Best Initiate Poems

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Do you initiate by Harrell, Toquyen
I initiate and give by Harrell, Toquyen

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The Best Initiate Poems

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Ghosts of the Sun Dance-Part 1

Ghosts of the Sun Dance

1. The Path

A quest dating back through our history
Surpassing the flesh, a spiritual path
Human endurance, road to mystery
Dark trail winding through the gardens of wrath

It echoes through me, this deep ambition
Half century of miles, lifetime compressed 
Much more than a race, a sacred mission
With light of hardship I hope to be blessed

To outsiders, an act of madness pure
What motivations could compel this feat?
Past limits of human strength to endure
Pushing the body well beyond defeat

Mind and sinews outlasting the firestorm
Transcendence, to shed our skin and transform

2. Sun Dance

Transcendence, to shed our skin and transform
Once, Plains Indians embraced the Sun Dance
Sacred solstice ritual to perform
Life’s rebirth to the sound of drums and chants

Young braves fasting in their preparation
A stout pole connects the lodge to the sun
Days of reveling unite the nation
Dancers’ exhaustion, they seek to outrun

Animal spirits drawn in by the rhythm 
Forked tree with bison’s skull, hooks in their chest
Buffalo, bringer of potent vision 
Delirious dancers complete their quest

The Spirit Quest resounds through history
Beyond mundane, to sacred mystery

3.To Endure and Transcend 

Beyond mundane, to sacred mystery
Japan's “Marathon Monks” of Mount Hiei
The key to their spirit quest victory
To walk a Marathon one hundred straight days

Famed spiritual leader Sri Chinmoy
Believed hearts and spirits could be mended
Through self-transcendence, and he did enjoy
Countless long quests before his time ended

Chinmoy’s best, a fifty day epic quest
A journey thirty-one hundred miles long
Few are those who have ever passed this test
His famous Self-Transcendence Marathon

Darkest night, the gateway to a new morn,
Through painful trials, seeker’s soul reborn

4. The Spirit Is Willing

Through painful trials, seeker’s soul reborn
Deepest pain kindling the soul’s ignition 
Follow the path supplicants’ feet have worn
Transformation’s crux, soul transition

Our defenses and walls cannot let in
Sacred blessings of the gods and spirits
Impenetrable, much to your chagrin
They cannot touch your heart if you fear it

Mortification, a tribulation
Humble display of the supplicant’s worth
A spiritual emancipation,
Pain always accompanies any birth

These transitions in few modern nations
Our world, rare rites of initiation

5. The Fall

Our world, rare rites of initiation
Deconstructed, traditions have been burned
Soulless life breeds infantilization
Perpetuating the puer eterne

To make our lives easier is progress, 
Yet soft life an inadequate mantle
We can also suffer when life lacks stress
True transformation is never gentle

Safety, the goal of civilization
Eliminate risk, its increasing role
Safety’s bitter fruit is stagnation
Comfort cannot forge a resilient soul

Building true human vitality starts
With substance to satisfy questing hearts

6. Aimlessness

With substance to satisfy questing hearts
We dream to build greatness from the humble
Miseducation, meaninglessness start
Intrepid young souls questing for trouble

Drawn to drugs and gangs, tobacco and booze
No deep satisfaction do they contain
Oft mistaken for paying adult dues
But lead instead to spiritual chains

Youthful misadventures, trouble and blues
Sterile environment will generate
Tribal belonging they mark with tattoos
Clumsy efforts to self-initiate

Conquered world without initiations
Life’s road of genuine tribulations

7. Warrior’s Quest

Life’s road of genuine tribulations
Awaits our youth, whether they are prepared
Or not, we note with building frustrations
Future leaders, we see grow up impaired

The warrior within’s heartfelt yearning
A righteous cause in which to do battle
Meanwhile, the subway turnstiles are turning
Young champions doing time as cattle

Quests can be found for the searching young soul
Alas, the focus of education
Not on the development of the whole
But fashioning subjects of this nation

The challenge of living with one’s whole heart
Yielding to those who have mastered the art

Copyright by Author
For contest: Heroic Crown of Sonnets
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Syllables confirmed by

Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016

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So if my vocal folds can’t collaborate to produce sounds to communicate loudly to your beautiful mind that I have an endless mission of loving you, can’t there be any mere articulation in my vocal tract to do that? What are my tongue, lips, alveolar ridge, hard palate and velum doing? I never knew that emotions could shut my speech tract. How I wish my speech tract could connect to my heart, so that I can give you a cord of love inserted into my heart, for you to put it into your ears and listen to the words my heart says because I am speechless. I had it in my mind to tell you that you are beautiful, eloquent, and charming. When I drew nigh, I decided to start with the word ‘lady’ to show some decorousness. But I realized my lungs couldn’t even initiate the airstream for my glottis to either widen or narrow to cause my vocal tract to produce the voiceless and voiced sounds in the two syllable word, let alone the nine. Should I comply with those who say action speaks louder than words, so that I can gesture for you to get the feelings better? I thought I was one who could speak like a parrot, but I am now slides before you like carrots. But what could make a spoken word artiste speechless apart from the abnormal? OK! Let’s try establishing causality. The moment I saw you, you blinked your eyes, so probably that muted me. So if you could do that again, it may set me free. Don’t wait for me to tell you that you can cause distraction. Don’t go near a podium mounted by a performer, lest, you will cause distraction. Because that image you carry isn’t what you think. Not even a mermaid, more than strange. Please set me free because you are gradually becoming ‘head of Medusa ‘ , rays from your eyes are communicating with mine and making me motionless like lot’s wife is Sodom and Gomorrah. I came out of volition but it is now at your discretion to let me go, so please take off your eyes and set me free.

