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vircapio gale Jul 2012
exude the moment;
you are a transformative fulcrum

of intersubject's rent and awe:
anthropomythic ecolaw

the dream cascades into words,
birds fly little crisps of meaning
into morning light. last night's
snow leaves a crystalline spark
of you subdued, become a finer point
of tantric sight, gazing rose-blue pulsar
lashing through a cosmic garden,
delicious fruit of spacious letting be.
i'm grasping for that pleasure,
vermillion moan of lifestring vibrance,
but the wind carries on outside,
swirling pieces of the mind in
flux of upturned joy~
our heartbreeze summoned,
now whispersssoulsounds to come
and earthly darkness grips the future frost,
thaw, break and steam as it wills;
the churning ground sings to us
of bear-sleep and jackal-howl,
of seasons transpiring,
one lost sled of memories
leaves us empty, pressing crystal sky:
my aching ideality trounced in bliss-meanders
!stunning revelation! you! You! yOu!
bringing all to be a second time,
as it was.. in me.. now new,
sweet novelty of union,
this gathering of nervure self,
gliding insights, sudden soundsss.

like a node of forest-echo swirls
it dazzles: unseen colors for my inner eye;
ancient tones of fog ripple
off something you are,
creaking center easing of my sidling,
spirit drop and wavelet growth:
as if you were a branching greenery
of my own once lost other-self,
last gasping there as what i pictured 'you'~
swayingss.. sun-spikes speaking,
sky-gaze and soaking barky iris sssuck,
moulding into me the wisdom of our past leavings,
those raspy kites of sap-filled yearnings
shadow sunshower evening.
i would be a tree with you and
let you pierce our foundations
with roots of gaiasight slipping though
our primal urgings, concrete deference
under sun arch, spin of moon. let
ignorant insistence on fetishized divides~
slipping past my grounded darkness
still unknown, remain
my underself unleashed
my silent trunk-swilling soothed,
stable chaos-other, self regiven,
life renewed in leaf,
the touch of you imbued.

the whole vision lost
but for that glimmer~
it finds me writhing unknown spirals:
ringing wonderment in a seed,
or dormant sporocarpic lineage of life,
the vast hyphae-humming cups of death-born
nethergenesis of cycled hyle me.
a womb that never knew of pain
or being evertorn in dessicated spectre-sea.

the burning desert-storms helixify our rain,
a heaving hiss-like suncry
from that dark, sandy baobabic throat.
the earth consumes in shifts,
and blossoms toward the alterbliss of you, too,
an expanse of solar flare
its beautific reach engulfing terribly,
nepho-logos spanning all the air.

ssssunlit boughs of winds' remembrance
grow soft across this window,
then shift with forest breath,
their snowlace puffed before
an azure true expanse,
the burdened greens stirring a needlish depth
of metawinter, all-too-human
starfields constellate in hiding
far behind my starshine there a curtain blue,
whose prismatic humor lights more
than scenic treescape, frigid dust.
hair, nose, glass enframed by sapless wood
of window cut to square my void revision of the world.

the colors whirl into mindflow,
inter-material upsurge-undulate,
abyssal cauldron seething passions stilled by
comic symbols of a secular mystic;
dancing eddies convey my sense of sight
just thought, then lost into a wider dance
of tensions eased and drawn,
of geometric visions seemly here and gone,
inner, outer: conveyed by stroke of
spinal eidos, its rhythm set
before my time, its tone the vital,
draping earthverse
recited in my veins, the sinews of my
life in other lives,
the song of us expressive in my gaze~
one blink()a single point of beauty
fades into another haze,
lighted icedrift iridescing evanesce.
anthropos (religion, Gnosticism) Man. (From Ancient Greek) [cf. Anthropogenesis, (an thro po jen’ e sis) n. Study of the development and origin of man]

myth·os/'miTHos/ Noun: A myth or mythology. (in literature) A traditional or recurrent narrative theme or plot structure.

*derew(o)- Indo-European root meaning "tree" or "wood"

Tantra, "weave, loom, warp"; or "principle, system, doctrine", from the two root words tanoti "stretch, extend, expand", and trayati "liberation"

Sporocarp (in fungi, known as fruiting body or fruit body): a multicellular structure in certain algae, lichens, and fungi on which spore-producing structures are borne.

Hypha · (plural hyphae). (mycology) Any of the long, threadlike filaments that form the mycelium of a fungus. The hyphae are used for reproduction and nutrient gathering.

hyle, In philosophy, refers to matter or stuff [fr. Gk "ulh" (üleh, where the ü is as in German or "lune"]

baobab, A short tree with an enormously thick trunk and large edible fruit. Other common names include boab, boaboa, bottle tree, upside-down tree, and monkey bread tree.

ne·phol·o·gy. n. The branch of meteorology that deals with clouds. [Greek nephos, cloud; see nebh- in Indo-European roots + -logy.]

