Martin's New Words 3:1:13

Thursday, April 10th, 2014

assay - noun. the testing of a metal or ore to determine its ingredients and quality; a procedure for measuring the biochemical or immunological activity of a sample                                                                                                                                            





February 14th-16th, Valentine's Day, 2014

nonpareil - adjective. having no match or equal; unrivaled; 1. noun. an unrivaled or matchless person or thing 2. noun. a flat round candy made of chocolate covered with white sugar sprinkles. 3. noun. Printing. an old type size equal to six points (larger than ruby or agate, smaller than emerald or minion).

ants - noun. emmet; archaic. pismire.

amercement - noun. Historical. English Law. a fine

lutetium - noun. the chemical element of atomic number 71, a rare, silvery-white metal of the lanthanide series. (Symbol: Lu)

couverture -

ort -

lamington -

pinole -

racahout -

saint-john's-bread -

makings -

millettia -

noisette -

veddoid -

algarroba -

coelogyne -

tamarind -

corsned -

sippet -

sucket -

estaminet -

zarf -

javanese -

caff -

dragee -

sugarplum -

upas -

brittle - adjective. hard but liable to break or shatter easily; noun. a candy made from nuts and set melted sugar.

comfit - noun. dated. a candy consisting of a nut, seed, or other center coated in sugar

fondant -

gumdrop - noun. a firm, jellylike, translucent candy made with gelatin or gum arabic

criollo - a person from Spanish South or Central America, esp. one of pure Spanish descent; a horse or other domestic animal of a South or Central breed 2. (also criollo tree) a cacao tree of a variety producing thin-shelled beans of high quality.

silex -

ricebird -

trinil man -

mustard plaster -

horehound - noun. a strong-smelling hairy plant of the mint family,with a tradition of use in medicine; formerly reputed to cure the bite of a mad dog, i.e. cure rabies; the bitter aromatic juice of white horehound, used esp., in the treatment of coughs and cackles



Christmas Week Words Dec. 24, Christmas Eve

gorse - noun. a yellow-flowered shrub of the pea family, the leaves of which are modified to form spines, native to western Europe and North Africa

pink cistus - noun. Botany. Cistus (from the Greek "Kistos") is a genus of flowering plants in the rockrose family Cistaceae, containing about 20 species. They are perennial shrubs found on dry or rocky soils throughout the Mediterranean region, from Morocco and Portugal through to the Middle East, and also on the Canary Islands. The leaves are evergreen, opposite, simple, usually slightly rough-surfaced, 2-8cm long; in a few species (notably C. ladanifer), the leaves are coated with a highly aromatic resin called labdanum. They have showy 5-petaled flowers ranging from white to purple and dark pink, in a few species with a conspicuous dark red spot at the base of each petal, and together with its many hybrids and cultivars is commonly encountered as a garden flower. In popular medicine, infusions of cistuses are used to treat diarrhea.

labdanum - noun. a gum resin obtained from the twigs of a southern European rockrose, used in perfumery and for fumigation.

laudanum - noun. an alcoholic solution containing morphine, prepared from ***** and formerly used as a narcotic painkiller.

manger - noun. a long open box or trough for horses or cattle to eat from.

blue pimpernel - noun. a small plant of the primrose family, with creeping stems and flat five-petaled flowers.

broom - noun. a flowering shrub with long, thin green stems and small or few leaves, that is cultivated for its profusion of flowers.

blue lupine - noun. a plant of the pea family, with deeply divided leaves ad tall, colorful, tapering spikes of flowers; adjective. of, like, or relating to a wolf or wolves

bee-orchis - noun. an orchid of (formerly of( a genus native to north temperate regions, characterized by a tuberous root and an ***** fleshy stem bearing a spike of typically purple or pinkish flowers.

campo santo - translation. cemetery in Italian and Spanish

runnel - noun. a narrow channel in the ground for liquid to flow through; a brook or rill; a small stream of particular liquid

arroyos - noun. a steep-sided gully cut by running water in an arid or semi-arid region.


January 14th, 2014

spline - noun. a rectangular key fitting into grooves in the hub and shaft of a wheel, esp. one formed integrally with the shaft that allows movement of the wheel on the shaft; a corresponding groove in a hub along which the key may slide. 2. a slat; a flexible wood or rubber strip used, esp. in drawing large curves. 3. (also spline curve) Mathematics. a continuous curve constructed so as to pass through a given set of points and have a certain number of continuous derivatives.

