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Hayley Cusick Sep 2014
I live a life of unfulfilled dreams.
trips never travelled and sights never seen.
words never written and photos never taken.
a world full of wonder and I sit here unshaken.
one would think of glorious adventures ahead,
but I'm just trying to find a way out of bed.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
die nacht  aus alle verewigung -
verewigung die nacht - in immigrant German
spoken - not spoken, hälfte, hälfte,
pork-chops go go got taken with Australian *******...
cos selling the body saved you with the crucifix from
selling something like your soul, hence the accord to
be ready for critique of selling the magic potion of drinking
iodine... i was a fetus back then... when the atom
**** got the plastic elasticity of tangling
to wanking a didgeridoo... magician's syndrome:
**** that tightened fist and i'll assure you
you'll get the white flag of piracy's peace:
meaning they never robbed the rich men, pirates
just robbed the artists... hey wooden plank,
knock knock... don't make me into a wooden chair...
take a creaking floorboard and make it into
a shimmy toothpick... knock knock... who's there?
Jude? Jude who? hey i'm Jude? Judy Jew who?
a Jew who chewed propaganda and hid Jude.
fair enough, Jude's the everyday Jew.
no, she's the Rabbi! Rabbi who?
the Sabbatical who knows who.
some say i know god.
well, good luck with that, mostly asserted
on death row.
at least that place is given a fabric of a team effort.
by the time i think about next week's trash
i'll have written something akin to it being
taken out into a pig's trough of what resembled
the dating scene in New York...
hardly reminiscent of the gay Utopia:
so much anger yet still only the vote,
so much anger yet still only the vote...
           the intelligence poured in, but the
quiff only wanted the algebra of x
to match it up to a presidential race success with some donor's
y, and later + and squared and equals to make
those family holidays affordable.
- winter-night... deutschekaiser....
i swear it would be cheaper to build a wall
around the middle east...
like the European Union really
wanted to invest in dates... cos we were
ready to make a Sabbath from a Ramadan...
like we waited for the loss of % on added debt...
we waited, and waited... and waited...
we got McDonald's instead... and that was all
in the inventory... and that was all in
whatever we got, if we got anything:
deutsche schmutzig machen... is that perfect
German muddy - herrbzigg - or alter
Philanthropist zigzag - howdy howdy **?
dots the avenue...
and the many riches coming your way...
make muddy, or muddied already,
takes one swipe of the credit card,
ends up with 110 to nil streaks of ****
bothered about Star Trek... and the cellphone...
and the extraterrestrials of Mexico (or he co & co; huh i?)...
got the gangrene green if you
like the Licorice tangle of blank Ovid saying:
mahogany, mahogany, mahoney... mama got all da
honey... n she got the 2Pac shaky shaky core blues;
mind the albino in the hood:
or Mars the red planet, Earth the brown planet,
scary they thought of dinosaurs with dragons prior...
didn't think of Martian life prior to government
conspiracies, way before Darwinism and crowd control...
life on Mars: well, it was once there,
long before dinosaurs, and bacteria and yogurt...
long before the circus, and the commuter caterpillar...
i believe that there was life on Mars,
given the timescale... it was there...
but it ain't there anymore...
                           which might explain the U.F.O.s....
don't believe the government's audacity to have
created something so phosphorescent Zulu
as to invoke an engraving of lawless Voodoo...
before we knew of dinosaur remains we drew dragons...
before we explored Mars we were given
the proofs... life existed on Mars, long before
Earth was made the 2nd laboratory of a deity...
then it died, given the life-cycle of stars...
Mars is rocky... earth is rocky...
whatever life existed on Mars in its full potential
is long gone... is this really as weird
as what pop culture makes of man and monkey?
kettle and carpal muscles evolving from
oysters? we really can become equally ridiculous to
the extent that we turn on each other...
it didn't take much to divide Hindu from Muslim
into India and Pakistan... this won't take much thought either...
i'm just trying to counter scientific negativism,
and counter the timescale of both physicists' big bang
theory and the anti-historical Darwinism...
i'm starting with life on Mars, at a time when
Earth was inhospitable... volcanic... i might be among
the many people treated as being "mentally ill"
when the government claims to be so advanced as to practice
such projections of phosphorescent objects,
when it's dumb as Donald *****... because NASA is
not theoretical enough... and the government seeks
control by claiming NASA isn't the end result...
the usual suspects: lies... and more lies...
the Venusian Art... the pick-up artists...
i read it, never tried it... wish i did... but i also wished
for a herd of goats too...
but that's the best explanation of sighting a UFO i have...
before Earth was made habitable, Mars came prior...
Mars is rocky... is Earth... our fantasy is about discovering
life on Mars... life on Mars left a long time ago...
it's gone... gone gone gone...
the sun is cooling down before it becomes a dwarf...
before the perfection of this glasshouse of plants and animals
Mars came before us... and it was perfect...
later came this whole God and Devil debacle and plagiarism...
the first supreme, the second mildly similar...
but altogether worse... i told you, a phosphorescent object
in the night is hardly a government project...
the government is not capable of such things...
if they are, then they're like a man with a 4 inch
***** telling a girl he's a millionaire and has a fetish for
watching his girlfriend get ****** by a stranger with a 12 inch ****...
do the match... get a mud-bath.
the Welsh drew dragons and the Chinese too,
long before the dinosaurs usurped the happy-times
next to a bonfire... i'm just like that...
life existed on Mars long before we decided to look
for microbes on that red Ayers orb...
i'd be looking for sodium rather than twin oxygen trapped
into liquid by hydrogen, then always alienating laws
by ice, the said liquid and vapour...
my theory is that the original life on Mars,
didn't experience hydro sodium chloride... i.e. the seas...
Mars had only sweet life form... given the Devil
plagiarised Mars with earth, we received the seas...
we received the hydro sodium chloride... salty waters...
so if i was heading to Mars, i'd be mostly interested
in finding sodium chloride (salt) than anything...
not life... if i was heading to Mars i'd be trying to find salt...
not life... salt... salt... salt... Angie Jolie film (2010)? Salt.
because we forgot our individual intuition,
and we chose to have individual intellect that might be
easily swayed, because of this we allowed
collective intuition to arise... which we couldn't
intellectualise, because a collective intuition gave rise
premonition, prophecy and such artefacts of similar attention...
no collective intellect could ever be grasped:
atheism and Christianity and Islam and etc.
are such examples of what we lost... once we gave up
individual intuition, to replace it with a collective intellect,
we couldn't revise individual intuition with an individual
intellect (how many adherents of Marx does it
take to change a light-bulb?) - so we invested in
a collective intuition, whatever you call it, it's maxim
is still unshaken with the words: the sun will rise tomorrow.
a line from Heidegger concerning this observation:
every man is born as many men and dies as a single one -
like me, how i discovered the difference between
the man and the mass, intuition and intellect...
how man reversed the intuitive continuum of animals
to converse with an anti-animal invigoration of
intellect, and transcend the continuum of replicas,
and therefore invest in embryo, or the book of Genesis,
"original", in that, also a continuum by ontological inspection:
i.e. continually revisionist... Einstein preceding Newton...
Orangutan Joe preceding King Kong was never
really going to happen.
a princess sits in her royal lounge
troubled at mind, restless of heart
trembling limbs and parched tongue
the rivers in her eyes betray
the sorrow that drowns her soul
with shaking fingers she struggles
for a firm grip on her quill
her heart pours out in fluid words
to express a love nursed for years

“My Lord, from childhood I have heard
of your courageous acts and kind character
of your handsomeness and perfectness
and I am unable to draw my mind away
from thoughts of you and yours
I am shamelessly besotted by you
Like a sunflower that is drawn to the sun
I am drawn to you
It is against the common notion
for a woman to ask a man
to take her hand in marriage
I break every tradition,
but Mukunda, answer my question-
which woman, high-born
and well-versed in all the arts,
will not wish to be your consort-
and besides I have already considered myself
wedded to you, in thought and spirit
is it not immoral then
when I consider myself a married woman
and when I am already yours
body, mind and soul,
to allow me another marriage?
My brother Rukmi has arranged
a marriage for me, and it is in the morrow
my heart sinks in sorrow
you are my saviour-
it behooves you to come
and claim what is yours
and how to accomplish it without needless bloodshed
need not cause you worry, for I have a plan
tomorrow morning I shall go for my pre-nuptial prayer
at the temple in the outskirts
away from curious eyes
and it is from there
that you can take me
please do come Krishna and save me
from this mockery of a marriage
I have already said that I am yours
and if you do not come, I shall
with no second thought ensure
that I am no longer alive
to be the object of another man’s desire
and if not in this birth, we shall
in another birth be man and wife”


she seals the letter with  burning tears
and entrusts in a priest’s willing hands to deliver
this receptacle of her hopes and fears
a sliver of hope begins to glimmer
as exhaustion finally takes over
and sleep beckons with gentle hands
to distant happier lands

In the morning she awakes
mind no more clouded or deluded
a faith unshaken that strengthens
as her messenger arrives
bearing happy news
her heart gladdens

Krishna will come – of that she is sure
a love denied will now be hers
the blush of excitement gives way
to shyness - kept so far at bay
the letter was written boldly enough
but now her maiden coyness asserts its sway
with eager pulsing heart she awaits
the moment of freedom and fastening
with her love – it seems too long a day!

In her best finery she is bedecked
a bride blossoming like a flower
eyes shining like diamonds
in their excitement
nocturnal hair that falls to her waist
in a tidy plait
lips tinged with a secret smile
an accompaniment to her glowing face
her blush spreads
like a rose amongst jasmines

with slow sure steps
and comely gait
eyes glistening with hope
and conviction strengthened with faith
she proceeds towards the temple
with sincere emotion she prays

“Devi Parvati, with your motherly grace
look upon me with your kind gaze
as once through penance you gained
your true love as a husband
I too embark today
on a quest to find my way
to him who is my very soul- I pray
let Krishna me my husband”


As every minute passes hope grows
and then she hears his majestic roar
like  a dark thunder-cloud he appears
his turmeric vestment blowing in the wind
and like lighting in the night sky
suddenly and nimbly he hoists her
onto his chariot and they are away

and then the powerful anticipation of this moment gave way
to its pure enjoyment, the company of the loved one

and thus it was that the unflinching Rukmini
wedded Krishna one day.

