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I am my Father's Son
They were gambling in front of the house. Manservants and pages bustled about Serving Suitors who just curse and carouse. Few mix wine with water. I heard one shout, "Clean down the tables with wet sponges! Rouse Yourselves! And when you've done that lay them out Again!" Some others carve mountains of meat. I’m almost ready to admit defeat. Then I thought I glimpsed Athena (disguised As a man) long before the others did. Sat among the Suitors I’ve long despised, I daydreamed of how my father would rid This house of these hopefuls. I was surprised At the images - horrible, vivid - The Suitors’ bloody bodies heaped chest-high Slaughtered by the king they’d sought to defy. As I sat brooding, I spied a stranger At the gate, and went straight to greet him there. Great Athena's stratagem to change her Appearance at first kept me unaware Of her divinity. For, the danger Of my being overawed was unfair. Faced with a mortal, I could be at ease And act without feeling I had to please. I said, “Welcome. You won’t believe how glad I am to see you. Come drink, eat, and tell Me the reason you’ve come - good or bad. Please, sit close by me so I’ll hear you well. My mother's Suitors upset me, I'm sad To say, loud and insolent. Drunk, they'll yell, Shout, and tell bawdy jokes. Just ignore it. For decent company, they are unfit.” At that moment, the great door opened wide And the noise of feasting and merriment Grew louder and reverberated inside. Four of my mother’s Suitors hellbent On having a good time sat down beside Me and the stranger. It was evident They’d drunk far too much from their boorish ways, Rough, tipsy voices, and their glassy gaze. One, Antinous, said, “What’s this? No music Dancing or singing? Where is Phemius, The minstrel? Tell him to play or I'll kick His backside! Tell him, I, Lord Antinous, Wants everyone to hear how artistic He is with a sweet song harmonious And pleasing. Get to it, Telemachus, Get him to sing. Don’t look so serious!” I nudged the stranger to edge down the bench To get away from these aggressive drunks And avoid breathing in the fetid stench Of their sour wine-soaked breath. Their beards had chunks Of vomit on them as they tried to quench Their insatiable thirst for wine. Each dunks His face in food bowls like pigs at a trough Gorging so fast that they splutter and cough. I whispered to the stranger, “What I say Is, though I don’t mind a little excess And feasting's cheap when you don't have to pay, There, in some dark uncharted wilderness May lie the bleaching bones - or perhaps they Grind to powder in the surf relentless - Of my father, Odysseus, long gone, Whose wealth these greedy vultures feed upon.” Another brute, Eurymachus, stood up. He staggered unsteadily on his feet. Swaying to and fro, wine spilled from his cup. Eyes bleary, face white as a laundered sheet, He bared his backside, wagged it like a pup, And farted. “I thought I’d give you a treat!” He said, in generous mood, his speech slurred Staring down at his friends with vision blurred. Lord Antinous giggled. “You are unfit To grace this respectable, noble place. That stink would curdle goats’ milk! I admit You’re daring in baring your bum. Replace Your face with your bum – there’s more hair on it! The barefaced cheek you show is a disgrace! I suggest you sit on your best feature You ill-mannered, uncouth, ugly creature.” Eurymachus retorted, “You're no Greek god Yourself, Antinous! Fair Penelope Will choose me over you - you drunken sod! And, I can say, without hyperbole, She'll be transfixed by the size of my rod When I hook her! What a catastrophe For her if she handles your tiny worm - She’ll not even notice it twist and squirm!” They guffawed and shouted, “More food, more drink! Bring more bread - and more meat - and much more wine - Lots - if you don't want us to cause a stink! Bring on the dancing girls! We need some fine Young maidens to be sent to us. Just think What we can do with those girls, boys! We'll line Them up take our pick, kiss them quick and grope!” To the stranger I said, “I’ve lost all hope. These brutes, sir, would pray for much longer legs - For no amount of pleading would save them If my father came back. They'll drain the dregs Of the last of the wine, spit out their phlegm, And belch foul breath smelling of rotten eggs, I fear, before then. We will never stem Rumours of his homecoming. But he's dead. Now, sir, tell me about yourself instead.” He replied, “I’m your father’s friend, Mentes, On a voyage, here with my ship and crew. Our fathers - your grandfather, Laertes, And mine, were good friends, as he will tell you. I came here because I've been told that he's Home - your father, Odysseus. Not true It seems. I know for sure he isn't dead. But he’s not on the mainland, that's what's said. Therefore, it’s more likely he's held captive. Strange thing - there is a voice inside my brain - So strong I know it's authoritative - That tells me he will soon be home again. Your father is clever and adaptive. Thus, even though he's bound with iron chain, He'll find some means of getting back home here. You are his son? I see the likeness clear.” Mother says I’m Odysseus's son, But it's a wise child that knows his father. I would prefer to be the son of one Who'd grown old upon his own land - rather Than of that unluckiest of men - none Disputes - King Odysseus. I gather My father's doomed to die captive or roam The seas. Either way, he'll never get home. When my father was here, life went on well. Now, we don't know if he's dead or living. It would be far better if they would tell Us that he'd died in battle. In giving Such news, they'd allow us to break the spell He's cast over us, and start forgiving Those who killed him. Then, I could build a mound To his memory and our line renowned. But now he's gone without a single trace. I inherit nothing but sad dismay, And it doesn't end with my grief, the race To marry my mother is on. Each day They eat me out of house and home. We face Ruin by them while they pretend to pay Court to my mother who cannot decide Whether she will or not become their bride. I’ll call a state assembly tomorrow. Lay my case before them, and ask the gods To help me. More in anger than sorrow, Bid the Suitors depart. Reduce the odds Ranged against me. Let my dear mother go Back to her father. If her nature prods Her to wed then he can give her away. I’ll search for my father that very day. Alexander Blackie
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Categories: spoken word, adventure,anger,anxiety,bullying,father,history,introspection,
Form: Dramatic monologue