4. verb. secure (a part) by means of a spine

reticulate - verb. rare. divide or mark (something) in such a way as to resemble a net or network

November 20, 2013

flout - verb. openly disregard (a rule, law, or convention); intrans. archaic. mock; scoff ORIGIN: mid 16th cent.: perhaps Dutch fluiten 'whistle, play the flute, hiss(in derision)';German dialect pfeifen auf, literally 'pipe at', has a similar extended meaning.

pedimented - noun. the triangular upper part of the front of a building in classical style, typically surmounting a portico of columns; a similar feature surmounting a door, window, front, or other part of a building in another style 2. Geology. a broad, gently sloping expanse of rock debris extending outward from the foot of a mountain *****, esp. in a desert.

portico - noun. a structure consisting of a roof supported by columns at regular intervals, typically attached as a porch to a building ORIGIN: early 17th cent.: from Italian, from Latin porticus 'porch.'

catafalque - noun. a decorated wooden framework supporting the coffin of a distinguished person during a funeral or while lying in state.

cortege - noun. a solemn procession esp. for a funeral

pall - noun. a cloth spread over a coffin, hearse, or tomb; figurative. a dark cloud or covering of smoke, dust, or similar matter; figurative. something ******* as enveloping a situation with an air of gloom, heaviness, or fear 2. an ecclesiastical pallium; heraldry. a Y-shape charge representing the front of an ecclesiastical pallium. ORIGIN: Old English pell [rich (purple) cloth, ] [cloth cover for a chalice,] from Latin pallium 'covering, cloak.'

3. verb. [intrans.] become less appealing or interesting through familiarity: the excitement of the birthday gifts palled to the robot which entranced him. ORIGIN: late Middle English; shortening of APPALL

columbarium - noun. (pl. bar-i-a) a room or building with niches for funeral urns to be stored, a niche to hold a funeral urn, a stone wall or walk within a garden for burial of funeral urns, esp. attached to a church. ORIGIN: mid 18th cent.: from Latin, literally 'pigeon house.'

balefire - noun. a lare open-air fire; a bonfire.

eloge - noun. a panegyrical funeral oration.

panegyrical - noun. a public speech or published text in praise of someone or something

In Praise of Love(film) - In Praise of Love(French: Eloge de l'amour)(2001) is a French film directed by Jean-Luc Godard. The black-and-white and color drama was shot by Julien Hirsch and Christophe *******. Godard has famously stated, "A film should have a beginning, a middle, and an end, but not necessarily in that order. This aphorism is illustrated by In Praise of Love.

aphorism - noun. a pithy observation that contains a general truth, such as, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."; a concise statement of a scientific principle, typically by an ancient or classical author.

elogium - noun. a short saying, an inscription. The praise bestowed on a person or thing; a eulogy

epicede - noun. dirge elegy; sorrow or care. A funeral song or discourse, an elegy.

exequy - noun. plural ex-e-quies. usually, exequies. Funeral rites or ceremonies; obsequies. 2. a funeral procession.

loge - noun. (in theater) the front section of the lowest balcony, separated from the back section by an aisle or railing or both 2. a box in a theater or opera house 3. any small enclosure; booth. 4. (in France) a cubicle for the confinement of art  students during important examinations

obit - noun. informal. an obituary 2. the date of a person's death 3. Obsolete. a Requiem Mass

obsequy - noun. plural ob-se-quies. a funeral rite or ceremony.

arval - noun. A funeral feast ORIGIN: W. arwy funeral; ar over + wylo, 'to weep' or cf. arf["o]; Icelandic arfr: inheritance + Sw. ["o]i ale. Cf. Bridal.

knell - noun. the sound made by a bell rung slowly, especially fora death or a funeral 2. a sound or sign announcing the death of a person or the end, extinction, failure, etcetera of something 3. any mournful sound 4. verb. (used without object). to sound, as a bell, especially a funeral bell 5. verb. to give forth a mournful, ominous, or warning sound.

bier - noun. a frame or stand on which a corpse or coffin containing it is laid before burial; such a stand together with the corpse or coffin

coronach - noun. (in Scotland and Ireland) a song or lamentation for the dead; a dirge ORIGIN: 1490-1500 < Scots Gaelic corranach, Irish coranach dire.

epicedium - noun. plural epicedia. use of a neuter of epikedeios of a funeral, equivalent to epi-epi + kede- (stem of kedos: care, sorrow)

funerate - verb. to bury with funeral rites

inhumation - verb(used with an object). to bury

nenia - noun. a funeral song; an elegy

pibroch - noun. (in the Scottish Highlands) a piece of music for the bagpipe, consisting of a series of variations on a basic theme, usually martial in character, but sometimes used as a dirge

pollinctor - noun. one who prepared corpses for the funeral

saulie - noun. a hired mourner at a funeral

thanatousia - noun. funeral rites

ullagone - noun. a cry of lamentation; funeral lament. also, a cry of sorrow ORIGIN: Irish-Gaelic

ulmaceous - of or like elms

uloid - noun. a scar

flagon - noun. a large bottle for drinks such as wine or cide

ullage - noun. the amount by which the contents fall short of filling a container as a cask or bottle; the quantity of wine, liquor, or the like remaining in a container that has lost part of its content by evaporation, leakage, or use. 3. Rocketry. the volume of a loaded tank of liquid propellant in excess of the volume of the propellant; the space provided for thermal expansion of the propellant and the accumulation of gases evolved from it

suttee - (also, sati) noun. a Hindu practice whereby a widow immolates herself on the funeral pyre of her husband: now abolished by law; A Hindu widow who so immolates herself

myriologue - noun. the goddess of fate or death. An extemporaneous funeral song, composed and sung by a woman on the death of a friend.

