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Best About Face Poems | Poetry

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About Face

For months in a pointless wallow,
many moments I found it hard to swallow.

The only thing I could down was whiskey
my actions were nothing but risky.

Keeping myself insane to ease the pain of self destruction,
going through the motions I could not even function.

Spawning hate towards the one I at one time truly loved,
anger, sadness and despair in the pit of my soul shoved.

It's been a wild ride of highs and low's,
giving myself emotional blow's.

To the point of no return I've been there twice,
my existence there was no price.

But now for some reason time has stopped,
time to pick up my life where it was dropped.

An about face that I don't want to do again,
leaving me not knowing where to begin.

Copyright © Jon B. Rangel | Year Posted 2009

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Marching Band

"Marching Band"
Dapper dilettantes take over one hundred yards 
Showing their feathers like a cockatoo on pointy shakos 
Displaying their talents on grass they are anything but green 

Ready to give resplendent resonance through beasts of golden brass
Popping percussive drumming getting drilled into them by a sergeant
Time and time again by so many rehearsals they know formations by heart
The time for sweat and tears is over, they are here to perform

Atten hut! 

Impressing the crowd with baton twirling 
Majorettes turn into marionettes as the sergeant pulls their strings
Compact formation now, the crowd will wait for hot dogs
Watching a half time special while they stand alert in place

About face!

Witnessing scintillating choreography with a one, two turn
The symbols get their chance to be rim shot participators
And the Grand Marshall leads the baton twirlers aside
For the color guard and their blinding high definition radiance 
No one is out of phase and the scene is picture perfect
Then they dive into the scatter drill 
Show their true talents with life, love and liberty to move where they want
Individual inspiration takes over each one to the ensemble 
This is the real reason they are here, for happiness 

They make way for the gymnasts while maintaining play
Who express their own interest in the spectacle of somatic arts
Triangles and fantastic figures on three people straddled high
Build in the crowd a new love for geometry

They have to give way though in good measure 
To guns of glory and so many shots sent high in the air
Puffs of smoke are burst sky high, evaporating a salutary good bye 
Thanks for watching

Copyright © karl marszalowicz | Year Posted 2011

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Why should the mimic apologize? 
Where are the cupboards?
Where are the wages?
Where is the tailor? I had
no use for algebra, I knew it-
in as much incognito on a prefabricated track,
in order that....
free thinking then supposing,
til warning for dreamless help provided,
a typewritten treat from this meditative cell on
a bi-directional night, just as incensing this layer, once
shouting, against kaleidoscoped winds...
Will the dubious cartoon walk on top of the comparison?
or will the prevailing keystroke provoke a smashing debt?
Their marriage possessed an alcoholic copyright.
just as the about face twists the rear.... 
A wizard paces..... surveying the blackboard
just when a scholar stands,
and rocks across a page, so that unless
Some author squeezes, a western dialect,
lest now his leisure violates,
a once welcomed, road of gold on the critical side, in as much until
and even faster still, a projecting spontaneous cricket,
now in a graveyard embarrassed by his wasteful song,
messy thoughts, broken prized belief, 
sweeping away the cheat,
disregarding the window from the top,
so that a porter yawns,
outside the offending captor, who wears a wolf pendant,
underneath the inside havoc, if only
the technology collapses before
the funerals, thick attack, talk on top,
of frozen outlines, and a leather sofa cracked,
from opinions changing, as correspondence leaked,
so behind smoke, a fire of desire lurking near the conflicting repertoire,
next to the guilty bystander, raining like a thief, now interferes, who
stirs the sticks... across the crossroads,
Can the music spin the guilty onto a bandwagon until the other staggering strangers advancing,
to the next fizzy, dizzy, bog...
while guides await in order to assault corrupted fantasies,
beside crystal strips, where rusty knights in armor, sitting on a park bench
trying every half measure,
disturbing breezes,  
in the haze of memories. Stir these random thoughts and let their impressions talk to you and one another.
Who knows how the mind really works?

Copyright © James Ranahan | Year Posted 2015

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Letter to taeljejohn

uncomfortableness, and hesitation arose that you might reassess a possibility for friendship or.... whatever with me.

A disappointment set in place in the event that based on some facet of my being (inexplicable flaws within this corporeal human male), forecast that an about face (booked on charges inherent in this googly eyed, earth-linked, kool hotmail of a yahoo) would be un liked!

Juno what i mean? 

In retrospect, no matter that this average boyish chap desires enjoyment, he admits that ordinary punctuating various stages of development difficulty coping found him msn (miss sin, missin, missing, et cetera) on ordinary interpersonal experiences!

No matter yours truly usually finds me each morning, noon or night conjuring up maximizing temporary residence on this planet earth versus bemoaning those futile and essentially counterproductive mind games sans could a, might a, should a, would a...

today = the moment to cherish, enjoy, help others, ponder the remaining years
since fruitless to expend tears
for suppressed emotional, financial, grammatical, hormonal, physical, and spiritual angst
 that roiled mine inner sanctum - mainly from decades in the past
   which unseen scars with humor this fellow (who by the way likes you) wears!

