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Kimberly C Brown Sep 2010
Cool drops
cool drops falling, rolling
sliding
down before they reach your jaw.
I move close
the creak of the floor calls out to me.
A woman's skin is soft
like a silken second skin
so tightly, so lightly fastened to your body
is felt against my open palm,
is felt against my muscled arm
so down it goes parallel your vertical curves
like a flawed hourglass so striking.
Lips close around that water drop, now sliding down your collar bone
nestled in the hollow
where shoulder meets neck.
The water refreshes me
ignites my thirst.
ignites...
Some say life is personal,
because passion is an internal central.
Be honest and practical
because it is totally essential.
Life choices can be critical
and make you want to visit the medical.
But, then, life's race is purely vertical.
Plans of progree must be made at the initial.
No black dealing because you're not a criminal.
When God decides to put a point in ur life-span's decimal,
dont go bargaining and complaining like a political animal,
because Death in character is very un-social.
Judgement day in Heaven's court is very legal
Hell's registration number isnt serial.
Cassiel Moore May 2012
She stood on the old wooden platform with tears in her eyes
So many virgins had been taken from here
For centuries The Dragon has come
Father said, It is to protect the village
To her it was a death sentence
In truth, it was
With her white dress fluttering in the harsh wind
A black spot became visible on the horizon
He was here
To scoop her up and take her to his cave
Never to be seen again
Her vision blurred into black nothingness
As his claws closed around her midsection

The Dragon dropped his prize on the array of pillows he kept for them
He knew what she was thinking
The Dragon always felt so guilty for the women he took
Yet he couldn’t help it, he thought as his claws touched down on the caves cold floor
With a cry of pain his long demonic dragon body receded





Until only the form of a naked man remained
Baring only long raven black hair and two vertical scars on his back
And a braided thong around his neck holding his pendant of Light
Striking gold eyes shown in the darkness of the night
She would be his
Willingly this time
He was tired of the life he had lead
A sigh of arousal brought him back to the here and now
The Dragon turned to face his new bride with black wings unfurled
“Hello Andrea,” he smiled feeling his hunger rise to his throat
She looked at him astonished
“Christopher?”
Patristic Excerpt
John where made Patristic delays on the island in Christian times by building numerous panagias decorated with mosaics. They enter the port of the island walking in wild revelry after being greeted at the port. At dusk they arrive in Jorió finding the Venetian castle of the knights of the Order of Saint John, completely covered in blue olive oil (a phenomenon that had been caused by the previous visit of Etrestles and his entourage) In the same way, they make an antechamber to the northeast finding the Grotto of the Seven Virgins or Nymphs, whose satire succumbed to some incredulous neighbors, hiding some of their minor daughters after denying its consummation. This is not a minor legend told of how seven young girls disappeared into the cave when fleeing from some pirates, noting if it could be so, also the clues to find Etréstles that he had recently been here in frank search for his ghosts. “Behold, all this paraphernalia of bilocation was accentuated by the god Spílaiaus creating immediacy with all the times that they wanted from the present, and the future that is exclusive to the Itheoi gods” Petrobus the Pelican goes back to the colonies of his ancestors, he wore gold rings around his neck, and had no contact with his native colony since the last day they helped the fields with water due to the lack of fresh water. It is worth noting their property of converting salt water into fresh water but even more the quality of Petrobus in addition to where they step on its paws, everyone will shine and rejuvenate. It off-centers its wings with allotropic dyes that made it turn colors in addition to strengthening and lightening its body during long periods of flight, and lifts its angular bag and takes vertical flight to meet Reader and Vernarth again in the Early Christian Necropolis of the burial chapels, here they meditate with the god Azofar who levitated above them offering their submission to the wind that flows with great power under the catacombs pulling and moving spirits that wish to relocate with their placebo presiding over their doubts. They leave the port boarding a Triaconter that would take them to Kinaros before the night falls and is seized by the coastal fog, not resisting the rope that holds a ship, whatever it was many times these ships were maneuvered by rowing sailors but this time it was only consigned for them, it would only move without anyone intervening, only the eternal wind that kind will take them to the island of Reader's progenitors. On the transparent waters sailing in the Triaconter were the three, Vernarth in the Petrobus bow on the main mast of the sail, and Raeder beside him a few meters away remembering his parents when they emigrated from this island? The name of the ship that was named as “Eurydice” in every certain space of advance they approached the macaroon to empty the tears that this Nymph emanated through her half-open eyes, she would take a rag of the holy cocoon and wipe away the effusions that must have been more for some reason that he would want to know…? Upon arriving in the vicinity of Kinaros, a rainy cyclone hit them which lifted them above the surface of the island when they were less than 5 km from arriving. Vernarth takes the Xiphos's sword from him and cuts the ropes then Raeder noticing that they were at serious risk of being shipwrecked, tells Vernarth to get out of the ship and quickly runs to the bow covering the eyes of the Mask of the Eurydice and leaves the ship.

With an epic metaphysical tendency, he acclaims his magical steed Alikanto..., he flies over the ship and picks them up, and Reader takes hold of the rings on Petrobus's legs reaching the mainland consecutively. Kinaros is a land of fishermen and farmers, a long-lived land and ancient inhabitants who do not age; here there are no cemeteries or monuments, there is only eternal spring for those who can be grateful for a place that gives them peace, and melancholy love for those who do not live there. Here from this bountiful land come the Raeder Parents, they migrated to Kalymnos; being this land the one that saw his birth and immortalizes him so he remembers…: “In the islands of the Dodecanese, subdued by the carmine dew that falls at dawn on its crystalline waters, important archaeological remains and cenacles appear on the sand or gravel beaches to compete in athletic leisure, Raeder ran naked after the outfits of which his mother had made him. He was permeated by crystalline Byzantine, architectural and medieval monuments due to long Venetian dominations in his mannerisms what unite them to these islands is their history, and their occupations: that of the knights of the crusades to that of the Turks, the Italian occupation to the Greek annexation with their volatile outfits useless to dress up, Patmos is very popular among pilgrims from the moment his work was raised in one of the caves on the island of San Juan Evangelista, the disciple of Christ writing the Book of Revelations. Astypalea is the westernmost island of the archipelago and has Dodecanese Cycladic architectural features it is also related here in the Novel of Etréstles of Kalavrita matter of his victorious boast to Patmos when he resorts after the reverie with the Laziko Dance that was held by the little finger and circulated in commemoration of the stripping of the rebirth of spring with the Sousta del Dodecanese. These dances were engendered in the infra-ocean floor of the Ionian Sea, generating the power of the ethereal emanation of Etrestles from Kalavrita by daring to put Eclectic confrontation to the invisible portal of the Evangelist Saint John in his sacred basaltic cavern in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 - page 114. Editorial Palibrio-USA) (Koumeterium Messolonghi Chapter 16 - page 114 Editorial Palibrio-USA) It is also related here in the Novel of Etréstles of Kalavrita matter of his victorious boast to Patmos when he resorts after the reverie with the Laziko Dance that was held by the little finger and circulated in the commemoration of the stripping of the rebirth of spring with the Dodecanese´s Sousta. It is also related here in the Novel of Etréstles of Kalavrita matter of his victorious boast to Patmos when he resorts after the reverie with the Laziko Dance that was held by the little finger and circulated in commemoration of the stripping of the rebirth of spring with La Sousta del Dodecanese.

