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Best Cessation Poems | Poetry

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Time and Space

Time and space in deadlock
Time unlike the progression of a clock
Time dependent on interpretation
A linear cessation
Space dependent on mass
Triangulation through impasse
Portals of acquisition
An inner self expedition
From a place in time
No origin or termination of the prime
To an interval in space
Where cosmos and time interlace
Affirmation of existential quantification
Often lost with one’s interpretation 
Particles floating upon a solar wind
From and to infinity without an end
Matter casting shadows in time’s void
A whirlpool generating ripples outwardly deployed

Copyright © Deborah Kelley | Year Posted 2015

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The Mask of Alabaster

Once the night had fallen upon a sleepless slumber,
Whence the winter woke me when the third was three in number.

I sense that a wince doth lurk and wear which wicked gaze,
Of conniving shadows cast between my bedroom windowpanes.

I try to sit up from the fluff of foul feathered pillows of goose,
Yet they hold me down as if they'd grown on my neck to form a noose.

Shadows are simple reverse reflections of what's been left behind
A thing when sight can see what light has yet to hit the mind.

They pirouette as silhouettes upon my wall and in my eyes,
In which I sense with worry why I'm frozen and feeling tied.

As I'm laying locked in horror I look through the window’s diaphanous glass, 
And see that in a tree there floats a fluorescent face in a mist of brass.

It floats aloft the frost of the frigid Winter floor, 
Stirring cirrus shadow limbs of the moonlit sycamore.

An incandescent twilight cloak, illumes the timber's lattice, 
Where shines this cryptic spectral glow akin the ignis fatuus.

Abrupt by insanity as I fancy this fantasy, surely born by a brief hallucination; 
Optic inventions craft in confusion surely conjured such nonce observation.

A peculiar perched mask seems to hang disguised within the wintry thicket, 
“An illusion,” I suspect “my percipience deceived, by a dubious false exhibit.”

Two holes are dug beneath rubbed bone, bleached white in wan complexion, 
Masquerading to mock the missing paired two eyes of aesthetic perfection.

“Indeed,” I thought, “These staring beams appear as do a pair of eyes,” 
I try and descry the light from which they shine under a gleaming guise.

Purloined I’m poised in a lucid melt, tasting a poisonous pure oppression, 
Wrought by this face that haunts my view through the lens of my fenestration.

Shifting my view to find fault in my faculty,
I sought salvage in sight of such psychic insanity.

My fidgeting efforts prove futile, the carven masked eyes fix upon mine still! 
Incessantly I’m stunned in speculum, boiling in a benumbing brisk of thrill.

Alas, my eyesight: no longer the sole sense of this deville, 
What once was mere vision hails now my ears with a trill.

My breath and pulse waxing slower, and waning ever faster, 
Aghast by celestial sounds from a susurrating mask of plaster.

Whence from my vision avowed, to the vacillations I succumb, 
Of undulations the mask strums, moving inside my eardrums.

Who brings to me this apparition, arisen from perhaps an adumbration,
Of a visit from he whose grim reaping, lends to the living certain cessation?

And then in reminiscence, to my mind arrived the anamnesis,
Of the shelf that shelters a book one might otherwise dismiss.

Within its parchment pages, whence in refuge resides a clue, 
To what this mask is made of; when, where, and why; by who?

Pins prick from prior paralysis, upon my dermis disguise of bone,
I shiver and grab the book and beg, bound reason to me be shone.

Within this covered lexicon read acrylic words in arcane diction, 
Which most readers would anthologize, as ancient artifact and fiction.

The first supposition tis true, that this book was bound in the archaic ages, 
Amiss the latter assumption that fable unfolds by the turning of its pages.

In my desperation I stir commotion, reading over every turned folio, 
Longing for light in yonder window break, as did Shakespeare’s Romeo.

Yet each passage read of occult sorcery, or a variety of mages, 
No line of a white mask, appeared to me on any of these pages.

All hope seemed to escape with passing page, turned by my flustered fingers, 
Then a sudden zephyr blown ingress to the page on which now I linger.

On the bottom right reads in numeral: “Nine-hundred and ninety-nine,” 
On which reads the magical recounted chronicle of myth upon its line.

The fluorescence of the pallid mask that posts upon the tree, 
Shares the ashen-sheen on a face seen afore, on this page by me.

