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Shaurya Pal Jan 2014
Seasoned melancholia,
The wrath of life.
Levelled free will,
A dangerous strife.
Kissing this poison,
Drinking my pain.
Swallowing vermin,
Throwing up in vain.
It ends with you,
Take this to your grave.
My story for you,
Isn’t the hunger you crave.

In the dark,
There lay a corpse,
Dead as dead could be.
Covered in blood,
The body decayed.
The screaming had veered,
An eerie silence prevailed.
I was alone with him.
I bore witness to the event,
It unfolded when he had stretched out his hand,
Toward, stupefied by the beauty,
Pulled in by the magnanimity.
I saw it all, up, close and personal.
I felt nothing, no remorse no conscience,
It was strange, the man had no relevance.

But I cried nonetheless,
Wept at his foolishness,
The fatal attraction lead to his end.
His stubborn belief to relieve all,
To save a soul he himself would fall.
In the hands of a stranger,
The devil all along.

Mesmerized by the set of eyes,
He walked himself to a surprise,
Before I could even blink my eye,
A wave of thunder swept the sky.

I panicked, hid myself tight,
The stranger helpless, got struck by the light.
Ecstatic, in shock he imbibed a misconception,
The eyes being admired were of awry intention.

As I took refuge in the darkness,
Gawking at the scenery speechless.
The stranger losing his cool, nigh suicidal,
Gave up, and terminated his life cycle.

I came close to the cadaver,
And squeezed out his soul.
It couldn’t have lasted forever,
Ending up as the Devil’s finger bowl.

And I dragged, dragged it all along,
To a refuge safe from the devil’s own.
I brought him to my humble abode,
A cage small enough for one or two whole.
I placed the weightless spirit on the floor,
He woke up and saw me leaving through the door.
Shouted at the top of his mettle, “You! I know you!”.
“Hush” I proclaimed. “You need not worry,
There’s another soul I seek and need to carry,
And bring it here before it’s too late.
Till then you relax here, in your undead state.”


The Ethereal now confused and dumbfounded,
Quietened himself, feeling astounded.
One last time he gathered courage,
“You can’t leave me here, I have done nothing wrong!
This place scares me, I’m not that strong.”
“Oh but you have no choice,
You were brought here by your actions,
This IS where you belong.”

And with that I left him hopeless,
Opened the door and locked it with firmness.
The outside air smelled bitter,
The rusty surrounding was no better.
With disgust I set my path precise,
Avoiding the stranger’s delinquent cries.
Blasted myself off the ground,
Towards a place which reeks with chaotic freedom,
A hermitage, sane man’s Elysium.
Magnolia, the mental asylum.
There committed was a man,
Who had dared to escape with a sound plan.
His inner demons tortured and pestered him,
With psychological pain, detaching limb from limb.
I was his guide, his guardian angel.
As I approached the tortured male,
A creature so weak, color yellowish pale.
Locked in a room, a chance to unveil.
I woke him up with my sweet dreary voice,
“Rise, awaken my soul.”
And I opened the door with a loud crack,
“Hurry up, lest the guard will be back.”

With that it was enough for the man,
To take the hint in the small span.
He fled with the meagre chance he got,
He wouldn’t stand another day in this rot.
Believing in my words, he opened the door,
Only to get caught again, as before.

The doctor tied him to a work bench,
The man writhing away, repulsed by the stench.
“Don’t resist, the society cannot accept you,
You killed your wife and children, their ******’s on you.”
At this point I knew I had to step in, else I’d never acquire,
His soul, the sweet nectar, which I dearly desire.



I stood beside him, so that only he could hear my whisper,
“You’re no killer, don’t pay heed,
Your whole life was laden with good deeds.
Rebel, Cause chaos, never give a ****.”
And he obeyed, like a good little lamb.
They held him, prepared the equipment,
He moaned and groaned a denial indignant.
The stage for lobotomy was set,
For his beliefs stood virtually *****.
I placed my hand on his shoulders,
My unwavering touch, aiding his composure.
The doctor struck and I took his grace.
That was all, the seraphim now intact,
My purpose was served.