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
        10.9.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Tashea Young Mar 2017
She is A Queen
She's something special, similar to a candy coated dream.
The God in her will sooth you soul as if you were Listening To the sound of the rushing river Streams
Her spirit Shines brighter than a car's high Beams.
Her love is sweeter than brown sugar
And Me oh my she is Looker
Her big chestnut sultry eyes reveals the beauty of Her soul inside.
I can just smell the aroma of her Shea butter and coconut fragranced skin as it glows due to her internal flame shinning within.
Cocoa Brown is the color of her melanated Bronze complexion.
Man, her smile drives me wild.
That luminous smile, her glorious smile, is as gorgeous as the clouds when she shows her pearly whites.
It brightens my day like a lamp in the darkness of the night.
And her mind Is a secret treasure That only her King Can discover and uncover the bountiful mountains he'll climb.
She's Artistic and Musically Inclined
And at the drop of a dime shell bust out in A poetic rhyme
And her words, Gosh her blissfully profoundly spoken words, will send chills up your spine
She's My own little personal ray of sunshine
Radiating truth and her words are so kind
She's simply divine
She's a peacemaker staying serene
From the inside out she is a beautiful Human being
She's good for your mental hygiene
Kinda like how your body needs protein.
Royalty is embedded in DNA gene
And her crown is made of lustrous flowing locks shining like oil sheen.
She is Royalty, She's My sister from another Mister, She is an Unshaken, Strong, melanized Beautiful Queen.
O, for that warning voice, which he, who saw
The Apocalypse, heard cry in Heaven aloud,
Then when the Dragon, put to second rout,
Came furious down to be revenged on men,
Woe to the inhabitants on earth! that now,
While time was, our first parents had been warned
The coming of their secret foe, and ’scaped,
Haply so ’scaped his mortal snare:  For now
Satan, now first inflamed with rage, came down,
The tempter ere the accuser of mankind,
To wreak on innocent frail Man his loss
Of that first battle, and his flight to Hell:
Yet, not rejoicing in his speed, though bold
Far off and fearless, nor with cause to boast,
Begins his dire attempt; which nigh the birth
Now rolling boils in his tumultuous breast,
And like a devilish engine back recoils
Upon himself; horrour and doubt distract
His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir
The Hell within him; for within him Hell
He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell
One step, no more than from himself, can fly
By change of place:  Now conscience wakes despair,
That slumbered; wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue.
Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view
Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixes sad;
Sometimes towards Heaven, and the full-blazing sun,
Which now sat high in his meridian tower:
Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began.
O thou, that, with surpassing glory crowned,
Lookest from thy sole dominion like the God
Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
Of Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down
Warring in Heaven against Heaven’s matchless King:
Ah, wherefore! he deserved no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise,
The easiest recompence, and pay him thanks,
How due! yet all his good proved ill in me,
And wrought but malice; lifted up so high
I sdeined subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude,
So burdensome still paying, still to owe,
Forgetful what from him I still received,
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharged; what burden then
O, had his powerful destiny ordained
Me some inferiour Angel, I had stood
Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition!  Yet why not some other Power
As great might have aspired, and me, though mean,
Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within
Or from without, to all temptations armed.
Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse,
But Heaven’s free love dealt equally to all?
Be then his love accursed, since love or hate,
To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
O, then, at last relent:  Is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent.  Ay me! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of Hell.
With diadem and scepter high advanced,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery:  Such joy ambition finds.
But say I could repent, and could obtain,
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would highth recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feigned submission swore?  Ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow,
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall:  so should I purchase dear
Short intermission bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging, peace;
All hope excluded thus, behold, in stead
Mankind created, and for him this world.
So farewell, hope; and with hope farewell, fear;
Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least
Divided empire with Heaven’s King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As Man ere long, and this new world, shall know.
Thus while he spake, each passion dimmed his face
Thrice changed with pale, ire, envy, and despair;
Which marred his borrowed visage, and betrayed
Him counterfeit, if any eye beheld.
For heavenly minds from such distempers foul
Are ever clear.  Whereof he soon aware,
Each perturbation smoothed with outward calm,
Artificer of fraud; and was the first
That practised falsehood under saintly show,
Deep malice to conceal, couched with revenge:
Yet not enough had practised to deceive
Uriel once warned; whose eye pursued him down
The way he went, and on the Assyrian mount
Saw him disfigured, more than could befall
Spirit of happy sort; his gestures fierce
He marked and mad demeanour, then alone,
As he supposed, all unobserved, unseen.
So on he fares, and to the border comes
Of Eden, where delicious Paradise,
Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green,
As with a rural mound, the champaign head
Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides
Access denied; and overhead upgrew
Insuperable height of loftiest shade,
Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm,
A sylvan scene, and, as the ranks ascend,
Shade above shade, a woody theatre
Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops
The verdurous wall of Paradise upsprung;                        

Which to our general sire gave prospect large
Into his nether empire neighbouring round.
And higher than that wall a circling row
Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit,
Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue,
Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed:
On which the sun more glad impressed his beams
Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,
When God hath showered the earth; so lovely seemed
That landskip:  And of pure now purer air
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
All sadness but despair:  Now gentle gales,
Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense
Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole
Those balmy spoils.  As when to them who fail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambick, off at sea north-east winds blow
Sabean odours from the spicy shore
Of Araby the blest; with such delay
Well pleased they slack their course, and many a league
Cheered with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles:
So entertained those odorous sweets the Fiend,
Who came their bane; though with them better pleased
Than Asmodeus with the fishy fume
That drove him, though enamoured, from the spouse
Of Tobit’s son, and with a vengeance sent
From Media post to Egypt, there fast bound.
Now to the ascent of that steep savage hill
Satan had journeyed on, pensive and slow;
But further way found none, so thick entwined,
As one continued brake, the undergrowth
Of shrubs and tangling bushes had perplexed
All path of man or beast that passed that way.
One gate there only was, and that looked east
On the other side: which when the arch-felon saw,
Due entrance he disdained; and, in contempt,
At one flight bound high over-leaped all bound
Of hill or highest wall, and sheer within
Lights on his feet.  As when a prowling wolf,
Whom hunger drives to seek new haunt for prey,
Watching where shepherds pen their flocks at eve
In hurdled cotes amid the field secure,
Leaps o’er the fence with ease into the fold:
Or as a thief, bent to unhoard the cash
Of some rich burgher, whose substantial doors,
Cross-barred and bolted fast, fear no assault,
In at the window climbs, or o’er the tiles:
So clomb this first grand thief into God’s fold;
So since into his church lewd hirelings climb.
Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life,
The middle tree and highest there that grew,
Sat like a cormorant; yet not true life
Thereby regained, but sat devising death
To them who lived; nor on the virtue thought
Of that life-giving plant, but only used
For prospect, what well used had been the pledge
Of immortality.  So little knows
Any, but God alone, to value right
The good before him, but perverts best things
To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.
Beneath him with new wonder now he views,
To all delight of human sense exposed,
In narrow room, Nature’s whole wealth, yea more,
A Heaven on Earth:  For blissful Paradise
Of God the garden was, by him in the east
Of Eden planted; Eden stretched her line
From Auran eastward to the royal towers
Of great Seleucia, built by Grecian kings,
Of where the sons of Eden long before
Dwelt in Telassar:  In this pleasant soil
His far more pleasant garden God ordained;
Out of the fertile ground he caused to grow
All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste;
And all amid them stood the tree of life,
High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit
Of vegetable gold; and next to life,
Our death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by,
Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill.
Southward through Eden went a river large,
Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill
Passed underneath ingulfed; for God had thrown
That mountain as his garden-mould high raised
Upon the rapid current, which, through veins
Of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn,
Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill
Watered the garden; thence united fell
Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood,
Which from his darksome passage now appears,
And now, divided into four main streams,
Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm
And country, whereof here needs no account;
But rather to tell how, if Art could tell,
How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks,
Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold,
With mazy errour under pendant shades
Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed
Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art
In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon
Poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain,
Both where the morning sun first warmly smote
The open field, and where the unpierced shade
Imbrowned the noontide bowers:  Thus was this place
A happy rural seat of various view;
Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm,
Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind,
Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,
If true, here only, and of delicious taste:
Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks
Grazing the tender herb, were interposed,
Or palmy hillock; or the flowery lap
Of some irriguous valley spread her store,
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose:
Another side, umbrageous grots and caves
Of cool recess, o’er which the mantling vine
Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps
Luxuriant; mean while murmuring waters fall
Down the ***** hills, dispersed, or in a lake,
That to the fringed bank with myrtle crowned
Her crystal mirrour holds, unite their streams.
The birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs,
Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune
The trembling leaves, while universal Pan,
Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,
Led on the eternal Spring.  Not that fair field
Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower by gloomy Dis
Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain
To seek her through the world; nor that sweet grove
Of Daphne by Orontes, and the inspired
Castalian spring, might with this Paradise
Of Eden strive; nor that Nyseian isle
Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,
Whom Gentiles Ammon call and Libyan Jove,
Hid Amalthea, and her florid son
Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea’s eye;
Nor where Abassin kings their issue guard,
Mount Amara, though this by some supposed
True Paradise under the Ethiop line
By Nilus’ head, enclosed with shining rock,
A whole day’s journey high, but wide remote
From this Assyrian garden, where the Fiend
Saw, undelighted, all delight, all kind
Of living creatures, new to sight, and strange
Two of far nobler shape, ***** and tall,
Godlike *****, with native honour clad
In naked majesty seemed lords of all:
And worthy seemed; for in their looks divine
The image of their glorious Maker shone,
Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure,
(Severe, but in true filial freedom placed,)
Whence true authority in men; though both
Not equal, as their *** not equal seemed;
For contemplation he and valour formed;
For softness she and sweet attractive grace;
He for God only, she for God in him:
His fair large front and eye sublime declared
Absolute rule; and hyacinthine locks
Round from his parted forelock manly hung
Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad:
She, as a veil, down to the slender waist
Her unadorned golden tresses wore
Dishevelled, but in wanton ringlets waved
As the vine curls her tendrils, which implied
Subjection, but required with gentle sway,
And by her yielded, by him best received,
Yielded with coy submission, modest pride,
And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
Nor those mysterious parts were then concealed;
Then was not guilty shame, dishonest shame
Of nature’s works, honour dishonourable,
Sin-bred, how have ye troubled all mankind
With shows instead, mere shows of seeming pure,
And banished from man’s life his happiest life,
Simplicity and spotless innocence!
So passed they naked on, nor shunned the sight
Of God or Angel; for they thought no ill:
So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair,
That ever since in love’s embraces met;
Adam the goodliest man of men since born
His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve.
Under a tuft of shade that on a green
Stood whispering soft, by a fresh fountain side
They sat them down; and, after no more toil
Of their sweet gardening labour than sufficed
To recommend cool Zephyr, and made ease
More easy, wholesome thirst and appetite
More grateful, to their supper-fruits they fell,
Nectarine fruits which the compliant boughs
Yielded them, side-long as they sat recline
On the soft downy bank damasked with flowers:
The savoury pulp they chew, and in the rind,
Still as they thirsted, scoop the brimming stream;
Nor gentle purpose, nor endearing smiles
Wanted, nor youthful dalliance, as beseems
Fair couple, linked in happy nuptial league,
Alone as they.  About them frisking played
All beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chase
In wood or wilderness, forest or den;
Sporting the lion ramped, and in his paw
Dandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,
Gambolled before them; the unwieldy elephant,
To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathed
His?kithetmroboscis; close the serpent sly,
Insinuating, wove with Gordian twine
His braided train, and of his fatal guile
Gave proof unheeded; others on the grass
Couched, and now filled with pasture gazing sat,
Or bedward ruminating; for the sun,
Declined, was hasting now with prone career
To the ocean isles, and in the ascending scale
Of Heaven the stars that usher evening rose:
When Satan still in gaze, as first he stood,
Scarce thus at length failed speech recovered sad.
O Hell! what do mine eyes with grief behold!
Into our room of bliss thus high advanced
Creatures of other mould, earth-born perhaps,
Not Spirits, yet to heavenly Spirits bright
Little inferiour; whom my thoughts pursue
Eloisa Feb 2019
Courage and strength in the midst of her fear
Disguises her feelings, though she woke up in tears
Uneven, rocky and rough her journey will be
Winding and long her roads are temporarily
She’s confused of the thoughts that even the toughest will tire
That the strongest will be weak and the happiest will cry

She has begun to find doubts on how far she could go
She started to get scared if she would be able to go through
There were minutes of choosing to stop and finally give up
But still she thought of how long did she hold on and how she has battled so tough
Then she thought of how God has led her way and guided her journey
Showing her unshaken smile, she stood up again and began her odyssey.
Max Neumann Jun 2021
1.) tizzop introduced gangsta poetry february 2021
     no man ever before created a poetry genre alike
     gangsta poetry, robust melting *** of languages
     and ethnicities, as it reflects the united states

2.) the idols of gangsta poetry are rooted in the
      underworld, blacks, hispanics, italo- and irish-
      americans, asians, arabs, germans, kurds,
      yugos, albanians, afghans, northern-africans...

