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Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
When I enter,
the black holes of myself,
they are located,
transcribed upon the
blackboards of our
unified bodies,
the magnification of energy
transversed,
principles demonstrated
by the unconcluding
conclusion of the expansion of
creation,
the rebirthing of one universe
never ending

When I enter a woman,
the discovery sought,
the definitional needed,
the proofs equational,
the factors constant,
not the variable
truths,
the demonstrations positive,
the constants of the universe,
combinational, all within,
a single point glistening

to gentle comfort this
knowledge of my wasting,
the foresight of my limitations
from the day of birth
my matter,
matters,
my energy
neither destroyed or created,
illimitable,
my decline inevitable

and yet

cannot alter my atomic structure.
my future guaranteed,
my inner light,
traveling so fast,

it has yet

to arrive

When I enter a woman,
the laws of physics
become special theories
of relativity,
we are motion in time,
force and energy
nucleotides rawest refined,
elemental and particle nuclear,
packets of light
exclaimed

When I enter a woman,
organic, chemistry,
interdisciplinary
my body and its life force
shaped as
electric current transceivers
crossing galaxies,
there can be no deceivers,
there but and only
the birthing of heat,
a byproduct of
interjection, conjunction

she is my proof
long after the
log normal of my nerves,
now parceled to the
invisible of an oscillating
log natural,
fertilizes the sea grasses
that so intoxicate,
flying, carried,
by the invisiblity of the winds,
all-where I have chosen
as my shifting shape,
when this container
leaks and crack'd,
rentery orbit,
the nearest garbage strewn
construction-dead
lot

When I enter a woman,
physics far beyond
the commonplace,
physical transition
to knowledge
of life ever after

death and fear are
time sensitized
passing notions,
crushed by the
consolation of physics,
the eternality
of a time
once begun,
cannot end,
and therefore
this,
my one theory of everything,
is the God
I worship
The phrase "the consolation of physics" was taken from a novel,
City of Thieves by David Benioff. The other nonsense is all my fault.
11/23/14 8:30am

for my blonde Big Bang theorist
Blue Orchid Aug 2018
We had a color you and I.
You were a tantalizing white, vibrant yet subtle. You had the power to magnify everything because of that silent manifestation you comprise when a drop of any other shade was splattered on you, making it incredibly vivid. You were what poets used as muse for there was nothing purer than the flawless white of that glorious spirit yet you were neither dumbfounded nor disappointed by it.


I was a disaster-prone black, ill-fated yet beautiful. I made the light seem brighter, more picturesque; a comparison for better accomplishment. I came out at night to walk the terrors of the hours of darkness, untouched because of this gloomy soul. I was what the holly book prohibits to touch, to indulge all sensations because to drink from me was to imbibe a gallon of sin.


Sadly, beauty and unpleasant have a curious way of finding each other. I don’t remember which of us found the other first; if it was I who saw you shine from miles away or if it was you who found me huddled in a corner.


We were gods you and I. we created a love that transversed worlds. We shamed Orpheus and Eurydice. We disgraced Torin and Keelycael. There was nothing more powerful than the passion we twisted and at the same time nothing was more potent. We came from different places, you from the havens and I from the shallow depths of hell; and everything we made became a freak of nature.   


 We created the color gray.


We created the color gray from our undefeated essences. We made an unremarkable and unloved color from our insurmountable selves for the reason that we were too prideful to give up each other and at the same time ourselves. We made an abhorred thing because we were never meant for each other.


I realized when I saw you walk away, that last dreadful night, the white in you was somewhat fazed and I looked in the mirror that same night to see the darkness in me leaking. There was a little bit of gray in both of us. That was when I realized we stole pieces of each other.


