I can clearly sense your utter despair of Der Matratzengruft*
As you valiantly carried on your poetic works to the very end.
This did not change your literary accomplishments well-known,
And your courage through the misery and morphine* is undeniable.
Your lyrical poetry speaks volumes among all of German literature,
And it was most marvelously set to music by the likes of Schumann,
Schubert, Silcher, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and Strauss—to name a few.
Their melodic tones as applied to your verses then, now live on forever!
Your role in and principal contributions to Romanticism fall in line
With the highest quality of your poetic language and its intention.
Your role in battling early nineteenth-century censorship in Prussia set
You out front of many of your contemporaries who resisted much less.
It’s so tragic Herr Heine that your literary resistance so prominent in
Challenging Prussian censorship would make you ever so more noted,
And besmirched as the Nazis in 1933 burned your books and those of
Other German scholars as a reflection of their insane and twisted beliefs!
It’s with great irony indeed that the banning and burning of your works by
The Nazis was parodied further by them as they ignobly quoted and used
Your famous line from “Almansor,”* when you likened that “where books
Are burned, in the end people will be burned too.” We know what they did!
And so, with both honor and sadness I do understand the very cry of lament
From the confines of your mattress-grave about your final exquisite poetry,
Written through writhing pain and tears as you faced the end of your life.
It took great courage to face your end like this while staying true to your Muse!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 15, 2014)
(Narrative Quatrain poetic format)
*Der Matratzengruft from the German means “The Mattress-Grave.”
(Heinrich Heine was confined to his bed, his “mattress-grave,” in 1848
with various illnesses until his eventual death eight years later in 1856.)
*Heine poetically referred to his pain predicament in the poem “Morphine,”
written near the end of his life, when he noted in two famous verses:
“Gut is der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser—freilich / Das beste waere, nie
Geboren sein.” (In English: “Sleep is good, Death is better—of course, /
Best of all would be never to have been born.”)
*Almansor was a play written by Heine in 1821 that had a most famous
line in German: “Das war ein Vorspiel nur, dort wo man Buecher verbrennt,
verbrennt man auch am Ende Menschen.” (Rendered in English: “That was
but a prelude; where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as
well.”) The significance here is that as the Nazis burned the books of Heine
and other German artists on the Opernplatz in Berlin in 1933, they actually
celebrated this event by “engraving” Heine’s famous words from “Almansor”
in the ground at the Opernplatz site. The obvious depravity of this terrible
event reflects the innate cruelty, stupidity and evil of the Nazis as they
burned the books and defiled the names and reputations of Heine and other
famous German writers. Their actions were monstrous and shameful, and
were indicative of mankind’s base instincts at their very worst. Moreover,
despite converting to Protestantism from Judaism in 1825, Heine’s Jewish
origins played a continuing presence in his life and were one of the major
factors for his being scapegoated by the Nazis later in 1933. And besides,
the Nazis were always more interested in burning books, rather than
And the music began,
And with power so strong, I nearly fell back from the force
Snarling, smiling, demons held me upright,
As the Precarious Prince began,
“Dare you in silence come to me, Daughter of Eve,
To challenge my wisdom with your lust to sing,
A child of God—you provoke His flea,
A monster in the dark—a sight to see!
In meditative silence, I was ever blooming,
The passion for power in my mind consuming,
In silence, my brilliance berated all other
My beauty, shocking, my wings of color
Etched in golden array,
Silence was my everything,
A bud so tight, so light, so moist,
In heaven bright—its beam rejoiced!
And now, as knowledge, as power do burst,
I sit in silence, though in the worst
A quiet so perturbed your stomach curbs,
I long in luster for demons to disturb
Silence, once a subordinate to my wit,
Had found its way into this grimy pit,
Where now your God has given me,
A work of sloppy treachery…
Had I been He, and He been me,
I would throw His heart into the sea,
And watch the eels suck each artery
And listen to his lullabies for a century,
To feel his spirit sweat in the flames of my power,
I would shred his head on the highest tower,
Give him something to really Bab-bel,
Make him wish Eve had crushed that apple”
He smiled at me with teeth protruding,
Keenly waiting for my reply
My throat was insanely dry, and my heart racing
I had expected more, yet expected less…
And now all my wits were a wretched mess
Yet still Death severed those deep bass chords..
I began as a child would, with a doubtful sigh,
I wondered yet again what kind of trouble I was coming by
And inspired by The Reaper’s little push, I began
“In my days in your presence, dear one
Silence shall not roam too close,
I do not sing to disdain you,
Rather to know you,
I do not grow quiet,
To decompose you…”
I stopped for a moment,
To see him staring rather attentively,
As if he were expecting a miracle
His almost angelic expression changed as quick as it came…
“Go on…” He demanded. “Sing me what your God would have sang…”
“You speak of silence, in the fogs of doom,
In your pit you dwell, and with a child you make room,
I have ached long in the vision of your cries,
Watching the happy children, and the relieving sighs,
I imagined you just as I see you today,
A beautiful sufferer, with wit, bite, and sway
Crushing courage in your wake,
I implore you—you quake
Moments like these I will never forget,
To win, to lose, to KNOW I wait yet!