An oblong oil-painted portrait, white and blush of reddish-pink, 
Its caption reads: “The Mask of Alabaster,” inscribed in faded ink.

To the left of the ghostly image reads a paragraph like a spell, 
A warning of dark wizardry, which concocts white masks in hell:

"Animated by a wizard whose avarice bears blithe the thaumaturgy, 
To forge a warlock’s soul inside a gypsum stone, 
This augury and the legerdemain required of such magical metallurgy,
Siphons a sapphire from the fire inside his pelvic bone.

His soul is trapped in a putrid shell: his very own decapitate skull,
On which will gleam a glowing garnet, glimmering gold and scarlet,
His eyes shall cry with weeping, sunken, hollow two eyeholes
Luring any victim to view the red of this lustrous target."

Such dread and morbidity of a lost soul; ‘tis most tragic, 
When trapped in a mask made by evil mischievous magic.

What malice must succeed from such a tumorous terror? 
And what reconnaissance be sought by its hidden wearer?

Returning my gaze to the wraith in the window,
I remember that it has my mind muddled in limbo.

This mask of cadaverous complexion, 
To my horror, mine own reflection.

Copyright © Brendan J. Simons | Year Posted 2017

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Cessation the love
Household has been scattered
When love lost

Humming in the community
Malicious gossip in the society
Disorder in the society
Degrading the society
Society has been scattered
When love lost

Humming in the state
Malevolent rumour in the state
As the day chameleon to night
Insomnia in state
Peace elude state
State has been scattered
When love lost

Mystery to nation
When    love    lost

Oh! It is a dream
Why do we stop loving
While love exist
Love is above all existent

Copyright © Afolabi Muideen | Year Posted 2015

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Mercury Man

On the road to cessation,
I discovered tiny tears,
The kind most accompanied
By legions of saviors
(albeit rented for just a few hours)

Undeterred, my race resumed;
Candles lighting my path
Through the forest, avoiding
Sparks that often ignite lies,
A vain attempt to retrace tracks
Of my runaway memory, drowning
Me in delusions of laughter, gripping
Tightly to descending cries of lost
Hearbeats, the sound green makes,
Each tear a field of poppies, as far as
My eyes can see; behold
Jupiter ascending, under the watchful
Eyes of Pisces,

Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2016

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The cessation
and alleviation
of the causation
of irritation 
is the clarification
of information
or the realization
the situation
in contemplation
is a manifestation
without liberation
except termination
of your fixation.

I wrote this in 2003 and it was the first of it's kind known at the time.

Copyright © Terry L. Allen | Year Posted 2012

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Is death the end to our suffering 
Or the cessation of our existence?
Is death a new journey for our soul? 
Or is death our final eternal punishment?
Or do our souls get to rest peacefully
After a life of trials and tribulations?
Should we cry or rejoice when
Death stares us in the face?
What is death to us?
An end to our sorrow
To our pain 
To our physical imperfections
To our illnesses
To the sins that torment us
Should we fear this unknown phenomena?
Or should we embrace it?
Maybe in death we find the truth
That escaped us during our lives.
Maybe in death we can finally find freedom
To roam in a mystic realm of our own creation

Copyright © Courtney Dyer | Year Posted 2007

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Beloved I hold

Ever since I first held you, 
I haven't let you go, 

Your love delicate, potent 
this smile I wear emulates 
your love mirrored within 

you move me, 
my spirit influenced 
cessation worthy 
held securely 

Each day our love begins our journey 
together we strive new heights 
momentum enshrine 
with our love blessed 
life delights 

Life delights time

Copyright © Eileen R. Kelly | Year Posted 2007

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Love Always, Your Grandson

His limbs misplaced.
His presence weak.
His actions laced.
His sweat reeks.

Inevitably trapped.
Careless existence.
Leaking, dabbed.
Inherent resistance.


Delayed Exit.
Troubling loves.
Features placid.
Destination above.

His inside crumble.
Just within reach.
His outside humbled.
Welcoming immortal sleep.

Dear Grandpa,
I bid you farewell.
You’ve been strong, I saw!
Its been intolerable, I can tell.
You have been missed in our hearts.
Still learning the lessons you teach.
Our love will hold and never part.
Your spirit always near, always within reach.

