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Tammy M Darby Dec 2016
Call to me gently, laughing
Rules Death the King

Beckoning me fiercely onward
Vixens of love spurned sing
Their voices tempestuous and stormy
Furious as madman’s dream

The unceasing strum of insanity’s strings
Dementia led many poor souls astray
They pass through the ingress of the forgotten
A pity never more see the life of day

Powerless to resist the satin coffin of coldness
Or the music winged harpies sing.
Doomed to the end of eternity
To bear the misfortune
Of the unceasing strum of insanity's strings


All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Dec. 22, 2016
Janella Sanchez Oct 2015
I love you
I love you to the ends of the earth
I love you to the moon and back and back and back again
Wherever that large expanse of space leads, I love you to that
I love you to the height of the heavens
I love you to the twinkling of the stars
I love you as the sea never ceases to hug the shore
Time and time again
Like no matter how many times the sea does it,
It still won't be enough proof of its undying love
I love you as the first May rain of each year
Hard and lingering
A break from the intense heat of the sun
I love you as the birds sing each morning
Of the joys of being alive
I love you as the river beside our home never runs dry
I love you as the zephyr by the beach
Staggering but never overwhelming
I love you as our walks out at night
Slow and yearning
I love you
I love you
I love you
You are my one great love
I thank the universe, the heavens,
And God every single day
That they conspired for me to be with you,
And to be standing here right now
To promise you
My *unfazed, unceasing
love
To the end our days
I love you, I love you
I love you.
Written for Wedding Vow Prompt No. 4
Darbi Alise Howe Feb 2013
Before,
Chaos reigned each day
The ground quaked with the weight
Of every fresh pursuit
Such debt I've yet to pay
For years of inane deeds
I explored man to excess
Until all thought turned towards lust
An insatiable beast that feeds
Upon its eager flesh
I craved things evil and benign
(For both I wished to feel)
Though now they are malignancies,
That no human eye could find
But just as storms will peak
And give way to idle skies
My story is now a fragment
- nothing more to seek
Though plateaus are pleasing
To walk upon at times
Extended paths exhaust the mind
Just as anything unceasing
Anthony Williams Jul 2014
I knew the orange on the orange tree
you had an ache in your shoulders
uncomfortable in an unnatural way
yesterday I passed you talking to flowers
you hadn't moved you hadn't strayed
but hiding in the leaves was a forced disguise

the omens told me something quiet and unceasing
reminding me of a slumbering domesticated cat
dreaming of cutting yourself loose from truncated ease
dropping down from the branch with panther steps
licking fruit lips ripe with revealed acidic petals
riddled with a past you revelled mixing in with zest

shocking chances stepped in for the next dance
sleep taken aback by wings cut from a dark sky
the sidewalk pitted and cracked beneath the pounce
relief escaped the twigs with a spring like waking prey
pressing into night foliage shaken from a nice balance
as I saw you take control with nothing to mask your face

on the surface too smooth for violence
was laughter of glowing gloom to embarrass
and deter such rebellious arrogance
with a twist struggling from a lame curse
its flavours sharp against your sweetened perfume muscle
expecting you to build a limestone shed for tears
rather than take on the night with a mind to wrestle

the outside aches for your physical attraction
gaining courage from the purpose in your eyes
tense as the tightness of your dress' intention
demanding that my hands draw from such lines
the sinuous heat of pulsing flesh's invitation
curved upon seeds not chaste but not quite refined
which I try not loving with some cool disambiguation

you left me the taste of syrup of grenadine
too reputable to ripple vain red tipple eyed
on a table spilt with pink gin and mandarin
sharp teeth tingling a tartness into my hand
sliding slowly at a tilt like drops of sweat on skin
focus dwindling into the clasp of an escaping shade
wrapped carefully under soft rice paper and then
tucked under a heel with a pointed kick like a blade
only to feel you relent and burst open
soft in appeal again and again
by Anthony Williams
Our actions are the prayer, unceasing,
Of love’s creation which is sought-
New things arising every moment,
From the past and future wrought.

Midst all those, in good and evil,
We must avoid being caught-
Imprisoned by our own mind’s children,
All our strivings come to naught.

When our attention sharp and true is,
Unwavering hours of peace are bought-
Be careful when you once un-sheathe it,
The terrible, swift sword of thought.
Vanished are the veils of light and shade,

Lifted the vapors of sorrow,

Sailed away the dawn of fleeting joy,

Gone the mirage of the senses.

Love, hate, health, disease, life and death

Departed, these false shadows on the screen
    of duality.

Waves of laughter, scyllas of sarcasm, whirlpools
    of melancholy,

Melting in the vast sea of bliss.

Bestilled is the storm of maya

By the magic wand of intuition deep.

The universe, a forgotten dream, lurks
   subconsciously,

Ready to invade my newly wakened memory divine.

I exist without the cosmic shadow,

But it could not live bereft of me;

As the sea exists without the waves,

But they breathe not without the sea.

Dreams, wakings, states of deep turiya sleep,

Present, past, future, no more for me,

But the ever-present, all-flowing, I, I everywhere.

Consciously enjoyable,

Beyond the imagination of all expectancy,

Is this, my samadhi state.

Planets, stars, stardust, earth,

Volcanic bursts of doomsday cataclysms,

Creation’s moulding furnace,

Glaciers of silent X-rays,

Burning floods of electrons,

Thoughts of all men, past, present, future,

Every blade of grass, myself and all,

Each particle of creation’s dust,

Anger, greed, good, bad, salvation, lust,

I swallowed up – transmuted them

Into one vast ocean of blood of my own one Being!

Smoldering joy, oft-puffed by unceasing meditation,

Which blinded my tearful eyes,

Burst into eternal flames of bliss,

And consumed my tears, my peace, my frame,
  my all.

Thou art I, I am Thou,

Knowing, Knower, Known, as One!

One tranquilled, unbroken thrill of eternal, living, ever-new peace!



Not an unconscious state
Or mental chloroform without wilful return,

Samadhi but extends my realm of consciousness

Beyond the limits of my mortal frame

To the boundaries of eternity,

Where I, the Cosmic Sea,

Watch the little ego floating in Me.

Not a sparrow, nor a grain of sand, falls

    without my sight

All space floats like an iceberg in my mental sea.

I am the Colossal Container of all things made!

By deeper, longer, continuous, thirsty,
  guru – given meditation,

This celestial samadhi is attained.

All the mobile murmurs of atoms are heard;

The dark earth, mountains, seas are molten liquid!

This flowing sea changes into vapors of nebulae!

Aum blows o’er the vapors; they open their veils,

Revealing a sea of shining electrons,

Till, at the last sound of the cosmic drum,

Grosser light vanishes into eternal rays

Of all-pervading Cosmic Joy.

From Joy we come,

For Joy we live,

In the sacred Joy we melt.

I, the ocean of mind, drink all creation’s waves.

The four veils of solid, liquid, vapor, light,

Lift aright.

Myself, in everything,

Enters the Great Myself.

Gone forever,

The fitful, flickering shadows of a mortal memory.

Spotless is my mental sky,

Below, ahead, and high above.

Eternity and I, one united ray.

I, a tiny bubble of laughter,

Have become the Sea of Mirth Itself.
inscriptions of loss
dwell in a mother's heart
inconsolably her tears fall

within her womb a child
grew
twas born
and twas loved and nurtured
unto adulthood
an untimely
occurrence
dimmed the child's existence

ever the mother
shall silently weep
she'll express her lasting pain  
of losing a loved child
her days filled
with an unceasing rain
My mother felt the loss of her fifth born child Gail....she was only 24 years old when she died.
Supriya Hegde Nov 2015
Beyond the pure curtain of mist,
At a distance stood the lofty hill,
Somewhere in between - she does exist,
Changing course of climate at her will;

On every leaf, a raindrop danced,
Nature sat like a fairy's child,
At all the greenery, she glanced,
Her tune - a perfect rhythm and mild;

Then, she stood with open arms,
To embrace the first unceasing rain,
As though the rains were charms,
Her eyes were bright without pain;

The melody echoed in the meadows,
In the bushes little flowers bloomed,
Little creatures stayed in the shadows,
And in the shimmering moonlight she loomed;

Raindrops lost to the vast sea,
The waves splashed onto the shore,
She gave in to the plea,
A gown of blue and green she wore;
Fanfare of northwest wind, a bluejay wind
announces autumn, and the equinox
rolls back blue bays to a far afternoon.
Somewhere beyond the Gorge Li Po is gone,
looking for friendship or an old love's sleeve
or writing letters to his children, lost,
and to his children's children, and to us.
What was his light? of lamp or moon or sun?
Say that it changed, for better or for worse,
sifted by leaves, sifted by snow; on mulberry silk
a slant of witch-light; on the pure text
a slant of genius; emptying mind and heart
for winecups and more winecups and more words.
What was his time? Say that it was a change,
but constant as a changing thing may be,
from chicory's moon-dark blue down the taut scale
to chicory's tenderest pink, in a pink field
such as imagination dreams of thought.
But of the heart beneath the winecup moon
the tears that fell beneath the winecup moon
for children lost, lost lovers, and lost friends,
what can we say but that it never ends?
Even for us it never ends, only begins.
Yet to spell down the poem on her page,
margining her phrases, parsing forth
the sevenfold prism of meaning, up the scale
from chicory pink to blue, is to assume
Li Po himself: as he before assumed
the poets and the sages who were his.
Like him, we too have eaten of the word:
with him are somewhere lost beyond the Gorge:
and write, in rain, a letter to lost children,
a letter long as time and brief as love.