The stranger’s soul on the other hand,
Grew impatient in the demoniac land.
Bright light engulfed his thoughts and blinded him,
Shattered his notions, faltered his whim.
Appeared a man in straightjacket with bloodshot eyes,
A fierce expression adorned his face.
Was this my savior? Or was he the reaper’s prize?
Will I vanish from the face of the earth?
Or shall I die again tonight?
I was tired now, exhausted.
So I sat in front of them,
Both looking at each other,
Then at me.
The stranger cried,
“It was You! They were Your eyes!
The eyes that deceived me,
Lured me closer then tricked me!!
Either you’re the devil himself,
Or someone completely insane!”
“He’s not insane….” Said the crazy
“It’s a ‘She’ and a spirit so pure,
My good shepherd, an avenging angel,
Who saved me from my cure.
He’s the reason why I’m free now.”
I smiled, amused and amazed at the contrast,
I shall hold back a little and see how long it would last.

“You are to be blamed for my condition,
You brought me here to devour me,
It was your scheming leading to my damnation.”
“So untrue, she’s my path to redemption,
It was she, who believed me and cared for me,
When nobody in the world would help so easily.”
“You don’t realize, he took advantage of the darkness and stabbed me,
He broke my trust and attacked fiercely.”
The stranger had retrieved his long lost will,
Thought it was a battle he couldn’t sit still.
The man in the straightjacket too was fed up,
Hearing allegations about his angel, he stood up.
“You lie, she cannot be so cruel, it was God himself who had sent her
To aid me and put me out of my misery.”

It is the very nature of human so judging,
Faith in their instincts was far more than recurring.
How will mankind evolve?
If it cannot see beyond its own self,
How will mankind survive?
If we keep fighting amongst ourselves.

With a huge sigh I pitched in,
Else this would be a debate never finishing.
“Fools of darkness and insanity,
I speak for you and you only,
I am the result of your delusions,
I am what you want me to be.
I am your savior and your killer,
The factor you avoid so carelessly.
Do not blame me for your doings,
I never attacked you in the darkness,
Nor I opened the door for you,
My eyes were never that captivating,
My soft voice was never comforting.
I am your imagination,
Your brainchild.
Yet you mold me in the worst way possible.
True I was there when you were dying,
But you summoned me and begged for an answer,
All I am is fire to your fuel.

In front of you there is a choice,
Only one of you qualifies,
To get out of this purgatory.
One in heaven one in hell,
Decide amongst yourselves,
I’ll be ready when you choose to tell.”




Both now baffled and flummoxed,
The choice they had was a paradox.
The deserving shall win the argument,
The other shall be caged and boxed.
For me neither mattered,
I act as a silent observer,
From what I know they’d **** each other,
My faith in humanity can never be restored.

Strange however, they didn’t utter a word.
They were just silent, staring at each other,
Interesting, humans always amaze me.
But my job wasn’t done just yet,
I reached out my hand and prepared a pyre,
A hell for both if they choose to retire.
“Decide and push your friend in the fire,
The other shall inherit the Pearly Gates.”



They now were just struck dumb,
The fire in front had made them numb.
I stood amused smacking my tongue,
Waiting for the serenade to be sung.
For when the instincts kick in,
Only one would survive, the other will burn.
I stood anxiously, anticipating their turn.

Together now they held hands,
Approached the fire and stopped.
What a surprise! They both decided to off themselves,
Foolish again, the outcome had flopped.
The Stranger and the Crazy, looked straight at me,
“If you’re our imagination, you don’t decide our fate,
If you’re our creation, our lives you cannot dictate.
Foolish we were, not recognizing you,
Cowards we’re not, we now construe.
You lived many lives, the lives we give,
We don’t permit you to outlive
Beyond our hopes and imagination.
We’ve had enough, time to end this fantasy,
We no longer bow down to your indecency.”


And in a flash before I could cerebrate,
They pushed me hard, their spirits elate.
I fell into the flames, of the everlasting fire,
Who knew my own design would be my funeral pyre?

The basket case neared as I was torn asunder,
“Even though I believed you tried to help,
I knew somewhere I was to be blamed,
I was no longer the innocent whelp,
You had intended to be tamed.
Die now in peace as I choose to forget,
This is your punishment, bear no regret.”