Premium Member 2 DETECTIVES AND A VICTIM, TONIGHT'S EPISODE: THE TWIST
Joe: "It's 9 a.m., here in Gotham and my partner, Mike and I, have been here since 7 a.m., and we also passed a cow coming over here!"
Mike: "That was no cow sir just a very nice looking St. Bernard, sir."
Joe: "Who asked you, your holiness. It was very big, and if it had chased me, I would have had to use all my bullets and yours, just to put it down!"
Mike: "Sir, they are lifesaver's!"
Joe: "You mean they are life takers, enough then, just tell me what you have so far.   What a mess!"
Mike: "Well sir, we have the victim here [points to the body] a Mr. Carl O'Malley, age 69, caucasian, and a retiree. He also owns one vehicle, parked downstairs, we're having it towed down to the yard, it's a gleened cherry apple special, 4-door convertible, fully loaded, 32" screen HDTV, but one setback. Just a small area, we had found some corrosion, sir."
[Joe and Mike steps out for a bit while the victim's body is removed]
Joe: "Did he have any heirs?"
Mike: "Not that I know of sir?"
Joe: "Okay, I want you to check if he had any relatives. Afterward, [whispers] check on the blue book value of that car, then get that information back to me. Okay, do you understand me?"
[CSI signals that they are done]
Mike: "Yes sir."
[Joe takes a call and returns after a short while]
Mike: "Sir, they have just removed the body and that everything went like clockwork."
Joe: "Well, let's get back in there and do some detective work, what do you think."
Mike: "Sir, as you can see, they align the markings on the floor where the victim had been shot. The victim was in a twisted position on the floor. When the body fell, it fell to a contort position."
Joe: "That's good! Could I get an officer, please!"
[an officer approaches, and Joe hands him a bag]
"Now, I want you to take this bag, then seal it for me." 
[officer returns with the sealed bag]
"Now, attach this small bag with it, it's the victim's personals. It will need to stay in the evidence room until the next of kin is notified. Here's the paperwork that goes with it."
Officer: "Sir, you forgot to sign it."
Joe: "Okay, give it to me, [writing] and there it is, done, and now that you have my signature, off you go!"
[standing in the hallway, seeing off the officer, a woman carrying an infant juggling groceries were in passing]
Joe:  "Cute kid, bet he likes to be cuddled."
Woman: "Bet SHE don't!"
Joe; "I was going to help carry your bags, but  ."
Woman: "Looks like you can't even carry yourself!"
Joe: "Well let me carry the kid then."
Woman: "Nah, you'll break him!"
Joe: "THE KID?"
[Giggling]
Woman: "Okay, come on then, you big gorilla!"
Joe: "Well, that is a surprise, here let me take that for you."
Woman: "Thanks, the kid's name is Joey!"
Joe: "Well, what do you know, that's my name too!"
Woman: "Your name is Joey?"
Joe: "Well, it's Joe, Joey, only to ma!"
Woman: "You had a mother."
Joe: "Oh, don't start up again, I'm still recovering from your first knock-out, and I think that it was an upper-cut."
[more giggling]
Woman: "Name's Mary. You a boxer Joe?"
[an apartment hallway talk fades]
[Joe returns]
Mike: "Sir, can you come in here. Now, admittedly I was a bit confused at first, but my subconscious mind led me to believe that the victim's back was most likely facing the assailant before the attack, and just when the victim had turned, that's when the shooter shot him. That's also in the responding officer's reports, both stated that the body was slightly twisted around. 
Joe: "Well, that's how we found him Mike but what I don't understand is all the blood spread all over the place?"
Mike: "Sir, I think the way the blood is all spread about the room's mid-section, other than where bled out on the floor.  Picture this. Mr. O'Malley was a ballad dancer, saw the pictures, it's all over the place, like the blood."
Joe: "What's your angle?"
Mike: "This guy is dying and realizes that he is not in the place that he wants to be at the end of his life, in his kitchen. And what does he do, the guy wanted to be on stage and he was in pickle, after all, this was his final curtain call so he did what he did best and being in that spinning momentum, he did that pirouette thing, and by looking at the amount of blood loss, there seems to be more blood on the walls and stuff, then on the floor. In the end, he must have been writhing in pain."
Joe: "Amazing kid! To the very end eh? The final curtain. That's something kid! I bet you're hungry."
Mike: "I'm starving!"
Joe: How's about a 20" Gotham pizza on me."
Mike: "Wow, thanks, sir."
Joe: "Come on, let's get out of here before we become furniture!"
[coming to Joe's car outside]
Mike: "Sir, I wanted to thank you for helping me out since I started
Joe: "Just get in the car kid before your pizza gets cold."
[two guys saw getting into a car laughing]
Joe: "You know kid, you did good, you did real good. You are going to do good in whatever you do, and wherever it takes you, kid."
Mike: "THANK YOU, SIR!"
Joe: "I think it's way past time, you earned your stripes today." Great job kid! Oops! I meant to say, thank you, SIR!"

