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Ira Desmond Apr 2017
I:

In which
I

amid the
whirring lights

and emerald
felt

drift
through a

raucous
flashing casino

searching

for a
table

with an open
chair

so I can
finally start

to play
the game


II:

In which all of us
are together again at last

for a family gathering—
Thanksgiving supper, perhaps—

and, as we greet each other,
I happen to glance skyward,

unthinking,
and notice that clouds

of a turbid
cumulonimbus gray

are beginning to coalesce overhead.

I look up again and notice
that they have spun

into dozens of funnel shapes,
each of them

starting to reach down for us
like the ashen fingers of Death.

We huddle down in the cellar,
praying the storm will pass.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
the irises have passed,
their existence, entirety,
a three week, 21 day, gun salute,
to which I was witness to but four

the Kabbalist among us says Kaddish,
and a-Buddhist so-be-it,
celebrating the brevity cycle
of natural things,
and that death makes room for more

**** yelloe'd and black now,
these irises are now
misfits on a breezy, dancing summer lawn

today, shriveled and misshapen,
they compare and contrast
on a normative, glorious,
June Sunday that
picturesque presents
the living and the deceased,
side by side

all comrades,
all summer sundries
on a dancing grass blanket
half-graveyard battlefield, half-heaven

oft I have writ of the beach detritus,
the shells, the sun burnt *****,
a recycled funeral rectory where
no one utters prayers for the
no longer alive historical artifacts

what has this to do
with that human construct,
artifice of memory,
a string on the finger
of the mind,
a pausation, a man-made creation
to momentarily recall another of nature's cycle -
yours

Have children
Am a father
Had a father in my youthful days

this is a boy scout qualification medal,
marker of me as Expert,
permitting me  to commentary
with gravitas
having becoming a grandfather,
I enjoy superstar freedom
to opine inanely on such matters

of my father have I writ,
of my sons, those remain unseen,

likely neither will mark these day
with a telephone call
or an all-I-got-was-this-lousy-t shirt
gift of gall

I say that's ok for what else is there,
certainly not an unthinking, dismissive
whatever

it saddens me some for sure,
but it makes judge myself as human being
on a gradation of one to none

but more than this internal reflection,
I ponder this hallmark'd day,
as life cycle point notarized,
in verse and rhyme,
for that is what I do best

for before,
many father's day in the priory passed,
most unrecallable,
just another ceremonial checkmark,
habitually acquitted,
but somewhere in a drawer of shirts,
in a home I store stuff in,
I do believe, there are some cards
from decades past, that prove nothing,
other than life goes on,
and we best capture
what we can, as best we can...
with small, objet d'art of sorts

Perhaps one will call after all...
in any event,
to honor the dead,
to mark the existing,
the bannered ship's bell rung,
its sonorous sound,
notable and onerous,
fades as well

but man and animal,
plant and tree,
a living fraternal sorority,
who all look over my shoulder
as I compose on
that chair you see

they know,
for whom the bell tolls this day,
and why as well,
as we all pause and contemplate
where we are on this day,
on our own overlapping cycles
Nekron Oct 2018
or just
Become the Mannequin
posing perfectly,
posture so sure,
the contour of her face
is smooth as she has no pores.
Plastic existence is feasible.

I cannot continue
to verbally berate myself
I’m pleading
prosperity please

at least
the plastic Mannequin
Who’s eyes seem vacant
She lives adjacent
Not quite there
But The unthinking body
needs not worry
about the future
and how
abrasive this all is
Amidst endless cyclones
I kept moving with
dreams in my eyes,

Without stopping
Without bending
Without tiring

I just kept walking
Unerasable
Unstoppable
Always moving..

I heard voices
Crying
Shaking
Calling
Shouting
Yelling
Bribing
Always­
Stopping
!!
But I kept walking
To achieve my dreams

I moved forward
Upon
Unknown roads
Unknown twists & turns
Unknown crossroads
Unknown hillocks

To achieve the impossible
To set an example
Filled with positivity
  in my heart..
Telling always it's
Attitude that's important

I kept moving
Unthinking
Unbending
Unstoppable
!!

Sparkle In Wisdom
Dec 2018
Tawanda Mulalu Jul 2018
Siesta in darknesss. The sunlight disappears to the clouds.
I could wonder hazily from one step or street to the next
yet feel unfurnished and empty. Walk through me.
A bash to the shoulder and some books fall, I'm sorry.
These magicians flutter past as I blink unthinking
and there is the joy of the thoughts glittering:
But I am tired, so, so tired.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49001/ariel
Yenson Nov 2018
A journo aware, equally at home in Palaces, Halls or the streets
Trained to vision duplicity slants and angles and know the crux
Able to see the story behind the story behind the story and more
In ethics robed proudly while mendacity and shenanigans cry shy
Show me the Dai Lama in a crack den or Bill Gates ******* in Goa

Semi demi illiterates with joined-up thinking or unthinking
Immatures lacking emotional intelligence or gainful statures
In groupthink mired settles on group delusions in vicissitudes
We're programming or flooding seeds of doubts or confusing
As if maladroit fantasies are gospels not simpletons' chicanery

Dismissives sad dolts duly outflanked and outclassed inherently
Ignoramuses crude and coarse in true form lacking introspection
Wear disgrace proudly in persistence and parade idiocy fittingly
Strength in numbers neither nullifying stupidity or indignities
Indulgent cowards and sick gate-keeps of unearned entitlements