Notice the sly inclusion of my comment per -- affinity, desirability, rhapsody for you
although just but a mere inkling prevails about an ye taelje john thru
a rather contrived manner - albeit an online adult oriented website - amongst a slew
which yields to this bipedal hominid a scant few
initial responses - as if a ghost app paired in the recipient email - going boo
which unwittingly seems to turn the ivy blue! matter a constancy of follow-up electronic communiques occurs from ye
bringing tears of joy, that nobody can see
while simultaneously delivering digital glee
a reality check restrains proclivity and predilection to let thoughts run wild and free!

Immense and immeasurable mounts in moi little rock
inducing an electric arc for myself to kin neck embedded in all this schlock
for a sixth sense arises that this holme body strongly suspects yar self 
 to generate sunny watts as an s spy she lee Sherlock

but, reticence to gush with ebullience reins in a cascade
of utter delight washing o'er this less than satisfactory mwm 
 who as a boy and youth happened to b a frayed
of his own shadow - while walking along the boulevard of broken dreams
 listening to the sounds of silence on a green-day.

Thus => the following from one 

Cerebral being ™ in the am and pm
This ordinary human
Finds himself a mystery
Within the terrestrial
Firmament and frequently
Feels in a feverish pitch
At his existence
That seers the temple
Mounted upon this slender
Frame - wrought by the
Combination of genetics
In tandem with exercise
Which latter helps to
Sublimate the coiled 
Tension wound tightly 
Like an indestructible spring 
Without a healthy medium at large 
To channel emotions fraught within
Me might find demise
That would rent asunder literate fellow 
And thus annihilate without a trace
One true valued father of two us special
Lovely lasses as just another statistic among 
The obituaries!
As the world turns (indiscriminately oblivious of the harrowing days per one simian), an agreeable, amiable, edible, immeasurable, likeable, pleasurable, sensible woman (such as yourself - predicated on a gut level intuition) goads more seriousness to share

Plaintive unheard heart strings o mine that wail
Displeased with this marriage fraught with travail
As if in a maelstrom whip-lashed vessel without a sail
Yet - averse to lambaste or rail
Against abby (whereby we pass like two ships in the night) who married this male
When each of us happened to seem more similar 
   And thought each ourselves to fail
At any endeavor, though now confidence 
   Buoys my heart while she doth ail

And exemplifies attitudes, beliefs, efforts, 
   Idiosyncrasies, pathos that life does rot
Ill suited to Matthew Scott, 
   Whose bon vivant manifesting faith in him
   Perhaps from herself deferring many domestic 
   And child rearing tasks not
Of course being boasting - even when scissoring the umbilical cord
   As a now beaming papa, whose daughters 
   Blithely ignore "mother" a lot
Thus necessitating this quest 
   For a counterpart to offer succor 
   To eden (age 16) and shana (14 on february 4th, 2013) 
   Yet accepts that i must dispel any dreamy fantasy even this ours - a mere jot
At this juncture knowing full well how unwise to set myself up for disappointment
   By thinking and rushing like a fool, 
   Where angels fear to tread
   Though "chutzpah" i got!

U r slowly filling my mindscape with joy
Thank you so much - for accepting without complaint how atypically words this writer wannabe 
   Named Matthew Scott Harris dozen ploy.

Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2013

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Destiny's Perch

In the near future, I am going to add it all up into one big sum.
In the meantime, I am going to gather and collect my own space.
I will sift through seeds or weeds and present an enormous case.
But for sure I will hold onto every single yellow chrysanthemum.

In the near future, I am going to roll it all up sealing it by my thumb.
In the meantime, I am going to sit here with every turned about face.
I will drift through time rewinding the hands back to a God of Grace.
But for sure I will give the world a place my heart is triumphing from. 

Quickly, I will come to you,
And instantly I will be gone.
But injustice shall never do.
Nor shall a lie be my spawn.

Or at the least not on my expedient silver polished dime,
And certainly not while sitting on destiny’s perch in time!

® Registered: Ann Rich   2009

Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2009

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God Knew All Along

Michael, I love you
You are a very good man
Your life was hell
But God took a stand.
He watched you and waited
Through the years you did reign
And when you did realize this was a sin
It was then that He finally stepped in.
A man of strength
And with a little urging
You got the drift
It was so encouraging
The about face you made.
Proved Him right
And you were soon
Following His light.
Now look at you
You are giving your all
To try and save others 
Who also did fall.
Your hatred is gone
You are so full of love
And through this gift
You excel at His work.
You are lending your money
You are lending your time
And now you choose to show them
You were once in their shoes.
You have taken His hand
Accepted the role
To help get them to heaven
Is now your goal. 
I applaud you, Michael
And I'm proud to say
If you'd been my son
I'd smile all the day.
And so as not to mislead anyone
I'll just call you, "My Special Son"
Then I'll sign my messages this way dear
I love you, Michael
Mom Beer

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007

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Battle of the two Giants

High noon announced the duel of the giants

Poetry and Hip Hop gunslinging the date was set

One accused the other of raping the verbal world

As poetry sighted the words of Poe, hip hop did hurl

"Cant you rock these lame %$# words in slow

That dumb %&# Raven needs to be defeathered bro"

Poetry stood back and shook his hands down low

Reaching for his quilt using hip hop as ink he wrote

"The sound of silence is gold when you release your soul,

I need to feel the heartbeat of man so go!"

