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Beaux May 2018
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never go home again.
My room will sit unused,
A capsule frozen in time,
A snapshot of how I was.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my dog again.
She will sit at the front door
Waiting for me and wondering,
Why I never came home.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never graduate from high school.
My yearbooks will sit stacked
Stopped short of their goal,
Missing years that should have been.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my mom again.
She will sit distraught,
Planning a funeral
For a child taken from her.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my friends again.
They'll sit together, missing me.
One empty seat among them,
A constant reminder of their loss.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my little sister again.
She will sit through high school
Knowing I can't guide her through,
That she has to figure it out alone.

If I die in a school shooting
My school will be stained.
Pools of students lives will sit,
Blood tattoos on the brick structures,
Marks of death ground into it.

If I die in a school shooting
Everyone will wear black.
They'll send their thoughts and prayers
To a town marred by death,
Forever to be the home of a shooting.

If I die in a school shooting
Will the world change?
Or will I become one of hundreds  
Of kids who have to die?
What will it take?

If things continue this way
Children will have to live in fear.
They'll look over their shoulders
Always worried and wondering,
If they'll die in a school shooting.
The state of Florida is now home to the two most deadly mass shootings in American history. Pulse Nightclub was attacked in my city, I have friends who attend Marjory Stoneman Douglas in Parkland. My little sister often fears going to school. I'm afraid to graduate and leave her. I want to be able to protect her if something happens. I hate that we have a reason to be afraid... That it's reasonable to have these fears. I hate it so f*cking much.
Desmond the poet Apr 2018
When we met, love Obnubilated me.
I became bananas about you.
I wanted to be luculent.
Just to be Pauciliquent.
I however felt like a blatherskite.
You probably thought I was a glaikit.

Did I sound like a meacock instead?
If so, it’s due to kakorrhaphiophobia.
I might have operose my feelings.
Did it seem like I wanna mamaguy you?
You behaved like a frondeur.

Your callipygian body looked extramundane.
Your hair looked ulitichous.
Did you feel like I lusted your Callipygian shape?
I foresaw a love that won’t flatline.
If it does, it will be eucatastrophe.

Now we’re together, I’m disenthrall from Misogamy.
You’re a deipnosophist and a mixologist.
I’m edcious.
To keep you happy, I share a boffola.
To me, love felt like a Humdudgeon.
Using rare and probably used words to express how I felt when I met my wife for the 1st.
Iraira Cedillo Mar 2014
Unused Baby
Unused baby blood and this is
how you motion with hands
clotty leaving . . .
Julian Jul 2016
Hip Service
By Julian Malek

The zeal of cobblestone tolerance arrayed in fashionable hues masquerading as crimson secrecy, elevates the tide of man but some boats leak in their foundations. Therefore a cork to every exuberance and a triumphant torch for every sorrow lives onward in collective time. Larks that abound because prescience and PUGET sound, that brown has become the new orange which in turn prowls as a concealed swarthy black. To antagonize the willful and frenetic pace, a prodrome of lasting but memorialized disgrace. Should I move to a state by first or last name, or is the final appellation worthy of much more lasting fame. I scurry down the aisles, bemused by shimmering tiles and the beguiled audiences who see much in my limitation but doubt little about my debited elation. Ringmaster Barnum, how much horticulture is needed for assured superstardom, how many cloisters must we evacuate from the incendiary plumes of a metaphorical Harlem..  But know that no virtual reality can supplant the reality that does truly exist, or at least our time is too infernal and purblind to resist. Carrey the tops of mountains in the humor of wellsprings and fountains, we engage a menagerie of egos lilting of an etiolated pragmatic concern. Evicted from paradise, littered with say-cheese demise ensnaring three blind mice eaten alive by snake-eyed vice. To feel good without incorporated tyranny, we must see blue and red as alternatives to the same destiny. A world that reckons with the futilitarianism of pacified malcontent and astroturf monikers that lead the impressionable into a slaughter shed. Established or not, any enchantment under the sea must include fishes once a pastiche of me, but to them I avoid their courtesy flush and never even faintly blush as my egalitarian statements are lavish thrush.

Five TO Won baby one in 99, everyone here aboard the titanic stays alive, you got your boat baby and I got mine, gonna make it with babies numbered in surreal primes. Halt the slots game the nines, a stitch in time is going to turn out to be Mine. Flanger goals, girded piles, liminal like an aborted Harry Styles, we climb mountains we issue tithes, and the turmoil is etched into 45-notched bludgeons and two-tucked knives. Excuse you, where have you been all day, have you been sauntering in a gentle rain or a genteel pain, have you wallowed beyond the mires of doubt and ranked above David Blaine. I hope you tell me of your magic tricks, rather than your other flicks endeared I stand to fight an ineradicable itch. But if not, you placid pond dented by so many rocks and so many ripples give your heart over to me, before I clinch the special Olympics *******, we ran, we span the homespun garments of your left and right hand, but death is a specter that ghoulishly carouses along the carousel terminal disease we call life. I beseech your deepest affection and want to console you for your deepest struggle, to be there every time wed with time rather than a throttled scuttle. Moons make you guarded but maroons leave me desiccated, don’t ever let that wilted flower die, always water it with a rich but gentle ties and widened deck for all to at once marvel and pry.  Monsters of Mars Attacks once flanked my bed, as though the **** brain scared every gooseflesh and restrained every frisson of mystery. I lampoon myself for those cold Dark Knights and the protection ended by the plight of the poor mattering nothing to the deliberately internecine rich. I struck gold in a valley somewhere, an oxymoron of paradox that now you have the privilege to dock, to stay aboard to be a vessel of peace less widely deplored. Even if we don’t sprout wings, we garner the exactitude of measured things and our glass elevator though easily shattered by the glower of enslavement is actually our vista to heaven or listening to brethren tingles for rich mans trinkets and other things. For humanity deserves a legend and a princess, a regimented desuetude and a flanged lust but in our mistakes wildly flouted in momentary moments we become purified by the temptations of an alabaster palace.

***** the left-field wisdom of a pragmatic paragon ellipsis in prison, slip between the cracks and let my suburban muse become your urban ruse. To enchant a caged world beyond a reality delicately and deliberately unfurled. Squirming toads on highways enchanted but dead, are graves for the blue becoming purple in every dignified red. Gainsay assaults me with platitude, a repeated hitter quit on the first bunted ball into foul-line territory. Those gripes are swiped right in all circumstance no matter the plight. The pronged hearing of a trident sensitive to ambient collection, and suddenly we are all in the mad house even though the house of profaned pain is much worse. Glimpses of gambits that gambol for nickels in transit as occult grenades and known dice waddle through without artifice or device, and the laughter and slaughter that trains collegiate minds, differs no more than the tropes of a glamorous violence articled in sordid rhymes. This surfing movie means so much more than Surf Wax America pristine in limited but sacrilege nirvana. Teen spirits smell muskier than 90s pop dreams, the grasp and grunge of gouged eyes becomes a mummified staid, a scarecrow to those who disobey. Childhood flashes with blinding light, and new sight illuminates darkening blight, A blight eradicated only by two magazines and including one that houses the bullets that ***** themselves between death and comatose dreams both within astral sight. Littoral harbor on a seaside town, a shanty with a brackish gown that glides the gourmand to the cosmopolitan eatery on the outskirts of lost & found. But forever lost in embonpoint and forever gained in chavish that exonerates the gaunt, the etiolated prince in heart becomes irrefutable marrow in minded souls.

If I am a spy you are an ESPY, and if I cry than you are a baby,but since neither are the case my wiseacres will cultivate lava lamp dreams for a new generation and suddenly Boston bets on Harvard, but who knows of this piped blather squirming for relevance rather than voguish but temporary chatter. My regatta knows how to swim, my life now knows how to cringe and yet still win and in stilted plays of bungled sincerity the God of peace reminds us of our transcendent personalities. That we in sincerity top the barnacles of invention a novelty but a rarity. But the guillotine quill of emboldened unscripted parvenus ruthless in their eager dues, outdate and outlive the sued swayed blues that indemnify Clinton and make the atomic dog an amazing Winston hill a church often in sheltered disuse. Imps and urchins sting the sentiment, cloy the alimony of repentant betterment, but neither touches the gilded skies of pleonasm striving for raspy disguise as to dissuade further diatribe investigation. Lurking in those scared days of youth, the gore of unalloyed horror scourged me with a limp, that compassion itself could ever become a gimp. Now years later athletics better and scoring goals making the mildew sweat and the years wetter, not a global warming that can be alarmed by global mourning. Take peace at heart if distanced spears of separation make Idiocracy as a pastiche look exceedingly smart. And spar only with the true antagonists bridging malevolence with expedience. Killjoys sure, will joy even more sure, but still boys fluttered heart stopping dead at a stop-watched alarm the worst tragedy of our sordid sort. Give an African Child a real home rather than a spatial roam, a palatial desiccation of momentary Jonas Brothers snapping back at captives with sexualized foam.

Narrative blinds shuttered in an Island among mountains hardly ever wiser to sanitize the sanitarium among the wasps of stung power. Police crumple their uniforms as they prowl down the avenues, looking for misfits and widened platitudes. Somehow that the vigilance of those corrupted by their very career choice, look even worse when megalomania of private is the limelight of public, to their defense few turrets I can muster but castles in the sky will be the apartheid judge. Those that cling to virtue to eradicate Porsche-driven faked or real deaths at the most breakneck speed, that Fast & Furious operation if disclosed completely would turn the Shire of the ring into the hatred curtailed by a song in Sing-Sing. Immunity must not Yoda implore, that livery Liverpool marooned on islands can also to deplore the R.E.D. and still whet the sharpened stead and the fly-by-night Manchester United alights like militant peer pressure for wranglers in tights. But beating the Beatles at a game of Walruses and egg-shelled eyeful towers likely impedes rinkside hockey from anything over bellicose ballyhoo…it exists as a transient fixated glower. But who knows about soccer speculation when love is the transcendent temptation, when nest-egg hens rather than neglecting rig Bens of clockwork and clocked words designed arise better for their token ken. Do I must repeat the subtext of submarines, yellowed as though ugly unused as though unseen, as though the quixotic earthquakes of tintinnabulations Avatar dreams. Wafted souls console the disheartened thoughts of a dashed dream that Berlin hates more than a Furor’s unbridled and useless scream.
Demotic clips slinging from the bedridden silence of a token moon and its token friends, swimming in a shore of ambiguity whether history mellows or whether its furor melts away momentary doubts. I want to avoid the sting rays exorcised by due providence and become the amalgamated talents gentry and of course the upstart swagger of Jack Dawson. But with the psy-op going on, the people manipulated on all sides of a gray picket fence will the relationship bloom without muttered dissent or pretended smiles. Will we take upon the shuffled shuttle and dig with shovels deep-rooted Christmas trees and toast our lives to Dos Equis. We may never go out of style, but the treacle of illuminated imagery when divorced from sentiment bristle shows a swagger that prioritizes rather than amalgamates all love. I love being brash and brazen and honest because when she finally ditches the grandstand of delayed frenemies fandoms of other tinsel decorations without any substance beyond meretricious thrill. You want a roller coaster on some days, but most often you want the nutcracker to elope to secret hiding places. Swim with adventure not just in love, not just in affection with the starlight now matter how luminous, sixpence all the richer is no centuries any poorer and we could be that gilded couple of star and screen and if we ever have to scream, let our screams unite us in passion, rather than a milquetoast deference to pedestaled beauty. but of course the end times don’t laugh at your crumpled wizened relapse. Not out of convenience wed by a discriminating genetic harvest moon but a deeper engagement that flatters when stylish and bristles when romantic but never defiled, never riled of specious pretense. Promise me that you will always remember me in my flaws and my faults, in my scause factory destructions and the penults of PEN-ULTIMATE wisdom that comes before the grace of God in the annihilation of passion for eroded omission. If your goal is to be remembered, check that out…but the most admirable goal is as the propinquities of souls dusted in the wind returning to a spring equinox of passion and if you find in yourselves reservations do not depart from sacred land, and never jilt me because of a boisterous and menacing friend. You are everything to me right now, and I Hope this persists despite the vicissitudes of star-favored afflictions mixed with utter benediction without the pontification of stilted Benedictines  or rather the hyped ludic effrontery of termagants being made of younger and younger women. Leave it at this ,32 leaves the royal secret in royal hands and the Knights Templar and us we altogether hold hands, if only a prelude for a masquerade ball. But the stilted embarrassment of crestfallen time, let that be relegated and emphatically lets embrace what is like to not ever need a real white horse to get back into your favor, because we never go out of style we can brandish the best elements and reject the sentiments of the too newfangled and the too stodgy. We in our crenellated pleonasm can eager ride the lightning to another tomorrow and another yesterday and if even not that, we virtually make an indelible impression of embroidered love not too distant in ivory towers and not to vulgary( catering to popular sentiments) to become a trash glam movement. We soar, others deplore but let their purblind doubts render them blind to our burgeoning love.

Forget the brisk trees dangled in the wind on winding paths through haunted forest or remember them because of ghoulish fortress but with our apotropaic lamp we can avert most evil and call the rest fun and gains and shun but fames never profaned, never inalterable a destiny to magical to be some whimpered catcall. Or we could linger beneath lambent street lights disguised as though wilted garb, attrition of circumstance waiting patiently for the matinee and the vintner to escort us beyond the garb of pretense in a city so abundant with it that it deserves castigation. But I digress, a beachside cliff overlooking tepid waters tumultuous in their power but august in their noises, the cadence of love will sing a half-moon bay on full-moon nights and we will frisk each other like grasping at straws of permanent tracks trammeled of the elite and a sidetracked basque bet. Trim those antlers and instead grow metaphorical wings, to us we all sing but few can match your elegance and everyone would be crazy not to see your ennobled age and together thrilling songs to emulate thriller in sales we will collaboratively sing.
Haughty sneers from lifeless lycanthropy straggling furtively along the pastiched sidewalks of grime, livid because they can’t share the lingering limelight, with as many guarded perks of privacy clambering like a hive of snarky sharks. Lets ditch the big town dreams in terms of posh and stature if only for a caressed moment beneath the unadulterated stars and if you find spars **** to the extent they are amiable than I say guess what my name is Lars! Or wait a second, paused in the big city spotlight our stenciled hearts will guide whatever progeny is yours or mine or ours together we will sing the most comforting lullaby, and caves no longer must we abide. Yearn and earn every inch, as I gripe with my delicate saddened pinch but I think the innuendo speaks . Ripen with our trips to Napa, long afternoon sunsets swim in our hearts as we taste the vanguard’s toast on elegant wine.I console with entreaty to disavow the omen of that San Franciscan church October 2008, the doom implied by Einstein, the raillery of a world grinding down the endless decadence of a railed future inalterable in destiny or partialy amenable to widespread coquetry.

Forget those rumbles in your past that made you feel partial to insecurity and learning the ropes you transcended all and live in all eternity. Thimble and brook, tolerant of all those tokes I took your rebellious side flattens the yeast of Exodus raspy in its begrudged clapping. But the Pharaoh of the modern world sheltered me under his prickly thorns, shielded me from the sickly things that life adorns. We have the numbers on our side, the weight of destiny on our shoulders, dedicate yourself to yourself and I will preen the most vibrant wisdom and love will leap like Apollo across all borders not for camel-****** hoarders. We are culminated destiny in the wings of the best daydream
Life, Love and No Mathematics to God and Gain
Bob Sterry Jul 2014
Working under a cloud of sadness
Cleaning a mother’s home
After their death.
All the familiar objects
Are so much heavier
Loaded with emotion
Triggered by every trinket touched.
And the unfamiliar
Items never seen before
Not really secret
But secretive
Shed an unfamiliar light
Or a tragic one
On the lost life.

