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jeffrey conyers Oct 2012
You owe me nothing.
Not a single thing.
Cause what I give freely to you.
Was honestly done out of love for you.
Yes, it was unselfish love.

Not like those seeking a favor in return.
And brings up all the things they have done.
Whatever I give is freely of my will.

Amongst the many means ones running upon this earth.
Hear this.
And believe it too.
What I do?
I freely chose too.
Unlike some in our life.
Who tries to black mail you.

I can **** you will kindness.
That you'll get irritated.
Which is what unselfish love sometimes do.
Especially upon those that comes across cruel.
jeffrey conyers Sep 2012
Some of the greatest hearts gets tore apart.
So let me advise you with all honesty and truth.
This love I'm giving you is unselfish.
And should be treated like royalty.

To disrespect it.
Means disrespecting me.

Some losers loves to apologize.
As if the pain inside will slide to the side.
So be alert.
And be warned.
This love I'm giving you is unselfish.
It only knows how to give.
So there no need for it to be catching hell.

And in truth.
No true soul wants to go there.
Terry O'Leary Jan 2014
as the PROPHETS of profits, WE lead and WE’re fair
while WE’re living the life of the poor BILLIONAIRE
– silver yachts, pearly castles, cash (plenty to spare) –
with the world on OUR backs... ah! the burdens WE bear!

being HAVES (not the have-nots) as nature decrees
means WE’re certainly the better (they’re vermin on ******).
if they pray for a lift in their dark fantasies,
WE just kick ’em downstairs, get ’em off of their knees.

yes, WE offer great jobs (much too busy OURSELVES!)
for maintaining the toilets, restacking the shelves,
and WE teach ’em to fear god and play with the elves,
thus dispelling ideas where the dark demon delves.

though they build mighty bridges, twin towers and more,
peddle pizzas and popcorn, sell guns door-to-door,
still they gotta have BOSSES to tell ’em the score
else WE’d never be needed, WE’d thrive nevermore.

when OUR profits are plunging, they do their part too
for they dine on the dole! yes, no hullabaloo!
soon OUR fortunes  redouble, rebound and accrue –
since WE fare well without ’em, WE bid ’em adieu.

’stead of wishing for welfare and standing in queues
or parading with pickets (look! holes in their shoes!),
they’d be better off scabbing to save union dues.
while WE whistle and warble, they’re singing the blues.

whether heroes or hoboes, like spiders and lice
they just crawl all around us in life’s paradise,
but WE’re patient, big hearted and oft sacrifice,
spewing charity, kindness (though each has its price).

if they’re beaten or punctured or suffer assault,
are unhealthy or crippled or walk with a halt,
or ******* or helpless, it’s all their own fault –
just like US they should worship the DOLLAR exalt’!

protesters and loud mouths, you’ll find ’em aplenty
some older, some younger, the worst not yet twenty.
they’re shameless and brazen (unwashed, soiled and scenty)
impugning the prestige of brave COGNOSCENTI.

if they’ve got clashing colors (or shades in between)
or opposing beliefs in the hidden unseen,
well, WE’ll always exploit it, deflecting their spleen,
for with god on each side, would WE dare intervene?

WE maintain many methods to keep ’em in chains –
daily rags and the tube spin OUR circus campaigns:
“to pretend you’ve a voice”, an announcement explains,
“you can vote and decide on which ONE of US reigns”.

OUR policemen protect US, they stay on the ball
(they arrest ’em, no questions per law’s protocol,
and then jam ’em in jail with their backs to the wall) –
if you’ve lucre for lawyers there’s justice for all.

down the ROYAL road of justice WE march all alone
– WE condemn their defiance, set ways to atone –
since WE’re sinless, unsullied, WE cast the first stone
(while WE cloak REGAL fetor with eau de cologne).

politicians, bald bankers, grand idols galore,
attend meetings, fete banquets in which they explore
how to rid US of rodents (the weak and the poor) –
well, just round up the riff-raff, dispatch ’em to war!

ah! OUR wars are, well, just...... just a thing of the past
........... and the present............... and future... WE sure make them last!
if they frown as they gaze (Armageddon!) aghast,
then WE smile back with pleasure, OUR treasures amassed.

useless ranting and raving (in rags, when they’re clad),
leads to losing their teeth (my! their gums are... egad!).
WE’re unselfish, indulgent, WE’d never be mad
if they drowned in the sounds of themselves feeling sad.

as the paupers are princes in midnight’s domain,
they have pipe dreams to lose, certainly nothing to gain
if they’re hoping OUR fortunes will wither and wane –
for “WE’re here by god’s will” as WE often explain.

yes, they wish to be US, with OUR wisdom and grace,
keeping up with ol’ CROESUS, maintaining the pace.  
but perverseness or rancor? they’ll see not a trace –
for WE hold ’em at bay with a fist in the face.

WE’re la CRÈME de la CRÈME, yes! the proud UPPER CRUST,
and OUR clothes are the finest, OUR hair never mussed –
WE imbue ’em with piety, duty and trust
and they’re fed bread and water (if feed ’em WE must).

but they’re thieving, aggrieved, want a piece of OUR PIE
and request WE endure ’em, see EYE to black eye.
since they live in OUR land where OUR strict rules apply,
they must feast on the crumbs that We cast to the sty.

though OUR largesse and bounty WE don’t mean to flaunt,
yet the pittance WE pay ’em they surely can vaunt –
salty peanuts and pretzels (what more could they want?)
thereby keeping their kiddies so healthily gaunt.

yes, there’s room for the rabble (the back of the bus)
’cause WE treat ’em like equals, so what’s all the fuss?
all can rise to the top (yes! it’s always been thus),
to the suites in OUR penthouse (to sweep up and dust).

while OUR CHILDREN have tutors, the finest of schools
(being bred for the forefront, THEY’re nobody’s fools),
their own school of hard knocks teaches: “follow the rules”,
building brawn ’stead of brains and broad backs strong as mules’.

and to keep ’em in line (to ensure WE prevail)
WE now monitor phone calls and read all their mail
(civil rights? what a notion! at best a detail!)
and if worse comes to worst...... well...... guantanamo jail!

WE’ve OUR quandaries and questions and headaches full blown
(like deciding design and decor of OUR throne...
whether diamonds or rubies... to gemstones WE’re prone) .
when WE deign to appease ’em, WE chuck ’em a bone.

now you know all OUR problems, OUR pains and travails
– like preparing foreclosures, evictions  and sales –
but WE’ve no need for worries or gnawed fingernails,
’cause WE’re sailing OUR yachts through tempestuous gales
(with them bailing OUR banks when OUR stock market fails)
sipping daiquiri sours, champagnes, ginger ales.
It is full winter now:  the trees are bare,
Save where the cattle huddle from the cold
Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
The autumn’s gaudy livery whose gold
Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true
To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew

From Saturn’s cave; a few thin wisps of hay
Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain
Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer’s day
From the low meadows up the narrow lane;
Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep
Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep

From the shut stable to the frozen stream
And back again disconsolate, and miss
The bawling shepherds and the noisy team;
And overhead in circling listlessness
The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack,
Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools crack

Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds
And ***** his wings, and stretches back his neck,
And hoots to see the moon; across the meads
Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;
And a stray seamew with its fretful cry
Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky.

Full winter:  and the ***** goodman brings
His load of ******* from the chilly byre,
And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings
The sappy billets on the waning fire,
And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare
His children at their play, and yet,—the spring is in the air;

Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,
And soon yon blanched fields will bloom again
With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow,
For with the first warm kisses of the rain
The winter’s icy sorrow breaks to tears,
And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit peers

From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie,
And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runs
Over the mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly
Across our path at evening, and the suns
Stay longer with us; ah! how good to see
Grass-girdled spring in all her joy of laughing greenery

Dance through the hedges till the early rose,
(That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!)
Burst from its sheathed emerald and disclose
The little quivering disk of golden fire
Which the bees know so well, for with it come
Pale boy’s-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in bloom.

Then up and down the field the sower goes,
While close behind the laughing younker scares
With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows,
And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears,
And on the grass the creamy blossom falls
In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals

Steal from the bluebells’ nodding carillons
Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine,
That star of its own heaven, snap-dragons
With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine
In dusty velvets clad usurp the bed
And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed

Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply,
And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes,
Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy
Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise,
And violets getting overbold withdraw
From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless haw.