The stranger too, had something to say,
“Listen to me before you decay,
I lived as a fool, blindly trusting you,
In the light of darkness, I believed you to be true.
I now realize, after my demise,
You’re just pathetic fragment of my life,
An actor, who played his part all along,
There’s no happy ending for you,
You must pay for what you did wrong.
Die in pain as I won’t forget,
This is your penalty, you corrupted silhouette.”
With these last words, I faded into oblivion,
Hell awaited me,
This is what I get, for being their progeny.
All this time I believed they were fools,
Honing their servility.
The calmness before the storm,
The levelling of free will,
No freedom of choice, no survival.
They are no fools, they just play dumb,
Nobody’s innocent, see what they’ve become.
They create demons and monsters,
And then take pride in slaying them.
A tiresome feat,
They enjoy mayhem.
With my end, others will rise,
Till they are done playing with lives.
Part 3 of The 'Karma' Trilogy
Man was made of social earth,
Child and brother from his birth;
Tethered by a liquid cord
Of blood through veins of kindred poured,
Next his heart the fireside band
Of mother, father, sister, stand;
Names from awful childhood heard,
Throbs of a wild religion stirred,
Their good was heaven, their harm was vice,
Till Beauty came to snap all ties,
The maid, abolishing the past,
With lotus-wine obliterates
Dear memory's stone-incarved traits,
And by herself supplants alone
Friends year by year more inly known.
When her calm eyes opened bright,
All were foreign in their light.
It was ever the self-same tale,
The old experience will not fail,—
Only two in the garden walked,
And with snake and seraph talked.

But God said;
I will have a purer gift,
There is smoke in the flame;
New flowerets bring, new prayers uplift,
And love without a name.
Fond children, ye desire
To please each other well;
Another round, a higher,
Ye shall climb on the heavenly stair,
And selfish preference forbear;
And in right deserving,
And without a swerving
Each from your proper state,
Weave roses for your mate.

Deep, deep are loving eyes,
Flowed with naphtha fiery sweet,
And the point is Paradise
Where their glances meet:
Their reach shall yet be more profound,
And a vision without bound:
The axis of those eyes sun-clear
Be the axis of the sphere;
Then shall the lights ye pour amain
Go without check or intervals,
Through from the empyrean walls,
Unto the same again.

Close, close to men,
Like undulating layer of air,
Right above their heads,
The potent plain of Dæmons spreads.
Stands to each human soul its own,
For watch, and ward, and furtherance
In the snares of nature's dance;
And the lustre and the grace
Which fascinate each human heart,
Beaming from another part,
Translucent through the mortal covers,
Is the Dæmon's form and face.
To and fro the Genius hies,
A gleam which plays and hovers
Over the maiden's head,
And dips sometimes as low as to her eyes.

Unknown, — albeit lying near, —
To men the path to the Dæmon sphere,
And they that swiftly come and go,
Leave no track on the heavenly snow.
Sometimes the airy synod bends,
And the mighty choir descends,
And the brains of men thenceforth,
In crowded and in still resorts,
Teem with unwonted thoughts.
As when a shower of meteors
Cross the orbit of the earth,
And, lit by fringent air,
Blaze near and far.
Mortals deem the planets bright
Have slipped their sacred bars,
And the lone ****** all the night
Sails astonished amid stars.

Beauty of a richer vein,
Graces of a subtler strain,
Unto men these moon-men lend,
And our shrinking sky extend.
So is man's narrow path
By strength and terror skirted,
Also (from the song the wrath
Of the Genii be averted!
The Muse the truth uncolored speaking),
The Dæmons are self-seeking;
Their fierce and limitary will
Draws men to their likeness still.

