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Tatiana Aug 2018
Travel under the eastern sky
keep your eyes on the road, do not ask why
that barren landscape, the color of rye
makes the hardened townspeople cry.

Legend states that the dusty flatland
was a servant to the sun so grand
the sun demanded amusement from the land
and the land created the dance of the sand.

The sand would fly throughout the desert space
for the sun to bestow her grace.
The act would make a storm and erase
any proof of fate and leave no trace.

The townspeople never spoke of the event,
but you must know what happened to an extent
when small ones run away at the advent
of these storms, the sands erase all torment.

You must vow to not wander from the road
when the sands hear the sun's lovely ode
and feel the need for a storm to explode
to dance and bury us all, as the sun foretold.
© Tatiana
Hey hey I actually wrote this one before my concussion so with a couple of edits (and after much rest) i'm ready to post it. A part of me feels like there is an 'I' somewhere in here, but I'm fairly certain there isn't. I think my use of sounds that sound like 'I' are confusing me lol. No 'O' is next.
spysgrandson Dec 2017
the old woman stopped crying

though she knew the tears would return
like the prairie winds, without warning,
from some place she could not see    

soon they would come for him,
place him on the gurney
cover him in white shroud
wheel him through the door:

a horizontal journey,
like the vertical one he had made myriad times before,
on two strong legs, to and fro the pastures and pens
where he did sweat honest work  

she leaned over to kiss him a last time
in evening's fading light

she had honored his final request and turned him
so he could face the open window--his old eyes then toward the red barn, the gray fences, the ground his livestock grazed  

past all this, to the flatland that seemed to go on forever
seekai Sep 2021
I walk through a ghost town
where I’m never alone,
kicking empty cider cans across the road,
whispering secrets to the stale, morning air
where my life, at a standstill,
hangs over the beat of a single heart

and a single large Eye,
watching,
always watching,

judging my footsteps as I cross
the path, to a flatland, between the forest
and the streams of music playing in my ears -

there's a spring in my step this cold winter.
Even though I don’t see the sun until it’s too late,
I dance, like the dead, poison in my veins,
because I’m free from my grave.

I’m free from monochrome soil -
draped in a bright pink dress,
I kiss the days away with a warm hand in mine,
and a stolen, back-washed bottle in the other.

I skip on the pavement, rocking back and forth
to high notes and drum rolls,
where I find myself moving between friends and pages,
collared sweatshirts and daydreams.

I whisper my moments of happiness to the North Wind
and hope it travels South,

down to you, down home,

where you’ll hear of my vices
and understand everything.
this poem captures my first term experience in my first year of university. it deals with new-found, personal freedom, along with the chaotic response that comes with it. there's a sense of despair within the anarchy, but also a feeling of homesickness - i've missed you through it all; i want you to hear of my adventures.
Time, I found you, sky was clear blue…
Lake-fish plays, sunny summer days,
Flowers of Spring, brown guitar string
Ease our hearts, playing own parts…

Lonely wooden bench, narrow little trench
Save us for sure from being so impure,
All the way down, white long gown
Makes you my bride, tomato sun dried…

Micro-oven hot, tequila double shot
Nothing else matters, whoever scatters,
Only you & me, floating on the sea
Watching our sky, ready to full-fly…

So many days, we’ll remain always
Both of us care with faithful share
Wish to be there, lowest depth layer
Seems flatland, the life we planned…
 
You are my girl, precious hidden pearl
Love you always; bird in the cage
If you ever feel, stay there until,
Ever free you are, to fly forever …

But be ever sure, what you endure
Goes truly wrong or misread song!
Betrayer is better than wrong mind setter,
Love’s always new, can avail only few!…

Wish you my dear, nothing to fear
You’ll find me, in middle of the sea,
In troubled rainy day, I must say
I’m here with you, a friend so true…

Look up the sky, white clouds dry
Amid the Blue, only me & you
Will remain forever, ever & ever
I’ll love you, Honey days are still sunny… 

 
~ Anwar Parvez Shishir ~

Dhaka Bangladesh
15/JUNE/2014/Sunday
It's a VALID poem of LOVE forever whatever the situation is there. I found so many unhappy couples around but I couldn't find the exact reason for their early breakage even before starting their life together... This world is so beautiful and its human being is even more beautiful but the most beautiful thing is LOVE itself and the LOVE for the LIFE-Partner precisely. I have lost my LIFE-Partner forever who happened to be by my side always being shadow, she is my LOVELY LADY, she is LOVE, the LOVE that only few can avail in one's life...If my reader found this piece of work beautiful in expression, if it touches anyone's heart then share it happily with your BELOVED ones instantly, it must make lady so happy & blessed by all of you... Best wishes & thanks to all of you.

