Isreal surrounded, world turns against it
Because of inhuman acts..So geographically
The Prophecies will be fullfilled..Yet the only
Ones who will be saved out of this will be
( spiritual Jews..I E Born again beleivers.' Not
Dogmatic readers of past texts..Yet those
( who have passed from death to life ) Today..'
Today is the Day of salvation..' rend your hearts
And not your garments, accept Yeshua be one
With God.)
Is
Unwriting lend
Trample undered doubt
Nill grace, staggered taunt
Farthings tormented delays
Whispered daughter on hilt
Aphrodite sours the lengths rend
Milkened ponds
Battles fetch, torn and bent
To no hearthed bends hallow he crawls
Drug addiction wounds families,
weakens the nation,
and steals the people's joy.
Dear parents,
you are the frontline warriors-
Rise and fight the menace.
Plan wisely your stretegy.
Do not be disheartened or fall,
when your son is addicted;
and do not let it damage your health.
Wake early each day,
exercise beneath the morning sky,
eat nutritious food,
and keep both body and mind fit .
For it is a struggle to survive,
to shield the young from death's grim knife,
and from the jaws that seek and rend.
When silent time stills
As fix as rend
Lilting embrace
In want
Havana's seventh sorrows
Shantee in brail
Your anonymous blog
To my face you are kindness itself:
cheerful, always upbeat,
but in your anonymous blog
you rip me apart.
You press your thumb and forefinger on each side,
hold, pull and rend,
and rupture my very innards.
You focus on me,
my life, my words, my actions and my body
like you are a Celestron Telescope
searching for every single crater and irregularity.
With an Ultima Barlow lens
and your Leica M9 18MP
You grab each natural image
and then rearrange reality with
your precious, perversely persuasive, periscopic Photoshop technique.
poetic liberty has leased you a license to assassinate,
humiliate,
decimate,
invalidate,
severely lambaste,
and mockingly castrate
everything that I identify as me.
literary freedom allows you to liberally fabricate,
mutilate,
denigrate,
incriminate,
scathingly castigate,
and maliciously urinate
on what others think of me.
To my face you are kind beyond selflessness,
but on your online beat,
your anonymous malevolence
sets you apart
from all the others
that have ever wanted
to write me up,
put me down,
and publish me out.
— Zumwalt (2011) (used by permission from zumpoems.com)
To my complacent Ms. Crane
I am at odds my love, your comely visage has my heart rend. I struggle somewhere betwixt carnality and a fervent want of your attention. Oh! Ms. Crane, I do so labor for your love. The muse runs foolhardy across every page, and on stage I act the jester just to catch a glimpse of that sweet Southern smile. I do so aspire to taste the nectar of your kiss. All this time apart has my heart yearning, even imploring your touch. I beseech your name to stop the tribulation, to ease the travailing of my heart. My belle I don't say these things in comfort, I adamantly long for a union of our souls, and a harmony played on our heartstrings. As God is my witness, love is our destination, however our journey begins with us. I query of your heart oh misfortuned women, what perplexes your heart? What clutters your mind's thoughts? Is it I? My only desire is your happiness. I too, see happiness as my endeavor. So this leaves us at a crossroad. Shall we be a blessed union, or do we wander trodden thoroughfare?
Preemptively yours
Michael
From ashes of pain, true leaders rise,
Forged in struggle’s unyielding cries.
Yet now, from gilded thrones of greed,
False prophets spawn, with lies they breed.
They weave deceit, a cunning art,
To hijack souls and rend the heart.
Using hired blades and looted dimes,
They buy men to side their evil dreams
Behind a flag, their falsehoods creep,
While nation bleeds and victims weep.
they wear a tearful mask in public to trap
They toast with scorn still pretend saints ,
They preach of pride, to draw borders red,
holding nationalism drawing swords ,
With gods they raise divisive flags,
demanding more blood for their political zigzags.
Their minions sow yet viler lies,
To reap the votes that death devise.
As tears cascade through broken towns,
They laugh on stages holding cruel schemes.
I’m not speaking someone’s words
I don’t do somebody’s actions
Neither the Commons, nor the Lords
Represent my interactions
Journalists can rend the air
Formulating rather bluntly
What I am, but I’m not there
I don’t live in paper country
In my country there are trees
Gardens and some benches too
Parks and lawns, and birds and bees
People who say “I love you”
Music, arts, two-storeyed mansions
Ponds and rivers, cloudy skies
Things that wouldn’t get a mention
For the lazy reader's eyes
I’ve no use in politicians
That’s an awful part, isn’t it?
And moreover, the ficticious
Thing like ”nation” I don’t need
On the side of unessentials
I live carelessly free
Telling you no confidentials
What’s my country, they can’t see.
a chill ...
not on skin - to marrow
if but for the frigid air
a horrid pattern would trace my cheek
though not nearly as horrid
as the one that faces me upon the glass
it is quite beautiful in shape
hemmed with
frost crystals like Guipure Lace
the letters formed perfectly ...