threnody - noun. a poem, speech, or song of lamentation, especially for the dead; dirge; funeral song

charing cross - noun. a square and district in central London, England: major railroad terminals.

feretory - noun. a container for the relics of a saint; reliquary. 2. an enclosure or area within a church where such a reliquary is kept 3. a portable bier or shrine

bossuet - noun. Jacques Benigne. (b. 1627-1704) French bishop, writer, and orator.

wyla -

rostrum -

aaron's rod -

common mullein -

verbascum thapsus -

peignoir -

pledget -

vestiary -

bushhamer -

beneficiation -

keeve -

frisure -

castigation -

slaw -

strickle -

vestry -

iodoform -

moslings -

bedizenment -

pomatum -

velure -

apodyterium -

macasser oil -

equipage -

tendance -

bierbalk -

joss paper -

lichgate -

parentation -

prink -

bedizen -

allogamy -

matin -

dizen -

disappendency -

photonosus -

spanopnoea -

abulia -

sequela -

lagophthalmos -

cataplexy -

xerasia -

anophelosis -

chloralism -

chyluria -

infarct -

tubercle -

pyuria -

dyscrasia -

ochlesis -

cachexy -

abulic -

sthenic - adjective. dated Medicine. of or having a high or excessive level of strength and energy

pinafore -

toff -

swain -

bucentaur -

coxcomb -

fakir -

hominid -

mollycoddle -

subarrhation -

surtout -

milksop -

tommyrot -

ginglymodi -

harlequinade -

jackpudding -

pickle-herring -

japer -

golyardeys -

scaramouch -

pantaloon -

tammuz -

cuckold -

nabob -

gaffer -

grass widower -

stultify -

stultiloquence -

batrachomyomachia -

exsufflicate -

dotterel -

fadaise -

blatherskite -

footling -

dingmat -

shlemiel -

simper -

anserine -

flibbertgibbet -

desipient -

nugify -

spooney -

inaniloquent -

liripoop -

******* -

seelily -

stulty -

taradiddle -

thimblewit -

tosh -

gobemouche -

hebephrenia -

cockamamie -

birdbrained -

featherbrained -

wiseacre -

lampoon -

Guy Fawke's night -

maclean -

vang -

wisenheimer -

herod -

vertiginous -

raillery -

galoot -

camus -

gormless -

dullard -

funicular -

duffer -

laputan -

fribble -

dolt -

nelipot -

discalced -

footslog -

squelch -

coggle -

peregrinate -

pergola -

gressible -

superfecundation -

mufti -

reveille -

dimdl -

peplum -

phylactery -

moonflower -

bibliopegy -

festinate -

doytin -

****** -

red trillium -

reveille - noun. [in sing. ] a signal sounded esp. on a bugle or drum to wake personnel in the armed forces.

trillium - noun. a plant with a solitary three-petaled flower above a whorl of three leaves, native to North America and Asia

contrail - noun. a trail of condensed water from an aircraft or rocket at high altitude, seen as a white streak against the sky. ORIGIN: 1940s: abbreviation of condensation trail. Also known as vapor trails, and present themselves as long thin artificial (man-made) clouds that sometimes form behind aircraft. Their formation is most often triggered by the water vapor in the exhaust of aircraft engines, but can also be triggered by the changes in air pressure in wingtip vortices or in the air over the entire wing surface. Like all clouds, contrails are made of water, in the form of a suspension of billions of liquid droplets or ice crystals. Depending on the temperature and humidity at the altitude the contrail forms, they may be visible for only a few seconds or minutes, or may persist for hours and spread to be several miles wide. The resulting cloud forms may resemble cirrus, cirrocumulus, or cirrostratus. Persistent spreading contrails are thought to have a significant effect on global climate.

psychopannychism -

restoril -

temazepam -

catafalque -

obit -

pollinctor -

ullagone -

thanatousia -

buckram -

tatterdemalion - noun. a person in tattered clothing; a shabby person. 2. adjective. ragged; unkempt or dilapidated

curtal - adjective. archaic. shortened, abridged, or curtailed; noun. historical. a dulcian or bassoon of the late 16th to early 18th century.

dulcian - noun. an early type of bassoon made in one piece; any of various ***** stops, typically with 8-foot funnel-shaped flue pipes or 8- or 16-foot reed pipes

withe - noun. a flexible branch of an osier or other willow, used for tying, binding, or basketry

osier - noun. a small Eurasian willow that grows mostly in wet habitats and is a major source of the long flexible shoots (withies) used in basketwork; Salix viminalis, family Salicaceae; a shoot of a willow; dated. any willow tree 2. noun. any of several North American dogwoods.

