"viewing" poems
Even at my age,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Languishing among towering clouds,
A lofty empire, lost kingdoms,
Perhaps a strange magical realm,
Thriving with dwarves and giants,
Maidens in towers awaiting rescue,
Where lone horse warriors wander,
Maybe observing us, far below.
Must be a poetic creative thing,
Or simply the child deep within,
Viewing through the eyes of the man,
Dreaming ancient days of long ago,
When the child yearned to be grown,
To know all there is to know,
Never appreciating escapism,
The chance to drift within time,
Ponder upon distant, aerial, worlds.
Or maybe I’m just a dreamer,
That and nothing more, hmm,
Telling myself, I am a poet,
A procrastinating creative spirit,
In love with the trappings of art,
The child asleep within wisdom,
Languishing among towering clouds,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Even at my age.
©Paul M Chafer 2015
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 5:08 AM UTC
Your body is a vacation, the perfect
spot to getaway.
Over the mound of your thigh the sun is
high & the fun has yet to begin.
I love how your skin feels between my hands.
How small you make everything around feel.
I apologize for putting you off for so long.
A year or two from now, I won't regret
how fast I packed my bag & left to
come visit.
A year or two from now, I'll tell everyone my favorite place to vacate.
How easy the language was to learn,
To bathe in the sun of your smile &
splash in the ocean of your body.
The weather is always perfect,
The adventures that await beneath your dress.
I apologize for putting you off for so
long.
A year or two from now, I'll still remember the smell of fresh peaches,
Served in thick nectar.
Compliments of being the perfect guest, the first to check in &
the last to leave.
Still viewing the sights, things that'll
last twenty years from now, without
hesitation or worry.
The only thing left to unpack is you
& Memories of you
Jul 3, 2021
Jul 3, 2021 at 12:02 AM UTC
Snow Mountain
I walk alone these darkened hills,
can see my breath and getting chills.
My party left me long ago,
they didn't like my altered ego.
Snow blowing in my face,
they said they needed space.
Feet and hands becoming numb,
never have I felt so **** dumb.
Found a cave and there they were,
me freezing, them wearing fur.
Never has a fire felt so good,
not sure where they got the wood.
Then I noticed a very distinct odor,
they were burning our guide, Schroeder.
On the cave wall, I see four more dead,
eating the brains from their very head.
I yelled, What the **** are you doing,
couldn't believe what I was viewing.
They said, Shut up or you're next,
I got on my knees and paid my last respects.
Spinning the body just like a pig roast,
I'd be happy with just a bite of toast.
As I watched them eat the bodies,
if I had a camera, I'd make copies.
Days went by and I got hungry,
the human body tastes so chunky.
Finally something that didn't taste like chicken,
my body was getting stronger and beginning to thicken.
We never did get discovered,
ended up in hell, getting eaten by an evil buzzard.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
Please Don't Touch My Hair.
It's amazing,
It's beautiful,
Maybe its the first time you'll see;
Hair so dark and 'puffy'
As the hair God gave to me.
But my hair is not a commodity;
A thing for you to gather round and see.
It is not something I pull out once a while
Just so you can take a peek.
Please Don't Touch My Hair.
Don't run your hands through it,
Don't ask me why it act's like that,
Don't ask me if you can pull it,
Don't pet me like I'm your cat.
Don't touch it without asking,
And worst of all ask and not wait,
Are your manners really that lacking?
Please Don't Touch My Hair.
Don't stare like I am some exhibit
Brought for you from far away,
Don't mock the way it looks on me
Don't say 'I don't like the way it looks today'.
It's My hair
On MY head,
So don't you even dare.
You're not the one that spends hours
Looking after my luscious hair.
Please Don't Touch My Hair.
Because many years ago
My ancestors were put in zoos
So people like you could know
How our hair felt, and our skin looked
Instead of just seeing old photos.
As if we were not human beings
With minds, and hearts and souls.
So my hair is not on display
For your viewing pleasure,
My hair is on my head for ME
And it has worth that you can never measure.
It represents Who I Am
My Tribe, My Land, My Culture.
So don't hover around with oily hands
Like a flock of curious vultures.
So for the love of all that I know
Please DO NOT TOUCH MY HAIR.
And don't ask me why you can't,
Don't say it isn't fair.
Because would I walk up to a stranger
And ask, only to receive a no
Then go on and touch it anyway?
...I didn't think so.
Please Don't Touch My Hair.
