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Long poem by JW Earnings | Details

Constructive Critism

There's consequences in all we say and do 
Go forward and walk your walk and I'll go ahead and talk my talk 
Quite distraught due to the fact that you're too good to be true
I know that the Lord of Accord will be following me like my shimmering shadow wherever I walk 

I will walk and walk
And I will talk my talk 
I will practice what I preach
To the pupils, I will teach

Pensive propositions is my speech's mission 
Honor and think through Constructive criticism
Cleverly-written composition begin to slightly transition 
Take correction not for granite...with optimism that is symmetrical like a puny prism 

Free-spirited I long to be 
With you as long as I thrive to wondrously live
I want to flee and be set free
Let go and have consideration to generously give 
Be anxious for nothing 
Love all and do your thang
God's spirit is available to us 24/7
I always make my way to 7-eleven 

Doing away with the latter days of my lament 
Live in the present of yesterday's tomorrow
My mind constantly whirls around like a hurricane near the beach and tornado in the east side of the United States - my mind is cozy in God's tent 
Repenting slowly, but surely until sorrow is a healing scar that flies away in recovery like a splendid, spunky sparrow 

Hooking up problems I need to fix 
At least I don't receive a million kiks
Tweet me, Facebook me, tumblr me...insta me...younow me...
But I'll still be lonely as can be 
Fruit of the spirit drives me to drift away from deception's flow that's broad and deceiving 
Faithful and loyal with dignity and positivity is what I crave in my character of behave-and-be-brave...
Self-control braces itself upon my inner being and I accept it kindly 
Patience paints a picture of peace in the frame of my mind silently 
Human nature
Is enmity to God that is evil and impure 
It leads to death I'm sure
God's way - the way of life at least in my humble opinion, which will be a fact in the near future 

It's okay to be different
It's alright to be working on perfection 
As long as you repent
For all the downfalls and sins we've committed that gave you inner infection 

Reveal to me His spirit and the life it produces fruitfully
Zealous is the sun that shines upon me oh so dutifully 
Gracious be to the sons and daughters of Him who has made the world so beautifully 
Until Satan tainted it with sinister avarice and insidious, chaotic catastrophe 

Quit your disputes and quarrels and arguing alike
Stop trolling people on the net...or you'll have something to regret 
Listen to instruction 
Accept correction 
You choose destruction or construction 
Do you want His amazing affection or His raging rejection!!?

Foundation of faithfulness
Goes to the called ones in God's family alone and He is the Father we look upon 
Obliteration of misery's mess
Come on and follow me...I will be your responsible leader from now on

I want knowledge from God
From on high, not down below in Satan's Despising Nature
People just ignore and nod
Approach people in the nicest way and react, act and think good thoughts and good actions and interactions that are grown-up and mature 

Need I proclaim my beliefs to all the world, Lord?
Should I explain myself constantly? What's my award? Reward?
What if I commit sins that I can't afford?
I hoard shame in my brain basement, but you played skillfully on the I-forgive-you keyboard 

There's a reason behind what God does
Do not remain blind or deaf 
The spirit of stupor is splendid to my human nature....and its faithless flaws
I don't understand your plate's creativity, my chill chef 

God selects His special chosen one
He sees the nature and character of each and everyone 
He is the guide to everlasting life that's full of blessings and miracles
But, my life is full of depression dungeons and mysterious black holes

Eat Christ's flesh and drink His blood of His Father's Wise Sayings and Life-giving Word 
You must abstain from lusts of your gullible, heartless hearts and your prayers will be heard
If you don't believe and betray Him for life,
Your life will end in jaded death and strife

I wish I can declare His Word to all nations 
But I get nervous and soft-spoken beyond frustrations and heightened hesitations 
I'm awkward... Why was I called in His church? 
Am I a bird that has nowhere to truly rest and perch?

Predicaments in double trouble dilemmas substantially produce like cells in the body
Free me, heal thee, I die for you to live...I live for you to die...your hard heart makes my softness wither with everybody 
Wide and broad are the path of many in this world of woe...and no one fully knows why 
Difficulty be to the few who choose the narrow route that leads to constructive criticism by Lotd Most High 

Once saved, always saved -
A belief originated in Christianity
I beg to differ - His saving grace has waved
Its effortless goodbye to Human's Atrocity 

Labor in prayer, don't swelter 
Work in love, sweat off hate and swear not
Be a giver, not a getter
Resist the urge to sin and persevere always, even in the darkness we rot

Discipline yourself
Through enduring self-control
Unlearn Satan's nature, as small as an elf
Compared to God's Giant Word that is a life tool to be rid of the fool inside us as a whole 