logos, multivalent term fr. the Gk verb legein (soft g - modern greek lego ) "to say, speak" and also "to gather and lay down" ;  traditionally meaning "word, thought, principle, or speech"; also ratio (latin for reason), pre-linguistic language (phil.), the principle governing the cosmos, the source of this principle, or human reasoning about the cosmos. origin of  "(o)-logy." the active, material, rational principle of the cosmos; nous.  logos is marked by two main distinctions - the first dealing with human reason (the rationality in the human mind which seeks to attain universal understanding and harmony), the second with universal intelligence (the universal ruling force governing and revealing through the cosmos to humankind)

eidos, a term used by Plato for the abstract forms or ideas. fr. the Indo-European root *weid-, "see" is determinative of a substance; it is the key aspect expressed in the thing's definition as the essence or whatness of the thing. also (anthropology) the distinctive expression of the cognitive or intellectual character of a culture or a social group.
no truth login May 2019
lesson #1: in the beginning, all poems on Earth were formless

on blended knee, the approaching, humility, raging, barely  
tempered by a gale force need, the forthcoming yoga pose of compose

you have urgings, mostly in a blink of an eye,
then going, gone notions, the writing is so a losing effort,
you turn the paper’s aperture sideways hoping to get an
inside straight insight,
but the poem refuses to come, the creation ******
delayed is torturous and the poem birthing, even worse

so you revert to basics to give the formless a shape,
recalling  a child’s learning that in the beginning:

“the earth was formless and void,
darkness was over the surface of the deep,
and the Spirit of God was hovering
over the surface of the waters.…”

so you insert a single sheet of 20Lb bond paper,
sliding the typewriters carriage smooth swift  
over to the starting gate hell’s bell, typewriter machine smell erotically exciting creative fluids boiling,
typing, laughing out loud, forming entree to the hinted hallway
of a womb opening to a crafting with three words:

                               in the beginning

The finest meaning of  'Wholeness'..

Is shown  most fully within the intertwining  
in to the pivotally and most necessary
healing of both body and mind..  

    In that
the perfect expression of Spirit here on Earth
can only happen through the physical--

     You "feel" the Receptives  and/or the Urgings
     from deep  within you (your flesh wrapped spirit),
That are only brought out into the light of day  (made known)
the moment your very tangible fingers  touch the keyboard..

     Or up close..
    the tangibly-heard sound your very voice-tones,

Created by your so very tangible vocal cords--   made unique
by how deeply infused your spirit is  into that
beautiful mind and body of yours..

      By your ever-renewed
     and continual choice to heal.

Within that beautiful union,  the Sensings and Respondings
of the body  bring impulses into the spirit..  
touching deeper, the Core--  

      The "Image"  of Perfect,  Absolute Being
      placed deeply into each and every one of us..
          by the very nature of Love's Ache--  
    Residing within the center of this Universe..
    (and all other Universes)..  both known..  

             and those also yet to be..

..An Image placed, as to be a Plumb-line,
and also a Never-ending Cinematic  placement of the View
onto (and within) the inner-wall linings
     of both mind and spirit..
..Seen in greater and greater  "less dimly-lit"  degrees,  
based solely on how far we commit ourselves along,
     and in to,   the healing process.

        In its finest form,  through healing,
the things we take in..  through feeling;
and then express back out..  
from both mind, and body's  untethered Unfolding,

           ..Becomes closer and closer
           to the very Expression of God's own heart,

..Therefore smashing through,  and gorgeously undoing
the ever- quenching.. ever-diluting nature of Subjectivity, itself.

Hmm..

The "taking in"  and then  The Tremblings,  of your body's
unavoidable responses  are the very thing most 'maverick loners'
like me need most from another in this world,  

if we are to continue on in our mission with any kind of strength..
    (along with its much desperately-needed resolve).

If,  within the "taking in" process.. the beautifully feeling
Receivers  such as yourself, were to be  overcome
to the point of release~  all alone..  on the edge of your bed..
isn't that a very understandable  and nearly unavoidable  
and also so very very tangible  part of the process also..      

     --In itself
above  and outside of all human (and Heavenly) judgement?

Carry on, sweet Angel..
and so gorgeously continue to  be  who you are.
Those that can see..   see  (and feel) most clearly.



           I  see  you.


My Love..  said to my Love:

(Watch out)
"I'm not afraid..
I'm beyond  the trend..
Its time to turn the page
and  Love  again

          ..Watch out.

   "I can   f e e d   the pain
   in a   Crying Game..

..I'm leaving all my Shadows  behind"
    https://youtu.be/ZYlNjQ5TTF4
                     Amen

                        ❤
Of withering tempests screaming to the break of sunlight,
Of unrelenting wind and pounding rain, she stands
With her back to crashing waves and painful bellowing,
A weak induction of steady sighs and silent contemplation
Would perhaps bring a peaceful conclusion to the rage
And reproach of a Goddess stirring on the fringes of insanity.

But never would it have taken to fresh insanity,
The gentle swirling of confusion between glaring eyes and sunlight,
How she would wish never to part from the burning of rage
And leave a scorched shadow on the very place she stands.
Never did she desire for the learned art of contemplation
But instead found solace in a frozen lake of tears and bellowing.