a p shishir
15/JUNE/2014/Su­nday
mark john junor Jul 2013
never dreamed that you'd be here
in the harsh light
of rolling wind
unfettered by toiling fingers
free of the recoil of shames blank face
some write some
some read
some dare to dream of a paradise
only to find a land of disintegrating smiles
seeing both sides of that hot coin
makes my eyes dust
read what iv written in her eyes
with my unsure hand
with my fractured heart
with the knowing
that after this
i am alone on this sea
with naught but starvation and stormfront
she quickens
its abyss or absolution
turn my eyes away from the open sky
i cannot face whats written there
she walks up to me
but frowns at something she perceives and drifts away
some write
some read
some dare to dream of paradise
only to find a land of desintergrating smiles
and the infestation of mirror cracked rooms
whos occupants are at best shadows of
the root of all evil (womens pink loafers)
Probability lurks behind the veil of your
Vintage velvety hair locks.
       Why don't you let them grow
Fond of the silk windwhirled fingertips

       I'm falling apart like the society's white lies
When I first saw the picture of your oldtime lesser plie
          Bohemian rascal poetic spirit


Do you still believe in soulfull foolishnesses?
     Where do you play your music??

Let's chill under the Flatland area's arbol

   Abbreviations of your blown up ****** desires
Are being revolutionized and mutinized by these

Enchanting  darklings

Dear dear darling
deep  romantic eyes     &
Suddenly I'm lost  inbetween days
Do you want it!!!?
~For You Fantastic Homeland Poet ~
'Hopes and Dreams'...explores the limitations of perception in more than three dimensions plus time.


I

Uncoupling hopes from truth sometimes reveals reality
Which is hard to bear
According to Eliot.
The difference between hope and what is real
Is sometimes the basis for laughter
Or tears…..
In equal measure
Depending on the deficit
Between reality, and the reality of hoping.
Two sides of the same coin
The masks of theatre,
Comedy and tragedy.

Yet reality is what we face day to day
Uncoupled from hope
An atheistic vision of what is true
In which dreams expire.

Hopes, dreams and reality
Congregate in theistic minds
As a woven integrity
But is the congress true?

Atheist and theist in perpetual conflict
One offering only truth,
The other hoping that belief is true
But, to what ….?
In this world caught in three dimensions
But do not forget time that marks when
We are born and when we die
According to Ecclesiastes.

The atheism of truths of a certain kind
Confined by the question asked
And who is asking, and the way of asking,
Atheist and theist talking at each other
But not in conversation
A dialogue of deafness to other points of view
An unbridged chasm for all of human history.

The certainty of truth is one problem,
Because certainty brooks no other view
But remember the constraints of truth’s
discovery and then assertion
In three dimensions, and do not forget time.

Unwittingly Carl Sagan made the point in flatland
A place of two dimensions,
Breadth and width, but no height
Infinitesimally flat, thin
Flat and thin, so that an apple
In its plump three dimensional roundness
Made its visit, announced its presence
But left only an infinitesimally flat, thin
Impression of its visitation,
With its announcement seemingly coming from wherever,
Infinite confusion.
For flatlanders who perceived a visitation
Without explanation
A mystery within which we experience
The determinism of truth
Not qualified by the dimensions
In which it’s made
Or defined
To the confusion of those who question truth,
If truth means the assertion of certainty.

Was it for flatlanders first cause?
Just like Paley’s watchmaker of the watch
found on the heath,
Each trapped in their respective
Two dimensions and three dimensions
Limited by their dimensionality
Of what they could see or imagine.
Not yet liberated by many dimensions
That liberated Tennyson to understand
That more is achieved by dreaming without limits.

Tennyson said…
That more things are achieved by prayer
Than this world dreams of,
But what are dreams?
Visions of hope, or the darkness of damnation?
But can we imagine these visions
In many dimensions?
And find new truths which we cannot perceive
In the day to day.

II

Dreams can be suspension
Between what is real and what we hope for,
Or ……
A plunge into an abyss of horrors
The nightmare’s nightcrusher
That reflects the fears of our experience,
The fears of Fuseli’s nights
Of grotesque creatures that taunt the hopes
Of our tomorrows
By revealing the layers of yesterday’s experience,
A past that haunts the future
In the day to day.

Yet redeemed by intentions
For the good,
And honourable to the nature of humankind,
And lifekind with which we share organic ancestry.

Dreams release the mind to find another place,
Another dimension, where what happens
Can happen and more than we can suppose
According to Haldane.

Limitless possibilities that dreamtimes
Expose what we do not own
But instead we are a part of.
Land, sea and air fused with the spirit
Of peoples that inhabit distant shores
Where they are one with the place
Where they are, were and will be
For all time.
The dreamtime of Australia’s
Original peoples.

And so the plump apple
Becomes a part of the experience
Of those who live in two dimensions,
Carl’s flatlanders experience their
Dreamtime of first causes
Because the missing dimension disallows
Their understanding of what is real.

So conflate the idea to many dimensions
And you can see what I mean.
Imagine the unimaginable
That cannot be seen
Because of the constraints of three dimensions.

And do not forget time
Perhaps the portal for imagining
What cannot be experienced
In spacetime warped and curved
By the embrace of gravity.

We sail in this cosmic sea
Not seeing its possibilities
Because we are not equipped
To see through a glass darkly
Or so Corinthians says
But to half see, dimly see
Love
And the truth of black holes
Where physics is sundered
Perhaps allowing passage to other creations
To us mere visions of what we aspire to be
And understand
Just as Blake saw heaven in a wild flower.

