Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
after that i'll let you wear my kneecaps for
prayer after that pagan harlot of a wife told me
it didn't rain because i wasn't a good enough ventriloquist
to her schizophrenia. i mean: **** just never stops!
(i actually like this line, apologies for vain-thought).*

"68% of Canadians respondent said that minorities
should be doing more to fit into mainstream society
instead of keeping to their own customs and languages..."

53% of American dittoed likewise...*

              a failure of multiculturalism is a failure
because: it didn't celebrate bilingualism -
i call that the Gaelic effect in Scotland just so
you know it was spoken in over-shadowed Gaelic
within a Glaswegian dialect...

  multiculturalism failed because it was easier to
make a lot of people deemed as schizophrenic
rather than have the ability to be bilingual...
multiculturalism is a failure because it made bilingualism
taboo and instead said: ah... be bisexual!
multicultural societies actually gambled on bisexuality
being more needed than bilingualism,
and anyone still bilingual and not bisexual
was ripened to be harvested by psychiatrists.

but i do wonder what these post-colonial societies
would have made of what the natives might have asked
them...
              i think the natives of America would have liked
the immigrants to appropriate at least some of their
cultural traits... and no keep them in natural reserves like
some talking monkeys...

it's not enough that i have to give up a part of my soul
that i then have to twang the tongue like a banjo
with all that Texan ma'am ******* like those Arabs
in Lebanese American Universities...
oh please, stop this *******,
   i'm puking with the French on the question:
if globalisation is to be arrived at, why is English
the language of choice in achieving it?
              it's not a minority language, that's for sure...
the most poker-laden expression? sure, it is...
but i thought that within a framework of globalisation
(as Napoleon said): if a man speaks two tongues
the first head of the hydra is cut, and two emerge,
hence            the ambiguity of god
      and the proud expression of lizards
and their spies (cats) and why the first letter of
the tetragrammaton is shaped as      Y....
          hence the ambiguity of god and his Machiavelli
in terms of whether there is a world beyond this
one, and whether that diabolical Machiavelli (in all
his despair) did so on purpose to show god the sifting
process...
                    yes, that face of the marine iguana:
smiles like a cat,
              sitting proud on the rocky beach...
yet it has unfamiliar mammalian eyes instead of
those slit-eyes of noon akin to serpents and cats...
            and as Machiavelli said: first time round was great,
second time round: i just don't understand why your
first incentive is somehow better?
        they simply can't know if the first version
is better than their own...
         got to feed them the knowledge of nothing,
so at least they can better what they're been given...
as did Milton, make him less of the two evils...
   what with inhospitable earth and the dream of
colonising mars... or as the history of stars suggests:
stellar evolution sort of does away with Darwinism...
Darwinism is the one form of paper that you
wipe your *** with... it's not a napkin for your mouth:
that ****'s for your ***.
                 at the centre so too iron: as in haemoglobin.
     and we never say stars in a constellation of stars:
those are white dwarfs...
                 is our stellar nebula origin to be resurrected
for a moment into a planetary nebula and then into
stellar ivory of the dwarf?
     personally i think we'll end up being a black hole
unless our right / left politics will lead us into ending
as a neutron... which can only be seen with subatomic
particle goggles... of when Mars and its two moons
housed all thing stable, we are at the stage of the dying
star: hence all our Apocalyptic thinking and bring together...
   Mars experienced the average / massive stage of
a star's life... it's the only planet that shares our common
thread of being solid rather than gaseous...
                    Mercury is equivalent of being the sun's moon
and not a planet if Plato is a declassified planet...
         that's my suspicion concerning u.f.o. sighting and
governments showing us the output of NASA
and then lying that they have this "capacity"...
    old Martians... after all: there were only volcanos on
earth, and then the dinosaurs...
      ******* about with time gets you into these
custard clots of: huh?! i didn't invent the Darwinistic
concept of history worthy noting, Darwinism invented
itself, it's just that after being popularising
the humanities' aspect of the theory came once
the science was debunked... which always sounds like:
see next year, after they told you i'd be
       using a chicken leg fibula for a toothpick:
oh sure, let's get together the Friday after that,
by then i'll be scratching one twig against another twig
to get the fire going...
             after that i'll let you wear my kneecaps for
prayer after that pagan harlot of a wife told me
it didn't rain because i wasn't a good enough ventriloquist
to her schizophrenia. i mean: **** just never stops!
the point is: multiculturalism failed because
  it created a toxic environment for language...
it didn't respect bilingualism...
         it respected bisexuality: isn't that the talk of the town?
all your home-grown terrorists? they only speak
a few words of Arabic... they have been harvesting
the toxicity of a multiculturalism that didn't deem
two language in man to be acceptable...
        and no one cared for the trade benefits?!
how the **** did they miss that sort of plus?
         surely if you're going to trade with the Chinese
you'd send a merchant to China who spoke Mandarin,
and not Swahili, right? common sense.
   if the multiculturalism of England embraced my
bilingualism, i'd be selling English crap in Poland
and perhaps vice-versus... but they said: nope, nadda,
n'ah... you schizoid... da' ****?!
               oh right, so i'm a slot machine or earnings or
those ******* farmers of the urban wheatfield of
thought that psychiatrists are?
   am i talking Dutch or something? me integrating
not good enough? a multicultural system that doesn't
respect bilingualism... deserves what history gives it;
and by now... i'm at Drury Lane: fanning the flames.
JadedSoul Aug 2014
Fingers twined
My Love's hand blends with mine
together we stroll
among the Ripened Wheat