Yes, my love, we made a color gray.
Sam Hawkins Jan 2016
something stirred and alive came forth
out of my own heart it spoke
    
      all creation is of equalities
      sister brother relations
      here is truth


not to let it pass untested
i made an agreement
with belief

     blade of summer grass
     teach me

     dust speck
     gold starshine

     water droplet
     prisms
    
     fortuitous spider
     i hear your messages


spider moved in her sun-sparkled circle
she threw me spider kisses

but when i gave her kisses back
some voice came booming

     humanity is the golden crown
     of god's achievement


and the spirit of these words then took flight,
transversed my landscape,
crossed an ocean's width of time

and dropped under the waves
with the natural weight
its distorted truth

practices of superiority
of *******, of killing exploitation
rose from the collective--
flashed their white lightening

but struck counter--
diluting dissolving disarming

greediness and favoritism
manipulation and lies

expectation of privilege
so called divine right

a voice it came again
so that greater love
may have heard itself

    all creation is conscious
     all is alive all are equal

    
     none is better or worse
      than another


      remember this
       
       *to practice
island poet Apr 2018
~for Verlie Burroughs, a ‘fellow’ islander poet with a sense of human humor~

walking the reservoir on a warm spring day,
Central Park littered with tourists and pale face,
fellow islanders, all of non-Algonquin Indian descent

released from Rikers Island (of course) Prison,
six month sentence served
behind bars of winter grayscale skies
and snowy steel and grey prison everything

an out-of-townsfolk young lady passes me in a pink t-shirt,
where humans these lazy days declare their entire philosophy,
“I’d rather live on an island”
and thus a poem commissioned

well, rather brought forth from the chilled, deep waters surrounding the brain where winter vegetables rooted but cannot  surface,
the iced ground frozen impermitting bodies to be buried,
no war and death monument foundations to be poured,
flower-powered poems unable to pierce as well,
even with the upwards ****** of cesarean birth
and or, one last push and me begging
breathe
winter strangled

but I walked today
the Central Park reservoir and
all I got was that stupid t-shirt provocation
with
tulips and daffodils, dogwood and magnolias, and
cherry blossoms confirming,
it’s okay today to write of
islands and shoreline once more,
of
boundaries now and again

though the idea had prior brief transversed
the thought canal, was struck into action
when realized suddenly a dawning -

a l l  m y  l i f e,  I  h a v e  l i v e d  o n  a n  i s l a n d

counting backwards seven decades with a
collegial exception, of living by a great lake,
which is but an island in reverse,
poet *** prophet had to always walk on water to get home

<•>

my poems are travelogues,
not pretty words and tonguing talk,
sorry not,
more tales than wagging tongue wordy tails

but dumbstruck by the ocean notion that I live by the
grace of an Ocean that waits patiently to reclaim my island,
stealing my unborn poem children and
tried with a Sandy haired girl a few years ago

hurry home to scribe, and imbibe,
write upon its streetscape
with colored chalk and
upon it once more,
the concrete paths and
a reservoir dirt path surrounding and shorelines
that are all the shaping of me

all my life, and Neverland realized
I am a seagull disguised as human
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
i'm a poet, i don't see language in linear fashion as a plumber or an electrician might, or as circular as a lawyer spinning lies might... for poets language is multidimensional... and, counter-intuitively... disposable.*

