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Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
I am taken from Yunann to the
coastal Province of Fujian, where
boats sail fair as fishermen fish. I
land by a pond with waters cascading
down boulders and rocks as old as
time itself.

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
But even though there are trimmed
and hale blades of green, there is a
single flora, the corona of the water
Not the chrysanthemum with its svelte,
curling petals of the gelid transition
from the crimson leaves of autumn
kissed by the rathe winters.

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Instead it is a single fuchsia lotus
bud,a pristine and graceful soul
unperturbed by murked waters.
As I get a closer look, the lotus
open slowly into full bloom and
with it, the golden essence -
ethereal, a star that throbs like
a heaven's dream, and it appears -
the phoenix.

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Its plumage a brilliant shade of
red-gold, and wings and long tail
beset by iridescent streaks and jewels.
Slim-legged, clawed feet of a deep azure
and eyes, such a blight blue-green.
Looking to the sky, it releases such
a melodious cry and a star falls
a throbbing silver-white. It glides
to my hands and it is revealed,
another glorious Pearl Moon.

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
With a peck of its beak, the Moon
cracks once more and my nose is
besieged by leaf pellets scented o'er
and o'er with fresh jasmine blossoms.
Seaweed green with licks of marigold
and shaped after the Phoenix's hot

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Unlike the Dragon's Pu'erh pearls,
this aroma is dainty in its sweet floral
with a kiss of green; I can taste the sugar!
Velveteen on my tongue! A brew worthy
of chosen Kings and Queens. I notice that
the light of the Phoenix begins to fade.
As our eyes meet, it cries once more, a
sweet and happy cry born of Elysia,
before it fades away in gust of wind.

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
The lotus petals fall off and float,
becoming soft rose-kissed boats;
the leaves have yellowed, browned
and wilted. All that remains is a
dry stamens but I see that the
ovaries are beginning to

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
'Ahh,' my eyes now open, dazed,
'The Phoenix Eye pearls. Such a
fine golden liquor you will become!'
Anihana smiles, 'Indeed, My Lady.'
'I assume the final batch is its twin
'Yes, My Lady. Jasmine, Green and
Lily pearls.' Anihana places the
burr-oak caddy down to grab the
caddy maple-wood.

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
'Each pearl, all laboured with love,' I
coo. 'Such fresh tender herbs rolled into
blessed pearls that are either fermented
or sit with it's blossoming flowers for
many days and nights. Cover the Pu'erh
and the Jasmine Lily. I wish to be cleansed
by the Phoenix Eyes.'
'Yes, Sweet Queen.'
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Part five of my Jasmine Pearls free verse!
Enjoy! ^-^
Lyn ***
King Panda Apr 2017
Smell of lilacs bloom
to no end—a nebulous glow of
purple, perfect, and unperturbed—your
poem of lilies with caution tape
snug in my backpack—
your pollen hundreds of miles
away—a firebrick orange
sung again and again. A cotton
blow unlike anything colorful
—a white puff of dandruff before
the rain—a bouquet for
your spring stitched
stem by stem.
Ah, Nikolaas, my love for him is not the same, as my love for thee;
My love for thee was once, and may still be, sweeter, purer, more elegant, and free;
But still, how unfortunate! imprisoned in mockery, and liberated not-by destiny;
It still hath to come and go; it cannot stay cheerfully-about thee forever, and within my company.

And but tonight-shall Amsterdam still be cold?
But to cold temper thou shalt remain unheeded; thou shalt be tough, and bold;
Sadly I am definite about having another nightmare, meanwhile, here;
For thy voice and longings shall be too far; with presumptions and poems, I cannot hear.

Sleep, my loveliest, sleep; for unlike thine, none other temper, or love-is in some ways too fragrant, and sweet;
All of which shall neither tempt me to flirt, nor hasten me to meet;
My love for thee is still undoubted, defined, and unhesitant;
Like all t'is summer weather around; 'tis both imminent, and pleasant.

My love for thee, back then, was but one youthful-and reeking of temporal vitality;
But now 'tis different-for fathom I now-the distinction between sincerity, and affectation.
Ah, Nikolaas, how once we strolled about roads, and nearby spheres-in living vivacity;
With sweets amongst our tongues-wouldst we attend every song, and laugh at an excessively pretentious lamentation.

Again-we wouldst stop in front of every farm of lavender;
As though they wanted to know, and couldst but contribute their breaths, and make our love better.
We were both in blooming youth, and still prevailed on-to keep our chastity;
And t'is we obeyed gladly, and by each ot'er, days passed and every second went even lovelier.

But in one minute thou wert but all gone away;
Leaving me astray; leaving me to utter dismay.
I had no more felicity in me-for all was but, in my mind, a dream of thee;
And every step was thus felt like an irretrievable path of agony.

Ah, yon agony I loathe! The very agony I wanted but to slaughter, to redeem-and to bury!
For at t'at time I had known not the beauty of souls, and poetry;
I thought but the world was wholly insipid and arrogant;
T'at was so far as I had seen, so far as I was concerned.

I hath now, seen thy image-from more a lawful angle-and lucidity;
And duly seen more of which-and all start to fall into place-and more indolent, clarity;
All is fair now, though nothing was once as fair;
And now with peace, I want to be friends; I want to be paired.

Perhaps thou couldst once more be part of my tale;
But beforehand, I entreat thee to see, and listen to it;
A tale t'at once sent into my heart great distrust and sadness, and made it pale;
But from which now my heart hath found a way out, and even satisfactorily flirted with it,

For every tale, the more I approach it, is as genuine as thee;
And in t'is way-and t'is way only, I want thee to witness me, I want thee to see me.
I still twitch with tender madness at every figure, and image-I hath privately, of thine;
They are still so captivatingly clear-and a most fabulous treasure to my mind.

My love for thee might hath now ended; and shall from now on-be dead forever;
It hath been buried as a piece of unimportance, and a dear old, obsolete wonder;
And thus worry not, for in my mind it hath become a shadow, and ceased to exist;
I hath made thee resign, I hath made thee drift rapidly away, and desist.

Ah, but again, I shall deny everything I hath said-'fore betraying myself once more;
Or leading myself into the winds of painful gravity, or dismissive cold tremor;
For nothing couldst stray me so well as having thee not by my side;
An image of having thee just faraway-amidst the fierceness of morns, and the very tightness of nights.

And for seconds-t'ese pains shall want to bury me away, want to make me shout;
And shout thy very name indeed; thy very own aggravated silence, and sins out loud;
Ah, for all t'ese shadows about are too vehement-but eagerly eerie;
Like bursts of outspread vigilance, misunderstood but lasting forever, like eternity.

'Twas thy own mistake-and thus thou ought'a blame anyone not;
Thou wert the one to storm away; thou wert the one who cut our story short.
Thou wert the one who took whole leave, of the kind entity-of my precious time and space;
And for nothingness thou obediently set out; leaving all we had built, to abundant waste.

Thou disappeared all too quickly-and wert never seen again;
Thou disappeared like a column of smoke, to whom t'is virtual world is partial;
And none of thy story, since when-hath stayed nor thoughtfully remained;
Nor any threads of thy voice were left behind, to stir and ring, about yon hall.

Thou gaily sailed back into thy proud former motherland;
Ah, and the stirring noises of thy meticulous Amsterdam;
Invariably as a man of royalty, in thy old arduous way back again;
Amongst the holiness of thy mortality; 'twixt the demure hesitations, of thy royal charms.

And thou art strange! For once thou mocked and regarded royalty as *******;
But again, to which itself, as credulous, and soulless victim, thou couldst serenely fall;
Thus thou hath perpetually been loyal not, to thy own pride, and neatly sworn words;
Thou art forever divided in his dilemma; and the unforgiving sweat, of thy frightening two worlds.

Indeed thy godlike eyes once pierced me-and touched my very fleshly happiness;
But with a glory in which I couldst not rejoice; at which I couldst not blush with tenderness.
Thy charms, although didst once burn and throttle me with a ripe vitality;
Still wert not smooth-and ever offered to cuddle me more gallantly; nor kiss my boiling lips, more softly.

Every one of t'ese remembrances shall make me hate thee more;
But thou thyself hath made more forgiving, and excellent-like never before;
'Ah, sweet,' thou wouldst again protested-last night, 'Who in t'is very life wouldst make no sin?'
'Forgiveth every sinned soul thereof; for 'tis unfaithful, for 'tis all inherently mean.'

'Aye, aye,' and thou wouldst assent to my subsequent query,
'I hath changed forever-not for nothingness, but for eternitie.'
'To me love o' gold is now but nothing as succulent',
'I shall offer elegantly myself to not be of any more torment, but as a loyal friend.'

'I shall calleth my former self mad; and be endued with nothing but truths, of rifles and hate;'
'But now I shall attempt to be obedient; and naughty not-towards my fate.'
'Ah, let me amendst thereof-my initial nights, my impetuous mistakes,'
'Let me amendst what was once not dignified; what was once said as false, and fake.'

'So t'at whenst autumn once more findeth its lapse, and in its very grandness arrive,'
'I hopeth thy wealth of love shall hath been restored, and all shall be alive,'
'For nothing hath I attempted to achieve, and for nothing else I hath struggled to strive;'
'But only to propose for thy affection; and thy willingness to be my saluted wife.'

And t'is small confession didst, didst tear my dear heart into pieces!
But canst I say-it was ceremoniously established once more-into settlements of wishes;
I was soon enlivened, and no longer blurred by tumult, nor discourteous-hesitation;
Ah, thee, so sweetly thou hath consoled, and removed from me-the sanctity of any livid strands of my dejection.

For in vain I thought-had I struggled, to solicit merely affection-and genuinity from thee;
For in vain I deemed-thou couldst neither appreciate me-nor thy coral-like eyes, couldst see;
And t'is peril I perched myself in was indeed dangerous to my night and day;
For it robbed me of my mirth; and shrank insolently my pride and conscience, stuffing my wholeness into dismay.

But thou hath now released me from any further embarkation of mineth sorrow;
Thou who hath pleased me yesterday; and shall no more be distant-tomorrow;
Thou who couldst brighten my hours by jokes so fine-and at times, ridiculous;
Thou who canst but, from now on, as satisfactory, irredeemable, and virtuous.

Ah, Nikolaas, farther I shall be no more to calleth thee mad; or render thee insidious;
Thou shall urge me to forget everything, as hating souls is not right, and perilous;
Thou remindeth me of forgiving's glorious, and profound elegance;
And again 'tis the holiest deed we ought to do; the most blessed, and by God-most desired contrivance.

Oh, my sweet, perhaps thou hath sinned about; but amongst the blessed, thou might still be the most blessed;
For nothing else but gratitude and innocence are now seen-in thy chest;
Even when I chastised thee-and called thee but an impediment;
Thou still forgave me, and turned myself back again into elastic merriment.

Thou art now pure-and not by any means meek, but cruel-like thy old self is;
For unlike 'tis now, it couldst never be satisfied, nor satiated, nor pleased;
'Twas far too immersed in his pursuit of bloodied silver, and gold;
And to love it had grown blind, and its greedy woes, healthily too bold.

And just like its bloodied silver-it might be but the evil blood itself;
For it valued, and still doth-every piece with madness, and insatiable hunger;
Its works taint his senses, and hastened thee to want more-of what thou couldst procure-and have,
But it realised not that as time passed by, it made thee but grew worse-and in the most virtuous of truth, no better.