III

To perceive the possibility of many dimensions
Is to free the mind
From superstition
From the prejudices
That blight the landscape of our thinking,
And the landscape of dreams
When we perceive self
As if disembodied
Floating on the ceiling looking down
Detachedly on what we do
And what others do in the day to day.

Doings driven by the limited framework
Of width, breadth and height.
Width and breadth and height
And do not forget the passage of time
In which our doings take place.

One is singular in mind and body
Meaning self in the day to day.
To be beside oneself is joy and anger
The Janus faced self
Somewhat like the masks of comedy and tragedy
But of emotion and not theatrical circumstance.

How many multiples of
Space and time
Are needed to be beside oneself
In a quantum universe?
Or universes where to touch would be
Annihilation of self
Tracked as energy pure, and as simple
As the dreams of our disembodied self
Looking down from the ceiling.

IV

Is hope the delusion of optimism,
Dreams its manifestation of unreality?
Who can say because analysis
Is limited within the context of our perception.
Perception influenced by prejudice and misunderstanding
Because we are limited by what
Can be understood
In three dimensions,
And do not forget time
And gravity
And the failure of its resolution with dimension
and time
Limiting understanding.



But……
If we acknowledge the limitations
Even if not understanding the quantum context
Then, given we are prepared to accept the
uncertainty
Described by Heisenberg,
Then we are mentally equipped
To understand that truth is provisional
But with verity according to experience
Accumulated through the continuity of history.

We try to resolve contradictions
Because resolution anchors us into
the certainty of
Our present experience,
And certainty is comfort, allowing us to live
Day to day.

David Applin, May 2013

Copyright David Applin 2015
A poem from the collection 'Letters to Anotherself'.... copyright David Applin
Tyler Brooks Jun 2013
A cold, dark desert begins
When a faint peach light saunters over the horizon
& climbs the sky,
Leaving darkness to shadows and graves.

The chaffed branches of bushels,
Barely lingering along the threshold of life,
Find solace in crawling growth
As the glow reaches dusty twigs,
Making them as networks of smoker bronchi.

Faded green cacti hold posture sharp,
As totems of harsh-landed culture,
Serving as solemn landmarks
In a flatland of mixed dust and rock,
They stand tall
All for a breath of young desert air.

While quiet hue spreads,
Passing each towering rock & mountain,
Even quivering lizards,
Waiting to be sunbaked,
Change to pink-yellow glow
& scarcely move
As the sun soars above
sizzling rigid scales,
Until the glowing horizon becomes a burning, lit land
Under a radiating Arizona sun.
Denel Kessler Apr 2016
I practice Being Peace
out here by The Artist Colony on Hood Canal
collecting treasures and Bright Dead Things
the moon snail nesting in the Flatland  of my palm
a Gift from the Sea carried ashore
on The Torrents of Spring
it may take A Thousand Mornings
to attain a Mind of Clear Light
to transcend earthly Crime and Punishment
to consume knowledge hidden in the Weathered Pages
of this Book of Luminous Things
but I carry on - Skinny Legs and All
Burning Daylight street preaching
The Teachings of Don Juan
"looking, looking breathlessly"
for internal coherence in this
*Brave New World
NaPoWriMo 10
Prompt: write a book spine poem.
Book titles in italics
E Feb 2013
The moon can make your eyes burn
from its brightness.
God's Canopy of Grace.
A lot of a good thing often makes you ache
for more.

We examine simplicity,
Utter awe, incurred by a moment:

Driving into the nothingnight
The wind touching everything
Two hands growing old and familiar
Staying warm together
Trying not to destroy the stillness.

Along with fragments of the sky,
     We
            Fall,
                   Golden.

How is it, that the world has not stopped shimmering
since we saw the moon drench the flatland?

Your hand still in my hand
Your eyes blink, often
slowly.
As they close, I yearn for them
to open up to me once more,
and glimmer with the warmth
you've stored away inside your soul
just for me.

Don't look away,
even if it burns.


You speak love into the shadows
Lights, again above our heads.  
I'm always dazzled by light when you're around.
We pray for things like peace,
and discover that God's been giving it, all along.

J. Alfred Prufrock had it wrong:
The universe begs to be disturbed
By love like this.


Letting the wind and moon
and the stillness press upon us.
We are infinite.
And a little dizzy.
Hope expands in our chests
         So many birds scatter the sky.

We are Walton, Nebraska:
A normal surprise,
God's whispered secret about beauty
covered in the moonlight,
heard only by the wind
that pushed us together.
To be read with the song "Households," by Sleeping at Last, playing in the background.
For Ty.
Creepypumpkins Feb 2021
To see the Big Dipper
In the prairie provinces
How clear this diamonds you be
A bright
With not light
In sight
What I night in
The bucket list
E Oct 2013
I pour myself out
becoming a water to drench this land
and the fields beyond.

My words dig--
tilling the soil, the moments,
uprooting what threatens the growth,
bestowing the change
to the fields beyond.