II

And yet not love, not only love. Not caritas
or only that. Nor the pink chicory love,
deep as it may be, even to moon-dark blue,
in which the dragon of his meaning flew
for friends or children lost, or even
for the beloved horse, for Li Po's horse:
not these, in the self's circle so embraced:
too near, too dear, for pure assessment: no,
a letter crammed and creviced, crannied full,
storied and stored as the ripe honeycomb
with other faith than this. As of sole pride
and holy loneliness, the intrinsic face
worn by the always changing shape between
end and beginning, birth and death.
How moves that line of daring on the map?
Where was it yesterday, or where this morning
when thunder struck at seven, and in the bay
the meteor made its dive, and shed its wings,
and with them one more Icarus? Where struck
that lightning-stroke which in your sleep you saw
wrinkling across the eyelid? Somewhere else?
But somewhere else is always here and now.
Each moment crawls that lightning on your eyelid:
each moment you must die. It was a tree
that this time died for you: it was a rock
and with it all its local web of love:
a chimney, spilling down historic bricks:
perhaps a skyful of Ben Franklin's kites.
And with them, us. For we must hear and bear
the news from everywhere: the hourly news,
infinitesimal or vast, from everywhere.

III

Sole pride and loneliness: it is the state
the kingdom rather of all things: we hear
news of the heart in weather of the Bear,
slide down the rungs of Cassiopeia's Chair,
still on the nursery floor, the Milky Way;
and, if we question one, must question all.
What is this 'man'? How far from him is 'me'?
Who, in this conch-shell, locked the sound of sea?
We are the tree, yet sit beneath the tree,
among the leaves we are the hidden bird,
we are the singer and are what is heard.
What is this 'world'? Not Li Po's Gorge alone,
and yet, this too might be. 'The wind was high
north of the White King City, by the fields
of whistling barley under cuckoo sky,'
where, as the silkworm drew her silk, Li Po
spun out his thoughts of us. 'Endless as silk'
(he said) 'these poems for lost loves, and us,'
and, 'for the peachtree, blooming in the ditch.'
Here is the divine loneliness in which
we greet, only to doubt, a voice, a word,
the smoke of a sweetfern after frost, a face
touched, and loved, but still unknown, and then
a body, still mysterious in embrace.
Taste lost as touch is lost, only to leave
dust on the doorsill or an ink-stained sleeve:
and yet, for the inadmissible, to grieve.
Of leaf and love, at last, only to doubt:
from world within or world without, kept out.
  
IV

Caucus of robins on an alien shore
as of the **-** birds at Jewel Gate
southward bound and who knows where and never late
or lost in a roar at sea. Rovers of chaos
each one the 'Rover of Chao,' whose slight bones
shall put to shame the swords. We fly with these,
have always flown, and they
stay with us here, stand still and stay,
while, exiled in the Land of Pa, Li Po
still at the Wine Spring stoops to drink the moon.
And northward now, for fall gives way to spring,
from Sandy Hook and Kitty Hawk they wing,
and he remembers, with the pipes and flutes,
drunk with joy, bewildered by the chance
that brought a friend, and friendship, how, in vain,
he strove to speak, 'and in long sentences,' his pain.
Exiled are we. Were exiles born. The 'far away,'
language of desert, language of ocean, language of sky,
as of the unfathomable worlds that lie
between the apple and the eye,
these are the only words we learn to say.
Each morning we devour the unknown. Each day
we find, and take, and spill, or spend, or lose,
a sunflower splendor of which none knows the source.
This cornucopia of air! This very heaven
of simple day! We do not know, can never know,
the alphabet to find us entrance there.
So, in the street, we stand and stare,
to greet a friend, and shake his hand,
yet know him beyond knowledge, like ourselves;
ocean unknowable by unknowable sand.

V

The locust tree spills sequins of pale gold
in spiral nebulae, borne on the Invisible
earthward and deathward, but in change to find
the cycles to new birth, new life. Li Po
allowed his autumn thoughts like these to flow,
and, from the Gorge, sends word of Chouang's dream.
Did Chouang dream he was a butterfly?
Or did the butterfly dream Chouang? If so,
why then all things can change, and change again,
the sea to brook, the brook to sea, and we
from man to butterfly; and back to man.
This 'I,' this moving 'I,' this focal 'I,'
which changes, when it dreams the butterfly,
into the thing it dreams of; liquid eye
in which the thing takes shape, but from within
as well as from without: this liquid 'I':
how many guises, and disguises, this
nimblest of actors takes, how many names
puts on and off, the costumes worn but once,
the player queen, the lover, or the dunce,
hero or poet, father or friend,
suiting the eloquence to the moment's end;
childlike, or *******; the language of the kiss
sensual or simple; and the gestures, too,
as slight as that with which an empire falls,
or a great love's abjured; these feignings, sleights,
savants, or saints, or fly-by-nights,
the novice in her cell, or wearing tights
on the high wire above a hell of lights:
what's true in these, or false? which is the 'I'
of 'I's'? Is it the master of the cadence, who
transforms all things to a hoop of flame, where through
tigers of meaning leap? And are these true,
the language never old and never new,
such as the world wears on its wedding day,
the something borrowed with something chicory blue?
In every part we play, we play ourselves;
even the secret doubt to which we come
beneath the changing shapes of self and thing,
yes, even this, at last, if we should call
and dare to name it, we would find
the only voice that answers is our own.
We are once more defrauded by the mind.

Defrauded? No. It is the alchemy by which we grow.
It is the self becoming word, the word
becoming world. And with each part we play
we add to cosmic Sum and cosmic sum.
Who knows but one day we shall find,
hidden in the prism at the rainbow's foot,
the square root of the eccentric absolute,
and the concentric absolute to come.

VI

The thousand eyes, the Argus 'I's' of love,
of these it was, in verse, that Li Po wove
the magic cloak for his last going forth,
into the Gorge for his adventure north.
What is not seen or said? The cloak of words
loves all, says all, sends back the word
whether from Green Spring, and the yellow bird
'that sings unceasing on the banks of Kiang,'
or 'from the Green Moss Path, that winds and winds,
nine turns for every hundred steps it winds,
up the Sword Parapet on the road to Shuh.'
'Dead pinetrees hang head-foremost from the cliff.
The cataract roars downward. Boulders fall
Splitting the echoes from the mountain wall.
No voice, save when the nameless birds complain,
in stunted trees, female echoing male;
or, in the moonlight, the lost cuckoo's cry,
piercing the traveller's heart. Wayfarer from afar,
why are you here? what brings you here? why here?'

VII

Why here. Nor can we say why here. The peachtree bough
scrapes on the wall at midnight, the west wind
sculptures the wall of fog that slides
seaward, over the Gulf Stream.
                                                       The rat
comes through the wainscot, brings to his larder
the twinned acorn and chestnut burr. Our sleep
lights for a moment into dream, the eyes
turn under eyelids for a scene, a scene,
o and the music, too, of landscape lost.
And yet, not lost. For here savannahs wave
cressets of pampas, and the kingfisher
binds all that gold with blue.
                                                  Why here? why here?
Why does the dream keep only this, just this C?
Yes, as the poem or the music do?

The timelessness of time takes form in rhyme:
the lotus and the locust tree rehearse
a four-form song, the quatrain of the year:
not in the clock's chime only do we hear
the passing of the Now into the past,
the passing into future of the Now:
hut in the alteration of the bough
time becomes visible, becomes audible,
becomes the poem and the music too:
time becomes still, time becomes time, in rhyme.
Thus, in the Court of Aloes, Lady Yang
called the musicians from the Pear Tree Garden,
called for Li Po, in order that the spring,
tree-peony spring, might so be made immortal.
Li Po, brought drunk to court, took up his brush,
but washed his face among the lilies first,
then wrote the song of Lady Flying Swallow:
which Hsuang Sung, the emperor, forthwith played,
moving quick fingers on a flute of jade.
Who will forget that afternoon? Still, still,
the singer holds his phrase, the rising moon
remains unrisen. Even the fountain's falling blade
hangs in the air unbroken, and says: Wait!