Add some desire you had
For resolution
Or proof of affection
A letter un-mailed, explaining…
Everything, less,
Or adding further mysteries.
Photos signed with a revealing scrawl
In a curious masculine hand.
And flowing in your mind
As you reduce a life to a list
For disposal, dispersal
A certainty
A knowing
That what you see is not the whole
The whole life


There’s something missing
That might explain
Her wistful expression
Her unexpressed longing,
The aura of regret,
You recall it easily.
A perfume of disappointment
Lingering.

And when you finally
Discover her dark journals
Her writing, but reflecting a stranger
A talent, a power, a presence
Never revealed, never known
But rich and sharp
With bright witty language
You understand this is a set of wings
Dusty with neglect
Heavy with melancholia
Unused wings.
How often do we find another person appears upon their earthly demise?
Forty Days

A Season of Grief, a Season of Rejoicing

November 9-December 20, 2014

For Barbara Beach Alter 
It is Christmas morning in Saco, Maine, where today Bett, Aaron, Emily, Thomasin and our beloved cousin Marie find ourselves gathered to celebrate our first Christmas without dadima (our name for Barbara Beach Alter).  Brother Tom writes that already in India he and Carol with Jamie, Meha and Cayden (the only of her seven greatgrandchildren Barry never held) have celebrated.  Today Marty and Lincoln join us in Maine.

This gathering of documents—notes, drafts of memorial services, poems, homilies—is my christmas present to each of you.  It is a record, certainly subjective, of grief and rejoicing.

John Copley Alter
1:14 a.m.
Saco, Maine 
November 9

Loved ones,
Barbara Beach Alter died peacefully at 2:55 Sunday morning (today).  Bett and I had the good fortune to be there for the final beating of her good strong heart.  She murmured charcoal.  The nurse who was bathing her afterwards noted how few wrinkles there were, and it is true.
For those of you nearby you may if you want visit Mom in her room at hospice this morning (until noon).  Visit? Darshan? Paying respects?
Bett and I plan to be there around 11:00.
Much love to all. A blessed occasion.
John


November 10

Matthew 5:13-19
Jesus said, "You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.
"You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.
"Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven."

yesterday in the early hours my mother died her saltiness
restored all that had through the months of her old
age and convalescence obscured the lens of her life cleaned
away so that for us now more and more clearly
as we hear about her through the memory and love
of so many people her good works shine forth in
their glory but it is to the days of her
convalescence the days of her dementia I would turn our
minds those of us who spent time with her at
Wingate long-term care facility remember that Barbara Beach Alter became
at times fierce in her commanding us that ‘not one
letter, not one stroke of a letter’ of the commandments
should be altered do you remember that those of you
and us who were given the work and gift of
spending time with Barry in those days in that condition

remember for instance how fussy she became about the sequence
of food on her tray how impatient with us for
our trespasses and violations how adamant that we look forward
for instance and not back at her how she would
say stop holding my hand and saying you love me
you have work to do o she was almost impossible
and certainly incoherent and demented in her obsession with law
and procedure fussy impatient imperious I do not forget being
scolded reamed out put in my place for having somehow
failed to do what the ‘law and the prophets’ demand

Barbara beach alter in the days before hospice in the
nursing home and hospital and even if we are honest
in the final years of her life found herself caught
up in the rigidity of her anxious desire to be
faithful to the laws and commandments of her life and
that made her at times extremely demanding to be with

amen and the epistemological confusion of course the clash between
her reality and ours it was all an ordeal for
her and for those of us who kept her company

and yet and yet through it all and now as
that ordeal for her is no longer paramount as she
dances in heaven all the wrinkles and discomfort of her
life removed and forgiven Barbara Beach Alter kept the faith
living in the midst such that those who cared for
her most intimately the strangers all professed your mother blessed
us


Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
7 Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
8 Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
9 Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
10 Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
11 Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.
12 Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.



So, brother and sister, here are my thoughts about the memorial service(s).
Let’s find a time when we three can be present; that’s the most important thing.  My life is currently the least constrained by agenda and schedule.  And then the grandchildren, recognizing that Jamie may not be able to come.  So, our work is to find our when our kids are able to come. Bett and I are exploring that with our three, each of whom has some constraint: Emily, the cost; Thomasin, the piebaking demands, Aaron school.  But we are flexible.

Much love.

John



Walking in my mother’s wake today some trees
a gentle breeze some dogs a little boy
the neighborhood and I took joy from interaction

we are at best a fraction in love’s
calculation after all heaven I realize is not
above or below cannot be taught comes naturally

as death does walking in my mother’s wake
I found new allies learned yet again not
to take myself too seriously to be caught

off guard as a matter of principle and
not to insist that I understand but live
in the midst of forgiveness


in my mother’s wake I am reading these books for
some way to continue to knock on her door Wendell
Berry he can tell me some things and William Blake
he can take me closer and I remember she described
me once as an unused Jewish liberal so I am
reading about protestant liberalism but ham that I am also
reading Carl Hiassen’s Bad Monkey and Quo Vadimus that my
daughter left behind and mythologically Reflections from yale divinity school
no fooling Denise Levertov David Sobel Galway Kinnell’s translation of
Rilke some wake

November 11

Matthew 25:1-13
Jesus said, "Then the kingdom of heaven will be like this. Ten bridesmaids took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. As the bridegroom was delayed, all of them became drowsy and slept. But at midnight there was a shout, 'Look! Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.' Then all those bridesmaids got up and trimmed their lamps. The foolish said to the wise, 'Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.' But the wise replied, 'No! there will not be enough for you and for us; you had better go to the dealers and buy some for yourselves.' And while they went to buy it, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went with him into the wedding banquet; and the door was shut. Later the other bridesmaids came also, saying, 'Lord, lord, open to us.' But he replied, 'Truly I tell you, I do not know you.' Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour."

this morning in the wee hours my mother died one
of the wise bridesmaids whose lamp to the end was
full she carried always the flask of oil that is
joy that is the love of the kingdom of heaven
and of the bridegroom a flask always replenished by prayer
by devotion by a humble courageous living in the midst

she expected every day the bridegroom to come in other
words and she was also one who would never refuse
to share even the last drop with somebody in need

and at the end it is so clear the door
into the banquet hall was not closed to her as
it is not closed to any one of us foolishness
is to believe otherwise to believe that the bridegroom will
not come today in the early morning in the wee
hours that is when he comes in the midst of
other plans is when he comes even when we are
doing what we assume to be good work when we
are doing what gives us pleasure our duty joy comes
then unsummoned unpredictable random even according to all our best
laid plans my mother loved so many things her pleasure
included dancing late in her life terminally unsteady she invented
what we loved to urge her to do namely the
sitting jig and we grew up with images of her
Isadora Duncan dancing with white scarves in an enchanted forest

Barbara Beach Alter aka Barry aka dadima bari nani aunt
and daughter wife missionary is now I know dancing a
rollicking boisterous jig on the shores of a lake that
is as her grandson once confided to her god in
liquid form spilly Beach of course also dyslexic executive function
compromised she was but one who loved to be always
in the midst surrounded by loved ones some of them
absolute strangers she shared her oil because for her it
came welling up from an inexhaustible source a deep eternal
well of such illumination and laughter such giddy divine chuckles

for her there was to be no exclusion she would
not find the awful idea of being one of the
foolish applicable to anybody but happily she welcomed into her
midst so many it is hard to imagine how many

so there she is now a bridesmaid dancing for joy
in such elegant clothing with such perpetual brightness

amen hallelujah rejoice


sometimes I think she pulled us all out of the
magic hat sometimes I think she knit us all into
one of her theologically impossible sweaters and then with a
wink she passes through the eye of the needle and
is gone and we are left to play in her
honor endless hands of solitaire sometimes I think we are
no more than the hermeneutics of her life the epistemology
artless she was not her heart like one of those
magical meals for her then a doxology praise then praise
she knows salvation

what is a life’s work it is like a landscape
dotted with oases and gardens for the thirsty and the
lost it is like scraping through dry barren ground and
finding there suddenly not only the theology of paradise but
such seeds your hands ache to begin the planting what
is a life’s work what has been shut for too
long opens what has been shut for too long opens

a life’s work renews itself then with death the kernel
of hope that dies in springtime sprouting is what a
life’s work becomes

November 12

John 21:15-17
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my lambs." A second time he said to him, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Tend my sheep." He said to him the third time, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, "Do you love me?" And he said to him, "Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep.

I know my mother very much enjoyed having breakfast with
god and that the meals of her nursing home drove
her nearly crazy and that when at last she found
hospice o she again could imagine the feast of heaven
at which Jesus breaks bread with us and speaks with
such clarity do you love me more than these I
know it was questions as simple and overwhelming as this
that dominated her final days do you love me love
being  one of the last five words she attempted to
speak do you love me she wrestled in her last
months with epistemology and psychology and theology and all had
to do with whether she could answer unequivocally you know
that I love you and that she could say of
her life that she had broken bread with god we
all remember in her life those moments when there was
a great gladness an innocent acceptance of what lay immediately
in her presence now those months in the nursing home
tormented her in precisely this fashion that it was hard
to accept to be in the midst of such mediocrity
and woe to be innocent and accepting but now praise
god there she is a happy guest at the great
feast and we left behind bereft can acknowledge that she
loved god in her own fashion as best she possibly
could and do you remember being with her there in
hospital or nursing home and she commanding us to move
beyond holding her hand and saying we loved her and
to feed the sheep to do that work which will
make of this earth this here and now an outstation
of heaven Barbara Beach Alter loved god in her own
fashion as best she possibly could we remember that and
that memory is today like a great network a web
of love and inspiration o we would gladly one more
time hold her hand and say I love you but
we know also clearly I think today what the work
is to love our neighbor as ourselves to work for
peace and justice I think of my sister with her
colleagues in WEIGO and how her sisters have understood her
grief  let us break our fast together then glad for
the worldwide web that in these days is reading the
gospel of the life of Barbara Beach Alter praise god


feed
tend
feed
in exchange for his three denials Peter is given three imperative verbs
feed
tend
feed
this is the commission Jesus after breakfast on the shore of the sea of Galilee gives to Peter
twice he says feed
in the commonwealth of Massachusetts 700,000 people are hungry
1 in 6 americans are hungry
living in uncertainty about their daily bread
more than 18,000,000 in Africa
842,000,000 around the world go to bed hungry


Marty and Tom
The thinking about the memorial service is taking this slow and cautious turn, namely that we have three services (at least), one in Sudbury, one in New Haven (allowing Stan and Chuck and others to come) at First Presbyterian (with Blair Moffett we hope), and of course one in India.
The date frame appears to be somewhere between December 17 and 20, unless you have other thoughts.
The actual cremation happens tomorrow.  Lincoln, Bett, Alexis and I will attend, and then of course there is In the Midst on Friday.
Love you more than tongue can tell.
John


the thing with a life well lived is that many
people have partaken the way let’s say a river moves
down through any number of different lives all the time
sedulously seeking the shortest path to the sea to steal
a line from somebody or other meandering a watershed within
which so many of us find a way to live
our own lives nourished and for each of us the
river distinct and different white water the slow fertile meander
the delta and we say to each other this is
the composite river


sometimes I feel like a sleepwalker trying to run a
marathon sometimes I feel like a speedbump in a blizzard

an arrow in a wind tunnel sometimes I feel like

a hazard sign in an old age home sometimes I
feel like a tyrannosaurus rex trying to ride a tricycle

and sometimes those are the good days when identity is
strong like an icicle in a heat wave is strong

I try to read wisdom literature at happy hour scotch
and Solomon can’t go wrong I think and sometimes I

feel like crying

November 13

four days ago we were left alone there with your
body after your breathing ceased and the proud stubborn beating
of your heart and in those four days beloved mother
so much I would love to say to you and
share the antics of the squirrel late leaves on the
neighborhood trees music Orion the network the atlas of love
your life has left behind and all the words we
are the gospel of today and I would sit with
you there then in silence as I sit now four
days later vigilant insomniac aware that the kingdom of heaven
is not more complicated than singing than love than dancing

we are all dancing the dance lord siva teaches and
the s
Smoke Scribe Aug 2018
Imagine that
I could write a salve,
compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal,
even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh,
just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our
fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far
another bruise joining the cast like a  floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability

imagine that

where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction,
borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years
from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters,
children,
return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain

imagine that

the deep sinkhole of despair that ***** one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be

imagine that

a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in,
in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up
and the stony chest is breathing lungs free

imagine that

and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing,
knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken,
they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver
sets the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed

imagine that

you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical,
cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret

I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins
when

we imagine that

for this how new healthy cells  are born

quiet-now,  go, imagine-that, now
if you recognize yourself within, it is no accident!
thank u all for the love and appreciation. one writes many poems in many disguises, so it is hard to believe  that an 8 month old poem, sent to you for safekeeping, is shortly thereafter barely recalled.
and then is rebirthed, and wouldn’t change a word...
imagine that!
ughdrey Jun 2013
Before I met her, I wanted to be her. Does that sound stupid? I wanted to be that ****** up ****** that did a bunch of drugs and always had money because she led men on and lived free and just lived life despite a daily brush with death. I was eventually, and I had an amazingly horrible experience.

I met her when I was 13. I spent a lot of time just "babysitting" her really. My other friends hated her. We'd come over and she'd literally go in the closet to shoot up and we'd just be chilling in her bedroom listening to Hole and being really confused as to why she didn't just use the bathroom. But she liked the attention and audience. This might seem cliche or mean or whatever, but it's true.

As my decent friends grew further away from me because I continuously grew closer and closer to her, I did a lot of *******, not nearly as much as I would later on in life. but enough to say, "wow I did a lot of ******* when I was 15" and at the time, it seemed like an accomplishment. Maybe I thought I was cool, I don't know, now I just think I was stupid and weak and regret being like my father.

Obviously, as time went on, I did ******. The first 500 times Natalie offered me it, I said no. I always said no, but she still always asked. If you know a ****** addict, there's something else you probably know. ****** addicts love having other ****** addicts around because you guys will work together to make money and get more. This will probably turn into what it really is and what we were really were, and that's a co-dependent platonic couple, but I didn't know that until just now.

The day I finally did it, my god. My god. My god. My god. My god.

I feel slightly guilty writing this because I don't want to glorify drug abuse but Christ, did it feel good.

We were downstairs watching Hedwig and she gave me the eye to start talking to her mom so she could go upstairs discreetly. Then her mom was like "where'd she go?" so I went to go check, even though I knew.

I walk into the bathroom, scaring the **** out of her. She had lines of ******, diesel, whatever. We called it diesel, I don't know if that's like a common name for it? Is it? Whatever, I said "let me try it."

Why? I don't know why. To this very second I can't remember what I was thinking. She didn't ask, and maybe that's why. But she put some on her hand and I snorted it. I hated the taste. Sometimes I smell it, and I don't know what it is that smells like ******, but I find myself saying out loud, when people are around, "ugh it smells like ******."

This is one of my catchphrases I think, and I am not proud of it anymore.

