it's good that i read Marquis de Sade as a teenager
and that only now i'm rediscovering Ovid...
  i think the reverse would have been...
very... very... grotesque.
Qualyxian Quest Aug 2022
Shuttle 37
James Tiberius Kirk
JJ Abrams
In scifi the Sacred hides

Once I was a teacher
Now I do not work
Tel Aviv was blue
Quaint was Malahide

When I was a child
Mr. Spock kite
Live long and prosper
California: Oceanside

Just coincidence
Maybe apophenia
Maybe a little hope
Maybe Starfleet ride

        maybe inside
Qualyxian Quest Dec 2022
Dark obsessions
Yeah, I got some of those
And so it goes
And so it goes

Is God partially evil?
I mean
The terror in life
Does it also come from Her?

53 and falling
Memories
Asia
But sometimes it's all a blur

Women are more interesting
Johnny Cash Walked the Line
Yo tengo dos hermanos
San Antonio next time

       James Tiberius Kirk
              (Chris Pine)
Qualyxian Quest Feb 2023
Away from the Universities
But I write some of the professors
He says literature is what gets taught
Yes, I'd like to undress her

Coached basketball in Tahoe
Drove the mountain bus
Lights go out. Someone shouts.
Just the 3 of us

James Tiberius Kirk
A man of intuition
A man who boldly goes
Father Greeley had ambition

I am mostly shy
The limelight I find scary
This little town and I
Asian eyes Mother Mary

         37 Irish Fairies
Qualyxian Quest Feb 2023
Catholic, but not orthodox
But Catholic nevertheless
She walks through the kitchen
Undoes her party dress

I can feel Death bearing down
Pins me, spins my mind
James Tiberius Kirk
Bangkok Buddhafind

My fantasies are female
My experience is pain
Florida in sunlight
Me in Purple Rain

I keep on, keep on writing
Not really sure why
In my solitude
In his Life of Pi

    Exoplanet Sky
Qualyxian Quest Dec 2022
The principal characteristic of American life
Loneliness.
Solitude.

I wrote
Revealed my revelries.
But now I do not intrude.

Dark clouds, orange sky tonight
Maryland horse farms

Mr. David Markson
New York alone alarms

James Tiberius Kirk
Iowa. Star Fleet.

Leonard Nimoy leaves us
I love that final tweet

          The Gardener
Qualyxian Quest Jan 2023
So America began in genocide
And proceeds in hate on hate
I play a little basketball
Remember little Siena

Wedding in Tel Aviv
Danced with Lee Tal's cousins
Drive back to Jerusalem
Flight to Vienna

American schools kinda ****
Condoleeza Rice destroyed Iraq
James Tiberius Kirk
Starship Enterprise

Only been to LA once
Avatar 2 kinda ******
Then you feel the Stranger
Kick you right between the eyes

                 George W. Lies

— The End —