Give it away to keep it
Don't need a reason
Generous and selfish
Charitable treason

Mined it from the source
Runnin' through my heart
Lord, it's runnin' through my brain
Love don't tear it apart

I need you to want it
I want you to need it
This narcissistic fire for you
I need you to feed it

Your validation means too much to me
I feel I cannot love without it
You give it then you lose it
I think too much about it

I know there's a closet in your room
Filled with unwanted memories
Piled so high but still some room
For more unwanted pieces of me

If I had any pride I'd raid that room
Plunder it and take what was mine
Maybe give it to someone else
Everything I can find

For I cannot keep it for myself
What once I never owned
The sentiments have gone their seperate ways
From forgiveness unatoned

This addictive need to share
Has drained me of reasons
To find anything worth sharing
In this uncharitable season

The bleeding hearts were on the street again begging on behalf of some man in Vietnam who sits in his hut day in and day out staring at the four walls, while his wife and child draw water from a well five miles away and I ask these ladies, is yet man a christian?, why yes they reply and is your God all knowing, all seeing and graced with omnipotence, why yes mister they cackle.

Then I says  he can look after this man in Vietnam, his wife and **** child, but mister they said  their voices laden with shock, you too are a child of god and it is your duty to help these poor people.Sorry ladies I said , I so ain't naive, so I left them and their pleas. I don't feel guilty nor do I sympathize for  this man in Vietnam who sits in his hut starting at the four walks day in and dayout, while his wife and child draw water from a well five miles away.

~
In her sulking-place
alone and naked

framed in soft sepia
—the vintage, harlequin hue

at this supposed faded hour
she sits looking back on memory

she sits and stares
into the boudoir mirror

at herself
at her embonpoint

yes, at these *******
—at their landscape

how they fall
(like Niagara)

where they point
(like a compass)

what they tell (so fondly)
when pressed together

about their time
—their work and play

towers on the precipice
of judgment

both callous and
uncharitable

if the mirror
truly be her reflection

her vision is turned around
as illusion

—a study of tonality and tolerance
for one's own flesh

the room
an invitation

or perhaps
a lockaway

where she even keeps secrets
from herself
~

I care about you Tomorrow's Girl
But you are right to fear me
I can be uncharitable
My intentions, sometimes dishonorable.
You do well to distrust me
I do not always wish your best,
even as I pledge you my loyalty.
Your desires are interpreted through my jealous filter,
the Maya of my own creation.
I will wish you ill,
And neither of us will know it.
Beware, I warn you from a higher perch.
I have also trusted in a Yesterday Girl.
My deceiver she was.
And wounded I was by her
In the very sanctuary she had created for us.
Above all suspicion,
She cradled me from weakness to strength
Then coldly abandoned me with the scars of her desires.
But she is not dead.
She whispers to me still, of promises unfulfilled.
And I listen.
These I must pass to you Unfortunate Friend.
I can choose nothing else.  
Release me from your grim judgement,
As I have long-forgiven my beloved betrayer.
You too will wrong your charge.
You too will give a Judas kiss.

Yes, sir, I kissed her
On the mouth in the back of the bus
It was dark so I reached over and touched her
In a place where my fingers had never felt before
You bet your life, I kissed her
And guess what? She kissed me back
I 'bout had me a heart attack
When I felt her tongue on mine

She always has your eyes, darling one
It's how I know it's true
That there will never be another one
Who can do the things you do
No matter who she is
My, love, she always has your eyes
For your eyes are her eyes
It's not a surprise

Yes, sir, it hurt when she left me
I ain't ashamed to admit
Wonderin' how long until she'd forget me
You're ******* right she'll forget
You're best served with the truth, my foe
There's a lot you'll never know
So much I'll never tell you
For now it's time to go...