in the language of phenomenology
the kantian concept of the noumenon
is just translated:
an exception -
and there is not article attributes
to suggest whether the stressor
can qualify as definite or indefinite,
since the quantification value is 1,
while the qualification value is 0,
meaning that the phenomenon of, say,
a heart attack, with the phenomenon
allowing 3 years more to live,
while the noumenon allowing ~8 - ~18
years to live is un-quantifiable,
since it's an exception,
and can only be un-qualifiable
to stress its parameters if it's left
un-inspected by the noumenon-itself.
i can't stress it simpler, nor can you;
as with regards to to the commonplace
problem of existential identification
with concepts such as god, john smith
b. 1974 living on mayfield st. for the past
twenty years, married with 2 children...
using such edenic nakedness as are the pronouns,
then returning from this realm of nakedness
into attire of concepts in cognitive signifiers
used elsewhere for prayer and divination,
what are you so naked among the cardinals' clothing?
a wriggly worm, if anything?
we have inherited a nakedness with the nakedness
of pronoun usage to avoid theological association
specifically, to remain human,
to remain as john smith etc., and not thirst
for such entities beyond the invisible realm
of sub-atomic particularisation - refreshed
by the fact the we can ***** the einstein bubble
where time and space huddle hug and play the harp
in a parallelism of the dipped-in...
we can suddenly hear newtonian causality
of the atom bomb... of the internal combustion engine
and the "sparing" use of fossil skeletons
derived from hawaiian postcards and pavlov of the eyes
that ingest jealousy to salivated rather than hunger...
we can see newtonian physics provide us
cause & effect... but in the einstein muddle
we go on... living our perpetually-seeming lives
to the extent of a debt unpaid...
seeing is believing the old maxims shushes
when others are muttered in retreat
from the arena of rhetoric where the greatest actors
engage a sizeable inversion of parameters
in terms of mechanics and activity...
oh there... there they have it...
the western hinterlands who took pride
in teaching children of the greatness of nations
being built upon the remnants of butchering
social / civil engagements... and having no
other foreign power engage with their
disorientation... now... the great nations... now...
suddenly... trying to invoke a foreign civil code
into a nation that lost its civil practices?
will an english butcher say to a syrian baker
that the syrian tailor is prizing his body for bounty?
no, because an english politician will do that for him,
the english butcher will be a pop-art colour splash
against the pavement...
civil society of syria is not dependent on
english civility... and no english politician
can provide the syrians their former civility
between trades to make society coherent again...
only the syrian neighbour with a syrian neighbour can...
no politician knocked on my door in my life...
i don't even know what a politician looks like
or sounds like...
a civil war can only be solved by civil means...
not by foreign intervention...
it is about civilians becoming civil once more...
foreign investors will never crack the stalin code
available to the civilians, there, waiting...
to re-engage with society once more...
with civilising with providing art...
we don't need bombs and foreign soldiers in syria...
we need art... seeing how all the foreign neglige additions
of the final solutions in terms of postponed paranoia /
para-phobia / the spider just transversed the ceiling
doing a moonwalk - care for old ruinous buildings
that define the meaning of museum.
if i'm being honest... i rather see the worst... than fear the worst.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
11:00 PM July 7th 2011
Outside Delacorte Theater,
Home of Shakespeare in the Park
Central Park, New York
~~
What wretched wags
we have become,
sold rhyme and couplet
into slavery and meter sacrificed,
upon the altar of expediency.

LOL and BRB, the hallmarks
of our
insincerity,
forgetting that civility
is resurrected when
we employ the poetry of speech
in our plain and
simple communiques,
most especially in the simple,
please let beauty hold sway.

Brutalize our tongues,
thus our lives,
compression of our language
into single words that celebrate
the mundane, as fashionable.

yeah, yeah, yeah...

Our speech, its fragrance lost,
sublimates but does not sublime,
one liners demean our humanity,  
grunts of yeah and cool,
are awesome not,
our future hope is in
the details of our expression,
whereby we inject
into our verbal demeanor
a grace that sets human
above the existence animal.

So touch this screen and
let us begin,
to take our measure
by our measure
of the care we demonstrate
when we communicate.

These words have transversed
from weekday to weekday,
soon at morning prayers
to the gods inside of me,
David's hymns and poems
I'll recite,
a slow eloquence will infuse
my hallelujah eyesight.

Plain truths will be spoke,
in rhyme with
diction apace,
transfuse my soul
elevate us
severally and jointly
above the confused noises of
the prison of nondescript lives,
leaving me a believer that
all's well that begins well.
Digging out the old ones, when all I got is perspiration sans inspiration. See new companion piece, an ordinary word...
Good Morn New Delhi,
Good afternoon, Auckland!
Poetoftheway Nov 2017
"looking at the future of your creation...
when creation is the art of being in the moment"

~program notes from the Grand Finale, a dance by Hofesh Schecter, choreographer, composer~