This is the last time I'll say it,
I cannot be silent any longer
I will not tolerate it.
I've given it all I can
I have been very patient
But I will not let this continue
This I will not permit.
If you say you are my friend
You will respect this
Its My Hair, on My Head
And that's all there is to it.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
Salto Angel dances an Aqua-Skirt
Such Fashion pleased the Tourists below
How else can the Latin earn your Fervour
But surpass your Record of height and snow?
Funny, how her Majesty can suppress
Even more when viewing up from this Point
Like a Crone who often tries to oppress
A Revolt which a Priest failed to Anoint
And lowering my Camera, I see
The many Prizes I did Hit-and-Miss
But she roared with showers raining gently
And, enough! They saw Rainbows turn to bliss.
So I sat on a Rock to watch and live
Hoping my Partner would rise to forgive.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
A narcissist is a dummy bear on crack. They have gummies for brains.
Viewing the world with mooching eyes, flirting with greed and gluttony, playing games with the devil.
The narcissist is no friend
of the family.
They are crude and thick with pollution and toxic waste.
The Narcissist brings nothing but
suffering and pain.
If you bump into a narcissist
in the wild, run and don't
look back.
A narcissist wants attention and
they don't like bold and brave people.
They chose victims by kindness,
reputation and intelligence.
The smarter and more popular you
are the more likely a narcissist
will strike at you.
You have to be smarter than they,
set boundaries and strict rules.
Don't allow anyone to break your
security or your self esteem.
A narcissists biggest flaw is ego,
strike them in the ego ***** and
watch them turn blue and fall.
Find their weakness in their
gaslighting, use it to fight back.
They blame everyone but themselves for their actions.
©️ 2022 By Amanda Shelton
Aug 3, 2022
Aug 3, 2022 at 3:18 PM UTC
The vicar's knickers look so fine
As they hang upon the line.
Flapping wildly in the breeze,
They're as sassy as you please.
They used to be a shade of grey,
But on the line, in the light of day,
They sparkle white as they hang about.
Even Mr. Clean would scream and shout.
People in the street stop and stare
As they admire the vicar's underwear.
Hanging there for all to see,
They seem to cry, "Look at me!"
The gathering crowd gives a sigh
When the vicar's knickers seem to fly
As they dance and twist upon the line,
Looking white and clean, and oh so fine.
Inside the house the vicar pleads,
"Dear wife, some underwear I need.
Without my knickers I cannot say
My sermon in the church today."
The vicar's wife has had enough
Of viewing her husband in the buff,
As he searches for another pair
Of sparkling, clean, white underwear.
"I know where to find a pair!
They're on the line, those underwear,"
Says the vicar's wife with a grin.
"I'll just go out and fetch them in."
The poor man waits and says a prayer
And hopes she finds those underwear.
He really wants to finish dressing
And go to church and say the blessing.
She snatches them from off the line
Where they've hung and looked so fine.
The crowd watches her take them down,
Those knickers, the whitest in all the town.
They'll have to come another day
To gawk and watch those knickers play.
The vicar needs that elusive pair
Of sparkling, clean, white underwear.
The vicar's just as pleased as punch
Because he had a sneaking hunch
He'd never see that last clean pair,
And he'd have nothing else to wear.
Now he's dressed and ready for the day,
And he can go to church and kneel and pray
Because he's wearing a lovely pair
Of sparkling, clean, white underwear.
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC
He comes, a moon whose like the sky ne'er saw, awake or dreaming.
Crowned with eternal flame no flood can lay.
Lo, from the flagon of thy love, O Lord, my soul is swimming,
And ruined all my body's house of clay!
When first the Giver of the grape my lonely heart befriended,
Wine fired my ***** and my veins filled up;
But when his image all min eye possessed, a voice descended:
'Well done, O sovereign Wine and peerless Cup!'
Love's mighty arm from roof to base each dark abode is hewing,
Where chinks reluctant catch a golden ray.
My heart, when Love's sea of a sudden burst into its viewing,
Leaped headlong in, with 'Find me now who may!'
As, the sun moving, clouds behind him run,
All hearts attend thee, O Tabriz's Sun!