But thou bore it like a piece of godlike, stainless ivory;
Thou showered, and endured it with love; and blessed it with well-established vanity.
Now it hath been purified, and subdued-and any more teaches thee not-how to be impatient, nor imprudent;
As how it prattled only, over crude, limitless delights; and the want of reckless impediments.

Thou nurtured it, and exhorted it to discover love-all day and night;
And now love in whose soul hath been accordingly sought, and found;
And led thee to absorb life like a delicate butterfly-and raiseth thy light;
The light thou hath now secured and refined within me; and duly left me safe, and sound.

Thou hath restored me fully, and made me feel but all charmed, awesome, and way more heavenly;
Thou hath toughened my pride and love; and whispered the loving words he hath never spoken to me.
Ah, I hope thou art now blessed and safely pampered in thy cold, mischievous Amsterdam;
Amsterdam which as thou hath professed-is as windy, and oft' makes thy fingers grow wildly numb.

Amsterdam which is sick with superior lamentations, and fame;
But never adorned with exact, or at least-honest means of scrutiny;
For in every home exists nothing but bursts of madness, and flames;
And in which thereof, lives 'twixt nothing-but meaningless grandeur, and a poorest harmony.

Amsterdam which once placed thee in pallid, dire, and terrible horror;
Amsterdam which gave thy spines thrills of disgust, and infamous tremor;
But from which thou wert once failed, fatefully, neither to flee, nor escape;
Nor out of whose stupor, been able to worm thy way out, or put which, into shape.

But I am sure out of which thou art now delightful-and irresistibly fine;
For t'ere is no more suspicion in thy chest-and all of which hath gone safely to rest;
All in thy very own peace-and the courteous abode of our finest poetry;
Which lulls thee always to sleep-and confer on thee forever, degrees of a warmest, pleasantry.

Ah, Nikolaas-as thou hath always been, a child of night, but born within daylight;
Poor-poor child as well, of the moon, whose life hath been betrayed but by dullness, and fright.
Ah, Nikolaas-but should hath it been otherwise-wouldst thou be able to see thine light?
And be my son of gladness, be my prince of all the more peaceful days; and ratified nights.

And should it be like which-couldst I be the one; the very one idyll-to restore thy grandeur?
As thou art now, everything might be too blasphemous, and in every way obscure;
But perhaps-I couldst turn every of thine nightmare away, and maketh thee secure;
Perhaps I couldst make thee safe and glad and sleep soundly; perfectly ensured.

Ah, Nikolaas! For thy delight is pure-and exceptionally pure, pure, and pure!
And thy innocence is why I shall craft thee again in my mind, and adore thee;
For thy absurdity is as shy, and the same as thy purity;
But in thy hands royalty is unstained, flawless, and just too sure.

For in tales of eternal kingdoms-thou shalt be the dignified king himself;
Thou shalt be blessed with all godly finery, and jewels-which thou thyself deserve;
And not any other tyrant in t'ese worlds-who mock ot'er souls and pretend to be brave;
But trapped within t'eir own discordant souls, and wonders of deceit and curses of reserve.

Oh, sweet-sweet Nikolaas! Please then, help my poetry-and define t'is heart of me!
Listen to its heartbeat-and tellest me, if it might still love thee;
Like how it wants to stretch about, and perhaps touch the moonlight;
The moonlight that does look and seem to far, but means still as much-to our very night.

Ah! Look, my darling-as the moonlight shall smile again, to our resumed story;
If our story is, in unseen future, ever truly resumed-and thus shall cure everything;
As well t'is unperturbed, and still adorably-longing feeling;
The feeling that once grew into remorse-as soon as thou stomped about, and faraway left me.

Again love shall be, in thy purest heart-reincarnated,
For 'tis the only single being t'at is wondrous-and inexhaustible,
To our souls, 'tis but the only salvation-and which is utterly edible,
To console and praise our desperate beings-t'at were once left adrift, and unheartily, infuriated.

Love shall be the cure to all due breathlessness, and trepidations;
Love shall be infallible, and on top of all, indefatigable;
And love shall be our new invite-to the recklessness of our exhausted temptations;
Once more, shall love be our merit, which is sacred and unalterable; and thus unresentful, and infallible.

Love shall fill us once more to the brim-and make our souls eloquent;
Love be the key to a life so full-and lakes of passion so ardent;
Enabling our souls to flit about and lay united hands on every possible distinction;
Which to society is perhaps not free; and barrier as they be, to the gaiety of our destination.

Thus on the rings of union again-shall our dainty hearts feast;
As though the entire world hath torn into a beast;
But above all, they shan't have any more regrets, nor hate;
Or even frets, for every fit of satisfaction hath been reached; and all thus, hath been repaid.

Thus t'is might be thee; t'at after all-shall be worthy of my every single respect;
As once thou once opened my eyes-and show me everything t'at t'is very world might lack.
Whilst thou wert striving to be admirable and strong; t'is world was but too prone and weak;
And whilst have thy words and poetry; everyone was just perhaps too innocent-and had no clue, about what to utter, what to speak.

Thou might just be the very merit I hath prayed for, and always loved;
Thou might hath lifted, and relieved me prettily; like the stars very well doth the moon above.
And among your lips, lie your sweet kisses t'at made me live;
A miracle he still possesses not; a specialty he might be predestined not-to give.

Thou might be the song I hath always wanted to written;
But sadly torn in one day of storm; and thus be secretly left forgotten;
Ah, Nikolaas, but who is to say t'at love is not at all virile, easily deceived, and languid?
For any soul saying t'at might be too delirious, or perhaps very much customary, and insipid.

And in such darkness of death; thou shalt always be the tongue to whom I promise;
One with whom I shall entrust the very care of my poetry; and ot'er words of mouth;
One I shall remember, one I once so frightfully adored, and desired to kiss;
One whose name I wouldst celebrate; as I still shall-and pronounce every day, triumphantly and aggressively, out loud.

For thy name still rings within me with craze, but patterned accusation, of enjoyment;
For thy art still fits me into bliss, and hopeful expectations of one bewitching kiss;
Ah, having thee in my imagination canst turn me idle, and my cordial soul-indolent;
A picture so naughty it snares my whole mind-more than everything, even more than his.

Oh, Nikolaas, and perhaps so thereafter, I shall love, and praise thee once more-like I doth my poetry;
For as how my poetry is, thou art rooted in me already; and thus breathe within me.
Thou art somehow a vein in my blood, and although fictitious still-in my everyday bliss;
Thou art worth more than any other lov
Grant B Apr 2013
She's been sent as a test,
to see how I handle the stress.
That's my guess.
And I've handled her well,
as she seeks to discredit me,
get at me,
push all my buttons.
She pushes and pokes,
and provokes.
But I'm not going to bite,
'cos she's wrong and I'm right.
So I'm playing the long game.
Staying the same,
being me.
Unperturbed by relentless
attacks on my work.
And it's working,
I'm learning,
I'm earning my stripes.
Growing up,
showing up.
Being sure of myself.
Dismissing the thoughts
that seek vengeance.
To stoop to her level.
'Cos I've been there before,
and it didn't work out.
She can shout all she likes,
and I'll never shout back.
'Cos I'm better than that.
spysgrandson Jul 2016
anonymous winds
bend tall Timothy grasses,
wake rabbits napping
in the brush

they ripple the surface
of the stock tanks, tickle the haunches
of the beasts who wade there
to slurp the tepid waters

they birth red dust devils
for my eyes to follow, as they scud
through mesquite, and hopscotch over canyons
older than time

one day, soon, they will blow
over a shallow earth bed; I will not hear
their sibilant song, but my sleep will be deep,
unperturbed by their mystic music
Emeka Mokeme Jun 2018
This is my rising,
it is so glaring.
The longer you hold
me down the better
and brighter I shine.
I am like the firefly,
the remote darkness
with my brightness,
giving it an
illusion of magic.
The tinted glow
mixed up with
the cries of
mammals and birds
of the night makes it
a mysterious moment.
Alone at deepest abyss,
with the flicker
of the moonlight
penetrating through the
leaves in the forest,
i can hear
the wolves calling out
as if beckoning for
me to approach.
The fireflies giving
out their light
freely unperturbed
by my presence.
How can you not see
the love of nature,
working tirelessly
in synergy
with all things.
Even though you ignore it,
never can it go away,
for the beauty
of its flame
can make the fairies
grant your wish.
The heart knows
the unexplainable
mysteries of the
invisible which the
mouth cannot express.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
King Panda Feb 2016
you play
finger puppets
in the black sky
little worms
hot soil
and foot

“I’m going to
eat this star.
Actually, I’m going
to eat them all.
I’m awfully

you find the
nutella I hid
under the rock
and dip the
puppets in

“Did you know
I sew?
I sewed these
the little black
eyes and the
teensy red
buttons. All in
the patience
this sky taught

your mouth
is dry and
you search
for lake water

“I swear, it’s
so hard being
a fish in

the desert

we prayed for
rain and danced
naked in
the sand
now it’s
night and
the sand went
to sleep
now it’s night
and the stars
are disks

“Lord, take
me now. I’m a
painter, a
painter without

the act is
the shield
put down
and the night
as you lick
chocolate paint
from your

“Goodnight, friend.
Sleep well, fish.
Until tomorrow, moon.”

your body
the emerald
of color
ankit nayar May 2014
a midday *****,an uncalled visitor
your growth i shall stem.
you and me
we redefine being *****
for a midday **** is but one(of seven).
for long have we been in isolation
blurry front butts lead to *******.
you and me,we're a team.
i yank
you spit and roll over
and in pagan unison we thank
the sweet nymph of punaani .
Jasmine Martin Aug 2015
Hot desert winds’ve come up suddenly and
covered my reality with a blanket
of Sahara dust
obscuring the mountains
like fog in the fall

The view I so love is cast
in an eerie yellowish grey light
the endless horizon cut down to a fraction
of itself
surreal and unfamiliar

I’m feeling slightly schizophrenic

How can there be silence when
winds are howling and
why does my reality feel
so still
while everything’s clearly
in motion?
Sound in silence and movement in stillness
Blending dimensions are rattling
my mind as space and time
lose their meaning
for a while

Curiously detached from
what I observe yet
intensely involved I behold
these realities that are tumbling
in and out of each other

And I’m faintly aware of my leaden limbs

All the while
three little butterflies
gracefully defying gravity
are spiralling in an infinite dance around
my heavy form
inviting me to celebrate life
in the eye of
the storm

Mesmerized by this lightness of being
I contemplate my
quirky reality bubble
the appearance of which’d changed from
photoshop crispness to
confusing diffusion  
turning sparkling colors into
a blur of drab pastels

The meseta lays parched, silently hiding
in a cloud of sand and holding its breath
in this searing onslaught
no goats bells are ringing
or horses neighing
ev’n the cricket has ceased to sing

But undisturbed and unperturbed
the butterflies keep dancing

from one instant to the next
the storm has drowned in a moment of
deafening silence
time’s standing still
neither sound nor movement until
a sudden cool breeze shivers me out of
my reverie

Now distant thunder in darkened skies  
is promising long awaited rain
and creation breathes out
in relief

And undisturbed and unperturbed
the butterflies keep dancing

©Jasmine, Vilacarillo, Spain, August 7, 2015
Observing my reality bubble from my hammock during siesta
Idonotexist Apr 2014
Our fragile expanding Vision,
Our harsh gripping realities
Our futuristic elusive Ideals
Tremble,Vibrate Quiver within
our intrinsic consciousness and
we keep knocking at their doors
World roars in harmony
Calling us cowards, even sun moon
and invisible wind mock us with laughter.
Damaged a single I might have perished
But we Unperturbed we ponder about
things we have never felt seen or want to see.

