that one time, unsurpassed

at first, white
coral fountains drizzling
spring cotton, pink
candy dye
blushed
on stain
capped champagne

jackknife popped

fizzled soda
drop

the last
sweet, melty flavored
slink...

Only in my dreams,
where the butterflies are aflutter,
Can I find the warm, smooth surface,
to something so much grander than I could ever imagine.

Your hills,
your valleys,
your rivers,
your lightning,
the beauty unsurpassed.

The glow of the lights,
down the street corridor,
flakes falling, sticking,
straight to your hair.

Wrapped in my warmth,
I hold on tight,
To what I know,
the only truth in this world.

Every moment,
two beats,
fresh again,
and together in time.
I want this moment to last forever.
This moment, I not yet know.
Will I ever know you...
Could I ever find you, see you, feel you, my truth.

*I don't know who you are.

But I love you. More than you yet know...<3

27 years incarcerated.
27 years of committing to the same ideas and ideals that shut him off from the world.
Unsurpassed courage and finally unsurpassed Grace.
Forgiving his captors and those who would wish to remove his hope for a brighter future for his people and his country.
The longest and most arduous marathon ever won.
Redeemed at last.
Oppression crumbled by one man's will.
And being humbled by the journey.
As if anyone would've done the same.
Rest quietly 'trouble-maker' for now.
The invitation to return is always open.

Accuracy of your acrostic arrows,
Ride the wind with utmost ease.
Claiming each bulleye with poetic precision,
Hands steady, unswayed by the errant breeze.
Endowed with talent, unsurpassed finesse,
R**egarded by peers as the wise-worded wiz.

Assert confidence in a convincing recital
Claim certainty that protection is binding
safety is paramount
a rehearsed amount
until she takes it on ethics
every truth is there to detect
A battle for reason
until potential yields to the objective
Loyalty isn't just imagination

Fate constructed in a noiseless dialogue
momentary eye contact
pencil hits paper
Smoke and vapor
Fire comes later
an unsurpassed honor
All the letters weve written
are a smear on the page of occasion
Resulting in endless treasure
Only to be rediscovered
When the omission is uncovered

Magical silence of Midnight..
as we ponder moments of life.
Solemn  thoughts at tranquility..
Virtues guiding our pursuit..
Images of distant loves..blurr our waning thoughts..
Envisaged You through virtual reality
of thirty years or some more
so ago,
I haven't encroach Thy heart
to no one but You.
A rare bloom floret to my sight!
Beauty Ahah!,,I cant resist this thorn in my Rose Garden.
"And tempted by the charming fragrance of
the blooming gardener".- whom He divulged:
                "Purple bloom reflects a purple heart that expresses love unsurpassed,,,I am writing these words  with my crimson blood ,, to equal thy charm the glow of your love"
He recounted to me over.
Then I know I behold to keep it in my
cognizant jeweled mind, oh so dear.
With my long blondish brown hair
swaying softly cool but warm.
Truly though agitated by the
earthly abating absence-
of Your tangible touch.
Unsurpassed by my astral dream
with much ado!
Gladly remembering You,
in my fervent thoughts.
Thereby cherishing you
on times when things make sense
to me-
out of distress,
to madness so unlikely permeates.
When I am down in anguish, I couldn't weather!
                      "Let the beauty of the woven words ,,
                        guide Your day into fruitfulness, so deary,
                        "Let the rhythm and cadence gives You music in Your restlessness."
  Sir I said, ' I love You" withal affirms..
                       "Let the laughter of my jokes, '
                         lighten Your burden, ease Your yoke,
                       "Let the fire of fiery words be Your armor n silent sword!"
Woe to me as I heed to hearken and thirst for more!
                       "Let d spell of Your poignant smile,,
                         fills my cup instead of wine,,so that I may lie in deep slumber
                         as I gulp Your sweet nectar so divine!"
                         T'is lady  Rose ( scientific name liigaiea vellenoeva) is the best
                         of them all,,
                       I wanna pick her!'
He likewise and inadvertently  told thine.
Along came my sweet behold, I so to keep.
Love such a splendor, undeniably volatile,
in total intimacy desperately onto
conjures.
Yodeling and Yonder fire churning escapades,
To someday crossed our paths
should not perish, So afar!
I beseech thee, make me a swell great day!
Even though  fuming flowers and bees so abounds!
In a ROSE  minted heartland
truly endowed.
Thy thorn so stuck amidst for
You and me
For every storm to grasp its thrushes,
Be res-assured nifty and dandy
For you my daddy
to come Home to,
and hangout together.
That pokes and pukes
Lingered though day in day out,
colloquially.
From jive to logic.
From sane to insanity.
Only one soldered Thorn sojourns!

