Emmy Lou

Before Believing --Danny Flowers

Winter, summer season is taking over
It's quiet like new fallen snow
I told you summer stories
But outside it's getting mighty cold
I told you everything I could about me
Told you everything I could

How would you feel if the world
Was falling apart around you
Pieces of the sky were falling
In your neighbor's yard but not on you
Wouldn't you feel just a little bit funny
Think maybe there's something you ought to do

Solutions that never lay down before you
The answers are all around
Believing is all the friends you need to talk to
And I'm believing in you
I told you everything I could about me
I told you everything I could

A Poem

An Intersectional Poem

The Shakespearean Gothic Haiku:

Shall I compare thee

to a summer's day? Alright -

thou art very hot.

hat tip = Brian Bilston 

A New Poem

A Poem

The Power of Poetry

--Brian Bilston

with things falling apart

and anarchy let loose,

it was only poetry, he found,

which had any use.

so he reached for his copy

of The Complete Works of Yeats

and bludgeoned the President

of the United States.

A Poem

On her birthday - yesterday actually.

A New One For Me

Tincture

Andrea Gibson 1975 - 2025

Imagine, when a human dies,

the soul misses the body, actually grieves

the loss of its hands and all they could hold.

Misses the throat closing shy

reading out loud on the first day of school.

Imagine the soul misses the stubbed toe,

the loose tooth, the funny bone. The soul still asks, Why

does the funny bone do that? It’s just weird.

Imagine the soul misses the thirsty garden cheeks

watered by grief. Misses how the body could sleep

through a dream. What else can sleep through a dream?

What else can laugh? What else can wrinkle

the smile’s autograph? Imagine the soul misses each falling

eyelash waiting to be a wish. Misses the wrist

screaming away the blade. The soul misses the lisp,

the stutter, the limp. The soul misses the holy bruise

blue from that army of blood rushing to the wound’s side.

When a human dies, the soul searches the universe

for something blushing, something shaking

in the cold, something that scars, sweeps

the universe for patience worn thin,

the last nerve fighting for its life, the voice box

aching to be heard. The soul misses the way

the body would hold another body and not be two bodies

but one pleading god doubled in grace.

The soul misses how the mind told the body,

"You have fallen from grace." And the body said,

"Erase every scripture that doesn’t have a pulse."

There isn’t a single page in the bible that can wince,

that can clumsy, that can freckle, that can hunger.

Imagine the soul misses hunger, emptiness,

rage, the fist that was never taught to curl—curled,

the teeth that were never taught to clench—clenched,

the body that was never taught to make love—made love

like a hungry ghost digging its way out of the grave.

The soul misses the un-forever of old age, the skin

that no longer fits.

The soul misses every single day

the body was sick, the now it forced, the here

it built from the fever. Fever is how the body prays,

how it burns and begs for another average day.

The soul misses the legs creaking

up the stairs, misses the fear that climbed

up the vocal cords to curse the wheelchair.

The soul misses what the body could not let go—

what else could hold on that tightly to everything?

What else could see hear the chain of a swingset

and fall to its knees? What else could touch

a screen door and taste lemonade?

What else could come back from a war

and not come back? But still try to live?

Still try to lullaby?

When a human dies the soul moves

through the universe trying to describe how a body trembles

when it’s lost, softens when it’s safe, how a wound would heal

given nothing but time.

Do you understand? Nothing in space can

imagine it. No comet, no nebula, no ray of light

can fathom the landscape of awe, the heat of shame.

The fingertips pulling the first gray hair

and throwing it away. I can’t imagine it,

the stars say. Tell us again about goosebumps.

Tell us again about pain.

A Short Poem

On The Vanity Of Earthly Greatness --Arthur Guiterman

The tusks which clashed in mighty brawls

of mastodons, are billiard balls.

The sword of Charlemagne The Just

is ferric oxide, known as rust

The grizzly bear, whose potent hug

was feared by all, is now a rug.

Great Caesar's bust is on the shelf,

and I don't feel so well myself.

A Poem

This one's for you, Bean.

Dorothy Parker

(untitled)

How the arrogant iris would wither and fade

  If the soft summer dew never fell.

And the timid arbutus that hides in the shade

  Would no longer make fragrant the dell.

All the silver-flecked fishes would languish and die

  Were it not for the foam-spangled streams,

Little brooks could not flow without rain from the sky,

  Nor a poet get on with his dreams.

If the blossoms refused their pale honey, the bees

  Must in idleness hunger and pine;

While the moss cannot live, when it's torn from the trees,

  Nor the waxen-globed mistletoe twine.

Were it not for the sunshine, the birds wouldn't sing

  And the heavens would never be blue.

But of all nature's works, the most wonderful thing

  Is how well I get on without you.

A Poem

A Rider at the Oval

--Eduardo Montes-Bradley

 

A stranger rode into the hall of power,

a weary traveler from a battered land.

