Old age has its  advantages
because
I find it harder
to remember what it
was
I was trying  to forget

I want to be the alm the faithful glorier
a day in a mind that keeps center about
a truth memory a kept kiss secret
in days of pink sky seances and
the solemn remembrances that people
cry for sob
break bread for have
tea in dresses best dress
around fine china,
though I never had any,
altered states where I might find fine
the silken robes those kings adjust
as they eye me suspicious
for I aim to change away
the blood rights judiciary
and make plain
pollen eye-watering.

Some things are just better left
unsaid.

This poem which was created by several poets, while abstract , a bit meandering, as any collaboration might become, has behind it a meaning.
My effort, my intent, was not to create a poem that bested Shakespeare, no. I with all my heart wanted to show that HP is for all of us. HP is for us to make a difference, if possible. It is possible.
Put away the transgressions the petty bickering, all.
We may have lost this battle, but we shall win the war.

Now, the poem:

Once Upon I, the warrior skeletal
the eternal darkness
descended
with cracked laughter echoing
serendipity exploding
and unfolding  erase(s)
the expanse of nightfall,
those connected before
redemption,
rustic austerity
peace
for she
dreaming forlorn
liberated
by the sword
sine qua non

In order of contribution I would like to thank :

m i å, SPT,wehttam,Vicki,Harriet Tecumsah Watt,memineI,
Fallen Angel,Reshnia crimson,ryn,Jaxton Tyler Redmond
Sassy J,Eric W,SE Reimer,aivustianumus,lluvia de abril,
Steven Langhorst,Tonya Maria,Sjr1000,Emma Livry,
Aztec Warrior,Renae,brandon cory nagley,Dave Kavanagh,
Adhi Das,Alyssa Underwood,A Lopez,Heather Beth,
and Sapiotextual all for their contribution to the making of this poem
and to the betterment of our community.

lauren elise  Normally I wouldn't instigate like this, but NFL players aren't simply taking a knee for the fun of it. If you want to go as far back as Normandy, let's talk about the forced migration of slaves to the United States, the colonialist division of African nations, and the pillaging and ****** that accompanied that. Let's talk about the forced separation of black families as they were sold off like livestock, the rapes of slave women, the beatings of slave men. Let's talk about the implemented indentured servitude after slavery was abolished, that kept free black people enslaved and poor because they had no resources, no money and no dignity. The lynchings and the discrimination. Let's talk about the de jure segregation that divided school districts, neighborhoods, and deprived people of color of access to equal education and job opportunities. How about the exclusion of black women from women's rights movements? They did not receive the same rights at the same time as white women. When segregation was abolished, how about the de facto segregation, the redlining, the defunding of black neighborhoods that sentenced them to poverty and disqualified them this American notion of "equal opportunity?" What about when the poverty and lack of education increased the crime and drug activity that has led to the mass criminalization of black communities? The school to prison pipeline? Think about the fact that people of color have not been legally "equal" to white people for even 100 years. The police brutality today mirrors the police brutality of the Civil Rights era. Everything that black people face on this day is a result of the dehumanization and discrimination that white people imposed on them from the start. This is not coincidental protest. This is not ungrateful. Our soldiers have fought for our rights from the start, but not always for the rights of people of color. Peaceful protest is an American right. Plus, let's not talk about disrespect for American soldiers and veterans when our very own "President" is the first person to disrespect them.

are annoyingly loud silently
coy, proud, defensive,
prancing around
chomping cheerios
slurping, now. the milk from the bowl,
leave the toilet seat down
on purpose, I see.
Grind your teeth incesantly,
at night, snoring.
I come home from forty and more
hours working
putting them bon bons in your mouth.
You watch too many reality programs,
I wanna watch "I Love Lucy"
It all cracks me up.
Pull all the covers off me, you do.
When we first met-you pooted.
now you ****.
I see you growing in so many ways.
It is amazing.

The Way is long on winding trails
of bitter weeds and daffodils
through goldenrod and thistles sharp
with Devil's song and Angel's harp
on accompaniment by day,
and haunting through
the night.
Alone I travelled 'til the day
Your tender voice did I hear say
" Let bitter weeds and thistles sharp
and Devil's song perish with the dark
for forever more, hand in hand,
we travel in the light."

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!



