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Pagan Paul Jul 2018
.
In a costume of conflicting emotion,
of crossing diamondic colour,
with regal posture in grief,
the Harlequin and the King,
a display of opposites
creating a composite being,
that eases her body
gently into the waiting water,
to float away serene,
on her journey to the nether.

Midnight blue and emerald green,
the regalia of ermine,
both ostentatious and humble,
robeing the aspects,
understated in crowning splendour,
the gentleman King bows,
and the Harlequin laughs,
the bi-polar reaction
to the tragedy of misfortune,
with a sting in the myth-tale.

With the dark hues of mourning,
a legend passes on her way,
across the streams of time,
on a voyage to discover herself,
carrying her Harlequin in a purse,
holding her King to her breast,
owning them both in her heart,
the medicine wheel spins,
knowing the grapes of wrath
yield the wine of spite.

The motley speckles of attire,
a starry parody of night skies,
lighting the decorated funeral barge,
gliding along the rivers of space,
worn with the mantle of sorrow,
and it sails into the sunset,
as the Harlequin and King observe,
the mandala turns,
the bier of the Queen departing,
bears their sadness forth.

The Harlequin laughs and laughs 'til he cries,
his heart grows cold, then withers and dies,
whilst the King, statuesque, memoirs his life,
lamenting the legend of a Queen, his wife.



© Pagan Paul (24/07/18)
.
Lizzy May 2015
I get this feeling,
It sinks through my spine.
Sits in my bones.
Like an unwanted guest,
And I, the unwilling host.

The intruder finds its way to my feet.
Making my toes curl,
And tap.
Restlessly twitching,
As if ready to run.
But I'm not ready for anything.

My hands do the same.
Hard to hold anything,
With this earthquake
Terrorizing my body.
Cold and uneasy,
They cling to each other.

Is it just a chemical,
Artificial affliction?
Or a symptom,
Of all lost direction?
Where do I put
All this misplaced disruption?

Now find the pieces,
Paint the picture.
Find some reason
In this sloppy meter.
My understated explanation.
kevin hamilton Jan 2018
molten i woke
to your understated
outro song
crowded at the corpse door
with the curtains drawn
and only briefly wishing
phantom pain
on endless vigils
for a swollen soul

sealed the crypt
your moonlit recital ceased
to no applause
WL Schuett Mar 2018
The stars try to shine
Down through indifferent clouds.
Her tears mix with rain
and water her path
defining the moments
Of forever.
Love is the fiercest part
of her being.
Though she struggles to
find it’s authenticity
Hiding her codes
behind barbwire and thorns.
Her hands are bloodstained
in the hours of time.
She is mysterious
With many latitudes
Calling from a different
Kind of universe.
Yet she walks that path of stones
Believing she is a different
Person than the one she leaves
on the trail .

Walking away from that
Hushed comfort of
understated majesty.
Hearing music amid
The squalor of verse
With strangers who love
among the poetic’s
of language.

I grow tired of the
Deep waters
I’m learning to navigate
the shallows
Where purring oratory
Captures me and leaves
Me spellbound beyond
All measures and time .
a l e x Nov 2018
trigger warning: self harm, depression

there she goes again
spending each day with pain
i hope she gets through it
for she had long accepted her defeat.

it's understated that she's sad
and it has gone seriously mad.
she is more than depressed
nobody could've ever guessed.

there she lies alone
in the dark corner with her phone
she tries calling her friends
but they're too busy with the trends.

she moved with all her might
a metal in her hand gripped tight.
she had made up her mind
but all of a sudden she saw a rewind.

there she saw herself,
melancholic and looking for help
but she came to realize
there is no one but shadows and lies.
she saw there a mysterious light
and only she could help herself to fight.
written by me on 102516 | 12:57 am
˗ˏˋ happiness in little things is still happiness ˎˊ˗
Nadia Jun 20
Don’t lie to Nevada Baylor
It's a waste of your time
On a magic alternate earth
She's a truthseeker prime
Head of the family business
And a private investigator
When Houston is in danger
She’s tasked to find the perpetrator

