Long poem by
Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Details |
Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery.
Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.
With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance.
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice".
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street.
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes.
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.
Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down.
With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation.
The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro.
Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope.
The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them. A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world. No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies.
In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated. The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.
So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.
Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................
We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind.
She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda. One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers.
Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal.
Brush of destiny sweepstakes, allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.
The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter.
Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire.
How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war. How dare all of us.
Meanwhile back at the ranch. Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it.
Painted red for all to see.
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand.
Long poem by
Dorian Petersen Potter | Details |
Shhh...Be quiet! please...or you'll wake up everybody...
Did you see what that young man did all this evening at the table while taking some of his notes?
Yes, sure we did, and so what? a "Poetry for a Lifetime" replied quietly.
After all, we are all books and we are very important to mankind, everywhere.Yes, we are all very important, no matter who we are.
Yes, but did you see, that he was only going through those old, dog-eared magazines, that are piled at that left corner table?
I am telling you that most people are just browsing through all those computers.I think that they're kind of forgetting about us.I know I should be happy to take this dream vacation.No more prying eyes and hands touching and knowing my most privete thoughts.I should be in heaven!
The Gone with the wind" book, just frowned and started laughing.Look at me and remember my lines. Tomorrow is another day!
You should all be quiet, and go to sleep! Merrily a voice said in a whimsical manner.Everybody looked up at one of the highest shelves, where the voice seemed to have sounded from.
Yes, it is me, you knuckles heads! A "Grim"s Complete Fairy Tales Volume" book, spoke in a playful tone.He opened up one of his pages and showed one of his most beloved fairie tales.
Come all over here and pay me a visit.Which one you would wanted me to read you tonight?
What about me reading you, Little Red Riding Hood or perhaps you would prefer, The Sleeping Beauty" I am just telling you that I am a very important book indeed.All my stories make children all over the world very happy and parents love me since they find my services more than welcome every night at bedtime.I am very important, yes, Sireeeee.And aaying all this,he chuckled with a most contented sight of relief in his very merry and child-like voice of his.
The rest of all the books just fell silent for a moment.A "Pride and Prejudice" snorted loudly all of sudden, and retorted in his very conceited and masterful voice.Well, they all say that, they all think that they're important.One of my sisters " Wuthering Heights" thinks the same too, I am telling you.She's always scoffing me and thinking that she's better than me.But I tell her that she's wrong,because I am better than she is.That's for sure.I am a much better classical read than most of you here, just laying around gathering dust.
Wait a minute, hold it right there! A very thunderous voice just said that.Everybody book shuddered at the sound of that very ntimidated voice.I am very old, and I am very important too.I am much older than many of you, just gossiping around, wasting your time and mine.I can't fall sleep with all the racket you're making down here.Can you have some consideration for the ones that need a little more sleep everyday? A " Tale of Two Cities" volume, took a royal bow to everybody around, while paced back and forth in his most comfortable upper shelf.I am a very important book too.Iam considered a classical among book readers all over the world.So now please go to sleep! and let's end all this nonsense about who's more important or not.Saying this, he yawned so loudly, that he woke up some of his other books that were before dozing in either side of his shelf.
Who dare to do this and woke me up like this in such a rudely manner? A " Cronicles of Narnia" volume in a roaring voice moaned.How dared you to to do this and believe that you are more important than me.Well, let me tell you, mister, than you're not and never will, more important than me".A tale of Two Cities", let me tell you, that "Romeo and Juliet" think the same, and are spitting mad about your delussion of grandeur and self- pride.You know you got a coming anyway, even "Hamlet" thinks that is better than you are.Take that for a change! Now saying that, I can go back to sleep now.I bid you all good-night ladies and gentlemen!
I don't really care, if you are young or very old, perhaps you may be older and more experienced than me, in many ways, but still I believe I am the most important of all the books in this library, and elsewhere in the world too.A very comanding voice, and full of authority said.Everybody turned around to see the "Half Blooded Prince" lifting one of his fingers in self- importantance, and saying "I am the most important book in the world and all my brothers are too.Look up my ratings and my movies too.Everybody wants to know about me, from beggining to end.Everybody wants to read me and know all my most hidden secrets in every chapter I have and possessed.So you see, people of all ages like me a lot and bring me to their homes.So that settles everything now, be quiet and go to sleep and stop all your shouting and whispering about.I am the most important book ever! Is that understood? I guess it is...
Not so fast, you fat head! I am the most important, not you.No way! it can be you.I am the most important book in the whole wide world.I am the "Lord of the Rings" and I am very full of adventures,wars, death,heroism,magic,betrayals, self-sacrifice, love, and mistery too.I am the one that saves mankind and the whole world from darkness in the end.Remember that! One of my greatest citezens saves the world.His name is Frodo and is a Hobbit.So you see, I am the greatest among all the greatest here in this whole library and all the libraries in the whole wide world. So, please, go to sleep now! I see you tomorrow, my brothers and sisters.Saying that "The Lord Of The Rings" closed all his pages quietly and with a big smile went to sleep.
Meanwhile in one of the main upper shelves in the library, a very old and worn out "Holy Bible" just chuckled softly under his breath...
Dorian Petersen Potter
Long poem by
Mario DE PAZ | Details |
Simon wizard, you poor under his sway
That all things of God, which then of good will
Must be always brides, and you birds of prey
For gold and silver adulterate still,
Now it's time that the trumpet sounds for you,
Because you in third circle just stay ill.