Autumn will tinge the world
I once viewed as green and new.
But as the green grows
in a familiarity tainted by ennui,
we hold our breath against the cold
promise of harvest
and wish to grow, as well.

October is for waiting.
As a foreigner transplanted in this flatland,
I ponder any small, crucial detail
I've forgotten
and wait for our joy
to grow
gold.
Title needs help. I had "the fields beyond" added in a couple of different lines, but that seemed too contrived. Any lines feel unnatural/confusing?
spysgrandson Oct 2013
he thought the border
was a line, between two spaces,  
two tongues
or
a no man’s land  
where imagined demons
slithered through the night  
or,
when dreaming,
a door, to another world,    
yet still a flatland

but he dreamed little  

and
when I told him
the border  
was the slit eye of a fish    
immersed in waves without words  
a place where sound
could be tasted  
and a scent seen  
as clearly as scarlet sky  
and light inhaled  
as a suckled symphony  
when I told him this
he asked what two worlds
this border defined  
as if my words
had been heard by his ears
rather than tasted
as the sweetest lies
maybe one has to have taken hallucinogenic drugs to get this mystical one
Dagoth I Am Dec 2014
come down in the flatland
show me your shoulder
wait now where the black hand touches us
we'll both grow older

and the sky above us
and the ground beneath us
and the air around us
and the ocean to the right

measure your arm length
i can't live without it
i treasure those thirty inches
i want to talk about it.

and the sky above us
and the ground beneath us
and the air around us
and the ocean to the right

love you in the cold air
your long hair makes me shiver
above you i see the sun
light up every sliver

and the sky above us
and the ground beneath us
and the air around us
and the ocean to the right

and the sky above us
and the ground beneath us
and the air around us
and the ocean to the right
David Ehrgott Nov 2015
1.  MISSISSIPPI II
  
Keesler Air Force Base
Sergeant will **** you
Crocodile got to eat
  
2.  SAN FRANCISCO QUAKER
  
Not a bad place un-
til looters step on
the bookshelf that fell on you
  
3.  L.A.
  
The real *****.  Holly-
wood is just the pump
shooting sin into it's vein
  
4.  WYOMING
  
Don't sit on the yell-
ow stone.  That's where the bears
went after picnicking.
  
5.  VERMONT
  
Red necked wooden
Boys always looking for
a fight from a Yankee
  
6.  NEW HAMPSHIRE
  
Charlie and Kathy
are from here.  They're nice to
know if you can find them
  
7.  MASSACHUSETTS
  
The prettiest girls live
in Boston.  They have mouths.
Some worse than truck drivers.
  
8.  RHODE ISLAND
  
Such a little place
to cozy up to the
over crowded rowdies.
  
9.  NEW YORK SHUFFLE ?
  
Buffalo girl moved too
Saratoga Falls.  Hasn't
Had a dance since last fall.
  
10.  HONEYMOONER FELL-ER
  
Took my girl to Niagra
Falls took my ******
Maybe next time
  
11.  DELAWARE
  
Overcrowded racetrack
Casino lots of
swampy grass derelicts.
  
12.  MARYLAND
  
Ain't no place to
Stop off 95
For this' lilly white man
  
13.  VIRGINIA
  
Had them Japanese
people eating fish.
Didn't know it was lunchtime.
  
14.  WASHINGTON STATE
  
All that rain and snow
Can never compete
With it's powerful blowholes
  
15.  OHIO
  
OH HIGH OH
OHIOH
OHIO
  
16.  ILLINOISE
  
Birthplace of Lincoln
and Chicagoland
Nothing much else but farmland
  
17.  ASSISTANCE?
  
I wanted to help
the homeless so I fed
them government nonsense
  
18.  INDIANA
  
Same old flatland lit
up at night Lincoln's
Hiway taking in the sights
  
19.  WINDS OF CHANGE
  
Big bad wolf tried
to knock down my house of hay
today..  I knew he blew.
  
20. COYOTE TRIED
  
Leader scolded me at five
Better off dead
Amen coyote cried
Jessie Feb 2014
See over my right shoulder, the dead, dreary, dead branches of the wintery trees, barely moving in the ever-powerful gust of wind driving this dead, dreary, dead wintery season. Not even a fervent burst of energy can move the slim slivers of silver gray metal fibers springing out from the ever-overlooked sabers of the smothered icy flatland.

See over my left shoulder, my pale, ghostly, pale face staring back at me forcing my lucrative thoughts to my shaking hands. Not even the strongest helicase enzyme could unzip, untwist, unzip the simple, dangerous, simple deoxyribonucleic acid strung down my body, running down my veins like my steaming morning mocha, caffeinating my blood, my blood, my blood and pushing me to push farther, deeper, farther into the heavens of my thoughts, the meadows of my eyes, the hell atop my fingertips – one, two, three, four, five.

