beauty

Modern History Poem II – “Not Enough”

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http://www.cnn.com/2013/05/14/justice/pennsylvania-abortion-doctor-regrets/

Shake your head at their verdict

Your stoic brow might outlast theirs

Not enough

Nurses nurse wounds immortal

You taught them their art

Not enough

Sigh your death-gasp

Others may yet find voice

Not enough

Sound of scissors sundering spine

Will their last screech find audience in your ears?

Not enough

Innocence in your garden

Snipped at the spine like a parasite

Not enough

Modern History Poem I – “What You Say Can And Will Be Used Against You”

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http://www.cnn.com/2013/05/13/us/justice-ap-phones/index.html?hpt=hp_t2

“(CNN) – The Justice Department secretly collected two months of telephone records for reporters and editors at The Associated Press, the news service disclosed Monday in an outraged letter to Attorney General Eric Holder.

The records included calls from several AP bureaus and the personal phone lines of several staffers, AP President Gary Pruitt wrote. Pruitt called the subpoenas a “massive and unprecedented intrusion” into its reporting.”

Media

Of the Government
By the Government
For the Government
We, the people;
Guardians of our Government
Securers of Prosperity
And yet there is Sloth in Abundance

The 1% as it were
Listen to your every word
Right to Freedom of Speech
Necessity still yet Time’s Bastard Child

Somewhere, a disk, a file…
Your voice
Words for you father,
Your mother, brother,
Sister, friend –
Your voice
Some sick man’s play thing
Obsession of our protectors
Overseers of our prosperity

Government
Of the People
By the People
For the People

First Trek

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Immersed in the light of night and day bouncing off the Pale Goddess I awoke

Shafts of gold dyed in silvery white streams rolled in slow motion, alighting themselves

At my feet and upon our cushion, the heath, provided by our Great Mother silent in might

Awaking I gathered up my bow, skins, and a pouch made of fire-treated wendigo stomachs

As I began to push my brother down the hill, he sprung at me like a hissing bakeneko

I laughed, father had been training him in the Arts – fishing, whittling, cooking, but most

Importantly, hunting. I had taken advantage of a silly habit of tradition – the necessity of alert;

When they come of age, usually four Treks old, it is tradition for the father to stalk them like prey,

It is the only way to know if they will survive – youths are prepared for the Trek’s long hunt and my

Brother was no exception. I had thought he would stop and think, no, he came on in force,

Shoving me with what must have been twenty flints of force, I lost balance, and felt Mother’s

Slap in the face for being so naive as I descended down the hill, my bones withstanding Her

Test as I endured the jagged hornstone. Leaping upon me, as he pulled a poisoned flint dirk to my throat, I screamed! “Jokulu it’s me, Taranpsh! Your bloodbound, your kinsworn, your brother!” “Brother! He chortled, releasing the death-stone from my neck. So quick to make fun When you can’t even protect yourself, I would’ve slain you like a ratatoskr!” “Fair fortune you held Your blade, father is probably watching from the boughs even now as we speak.” “He would

Understand, I have to be on my guard this first Trek, father’s hand will not stray or hinder as did

Mine..” “And for that I thank you, farewell kinsworn, but here, before I make my leave, here is Some ratatoskr soup, not much for sustenance but there’s bound to be some speed in that there

Soup, the impish hawk-scout was back on his way up to relay a message to the gods-eagle

When I snatched him up, maybe he’ll help that stubborn dimwit that lingers still in your thick skull.” “Oh, but brother, for once I think you have proven yourself to be a little rough around the edges, am I right? Hah hah, well thank ya’ for the damned, liquid rodent, and be off with ya’!

Taranpsh sped out into the dark, forested recesses under the half-gaze of their father.