We were already, at the tomb next new,
Clambered up to the tall rock at that place
Where is the center above the ditch cue.
O supreme wisdom, how great the art base,
Which in heavens, on earth and ill world show,
And how much justice your virtue can trace!
On the banks and on the bottom I saw
The stone very full with of holes a lot,
All of the same size and each well round though.
These seemed neither be of more nor less slot
Than those you found in my Saint John church nice,
Where the baptizers their faith office got;
One of those, few years ago imprecise,
I broke to help a guy just drowning there:
And this to testify truth and lie vice.
Out of the mouth of each hole leaned bare
Of a woeful sinner legs and feet too
To the belly, the rest down to the hair.
Both soles burned to all of them hitherto;
Their joints were strongly flickering so that,
They might be broken wacky as a screw.
Likewise the glowing of oily things fat
To move then up to reach the upper end,
So were there from the heels to tips just at.
“Who is that, master, who worries must send
Flickering than the others well much more”,
I told, “and whose flame has stronger its trend?”
And he: “If you like, we go to explore
Down there then to the lowest lying bank,
From him you can all about his sins score”
And I: “So I like , as you like and thank:
You are my lord, and you already know
That your will is mine, higher is your rank”
Then we arrived at the fourth bank below;
We turned at left hand and well down we got
Just to the narrow bottom riddled so.
Good master yet his side till end did not
Offer to me, and thus we reached this way
Where that one was crying with his foot hot
“Whichever you are, upside down then stay,
Mournful spirit who as a pole stuck are”,
I started, “If you can, your words display”
I stood like friar who confessing were
Perfidious killer, who, since stuck is,
Then asks him for death to stop his anger.
And he screamed: “Are you there erect faces,
Are you there erect , Bonifacius now?
For years about the writing he lied has.
If you then to be full of goods allow
For which you were never restrained from wile
To pretty woman, and then her torn sow?”.
I became as those ,who stay doubtful while,
Not understanding what herd as reply,
Almost confused, and no word is worthwhile.
Then Virgilio told: “To tell him try:
“That one I'm not, not the one you believe””;
And I replied to follow him thereby.
For this the soul his feet just ought to weave;
Then he, sighing and with a crying sound,
Told me: “So what you want from me achieve?
If to know my person you are so bound,
That you for this down the bank now have run,
Learn that I had the great mantle around;
Really I was of the she-bear son,
So greedy well my puppies to wind on,
That up and here my assets were done.
Behind my head are here the others won
Who me preceded in simony the sin,
To the crevices of the stones put con.
There I shall fall also when will come in
The one that I believed before you were,
When I first asked you with agitation.
But for more time fire my feet incur
And upside down longer I have been so,
Than he will be sticked with red feet spur;
Since after him then will come with worse woe,
From west, a minister with any law,
Such as is correct that he on me grow.
Novel Jason will be, of whom read raw
In Maccabees; and as to that was weak
His king, so to him whom France as king saw”
I don't know if I was with mind oblique,
Since I responded him just in this mode:
“Ah, tell me now: which treasure had to seek
Lord of ours to Saint Peter just before
Giving to the lordship of him his keys?
Nothing else rather than ”follow my core”.
Nor Pete nor others from Mathias seize
Gold or silver, when he arose by draw
To the place where his bad soul lost through these.
For this it’s right, you are damned by good law;
And now good care take of the money took
Which made you against Charles so proud with flaw.
And if I were not hindered by the hook
Of obeisance for keys so highest then
Which you held in happy life but mistook,
I would use even more hard words again;
Because your greediness makes the world sad,
Crushing good people and lifting bad men.
Of you Pastors the Vangelist known had
When woman who on waters takes a seat
As whore he saw with kings in a way bad;
That who was born with seven heads complete,
And from five horns had power great indeed
Til hers husband could to virtue compete.
You God of gold and silver could concede;
How differ idolaters then from you,
But that they pray one, and you hundred feed?
Alas, Constantin, how much harm could do,
Not your conversion, but that wealthy gift
The first rich pope of story you gave to!”
And while such notes singing I had to lift,
Either was bitten by conscience or rage,
Strongly both legs was pushing with strong shift.
I truly think much liked this my duke sage,
Since he attended with so happy face
The sound of words with truth I could engage.
So with both his hands me had to embrace,
And after he had at his chest all me,
He climbed back the way then leaving the place.
Tired to hug me he didn’t seem to be,
So he brought me up of the arch to top
Which from fourth to fifth bank is designee.
Here weight to ground he could gently drop,
Gentle respect to rocks dirty and steep
That would oppose to goats a severe stop.
Then I discovered a new valley deep.
Long poem by
Neldy Jolo | Details |
Oh well I got an angry email to begin my day
Because of my last post on the Jabidah thing yesterday
Galit sa akin but greeted me with Assalamu alaykum.
And kung personal Moro friends ko naman ito
They know I don't criticize Moro leaders
I always leave that to them to criticize their leaders
According to my friends baka nasa gubyerno or something
Next time I'll write na lang about the sea and the palm trees and the beaches
Pray and pray nalang para walang provocation
ako nga ang daming nag-message sa akin nagalit sa issue ng Sabah standoff
Ikaw pa kaya na wala namanng masama na sinabi dun
Alam mo ‘buti na lang you verbalized that kasi iniisip ko rin ‘yun
I know you have reasons and you know better kaya; I just read your posts
I don’t have to go against parties kasi both have rights
And the issue must be solved
Wala, kasi sa akin kundi independence lamang ang kailangan
May ganyan din kasing realities?