Doing evil will have its aftershocks sting us like a viper
It will shoot us down, so bite the bullet of the serpent's sniper 
I pray that I live in sanctuary city for the time being
I envy the happy-go-lucky and dislike what I'm seeing 

Drinking in the Lord's yoke,
Mixed with the Words He spoke
You bind me with a biggo blind fold
Your spirit's intention is to simply scold 

Faithful Moses parted the Red Sea
Miracles and curses shelter thee 
I never knew that my life was of significance
Until I noticed that everyone is living in ignorance

Except the called ones...
Faith that weigh a trillion tons 
Thank God for everything good
His word is a nourishing food

Emerge from the scorching coals and ice fire of your existence 
Transform yourself before you remain in ashes' realm...seek repentance 
The good news of the Kingdom of God is ringing in my ears
Wondering when it will be that day of awesome forever years

I will walk and walk
And I will talk my talk 
I will practice what I preach
To the pupils, I will teach

Fret not the desires on fire and the passionate petitions of your young heart 
Do not worship other gods before Him - Frey will fade away from the start
The gods of the east have come to get their revenge towards the gods of the east 
The battle between them is beast...it's like enjoying a feast of chaos and commotion and peace and emotion...but their attitudes puff up like the bread ingredients that includes yeast 

Inspired by (Matt. 7:13), (Matt. 11:29) and (Hebrews 11:24)

Copyright © JW Earnings | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Ian Love | Details

Song From Beyond The Stars part 1 The Approach

  [ story with context, a plausible universe with top and bottom
  a coat of cosmos covering
  over a subterranean protoverse of potential fields
  a quantum cellar creating
  the very big banging cosmos and much faster-than-light travelling
  a probable theatre telling
  of real possibility, fabulous overtures grounding deep base notes
  life insistent, intermingling
  incredible scenes playing out, coinciding with our own backyard
  exploring, ever evolving... ]

  exotic orb ? controlling dips between protoverse and the cosmos
  rationale ? many minds minding
  prime number composition ? seven million and sixty-one beings
  all but one, still soundly sleeping
  free-fall spirits just departed from a far-side galactic spiral arm
  slow rhythmic dance, dizzy dreaming
  sweeps inward around a massive black hole, gathering energy
  cosmic speedster, flung fast flinging
  protoversic drive to the suburbs, a myriad of stars invite
  gentle probe, meme-melder mixing

  juncture, reached in a blink, one-third across this beautiful galaxy
  ethereal form, flimsy fleeting
  mostly abolished space-time-matter, thirty-three thousand light years
  emerges, clever craft cruising
  no visible containment, just coherent rippling orb-like presence
  with background quantum quivering
  life slumbers on, networks calibrated, cells healed, new thoughts imagined
  aware now, senses slowly stirring
  as trusted "anticipator", open my eyes, feel alive again
  reinforced, companions cuddling

  functional, memory of last sojourn, full of miscalculation
  lessons learnt, wistful wondering
  warm memories flood in, tinged with sadness, as strange images disturb
  melancholic mood measuring
  constituent minds tingle and wriggle, more discomfort than pleasure
  not sure yet, jape jostle-jangling
  so move on, look forward to the glow ahead in the looming star-fields
  search renewed, filters fine-tuning
  our "scanners" primed to focus on bandwidths along the galactic plane
  narrow beam, selective seeking

  then...five sentient life-forms sensed, near a single mid-life yellow star
  unusual, babble buzzing
  three do not surprise, the fourth seems rare, the fifth is entirely unknown !
  alter course...busy bee-lining
  intrigued, "pilots" counsel caution, beneath the planetary orbits
  blind-side approach, closer creeping
  a stable solar system revealed, life is now clearly evident
  artefacts duly dispersing
  disparate group, crawling stellar-bound, unoccupied space vehicles
  their signals, home-planet pointing

  the originators ? large localised brain, upright body species
  on-board discs, human song singing
  gravity bound, oxygen breathers, not natural space-wayfarers
  but inquisitive, inquiring
  bimanual, bipedal, explorers of their planetary system
  peering beyond, looking, longing
  from double planet, third world, 8 light minutes out from the sun, named Sol
  locked embrace with smaller sibling
  planet of origin they call the Earth, two orbiting space stations
  many satellites surrounding

  our distraction suddenly broken...as in unison we shudder !
  pointed incoming beam bouncing
  not sure if breached ? if probe gained entry ? if we are violated ?
  strong feeling of gut-wrenching guilt
  as "anticipator", I failed to anticipate, who knows what risk !
  the rest respond, reassuring
  our "scanners" hastily replay the event, scan, as only they can
  narrowing down, sourcing, searching
  stable legrange-point, far-side of sun-earth gravitational system
  my "others" vent, much muttering

  we overshoot, then manoeuvre in, our approach, the sun shining behind
  defences up, our ship-shape shielding
  a lumpy rock, gravity secured, five light-seconds from planet Earth
  computing, communicating
  human instrument, scouring visible heavens for footloose danger
  otherwise barren, silence screaming
  but for warmed up dust-cloud, a hasty, eerie departure signature ?
  frightened frantic lift-off leaping ?
  slight wobbling motion on the rock, along with tell-tale surface abrasions
  interstellar interloping ?

