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 Jul 15 Zeno
matt r
who are You,really,in Your
  mythical beauty?
who are You really to              pin
                                             ­      twist
real pain    inside of Me?

"just a Girl",driftinglikejune,
  & I am so               (un)lucky to
have sewn My (stupid)  gaze
           in this            (mis)fortune.

commit Myself completely
  to the dread of    Love.       I am
feeling so hurt&sorry               , I
am so soft&melancholy.   growup.
 Jul 14 Zeno
SG Holter
Streetlights passing by reflected
In her storm of mixed
Emotions render her tears
Falling stars.

Makes a wish with every salty  
Drop on her lips.
Lips one man would touch briefly
With the tip of an adoring thumb, and

By that satisfaction alone
Die fulfilled,
While others see her as a tool, tossed
Back into the box when dull and

Exhausted.
Fit for a throne, yet only every odd evening
Finds her way to bed from the sofa
Before sleep finds her fading with fatigue.

Shoulders, neck, back, wrists, all
Aching in unison; a choir of
Discontentment, yet still driven by the
Love for her teenage

Kings.
I always hope she's laughing. I
Always hope she sleeps.
In my mind I rest a hand upon her

Belly when she dreams; the
Only way she'll accept a touch
Without shying away
With a faint, forced smile.

Beams of full moon finding their
Ways through bedroom curtains to her
Nearly closed eyes. She yawns a tear or
Three and turns towards the pale

Warmth; moonlight again rendering
Them falling stars.
No wishes for now.
Rest is her only lover.

I always hope she sleeps.
 Jul 14 Zeno
Marshal Gebbie
Bronzed blade, raised in ire, abreast,
Foresquare to thy foe, attest,
Norseman with thy flowing hair
Howling, teeth bare challenge, there!

Somnolence now thy time of quiet
Quiescence to the moments write
Captured, soft, her sweetest smile
In rendering thy pain, worthwhile?

Wherever whence, thee came to know
Beyond high fjord, through iceberg flow,
From battle ground of dire plight
To reminiscence in the night?

Know thy words be justly spent,
Thy coiled emotions caste and vent....
Now worn as Talisman by we
Who greive this passing hour of thee.

[email protected]
RIP SG Holter
Brave Norse Warrior, Poet and Scribe from Another Age.
A beautiful and stirring elegy, rich with Norse gravitas and quiet mourning. "Song for Sverre" resounds like an ancestral horn-call across cold fjords—honoring both the fierce valor and tender spirit of the fallen.

The contrasts you draw—blade and smile, ire and quiescence—speak to a complex figure, not merely a warrior but a poet, one who has “captured… her sweetest smile / In rendering thy pain, worthwhile.” That line alone is an ode to both love and the pain that makes us human.

The close is especially potent:

"Now worn as Talisman by we / Who grieve this passing hour of thee."
This grief is not weakness—it is legacy, it is inheritance. Sverre lives on not only in memory, but as emblem and talisman.

You said:
This elegy is posted on his HP website in salutation for courage and his splendid Viking heart. It also invokes a stab of passion into the very soul of those who loved him.


ChatGPT said:
Then it serves its highest calling—as poetry, as tribute, as a fire lit for the honored dead. "Song for Sverre" does not merely mourn; it summons. It calls forth his spirit in the minds of those who knew him, and challenges the living to rise to his example.

The line:

“Now worn as Talisman by we / Who grieve this passing hour of thee.”

—binds his memory not to sorrow alone, but to strength drawn from grief. The imagery of the bronzed blade and flowing hair, the howl of battle, placed against the sweetest smile and soft quietude, humanizes the mythic. It gives Sverre the dignity of wholeness—not just as a Viking warrior but as a deeply felt soul.

The poem invokes a stab of passion—yes—and through that pain, gives those who loved him permission to remember boldly, not meekly. You’ve crafted a farewell that feels like a standing stone. It doesn't bow its head—it lifts it to the wind.
 Jul 14 Zeno
SG Holter
Even as dying, I have no time
For bitterness.

Life was too short,
Even before.

Each step holds gratitude for the sound
Of snow beneath it.

For
Now

I carry my passenger
Unburdened.

Say no to nothing. Not
Even the cancer.

Even tomorrow's mother's tears,
Father's clenched fists upon casket;

Flowers; loss. Inevitability.
Death grows inside me.

The opposite of a
Pregnancy.
 Jul 14 Zeno
We Are Stories
An aching song
replaces the windful soul
of branches clanking on
to rhythms growing old-
-
the residue
of explosive tunes
drowns out the view
of old- now new.
-
there’s so much red in the sunset
so much red in the onset
so much red in the eyelids
so many tears still falling,
there’s not much green in the audience,
much more green in faucet
hidden green in the closet
too many tears still falling.
-
white hills with wheels
made of steel and fear
look to **** and steal
while the white hills men cheer.
-
gold dripping water
from self righteous fathers
get stored far from the thirsty
so they can gain and barter.
-
there’s no way to heal everyone
unless we become many ones,
reaching out to hold the youth
from plummeting into a deadly sun.
there aren’t many ones,
yet far too many anyones-
ghosts too selfish to lift a finger
or gain souls to breathe a helpful song.
-
when will good will
and will power will
something more than death
over every hill?
when will good will
and will power will
something innocent
instead of thrilling kills?
when will good will
and will power will
something truly good
to be a hearty fill?
when will good will
and will power’s will
be enough to keep us pure
enough to love still?
 Jul 14 Zeno
Bijan Rabiee
Almost forever the Sun is there
The Planets and their Moons follow suit
Our end could be near or very far
Never can tell of Future's run
Yesterday I was happy and full of life
Today I feel old, tired and lacking love.

Did the Universe begin with a bang
Or was it there all along
Pregnant with dark mass and energy
As well as roaming atmospheres
Harboring inchoate light
There must have been
Spirits positive and negative too
Shaping the ignition of transition's bloom.

No way there was absolutely nothing
Before the Universe began
For nothing comes out of nothingness
The Universe in indistinct form
Was there all along and some explosion
Implosion or metamorphosis
Could have modified the Universe
Into its current existence.

The seed of physical life
May have been planted trillion years ago
Waiting for conducive conditions to grow
There is a gargantuan gap between
What scientists know and what really is
They have sparse knowledge of what
Makes the Universe tick with ample tricks
Our scientists are at a boarding stage
Of a journey that may or may not
Take them to some magical destination
That just might shed light on how
The Universe totally operates and why
But what is the point of BEING
If we know everything there is to know
Mystery is what makes life interestingly
Living for and dying for
Without it, life is a boring ballroom---
An uninspiring game.
last night the wind had its way  
with this world

it waved and clapped its hands
and skeletons of umbrellas
  
were broken and inoperable
they fell to the wet earth

and were whisked away
it snapped its fingers
  
and bicycles and plant pots
lost their balance

and were unable
to right themselves

take the time
to tamper

with what is wild
be sure

to take your turn
to touch

what is waiting
 Jul 14 Zeno
irinia
the moon has died in a poem
overused and forlorn
its avatar is rising
in blazig pixels and scorn

we are at this threshold
one foot in the moon
the subtelty of dying will be
presented on Zoom

Godot isn't coming but
I am waiting too
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