Minsan you are being asked or expected to take sides
Yes, my side is peace – with peace is independence
Yes, I heard that sa dating Jabidah Massacre celebration
Somebody said that, “Walang kapayapaan kasi walang kalayaan”
And that is very universal, kapatid.
Moro or non-Moro and writing should always geared towards humanity
That’s why for me it “anti-humanity” if you will not listen
Or suppress when somebody will talk about freedom.
That’s the problem with Filipinos, they don't listen.
Kasi the leaders may sarili ring interests.
How do you see being Filipino?
Ako, it's a cage, Filipino nationalism
Agenda ng mga oligarchs and landowners
Filipino nationalism is violence against Muslims and lumads
Kasi ‘pag ako ang tatanunginmo I will never say I am Filipino
Because Tausug it’s not a name but an identity...
I understand but kaunti na lang kayo
Ako sasabihin ko na I am a Filipino but I have reservations
When I was a teenager hindi ako tumatayo ‘pag Lupang Hinirang
ngayon tumatayo na kasi napapaaway ang mga kasama ko sa sinehan
Yes and identity should be critically assessed and examined.
Kaya if they say Filipino ang mga Tausug masakit sa aking loob
But not all, kapatid. try mo pumunta sa Manila
Yung mga Moro na malalapit sa mga institusyon ng Pilipinas
Bakit iba ang Moro at ibang ang Tausug
kaya sila naging Moro at masaya na tawaging Moro
May identity na naiiba sa Filipino
Pinag-aaralan ko rin yan and ino-observe ‘yung pag-yield sa 'Filipino'
‘Will give Filipinos a disservice
Because it is tantamount to be an accomplice to a corrupt system
And this system is the one that oppresses Muslims
At alam natin ang Tausug di lamang taga-Sulu
Pati Bisayan, Tausug din
As much as possible I am trying to make my writings 'away'
Away from Filipino nationalism
That's the right way for me and my writing
I will ask first, “How it is to be human?”
At super last na ang, “How to be a Filipino”
And the Bangsamoro struggle is the greatest critique to the violence
And failures of Filipino nationalism
Ang problema kasi kaya di successful ang Bangsamoro struggle
Dahil nagdadala sila ng pangalan na di naman originally sa kanila
How come ang pangalan ko ay Abdul sa rights
Gagamitn ko ang Juan para sa aking bayan?
Kaya war of ideas ito and alam mo naman sa akin, ‘pag ideas
And perspectives walang kompromiso and peace talks
I do not compromise my language, my craft and myself, my writing
Filipino is an imagined nation, as well as Bangsamoro
Bakit di natin magamit ang orignal nation natin
Na based sa Sulu archipelago and Mindanao
Yes, actually diyan ako papunta - papunta
Bakit hindi i-Bangsamoro-ized ang buong Filipinas?
It doesn’t mean na i-convert ang Pilipinas
But the spirit, the struggle it should mean something to Filipinos
It should kasi ang dami na nagbuwis ng buhay
Kaya ko pa na tanggapin kung Maharlika
‘Yan ang gusto kong ma-achieve: Filipinos should listen to Moros
Siyempre marami pang madidiscover along the way
Indeed. Ikaw ba ‘pag sasabahin ko na ‘Tausug’ ano ang maiisip mo?
Tausug is Moro and Moro for me is something that predates 'Filipino'
But now, I would like to know the concept of “Lupah Sug”
I want to know it, I think there are more and beyond Moro on it
Before ‘Moro’ was named to Mindanao and Sulu people
It was first name to Aceh people, Melaka, Brunei and then Manila
Sulu and Mindanao were the last places to have been called the name ‘Moro’
Sulu archipelago was united under the name Sulu archipelago
The name of people is Tausug.
Tausug is composed of different ethnics:
Arab, Banjar, Dampuan, Buranun etcetera.
The concept of Sulu as part of dar al islam
Is already a nation and state
Where the government is the people and itself headed by sultan or raja
Yes, and I would like to feel this from the ordinary Tausugs when I get there
I would like to experience this from ordinary Tausug and on from place itself.
In the hinterland of Jolo, their laws still on the ground not of Philippine law
I believe in narratives
I want to hear and feel this from the place and from the people.
And then capture it; I have these thoughts
That Lupah Sug has something that the Moro concept does not have
And it’s a bit metaphysical but sige lang.
I know my craft can capture it.
I think there is a language that can capture it
And specific craft that can carry its soul
Not fictionalize but put it in a form like a novel or a narrative
Which have their own logic and truths as crafts.
This poem is made after the conversation and sharing with Filipino writer Rogelio Braga who also serves as the editor of the poem. He is currently in Mindanao, travelling and writing; he will then proceed to Sulu Archipelago soon. 2:28PM, 19 March 2013, Facebook Chat across Sulu Sea!
Long poem by
Cyndi MacMillan | Details |
It is a terrible thing
To be so open: it is as if my heart
Put on a face and walked into the world.
Sylvia Plath, Three Women, 1962
Sylvia, ever lucent, ever opaque,
an incongruity, a clever imbalance
that spins collections her hounds facilitate.
Failures and fractures she bravely lanced
with noncompliance. Reader, rebuff collars
labeled as forewords, smug introductions,
for Plath’s voice is tenfold more a scholar
than those receiving undue benedictions.
Lofty beggars seek to bookend her words
and that empty space she instinctively refills
with her universe, a mayhem that girds,
unapologetic. Mirror images spill
over margins, searching for identity,
negating preamble, snubbing apathy.