Tension within me had converted into electrical energy and burnt my speech tract. So what I am going through is beyond dumb. From a distance, I was in haste to meet you, but the moment I set my eyes on you, as though there were a speed rump- I started moving like a tortoise. What broke the camel’s back was when your eyelids became a canon camera and gave me flash, I became static. I wonder why I am speechless. I wonder why I am speechless. Because I am this man who can stand before a lady and produce lyrics more than ‘sarkology’ album, so I wonder why I am speechless. I could make a lady swim deeper in the pool of sweet words, so I wonder why I am speechless. Movement of my negative lips could attract positive ladies, so I wonder why I am speechless. Perhaps we are both negatives, so we repel. How I wish my vocal folds will touch along their edges from my thyroid and open slightly at my arytenoids to create a creaky sound like ‘huuh’ for you at least get the air of love, but none is working. I have thin vocal folds that can produce nice sounds like the lead guitar, so I wonder why I can’t even stammer. My phonetics is not working, let alone deploy my syntax for you to use your morphology in breaking down the words to achieve semantics.  How unfortunate it is that my speech tract couldn’t let out the words my mind has been saying since the beginning of this piece.


Copyright © CHRISDAD KOJO ARTHUR | Year Posted 2016

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A poem is never merely still born,
It has its creator's eyes,ears and nose
Yet,unique it lives  a life of its own
Independent,well able to stand alone;
On others it can,influence,affect
Energise,direct or initiate
A response,unforseen and immediate
Or lie dormant,yet not dead,but waiting;
Watered by another's mutual bond
resurrected,to live again,again.

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2010

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Interalphabetnet sex stew

Primose path leads to the slaughter of American
dream delete pause proficiency with internetty
webbegone after thoughts of yahoo googleyed 
interred intracacises that shed benign capsules of
 mom entary apple pie delquiences cooling 
the soul shopping for the next alias avenue of
pointless me procurement mauling an ongoing
onerous dildodate vis a vie in 
an engaging omnipresence of sextext no tact
spell ckeck chicshicshakplak no sense tic tac.
Talk? Walk? Balk? Chalk? Sue? Sulk? 
Dinosaur diligence posse with the senior
gestages gestulating, we r forevre 21 and ying yang 
dung. Yes, good f ing luck with that!! Look at your 
petridish parents and see what box u check to lid close
and abscond with the lost liberal leftovers. That
is you in reverse in a few carnal years after Hilter youth
children decide to screw us as the new 
generation which skewer post present parental postulates 
to the oldster outhouse outlets so u can be "youf" free. Little
do they notknow as they cumulatively co opulate 
that they set the stooge stage for no thanx ahole actions. 
The DOS does'nt fall from the Apple tree. Leave it, 
love it, learn it while ye may, the kid crisp cosmos of
offspring social dicktates are biting at your heartbeatbit 
empty elmo enterprises. Pause parenatal prenatal
preferences prepearing perinatal persons pretasking
postnatal practices, in which you have veno papa preparation.
Think before you For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge and Analyze
your ass-incarnate initiate. Borrow berofe u basterdize, 
condomize before u copu culminate, decide before
u dicktate, envision before u envy, fail before u foil, 
grasp before u germinate, halt before u hinder, 
illuminate before u illerate, jump before u jinx, 
kill before u keep, love before u lay, meaning before
moaning, neutralize before u now, obilerate before
u ooops! presence before predicament, quit before
quake, resilience before ridiculous, sanity before
sexusensuality, thinkth before u thumpth, utilize
before u unionize, victory before victimization, we 
before want, xx nor xy, zen before zeal. Pocket 
passion files fly in the face of ruined reason residules
to the point of pronounced perplextion plagued 
prominantly with no recall references to problematic 
protocals for near north normalicies in my buckeye
life measures of simpatico silly symbiosis sublime
of mini me monophile mucous made misdemeanor
milktoast memories. Pass go, collect $200.

Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2013

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Recipe-How to make a human from scratch

Recipe-How to make a human from scratch

Start with a large amount of dirt.
Add sufficient water to moisten.
Mix together until becomes clay like.
Shape and mold according to your will.

Add generous amounts of
1.  Intelligence
2.  Conscience
3.  Spiritual need.
4.  Creative ability
5  Desirable qualities like: 
Love Justice Wisdom and Mercy

Mix in the ability to reproduce according
to it's kind.

Lastly, breathe into it the breath of life
Wait until breathing on it's own.

Supply enough nutrient filled air and
food to sustain it forever.

That's it! Now you have a human!

The proof that this recipe works:

Scientists admit our bodies are 
made up of elements from the ground
in fact we need to supplement our bodies 
with minerals from the ground 
to replenish what is lost.

The greatest ingredient in the human body
by volume is water which we also
need to replenish daily.

Scientists also recognize that all humans have
intelligence to a greater or lesser degree.

Also, unless there is a defect 
we all have a conscience.

