Buchenwald Bergen Belsen Belzec Auswitz Birkenau..Advertized as kibutz
Camps 1940 s designs, live now as this
Ages macarb'e museums, attractions of
Evil madness i find.' Generating payments
That get siphoned to wars.' They are temples to manna, steeped in past agonys..Into current atrocitys i am almost
Sure.? I am not reflecting on Jews far and
Near for there will be many who are not guilty of ultra earthly zionisam, yet i realize there is more, i see a satanic circle
Of distinct groups nominally Christian Jewish Islamic Hindu Buddist Zen under
satan..In cahoots each sect stirrs its followers to cause some bad event, then its the turn of another.' This way they circumvent.? Discovery of their methods
The public perception is always skewed..az they melt in and out of the shadow world that enables their attacks
On you.' Or whoever they next intend to do.!
It's quite obvious now:
"The they" are preparing for life deep underground.
Placing final ribbons around subterranean cities.
Stockpiling sustenance
Water being siphoned to top off cisterns and privies.
The Amazon, Tigris, and Euphrates.
Superior, Michigan, and Erie are all being drained.
The surface people will be left scrambling for crumbs
in the phlegm of nuclear holocaust.
They'll devolve into hunter-gatherer clans.
To become a twisted reality show for subterraneans.
"The They" who trafficked us and ate our babies
will make a game of it, placing bets at our expense...
on who will perish -who'll be left.
Then, when the earth is somewhat cleansed.
"The They" will emerge to barter with metal from our teeth
pin our cross/bones to their puffy pigeon chests
The rest will serve as sex slaves, servants, and jesters
in the post-apocalyptic bed, "the they" have knowingly made.
In the folds of night, as a wave, you came
Charioted in a filmy dream
All night you were with me
In love’s uncharted land, we roamed
You sang to me sweet rhymes of love
Echoing the lore of romantic lovers
Your voice choked and moist with passion
Overwhelming me with an ecstasy so rare
You fondled me with infinite tenderness
Opening in me all inlets of pleasure
Our hearts with divine furore filled
And we knew love’s sweet benediction
In the seclusion of that silvery night
Looking into the corners of your love lit eyes
I saw an ocean of rising and receding tides
And took a dip in the whirlpool of love
All night I inhaled your scent
Knew the warmth of your breath
Siphoned the sweetness of your lips
Alas! With dawn, you faded away like dew
Count Olaf Von Farlow was a few quarts low
He followed the scent, he followed his nose
Gonna do a fly-by, wide-eyed, don't you know
Gotta do a fly-by low, to detect the flow
Now, Count Olaf's down, and he's blood bank bound
Incisors sharpened, with moldy, molded crown
That's "Olaf Von Farlow"...never hyphened
The Teller there, unaware...got siphoned
Nepal
Nepal I know little of this country, nestling
Among colossal mountains
It used to be a kingdom, but the king was so
Autocratic that he lost the job.
Later on, I have this from memory, one of the princes
Shot the royal family as they were sitting down for tea.
This didn`t help him to become a king,
I think he is a monk now and is fed by the poor.
Nepal is also a place where Pakistan and India sometimes
Shot at each other when not freezing to death
At high altitudes in summer uniforms
A recent earthquake brought Nepal to the news for a day
They have been promised help to rebuild Kathmandu
As usual in such cases, the money gets siphoned off and
little
Reach the people of Nepal.
To whom who cares, Nepal is also the birthplace of Buddhism.
There’s children growing up that believe the stars
sound like crickets chirping,
for their only exposure to these sources of wonder
are through over-exposure to blue light and radio waves
and soundtracks overlaying simulations.
The night they know
is bright as day,
lit by “satellite internet constellations”
or fogged out by the price of progress.
They don’t understand what it is to stare upwards
and be humbled in awe.
That’s what’s wrong with men today;
they never look up, never gaze around.
They only march forward on a path
marked with dollars instead of footprints
and fail to take heed of the wails around them.
But at least one day, when
we’ve siphoned the earth dry to fuel
“achievements”
(greed),
when the cities are burning from the debts of desire,
the children will look up at the stars that aren’t stars
and hear real crickets chirping
and they won’t be afraid of the end.
Surrealistic impulses
create songs impositions
upon the sphere of
evening coincidences
that beckon truth
beyond the scope
of reality as
you finally realize
that to some
it's just a problem
upon their realm
of personal satisfaction
Inter-relationships surface
amidst the turmoils
of daily excursions
siphoned through kaleidoscopic
determinations that have
no basis in justice
but are constructed
amidst contemporary delineations
that stifle happiness
The desolate wasteland of trepidation traversed
by my jagged life that strived relentless for so long
to smoothen the innate angularities of serrated mind,
swirling in the egregious whirlpool of sucking indignation.
Siphoned into sordid abyss of despondent delirium,
I searched out for myself a pathway of passion within,
leading through the pulsating portal to my affable heart,
not yet frozen passive in the prolonged winter of desolation.
The spring of longing came with fragrance of fervor,
floated on the dreamful wings of fleeting emotive time
across the flush of my floral heart where you had flittered
like a butterfly creating the cadence of chromatic symphony.
