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Best Mission Poems

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Details | Mission Poem | |

Military Tunic

~Homeless Poet~

A lost guardian angel.
Sitting on the edge of the world.
I follow the cracks of the sidewalk, my trolley and I.
My home on the corner of every mission street.
My tin coffee cup starts off with caring heartbeats.
My only possession is the icon of war, with six buttons missing.
Navy, and white my grandfathers 70-year-old military tunic.

My Jacket-
My blanket-

My Jacket from which I am inseparable. 
My Jacket goes wherever I go.

This Jacket is my home.



~A Home~:contest

Details | Mission Poem | |

A New Love Found

 
DEDICATED TO EVERY PERSON WHO QUESTIONED THEIR SELF WORTH BECAUSE SOMEONE THEY LOVED LEFT THEM Love grabbed me by the throat with both hands Choked away the doubt and hatred of broken bands Kicked me in the gut and flung me to the floor Stripped my ego and jolted my awareness at its core Cleared the cobwebs that once clouded my vision with strokes of a master nature painted my mission An oil based one of a kind classic My life written like a movie an epic Love lives in me again like a revelation amen Beauty, glows from every centimeter that is me hope hip hops in every stride as I walk briskly Music walks to my beat now I hear it everywhere and the bluest of skies high fives me bare A new love found a trust abound. for the first time in since I don’t know when my senses breathe the fresh view of now and then Blessed by the mother of all that lives Nature smiles on a union that always gives I love what I see Finally I love me! Armand

Details | Mission Poem | |

Fortune And Fame

I look out my window at the sun setting fast
Leaving all my worries, back in the past
The red glowing light, sparking a flame
Dreaming of fortune, dreaming of fame

My blinds have been opened, the window unlocked
The world is my oyster, be ready to be shocked
There's no stopping me now, I'm on my way
I'm heading for stardom, starting today

I will be grounded, I won't get a big head
I'll remember you all, my love will be spread
All the riches I gain, will be used for good
Giving to needy, down trodden, misunderstood

My mission is simple, my goals are set high
I am looking to soar, I'm looking to fly
Come along for the ride, we won't be defeated
Chugging along until our goals are completed





Details | Mission Poem | |

She read me Dr Seuss

6:35 A.M.

Sunrise against my neck
that no cheap tan booth could ever match.

I ring the doorbell in anticipation of joy’s injection.

I needed it.

Because I left my cell phone in the car,
as I didn’t want to hear any chimed email
or text annoyances.

And the car just got cleaned,
only for the birds to have their way
on its waxy shine.

Bastards!

Time to grab the flamethrower from my trunk!

But, before I could scream in Braveheart declaration,
there she was.

Her 6 yr old smile,
made of 1/4 inch gaps between innocence enamel,
captured me like no other could.

“Tio”, she preached in angelica sonata.

As she held me,
held me,
with puppy love warmth.

Even the rainbows fell to its knees.

She took off my jacket with ferret-like perkiness and
asked me to sit on the floor with her.

But, not before offering to toast me some Eggo waffles
with a big glass of Ovaltine…
…in her Little Mermaid glass,
proudly made in North Korea.

It even had the dictator’s initials and a bucktooth smiley face stamp, signed in glitter
that said:
“Kid-safe”.

Thank God I just took my online course in Child Safety.
I was ready!

As I sip on Little Mermaid’s curves,
shaped in plastic, swirly straw weirdness,
a sound blasts off from a Barbie radio.

My 2 yr old angel galloped into this heart of mine,
with Tinnitus piercing scream & laughter,
tackling me in Incredible Hulk lunge.

“Hi Tio”, she whispered, before she hopped back upstairs, 
Ninja Turtle-style,
laughing maniacally with rapid head tilts, left to right to left.

Boys will fear her. 
And I couldn’t be more proud.

After two moments of silence, 
my 6 yr old angel places her Dr. Seuss book on my lap,
as she sits in front of me.

“I can r-r-read
with my eye-s
shut.”

She carefully completed the sentence,
as my eyes instantly fill with leaky pride
and an ingrained smile.

10 minutes later, she shut her book and asked me how she did.
“I am so proud of you my angel.”
“You have come so far.”

I had to hold back tears because I didn’t want to throw her off.
Yet I think she knew,
because she kept her head down and smiled with gentle starburst.

Mission accomplished.

And it was then where I heard her say,
“Those who matter don’t mind,
those who mind don’t matter.”

But she was quiet, looking at me with tilted head & smile.

For it was my inner child, 
speaking
clear.

© Drake J. Eszes

Details | Mission Poem | |

Simple Words for Simple People

If I had those pretentious brains which act faster than this heart

maybe then I would abhore this soul which spreads freely through each verse

maybe then I would impress you with my intellectual grammar and sophisticated words

maybe then I would scrutinize my each and every coma,dot and exclamationmark!

But I would never let that happen,I'd rather go away.

Writing with my mind and not my heart leads only to asylum within the being of myself.

Poetry is my voice,my life,my escape,my each emotion stored,processed in a yesterday

breathing softly  in fresh air,wanting to explode in death, love,passion and romance.

Each verse, a thought I'm able to scribe of yet unable to express through spoken words.

Maybe in a tomorrow you might pass by ,tread your footstep on my verse

but maybe in a today,a broken-hearted fool stops by to find comfort in my world

Maybe a prisoner, an insane man,a tramp ,or any outcast to society 

would pick these shattered pieces and gather them as whole

and maybe through this scribbled cross-word puzzle finds God'love once again.

Maybe a little child who understands only little words

would turn the pages of silly rhymes i penned

rhymes which speak of moon and stars,angels,dreams and faries

and maybe He would smile, maybe He would laugh 

Maybe he would dream ,the way i used to dream

and maybe He would write the most eloquent sonnet

or maybe just simple words about blossoming flowers

And maybe then,my mission is accomplished,and  maybe I feel blessed.