7.9k
Shopping outfashioned hunting and gathering,
Processed beats fresh,
Groceries replaced fruit trees,
Malls superceded forests,
Churches outnumbered temples,
Countries dissolved to territories,
Places devolved to areas,
Paths broke down into highways,
Commodity converted to currency,
Laborers submit to machinery,
Masters engage in humbug,
Apprentices reduced to students,
Knowledge downgraded to education,
And education is deducted to a show of grades,
While schools are the stages,
And the corporate world is the bigger runway,
With work slumped to employment,
Wisdom demoted to profession,
Where in jobs are the only future,
Careers are the only success,
Clicking and pressing buttons are skills,
Computers are correspondent to brains,
Information refers to news reports,
Intelligence means up-to-dateness,
Browsing is preferable to reading,
Studying is in demand more than learning,
Viewing things flashed on screens yields awareness,
Transportation is to traveling,
As buying is to the three basic needs,
And needs embody worldly possessions,
Worldly possessions define happiness,
Happiness is due to selfishness,
Selfishness is traced to the lack of love,
The lack of love draws from the lack of faith,
Because faith stands for religion,
And religion stands for membership,
Where politicians are the gods,
Celebrities are the preachers,
And the preachers are the enemies,
While networking is equal to friendship,
And connection equates to communication,
Experiences require photos,
Memories necessitate uploading,
Souvenirs can be downloaded,
Smartphones are substitute to pets,
Gadgets are toys,
Holding controllers is playing,
Watching TV is exploring the great outdoors,
Internet is recreation,
And technology is a way of life;
While humans are scientists,
Nature is a guinea pig,
And the earth is a laboratory,
Where prices are misidentified for worth,
Processes are miscalculated as progress,
Impoverishment is confused with improvement,
And getting more is mistaken as getting better;
And then we wonder why
Homes have become houses,
Family members have become boarders,
Nations are separate species
Composed of tired and hungry citizens,
Children are monsters
Who are biochemically rascals,
Teenagers are zombies
Whose adventures lead to delinquency,
Adults are robots
Who just clang when touched,
And life is not so simple
As how it is said to be.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
They never bought each other diamonds,
rubies, sapphires, pearls or gold.
The only precious things they keep
are memories of days they spent:
on golden coasts with turquoise seas;
or viewing snow- enamelled peaks;
tangled up in bed;
or simply playing with their children;
or dining out with friends.
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
Self-esteem forms a comparison,
One that is typically a brutal report.
Giving yourself a low grade,
A rating which crushes confidence.
Analyzing tracts through superficiality,
Viewing self from a blurry lens.
Seeing ugliness when beauty shines likes a princess,
Detecting stupidity when the mind is as sharp as a knife.
The flaws you catch in the mirror are false deception,
Witnessing myths of your imagination.
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 7:02 AM UTC
Passing out love
Eyes closed
Seeing the world
In a view of Red
Waking up dead
Eyes opened
Seeing the world
In a view of Blues
The way these people
Belittle the energy
That can bring peace
They have mixed feelings
Seeing the world
In view of Purple
Stripped of caring and worrying
Exchanged for depression and disguises
Running from a red loved past
To obtaining blues of the present mind
The world viewing in purple
But my eyes can no longer
Hold a hue
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
I love da sound ya ***** does make
While slapping up against your sister, for Christ sake
Watching you all doing the ***** deed, doggy style
On ya momma's brand new, multi coloured **** pile
***** young boys, are forever slapping, keepin’ it real
While viewing ya ***** in ya year nine, high school classes
Even some curious gals, like to slip in a quick feel
While flashing their hallway entry, fancy gold passes
Da sound ya ***** makes, ya must be using an amplifier
With a **** load of flaming, boom-boom, bass
Next time though, try turning the treble up, as you were
And turning down that flaming bass, just in case
This mornin’, I woke up stiff, like feelin’ as if dead
Then flicked through the paper, my obituary, I just read
Didn't feel that great, after we had finished the missionary
Wish I was much more aware, like a future visionary
I haven't even ironed my clothes or done my face
For my very last day of this bright sunlight
Will I need to pack a jumbo suitcase
Or maybe just some shorts and thongs
On my mystery vacation, one-way flight
Da sound ya ***** was making when shaking
Was maybe way too loud for some, last night
It put me in, like a clothes dryer spin
Police came by, just to check that no one was pranking
With some spray with mace, just when I was about to sin
Everyone's got an unusual craze in life
Mine just happened to put me in a daze
Should've taken a much deeper breath
When going down between ya momma's thighs
Send flowers to my ******* and hoes
And never ever forget, ya ****** nice ways
Always tried to satisfy the whole **** world
But still hearing some sad **** woes
I like da sound ya ***** makes
Reminds me of some ole dance tracks
Played by the DJ, named Georgie O’Kay
While everyone dances to a beat
I'm hard at work, while trying to get ya
To get down lower and pretend to be ya momma.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 6:14 PM UTC
Maverick ex-cop (Green Beret /Navy Seal /SAS/Ranger)
Twiddle of the fingers to crack a 64 bit hexadecimal code
Shot but can still beat up bad people and run
15 people firing automatic weapons and they all miss
Database that searches the planets population in 2 seconds
And has photos of their children and plans of their building
Regardless of the crime scene sample, always a rare element that pinpoints location
Car chase where a truck can keep up with a Ducati motorbike
Organisations that only employ attractive people in lead roles
Ugly people are tech specialists sometimes allowed to be ‘quirky’
Even the uglies are attractive people disguised with glasses and bad hairstyles
‘I dream of genie’ gendre were they flirt but never get it on, unless it’s a hospital series
Watchable, funny programs that always succumb to sloppy sentimentality
High schools complete with intolerance, marginalisation, bullying, and hell on earth,
The most disturbing and darkest crime sent to titillate mid evening family viewing
Endless humiliation for fatties, chefs, performers, builders, restaurateurs, and troubled teens
Dysfunctional law enforcement agencies that never work together under any circumstances
Enough, if we need this thick coating of unreality, perhaps its time to switch off?