Wishing under the dark sky
that maybe magically we could
sprout wings or become birds or at least butterflies.
Twinkling stars wink, inviting us to join them.

We smile back, scared in calculated impulses
for sunlight and the perfect time.
World accused us of running away,
accused us of being spineless cowards.

We laugh to endure
the long bitter night
staring at the sky
hoping to fly
Not knowing how to?
we outstretch our arms
Our imaginary invisible wings
towards the heavens
Flapping flapping flapping

Now the world calls us Immature
a child and sun moon and the invisible winds
join in.
this time a sparkle glides
through our eyes
To the constant truth
through built up lies.
A tree of passion grows within our hearts
fruits of adventure ripen
and compassion sprouts new wings
and we in unison
soar into clear blue heaven

Now world sun moon
sing praises
We just smile, flying
flying towards unhatched fledglings
to show them the journey, this flight
The flight of hope
Curtains, veils of virtual vice

So, gaze through the ****** intermix
of positional latency,
nano-notions lost in frantic phantasm,
requisites of an idle, unhealed mind.
Draw the virtual screen curtains open,
bring forth the lustful images to
feed the circuitous appetite, lurking
front-row-presence, at the keys.

Unknown, undertones
of desirability, poses in patient wait,
online implication of fallen ways,
predication of unveiling moments.
As any-time-**** pours its spill
of sickest gratification behind
the curtain tab selective viewing.

It is someone’s child the glides on rails
of drawn conclusions, through windows
where drapes of cyber mindlessness
hang on dank walls of seedy buildings.
The ***** grinder always plays the tune
to which monkeys happily dance,
in a world where Neanderthals hang out,
unperturbed with new technology.
sobroquet Apr 2013
She'll sleep tight in a parallel universe tonight
my deeply serious rainbow girl astral projects
communes with Shiva and champions chakras
she has the recipe for what passes as illumined
her ignorance of current events is  appalling
but that chosen ignorance is staid and unperturbed

I grumble and complain, I use the news like a ******
I put the pieces together, pattern the puzzle-
I see the BIG picture…I cut my life short
possessing a keen memory is like the proverbial millstone
the information is  the lake
rainbow girl is contemptuous of my self inflicted plight

we realize its a matter of time before disparate likes divide
I am fire and she is water, I the destroyer, she the preserver
the passion can be complimentary for just so long
Like the lady bard said:

You read those books where luxury
Comes as a guest to take a slave
Books where artists in noble poverty
Go like virgins to the grave  (Joni)

She'll tolerate my  confabulated artistry a spell
I can see she's a caterwauling  banshee of protestation in the waiting
Her mellifluous  quietude, equanimity  and perfect  poise can only last so long
Before my brash stripped down vituperative  diatribe is as acid in the eyes
Then be off to resume  her prior harmonic convergence of  heart  stuff
as I  with my artistic bent, abbreviate my life

*  The Boho Dance
The Greatest in the Kingdom
(Mark 9:33-37; Luke 9:46-50)

At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them, And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me. But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.
Stanley Mungai Jun 2012
Upon the arboreal dozed and limb,
Extended coccyx serpentine loose,
Throne of inspection, tenet and dumb
Stillness hunts akin stealthy Mongoose;

Except for the natal locomotive
Soft deep sufficiently immense purr
Emanating from some industry; effective
In the cover of the thick supple fur.

The lord of his unconquered empire,
Thrives on flesh and quenches on milk,
Wintering unperturbed reading the fire
That flickers, gleaming his bed of silk.

Ever landing on appendage quadruple
Acrobatic athlete not soiling once his back
Consummating in strict concealment marble
Couch of perpetual indulgence buried black.
Ashley Jan 2014
I'm a bright blue box with a bitter black inside.

I screamed 'open me! open me!' to those who had tried.

As they peek in it takes their breath away,

how broken and sad before them i lay.

Shuttering and sobbing, i scream out: close the box!

because i know no one can undo my sad twisted knots.

shame on me for trying, who could ever care?

I wanted to be happy, but i doubt I'll make it there.

My inside grows darker, my dreams more disturbed,

but the outside still gleams blue, fake, unperturbed.

My dark insides take over, I can't turn it off

I'm trying, I'm trying, but the voices just scoff.

Happy? Loved? You? You've got to be kidding.

These things are reserved for light, your darkness is forbidding.

Close your eyes babe, and try to make it through

while your dark dark insides utterly consume you.

So come on, sit down. Make yourself at home.

Let the voices talk, let your mind roam.

Because you're trapped here darling, inside this blue box

no keys have the power to undo your locks.

Your blue box is shut. Seal it off, seal it tight.

It's simple, you just have no hope to ever see light.

The people, they leave. They don't understand.

Each time they go, unable to withstand.

You're a being of sadness, disguised as a girl

come on, fake a smile, let your lips curl.

Yes, cut yourself off, you little blue box.

Make yourself tough, a foundation of rocks.

Because not feeling anything, nothing at all,

is the sure-fire way to make certain you don't fall.
You are my love. My sin, my soul. The only light of my life. Fire of my *****. Source of happiness, laughter, cries, tears, and oddity. You are that bad, believe me, but never better than you are now. Your name will forever be on the tip of my tongue. But sadly I could never utter it properly. Because probably I would feel shy. I would perhaps feel ashamed, if I dared to do so, or if I accidentally happened to say it out loud. I have never confessed this to anyone else. But I need you. I know it inside and out. I crave for you so much. So much indeed. And I know that deep inside, you need me too, although you are simply too proud to admit it. To you my laughter will always remain a ring of annoyance. It will never be enough. You will always long for more - from her. I will never be enough, because I will never grow up. I will never be an adult. And she is grown up. She is more of an adult than me. She is indeed an angel to your eyes. Her steadiness startles you; and delights your senses. You thoroughly enjoy it when it is so. She is but an image of perfection; her sound of laughter is of tranquility and calmness; she is indeed a pious image, a resemblance of faultlessness. Something that I could never truly achieve. Terrific but true - she is, I mean. Not I am. I will always be a kid. Sad but true. I will always be me. I will always be your outspoken, attentive young tutee to you. No more than that. I will always stay just the way I am. I will never acquire my womanhood, nor that am I inclined to, in your eyes. I will always be a girl. A student. Or whatever it is without surely any womanly attribute. I don't deserve to break my singleness. I can never cure it. To you I will always be myself; with all the misfortune and inability to be a true woman. But I understand that I will never be a woman; I don't deserve to be a woman in your heart. I will never be blessed with such courage, as I am not worthy of that. I am not allowed to enter your realm; a whole lot that is entirely different from mine. I have always been fated to be alone, and will always be left behind, even when you are ten or eleven years older than now. I will always be twenty-three. I can't age, strangely, despite my being a human. I am stagnant and odious, I am static and immovable. I am but a symbol of a fruitless tree to you; who dreams and hopes too high without having the ability to attain its true realisation. K, I am full of flaws, I smell of defects. I am adorned with fateful imperfection. And she has none of this. She is unimaginably perfect; she is all lovely and her beauty invincible. I can never be like her. Never indeed. But I am willing to change; if that is what you desire. I'll let you think that I'm obsessed with you. I will just smirk at your silliness. Over and over again. Hmm. Sounds like you've got no other option. Sounds like you are an idiot trying to comprehend my meaningless words too seriously. But I am just what I am. These are just my thoughts. Let me be obsessed with my thoughts of you. Let me make you appear in my dreams throughout the night. Day and night. All the time. Dreams that are unwanted but inevitable. As long as I breathe; as long as I could still trod the earth, let me think and dream of you that way. Stupid thoughts of obscure infatuation, I know. Guilty pleasure. The killing of my independence, my fragility, and uselessness, yet altogether the expression of my deepest feelings that I have often tried to bury in my chest, a thousand times.

Like I said, I'm willing to change; for you. If that is what you need; your utmost desire to be fulfilled. It is as simple as that; because what pleases your senses delights me, and therefore what delights me is what pleases your senses. I indulge myself only in my everyday thoughts of you, where I could jolly embrace and trace your epic proportions in my arms. I want to touch you, to cherish you fully. I want to be inside of you, just like you're already inside of me. I want to see you by my side, breathe in your air and feel your steady but unrelenting heartbeat in your *****. Your manly *****. The one I have always yearned for. I want to feel your skin against mine. I want you wholly. I want you so greedily. I want you so selfishly. I want you to be just mine. Just mine. I don't want you to fall into anyone else, because I perfectly know they are unworthy of that. Of you. One that should be my sole treasure. My precious treasure. Only mine. Because you are everything. You are the exact embodiment of who I am. You are the gold to my silver. You are the silver to my bronze. You make all of them complete; you rid them of their mutual envy. Just like you do to my soul. You repaint my soul, you release it from its gruesome weariness. You make me feel complete, unspoilt, and undivided. You make me feel as a whole. Unperturbed and unabashed by the torment of love. You purify and keep me warm and secure. You are the one I was predestined to love. The one for whom my love was created. The one I was fated to be born for. The one my very soul was meant to be with. The one that I should cling to, and should clutch tight as mine, forever.

K, you are the only love of my life. I will always want you, although this very simple need might sound absurd to you, and on its own way even seem to be impossible. You are the answer to my prayer, from up above, and since I was but a young, sinless infant in my mother's arms. In you only do I lose my presence, my heart, senses, and the whole streams of my decent consciousness. I long for you, and even in the midst of all anger, hatred, and the world's greatest disdain, I will but always long for you. I miss you, K. You are the only source of light to my heart. My darkened heart. My terrified soul. My raging despair. And unfortunately you seem to be the only one who could heal it.
JR Rhine Jun 2016
We sat outside the coffee shop
next to a fire,
watching the sun set behind decrepit buildings.

I lamented over the lack of a roller rink in the area,
reflecting on memories of wobbling around in circles
with dizzying lights and blaring speakers
ejecting Pink, Daft Punk, and Eiffel 65 onto my critical youth.

I felt like a king.

We finished our smoothies and retreated
to an empty hotel parking lot,
where I taught her to skateboard.

One foot over the front bolts,
the back foot over two of the back bolts
but resting over the tail,
kick, push,
it's in the ***** of your feet--
weight distribution.

Tic, tac, scrape, thud--
she falls repeatedly
and gets back up.

I admire her resilience and perpetual smile--

This is what skateboarding is all about.

We roll around the hotel parking lot,
our endpoints being a lone luminescent lamppost
and a telephone pole beleaguered by a plot of shrubbery
that demarcates itself from the pavement.

We circle around the poles for hours,
forming an imaginary oblong track between the two,
our laughs carrying into the cool summer night lullaby
that sang the drowsy small town to sleep.

The fading throb of the wedding reception
at the bottom of the town square by the wharf,
carrying over to us.

The stores closed up hours ago,
silent empty windows reflecting the lonely streetlights
and our ambulance back at us.

We skated on unperturbed into the night hour.

A man walks outside the hotel
to have a cigarette on the sidewalk--
I imagine he is watching us and admiring our glee.