the Sun bows low,
bids good night,
sets the sky alight
with a million Hues
of blue and red
while we gaze -
at the rising moon

My free hand picks
a strand of wheat
jovially I tickle
the nape of her neck

the Night lights up
With her playful smile
as she gives chase
through the Ripened Wheat

grasping my arm
as I grasp hers
we lie down together
there, in the field

her full red lips
so soft and moist -
mine meets hers,
there in the field

one by one
my fingers conquer
pearl white buttons
that eagerly yield
without a fight

her black silk bra
gracefully surrenders
unmatched by the beauty
that it contains

Levi jeans
are simply no challenge
as the zipper
races down
with sheer excitement!

Gentle fingers run down
from Rosy red cheeks
and gently caress
Her gorgeous long neck

lower they venture
her heart beats faster
my lips caress hers
as my lithe fingers
find her *******

so delicately soft
with ******* *****
I kiss, her exquisite chest

she lowers her head
her chest rises to meet me
while my teeth gently nibble
her excited hard ******

Her legs now move
apart in anticipation
as my right hand glides
beneath the black silk g-string

Intense Heat
guides my fingers
as they slide in the moisture
on shaven skin

wider apart,
she invites me in
as the g-string slips down,
past cute toes

There in the field,
among the Ripened Wheat
my Love and I
unite ourselves
in Body and Mind

our souls sing in unison
our gentle rhythm,
as One increases.

Passion together
Sweat with sweat
our bodies cling together
while we Come together

Sheer bliss
Fills every fibre
There in my newly Ripened
Field of Dreams!
kfaye Dec 2012
the front door open.
the dogs not barking,
slapping some wet skinned faces in front of everyone,
wishing i was a broken bottle
or something.
there's want of a forest in my yard
-the whole world softing out:
action dust; to the girl that screams:
there's no such thing as sinners, there's no such thing as love, there's just people and what people do,
whole forests of paper feel your words.
           sincerely,
                            we're all just crazy.
sweet dharma dewdrops fell off the tongue of the clean-cut kid.
he had soapy teeth and no shame to speak of
and when he spoke to us, his fingers glowed
because.
did you think that words could do more than arms-
and that anything else alone could do more for you than a full bodied embrace.
and
i looked at the rose you had buttoned on your blouse and i tore it off and dashed it upon the ground
because of
the mist
and the yellow billboard
lit up softly like a wheatfield
and frost was setting onto the long blades of crisply dying vegetation.
and there is the matter of those ghosts in the parkinglot
unaware of the cars that skid by full of people, all with capacities to know and be known-
sometimes i wish i could tell them
that it's okay to reach out with soft red fingers, wet from running water, warm from hot running water rinsed
over our hands to bleed out the chill that leaches into our too-thin fingers on cold nights such as this.
meanwhile-whole forests of bright white paper
i think that if i ever found you,
it would be walking on a road next to blueberry blossoms-and close, dry
thicket branches that crunch swiftly sometimes-and slowly, others- behind our heels
and hands shaped like mantras gesturing towards us from trees- telling us to go this way, and that,
welcoming us with their imperfect notions of morality and telling us that everything was going to be.
light a match on the bathroom window,
take one step closer to breathe in the bad-handwriting of the graceless morning. put one foot forward on the floor-
one hand on your temple.
only time will tell
if this is hell or just a special hell for me and you
choke me in the white-noise drone
of the shower.
push against the vitalities of my neck-
offer your hands around my faltering voice.
tell me about the pharaoh.
and the legless learners of passion.
tell me that you need to fall forward onto your face just to remind yourself that you're alive.
drum against my chest imperfectly with your
fingertips.
the unskillfully applied paint on your nails already chipping off- (you do this thing with your thumb and
forefinger as a nervous habit and always ruin them.)