  we feel exposed, nervous, rattled, we need more effective camouflage
  cozy collective counselling
  towards the blue planet, from behind sister Luna, they call the Moon
  options open, plan preparing
  note in our passing, dim human base-lights, near the far-side Earth margin
  light valley shafting, shimmering
  the beautiful one glides over the horizon, we are planet-struck
  recharging, pleasure powering
  a lucky break, covered by coincidental meteor shower
  exospheric, in-close curving

  updated report... humans, early-stage solar system colonisers
  gregarious globalising
  world-wide internet web, consciousness suspected, though not apparent
  worth revisiting, reviewing
  a mostly watery world with sentient planet-bound cetaceans
  from early epoch evolving
  landward, primitive, sentient hominids, related to the humans
  precariously persisting
  that's four of the five, still no sign of the vanishing, illusive ones
  harbinger, time turning troubling !
  so descend, past atmospheric spheres to a warm glimmering ocean
  slide in, only stealthy splashing
  diving down, light receding, pressure building, where there is time to think
  layers covertly covering
  our hidden presence and games we might play, maybe companions willing
  alien fingers finessing
  candidate creature, the largest-ever animal on this planet
  still living, still deep sea swimming
  a blue whale to wrap around with delicate ephemeral touching
  sharing thoughts and feeling feelings

Copyright © Ian Love | Year Posted 2018

Long poem by Justin Bordner | Details

The Light Of Reckoning -2

The Roman administrators came for the wealth of our worship
demanding that I crack the church's coffers wide open
for their needs, for the Empire's desperate embellishments,
in place of gold I presented the poor
I told the onery officials that these people of our Faith
were the profits of our labors, of our Light,
when they realized that our monies were out of reach
they reached for I and roasted me alive on this gridiron
my body blackened for the book of your love Lord...

I carry this timber of my torture in sublime humility
to testify not to you thy Christ,
but to reveal the tumultuous glory of our Family's gospel
to the multitudes that are now rising in wonder
at how far the Future sees into the Past,
at how well the Messiah reads hearts,
I was crucified on an X by request
because I believed in this very moment...

From the wilderness to the clear waters of martyrdom
I carried, and held the star of your Becoming,
you once asked me Jesus, what the voice of God sounded like
to which I said,
like truth walking upon smooth fire,
we both found the good fire didn't we,
and now the good fire has come to speak again...

You are not the only ones to speak to Father
Adam and I knew the spark of His love
and the weight of His wrath
when the sun was young
and judgement theoretical,
I am grateful to be here
many of my daughters are here with me
but I have daughters below too
their punishment pains me...

I remember when we buried our dead in secret
when our society was a prayer in the shadows,
I remember the awful yet awesome quietude of the catacombs
thinking to myself that every persecution
could put us one foot deeper in the earth
or would elevate us one foot higher to the heavens,
I tried to serve both Rome and the Christian Cause
as if I could satiate my body's impulses
while sanctifying my soul,
the Emperor discovered the design of my empathy
had me strapped to a tree where the arrows bled me...

As a girl in Alexandria the archives of the world
were at my virginal fingertips,
my father, the Govenor, said I was born with the soul of a scholar
and the touch of a tender teacher,
by the time I was fourteen I had a reputation
as a truth talker, a mind breaker,
summoned to Rome at sixteen
I humbled the haughty henchmen of tough tradition
with a taste for thunder and a case for Christ,
and when the Caesar put my supple body
upon this spiked wheel
my spirit it did not shred but instead
brought the cruel deep dread...

The cost of converting a king was my skin,
this knife taught me how salvation begins,
one swift slice at a time,
we must remove the pelt of vain pontification
shed the dead delusions of ignorant indignation...

I had the scriptures combed into my back
with these quills of insensitive steel,
after the pagan mob's frenzy was fed
and I lay in the dirt bleeding psalms
until the panic and pain in me passed away
I realized that I was not a victim of savage violence
rather, that I was being rescued and rewarded
for my heart's honest diligence...

The seals are snapped
the trumpets teething terrific tornados,
the Horsemen have hurried to the heights and the hollows,
Wormwood has awoken to the Whore's woe
Her tongue is scarlet, cut from the thorns of Her own roses,
Babylon is pregnant with the blasphemous Beast...