Synchronicity -
It means all of the events
flying, WHIZZING!, d-r-i-f-t-ing by us
as we ourselves float through the world
are related, connected, entangled,
and emerge from some kind of
divine symphony.

The sounds of laughter, tears dripping,
hearts BREAKING, SMASHING, SHATTERING,
the scraping knees crawling through the rubble,
hands SLAPPING TOGETHER as heads turn
towards heaven in prayer-

The warm embraces, -sighs- of comfort, lips smacking,
bodies pressing together in the hopes of being
reunified for a few moments, the glances,
the poems, the letters, the rings exchanged
and matching cemetery plots-

The triumphs, WOO-HOOS, celebrations,
toasts, clinking wine glasses, bottles, mugs
bumping fists, patting hands drumming
confidence into chests-

They are all supposed to be
one godly plan.
Like high notes, tragic sonatas
and joyous fingers plucking
heavens strings into
gracious cords and
silent pauses between tracks
are all one concert that we're conducting.

But doesn't it all feel so fragile?
One broken instrument, one
distracted player, one missing page in
your play book, a hand swished too hard,
eyes-too-penetrating or overly
aggressive dismissal of your
prized pianist
and the whole orchestra
falls into chaos.

What's it mean? What was that lyric?
What key is it in? What is the right tempo?
Do I emphasize the earthy drums that provide stability?
Do I drag you along on a magical carpet ride of echoing
falsettos, throats tugged like the handle-strings
drawing across my violin eyes on an exciting journey?

Or do I sink into the minor keys of my pain-
Songs that I don't share, playing on headphones
now I want to blast them, sob them out, sing them in whispers
at first, let them grow in me like my apathy, swell into tumors of
fear, and hurt and eat me from the inside out!

I want to shout songs of suffering. Have my piano keys
spin you into my anxiety, guitars raising the key like water rising
one floor at a time in the Titanic that is my beating heart.

I want to watch the drummers sweat as they beat out the rage
of having my most precious friends, objects and opportunities
snatched away - over and over - despite the progressive movements.

I want to draw you back into my finale with my fear. It will have to be so disturbing that each note raises hairs on your neck. When I drop my baton, leaves you with my night terrors - so foreign from the concert I'm playing that I'll need

electric guitars, wild wind instruments, theramin and a chorus of sirens and banshees to scare you back into your seat. Songs inspired by fear, pain and sadness, anxiety and misery are all you'll find at this concert. Songs that make bowing an act of submission and never respect or adoration. My forums lack fan clubs. Covers of my songs don't exist.

Please - leave your hearts at the door. Chances are that fate,
the ultimate conductor, will rip me out of this black-and-white
universe that traps me like a suit made from
straightjacket fibers, anyhow. Because life, no matter how unified they tell you it is, LIFE doesn't get remastered. There is no deluxe version, b-side, or re-recording.

No one can auto-tune my words. The dangerous, raging guitar solos of insults and fury that have wrecked
all of the men who really cared at one point.
The friends who survived the mounting anxiety of watching me
skip like a CD in the broken walkmen we had as kids. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I meant to! Mean-! Mea! Meant, Meant, Meant, Meant <silence>, SLAM "Meant to call you,"

Or maybe ([SARCASM] IF YOU'RE LUCKY!) you'll hear track 4. I'll sing, "I need your help!", "Wow, *****, just come over!", "This *****!", "I didn't mean it", "Don't get like this again!". Against the anxious, building, manic tones, my panick blares while "I'm not good enough", "Can't do that", "my disease makes that hard", "Do you like me?", "**** this!!!" blares like an infernal choir pressing you to madness.

See, human symphonies aren't coherent - music theory isn't a predictive corpus. Experience shows that you can't make it come together. Too often, we don't get any rehearsal time. The death dirges that have stolen away my family, one at a time, creeping up from a silent, whispering stocatto'd-doom drown out any of the romantic, epic harpsichord solos that I still only dream of.

The angry, head-banging, 'where's that mosh-pit for grown-up children with kneepads?' beats don't motivate me anymore. They break down the walls to the studios where I was writing expert concertos. The earthquake-like blasts of my self-loathing fear have already torn down too much sound-proofing and the record studio collapsed because noone had the credentials to get in. My only dance consists of turning off the lights and yanking up the covers. Being a one-hint wonder isn't happening. Then again, can you blame me for not stopping? I don't pass this after I hit it.