Thank heavens, your heavens, my heavens they’re all there; the unsolved mystery beneath my fingernails is still lost, lost, lost like my last fourteen chapsticks. Help, anybody. Does anyone see a lonesome chapstick tube? Forget it. It’s right beneath my toes – one, two, three, four, five. I am standing on top of a gold mine—inhale the chemicals, feel the potency of the potential inside of my body, do you realize how stupid you were? I gave you my attention and you took it like fame, I gave you my love and you took it like medication. Darling, I gave you my everything—I gave you myself but I can’t say you took it because you never did, and instead you stole my muscles and my bones, and the gravity holding up my chest from crashing back down on me after every single breath.

But most importantly, you stole my magic potion—one sip of that ever-so-clear concoction has the ability to provide me with a splinter of the sun, just enough to shine illuminating light on my mind, giving me the realization that I am still drunk off of you—and you and you apparently. But you grabbed it, took it, grabbed it, you thief, and you left me here to bear the freezing, cold, freezing winter on my own. My body is numb, my brain is numb, my heart is numb, and not even the symphony of my screams is enough to shatter, shatter, shatter the icicles surrounding my soul.

Instead, all I have is a noxious, lethal, deadly, cup of noxious, lethal, deadly poison, and I can already feel a single sip of its opacity slowly trickling down my throat like molasses. And it burns it burns it burns. Look into my eyes. See the raging heat rising, dilating my pupils to their limits, vanishing the blue from my irises, and understand that the words coming out of your mouth burn me like lava, and the volcanic essence of your intentions burns holes in my veins, leaving a forsaken cavity in my chest. So the next time you have the opportunity to articulate an opinion, make sure you don’t create a copy of the key to the cage of my own personal dragon, waiting to breathe fire on your words and wrangle, mangle, wrangle your next ones.
Written for performance.
Terry O'Leary Jan 2019
.              <Once ShallowMan had dared to question>
              <FactoidMan’s sublime suggestion:>
“With a little predigestion
all my Facts compel ingestion
helping shallow decongestion.”

                               “FactoidMan, take no offense,
                               I know your knowledge is immense
                               amidst your store of Facts quite dense,
                               yet still I’m hanging in suspense
                               about your unassumed pretense
                               and if (or not) your Facts make sense.
                               What say you, sage, in your defense?”

“My Facts are self-sustaining views
supported by my mighty muse;
if disbelief is what you choose
just listen to the gull that mews,
eructing fake and faulty news.”

“My Facts are meant for one and all”
              <cried FactoidMan within the stall>
“I plop them out and when they fall
(yes, be they large or be they small)
they leave all witnesses in thrall.”

              <Then FactoidMan informed the crew>
              <(you know the ones, the chosen few,>
              <who try to twist his Facts askew,>
              <subjecting them to peer review>
              <which puts them in the waiting queue>
              <for litter to be hid from view):>
“Well Facts are Facts, yes that is true
so don’t be sad and don’t feel blue
when sitting dazed without a clue;
once more, that’s why I’m here for you.”

“For in my wisdom you may wallow
if you simply seek and follow,
chew my Facts, then gulp and swallow,
stuff your soul, now blank and hollow.”

                               “But FactoidMan, I fail to see
                               the emptiness inside of me”
              <said ShallowMan with modesty>
              <and cert’nly not hyperbole.>
                               “You’ve filled me with a potpourri
                               of concepts bathed in harmony
                               all self-contained and error free
                               (adjudged by you, the referee,
                               with whom no one could disagree
                               and still remain your devotee).”

              <FactoidMan may steal a stride>
              <with Miss Direction at his side>
              <to conquer, baffle or divide;>
              <she sometimes slyly serves to guide>
              <us on a roller coaster ride>
              <through subtle logic simplified>
              <and fuzzy Facts unverified.>

“We’ll make you guys sit back in wonder
stealing all your blood and thunder
when you’ve found you’ve made a blunder,
thrusting you to realms down under
dank defeat, dun dirt and dunder
(pseudo-logic’s would-be plunder,
Miss Direction’s torn asunder).”

                               “Do Miss Direction’s humble graces
                               pivot progress towards new places
                               into which loose logic races
                               (hinged on fundamental bases
                               counter argument outpaces)?
                               And what about the other cases
                               tied with loose ends time unlaces?
                               Just *******, reason soon erases
                               leaving lumps or tiny traces
                               in the gaps and other spaces?”

“Yes, Miss Direction will confirm
my wisdom hides no wily worm,
though simpletons will surely squirm
with Facts they fail to disaffirm
within the short or longer term.”

“She can lecture, you can learn
about the twists at every at every turn
in arguments that you should spurn
when served an ace but can’t return
without disgrace and ego burn
that leaves your ashes in an urn.
(In case you listen, you’ll discern
that winning spins are my concern.)”

              <Well ShallowMan was full of stunts,>
              <posed one more question which confronts:>
                               “Although your data sometimes blunts
                               the points of other’s arguments
                               your reasoning quite oft affronts
                               when based on claims  that logic shunts.
                               Well, won’t this break your covenants?”
              <Then Miss Direction screamed at once>
              <that “ShallowMan’s a silly munce”.>

“But that is neither here nor there”
              <said FactoidMan with scant a care>
“for ShallowMan may often err:
without my Facts, he’s not a prayer,
so should believe and be aware
that truth is mine and never dare
to think new thoughts (and so despair).”