Charma



Details | Mission Poem | |

Sunlight and Rain: The Prism of an Anarchist


These are the confessions of an Anarchist,

when I

stepped away from the light,
entered the shadows
of forbidden caverns,
the caves, tunnels 
and catacombs of Anarchy.

Here        a constant, cold caress
of moisture,
a persistent inner rain
trickling,
pooling alongside lonely thoughts.

Nothing grew that deep underground,
not even fungus, nor lichen.
I survived on sheer will and dampness,
lungs mutated into gills,
eyes became accustomed
to this ever-present night.

A Mission lost in translation and transmission,
a rogue satellite orbiting
through thin oxygen's mind-bending space,
cut-off from other agents of Anarchy.
I slithered along corridors of broken souls,
fed on regurgitated thoughts
and drowned dreams of cities burning down,
melting like hot candle wax.
How I wanted the cities above to burn!
To burn down into the ground
in waves of rolling thunder and lightning.

Not able to differentiate between night and day,
weeks gave birth to months
in a C-section of fleeting years.

Somehow        I stumbled upon a side entrance,
felt warmth pushing in,
pushing down,
and my will shattered apart,
fusing back together into Plan B.

Sunlight!

As I broke the surface,
light seared my tightly shut eyes,
breaching eyelids with ease.
The pain felt wonderful,
changing into a delirious exultation
and heated comfort,
thawing out frozen, stiff bones.

Rays of sunlight rippled across my skin,
evaporating the slimy, cavernous musk,
burning me on the outside,
cleansing me from the inside.
Eventually        I was able to keep my sore eyes open
while they felt ready to sizzle and explode from sensory overload,
globules floating through my vision.

The first thing I clearly saw  
was not close up        magnified,
but the distant horizon enveloped in a halo
of lemon haze, arching between two mountain peaks.
I wept,
skin buzzing from the sun's heat.

Yes, 
how sunlight changes the perspective of nightmares,
revealing reality's potential fibers,
balancing the darkness within,
bending the remaining droplets of lost hope
into a prismatic ribbon of brilliance and prayer,
always,

        always evading the deep-rooted catacombs below,
a place I will choose to forego,
only entering within memories,
until even these are burned away by sunlight,
until even these are cleansed by sunlight.




2013 Double-Rainbow Remix
December 19th, 2013





+/-

Details | Mission Poem | |

Sunlight and Rain: The Prism of an Anarchist

These are the confessions of an Anarchist,

when I

stepped away from the light,
entered the shadows
of forbidden caverns,
the caves, tunnels 
and catacombs of anarchy.

Here        a constant, cold caress
of moisture,
a persistent inner rain
trickling,
pooling alongside lonely thoughts.

Nothing would grow that deep underground,
not even fungus, nor lichen.
I survived on sheer will and dampness,
lungs mutated into gills,
eyes became accustomed
to this ever-present night.

A Mission lost in translation and transmission,
a rogue satellite orbiting
through thin air's mind-bending space,
cut-off from other agents of Anarchy.
I slithered along corridors of broken souls,
fed on regurgitated thoughts
and drowned dreams of cities burning down,
melting like hot candle wax.
How I wanted the cities above to burn!
To burn down into the ground
in waves of rolling thunder and lightning.

Not able to differentiate between night and day,
weeks gave birth to months
in a C-section of fleeting years.

Somehow        I stumbled upon a side entrance,
felt warmth pushing in,
pushing down,
and my will shattered apart,
fusing back together into Plan B.

Sunlight!

As I broke the surface,
light seared my tightly shut eyes,
breaching eyelids with ease.
The pain felt wonderful,
changing into a delirious exultation
and heated comfort,
thawing out frozen, stiff bones.

Rays of sunlight rippled across my skin,
evaporating the slimy, cavernous musk,
burning me on the outside,
cleansing me from the inside.
Eventually        I was able to keep my sore eyes open
while they felt ready to sizzle and explode from sensory overload,
globules floating through my vision.

The first thing I clearly saw  
was not close up        magnified,
but the distant horizon enveloped in a halo
of lemon haze, arching between two mountain peaks.
I wept,
skin buzzing from the sun's heat.

Yes, 
how sunlight changes the perspective of nightmares,
revealing reality's potential fibers,
balancing the darkness within,
bending the remaining droplets of lost hope
into a prismatic ribbon of brilliance and prayer,
always,

        always evading the deep-rooted catacombs below,
a place I will choose to forego,
only entering within memories,
until even these are burned away by sunlight,
until even these are cleansed by sunlight.





2013 Double-Rainbow Remix
December 18th/19th, 2013
(originally written April 12, 2011)




+/-

Details | Mission Poem | |

Elicit Illicit Lucid Dreams -contains nudity-

~JSLambert does not (currently:) use, or encourage hallucinogenic drug use.

    Telepathic psilocybin prescription erasing elastic depression. Competition 
wanes, just when nocturnal emission drains. Lifted poetic wing clipping. This 
party only makes sense to those encrypted with unconsciousness. Scalpel in 
hand, methodical break and entering, break dancing meninges remove 
portions of brain doin' the bitchin'. Ah, this immaculate incision! 

    Lucid dreams vacating turnstile vibrations, deteriorating horrific screams 
douching eardrums. Ultraviolet eyes fortified by THREES---Mind-Body-Soul, 
rolled up into one huge trinity. 
    
    I'm moving asses fantastic. Call me the "Proctologist of Poetry". 

    Electrify words, regurgitate, choke and vomit the crock of crap-ola. Venture 
down butter slides until the sky goes red. 

    Still too uptight to listen? (don't pretend in comments that you read this 
entire poem if ya' didn't) glisten, be kind, rewind, let liquid swords chop away 
fat weighing upon your forces. Once doors of perception swing eyes wide 
open. Devour the false to magnify hate. I love you the same. I love you, never 
in vain. Hearing your verse lifts a heavy curse carried in shame. 
    