VIII

Text into text, text out of text. Pretext
for scholars or for scholiasts. The living word
springs from the dying, as leaves in spring
spring from dead leaves, our birth from death.
And all is text, is holy text. Sheepfold Hill
becomes its name for us, anti yet is still
unnamed, unnamable, a book of trees
before it was a book for men or sheep,
before it was a book for words. Words, words,
for it is scarlet now, and brown, and red,
and yellow where the birches have not shed,
where, in another week, the rocks will show.
And in this marriage of text and thing how can we know
where most the meaning lies? We climb the hill
through bullbriar thicket and the wild rose, climb
past poverty-grass and the sweet-scented bay
scaring the pheasant from his wall, but can we say
that it is only these, through these, we climb,
or through the words, the cadence, and the rhyme?
Chang Hsu, calligrapher of great renown,
needed to put but his three cupfuls down
to tip his brush with lightning. On the scroll,
wreaths of cloud rolled left and right, the sky
opened upon Forever. Which is which?
The poem? Or the peachtree in the ditch?
Or is all one? Yes, all is text, the immortal text,
Sheepfold Hill the poem, the poem Sheepfold Hill,
and we, Li Po, the man who sings, sings as he climbs,
transposing rhymes to rocks and rocks to rhymes.
The man who sings. What is this man who sings?
And finds this dedicated use for breath
for phrase and periphrase of praise between
the twin indignities of birth and death?
Li Yung, the master of the epitaph,
forgetting about meaning, who himself
had added 'meaning' to the book of >things,'
lies who knows where, himself sans epitaph,
his text, too, lost, forever lost ...
                                                         And yet, no,
text lost and poet lost, these only flow
into that other text that knows no year.
The peachtree in the poem is still here.
The song is in the peachtree and the ear.

IX

The winds of doctrine blow both ways at once.
The wetted finger feels the wind each way,
presaging plums from north, and snow from south.
The dust-wind whistles from the eastern sea
to dry the nectarine and parch the mouth.
The west wind from the desert wreathes the rain
too late to fill our wells, but soon enough,
the four-day rain that bears the leaves away.
Song with the wind will change, but is still song
and pierces to the rightness in the wrong
or makes the wrong a rightness, a delight.
Where are the eager guests that yesterday
thronged at the gate? Like leaves, they could not stay,
the winds of doctrine blew their minds away,
and we shall have no loving-cup tonight.
No loving-cup: for not ourselves are here
to entertain us in that outer year,
where, so they say, we see the Greater Earth.
The winds of doctrine blow our minds away,
and we are absent till another birth.

X

Beyond the Sugar Loaf, in the far wood,
under the four-day rain, gunshot is heard
and with the falling leaf the falling bird
flutters her crimson at the huntsman's foot.
Life looks down at death, death looks up at life,
the eyes exchange the secret under rain,
rain all the way from heaven: and all three
know and are known, share and are shared, a silent
moment of union and communion.
Have we come
this way before, and at some other time?
Is it the Wind Wheel Circle we have come?
We know the eye of death, and in it too
the eye of god, that closes as in sleep,
giving its light, giving its life, away:
clouding itself as consciousness from pain,
clouding itself, and then, the shutter shut.
And will this eye of god awake again?
Or is this what he loses, loses once,
but always loses, and forever lost?
It is the always and unredeemable cost
of his invention, his fatigue. The eye
closes, and no other takes its place.
It is the end of god, each time, each time.

Yet, though the leaves must fall, the galaxies
rattle, detach, and fall, each to his own
perplexed and individual death, Lady Yang
gone with the inkberry's vermilion stalk,
the peony face behind a fan of frost,
the blue-moon eyebrow behind a fan of rain,
beyond recall by any alchemist
or incantation from the Book of Change:
unresumable, as, on Sheepfold Hill,
the fir cone of a thousand years ago:
still, in the loving, and the saying so,
as when we name the hill, and, with the name,
bestow an essence, and a meaning, too:
do we endow them with our lives?
They move
into another orbit: into a time
not theirs: and we become the bell to speak
this time: as we become new eyes
with which they see, the voice
in which they find duration, short or long,
the chthonic and hermetic song.
Beyond Sheepfold Hill,
gunshot again, the bird flies forth to meet
predestined death, to look with conscious sight
into the eye of light
the light unflinching that understands and loves.
And Sheepfold Hill accepts them, and is still.

XI

The landscape and the language are the same.
And we ourselves are language and are land,
together grew with Sheepfold Hill, rock, and hand,
and mind, all taking substance in a thought
wrought out of mystery: birdflight and air
predestined from the first to be a pair:
as, in the atom, the living rhyme
invented her divisions, which in time,
and in the terms of time, would make and break
the text, the texture, and then all remake.
This powerful mind that can by thinking take
the order of the world and all remake,
w
zebra Jun 2017
I can be so tender with you, but then the monster emerges like guano out of a bats *** my precious and hes so hungry for your blood
He wants to take a razor to you . He loves your crying. He's excited by your sunken brooding face, sheet white flesh and sallow eyes.  
She gets down on her knees holding her self pert and brave for love's cruelty knowingly she is his play dough blood **** doll in a white death gown of weeping lacerations, his sweet blood blossom splashing
Her splayed pose tells him she's made to cut like red plush butter, her flesh his pull apart pastry, her bones his marrow.

He slowly works her down from merciless blood letting and bludgeoned raw piercing .
But the part that excites him the most  is when she sneers at him hissing, the blade to her throat as she lifts her head high exposing her throat without hesitation
His panicked hungry kisses and bites unceasing as she smiles and suffers knowing her twisted dream of living deaths dark labyrinth is near. Her **** gapes wet, leaking with blood and dark waters from being sodomized cruelly.  Her **** a drooling tortured swollen mouth, a river of blood
His bubble of poison in her, ruptures deep.
Both hyena feral ... He knows she's ready and holds her head down, a wooden block shoved between the back of her neck forcing her chin to jut out and exposing her swan throat .
He pulls out a box cutter
Is this what you need my darling ?
Is it you sweet **** ?
She smiles eagerly, eyes glaring, poised, noble, legs spread wide, back arched, soaking with crimson copper sweat
Watch me writhe you *******, unwind the little *****, she demands, grinning like a hell cat on drugs she holds fast ready for her departure to some crepuscular eternal afterlife

dark cupid witch
legs tied to throat
devil ***** twitch
******* in a mote
i've got the itch
feet scorched in rope
hot ******* *****
hells dark pope

oh dragon man
take my life
unwind me slow
i'm summer ripe
DO IT,,, DO IT... DO IT.... she screamed like a wind whipped howling tree in a blaze of flames.

Very well and as he slipped his long arterial sheath deep up in side her womb and stroked tenderly
He called oh my sweet darling pressing that blade deep through her soft buttery skin...Splitting arteries, sinews and flesh recklessly as she shuttered, her face a wild eyed Hiroshima convulsing in heaping waves, bloated with the filthy viscous red **** of Dragool
His blood a drug venomous, hallucinogenic and ecstatic

She spiraled dizzily into a primeval black watery abyss.
In a fury, he slit his **** wide, and engorged her raw shapeless mouth with his dreadful Scorpius elixir, door way to the dark life.
He raged at her, drink you sweet hell *****, **** pie, fat blister, and i make you my ***** consort for all eternity, loving you under black winged cape, sweet princess of death unpeeled.
Come he said, we are night storms of hell...We **** for love and you will die a thousand deaths my delicious blood bell I shall **** your soul away and turn you to the darkest midnight

vampiress *****
dark girl feeding
the sun is no more
loves the bleeding
Andrew Rueter Feb 2018
My neck noosed
My legs loosed
I witness the tragic
It seems so emphatic
I feel entropy
Enter me
Centering
Around love and pain
I wear gloves of shame
Toxicity taints touch
My reaction is to cautiously recoil
For I feel a great punch
When I expect them to be loyal
A tear rolls down my cheek
Navigating scars
Like a man who is meek
Navigating bars
It starts and stops
Then keeps going
The tears drop
From what I'm knowing
That my time is evaporating
Dealing with the exasperating

I feel I can be caring
I just need the chance
We'll see how I'm fairing
On the end of your lance
Penetrating deeply
The pain is unceasing
Like a thousand bee stings
While you stand there feasting
Making me feel alive
From the pain inside

I guess things could always be worse
Sometimes that feels like a curse
Because I have problems all the same
But it's true
The sum of our troubles equal this game
That we lose
Even though I'd rather deal with *** and silence
Than to be vexed by violence
They're all just ways of imposing our will
Whether it's through who we birth or ****
Conflict is how we get our fill
Every day a different fire drill
We hate each other
We date each other
We underrate each other
To deflate each other
Pain is used as a tool
Until blood lays in a pool

These things that annoy us
Are met by avoidance
These things compound
Until I can't be unwound
I live in a world of contending intentions
It's a world of our own selfish invention
A world that burns bright
So I can't sleep
When day turns to night
I hear death creep
Seeking to take me from a life I never asked for
But I'm grateful to have
Life is about experimenting with opening doors
And I'm stuck in the lab
Can be found in my self published poetry book “Icy”.
https://www.amazon.com/Icy-Andrew-Rueter-ebook/dp/B07VDLZT9Y/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Icy+Andrew+Rueter&qid=1572980151&sr=8-1
That sweet scent wafted in the warm breeze
the moment before we met.
From then on my life was changed
love came with your perfume.
Each of my emotions in hyper drive
until then not alive.