The concert of the mesmeric music of my yearning,
refrained the rhythm of concealed current called love,
that rolled between you and me to interweave us forever,
as engrossed emotions danced with the ripples of rhapsody.
She sits on a stool
in the middle of a yesterday room
eyes squeezed shut
as her phantoms circle ‘round
circle ‘round 'n 'round
their hollowed voices chant an endless
why? why did you…? whydidyou??
mantra|mantra_ing
from all that hard mined deep time
from days long-ago-past yet-not
those never-really-past days of ago.
their discordant chords siphoned
from yesterdays' poor performance
those depths of times behind her, yet-not,
those never-really-locked loosely keyed doors
from all that of the 'whatever' she
stuffed behind closed doors.
Her eyes with dead-ended sight fused shut
for she cannot force them open
for she cannot bear
to see the tragic
sweet lives randomly
pieced apart
strewn crazily
at her feet…
all that of all the what
of those shoulda-beens
all that
what-coulda-shoulda-mighta-been
but wasn't.
To dream or not to dream this query I will leave unanswered
for just as the winds cannot stop blowing and the flowers
cannot stop growing,
I too cannot wave my fantasies goodbye.
I will not leave behind
my illusions, nor my castle in the sky
I am a poet with so much golden yarn,
and miles and miles of forever tales,
at the tip of my golden quill.
My spindle never rests.
To dream or not to dream this is a query
I siphoned for you.
What will you weave for me today?
What will your wave of fantasy, enshroud?
I can't wait to read you, my lovely poets,
make me proud !!!!
Have you ever felt from a song
A song that reminded you how you can live
The rush of the wind, the desire to climb
A quickly-building monument to the beauty of creation
How quickly a mood changes with a play
The sorrow of loss, a lament to the sky
for what was not lost to you
what you may never be lucky enough to lose
A mournful numbness, a malady of words, a sea to be swallowed by
An arrogant strut behind what they have done and claim to do
A hyperactive child in a candy store
An invitation to someone else's moment, a happy party
A strut in saying something how it is, sauntering up to your boss's reddened face
A spontaneous guffaw from a line so out of place
A dance in a language you cannot understand
Siphoned emotions from founts
Some people urging you to drink from
Some urging you to bathe and not drink, to not feel
Some that were left and coyly watched
Some that were abandoned
Some that were trapped in amber
How could where we live, where we choose to drink, not say a lot about us?
Such a pure crystallization of what is so slippery to say
Cold,
Was the look in her eyes
When their eyes first met
Cold,
Was the skin of her palm
When he first held her hand
Cold,
Was the touch of her lips
When they first kissed
Cold,
Was the brush of her skin
When he felt it with his fingertips
She siphoned his warmth
And left him shivering
When she stepped out for her next rodeo.
Today, a workshop for the poet.
Write about a cup.
Standing empty,
Purpose unfulfilled.
Imagination startled as
I smash the cup inside my head.
A million shards of broken pottery
Lying on the floor.
Broken poems and promises
Lying on the floor.
Shards thrown out of context
As are we.
Broken souls
From out a shattered God.
Each shard, a refugee.
You and me.
Metaphors attached to all
The brokenness we own.
Cups of purpose
Seeking our fulfillment.
Joined to make a whole
Of all we hold;
Become a cup
Our truth to then unfold.
What began as empty, filled
With our life’s portion,
Sharing, sipping, spilling
All along the way.
Losing contents
We may label dear
Until the final tipping
Of a cup left upside down.
What words escape our pens
That are not truth.
Whose content change
The soul from which we bleed
Whether subject cup or love,
Or other siphoned dalliance,
At our finish will complete
A lifetime’s cupping need.
I felt the breeze on
my face
The one I took for granted
like honest lovers
longing to be loved
I never thought I
would be happy to be
blinded by sun rays
inhale the aroma
of rose buds and
existence in the air
I hear voices in the wind
I can feel the vibration
of God breathing
His heart beating like
Gentle earthquakes
Inside me
Motivation siphoned
from my soul
but I'm not worried
I will soon be alright
©3-21-2020
In hushed strides silver threads tonight unfold again,
my longing on trampled soil to be rolled again.
Beneath maple leaves my silent flower shivers,
scarlet bed of withering dreams is cold again.
So numb my desires echo in hollowed umbra,
My wishes I fear might remain untold again.
Lonely lark from wilderness sings of my despair,
Blazing sparks simmer on snow being bold again.
Oh beloved! How oft have I waned crescent soul,
Your veil of molten stars I wish to hold again.
Dreams cuddled in beguile blossoms of aurora,
Await to relive their promises old again.
Fir-kissed caress of heartbeats over years apart,
Enchant siphoned silk silhouettes to mould again.
So bereft my memoirs leave no footprints on sand,
agony on alluring waves was sold again.
Celeste dances in nebula streams on sand dunes,
Graceful Aphrodite will I behold again?
Cynthia petals drape my hopes in banisters,
I pray my tender love grows manifold again.
August 31, 2020
Ghazal Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
12 syllables per line checked on www.howmanysyllables.com
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