In the Chapel of Ministers: They were seconded by the high representatives of Kalymnos, among them the curious immortal serpentine Raeder son of native Kinaros farmers belonging to a clan group of six small islands and six small families. Some islets used to boast the genealogical beams and challenges of Antigone, and documented inspirations found between Leros and Kálymnos in the east and the Cyclades islands of Amorgós in the west. Raeder always got up before dawn on his window sill there always appeared a petite blue bonsai Pelican he called Petrobus, in the mornings he would run beating this Olympic bird in a fast dispute sometimes he was not able to say goodbye to his bird friend because he ran so fast that the days used to be weeks in a row, while Petrobus puffed through the Ouranos with his Hellenic Artificial Intelligence elytra, with his hyper exhalation he moved great rocky crags even moving and disorganizing the geographical nomenclature of these twelve polygon islands between the Cyclades and the Dodecanese. The lesser known and immaculate islands are Leros or Pserimos, while Rhodes and Kos the largest and most cosmopolitan islands are the goal of the migrated Blue Pelicans throughout the year. Before returning to his house, Raeder stretched out on grasses sheared by the heels of Petrobus's migrates and his henchmen in this grass dancer I could feel the dances with the gag dance bread vibrate through his arms in all the rumps of the maidens in the Sousta dance running after Petrobus with his golden mask and hanging from the wings or legs of his bird (Wings Mate), the art of flying with golden magical birds and his Ancient Mama Antigone to Raeder when sometimes he was flying by the legs of Petrobus, he thought...:

“My land… a thousand times I will lift you up with my arms, do not doubt it, my arms believe it… Oh, my venerated Ionian I will do apnea to please you a thousand times to become your Ionian molecule… Wind of Kalimnos himself…, I will make the flute an Ode that runs through twelve perforated epitaphs with my ancestors in the Dodecanese sleeping paroxysm in the panagia where I was baptized for the ninth time! And in the fatuous lavish fire, I will put the ceremonial ribbon of the Sousta Dance in the nap in the new migration of my transparent Pelicans….”

Raeder tells a visibly emotional Petrobus about imagining crying with his imagined friend. "Little Raeder of the Dodecanese" he utters to his magical imaginary friend; Petrobus, what else was missing from ground breadcrumb paste for next winter…? Petrobus, distracted and not looking at him tells him…, only placing his web-footed Hellenophile leg on his other equal…: “Fear nothing Raeder, God does not coexist! ...Now He and you are the same. With your arms you will be able to lift the sphere of the bare earth and reconvert it into a Healthy Earth of Milk and mead of our Kalymnos that runs like a quagmire through the mountains of your Life converted into a new House dressed in a new house” when Raeder finishes thinking…, Vernarth tells him that they had to sail to Patmos, curiously Eurydice's ship was in the bay, they believed that this ship had capsized and sank somewhere in the wide open sea of ​​the Aegean.
The three on boards the ship Eurydice, Alikanto stays in Kinaros batoning very well guarded by peasants who took great affection for him later he would join him on Patmos for service and trades pantry to Saint John the Evangelist. Alikanto will take a great contribution and role in the prophecies of Vernarth on the Isle of Patmos, just on board the Eurydice and surround themselves with a climate of seclusion and peace on the ship, not so far behind were the Cyclades and part of the Dodecanese he was full of vitality, he completely covered the Triaconter it was late and the moon was beginning to dress the deck with phosphorescence, Raeder and his little Petrobus were clearly exhausted deciding to sleep right there on the deck. He was also relieved of emotions after so much experimenting on the islands, as well as not being able to find his brother Etréstles to prepare to rest in her poetry, almost falling asleep he sees that from the bow a very quiet female figure approaches him with her lost gaze, and stands up seeing that it was Eurydice who was in front of him. She had her bandage on her eyes still approaching her and says Eurydice: “Can you remove the tape…? Only you can do that! Although due to this subtlety of yours in attention to me I tried..., of course, I must be able to recover my subsistence and its mobility as an indissoluble watercolor. Vernarth says; “In my narrative we know that Eurydice was a dryad, being the wife of Orpheus as a poet and musician. After evading Aristaeus´s harassment, she would now take refuge in a shipyard in Amphipolis and hide on a ship. She escapes with great speed and fear, as her heart only belongs to Orpheus, as she flees, Eurydice is bitten by a snake and dies, Orpheus, disconsolate, cries for her and her desperation finds no consolation, so he makes the risky decision to go in search of his sweet and beloved wife to Hades, the land of the dead. Vernarth longs to revive her in her comparative fable to her sweet song and her poetry, Orpheus managed to move Charon who lets him cross the River Styx, the boundary between the world of the living and the dead. Later, also with his artistic abilities, Orpheus manages to convince Persephone and Hades to allow him to take Eurydice. The subterranean divinities agree to be taken away but Orpheus must promise that he will not attempt to see his wife until he has brought her into the sunlight, so as agreed, Eurydice followed Orpheus on the way to the light, and at the moment when they were about to leave the dark depths, Orpheus had doubts thus, he began to think about the possibility that Persephone had deceived him and that Eurydice did not come after him, so he could not bear her temptation and turned to look at her and confirm that she was coming with him. When this happened, Eurydice was dragged by an irresistible force back to Hades. Orpheus, desperate tries to go again to rescue his beloved but this time Charon does not allow it, at this moment the god of the Genus Itheoi Aiónius clings to the purity of the distilled water pretending that Eurydice was going to the underworld, but the mirror flash of Ibico 1 would bring Eurydice from the darkness to the parallel world of Orpheus and Vernarth. Here Kaitelka and Borker (Semi Itheoi, concur in total harmony with Demeter, Persephone, and Hestia bringing from the labyrinths the rusty chains of Prometheus and Vertnarth that were wandering through infinity) Orpheus when he doubts is more than divine doubt, it is submithological human doubt that cracks the recondite doubts and trigger the valleys of perdition in the jungle dense in roads without being able to follow, especially if I personalize it in myself, said Vernarth. According to Vernarth giving ears in this magnanimous moment of what was narrated by herself, it represented Eurydice fearing being left unattended under hell, fleeing to Thrace to the port of Amphipolis, then boarding a ship stealthily entering being discovered by a captain later. She runs strong escaping from the officer and jumps overboard, the officer searches for her vehemently for several days, remaining buried in the holistic totally under a complication plot since a sailor had recapitulated her in a passage of this mythology that could take live life and action on your boat. Days go by and this Triaconter ship is whipped by the Persians on a disastrous day, everything frolicked from large figures to consider as well as fleeing from the Persians before an impartial and just intensified attack from the enemies the Triaconter is adrift. Eurydice follows in the footsteps of this ill-fated boat and then boards it again. “In the eighth month of navigating fully, she is discovered by Aristeo, She takes the start of a terrifying heart because she feared what could be born from the ship; perhaps become a subjective fear! She realized that it was not real and she understood that it was an anxiety of profuse delirium”. But it was too late for she hid in the bowsprit on her way to the bowsprit, with the decaying line to the figurehead she stays silent, tries to remove her feet and can't remain thus captive of the ship bound to the figurehead, provoked only by herself not by her as a divine Nymph but by the fear that haunted her like a viral fear in her own and her delusional fears. Vernarth, hates himself and tells Eurydice: “If you wish, I will jump overboard and be swallowed by the sea, and so I can find the oppressors who harass your persecution. Just tell me and I'll jump to save your reckless shattered fate. Only the existence that is nothing more than Bravery will combine the power to relieve you and free you from your chains.”
Eurydice
Katy Laurel Sep 2013
I once met a man who read my bellybutton.
He told me that the two horizontal lines
meant I have internal and external insecurities.
I scoffed at the idea that those things
could disappear from mortal souls.
He then pointed to the bottom vertical line,
the most noticeable,
and told me
that meant
my biggest insecurity was my reproductive organs.

