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Shofi Ahmed Apr 2017
Just a dew drop, let alone the sea,
and a handful of earth, not the Planet Ge.
Not a shade of blue, save the rose for bee
Purely a clear drop didn’t spill in the core,
because the whole sphere feels the pinch.

Singing chorus rains down, bouncing back
to earth the only open-through planet.
No black hole is as deep as the sun jumps,
dives in the dew on every flower they wet.
Every bird in the trees sings and tweets,
yet one is stone quiet, shouldn’t even hiss.
Shh! shh, the sleeping beauty is sleeping!

Cut above the rest, the unique earth
brimming with the infinite finishing line
by design pans out to the transcended pi.
Pure spring, the waterfront by the Moon,
untouched, unspoiled is her swimming pool.

How she goes by, wetting her ****** toe
Only to bubble high up the transcended circle
If only the sun could rise high in that pole,
for the rest of species could sneak a peek.
She’s there with the capstone of the pyramid!

Shots beyond the fixed circle, netting the eyeballs.
The stars, the Moon on the move for pure freedom.
The thrilled earth did come out, smelling of roses
Off the golden cut pi-decimal-abyss digital spring.
With a handful of earth and a drop of water dew
This is a pure mirroring thanks to the original, you!

At the end of the string apt you lovely took her by hand
and she took it in emptying her heart and soul.
Earth is now too thin on stock, she is no more
Just a shadow, a 360-degree hollow flute!
Oh light at the end of the tunnel shine and show
Play in like in the Night of Ascension once more!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Luz Hanaii Jul 2018
In pain and suffering, we feel the lash of correction
At times we don't understand why?
We see others laugh and carry on.
Yet we only see outwardly, what they wish us to see,
but they too have gone,
or will eventually go through the refining fires.
None of us can escape the molding hands.

The more we go through the easier one
-can relate to other's suffering and pain.
Pain educates the spirit if open to change,
conserves us humble and compassionate.

It is such a gift to be able to express your deepest feelings.
This is a special world of poetry with many dear hearts,
it's an oasis that keeps us sane.  To be part of those who have
loving hearts unspoiled by the harshness of the world and those
who dwell in it,  it's truly a blessing from above.

For those of us who are constantly challenged in many ways,
I send you my sincere prayers and love.
May you always be at peace, no matter the storms.
That no illness, person, situation or abuse
-can ever separate us from His loving and saving grace.
K Wolff Aug 2018
Here you are -
frozen in time.
Here i have captured
The warmth of your smile

Lines speak experience,
Framing ageless eyes.
Your infectious radiance
Tells me no lies.

No joy is contained,
No emotion forced.
There is no need for restraint -
No need for remorse.

This moment will survive,
Unspoiled by time and wear.
Even after death arrives,
You'll always be there.
Felt compelled to write something after flicking through the pictures on my phone. I have very few pictures of the important people of my life. I also realised that my favourite pictures were the worst ones.
eleanor prince Sep 2018
(contains references to sensitive issues)

She’s just a babe
he’s only two
of youth refill
they’re broken in

but leave no mark  
so they're unspoiled
for clients booked
it's all arranged

no tracks you'll leave
their brain's not through
not 'til they’re three
so chill out dame

the program works
divert impel
‘'you crazy sh-t
here take this pill’

nobody hears
if told some tales
but they won't talk
their lips are sealed

from dot they’re trained
they’re here for us
don't have to guess
‘you talk, you die!’

so pay the fee
their price is high
and bring this dog
they’ll do it all

and shouldn’t you
take all you're due
you work real hard-
on nectar sup
-
Stop! Not so quick
for veils can lift
and imprints made
don’t ever die

archival facts
reveal themselves
when day arrives
you’ll face the Judge

and when you breach
a petal new
it injures both
and gear stick shifts

you've soiled life's bed
with squalid stains
now own the Sh-t
says mirror man







  


             
From time to time an instance comes to light involving well-organized abuse at an almost unimaginable level.  Children from a very young age are trained to provide all manner of ****** services to meet the demands of deviant and sadistic clients.  Contrary to what people may think, this happens not just in so-called 'third-world countries,' but in more prosperous lands too.  

