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Mark Ackerson Poem
All of
us possess
great power
defined as the
essential self
which exists
throughout
all of
our long
intestines
as a perfect joy
acknowledged by yogini
as truth, except we always expel
our essential selves as a biological
function - never to realize full joy
in the practice of Lower Yoga.
As a result of imperfect anal
hold we allow confusion to rule
each day of our limited life
with random gasses. Yet,
this turmoil within each
self can be changed to a
deep awareness of the true
self by turning inward, away
from this world of wanton anal
acts of periodic discharges into
true universal experiences. With
many paths to choose, the novice is plagued by
problematic questions and choices, but this task
is made easy with the infinite grace bestowed by our
international instructors - masters of the lowest state
in irregularities who teach correct control
of the sphincter forces so vital to
our search for self identity!
FEEL
BETTER
FROM OUR
INTESTINAL
IDENTITY
COSMIC
PATH
Copyright © Mark Ackerson | Year Posted 2015
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Mark Ackerson Poem
sprinted by the love of lust
firmly walked by those who trust
breathed upon by warm desire
moments spent beside the fire
plotted out with marked restraint
fallen to by swoon and faint
gazed upon with starry eyes
muddy from heartbroken cries
baptized by a single tear
never trod by those who fear
timid, shy, reluctant feet
mindful of the stones we meet
stumbled on by reckless feet
softened where two lovers meet
blind to any right or wrong
lost within a lover’s song
blind to where the path will lead
lost to travel paths of need
Copyright © Mark Ackerson | Year Posted 2015
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Mark Ackerson Poem
The Mountain –
I climb between a foothill
And its craggy legs. Self will,
See me through
Where few have forged before,
Higher than the hawks explore
And higher than my clouded view.
I must not fail, there must be more!
I go
IN SEARCH OF THE MEANING OF LIFE
Beauty Most Rare –
Days past the conifers below,
Green fur upon the snow.
A lone bloom
Higher, fighting through the drift
And higher, I kiss this fragile gift.
The petals bruise and fall against the gloom.
Beauty most rare, your death is swift.
Ah no,
You Do Not Hold The Meaning Of Life
Wisdom –
Time blurs within this wintry void.
Hand here, foot there, my wits employed,
This is the way
Higher, my path within my eyes
And higher, I pause and realize
This is not wisdom hard at play,
My quest is far from wise.
Ah no,
You Do Not Hold The Meaning Of Life
Love –
My need yearns to drink her scent.
Such longing rues the quest’s ascent.
I must push on!
Higher, she waves beyond my reach
And higher, this love begins to teach
‘Though loved ones may be gone,
They live within the hearts of each.
I wonder,
Perhaps You Hold The Meaning Of Life
Holiness –
The climb has all but claimed my life.
I only see my home, my wife.
A cave ahead?
Higher, I see the open door
And higher, he sits upon the frozen floor.
I ask for truth. He lifts his head
And laughs, “We live, we die.” And nothing more?
Ah no!
You Do Not Hold The Meaning Of Life
Friendship –
Higher, I must steel my will
And higher, I fall and feel no chill.
The quest is lost!
The mountain peak and dreaming blends…
I waken in the hands of friends
Who followed me despite the cost.
On you my breath depends!
Ah, yes
You Hold The Meaning Of Life!
Copyright © Mark Ackerson | Year Posted 2015
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Mark Ackerson Poem
Infants bond from basic needs to mother’s scent,
understanding nothing of the love that’s spent.
Toddlers cry whenever they don’t get their ways,
children pout against the pane on rainy days.
Teens within a circle that fulfills their needs,
grow to see the roses hid behind the weeds.
Those who give because they love is always learnt,
gifts of time, a simple rhyme or candles burnt.
Copyright © Mark Ackerson | Year Posted 2015
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Mark Ackerson Poem
All my exes were pros of the game,
Spending years at perfecting their aim.
They thought it was funny
To take all my money
When the judges said I was to blame!