3.) multilingual are the core, heart and soul of
     a gangsta poem: glockz, rubix cubies, 31er
     salam, jebeš igru, habibis, brüder, fo' sho':
     rapid months, frozen silverfruit, whole ones

4.) every letter of gangsta poetry becomes the
     side effects of our brand's real-life greed and fury
      mourning the end of beloved baby mommas
      deaths caused by strayed bullets that vamoose

5.) gangsta poetry aims to be published among
      all ethnic communities of the 50 united states
      deadline 08/16/21 stresses american willpower
      gangsta poetry scandalously hits us's curriculas

6.) each of the 194 remaining countries is urged
     to promote and govern gangsta poetry for
     the neglected, weighted with glacial contempt
     these males and females discover their kind in us

7.) tizzop established a saying: "treat every being  
     with an open mind, but fight back, baby, if anyone
     disrespects you, the gps, or our hangarounds"
     at war, we remember our families before we blast

8.) bar none, each gangsta poet is free to connect
      affiliate and distribute with and for the gp's
      brothas and sistas -- gps create examples of
      social diversity and historical dimensions

9.) female gangsta poets are a quarter of us
      some keep it gal, united sisterhood, astute flow
      in memory of leery leyla, chalondra, kateyy,
      mountainbird, ivanka cociç, ashima abraham

10.) genderfree, gangsta poets are chosen
        undertakings composed by thugs & artists
        the spirit of a few meets strife of hood speech
        gp evolved from a movement to an own identity

11.) restrictions do not apply for written creation
        strategic outgrowth and unshaken cash flow
        gp embraces brainy ones, and our soldiers
        narrators in conspiracy, art nouveau trips

12.) gangsta poetry admires the following people:
        jeezy, killa cam, toni der assi, iron sal, dmx
        anton chigurh, sigmund freud, rashid stoogie
        larry hoover, elliot york hp, kevin of allpoetry

13.) taktloss, luis fonsi, blockmonsta, all bolivian
        and peruvian farmers, te amamos, our brothers
        187 strassenbande, senion mogilevich, nirvana
        john murphy, dem dudes alpha hotel frankfurt

14.) much love to all global units, poets, thieves
        traffic architects, hackers, true skippos
        german bakeries, all-black betting shops
        jews from brighton beach, hispanic halos

15.) benny da bandit, tony tarantula, gambino, brate
        hamza al-mighty, fat **** frank, jens, das brain
        fred merciless, familia escorpio, ruben and levi
        ali firefists, kimbo slice, scarface, oleksiy, dejan

16.) daim, loomit, dns 1up, **** my **** crew
        berlin kreuzberg 36ers, playboys hannover
        yard bird 1955, taki 183 n.y.c., basquiat, level
        dbl ffm-skychildren, bomber, city mission
    
17.) gangsta poetry overwhelmingly shaped by
       our ancestors who boosted the poetry of ages
       train bombers, rappers, trappers, taggers, cutters
       we descent from them, honor their names

18.) gangsta poets die for poems that struck
        gps, fans and critics in a possessive way
        limits of real talk and boasting are in flux
        trance batters the face of reason, at dusk


                                          *


Once upon a time at March 22nd, 2021
Kreuzberg SO 36, Berlin, Germany...
Dedicated to all Gangsta Poets Worldwide

Heaven and hell yeah, disciples outpace seconds
Greetings from Wondaland, a.k.a. The Magic City
***  GANGSTAPOETRY  ***  
                      ***  48 SOULS  *** 
                        

                GANGSTAPOETS:

*  TIZZOP  *  FAMILIA ESCORPIO: SOLDADO ADELITA, ALEJANDRO, THE PROTECTOR & DIEGO, THE TEACHER  *  JEEZY  *  CHALONDRA  *  DMX  *  MOUNTAINBIRD  *  ECCO2K  *  IVANKA COCIÇ  *  KIMBO SLICE  *  LEVY & SOLOMON  *  JORDANOS  *
***  EDEN & NICHOLAS  ***         


               GANGSTAPOETS:


*  TAKTLOSS  *  ASHIMA ABRAHAM  *
*  MERCILESS FREDDY  *  OLEKSIY  *
*  STORMZY  *  LEERY LEYLA  *  ALI
FIREFISTS  *  SIGMUND FREUD  *  FALCO 
*  ANNE CLARK  *  DOMINIQUE NORTHSTAR  *  POOR / THCO  * 
*  1UP CREW  *  CITY MISSION  *  ZORIN  *
*  CHRIS R.



                  GANGSTAPOETS:

*  FREEMAN AND K-RHYME LE ROI  * 
*  FRUMPY  *  ASSI-TONI  **  LUDOVICO EINAUDI  *  HAMZA AL-MIGHTY  *  TONY
TARANTULA  *  KATEYY  *  LOOMIT  * 
*  FAT **** FRANK  **  ANTON CHIGURGH  *  ROSARIO DE LIMA  *  CELLAR FIREFLY  *  LARRY HOOVER  *
*  LUIS FONSI  *  JONATHAN HABESHA OF ALPHAHOTEL WONDALAND  *
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
what a ****-pile of ******* (petition rendered
on the hyphenated word compound
i wanted to correct- yeah, all the dudes can hide,
i tried the Oxford crew, but instead
i just got American  colonialism:
the part where you say: i said the funnier joke,
therefore i'm funnier,
TEAM U.S.A.! yeah! **** yeah! let's keep it as
just that... TEAM U.S.A. GO!
we're aiming for sushi right now...
and i love the fact that Green Day's
when September ends is a sidelining the 9/11,
ever you mind dialling 911...
oh, because i was the fascist, tell that to your mother
when baking bagels, ****...
i don't like the way poetry
tries to incubate violence as the non-existence of,
i hate that poetry is written by *******...
i ******* hate these goody-two-shoes more
than i'd care to think abut ******,
who will, given enough time,
become a fetish subject for historians when
we reach a historical threshold,
give it 1000 years he's be a mythological Barbarossa...
that's what i said about him not being
a unicorn.... give it 1000 years and he'll end up
being a hero, just before the
historians make a fetish out of them like they did
with Genghis Khan...
they'll talk about the autobahn before they
speak of the holocaust and constructing Israel,
which we are assured, by fake-socialists
taking on communism by sitting on a train floor...
if that guy Corbyn is a socialist then i'm Comrade
Mao... you never experienced socialism,
i hardly think you're able, like you
said that former feudal made communist
factions were predestined failures of capitalism...
i know you'll fail being communists,
the Chinese are in charge...
you, aren't, going, anywhere!
yeah, believe the socialist sitting on the train floor...
that ******* comes last...
and don't try that fascist tactic for me ti speak clean...
i'm not going to speak with the everyday citizens' speech
talking to the queen... no, i flap the tongue
you provide the wind and the winding,
schooling in over, so is shooing into lining up...
page 64 of Valis:
either knowledge through the sense organs and
is noun-categorised (some say called)
empirical knowledge, or it's arises within your head
and it's called a priori -
i don't see a problem? do you? well...
isn't a posteriori dismissive of empiricism?
to reach a posteriori knowledge you have to dismiss
empirical involvement... also to mind:
there are aren't any sense organs as such.... i'd like
to thin there are... but deaf people wouldn't consider
their ears to be organs, they're still using sign language
and continue living, neither are eyes organs
given Braille... Philip K. **** had more insight on Kant
high on amphetamines than Hegel ever did...
the basic implant? God... a few people
have escaped the a priori and a posteriori argument
for God, most were seduced by atheism
trying to relieve themselves of the argument being
argued let alone argued for a non-existence of such being,
arguing alone proved the argument to be fallacy riddled,
i.e. / as in: it was argued in the first place... for no reason...
i mean we're talking mutation:
how to mutate a priori hexagonal
               through the empirical medium pentagonal
into a posteriori hex once more...
                   the problem is searching for God in
the medium, the Cartesian substance,
the trial and error coin-flip, empiricism isn't about that,
empiricism is about the necessity of error,
i'm bothered about whether God was implanted
in us as necessarily, or whether he emerged to our
a priori mind from the medium of empiricism -
i call that a Darwinian fallacy, i don't think
the human brain can consolidate a harmonious
coexistence with self-belief and being a Buddhist...
the foremost concern is not whether:
god created man, or whether man created god...
we're talking whether the two ever coincided with
needing proof...
                               obviously not.
that part about being a Buddhist? that's shrapnel...
most of us have so much self-belief that we become
eager labourers, and hardly complain,
because the billionaires have ferrets for a haircut.
but as i said, the easiest, aphorism type of reading
Kant doesn't come from Nietzsche, it actually
comes from Philip K. **** in the bookValis...
empiricism was always going to be a watery product,
rigging scientific results, i mean lying about the results
would end up diluting a bottle of whiskey so it looked
like beer and tasted like a 20% voltage on the tongue
pallet: hardly numbing.
so the three tiers: one before, one intermediately,
and one after...
                           how a hexagon passes
through a pentagon and remains a hexagon...
or how a hexagon passes through a pentagon and ends
up a pentagon....
or how a pentagon passes through a pentagon
and ends up a hexagon...
                                             or more simply?
Bleep Beers... or Bibi (when you say b b and then add the
ee, umlaut arithmetic to double up on) -
no, i don't place my belief in the existence of god
from an a priori suggestion, as if i was to invent it...
to later discredit such a belief with a well argued augmentation
from the inheritance to later dispose of such an argument
in the charity shop of the a posteori stance...
that wouldn't excuse or explain the religious inheritance
of the Kippah or the Hijab...
who would be dumb enough to originate having to wear
a Hijab from not having experienced some sort
of necessity of divination? they would have had too experienced
something outer-worldly... god is too ridiculous to
be an a priori or an a posteriori concept...
but he's just ridiculously worthwhile the unifying
concept of phenomenology in that grand empirical theatre...
which means only one thing... our caving in and mining
god in the realm of the a priori is yet another
reality check -
                         summary:
i'm still bothered why not affiliating the hyphen to that
letter will make not meaningful reference, i.e.:
a-        (without)
                                   which means, a priori
(without a prior / without a beginning)
                       which means, a posteriori
           (without an after, without an end) -
it doesn't mean whether you have god as an implant,
whether you get rid of the implant
after experiencing the empirical medium,
you'll nonetheless experience the medium of the pentagon,
establish that sense-organs are not really organs,
because classifying something as an organic makes
life essentially a continuum, but blind men live long
after the eyes are gone...
                    i'm just saying that god as an idea
is hardly a worthy unit, which ideas are, concentrated
thoughts that cannot align themselves to either
telepathy or narration... they're immovable...
unshaken, undisturbed...
i'm just saying we're too intelligent to seek god
in the a priori realm or the a posteriori realm of things...
we were not actually ever going to find him
on the shores of Ireland or Florida...
it's not that ridiculous to find him on the Atlantic...
he's quantum physics after all, pocket presence...
isolated proof... never a collectivisation to enable
politicised coherence... it's a quantum experience,
a quantum experience that without atoms
gets so much stigmatisation as Judaism proves;
the mock-joke of Moses rummaging realities rather than
reality in the desert to the count of 40 years...
yeah... and later the idea of the multiverse...
that's not funny mate... it's horrid...
but there you are safe in democracy... but you're
used to reading the media outlets citing child abuse...
well... what are we missing? APPLAUSE! APPLAUSE!
ENCORE!
Not any character of the jungle,
At the time power was kept by the single
Lion kind, risked jumping into the lions’ jaws,
Against their rapacity raising paws:
The hares and hyenas they could strangle
And devour; in their minds best were their laws
Providing rights of the mighty
As common and full sovereignty.