The erring painter made Love blind,
Highest Love who shines on all;
Him radiant, sharpest-sighted god
None can bewilder;
Whose eyes pierce
The Universe,
Path-finder, road-builder,
Mediator, royal giver,
Rightly-seeing, rightly-seen,
Of joyful and transparent mien.
'Tis a sparkle passing
From each to each, from me to thee,
Perpetually,
Sharing all, daring all,
Levelling, misplacing
Each obstruction, it unites
Equals remote, and seeming opposites.
And ever and forever Love
Delights to build a road;
Unheeded Danger near him strides,
Love laughs, and on a lion rides.
But Cupid wears another face
Born into Dæmons less divine,
His roses bleach apace,
His nectar smacks of wine.
The Dæmon ever builds a wall,
Himself incloses and includes,
Solitude in solitudes:
In like sort his love doth fall.
He is an oligarch,
He prizes wonder, fame, and mark,
He loveth crowns,
He scorneth drones;
He doth elect
The beautiful and fortunate,
And the sons of intellect,
And the souls of ample fate,
Who the Future's gates unbar,
Minions of the Morning Star.
In his prowess he exults,
And the multitude insults.
His impatient looks devour
Oft the humble and the poor,
And, seeing his eye glare,
They drop their few pale flowers
Gathered with hope to please
Along the mountain towers,
Lose courage, and despair.
He will never be gainsaid,
Pitiless, will not be stayed.
His hot tyranny
Burns up every other tie;
Therefore comes an hour from Jove
Which his ruthless will defies,
And the dogs of Fate unties.
Shiver the palaces of glass,
Shrivel the rainbow-colored walls
Where in bright art each god and sibyl dwelt
Secure as in the Zodiack's belt;
And the galleries and halls
Wherein every Siren sung,
Like a meteor pass.
For this fortune wanted root
In the core of God's abysm,
Was a **** of self and schism:
And ever the Dæmonic Love
Is the ancestor of wars,
And the parent of remorse.
MANY ingenious lovely things are gone
That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude,
protected from the circle of the moon
That pitches common things about.  There stood
Amid the ornamental bronze and stone
An ancient image made of olive wood --
And gone are phidias' famous ivories
And all the golden grasshoppers and bees.
We too had many pretty toys when young:
A law indifferent to blame or praise,
To bribe or threat; habits that made old wrong
Melt down, as it were wax in the sun's rays;
Public opinion ripening for so long
We thought it would outlive all future days.
O what fine thought we had because we thought
That the worst rogues and rascals had died out.
All teeth were drawn, all ancient tricks unlearned,
And a great army but a showy thing;
What matter that no cannon had been turned
Into a ploughshare? Parliament and king
Thought that unless a little powder burned
The trumpeters might burst with trumpeting
And yet it lack all glory; and perchance
The guardsmen's drowsy chargers would not prance.
Now days are dragon-ridden, the nightmare
Rides upon sleep:  a drunken soldiery
Can leave the mother, murdered at her door,
To crawl in her own blood, and go scot-free;
The night can sweat with terror as before
We pieced our thoughts into philosophy,
And planned to bring the world under a rule,
Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.
He who can read the signs nor sink unmanned
Into the half-deceit of some intoxicant
From shallow wits; who knows no work can stand,
Whether health, wealth or peace of mind were spent
On master-work of intellect or hand,
No honour leave its mighty monument,
Has but one comfort left:  all triumph would
But break upon his ghostly solitude.
But is there any comfort to be found?
Man is in love and loves what vanishes,
What more is there to say? That country round
None dared admit, if Such a thought were his,
Incendiary or bigot could be found
To burn that stump on the Acropolis,
Or break in bits the famous ivories
Or traffic in the grasshoppers or bees.
When Loie Fuller's Chinese dancers enwound
A shining web, a floating ribbon of cloth,
It seemed that a dragon of air
Had fallen among dancers, had whirled them round
Or hurried them off on its own furious path;
So the platonic Year
Whirls out new right and wrong,
Whirls in the old instead;
All men are dancers and their tread
Goes to the barbarous clangour of a gong.
III
Some moralist or mythological poet
Compares the solitary soul to a swan;
I am satisfied with that,
Satisfied if a troubled mirror show it,
Before that brief gleam of its life be gone,
An image of its state;
The wings half spread for flight,
The breast ****** out in pride
Whether to play, or to ride
Those winds that clamour of approaching night.
A man in his own secret meditation
Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made
In art or politics;
Some platonist affirms that in the station
Where we should cast off body and trade
The ancient habit sticks,
And that if our works could
But vanish with our breath
That were a lucky death,
For triumph can but mar our solitude.
The swan has leaped into the desolate heaven:
That image can bring wildness, bring a rage
To end all things, to end
What my laborious life imagined, even
The half-imagined, the half-written page;
O but we dreamed to mend
Whatever mischief seemed
To afflict mankind, but now
That winds of winter blow
Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.
We, who seven yeats ago
Talked of honour and of truth,
Shriek with pleasure if we show
The weasel's twist, the weasel's tooth.
Come let us mock at the great
That had such burdens on the mind
And toiled so hard and late
To leave some monument behind,
Nor thought of the levelling wind.
Come let us mock at the wise;
With all those calendars whereon
They fixed old aching eyes,
They never saw how seasons run,
And now but gape at the sun.
Come let us mock at the good
That fancied goodness might be gay,
And sick of solitude
Might proclaim a holiday:
Wind shrieked -- and where are they?
Mock mockers after that
That would not lift a hand maybe
To help good, wise or great
To bar that foul storm out, for we
Traffic in mockery.
Violence upon the roads:  violence of horses;
Some few have handsome riders, are garlanded
On delicate sensitive ear or tossing mane,
But wearied running round and round in their courses
All break and vanish, and evil gathers head:
Herodias' daughters have returned again,
A sudden blast of dusty wind and after
Thunder of feet, tumult of images,
Their purpose in the labyrinth of the wind;
And should some crazy hand dare touch a daughter
All turn with amorous cries, or angry cries,
According to the wind, for all are blind.
But now wind drops, dust settles; thereupon
There lurches past, his great eyes without thought
Under the shadow of stupid straw-pale locks,
That insolent fiend Robert Artisson
To whom the love-lorn Lady Kyteler brought
Bronzed peacock feathers, red combs of her *****.
Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory's Wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack and roof-levelling wind,
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.