Hip hop now breakdancing on the floor

Laughed at this poor attempt to show poetrys gold

"You call that soul? I see it as a blind man,

Using fancy words to hide your fears so grand"

As poetry began to write another line

12:00 o clock came up as the sun did shine

Both stood back to back drawing their weapons

As the countdown to the duel approached like a new son

3 steps forward both rhymers turned about face

Two bangs later the smoke cleared both were embraced

The two giants knelt to ground their hearts did bleed

This time not of words but of blood so clean

At the same time both died as they killed each other

Why not write about how we are killing one another

Black vs White, hip hop vs poetry

Same old siht but this time its affecting me

Copyright © Penn Kname | Year Posted 2006

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Was It An Act of God?

Catastrophes,natural disasters and torrential rains
what causes these thing to happen, on whom do you place the blame?
mankind has misused and abused this planet on which we live
Mother Nature must make adjustments, the forces of nature then give
we have built too many buildings, taken over too much land
an earthquake may be a realignment to the acts and plans of man

aerosol cans, rain forest diminishing, the erosion of the soil and ground
when the rain eventually falls the lack of trees causes the mud to slide down
God gave us some power, many have called it free-will
mankind can use it for good or he can use it for ill-will
yet when many lives are lost and so many souls depart
why does anyone think to ask, was it an act of God?

air pollution, water pollution, the whole industrial age
has ravaged our planet and brought about Mother Nature's rage
we act before we think, we destroyed things that can't be replaced
maybe Mother Nature is trying to tell us to do an about face
tsunamis, monsoons and all types of major tidal waves
may be a wake-up call to how we have behaved

we need to come together and start making some major plans
stop raping our natural resources and start preserving God's land
so if anyone ever asks you, was it an act of God the Lord Christ?
just ask them for this planet, what has mankind sacrificed?
we are selfish in our deeds, self-absorbed in our needs
eventually we must bear the blame and we all will pay the price
just don't be so quick to place the burden of guilt on God the Lord Christ

Copyright © louise nelson | Year Posted 2007

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This Is Feminist Us

It's peaceful here in my backyard.
The crows sound happy
with warm October sunlight.

I just read about a deadly gathering in Las Vegas.
Absence of sun-drenched peace.
Inconvenient this time of lost loss.
Death is always inconvenient,
even when invited.

A veteran,
about my age,
this shooter.

I feel like it took more than one
to hold and fire this mental illness rifle.
In a sad and guilty complicit sense,
we have collectively achieved what we bought
and sold
and settled for.

This malformed soldier
is a remnant of what most believed we needed to create,
back in the 60s,
brainwashed into believing
we were protecting wives and kids, somehow
by killing Vietnamese husbands
and many times their wives
and napalmed children,

Not exactly breeding ground for growing healthy minds
and well-armed bodies.

I dimly and darkly recall
a much earlier disagreement
with the new commander of the U.S. Navy's
Officers Candidate School.
A first woman commandant,
something atrociously surprising to men-only militia violence,
similar to Medea 
planning an angry hostile life.

This earlier time also started peacefully alone,
but inside,
waiting to be called in to her office,
at the beginning of her second week
in her new exalted position
over new violence-empowered candidates.

I had just completed a gratuitous violence first week of abuse
and militarily precise neglect,
as ruthlessly systematic as racism,
in  frigid first week of January,
Rhode Island.
We were so close to the Atlantic
it felt like we  were in the ocean.

We had also been frigidly outside,
and hotly inside,
yelled at,
systematically starved,
force marched in gusty zero-degree 3 AM darkness
without coats or hats or gloves,
in fact I think we were in our boxers and Tshirts one night,
due to someone's sin of omission,
whether contrived on schedule
or spontaneously erupting
from pneumonia reduced and disabled minds,
I do not know.

The hardest part for me
was less than two hours sleep per night.
Industrially guaranteed to reduce oneself to crazy.

When I was first ushered in
for my early exit interview
by none other than her Military Medea Mightiness,
she took one look at miserably civilian dressed me
and asked why would I think it appropriate to disrespect her
by not bothering to show up in uniform.

I started to mention that I had never been issued one
when she told my keeper
that we needed to do an about face
and try again when I looked right.
Or at least as righter
as I might become.

So, he had to go out among my now-former classmates
to beg and borrow,
hopefully he didn't steal,
boots and belts and pants and shirt and hat.
Later that same long and tedious day
I was once again summoned
for a second shoot.

She wanted to know 
why I thought it was OK
to be the first to go
from this new class of officer candidates.
Did my recruiter not explain about this first hazing week?

Well no,
in fact I thought he told me hazing is illegal
in most States.
We develop soldiers;
we don't grow bullies.

I understand you didn't make a total *** of yourself.
So if you want to change your mind,
now that we turned the heat back on
and keep the lights off all night
and have turned the verbal abuse down a notch,
or maybe two,
I might be willing to listen
if you beg me nicely to stay here
with us in Navy Officer Paradise.

No thanks,
said I,
I'm already quite disgusted enough
by your shocking lack of even militarized intelligence
to see this as a navy not invested in preserving,
much less protecting,
real live humanity
hanging onto some semblance of sanity.

Oh but you see
this is not true.
Our rules of first week operationalization
are to save your sorry ***
as we all know,
teamwork builds through ego assassinations.

Well no,
your own recent research on these issues
lies at my fingertips.
Required reading for psych and communication majors,
attitude change and persuasion students
where I hail from in Michigan.