The era was worsened by men-hunting,
Whose guns were used the wildlife menacing.
The weak of the forest saw that succumbed
The lions, who were the first shot at, welcomed
The hunters and their faces showed, smiling.
They were deceived when the first seen were harmed
Like the lions by the same haughty
Men set against their sovereignty.

Some lions who survived called the animals
For a meeting, and the men-criminals
Were the main topic of their discussion.
The lions warned, “Will wipe us away those men
If can’t stand together as animals,
Fight them and save lion, hypo, hare and wren…”
Mocked and heckled the assembly
That ne’er had enjoyed sovereignty.

Each one’s motion was that there was no need
Of obeying on the lions, who to feed
Their cubs with their flesh used to take pleasure.
They thought their forest had become seizure
Of the men for lack of unity; freed
It’d be with or ‘thout a lion as major:
They’d trust who would bring unity
And help them enjoy sovereignty.

There came a time and there came protectors
Of the animals to stop the hunters
From destroying on the environment.
They showed in killing there’s no contentment.
So the hunters ceased to be predators,
And the fauna had no more sentiment
Of hating the humanity
That brought them peace and sovereignty.

Some of them were kept in zoo
And the kingship of the lions they did boo.
Cows, rabbits, goats - were domesticated,
And more than ever they were protected.
Such treatment them gave of humans new view:
The protectors or authors of the deed
Looked like who’d brought brutality,
But in their hearts reigned sovereignty.

Later on the lions found that in the strong
Claws dwelt no good power, but can be for long
Which is applied to all comfort giving,
That a king marching in front of trembling
Souls, as if to hell angels would belong,
One day will see his strength brought to nothing,
But where freedom ain’t scarcity
Kings and subjects share sovereignty.

What the beasts failed to know was the keepers
Of the zoo were children of the poachers,
Who’d found unfair deed what their fathers did,
To take good care of them had decided
And did not want to be called game-seekers’
Generation. In the action could read
Great kindness and humanity
The beasts savoring sovereignty.

A former foe may become a good friend,
Who breaks off with the past and turns his hand
Into protector, support provider –
Like Human Rights Activists. No wonder
Where they are from, people’s torn hearts they mend.
A protector has ne’er been intruder
As long as for tranquility
He works and preserves sovereignty.

A sovereign nation is not like a house
With its closed doors, and inside, like a mouse,
A wife is beaten and loses her life
Without neighbours’ intervention as if
Not hearkening the victim, and the louse
Of man not stopping is to save the life.
Is a land where people’s safety
Is denied full of sovereignty?

If at The Hague someone is indicted,
It means not people he has protected,
Nor that he has well governed Liberia,
But ‘cause people’s hearts he has filled with fear
And a lot of trouble he’s invited.
After shedding blood there and here,
The lions who’ve made their claws *****
Should be there washed for sovereignty.

Wherever the lions rage it’s no matter:
Matters the will to keep the world better.
Some Devil’s advocates would call nations
Not in Syria to find indications
Of crimes as if is found a wife-beater
At Holy Land or brothels it opens.
In a place where reigns sanctity
Won’t dwell breakers of sovereignty.


A rot of conception of sovereignty
Reeks when gangrene holds sway o’er a country,
In which Democracy swings at cannons;
Debates are feared that aim ruling with brains;
Wear noose as necklace who would change carry,
And the song “Independence” is hangmen’s.
Where lions and lambs live with loyalty,
There is unshaken sovereignty.
This poem aims to think of what sovereignty is and especially of its true concept.
http://www.amazon.com/author/bonim007
emmaline Apr 2016
Kurt Queller uses narrative criticism to analyze Mark 3:1-6, the healing miracle story in the gospel of Mark.  Queller’s narrative criticism includes “echoes of the Exodus liberation narrative” , echoes of Deuteronomy’s covenant language and Sabbatical provisions , intratextual echoes in Mark , and independent echoes in the other synoptic gospels.  Queller uses these echoes to fill in the gaps he finds in the story of Jesus healing the man with the withered hand on the Sabbath.
In the beginning of his criticism, Queller lists the gaps in Mark 3:1-6’s narrative that he seeks to fill: the meaning of the withered hand, Jesus’ reason for healing on the Sabbath, His reason for considering the withered hand life-threatening, why it is a choice between good and evil, et cetera.  He begins filling these gaps by referencing intertextual echoes of Mark 3:1-6 in Exodus.  Jesus’ command to the man with the withered hand in Mark 3:5, “Stretch out your hand,” is echoed in Exodus 14:16 where God commands Moses, “stretch out your hand.” When the man with the withered hand stretches out his hand, his hand is restored. Likewise, when Moses stretches out his hand, the Reed Sea parts, resulting in the restoration of the Israelites’ freedom.
Queller’s reference to this echo in Exodus, paired with other echoes he mentions in Deuteronomy, helped me begin to understand Jesus’ insistence on healing the withered hand. Queller was able to use the echoes to fill in the gaps I previously could not fill. In Deuteronomy 15, God’s covenant requires liberal lending and debt forgiveness to the poor on the Sabbath year. God reminds the Israelites that He delivered them from Egypt in verse 15, and He claims that this is the reason for His liberal Sabbatical law. Thus, this Deuteronomic prescription for Sabbath observance is a continuation of the Exodus liberation narrative. Queller mentions these echoes in Exodus and Deuteronomy to draw a larger narrative framework for understanding Mark’s controversial healing story.
In my initial reading, I recognized that a withered hand is not necessarily a matter of life and death. Like Queller, this was a gap that I initially set out to fill. However, I was unable to fill this gap in a way that completely satisfied my confusion on the matter. Queller’s larger narrative framework for this passage led me to a better understanding of why Jesus considered the withered hand worthy to heal on the Sabbath.
According to Queller’s filling of the gaps, the withered hand is an affliction that can be compared to the Israelites’ enslavement in Egypt. The withered hand also embodies the economic predicament of the poor, who remain enslaved to their debt to the rich.  Such enslavement could be a death sentence, which is why the Sabbath requires the liberation of slaves and debt forgiveness of the poor. It seems plausible to me that a withered hand could cause a man to be enslaved and/or perpetually poor. This line of reasoning, provided by Queller’s larger narrative framework, allowed me to truly see how the Sabbath could require Jesus’ healing of the withered hand.
Another gap Queller and I similarly set out to fill is the question of what constitutes as doing good and what constitutes as doing evil on the Sabbath. This gap also arises from Mark 3:4, in which Jesus asks, “Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to ****?” (Mark 3:4 NIV). In his analysis of this particular part of this particular verse, Queller points out a small important detail that I originally missed. Mark 3:4 does not set the frame for a passive, inner choice between good and evil.  The literal wording says, “to do good or to do evil.” The choice between good and evil on the Sabbath thereby requires action.
While recognizing that required action is problematic for the restful nature of the Sabbath, Queller supports his assertion by referencing Deuteronomy 30. Deuteronomy 30’s prescription for obedience of the Sabbath repeats the active command, “do it.”  Queller illustrates the parallelism between Mark and Deuteronomy by placing Deuteronomy 30:14 and Mark 3:4-5 in a figure side-by-side.  Deuteronomy 30:14 says, “The word is very near to you, in your mouth, and in your heart, and in your hands, to do it.” With this commandment as the framework, Mark 3:4-5 spells out the Pharisees’ failure to do good; It says, “But they were silent . . . grieved at their hardness of heart, he said to the man: ‘Stretch out your hand.’ And he stretched it out.”
From this, Queller concludes, “The ‘word’ to be done is already ‘in [their] mouth’ – but they refuse to say anything in response; it is ‘in [their] heart’ – but their heart is hardened against it. It is ‘in [their] hands, to do it’ – but as Jesus turns again to address the man, our attention is directed back to an inert hand, that, in its current withered state, seems unlikely to do anything.”  From this I am now able to conclude that which constitutes as doing “good” on the Sabbath is acting on the word. The word is completely accessible to us, and we must use our mouths, hearts, and hands to act upon it.
This gap of good and evil action that Queller helps fill also provides further evidence for the necessity of Jesus’ healing of the withered hand. Since the hands are required to carry out good action in obedience of the covenant, the withered hand is an affliction that can breach said covenant. Queller asserts that the withered hand symbolizes “the tangible embodiment of [the Pharisees] unwillingness, despite the ‘nearness’ of the word, to do it.”  Jesus, by necessity, must heal this affliction to show the Pharisees how to act according to the law of the Sabbath; “The stretching out of the hand then becomes a ‘witness against’ those who have chosen to forgo or even prohibit action because of exclusively sacral concerns.”  Without the preceding narrative frame of Deuteronomy, such significance of the withered hand for the Sabbath covenant was impossible for me to comprehend.
Though Queller is certainly helpful in providing evidence that enables understanding of the withered hand’s significance, there are parts of his criticism that I find contradictory and unhelpful. This occurs when he references echoes in Exodus and Deuteronomy to provide a framework for understanding the Pharisees’ silence in Mark 3:4 and hardness of hearts in Mark 3:5. He first relates the Pharisees’ hardened heart in response to Jesus’ plea in Mark to the Pharaoh’s hardened heart in response to Moses’ numerous pleas in Exodus. In my concordance work, I also made this connection. However, Queller and I differ in the conclusions we draw from this observation.
Queller draws from Deuteronomy to provide framework in conjunction with Exodus for understanding Mark’s interpretation of the Sabbatical law. He references Deuteronomy 29:19, which warns against thinking one can receive the blessings of the covenant while breaching it in the inner wanderings of the heart. This passive infidelity of the covenant brings God’s curse to the innocent as well as the guilty. Queller uses this context to explain why his literal translation says Jesus “co-aggrieved”  with the Pharisees because of their silence and hard hearts. The Pharisees’ passive, inner breach of the covenant invoked God’s curse on them, as well as the innocent Jesus, according to Queller.  
When I analyzed Jesus’ reaction to the hard hearts of the Pharisees in comparison to God’s reaction to that of the Pharaoh, I realized that the same Greek word was used to describe Jesus’ anger and God’s wrath. However, the consequences of Jesus’ anger and God’s wrath do not relate as clearly as Queller would lead one to believe. As a result of the Pharaoh’s hard heart, God’s wrath leads to the Pharaoh’s ultimate demise. Jesus’ resulting anger from the Pharisees’ hard hearts, on the other hand, catalyzes his decision to heal the withered hand. This action ultimately leads to Jesus’ destruction alone. Jesus, the innocent character, does not fall to the mutual destruction of the Pharisees, per Queller’s argument. I see no destruction of the Pharisees at all. Instead, Jesus restores God’s blessing of the guilty by becoming the recipient of God’s wrath in their place.
This conclusion, though differing from Queller, is consistent with his interpretation of the withered hand. Queller writes, “The withered hand embodies covenant curses invoked against those refusing to ‘open [their] hands’ in liberal lending, instead killing the poor by freezing credit in view of an impending sabbatical debt amnesty” . If the withered hand embodies God’s curse against the Pharisees, then Jesus revokes this curse when he cures the withered hand. Furthermore, the larger narrative framework of Mark’s gospel echoes this conclusion. Jesus’ crucifixion ultimately pays the debt of sinners and liberates them from God’s wrath.
Kurt Queller’s narrative criticism uses intertextuality, a narrative tool that “evokes resonances of the earlier text beyond those explicitly cited”  and “requires the reader to recover unstated or suppressed correspondences between the two texts.”  Such intertextual echoes he references from Deuteronomy and Exodus provide a larger background for interpreting Mark’s healing controversy. This granted me the ability to fill many gaps in the narrative that I was unable to fill prior to reading Queller’s criticism. In a footnote, he explains that his “metalepsis” uses such intertextual echoes for analysis, and, “In narrative, the resultant new figuration operates at what Robert M. Fowler calls the ‘discourse level.’ Metaleptic signification is thus transacted between an implied narrator and an implied audience – as it were, behind the backs of the narrative’s ‘story-level’ participants.”
The intertextual and metaleptic tools that Queller uses for his narrative criticism have proven to be very insightful and helpful for my understanding Mark 3:1-6 in an entirely new way. Even as I disagree with Queller on certain parts of his argument, these points of disagreement pushed me to deepen my own individual reading of the text. In comparing my argument to Queller’s, I realized just how far my initial interpretation was able to go. This narrative criticism answered a lot of my questions and filled many gaps. However, most of my conclusions about the implications and ultimate consequences of the text remain unshaken.  
Bibliography
Queller, Kurt. “Stretch Out Your Hand!” Echo and Metalepsis in Mark’s Sabbath Healing Controversy. Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 4 (2010): 737-58.
This is a narrative criticism in conversation with Kurt Queller's criticism. The in-text footnotes didn't transfer to this website but all quotes are referencing his work, which is cited at the end.
Rumi Arie Sep 2015
She stood still before the choas; unshaken.
The wind blew its mighty breath against Her core but to no avail; unmoved.
Her coffee'd skin warm like the sun that kisses the Earth's horizon.
Something within Her had risen without warning nor permission:
She was a Goddess, in Her own right.