At the Last Supper you saw the suspicion in my soul
and the rooster did rile me for my wretched weakness,
I wept as if naked in death
but in your patient wisdom you knew that this searing shame
would serve to strengthen my will
that I would indeed become the fisherman of holy fire,
I went to Rome after your immaculate Ascension
took the Word straight to Nero
turned the smirk to a jerk
brought Simon Magus from the sky to the cement
and laid the temple rock on the spot,
take back the keys and show'em what's up...

Is this forever Jesus,
is this going to be forever my Son...

I am the Law of Love,
I am the living wrath of the Word...

You are Christ, the living Gospel...


This poem is inspired by, and dedicated to Michaelangelo Buonarroti's
Last Judgement fresco painted on the alter wall in the Sistine Chapel.
25 years after painting his Sistine ceiling masterpiece he came back
to create his own vision for the Christian prophecy
of the Second Coming of Jesus Christ and the ensuing Last Judgement.
The dramatic depiction is marvelous, fresh, divinely passionate.
There are more than 400 faces and figures
alive in this great work, which required six years to complete,
two more than it took for him to paint the massive ceiling.
Michaelangelo was 67 years old when he finished the masterpiece.
As with my poem, The Sprigs And Spirit Of Sistine, this composition
is intended to be coupled with the Last Judgement he painted,
to honor it, and to give the work Voice. To fully appreciate 
this poem one should familiarize themselves with the Sistine Chapel,
and to even follow along, image to image, body to body,
voice to voice so to experience the inspiration and spirit to a maximum.
I began composing this composition on May 7th, 2018,
and through the grace of Providence completed it on May 23rd,,
at 10:52 pm. Approximately 44 hours of intellectual labor
was invested into this work...Justin A. Bordner

Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2018

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

K373 and K374 of the THIRUKKURAL Translated with Commentary

K373 and K374 of the THIRUKKURAL: Translated with Commentary

The poet's name, THIRUVALLUVAR [Thiru = Sacred and Valluvar = the name of the priesthood caste of the « Pariah » (whom Mahatma Gandhi prefered to call "Harijans", "the children of God"), is very probably a misnomer. His name is sometimes followed by the collective title of « Nayanar », a term signifying religious Siva Bhakti poets and whose work had been anthologised first in the collection : TEVARAM by Nambi Andar Nambi of the Xth to XIth century CE. No one knows his real name nor his origins, whereabouts and birth circumstances.  G.U.Pope, one of the few great foreign scholars of Tamil, began his missionary work in the enclave of Mayilapur (meaning "the township/bourgade of peacocks" in the city of Madras/Chennai, during the nineteenth century) . The term « pariah » denotes something most derogatory, for in the Hindu caste hierarchical system these members of the lowest non-caste were treated as "defiled", not worthy of being seen or being found in their company, due to their having to handle corpses, serving  as "night soil men", employed in the tanning of animal skins and in other extreme menial duties and functions -- all considered "un-holy" by the upper castes]. Pope follows the claims of the popular tradition in thinking the poet lived and grew up there for there is to be found a temple consecrated to the poet in Mayilapur. Others like S. Padmanabhan and the Tamil Nadu authorities associate his name with Kanyakumari, the southernmost district of the Tamil peninsula on the strength of certain words in the Thirukkural which were in usage in the area during the first millenium of our era. Yet, others - Tamil Christians in the majority - wish him to have imbibed Christian doctrines and teachngs at the feet of the martyred apostle St. Thomas who was assassinated in Mayilapur, obviously in the first century of the Christ's existence. Pope and the great missionary translators and interpretors of the kurals, such as, D. H. Drew, John Lazarus, F. W. Ellis, the ilustrious Italian Beschi, the German Graul and the Frenchman Ariel -- all pay him their profoundest respect and admiration while drawing attention to the tradition of ethical maxims in other literary cultures to which Thiruvalluvar may or may not have had cognisance. As usual, as in all such cases, a good deal of myth also willingly gets spun, absorbed and perpetuated like the story of how he was the illegitimate issue of caste-miscegenation, that is, between a Brahmin father and a "Pariah" mother. 
I have already in my previous posts shown how complicatedly arduous it is to compose a "kural"in the venba metre, the most difficult of the Tamil prosodic structures. Add to this the plan and structure of the whole composition, and it will become evident that no one who had not enjoyed the highest literary and mental capacities could have authored this oeuvre. 
Even the language the poet used was free of "sankriticisms", the principal linguistic influence over other languages in the sub-continent. According to Pope, himself, the language of the kural is a product of pure high Tamil. For instance, Tamils everywhere today would use innumerable words of Sanskrit or of other origins in their spoken or written forms like "kobam" for "anger" or "sadtchi" for "witness", but in the kural the poet employs "vekuli" and "kari" respectively, words of Tamil concoction. 
I, for myself, am convinced he was, as I said earlier on,  "unjustifiably oppressed". In that case, how has his work survived the ages. That is because he outsmarted them all. I have my own « theory » or conjecture or deduction about it all. (T. Wignesan)
K373: nunniya noolpala katpinum marrunthen
           unmai arivee mikum