People always ask me what it felt like the first time. I remember not feeling anything. I remember not feeling guilty for helping Natalie remain a drug addict in her parents house. I remember her pinching me and telling me not be obvious, but oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know that it was going to make me feel like a warm pancake that just wanted to sleep wide awake.

Sleeping wide awake, that's a good way to describe how it feels.

I tell people this a lot, this process of drug use, and how I ended up shooting ****** and kind of just ignoring that I was.

I smoked *** and said "well it's not like I'm doing E"
then I did E and said "I'm not doing coke"
then it was "it's not ******"
and then it was "it's not like I'm shooting it."

Once I started shooting it, I didn't have any excuse or cop out, I was just curious as to what else I could inject into my body and became that glorified drug addict who lived free and did anything she wanted and felt like she came out of a book or a movie or a ****** up story you only hear strangers gabbing about on the train.

I was that girl. Natalie was much worse though. But that didn't come until I was about 18.

I had morals, yes even heavily addicted to ******, I had morals. I didn't steal from my family. This was one thing that would not break for me even when I was maybe putting **** in my mouth for money. But that's not even entirely true because I didn't do it for the money, it just happened that way.

So I'm probably 16 at this point in the story. I'm meeting guys off MySpace with her, guys from rich towns that want *** or coke or ******, just guys who can't get it in their towns. She's ******* them, I'm stealing from them. We don't keep friends very long because they know what we're up to after a few times.

She also sold her parents wedding rings, I didn't even know until after the fact, or I would have tried to stop her.

Her mother was so good to me. I spent a lot of time at their house. Her mom always invited me for holidays, despite the huge family they already had coming, because she knew my home life wasn't too good and she just treated me like I imagine you're supposed to treat a daughter you like. She was also very religious, which added to the blinders she had when it came to Natalie. She thought she could pray the drugs away, the way she tried to pray my gay away.

I was absolutely heart broken and completely beside myself the day her mother yelled, "she told me what you did. She told me you took the rings."

I didn't take the rings but what was I supposed to do? Try and convince her that Natalie did? She knew, somewhere she knew, but she didn't want to believe it so I just walked out of the house and never came back. I cried about that for a long time because I loved her mother, so much more than I am trying to say here. She might have been oblivious, but she was the sweetest woman in the world and I feel horrible that she had a daughter like Natalie.

I met so many characters. Chris. I don't remember his last name but it was something really white boyish. He would drive 45 minutes to us so we could get him 8 bags of ****** when he paid for 10, but we'd pocket two. We did this a lot during the day actually. We'd get drugs for people and just never tell them you get a bundle (10 bags) for 80$, and they'd tell their friends we'd go for them, and they'd think the same thing. Why? Oh, because these were very white people that were afraid of the "ghetto." And it was the ghetto, it was Newark, NJ. The corner of Victoria and Garside, what up, what up. Come see me.

I never really liked Chris. He was a musician but he wasn't that good. I think he thought he was Conor Oberst, and at that time, he kind of looked like him. But he was just some rich white kid with an inflated ego and I didn't feel bad ripping him off, or his Trust Fund Baby friends.

I did feel bad though when one of them died in front of us.

So I guess this is where I'll start writing the "**** got real real fast" stuff, now that I've hopefully explained the type of person I am and how I got to this point.


Why drug dealers cut their drugs with poison and whatever else, I'll never know. Bad for business if you ask me, but I've never been a big fan of the business world, but this seems pretty similar.

Natalie is driving Chris' car and we didn't snort any ****** yet, which was weird, but I'm grateful we didn't. We bring it back to Chris and his friends, who are waiting a few towns over for us. They get in the car and are like "just drive around for a bit so we can do this."

They all have separate bags, and I feel terrible I can't remember the girl's name that died, I want to say it was Karen or something like that but I know it wasn't. She just rolls up a bill and snorts out of the bag and within like 10 seconds she's screaming and everyone in the backseat is screaming and I turn around and there's blood pouring out of her nose and it's all over her hands and the car and her boyfriend and Chris and I think her eyes are bleeding but I'm not entirely sure if that's what was happening. And I'm like "What the **** what the ****" because it wasn't a normal nose bleed, this girl was just, flowing blood out of her face.

Natalie is emotionless as always. I'm screaming "get to the hospital get to the ******* hospital" and the girl is like screaming "it hurts oh my god oh my god it hurts" and her boyfriend is like "yo man, what the **** bb are you okay bb."

It's weird that in situations like this everyone repeats themselves but I think your brain kind of stops working and you need to repeat yourself so the rest of you can process the magnitude of ****** up that your eyes are seeing.

Needless to say, Natalie didn't go straight to the hospital, she stopped the car a few blocks away. The girl died within 15 minutes. I don't know why Natalie or I wasn't held accountable for what happened, but I think it had something to do with me telling Chris who the dealer was, and this was the only time in my life I ever gave out a name, even when I was in jail, I didn't rat anyone out. But death is different and anyone who doesn't believe in being a rat when you're faced with that kind of guilt, is a *******.

Natalie got out and started walking, Chris got in the front seat and I followed after Natalie. He did take his friend to the hospital immediately after but Natalie was being inhumane, and it was just better she got out of the car because she probably would have driven us all into a river to avoid being arrested.

I really have no idea why she got out of the car though, she had no fear, I think she was just annoyed, like this girl's death ruined her day when it ruined my life. I guess making a joke out of it makes it easier for me to deal with, but it still isn't. For me, it was monstrous, it was desensitizing, it was mortality showing itself and I was like "I'll never do ****** again." But that was a lie. I found out a week later via MySpace message that the girl had glass (!?) in her bag as well as ****** and I have no idea. I have no ******* idea what why how. I just don't understand that.

Chris still came around for ****** though. And he still brought his friends, just not the ones that were there that day.

What am I, like 17? I'm still senior in high school and I have really ****** concept of age, and I meet this other guy.

MY GOD WHAT A MAN.

Yeah, I said it. He was 38, built like Hulk Hogan, and had the sweetest smile and the most honest blue eyes I have ever seen.

He also had been out of jail for a whole year before we met him. He was tied to a car ring where people would pay him to steal cars. He was in jail for 6 years and when I turned 21, I heard he landed himself back in jail for trying to **** someone or something.

He was nice though. I couldn't figure out why he was so obsessed with Natalie. But the niceness wore out and I finally learned what a creepy ******* he was.

He used to ride his bicycle to meet up with us and he had a lot of money, he just wasn't allowed a license. He was a construction worker for the union, made like 60$ an hour and what do you know, he was a ****** addict.

He told me how they get drugs inside jail. You get a girl to come visit you and sit down with you. You kiss them, like make out kissing because that's all you need. That like 4 seconds before someone is like HEY CUT IT OUT, and they have the drugs wrapped up in their mouth, and you get the picture. Just in case you were wondering how that works.

He also told me that I reminded him of his sister, that died of a drug overdose.
He also showed me his **** one day when he was at my house alone with me.
He also ****** off on my couch and tried to get me to **** it.
Then he tried to get me just to touch it.
Then I asked him to leave.
And then some other stuff happened that I don't feel comfortable writing about but I probably will another day.

He turned out to be a ******* ****** and I don't really trust anyone with pretty eyes anymore. But he was fun. Once he started trying to impress me, a 17 year old girl, and Natalie who was like 22, he decided he'd go back to his old ways and steal cars. I can't count the amount of porsches I've been in or how many miles per hour we went or how many car accidents there were that we shouldn't have walked away from it unharmed. He never hit anyone else, just walls and guardrails, rolled into ditches.

Seat belts, seriously, wear them. I don't anymore, but I'm going to start again.

He used to give me a lot of money. A Lot Of Money, just to hang out with him and watch him ******* and ****. I don't know sometimes when I think about these things.

Natalie did something stupid, she got caught stealing from him. He didn't mind giving us money and I think that's why he was so mad. He would have just handed it to her if she asked. So he started coming to my house a lot in stolen cars, then I introduced him to my other teenager female friends and it worked out really well for me.

He was gone for good and it was better that way.

I was still only snorting ****** up until this time of my life. The taste of ****** and the amount I puked from it was becoming too much and I was losing a lot of weight and it wasn't healthy looking so I decided to start shooting. I didn't even do it for the normal reason which is, you get higher, faster and harder.

Natalie and I are in a bathroom of my friend's house whose mother is handicapped, bed bound, so we just go there all the time to get high. The mother is also diabetic so there's a lot of unused empty needles. I help her shoot. And it's scary, she would shake and tremble and it was really bad. Sometimes I'd think to myself, "it's like your body is trying to stop you from doing it."

But if you like blood, watching someone shoot up is really cool. You mix water with the powder and, ew now that I'm thinking about it, what the ****. You wrap your arm up, so your veins pop up, put the needle into a vein and you pull some blood out, I don't know the reason behind this, and you shoot it back into yourself.

I'm really uncomfortable with the whole idea of shooting so I shot into my hands because I had very prominent veins there. I eventually started shooting speed *****, ****** and coke, which was too much fun for someone as emotionally unstable as I was, to be doing something so completely unpredictable. The first time I shot ******, I never snorted it again.

I shot Jack Daniels once and never did that again either. I figured I'd get drunk really fast, right? Wrong, it burned like a ***** and I started smashing my hand into the bathroom sink screaming "WHAT THE **** WHY DOES IT BURN."

It's whiskey, Audrey. Whiskey.

I met so many more people when I was shooting. I became friends with an entire *******, all the strippers, their boyfriends, their "daddies" and just, those kinds of people, and like I said before, I'll write about that another day. But that is where I met Janelle and Kevin, aka, Jack and Sally. They were these really gothy ****** addicts and this is going to be ridiculous, but it was so beautiful when they shot up.  

Kevin would be like "okay, baby, ready?" and he'd caress her arm and she'd wrap it, and he'd kiss her and then kiss her arm, then he'd put the needle in and I'd be sitting on the bed sobbing because I thought it was so cute, in like, a really disgusting "I'm clearly on drugs" kind of way.

I didn't hang out with them for that long, Natalie ****** Kevin and that ****** because Kevin and I used to make forts inside the house and talk a lot about nothing, but it was fun and I felt like a child, and I liked feeling like I was a child and that it was okay I was acting the way I was.

A bunch of people that hung out there eventually started doing ****** and I couldn't stand it so I had to get away from a bit because my guilt came back and I felt like I was killing everyone.


Natalie started setting up drug deals so they'd get ripped off if they went without her, she started turning on me, stealing from me, she had me set up for a deal and her dealer put a gun in my mouth when I started arguing with him about how he gave me like wood chips or whatever. It was not ******, but we still ran like thieves together.

She introduced me to the next guy we were going to use, his name was Pablo. He was about 42 and lived in his parents basement. He was an outstanding artist, I mean, I couldn't figure out why he was in his parents basement with the amount of talent he had. We used to smoked embalming fluid with him and angel dust.

Now, if you ever want to know what it feels like to be Alice in Thunderland, smoke embalming fluid. I went on a 4 day drug binge that consisted of nothing but dust, fluid, her
Sydney Victoria Feb 2013
The Warm Yellow In This Freezing Sunrise,
Reminds Me Of The Marigold We Picked,
And The Greyish Brown Of The Dirtied Snow,
Reminds Me Of The Woodticks You Picked Off Me,
The Lights Of These Passing Cars,
Remind Me Of Your Bona Fide Smile,
And The Crows In The Trees Remind Me Of,
The Crisp Mornings On Your Terrain,
And Now I Realize There Is No Word Loud Enough,
No Song Too Masculine Yet Gentle To Wish You Goodbye,
And There Is No Poem Beautiful Enough,
To Lead You Properly To Your New World
Goodbye Uncle Steve.. The Reason Why I Called This Poem "Suspenders Unused" Is Because You Always Wore Them. I Love You, Say Hello To Aunt Petsie Pie For Me <3
Set of cave genes If you could read... pluri freedoms of the dark light of ignorance teach understand that breathe under the Naturality Natural Nature is not necessary to have an understanding heart and store on their empty heads of knowing ancient rain where wisdom possess. If dance on every grain of chickpea for each foot plant what could a plant obey; foot, Plant, and Plantation...

Resulting in kingdoms on my animals, fungi, plants, and protists, media freedom as a seed to reach our evolutionary lack of ceased hopeness...

First  Ellipsis Angle loneliness"God felt Chained"

Chained down by dragging the last link of its multiple arcane freedom in which transfigured recent swings where he collapsed with the latter being of himself whose life lies lifeless alive but lost. The latter that child not to know and deprived of nascent freedom that will never be born and come knowledge in our genome of Independence.

When the caveman thought to be a complement to the world is enslaved by the mystery of lost in himself... The born and born, never dies, that's so naive and innocent... is still full unaware of their free will, rather it is he who must re-literate and be a living part of the ancestral genome Cavernario component. Oh Heavenly Lord of the steppes I look because more of you today without having lived what you lived, as he would have played with my gaze to succor and keep you had fallen into the fangs of an animal, or you had fallen on the glacier cliff where he has separated you from your Clan Cave.

Emancipation means to be always innocent, my blood runs through yours,
I read and understand any phenomenon of deprivation exist without you lack wisdom satiate if all your generations crushed by the ignorance of falling subject will be well, me and my being I take my precognitions as a tormented child's worst nightmare before about sleeping. Sixth Papal almost, almost kneel before the creation of memorizes creation. This prerogative Lord lives Bread’s God Minor remaining....of whose iconography will not leave this fifth fraternal dimension will not come, if not more will enter the latter end of absolute solitude... and shorter than the last thousand years of Neandertal.


Cavernary Political and Ellipsis:

On a day of gentle wind and tense rain proclaiming Clan joined, they all shouted running, the ground shook and the children slept in terror... the 10 infants who were talking about the Sign from above, but the nines they crossed his arms remaining to create solidarity roof that protects the man in your imagination...
The eighth child of the clan ran quickly into the arms of his mother and she imagined how far, how far would never come... uncharacteristically who came with his brother seventh had in their hands the word of entertainment of Being, to be a plaintiff political all of braiding them together with lines enabling the hermit may decide that creation is a mass of lines of certain fashions together, everything sings like the slightest cyclamen dew on the line pointy rough fallen fungus. All arms folded on the upper porch of the Vatican Macario in Franconia, saying that many who unite in their fevered requests large modern man ceased to be autonomous when it came out of their caves and charnel pit.

Ran all she enjoyed doing that almost without knowing whether or not they fall...
Ran because of every day the sun ahead of them a lesson for a man of the future...
They are running to be released the day of his birth chained to stars of light, to carry him to his mother and father, sneaking to his brothers.

Brother worn eleventh birth to her existence as another being evolved Eukaryotic: Surely those provided beings of cell membranes rhizomes reflected in higher liberty lives purged of ectoplasm walk without a discounted subsidiary. Shakespeare in Helsingor appeared immune to a blood brother to all that limits the Draconian feel in the pinnacles drawn 700 greened steeds. From the deepest swoon in the underworld subway Helsingor, follow the prevailing souls presided over by the great ear of the hard sandcastle, stressed hard Ghosts of Stratford upon Avon.

Freedom plague spits words of pancreatic poisoned exordium, spits verses of confusion disorders without permission, without solid bass sound without liquid sea that resists mad edges followed by solid sound...
But smaller stones give priority to conjugate final sentence and noble verses Guardian
to mission how important would Liberation:

Maybe it's a synonymy of Astral Solar...
It is not Solitude, is a free nation that has its own kind prosecutor's office for even when Euthanasia closes your eyes to the astral, will run the stones of the Sea of joy believing that neither you dare if there is no healthy grass to clarify the rainy day terror.