O happy field! and O thrice happy tree!
Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock
And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea,
Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock
Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon
Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at noon.

Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour,
The flower which wantons love, and those sweet nuns
Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture
Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations
With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind,
And straggling traveller’s-joy each hedge with yellow stars will bind.

Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring,
That canst give increase to the sweet-breath’d kine,
And to the kid its little horns, and bring
The soft and silky blossoms to the vine,
Where is that old nepenthe which of yore
Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore!

There was a time when any common bird
Could make me sing in unison, a time
When all the strings of boyish life were stirred
To quick response or more melodious rhyme
By every forest idyll;—do I change?
Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce range?

Nay, nay, thou art the same:  ’tis I who seek
To vex with sighs thy simple solitude,
And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek
Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood;
Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare
To taint such wine with the salt poison of own despair!

Thou art the same:  ’tis I whose wretched soul
Takes discontent to be its paramour,
And gives its kingdom to the rude control
Of what should be its servitor,—for sure
Wisdom is somewhere, though the stormy sea
Contain it not, and the huge deep answer ‘’Tis not in me.’

To burn with one clear flame, to stand *****
In natural honour, not to bend the knee
In profitless prostrations whose effect
Is by itself condemned, what alchemy
Can teach me this? what herb Medea brewed
Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued?

The minor chord which ends the harmony,
And for its answering brother waits in vain
Sobbing for incompleted melody,
Dies a swan’s death; but I the heir of pain,
A silent Memnon with blank lidless eyes,
Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise.

The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom,
The little dust stored in the narrow urn,
The gentle XAIPE of the Attic tomb,—
Were not these better far than to return
To my old fitful restless malady,
Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery?

Nay! for perchance that poppy-crowned god
Is like the watcher by a sick man’s bed
Who talks of sleep but gives it not; his rod
Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said,
Death is too rude, too obvious a key
To solve one single secret in a life’s philosophy.

And Love! that noble madness, whose august
And inextinguishable might can slay
The soul with honeyed drugs,—alas! I must
From such sweet ruin play the runaway,
Although too constant memory never can
Forget the arched splendour of those brows Olympian

Which for a little season made my youth
So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence
That all the chiding of more prudent Truth
Seemed the thin voice of jealousy,—O hence
Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis!
Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous bliss.

My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no more,—
Though Love himself should turn his gilded prow
Back to the troubled waters of this shore
Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now
The chariot wheels of passion sweep too near,
Hence!  Hence!  I pass unto a life more barren, more austere.

More barren—ay, those arms will never lean
Down through the trellised vines and draw my soul
In sweet reluctance through the tangled green;
Some other head must wear that aureole,
For I am hers who loves not any man
Whose white and stainless ***** bears the sign Gorgonian.

Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page,
And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair,
With net and spear and hunting equipage
Let young Adonis to his tryst repair,
But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell
Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel.

Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy
Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud
Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy
And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed
In wonder at her feet, not for the sake
Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take.

Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed!
And, if my lips be musicless, inspire
At least my life:  was not thy glory hymned
By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre
Like AEschylos at well-fought Marathon,
And died to show that Milton’s England still could bear a son!

And yet I cannot tread the Portico
And live without desire, fear and pain,
Or nurture that wise calm which long ago
The grave Athenian master taught to men,
Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted,
To watch the world’s vain phantasies go by with unbowed head.

Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips,
Those eyes that mirrored all eternity,
Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse
Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne
Is childless; in the night which she had made
For lofty secure flight Athena’s owl itself hath strayed.

Nor much with Science do I care to climb,
Although by strange and subtle witchery
She drew the moon from heaven:  the Muse Time
Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry
To no less eager eyes; often indeed
In the great epic of Polymnia’s scroll I love to read

How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war
Against a little town, and panoplied
In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar,
White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede
Between the waving poplars and the sea
Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylae

Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall,
And on the nearer side a little brood
Of careless lions holding festival!
And stood amazed at such hardihood,
And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore,
And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight o’er

Some unfrequented height, and coming down
The autumn forests treacherously slew
What Sparta held most dear and was the crown
Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew
How God had staked an evil net for him
In the small bay at Salamis,—and yet, the page grows dim,

Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel
With such a goodly time too out of tune
To love it much:  for like the Dial’s wheel
That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon
Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes
Restlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies.

O for one grand unselfish simple life
To teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hills
Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife
Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills,
Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly
Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century!

Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is he
Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soul
Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty
Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal
Where love and duty mingle!  Him at least
The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom’s feast;

But we are Learning’s changelings, know by rote
The clarion watchword of each Grecian school
And follow none, the flawless sword which smote
The pagan Hydra is an effete tool
Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now
Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence bow?

One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod!
Gone is that last dear son of Italy,
Who being man died for the sake of God,
And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully,
O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower,
Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour

Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or
The Arno with its tawny troubled gold
O’er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror
Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old
When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty
Walked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery

Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell
With an old man who grabbled rusty keys,
Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell
With which oblivion buries dynasties
Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast,
As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed.

He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome,
He drave the base wolf from the lion’s lair,
And now lies dead by that empyreal dome
Which overtops Valdarno hung in air
By Brunelleschi—O Melpomene
Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody!

Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies
That Joy’s self may grow jealous, and the Nine
Forget awhile their discreet emperies,
Mourning for him who on Rome’s lordliest shrine
Lit for men’s lives the light of Marathon,
And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun!

O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower!
Let some young Florentine each eventide
Bring coronals of that enchanted flower
Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide,
And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies
Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes;

Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings,
Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim
Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings
Of the eternal chanting Cherubim
Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away
Into a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and clay,

He is not dead, the immemorial Fates
Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain.
Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates!
Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain
For the vile thing he hated lurks within
Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin.

Still what avails it that she sought her cave
That murderous mother of red harlotries?
At Munich on the marble architrave
The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas
Which wash AEgina fret in loneliness
Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless

For lack of our ideals, if one star
Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust
Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war
Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust
Which was Mazzini once! rich Niobe
For all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy,

What Easter Day shall make her children rise,
Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feet
Shall find their grave-clothes folded? what clear eyes
Shall see them ******?  O it were meet
To roll the stone from off the sepulchre
And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of her,

Our Italy! our mother visible!
Most blessed among nations and most sad,
For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell
That day at Aspromonte and was glad
That in an age when God was bought and sold
One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold,

See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves
Bind the sweet feet of Mercy:  Poverty
Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knives
Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily,
And no word said:- O we are wretched men
Unworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen

Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword
Which slew its master righteously? the years
Have lost their ancient leader, and no word
Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears:
While as a ruined mother in some spasm
Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm

Genders unlawful children, Anarchy
Freedom’s own Judas, the vile prodigal
Licence who steals the gold of Liberty
And yet has nothing, Ignorance the real
One Fraticide since Cain, Envy the asp
That stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp

Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed Greed
For whose dull appetite men waste away
Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed
Of things which slay their sower, these each day
Sees rife in England, and the gentle feet
Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each unlovely street.

What even Cromwell spared is desecrated
By **** and worm, left to the stormy play
Of wind and beating snow, or renovated
By more destructful hands:  Time’s worst decay
Will wreathe its ruins with some loveliness,
But these new Vandals can but make a rain-proof barrenness.

Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing
Through Lincoln’s lofty choir, till the air
Seems from such marble harmonies to ring
With sweeter song than common lips can dare
To draw from actual reed? ah! where is now
The cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn branches bow

For Southwell’s arch, and carved the House of One
Who loved the lilies of the field with all
Our dearest English flowers? the same sun
Rises for us:  the seasons natural
Weave the same tapestry of green and grey:
The unchanged hills are with us:  but that Spirit hath passed away.

And yet perchance it may be better so,
For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen,
****** her brother is her bedfellow,
And the Plague chambers with her:  in obscene
And ****** paths her treacherous feet are set;
Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate!

