Long To a certain extent Poems
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Let us accept this pain
and some fear
it will heighten autumn colors
crack of clean air
black crows in blue sky
lake.
Rather than fight pain, falling
asleep in front of tv,
understand the full
import of its situation
in the body. Blessed
once, cursed now
only fear prevents
full knowledge of experience.
The gray sky brings
winter, no blame.
The poet writes a few last poems
or continues to live with his pain.
In itself pain does not oppose
life, and may enhance it
or build character, create
wisdom. But too much fear
chokes the throat and burns
the eyes. It
destroys the last free
assessment of life.
* * *
Now I am going to live in my body
as it is, almost fearlessly
running in pain, working
to abandon immortality
as a hope, conceiving
sunset after sunset
feeling what I feel.
On the streets I meet
many beautiful young women
curious to a certain extent
what makes a man older.
I can only say ten years
and the hand that reaches through
the cloud. I can say
only the knowledge of mortality
which makes us brothers and sisters
with the animals. And only
the acceptance which gives us wisdom
to couple often and lovingly.
How am I going to live every day
as my last, hoping happiness
outgrows fear by an ounce
or enough? By running, writing
and loving. By moving uphill
and downhill like a bear.
By committing my last words
to a powerful lord. How
do the clouds accept my dead
self? A rock thrown, a crow.
* * *
When I am old
young girls will not be frightened anymore.
I will invite them
to my seat and tell
about the women I knew.
I will tell about
the clothes they wore
and how they earned a living.
I will try to remember
what was important to them
and if they had a favorite color
or knew how to divine.
Maybe I live and maybe I don't.
The smoke is white or black.
The winds are bright or dark.
The coins are heads or tails.
What have I been afraid of?
Death is most of all like sleep.
We spend so long apart
after briefly knowing ourselves.
I need you to know myself
and without you all I know
is sun.
How signals go to our brains.
I've just scranned an apple,
No time between bite and taste.
I remember so many tastes which are
Impossible to describe without saying
Sweet, salty, sour, bitter, bland.
What is sweetness?
It is sweet and not sour.
What is sourness?
It is sour and not sweet.
Salt and sugar are often vital for a good flavour.
But alone, they are nothing.
It is crazy to think about
How the slightest touch to a hand
Is never missed,
Unless the person is sleeping or paralysed.
And of course, this detection by the brain —
To a certain extent, a machine,
Can spoil, with a gesture that takes a second
All the hours
Of a misunderstood outing.
It is crazy to reflect on the fact that
I will only see my face as a reflection and in photos,
Except a little bit of my nose.
Photos and reflections are mindblowing, too.
Yet, whatever the purpose of existing,
I know that I exist.
As for everyone else,
How can I be sure
When I live only in my body?
How do I know that this grass is green,
That these dandelions are yellow?
Even if a hundred, thousand people were to say so,
They could all lie,
And it could be a big lie that there are
All these other individuals
Who appear or don't in my life.
Assuming I am not imagining the world,
I have felt, I am feeling and I will feel
An abundance of the same feelings as you.
But when you say you are peckish,
For all I know, you could be ravenous.
Anyway, that is how I feel at the moment —
It is time for pasta and avocado.
And even though this poem expresses that tasting is mindblowing,
Crazily, it is also normal
To live like it is not.
I'm in love with you so so deep
I dream of you in my sleep
I hope this dream do come true
Searching for you and only you
This dreams got me floating fast and high
This journey I'm taking I do know why
Your heart can take you many places
Travel so far see many faces
Dreams come true I know this much
Can't wait to find you and feel your touch
Dreams are real to a certain extent
Dreams can be a wonderful event
I have a vision that's clear to me
Of who I'm searching for and trying see
I'll open my eyes to see the light
My search for you I know it's right
Life is never what it seems
I know I'll find you in my dreams
When we take a walk down any high street
more and more signs of to let or for sale
the demise of the independent shops no more
even the national ones struggle to stop the nail
It's so easy to put the blame on the web
though that's to blame to a certain extent
but many owners find their rent too steep
not making enough leaving them with a tent!
Is it inevitable for them to give up?
or should they fight on no matter what?
with most just ending up to be bankrupt
seeing the web besat them up with no dot
The future holds we know not what
for not everyone can be part of the net
too expensive or location is not available
some prefer to shop where they are met
The world is going just too fast
it needs to slow down and just ask
is this really for my benefit at all?
for soon eventually, all things will fall
(I have written this with my thoughts about The Death of the High Street as opposed to online shopping, supermarkets etc. Do we want to see our favourite department stores close as so many are struggling? Debenhams is cutting stores in bulk currently. What can be done about it if anything? Do we even care? Do you prefer online shopping?)
Insecure…
Need a cure…
Need to endure
I want to be pure
I’m just so unsure
Inside, I must endure
My words, at times, injure
My sins are so impure
Mercy makes us feel sure
Lured in by the insecurities and pride in the mirror
Humility needs to be my inner-tour
All my past in a blur…
Cowardly bravery is my haunting nightmare…
Scared out of wits up in here
I shouldn’t have any fear
Or shed a single tear
Let happiness and hope appear
Let the car of time and effort steer
Us away from being ran over by negativity ear by ear
It’s as if I can’t hear…I need some cheer to get me through many fears I hold on to so dear
I see wandering thoughts like a fast-paced deer
Throughout the woods of warmth and coldness..much like the river of Aphradere
Is there a cure to my present moment?