Negating preamble, snubbing apathy
with language that flickers, catches, combusts,
her volumes of wicks, her lit soliloquies,
glint behind the stained-glass of trust.
There are those who are not really here,
they wander fault lines then crisscross chasms,
lost pilgrims who easily commandeer
unwary emotions. Some hearts just spasm,
pulled by their own nature, their delicacy,
for poetry is a weakness; poets die
between verses. Odes can become elegies.
The thin-skinned hear a snared rabbit cry,
and pray for the moonflower, always closing,
while cursing that page, unmoved and dozing.
While cursing that page, unmoved and dozing,
she corners rigid guides, keeps fingers poised,
synchronicity goes, the flow of typing
disappears, mislaid, that perfect noise
of a carriage return, a sound exclamation.
Joy is inspiration making its way home,
her Olivetti forages like a raven,
gifting found nouns, verbs that glare like chrome,
but love still flits, turns from hoarse requests,
and she longs for more than any man can give
for what snags worn ribbons will not rest,
it emits a strong beat, throbs as it loves.
Bless the bitter of life, all wisdom owing,
curse the open heart, its shadows showing.
Curse the open heart, its shadows showing,
for worldly delights take full advantage
of the wounded, their brokenness growing.
Everyday beauty wrings arteries, dredges
chambers with barbs, a prompt disobedient.
Fact, there’s no folder large enough to hold
elation’s girth, no ink conveniently
on hand to black out depression. So, scold
the yew, its roots and branches reaching,
then poke at petals for being complacent,
when all the while a candle is preaching
of give and take, surrender, luminance,
So, carefully archive apprehension,
revealing blue veins to tender lesions.
Revealing blue veins to tender lesions
requires much more than a room of one's own,
hours do dissolve, days lack cohesion
when milk sours and tantrums are thrown.
Solitude is in short supply, loneliness,
however, is overstocked; her mind tugs
at busy hands for attention, such darkness
contrasts to jammy smiles and sleepy hugs.
Elusive titles whimper each morning,
and short stanzas steep, so desperately,
all the while a manuscript is scorning
her swipes at dry crumbs, cold pots of tea.
A life sheds its months, gallows take delight
as sundials atrophy in the arms of night.
As sundials atrophy in the arms of night.
the moon blanches tidepools, suckles sand,
even the face of the clock is pulled too tight
and the new calendar can not understand
that writing is sex, is fresh bread, is air,
that time is a brute, quick fisted, rough,
that weeks come and go without a care
that a marriage vow is never enough
to mend adoration, repossess bliss.
Words make better lovers, rarely stray,
upon her lips, the impression of a kiss
feels as cold as sheets then melts away.
Paper sops afterbirth, accepts her all:
fossil and seed, shackles and free falls.
Fossil and seed, shackles and free falls,
unlocking visions, defying any cage,
art resists validity, upsets stone walls
to scale the scarlet heights of a rampage,
to breach the barricades to euphoria.
She excavates id, bares teeth at ego,
plays the parts of illusion and phobia
then infuses rhyme with soft indigo.
Colossus begins to shrivel as Ariel
unmans him, riding hard upon metaphors,
and will remain strong, constant, ethereal.
but curtailed are epics that still implore
like the cusp of dream long after you wake
Sylvia, ever lucent, ever opaque.
* For Craig Cornish, whose contest inspired this piece. Thank you, Daddy-O.
About this poem
This is my first crown of sonnets. It took over 25 hours to write, a full week of me-time!
These are modern sonnets and the syllable count is extremely loose, intentionally, as it would seem odd to keep things too tight when writing of Sylvia. If anything, I regret not being even looser, altering syllable counts DRAMATICALLY. Also, I used a great deal of slant rhyme for the same reason.
I really wanted to capture Sylvia Plath with this poem, and it was a real struggle. Her language is so precise, and I wanted to do her justice. I had wanted to feel, upon its completion, that Sylvia would have said, "Well, it isn't quite horrible. Not bad for a novice. And there are parts of me there, but only the smallest bits." I do not feel I did this. I feel like I didn't even TOUCH her mastery of language. But, it is good enough for now.. one day, who knows?
Oh, Sylvia's typewriter was a Olivetti Lettera 22. It was portable!
Long poem by
Dylan Irvin | Details |
Phantom Journal Entry 1
Wednesday 8:03 A.M.
I found Jesus at a bus stop this morning. He recommended that I comb my hair. I told him if I had any nails I would hand them over. Monty found a shoe full of vomit by a dumpster. Someone had an interesting night. This apartment smells like stale french fries. Frank is still sleeping on the counter next to Mr. Coffee. There is a stray cat clawing at the windowpane. The town is gradually waking up. The park across the street is filled with shirkers. My mind is still living in last night’s conversation. But I don’t remember it very well. Shit, I’m going to be late for
Phantom Journal Entry 2
Wednesday 11:13 P.M.
Work sucked. I think the bartender is an alcoholic. She hides a flask in her bra. It fell out when we were in the stall together. Frank is sprawled across the kitchen floor. Monty steps over him to grab a beer. The stray cat is now sleeping on the windowpane. Nothing ever changes from morning to night. Except Monty is drinking coffee and not beer.
Phantom Journal Entry 3
Good Friday 9:47 P.M.