As Jokulu set up camp, a chilling thud shook the ground enough to set the poor, hungry, tired

Youth back on guard, death-stone in hand. He knew it was his father but he couldn’t sense the

Difference between the wind and his father iin the brush’s rustling. Suddenly a spear soared and embedded its jagged edge into the ground where he had been standing, nearly blind in the dark. The leap had saved his life. He quickly rose to his feet, bent his knees, and was back on guard. Feeling a slight breeze of warmth at the tip of his shoulder blade he sped around and lunged Forward, just barely nitching flesh at the end of his strike. A minute amount of blood covered his right hand as he retreated, returning to his guard. “Keen strike son!” He heard from the undisturbed blackness. “I’ll be back tomorrow, set up camp, and don’t let the blight’s chill get to You before I do, dreams!” And he was gone. Returning to his work, Jokulu had set up camp and Was asleep within twenty of our minutes and one of their ‘encampments’. Jokulu and his kin are

All proud members of the race of humankind that resides within the walls of the world known to Its inhabitants as Hitherheim. In Hitherheim, all the states of humankind can be seen throughout History. Some clans of humans are quite advanced in the sciences and other bodies of study While others remain in cultures that might be compared to those of time periods including those

Of the modern, pre-modern, post-classical, classical, and other time periods. Hitherheim is Composed of humanity’s entire experience up until our current era however shows a version of Our own world where human ideas are also reality; even those including such constructs of the Mind as mythology, fantasy, religion, and any and all other fictions and non-fictions ever devised.

 

End of chapter 1

“Let the firefiend purify this cursed hell-spot! The Nether hath no fury like that of Morning Morrow! Wretched curr of days, hide thy gleaming face, and let me rest yet a little while more! Damn Thee, I’ve risen, now retreat to mock this scowl!”


Two encampments past his waking, Jokulu began his day’s march east, he needed water and Knew he must reach the Wellspring by moon’s rise or fall prey to the elements; the most Dishonorable way to die…

“Condemned” and “Fragility” – Poems by Michelle Cheng

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Condemned 

 

Untouchable, they lay

Side by side, only tinged with mistakes

Inescapable prisons

Bound with not simply regret

 

But uncharted discoveries 

And intangible dreams

Forever wandering aimlessly

Throughout the plane of mortal follies

 

And yet, silently they chuckle

Their amusement unheeded

For what purpose do they laugh?

 

They have been reduced

To less than nothing

 

Simply dust

Simply ashes

Simply gone

 

Fragility

 

Hollow trees filled with

Shadows of acorns

And shells of fruit

 

Husks of once-proud sprouts

Bearing trunks with poise

And not slumped with grief

 

Their withering tendrils’

Sustainment

Crumble hatefully upon themselves

 

Shame beyond redemption

Loathing beyond salvation

Despair beyond mercy

 

Fragility 

 

Celebration of Spontaneous Creativity and/or INSANITY

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Thank you Michelle Chang, my companion in INSANITY and Spontaneous Creativity for this EPIC stream of consciousness poem / piece of poetic prose –

Gestaltdtion –

Today is {RECALIBRATION}. I’ve had enough – no more reds, no more whites. The yellow is everywhere; why won’t it stop? Too much, too much, I don’t want the brown or the black . Only blue. Only blue is good, her blue orbs twinkling when blue pours over me. A yellow shines over again. NO I DON’T WANT THE YELLOW. {RECALIBRATION} now activated. 

Grey comes back, and now… it’s all I see. No more blue? No more red or white or brown. Was it worth it? I lost my blue, my only joy, but I can feel it running through me. Blue is me. Blue is good. I am good. They tell me no, no, no, stay, stay, stay. I hear these words words words “restrain”, “emergency”, “escape”, and I turn in spirals until I fall back on the white – white? {RECALIBRATION} scheduled for two. 

You must be careful, for their lights shine endlessly. They are always looking and writing and searching and if you are bad you are {RECALIBRATED}. No, it does not hurt but {RECALIBRATION} is bad. You are – you are – {RECALIBRATION} is good. The whites are good, they help us, they feed us. When you hear and see red, fall. Red is the worst. Red means… escape. No escaping {RECALIBRATION}, no leaving allowed. You must receive your {RECALIBRATION}, it means salvation. Why would you ever desire to be free? Freedom is nonexistent. There is only –

All thoughts of blue has dissipated. The yellow is good. Good good good good good. No, no it’s not. THEY did this. It’s THEIR fault. No no no, good. They help us, they know what we need. Hands everywhere, feet everywhere, I know everything now. The green lies underneath and the screaming filling the air is not only my cries of joy – {RECALIBRATION}.