    As a child, I had no fear of apocalypse, or world hunger. No, phobia meant 
running out of words to give, to receive, from lips. It haunts me to this day. 
Tho' the bliss of poetic language's kiss, soothes the cries. Altruistic sighs! Now 
we dance! Dancing Harmony times three equals harmonize! Tour your Third 
Eye, yir' Karma-eyes!

    To the heads that said, "NO CAN DO!"- We've weaved advice for you. File 
illicit deeds away, for in dreams we are connected, Siamese twins, at the 
wrist, spellbound paradise! Let go of doubt, negativity= below zero. Work it 
out! Crash whiplash angles 'till friggin' rectangles dangle through 
kaleidoscopes of style. Poet trees smear the cosmos. Let go! THREE will never 
be alone. Bestow the glow, thorazine vapors escape secret tombs where 
peroxide cleans wounds. Fusing two Toots in common with Nefertiti. THREES. 
    
    Elicit illicit lucid dreams gushing ejaculatory melodic screams. Orgasmic 
spasms...vas deferens between actual sacks and Staff of Ra polluted sticky 
streams. Peddle the bicycle high, annihilate attrition, like motivated Mormons, 
door to door men, on a worldwide mission. I love you, I miss you...witness the 
vision...alive in the schism!

*credit A.Horovitz, A.Yauch, M.Diamond, Billy Corgan

Details | Mission Poem | |

Angelica

Angelica

curiously peering over a cloud
   Angelica stepped a bit too far
      wings fluttered and disappeared
         stolen by jealous demons below 

angel flying too close to the ground
   leaving the harmony of heaven
      sensing a need to save a ravaged planet
         landing gracefully on soft soil
 
Angelica hears the bulldozers
   weapons of environmental destruction
      sauntering through Earth’s rainforests
         curiosity beckons as water reflects her image

her lost wings still reflect in the pond
   seen as ripples from her pink, silk gown
      orchid floral tiara crowns her long auburn hair
         even water lilies envy her beauty

captivated by this pool lit with filtered sun
   immersed in an image of herself
      in God’s light all angels appear the same
         bright beams to welcome new souls

fly again she will
   bubbles of hope spring forth
      Earthbound for but a brief time
         cherished cherub sent as nature’s guardian

halo of comfort surrounds
   Angelica leans forth to feel the coolness
      sparkling water caresses warm lips
         her kiss renews Earth’s freshness

other angels transparent in sunlight
   bestow a new set of wings
      mission accomplished, they escort her home
         once again she revels in heaven’s light


For the “Reflection” contest, sponsored by Constance La France ~ a Rambling Poet ~
By Carolyn Devonshire

Details | Mission Poem | |

Old Boyfriends - A Trilogy

                Part 1

One summer in our youth group was a boy
I met.  How I would love to understand
if what he’d felt was equal to the joy
that bloomed in me when he caressed my hand.

His elfin features feminine and fine
revealed him to be prettier than me.
His legs and trunk seemed half the width of mine
and deeper than his skin his delicacy.

He fretted, changed his moods; and ulcers grew
inside him.  Once atop a ferris wheel
he vomited, and I was young and knew
that we were through. . . but how he’d made me feel!

Oh, where is John?  I ask; no one can say.
We’d never really kissed. . . Had he been gay?

     Part 2

Where I grew up, a gent was hard to find
who shared my faith, and so I launched my search
for someone who was handsome, good and kind
at monthly dances sponsored by my church.
Across the river lived a Mormon guy,
tall, blue-eyed, intelligent and sweet.
I was sort of wild; he was shy,
but at a youth event we planned to meet.
Although at every chance we kissed and cuddled,
I sensed he thought I’d bring him to perdition.
I was his “Bathsheba” left befuddled.
Then later, Alvin went and served his mission.
So what if Mr. Perfect let me go?
He drove and spoke and moved annoyingly slow!


             Part 3

Eduardo was a Spaniard from Madrid.
I met him on my study there abroad.
I won’t list all the many things he did,
but I’ll attest that some of them were odd.

Eduardo was “muy guapo,” (very cute),
But still he was concerned that he was not
some burly hulk, so jackets to a suit
he wore downtown in June when it was hot!
And once, though I could not catch every word,
he had with his own mom an argument.
His threat to take his clothes off was absurd,
but when she screamed, I knew he was indecent.

I’d closed my eyes; I should have sneaked a peek. . .
I then could give a more complete critique!

*I have entered these in the This Poem Really S##ks Contest of Jerry T. Curtis with one of my first sonnet trilogies I wrote back in 2002. I was in a poetry club at this time, and after posting each sonnet of the trilogy separately, I received a very rude message which was posted anonymously to me. The note basically rejoiced that I would not be showing any more sonnets like these and told me they stunk. What is strange is that it was a private club and it had to be somebody I knew that had hated either me or the poems so much that he made an effort to reach me by some account that was not even recognized by the club (Only I could see the message. nobody else would see it). I'll never know who sent me that email, but it was my first time to be criticized in a rude manner. I have had a few other occasions since, but this was my first one. Are the sonnets that bad? You tell ME!!

Details | Mission Poem | |

Star Trek and Captain Kirk's Final Frontier

Kirk: ‘Lt. Uhura, come to my quarters at 1800 hours’
Uhura: ‘Yes captain, might I ask what’s up?’
Kirk: ‘Nothing now but something WILL be at 1800 hours’
Bones: ‘Jim, is this a medical issue?’
Kirk: ‘You bet your boner it is, Bones’
Sulu: ‘Captain, a Klingon ship is approaching’
Kirk:  ‘Blast that sucker to smithereens, I got a date’
Chekov: ‘Captain, you’ll need protection on this mission’
Kirk: No problem Ensign, got a few here in my wallet’

Obi-Wan Kenobi: ‘May the force be with you’
Kirk:’ Thanks Obi, but you’re in the wrong contest’
Obi-Wan Kenobi: ‘This isn’t PD’s contest?’
Kirk: ‘HELL no, now SKAT will probably disqualify us’
Obi-Wan Kenobi: ‘Well, may the force be with you anyway’
Kirk: ‘Look Kenobi, nobody’s forcing ANYBODY here’

Spock: ‘Captain, I’m receiving a message from SKATfleet Command’
Kirk: ‘What Mr. Spock? And why do you always talk like that?’
Spock: ‘To qualify for the contest, the writer has to command the ship’
Kirk: ‘Damn it all! What the…FRONT AND CENTER WRITER!’
Writer: ‘Um…All hands on deck?...Anchors away?’