17th April 2015

Copyright © Fariq Yusoff | Year Posted 2015

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Here’s a thought I had today
(And really, it’s inspired):
It’s possible to be exhausted
When you are retired.

For if, in your retirement,
Some interests you’ve acquired,
You may be far too busy
For the sleep that you’ve required.

So if a work cessation is
A goal that you’ve desired,
Accept the fact that you will be 
Both “re” and “re”-less tired.

Copyright © ilene bauer | Year Posted 2014

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The desperate smugness of a recent convert

We've all seen it
their cloying intensity
to the new cause:
tobacco cessation,
gluten-free digestion,
mindful rumination,
deep cleanse elimination,
erotic poetry,
for the lucky
erotic reality,
alcohol abstinence,
Yahweh's deliverance.
And we can only
smile and nod
this too will pass.

Copyright © D.W. Rodgers | Year Posted 2014

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Ode to Literature

‘Tis a wondrous bit of structure,
 Literature is indeed
And from this, an insightful glimpse of culture 
Truly marvelous to read
Lest we negate such writings, these we overlook 
Nay, treasure these works of fine penmanship 
These that have been structured by true finesse
 Every page of every book
Is truly something of craftsmanship 
Certainly more, but never less

Oh literature, how you’ve stood the test of time
And many trials you have faced
You have no preference, be it free verse or rhyme
 Every work is something of beauty, and not merely haste
 Ay, ‘tis exquisite writing I do sincerely cherish
Writing that shall never decay
For mankind is bound to cessation, this, not known to writing 
Man will see finality, but ideas shall never perish
Truly, a notion to live by each day
Words that are surely inciting

Language lends inspiration to the mind
This we transfer to paper by pen
Such moving words one labors to find
And this process, we repeat again
But what is in literature that which we seek?
Is it the sophisticated nature of such diction,
That of probable bombast?
Truly we have intentions both mild and meek
For such articulated words are surely not that of dereliction 
Thus we discover a divine afflatus from edifying writings of the past

Copyright © Andrew Yates | Year Posted 2014

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So Let it Be

All things must end; it’s plain to see
And death will come in time for me
Cessation of my  misery
And every kind of cruelly
So let it be
          So let it be

With wings I’ll fly from pain set free
To soar above each flower, each tree
Content in this, my destiny
So let it be
          So let it be

No longer will escape the plea
“God bring to end my agony
For you know my despondency
So, Let it be
          So, let it be"

No longer will I have to flee
from yoke of mediocrity 
I’ll be a blessed nonentity
So, let it be
          So, let it be

Eileen Manassian

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2016

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I Am Bored With Boors

I looked up the word 'boor' in my Funk n' Wagnalls to verify the truth.
I found that, "A 'boor' is one who's ill-bred, crude and somewhat uncouth!"
I find boors obnoxious and inconsiderate jerks when they flaunt their gall!
Their disgusting, rude and churlish behavior nearly drives me up the wall!

I detest loud-mouthed youths (and adults) who I suppose vie for attention.
Their total lack of respect for anything is beyond my comprehension!
Their public display of putrid language is offensive to others' ears.
Free speech is fine but public vulgarity could be reined in, it appears!

My eyes glaze over when gasbags bore me with trivial conversation,
And don't get to the point and babble on and on without cessation!
In a fine cafe why don't boors stifle cell phones and let people dine in peace!
Their chattering is akin to a pair of magpies or a skein of honking geese!

Teenage boors practically make love in malls that is offensive to many others.
Aren't kiddies today taught be a bit more discreet by their pops and mothers?
They tote their boom boxes with 'music' blaring throughout the 'hood.
I'd like to tell them where they can shove those things if I legally could!

I loathe smart aleck boors who tailgate and impair my driving vision.
Don't they know this lack of common sense is apt to cause a collision?
I reckon I'd better wind this down and not bore with further dissertation,
But no doubt by now with boorish boors you can sense my frustration!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved

Placed No. 5 in Linda's "I'm Bored With_____" Contest - May 2011

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2011

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Never ending pain

Who cares?
Body trembles
slaughtering war
Innocent pays the price
Corpse lying without lives
Unpleasant sound vibrates the ground
So called brave men feeling no sense of guilt
Will war resolve underlying issue?