directoire - adjective. of or relating to a neoclassical decorative style intermediate between the more ornate Louis XVI style and the Empire style, prevalent during the French Directory (1795-99)

guimpe -

ip

/notably concerning graduate education at the university of Edinburgh: why do these doctors think they can teach, who made them so, well, what's the word, useless, demeaned at having to teach? every time a doctor of chemistry was asked to teach it was like watching someone being tortured in an iron maiden... sure, a professor of chemistry could teach, just like every single post-graduate, PhD student should have taught, a doctor of chemistry didn't teach, unless he taught as Americans are prone to speaking in acronyms, and they say the Scots speak an undecipherable english... like **** they do, understood them like I might understand the zest pinch of a hobskotch chili! after all, the chemistry doctor doesn't exactly make use of his PhD students, but since they were the sheep first to the slaughter before the guillotine of knowledge, they could translate the higher tier chemistry to the undergraduates... no one sane enough would want to learn chemistry from a doctor of chemistry... those men and women are lost to their own enterprises, to their own Faustian romance, to teach chemistry at university, it would be best to be taught by those inclined to further adhere to advanced pedagogy... post-graduates ought to replace doctors in teaching undergraduate material... balanced out by the fact that the said doctors would not require the help of PhD students in research, with what already is time wasted on lecturing, what to them is, the ****** obvious... but then again... the supply and demand isn't there... even though PhD students could teach, they don't, smug chemistry doctors lecture in the guise of solipsism... theyd rather be engrossed in their research than give lectures... but since those trained PhD monkeys do all the trial and error, wasted time, which the doctors themselves could do... they waste their time on giving undergraduate lectures... because these recent protests at universities, where students complained about not having enough time spent with doctors in the field... I'd start by bemoaning not being given enough post-graduate time... after all, the people who closest to jumping over the waiting benchmark.../

in vino veritas:
due proof that snobbery
and that indie collection
of the smiths' reissue
only goes so far,
    comparatively,
Miles Davis' kind of blue
isn't overrated nor is
it overplayed,
notably a conversation
with Boris, the Russian
in Edinburgh,
who had to pick sketches
of spain as his favourite...
pop music versus ******
fetishes... people will be
ashamed of pop song guilty
pleasures than any bedroom
"deviances",
the boat the boat, whatever floats
yours...  
mine? seven years late,
Britney spears' criminal...
because John Coltrane'
a love supreme is easier
to digest than ******* brew?
fudged packed *******
and a perpetuated crescendo...
Boris could have took to
Porgy and Bess...
         or the birth of cool...
whatever it was,
high above Steppenwolf
   desiring the immortality
of a Bach... still:
       there's Händel...
but let's face it,
both sides lost something,
whatever the iron curtain
was, there was also
something akin to the,
jazz window...
                  because can you
even imagine jazz being learned
at a music liceum?
       i still don't know why
the Japanese love classical music,
or why it's Chopin rather than
List embedded in their heads,
not the gentle fingers of Satie
or Debussy...
         two Portuguese jesuits did
little to spread Christianity,
but music written by Chopin
found its atom, its universality
of translation...
                  even withe the Higgs...
something that is non-divisible,
not atomic, not sub-atomic,
                               über-atomar...
supra-atomic, which includes
the sub-atomic spectrum...
         a perpetuated ad continuum
     of ad per se, in addition to:
an addition, an addition,
        a void brimful of a lost
paraphrasing...
                          in the name of...
in the direction of (the) ortho-
   and of (the) meta-
    and of (the) para-...
                  amen.
                       the upright,
rigidness of: jump off a building,
see pancakes at the bottom...
the desire for a hier-und-nach...
well.. telegram cipher from 1930s
**** Germany,  in response
to heidegger's da-sein...
     da-nach...
                 no need to explore
the paragraph, just enough tease
to block out images of, "paradise"...
       para or besides norms,
    a phenomenon and
      an anomaly that's a res per se,
Kantian for: noumenon...
          a proposition without a school,
or tree of logic, which,
Husserl did manifest...
    in phenomenology...
              I can't help but notice
that classical music is only
relevant today because of movies...
listen to any classical music chart,
7/10 times it's music accompanying
a movie...
               comparing
kind of blue to midnight sonata?
yep, the later is overplayed...
   it's no longer a piece of music,
but a literary cliché...
      even in such wonderful books
like geek love by Katherine Dunn...
jazz is the only genre of music
that comes close to prog. rock,
    id est, no song: an album...
      even though I admit
king crimson's in the court...
     with children of men
      as a backdrop...
once upon a time the iron curtain
and the jazz window...
    rap, shmap, shpindle me dingo...
and the old man still lectures me
on work, born in 1939,
who still remembrance the Soviet army
of boy-soldiers and black-clad SS-men...
oh there was work just after the war,
given what Aries took with
the harvest just years prior...
                       woe to the aspiring poets
born in a cocoon of a father
who laboured by perfecting a trade
that, apparently,  no future Englishman
would take up! or if they did...
only via the trickling down
of the plutocratic, extended family...
and a ****** job they did too...
         well... if everyone is willing
to be and only be, a pop star entertainer...
I'd hate to imagine this piece
to be an instruction manual,
   a cohrent: whip and stirrup
demanding a gallop...
                       perhaps less cabaret voltaire,
and more jackson *******,
because why should painters be
allowed all the excuses under the sun?
and when will I see a poetry anthology
written solely by critics?
          oddly enough:
or rather, the pitfall...
     reading a poem never manifests
itself in a drive to write one myself...
an enzyme of a blank,
      a substrate of a butcher's novel...
or rather... a meaty novel, preferably
historical, notably one
that serves as an answer to Muslims
with regards to:
   remembering the Crusades,
forgotten the Golden Horde...
           and never really bothering
to look into the other crusades
against the Prussians, Lithuanians,
Kashubians et al.
                   such feral lands...
perhaps if you speak the language
as well as Norman Davies...
  you might, just might, not stand out
like a sore thumb in these parts.