The ocean left the brine. The girls here are all made of smoke, and their dreams are living in my beer. The worms are drunk on the stove. Frank passed out hugging the toilet. Monty takes a piss right next to his face. Some girl just asked me what I was writing. I told her that I was rewriting the Bible. She seemed confused. Her hair wasn’t combed either. The guy at the bus stop would be ashamed. I can’t remember his name though. The television can’t stop spewing poorly scripted ‘reality’ shows. This Friday isn’t very Good.
Phantom Journal Entry 4
Monday 3:12 A.M.
My eyes are broken garage doors off the tracks. I’ve drank too much Red Bull. She keeps waking up and asking me for water. Apparently her mouth is in a drought. A dead soldier lays between her breasts. Frank keeps drooling on the carpet. My favorite ash tray is tipped over next to Mr. Coffee. This desk keeps hiding words from me. Monty wonders how much a plane ticket to Hell costs. He never sleeps.
Phantom Journal Entry 5
Thursday 12:31 A.M.
It smells of raw fish and bleach in here. My palms are sore. Monty told me to stab myself with pencils to make sure I could still bleed. So I did. That girl ordered me a pizza. But I forgot it under the couch. The medicine chest is nearly empty. When Frank wakes up he is taking a trip to 5th Street to get more. I wonder if they sell bandages there? Will Mr. Coffee brew marijuana for us? My brain is starting to throw up.
Phantom Journal Entry 6
Thursday 12:38 A.M.
This desk keeps mocking me. I offered it to the guy at the bus stop, but he said he didn’t want anymore wood. The dishes are now a chemistry project. But Mr. Coffee is always clean. I can’t get this girl to stop showing me her tattoos. I miss the bartender at work. She got fired tomorrow. So I bought her a new bra. The medicine chest is empty now. Frank is never awake when I write.
Phantom Journal Entry 7
Thursday 4:30 P.M.
I finally got the garage doors fixed. I guess they weren’t closed enough. There is a ghost that keeps haunting the hallway in my dreams. She is pretty hot. Except she keeps tilting the pictures on the wall.
The thirsty girl still won’t leave. Neither will the cat. We may have found the cure for cancer in our dishes. But probably not. Frank is talking in his sleep about stepping on rats. Monty is listening to Beethoven while he attempts to write poetry. He is an awful writer.
Phantom Journal Entry 8
Monday 1:49 A.M.
The guy at the bus stop asked me if I wanted to drink his blood. I told him I wasn’t thirsty. The water was running from the shower. Frank was dreaming in the tub. Monty ate chicken wings with the tattooed girl. I can’t remember her name. I think that cat is hungry too. Mr. Coffee wants to go to sleep. There is broken glass sticking out of my feet. The sky is bleeding white. My mind begins to masturbate.
Phantom Journal Entry 9
Sunday 3:33 A.M.
The brine is looking for the ocean. The girls here are all made of smoke, and their realities are dead on the floor. This desk is growing a face. The medicine chest is full. Monty picks up a filthy habit from the black lake. I haven’t seen Frank for a few days. He must be under the couch. I robbed the guy at the bus stop. Turns out he didn’t really save much. The thirsty tattooed girl shattered Mr. Coffee last night. I will miss him dearly. Now my shot glass is spawning worms.
Phantom Journal Entry 10
Tuesday and I don’t know what time it is
It’s been 369 days since I last wrote an entry. I’ve simply had nothing to say. Monty is living in the streets somewhere. I think of him every time I buy a loaf of bread. I wonder if he found out how much tickets cost? That cat finally starved a few weeks ago. I married that thirsty tattooed girl. I still don’t remember her name though. Frank went to sleep in someone elses apartment. Never did talk to him much. The worms are all marching in a line. Someone stole my medicine chest. I think it was Monty. The guy at the bus stop was thrown into an asylum. But somehow vanished one day. The garage doors are now closed on a regular basis. That ghost finally straightened out the tilted pictures. I think I’ve been combing my hair a lot better lately. I am still a phantom to society. But that’s okay. Nobody knows my name.
Long poem by
Ian Howard | Details |
A Bluto is not that Disney dog
It was when a mewling
that I would scream
Should they wet my body
And then apply cream
Ablutophobia – fear of bathing, washing, or cleaning
Achluo the demon that lurks
In darkened corners
The long toothed life suckers realm
I am scared as the sun dims
It seems to bare my soul
Achluophobia – fear of darkness
Acro what did they do
They called me acrobat
This will not do
I get giddy standing on a matchbox
Please get a net to see me through
Acrophobia – fear of heights
Agora just shut that door
I am staying here forever more
Bring me food put it on the floor
The letter box is just for you
Don’t, Don’t, try to get through
Agoraphobia, Fear of open spaces or of being in public places. Fear of leaving a safe place
Agrap stole my feelings
He caught me unaware
I am now afraid of sex
don’t ask me anymore
It frightens me that’s for sure
Agraphobia – fear of sexual abuse
Agrizoo an angry gorilla I knew
Wild as hell was kept in a cell
As all his kind, even a timid Hind
They scare the crap out of me
Please let them run free
Agrizoophobia – fear of wild animals
A gyro is just what I need
I will fit it to my trusty stead
He will fly straight across that band
A tarmac nasty throughout the land
I cannot face the walk you see
Agyrophobia –fear of crossing the road
Aichmohe got in a hell of a fight
They killed him with a pointed knife
It will come for me just you see
I cannot even mend his cloth
Won’t touch a needle at any cost
Aichmophobia – fear of sharp or pointed objects (such as a needle or knife)
Ailuro he lived next door
The bastard sits on the fence
To me he snarls not a purr
A Persian he is supposed to be
Frightens the *****out of me
Ailurophobia – fear of cats
Algo, Away, I am pain free
This morphine is the best
First day of pain free rest
Been told that it will return
Got some gas, peace I yearn
Algophobia - fear of pain
Andro I’d rather be (android)
I am metal and plastic you see
Electric person not man or woman
That would be so sad
If just a man I would go mad
Androphobia – fear of men
Antho the pologist got the plan
He put concrete throughout the land.