Rolling between this telephone pole and lamppost,
the glare and reflection of the empty silent windows,
the soundtrack singing above our heads,
our laughs, and the tic-tac of skateboards
and groaning of wheels over stubborn pavement
bringing my melancholic reverie to a halt,
recognizing and understanding happiness in the present moment--

This is my roller rink.
Unperturbed in austere times
Unentangled in a web of complex signs
Unfazed by a vicious complex
I find solace in the face of duress
Configured to righteousness
I am withdrawn from Cross and Crescent mess
Invisible against a tide of boisterous wave
I weave my way and gravitate towards space
The sun a distant memory
Passion and zeal my most valuable armoury
In the heavens i light my stars
In paradise lost i leave my mark
With Noah's design hacked
Not even Jupiter can navigate my ark
Unlike terminator I Am Back
even the gulmohur looks confused
--"where is the sun?", it seems to ask
the dark rainclouds
as it sways distractedly
outside my window,
its orange flames
flickering rhythmically,
engaged in a waltz with
the falling rain.
the bamboo --wiser,
greener, stands unperturbed
barely reacting as the
water rolls off its leanness
nothing seems to surprise
its experienced being
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
       Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Raj Arumugam Jan 2013
This poem based on a joke on eggs (!) is dedicated to Timothy, a fellow-poet here at HP….I  was reminded of that joke about eggs  by Timothy’s comment on my recent poem: “Corax versus Tisias”.  
Timothy:  “This is great, Raj, another humourous poem with a good meaning, if you are an Egg or a Crow, lol! Keep them coming!!!!~<3<3:):)☺♂♀♥♠♣♦◘☻◙•○.O♫” …
Well, here’s another humorous poem, Timothy – and dedicated to you…

Dad, the Kid, and the Girl Next Door

“Dad,”* says 6-year-old Tim
back from the neighbour’s
“Sandra next door and I’ve decided
to get married”

Dad laughs…What do these kids know? he thinks…
I’ll humour him, just kid along
with this precocious child of mine

“But you’re too young, Tim,”
says Dad

“That’s OK,” says Tim
“Sandra doesn’t mind I’m a year
younger than she”

“Oh,” says Dad
“but marriage is such
a huge responsibility”

“Yeah,” says Tim quick and sharp
“Haven’t you seen my school reports?
Teacher always says I’m hugely responsible;
it’s the same on Sandra’s card”

Dad’s smile weakens
“Well, what will the two of you
do for money?”

“Oh, we’ve worked that one out
We get $20 a week in pocket money
between us and we reckon we’ll take
on extra jobs:
I can mow our lawn;
and she’ll wash dishes at her home
Beside we’ll save a lot of money
since we don’t at all eat out
and lodging is free -
a week here and the next at Sandra’s”

Now Dad has lost his smile
These kids have thought of everything,
he thinks.  I’ve got to do better –
come up with an objection that’ll  strike fear

“Have you thought, Tim,” says wise old Dad
“about babies? Married people make babies –
what you going to do about that?”

“Simple,” says Tim the kid, cool and unperturbed
“We’ve googled all that:
Every time Sandra lays an egg
I’ll crush it under foot!”

Dad sighs with relief…
This poem, based on a joke on eggs (!),  is dedicated to Timothy, a fellow-poet here at HP….I  was reminded of that joke about eggs  by Timothy’s comment on my recent poem: “Corax versus Tisias”.  Timothy:  “This is great, Raj, another humourous poem with a good meaning, if you are an Egg or a Crow, lol! Keep them coming!!!!~<3<3:):)☺♂♀♥♠♣♦◘☻◙•○.O♫” … Well, here’s another humorous poem, Timothy – and dedicated to you…
bluestarfall Jan 2015
The water shimmering ripples in the moonlight,
The sky reflecting visions we have seen,
The meadows are concealing our secrets,
And the memories behind the screen,
All the traces have still survived,
On the roads we have ever been.

The misty morning brought us closer,
With your scent still clung to me,
The alarm  ring would remind me,
That you were lying next to me,
In the light,the sun would call us to see,
The twinned souls we craved to be.

And everyday, our road would split in two,
Along the distinct patterns and routes we chose,
Miles away we go momentarily,
Yet the petals of the same rose,
Our lives unperturbed by the silence in-between,
And the adios has been our transient dose.

Because i have always believed,
Not much the whispers, nor the feelings enclosed,
But the words in the palinode,
Echoing ,"You are the shadow walking through me,
Traveling with me. Traveling back to me."
Stanley Mungai Feb 2012
Upon the arboreal dozed and limb,
Extended coccyx serpentine loose,
Throne of inspection, tenet and dumb
Stillness hunts akin stealthy Mongoose;

Except for the natal locomotive
Soft deep sufficiently immense purr
Emanating from some industry; effective
In the cover of the thick supple fur.

The lord of his unconquered empire,
Thrives on flesh and quenches on milk,
Wintering unperturbed reading the fire
That flickers, gleaming his bed of silk.

Ever landing on appendage quadruple
Acrobatic athlete not soiling once his back
Consummating in strict concealment marble
Couch of perpetual indulgence buried black
Yes, perhaps 'tis true.
Everywhere I go-with all t'ese dwindling thoughts on my mind-
'tis always the same shadows that roam, and moan-
before my eyes: and t'eir never-ending business.
Crawling on t'eir lips,
poisoning t'eir bosoms, chins, and hips-
but unrelenting in their unfolded shades;
with a swamp of bruises like mazes-tangled mazes;
likening them to spoiled, yet uncherished, little pearls.
How despairing-such views I obtaineth, on my every journey!
But shalt there still be space for us, to be outstanding;
to understand this world from a pair of eyes
glistening like unquestioning gentleness; but learning simultaneously
its unvivid perspectives
with such comprehension t'at is crystal clear;
such wit t'at is far from recklessness and greed-
salutations that are pure, and distant from any blighting threats
of equivocation? For t'is world is, in spite of its minuteness,
was framed and brought into life from
awesome darkness, abysmal cells of lifelessness
and hateful ambiguity.
How terrifying!
And often have I enforced myself to wandereth into those shades,
with unmolested poems boiling up in my brains-
and t'ose windy thoughts toppling out into th' paper
on my hand,
jostling through my veins like some ghastly, furious power
t'at's unseen, invisible as it is to th' human eye-
frail and susceptible to th' weather's surly temptations-
and entrapping me in the shrieks of its wondrous grot-
so I could never wane it any further, in my guileless brambles.
How I have dreaded t'ose sights-and t'eir dormant treachery! Lessons of
guilt, teaching of such guilty flakes of harm
and abomination! And how in my following quietude have I pondered-
t'at t'is would be just a balmy prelude to some far bigger strains of
mockery, obstinacy, and destitution. Hark to how those powers
shall arise! And that will indeed be th' abjuration of our splendidness-
everything shalt stop at a halt-everything will become flawed,
and no more poems shalt be liberated-from living souls, and t'eir undamaged
blood, as t'ey still are now! How I shiver at t'ose possibilities, as soon as our
latent enemies be on th' loose-free in t'eir ruthlessness, traces of dark,
unperturbed miseries, and brutal savagery.
And shalt we shine no more-like those summer flowers that are waiting for us-
to be fed daily like th' hungry morning doves;
with their thorns as sharp as love, and innocent gladness
in the arms of their lips-'tis but a scent so dear to the heartbeat
of oureth salubrious mornings.
But t'at danger, danger indeed! And its eyes of glaring monstrosity!
And 'tis just of substantial profoundness t'at we should be
cautious-yes, cautious, my dear fellows, towards t'ose signs
of th' upcoming storm-th malevolent storm of human rage, t'at shalt attack us
one day-at one perilous night, unpredicted and unexpected is its fate-
especially when all th' battling footsteps areth
peaceful in their slumbers-and no more palms dancing around
piles of paper-in th' holy procurement of continual wealth.
How t'at moment shalt be our early Armageddon-awakened shalt be
all rivers of terrors, and waves of hatred. How t'is beautiful solitude shalt end-
in th' fierce burning, brimming death of t'at flame-credulous shalt we be,
disempowered from th' heat-which shalt bring us but our dead feet.
Thus I but sincerely hope t'at gloom shalt not conquer our race-
the noblest of all creatures on earth-on t'is dull earth, fatigued as it is
from all th' uniformed battles, hatred, and anger-t'at untiringly sneer
at th' faces of those dying soldiers.
Peace, peace, my dear mates!
Ought to realize thou now-t'at swords shalt shed blood only if instructed.
So tranquility is but in oureth hands-yes, we are but th' key to our own salvation,
and since it is so, shalt we move forward and be the charms of t'is world's
new foundation: for it is our own life that we shalt save.
Peace, my friends, shalt but break all t'ese unseen boundaries amongst us,
and enrich our fathom of t'eir unspoken presence; so t'at th' small world is but
th' most dwelling of comfort, and aught but ease to our hearts-
our very dear, dear hearts in t'is life.
JR Rhine Nov 2015
as i sit
unperturbed it seems
i feel the familiar itch
of the nicotine screen
at the back of my head
in the conscious unseen
i feel the familiar itch
of the nicotine screen
my eyes adrift
in the circuital seas
i crave a quick drag
of the nicotine screen
scratch the itch
wipe the conscience clean
but i'll soon lust again
for the nicotine screen
******* is a vice. Technology may follow suit; one, as the medium, and two, a vice all on its own.

Walking through the path of solitude
Through the busy streets
And the passing tweets
The crowds are hustling
Walking by, my head in air
Trying to reach that path
To a solitary stair
Over the bridge I go
Along a narrow road
Turning left with the rows
Upon rows of period houses
In their thousands
I walk past and up the steep hill
To the path of solitude at will
Meandering across from left to right
My solitude has come back to beat the fight
Walking and listening to the birds in the trees
And so it is a gentle breeze
I reached to the top and turn left
A mingle of people surround
As I  walk, listening and watching
Sometimes trotting along the lonely path of solitude
I turn right to a row of more trees
Gathering together amongst the breeze
Along the pathway
The smell of foliage, crisp and clear
All is quiet along the path of solitude
Listening, thinking, observing
The silence in the air
Above and below
Low and behold
So tranquil and bare
On the right, a school, quiet as it may seem
In their classrooms learning a dream
Moving on in my solitude
Viewing from a distance
The rows of vehicles
To and fro
To and fro
Too far away to hear their engines
Too many to mention
My solitude is still with me
Walking amidst the sheltered trees
Me in midst
Like the abyss
Leaving the wooded trees
Turning left to a suburb
Of rows upon rows of semi detached
Still and quiet
As if the world has gone to sleep
Now walking at a steady pace
Saving grace
Vehicles in the driveway
And people coming out
Chatting, laughing
As if in doubt
I take another left
Descending downhill
Cross the road quickly
Streams of vehicles
Moving uneasily
Pace quickens
And the movement thickens
My solitude is disturbed
Around the corner I go
How would I know?
The right path to true solitude
Words' Worth Aug 2019
Strange that I think of you when I peer into my typewriter, I'd love you to the end of time on the stretches of Brooklyn bridge, well I've remembered two years in her reaction where's the two hours now, faraway and cries on the Sun in false yet true splendor in Ontario suffering from prima-donna stage fright and sickness
Go into the gentle madness, shadows are rising on the silver lining, never knowing who showed them the point of life