Something that separates us from the animals 
is our innate need to worship, 
to understand where we come from 
and ponder the meaning of life.

Artistic and creative ability also 
is something that appears to be innate 
in all humans to a greater or lesser degree.

Qualities of Love Justice Wisdom and Mercy
are essential to continued happiness, 
happiness also is a condition 
that is not necessary for life
but adds to it.

Reproductive powers are 
obviously needed to continue the species.

The force of life, 
the spark to initiate life, 
breathing and eating are 
necessary to sustain life.

All of this was done already 
so we don't have to worry.

Something to think about...
if this recipe was originally 
a product of blind chance,
random selection, and then
natural selection and survival of the fittest

try taking the ingredients to your 
favourite recipe and randomly 
select and mix and cook 
according to blind chance...
how would it turn out?

And if natural selection 
and survival of the fittest
produced a stronger species, 
what purpose does
creativity in arts and literature 
have to do with survival?

Does not all of this 
lead one to believe
that humans are a product 
from an intelligent designer 
with a purpose?

You decide!

John Derek Hamilton
April 29.2016

Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2016

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Let there be light

The greatest minds are mocked and heckled, but are usually right. The greatest knowledge, is usually found, in the simplest places. Dreams if not a catalyst, to initiate the revelation of truth; often contain the truth. Look within for the golden chalice; the legendary “Grail”; you’ll find it wrapped in the “golden fleece”. Wisdom is gleaned in flight across the veil; no soul, seeking light, is abandoned to the dark. Mind comes from mind, returns to mind, lives in mind. The enlightened never use the word, can’t. If “ignorance is bliss”, skeptics must be the happiest creatures on Earth. The gift of denial never pays to light one single candle. Light is provided free, to the open mind; the greatest minds are the wires, through which, the human batteries are charged; universal mind initiates the transfer. The light in the darkness, the dreams that come true, should never be doused by the waters of ignorance.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2015

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Amore Mio

I am sitting in my Dorchester lair,     
And behind the door I do feel your mien,  
When my poetic muse is in the air,    
You look real as life to me, “Amore Mio”.   

When I am surfing on the internet,
You are there in my click I envisage,
 I initiate to scribe a sonnet,
And lo! I see you embossed on the page.    

Sighing, wry face, the lips as a dried leaf,     
Your greenish deep eyes upraised fully,
Neither death kills me, nor does lonely life,       
But your silence eats my soul and body.         

Numb as a disease, I die of a thought,
My love, don’t you sense the same as I aught?

A Shakespearian sonnet in Iambic Pentameter (ABAB CDCD EFEF GG)

Contest: Loneliness            7Th place win

Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2013

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Dull As A Disease-win

Dull As A Disease

I am sitting in my Dorchester lair,
Behind the door I do feel your mien,
When my poetic muse is in apt flair
You look real as life, my amore mia.

When I am surfing on the internet,
You are there in my click I envisage,
When I initiate to scribe  sonnet,
I see you duly embossed on the page.

Sighing, wry face, lips as dry as a leaf
Your green blue deep eyes upraised fully,
Neither the death kills me, nor does the life,
Your very silence eats my soul and body.

Dull as a disease, I die of a thought,
Do not you fancy the same as I ought?.

Date 21-10-13
Dr. Ram Mehta
Third place win
Contest: I Recall by Frank H.

Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2013

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Monarch Butterfly

hanging from the foliage
in your hundreds
repainting the leaves
in bright shades
of black and orange
with your waterproof
gossamer wings
of four inch span
so fragile and 
yet so strong
enabling you  
to journey south
across america
from canada to mexico 
breeding new generations
as you travel 
thousands of miles
with unerring accuracy
to the exact place
of your birth
to breed
a new generation
that will initiate 
the process for 
the return journey
to the north
in due course
you are indeed
the monarch 
of butterflies

Copyright © john beharry | Year Posted 2013

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Melancholy Sunrise

Darkness lays awake,
waiting upon her breaker.
The one that lies upon her and whispers to go,
leave behind nothing that you covered with your soul...
Yet she knows she does not need to hear these words
to initiate her departures; she could velvet herself 
and ghost over the world so simply.
like a cloth dip in red wine; enveloping the color,
but not savoring the need of intoxication.
She stays
wanting to feel his warmth,
wanting to feel his glow over her body,
that truly in a way, makes her disappear,
for the world forgets her till she comes again.
and again
and again
torturing herself, for every ray of light cuts her skin,
but she is not masochistic.
Why does she stay?
Why does she endure?
He's coming, slowly over her...

He Rises.
Rises in such an ill manner, That you would think
he would give up an descend once more.
once more so he could ponder and wish;
all more to the dreamer that stays asleep in his wake.
How he wants to be one of these creatures that get to roam
inside her skirt, laugh between her legs, and rest upon her bosom.
so much of it heat rises, why he still feels the need to cry...
He feels her fleeting, 
never ever seeing her, her known only by his touch.
His eyes stay close needing, pleading, seething,
just to see 
just to see her
He stands fully now and the world is smiling,
but he is not.

