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O'Reily Sep 2014
Tomorrows the day when it all begins,
Tomorrows the day,
Tomorrows the day.

Tomorrows the day like my very first day,
Tomorrows the day,
Tomorrows the day.

Tomorrows the day when my heart will sing,
Tomorrows the day,
Tomorrows the day,

Tomorrows the day like they always say,
Tomorrows the day,
Tomorrows the day.

Tomorrows the day like maybe change,
Tomorrows the day,
Tomorrows the day.

Tomorrows the day like if I'm alive,
Tomorrows the day,
Tomorrows the day.

Tomorrows the day when I go for a drive,
Tomorrows the day,
Tomorrows the day.

Tomorrows the day put behind a wheel,
Tomorrow's the day,
Tomorrow's the day.

Tomorrows the day like yesterday's hier,
Tomorrows the day,
Tomorrow's the day.

Tomorrows the day when we sleep, wake and cheer!
Tomorrows the day,
Tomorrows the day.

This time tomorrow I'll be saying it all over again.

O'Reily@05092014s
Star BG Jan 2020
Today is yesterdays dreams,
and tomorrows accomplishments.

Today is a yesterday wrapped in
present to opened so they become
tomorrows precious gifts.

Today is a whisper of the past just tweaked
with grand tomorrows.

Today is the day I write a masterpiece filled with yesterdays thoughts and tomorrows dreams.

Today is yesterdays sorrows wrapped in paper
gold that shines like sun to dry up tears making room for tomorrows with new wrappings.

Todays schedule is yesterdays thoughts, ready to expand into the tomorrows.

**
Yesterday don't leave home without it for it fuels tomorrows as todays motor revs.

Yesterday is infused in blood stream so heart beats with flow of aspirations today and riches for tomorrow.

Yesterday is culmination of tears and laughter
that unleash dam to float in more tears
but this time with a shinny dream boat.

One part Yesterday, and two parts today with table spoon of tomorrow makes a grand recipe for life.

Yesterday I recall mistakes well not to repeat in today so errors do not fill tomorrows.

Yesterday provides magical insights, so Today and tomorrow brings peace.

Yesterday becomes today and today becomes yesterday so... use it well.

Yesterday I planted a dream seed. It sprouted in today and grew tall inside tomorrows.

****
Tomorrow is todays yesterdays, so step lightly as not to mix them up.

Tomorrow will be the new today and is the first day of my life.

Tomorrow is today simmered in the sauce of life.

Tomorrow I will wake up inside today to live authentically inside peace.

Yesterday is today turned inside out so wisdom comes in tomorrow.

*****
Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow are houses of God so one is never homeless or alone.

Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow is journeys gift to celebrate as if its Christmas.

Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow are the chapters in our books of life. Write them well.
just playing with the words today tomorrow and yesterday
Sitting in my trailer
Sleeveless shirt and cut off jeans
Chasing each tall *****
With some Jack and shots of Beam
Struggling with my issues
In the past and from today
Sitting in my trailer
Drinking my tomorrows all away

Another day of heartbreak
I got dumped, what the hell
There was not even a phone call
It was by electronic mail
Bits and bytes of rejection
flying through electronic space
Just to tell me "I don't love you"
I got emailed in the face

Sitting in my trailer
Sleeveless shirt and cut off jeans
Chasing each tall *****
With some Jack and shots of Beam
Struggling with my issues
In the past and from today
Sitting in my trailer
Drinking my tomorrows all away

A week ago I was fired
Went to work like every day
found the door locked and all boarded
He ******* off with all my pay
No notice, and no phone call
Just a sign upon the door
A cardboard notice of rejection
Saying "you don't work here no more"

Sitting in my trailer
Sleeveless shirt and cut off jeans
Chasing each tall *****
With some Jack and shots of Beam
Struggling with my issues
In the past and from today
Sitting in my trailer
Drinking my tomorrows all away

My dog ran off last weekend
Left the house and ain't come back
He ran off with that pack of dogs
And he ain't coming back
I bought him as a puppy
Now he's left and he's long gone
But he left a pile of rejection
On the corner of my lawn

Sitting in my trailer
Sleeveless shirt and cut off jeans
Chasing each tall *****
With some Jack and shots of Beam
Struggling with my issues
In the past and from today
Sitting in my trailer
Drinking my tomorrows all away

My tomorrow's may be better
But then again, I'm not so sure
I've got the blues from this rejection
And I don't think there's a cure
so I sit here in my trailer
Drinking the same thing every day
Sitting in my ripped t-shirt
Drinking all my tomorrows away
Arvind Krish Mar 2016
Tomorrows Exam is Mathematics
loaded my head with unknown tricks
Doodling with numbers
Yes, teacher calls us dumbers
Too much problems, yet very lil, solutions
The long mountains of  graphs
The Greek symbols alpha, beta omega
equations and formulas
Find height, depth use trigonometry
My answer a picture of a tree
infinite zeros in red
Sets, Relations,  Geometry,
variables and algebra and Lines,
Its like stepping into a field of mines
All time me wondering why
reciprocal of zero undefined?
much of the time
In exam, I stay
undefined!
Tomorrow's my maths exam..... yippee
When the sun arises in the morning above the pristine snow
and the stillness of the silence brings the panting deer ahead
When the heaven laden trees of winter slices heaven's glow
I know for sure that you will be there, in all of my tomorrows

When the train has bridged the miles across the forest glades
and the January snowflakes have swiveled through the air,  
like a thousand glistening diamonds, I will  venture into safety  
with the knowledge that you'll be there, in all of my tomorrows

When winter turns to spring and then to softer June  
I will wait inside this garden where all the flowers bloom
with the fragrance of her damask you will know that I was there
and you'll be certain of my presence, in all of your tomorrows,    

In all of our tomorrows, we'll be there.
Rockie Sep 2015
Some tomorrows shall be filled
With glitter and sorrow
While others shall have parties and pain

Most tomorrows shall be filled
With living everything now
While thinking why, why, why?

All tomorrow shall be filled
With people and loneliness
While others shall be house guests and emptiness

*Every tomorrow shall be filled
With something, nothing, and everything.
Whether we want it or not.
A: Simple, they haven't happened yet.

*
Perhaps it's one of those days where the sun rises in the wrong place, and sets a little too soon.
Maybe it's another one of those nights when the moon is dim and your thoughts are too bright.
Where you're incapable of sleep and all you can do is write.
Where your thoughts go where they didn't miss traveling and where they're forced to stay the whole night.
I've always wished for better tomorrows.
And as grateful as I am that those tomorrows have arrived,
those tomorrows are now yesterdays and I find myself wishing once more.
I will blame it on my humanity, my susceptible thoughts, my big heart,
my weak legs, and my dampened skies and claim that tomorrow I will be stronger.
*As I always have.
Alexander Klein Oct 2013
I

In eras weird with old mythology,
As if asleep the fabled country lay:
Her wave-like hills and faerie forests dense,
Her thorny brambles budding curling claws,
And ivy circling all the woodsey way --
The far swan's cry came soft and woke them not.
Forlorn, that selfsame call upon the gates
Did break; those gates of Britain's long-lost keep.
She too slept fast, the weary weathered stones
Of fairest Caerleon. O pulsing stream,
Thou vein of life in woods a-slumber, Usk!
Alone are you in knowing castle's face,
From years of timeless burbling at her feet.
What tales are told by water over stone?
What lark or wren can sing of sadness come?
Aye, answers are the beach-wet sand, yet hark!
Rejoicings spilled, proud hails, from Caerleon:
They cheered the ****-frost's melting with the Spring;
The holy Gwyl Fair y Canhwyllau
Had come at last, in foliage of dawn.

Within, their goblets sailed, wassailed, and crashed
Like growling Jove, their boasts and toasts like wine --
They drank it spiced and over-strong. Indeed,
Some stretched exaggerations: 'twas Sir Bors,
That spotless sheet, who tried to contradict.
He quoted purifying texts and spurned
The wine that nature raised and crafted sweet.
Yet "Loosen up!" uproared the host to him.
"The time has come to celebrate," said Kay,
Beloved knight, step-brother to the King,
"Aloft thy wine, below thy gills! Drink! Laugh!
Your stomach is a falsehood-spewing fool,
It must be drowned for you to feel a lord.
I speak a sooth, you need wine's fleeting bliss!
Know thee that man's tomorrows bleed him dry:
A wade through death and depths as sure as pain
That shall tomorrow light your brow. Laugh! Drink!"
Bold cheering spread with Kay's advice, though yet
To no surprise Bors turned aside the drink,
Unblemished bore, so celebrates alone.
Weep not for him, for soon he'll find a cup
More suited to his strange of chaste and grace.
And none to waste: his share was drunk by all.