You don't even exist in my mind, only when I drink beer behind my darkness, in what's and what's wild?
I ask for the meaning of the light, shines on us all with the same shine, tamed by the consciousness finding itself with a will to remember your mirrored faucet, the tumescent towers
And your body is mine, and so are the pulsating melons boughs filled with the heights of the soul
Spontaneous overflowing with poetry, have ye heard
Asked what does it mean, tatterdemalion women with Utah that can put wheat blankets on New York streets, hanging by the city lights
The limelight is the best fall under, under the material Sun
Go into the madness with a gaily gentle touch, feel like my soulless eyes that turn into tender footed steel

I can still remember those Amish legs, it's common knowledge
I'm in the river hell, comparatively too late to think of some compelling excuse to remember this, too distressed to say the rife brought out the Agamemnon wishing for the book in his loveless eyes
From his dead-end streets, often I'm marching on dawned said Sun

For some music from the speaking silent Zephyr poet handing you the cheap attractions, now diamonds straddling on the starry sky
Have you caught them yet in the pools of joy, and Marxist radio adulation

With its peace and understanding, feeding the hungry souls with foolish eyes, fear death by water
Dealing with slaves with hands that wave the ether
Murmurs, rushes, travel is life, and the road makes the honest difference if taken with a naked mind
Forgetting his drawings in his lunchbox, absent-mindedly abseiling in the speaker's of Parliamentarian cops

Looking for milder weather, when the time stops ticking alive
With conviction in his sails, ready to find his body within the conscious nation
Elysian isles dreamt up beautiful ceilings with smells ready for his father to flee from Troy, smelling the freedom

In the afterlife, concocting darling buds of May in the rarest happiness
We are in awe of your silence unseen
Thee heaven, in deathless glances in thine light, let's stretch out the strollin' midnight in a sheet of the smokestack darkness with the cusp of cutting lives amenable
Short and alone in the lonely places without souls of desolate traces in the days of darkness, not light or darkness, in the heart cannot grow fonder of the bliss, ignorant of the ramifications of woe and the strains of purple haze, Moroccan hashish on the locked heaven for wrathful souls staying in Rabat, waiting for the train to Tangiers
I'm on the shore with my drugs, with my friendly sidekick telling us not to do 'em

He looks the other way and says you have a soul that remembers the ashcans on madness, counting the times you lost your breath writing about a genius with a touch of madness that blesses us with hope

With a touch of dignity and common sense, they call me Mr. Common, drinking his juices up and passionate thoroughly intense
With the pusherman's gaze on Virgil's vigilante asylum in Spiritus Mundi, Looking for sadness realizing there were kind memories analyzing the studied smile often ignoring the crime of what was the bloodied-dimmed by the mascara, make-up
No razors allowed in the hairy meager, merger agreed that they shouldn't cut their dreadlocks with ****** eyes, and dimmed pace

You've mimicked life and found that you couldn't reject the sadness
Now, then and what?
Are we gonna change our faces for your confused state of mind that slow when we talk about Buddhism?
In Hell's Kitchens, what's going on in starry Heaven's dynamo nature, intermixed by the same idea of fairness, all that jealousy as is

Cannibal dynamo, adding to the interest of the Zen, really ******
Some people never go crazy, I wonder lives follow what kind of blue, so sheltered from the Watt's storm
Going into the gentle madness, the storm was left when we were reserved, resolved to set the desolating emptiness ploughing on the secret garden
If we recognize each other, I wonder kind lives do the secret lotuses of the squall of mud, on the run from the solid road

If we are kind to each other, are we friends first, recognizing our love in the latter, the pensive ones solitarily reaping
Nothingness in the new honor of chaotic houses on cheerful streets keeping the men happy with cats on train tracks leading us
Through the depths of kindness, where we find the invisible love forgiving us from the ****** in Narcissus, toiling in the invincible summer
With a dedication, immense and immeasurable as the lost souls in the free outsiders, keeping the outsider with us in good spirits, dreaming of Sisyphus happy, on the stormy
Watching on the watchtower for the island of the gentle darkness, shining the light towards your way back home, changing the weather for sailors

Nowadays, speeches keep us here with the difficult women before the speechless enter underworld lines, kissing them before we leave behind the journeys
We define ourselves, in questions we ask
To be behind, slightly away, maybe slightly to the right, ascending heaven with hats of invoking spirits in the dawn that meets the light of the home, likewise dark is completely tramped
You're writing like a rolling stone rocking the cradle, vamped on pumped highways around yesterday
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart, tied through the worn-out years torn by second-dimension souls
In a third-dimension soul, now in the afterlife

Just like the flowers you left her in some tomorrow around midnight
With weeds and broken stems, in a-getting napes of silken sunset kisses, scrummaging through back pages

Looking for milder weather, under the drapes winning it for the dazed closeted people

Should we order, should we dream of better minds losing themselves to the best of souls behind the Iron hand, curtain clasp
Saying I don't drug, some drugs with chains that turn with wide-eyed gyre opened the women, like a flat tire
A ***** went loose while traveling road under the stars
Gyroscope takes you home, recovering your rocking trains from the platform of D-day, hanging at the mirror or what holds behind
Some cheap things aren't that an expensive dream or you just want the remaining man in the shock of psychotherapy and hydrotherapy
Go into the gentle madness, flying on battery acid and ambition now

Consumerism of socialist wind, and obscene love, in the looks of noble regrets respecting every part of her closed eyes, with the platform train waiting for D-Day
Stealing looks from the bare cup, the cup has always been full of mercy
Suffused with the glances in the silhouetted distances drowning in summer's sadness, finding happiness in a warm gun

Ruminations on the contemplated clouds of highest mountains with a year, the seconds of the blind ash, and I'm selling eternal gazes in black Utah, being spent nonetheless worse for being away from Kansas or being here with the wild hanging over wayward tombs
Looking for self-portraits in white, gray areas shine brighter in the darkness like worthy saviors
Freed in thy name, going into the madness gently, waiting for the song
The song danced once, and there's no way
The dance sang like it were the skirmishes of our youthful daydream nation, ultrasonic cars on sonic and crooked pavements
The worthless machine is the worst, and the world I'm flying on, pools of despair and joy, holding myself in savage stillness
Whispering familiar sounds across the universe, summers lack all conviction, things fall apart
The passion intensity was once there, to be better to the best minds who have an option but sit and stare in the dead of winter
Go into the gentle madness of the midnight blue bloom, coldest distance with the tea for the warmest wordsmiths talking of the apparition of faces
We look into the life of things, through the ups and downs
Although, the saving gentle madness, stares in the long black cold

Looking for milder weather, in tempestuous strong men in declasse purgatory, churning out handlooms out never ran out on Normandy's blue beach wailed, but, the flowers in the grave grew in the impasse of gentle madness of the grave
That doesn't feel like the Eastern silence, hear the rolling thunderous noise, liberalism in the good night of ones in scorn
Contemporary critics resound in working-class galloping horse-rides, do not go into that gentle goodnight,
To the shore washed by noisy waves, chariots of fire
Wired woodwind instruments, for working ire of winnowing maize and corn, to be earnest I'm on a corn cob looking like a starry-eyed soul, marrying the riches with my egalitarian erogenous works, turning and turning
Having no limitation, as a limitation on a dead-eyed love maker
If you call my father, the straw hat pirate that left before I was born in adolescence, a dreamer

Looking avariciously for titillating tides in the mantra that washed over
Sleeping with words that never come out, and the handles the midnight spoon with gentle madness from scorn
Horns blowing on benzedrine, Eli Eli sabachtani cry from those living in the past, foreign to the timeline, crying for better love
Accepting, nothing at all, except my own confusion, better born of

Indignant of a falcon that flies for hatred of callow words
Second Coming! Epiphanies Shining dynamo! shards of childhood recovered by the genius behind the windowpane
He said, "The ocean looks the same."
I realized this with some silent vanity and silent pain, what does it mean, though?
Adonais or vacillating minds focused on the cheap attraction of phantom operas of Russia in Kaddish bowing to others in the other poems, sketches of Spain lay like acts, bowling the drunk-alley to the ******* before the cowards

Vultures in the ceiling of hunting obliterated cows in granite megalithic
Mummified in the tampering tapes of washing sins of our brother
I've got it bad tonight, can you hear me knocking?
I've come with a gentle madness and starry midriff, strengthened by the turning and turning

I'm tightening like a winding clock on winding road, speedometer, odometer baptized, I'm running on the tabula rasa
Mars is a soundless instrument if you play the music of D-day on the heart that knows the days of the adage, dramatically Dr. Manhattan now
Going into the gentle madness, common sense is common sense
Even in the sibilant rocketships, honesty hasn't lost its meaning in the thoughts of the common man

Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg met in Berkley Halls, in abeyance, nature with a check and original energetic frenetic ecstasy dreaming up Aeneas and Satryrichon, surely
About my life in my mind, not a soul looking for honesty, mind on my life wrote high on science fiction touting history at school surely positivity dreams for you a surging death
In sudden compare, death can do life and fleeing mother, the divorcee goes round and round, sometimes in the top of 4th Street
Still dreaming of yesterday, let it be I let you down

Parents the same, and from parents that remain the same in that song of fooling us, I might survive if I'm a mirror-clad, tad wise in this robot apartment where the soul stares at the natural affinity, you must get lonely in your reflection, or where it remains are behind, seeing me paralyzed
Where's your head at, in the heartaches and embrace, on the road of health clinics, looking for an angry stream of fixes
If I was buried
Yet, I am deep in this summer and sadness, nothingness or stealing glances from the light that dances
I'll steal your position, and put you in your place
Inner moonlight in ungodly attire, hide the madness around your fleeing prophet, the ceiling of madness dreams of debates
Debates aren't the tool of fool looking for the slander, looking to be outlandish
Going into the gentle madness, the generation of beatniks immolating on funeral pyres, and finding their Bolshevik pamphlet, and getting ***** with the bloodlust with the lustrous
The soul doesn't want, I bet it doesn't see the golden compass
Going into the midnight spoon, I've given up on the gentle madness of somber scalding souls balding it all
She stills walks into the bars, and my hairs turn into wires keep her away
Beyond the false compare, of time going by in the bar, looking for trustees in the flickering hallways

Mad generation in the taped scandalous laughter, of the running streams and stock, thus thinned like Macron's talk of the dull bits of drama cut out
Dramatic clicking of the typewriter, where are we gonna take these memories of suspicion unencumbered
In the name of milder weather for angel-hipsters, my mind cries silver saxophones undulating
Going into the gentle madness, will we have zero summers this year, no winters for seconds, winter waits unperturbed

I want you're to light to turn into heat, you can ask for the money instead of mewling about the life cycle in Pub-side buses with a steadfast old man who is fixed on the highway riders rambling on on composed sordid meets to their fathers, volitional emetics
On the hilts of iron balustrades, behind the curtained ceiling

The lizard can do anything, although he never leaves the highway summers for the search of eternal darkness
Moloch, he is lost in the road, beginning and end, trading paths and treading walks of life from trenches, carrying on the show misconstrued, tarrying it out

Dreaming up Arkansas and carrying out Dadaism in Greenwich village walking past the love in his mind
Dancing on the starry murders, we have to sit and stare at its jazz to talk of it, served by you
Living, undead, unbeing and is telling it me what I liked to be
Or changing us and telling us to like it is, with bated breath that understands
We cry tears in the  cottage stopping leaks with wattles, vines, and forlorn rags to stuff the gazebos, chained to the boat leading the blind
In the darkest lives, the brilliance of justice slips away from hands, then the hand that fed hit me with rulers and lessons
The didact stopped knocking on your door, going into the gentle madness of incredible seductive Seraphim
At what roundabout hour as this rough beast come to last, not taking no for an answer

In frugal free-prose that reads itself, balanced and splendid confusing us all, we could consult with our inner tumult as the life get's colder, warming to the last falconer crying on the Big Sur, in the desolate darkness
She saved sensitive ******* dreams, but, it's you that fortifies my solitude, why am I in this robotic apartment running on oil and simplicity
Electic shock, addiction to water-boarding, I have a wet towel around my waist
There is no was

When I could create man after man in this hospital clock, and the sorrows will never end
****** Suicides! Virgil cries! You now belong on the radio!