What is it with man and his thirst for the truth,
Leading him to fall, to intercede his youth,
And as I do now, wrong or right,
By God and his angels has found delight!
Allowed me with confidence to face you Prince,
A sauntering being of ire and impertinence
I see where your attention bleeds,
I see your mind and I see your needs
Such darkness must now allow some light,
By accepting my challenge—a bravery so bright
Do I mean to admire you, accept you, despise you
Am I hear to judge you, taunt you, transpire you
You and you alone I come for, oh Prince
To show you I care, to break the silence
To share with you the precious gifts of song,
To love, to sing, and in turn…belong…”
The demons chimed with laughter dark
As the Prince sat close beside me
He stood very slow, towering over me,
And took me by the arm
“Charming voice, darling,
You sing quite well,
Shall we sing for as long as you say?
Will you not be missed?”
He pointed above me, and stared at me deeply
There was warning written all over him
A threatening, distant eye,
The other full of desire
“I am missed by you, though I stand before you,
This I say, Prince
I shall stay with you 40 days and 40 nights,
And then I shall leave you, in the breaking dawn of day…”
His grip tightened upon me,
“I have you, child, woman…light…
For 40 Days and 40 nights…
Before then, let us make history of song
Yes, my dear... let us both belong…”
The demons gasped,
And Death stood still…steadily strumming a pulse of daring life
----Thank you once again, Justin Bordner, for the title to this work.
This may be confusing if you have not yet read the other parts to the poem. If you are interested, they are called Light On the Devil’s Chord – Part 1, Part 2 Part 3 as well as The ChallengeThanks for reading friends! ~Laura
Life is but a winding road
Filled with faces along the way
Coming in and out of your life
Coloring your every day
Yet most spend just a moment
A fleeting glimpse before your eyes
They giveth not and taketh not
And cause you barely a rise
And some stay just a moment
Earning a thought upon your mind
Triggers for countless memories
These are the most common kind
And fewer still stay even longer
And commune with you a while
Leaving behind dearest memoirs
Of sweet tears or a special smile
And rarer still those faces grand
Building mansions in your soul
These are the faces of a lifetime
Whose virtue you do extol
And know that you simply are
A feature filled soiree
A portrait in collage
Of the faces along the way
Every once in a while I lose myself
But I’m glad the dreams are coming back
I feel the thrill filling me
I feel my heartbeat rising
I see redemption rising in the days ahead
I still realise once again that I’ve earned another chance to begin anew
Still glad that it’s early in life
...and I can apply the lessons I’ve learnt before I’m twenty five
Phew! Boy, my heart’s beating fast
I shall no longer look at my past
For the past is just that
...opportunities gone with the wind, never to come back
I look towards the days ahead
I spend today to dream of the future I intend
For I know now tomorrow is bound to come
Today was but a dream ten years back
Had I realised then how soon today would come
I’d already be rich riding on the wings of independence
I pledge never to make that mistake again
Today I shall live like I plan
...and not like my neighbour Mr. Wright
For I know not how much he earns to spend the way he does
Today I shall not live like the society around me
For I don’t know whether they think ahead
...of the days that are bound to be raining with storms of emergency
I pledge to live as befits me
I plan to live today in a way that enables me to save
For now I know I was right ten years ago
But I hadn’t the courage to follow a route of my own
Now I’m determined ten years to come...
I’ll be riding on the unicorn of delight
I pay no care for what those here and there may air
I wanna be happy today in my moderate ways
Knowing all too well I’m headed where
There, in the future where my heavy dreams will float in the air
I’m no hater so for the rest of the players here
I wish all the goodwill and good wishes my subconscious can air
Don’ wanna bee roun ewe noh moh.
Don’ wanna see da trajuhdee dats heded,
At yah doh.
Ewe wuz vary ahful tah mi,
God’s chile. Eye didden doyah nuttin.
Yah ‘sposed, tah bee ah liter rite?
Butt ya playin’ roun wit da won,
Whooz comin’ bak leyek ah,
Theef en dah nite.
Win yah ain’t treet mi rite,
Yah naglect’d dah powah uv God.
Cuz onlee wit Him ah wuz,
Ovalookin’ wat ewe wuz doin’,
Ta mi fah da harvest ,
Of God’s chirren bein’ edumacated,
Mi yah outrite hated.
Butt dats awrite God-n-eye,
Gon’ win dis feyght.
Ah wheel hav’ victuree cuz ah,
Choze ta spread luv butt ewe,
Choze ta spread mizuhree.
Don’ wanna bee roun ewe noh moh.
Don’ wanna see da trajuhdee dats heded,
At yah doh.
Ewe ramyned mi uv ol’Pharoah,
Hoo woodn’t lett God’s pipahs goh.
Ah didden wanna fase yah awl dose
Butt God help’d mi leyek God help’d,
Moses speek up tah ol’Pharoah.
God tole Moses tah lett mah pipahs goh.
God telling mi ta tale yah phake Pharoah
Tah lett mi chirren’s goh.