Only the will power of negotiation
There might be some hopes for cessation
Rivers of blood without regrets
Christian, Jew and muslim, peace
Expand it to Palestine
No derive from life
Stop destruction
Call for peace

Kelleyana Junique

Double Etheree: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10, 9, 8, 7, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. 

Copyright © kelleyana junique | Year Posted 2011

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The train to the Paradise

On the death bed for cessation, a platform free from brawl, 
I perceive in peace my debilitating breath.
And give off a brief one as I hear my call,
The one from the train to the paradise.

My soul boards it on, waving a good-bye to my body and kins.
The journey commences, the patrons graciously welcome me with smiles.
I gladly accept the offered window seat to witness the realm free from sins,
Inhaling the pristine air of contentment.

Breaching the clouds, up above the sky we go,
The chirping of birds, the whistle of the engine a merry music to our ears.
The spruce of blossoms of all the shades that we know,
A pleasant company all along the path.

The track so well embellished with assorted vines.
The aroma of satiation by the sight of mighty green grooves,
The breathtaking millisecond vision sends shivers down our spines,
Of the fiery magnificent flight of the phoenix.

Revelation of the antiquities, is more a shocking miracle than delight.
The Unicorn's excursion although contradicts it being mystique.
Is crystal clear to our eyes, to our intellects with dynamic energy we are forced to fight.
Such is the greatness of the train journey.

The train ceases and the Train-master affirms the journey concludes at the moment.
My face dims down, I wish it would go on forever.
My most awaited end I've reached, but a great transition is encountered by my temperament. 
Once, only for once again,
I want to travel in 'The train to the Paradise'.

Copyright © Nishant Patil | Year Posted 2015

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you get to be comforted immediately as the message is delivered that a person is no more for the cessation has taken place, you get to stay with people and they makes the pain go away for you know that they care and they are with you in this dark shade that has showered over you, you get to forget about the shadow and dimness, you get to lough and feel free and thinks that the obscuration is no more.

During preparation your mind becomes unrealistic, everything happens fast and your mind keeps on cheering yourself by thinking maybe it’s a lie, maybe It’s not happening, the pain you experience is in-imaginable and it wipe all the happiness, you become stressed and distracted n your mind, you get to worry about your loss, the cost of the funeral and your life on wards.

There comes the day where you get to see the body of your love one lying in the coffin looking helpless, where your heart drifts into more sorrow, where your eyes becomes wet with uncontrollable warm and painful water, where the pain cuts through your heart like an arrow and you wonder to GOD if why did this happen, you become overwhelmed with confusion and depression, life seem worthless, hopeless and unfair.

You get to watch the coffin going down slowly to the grave, your soul becomes trembled, your spirits cries to GOD for comfort, your heart become locked in miserable and your mind become filled with dullness,…you get comforted by people who are around you, you start longing that they would stay forever with you for their presence makes you forget the pain, but the reality always stands still the challenge is yours so you got to stand alone in the battle and face it.

Day after the funeral everything seems hopeless, the future becomes vanished, faith diminishes and love disappears, you wish not to exist at all for the pain you get to experience seem beyond measure but then GOD never gives anyone a burden that is over his or her powers, you’ve got to be strong and endure patience for after drought there is always something zealous and ecstatic, life will never be only be covered with sorrow there are joyful moments also and one got to remain positive and be thankful to GOD with whatever he bringz into, for GOD has trusted you enough with the situation that HE brought you in your life, either its shines up your smile or brings tears into your eyes but it has a devine purpose behind….GOD IS A HURRICANE LAMP in your feelings

Copyright © Nasiphi Siyolo | Year Posted 2016

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Like trees extending and rising,
there's a sameness in our being...
to grow under a nurturing sun
'till we reach our end and begone!

If existence is an illusion of reality,
less thought is given to mortality;
and engaging in song and dance,
who expects fate to pull a prank? 

As clouds appear to cover cerulean spaces,
rain is anticipated: our first reaction is fret, 
and by freezing smiles, we expect the worst;
why be afraid of something that amazes?   

There's no cessation to relentless fear, 
and so denial persists to block senses;
what's the true purpose of being here:
to exult ourselves and our ambiance? 