Reverse walk creeks aggravated birds feet, walking great playful ruse.
Reverse run my comrades preparing festivity meals with chandeliers and singing lay plenary., Singing Avenue pine port Firenze, Second run subtracting minutes and hours the minute is enough for me with your face in my arms to recognize your longevity anathema times oblique faces for lip-smacking hailstones Templars.

In 1297 in northern Italy nearby rural families migrate to chalky Venice, Perugia came the exiles walked to find their independence south of the Iberian Peninsula. They were so atoned as in the echoing flutes, harps, zithers, and harpsichords field temperate; They invited the blunting of intemperate monocordio.

Golden Chariot Carrenio

The golden carriage carrying them came without a single space rather than inheritances acquired goldsmiths of ancient noble and chaste solid shine. Carrenio; the coachman wore on his left arm bracelet thousand mobile travel without stopping to drink more water and to feed their horses. After revamping its gold pieces bartered by a slave who was getting Carrenio Christians fleeing the Romans. Well, they fled as far as the plains of great earthly squandered his memory and that end of the end should come.

How am away from my land more I learn it's back to her,
There is no ground for the first time, but that which is foreign
Carrenio of Perugia and sensed that ****** was Jewish ashes,
Luther King black paste of burnt forest,
Mandela and Biko Ogre garage from Victorian Empire,
Gandhi in his humility is always put behind the Sun
to figure out the small
Tagore trashed my heart caressing the entire universe uncorrupted
Hölderlin together in the cabin waiting for his mother at Zimmerman,
That my beloved Borker forest should shine gold teeth with black resin,
Theresa of Calcutta was eaten and swallowed all diseases lepers knowing good taste proverbial dessert psalm,
Jose Miguel Carrera was more than a trench, clay bullets in each of his temples where he received
To be doubly Lonco is to be halved, lacerated by lay his head on his land, not galloping on his back throngs of wit and hope out Nazareth trembles when an F-16 diluted ***** covering landless caravans Heritage continues to lead the people killed but the mosque wall has been Fe Erecta.
Helena plenipotentiary Kowalska at Vilnius, Faustina Divine Mercy Diadema
The agonizing deprivation of millions of people with cancer in every continent of private well-being analgesic, weighed down by increased pain, almost as strong as the Master Hammered Golgotha, so it was that Joshua has cancer always to slow it down on us. Benigno whether metastasis, malignant albeit benign finance.
The death of an innocent little angel devoured by the beast remains as a fluff hairless sardine in the jaws of a shark baron.
Khalil Gibran writes that with both hands to support the reviewer behind in Bicharri and bohemian Paris,

Salvador Allende Gossens was born since he was deceived by his parents who would heal politics, would rather dig their ancestors in their brains scattered in the currency in face seal or tail of.

Frei Montalva that today has to receive the Macro Augusto Heaven their arms, their sorrows, and regrets, although his worst military executioner.

Legion is an offshoot of liquid central gray material, which defers well done becoming but not defeated, it is the decree of the divine threshold space Living or ceases to live, that failure does not exist, it is the postponement of success - success.

The Genocide September 11 in New York was a ritual, who produced was a small wrath strength of the Rotary world, as the camshaft is upset in the history of trying to make more alphabet in schools where the flag hoisting and found scholars in West and East, so they can learn more than reading of both unlettered, lip and water to possess it to write with it. The worst disaster is read with the memory that will never happen... I write my greatest need with lipstick and my greatest need I write eagerly to participate. Yesterday I passed by a boutique and buy lipsticks that are closer to the language, written with the mouth and not the hand. !

Freedom, debauchery, libration, drawer, Bookstores..! Carrenio..: he said see I'm right! Raise and educate has a great synonymy with autonomy because the ancestors wrote everything that deprived them and made them fear, but do not have to eat the autumn gives me to dress the return of spring, bread orchid, and cineraria. Hence by that inner syllabic singing hunger sated that sought sheet to sheet rid of everything until the end of the book as the encounter between night and day without considering oblivious to anything or anyone on the track window swing wind, wind seeping.


It was old Zeus or Hera of Antique,
Cavern to house geometric polyphonic, angular seeds to create fashions kiss kissed everything that any vertical plane does not fit with the closed horizon
For hands and angels, Hebrews the inner soul of every carpenter and stonemason shrunk, wash their eyes and cheeks with songs of vibration and idyllic comfort,
Everything resembled and sounded Bethlehem 2.0 deities choirs sweeping grasslands,
The similarity of this clairvoyant child is born in a cave...
Rising motherly free Soliloquy Papini sitting to the right of ruminant cattle,
So archaic that to be born is not born in a clinic mega Cristus but hundreds of kilometers and hundreds who are born with the undergirding whispers and servitude being.
Where the multi gray impetuous born star is a healthy gauze story in the present tense... this angelic child grows by Miriam washes his feet in a belligerent abolished stone. His father must wash their hands on a stone which is where measured his ecclesiastical mystical stature, stone Madonna to heal his feet where he leaves to free himself, to free us... Marble gamete fémina vault, where he sleeps without knowing whether it is due, the ***** fell from the sky.
How wise is the Wise, it makes permissible for much more than two thousand years we stone quarry wheel and wheel, homily, and blessing to not wake at night to sleep startle middle and uphill.

Me of the referent of antiquity is not me of today is polished cobble stone,
Useful weapon quarry road there and backtrack to have blisters stone and soft thoughts under my pillow soft stone as a whole.

If you're ****** private living and have a free soul choosing coexist, then you are low in the cemetery on a tombstone of heresies.

Neolithic early 4500 after Hildegard von Bingen and his entourage and prowled full and channeled, swooning in her swoon with flowers in his hands and his followers planting forests on top of Stonehenge.

Carrenio says...: you see I'm right, we coexist, I die like the worst ****** cancer and then put a tombstone Stonehenge conspire in my honor black pain prayers of Salisbury. It blooms in vibrant red rubies that detonate in chromaticity and life. The stream itself is exceeded the aquatic plant Macarenia.

Call us and civilize us, outdated as far as my tired feet though I come not ashamed to see my new tracks.

Carrenio says...; see I'm right Joshua has traces of gold from other Caterpillar shod feet. Antique everything is prescribed according to their legacy today is Lent Pro that came before it was Lent vestige Pentecost came to be a nickname of the mystery of the passion in less than a rooster crows.

Beside it is the mystery of the disappointment of stubborn demon, which helps you all carry the cross, but not the entire load. Fire and Light at dawns where the splendor born...


Genome Freedom, even today every centimeter of my witness of each component, if the basic origin of the signs of the primitive world, is that we have lost the bark of the lexicon, which does not allow us to understand the meditations to ask for something, not You need to ask something. Today genome is requesting something because thousands of people who asked for millions of years, now it's time to cater to them. They were wrapped in cloth shroud of spiritual sacredness, today cemeteries mega dance their souls leave no sleepers both much grass on their heads not yet sullied by the puppet Azrael.


Impossible not to decorate the rocks forged empires that fall into the rubble, they bring 476 d. C., a new opening Middle age freedom of travel both in history thousands of years begins a new axis Golden Carrenio’s Chariot.

Carrenio Wagon

This great colossal ship Carrenio time is a timber that holds the sky, a beam that does not faint or distended thousands a. C, and the old age of King's large musings that were forgotten. It is astride ship millennium, their history of oppression has seen in the wheel, instrument wise rolling like a wheel before 5, 000 years ago, here  We fought and prostrated to distant lands millennium after millennium him away.

Golden Chariot is the structure that freedman us to enforce a new life on earth, even the Gods prided themselves move the stars to constellations called her noble Auriga sailing in full the Universes and Cartwheel Galaxy or cart Wheel. As if to say that when the Universe and its own mythology, were visited between them inch by inch by wherever they shine.

Carrenio mask and frame used had strength, temper, and tittle. When the first libertarian squall of antiquity came closer, Rome was already small and nobles populate what is a quote, Piccola. The executioner always frightened and starts out of his own wickedness. Markos Botsaris as did in Greece, and surrounding towns Messologhi remote, they were free more than tuned in massif Arankithos high wind. He was riding to Kanti once again with the golden rider Etrestles of Kalavrita. According to the Chronicle that came from distant millennia has envisioning promote its neighbor's heroic to free Messolonghi of ****** wars. All this I saw with his own eyes Carrenio, every thousand years styling with Etrestles, cleaned their nostrils so that new breed of horses to thrive,

Avignon, in the necropolis, witnessed as Azrael was cleaning his wings Jade antipopes, another story begins... even he seeks to candela who can read this story, and who can provide it from hand to hand cutting semicolons who disclosed.


Second  Ellipsis Angle  New Era:

Ara released the ropes throwing a big ship, History makes a man is at the center of the world. Revolutions, thinking, communication, and especially vindicate man in his right-libertarian. artists with their creations flowing all over the world, mutating classic Renaissance to abstract overlook. Family appearing welfare and needs. A ramble and so many broken laws. Mankind is distracted l film and theater artist of tradition. Art now has sound and movement, then social and political revolutions are industrial that unite everyone behind the pivot deployment of social classes.


Everything evolves until we get tired of doing so. It rests and then continues. This is modern reality, we wrote about the history of events on facts that have never been told. The world has tired all the Eras, but each pause time that has happened has been recharged, nothing finished if not started again. After so many wise lawyers, clergy plunged into great towers bound books. Is evident again can not read or understand. Our realities are missing valid without knowing I close and then open another door. human and civil rights, fair wages, so excessive autocracy monarchy. Freeman can walk along the paths, even if they were trenches.

Zephyr soft murmur which clutters in the Irises by Van Gogh, the painter is the biggest star trek, called with his feet images and colors that would make his own liberty to live naturally insane. And many others Brueghel "Triumph of Death" that roam the countryside, perhaps a medieval piece of Tarskovski; Andrei Rublev in futile painters decorating steps in the fontano chignon Androniko Monastery Moscow, extinct Rublev 70 years, Tarkovsky 54.

Early ellipsis - Campo dei Fiori in Rome to see die at the stake Giordano Bruno by order of the Holy Inquisition. The irruption of the Inquisition, but their feet are touching the flowers, the seasoned cassock continues to haunt the universe of Faith Dominica Trastevere, it is seen to lectures on how to be bold with the informers and the Whistle Blower dies without shade in spring, you resist the star on the asphalt on the magical island of holiness.

Carrenio says: Come I'm right, we can not read, because the brutality of the Cosmos is manure per ton weathered in the backyard of the aristocracy. I will continue with respect and crosed in Crete. Lila Kedrova means the fear of bunk bed tied to her bed and is free in foreign lands leg. Queen insular matriarchy, she lives more than any Greek Goddess, waiting for his Adonis, to fill out honors. Win an Oscar but lost to Zorba, he loses his house but won a Tony Awards. How many women teach us that to win you have to give everything to lose his brains, and thus count as the lost number remains to be retained. Zorba whines in her arms, she moans in the arms of her husband Zeus Steve, proof of a new era. Onyx for his tomb, plate of this great tragedy.

On the evening of December 14, 1964, attended the premiere. Soul of Carrenio was with them but was denied his attendance at the banquet, finally running out and watching the glasses lips and stoles spent his neck.

                                          
          ­                      Numbered Mysterious Death
                                                  Mané

If I have to feel floe on my feet and cold in my prayers will be the Dark Glory. What is slimming rays of the day, everything smelled of silence, maybe it was Kennedy, or better was The Mané.

Closure of my glory suffers the wind...
Flowers lying silence my soul alight,
Thick square displays the song of my voice...
When they speak Quadratils one to one order their
Spirituous voice.

And the spirit singing fiber of my heart told me:
Never you say I Exist ¡ not exist because they do not exist!
Only face daily the different reflection of your body
In front of yourself with another face and another body...

I want to talk with the thought
And this same subtract my little silhouette,
Lavishes wingless bird that flies only in their theology...
That is the duty and melt with my look,
Solid colors components
Crunching the altars of heaven retaining its pale warmth of anorexia.

Yellow Glory hair good event...
If you receive yellow lights, plus I do not sing my own game here in my empty veins,
Yellow my heart...
Yellow my heart
Yellow my collective heart.

They are run by large green and sunny meadows, children who had Mane in this major milestone in its last gasp. Now she is the mother of his children; it up and them in the last temptation of the mystery of death.

Carrenio keeps rolling, the brightness offered his Golden wagon to the ground. Gold grooves ago, and looking at where it realizes that it's landmass light mud. Since he felt whispers from the confines of time he had never felt as if you were finishing your journey or the world. It raining years and years and continues because nobody mends the mysterious death Numbered.

Heaven and Earth did not hold, the bottom fell precipitously pocket Lord and denied several times uncontained. She shivered in the World and the rooster crowed several times to never be heard or the Pentagon.

He is walking and knees bent,
we embraced by the golden chariot and oxen nor held
we bent us all lying on his knees,
up shoulders not hear from where came the bad grace of his departure,
numbered all the time of complaints of how then she would come,
It is unknown who would be but brought wine in his hand on the crispy mask
We ran from side to side and nothing was real

Everything seemed to sing in the chapel on a sad day,
But I hear loudly like Latin and watchfulness,
Those who know his mystery is no stranger to them
They all look but transgress the sin of silence.

Carrenio still absorbed in the hallway,
Angulo ellipsis she comes winged like a star burning tar,
A high speed to give us the new
No garden can deprive greet in speed visit
Dome comes, it comes on the eve of the new moon.

Numbered Widow mysterious,
Mané is a land of golden color and no celestial whoever wants in his cell,
A breath test, and feeding the Toffy and his henchmen
That sustaining more lively detail, there is no one that can not be targeted

It was modern, it was night, it was his torn life as an accomplice of his exile abandonment in his allegory of tender dismissal. Carrenio achieved so say goodbye to the beams of light that told him of the mysterious death Numbered. He sat on the roadside and drank some wine. Then dry with his handkerchief his neck, and have never wanted to experience such an event in a toast ever drunk.

Third Ellipsis Angle  of  New Era

Independence of Chile, it concerns Mapuche atingent case. Araucania pound, then 1818 central Chile. In Brief, Earth makes free an entire nation. His naive and primitive braves inhabitants emancipated themselves from all sides, they came to save a people who were just following where nobody can reach. Independence of the United States separates us for approximately 42 years, breaking up owners of nowhere. Industrial Abolitionist and South Slaver and Agraria. The biggest event that more than 640, 000 men and fallen activists planted safely from repression fields.

In Chile all rule resembled this secession in today's Araucano man prays for his fallen by almost more than 3 centuries in Chilean lands of Araucanía’s men. Lautaro genius and his supporters the heart of Pedro de Valdivia ate; Map ever made to your battle mapping Tucapel. "Initiation and final symbol occurred after 282 years of fierce war" and Mapuche land forever their independence from the Spanish Empire Captain-General important in foreign lands never subjected to foreign rule would eat.

The Machis and Loncos make supplications in native forests falling on them pollen on its back as if nothing out 10 times better...

To Libertas strengthen in the west is necessary to push the limits of the earth beneath his tongue and penance for the greedy entangled in the lines of bloodied sky, rebellions Chieftains death-defying all together at the edge of a cliff. 1769 The Pehuenches led by Lebian Cacique, joined the Mapuches razing Yumbel and Laja, the most peaceful Huilliches also joined mass alerting perhaps innocent people land blood-stained war and the Mackay Luchsinger.