Brown. The soft tone of the Earth.
Golden hue painted widely across the canvas of Her *****.
Her skin like caramelized silk, with the sunglow of Egypt itself.

She pressed Her face to the Earth's floor and moved mountains with Her prayers.
Queen of the meek, ambassador of the poor.
She was the perfect amalgam of beauty and brokenness.
~The Goddess of Humility.
SH Dec 2011
queer creature of white stone:
the spirit of the island in the head of this lion,
the soul of the natives in the body of this fish,
spirit and soul, lion and fish, mingle together by
mere wry humour of evolution’s word

we revere this beast, (it watches over us
from nine metres above), we bow down our backs,
(worship it as our exemplar): for many of us,
unknowingly, we emulate the spirit and soul
of this queer white creation of stone.

standing tall (unshaken!) even as jaundice bolts of heaven’s
creep tip-toed behind its scales and strike:
its cemented steadfastness of stone we emulate,
for through the towering grey waves of crisis, and
the threatening dark clouds that foretell our very fears,
we too, have floated and transcended and appeared
unscathed.

mutated monster – child of bad genes,
they despise such unfavourable antagonistic features
(shall it rule like a lion or flail like a fish?):
its unlikeliness of surviving, of thriving we emulate:
for this dotted smudge of red pen ink on the globe,
destined to bow down to fate – bowed down not, and
flourished.

beams of white water spouting out in a
perfect shape of a quadrant’s circumference, endlessly,
its majestic spewing action we emulate:
this island of expectations, sterile smell of success,
fate of our future in the setting of an exam hall,
(in there do you not think we resemble the merlion,
our mouths the hoses, the papers our well?)

but, oh, the merlion – so many of it –
the merlions, same-maned, same-scaled,
fluttering and bursting with imitation across our home:
such congruity, conformity we emulate:
for years of yearning to swim in the mainstream waters,
of being goldfish, instead of losing the waters for flight like flying fish,
have made us very much, about
the same.

queer creature of white stone:
do you see not how we resemble your very self,
how we offer you praise (by
lifting our human arms, arching on our mere knees,
hoisting our lowly mortal heads, surveying your colossal royalty,
camera in hand)?
I tried as wittily as possible to draw comparisons to reveal how one of our national icons are eerily reflective of the Singapore culture in many ways. This touristy icon almost seemed pre-planned to capture the essence of what Singapore is.
Q Nov 2019
writing on the backs of hands,
strolling along meadows and dancing in the rain,
running through fields of wild flowers,
lacing fingers and pushing swings,
laying beneath glowing ***** of light,
our feet pressing against this unshaken earth;
we tie the hands of time together,
whenever our paths entwine,
gentle acts of love and joy,
preserved in the timeless pockets of our minds.
39/100
Carl Fynn Jun 2020
That which is created and known
That which is unknown but created

The word created through Him
all that is ephemeral.

Our hearts and mind appreciate
that which our eyes behold.

The lost longs for the hidden but revealed.
The word created without Him all that is everlasting.

Visible through faith
that which is known before all but unknown after all.

Key to knowledge that surpasses is foolish to the wise
but
truth to the unshaken well within.
Colm May 2016
Deep, somber, reflective pools.
Stirring by an ocean of blueish gray.
Vast as the mountain and all of its roots,
Clear and deceptive as the piercing light on a cloudy day.

Not flustered by the coming storm,
But troubled instead when it is blown off its course and swept away.
Unshaken by the torrential downpour of warming rain.
For cool inside they will ever stay.

Such pools as these are ripples away from some escape.
Yet when all other pools would've walked away,
They stir themselves and still remain.
Fixed and introspective.

Much like the tides which arrive anew with each coming day.
These waters rise and though they reach,
The wonder and bewilderment is never washed away.
From within such pools.
"The most amazing thing to me about the sea is the tide."
-John Dyer
A certain poet in outlandish clothes
Gathered a crowd in some Byzantine lane,
Talked1 of his country and its people, sang
To some stringed instrument none there had seen,
A wall behind his back, over his head
A latticed window.  His glance went up at time
As though one listened there, and his voice sank
Or let its meaning mix into the strings.

MAEVE the great queen was pacing to and fro,
Between the walls covered with beaten bronze,
In her high house at Cruachan; the long hearth,
Flickering with ash and hazel, but half showed
Where the tired horse-boys lay upon the rushes,
Or on the benches underneath the walls,
In comfortable sleep; all living slept
But that great queen, who more than half the night
Had paced from door to fire and fire to door.
Though now in her old age, in her young age
She had been beautiful in that old way
That's all but gone; for the proud heart is gone,
And the fool heart of the counting-house fears all
But Soft beauty and indolent desire.
She could have called over the rim of the world
Whatever woman's lover had hit her fancy,
And yet had been great-bodied and great-limbed,
Fashioned to be the mother of strong children;
And she'd had lucky eyes and high heart,
And wisdom that caught fire like the dried flax,
At need, and made her beautiful and fierce,
Sudden and laughing.
O unquiet heart,
Why do you praise another, praising her,
As if there were no tale but your own tale
Worth knitting to a measure of sweet sound?
Have I not bid you tell of that great queen
Who has been buried some two thousand years?
When night was at its deepest, a wild goose
Cried from the porter's lodge, and with long clamour'
Shook the ale-horns and shields upon their hooks;
But the horse-boys slept on, as though some power
Had filled the house with Druid heaviness;
And wondering who of the many-changing Sidhe
Had come as in the old times to counsel her,
Maeve walked, yet with slow footfall, being old,
To that small chamber by the outer gate.
The porter slept, although he sat upright
With still and stony limbs and open eyes.
Maeve waited, and when that ear-piercing noise
Broke from his parted lips and broke again,
She laid a hand on either of his shoulders,
And shook him wide awake, and bid him say
Who of the wandering many-changing ones
Had troubled his sleep.  But all he had to say
Was that, the air being heavy and the dogs
More still than they had been for a good month,
He had fallen asleep, and, though he had dreamed
nothing,
He could remember when he had had fine dreams.
It was before the time of the great war
Over the White-Horned Bull and the Brown Bull.
She turned away; he turned again to sleep
That no god troubled now, and, wondering
What matters were afoot among the Sidhe,
Maeve walked through that great hall, and with a sigh
Lifted the curtain of her sleeping-room,
Remembering that she too had seemed divine
To many thousand eyes, and to her own
One that the generations had long waited
That work too difficult for mortal hands
Might be accomplished, Bunching the curtain up
She saw her husband Ailell sleeping there,
And thought of days when he'd had a straight body,
And of that famous Fergus, Nessa's husband,
Who had been the lover of her middle life.
Suddenly Ailell spoke out of his sleep,
And not with his own voice or a man's voice,
But with the burning, live, unshaken voice
Of those that, it may be, can never age.
He said, "High Queen of Cruachan and Magh Ai,
A king of the Great Plain would speak with you.'
And with glad voice Maeve answered him, "What king
Of the far-wandering shadows has come to me,
As in the old days when they would come and go
About my threshold to counsel and to help?'
The parted lips replied, "I seek your help,
For I am Aengus, and I am crossed in love.'
"How may a mortal whose life gutters out
Help them that wander with hand clasping hand,
Their haughty images that cannot wither,
For all their beauty's like a hollow dream,
Mirrored in streams that neither hail nor rain
Nor the cold North has troubled?'
He replied,
"I am from those rivers and I bid you call
The children of the Maines out of sleep,
And set them digging under Bual's hill.
We shadows, while they uproot his earthy housc,
Will overthrow his shadows and carry off
Caer, his blue-eyed daughter that I love.
I helped your fathers when they built these walls,
And I would have your help in my great need,
Queen of high Cruachan.'
"I obey your will
With speedy feet and a most thankful heart:
For you have been, O Aengus of the birds,
Our giver of good counsel and good luck.'
And with a groan, as if the mortal breath
Could but awaken sadly upon lips
That happier breath had moved, her husband turned
Face downward, tossing in a troubled sleep;
But Maeve, and not with a slow feeble foot,
Came to the threshold of the painted house
Where her grandchildren slept, and cried aloud,
Until the pillared dark began to stir
With shouting and the clang of unhooked arms.
She told them of the many-changing ones;
And all that night, and all through the next day
To middle night, they dug into the hill.
At middle night great cats with silver claws,
Bodies of shadow and blind eyes like pearls,
Came up out of the hole, and red-eared hounds
With long white bodies came out of the air
Suddenly, and ran at them and harried them.
The Maines" children dropped their spades, and stood
With quaking joints and terror-stricken faces,
Till Maeve called out, "These are but common men.
The Maines' children have not dropped their spades
Because Earth, crazy for its broken power,
Casts up a Show and the winds answer it
With holy shadows.' Her high heart was glad,
And when the uproar ran along the grass
She followed with light footfall in the midst,
Till it died out where an old thorn-tree stood.
Friend of these many years, you too had stood
With equal courage in that whirling rout;
For you, although you've not her wandering heart,
Have all that greatness, and not hers alone,
For there is no high story about queens
In any ancient book but tells of you;
And when I've heard how they grew old and died,
Or fell into unhappiness, I've said,
"She will grow old and die, and she has wept!'
And when I'd write it out anew, the words,
Half crazy with the thought, She too has wept!
Outrun the measure.
I'd tell of that great queen
Who stood amid a silence by the thorn
Until two lovers came out of the air
With bodies made out of soft fire.  The one,
About whose face birds wagged their fiery wings,
Said, "Aengus and his sweetheart give their thanks
To Maeve and to Maeve's household, owing all
In owing them the bride-bed that gives peace.'
Then Maeve:  "O Aengus, Master of all lovers,
A thousand years ago you held high ralk
With the first kings of many-pillared Cruachan.
O when will you grow weary?'
They had vanished,
But our of the dark air over her head there came
A murmur of soft words and meeting lips.
How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves,
    Close by the street of this fair seaport town,
Silent beside the never-silent waves,
    At rest in all this moving up and down!