At the end of such a night filled with harsh anxiety and frenzied bellowing,
She finds herself staring into the gleaming eyes of Insanity,
Who dwells in sweet and blissful contemplation
And harvests the piteous glow of sunlight
Such that any man would freeze and cease where he stands
And succumb to the urgings of exhilarating rage.

A chilling gust would release the embracing rage
And perhaps bring wishful silence to the obnoxious bellowing;
She feels her feet sinking through the sand and stands
out of reach from the tearing claws of Insanity.
Relief in the warmth of ethereal sunlight
Proves a worthy companion of contemplation.

Eudaimonia, she finds in her deep contemplation
Free of sorrow, empty and weary from her onslaught of rage,
She casts herself into the welcoming cracks of sunlight
And in Euphoria, she finds herself no longer bellowing,
The slow and steady pull of her chains toward Insanity
Break away and leave her where she stands.

In new light, she finds her strength and stands,
Embracing the drifting stream of wraithlike contemplation
Would send shivers and open wounds that might invite Insanity,
But turning around and gazing out into those waves might blind the Rage
And bring peaceful sighs to interrupt the senseless bellowing
Such that black clouds would give way to glorious sunlight.

To the death of Rage and the estrangement of Insanity,
The wistful bellowing banished in the silence of contemplation,
The Goddess stands with her back to the wind, tears dried by the warm sunlight.
I’ll not take your time, beyond what the need,
To relate to you a story and deed
As there’s no one else to plea this decree …
For just I survived, don’t you see.

I’m an old man, with a mind full of mist
But details of that night in my mind still exist
As vivid and clear, both sharp and exact
No, no mist there – all of it’s fact!

When I was young, and adventure routine,
With excitement and newness still unforeseen
I was eager to spread my wings to the world
And seek more adventures as those wings unfurled

Within my long travels I happened to meet
Two other men, with friendships replete
One was named Beckett, the other one Flynn
And better friends there never have been.

Beckett was tall – an athletic type
While Flynn, the scholar, more of pinstripe
Pinstripe or athlete – it mattered not
It was our essence together and that which it wrought.

Engaged were we in all daring do
High on the mountains, and under seas, too,
We crossed dry deserts, and jungles of green
And other adventures there in between.

We’d been together, t’was our sixth year,
And still our adventures made us cohere
To every madness – to every rave …
Until we decided to enter The Cave.

We discussed the encounter and planning for weeks
And assembled equipment – some new, some antiques
Until at last the day it arrived …
And our excitement?  It still there survived.

The map we used, was bought from a guide
Who told my friend, Flynn: “Don’t go inside”
When he had learned of our journey’s intent:
To enter The Cave, and begin our descent.

The guides’ words, had given us pause
We had thought: What was his reason or cause?
But … dismissed were his words of advice
We had each other … and that would suffice.

With ropes and lantern-hats and other such gear
It was into The Cave we then disappeared.
The light from our lanterns speared into the dark
We spoke very little - made no remark.

Onward, downward, in blackness we went
Placing out markers for our later ascent
The sounds of our footsteps, and scraping of walls
Reverberated ‘round us – as echoed recalls

In about six hours, or maybe ‘twas more
We encountered water upon The Cave floor
And there all around were beautiful shapes
Never were seen such gorgeous landscapes

Stalactites, stalagmites and mineral mounds
And dripping water with its’ “plopping” sounds
Pinks, violets and shades of green hues
And small salamanders made their debuts

We found a small dry spot and then we assessed
This was a place we could stop now to rest.
I turned up my lantern, and took off my hat,
When Beckett said: “Hey.  Did you just hear that?”

I moved not a muscle, and my ears went to strain.
All I could hear were the droplets, like rain.
Then from The Cave’s bowels came a loud din
I continued to listen – then heard it again.

We looked at each other, but said not a word
Confused and startled by what we’d just heard
It wasn’t a moan, it wasn’t a gasp
But more rather like a guttural rasp

One thing was certain, it wasn’t of stone
That could create sounds while standing alone
T’was our discussion, from which to derive:
The source of the sound was something … alive.

Then from The Cave’s deepened black hole
Came again sounds from a source with no soul
The sound was menacing, and one I despise,
I watched the fear grow within my friends’ eyes.

Instinctively, we three then moved as one
In that instant – our re-ascent had begun
I had been last in the line coming down
Now I’d be the first to reach the “above-ground”.

Quickly my feet in the lead, lead the way
Flynn, right behind had nothing to say
My friend Beckett, brought up the rear
And in that position had the greatest to fear

The lamp on my hat pierced through the black
And I looked for our markers to lead us back
To save our strength, nothing was said
Again - the loud sound that filled me with dread.

The sound became louder and closer it be
And I moved faster through the black before me
I could hear Flynn’s breathing, so close behind
I tried to concentrate on the markers to find

Somewhere behind me, then snarls I heard
Loud and vicious, run together and blurred
Close … so close … the beast was so near
Adrenalin rushed through me to react to my fear

T’was then I was hit with an overpowering stench
The smell caused my stomach to turn and to wrench
The odor blew past me, and I knew t’was the breath
Of the Beast of The Cave – its’ oder of death.