Engaged in feast Owain ap Urien,
Engaged in tale now Bedwyr and Kay,
And Lancelot made eyes at Gwenevere.
It was a feast of great success and joy
As fitting of the season's robust gleam,
Yet two there were with shallow-rooted smiles.
Prince Mordred one, though ever-somber he:
Accursed spawn with bone in place of heart
And dreaded incantations for his blood;
His brooding perched like crow on him. Alas:
The other joy-bled man had beard aflame,
A bear-skin drape, and crystal eyes, the Lord
He was of Caerleon and Mordred both.
'Twas not the gleam in lover's gaze that vexed
Though it was seen; he had no heart in him
To chain his Queen as if in dungeon steel,
For Arthur lived believing to be fair
Was paramount, to even paramour.
It wreaked its toll, yet caused small grief this day.
Not even serpent son gave cause to mourn
That greater was than missing nephew's spot
Among the feast. His chair was naked bare
Returned though he should be from faerie quest.
At Calan Gaeaf they expected him
When winter storms had racked their shoddy hall,
Yet since, the months had rolled to Gwyl Fair
The milder season come, but not his kin.
The image of his maiméd corpse did taunt
And haunt the agéd mind of Arthur, King,
His phantom nephew slain anon by knight
That of no flesh was made. In year that died
This green-mailed knight arrived a guest and called
Infernal challenge. Trick it seemed to them
And trick it was, for subsequent the blow,
This seaweed knight did lift his severed head
And from dead lips he cried "Well struck! Now come,
Fulfill me of my game. The year to come
Shall see thee in my home, and as agreed
My turn 'twil be to answer with my axe."

So rapt in recollecting, Arthur missed
The growing clamor that beset his hall.
His ******* cleared the grief from him with taunt,
To bring him into grief. "What say thee, Dad,"
Dripped venom from his mouth, "No love for us?
Your hail we called, but disapprove your eyes.
Methinks that far away thou seest a dream
That visits oft the elderly: a place
Thou knewst when in thy prime, with love
Now filled to burst. Yet fear us not, away!
To land of youth far more beloved than we
Whose happiness with thine own heart is twined."
"My fellow, soft!" the King began, distressed,
Yet Lancelot rose to his feet and spake
"Blackguard is he who mocks our Lord to face!
Thou palest hide, thou Mordred, sit thee down!
This sniveling craven knight should be replaced."
A sounding of the table met his speech,
Again was hailed his toast, and Arthur glad,
Though burdened to his breaking point, and sad.

"Blackguard is he who mocks our Lord to face,"
Had spake his bravest champion and friend
With no regard to Blackguard wrapped in stealth.
See how his roughspun fingers coil in hers
And how some sweetened whisper 'scapes her lips?
The beams of color-stainéd light slip down
To play upon their blissful sin almost
As if King Arthur's King approved on high.
Sovereignty is ruthless, Arthur thought,
Well-wishings of my God grow ever-faint.
I must believe in good though I am ill,
Just as I find my countrymen displeased
Though I did calculate my every breath
To see that it did stand with God's own will
To help my common people from their murk.
I fear I am not what I wished to be,
And now my only solace peaceful death.
If up to me, I'd wish it in my bed.

What horn's blare? Hark! King Arthur roused from thought.
Court gatekeeper Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr,
Dressed plain in brown, took down the horn from lips
And loud as elk called to the hall "Have cheer!
Sirs, drink another beer and wreath your brow
With springtime blooms, for lost knight fair is found!"
Old Arthur trusted not his feeble ears,
But came a hush and Lancelot confirmed:
"What **," he boomed, "our brother has returned!
'Tis grey Gawaine, aye, Gwalchmai! Drink his hail!"
The uproar was enourmous: "Gwalchmai! Cheers!"
Was like to wake the sleeping wilderness
That hung suspended in the myth and mist.

II

Astonishment had come like breaking wave
Upon the thirsty sands of monarch's face
So long consigned to reap the low-tide's grief.
When Arthur's ursine hand clenched round his cup
And hailed his nephew's presence with a roar
Long lost to hibernation's hoary spell,
The hearts that beat in armor under him
Did swell to find their lord with cheer at last;
The toast they drank so hearty as to give
Sweet Dionysus pause against excess.
Though only two there were who did not drink,
And one of these were Bors, a sadness fell
Once more as tangible as any wrong
That chose to haunt a hall. 'Twas Gwalchmai grey,
The conqueror now home from quest to rest
Who would not lift his eyes to meet the King's.

"Has cheer so fled from you? Your life remains!
What black has inked you in?" the King did ask,
And silence overtook the hall to hear.
How strongly then did Gwalchmai wish to leave,
To blend once more his form to root or branch
Or soaring river. Wind, the songbird's muse,
Had been his fast companion on the road,
For known to him were many things. He was,
They say, some god that stalked the minds of man
In young enchanted places of the world
Though all his magic helped him not at court:
His shyness was a leaf obscured by rain.
Yet even gods of silence know to speak
When words of pain encircle heavy hearts.
He let them fly, birds in the sky, he said
"I failed. My quest was long and arduous,
The seasons changed while I in heather lost,
The moon its phases shed as fen-frogs called,
I floated through the endless cloying mist
That flows, a ghostly sea wrapped round our isle.
The path had nearly drowned me when I found
The chapel green enough to spell my doom.
When entered I, methought "It cannot be!"
So kind and courteous a host met me
That would have been disgrace to call him green.
He feasted me, and warmed my wounded bones,
Yet I betrayed him in the end; I failed.
I stayed his guest, and friend, and swore to him
That for his hospitality I'd share
Each thing I won while underneath his roof.
And all was well -- I'd rest, he'd hunt -- until
His wife played hearts with me. I did refuse,
But by her final trick was tempted and --
So lost all knightly honor and renoun.
Her lusts I spurned three times, but on the third
She offered me that which my heart desired,
Instead of love she begged me take her boon:
A silken girdle sewn with charms, and green,
Deceit I should have seen. She said the spells
Would keep me safe from harm and spare my life...
When on my rugged journey all I'd feared
Was twisting face of death that loomed so near.
I could not help myself, it seemed so tame,
Yet when the time had come I could not share
That gift, or else expose the husband's wife.
Beneath my armor tied when left that place,
My secret wore me down upon the bog.
It seemed the mist grew thicker, wind grew swift,
I now know under spell was I, but then
It seemed some vengence coming to a head.
My tale grows long, and past the point am I.
The Green Knight and my host were one in fraud:
An airy insect's dream. His "wife," a witch,
Had formed him out of acrid moorland soil:
Homunculus to carry out her scheme.
The blow he owed me carried little force,
Though still this scratch is plain upon my nape.
And so you see my folly plain as oak:
For though I kept the life I feared to lose
My lie grows in me like a cancer bloom
That in the span of time shall **** me sure.
I failed; I'm gone; to revelry return."
The silence, vast again, gripped all the knights
And king too dry to cry, who drowned his heart.

