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jane taylor Apr 2016
The chill in the frigid night air
casts tremors of lingering shadows
upon an ancient windowsill
where a liquescent candle’s glow dims.

Peering into shattered mirrors’
silver hued jagged edges
that no longer reflect counterfeit images
a nascent paradigm unfurls in the wind.

Terrifying diminutive steps are taken
in directions au courant
enabled by years of refinement
in torrid near incessant fires.

An excrescence of wisdom
has broken the weathered mold
allowing a senescent wisdom
to shimmer a phosphorescent glow.

The venerable map leading
to this transcendent destination
is not read but perceived
through intuition’s faint whisperings.

©2015 janetaylor
address to soundcloud version
https://soundcloud.com/user-229781433/whispers-1
Anyone Jul 2018
The scars on your arms
Form the box of my jail cell.
I'm serving a pseudo-voluntary,
Compulsory sentence for someone
Else's hell.

I guess I chose this fate
Despite it being ****** in front of me.
But the illusion of free will
Is a broken façade of
Immaturity.

I suppose I do like you,
But be with you? I don't know.
Your unblamable desire for
Love and affection is something
I can't show.

Because while your world may be Torture, mine isn't heaven either.
With heart flutters,
Stomach aches,
And leaving class for breathers.

The help that I can give,
Is reaching its end.
And whisperings
Tell me to leave,
From nefarious, bitter friends.

Yet when I entertain departure,
The only things that I'm left with are

My thoughts in the shower,
My tears joining the water,
And I remember looking in the mirror
Trying to figure out where I am.
From an ex's perspective on me.
maureen Mar 7
midnight whisperings say
'i'll take care of you'
yet morning words declare
'i don't need you'.

you hold me so gently
like a new set of china—
yet pour inside me
hot, scalding, tea.
Yenson Sep 2018
Listen to the slivering  paths of the Autumn breeze
The coming velvety skies drenched in ink reflecting silver stars
Wave goodbyes to the elusive flawed brown stone with pensive eyes
A heart will gasp years ahead for callousness past shown now in tears
Remember those golden sunsets for now woeful days are never azure
Watery eyes and wrinkled mask lament a time you could have shared
A King's ransom at your feet twined with an  honest heart assured

Hear the whisperings of the mockingbirds and muted cold choruses
Rainbow starlights betrays pots of gold hidden never to be found
Maidens dance retro and the harpist pluck for painters with brushes
By sunkissed shores blends of contrasts joyous in customary ponds
Smiles pure from honeyed caves same when as waxed spears plunges
Save me a place in the delights of Troy and tell Helen to send a sound
Bring me home to peace and love, rescue me from lions in golden cages




[email protected]
(Descendant of the Eight Small Furies)

Cold frigged and wet but not icy and not yet. Two laborers at docks
find camaraderie in talks, tho’ their neighbors bustle by as they unload shipping stocks,  

For the kinsfolk miss a nothing a light mist of breath when huffing.  
The women like to pout as the crassy men do shout, shine on awhile whistling, Inn-keepers at shops coo their bristling and Old Wicca ones seen hissing from low, low talk in whisperings,

Although the morning bright the seas are high and not retreating, weather cool and fleeting, the peoples sounds a blend of bleating, as wily sheep would gather to speak about a matter for it is not the people’s spoke of that draws faint sorts of blather.

On this day...rains are much to rather, feigning raspy talons cloaked in chatter and from stores to shores to boat, seas, lakes, lochs, bridges over moat, not as to say they gloat, or ramble to invoke which fear of and from it stoke the gossip on one surly bloke…

For on this day everyone is talking in this seaside town in Eire. A hero undone by gossip but none can be called a liar. For about whom and what of -a man of such great fire.

Celebrity renown, born and raised but not settled down. Within its boundaries a-proper but of such character to copper, to change tasty meat to fat and bone, awe in disposition down to tone, mind boggling this gent whose life god gave as a gift of own.

In a perplexity of fright, brought tragedy each night and none could get away, from the obvious decay, due brutal awful fray, to make a beast from a shining dove, what the hell was God thinking of?