Ah noh ah hatta bee roun ewe sum moh.
Butt itell bee worfwile,
Cuz God wantz freedom,
Fah ebbery chile.
Yah hut mi fah alil wile,
Butt we’ll bee at da prahmased lan’,
An out uv yah Egypt.
Cuz fah awl uv uz ta prospa,
Iz God’s plan.
Ansoon we won’ be roun ewe no moh.
Wheel nat laugh leyek yah didaht mi.
Win trajudee nocks aht yah doh.
Wheel helpyah cuz God,
Wantz uz awl tah bee free.
Frum dah phake phone’ powah,
Uv da enumee.
What do you do when life throws you a misguided curve?
You just keep on chugging, never losing nerve.
It’s easy to quit, give up, holler I’ve had enough.
But just shake it off, get tough, show em you got the stuff.
Pity parties are for losers that will only sire defeat.
Never stop trying even when better judgement says you’re beat.
If you’re not fully charged with a positive electrode,
Then it won’t take much of a negative to drain your load.
Keep yourself charged with a positive upbeat,
Then you’ll know why I say victory can taste so sweet.
No matter who you are there is always somebody that looks up to you.
So be a role model, set good examples in all things that you do.
Your one fleeting moment of good may set the tone,
To that someone that was watching, that you may have never known.
Take it from someone who has been on both sides of the fence.
A positive and good attitude is always your better defense.
Just have faith in knowing that tomorrow the sun will shine.
Just in believing will give you a much greater peace of mind.
I remember summers past in the south
and the sultry heat.
Iced tea and back porch confessions.
Making time with that first love.
The swing underneath that old tree.
The radio playing softley in the background.
Thoose ways have long since died.
Replaced by a breakneck pace.
As were all to willing to forsake a conversation between
two human beings.
It's all about one night stands and bragging rights.
It's like comparing velvet to burlap.
All harsh no mystery.
Where people would rather surf the internet
The passion of the kiss.
Is but a dinosaur that people
view as some old silent film.
A blanket underneath the stars
Has been replaced by a encounter in a
Upward we advance as deeper we sink within the
As the poet reflects ink drying
in he pen.
I recall thoose times so very slow.
To this sudden stand still.
Like a pile up on the interstate.
I no longer live I wait.
But the sunset still haunts me.
Along with the scent of the salt filled air.
that tree's swing does no longer stand.
As in dust and memories it's been taken with
The road echos of another time.
For all that was free and wild.
Is slowley vanishing.
As we blindly advance.
I'll sit and watch the tide.
And be happy to be left behind.
Listen, you see that ?
Listen harder, I know you see it now.
Look over there, quick.
Did you hear that ?
Tell me, if you can see the sound I see.
If you can taste what I feel.
Speak without talking, move without walking.
So many things, with not enough stuff.
Hot not cold, on but off.
Death brings life, to those who are open.
Closure is loneliness, knowledge is light.
Fear is confusing and power is sight.
To answer a problem, you didnt even know.
To speak about places, you didnt even go.
Reading is much, if you know what you read is more.
People Say poetry is for the broken,
As if nobody or nothing but words on paper can mend their broken pieces,
As if their soul existence is put into paragraph form,
each line representing some critical moment in their life.
Let us not acknowledge the fact that poets possess an amazing skill,
a skill where they articulate words, painting a picture as the words roll off the tongue.
A stranger whom can make you relive every beautiful moment,
re experience every sad emotion, and allow you to feel!
Now that I think about it...maybe they're the broken ones..
My mother, my grandmother before has always held a place in my heart.
My father, and my grandfather before has the same part.
I was young and very active with unwillingness to listen fully to what they had to say.
I had a problem, never could be solved without my parents and grandparents till today.
With patience they all come to my aid when I fall on my face.
With little dishonor I listen to them and what they had to say, I embrace.
Over the years I go to them with no doubt a feeling of no dismay.
Over the years I go to them and they help me solve problems that to me is O.K.
Now I am getting a bit more aware of what had happen to me when I was growing.
Now I remember how the ride was in my beginning: it was a trial of not knowing.
With the guided words of my parents and grandparents I survive through them all.
With it some being a problem that I remember I recall.
My mother and my grandmother always said to be patient and it will be easy to solve.
My father and my grandfather always knew that I would grow and evolve.
I could wonder everyday what if my parents and grandparents was not in my life.
I could just think that would be fatal like a stab with a knife.
With knowledge that they had past on to me of what they had experience.
With their proof of teachings they had past on to me is their self existence.
Over the years I grew with life so full of happiness that was because of my families love.
Over the years it showed me the path that led me to all the above.
Now cherish those words that help me through my troubles in my new family.
Now I listen to my parents healing words of wisdom and except them gladly.
Shovels,blue overalls and head lamps.
They dug the golds fields to feed our our hungry stomachs,they carried the Dompas to free our future,they took beatings for our emancipation,but did they plant good seeds in our brains?
Did they instill education in our hearts?
We stick gold plates on our teeth to show monetary muscle
We dig our father's pockets to fend for our families and we are labelled gold diggers.
