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 1      

In my opinion one of the greatest inventions there ever was. Yet Man has never discovered
it's true potential. It has become for the most part entertainment for the boobs.

Colored

talking gadget

programmed specially for

societies mental midget

demands.

More featured poems below...


Golden objects are most outstanding,

But without loving, they are missing flavor.

But let’s not forget stunning silver,

That the maid often loves to savor.

And brilliant copper, with its rosy sheen,

That every craftsman should well know.

But cold iron, as Kipling likes to say,

From all of these, takes the show.

Not mentioned yet, but not to be overlooked,

Is platinum, our bright and lustrous pal.

Thought to be impure for thousands of years,

But now more valuable than them all.


    
Venice, the daughter of the sea
Winding paths, waterways or cobblestones roads
Rulers of the renaissance, noblemen would be
Her navy full of conquests, her triumphs all would see

From nobility rose, a woman fair
Her life a whirlwind, with her share of despair
Banished from Venice, for daring to speak
Her desires and wit, did many a man seek

The golden rose the pope did give
As she fled to Florence, so young and deceived
Her strength in spirit and a mind so refined
Her friend Marco, the captain, with whom she dined

He parted his wisdom as best he could
He sailed victorious, for Bianca he should
His secret was safe out on the seas
Which is why he and Bianca, could never be

Her royal blood would keep her in stead
As nobility in Florence would turn their heads
Francesco indeed would commission a palazzo
For Bianca his mistress, in waiting, his queen

The Grand Duchy of Florence, all powers bestowed
A seeker of knowledge, of wisdom composed
His Austrian wife, alone, cold and barren
Could not compete, with his love yet to be

They danced, they confided, in each they held
A love of intellect, beauty and lust to be feld
And sadly, one day, the enemies of Venice
Plotted and schemed to bring about a demise

The poison was swift, and an era did end
In a villa in Florence, Francesco was dead
Bianca his love, her beauty unblemished
Fell by his side, and whispered to thee

My dear, my love, it was meant to be

Bianca Cappello (1548 – 17 October 1587)

Note: OK OK I invented 1 new word, that's what poets do

Shared by everyone
Nurturing without a fight
The all giving sun

7/1/15
The cantilevered soul
	looks up--
Wonders at the mood,
Strikes out alone.
	Reduces
All to stone.

He revels in sight;
He sees beyond.
To see or be seen is
	his motto.

Truly he will fall
From that old wall
	and break
	not gently.
 

Living is something we take for granted,
In a moment it can fade away;
Fleeting is our very existence,
Every tick of the clock is a precious gift.


_______________________
June 8, 2012


Acrostic



For the contest, Acrostic, sponsor, Black Eyed Susan


Feature Poem week of July 5 - 11, 2015
I want to be the panda protected
nothing to fear the last of my breed
I eat my heart content the bamboo leaves
of the forest preserved for me and my sibling
no agenda gave me a few more years to disappear
and stay a porcelain in your boudoir.
As I stood there in silence remembering the things that use to be.  I tried to erase 
the 
memories hoping this would set me free.  the pain it caused the sleepless 
nights I 
embraced and the endless tears on my face as I felt so much disgrace.
Time went by Day by Day Night by Night as I begin to lose sight, the strain on my 
mind 
with all the waisted time. I LISTENED FOR MY SCREAMS FROM ALL THE BAD 
DREAMS.
But I was not releived.
The emptiness as I wanted to die, and all I received was a mothers silent cry.