...go along, little dove, move along the straight and narrow. Bring along your bow and arrow. It's a small gate and few are the wasted who have tasted it's taste then wasted it's a band of jobless ruffians walking in a straight line, eyes locked straight ahead and determined to arrive at their destination. Dressed in monk's robes, their attire was not the only thing about them which conjured the appearance of a band of Tibetan's finest.
     Make haste! Go along, sweet caterpillar of the dawn. Gather your spawn and meet us on the backyard lawn. Make it quick, make your move, make every guitar pickin' note count. This is your time, La Penguin, it is the dawn of your destiny. The pawn of the mystic's I have placed upon a square I am not legally entitled to inhabit, figuring you would not notice it and even if you did you might not realize I was playing the match illegally. Royal eggs hatch regally, they are a meal of value and worth.
     Plath's dead voice recites her own poetry in the 74th century throught the medium of streaming music, which is every man's birthright. The inhabitants of this far off century are each and every soul well versed in song and voice, rythmn and melody, the poignant lyric in the third verse or during the chorus, their collective history was the culmination of thousands upon thousands of years totally absorbed in every aspect of MUSIC. To say they worshipped music would be to stop somewhat short of being the absolute truth but we listen anyway, we always do, good morning, I am the voice in your head. Have you finally befriended me? Finally accepted me and maybe even appreciated me? Regardless. I am the voice in your head. Do you want to know whose voice is in MY head? That's right: YOURS! Do you think this makes me any happier than the prospect of my being the voice in your head it's complicated, I'll grant that. But now that you're on a roll, what say we write some more crap poetry?

Try not to rhyme
No one does that anymore, that's reason enough
Yes, there is a secret meaning behind all this
You were not on my mind when I wrote this crap
If things had gone my way I could be making excruciatingly
Joe, where you going with that gun in your hand?
I love all you *******, I really do
Some of you are genuine artists
Some of you can't write for ****
But that don't make it bad, does it?

Who is she?
She was a worm that crawled in your ear
One summer night while you slept in bed
Dreaming of the day your son
Shot you in the head
Then left you for dead
Wake up, David, wake up!
Fear not the tarantula, David, wake up!
For his bite doth not ****

...go along, feline substitute, your portmanteau is waiting. where are those people now who were so recently uncharitable? They've all been little boys before, every soldier in the field, every face behind bars, they've all had baths and someone to dry them off. Surely this must be? I am too wasted to go on.

Naya kudro. Reo o hart bonite. Rega in gavida, gavida. E qualid plea, senior away cast them in fee, el mquee.
Hula sona karay. Shis attune heh, hey hey, the grinavorte, honeas delong. O, fate be a queen. Allah's mortal today. The name. I don't want a name. Oh, no. The glad. Uh, uhhhhhhhh, uh, I'm madalam...you know....it's grand.......these sandwiches, they're grand.........beam me up, Scotty, you know the rest of the joke........Just like drums in an African rainforest, glistening with moisture, the rain mixing up the rythmns as drops make contact with skin. .........holding in past for the trial........coming in a car.........what a................you run, you running so much higher, climbing on a wire, you know..........you run, you running so much faster and now you're...........holding in past for the time......holding and caring for strange..........what catches your eye.........

I only thought I was too wasted to go on.
But this time
It's a for sure deal
I
am
too
wasted
to
continue

...to be continued

You folks wonder why no one wants to walk through your wooden doors.
You act like we’re all supposed to swear the same clothes, sing the same songs.
What if our doctrine didn’t line up?
Would you judge me for not agreeing?

Recently I’ve become increasingly sensitive and hyper aware of my surroundings.
Your church reminded me of middle school,
And I couldn’t stand middle school. Everyone was clicky and exclusive.
Since when is church about who’s wearing the best outfit?
When did we Christians become so shallow?
It’s amazing how people can judge you when you’re not like them,
Carving out an image of perfection that never existed in the first place,
Because when it gets down to it we’re all broken.
You are not entitled to people coming to your church when the feelings are not welcoming.
Except one, she gave me a free ticket to the Beautiful Eulogy show.
Sadly to say, she was the only light at your church while everyone was dead,
or just full of themselves.