In subtle learning manifold though versed men be,
The wisdom, truly his, will gain supremacy. (Transl. G.U.Pope)
Although a man may study the most polished treatises, the knowledge
which fate has decreed to him will still prevail. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)

Even if one imbibes works from the most learned sources, knowledge that
is inherent* in him owing to fate will triumph (over the rest). 
[*in the sense of the inherited genetic code.]
(Transl. T. Wignesan) 

K374: iruveeru ulakatthu iyatkai
           thiruveeru thelliyar aathalum veeru

Two-fold the fashion of the world: some live in fortune's light;
While other some have souls in wisdom's radiance light. (Transl. G.U. Pope)
There are (through fate) two different natures in the world; hence the difference 
(observable in men) in (their acquisition of) wealth, and in their attainment of knowledge. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)

The nature of the world is such that fate provides some with the ability to acquire wealth and others knowledge. (Transl. T. Wignesan)

© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Donal Mahoney | Details

Caseworker, 1962

In 1962, I was a caseworker, not a social worker, in the Cabrini-Green Housing Project in Chicago. In that era, the difference between a caseworker and a social worker was simple. A social worker had a degree or two in social work and was qualified to work with the poor. A caseworker usually had a degree but not in social work. And a caseworker usually had too many clients to have time to do social work even if he or she had a social work degree and knew how to apply it. 

To be hired by Cook County Department of Public Aid as a caseworker in 1962, all one had to have was a degree in anything and the ability to pass a test. I passed the test and was assigned as a novice caseworker to Cabrini-Green, perhaps the “toughest" housing project in Chicago at that time. I was assigned to two high-rise buildings with 458 families. I remember their addresses as clearly today as the address of my childhood home. Some things one always remembers.

Being a caseworker in Cabrini-Green was not a job coveted by many. But I was fresh out of grad school, had a pregnant wife, and absolutely no interest in business where salaries, of course, were higher and “careers” potentially much better. I may not have had any training in social work but I really didn’t need any formal training to keep filling out and filing new forms for the many changes that occurred in the lives of the families in my “caseload.” 

There are many stories of clients and their lives that I remember because they are impossible to forget. But the one I remember best may illustrate why some "poor people," even today, 50 years later, fail to climb the ladder of success as many middle-class and upper-class families wish they would, if not always for compassionate reasons.

My story involves a young black man, married with two children, who managed to graduate from a local junior college despite living in Cabrini-Green. I happened to see a notice in the neighborhood posted by a major grocery chain looking for a manager trainee at its nearby store. A high school diploma was required. I thought my client was more than qualified.

When I went with my client to the store to make his application, I thought nothing about the workers, at least the ones I saw, being all white and the customers being all black. This was 1962 and that composition would have raised no eyebrows in most stores in the neighborhood surrounding Cabrini-Green. I still thought my client had a chance to get the job. He had a degree from a junior college, looked comfortable in a white shirt and tie, and spoke “white English” in public. He seemed very intelligent. 

I was probably about the same age as my client but I came from an all-white section of the city, home to blue-collar immigrants, and my father paid my college tuition. My client worked to pay his tuition and feed his family at the same time. Although I thought he would get the job at the grocery store, he never thought he would. But since I was his caseworker, he went along to fill out the application. Sadly he turned out to be right. And I learned a lesson that day that made a deep impression on me as a novice caseworker. 

I can only hope that things are different today, and to some degree I suspect they are. Qualified minorities do get hired in many situations they would not have in 1962. Times change, in some ways for the better but not always for the better. And some things remain stiflingly the same.

Over the decades since, I have often wondered what might have happened to my client and his family. I thought about him again this morning when his mirror image appeared as a news reporter on a TV station in St. Louis. The young reporter looked almost exactly like my client and talked almost as well as he did. The reporter, however, looked as though he knew he would get the job at that station in 2015. My client knew the grocery store would not hire him in 1962. 

In St. Louis now, black reporters and black anchors are not the exception to the rule, especially since the 2014 death of Michael Brown in one of our inner-ring suburbs, Ferguson. 