              <Then FactoidMan revealed a frown>
              <in which a pompous smirk could drown:>
“Yes, ShallowMan’s a depthless clown
who must look up for seeing down;
he lives his life in Flatland Town,
his thinking cap’s a dunce’s crown.”

              <But ShallowMan took no offence>
              <though things were getting kind of tense>
              <(with some regrets for being dense)>
               <and answered in his own defense:>
                               “At times credulity replaces
                               rationality in cases
                               where belief in faith’s the basis
                               (filling holes with empty spaces)
                               voiding proofs that logic traces.”

“Does logic really play a role?
It’s certainly not the aim or goal!
Instead, to wheedle or cajole,
while using Facts which I control,
is somewhat simpler on the whole.”

                              “Oh FactoidMan, it’s now so clear
                               the reason why we need you here,
                               protecting from the puppeteer
                               who pulls our strings to interfere
                               with Facts of yours we should revere,
                               and paves our path with morbid fear
                               our straight and narrow bent may veer
                               from certainty you hold so dear,
                               rejecting theories which cohere,
                                ensconced in science, so sincere;
                               and all be ****** should doubts appear.”

“ShallowMan, if you’ve conflictions
owing to your mind’s addictions
to subconscious maledictions,
due to doubt in old convictions;
tell me now of your afflictions.”

                               “FactoidMan, I must confess
                               I understand you more or less
                               though subtleties provoke distress,
                               and even more your fine finesse
                               inclines to make my mind compress.
                               Forgive me now my cheekiness
                               in asking you for some redress;
                               although you’ve certainly gained success
                               convincing others, nonetheless
                               my valuations retrogress
                               to untold depths of shallowness
                               the more your reasons (which impress
                               onlookers with your cleverness
                               at citing Facts, most referenceless)
                               dissolve like dragons in Loch Ness.”

              <Well FactoidMan must simply smile>
              <(and sometimes chuckles for a while)>
              <when ShallowMan acts infantile>
              <and won’t attempt to reconcile>
              <those Facts that rhyme like truth and guile.>

                               “I know that all you say’s legit
                               though oft your Facts sound counterfeit
                               and leave my dawning mind unlit
                               (just feeling like a retrofit).
                               But, on the whole, I must admit,
                               a mental fog’s a benefit;
                               when eyes are closed and hairs are split
                               expressions vague, I might submit
                               although the Facts don’t seem to fit!
                               Please help me once to cope with it.”

“Oh ShallowMan you’re so amusing
when my Facts you find confusing;
you’ve no profit when refusing
simple truths of my own choosing;
bathe in wisdom I’m suffusing
when awake or else while snoozing.”

                               “Oh FactoidMan, ’twould be a sin
                               to mourn for thoughts that might-have-been
                               if you had had more time to spin
                               some arguments to underpin
                               conclusions bringing much chagrin
                               to those who try to do yours in.
                               For yes, it seems your notion’s thin
                               (though acrid, sweetened up within
                               a grain of salt called saccharin).”

“Yes, ShallowMan, you must have known,
I’d find your mindset set-in-stone
when claiming notions underblown
(especially those I call my own)
ignoring all the Facts I’ve shown,
a lapse to which you’re plainly prone.”

                               “No, FactoidMan, I’m not disbanding
                               your contentions so outstanding
                               (even though they need expanding
                               for a thorough understanding);
                               with some polish or else sanding
                               (you know, somewhat less demanding)
                               they might make a model landing,
                               lack of catwalk notwithstanding.”

“To answer you I’ll write a ditty
getting to the nitty-gritty,
oh so lofty, oh so witty,
where the Facts shine, oh so pretty;
if you’re lost, then more’s the pity,
tell it to my subcommittee,
‘Miss Direction’s Detour City’.
Now it’s time to feed the kitty.”

              <Well FactoidMan’s concluding quip>
              <to give advice and hold his grip>
              <(by letting words of wisdom drip)>
              <displayed adroit one-upmanship:>
“Hubba hubba, ching ching ching,
now I’ve taught you everything
without a hook, without  a string;
you needn’t clutch, you needn’t cling,
just bow instead and kiss my ring.”
Jacob Vigil Jan 2015
black stones litter a desert plain.
the detritus of nameless eons, strewn
by a forgotten god across the sun-scarred flatland.

rest
Laura Slaathaug Apr 2017
Find the river
where you find the trees,
past the flatland
past the sleepy town
beyond the gold wall
a trail of silver leaves will  
lead you
down the bank
Find the faint smell of mud
and the stirring of naked branches
prickly dead grass and trees
littering the *****—
Some cracked and white and crooked
most brown and brittle
and all of it wild
and weaving and spinning
a web of shadows
A crow may caw and fly into the blue
A red squirrel may scavenge in the dirt and skirt up the tree and pause in the crook
and watch you watching it
A tall cottonwood may creak as you
trespass under it’s hooked branches
and you’ll find it
its tarnished silver rippling
curving and swelling
like a snake
biding its time
National Poetry Month Day 24.
DaRk IcE Jul 2014
Could it be, that its all just a dream?
The pain I feel inside twisting like a knife...
Blood dripping from my heart like a leaky faucet.
                  I'm tearing apart.
            Why won't the pain stop?
Everything becomes real, solid like steel.
Heavy like a boulder, hanging off a cliff, begging for suicide.