Your perfume was so intoxicating
a doting slave I became.
One direction to achieve your attention
passion drew me under it's spell.
This energy and intensity could not last
one day a shadow was cast!

I became yesterdays man brushed away
when somebody else was snared.
Like me the perfume pulled them within
my heart shattered as I watched.
Another laying prostrate at your feet
no way could I take defeat.

Jealousy never far from the passion of love
not caring when I sighted you.
Unable to control my basic human instincts
attacking forcibly my rival.
Feeling betrayed and the only one hurt
soon my body would hit the dirt!

Standing here a noose around my neck
guilty of deeply loving you!
Even as the trap door beneath me is released
the perfume will linger always.
Never regretting that deep emotional ride
you will be with me inside!

Love and jealousy unceasing like your perfume!

The Foureyed poet.
How far will some go for love. When jealousy rears its ugly head? The Foureyed Poet.
I’m casting my cares upon You,
while praying throughout the day.
I’m thankful for our relationship
and the Love of Your sacred sway

that permeates my entire being.
For I’ll keep on talking to You,
discussing the issues of my life,
since You will bring me through

safely by Your divine guidance.
In You alone, faith is entrusted,
as this analytical mindset of mine
had been vigorously readjusted.

Knowing that You’re everywhere,
I’ll remain… unceasing in prayer!
.
.
.
Author Notes

Loosely based on:
Psa 42; 1 Thes 5:16-18; 1 Pet 5:6-7;
John 16:13; Eph 3:16

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
I sit in the sun room, I am shaded for the sun
is only newly risen, low slung, just above the horizon,
behind me, over my shoulder, early morn warm

Slivers of sun rays yellow highlight the wild green lawn,
freshly nourished by torrential rains of the prior eve

The wind gusts are residuals, memoirs of the hurricane
that came for a peripheral visit, your unwanted cousin Earl,
in town for the day, too bad your schedule
is fully booked, but he keeps raining on you,
staying on the phone for so long, that the goodbye,
go away, hang up relief is palpable

The oak trees are top heavy with leaves frothy like a new cappuccino,
the leaves resist the sun slivers, guarding the grass
from browning out, by knocking the rookie rays to and fro,
just for now, just for a few minutes more,
it is advantage trees, for they stand taller in the sky
than the youthful teenage yellow ball

I sit in the sun room buffered from nature's battles external,
by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization,

and my thoughts drift to suicide.

I have sat in the sun room of my mind, unprotected.
with front row seats, first hand witness to a battle unceasing

Such that my investigations, my travails along the boundary line
between internal madness and infernal relief from mental pain
so crippling, is such that you recall begging for cancer or Aids

Such that my investigations, my travails along the sanity boundary
are substantive, modestly put, not inconsiderable

Point your finger at me, demanding like every
needy neurotic moderne, reassurance total,
proof negative in this instance, of relevant expertise!

Tell us you bona fides, what is your knowing in these matters?

Show us the wrist scars, evidential,
prove to us your "hands on" experiential!

True, true, I am without demonstrable proofs
of the first hand, my resume is absent of
razors and pills, poisons and daredevil spills,
guns, knives, utensils purposed for taking lives

Here are my truths, here are my sums

If the numerator is the minutes spent resisting the promised relief
of the East River currents from the crushing loneliness that
consumed my every waking second of every night of my years of despair
                           divided by
a denominator that is my unitary, solitary name,
then my fraction, my remainder, is greater than one,
the one step away from supposed salvation...

Yet, here I am sitting in the sun room buffered from
nature's battles by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization

I am a survivor of mine own World War III,
carnaged battlefields, where white lace curtains,
were not buffers but dividers tween mis en scenes,
variegated veins of colored nightmares, reenactments of
death heroics worthy of Shakespeare

Did I lack for courage?
Was my fear/despair ratio insufficient?

These are questions for which the answers matter only to me,
tho the questions are fair ones, my unsolicited ******,
they are not the ones for which I herein write,
for they no longer have relevance, meaning or validity,
for yours truly

I write poetry by command, by request, good or bad,
this one is a bequest to myself, and also a sidecar for an old friend,
who asked in passing to write what I know of suicide,
unaware that the damage of hurricanes is not always
visible to the naked heart

These hands, that type these words are the resume of a life
resumed,
life line remains scarred, but after an inter-mission, after an inter-diction, an inter-re-invention
in a play where I was an actor who could not speak
but knew every line, I am now the approving audience too...

But I speak now and I say this:

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away what belongs to you,
do your own sums, admit your own truths
query not the lives of others, approach the mirror...


If you want to understand suicide,
no need to phone a friend, ask the expert,
ask yourself, parse the curtains of the
sun room and admit, that you do understand,
that you once swung one leg over the roof,
gauged the currents speed and direction,
went deep sea fishing without rod or reel
and you recall it all too well, for you did the math
and here I am, tho the tug ne'er fully disappears,
here I am, here I am writing to you,
as I sit in the sun room.

Memorial Day, 2011
hard to believe this poem will be 8 years old, soon enough; I well recall writing it and will return to the sunroom soon for inspiration and an afternoon nap.
jeffrey robin Jul 2010
in action ,  inaction
in inaction,  action

precarious balance

YOU AND I ARE HERE

higgs boson......pulsation
yinning and yanging

the bed keeps bouncing

UP AND DOWN

creation.....unceasing
apparent sensation
of repetition

apparent sensation
of difference

other than
YIN and YANG

aleph
(alpha)

and

tov
(omega)

centers  of centaurs
and of course the

dragons
( and unicorns)

YOU AND I ARE HERE

in the cornicoupia
in the fertile valley
on the frieght train headin west
huddled gainst the lover's breast

try live awhile then try death

the bed keeps bouncing

UP AND DOWN

YOU AND I ARE HERE
Carrie Ross Feb 2013
big ***** Judy
had some
i guess you could say
body
image
issues
you could call them
body
issues
there was some
i dunno
in utero
conflict
and she
some how
head butted
her twin brother in the womb
but not in the way you're all
probably
so quick to think of
THINK ABOUT IT
but actually
uhh
don't
think
too much
about it
because it is
in fact
too much
back to Judy
she didn't much like
her patootie
nor did her mother
and nor did
many of the mothers
of others
i don't want to be
too quick
to say
that Judy had "problems"
but sure as ****
sherlock
quick to fit
oh yeah
Judy had
PROBLEMS
she couldn't handle
most of what we call
school
the work
the stress
the this
the that
set to a soundtrack
of shouts and clamors  
from ******* classmates
fatty fatty
boom
ballatti
2 by 4
can't fit through
the kitchen door
really?
um
pardon me
but
what kind of narrow
French
Doors
in what kind of kitchen
are we talking about?
anyway
a stones throw away from that *** ed period
oh ****
let’s talk about her period
Curse of Eve?
**** my ****!
Her in house aggression seemed to say to herself
and naturally
to no one else
returning to that **** but not so much
educational period
it was a nightmare
judy can't help but remember when "it"
suddenly
became
one nasty *** personal pronoun
that only meant "***"
so sadly
on the way to girl scout camp
when judy turned around
to tell the motormouthed ******* in the back seat
to watch their language
because it'll become a crutch
and they'll start
"doing it in school"
all of a sudden
Judy
is some sort of deviant
only because of
"it"
what is
and was it
about being a little bit overweight
that made the boys and girls
treat the little bit
like it was
I dunno
a lot
wrong question
Judes
what is it about
being shy
seemingly vulnerable
and weak
that made the boys and girls
latch on
with unceasing enthusiasm
most people
young ones
especially
are troubled by the same things
that taunted Judy
but most of those others
had
uh
what?
an “outlet”?
**** that
Judy
Judy
JUDY
human beings
are *******
joey
james
johnson
dickshit
who always called you fat and such
is probably shooting ******
into his insignificant toes
or maybe his genitals
hope for the worse
hope it’s his genitals
back in middle school
when everyone thought they were more important
than they actually are
were just as terrified
but ****
they had that ******* “outlet”
unlike  judy
but the new judy
with a lesser but mostly the same patootie
won't worry
and won't dwell on it
because
one day
she's going to satirize the **** out of you numbskulls
enjoy yourself
while you can
because Judy
has already dissolved
into laughter
hardy har har
******
and mimbos
*******
how do you feel now?
D Letwixt Oct 2018
Something stirs in thicket dark
where tangled reaching limbs of trees are stark
against sinking sunlight bleeding red
and hasten thee quickly off to bed.

