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~ATLANTIS~ Featuring:) Kelly Deschler
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Can't be re-written by the Gods
The land and sands of time'
Destroyed by the fire of Poseidon's curse
Atlantis swallowed by: Earth
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In one day and one night
Peaceful existence met its end
Built on a volcano, now surrounded by ancient rippled tears
Lava stripped apart the rich and glorious empire
Enriched by Engineers and Architects whom loved power more than the Gods
Forgotten souls, sheltered by a watery grave
History withheld from shallow sunken memories,
Western sky's hide the truth, a vision from the Pillars of Hercules
"An island situated in front of The Strait of Gibraltar"
Ghostly ruins wait to rise above the Mediterranean and Atlantic Waves
A magical island held down by the hands of death,
~
Atlantis lost city walls ---a secret hidden by mermaids
Partially buried, beneath the ocean floor it lies
The largest sunken treasure never to be found
Magnificent pillars of an imperial palace still stand
Somewhere hidden under ancient sand
Some are leaning against turrets, that toppled after the impact
Nothing human will ever inhabit these walls
No feet will ever touch these staircases, again
Only an eerie silence now resides here, with the blue-green waters
Seaweed grows along it's outer walls, like ivy on a trellis.
Obscuring it even further from the human eye.
~
Other ocean tides will never compare
Tantalizing blend of fantasy and mystery
Stone walls covered with precious gems
-Listen to PLATO'S voice-
"Look close, Look close, into the sea!"
Through the light and Pillars of Hercules
Some where out there buried in the vast
ATLANTIS THE PARADISE
~A Poet Destroyer Collaboration~
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013
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The Devils Riddle
Dark is the night
Dark is the soul
Dark is the heart that used to glow
Empty are the rainbows falling from the skies
Empty of the spirits when the darkness flies by
Empty is the treasure chest of dreams long gone
Tombs hold secrets of mysteries past
Tombs hold the dark to ensure it will endure
Tombs full of treasures are barren at last
Stones are grey in silence they sit
Stones are markers of the dark run amiss
Stones look up to overcast skies
death looks down, the final curtain call
smirks and winks, I will soon have you all
dark and empty you shall soon be enslaved
to the mysteries of dark empty ways
there is no final place that you shall rest
emoH the angel of death has declared
“oN graves the trumpets play as I shall sing”
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014
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Like tender loving arms, they wrap around
old monuments of stone set on the ground.
Those silent sentinels that stand their guard
above the souls, we honor and regard.
To honor and regard through all the years
where loved ones come to speak unhappy tears.
Beneath the summer rain and winter snow,
these monuments of stone, their sorrow show.
Like tender arms, the vines embrace the stones
to comfort them, these guardians of bones
who bear the sadness brought to them to share,
by those who stand and weep in silent prayer.
The tender vines grow thicker 'round the tombs...
create a leafy shawl that lives and blooms,
and shows the hope of new life after death
which tangled vines embrace with living breath.
Like tender loving arms, they wrap around
these lasting monuments where peace is found,
and frame the name of each whose life reclines...
now resting safe and sound, caressed by vines.
Sandra M. Haight
~3rd Place~
Contest: Your Best Rhyming Poem 2
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Judged: 02/03/2017
~2nd Place~
Contest: Overgrown With Vines
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Judged: 10/08/2016
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016
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*Note: A 60-year annual tradition that involved a mysterious visitor leaving three
roses at the grave of writer Edgar Allan Poe on the anniversary of his birthday
ended in January 2010. Curators of the Poe House and Museum are at a loss to
explain who left these gifts and why they stopped. On many occasions people kept
vigils near Poe’s grave during this period that began in 1949, but no one ever saw
someone leaving the roses. In the morning, however, they were always on his
grave. Poe is considered the father of the American short story and
his poem The Raven is one of his best known works.