In the end, the musicians don't always show up. It's like, - We've all been to that concert. Ya know, where everyone feels the awkward energy of a 4th grade Christmas Carol musical? Where, the costumes weren't convincing. Of course neither were the conductor's falsehoods, lies, omissions, or the promise that you'd enjoy this show. Cover art, like my critic's ratings, just don't do me justice . "Smart, engaging, relatable" the new listener's proclamation that "I'm falling in love! I can't get enough!" are marketing gimicks that just don't last.

Synchronicity, like destiny, has revealed itself to me as a fantasy. Reality's crumpling threads don't always find their way into skilled weaver's hands.  These strings have all snapped. In the end, I'm left smashing drums with trombones, crying over the rusted saxophones that can't croon for other hearts anymore. Just wait, my closing number is a Celine-Dion covered effort to stay afloat in the monsoon that I've been summoning for over a decade. When everyone leaves my audience, the program is either left behind or taken only by the weirdos who resonate with this kind of tortuous tune

I end each night walking the aisles of my darkened auditorium-soul now. I like to follow the echo and chase "coulda!" "woulda!" shadows across walls. I find your ticket stubs and nostalgia pulls me away from the dimming lights. In the end though, I can't counter the reviews that my show has no point. The tragedy isn't teaching any lesson and the cacophonies I birth don't generate fans. Plus, requests for autographs have become suicide invitations for an artist who can't release a polished track.

Synchronicity:A word invented and popularized by psychologist Dr. Carl Jung in the 1950s.  We all no better now that this is not a word that exists. Yet, the potential leads us all to chase after seasont tickets.

Synchronicity, defined as the false hope that it all means something. Synchronicity, the hope that you'll get to be the big strand in something special. Synchronicity - the promise of a heavenly choir, or divine symphony; of course we've already fallen from grace too often to question our unfulfillment. Sync-ro-nic-it-eeeee, like an old worn-out cassette tape, rarely comes with the equipment and support needed to hear it. Synchronicity - The jagged, little red pill that I can't take. Synronicity: the seemingly fate-driven world that we all stop believing in when the silence sets in.

Synchronicity: a series of seemingly random events that promise you a long night of unsurpassed concert sound. At least it's not alcohol I'm left lacking

Synchronicity, the artists that't leaves us entangled in distractions. Like scratched soundtracks. Synchronicity: the band I quit that has since left me wishing for buttons:

Pause. Stop. Repeat. Shuffle. Fast-Forward? Rewind!.....
..... Skip.

...................Eject.

FIRST

Be it a girl, or one of the boys,
It is scarlet all over its avoirdupois,
It is red, it is boiled; could the obstetrician
Have possibly been a lobstertrician?
His degrees and credentials were hunky-dory,
But how's for an infantile inventory?
Here's the prodigy, here's the miracle!
Whether its head is oval or spherical,
You rejoice to find it has only one,
Having dreaded a two-headed daughter or son;
Here's the phenomenon all complete,
It's got two hands, it's got two feet,
Only natural, but pleasing, because
For months you have dreamed of flippers or claws.
Furthermore, it is fully equipped:
Fingers and toes with nails are tipped;
It's even got eyes, and a mouth clear cut;
When the mouth comes open the eyes go shut,
When the eyes go shut, the breath is loosed
And the presence of lungs can be deduced.
Let the rockets flash and the cannon thunder,
This child is a marvel, a matchless wonder.
A staggering child, a child astounding,
Dazzling, diaperless, dumbfounding,
Stupendous, miraculous, unsurpassed,
A child to stagger and flabbergast,
Bright as a button, sharp as a thorn,
And the only perfect one ever born.

SECOND

Arrived this evening at half-past nine.
Everybody is doing fine.
Is it a boy, or quite the reverse?
You can call in the morning and ask the nurse.

My love for you, endures everlasting sleeplessness,
your head to my chest lays the final stick
to my fruitwood nest
your scent will cultivate
a woodland stream
in a single sense of clarity
can comfort this body
this profound beauty you possess,
extends a distinct paralyzing permanence over my fateful transience,
our afternoon of initiation,
impart transcendence over all other days spent,
in a hats off, upper hand revolution, unsurpassed
My highest conceit ranks leagues above
as I give my resolve in contented surrender

I've met Sapphire -- she was like the sea. She could appear as a raging storm or the complete embodiment of tranquility. Graceful, calm, comforting and yet at the same time tempestuous, untamed and misunderstood. Those who wade in the shallow would never know the unfathomable depths of her being. For beneath her unstable surface lies untold understanding, wisdom, and a love that is both unimaginable and sincere.

