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"upraising" poems
Within this jungle, which is ours I ride the back of Thunder-cloud, my friend Around and through the thickets thick banyan trees & palm fruit fallen leaves Down muddy earthen paths until everything is green and shadows until inside its heart, the rain forest trees of this jungle are city buildings - tall and choir of fauna high and low do not fear to sing beneath our cathedral's shade In this kingdom of flora and ruby rich dirt belongs to thunder-cloud and dirt-poor me A Mowgli on his elephant, hollars ahead to any that hear "We are free!" Here, far from the whips' lashing, guns, away from the loud business of murderous money They who say that I am nothing in their eyes who abacus my worth with looks with upraising lust of wolves but I a free man, a simpleton for beloved (Earth) I am dark skinned Krishna on my steed of thunder-clouds A native son of brown & green wilderness caterwauling to the beyonds unknown Within our jungle, brother thunder, my elephant of deep clouds gray we are Mammoth and as wild as wide as open as free... with every step forward on this living journey we will take a peaceful kind of smile will only be what is written upon each lovely lovely face *(Within our jungles...we live simply without the Man's hate not today will I hunger, nor will I thirst fed on real wonder, drank clouds of Himalayan rain without a rupee to my name... on the back of thunder my gentle Ganesh - I have no one to blame.)*
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May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
MOWGLI ON THUNDER
Poetically vibrating Intensely radiating Broken letters synchronistically mating I love the way I am matchmaking It's scintillating A river rush of vowels are grating Against consonants that were waiting Sentence structure upraising And then I am only making An attempt at escaping This world That is wasting
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Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
Wasting
Objection Bankrupt blood pulses and always has through my veins Objection Gender-fukt oblivion alone rises into view I'll never be the dollar's friend Paper will not be mine Objection Bad upraising I'll raise up worse
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Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 4:31 AM UTC
Blank White Space: "Objection"
Though another day passes, once having arrived, cinnamon sunny with a misguided preaching from a catholic church, I recall our gorgeous misty evening right by the waves from yesterday and its one peculiar moment: my dad pointed to a far away regatta sailing in a distance whilst standing to my right and asked me not quoting “Do you know why I wanted to go to the sea? The vastness of that body, no endings in infinity, no one to tell me what to do, and once you sailed away from the harbour it was just it living. Whilst I was on my night shift at the very front of the ship on my ever first voyage by sea, heading to England from Gdynia, I felt as if I was the very first man to discover the oncoming land, like Cristopher Columbus with his dear Santa María breaking the waves”. Yes, Dad. I would add, settled in my question “Why do I long somehow in smaller or bigger ways too at times for that aforementioned harbour and otherness with so many sounds, details, lights and dancing dangerous like knives in a tavern thrown? For so similar yet so privately schemed departures I paint?”, I would answer without Brain, even if it would be solely in perfect, dreamy way sketched: “Because there is some greater and truer breath of mine held out by a foreign hand or by standing lonely from the other mirror’s side in front of some tremendous waves of Kanagawa, hugging itself small yet with fearless Child’s patience, like the Young Verter on his painting. Some more abstract and breathtaking with charisma image of me there stands, flowing instead of walking, through called aisles. Beige coat into the blue falling. The No Man’s Skies and Lands (or yet Of Some Men) to be felt with all the body and upraising in all hues and minute sacrifices in speechless wonders, like lagoon’s turquoise water that would shine in a cave’s dark with krill dancing.” Some upholdings, some blind images and all rest fresh, windy, dark and light with grey whose voicing I cannot make, not just to keep it in immaculation to stay non-maimed. Tss Ouch. The Missing. El, ese, acantilado.
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Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 6:40 PM UTC
You Stop That Ladder Right There!