I was near running, but down on all fours
Sweat was streaming from all of my pores.
Then I heard those terrible screams
The ones I keep hearing in all of my dreams

It was Beckett I knew in his shocked agony
Midst the snarled snapping of jaws I can’t see
I heard bones cracking and squishing of flesh
And the fear within me gave new strength afresh

My fingers were raw from grabbing the rock
But on moving forward my mind had its’ lock
My stomach still queasy from the stench of the beast
I knew it was finishing its’ beastly feast

I knew, too, t’was only a matter of time
When the beast would return - I had to climb!
I heard Flynn say: “IT’S COMING AGAIN!”
Again was a surge of my fear deep within.

I heard once more the beast from behind
And fought the panic taking over my mind
Something heavy struck against The Cave’s walls
The kind of sounds that ghastly appalls:

A scraping of talons of heavy clawed feet
Caused my heart to double its’ beat
I had the feeling that Flynn lagged behind
I screamed my urgings loud and maligned:

“Flynn!  Flynn!  Catch up to me!”
But took not the time to look back and see
For the beasts’ crashing against The Cave’s face
Told me it neared – and was re-gaining the race

My knee hit a rock, and my balance was lost!
I fell to the ground, and then feared the cost
In losing the time in scrambling free
Again sheer panic stabbed into me.

In less than an instant, Flynn was there too,
His face in my light was of a strange hue
And as he helped me get back to my feet …
Flynn turned around – t’was The Beast there to meet.

The stench overwhelming, but the sight was much worse
There standing before us: The beastly curse
Of overlapping scales in shades of dark gray
The rest of its’ body concealed in umbrae

But its’ eyes … its’ eyes … I’ll never forget
Rheumatoid yellow, and deeply inset
Its’ reptilian lids blinked just one time
‘Fore its’ lips peeled back - revealing the slime

Glistening yellow over dagger-like teeth
Then oozed from its’ mouth to fall there beneath.
The beast reared up, then we saw its’ claws
Sharp and deadly within its’ forepaws

Towering above us, no sound the beast made
On beams of our light had his gaze stayed.
Unexpectedly Flynn then turned and faced me
… With less blinding light, the beast could again see

Why Flynn had turned I never will know
For the beast bit him in two, at his torso
And I was looking at Flynn – direct in his face
When the beasts’ bite his life did erase.

I screamed, and instantly away did I run
Away from the beast, and dead companion
Through the price of Flynn’s life, more time had been bought
To reach The Cave’s entrance – the goal that I sought

Running wildly, several times did I fall
Toppling did not my mission forestall
The beast I knew still somewhere behind
Drove me on forward with my frantic mind

I heard its’ clawed talons scraping the wall
And prayed I’d not again stumble and fall
Then, up ahead, a small opening I viewed
And I saw my chance, with hope there exude

Twelve feet … six feet … then it was three
But the beast and its’ stench was there behind me
I dove through the rock opening, scraping my head
But better that injury than ending up dead

I was elated, and about to rejoice
I then heard a scream – it was my own voice!
In my leg erupted intense blinding pain
Looking down I saw the bloodstain

My leg, through the opening, still was stuck out
There was but split-seconds, before I’d lose it no doubt
I pulled my leg back, and in but a flash
My shoe was removed by a clawed talon slash

I crawled back from the opening, then I could see
My wound was deep, from ankle to knee
Then suddenly through the opening came
A clawed talon whose aim was to maim

I quickly withdrew out of its’ reach
As claws shot through the openings’ breech
The opening too small, for continued rampage
And the beast began then to voice its’ outrage

It’s deafening roars assaulted my ears
Echoed Cave chambers and in my mind did adhere
I began attending unto my grave wound
Knowing I now was no longer marooned.

T’was another hour ‘fore I crawled out The Cave
But many days ‘fore I’d shed the shockwave
Of what had transpired, and what I had seen
And my damaged leg was lost to gangrene.

Now sleep evades me, for my horrible dreams
Show beams of light, and unearthly screams
Of Beckett and Flynn and The Cave we were in
I know tonight, I’ll re-live it again.

So, now you’ve the story, you’ve heard the deed
I swear is the truth I’ve herein decreed
And Beckett and Flynn are enslaved in their grave
And I lost my leg to the Beast of The Cave.
Clayton McCann Jun 2012
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKPEOfybQak&feature;=related

Remember his name when you look at the night sky.
                                                           - the Toe-cutter


You are the Night Rider,
a fuel-injected suicide machine,
a rocker, a roller,
a no-controller,
yer a cop killer,
the mighty weird hand of vengeance
come to smite the un-roadworthy.

You, Night Rider,
clearly unaffected
by the state’s urgings
to “yield” and, perhaps,
“soft shoulder”.

You are the Night Rider,
sleeping in on a Tuesday,
performing your masculinity
in unshowered, unshaved machissmo.

Night Rider,
won’t you come to your senses?
Nobody enjoys maniacal laughter
anymore.
It makes us think of ****,
covered in fleas, bedbugs,
whiskey ****,

or Janis,
and the last moments of an American Saigon.