For gentle brotherhood, the harmony
Of living in the healthful air, the swift
Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free
And women chaste, these are the things which lift
Our souls up more than even Agnolo’s
Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o’er the scroll of human woes,

Or Titian’s little maiden on the stair
White as her own sweet lily and as tall,
Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,—
Ah! somehow life is bigger after all
Than any painted angel, could we see
The God that is within us!  The old Greek serenity

Which curbs the passion of that
Stephen E Yocum Dec 2013
Once I undertook a journey,
upon the very face of our entire world.
To view for myself the many pictures,
and written descriptions in all the geography
books and History Classes, National
Geographic magazines and movies seen.

A Quest to see with my own eyes what
I had only experienced second hand.
In my mid twenties, like a dream,
one foot in front of the other,
I went about exploring.

I sniffed and tasted the scents of foreign lands,
Incense, Sage and Frankincense, fish curry,
fried snake and even monkey brains.
Walked in lush Jungle Bush and Desert sands,
Along the shores of Islands and the coasts
of many lands.

Heard the voices of 30 divergent Dialects
and cultures, smiling and laughing with
the families and children of all of them.
Set beside the fires of primitive tribal men,
heard their chants to their gods above, the
moon, stars and the sun, the ocean, the land.
Clapped my hands and moved my feet in
their ancient mystic dances.
Drank their tea, Kava or whatever they shared
grateful for their offered unselfish brotherhood.

Stood on the flanks of the tallest Mountains
in the world, on my toe tips, to try to see the
face of the God of my youthful teachings,
disappointed when I did not see him, or Her.
Found instead an inner tranquility, imparted
to me by Red robbed Monks from within their
chants of Peace and wise earthly enlightenments.

Strolled the cobbled streets of two thousand year
old Cities. Walked among the ruined remnants of
nearly forgotten once great Civilizations.

Explored Modern European Citadels' of wealth and learning.
Over time rode on planes, ships, buses, backs of open trucks,
Horse pulled carts and human drawn rickshaws, taxis, subways,
rented motorcycles and cars.  Walked perhaps 1000 miles.
In all a journey of the mind and heart lasting three years.

And why you might ask, "What qualifies you as a pilgrim
of any kind, to travel so far, and wide?"
"What was I looking for, what did I hope to find?"  
All indeed, fare questions.

When a boy, I read a simple five word line,
“Seek and thee shall find". Curiosity and
Horizon Lust compelled me.
The next obvious question you might
ask is, after all that; “What did you find?”
That answer is very simple,
I found myself.
Most journeys end right
back where they started.
It is what one learns in
between the going and
returning that changes
everything including
the pilgrim/traveler.
Tea Dec 2013
I start to answer her question,
She seems taken aback.
I rattle off my list.
“Witty comments,
An easy found laughter…
I like competitiveness
That’s wraps itself around playfulness,
Like I want to wrap myself around
His big found epiphanies.
Symphony of intellectual connecting’s and
Good intuition.
A quick reaction time, helping you step away
Before **** has had time to hit the fan.
Eagerness to help other human beings…
Taking advantages of opportunities instead of people
Charisma that is unselfish in its tendency to be noticed.
Awareness of one’s self.
a knack for insightful observing.”
These a list of things I find attractive
But yes he also has a nice jaw line
It traces lovely underneath a finger tip
But it’s a faraway line on a map
That has eloquently plotted out his most beautiful parts
It’s faded and dim in comparison to the additional obvious existing’s
It is so far from those parts of him I find to be most beautiful
That I hardly understand how out of all of it
That was the only thing you really responded to.
The only part of the map you related enough to
To point to and say I have been there.
A man, who never believed in Gods,
Refused to acknowledge the supremacy of the imperialist British Lords,
Challenged imperialist world empire with stubbornness,
Wished to build a peaceful superpower country, with farsightedness.

Through his reading, kept himself on evolution,
Sowed in the hearts of Indian youth, the seeds of revolution,
Raising and threatening administrative tones,
Stood fearful and could only break his bones.

From, soviet World misunderstood,
Revolution a product of blood & bullet,
He approached and transformed revolution,
A product of inspiring pen and booklet.

Never limited himself to fight for boundaries of administrative right,
Expanded himself in the jail to throw away human plight,
Fought a death-nearing battle to regain the human right,
To finally set all things for his jail mates completely right.

Pen is mightier than sword,
His life bore testimony to prove that record,
When others attempted for freedom movement to nurture,
He dreamt and worked for building his country a beautiful future.

Born an ordinary Sikh man,
Misinterpreted a lunatic gunman,

Lived a life of comrades,
Hated in every step, caste, religious and gender retrogrades,
Wanted to save his country from blood-******* renegades,
Decided to break all the youth-distorting barricades,
And put his life to a mortgaging death trade.

Lived a life of an unselfish tree,
Decided to give his life to witness the country free,
Evolved his life, a chapter of sacrifice,
Offered overprice to fight the imposed injustice & cowardice.

His physical life remained short-lived and temporary,
Lived for the country to set an example for ideal revolutionary,
Beaten by humanimal imperialists, black and blue,
Opened the youths towards fight for freedom, on a new avenue.

Imperialist empire remained pathetically cruel,
His thoughts & phenomenon inspired a never ending fuel,
For the youths, to sacrifice themselves for liberation of the soil,
Through revolutionary paths, filled with constant sufferings and toil.

The world personified, revolution is,
Red, blood, blood and blood,
He defied and responded, revolution is,
Think, evolve, unite, and change, by the act of read, read, read and read.

He proclaimed a desperate need,
To get ourselves away from disturbing ****,
Sowed the fire of revolutionary seed,
Thus stated to read, read and read.

Imperialist empires killed people like blood-******* vampires,
He fought and responded, with the shot of a demonstrative gunfire,
When ordinary humans aimed to save their family,
Every millisecond, lived a life, personifying whole country his family.

Like a wood that offers light, and burns itself in fire,
Gave freedom a ray of light, submitted himself happily into the death wire,
For revolution, turned the court his Centre of propaganda,
Responded the ruthless imperialist, a warning memoranda.

On the imperialist death rope, he was killed
The batons he passed for the youths of next generations,
His final dream for India, still unfulfilled,
On the presence of present blood-******* politicians,

A baby that never cries on starvation,
A child that never starves for education,
A youth who never roams around to get dignified occupation,
Let’s at least work and fight towards, fulfilling this mission.
This poem is about the Indian revolutionary named Bhagat Singh. He was a Sikh youth born in India. He is wrongly misinterpreted with bullets and blood. But his approach towards freedom, worthiness of human life and knowledge, shows him distinct from violent loving extremists. He was not a terrorist. He was the most non-violent person, who valued human life than everything. The bomb he threw never had any harmful chemicals, it was thrown on an empty place of assembly to get the world to hear him. He killed a police, who deliberately lathi-charged and killed people involved in a peaceful protest. He sacrificed his life for Indian freedom movement. He was the highly-read and the best intellectual reader during his life short-lived (1907-1931). At the age of 24, the then imperialist British executed him by hanging him to death. His vision and clarity for India and his predictions are happening today. His vision and thoughts still ignite youths of India when we think of him. In short, he is an icon of the Indian youth and revolutionary.
Tylie Dec 2012
what frightens me in the world today
is that nobody knows
nobody is aware
people are suffering


what frightens me in the world today
success in unreachable
nobody is ever happy
we are trapped behind our faults

bring us to the times where
generosity wasn't a surprise
where soft souls walked into our lives
just to simply bring a smile

where in this world today shall we look for happiness
where can we find a path where humility bridges over
the pain
and the broken hearts of this world

we need to rise up in this new year
bring upon change that inflicts joy
a simple smile

let our resolutions not be for OUR own good
but for the good of OUR surroundings, our neighbors, our enemies

for when you learn to love and wish for the better of your enemies
i believe in that time, you can truly find peace
Kewayne Wadley Apr 2018
And like incense our scent takes to the air.
Ascending before we fall.
Her and I.
We burst into fire.
Our eyes a gaseous mixture. 
Ignited by the touch of skin.
Kindling the many thoughts we keep of each other.
A crackle blown out.
Accented in desire,
Our yearning ignites.
We hold ourselves unselfish,
Keeping warm.
Separate stems bonded as one. 
Our inner voice visible. 
Bypassing worry, our doubt.
A piece of us both, dissipating in a slow burning.
To give more than we've taken in unspoken communication.
We fell in ash.
Our scent a prayer sent to heaven. 
To always remain this way. 
Even after our extinguishing.
May we linger.
Forever more.
Falling fast asleep in each other's arms.
Leading each other to a place we call love.
Until the last ash drops
Jeffrey Pua Oct 2014
Are doting fishermen
Who lets go
Of the fish.

