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Nico Julleza Jul 2017
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
A little bit of summer
a little bit of breeze
in the days of warmer
love has so much-
to bring, come let us sing

A little bit of freesia
a little bit of lilac
never can resist a scent
-of Ms. Narine
Ogles, a morning scene

A little bit of sunshine
a little bit of eventide
caress upon the shores
-of such imagery,
passions of immortality

A little bit of cosmos
a little bit of crocus
in a glebe-like galaxy
stars white as daphne
from a garden of syzygy

A little bit of cerulean
a little bit of vermilion
shimmers the lucid lake
with trout's and doves
Golly! autumn is awake

A little bit of plowing
a little bit of sow
the hard workers of
-those pumpkins
reaps a stewful of zin

A little bit of snow
a little bit of flail
fly away as butterflies
hibernate as snails
Forging! a winters gale

A little bit of details
a little bit of trail
from dew drops of-
a frozen rose, icicles on
a drowsy bear’s nose

A little bit of sleeping
a little bit of wait
till the sun comes up  
gray clouds strew away
spring is here to stay

A little bit of sprout
a little bit of grow
And can it be, on thee
an Epiphany shows
the Lords glorious prose
#sing #flowers #seasons #nature #God #colors

Thank-you soo much for all the great poet who red, liked, and commented on this poem.

Don't you just sigh when Seasons Sing...?

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Nienke Aug 2015
rusteloosheid
en vastgeroest verdriet
niemand ziet
het lam tussen de wolven
maar ver komt het niet
waar komt het vandaan
en waar is het geboren
of zit dat tussen haar oren
als er weer eens niemand is
het aftuigen van zelf
nog hopen op meer
lichamelijk zeer
een druppel wanhoop
gemengd met wantrouwen
en al gauw, de wanemmer verzoop
in eigen tranen
dan stromen het doet
en blijft stromen voor goed
rusteloosheid
diep in de nacht
wanneer er niemand op je wacht
behalve de ster achter de wolken
geen woorden maar daden
ja dat zal het zijn
maar het tegenbewijs valt klein
woorden onhoorbaar
een jongen die lacht
het vertrouwen ontkracht
een laatste afscheidsgroet
valt niet helemaal goed
als de duisternis nabij
zoals mijn geboorte
alleen en vrij
later zeer zelfstandig
maar nog geen procent als de rest
verpest
verpest
waarom ben ik zo anders
wat is er mis met mij, zo vrij
iedereen een ander perspectief
en ik begrijp het maar niet
ook al noemen ze mij lief
de wereld redden
met iedereen erin
heeft opeens weinig zin
als het verboden blijkt te zijn
slechts een eenzijdig spel
ach, het lam weet het nu wel
tevergeefs
rennend in de ochtendzon
verscholen in een wolkenbed
de eerste straal licht
uit het zicht
uit het zicht van de wolven
waar anders heen
springend over steentjes
met sterke beentjes
alleen in de grote wei
waarin de stilte zo groot
haar hart stilletjes vergroot
zo ook de klap van pijn
de enorme val
zo jong al
de verhouding van zwaarte
en het verdragen
aan de andere kant het extreem behagen
dat is toch geen rechte lijn
maar slechts twee woorden mochten er zijn
in steen gekerfd, beroerd gepolijst
blijdschap en depressie
maar niets er tussen in
want dat had toch geen zin
voor iemand met sensitieve uitersten
bestaat geen middenin
toch levende in een wereld van het midden
zoek balans, het middelpunt
en *** men het haar ook gunt
ze was nu eenmaal als lam geboren
en niet als schaap..  (noch rund)

blind als een mol
gravend in de grond
het was haar eigen graf
waar ze uiteindelijk op stond
omringd door de vertrouwde pijn
vroeg zich af wel van haar te zijn
met borstkas gespleten door twee
het lam kreeg heimwee
stond half dood op
wachtend op één
met hart nog langzaam trekkend
lekkend
de geur van aarde in vacht
wie had deze terugkomst ooit verwacht
en het worden van schaap
in wolfskleren
wilde zich immers niet bezeren
want moe het al was
met steen gevulde buik
de val nu slechts een kras
en wist niet eens meer wat de val was
de doorn(en) uit verleden
gestoken in vers vlees
al genoeg geleden
dus besloot nu gewoon ook wolvin
je bent een wolf, meisje
je bent een wolfmeisje
met het schaap
bloedend
nog ergens binnenin
(This poem was discovered etched/burnt into the interior woodwork of a viking ship of around 800AD, discovered in the north of England in the '60s. Quite possibly from the northernmost islands around the area now referred to as Archangel, and originally written in what became known as Runic/Russo Scandinavian, it nevertheless resonates clear Saxon/German tonality. Given that it is one of the first examples of early Runic, and indeed that the actual letter-shapes are unclear, the poem has been reproduced below, using broad phonetic license.

As far as can be determined, the content appears to be a somewhat ribald message from the ships leader to his wife. It was not uncommon for women/wives to accompany their men folk on long voyages. Given cramped conditions aboard, the conditions were likely to be insanitary and it is this condition that informs the subject).  WJL

Das andrs zu-almen su-cara
Archezum des hafta confagra
Der ecra zu alpe
En pecra nachte schalpe
Viel ondra der zulpa te bag-ra

Und zortem pur ordour cloabera
Eh-min-te ah solbra schactarar
Sul-phereth zum tinctum
Abroath ah den penk-tum
Bai anthe con anthe ebactah-ra

Zorbuhr genkst canke zer vilk-um
Solginster zep ecra der nep-ehlcome
Calmen-de ser paarte
Eh zin bah die faarte
Confide ah can-de zum schtinc-tulm
Hey man, what's good?