Uhura: ‘Ohh Captain KIRRK, it’s 1800 hours’…
Kirk: ‘Not now Uhura, I’m not in the mood!’
Uhura: Ohh Captain WRITERRR, it’s 1800 hours’…
Writer: ‘Kirk, you have the helm. I’ll be in my quarters’ 
Spock: ‘Fascinating’
Kirk: ‘Shut-up Spock’…

Tim Ryerson
Theme: Sexual harassment in the workplace
For SKAT’s contest


Details | Mission Poem | |

"LADY DEATH"

   "LADY  DEATH" ------Chaos!!!

Craving life was all of 'HOPE' desire.
Torturing her into the odyssey of Hells fire.
Ending her in heartbreak by her own insane,
cruel father Matthais.
A demon so obsessed with dark power.
Head demon to all hells devour.

Matthais allowing his beloved 'HOPE' to be burned.
In a hellish death as a witch.
Pleading for her life.
All 'HOPE' is lost,
 in a pit of endless broken bones.
The supernatural appeared in front of 'HOPE'.
'HOPE' complied and renounce to give up humanity.
Tricked by demons who lied.
Manipulated that this would save her sanity.

A power bestowed with a creation so rare.
A Demi Goddess of destruction.
Chaos soon will inflict every hour.
With death in her place, she turns in to,
a cold blooded Diva of Death.

Reliving in the plague of dark ages.
Angels and Demons flow through her blood.
With contradiction of many stages.
Many evil forces out to end her existence.
Betrayed by all she knew.
Now she is locked in a demonic resistance.
Defeating Lucifer herself.
Blading the neck of the prince
Death lusting for power in an epic battle.
Lost forever in the era of judgment.
Revenge she claims on her throne.
Making Lucifer's power her own.
A forever endless graveyard.
Restoring into the blood of her new home.

Making hell tremble, many slay to death's assault.
Death arising to all her faults.
Declaring the lost of 'HOPE'
A mans worst nightmare in the sweetest form.
Over throwing her one time dream.

Obsessed with his Lady'''
 Evil Earnie.
Rides by her side.
A  domino of all killers.
In a blood bath stream.
Killing everyone in his & her path.
Killing for her love, his Lady Death love.

Pondering about her lifeless soul.
"All HOPE is gone!"
all that is left is death.
"Lady Death"
  Lord of hell
On a mission of Mega Death.
To conquer all of earth.
Men killing for her demonic way.
Evil Earnie matching to the depth of her Odyssey.

With the belief .
That behind every good man, (EVIL EARNIE)
is a good women..                  (LADY  DEATH)


((Lady Death is a character in her own CHAOS ))

Details | Mission Poem | |

My African Sister

I am a white, middle class, American male; raised in a white, middle class American home.  I would not say that my upbringing included a lot of diversity.

I remember talking to my brother, Jimmy, just before he told my father he was gay.  Jimmy told me about the inner struggle he wrestled with in first admitting to himself that he was homosexual.  He said he thought it was wrong; it was sinful and something he must avoid being.  Once he realized that being homosexual was not a fault but an innate sexual preference, he decided that he would not live a life of lies.  He, therefore, decided to tell his family about his sexual inclination.  It took a lot of courage to tell my ex-marine father.

Afi is a beautiful, strong, black African woman; raised in a black, African home.  Afi will admit that she is not overly charitable and not likely to do volunteer work.  When she first came to the U.S., however, she was appalled with how our society treated its AIDS victims.  In Africa, Afi would tell us, AIDS patients were embraced and cared for, not shunned and outcaste like here in the U.S.

Jimmy was not a promiscuous man.  He only knew a few sexual partners in his too short life.  Jimmy was a very intelligent and artistically gifted man.  He was doing post–doctorate research in Iraklion, Greece when he first started showing symptoms of having AIDS.

When Afi volunteered to be an AIDS Buddy she made it clear that she did not want to be paired with someone who had full-blown AIDS.  The organization was so hard pressed to find someone with a profile to match Jimmy’s intellect and interests that they begged Afi to just meet him, just once.

Afi says that within an hour she was no longer on a volunteer mission; she and Jimmy 
would be friends regardless of a commitment to the Buddy system.  Jimmy and Afi 
remained best of friends for the two remaining years we were blessed with his presence.

It has been 15 years since Jimmy passed away.  I am still a white, middle class, American male; from a white, middle class American family – only now, we have a beautiful, strong, black, African sister in our family.

Details | Mission Poem | |

ETERNAL RECURRENCE

ETERNAL RECURRENCE*


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
“I am certain that I have been here as I am now a thousand times before and
 I hope to return a thousand times after.”  GOETHE 
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


1.

Once upon a time, 
The Lord of spiritual consciousness was sitting peacefully on His blissful throne 
Ceaselessly contemplating upon His equilibrium
T’ was the era of no moon, no sun, no stars, no earth, no oceans, no rivers
Just a motionless, timeless and deathless entity it was happy with His existence  

2.

Suddenly the thought of sacred motion was felt deep down in his essence
Seeking the chaos to be stirred from its core outwardly
Consequently separating the light from the darkness and all the other elements 
That constitute the Cosmos
Thus giving birth immediately to old mighty time

3.

When Time: This wizard of celestial art found himself alive
His expert hands stretched in advance, wanting to create
For that the plastic energy he took, that was everywhere around
And skillfully and patiently the Cosmos carved according to the Logos
Creating thus, the nebulae, the galaxies, the stars and all the other planets

4.