The crisper ears do so hear though not quite enough to whet, the imaginings to happenings they speak about just yet.  So hastily move spies, as I tell you of the sighs, the indignity and pride, swallowed with a town’s growing angry tide,

Upon this night so they see a man, creep who once the pride of Dan, loved more above all here in Tan, his birthplace this old briny-land but lately fondness on the wan, oh here he comes to close in again, to wane and wax vaudevillian, end up by dark a plain villain, as his face turns a shade of vermilion, electric ghost of Kirlian, eclectic host of deviling and calculated mind disheveling,

Pumped of mead or whiskey arguments are risky. Against his manner and girth, intoxicated nature -or mental worth. Sheer size attests his power, muck and mirth to fallen valor, the change is said to wow us, proven brute against all prowess, as such preferred and fight and such to nightly fright,

Béarthr is this man of once, of promises found to be just fronts, hanging around a town's high perch…though seen at the bar as sulk and lurch, or testy to some called a sailor who know not the fear of old dear Balor?

Sullen rent asunder, quick to wit when buntered, try with fists this skunkard; you brought low as a punter, hail to hell with such a drunkard! To stand and watch in awe, as blood and cracks and calls with cries and screams at falls, at doors torn from building halls, no end or stop to pause, sheer terror fighting brawls with fists he lays the laws, a violent testament to theater,

The burly beast named Béarthr!

Eight levels down to hell with him, each evening a town made grim but not tonight and nevermore, a double barrel out missing door, a silence from frosty place our cavern and dead beast felled on floor of tavern!  

If you find yourself frisky one night and driving through our Tan. If you’ve got salt are brisk for fight and hold your weight in sand…
…then make your way to such a place, renowned for such a meter,

You’ll find a name above the door;

O’ Ochtar beag the Béarthr!
Old English-style rhyme. Béarthr is Gallic and pronounced, "Be-ate-tor."
veritas Mar 10
/There is no fellow in the firmament.
              but only fire can cast down raging blood,
running through the city, flagrant
         smoke on a collonade of scepters, raised
— line by line: note the conspirator in the masses
                 Doth not Brutus brotherless kneel?/
traitorous hands, leaking red
                 /Speak hands, for me!
— from a dagger plunged deep through the heart of eruption it
                                          spills chaotical, arterial, sinful
                                      down and down ribbons of life
        crown in rotation: halted
on tumbling tyrrant, passes guiltless largesse from hand sought to
hands yet seeking, searching
[whisperings]
         "but on what grounds is usurpation justified?"/
         "what cavity yet persists in the dawn of these reds rising?"
kneeling king, sodden with loss
          bend for me —
                       Et tu, Bruté?/
screamitbloodymurdersingitholydivination
                      ­                 Then fall, Caesar.
i experimented with a new structure combining lines from a play (Julius Caesar) with symbols and italics and the entire tool box.

*note: the quoted text is original, from pov of the commoners*
I'm at the borderline
Between suicide and anger
Rage fills my veins
Until pain displaces hate
With fate sometimes interlaced

The confines of closed doors
And shattered dreams
Bringing memories and stinging lies
Behind my eyes
Before I sleep

Thoughts are cheap
And each preaching adamant to proclaim
That nothing can tame the victim
Or hero placed inside my shame

Can't maintain
In fact I'm barely surviving
I used to have epiphanies
But now there's only whisperings
Of how I'm dying
Emeka Mokeme Apr 16
How magnificent and
majestical the greatest
cathedral of all times
stood over 840 years,
hovering over France
with protective pride.
Towering as if
you want to
touch heaven.
Your beauty so
divine and beautiful.
Kings and Queens
and nobles of old
have sat within
your chambers.
With solemn calmness
you enfold the
worshipers with bliss.
None could resist
your beauty to
bring you harm,
only but now
by the hands of
the unknown ungodly
sadist who has
no fear of
truth and God.
You stood the
test of time
to tell us the
stories of old,
whisperings into our
ears the secrets
of the ancients.
You witnessed the
most horrendous
and countless wars,
yet they could
not bring you down,
even the ****.
Angels are weeping
for your glory is lost.
The heart of
the people of France
and the world are
broken to see how
low and degrading
they brought you.
Your cross stood
majestically as you
burn down refusing
to give up with ease.
Your beauty and
glory is eternally
etched in our hearts.
You will always
be remembered.
Notre Dame,
the Lord God
who dwelled within
your chambers
will not forget.
He saw your
fragile heart and
your helplessness  
as you burn.
But never mind,
he will definitely
do something.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
The cleaning lady pushes her cart about
Among administrative whisperings
And teachers sneak out of in-service
For an electronic moment in the head