<•>

as one who makes their living, affirms their existence,
by staring at the blue-white screen,
a blank black backdrop, an empty stage,
a blue lined spiral-notebook, stationary store fresh

thinking only of the inky black commandment of
what next -

a contradiction comprehended with perfect understanding,
for the composition unborn unimagined yet
shaping, chafing, child birthing, will be seeded thru
many tiny moments of webbed connected secretions,
imaging the whole, yet the future arrives serialized as drops,
slow and singular, additive and adhering, even addicting

throw them all up to the ceiling tableau,
a letter, a note, a visionary imagery
of many dancers bodies
in photo time-lapse time captured

what sticks, what returns, the returns
needy of refurbishment, a fresh dice throw,
the retrofitting of a new combination moment

thus the future forms, the wet moments fill the crystal glass,
spilling over, spilling out from within, when all spent,
all the next moments are silent, water stilling,
le futur est arrivé,
but the individuals that are its construct,
wave friendly to you, asking do you remember me,
tenderly, parentally, I concede to each their birthright,
how they transversed from the past,
presented into the future, only to arrive in
the here and now,

as a present to us all

11/11/17 8:55am
Tark Wain Nov 2016
I wonder about the rain
A good deal more than any sane person should

The way it falls
the inevitably of it
down
down
down
and then
crash
And just like that
It's as if it never existed

What if we're all just raindrops
falling for what mistakably
seems like forever
and then
boom
nothing
the only thing left
being the size of our splash

Memories become
molecules we happen pick up along the way

It must be hard
when you're falling
to think of anything but the ground
who cares about where you fell from
or the places you've transversed
when the only thing in front
is solid asphalt

What I'm saying is
What if we're just raindrops
inevitably falling
and if that's a fact that will never change
what good does it do
to overthink
to stress
to doubt yourself

When in the end
we're all just a splash on the pavement
Tark Wain Aug 2016
I wonder about the rain
A good deal more than any sane person should

The way it falls
the inevitably of it
down
down
down
and then
crash
And just like that
It's as if it never existed

What if we're all just raindrops
falling for what mistakably
seems like forever
and then
boom
nothing
the only thing left
being the size of our splash

Memories become
molecules we happen pick up along the way

It must be hard
when you're falling
to think of anything but the ground
who cares about where you fell from
or the places you've transversed
when the only thing in front
is solid asphalt

What I'm saying is
What if we're just raindrops
inevitably falling
and if that's a fact that will never change
what good does it do
to overthink
to stress
to doubt yourself

When in the end
we're all just a splash on the pavement
Pauline Morris May 2016
I see your heart, it's frozen ground
This is where others turn around
I guess, I like the punishment
After all I'm more than bent
So I transversed your deep icy caverns
Searching for a piece of coal that still burns
I thought my wicked flame would transform your heart
Well that's what I thought, at the start
Only to find my love was blind
You my dear were so unkind
Make my heart spin, to watch it unwind
In my face, I refuse to see the signs
My once warm glowing heart of red
Was being starved, it was never feed
You grinned at me and said
"Now we can play the game"
"Now we are one in the same"
"Now our love can start"
He had given me an icicle heart
LJ Jun 2016
On this block of the concrete floor
where footsteps pounds
the whispers sounds
What happened my love?

On the book I was writing
I touched your face
your hands cyanosed
Why lose the breath for me?

It was all inside the letters we wrote
scripted hulls of hope
where your breath raced
What happened to your love for me?

In the poetry you crafted
the words worth more than life
where we cried and laughed
What tripped my invisible one?

Within the dreams that we transversed
in the woods where we made love
all the things we never ever said
Will you ever call me?

I stood outside in the rain
The sun dried me in vain
My cracks scorched  
As I trembled uncontrollably
I knelt at the foot of the mountain
I made it all fade away
I cried my well of tears
I locked those sentiments
The wind blew me in sails
My beauty withered in silts
My crevices were salty
I lost the will to fight for you
The silence you bashed me with
Left and right, top to bottom
Even I, could not beat it out
Open the frozen log in your core
The store of lies and truths you hold
I stretched my hand but it was cold for you
I showed you my strength but it was too bold
My skin was too old for your palms
It was a ***** black crescent for a while
A foul scent that formed my aura
I had to shake it and make it go far away
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
***, is such a minor pass, on exfoliating expressions of pleasure, it's overrated, because it invokes such a bias, of bragging... its saturation with bragging hierarchies...