III

"Is there some madness come to roost herein?
Thy folly is ridiculous," said Kay.
"I valued mine own life past honor's flame,
A sin of selfishness, and blame, and wrong.
What of the world, if all would act as such?"
A weeping noise he made, but choked it back
And turned to leave in shame, and might have done
Had not the stout Sir Kay gripped Gwalchmai's arm.
He raised it in the air and shouted thus:
"Percieve our stunning champion stands nigh!
Though of a frail ennobled heart, we know
Thou art absolved. This trinket given free
To aid in quest I wager was for thee.
And as for sacred broken vows, this man --
You said yourself -- was conjured from a bug.
You owe him no alleigance Gwalchmai, sit!
This serious you need to be for wine:
Come sit with brothers now! We drink to thee!"
"Dispel the failure all you can, it stays
As weighty on my brain. It was a sign
To signify the kind of soul I am,
To me it showed my grimy ills and plain
Did tell my shaping, shape, and shape-to-be."
King Arthur to this nephew spake: "My child,
Is there no antidote to questing's woes?
What has become of jousts and silver swords?"
The anguish in the old man's eyes so keen
To those who knew him. Gwalchmai did reply
"Your majesty, there's not a grief can ****
My bird-like love of questing through the trees,
For only questing can redeem my shape."
"Then let us have this quest!" cried Kay beside
Him at the table, deep in drink he swore.
"Come with me, brother-knight, to clear thy mood!
You do you wrong blaspheming at yourself."
The wine was quaffed by Gwalchmai, yet he said
"I first shall stay, I need to rest my ills."
"Your ills are that which keep you ill, good knight.
I bid you come and we shall quest as birds
Who savor springtime berries in the mist."
"I shall not go, I seek my quietude."
"In sunlight you and I must bask. Comply,
Or else I challenge you by burnished blade."
All eyes on Gwalchmai, under pressure cracked
Into a grin and downed his kykeon.
"In stubborness persisting, Kay, you've won,
A river such as I could not keep stead
Against a boulder. When shall we away?
When come the summer blossoms, fair and red?
Or else not til the saps have lost their leaves?
Departure yours to choose, my brother-knight."
Kay beat upon the table and their ears
When called triumphantly "This very day,
This very hour! To help those who need aid
On holy days shall surely fix your heart.
No time to wallow in the swamp that's gone,
We now away, to break our swords with day!"
"You mock me or you heard me not, Sir Kay,
I wish not to away, I wish to rest!"
The fairest Guenevere, like silver bells,
Chimed in "You must forgive your heart's despair,
Or emanations of its guilt will plague
Your mind. I have a lunar garden if
You wish to sit in soothing calm and think."
"My queen is holy," Gwalchmai spoke in grace,
But Kay had cut him off with "Hear her not!
She will ensorce your mind to not explore,
To sit and think and mold with lunacy;
Beneath the sun we'll tred. It's known on quests
I favor Bedwyr, 'tis true, yet you
My fairest Gwalchmai, keep your wits -- and arms --
Two things in need of we shall be.
I mean you no offense, dear Bedwyr,
But I and Gwalchmai share a severed soul
And shall succeed; two sides of selfsame coin.
So come my cousin grey, to right our wrongs
We must away, to break our swords and say
'My heart is glad I did not stay at home!'
Consume your drink! We go," he trumpet-called.
Thus Gwalchmai was convinced, and so was forced
To nod politely to his Queen and stand,
Declaring to the court "I shall away,
This gloomy mood is dried beneath the sun
Though dearly do I wish some lunar grace
To lose myself in mysteries anew.
To bear this flesh is weighty, yet I've found
The strain to be rewarding in its way.
Think nothing of my former woes, they've passed
Like summer storm or wisp of misty cloud."
The hall at large did drink his hail, and then
Did thrice more drink for quest to which they went.
And Mordred scowled and drank the foulest wine
For his monsoon and fog would last his life.

So summoned then Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr
To hearken unto birds, as was his gift.
He said to all, "I shall now call my friends
And see what worthy tales of quests they bring!"
"There may be naught on Gwyl Fair," said Bors,
"A holy day, all wove with peace. Nor Gods
Nor men would stir their strife this day of days."
"We all shall see," the gatekeeper replied.
Beside his King upon the dais came
And played a serenade upon his horn
That rang throughout the keep and lands beyond.
A time did pass with no response recieved --
Slain silent was the raptness of the court --
But then through open pain in stainéd glass
A thrush did bob and weave in melody,
On finger of the Queen he briefly perched
Before he flit away upon the air.
His song so sweet, but then - what fright! No more!
A hawk had entered, just the same, and swooped,
And now the thrush was silent in his claws.
The cabinet of augers all took note
And sketched their calculations into books,
Though none, in this, more wise than Gafaelfawr
To whom the hawk said "Hail, you man of rank
Who speaks the tongue of wing-in-air. Now hark!
'Twas not in hunger slew this thrush, but fear
That what I have to tell might go unheard.
My family, we roost near Cornwall's sea
And late, the noises off the coast grew strange
As if some evil kraken raged at love.
My chicks; my wife and I; we're simple hawks.
We eat and some of us are eaten, yet
Beware the thing that slouched from out the waves.
His shape is something like a boar, but huge,
He dwarfs his kin, and hill, and oak,
This hall is large, yet he'd be stuck inside.
He does not eat what he has killed, instead
He smears the bloodied flesh on stones and trees,
What man could face a fear that bears this face?
If you could hear the rutting squeals he makes!
I swear this sooth by wind and waving plumes:
You men who craft with metal, hark!
Destroy the beast!" And then he flew away
Still calling after him "Destroy the beast!"

The court at large had heard the warbling hawk
But did not know the tongue, so only watched
Glewlwyd's unease upon his face
Until with stiff and rasping voice relayed
The content of the predatory news.
Unease began to show among the knights,
For many there recalled a beast so shaped
And all the blood and guile he took to drown
The first time. Arthur, grim, forbade Sir Kay
And Gwalchmai face these perils by themselves,
But recommended regiment of steel
To bolster ranks against the fearsome boar.
"I know this foe from days of old," he said,
His years of rule etched rough across his face,
"And so do most of you, though many gone
And this monstrosity not even slain."
But Gwalchmai said "'Twas hard indeed to win
Those relics that he bore. Remember I
That Trwyth was the name he chose, and we
Shall best him fair. Though not for trinkets now,
But with the zeal of mother guarding young:
This foe, Twrch Trwyth shall not raze the land
Nor wage a war against some peaceful ilk
While rounded table can beco
Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
A pocket of thought, ideas.
Impulses, has beens

epi-phenom-enal-con-currencies-synchron-icity
sorting places, thens and nows vying for attention

you see
we till stories in search of true tomorrows
not true
yesterdays (till, I said, not tell)
we **** the hard rows no one else will ***
so seed lies sown are never lies told, if the lies are never taught
or if the liars are caught before convincing the
intended crop to lie and swear a common liege Lord,
or die
for lack of knowing. Non-nascence, simplest
symptom to not see.
Whose death is yours to respond responsibly
to? My child's, or yourn?
In the early days, we knew less than we know now
about how knowing and growing were all
intended
to cost time. Ticks, ono motto whatever, the sound
gears and spiral springs pushing cogs
tick, one tooth tick at atime make

this rough, un polished, un glossed, is it wrong or

as I imagine a diamond in the rough must seem to a share cropper
experienced in diamond hunting, diamond prospecting,

prospecting expecting inspection to permit
seeing a 3.52 specific gravity,
specific
specify

species or spectacles,
spectators or special-if-eye-cation
value-en-abled. Weigh your mind in balance
with mine. I claim the mind of Christ.
What are the odds?

A wandering path, injoyable enable if-i-abble,
pacing is

everything, timing is everything, time is the test.

Time is the metagame.
Take your time. One word formed sylabble at a time.
Babble on, your confusion makes you mortal, to my mind.
Tick.
A quanta of time. Does time come in bits and pieces cernible,
but undiscernible from reality?

Babble.

Of course, time will tell. We learned that in our sleep, did we not?

Aesop taught us more than Moses, no,
Aesop taught us less than Moses.

But, we could learn to walk bearing the weight of knowing what
Aesop taught,
while we could not stand under the weight
Moses was said
to have taught.

Caught you, Jewboy. Whatchewknow?
The moral of the story.

THE IDEA is to win.
Beware the concision decision.
incisive devices, witty inventions.

Flip the shell, roll the bones, cast the runes and,
as luck might have it, die before your time.

Why factors are lies more oft than how factors.
Benefactors rule malefactors or
how or why would we invest our time in seeking reasons
to believe?

Is this the polished piece, the gemstone of specific gravity
(which currently means nothing to you. Here, you find too light
or too heavy, too weighty on the scale of specific value.)

Hard. Value hard, diamond hard, on Mr. Moore's scaled model of
Knowing exploding for reason's sake, raison d'etre, eh?
Too hard?
Not Mohs,
don't get me wrong.
We been Moore's law breaker all along.
We be manifested destinatory stories of heroes gone wrong.

Outlawed
knowing exploding to be reasoned with, by kind
children destined to become
written in stone, scarred by lies

Diamonds cutting diamonds, iron whetting iron
on eternity's edge.

Babylon, was it Bel's gate or fusion from below rising?

Magma fountains with diamond claws tearing the lands asunder
Is asunder still a word?, let me, allow me to define...
"into a position apart, separate,
into separate parts,"
mid-12c., contraction of Old English on sundran 
Middle English used to know asunder for
"distinguish, tell apart."
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/asunder>
----

mumbler's humbler PIE, bowing before the knowers who
know nothing of my work.
Set apart, art thou holy aware?

Hermit me, meet the rest of me. The true rest that remained.
We live, you and I. Trust me, next is worth the wait.

Suffer needs no pain to make its point. Waiting is.

Grokk. WHO would believe that idea could live
through telegraphese to be tweet meets for the
Cosplay clans. How never grokked a rock,  why even less.

Strange, not be long in this
place. if
place this be. Odd
set aside
torn asunder
blown away.
Awake, little birdie, tell me true,
what's a man like me to do?