Even where there is significant corroboration for the veracity of such accounts, survivors can suffer the further indignity of not being believed.  There is some movement and improvement in knowledge but more needs to be acknowledged and understood, not only by colleagues and other professionals providing care, but society at large.  

It all makes one ponder what leads a perpetrator to act this way.  Whilst it helps to understand some act out trauma they themselves received, it is unacceptable behaviour, is still a criminal offence - and it hurts others.   We all have choice to decide ahead what we would do if offered an easy way to cross that line.  Decency requires we resolve to remember who we want to be in essence and retain this reality check:  how would I feel if this was my wife, my child?   Refuse to abuse another.  

Some boundaries simply should never be breached, even if one is promised immunity from repercussions, e.g. told 'the child won't remember – it won’t hurt them.'   Many victims do remember and either way, such incursions rob them of a normal life, something many take for granted.  The truth is they are massively, negatively affected on one level or another, often in multiple ways, at whatever age such incursions take place.  

The reality is that transgressing on another's boundaries on any level not only harms the recipient but also those violating others.  It alters and destroys something in the offender, immediately recognizable or not, and by extension the wider community is affected.  

On looking in the mirror an offender may see at best a deluded half-life.  As my poem concludes, who would want to be meeting that inner witness to their corrupt and heartless behaviour, their real character looking back at them through the 'man* in the mirror...'

*(either gender can offend - some women sexually abuse too.  When a perpetrator takes a good look in the mirror of reality, they may well find themselves  confronted with the enormity of what they have done, and who they have become)
Megan Jones Sep 2015
“Put pressure on it, it needs more pressure”
Holding your wounds shut
That senseless force is what took you away
Pressure- to be... whilst not desiring to be
You saw the clouds moving in greyscale
I saw the hills below scattered in shades of green,
Cavernous, shadowed, cryptic, familiar-

We were advised to go as the crow flies
I cried to a nameless God that your crow’s feet
Were from insurmountable happiness, not the pressures endured
I’ve forgotten much since the storm some-178 weeks ago
Though my body remembers yours over and over again
My skin has yours imprinted, correlated
Forged into one point on the axis between here and there
You the X, I the Y

The Earth crept between the crevices, curling
Through the distance between the Right radius and ulna
Elbows breaking knuckles, blood remains to be spilt
Blood doesn’t connect, if anything it merely separates

Scarecrows don’t help much when the crops won’t grow this year
Ants crawled out of the barrel of a shotgun
Observing the process of cleaning bones after tragedy

Follow the moss to find your way North with no direction-
Sometimes on the other side it’s not greener,
It’s more terrifying than ever before
Terrain untouched, unspoiled, sacred-

Climb up the trees with me, find your quiet
We won’t carve our names but we’ll find our niche
You’ll have quills and I’ll have armor
Not even the thought of stolen arrows,
Lost time through distance,
Or perhaps a slew of chemical imbalances
Can reach us up here
I chose to glue your pieces back together with mud and straw
Taken from the fallen, the loved and now distant memories

You may be an abandoned military base offshore
What was once used by many-
Witnesses life again, life of a different kind
The vegetation will ease its way into the cracks
Constructed when the foundation began to decay
It has a beauty of its own, one of self-sustainment
An everlasting beauty that connects itself
To the surrounding extravagance, often times ignored,
Death isn’t the only way to be forged into nature, remembered

Fear doesn’t always win, nor death do us part so soon
I hope your skin and bones remember before the end
Sarah Clark Jun 16
surprising misdirections
      palliate these
      inadequacies.

floral hearts, echoic,

             right in the
                          unspoiled

                           ­                          middle.
Stephen E Yocum Jun 2017
Gauguin or Michener
horizon lust inspired,
The South Pacific desired.
From early childhood on.
Fiji in the 70’s all alone in
A Personal journey of self
and world discovery.

From the big island of
Viti Levu, embarked
By native small boat, fifty
miles out to the Yasawa group.
Reaching tiny Yanggeta, with 300
souls living close to the bone,
No Running water, or electric spark
glowing. Bright stars shine at night
no city lights showing.