Good;
Is good.
It is good.
I am good.
Gin is good.
Air is good.
Art is good.
Tea is good.
*** is good.
Tao is good.
Zin is good.
Yin is good.
Life is good.
Zen is good.
Beer is good.
LSD is good.
We are good.
*** is good.
Love is good.
Cake is good.
Time is good.
Yang is good.
Wine is good.
Black is good.
Sleep is good.
You are good.
To be is good.
Syrah is good.
Logic is good.
Metal is good.
Piano is good.
Feet are good.
Water is good.
White is good.
Steam is good.
***** is good.
Legs are good.
Music is good.
Coffee is good.
Guitar is good.
Honor is good.
Poetry is good.
Colour is good.
Cheese is good.
Arms are good.
Cellos are good.
Portal 2 is good.
Respect is good.
T'ai Chi is good.
Writing is good.
Context is good.
Literacy is good.
Hands are good.
The Sun is good.
The Past is good.
Wisdom is good.
Humour is good.
Fingers are good.
Whiskey is good.
Friends are good.
Teaching is good.
Learning is good.
Thinking is good.
Empathy is good.
Dreams are good.
Cannabis is good.
The Earth is good.
Digestion is good.
My pets are good.
Harmony is good.
Discretion is good.
Shrooms are good.
The Moon is good.
The Stars are good.
The Future is good.
Meditation is good.
Experience is good.
Philosophy is good.
Spirituality is good.
Dissonance is good.
Knowledge is good.
Perspective is good.
Respiration is good.
My Guitars are good.
Being myself is good.
My lovers were good.
Civilization V is good.
My Computer is good.
Self-discipline is good.
Video Games are good.
Having a Body is good.
Having a Mind is good.
Team Fortress 2 is good.
Having a House is good.
Having a Mother is good.
Being a Philosopher is good.
Being an Autodidact is good.
Kerbal Space Program is good.
Being here and now as me is good.
Being alive as a Human Being is good:
Having this opportunity to experience this holy reality is more than I was ever guaranteed.
Thus I give thanks
to all of these things
and Thus I give thanks
for all of these things.
Thus I give thanks.
I intend "holy" to be a sign of reverence and respect as opposed to the assumption that the Universe and our Reality is an artifact of a deity, other than itself and each of us and all of the things within it.

This is not meant in any particular relevant order other than simply increasing physical size of the lines.

Addendum: Certain things pre-require discretion and/or moderation.

"What's good?" is a colloquialism for something between "How are things" and "what's up" here in Northern California, to which I'm never really sure what to answer. I am, however, usually tempted to offer a facetious retort, so I suppose this exercises that urge in a more serious manner.

Addendum redundum: This whole thing sort of looks like an obelisk or sword or something.. cool!
IAUSHYJ Jan 2014
This poem is translate from http://hellopoetry.com/poem/warrior-of-tamriel-warrior-of-realitys-breath/

Zu'u faas nid nuz koraav pah,
Dii dovah meyz fod Zu'u for.
Zu'u imaar verin voknau dii hadrim,
Ol nust swirl tuum tiid.

Zu'u kriist firm ahrk faar,
Waving dii zahkrii ko ven.
Dii lein los nunon kein,
Ol Zu'u krif wah juh.

Nid uth vis gesaag zey fos wah dreh,
Zu'u los Kinbokein do Keizaal.

Dii bodein los do krilaan praan,
ol dii noot everyday,
los raal wah gor.

Hi krif fah fos hi korah,
Hi dir voth dignity.
Zin yoz ko hin sostrah,
Ol hi unt wah krif stin.

Stinun prenlon fod Kendov kriist veyl,
Rok uv rek fent kos,
saviik wah lein.

Tuum Lein do Taazokaan,
Zu'u los Lokolteiren Rahzun,
Ahrk Punah.

Naangein vis kos kendov voknau strife,
Orin tuum daar kein,
Hi vis kos ges.

Aav reid,
Unad hin zen.

Hi fent kos krongrahkei,
Ahrk fen deserve Kendov Dinok.

Jur thy dragonkin nu.
Nust fen saraan hin arosend.
Voknau hin dovah,
Fent meyz thy untak.

Kest riin tuum lok do Taazokaan,
Ol Dovahkiin meyz,
Wah Lein do Keizaal.