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2014

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M ighty forces of concentration 
R eading the minds of those who
S uccumb, breathing realms of perplexity
N egative, positive their difference and sum
I s it only I in contemplation? 
S quare-rooted mysteries and more to come 
R eady to confront word-“problems”
E ager, I sometimes feel so dumb
E ndless solving of no cessation, yet with you
N othing but a piece of Pi….yum! 

                                         Ode to a great teacher

Copyright © farah chamma | Year Posted 2009

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My birth remark reads:
                                     You tramped for a season
                                          With a puffy trunk
                                      Along dangerous paths—
                              Waded on puddles and quagmire,
                                    Scuffed your flat feet and 
                          Trampled it on serpents and scorpions
                                 To bid my glorious existence…

I lost my balance
When I felt your expiration from my pubis.
I staggered in pain
Like a fowl stripped off by fierce breeze.

                                                    My physique—
Which a thousand-and-one-princesses adore—
                                                       Is distorted.
The trunk you both carry—
Through rocky hills and sloppy mountains—
Is now an elephantine for the other leg.

Oh! Your cessation is at break of dawn
      You danced to the tune that glooms souls
           You are bereft of ambling
                 On such and such burg…
                        You hurried for the Golden City.

The scorch sun and mild moon cloy
You take pleasure in the one-off of quietus…

With streams of briny water
Rolling down my cheek,
I watched you wriggling helplessly to and fro—
After being ricocheted on Death's spindly pole:
Death clasped your brawny brittle bones.
You swell, swelter, near bursting,
Impatient for suppuration in your crimson attire.

                            You scoot the living abode
                          On mutilated soles and toes;
                                                                                 My precious leg!
                                                                         In your gracefulness,
                                                                   I created beautiful traits.
                                                 I'm left limping as you're supplanted
                                       By quasi-legs and crutches.
Will you ever return?
Even in posterity…   

                                       Dad! Why? Another crutch?
                                            Both legs amputated
                                 You couldn't stay; you loved mum.
Your Love, Angel Simon.
On Christ The Solid Rock I Stand...*tears*

Copyright © Ajayi Angel-Simon | Year Posted 2012

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The interrogation threatens to shudder like an earthquake
A long index of accusations spread out among the atmosphere like a blazing forest fire
Satisfaction, the officer and venomous umbrage, the criminal
Self-appreciation, the quiescent defense attorney with no right to be there
Misery, the boisterous dauntless prosecutor
The months of the annual calendar, the jury
Pain, the almighty judge
It’s a court case already divested from the defendant
Why should it not
Bother, why bother
Its past the millionth time in 216 divided by the jury
Satisfaction has seen countless rewards of capturing umbrage
Satisfaction has felt the boundless benevolence of glory
And foaming at the mouth, glowering with muffled respected fury
Sits umbrage, staring out blurred vision
Victimized in his own apperception
What’s the cost, the damage total; what has befell, befell reality
The anathema of fate or rather the favored affliction of fortune’s fool
Within a realm of possibility it may perceive to be both
A pebble laced with a thread thrown into grass only miles away
To be reeled right back in like a helpless fish on a line
The audacity, the audacity; oh just hush
Silence is golden and this silence is benevolent
Joy was once prevalent in the company of such disgrace umbrage reigned
Together they were serenity, a mixed graceful period of harmony
Such a song sung by dual owls in the presence of the lightened darkness of night
(sigh) …I can’t do this anymore
Make a world, create a story peacefully
Creating a plot circulating, tip-toeing around the issues placing bait in front of my eyes for me to take
What is wrong with me, my life
One word, a sharp enough blade to stab in the ankle to slaughter Achilles 
In this case, me
The poet’s banishment, scourge creating a series of nine lashes
Still runs deep, refuses cessation
Proceeds to feed on every ounce of merriment to permeate through the cracks 
Melancholy has produced to invade back in
What’s the cause this time for it to attack
A few simple words, reflection, swift defiance
the bruises upon the right appendage whispering, begging for more scars
FOR WHAT? ! ? ! ? ! ? ! 
Forget it….it’s nothing
Satisfaction has pardoned me, set me free
Umbrage, my twin has taken over me
To another bridge, we sit and sulk over a failed attempt at flight
Cause we willingly defy the right to say goodnight

Copyright © Crow thepoet | Year Posted 2016

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Playing with Fire

Creation and destruction
Seeing the animation,
Intimidating cessation
Mankind’s foundation
Youthful fascination
Delivers elation and sedation
Yes even fixation
Even deep temptation
Sometimes cremation
Depending on location