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
The bloodied wound
Of patriarchy
Swings majestically
Round my neck,
Wavering my thoughts
Of what to be
And what not to be.
I look around
Viewing people fight
Misogyny and sexism.
For I try to do that too,
Until I fall once again into a muck,
Watching **** crimes
On a daily basis
Watching acid attack victims
On a daily basis.
For, some
Are too illiterate to know the meaning
Of the word, no.
For their egos are so small,
That they can’t handle rejection.
The bloodied wound
Of patriarchy
Hangs majestically
Round my whole body,
Begging me to tame it,
Oh dear lord,
There is ****** of womanhood
happening all around,
With people pointing to the length of our clothes,
To the pitch of our voices.
-
@enchantingnachokitten
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC
PROMETHEUS (alone)
O holy Aether, and swift-winged Winds,
And River-wells, and laughter innumerous
Of yon Sea-waves! Earth, mother of us all,
And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you,--
Behold me a god, what I endure from gods!
Behold, with throe on throe,
How, wasted by this woe,
I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!
Behold, how fast around me
The new King of the happy ones sublime
Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me!
Woe, woe! to-day's woe and the coming morrow's
I cover with one groan. And where is found me
A limit to these sorrows?
And yet what word do I say? I have foreknown
Clearly all things that should be; nothing done
Comes sudden to my soul--and I must bear
What is ordained with patience, being aware
Necessity doth front the universe
With an invincible gesture. Yet this curse
Which strikes me now, I find it hard to brave
In silence or in speech. Because I gave
Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul
To this compelling fate. Because I stole
The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles went
Over the ferrule's brim, and manward sent
Art's mighty means and perfect rudiment,
That sin I expiate in this agony,
Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanching sky.
Ah, ah me! what a sound,
What a fragrance sweeps up from a pinion unseen
Of a god, or a mortal, or nature between,
Sweeping up to this rock where the earth has her bound,
To have sight of my pangs, or some guerdon obtain--
Lo, a god in the anguish, a god in the chain!
The god Zeus hateth sore,
And his gods hate again,
As many as tread on his glorified floor,
Because I loved mortals too much evermore.
Alas me! what a murmur and motion I hear,
As of birds flying near!
And the air undersings
The light stroke of their wings--
And all life that approaches I wait for in fear.
5.5k
I fall to my knees,
Kneeling before you,
My Master,
Groveling at your glorious feet,
To reveal the chains of submission,
Weighing down my delicate form.
You gaze upon me,
Beholding soft skin shimmering,
As my body is folded over;
Viewing my tantalizing beauty,
As I bestow myself,
To fulfill your deepest desires,
Conjuring the darkest yearnings,
Manifesting within.
“Rise, Baby Girl’’,
Your deep voice commands,
Reverberating within this crimson colored chamber,
As your figure towers over me,
Beckoning my legs to stand,
Obliging to please you,
As my hazel eyes encounter,
The blazing intensity of your own,
Sending flames to burn,
Down to the small of my back.
Fear is the armor I allow to fall,
Tumbling to the ground,
Cloaking myself in trust,
As I allow my body to be,
Touched by dominant hands,
Trussed up by ropes and chains,
To restrain to me.