Did you meet the famous Mr. Blake?
I cleaned his chimney, way back when, chimbly's whut
we called em. Smoke stacks belchin' black
makin' black moths invisible to voracious
gulls.
Now the peppered moths are free
to be white-ish, for better or worse.

----

right, now, do right or

miss the mark,
the specific mark you made, maybe,
imagining, abstract obstructions missed
by the skin on Job's teeth as you run past

right now to more. You know?

----=

Story telling was the same as lying when I was a child, to me.

Telling stories was my gift I never took. Or am I lying? or mad,
in the old way.
Chailot's rag picker was my best friend.

No noble thought ever found it's home in my head, once
I thunk it, it stunk to high heaven, for me stinkin' thinkin' it.

Po' ems sang sour to fiddles wit' one strang and drums with no
cymbals
Screamin' he owed m' soul the comp'ny sto' bang bang thud.

I died, he lied, and lived to tell this story, ****** if I know,
****** if I don't.

True as true can be. I am lost, but once was found,
lyin' rough, uncut in acres of unseen gems.
----
* Voltaire refused to teach me any thing I could not define:
late 14c., deffinen, diffinen, "to specify; to fix or establish authoritatively;" of words, phrases, etc., "state the signification of, explain what is meant by, describe in detail," from Old French defenir, definir "to finish, conclude, come to an end; bring to an end; define, determine with precision," and directly from Medieval Latin diffinire, definire, from Latin definire "to limit, determine, explain," from de "completely" (see de-) + finire "to bound, limit," from finis "boundary, end" (see finish (v.)). From c. 1400 as "determine, declare, or mark the limit of." Related: Defined; defining.

So, imagine facets unseen, I am at least a meme, a bubble rising on the tide. Think, as you will. Amen?
Incorporating radical (root-related) definitions via cut and paste is my way of acknowledging that I have no ex-uses left for using words in a wrong, thus lying, way.
Olivia Kent Dec 2013
Lost Tommorows!

Not a doll of china.
Nor porcelain within.
A heart that beats relentlessly.
Without an ounce of sin.
Sound bits cry sorrow.
For too many lost tomorrows.
The tomorrows that could have maybe been.

With hands so warm.
Caring kiss.
Yesterday should be erased.
But in your presence was amazed.
Discovered for the ****** love.
An all improbable, even impossible dream.
A dream come true.
When face to face.
I met you.
Smiled for once.
This doll's visage, now truly blue.

As she sits and muses misery.
You and I were meant to be.
In real life and poetry.
You are all my lost tomorrows.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Thank you for the memories **
It was love that was the ******..not me x
If you were asking me
to let go,
it would be like
asking me to
let go of...
my dreams, my hopes,
and my wants-
All Of My Tomorrows!
Being with you...
I see my dreams
coming true!
In you...
I see my hopes
coming true!
Having you as mine...
I feel my wants
coming true!
All Of My Tomorrows
are filled with
my dreams, my hopes,
and my wants-
because of you!
But, without you...
my dreams
would seem dreamless,
my hopes
would seem hopeless,
and my wants
would seem wantless!
Without you...
All Of My Tomorrows
would seem so empty!

2007

COPYRIGHT; Sabrina Denise Healey,
~Angelmom~
From the time of Adam and Eve
springs visions of the tomorrows and make believes
with a beauty from the beginning of space and social climb
we have floated through space and time ...

Through every reminiscence of what might could be
stand wonders of years and centuries that couldn't agree
reaching for the stars, making love on the Milky Way
or laughing and splashing, in our silky shores array ...

Tunnel to tunnel, without end, near that might
light fades, with no candlelight in sight
The dark resides with the blue earth beneath
with spinning wheals flying high that leaves ...

It comes without notice, nor bleak or weight of time
life will run as one with hearts to carry that begins crime
nor guilt or pride, nations stand in to block
with visions of tomorrows, take hold of walls that antilock ...

Debbie Brooks 2014
Yenson Jul 2018
A while ago in East London, in an area called Poplar
a black man lived with his wife
Quiet, hardworking, law-abiding they both were.
never courted a scandal, never committed a crime
Just went about their business, working for  better tomorrows

Then next door a Scottish family of five moved in
and immediately started borrowing from couple next door
Do you have sugar, do you have bread, can I borrow a fiver
till our Giro arrives next week, please another tenner for Jim
He has to pay a fine.

Empty beer cans littered their doorway, they all drank like fish
fights and arguments rang late into the night
Police visited twice, thrice weekly and it was known Jim burgled.
and was always doing time, when not drunk and fighting
Joan eldest girl was pregnant at sixteen and Tom fourteen had
done two stretches in juvenile detention
Last daughter Kelly was also to end up in the duff at sixteen

Amounts borrowed was now sizable, the odd fiver repaid
stolen items regularly offered and rejected by quiet couple next door
Invites to the black man to visit while Jim in jail politely declined
Come and have a drink with me and my young daughters
No thanks, got to go and cook, my Mrs would be returning soon.

The family from hell has turned the neighborhood to hell
constant break-ins all around
strange men coming and going, fights and noise, beer cans
for carpets, stairwells reeking of ****, Tom and friends and
Marijuana fumes graced the stairs and veranda.
Mrs Scottish and two young daughters constant smiling invitations
to black man next door, duly always deftly rejected.

Black man and Mrs decided to stop lending money
it was all going on beer and smoke and never paid back
By the end of the week, their car had been vandalized and four
wheels removed, racist leaflets started appearing on veranda.
No more smiling coyly invites, now just loud music and loud
intermittent bangs on walls from next door.
We must complain, we most report all this to the Landlords.
No, lets just ignore them, not worth the hassle.

Then it happened, black man arrives home one afternoon
and finds his front door ajar, they had been burgled.
Seething with anger he stormed next door to be met by Mrs S
'you ******* thieves have robbed me, how can you be so low,
after all we've done to try and help you. None of you work, You are a bunch of lazy
workshy, welfare scroungers, you are pathetic lowlife. why don't you go and get a job instead of burgling houses and getting drunk all day long
I will start a petition to move you away from the neighborhood.
You no-good non working class scums'  a disgrace and an affront to the hardworking working classes. You ******* racist bullies, I will show you, you can't
mess with me'

Mrs S smiled wickedly and said, you will see
'character assassination, public humiliation, we'll ruin your life and you'd wish you are dead by the time we finish with you and your chicken legs wife. I will show you who runs the manor in East London.'
You can't do that, black man replied, I have done nothing wrong, you are the bare-faced thieves, you shameless woman. We have had enough of you and your anti-social behaviour. You are not going to mess with us no more!

OH, YES! they can and by jove, they did.
Mrs S retorted' You are the foreigner here, you are the one that would be leaving the country
and going back to your Jungle'.
Black man called wife to tell her, she came home immediately
the police came, no evidence, here's a crime report, get your door
fixed. How about searching next door, we can't, no witnesses.
And then Black man's life changed FOREVER.

Should I write about the intimidation from other white families
in the neighborhood, should I write about how the Local Socialist
Party got involved, and launched a propaganda campaign about a black Conservative member dissing the Working Classes,  should I write about how one of his beloved dogs was
killed, should I write about a rumour campaign that black man was a wife-beater, a ****, a con man, a greedy parasite, should I write about sudden hostilities and bullying at his work place, how his wife was also sacked, about being randomly insulted and abused in the streets, about kids spitting on him, about being shunned inexplicably by locals
he's known for years. Should I write about outrageous fabrication, smears and humiliation.
Should I write about political victimization, about the black man 'who thinks he is better than us all,' about how a wedge was driven between him and his wife, till she broke and upped and left without warning,
should I write about how strangers shouted 'solidarity with the working Class' at him, should I write about daily torments and constant harassment everywhere he goes, should I write about Criminal gang stalking,
should I write about being informed they were going to ruin his career, ruin his marriage and ruin his reputation, check, all done. S I write about how they said they were going to chuck mud at him everywhere he went and blacken his name forever, should i write about pure isolation, about being made a target and being  hounded and stalked and disrespected everywhere. Should I write about how they stated they were going to drive him insane and drive him to suicide.

If so, WE WILL BE HERE ALL DAY.
Just  know that somewhere in London, a decent, law-abiding progressive, and innocent black man, is now on his own, broke, in debts and on Welfare benefits, unable to find a job, friendless and isolated, discredited and shunned.  He is still being stalked, harassed and hounded, round the clock. All for daring to stand up to CRIMINALS.