Copyright © Jessica Arteaga | Year Posted 2010

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Man Style

by:  Eric L. Boddie

A man's style
Can initiate a woman to smile
As well as inspire the Life of a child
At the same time, it tames that which was wild
And you know it will never show denial
It's always lame, flame or mild
And each time it's witnessed, it stays on file
Because it flows a distance with more miles than the Nile

So always remember that the style of a man
Whether he is light, dark or only slightly tanned
Can be the determining factor in if he will stand
In the space where a bride and groom are hand and hand
Or if he stakes claim to a piece of land
Either in the valley, on the hills or next to the sand
Because it has a role in determining his plan
It's how he will be remembered....I hope you understand
It's Man....Style

Copyright © eric boddie | Year Posted 2017

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Chronic Pink

~~Chronic Pink~~ 
(Parents Peril * The Nightmare)

Evil sits and whispers - sweet lullabies
Chimes within my head,
Damnation scratches at my conscious
Of what was and is!


Water runs down my toes
Rain taps at my windowpane
A fear; I relive my childhood days
~~Dark April showers bring in a chronic look~~
Motions before daybreak, to face a colorless what!

The trickle of musty wind meshes under my skin
The panic begins to initiate the voices
Unstable - a gash of blood fills the mind


Dark feelings pollute the inside my head
Visions of slitting my wrist from end to end
My  subconscious betrays my sanity
Praying is what got me through the dark-mares.
I held my own hand that very night
Telling myself it would be all right



Walking down the narrow hall
The Chimes, the Chimes!
Snapped into a moment of crime
The trail of Sweet lullabies came from my parent's room 
Shhh!!! Hush now, *humming to the evil chant*
Whispers of dust whisk through the air
I grab the envelope opener, 
My heart pumps, piercing each neck
One by one, they look up -IT WAS ME-
A demonic child’s laughter erupts
A Chronic Pink look

Pacing off the bed
What have I done?

Cries of nothing led me back into my room.
There and only there, water sits under the sheets
The emptiness in my head was the sign of complete
Falling asleep to the quietness around the room
Waking up to, the parents peril sight every night

My subconscious holds no sympathy
To: relive the same chronic pink memory
AGAIN- I begin to hear the sound of scratching violins
Where dreams of demons wear pink


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012

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The Race

Pistols shoot
and rifles unload
thunderous banters
initiate the race
she dives
into the Mekong River
stealth head start
she leads amongst the pack
of four boys and three girls
paddles faster than catfish

other swimmers dive
chasing for the finish line
the Thailand border
no one trains for this race
many do not know
how to swim
instincts ignite energy
in their arms and legs
signals their brain to
pick up the skill
on the spot

splash into
murky depths
greeting a timezone
between breath
and drowning
some legs fail to flap
some racers sink
and one boy gives up
swims back to Laos
the rest continue
down to Paiyanag's home
death cries with people

either bullets pierce their
flesh or the
water filling lungs

100 meters
200 meters
400 meters
her Olympic debut
two hours long
she peeks ahead
sand and shore
on the horizon
her feet do not give up
her hands
cup away whispers
to submerge beneath the Mekong
she ignores temptation
to call it quits
the finish line waits at
Nong Khai refugee camp

no one cares
where they place
first or second
or last as long
as their knees can
sink into dry earth
rather than their corpses
be fish food
she crawls
out the Mekong River
looks back
at her homeland torched
ammo shells whizzing
no audience present

no cheers

no celebration
only the moon
and the stars
watching her
tracking her velocity
until the finish line

her medal for winning

a new Life

in America

Copyright © Krysada Phounsiri | Year Posted 2016

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Life Beyond

                              Life Beyond.

Being in love allowed her to listen to her heart today and enter 
willingly into the outside world that is full of life & love. It will allow
her to face her fate before its to late.

Being in love allowed her to create an imagination to initiate her
identity and appreciate her destined lover no matter how much 
she`ll debate oppose engage or calculate she will rejoice to have 
a life with him.
Being in love will allow her in the future not to refrain her 
destiny allow it to move on its own rate as worry anger and hate 
will not exist only joy with her worthy lover will allow the snow blow 
them towards each other to embrace their effortless love.

Being in love will depend on how she will regain her
sovereignty nourish her heart to turn towards her
ideology idolize her creativity applaud and welcome an 
appeal to become two persons of steel as she wouldn't 
want to die alone around a fountain only with the sound 
of the water drops. 
Being in love will allow them to walk to the end of the 
bay find a bank to stay distinguish the thousands of stars 
watch over them as a life beyond can still feel 
and look beautiful.

Being in love will allow her to ask herself if she can take the 
chance to grow up fast have the power of their love lead 
them to that mountain peak build that home to spend 
their endless nights in love with the stars above. 

Being in love will allow them to run towards their dreams 
show everybody how powerful they become when in love 
surrender to their souls throughout the night when they do,
they will never hesitate but long to belong to spoil each other 
listen and feel how they could find a way to satisfy their needs 
with yearning eyes and tremendous respect.

Being in love tenderly she will whisper what a gift they
are to one another they will adore each other they will feel 
how they could discover each other and look forward for a 
future together never to leave as both of them now cant 
ever survive without one another including the blazing
stars straight towards them from above.
Being in love and not wait to allow their souls walk together 
hand in hand during that long journey, talk words of love 
words to fill their own desires words that can never be replaced 
being in love will allow them not to leave a trace to be found
for a while to become lovers with a strong passion enlace 
their bodies to live the beyond as one.