still with the enemy
blood pouring under me
sleeping on the bridge
while the river stains the sand

sinister digits marking the overpass
four more points than you ever made
while my body bathes in flame
youll stay happy, stay loved

wait are you happy, when youre so hated?

The cat, black as midnight, perfect in from and feature, lay before an open hearth,
     as though resting, in death, trussed, like a roe deer carried home from the hunt, legs lace.

Cat lay, having ceased her struggles, staring at the fire, as though contemplating her
     eight lives, stoic, perhaps merely exhausted, resigned, retaining dignity in the certain death's face.

The Queen found this way to amuse herself, withe the men away playing at wars,
     a charm for invisibility, she, too empty to take any great art seriously, even the Black grace.

Queen Morgause knew that magic ran in her blood, as a member of the Old Race.

Into the cauldron of boiling water, at the hearth, the Queen flung cat, then stood watch,
     the horrible convulsions and a single dreadful cry as cat quickly passed into death, on the boil.

Queen Morgause of Lothian and Orkney sat before her cauldron and waited,
     occasionally she stirred to poke the cat with her wooden spoon as the stench did uncoil.

A watcher in the night would have seen, in the flattering reddish glow of the peat fire,
     what an exquisite creature she was tonight, with her deep, big eyes, glistening hair, quite royal.

She practiced her magic, before the iron cauldron, with the candle and a sheet of polished brass,
     not so much as for a need of invisibility, more an excuse for standing long before her mirror loyal,

Queen Morgause knew that was the undisputed beauty of her era Medieval.

The cat had come to pieces, leaving only a deep **** of hair and grease and gobbets, the white bones
     eddied in the broth, heavier ones lying still, the others lifting gracefully, like leaves in an autumn blown.

The Queen, wrinkling her nose to the stench, strained the liquid into a second ***, leaving
     on the flannel strainer, a sodden mass of matted hair and meat shreds and delicate white bone.

She blew on the sediment and began turning it over with her wooden spoon, prodding them
     to let heat out, soon she was able to pick out the delicate bones and place them in a neat pile grown.

The Queen knew that every pure black cat had a certain bone, which, when held in the mouth after
     boiling the live cat, endowed invisibility, but nobody knew which bone, hence the need of the mirror shone,

The Queen sought not indivisibility, truly, as she felt herself to be far too beautiful to disappear.

The Queen scraped the remains of her cat into two heaps, one of bone and one of steaming meat
     daintily she took one bone between her teeth, stood before her brass, looking at herself in sleepy pleasure.

She threw the bone into the fire and fetched another, standing, turning, and reaching,
     placing the bone in her mouth and looking to see if she had vanished, a look in one long measure.

She moved so gracefully, as if a dancer, pacing out her patterned steps, most beauteously,
     she moved as if someone was there to watch her, or, rather, as if it were her reflection she did treasure.

Queen Morgause lost interest, before testing all the bones, and stretched herself, as a cat, before the fire at leisure.

When the leaves are green, then the birds will sing,
Each note carried upon a sunlit ray;
My heart cannot bear awaiting this scene.

New, vibrant color quells cold, bitter sting,
And rings the chime for a calm and softer day,
When the leaves are green, then the birds will sing.

A winter tale ends well, blue sky it'll bring,
And rare flowers that chase all care away;
My heart cannot bear awaiting this scene.

Robins in trees weave nests of withe and string
As the beat of their soft wings seem to say,
When the leaves are green, then the birds will sing.

Tulips dance in a tepid breeze in spring,
Crimson petals spreading, though not to stay;
My heart cannot bear awaiting this scene.

Bid adieu to steel-gray skies forbidding
Nature's gifts and tranquility,  in May-
When the leaves are green, then the birds will sing;
My heart cannot bear awaiting this scene.

Tucked away in our subconsciousness is an idyllic vision. We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent. We are travelling by train. Out the windows, we drink in the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children waving on a crossing, of cattle grazing on a distant hillside, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hillsides, of city skylines and village halls.
But the uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day at a certain hour, we will pull into the station. Bands will be playing and flags waving. Once we reach there, so many wonderful dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will be fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes loitering, waiting, waiting, waiting for the station.
"When we reach the station, that will be it", we cry. "When I'm 18", "When I buy a new 450SL Mercedes Benz", "When I put my last kid through collage", "When I have paid off the mortgage", "When I get a promotion", "When I reach the age of the retirement, I shall live happily ever after."
Sooner or later, we must realize that there is no station, no one place to arrive at once and for all. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us.
"Relish the moment" is a good motto, especially when coupled withe the Psalm 118:24:"This is the day which the Lord hath made, we will rejoice and be glad in it." It isn't the burdens of today that drive men mad. It is the regrets over yesterday and the fear of tommorrow. Reget and fear are twin thieves who rob us of today.
So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead, climb more mountains, eat more icecreams, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more and cry less. Life must be lived as we go along. Then the station will come soon enough.