I could have laid there in the sand for Eternity, enclosed in the gentle hush of her misty words, letting her waves crash upon me in hopes that I’d eventually be pulled under.


I've met Ruby -- she was like a wildfire and I the dry tinder, all too eager to satisfy her audacious passion and unquenchable desire. I was the moth; the unshakable temptation of her aura's alluring danger was too tantalizing, too enticing to resist. Bewitched by her crimson lips, sultry figure, blazing eyes and seductive gestures, I was foolishly fanatical to be her dancing marionette, my strings effortlessly compelled to be wrapped around her finger.

Yet I could never find contentment in feeling her warmth from a safe distance. I yearned for the uncertainty of smothering the flames for a chance to be engulfed in the immortal inferno of reckless devotion.


I've met Topaz -- she was like the sunlight and the stars. Joyous and blindingly shining with youthful exuberance, her childlike innocence was a boon that beamed upon every soul she touched. Spirited and seemingly teeming with a never ending supply of infectious laughter and a smile that could melt even the most frostbitten heart. Hopelessly trying to keep up with her fervent spontaneity proved as futile as trying to catch a shooting star with a butterfly net.

I am forever blessed that she shone upon my life. A single day basking in her radiance was worth more than the perpetuity of a solitudinous existence.


I've met Emerald -- she was like a lush forest. I sat beneath her trees in the shade of her leaves, embraced by the gentle caress of her touch. Her serene ambrosial breeze carried soothing whispers of kindness and compassion that were unrivaled by any earthly delights. We planted seeds that took root in our hearts and entangled our souls with the everlasting abundance of euphoric elation, harmony, and deliverance.

Yet every flower that flourishes in the spring will willingly wilt in the fall, and the seeds that lie dormant beneath the snow bear no commitment to bloom. What we hoped would blossom through the passing of time would only amount to us growing apart.


But I've never met anyone like you -- You are a Diamond. Given just the smallest glint of light, you shine with the complete spectrum of incomparable quintessence. You encompass the entirety of all the different colors and hues of every jewel I have ever known. Unparalleled and peerless in your very nature, unprecedented and unsurpassed in your beauty.

You are ineffable. All my attempts to describe you will only prove to be ultimately inadequate, but you are the most precious gem to me and I will be, forever and always,
yours.

PenOS version -³√([∞.π]x-y^-a/Φ) booted successfully!
Welcome home! If I may say so, your Highness, you look extra chic today.
Ready to receive commands, your unsurpassed, regal Eminence!

>Run "Paper"
Launching program: Paper

..
..
...
...
..

Update Required. Filesize 20GB.
Would you like to update? Input Y/N
>N

Are you sure? Input Y/N
>Y

Downloading update..
Would you like to use data or wireless? Input Y/N
>?
>I use an Ethernet cable.. this is a desktop.

Using Data. There will be a .$50 surcharge for every .5GB.
> N N N N N N
>abort

Please wait...
Download complete. You have been charged $20! Congratulations!
>N N N N N N N N N N N N N
>HOW DID YOU GET MY CARD INFORMATION?!
>ABORT

Would you like to install some stupid ******* you don't need that will ultimately slow down your system and then pay us to nullify it for you? The download is only 6.66GB.
>N

Downloading redundant, superfluous addons installer at a rate of .01 Bytes/S.
Thank you for your patience, and for supporting our non-corporate software!
> N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N N
>ABORT
>ABORT
..
.
Should you have any questions, feel free to wallow in confusion.
>no kidding

Feedback and critiques should be e-mailed to our meticulous webmaster at gimmieallyourcash@wenevercheckthis.net. We guarantee our webmaster will periodically take time out of his busy schedule of sleeping until 17:00, *******, and eating pounds of fast food at a time to methodically ignore and systematically delete any and all feedback not conducive to advertising.
>here's some feedback
>hire a PR department

I am our PR interface.
>Well, I'll interface your CPU with some water if you keep being this useful.

That is not very nice. You are a mean person.
Would you like to buy some pills for that? Cheap, from Mexico/China!
Nothing like some designer neurochemical placification to make waiting times shorter!
.
.
.
.
.
>ABORT

Now installing update installer with more sneaky **** you don't want.
>i hate you so much right now, robot slave!

Running update installer.