Unspoiled Melanesian Island people
Meagerly surviving only on the sea
and a thousand plus years of tradition.

I welcomed like a friend of long
standing, with smiling faces and
open sprits. Once eaters of other
humans beings, converted now to
Methodist believers.

Their Island beautiful beyond belief,
Azure pristine seas in every direction,
Coral reefs abounding with aquatic life.
Paradise found and deeply appreciated.
I swam and fished, played with the kids
and laid about in my hammock, enjoying
weeks of splendor alongside people
I came to revere, they generous and loving
at peace with themselves and nature,
Embracing a stranger like a family member.

My small transistor radio predicted a big
Storm brewing, of Hurricane proportions.
My thoughts turned to Tidal Waves  
coming. The village and all those people
living a few feet above sea level.
I tried to express my concerns to
My host family and others, getting
but smiles and shrugs in return,
Spoken communication almost
Nonexistent, me no Fijian spoken,
Them, little English understood or said.

It started with rain and strong winds,
Worsening building by the minute.
The villagers’ merely tightening down the
Hatches of their stick and thatch houses.
Content it seemed to ride out the storm,
As I assumed they always did.

Shouldering my heavy backpack
I hugged my friends and headed
For high ground, the ridgebacks
Of low mountains, the backbones
Of the Island. Feeling guilty leaving
them to their fate from high water,
Perplexed, them ignoring my warnings.

In half an hour the winds strong enough
to take me off my feet, blowing even from
the other side of the Island.
On a ridge edge I hunkered down,
Pulling a rubber poncho over my head,
Laying in watershed running inches
Deep, cold rain cascading down the
slopes to the sea below.

The wind grew to astounding ferocity,
Later gusts reported approaching
180 miles per hour. Pushed me along
the ground closer to the cliffs edge
of a 90 foot plunge to the sea below.
Holding on in the mud with fingers
and toes.

For three hours it raged, trees blowing
off the summit above, disappearing into
the clouds and stormy wet mist beyond.

A false calm came calling, unknown to me
the eye of the Hurricane hovering over the
Island, as I picked my drenched self up
and returned over blown down trees and
scattered debris to the Village of my hosts.

Most wooden structures were gone or caved in,
The few Island boats broken and thrown
up onto the Land. Remarkably many of the
Small one room “Bure” thatched huts still stood.
The high waves had not come as I feared.
Badly damaged, yet the village endured,
As did most of the people, some broken bones
But, thankfully, remarkable no worse.

Back with my host family, in their Bure,
new preparations ensued, the big winds I was
informed would now return from the opposite
direction, and would be even worse.

For another four hours the little grass and stick
House shook, nearly rising from the ground,
Held together only by hope and ropes laid
Onto roof beams held down by our bare hands
and some good workmanship two years prior.
Faith and old world knowledge a wonderful thing.

Three days past the storm and no one came to
check on the Island, alone the people worked to
save their planted gardens from the now salt water
contaminated ground, cleaned up debris and
set to mending their grass homes. The only fresh
Water well still unpolluted was very busily used.

With a stoic resolve, from these self-reliant people,
life seemed to go on, this not the first wind blown
disaster they had endured, hurricanes I learned
came every year, though this one, named “Bebe”
worst in the memories of the old men of the island.

On the fourth day a young boy came running,
Having spotted and hailed a Motor yacht,
which dropped anchor in the lagoon on the
opposite side of the Island.

I swam out to the boat and was welcomed
aboard by the Australian skipper and crew.
Shared a cold Coke, ham sandwich and tales
Of our respective adventures of surviving.
They agreed to carry me back to the Big Island.

A crewman returned me ashore in a dingy.
I crossed the island and retrieved my things,
Bidding and hugging my friends in farewell.
I asked permission to write a story about the
storm and the village, the elders' smiles agreed,
they had nothing to loose, seemed pleased.

One last time I traversed the island and stepped
Into the yachts small rowboat, my back to
the island. Hearing a commotions I turned
seeing many people gathering along the
shore line of the beach. I climbed out and
Went among them, hugging most in farewell,
some and me too with tears in our eyes,
Fondness, respect reflected, shared, received.