© 2014 J.S.P.
jeffrey conyers Dec 2017
If given a gift be thankful.
Acknowledge it with kindness without distaste.
Remember our unselfish gift can't be returned.
For with it came unselfish love.

If that gift of love was returned.
Would you then understand this gift importance?
I looked out from a heart that hoped and saw a precious jewel
Unafraid of my gleaming leaves or the way I speak
With a heart unselfish and never cruel
Shining as in a dream
A light to seek

The air sprouted new leaves as time and space stood still
Touching these gleaming leaves of my own
What a heavenly gesture I could feel
Radiating from this jewel

Clearly, in my sight, my pulse quickened at the view
As these leaves kissed my gleaming green
Such treasure I found in a jewel
When I looked out in hope

Never again will I see my world the same as before
Because I saw a precious jewel
With air my leaves adore
A heart unselfish
Never cruel
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
EP Mason Dec 2013
Thank you for hiding me in your bounded wool
you are the one thing I feel pretty in
black is a forgiving colour
and I like to be hidden sometimes

The nice thing about winter is
there's no need for exposed flesh
and as much as I love you, summer
I do dread having to set free my ridiculous body
and these pale scars of mine
© Erin Mason 2013
Alyanne Cooper Jul 2014
My phone drops from my hands,
All my body's strength ebbs away.
I have to lie down so I don't fall down
Because my legs can't support my body weight.
And then I'm staring
At the whitewashed walls and ceiling
Of my furniture-filled bedroom
And suddenly the panic sets in.
Everything is too tight, too close, too much.
I need to get out of here.
I need to breathe
But I can't because all I can think about
Is you.
Your words.
Your life.
Your choices.
And as I lay there sweating cold bullets of fear,
I wonder why I'm panicking.
It was just another email.
A general update to no one in particular.
One of the ones you always send out
To everyone because you still think we care.
You didn't say a single word about anyone else.
Four whole pages of you.
And I guess that's why I'm struggling to breathe.
It's like I never existed to you.
It's like you never cared about me.
And suddenly the need to see you
To talk to you
To hold you
To laugh, to cry, to just simply be
With you
Overwhelms me.
Not the you who wrote that email.
Not the you who you think you are now.
The you who doesn't even acknowledge her own offspring.
No, I'm desperate to touch the you
Who I know is locked away in a part
So deeply hidden in your soul
That you've forgotten about her.
The you who still knows a mother's love
For her daughter.
I want to see the unclouded eyes,
Hear the unselfish voice,
Touch the compassionate soul
Of the amazing woman who birthed me.
But I'm so afraid that you've finally done it.
That you've finally killed off
The last vestiges of her soul
With the darkness of your own.
I panic with the truth that faces me:
I'll really never be able to see her again.
John McCormick Nov 2010
I would like to say just a few words about my father. However, I could speak forever about him. There are some things you may already know about him and other things you may not. But I think there are some things everyone may want to know about him.

My father, James Franklin McCormick, Senior, or Frank as he preferred to be called, was 69-years-old and a role model in demonstrating a strong work ethic. He worked at his job at Dayton Stencil for 44 years and was getting ready for work the morning he had a stroke. He worked almost every day even though he was 85% disabled from war injuries.

He obtained a broken back in the Army while preparing to go to war. After his partcail recovery, he was injured again while serving overseas in the Korean War. That's the reason he is being buried wearing his Korean War ball cap. He was proud to be a Veteran.

In addition to wearing his Korean War ball cap, he had a Brown's ball cap he also loved to wear. The Browns were his favorite team.

My father didn't just work ******* his job, he also worked hard at being a great father and husband and taking care of his family. He was always there when someone needed him and always offered his unconditional love and support.

My father loved being a dad and a grandfather. He loved his children and grandchildren very much and made us all know it.

His love for my mother was always evident. He was always at her side through good times and bad. He was there through her many illnesses. When my mother had cancer and it was clear she wouldn't be able to drive for a long time, he at the age of 64, got his driver license for the first time since his war days so he could help with all the things that she had always taken care of. After he got his license, he bought a huge Ford truck that he loved driving

I feel blessed that I got to spend a few weeks with my Dad before he passed. I felt it a blessing to watch my mother with my father and see all the love they still had for each other. They celebrated their 49th wedding anniversary on September 12th, 2 days before he passed. Their love and commitment to each other is inspiring. They had almost 50 years together.

In his earlier years, my father was very competitive in any sport he participated in. He always tried to be the best and usually was. He loved golf, bowling, pool and poker. Although that last one really isn't a sport. In recent years, he loved to play Bingo. He probably would've gone to Bingo every night if he could have. He won often and had a lot of friends there. He also enjoyed hunting and fishing.

My father had a great sense of humor and would try to trick or fool you at times. However, you could always tell he was up to something by a certain mischievous grin he would get on his face that always gave him away.

Even in his last days while in the hospital, before he got very ill, he would try to tease you. If you sat too close to him on the bed or touched something that was connected to him like a wire, he would let out a moan like you hurt him in some way. But then, there you would see that grin.

I believe that was his unselfish way of comforting us while we were comforting him.
Now you know a little bit more about my father. Like I said before I could go on and on about him.

The last thing I want to say I would like to say it to my father.

"Dad, you were loved and appreciated by all your friend & family. Thanks you for being the man you were. You have helped us and will always help us to be better people for knowing you and having you in our lives. Your love and devotion as a husband, a father, a grandfather, a brother and a friend will carry us and strengthen us until we all meet again. You will be deeply missed. Thank you, Dad."

And thank all of you for being here today and for your support.
Yenson Dec 2018
Listen you nice genteel ladies out there
We know you'll adore a charming, intelligent
smart, humourous, caring, loving and sensitive
charismatic man

We know you'll absolutely love a decent, wholesome
capable, balanced, brave, courageous Alpha male
we know you'll really like a versatile, poetic,
gentleman, able to do nearly everything and do it well
Even animals and children love him too

We know you'll just melt for this man who is an amazing lover
Wonderfully equipped, experienced, unselfish, rhythmic
hard yet gentle, graceful motion in hot ocean
Slow hands and arousingly hot touches, a great lover
who just adores women

Well forget it Ladies
We do not like this Elitist, well rounded intelligent lovely man
He is banned, banned, banned banned
How can we rogues, coarse, uncouth, insensitive semi-illiterates
compete with Mr Wonderful, who leaves ladies buckling in
rampant throes of multiple *******
Who makes love to your fine senses as well as your bodies

How can we, under endowed minutemen
with no grace, style or starmina, much less a romantic nuance
compete with our Mr Amazing with the mostest

We are flat bottomed pale skinned, weedy looking lot
we have little manners, we can hardly hold intelligent conversation
we don't do charming and all that *******
We are not keen on personal hygiene, that's for poofs
Forget looking groomed and polished, that's for poofs too
when drunk and we can just about manage to get it up
It's slam, bang, no thank you ma'am, nothing
poor gals left unsatisfied, unappreciated, any wonder most are turning to each other these days
Us loutish men, just reach for another pint, see you later, get your *** out...

We are working-class dumbos and proud of it
we are pirates and Robin Hoods, we take from the Decent Upscales
we fight them and harass and hound them, torment their *****
we destroy their reputation, degrade them
we can't do better, why should they have an easy life
And all the fun of the ****** fair

Look at the toffee nosed Emmanuel Macron in France
Rich background, privileged, he gets into power and start
messing with the working people, we are now dealing with him
That's what they do if you give them room
They diss the ordinary people and tell us its living intelligently
while they wine and dine and make love in Champagne
Well, not anymore, they don't, we've got there numbers now

The same with our charismatic intelligent Mr Wonderful here
We are sorting him out good and proper, we are on his case
So any ladies go near him or seen befriending him
is a class traitor and would be dealt with accordingly
We have put a *** and relationship ban on Mr Amazing
Let him see what doing without means, lets see him suffer
deprivation and hunger and hopelessness, we have been for years

I dare any of you ladies go near him and see what will happen
we will shave all your hair and put you to public shame
like those collaborators ladies in France after the 2nd WW
We will ostracise you like we have Mr Wonderful
we will smear and degrade you and  your life will be made

This is Class war and you Ladies have been WARNED
Can you imagine it, not only rich, privileged, brilliant, capable
confident, self-assured, smooth, suave, charming, articulate,
presentable, wise and balanced, He's also gifted with a big ****,
and from all accounts he really does know how to use it ******* fortunate can an elitist get!