IS THERE JUSTICE IN THE WORLD?
IS THIS WHAT ENGLAND HAS BECOME?
lekka Aug 2018
My Love

There are times when behind your smile there is sorrow, behind you laughter there are tears.
I just want you to know that behind you there will always be me.
I will cherish you for the rest of my life because you offered me what I can't buy: "LOVE", and when you feel alone just look at the spaces of you fingers.
Remember that in those spaces, you can see my fingers locked with yours "FOREVER"



True Love and Devotion

They say, "The Older the violin, the sweeter the music". Well, I see that in you. I see that in our love.
My love for you gets sweeter and sweeter each day and so are we.
Throughout the years we've been together, it amazes me to find more reasons to love and cherish you. I tried to make a list but I'm out of words.
My heart is full of joy and all I know is... "I am not whole without you".
For as long as I live, I cannot think of the best gift but "My True Love and Devotion" to you.
I love you now and always.



There Is No One Like You

There's no one who can take your place.
The way you smile, the way you look, the way you always know what I am thinking about, the way you gave me hug when all was needed, the way you cry, laugh, listen and love.
You share your hopes and dreams and help me shared mine; you touch my life and there will never be another you.
You have touched me more profoundly than I ever thought you could touch me.
I love you.



Each Day Love Letter

I needed you and I found you embracing me, I laughed with you and a rainbow appeared, I shared with you and I felt no fear, I believed in you and saw my trust rewarded, I dreamed with you and my dreams came true.
Each day I find more happiness in you. Our Love grows sweeter and stronger each day.
I know we have the kind of love that is really unique and I know that the most important part in my life is YOU.



Forever Love

Words are not enough to express how special you are to me and if I have to tell you a hundred times of how much "I love You", I will never go weary.
How can I let go of someone who brought so much joy in my life?
Never... Never will I let go.
I will love you always and forever.
Forever ... I will stay by your side.
Forever ... I'll be your companion.
Forever ... I will do anything for you.
Forever ... I'll go with you.
Forever ... I'll bring you the sunshine.
Forever ... I'll comfort your tears.
Forever ... I'll gather up rainbows to chase away all your fears.
Forever ... my love will be true.
Forever ... I will love only YOU.



Promise Of Love

Lets promise to take good care of our love. Lets nurture it, honour it and strengthen it.
Lets teach our love to know more about us and always keep it just misty-eyed gentle, laughing and sweet as it is right now.
I promise that I'll run to you when you are far from me, I'll hug you tight when you're sad, I'll stay by your side when you're feeling lonely, I'll wipe your tears when they start to flow.
I will Love you for all Eternity.



You And Me

It's you and me, my sweetheart, just You and Me ...
I love what we made together and I want you to know that no words can describe how deeply you touch my heart.
I tried so hard to put my thoughts on a paper, but words escape every time I try.
I only know that I Love you truly ... I Love you deeply, more and more each day. I don't know what I would do without you.
You and Me, only you and me until our last days.



I Love You

I love you for being my sweetheart, I love you for being my partner and my friend.
I love you for the caring and joy that you share without end.
I love you for the warm tender touch and the things you do for me.
I love you for the way you help all my dreams come true and for filling my world with your love.
I love you for all you are and what you are.
I love you Today, Tomorrow, Forever ...
I'll never stop loving you.



Thank You, My Love

My dear, you know that I tell you all the time that "I Love You" and how glad I am we found each other.
I talk about how much you mean to me and how wonderful my life is because of you, but I don't recall saying " Thank You".
Thank you for liking me as I am.
Thank you for loving me and letting me know about it.
Thank You for sharing you with me in your special way.
Just know that in my heart, I thank you all the time, for a lot of things. Most of all for being you.
Thank you, my love!



My Dearest Love

My Dearest Love,
Love opened my eyes ... I never knew what really love is until I knew your love and so everything else became clear.
You have touched my heart in a very special way and you make me look to tomorrows expectingly, excited about the good things to come.

I prayed and longed for LOVE that grows like flowers in the fields, for LOVE to feel as time goes on, for LOVE I'll care till the end, for Love I'll cherish and keep forever.
You're the one I have been waiting for, you're that someone special I've been longing for.
Now I know, my life will always be a beautiful thing that bloomed out of your love for me.
I Love You, My Darling.



You Came To Me

In the middle of my loneliness and longing, in the middle of being so alone in a place where no one seemed to care, you came to me. You found me there. You lifted me up and you give me hope.
My sweetheart, you give me the kind of love that I have never received from anyone before.
Now I am wrapped around your loving arms and I feel so secure with you. You always told me to never let go and never give up on love because "everything in this world begins because of love". I want to thank you for that.
I would be lost without you. I so much appreciate the way you bestow your love and care to me. I know deep within my heart, you are here to stay. We will stay happy together and grow much deeper in love together, trusting each other.
I love you.



I Will Wait For You



It was not hard for me to fall in love with you. You are so easy to love.
The hardest part is being away from you, but I know that the best part is when we will be together again.
I'm longing for that moment. God knows how much I miss you.
We may be apart, but my love for you stays stronger and sweeter.
When I feel alone, I close my eyes and I can feel your arms wrap around me, your tender kisses and sweet whispers of "I love you".

My Love, all I ever need is you and all I want is to hold you forever. To laugh with you, to share each moment with you but for now I will wait for that sweet moment.
When it comes, I will hold your hands forever.
And love you forever
Seazy Inkwell Aug 2018
Papers, Papers, Papers

Whiter than aching teeth,

Whiter than whites of tilted eyes,

Whiter than funeral wreaths.

My hands shake as I write this,
Filed away myths; Stolen lined sheets
 My index finger chained by red tapes,

words mix and ground breaks,
I'm the one the world forsakes

Yellow maize, littered leaves,
all twisted into
black ink and clean sharp white paper blades.



-------"I am in a bit of daze," I tell myself, "look at those flaccid bits;

there lay the logs who use to be the jungle of my childhood dreams."

------"Don't be amazed," I replied, "these leafless branches and twigs are for 
your Papier-Mâché degrees."


So I listen to my second self once,

the more logical cynical satirical one,

Treading on the plot of their paper works,

playing crosswords as anxiety uncork

my thoughts turn to the bankable orcs,

just as my career forks



Maybe I should be like my mother,

Marking numbers on a deck of cards-- waltzing with Chance.

Maybe I should be like my father,

Toiling for some rich men's grandson-- seething in Trance.

Maybe I should be like the Other,

Going along with the system-- thanking myself

beneath a cap, a diploma, a piece of paper.



I wore these books like bank notes tuxedoes,

I was promised the world by the credits I borrowed.

Must I go along with the mechanism of their game,

or should I rise up against all odds

Opposing, debating, rebelling against

this bundle, this trouble, funneling me into no-tomorrows

Or must I write it all down,

in my prayers against their lawyers, who need no reminds

Or must I shred, smear, and tear the papers with my own bare hands



But what will I ever be to them, friends?

A papercut, perhaps.
congrats on your first day
Timmy Shanti Aug 2018
I want us
To see
A million
Tomorrows
To see the sun
In all its splendour
Day and night

I want you
To forget
Your sorrows
Relax a little
Take your time

You know
Our world
Is magic illustrated
It’s there
With us
It’s there
In us

That’s why I need
A million tomorrows
To see the sun
To touch the sky

Our time, alas
Is short
Forever fading

There’s nothing
We could do
There’s everything
To try

By trying
I don’t mean
Exertion

We dare
We do
We fly
4 DVD!
Helen Jul 2015
is not a disability to me
be it PTSD
or Bi Polar
or Anxiety Depression
or just riding Solo

it's not a disability to me
it may play havoc
with my everyday life but
it's not an impediment
or an indication
that you lack ability
to deal with living strife

it's not a disability to me
it's more a heightened empathy
a conscious awareness
not a disease (some cases can be)
but not a disability to me

it just means your fortitude
takes you to the next level
when the ground falls
beneath your feet
you don't lay down to grovel
you find ways to make
a near endless day
better than it was yesterday
you praise all tomorrows
because you made it today

your mental disabilty
has never been a disability
to me
*in any way
I don't see you as anything other than the person I love. We all change as we go along :)
Just when I thought I was ashore,
My waves crack once more,

Here I stare at the walls above,
Lying, aware of nothing more.

Just when I thought I was home,
Just when I thought I could be alone,

You came,
You've grown,
In, and out of my fleeting realities,

I fly athunder'd by this reckless mind,
I fly, blunder'd into the past I'd thought I'd left behind.
Sleep,

Quiet, I say.
There's nothing left to say but,
Just wait.
There's no need to cry,

I'd merely thought I'd lost my way,
Silently,
I just have to remember,

My yesterdays,
Will never be my tomorrows.