Were the lights at the end of the tunnel chandeliers on the ceiling of the Summit club?
Did our dreams slide downhill like a pole dancer?
Is the corporate leader a way to step on the backs of a kneeling cleaner?
Shining crystals all looked the same,we took the mirror and gave away the diamond,we gave away our herd of cattle but now we are fed a load of wild Bull and a lot of Ass.
We took away the buffalo from our national money,we boasted of millions to bid for the same buffalo and now the same buffalo ends on our plates at dinner time.
We placed Madiba on the Randelas only for the Mandelas to fight for the millions.
27 years fight to freedom,a few years into democracy, but an eternal scar of poverty.
We recalled the smoke pipe that was bringing fire to the cold land and inducted the shower head that only bring storms of conspiracy,strikes and skimpy dancers.
Did we go wrong anywhere or am I just an ignorant youth?
It was once a good and honest worker calculation area.
His life was encode the world on your back in the form of numbers and proportions of these.
When he saw the sun, looking for the angle to calculate its axis,
when he saw another human being quantified his features,
gestures and inferred about their possible reactions.
Poor man, he did not see the horizon as a screen display of Monet,
who did not see the other as an extension of divine knowledge.
So is the mason, electrician, psychologist, engineer,
administrator, businessman, politician, ...
men who are good at what they do, but each in view of the world that surrounds it.
Because it is simpler to be one ... than having multiple views of the same mind.
My opinions on contests, in prose
I have to write this narrative, because I need to address this question of contests. I have had comments about this poem that I wrote, called ‘contests’ that I have need to answer. One person tells me that contests are fun and it doesn’t matter about winning; I am sure if they were being honest most who enter would not agree with this. I myself think that the people on this site are very competitive and love to win even when they know that their poem did not deserve to win.
I have seen so many win these contests even though their styles are quite off, and others have written in perfect style and have not got a mention. I see so much favouritism on this site, and many have complained about this, while most will not speak their minds on the subject. It is like the best poems list, they call it the best poems list, but this is not really true. It should be called the most popular poems list.
I am also told that this is a way of learning new styles. Now I am on a private site that teaches styles with no winners or losers. I have learned nearly ninety styles, and never had to enter a contest at all. I prefer not to use most of them because they are clumsy though, and in my eye are not poetry at all.
I have seen so much rubbish on this site which has been called poetry and are laughable. Since when has prose been called poetry? This is why I no longer enter contests. I take great pride in my writing and hate to see it insulted. These days I just post, and anyone who answers my posts I comment on theirs. It is not important any more that I get comments. These are only the opinions of others. In the two years I have been on this site I have seen it go down hill as it has lost many members….peter
Feel like singing a happy song
And if you'll allow me to bend your ear
I don't mean literally of course
That could be physically quite painful
At my advanced age, my mind is still clicking along
Had envisioned when I was younger
That when I reached this ripe old age
Things would start to erode and shut down
Not true... how wrong I was, I'm still full of beans
Still wake each morning with a smile on my face
Thought at one time everybody did
But I may be more unique than I imagined
Perhaps it's in our genes, it's not a choice
Though we can still make a conscious effort
I've always had a positive outlook
Sure can count my lucky stars
If I can at all help others to feel like this
Then I've really accomplished something amazing
Wrapping it all up into two simple words...
© Jack Ellison 2014
The warm light calls me
And all the people who cries for thee
I raise my hand in this abyss
Only to make one wish
To float among the others
With all my sisters and brothers
I call out for forgiveness with passion
I take their pain into myself for this occasion
The moment that I see the sky
I will not look back and cry
My body is laying still
People standing by it with a chill
The air gets dense with sadness
I would not think of it less
Some people look up and down
To see the light hit the ground
Some can vision the uplifting feeling they see
One soul that has been and always be
It is special to notice such aberration
And that might be how souls are awaken
In memory of Bob
A true story.
It was in spring of two thousand when I first saw Bob. I’d just started working at Perth Dental hospital, and in fact it was my first day there. I walked up to the front door of this building, but it wasn’t yet opened. So I turned around and went to sit in the bus shelter which was just outside the building. As I went to sit down I noted a dark skinned gentleman sitting there with a happy, benign look on his face. He was about five feet eight give or take a little, and he was rather a thickset man who looked like he’d done his fair share of hard work in his sixty years or more.
There was something about this Gentleman that I could not quite put my finger on. He had a certain charisma about him; not the phony kind of charisma that one seen in the car salesman or the philanderer who messes with women’s heads, no, Bob had a kind of friendly smile for everyone that he met, and he seemed to draw people into him with his love, and gigantic heart. I knew as soon as I met him that Bob was most definitely for me.
As Bob looked at me and smiled, the whole world seemed to open up. He said “Ow ya going mate” in a loud ebullient manner, then we started to chat. Bob was like myself, a thinker, and straight away we started philosophizing about this, that, and the other, and it was like we had known each other forever. Then all of a sudden I found Bob talking about death, and the difference in the way the Maori people faced death, compared to the rather the silly way us white folk look at the subject with great fear in our hearts. Now this had always interested me, and somehow it just seemed natural to talk to this Maori gentlemen on this subject, and we spoke about it till the doors opened and it was time to work.