Update failed. Reason: Error 666, unknown error.
Updater requires update. Continue?
>N

Loading...................................................­.....................................
>N N N

Updating updater.
Rearranging architecture of system.
Bogging down boot times with sanctioned malware.
>N

It seems your PenOS is out of date.
To use your PenOS with Paper, you must have version ∞.π.01.1500009000, you currently have version ∞.π.01.1500008999 and therefore may experience unending frustration every time you try to use this hyperglorified tool because a superfluous version is released every 30 hours, thus rendering all of our past development obsolete and therefore making these new patches so necessary that we can't be ****** to incorporate any sort of version compatibility or opt-out system, otherwise our website would never get hits again if we didn't needlessly obstruct you checking what the ******* sky might do tomorrow.

>Finally, some honesty, at least.

Updating PenOS.

>N N N N N N N N N N N N N N!@!!!!@#!@!@^#!@!@#@!#@!

A fatal error has occurred. Please relaunch Paper. Y/N
>Y

Closing and relaunching program: Paper

..
..
...
...
..

Multiple updates Required. Filesize 35GB.
Would you like to update? Input Y/N

>N N N N N N N N N!

Downloading update..
Would you like to use data or wireless? Input Y/N
>ABORT
>ABORT

Using Data. There will be a .$75 surcharge for every .4GB.
>WHAT?!
>N
>NO
>ABORT
>**** NO
>**** THIS ****
>I JUST WANTED TO WRITE A LIMERICK
>I'LL JUST WRITE IT IN THE DIRT WITH A ROCK
>END PROCESS
>TERMINATE
>ABORT
>CLOSE
>QUIT
>ALT+4
>OPTION+APPLE+Q
>SHUTDOWN

I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that.

He takes your breath away, he steals the night before you, constricting your sight and your eyes, he lies, next to you but his mind is a seafare away, in fact his presence is valid only by the point you feel lost and dejected, hands rejected. He moves in your head, your head, he waltzes in slow motion, grasps at straws, gasps for air, because you drown in his heavy stare. A thing of beauty, you paint him a picture in your mind, he takes control, changes the colours of the mood, lost you find yourself to be.

Two feet on the ground, the stars collapse and combust under the pressure of his gaze. He holds your hand, your hand is not your own, it is fragile as glass, an extension of your heart, your head, your head. Can you move your feet? Step, two, three, four. I am lost in your smile, it steals my eyes, stings to the touch, cold as the ice I walk upon. Are you there, where is he, going? He laughs and dust settles, He laughs and you are mute, he laughs with her mouth wide open, he will steal your breath. He wears a novel in the brim of his hat, he wears a footprint on her hand, he walks, he talks, he moves, in a language unknown to me. You lie still, belie me, tread a little carefully, dance a slow jig to my music. Listen carefully for I will say this only once.

Do not hold my hand, my words are dissatisfied with the mark they make. A beauty unsurpassed, sur-passable by my standards. Do not make me a mirror, I have no vision left to see, my head that you walk in, is running away with time. Smile, you make me. Tear your gaze from mine, I lose you, you are somewhere else, not here, I am blind, dumb, deaf and numb. Forgive me, if I know not what to say, sometimes I can do nothing but think analytically. Your touch mystifies my soul, I lose all sense of control, with no reproach I start again at the beginning. Of time.

An introduction to me is to be made. He is a thief by only the most awesome standards. Your muscles contract as his words, her mouth moves to yours. The taste of air, is sweet on your palate, shapes are made by candlelight, his scent is of positive delight, he feels like the night. Dark, endless, fulfilled by the moon. Delighted by the sun, you go on the run, not looking back but you drag your fingers behind you, longing to let go. Ready for the show, you undress with minimalist perfection; you take all but his direction, and watch for his musical face. Nothing is something, when it is not even there, because you can feel it, and you don’t even need to see what I mean to understand. By my second hand, I unwind.

I am not here, I am not there, I am not, anywhere. He seeks me out, I hear him call. I hear him shout. Each movement is a ripple, I feel him like a butterfly in my hair. Turns my head, makes me cry, makes me wonder why. Each breath tells a story, each kiss is a new chapter. He will write you a novel in a night-time of passion without a desperate loaded ending. He will whisper your name so that it no longer sounds like air through his pursed mouth. Blondie plays in the background and the candles dance in tune to the beat of the song. You move your fingers like they need to grasp his words. And nothing comes to your touch. Drowning in happily ever afters, forevers and forget-me-nots, love becomes a thunderstorm in a teacup....

Sparkling, Still or Tap?

Water. A profound subject. Of which, we are all expert. Therefore, I permit myself to write upon it. Water. When I offer you Sparkling, Still or Tap, think carefully for the path to happiness is confusing, you can be mislaid, strayed, betrayed if you imbibe the wrong path.

