-Ben- Feb 2015
oh dear,
i have to say:
don't look like digging a grave
smile a while for a trial
or if you want to be safe
for the whole day
Even the bravest that are slain
  Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
  Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the sword
  Wide fields of asphodel fore’er,
To find that the utmost reward
  Of daring should be still to dare.

The light of heaven falls whole and white
  And is not shattered into dyes,
The light forever is morning light;
  The hills are verdured pasture-wise;
The angle hosts with freshness go,
  And seek with laughter what to brave;—
And binding all is the hushed snow
  Of the far-distant breaking wave.

And from a cliff-top is proclaimed
  The gathering of the souls for birth,
The trial by existence named,
  The obscuration upon earth.
And the slant spirits trooping by
  In streams and cross- and counter-streams
Can but give ear to that sweet cry
  For its suggestion of what dreams!

And the more loitering are turned
  To view once more the sacrifice
Of those who for some good discerned
  Will gladly give up paradise.
And a white shimmering concourse rolls
  Toward the throne to witness there
The speeding of devoted souls
  Which God makes his especial care.

And none are taken but who will,
  Having first heard the life read out
That opens earthward, good and ill,
  Beyond the shadow of a doubt;
And very beautifully God limns,
  And tenderly, life’s little dream,
But naught extenuates or dims,
  Setting the thing that is supreme.

Nor is there wanting in the press
  Some spirit to stand simply forth,
Heroic in it nakedness,
  Against the uttermost of earth.
The tale of earth’s unhonored things
  Sounds nobler there than ’neath the sun;
And the mind whirls and the heart sings,
  And a shout greets the daring one.

But always God speaks at the end:
  ‘One thought in agony of strife
The bravest would have by for friend,
  The memory that he chose the life;
But the pure fate to which you go
  Admits no memory of choice,
Or the woe were not earthly woe
  To which you give the assenting voice.’

And so the choice must be again,
  But the last choice is still the same;
And the awe passes wonder then,
  And a hush falls for all acclaim.
And God has taken a flower of gold
  And broken it, and used therefrom
The mystic link to bind and hold
  Spirit to matter till death come.

’Tis of the essence of life here,
  Though we choose greatly, still to lack
The lasting memory at all clear,
  That life has for us on the wrack
Nothing but what we somehow chose;
  Thus are we wholly stipped of pride
In the pain that has but one close,
  Bearing it crushed and mystified.
To discover human remains
Cinched to the rafters
he leapt off
Adorned in the noose
a morbid necklace
Inner turmoil no more to live

A note deserted in drunken scrawl
In shreds
those left behind
Fatherless innocents
inquire why
No rationalization
for a senseless deed