the sun come

i trace over my neck with cartridge-blade razors
-rip away the stubble like peeling off snakeskin shadows.
snow falls
dusting my eyes with the harpsichord sounds of porcelain.

there is no longer bitterness nor sorrow.
Ja Jul 2015
VINCENT

Oh Vincent, too soon you said goodbye
Each time your love rejected, emotions set awry
Your hand above, the lamps hot flame
To prove in time, your love won’t wane
Each failure then, became your bane
That memory faded, but love, came not again

Your brothers love, the only one
Throughout your life, you counted on
And those few friends, which once were close
Each in their turn, did you dispose
Like those bad seeds, “The Sower” threw
Were tossed aside, and never grew
            
Regressing shades, of grey from white
Lights that flickered, through the night
You became a somber, tortured soul
You tried but could not, find your role
The acceptance, which you hoped to find
With each descent, you lost your mind
    
On your release, from “Madhouse Garden”
Your senses dulled, your “Sorrow” hardened
You still envisioned, “Flowering Orchards” blooming
Contrasting days, frustrations looming
Shadows formed, in weightless plumes
From the “Old Cemetery Tower”, and its tombs
          
Soon days of joy, your senses rouse
Bringing renovations to, “The Yellow House”
Long travels through, the countryside
Those paintings that, you did with pride
Enormous swings, from “Wheatfield In Rain”
To “Wheatfield With Crows”, that caused you pain
  
For years you searched, just to belong
Your madness proved, your choices wrong
So for Gauguin, your friend and peer
For his desertion, a severed ear
Then long drunken hours, at “The Night Cafe”
A “Man In Sorrow”, on display
        
Like a “Wind Beaten Tree”, your emotions bared
Your faith now lost, but no one cared
Your world then flares, into sweeping swirls
As “The Starry Night” its hues unfurls
Beneath the sky “Sunflowers” so bright
But yet again, the dark sides blight
          
Those years of struggle, to regain your sanity
Brought your biggest loss, trust in humanity
So with colors dark, the image jaded
Your love and dreams, then finally faded
And now you weep, “At Eternity’s Gate”
Your field of dreams, await their fate

And so
The moral of his story
Now becomes fourfold
And lessons not then learned
Shall now by me be told

When you lose in love
Your hand, you should not burn
Just because, it’s fried and crispy
It’s not, “Kentucky Fried Chicken”, Vern

Always, to your friends
Try to lend an ear
Just, don’t cut it off
And gift it, as a souvenir

If life just drives you crazy
And painting, keeps you sane
Just pretend, you’re painting life
And drink lots of Champagne

When you’re young and life’s gone bad
Don’t put your life on hold
You do not need to **** yourself
Unless you’re really old

But no moral, can be learned
By committing suicide
Cause you can’t dream, nor paint your dream
Now, that you have died

BOEMS BY JA 299          15-05-2014
I HAD HIS PAINTINGS FOR THE QUOTES BUT THEY DIDN'T TURN OUT
Thomas W Case Apr 2023
Life wears me out with its
twists and turns, and
hairpin curves.
I keep waiting for a
long, peaceful stretch
of highway, bathed in
the rising sun.
A golden wheatfield to
to the left, a moss covered
pond with dragonflies to
the right.
The road turns to gravel,
and climbs rapidly uphill.
There are signs along the
way that promise the world.
The road gradually turns
to dirt, and ultimately
disappears.
Lucius Furius Aug 2017
January 1, 1000

Year One-thousand, January One,
starts the new millennium.
The villein, Jacques, in Reims,
wakes to find his world unchanged.
His hut stinks; his flour's wormy.
He fears God's wrath, but trusts His mercy.
Walled in by his community,
set in Christian certainty;
by their fireplace, with his family, sitting,
he plans the plots he'll plant come spring
The stars above him do not move;
he knows God's power --and His love.