I imagine the TV station required the young reporter to have a degree and probably the ability to speak “white English” in public. How he talks on his own time is his own business. After all, I was able talk any way I wanted to when I went home from my job at Cabrini-Green. My kids used to say I sometimes slipped into my father’s Irish brogue when things didn’t go exactly as I had planned. At times I still do. Our roots are always with us.

Donal Mahoney

Copyright © Donal Mahoney | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Kai Michael Neumann | Details

Fragments United In

                                                                        Fragments United In Perfect Imperfection
And all the smeared colours unite into white

Fragmentation personified call it life
                                           broken shards razor sharp at the cutting edge
                        where darkness meets red pastel indigo’s crown too far to assemble
            smattered fracture to be launched from oblivion
                                    baptism of fire watered aired earth’s grounds

Call it madness the insanity of bedlam’s cosmos
                                awaiting healthy chaotic pandemonium
                                                 entropy topsy-turvy balance yoyo’s stagnation
                                                                the juggler’s explosion
Universal trapeze trampoline free falling 
                                                       on impact a pact with the devil which does not

Exist but for molecules here and there fused and divided 
              In haywire resolution for the shrapnel once smoothened 
                                   on the edges to nowhere
              soothes pike’s spikes and the scalpel’s bond 
                                          super glues quivering 
                               quakes in silence
The glass’ bits and crushed illusion of wholeness
                deluded schisms shibboleths trenches mental warfare
                           burst crumbled unison tar potted gold at the end of rainbow prisms
                                                                                                 blinding light assembled
                                             peaceful resolution in disarray acceptance
                            inter-webbed connected intermingled

Liberation freedom in acceptance
                en-storied en-lived enlivened 
                              antagonised synchronicity
                                            where life is narrated 
                                                  and all the little pieces are
When evening falls at dawn

                                                                    One story one life one body
                                                                                  one mind one soul my soul
                                                                                                                my mosaic                                               

Painted pained paned into a novel window
                                                        angle perspective
                                                            lens focus composition 
                                                                           beautiful concord

No more pieces’ disproportion 
                Convocation concocted congregating the dots 
                             in the puzzle called broken pieces the bigger picture 
                                          lies in bed with Chronos and Kairos 
                                                                  does not lie rather resonates
                                        salutes truth honest saltation the salt of
                                                                        my shallow sorrows
                                                    jumping at me from out of
                                the box with some
                                                    marvellous marbles created from scraps

All The Little Pieces Poetry Contest
                                             Broken Wings 
                                                      13th September 2016

Copyright © Kai Michael Neumann | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Cona Adams | Details

Handel's Messiah

A combination of Prose and Free Verse:

The most thrilling and inspirational piece of music ever to reach my 
ears is, without doubt, Handel's Messiah. I've never known anyone 
who could experience a performance and remain unmoved by this 
stirring composition. There is not a doubt in my mind that Handel 
was inspired by God's Holy Spirit while writing the brilliant oratorio. 
Since its first performance in 1742, Messiah has remained one of the 
most popular works in music. From all accounts, Handel was surely 
driven to push himself to the limit in its completion.

George Frideric Handel (1685-1759) was a German-born organist and 
composer. He was born in Halle and began taking music lessons at the 
age of seven. By the time he was 12, he was assistant organist at the 
Halle cathedral. As a youth, he had a typical Lutheran education, and 
began his work as a composer at the age of 18. Three years later, he 
moved to Italy and worked there for several years, becoming one of 
the most popular composers of Italian opera. He composed 46 Italian 
operas, over 100 Italian solo cantatas, 32 oratorios, and many other 
works. His anthem for the coronation of George II has been used for 
all subsequent coronations.  As an organist, he was considered without 

At the age of 27, he moved to England, lived in London until his death,
and is buried in Westminster Abbey. He was 56 when he abandoned 
opera and dedicated himself to composing oratorios. Messiah was the 
first, and was presented in a theater in Dublin in 1742.  Less than ten 
years later, blindness forced him to give up composing but he remained 
active. He conducted a Holy Week performance of Messiah the day before 
he died. It was told of Handel, that he was so engrossed in his work during 
the composition of Messiah, that he shut himself away in his study and 
would not come out until it was completed.  His housekeeper would bring 
his food on a plate, knock on the door, and set the tray on the floor. When 
she would return to retrieve the dishes, the food was invariably untouched.  
He felt the excitement of true inspiration, and the urgency of recording it. 
As he emerged, gaunt and unkempt, his eyes shone with an inner radiance, 
and he declared that he had “. . .seen the great God himself.” 
The power of this work has inspired millions since its first performance. The 
text is a collection of quotations gathered from the Bible by Handel’s friend
Charles Jennens. It illustrates the foundations of Christianity in a series of 
musical numbers that parallel the prophecy of Christ’s coming, his birth, life, 
death, and resurrection. The main reason for the popularity of Messiah lies 
in its glorious choruses, which display a variety of mood and technique.
 “And the Glory of the Lord” is a happy dance-like chorus in triple time. In 
“Surely He hath Borne our Grief's,” Handel portrayed grief with solemn 
rhythms and thick harmony. The thrilling “Hallelujah Chorus” shows Handel 
as a master of choral effects. 