The cleaning lady pushes her cart about
Computers in their wireless conclave met 1
Exchange that hushed arcana passed through PEIMS 2
And sticky notes – they seem to reproduce

Youth is reduced to a computer printout

And

The cleaning lady pushes her cart about






1 cf. G. K. Chesterton’s “Elegy in a Country Churchyard”

2 The Public Education Information Management System (PEIMS) encompasses all data requested and received by TEA about public education, including student demographic and academic performance, personnel, financial, and organizational information. (https://tea.texas.gov/.../DataSubmission/PEIMS/PEIMS-_Overview)
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.


Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
ómra Oct 2018
Nothing was ever good enough for you. Nothing was ever enough- not for you, O King, sat upon your high throne of gentle-winding metal steps and bent hand-rails:

The only time that you were satisfied is when your words cut into her like knives alongside your fists, flesh giving way to some kind of secret that only you could hear. It drove you mad;

Did you spend the nights as aware of her body heat as I was of yours, salivating and burning with a desire to hear those dark whisperings again? Were all the moments where you appeared as a sheep spent fighting to control the wolf that you were?

Was it good enough for you? Were you satisfied? Were you happy as you sang your songs, telling her that you were sorry, that you would never do it again, that she was your sunshineyouronlysunshineshemadeyouhappywhenskiesweregrayshe-­

Was it ever good enough for you;

No. Not even with your hands wrapped around her throat, broken plates and screams;

It was never good enough for you, my manners were never good enough! Not once did you grant me mercy, not once did you even try to remove those claws you sunk so deep into me.

No matter how many times I said “please,” you never stopped, and the mantra that echoed inside of my head then permeates my very being even now, a single sentence that repeats and repeats and repeats and repeats and repeats and repea-

Never forget your table manners.

Never forget your table manners.

Never forget your table manners.

When he is done, say “thank you,” because if you don’t, he’ll do it all over again.

Always say “sir” and never let your fear show in your eyes, or he will bellow his acrid wine-foul laughter into your face and you will wish that there was somewhere to go but your back is against a wall and his eyes are burning and burning and burning and burning-

“Are you afraid of me?” he will ask, “Why are you acting afraid of me? Do you think I’ll hit you?”

He will answer his own question and it will never be enough,

because he wouldn’t have ever been satisfied unless he took the life right out of everyone in that house.

I wonder if he is satisfied now; now that my life is consumed with his burning eyes in my sleep and his voice in my head and his breath in my mouth, even when he is so far away now, still he is here:

Is he satisifed now? Is this enough?”
there is nothing left of me, but still he continues to take
Go west with me 
                               In our hearts my love                              
We will live alone
   On the wide prairie
The earth beneath
   And the sky above
And no one there
   But
      
                                                      ­         you and me


No crowds to talk
   No one to stare
And none to steal
   Your eyes from mine
No one to mock
   Or to compare
To make you feel
   They dim your shine

    
But in our haven
  Face to face
Your heart will ask
  And mine will answer
In deepest gaze
  And dear embrace
We sway to our song
  A single dancer


The world will smile
  When the west wind blows
The whisperings of
   Of our ever-after;
From distant miles
  The smell of rose
And the sound of song
  And a baby's laughter

  
And they may come
To try the lock
To enter, share,
  Or peer and pry;
We will not hear
  Them when they knock,
So far away
  As you and I.


Go west with me  
  In our hearts, my love;
Where the sunset burns
  And the wind blows free
The earth beneath
  And the sky above
Too small for the love
  Of you and me.
We will leave them all behind. They interfere; they do not define us. We may walk among them on the outside, but in our souls, we will be far away--we will build our own future, our house of dreams.
voices.
the first word I searched.
an idea now purged.
as the whisperings merged.

voices.
not insane, simply choices.
as my subconscious rejoices.
for many are voiceless.

voices.
so melancholy, so loud.
too soft, or too proud.
one person, or a crowd.

voices.
not deafening, like quiet.
or hungry, like a riot.
a lull hum, near compliant.

— The End —