Though another day passes, once having arrived, cinnamon sunny with a misguided preaching from a catholic church, I recall our gorgeous misty evening right by the waves from yesterday and its one peculiar moment: my dad pointed to a far away regatta sailing in a distance whilst standing to my right and asked me not quoting “Do you know why I wanted to go to the sea? The vastness of that body, no endings in infinity, no one to tell me what to do, and once you sailed away from the harbour it was just it living. Whilst I was on my night shift at the very front of the ship on my ever first voyage by sea, heading to England from Gdynia, I felt as if I was the very first man to discover the oncoming land, like Cristopher Columbus with his dear Santa María breaking the waves”. Yes, Dad. I would add, settled in my question “Why do I long somehow in smaller or bigger ways too at times for that aforementioned harbour and otherness with so many sounds, details, lights and dancing dangerous like knives in a tavern thrown? For so similar yet so privately schemed departures I paint?”, I would answer without Brain, even if it would be solely in perfect, dreamy way sketched: “Because there is some greater and truer breath of mine held out by a foreign hand or by standing lonely from the other mirror’s side in front of some tremendous waves of Kanagawa, hugging itself small yet with fearless Child’s patience, like the Young Verter on his painting. Some more abstract and breathtaking with charisma image of me there stands, flowing instead of walking, through called aisles. Beige coat into the blue falling. The No Man’s Skies and Lands (or yet Of Some Men) to be felt with all the body and upraising in all hues and minute sacrifices in speechless wonders, like lagoon’s turquoise water that would shine in a cave’s dark with krill dancing.” Some upholdings, some blind images and all rest fresh, windy, dark and light with grey whose voicing I cannot make, not just to keep it in immaculation to stay non-maimed. Tss Ouch. The Missing. El, ese, acantilado.
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I dedicate myself to you and your happiness, I dedicate my upraising to bring a smile to your eyes, And I dedicate everything I can be to your peace. As I wake up every morning, whether or not the sun's in the sky, And I can sit up and get to my feet, walk outside - It's more than I deserve in this life, And it's everything from you that's been taken away. To be able to go and sit at the piano, Not knowing one key from an arpeggio, but having the ability to play, Is what I want you to have from my life. That maybe, despite what is a hindrance to you, I can use mine to bring you a delight. And though I may not be able to bring back what has been taken away, I can use my faculties to let you forget for a second, To take you away on the waves of my voice And raise you up in the sky, hold your head up in the clouds, Making you light as the air, removing some of your cares, Helping you forget, if only for a moment, the trials of life, And it's all worth it to bring your smile to light.
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Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 6:03 AM UTC
Dedicate
Consciousness upraising music is soul baiting I love how the beat can break me apart And the vocals become like glue, so invigorating That I can't feel this bass without a change of heart Even when times are hard I find myself waiting To get back to this sacred place I am making Where everything everywhere finally stops pacing Within myself, through sensitive ears I am changing Only when the bass is heavy do my worries start fading And everything inside that matters begins changing Cyclical thoughts finally start rearranging In my imagination it's amazing I am dancing like the wind until these inner demons stop raging
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Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
This Soul Has Bass
I'm in a heart of a tree, Thoughtless yet thoughtful being, Where a stagnant melody of silence, Blossoms with poignant dreams. I'm in a core of the tree, Growing in a womb, living thing, Where I fight against a crave to fly, To ignite an arabesque of the satin sky. Upraising under watchful eye of ambiguous fate, Unaware, uncertain, about flow and change, Unbounded yet rooted, free yet unable to move, Wanderer returning home, or one that never left its gate. Light breeze sparks shiver, Raise what have sunk in slumber, Echoing a calling to rush, Into a golden stream of brightness. I am in the heart of the tree, Awake, though it feels like a dream. Am I the heart itself or merely a child? My farewell...                          will it bring my beginning or your demise?
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Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
The Birth of a Sun Child
There is but one... you've never met. completely you, without advance. that appointed Witness, sworn to these bodies... which will bring them together. We are the loves of all these lives...the fount-lip of a balcony held up to undress us essentially. as we pour down what no mouth could drink, nor heart horde. upraising scintillates of stillborn moons. sunning their straying faces. (((clearly))). all that mind, all that heart... twice-ways as sun and moon freeing *** this ~~~Flowering Crux~~~ =
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Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 1:38 AM UTC
There Is But One