 

 

Moving has been considered overrated. Real food has been made obsolete. All I know are cold, tight straps, over my hands and over my feet. Maybe I deserve all of this… maybe I’m headed towards the final destination. Maybe… or maybe not: tomorrow, another {RECALIBRATION}. Blurred and slurred, my words crawl out like slugs and they meek naw sneez tu dee utters. Why with all the stares and glares? I’m normal, I’m a horse and an elephant and a giraffe like everyone. No more meat or chicken feet? How rude, I like those, I want my feet back GIVE THEM BACK. What have they done to my sun? Yellow was never good, orange is worse, yet I miss the warmth of my sun that shines so lovingly over my shins and knees and toes. Aren’t they lovely? They called me an artist, a painter, a writer, a singer. I never was a lawyer, a doctor, an optometrist, a judge. DON’T JUDGE ME. They all do, I can see it in their narrow eyes and grinning mouths, slobbering saliva over my dreams like some rabid squirrel with a dirty acorn. It’s not time for my {RECALIBRATION}, why are they coming here? I don’t like it, I have to sleep, I’m tired, no more prickies and fluids and scratchy fussies. BLACK.

Beetles all over the walls! Black-eyed, white-backed, blacked-headed beetles I love them! I can hear their songs and they sing only to me, only for me. There’s only one thing wrong: they call me Jude, but that’s not my name. It’s all right, I’ll forgive them, they can’t possibly know my name and Jude isn’t so bad anyway. I wish they wouldn’t speak so much about the past – Yesterday is gone, I don’t want to know about it. The beetles calm me, though, even if they obscure the walls and I can’t see beyond their bodies – it’s ok, it’s ok, see beyond the ceiling instead.

NOBODY LIKED MAGIC RUB. It’s disgusting, it’s stupid and I don’t want – {RECALIBRATION}. They had to,
they had to, why won’t they accept me? All I ever wanted was to see them smiling, well all I ever wanted was to make me fine. They know that I love them, so why can’t they see that all I ever wanted was to be me? Me, me, me, me, not THEM. They’re just another brick in the wall. There aren’t worms in my brain, they said so! They said so, they must be right, they are CHAMPIONS. No time for losers, they’re the CHAMPIONS. Kid? Child? THAT KID IS NOT MY SON. I have suns, no sons or girlies or dogs. Is this just madness taking control? BYE BYE.

Glowing in the dark, the stars call to me in shadowed whispers that illuminate the moon. Satiated now, the moon is, it has already consumed all the pies and holes. Tic-tac-toe I win the hopscotch butterfinger candy. I see you snickering at me, I see Gollum skittering around waiting for his ride to Mars. The Milky Way would swallow his soul, swallow him whole, swallow his air-headed tiny little big brain. Da wabbit twix me erry day. Eminem would break that birdie’s neck for Haillie. Those bullies always burst the nerds during recess. Just waiting for my pay day, want my hundred grand so I can get out of my {RECALIBRATION}. The three musketeers all died from those hot tamales, I SAW THEM.

In the end, everyone flies to the nest of crows and bothers the chickadees. In the end, only withering frowns and long-forgotten hymns remain. In the end,{RECALIBRATION} means swaying through the ocean in a rubber tire of mercury solvent. In the end, vodka is Canadian and bacon is Russian with English breakfast and American breakfast too. In the very very end, we could swing without dying when we pass through the rainbow of cubes.

>>THEY SAID THEY WERE ABSTRACT
>>>THEY SAID IT WAS ART
>>>>NOW THEY SAY
>>>>>{RECALIBRATION}

How many? THIRTEEN? Only three clovers and a leaf? Pots are to be filled with water and not with that brown black yellow gold red amber stuff. Stifling tank tops with fluttering curtains and prettied up powdery puff hair? That is OBSOLETE. They deserve {RECALIBRATION}, not me! I see them prancing through the river, chests puffed up with hubris and wires and padded cotton wads. Two tails belong on foxes and then it’s nine, not the heads or sides or backs. Oh, that flirty warbler, shut your ugly beak and tell your mama to teach you to dig up worms – that’s all you deserve. Snarky hisses from embezzling serpents – no gain or gold, go to the laundry whelp!

Should there exist an ethereal wonderland, or only this single chocolate? A heart of spades or a club of diamonds? A final flourish of silver, and the world perishes… yes, in blue. Farewell {RECALIBRATION}.