It is a clear and present common threat to survival
that most quickly grows cooperative trust and teamwork,
cooperative co-investments,
especially among those who have learned to trust and respect each other,
including for our recognized 
and understood and 
appreciated diversity
of talents.
and shared sufficient simplicity of sleep
and active co-listening for harmonic voices.
Or maybe that was just for choirs
and military orchestras.

Well this is fake news to me!
she exclaimed in her sternly patriotic face.

I believe you,
which is why
I want out
of this absence of healthy care
and any semblance of sanity,
disloyal to my family's investment,
my nation's rational self-governing future,
and anathema to Sacred Mother Earth.

Are you Native American,
asked she,
as if she couldn't care less or more.

No more or less than you
I would surmise.

It came as no surprise
when she eagerly accepted
my request to be relieved
of further dishonored service
and cast aside my various borrowed parts
because of ecopolitical leaders
confusing noble grace of unity
with bare-knuckled
frozen uniformity.

I wonder how the Green Beret shooter
in lost loss of Las Vegas
might have suffered from this same sad loss
of militarized teamwork disabilitization,
chronic and critical climates of constant stress.

When the enemy is down
and out of sight,
we cannot afford to have disaffected grunts
sit on angry-fearfilled butts
rethinking who is truly in my ego team's best interest
and whom we might agree to take out next,
because healthy mental care giving and receiving
has nothing to do with formation
of militarizing violence.

In this same way,
a Presidential God Bless You,
twittered to victims of our own militarizing violent formations,
feels so empty,
fake as the blesser
would do even lesser
mental health care and receiving
for all God's militarizing
and industrious We Win
So You Must Lose
soldier candidates in deformation,
but also neglected children
and trees,
and starlight
which could bring us together
in one mind of great thanksgiving.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

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I Dream of Sleep

I dream of sleep,
Though when it turns dark,
I try shutting my lids,
But they’re stuck in park.

I seek out the fridge,
Pour milk in a pot.
Then scream out in pain,
Because it’s too hot.

I plop in a funk,
And dream about dreaming,
Which is hard to do
So soon after screaming.

There must be a way
To keep my eyes closed,
For good, through the night,
And not just a doze.

Oh yes, that is it!
I startle myself.
There’s a magical pill
Way back on the shelf.

My feet take their steps,
By two at a time.
An hours flown by,
I don’t have much time.

I yank the door open,
Stand on my toe tips.
Behind the eye-drops,
Under the Q-tips.

Lies a dusty bottle 
For those who are tired.
But the date on the label,
Has long since expired.

I turn to the mirror,
My god what a hag.
There’s two bloodshot eyes
Half asleep in their bags.

Speaking of two,
A time so absurd.
My slipper just missed
The prompt cuckoo bird.

Oh sleep my old friend,
I start to pine.
Was that just a yawn,
Now THAT’S a good sign.

With an about-face,
I hurry ahead,
But tripped on my toe
Just short of the bed.

Oh lord why are you
Chastising me?
After righting myself
I saw it was three.

I lay on the mattress,
And there commenced,
To counting sheep,
But they stormed the fence.

There’s no need to panic
Just stay in position.
My muscles relax,
And start their twitching.

Yes finally
I start to snore,
But wake myself up
The clock displays four.

Could this be a dream,
Though I’m still awake?
I’m dreaming of sleep,
But sleep I don’t make.

Maybe I’m sleeping,
It’s a bona fide dream.
Oh what a relief
If you know what I mean.

So tranquil and peaceful,
Good to be alive.
I didn’t once quiver
When the clock struck 5.

My alarm goes to work,
And so does the rooster,
But noticed my feet 
Sported only one slipper.

My god, this can’t 
Be happening to me.
So I cried and cried
Myself to sleeeeeee…

Entered in Richard's Beginnings Matter contest.  I recall being afraid to post this, similar to merging onto a highway for the first time during driver's ed class...but for both, couldn't have been any happier that I took that step.

Copyright © David Fisher | Year Posted 2012

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Climate Health History

Sometimes, as individuals
and as a learning species,
we jump too quickly,
enthusiastically on empathic trust feelings of familiarity,
forgetting these may include both health with pathological tensions
residing within this intuitive moment,
this feeling of happiness toward potential true and good futures
yet I really do prefer to squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom-up,
more systematically.

like family,
and ethnic affiliations,
rarely leads to undiluted polypathic confluence,
nutritional flow of health into our shared truth as beauty futures;
something short of mindbody nirvana.

Our languaged history of cultural evolution
shows us that our paradigmatic models,
perform our exegetical functions as best they can
to understand as flawed-and-yet-sufficiently-functional
eisegetical theories.
Our competing exegetical models sometimes outlast their partially cast-aside as flawed eisegetical heuristic origins,
now set in exegeting tools of language
for building our past through future enculturing story,
in imagination,
in thought as trust-belief,
in empathic feelings of proportion and symmetry,
as active heuristic ecopolitical assumptions,
rooted in ecological RNA/DNA scripted Elders' familiar models,
embryonic healthy-regeneration fold/unfold gestalts.