I don’t think anything happens just by chance, and I definitely have this feeling that Bob and I were meant to meet, and I really think this was a major destiny thing. I have found during the course of my life, that as I am aging, I can feel something pushing me into a certain direction, and I always felt that Bob was part of all this; and I had much to learn from him. Although I have never believed in organized religion, and never followed one I have always felt deeply spiritual, and I have met many people who I learned from, and Bob was most definitely one of them with all his great wisdom and patience. As I came to know Bob, we had many dialogues together, on many subjects. Bob used to love music and could always have time to plonk away on his guitar. He used to come round to my place and we would play songs together, though both he and I were no Eric Clapton’s, I would bang around on my guitar and play the harp, while we would both take out turns at singing. We’d have a smoke or a beer or two, and we’d play songs all day long, ahhh, I remember those days well, the memories are so strong.
Bob was one hell of a man, I could tell that he had been a wild one in his youth,
But when I knew him in his sixties he was an icon of wisdom and virtue; he had a kind word for everyone, and gave all his time to anybody who needed him, always.
He used to hear me waffling on like an idiot, trying to make him like me [as I always did] but never once did he tell me how foolish I was, he would just smile knowingly at me. He used to stand there at the window for hours, just drinking in the trees, or the clouds in the sky, and yet he was so aware, I used to try to sneak up on him; it couldn’t be done. His awareness was incredible.
Then one day Bob fell ill with terminal cancer, and he knew that he had very little time left on this Earth. He lay there sick for days in intolerable pain, but you never heard one complaint from him, even when he only had days to live, he was still worrying about the welfare of others. When the day finally come for Bob to leave his shell; he was lying there in deep sleep, when all of a sudden he woke up, with a smile on his face. His children asked him ‘Dad, do you want some pain killers” Bob laughed, compassion written all over his face, and he said to them ‘Not one of you has a clue, have you’ and he died with a big smile on his face.
His daughter got in touch with me, and told me about his death, and also told me that his last wish was to have me watch his soul leave his body. I felt very honored about this and went and sat with his body [as Maoris do]. I got the most peaceful feeling come to me [which I presume was his spirit leaving his body] as I watched his silent body, a Mari war stick and a beautiful rose lay across his chest. I still see it, and I feel blessed by it. He was my Maori warrior, and I adored the man.
A beggar had been sitting at the side of a road
For over thirty years on a box which was old.
One beautiful day a stranger walked by.
“Spare some change?” – asked the beggar and sighed.
“I have nothing to give you”, - said the stranger to him,-
“What is that you are sitting on?” “Just an old box, I seem.
I’ve been sitting on it for as long as I live”.
“Ever looked what’s inside?” “There is nothing in it”.
“Have a look in to see - there’s something or not”.
So he opened the box and it was filled with gold.
I was inspired by a parable from Eckhart Tolle’s Book “The Power of Now”.
A TRAGEDY OF PRIDE ( hubris)
In the Arctic nights the jazz born North Lights sound
with a music of their own. Fair winds ferry fragile birds--
take to the skies in search of sympathetic warmth profound
while white breathless silence magnifies each sound as it is heard
and few venture forth, like bears they dash to find a haven
where they can hide until reluctantly the sun has stirred--
But, there is one jay bird who is not one of nature’s craven
creatures-- Waiting for a spring call from his mate, he hops into the hungry snow
to dance a dangerous dance in icy morning with the ravens.
There is a God flung magic that dashes high above the haughty human know
among the ancient secret kingdoms of the mystery sky--
And there it is that Wisdom’s Word is spread by wing and wayward winds that blow
their way in worldwide splendor and intricate magnificence that defies
the mind of man. It is a truth that dalliance in vanity is inborn---
Man or bird, into the nature of some spirits-- it low lies
and becomes incited when grand fame or imagined glory has been shorn
by another . And , so-- in Persia when the Prince of Peacocks heard
murmurs of the razzing ravens and the sassy sparrows high sky airborne
a proclamation that the World knew now there lived a peerless bird--
plucky-proud, surpassing the peacock -- Jay magnificent with a spirit daunting, a weight
of valiant blue in shades escaped of double rainbows, color-blurred
who bedazzled all nature’s eyes and winds of ear, that judiciously beheld each trait.
The peacock, no longer Highest Prince of Birds, screamed a terrible and cosmic sound
of jealousy. Ignoring all the glory that still made him great--
the vain and foolish peacock fell-- stunned and breathless to the ground.