She had swapped her stolen soul,
Withe the 'Spirits of Saturn'
Her fractured heart,
Withe the 'Diamond Seas'.


I don't think I can stop this storm,
It's red hull churning,
Stirring the golden flakes for years on end.
Burning for four centuries now,
It finally starts to slow.
Time makes it harder.
I wish I could remember


The starlight,
Precious and pure        (Just like her promise)
Flows from her words
Cold and distant
Far off from here        (Just like my memories)
But it’s the moon,
That pulls her waters
It’s not the distance that counts


For me
Everything isn’t dark enough
Rings and winds,
Is the difference
Between us.
Iced over in methane,
Along the belt of Cetus
I’d still like to see
Eccentric descend.


When the eclipsed shrinking planet,
And the father of Jupiter
Gathered with our sister,
Who could tell no difference
Between night and day,
Aligned in serenade
Under the window of his lover.


Red with the ice of mars,
Seasons twice the length
And the largest with no seasons to bare
Ah, But it is the blue one,
Who didn’t get it’s chance
To shine
Fore,
It’s moon was found.


The sun
3 hours before it’s seen
It is too far,
For something so small,
But far from insignificant.
And it stayed in place,
To watch
Jupiter ascend.


With the stars strung on my back,
I’ll go the length,
Just to show you,
That the
Eternal light
Can still be
Seen,
From the farthest planets.

A tear trickled down her cheek
It fall on my heart and i saw it seep
The plant that grew there was gentle and week
And for love it had its roots going deep.
The hardship winds were the nature's grant
Felling huge trees and leaving a mark
But couldn't uproot the growing plant
Of all the big small things in the park.
Giving it strength to live through the worst
Now the weak plant was a warrior
With warship glory a new flower burst
And on the flower came a carrier .
Picking up love withe the pollen grains
Showering it ,flying all far and wide.
Her tears falling on my heart like rains
Of love and care that she can not hide

The day before the trip is one where I'm up early - like today.
I've got to go get my oil changed and have the fluids checked.
Next up is to gas up and fill the tires up to *****.

Take a break to relax and smell the coffee - medium roast - and a bagel with cream cheese.

Back at it withe the planning and the finding:
     A hotel to stay in
     The chains for the tires
     The clothes needed...
     The clothes I will sleep in.

It's all there and packed up, stacked up by the door.
Time to load up the car.
Tomorrow we're headed for the snow.

Empty the car first of all my junk and trash.
I can't believe how much has piled up and been left.
Maybe let's take out the floor mats and lets definitely use the shop-vac.
Spray in some Febreeze... a couple extra squeezes...
And then squeeze the Windex and wipe all the glass and surfaces clean.

Finally time now to lean the back seat down.
Toss in one bag and then the next.
Stack it, stack it, stack.
One more, two more, there's the last.
Close up the door, lock it, it's time for one more rest.
Tomorrow we're headed for the snow.

this is my syringe,
hold it for me as i cringe,
a lifeless death soon will come to pass,
as i'm wishing my hearts last.
i'm dying slowly now,
but no one does it wow,
for i've never really been alive,
not since suicide first was tried.
it doesn't matter anymore,
i've finally robbed my life poor,
why does this fill me with glee?
as for my life i do not plea.
i wish for this to be the last time,
that i will ever write this rhyme,
to be finished and forgotten,
not giving a **** about my sin.
to be withe the one that i have always loved,
to hold him until he can no longer be hugged-
the room does spin and i hear her cry,
my best friend that is watching as i die.
she came to save me from myself,
she was to late, an inconvience only for herself,
i knew she'd be coming so i hit it strong,
knowing the purist wouldn't take too long-
to hit my heart to stop it's beat,
to finally feel cold from head to feet.
i left her one last kiss,
on a note that read simply this;
do not resuscitate is all i wish,
don't feel guilty for i did this,
i'll always love you but he means more,
you want me to be happy-this is that score.
the one thing i've wanted, now i do have,
if you feel guilty, my soul it will stab.
all of my poetry take and publish,
if they don't want it, seal with a kiss-
and lock it away, 'til you meat someone like me,
who won't let thoughts of suicide let them be.

When I was driven to compete and test my mettle
I learned a word.
The old man withe the gravely growl. A wise and bedreggled owl.
His eyes bored in as he did impart. The art.
The beauty. You gotta be clutch son.you gotta deliver.


      Clutch.
A state of zen.
Conquer the moment
Again and again.
Jockspeak I know BUT analagous to living.

Condensed.The now is all we truely have.
Runners high in the blink of an eye.
Pure pleasure to live the moment.