Well you ladies are sure missing a good thing going
but we don't mind cutting off our long noses to spite our faces
Granted some nice girl could found happiness and the most amazing man and both could do a lot of good in the society and bring happiness to others
but we don't think rationally, that's for the elitists

We are mindless yobbos, thugs, hooligans, no-good, immature,little dicked ruffians and malcontents
We are anarchist, tall and proud
We are crazies, sad and pathetic and we do not care

So you ladies stick with your class and make **** sure
it's a No dice to Mr Wonderful  

NO NO NO it's a RESOUNDING NO from all working people
  ESPECIALLY YOU LADIES, just better know that YES from you
and it's the guillotine and not only your hair will be for the chop!

why can't I help always seeing the funny side of life. wake up laughing, go to bed laughing, life really can be so absurd, funny and interesting.
kk Jul 2018
I hurt with the pleasure of carving knives
plunged into blood-lusting hands.
Standing in the storm of stab wounds
and searching for Gods dressed in human
to give me mental medicine
for wounds that they must trust me to see.
I am the glass-tongued mediator.
I am the vortex that turns worlds to ink-soaked scenery
and words to black noise.
They gurgle out blandishments like they're true! And to them,
I'm a glass door to better days;
they put their famished hands
onto my handle and tug for good luck.
I open and warble out what they want to hear;
a fortune teller who cries courtesies and fills her glass ball
with a concoction of
tears and liquid caution.
I don't want to lose them.
But I choke on their
distorted, glazed looks,
I stuff my throat with gauze,
my chest fills with blood
as they throw their clocks into the garbage
and raise me on glass pedestals
and drool praises as I cry for me
and for them and
for us
and for-
Useless. I am useless.
Wasteful. I am wasteful.
Broken. I am and should be broken.
Did anyone ever realize? How would they
when I am so selfishly unselfish?
sorry if this doesn't make a lot of sense. it was very stream of consciousness.
edit: adjusted enjambment, minor changes to phrasing
jeffrey conyers Mar 2013
Here I was, wonder how to get to work?
When a blessing came my way.
From out of nowhere I was blessed.
I learn, we should always be a blessing to another.

There I was at a service station.
Then someone asked for assistance.
Without thinking.
Which I should have.
I became a blessing to another.

God lead us.
God guide us with saftey and confidence.
To be a blessing to another.

Some of us have gave our last dime.
When we was hurting.
We could have stayed selfish.
Or offer our own reason's to why not?

But for some reason we reached out.
To be a blessing to another.
Childrens do it.
Adults do it.
Unselfish churches does it.

We all is a blessing to another.
The ascender
struggled to the dais
stopping to rub
his sore calves
still filled with lactic acid…

“I forsook the post
workout massage
to deliver this eulogy.

Thats how
important it is
to me…”

His voice began
to trial off but
he regained his
composure and
began to speak
with command...

“He gave his life for me.
Is there no greater love
than to offer a life
in service
to me?

My Sherpa
was moved
and motivated
by economic

I offered him
the only wage
paying job
he ever had.

He ran with it,
taking up my
cause as if
it belonged
to him;
his job
as if engaged
in a heroic

At times it
he seemed
consumed by
the largess of
my pursuit;
and his death
will bring
to his family.

This further
the nobility
of my

The price
of intrepidness
is dear and
made clear,
its value
fully fleshed
out in the
sacrifice of
my Sherpa.

You may ask,
“why do I do it?”

It is no longer
disputed, if it
can be done.

Sir Edmund
and his Sherpa
answered that
question over half
a century ago.

The only
"can the mountain
be conquered by me?"

I'll risk sacred fortune,
limb, life, family and
Sherpa to discover
the answer to this...

I must guard
against the
inflation of
my desire to
summit at
any cost.

I'm aware
of the
by the
of my pride,
just a
centimeter or
two can spell
disaster for

Yet testing
its tensility,
the tipping point
of temerity,
managing the
of risk factors
and psychical
rewards to
sift through
the membrane
that calculates
the odds to
arbitrage the
resolution of
winners and
a perfect balance
manifested in
the mettle
of me.

in pursuit
of a
golden fleece.

In my
I don a
holy halo
crowning me
and fellow
with a like
sets us apart,
anointing us
the royalty
of high stakes
X Games,
up 70 grand
to claim our
place in an
leisure class,
with time
and treasure
to turn this
unforgiving peak
into a graveyard,
a dump heap,
an open latrine…

The glaciers bleed
my **** into the tributaries
of the Holy Ganges...

My virtues
made plain
in the indelible
mark I leave
upon the mountain...

My life dedicated
to the unselfish pursuit
of a magnanimous me
quick to forgive
and forget the
failures of the
lesser who
lack the ability
and conviction
of self
to conquer
the highest peaks
meeting challenge
and opportunity
with relish and

I'm like a
strip miner
tearing the roof
of the world open
so I can fill it
with the purpose
of me.

That is the
deeper significance
of the death of my

When Edmund Hillary
and his Sherpa scaled
Everest 60 years ago,
it took decades
to remember that
Tenzing Norgay
guided the beknighted
Hillery, while schlepping
his baggage and
holding the ladder
lifting the
great man
in a great
whose strength
and valiance
turns history’s
creaky wheel.

Sir Hillary did it
because it was
never done before;
with stoutheartedness
and national vigor
Sir Hillary conquered
the last pinnacle
in Britannia's majestic
range of storied

As climate change
turns glaciers
into slush,
my time
grows short
to scratch my
initials alongside
the greats who
ascended this mount
before me.

So it is
with well
trepidation that
I send my Sherpa
out onto the
hanging peaks,
to set the ladders
and clear the
path for
the assent
of me.

Every morning
I look into
the mirror
a fleeting
notion of
that is only
affirmed by
triumph of
the will.

At such a cost
my legend is born
my burden
grows greater,
weighted by
the death of
my Sherpa.

Yet my resolve
grows, eclipsing
the size of
Warren Buffett’s

As the world warms
urgency grows,
the alarm sounds!

Onward Sherpas!

Lay the ladder
portage my baggage
the labors of Sisyphus
will find reward
of a goodly outcome!

I press the coin
of the realm into
your hand

The prayer flags
fill with determination
that I succeed,
giving your life meaning
as divine compensation
for the cost of your life.

The prayer flag’s flap
with the mountain squalls
popping, snapping
our hosannas
of victory

Onward Sherpas!

Ever Onward
may the good
you as you
climb toward
your next

Onward Sherpas!

Music Selection
Sherpa Dance Music

Poem dedicated to the 13 Sherpa climbers
who lost their lives this week on Mount Everest.
May they find peace in heaven
may their families find peace and
sustenance here on earth.

this is a satirical poem, it is not meant to denigrate Sherpas, nor slight the enormity of the the loss of 13 Sherpa Guides on the mountain this week... its a piece that targets the destructive egocentric tourism of the climbers and its impact on the people and ecology of Mt. Everest... my best thoughts and prayers go out to the families and friends who were lost.... may we examine our motivations and impact the pursuit of personal goals has on the lives of others and the natural environment in which we live....
My heart longs to be home!
This life here...
isn't the life meant for me-
I came here for unselfish reasons,
but now it's about time...
I go home-
to do what I need, for me, what I want...
Now it's about me!
Now it's my turn!
I wanna go back home,
to where I belong-
The West Coast is it-
for me!
That's my home!
That's it for me...
That is what my heart is missing...
It's insisting I find my way back...
I wanna be where I grew up...
I wanna run and play in the sand,
alongside the ocean...
collecting shells by the sea...
Back to the West Coast
is where I wanna be!
I just wanna go...
Back to the life-
I wanna live!
I'm going home!!