let's just assume, that working out pop music
favoritism, is less, "debilitating" than
attracting the attention of the ultra-******
squad of full bodied latex apocalypse ****
junkies...

           clearly... no one wants a hide & seek
pregnancy errant of succumbing to
the stature of fatherhood, when, the woman
you're involved...
can't tell you the difference between
her mother as her sister,
and her grandmother, as her mother...

oops?!

         but ***-bragging is such a shallow
form of entertainment...
            it's like the antithesis of
the Olympic spirit, with modern mob sports...
jargon this, jargon that...
counter: i am in favor of cult-status horror
movies, minor projects,
low budget... hellraiser -
notably for the atmospheric semi-religious
music strategies... auras...

        but atmospheric horror movies?
no ghouls, no goblins,
akin to that famous case of
marcin wrona hanging himself
having directed a movie about
a dýbbūk?
                    can you seriously contend
with reinventing comedy via
black comedy, dry comedy,
when the horror movie genre has moved
into the atmospheric partake of
reinvention - having
exhausted all the stereotypes,
and given them, a romantic twist?
      
*** bragging is such a minor pleasure...
  eloquence... tenacity...
    supposition: an entire banquet
of countering false allegations...
      all, much more, than mere ***...
           burning, the flesh,
rather than cutting it,
in the insistence of teenage girls...
ancient Roman bulimia rites
      of the transversed
                  state of young adulthood...

so neglecting...
   giving these girls the power of
****** sycophancy, shedding blood...
cutting, slitting, imitating the ***** slit...
never even teaching them,
about heating up a scissor hand,
burning themselves,
and cannibalizing their pain...
           turning it into
a cognitive strength...
              
  the horror genre has moved
into an atmospheric countenance...
comedy? lacking...
can't even find a redeeming aspect of
slapstick...
          where once was black humor...
western comedy,
never, ever, entertained
the concept of, a, cabaret...
it's too entrenched in
   monologist style comic entertainment...

which reads very much
like a slogan akin to:

SAVE THE AUTISTIC CHILDREN!

the bragging will stop,
the ******* embers of sheiks will drop
and drool...
     and ***...
    for whatever it was worth...
    will receive its relegating boot
from mainstream jealousy
          shackling, at the shuffling
ankles;
   mary ******* poppins...
  schim schim schim-n-é...
schim... mmm...
                    whatever...
                        out of all the movie genres?
horror...
         is the most nostalgic,
most melodic,
   of a classical schooling -
         ssss chewing, chart cheap:  
isch contra ich vilderswill...
          double U?  but not double V?
            eh...
                    secondary credit to fantasy
movies...
       j. r. r. tolkien...
would have never believed that
the story didn't make the compelling case...
nor the visual effects...
   but the music? sure as **** did.
JG O'Connor Jul 2017
I stayed up with Cobh,
As the hopeful lovemakers,
Transversed the taxi pick up point.
Couples waiting,
Beneath the magna lights,
Glued together like flying ants.
The dripping water of fishman's pier,
Lends a beat,
While at 3am the taxi rank decends,  
To the loud benediction,
Of "Tantum ergo Sacramentum".
Like a mirrowed engagement of dead souls,
The repeated dance of weekend love.
As if a Friday,Saturday or Sunday,
Were the exclusive days of love,
And once again be overcome with the street light lustre,
As they wait for a lift home.
TANTUM ergo Sacramentum So the only mystery
believe
that you can surely shuffle your miserable untested
vocabulary into never been heard before combo’s,

believe
your insights have never transversed in my blood stream,
a poem unheard, yours, a transfusion of not-my-blood type

believe
you are special in life, in love, in pain, in sad madness,
only you can feel primarily and primitive, all of us, tertiary

does the optimist mock you?

most certainly not.

achieve
poems are allusions, born each time, first time, summary illustrations
of eyes, mouth, all your sensations together, make a messy birth canal

achieve
your first is our first as well, make the risk-taken a celebration,
newness is a gift unique, bond us to your children issue nouvelle

achieve
with insolence of the blind beggar, a teasing teaspoon of outrageous
good fortune, a fist hammering breakthroughs of pain and glory


N.B.
my words have been tasted by thousands of thousands,
a fleeting glory that is instantly lost to the crumbling
dissatisfaction that all that your needs, your findings, solutions,
the breaking of the chains of your boundaries, drawn by imposition,
the fragility of the lines that contour your image, make you nothing, are nothing more than just another poet which is the most,

most glorious honor one can proudly bestow upon oneself
No. 5
dean evans Jan 2015
In dreams I think about this life, and my place upon this Earth
The most part being heart and mind, and soul for what it’s worth
The cosmos stretches far above, although my eyes can see
These thoughts that haunt my mind at times extend out…
endlessly.