I smiled small.
Should I tell him about the dead baby
or instead of the riley women who have male dependency.
I chose the latter,
for Im not sure if the kid is still dead.
I could hear her screams in late night alleys for two years after.
She haunts my horror dreams,
singing we could have lived happily ever after.

Instead, Ill chose the story of my stepfather
who called me a *****
and cried to my mother
that I was trying to ****** him with training bras and black eye liner.

'Did he hurt you?'
'of course,
but so did my mother-
and I've learned to forgive those
who chose life over freedom.'

It's more than I've done.
Kimberly C Brown Oct 2010
My body is vertical
parallel to my mattress.
My ears pick up the mites
eating away at my dead skin
the dust mites prowl the forests
of my eyebrows.

My body is emaciated
the head to heavy to hold up
my collar bones are fragile
the aching is dull and resounding
vibrating between shoulder to shoulder.

My stomach is a sloshing sack
spilling acid in waves through my
esophagus,
burning away flesh.

Burning away my flesh
and will,
darkening my years of life
lived full, happy and long.
Mercurial Ambrosia / Profitis Ilías and Cinnabar

From the rudiments of the votive offerings that were outlined from the Megaron, a grammar was looming that sought terminologies in the lexicons of those who would intervene in the ruling party of the same patron twin; in such a symbiosis by naming him Mandragoron.  Vernarth came already ready after the fringed platform of the Acrotera modules, and in his affirmation of how he will appear before the plinth of Athenea and Zeus, who were awakening from a reminiscence of the Nemeton Druid, to go in the responsibility of the active life of austerity, and in the greyish roots of Zeus's oak that was rummaging, attend to the lively brushstrokes of three-dimensionality of the "V", which could be seen concentrically in the Pergamon frieze. The "V" emerges from the sculptor's cardiac center of escape and perspective, in the polys-perspective of gigantomachy where Athenea apprehends the suffering Alcyoneus by the hair in a deadly belligerent perspective and in convulsions of Satanic enthronement; Alluding to the apocalyptic epistle of Saint John the Apostle, on the vertical optics of the great Maker of pnemo-images or aerial nuances in the semi-open eyes of the giant suffering in Alcyoneus, with lost encumbrances from the maternal power of his matron Gea, for a polytheistic empire and adverse towards the border of the Christ anointed in unison, and of the better-known reliefs of the Athenea panel. Her contracted forehead and her belly convulsively are constricted, which only leaves us suffering and mortal fear. In the arranged thing the giant loses contact with the mother of him Gea of him; Disappearing land leaving you vulnerable. The sacred serpent of Athenea will **** Alcioneo by biting him on the chest (ibidem Vernarth's suffering pectoral from Bumodos, Tel Gomel.)

Nike will consummate the victory, and then from the exhausted stadiums of the Pergamon amphitheater, Wonthelimar will bring the Victory with the other "V" of the goddess Nike, also borne by Athenea Nikephoros. From this duplicity both are transposed into Vernarth's "V" as an initiatory pseudonym; that will graph the reinforced twin of the Hellenic genesis of Wonthelimar, articulating from this Prótypo with the genesis of the cardinal Mandragoron that will be architectural and deified Vernarthian hierarchy:

Cardinal Mandragoron

- North : Vóreios  (Zefian Boreal)
- South  : Nótos    (Austral of Borker)
- West.  :  Dyticá   (Sunset of Leiak)
- East    :  Aftó       (Equinoctial of Kaitelka)

The Cinnabar Tsambiko, had bushy inclinations with the Mercurial Ambrosia, for the good of large metropolises of Mercurial Pollen, for those of a single deity coming from polytheistic Pergamum, in a flaw that is centrally concentrated in the monotheism of the Mandragoron, which will rise from the rocky of Mount Profitis Ilias from the height of the rhizomatic basalts, to condemn those who betray them, if they are stripped of the Lepidoptera. In the same way akin to a bucolic immortal, in dietetic miraculous, for basal ingenuities of nomenclatures, from the focal point of indigestion that dies with the digestion of sacred food, led by healing perceptions and sensations of the well-known world of ferment. It could be a Backoi, Kykeon, or Nepenthe, preferring to be swallowed by the Titans, to later filter honey that evaporates and volatilizes towards the Sulphurous Cinnabar, containing the bi-compound and sacred Mercurial Ambrosia, to later be disposed of with a vile gargle to the disposition of mortals who were to be immortal like Heracles. From this mythological infundity, the potion for Vernarth is abstracted from smearing it on his nose and on his pectoral, so that his wound that did not heal does not rot...; perhaps his Hellenic heart in rubble anticipated the destruction of future archaeological works. Or perhaps to imbue it in the chest of Achilles, like Vernarth, but it would be so as not to resist fasting. Liquids with entomology and Lepidoptera from Gethsemane in flocks come to clean the scabs of the heroes, who are only able to resist such effusion and subtle prophylaxis, stinging Prometheus a single sip in this new Mercurial Ambrosia.
Mercurial Ambrosia / Profitis Ilías and Cinnabar
Jack May 2014
~

Going down

Handprints appear on these elevator doors,
smudged of grinder swirls, yet so very clear
Imprints of need and want lingering
on a stainless steel façade

Rounded numbers beg to be pushed,
no thirteen in this bunch
though appropriate it would be
as my luck has found its way to the lowest levels

Standing on this suspended platform
cables of strength weaken with each breath,
emergency exits laugh at my predicament,
as left again slowly reaches out for right

Before me you stand, tears on your cheeks
“It is the way it has to be,” you say
The doors close, while through a narrowing vertical slat
I see you walk away…my heart drops…palms on metal…

I can not keep them open…anymore
Going
D
O
  W
    N
Eriko Apr 2016
the smirk creeping behind
vertical shafts of wooden surmise
pale pastel gold, deep blushing orange
faint impressions of stars
like a single bead of sand
toppled onto the white washed beach
where the pink coral tore wreckage
trees uprooted, a hawk nested
absent of a human presence
for some artifacts man cannot know
that the sun is beautiful
and the sea cries remorseful
the wind a living organism
the pink coral skeletons
and a new day's rise
a blessing in disguise
Lucy Tonic Nov 2013
Cut wide open
Vertical
Is how I’d go

Society
Being civilized
Is not meant for this animal

So take me to the hospital
Donate my body
Just sing me to sleep
As I fade away

The good heart
Is open for business
But they’re no buyers
A bowl full of liars
So I guess I’ll cry
For the world and for my life

Cut wide open
Vertical
Is how I’d go
Austin Martin Jun 2016
The silence deafens me.
stark alabaster walls stand so vertical and sharp,
a spider's thread dritfs in a cool breeze eminating from a small gap beneath a window.
Dust trickles down through the warm sunlight, frosting all the tables, shelves, and chairs.
Time is forever, the silence is greater.
Surrounding me, engulfing me, smothering me.