I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour,
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come
Dancing to a frenzied drum
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

May she be granted beauty, and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,
Or hers before a looking-glass; for such,
Being made beautiful overmuch,
Consider beauty a sufficient end,
Lose natural kindness, and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.
Helen, being chosen, found life flat and dull,
And later had much trouble from a fool;
While that great Queen that rose out of the spray,
Being fatherless, could have her way,
Yet chose a bandy-legged smith for man.
It's certain that fine women eat
A crazy salad with their meat
Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone.

In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;
Hearts are not had as a gift, but hearts are earned
By those that are not entirely beautiful.
Yet many, that have played the fool
For beauty's very self, has charm made wise;
And many a poor man that has roved,
Loved and thought himself beloved,
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

May she become a flourishing hidden tree,
That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,
And have no business but dispensing round
Their magnanimities of sound;
Nor but in merriment begin a chase,
Nor but in merriment a quarrel.
Oh, may she live like some green laurel
Rooted in one dear perpetual place.

My mind, because the minds that I have loved,
The sort of beauty that I have approved,
Prosper but little, has dried up of late,
Yet knows that to be choked with hate
May well be of all evil chances chief.
If there's no hatred in a mind
Assault and battery of the wind
Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.

An intellectual hatred is the worst,
So let her think opinions are accursed.
Have I not seen the loveliest woman born
Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn,
Because of her opinionated mind
Barter that horn and every good
By quiet natures understood
For an old bellows full of angry wind?

Considering that, all hatred driven hence,
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its own sweet will is heaven's will,
She can, though every face should scowl
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst, be happy still.

And may her bridegroom bring her to a house
Where all's accustomed, ceremonious;
For arrogance and hatred are the wares
Peddled in the thoroughfares.
Are innocence and beauty born?
Ceremony's a name for the rich horn,
And custom for the spreading laurel tree.
Sara Kellie Jun 2019
Take the pieces that remain,
I'm leaving them to you.
Use them wisely,
learn the game.
You're now on level two.

You cannot change
what others do.
So what will be, will be.
Remember this.
It won't be long.
You're now on level three.

No need for riches,
don't care you're poor.
Quit the race,
you need no more.
You're now on level four.

Organically dying,
body is old.
Your spirit is flying,
you feel alive.
You're now on level five.
Will we meet again?
When you get to level 10
The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
In Grattan's house.
The Second. My great-grandfather shared
A ***-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third. My great-grandfather's father talked of music,
Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth. Whence came our thought?
The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth. Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth. Whether they knew or not,
Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
That never looked out of the eye of a saint
Or out of drunkard's eye.
The Seventh. All's Whiggery now,
But we old men are massed against the world.
The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India
Harried, and Burke's great melody against it.
The Second. Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen,
Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields,
But never saw the trefoil stained with blood,
The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
The Fourth. The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Third. A voice
Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne
That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
The Sixtb. What schooling had these four?
The Seventh. They walked the roads
Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic;
They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.
Marshal Gebbie Jan 2013
I've just come in from sitting out front in some welcomed sun shine.
It's clear out and less cold and for two days or so we are to have
more of the same, but with colder nights, down into the high 20s.

As I walked out to the mail box, a distance of over 250 feet, along
our drive way, I turned back and looked over my shoulder and there
came all three of the outside cats. The Gray Lady, followed by
Tom and bringing up the rear was Jerry. All in a nearly perfect line,
spaced about ten feet behind me and from one another, in near
perfect order and a formation that even a hard edged Drill Instructor
might admire.

I got the mail and returned to the garage, with my kitty parade right
behind me.

In watching these cats and all our other animals it has occurred to
me that I am starting to behave very much like them. We talked
about how animals live in the moment. Reaction and instinct over
planning and thinking. Never over thinking anything.