~Robert van Lingen
Left Foot Poet Jul 2018
this man of constant tomorrows,
hopeful Mondays, bad Fridays,
a man of constant sorrows,
pictures and poems from a life
celebrating constant recalibration,

never allowed to forget that the
years of lucky will run out,
like the string you saved from packages were delivered,
when come the years with
no luck and no more packages arriving
Logan Robertson Aug 2018
My Sister, I Watched You Fall-2

My little nephew, I was sorry for your sorrows
When the whims of your mother stormed your tomorrows
You didn't know who your father was
Or why the branches of your tree sagged its paws

For you walked thru the halls of life mauled
By a lost paw that grabbed your mind and sadness walled
I could see it in your mind's eyes, the question marks
Of why other families have fathers at the parks

From the time you were a little child of two
You would love to go with uncle to the zoo
Then as the wheels in your mind started to click
Seeing other kids with fathers, it made you sick

You were young seedling lacking the nourishment
The parts of the puzzle missing fulfillment
But hear this, my little nephew, your uncle tried
And ... at the mercy of your mother's whims, I cried

We'd play the role of father and son
Fish a dream, toss the past, paint some fun
We'd **** weeds while wrestling through a reservoir of tears
Aborted in time, a lake, two swans and a duckling in good cheers

My nephew, I would take you around the world if I could
But hear this you were never, never driftwood
For I had spent as much time visiting you
In absence of a fathers touch, you never knew

I shed more tears today as I catch wind of your child
For its teeth bites and gust of whims, again, run wild
Do I offer congratulations knowing the lake is devoid
Of future swans and a duckling, walled in my mind's void

No. My nephew, I'm choked in tears that crawl
On the face of the earth, I sprawl
I thought you learned, child uncorked
On wings of albatross and not the stork

Logan Robertson

8/16/2018
Play on words-paws, mauled. At age two, he was a child prodigy
with an eidetic memory. He was a **** at math, count change impressively, knew the times' table, like how many donuts in five in a half dozen. We would study the map, he knew all the states and capitals. I was impressed watching him grow and blossom. Then one day at that young age he learned why other kids had fathers and he didn't. It hurt him badly. He recoiled. He rebelled. He purposely started to give wrong answers to my teaching, as he started to lose interest. And things waned after that understandingly so. But for a while there he was so bright. This is a sad page to turn.
Marshal Gebbie Jun 2018
Steven my boy,

We coasted into a medieval pub in the middle of nowhere in wildest Devon to encounter the place in uproarious bedlam. A dozen country madams had been imbibing in the pre wedding wine and were in great form roaring with laughter and bursting out of their lacy cotton frocks. Bunting adorned the pub, Union Jack was aflutter everywhere and a full size cut out of HM the Queen welcomed visitors into the front door. Cucumber sandwiches and a heady fruit punch were available to all and sundry and the din was absolutely riotous……THE ROYAL WEDDING WAS UNDERWAY ON THE GIANT TV ON THE BAR WALL….and we were joining in the mood of things by sinking a bevy of Bushmills Irish whiskies neat!

Now…. this is a major event in the UK.

Everybody loves Prince Harry, he is the terrible tearaway of the Royal family, he has been caught ******* sheila’s in all sorts of weird circumstance. Now the dear boy is to be married to a beauty from the USA….besotted he is with her, fair dripping with love and adoration…..and the whole country loves little Megan Markle for making him so.

The British are famous for their pageantry and pomp….everything is timed to the second and must be absolutely….just so. Well….Nobody told the most Reverend Michael Curry this…. and he launched into the most wonderful full spirited Halleluiah sermon about the joyous “Wonder of Love”. He went on and on for a full 14 minutes, and as he proceeded on, the British stiff upper lips became more and more rigidly uncomfortable with this radical departure from protocol. Her Majesty the Queen stood aghast and locked her beady blue eyes in a riveting, steely glare, directed furiously at the good Reverend….to no avail, on he went with his magic sermon to a beautiful rousing ******….and an absolute stony silence in the cavernous interior of that vaulting, magnificent cathedral. Prince Harry and his lovely bride, (whose wedding the day was all about), were delighted with Curry’s performance….as was Prince William, heir to the Throne, who wore a fascinating **** eating grin all over his face for the entire performance.

Says a lot, my friend, about the refreshing values of tomorrows Royalty.

We rolled out of that country pub three parts cut to the wind, dunno how we made it to our next destination, but we had one hellava good time at that Royal Wedding!

The weft and the weave of our appreciation fluctuated wildly with each day of travel through this magnificent and ancient land, Great Britain.

There was soft brilliant summer air which hovered over the undulating green patchwork of the Cotswolds whilst we dined on delicious roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, from an elevated position in a medieval country inn..... So magnificent as to make you want to weep with the beauty of it all….and the quaint thatched farmhouse with the second story multi paned windows, which I understood, had been there, in that spot, since the twelfth century. Our accommodation, sleeping beneath oaken beams within thick stone walls, once a pen for swine, now a domiciled overnight bed and pillow of luxury with white cotton sheets for weary Kiwi travellers.

The sadness of the Cornish west coast, which bore testimony to tragedy for the hard working tin miners of the 1800s. A sharp decrease in the international tin price in 1911 destituted whole populations who walked away from their life’s work and fled to the New World in search of the promise of a future. Forlorn brick ruins adorned stark rocky outcrops right along the coastline and inland for miles. Lonely brick chimneys silhouetted against sharp vertical cliffs and the ever crashing crescendo of the pounding waves of the cold Atlantic ocean.

No parking in Padstow….absolutely NIL! You parked your car miles away in the designated carpark at an overnight cost….and with your bags in tow, you walked to your digs. Now known as Padstein, this beautiful place is now populated with eight Rick Stein restaurants and shops dotted here and there.

We had a huge feed of piping hot fish and chips together with handles of cold ale down at his harbour side fish and chip restaurant near the wharfs…place was packed with people, you had to queue at the door for a table, no reservations accepted….Just great!

Clovelly was different, almost precipitous. This ancient fishing village plummeted down impossibly steep cliffs….a very rough, winding cobbled stone walkway, which must have taken years to build by hand, the only way down to the huge rock breakwater which harboured the fishing boats Against the Atlantic storms. And in a quaint little cottagey place, perched on the edge of a cliff, we had yet another beautiful Devonshire tea in delicate, white China cups...with tasty hot scones, piles of strawberry jam and a huge *** of thick clotted cream…Yum! Too ****** steep to struggle back up the hill so we spent ten quid and rode all the way up the switch back beneath the olive canvass canopy of an old Land Rover…..money well spent!

Creaking floorboards and near vertical, winding staircases and massive rock walls seemed to be common characteristics of all the lovely old lodging houses we were accommodated in. Sarah, our lovely daughter in law, arranged an excellent itinerary for us to travel around the SW coast staying in the most picturesque of places which seeped with antiquity and character. We zooped around the narrow lanes, between the hedgerows in our sharp little VW golf hire car And, with Sarah at the helm, we never got lost or missed a beat…..Fantastic effort, thank you so much Sarah and Solomon on behalf of your grateful In laws, Janet and Marshal, who loved every single moment of it all!

Memories of a lifetime.

Wanted to tell the world about your excitement, Janet, on visiting Stoke on Trent.

This town is famous the world over for it’s pottery. The pottery industry has flourished here since the middle ages and this is evidenced by the antiquity of the kilns and huge brick chimneys littered around the ancient factories. Stoke on Trent is an industrial town and it’s narrow, winding streets and congested run down buildings bear testimony to past good times and bad.

We visited “Burleigh”.

Darling Janet has collected Burleigh pottery for as long as I have known her, that is almost 40 years. She loves Burleigh and uses it as a showcase for the décor of our home.

When Janet first walked into the ancient wooden portals of the Burleigh show room she floated around on a cloud of wonder, she made darting little runs to each new discovery, making ooh’s and aah’s, eyes shining brightly….. I trailed quietly some distance behind, being very aware that I must not in any way imperil this particular precious bubble.

We amassed a beautiful collection of plates, dishes, bowls and jugs for purchase and retired to the pottery’s canal side bistro,( to come back to earth), and enjoy a ploughman’s lunch and a *** of hot English breakfast tea.

We returned to Stoke on Trent later in the trip for another bash at Burleigh and some other beautiful pottery makers wares…..Our suit cases were well filled with fragile treasures for the trip home to NZ…..and darling Janet had realised one of her dearest life’s ambitions fulfilled.

One of the great things about Britain was the British people, we found them willing to go out of their way to be helpful to a fault…… and, with the exception of BMW people, we found them all to be great drivers. The little hedgerow, single lane, winding roads that connect all rural areas, would be a perpetual source of carnage were it not for the fact that British drivers are largely courteous and reserved in their driving.