Not one shrub or flower seen
Not one blade of grass green
A flower would make me scream
Anthophobia – fear of flowers
Anthropo was a lonely man
Wouldn’t mix with others so
He lived in a cave, well just a hole
You would see his eyes peeping out
A shaking frame if people were about
Anthropophobia – fear of people or the company of people, a form of social phobia.
Aqua marine or even the wet stuff
Is enough to drive me mad
I stay in when there is rain
Just wait for the sun to shine again
A damp tissue that’s quite enough
Aquaphobia – fear of water. Distinct from Hydrophobia, a scientific property that makes chemicals averse to interaction with water, as well as an archaic name for rabies
Arach no, and know the score
Those creepy creatures on the wall
Send shivers up and down my spine
Six legs and venom to drive you mad
I am running already it is sad.
Arachnophobia – fear of spiders
Astra my name you would think of the stars
My gaze goes up but not that far
To the first cloud there in the sky
If it’s the shape of an anvil I will fly
Fear grips me and I don’t know why
Astraphobia – fear of thunder and lightning
Atychi that was about the size of me
The others would just make fun
I was no good to anyone
A failure of the first degree
Nothing my goal, was all I could see
Atychiphobia – fear of failure
Auto matic I will seek people out
To touch to play as long as they are near
Don’t leave me in this place alone
A singularity is my biggest fear
I will hold anyone you see I care
Autophobia – fear of being alone or isolated
Automat o no it’s not true how could you
An advert that’s telling just lies
Don’t all the others realize
What you say is not true, put it right
It will drive me crazy I’ll keep out of sight
Automatonophobia – fear of anything that falsely represents a sentient being
Aviat o if you think I am going in that
No I am not a scared ***** cat
If we were meant to go fly
Wings we would have from him on high
Fold your machine and put it just so.
Aviophobia, Aviatophobia – fear of flying
Chaeto he was a Greek of old
Bald as a badger so the story is told
But why you say is there no cure
For him to grow some lovely hair
For him it would give such a scare
Chaetophobia – fear of hair
Chemo therapy keep away from me
Chemicals scare me I know they are free
But to have them coursing through my veins
No matter how good they are, and that jar
The fear of everything for what they are
Chemophobia – fear of chemicals
Chirop to or not too so I am told
They stick in your hair best to be bald
Now I find that my nails are made of hair
Chirop is what I fear not chiropodist is that clear!!
Just shave my head and cut my nails dear
Chiroptophobia – fear of bats
Chromo shines bright in my eyes
The fear of all colours I realise
Now I am safe from a troubled day
Into my dark room, I have found my way
Knock when that sun has met its demise
Chromophobia - fear of bright colors
Long poem by
Timothy Hicks | Details |
It's been four years since I've seen so much as an insignificant mountain creek. Been overburdened with comfort, now frantic with nature withdrawals, having to settle for photos found on Google Images: emerald pine trees, blue jays on limbs, moonlight cutting through forests, lakes the color of Windex-ed glass. It's much like drinking water that's been doused with Crystal Light... you may feel yourself becoming hydrated, when it reality it's only satiating your thirst temporarily. So you can imagine my joy when my best friend called me up to break the news.
"Monica, Brandon, Joel and I are gonna go backpacking. Care to join?"
of a cell hitting the floor -
Like a bunch of sardines packed in a can on wheels, we headed out to beautiful Cascade: the place where the Idahoan mountains aren't just paintings from afar, but close enough to taste. We weave our way through the spider-like dirt trails, as we each take turns changing songs on Joel's iPod. It's my go and I'm searching through the John Denver list, mourning the fact that there's over a hundred songs by him, and not one of them is Colorado Rocky Mountain High (the one song I could say fit my feelings to a tee). The menagerie of everyone's taste in music made for an interesting trip no doubt - even if Jonathan picked the worst possible jams simply for annoyances sake.
My first peculiar observation:
Humans have been making calendars for thousands of years (the first being more akin to cave drawings and stone tablets than paper). But as long as all that has been going on, the mountains don't care that August is expected to be sultry as November is expected to be chilly. Cause June took her first baby steps with a stubborn December mindset - a meandering way to say it was cold enough to freeze your nads off. The mounds of five feet snow made it all the more comical the fact I was wearing plaid shorts. Mother Nature wasn't going to be kind, I could tell.
struggling to stand -
our packs full of crockery
It was breezy at first. We would practically glide down the mountain side, using our backpacks as a counter balance. The snowy counterpart to kangaroos, we were. The glistening flakes were thick enough to snowboard down - granted I never touched a snowboard, let alone ridden one. But after seeing this it gives me ideas...
Monica smiled for the camera, as I fumbled for my iPhone, a smile that didn't even require the forcible Say Cheese! nonsense. It wasn't waiting for the camera flash, but the other way around. Now you might be calling that rather pathetic, but I brought my iPhone along simply for the function of capturing memories. Angry Birds just don't compare to the real ones, sweet with lilting songs.