One hundred fifty years ago
The Osirus virus gave
Magic talents to some people,
Mostly the rich and the brave
The virus was discontinued
Due to unpleasant results
And to keep power with Houses
- Think families plus cults

The dynastic Houses feud for
More than money and fame
They breed for powerful talents
To bring their Houses acclaim
Some powers are obvious
But some are understated
Then there are people who can’t
Control how they’ve mutated

The Baylor family is insignificant
Not of the Houses elite
Their talents are powerful
But they need to be discreet
They don’t want to play
Dangerous House games
Yet Nevada finds herself battling
to save Houston from flames

Read for adventure and romance
For banter and magic powers
Stay for the family chemistry
I could read Baylors for many hours
The whole series is fantastic
The audiobook narrator is great
If you’re into urban fantasy
Go ahead, one-click, don’t wait
Review in rhyme of a book I love
Older than a bat
I saw you in the stars
Following your heart
All the way back home
From all the bars you visited
You compare congratulations
To incongruent vacations
You sedate the understated
In anesthetic vacations
Vagitus vulgaris
Common among ****-sapiens
In silent reverie
We are speaking
To all the Goddesses at once
In silent memories
We are treasuring
Each of these precious moments
With gratitude and space
We faced our elemental being
Who never needs to chase
Or hustle to receive Her grace
Om Namah Shivaya
Om Shivaya Namaha
We are fundamental particles
Held together by invisible strings
These scalar waves of pressure
Are infinitely stronger and subtler
Than a thousand waterfalls
Gravity is our mother
And we no longer struggle
To stand up or down
We pack it in and out
As hymns of love
Grow in our frames
We straighten our spines
For it often takes more
Than ten thousand years
And millions upon millions
Of men, women and children
And perhaps a few billion
Unnecessary deaths
Or a trillion unsuccessful attempts
To complete the naming
Of all the many beings
Inhabiting the earth and stars
Which collectively comprise
The universe's heart
She sings, long live the king
For life is a marvelous thing
Still we are all a little off course
In developing mental health strategies
That actually do
What they're supposed to
For each and every single species
Is only half as radiant
And usually twice as complacent
As any shade-giving or fruit-bearing tree
These sediments are indeed sentimental
And all these fallen feathers
Speak only to living beings
Who fly on tiny wings of freedom
Your kind blue eyes
Blink twice as fast as mine
And disguise all your pretenses
Fingers often keep time
And finders keep rubies
Losers weep emeralds in glorious grieving
But can anybody tell me who the [email protected]#!
Are all these pseudo-teachers
That sell you their minds so cheaply
If buying time is a waste of money
Then meretricious attorneys
Bleed you of your dignity
Currently it is only in dying
That we see no need to speak
While our currency is evolving
We are solely imitations
Of our inimical engines of digestion
As sedentary wives
Remain tied to triumphant spines
Shining like a pestilence
Atrophying like elephants at a circus
Their bodies and minds imprisoned
And bound by imaginary stakes in the dirt
Young prisoners in solitary confinement
Are hiding mental gems
And emotional diamonds
In lonely shipping containers
For you to polish and find
Like two lovers intertwined
I can guide myself despite your lies
I resolve to see
All corrupt lawyers go blind
While many more are voluntarily buried
Beneath their own illegal fantasies/histories
And bureaucratic guidelines
While in the depth of night
She yields to no-one
And only kind words
Can heal these enemies
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
life more abundant calls forth an expandable reality primo,
thus wisdom, the principal thing when-ce all other
things may be made

machine level codifiers ifying
meaning back into idle words.

Keep the secret. Answer the call,
who will help the widow's son?

You, Templar, what message bear ye to my child?,
asked the widow.
Fi-del-e-tus. with a squeeze and a tap,
wink and grin

Poet, who named the prophet?
who named the teller to tales?
who gave thee hearing ear and seeing eye?

Some mind imagined those as yet unformed in forever past.
You agree. You experienced living, so far.