No doubt portals military rebellion trigger blood, where they opened a tip and swords in the past. Here's reading concern is that the succession is timeless time, a sword without a sword, but on the tip of her blood is seen where there were herds and warriors crushed by their own footsteps. Here the phenomenon of freedom begins; Humanity runs treading his own footsteps, to save his family from a threat, but not strange forces that force you to use your defenses, because in the groves populate many helpless souls with his sword unused at the expense of being forced to use.

Freedom genome; It aims to reach where it has not come without looking back,
Chalices pour out is where the troubadours do not cuddle her close looks like time, singing while watching the changes are not of a new life


Heaven star,
Come to me,
I ask a sign to see them arrive,
Because I want to thus been dragged
Being together Eager to feel...
Those respites without being comforted
going to the mouth of the serpent.

About the Garden,
My home is to put my love,
He has to put the days imagining close...
To enjoy yourself is nonexistent...

Oh, my house tormenting me...!
Because in it I feel your smell
They are alone lights
Where I would wait for me to be in the dark...

In the coming future,
You will not see or hear my anger...
Perhaps my happiness nor peace praying
As the spear in the hands of the perpetrator.

You know a storm of whispers
I do sow your name in the wilderness,
It's because my judgments of hope
They mount up arable land deposited in my frenzy
Misled by a love which is my love.

But you never understand,
Because time has invaded my dwelling,
Invading my brain to give
It has invaded my choosing to love...

On the grass path,
Every time I move away from you,
I turn to see if you have not been...

Love came,
And I think that leaves us alone to avail ourselves
Ranging in our time...


But I can not resist his silence,
For my house want the noise of its action,
Why keys to the gates that serve my understanding.

Tramples my heart the fragmenting oddities into smaller pieces,
Your answer that call.

Tur love be like if I had created...
As if only you had appreciated your beautiful creation.

Do not destroy your work expresses in his mystery give life to your dreams!
Man aiming better earth, ask some of you to join your dreams...

! Your wife of this land does not procrastinate your misfortune,
I discover far peaceful landscapes like an echo in the spring,
As large and deep as your forgiveness for loving me more


It tells the Earth to the Sun in its perky tear benefactress of new opportunities as good and healthy smile rainbow on the back of Oviedo sheep valleys of freedom of Pietrelcina life.

To be continued…
Genoma Freedom , by Jose Luis Carreño Troncoso - Under Edition
Lysander Gray Oct 2012
Her mouth glittered agape
With sacred promise,
Like a box of unused
Engagement invites
Christening invites
Birthday invites
Still in the wrapper
For sale at a
Lifeline.

When you’d rather live
In a car
Than the zombie stance
Of a modern house,
Clean and soulless
With a hermetically sealed lawn,
Winter pageantry draws to a close
With bogan’s shooting-
Pearly eyed paupers
With constellations in their gaze.
With eyes full of hope and stars
That burnt bright and fade for
Flickering lens light.

Their voices murmur soft
Through catacomb
And underbrush
As only the ephemeral things are whispered of –
Dreams.
The addicts of ideals
The junkies of hope
The drinkers of despair
Have tiger soft tongues.

They lap and feast gladly,
From broken vessels
Chipped with hazardous teeth
That seek to fill their
Ermine mouths with the ******
Draught
Of truth.
Stumbling through wine-hour
They swarm, with tongues ******
And all constellations burnt out.

The hyacinth rides wild
Upon her shoulder,
Writhes in the silver brunt
Of moonlight,
Writhes in the stillness of dead perfume.

Marching to the beat
Of my enemies drum,
My hands inside my pockets.

Little bluebirds spun from dream
Sit on the holy perch,
A branch in all innocent minds.

The redeemed and patient
Make a subtle art from
Long distance perversions.

Similarly as we chase ghosts over Daffodils.

Fields of winter
under lunar glow
sway without us.

Long distance love
lingers with loose lust
along Regret street.

I hung it next to the memory
Of childhood cooking and Indian summers
Without further thought.

It slipped into the novel that took the form
Of an old coat, slipping into the lined pocket
It sank with a sigh.
Satisfied with itself.

Bombarded by the pounding
Dead eyed stare of ***** goddesses,
Broken by the undisputed angelic
And unglued ones,
All moon faced
All hopelessly optimistic
All lawfully rebellious
With green serenity
We pasted our dreams
On a wall so real it shone gossamer.
He counted the imperfections in the glass
With mind hesitation
As the whole world went black,
In a sea of much deserved discontent,
Wishing for the soft.

A moment of pure luck?
Jesus was an astronaut
Smoking Zen by the fire.

Suicidal angst
never had you in sonnets?
What a ******' shame.

Our life is but a song
We never hear.

I chipped away at the excesses
of my baroque person,
each strike took a
Railing
mounting
wall
decoration
desire
demand
exclamation
from the battlements.
All left now, a hill.

I paid for my banquet
with a sip of loneliness
and left behind the question
that asked all quiet poets
the meaning of love,
that asked all quiet poets
to answer with a villanelle
shouted from every
distant peak.

They sent the troopers
to greet me instead,
and my library was put in shackles,
and I kissed their ***** feet.

I answered that I carved this mountain
from the baroque bedrock
upon which they laid their city.
They smiled and asked about the aqueducts.
I wept and spoke of kitchenettes.

A meal provided
on a lead cast plate
my jailor asked about freedom
I answered with defeat.

There were two atoms
One questioned the meaning of existence
The other the existence of meaning.
             -Regardless they looked the same.

An apple on a branch,I took
The same way history takes a footnote.

The same way cashiers are all doctorates.
The same way trains find the station.
The same way you sing like a bird (and I like a cow).
The same way we never really wish to be writers.
The same way our final friend is made of pine.
The same way all streets lead to nowhere.
The same way all jobs **** society.
The same way we always lie to our children.
The same way a man loves a woman.
The opposite way we ****.
The opposite way we make love.
The way that I know a man who’s totem animal is a worker ant and he is unemployed by choice.
The same way we take old memories and turn them into fashion.
The very same way all sacred things become profane and all profanity becomes sacred in the eyes of many.

Dying relic of the Optimistic Seventies,
A new coat of paint for the old irony
     -slap dashed with obscurity.
Although I wear the costume of my enemy,
I will write the exaltation in blue smoke
As **** by an unsuspecting victim
Occurs in the dark.

The face of another love stares down at me.
I smile.
Yet I know it is not her.
I weep.
A sudden method sparks revival.

Jackie Pleasure wore a gray smile,
The anthem of a lost generation:
‘Happiness is lost in smiling.’

You are dead to me,
the boatman calls
I will not taste of your amber lips
I will not taste.

The welfare of all never hinged on darkness as we fear the fall,
A multitude of angels sang their songs
And never learnt to say goodbye
Or cast a long distance eye
Over half spent desire.

Drawn out caricatures,
Paraded intoxication
Flirt with our mistress death
And have her pick up the tab.
She pays with silent music.

The ***, we learn, is a bridge
Between all words and waltz’s,
Our Light Brigade to conquer art.

In the twilight of this, our mansioned night
Let us ring out true with indulgence,
Excess, abandon and the call of ‘yes’
Kali rang on the wire of a golden telephone.
Her name
“Kali, Kali…”
Like a quarrelsome minotaur
Flew through the waves of silk ideal
And strangled the babe
With cool breath.

There was ice (oh yes!) and fire and song.
With our candles burnt down to the ash of all streets
We walk then. We walk.
All life is but a song.

The ghosts of all forgotten stamps
Now echo on the wind of speech.
On High! Oh speak!
Of songs sung but never danced
With our broken dream.
When starlight meets the dust, and
Shadow eats the snow,
All our stories are satin sheer
And all our wants are gone.
We watch the memories march, until
They find a sliver of chrome that showed that place
Where all piano’s live and breathe.
My father in the wishing well,
My mother played trapeze.
My sister never saw the light,
My brother never born.
That was that,
Where stars meet dust
And floorboards sing off key.
Over the course of several months, I carried a small notebook in which I kept random musings and poetic snippets that came to me. This is the compilation of that.
mt Oct 2013
Deadbeat
Smelly feet
Walking across its own callouses
Creator of worlds
Perfect inscriber of nameless wonders beyond mere
Conception and discrimination
That permeates the minds of men
Misguided across the arc of ages
Leading only to cycles of
Hollow pain repeating itself
Lacking substance but appearing
Like unmovable boulders perched
Atop greener mountains
That whisper using their voice,
The wind
Carrying its message in its form
Disappearing but never gone
The homeless,
Not content to trap two sided
Ideas of being in overflowing
Homes filled with the true
Forms of out sourcing
The spirit, torn for
Perfect packages to be sent
To faceless names to further
The collection of vessels
Unused.
The wanderer,
Unhappy with goals
Moving towards the never ending
Journey of perfection
That ends nowhere but travels
Everywhere leaving no quarter
Uninvaded and sadly ringing
In transcendental ears
The lonely,
Unwilling to spread their
Personal pain
From personal failures
To any one but themselves
Using the compressed aggregate
Sickness in scientific lobes, only
Representations, to create faucets through which representations
Of the unrepresentative
Eek out an existence
Among glaring, modern edgy
Movements in endless circles
That sear images into retinas
Working their way to ******
Thoughts, deflowering the only
Worthwhile virginity in the sad reflections of experience
Called man.
The ******,
Never fulfilled from false conceptions
Or the self materializing aspect as
The passage of time
Looking to capture the eternal moment and ****** of the Now
Lasting forever but done long
Ago
Chasing the end of self
And forgetting the body for
Higher realms untouched by lazy
Thoughts and repetitive notions
Creating the mundane
The un-mundane is furthur up than most of us can see
Even if touching it is
The experience
Not different from the life you will
Live for a million regressions
The contemporaries
Never travel the
Path of the Mountain
First camels, then lions
Finally to turn into godly offspring of
Flowering being at the peak
Standing above ubiquitous faces
But contact on level planes
The mountain of self
To create a new identity divorced from the diseased blockage
Flowing through humanity's veins
Only to tumble down
Into the pulsating
Heart filling, disintegrating
All in one undiscriminating
Destruction unborn from the
Young universe only
To lose the conception
And absorb the absorber
Forgetting that once,
A young man carried all the
Pain he had handed to himself
In shiny packages
Pretending that the others
Ever even existed.
Umi Mar 2018
By my dear angel Sandalphon as he has been lead in my hand, leaving a clear trail of a cursive writing on a transient sheet of paper,
A crimson sight, so black that one would be caught in trance, reflected by unnatural light of a lamp flickering in the dark of the night, as his feather releases a sweet scent of fresh yet unused ink,
Together with Zadkiel's blooming and happy memories I then am capable to write such down, in an attempt to create poetry, focused,
The sound of scratchy, itchy, rasping echos through this room I inhabit, but already left spititually, engaged in the world of fantasy,
Word by word, the paper is penetrated by this pen, pleasantly, thoughtfully, gently sliding over it to not damage it by accident,
There is no need for haste, heartache nor rush, not is there the need to be concerned about this angels work, duty and his mission to accompany me throughout each and every writing which unfurls,
Alike a story from my mind, from my emotions, deepest wishes, cast on the physical realm with his help,
And once his strengh weakens, fades, loses might and goes out alike an dying ember he will be dunked in fresh ongoing determination, so that he can repeat his duties with exuberance, joy
Casting a smile on my face once literature has been created,
As then I lay my dark knight, my servant for the night to rest,
Until another poem has to be written and his duty awakens him,
After all, in this dreamlike tale it is well to remember;
You don't have to die in a dream

~ Umi
emma green Jun 2012
“My heart wanders the mossy mess of wet country, reliving a time when youth had charm, hand held hand, letters were written with not a classroom blot in sight, kisses were blushed.. and boys ran home to hide their eagerness.

Life was what it was, merely a game of engendered differences.”

scribbled the poet with his special pen. Leaning against an oak - as proud a tree as he was a man.

There was no need to make excuses for his silence here. Why apologise for watching space fill with swirling prisms across such a wonderfully vast panorama? So many greens in this god-forsaken county. But it was refuge for someone like him, was an escape route to whatever the future held. Anyway, where he was concerned, guilt was neither muse nor amusing, it merely lay a rough stony path ready to trip the careless walker he‘d almost become.

‘Oblivious to life in the real world’, he’d been told at least once a week for far too many years. He laughed, those words would never be uttered again.

“Shadows
of buttery budding green
dripping flavour ‘cross soil,
moaning,
muttering,
life.to.come.
fruitful.”

He shook his head, trying to be rid of thoughts, emotions: ‘I don’t want to think of her. ‘HA, too late! There and then the six o’clock in the morning drew his woman from the shadows of deception. He smiled. In his ragged mind she became .. she became a sapling formed of malleable clay. ‘I want to shape her.. a touch here and here so her ******* flourish with pleasure. Then, I‘ll stroke her right side.hip.thigh. to where the skin is both silk soft and a touch of treble plaited gossamer, that trimmed topiary of woman awaiting her future.

Who knows, in my next life perhaps I’ll be a sculptor and lay claim to the master’s crown. I’ll become lord of much and more.. why not, someone has to!’

“Memories,
hands soft as sugar spun
in quadrants arched quiescent,
harmonic pleasuring,
all.frantic.full.
ripe as berries brown
and fatal flawed.”

Man scratched the pen against vellum, then.. oh then, heard its crickling cry; remembered the rippling of her moan.. the call of his name.. the echo of his weeping into her. Then her - fingers gripping where space permitted.. palms moist and made fluorescent.. back arching.. hair flying.. falling onto each of the four crumpled pillows. Then, then.. becoming a streaming sway of tressed love battling breath. And the smell of wild garlic filled the air

never to ward off his fears, nor outsmart his demons. He was meant to be taken by the sight of a woman both too good and bad for him.

“Feeling night
a creep of nails tip touch
in devil’s bliss
where all men meet a foe,
but headlong thrills
deep.diving.hot.
as hell”

He took his pen and with a mighty shout, ****** a myriad of dark memories into his own heart - his memories, his memories - not hers. She’d laughed when he asked her to stay with him, to be his .. forever. Until that moment the pen had been softly ****** between his full lips but moved to be gentled between index finger and thumb. Her rampaging words struck home. They broke his silence, they hurt.

Whirling and swirling it over her *******, his pen became a weapon. He taunted her skin with a pen ripe with red ink, swore and wept, swore again. His hand fell screaming into her flesh, not once but a dozen frantic times. Finally her breath became a dense gushing cloud which swiftly rose so dark that, within seconds, once pure angels fell to earth looking akin to a chimney sweep’s boys - unregonisable as once human.

“Harvesting
kiss kiss full lips
gleaming at the point of red,
so sharp whilst ..
poppies parchment pollen
trembling.moisted.dark
unloved”

The body was found months later. It had laid until bronze leaves and golden were drifting upon and across what had once been a face, and now discovered by shocked, sickened walkers. When the police arrived, all they found lying near to the man was a pen and dulled pages within a leather binding.

A forensic scientist is still trying to decipher the wording on the vellum, what words he’s found to date are quite beautiful - or so he told his wife in an aside. She shrugged, he’d always been a strange man. Should have married her own kind .. too late now. Marianne looked away, unused to anything remotely like conversation from him. She smiled, turned the mirror to the wall and waited ..