Ahh… Night Rider,
we share your machine lust,
your fetish,
your hard-on for the muscle-*****,
the suped-up hot rod,
the last of the V-8 Interceptors
(1973 Australian Ford XB Falcon GT).
We, too, like a nitrous kit,
a roof and tail spoiler,
we likes our flat black:
………....................our murderous speed
………..........................has driven daddy to drinkin’.


We ride!


Night Rider, we understand.
We get the lurid infatuation,
but, ****, yer a hick-****,
all these roads lead to jail
–how have you not grasped this simple truth?

The highway is not freedom,
but a circular slave song.


Oh, rider of the night,
why all the re-runs of Seinfeld?
And cheese bread?
You’ve grown a belly, N.R.,
and while it might be glam
to be young, dumb
and full of ***,
or all muscle
in ****-less chaps at 21,
you’re 45, Night Rider,
and no-one cares anymore
about your straight-line revolution,
about your road to freedom,
about it,
about what kind of future
you and Floosie would’a made.

The kids are alright
but
they ain’t never heard
of you
nor your last,
wild-eyed flight.

As the Lord Humungous has indicated,
no one
gets out
alive.
I found five weasels in a wood,
Five grey kits so fierce they stood,
in challenge on the timbered trail,
my urgings all to no avail.
They held their ground as if to say
This darkling path on which I stray
Is weasel-wood, a tracking ground
Where silent death waits all around
And, transgressing here I truly fear
So ends my trekking here this year.
Jack Trainer Nov 2014
The vastness of the summer field
Has lost its innocence to autumn yield
From whence the green has turned to brown
A once joyous day returns a frown
But with spring’s planting, revived and healed

Refrain oh urgings of wanderlust past
My sails have lost the wind, on teetered mast
The hearty bellows of a nor’easter gale
Has caused my depth to weep and wail
And fear the evil my spirit amassed

I am a farmer’s soul; born to seed and harvest
A reaper of words, and mortal darkness
I seek from all around, and all within
And dream of a life that might have been
Where love past is all but heartless
at the urgings of the needle's keen tip*
she'd respond with such a caustic delight
corrosive was its thorniness of quip

on the pointy end being put to conic flight
an outpouring of stinging did rain free
she'd respond with such a caustic delight

never not thinking of the spurring's tee
compelled by a so driven tong's tine
an outpouring of stinging did rain free

yet the rejoinder was not very **** fine
applying her barbing tool time after time
compelled by a so driven tong's tine

browsers saw the regularity of crime
sticking in too much abrasive acid
applying her barbing tool time after time

the mordant seasoning far from placid
sticking in too much abrasive acid
at the urgings of the needle's keen tip
*corrosive was its thorniness of quip
Terzanelle


The Terzanelle is a poetry type which is a combination of the villanelle and the terza rima forms. It is a 19-line poem consisting of five interlocking triplets/tercets plus a concluding quatrain in which the first and third lines of the first triplet appear as refrains. The middle line of each triplet is repeated, reappearing as the last line of the succeeding triplet with the exception of the center line of the next-to-the-last stanza which appears in the quatrain. The rhyme and refrain scheme for the triplets is as follows:

1. A
2. B
3. A

4. b
5. C
6. B

7. c
8. D
9. C

10. d
11. E
12. D

13. e
14. F
15. E

Ending Type 1:

16. f
17. A
18. F
19. A

Ending Type 2:

16. f
17. F
18. A
19. A

Each line of the poem should be the same metrical length.
my subconscious writes me letters
gentle urgings -
from that deepest space
where dreams go to rest
and fears go to hide
little fragments of inspiration
that dance provocatively
only to vanish
when i rise from my stupor
little ghosts of memories past
present and future
bound up together
as unfailing reminders
that wherever i go
i will always be me

-Vijayalakshmi Harish
30.11.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Raj Arumugam Oct 2012
whether it be day or night
when I am awake
I listen to the silence
and the whispers of the surrounds
to the snarls, the roars and the rage
to the creatures that are about, that may venture
I am attentive to the flowing streams
that laugh with the rocks
and to the mountains in their pensive mood
and the sounds of the house and its wood
and the growing elm, that are rich and green always
and I am witness to the sun,
and the moon and its companion stars
and the day and night
and all shades and transitions
and all presence in the air
and I am witness to the creatures that come close, curious
and so to all quiet, to all activity and all life and movement
to all color and all seasons and all urgings and motion
and when it bids me sing of these
then in that consent, in that concord
I write down these words
I write these books of the surrounds
of these moments
that shall come into your hands
that you too may see, for yourself
....poem based on painting “Writing Books under the Pine Trees”  by **** Meng (王蒙, Wáng Méng; Zi: Shūmíng 叔明, Hao: Xiāngguāng Jūshì 香光居士) (c. 1308 – 1385)...please check out painting
BR Oct 2017
I do not want to be touched like a steering wheel is touched;
Or a guitar-
Like I am a machine, an instrument made of parts,
Like if you pluck my strings, I’ll sing for you
Like I was only created to get you from point a, to point b,
Like I was made entirely to respond to your urgings. –

I do not want to be loved like a dog is loved,
Or a car.
Like I am the comforting warmth at the foot of your bed, or the meticulously painted frame you can’t wait to show your friends,
Because you still hope you can earn their respect. –
My love, I want you to touch me because it is through my skin that you can cool the fear that burns me,
I want you to want my body because it is the artistic expression of the person God made me!