It must end, this feeling of consumption, engulfed in a fiery fire raging across the flatland's.

              The serenity of calm waters that blanket the sea is what I long for. But only one can provide.

only you can calm my disturbed heart.only you alone hold the antidote to my disease.

                           Only you...
mark john junor Sep 2013
he came down out of the mountains
came down out of the deity halls
of the mighty rocky mountains
riding a pale horse
with a gun in his hand
young to the eye
but his truth is miles of darkness
that few souls would dare

he came into the ***** town
and stepped into the waterin hole
with a wary eye
the crowd there was too involved in the
young ***** on the stage
in her various stages of undress
in the various stages of her futile demise
they are all dying down here in the flatland's
some kind souls try and stem the tide
but most just seek to sate thirsts before
they go to the valley of death below

he waited for the songs all to fade away
he waited for the hungry crowd to seek another meal
and then he came to her
then he walked into her narrow visions
he knew she would come
knew she had nothing left here
but the empty valley of death below
he tossed the barman
thirty pieces of silver
and romanced the petals
of her minds soft flower
soft so kind and convincing
to her unwilling ear

she finally could no longer resist
she scummed to the fever
and he picked her up
carried her to his steed
rode slowly out of town
not a soul saw him
not a soul cared
on up into the mighty rockies
he rode with her still form in his arms
into the bitter cold
and long night
an outlaw
of the highest order
one who has thieved from the kingdom below
down in the valley of death below
Ken Pepiton Feb 2020
Each day, a way beyond the sufficiency

of what we know
concerning
good.

We know good, when we think about it.
We can imagine good feeling, when we
put forth the energy to de-ify
chaotic entropy.
With sci, con sci ence, mit knowing, cognating
we add tension. We pull goodness from

nowhere, in a line of words emerging into meaning.

As we know, effectually,
energy, in E= etc.
ist gut und wahr, so far, aber
etwas von der hyper thinkable field of if-i-cantation,
has tripped a paradigmatic AI ai aitia OOPs
chronjob with
spells and hexes and such, so
black
light entered as a contender for cause
at the transfiguration;
the theory ranked with Adam's rib as evidence for miracles,
in Vacation Bible Shool.
Now, we know better, or more better.

C, however, is variable in realms of pure thinks of any
length
so
if I can't matter in the dark middle matter,
I shall manifest
here,

in living 2D, if you can imagine with me,
fingers on keys, awaiting the neural
net truescorre reference stats

to starrt ancient chronjobs linked to an overr drawn Synchrony
credit card calling to say take care,
can't buy or sell sans the beastly mark,
or else

what? My synchronic out being, my outer self, the ***
you passed on your way to Starbucks,
he has no way to make a living,
the old man with no feet,
you did not see me,
did you? Flash me a QR. We skipped the need for a mark.

p-shift. post ever gitgo.

I was hiding. Hunting a gull, I'm familia in with mir and all
my integrity sphere of
intention.

We intend to teach the elease of peace, first in e-leasion tent
cities, stretching to call all gullibles, to try,

mere umph, one mortime, more abundance, dancerrs needed...

all ye all ye, outs in free, truth be told, the famine is past.
Calling
any gulls ability to go all Jonathan,

fo no re fonore phornore ignot ignor how how how

do I, dear reader, loose my peace?

ah,
I allow. I rrule the spigots of emoticons sprringing entity
******* from old artemisical chapters

and verrses of priestly secrecy hidden,
since god knows when,
in rolling things, in swirling fluids of mud,
occluding the eceptorr for the ligandary story
re
thread that ties us all to mitomom, far more surrely than hell.

who beguiled you, my daddy axt.

'twas I, I lied, possessed of proud rights to pursue,
with greed and right-used anger,

and I riddled the riddle of the referee, so

I freely give, for the ensuing mortal moment,

invisible happiness common to all valuers and valuees.

Easilly enteated, be

still.
Wait here.

"That which concerns you." Am big u is us, we,
the people, who
hold
these truths, self-e-video-ishes on stars, come true to
you, who waited.

ing the bell and yell i'm a vigin. {what?fix the r in a revolt against chaos,

folly, pure folly, our r key roots extract rhotic significance for extra
rs and missing ones we feel needed consede conseder wise.