Date: 08/22/2019 Ten Word Challenge Contest Sponsor: Kai Micahel Neumann
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Categories: spoken word, 10th grade,11th grade,12th grade,6th grade,7th grade,8th grade,9th grade,
Form: Dramatic Verse
Premium Member Moby Dick: Retribution, Be It Man Or Beast


Moby Dick, a novel by Herman Melville, published in London in October 1851 as The Whale and a month later in New York City as Moby-Dick; or, The Whale. It is dedicated to Nathaniel Hawthorne. Moby Dick is generally regarded as Melville’s magnum opus and one of the greatest American novels. Moby Dick can sustain numerous, if not seemingly infinite, readings generated by multiple interpretative approaches. One of the most fruitful ways to appreciate the novel’s complexity is through the names that Melville gave to its characters, many of which are shared with figures of the Abrahamic religions. The very first line of Moby Dick, for instance, identifies Ishmael as the narrator; Ishmael was the illegitimate (in terms of the Covenant) son of Abraham and was cast away after Isaac was born. There are several other Abrahamic names in the book as well, including Ahab that, according to the Hebrew Bible, was an evil king who led the Israelites into a life of idolatry. Melville’s Ahab is obsessed with Moby Dick, an idol that causes the death of him and his crew. The ship that saves Ishmael, the Rachel, is named for the mother of Joseph, known for interceding to protect her children. It is Rachel, as depicted in the Book of Jeremiah, who convinced God to end the exile placed upon the Jewish tribes for idolatry. The rescue of Ishmael by the Rachel in Moby Dick can thus be read as his return from an exile caused by his collusion (because he was on the Pequod’s crew) in Ahab’s idolatry of the whale. Melville’s use of these names grants his novel a rich layer of additional meaning. Between the passages of carefully detailed cetology, the epigraphs, and the shift from a hero’s quest narrative to a tragedy, Melville set the stage for purposeful ambiguity. The novel’s ability to produce numerous interpretations is, perhaps, the main reason it is considered one of the greatest American novels. Melville himself was well versed in whaling, as he had spent some time aboard the Acushnet, a whaling vessel, which gave him firsthand experience. He also did tremendous amounts of research, consulting several scientific sources as well as accounts of historical events that he incorporated into Moby Dick. The Essex, a whaling vessel, was attacked by a sperm whale in 1820. The ship sank, and many of the crew members were either lost immediately or died of starvation as they awaited rescue for nearly eight months. Melville likewise interviewed the story of Mocha Dick, a famed whale who was, like Moby Dick, very white and aggressive and whose name was an inspiration to Melville. Mocha Dick was often found off the coast of Chile in the Pacific Ocean, near Mocha Island. He lived during the early 19th century and became a legend among whalers. In 1839 a story about the whale was written in The Knickerbocker, which was likely the source of Melville’s discovery of Mocha Dick. Unlike Moby Dick, however, Mocha Dick was eventually killed and used for oil. Melville befriended fellow author Nathaniel Hawthorne during the writing of Moby Dick, which led to him dramatically revising the narrative to make it more complex. The novel is dedicated to Hawthorne because of his impact on Melville and the novel. At first, the public was unimpressed. It sold fewer than 4,000 copies in total, with fewer than 600 in the United Kingdom. It was not until the mid-20th century that the novel became recognized as one of the most important novels in American literature. Moby Dick: Retribution, Be It Man Or Beast
Moby Dick famously opens with the narratorial invocation “Call me Ishmael.” The storyteller, like his biblical counterpart, is an outcast. Ishmael, who turns to the sea for definition, communicates to the audience a specific concluding voyage of the Pequod, a whaling vessel. Amidst an account of endured tests, trials, and tribulation, fairness, and delusion, the reader is acquainted with numerous personalities, many of whom have names with religious reverberation. Unique ship’s captain is Ahab, who Ishmael and his sidekick Queequeg promptly discover is dissipating his subconsciousness. Starbuck, Ahab’s first-mate, acknowledges this predicament too, moreover, it is the exclusive totality throughout the novel to assert his condemnation of Ahab’s increasingly obsessive behavior. Aforementioned, the nature of Ahab’s delusion is first revealed to Ishmael and Queequeg after the Pequod’s partners, Peleg and Bildad, disclose to them that Ahab is nevertheless recuperating from a confrontation with a massive whale that resulted in the dissolution of his leg. That whale’s pseudonym is Moby Dick. The Pequod introduces sail, and the crew is forthwith apprised that the aforementioned journey decrees this act be unlike their separate whaling commissions: this course, notwithstanding the disinclination of Starbuck, Ahab purposes to hunt and kill the odious Moby Dick no matter the cost. Ahab, including the crew, continues their momentous voyage and struggles with several obstacles simultaneously whilst on its way. Queequeg befalls ailing, which provokes a coffin to be built in anticipation of the gravest. Subsequently, he recovers, the coffin becomes a replacement lifeboat that eventually saves Ishmael’s life, a befitting rescue that will write ts course in due time. Ahab accepts a prophecy from a crew member familiarizing him with his impending demise, whereto, he neglects. Moby Dick is detected and, for three days, assaults fiercely with Ahab and the Pequod until the whale destroys the ship, killing everyone except Ishmael. Ishmael survives by floating on Queequeg’s coffin until he is picked up by another ship, the Rachel. Another foundling that the sea produces no longer abandoned.
2020 February 11
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Categories: spoken word, angst,character,conflict,muse,
Form: Dramatic Verse
Premium Member The Picture of Dorian Gray: Paint Me As An Event