Once they get older they will give up their last breath 
while breathing each others names.

 Therese Bacha                               

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

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Understood Silence

When you try and speak there are things you cannot say
It is as if the strongest winds carry your words away

Yet still, your eyes captivate inside of mine
Even without words, I can read the unspoken sign

Your silent thoughts flow through my intellect inevitably
And your hushed phrases are still spoken quite eloquently

For days it seems, we've stood face to face
Breathing the same air, taking up the same space

But every time I reach out to touch that face, you try to disappear
Pulling back with every inch as you begin to hide in fear

These minutes have grown slower and at a drastic rate
It is starting to seem as if your mind is beginning to dissipate

It's harmless for you to converse with me, through grand and grave
Take those first steps and initiate with me, be brave

Just hold on to my hands and you will feel it, too
I will show you how to be colorful, instead of black and blue.

Written on September 3rd, 2016 and posted on September 4th, 2016.
By: Michelle Corbin

Copyright © Michelle Corbin | Year Posted 2016

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I've been to many places.
     Seen so many things.
This is where I'll stay, my friends,
     Where the bell of freedom rings.
But let me tell a story,
     Of bells in other lands.
And how they cracked and crumbled,
     From the weight of tyranny's hands.

Built with truth and honesty,
     Ringing pure for years.
The people were the sovereigns,
     Their status very clear.
But then the tone was changing.
     A few were quite upset.
Understanding government
     Can be their greatest threat.

The servants said, "The tone is off!"
     "We'll fix it if we can.
We'll initiate a bureau
     To carry out our plan,
And tax you just a little more
     For work that must be done."
The timbre slowly getting worse.
     The process had begun.

The people were oblivious
     To changes being made.
The bell was slowly cracking
     And higher taxes laid.
A private corporation
     Controlled the currency.
The gold was taken from them
     Along with liberty.

Soon the people asked for help,
     They could not stand the weight.
The bell was falling swiftly,
     To be destroyed, it's fate.
And they became the servants
     That swept up the remains,
Of the bell that fell on hallowed land
     And truth that it contains.

The thought of being sovereign?
     For a few, a memory.
But most do not remember 
     Of ever being free.
They struggle, and the simple things
     Are now a luxury,
And those that pull the puppet's strings,
     Control their destiny.

Copyright © Robert Nehls | Year Posted 2014

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Inquisition poetry 101

I stopped to stool siphon sip on a cool blue 
circumstance in the means between the in 
times loath listening to complacent
poetic prostitutional practice of stir my friends 
ego echoes doing the same f. u. c. k. e. d.
favor dance for me whenever my I/ego envy enter 
exists your contra content littered with
manic moronic mentaloronic maladies
of entrance entrocities. Lining words
pentamhextamater, of rich rhyme, cleaveage crotch
clearance, colic c.u.n.t. coffure
frantic fascist frames, abounding with 
wok out at me sillo sounds
composite of cruel crisp compound
cumulo capsules of I, me, mine
mousy miniscules in dreamy drop
lovelorn lostlusts learned
limitations lauded longevity in living
linguistic liquidlovelorn light
leaking lanterns, which bequeath spewing 
in bitch broth biscuted breveties catching 
lucid laminated word wornwastes 
catagorical crass. Leave wail/wall 
wallet inadequacies enough alone any analog yet tackless 
trash white talent to ergo the less a nominal negress and opt for a 
sporadic spittle spindle of annotated attack seeing a new personal
your poor prowess less than dodah duh, Po a tree? Nimnul junk gite.
So, my wordful children of BS, when writing yr so called pitypoetry,
devoid of dream dance diminutives coinciding correctly with wrenching wraps
of prostitutional ponder relentelessingly revealing a rapture 
of vast vile emoelements of comprosotory 
composites of fecalfroughtfrightfolly of fantasies in 
poet emeritus of urineyourns  a 3 way stretch non nobel poetlorietsupreme
goodfistingluckwiththatcrap;therefore u either play the game or 
risk reside in the zombie aperature camera obsecura word death orbit; therefore 

Assimilitate before u ass umulate, 
Build before u bridge buldge
Concentrate before u cumulo capsulate
Decide before u dildo dick tate
Engulf before u evo enevelop
Fragment before u fracture fantasize
Grasp before u geno germinate
Hallucinate before u hasty hippocrate
Initialize before u initiate
Jackulate before u Jillulasm
Literate before u laud luminate
Mentor before u mirror menstruate
Nurtuate before u neuro negate
Obliviate before u oogle obligate
Postulate before u priest present
Question before u quotionent quest
Recreate before u radical resonnate
Saturate before u semen sacrlidge
Tintalate before u trick translate
Utilize before u usurp ugly 
Victory before u vile vanquish
Want before u willful waste
X-turn right @ W follow the X signs
Yuletides before u yell yeildtides
Zeusotide before u zonk zerozilchotones. 

Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2013

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A pageant of hued flappers drapes the air, where maiden butterflies awake upon fresh tunes gliding in crystal winged sensation: how beautiful they are, enough to initiate my own spring of rebirth as April endows this hint of childlike wonder: my breath emerging while rafters explode in velvet glow… tossed petals unfurling their limbs while monarchs circle along ovules with flamenco swings, so luminous. Much like this season they are born from, rustlings weave a glazed ascent in radiant pirouette of joy: I encounter a different scene, a different potion of life through this moth-like shimmer from laced nights: at last, spring’s bosom is decked in flickers that my own awakening yields to this cycle’s homage for butterflies’ swift magic : tassels waltzing… until their charmed life- spans are done. For Rob Carmack's Screwed X111 Contest Resubmitted 4/25/2016

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016

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Games We Play

Yang, dear.