-AM
spysgrandson Dec 2013
well not really… though I told
every grinning green Catholic soul
at my school I did that and more

I did smell the wine on her breath
and watch her trip into the trailer  
her gown hitting the floor  
before she closed the door  
her body as white as the fake snow  
spitting onto the set, and
as cold perhaps

I was sixteen and she was fifty one  
this was my one and only, her last,  
flick, not fling, though I would have
cut off an arm for it to have been so  
not the arm she touched  
in our one immortal scene together…  
her electric hand,  
all the blond hairs on my forearm standing at attention  
me wondering if the camera caught
their helpless vertical veer  

it mattered not, most of the scene
landed not on the screen, but
the cutting room floor, my two lines slashed to one  
my 48 seconds with her shaved to 22

I did not cry when I heard she died,
twenty months later, but my lie seemed soiled  
once she was in the ground
I confessed to Father Ryan  
he was silent when
I asked what to tell  
the fools who believed  
the dying star lay with me  
simply because she said,  
“Call me Vivien, not Ms Leigh”
Paul Cassano Dec 2013
Responsibility.
I always count
always up to fourteen.
No matter what
or how many times
I may count,
no matter what
or how many
I expect,
there will always
be a sudden...
realization?
Perhaps?
I try it vertical
horizontal,
but it’s always
fourteen.
Fourteen as in
when I met you
fourteen as
in the absence of two.
Iloveyou.
Steve Page Sep 2021
I think on what is true and just and honourable
I think on what is pure and lovely and admirable
I consider what is excellent and what is praiseworthy
and I praise our God who is unmistakably
the creator of all of these and more -  

I think on what is true
I think of God’s voice, his true promise,
his true plumbline, directing the eye down
to the centre, a reliable reference,
an alignment to righteousness.
I see the weight, suspended
and I wait as it finds the true vertical axis
pointing to the centre of gravity
as if that was its true purpose all along
- not to gravitate us down, but to re-direct us
to a true line upon which we can centre ourselves.

I think on what is true.

I think on what is honourable, noble.
I think of honour lists and of inherited nobility,
I think of integrity, living up to the responsibility
of my privilege and authority
and of using it responsibly, with generosity,
recognising opportunities to live
nobly, dependably
ethically, reliably,
faithful to the One who entrusted me
with so much extraordinary bounty.

I think on what is honourable.

I think on what is just and right
I think about the courage to live fully in the light,
to stand up for what we know to be the right
to admit to ourselves when we don’t get it right
to give heart-felt apology, to find a way to re-unite,

to fight injustice alongside those who can’t
to go the extra mile when our heads say don’t.
Not doing what they’d do to you
if the tables were turned,
but doing what you’d have them do
if the circumstances were reversed

and when the right of it still isn’t clear
to wait and figure it out, take the longer route
rather than the obvious, shorter cut
and if, even then, you can’t be sure
err on the side of the generous cut
because we know that the Cross wasn’t fair
but it was right and it was just just.

I think on what is right.

I think on what is pure
I think about the sudden clarity of a cold mountain stream
bubbling up from its spring,
running through and digging down irrespective of obstacles
flowing over all rocky hurdles
with pure, unadulterated intent
to get at last to the sea
where its creator intended it to be.

I think on what is pure.

I think on what is lovely
I think of the surface-beauty that catches my eye
but then of the beauty that only shows itself in the depths
- in patience, in the willingness
to put ill-feeling to rest
and to embrace forgiveness
and thereby release a smile that meets
that generous high-beauty in full gratefulness.

I think on what is lovely.

I think on what is admirable, commendable
and of good reputation, and I think how
how God views me is more important
than the admiration offered by others.
I think that what is commendable
is in the eye of the beholder
and that my beholder sees the heart
and so I entrust my reputation to the One who sees better.

I think on what is admirable.

I think on what is excellent
and I think past Bill and Ted to something
of diamond quality,
of designed symmetry,
of clarity, of weight

or perhaps of a line in a poem or a song,
something that takes away my breath.
- But then I see the sun through trees,
shining on breakfasting friends
and on my laughter

and I think that this is truly God’s most excellent.

I think on what is praiseworthy
I think of the ovation given to a practiced orchestra
and pitch perfect soloists
and then I think
of a five-year-old niece
mastering her first recorder
and getting to that tricky last line of
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
and I think, for our God,
this effort, this success is by far
most praiseworthy.

We think on what is true and just and honourable
we think on what is pure and lovely and admirable
we consider what is excellent and what is praiseworthy
and we praise our God who is unmistakably
the creator of all of these and more -  

and I think that perhaps we too
are a little lovely and that we too
are partially admirable
and I think perhaps we too
are not a little praiseworthy

and so when I think on these things,
I think on you,
on us,
and I praise our God all the more.

Think on these things.
Philippians 4:8
"...whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things."
Jenn Gardner May 2011
It gazes
up, up, up
at electric blue skies.
Inhale, exhale
purple clouds of phosphorous.
Witness royal violins gently weeping,
For their players charring within the flames.

Bits of eternity escape their eyes and mouths.
Incomprehensible present horrors.
Seamstresses sew sutures.
Inhale, exhale
Error ceases to exist.
up, up, up
It gazes
Don Bouchard May 2012
Sun's going down...

Around my miniature height,
Gloom is gathering itself
To usher in the night.

Beside the darkening feet
Of towering trees,
Shade-cooled and looking up,
I see sunlight climb
The upward reaches
Of tall pines.

Leaving shadows far below,
Green needled branches
****** new growth:
Yellow-candled greening flames,
To see the sun,
Greeting and adieu-ing
Steady moving days.

Light and life,
Ageless quests:
Upward reaching light
Downward breaching water,
Insatiable thrusting,
Splitting stone,
Spewing oxygen.

Monstrous undertakings
Glorious oversights.
Fitting past times for giants,
Mountain dwellers,
Living at a pace too slow
For careless passers-by to see.

Silent pines
Contemplate endless days,
Moving or un-moving,
Resolute certainty,
Imperceptible sojourners
Dominating vertical empires;

Joyous, silent soldiers march
Up and down these mountain sides,
While I, mere mortal, pass
Ant-like,
Scurrying in wonder,
Aware the urgency
Of ephemeral routine,
Mortal emergency...

Beneath Tall Pines.
Jeremy Ducane Jul 2010
She just could not believe that she had come
To this

                                        Again

He had  said – Come on – you used to like this
Just for me – and us – it might be good.

- Try
- Please

For me.

Yes – for him.
                                            Again.

So on this chilly day:
Awkward helmet boots and fumbly gloves.
Cold and fear and knees near ears
(The pillion's lot on sports machines.
...and he wouldn't buy the chop...)

They were off, and now she hoped that was not a pun.
She did her best not to wobble and resisted the temptation to put her feet down when they stopped. Ungainly awful Stop Wait, Jerky Action.
An old film forced to watch.  
Miserable claustrophobia in  traffic queues, between a fuel tanker and a hearse.
Hot foul breath of diesel smoke.
  
She felt sick.  
She wanted out.

