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Star BG Dec 2018
Inside poem
lies great wisdom
from the poet elders of past.
The ones who utter in Shakespearian tongues.
They become waves of verse
dancing in readers moon shaped eyes.
Insights rain upon minds to enlarge cells.
Landscaped with grass green tickles reader steps in breath.

Phases rustle as if self is tree and each word is leaf.
Fireworks of stanzas caresses eyes in beauteous splendor,
to launch a dream
And as their bodies of text echo
through doorway of past where time matters little
own voice whispers with gratitude and awe.

Reverence to applaud grand poem
scribed by master at candlelight
For their creative gifts do wrap my visions
into reality.
Just thinking about the old poets thus poem was born
Araoluwa Jacob Aug 2018
A clean black page with lines and a margin is the most encouraging thing you can see to help explore part of the world's knowledge. Giving you the freedom to express your words not through speaking , but through writing. Even though people won't understand how you feel, the paper will. it has no choice. It will submit to you. The paper will take it as an opportunity, "So many could have written on me, but you did." A great privilege to embody and share someone's pain. You brought to life with the words you wrote on it. Each single letter formulated into words that led to sentences and developed a meaning. a pencil, A paper And it's master. They will do great things to people. Add knowledge, or corrupt the mind. Its up to the master. However, those three will change lives.
Arcassin B May 2018
By Arcassin Burnham


The heavens could not see the poverty stricters.
The Heavens could not see the one percenters.
The heavens could not see the astral projectors.
A man has to be what he is and go through this ******* with
geo storm weather,
where does your purpose come from?
Do you have a future goal on what you wanna be , something that you elevate from?
easy to be ridiculed for the passion of ignorance,
the negative wins thats why the world preferenced,
especially in race,
I love every race just as much as you do, If its hate in your mind,
then you can do you,
A man has to be what he is,
a God fearing man with more or less to give,
even all the weight he can lift,
There's not enough men in this world to make a woman feel like she
needed to live,
but must never ever ever forsake our gift , curious  to know
and wondering if,
wondering if,
  The heavens could not see the poverty stricters.
The Heavens could not see the one percenters.
The heavens could not see the astral projectors.
A man has to be what he is , better get it together.
©abpoetry2018

http://abpvalley.blogspot.com/2018/05/no-guns-in-valley-lp.html
Mark Wanless Nov 2017
"The Promise"


I will not know it
       till i see it
Is such a vital promise !
Does the fool follow a dream?
Are the Masters master magicians
       of pain, hopes and delusions?
If so what i will see
       is their cruel lying hypocrisy
And i will **** them
And scatter their hollow empty
       corpses
And books of trickery
       far and wide
And their death
       shall be our gain
Star BG Oct 2017
We are
the MASTERS of our DESTINY
as I and you unwind the programing
fed us to realign with love.

We are the ones
that orchestrate
our life experiences
as we awake to see truth and expand.

We are
the MASTERS of our DESTINY
to ground with the sacred Mother Earth
and all her allies for peace.

We are
the ones
uncloaking masks and veils
so we know who we are and why we came.

We are
the MASTERS of our DESTINY
as we discard fears and the matrex's grip
to move free.

We are the ones
the freedom seekers
shifting to connect with
the full power of
our own hearts,
our own dreams,
our own reality.
I heard the words Master of our Destiny and thus the poem was born. Take a look at your life won't you . And start to change with empowering thoughts to disrobe the false jargon that comes from the controlling powers that be. We have been programmed to act a certain way away from our natural state. Programmed by TV media, false news, lies by governments and religion.
God is great but set religions that dictate judgements is not. We are born and meant to expand inside love with compassion for EVERYTHING in ones life because we created it to master the soul.
Star BG May 2017
I traveled to the mountain to have feet hugged by Mothers sacred soil.
Came back dancing in steps, as heart played gracefully.

I traveled to the forest to be hugged by the tall ancient tree masters.
Came back wrapped in mind with wisdom and peace.