Fus Ro Dah !
Randy Johnson Jul 2016
Moses, Miriam, Aaron and the children of Israel wandered into the wilderness of Zin.
The Israelites complained because there was no water, their patience was wearing thin.
God told Moses to take the rod, call the people and speak to the rock.
God said there would be enough water for the people and their livestock.
But instead of speaking to the rock like God commanded, Moses raised his hand and struck it with the rod.
Water flowed from the rock but Moses was punished because he became angry and didn't follow the command of God.
Because Moses didn't do as God commanded, God wouldn't let him lead the Israelites into the promised land.
Moses quickly learned that the best thing to do is to always do as Jehovah God commands.
Marian Apr 2013
And it came to pass, when
Jesus had made an end of
commanding his twelve disciples,
he departed thence to teach and
to preach in their cities.
2 Now when John had heard
in the prison the works of Christ,
he sent two of his disciples.
3 And said unto him, Art thou
he that should come, or do we
look for another?
4 Jesus answered and said
unto them, Go and shew John
again those things which ye do
hear and see:
5 The blind receive their sight,
and the lame walk, the lepers are
cleansed, and the deaf hear, the
dead are raised up, and the poor
have the gospel preached to them.
6 And blessed is he, whosoever
shall not be offended in me.
7 And as they departed, Jesus
began to say unto the multitudes
concerning John, What went ye
out in the wilderness to see? A
reed shaken with the wind?
8 But what went ye out for to
see? A man clothed in soft
raiment? behold, they that wear soft
clothing are in kings' houses.
9 But what went ye out for to
see? A prophet? yea, I say unto
you, and more than a prophet.
10 For this is he, of whom it is
written, Behold, I sent my
messenger before thy face, which
shall prepare thy way before thee.
11 Verily I say unto you, Among
them that are born of women
there hath not risen a greater than
John the Baptist: notwithstanding
he that is least in the kingdom of
heaven is greater than he.
12 And from the days of John
the Baptist until now the kingdom
of heaven suffereth violence, and
the violent shall take it by force.
13 For all the prophets and the
law prophesied until John.
14 And if ye will receive it, this
is E-li'-as, which was for to come.
15 He that hath ears to hear, let
him hear.
16 But whereunto shall I liken
this generation? It is like unto
children sitting in the markets,
and calling unto their fellows.
17 And saying, We have piped
unto you, and ye have not danced;
we have mourned unto you, and
ye have not lamented.
18 For John came neither eating
nor drinking, and they say, He
hath a devil.
19 The Son of man came eating
and drinking, and they say,
Behold a man gluttonous, and a
winebibber, a friend of publicans
and sinners. But wisdom is
justified of her children.
20 Then began he to upbraid
the cities wherein most of his
mighty works were done, because
they repented not:
21 Woe unto thee, Cho-ra'-zin!
woe unto thee, Beth-sa'-i-da! for if
the mighty works, which were
done in you, had been done in
Tyre and Si'-don, they would have
repented long ago in sackcloth
and ashes.
22 But I say unto you, it shall
be more tolerable for Tyre and
Si'-don at the day of judgement, than
for you.
23 And thou, Ca-per'-na-um,
which art exalted unto heaven,
shalt be brought down to hell: for
if the mighty works, which have
been done in thee, had been done
in *****, it would have remained
until this day.
24 But I say unto you, That it
shall be more tolerable for the
land of ***** in the day of
judgement, than for thee.
25 At that time Jesus answered
and said, I thank thee, O Father,
Lord of heaven and earth,
because thou hast hid these things
from the wise and prudent, and
hast revealed them unto babes.
26 Even so, Father: for so it
seemed good in thy sight.
27 All things are delivered unto
me of my Father: and no man
knoweth the Son, but the Father;
neither knoweth any man the
Father, save the Son, and he to
whomsoever the Son will reveal
him.
28 Come unto me, all ye that
labour and are heavy laden, and I
will give you rest.
29 Take my yoke upon you, and
learn of me; for I am meek and
lowly in heart: and ye shall find
rest unto your souls.
30 For my yoke is easy, and my
burden is light.
Sarah Water Jan 2015
Jij bent een kat en ik niet,
je kijkt in het donker, terwijl ik niks zie.
Ik heb haar alleen op mijn hoofd,
en kijk naar buiten terwijl jij vogels rooft.
Je hebt vier poten en ik heb er twee,
Ik roep "kom" en je gaat met me mee.
Twee oren, twee ogen, dat hebben we allebei wel,
maar ik ren langzaam en jij kan heel snel.
Het grootste verschil is toch dat ik kan praten,
met woorden en letters, dat kan ik soms haten.
Sprak jij eens een zin daar,
dan ben ik benieuwd naar.
Wat zou je dan zeggen,
met mij overleggen?
Of hoef je geen woorden, maar gebruik je je mauw,
om zomaar te zeggen "ik hou ook van jou."
this is my first ever poem. dont laugh too loud please.
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
.for two days a song was haunting me, seemingly unheard before, hidden in the deep recesses of my mind - unrelated by sound or memory... yet burning itself a presence regardless of my faculties... restless... i had to take a walk through bedfords park, havering country park and hainault forest country park - through sun and rain and two bottles of wine... twice seeing bambi and at times scuttling like a rat / misanthrope from the unusual traffic of these parts... to finally find peace... Borodin's prince igor!

there's just enough of gloating to have to muster...
before some grander detail has to take form:
i've been trying to capture the song
i want to listen to: but it's hardly a genesis
of an #A... or... whistling...
             kik kershaw's the riddle?
                         it's not - now that the hindsight ("spoiler")
is presented... it wasn't a bach aria:
or a batCH... well: who's the good surd?
'ere boy... vat's a good tau: ba'ch...
     the would be baчelor: j. s. baχ...
                            a juggling act of... less than...
what james joyce's finnegans' had to offer:
and more: the diacrcrcr-detail-of-antics...
       pop sort of reference points?
                   would they be... if they weren't...
for the per se reasons?
                  details are in the noumenon -
that... axe-folding: exfoliating lesser demand
for: **** in machina...
                                      the sort of details
that mind: the over-simplified woman...
and... the terrible complicated seance of...
when witches were detailed about...
their broomsticks were to be replaced with...
vacuum cleaners... terrible details of
"unnecessary" complications...
man of science man of technology man
of engineering and man of mathematics...
much later... the man of linguistics and...
the troop of ballet dancers... the choreographers
and the composers...    

i have taken enough days to gloat...
working an addiction in reverse...
a bank-roll filled with: plenty of nicotine...
and chem.,
           just waiting for the completed
day... an exercise in language:
and jack daniels bubblegum:
pale blue... blueberry images... gluttons
of colour: those pearls...
back to music... back to music...

   i wanted: rather than tried...
to fathom a pause in the construnction
of the res cogitans: with the usual
punctuation markers...
it's hardly a semi-colon...
          a full-stop... a comma or a full-stop...
hardly the detail of syllables
with diacritical markers...
    hidden letters...
rare in english that sheer and chisel
should come together...

i was thinking of a punctuation marker
to block of all narrative...
not a mere punctuation marker -
not some apostrophre...
                precursor to the possessive article:
's..              's...
even the russians do not have
what i already have...
         namely... дж...   джик is an approximation...
something is hidden within...
dzik itself (boar)... dzikość - wildening...
        a lost attribute for the civilized man...
   дж is... slightly off from the intended:
   дз - while ж (rz or ż-art - joke) -
              is... well... it appears...
but is a few letters apart...
       for example in: drzeć (tear - ter:
not tier - nor teer - backwards to forwards...
latin diphthong of æ) -
                        to tear paper into pieces...
   a tear ran down my cheek...
   to have read: rather than... to simply: read -
and... the reed - a stalk of a bulrush...
               the eastern lands...
                      synonyms and two best known
aliases: the birch tree and the bulrush wetlands...

this is the only best: approximation
of a song akin to Borodin's prince igor...
that can't be hummed... unless heard proper...
not from an abstract of memory...
conflation of adjectives?
abstract is more an adjective than a noun...
for this presentation...

      hiding letters like a good 'ebrew...
           surds detailed with apostrophes...
mollusk legs... exercised...
  a day later and the extreme cigarette high
is "missing": not found...
   щыт "vs" szczyt / ščyt -
                 no less congested than:
                                       dość! enough!

from the initial fascination of working
english into greek...
                     things had to translate themself
into "mordor" regions: Ruś, Krym, Tartar...
the Caucaus...
                        and the Turkic dwarf plebs
of mythical Constantinople... takeover...