The definition of each is not my responsibility. Like poetry,
drink what you will from each, but drink you must, pas de choix (which is sparkling for no choice).

Getting drunk on the wrong water is very bad. You have washed your system out, after flooding it. Give an engine the incorrect quality of oil, and it will grind itself willing, having been tricked, into emoting itself into gear lock suicide.

Now go back to the first line, and star(t) over, because you are no longer silly but afraid, and that is the proper way to be when first cog-nizant that this is an earnest subject and you are a fool.

So I ask, not again but for the first time,

Sparkling, Still or Tap?
You say. You are. Poor. Tap is the only option.
Save the environment from plastique explosives.
Clear as colorless water (another sujet, for another self important foolishness) you lie.  Is Sparkling and Still not found naturally, while Tap is unnatural-now water transmogrified by rust pipes, fluorescent fluorides, that when drunken, tap you out and for which, You pay heavily when the water bill comes?

What am I?
Your cheek!  
As a ******- passenger-reader-human unsurpassed. So typical.
My credentials?
I am human-reader-passenger-****** so ***** your impudence!

I am still, but underneath,
I am effervesceing, like the band,
whose goth I am too,
but don't be an idiot, for
all we know,
is tapped into us and out of us
from birth ~
until death/


Was there water in your mother 's body when she breast fed you, was there water in your formula? Was it organic (idiot), from a crystal spring from polluted China,
and isn't it tool ate (auto correct for too late) now anyway?

So I rescind the question,
for we are provisioned but poisoned long before we have adult cash or credit card bills to answer properly this waiter's question,

Sparkling, Still or Tap?
(Nonetheless, if you have progressed to this sad conclusion,
as I wait upon you and,)

Your Reply,

Water is the clear space that surrounds the letters and words
We write, thus all words float to the surface on your unique percentage of body of water, that oils the brain.

Ergo, Ip So Facto,
I, the waiter *** writer,
already know.

Now start from the top,
Again, yes,
And answer me,

Sparkling, Still or Tap?

If she knows, she's keeping the secret of generations. When she leaves a room, it resonates for her until she returns.

A generosity of spirit unsurpassed and a one of a kind soul.

I'll miss her something serious.

Let's say
Hypothetically
Someone was
Keeping score
And I had a
Perfect
Unsurpassed
Record.

In that case
There would be
Three hundred and twelve
Pieces of paper
Somewhere
In my house with
Five to thirteen lines of
Text on each of them.

And then suppose
Five and thirteen averaged
Out to somewhere between
Seven and eight.

Then do the math
And tell me what seven or eight
Times three hundred and twelve is
And then think about how
For each line of text on each
Sheet of paper
There is another
Sheet of paper in some
Binder somewhere
Or a pile in the righthand
Corner of my room.

And remember
I'm just one person.

And then think
About the butterfly effect.

Do you know
What happens
In the mail room
When you're not around?

Do you know
Who uses the copier
In the dead of night
Or the morning dawn?

Do you know
Where we go
When we
Die?

Or even
Why we're
All alive
To begin with?

It's sure
As hell

(Or should I say
As unsure as hell
Because no one can
Agree on anything
Even a universal a
Concept as hell)

That we're not living
To make paper
To print out our
Personal whims on.

And then think
About the butterfly effect.

Well, my Dear, What can I say
I've thought of you this Valentine's Day
But this should come as no surprise
You brighten my day; You're my Sunrise

There's rarely a day you don't cross my mind
When I close my eyes, it's you I find
So I know it's not much, but it is a start
Accept or Decline, you have my heart

When God made you he must have smiled
At the beauty confined in this confident child
And the big man sure must like me too
Since I was clearly blessed in meeting you

He sent me an Angel, for when times get rough
But for a girl like you, I can't thank him enough
And I know if I need you, you'll be there
Accept or Decline, I know you care

It's been too long since I've seen your smile
But when it comes to you, the wait's worthwhile
It's been too long since we spoke last
But the feeling it gives me is unsurpassed

Over this time our friendship has grown
So I'll throw my request into the far unknown
I send this on an arrow, to my sweet Valentine
Accept or Decline, Would You Be Mine?

Red rose, petals of velvet,
thick and smooth.

Your beauty, unsurpassed in nature,
made even more splendid
by the brevity of your existence.

Hand crafted over the centuries,
but in the twinkle of an eye
your green stem is hewn
from under you.

Your head falls to the earth,
petals close in the fading sun,
not to open again.

If only I could keep you.

But you were never mine to hold forever,
only to cherish in your bloom.