                                                          ­                                        
1118

Others loathe such conformity:
their minds and spirits must be free.
Tutor Pierre finds knowledge increase
in the arms of his pupil Héloise.
Risking life and reputation,
they learn a different conjugation.
(L'Université de Paris's great philosophe
and the canon's niece --in reckless love.)
You think the danger overstated?
Let me remind you that Abélard was castrated
--and the **** confined to a nunnery ...
whence she wrote most eloquently.
("Though I should think of God, I think of thee.")  


225

Dear Francis,
I hear that when you visited St. Peter's
you exchanged clothes with a beggar
and stood all day at the door of the church;
that you asked the people of Gubbio
to be kind to the wolf who was eating their sheep;
that you call birds your "sisters" and fire, your "brother";
that you would have us give all that we own to the poor....
--Perplexed in Perugia

Dear Perplexed,
I ask only that you see God's hand in all creation:
wolf, *****, flower, stone --
God gives to each His rain and His sun.
What man is in the eyes of the Lord,
that I am --and nothing more.


1517

Martin Luther says you can't buy salvation;
the individual conscience is the only true religion.
Of intermediaries, he'll have none;                              
Man is responsible to God alone.
The Bible, being God's holy Word,
must, by each Christian, be read and understood.
Humble toil is a service of God
far surpassing the holiness of monks.
God is terrible in his majesty;
by faith in God, are we made free.  


1611

[London; Shakespeare addresses assembled friends as he
retires to Stratford;... a mysterious stranger rebuts.]

"Despite it surely not being my intention
to slight the worth of imagination,
to doubt the value of our fictive craft,                                          
there can be no question:  in their import,
the actual deeds of actual men
must, perforce, surpass the disembodied pen.
This [pointing] is merely men upon a stage;
these, merely words I've placed on the page."

"Master Shakespeare, I beg to differ:
it is your words which will live forever.
When fiery Phoebus ten million times
has run his course 'round rotund Earth, men will
still be astonished at Lear's great woe,
still sigh with Juliet for her Romeo."


1711

They've placed Monsieur Voltaire in prison.
This will not postpone the Age of Reason.
Men will speak and write as they see fit,        
be governed by laws and the intellect.
        

1783

[General Washington, at Annapolis, Maryland]

"My friends, I'm honored deeply,
by the faith which you here show in me,
your confidence that these qualities
which served so well in war might now
to governance be applied successfully.    

"I, myself, have doubts:
I fear that battle's clear, cold steel will be dulled
in the gauzy murk of diplomacy.
And though I were suited to this high estate most perfectly
still I should shrink from it.
I think of Caesar,
returning, triumphant, from Gaul,
his heart full of zeal for the good of his people,                  
who achieved much, but whose lordly rule
gave way to others far less wise....

"There's a name for a man raised above men as a god:
it's 'king'. I'll have no kings!

"Thus, I surrender to you,
the duly-elected representatives of the States,
the outward and visible sign of my authority:
this sword. Let the world take note
that these united States, born under tyranny's yoke,
shall, in word and deed, henceforth
be governed democratically."


July 27, 1890

Vincent finds his world has narrowed,
(--what wonders he'd seen in la lumière d'Arles!--)
all the things for which he's sorrowed--
rejection by his cousin Kee,
reliance on his brother's charity,
failure of his "painters' community"--
come welling up....
He walks to the field from which he'd come.
In his pocket, the letter he'll never mail.
The wheatfield he'd so recently painted.
In his pocket, by his chest,...
the gun.


July 16, 1945

[Robert Oppenheimer, near Alamagordo, New Mexico]

    If the radiance of a thousand suns
    were to burst into the sky at once,
    that would mirror the Mighty One's splendor....
    I am become Death --World-destroyer.
    --The Bhagavad Gita

Everything was so much clearer
when it seemed the Germans might get the thing first....
Now it's all so terribly muddy....
Who knows what these generals'll do with it.
...The radiance of a thousand suns....                                                         ­                                                 

That 100-foot tower --completely gone!...
If we didn't do it, someone surely would....
I am become Death --destroyer of Worlds.  


January 1, 2000

Year Two-thousand, January One,
starts the new millennium.
The sales-clerk, Jacques, in Reims,
wakes to find his world unchanged.
He's got Internet access! Two cars!
He doesn't fear the universe....
The only group he's part of
is guys who drink at the local bar....
He goes to church, but doesn't believe.
His job, his marriage --nothing is certain....
Even the stars above him move.
He knows God's power --but not His love.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem:  humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF16.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems (https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
Vidya Sep 2013
A shout across spacetime--
infinite
simal beam of light.