Copyright © cecil hickman | Year Posted 2013

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Flying Tourist Class in Seat 34B

With my usual paucity of luck I was assigned to seat 34B.
I wanted to be left in peace but as you see, 'twas not to be.
The urchin sittin' behind me pitched a screamin' fit!
He kicked the back of my seat and his mom cared not a whit!
I got so angry that I could have thrown rocks at a hearse,
But as time flew on (so to speak) things got even worse.
The little old lady on my left babbled about her back operation.
The sot on my right snored in my ear without cessation.
He had bladder problems that caused him to climb over me,
To relieve himself of used beer in the restroom constantly!
The guy in front of me adjusted his seat creatin' a very small gap,
And in doin' so spilled my coffee from the tray all over my lap!
Sporadically, an inconsiderate, ill-bred jerk released odious gas.
I think next time I'll spend a few more bucks and travel first-class!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2016

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All this while things will be better
That is what we heard from our forefathers
Exactly from our elders
In our turn, the same thing on the button
When will we stop this affliction?
Africa cessation power from the
White to have full control of their country
Everyday Billions of money is going out
We only heard of it
Without know it payback
Our companies die down of token amount
Our schools is shack
Lantern to light
Our roads is down at heel
We own fuel yet we are still
Suffering for it
Poverty rampant the country
Derelict house is unaccountable as well as vagrant
Everyday they are receiving medals for serving their country
With all their might
Yet it is lie upon lie
They are riding exotic cars and living in mansion
They are using the interest of all as their own gain
When will you stop putting your people in dangers?
Very soon you will fall, you that are
Taint to our nation
The sea of true is as high as mountain
No matter how fast your lie can run


Copyright © Afolabi Muideen | Year Posted 2015

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Hope Of Renewal

As the last rose petal falls swiftly down
The last of the great roses of summer
What a great summer that was lived_you known
Rose had much character an affirmer

Fall approaches with sure desolation
Only bare branches with prickly thorns left
Mocking Bird nest with nesting cessation
Protected by the Rose as in a  cleft

Used up_bare waiting for winter's cold breath
Not knowing what this winter chill will bring
As the petals flood onto the ground_death
Hope awaits but winter comes with its sting

Will the sap rise again coursing through vine
Revitalization __ one  bud sure sign

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2010

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Breath Control

Control of breathing is quite complex
And if you really check the specs
You find all kinds of balances and checks

Within the medulla, cells playing their role
The DRG, inspirational control
Using cyclic neurons for their goal.

Actions potentials from the DRG
These cells are cyclic and fire intermittently.
Then muscle contract to the best of their ability.

To the external intercostals and diaphragm they talk
And these muscles, at the neurons’ stalk
Follow orders and they do not balk.

And when they stop, the muscles relax.
Air is forced out as muscle slacks.
Volume decreases and Boyle’s Law acts.

So breathing in costs ATP
That means the use of energy
But calm expiration? It’s just free.

But when you need to force air out
Or at something, really shout
The VRG is what it’s all about.

It talks to abdominal muscles as well
As internal intercostals to make pressure swell
And air in the lungs can no longer dwell.

The Apneustic center in the pons is a source
Of a center dealing with force
Of an inspiration’s course.

The pneumotaxic center deals with duration
And both centers talk to each medullary station
And help regulate breathing condition.

The limbic system has some sway
In breathing fast or slow at bay
More than most realize, an important say.

And the hypothalamus, always of import
With its influence never falls short
In aiding ventilation, it lends its support.

For other than limbic, it deals with fever
When it tips the temperature lever
And makes ventilation a greater achiever.

Lastly there’s the cortex of the brain,
Whose job most think, is always to reign.
But when it comes to breathing, it is quite plain.

You can’t stop breathing by your will.
The lower centers always still
Make breathing a reflex, cortex input almost nil.

And just what drives this reflex to ventilate?
From where does the need originate?
From the chemoreceptors, it does emanate.

Receptors monitoring proton concentration.
Then messages sent without cessation
To the brainstem for increasing ventilation.

And hydrogen ions, where are they from?
Carbon dioxide and water, voila, they come.
The magic formula, carbonic acid does succumb.

Copyright © LR Waldman | Year Posted 2016