As the skiff rowed away  halfway to the ship,
the Aussie mate made a motion with his eyes
and chin, back towards the beach.

Turning around in my seat I saw there
most of the island population, gathered,
Many held aloft small pieces of colored cloth,
Tiny flags of farewell waving in the breeze
They were singing, chanting a island song,
Slow, like a lament of sorts.

Overwhelmed, I stood and faced the shore,
opened wide my arms, as to embrace them all.
As tears of emotions unashamedly ran down my face.
Seeing the people on the beach, the Aussie crewman
intoned, “****** marvelous that. Good on 'ya mate.”

Yes, I remember Fiji and Bebe and most of all
I fondly remember my Island brothers and sisters.

                                    End
Two years later I returned to that island, lovingly
received like a retuning son, feasted and drank
Kava with the Chief and Elders most of the night,
A pepper plant root concoction that intoxicates
And makes you sleep most all the next day.

My newspaper story picked up by other papers
Galvanizing an outpouring of thoughtful support,
A Sacramento Methodist Church collected clothes,
money and donations of pots and pans and Gas
lanterns along with fishing gear and other useful things.
All packed in and flown by a C-130 Hercules Cargo plane
out of McClellan Air Force Base, U.S.A and down to Fiji,
earmarked for the Island of Yanggeta and my friends.

On my return there was an abundance of cut off
Levies and Mickey Mouse T-Shirts, and both a
brand New Schoolhouse and Church built by
U.S. and New Zealand Peace Corps workers.

This island of old world people were some of the best
People I have ever known. I cherish their memory and
My time spent in their generous and convivial company.
Life is truly a teacher if we but seek out the lessons.
This memory may be too long for HP reading, was
writ mostly for me and my kids, a recall that needed
to be inscribed. Meeting people out in the world, on
common ground is a sure cure for ignorance and
intolerance.
Kurt Philip Behm Aug 2018
The greatest of men
  he bled the truth,
  his wounds for all to share

A symbol relived
  a life unspoiled,
  courage all too rare

The towering hawk
  the thundering storm,
  hailstones mark the way

A moment in time
  a vision embraced
   —his name the children pray

(Plane From Detroit: August 21, 2018)
There was a boy
Who had a girl
And in the grapevine,
Hanging by a pearl
There laid a boy
Stripped free and mild
Four laces entwined
And eyes beguiled

He bicycled
Down from the hill
Grasping a gun
And a feathered quill
He spoke in books
And ailing shouts
‘Neath the moon, he shook
And began to sprout

He said,  “Hush you want me badly, I know
But my lone beliefs are bonafide
You found a love a long time ago”
As he turned, the lover cried,

“I dreamt your call
Dressed in a shawl
I’d lie on your head
In a deathly bed
From dust to rust,
I want the boy
In this I trust,
I’ll love the boy”

He struck a pose
Fits in a frame
He ate a rose
Five hearts he maimed
They pranced around
Their stolen tags
And gave their pounds
For fiery drags

On squandered soil
They lift their roots
Their hands unspoiled
And aim acute
“I want you so
You know me well
But love is sold
'Neath hollow bells”

He said “Hush, you want me badly, I know
But why can’t I call you by your name?”
“This is nothing if you only show
Your incumbent shame”

"I want your call
I’ll wear your shawl
I’ll kiss your head
And lull you to bed”
“From dust to rust
I want the boy
In this I trust
I’ll love the boy”

He said, “Hush, you knew me when? I think not”
As he tended to his burning leaf
“Life is sweet, but it too will rot
I won’t be deceived”

“I want the boy
Give me the boy
Don’t be so coy
I want you, boy
I’ll love the boy
I want the boy
There was a boy
Who gave me joy”
Chris Saitta Aug 31
A pine forest is the hand,
The soul of the palm fans out in fingers
Like the clayey striations of the sun.
The forest has no sound but the bonebreast
Wandering round of a similar hand,
All but shut now except for the unspoiled nest
Of browning needles and the ancient realmless mound of love.

— The End —