Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
evin Mar 2013
What will become of us
when sons inherit hate?
Will we be proud?
Will we offer spirits, weighted
with every detail and derision?
Yes, there is blood and grief,
there are tears enough
to salt these hills
and fill our wadis;
Yet wadis squander
all we spill out.


                                            *mzf
Lilith Meredith Nov 2013
this place is silence
roaring silence
helicopter blades chopping through
the whine of incoming mortars
silence deafening over the
shuffle of boots kicking gravel
barely holding together the grit
that covers the ground
the grit
that covers the toyota hiluxes
the radios the windows the lights
the beds
the grit that fills our mouths
as we whisper in the dark
rustling silence as we whisper
dark secrets
movements and code names and equipment and
just how long were those explosives buried
this place is blood
a decade's worth of
my brother's blood pouring
through the wadis in the desert in the dark
ten years of my brother's blood
dripping from our fingers
every death a stain on our fingertips
as if we pulled the trigger ourselves
a millennium of blood
dried on these mountains
the geography screaming secrets of its past
begging us to go
Ken Pepiton Jan 2022
Rich in time, at the distant shore
of Stix, laughing with the ferry men
and pall bearers, all retired, the gig is up.

There never was a Santa Claus,
and there never was a hell… that is,
an everlasting grief for failure to know
what no authorities allowed known,
even grown to full stature,
the things we agree
1798 was for some reason, poetically
important
now 2022

I hear Cordelia. What? "nothing, my lord."

With graven mudpies,
patty-caking clay and straw, straw
another story creature, or
character, entity, yes, an ity-ness
some being, whether operator or
operand, all opera is
some minds presenting das gestalt,
nicht whar?
A we.
Heavy, cold molasses heavy, very
worthy, measured weight, shipped,
dripped,
sent, in hope, one day,
the effect of a message in a bottle,
occurs, as any reader
sees another knowing for a reason,
hidden
upto, perhaps a true 151st preposition
aiming at an upper limit,

How high can mind go after body,
augmented with nets of ordered signals,

is laid to rest, in my future, all the books
I never wrote, drip from my fingers, I am
the trained brained qwerty and morse guy.

Ghee of Auvergne. But for the e, I remembered,
though you may know now this is after
I paid effectual prayer through AI,
to ality of Rheality, all the knowledge in the tree,

in the nut, that falls to the ground and grows,
morpheus, makes it symbolic as hell
and the eucharist hoc es pokemonic -****!
you're a scannable canticle cannibals' cambial
allusion .
cambium (n.)
1670s in botany,
"layer of tissue between the wood and the bark,"
from Late Latin cambium "exchange,"
from Latin cambiare "change" (see change (v.)).

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=cambial>


Are we under your skin, slow think, we
is who
we are thinking. Let ter by letter stepping on

the compliants subsurface, softer than sand,
that cave - null arbor, tree of null-ity
annul - ah, "to make to nothing,"
that fine a dust,
a locale thought, linked, in a beautiful way
I may show you some day, these silken threads
that tie me to a wombed man,
in the land down under,
distant thunder, no sense of doom, this is happy
summer rain,
come to settle dust and fill all the puddles and ponds,
wells and cisterns,
gullies and wadis and broad sandy beaches,
visible from space,
any augmented eye may see, we live
on the wreck of a world.

One shell told Ben Franklin that, he said
that to many sons, many sons,
has Father Ben, the Humanist,

I insist, a hume-man ist, a human being
sapient, the action in the term sapience,
using that, knowing
I am thinking in terms any who read may define,
sift to the essential Eu-clade, literal
silence in time stop state, patient waiting if this
is why I live,
something I may have done, I did to dare the liar
smite me, many's the time,
cliché click heels snap

I salute my double mind minions, characters
set in array, as suits in a soap opera rich guy's
closet, close, close
always be
closing, set, the scene then changes and now
matters
- was Plato a big blue ox?
Why were poets banished? Truly, we are dealing
in common knowledge now, the sheet let down
from heaven, pick and choose,
you cannot or can not, wrestle with God,
and walk away,
without a limp.

Distillery stories, lotta sittin' around, drinkin'
spirits from former years,
we was young and in heat of the moment, tuned
to TV news, because we could know, what was
goin' on, after reality included knowledge
of fusion energy in seventh grade science,
right, when confusion was a word in spell-
ing bees, hmmm
ding
weedy insights, like first grass in fields burned
last fall, tender shoots for tiny kids and lambs
and calves and colts, and coyotes and squirrels
and cotton tails, and quails.

How rich are we?
Ryan Dement Apr 2021
My shuffles echo
in half-built homes,
I vault muddy wadis
and stomp in circles
like a baby elephant
throwing a fit,
until the too-slept dawn
makes me see me
too much,
so I
track dirt back
to my
safer nest.

— The End —