COPYRIGHT; Sabrina Denise Healey,
Shanel Jones Aug 2015
This is love. And do there are some who spend their whole lives seeking. Sometimes giving, sometimes taking. Sometimes chasing. But often, just waiting. They believe that love is a place that you get to: a destination at the end of a long road. And they can't wait for that road to end at their destination. They are those hats moved by the movement of hearts. Those girls romantics, the sucker for a love story, or any sincere expression of true devotion. For them, the search is almost a lifelong obsession of sorts. But, this tragic quest can have its costs and its gifts.
The path of expectations and the falling in love with love is a painful one, but it can bring its own lessons. Lessons about the nature of live, this world people and one's own heart can pave this often painful path. Most of all, this path can bring its own lessons about the Creator of love. Those who take this route well often reach the knowledge that the human live they seek was not the destination. Some form of that human love, can be a gift. It can be a means. But the moment you make it the end, you will fall. And you will live your whole life with the wrong focus. You will become willing to sacrifice the goal for the sake of the means. You will give your life to reaching a destination of weirdly perfection that fits not exist.
And the one who runs after a mirage, never gets there, but it  keeps running. And so to will you keep running, and be willing to lose sleep, cry, bleed and sacrifice previous posts of yourself at times, even your own dignity. But you'll never reach what you're liking for in this life, because what you seek isn't a worldly destination. The type of perfection you seek cannot be found in the material world. It can only be found in Allah.
That image of human love that you seek is an illusion in the desert of life. So if that is what you seek, keep chasing. But no matter how close you get to a mirage, you never touch it. You don't item an image. You can't hold a creation of your own mind.
Yet you will give your whole life still to reach this place. You do this because in the fairy tale, that's where the story ends. It ends at the finding, the joining, the wedding. It is found at the oneness of two souls. And everyone around you will make you think that your path ends there, at the place where you meet your soul mate, your other half at a point in the path where you get married. Then and only then, they tell you, will you ever finally be complete. This, off course is a lie because completion cannot be found in anything other than Allah.
But the lesson you've been tight stint the time you were little, from every story, every movie, every ad, every well meaning auntie, is that you aren't complete otherwise. And if Allah forbid you are one of the outcast who haven't gotten matured, or have been divorced, you are considered deficient or incomplete in some way.
The lesson you're taught us that the story ends at the wedding, and then that's when paradise begins. That's when you'll be saved and completed and everything that was once broken well be fixed. The only problem is, that's not where the story ends. That's where it begins. That's where the building starts: the building of a life, the building of your characters, the building is sabar, patience, perseverance, and sacrifice. The building of selflessness. The building of love.
And your building of your path back to Him.
But if the person you marry become the ultimate focus in life, your struggle has just begun. Now your spouse Will become your greatest test. Until you remove that person from the place in your heart that only Allah should be, it will hero hurting. Ironically, your spouse Will become the tool for this painful extraction prices, until you learn that there are places in the human heart made only by and for Allah.
Among the other lessons you may learn along this path after a long road of loss, gain, failure, success and so many mistakes. There are two types of love. There will be some people you love because of what you get from then. What they give you, the way they make you feel. This is perhaps the majority of live which is also what makes much of love so unstable. A person capacity to give is inconstant and changing. Your response to what you are given to what you are given its also inconstant and changing. So if if your chasing a feeling, you'll always be chasing. And just like everything in this world the more yo chat the more it will run away from you.
But once in awhile, people enter your life that you love, but for what they find you but for what they are. The beauty you see in them is a reflection of the Creator, so you love them. Now surly it isn't about what you're getting, but rather what you give. This is unselfish love. This second kind of love is most rare. And if it if based in, and not competing with, the love of Allah, it will also bring about the most joy. To live in any other way I'd to need, to be dependent, to have expectations all the ingredients for misery and disappointment.
So for all those, who have spent their life seeking know that purity ash anything I'd found at the Source. If it is love that you seek, seek it through Allah first. Every other stream, not based in His love, poisons the one who drinks from it. And the summer week continue to drink, until the poison all but kills him. He will continue to die more and more inside, until he stood and finds the pure Source of water.
One you begin to Sr evening beautiful as only a reflection of Allah's beauty, you will learn to live in the right way, fit his sake. Everything and everyone you love will be for, through and because of him. The foundation of such love is Allah. So what you hold onto will no longer be just an unstable feeling, a fleeting emotion. And what you chase well no longer be just a temporary high. What you hold, what you chase, what you love, will be Allah, the only thing stable and constant. Thereafter everything else will be through him. Everything you give or take or love our don't love will be by Him. Not by you. It will be for Him. Not for you.
This means you will love what he lives and not love what He does not love. And when you do love, you will give the crayon not for what you can get in return from them. You will live and you will give, but you will be sufficed from Him. And the one who is sufficed by Allah is the richest and generous of all lovers. Your love will be by Him, for Him, and because of Him. That is the liberation of the self from servitude to any created thing. And that is freedom. That is happiness. That is building together. That is indeed love.
Westley Barnes Apr 2012
I'm looking for a Neurotic Girl
someone who will break down before I do
someone who's not afraid to cry,as the tea kettle boils,
after telling me about her problems.
Someone I can worry about,and do unselfish things for, and offer some comfort to,
someone who depends on me for a change.
I'm looking for a girl
who isn't too confident in herself,even though she's wonderful,
at least in my eyes.
Someone who hasn't got her entire life sorted out, just yet.
Someone who'll realise that I can be a nice person, behind the facade.

Because these days I'm wandering
from party to party
from pointless
city centre venues
and all-too-familiar and contemptible
small town social haunts
and all I see and hear
are the attention-seeking, the unreachably friendly, the distant
and the involved
All swimming in mediocrity
If you'll pardon the fake sophistication of that last metaphor
And all I'm left to do
is wonder what it would be like
to find someone
who I could be Introspective,
Debauched and Nihilistic with
A nice Neurotic Girl.

But I suppose that would invariably lead
to some sort of responsibility
in my otherwise self-absorbed existence
I would have to pretend that I am a proper kind of person
for the sake of my fragile lover's much needed feeling of security
I would take it upon myself
to go out into the world
to keep a sort of balance for the both of us
spending headache-inducing hours
with people whom I cant stand
while she sits at home
and smokes
in bed.
It's not about me
why can't I see?
It's about you today
what can I do
to make you feel better
to put a smile on your face
and wipe the tears away
from your eyes when you're down?
To make you feel alive
and vibrant in life
to hold your hand when
there are struggles and strife
Why can't I see
it's not about me?
It's all about the family
Kewayne Wadley Apr 2018
Due to popular belief. I believe that certain things are due to happen naturally.
Like all other things it's bound to grow. This thing, love.
We are due to become obese to this organic, homegrown feeling.

The initial look that begins as taste. Naturally we are starved.

Aroused by the scent that lures us close. This thing, love.

One thing we must learn is self control. To not over indulge in the primary reason it exists.

To selfishly take because it's there. This thing, love.

Effort exudes as it becomes habit. Being placed at a table readily available for what portion comes next.

This need becomes confused with want.

To please others before our need in unselfish manner. A straight forward response to habit.

The rising availability of also being taken for granted. The insurmountable outline that defines lust.

Our intake becomes higher attempting to justify the difference. Thus we become lazy.

Reacting in ways we normally wouldn't. This thing, love.

This scent acts as incentive,  instantly attracted by which we over indulge.

Searching for this thing, love.

It's a reasonable thing. Knowing when to reach. When to pull. When to give and sacrifice.

Almost always all of these happen, learning self control, vocalizing when we've had our fill.

Else we will continue to eat until there is nothing left.
Grown obese. This thing, love
Z Sep 2018
I want to be close to you like Mercury
to see your full glow
and brightness of your intimacy

I see you like a Venus
because of your unsurpassed beauty
and your unfathomable, abysmal kind of love

You are like the Earth
where living with you is not a problem
and with you it is always easy to breathe

I see your ardent desires like a red Mars
to fight a war to cover and protect me
even sacrificing your own life

You give a gigantic precious tenderness
and enormously unselfish affections
like a Jupiter

You give me snowball rings like Saturn
that gives remembrance to all the beautiful
things that we had been in the atmosphere
of treasured memories

Your warmhearted axis
that tilts on the rocky core of my life
is like in a deep ocean of Uranus
that clasps me with grasping arms

You are like the depth the Neptune brings
who takes me beyond the known
to what's alive only in my wildest dreams.