I wonder, am I the first?
did you practice scribing it flawlessly
backward just for me,
or is this your common “out”?
oh, if I was yet a plastic figure -
how divine!
no heart to rend
no trembling hands to hide
just a fake little man stuck in a snow globe
dreamy flakes falling like lashes
with just a simple shake …
plastic man with a
happy castle and cresh behind
oh, if only ...
then this callous word
you've scratched
that drips and freezes into
beauty on the window between us
would be naught but
Christmas fun
instead ...
of a farewell.
In the city’s glow, where shadows meld,
And the hum of life endlessly swelled,
Lies a truth that no screen can show,
A place within where answers flow.
Even when clouds of doubt descend,
And the bad luck seems to rend,
The veil of chaos might isolate,
But hope resides—it won’t abate.
No world, no fate, seals every door,
For within, we hold much more.
Despair is born from a fleeting glance,
But courage thrives in each circumstance.
Beneath the towers of steel and light,
Amid neon skies that obscure the night,
A whisper calls, quiet yet clear,
Inspect your heart, shed every fear.
For modern man, with restless hand,
Seeks answers in a shifting sand.
Yet the heavens speak through silent streams,
Inward lies the source of dreams.
To discover oneself, to see anew,
To grasp the power that courses through,
Is to rise amidst the worldly din,
And find the miracles born within.
So tread the streets with a quiet might,
Through the smog and haze, reclaim the light.
For in this maze of modern despair,
The path is yours—already there.
Spring’s Abysmal Guile
By Sy Roth
A vapor rises, rank as the charnel pit,
a corruption of a miasma vast,
as though some sepulcher, long sealed,
split its stony jaws to breathe.
Vile exhalation of a corrupted world.
The reveler, unwitting wretch
treads the decadent fields where verdure writhes,
each blade a hostile tendril, squamous, cold,
glistening with ichor
No earthly fount its progenitor.
He deems the shade of evil vanquished,
trampled beneath his hobnailed boot.
The soil heaves with malefic will,
its roots, like veins of some primordial fiend,
pulses with a rankness older than the stars,
a stench that whispers of aeons lost.
Spring cloaks itself in verdant pall,
no bloom, but scales of a vast, unuttered thing,
its thorns a raven’s beak, evermore to rend, to sow, to bespoil.
He quaffs the tainted zephyr,
proclaiming triumph over a gloaming moon,
Swept in the season’s unseen talons,
fathomless ennui
creeps through his sinews,
entombing his soul in an abysmal cleft unshriven.
Thoughts of a Border Collie While
Pondering a Bone
Mine, mine, mine, I think
as I drip drool on the floor.
Bloody meat clings
tenaciously to the hard bone.
White fat, like veins of gold,
marbles the red treat.
My owner is thawing this delicious
delicacy on the counter.
I watch and wait with longing
as I think of the animal odor.
Sharp canines will soon tear
and rend all from the cow’s femur.
My probing tongue will pull the tangy,
succulent marrow from its hiding place.
When all has been eaten, it will
become my favorite chew toy as
I will gnaw, gnaw, gnaw until not
one atom remains.
Then I will lay back in the cool shade
and realize I am a lucky dog.
I threw the dice, wishing for it to land on the vertically,
I spoke complaints, hoping people understood it correctly.
My words are sharp like a sword, only my weapon in hand,
I cannot rest, I cannot yield, for I won't let it stand.
An alien thing, it getting pus in your flesh,
It turns into poison, unnoticed at its best.
A tiny black scorpion kills the camel at the end,
A small sting from the foot and its small venom rend.
Positive mindset satiates my hunger,
In dark clouds, it finds silver linings to see.
It carves out success, not as a warmonger,
And its bravery swirls like tides in the sea.
Walking its paths fuels daily ambition,
With it, no time again will my self-trust fade.
No setback can stir the winds of submission;
My will makes failure retreat, deep in dismay.
Struggles create success of long duration,
That spark is a flame that I hold to chest dear.
Lasting success will demand dedication,
I pray that God's favour will keep my path clear.
Their gatherings draw me, my footsteps align,
For there, their uplifting voices rend the air.
Their kindness and courage in harmony shine,
Building new bonds through the wisdom they all share.
The hope in their lives remains my guiding light,
Proof that all dreams can be within easy reach.
It isn’t just how long one groans through the night,
But how one learns from the lessons life can teach.
Here a tales of love and devotion that are casually penned,
On the day hearts are filled, a young girl's voice is Rend.
A beast in human form, a wicked sight,
Defiles a pure, innocent child in the night.
Then society enters the scene,
Painting her as a soiled, tender flower, unclean.
Her character is stained, her name is defiled,
No tears are shed, no one stands by her side.
And when she fades away, they call her pure and bright,
For she becomes a symbol of sorrow and blight.
Candles are lit as a mournful display,
Applauded for speaking of her tragic way.
For a few days, her story fills the air,
Then another young girl becomes their care.
Again, an innocent's throat is torn,
And the cycle repeats, a tale forlorn.
The story's the same, the characters replace,
As innocent girls are marked with disgrace.
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