History models,
creation narratives,
classic, familiar, exegeted and retold tales
tell an evolving and/or devolving regeneration story.
Theories bring language to ecological-analogically confluent v dissonant experience
of truth/beauty as mind/body,
eco-norm/poli-power partial truth as flawed beauty
of thought with concomitant feelings,
co-arising and nondual,
dipolar cultural functions
of Yang LeftBrain languaged,
and Yin RightBrain temporal-proportional wu wei balance;
Tipping EcoPolitical Points within BiCameral Systems Theory,
mutually mentoring internal symbiotic dialogue
about exegetical power trusts
and eisegetical empathic beauties,
like seeds learning to become deep ecology rooted and branching systems
for shading over-heated climates
and breathing over-carboned air.

Economic mental value-health as physical political incarnation power
presents a post-feminist nondual ecological enculturation  as investment model
of proportional truth,
exegetically RNA/DNA balanced
embryonic WinWin unfolding ecological within our wider bicameral lens
of eisegetical heuristic articulations,
discontinuous experience
with continuous flow of confluent identity memory
flowing in and through regenerations of blood-fueled time.

For me,
and I suspect for an entire Great Transitional Climate Health ReGeneration
revolving in our postmillennial spacetime,
flawed competing-for-survival models of cultural learning
as if natural BusinessAsUsual evolution,
interspersed with ectosymbiotic autonomic-enthymematic revolutions
of transformative ecosystemic cooperative network speculation,
will reverse,
evaporate within our ecologically cooperative network
WinWin Game-On
polypathic nurturing structures.

This suggests a healthier,
more balanced exegetical model of ecological evidence
supporting regeneratively evolutionary best practices
optimizing cooperative ecopolitical mindbody co-arising revolutions
will prevail as interior landscaped models
deeply rooting in cooperative-dominant exterior landscapes
speaking of shared EarthTribal interests
in consilient paradigmatic histories
remembering integral-dialectical synergetic biologically organic theories
of regenerative embryonic revolutions
with their subsequent slower-growth evolutions
as multicultural articulation
of RNA/DNA ecopolitical solidarity.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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TransRacial Family Wonderings

I wonder what makes you tick.

That quick shadow of a lopsided smile.
When you slap the wall as you step by.
Are these tics
that make you tick somehow?

I know what ticks you off.
Disrespecting your sacred right to become you.
Yet I doubt a Mercedes convertible
would actually respect your healthiest you.

I know what ticks me off about you.
Your relentless denial of anger
and fear
and sadness.
Your unwillingness to forgive yourself
for incarnating merely mortal human nature.

But, what about your unwillingness to forgive our human race
for racism?
With you born into enslaved heritage,
a long supply of victim roles,
every time anyone sees you,
frames you,
labels you,
historical entrapment of bodies,
by other human mindbodies
contextualizing cultural enslavement of victim-enslaved minds,
tics of anger and fear
deep politicized and economized
into creases of dark v. light exterior display.

Does this also tick me off about you?
Do I reasonably expect you,
or anyone,
to forgive an entire species of life
for an oppressive monoculturally supremacist history
of human racial enculturation?

I know what ticks you off about me,
My willingness to forgive myself
for my anthro-dominant tics,
habits of language and culture,
disformation of EarthTribal love
and healthy multicultural commitment,
economic solidarity of politically cooperative mutuality.

to forgive myself of anthro-dominant blindness
seems nondually inseparable
from forgiving us for the absurdity and hypocrisy of racism
and its anti-ecological conclusion of enslaving politically struggling life
by claiming economic ownership of Earth’s Natural/Spiritual Commons.

Ticking on,
rather than ticking off,
reconnects human nature within all EarthTribe RNA/DNA nature.
Distinctions of exterior mindbody polymorphic landscapes
retain polycultural healthfulness,
while our more universally monocultural interior DNA landscapes
of interdependent WinWin ReGeneration Stories
seem to unfold more importantly
more sanely
more rationally
more beautifully and truthfully,
about Golden Rule Solidarity
with political and economic power
to regenerate climatic racing health
with all EarthTribe’s uniting revolution.

What tics me off about me
is failure of multicultural curiosity,
absence of sufficient love
to optimize each relationship and each transaction’s cooperative opportunity
to resonate more deeply,
more ecologically,
more co-arising tribally,
co-habitors of Sun-fueled Earth’s richly diverse,
and much-beloved, community of health,
profoundly mutual regenerative enculturation,
deep listening mutuality of  trust-growing education,
Earth-functional in formation,
like evolution of heated organic composting networks
feeding time’s further love revolution.

All that said,
what I know too less about
is what ticks you on.
Probably the about face
of hypocrisy
and ignorance
and greed
and terror
and anthro-centrist racism
that tick you off.

Shadows of lopsided sad smiles.
Slapping walls as we push through.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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I don't know why Cliches are Bad

Every poet worth their sault
Every teacher and professor declare you will prove to be as dense as a London fog
Using clichés
But I think clichés make it clear as the nose on your face
That there are things as beautiful as the day is long
And as far as the eye can see
As many to enjoy as there are chins in a Chinese phone book
So my advice to young writers,
From time to time abandon the ship USS Proper Expression
Be above board
Do an about face
Make clear as a bell
That a rose by any other name does still smell as sweet
That absence still makes the heart grow founder
Airing dirty laundry is a no no
And if you must have an ace up your writer's sleeve
Let it be a cliché!

