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Jim Davis Apr 2017
In the last
three decades,
after we became one,
I touched
amazingly beautiful things,
horribly ugly things,  
unbelievably wondrous things

I touched nature's majesty;
hued walls of the Grand Canyon,              
crusty bark of the
Redwoods and Sequoias,
live corals of the
Great Barrier Reef,
dreamlike sandstone of the Wave

I touched magical and strange;
platypus, koalas and
kangaroos Down Under,
underwater alkali flies and
lacustrine tufa at Mono Lake,
astral glowing worms
in the Kawiti caves

I touched holy places;
Christianity's oldest churches,
the Pope's home in the Vatican,
Hindu and Sikh temples and
Moslem mosques in India,
Anasazi's kivas of Chaco canyon,
Aboriginal rocks of Uluru and Kata Tjuta

I touched glimmers of civilization;
uncovered roads of Pompeii,
fighting arenas of Rome,
terra cotta armies of Xian,
sharp stone points of the Apache,
pottery shards from the Navajo,
petroglyphs by the Jornada Mogollon

I touched fantastical things;
winds blowing on the
steppes of Patagonia,,
playas and craters of Death Valley,  
high peaks of the Continental Divide,
blazing white sands of the  
Land of Enchantment

I touched icons of liberty
and freedom;
the defended Alamo,
a fissured Liberty Bell,
an embracing Statue of Liberty,
the harbor of Checkpoints
Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie

I touched glorious things
made by man;
the monstrous Hoover Dam,
an exquisite Eiffel tower,
a soaring St Louis Arch,
an Art deco Empire State Building,
the sublime Golden Gate Bridge

I touched sparks from history;
the running path of an
Olympic flame just off Bourbon,
the last steps of Mohandas Ghandi
at Birla House before Godse,
******'s Eagle's nest and the
grounds over Der Führerbunker

I touched walls of power;
enclosed rings of the Pentagon,
steep steps of the
Great Wall of China,
untried bastions of
Peter and Paul's fortress,
fitted boulders of Machu Picchu

I touched strong hands;
of those conquering
Rommel's and ******'s hordes,
of cold warriors of
Chosin Reservoir,  
of forgotten soldiers of Vietnam,
of terrorist killers of today

I touched memories of war;
the somber Vietnam memorial,
the glorious Iwo Jima statue,
the cold slabs at Arlington,
the buried tomb of USS Arizonians,
Volgograd's Mother Russia  

I touched ugly things;
shreds of light in
Port Arthur's prison,
horrible smelly dust
in the streets from 9/11,
ash impregnated dirt
in the pits at Auschwitz

I touched oppressed freedom;
open ****** plazas
of Tiananmen Square,
smooth pipe and concrete
of the Berlin Wall,  
tall red brick walls
of the Moscow Kremlin

I touched constrained freedom;
heavy ankle and
wrist slave chains
in the South,
little windows
in Berlin's Stasi prison,
haunted cells in Alcatraz  

I touched remnants of madness;
wire and ovens of Auschwitz,
stacked chimneys and
wooden bunks of Birkenau,        
Ravensbruck, and Dachau,
the tomb of Lenin,
toppled Stalins

I touched hands of survivors;
of Leningrad's siege,
of German POWs and
of Russian fighters
of Stalingrad's battle,
of Cancer's scourges  

I touched grand things;
deep waters of the Pacific and Atlantic,
blue hills of Appalachia,
towering peaks of the Rockies,
high falls of Yosemite Valley,
bursting geysers of Yellowstone,
crashing glaciers of Antarctica and Alaska    

I touched times of adventure;
abseiling and zipping in Costa Rica,
packing Pecos wilds and Padre isles,
flying nap of earth Hueys to Meridian,
breaking arms in JRTC's box,
fighting Abu Sayyaf, and Jemaah
Islami in Zamboanga City

I touched through you;
wet sand beaches of  Mexico and Jamaica,
mysterious energy of the monoliths of Stonehenge,
rarefied air in front of the
Louvre's Mona Lisa,
ancient wonders of Giza,
Egypt's tombs and pyramids

We shared soft touches;
drifting in Bora Bora's
surreal waters,
joining hands camel trekking the
Outback's dry sands,
strolling along Tasmania's
eucalyptus forest trails

basking in swinging hammocks
under Fiji's bright sun,
scrambling in
Las Vegas' glittering and
red rock canyons,
kissing under the
Taj Mahal's symphony of arches