Yes, my lovely Yin.

Why do you map Game Theory
onto EcoFeminist Political Theory?
It comes across as either just confusing
or, even worse,
vaguely sexist.

How sexist?

Well you seem to associate competitive ZeroSum WinLose
with strong aggressive patriarchal effectiveness
for defending and conserving health and safety.
These are rational strategic choices for the real guts
of our ego- and anthro- and national-competitive survival;
while Yin is more of the nurturing cooperativist Mom
who has her matriarchal place in a WinWin domestic economy,
but speaking cooperative nurture to competitive power
sounds like patriarchally dominant Business As SexistUsual
to me.

I can see that,
but it does miss my more encompassing Yang/Yin nondualist intent.

not if you substitute Patriarchy/Matriarchy for Yang and Yin,
co-arising respectively
as Original Cause
and Original ReGenerativeEffect.

I'm not sure I can explain 
why I see EcoFeminist Game Theory
as nonzero-sum optimizing WinWin 
and why that, in turn,
unveils nature-nurture slow-growth resonance,
and therefore evolves regenerative-matriarchal-reverse-hierarchical, re-cyclical therapy
for a too patriarchal 
too competitive 
Yang-means-NotYin Business as Capitalist-Elitist Usual,
WinYang to LoseYin 
zero-sum ecopolitically long-term degenerative history,
embedded within Earth's larger RNA Yin/Yang WinWin
phylogenic development of EarthTribe's her-creationstory.

Then why bother with it?
If you can't deductively explain why it is therapeutic
then how could your way of seeing Game Theory
through a bicameral-feminist lens
actually be therapeutic,
even for yourself,
with your deductivist-reductivist rational exclusionary ways.

Because I am nothing without co-arising you.
As bipolar opposites,
in a WinLose survivalist world,
neither of us could be Yang empowered
or Yin nurturing.
Only in our dipolar appositional co-arising WinWin world
of self/other-regenerative evolutionary development
can we find RealWorld RealTime Yang-Left BodyMind with Yin-Right MindBody
more passionately trusting our ecopolitical choices
than when Yang merely overpowers Yin.

Maybe yes,
maybe no.
Your description of how Earth regenerates cooperative,
more than degenerates competitive climates of pathology,
does not move me toward prescriptive therapeutic passion.

I was listening to a feminist writer
speaking of why she is uncomfortable with being labeled as a feminist.
She was clear that, for her,
what feminists are against is Patriarchy,
which is not the same thing as being against men.
What she explicitly stated feminists cannot do
is speak truth to power with and about what all feminists are for,
what all feminists would nurture and grow and regenerate.

For me, and for Game Theory, I suspect,
feminists are for nurturing cooperative global WinWin empowerment
of individually restorative minds with bodies,
of all Earth's LifeTribes,
of Mother Earth as icon of healthywealth cooperative fertility.

WinWin NonZero-Sum is our larger cooperative nurturing womb
of long-term, multi-generational, multicultural development,
while WinLose Zero-Sum competitive YangDominant survivalist evolution
is reserved for extraordinary
EitherWinMore Now Or LoseEverything Later 
short-term strategic necessities,
to minimize anti-pathic losses and optimize cooperative-democratizing empathic trust Wins.

Tell me again why you are so sure WinWin cooperative equivalence
is Earth's larger regenerative history,
while WinLose is Yang's more short-term survivalist
and other-degenerative-negative may be OK with me, 

Let's try this:
Anatol Rapaport's regenerative-reproductive-reiterative longevity
within a game environment permitting both WinLose competitive,
and WinWin cooperative, bilateral choices,
called Tit for Tat,
always wins every game played
every transaction co-invested
every relationship mirror-passioned,
to only go WinLose
when your RightNow-Other played WinLose selfishly last round.

Corollary: Never defensively initiate WinMore to LoseLess.
If your default setting is always choose WinWin equivalency,
except when meeting a prior WinLose Dominant EgoCentric player 
against your mutual reiterative equivalent-cooperative memory
and future-anticipated regenerativity (embodied restoration).

If everyone chooses WinWin equivalency
every day
in every ecopolitical game and relationship,
then WinMore to LoseLess players disappear
within a perpetually regenerative
restorative rights-equivalence game
of both matriarchally cooperative mind and body
Left and RightBrain co-owned and governed
for EcoFeminist/EgoMasculine EarthRights Equivalence.

NonZero Game Theory,
compassioned and nurtured WinWin bilaterally reiterative default
is also BothAnd "Right Brain" appositional thinking,
where Zero-Sum WinLose Game Theory
is EitherOr Left(PatriarchalElite) Brain Dominant,
oppositionally defiant.

So, NonZero-Sum WinWin Yin/Yin
and ZeroSum LoseLose Yang/Yang
equivalent plays
and her-culture/histories regenerate the longest?

And that's what domestic-within ego/eco-empowering Matriots
share with more Yangish AntiPatriarchal EcoFeminists.