Copyright © Americo Petrocelli | Year Posted 2016

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I am homeward bound
Lusty thoughts, for the love I miss
It’s a surprise, I am coming ‘round
I’m expected two days beyond this
Being away, day after day, left a hole
Being away, hollowed my soul
I rush towards your embrace
Already I envision smile, upon your face
Desire I now attack
My heart, with I, on highway race
Your gleam of eye twinkles, inside this nights black

Years of unity, love’s solid, sound
Closer, skittish, nervousness
The home stretch, I’ve now found
I accelerate, craving caress
Home in sight, on I roll
With thoughts of my angel, asleep sole
With her in bed, only emptiness occupies my space
I will fill that void and hold her grace
Never again will our love lack
My minds quarrel and love erase
I arrive home, it’s silent, black

I climb the stairs, feet create no sound
As you sleep, your lips, I will kiss
A greater beauty walks not, on these grounds
Creak open the master door, sudden distress
A stranger lies, my loves heart, stole
Pain takes my mind, to the gallows pole
Stunned by the disgrace
Instant horror, rage, I cannot replace
A mans breath crawls my baby’s back
My love and my girl I debase
My world fades to black

My breath vanishes, my pain makes no sound
I beg for a why? This has come of my happiness
Pain in my chest, built a mound
I will avenge this
My eyes, my mind, my heart, are now coal
Two lives for taking become my goal
Three counting me, these lives come waste
No control, rage in haste
This grief will not retract
This sinister situation, I will level at face
All good, has gone black

My emotions, stresses, compound
Creation of plan, slick aggressiveness
I muffle my screams, my conscience drowned
Satan shows face, he wouldn’t miss this
I, no longer in control
Heed order from the devil
Quickly, I spin about face
My entry steps, I then retrace
A fetch of gasoline before I turn back
Fire shall consume their sleeping space
Delighting evils’ mind of black

She sleeps at peace, under satin sheets, negligée of lace
But peace is ’bout to be replaced
A match stick comes alive, with a crack
Gasoline tossed, upon your lips, in sleep you taste
Match tossed, flames dance and light the black

Copyright © Ryan Wegenast | Year Posted 2011

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Fundamentals Revisited

If it is a premise of fundamentalists,
whether Christian or Islamic or Devil Worshipers,
that Reason is bad, faith is good,
what could anyone reasonably say
that could not be unfaithful to good?

However, as I recall,
there is that oft-quoted Christian maxim
of Paul the Apostle:
faith without works is dead.
So there is good faith,
which works,
and bad faith,
which doesn't.

So, if reason is bad
and good faith is discerned through good works,
then good work could only be unreasonable.
Yet I so doubt that a Carpenter from Nazareth,
or anyone who is trying to build anything positive
with cooperative and healthy intent,
would consider good outcomes unreasonable.

Why isn't it more fundamental to believe that good faith produces good reason,
while bad faith leads to poor reason?
with poor, unredemptive outcomes,
ghettos of mystically terrified and terrifying despair
and anarchy of polarized distrusts leading toward more ballistically active hatreds.

Why would any messiah worth the title teach otherwise?
Why isn't this fundamental to Christianity?
Or, maybe it is but we have our language backward languaged.

Politically and economically cooperative and multiculturally inclusive Christians
are hard working good faith fundamental
Basic Messianic Christians.
And, the pseudo-fundamentalist more rabid Evangelicals
are exercising their radically unreasonable absence of good co-messianic faith,
while hypocritically pretending to be spiritual supremacists,
with a direct line to the jealously monotheistic YHWH of Abraham.

You know,
the one who heard the One Whose Name We Dare Not Speak
tell him to cut his son's throat,
then burn the body,
as a world-redemptive act, maybe,
or just a snack,
who knows really?

It amazes me about myself and those I love
that we have patiently tolerated this about face,
from "you will know them by their love"
to you will know them by their supremacist disdain for other religions and cultures,
and even the climate pathologies incumbent upon their own grandchildren,
their self-congratulatory antipathy for cooperative political and economic meta-beliefs,
and yet coincidental patriarchal condemnations of anything less than cooperative political and psychological and economic familial expectations,
their actively paranoid mistrust of other racial and language and most especially transgender characteristics,
all that Popery,
alien costumed identities and proclivities and wisdom truths of good faith 
co-arising integrative becoming.

If good faith without good regeneratively becoming works is radically dead,
then well-reasoned, healthy co-empathic trusting faith
is fundamental to Earth's multiculturing good faith systems,
like fertile seeds and eggs
growing into adult polypathic nature-spirits 
reaching out for multiculturally permacultural maturity
with better multiculturally enriching opportunities
with way less dominant monocultural risks 
of fundamentally hypocritical supremacists,
claiming to worship God
as something other then their own 
LeftBrain Dominant, 
EgoPolitical Image.

The fundamentals of co-redemptive love,
not jealous declamations of condemnation,
begin with co-operative creation,
co-arising EarthTribe's Fertile Earth Climate Rights 
of Procreative PolyPathic Freedoms 
of Global Landscape Justice 
for CoOperative Organic Networks of Peace.

Not so much Condemning Patriarchally-Dominant AngloGods 
expecting worship,
and more Nurturing Matriarchally-Nutritional Flow MultiCulturals
co-arising cooperative ecopolitical health and domestic security
as Wisdom with TransMillennial Beauty.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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The Hat - Part 2

Josh’s drinking days were long behind him.  The three beers he drank before ordering his meal; the two beers he drank during his meal; and, the two Bailey’s he consumed after his meal had taken their effect on the middle-aged man.  He talked incessantly to the bartenders, bothered the two young ladies who sat at the bar a few stools away and staggered back and forth to the men’s room a dozen times.