The warm overwash of watercolor cadence--
joy of numbers not
patterned together before under your
nameless eyes faceless voice--

When you stand in the wheatfield
the crows sing, too
if you listen.
For Bear, with love.
Mike Essig Apr 2015
Dead people are no doubt bored, so I'm sure these folks would be happy for free food and conversation. Of course, this is just a partial list, subject to addition and deletion. Feel free to add your own in comments.

Buddha, but a light lunch.
Jesus, but kosher of course.
******, come on, who wouldn't.
James Joyce, just to mock him.
George Washington, to try to catch him in a lie.
Hemingway, but just for drinks.
Reagan, to deliver some Depends.
Bakunin, for mutual aid.
William Butler, my ancestor who survived The Wheatfield at Gettysburg.
Audrey Hepburn, but a date, not lunch.
Ingmar Bergman, just to cheer me up.
Ervin Schrödinger, about that cat.
Shakespeare, because I've always wanted to meet an extra-terrestrial.
Ezra Pound, to tell him he was right about usury.
God, to let her know how disappointed I am.
Richard Nixon, so I could drive a stake through his heart.
Julia Child, just to hear her voice again.
Lenin, because he was a self-starter.
Mozart, because he would be fun.
Emma Goldman, to dance.
James Dean, as we look so much alike.
Janis Joplin, because I might get lucky.

Come on, I'm sure you can add to the list. Don't be shy, try.

mce
Who would you add? It can be anyone but Justin Bieber. I'm open-minded for a geezer, but not that much.  :) Anyway, they must be dead. That's the only rule.
Anais Vionet May 2023
last winter break*

I woke up abruptly, my chest gripped and tight. My face felt hot but my arms stung as if frostbitten. I gasped for air that wouldn’t come, like I had a plastic bag over my head.

If I’d had a bad dream, in waking, it had become a collection of vague, menacing shadows, not memories.

I hadn’t had a panic attack in ages, but you never forget the feeling. I reached dizzily for my backpack, beside the bed, which contained an albuterol inhaler. I managed, between gasps, and a puff, to turn on a small bedside light.

It was an indecent hour but between jerky breaths, and a second puff, I performed the series of flicks and touches that initiated a FaceTime call. My brother Brice is in med-school at Johns Hopkins University. He studies a thousand hours a week, I doubt he actually sleeps at all.

Brice answered on the second ring, his gnarled, blonde, wheatfield of hair was unmistakable, even in the dim street light. One glance at me was all he needed. “Breathe,” he said, “just breathe,” his deep, warm voice was as reassuring now as it had been when I was a child.

He made a dismissive motion to whomever he was with, indicating he was leaving and they should go on. “Ok,” a guy said, “Sure.” A  girl's voice said, “tomorrow,” but those voices faded as they were left behind.

“Did you use your inhaler?” He asked, when I nodded yes, he began our old routine, “Alright,” he said, “name things you can see.”
“My.. phone,” I said, haltingly. A moment later I added, “my iPad,” I gasped, “my purse.”
“Oh, your favorite things,” he whispered and when I honked a coughing laugh he said, “sorry.”

After some brisk walking, on his end, I heard the distinct beep of an access-point card-reader.

“The sky,” I added. The sky looked dark, jam-like and starless from Lisa’s 50th floor windows but there was a blurry line of blinking lights - jets queued for landing at Newark Liberty, or Teterboro airports. Life was going to go on, it seemed, even if I couldn’t breathe.

“Uh huh,” he said, in affirmation. His camera went dark and I could tell he was climbing stairs.
My body wanted a full breath, or three and was in a full water-boarding like panic.

I continued with my herky-jerky naming, “my suitcase, a ceiling fan.” He was in his room now.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now focus on 4 things you can touch.” I slowly and purposefully touched my backpack, water bottle, phone and bedside table as Brice quietly watched and waited. I’d stopped hyperventilating and I could feel my eyes relaxing and the room coming into focus (a symptom of anxiety is tunnel vision).

Brice knows me, maybe better than anyone. We finish each other’s sentences, we’re steeped in intimacy and knowing. We watched each other silently for a minute or two as my breathing became normal. His stupid, brotherly face was reassuring. He seemed in no rush, and finally asked, “What brought this on?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, hesitantly, but I had my suspicions. I was on vacation, having a terrific  time with Lisa and her family, and I’d made the honor roll, so my anxiety wasn’t school related.