My second peculiar observation:
Google Images is an absolute horrid plagiarist; some beauty just can't be encapsulated despite all our advances in high-def technology.
The downward slope finally leveled out a bit, if only for a few minutes. Truth be told the path never stopped declining - some routes were simply more apparent than others. Our group of five walked single file through the trees, all basing our faith that Joel (a person who has been to the site once when the trail WASN'T covered in snow) would lead us in the right direction. And here's another interesting fact; this was no official trail, but a hike through the purest of adventures, unpredictable and unreliable.
crushing pine needles
with un-gloved fingers -
roaring rivers beneath the snow
The first time my whole leg collapsed into the fragile surface of the snow made me realize just how far above the dirt I was walking. I'd ask Brandon for assistance with a beet red blush on my cheeks - I blamed it on my fair skin falling victim to the sunny day. From then out I tiptoed with exaggerated caution, my heavy pack helping me just as much as it was hindering me. For even a foot drop had to be taken with a grain of salt. Everyone had to adjust to the added weight (except for Monica, with her light load of a sleeping bag, nothing else). I'd very ungracefully glide through twigs and pesky low branches, oblivious of my bare legs. In all honesty the cold didn't get to me, just the scratches of neighboring trees is where my concerns lied. At anytime I could have stopped the whole gang, beaming, "Wait a spell and let me put on some pants for crying out loud". Course that never happened, my clothes were in the bottom of my pack, and I was no where near desperate enough for monkeying around with that sorry mess.
slanting down the cliff edge -
Joel, with his redneck stubble, beams up at me, "Every hiking trip needs a little bit of adventure, don't rush it by any means!". That's the last thing on my mind - the first is whether or not that rock I'm about to put my weight on is as stable as she looks. It's a very roundabout route, and as questionable as it is, it's safer by a long shot than the first path we took - call it a 103 degree wall.
NOTE: Still working on writing out the rest of my trip to Cascade. It was my first backpacking trip and even though we only stayed one night, the trip is full of wonderful memories.
Long poem by
Brian Johnston | Details |
‘An interesting guy I think,’
People might say on meeting you for the first time,
Oh yes, I’ve come to know you too well.
Thank God for the Internet,
Although there are bodies in your wake,
And stench follows you like a garbage scow
There is protection for many in distance from,
In the miles of wire, the waves of wireless
Communication, and so like a deer
Caught in the headlight of your amazing ego,
[Fashioned by the fires of Hell (like Gollum’s ring)
And as empty as the devil’s soul],
They stand frozen for a moment,
Throwing it off finally, the vision of their own death
Shaking their heads in wonder, ‘What just happened?’
It’s like the first lesson your mother tries to teach,
‘Be careful who you choose as a friend,’
A cautionary tale for adults too.
‘Fire does burn’ even when you reach adulthood,
All that sparkles is not gold, my friend,
And a ‘nom de plume’ like Talvia Sprinkles,
Just one more bush the troll hides in.
Sometimes that strange feeling that you have
Is actually another human? being? peeing on your soul
The golden shower they offer, however,
Does not assuage your guilt (which is real, so what?)
You’ve just been sold a bill of goods,
Dr. Killdeers Magic Elixir, a not so benign fixer.
If you have been in this dark place of the soul
And saved by Satan not in fact being God,
Then rejoice my friend in God’s provision
In youth or childhood, you did something good?
Do more, bear witness of your weakness to others,
Not to mortify your own flesh (God knows you’re sorry)
But so that those with ears to hear (also God’s gift)
Perchance will themselves not feel so alone.
Remember that half-truths strung together like pearls
Are still sh**, if you’ll pardon the expression.
‘If it sounds to good to be true it isn’t,’
Remember only God knows your soul,
Satan is just a very experienced guesser
And revels in our penchant to deny our own sin.
His wisdom does not serve the greater good.
Do not look for truth among the cold stones
Of the temple that once stood at Delphi either,
Or trust any oracle that does not bend his knee
To the living God, the creator of us all.
It is your life, it is your responsibility,
Don’t parrot Cesar’s surprised last words
As a ‘friend’ slipped his knife into Cesar’s heart,
‘Et tu, Brute?’ You have been warned!
September 26, 2014
The Troll now joins what I am calling ‘My Ring Trilogy’ and completes this cycle very well I think, though I had no idea I was writing a trilogy when I started it many months ago. ‘God is Great!’ Hope that you find it interesting too! All three poems while not written to attack Merov Tachgovirian specifically, do in my humble opinion describe him all most perfectly by accident as it were. Perhaps because he uses my verse as a sick goal for his own life, lacking the imagination to come up with his own game plan for a truely evil life.
On PoemHunter.com there is a poorly implemented rating system that if allowed by each individual poet, allows visitors to the poet's site to rate each poem from 1 - 10. Used in its intended manner, this allows visitors to my site for example, to easily see which of my 200+ poems have been the most popular so far. This can be a nice tool for a visitor when he/she comes to my site for the first time. I use it myself quite frequently in this way, not really a gauge of true quality but at least a crude measure of popularity. What Merov and his like are doing are doing on PoemHunter is to, without regard for the poem at all, to give the poem MULTIPLE VOTES of 1.0 which can bring the 'average rating' of a poem that has been given 4 votes of 10.0 for example whose average rating should in fact be 10.0 down considerably. I had one poem like this that Merov gave 8 votes of 1.0 to (in a 24 hour period). So doing the math, 40 normal points + 8 Merov points equals 48 points in total. You divide that by th number of votes cast 12 votes and now the poems average rating is 4.0 and not a perfect 10.0 that it should be. Merov can do this because he joins a site with multiple false identities and then uses these membership votes as a base from which to launch attacks on others.