We hired a spacious ,powerful Nissan in Dover and acquired a friend, an invaluable friend actually, her name was “Tripsy” at least that’s what we called her. Tripsy guided us around all the byways and highways of Britain, we couldn’t have done without her. I had a few heated discussions with her, I admit….much to Janet’s great hilarity…but Tripsy won out every time and I quickly learned to keep my big mouth shut.

By pure accident we ended up in Cumbria, up north of the Roman city of York….at a little place in the dales called “Middleton on Teesdale”….an absolutely beautiful place snuggled deep in the valleys beneath the huge, heather clad uplands. Here we scored the last available bed in town at a gem of a hotel called the “Brunswick”. Being a Bank Holiday weekend everything, everywhere was booked out. The Brunswick surpassed ordinary comfort…it was superlative, so much so that, in an itinerary pushed for time….we stayed TWO nights and took the opportunity to scout around the surrounding, beautiful countryside. In fact we skirted right out to the western coastline and as far north as the Scottish border. Middleton on Teesdale provided us with that late holiday siesta break that we so desperately needed at that time…an exhausting business on a couple of old Kiwis, this holiday stuff!

One of the great priorities on getting back to London was to shop at “Liberty”. Great joy was had selecting some ornate upholstering material from the huge range of superb cloth available in Liberty’s speciality range.

The whole organisation of Liberty’s huge store and the magnificent quality of goods offered was quite daunting. Janet & I spent quite some time in that magnificent place…..and Janet has a plan to select a stylish period chair when we get back to NZ and create a masterpiece by covering it with the ***** bought from Liberty.

In York, beautiful ancient, York. A garrison town for the Romans, walled and once defended against the marauding Picts and Scots…is now preserved as a delightful and functional, modern city whilst retaining the grandeur, majesty and presence of its magnificent past.

Whilst exploring in York, Janet and I found ourselves mixing with the multitude in the narrow medieval streets paved with ancient rock cobbles and lined with beautifully preserved Tudor structures resplendent in whitewash panel and weathered, black timber brace. With dusk falling, we were drawn to wild violins and the sound of stamping feet….an emanation from within the doors of an old, burgundy coloured pub…. “The Three Legged Mare”.

Fortified, with a glass of Bushmills in hand, we joined the multitude of stomping, singing people. Rousing to the percussion of the Irish drum, the wild violin and the deep resonance of the cello, guitars and accordion…..The beautiful sound of tenor voices harmonising to the magic of a lilting Irish lament.

We stayed there for an hour or two, enchanted by the spontaneity of it all, the sheer native talent of the expatriates celebrating their heritage and their culture in what was really, a beautiful evening of colour, music and Ireland.

Onward, across the moors, we revelled in the great outcrops of metamorphic rock, the expanses of flat heather covering the tops which would, in the chill of Autumn, become a spectacular swath of vivid mauve floral carpet. On these lonely tracts of narrow road, winding through the washes and the escarpments, the motorbike boys wheeled by us in screaming pursuit of each other, beautiful machines heeling over at impossible angles on the corners, seemingly suicidal yet careening on at breakneck pace, laughing the danger off with the utter abandon of the creed of the road warrior. Descending in to the rolling hills of the cultivated land, the latticework of, old as Methuselah, massive dry built stone fences patterning the contours in a checker board of ancient pastoral order. The glorious soft greens of early summer deciduous forest, the yellow fields of mustard flower moving in the breeze and above, the bluest of skies with contrails of ever present high flung jets winging to distant places.

Britain has a flavour. Antiquity is evidenced everywhere, there is a sense of old, restrained pride. A richness of spirit and a depth of character right throughout the populace. Britain has confidence in itself, its future, its continuity. The people are pleasant, resilient and thoroughly likeable. They laugh a lot and are very easy to admire.

With its culture, its wonderful history, its great Monarchy and its haunting, ever present beauty, everywhere you care to look….The Britain of today is, indeed, a class act.

We both loved it here Steven…and we will return.

M.

Hamilton, New Zealand

21 June 2018
Dedicated with love to my two comrades in arms and poets supreme.....Victoria and Martin.
You were just as I imagined you would be.
M.
AP Staunton Mar 2016
Conor's got P.E. , so his kit is washed,
I've wrapped his butties in foil, so they don't get squashed,
Pork Luncheon meat, in a crispy roll,
And a carton of Ribena, to fill that hole.

Jess starts College at One, so she'll wake at Five - to ,
Cheese and Pickle, will have to do,
I've had my pint of milk, with three Weetabix,
Got a Flagon of Cider, all the boxes are ticked.

A days grafting ahead, out near Billingshurst,
Laying bricks and blocks, building up a thirst,
And home to the hungry, back to the shops,
It's either Chicken Kievs, or half-price lamb chops.

Custard and Pie, hot milky drinks,
Then everyones asleep, except for me, who thinks,
About tomorrows butties, fruit and snacks,
Calories, nutrition, vitamins and facts.

Up at dawn, in an old bobble-hat,
Making food for them all, even the cat,
A tin of Tuna, he's well impressed,
Another flagon of Cider, another sweat-stained vest.
A butty is a sandwich, in my neck of the woods
Madisen Kuhn Jul 2014
i don’t want to be someone who writes in pencil
and eats too slowly and walks with eyes that
are glued to the sidewalk and tops of strangers’ feet
i’ve been underwater for so long that
i’ve forgotten lungs are meant
to be filled with air; exhaling seems
more like something found
on the second star to the right, rather
than a process that is meant to be
done twenty-three thousand times a day

i feel like an old woman who
looks in the mirror and all she can see
are wrinkles and white hair and tired eyes and
the absence of who she used to be

but i am not someone who turns away
from sunsets and pretends
that darkness is all i’ve ever known;
someone who thinks
the sun will never rise again

because the sun will rise again—
the words hiding inside of me will
find their way out, because
i cannot hold my breath forever

i am not someone who writes in pencil
and erases the bits that are too
honest and too imperfect and too real
to claim as thoughts of my own

i cannot keep my lips pursed and
hands tied behind my back,
i cannot keep pretending i am
a shadow of who i used to be

my tomorrows hold suns much
brighter than ones that have risen
over horizons of my past;
i have not reached the summit yet

there is so much more me
for me to become

each day, i am new.
Arvind Krish Nov 2015
There were times
When I loved Tomorrows
Than Todays
But when those Tomorrows have become Todays
And had become Yesterdays,

I no longer crave for Tomorrows
And the lust for Todays are long gone.
I jut live in the traces of Yesterdays.

Is there any other concept than the above said
In Space-Time?
If Yes'
I'm on my way to  the TIME-MACHINE!
a poem about confessions of time
Francie Lynch Jan 2015
This day needs tomorrow
As much as
Tomorrow needs today.
Throw a stone,
Watch ripples lick the shore,
Then turn around
And ripple more;
Like magician's rings,
Smoke rings,
Wedding rings,
Entangling,
Enriching,
Intertwining,
Becoming Olympian.
At the epicentre
It's calm.
Relax
Tammy M Darby Mar 2016
The black horse of nocturnal dreams
That of which the cursed angels sing
The black horse
Of man's design
The black horse of untold times

Braided mane fiery long and flowing
Riding into the darkness all knowing
I am that which feeds the demons fear
Hidden in a blind man's tears

The black horse of lost tomorrows
The ghosts of suffering and sorrow
Thundering hooves of the written word
The sound of blood trumpets can be heard

Bringer of nocturnal dreams
That of which the dark angels sing.
The black horse with deep earth eyes
Vicious wind of the people cries

The black horse of lost tomorrows
The ghosts of suffering and sorrow
       The listener of your agonized screams
The bearer of your darkest dreams


@ Copyright Tammy M Darby  3/6/2016
ryn Feb 2015
You are the light
That hides below the horizon
I await humbly for your rays
To illuminate this darkened season

You are the beacon
That would build me anew
Equip me with newfound notions
When dreams and hopes are far and few

You are the air
Of a fresh new start
Allowing this body another chance
At retrieving a brand new heart

You are the opportunity
Held my breath for far too long
Soon be granted to live again
And choose the right from the wrong

You are the day
Like many have too often said
Due to arrive after tonight
And embrace me as I laid in bed

You are the tomorrow
The promise of my brand new day
But there have been many tomorrows
That have come and gone away