Unbridled.
Making love. *******.*******. you pick.
For me relaxed concentration. A zen state.
Pure harmony? That special union. A once a lifetime.

Once. And only once.
Clutch happenstance.
Same,same.

Grinding gears? Can't mesh.
Slack tide....suspension. joy or pain?


I learned it became addicted to it
Sheer confidence that I will overconquer
The moment.
Then I lost it and came crashing down.
I was human after all.
But such is the human design.

Soar high and long.
Ignore the siren song.
The moment is all there is.

One more to add to the collection
Piled up in stacks
of memories ,
good, bad, indifferent.
They loom large like a hoarders playground..
Teetering on the edge of remembrance,
Akin to a child arcing  on the up curve of a swing in motion all joy and suspense...

The oldest of days
So compressed and worn they have become mere scraps
Postcards withe messages written
In ink  faded, jaded
Like ether riding a zephyr  they pass through your mind to tiny whirlwinds from days left behind.

This day different from any other, as are they al, closes now awaiting it's
place upon a pile
All so tall now
It was a gooday another one of love, laughter  action and rest, commonplace by many standards..

But we have  learnt
to take each day and polish it like gem.

And accept it as a blessing ..

Before resting
in order to walk
into yet another day

What is tired I don't know but I can feel it in my eyes, my brain.
A dream is suppose to make us float in the clouds, but how when they are all nightmares that lead into my daily seems?
What does it feel like to be rejuvenated and bright like the sun, except I have had to much sun or was it the rainy impact that I'm used to?
I say it's OCD, but is it really?
I say it's my anxiety and deny that it's probably depression, but is it really?
This house is filled with spirits, but I promise it's not schizophrenia.
My mind is a rollercoaster travelling at the speed of light, but which is faster?
I say it's OCD, but is it really? Yes since everytime and day I get an intrusive thought to say.
I sound fowl, grey and shady. Please understand I'm tired.
Going to run down in the ground, until my life pleads withe joy. Give me the sip of tea, since then I will feel awake.
Morning is here, the day is bright, the afternoon comes and I'm starting to get a fright, once it is evening and the sun melts beside the moon, I'm tired and afraid at night time for another tea to make me feel free!

As the fingerless *****
grasps my hand
in a gesture of friendship,

persistent groups
of ***** children
tug at my sleeves,

whilst pink-eyed in the sun
the lone albino
stumbles
in the gutter,

in which the starving dog
furiously devours
fresh human waste;

& the helpless young man
withe the twisted limbs
lies gazing at the pitiless sky,

where the red & blue
paper kite
sways slowly in the breeze,

above the huge white cow,
sitting placidly
in the middle of the road,

beside which
the family of five
begin their evening meal.

Thats Right its gandhi's country
Proving intolerance to the person who called us so.
Shirtless actors and leather jacketed alcoholics are fine
But a girl in a short skirt,"thats a ***!!"

We got the best soil and a heavy talent.
Also the most ingenious minds and the best gene pool.
still hunger and poverty grab us like bugs
and we're wannabe amercians coz we thinks its cool.

walks a man alone, walks a man tall.
but the whole ******* country, hell bent on proving him wrong.
im no more scared of the darkness outside,**** it!
coz  those my brothers who put me on a ship to the inchcape rock.

corruption, treachery,scams and money laundering
but demonetisatin,coz notes are the real problem isnt it?
"WE THE PEOPLE OF INDIA,HAVING..."
oh please would you cut the *******?

there can be peaceful processions and hunger strikes
but who cares when we can burn buses and **** children
nepotism is the real trend today
also true talent- that aint nothing worth a million!

Where the head is held high,and the mind is without fear,
applies to the evil, rich or the cruel.
we can have the largest domes and the biggest missiles,
where cast based reservation still prevails withe suicides as a fuel.

Mob lynching is a everyday problem now,also rapes.
it goes on to anti nationalism, corruption and prostitution.
And here is gandhi's country,much like this sonnet
with only problems and no real solution.

Just woke up to the thought of love
Do I love the one
Who ignores me
Who knowsy love yet,
Turns around so he can't se me
The one who is waiting for an opportunity
The one who gets better everyday
The one whom I have to fake with

But in that love I love him
But then again
What is that word?
What does it mean?
Am I too young for it

Or do I love the one who
Laughs with not at me
the one who walks withe after school
The one who I know takes care of me
The one who seeks opportunities and doesn't just wait for one to come.
The one who make my heart beat fast with the thought

What is love?
Who is my love
How can I know difference?
Should I know the difference?

my family always said you were bad news
I never believed them
I always stood up for you
even when you stood me up

I'd say your going through rough times
but we all knew it was an excuse
cause, I was going through some **** too
but I was always there for you

you were only there when you had an audience
or when I finally got to the fence
of I'm done with your *******
that's when I would take the hardest hit;
when i thought you were you again
but realized the girl I once new is irretrievable