This poem was inspired by reading about George Frideric Handel's passionate 
experience during the writing of Messiah.  

What's That I Hear?

The bells are ringing,
     listen, listen.
The angels are singing,
     do you hear?
They are telling the story
          once again.

The Son is exalted, exalted.

Handel's Messiah is heard
     in heaven, as always.
What a gift God gave us
     through one man,
          willing to listen.

Listen closely,
     listen with your heart,
          what do you hear?

Reference:  The Columbia Encyclopedia - Second Edition, 1950

Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Mario Vitale | Details

Poetic Art Pieces I

Ever so often you come across a composition that leads one to take flight.
In the distance their are corridors that lead to places of resistance,
transformed we will glow such as these writings have taken you.
to different places with various faces and situations in focus
Bless your heart as you read :

With Wings In Flight

look at the mere gaze of the Albatross
overhead, making a special appearance,
let go of any ambition...,

choose the day
nature's beckoning call
how the Tulip's fall

away from here
I shed a single tear
no reason for fear

all draw ever so near
pillows in the parlor
why do we even bother

all come up shorter
a new day's sun
celebrate with a bit of fun

all out on the run

(2) Siamese Cat

a tiff or a tat
the restless cat
steal away his hat
no turning back

(3) Lift up your heads

lying on your bed
lines are dull full red
got to get ahead
climbing to the peak

someone sprang a leak
not to mention the heat
we seek for shelter then find none
out on the run a bit of fun

call it what you will
lift up your heads
life is what you make it
get a cake and bake it

there's no real room to fake it

(4) Castle in my heart

a castle in my heart
to solely impart

a reason for being
the mute between the gait
some may call it fate
such as two lovers tend to wait

what is the case
make no mistake
in certain fate
reach with pen or ink

a beacon of hope
castle in my heart
with words to start
a laugh in the dark
(5) Freedom

freedom comes to those who wait

to stake your claim from outer space
the right notion to discern
another curtain turned,
shelter lies dormant

amidst it's beckoning plow,
a shoulder to cry...,
tear drops melt in your eyes
feeling to move ahead of the game
strike a tender chord of resistance

fain the fan of love
go deeper then ever before
it happened after 911
that drum roll of togetherness

a distant feather with no regrets
feelings of letting go
could have searched many years ago
time well spent in its flow

(6) The Rose

beneath the tangled weeds
there hides a rose
thick and radiating in it's light
a young lover grows very fond of it

caressed by a tender kiss,
melts fast with a parting wish
there's a sullen breeze naked in flight

that day is far spent forget the night
upon every situation there's an explanation,
a tug at nature's heart strings

coupled with a variation in a dream
love never forgets its second guess
are you forgetting ?
even secong guessing ?

start professing
love will wander from its distant shelter
no mere solitude

puts you in a mood
we hear the parade
a fight to embrace....

(7) Miles From No Where

onto a waiting heart
savor its brand

when to understand
take him by the hand

lead me on this distant land
awake the day

through a narrow path I will tred
a whisper out in the corridor

the spirits are using me
over the head below the trees

miles from no where

Copyright © Mario Vitale | Year Posted 2018

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Unquotable quotes: EVIL PEOPLE - VIIIL

Unquotable quotes : EVIL PEOPLE – VIIIL (42)

Animals (amphibians, reptiles),  birds, insects, dinosaurs and even imaginary beasts kill to eat. Humans for pleasure, pain and profit.

Evil people never think of Evil lest they feel remorse over whether the extent, duration and intensity of their acts wrought the mostest and the damnedest on the object(s) of their wilful designs.

Evil people never inflict harm on others unless it is to placate their gods. And their gods are always right, so say their prophets and their preachers. 

Crusades, conquests and colonizations are always under-written by the sacred commandments of holy texts rained down from above for the benefit of heathens only, for they are invariably the most devout.

Evil people never understand why the evil they wreak is not always successful nor productive –from their point of view – for they fear to step out into the open from out of the grip of their conditioned reflexes they were bound into from babyhood. They rather not – they will not – believe their gods can be less than the plenipotentiaries of the multi-verse pantheon, even if the revelations of present-day astrophysics and quantum mechanics were unknown to their gods and prophets at the time of the composition of the holy texts taken right out of the mouths of their gods. 