On a very far and infinite distance
deep into the darkness like Pluto
you are perfect to get lost with
nothing matters but You and Me
Yung Wifey Apr 2016
I am so filled with passion and love
sometimes, I forget that not everyone is like that
I just want to love him and love him some more
but you cannot love someone who doesn't want to be loved
at least the way I love
jeffrey conyers Sep 2012
A parent has so many ways to love.
The best is being unselfish.
A lover has so many ways to love.
Except, they must be centered on one.

A quality that we all posses within our heart.
Seems to constantly be over looked.
Until you find someone to connect too.

A child has so many ways to love.
Simply by understanding ways to give.
Their hearts are very giving and unselfish.
Notice, how quickly they tries to help.
Alice Burns May 2013
My encounter, although mistakingly enlightening
Leaves me more baffled than before.
Do my words inherit the glow, similar to my daydreaming movements?
As if they were prematurely made, a banner across my silhouette.
Attached before the words can escape my mouth.

I wonder tonight about the necessity of freedom of speech
Curious to understand the rate of which our minds have developed, or been manipulated.
Is it our human defect of guilt the thing that encourages us to open our mouths?
Merely to humor our lowly human selves.

But I fumble
As words escape my lips, and enter your mind,they cannot be translated.
You cannot read my genuine emotion, as the life and purpose is ****** out as they are inscribed across your palm
So I write, and I materialize these things before they are evaporated.

Yes, I am confusing, and I apologize if I am further misunderstood
But, , my friend, I do love you
Purely, true and eternally
Yet I cannot give you what you desire.

Newton was both right and wrong
Love cannot be created nor destroyed
This energy flows continuously, passed from friend to friend
youthfully and innocently as friendship is meant to be

But, what he did not consider was the love of truth and purity
Which in the end is no energy, as they would have us believe
This love is an essence, similar to that formed the blood flowing through our family
Yet has something more

This love I speak honestly of,
Is unselfish
Is no medal of achievement
It bestows upon you the drive to be the highest you
It is the essence for the creation  of the one thing that they can never offer
True love, and true love of yourself.
and a
aloofness can
provide an
unselfish love
of truth

Don't love
or with
strings attached.

Everyone is
Everyone is an
Everyone is

Love because
your heart
and soul
overflow with
an unselfish

cheryl love Apr 2014
Remember me always
will you?
My cute little smile
and my unselfish ways.
Never forget me
will you not?
The love
that oozes from me.
Have in your head
my funny little sayings
I am not very tidy
but does that matter?
When you are arranging the flowers
that sit in the vase on my grave
You know somewhere I will be thinking
Will they be Forget-Me-Nots
Because I will remember
if you will.
Has he got
the forget-me-nots.
I will perhaps whisper it in your ear
the chill of surprise will drip down your spine
but the thrill will be all mine
when I see the forget-me-nots.
When you are travelling up and down the
motorway in your car regretting the time
you did not spend with me
Fear not, for I will be beside you always
Oh Lord let him read this before it is too late.
ponny jo Feb 2014
Ample time to wither,
But these crystal eyes see through,
Winding halls of glitter,
And colors run together, for you.

When I was taken aback  By that gaze
I fell onto myself, you see
Landing back in old days, In old eyes,
With old ways, not so gray,
Eyes not yet placed away.
Thicker air that waved with arms
And sweeter words from busting hearts.

That I could so here dwell,
And skip by merrily,
I wouldn't feel my torn flesh,
And would be more unselfish,
Crushing plants under foot, (or hoof)
Oh the thanks that i say.
Tshili698 Jun 2017
She births poetry like a universe of constellations.
she parts her lips like the hips of the woman about to bring magic into this world, the labour of her poetry is never easy, never smooth, difficult to stomach, but the words she births from her belly carry life like breath, like the fruit of the earth.
There is a beautiful pain to them.


Other times,
Her poetry was like good ***,
She parted her lips like the legs of a woman about to begin the most primitive form of Love, giving as much as she could take. Sometimes she would ride the poetry, reverse cowgirling it to the ****** of her ecstasy and other times, it would ride her,
Leaving its essence inside her.


At one time,
She parted her lips like the mouth of a woman who is about to blow, your mind.
Never for her pleasure, it did nothing for her.
Her satisfaction lied solely in yours,
it was selfless, unselfish, an act of true altruism.
She broke for people, who loved people but did not love her.


But the first time,
She was the poetry, being birthed from the lips of the cradle of woman kind, the first time she was the magic, the life, taking her first breath, her first wisp of earth,
And it smelt like words that bleed, that change, that make love, that celebrate, that birth other words.
The first time she was the poetry, so the poetry became her.

Crestfallen Mar 2015
What would you think if I sang out of tune
You told me not to care about who is around me, you said to embrace myself and to be who I am even with a sea of people crowding me.
Would you stand up and walk out on me?
You never walked out on me even when I screamed at the top of my lungs at the pep rallies, or when oceans poured from my eyes. Instead you stayed and let me release all my emotions onto you.
Lend me your ears and I'll sing you a song
You pulled me out of the dark and I swear to you that I will live. I can’t promise you that I won’t be engrossed in my suicidal thoughts some nights. I can’t promise you that I will always see the bright side when I’m surrounded by darkness. I can’t promise you that I won’t break and not move for days at a time. I can’t promise that I won’t drown myself in liquor and hide behind smoke clouds.
And I'll try not to sing out of key
I can promise that I do see a light. I have found something to look forward to. I’m getting better regardless of how small the steps are.
Oh I get by with a little help from my friends
And its because of you.
Mm I get high with a little help from my friends
You've made it less blurry to find the exit sign in the middle of the burning room.
Mm going to try with a little help from my friends
I can breathe again because of you.
What do I do when my love is away?
You taught me that I don’t need to love anyone, besides you of course. You taught me that I can’t force myself to love someone in a way I don’t feel.
(Does it worry you to be alone?)
You were my rock throughout this all. You stood your ground through rain, sleet, and storms. You grew as a person with me. We grew together.
How do I feel by the end of the day?
You know that nights are the hardest for me. You send me essay length text messages on how much I mean to you and they never fail to make me smile.
(Are you sad because you're on your own?)
You remind me that I’m not alone. You remind me that you’re gonna stay through thick and thin.
No I get by with a little help from my friends
I will get better for you, with you.
Mm I get high with a little help from my friends
I feel like I’m floating. Like I’m a different person, a better person.
Mm going to try with a little help from my friends
I have you to think.
(Do you need anybody?)
I am in constant need of attention.
I need somebody to love
I need someone to ease my pain and distract me when I’m down.
(Could it be anybody?)
I feel worse when I think of love because everyone tends to use me as a toy and throws me away. They see my body as a castle. Of their enemies. They sneak their way behind the guards and conquer me. They leave me with nothing and expect me to be okay with it.
I want somebody to love
You sing to me when I’m upset and that’s all I’ve ever needed in my life. I never knew that I needed that until you.
(Would you believe in a love at first sight?)
Love isn’t something that I believe in, not romantic love. I believe in a love that is for everyone not just simplified to one person. The kind of love that is unselfish and forgiving.
Yes I'm certain that it happens all the time
You. You bring this out in me. This feeling that I don’t have to wear a mask around you. I don’t have to pretend I’m okay because with you I actually am.
(What do you see when you turn out the light?)
I still have nights when I ponder about what life would be like without me. I still have my doubts. I still have nights when I trace my skin to the very spots that were once covered in scars.
I can't tell you, but I know it's mine
I think of you when I feel that way. I think of the countless texts that you sent me telling me my worth. I think of how you held me so tightly with tears in your eyes telling me to stay. I think of how you said you wrote your own goodbye letter to me, and in the middle of that letter, you realized you couldn't do that to me. You couldn't say goodbye to me and now I can’t do that to you.
Oh I get by with a little help from my friends
This is my way of saying thank you. And living will be my way of keeping my promise.
Mm I get high with a little help from my friends
Oh I'm going to try with a little help from my friends
The bold words are supposed to be the song With A Little Help From My Friends. And the rest is me talking.
Heather Mirassou Jun 2010
If you sit beside me
Perhaps you will see

Life is but a dream
Life is full of wonder

And beautiful
Mysterious things

My life is splendid
And lovely to my dismay

It is not without blemish
It is not perfect or in a regretful way

My life is full of golden peaks
Made of heart and soul

An abundance of love
Unselfish and whole souled

In the prime of my life
A humble man set my soul afire

He is my saving grace
My knight-and-shining armor

All these days
You have loved me tenderly

You help fill a childhood void
You love me unconditionally

You love me whole-heartedly
You love me unselfishly

You are compassionate
Sympathetic and kind

You are affectionate
And never to tire of me

I will love you
Copyright, Heather Mirassou 6/27/2010
Lori Jean Jan 2011
To my husband, my man, my love, my life
From your friend, your partner, your angel, your wife.