We are all WinWin for EarthTribe's nurturing-flow
of cooperative-restorative ecopolitical Matriarchal/Patriarchal 
not quite so much Yang/Yin,
Global Health and Safety

Well honey
just turn your frame around,
so Matriarchs are, as they always have been, Original Causes,
after all we do carry the regenerative babies,
while the Patriarchs are just another pair of Yin/Yang
Original ReGenerative Effects.

Isn't that a little like interpreting the Intent of Democratizing Constitutions,
as Originally Caused by our ForeFather's Mothers?

I doubt those who signed these diverse cooperative intentions
for our collective health and safety
also intended to bite the hands that embryo-fed them.

That does seem rabidly LoseLose unlikely,
now that you mention Original Nurturing Causes.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

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Circle of Life Six Words

demise in autumn, initiate new beginnings.

Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2016

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Endangered Trailblazing

Endangered Trailblazing
                                  by Odin Roark

Astride his father’s shoulders,
Like a double decker bus,
There was always what his father saw,
And the child’s gaze beyond.
They learned together
What their senses taught them of reality.

There were so many hills his father climbed,
The boy seeing what was ahead on horizons,
The father focused on firm footholds,
Following trusted forest imprints,
Relying on tradition’s habitude.

This father is long gone now.
This boy of shoulder wonderment
Has grown wise of rugged tracks
Leading to this day.

The day…

A stormy December afternoon
Staring through a digital lens
Atop a mid-town observation deck,
The boy now a man
Stares outs across a skyscraper landscape,
A winterous tundra his father never had to pioneer.

Realizing the Now of navigating
Relies little on the primitive tracks,
When plant,
Parts of the undeniable whole
Determined shelter and food,
Life and death.

The oft missing essence of success,
Impacts little of today’s aspiration,
Whose awareness respects not learned footprints,
Nor hardened determination
To stay true to a right direction,

All too often
Success honors but bushwhacked obstacles,
The opportunity to conquer any and all,
The razed aside,
Inert and live,
Banished and dead,
Leaving many to query
What lens can sharpen that which isn’t there?

Today’s existence is but yesterday’s ethereal presence,
Once preceded by integritous footholds/handholds,
The resplendent oneness of nature’s vast inner-connection,
Now all but buried beneath
A stumbling culture’s duplicitous stepping stones.

Tracks lead precariously to penthouse suites
Where an eagles nest is but a Britannica reference,
A redolent library book of often ignored history
Reminding a father’s boy
Staring through glass-layered revelation
That decisions need pondering past momentary reward,
That Nature’s swirling white layering the once wilderness of discovery
May be foreshadowing avalanche forces
Unrestrained in their ability to bury man.

Pulling his eye away from the telescope,
He considers a wind gust
Lifting snow daring not to confront the ground,
Choosing instead to swirl,
To levitate with perhaps man’s exhausted currents from below,
Struggling to rise through waning memory,
Trajectories of so many devoted fathers
Trusting honest trailblazing would never disappear.


Like the cyclic snows from on high,
Rising temperatures initiate their own revolution.
Endings return to beginnings
Nullifying load and weight.

Time’s undaunted sagacity knows
Once civilization’s latest aspiration expends,
Creation knows no better
Than to invent new trails,
New boys on father’s shoulders,
Tomorrow’s then and now…

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2014

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When you first initiate the ''love'',
you cant sleep without calling and
texting that one person. You
suddenly render everyone else a
little less important. Your days just
got brighter. You love your
boyfriend. You love that girl and in
your minds, you've found your soul
 mate. But where does it all go
wrong coz am sure nearly everyone
 has a sad love story to tell. ''all he
 wanted was sex'' ''he couldn't give
 me attention'' ''she's a gold
 digger'' ''she cheated'' ''he's a
 childish flirt'' ''i thought i knew him
 or her'' the reasons are plenty.

GENERATION. We believe in learning
 by doing. Most relationships are
 only existing because of the
 ''physical benefits''. Desire is the
 driving force. As a result,
 selfishness and insecurity are glued
 to the relationships.

We believe in calling and texting as
an expression of love, trust and
faithfulness as compared to
physical company. Social media is
the source of relationships. We chat
 day in and out about everything
 such that when we meet, we do not
 have anything to talk about. Now
 after the blissful moments of
 intimacy, you start feeling like its a
 prison. You do not have anything
 more to say. If its a guy, you go
 back to social media to hunt again
 leaving her heart broken.

We are the classy generation where
 physical appearance is considered
 more than emotional maturity. The
 ''beautiful'' girls are hard to get
 unless you drive or can sponsor her
 hair. They love the rich kids who
 love their bodies. Church guys or
 girls are called boring. You must
 have ''swag'' to date someone.

Programs have replaced passion.
Love is highly mechanical and
nudity is called art. We nolonger
follow the heart. Its just a matter of
 time for it all is a slow fade. Its a
 ticking time bomb. 

Does anybody
 here truly love? Please teach me.