There lays a dove with eyes that weep
and voice that sings it's mourning air
of loves and sunlight fading fair
of winter's coming cold in evening fright
and all once green turned deathly white:

"Oh these passing days of little sleep
of autumn's chills from my resting keep
unceasing tension building still
between firey limbs and the snowy hill
and my heart with ice shall surely fill."
J-J Johnson May 2015
May this day be good
May this day be a total rebirth
May this day be blessed
May this day be filled
With the newness
And freshness of a prime
May this day be joyful
As it was a decade and nine ago
May this day be what you want
May it be what God wants
May this day be good.      --------------------------------------------
May this day be good May this day be a celebration
May this day be an epic
May it be a remembrance
Of the most cheerful moments in the life of a mum
May this day be heart warming
A blithe past the zenith
To be remembered many years more
Ever sweet and merry
May we smile with glee
May this day be good
-------------------------------------------------                            May this day be good
Just like the first
And just like now
May this day be remembered                May this day come again
May it come again just this time round               And the next
And the next of years unceasing
May this day be my joy And yours
And yours also my friend
May this day be your birthday
May I wish you a happy birthday...
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
Dear Lord:

I am confused.

My life is Damocles,
My name is unimportant,
My sword's thread stretched
thinner than thin,
barely a 10 word poem
slender wide.

This body's homeland,
this deluded tired,
where my physic resides,
is indeed nominated accurately:

Sequestered.

Yet I am not alone,
though cut off in ways,
few can comprehend.

Sequestered.

Indeed,
secluded,
withdrawn but not by choice,
the loveliness of life
escapes and
eluded and yet,
I still believe...

a disciplined disciple,
my faith constant,
in this,
your awful trials and failed tests,
to me, success eludes,
and life deludes.

Yet,
tested beyond exhaustion,
you let me sojourn for a few brief, precious,
every-days in a multi-windowed world
where the entry fee is simply
the freedom of words
undenied,
but well defined,
in perfect clarity.

Rest and restlessness no longer debate.

Rest,
defeated has departed for more hospitable climes.

Weariness,
has won,
I rail not, swearing faith,
debate not your choices for us,
long ago,
surrendered that incomprehensible struggle.

Here I am
uncomplaining,
unfeignedly,
still here,
worn but standing in
your verbal grace.

One comfort
left
and it helps me
right
what's
wrecked
and for that,
I bear the knowledge and the burden of what ails all humans,
and what can bring them comfort unceasing..

Gifts so small  
that that some
single lettered,
make up a whole

here is me,

I

bowed, boxed, bowled over
and still bowing,
on so many days
in so many ways,
and in those the few hours
when the mind refuses
the opportunity to sleep,
hope tries to keep itself seeded

for here is  found,

Lord,

where sonnets bloom,
where one can draw welled fresh water comfort
from the words of poetry
with which you surround us,
letting me be reborn in hope ever so small,
daily, like you

The misbalance of life,
where the justice scales
seem weighted all wrong,
for in the glory of human word
is a world real and imaginary,
this poetry, this art,
so weighty this god gift to humans,
in its beauteous weightlessness,
gives me shelter so brief,
gives me shelter so grand,
that though my greatest burdens accursed,
so much suffering surrounded-sounded,

these shared words
and the ones
you gift me,
makes all these woeful waves
tamed and becalmed,
the scales of tribulation lose

Through these words,
breathe through them,
once again,
rest and strength,
restored and returned
in ever small lettered says
and your incomprehensible
Glory,
in humans,
thus stored for shared safekeeping,
is mine to share and shared.

So many the mysteries,
but this above all I cannot comprehend,
how can so many not see,
how so many abuse
so carelessly,
that greatest gift
after life itself,
the restorative words
so plentiful,
you have planted
within the earth of our
human existence.
for our fellow poet, Timothy, so long overdue this, my guilt finally expiated...ten times better than the best, he...my obligations won't let me leave as fast as I want to...

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/763485/timothys-prayer-answered/
3:34am
Nolan Willett Apr 2019
A resurgent nihilistic philosophy
A second lost generation
Disillusioned with the being of nations
Lost in their own antipathy
Confused by new sensations

A political theorist I am not
I like to wander in hills and clouds
And pick out kindred spirits in crowds
A thousand wasted battles fought
A thousand raggedy burial shrouds

The bohemians revel in their nonsense
Shall I my conceits and imaginations forsake?
Maybe a decent Lawyer I would make?
What is real and what is performance?
Which side of me shall I deem fake?

To which should I my attentions give
My unceasing love for liberty,
or a discontented bourgeoisie?
Material things I need to live
Yet still I am most lifted by poetry
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2019
Oh Eliot, Poor Eliot, Your Fans Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feelin' So Sad^

<>
we tithed thee with donations plenty,
here a dollar, there a fiver, a coupon for free chips,
worthy of somebody’s eternal gratitude,
that would be you,
da Duke, Duke of York

the largest online free poetry site,
a million visitors a day, why you must be
the richest poet online billionaire, right?
you,
da Duke, Duke of York and

occasional poet...

in return, all we occasional poets demand
steady on instant access, immediate satisfaction,
after all, a part time job deserves your bestus-best,
just like every other large online site, that never crashes,
we’re not like just the rest, we are
p o e t s,
occasionally

so keep the servers engines, well stoked with Newcastle coal,
keep them up and running round the clock,
using only alternative energy,
of the unceasing sun light of merry old England!

quit that other job, you must,
instead of giving up on us,
give in to us,
a poetry break, a writing recharge,
though please add a limited liability
clause to the FAQ’s,
that poets’ lives must deal with the hiccup
occasional

you, da Duke, Duke of York,
newly now, an appointment royale as Major General,^^
you, the very model of a modern major general
possessing information vegetable, animal, mineral and
technical,
who knows the Queens  of England, who,
maybe even now is telling tales of your heroics with the hordes of
hysterical
occasional
poetical
globalists
demanding
light brigadests
charging the redoubt

and
when you have a moment spare,
a haircut, please.

no, that is not a request,
naturally

<>

10/19/19
Noontime NYC
natalino
^^Messers Gilbert and Sullivan

^ Oh Dad, Poor Dad,
Hung You In The Closet and I’m Feeling So Sad
By Arthur Kopit
Jonathan
Well, I made it out of lenses and tubing. The lenses I had because Ma-Ma-Mother gave me a set of lenses so I could see my stamps better. I have a fabulous collection of stamps, as well as a fantastic collection of coins and a simply unbelievable collection of books. Well sir, Ma-Ma-Mother gave me these lenses so I could see my stamps better. She suspected that some were fake so she gave me the lenses so I might be...able to see. You see? Well sir, I happen to have nearly a billion sta-stamps. So far I’ve looked closely at 1,352,769. I’ve discovered three actual fakes! Number 1,352,767 was a fake. Number1,352,768 was a fake, and number 1,352,769 was a fake. They were stuck together. Ma-Mother made me feed them im-mediately to her fly –traps. Well... (He whispers.) one day, when Mother wasn’t looking...that is, when she was out, I heard an air-plane flying...somewhere, far away. And I ran outside to the porch so that JI might see what it looked like. The airplane. With hundreds of people inside it. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of people. And I thought to myself, if I could just see...if I could just see what they looked like, the people, sitting at their windows looking out...and flying. If I Could see...just once...if I could see just once what they looked like...then I might...know what I-what I... (Slight pause.) So I...built a telescope in case the plane ever...came back again. The tubing from and old blowgun (He reaches behind the bureau and produces a huge blowgun, easily a foot larger than he Mother brought back from her last hunting trip to Zanzibar. The lenses were the lenses she had given me for my stamp. So I built it. My telescope. A telescope so I might be able to see. And... (He walks out to the porch.) and...and I could see! I could! I COULD! I really could. For miles and miles I could see. For miles and miles and miles! Only...
You take the time to build a telescope that can sa-see for miles, then there’s nothing out there to see. MA-Mother says it’s a lesson in Life. [Pause] But I’m not sorry I built my telescope. And you know why? Because, I saw you. Even if I didn’t see anything else, I did see you. And...and I’m...very glad.
Typed by: Jeremy Mash 2-16-06
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
The Real Poets Here

are small craft
sailing between the narrows of crack'd lines,
employ the spyglass and luck to you,
for them to find

their voyages do not widen the chasm of waste,
yawning greater now by propped up boasts of
ugly shipowners who sin by commission,
national ***** crowing of the greatest length of their prow,
thinking that is a measure of prowess,
their tubs,
all but empty wordy new container ships,
that are forever lost at sea,
even before leaving port

they,
the real poets,
are the quiet lost lot,
a troop of forgettable ordinary  Marines,
the sailors in the engine room toiling,
exploring cartographers ***** from the ****** crafting struggle,
looking to discover unmapped,
invisible poles,
East and West

opening up new passages,
within us,
with new passages

when called to arms,
the real poets
spill fresh ***** fluids from within the heart and mind borne,
upon the blank spaces,
they stain us with the grasping gasps of their sight insided

fertile are the pastures
where they lay low modest lay thinking,
amidst the splendor in the grass

of them
I*
proudly will ever boast,
hold them close and ever nameless,
but deep inscribed inside of me

Ah,
the real poets keep me
whole within the
ever smaller white purity of this narrow space
that has lost the struggle
to contains the
unceasing ever spawning black letter'd oceans and navies of
repetitive sad, sadly repetitive,
puerile singsong cant
that never sings,
can't never please,
but trends to the masses madly

dewdrops of tears,
are my own trees felled,
an acknowledgement that
when I read their unintended homages to humankind,
that when realized,
they speak with great respect,
all quietly scream this whisper...

all this,
that I have written,
and will yet to write,
this is all,
to give
greater glory to all human ability
whose
sole purposed to fill us,

wrench us from our lackadaisical comfort,
or  urgently comfort us when none else can,

these are my friends,
the real poets here*

god keep you well

my trite words insufficient
so I gift you
some words worthy from
Wordsworth
"Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
      We will grieve not, rather find
      Strength in what remains behind;
      In the primal sympathy
      Which having been must ever be;
      In the soothing thoughts that spring
      Out of human suffering;
      In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind."