“Mom left me a Christmas message,” I began, “and there was an explosion in the background, I think. I played it over and over,” I said, frustratedly, “was it thunder - or something else? I played it for Lisa - over and over. She said she thought it was thunder, but Lisa’s not a good liar.”

Feelings are never simple, they're multilayered, strip some off the top and they’re others underneath. If my parents' (Doctors without Borders) Ukraine war work was the stressor, there was little we could do about it.

Brice reminded me that the background noise was equivocal - it could have been thunder - and since this panic was an isolated event, we decided to keep it to ourselves.

As the call wrapped up, he made me promise to stop playing that message and avoid war news. We agreed to stay in closer touch (knowing that, with our schedules, it probably wasn’t going to happen.)
Still, I like knowing he’s out there - like a rescue inhaler - just a few button clicks away.
here
in the battered chambers
of this once vital heart
the uneven echoes
send signals of it's impending failure
the body relaxed in the haze of morphine
the mind alone in the dreamscape before death
a magnified tapestry of color
Sun and golden fields from a VanGogh painting
move within my thoughts
swaying and quelling the offbeat of distant drums

a lone leafless tree
a branch holding lines of crow
awaiting the rain
turn to see me
'follow them'
a voice whispers from beyond the wheatfield
they take flight
as do I
towards the darkest of the ominous clouds
'this is so worth it' I thought
just before the lightning snaked it's way across the blistering blue sky
releasing me from my mortal coil

I had to smile as I hovered there
watching them zap me again and again
bless them for their perseverance
Thomas W Case Sep 23
Life wears me out with its
twists and turns, and
hairpin curves.
I keep waiting for
a long, peaceful stretch
of a highway, bathed in
the rising sun.
A golden wheatfield to
to the left, a moss-covered
pond with dragonflies to
the right.
The road turns to gravel
and climbs rapidly uphill.
There are signs along the
way that promise the world.
The road gradually turns
to dirt and ultimately
disappears.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSAlwXq6VDA
check out my you tube channel.  I read my poetry there.
In shallow pools of reflected thought
a child's face
sad and transparent
floats above a wheatfield
thick in bright yellow
amidst a flock of still crow

a shadow dressed in tattered pants
and a paint-stained shirt
brings a smile of recognition
to this lost child
then fades with a sudden gust of wind
the crow take flight
the wheat bend and sway into consciousness
our hearts are numb with the beauty of his pain
Jeffrey Pua Apr 2015
A sofa in the wheatfield,
The moon, the wind-swept stars,
Your head so light
On this arm pillow.
I cannot move the pen.
It's hard to write a poem.*

© 2015 J.S.P.
Draft.
Ek Dec 2018
Open mouth singing
in your diamond shirt
embroidered with collectibles
of smiles and laughters
that you gathered that
day on the beach

Spellbound dreams
that you carry
in a silver faded necklace
carved with the initials
of all the constellations
you can point to

Wheatfield sun
dancing upon your
golden hair
of rainbow flowers too
you move the wind
and mother earth dances with
Dave Hardin Jan 2017
Gettysburg Address

A diaspora of stones make their way back, posted
by penitents keen to relieve long years of suffering.  
Late at night under desk light they put pen to paper,
insert shims of confession to wedge bits of Pennsylvania

scree into envelopes, a wary eye on talismans cocooned
in twists of tissue or sealed up tight inside zip lock bags,
ancient Alleghany seabed pocketed one hot August
afternoon in the Peach Orchard, palmed on impulse along

Cemetery Ridge, another bearing the mica glint that drew
the eye of a desultory adolescent moping in the long
shadow of Little Round Top twenty-three summers gone
now, before the untimely death of a sister or a budding career

in HR derailed on the heels of divorce, DUI and depression.  
How else to explain the plane crash, forfeiture of assets,
the shadow on the x-ray, the second one hundred year flood?  
In after hour twilight, tour buses long gone, gaudy chains

out on Route 15 humming, all with waits of an hour or more,
a National Park Service Ranger, a man about my age and mien,
doffs his flat brimmed lemon squeezer to retreat behind a desk,
leaf through a sheaf of petitions for mercy addressed in desperation.  