© 2012 Emma Joy
She was cold
My mind
She was bored
She put on her boots
Took her cigarette
And went out
Strolling among stony faces
No face could wear a wrinkle
No ear could bear a ring
There were lots and lost of smiles
Some pink some red
unused and still brand new
all over the streets
She touched her lips to make sure she's wearing them
She had rings too
and so many wrinkles
then there were some smiles piled up in a puddle
She bent to take off her boots
and let her toes touch some
they were cold and wet
She started a vague monologue
to make her bear the city
she was bored with
She wanted to leave
she let other smiles
took her cigarettes
suddenly she realized
a sad face there was
a stony face but he was sad
as if he was not made of stone
with no smile but with a mask
She detected a slight wrinkle under the mask
and a monologue to bear the city too
she told to herself oh God we would make more and more wrinkles
and bear the city till the train comes
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.i left an excess of a B somewhere in here... within the confines of a word giblet... i probably thought: bigger... bouncier... gibblet looked better... and so very far removed from goblet... i'm not going to look for it.

i haven't done much today -
and i don't suppose i will finish this day of
with some grand poo'em...
but one can almost be proud
to have perfected a chicken breast roulade...
the rest of the chicken missing
the butterfly? well... bound to a very
decent soup... clear and not atypical
western cream-soup...
but the roulade! the roulade!
no... you don't beat the butterfly *******
like you might turn to: "sadistically"
for a schnitzel...
you do beat the meat,
but you more or less... press down the mallet
onto the meat, until you reach
the right equilibrium of pressure and
there's that squish-sound / feel of the *******
expanding...

if it was a whole roast chicken:
of course i'd stuff the space between
the skin and the ******* with some thyme
infused butter... to capture the richness...
but this is a roulade...
the stuffing? goats cheese... toasted almonds...
fesh dates... thyme...
i might have just over-balanced
the equation with the dates...
but as i explained to the fussy-eater:
what are you implying that we do not
serve poultry with a sweet attache?
cranberry sauce and turkey?
and as i've learned...

it's best buying potatoes from a turkish
outlet by the 25kg bulk...
from a warehouse where the buyers
walk with bundles of money and do not
use debit card "finger" prints...
the free passing of money is still retained
in some tiers of society...
but the idea, regarding the potatoes is
to poach them from a bath of cold water...
once they start boiling leave them for
five minutes, then turn the heat off
and wait for the bubbling water to stop...
drain them... then leave them on
the already turned-off stove to get rid
of any excess water...
drizzle some chilly infused olive oil
onto the baking tray, place each potato individually...
then drizzle some olive oil onto them...
shove them in the oven when the roulade
is finished...
my first most pristine roulade...
of course you have to pan-fry it to get some
colour... the filling is kept intact given that:
goats' cheese is no mozarella...

it doesn't melt and subsequently ooze out...
and the whole lot should be be done within
the hour... the roulade can be pressured
to go for 25 minutes...
depending on the colour of the tatties...
i still had to take it out and "glitter" it with
a 1:1 ratio of honey and lemon juice...
the remains of this juice i designated on al dente
cooked greens... there was no need
for a dressing...
left-over red cabbage coleslaw...
that helps... sweet chilli sauce with some mayo
and crem fraiche...
it even looks the prettier picture:
leftover but it still works...
***** of a ******* butterfly *******!
of course it was going to spit oil back at me,
i was frying the skin... the fat from the skin
was melting the skin was getting crisp
and mingling with the olive oil fat...
also... it's a myth that the temp. should
read: 165°F... that's really just a circa...
mine read 156°F... and given the time i let
it rest...

oh right... this is not a food blog...
perhaps the moon is just too beautiful tonight
to have to attach words to it?
perhaps my love is better left alone and unused
and it doesn't demand sleeper idealism
for it to be celebrated?
it's cooking food... it's not a hip-replacement
surgery...
when cooking was married to chemistry:
i sometimes miss the laboratory
and the cooking up of esters...
my new found calling is in cooking...
and something i... wouldn't exactly want to earn
money for...

and what is surgery if not elevated butcher's ******>antics? oh no, it's needed...
but the meat is supposed to be raw
from beginning to end...
and if i was only given the chance to recycle
a recipe for a stake tartar...
or sushi... well... it wouldn't be much...
esp. when i come into my own
and cook an indian **** of spices...
but then again... the indians butcher their meat
in their curries...
i've come to some serious realisation...
the indians butcher the meat with their curry sauce...
it comes down to baking the meat...
in order for the meat to still retain its
original juices...
i quiet enjoy that little detail of cook...
in that: i don't remember the last time i was
in a restaurant...

i can't imagine eating while having to talk...
conversation over food is no better
than sitting in field of grazing cows
and their leech clouds of flies all bothersome...
with regards to the quality of the meat....
there is always some excess of meat from
the butterfly ******* before you start moulding
them into a shape that will satisfy it being
rolled...
it's a supreme joy working with a whole
chicken... i sometimes wish i was also the man
who could see the whole procedure of:
and be involved in the slaughterhouse...

oh god... the brute village beheading is
rather uncompromising... one chicken is caught
and beheaded on a stump of wood...
the head still moves with its last remaining
short-circuit tongue extending out of the beak
and the eyes roll... and then all the other chickens
congregate and perform a Kuru ritual of pecking
the blood... sipping it...
that's how killing a chicken in a village
looks like... i can't imagine an industrial scale
precision... but i would't mind...

every time i hear of veganism: the ethical argument
i start conjuring up an antithesis of
cannibalism... which is not exactly edgy given
my catholic background (i haven't been
confirmed, personal choice):
this is my body, this is my blood...
i hear a vegan talk i make a fetish of
imagining cannibalism...
believe me... these limbs look akward...
to begin with... where can you find a *******
drumstick of poultry on it?!
nowhere!

only a few days shy off today i made a most
delightful broth of chicken hearts...
i can't explain how the sight of washing...
oh... around 30 pultry hearts feels like...
given that they're hearts and not the entire chicken...
but as ever... the internal organs are a delight...
pork or poultry liver...
poultry hearts...
poultry stomachs...
cow intestines...

come to think of it... you never really cook meat...
you... curate it... it become a fine art specialist...
for those who turn to veganism or the vegetarian
"alternative": perhaps they never curated meat,
perhaps they simply butchered it?
the chicken roulade of butterfly poultry *******
always came out dry-*****?

after all, wasn't ol' Adoolph the one to say:
'hello mr. carrot, hellooo jew no. 1269230 of
auschwitz'... that's the puberty of my distrust
for vegans... they were never able to
cook meat properly... they probably ate
a decent piece of it served in a restaurant...
but when it came to cooking it themselves...
they would have probably butchered
a pasta and never reached the quality: al dente...
either...
and i'm worried that they can't cook
vegetables al dente either...
so it's back to the gulag of roots overcooked
and turned into mush...

oh i believe that meat is butchered...
but it's from the actual butchery...
it's from a lack of respect in how it's finally
"cooked"... well... curated...
are vegans the sort of people that never
ate a stake tartar... or found the most
arisotractic flavours in the giblet?
oh my god... if you can eat a drumstick
of chicken clean to the bone...
and, like me... sometimes bite off
the budding pulp of the bone for the marrow
gnash?
perhaps that's why i own cats...
delicate courtesans of the table...
a dog would go hungry at this table...
sharpnel of bones and some lurking marrow
in the "shins"... and that's about it...

you can never truly be a vegan...
not unless you repudiate the fact you've only
tasted muscle tissue...
what about the giblets and the cartilege?

every time i would perform oral ***
on a woman i could only conjure up one distate...
this is not a steak done rare...
this is not an oyster...
this is not a steak tartar...
there are "things" pulverising this meat...
there's an unexpected pocket of heat
in this... "thing"...
this is a sensation that lends itself
to the pastry section of my diet...
a warm apple pie... a custard drizzle
over some chocolate sponge...
oh qui qui... the marvels of a bilingual mouth...

if the meat is of good quality....
as the chicken roulade i made today...
and there were leftover snippets...
which i fed to the cats...
and the meat was eaten... in totality...
i was eating good chicken...
cats regarding meat are like...
those ancient jobs equivalent to...
Halotus...
god! give me a chance to own a cat!
i'll name him: Halotus!
he'll be my meat taster...
he'll tell me if i'm eating bad meat...
i'm not a Claudius but...
this cat could very well be the next Halotus!
dogs eat leftovers...

beside this one instance of catching
a female mosquito by the leg
and feeding it to a cat...
the most pleasure i ever received was
when i was preparing a rainbow trout
for grilling...
the head couldn't be used since:
i wasn't planning to cook a base fish stock...
so i plucked those pearly eyes from the head...
and my... what a delight they were...
not me... the cat...
i'm guessing that's the equivalent
of me gulping down an oyster...

female maine **** fascination with dairy
products...
any cream will do... even cheap-oh cheese...
dairylee spreadable...
but all manner of cream whipped...
i've heard of cats being fond of red wine...
i once owned one that was fond
of... olive brine...

again: what's with this need for people to cook
your food? what sort of decency of conversation
can one have when presented with food?
i don't like restaurants simply because:
well i can't exactly cook roadkill...
and shooting at birds is not my kind of thing...
so if i can't catch it and **** it...
i can at least: cook it...
i distrust what i eat that i haven't prepared
myself... notably the hygiene dilemma...

it really is on my head whether i'll catch
salmonella when i sometimes drink a coffee
with a guilty pleasure of mine:
whisked egg-yoke and sugar... on top of the coffee...
that's my problem...
but eating is never a synonym with conversation...
and it's never necessary to loiter and wait
for someone to shove pretenses above
the food in the first instance of: the waiting staff...

i blame the rise in veganism surrounding
the people who never allowed themselves to appreciate
the animal: in total...
there's no fun just sticking to ingesting muscle
protein... first you have to cook it properly...
this chicken roulade didn't have to reach
the internal temp. of 165°F - that's a circa proposition...
at 156°F and allowed to rest is just as good...
because it's an art-form to cook meat...
then again: what's cooking and what's about
to be curated?

the people who turn to veganism are also the people
who never bothered with gibblets...
the liver, the heart, the stomach,
in some cases the intestines...
hence my critique of Islams critique of ol' porky Bella...
this most unique animal...
which you can eat in total...
tenga deep fried pigs ears...
again: the cartilege...
ethics my *** if all you know about a pig is a bore
chop or a **** or... you never get into
the knitty-gritty details of the interior of
an animal... lamb is a stinking meat...
it's hell-rot when the male is slaughtered...

oh right! right! how could i forget the star
pinnacle... poached giblet supreme...
the neck... if you know how to eat a drumstick
down to the bone...
poached poultry neck...
the teeth and tongue wandering around
the crevices of this elongated spine...
i can imagine monkey's extended coccyx
tastes as tender... but only among
the macaques...
otherwise: when what's about to be eaten...
can be elevated to a status of ****** fetishes...
gimps in leather...
when rummaging among so many
boyscouts & aenemic vegans...

i'm yet to taste this, one specific, delicacy...
flaki (flački) is not new to me...
i need to marry a girl from ******* Masovia...
somewhere in the vicinity of Płock...
for i can eat some černina...
duck blood and clear broth soup...
as long as most of the animal is used...
the dogs can have the rest
and so can the vegan ethics society...

but of course this is no an anathema...
or some curated vendetta...
all the roots in the vicinity...
even the fungus... can vegans eat fungus?
are you sure?
what about those "thinking" magic mushrooms
that... if you looked into 1960s:
quick-n-easy philosophy courses...
the fungus is the botanical hitchhiker
that strapped itself to the humanoid brain
and... broadened our horizons and what not...
can you eat the godhead 'shroom?
it might just very well be...
that i'm picking a half-brain half-mushroom
entity in some alcohol to allow myself
to ease a tongue out from
its standard formality of the mollusk...
and waggle waggle waggle brute...

but yes... one is most certainly butchering
a piece of meat when one cooks
a broth... or a curry... unless its a gibblet
of sorts...
to "curate" muscular meat in a broth of a curry...
poaching it to death and worse than death:
dry...
it's about allowing the meat to retain its
natural juices...
how else to enjoy a poultry butterfly breast
roulade - with the natural juices still intact?

- i stopped paying attention to these *******
moralists...
if you have ever figured your way around
cutting off the butterfly of ******* for a roulade...
and you know what it feels like
when you stuff the space between
the meat and the skin of them
with some butter and fresh thyme...
and you're still not circumcised...
well... that's what skin feels like...

how else to reiterate? Ava Lauren is probably
the best example of a brothel beauty...
mandible beauty... something that contorts
and appeals to a perspective of cubism...
wretched beauty of the squashed square
into a pseudo-rhombus contort...
at least doing it from time to time leaves me
without a single buoyancy of thought regarding:
am i having enough, am i not having enough:
and if i'm not having enough -
what are the chances of me contracting some
s.t.d.?

bad beef...
again... juxtaposing a reiteration...
there's something worse than visit a brothel...
there's the... visiting a resturant..
i can't stop thinking about alien,
unwashed hands, preparing my food...
it's already one kick-in-the-***** not having
hunted the food... but to be left ******-over
twice by not having cooked it?!

at least if you know what flesh feels like
between the two crucibles of
death's kiss and man's tongue tease...
you will know when...
you will at least know when...
death comes with its kiss...
and its breath... the meat will turn all
yucky... as if a mollusk decided to prance
upon it in an imitation zigzag...

hence? i have no respect for islam because
islam has no respect for Miss Porky Bella!
seeing how most of the lamb -
except for the kidney in a steak pie
is not wasted...
the pig could feed two african villages...
if done properly...
while a lamb would only serve a pittance
for a poor man of yemen harem...

again: the pig is the enemy...
while not making crab meat a haram is not?
vulture meat... scavenger meat...
that's a: o.k. but the sophisticated nature
of the pig: sophisticated in that:
almost all of it can be eaten...
that so much of it can be you would probably
burp out an oink...
done properly...
the giblets in tow...
pity that such a desert god would never
appreciate the pig becoming a dog on
its truffle hog days...

beside all the arguments...
imagine how the "one true god" goes down
on a platter of those ignorant Beijing folk...
Warsaw testing! Warsaw testing!

pristine my *** when all they ever do
is eat the muscles and never appreciate the detials...
no wonder they become aenemic vegans!
at least butchering a vegetable is less of a concern...
you can almost get away with butchering a root...
it is... oh most certainly it is a shame...
when you can't cook meat properly...

but at least i never feel ever as bad going to a brothel
seeing the sort of people who venture into
restaurants...
i don't like being cooked for, i don't like being
"waited" for...
i don't like this modern orthodoxy affair
of a restaurant... i wish these people
learned something about how meat is: never cooked...
and how... it's always most certainly most necessarily:
curated...

pedantic? perhaps... you should have seen
me in that athenian strip-club with two-clingy *******
either side of me... starwberries in their *****
and we are all fine and giggling...
stealing kisses from prostitutes is: truffle hog
"learning" parabolla...

a date and a "promise" of *** is always
a limp **** affair...
i always want to know whether what i'll be eating
still entertain the existence of salt...
or whether i'll have to find alternatives
of: extracting the juices and finding the right
bites...
because love is long over-due and i'm not going
to butcher it further with whimsical hopes...
my love is a dead love is no ideal...
my love is donning a ball and chain of memory:
i have left the better parts of myself
in the wrong sort of people...
they're hardly coming back...
the people or the pieces of me...

but at least i can attest that:
oral *** and the cool crisp gulp of an oyster
passing the Charon of my tongue...
oysters are only fascinating to eat...
because you always want to concentrate
on the fact that: you're eating something that's still
alive... not even a steak tartar or a sushi slice
gives you that hope and thrill...
unless... you're hoping for some tapeworm
embryo being lodged in the flesh...
which how man can almost arrive
at the conception of foetus and womanhood...
i can't be impregnated: exclusively...
i can't be... pregnant: exclusively...
but i can allow a parasitical tapeworm
to become my new-born-*******-out-abortion...

inclusively... how else?!
i'm also tired of being left immoral by the act
of *******...
not unless you know what not being circumcised
feels like... and what chicken skin feels like...
the people at the restaurants...
a palette disgruntled by minor changes of heat...
and... there's always a very precise detail
when it comes to the temp. of a piece of meat
being cooked... and when it's allowed to epilogue
when resting to ****** with all its juices
left intact...

over-sexed society, are we?
at least doing the one-eyed-bandit's favor
doesn't allow me to ferment...
to pickle such repressive thinking...
itself pitched against: in itself...
and these this Radeztsky March forward...
over-sexed also can imply:
not exactly culinarily-savvy...
these are always twins walking side by side...
and they are always siamese problems...
over-sexed implies...
not cuninarily-savvy...
the better part of this critique is already wide open...
why all these cooking channels,
all these cooking programs?
and all this ****?

can't **** can't cook? broomstick! and to sabbath
with you!
i can't no better comparison...
over-sexed and also: terrible at *******...
******* is terrible to begin with...
you can't exactly quip yourself with
having done some lessons in tango or salsa...
the chances are that the *** turns out to
be a laughable take on tango and
you're going to step on a day-dreaming
dancing partner...
it's exactly what's it's supposed to be:
a gamble at best...
but when you throw in bad cooking?
recipe for disaster... bad dates that begin
in a restaurant and arrive at a black-out
bedroom with cockoon *** under
the bedsheets with you gasping for air!