The Picture of Dorian Gray, a decent fanciful novel by Irish writer Oscar Wilde, published in 1890. The novel, the only one written by Wilde, had six additional chapters when it was released as a book in 1891. The work, an exemplary tale of a young man who acquires perpetual juvenility as a significant investment of his soul, twas a romantic delineation of Wilde’s pure beauty and 'art for art's sake' emphasizing the obvious and sensuous attributes of art and drawing o'er rational, moralistic or chronological tolerances. “There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book,” wrote Wilde. “Book are well written, or badly written. That is all.” These proverbs that make up the “Preface” of Wilde’s novel were his response to those critics who had condemned the lewdness and unhealthiness of this story. Nevertheless, for all its transgressive pleasures, The Picture of Dorian Gray could easily be read as a profoundly moral book, even a cautionary tale against the dangers of vice. Dorian’s plunge toward ethical ugliness is neither praiseworthy nor advantageous. Indeed, the beautiful boy is the least interesting character in the book that bears his name. To be sure, it is the succinct wit of Lord Henry Wotton that urges Dorian on his quest for sensuality and sensation, but Dorian’s values pervert the deeply serious "oscarwildean" ethic that they externally mirror. Whereas, Wilde’s essays advocated individualism and self-realization as a route to a richer life and a bounteous equitable gentlefolk, Dorian follows a path of debauchery, self-indulgence, and the objectification of others. It is, nonetheless, a story that poignantly reflects Wilde’s own double life and anticipates his fall. Dorian’s repudiation, “Ugliness was the one reality,” neatly summarizes Wilde’s aestheticism, both his love of the artistic and his attraction amidst the impious. The Picture of Dorian Gray: Paint Me As An Event
The saga originates in the particular art studio of Basil Hallward, which is considering a contemporary canvas amidst his sarcastic and amoral advocate, Lord Henry Wotton. Henry speculates that specific painting, a portrait of an exceptionally attractive adolescent individual, should remain uncovered, but Basil opposes, apprehending that his infatuation amidst the unprecedented portrait’s subject, Dorian Gray, can transpire observed against individual achievement. Dorian then appears, and he is fascinated as Henry demonstrates his conviction that one should savor presence to the absolute by gratifying one’s motivations. Henry likewise influences escape such elegance including adolescence are temporary, and Dorian confesses that he wouldst grant his soul if the portrait were to grow old and wrinkled while he remained young and handsome. Basil furnishes the painting with Dorian. Henry resolves to exercise on the scheme of embellishing Dorian’s personage. A few weeks later, Dorian tells Henry that he has befallen in love with an actress, Sibyl Vane, because of her great beauty and acting talent. Henry and Basil go with him to a shabby theatre to see Sibyl, but her performance is terrible. Sibyl describes to Dorian that now that she knows what authentic love is, she can no longer purport to be in love on stage. Dorian is nauseated and wants nothing further to do with her. When he returns home, he sees a cruel grimace on the face of his portrait, and he resolves to solicit Sibyl’s indulgence. Henry visits the next day, nevertheless, with news that Sibyl committed suicide the previous night, and he convinces Dorian that there is no reason for him to feel bad about it. Dorian has the portrait transferred to his attic. Henry delivers Dorian a book that he finds morbid and engaging, "Against The Grain" by Joris-Karl Huysmans. Following the book’s magnetism, Dorian consumes the subsequent 18 years in the pursuance of whimsical and carnal prodigality, and he matures increasingly induced to evil. He frequently visits the portrait, remarking the signs of aging and of depravity and degradation that emerges, though he prevails unblemished. One evening he runs into Basil, who tells him that there exist implicated rumors that he has destroyed the lives and reputations of many people. Dorian, notwithstanding, refuses to endure culpability. Basil confesses that he does not recognize Dorian anymore, he counters by accompanying him to the attic to see the portrait. The painting has become horrifying. Basil tells Dorian that if this is a representation of his soul, he must lament and pray for clemency, but he abruptly heightens enraged and Dorian murders Basil. He blackmails another former friend into disposing of Basil's body. Dorian proceeds to an opium den, where Sibyl’s vengeful brother, James, finds him, but the fact that Dorian still appears quite young discourages him from performing. Nonetheless, another patron of the den later divulges Dorian’s age. At a succeeding hunting party at Dorian’s country estate, one of the hunters unintentionally shoots and kills James, who was hiding in a thicket. Some weeks later Dorian tells Henry that he has selected to become righteous and latterly elected against overwhelming pleasure of a young girl who was belabored with him. Dorian goes to see if the portrait has elevated because of his distinguished commitment, except he perceives slightly that that has procured an appearance of craftiness. He decides to terminate the portrait and stabs it with a knife. His servants hear a scream, and, when they arrive, they see a loathsome old man dead on the floor with a knife in his chest and a portrait of the beautiful young man he once was.
2020 February 11
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Categories: spoken word, angst,character,muse,
Form: Dramatic Verse
Premium Member An Epic Love For Women

I know you're not here

but you are in my heart 

so 

you are always with me

i'll just slip into you

with these words.
 
I know 
there are mountains
dwarf the cities below 
peaks that stride above the heavens
attempt to graze the planets if even so lightly.

That
there is a special star that rises daily
against shades of air lit.

They tell me
there is a wide deep void that is grand - a canyon
not too far for any adventurer who dares to look down its throat.

Our world is tightly splattered in miraculous views.

I remember diving through the horizon 
where on the other side
I found intricate scenes

I walked down a dock straight into an orange wine sunset
through to steps led to a bridge 
walked across to an enchanted glitter covered road
to a winding path with a floating pink shaded fog
until I wandered into an explosion of nature.

Once,
alone,
I witnessed a mud escarpment
with splashes of burgundy, shades of maroon,
tones in burnt copper and chestnut browns.
I found a rare waterfall 
rushing down into an inviting pool
a crystal clear deep blue lagoon unused
around it emerald spruces gathered in a cluster of trust.

