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james nordlund Dec 2018
Transplanted to these '...fruited plains...', grandpa,
One of Gaia's fruits, what was his twinkle among
The countless stars? Here, millions have come
To stay, imbuing us with their place of origin,
Their souls dancing, flying, in a universal way.
For over 60 years Americans to be came through
Ellis Island, headed to who knows where West,
My grandfather, Uru, which means hero, a Fin,
One of three who left a concentration camp that
Fifteen thousand entered, did too, to NYC, NY.

Following freedom's beacon, its first light he saw,
The Statue of Liberties still unscorched torch, thanx
To Frederic Auguste Bartholdi, and the French. Of
Libertas, the Roman goddess of freedom and a
'...Tabula ansata, a tablet evoking the law, upon
Which is inscribed the date of the American
Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776.'
The broken chain of tyranny lies at her feet,
Upon a pedestal, wherein etched words are,
From Emma Lazurus' sonnet, 'The New Colossus',

Which may rise again, only if we embrace them:
'...Her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
'Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!' cries she
With silent lips. 'Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'

Only 151 feet tall, she will ever stand taller, or
Be turned to dust with us, all of humanity and
Large mammals, as well as the Earth, tragic
Members of extinctions annals, if we don't stop
The permanent altering of weather cycles through
Overuse of fossil fuels, the degradation of the
Earth's orbit around the Sun. We can walk in
Nature's abundant balance again, humane beings.
Still, she gives hues to the vast canvas of what
The Big Apple, and its beautiful mosaics' art, can be.
I shine only because he, a Merchant Marine, did.
Thanx to Emma Lazurus' sonnet, 'The New Colossus', quoted above, Ancestors, those who unpaved the paths, immigrants, immigration advocacy, advocacy poetry, reality poetry, statue of liberty, Amerigo for this twig of  powtree
Molly Hughes Nov 2013
How strange.
The dragon,
which I'd trained so valiantly for,
expected to breathe fire and
spit flames,
turned out to be more like
a cowering puppy.
Hiding behind his hair,
eyes rarely meeting mine,
I could put the sword back in it's case.
I felt more of a beast than you.

How strange.
The struggle I'd imagined,
the whirlwind battle,
where I defeated my demons,
and the dragon,
turned out to be nothing but a mere
pillow fight.
I entered the lair,
to find nobody there.

How strange.
The dragon I thought I'd
fall in love with,
failed to flame the spark.
My heart remained
irritatingly unscorched,
nothing more than the odd
plume of smoke
wafting around us.
And that was mainly your cigarettes.

How strange.
The 'dragon',
with his timid tone
and reserved demeanor,
roared
"F R I E N D."
This knight in
not so shining armour
needs a dragon
who can grip her heart with their claw,
and turn it white hot with desire.
You,
my little 'dragon',
are not that.
But you will make a great
friend
anyway.
Very rushed, but needed it out.
Glenn Sentes Jun 2012
Shed on that certain kind of warmth
You give the waters that washed away our footsteps

Illumine the dark leaves of our past
Blown away by the indifferent breeze.

Desiccate the grass that invited conversations
But leave the roots unscorched.

I prayed to Autumn to blow away my pains
But Winter entertained me instead.

I won’t let Spring visit me
Until you burn down her cold heart, Summer.
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
I'm quite the fickle traveler
But I like to take it easy
Don't give me air
Give me treetops and towers
And I'll trickle between
The dead and the living
Till I sense your salty skin
So give me a break
Your hearts and your heads
Are not this fool's mistake
Cause unlike your race
Of desires on high
And telephone lines
And indoor beaches
I just want to touch down
Touch ground
Dig in with my fork
A simple lobotomy
That keeps you unscorched
And still they want to catch me
A substitute for fire's torch
So I'll make true your myths
Of ominous hues
And day after day
Give you bolts from the blue
Glenn Sentes Jun 2023
I could still recall how gently I held your seed
and brought you to your bed.
There a drop of sweat from this forehead
joyously mingled with some grains of your soil.
I lay you there and saw the approval of the sun
as he sent his warmth reflected on your cheerful coating.
You lay down restfully on your life bed
And I dreamed…

You rose with your sturdy trunk
so robust with pride that your neighboring flagpole
felt intimated by your presence.
They sang him hymns
they bowed at him with their hearts
while you humbly stood there
swaying your greens, reaching atop, conquering the scorches of your sun
so that they, underneath remain unharmed, unscorched, unsoaked.