William Wordsworth. 1770–1850

Compose and Posted 3:30am June 12, 2014
Jerry Vital Aug 2018
You told me to have patience.
Yet, you never mentioned it would endure grave repercussions.
In a world with unceasing aggressions.
Fear dominates, and our patience is overcome by repressions.

How can there be patience, when we are surrounded by hostility?
Living in a world, driven merely by audacity;
That leaves us astray from this society.

You asked us to be pious.
But what is piety, when we are deceivious?
With hopes that are only mendacious;
Making our patience obnoxious.

Like a sloth, my patience grows.
Wondering if it will ever show.
What is patience when we are errings?
Where hope falls to the demise of the forbearing.

Suffocating with endless pain and failure as a whole.
My patience is pulled away by no more than a black hole.
******* it all into this darkness,
That will never see anything but emptiness.

They say Patience is a virtue, but my virtue is infinitesimal.
Making my patience only ephemeral.
Vanquished by anger and desire.
My patience is no more than a satire.

Treat me like a wounded veteran,
Convalescent from the calamities of this world.
Like bears hibernating from the cold reality.
Torpid under the frigid den, with a freezing mentality.

You told me to have patience in the end.
Here I am scaling up the precipice,
While clutching up to your hospice.
Pledging of voracious appetite for patience once again.
sleeplessnxghts Dec 2013
I.  
A rumble of a failing engine and an abandoned heart does not always make for the best mixed drink you’d typically order at the bar
The gasoline fumes rising towards my nostrils, the taste replicated on the taste buds, not exactly the main course you’d hope to appear on the main entrée menu
The shrinking world swallows my perception, and all I can see are endless forests with an unending road, not exactly the picturesque view you’d pick from the 5-star hotel you presumed to stay in comfortably

II.
Recurring whiplash carries me deep within the foliage of the woods, where the bristles from the furious trees feel like spikes brushing across my fragile skin
My thoughts are encompassed by my wildest fears, intensifying the pitter patter in my chest, nearing a detonation, but no witnesses to confirm or deny it
The limbs outstretch themselves and enfold me inside a hallowing clasp, resemblance of an agonizing chokehold
The fires begin slowly, but hurriedly strengthen into a sore, sweltering sensation that hastily seizes control over my nervous system, rendering me helpless with no one to soothe me from it, for isolation is the true affliction of it all

III.
And suddenly I am traveling through a dark neighborhood, the ones we were all warned about as adolescents, as the lamp posts house stood-up lovers and lost souls who are trying to catch a fresh thought aside from the filthy repetition we are provided with
The light bulbs flicker and the yellow paint dividing the two paths incases my thoughts, stimulating every sensory input to intake the detection of safety between the two opposite directions, because once a path is chosen, returning is forbidden
This social deprivation surely beholds my salient inner pain, as I cannot confide in anyone on this lonely road except for the shining Milky Way and smiling crescent moon, eons away from my reach

IV.
Foaming salt water crashes over me, encumbering my lungs from performing their simple task successfully, caught in a riptide sensing my discomfort with reality and self-hatred brought upon by the overriding waves that deteriorate my sanguinity
I cannot control anything in my life and the sea acknowledges this weakness, What a real favor it is! Killing me, for me, subduing the airflow right out of me but also purifying my corrupted being, freeing my aggressions, letting go of faulty hearts, and ensuring arcadia by ripping away a future I could not survive in
The sunken sailors in their sinking ships do not drown by choice, like I, but they may not be as grateful for the gift of release as I am
I realize I may have a shot at social encounters, until I gather that the glass wall that separates me from the world is unbreakable, and the water pressure is much too great to fight through, so I must die alone

V.
As my vision fades to black, I am awakened once again, stranded on this Earth, this place where life exists but living does not
And I feel like ever since the door slammed shut as I collapsed in cascading tears on the floor in your favorite white button down, I’ve been a bit lonesome and defunct, my mood has a constant sullen adjective attached to it
Adventure and spontaneity meant everything to you, and I took on the same attitude, breaking out of my comfort zone and implementing yours instead
What once was now lingers as a painful memory and acts as a narcotic because I am experiencing a difficult withdrawal of your voice, and I cannot last much longer before the insanity devours me from the inside out

VI.
As the hourglass passed all of the time, your personality withered as each interest you held dear to your heat contracted into an abhorrent piece of art, dedicated to miserableness
And as your presence no longer fills up my time, maybe I too am disappearing, or so I wish
Because losing you to yourself felt like being stranded in the middle of nowhere with an unceasing life of despondency and unanswered questions
It felt like being burned alive to ashes from a forest fire, so deep in that not a single person would notice its evanescence
And worst of all it felt like drowning, as my control slipped away from the tight grip I once had, like nobody could resuscitate me from
I play over every doting moment with you over in my head as my mind slowly fades to darkness, a blank state of depression

VII.
So tell me from the heavens once more that I do not need you, because you see what I am experiencing in your absence
Maybe I need you as a constant in my life and not a fleeting breeze in the persistently bipolar wind movements
But you bolted the moment the poisoned fog touched your fingertips and your fear took you away from me
So how can I possibly hold on, when I am clearly alone and depressed?
I know death is merciful compared to losing my one true love
Tell me you’re listening, I need someone to talk to
I cannot leave all these words left unspoken
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
"The longest trains in the world run in the US, Australia and China, as well as in some mining regions in Africa. These trains can be several kilometers long. The longest train ever was an ore train in Australia with ~7.3km (~4.5mi),  consisting of 682 cars and 6 engines."*

What know these train buffs who measure length,
In mere miles, kilometers, numbers of cars,
These mechanical movers, impressive to the eye,

Yet,
I have witnessed, not just seen, believed,
In a train that overwhelms not just the eyes,
But the heart, surpasses the limits of the mind's eyes.
It breaks imagination and says it is conceived,
Announcing to anyone, all who board, your are now,
Our newest,
Strongest link.

This train knows no regulation, track nor load constraints,
For it travels on invisible tracks on the Internet,
If need be, the good people at HP will add
More server capability.

This train, intercontinental, more,
Global,
And I have on god authority,
There are participants from
Other
Planets.

But shhhhhh! That's on a need to know basis...

This train, never reaches a final destination,
Coursing thru the veins, our arteries,
It has a heart that forever beats, cannot, ever,
Die, it is unstoppable, once in motion,
Transferred to the next one, by kiss ethereal.

For it has an energy, a peculiar one, not capable
Of being explained on Google or Wikipedia.
Try it, you non-believer, there is no correct definition of
Poetry In Motion, as the longest train ever...

Each car a different color, a different song,
No two alike, no two in tune, yet all in concert, a choir,
I have no explanation, other than to describe this as
Miraculous.

There are some peculiarities re this train,
It sometimes labels a car behind you as a follower,
Now this is accurate perhaps with respect to GPS,
But I call them readers, fellow travelers,
As we exchange loads of words, and then leadership,
As I move on, another comes up to the forefront,
Baton passed.

This train of poems, one grasping the poem right behind,
While another poet grabs the first and sends him forward,
In motion, unceasing, powered not by wind or petroleum,
But an energy of spirit human which cannot be consumed,
For with every baby, a new poet and poem born.

So let me correct an error of mine,
This train is not just poetry in motion,
But perpetual poetry in perpetual motion.

Should I fall by the wayside, lose a step in my stride,
Whatever I have given, here remains, to be carried forward,
By you, by new carriers, by new poets, new countries,
That have yet to speak their words, say their
Peace.