O, dear, reade, I do have order. How ever, order is not the need,

calm is the need. We need the doldrums to rest, as we need
poles to bank our turns into the solar stormy side,

breathing humans in sufficient awareness of the atmostfears,
to
shhhh shh should see softest kisses coming with no price,

my peace, I let out, as when an irrigator fills the valley,

and shows the world the overflow can make glad
the core of ****, the species that thinks with knownknowns
and writes the way to be still, beyond allathat,

and know. Words. Our powers are all you have in a 2D re
ality keeping Lego minds from raining Gorilla Glue.
{The intended allusion sticks any way}.
Who twisted the intention? Is this the wine that makes glad?
O, my, this I must try,
Defoe-face: It

is finished.
Life in flatland can only be literal 2D formations, forced to make sense.
ATL Aug 2019
this vessel
houses gold;
without bearings in the flatland,
untarnished and eager.

it was born in small hands
jabbing at polypropylene beauties
spinning on a mobile
above dampened eyes,
uniform and bright.

the spinning never ceased;
ligaments lengthened
and seashells,
once musicians,
became resonant cavities.

haggard winds
stirred glaucous and ash into storm;
the sky became a clouded palette
of every shade between
stone and lightning.

what a fortune it was
to be carried away and found
again and again
in the endless above.
the wonders of tactility,
sweet sky as a stretcher...
carry me into tomorrow.
JC Feb 2017
Some men will travel to the top of the mountain,
in an effort to talk to the sky,
and maybe touch the clouds...
a wish they've carried since children.
But I, I've looked from the flatland,
and only dreamed of the trail
that leads to the clearest views of the sun
and maybe a final look to my soul.
No shadows there to block my sight
or hide the smallest parts in darkness.
I stand by the river,
and watch it grow,
from the falling and tumbling water
rushing down the sides of the mountain...
and wonder where the beginning is,
but never taking the trail to where it has to be.
Is it fear, or just a lack of effort,
or a matter of the heart,
that keeps me where I am,
and the knowing all so close?
But in the end, here I sit, looking up once again,
my answers wrapped in clouds
the sun throwing shadows on the ground,
a small chill in the air as they block it's warmth.
I hug my knees by the river,
wishing once again....
I lived at the top of the mountain.
The shadows grow and darkness comes early,
and the mountain brings the night,
blocking the light of the sun,
tears fall,
a slow walk to home.
The mountain still remains and waits,
for those who walk it's trails...
knowing it isn't me.
JC 2009
preservationman Mar 2017
A gallop at an Upstate New York Rocking Horse Resort
A Junior High School Senior trip
But’s here’s the tip
It was the Dead of Winter on a February Day
Welcome to the resort and step this way
There were a lot of things the resort offered
One of them of course was riding a horse
So I got to ride Tiger Lil
The horse was wide and built to fill
But to ride, one had to be determined and have a strong will
Well it was the trail a waits
The trail was icy and warranted a caution of fate
My thought, “I am riding this horse and this is the date”
Like I said before, the trail a waits
Up the trail being an overpassed high
In the distance, the ride was a temporary resort good-bye
Horses took us higher and higher until we reached the top
Suddenly, one of the horses through the rider off
I got terrified, and jumped off
Immediately the resort hands got my horse back
Later being reunited with Tiger Lil and me
I said let me think and see
Tiger Lil I knew I would be riding
However, the horse had me abiding
But I took control of the horse reins
It was the valley I didn’t want to see
We are heading back to the resort
I could see it in the distance
We were finally back to the flatland ground
I got off the horse, and my heel on my shoe broke
Tiger Lil laughed in it being a joke
I moved like a Marshall Dillon as I was that sore
I would name it, but it hurts, and I don’t think you would want to explore
When I got back to the bus, I told the Driver to lower the bus
The Driver asked me how low, I stated all the way
Arrived back home
My own territory to roam
I made it through the whole ordeal
This was a true story being for real.
giofuellos Jul 2019
Midnight light, will you goad my eyes
   into the unbelievable sereneness of sleep,
And hush into silence the sleepless trucks
   that lines the expanding horizon;
The bicycle man rests his head on his saddle
   dreaming of bombing descents and leg stretches,
   and the hot streaming aroma of consciousness
   on gradient hilltops overlooking blazing mountains
   passing the silence of the lakes;
Carefully cruising along the highways of the mind,
   going into the light, and ecstasy, and madness;
Revolving, recurring, returning
   into deep slumber then onto the frantic going,
   along the wearisome expanse of flatland purgatories
   then onto the doorsteps of mighty heaven,
   rising up into the chill clouds of eternity and nothingness.
I am awake! and Fortuna's capricious wheel is now turning,
   now I shall rest my future-looking for my going is now
   unfolding!
new manners are being formed
as the era of the dawn is getting warmer
groping with ***** hands
for candy bars that can’t be bought
our names have become sullied
as our souls were polished in the serpentine waters
welcoming women into the thick of it
the folds of this organization
are still unmentionable
i prefer to remain in the vital spark of the species
our hearts are clocks
keeping time to rhythms long gone
and forgotten by most
except the loyal soldiers
who carry spears in their teeth
your hurt is clear
yet i must keep wary of your fear
thank you dear for everything is clearer now
and that's the way we like it
our hearts and minds can’t hide it
the chronicles of complexity are such
that we expect the unacceptable
somatic insurgencies
the chronic divergence from field to flatland
cubicles are likely as carcinogenic
as cantankerous old ladies are successful
at liberating the hearts and minds
of their children's babies

— The End —