'god let me out! let me out!'
KE Filtar Sep 2011
glimmer of silver
floats up the aisle
finally comes to rest
silent, not sleepy,
words reach the ceiling
secrets and dreams confessed.
again, silent, silver, friends, dreams, secrets
Proctor Ehrling Dec 2019
It sounded like a compliment, what you said
So I'll interpret it as "*******" instead
Poemasabi Jul 2013
As I sit here, at the dining room table and stare over decaf coffee at the screen on my Mac
my eyes are drawn, once and awhile, to the picture sitting on the buffet in the butler's pantry.
Before we continue you should know that "butler's pantry" in this case
means the "third bedroom" that we saw in the listing on Realtor dot com before we bought the house and that,
in the usual real estate-ese, is an optimistic label at best.

But I was talking about the picture.

The picture sits, slightly askew, in a carved wooden bowl given to us by my wife's boss
as a housewarming present.
It, the bowl I mean,  came with salad tongs or forks,
depending on what it is that you call them,
made of water buffalo horn.
They sit in the bowl too and,
although she'd never admit it,  
I know that the thought of serving salad with water buffalo horn salad forks...
lets just say.....
doesn't appeal to my wife.

Right, the picture....

It sits in on the buffet,
in the carved wooden bowl,
next to another wood bowl.
This one full of carved wood fruits and vegetables,
which evidently, includes sugar cane.
When my wife's dad moved from his house to an assisted living facility
the kids, my wife, her brother and sister, took turns going down to help him move.
My wife was the last and dad insisted that
someone
"had" to take the fruit.

But, the picture....

It, and the wooden bowls full of fruit and unused salad forks,
are surrounded by both faux and real glassware
and placemats
which all sit perched
on the top of the buffet as precariously as refugees
and all of their belongings
on the deck and roof of an overloaded fishing boat
chugging from their homeland
to some place that is hopefully better.

The picture...

It was painted by my father-in-law and,
of all the others we have in the house,
is one of my favorites.
It sits on the buffet, askew in the carved wooden bowl with the horn salad forks,
amid polycarbonate and glass drink ware,
and placemats,
unframed for some reason.
All of his other works came framed
but this is one he did not...
and did I mention that it is one of my favorites?

I like his choices of frames on all of the other pictures we have,
but this is just canvas, stretched over a frame,
sitting in that carved African wooden bowl
with those salad forks made from water buffalo horn
on the buffet next to the other wood bowl full of wooden fruits and vegetables,
and wooden sugar cane,
in the butler's pantry.
My hate is the unused love
The love that was not accepted
Everyone saw that quiet, lonely shell
But merely flicked it away

I walked alone
I sat alone
I had this love
This unwanted love
No one to give it to
No way to show it

So I learned how to hate
This love turned sour
Covered in black
Scrape away the darkness,
You'll end up back

The hatred filled me like love once did
And like love,
There was no one to give it to
Like always,
I was alone

So the hatred simmered
The darkness calmed down
And turned dark blue
It was sadness
Suffocating sadness

The muggy air filled my lungs
Condensation pouring out of my eyes
The love was being chipped away
Was there any love at all?

And here I sit
With a line for a mouth
And tired eyes
I'm still alone
Priya Devi May 2015
First things first
I'd like to apologise

I'm sorry I'm not the good Indian girl I was bred to be
I'm sorry I don't make round rotis
I'm sorry that the tongue I use to speak punjabi is broken and hides in my mouth unused until desperately needed
I'm sorry that I don't cook and clean efficiently enough to be wifey material
Sorry that I love who I love and don't hate who I was told to
Sorry that I can't follow gods blindly and not try to sneak back stage to see their shining gold adornments and blue body paints and multiple arms in full and bare glory and scandal

I'm sorry that I'm actually not sorry for any of this
I'm sorry that these are false and empty apologies

I am unapologetically whole
A human not just a race
A female not a trust fund or business transaction

I filter out the good parts of the culture I'm from and the ones I identify with
I'll wear docs under my saari no apologies
I'll grind on dancefloors and do the best Bhangra dance you'll ever see unashamedly

Hareems and hoodies
Bindies and pin up eyeliner
Hedonism and head in the clouds

My ambition is Ambedkar untouchable
My drive is a salt march surging silently non violently through cities
My hometown pride is built in concrete and rickshaw dust,
Prejudice and Bollywood lust
More of a rant than a poem
Terry Collett Mar 2014
I still have
your rectangle
black leather wallet,
but it is empty now:

the money notes
banked in your account,
the cards sorted,
cut up and shredded,

the loose coins given
to your chosen charity.
How lonely it looks now
without you to handle;

the leather worn
at the edges
through use
you gave,

shiny black,
silent black,
unused now,
kept as a memory

to hold onto in days
of hurt like now
and years to come.
I remember

that last Saturday
in hospital,
you took out coins,
to buy bottles of water,

to quench your thirst
and help you ***.
The wallet looked full then,
bulging at the seams,

full of use and life,
held in your hands,
your fingers working
the coin zip.

Now it lays there
unused and thin,
your DNA
all over it,

worked in the seams,
the leather,
the small pocket
of the wallet.

I feel close to you
when I rub a thumb
or ageing finger
along its black

rectangle length,
the shiny worn leather,
bringing us, momentarily,
closer together.
FOR OLE   R.I.P.
Denise Ann Sep 2014
Disfigured
Trapped in her mind
Prisoner of shackles twice as big as her wrists
Not
quite
free.
09/10/14
Rachel Jordan Sep 2013
I left the coffee machine
                          in a garbage bin out on the steps
with a sign that said
                                           "Don't bother, it's broken".
Proctor Ehrling Sep 2019
The incumbent village idiot would be alarmed by my efforts, as he'd most likely perceive them as ones attempting to dethrone him.
Came up with this a while back. Still don't know what to do with it.
KE Filtar Sep 2011
Steps in, no footsteps
darkness presses in.
When eyes adjust to
the shadows, there is,
in fact a golden beam.

The night before
the light was on.
Stained glass shone on
the floor; The stars
fought to come in.

Only two shadows
were making noise,
but not often.
The darkness did
not stop them; he
helped the words come
out.

The second night fell
and the shadows kept
up in the corner.
shadows, connection, discussion, church, quiet, night
Carly Salzberg Mar 2011
Ears pressed cool against
glass tables and vinyl flooring
words score high drained slowly
slow like wasps caught in guttered draining
not like velvet names etched in casing, but weathered like bricked and beaten graffiti –
Waning like wax always melting

Tools: spelling and grammar – uncheck

Don’t fret too many gerunds grounding air suffocating hearing between the lines that past lower truths out straight in dirt and stinky face: eyes drawn with pensive staring
lines drawn global remains of words unused: boycott form because it isn’t daring.
Adopt sonar because it traces the smokestack between eaves drop
and scrap metal hearing like thorns prickled cut by cleaver.

Clink, clink, clank.

Unlatch cellar doors of images fixed in meaning: glances slanted
heads poked out behind legs enchanting ink under eyelids.

Clank, click, click.

Wishing: Sunday morning came to rest and the cat perched rest without the windowsill and the space between my legs lost meaning.

Forgetting: Painted houses haunting furniture misplaced, training lessons in memory fading.  

Dreaming: Sounds dipped in vegetable oil, Van Morrison in teething states caring.

Still lost without my last breathe wondering…
gg Mar 2014
I think I started writing you away before you were gone
I wanted to make sure I could let you go before I did
I wanted to feel numb when I pushed you away
so I wrote
I put you on pages,
typed chapter titles for every single time you looked at me
I wrote until you were a novel,
read you until you were no longer novel,
and put you on a shelf so I could start waiting to forget about you,
a memory trapped in unused synapses

and after I shut your final chapter
but before your pages had started to collect dust,
I realized what I had done
See, I had taken each word from within me,
harvested my heartstrings, plucking them and mixing them to make ink,
The pieces of you I kept in my heart
sat as words on a page, aging
while my heart, once strong, felt too empty
and cavernous to beat under the weight of the sigh pinning down my chest

In all of my preparing
I had forgotten that I am human

I forgot feelings aren't like a fountain
there's no faucet you can turn off to keep them from
running through your mind
no way to stop them from flowing
back through your mouth when you try to
swallow them, mixed with ***, in your best friend's basement,
days after you forgot that you can't turn off a rainstorm
you can try to catch the raindrops in a bucket
but the bucket you'll need is big enough to drown in
you can try to hold out an umbrella
but if the wind is hard enough
you're still going to end up cold and dripping,
tearstained and shivering
waiting until the sun comes out

I forgot that I can't control the weather,
or anything other than myself for that matter
The end of a storm doesn't equate to the appearance of a rainbow

I realized that just because my fingers twisted around yours until
they melted together doesn't mean you'll forgive me
and that you left tattoos on me that only time will fade
and we're both going to be mad
I found out that
every song that ever reminded me of you doesn't cease to exist
I have to re-watch movies because they're different now, somehow,
and just because my hair is probably still all over your clothes
and I talked to you every day
and you gave me months of memories
and thinking about you is gut-wrenching
doesn't mean that I won't spend days praying for patience
and hoping for healing because
***** it, letting you go doesn't mean I don't miss you
I'm not entirely sure if this is done, but I'm happy with it for now.
they meet at hospital locked unit for torture victims undisclosed site no unauthorized access their condition experiences high risk public relations for war effort mainly patients seclude themselves in anxious solitude when not in anxious treatment they will remain under strict government surveillance until war is over at which time another administration will determine their resolve

she graduated from Stanford with Masters in 9 languages employed jointly by Hachette Livre and Random House Mondadori publishers United Nations attaché interpreter translator then Special Forces Black Ops

he graduated P.H.D. from M.I.T. in political military economic social information infrastructure systems tactical behavior strategy campaign employed by private security contractors consortium assigned to unidentified location

her captors splayed arms legs to table force fed 1 gallon ***** down throat 2 gallon enema without anesthesia sewed shut eyelids **** sphincter then starved rat inserted in ******

his captors blindfolded handcuffed victim prepare beheading live internet feed decide instead shackle him to wall douse gasoline ignite water hose scorching body 3rd degree burns then apply nail-gun through testicles ***** dowel to temporal lobe

act 1 scene 1

small unused visiting room 2 gray couches end table with lamp vase of plastic flowers

HE sits in wheelchair severe burn scars to face scalp body memory loss hoarse raspy voice stiff protracted body motion

SHE under continuous psychotherapy supervision patient suffers severe PTSD shaky submissive prescribed modified combinations of 13 medications (Prozac Adapin Vivactil Nardil Desyrel Wellbutrin BuSpar Klonopin Vistaril Neurontin Inderal Catapres Seroquel) administered twice daily

HE i brought you bacon strips in napkin from breakfast

SHE (eyelids flutter hands tremble) thank you but you keep it (pause) you know i used to be vegetarian

HE i know i look monstrous get over it there’s a real human being trapped inside this mutilated mess

SHE i i i can’t talk (pause) don’t know what to say (pause) after they sewed me up they ripped me apart shoved rodent to gnaw my insides (pause) skinned cooked made me eat it

HE you’re still alive aren’t you quit your whining show some gratitude stop being such a big baby

SHE how dare you ******* accuse me you’ve got you’re ****** **** nerve

HE i apologize please forgive me i’m not myself since the injuries i’m desperate for diversion pain management escape from excruciating pain nightmare thoughts i still endure

SHE who’s the big baby now

HE please help me overcome this consuming terror distract me with your loveliness please be my muse

SHE i’m no healer what do you mean be your muse

HE inspire me open yourself up to me arouse feelings beyond my suffering

SHE i’m useless look at me i’m a basket-case

HE spread your legs let me see

SHE what! you’re rude blunt disgusting

HE show me your cooch you got ***** hair?

SHE oh god you are so ****** creepy repulsive (pause) and I’m not a very hairy person

HE come on darling work with me stroke me relieve me

SHE i don’t even want to think or know about it go take care of it yourself

HE i’ve tried i can’t stay focused i see my disfigurement then get sidetracked i can’t get myself off

SHE all i am to you is a piece of *** you brutal *******

HE you could show a little tenderness maybe nurturing fix what’s broken give it up to me girl please i beg you let me do you or do me

SHE i was informed your ***** is shredded testicles disengaged

HE who told you that it’s a lie my ***** are maimed yet intact my **** still gets ***** granted it’s not a pretty sight keep your eyes shut

SHE (body twitches) you want power over me

HE ***** power i want some release i want you in control you in charge of my ******* please be my curing goddess

SHE (looks away) i don’t trust you

HE what’s not to trust i’m a pitiful casualty of war just like you we weren’t born like this but we’re both now doomed useless pathetic

SHE you could try being more polite civil congenial perhaps if we were friends first liked each other and you won my sympathies but you’re so forceful intrusive

HE war does that to a person

SHE please make an effort

HE you mean if i talk nice you’ll consider

SHE i will take it into consideration

HE i think you’re pretty more than just pretty beautiful

SHE i’m shattered damaged wrecked ruined

HE i see beauty in your face figure beauty in your words reactions

SHE i’m afraid to let anyone inside

HE i’ll be real gentle i promise

SHE i’m scared

HE yeah i’m scared too scared i’ll shoot blood instead of *****

SHE shut up

HE help me please find a way back to myself a way to accept love respect you

SHE hmmm uhhh since you phrase it that way i’ll think about it i’m not promising anything just considering (pause) ok? (pause) how would we go about doing this?