Evil people always feel invulnerable when they lay their lives down for their beliefs and convictions: god before country, country before caste, race before religion, religion before rights, club before cause, sperm before spouse, money before madness, airs before achievement, avidity before nudity, the party before parents, the House before home, profit before principle, the prophet before poet, violation before violence, the President before peasant, His Holiness before humanity…

Evil people always find happiness for the happy are those who are protected here-in and here-after by the powers that be.

Evil people know they are always right for don’t their leaders always remind them of their might.

The Seal of the Saviours always sits well on evil people provided they further his/their side every time they have fun at the expense of those born with less in their pockets or much less grey-matter behind eye-sockets.

Evil people always manage to stay afloat: watch how they gloat even in a leaking boat in the moat around their fortresses, far from the final departing coast.

Evil people earn merit by trampling on those who swear by no holy spirit.

Evil people all hate to be told they make no haste to read the texts of their ingrained faiths, nor that they take no vows to vie with other fellow louts. 

Evil people all dream of the day when their captains will call it a day to put an end to the melting mountains of ice by pulling the foolscap over their eyes.

Evil people all drink and belch in the faces of those without the wherewithal to be merry for they know they can sell their souls as a last resort for a thimble-full of sherry.

Evil people all put the blame on the nation for their trials and fibrillations of their  fabrications owing to the wheezing bag of bones in the name of the people prone to a measly existence.

The ancient Chinese classic of Change, the Yi Jing says: Retreat into yourself when you see evil people approach: they will go away by themselves.

But maxim 1073 of the classical Tamil treatise on Ethics, the Thirukkural, says: 

theevar anaivar kayavar avarumthaam
meevana seitholuga laan.

Evil people resemble the gods in that
They too may do as they please.

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2017   

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details

Week 3 - Brian's Poet Of Note - 'Richard Wilbur Part 2'

(5)   At the same time, the US was exploring space, and we were able to view the stars for the first time in space above the atmosphere. Earthbound telescopes have to look through miles of dirty air which distorts the images of stars that we see (this is why stars seem to twinkle) , so I refer to the air as an atmospheric blindfold that is burned up by spacefaring astronauts.
(6)   Early landings were at sea, and on at least one landing the astronauts were taken to a waiting aircraft carrier where the cooks had baked a 300-pound 'Angel Food Cake' to welcome them home. The aircraft carrier had thousands of people on board waiting to party.
(7)   Many 'religious' folk worried greatly in the late 1950s that NASA 'shooting holes in heaven' with its rockets might bring about the end of the world! I even wrote a poem about it! 
(8)   Space is not empty but contains millions of photons (a kind of sea) .
(9)   The human eye contains both 'rods that can detect weak light' and 'cones that can detect colored light when the light is stronger.' The color disappears after dusk because the cones are not sensitive enough.

    In any case, when I read my poem aloud to the class, both the Professor and all the English majors got suddenly quiet. It was the first time in my life that I had a strong sense of my potential as a future writer and a poet! I felt that all were genuinely impressed by what I had done! 

Imitation: A Creative Compliment? 
    Well, of course, there are different kinds of imitation. A simple one would be to strike the poet's name and publish the poem as your own. But of course, if you do this often enough you will get caught eventually.
    To write the same poem but change a few words, so it is not an exact copy would be another way to imitate. But in both of these cases, the intent is clearly to deceive others and where plagiarism rears its ugly head. 
     Foster Harris, a creative writing instructor at OU, wrote some books in the area of 'Writing To Sell' which are interesting, though perhaps outdated by now. Foster claimed that there are only a small number of actual plots available for writing a novel, less than ten as I recall. If that is so, then it certainly creates a problem for someone wanting to write an original work. He suggested to his students that they think of their writing as you would the weaving of a carpet. There are the supporting threads he called the 'warp' and the right angle threads he called the 'woof.' He suggested we think of the 'warp' threads as the plot, which while important play, mostly a supporting role. And then, there is the 'woof' which is the insight that you weave onto the warp. Your life education is what you get paid for (if you do!)   Ha! 
    Now my imitation of Richard Wilbur's poem is two-fold. I wanted to write a composition that would hang on his scaffolding and also be thematically similar, a sort of snapshot of what I see and love when I look at the earth. Is this plagiarism? I would say not! But loving imitation, yes, a heaping spoonful. Though I doubt that Richard would even see his poem in mine, I have no qualms at all about honoring him for his influence on me. Never-the-less, I would argue that this poem is clearly mine and not his. And I would love to think that he might love my work as much as I do his! 

****More to come!****

Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2017

Long Poems