So good, we move on, figurative re re re al-it if-ity
Haps apt to appear be fore your veri variety of being even
hapt as a thing thought, imagined made for a function, as yet

undone. Conserve the NULL set, that whole idea is dangerously
close to fading…

Have you seen those videos of soap bubbles filled with H
and no O?
You should see those, to recall the phenomenonal pre-dictatorial
image, see the bubble, invisible but
for reflection of ambient ambits in our epigenetic radiosphere,

bubbles collapse, and for a flash, flame orange shaped
as the bubble was.
No ex-plo sion it-a-tivity, mere dis cipation,
loss of grip on the shape of things that were, now
con forms to re per ceive,

try again, get a good grip, swing and a miss, go again
take a Mulligan, I think, some game has such a rule,

We can use it here. We can scroll back up,
like a rope lift on the bunny hill at Big Bear, back when…

wheels in wheels, bubbles in bubbles, forms in forms

this is the information age I was informed. Adamkind, those
qubitical, ambitical little images of

Who, who? would a name comfort-you worth more than a breath?
Fresh air after a minuted moment twixt out and in again,

Power, create ific power haps twixt out an in again,
the cipitation, the d was missed, what if it were not?

re-read, religion once meant that, re-connect, too,
religion meant that state of having re-read the map,
re-tied the worth carrying,
stacked the worthless by the trail so
some hapless stranger may see
the treasure it was and is, to any who care to

receive, or con ceive it for the
truth I found in it and kept, which I leave to you
here:
Both treasure and truth are where ye find them,
and shall be for ever, when ever starts for you.

Ezekial, judge my riddle, please. The fool missed the
point of conception…
No, no no no

A fool's dance in a Phrygian cap with useless, symbolic wings…
gee, Phrygian, means nothing to you? Google it, you live in the future.
Later,
A time upon which a Mercury dime would comfort
a rich American Tyrant, son of the Flim-flam man,
no lie, this is mythic, you can't make this stuff up
its history. Hysterical, right
John D. Standard-for-Petropower-manifestation,
the dead's carbon footprints bubbling up
to fire and fridgin' ice, whoa, who broke the world,

I was distracted. Did you know the planet is
as self healing as those scabs on my grandkids knees?

ah, caper, eh? Capere, to grasp, to take,
ceive means accept by taking,
be liefing an idea ceived ex nihilo, is likened unto

Drinking from a still pond in a distant land. Sults,
results. may result in,
Dear Rhea revenging Montezuma, at a gut level.

However, a sort of how in an open mind facing forever,
a sort of omni-directional saliency
seeing further,
--Bomb, Jesus-bomb--

At least two reasons for thinking Jesus is objective, out side
you or inside you. You aren't Jesus. Jesus is a friend of mine,
in my mind, object-if-I-try
to pray, listen pray hopes
happen
shapes form
forever from ever point, every point, not of, in buy

a why..
why does a y on the end of every mean any thing?

That's the y-factor. You will learn why wise men still seek those.
As treasure, they are light, and the taste is beyond

the grasp of tongue to tell

that whole class of moded-ever words weave wards
whenever, forever, however, whatever
used proper, everafter,
that will save Dresden, some time, we think.

However, now, Rhea by name has entered the game.

Who is this named femofame? What game is she good in?
Or does she just knock the **** out of lying spirits?
Cool.

Ah, mother of all the gods, I recall, I mean
I meant to say
I remember, then I for got the power words hold here
exactly heare in eleven metrixed mentions,

this point, in time, not of time.
In the world, not of the world, you've heard the pharse?
The allusion is not lost on you, you know the phrase,

In the world, not of the world, holier men than I have
claimed to be, while I follow a few fine words,
linguistic kief, sprinkled fairy dust, like the stuff
captured in the gleaming film on your
microscopic-outer eye

see a salient point in time.

A pin point 'pon which one,
no more,
one story begins for ever, a gain in good net
value, if

we have tasted that word, chewed the gristle,
indigestible ligaments and sin-yews and such,
which once anchored meat to bone,

value is first good. Good e nough, nough
Gut genug, okeh,
maybe not my best, my best is yet to come, they say.

sufficient for today
------

enough (adj.)
c. 1300, from Old English genog "sufficient in quantity or number,"
from Proto-Germanic compound *ganog "sufficient"
(source also of Old Saxon ginog,
Old Frisian enoch, Dutch genoeg,
Old High German ginuog, German genug,
Old Norse gnogr, Gothic ganohs).
First element is Old English ge- "with, together"
(also a participial, collective, intensive, or perfective prefix),
making this word the most prominent surviving example
of the Old English prefix,
the equivalent of Latin com- and Modern German ge- 
(from PIE *kom- "beside, near, by, with;" see com-).
Second element is from PIE *nok-, from root *nek- (2)
"to reach, attain"
(source also of Sanskrit asnoti "to reach,"
Hittite ninikzi "lifts, raises,"
Lithuanian nešti "to bear, carry," Latin nancisci "to obtain").