Source: http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/if-by-rudyard-kipling#ixzz3ogpfN1hg
#FamilyFriendPoems

all us good ole' boys
in Bamalama
got to fight for
the right to kiss
these southern Belle misses,

It's slim pickens and farmers daughters
guarded by big corn fed brothers
daddies shotgun, here, in Dixie.

I don't have a John Deere or a jacked up
four wheel drive pickup,
my accent is acquired from all the years,
to them sounds unnatural,
my drawl.

Hell, I don't do nothin'
no more, but fight,
it's like a civil war, I wear
a smile, you know, cause the
farmer's daughters,
fortunately are curious.

I wear a black eye
and red lipstick mark,
on my collar.

as I stare wild starving in the world full
of human beings, progress, tall buildings:
or glare mild at the field full of protein;
sustenance enough to make hay the life;
straw deities comedic scarecrows just
for  the fun of it, launch colored balloons
or string cornhusks together,   decorate
the fair old oak standing in the center
that neither loves too much or cries  at the
slightest breeze that fells his seed among the
cultivations  like they may grow prouder
than all the skyscrapers ever man built
in concrete, the fair oak an oasis
of nature for the squirrel to discover

10 seconds
too long
1/6 of a minute
wrong
rearrange priorities
don't risk
unnecessarily
true love
or stare
too long
at the
sun.

so many bodies

in Spartacus' wake,
   his body never found
the historians say,
  six thousand men
crucified a horde of others
   dead, all along the banks
of the river Sale,
   in the High Sele Valley,
Nowhere was he found.
   His life a myth now.
His purpose also, a question mark,
    what his intent was ,
whether he tried to free enslaved people,
    or escape with his hoard into Gaul. His mission
and mistakes paint a vision..

you ever had one that kept haunting you
I saw llamas today in a field
I saw balloons again
to construct my urge
sanely you would have to share my head
When the llamas looked up at me
on the edge of their field
where they were minding their business
munching
flowers and grass and greens
I felt like an intruder
an alien
in their world
and the balloon thing again,
I watched the car dealers early today,
a  man walked with what seemed like a hundred
of them helium filled colorful things, tieing
them to antennas, when one did
escape, a white one, that wafted and floated
into the sky like freedom and relief,
I felt for it. I felt for the llamas.
You would have to
share my head to
see.

worrying of a brain hemorrhage from illicit
things or prescribed demons,
a coronary on the verge of happening,
a massive overdose just waiting,
a psychiatrist not really solving,

friends, saying take this
pharmacists street and legal,
medicate your will into a blue green tired
witching siren screaming into wigging violence

take smoke shoot **** hit bang wig go off get on get off
you think for ten minutes slow decay fast death worlds fall around you,
no outlets, no day sleep until you take somethings,
drink gin fall in your puke smile
never
again.

Tending the lawn
     the dandelions
the wiregrass
     growing wild
in my front yard,
     is so cathartic.
Raking pine straw
      sharp as a ginsu knife
barefoot,
      is not.

on what side the bed she may fall out of
when 4 pm comes around,
depends , portends which one of her I come
home to.
She may be Happy hilarious good mood
Beatrice, that
is a day I cherish,
or if she falls off the end she may be sultry all go for it
Sadie , with her world of tricks lined up,
their numbers in her hand,
If perchance she never gets out the stove is cold the cats all
fuss, the dog has ****** all
over the house,
and she is comatose Katie,
She one time got off on her knees,
I came home about ten-thirty for lunch to find
a shrine built out of every ring necklace
pearl she could find piled  up in a heap
by the fireplace , and her in a sarong
chanting, she said she was Bodhisattva,
a nice day is when she arises with healing thoughts,
dresses in that white dress those hose
the comfy nurse shoes, and greets me at
the door with her stethoscope,
I say Hi,  Nurse Ratched!

all the hearts the best sunrises the
firmaments
the stars above
the us below
tomorrow and memory
a birthday surprise
the widest smiles
a handshake
a close embrace
the condolences when you have lost someone
a walk along the riverfront
the willows branches crying eternally
the new child born
the old wise sage
the sweet grape
the sour days
a new moon's rise
a sliver of
the last month of spring with
flowers bloom
the births of hope
I bequest you
all I have ever cared about
and hope it is
enough