I traveled to the chapel of my dreams to hug my essence in the moment.
Came back feeling empowered, grateful, and free.

StarBG © 2017
Inspired by Sun Smriti's poem Unspoken Thoughts. Check it out. It rocks.
JGuberman Sep 2016
One

Everything I have I've acquired
from someplace else, like a museum
in a country of little or no history
which displays the works of great masters
as if they were native sons.
James Gable Jun 2016
“Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, Ease after war,
death after life does greatly please.”
—Edmund Spense

|PART ONE|
CUL DE SAC
Courtesy is informing
The gardener he shall not
Be needed next week
As sometime before then
You will fall suddenly dead


Like a blanket...
Yes, like a blanket
Or a shawl if you’ll have it—
A sheet that whispers a weight
Upon your shoulders that rise and fall
And rise and roll and once more rise
And collapse inevitable as relapse or vice,
We arrived as the sun is
Saying its final goodnights

Life spends some empty
Second inside your lungs
And continues on its way, moving on
Perhaps to resuscitate a
Fading gunshot victim
Or shake the hand of a minute

As time ticks furiously by,
A dog licks its teeth
A few sorry times, tastes a residual piece
Of something tasty he earned
In his attempts to learn fully
To roll over,
He rolls over now and then for fun,
In the disapproving face of the sun

But it’s a different thing to roll
Over at the command of your Master—
He who is looking disapprovingly at the world,
Disapproves of all of it
But through a very small window
He had not seen before
About the size of an envelope
It must have sneaked up on him

Most of all he is bored,
With packets of cigarettes,
Lighting themselves each night in
Spectacular repeats bright and brilliant
Pyrotechnics of white-hot potential,
You must shield your eyes, Master,
Heed the warnings of the doctor when he says
You are doing yourself no favours,
Tempting yourself by leaving them
Laying around in plain sight

And...now and then, just now, and
Just then he finished a whole one,
Packet of twenty, and his reflection,
Unshaven and puffy-faced in the
Deep ocean of the bathroom mirror,
Can’t look at him until morning,
And morning is a long time away

Meanwhile time is
Blackening the dog’s sorry gums,
It painted such dark spots on his Master's lungs                                              
That he now coughs impatiently,
The paint grips like superglue to
The walls and though a full exhale could
Betray their function for one,
Deform their shape for two,
Lungs so rarely tenderly embrace
And now his face goes blue,
And blue with many shades of blue,
And a touch of the colour of the just-rising moon


Nothing comes up...
His diaphragm, taut, it stalls,
Struck, retching,
Everything slows
Everything

slows

— stretches of sounds
And moans echoing
The sinister intent of
Turpentine visions.
Each bloodless
Indecision


You can see him doubled over
By the window, even from here,
And you’d think this bird will
Succeed in catching his worm,
Each slowed in turn, nothing changed,
Bird was swooping long before the slowness came,
Whatever happens, whatever happens...
The dog sleeps whilst his ticking legs kick,
But slower —  

A fly is caught between
The unaffected forefinger and
Opportunist thumb
Of a young girl who is well known,
(She once squeezed a cat
So tight that its insides
Got all twisted and burst),
She would not hurt a fly though
Especially not this one
It’s so lethargic, she thinks,

How she blinks at normal speed—
Immune somehow

Other kids are told to keep away from her
By their respective mothers
Who’ve no respect for others
you’ll see them goose-stepping down
streets in stop-motion synchronicity
These mums communicate by phone
Hogging the lines and spitting malicious
Rumours into the telephone wires,
Such poison is said to excite cables
Causing electrical fires and the
Firemen here have been called out
several times to find the same boy
Of about ten, crying *“Help! Pariah Dog!”