[The World convulsed, dissolved reformed
Things changed for her for once
For all]



The slipstream coming off the curved bubble above the glowing clocks buffeted her head with a roaring chaos that added to wild riot.  She hooked the next gear and opened the throttle wider.   The determined act of twisting the grip brought her body lower to lie on the tank, and her heart closer to the heart of the engine's breathing fiery centre.   A green high-sided truck disappeared over her shoulder into into her past: into non-existence.  And in front she knew - a climbing curve left and a stiff side wind.   She relished the anticipation of the change, getting ready to shift her weight, her eyes burning up the road - fixing the aiming point at the apex of the bend. Now! - the bike eased off the vertical, and healed into the challenge of a new world order of curve and cross winds.    
An alliance of forces at the Edge:  United,
Poised, and aimed by thought and skill -  the creation and flex of a true sword.    

And the noise!  

The noise was an overwhelming but understood cacophony – the packed high-RPM music of the Engine - loud and hard.  
The blaring exhaust and the tyre roar and the wind...
Coming at her from the left now.  She bucked and weaved a little with road bumps and sideways forces - a muscular fish in a torrent - but these were trivial disturbances.  
Together they were the embodiment of an Act of Will and Purpose -
THIS course THIS speed.  
She wanted more.  

More power, more speed - so more lean to hold it
With now a less than perfect gear change in the mix.  
A sudden bump absorbed by the suspension, and the left hand wing mirror blazes with a shower of sparks from the grounded footpeg arcing back into the dusk.  The rear tyre briefly spins in mid air – the engine screaming to the rev limiter - and returns to tarmac with a zwip.    A rictus of mortality  and terror shudder the bike -
A whiff of Death that lets her live.
This time.

They were through the moment.  

And she had kept the throttle wide.


Courage.  

No substitute. And its sometime close friend -

Instinct.

You live by them together or not at all.  

This curve was ending, and the speed extreme
Almost – Supernatural.

Difficult to hold her head forward against
The flat of the wind's hand held up in her way:
“An end to your defiance!”  

But she was not to be turned aside.   The landscape could only be seen clearly about a mile ahead - All else was pulsing blur:  
An unwinding ribbon of dark green and blue and orange - like a star field at jump to light speed.  But the moment held forever visceral –  remembered forever.       She thought her heart would burst with the joy of being alive on this edge -  
At this time  
Of all time.  

She knew -

There would be more curves and cross-winds
But Now - she was Up Front, In Charge
and,  BY GOD she shouted with the wind
SHE WAS GOING FOR IT!
c Jeremy Ducane.  An experiment.  Not sure if it works.  Or if it's a poem, even.  But it was fun to write.  And some may find it fun to read.  (It's an ancient VFR 750FT, by the way - but for the purposes of this piece of writing - it appears to be developing about twice its normal power!)
Mike Essig Sep 2015
It is only a piece of fruit.
Take its fuzz in your hand
and make a vertical slice.
Seek that rift with your
hot and eager mouth.
Engulf it. Probe it gently
with your tongue and enter it
like a lover. **** hard and
take its sweet juices into
your mouth and enjoy them
dripping down over your chin,
sensuous, sticky moisture.
Lap at it until it is empty
and you are exhausted, spent,
fluidly full and fulfilled
with its satisfying succus.
After all, it is only a peach.

  ~mce
louise
Marly Apr 2014
for someone who usually remembers to put on her smile every morning before she goes down to eat breakfast, i've been crying lots. my people are in an uproar i mean why do you think my hairs are always standing up on end? i sweat too much even though i'm always shivering and doc says i'm just stressed but i think my body is just searching for more ways to cry because my tear supply is running low and there are no refill stations around for miles. i never understood why people twiddle their thumbs or why it's called 'twiddle' and the day before the day before yesterday i told the girl next door that i felt like a pigeon that wanders into a busy street and freezes when a car is steadily speeding towards it.

my first grade teacher taught me the difference between horizontal, vertical, and parallel lines using words that followed a tune. little did she know that i'd be using those words eight years later to decide how i want my arms to be decorated and i mean yes scars fade or at least partially but i'd rather choose what happens to my body than have you choose for me. all of your promises snap like twigs and i think that's how you'll also break my heart. "are you bitter?" maybe maybe not but my heart is certainly past its expiry date and it's rotting much more quickly than i ever thought possible and i wish i knew why since my body is more frigid than the inside of an ice cream truck although maybe the problem is that it doesn't play welcoming music
i need to blast music in my room and then scream louder than it louder than the sound of a plane landing louder than the drumming in your chest louder than the groans that broke free from your lips when i tore myself away from you even though we were krazy glued together. i wish you could hear how your words endlessly echo and bounce off of the brick walls inside of my head because then you might realize the grand effect you have on me. an elephant doesn't forget or... something along those lines; speaking of (oh my, it always comes back to these) lines, we should discuss how the lines you gave me were always different. they were deep, so deep, deeper than the deep end at the community pool. i often found myself stuck in them and only after they began to close did i realize you stole my ladder after i climbed down.

i feel like my body has amnesia but my mind has been 'spared' i mean the muscles in my face have forgotten which ones must go taut in order to smile and my hands stumble whenever i try to undo the buttons of your shirt. at one point i would have given up anything in order to forget this madness i mean how nice it would be to fall and get up but in foreign land with an empty backpack and a full wallet.

bye.

I MEAN GOD I CAN'T TAKE IT even my farewells aren't proper and i wish you stayed up late to talk to me like you used to when i cried at night but you got sick of me-and i mean literally sick i remember hearing you gag into the porcelain bowl- when those nights became constant and my tears began to liquefy our 'forever' glue. forever wasn't supposed to be the amount of time it takes for a premature baby to be born and i mean our premature baby didn't even live because its heart couldn't beat properly and that's when i realize that my heart only beats strongly when i'm with you i miss our nightly "i love you"s although they became more routine than anything. i found myself running out of sincere words to give you but my hugs were always tight and long. always. we had our "okay?" "okay." moments way before either of us read that John Green book.

i haven't sobbed this hard since i smelled my grandmother on my pillowcase that one night and tears soaked that scent almost immediately nd now they're just kind of pooling in the crook of my neck and usually i love puddles but this isn't one that the sun will drink up. i hate it when people say all people are the same i mean we call everyone "you" when we directly address them i have said 'you' countless times in this mess of a poem while referring to a ton of different people. i mean honestly nothing is the same ever not even snowflakes. oh god i feel like my tears are eroding the skin on my face oh god i can't deal with having mountainous terrain there oh god the only reason you love me anyway is because my skin is (was) smooth oh god. i do a hell of a lot of talking without even saying anything.