Once upon a midnight dreary, Poe heard a tapping at his window
While grieving the loss of his young bride, a maiden “angels named Lenore,”
A radiant teen whose long, black hair in gentle breezes would billow,
Tapping at the window ceased, but suddenly it was heard at his door
Upon opening it, a Raven flew in repeating, “Nevermore”
At first he welcomed this odd visitor until Poe whispered, “Lenore”
When he heard his word echo, the strange Raven he began to abhor
He asked if he’d see his bride again and the bird replied, “Nevermore”
Though Poe died in eighteen forty-nine, a mystery evolved much later
A century after his death, his grave had an annual visitor
Roses were left on his birthday by someone whose love appeared greater
Who had left these floral gifts forever stumped the Poe House curator
Perhaps the answer can only be explained by reincarnation
Did the Raven embody the spirit of Poe’s beloved Lenore
If so, perhaps the Raven returned again in a life rotation
In human form she visited to lay roses on the earthen floor
And upon her death in two-thousand nine, she took to the skies once more
A Raven who now joins the flock circling above her late husband’s grave \/
Could it be her spirit remains with Poe, as it did in life before \/ \/ \/
Bringing him in the afterlife all the roses a poet could crave \/ \/ \/ \/
For those who consider this possibility totally absurd
Just consider the fantasies Poe created with the written word
By Carolyn Devonshire
Contest Title: “Among the Dead,” sponsored by Constance LaFrance ~ A Rambling
Poet ~
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011
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They walk silently along my hallways.
Floors littered with faded finery.
Do you remember my Granduer?
I had once been called the Queen of the sea.
Pulled down to the ocean's floor.
Swaying silently, so many sad souls
They are entombed here
Forever a part of me
Left to wander my halls
Sharing this watery hell
Faces frozen in skeletal grins
Evidence of our eternal sadness
Fish now swim across my stage
The band is silent
Still I remember
I absorbed them note by note
They played till my last moment
Yet it was not for my benefit
For I had betrayed them
My promises were empty
Temptation, travel, time together
Some mercifuly escaped
What did they remember of me?
Some came back in ghostly form
Searching for those I had taken from them
I will not release them
For I do not wish to be alone.
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2014
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Grey clouds the innocent sky ambushing light turns dark
stumbling over a tombstone opening up cold graves
When eyes become frozen behind scenes in hidden truth
as a weight deadens upon the shoulders without hope
A ghost from past experience consumes the present
and golden sands blacken beneath your feet fallen one
Deep undercurrents strains awaken in the ocean
Invisible cloaked dagger pierces without mercy
I pray waters calming find peace in this mortal frame
as the whirlpool of desires casts an ominous spell
Upon the sea of life Satanic storms enter Hell
and exudes within the malevolent clouds failure
Forgiveness stands at the crossroads beholden no more
within promise of a dream transparent through the rain
As yellow moonlight draws one pathway clearly cutting
brings you safely home to love under a fragile roof
Under black currents of loss when the heart returns beat
in the last teardrop sorrow remained faithfully loved
In collaboration with The Irish Poet Liam Mc Daid
2016
Copyright © Red Fiery | Year Posted 2016
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I close my weary eyes
I quake and tremble
The meaning of life losing its hold,
Losing its wonder
In this magnifying, mystifying Sadness
Where is the river,
Where is the ocean
To drown these sorrows...
The dry formations in this barren land stay tall,
Pools holding life drying in the dinosaur wasteland
I am bones...
I am bones sinking in the waterless chalk
I keep these eyes shut
To hide inside my meditations
My ears have grown accustomed to the silence,
And sensitive to the drops of tears
They dry too quickly,
For the sun is against the moisture
And all for the fossilization of my soul
Where is the river?
Where is the ocean...
I do not ask with hope-
I am too ancient to beg for miracles
To dream, yet, too long I have slept
I ask on account of who I once was,
A land so lush and plentiful
See now only the dryest thrive
I am bones on the brink of history...
The elements have claimed me
Life will return elsewhere
I am become by the rock and the sun
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2015
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-Eden's Ending Eulogy-
Proceed here today, Eden's Ending Eulogy
Gentle gracious her garden, the guidance
I can't recall what was with the warm, sincere smile, and sunrise
Lost at ease and clarity.......I Sleep!
Forever In Peace, this dark, damp den, coffin will do
at last, a parting powerful, reunion and resting resort
Amen
~SKAT~
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2014
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November 11th is Remembrance Day in Canada
(Veterans Day)
When I was in grade 7 or 8 (I don't exactly remember) we had
to write poetry for a Remembrance Day contest. I won and had to read this in front of our whole grammar school. I must of been 12 or 13. This was my first real poem!
I dedicate this here today to all the soldiers who fight or have fought for our rights and freedom.
In Flanders Field with poppies red,
there lies the secret of the dead.
Those blood coloured poppies
so red and so gay,
bring the whispering sound
of Remembrance Day.
Those true earnest men
who fought for their land,
now lay beneath the musky cool sand.