I guess that is becoming me. I sleep until I wake up. Stay awake
until I grow sleepy. Drink when I thirst, eat when I hunger. Seeing
the sun appear, I seek it's warmth and bask in it's comfort. I pay no
attention to clocks and mostly refuse to plan. With no demands on
my time I do not require a schedule. I worry less and have little or
no expectations. I suppose you might say that I am free.

I can conclude that Life is a circle. Everything I just described might
well fit the description of a routine existence of a human infant.
Apparently we end much like we started out. Or, returning to my point,
perhaps we grow more and more like a cat, or a dog, or just about any
animal or mammal. More basic, simple and uncomplicated. Surely there
is Freedom in understanding and accepting that discovered realization.

And now without any thinking or planning, I shall go and find a warm
soft place to lay down, lick my fur and take a nap.

S.

You are feeling your mortality brother Steven ??.
So an instant ode to you my brother .....

Mortality, our great redeemer
Is levelling the ides of man,
Trimming back the values sought
In every over complex plan.
Trimming back un-needed gloss
Trimming back the fat,
Reducing the absurdity
of mankind’s overloaded  vat.

….To make each instant simpler
To render cleaner time,
To give each day a value
And to make that value mine.

The nearness of my coming end
Is this man’s realisation’s friend
In sorting out the wheat from chaff
To promulgate a favoured blend.

This blend?... My satisfaction’s choice
In the simpler things of life,
My kids, my mates, my poetry
And the touch of my dear wife.

The rest is window dressing, friend,
I leave it for the youth
That’s the group who’s noisy preference
Is behaviourally uncouth.

….Like you, I crave the simpler life
The morning sun in crisp blue air
And the happy sound of kids at play
….Means MY old soul’s in good repair.

                            
Affectionately M
Robert Clapham Sep 2010
Mirrored thought full breach horizon
Yearning drawing bridging cry
Intimate complete attraction
Now the moment true imply
Cast aside mendacious forethought
Resolute round purpose fly
Epiphanic thought emerging
Doubts foul gibbous banish say ....
Insp’ration resolute within here
Bursting forth bright intellect
Loosing dogs full purpose forward
Encroaching far reach treaded path
Resolute’ness biting grasping
Endless boundless seeming lost
Blazing purposeful grasp grimly
Energise strong inner soul
Capa’bil’ity strong purpose
Clear thought con’quering foul
Abandon dissolute mist darkness
Intersperse directive steer
Levelling where once lay mountains
Onward pushing prancing laugh
Voices raised fair joyous chorus
Ethereal reaching hands entwine
Yearning warmth transcending distance
Over hill and Moorland track
Understand where strength in thought lay
Accomplishment find perfect peace
©2010 Robert Clapham

Written at a time when I doubted my abilities
InLove000 Mar 2019
The day our eyes spoke was the day I questioned everything I ever had.
That beautiful moment,
I lost track of time
I lost myself looking at you
I felt joy, peace and a sense of being back home
I felt love that I didn't know existed in me
For the first time, I felt absolutely complete
I fell in love with your blue eyes looking back at mine, shining bright with so much love.
I felt strange things inside my body, from my stomach levelling up to my chest and getting outside my eyes.
As I watched you slowly trying to look away then turning back to look at me more clearly
I guess you saw the stars in my eyes.
November 6th 2018
LJ Jul 2016
It's my soul wandering in wonders
In ****** and meander it utters
There is never a stop, the levelling
Unveiling like a chorus to another

In a world where I am in disuse
A time where my muse sings
Lovers come and pack up to leave
Wavered like an anthem in discord

A universe where faith itself is a disbelief
A relief of the contours and eventualities
The vision sighted that all is out of balance
Shaky like a chord reaching a crescendo

Rivers so strong that I can't wander through
A swim so strenuous and unfocused
On the tunnel there is a lighted bulb
Glowing like a fire bomb ready to explode

In street and houses where all are struggling
The hidden secrets and the wet pillows
Subtle things that we will never know or see
Lost like a crab unshaken in it's shell
Everyone is fighting demons of one sort or another. It's time to find oneself!
nick armbrister May 2019
old poem from the 90s


Sitting patiently atop his tree camouflaged
against the enemy, the ****** waits.
For three days and three nights he has waited
to do his duty for Imperial Japan.
Along the trail walks the enemy. Alert and ready
but not looking up, for this is where the ****** is,
waiting, watching, ready right now.
Levelling his gun, he takes careful aim.
The Aussies swim into focus in his x10 telescopic sights.
Soon it is over as two fall dead, their comrades fleeing
as the Nippon terror strikes,
for he is the ******, amongst Japan’s best,
taking his war to the enemy.
Waverly Jan 2012
The chaos of my childhood haunts me.