*There are good reasons why churches across America are dying off.
Christians can behave worse than non-Christians, at times even more cruel and uncharitable.

A thousand remembrance is but one remembrance
a stirring melody only resonates if it moves the spirit
Lingers not a remembrance needlessly uncharitable
For on it's return will only find a soundless empty vista

You can gaze a thousand sights with empty glazed eyes
knowing it pours with transparent ease into a withering hole
for neither soul or mind find allure or worthiness in facades
the sages teaches passions governed not passions extracted

A thousand orators does not mean a thousand pulpit wits
sounds,voices needs welcoming home to attain completeness
in absence thus, they might as well be anything and nothing
disinterest, unattuned renders a deaf companion readily

A spartan is more than everyman less than the warrior king
in acute governance of mind, spirit and the call of the beast
for the chimes of climates races uneven, fallible thrones beware
In vagaries and shifts certainty stems within in tempered minds




copyright04April2019@Yensonallrights reserved

They ****,
They Mame,
They steal,
They play,
They laugh,
They covet,
They test
Hell as an oven!!!

They backstab,
They backbite,
You pulleth and grab,
They moan in delight,
They cheat,
They lust,
They thrive,
Of bones and of dust!!!

Their uncharitable,
They murmer,
Their a narcotic using world,
Their explorers,
Their punks,
Their freaks,
Their madmen,
Their geeks!!!

Their warlords,
Their pacifists,
Their hatred,
Is all nonchalant!!!!!

They get high to get what they want,
Their complainers,
Their lazied!!!
Their pilled out,
Junkies,
Crazy!!!!

Their low,
In disguist,
They use perfumes of sixty dollars of more!!
A delightful expensive musk!!!

Their cheap,
Penny pinchers
Their losers,
Their winners

Their warriors,
Their jocks,
Taking selfies of shame,
Of perverted stuff!!!

Their tounges are asps,
Their hands are weapons,
They'll meet you in hell,
I looketh forward to heaven!!!!

Their babies,
Scaby infested,
Some get off on ***,
Others love molestation!!

Their racists,
Their rapists to!!!
Of mother earth,
And mankind's tombs...

They turn on each other,
Sister and thy brother,
They gaze in mothers purse,
As with dad arguments stay cursed!!!

They are disobedient,
Disloyal in their love!!
No god do they worship,
Just Shaitan's to Satan's club!!!

They eat on organics,
They eat pesticide!!
Some live on freely,
Others seek thy easy way out(suicide)

The have no one to turn to,
Except their vain imaginations,
Their nonhumble,
Proudfully tumbled!!!!
Their fall is bound to occur!!!!

These are the humans!!!!

Welcome to earth!!!!

Two worlds meet as crystal waters dance to shore, tickling powdered sand with fingers of foam. The sound evokes calming sensations, perhaps revelations, before falling silent as the wave retreats. A sailing boat strokes the surface, whistling with the wind as it carves patterns, unaware of what lies beneath. Even the sun looks on in awe, as its rays gently caress the quilt of blue, congratulating its infinity. The land above, so blissfully unaware, sits and inhales salt stained air.

Beneath the clouded sky of blue, lies the ocean’s treasure chest, a beauty born of rock and sand. It offers a glimpse into its world, for the inquisitive, stuck on land. Fish of every sort dash amongst confused hues of greens and blues, gulping salt water as if it were scarce. Angelfish dart around like horizontal fireworks, while seahorses surf the foamy riptide. The sun’s rays explore the thick meadows of seagrass, that sway in slow motion to the breeze of the current. Coral castles cemented in the sand curiously poke their turrets out of the water, causing waves to trip and fall and spill their froth. This is the ocean’s natural aquarium, yet mankind still invade the shallows with camera lenses and alert senses, attempting to prove they can figure it out.  