As an adverb, "sufficiently for the purpose,"
in Old English; meaning
"moderately, fairly, tolerably" (good enough) was in Middle English. Understated sense, as in have had enough "have had too much" was in Old English (which relied heavily on double negatives and understatement).

As a noun in Old English,
"a quantity or number sufficient for the purpose." As an interjection, "that is enough," from c. 1600. Colloquial 'nough said is attested from 1839.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/enough#etymonlinev8703>
Godliness with contentment is great gain, a precept I was chewing on following a ritual holy day of gratitude to goodness for goodness sake in my cultural gut genug state of mind.
Andrew Rueter Jan 26
They used to worship the Creator
Now they worship job creators
Because of their blind nature
And aggressive nomenclature
They sacrifice life and limb
Bringing all that is grim
Making the world dim
Not listening to Him

They won’t budge
While they judge
And hold a grudge
As they trudge
Behind whoever has the answers
Or can cure their cancer
Like a magic necromancer
Raising skeleton dancers

They’re sheep
They’re slaves
I’m not deep
I’m just saying
Their praying
Donkey braying
Causes slaying
Fish filleting

Christianity seems stupid
After they’ve used it
Which is *******
From a ghoul’s wit
Who can’t cool it
Becoming enslaved by anger
And afraid of strangers
Any threat of danger
Nullifies Jesus’ manger

The pious anoint them
The rich exploit them
I wish I could avoid them
Instead I just annoy them

They say the Bible is the greatest thing ever written
But I really love the song Subdivisions
Which they call derision
But Jesus said we would do greater works
Yet the mere idea of that hurts
So they act like jerks
When I tell them not to compare Hattori Hanzo swords
They formulate violent hateful hordes
Expelling anger they’ve stored
Towards me
Trying to set them free
From a more manipulative breed
Until I hate them
And underrate them
After they understated
Jesus’ compassion
I can’t see in their fashion
Building a fascist far right bastion

They scream
And yell
Their dream
A hell
I can’t tell
How they fell
Under the spell
Of a holy well

They’re lured
By a cure
And obscure
The truer
Who can make progress
But meet resistance
In holy offense
And insistence
We may need some distance
To make up this difference
patty m May 16
My intoxicating kisses
no near misses,
sweet and deep
they seep through your bloodstream
one hundred proof and
who can stay aloof
as knees buckle
and I suckle every inch of you.
lust rising high
take me quickly, Lover
or you'll think you're going to die.


Burning desire
like whiskey's fire
burns reality away
only you can tame the flame
driving yourself insane
with yearnings to be sated.
My charm is understated,
my power unknown
but darling you're the one,
my love is yours alone.

I acquiesce, giving you
what you want this time
need leaves you wanton
warm and sublime.
I'm yours for the taking
drink me up or set me down
I'm whiskey in a bottle
baby, and I'll burn you
to the ground.

Addiction, makes you weak
we barely speak,
imbribe, and scribe
words on a page
sage wisdom of ages
filling the pages
while want surges
merging with heat
leaving you weak.
You thought I was pawn
now I am the queen
drink me down quickly
to polish the sheen.
Withdrawn, vagabond
drooping half dead
I'm your fantasy lover
my whispers whirl
in  your head.
Drink
drown out pain
as I tease, cajole
your assets extole
while cutting your legs off
down to your kness
I'm your Mistress baby
and I'll do as I please.
Submit,
or feel the whip
as I bind you in chains,
brains addled, once wise
now tortured mindless
one merely surmises
truth in helpless cries.
And yet you sometimes rise
above it all
bandy about like the ****
on the wall