We shared touching deep waters;
propelled in gondolas
through the city of canals,
Drifting atop Uru cat boats on Lake Titticaca,
Swooping in jet boats
up a wild river in Talkeetna

Racing in speed boats
around Sydney's great harbour,
skimming in pangas in Puerto Ayora,
paddling the Kennebec for
East's best petroglyphs,
cruising Salzbergwerk's underwater lake

We touched scrumptious things;
Beignets and chicory coffee at DuMonde's in the Big Easy,
Hot *** with sesame sauce
in the walled city of Xian,
Peking duck, dimsum, scorpions,
snake and starfish on Wangfujing Snack Street

We touched delicious things
Crawfish heads and tails at JuJu's shack
and ten years at Jeanette's,
Langoustine at Poinciana's, Fjöruborðinus and Galapagos,
Cream cheese and loch bagels
at Ess-a' s in the Big Apple

I touched your hand riding;
hang loose waves of Waikiki,
a big green bus in Denali's awesomeness,
clip clopping carriages of Vienna, Paris,
Prague, New Orleans, Krakow,
Quebec City, and Zakopane,
the acapella sugar train of St Kitts

We shared touching on paths;
the highway 1 of Big Sur,
the Road of the Great Ocean,
the bahn to Buda and Pest,
the path to the North of Maine,
the trail of the Hoh rainforest,
and time after time, the way home

Yet,
I could spend
the next three decades,
in simple bliss,
having need for
touching nothing,
other than you!

©  2016 Jim Davis
A poem I wrote last year for my wife!  Posted now since it matches the HP' theme for today - "Places"
Iris Rebry Apr 2014
abridge the air above the aria
because basically I'm bent on balancing books
center to the capacity of culpability
derived from the demonic disappointments
entering my ethnicity.
Forget the foul fate
of  so greatly glazed
a high horse
inside an icy inescapable
jail, where juveniles jinx
Kublai Khan, knocking the kimono
lying lazily upon the lamp.
Mortifying my middle man
never negating the negotiations
of an open opinion
perhaps a pernicious
quagmire, quietly and quickly,
ravenously rages,
sickly. Stop spewing
this title to tempt
under the universe
very volatile in
waiting. Wonder why
Xanthippe from   Xian is
yearning for your
zenith and zeros in

on your words.
Pondering,
wondering,
if this is all for nothing.
coming up asundering.
their voices thundering.

and I am
silent.
now.
alone.
staring into a world undone,
wondering where the sun
could be.
And seeing,
it's right behind of me
And I wonder how I got
where I ought to be.
my food for thought is free.
it's the words inside of me.
I tried writing this poem for my school's slam poetry contest, both my mother and sister didn't get it. Poetry is not something that should be explained, but should be felt.
Francie Lynch May 2021
X-ing
X-ref
Luxury
Generation X
X-ray
Xmas
exam
fax
xenophobia
Xerox
Faux
X Rated
X's and O's
Xian
X is the unknown
Xmit
X-files
Malcom X
3 x 2
X, IX, VIII

But if you've lost something you treasure,
Then X marks the spot.
MP Martinez Oct 2017
Streams of memories flow down along Xin’an River
What I see are series of picturesque reflection of you
Both our happiness and sad days replay like a movie
And yet I seem can’t remember
Or did I just feign to forget?

A blind poet keeps writing of his love
Page after page filled with endearment
Like it was really him who spoke
Yet not a single thing was real

Even the sun bids goodbye and the moon rises
His aged hand won’t stop stroking
Overflowing with emotions he can’t contain
The words he wants to tell
Was it really from him?

Like the eclipse that stunned the world
My meeting with you also stunned me
Though the wisterias are in full bloom
Their beauty paled in your comparison


Reliving that enchanting moment
As if it really happened in the past
He writes about the girl
Whom he only saw inside his mind

Eyes shone like of that stars in the night sky
Her smiles so blinding like the sun itself
Right then I know I am doomed
I instantly fell*

Every scenes that he picture out came from his head
A giant story book that tells a fairy tale of a long time ago
That it almost make him believe it was true
But is it?

Drowned in the sweet delusion he made himself
The poet continued writing all day and night
Never once he stopped for if he did
Surely that girl would vanish

Under the weeping willow was our tryst
We hug and held hands like there was no tomorrow
Afraid that it will be the last time
So we seize every chance like catching fireflies


Soon the candle was about to burnt
But even so, he will keep on writing
And as the pen carved the last word
So did his last breathe

Upon closing his now tired eyes which can’t see
Flashbacks begin to show one by one
A picture of him and the girl
Both of them were happy and so in love

Standing right on his front was the girl
Who he thought was just a figment of his imagination
Extending her hands asking him to hold
But how could he see her when he was blind?

But Fate always make fun of humans
The more you love, the more she become cruel
And just like the rushing water of Xin’an
She took you away from me


A flower that has yet to bloom
Perished under the violent river
What was left is a written sonnet of love
And a young man who grieve and wail


Rain started to pour from his blind eyes
As the lost fragment has finally been found
The girl whom he write his poems for
Was the very same girl he did love in the past

Not accepting the death of his lover
He turned their memories into dreams and wrote it
All the words, all the scenes in the poem were his
It was all the blind poet’s story and promise

Along the autumn winds and zephyr
A lone man whispered through his prayers
Vows, promises and wishes to the Gods
And for the love he forever lost


*Even a thousand years will pass
Even we would live a thousand lives
Only you and you alone will my heart seek
So while waiting for the couple Xian He to reunite
And for the moon and sun to become one
I’ll keep on singing these thousand love songs
Until in my next life, I meet you again
Inspired from a chinese song
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2023
this English hospitality was always somewhat eerie,
neglect of an empire and the topsy turvy
what's called history (sometimes,
set apart from the insomnia of journalism)
i.e. not enough years have passed for the veneer
to crumble...

                       ... spacious orientation of words
for the altar of sacrifice in poem as somewhat
dictated by Olson...

just befitting, to say that Pandora was an
androgynous creature,
    a Chimera of calamities and it wasn't
a box but Pandora fed a chimera rather than
opened some res per se...

         clearly i can hallucinate on the page as
if i have never read anything, ever, aloud...
i've long lost this art of: presented with rhetoric
to sour-**** oover...

           magnanimous is spelled like so...
but when i hear the word
   i see the following misspelling:
   magni-moh-knious: -nious as -news:
the K is silent, inserted to print to make
meaningful distinction between
words like KNOW AND NOW...
but given that now is: nauw
that's pedantic of me and well: ouch auw...

ooh... oh...
     curiosity staged with the latter and a soothing
lather with the former,
how different in two wheels rather than one...

interchangeability of letters so a custom of
idiosyncrasy of dialect and whims of a speaker...
ðe point being:             þoughts
very much akin to:

Greece, always with the Greeks...
    transliterations intact only until
(i have Greek blindspot[s]
which are as follows:

      Ξξ                         Χχ

xi           chi:                xichi

xof | fox

  or rather: how do Greeks laugh?
given that ha ha is actually:

     ηα             i.e. ea ea... H... none to pivot
on a vowel as consonant for breath thus
released like slingshot... not Hat... no Hatter, mad...

and borrowing from
   θ
F
   φ

or rather what became a letter generator tool
of I and O of Io... not the moon but the mortal lover
of Zeus... old Zius... not Zehus...

    Io who gave birth to:

Θ Φ and who in turn gave birth to Ξ.    Ψ

yes yes, you heard me correctly...
the copulation of Zeus with a mortal woman
gave birth to that monstrosity of twins

Theta and Philius...
who in turn loved each other so much that they
performed the act of ****** and in turn
Theta gave birth to their two children
(also twins):             Ξ.    Ψ

Xian and Psiah

          who in turn also performed the sacrilegious
act further... so that...
Ω was born and by the miracle of divine misconception
automated birth of her own accord
as a ****** ha-shem
         hermaphrodite: who have birth to
the imagination for the gods Hermes and Aphrodite

as ε (epsilon) and eta (η)

  by then all other letters came out of an antithesis
and to seal and hide the lineage
from ape to man...
spontaneously or perhaps out of a forewarning
out of a future with the culprit Prometheus
Oppenheimer... like some crippling sense of
time being cyclic rather than linear...

with space being linear, oddly enough...
since no amount of geometry could ever encapsulate
the universe... since space is shapeless
at the end of the day: the linear ache of this vast
cyclops, yawning...

yes: space is linear, time is cyclic...
as i not imagine it to be since it is:
getting from A to B... to work... a recurrent theme...
how tidy: to think like so.

— The End —