Silence pressing in from Culps Hill and Devils Den, the Wheatfield
and Seminary Ridge, he presses smooth a pane of stationary, eyes
closed, fingers brushing words of intention, box of stones at his feet,
heaped, indistinguishable as an unbroken line of advancing infantry.
Chapter VII
Sheesham's Staff  

Vernarth lies reclining on Sheesham's bunk beds of fire. Wood and Incense with ultra sensory olfactory powers, to design elemental and supernatural hearts, to house and be adaptable to hyper connectivity. In the Hindu religion, the akasha is the foundation and essence of all things in the material world; the first palpable and concrete material element created by the god Brahmá (air, fire, water, earth are the others). It is one of the classic elements of Hinduism, pañcha-majá-bhuta or ‘five great elements’; its main feature is sabda (sound). In Sanskrit this word means "space". In other Indian languages this word is conceptualized as "heaven".
It is the physical and eternal substance Akasha, of the ether that flows through the Akasha-Nautas, of each parapsychological regression. Vernarth takes a staff called "Sheesham's Cane", which he acquired while eager to deliver it to his beloved Tuscany in the Cathedral of Santa Maria dei Fiori, in one of his Regressive Lives.

They awaited him, stunned by the tyrannized force of the nobles in Florence, from which he was once again delayed by the barley and fatuous gods, close to Porcellino. He waited long hours for his beloved Madalena to come out of the Eucharistic ceremony. While he carried his staff in his right hand and a rectangular box for his hand on the left, inside he carried essences of potpourri of lavender and vellorita, a ring with amethyst stone covered by a concave gold bolus. In the supra-circular contour he wore medieval silver Etrurian ornaments from the Feast of Past Barley.

Vernarth is intubated with his therapist of the Veda typology, by the Samiama preferred to his meditation, concentration and Samadhi to merge with the universe and travel his Life until the end of Gaugamela (his most vigorous Regressive Life), while he was on his virtual journey Akashico walk the gods, disrupting his senses beyond all. Etrestles took a zither sounding the merits of the ear by prolonging his hearing of white cloaks and stereo silence. It leads them to the desired state of mind, such as the set of affects and emotions.

The fear of death is a somewhat natural concoction in the human being, although in too deep cases it constitutes a phobia (thanatophobia) that requires non-addictive treatment. But even when that phobia does not exist, but regression under hypnosis is sometimes traveling to the near and distant point of the Sun on its elliptical, almost getting lost in our galaxy, like the earth in its aphelion.
So in this way our great hero continues to travel in eternity, he never dies! For his life is a multi-dimensional regressive, to eternally navigate and ride through the scrolls of history with Alexander Magnus. Both sitting in Lotus on the Gordian Knot.


Past life experiences can be attributed to genetic inheritance, Akashic records, universal consciousness, telepathy, fantasies, or memories of readings or movies. As his mother Luccica brought, conceiving your son, very young of only 22 years, supposedly dying in a vascular accident, a fact that breaks the chain of genetic descent and allows us to suppose that there would be extra-cerebral memory. But it is reborn in Florence, Macedonia and Sudpichi and Gaugamela.

Names, places and dates can help to discern if it is a fantasy or a real experience. To accept it as such, it is recommended to check at least six matching data, such as names, dates, country, language, customs, weather, clothing, etc ... Many people ignored the dates or the name of the place where they lived. This makes it very difficult to verify such data, except in very few cases, so the lack of historical data does not necessarily constitute proof that they are frauds or fantasies of the hypnotized person. But this unforgettable feat of 331 b.C, is a date where Bacchus swallowed the history of the Universe at once. There is nothing left here, not to remember and much less to re-fiddle the citations of the Gods exhuming the brief metaphysical times that scent their intuitions.

Names: Vernarth Prince of Sudpichi, of the Horcondising Empire, of the Talamite Celestial Hymn.
Date: in the year of one of October 331 B.C.
Coordinates: 36 ° 21′36 ″ N, 43 ° 15′0 ″ E In decimal 36.36 °, 43.25 °
Country: Chile - Ancient Persia - Babylon
Language: Mapudungun, Hellenic and Persian.
Customs: Military consequence, phalanx, cavalry, archers and siege weapons such as Sarisa among others.
Climate: Autumn, dry and temperate climate. Little to hide.
Clothing: Exomis and war costumes. Agema elite guards, shields, Phrygian line helmets and multiple infantry shells.

Alexander Commanders:
Vernarth: First Commander of Heavy, Light and Thessalonian Infantry. Others, Hephaestion, Crater, Parmenio, Ptolemy, Perdiccas, Antígono, Clito, Nearchus, Seleuco, Ariston, Simias, Ceno, Ariston, Glaucias, Sopolis.