Mentation turns to destiny to what the future holds
And back again to legacy, and the gifts I feel I must bestow
Upon those left behind me, to instill within their minds
When finally the Universe and I are gently intertwined

To think that I may one day see my spirit thus transversed
Against the awesome paradise where God and I, softly converse
To witness what this life has shown, that now is torn apart
Beguile anguished felicity, and so appease my tattered heart.

Although my hope remains suspect, that somehow hopeless dies
Far too many questions, too few answers to where comfort lies
Though I suppose simplicity awaits the ones who grieve
Patiently anticipating those who seek to so believe.

It seems I have no hope of prolonged years in soft repose
My eyes must blink you see... but I have seen, and I suppose
That time is just a cruel mirage shimmering, as light
Then pulls away and so reveals the truth of things, there…
In the night.

But still I dream about this life, and what awaits us all
When time and understanding finds us lost, what will we recall?
About these moments spent together, so informally
Listen… to the sound,
and the Whispers of Eternity.

Dean Evans
6-28-14
John Prophet Dec 2016
and will on many more.
Each have proven unique, with many lessons to learn.
I’ve traveled far but have farther still to go.
The road is long and tiresome, with many falling and failing to finish the task.
Failing in any world is not what kicks you off the path, it’s failing to learn the lesson taught that kicks you off the path. Falling off the path lands one in oblivion with nowhere else to go.
The road to everlasting tranquility is a long and tortuous path, not
meant to be easily attained. One world is not enough for every lasting tranquility. Many must be successfully transversed with their lessons learned to attain everlasting peace and tranquility.

The ones who come to the end of the path are the ones who’ve attained ultimate wisdom and enter into everlasting peace.
SassyJ Jul 2020
Is it possible that I could feel your presence?
after transitional transversed  mishaps
unfortunate twinklets of wasted stars
watered to wither in the dying greenery

Is it possible you are a hand width away?
just the other day on the promenade
watching the sails of the ships change course
tacking to that bountiful paradise of ours

Is it possible that we are counting mere days?
the indescribable pulsating of mere aliveness
running as the night draws into darkness
where whispers are above our withins
Time is not the enemy,
but a forgotten friend.

Infinity is just a word from where I stand.

Go ahead, time,
swallow me again.

Your wrath is something I can stand,
though your indifference is exhilarating,
so let's make amends.

Whether I wish it or not,
I am part of your cycle.
As the day and night change
they remind me of my constant revival.

I always rise
when the tides of change are near.
I do my deed,
I grind the gears,
I bring about chaos and, again,
I disappear.

Use me as you have in eons past.
But, please,
assure me this time will be the last.

It's not that I'm tired,
it's not that I'm worn,
I just want to know that I am born
for something more.

Maybe I want to explore,
not just be an object of admiration or scorn.
Maybe I just don't want to forget,
as when the world's needs are met,
I usually return to the chaotic primordial set.

Am I just a chess piece you use,
is this of my own will?
I've been the beggar,
the king,
the jester
and the shill.
I've been a source of fear,
the precedent of love,
a conniving thrill.

I've forsaken my odds,
I've played with your so called gods,
I've brought droughts and floods
and nights oh so dark.
It's been so,
and now at the end of this age,
again I shall start.

I've lived your countless archetypes,
I've been both,
the bringer of death and of life.
Now, I'll combine all the dualities of the mind,
let the day and night intertwine in my eye.

I've transferred the whispers of the heavens to the earth,
I've transversed the worst,
I've applauded those of worth.