Daddy's fist, mommy's ****** broken nose, streamers of blood, lawnmower catching on fire and the firemen trying to cop a feel of my mother, mommy yelling, me getting kicked out of pop's house, living nowhere for awhile, dumpsters, stumbling drunk into an old sewer, sleeping on ****, ******* in my sleep, waking up smelling stale like ammonia, car accident, fighting the guy who hit us because he called Josey a *****, pop slamming me into the refrigerator, me knocking him unconscious, levelling a knife on him once, fighting everybody, feeling like life was a fight, like i couldn't trust nobody. Even my new friends, brought beef to my house, a kid brought him and a whole bunch of other shaved-head ***** over in a jeep. I came outside with a butcher knife.
now i've got this flock inside of me,
because whenever I feel someone talking ****,
i just want to fight,
just want to react.

I hold all the good things inside of me
deep within,
even the little lambs
with pink, innocent lips
who are suckling and hungry for the thing i was really missing:
love.
Heavy was the globe, until the glove hit
Found himself entangled in a handlebar flip
Iron in the taste, ****** waste
Continuum drawn back on a meaningless quip

Unsteady footing reminiscent of preschool days, snorting paste
Zebra striped mockery, paid off the books; his vision’s been maced
Early end to prolonged exposure, he tries to bait
Steady eyed denial approaches with haste

The monetarily gorged rule keeper entangles in debate
Opponent grows weary appearing irate
He recalls the words in a blank cheque written by a weak frame
A levelling blow leaves his opponent in a blank state

World weary and star struck to blame
All in pursuit of everlasting fame
Luis Mdáhuar Sep 2014
Hie
I know my steps are no more
the infinite wisdom of the masses has become
the hideout of the scoundrel
equality is the mirage of modern times
it has deprived of dignity
all personality and original thought
even to the humble
simple tasted elevated soul
since modern man entered the idea
modern blasphemy
of equality
nothing but mediocrity
flies atop purchasing corpses
of the living souls
to admire a great man you must first
belong to the unique members of humble
thought
a subtle mechanism of the mind
where awe and emotion still exist
but no
says thee equal man
you cannot enter the room
first you must (horrible word)
decline your taste and bent for
exquisite feelings and a sense of beauty
force has left the room
instead we have complaints
and a total lack of confidence in self
in adventure
and the legitimate claim
to own your life

suicide has become a crime
one of the sikness of deranged mind
it is a right

I do not belong to this world
rather to solitude
an american crime
Oh evil and murderous incantation
in nature we seek solace from the homogeneous man
civilised murdering machine
my artificiality claims the ultimate prize
in decadence and sanctity
no more shall the ruins of judgements past
will assail me
the levelling field and the love of thunder
behaviour of evil deeds shall flourish
and man standing bent on the greyish mud
will perpetually love his trap
Francie Lynch May 2014
It was the cheap Polish coal
Sweeping down from chimney and slate,
Staining windows, levelling off
At doors, settling on walks
Where evidence showed me hurrying
To my bed-sitting room
In prints of snow and soot.
The roses dipped,
Foxgloves closed
Against the odour.

It was the kitchen.
Tomatoes, carrots, onions
Slicing vaporous air hanging
Veil-like on dark windows.

I coughed.
Too many cigarettes?
My nose bled.
I pulled out a hankie
And coughed again.
When I removed my coat
My eyes were red.
You'd notice.

Perhaps it was a combination .
You knew my eyes.

Weeks are still less tolerable.
Smoke, soot, salads,
Which really doesn't matter,
Strangely mix, tossing  off our years.
Cheap Polish coal. **** cheap Polish coal.
Wexford, Ireland.
Travis Frank Sep 2016
Locked up in a sealed, squat jar
Levelling out the fragile playing fields
Which separate our stupid lives from your pre-natal bliss,
I gazed upon you in constant amazement,
As your watered and eager soul shook against the thick glass.

In the comfort of a forgotten cupboard,
You peer out daily through your half-shut pink eyes,
Watching the cogs of our legs grind up and down stairwells,
Oiled by fear and glistening in blind faith.
And, still, you make the glass rock and tilt with your Buddha laughs!

Quite a charming crew, you had there!
Magical bones and limp lizards
(Amongst other players) gathered together for science’s sake,
Only to be glimpsed at briefly in-between breaks.
Kids came and went, things were built - you never changed.