I really feel
sitting down
on a patch of green
on an ant hill
or pile of earth
the trees smiling
hear the birds
see the squirrels
scurrying
here on the side of civilization
an asphalt
man made hurrying past
pumping noxious gas
chattering on phones
texting who knows
what to whom like
life depends  on them
I can barely feel the ant biting
my ***
and hear no complaints from the grass
as I sit on her
watching nature
and slow down
and no one
makes me move on

If my shadow were cast down a venturous hill
if the glow of my eyes cast longingly
one time more upon
the rose blooming
or a sunrise
then might would cast o' venture
into my black
shadow the reflections glow
might shine upon my dark black sights, might
my dreaming eyes awake?
then day ever shine no night
would ever be intolerable
or might I as  when I am
a poem live
forever
eternally?

Play god
with Barbie dolls
Matchbox cars
   popsicle sticks
make a game of it
  with your best friend
make a sidewalk creation.

December came on bitter winds,
I sat with frosty breath and frozen fingers
         along the banks of the Clinton River
in the dead of winter stuttering with shivers
     thinking how much I love this cold.
Drank from my flask a bitter searched the white
    horizon for the signal that you were still awaiting me
as I shriveled coldly, doubting, the wind
       could ever cease, or bitter
cold would ever warm or
     flasks would fill
and lied down.

be brave, give me
your hand, touch me.

Oh..... sigh,

Write again, the stars flowers ponds
But,
when you desire
a real touch
come to me.

When you put your pen down,
when,
the time comes: the ink is leaving
your paper blank.

Love is now hard to write
about,
Put your hand in mine, touch.

and....when the words don't come
you search
search
the bottom and the top
left to right, right?
the words not used up
the leftover crumbs
put together a meal
of morsels found
remaining
still,, when you're done
you feel hungry
still groveling the Dictionary
or Thesaurus for more?

I have been devout and without
an avid follower of me
and nowhere found
the bed without a flower
after breaking ground
I grow
to glisten though
my distance closing
gentle breath show
my distance from the sun
there have been no answers
from doubt
i bleed and am blind still
the show we share
shadows forgotten
paths run walking or grown
the power is all
to quiet moments trust
to meet in far off oceans
where watching a sense
quite like fantasy
meets poetry and motion.

like a tree
   A mighty Oak an Elm
I am fully grown.

The wind blows through me
   barely a stir or bend
no wind can bring me down.

Come within my boughs
    and build your nest
I  will hold you high above the clouds.

I will grow a canopy to shade
      you from the burning sun,
keep your calm, for I am grown.

Tell your young and grandchildren
     to come back here one day,
when they are grown as I.

Let me care for generations
    shield them give them homes.
For today, I am grown.

unseen , only realized by those with vision,
who saw the tree grow tall, like the others
in the tribe, noticed , when it fell down, exposed
what was hidden, yes , from water soil,
from the earth , from our eyes
are things hidden, the roots
to everything often
are right under our limbs
our hard outsides, our beauty
our reaching for heaven,
our eyes but missing one part
of the picture of the mountain
or tree, or buffalo,
wolf ****
or
origin.

Am and me poestry

  gets
fuckedy uppy

whence

I go on and on and...

per    man    ently
one or two
can't stop

wrought rusty

i ron

beer smelly

big bellied
I drin k to
u

fancily dressed we stride
on main street down the barely lit
side streets to get to

The view, on the edge of town,
west of here and now,
where sunsets are gathered
into red and sorrows.

Or we live across the tracks,
where fancy is just washed and patched up,
still,
we stride with the same
destination
in mind and soul.

Futures are still written
only  with pen and papers, any
rich man or pauper shares.

May we someday, be equal.

a virtual frame imaginatively
borders a frivolous game
of finger paints smeared
into a caricature,
a name-less master
with childlike innocence
sculptured and formed
the symbols in pastels
and gray fingerprints

and every day is a chapter and every
dream a limb
every new thing a sunrise and  every leaf
a hymn
and every song has her melody
and every tune her key
each wisdom its simplicity
simple things their place
prejudices their predispositions
and harmony her grace
and a new day will dawn
I am so sure
where the trees grow flowers
of fruit and the leaves fall
like money and
the songs are as melodic
as wisdom on a new sunny day
and the people place no
thought to differences
i pray

large particularly rude
arsenals of words
unaffected by cardinal
rules
nor reasons,
universally chord-ed
disturbingly discordant,
carmine
corpuscular
vivid
dripping down the
necks
the body
headless
goes on kicking
unable to contain
it.

she wrote me a letter, scented
of perfume
I no longer had my third biggest
budget bill
the plug in air fresheners and
Febreeze
by the gallon,  no longer needed.