Then God looked at times creation and marveled with its beauty
But as there was no life to be seen in all of this creation
The thought of desire was born in God to inhabit every place
For that out of himself he cut myriads blazing souls
Which like shooting stars he sent downwards to animate nature,

5.

In this way, to manifestation’s cosmic sphere, the souls were beamed
Radiating their luminosity to reality’s lower planes  
Bringing with them the sacred principles to denser forms of life 
As they were passing from the spiritual, the mental and the astral
And finally materializing, themselves on the physical solid plane
Where life began on earth, with God’s will and grace!

6.

Each soul an ambassador was and is of God’s will and grace
A ray of divinity, a guardian of the Holy Law 
Each with a specific mission: to learn or rather to remember
How to find the way of return throughout space and time
And with the divine, again, to be seen in perfect equilibrium

7.

The day I was born, as every man alive,
I found my immortal self bound to the wheel of time 
That around eternity’s circumference took me, in very heavy chains
Asking to follow obediently the unswerving path of fate:
This endless trip of return where the only constant thing is change

8.

Since then I have died once and many times after
But death's dark palaces to hold me were unable
As my soul’s perpetual desire to follow my destiny
Brought me back to this ephemeral world of fleeting dreams
With a new body, new hopes, new goals but always with the 
Same desire

9.

Thus I journeyed back and forth the plains of oblivion
Choosing the best conditions I could, according to my karma
Trying to find endlessly the golden middle way 
That unmistakably between the extremes is only to be found
But since from the river of forgetfulness each time I was drinking 
I was obliged, unfortunately, to start over again

10.

So, I was born once a king and another was I born a beggar
And in turns I was born a coward, a hero, a holy man, a vicious man,
A  Christian, a Muslim, an atheist, an idolater a strong man and a woman
And healthy and sick I was born and intelligent and witless
And was I born to love so much the things I once detested
And to hate passionately the things I once held dear

11.

And I was born once to laugh and another just to cry
And I drunk successively from joy’s cup and that of sorrow’s
And was born to make friends out of my enemies 
And enemies out of my brothers
And was born to realize the impossible dreams and fail the very easy  
And I was born to slay and to be slain alternatively for thousands of years

12.

Thus I lived continuously the extremes of both good and evil
Striving to find endlessly the balance in my soul
Through the wisdom that was endowed upon me by the Great Spirit
That like a beacon, luminous, to guide me waits
To my supreme destiny that GOD for me has traced

13.

So, as was passing from life unto death, from darkness unto light
With a speed determined by me, I don’t put on GOD the blame,
All my lessons have I learned through trial and error
Up to the very last reincarnation, in body’s mortal temple

14.

Now free, AT LAST, from all earthly desires and every karmic blame
Radiating with holiness and glowing with grace 
My immortal soul, HER divine wings unfolds and soars upwards the heavens
White light blazing in perfect equilibrium 
And pure now to her glorious creator returns and with 
HIM UNITES! 


©Demetrios Trifiatis
  11 DECEMBER 2013


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“A little while and my longing shall gather dust and foam for another body.
A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind and another woman shall bear me”
KAHLIL GIBRAN
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

* This poem because of its length I was unable to post it in one piece for I was not a
member for life at that time therefore I published it in two parts as: “CREATION” and as “REINCARNATION.” Here is the entire poem as it was originally written.
Now, my friends know that apart from my epigrams I write... long poems as well!    
  


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Destiny's Clutch

The dawn spoke her name like a silken secret
carried carefree by the tradewinds of lust and larceny
imported from the traderoutes of paradise and pandemonium, 
sequined with violet venom she venerates the virtue of volition
her love is unlawful, unequalled in unrest, righteous in conquest,
tender in temptation, torrid your surrender, her beauty a will bender,

Queen of Empire Passion, warrior unknown to submission
her kingdom was not inherited, glory and throne ungifted,
the treasures, stables and territories, battles and crown all won,
rich in intellect, endowed with rare resources, affluent in original passion
bejeweled in natural beauty, she bewitches beasts and men alike,
Poets pen her preciously as Woman Total, Priests implore her pardon,
male servants pander to her anger and ardor, satisfaction she commands,
Sisterhood the symbol and soul of her mission,

I was just a man, a wanderer wading through her reign,
from the unsubdued North I came, a curious traveler with ancient name,
my tribe unfamiliar, underestimated, a Chieftain of steady pulse,
tresspassing towards her roots my aim was direct knowledge of her
woman of renown cunning and learning, woman of exotic ability,
seeking teaching and romance, though I would not be her Subject or victim,
this she knew, this she abhorred, a challenge to her dominance,

I agreed to meet her alone in the open morning of war,
in an abeyounce of gliding fire she comes riding out of the sun
regalia of black roses against red tears flying above her shoulder,
our horses begin a battle tromp, breaths heavy with moist mania
she has leopards in her eyes
poinsettias and death's palms painted on thighs,
scalps of exlovers and enemies slung on sadle
we acknowledge one another with ritual yell
I exclaim, Warrior Poetess, she screams Poet Warrior!
dismounting with mutual vigor our combat erupts
cutting my cheek with her blade's lip
kicking me in the ribs
I clinch her collared throat
and heel trip us to the ground
she snarls, I growl,
a glimpse of rescue in eachother's eyes -

J.A.B.