A Mom is one who sacrifices so others may find joy A Mom is a careful listener whether one be girl or one be boy A Mom is a refuge when ones world comes crashing down A Mom is a warm smile when confronted with a frown A Mom is a friend when all others turn away A Mom is a mentor when one tends to go astray A Mom is a quiet voice comforting our many fears A Mom is a happy story to clear away our tears A Mom is a wonderful wife who is there in victory and defeat A Mom is that person who makes everyone’s life complete
I get a glimpse of you A soft hue of light lavender rising in my dawn Gliding fervently in sun-kissed breeze An ephemeral beauty enchanting the depths of these caramel eyes Your purple wings flaunt in whimsical ballad Sprinkling evanescent dew across the embers of my heart And I feel it,a florescent flutter tickling my bare shoulder chasing the back of my neck teasing in wistful wonder My blushed smile preserves the moment of your tender brush across the silk peach of my cheek Of your fervent kiss fading in ethereal bliss An unspoiled warmth of softened touch upon the almond scent of my hair My heart captures the seconds before those iridescent wings fly high in sheer splendor to crimson blossoms which bloom which sway,which bleed their rose which wrap their thorns around my feet,around my hand So I would not follow your shimmering dust on promised paths of rainbow's pastels So I would not find you in the faraway land Yet,here I am, On autumn's carpet I mark my footprints Yet,here I come So close to you Yes,here I stand.
these skis look like hell,
old, scraped and gouged
but still they carry me
down this dark white trail

I've learned to keep myself upright
stumbles earlier almost forgotten
jerks who pulled or pushed me over,
fading/falling behind me

its cold now, snow fills the air
as I turn a corner, trees inches away
my poor and dirty clothes
still sufficient to keep me warm

and there she is, coming from
a different trail, forming up
to my left her eyes flickering at me
as mine lock on her

and she is just perfect. Easy
grace in opposition to my brute force
beautiful outfit, new skis
and a ready confident smile.

She yells, 'hi!' and I say 'sup?!'

as the trail turns, our speeds matched
we start turning, towards and away,
an impromptu dance, snow filling the air
the wind and hiss our only music

faster now as the trail drops away
and for one perfect moment, we
both catch air together
flying now

turning a tight corner, I look over
and find her .
.
.
gone.

Reflex viciously kicks out my skis
and I come to a snow-cloud stop.
eyes spinning everywhere, thinking
where are you?

A separate turning, a different trail?
She's nowhere I can see, nowhere I can
help
not with me anymore.

and my skis are old, my clothes dirty
but the person I was uphill,
is no longer here.
don't feel like skiing anymore.


Sitting in an ultra-modern café,
sitting among people too cool to be warm,
sipping on a coffee with a long, fancy name,
I ponder about how far I've come
since making coffee over an open fire --
brewing it like a true desperado.

There's a poster pinned up on the wall,
an image of Black Jesus staring down at me,
causing me to feel guilty
for hanging out with all this money,

for hanging out with all this decadence.

Black Jesus stares down at me,
causing me to feel guilty.

Is this how the madness starts?
I can hear Black Jesus talking to me,
while he hangs there on the wall.

"Why have you turned your back on me again?"

"Black Jesus, I haven't done such a thing, why I still...."

"Oh please man, don't tell me how I died for your sins, because my message was lost in translation. I didn't die for your sins, your egos are massive. I was merely made into a mirror for you to pick up and see your flawed reflection within -- to see how many sacrifices you need to make for this world."

"But, Black Jesus, I am trying so hard...."

"Stop. Son, you haven't been trying hard enough, mainly faking mere forgeries to make yourself feel better, is all. I was the beggar you passed before coming in here. You turned your back on the beggar, you turned your back on me."

"You mean -- he just wants another fix. If I give him money, he'll use it to buy another hit!"

"Nonsense. I gave you a test, and you completely failed it again. You should've brought me home, offered me a hot meal and a place to hang my weary head."

"That dude! He might have lice or worse. He might be a crazy, slit my throat from ear to ear while I sleep."

"Please kid, don't talk to me about sacrifice. You can't just walk around singing praise, thinking, 'Jesus loves me this I know', or 'Jesus died for our sins.' 
Nah, it isn't easy like that, it isn't easy like that at all. You have to make a sacrifice each and every time, no matter how high the cost. And not because someone might be watching, not for the reward of a make-believe heaven, but because it feels right.''


I stare into my ten dollar coffee, 
wonder if someone had spiked it hard,
spiked it with Uptight-Timothy Leary's magical carpet ride,
Black Jesus looming over me, causing me to feel guilty.

Hanging on the wall, Black Jesus looks straight through me.



April, 2010

_____


Revised (so far -- needs more editing)


Sitting in an ultra-modern café,
sitting among people too cool to be warm,
sipping on a coffee with a long, fancy name,
I contemplate how far I've come
since making coffee over an open fire—
brewing it like a true desperado.