Is my questions ever relevant?
Am I Your chosen one so significant?
Why would I be nothing when You’re here with me this instant?
Where would I be without You to the highest extent?
Maybe I doubt too much and I need your hopefulness and repent for all I’ve done in the past — but, all is remnant
Because God forgives me, so I must let go of guilt and make it evanescent
I have been ignorant — I apologize, oh Lord of Accord — humble me and let me do good to others always to a certain extent…
Or, like You, all the time spent…
Because God loves all and that’s what matters most and that’s how it always went…
Simply, I’m content…
Life is bleak
I am weak
I can’t speak
Release my beak…
I am a bird of liberty that I seek
Release my beak…
I can speak…
I am not weak
Death is bleak
Words won’t overwhelm me anymore —
Words that let me down to the core
We are all a flock of birds, fluttering in hopefulness restored and what’s in store
Because I look forward to a Kingdom and what for?
You may ask me…hm, because I am spiritually in want for more
The wildflowers are beginning to bloom in the mountains!
When I walk among them it’s as if the Earth is smiling at me
and I wonder if wildflowers aren’t her subtle way of showing us
the kind of people she’d like us to be.
A wildflower learns quite early there is a struggle to be won…
that it must push itself through darkness…in order to find the sun.
A wildflower’s mission is, to a certain extent, simple
while at the same time utterly grand
to help sustain and maintain the planet…while adding beauty to the land.
A wildflower absorbs the sunshine…
its heart is deeply moved with every gentle breeze that blows…
It endures the rain and the cold…knowing they are here to help her grow.
A wildflower understands what make the world beautiful…
what makes every day a beautiful day
is how every flower can be different…yet is beautiful in its own way.
A wildflower does not hate, does not envy nor assume.
A wildflowers finds her joy in her ability to bloom.
And more joy in the wind, the trees, the birds that comfort and surround her
as well as in all the different wildflowers that choose to bloom around her.
A wildflower does not injure others…It does not wish or cause another harm
It accepts the bee, the bird, the butterfly…even me…with open arms.
Oh, if we could only be more like the wildflower
with but one mission…truly grand:
To sustain and maintain each other…while bringing beauty to the land…
To understand how we are all wildflowers
who bloom upon this Earth only for a little while…
and how we should live so that when we’re gone
we are remembered with a smile.
A Newspaper
Once upon a time, the Guardian was a famous newspaper
it was democratic, to a certain extent, and readers are
invited to give their view, but with moderation and niceness
If not, they would politely ban the regressor
When the paper was famous, it was a bit left-wing, but always ready to see the other point of view
It was pro-Israel, defending Palestinian artists' rights
while overlooking as long as possible, the utter brutality
of Israeli politics against, say, Palestinians
The fact that the Guardian has been able to change is its
ability to alter its stands, yet holding to their journalistic
who are not left-wing, except for some of them who
Thanks to nature and time, they have wings.
Today, the Guardian is no longer a newspaper; it is more
like a color magazine dedicated to true sex stories shies
not away from lesbianism and what we now call gayness
It caters to a younger middle class, employed in, I think
show business, or the media, with titles like TV analyst
Or a researcher of AI, who will one day make all of them
out of work
When I get up in the morning, I drink a cup of coffee and
For entertainment, read the Guardian
16 and me
My heart is a quiet hallway,
Echoing with words that never left my mouth.
I collect broken moments
The way others collect memories.
The mirror doesn’t recognize me anymore.
It shows a girl with tired eyes
And a smile that learned how to lie politely.
Everyone says i’m growing,
Yet it feels more like fading,
Like watercolor left out in the sun.
I like being alone to a certain extent,
But I hate feeling lonely if that makes sense.
I write my feelings in invisible ink,
And hope someone learns how to read it.
Being sixteen is knowing too much
And still not understanding enough.
Being sixteen and me,
Is watching friendships grow like gardens
I was never invited to walk through.
Their laughter spills everywhere,
None of it reaches me.
I carry whole conversations in my chest,
Things I would’ve said
If anyone had stayed long enough to listen.
Some nights I lie awake
Counting all the ways
A heart can feel crowded while being completely alone.
4/24/15
Who's at fault
For such misconduct across the asphalt
Similar to the color of Hawaiian black salt
If your intent was meant
To only go to a certain extent
And not one hundred percent
Then honestly you didn't give it your best attempt
No offense
But it might make even more sense
If you look at both sides of the fence
Always not just at your own expense
Don't get jealous
And be selfish
By trying to embellish
A made up story beside the trellis
While being a bit overzealous
A hundred feet above some buried relics
That were considered cursed and hellish
By: Dalton Ogletree
No news is good news; the known saying goes
Whether stated in prose, or its meted in rhyme
That's the outlook it seems the eu's designed
Whether covid or conflict, they play the same way
There's no voice of dissention, allowed; it's all bad
Yet they're in control of its outflow, and in general
That's sad' Maybe RT was biased? to a certain extent'
Yet people did watch, and so adjudge; on its bents
I could always turn it off though; and often I did'
I didn't need a big brother, with volumes of kid'
So they believe the known saying then..)
(No news is good news) yet straighten their ties
Slap on greasepaint; and polish their shoes'
Then feed out, even more jollop
To you'se; thats no lies'