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A Past Life - The Mayan Warrior Princess

A Past Life – The Mayan Warrior Princess
In eerie recurring dreams, like things seen dimly before dawn, Blurred snapshots of memories at a temple pyramid resurface from a time long gone. My ancient soul trapped between two strikingly different worlds, One new - the other centuries old, Reminding me that I have been here before, And of that I am absolutely sure. Familiar faces, smells, sounds, and scenes from a past life I see, Persistent recollections of my life at Piedras Negras continue to endlessly haunt me, Conjuring up images of the Lady K’abel, Mayan warrior princess, I used to be. I am time’s reluctant prisoner, and I sense it will never ever set me free.
In a foggy haze, like a sleepwalker in sluggish slow motion, Body painted cobalt blue, I am made ready for my heavenly redeeming mission. Midnight velvet hair flowing, I lie on an already red bloodstained stone altar, As temple priests prepare me for the sacred sacrificial slaughter. Piously chanting their practiced prayers in unison, They adulate the gracious gods for a new divine king’s ascension. The sharp knife swiftly pierces my sweating feverish virgin skin, But reliving this scene countless times before, I no longer feel pain or anything. And as the universe greedily grasps my restless soul, I float into welcomed oblivion, Knowing that the harvest will be renewed, and ultimately, I will be reborn.
Please Note: This poem is dedicated to my maternal great grandmother who was Mayan. The Piedras Negras, mentioned above, was a thriving Mayan city-state in Guatemala, Central America, from about mid-7th century BC to about 850 AD. While this site is considered remote, during my childhood, I visited frequently with family who still live in this fascinating region. When I visit, I am completely at home and the experiences are amazingly mystical. Piedras Negras means "black stones" in Spanish. The name in the language of the Classic Maya has been read in Maya inscriptions as Yo'k'ib', meaning "great gateway" or "entrance." Entered in contest, "Past Lives" sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire (6-25-2014)

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DOUBLE OH

DOUBLE OH

1

James, you’re incorrigible, my double Oh.
Outclassing the other tuxedos, you arrive
at the crowded casino and men glower
as women part their lips, each rivals. 

There sits sensuality. Wry brows
lift as you order a martini; particular,
your tastes, roughly refined, never bowing
to convention. Across the table, you war

with yourself. Those dual sides I easily spy,
the loner who targets curvaceous company
and the agent, hardened, a master of lying.
Your lady-killer grin ricochets off me.

Pure trouble. Fury with both barrels loaded.
Duty will win out and leave me owing.


2

Duty will win out and leave me owing.
but I’ll not be indebted to any man, 
alive, that is. These endowments only show
boys like a chest full of toys. Hands spanned

my waist and assumed they’d touched me.
Barely a graze, though some kisses stung,
cuts to the quick.  But you drawl, Tiffany…
Damn your smooth tongue. It lays diamonds. 

Secret service, indeed. I see your skills
and change my position, spin like roulette.
The bed accommodates looks that kill.
You measure up. I’m your compromised pet.

Sport or mission, each need maneuvers
Whether in espionage or under covers.  

3

Whether in espionage or under covers,
player, you’re always on top of the game.
There is something about the way you steer
my mustang, that says you’re entertained

by the maniacal, amused by the chase.
Still, villains and vamps require tutorage,
must submit to limits, be put in their place.
It’s no laughing matter as you nudge

metal against metal, step on the gas
and custom fit nine feet into a six foot
wide alleyway. You’ve taken Las Vegas,
as if the city had been sleeping. Fueled,

you shoot me a look; it rolls like dice, 
smoking...and as hot as smuggled ice.

4

Smoking and as hot as smuggled ice...
our affections flare in body language-
covert actions, once overs, slick disguises,
decoys and leverages, crucial appendages

like that Berretta. Question, what is a Q?
Q-uash, Q-uerken, Q-uarrel, or Q-uest? Do tell.
Each in their way seems to apply to you.
Now, kiss this Q-ueen, go on, man handle.

Oh, these constant disruptions are criminal.
Bonds-men! And do you ever use your bed
for rest, Lover? Trust me, let my arms cradle
your patriotism, your scars, your ... hard head.

First, stop thinking. Then, dust me with jewels.
Nights like this are mined by heroes and fools.


5
Nights like this are mined by heroes and fools,
but evil never sleeps, never sleeps; it plots
like pulp fiction, builds death rays and lewdly 
patrols, then rams plugs into corrupted slot  

machines, if you know what I mean. Schemes
multiply like clones, soulless clay, half baked,
and chaos organizes its minions, impedes
even a primed paladin. They have you scaling

the contumacious walls of dooms day
as they attempt, again, world domination.
Greed cordons, but you shatter barricades,
then infiltrate lairs with polished persuasion. 

Go to work. It’s fine. I’m not new to hellfire.
Let your femme fatale help settle old scores... 


6

Let your femme fatale help settle old scores.
They’ve caught me, think they have the upper hand
while I deliberate on small minds, locked doors
and the strange repression of man.  My plan

hadn’t read the script. Well, mistakes are made
even by the best or those with the best
of intentions.  Gunplay, bombs, each escapade   
to rout the opposition, even that wild west

savoir faire just bores the bikini off me.
We blow the bad guys to smithereens. Done.
Until the next brute needs a lesson.  Discreet?
If I must be. But really, darling, you’re no fun

And as cocky as they come. Never fumbling.
Good girls fall hard, bad girls just crumble.


7
Good girls fall hard, bad girls just crumble.
even I cannot decide which type I am.
After all, what’s love but a risky gamble
bluffing the heart with poker face claims.

I know I cannot be a Moneypenny
nor would I choose to be royalty
and don’t get me started on that Tool, Plenty,
or  the other tramps in your ample harem. 

Wicked your grin, I see thoughts progress
to where palms find more than just a mouthful, 
measured your motions, slowly you undress
me, whisper Tiffany in a voice so lethal. 

Where did you learn to do that? Look out, below
James, you’re incorrigible, my double Oh.





Tiffany Case, Bond girl with grit




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The Ballad of Goodie-Two-Shoes

My mother went to heaven on the day that I was born
My father raised me up before my mother he would join
He said, “Son, to get to heaven you must live a good, clean life
So you can go to meet your mother and see me with my wife.”