Willingly becoming prey,
To the sweet, antagonizing caress,
Before your hand aggressively strikes,
My behind,
Sending me into a realm,
Of pleasure and pain,
Morphing into one sensation.
Free is the response I experience,
As you bounds my wrists,
With your tie,
Pinning me down,
Straddling my body.
Placed between your thighs,
With your heated lips,
Conquering every inch of my body.
The Sting of the flogger,
Is a bite against the skin I crave,
As silence is the language,
I choose to speak,
Feeling your fingertips claim me,
As your territory to reign over,
As you please.
I yearn to satisfy the hunger,
Starving to be your nourishment;
For Sadism to feed,
Upon masochism,
As a balance of power is established,
As we lose ourselves in fiery passion.
Dominance and Submission,
Forces meant to bond to the other,
In a marriage of infliction and reception,
Of blissful agony,
Accepting the temptations you direct,
Towards me as guide,
To obtain our darkest of fantasies.
Submission speaks out within,
The silence as I give you,
A proffered hand,
Succumbing to the sensual dreams,
You promise to me,
Allowing you to possess me in any way,
You wish in accordance to our terms.
May you indulge upon my form,
Like decadent candy you crave,
To devour,
Savoring every taste,
Sound, smell, and touch,
In this licentious dance between you,
My Master,
And me, your fervent lady,
Of submission.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
Choice is a conglomerate
Cause you are viewing millions
but finding one
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
A fisherman is drifting, enjoying the spring mountains,
And the peach-trees on both banks lead him to an ancient source.
Watching the fresh-coloured trees, he never thinks of distance
Till he comes to the end of the blue stream and suddenly- strange men!
It's a cave-with a mouth so narrow that he has to crawl through;
But then it opens wide again on a broad and level path --
And far beyond he faces clouds crowning a reach of trees,
And thousands of houses shadowed round with flowers and bamboos....
Woodsmen tell him their names in the ancient speech of Han;
And clothes of the Qin Dynasty are worn by all these people
Living on the uplands, above the Wuling River,
On farms and in gardens that are like a world apart,
Their dwellings at peace under pines in the clear moon,
Until sunrise fills the low sky with crowing and barking.
...At news of a stranger the people all assemble,
And each of them invites him home and asks him where he was born.
Alleys and paths are cleared for him of petals in the morning,
And fishermen and farmers bring him their loads at dusk....
They had left the world long ago, they had come here seeking refuge;
They have lived like angels ever since, blessedly far away,
No one in the cave knowing anything outside,
Outsiders viewing only empty mountains and thick clouds.
...The fisherman, unaware of his great good fortune,
Begins to think of country, of home, of worldly ties,
Finds his way out of the cave again, past mountains and past rivers,
Intending some time to return, when he has told his kin.
He studies every step he takes, fixes it well in mind,
And forgets that cliffs and peaks may vary their appearance.
...It is certain that to enter through the deepness of the mountain,
A green river leads you, into a misty wood.
But now, with spring-floods everywhere and floating peachpetals --
Which is the way to go, to find that hidden source?
4.6k
“i’m done with furries”
i.
i can’t dream your dreams,
but you’ve told me about them.
you wear an owl mask
shaped by fists and transgression;
a laceration splits your side
from a skin split
to your rib splits.
your love,
Bill Clinton or Donkey Kong
(whoever populates your thoughts),
crack your bare skin
until makeup
leaks out of your pores.
you dream of emulating art;
O hanging from a ceiling claw,
clicking heels against drywall
until leg muscles give up
and her diaphragm accordions close.
but who is your sculptor?
who is your artist?
ii.
alas, i am only
a paper mache bird.
i flinch when it rains,
i flinch when i move;
my paper skin
could cave in
from lip crack to *** crack.
(i hate
Inside Out.
but, i’ve only watched it once,
and i’ve been told
my eyes would adjust
on the second viewing.)
i dream of emulating art;
Marat in an ice bath,
tragedy and love and death
captured
without conflict.
but who is my muse?
who won’t break my bones?
iii.
you don’t know my dreams either,
but we could dream together.
two reveries in polyphony
of an owl and bird *******
making love
before they
make art.
our love
is ******* weird;
a childhood seesaw
we’re trying to
find the perfect balance
to with our weight.
we dream different things;
**** fantasies and intimate kissing,
but that doesn’t matter.
at this point in two years,
we can see through each other.
i can’t make art without you.
you aren’t done with furries.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
Nostradamus and sleeping prophet's One lost image of the singular Eye
Re(ad(d): No worry
To, Love Our Sun :).