Victoria Anderson-Throop 2012 ©
Written in Juja, Kenya
Bird is Stellar Jay, common in Valdez, Alaska
As naturally and effortlessly as birds fly
Unannounced and quietly an Idea came by
Faster than the weightless wind it flew
Where it came from no one asked, no one knew
Longing for a cloak in which to be wrapped
It knocked on many doors asking to be dressed
It wished to be given a shape and form for all to see
It wanted an existence, and in this world a chance to be
The farmer was farming, the worker busy working
The judge was judging, the thief in the shadows lurking
The preacher was of the invisible kingdom preaching
The poet alone with his heart and soul for the Idea reaching
It seized him and became the fire in his veins
The beating in his heart, the throbbing in his brain
It became the movement of his arms and legs
He asked for the right words like a beggar for food begs
The Idea through the flesh was about to be born
The invisible by the visible longed to be worn
Like newlyweds neither knew too well the other
They had to unite: each’d be both father and mother
Now the idea took control and led the poet’s pen
Then It was overpowered by the brutish man
Now he’d try to bend It, to suit his words, to shape It
Then It bent him so that into each other they’d fit
He wished to be a channel for the Idea he sensed
It had a burning desire, a purpose to be expressed
When possessing parts of both the work was done
An idea of the Idea was born - a battle both lost and won
Tears from heaven, as angels cry,
Fall in buckets from the sky.
Falling to wash away pain and sorrow,
Awaken hopes for a better tomorrow.
I often get lost within the dark,
It’s the time when pieces fall apart.
Still, the tears carry me away,
Infecting words, the things that I say.
I don’t always seem to get things right,
Some of the answers live in the shadows of night.
I wonder if my mind ever does sleep,
The still water is getting way too deep.
Rainbows appear as light greets the rain,
Nothing or no one is left the same.
I see so much locked inside change,
Within my grasp, yet still out of range.
I think of the end rewarding pots of gold,
Locked inside the words of stories told.
The reward outweighs all of the risk,
The wind blows sharply, feeling so brisk.
I reflect upon summer, that is now gone,
The snow shall fly before too long.
I feel this warmth inside the cold air,
Warmth in the words, that you care.
With today fading, tomorrow’s in sight.
Sunrise returns right after the night.
With it comes the presence of this day,
No one or nothing shall take this away.
Network news commentators
are commie lovers one and all.
A daily pathetic display of stupidity.
When a father of five
came home faced
with one in five children of convalescence
which he will pay more attention?
So organizations should be
when in a department or group,
one member is left out
of the production process.
Discard the individual or rescue?
Duke Luke by his bateau
Arrived at his chateau,
Had he travelled through large eau!
His mysterious rendez-vous
with Henry Thoreau
Yielded him a scarlet portmanteau.
Entering his bureau,
he took off his manteau
and opened the portmanteau:
The Snow Man was inside
And though not well could he sing,
Sang he a song of himself:
Stopping by woods on a snowy evening
He met Annabel Lee on a large shelf,
Frightened he was by the raven
And took the road not taken:
Crossed he the mending wall
And hearing the anecdote of the jar
To noble savage Billy Budd an honest fare he paid
Large and far
From spring to fall
Self-reliance: the idea he hath
The American Scholar guided his path;
He slept a long time
In a clean well-lighted place;
One winter he woke up
In a station of the metro:
He fastened his tender buttons
and found a red wheelbarrow;
'No ideas but in things' -
A lovely image this brings!
To his disappointment and sorrow,
He never saw the snows of Kilimanjaro.
Duke Luke in disbelief
Wiped his eyes
And pinched his ears;
The Snow Man disappeared.
Took a look
At his portmanteau
In hopes of seeing something
I wander into this dark, misTearYous room
—and there he was...and wow! What a Fig!
He with the long, lustRuse hair
sitting at a corner table, nursing a cup of hot cocoa.
Dang. He has better hair than I do!
“I’m a gin at Ion’s,” were his first words spoken.
“I’m a gin at Ion’s.” And then sighlens.
I was trying to look through his lens, and figure out his sighs
when he utters, “I can see you are number—“
“Huh? I am number what? I don’t see any lines here..."
“Ah, yes you are, as I was... NumBer as in more than numb.”
He definitely got me, he with the misTearYous eyes
so I sit down and ask him what he means
(but I refused to ask how he saw through my numbity)
“What do you mean that you are a gin? And where is Ion’s?”
“Exactly just that. I’m a gin at Ion’s. A di*k t’Eve.”
He tells me that Ion’s is nowhere, everywhere and knowhere,
of how anyone who takes even a sip of that gin can hold on to it—
too much, so much so, as to lose that grip on ReAhhlity...
I ask him what he does there.
Seemingly one word, two meanings— "aMuse," says he...
He reveals he is also part-tickles, part abs-tackles
then he also exhails at wind ‘o pains,
to fog or clear up views and relayshunships
But oh! How at one point he felt tieurd, of how he had so many callUses—
numb, tired of how it reCurse, of always being called upon, of being used
Been used So many times, he didn’t know who he was anymore...
a Duke at Ion’s, a con’s front at Ion’s,
an ex pecked at Ion’s, a lucid at Ion’s, a rebel at Ion’s...
oddly enough, even if he has been ‘d sign at Ion’s,
he still felt blahtantly invisible,
even if he wore only a V-bra at Ion’s!
He chalks everything up to exPeerience, and has learned from it.