Do you know that God made me? –

My love, I want you to love me because I AM the bones inside your body,
Because I am the ribs that curve around the softest part of your insides, protecting.

I want you to love the way it hurts to love me,
Because nothing worthy is painless,
and I am nothing if not worthy-

Do you know that I am worthy?
Jennifer Feb 2013
not about the color of his eyes
The weight of his stare
pushed her back
pressing her will
against the sheets
her eyes
crushed close
an attempt to obliterate the heat

She wrote not about his lips
The way they pretended
to hold some shy secret
brushing temptation
pulling back
evoking her appetite
till she believed
starvation
would eat her alive

She wrote not about the battles  
repeated
with wet skin
fire
fingers clasped and
limbs entwined
Their warrior cries and
hushed urgings
the inevitability of
death
a quiet relief
that held only
until war
was incited once more

What she did write
the sadness
the annilhation of reason
that completely
devoured
her head
How unreasonably her ego
stood down
refusing to protect her
leaving her
banished
to the emotional
unable to talk herself out of his charms

I suppose this is the reason
she didn't want to write
Ma Cherie May 2017
nights curtain finally falls,
dayZzzzzzzz...z
... are endless right now,
thankfully yeah,
so near to my sweet solstice,
my Cancer moon
FULL approaching,
now beckoning thought,
to a Gypsy summer,
Grandmother too,
as I gaze upward,
at spectacular urgings of dreams,
in light form,
an ancient an curs-ED reminders
that shine a path,

hope in refractions of tomorrow,
combined with my melancholy yesterday


beautifully written sky poetry,
Grandmother said,

"Those are luminescent possibilities angel,
called stars-
so when I die -look there."
Idk....a tad sad ;/ miss her. Love you guys trying to catch up some. Thank you so much
ConnectHook Jul 2017
cerebral diarrhea
versus verborrhea
unpunctuated disequilibrium
generates opprobrium
unfree verse
fettered or worse
verbal *****:
bomb it.
confessional purgings
depressional urgings
emo-bingeing over unrequited love
makes this poet go off / out / above
Just a little ditty inspired by 90% of what I read at HP ☺
Sorry I'm so judgmental but "I gotta be me"

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Attend, ye NINE, and careless swains:
descending to Arcadia’s plains;
a playful Zephyr wind of love
now stirs the leaves of VENUS‘ grove.

By PHILOMELA‘s unshorn flocks
and bright DIANA‘s flowing locks
my classic naiad air now brings
a gushing fountain’s hidden springs.
O’er verdant fields and greening rill
my lay shall fauns with satyrs thrill.
Ye swains and shepherdesses, come!
Adore the world’s Arcadian ***.

FLORA, banished from Eden, thrives
Sweetening hidden honey hives
whose swarms of workers never tire
providing flow’ry heart’s desire.

CUPID spreads his fluttering plumes;
and NATURE wanton pose assumes
uncovering her dales and glades
before her early glory fades.
The captivating limbs of grace
now parted, show her lower face,
where clefts are glimpsed—ravines, or chasms;
shuddering, bursting forth in spasms.
EARTH thus trembles. See her quake
and ruin of GOD‘s creation make.

WISDOM, fallen, pawns her crown
as high ideals come crashing down.
So o’er the fields, my pastoral lay
sets ****** blowing on his way.
Now thyrsus-bearing maenads pass
and BACCHUS rides upon his ***.
(A different *** should be adored
that fair creation of the LORD,
which gently rounded, swells the mind
with thoughts unhallowed, unrefined.)
This second *** we long to ride;
until she comes—our load inside.
But burdened beasts deserve no spite,
nor does my POETRY, despite
the fact that **** has made us DUMB
reducing us to spurts of come . . .
So chaste (and chased) celestial virgins
turn to trees at Classic urgings.

EROS spreads his wings (her legs)
inviting us to drain the dregs
while CERES’ tawny limbs now shake
as harvests man would undertake.
Old PAN gives rise to Attic fears
(as well the sav’ry BACON sears),
whose pipes the purling brooks enjoy
and streams flow faster, for their joy.
The golden past see here, anew
in rosy and poetic hue:
Will nature be reduced to ****?
Shall nymphs of pleasure, newly born
who bare their charming whole to all
cast womanhood in a dying fall
before a camera, there, to fawn
and light the rosy-fingered dawn?
If so, I say let’s get it lit
(since literature might help a bit)
and in the daybreak’s fervid light
we’ll now make out fair nature’s sight:
appendages outspread, well-splayed
where once the sprite and dryad played.
Such fertile pastures, mounds, and woods,
a panoply of carnal goods
our undulating field of bliss
make misconceptions: hit and miss.
These wetlands, groves, and bounteous limbs
enthralled to lust’s capricious whims
make sweet DIANA seek her quarry.
(far too late to say I’m sorry . . .)
***, our motivating prize
displayed in fleshly glory lies.
Her fanes are reared, which sounds obscene
where once raw NATURE reigned serene.
Halcyon visions of the hunt
direct our carnal minds to C – – T!
The blessed light, transcending hope
and rolling o’er each grassy *****
begins to shine on darkened waters,
stirring up the river daughters;
waking schools of silvery fish
who glide along their final wish:
to flee the sharpened hook of fate
upon which squirms the Master’s bait.
While PHOEBUS floods the surface bright
with beams of pure poetic light.