A note in passing to honor the 'Walking Dead' among us (Hi Merov):
Well apparently PH has banished you from it’s halls and once again because of your amazing ego (your greatest weakness and most devastating weapon), and, of course, the pornographic language you use to comment on other's poems. If you have not been attacked by people like him, count yourself lucky. If you do not care about the pain that he brings to others by this behavior, then count yourself his victim already. ‘Talvia Sprinkles’ and ‘Jimmy Tuhans’ (nom de plumes he used recently on PH) may be history, but Merov certainly is not. There are an infinite number of internet ‘nom de plumes’ for him to hide behind, more sites will be attacked, more sites and feelings damaged by his misinformation and scurrilous comments. Do not dream that evil is not real. Good men may lay down their arms, even admit defeat, admit that they were wrong. Evil never does. The suffering of others is its only goal.
Long poem by
Joel Lee | Details |
A Dark Identity
Days into nights... time without time
Normalities of everyday life beckons to remain
Shadows with lights.... to find to define
I am he who goes by without a name
The world is only up to date
And I’ve decided no more to follow
Bearing time to finally relate
Yet a self I’m to find to wallow
He who walks without an identity... walks alone
And he who walks alone needs be proud
Yet walking forever without finding a home
Have I that heaven beyond the clouds?
I cannot see either far or near
I cannot be to be neither nor
I’m listening... I cannot hear
I’m at peace... I’m at war
I did not know... am I suppose to?
I know I’m alive... is that enough?
Yet, rather not to know than knew
For knowledge shall never last
A mystery if not yet to be
That one mysterious hope to be searching for
I have dreams but what did I see?
I have no one... not one I can call
A darken need shall heed not words
For the dark shall rise as light
The fade will be a promise to be heard
For shadows are without night
And I started to listen distractedly
Hearing for what my eyes cannot see
A hallucinatory moment ever constantly
As I began to believe that of what cannot be
The instant my eyes close
My mind drew as suppose
Sketching a stand alone amid a world once seen
Of ranging fires to have had believed as a dream
And there I was... a lone figure enveloped in darkness
With crossing flames alight yet from a distance as useless
Left as I was before... I am to return as I am
Reliving once more this beginning with never the end
Thus did I continue my path away from the bloodshed
Carefully as one had hoped where a darker darkness be led
No more do I wonder what transported me here
To only know for certain I am riddled of constant fear
“Fear is a fire
To temper courage and resolve
Be it desire
To quench the thirst for one’s unfounded lost”
And there it was... words barely a whisper
Where it came from... no longer matters
For the intended vigor were already cast upon
Serving me with renewed purpose for a sense to belong
Before long, beyond doubts... my callings were clear
The source from where it first began was indeed here
Almost startled, I looked around knowing I’m blinded to see
Too dark as it was, had it not been a lighted green to be
And there it was... a single light beyond the almighty dark
That one greenish light to aid one’s lonesome heart
Rather peculiar for I haven’t notice it before
And naturally I am to walk towards the green grandeur
Flickering and wavy as I drew closer to my destination
Seeing finally for what appears to be the least of expectations
Astonishingly, it was a lantern where within was the sighted fire
And simply the fiery green alone ignites ever on in dire
Levitated in midair, it stands rigid with its haunting presence
With an aura more deserving then welcoming of essence
So mesmerized I was... I wanted to behold
That of warmth for perhaps deliverance from cold
A dare if not, if only, if I must
A flame to embrace, a curiosity to engulf
And surely... I lifted my hand with only a wanting touch
Surely but unknowingly... the flame itself is to parch
Sparkles of green eludes and transcends about
As well an aria, an ancient tune goes aloud
To only see to believe, perhaps my life to perceive
Yet the question being... what did I achieve?
Smoke arises... wavering, quivering, settling...
My time... misgiving, misguiding and misleading
And there he was... rather it be
A human?... isn’t to be I see
“A dark wanderer, perhaps a lone wanderer alone
Regardless... a stranger afar returning home
Have you the teachings bequeath upon you?
From a once being of a knight who knew
For he alone stands unnerve by another
Serving a purpose to hold true forever
The resemblance I see forth leaves me incertitude
Both as mortals... though only he remains in servitude
Yet... my appointment upon you is clear
I am to you drawn as you to me when you hear
Nevertheless, far too long were you of absence
And once more I am in honor to be in your presence
It never is clear what the heavens contrive
For this unsung war... humanities were birth to strive
Every one mortal given birth were forged for war
To ensure the survival of humanities and of peace to befall
For many years this bloodshed wages in dire
Almost as certainly, the spirits of men responsively tire
No more are there ideas nor hopes they are to see
Battling on for pure survival remains what leads them be
Your return however, will perhaps set the tides in our favor
Though I know not the intention, I do not disregard altogether
Do not let the reasons why you have returned cloud your mind
I ask of you rather to remember who you once were to define
The land of The Ancients is never a quest for truth to seek
Purely for good to triumph over evil is the only idea you will need
Prepare yourself well stranger, for good will always be in disguise
Treachery and deception as often will never in itself be a lie
The unforgiving way is still a long one I’m afraid
However well is Heaven to plan... evil as always will await
And until out time will once more cross between us
I assure you... your time in this world will outlast”