Alert and ready at dangers call,
prepared to fight they would not stall,
but march right on,
now some there lay,
In Flanders Field,
with poppies gay.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
1970
Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014
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I think about you, every single day,
Since from me, you were taken away,
Your absence has left my world cold,
Now I am alone, with no hand to hold.
I wish that I could bring you home,
So that your soul, shall need not roam,
I hope that you were given white wings,
To fly amongst, where the angel sings.
Within my heart, your eternal breath,
Shall now linger on, even after death,
My love for you shall never cease,
So, may you always rest in peace.
Written by: Kelly Deschler
Gautami Phookan's contest - The Poet III
_______________________________________
For Gail Angel Doyle's contest - "Eternal Breath"
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013
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I came across an old cemetery today while exploring,
Full of broken, toppled headstones and tangled weeds;
There was a deep hush, a whisper and a sigh, I felt tears,
My tears were falling for long dead souls forgotten.
A tree's roots are entwined around an old, tilted stone,
In loving memory of my husband George, born Feb, 1882;
Oh, George you were loved very much once upon a time,
God took him, but he will not be forgotten, engraved.
And I am of the age of Aquarius too, just like you,
I love violets and everything purple, and I am so mellow;
Oh, George were you a deep thinker, sensitive, creative,
I get hurt easily and I always want to help people.
Be at peace George in your decay and ravaged grave,
Listen to the twittering of birds this bright sunny day;
Promise, promise, I will be back to lay some purple violets,
Forever now, dear soul, you will dwell in my heart.
Now, be still George, I heard your whisper . . .
____________________________
April 28, 2016
Elegy
Submitted to the contest, Any Poem Written in April 2016
sponsor, Laura Loo
First Place
_____________________________________________
Written for the contest, Universal Acrostic Collaboration
sponsor, Steven Henderson
First Place
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2016
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FICTIONAL EMOTIVE WRITE
Since I was a tiny baby I was brought up by my grandparents and had a very happy childhood. I knew that they were not my real parents but they gave me such love that I didn’t ask any questions for fear of upsetting them. Grandma’s eyes would mist over any time anyone mentioned my parents so I knew something bad had happened to them
Whispers in the hall
The child is too young to know
They passed so quickly
I left home at 20, married and moved to a small town about 50 miles from where I grew up. I was always in touch with my grandparents, but over time old age crept upon them and I recently cleared the family home when grandma passed away. I discovered yellowing newspaper cuttings, which told of how my parents had been killed in a horrific car crash, it also detailed their final resting place in the local cemetery.
Family secrets
Scrapbook of old photographs
My parents smiling
Dawn is breaking and dappled sunlight streams through the trees. A veil of grey swirling mist shrouds the cemetery. I pull my shawl closely around my shoulders and begin my search. Strands of ivy hang down from the towering yew trees, its dark green tendrils wrapped around the grey granite graves clinging so tightly as if it was trying to hold up the graves like a puppet on a string. The fallen gravestones remind me of decaying teeth with many gaps where stones had crumbled with age and neglect. I walk slowly, reading the names of those who now had eternal rest. Eventually I found their grave at plot 142, where a marble angel watches over them sleeping. I scrape off the thick lichen, which obscures their names. Tears fall and I hug the gravestone wishing I could embrace my parents for real.