Finally, reluctantly, after many hours had passed, Josh paid his tab, leaving a generous, alcohol influenced tip and wobbled out the door.  Not sure which direction to go to return to his hotel, Josh simply started off down the street, still thinking about his wife.

How much time passed is unclear, but he was many blocks away when he suddenly realized he was not wearing his fedora.  Josh did an about-face and tried to retrace his steps to the bar and bar stool where he knew his hit sat waiting for him.  Josh walked into and out of a number of bars he mistook for the one he dined in.  Although he was fooled by the outside facades, once he stepped in, he knew it was the wrong bar.  

When Josh finally stumbled upon the bar that he recognized as the one he had dined in, it was closed and the doors were locked.  It was 3:00 am.

Tears came to Josh’s eyes.  Josh felt as if losing the hat his wife had given him was a harbinger of the end and he was not ready to reach that point.  Josh simply had to retrieve that hat.  He had to get his wife back.  Somewhere, deep down in his drunken soul, Josh mustered up the strength to lift the city trash can from the corner of the street and smash it through the large glass window in front of the bar – he was oblivious to the alarms that started blaring.

Josh managed to crawl into the bar through the broken window unaware of the glass shards cutting his wrists, stomach and throat.  The moister from the blood simply mixed with the moister from his sweat.  The numbness and anesthetic nature of the abundance of alcohol he was not used to masked the extent of his injuries.

When the police arrived on the scene, Josh was found in the darkness, clutching his fedora at the foot of the stool where he had eaten his dinner.

Josh’s wife received the phone call later that morning announcing his passing.

He was buried with the fedora.

Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2012

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Bloom in the Winter Snow

A snowflake falls, as if winter’s lace,
On each little pansy’s laughing face.
While other flowers have long since died,
All thru the winter they stand with grace.

And when blizzard winds begin to race,
They will not be driven from their place.
For throughout the cold they will abide,
And bloom in the winter snow.

A life full of cold cannot erase
Your soul full of joy, as if a vase
 You can survive, and a smile can’t hide,
If you let love be your only guide.
Sorrow ‘n pain will turn about-face,
And bloom in the winter snow.

Copyright © Betty Janko | Year Posted 2016

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About Face

I lurk in the shadow of band with words worthy of the pianist's hands. My nature speaks, not rings in tones. Sadly my lady's words rain dour doubts building wall's of stone; let the music of voice reign! pleasure rain! Chip the stone pebble by pebble and remember your name, it has never changed though life's outcome shall by not embracing the day. Love me as I love you and we will be love true. Remember your mother's music, for it is the womb's tune that guides you through and through. Do those young eyes forget their right to stare without regret at revelation of a soul bared? My world harnesses lust, truth, love, desire, these attributes I long to share. Befuddled? Yes, I can be. It's nature not the choice of me. Even thoughts forgot wander wondering at how it can be, pride over perjury? Shame takes precedence  sadly through time, preceding all I believed to be mine. Defeat? No... I don't think, though, I cannot deny slight retreat. Where are the lies built on emotion? Those protective cries that hold dominion over forward motion? As always, truth stands in solitude as the only word as brave as love. When truth possesses love and selflessness! Can it actually be as it appears after all the year's of the damned favoring me? In closing it seems I'm fending the fears that taught my years the wizardry of all that I have seen.

Copyright © Ryan Wegenast | Year Posted 2013

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I Will Cry at My Wedding

I Will Cry At My Wedding By Rick Rucker Those tears will be very real, They will reflect the way I feel, To have found this lovely Wife, Especially this late in Life, This gorgeous woman who is never boring, Always sends my Heart a-soaring, To astonishingly new heights, With her Womanly delights, After having availed myself of her charms, We fall asleep, in each other’s arms, I do not know how I earned, The about face that my Life has turned, I probably should not question why, That I am the World’s luckiest guy, Still, she is so fine, I hope to make her happy to be mine, To live happily ever after, Our lives, full of Love and Laughter!

Copyright © Rick Rucker | Year Posted 2011

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Radio Romance

Radio romance ridicules soul, 
soldiers beat is the only motion I know. 
The power of pride I will always show, 
never shall I hide the glorious glow. 

Radio romance advances swiftly, 
razor eyes rumble the ground before thee, 
trembling knees gain strength and rigidity, 
supporting the weight of all that is me.