So, I tried to be good and I followed the golden rule
I did what I should and I was obedient all through school
I shared what I could and I read my bible every day
I tried to avoid evil thoughts and never a hurtful thing I’d say

The kids picked on me and “goodie-two-shoes” became my name
But, because I had a mission my actions always were the same
The road to meet my mother was a path to be kept clear
So bullies had their way with me – no retaliation need they fear

After my father passed away I met a beautiful young girl
She was everything to me; she was the rock in my empty world
We got married in the Summer; she was carrying my child in the Spring
I was looking forward to being a father to this miracle she would bring

I was working at a charity when they broke into my house
My wife tried to hide from them, being quiet as a mouse
They said, “Oh look, its goodie-two-shoes’ home, lets burn it to the ground”
When she yelled at them to stop this act, my wife was finally found

I won’t say what they did to her – the details I will spare
When she said, “My husband will soon be back”, they said, “What do we care”
“Goodie-two-shoes shares everything, of course he’d share his wife
Besides, that man’s a coward; we can do just what we like.”

When I came home and saw her, my mother spoke into my ear,
“Don’t worry about heaven, son, I’ve always been right here.”
I took my wife to the hospital, where they said she’d be okay
Then I went to find those bastards and wipe my life of good away

When they saw me approaching they laughed right into my face
With the first swing of the baseball bat I fell from heavens’ grace
Two men were unconscious before the third knew what to do
The bullet that he shot at me, my shoulder it passed right through

Justifiable homicide – on probation for ten years
My wife and son at my side, there is happiness in my tears
My mother and father visit me every night in my bedtime dreams
I didn’t need to take that path to heaven – or so, at least, it seems

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Scars of Love- A True Valentine Story

War leaves scars. They are emotional. They are physical. They are spiritual.

My brother had proposed to my sister-in-law on Valentine's Day, and so it was on that fateful day, 12 years later that his and her lives would change forever.

My brother had invited his wife to the posh Phonecia Hotel in Beirut for a cosy romantic lunch date while their three kids were in school. They decided to sit at a table facing the window so they could see the beautiful view outside. They could see the azure sky touching the Mediterranean in the distance.

At first, they sat opposite each other, but feeling amorous, my brother asked Pam to sit next to him. She was facing the glass window. 

During the meal, as they chatted, little did they know that a very important government official was passing on a street close by and that this event would mark them forever. 

"On 14 February 2005, Rafic Hariri, the former Prime Minister of Lebanon, was killed, along with 21 others, when explosives equivalent of around 1,000 kilograms of TNT (2,200 pounds) were detonated as his motorcade drove near the St. George Hotel in Beirut."

This was only a short distance from where my brother and his wife were having their Valentine meal. The glass window imploded when the car bombs detonated, and my brother and his wife were thrown off their chairs.  They were soaked in blood and for a while, found it hard to see or know what had happened. They were in a daze. The extensive bleeding was caused by the shards of glass they had been peppered with as the floor to ceiling glass imploded. They looked at each other and the ghastly sight was more than they could take. 

In the mayhem that ensued, they were able to make their way outside the building with other injured people. Eventually, an ambulance rushed then to the nearby American University Hospital. It was nearby because my brother taught in the Business Department of the American University of Beirut, so they had decided to have a quick lunch in the nearby vicinity.

Extensive work was done on both their faces. My sister-in-aw had a tooth knocked out from the force of the impact as she was thrown to the ground. Her injuries were more obvious as she had been sitting facing the glass. Up to this day, my brother sometimes has pieces of glass make their way to the surface of the skin on his face, and he has to pull them out. That's how deeply they became embedded.

When later asked if they wanted cosmetic surgery done to cover up the zig zag scars on their faces, my spunky Canadian sister-in-law replied, "Why should we? This is part of our history, of what we have been through, and it gives us a great story to tell."

I wish I were as brave as she is. The three children had a hard time seeing their parents in this state. Pam had to stay in intensive care for a while and when the kids finally did get to see her, Dylan, the middle child, burst out crying and said, "Mama, I don't like what's happened to your face."

This is life in Lebanon. We have lived through the war. We have survived. We have scars that tell the stories. I have written a full article on this, and will post a few excerpts later. 

We live in a spiritual battlefield. Christ came to rescue us, the wounded and the dying. He CHOSE to walk into the war zone. Jesus carries the scars in his hands and in his side of that rescue mission. He carries these marks for eternity, a sign of His great love and passion for us and for our salvation. He came to rescue the hostages of war....and "by His stripes, we are healed."

Isaiah 53: 5- 

But he was pierced for our transgressions,
    he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on him,
    and by his wounds we are healed

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Rhythm and Rhyme

                                        


                             Rhythm and Rhyme
When rhythm and rhyme... join together,
Crafted are dynamic… poems and songs.
By blending the beat with harmonious words.
Creative works of art emerge, that never sound wrong!
 
Masters way back in time, used this technique,
As they set in motion, their feelings to song.
Rogers and Hammerstein eternally knew,
Precisely where the rhythm belonged.

They created legendary masterpieces, 
That caroled out to the world in song.
Forever… their tunes are often hummed, 
By fans as they walk along.

Eternally the music masters live,
Commencing from ….rhythm and rhyme.
Music and poetry lovers, savored their rich gifts,
That never faded with time!

Works of art …were created with words of love,
Happiness and kisses expressed. 
The suns morning message…for all to envision,
Through a tune created…is always its mission.

Yes… rhythm and rhyme 
Has brought happiness and tears
Erased sad days, wiped away fears.

For the expert of knowing, where to place the beat
Joined with a nuptial of words,
Have….earned masterpieces, a permanent seat.

It was and now is an art… that few pass the test,
Of, where the rhythm and rhyme belong
And why their creations…eternally lead over the rest

Yes… the gift of these masters,
Remain in books and on stage today.
And is reason… 
Theatre and music will never go away
, 
For when the rhythm and rhyme are in sink 
An aura for the listening audience is created 
And places them in the pink!!!

It brings romance to dance,
With its message and beat.
 Like the well-known single,
 “When we’re dancing cheek to cheek”

And hopefully as you read this poem
You sense, the rhythm and rhyme 
With a smile on your face
And added pleasure… to life’s hectic pace.