Copyright © fred kanshamba | Year Posted 2016

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do i dare

Do I dare?
As years passed, I continued to wonder
Haunted by a silent question
Buried at the back of my head, is a lifetime quest for answers
Lurking in my subconscious, Is a lifetime of shadows
Masked in deep shaded silhouettes 
Caught up in a maze of illusions
A space were pieces of my life laid buried
Loaded with decades of uncertainty
What do I dare to call him?
The one I know only from memories
Like a ghost, he roams behind closed doors
Exists in a parallel universe
Masquerading in my dreams
Disappears and appears at random times
I had worshiped him, and his unwillingness to conform
Fascinated by his magic tricks
Abra cadabra, he vanished just as quickly
Snatched away by the world of the unknown
Never really knew him, acquainted only with his visage
He lives in my fantasy land
What should I call this man?
He remains a mystery
He with no care in the world
The first to initiate me into the grownup world of heartbreak
To teach me of unbearable sorrow and disappointment
It is he that brought me great despair
Partook in my bearing, but showed me no mercy
He wounded me, preparing my heart for a long battle ahead
Stealing my precious childhood
As I spend my life’s journey walking on splinters of broken glasses
Like a wounded soldier, I bore old scars
With bible verses, scripted on my soul
I now thread carefully through life, running away from all that reminds me of him
Struggling to leave his shadows behind
As I now embody his vile illness
With a heart that has turned to decay
Do I dare call him father?
He took advantage of my innocence, toyed with my vulnerable nature
He is the cause of my masked loneliness
Like a wet sponge, I had absorbed his ways
Floundering through life like a mythical creature
Blundered by his lies and broken promises
And all I was seeking was his validation
But in his absence he deemed me unworthy
For so long I kneeled as he ordered
Like a gospel, I followed his every command
Yet, he constantly broke the vows he swore to keep
Do I dare call him father?
The man whose heart had grown as cold as stone
He that watched me wither away to his very eyes
As I made my slow fall from grace

Copyright © Rebone Masemola | Year Posted 2014

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My Roots

My Roots

As dark as charcoal-as dark as rich soil of Africa -
Is the core of my traditional and beliefs – it’s obscure
Knowing that deep beneath my skin, soul and spirit is hidden the lineage
My unborn children and the forgotten ancestors–I cry and search for 
The battle between my ancestors and my offspring is exploding within my soul
Ancestors are battling and asking –will your children remember us, our names
Pardon me, your seer of spirits and custodian of our culture–chant to ancestors  
I beg you to utter to this generation the ancient path to our ancestors 

You that lay beneath my skin – you that runs in my veins 
Speak to me grandfathers, how did express love to your wife
Grandfather what was the root of your faith and how did you pray - 
Before the white man told you who your God should be – please initiate me
It will be outrageous if my children will perform rituals to the god of this modernization
Grandfather what was your secret of longevity–this generation is perishing prematurely 
What was the root of your morals and how did you humble yourself before your architect 
Did you also share the calabash of good traditional wine to your neighbors because -
 I live in a greedy and selfish generation, who would even poison their neighbor to get everything 
I beg you; you bear of children-utter to this generation the ancient path to our ancestors

 Our roots will not revive or remembers themselves – unless we chant them
Who cares in this careless age – no roots just rotten, no fears just fictions –
I care so much of my roots, traditions, beliefs – so I dig deep within so I may feel related again
Your children will not remember you if do not teach them to value your roots and beliefs
Sit around the fire, sit around the dinner table, tell them your roots, your identity and your pride
I can hear my father, grandfather and great grandfather saying my son certain things are worth not forgotten – they are like tree leaves and roots that will heal your running stomach
It is a taboo to ignore what will sustain your society morality, values, ethics and beliefs
 I beg you; you bear of children-utter to this generation the ancient path to our ancestors

By Anthony Ngabwe (Tony The Poet)@2015

Copyright © Anthony Ngabwe | Year Posted 2015

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Oh, damn,  I get it nowhowbrown sow-----that to be accepted on this site you 
need to be
the FATTED cow. Low of intellect, yet high on countenance, high on payment 
and low on quality! Please forgive my lowly louse langiuse as I plead my 
pleb pirrah poetic case in cause $$$$ celeb. RFR? do u take up the capitalistic 
crotch clause that payment is prose promised to a clueless culture climaxing in 
its own caustic circumsized circus?
Such fecal findings from finger felonies that use words for regal renderings 
reveal navel nauseous nevertheless nothings negating numbing thimble thoughts. 
Try and 
get a regal reckoning of rational corporeal capacities before u igno initiate your 
psuedo poetic prowess upon this site-------free of charge if u have half  brain
and your wallet in awash in ego endless endeavors that u unengage in urine
intrepid word worn passages of I think I can, when u really can't sorry u suck, 
and retry your gloomy gumption as to the positve anal retention given cause u r a 
paid prosti soup sister,broth brother, no talent intended. Dreams given an expired 
expertise that end clauses into a missed used muse of integral ignorant id 
intentions. Sorry for our/your word worn wishful wisdom and not my fault that I can 
crea command anall allowance of alphalbet antiques, amiable and accountable in all 
annotomical acquired acquatinaces' as you try and make memorable in and of you 
sorry, silly, shallow, socialized self, again 
no pun intended. Ridicule not want not with not why not get not not. Prelude 
your relative innane imagary and sequester your inability to that which is stiffled 
well within and garb your you grievance by the gonads, look interpresent and fail 
follow yourcreep  mismatched mirror of what u compel that works. Call me, I'll tell u 
what's what that's that, it's it, nots not and snot is snot. Go blow. 

Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2014