Aching at the formalities
Enduring our shared existence
Bye is the lifetime
that remains in the past
Dried up are all the tears
Angst with respect to an echo
Horror lays imprinted on my mind
Forever gone
Jami Samson Oct 2013
Shopping outfashioned hunting and gathering,
Processed beats fresh,
Groceries replaced fruit trees,
Malls superceded forests,
Churches outnumbered temples,
Countries dissolved to territories,
Places devolved to areas,
Paths broke down into highways,
Commodity converted to currency,
Laborers submit to machinery,
Masters engage in humbug,
Apprentices reduced to students,
Knowledge downgraded to education,
And education is deducted to a show of grades,
While schools are the stages,
And the corporate world is the bigger runway,
With work slumped to employment,
Wisdom demoted to profession,
Where in jobs are the only future,
Careers are the only success,
Clicking and pressing buttons are skills,
Computers are correspondent to brains,
Information refers to news reports,
Intelligence means up-to-dateness,
Browsing is preferable to reading,
Studying is in demand more than learning,
Viewing things flashed on screens yields awareness,
Transportation is to traveling,
As buying is to the three basic needs,
And needs embody worldly possessions,
Worldly possessions define happiness,
Happiness is due to selfishness,
Selfishness is traced to the lack of love,
The lack of love draws from the lack of faith,
Because faith stands for religion,
And religion stands for membership,
Where politicians are the gods,
Celebrities are the preachers,
And the preachers are the enemies,
While networking is equal to friendship,
And connection equates to communication,
Experiences require photos,
Memories necessitate uploading,
Souvenirs can be downloaded,
Smartphones are substitute to pets,
Gadgets are toys,
Holding controllers is playing,
Watching TV is exploring the great outdoors,
Internet is recreation,
And technology is a way of life;
While humans are scientists,
Nature is a guinea pig,
And the earth is a laboratory,
Where prices are misidentified for worth,
Processes are miscalculated as progress,
Impoverishment is confused with improvement,
And getting more is mistaken as getting better;
And then we wonder why
Homes have become houses,
Family members have become boarders,
Nations are separate species
Composed of tired and hungry citizens,
Children are monsters
Who are biochemically rascals,
Teenagers are zombies
Whose adventures lead to delinquency,
Adults are robots
Who just clang when touched,
And life is not so simple
As how it is said to be.
#41, Oct.14.13
I ponder the question
Of why might he
Be trying to gain my friendship
Nothing in this world is free
I accept and I thank
Though I keep up my gaurd
I accept and I thank
Though not fooled by their charm
A wee bit suspicious about someone
What most call inspiration
To me
Is nothing more than a gruelling process
Of trial and error
And determination
Art is not always spur of the moment, but often involves many attempts at finding one's own voice and style.
Nateive Son Apr 2016
I’d like to string Jeff Bezos up by his fucking neck
For what he’s done to this planet
But then I’d miss my Prime shipment
Of broken glass dildos and
General Smedley D. Butler’s
“War Is A Racket”
And you can’t find either of those
At the farmer’s market
Near the end of town
Thibaut V Sep 2013
does it quiet down quite like the boat built for thrones. quilt in a flashy pattern to hone those that moan in distress to a tone that goes without oars. Ours Uranus envied. tightly like the slipknot that slowly brought the cone to breath.  The cone held depth but no more than the test we cheat and skip fast like all the rest. arrest me nay but may it be known there was no one that groped this 20 dollar bill tighter than any other mans addiction. hopefully one day we believed. but probably a night, this endless feed would fulfill its fight. return to a swarm but perhaps alone, remove the breath that basks afloat this bone.

quick to a dust.

proud as sun.

your goodbye, a smile. and a wink that was won, maybe you felt it. close and come near. but maybe distant, hidden, and nonexistent was it, like your fears. slipped from the pool off the diving boards divorce. we felt its return to fame as a belt on the mane. all was quiet on the sunlit stage. silhouettes to a frame and my cranium to the cane. like a gap was made. in the space, now what remained was a scar on my head where the hair was shaved.

light and it worked.

but still had doubt in our dour faces, tears tumbled out.

and then soon, we become confused.

were the lights on the streets those of the moon? when could we find them slip through the grass. on a tired binged morning would I sleep at last? was it past the noon in the night we prayed. is that the question? is there any redemption, am I too tense then, for the 9-5 man to realize his wage? is the question the question or the answer we seek. it pressed against the kidney we guessed, and then flipped we questioned was it the appendix. or the pancreas. kings cross saint pancras would suggest rest was not the best option.

we sought cooperation. none we got but maybe a salt shaker flipped, one grain above the edge,  95 proof, 51% off the ledge, weight against, the bourgeois rent, patience spent, and the place went. weary eyed gentleman. welcome then to the court. you should have all received then, the letters we sent in envelopes  with stamps and other bores. spiraled with a speed down the barrel we swore bent. but soon, evident, to be straight like all the rest.

Is it hard to breath fire?

I always wanted to know.

quick like baskets.

cross legged with the ivy
silhouettes come clear
the wear isn't there
and it seemed never was ever as thin as a hair.
JR Potts Aug 2015
Her heart sunk into a half moon
before fully disappearing from view.
Her head hung the way clothes do
from coat hangers
and no words could be said
to raise these organized thoughts
into some holy clarity.