So here
I close this loop, throw this on top of the
Coals already in place.
With words of another,
Who said it simpler, said it better,
Let it be.
This took awhile to write, so let us call it the last poem of the day.
Lotus Oct 2012
Whales of thought
Dance unceasing
Bellies full curved
Chambers of bones and water
Eyes small and young
Old and wise

Whales of thought
Holding their breath
Ten seconds
Letting out song
Gongs of the ocean
Ten seconds

Rippled currents
Vibrations of voice

Stifled caresses
Tongue licking touch

Whales of thought
Songs
Ten seconds
Gongs of the ocean
Ten seconds
Erick Pratt May 2014
Haggard I have become
Of honeyed words, of pretty speech,
And puerile affairs set adrift.

Oh, callow little ones,
Ripen and set loose, I beseech,
Such folly expositions of rifts.

Forfeit the untried
Yearnings of frivolous adulation.
Fixate instead to faculty and wisdom.

Let sadness be dried!
Let idle these flighty colloquies!
Let instead thy heart blossom.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2016
A Woman's Reflection on Her Reflection (Valence and Value)

one poem, written by two authors


~~~

Ever the analyst,
A mirror functions as surface to
Parse the fleeting constant
Of youth's beauty.

From genetic gift
Of symmetry and bone,
To technological tampering,
Until the equation is solved,
As experience and character
Models and maps the result.

The answer, a reflection,
Of individual valence and value

(written by S.D., a woman)

~~~

(written by N.L., a man)

unbidden and unannounced, a
"not fully formed poem,
but a simple reflection"
inbound missile arrives inbox,
armed with silent power,
the lethality of the
Holy Unexpected

the man reflects
on her mirror-on-the-wall's
fulsome reply,
parsing the words of a
woman's reflection,
while gazing on her own

every human's momentary glass notation,
but an instance of summation,
a human poem, whose editing,
unceasing

a comma here,
a period inserted,
an eye shadowed, an eyebrow tweezed,
a eye dark circle line added,
to tree-mark time's authorship

all  these
but a person's
excerpted extraction,
notarized,
then auto-erased and revised,
as out of date,  
instantaneously compromised

but,

it is upon  the conceptual,
valence and value,
more that the man reflects perpetual,
less on transitory morphing changes of
exterior mortality

while overlooking her
glassine realization from behind,
he concludes:

every reflection,
no matter how oft the snapshot,
the unfleeting constancy
of the combining of the

princes of principles,
valence and value

that he witnesses,
in the calming pool
of her eyes,
(those borrowed windows into her soul's well,)
so well reflect
her unchanging greater finery,

her character

this reflection,
metamorphosis transformed.
into a planetary permanency poem,
high placed in his the firmament
of their conjoined sky
Valence,
as used in psychology, especially in discussing emotions, means the intrinsic attractiveness (positive valence) of an event, object, or situation.

In chemistry, the valence or valency of an element is a measure of its combining power with other atoms when it forms chemical compounds or molecules.

you decide.

hers, two six sixteen,
his, two seven sixteen,
in the wee hours
onlylovepoetry Jul 2016
<>

Hebrew calendar says Summer Sabbath,
the day of rest has, as scheduled...arrived

wryly, ironically, bitterly,
poet rhymingly thinking nowadays...survived

more apropos,
#even survived alive,
for therein is a concomitant, under-the-surface implication,
of the uncertainty of forecast  future,
for no matter how theoretically normalized and organized,
even a trip to a shopping mall...deadly

survive - a far, far bitter...but better fit

not sure of the why-well of my being here,
poem composing scheduled, always on this day of pause,
this week-ending demarcator of the who I am

I am among the many of little understanding,
who having garnered no solace nor rest,
that a seventh day supposedly, is purposed to beget,
for the world is in a ****** awful mess

with neither the rhyme or the reason,
the single breath I expirate, as proof of life,
is this season's perfect, sufficing hallmark,
symbolic of the reign of unceasing confusion that has left our minds
damaged and contused,
secretly selfishly thinking to oneself,
#my life matters


this Sabbath, I speak German,
the language of my father and his father's,
all my ancestors, even unto the years of the Age of Enlightenment,
today, spoken in the ironic dialect of Munich

Am Morgen borning glorreiche
the morning borning glorious

poet seeks an answer, mission to permission,
to rightly explain
how he visions in unsightly confusion
how he divines loving in Munich's tribulations

sitting in the poet's nook, upon the ancient Adirondack chair,
nature listens to the poet discordant chords
of musical tears upon musical chairs,
wet-staining flesh

all around, the other noise makers gone quiet as well
for they are pityingly, eavesdrop listening for what happens next

The Chair speaks:

"this day,
I am happily,
made of wood,
my living cells
long dispatched,
so that I can no longer
weep in time
with my poet-occupant's
struggling lines,
verses upon the decomposing
of the worst of times,
though in compathy,
my silence, by and to him,
is gratefully unnoticed"

the poet  has no visitors this fine day,
none human or divine anyway,
but not alone

for a gaggle of old ones have early come,
from Rebecca's and his mother's Canada dispatched,
my regular geese guests southbound have returned for their
summer stopover,
but so early,
for the calendar must be telling lies,
it says these are the days of July,
so named  for all  to recall
another murdering assignation~assassination,
that of a fallen Caesar,
another-man-who-would-be-god

my summertime flying audience comes yearly to share the bounty
of this, my sheltering isle,
good guests who in payment for their use of our facilities,
honk Facebook  "likes" in appreciation
for every writ completed in the nookery

this year of fear, the geese are newly self-tasked,
seeking solace to share and understand the world weariness,
so strongly encountered in the roughened atmospheric conditions
newly facing all of us

everybody's needy for respite from the next

where next?

a plump audience of eleven
on this grayed sunny day,
greet me, honking, feverishly, excitable honking, but!

auf Deutsch,
in German


full of questions about predatory man
which I fluently comprehend but of answers,
have none completed, none sealed as of yet,  
any writ by my hand to give away or
even keep

so when the temperature cooingly cools,
on their way further south, them,  it sends,
they will not be burdened with the empty baggage
of inexcusably and poorly manmade
naturalized, pasteurized, synthesized,
crap excuses

the poet's own reflection in the fast moving bay waters,
is not reflected,
these, no calm pond waters, but his own internal reflections,
beg him, explain this poem's entitlement,
this designation of confusion and its inflection,

confusion as something lovely?

no good answers do the witnessing waters or the winds sidebar provision,
the geese, the chair, all unfair,
only have similar quarreling questions for him to dare

foremost and direst first,
where is there loveliness in confusion the poems sees?

poet stands on the dock, as if in the dock,
noticed, the waters pause, the winds into silence, swept,
the gulls grounded, the geese aligned in rapt attention,
all to the poet, as jury, they steadfastly attend
to his creation, this poem's titled curse,
an answer even barely adequate, some solution?

In Munich,  ****** born and welcomed,
Dachau, the very first death camp,
sited a mere ten miles away

one could conceivably could demand that

this poet, this Jew, this could-be-Shylock,

having seen a pound of flesh extracted,
might accept this balancing as a compensation
of history's scales weighted by the concentrated demise
of millions of his very own flesh and faith

but he does not...

a nation takes in a million strangers and refugees,
not without peril costly,
visible now, these side servings of risk,
that noble gestures so oft bring

what he feels, why he cries is for the

loveliness of forgiveness,

he unashamedly honest borrows the words he confesses,

any innocent man's death diminishes him

now the winds kicks up, the waters refrosted frothy,
the gulls go airborne, the geese fly away,
searching for another poet to respirate, infatuate and inspire,
clearly, neither satisfied or enchanted with the one
presently available

only the aged Adirondack fair, his aged long time companion chair,
remains moved - but unmoving,
in the domaine of their unity, in the vineyard of
their conjoined, place of quiet contemplation

a woman observes tear stains upon his cheeks,
noticing them upon the chair's open arms now all-fallen,
tho a surface wood hardened,
the tears are softly welcomed and storingly embraced,
absorbed

the three,
the woman, the chair, the poet-me,
all as one, tearfully, no longer cry in vain,
having  found a white coal seam amidst the black bunting
that decorates their glum apprehension of tomorrow's tidings