"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." - Albert Einstein
Copyright © Mark Ackerson | Year Posted 2015
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Mark Ackerson Poem
I am Slasher Of Monsters stock-in-trade
My sword Kram, is double edged death
One horror burrowed deep in me at birth
With poison of a thousand thousand Hydras
To kill it I must kill myself
But I am Slasher Of Monsters stock-in-trade
I persevere in trial
Another felled me from the heavens
A three eyed beast with many Buddha arms
I was immortal, Homeric in youth as great Hercules
Deeply wounded I fended off the fiend
I am Slasher of Monsters stock-in-trade
I will live
One clawed from Dante’s seventh circle
A beast of horrible hunger, spitting blood
It’s neck hung with hearts of men
Deeply wounded I almost died
Though I am Slasher Of Monsters stock-in-trade
It still lives
Another creature came in costume
To consume my very essence, ugly
Behind masks of wanton beauty
(I never feared Medusa's snakes, the thing uses mirrors)
Deeply wounded I fought to free myself
I killed it yet another reared it’s mask
I am Slasher Of Monsters stock-in-trade
I will kill them all
I have fought many, many more
One burrowed deep in earth
Atropos atop a thousand thousand strings
Hunts me with blood rusted blade
I cannot kill her even if I kill myself
But I am Slasher Of Monsters stock-in-trade
I live with open cuts unhealed
My sword Kram, is double edged death
Brighter than a hundred suns
Hidden in sheath of ancient weave
I care not
I am Slasher Of Monsters stock-in-trade
Copyright © Mark Ackerson | Year Posted 2015
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Mark Ackerson Poem
Where no ponies free ranged, I dreamt to break and wrangle paints.
Where ponies bent, broke and bridled, I dreamt to hang away my spurs.
Where no ponies free range, I have no spurs and wrangle paints.
Copyright © Mark Ackerson | Year Posted 2015
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Mark Ackerson Poem
lighthouses; beam dreams asleep, awake, between
weighted muses surface from jade pool depths
breathe gasps of fresh love, beautiful, dark
what’s born of dark often comes to light
funnel cones shine on nighted ships
shore swept or safely harboring
flags parade by watch mills
free to wander streets
vie, fly then die
living poetry
burning
lights
Copyright © Mark Ackerson | Year Posted 2015
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Mark Ackerson Poem
I used to say I love you, many years ago –
My passion-cries were wings of flight!
Like burning arrows pierced upon a snowy night,
I loosed my songs to let you know.
So long ago! So many years will change a man.
And now the songs of love lie burnt
Like cindered, wasted chars of music never learnt.
I live my life as best I can.
So now I only open doors for you - you nod.
I rub your aching back - you moan.
You only frown - I work my fingers to the bone.
My quiver’s broken, bare and flawed.
I still go on, I weed your flower beds - you pout.
I always serve as you command.
I take you to a restaurant - I hold your hand.
You point to trash - I take it out.
I buy you gifts - you ask me of my whereabouts.
I see your tears - I hold you near,
My arrows burnt by what I hold most dear -
Your nods, your frowns, your tears and pouts.
Copyright © Mark Ackerson | Year Posted 2015
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Mark Ackerson Poem
Black –
darkness pitches, naked witches, almond moon of hallowed season
crossing stitches, dogs and bitches dance entranced for wicked reason
powdered sulphur matting hair, licking dirt and twitching praises
sanctify the night in pain, evil stirs and sickness raises
magic black and legion spawned, circling stars of salt and mud
cries that die against the night, sacrifice of blade and blood
candles cursed to stain the light, pluck the feathers from a dove
base desires of craven need, souls forsaking all above
black, malignant eyes intent, leaking malice, wearing skin
wearing bags of festered hate, fevered hags with open sin
coming, clacking fingernails, children bent in pleading prayer
nightmares twisting locks of hair, children cornered by the air
White –
nurtured itches, silver witches, Mother Moon who guides the season
mending stitches, bringing riches, singing rites, enlightened reason
tiger eye and poppy seed, woodland altars flush with praises
dancing airy flights of joy, tendered smoke of incense raises
magic white and ancient born gently stirs in mystic mud
giving gifts from life within, finger pricked and drop of blood
earth and wind and three by three, witches cooing to the dove
secrets cast and never told waken to Her will above
witches’ oil to scent the air, purifying nature's skin
breezes drawing circled puffs, papers burn to counter sin
lilac, sage and sandalwood honor Mother Moon in prayer
holding fast as children dream sylvan scents on glamoured air
Copyright © Mark Ackerson | Year Posted 2015
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