- with thinking i wanted to capture:
res vanus: the empty thing...
       a synchronised: symphony of...
with what's being emptied...
while at the same time... with what's being
filled...
the years passed when pacing
with a heart of a turtle...
compared to... the heart of a mouse...
i call it: no known noun...
              to think is to have the heart
of a mouse... easily agitated...
no room for lost narratives...
      hell: better still... without haikus
and all those condoms of denial and...
delayed view-count murmurs...

          a case of: res cogitans:
a thing most animate...
a case for: res vanus:
   aa thing most inanimate...
         it's... a slingshot... a strain on purpose...
it's an incremental addition of purpose...
it's a punctuation mark akin
to: lost the linear...
up toward the copernican east we go...
and then back toward the flat-earth
project of... being able to read a map:
topography... without: the need for 3D:
3D the copernican: it's all very imaginary...
vector alpha:
points beta and gamma...
to find punctuation: a silence...
a bit like... finding gravity...
which isn't a sound... but if it was...
it would be... the sound of falling rain
on leaves or lead plating of a roof...
or... the sound of recycling...
of water... in a waterfall...

by now all the ******* readers have
disappeared... there's no more...
instagram haikus in the system...
there's the drone drill sequence...
a very distant humming sound...
perhaps an impromptu crescendo of
variations of a cat's meow...

absolute: total: шит... more like шитышит:
    шыт if i was... to be honest...
   sheets of paper... floating about...
                    well... i too once thought:
those russians... with they cyrillic...
but no diacritical markers...
      well K in a mirror: ж...
                      no one told me about brining
mirrors into the project...
     sh-ch-
sz-cz-                щыт - height: well... zenith...
bl-ы'h bl-ы'h: blah... blah...
       it's a letter: the russians call a "sound"...
like the english should start calling
the letter "g" or the "h" a >sound<:
surd...    an apostrophe: gnome: 'nome...
gnosticism: 'nosticism...
                                 'alf the 'arvest...
prop'er: cockers and pouch of punches...
   very ******* irish sober to me...
brings all the harlequins and loon'doon'ish
to the backyard for:
                   milch-schütteln-und-schäkel...

and then i return the cork back onto the corkscrew...
as i pa'k - my... packaging... CCCP... comrade...
the folded soviet shop...
don't worry terrible ivan... there's a new shop
in town... the iron has morphed into silicon...
see-through curtains and...
this virus... did more damage...
than any... brave lion of the jihad would ever...
circumstance of the affairs of westminster bridge...
they would "epstein" one through
one in a while...
                 to **** chicken the populace
into a cucklicking KKK strut dance of:
burning hoods and bras and crucifixes...
and ******...
                              conventional... formal...
language usage? please reserve that for...
the golf course and business talk...
                write? write what? a kandinsky?!

yes... a big hello ******* from
tiktok and twitter...
1 minute videos and... 180 characters...
         i feel constrained... claustrophobic...
if... i can't write an imitation Dickens chapter...
1000 words is ******* lemonade...
2000 words is... regurgitating a day's worth
of a newspaper... saturday edition...
which includes the editorial and the magazines...
3000 words? a truly rare thing...
      given that... conjunctions and their details
are not counted: ' - is both an apostrophe and a surd
letter... t'at all depends: on the "v.a.t."...

the whole point was...
finding excuses to write about quitting smoking
are other... they were all fine: crack ******* smoked
when the levels of nicotine were dropping...
the upper body was exercised...
but the legs weren't... mollusks and oysters for *****...
or... toes...
to count... oysters for toes...
but when the legs have been exercised...
and a balance has been reached...
there's little to gloat about... about...
quitting smoking...
there's a need to say: the glory of the tongue
and its palette when walking...
the budding beauty of things surrounding me...
all blushing envy of the green...
  self-respecting green and its almost
teasing green phosopherscent insomnia
in the rubric of the sun: next to wake...
next to hide... a bud of bishop hues...

insomnia green of the forest...
                     poor bambi (x2)...
                    zinfandel rosé!
count! syllables! nurse! scalpel!
zin!-f'ah-del... rou-s'eh...
                              oh remind me of the night...
and the forest... the blinking moon
by count of clouds obstructing its glee...
turned into a melting moon...
spray-painted over the leaves with
its last will of agitated: clingy mercury tinge...

the debate: "debate" wasn't about...
i took 3 days to gloat about quitting smoking...
there are more important affairs to mind...
notably! notably?

example!

la traviata is an opera in three acts by (giuseppe) verdi
set to an italian libretto by francesco (maria) piave
                                                 (verbatim: i.e. borrowed)...

there... they cite... the composer...
    who doesn't need a first name, since: verdi is...
synonymous with verdi and opera composition...
but...
         yeah... you need to mention the first name
and the surname of... the libretto: francesco piave...
the opera...
      music... and... the words...
well so much for the music...
but... last time i heard... a violinist holds...
a violin and a bow...
                         what's the opera singer
to hold? the melody? no! he needs to hold...
words...