Aeneas reign in darkness and remember the time when we were stabbed in a time beyond false compare games of funeral rituals, burying

Anchises later wilts about losing fame in the flames of Troy, loser shows fool's glory and sows seeds and seeks gold in Empyrean isles built on Phyrgian scales writing light in the scaled heights of souls, working for self-made princesses of virginity so fair, that hath my honesty behest, dreaming up soup for *** in the breakfast mornings near yet so far from the golf clubs
The good walk is spoiled, with your few aphorisms
We will goodbye today, and speak of tomorrow later

A night in your head, and I'll find your daughter and write a whole culture, storming at the surfeited sea
To contradict ourselves is the constant chill of the given right of tragedy or it's a beautiful thing of corsets and eyes in the look for spectral rides in the rabble-rousing backends, gold heads in bookends is the tragedy of the righteous and hopeless
Nothingness, free-prose of peaches, in thy emperor is it the gift of tragedy often nectarines with skinned shapes and pear-shaped eyes on the valley
Closing on the style of Joan of Arc, John The Baptist, doing it dangerously
I'm burning in the recesses of my mind, tolling out to sea

Knowing power, character demands respect! And work demands fruition
We want our world, back without the words dreaming up the invisible humor with the eternal image of the circadian cry
Where you laugh at this Moloch madcap, cries under stairways of the fifth floor stocked by the barrels, lost and out of touch with their olfactory sensations lose their scent of success
They  have become bad, and the losers have evil
The good, bad, and the search for pyrite in suicides and painless

Locked out of heaven, until they can design the freedom of the people losing marbles in their sojourning each desireable day, sensed the
Guiding thine light in the darkest sound of silent screams from the duets in the sky

Asking what they do, sunflower of integrity
Surely some revelation is at hand
Asking what they doth speak, lasso in the muddied waters
Surely some invention is for the factotum instead
Asking what and I cannot relate and interpret industrialization, with pigs in animal cries from preventing utopia from getting a bad name looking over the live wire
All we need is prayers for the valley, I believe true love waits beyond the hysterical happiness below the herons, one-footed avian following the Roman city of Thugga
Hear the hair of your head, as the time goes by I grow balder
But, she still walks in the moonlight, taller with her head touching us with her free life following the gray cloud
Another year, I left N.Y., on West Coast in Berkeley halls caught up in gazebos and lacunae, selling us education by saddest dollars, under the quiet summers' hands

Dreamed of her electric soul, that, thriving with life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond compunction in convivial jovial East Coast vials keep the invisible humor that tells us the heart understands the gestures of good books and good friends, open books and broken hearts
Unsere Stadt meer und der Liebe Hirsch
The day he reckons and the day of sordid affairs, in morbid decayed despair

She tells him to ready this stony ******* on a granite ****?
We look for the earth, laying in the obscura haggis on the star-spangled banner of twelfth notes and two years from now
The summer from the Dubrovnik, Slovak in their tongue
Hungary was amid the sadness of sorrowful seeds of Tangiersmen

There is no looking for blue eyes in the hallucinations of dreaming up Kansas and Losing Denver, sending their kisses to ecstasy
Lost in thoughts in a dream as the sun beats me to wit, shining on our pleasures in America's songs of the Harlem ghettos following the pact with suffering

Changing the minds of the mad generation
Never found in magic in Greenwich Village
The walks of life, are spoiled under the cloudless migrant sky, bebop doesn't stop and rock the patient under the magical esters of aestivated imagination

Ain't it dull streets, lying on our stabbed backs and the night's right
When you are so quiet?
Isn't that wrong, I think it's cold that you are so warm with something I love
Beyond a summer's night compare thee falsely, to thy will
Why, how now, Hecate! You look angerly. Snow-white and angel-headed looking for heaven in nameless streets

She lies in the saucy bedlam of the questions that affect all of the parasites in his legs without velleity
Preparing him for his chair, rising with the morning, May is the month living in the secrets of the stars
Living or undead, preparing for his chair
You can't stare at much, can you?
Staring at the ceiling with a sight for distant shell-shock
Staring here, I do live in the heart of darkness

Pushing it away, all from my wheelchair in the life of defeat
Defeat is a state of mind; no one is defeated until they left the might out to dry, clothing themselves in sin
Talk of light, do we have no supreme love for the losers
Greatness must be caught by the moon and left for the star-crossed lovers gathering for the intertwinein thine light
Go into the gentle madness, before your flesh goes before the bone

There are people who cannot tarry or aren't getting the attraction of madcap, he had stopped singing with forked lighting
Household objects which ones he didn't say, listing out the neon streets on Groundhog Day, Moloch horridus, you have taken my days now you have my ****** fluids too
I'm you or a promiscuous friend, without the madness, going into the gentle night smoking up marijuana war rooms
Smoking in the cino-smoking zones, carrying barrels for the handlooms, I see no smokestack wind carrying us on barren thoughts aft' wry comments

Rising with the dull roots that fight the gravity or whatever is down there with a raft, we're unfurling winds at last impatient
Waiting for the sun, in the constant chill of the sea
An old man in the honest idea of expressing himself, might not see
Ambitious wings and conviction in his sails too lost for the lively road and lost in them
Going into the gentle madness, America out of my mind
Changed my mind, I can either hate it or learn from the love and let it grow
Second coming talking of indignation in a brass cottage of tears, where fears are exchanged for the company of cold night
Some the fear the water, and hear the hydrogen jukebox in raging drunkardly in cannibal elder's delightful dance
Dancing on the yesterdays, swirling Saturdays, reasonable the shops will be closed on the Sundays waiting for Mr. Common woven

Birdie stickin' out of the sorrel shrub, and I'm in the burning tree poking the pinenuts too
The talk of weather in a wise man in cultivated in cultured and controlled by the plans of talk of intelligent heros in Dog day afternoon
Hymn of the lost summer, war makes maladies or a bad cold, nevertheless, there remains no need to sleep after dinner
With a song that remains the same, with the someone that he loves
Accepting the gentle hand, that touched his wax wings watered by lilies
Greedy flame blazing in my head, the knowledge speaks when wisdom silences others in innocent cognizance
Going into the gentle madness, reaching us in scarred Burroughs stares, becoming a fool in the books of many faceless contents
We keep them in a lunchbox, hurling the bells where the rock tolls for us
Going into the gentle madness, unfurling the epiphanies
Epiphanies! Do not be gay and blind, like a meteorite in the morning
Twenty years of solitude, in once an upon time dreamed dinner sleep

Going ahead without conviction is looking for doubt and not forgiveness
Asking for milder weather in lonesome drugs and forgiveness in breathless protagonists mulling over ancient time
Asking for forgiveness, from a friend on the harbored sky in the old and new bougainvillea of booked streets by stores and they're welcoming empty breezes in redemption, seeking where her hair endeth
Ages in likeness to the guilds of Eastern sages, whites of their eyes sharing the light of the ones guiding us through the bibulous black
In the barren wind of desolate angels blessing their wounds with bleeding howls, souped-up bowls, strapped ancestors to rocketmen searching beyond the jazzmen who once played the blues instead of forsaking their meaning, asking thy will

Her hand wasn't fair anymore, in thine light searching for a dalliance in radiance, while handling the teapot
Had a bad cold, nevertheless, but, a king of my heart dealing wicked cards like a friend knowing of true freedom and open stores of pop-culture creating open looks

Nonetheless, her nosegay was rife with two people looking for faults in the frozen wallflower, on his wheelchair
One-eyed merchant keeping his on the grass of life, making peace with wants he owns, kitsch photos of the Visions of the Lord

With a patch of wrath and a touch of madness, go into the gentle madness with the children playing with their swings, in the heat of the night
Nonetheless, these passionflowers call to me over, motionless center pop, when love whistles strangely in whispering song
Where music listens, and knowledge speaks of guiding the listeners look for love on the radio
Environmental collectivism in the laissez-faire fire that started the burning communist captain harboring the blocs, and they never found Lenin until March dawned on, shining! Government! ****** suicides! Virgil cries! Love! Mercy! Robot apartment! Where you drink the tea of the ******* of the spinsters of Utica! Blessed be she who brings death to us all, in the name of thy father
Valsa George Jul 2016
It was on a bleak afternoon
That Cancer came and abruptly announced
"I am going to be with you for ever
Follow me wherever I lead you
Fight back if you can, rather if you dare
But indomitable I am, you know"

Never had John been punched so hard
Shocked beyond even a sigh or silent moan
Dumb he stood so petrified
He saw his dreams fall apart
The sky high edifices crumbling down
The soil under his feet giving way
With a lovely family and an aspiring career

With life, he was passionately in love!

The remaining days were a Marathon race
From hospitals to labs and from oncologists to specialists
While passing through the ordeal of radiation and chemo
Bravely he fought back the pain and nausea
For hope had reigned supreme
And for his family, he must live!

"I will don my armor and brandish my steel
I will not yield! Oh! Never shall I give in
I shall make it through and come out victorious"

But soon he realized it to be a tough battle
And saw the chances of winning too bleak
The villain had almost taken his sway
And day by day his body grew frail
But his unconquerable spirit stood unperturbed
With grace he decided to accept his fate
After thirteen months of incessant struggle
His invincible life came to a peaceful halt!

At the end of his funeral rites, his best friend
Showed himself up before the congregation
In halting voice he said he was on a task
To read out a letter John had prepared
Long before his death but had kept sealed until then
Opening an envelope, with wavering hands
Like an envoy divinely ordained on a sacred mission
He took out the carefully folded sheets of paper

      The subdued murmur inside the spacious hall
Gave way to silent breathless anticipation
“My dearest family and friends” the words ran
“Long at last, I am at peace, absolutely at peace
With no emails to check, no bills to pay
No more deadlines to be worried over!
But unfortunately no charming females in sight’’

The words breathed his flamboyant humor
With his trade mark grace and copious dignity
He led the audience through his life under death sentence
He was thankful for the love and concern
His friends and family had so profusely lavished on
In his ailing days of agony and dejection
That exceeded far more than what an ordinary man
In the whole of his life time could accumulate!
The last part was a pronouncement of love
On his beloved wife and his wonderful child
Who stood by him in silent suffering by proxy
With a plea to all to keep peace with one’s soul
Despite life’s sham, drudgery and shattered dreams!