So please… if ever you are sad,
Pick a favorite tune, and hum it along
As life also carries its own beat 
Akin… to a beautiful poem or song!!!!
Claudiaswords copy writes 2014

                



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Monsters Beware

 
Oh, little sister, just remember what I've said
Don't you worry 'bout those monsters, hiding underneath your bed
They think they got me scared 
Like a frightened little boy
But I got some news for them
I just bought some brand new toys

I have a super soaker, that's filled with holy water
And a Nerf Gun that I nick-name, Welcome to the slaughter
And a GI-Joe, will back me up, he swears he won't retreat
But I had to promise him, plastic's not what monsters eat 

And of course I have the Marvels, Spidey,Iron,and good old Thor
The four Fantastic people, and a half a dozen more
But, if they fail their mission, doing everything they can 
I promise little sister, I'll be there to hold your hand

by Jerry T Curtis 2014



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still a rose

It's time to get the roses.
It's safe to plant now,
no danger of frost after 
Memorial Day.  Oh,
roses can handle frost
but not temperatures
of last winter that
killed them all. 

It's time to get the roses
for the house,
the roses represent something --
that I am still in the fight,
that the winter did not kill me.
It's about proving something
when there's nothing
left to prove. 

So why do I get the roses
at the garden center?
The selection is meager
really, apparently because
so many got their roses
before Memorial Day without 
regard to frost and mixed
emotions about it all. 

There are the red roses,
the Lincoln Rose, the 
Oklahoma Rose, the Double
Love two tone rose, 
red and white,
a few lavender tea roses,
just one a dusty orange,
funereal in their pots.

There is doubt
about this mission,
can't make up my mind
about the two tones, 
they remind me of fuzzy
wet toilet paper 
surrounded by an eclipsed
red sun in a red tide, 

a bit radical for my blood,
but exciting.
The fresh bloom would be
vibrant no doubt.
A rose of any name 
is still a rose along with 
the prominent Oklahoma Rose 
that gushes a red triumph.

OK, one tea rose, 
one Double Love and one
Oklahoma Rose will be 
the plan with three sacks 
of top soil on the cart
to stand in line 
with the many,
in peace. 



 




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POETRY MY LIFE

Poetry My Life 
Poetry my life, my happiness
Poetry my life, my journey, my success, my future and true me
Poetry my dream, my light, my life
Poetry my point and believer
My life and description of ambition and tolerance

Poetry my light of darkness to brightness of emotional success
Poetry my friend, adviser and encourager
Poetry my vision and mission of life
My life and clay in my hands to build a future and journey of my life
Poetry my voice, my story and explanation

Poetry my life and a way of independency of my feet and freedom
Poetry my experience, my challenge, my fighter and way forward
Poetry my life, poetry my perseverance and healer
Poetry my life, poetry my smile and way of meeting circumstances that turn a to better calling
Poetry my life, poetry my life of reaching mountains and nations

Poetry my life; poetry my life
Poetry my way of calming and never looking back 
Indeed you are my life poetry
Poetry my life, poetry my internal life of going forward
Poetry my life, poetry my life
Poetry my life



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Growing Pians

GROWING PAINS

It’s all about pain, frustration, tears. Fears, it’s all about fighting temptation
Watch the sun rise and set to the darkest thoughts of contemplation
My heart smiles not, my lungs laugh not to restoration
My light shines not it dims even the most vital motivation
From the day I was born to the day I shall die with lamentation
The question to my satisfaction still stands without fortification
The course of my education, my certificates sleep in nullification
The restoration of my sanity, my greatness, my dream is in a state of decomposition
As I watch it decay to a fossil plant without inspiration
I`m the brown leaf without respiration or perspiration
I am the unlubricated machine imprisoned in storage without life or action

The anger trapped in me bleeds my heart to death
It hurts my soul to a coma, to a collapse, to a faint
The pain and rage within me sends my brain to a trauma
To a clot of dangerous damaged stage of acts and drama
The finger pointing at me with pity soils my confidence
The mouth laughing at me spoils my happiness to a gloom.
That blossom to an irrational and uncontrollable doom.
The tongue that betrays me kills my authenticity
Usurp my serenity; launch a highly tactical robbery of my ecstasy

My peers are at the lecture room behind desks reading and writing
I am standing behind the lifeless tiles cleaning
Standing behind the stove cooking.
That was not the vision that was not the mission.
That was not my dream, it was not the operation

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Art of the heart

Some write to write, others to please their own romance and love
I write to enchant thy heart, and thy imagination, thy vision
To tell yee the truth I write to please my desire, to fulfill a personal mission
For I am to touch the souls of men into the right path with God our lord from above

When yee find thyself in the open pause thy heart and look at your surroundings
Pay audience to nature herself, for she comes alive but by His breath of life that creates
Open thy ear, feel the peace that flows in the open air, hear yee not the wind it sings!
Whom but all poets shall come to open eyes, for their gift is to see and write to appreciate

Walk in thy own path, make thy own life come to life
Thank Him everyday for thy joy, for thy own peace
For sooner than the sun sets for eternity will His return be, and all time will cease
Drink thy wine, live life with joy, and be true to thy wife

For it is promised that yee shall receive no more than thee can bare
As He knows of thy hearts smallest desires, and will provide, if thee seeks Him first
Jump with tears of gratitude, for He promised a Bright tomorrow
Will no one believe, as in the times of Noah? Believeth so for all must end, all sorrow

With each passing sun He nears
Yet the world stands idly by, no one even fears
The heart of the earth finds itself celebrating and ill in fake cheers
Little do they know, that He will arrive in times of sleep and with an army of spears

Hear the message for it is not I that write to thy aid, but our Lord himself for he loves us all
as all men were created equal, and some to speak to hearts
Feel the burden that dwells on my heart, and read on before thy soul departs
Rejoice in my art, as I bring about the art that comes from the heart