And, about then I got this Email,
invest
in the US Postal Service, the stock is at an
all time low.
So now I am much richer, more wise,
conscious
of the future again, it is smelling sweeter!!
I have
the emailed  stock certificates to
prove!

I re-invested all those savings wisely.
awaiting
the dividends. When I sit vicariously, pouring over my balance
sheet,
I find Olde English and cigarettes have
risen way to the top of my budget the
empty
cans are my top asset! I
smile
at my luck, almost like winning the
Lottery!

a tree
young sappling grown
in fertile soil well  sunned and dappled
grew hard strong tall and known
to all the creatures of the forest

his free
dancing in the breeze
drew squirrels from far and near
every creature within the bounds
of the forest around to see and hear

his breath
of maturity at a young ripe
age the color of his bark so clear
his limbs as strong as any seen

brought wide acclaim fame
and infamy because
one day he had the nerve to
walk away

pull up roots
make a way down the mountain top
to a place the evergreen
is not supposed to be

right in the middle of the
river flowing
and it weren't no breeze
nor typhoon

that set him there
it was his own free will
and he cooled his root and
sang hymns

to her

his heart like a 20 oz framing hammer
his fists a sledge
his mind keen as a straight edge and razor knife
his body made hard from long hours
a grip like a pipe wrench
he would shake hands with vise grips
his gaze unnerving
but smart
he could see through the blueprints
when he laughed , which was seldom,
he shook the foundations.
When you needed his help,
he was there.

In this service, i will pronounce a disservice,
too many.
I vocalize "YHWH" as "WE",  
here it goes:
True, the Bible, the Koran will not agree:
The Egyptians and Greeks were so sure
of their  beliefs.
I see us all a part of polytheistic sanctity.
No apples eaten no Satan.
Only two parts of the same religion, front
and back, all sharing Hell.
We all are descended from Adam.
Who the ever He was.
We descend from unity to here to learn the tragedies, the humors, the other side of Heaven. If we learn, get the message,
we return to our oneness.
Our Atoms
our Us,
again part of the,
We.

lines If
             I ( could once write
                brilliance seen read lived Yes
                                     complete a sentence
      in a straight line
                            thought
obliterate waking knowledge let go of
inhibitionsandliveprecariously
        followwwwwwww
the rules

if alll cammmmetrue

illogically as it seems
                         peace
would rain daily on doves wings and Jack would run up the hill with Jill
again.

from a single voice I breathe
symmetrical and perpendicularly
when
from me, two lines meet, and I diametrically oppose
myself, interpret lines as flares or
fires, get eyes of worry
fuzzy visions, I stare,
into a mirror and stare back at me.

The annals of Peter Pertuity
so dense complex with impunity one
headed unempathetic saying
how WE feel
and what WE need. One
eyed
blind
genetically disposed
a natural propensity
kindly, we say,
exposing us and you to
raincoats on corners and ladies we think get a
thrill.

impressionistic, dabs at life's canvas
trying  the light and dark,
usually  violating the rules,
freely expressing outside  the contours,
the boundaries no limit for me,
I am not tooled
or succinct in the palate
of medieval  details  limiting a
certain number of syllables,
I use adverbs and adjectives interchangeably
try though I may
my write hand  wobbles,
and veers of the course ,
and I see

The infatigable undefeatable Maurice Brown
Played the tuba down on
First street. Freelanced.
I saw him once spanking that ***
On Mardi gras
Long ago.
I sent him a shot of Bourbon
And a jack back then
So admiring of his
Oomph oomph bellow
His large belly fit that brass
So well.
He was backbone of the street
Musicians marching proud
Through those streets lined
With drunks pickpockets
**'s pimps and beggars three.
All he cared about was that driving deep sound
The shot brought him
In the needle after
Performing.
I saw him last time ten years ago
Asleep in the gutter down on brown street.
Alone his tuba
Gone.

Willing slaves are obsessed by freedom,
and envy free men's riches;
Loathe to steer their own course,
yet they curse their masters wishes.

Beneath their oppressor's dominance
they beg for their own choice,
but, lest they acquire freedom
even they hear not their voice.