<>

Saturday,
July 23, 2016
10:29am
Shelter Island
kMargaret Oct 2012
My house is a silent house
But listen closely
And you'll hear the ever-turning scratch of the ceiling fan
The constant ticking of the grandfather clock
Passing cars and heavy wind vibrating the windows
Looking out, the trees are sighing
Dying
Every leaf panicking with each eager gust
What is nature seeing?
What does it hear?
Observing me as I observe it
My slow and steady silent sighs
My thumping heart's persistent slamming
Increasing with speed at passing thoughts
My gulping down of liquid memories
My bones creaking and aching with pangs of rejection
Overgrown nails scratching at the surface of my skin.
Digging to get rid of an unceasing itch.
Untouchable.
Are the trees digesting that which my body refuses?
My teeth pressing themselves into the plush pillows of my lips
Keeping blood where my face has otherwise drained itself.
Pale as the undead.
Walking mindlessly.
Heartlessly.
Silent footsteps radiate this house's skeleton.
Rattling bones.
Climbing the ribcage,
Pulling up through the spaces
Sit for awhile. Watch the crimson muscle pump
The sound of my wandering eyes looking around for salvation.
The creak in my neck as I turn my head from its position of elongated staring.
Staring at nothing. Nothing is left.
Shifting uncomfortably in a chair too hard
Oceans built up against the dams behind my eyes waiting to be released into canals down my cheeks and neck
Settling into t-shirt stains that wont wash out
No one is left.
My house is a silent house.
Feel my rivers flowing.
Hold fast to them if you can and drown me.
And I will fall clamorously to sleep.
Unread
Unsaid
Undone
Unsung
Understand
Undo
Unlike
Unloved
Unafraid
Unattached
Unavailable
­Unceasing
Uncanny
Unclean
Unzipped
Unusual
Unprint­able
Copyright © JLB
17/07/2016
23:52 BST
barnoahMike Feb 2011
As the knock came on the door, He laid down the Book,carefully.     Grasped both arms of the chair,  firmly and briskly pushed himself  to the STANDING  position.   The knocks repeated themselves and the man Leaned over,  ever so gently,   and Lowered himself onto his wheel chair,   and Called out LOUDLY,   "COMING,,,,COMING "    The knocks were continuing,  even more intensely ,   as he gripped the edges of the Wheels and pushed himself Forward,,  with ALL his Might ! !    "COMING,,,,COMING"   He Repeated !    His strength had so waned in the last few weeks,  that the very effort of pushing with all HIS might,  Only propelled him forward a Very Few Inches at a Time ! !    The Knocks were even Louder Now !    and more Frequent.....      He was sweating Profusely as he gritted his teeth and struggled with the wheel chair,   in His effort to reach the door.    It seemed like He  moved forward in * SLOW-MOTION*,    GOD_ how he wanted to reach the Door !    His groans were now growing Louder as he attempted with  with his most Valiant effort,  to reach the Door from which the Pounding seemed to be UNCEASING !   "COMING,,,,COMING"  he echoed thru the hallway in his Exhausted state,  "Please Wait,  I'm Coming" he Pleaded , as the Knocking continued  at a Rapid pace !    With each Inch of Forward Movement,  He felt he just couldn't go on any further,  BUT, The Repeating sounds of the Knocks Kept him on His QUEST!     Near Collapse as he reached the Door,   He slowly extended his arm,   wrapped  his hand , pouring wet with sweat, around the Door **** and with ALL  of the strength He had Left,_he TURNED  the **** and Opened the Door ! !    The Flashing White brightness , Never seen before or even able to describe,   Enveloped His Whole Body   !    As he felt Himself being Lifted from the chair,  placed gently and firmly on his feet!   The Light now became  A SOURCE OF GREAT COMFORT,  and as it grasped his hands,  He heard a "Comforting " Voice say to him   "COME,  WALK AND FOLLOW ME" ...........
copyright @2011   barnoahMike                 Mike Ham
Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
  Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
  Of absence withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant—
  Bound to thy service with unceasing care,
The mind’s least generous wish a mendicant
  For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak—though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
  A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
  Than a forsaken bird’s-nest filled with snow
  ’Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine—
  Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
K Balachandran Dec 2018
Every single day is partitioned fairly, I'd  think
amongst us denizens of this uncertain universe,
that makes no loss ever in its  unceasing transactions,
as every end is a new begining and also the reverse.

I wonder again on  the complex maths in play
and demands upon  each moment to accomplish it!
With a laugh I just let go the thread of that *****
thought on  processors and servors for a humanguous
operation needed for that to go on for ever and aye!

What nonsense! the human logic is hugely flawed
Cosmos has better manuels of operation never
needed to be written down, just like the affais of heart
of men and woemen that jostle in this planet ,driven
by urges prompted by mind, body and if you'd believe
without any qualms,the  spirit, but I wouldn't insist.

Dusk was falling, and I sat smugly on the sugary sands
of the bikiny beach, with a vengence on my face
(but not with the bitterness of one, just now short changed)
And with an adamence to get my fair share of that day's
catch, plucked fruits, harvest,hunted gold or whatever!
I didn't want anyone notice as my exchange was
happening in in silence, on cycles higher without any means
tangible, of communication of any meterial sort.

Then there was a  on sand behind me, I felt warmth,
the dog was snuggling closer and closer to me to comfort!
Her liquid eyes said, all that I wanted to hear
She was my solace for the day's battle wound, I reckoned
exuding warmth, she drained my pain like the bad blood
darkly stuck,let out through the cut I just had survived.....

Night was long and the moon anointed us with her balm
on the sand bed a man and a stray dog slept unstirred.
From every realm, warmth has laid its hands upon hours
That have felt the caress of a moonless night
Over distant hills and places where darkness surrounds
The features of a soul’s desire to be loved only
For what lies inside

In times of thunder and lightning, there is still ecstasy
Hidden in the love that lies unceasing
Within the thoughts of sweetness warmth embraces
Interwoven in the features of a soul’s desire
To keep breathing

Soon the wheel of fate will spin into a new morning
Until you no longer remember yesterday
Then warmth will steal in with fingertips that play
Along the features of your soul’s desire
To love anyway
Copyright *Neva Flores @2011
www.changefulstormpoetry.blogspot.com
Rollie Rathburn Dec 2016
For William and Meredith


For treatment of panic and anxiety disorders,
short-acting anxiolytics are generally recommended
to provide temporary bursts of clarity
but should be reassessed periodically for
usefulness and concerns regarding tolerance,
dependence,
and abuse.

Xanax releases dopamine into the brain
to function as a neurotransmitter to send signals
between nerve cells
including reward motivated behavior
and pathways known to reinforce addictive neuronal activity

Perhaps to build her,
you had to break yourself
amongst the glass of that summer day.
Leave her waiting for your hair to peek
around a weathered edge
toward a forgotten living room corner

You are still her Patron Saint.
A long shadow cast across a small ghost.

She still screams at the sky to stop raining
beats her fists down the path
to the house of death
unceasing, and changeless.
Prodding a dull,
familiar
wound.
One that leaves its mark,
with pain felt more
from memory
than from anything else.


Withdrawal and rebound symptoms commonly occur and
necessitate a gradual reduction
to minimize the effects of discontinuation.
Not all withdrawal effects are evidence
of true dependence or withdrawal.

Recurrence may suggest no more
than the drug having the expected effect
and that,
in the absence of the drug,
the symptom has returned to pretreatment levels.
Ariel Baptista Jan 2016
Fall and follow down the river
Walking the sacred streets in silence
How imbued with the ethereal mist of prayers are these tables
These wooden chairs I sat in and wrote the diaries of my youth
I wrote lies with causal power
Constructed the material from ideas
Spoke over the waters and found land

Eat a candy cane to cover the scent of rolled tobacco on your breath
And get on a plane
Green busses down cobblestone lanes
Follow them like purple orchids on the terrace

Fall and follow down the river
A brown bench,
Balding fog
Sit like kneeling at the altar of the saint of childhood innocence
Repeat her prayers
Chant her mantras
Sing her hymnals
Ritual tower chimes with hell’s fear behind it
Rope and brass that dare not fall or falter
Down the river
Ripples like innumerable green eels screeching through the sacred heart of our Lord and city centre

Mornings like Masala chai and sunshine
How infinite and unceasing the heartbreak of those who love too deeply
How inevitable the prolonged fall of the great
Like eighteen razor blades
Shot through the sunrise
Bitter fruit of memory merciless
No amount of sacrifice can atone for the imperfections that lie beyond the boarders of my control
But I hail Mary nonetheless

Fall and follow down the river
Mother Mary cannot hear over the pounding power of the current
So seal your lips with black clay
And do not cry
For there is nothing more to mourn
Morning comes ripping down the track like a freight train
Tarantula clouds and sunbeams scamper over the sockets of your log-laden irises
Bleeding indigo from parallel razor blade canyons
Filled with the ghosts of things you were never promised

Masala chai oversteeped like the strong scent of river memory
Tremble tell me I’m forgiven
In your white robe anointing oil
Tell me I’m the chosen one
Incense and ****** knees from kneeling at sandpaper pews
Getting drunk of Eucharist, the Holy See,
Oceans of archives, history, prophecy,
Frankincense and myrrh,
Frankenstein, the Light, the Vine and highways through the suburbs
Jump off bridges
Fall and follow down the river

An eye for an eye
And a stitch for a stitch
Mile for mile river prayers define and drown me
Thick slabs of scripture separate me from my sisters
Masala chai and sunshine
Vaseline and pale northern light clear the black river clay from your pores
Embrace the snow
Teach yourself to love the suffocating questions that burn and blind you
Retroactive sacrifice still requires fresh indigo blood
Donate freely.
Fall and follow
Down the river
To the sea
Salt water heals all razor blade wounds
Even the self-inflicted
The choices you make to be good or great are swallowed in the moon tide
Sticky tie-dye bruises erase themselves with time and prayer
Like cups of strong Masala chai.

— The End —