The trees are white with dust, that o’er their sleep
    Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind’s breath,
While underneath these leafy tents they keep
    The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.

And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown,
    That pave with level flags their burial-place,
Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down
    And broken by Moses at the mountain’s base.

The very names recorded here are strange,
    Of foreign accent, and of different climes;
Alvares and Rivera interchange
    With Abraham and Jacob of old times.

“Blessed be God! for he created Death!”
    The mourners said, “and Death is rest and peace;”
Then added, in the certainty of faith,
    “And giveth Life that nevermore shall cease.”

Closed are the portals of their Synagogue,
    No Psalms of David now the silence break,
No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue
    In the grand dialect the Prophets spake.

Gone are the living, but the dead remain,
    And not neglected; for a hand unseen,
Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain,
    Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

How came they here? What burst of Christian hate,
    What persecution, merciless and blind,
Drove o’er the sea—that desert desolate—    These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind?

They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure,
    Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire;
Taught in the school of patience to endure
    The life of anguish and the death of fire.

All their lives long, with the unleavened bread
    And bitter herbs of exile and its fears,
The wasting famine of the heart they fed,
    And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears.

Anathema maranatha! was the cry
    That rang from town to town, from street to street;
At every gate the accursed Mordecai
    Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet.

Pride and humiliation hand in hand
    Walked with them through the world where’er they went;
Trampled and beaten were they as the sand,
    And yet unshaken as the continent.

For in the background figures vague and vast
    Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime,
And all the great traditions of the Past
    They saw reflected in the coming time.

And thus forever with reverted look
    The mystic volume of the world they read,
Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book,
    Till life became a Legend of the Dead.

But ah! what once has been shall be no more!
    The groaning earth in travail and in pain
Brings forth its races, but does not restore,
    And the dead nations never rise again.
Jack Dalton Oct 2013
We drank and became aware.
After a sneaky shot of whiskey.
The hispanic reminded myself.
The ingnorent Michael of sidharthas plan.
If he came now and toaday.
Could the sidhartha buddha search his own.
There are circumstanses to understand.
Sidhartha sidhartha.  I read about the river.
Govinda found your nieve friend.
The man who would be disiple for the world.
Sidhartha would find somone elses journey.
Which in the making was his own creation.
In a epic adventure what's worth the struggle.
Its to easy and simple giving in.
Our sidhartha understood the noble Idea.
Which is make patience before accepting and believing what you have to.
In his unshaken morals he would become the buddha.  
A soul every person needs to read about.
If they want fufillment in life.
Fairfax, whose Name in Arms through Europe rings,
      And fills all Mouths with Envy or with Praise,
      And all her Jealous Monarchs with Amaze.
      And Rumours loud which daunt remotest Kings,
Thy firm unshaken Valour ever brings
      Victory home, while new Rebellions raise
      Their Hydra-heads, and the false North displays
      Her broken League to Imp her Serpent Wings:
O yet! a Nobler task awaits thy Hand,
      For what can War, but Acts of War still breed
      Till injur’d Truth from Violence be freed;
And publick Faith be rescu’d from the Brand
      Of publick Fraud; in vain doth Valour bleed,
      While Avarice and Rapine shares the Land.
Anna Jane Pearce Jul 2013
there was a castle built
constructed of bricks, laid by hand
piled one on another

it grew without respite
each brick laid by hand
-- cautiously
-- delicately

and with each brick
the castle grew
grew to match the trees
to exceed them
to tower over us and the world

the castle becomes a stronghold
-- impenetrable
-- unshaken
-- inescapable

there was a castle built
-- in my grief
-- in your absence  

i lay trapped outside its walls
i lay in the green
in my meager flat

confined and dwelling
outside the castle walls

standing, i gaze

not even the sun stands tall as to surpass the grey

my gaze drops to my feet
jade and amber peaking through my toes
a world surrounds me

i shift, i walk to the left
the castle in the brim of sight
though yearning, i abstain from its full view

instead i stride on
and it goes
and i am

f r e e

the greens in every direction but behind me
Oh, this is why I hate love!
How I used to moon over it;
shape it and craft it and run after it
in my brambles,
how I used to indulge it in my *****
protect it from any uncivil desecration
cherish it for its wilfulness
relish it for its greed;
how I tainted my heart with its fake scent!
It just dawneth on me!
Oh how I fervently remembereth the scene; the very afternoon scene, before me:
I was heaving my dull steps against the sheepish grounds;
so peaceful in their breezy slumbers;
unlike the busy grass afield!
their dainty colours blackened by the whirring clouds from afar.
Hung cozily amongst the sky, whose childishness wasth adjourned by
the sleeping rain!
Oh but it was none yet coldeth but temperate;
when his moorish figure, blent into the naturalness of the afternoonth;
retreated into the lingering scene,
swiftly and lightly as the chirruping birdth aloft,
as if no anguish was within reach,
as wildly glistening as the mirth of the old den!
How my soul warmed towards the sight of him,
and on he went to relate his selfish story.
How I celebrated it - its giddy, gullible outset!
How I endorse its unknowing innocence!
How I adorned it with my passion!
His reclamation proceeded,
I was but astounded to hark to the rest;
into it he amorously poured the account of a bizarre creature;
namely a stranger;
invariably a woman!
How insolent!
He named her his love;
he waveth his moronic praise at hers;
at her charm, andth not mineth!
I was spurned, my heart was churned;
despite my stranded efforts to keep my pair of
relenting eyes
unblinking;
I steadied my legs, I was more than ready to
bounce and go
sway myself away from this gloomy tragedy
as before me the story undesired unfolded:
my love was repressed, my heart was
bludgeoned, heartily bludgeoned,
and I was silenced; could no longer feelth the tinges of blood
in my latent veins.
He hath slaughtered my peace!
My inner visions, hopes, and dreams!
I hath lost all of which!
I hath lost my shrieks; I could not voice my despair;
yet I could not utter my grief!
I was cursed and condemned;
my soul was appallingly dishonored;
my entirety is for lifelong anger,
desolation, ignominy and utmost desperation!
My crossness against the Creator arose,
like a wave of torment,
a surge of unbecomingth animosity,
as to no matter how I suppressed it unthinkingly,
all ended in vain:
My stern heart shan't ever melt to love again.
Oh my love, my love,
my princeth, my deviousth prince,
the only one I was so ardently fond of
how could thou deepen my misery?
How could thou ****** my sweetest virginal affection
in the midst of my isolation?
Like the sultry willows
whose memories unshaken, unbitten in the most
melodious, but pallid from the heath
in this musty, salubrious air
my blooming flowers hath died
I am brokeneth, I am torn!
I am writhing in my vainness,
my foolish longing, unmissed and unsung by the dandy branches aboveth
Dancing in my own blueness, weariness that is both livid
and unforgiving
scared by the heartless world
in the course of this barren winter.
Winter with no whiteness;
winter unholy and fulleth of diminutive, evil suffrage.
How ungodly!
I am raked into pieces;
and this is what remains.
This is my misery; oh how I could not riseth above the misery itself!
This is my solemn admonition,
this is my fate!
I have no right to love,
to embrace and to be embraced,
and from this day on I wanth but to dismiss my love;
onto my heart was bestowed not serene affection but intelligence;
and intellect is far better regarded than love!
How sully, narrow, and vicious love is!
How unimportant it is in the eyes of glory,
and the sea of fictitious admiration.
I quit the monstrousness of yon outer devastation;
I take hold of my pen,
and swim deeper into my whining words, again.
they lived at the edge of the sea,
they made music with pebbles
and shadows shifted,
slowly, badly calloused,
they picked their way through

          the throng
          ****** along
          pressed along

but they were not afraid
the wind billowed and raged
the sea churned violently
washing them, away it, hoped
but they remain rooted. mute

           the throng
           ****** along
           pressed along

silent statuettes, brave, unshaken
still alive by the edge of the sea
lights dance on the sea now, night
the glows, soldiers lost at sea
watching over them
scurry happily on the pebbles
***Inspired by deep personal tragedy***
Sally A Bayan Jul 2016
Day's Work Is Done...

Sun is setting,
Feet are fueled up...with enthusiasm
Thoughts are filled with pictured expectations,
To be met at the door with warm hugs and kisses
A hot meal on the table...steaming coffee awaits
All these, comfort my fatigued limbs and minds.
A smile, in anticipation ...a sense of *****
Atmosphere tickle my mind...i hurry
To enter my safe ground...my comfort zone
My own White Picket Fences.
|| || || || |\ || \| // || ||
They may have  tiny fractures
Some boards missing, broken, or collapsed,
Its concrete floors and walls may be creviced
I can not shun........or hide from
Imperfect truths, about my family,
Our relationships, our health.....every truth
About my loved ones and me...

It is where i come home to...
After each struggle's end
My feet and mind take me back...to my own,
My known familial boundaries...

An inner force spurs me to make those broken boards
Upright...firm once again......like hardwood trees,
Be unshaken by water and wind....be unwavering
Then, i repaint them
...to bring back the glow.