bye once again and please don't send me letters like the last time.
****
Elise Grenier Jan 2014
I want to talk to you.
Driving over a fresh carpet of snow, this is a mix of belting Joni Mitchell
and shouting ****!! as I say a quick prayer
and slam on the brake.
Being an individual today.
Having an imagination today,
that took me so close to you that
it scared me.
I want to talk to you.
Today I described to somebody
the way you dance.
Laughing, I described to somebody else
how you make me smile
and to the same person
how ridiculous this is.
Girl I need an instruction manual to handle you.
I want to talk to you for no good reason other than that I do.
Today I worried and I clawed at my face
and a donation box outside of a Starbucks made me think of you and soften my eyes.
Easy
frightening
a little bit out of control
My legs felt weak in the shower today after months of flying me over to you.
I will give them a rest for a while.
I want to talk to you.
I climbed up a poem as if completely vertical while I was waiting.
It ******. It was hard.
Kiss me.
(I'm sorry, that was rather forward.)
You are a deep bass note hitting hard in the back of my ribs.
I will chase you down a side street, tripping on bricks,
Soaking in the rich autumnal breeze,
mouth aching from smiling too long,
and after I catch my breath from laughing
maybe I might
--not saying anything concrete--
kiss you.
But all I ask of you tonight,
all I can earnestly implore with a distant vision of clutching your hand
is that we talk.
Kelley A Vinal Mar 2016
If I had a lot of wood
A whole lot
Like, a lumberyard or a forest's worth
I'd build a boat
A really BIG boat
And I'd take it to the ocean
And live freely with the fish and the urchins
And the squid too
I'd chat with the 'gulls
And feed them little mackerel
And smile as the storms came
Because my boat would be big enough
That it could handle the winds
It would be super tall
And really skinny
That would be funny
Although that design isn't really conducive
To being safe on the sea -
I still like the thought
Beth Ivy Jun 2014
jam broken fingers into unforgiving rock
stab stones beneath fingernails
cut the quick and pack with dirt.
pry and force then heave the body up.

repeat.

thin air cannot fill to capacity
lungs which crave more oxygen
than their shape can stand to keep.
another foot, another five.
repeat.
repeat.
repeat.

The whipping Wind and Its gentle Breezes call
                                 whispering of wings, aeries and westerlies.


scorn the Voice and clamber on, this vertical my only chance
to gain ground, gain purchase, gain peace.
devoted to this ritual of pull and ******, panic and strive
a wreckage of creature-form smeared across the escarpment.
grapple for territory but don't look down--
below is the Dark
i thought i left so far below.
it haunts my shadow, dogs my ragged breaths
it's gaping maw hangs open, ready
to swallow me whole.

The Wind beckons:
                         Let go.
                           The dark follows all who try to scale the face.
                                                           ­                   Let go and I will catch you.


"No.
I've come so far.
I've earned too much."
broken knuckles and gashed shins scream
at the injustice of this siren call
to fail, to quit, to concede my only way to the summit
and now it is nearer than ever---
though to my eyes it remains the nightmare
it has always seemed.

Rest and breathe.
         Feel you form and know yourself.
                        You were not built to climb and crawl;
                        You are no worm nor serpent.
What have you done to your skin that it does not feel?
What have you done to your eyes that they cannot see?


that melodic muttering rustles within
stirring something deep below my wind beaten flesh--
STOP.
Cram shut ears and struggle on, and do not hear Wind's whisper.
Ascend though arms seem insufficient to the task.
raking desperately with bloodied fingers against the wall
a sudden answering rip sears across the back.
white hot pain etches its sign into weathered skin
and is then soothed by a flowing trickle of warmth.
scarlet drips onto my legs, my heels
staining, painting treacherous footholds
as marrow pulls against my spine
in shapes heavy and cramped
in their first taste of life.

swoon, overtaken by the struggle so long nursed against the rock
and the war of transformation waged against shoulder blades--
vision blurs then swirls
hands grip then slip
seek then lose
frantic, thrashing about for a hold:
                                                           ­  no promise given by the stone.
f
a
   l
     l
       i
         n
            g
             plummeting
               unstoppable
                 acceleration


Let go, arms outstretched.
                         This action, flight's only catch.


the Wind's plea scarcely able to be disobeyed
let go or fall, i am lost to the cliff all the same.
soaring downward masses at my back
snap and crunch taking shape
though dripping still from their curious birth
                                                           ­             
                                                                ­            hopeless now but to trust
                                                           ­      to try in ways so unlike striving
                              

*and let the Wind take me.
on faith and trust. certainly one of my longest poems.
this is a third draft that may need some further work.
spysgrandson May 2014
the only jeans with holes,
the polo shirt with "passionate peach" paint
from the kitchen remodel she wanted, the yard work shoes
these were the raiments he chose for his final drive, the one in "park"
in the garage, with the engine idling, its humming a monotonous lullaby
sung by compliant pistons

he wandered through the house
like a sated forager, looking at everything, for nothing,
old pictures on the walls--children, parents, one of himself,
the Yale mortar board tilting on a face who could
have been a stranger, and was, that last afternoon
books on shelves, mostly read, their stories now forgotten
even Moby ****, his favorite--eight silent vertical letters
replacing a white whale he relentlessly pursued with Ahab
a sink with one small plate and the disposal's shining ring,
the burial ground for his last, uneaten meal

those were the visions he chose
before writing his notorious note,
"BYE, ALL MY PAPERS ARE IN THE ROLL TOP"
taking the keys from the peg, and taking his final steps
into the cluttered gray garage, to his 2011 Volvo

when some hand turned the key,
igniting a welcoming flame, a few intrusive notes
of a Beatles song came through the six speaking speakers
yanking something in his gut, pulling his hand
to the handle to open the door, to return to the house,
the pictures, the stories on the walls, but the other,
the right hand, ejected the CD, rejecting the beguiling voices
that would have him stay, for another dull, deaf day

he folded his hands in his lap,
allowed his chin to rest on his chest
where his eyes could see the holes in his threadbare denim
taking solace in the fact that he had chosen the right clothes
so those still in the house, yet in the blur called life
would have only whole and clean reminders of him
to fold neatly, and leave on the porch
for the Salvation Army
Isoindoline Oct 2012
Vertical majesty unfurls
across the sky;
so many green dreams blossom
to gently sift the wind.

These, new—
born from age and cracked brown skin
gaze upon withering cities
that sprawl out from the earth,
rooted in foundations of steel
instead of life.

Their silver trunks echo mine,
but are devoid of the lilting dreams
that begin to flourish in my arms
only to fall away.
2007.
Alin Apr 2015
I never knew
trees move
always
with all of their insides
along horizontal lines
and towards vertical ups
in curly circular
turbulent motions
and never keep still
reach to the tiniest
veins
on top
one by one
time by time
non stop
and unitedly
create wind
All of the winds of the planet!
I thought it was otherwise
I thought they kept still just
Wait to speak somehow or mumble
until the winds would show up or
bow their heads
until they'd be swept away
choicelessly accept move or die
but no
they move as such ...
by all their insides
so that
winds are created
upon their dance request
It is a call to ventilate the earth
and they have eyes !
different than ours
they can see multiple skies
they whirl
so clouds can pass  
faster than we know to see
they see
as if we accelerated a camera motion
but also they see more skies than one
not like us ….just one
not like us …...only when we look up
cause their eyes make the clouds and skies pass
and all that they do  is all they can do
because they are rooted to the earth
fully …. here they are
always one with the earth
always supported by the earth
only to create that curly vertical
neverending motion
so that it delivers
same frequency creatures back to the earth
I never knew that they are so busy
always at breathe is not easy
for simpler ones like us
imagine not a gap alone
oh no
I never knew
until I became
a tree
alone
:)
and it's true! ;)
Shofar  Ashera
Once set, they begin to direct their destination to the heart of the nativity area, where their origins and areas of the omnipresent West Bank belt were. They entered with strong winds clinging to their bristling camelids, everything had the atmosphere of a city as if it had never been inhabited. The fringes in floods of sun were distinguished orange-reddish weakened before the stormy gradients of the Red and Mediterranean Sea appeasing the Hexagonal primogeniture. Although they were seen squalling and with agile movements on the local atmosphere, several layers crossed with the inheritance of Persian cloths in colorful bluish and orange tints from the Red Sea and the quarrelsome storms of Aserá "The mother of all gods", and The one who was the "father of the gods." Known among the Babylonians as Ishtar, originally called Athirat (or Afdirad). She is the great Semitic goddess of fertility. In the Bible it is called Astoret, a distorted pronunciation of the original 'Astart, through the inclusion of the vowels of the Hebrew word boset (shame) according to the custom of the rabbis, to discredit the pagan deities. Bronze Age Ashera (before 1200 BC) the Greek form is Astarte. Astarte was considered the "goddess of the Sidonians". In the Amarna Letters, it is Ashirtu and Ashratu. The Ras Shamra texts identify Ashera ('atrt = atirat) with the goddess wife of El; They call her "Lady Ashera of the Sea" and "progenitor of the goddesses", here she would be the mother of Baal.