It was better that you never tasted life’s lost lustre.
Had you past through the wet, wobbly womb,
Only a few options would have awaited you –
Pet, chop suey or a pitiful pawn on Squealer’s chessboard.
You’re too sweet for all of that – stay bottled up.
Sean M O'Kane Sep 2018
Crumbling Victorian concrete falls to the ground.
The crunch of rubble, levelling histories to dust.
All this is “progress”, “a bright opportunity” and “good for the economy”.
Yeah, but for who?
Those who live there? The communities forged from years of migration?
Those who take pride in the shape and feel of their own unique milieu?
It seems, no.

Look closer and you’ll find a hidden clue - the quietly mouthed magic word: “apartments”.
It won’t be long before a weekly shop will need a pay-day loan.
Or the late night fish supply shop turns into a swishy niche café.
WINZ offices relocating to where its denizens have been priced off to.
Meanwhile the newly whiter-than-whitewash feel of our once beloved suburbs,
present themselves as bastions of modernity and “progress”.
What lies in the rubble is not just dust, it’s the debris of pākehā civility.
Written in response to the (near) demolition of the original Stewart Dawson shop on the corner of Lambton Quay & Willis Street in Wellington. Now reduced to nothing more than a façade waiting on whatever ugly modern lump is placed against.

Glossary:

Fish Supply Shop - Cross between a fishmonger and a fish & chip shop.
WINZ - Welfare  benefits office.
Pākehā - Māori word for European settlers & their culture.
Jana B Dec 2020
The year that’s passed:
a watershed year,
a milestone year,
a rebirthed-via-fire kind of year.

A peeling of layers year,
a levelling year—
with flaws and faults,
an emotions-on-full kind of year.

A year of intensity,
a year of grief.
A down-on-my-knees
praying for peace kind of year.

A rebuilding year,
a learning year.
An emotional-resilience-required
kind of year.

This is the year
that it’s all been here.
In fullness, rawness, a
real, genuine kind of year.

Let the lessons be learned
for the next and the brighter year.
Let some laughter echo
into the lighter year.
Let us care for each other
to meet this with love, not fear.

Happy New Year, whether you’re far or near.
Getting in a little early - may 2021 be blessed for you and your families.
nivek Dec 2021
Death knocks at all doors
one way or another

Lurking in the shadows
waiting to pounce

The great levelling
of pride

Yes death remains
even after the dead are buried.
Ayesha Apr 2021
I wish I had an arrow to befriend
A slender beauty with veinlets etched
in gold
In which tales flowed
of battles unresolved— songs of wars
that it had never fought
Bearing a blade forged from flames
envied by the crescent that rips its way
through the dark

I would choose it out the nameless others
patient in the quiver
and show it off to the winds
Watch the sly sun kiss it’s carvings
her nimble fingers swirling about
—it’s rich purple sepals
and their unwavering grace
I would let it touch the worn-out bow
that, voiceless, had words to scream
in vales, and in dens

levelling its fletching with the callous string
I would pull
— oh, moors ahed, and moors behind
moors beneath, and all inside—
It’s unblemished tip smirking up the yonder
Slaying all voids in the way
— oh, born an icy weapon
unborn still
I wish I had an arrow to befriend

I would let free the trapped string
impatient, always, to flea
and watch the moon lurking beneath the day
Watch him brutal,
— watch him cold
As if expecting lightening to
sprout out of my eyes
Utter a silent curse I would
Knowing I could not add to his bruises

I would feel a star burning
by the edge of my eye
My bird soaring towards its doom
and into the moors,
I would sublime


I close my eyes against the sun
grasping
for the bright of my blood
that lurks, lurks
beneath the shadows
of my gaze—

grasping,
and grasping still—

I wish I had an arrow to befriend
07/04/2021
Gypsy Aug 2023
The jumbled froth of life
A frayed tapestry of ruin
Made sodden by the rain
Concealing a malignant thought
Those ancient instincts
Become my own tormentor
Filled with the reek of forests in decay
Merging dark in the webbed greasy darkness
Singing for the road
These levelling times
A brainless mechanical automation of jangling discord
Within the silt of memories
liquidated to the transitory currency of destruction
A drowsy chaos of reasoned passions
written on the passing wave
Dawn - hints at the shape of things - flexes
Through the struggles of our ancestors
Forever haunting the abbreviated memory of flesh
In our braided stream of citizenry
We are all the dead and dying..

Gypsy

— The End —