There's a poster on the wall—
an image of Black Jesus stares down at me,
causing me to feel guilty
for hanging out with all this money,
for hanging out with all this decadence.

I hear a voice emanate from the poster.
(is this how the madness starts?)


"Turned your back on me? Again?"

Black Jesus, I haven't done such a thing, why I still—

"Oh please man, don't tell me how I died for your sins, because the message was lost in translation. I didn't die for your sins, your egos are massive. I was made into a mirror for you to pick up and see your flawed reflection within, to see how many sacrifices you need to make for this world."

But, I am trying so hard—

"Stop. Son, you haven't been trying hard enough, conjuring up forgeries to make yourself feel better, is all. I was the beggar who you passed before coming in here. You turned your back on the beggar, you turned your back on me."

You mean—he just wants another fix. If I give him money, he'll use it to buy another hit!

"Nonsense. I gave you a test, and you completely failed it again. You should've brought me home, offered me a hot meal and a place to hang my weary head."

That dude! He might have lice or worse. He might be a crazy, slit my throat while I sleep.

"Please kid, don't talk to me about sacrifice. You can't just walk around singing praise, thinking, 'Jesus loves me this I know', or 'Jesus died for our sins.' 
Nah, it isn't easy like that, it isn't easy like that at all. You have to make a sacrifice each and every time, no matter the cost. And not because someone might be watching, not for the reward of a make-believe heaven, but because it feels right.''


I stare into my ten dollar coffee, 
wonder if someone had spiked it hard,
spiked it with Uptight-Timothy Leary's magical carpet ride.

In an ultra-modern café,
among people too cool to be warm, 
Black Jesus looms over me.

Nailed to the wall, 

Black Jesus looks straight through me.



2015 workshop version

*Author's note: 

After removing some of the repetition/redundancy,
I felt that too much of it had been removed, 
thus negatively altering the original motion and sound 
by cutting too close to the bone.
So I cauterized the wound, gained back some weight, 
and unpinched the nerves, to offer more vessel 
for the intended frequency to flow through.    


+/-
From darkness I came, through birth.
Comes a life out of love and regret.
It’s my new beginning here on earth.
I’m turning blue, I can’t catch my breath.
Dad runs out the door without his shirt.
He brings in the Doctor; then comes my cry with a BIG STRETCH.

  
Taken from a Quatrain and couplets into a Quatret form...
On the pathway to the flames of hell, I stand; 
in inky blackness of night, 
with giggles of demons sounding close at hand. 

I march to the beat of Satan's dastard band; 
submit without a fight. 
On the pathway to the flames of hell, I stand.

Running with the evil intent of command, 
black thoughts now shocking white, 
with giggles of demons sounding close at hand. 

Misery becomes too much to withstand; 
the balm of slumber bright. 
On the pathway to the flames of hell, I stand.

Decisions made in haste, cannot now remand. 
Heartbeats spill the blood contrite; 
with giggles of demons sounding close at hand. 

Craving only grief's respite, 
I turn towards the waiting light. 
On the pathway to the flames of hell, I stand; 
with giggles of demons sounding close at hand. 
THE BABY LARK!!!!!!


Oh my god I'm about
to be born
Brought into this world
and it isn't the norm?
Thanks to this man - 
and woman too,
They got together and
now they're through?

They call themselves
adults, that's a laugh - 
For they say silly things - 
they do sound naff!
But their drunken antics
have now got me born,
Oh, my goodness - is
this the norm?

Out my head comes - 
and oh, what a sight,
Can I go back in - and
say; goodnight?
I did not ask to come 
into this life,
Now I'll have to face 
the trouble and strife?

Can these adults not
ask us babies?
Before their actions 
give us babies - the
heebie-jeebies?
All that sucking I will
have to do - 
Followed by hours on
that darn potty - having
a poo!

Having my back tapped - 
and slapped by my mother,
Oh now for my nappy - her
nose she will cover?!
Why do they do it - I ask
this now,
Next time, just ask me - you
silly old cow?!

BY
DARRYL ASHTON


 1