These discredited Babylonian forms caused discomfort and discomfort, in the face of a living past and present in the intangibility of the inheritances that greet others that could supplant them. This caused soil heating in the legs of the animals with abnormality of Greek-Babylonian wormwood prostrate on the feet of Ashera, leaving an odorous wormwood atmosphere in the land of two native Kings of this jurisdiction. Attracting dissipation from the roofs of some neighboring houses to the precise place where the Messiah saw the light of the lights and of those who waited for them cabi-together lighting it with candlesticks. This sacred wind caressed everyone's hands, insinuating them to take hold of the new Bethlehem, an event that was being reborn with the Apostle's illustrious visit. Their consolations expanded, like any caravan that increased its predictive volume, equalizing the pressures of the air that surrounded the streets, where no one appeared and was seen generic. This centrifugal force rotated their earthly spirits, originating a thick source of the orange gases that populated the roofs of the village. Creating greater weight and highlighting the freshness of the essences that were torn from the soils with the aroma of grazing.   Explaining to themselves the presence of sub-zones in the West Bank, insolating redemption of the arrival towards a protocol merit contrasted by the permission to be hosted next to this at night.  Varying many times to bring them the blessed condensed sacred water, deregulating the thermal sensation.

The density and buoyancy of the animals' legs made it difficult for them to select the right moment to stop and dismount. The aerial relief that rose and fell rose on the walls of the few rooms linked to the stable of nativity, pressing on them the adjacent words that joined from the ground to soon arrive in an upward spiral, turned into light and wind on the seventh horseman ; King David, appearing to them right there…, right there before Him, his Abigail, the third wife who gave him an early re-conception, presenting him with an altar, which he will endow with Eucharistic missions during his admission to Bethlehem. An unexpected phenomenon swirls on the gradient that led to the hill of the stable, affecting their vision and consequences, rotating them all to the rear of the original access to the stable. Converging the winds on the ground and upper external part of the stable, originating an anticipated effulgence of space that would prolong them to understand that they had already arrived, but they were still seven hundred meters from the main access and that the city was not Bethlehem, but another that It seemed to emerge from the arid soil, next to the stable, dividing itself into inter-zones that rubbed against the original and current ones, in such a way as to generate a great development of the sub-soil on the vertical that sounded stentorian and vibratory, as in a long stay, on the distributed assistants in this supra-abnormal regimen. They arrive exempt from grievances but dismounting gentiles ..., they leave the twelve camels in a friendly and predisposed circle, so as not to expose them to the strong winds that raged from the Canaanite gods that prevailed in personalized and ceremonial theocratic.

David speaks: “when I approached where Moab I requested asylum in protection of my parents…, thus I myself would burst the eardrums of the Philistines for each mountainous network of links that join me to the refuge of my advance counterattack towards their dominions. In its unknown enemy territories, a noble and friendly joy appears before me; Abigail, who fills the history of my land with beauty, before a very cruel Canaanite son; Nabal. She enriches my lands more than the entire multiplied population of animals, every time I count the units, I look into her eyes and I forget the greater amount that moves her heart towards me, because of that I did not shed blood on Nabal's house . Being Abigail the one who replaces my union with the Faith that moves my passion. "

Then Abigail kneels and touches the ground where he was, crossing himself after assigning a cross that kissed his hands, on his forehead and his chest. Thus from somewhere her parents rearranged the garments to enchant Vernarth for her bi-related purge with that of David and the Messiah-Vernarth. As in the Jericho story, Alikanto, Raeder, and Petrobus galloped around the periphery of the citadel. With all the strength of the steed's Golden hooves, they kicked liquid dust from the Bethlehem's fleeces. Alikanto did not carry a mount on his back ... he carried an Aspis koilé from Hoplite Vernarth. It was useful to re-sediment the sand covers sifted by the ergonometric forces of the shield, thus causing everyone to retreat and take the reins of the animals, to resume their advances in buttresses to build the walls that they had to mediate, to weaken Ashera's insinuations to disagree with the edges of the citadel. The Apostle, Etréstles and Vernarth blew the shofars, the times they surrounded the perimeter of the city, and they believed that there would be more turns ..., on the couch was the Shofar that could sound more times and louder, it was intact ..., but it ran to blow it Vernarth not leaving a drop of air looking at the sky that would appear with three bright stars filling the anxiety and love to break Easter bread for everyone. But it was not that effect; it was the astral echo of Betelgeuse of King David, which emanated with his blowing also helping to raise the walls that would protect him from the staunch invasions of the lackeys of Ashera. In such a way, the partitions were raised until reaching the governorships of the words of the watchdog angel who coordinated everyone saying:

Guardian Angel: "For us the partitions, for you the rooftops, on the heights mediate the limits and on their Shofar they will end Aserá, without any city to come and go" Such exordium is fulfilled and Bethlehem is surrounded by golden barred partitions, Walls were hoisted at remarkable heights to appease the winds and roars of the Canaanites, as in Jericho, but the other way around, here they succumbed by divine command, to allow them to settle in that millenary town hall.

Finally they withdraw the twelve camelids from the front circle that did not allow them to settle in the settlement, and they manage to settle to revive the bi-natality and double reign of whose splendor he will only speak with the luminances of the Messiah and King David embracing them. From the continents outside of the walls left desolate, revive Abigail's pristine and angelic countenance by bringing dinner and an amulet Shofar to each of the components of the Hexagonal Birthright that began to continue the seven weeks in Judah.

Magraner's ministers "Punica granatum", were bushes that appeared to him in the focus of the micro center of the fire, they entered with some tenuous and sinuous branched thorns becoming muddy as they descended from the tassels of the Shofar, feeding the curiosity of all who were camped, surrounding a campfire full of sounds with new positions, of devout sounds of pupils from high Jewish principalities, cordoning off the objects of the Apostle, who shared it with Etréstles ..., who gave sonorous instrumentalizations to the rams that approached around them ..., looking for the crows that were missing from their heads. Due to the cracked set of the shofar, in the opposing works of the luminosities of the bonfires, the wise ministers hung on the same faces, who displayed them with their young branches, glossy sheaths before the yellowish-greenish under-exposed with their obtuse apices. Leaving in its marginalized exceptions, polygons of pre-flowering  shofar-form, on the valves that escaped from the ashes of the valves that were released from the last fleeting flame of each minute run to the right. Everyone collected the nectars that the ministers poured into goblets, drinking them lying down to swallow them reclining and being able to look at the stars that emerged from their albiceleste flavors, rinsing each one's arms by touching them with the shofar, like petioles stalks on the seven rams that they sought to recover those that made themselves sound heavenly.