The congregation silently dispersed, walking away
Into a day of sunshine, greatly consoled and inspired!
This is the impressive story of a man who faced death in a nonchalant way which I heard from an oncologist.... !   Inspired by that account I wrote this poem which I fondly dedicate to Chris G Valliancourt.... who yielded to cancer in a similar way...! I feel sorry I didn’t read enough of his poems while he was alive... As I read many of the poems he wrote, especially towards the end, my appreciation for him grows more and more and I identify him with the character in this poem.
Christopher Rose Feb 2010
Sing, O Muse, of the wrath
That came from the East
To conquer our conquerors,
Of the left-handed Benjaminite, Ehud,
Chosen by G-d to free
The twelve tribes of
His chosen people.
For in his holy ******
Of Eglon, who, spurned by G-d,
Threw the chains of slavery on the
Exiles of exiles, diasporas of diasporas,
Kingdom of kingdoms trampled under
The wheel and foot, the people found
Their salvation in the crumpled body
Of an overweight king with a two-sided
Sword, fashioned by hand, in his protruded belly.


First, in the long succession of Judges,
Was Othniel, then Ehud, Shamgar,
Deborah, Barak, meaning lightning,
Followed by Gideon who destroyed
The altar of Baal, then Tola, Jair,
Jephthah, Ibzan, Elon, and Abdon.
Samson emerged late on the scene
And let the ***** from afar castrate his hair
And his G-dly strength.  But for all their
Effort there remained no king in Israel,
And everyone did what was right in
Their own eyes. The greatest of these
Poor souls from His chosen lot was the
Son of Gera, Ehud.  Giving his life to
Service, he offered his left hand as a
Sacrifice to Israel’s infidelities.


Sitting in his glorious throne room,
Talking of matters begot to none
But the war-chiefs who graveled at his
Every word, Eglon thought
Of his kingdom and prosperity
Allowing him and his company
To feast upon the rifled carcasses
Of the local gallopers and crawlers.
Then, not knowing where, a sickly
Perception of war entered and blew
The horn, resonating of blood and
Chariots, of men armed with spears,
Women and children weeping for their
Lost fathers and new-lovers. The sound
Reverberated; and written on the inside
Of his skull rested the words “wage war
With the kingdom of Israel.”


And not making reply, or questioning why,
He knew but his men were to do and die.
Little did he know or think to think upon
That his free agency of choice was stolen
By the children of Abraham.  So, he
Gathered the armies of Moab
Of the Ammonites and
Of the Amalekites.  With a cloud of murderous
Dust trailing behind them, and war cries
Piercing the air, they rode on to the
City of palms. “Ride, my men,” cried the king,
“Steal and plunder, destroy their gods, and
Shimmer in the glory of destruction.” His armies
Heard his cry
But did not reply.  


Eglon and his armies, treading like
The young lion and the dragon,
Casting stretching shadows,
Conquered the twelve tribes.  Not
A cry was uttered from Israel;
They tumbled and crumbled before
The mighty hand of the veracious invaders
Like reeds amongst the wind on
A March afternoon breeding daises
On the golden meadow.  For years,
They toiled under Eglon’s rule
Under his might,
Under his perpetual night.
“Deliver us from this evil,”
Prayed unthankful Israel—
Like always before in the unperturbed cycle
G-d heard their cries from the wasteland.

The existence of Ehud, G-d’s Judge,
Amalgamates at the tip of his left hand,
Would evil emanate from his finger tips?
Sinistra sinistra sinistra sinistra sinistra
Can he, caught in the grips of history,
Defy his wretched kind? With these questions
He, answering the summons of Him and
Armed with a double sided sword of two cubits
In length fashioned by his own hand, walked
Down from the mountains to the
Palace doorstep.


As the blade pierced Eglon’s belly,
G-d’s writing evaporated from his mind.
Sent to a kingdom far away to conquer
A people he knew little about, his career,
His rule, his reign, would end at the edge
Of a man from amongst the commoners.
Here he lies, the once mighty king
Laying in a pool of his own feces
Sheol awaits for him after his death
Sheol awaits for us after our deaths
And, the young man, emerging from the king’s palace
With a smirk on his condensed face;
After the battle was won,
After Israel was delivered,
After his people forgot his very name,
He, too, from the tribe of Benjamin
Had Sheol waiting on him.
Revised version. Submitted for entry in Western Illinois University Elements Literary Magazine.
Copyright 2010
Waverly Nov 2011
It's supposed to be
98 and cloudless today.

By the time I roll in,
and park my car,
Roman's walking up to me,
his gold tooth a
full yellow smile in the sun.

“Hey meyer,
I need you to
Pull the box truck around,
We’ve got some plants we’ve gotta load,
Then we’ve got a landscape job
About an hour from here.”

“Are we gonna be back here

“Probably not

The box truck
Is a holdover from the old owners
Of Ken’s Nursery,
It’s still got
Ken’s Nursery in large comic sans
On it’s rust-streaked sides.

The wheel wells are rusted
brown as salt deposits
On the shores of sulfuric oceans,
and little ringlets of decay
rock as the truck bounces;
It’s old springs
Giving back after all these years.

Today we have:
Forty-two veriagated ferns.
Ten dragon lilies.
10 cannas,
But cannas have to have a male and female to flower,
So 20 cannas collectively,
And we’ve gotta mulch.

By the time we’ve loaded all the plants;
stuffed the mulch in with the Bobcat,
And thrown in our picks and shovels,
My shirt is soaked through.

98 degrees and cloudless.

Roman walks to his car
and takes off his shirt
To reveal a pink belly
full of folding skin
and matted black upwelling *****
Singing with sweat-diamonds
In the unperturbed vision of the sun.

My shirt is soaked already too.

But even as I loaded the truck,
I thought about Melissa.

When I get home,
She probably won’t be there.

When the female is separated from the male canna,
Nothing dies, the two live happily ever after.

But the canna does not flower,
And doesn’t remember enough
To miss it.

Just continues quietly with a black bulb
The color of a skink’s underbelly.
Gitano yawned,
stretching out under
the shrine of Öli.

Here he plotted
and hid a mouthful
of secrets; and the Lord
watched over him
as he slept.

He plotted,
for coyote wisdom
is disguised by folly
and cunning
and guile.

All about, the vermilion
stain of Mars. The coyote
chuckled mischievously,
dreaming at the feet
of the Master and Judge.

a ziggurat raised
to the Goddess.

Two great black eagles
circled in a sky
of dry roses and lilacs.

La Santisima Muerte
stood at a distance,
yet bore Gitano
in Her *****.

His mischiefs were scribed
upon a cartouche
to amuse gods
and teach men;

Yet men are not
so easily taught
as gods are amused;

For men have not yet
learned to believe
what makes them laugh.

And so Gitano sleeps,
and talks while he sleeps;
wherefore the Ways
of mischief and trickery
were laid bare.

The secret is to teach
at the expense
of innocence.

Certain illusions persist;
they must be shattered,
but their thrall
can only be broken
by design.

Whether bitterness
takes root in the wake
of the shattering
is not Gitano's concern.

Because sometimes
realization can only come
through being made a fool,
revealed to ourselves
as absurd.

Angry at our own foolishness,
we blame the one
who denudes it.
The coyote, too, is a Fool.

A Fool can learn,
shaping destiny
by taking responsibility.
Through death a Fool
becomes wise,
seeing the joke.

The burden of karma
is left to those
who cannot laugh.

Man grits his teeth,
his brow furrowed.
He despairs.

Gitano chuckles,
Gitano is a familiar spirit in the form of a coyote.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
you will not like what
you will soon imbibe...

long has a single moot court team
infernal internal debated,
the if's and of's, among itself:

"To Read, Or Not To Read?"

in solitary confinement,
place one's self,
undisturbed but for stale bread,
but unpolluted water

letting only visions sprung internal
guide thy words and world,
from tongue to paper,
creating as pure as one can,
unperturbed by the
rocket's glare of another's poetry

risking all but certain knowing,
it is my fawlty fault alone,
no compare, all laid bare,
no infection of inflection,
no reflection of yours,
in mine mirrored image

my issued seed, entire genetic,
it's only inked environment what is
pre-seeded by blood and *****,
my eyes filter all sight by this light,
this lonely light alone

for the moment, when,
I bend my head to thy stream
to partake when inspiry is parched,
the knowledge that what you
write and wrought,
so much better
than my small portions,
I am condemned in perpetuity
not to the agony mot of defeat,
for I could not
cease to write,
any more than I could
cease to breathe,
or despair of all hope
for messianic better days

but, if to be burdened
by the too real title of
second best,
then my poems,
all sadness to be.

this I cannot have,
so let my pieces,
mediocre or even trash,
live peacefully unencumbered
by the site lines of the living
and the dead

thy finery exceeds my plain grasp,
when I read yours,
my self-pity self-suffocates,
and I ask,
nay, I beg of myself:

let my voice be still
but not stilled,
let my thoughts be boundless,
but not in thine clasped,
let my heart speak my truth,
even unto admitting my yellow courage,
let it not be disparaged by,
for my rank of commonality,
it's low caste author's curse

"for who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time"

I have read the best

once, I wrote
to laugh,
reminded and reminding,
they too feared,
the compare to those who
wrote before their own hour

now I know better,
my only solution,
let my additive, be uncomplicated
my images, uncompromised,
by that, my eyes have n'ere seen,
in languages unspoken, but yet believed,
that were given birth only
for a poet's needs

you may dispense
with my droppings,
as you please, but when
I read you and yours,
I am,
so dangerously pleasured,
my creativity,
my one true god and deity,
oft no longer speaks to me,
it's silence a death sentence
that no court, not in any land,
on earth or unheaven,
may e'er grant clemency,
that of course,
unkindest cut of all

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry"

"The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveler returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of"

You see, already cursed and contaminated,
All my sins italicized, except for my original one,
The imposition of mine own hand,
To dare to write and dream in line and meter, verse


*To be, or not to be, that is the question—
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep—
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveler returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia. Nymph, in all thy Orisons
Be all my sins remembered.
11:13 this Saturday morning, composed to Pavarotti singing
Nessus Dorma!

as noon approaches, the day divided, I will here pause as long as my eyes, permission me to stop seeing...
Ivy Haegan Jul 2014
you are my blue
you are my serenity
and my buoyancy
my happy skies,
my comfortable denim

you are my yellow
you are my optimism
and my bliss
my incandescent sun,
my summertime glow

you are my green
you are my resurrection
and my liberation
my vivacious budding,
my sturdy oak tree

you are my red
you are my passion
and my fortitude
my pulsing heart,
my ceaseless flames

you are my white
you are my solace
and my relief
my unperturbed clouds,
my blank slate

you are my hues
you are my spectrum
and my exuberance
my opaque neon,
my life-altering colors
Dedicated to the beautiful boy
He wore a crisp white suit,
exquisitely tailored; His hair,
platinum-blonde, styled elegantly,
fluttered lightly in the exhaust
of an unseen fan, casting
the shimmer of overhead lights
onto the mahogany table where we sat.

He was a beautiful man, but fearsome --
the lines and angles of His face were harsh,
nearly ugly, but regal and proud.
Contemplative and intense, legs crossed,
He smoked a black Djarum clove,
blowing plumes of curling perfume.

And He was unhappy with me.

With a voice like gravel and nails,
He asked about my whereabouts of late.
I had forsaken Him for love, and suddenly
felt the weight of my deserter's guilt.

He nodded in understanding,
His eyes squinting in deep thought,
then coming to rest on my torso;
Looking down, I saw it wrapped
in lavish dress, a suit as fine as His,
but black as the maw of death,
and remarked, "This is not my suit."

"It's Mine," He confirmed. "Keep it;
I think you're going to need it."
I understood that He spoke rightly.
Our eyes met. Finally, He smiled,
and clapping His hands, exclaimed,
"Let there be Light," and I awoke.

I had thinking to do.