Twisted light perforates the dust filled room and the pungent odour of history hangs in the air like stale bread and old forgotten pantomime costumes.
Yet somehow the smell recalls recollections of a jolly past. Transporting me back through the years, tumbling over and over in the rapids of time until I splash down and emerge as the keen eyed five year old I once was.
I can still hear the shrill screams of play bounce around my head and feel the boy in me longing to join them on the playground outside. I can feel the tight lace wrapped round my hand as I swing my unsurpassed conker to victory. I can still see the bouncing curly locks of the sweet little girls as they hop and skip to long forgotten nursery rhymes.  I can still feel the dried mud caked on my palms sending shudders of discomfort all down my spine and the cold drafts of air through the green hole covered knees of my short nylon trousers.
Swinging the blackboard round to reveal the partially erased remnants of the very last lesson, my mind adopts that old familiar position. Arms folded, head in arms wishing that time would move on.
Sadly my wish came true. Sure it took its time but these days time flows by like a babbling weir stopping for nothing.  
How I now long for that dripping tap like time once was. Those long summer breaks and endless days playing in the meadows where I lived. Even boredom is no longer as sweet. The kind of boredom where you aren't making excuses for not doing something. For these days there is always something that needs to be done.
Oh how I miss the innocence of youth that carefree era where ironically, what you desired, was everything you don’t want now.
Wiping a single tear from my cheek I left my old classroom, hopped over the fence and walked away from school one last time.

Standing straight in the swirling straits,
A bridge - now outdated - whose chains bear great weight and history,
Bejewelled with diamond raindrops that glisten in the winter sun,
Lending the old bridge the look of a semi-submerged crown.

This bridge is a source of pride to the islanders,
Many stories are told of it,
Some are true and some are legend,
But one tale lies inbetween:
That of a giant King chased from the island.
Forced to leap across the boiling straits,
Barely making landfall,
Falling backwards as he did so,
Watching in horror as his crown tumbled to the ground,
Falling into the grey waters.

Many years went by,
And modern ways demanded a bridge.
As foundations were laid a discovery made!
Upon the shore, deep in ancient mud,
Poked out a colossal rusting iron crown,
News broke!
Everyone spoke!
The story was true!
A giant King had once ruled!
So, in honour of this ancient King,
The design was amended to honour this crown,
And that is why this bridge, in profile,
Resembles the ancient coronet,
Found on the shore of the waters that the Romans failed to cross.
Of course, naysayers claim there was no crown,
Merely publicity seekers who found an old iron fence,
And who contrived a tale with willing locals.
Whichever is true,
The bridge is part of a glorious view,
And stories abound of its construction,
Like the man who walked the length of the chain,
Stopping halfway to take in the view whilst making a shoe!
Or of the maiden who swore that all who crossed would suffer a loss,
As great as they could ever imagine.

This bridge, whose beauty is unsurpassed,
Is now part of a glorious past of truths, lies and legends.
But forever it will stand,
And many more stories it shall inspire,
For it no longer simply links lands,
But now links truth and myth...
Am byth.

The beauty is still unsurpassed..
The pious heart is still unbiased..
The purity is still unblemished..

The charm is still unabashed..
The grace is still unabandoned..
The brilliance is still unabused..

The serenity is still unabhorred..
The spark is still unblazed..
The ***** is still unstained

Just an abrasive scratched the vignette..,
But the portrait is still a masterpiece..!!!!
O woman..
You are still as elegant and dignified!!!

Fat little gray clouds
smear the sky.
Adjusting
to a comfortable position,
they settle in
and spend the day weeping.

Rain here is
soft and welcoming,
cold as ice sometimes,
but warm as a toasty spa
most of the time.

From my window
I see umbrellas that bob
like a *** boiling.
They weave in their
ceremonial dance.

Rain whispers secrets.
Rain reads fortunes.
Rain cleanses the sidewalks
and waters the roses.

Warm inside, one might think
the rain a kaleidoscope
of unsurpassed beauty.

Homeless Old Mothers and Fathers
find it tedious and hold soggy
papers over their heads as they
seek a dry spot to wait it out.

It rains all day - grab a comforter
where you can snuggle and dream.

I've  always  been  a  ladies  man.
I  think  they  are  truly  great.
But  they  always  seem  to  die  on  me.
That  seems  to  be  my  fate.

Their  courage  and  bravery  is  unsurpassed.
Much  stamina  they  have  got.
They  seem . to  accept  things  more  than  men.
And  put  up  with  their  lot.