The sea becomes weary, tired of showing off. With its final yawn, it exhales out one last chunk of rock before it falls into a deep, cold slumber. The fresh palette of turquoise has faded into shades of murky blue as the ocean’s belly is revealed. The sun, now desperately trying to reach its rays towards darkened depths, is now just a golden haze, unable to offer any warmth. On one side stands a wall of coral, tarnished with colour, hypnotising life so it does not stray. The other offers an unconscious abyss, frightening to the wary, tempting to the brave.

The deep proves uncharitable to navigation, yet it’s muffled moans still encourage exploration. Faint whispers echo and fade, carried by indecisive currents. Now too deep for the day’s light to intrude, creatures below must brighten their own paths; fish with fangs carry glowing white pearls from their heads, while faceless ***** drag strings of electricity from their pulsing pink bodies. A lone whale glides by in her watery flight, her haunting lullaby becoming lost in the great Somewhere, accompanying the secrets that stay sealed beneath the blue.

They sit in the humblest of frames,
Faux wood-grained plastic grotesqueries
Purchased long ago from some doomed Grants or Bradlees,
Though one or two enjoy something nicer,
Left behind by some long-timer taking a buyout
Or a sympathetic youngster denied tenure
(She has, for the better part of three decades,
Cleaned up the detritus of middle-school children,
A bit stooped from the work,
Not to mention the burden
Of any number of she’s just  or she’s only
Tossed like so much bric-a-brac in her direction.)
The approximations of old masters equally eclectic in origin:
One or two gallery-quality reproductions
Blithely abandoned by some haughty faculty matron
Mentoring children through noblesse oblige,
The odd promotional piece from a scholastic publisher,
Mostly things she has cut from magazines or discarded texts.
She studiously avoids pieces tending to the dark or muted,
No Stuart portraiture or pensive Vermeers;
She has a strong predilection for bold, boisterous Gaugins,
Mad cubist Picassos, lush Cezanne still-lifes,
Even the odd blocky *******.
If you pressed her to explain her fetish
For the brightest of the great masters,
She would likely be at a loss to explain,
Having no academic bent for such things
(Though she has been known to curse the shortcomings
Of lithographers and pressmen under her breath)
And, as she freely admits, I’m not much good with words.
There would be the uncharitable suggestion
That their purpose is to mask cracks and pockmarks in her walls
(She has, to be sure, lived in a long series of such places)
But she has never, consciously or otherwise,
Used them for such pedestrian and utilitarian purposes;
They are, to her anyway, beautiful, and that is all they need be.

i have loved you since the dawn of April
how fitting to fall in the rise of blooms
among the whispers of spring
we danced all night--
turning a bed of greenery into a dance floor
our feet didn't mind the faint fumblings
because our hearts were to busy skipping and tripping over beats

that night i fell in love with you
but was too scared to tread the unknown waters
filled with passions of uncharitable ferocity
so silent i kept
carefully tracing infinity signs on the inside of your arm as you slept
because this moment
i knew
was infinite

almost as infinite as the night that hid the tears shining in my eyes.

If I could write you a poem,
Every hour, every minute,
To transcribe how I feel,
I would.

I ‘d let your hands touch my cheeks,
See right into my brain,
Read my thoughts, read my heart,
If I could.

I can’t always explain them,
The things that I do,
I go crazy, and selfish,
And blind.

But insane as I am,
I never forget
You’re my only,
And you’re one of a kind.

My hands,
As they stumble
Through keystrokes
Can never do justice to the warmth in your soul.

Or the way you are more
Than lips I can kiss,
Or a smile,
Or some hand I can hold.

Like a gentle roughness,
An echoing whisper,
Or an imperfection that makes something
Absolutely flawless,

You are something
So few souls can understand or fathom
That the thought of you
Makes them incredulous.

And being the uncharitable girl
That I am,
You’re a treasure
I won’t willingly share.

To risk something
So rare,
And of such high value,
Would be like walking into a snare.

For you, my dearest love,
Are not my just moon,
Or my stars,
But my radiant sunset.

Daily transforming beauty
That’s taken for granted
Into something
I’ll never forget.