I greet my parents
Stone cold grave gives me closure
Heartbroken child cries
09~26~16
Contest Overgrown With Vines Sponsored by Broken Wings
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016
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You are far away now
Off in fields of gold
Dappled with evenings hot velvety light
90 degrees of separation has dulled the sword
eased the pain
The grasshoppers chirp in unison to your labors but they no longer ache in your solar plexus
Nor mine
What sweet sorrow is loss and gain
I now walk down the very paths I have always so longed for
the dark rich peat paths of happiness
contentment oozes from these fingertips as I write and I wonder if happiness is poetry
Or does it preclude it all together
The night sky fills with stars
The stars fill with fire flies that burst out of them like infinitesimal lightning bolts
jettisoned to my soul
he and I chase storms on decks swirled in smoke
We banter and bay at one another
you are in a field of gold somewhere
or beside
a river bed
The smell of the wet earth of shore beneath you reaches me… but momentarily
dismissed as the ash of the bonfire of a week ago fire or the grill of last night’s
unbelievably tasty ribs he concocted from air for me and me alone
but then we shared with so many
dinners
Lingers on my lip tips…the bottom edge
I kiss him and mean it with all I am
A being
a re-being
Super beings are we
all
and our colors wash
upon the canvas of my life
melding into one great magnificent us
Spectacular are we
the creatures who so love life
we give our only begotten selves to each other
and never ever forsake
us
Copyright © Ingrid Showalter Swift | Year Posted 2014
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Mossy vines served as camouflage for a decaying headstone
This was the first time I’d laid eyes on your final resting place
In front of me stood a grey granite slab covered in emerald moss
Green ivy clung to the stone and snaked round the nearby yew tree
It was evident your grave had not been visited for many many years
In fact, until ten days ago I didn’t know you existed …
A family secret kept hidden from me by my elderly ‘mother’
It wasn’t until her recent death I discovered the real truth
At the will reading the lawyer presented me with an envelope
Spidery handwriting revealed that my real mother died in childbirth
I discovered that I’d been adopted; my real name was Sara James
Seeing my original birth certificate for the first time was a huge shock
Now I know the reason I felt that I never belonged
With my raven hair and pale skin I looked very different from my sister Beth
I’d been told I looked like my great aunt and I’d never queried this
Now I stand in front of the plot where my real mother is buried
I spend an hour weeding, tidying and cleaning the gravestone
Rivers of tears run down my face when I finally reveal the inscription
Carved in the decaying stone I read
Ellen James - died 17th April 1953 aged 33
Fell asleep with her tiny angel
Susan James - died 17th April 1953 born sleeping
Family secrets kept hidden in the graveyard
Sobbing bitter tears I kneel down and leave a red rose
For my mother and my twin sister that until today I never knew existed
Fictional write for Camouflage me a Poem Contest Sponsored by Broken Wings
Theme 1 chosen - Mossy vines served as camouflage for a decaying headstone
08~04~16
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016
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Looking at you, they feel lust;
lust for the curves they say you flaunt.
The silver lining visible through your deep neck.
The perfect waist they say,
you show in those tightly fitting kurtis.
Those slender legs they stare at,
during the numb hours;
their humanity melts with each moment a bit more.
Looking at you, they show greed;
greed for the thighs they say you flaunt.
The belly button showing through your crop top.
The toned hips they say,
you show in those cotton leggings.
Those naked backs they search for,
with their lustful glances;
their humanity melts with each moment a bit more.
Looking at you, they trickle saliva;
saliva on your pure spots they say you flaunt.
The strap of your bra peeking out through your shoulder.
Those luscious lips they say,
you call for with those lip balms on.
The dropping dupatta they hope for,
with those greedy glares;
their humanity melts with each moment a bit more.
Looking at you, they fall over;
over the corpse of the shattered soul they say you hide.
The life of the dead emotions oozing through your eyes.
Those clichéd tears they say,
you drip out for sympathy.
The lonely longings they wish for,
in those silent deserted lanes;
their humanity melts with each moment a bit more.
Copyright © Sourabh Acharya | Year Posted 2017
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La dernière valse
From the skies
Clouds fall upon my dreams
I am up high, away from it all
I am far, but my tears still fall
I stand up and shout to Paris ( Pareee)
You left me, you left me here to fend alone
I can not danse, nor can I waltz
I am here, overlooking skylines of desire
Graveyards calling out my name
The clouds in the sky grey and dancing
The tour Eiffel stands up high
The symbol of all that makes me cry
I can not dance, nor can I waltz
Alizee Alizee go go go
Arête, arête my love simply won’t flow
Abelard died, and so must I
Lovers of love, wine runs dry
Poets and words, vices and crimes
Lovers of the majestic and the absurd
I was pushed over the ledge
In Versailles they left for me dead
Grandiose mirrors and artistic displays
I can not dance, nor can I waltz
So in the castle I will be slayed
By the demons of lovers
From the past, they do say
She left me here
On the left bank of the seine
So here I shall drown totally insane
Notes: I have on purpose used french spelling for some words in the poem.