HE we used up our free time today they’ll be searching for you begin picturing in your mind how you would like it done imagine feeling loved protected

SHE (eyelids waver) help me learn slow how to do this dance

HE every step of the way

SHE thank you see you tomorrow
e Jul 2014
Remember that night we stood awkwardly in the cool night air? The half moonlight bathed the streets in a desolate hue as we clumsily tried to appear like we knew what we were doing. So we walk back in silence; both of us lost in our own individual selfish thoughts. Your gait comes off comedic as you try to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk and I nervously pick at the frayed edges of my notebook hoping you don’t notice how my hands tremble each time they brush against yours.
Poetic T Jul 2014
My heart rusted unused,
What once beat love
Only has cobwebs of regrets,
It is fragile to the touch
Love rusted away, what once
Gleamed,
Shone,
Beat strong,
Now it hardly moves
An engine of love unused
It needs to be buffed
By love from another heart,
To see what is beneath the tarnish
A broken heart, now in need of use
For now its rusting away,
A heart tarnished where love once beat.
james nordlund Oct 2018
Since our political system has been laid bare, after RumputiN was installed
in the Blackhouse, it's beautiful complex of lack of complexity, in a word,
conspiracy of conspiracies, has moved me and "...we(e),..." to have as a few
of my favorite things be far more reaching questions, out of necessity. Like,
without acknowledging, and demanding others do the same, that it's been
purposely engineered to be a criminal injustice system instead, how can one
even have a real conversation that would lead to potential for real change
of it taking place in reality, if you don't know who you were, where you've
been, how on God's green Earth can you expect to know who..., where you are
and what's going on, necessary to start thinking about changing anything,
even yourself, as well as directing who you will be and where you will
be going, etc.?  Swine slaughtering lower-middle-class to poor men en masse,
mostly of color, instead of just doing the usual liquidation of their ases
and assets, are just serial murderers masquerading as cops, and what goes
around comes around, no?  If you're not taking bullets you're making them.  
Also, people are fed up with felonious RumputiN and his rootin' tootin'
organized crime family spree from the Blackhouse, which should be prosecuted
using the RICO Statute instead of just being elaborately covered up by Mueller
for he's not using it and he's handing out immunities like soldiers candy to
Iraqi kids, duh.  I would add some salient pointless points, beyond the 'empty
boat' of Zen, and 'useless tree' of the Tao, we can understand the burden
placed on our shoulders by our ancestry not exercising their responsibilities
as they should have, and thereby it's Siamese twin sisters, their freedoms,
Withered like unused muscles as well, as a panultimate challenge, saving
humanity, literally. Also, understanding Jung's "80 % of all actions, thoughts,
feelings we have, that we acknowledge, or don't, perceive or don't, are
compensatory towards our pasts", necessitates an integral understanding of
Satre's existentialism' meaning of angst, as experience integral to life, not
opposed to it, but, rather, central to it, and a nexus of it.  This is more
than an embracing of gestalt's, Perls', moment, now. Moving away from sophist
perspective, we also experience the meaning of life is struggle, which comes
through all our meaningful work, succinctly. Further, what is life beyond that
foci is also, the where, when, who, how, and sometimes why too (but never Y2K)
of life; beyond our masks and ego fulfilling stories, schtick, lines, etc..
Do we struggle, not just as lifelong students, with the impossible, not just
the improbable.  Yet, it's actually more layered than that in a much larger
dimensional paradigm than 4 dimensions.  Yes, the effects of our causes in any
action usually have effects that undo our causes as we act them out, intend,
present them, etc..  Yet, those more superficial, linear, first conclusion
layers are not less effective, per se, as the complexity of Karma, Dharma are
beyond our normal comprehension. What is the root of thought, feeling, the root
of feeling, being, the root of being, the extent to which we struggle with what
it is, no?  For, as the following twig of poetree gleans: Soul//
As my breath
is the one, prana,/
And the life's pulse, pala,/
Reaching angelic source, sura,/

So is this mind, manas, a
/  Flowering unfoldment,
/ Unendingly touching
/ The eye
that would it see,/  
Unbeckoning unto thee./
As well, this Bodhi, a temple,/

Of the four and fifth, nur,/  
So entered by atma, a ray of thy sun,/  
Thus being
winged, and
/  As such with wind,/
Flying only in dharma's dance,/
Is returning
to, Brahma, you./  For, there yet, by thy grace, go I./  
We are not who we think
we are, we are, rather, the extent to which we struggle to evolve to be some-
things, spirit, soul, Bodhi, etc., on the path of study that could and should
be one, you, me, forever asked and never answered.  Yet, even if we lived as
prayer, our light only adding to the well of light, our every step in grace,
leaving no footprints that followed none, echoing in all ways, always,
sometimes, like pulling teeth, "...we(e),...", must stalk our words from our
insides 'til we wrangle them, like cats, to the tip of our tongues, no?  For,
"Words weren't meant for cowards..." and we must "be brave...", Happy Rhodes.
We can't allow ourselves the luxury of taking our supposedly 'golden silence'
all the way to the bank, as your average bear does.  These are the end times,
we successfully struggle, to abolish global defacto-slavery by the non-renew-
able energies' corporate structure's machine and it's convolution, against
the global oligarchy's premeditated mass-****** of 7.5 billion people, or
humanity's extinct.  Gandhi, "(supposed) science is the root of all opression"
and, "...we(e),..." must be the change we want in the world".  Is not life
relation, are we not responsible for one another, are not all threads in
the fabric of life needed, as is the evoliutionary ones' mendings, for we
can't allow it to be torn asunder?  If not here, then where, if not now, when,
not you, who? Viva la evolucion.  Indivisible, illimitable you, GOTV.
Please copy, share as you will. this GOTV twig of poetree   :)   reality
Anthony Perry Mar 2016
Creatures crawl from under the roots of trees and bugs scatter from the pockets of the lost to the cadence of sprinkling rain

Silence in the woods of missused life brings out the sounds of wind screaming past the tightened ropes and rusted knives

Those who walk through the aokigahara forest hear a symphony of life that persists through the maimed, a festival of tents and people strung up like decorations as if it was meant for a parade

Nature reclaimed the unused death of unwanted bodies and the rain drained flesh from bones, simulated hell and suicide is what's found soon after passing the warning signs in red and white marked zones.
Perry Bezanis Jun 2010
The time must come when
we put aside recipes untried,
socks unmended, old fabrics
too pretty to be used -when
the bottled nuts and bolts
-the springs, the locks
unused -waiting,
wait unused

    -the memorabilia of hope,
    the rusty steel of life.

The time must come when
cease to lie -lotions,
Elixirs de Leon -when we
fail our bite to the night-soak
and think not -care not, of that
breath that does not count anyhow
-when reason mirrors wrinkles
-undreams romance.

-hooked rugs of might-have-done,
school albums, what not become,
leather bottles, convalescing sun
-and the quieting ice.

When I read the Sports/
Society page, I ask myself -them,
'How will you go down?
-willingly? -with,
if not a Bang, a Whimper?
-if not with, without
the Apotheosis of Drug?

(-from http://www.condition.org/ )
Sin Jul 2014
long ago,
I could tame a lion with the click of a pen,
watch the teeth burn to ashes in his jaw,
and his gums bleed, dripping with every word.
drip, drop.
funny how lions are a symbol of God.
funny how, I used to glance into the
cold black irises of my strongest demon,
and tell myself I loved him.
every boy I've ever written for
seems to vanish before the novel ends,
before the sun sets, before they think-
maybe,
"it's safe to leave her before she falls in love"
little do they know that love was my oxygen,
love was my unused journal
from a lost friend,
love was nothing until I met you.
you cannot be another night
without razor sharp stars in the sky.
you cannot be the hundreds of songs
I can no longer ******* listen to.
you cannot be another Willow Springs-
another road I think I've traveled,
I've seen children pray on the corners of Italy;
I've seen mountains breathe
and thought it would be my last time
kissing their snowy tops.
I've seen straight into the
amber eyes of the lion
as I lay under fluorescent lights
with sixteen pills rattling in my stomach,
thinking maybe,
the King of the Jungle will release me
with His jaws of life.
but the truth is,
you are the only god I believe in.
you are my savior,
you are the King of the Jungle
and the closest thing to heaven
I will ever know.
st64 Sep 2013
collector of iron and all things metal
carried without slightest lament
by
beautiful brown-and-white nag with overflowing mane
clip-clops up and down
every road there is
and even beyond



1.
little doubt exists
of fine ingenuity
of said collector
who wastes no moment nor chance
to scour every luck’s platform
with sharp intuition and assiduous eyes
          an old stove with absent racks
          a precious copper geyser gutted with no fittings
          pine-planks discarded due to skew-cuts
          aluminium pipes abandoned with twisted ends
          old screws with rusty whorls from an recently bucket-kicked geezer’s garage
          parts of a car . . . an ****** gearbox and ancient exhausts
heaps of junk and piles of crap clang on cart
a veritable dump in some eyes but those of
the cool collector who takes all the sweepings in gracious stride
cast-off penalties and chaffs of society’s unwanted

2.
once a week on Saturdays
these wares are parked near the parking lot
for all to approach
to see
a fine spread of legend and lore
     bric-à-brac and books to browse
so many things of interest
     magazines and manuals with miscellany-topics under the sun
     hipflasks of silver and clear-cut carafes
     unused greeting-cards with dressed-up paper-dolls
     rare literature well-thumbed with care
and things you’d sure chuck out
mechanical entrails and shiny things
yet
quite a spectacle to behold
costing a joke but for you
a fraction of today's ha'penny

3.
nobody knows why the quiet collector takes the time of day
to re-inforce that fixture-presence
a kindly soul with half-smile always flirting round the lips
and greets with old-century warmth o'er book-edge, markedly a poem-spine
walking closer to peep curiosity around
relaxed eyes let one be
          no compulsive sales-talk
          no eager-****** hopping
just sitting back in deep hiker’s green fold-up chair
easy posture and half-drooped eyes with soft drink close at hand

4.
the collector really watches all who pass
     who go by on their daily trails with rituals oft unchanged
     who fuss ever-plaintive over facetious deets like school-tasks
as they return their books long overdue while whistling smasher-hit tunes (never to be heard)
     who rush to catch an ever-noisy taxi with their own raucous guards
     who help heaving housewives cursing under breath climb on board
as their groceries groan and nearly drop from overladen plastic bags
     who ignore for now with studious intent the hobos on the pavement there
     who beg lost coins for empty-belly from the tattered purses in bosoms
while others cry out impatient at peripheral nuisances
     who act as indiscreet ‘car-guards’ ostensibly guarding cars, even with folk in it

yes, he watches
and observes with keen eyes yet never obvious
even those who saunter by
with pondering glance and walking stick
even as years have graciously touched their brow
he sees them *tut-tut
the ******* on the wall
like stray-dogs in a pound

5.
once in an often while
this collector who loves a rediscovered hypothesis
to explore the myriad facets of humanity
does an odd turn now and then
when walking to the toilet at the local library
which has parked itself adjacent to this lot
drops a twenty-buck note near the side
and soon joyful sees the utter surprise
when tired high-school kids with sullen backpacks
do a double-take
espy their luck . . . whoo-hoo, look!
their gloomy cloaks of learning plain melts
they take off sure-footed and lighter of heart
and repair to the fish-and-chips shop
they share their vinegary ***** in a finger-licking circle
and amity strong-cemented in a cool memory
that they’d recall with fondness many years later
at their 20th school-reunion
and as grand-dads visiting a dying pal

pangs of hunger satisfied
and
not only by them


next time
that note will be dropped in the park nearby
where effete winos sleep their lives away
     who ken much and give not a care
     a kind long not recognised
educated derelicts debate on war-merits and erstwhile musicians play melodic arpeggios
sitting in the gentle arbour-shade of mutual acceptance
with chess-mad players
working out strategy in rapt blade-moves
which belie and scorn the forgotten titles to their name
along with Ph.D to boot

6.
when night-time hails - all grows still again
and settles, though just for a nibble of time
it’s pack-up time
the listening collector hears the owl-hoot’s call
and knows the time has come to rest a bit
     for when the morrow dawns
     all neatly packaged in a brand-new gift called day
it’s back on the road again
to observe once more
with trusted nag in tow
clip-clop . . . clip-CLOP

7.
and the collector is the one
the housewives invite with alacrity to Xmas-lunch
the taxi-drivers offer gifts of goodwill
the school-kids give their chips and last treats
the vagrants seek out to share a ciggie and sympa-chat
the grown men visit for esoteric slim-tomes and philosophical advice
the shopkeepers welcome reassuring presence of

yes, this quiet collector
is the inadvertent guest
to shores of the lonely
the too-busy and life-ridden folk
who seek a sweet smile
just once in a while
in a world
where compassion is not justified by its deep-touches of poverty





no fruitless labour
in one who sees little detriment
but senses the full value of
every item’s moment in vanilla-time
while trying always
to catch
the finest one can be



supreme harvest, indeed
yes :)
love . . . love . . . love . . .





S T, 1 September
Happy Spring Day!
And . . . er . . . catch some sun-rays . . . while ye can :)



Sub – entry : 'empty chairs'

Songwriter: Don McLean


I feel the trembling tingle of a sleepless night
Creep through my fingers and the moon is bright
Beams of blue come flickering through my window pane
Like gypsy moths that dance around a candle flame

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would

Moonlight used to bathe the contours of your face
While chestnut hair fell all around the pillow case
And the fragrance of your flowers rest beneath my head
A sympathy bouquet left with the love that's dead

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would

Never thought the words you said were true
Never thought you said just what you meant
Never knew how much I needed you
Never thought you'd leave, until you went

Morning comes and morning goes with no regret
And evening brings the memories I can't forget
Empty rooms that echo as I climb the stairs
And empty clothes that drape and fall on empty chairs

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AwzHlyVRc9o
Dad Poet Society Jun 2014
Vulnerable is what I am
When I let the real me outside
It's not safe, sometimes, to be so carefree
Should I risk hurt, or play safe and hide?

But people who love me keep asking me
To open my heart up to them
I don't know why that's so uncomfortable
I guess vulnerable is not what I am

The few times I've worn my heart on my sleeve
My words never came out right
So I've practiced being less vulnerable
And kept my real thoughts out of sight

People keep saying to use more words
But I fear I'll be misunderstood
Maybe I won't express myself right
Or I'll say way more than I should

Words, I've found, are containers for thoughts
I don't know why I sit here and hoard them
When I store them unspoken, my thoughts sit unused
Unshared—a container unopened

It's a little like having a pantry of food
And keeping it all to myself
Food's meant to be shared, and if it is not
It helps no one—just rots on the shelf

And that's how it is with my words kept inside
If love doesn't share them some way
My thoughts stored inside these containers called words
Can spoil and turn bitter someday

I used to complain that people didn't understand me
And for that I would silently resent them
But the silence, I now see, is of my own making—
If they don't know me, it's because I haven't let them
To my quiet kids, and to recovering introverts everywhere.
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
My Solace

when every aperture is a tunnel narrowing,
a light pin diminishing when nearing,

when the desk drawer yields up unused theater tickets,
for performances concluded yesterday,

when the denouement is nothing new but worse,
revealed in the coming attractions trailer,

when the rusted unborn poem notion is almost done,
but remains unpublished,
for no beginning, no title, can be found,

Then I recall the cornucopia days,
when poems spilled forth like
there would never be a when they wouldn't,

I revisit my old friends, couplets, twins and triplets,
seeded inside every tear, happy or sad,
sweetly and freely,

my old friends, reread,
words rearranged in new combinations,
old poems, plants bearing new fruits,
re-titled all of them, one name,
a collection entitled,
My Solace.

— The End —