This HEAVEN, following ******* Hell
is less a Babylonian spell
than pure devotion, misdirected
(and a pagan shrine erected).
where the poets sing too long.
Now hearken well: I’ll close my song.
Don’t harden your dull heart in hate;
just glimpse the garden from her gate.
And view those less celestial skies
receding in her human eyes
Until these dear idyllic scenes
inspired by purely digital means
reveal, at last, a digital end
and past with present bravely blend.

Enough of flocks of stinking sheep
who eat and wander, bleat and sleep.
Who copulate, and **** and ****
as if their lives depend on it . . .
Instead, I’ll sing of human being
beneath the eye of ONE all-seeing.
Ye watchers of the erring flock,
and pastors whom the crowing ****
awakes from sleep’s Elysian fields,
attune your souls. My poem yields
an end to this Arcadian story
(it was naught but allegory).
Such fleshly charms are quite a treat
and mutton-chops make hearty meat.
The poet’s still mind
is like a cement-mixer
churning, churning. What?
Shahrukh Zamir May 2014
You have been hiding somewhere in my mind
still seeking but promise ill find you in time
no words of beauty could truly define
the deliciousness that's enriched in someone your kind

You have been hiding somewhere in my mind
still seeking but promise ill find you in time
in this journey alone these trails whisper and kindly remind
me of what love is if we aren't combined

You have been hiding somewhere in my mind
still seeking but promise ill find you in time
lurking and urgings while searching for sign
Lord, only If i could see and read between these lines

You have been hiding somewhere in my mind
still seeking but promise ill find you in time
I might lose my soul but til this world declines
solemnly swear, won't dissappear until i make you mine

-Shahrukh Zamir c) 2013
Odonko-ba Aug 2016
crickets don't chirp in hell
they burn

brighter than the fire
that fuels your scorn

feeding your anger
like cicadas at dawn

takes hold
and suffocate

subjugate spirits
until hearts are torn

love don't come easy
to a cold heart
or a misused
trampled on
abused heart

love is war

unpredictable
from the start

like the urgings of youth
grasping at straws
gasping at yet
another of life's
myriad illusions

lost
in a tabernacle of lies
love tossed aside

like schmatte

as if
God doesn't exist
who am I to love?

I can only die
Cedric McClester Nov 2015
By: Cedric McClester

So you want a ticket
To paradise
Before killing everyone
You see in sight
Read the Qu’ran
Maybe once or twice
And you won’t be listenin’
To a fool’s advice

You think if you die
You’ll get seventy-two virgins
So you blindly follow
A mad man’s urgings
Which will lead you to hell
After your conversion
You’ll be fuel the fire
And the devil’s diversion

Jihad Akbar
The great jihad
Ain’t about random killing
So before you start
It’s the battle that is waged
Within each heart
To stay on the straight path
Havc you done your part

Islam truly is
The religion of peace
Despite the things you see
Throughout the Middle East
Or the false prophets who are down
With the beast
Promoting ****** and mayhem
Which has increased

All of ‘em had better
Leave Islam alone
Because their religion
Is all their own
See they’re the last ones
Who should throw a stone
At others who disagree
With how their movement's grown






























Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
M Vogel Dec 2020
D Vanlandingham

I could not help it,
but to show you how the moment felt,
and in the unfolding of a picture, painted;
the deepest of your dreams were unknowingly shown to you
And it caught you off guard-  having, to that day..

   you never imagined,  it possible.

But you did not yet understand that you wear your dream
somewhere within the thin-walled interminglings
of the word's first primal, urgings..  and its out-into-the-light-of-day,
manifestations... (and baby, I feel like crying right now)
but I will continue
I will continue--

You never signed up for this,  I know..
but you are the one who  chose
to allow your war-torn heart,
to keep on beating//
your flame-scorched lungs,  to keep on breathing..
and now look at this mess, my beautiful--
your beautiful-everything has bled out on to me

and  everywhere that I am..  I am wearing you

And all I do  is tell you what it feels like  to wear you
but in doing so, I made known  your dream
and somehow-- within the stretch of Love's ache's, bad luck
I have become hated  for making your secret, come true--

         the revealing of the dream,  made known ::

                                                the Unfolded you.

And now, you are raging
because you never imagined, the possibility
that there would be someone  out there
that would care  enough about you
to become able  to see..

(and a man became hated, for just being  me).


Yet, even now  to this day,  beloved;
I close my eyes, and smile
within the depths,

  of your deeply loving, hatred.