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014
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Took me the breath of all my life
A soul mate who could consume my heart wither a smile
I found that Gothic girl after dark
A little to late to consummate
I lie in waiting with a dead round smile
Empty eyes and a lot of guile
I found a girlfriend even if late
We lie together
Frigid is our state
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
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A hole in the head shooting pain trembles
nightshades coldly down the spine
a soul lost in the land of the living
carried away in darkness
flying inside dark clouds holding just a dream
Distant thunder roars lightening splitting cracks
sure as the crow flies crawling opens hells gates
dark jewels of the night
charred remains churning in a cauldron
boiling goodness tears of thoughts
Piercing screams spawning nightmares
holding a promise once made
walking in a valley amongst the dead
shadows now smile hearing animals scream
as the moon plays silver dancing light
Dreams snatched away from reality
the crow calls echoes in silence
victims of this world howling over and back
tragedy cries in their pain and suffering
eyes seeking light
whispers through the branches
a heather bleat creature of the night calls
Haunted by humans chained to the earth
awaiting shadows and sunsets
a cursed banshee wails supernatural screams
from everywhere and nowhere
Mind numbing winds passing through
a white silhouette shredded shroud
around a heart entombed
in agonies' twilight shades clouds darken
storms brewed stirring specters chase the wind
Cold rains become lost tears
the willow weeps in eternal sorrows
a lament for the dead
as the silver crescent moon smiles goodbye
Blends in clear as day after sunrise
forgotten in a valley of unrest
death bell's toll out from the past
onyx feathered crows call painful cries
Forever seeking heaven's gate now sealed
that promised choice was lost ages ago
only burning hellfires
or cold earthworms await
Written by: Liam McDaid & Kelly Deschler
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2015
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Dance
Between the granite stones
Of the dead
Long ago last breaths do part
Memories seeping in dirt
Black birds and magpies
Lace and knots
Lingering thoughts
Swaying too and fro
Insane
Dancing
On top of the dead
Lover is all but gone
Butterflies shown
That life flies on
As shadows rest
Upon ones breast
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
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Bob had been a lonely man ever since
His wife of fifty years had passed.
“Lord, let me join her.” he would pray.
“Let this day be my last.”
Each day, he went to the cemetery,
Just a short walk down the street.
After their talk, he would water her flowers
And hear passers-by whisper, “How sweet.”
One gray and misty morning,
He had hoped for sunnier skies
To plant fall bloomers at her graveside;
But there, to his surprise…
Stood an old dog beside her stone;
Thin and dirty, but he struck a handsome pose.
He whined as Bob approached, as if to say,
“I could use a friend, you know.”
He sat calmly as Bob planted flowers,
Carefully sniffing each one Bob put in place.
After the last one was planted, he sniffed it;
Then turned and licked Bob’s face.
Bob smiled. “I had a dog when I was young…
Pal…he was a mighty good one too.
So, if you don’t mind old fella,
That’s what I’ll call you.”
Pal may have been an old dog,
But he was smart and handsome in his way;
So they made a deal, Bob would give him a meal
And a bath, if he decided to stay.
Pal loved his bath, then rolled in the grass.
He slept on a blanket in the den.
In the night, he dragged it next to Bob’s bed.
He intended to be Bob’s best friend.
Pal was such a good dog, housebroken too;
Never made a mess or got in trouble.
He knew about newspapers, slippers and Frisbees;
And when Bob called, he‘d come on the double.
Yes, Pal gave Bob’s life new purpose.
A special bond of friendship was cast.
And never again did Bob pray,
“Lord, let this day be my last.”
For twelve years, the very best of friends,
Together night and day;
And so it was, until one evening,
Pal quietly passed away.
Bob held Pal in his arms and wept.
“Oh, Pal…my best friend…you saved my life.”
He caressed Pal as he reminisced;
Then, sometime in the night, Bob joined his wife.
The next morning, an old woman,
Tears welling in her sad and lonely eyes,
Brought fresh flowers to her husband’s grave;
But there, to her surprise….
Stood an old dog beside the stone,
Thin an dirty, but he struck a handsome pose.
He whined as she approached, as if to say,
“I could use a friend, you know.”
He sat calmly as she took old flowers
And put fresh ones in their place.
He carefully sniffed the fresh ones,
Then, turned and licked her face.
She smiled through her tears.
“I had a dog when I was young...
A good one too. His name was Pal.”
Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014
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Scatter my ashes at Pemaquid Point,
Let the wind sail them home to the sea.
Cradle of life, be my cradle in death,
And set my spirit free.
Sun will warm the daylight hours;
The lighthouse illume the night;
Waves provide rhythm and gulls give voice---
Music to ease my flight.
Eternal rocks will form my tomb,
Sand my quilt shall be,
Protecting from shipwreck and raging storms,
And I’ll become one with the sea.
Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman | Year Posted 2015
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I flew alone in the white winter night
Cold winds and ice deep within my weary fright
In the night my mind in the darkest of dark
Death was close, close to my lonely heart
The tomb at the ready
Even falling apart
Some would say this is fine art
Or better yet Art at his finest…
Wrapped in winters black roped plaque
All I wanted was to lie down and rest
In peace and upon a widows breast
For then we could know each other
Pains shared, blood expressed
Oh Cassandra
You are an angel divine
Winters mist and love sublime
Umbrellas to shield us from our earthly fears
Of natures whims and weather so ghastly grim
I turn my head, staring into the past
Your breasts of life make me gaze on back
When I was the raven
Flying noble and high
Now all I see are empty dark skies
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
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If my mind were a war torn map and anxiety an invading force
A thorough search of my cerebrum would avail no remorse
Is there a hoard of grotesque assailants standing at the border
Or do I suffer from tensions dispensed by some mental disorder
None the less I attack first with nothing but the element of surprise
No weapon, no armor, no countrymen, just a crumbling enterprise
I swing my sword in the direction of the pale ghost filling the night
Cutting to ribbons the notion that I released a lost dog in the fight
Misfortune is mine as the battle rages in the back of my optical lobe
Fixated on the fact that there is a fixed fight at the end of the road
Without negligence I execute the figure who seems to be orchestrating
The darkened world in which I have been unsuccessful in navigating
With a cough of blood his mouth released a final exasperating word
A man cannot win when he cannot escape falling on his own sword
It took years of tears, torture, trials and tribulations for me to see
Thine own enemy I could not circumvent was me and my “anxiety”
Copyright © Plant A Tree Poetry | Year Posted 2017
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Here forsaken souls are gathered;
Gathered in night’s cold wrap of woe.
Woe to those who now are treading;
Treading the paths that lead them here.
Written June 7, 2015 by Andrea Dietrich
For the "Four Lines Only" Poetry Contest of nette onclaud
Based on visual number 3
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
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In Michigan, the weather can change for the worst in October.
This particular Halloween came a blizzaring.
The lights went out and in a dark, dark room, candles were lit; therein, the opaquest narrative was captured.
*
With the shape of
With figment
With look
I will invent the human.
Through the mind
Via light
With aspect
The being I will project.
I saw sadness.
It stared directly at me.
I gazed back.
It begins to glare.
I looked away.
Why am I afraid?
It is an ape, a primate.
With child fists, I walked toward this apelike creature and strike out.
Finally, I saw more than eyes and it pounces.
It is a little child as a man.
My hands represented some insight.
Would we fight?
**
The universe stood as earth.
Solar we are to the sky above.
Humanity shouts with a hoarse voice.
Man, woman, and child stands as an echo.
God sent the demons.
The sinners are all of us.
Through commandment of what Hell is Heaven is not.
Demons are with God.
The Pacific Ocean is the end of the world.
It runs east and west.
Why do we not investigate this?
[Because our capabilities are limited!]
Are we afraid of what we will find?
We discovered each other and now we hesitate.
Procrastination is a thing that delays knowledge.
Are we wise to seek?
Demons are with God.
Are we?
***
Body [body] {Body}!
Gut (gut)!
Skin and bones wake up!
I am a reincarnation of that that is not known.
Many have come before me but none was as I am.
I am the body for the human to gut a man.
However, women are now involved and they want to be in the belly.
Instinctive they are but this was only for man to do.
Why do they want to be that damned fool?
Unconscious to the world that they are within, one would ask self why they want
to be like men.
The answer becomes to fit in.
What if there is one left out?
The answer becomes their bodies have been gutted and they are only GI.
****
The Moon has no Gods.
The Sun is what speaks to us.
It tells us prophesy and what the world shall become.
We are mongoloid, brown and bronzed spiritual to our existence.
Our tribes are of North America.
A hundred plus [we] stand[s].
Our land is our strength.
We fought.
We won.
We lost.
Died from disease but gave birth once again.
Our population stands now and we are healthy.
The European man has given our wisdom and knowledge.
Our minds are set on our economic growth.
We will become political minded.
Five hundred nations are we those lost tribes of our history.
*****
The mockery of man is a stance of incorrectness.
It transforms through government and states that your freedoms are not anything to
believe in.
You, as people, are nothing but possessions and no one knows who is blessed.
You are lucky to be here.
Your way of life is given by our nation’s wealth.
We are brought together as immigrants and the natives of this country are indigenous.
We cannot pretend that we are more than that.
We must pedestal ourselves to unity and know that people are only structure to
adhere.
One came for liberation.
Others came via slavery.
Nomads were unbound.
They let them in yet they were said to be uncivilized.
Today we are unified.
We are the United States of America bound, bonded, and realized.
{We are gratis; free to form our own lives.}
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PENNED ON SEPTEMBER 13, 2014!
Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014
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