   today i passed a family in the forest...
a mother, a father... two children...
                   and a grandfather...
maternal / paternal... i don't know...
i was already on my second bottle of wine...
the woman asked me:
   'will we get back to the car park if we turn
around on this route?'
        i was already eyeing them with
a curiosity prior...
i uttered the words... 'you should...'
          not... 'i hope so... since i'll be
testing that question'...
or 'you will...'
                           several minutes later
in my own solipsistic interlude...
            you should... i swear to god...
sometimes i say something and can't
see letters behind the sound...
      like: i shouldn't really see: meow...
behind the sound a cat makes...
since... a cat doesn't just make an: ego sum: meow
universal statement...
there are variations...
    'you should'... i repeated...
slightly drunk and... whatever... i didn't see
any letters in the sound i made...
           for once... not the last time, though...

to abide in such joys from a past -
chevalier, mult estes guariz -
                 to cite charmlemagne and prince rolo:
the scandinavian convert -
who's (whoz: not who is) descendents
were the morphed vikings: the normans...
who conquered england...
        since the predecessors couldn't...
walther von der vogelweide:
                    palästanalied...
all through the german autobahn...
                   the word... AUSFAHRT!
the lands owned by the lithuanian who
married: and by marriage became converted...
from the last pagan prince of europe:
enclosure rhapsody of caged
elephants: prior: mammoths...
  the estonian bulwark...
von meer zu meer (von baltisch zu schwarzes meer)
these jagiełło platitudes of envy... chełm...
      sch'war'zes...

begotten not made: blistered...
the scarf of colour to capture the frenzy of
autumn... a shawl best worn to...
loot the colour and suffocate the subject
with: no past a dream and a dream
without rucurrence...
to borrow from the past as much
if not more from fiction!
to say: once they pickled Barbarossa...
come the third crusade... disgruntled oath-breakers...
sought the prussians...
and the lithuanians... and all that land
to the east...
had they only known... what the prussians
would make of the absence of the saxons
of the pomeranians and the bavarians...
i wasn't there... no...
but a romance is a romance is:
here's to... no ode to a ******* sailor:
capn' ahab... or the rodin instruction
knee deep in the mud at ypres...
or the mass-graves of german youth
or: how kaisser wilhelm and that in-breeding
crew of familial ties tore europe
on the altar of the bull...
before this bourgeoisie whittle adoolph HIT!
came about and charged the former
bitzmarck ***** and the elites with...
eh... the story is so told and so old...
"they" couldn't fathom the middle-project
of the khaki and ******* not coming
from their... high-brow... aristocracy...
better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven...
choir boy whittle adoolph said:
i'll borrow the schnurrbart from chaplin...
after all... with a surname like mine...
a ****** or a chaplin is no... WIN-D'SOR!
yes... apostrophe 'ere if not to hide a surd...
it's to elevate punctuation...
for the sake of syllables... the hyphen is not
enough... vowel catcher tetragrammaton
invocation! the first arm of the god:
the second arm is for: ha ha ha! laughter!
cynic and satyr!
            eh... let's leave the stoics to their
love of labouring over the fate of oysters!
protestants and pre-destination-alists...
clarvoyant calvinists!

                         from the decadence of a "lost"
empire... what "pseudo" history is to be
resurrected... romanced...
the angevin empire?! that there is a past...
the "lesser" dream...

a patrick and andrew a george...
and ef bwy newid troi (he who...
altered path) -

troedfilwr - petty velsh:
quasi-silesian / kashubian / little warsaw
of the "bigger picture" masovia...
CAPital neu...
          
- ever write something...
at a snail's pace: crow pecking...
because a moth has just flown into your room...
and... unlike... holding a seashell to your
ear... to find the ivory shore...
and the details of false echo of... galloping
waves...
you clench your hand...
and hear... fluttering... like the sound of...
desperately falling rain..

madame butterfly is an opera
by (giacomo) puccini, with a libretto
by luigi illica and giuseppe giacosa

the magic flute, k. 620, is an opera in
mozart to a german libretto by
emanuel schikaneder:

           der verk is in the form of a singspiel:
singing and spoken dialogue...
my demise: the awe... interludes of...
theatre... in an opera!

               rushing rushing and... kandinsky
the colt serenade kind...
  with... canvas... and an auction house
of reserve that... fridge magnet enterprise
of a single mother of... 6...
              
you couldn't get an opera...
working from the carmina burana...
the... libretto... thankfuly...
constricted the music...
you'd only get what you already have...
a medley... opertics instead of an opera...
sketches of an opera...
    the whole custard mess...
the rhubarb the rasberry "finicky"...
         the Goliards and the... gonnards...

               were diu werlt alle min
               von dem mere unze an den Rin,
               des wolt ih mih darben
               daz diu chunegin von Engellant
                lege an minen armen


the quid pro quos and the... anon. circus
spectacular sheen!
  
  what is the composer without the libretto?
the violin player has his violin and bow
attached: like some... frankenstein's take
on an elaboration of an autumnal fallen:
leaf of: a "false" limb...
dire desires for a lingering crescendo...
of a piece... without an overture...
bothercome children and the good life...
nothing worth clarifying the nouns:
to a supper... a goodnight...

                       bedtime with nabokov?
my take... well... it becomes apparent...
when... the local... easily accessed by the many...
avenues of love... are exercised...
what remains? taboo...
and once the taboo is... investigated...
invested in... well then...
there's that all overpowering tease of
thought not materialised into a will...
a 14 year old girl... below the mark...
she's 16 and i'm 18...
and i'm not her... cousin and this is not
israel...
                  after a while... the only *** available
is... the forbidden type...
and there's... so much freedom in
what's forbidden... when it's only thought...
the complex: θ(ought) complex
that becomes φ(inking)...

              the moment "she" starts to
perceive the mirror...
       and you're looking into the concept
of time and of glass...
  
but then... there's... the libretto... and the composer...
the rare event of: richard wagner...
where there's a schizoid... bilingual...
"in theory": der kommissar working 7/11
on the advent of: neu-muzik zu kommen!