Nonentities, rabble rousers shamed vigilantes in emotional dearth
Claiming and luxuriating in the depravities of their deficiencies
I remain what I am and no apologies necessary for august status
Your diminutive deeds merely reflects your statures and intellects
Little minds already condemn you to suicides of real aspirations



CopyrightLaurenceA6thNov2018.allrightsreserved
Mortecai Null Nov 2018
I was forced to sit upon a bench before a marbled statue in an art museum. Through patience and boredom, I traced over the figure before me. It was a woman. Her skin appeared so smooth, and her existence so intentional. She was draped with sheer fabric. How one carves sheer fabric from marble stone, I would never know. She looked so beautiful and at peace. Was I at peace? I mentally scanned over myself. I felt the nervous pumping of my heart and heard the carbonic shuffling of the toast I had eaten prior. I glanced, but not too obviously, at my fingers and the hands they were attached to. I could see the tangled roots of blue crawl between each other and the millions of cross hatched lines overlaying. I looked back up at the marble person. She had no pumping or shuffling. No crawling or cross hatching. She was silken and at rest. I tried to mimic her. I held in my place. Unmoving, unthinking, just being. But the more I tried, the worse I heard my heart and the worse I felt my stomach. I heard my thoughts and my chest rise and fall. I was cursed. I wanted to be like the woman. But my homeostatic existence forced me to continue. I held my mind as I stared at the statue with envy. What an existence to live. Pure, uninterrupted stasis. True stasis. She only moved when moved by others. And even then, she was at rest within herself. No knowledge outside of her oneness. I looked inward again. I was forced to be here. I was forced to be brought here and forced to be taken away from here someday. No one even thought to ask me about the matter. Time is so limited. And here I was. Forced to be here and forced to be here, looking at this woman with more than I could ever have. She was beautiful, spending everyday within a single place being praised by liberal art students and school children who pass through this atrium, even though she did not exist for them. She existed for herself. She stayed within herself, her own scope. Unbound by time or place in her mind. Yet, we all were lucky enough to have witnessed her within her unboundaries. After brushing over her several thousand times, I noticed a chip within her pedestal. I became silently aggravated at the prospect of some lazy dolt who was given the honor of moving her to only do so uncarefully, or an ungrateful adolescent bored amongst the halls of everlasting pieces of geniuses’ minds. But that was just it. They weren’t everlasting. Not really. Not even she, as her perfection captivated for millenia. For the first time, I felt I was her, and she was me. As she has been idolized for her beauty, such as I for the people who loved me. She had a history, as did I. We both have texture and features of difference, but we were to lie in the same bed someday. I would fall asleep much sooner than she, but all things must lay to rest. Even if she spent her entire worldly being in protection, she would still be brought to a close with the setting of the Universe. Two immaculate sisters saying farewell, both so vastly different yet frustratingly the same. Though for both, the daughter of mass and the daughter of time did not cross each other’s paths. They merely felt one another through the beings within and around them that occupy the other. Mass felt time around her, as time felt mass within her. And thus, were one, with no knowledge of the other. I took the first breath I had acknowledged since I first sat on this bench. My eyes attempted to adjust to farther focal points of the rest of the building once I finally pried my gaze from the woman. So many other beautiful beings existed in this singular space that I had no idea about until now. I wanted to spend my time with them, before they had no more time to spend with me. A woman came out of the door to my left. She asked me if I was here to interview for the security guard position. I nodded. She invited me to follow her into the room, and I did just that.
Greg Obrecht Nov 2018
A man stares unthinking beneath the golden leaves.
The first winds of autumn chill his restless soul. He slowly begins to unroll his sleeves.
As he gets ready to take his nightly stroll.

He hears the sun's nails screech against the darkening sky.
Leaving behind a beautiful yet ****** scene. Many times he's witnessed this ritualistic goodbye.
One of the few times he feels more man than machine.

As the inky night surrounds him he hears a familiar song.
Suddenly the sidewalk turns into a glittering trail.
His cells begin to vibrate although the scene is wrong.
The whole world feels translucent and hopelessly frail.

He eagerly begins his journey towards the land of the dead.
The angelic voices cajole and lead him by the hand.
He willing goes to where others fear to tread. He can't resist their heavenly command.

He slips through the veil that separates our worlds.
He quickly joins them in their circular dance.
He effortlessly moves and cries as he twirls.
His ears can now comprehend their unearthly chants.

We may be buried underneath the cold, dark soil.
But we'll never die because our souls are eternal. Someday you'll join us and cast away your shell. One day you'll see there's neither heaven or hell.

He can't fathom leaving this peaceful terrain. The veil starts to separate and he feels the biting night.
To leave now will certainly cause him to go insane.
But he still belongs to his body and the time isn't right.

He walks slowly home and tries to gather his wits.
The moment that he shared is already fading like a dream.
He already doubts that he rollicked with the spirits.
He has to stifle a maniacal scream.
The Willow Nov 2018
I had to slide my consciousness asleep
Tip it towards unthinking
Running from believing the thoughts:

If I don’t want kids because of the mental illnesses I would give them, why do I believe I am any more worthy of living?

— The End —