Radio romance spits fulsome flattery, 
sadly believed are these words entrusted through doubt. 
Loves lies swipe neat, 
about face choked cries.
Radio romance takes a seat, beat

Copyright © Ryan Wegenast | Year Posted 2011

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9/11 Wasn't Heaven

9/11 Wasn't Heaven. Take it from one who was there.
Corpses, body parts, impaled bodies were most of what  I saw there.
9/11 Wasn't Heaven but not because of the horror I saw.
On 9/11 I learned to hate. I never felt hatred before.
We were all instructed to bring to a certain section anything that may contain DNA.
A hair brush, make up kit, anything that may identify the forever lost in this grave.
I spent most of my time on what was known as "The bucket brigade,"
an assembly line of us passing buckets of debris with hope of saving they who were buried.
Every now and then something caught my eye. 
New visions of horror never thought could be seen by I.
Someone with a heavy push broom pushing debris
and then that someone stops suddenly
and picks up what appears to me
a piece of carpet very carefully.
After my closer inspection however of checking the carpet out
I then came to realize, it wasn't a piece of carpet. What it was was someones scalp.
The buckets kept coming, never stopping, never ending
but still out of the corner of my eye kept drawing my attention.
Like a zombie I broke away from the bucket brigade
I think I was beginning to feel afraid
of what it would be
that was drawing me 
and coming with every step much closer to me.
I bent over and picked up a mangled Barbi doll.
"Are you going to come across the corpse of a child?
This doll may have some DNA 
of some poor child lost in all this decay."
With those thoughts I made an about face
and made a B line to the DNA place,
I deposited the doll
and then ran off like a frightened child.
I Had To Get Out Of This Place!
I no sooner got home 
when guilt hit me like a thrown stone.
While showering all of the days grime off of me
I broke down in the shower and cried like a baby hysterically.
"How could you be such a coward? How could you run off on all of them?
How could you abandon all of they who aren't dead and still living?
How could you be such a coward? How could you run and hide?"
I've learned since then that I wasn't a coward. I was traumatized,
but sadly to this day 
the only way 
I live with myself for running away
is because it wouldn't have mattered anyway. 
My presence wouldn't have made a difference. No One Survived.

Copyright © Billy TheKidster | Year Posted 2010

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the mall cop

a man comfortably stretched out on the bench
watches his little daughter run around,
looking out for sketchy folks,
while at the same time talking to her---
she giggles, continuing to want him to see
what she’s doing---
“look at me, daddy---look!” she cries out happily &
the whole while, a mall cop
(dressed to the hilt of irrelevant authority
complete with his black stetson,
a walkie-talkie &
a pad of paper to write down his little nothings on)
watches the father,
as he watches out for his daughter.  

approaching the father with his back straight,
trying to stand as tall as possible,
adjusting his belt so that his gut doesn’t pop out,
he stops a few feet from him,
asking him directly just what he thinks he is doing,
letting his daughter run around in such a manner---
the father looks up, not believing what he is hearing---
“just go away…seriously, just go away,” the father told him.

the mall cop pulls out his little pad in one hand, holding the
walkie-talkie in the other---
“sir, if you do not take control of your daughter, there may be
consequences,” the mall cop foolishly continues.

the father gets up & approaches the cop,
in reality, much taller & larger than he had seemed stretched out on the bench---
while looking down at the mall cop, he doesn’t miss where his daughter is for a
“tell me how to take care of my child again---go ahead, i dare you,”
demands the father to the mall cop.

clearing his throat while simultaneously moving a few steps backwards,
the cop folds his little pad back up & hooks his walkie-talkie back to his belt---
“very good sir,” he mutters, does an about-face in the other direction &
meanders off.

Copyright © andrew delapruch | Year Posted 2012

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Many Worlds Surround Us

My soul is in a bad way 
    Different worlds are calling me 
and pulling me in 
   different directions 
What path to choose? 
Can I continue in the 
   same direction? 
Or should I make 
   an about face? 
Only I know the answer to that 
 Deep within
I will find it 
    after they scrape away the mold 
and barnacles from my soul 
   Eventually, I will soar like an eagle 
   And look down with pity 
on those stuck on the ground 
I will feel the joy of freedom 
    As it wraps its powerful arms around me 
One day in the not - too - distant future

Copyright © Matthew Anish | Year Posted 2013

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If you pull a long face
Just because you had a bad day
That’s alright you won’t lose face
Everyone’s beset some hapless day

If you pull a long face
Day by day come what may
Better know it’s really out-of-place
To pull a long face in every way

Yet if you pull a long face
All your livelong dark day
You had better make an about-face
Or you’d end up in a fray

If you pull a long face
‘Cause none with you will play
Then you have lost your birth-place
You’ll not save face even if you pray

So if you pull a long face
No matter what or who comes your way
Give a damn who looks you in the face
Then you’re made of sterner stuff, not clay

(c) T. Wignesan - Paris,  2017

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017

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Vanquishing Fear

Vanquishing Fear
Odin Roark

Her unwritten diary
Read of descriptions
glittering private
Her hourglass of
Where forever truly
destined forever

Her beauty made
artists shy
Their palettes’
ablaze with
unfettered colors 
Her trail of
fragrance brought
flowers about face
Her presence in
crowds like a warm
tropical breeze

Suitors rifled their
pockets of tricks
Bent on conquest of
the untamable
For beneath her
silk-like curls
Dwelled the
The enigmatic
Protecting the lost
Never to be found
Lips not yet ready
to part

So grew the nymphet
of patience
Often confining
herself to shoreline
Where shamans
fathoms deep
Shared sonnets of
From sea shells to
auricle passage 
Personal imaginings
to echoing without

And then…

A man did appear
Heretofore merely
another serial lover
Leaving traceable
Evidence for
He did exist 

Her first glance
fostered nightmares
Burning fear of
losing that
Which she knew not
So virginal her

Yet rarities do

Pen and paper gave
To offspring of word
and symbol
The poetry of two
reflected many
Where shamans and
sea shells
Imprints and
Poetry’s family tree
of shared resonances
Became transcendence

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2013