  queen of the night aria contra...
my sleeping karma - satya - ahimsa...
that one: "last" cigarette...
me... a wife and a child...
        tidy... if i only aimed at...
the fraction to no effect...
the wife and the sole child...
i'd be doing all the proper details...
a wife and... the hungarian model...
of at least: towing 2...
      hardly an embitious venture if only
towing the holy trinity of:
fake hey-gay-zeus fake myriam fake josephus...

not looking for queen of the night aria...
   nor satie's gnossienne no.1 sampled...
ezio bosso - under the trees...
           vittorio monti
jean-paul egide martini {/^.5.p 6^)_(0$drd...
toast!
it was... bothering me... started last night...
took 6 rough miles to get the tune
out from my head...
into a coffin... of sorts...
it was... borodin's prince igor! all along!

p.s. re-flex: the politics of dancing...
       duran-duran: the reflex; ******-pointer-ler;
h'american pie contra dad:
   the gay bar: electric sexes und siebens:
hefyd...                         deutsche bankschisch...
zeit (time) and the ruschischen:
              цeit... always conflated as...
indistinguishable by a ****** / lithuanian...
           цeit - bißcuit... crumble: чarcoal...

hey presto: a *******... voilà contra eureka!
Luna Lynn Jun 2014
We met a coffee shop.

Not a Starbucks or a Caribou or anything fancy like that, it was just a plain local coffee shop that served mediocre java and salted lunch meat on stale bread.

The menu was impressive enough to keep the place open, and after all, it's where I met the man who changed my life.

I pretended to be engulfed in a rather boring Sparks novel that I grabbed off the counter to pass the time when he sat down across from me.

His hair was black. His suit was black. His shoes were black. His skin was a smooth drinkable ivory that only accentuated his stunning green eyes. He was typing away furiously on his laptop, but amidst his deep trance, something broke his concentration.

****.

He caught me looking. Frazzled, I motion for the waitress that doesn't see me to come over and refill my already half full cup. Fill it with some of that mediocre coffee of course.

****.

She doesn't come, but he does. He says my deep brown eyes, caramel skin, and tight curls made him want to write poetry. Anyone worthy of that type of inspiration must be approached, is what he said.

I tell him my name. He goes by William. I never got his last name and I guess it didn't matter. By the time we downed our burnt brazilian roast, we were headed out the door in search for a more intimate setting as if where we were hadn't been quiet enough.

I don't now what made me bring him to my apartment, the eighth floor, sitting on the patio soaking in the sounds of the city below us while sweet white wine ravished our veins.

I knew what was coming.

He commented on my blouse, said how it made love to my breast in a way no man ever could. He said my hips were like curvaceous lilly valleys winding around the hills of Maine. He said my hair was sunkissed with natural bronzer that shined eloquently at the turn of each curl. And as his hand brushed my cheek, he spoke of my dimples and how they were perfectly placed upon my smile blessing anyone whom could successfully create one.

As I came out of my bra, he kissed my neck and kissed my chest and kissed and kissed and kissed until he found what he was looking for. He told me my skin was soft as satin and sweet as sugar right off the cane. When my jeans fell to the floor, he traced his lips along my ***** line, saying he had never desired so badly to taste wild honey.

When I was naked and vulnerable at the mercy of his will, he examined me like a feast as if he didn't know where to begin. He entered me so softly, I could hardly tell he was there. He told me I was beautiful. He told me I was perfect. He told me it was tight and wet and he didn't want to be anywhere else in this **** of a world but right here inside me.

I see stars. I see the sun. I see the highest mountain tops after a soothing rain. I see moonlight on a hot summer night and the beauty in the auburn colors on an October afternoon.

William not only rocked my world; he painted it. His hands carried such an elegance about them that my body ached for his touch even more so. With every moan that escaped my lips, he spoke poetry into my ear. Telling me to "look up and imagine Paris" and "close your eyes and build a dream". All of his mumbo jumbo made sense in a weird kind of way.

I always thought people only climaxed at the same time in movies because that's just something you can't schedule. It slowly sneaks up on you like a tiger in the wild, and just when you think you've lost him; BAM. That's when your ten seconds of ohmyfuckinggoshdontstoprightthere kicks in and you realize it was the best ten seconds of your day and of your life up to that very point.

As swiftly and beautifully as he came, he was gone. But before he left me feeling empty and full at the same time, my previous infatuation and excitability had made me succumb to his trance, and I hardly even remembered what (if anything) of which we spoke.

I say to him, "William, please tell me. Who are you? What is your last name?"
His answer baffles me, and doesn't make any **** sense; "You will find me as the candle in the wind, the condensation on a glass, and the fruitful taste of white zin on your tongue in the heat of the day."

And with that he left.
He left me standing there sticky and lonely and satisfied and mad all at once. I figured I may as well clean up my mess, clean up myself, and continue to rule the day.

I begin a motion to take the sheets off the bed and roll them up in a burrito of sin when I had stopped and realized I didn't want any latex melting in the dryer.  
I search for it. Like, really search for it.

Ok, it's not under the bed.

Where is it?

Not in the burrito that I just tore apart.
Not in the garbage.
Not in his hands when he left.
My eyes never left him.
Or did they?

****.

Valleys and flowers and sunshine and stupid *** Paris. STUPID. ***. PARIS.
All that madness and stupid weird *** just ****** me off. It caught me off guard. That wasn't me back there, careless Carrie. No. No.
That wasn't me.

**** it.
I need to shower.


[....to be continued...]
This is actually the beginning (intro) of a short story I'm writing that I felt was so poetic in the idea itself so I just wrote in poem form. I may actually continue to write it this way. All rights reserved please, and feedback would be lovely!