The smell of rain and streetlight, thrown
a love, a lantern in the snow
when she feels it taking hold
she finds it so hard letting go
How can I tell her that we'll shine?
She dreads the devil's yet to show;
so **** reluctant to expose it to me,  so..

well..


(it has been years of this, my beautiful)

I love you.
https://youtu.be/BnWFy0P2e-A
xoxo
.
Robert Gretczko Sep 2016
blue green hypnotic muses pass through
the spindles of time tightly squeezed to
minuscule bits that cast themselves so weightlessly
across our minds with recollections that
sputter to an abrupt stop

here in repose, motionlessly we arch our touch
to grasp any filament that can light our heavens
the ones we secretly crush on our pillows
as we usher in the peaceful times to journey
the dark crystal studded universe of our
nights seeing the wonders and urgings
of travels to mysterious contraband landscapes
and lush ***** paradises lined up in perfect
latitudes... tangents and twists and turns
solemn stirrings and lineages that have engulfed
all thought... all pleasure... all measures
and why not... check cashed... funds paid!.
Robert Gretczko Sep 2016
task your mind with infinite visions
engrossed in urgings and misguided ways
ruminate over lost loves and dire wishes
wake up at night happy but still in a daze

think and speak ever earnestly
to troubles that brew at a steady bubble
imply your still listening
make haste a retreat when your smelling trouble

languish amidst happy and go lucky
telling friends there place is most secure
arrange your schedule neatly
admonish them sternly then show them the door

arrive on time to all that is privy
dance with aplomb when invited to
in all graciousness and sincerity
give kind people affection and their just due
From the top of Mount Profitis Ilias, Saint John the Apostle received the five thousand Falangists who joined in on the eve of the Antiphon Benedictus. The Apokálypsis text, made songs that were weighed with the replacement angelic assemblages, in case it was necessary to supplant them by Holy Antiphons, who before this immense crowd illustrated them in desannotations, that Saint John the Apostle summoned through Alexander the Great risen from Larnax. The voice of Saint John rose above the purple ashes of the Falangists, who, alone on one side, quantified the Apostle's prayerful itinerary, "Glory to the Highest and Salvation." To you oh thank you for these revived souls here in Patmos !, in passive and humane actions of redeeming the hexameters of the Sybilas of Delphi, who came with blessed anti-destructive glances, because he intervenes and destroys the superior and oppressive empires, brings down the proud who face it, and judge those who perpetrate evil! Thus the antiphon was manifested as an apothegm of the one who began the celebration of the raging sea, which boastfully leaned on the oracles of intervention in the agoras and vespers that are the prayer of divine action of the conjectured Parnassus of Patmos.

The songs of the psalms slept in the jousts, who humbly dressed in white in front of the protocol, with the sublime essence of the Apokálypsis, in accommodating psalms uttered from hexameters by the pale reliefs of the Pythia. In the acclamation, songs were woven that acclaimed the apostles of recondite communion, where Apollo's urgings sub-shone with actions of love from Saint John the Apostle in ravings of TeL Gomel's departure. Towards the Epsilon, where the pagan god was "for himself being a whole of the Being", in the repose of the poured pilgrimages for the subject in a single Being that moved in Delphian Oracles. In responsible allegory when smearing the fingers, still wet, in the Castalia fountain due to the removal of the Epsilon, and because of telluric changes in the flow of the divine waters, traced in the volcanic effluvia of the Aegean.

Everything was syncretic and harmonious to profess of the apostle, who remembered the Wedding of Canaan as a gift received, for guests in nuptiality with resurrected beings, and retransferred to fill them with goodness and glories, reviving in the same spirit “Jesus, you were invited to a party of weddings of others, of the husbands of Canaan ”.

“Here, on the other hand, it is about your party, pure and beautiful to relive joy in our days, because your guests also need your antiphons Benedictus; letting the harp fill everything filled with minor anger everywhere. The soul is your wife; the body is her nuptial chamber; your guests are the senses and thoughts. And if a single body is for you a wedding feast, the entire Temple is your wedding banquet, anointed in a Delphi that ceased the soul of the Fallen Falangists, but it extends on the banks of Galilee as an inexhaustible source of water and wine with I revive Eucharistic sweetness, for eno-priestly and heterogenic purposes.
Antiphon Benedictus I
Desolation, smoke and ash.

The world and its relentless, restive urgings
are not enough.

The edifice of order is too ephemeral,
the tenuous bonds of meaning
too easily razed to rubble
beneath the nihilist's gaze.

No doubt, the end is assured for all,
prolonged by believing,
hastened by the wait,
but coming just the same in fullness:
the fat, swollen belly of death.

Perhaps.

Or is it not our calling
to struggle for exemption,
to defy the violent course of history
and its pitiless lack of purpose?

Is it not the triumph of the will
to rise above the ruins of time
on wings of wisdom,
to sing and dance, to sup and celebrate
the marriage feast of laughter and the absurd?

Surely, necessity can be resisted.

Who, then, will dare to tear against
the bruised, battered earth
with new-honed tools of abundance?

Who, then, will dare to seek out
the sweetness of day
that whispers and beckons from the one, true dwelling?

Who, then, will dare to begin?

— The End —