Our every encounter
Is a rose among daisies—
Making memories
And never squandering time.

Though of it,
We lose track
As the clock fades into the background
Disappearing along with its chime.

But as goodbyes rush on us,
All too quickly,
And we kiss,
So reluctant to part,

I hope you always will know,
No matter how far you go,
My train of thought will always lead back
To your heart.

The world's ablaze
Filled with rage
Mother nature is to blame

Not your God who is supposed to save
Not your God whose hands create
It's mother nature, the one who gives

Mother nature, the one who shares
Mother nature, the one who loves
Not your God who turns his back, no

The God who cares more
About your "unholy" bedroom life
More about your uncharitable deeds
Than he does the state of peace

Blame it on our mother
Who gives us her breath so we may live
Who gives the fauna from her back so we may eat
Who is crying silent tears so we can drink in peace

Yet you praise God
For his Mercy
For his 'generosity'
While he steals all her credit

Our dying mother, mourning her broken body all alone
While we dance across her continent sized bruises
And blame her abuse on herself alone

If I could write you a poem,
Every hour, every minute,
To transcribe how I feel,
I would.

I ‘d let your hands touch my cheeks,
See right into my brain,
Read my thoughts, read my heart,
If I could.

I can’t always explain them,
The things that I do,
I go crazy, and selfish,
And blind.

But insane as I am,
I never forget
You’re my man,
And you’re one of a kind.

My hands,
As they stumble
Through keystrokes
Can never do justice to the warmth in your soul.

Or the way you are more
Than lips I can kiss,
Or a smile,
Or some hand I can hold.

Like a gentle roughness,
An echoing whisper,
Or an imperfection that makes something
Absolutely flawless,

You are something
So few souls can understand or fathom
That the thought of you
Makes them incredulous.

And being the uncharitable girl that I am,
You’re a treasure I won’t willingly share—
To risk something so rare, and of such high value,
Would be like walking into a snare.

For you, my dearest love,
Are not my just moon,
Or my stars,
But my radiant sunset.

Daily transforming beauty
That’s taken for granted
Into something
I’ll never forget.

Our every encounter
Is a rose among daisies—
Making memories
And never squandering time.

Though of it,
We lose track
As the clock fades into the background
Disappearing along with its chime.

But as goodbyes rush on us,
All too quickly,
And we kiss,
So reluctant to part,

I hope you always will know,
No matter how far you go,
My train of thought will always lead back
To your heart.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                         A Prayer While Driving Past a School

Dear Lord, we pray -

For all the children at their studies today
Give blessings upon them in every way

For all the teachers at their work today
Give blessings upon them in every way

For all the cooks and cleaners today
Give blessings upon them in every way

For all the bus drivers and mechanics today
Give blessings upon them in every way

For all the administrators today
And their nicely decorated offices
And their luxury executive desks
And their golly-super-gee-**** computers that work
And their shiny new MePhones
And their expense accounts
And their district credit cards
And their mileage allowance
And their impressive leather appointment books
And their out-of-town trips to conferences
And their leisurely lunches out
And their air-conditioning that works
And their beauty-shop visits during the day
And their layers of protective secretaries
And their relatives on the payroll

Bless their hearts

I learned I was ugly
Because
I was Always the girl in the back of the photo
Or the one taking it
Or the one left out of the conversation completely.
I learned that I was unwanted
Because
I was Always the one who’s never invited to sleep overs
Or dinners
Or just just kept out of plans so simply.
I learned that I am unloveable and uncharitable
Because
I was always the one being told “No PDA”
Or the one who was never asked to go and meet their friends
Or never posted about in general.
Then you came.
You wanted to teach me all these new things while also prying me from my old ways.
I know it’s hard and time consuming.
I know it’s annoying But I’m trying.
I learned I was ugly and unloveable and unwanted.
So for you to try to teach me that I am my own kind of beautiful, that I’m the one you love the most, or that I am worth it, is so hard for me to believe.