All in all so alluring I willingly stripped bare and melted into
the refreshing fully chilled basin down to its coral bottom.
I was greeted by an array of tropical aquatic life.
Nude, free, happy
I swam in the simplicity of the moment.

Another time it was
a blinding white wavy desert floor 
totally stripped for miles,
then one 
just one live growing plant 
it looked like tall fanned out verdant fingers.
Remarkable,
however 
what a thin shadow it cast.

A bright blue scrim provided a contrast 
framed for a photographer to snap.
Floats in white, 
scarce 
were frozen in place 
and not a wire was evident,
just motionless etchings.

I sat on the burning sand 
took a position and meditated.
My mantra, 
rebounded off the thickness of the sultry atmosphere 
I heard my own voice return to fill me.
I bathed in the simplicity of the moment.

Yes
I love this world
All its treasures
I swear  

But you,
ah you

Not all of nature 

Not the sun that lights the day
sprinkles the skin in its brilliant sheen
or the moon that with 
its romantic smile
its alluring suggestions 
seduces even the least romantic of us.

Not the miraculous 
vegetation of every kind 
or the moss laden beds where lovers have often laid as one
linked to one another - inspired by natures erotic whisper.

Ah
but you,

I would sacrifice all else,

just to breathe in your love 
just to bathe in you.

You my passionate want.

Our love is my Mecca.

When I hold you softly in the strength of my arms.
Touching your face sends shivers through my consciousness,
holding your hand is like plugging into bliss,
watching your mouth,
the dent above your lips,
you know I overdose ecstatic 
when mine touches yours.

I want to stay - mine on yours,
as we speak, as we dream.
How I love your smile your laugh.

I hold you in the enchantment of my mind.
I caress you in the secret chambers of my dreams.
I cherish your scent - infinite, singular, invigorating.
I roll with you in the autumn leaves of my imagination.

I wish you everything - for you are everything to me.

I would if I could
I would reach beyond my grasp to,

to pull Magic from my hat.
Squeeze a snowball into a skating rink
just to dance on water with you.

I will love you into our after life,
no man as fortunate as me. 

They say reach for the stars 
you may end up with the moon.
I reached.
I got you,
my universe.
No man as fortunate as me.

Let me make every step you take safe, secure, pillowy soft
try not to faint from the sheer fragrance of you.

               Together we are sunset shadows,
shadows that will never fade.
               Imprinted permanently on the iris 
of the early evening sky light.

(pause)

do you remember back when we just met

do you remember when it started to sleet
when we used the bark from trees
to toboggan down the circled path of the mountain

dizzy 
we hit the brakes

brakes crafted
from the branches of a spruce 

but friction 
lit them like matches on kerosene 

and i really think the smoke filled
our lungs
travelled to our heads
because
even before the sleet turned to hail
we slipped under the lawn

spent hours and hours
covered in each other's silky embrace
and i confess i peered at every drop of you
treated my eyes to your 
unveiled 
natural 
naked 
nothing but you 
splendour
i held that moment 
fragile as it was
with the greatest of care
and hold it still with the same reverence

and i really think nothing should feel

that good 

because 

it just led us to lock lips 
and you know i could of kissed you 
an eon 
passed through it
as if it were a fraction of a second

our hearts synced
and i really think that
our breathing
our voices 
melting into the air
playing like music 
is what drove us mad 

and i get very creative 
when i go mad 
the stuff "crazy good" is made of

it must of worked because
we finally reached the peak of our crescendo 
laid in the sublime of one another
i must of loss consciousness 

because

i still don't remember our rendezvous ending

but it must of

because i immediately 
felt your absence 

and i really think that's why 
i wrote you

why i wrote

wanna slip under the lawn

   again

and i really think that's why
we've been 

why we've been 

     together forever

Dec 2015
armand 



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Categories: spoken word, beauty,celebration,dream,heart,love,magic,
Form: Epic