How lucky I feel to have the person you are
My love supersedes the planets and stars.

God has His hand in our every embrace
Heaven sparkles at times, in your eyes, on your face.

You've taken on challenges most would ignore,
Still your heart's filled with gladness and faith, I adore.

With unselfish delight, you've helped raise our kids
Their success possible because of who you are; what you did.

Your willingness to give doesn't even stop there
You've been a foster dad to help hearts in despair.

Yes, you amaze me in so many ways,
I thank God for your love in all of my days.

You're my hero, my rock.  You see me through strife.
You humble me; complete me.  I'm the luckiest wife.
Written for Jeff Vance, my hubby on Father's Day 2009
Copyright Lori Jean Vance 2009
Ariel Good May 2013
Colossal grey feet stride forth, Northbound,
Conquering the jungle’s labyrinth,
Leading her herd.
A young boy, whose name means Enlightenment,
Sits in awe, quiet and close,
Watching her. Each step, gracefully slow
But deliberate.
She has much to teach me, Ahren wonders,
This holy beast, an animalistic embodiment of
The perfect disciple and
My own Spirit guide.

He walks in silence, hidden in the endless green.
Two dozen female elephants follow
Their master obediently
And loyally.
Hearing her call, they destroy any and all
Which stands in their way, trusting the leadership
Of the matriarch.
She knows the way, has travelled this path
Many times before, recalling past dangers, never
Treading twice.
An unexplainable knowing is
Felt by all her kind.
Tiny eyes fill with wisdom of all she has seen,
While enormous ears listen intently,
Unselfish and kind,
Hearing always the messages
Of their family.
Ahren observes this animal on his path towards
Understanding. She is gentle, yet fears nothing, save
The pain of others.
I must learn to see through the eyes of Spirit,
And listen more than I speak, moving carefully
Down the path.
In this life it is my task to warn others of dangers encountered,
To overcome any obstacles received on my Human journey,
Heeding my master’s call.

He watches as the herd reaches a clearing.
They form a circle, surrounding the bones of
A fallen family member.
The vibratory funeral call sounds faintly.
Using her trunk, the matriarch pats the carcass,
Quietly saying goodbye.
Ahren cries with the elephants, feeling the loss
As if it was his own.
jeffrey conyers Jun 2013
I got.
I got someone.
Who loves me passionately?

I got.
I got somebody.
Who gives herself completely to me?

She's so unselfish.
She so out going.
That I promise myself to forever make her happy.

I got.
I got someone.
Who's my world?
Attitude and all I love her immensely.

She my magical charm of luck.
Who makes me alone feel comfortable in love?
She know it.
From the unselfish loving I give to her.
Taylor Jul 2011
To be selfish as a child was to be naïve and unaware.
When I sat in the corner and tried to learn the ways of the world,
Struggle with what little philosophy I thought I knew.
Just six years old then and already losing myself.
I asked, "Does everyone else feel, or are they just here for my entertainment?"
That got me a smack from my mother, and forever kept my mouth shut.
Not once again did I share my wonders with her.

And older I got, wallowing in my selfish ways.
Grade school lunch room was where I practiced that awful sin.
Just two cookies was all I ate,
When just one I'd be fine with.
Genny there needed it more than me.  
But selfish I was, though it was just a little thing,
But a little thing was big enough to get a talking to from my mother.

Here I am now, still younger then all of you,
In ways I'm the same six year old losing myself.
Selfish thoughts I still think,
Never voiced but one.
I ask myself, "But who would really care if I ended my life?"
But then I hear my mother's voice,
"Selfish fool, my life would be nothing if it wasn't for you. I don't have enough tears for all I'd need to cry."
Yet selfish I remain, I still think those selfish thoughts.
Though I try to do good, I try to be unselfish,
But the devil has an interesting way of wrapping up death and serving it on a silver platter.
Kaitlyn Marie Mar 2014
the fire that was once burning so explosively
giving up days after ratchet days to kindle it
It let off so much warmth in my heart
kept me cozy on days of doubt
was unselfish
caring to all
could easily be gone
if I didn't tend it just right
flaring in extraordinary ways
looked like a devil in an angel kind of way
reminds me of a fire.
@Copyright Kaitlyn Marie
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
please! please! please give me something!
please give me something worth staring at!
i don't want to see this mush, this watermelon pulp
of a smoothie! i don't want to see it! give me something
i can cry over, like the mechanical lullaby from
the soundtrack of Coraline...
give me something worth
lamenting; it's not really poetry
if you're stuck in a rut and
suddenly gesture poetically
like it matters, what are the matters
elsewhere, what is really elsewhere
other than from being stuck in a rut in
a hole, where is the light at the end
of the tunnel? please don't become the tunnel,
let me see the light at the end of it -
i'm sick of peering into tunnels!
but you know what globalisation did,
i can write such ******* on the index
of pixels and feel all the more un-inhibitory;
i can listen to the Coraline soundtrack,
and watch my cat sleep,
and feel no guilt... because the world is
so large, and i rebelled against
globalisation by making it so so small,
it's so small you're not really allowed entry;
if you gained entry you'd feel castrated
or impotent;
like i said to her in her dipping of emotions
slicing her forearm open:
terror is worse than ******
(you can even hear them now, giggling while
being sterilised without an enforcement
to stop using both the contraceptive pill of
varied adverse effects and the anaesthetic
of pleasure that rubber ******* jacket)...
it's spontaneous, there's no apparent
symbolic build-up...
you can hardly expect the Autobahn system
with terrorism...
it just isn't there...
and while she sliced her hand en route the veins
i put the bread in the fridge
because it would provide a longer far away
expiry date...
and wrote that message on the kitchen tablet
in permanent ink...
i only went to a ******* because i was
rejected so many times, if felt natural
that such a profession should exist;
well d'uh, i'm all into speaking till dawn,
but sometimes a little bit of sensuality does miracles!
well, let's say it feels more than wiping your *** clean
after giving birth to a ****...
so there she was with her arm slashed,
and i encircled her wrist with my thumb and pinky
telling her: it's better that you didn't
chop your hand off.
and wearing sunglasses in the night
i learned the bonsai felines don't sleep as much
as you think, the ears are a give-away,
that sonar of theirs always keen to capture sounds,
they just keep their eyes closed,
it's not that they're sleeping,
these doctors of what is the vacuum and the existence
of anti-matter are awake
and try to hallucinate rather than dream,
hence they try hallucinating with their
eyes closed - until the real potent
hallucinations enter their minds while asleep;
dreams, dreams, dreams!
no, she can't be jealous of prostitutes!
she can't be, i paid for the ****** intimacy to feel
irresponsible and impersonal,
she didn't just do the dumbest thing imaginable
and become a pole dancer... no, she couldn't have!
what am i to do now? i've heard that jealousy exist
when you get really personal with a lover
who has a kinder profession than pure ****** exploitation;
but she did say she was abducted for ransom,
and if this isn't a lie, she did the most unselfish act
imaginable to un-servitude herself in a public exhibition
of exploitation... it wasn't a labyrinth any more,
nothing personal... while i got stuck
with music box ceramics of ballerinas twirling to a haunting;
she bought me like a kilogram of peaches
at the marketplace in the afterlife.

— The End —