**** a doodle do
coo coo ca choo,
too bad for you.
cut off, cut down
you're merely a clown
playing out fantasy

coddled lamb
to hell you'll be ******
while I'm still feeling frisky,
I'm one hundred proof
sometime aloof
I'm your genie in the bottle
going full throttle

I'm Whiskey
Butch Decatoria Nov 2018
Pan
Poet dances song in quietude
our dreams throng
down huckleberry roads

Unscripted spoken motions
Mosaic heart emotes

Hope

As he composed
Faces glow so
connect the dots
those consumed disposed

Knowing we're not broken
But in the art we form
as one whole - our garden grows...

Poet paints love with understated eloquence
visions of war never-was

with every tear an ocean
with every dream a peace

all seedling springs.

Poet grants wish
Dances in the street
laughter as he weeps

beauty is what we all seek
to lovingly keep

evergreen

and free.
Repost revised
stéphane noir Nov 2018
when i think of you
it's always christmas in my heart.
it's always icy cold and brisk -
not the kind of cold that you bristle at,
but the cold that makes you gasp for a breath,
like you've just realized you're alive.

the feeling swells from my heart,
up the sides of my neck,
warming everything it touches,
enflaming muscles it has no business brushing,
until i can barely get any air down my windpipe.
my lungs seize up, just as they are,
and i can't remember ever taking a deep breath in my life.
are you buried down there in my solar plexus still?

i know i've gotta be out of my mind -
that's one thing i'm sure of these days.
but i can't shake that excitement from my heart,
like i might see you this time,
you might be around just for a few days
and we might sneak off together to talk,
dreaming dreams bigger than each of us,
bigger than both of us,
or just sit somewhere and be silent.
i'll make up and excuse about seeing an old friend,
not a lie, really. no, not a lie at all. simply understated.

god i'm thankful for these memories.
i'm so grateful, through and through,
for the blaze that flames on in my heart,
a feeling i could never forget, never replace.
God bless the freezing air, the frost on the windows,
the leafless trees, stiff and cold on the side streets,
the brick buildings and all their contained heat,
a hot tea, and you forgetting all the words to all the songs,
the fireplace in the downstairs den that I'll never see again.

God bless the early mornings and late nights,
the trading of songs back and forth,
the wrapping of emotional gifts and
the excitement of opening them in front of each other,
the beanies and layers of coats and sweaters,
the dressing up, doing of hair, & sweet smelling perfume.
God bless the light beers and sweet wines,
antique shopping and long cash-wrap lines,
lattes and americanos, hot in your little hand,
the smell of coffee beans wafting through my nostrils
early in the morning when mom is the only one awake.

but most of all god bless the music.
the sound of church bells drawing out
a year's worth of love and hope from my heart,
eternal, transcendent and completely dissociated from personality,
the electric guitars playing "o holy night",
my mom on the piano, a text from you on the screen.

i'd be nothing without that music, different without you.
i don't miss the arguments and the fights, the awkwardness,
but i miss the rosy edges of everything,
all of my experiences at Christmas are tainted by you -
i miss focusing on what i'm doing,
while always half-focusing on you.
"sure, i'm helping cook dinner - but did my phone just buzz?!"
it did. it always did. whenever i checked, it was buzzing.

my brain can't understand this
or plan what needs to be done,
so i will leave the matter to my heart,
the ***** of deepening, infiltrating
penetrating and incorporating all of the love it feels
into every moment of every day of my life.