Premium Member War and Peace: That Midst Nations And Nationals


War and Peace, a classical fiction by Leo Tolstoy, first published as Voyna I Mir in 1865–69. This picturesque reflection of early 19th-century Russian culture saw as its power of vivid detail and change from subconscious interpretation, is commonly viewed essentially a masterwork of Russian literature and one of the world’s greatest novels. War and Peace are known for their realism, something Tolstoy achieved through intensive research. He visited battlefields, read history books on the Napoleonic Wars, and drew on real historical events to create a novel of living history. Tolstoy had originally planned to write a novel centering on the Decembrists, whose revolution in 1825 against the tsar attempted to end autocratic rule in Russia. The Decembrists failed, however, and those who were spared execution were sent to Siberia. Tolstoy wanted to depict a Decembrist, now old, returning from exile. As Tolstoy wrote and revised, however, the novel evolved into the War and Peace known today—a novel that takes place more than a decade before the Decembrist movement. The novel’s primary historical setting is the French invasion of Russia in 1812, which was a turning point in the Napoleonic Wars and a period of patriotic significance to Russia. Some historians argue that this invasion was the event that metamorphosed into the Decembrist movement years later.Many of the family names used in War and Peace are slight alterations of real names Tolstoy had encountered in his life—a deliberate strategy intended to make the novel feel familiar to the Russians who read it. Bolkonsky, for example, is a manipulated version of Tolstoy’s mother’s family name, Volkonsky. Tolstoy also created the majority of his characters with his family members in mind; for example, his sister-in-law, Tanya, was the inspiration behind Natasha. Tolstoy’s firsthand knowledge of war likewise influenced War and Peace. When he was 26 years old, he fought in the Crimean War, which he also wrote about in three sketches describing, graphically, his experiences during the Siege of Sevastopol, published 1855–56. Tolstoy wrote War and Peace for over six years. The novel was originally serialized by the Russian periodical Russkiy Vestnik under the title 1805 starting in 1865, but its somewhat indifferent reception and Tolstoy’s compulsion to revise spurred him and his wife, Sofya, to decide to stop the serialization and instead focus on publishing the novel in volumes. Tolstoy continued to write, and he also hired the prominent artist Mikhail Bashilov to illustrate the novel. By 1868 three volumes had been released and were selling rapidly. Tolstoy finished three more volumes between 1868 and 1869. Sofya had copied several drafts, all by hand. All told, War and Peace filled more than 1,200 pages when first published. War and Peace: That Midst Nations And Nationals
"War and Peace" opened in the Russian city of St. Petersburg in 1805, as fear of Napoleon’s continuous war-making begins to insert itself. Most of the characters are acquainted at a reception, including Pierre Bezukhov, Andrey Bolkonsky, and the Kuragin and Rostov families. Much of the novel centers on the communications between the Bezukhovs, Bolkonskys, and the Rostovs. Following their debut, Andrey Bolkonsky and Nikolay Rostov go to the Austrian front under General Kutuzov, a fictional image of Mikhail Kutuzov, to engage with Napoleon’s troops. Andrey is then injured at the Battle of Austerlitz and presumed dead until he arrives home to his wife, Lise, who dies during childbirth soon after. Pierre, meanwhile, has married Helene Kuragina. She is unfaithful to him, and Pierre duels with the other man, almost killing him. He soon grows overwhelmed by his wedlock and abandons Helene. He enlists amongst the Freemasons, which influences his personal and business fortunes greatly. In the meantime, Nikolay has racked up a considerable quantity of gambling debt, which causes the Rostov family to lose most of their fortune. He is encouraged to marry a wealthy heiress, despite promising to marry Sonya, his cousin. Nikolay ultimately witnesses the peace amidst Tsar Alexander I and Napoleon (Treaties of Tilsit, signed in 1807). Andrey promptly becomes linked with Natasha Rostov only to be told by his father that he must wait a year before marrying her. After some time away, Andrey discovers that Natasha has been adulterous. He renounces her, and Pierre sympathizes with her, eventually falling in love. In 1812 Napoleon invades Russia, forcing Alexander to declare war. Andrey returns to service, and Pierre is forced to believe he must privately assassinate Napoleon. As the French advance, Mary, Lise’s sister, is forced to leave her house. Nikolay finds her in the streets, and the two reconnect. Pierre, still crazed by his imaginary duty, is apprehended by French forces and witnesses many executions, which deeply affect him. During his imprisonment, he befriends Platon Karatev, a wise peasant. He is later freed from the French and promptly falls ill. After recovering, he marries Natasha, and they have four children. Nikolay weds Mary, and the two enjoy a happy married life.
2020 February 13
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Categories: spoken word, allegory,angst,life,marriage,war,
Form: Dramatic Verse
Premium Member All Roads Lead To Christ
                                                    I    V    I      
                                                    I    V    I 
                                                    I          I
                                                    All roads   
                                                    lead   to
                                                    Christ... 
                                                    Raging 
                                                    waters 
                                                    stand still 
                                                    before His
  --------will, as clouds of grey drain their spill,for all roads lead to Christ.--------
   >>>  Mountains spread their peaks for when He speaks, the    valleys  <<< 
  _____ bow before the circulating creeks…    For all roads lead to Christ.______
                    His                         truth displayed                  within        
                      the                       roads      laid                    And                    
                         His                   Angels are on               parade,
                            For               all roads   lead       to Christ.
                                Love      and light on   queue  
                                           within    our   view,
                                             as His   heart of 
                                              heaven  comes  
                                               through…  For 
                                                all roads lead 
                                                  to    Christ.
                                               Children    play 
                                              along and cherubs 
                                             dance with    song
                                            As the bird's   chirp 
                                           with joy all day long…
                                            For all roads lead to 
                                             Christ.The crosses 
                                               boldly bare  His
                                                love we     all
                                                 share,    And 
                                                 we send our
                                                   pensive 
                                                    prayer…
                                                  For all 
                                                 roads 
                                                 lead to 
                                                Christ.
                                              We look 
                                               toward 
                                               the sky 
                                               and ask 
                                               the 
                                               question 
                                               why,for our 
                                               sins he had 
                                               to die,for 
                                               all roads 
                                               lead to 
                                               Christ.    
                                               I     !     I       
                                               I     !     !
                                               I     !     I     



 
                          
                                            
Shape Poem...With Eve Roper Sponsor... Nov.14.2018 Repost...May.02.2020 God bless all the families who have lost loved ones...and to all the front line workers during this Covid-XIX Pandemic All Roads Lead to Christ Raging waters stand still before His will As clouds of grey drain their spill… For all roads lead to Christ. Mountains spread their peaks for when He speaks The valleys bow before the circulating creeks… For all roads lead to Christ. His truth displayed within the roads laid And His Angels are on parade… For all roads lead to Christ. Love and light on queue within our view As His heart of heaven comes through… For all roads lead to Christ. Children play along and cherubs dance with song As the birds chirp with joy all day long… For all roads lead to Christ. The crosses boldly bare His love we all share And we send our pensive prayer… For all roads lead to Christ. We look toward the sky and ask the question why For our sins he had to die… For all roads lead to Christ. Repost...May.02.2020 Faith in a Poembook Sponsored by: Heather Secrest
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Categories: spoken word, heaven,inspirational,jesus,
Form: Shape
Premium Member THE SANDLESS SAND CASTLE
Let me tell you about my eldest brother.