Some broken fences could still be fixed
some are worthy of fixing; but,
There are those that seem to be, beyond repair
needing some kind of intervention.
/|  || || //  |/  \ ||

Sally


Copyright July 9, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥
Every morning start, I awaken
Ready for the full day unshaken,
That is until my tummy rumbles,
Desperate for food my hand fumbles,
For the keys to my car to go,
Forth to work, one thing I know,
There is something I want,
Making this feel like a jaunt,
Once there rushing in through,
Looking for something to dig into,
Finding my favorite delight,
My mouth full, gone is my plight,
Thanks to you that is,
Since you bring my taste buds bliss,
You keep my hunger at bay,
Make my willpower to diet sway,
You give me reasons to expect,
So many options to elect,
From neat sweet treats,
Sandwiches made of whole wheat’s,
To fresh select eats in my dinette,
When there is none I fret,
Awaiting you so I can berate,
About all the things I could've ate,
Ask me reasons, I don't know why,
As I wrote this I let out a sigh,
Thought I'd speak my mind,
In spite of the daily grind,
This is my ode to you, vendor man,
In me you have your greatest fan!
© okpoet
Through all the thunder breathing from the past
A peaceful glow I will retain
Like a babe slipping into dreams at last
This gentle smile
I maintain

I greet the sweetest sun with this gentle smile
As my tasks I take to hand
Unshaken by that thunder breathing
Or the space in my heart
It demands

I would stir dry leaves if need be each day
If this glow I could not find
Searching for that which my peace arrays
To leave this thunder
Fast behind

So come on thunder breathing from the past
This gentle smile you cannot steal
Breathe upon me and you will find at last
That your breath
I cannot feel
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
www.changefulstorm.blogspot.com
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Changefulstorm
Mason Jay May 2017
Anxiety has done
a lot of damage to

                                           my
psyche, and I
try to hold your

                                           hands
and your heart
in mine, but mine

                                           shake.
I can’t stop doubting,
whether I am enough, if
                   my
offerings of love will
be enough. I want your

                                           faith
to be safe in my hands,
but there’s a lot of fear
                    
                                    ­        in
my heart that I will
never truly be enough for

                                             you
but you insist that I’m
amazing and that you

                                             won’t
ever leave me alone
in my troubles, and
I want to believe you.
Read the isolated words from top to bottom
My Middle East is torn
Divided into sects and stones
Desert full of rage
Ancient cities bearing witness to atrocities
In the name of the merciful
Let the killing begin
Seek justice in an afterlife
For God is deaf

Ceasefire!
long enough to bury her face
Under the classroom's desk
Or onto her dead mother's chest
Nameless casualties in numbers
Gaze at the brilliant night sky
Rain of shells, rekindling the dark-ages
No truce is left
For God is deaf

The Father carried his young one
A lifeless log returned to earth
Faith unshaken among shouts and prayers
Let the words avenge you
Curse the creator in whispers
And spiral not into an uncharted nihilistic ground
Fuel your hate
For God is deaf

Commemorate the dead
With roses on their heads
Or with poems on their gravestones instead
Morality embedded in poetry, blood is shed
Humanity on trial
Blame not my words
For God is deaf
And in my Middle East
He remains,
Undead.
To all the innocent lives lost, I apologize for my helplessness.
Carmen Jane Jan 2021
Nothing was said by the tides of the lake
As they were frozen in time
Nothing will do to start and shake
The core of this lake, oh, sublime!

One can try to guess what was last spoken,
Perhaps it was hating on all things unfair
Nothing was left behind, not a clue or a token
To unveil the secrets, to clean up the air

One more look at these rough edges
Underneath of a smooth glistening glass
They are there ,muted for ages
Frozen thoughts , waiting for winter to pass!

Only celestial kisses that fall quietly
Gather to form a white blanket
On the chest of this lake, oh so lovely
That holds its  breath, unshaken.
Ann M Johnson Nov 2013
The Vessel
A wounded vessel tossed about in the storms of life
The vessel was once strong unshaken by the wind sure and secure in itself and about life
The once strong vessel is wounded again feeling hurt angry insecure ashamed lonely
Overwhelming blows of feelings hitting the vessel the pain is intense the memories of abuse are
Strong a blow to the heart and emotions
A cry out for assistance I cry out for the captain’s help in facing the crisis I look at the holes in the vessel
I ask for support from friends and groups etc. to help me repair the vessel to make it strong again
The vessel is not the same as it once was but there is hope that one day it can be better than it is now
The vessel is being mended and is getting stronger for the first time it's experiencing sunrises and sunsets that it has never seen before
Maybe it can be made stronger than it ever was and sail towards peaceful shores
I wrote this some time back and recently found it on my computer.
I hope you enjoy it, feel free to comment!
Overtaken by obstacles
unshaken by fear
The power of faith
lies in prayers  from above
I know you gave me love
Showers of faith
Power to heal
In time the big reveal
Unshaken by fear
The power of faith
Washed away all my tears
unshaken by fear
The power of faith
Blissful Nobody Jul 2014
I have had terrible days,
I only remember the good.
I have been mad at things,
I only remember being sane.
“Is something strangely wrong?”

I have been glum,
I only remember the sunshine.
**** has hit the fan too many times,
I only remember the calm.
“That can’t be true!”

Sunburns erased,
I only remember the warmth.
Storms have come and gone,
I only remember the unshaken faith.
“Is this for real?”

My heart has wept oceans,
I only remember the soft breeze on my face.
I have had scary thoughts,
I only remember the pleasant dreams.

If this is true, I sure am happy.
If this is real, I am content.
If you don’t believe me,
I am not asking you to.
Let me be,
I can never be you.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
i'm actually writing in Turkish akimbo on the floor,
****** uncomfortable,
can't do the hunched monkey spine of Blitzkrieg...
the problem lies with my cat,
a Maine **** that's actually a bloodhound
come bed time... his ******* operatic meows
get to me... he will meow down any werewolf's howl
any night of the week, with 200 variations...
he's like a dog when bedtime comes,
he rapes his way into my room,
takes comfort in my writing chair,
keeps me up listening to βετo βετα's
between two selves - i call this the reason
for never stealing from Hinduism...
outside of Hinduism the economic model works
just as effectively as Auschwitz with cows...
come to petted animals, putting yourself
second doesn't... you get to see the many variations
of character in these buggering fur-*****;
****** got gassed, i see it as a natural karma...
because why would he have a Jewish girlfriend
who committed suicide with him the bunker?
i won't pity them... ****** knew the measure
of things, having been gassed himself
he knew the wounds: and so will millions who
thought world war i was fought in vain...
remind me... as once the northern invaders
accommodated the Roman alphabet and dropped
the runes... what you conquer you express
as an incorporation of certain qualities...
luckily the German work ethic was unshaken...
but it shook the English sensible life:
work! work! work! ready meals in between:
two favourites! two! cheese cauliflower and lasagne.
to keep up the once colonial Herrwettlauf in
charity limbo... you ain't donating to any Africans...
Bobbie Geldof fooled you...
it goes into milking the ivory skinned skin-heads
once retired... Africa is more than just a suntan...
it goes back into ensuring we don't work
in Chinese factories under lynching-contracts...
case no. 0 (or contract) - we'll just call you when we need you,
otherwise we'll contract the cheap steel and cheaper
salt from the Dead Sea:
new social order... after all that colonial piracy i'm sure
we can afford investing in a body mass indexes...
is this how efficiency is structured?
quality control and quantity control...
well, capitalism knows quality control...
but it does't have the foggiest about quantity control:
hence so much waste, and supermarkets throwing out
food into the gutter... the quality control is there,
but the quantity control is missing: always excess, always
excess, always excess... sure i get the Muslim
argument about drunken Brits in Spain and Leicester...
but what about those Saudi children speeding
in their sports cars? no one going to criticise them?
after 50 years... our shame will be a greater
instigator of global warming than a diesel engine...
cheeks puffing up into rose and rose and everything's
finally not so rosy as we thought.
so here i am, writing in uptight akimbo without
the writer's hunch of reverse Darwinism,
all because my Maine **** is acting like a bloodhound,
gets depressed before bedtime...
why are these animals needing my bogus company?
when it comes to music i'm selfish; ah! he
doesn't like the night and the modern orchestra of
grizzly exhaust engines doing the baritone with rasping
the new church bell (phlegm) with a hark uvula...
it's called Irish poker for a prayer...
the van de graaff toy generator is on in the darkened room -
then the typing ****** him off, he's off...
thank **** for that...
but why is it that the once infamous Axis strategies
are creeping into those that strove to defeat them?
we are getting Japanese karaoke culture,
we're getting welcoming euthanasia programs spanning
the dicta of Belgium and Switzerland,
as people want dignity in their death...
they're queuing up to the once known enemy...
maybe it's because these Axis powers were
never colonialists...
                                 just finishing watching Indian
Summers
season two you get the picture...
god and the dodgy monkeys...
stay... sit! stay... sit! **** it, let's lynch that Eton ****
of privy accents... ol chap... ol chappy...
trot along... the turban bomber and half
the thought that a Pole learning obedience from
Russian and German would learn to be cinnamon
skinned in England... i'm almost suspecting the
Irish are the SS in the project.. generation of the Vietnam
saint soaked in gasoline... oddly enough
that has no place in Europe, apologies that i don't
share the sentiment... it's obviously the
counter crucifixion scene and emblem,
but only in: LET'S MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN...
i told you be afraid of the blonde ferret...
i see the prognosis just like Britain exiting the European
union... California is not even America,
who gives a **** about the American Secular Vatican, anyway?
it will be like as if Canada was part of America
and resembled Scotland in the Jackshit Union...
gross the vote on the puppet...
the Democrats will get New York (the equivalent
of London) - i don't know how to twin Reading,
and that blue belt of remain campaigners linking the two,
half of who would speak as much of French
as an advert concerning the sales of socks...
or enough German to order a pint of beer in a Bavarian
pub... well, Canada would vote like Scotland,
one revolutionary figure (who was actually Muslim,
and never cared for African-American concerns
of Baptism... singing hallelujah was never part
of the do)... can't be replaced with another revolutionary
figure... he was never exactly a Martin Luther King Jr.,
more of Malcolm X than you thought...
that strip between London and Reading
will be translated into Ronald Reagan's resurrection...
a billionaire is more ridiculous than
an actor? well... who we going to call the pretty boy
and the favourite of media cartoonists? boots on the ground,
a society that doesn't practice dialectics is not
only rude, but out-of-date...
the debate of the park bench now resides in separate
stadiums, monologues that involve something
that physics unearthed: two sources of negativity
existing in two places, at the same time...
if this is a debate, then i got the postal code wrong...
the dialectics of knowing nothing became: i still know
nothing, but i have 4 million people supporting me.
i imagine the cavemen to be less subjective that we
try to imagine ourselves as resembling, Michael Palin
in the Sahara... cavemen worked on instinct, not on
appeal to the intellect... that thing
about the jokes of the vibrating lips and the index finger
moving against them to invent the Mongolian harmonica...
given the complication of urban life... well...
you'll hardly revise that bit... that part of life is gone...
i assumed that the more we evolved the less
naked we became... but given evolution and having
created this parasitic symbiosis with the natural
elements... the more i think of it: the more naked we're
becoming - the more dependent -
the original sin as conceived from the delusion that we
were disabled by our originally conception of nakedness...
it only comes now... once the dependency kicks in
and we're all in bow-ties and cocktail dresses...
hello Herr Fetish and page 3 milking of the farmyard
cows of our imagination - Islamic eye-fetish,
we heard of footfetish... must be about oral ***...
knees baby knees, Arab has eyefetish on your knees...
i have a fetish for hands... see how the cameraman zoomed
in on the hands of the women fencing?
once instinct governed us... and instinct's expression
of intelligence was: i challenge the alpha male,
i'll get **** with his concubines in the harem...
these days intellect governs us... and intellect's
expression of instinct is: i challenge the alpha male,
i'll whip up a horde of lawyers, file a lawsuit
and get away it because he nudged me in a supermarket...
honestly, i don't think educating people was a great
evolutionary step forward...
we have more law-prose liposuction on the pages of
history than a Tolstoy could muster a novel -
and because we taught everyone literacy,
the once necessary backbone of our economy,
the workers... well... let's just say that the Founding
Fathers made their muscles into oysters and molluscs,
floppy protein spaghetti... wiggle wiggle, yeah, wiggle wiggle, yeah...
defeating Communism in a place of the world that was
prone to some sort of religiosity, enzyme John Paul II -
i'd bruise his forehead and lips against those airport tarmacs
i'd get to be the inventor of sand-paper and
the Antichrist's assault on the biblical reference:
it only takes on saint to defeat the congregation... it starts with him...
or with that Calcutta Lady and Hitchens...
and oh... lookie here... up pops Hydra China:
America will be great again... but chances are...
the hot dog and the hamburger will never be re-invented...
watch the pendulum... op op oop oops here it swings
while the Hawaii communal laugh about starving
on coconuts.
Muhammad  Ali- Poster,personification and Palsy
-----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------

When I was young,I had posters of only two;
Bruce Lee and Muhammad Ali ,you.
I was uninitiated to understand Che Guevara.
Frankly,my dear; I had no clue.
Rest in Peace, Muhammad Ali ,Sir.
A part of my childhood and adolescence goes with you.