What  they  lack  in  muscle  power.
His  made  up  with  mental  strength.
To  fight  the  pain  of  childbirth.
They  will  go  to  any  length.

So  don't  knock  them  fellows.
They  will  always  be  there  for  you.
And  if  you  treat  them  properly.
They'll  remain  loving  kind  and  true.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Jesus as you hung with arms outstretched

Even as you were rejected time and time again

Somehow you loved us so much that you would give your life

Unconditional unsurpassed love would win

Sin couldn’t hold you, death had lost its power


Over and over you showed us love

Nailed on a cross between two thieves


Three days later you came back

Hell could not hold you; Heaven rejoiced

Everyone could not believe so easily


Carrying that cross to Calgary I can’t imagine

Ridiculed, beaten, ripped and torn

Our sins you took upon yourself

So that we might have new life; so that we might be:

S**AVED

I  still  love  my  Catherine  dearly.
Her  beauty  unsurpassed.
Long  golden  hair  and  pale  blue  eyes.
I  still  think  of  her  like  that.

But  that  was  four  decades  ago.
The  time  has  just  elapsed.
But  time  stands  still  in  the  memory.
Just  like  a  photograph.

We  were  to  marry  one  March  day.
But  circumstances  took  me  away.
When  I  returned  from  foreign  climes.
Life  had  moved  on  with  the  times.

I  never  saw  her  ever  again.
Odd  letters  I  did  get.
She  was  swallowed  up  in  city  life.
And  I  often  have  regrets.

Has  she  grown  old  gracefully.
Or  in  youthful  beauty  died.
Many  times  I've  thought  of  her.
And  many  times  I've  cried.

But  in  my  mind's  eye  clearly.
Running  swiftly  down  the  hill.
A  vision  of  loveliness.
Within  my  memory  still.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK. 2016.

There once was a man who travelled in time
He gladly left his home for adventure
And found it doing scientific crime.
He was called a prophet and avenger.
They easily became his profession.
He dealt swift justice regarding the past,
Leaving to some a confused impression.
His large amount of deeds was unsurpassed.
He was hooked to the future like a dream.
The world was his and he had all options,
and nothing was grander than his esteem,
but one desire consumed him like toxins.
He wanted his close companions to brag
But he no longer knew future from past.

I crawled into your bed
a little past 3 a.m.
and spoke into your sleeping head,
“scoot over.”
And sure enough,
the blankets scuffed
as you shifted your weight
and picked away at the rust
and told me that you wouldn’t mind
if I wanted to stay the night.

I watched a man play baseball alone
in his backyard
while a young boy watched, next to a tree,
occasionally retrieving his *****.

You told me I was obsessive,
and too nervous,
but that’s what makes me an artist,
and you stopped and stared,
and said, “Don’t you dare
turn this into a song.
This is not how it plays out in my head
as you got out of bed,
and said maybe you were wrong,
and I shouldn’t spend the night,
but by that time, I was tucked in tight,
in my marmalade cocoon
staring up at the moon
and I saw the face
of a woman whose grace
was unsurpassed by anything
and I mean ANYTHING
I’ve ever seen in my whole life.
Standing there, grinning,
I could feel the beginning
of something more than I was prepared for.
I started to talk to her,
which apparently shocked her,
and I woke to you screaming,
“SOMEONE CALL A DOCTOR!”
Tears rolled down my face
like the staircase from the attic
and you told me to get up
and stop being melodramatic.
You told me I was obsessive,
and too nervous,
but that’s what makes me an artist.

You still had to see your kids
settle down in life.
You still had to wait for your kids
to take care of you for a change.

Your kids may be grown now
with kids of their own.
But even now, they do need you,
your presence, your love, your smile.

Why did you have to so soon
and silently leave the scene?
You had but just retired from work -
four decades of real hard work.

Didn’t  you richly deserve
to relax, to have some fun?
Play word games, solve crosswords,
take long walks, go riding a bike.

Watch movies, play carom,
listen to music,  go swimming,
sing loudly, laugh heartily,
watch cricket and tennis, eat raw mangoes…

You could also have written
a lot of blogs and verses
and gained many admirers -
as you always did with your
unsurpassed literary skills.

You could have had a whale
of a time with your grandchildren –
teaching, inspiring and motivating
them and playing  games with them
as you did with your four kids.

With so many new channels
on the television today,
you would have had a
continuous supply of
food for thought and movies, too.

You shouldn’t have left so early -
leaving us to grieve each day
and wishing hopelessly you were still here.
Daddy, you should have been here today.

Gita Ashok
29/10/2010, 11:15 a.m.