Etréstles says: “When the shofar speaks, their past pastorals speak inside and outside the community; the most outlined thing has been to understand it as a trumpet; of a bony projection, that is to say, formed by a bone and pointed material that arises from the frontal bone, sealed by a layer of keratin that forms an aerophone horn cover. The horns of Moses come from a translation of the original biblical text by Saint Jerome. When Moses descends from Mount Sinai, where he has interviewed God, "the skin of his face had become radiant," says the Bible (Ex 34: 29-30). In the original Hebrew the verb "to radiate", "to emit rays", is from the same root as the noun "horns", so Saint Jerome did not think twice and translated: "cornuta esset facies sua", that is, "His face was horned. Taking into account its timbre and sound quality here with you, it is not difficult to associate it with the sounding with the golden patina, simulating with my Messolonghi fingers ..., which three by three piston their bony reaches, linking of some forms of beauty, goodness, clarity, brightness and stories that will accompany us in this bonfire between these raised walls to pave the vaults of the Messiah's nativity cries.  Calibrations and catechesis on the real moment of his symbolic Lineage in the awake dawn and alive. With waves of graces voices with goat hosts rearranging the urban matrix of the erected town ..., everything will be at the expense of surrounding us and pouring out the voices shuffled with the shofar to protect us from Ashera, in their desire to get away from the fundamental site. "

Vernarth intervenes: “In this passage it is clear the capacity of the shofar…, and the sound produced by it and our similar voices being amalgamated with it, shouting and modifying the environment, to a multipurpose physical dimension. Now we are a herald of goodness, beauty and reconstruction, part of a noticeable dialectic to the neighboring Canaanite cultures as a sudden reconversion between what is built and what is to be built, even if something in it itself had to disappear. The wall was actually rebuilt surrounding everyone, beyond the golden glow of the shofar. Producing today creation and not devastation, encapsulating kingdoms in wisdom and learning ..., this is where we have all come from the return of the didactics of cultural forms, independently to attract us to its teachings in an anonymous world converted with a purpose of reconverting itself, in solemn alert in the one that precedes us, before unilateral events of antecedents of an apocalyptic shofar period”.
Shofar  Ashera
Blue Flask Jul 2018
I am an empty wasteland
Studded with stained remnants of coffee cups
Papers are strewn about, telling stories about people
Who will never exist.
They seem so much more real than I have ever been
Musky clothes line the floor sending unseen spores deep
Into the lining of my lungs
I am one with where I am
Food and pills surround every speckle of surface
A myriad of tye dye colors
How much happiness can they fit inside a pill?
books and posters leave plastered imprints on the walls
Anything to show that this isn’t all there is
To a life that was never worth it to you

I am a bleeding liver
Half guzzled liquor
Spilled into cracked cups creates scummy films
Rainbow reflections of light from vertical screens
How’s that for a pride display?
In the rainbow of puddles
A failed education fills a shelf
Reading is so far beyond
Me
A fan buzzes in my ear
An angry bee that pounds thousand ***** to keep me cool

I am a furnace
That burns paper ideologies
Nothing here is permeant
Real is just a concept
Gallons of water to satiate an always parched throat
Diluted blood fills these veins
A slow death from oxygen deprivation
With no belt around the neck

I am a fetid corpse
That can still move
Still think
Still spew methane
Use a screen to reach out
Talk to a thousand other blank eyed, slack jawed clones
What does it mean, these words on a white background
Are you the reaper?
The coroner?
I’m breathing
I’m sweating
I’m *******
I’m not living
Air fills these two sacks
Red sewage is pumped into grey hands
A jolt down the spine
Is all I am
What am I?
I am a medicated pig
I am an artist failed dream
I am a cloud, high and falling constantly down
I am a camera, only able to record, but never interpret
I am
I am
For a friend who will always be close
Ash Rose Aug 2016
Cut me horizontal, cut me vertical
with your lengthy blade
enter me from every angle.

Peel my flesh back
expose my sensitive nerves
and tell me you love me.

Push it in deep
help me feel pleasure
out and in, right to the hilt.

Let the blood pour
dripping slowly from my body
seeping into the sheets
soaking us both.

The feel of the blade
so hard, so sleek
coated warm and sticky.

Your turn to bleed, release it all
liquid mingling, with my own
we cry out, the last drop is wrung
sweating, gasping, bleeding...

*****
Jenny Nov 2015
i told you thanksgiving was my favorite holiday when i forgot to give tradition something to prop itself up on i lost the code to your apartment and now i walk the two vertical and one horizontal blocks to your house and peek inside the mailbox for a security question and answer session.

have you considered sending a postcard from where you are now, or does the idea of you having an affair with the mailman stop your conscience from turning on snooze?

when my body is cremated and my lungs turn to dust who will stop me from sending extremely drunk texts while being extremely drunk?

try commissioning somebody to make a marble statue out of you. find out you were overcharged when it turns out to be just a huge clump of marshmallow fluff, when you're lactose intolerant, when your kids are gonna have it even better than you did and you had it really good.

you take your kids to MOMA,
and i wonder why we never had *** outside except for sometimes on your balcony under a quilt. i'm not upset about it because it'll be 2065 soon and outside will be obsolete and you and i will be something similar to the Byzantium period where we have to struggle to remember it existed.
Autumn Daze Sep 2018
I wonder, I ponder, both

Made me want to turn the hands of time
Is it just me feeling
Sorry for everything, hoping for me to
See things again

Before I walk forward, little by little, longing for an
Ending, a new chapter, a new beginning.
It will never be easy
Not that I am lone for thou art
Gone like the leaves in Autumn. Can't do anything but

Hide in the midst of Winter, while waiting for
Another chance to fly in Summer leaving the
Pain behind, but for now, I will just
Pen everything though in dire need
Yet coping, enduring, longing, hoping for Spring to come and fill my heart.
© cassandraacereza
091518
Jon Tobias Nov 2011
These are the stages of worship

I pray for sleep
So that it might be tomorrow again
As long as there is a tomorrow
I can have a second chance at not ******* up so badly

Time machines are for those who
Don’t fully understand the paradox of change
I don’t want things to change
I just want a chance to make myself better

There is a vertical scar in the center of my chest
From bad biology
And an awkward urge to live
With just enough texture
That it could be the butterfly key
To a wind-up toy
Its slow revolution
Counts down my heartache till it stops

I accept
That we are inherently selfish
It is okay to be selfish
If we weren’t
we wouldn’t be here

I accept
That we are characterized by an innate
Ability to be inconsistent

I accept you
Perfectly

But I don’t want forgiveness
I know I drink too much
But when I drink I can feel
Without having to think

I know
You might not forgive me
For everything

Don’t

Just trust that my heart
And the heart of whoever made me
Is off somewhere where the right place might be
Wishing good intentions
Until my heart bursts

I know I am not perfect
I don’t want to be
But I know that somewhere along the line
At least
I was meant to be

— The End —