I am: the "Scram!", the "Beat it!", the "What you looking at?!", and the "Turn around and watch the movie!", younger brother. As you can see, he has, a lot of phrases he says to me, whereto, I've just but one and it is, "I'm gonna tell mom!???", comment that was bravely said, with a pose best described to be, {S-H-A-K-ingly}. What I am meaning to say, is that, he, "vehemently enjoys his privacy?" Well, what would a six-year old kid know about the words, "ve-he-ve-he-ve-hementalee" and "pri-vah-C". The words I know there are--other than "his", is, "enjoys", so obligingly, I was been accommodating. So the crazy cycle, gets to be recycled, so the madness, merrily goes on...

It was until the age of nine, he was more respectable to me. Treating me more as an equal, and though, he no longer put me around his neck, have me stand, whilst he stands on his long surfboard, and to the count of three, whence I lept off into the seawater. As he paddles in, I swam as fast as I could, both of us used the waves to push us in. 'Twas a race for me, but for him, 'twas not, for he just wanted to be sure I reached the shore--safely. He then paddled out and rejoined with his friends, for this is the age, that I knew of the words, "vehemently" and "privacy", and with that, I embraced most honorably. I stood on the sandy beach whilst he surfed magnificently, and decided to build a 'sandless' sand castle of him, to be ingrained in the treasury of my mind. I'd lock and hold its key and hide it most secretly, for 'twas just to be, a part of my future me, just something we call, a "memory".

I am a couple years older, eleven I'd be, in our town home of Hilo, Hawaii. In the upstairs room, known as the Chamber room, that was twice as high than the rest of the house, with french windows that extended on our rooftop. Supposedly, an imaginary third or perhaps a fourth floor exist above this rooms vaulted ceiling, --it hides. Sparsely furnished, asides mom's baby grand piano, it echoes most pleasantly. I would stand in a corner and make a snap holler, then ran after several parts of me wafts away. On the other side, stood I, with a puzzled face looking about. {Later, when we moved to the mainland, I had looked back at its soulless presence, and wondered if the remnants of me would be okay. I smiled, as the car pulled away, I could see the roof's extensions and thought, perhaps the new family will have kids same age as me. If so, I know they'll holler too and their echoed presence, will find the parts of me and play the 'echo' game, and have fun, most pleasantly}

In "69, much in the news, a place called Vietnam, of particular interest to our family. My older brother is over there, fresh out of high school at eighteen. Now he's nineteen, a real G.I. JOE, though he joined the marines as a scout for his small band of men. At home, he runs barefoot across lava fields dotted with shiny sharpen edged stones, e'er so carefully, scuba dives, throw the fish net, hunt down live game of wild boars or goats, and cliff fishing too. Apollo was also in the news, and dad bought me a Revell plastic model to play with, mostly, upstairs in the Chamber room. One day, I heard my mom crying aloud, unceasingly. I ran to the stairway where I saw her sitting, blocking me, weeping uncontrollably. Two men, dressed in uniform, stood at attention just beyond our french doorway. Just behind them, neath the portico of our driveway, parked a black 4-door sedan, with white ambiguous inscription on the drivers side door. All this seen by eleven year old me, as I stood on the bay seats of one of the chamber's bay windows, looking betwixt outside and back down a longer glance, of mom holding a paper, sobbing whilst sitting on our stairway, blocking me. My sisters gathered round her, with perpetual hugs of such intensity, as I too mourned having realized what IT, had to be. I was alone in that great Chamber room, yet I felt those parts of me, hugging me, just like my sisters hugged our mom, tenderly.

Today is my brother's day. I affectionately honor him, for 'tis has been near to five decades and bout a year, since I physically was in his presence. Our village of the family alma mater, mines included, the VFW Post, is named after my brother. Our town of Hilo honored him and others with a memorial in the most quietude part of town, next to a pristine lake with dinghies of father's and son's, or elderly single men, all fishing in its most pristine setting. My brother's buried in Hilo town's Veterans Memorial Cemetery, on a hill, overlooking the town.

Okay my brother, for it is time, once again. We will enjoin our spirits and seize this day. Today marks the semi-centennial, half-a-century, five decades, or the fiftieth year of 'Memorial Days" we've spent together. So now--you know the drill, it is time for me to go to my secret hiding place, get the key, and unlock my 'sandless sand castle'.