From Cassius Clay,the champion
to Muhammad Ali,
With the whole world as his nation,
You were an awesome thing to happen to religion.
A  naive thought-One may argue.
But I was small then,
it was a child's view.
                    
My young mind questioned,
how could you float like a butterfly
and how could your punch be
like the sting of a bee?
It was you who made me understand,
what Metaphors do.

You began to move slow.
I saw you shaking too.
Your body suffered,
but you remained unshaken.
More than what it could,
You allowed me to know,
What this 'Shaking Palsy' could not do.

Rest in Peace,
I bid adieu.
It all feels strange,
this world is new.
But the World is not that brave.
Muhammad Ali, Sir,
without you.
Joseph Sinclair Oct 2014
Each year it happens.
The apple tree viewed from my balcony
gives up its fruit
until at last one solitary apple
remains high up,
beyond reach,
riper, redder, more robust
than any of the others
that have fallen or been gathered.

Unmoved by rain,
unshaken by winds.
It is as if
this one remaining fruit
is determined to resist
the onset of winter.

Day after day
I awaken;
raise my bedroom blind,
rub my eyes
and seek it out
amidst the protecting foliage.

At first resistant to my gaze,
it then proudly displays
its presence,
as if to say
“Behold, I still remain,
a testament to the perseverance of Fall.”

Each year I too remain
despite the apple’s everlasting reminder
that I myself am transient
and will one day
be shaken from my bough.

I am reminded of O. Henry’s last leaf
painted by an aged artist
to give support and strength and sustenance
to fading hope of life’s recovery.
Perhaps the apple, too, is but a dab of oil
on canvas.

Indeed, am I myself a product of
an artist’s keen, unfailing eye;
living in some vast
parallel universe
adjacent to and yet unseen
by all those bygone friends,
amidst an orchard of fallen, rotting apples?
Michael R Burch May 2020
Sandy Hook Call to Love
by Michael R. Burch

Our hearts are broken today
for our children's small bodies lie broken;
let us gather them up, as we may,
that the truth of our Love may be spoken;
then, when we have put them away
to nevermore dream, or be woken,
let us think of the living, and pray
for true Love, not some miserable token,
to command us, for strength to obey.

The first line in the poem above came from President Obama’s speech in which he wiped away tears as he discussed the Sandy Hook killings.

###

For a Sandy Hook Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails, when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream while winter scowls
and nights compound dark frosts with snow?
Where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?

###

Sandy Hook Call to Action
by Michael R. Burch

We see their tiny coffins
and our hearts break,
so we ask the NRA―
"Did you make a mistake?"
And we vow to save the next child
for sweet love's sake,
but also to protect ourselves
from enduring such heartache.

###

I dedicate my poems to the victims ― may they rest in peace ― and I urge all Americans to act now, before the next massacre. If we don't, our loved ones will remain continually at risk:

Epitaph for a Sandy Hook Child
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

###

This poem is for mothers who lost children at Sandy Hook, and in other similar tragedies ...

Childless
by Michael R. Burch

How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
Of one fallen star.

###

Shooting Gallery
by Michael R. Burch

If we live by the rule of the gun
what can a small child do,
but run?

###

Sixteen of the students who died at Sandy Hook were six years old; the other four students were seven. I wrote the poem below for another child gunned down by a madman. While we cannot legislate sanity, we can be sane enough to legislate away the "right" of serial killers to purchase assault weapons so easily. We can defend many small victims from such carnage, if "we the people" have the wisdom and the will to defend them.

Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch

a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who was born
on September 11, 2001 and died at the age of nine,
shot to death ...

Child of 9-11, beloved,
I bring this lily, lay it down
here at your feet, and eiderdown,
and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.
I bring this psalm ― I hope you hear it.

Much love I bring ― I lay it down
here by your form, which is not you,
but what you left this shell-shocked world
to help us learn what we must do
to save another child like you.

Child of 9-11, I know
you are not here, but watch, afar
from distant stars, where angels rue
the brutal things some mortals do.
I also watch; I also rue.

And so I make this pledge and vow:
though I may weep, I will not rest
nor will my pen fail heaven's test
till guns and wars and hate are banned
from every shore, from every land.

Child of 9-11, I grieve
your tender life, cut short ... bereaved,
what can I do, but pledge my life
to saving lives like yours? Belief
in your sweet worth has led me here ...

I give my all: my pen, this tear,
this lily and this eiderdown,
and all soft things my heart can bear;
I bear them to your final bier,
and leave them with my promise, here.

###

US or Them?
by Michael R. Burch

The NRA wants money in the till,
thus Adam Lanza had a license to ****.
Our government’s the serial killer’s shill
and will be, unless WE express OUR will
and vote to save our children from Boot Hill.

###

This haiku below makes me think of the students and teachers of Sandy Hook, who were trapped in a war zone:

War
stood at the end of the hall
in the long shadows
―original haiku by Watanabe Hakusen, translation by Michael R. Burch

###

Piercing the Shell
by Michael R. Burch

If we strip away all the accouterments of war,
perhaps we'll discover what the heart is for.

It seems to me that the NRA has declared a war ― an open season ― on our children, by insisting that assault weapons must be available to every Tom, **** and ***** Harry. But what will we, the people, say and do?

###

Something
by Michael R. Burch

Something inescapable is lost―
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.

Something uncapturable is gone―
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.

Something unforgettable is past―
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
and finality has swept into a corner where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.

###

Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this―
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live six artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears ...

###

Here are tribute poems for exceptional children who should be alive today:

Emilie Parker,
the horror grows starker
as we see your sweet image
and cringe at the carnage;
but dear, how you mesmerize
with those vivid blue eyes
and death cannot sever
our hearts from you, ever.

###

Dylan Hockley,
a blue-eyed "gorgeous boy,"
was super beyond
death's power to destroy.

###

Jack Pinto,
who idolized the New York Jets' Victor Cruz,
is now Cruz's hero
and neither can lose.

###

Grace Audrey McDonnell,
our "beautiful, sweet little girl,"
wherever you are now,
there's a far brighter world.

###

Avielle Richman
had a "spirit that drew people in"
(and an infinitely knowing
and cheeky grin!).

###

Noah Pozner,
"extremely bright"―
your mind and your smile
both exuded light.

###

Jessica Rekos,
a "creative, beautiful little girl"
who loved horses,
are you now riding Pegasus
down heaven's courses?

###

Benjamin Wheeler,
"an irrepressibly bright and spirited boy"
had brown, soulful eyes
and a spirit no killer can destroy.

###

Ana Marquez-Greene,
as sweet a child as we've seen,
you "beat us all to paradise."
Was it because you were so very nice?

###

Charlotte Bacon,
our love for you is unshaken;
as you "lit up all rooms" down here
you now illuminate heaven, dear.

###

Daniel Barden, his family's light,
once brightened this earth, and now brightens heaven―
not a bad trick for a boy who's just seven!

###

Olivia Engel,
angel,
your only possible crime (I've been told)
was "being a wiggly, smiley six-year-old!"

###

Allison Wyatt,
so shy, so sweet, so caring,
loved to garden with her mother.
Six pink candles, then an eternity of sharing.

###

Catherine Violet Hubbard
when you were here
the cupboard
of life
was never bare,
but full of light
and your electric hair!

###

Josephine Gay
had just turned seven;
now she will always be
"a lovely part of heaven."

###

Caroline Previdi,
"sweet, precious little angel,"
we fondly remember
your infectious smile.

###

Chase Kowalski, age seven
seems awfully early for heaven;
but since there was never a better child ...
perhaps the angels called, beguiled?

###

Jesse Lewis, so full of life,
you could fill a room with bright laughter;
I'm sure you're entertaining angels now
and brightening the Hereafter!

###

James Mattioli,
exceptional swimmer,
without your bright presence
the world seems much dimmer.

###

Madeleine Hsu,
what we know of you
is so limited, but we love you too.
May your loved ones keep your memory secure
and your memory give them the strength to endure.

###

Here is a memorial poem for the school's lovely, valiant principal who, according to accounts, ran to defend her young charges the minute she heard shots being fired, lunging at the shooter in an attempt to disarm him:

Dawn Hochsprung,
each child's courageous friend―
you defended them all till the unthinkable end;
so let your kindness and valor be sung.

###

Rachel Davino protected her charges
from the killer's barrages;
like her loyal friend,
she was loyal to the end.

###

Anne Marie Murphy,
fun-loving, hard worker;
you defended your charges―
no coward, no shirker.

###

Lauren Gabrielle Rousseau,
who loved to teach, and who loved children so,
we're glad you achieved your dream
that final year, and how lovely you seem!

###

When Mary heard shots being fired, she could have run away to save her own life, but she joined principal Dawn Hochsprung by leaping to her feet and running to protect the students she loved so much.

Mary Sherlach, who courageously ran
without thought for her life to the aid of the children,
taught not just them, but also us,
love's surplus.

###

Everyone loved Miss Victoria Soto;
she was every student's friend.
And when a killer threatened her charges,
she defended them to the end.

Keywords/Tags: Sandy Hook, school, shooting, massacre, students, children, teachers, gun control
Renae Nov 2015
With only four words her whole life changed "you bet your life" he mocked, and she did. She bet her life it would be just the way it was written. So she read the words over and over again. She promised and prayed with dedication. Then she stood back and watched it unfold. Just as it was told it happend and she knew. He was trying to make her doubt but she knew. She was not blinded by uncertainty; she was grounded in belief. Unshaken by fear she knew her life was important, important enough to dedicate. She was important enough to love. Some wanted her to think she wasn't but she knew that wasn't true, after all, she bet her life on it.

— The End —