She wept now
not for the lack of love,
but an abundance of it
and it ate at her illusionary ego
the way venues of vultures do cadavers.
Warm blood glazed on their beaks
in exhausting Saharan heat.
Hardly a reason to ruffle feathers
for the scavengers who have come to eat.

His words gushed in devious waves
like raging oceans unsure
of the storm still far from landfall
but she saw through the salty cover
of his convoluted spoken screeds
to see the tsunami approaching
with such ferocity.

"Are you breaking up with me?"
her voice trembled
like the echoing hiss of a violin
as it struck its final cord
in an auditorium of empty seats.
His lecture ceased,
he had yet to reach the conclusion
she had foreseen for several weeks.

The silence grew between them
calming both wind and sea.
The tidal wave would have demanded
rebuilding and temporary peace
but the nothingness arrives
on the hushed breath of the heavens,
bringing with it both
the ship from Delos
and the poison hemlock weed.

He drank of it,
thus his love of her succumb
to everlasting sleep.
It becomes but a past life,
only to visit him in haunting dreams.
Prabhat Chhetri Nov 2014
it started out as
a beautiful poem,
better than most that
had been written earlier

and then this bum of a poet
with plenty of time to kill

adds a new line  
and scratches out
a few words

then scribbles another
and removes two more

and continues this
until it all turns into a mess.

Some lives are just poems
written by a restless god
on a lazy afternoon.
Mark Lecuona Feb 2012
What if I told you I think I have a brain tumor?
And that I’ve tried to make contact with the chosen one?
And that my sense of self has been over-ridden by a sense of community?
And that suddenly I’m worried about being on a show called, “This is my life?”
And that they asked me, “How many people have you helped?”
What would I say?
How many witnesses would there be against me?
What if every person I didn’t help but could have was there?
What if every person I hurt was there?
What if they remembered each moment as if it happened yesterday?
What could I say?
How could I justify any of it?
I don’t have any witnesses
Not that many anyway
Maybe a few here and there
But what if God brought forward people who didn’t believe in him?
And asked me why they can be so good and I so bad even though I've tried to believe?
And what if he asked me why I stole those flip-flops back in 1981?
And what if he asked me why I lied to that girl about what I really did that night?
And what if he asked me why I try to seduce every pretty girl I meet?
And what if he asked me why I rejected his son?
And what if he asked me why I couldn’t get along with the two women I married?
And what if he asked me why I only thought of myself?
What would I say?
What could I say?
But you know
I don’t really have a brain tumor
At least I hope not
My head just hurts so much though
And now I’m thinking I’m fucked
Because even after going through my mock trial
I haven’t changed
I mean Peter denied Jesus three times even though he saw it with his own eyes
And the Jews mocked God even though they saw a pillar of fire
And Judas betrayed Jesus even though he knew the truth
How can I be expected to be so good and I don’t know the truth
How can I be expected to be so good when I am born under original sin?
How can I be expected to be so good when I am a sinner?
How man?
Juliet Casso Feb 2011
You're a murderer you know,
and you've gotten away with it.

No witnesses to testify against you,

No alibi needed to strengthen your case.

No evidence strong enough to unmask you.

Just an unidentified victim,
with no open wounds or visible markings
to give away its' subject-

For all the bloodshed is within.


It is all secretly covered,

A beautiful mirage-

Painted lips and crystal eyes,
velvet skin,
draped, in golden, satin hair.

A flawed mirage-

With bleeding lips, and crying eyes.
Diseased skin,
smothered in, dull, lifeless hair.