And that's why he's also known as a sensei at Ion’s (his personal favorite)
He says even if he can go beyond infinity, he—
he stops (ah gain!) and yes, there it sneaked in... Sighlens.
Telling me through the void, through his sighs, through his lens
To close my eyes, and figYour out myself. And then I do...
ReAhhlieZing how much I could relate,
how I have been in DenyAll of my possiBElities.
It is all a matter of perSpeck'tEve, of looking at each tiny speck of life,
of creating something from each of it, entire universes even—boundless
How odd that I myself felt like I'm a gin at Ion's...
Addictive, yes so I best be careful with where I take it.
I oh!pen my eyes and the fig meant to show me ReAhhlity had gone...
Said goodbye so many times,
To its occupants that once were babies.
New cradle to so many grand parents,
Gently rocked to sleep by memories.
Grandpa once told me he felt a kinship,
To this chair that creaked once in a while.
His limbs and its were very much the same;
Only difference was it would always have new customers.
As a little boy it was my rocking horse,
I climbed its high back like spiderman.
Couldn't tip it over no matter how hard I tried;
Just swung on a wooden toy that Grandpa hated to love.
My father sat there in that very same chair,
Swaying away in a chariot he had surely earned.
I sat next to him then and we reminisced,
Knowing that soon I would take his place.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn
Love? But he always hurt you.
Can’t leave the punk? But he is abusive.
In too deep? Just leave him!
Alone? Isn’t that the best way to be?
Need someone to lean on? But the world is crazy.
Want to share your thoughts? Just pray to the Lord!
Joe you wrong. The color woman was suppressed by the white man for too long. And now you want to fight. I dare you to strike me like that.
Why do I trust? Any man today is a wrongdoer!
Intimacy? But you should want to be free.
Need to be loved? But you just end a relationship with a no good thug.
Want comfort? Why not find you a support group!
Depressed? Isn’t by yourself a way to think.
Need someone to talk to? But people are not true.
Desire a best friend? I am always here!
Steven isn’t good for moral support. He will seek you for sex and enjoyment. You say you are depressed and stressed from to many bad relationships.
Why do you want to trust without healing?
Not yourself? But that’s because of what you been through.
Can’t find sense? But that’s within reason of the pain you feel, Honey Boo.
Colors? You have suffered now it is time to heal.
Want to go out? That’s it! Learn to help yourself. The world can be deep. In depth you become to the life you live. No time to hide what you feel. Maybe a day to cry and then go out and chill!
Want a drink? Not so fast.
Want to drown your sorrows as usual? No time for addiction or developing bad habits. Trust your instincts and know things will get better! It is a sad thing to see a friend become a substance abuser. You know what is wrong but can’t do nothing at all but tell her to not drink to solve any issue. If you find that they are strong, you know they have listened.
Want to scream?
Why not do that to let out the steam? This will help you to cope and not make a mistake to trust before you know him.
Want to smile? Just smile! You also seem to desire affection. You say this would be just a simple friend that cannot go against you. But you don’t state whether that is me. I am best kept as it seems. Let’s sing and sing. Let’s enjoy the life we live.
Must you trust your heart with somebody? You don’t. Just wait until the time has come. You can be by yourself for a while. If you need a smile, humor your mind. Never letting anyone one in and then before you know it you have met the prefect man.
Why trust when you can be free?
Why need anybody? Love is true to those who define true meaning.
Why trust when he is misleading?
User Name: Verlena
Psuedonym: Oblivion Dark Sunshine
Entry Date: February 26, 2014
Lord God, send us Your Divine and Moral Virtues to assist people
Faith, to deeply understand and produce evidence to the unseen
Impart Hope to be determined and persevere successfully
For persons to consider a little generosity to Charity
To present Prudence by being careful
For untruthfulness to bring into Justice
Give fortitude for lawmakers and government officials to be strong
Bring in Temperance to exercise Patience and Tolerance
We ask these in the name of Father Christ Jesus to send out the Virtues of the Holy Spirit
underneath a canopy of stars
only known by the universe
(there are so many….you see)
black silence permeates her mind
dusk is way past brand new
and she is stumbling on a dark pitch
neon lights glow inside her
(though seldom seen)
the eyes of a mask
pushing through the empty
of a thousand masquerades
buried ghost of white light
hurried sounds of footsteps
and wells of blue ink burrow
beneath skin to fragile
as she trembles from the recall
(inching in with devils claws)
somewhere she remembers
yet always on the outside
she stumbles in the night time
oh how it taunts her lips
for just one taste
of sweet spring water
the luscious strawberry linger
as she suffers dehydration
quick flashes flicker past
and the stars call up a whisper
but remains motionless
(feet glued to solid ground)
willow….weep for her
with your weeping boughs
(do you remember?)
for no one else can hear her
in the shadows of a maple
in a country full of desert
(muted by judging mouths)
she cannot speak out truth
spirit sounds frolic
like fairies in the night
dancing in the wasteland
of what she thought was home
and she….lost inside the twinkle
of a billion lights that shimmer
with the mockery of reminiscence
underneath a canopy of stars
only known by the universe
(just too many….you see)
always she waits….