Thus in the post-equinox period of 331 B.C. Vernarth, he proclaimed himself a faithful Macedonian soldier, in the barbarian fields in Tel Gomel. And its circular deployment is destined to its epic rooted in this feat of being a unique part and valued by his therapist Walekira, attending to all the symptoms of this displacement due to a renowned parapsychological regression, which he never thought he would reach his origins as a Macedonian militia.

Wlakiria playing a flute from the elder ensemble, he readied himself for the ****** lines to keep him tied to his choir choir of the Bumodos. He would begin with the last sessions to supply them with the liquids through his veins, to take him to the advanced snatched bastions, where he lay upright, but with his head on the backwash of his headaches and touch-ups of approach to the lagoon of the Five Golden Swans that they agreed to his graft as the whipping commander of the Achaemenids.

Ellipses Gaugamela / Vernarth approaches:

Darius confused with the strength of the forces that came from Vernarth, resorted in the same way as in Issos, he has no other choice but to flee, causing the disbandment of his own by the lacerating wounds caused by the branches of Sauco, which were the branches of his arms numb, but guillotining. Every time a cavalryman turned to see who was following him, a sword appeared cutting their heads. . The Macedonian victory at Gaugamela is final. Alejandro is at the peak of his power looking from the sky. Now he has the clear path to advance toward the very heart of his enemy, the weakened Persian Empire.

After Gaugamela, Babylon was easily subdued. In Persia the cities of Susa, Persepolis, where Alexander burned down the Royal Palace and Pasargada succumbed one after another. In the spring of 330 B.C., Alexander resumed his march after Darius to Media. Upon reaching Ecbatana, Darius had slipped away again, taking refuge in Bactriana. Vernarth was surprised by the great general with a monumental average Sarisa spear, piercing a hundred soldiers with various spears, which one by one gently added to his hands stuffing them beyond his hands.

Alejandro Magnus said to him: beyond your strength there will be a day of knowing how to be a politician or a general to dominate the fear of the brave who shout with fear and not the cowards who shout with Courage!

Etrestles says: Although in the time I have lived in Messolonghi, I managed to be close to Scipio, as an official of the Roman State, I must compare him to your Son of Zeus, who undoubtedly at different times with a century of difference from General Scipio caudillo turned almost into a Great one, like Alexander…. I have to allow myself to simulate you in the parallel time that passes.

Replicates Vernarth: Yes Brother of good luck! The territories will be massacred. And there is no time or brave dimension to protect them. Scipio, undoubtedly comes from Messolonghi (Koumeterium Messolonghi / blessed Holy field of all heroes of all dimensions of time on earth and No), to warn us about the excesses that spray tiredness to those who are not to sleep, hunger and thirst to those who do not consume. But bravery to those who rise from the field in by the wheatfield shepherds irrigated by young sorceresses to raise Hellenic morale, from Medea perhaps to break the verb poetic with the Staff of Sheesham, to shake the earth and awaken those who need other sorceresses to awaken their consciousness and senses.

Alejandro Magnus, Etrestles and Vernarth; the three are each taken from the wood, which is the verse that supports them embedded. The infinity is painted lapis lazuli, the three look at each other and expand the chandeliers that hold them under the sky with Orion room light, whose golden ratio, as a result of the three numbers joined, the equation will tend to reflect the union of three kingdoms of divine reign.

"This communion is merged for itself for everything that is not concrete in a vague world"

To be continued… / under edition
Sheesham's Staff
Silver Heinsaar Feb 2018
He died with a smile, no regret in his eyes
Had a loving family with many grandkids
We will miss him, i know i will but grandma might never get over it.

He was a man with pride
Succeeded in everything he tried
Golden arms and a brilliant mind
A hero, one of a kind.

But there was something he hid
Something just wasn't right about him
Even during his memorial
I stepped forward as if i was called there
Put my palm on his chest and for a moment it seemed he was still with us.

It gave me a flashback from when i was younger
In our village there was a ******, or so was reported
The victim of that crime
Supposedly my grandpa, who was still kicking and alive
Was a weird time for everyone, contacting relatives
Telling he was fine.

I'm on a wheatfield, playing with my sister
A woman in the distance, looks a little frightened
Her mouth opens but can't hear a sound
Grandpa is calling, i turn around
Pointing at the tree where the woman was standing
But there's nothing
Must have been hallucinating.

We take a road back to home
My sister sitting on the shoulders
I reach my arm out for him to hold
Grandpa, why's your hand so cold.

— The End —