He’s shouting it now, calling the emergency
Services on a credit card phone
And his pennies won’t take
—So slow it’s hard to watch

The bow that fastens the little
Girl’s hair keeps falling down,
She kicks it down the sleepy evening streets,
Rumours cruelly spread of shadows
Calling her to where the street sweepers are known
Not ever to sweep

Everything is slow, as before but
Slightly more so,
The Master’s contractions
In such slow motion rhythm,
You couldn’t recognise patterns or
Repetitions with short-term memory
but they’re rhythms of threes and fours
but also nine over eight and
Four-four straight, the
Tempo is so slow it doesn’t register...
Listen closely for a while though:
Jazz is on the radio!

The dog’s legs still kick as it sleeps
As it dreams of jumping the garden gate,
Even slower now,
And life is longer now,
In ways
Of course we do not notice
But the little girl,
Returning home just before dark
How will this affect her future?
Time’s arrow
The tragedy of its trajectory
Leaves us in a state
That is not worse off,
But there is no help in this!
Positivity does not come
From the things which are simply
Not negative

And the worm
In a slow motion crawl,
Indignant, as the bird’s wings
Cast long finger-like shadows
That are shifting, flickering,
Twitching near crisis point,
Those last hundred-yards of the race
Where lactic-acid-spasms
Makes a mess of the atoms
And slow-twitch fibres made of
Matter once constituting
A percentage of the mass
Of a sabre-toothed tiger,
Cowering in the cold,
Feeling the pull of extinction
Weighted eyelids,
Mischievous hands tugging
On the ears
And polishing the fangs in museums
It was ashamed, the atoms told us this
But refused to declare a name for itself
Or the beast

Slinking and curling like a
Shoe sole that bunches up
The shoehorn is no good,
Not a help, but to borrow
Just one word of that line
And introduce the trumpet,
In its considerations of brass
And blues
It blows lipless fanfares for the
Invertebrate class

The worm, with frantic intent,
In search of his hole in the ground,
Profound effort,
See the slinky worm speeding
Across the lawn at the speed of a gravestone,
The bird getting closer,
In it’s time,
It’s a fizz of radio waves
With a fuzzy static outline,
Popping grains and throbbing like
Power surging through the telephone line,
Where voices can be heard warning of high pressure
With a fatalist sigh, and poor weather,
A voice with a regional accent
Sounding authoritative and wise
Intensity in the eyes somehow I imagine,
How we paint pictures of faces and people,
The voices are so telling at times,
You can hear whiskey-burns in the throat
Saying things of the colour
Of a nose, and sweet childlike lisps
Suggest dungarees and freckles,
And a gap between the front teeth,
Why these? What prejudices
Have slipped out weedily from
An imagination that is surely
Out-valued by its frame
Of gold with wooden panels

*“PARIAH DOG!”.....
Part Nine (1) of The Man Who Longed to be an Oyster
Seán Mac Falls May 2016
.
From their private jets,
The primal privileged
Spot a spark earthwards,
The glint of the rolling
Out of guillotines.

Guillotines so tall, waiting,
Just for them and they know
It was coming, as they know
They have it coming.

The rabble they so despise,
Yet pander for as they pull
Wool and leave all in cold,
The wretched who someday
Read injustice in the leaves,
The Princes of sham, cloven,
Always bearing woven bags,
Carpet dreams of desperate,
Down trodden, never fearing
To be trampled, till the blade
Is shining in the searing light
Of new day.

For retribution is a fable
The reptilian upper classes
Are cold to see as it strikes,
Their forked tongues,
Eventual as slimy winter
Strangles themselves
In a hollow cave,
Unmarked.

Even the dirt is soiled
With their fame, their
Scaled names, even
Sun will not shine
On the bloodied blots
They have wrought.

Such murderous stiffs,
Who enslaved all warmth
And empathizers in a rug
Fit for a tomb.  And all their
Art as false as they!

The earthy shall rise
And salt their mortal
Wounds, songs will not be sung
For the indifferent masters
Who now pour into streets
Made for severed muck.

The only beauty they left:
Opulent, soppy-red coiffured heads
As they roll on the potholed,
Sooty pavements.
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