Soon you bore velvety fruits that the young munched as well as the old
On lazy days you gave them games of soccers and boomerangs,
and tennis, and catches and fetches.

On moonlights, you appeared to be a violinist
as the lovers kissed under your warm company.

You were the silent listener to the broken hearts
when you offered your comforting barks as a shoulder
till they cried and wept
till they breathed and smiled once again.

You had a way with humans who slouch under your shade
You hummed serenades that only your chirping friends
and fluttering colorflies hear and together
you created an orchestra harmonizing songs of friendship, of peace, of love.

I saw you arise and write down histories on to your memory—
how you tried to reach for the graduates’ caps in the air,
how spirited you applauded for great speeches  on that podium
but no one ever noticed.

I saw you sway your branches gracefully as the marching band went
boom-boom, tug-tug, and kling-klang.
It was your favorite part of the day.

So many times you bore witness to silly fights
of the young and the old too,
but most often you saw these creatures
make peace at dusk.

There I saw you in eternity.
There I saw you to be forever standing tall on your life bed.

Then I heard the hellish rumble of their chainsaw,
the shrill reverberation piercing through this feeble core
as they ruthlessly cut your body.

I could not afford to watch you being slain.

You are my life.

Your death is my death.
A tribute to one of the oldest trees in our campus that was cut down one day.
Judge by the world just because of sexuality.
Over criticised by law due to abnormality.
Excluded from the rest of men.
Learned to wait for the moment that only god knows when.

Battling for co-existance when the world does not permit.
Aspiring that with their resistance someday they will submit.
Defying the odds and the twist of fate.
Unscorched by destiny still fought but didnt hate.
At last the war is over and the battle is done, the victors take the spoils for they have won.
Scorch'd Diana Feb 2021
Somberness, see it sanctuarily swearing
sword-tongue worded spellspeech secretly sunder a number
apart from another,
no ear so keen just to hear the equation
crackle into informal shatter.
No regrets nor bother
among preachers nor hypocrits,
so same as it's sad, their chatter
a masked creature
that fits this disordered scripture
of us.

Aware of a far-reaching freedom
each of them fathomless to their undone dares
to fail becoming one;
they,
all feature a familiar pattern
which matters even less to them
than a fantasy's thorn to their first thoughts, frankly;
they,
who share the same history they're enacting
their manifest destiny of a doom chosen
their fair share of despair
so spectacularily reflecting through
their fleet tranquil escaping
from those fear-forsakened frail bone-marrowed
branch brittles they've rosen
so fro as they are, frighteningly awake
fleeing those fractures so alive
in fashions gorgeous fractals alike
no grit, no wit capable of constructing such a lit, yet aesthetic scene of delight.

They,
each afraid of their boundaries beloved
to be breached apart so badly
only for captivity and nothing else
as they beg
counter-intuitive measurements taken
caught from under the counter countlessly
those captives, their algorithms split, entwined;
so better, better don't mind it;
undozens of them
all death-grasping frozen
from just a slightliest rattle
of the crispy pages bearing a poem
or a *** pinched by a laddle.

Falsely do they believe revolving
advancing their middle
however, with its Forever forgotten
prayer by prayer
for the sake of a splendid soil
oblivious to the seed that is rotten.

Oil-devouring tumoil tactically targets their entire toil
pouring visions filling each stare
for each one to chisel only another
effort-evaporating Escheresque stair
for ground and ground apart at the borderline
they are,
the sharp scraping of the air
gnashing winds under the ice of a somber sunshine.

These crystalline brimstones
spacelessy stranded;
vile ambers, yet of beauty unspoken
sparking like cider, from apples royalty-branded
perhaps even prickling, peach-flavoured honey wine
reminiscing silent lovers' moans
ones a satyr favours in folly
in gayness he eaves his hallowed shrine.