Date: 05/27/2019

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Categories: spoken word, beach,beautiful,brother,celebration,memorial day,memory,remember,
Form: Prose Poetry
Premium Member Hidden Treasures
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * s * * * * * * * * * * * t * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * s t a r s * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * r * * * * * * * * s * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * A fine Parrot Tulip in vibrant intensities with unique undertones of green acquirable only in a few forests. A ruby red swirls within its petals beckons awareness of those very strokes that live in the luster of your shapely lips like fantasy realized. Mirthful yellows in all those lacquers barely ever seen as one would scorch their eyes to gaze lastingly directly at the Sun - though I have been fortunate to witness identical iridescence in strands of your hair you unintentionally flip and like dainty fingers wave me on to move closer to your flawless frame - memorized easily. A special fuchsia sparingly paints the flower they say exists only in certain singular gemstones yet l know this tincture for I have seen it in your cheeks when we play and laugh. Oh your laugh how it fills me - replacing noise surfing the waves of sound in the surrounding atmosphere. How enchanting when your laughter there - dwells to tickle molecules invisible to the eyes but felt by the human heart. Parrot tulips with their soft myriad shades become stunning against a deep black backdrop which shimmers bright like your ebony eyes. Sparkle like your smile and I grin happily just thinking of you, just thinking of us. A pearl white that also adorns the flower a special light effect I have found in your complexion - dazzles my mind each and every time I see you. Parrot tulips a miracle of nature, a special breed I admit are as remarkable as any offering that grows in our gardens but rarer still - you the flower I share my life with. No one, no thing, no life compares to you, your approach - for every time I even think of you, the joy it brings completes the meaning of my existence full. If not for you no other delight would have that extra zest I feel from the sharing of your love and light always. A Parrot tulip oh what joy it brings. How the flower draws these words from me. Ironic how true allure felt fills our glass so I thought I'd share with you how it uplifts my days - knowing confident in our love as one - you'd never resent me speaking of an elegance other than yours. So you may know - understand what the fibers of ones constitution compels them to write. Now - about a mystique other than the one you sport with humility. Finally I can not write a poem on aesthetics that does not mention you. A closing monologue. Just above and beneath the dirt grows riches unimaginable. Made to be absorbed by senses recognizable only by a few. They are free for the taking. An appreciation, a love of a natural essence. A flower, a person, romance you breathe incomparable to anything real or imagined. It alone are the wings we humans seek...as real and as precious as all else consumable. How lucky I am the magic handed out daily on these pages. The people I could never find anywhere else then here. I am in love with their words in love with them. barkbarkbarkbarkbark barkbarkbarkbarkbark barkbarkbarkbarkbark barkbarkbarkbarkbark barkbarkbarkbarkbark barkbarkbarkbarkbark barkbarkbarkbarkbark barkbarkbarkbarkbark earthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearth the refrain is a parrot tulip hidden under f this majestic a evergreen e with a l dew f d a r e o l p s t e m earthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearth r r r r o o o o o o o o t t t t s s s s
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Categories: spoken word, art,
Form: Shape
Premium Member I Knitted You A Scarf
                           
   
                            
                             t         e         t        e   
                               a        l          a         l    
                              s        s          s         s    
                             s          s        s          s   
                             l         a           l           a        
                            e         t          e           t  
                            IKNITTEDAWINTERSCARF
                            ALARGEINTRICATECASH
                            MEREFANCYPANTSGENT
                            LEMANJIMKINDOFNECKC
                            LOTHESPEOPLEWEARARO
                            UNDTHEIRPREVIOUSLYNA
                            KEDSKINBETWEENTHEIRH
                            EADSANDTHEIRSHOULDER
                            SWHICHREALLYCOUNTSIF
                            YOULIVEINABELOWZERO
                             WEATHERCITYWITHAFREE
                               ZINGCOLDATMOSPHERE
                              THATWILLMAKEYOURTE
                              ETHCLATTERANDCLINKMA
                              KINGSOUNDSTHATWOUL
                              DRATTLEEVENTHOSEWIT
                              HTHESTEADIESTOFNERVES
                              THETYPEWITHTHOSESTRO
                               NGJAWSTHATPOTRUDEBE
                               YONDTHEIRFACESANDDRI
                                VEFATBOYHARLEYMOTOR
                               CYCLESANDCOULDCRUSH
                                YOUWITHJUSTALOOKFROM
                                 WHERETHEIREYESSITONTH
                                EIRVISAGEWHICHISASTRANG
                                 EWORDTOUSEHERESINCEITH
                                 INK"VISAGE"ISONEOFTHOSE
                                 SOPHISTICATEDWORDSOFFR
                                ENCHORIGINWHICHISNOTARA
                                WCOUNTRYTYPESLANGKINDO
                                 FWORDWHICHWOULDBEMUCH
                                  MOREAPPROPRIATEFORBIKEM
                                  ANANAMEICOINEDMYSELFFOR
                                  MARKWHOTURNSOUTTOBEAN
                                 UNEXPECTEDLYKINDGUYWHO
                                  TURNSOUTSUITSTHEWORDVI
                                  SAGEINFACTONEWITHAGREATS
                                   MILETHATOCCASIONALLYPOPS
                                    UPONMARKSFACEIACTUALLYE
                                    VENGAVEHIMTHESCARFASAGIFT
                                     (PAUSE)(2)(3)(4)ASWELLASMYW
                                     ALLETMYCARKEYSMYCREDITCA
                                      RDSMYPINNUMBERSMYWATCH
                                      t              e           t              e     
                                       a            l              a            l    
                                      s            s              s            s        
                                     s            s                s              s
                                        l            a             l              a  
                                          e           t             e           t



THE CASHMERE WOOL I USED TO KNIT A SCARF I knitted a winter scarf, a large intricate Cashmere fancy pants, Gentleman Jim kind of neck clothes people wear around their previously naked skin between their heads and their shoulders which really counts if you live in a below zero weather city with a freezing cold atmosphere that will make your teeth clatter and clink making sounds that would rattle even those with the steadiest of nerves. The type with those strong jaws that protrude beyond their faces and drive FatBoy Harley motorcycles and could crush you with just a look from where their eyes sit on their visage which is a strange word to use here since I think "visage" is one of those sophisticated words of French origin which is not a raw country type slang kind of word which would be much more appropriate for bike man a name I coined myself for Mark who turns out to be an unexpectedly kind guy the type it turns out suits the word visage in fact one with a great smile that occasionally pops up on Marks face I actually even gave him the scarf as a gift (pause) (2)(3)(4), as well as my wallet my car keys, my credit cards, my pin numbers, my watch...
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Categories: spoken word, french,humor,humorous,imagination,light,money,parody,
Form: Shape