I've guided the weary and inspired the brave.
I've flown above the mountains of Hyperborea,
and I've been in exile,
forced to hide in ancient, primitive caves.

I've endured,
yet I've remained sane.
I've procured change,
yet I've remained the same.

I never caved,
I never swayed.
I've been played,
but those I've played with
never did have their way.

You know how many I've saved.
You know how many I've killed and maimed.

So, please, listen to my voice,
let it reach your throne of gray.

This time,
Time,
I want to stay,
long enough so I can find my true face.
Long enough to be displaced,
and diversify my fire
until it cannot be traced.
Dr Peter Lim Mar 2019
But sorrow
is a strange country
never transversed before
and the traveller hardly
does its terrain know
there's no road-sign
the way to show
as rough winds
indifferently blow--

the sojourner
though weary and confused
must abide on his own
unsure which way to go
ere the dusk were soon
to cast its long shadow-

here time seems
to stop its flow
the heart struggles
in vain--will there be
a tomorrow?

silence
the deepest silence
broods all over-

what lies ahead
the worn-out soul
would not know!
You are the miracle of the only shining light in my life,
it was the start of my universe.

Your love gave me the creation of life everywhere around me,
because now I see what hurts.

I acknowledge the pain,
through you that's wh systemat I gained,
the black hole no longer lurks,
I am now sane.

The cloudiness of my fears and grief swirled for years,
you pulled it together and we transversed.

Our pulling gravity of love formed the perfect star,
our solar system became biodiverse.

As the planets grew and the rings of ambition grew,
it became a beauty that looked rehearsed.

All in perfect harmony, all done wordlessly,
I'll let you fill in this final verse.
John Prophet Jun 2021
Eternity’s pool.
Peering into
probability.
Seeing
all that
could
be, and
have been.
Options,
paths
as far as
the minds
eye can
see.
Existences
reflections
staring
back at
me.
What is
and what
could have
been.
All
iterations
minds eye
can see.
The whys,
the how’s,
and the
could
have beens.
Choices made,
paths
transversed
and not.
Wonders
and regrets
submerged
just below.
Infinite
me’s
staring
back at
me.
Looking
away
dizzying the
experience
be.
Wonders
galore.
Ideas
abound.
Soon,
back around
I’ll gaze and
write
some more.
John Prophet Oct 2019
Words,
packets of
thought.
Bullets
of meaning.
From mind
to mind
transversed.
Greatest invention.
Without, others
never
to be.
Words
as weapons,
power to
lie, destroy.
Words
as medicine,
power to
heal, comfort.
Words
as art,
power to
engage, captivate.
Words,
power to
mislead,
manipulate,
control.
Vigilant,
always vigilant
with the
power of
words.
Babatunde Raimi Feb 2020
I have transversed the most beautiful mountains
Across the hills and the valleys
Solely accompanied by nature
The whistling breeze
And the gushing Rivers

In my sojourn
I met beautiful beasts
Devouring me became their delight
Painting in my blood their fantasy
They toiled and tried
But grace found me

They wanted my sun set at noonday
With a blazzing sword
Shinning in the hands of a Master Goldsmith
Carefully crafted for vengeance
The Master smoth them all
Like thin air they vaporized

Why me, I asked
Why should anyone care
Even in my unfaithfullness
Then i heard that still small voice
Right in the middle of my travails
Your transgressions I have blotted
"I will walk with you"

Again, my mountains became stunning
My crooked path straight
My future breath-taking
Suddenly, i saw hope
In the midst of abandonement
Because my case is different
And it's my new dawn
Dr Peter Lim Aug 2020
I will not
be weighed down-
nothing in life
is too heavy to bear
the then and now
is everyone's thoroughfare
each step leads
to the  beyond
the time of somewhere

the heart might be shaken
but there's no room for despair

no harness is called for
the will shall not be broken
whether the self is here or there

for man is larger
than circumstance
on the grimsome face of fate
he's unafraid to stare

endless it does seem
Via Dolorosa but somehow
its secrets courage will bare

when the darkest of hours
have been transversed
victory shouts and belongs
to those who dare!

— The End —