(C) Maxwell 2014
Nienke May 2015
zo lang vechten
iets om te hechten
geef mijn mijn rechten
terug

leef
leven
recht om te leven
zonder streven

vrouw zonder einde
een punt in de zin
met tegenzin
de waanzin
Nienke Oct 2016
kankerlijer
klootzak
met een halve maan op je gezicht
het is goed bedoelt
als dat het minder erg moet maken
maar nee
het enige wat ik nodig had
was een grijntje begrip
een beetje respect misschien
nu is het al gebeurt
gezegd en gedaan
zal ik jouw gezicht liever niet meer zien
of krijg ik zin om te slaan
sorry oke
maar zonder traan
oprechtheid ver te zoeken dan
is het voorbij
niet meer dichtbij
het is gedaan
klootzak
en nog bedankt voor de argwaan
UnitingWriting Jan 2021
Voor de Nederlandse dichters en kunstenaars onder ons: stuur me je instagram account, ik heb zin om nieuwe dingen te lezen 😊. Neem als je wilt ook een kijkje op mijn nieuwe account: @uniting.writing! Ik zie je daar!
VentEmotion Jun 2014
When no one wants to see us together , I know for a fact that I belong with him.
Chainsaw cut open our love.  I reckon not.
Heart of steel , and faith of a rock.
We find our zin , bullet proof of all knots
Elihu Barachel Jan 2015
Listen to my gospel, listen to me preach
You will be so edified, the truth I always teach
-
Send me money send me cash, send lots and lots of dough
My Ministry will bless you, my Ministry will grow
-
The more you send the more you're blessed, send everything you got
I'll be like Lenny Zin, I'll buy a jet and yacht
-
If you don’t believe like me, you’re going straight to Hell
I’m the only one that knows the truth, and I know it oh so well
-
I can get you saved, today Salvation is on sale
Send $29.95, send it in the mail
-
For an extra $20.00, a magic donkey **** you’ll get
Show it to Saint Peter, all your sins he will forget
-
If you send $100, my blessing you’ll receive
It will make you rich, before tomorrow’s eve
-
Send to: Greggy's ******* Ministries, on Coosa County Road
Send only CASH, to 35010 Zip Code
thomas Oct 2015
Come on over and love me up.
I so admire your big gold eyes and long black whiskers.

He loves the kisses

Rolling and soft murmurs as we watch TV
How relaxing this is.

Every day when I go away,
my attentions he misses

But count on it:  He won't be still

Perching out on the window sill
calling out with all his will
singing his heart out to neighborhood misses

And when at last I'm home again
he lets me know
It's been too long wherever I've been

Slipping off my shoes, I softly whisper,
"My, such big gold eyes and long black whiskers."

He's not pleased when men come calling
He gasps on smoke and the stench of beer
They're much too loud, and three's a crowd

But he flaunts his charms when ladies are here
With a kingly stride he proclaims his entrance
Endeared are they, he knows in a glance

"Oh, see those luminescent golden eyes and long black whiskers."

It's hypnotic, peering into eyes never blinking
Those wondrous, golden, moon-like eyes
mysteriously veil all he's thinking

There come times when I'm low and sinking,
glow of life dimming, shrinking

No, not again, down I'm slipping
familiar dark whirlpool firmly gripping
                                                        ­           down
                                                            ­               down
                                                            ­                      down

                                                               ­                           down


                               ­                                                                 ­       ever down

Ebbing low, it's of white zin' I'm thinking
Fond echoes of goblet and carafe crisply clinking

But my friend and savior lifts my mood
and my down spiral he does preclude
After all, it's much better I partake of food.

I reflect that an undesired gift,
a "rescue" of best intentions made
whose denial would have caused a rift
in a friendship nurtured over a decade

This rescue gift, truly more than a gift
A travesty to call it ownership

A blessing, tho' one so grand,
it is only I who understand.

It's a splendid treasure of joy and companionship

Life has its troubles, but it could be worse
I don't exist with the loneliness curse.

                                                         ­  T.F.Kaye
Over the years, I have had several girlfriends who had large male cats, whom they adored.  Single and living alone  for various reasons, it seemed to be all they needed.   How many single ladies have you known that live alone with just their male cats?
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
one? for chicken... over-night:
   olive oil, salt, pepper,
    paprika, cumin, cayenne pepper,
garlic, fresh parsley, beer...

sounds good enough...

two? for pork... read-on-the-go:
olive oil, garlic, brown sugar,
   honey, soy sauce, worcestershire sauce,
ketchup, ginger, cinnamon,
     cayenne pepper...

why would i eat out?
   to peacock like a parisian
   artefact of the 20th century
literary scene?
    ponces... ******* ponces!
   cook your own!
          whenever i think about
eating in public places
sitting down, with a waiter,
and it's summer,
   i start to get itchy,
  like a 1000 moquito bites
per second, while donning
a tux...
        while i should be a lazy
aussie at the barbie,
  in t-shirt, slippers and shorts...

if the night-clubs are closing
the restaurants are next...
  we're catching up to the rich,
and what do the rich do?
  sulk at home: noo oon luvs moi!

what ****** me off about
    corporate media?
  the blatant disregard for
what's happening in a certain
part of the world...
    europeans ignoring europeans...
thank god!
   thank god they didn't catch
up on the reproductive program
in poland...
   it's a post-****-pseudo programme,
the irish in england sound
like intellectual frankenstein
monsters: uh huh huh huh he...
   vey názi...
       always the ******* paddies...

what happens when you ignore
people?
     they dig trenches...
   they dig graves and carve out
cities in caves (of the psyche...
yes, metaphor) -
  the philosopher's stone was
the zenith of metaphor...
  
   anyway...
i was walking home last night
with a hobgolbin (beer)
and peered into the saddest sight
i could only imagine as
eating alone in front of a television...

friday... take-out night...
   the father lying on the sofa
watching television,
the little boy? alone at the table
with a fast-food meal (k.f.c.) -
eating alone...
              if the english are not
the instigators of solipsism,
that rotten form of championed
individualism, i don't know
what ethnicity is...
            i am going to guess
that iceland doesn't have this problem...

what is a date-night in iceland?
  this instrument to check whether
we're 3rd cousins...
               the english?
  the supposed gentlemen of the world?
and here's the edenic and confusion...
qua stasis, not qua flux
         of danish existentialism...
******* are undecided...
   ******* couldn't even deep-fry
a mars bar, the picts had to do it
down the shady alley in glasgow...