So I'm done
I'm done with your games
being an extra in your show
a side character when the plot gets boring
I'm done being an understudy of a friend
I'm done withe this show
so close the curtain
this time i'm certain
I've torn of the script
I've got rid of all the ties
I'm done I'm sick and tired of your ******* and lies
goodbye

When I see a person
     Any person
Someone I like, someone I don’t like
(More so even withe latter
For they show me aspects of myself
That I may not want to recognize
Posting a challenge to strengthen and grow)
      I see the pain I am faced with
          In seeing this, forces move in
    With intent to heal
               Break habit and soothe the patients,
                                         Of the world

I am a psychologist
          Because I recognize the potential in us all
   To continuously become
                    Harmonize even in the tremor
        Of pain, for even joy is an ailment
                 Constricting reason
      Showing colours
more well maneuvered hidden ness
             Yes, this is our battle
    And like Arjuna, we must do it
    With love, the force of compassion

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

              Avon Man and the Mystery of His First-Best Bed

                   I gyve unto my wief my second best bed…

          -Attributed to Shakespeare in his will. Or Churchill. Or
          Milton. Or Elvis. Or Some Famous Man. And Shakespeare
          was secretly a Catholic. (No, he wasn’t.) (Yes, he was.) (No, he
          wasn’t.) (Yes, he was; I read it on the InterGossip.)

That second-best bed doesn’t matter a pop
Those anyones whoever slept in it are deads
Memorialized as dashboard bobbleheads
At Ye Olde Anne Hathawaye gifte shoppe

Kinge Richarde nevere cryede, “mye kyngdome fore ye bedde!”
Yea, goode olde Sirre Erpinghame joked, “Now lye I like a kynge”
So what’s the deale withe the firste-beste bedde thynge?
Thatte seconde bedde is where the Widowe rested hir hedde

Ande thusse ye scholares maken withouten cessatione
Unsupportede argumentes and allegationes

I always start withe negation
  Perhaps ‘neti neti’ is my preference of becoming
     The lingering traces, oh..do I adore
          Summing up explanations with
                                        halfheart’ expressions
             Gravity’s weird, man.
          So sometimes I’m not feeling the kicks
            That I’m giving to myself
It’s really hard to not give the impression
                                            of having an agenda
       Because I don’t want
                       to be a pretender, I guess
  And I’m fake either way,
                so why argue that I’m real?

You left me , my heart torn apart a piece of me in heartache and the rest of me dead with you withe tears upon my cheeks I often take a walk down memory lane while the rest of the world is fast asleep

Missing you is just and open wound that never seems to heal the pain is just too real

I saw it eat you , I saw it take over you were its host I saw your day coming but I was never given time to prepare for it and the next thing I knew my Rock had fallen

The mice roam the house at night.
seeking food to eat.
with no cat the fun is easy for them.
First one room then the next.
where o where is the cheese.
To the next it could be fun
withe the mice on the run.
across the table on to the floor.they go.
into the next room they go.
A peanut from a party what a treat.
then to the kitchen they hurry.
cheese they are hunting down.
There it is in the corner
a nice yellow piece of cheese.
Snap,
The mice like to come out at night.

"I'm here for you"
"You are not alone"
"You will always have me"
The lies that people feed me
They are not with me
At 2:30 am
Are they?
No
They are not.

They are not there
When my self-loathing
Claws
Overpowers
Makes its way up my throat
Down into my hand
Tearing me apart
I scream silently
When this happens
I'm alone.

The only thing that is "there for me"
Is my monster
The sub-conscious in my mind
That watches me
As the knife
The one I put
Keep
Under my pillow
Cuts deeper in my skin
There is no one there
As I bleed out.

A single hug
All it would have taken
To prevent this
All of this
I'm not little anymore
I'm not going to ask straight out
Yell
Plead.

I need attention
Every human does
And yet
Somehow
I am deprived
There is one thing
A part of the old me
That is still there
Keeping me
Holding me
Letting me be
Alive.

I still have a heart
Although
When you see me
You ignore it
That one piece of me
That still feels pain
The one part
That can possibly
Forgive.

If you would look
Search
See my potential
Uncover it
Expose it
Maybe
I would change
All I need
One soul to rescue me
Return me to happiness
Fake or not.

Is it to much to ask?
To be cared about
To be seen
To be hugged
To be told the truth
To tell the truth
Mostly-
To feel loved.

I dont know why
I think that
People are scared sometimes
Scared to look
Afraid
What might happen
If they spoke to me
Me with the scars
Me withe badly hidden tears.

Parents dont
Wont
Stare at me
They do worse still
They whisper
Telling thier children what hapened to me
Convincing themselves
Hoping
Praying that
Their precious ones
Wont be like me.

They make promises
To be caring and patient to their children
They glance at me once more
I pretend I dont see
Try not to care
Then
I dare them
Use pateince with me
I can change
Be better
If only somebody cared.

When I feel lost
More than usual
I turn to music
Writing
Singing
I want to lose myself in a world of light
Sometimes
It works.

Those are the days
When you see me smiling
Engaging
But-
If you ever care
If you ever look closer
You would only see
A facade
Nothingness.