out here, a glass is raised,  always waiting for your cheers.
Why is “god” censored?
b for short Jan 4
I know exactly what this looks like.
Cold, grey, and understated.
It's the bruised piece of fruit at the bottom of the crate;
the one everyone sees but won't commit to buying.
He thinks he won't buy it either,
but when she drops him,
the loneliness consumes, it envelopes,  
and the grasping begins.
He grabs... anything.
He grabs the bruised fruit.
He sinks his teeth into its soft flesh;
juices sweet;
texture pleasing.
He forgets the superficial imperfections.
After he's enjoyed it down to its bare core,
it knows.
This was only temporary.
He won't replant the seeds to watch it grow.
He won't thank it for the nourishment
that got him by.
He will drop it, without regard,
as he admires
the polished pieces placed at the top of the crate.
When he's hungry, he'll choose, carefully, this time,
without letting on he knows exactly what this looks like.
Seeds by a trashcan;
unfulfilled potential strewn across the floor;
a rotting purpose.
© Bitsy Sanders, January 2019
Silence and shapeless images
Dancing naked on the edge of a sword
We are spinning our breath into meager sediments
And what’s left are my only relationships
Is this my retaliation against the blades of oblivion
Why must I always be eliminated right before illumination
Or the combustion of concrete symbols like carbon atoms
As if my soul was undergoing oxidation
It's unconscious really that the instant we need to be aware
We take a break from concentration and fall into silent reverie
A shining monotony as the moon
Lights the way to our observation towers
We are heavy as daylight and lonely as an empty windowsill  
Whenever the sunlight shines luxuriously upon it
We are human beings doing but just barely used to using
Our unlimited and never-ending powers of imagination
If it's not elation that makes us escape our innocent privations
Then must we be immaculately nascent
Or veritably complacent and understated
In our jogging shoes and self effacement strategies
You have the blues and the reds too
The vibrations echo and they become your only decoration
Mellow and sedated we escape our approximations
By just getting a little more naked and familiar with our shadows
We shake our shoulders and shift our weight back towards the basics
As we get a little older we fold our best napkins in our pockets
And reposition the sockets and the clocks by our nightstands
To tell time just how we would like it to be
Exactly the way it was right before we died to ourselves
Are you understanding my odd way of speaking
Listening to the rhyming water as humid arias fall short of permutations
We are negotiating with contemplation’s namesake
Underlying visitations from our highest escalators
Concentrate and digest, we move forward
And caress the feathery fingers you have bared too often
We are clever and undefinable formulations
Monkeying around with the substrate of our eradication
I speak elated seances and fancy equations
Which underlie our negated vituperations
A Motley array of monkey business
Fizzles in the vaporous mist
It's an evaporative way of saying i love you
We are tender and tangential
We are offended by the examples you forget to administer
In your haste you restate the laziness of a piece of paper towel
To reply to your confessions
Underneath the premonitions you make
Is something that tastes quite a bit like logic
patty m Dec 1
Perhaps we should be displayed in art museums like oil paintings of old,
frozen unthawed, cracked and flawed and still people would come and speak in hushed tones,
and stare at the wonders hanging there,
prevented from touching while clutching to heart beauty understated,
perhaps poets too, should not be touched but venerated?

For who can foretell fate, calm warriors, cry for the dead,
compose prayers while filled with dread?
Who can woo and cajole and make us smile,
and always trudge the extra mile?

Who reads for presidents, dictators and kings,
while describing phenomenal extravagant things?  POETS!
Will we become rich, nay, but love comes swiftly, along with kisses,
as submissively our voices rise and touch the skies, in hallelujah or reprisal.
So keenly we feel, while blood runs hot, our words spill freely
and never stop, crimson and heady like the finest wine,
our implications caress, express emotion and manipulate the mind.
We create scenarios wondrously beautiful or horridly wicked as well;
bowers of velvety flowers, or flame licking bowels of hell
Still the followers bring praise and accolades, and vie for our attention,
while some turn and jab us with pointed barbs to stick in bards filling us with apprehension.
Sometimes we lose ourselves for hours, days,
in thought and deepening haze,
allaying the fright of deepest night,
for who are we should we lose the love of our fleeting, and teasing muse?

Thought unsought, words play as we prey on hearts of men
and then again, the Ave Maria, sangria, and drops of blood,
entwining hearts and limbs in hymns of praise and endless love.
Sage minds grow melancholy, tiring of folly.
should we abstain, feel pain and never write it down,
be proverbial clowns living a life turned upside down?
I'd rather be planted in the ground.  What of You?
could you give it all away?   The mainstay of life
each and every day? Are we mad, if so I'm glad
for mad is better than bland
To poets across this earth I extend my hand
strike up the band, unfold the banners saying
Aren't Poets Grand?

To our critics I say stow it,
there is nothing better than being a poet.

— The End —