Willing slaves merit their abasement,
as an odalisque securer still
than the terror of sovereignty
and the burdens of free will.

These willing helots, shall they ever tire
of their ruler's amnesty,
and shed their dark age chains of fear
to decide their own destiny?

the trajectory of dreams
the fair world seen
through rose colored glasses
or is my glass half full
or empty that
kind of reasoning
or introverted death throes
weighed on a tragic scale
is balanced I know
by hearts with something to say
amateurishly, like me or by
Whitman's next coming Genius of
rhymes, so I say , the scales
if even fully to one side
and poetry way up
in the air by bad metaphor
or crass simile
weighs nothing when
compared to daily miseries of
the blank public stares the
cheep cheep cries of a sparrow fallen
down floundering
or three kittens
that died in my arms
when their mother
refused to feed them
so even bad poetry I believe
and how I have managed to provide
weighs more than the
scales of life
will ever show.

all of a sudden
kung fu you and karate chops
I like more the martial arts of thought
like  confucianism
I throw words around
and that isn't always innocent
yet I hear people
being brought down by words and take
a second look at
my words and
I am not an innocent
god , either

Instinct inside of me,
in the most pious of men,
testifies to evolution
a reptilian brain stem,
procreate and populate,
the most fit,
Praise no God,
we are  human,
nature like dogs,
we follow passion and wants
blindly,
on autopilot, like flies
we are drawn to ****.

on a demented chorus
I began
I entitled
soberly
of moon and body
speaking of green
or ales
I have not imbibed
in  the last 1 hours
but I hear tweets
from mockingbirds
chasing gliding swooping
down from the nests
I guess
i threaten.
So, this message mis-titled
a chorus mis-guided
sails into the air
as a chirp chases me,
hiding,
I need a beer.

and that was my testament, like I was planning to pass
on, which I am not, but
then who knows when the last breath
of wind is gonna flow,
like  a will, leaving nothing to anyone
or a spirit watching over your destiny,
or an old wise woman tending Petunias
or Peonies in a flowered smock,
or the Pine tree watching it all so patient,
just shedding needles as if he doesn't
need them, or a great mountain
standing so patient watching
every sunrise and each sunset
like it is infinity.

around
    town down a corner
turn at the stop sign
       left
see the new blush
          of rust Orange
high upon the top
                 limbs
leaves one breathless
           Fall....

never perish
              promises
get broken
                    hearts
torn apart
          fences are
put up
                  a true smile
a real friend
        no matter
                 what happens
is always
           remembered
in temporal lobes
                    to be
replayed
     again,
again.

So much I strived for
missing....
a tender touch of
us... does
turn me on then, it
******
me off, on guard from
changes.
You allowed me to
say no,
my  listening then
to chords,
of dissonance blue
loose discord true.

What sonnet drowning in I have drank again?
For the 119th time. It's taste sweeter than ,
the siren tears saltier,
my heart feeling more.
Replay thy fears and conquer.
Sir, your and mine hearts are committed,
woven,  in errors ringing,
sin, desires.
That is, My Sir, greatest Bard,
is drowning the silence out.
Oh, God of words,
you won.
I am understanding,
one 119th part
of your genius.

KnobNess
By Finnius Dilkington


KnobNess is upon us

Altho my KnobNess is not nu

been working on my KnobNess for some time now

37 years & a few

My KnobNess is incomplete.

Incompetent

untrue

I am certain I have more KnobNess

More KnobNess

more than you

At times you'll see my KnobNess

At the luncheon table and such

I'll tell a joke & mess about

You'll laugh out of politeness

And

"not very much"

My KnobNess is like a steaming plastic packet

fresh ripped from the Microwave

a packet Inside a black plastic bag,

un clean and un true
Here's the the thing that thing I do

Make an insulting racket; Hussle,

Huzzah and harangue too

is my technique

is nothing new

KnobNess in my acting actions

Like the malevolent Sir Richard Chamberlain

fancy in some vile and delinquent role

Dolled up, ****** arresting

With grasping grabbing

Needful hands.

"Yon knobNess is thus"

"And thus"

(wrists bent)

And the dark black circles about his actors eyes

create no illusion

I remain at the centre of my KnobNess

Assured in my self believing belief

frequent feeling of my own genitals Is

no more,

no less

than any others.