Yet still, the inside reveals nothing.
A murderer you remain,

but what a lovely victim I make.
Copyright Juliet Casso 2011
enikola Apr 2016
what you want
a puppet or poet
think i'm gone get
on my knees and be broken
this by all means
is not for currency
yet i got the mosquitos
on my back
i'm sick and tired of all this bullshit
i might as well grab a revolver
and start feeding the starving
if this be the last of my pen
i don't give a fuck who tells
i'm coming for the devil
they think they know poetry
because they've heard stories
i'm spreading nothing
but the way we live
isn't that truth
but we want the sweet
ain't shit sweet about this life
i guess they want a puppet
got my hands behind my back
how can i express my rights
we get slandered
for telling the truth
i ask them a question
they answer right back
with another question
claiming they know poetry
what is poetry
what is the meaning
they want to be sweet
this life that we living
only breath is sweet
the rest can suck it
tell any motherfucker
i'm ready for them
if this is my last
my last go at it
i want it all exposed
you fuckers scared of donald trump
i'll trump that motherfucker
what if he get elected
i don't give a fuck
this is the devil's lair
they can have it
won't all inherit heaven
we lying and backbiting
see these fuckers in stores
they look at me gloomy
great possessions
yet they're not happy
he can't even touch his wife
what is life
it's fuckery
without the fucking pleasure
why the fuck is money so important
it ain't to me
i burn it
if it wasn't for the way we live
i would not be working
what are we working for
to get disrespected
we're scared to talk back
no one will read this letter
it's too bitter to them
because the truth is what's hunts us
i know you're scared
i'll take the blame
pac said fear is stronger than love
i rather be feared by these punk motherfuckers
ain't no love
these punks disgust me
tell them to come for me
is this not poetry
we pull up the roots
then change it
trying to reinvent the wheel
we're all so stupid
so you got a ph degree
i don't give a fuck
the tongue lies
in the mouth
it's so quick and easy
to tell a lie
just because you wear a disguise
i'm suppose to trust one with my life
and the question goes unanswered
i bet no one will make it this far
he probably already done turned the light off
claiming this is not poetry
then call it what you want
i'm a mad man
gone insane
flying planes into the building
do i give a fuck who i'm killing
they don't
we people need to stand together
band at arms
dethrone the king
bitch is living off our wealth
fuck celebrities
they want to be mean
don't touch me
bitch i don't want to touch you
but you can be touched
we're after the currency
but fuck that
direct me to the poetry section
so i can know what's true poetry
gems that can never be burned
am i speaking in tongues
sit up motherfucker
pay attention
who still has the light on
did you make it this long
this is not poetry
they say
because they made it
once again
pulling up the roots
deflowering the garden
probably why we're all fucked
if this is my last sheet
it will not be the last laugh
the real is fake
the fake
is ignored in this society
why the fuck did they lie to me
we only seek currency
why lie to me
i don't need it
fuck it all
once i set a lighter to that motherfucker
we're dust
see the fear in their eyes
so they hide behind lies
we're nothing!
i'm insane
they're thinking
what you want
a puppet or poet
a puppet or poet
is this poetry
this guy's insane
who still have the lights on
no one
can you make it this far
i've snapped
so did jennifer
when she found out
her husband was worth
more dead than alive
yet they were the happiest motherfuckers
only on camera
fucking lying to me
so i snapped
if this be my last
i'm going out straight
tell the fucking world
this life is none
guess they want a puppet
they can be controlled
where as those who speak their soul
shut down
ask socrates
i know nothing but the fact of my ignorance
the barrenness of a busy life
gets you nothing
i can't teach a man nothing
i can only make him think
the only true wisdom
is in knowing
you know nothing
to know is to know that
you know nothing
yet they want to make money
off my guy
just so they can walk around
and feel less important
i bet no one is reading this
i do this for no currency
they're laughing
claiming this is not poetry
well what is poetry
since you fuckheads coined the meaning
dug up the roots
put a little spit on it
called it yours
who has the light still on
no one
because we're all afraid to speak
remain silent
that is our right
write what they love
for that is poetry
to the weak
so they can be loved
they do it for coins
yet dig up the roots
and they'll see the real meaning
it was conned
just so we can become coins
but i do it for love
that is the true meaning
for my babies
so if this be my last
it shall never be my last
for i refuse
to be conned
don't just read, feel
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