“God bless us all when the door is shut behind us,
only then will we breathe our first breath,
from the long dream…”
Forging past the indisputable summit onto the
shelf of the perfect medium (ah, ‘tis noble here!)
he sits, contemplating his balance. He does not sweat.
The winds breath breaks upon his predestined neck,
bestowing the gift of lily white scent upon a lapel that’s
stiff, yet pliable – just stiff enough. A 72 degree sun
shines its neutrality, (fueling his desire for nothing at all,
just the concept of sun giving heat, like a heartbeat,
unnoticed in its certainty) upon his stagnant face.
He is wearing his favorite pants (soft, worn jeans with
a little give, but not enough so that he forgets to hold
in his stomach), and from the ample pocket, he takes
an apple. It is a Red Delicious. Not quite living up to its
name, but unassuming and secure in its redness – he eats.
It’s not the best apple he’s ever had, but its good enough.
The vultures, native to this coveted desert waste circle,
vying for the core of his Non-Delicious, yet edible fruit.
And as he Bites into the last white taste of just fine, a glint
of sunlight flashes briefly – like infinity within dreams,
off of the vultures black eyes. And all at once he knows –
everything is. The death birds orbit the terracotta desert
peek (red and inviting in its dry and unforgiving reality),
the bird turns away so fast after catching his eye,
he forgets that he’d ever seen its pulsing recognition.
The forgettable sunset mollifies him - sedates him,
pacifying his every forgettable non-movement.
It is then, when the last dripping light of day descends
behind the obvious rock mount; the definite edge
of darkness falls. Shadows creep slowly and quickly
across the terrestrial rock spine, (engulfing its redness
in its totality) leaving just the remnants of burgundy
skin between yellowing teeth, and a deafening black desert.
As the sound of raucous wings and ripping jeans dominates
the guttural desert - the vultures take their coveted prize.
*Reposted for Deborah's Something Wicked This Way Comes, Wickedness Contest. :)
From anxiety to joy
Hi to all my friends
I decided to write this story of me down, because I see so many unhappy people on this site. They make this very clear to me when I read some of their beautiful poems. I have tried telling it in verse, but now I feel it is time to write it down in prose
When I was a child I was not happy because I had very strict parents who robbed me of all my freedom. I was a very freedom loving boy and I felt so totally restricted in a family that never could and never would understand me. There was a lot of psychological cruelty handed out to me by my Father and a hell of lot of bullying, I was subjected to by the other kids, I came from a very rough part of London called Peckham, and I was an extremely sensitive young lad.
When I grew up I married a beautiful Australian girl named Vera who is still my beloved wife after fifty years. We immigrated to Australia, and after about three months, I decided to join the army, and I volunteered to go to Vietnam, so I could pay back the kindness that the Australians had Showed me by receiving me to their beautiful country.
I served in Vietnam for about nine and a half months, then they decided to ship me back to Australia because of injuries and illness. when I came back my troubles all started and I developed PTSD, even though I had not really been in much danger during my days of war. I was filled with a terrible anxiety, and was absolutely terrified of both life and death. I had these periods of deep, deep dread that completely ruled my life. I was angry most of the time, and I detested everybody I ever met with a vengeance so hard to understand
This got worse and worse as the year proceeded, and I tried everything to control it, from counselling to reading every kind of self help books, and I read every religion, and all the stuff by so many different Spiritual teachers until I had a bookcase brim filled with all the books I had read. I tried every kind of meditation, plus yoga, Tai chi, and many other things. However, nothing worked. They helped a bit but not enough to stop the ugly terror I felt.
Then one day I came across a man named John Sherman on the net, who has helped so many people, and thousands of people now practice what he advocates with much success.
John told me that all I had to do was close my eyes and look at the me ness of me, it was as simple as that. At first I laughed at him with this simplistic approach to gaining back ones sanity. But I was desperate; I had walked out on my wife for a year and given everything I had away. My anger was getting worse and worse, and when I finally came back to my family, I really wasn’t worth being with. My wife tolerated me because she loved me so totally, but I could tell that I was leading her into Pyschological, of physical illness.
So I gave John’s method a try, I meditated every day using my me ness as a meditation point. I don’t mean my thoughts or sensations, emotions or such. I mean the ‘me’ the part of me that actually runs the show. The ‘me’ that always seems hidden but is always there in the background. I noticed some changes in me very quickly, but then the progress came slower, but very steady. Now I have been doing this for nearly five years and the difference in me is phenomenal. I am so happy now, that I could almost scream with joy. I have no more anxiety any more, and the dread that once debilitated is totally gone.
My neurotic fear of death has faded, and although I don’t want to die, when it comes I will be totally ready for it. My life is so beautiful these days and everything seems so beautiful, and crystal clear. These days I walk on feather feet, and I am so grateful to John and his wife Carla for what they gave to me. I really want to share this with anyone who cares to listen. You would not believe how beautiful my life is these days. Thank you for reading, all you who reached the end of this story. I hope it helps you as it most certainly helped me….Peter.