You are my tomorrow
My future, bearing much needed balm
Maybe tomorrow I may finally realise
**That you would never ever come
SK Fisher Apr 2012
I’m not truly concerned
With your thoughts of me
The hollow beliefs
As to whom you perceive I am
Your test are pointless
For your standards I will not pass
Only meeting my own expectations
At least those of doing better then my past
Yes surely its a reckless path
Who knows where the banishment may lay
Consequences are tomorrows problem
Carpe diem motherlovers, I’m here to seize the day!
So It has been a long tenure
By now I surely feel like hell
Just let me tell you this
People up at four, have a story to tell
Cartwright Mar 2010
I don't know what you want me to write ,
but you say write what I feel and /or
consciously need to express,
Towards
You,Me,
or any feeling within maybe even this
desolate world that we live in and
yes I say desolate because of the economic
sways that we go through,
the depressional phase of their so called
life that they want us to go through.
Controlling us to a point were we rely on their tarnished ways;
instead of forming to our traditional ways of life
they were so how they say simple when
WE know ourselves that slavery even in this day is no easy task.
We would love to be C.E.O's,
wake up tomorrow with our banks and pockets full of cash
so our babies and selves can have all we ever wanted to be
Lovers,
Haters,
Pimps,
and Playas.
We hate what they do to us,
but we wanna be just like them as well they hate us common folk
but they want our lives and traditions
our concurring beauty that attracts power,
great deeds and reoccurring needs to do better
to be determined no matter what the cost
we all criticize the other w/o knowing
that we wanna be each other.
constantly changing the rules of our life
to coincide with each others.
White, Black, Hispanic, Asian:

Whites: wanna Dance like us, wanna clean like us, wanna be us and most of all wanna steal/concur us.

Hispanics: wanna work as hard as us, make love like us, do what we do and as well party like us.

Asians: wanna be freaks like We are, wanna play by traditional wars and compare their rules
to ours with this blunt phase of battle called KUMITE were we all war against each other to prove
to one another who has better strength;
see they even want our strength,
they also wanna dance like us and steal styles of our ancient Beauty of Us

Blacks: we are Bold Beauty, no doubt about that but some of us do as Whites, Asians, Mexican do
so are all of us living by our
tradition as we claim to or only some of us.

overall I'm not being Racist,
Communist,
Or Prejudice
I am being me a Liberal;
One who Lives by what works for me,
That takes the Ideas and methods of living from each
and use these objectives as a tool...
They say were the United States
but are we really UNITED especially in the way we
Love,
Live,
Work,
and Play.
well!  
                                         Tomorrows another day.
Christopher Nathaniel Cartwright
Copyright © 1983-Present
Stephan Sep 2016
.

Somewhere beyond today

the future slow dances with fate

as our hearts sing
in harmony

with yesterday’s love song
played to the melody of

all of our tomorrows
Compact Poem Series
Suzanne Penn Sep 2013
I am softly treading...
on newly sown soil
where the seeds I've planted
are just starting to grow

I'm quietly listening...
to dreams that are awakening
letting me know
I have so much to do...

I'm carefully watching...
my intentions unfold
yesterday's hopes, desire, beliefs
are now
tomorrows realities...
I'm gleefully gathering...
all the tools That I will use
to build my life anew
and finally discover
my true self...

I'm whispering to myself...
affirmations and intents
re-taping my inner voice
finally becoming
my own best friend...
1.

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distant
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.

2.

From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates,
if papers
are to be
served.

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.

Statesmen
boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.

Caravans
of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?


3.

From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


4.

From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists
lust.

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
beholding
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
soldiers.

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


5.

From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of
satyagraha?

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”

6.

Indeed,
physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my
illness.

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

Allah,  
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.

Selah


7.

From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.

Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops.

The deadly jinn
indiscriminately
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.

These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


8.

From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.


9.

From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.

10.

From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


11.

From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.


12.

From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
mourning
joins my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with the
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.


13.

From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
the black
plumes,
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated
city.

It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
stones of
desolation.

14.

From our
safe windows
we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
eying
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


15.

From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


16.

From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
shot
precedes
the wiz of a
passing bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.


17.

From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgment

Oakland
2/28/12
jbm
DJ Thomas Jul 2010
Poetry is often made impossible
and forgotten it dribbles away

Experiences begot are dried
in dusty memoriam of thoughts

Locked in chipped ornaments
pictured emotions die framed
in an old letter's sentenced pain

Decorative wordy entrapments
cannot fool or command love
however many silvered words
try to stir or grab at thine heart

Whereas times every moment in
your observed, captured thought
does cradle this beating heart

"We shall gift thought it's
touch and bites of freedom
then love it's sustenance
"

Fun's giggling thrashing bushes
of living sweating poetry

David x
copyright©DJThomas@inbox.com 2010
A Jun 2011
I want to grow old with you.
I want to wake you up
     in the middle of the night
     just to make sure you're okay.
I want to sit on the porch
     a glass of lemonade in hand
     and talk about all those old times.
I want to watch as our hair goes grey
     as our faces become lined
     and orthopedic shoes come into our fashion.
But for now we are not so old
     and all we have is now
     with no guarantee of a future.
In this moment under a tree
     we wish that today will turn into tomorrow
     and those days stretch into years.
For I want to grow old with you
     and live out our tomorrows together
     until we run out.
Timothy Roesch Mar 2014
Oh the cringing  demon of eternal youth,
******* away promise and hard won truth.
I see far more than ***, lingering, in her eyes
I see, instead, the milk teeth of youthful lies,
of forever and today, hopes and screams
replacing tomorrows, frayed at the seams.

Oh, mere ***, be gone, you sordid troll!
Crawl yourself back in your hole.
If ‘tis *** you brought to this trapped piece of light
then speak to your own soul and leave me a bite
of the apple she does not offer
and the delights you think her youth will proffer.

I have no time to dance to your twisted tune
of youth over too fast and maturity too soon!
What stinks more of your *******;
her stretched, prolonged, aging youth or back bared, partial  ******?

I giggle as I consider her Eve-like dreams
of bitten apples and grander things.
And God said, let there be light.
Is that truly all He said when he banished the night?

Maybe she is wet from being born.
From demon Youth’s desperate grasp she is torn
and into the world, for a moment, she is cashed;
back bared and ready to be lashed
by the ‘cruel’ reality we keep from youth…
…like bronzed, baby booties and baby’s lost tooth.

Maybe, coquettishly, she glances ahead,
away from the bonds of youth’s birthing bed;
not, as you apparently dream, toward some sordid affair
you see in bared skin and strands of dampened hair!

There is beauty in her eyes, it is true,
the beauty of youth’s first, full faced view
of tomorrow and tomorrows again…
Exactly how long do you think, she should remain a youth, then?
Oh the Apple that lingers past ripe upon a tree,
Snakeless, Eve-less, unchosen, unbitten for an eternity.
Shall we trap, virginal, in iron cages of our blind, stupid lust
the false innocence of youth only tears and death can rust?

Foolish, foolish Adam and blind, impregnable Eve; is *** all you can ever see?
I can peer past your layers and layers and layers of false, bitter modesty.
If you see ******* then know this, before you atone:
You bring that demon wherever you go and it is yours and yours alone.
Created while viewing the famous Miley Cyrus photograph of a young Miley in only a towel.
C E Ford Jan 2014
Whispers hello as the first streams of sunlight
inch their way in through their black chiffon veil,
gleaming on our garden of stale breath,
and down feathers.

Whispers goodnight as his proud freckles
become the constellations outside my window,
and the moon stretches her arms
for another night's work.

Whispers sorry after his words became feather-lances
jousting through my arguments until my armor
was askew and torn
at its paper seams.

Whispers tales of tomorrows and fortnights
to come under illusions of rich greens, blues, and yellows
he will finger paint on my forehead
like a warrior.

Whispers goodbyes, sweet and forlorn,
as he realizes promises and paints will not keep the morning
from snatching his prized possession from his cotton laced roost,
leaving him alone with just the rays of the sun
to admire his tail.
Got Guanxi Nov 2015
tomorrows yesterday is todays tomorrow.
Our time is borrowed from the onslaught of hollow thoughts,
invoked in sorrow.
i’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,
Still alienated by those metaphors as if we’ve never even met before.

The heart aches from the heart break,
i’m not even sure if I can take anymore.
Time takes it’s own sweet time.
Those bittersweet melodies so hard to define,
in time,
we atone.
played through the scales based upon the memories alone,
r0b0t Mar 2015
the aroma of the dead and dying
lingers heavy in my bed,
yesterdays shirt and tomorrows hate draped across a chair like falling flowers,
like the ones on my desk, picked
with joy and anger, but that has long since faded and wilted,
giving way to the dead and dying, like me,
wrapped tight in blankets,
clinging to the tiny voice of mother, on the other end of the phone,
repeating the refrain, the chorus, homage to the homesick,
"Everything will be all right, with time."

— The End —