Without answers
a riddle is meant unbroken
shards of their failure, silkenly sanded
faintly, a filthless spirit's essence,
so fine.
Some insight may have been awoken
perhaps this and not another time.
Just the right questions
painfully born from the sublime.

In and on,
however a retrospect away
a new future rises from the ashes of fallen hells
mere memories of an old fiend
darkness encountered
for each delusion you slay
and eventually
even you, as well, will listen
listen to the bells from the yondersome elsewhere ringing, wailing
hailing their soul-crackling harmony
somewhere from above us all.

Cardinal numbers are breathless,
while we,
so proud to appraise prime numbers
so wishfully down to their core,
rather dream unparalyzed a dream
of an unclaimed nowhen
stuck in a less corrupt algebratic behaviour than before;
error-ridden operations so holdlessly scaffolded
our somberness
submerged and suffocated.
Down
down we swam to see sunken cities of sorcery;
suicidal endeavour, hive mind agony
our race means for the next galaxy
yet still a race meant for parsimony.

All in all, ****** in brickly rubble
what once was wall, popped much like a bubble;
crumbling, stars burst our skies apart
fates laughing the madnesses' mirth
no hand unscorched, suddenly so much to win.
They listen, scent, and see,
the ones they miss, and what they've lost;
gasping, gazing up ahead
wings spread, glare brightly
flame-feathered doves of rebirth
released, everyone's dignity
finally freed from the heart.

We're not, not mindlessly suffering a somewhere
but this time, facing this inquiry:
What else is there
reality or not
modality or possibility, probably an actuality;
as we learn to sincerely care and to feel
the current breath, the nation, the spot
they all are our responsibility
doubtlessly and definitely real.

Thus, secondary to me
each second that ***** my spirit dry
throughout a minute
anywhen
as we spire from hour to hour
honestly, far, far too often
and not from now and then.

Primary, however, is
my mistake which I'll hold me dire
I would rather not anymore, ever
divide zero by itself again.
What I learned like so many before
cannot count in this realm of some foreign heart
- now, for me -
anymore
which is indeed my problem
as I'm burning these pages I tore apart.
01011001
Ayn Jan 2020
At a vexing infernal ball,
The molten ash lights up
An intricate obsidian hall.

The devil walked up to me
Offered a withering lily,
And asked for my decaying hand.

So I waltzed with the devil
Graceful fluid movements,
Like the blood leaking
From my long closed wounds.

Hand in decaying hand,
Ashen footprint by ashen footprint,
We drift further into our moment,
Dancing at the depths of our hell.

The dance will end in its own time.
The inevitable death of the
Minor notes of deprivation draw closer.
My heart starts syncing with the notes,
Tuning it's strings to the icy song in play.

As the ending major chords finish
Their prolonged hymn of fate,
The devil leans over my helpless body
And donates a kiss to my struggling lips,
Ending my life in its entirety.

Now a silent ballroom remains.
A silent ashen body lays stagnant,
And soon fades off into the dust
That decorates the ebony floor.

Two unscorched hands still lay,
But they are frail, and will soon decay.
Apparently flower language is a thing. The lily is important to that. I found it a cool idea to have life be a dance with the devil. I think there's a saying about dancing with the devil. Anyways, I'm pretty sure I'm talking to myself with these notes, but that's okay, because... it just is, ya know?
Graff1980 Oct 2018
The last flower
unable to flee
the earth I see
as I unfold
feeling lite petals
ready to be plucked.

The final fraction
of unscorched skin
unwetted with red lines
or bulging bruises,
the ****** flesh
that I never let
you touch

The dead wood
brown and broken
mushrooms growing
with rings of age exposed
cause they took the top
and left the rest
to rot and drop.

The subtraction of
the howling instincts
that are urging me
to keep collecting
useless things,
the growling beasts
that are hurting
and hunting me
demeaning while
devouring
my well-being.
Mike Adam Sep 2023
I saw your children
Playing
In the Fiery Pit

Unscorched


How the honest
Innocent

Survive

— The End —