Signs like Gemini is to air
Sagittarius is to fire a pair
in this crossing with Pisces
to water is Virgo for earth
too We are the mutable ones!!
Sunny is however we coin the calling spiraling too
EYE of the One generation transmutable souls of soil ARE
to earth; 'hues EYED like a butterfly, here to sample many flowers
connected within a Great Spirit invoked as in wilds if peopled or things'!!!
We do feel it within or without the actual considerations of the ultimate doings;
'letting go and taking the risk of trusting and depending on another'!!! One by one!!! :)
EYE of humus hued in spirit and love fused to the stone's twirling and of the ruse's tolling
So many of paths we traverse here as on earth the singular EYE knows out on the HORIZON
The great Eye is too glued on Sunny Sun's ever evolving viewing's as hued spirits cross EYE'S
Our blinded one eye's longing to Lyra's lyre, great musician Orpheus winging, whose W
music tamed wild beasts, caused rivers to stop flowing and enchanted even gates S
to the Lord of the Dead Hades, the softly lit fire singing inside linking heaven A
to earth viewed from outsider's hues waxing and waning of sleep wakened I N
so ode to the moon in the darkness of night gives but who takes her softer F USED
delight when One day halves by sun setting all ebbs in flowing as tides B I
to Great oceans moved like hearts breathe air to presence's emoting STAR'S
from magic to tragic we long of ecliptic traces cryptically erasing W
the blindness of memory and sight' majestic beast's floundering I
a forever crisscrossed from the One Eye here now to Knight's N
dear lost forbidden inner retreats from the East to God's lost 'S
children cast out to the land from blood pooling in spoils O
as easily uncovered as readily as new western lands had ~/ E \~ N
claim maddened ravaged savagely eagerly discovered ~(:YES :)~ G
fear still rocks this boat with hope still sailing onward (:FORGIVEN:). 'S
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
I've created a new genre.
Different strokes for different folks.
Colour painted memories,
Written on beautiful flowers
That blossom when only,
Visionary eyes can see.
I've created my own dusk to dawn.
Lost within time itself.
I wake up to the blessing of the morn.
I’m faded by beauty.
Counted by numerous
Living things.
I only can tell that my reality is real,
When your viewing from a distance,
Where you can’t be seen.
I’m distorted by the ambiance,
Because I can feel you’re there.
I’m lost;
Stuck to pins.
My mind’s unclear.
I’ve opened up to my dark soul,
To embrace your loving heart,
I can’t tell the traces,
Of a- once trampled on- broken heart.
So I will love you in defeat,
Until my eyes turn red.
Because I’ve counted many characters,
But your blood isn't theirs.
So I've opened up to beauty,
I lived with the dark,
Only to open up to someone,
That could take away my heart.
© Robyn G Neymour
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 12:35 PM UTC
Images flashing
Flashing
With
Recognizing
Eyes
And
Registering
Brain
Played over
Over
Through
Passageways
By way
Of
Electromagnetic
Impulse
And
Firing
Neurons
Within
Within those
Is a
Deeper understanding
As
Cerebral
Cortex
Takes hold
And forms
Within
Profoundness
Insidiousness
Forever
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 5:02 PM UTC
(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold
Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.)
Don’t ask me why but
I went online this afternoon.
Read the Miami-Herald obituaries.
And not just the Biggies:
Maya Angelou at 86 and
A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries.
Of course we knew Maya,
Her caged bird singing
Softly in our souls,
But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries.
A former singer in the Ellington band,
Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo,
In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns--
His nickname evoking
His racial identity,
Quite muddled, flexible.
Although both sad passages to be sure,
It was neither Maya nor Herb
Triggering my tender tears.
But the obituary of:
ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI,
Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama.
Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit,
My tears for her long-lived mother,
Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding,
Still breathing at 97:
Hildegard Wolle.
Reading Brigitte’s bio—
German born, Berlin student,
Singer-fashionista &
Proud, naturalized
American citizen—
I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard.
As if the woman didn’t already
Have more than her share of trouble
On this planet nearly a century,
Having already lost her
Grandson Roland, and now,
Her daughter.
Something wacky is going on here.
Some long-distance life lesson
Being applied here.
Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s,
Suffers crystal distant memories,
Some really bad karma
Stored up in past lives.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC