Jekyl or Hyde
above the belly
on a beer tap
in the ally,
below the waste
goombaya
out of the preachers face,
it's my body Yue!!!
now You!!! tattoo this on on my chest,
permanently
now hidden behind a vest.
gin & tonic
sure don't mean tiger
given to a drunk crit
as an insult from China.

Does your completed wurk look as if it were tiped while wearing a baceball gluv? That liddle red, squigley, line that often appeers
beneeth a  wurd, shows up for a reeson. A signal that something "just ain't right." Weather a speling or punkshuashun issue,pay attenshun to it.

A mispeled wurd can distract the readers attenshun froom the subject of the peece, and creates a very uneezy reed.

Keep a dicshunery near you're desk.

Go bak and refresh when to us too 'C's, too M's", (dubble consanants)etc.

Know you're "valves" a-e-i-o-u.

Know where to place an apocolipse when writing a contractshun(can't, don't)..................

Use the correct wurdes!!

Know the diffrance between "Their", and "There."

A dicshunary can also prevent having to exit a wurk, and risk losing it by forgeting to save it.

Pay attentshun, PLEEZE!

copyright: richard riddle-10-07-15

Thanks,
richard riddle

There's a girl from Loyang in the door across the street,
She looks fifteen, she may be a little older.
...While her master rides his rapid horse with jade bit an bridle,
Her handmaid brings her cod-fish in a golden plate.
On her painted pavilions, facing red towers,
Cornices are pink and green with peach-bloom and with willow,
Canopies of silk awn her seven-scented chair,
And rare fans shade her, home to her nine-flowered curtains.
Her lord, with rank and wealth and in the bud of life,
Exceeds in munificence the richest men of old.
He favours this girl of lowly birth, he has her taught to dance;
And he gives away his coral-trees to almost anyone.
The wind of dawn just stirs when his nine soft lights go out,
Those nine soft lights like petals in a flying chain of flowers.
Between dances she has barely time for singing over the songs;
No sooner is she dressed again than incense burns before her.
Those she knows in town are only the rich and the lavish,
And day and night she is visiting the hosts of the gayest mansions.
...Who notices the girl from Yue with a face of white jade,
Humble, poor, alone, by the river, washing silk?

To: Charles Rennie Mackintosh.
Mr.Mustache
By:Yue Xing Yitkbel ****
Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Mackintosh, sir
Under the shades of the Willow Tree
I picked up the flower
Your Pink Rose
A nouveau time, nouveau mean
Lights shines through
The minimal window panes
I see, the marriage, renaissance
The White Rose and the Red one too
Blue, Scottish blues
Now, the pedals broken, they flew
Leaving only
My violet soul

Our Naked Souls
Written by: Yue Xing Yitkbel ****
Friday, April 10, 2015

I like to lay beside warm bodies
Never too used to the cold
But my love is for naught
but a dream within a dream

I still want to be with you
Through the tulips and willow
But I don't know, don't know
If my memories still withhold
Within, within you

Because
You left me caressing the air
Breath what's not there through
Me and my naked soul
My naked soul
My naked soul

Swimming through the wind
I saw shadows but nothing to hold
I kept my memories of old
and a silent story to be told

But
Your absence stripped me bare
and left me in the cold
Me and my naked soul
My naked soul
My naked soul
I sat under the willow shade
Peeled at the pink rose
and thought of you
But nothing's clear

Since
You left me here
With another muddled affair
I can only feel
Us and our naked souls
Our naked souls
Our naked souls

A Scar
By: Yue **** Yitkbel

I walk slow
Light-feeted and soft
So as not to disturb the sentiments

I walk silently
Traceless like the wind
So as not to leave a scar

The Ritual
By: Yue **** Yitkbel
Friday, July 17, 2015
I gently slit open the front zippers
Of the charcoal stained book bag
And reached in with the precision of a surgeon
Taking out an army green box
The heart of this unrequited tale:

The box squealed a pointless yelp
But, as always, I never responded
And, so I proceed
Taking out the red blue Murano quill

It was never yours, and always mine
But through these regretful years
I always kept it dear
It was the last
Token of our silently syncing heartbeat
Now slowly failing over time
Then, here and there
Alive once again, catching me by surprise.

I touch along its length
Like a dear old friend
Like a familiar and faithful patient
Check his health, wish it well, and
Send him back to his paper home

Like a ritual
I turn it around
And stealthily place it back upside down
For, that is how I remember her
The back of her hair, the back of her coat, the back of her heels
Standing stoically and unmoved
Against the curtain of the Venetian Rain

A Lakota Sioux Elder
  once prophetically said…

  “We will be known forever
     by the tracks we leave behind”

That wisdom now marking
  a trail of tears
   —any hope still yet to find

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2019)

By: Cedric McClester

It was clear from the beginning
That the only one who’s winning
From the violence underpinning
Why our population’s thinning
Are the morgues and undertakers
As we leave to meet our Maker’s
Heaven high or hell below
Becuz’ ya see, we never know

When our ashes turn to dust
It’s enough to cause disgust
As the perpetrators cuss
Then let their gun shots bust
Two rounds in the head
And the floors are running red
If you heard a word I said
No need to ask if they’re dead

But we’ll swallow up our grief
And no matter our belief
Try to seek Godly relief
For yet another unwarranted beef
And regardless of the venue
Violence is still on the menu
So no doubt it will continue
Like dancers of China’s Shen Yue

Let’s go in the laboratory
To review this time worn story
With its familiar repertory
And ironic allegory
It doesn’t make no sense
Like our Vice President Pence
Guess we’ll be kept in suspense
Until things get less intense












Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

The Seeds of Our Pain
By: Yue ****

We ate the fruit of the promised growth (of knowledge)
And grow we did Aged, withered, and perished Grown away from the innocence
Grown above the nourishing faith
Yet, still rooted by our sin
Yet, still drawn by the binding vines

We outgrown feelings
We outgrown beliefs
Perhaps, we even outgrown our righteousness
For just a dose of practicality

We’ve outgrown our childish happiness
To the height of Men
Except we are still rooted by our sin
Slowly falling back to Earth
Carried by the weight of our means

All these for a bite of an apple
All these since Cain and Abel
All these since we swallowed
The Seeds of our Pain
Buried beneath, Six feet under deep

My Grandma's Best Friend
By: Yue ****

There are only silence in the air
Silence in the household
The granddaughter she couldn't speak
She could not hear
She has been this way
Since her third year
It was a medical mishap they would say
But it used to happen everyday
So there were many of them
Who couldn't speak
Who could not hear
They only spoke through hands that danced in the air
But it is most unfortunate
That the grandma couldn't see
Everything had become a blurry haze
So, there were only silence in the household
Silence in the air

Momentary Insanity
By: Yue Xing Yitkbel ****, Tuesday, December 27, 2011 12:26PM
The enchantment
Of the ecstasy
Of the suffocation
Of the subjective notion of
Acceptable obsession and love
Curtains
More or less:
The deafening poison of the air,
Imprisoning the suffocating soul
In the imprisonment of the sinful flesh,
Never letting a breath of dominance
Of inner actuality;
The ignorance
To the boundless autonomy
Of the ever present
Communication
Among each grain of spirit,
Each grain of the soul;
The helpless,
Useless,
Caged wandering,
Wondering,
Of the seeking aspiration
That which would have been contented
With a flight of spirituality;
Instead,
We are confined to the sin,
Peeking out of the darkness
Only through our momentary
"Insanity"

For Yue **** Yidhna
And All Who Brew Morning Poetry  for the World

You are neither barista nor priestess
Even though perhaps a little bit of both
You do not serve either McDonald or Tim
But rather the supplicants who approach

Who plead with you to offer them the Cup
Of transient peace and hope in this sad world
A layered paper chalice wherein is borne
Colombian savour, healing and warm

And it is from your hands that they receive
A special blessing, and strength for their day

On Dating Shows
By: Yue ****

It was the same kind of bidding affairs
Except, having little to none
The poorest of bidders
Gambled for the richest of prizes
Every factor monetary
Every monetary factor vital
Leaving no room for affections
Real Estates? Light up a few eager signs.
Automotive? Followed by some more.
Although only for the most luxury kinds.
And if there were cash, free to spend?
Then, yes, yes, yes.
Scream and cheer
Each and every hungry butcher!
Fighting for the fattest pieces of meat
But, comes the plain heart
with only love and compassion?
Only silence and darkness greet.
For when it comes to benefits
Who look for affections in a plate of beef.

The Death of the Poet
By: Yue Xing Yitkbel ****
9:38PM
10/21/2013 TO, ON

Part 1 Down the Rabbit Hole:

He had faith in exceptions
He was optimistic
He "believed in six impossible things just before breakfast"
and had his cake.
He mused of the bunny farm
and fought the jabberwocky in his dreams.
These things failed him.
He woke up, and was crushed with the mice
In a snap of revelation
and
Under the weight of truth.
He was shattered, along with the coral corpses
Of the paperweight

Part 2 The Paper Weight:

A coral in the glass paperweight
A hummingbird shielded by twigs
The fragile illusion
A naive illusion
"The beautiful illusion"
Quoth Marlow, our dear friend Charlie.
Through the looking glass
His world, the Poet's world,
was shattered,
Not by "a sea of trouble"
Nor by words of a mature revelation
but by Silence.

Part 3 The Horror, The Horror:

The wrath and sorrow of the composers
Were expressed
In the requiem of silence.
The conductor threw his hand open
In the final flight of the dove
For the poet, the dreamer,
Who, and whose ballads and odes
Were silenced on the battlefronts of the nouveau era.
No one followed when he chased the seagulls.
No one answered his pleads and screams of wrath and sorrow.
In the end, there was only silence
For the poet, and his poetry.
To this he whispered:
"The Horror, the Horror"
And then
Nothing more.

By: Yue **** Yitkbel

What I adore the least about
The Love of Men
Is but the conditions of our human condition
The endless ends and means unsatisfied
The ceaseless desires to be loved
While Love is never given without condition

If only, it were
-Even if just a mimic-
More akin to the affections of canines
A mere shadow, silhouette
Against the backdrop of the setting sun
Awaiting the return of yours truly
Wagging tails, without fail, holding on to
A silent, not promise, but natural instinct
To be loyal and
Forever consistent with its lordly love

It is love, that if bartered, bartered only with itself
Not taxed with useless decors
As possessions and gains
But only
Love for Love's sake

By: Yue ****

I see you
From the other side of the glass wall
From the other side of the mirror

I see you
But I do not speak
So you do not hear

I see you
Panicking, knocking, pounding
But I do not hear

I see you
Engulfed by the imminent darkness, dying, screaming
But I am on the other side of the mirror

Oh love, how I should

To be able to sleep soundly

The Wonderful Sleep

Unawakened by life - Yue Yitkbel ****

Transformation
-Yue Xing Yitkbel ****
Senile, Fragile
The old man struggled with his nervously useless last breath
And
Yields.
Accompanied by insignificant drops of tears
Always unnoticeably present with the passage of “time”
He goes away too
Miraculously shrinking, rotting and decaying
And
“Eventually” blends in with the rest of the wise drool dusts
Transforming to almost frightening
Subtly dark and sane flowers
Impatient to invade
And conquer those stepping her upon the foolishly stupid “ground”
Yes, I am, in all “contradicting” frustration
Announcing my impurity as human flesh.
His helpless soul is hopefully gone
To the Godly realm,
Where, divinely, with ecstasy, unknown, sets all the earthly rules with ease
And without necessity

The Sea
-Yue ****, December 14, 2009, 1:00am
The mythful, innocent, fresh,
Painful,
Reflection of the foolishly isolated,
Stubborn,
Passionately light, sea
Cleansed my condensing soul and lure me to
Its royal seat,
In its authoritarian pride.
To its greatness;
To my desperate need;
Instead of a fulfilling admiration,
I struggled, in all anxiety,
To leave an eternally visible trace,
A scar,
A mean,
In the order in front of my almost fearful
Sight.
Though, all is lost:
As I stomp my helpless hope in the soft,
Ignorant,
Lifeless, seeds of sand
The sadly benighted,
Or, rather,
Merciless,
Fluid,
Took in, in its reign,
The task of erasing,
Tracelessly, my deeds.
Leaving me with meaningless existence,
Waiting to rot and vanish, down further deep