marx didn't invent socialism,
neither did engels...
   socialism is england's ******* child...
socialism is the brain-dead child
of england...
                as observed by yiddish
and by german...
                     evidently if
this ****** of an idea failed,
   then the "proper" athletic child
of england that's capitalism
   has started to have its fingers broken,
then its legs...
                    now it's in a wheelchair...
     and has had its tongue cut off...
and looks anything but a famous
physicist, who partied good
on an island...
                       what does
stephen hawking and john paul II
have in common?
                  a lack of respect
for retirement:
           rat-zin-ger rat-zin-ger! ** **!
Daan Nov 2017
Ik heb een duidelijke taak gekregen,
gisteren de glazen zitten legen,
verlegen toch in bed gelegen
vanwege de wegen die doorwegen
op mij en mijn zin zit tegen.

Begin dan toch gewoon,
laat al de rest maar vallen,
begin nu eindelijk,
alles is toch tijdelijk.

Ik heb me erachter gezet,
goed opgelet, ik weet het,
't is een leugen, een klucht.
Ik ben dan toch begonnen
al was het met een diepe zucht.
opdracht 1 statistiek vier, wat een zegen
Daan Jul 2019
Ik geloof dat gaandeweg de wereld kan
gered, woorden
zonder zingen, los van lopen, min de moorden
die men eerder heeft erkend als toen en dan
het enige dat oplosbaar kan.

Er is niet niets, er is wel wij,
Eris zoveel van ons.
raad maar zottie,
't is ons lottie
om te kletsen op zondagnamiddag
met een koffie en een koek,
tis in eenvoud dat het hoort
behalve als wat anders jou bekoort.

Kies maar
denk ook aan de anderen.
Of *** je alles in een posi+ieve zin
kan veranderen.
Daan Feb 2020
Was ik maar weder onbezonnen,
vond ik maar de weg terug
naar waar we allen zijn begonnen.
Die tijd, helaas, lijkt achter de rug.

Verantwoordelijkheid snijdt mijn
tijd in twee, werken en plezier,
met het deurtje naar de luierik
altijd op een kier.

Heeft het zin om mee te doen
met deftigheid, blijheid en fatsoen
als dat stiekem niet de waarheid is?
Heeft iets nog zin of ben ik mis?

Het twijfelt en het wiebelt, wankelt
door mijn hoofd.
Zal ik maar gewoon weer verder werken
aan wat ik heb beloofd?
Bezig blijven helpt.
Daan Sep 13
Overbodig vol, een kar te groot
In de schaduw van piepende wieltjes
Een kwart voor in de sloot,
Een kwart voor halve zieltjes.

Ik bestel best elk omarmend
voorwerp dat ik, eens bij zinnen,
zal verwerpen eerder dan beminnen.

Elke keer en elke keer.

De cirkel ontmoet de grenzen,
Dat ziet ook een bijziende zonder lenzen.
Wij wijden uit.

Mijn mening over zinloosheid,
even fris als de zin van fruit.
Ik heb wel trek in een kiwi maar dit moest er even uit?
Daan Oct 2019
Wetenschap vertelt
dat blij zijn gezond
en goed is voor je motivatie
op het werk.

Maar, wetenschap, ***
doe je dat, blij zijn?

Wat als je geen zin hebt,
moe bent of je in het rond mept
zonder iets te raken?
Wat als je je makkelijk laat kraken,
je weent, verdriet en het vandaag
allemaal echt niet meer ziet?

Moet je dan forceren
of even iets anders leren?
Moet je dan tevreden
of mag je wel eens naar beneden?
Mag je tonen kermen
en werken op je eigen termen?

Van mij mogen jullie alles,
ik moet even aan mezelf denken.
Misschien dat ik daarna kan helpen.
Daan Dec 2021
Laatst las ik in mijn eigen hoofd
gedachten die me deden
sidderen en beven.
Hetgeen ik had bekokstoofd,
beloofde me een beter leven.

Ik ging draaien aan de molen,
scheppen, graaien in de kolen,
bellen, spelen, doen alsof het telt.
En dat allemaal voor net iets meer van geld.

Ik kocht de gekste dingen.
Het moest maar op een scherm verschijnen
of 't deed m'n handjes in m'n beurs verdwijnen.

Eerst die spanningscurves in de positieve zin,
gevolgd door de terugslag, emoties in de min.
Begrijp me wel, emoties mogen, gehoord, zijn.
Maar dit specifieke mechanisme vind ik iets minder fijn.

Ik schrijf dit nu, midden in het groot verdriet.
Later zal ik nog wat laten horen, wanneer mijn ik
in mijn gedachten
er een oplossing voor ziet.
Weet jij *** ik kan vermijden promocode #SPD te gebruiken om iets te kopen wat ik niet nodig heb?
Daan Mar 2020
Het is pas woensdag en de bedden
liggen vol.
We hebben materiaal tot vrijdag en
de mensheid hamstert brol.
Sommigen moeten viermaal uren kloppen,
anderen slechts de kin.
Waarom moet ik nu binnen blijven?
Ik ben toch gezond, heeft dat dan wel zin?

In de zetel kijkt een vrouwtje op de
zondag van haar leven
angstig naar het nieuws.
Jullie mogen je nog wel wat bezig houden
want de ziekte treft toch enkel maar de ouden.
Was je handen, was je tong, zing
klap eens mee, doe de ping
en wacht geduldig op de pong.
Daan Oct 2020
De stemming is te snijden,
niets kan mij verblijden
als ik kijk naar mij zuurverdiend
diploma en een toekomst
in een helderziende somberheid.

Mag ik even de micro lenen?
Ik ben boos op mezelf en op diegenen
die me niet konden stoppen.
Ik ben een trommel vol met moppen
maar dan leeg en zonder zin.
Heb jij nog honger?
Want ik ben op dieet.

— The End —