Months passed in tense emotion;
Then dysfunction spilled over,
and on an unexpected night,
I prepared to dream alone, disrobing
for the quiet undertow of sleep.
Suddenly I heard His voice ring out.

He bade me lie in wait, so still
and so silent, feigning sleep.
Soon came footsteps in the courtyard,
keys jingling outside the door,
the door opening to allow entry,
a cigarette cherry in the dark,
restless pacing back and forth.

I knew something was wrong;
I awoke to betrayal,
and responding in kind,
Anger became Righteousness,
and revenge became Truth.
But it was not sufficient.

I had Work to do.

Opportunities materialized.
I prepared for action, clothing myself
in shadows, preparing the altar stone,
collecting candles, prayers, photographs,
the proper words for invocation,
plotting the course of the Moon.

The time came; the bell was struck;
the candles lit (twelve black, one white);
the perfumes hung thick in the air.
The words read themselves in monotone,
unperturbed by my hyperventilation.

Wind picked up, threatening the flames.
Danger welled up in the pit of my belly.
Innocence dissolved in passion,
extending into eternal shade.
I had become what I had invoked.

I poured it into the chalice and slept.
Upon awakening, I was myself again.

The fruit of my act was terrifying.

We sat in His parlor, drinking tea,
lazy rays of golden sunshine
illuminating a cozy, peaceful room.
With but a hint of fear, I noticed
that as He sipped in silence, He wore
a suit as black as the soul of a ghoul.
This time, it was I who wore white.

I knew that He was pleased.
My longest work in a great while.
Not exactly fictional.
"WHAT have I earned for all that work,' I said,
'For all that I have done at my own charge?
The daily spite of this unmannerly town,
Where who has served the most is most defaned,
The reputation of his lifetime lost
Between the night and morning.  I might have lived,
And you know well how great the longing has been,
Where every day my footfall Should have lit
In the green shadow of Ferrara wall;
Or climbed among the images of the past --
The unperturbed and courtly images --
Evening and morning, the steep street of Urbino
To where the Duchess and her people talked
The stately midnight through until they stood
In their great window looking at the dawn;
I might have had no friend that could not mix
Courtesy and passion into one like those
That saw the wicks grow yellow in the dawn;
I might have used the one substantial right
My trade allows:  chosen my company,
And chosen what scenery had pleased me best.
Thereon my phoenix answered in reproof,
"The drunkards, pilferers of public funds,
All the dishonest crowd I had driven away,
When my luck changed and they dared meet my face,
Crawled from obscurity, and set upon me
Those I had served and some that I had fed;
Yet never have I, now nor any time,
Complained of the people.'
All I could reply
Was:  "You, that have not lived in thought but deed,
Can have the purity of a natural force,
But I, whose virtues are the definitions
Of the analytic mind, can neither close
The eye of the mind nor keep my tongue from speech.'
And yet, because my heart leaped at her words,
I was abashed, and now they come to mind
After nine years, I sink my head abashed.
spysgrandson Aug 2013
near the surface,
just beneath the sounds of our feet
among the bones, are arrowheads
maybe a spent cartridge from the bluecoats
who brought a strange thunder,
disturbing the a cappella birdsong,
hidden in eons of darkness, unperturbed,
until now, by the shallow, scratching efforts
of the creatures above,  
a black organic soup, remnants of plants
and animals who once breathed  
like we, we who now voraciously drill
through the tired but tenacious skin  
to reach a rich marrow, one we resurrect
to blaspheme in our mobile ovens
and scatter ashes
on a deaf and dying rock  

Post Script:
The earth never forgets.
Whatever we do to ****** it is recorded, often in ways undecipherable to man, but etched  permanently somehow, somewhere.
Does the earth seek revenge?
Or is it retribution, or a reckoning?
Anything that has the power to recall every act in infinite detail and in perpetuity has the potential to respond.
Maybe a propensity to respond?  
Is the earth an angry god?
I do not know, but
the earth never forgets.
lloyd britton Feb 2015
She wanders tranquil as the seas,
Floating on the nimble breeze.
She engulfs her spirit through a field,
Majestically she begins to yield.
She does not stop for man or beast,
And oxygen is her only feast.

She steps upon the sky upward soar,
With effervescent motion in her core.
Dragged from heaven she has sent,
Her love to all, whom would repent.
Roses in her raiment, delightful kiss,
Buoyant floral scatter into bliss.

Auric skin shining gallantly,
Spumescent emotions and comedy.
And with higher heated elevation,  
Climbing ethereal, supernal creation.
Mellifluous yet sepulchral tones,
Emanating from her deep bones.

Radiating miasmal decadence,
Anfractuous motions, candent opulence.
A vision to be seen by only the wisest men,
Her beauty reveals geometric truths and then,
Devours the evil in the souls hidden place,
By the light of love and truth all is grace.

To look upon the oracle in all her glory,
And glimpse her mind that holds your story.
She has the power to reveal our destinies,
All knowledge flow towards her with gentle ease.
I cannot turn away or break her gaze,
I’m lost within her eyes, a mighty maze.

She then speaks to me a message of distress,
Her colossal voice reverberating with finesse.
“You will not fall in love ever,
For you have chosen fear,
When death dances, ceasing never,
The bell comes and combs through here.”

Then I to her, speak my reply politely,
So as to not offend or seem unsightly.
“I do not fear death or his eye,
Nor my shackles wound round my feet,
There is no torture that can make me comply,
Not even Him on his high seat.”

And her to me, her face a placid consideration,
Unperturbed by my defiant complication.
“You ****** fool of a man,
How foolish can one be?
Stumbling in the dark without a plan,
Without foresight or a way to see.”

We could’ve ended there our interaction,
But up I pipe, avoiding distraction.
“And what advice would you bestow,
To help me through my trauma and help me grow?”
Feeling consternation in my quarrel,
And seeing in her eyes something more than moral.

She’s speaking louder, speaking clear,
As she swoops swiftly down gliding near,
“You know in your heart what needs to be done,
But always remember the game, which you haven’t won.
Never lose your creativity,
It is the gateway to serenity.”
spysgrandson Jul 2017
little remains
of my grandfather's house:
raw rafters, warped planks with hints
my uncle invested in paint

the windows all gone, time
and twisters took them, and much
of the roof--what is left of that sags,
a silent submission to gravity

a woodstove survives, cold
to the touch, with no memory
of the fire it once birthed, the precious
prairie timber which fed it

now it knows only mourning
doves' song; winged squatters
unperturbed by my presence, as if
they know I lay no claim to now

the old boards have stories
I will never hear: the birth of babes,
reading the Word by kerosene lamps,
the last breaths of men

the songbirds may know,
but they woo the living in flight--a
future of nesting and fertile eggs; they
owe no belated dirge to long lost kin
Amitav Radiance Feb 2015
You and your shadow
In a silent rendezvous
Trying to figure out
The differences
In the images portrayed
Part of you
Many crossroads between
Within you so many events
Wants attention
Thoughts, feelings, emotions
Yet, shadow unperturbed
Still claims to be your reflection
Maybe of contradictions
Imitating every intricate moves
But the mind and heart
Has a different story to narrate
Let’s infuse life in the shadow
And ask, how it feels
Life of a shadow
Should be an interesting anecdote
Ask the lights nearby
What the rays have nurtured
Shadow shall speak
For itself
Or about the accumulated stories
You went through
Is it a silent observer?
Or, just absorbs the negative emotions
Let it speak for itself
Unravel the truth with its narrative
Joseph Valle Aug 2012
A blind woman stared at me
no, that’s impossible
without eyes one can’t stare
maybe gaze,
graze my soul
feel me
know who I am,
without I even knowing, known
sitting alone in a corner
playing with pen and paper
she can hear me, she can see me
so she sits and stares in my direction
mouth closed, lips form smile.
At what does she smile?

The mad woman, rocking back and forth
to and fro, as if to music
as if she’s seen notes on paper
writings about her, her defects
deflections, that’s all they are
she cannot see that I stare at her
lovingly watch, hopefully she knows
I swear she knows it.
Why else would she smile?

Glasses block her eyes,
thick, black as night,
blacker probably,
but who am I to compare?
I’ve never seen like her, never not seen
like her
she draws in my being, I can’t look away
I can’t, must feel her
touch her face,
tell her, “It’s going to be alright,”
let her know I love her,
that I need her.
Her smile never leaves,
she sees something I never will.

she will walk over, strut
magnificently, majestically,
unperturbed by my probing eyes
feeling her way across aisles
on moving train,
she will hold me in her arms,
her untouched arms
soft, yet weathered
begging to be held,
to hold
and tell me,
just tell me,
“Don’t worry, child,
it’ll be alright.”
As lead pathologist
I witness my own work daily,
I caress thoughts of interest,
And bring them here after their demise.
My latest case, my last victim
Witnessed me lead her body astray,
And now in death, ironic yet,
As to whom her murderer now portrays.
I cover my own work,
Though honesty is the best defense,
I can tell them what the killer did first hand
And give no recompense.
They found her body where I left it,
Like I hoped and knew they would
I'd seen her the night before last,
And thought they rightly should.
Admiring my moonlight work
In my routine A.M. garb,
What obscenities now here lurk,
On my table unperturbed.
I begin the autopsy
Of my latest thirst to "Be"
I consider cryptically
Of acting empathetically
I locate the Toe-Tag first
"Good morning, Miss Who-Gives-A-****,"
She had thought sweet Death had saved her then,
But I am far from finished yet.
Familiar adhesions from tightened rope,
Emblazoned on her skinless wrist,
"What a monster," I laughed to myself,
Up and down, I check my list.
Five-foot-five makes a short short bride,
Though marriage is laughable at best.
White female, dark hair, black eyes,
Dilated from light's detest.
Ears were cut, and teeth were filed,
Apparently so she couldn't bite,
Nose, bullhooked, extremities slashed,
The little dove lost the hope of flight.
I removed her eyes again,
I had cut them out before and replaced
But twisted around upside down,
The corneas now front faced.
I placed them in the chemical solution,
That they would not rot until,
Donated to some poor *******
That I would again cut into
Putting a block under her back,
Her chest ready for the famous cut,
Down the throat and to the stem,
I perfect it without much luck.
Science dictates to remove the organs,
An examination of internals in effect,
Rationally and with much vigor,
I notice her spine so stiff and *****.
I staple her ***** of skin aside,
And begin to break her sternum,
I would speak now maybe a poet's words,
But I neglected to learn them.
A gruesome crack echoes throughout
The vastly supplied room herein,
I look up, am lost for a moment,
"Ah...", I begin again.
Testing the leverage of her ribcage,
I separate both sides until,
I feel the pressured solemn rage,
Of her bones snapping in two.
Full access now, I gaze within
At her lungs, her viscera,
I gently lay scalpel to heart,
And mutilate her parenchyma.
I'm carried away, I flick blade across
Her heart over and again,
Until a matrix of slashes on it
Does appear within,
A wretched mistake, my first,
"Not everyone's perfect," I laugh,
No time to quench the thirst,
I must fix it before seen by the staff,
I stitch carefully with translucent thread,
Perhaps this ploy may avail,
I believe I've just made my death-bed
My days now numbered and frail.
Quickly, I bag and tag her insides,
And rest them aside my table,
I stitch her chest back together,
And leave when I am able,
I plan to run as far along,
As my time can take me,
Perhaps I will find some more dissections,
Perhaps just to sustain me.

— The End —