He came not to beg, but to stand,

bearing the weight of his people's sorrow.

Yet cruelty met him at the door,

words like stones, cold and sharp,

not from foes upon the battlefield,

but from hands once outstretched in promise.

 

Oh, how the world watches in silence,

as dignity is trampled by arrogance.

But the rider will ride on,

for his people still stand.

And history will remember—

not the cruelty, not the insult,

but the unbroken spirit

of those who will not kneel.

A Poem

The Time of the Wasps

 --Rose Vines

Now is not the time for your usual life.

Within our hive

the wasps have already launched

their swift assault,

overwhelming our guards,

killing the workers,

turning their avid eyes

on our pooled, collective honey.

They come for our eggs, too.

We have expected the assault—

they are wasps, after all—

but not the shape of that assault,

and that could well be

our undoing

if we pretend that

now is the time for our usual life.

Now is the time to shower love

on those who wield the pen;

the poets, the comics,

the resolute reporters,

yes,

but also on those who build palisades and pitfalls from

statutes and precedents,

who slow the charge

of the lawless now empowered.

Now is not the time for your usual life.

Use normality as a ruse, silence as a shield,

but not as a path.

Hold close your joy and love and frolicsomeness—

the you that longs for your usual life—

while in safe places you share rumblings and connections

and lay smart plans

to make a swarming cacophony in unsafe spaces.

Now is the time of the wasps

who bring their billions to crush our millions.

But they are few.

Honey bees swarm hornets, killing them with heat.

Today's Tune

The Money Game, parts 1 - 3 --Ren Gill

Strange times we're living in

World can put fear in ya

Hierarchy parties, they make us feel inferior

Greed runs through the parliament interior

Devils walk among us, they fit the criteria

Eerie theories strike fear in weary minded men

When we're clearly living in dictatorships

Nearly blinded by illusions to choose

But who's fooling who?

A ball chained to your shoes

I'm pained, it's a crying shame

The pursuit of our own wealth lights a flame

That makes greed a game that lets the whole world burn

As the world turns, the whole world burns

Money was invented for trade

But now those bits of paper twist hearts, make slaves

Turns a saint into a sinner, a child into a killer

His finger on the trigger of a money game

Oh, rain, rain, rain, rain

A storm, it comes our way

And those who rise through distorted lies

Poison in the veins

But we like to point the blame, blame, blame, blame

It's easier to blame

But point the mirror at ourselves

We're all part of this old money game

This old money game

This old

Dear Mr. President, it's evident that everyone's a resident

Of fear when they support the ideas that keep us separate

When they make us believe that everybody

Is coming to terrorise you in the streets

They say proudly through gritted teeth

"It's my right to hate, that's freedom of speech!"

When did freedom become a reason to hate?

A way to justify a racial slur or insult we make

There's an irony in freedom, because us in the west

We have pillaged and plundered and murdered like savages

Colonised all of the rest, that's called hypocrisy

Preach a certain value that you'd never keep yourselves

If your country was in flames, you'd emigrate yourselves in a second

Still, you spit your venom, demonising immigrants

When really, you're an immigrant

'Cause all of us are immigrants

Or descended from immigrants

The irony is imminent, I'll shed the light on immigrants

America was colonised by Britain

Britain, it was colonised by Rome

Also, colonised by the Saxons

They were German, by the way

You know how people throw shade upon the Germans

'Cause of history's pain

And yet we make the same mistakes all again

Demonise a whole people, Jewish or Muslim the same and the same

Old situations play on repeat

The same old TV shows repeat

Yeah, we worship the bleak

Our opinions aren't our own and we follow like sheep

There's no left, there's no right

In the middle we sleep

Rain, rain, rain, rain

A storm, it comes our way

And those who rise through distorted lies

Poison in the veins

But we like to point the blame, blame, blame, blame

It's easier to blame

But point the mirror at ourselves

We're all part of this old money game

This old money game

This old money game

PART 2

Strange times we're living in, panic and hysteria

Poor man learn the rich man don't care for ya

Narcissist mindsets spread like malaria

Sit back and watch the show, America!

Britain split through fickle shit

A government of hypocrites

These counterfeit politicians sit

In parliament, not adequate

Needlessly bleeding resources all dry

Turn a blind eye if it means a pay rise

"Oh what a shame it would be I would die"

If Number 10 Downing Street burned in a fire

Only joking, only messing, don't be stressing

I'm a peaceful adolescent, there's no need to be unpleasant

Write my thesis in a rhyme scheme

To analyze the brain

While my fingers on the trigger of a money game

Oh Ren, Ren, Ren, Ren

A storm, it comes our way

And those who rise through distorted lies

Poisoning the veins

But we like to point the blame, blame, blame, blame

It's easier to blame

But point the mirror at ourselves

We're all part of this old money game

(This old money game)

(This old)

Money is a game and the ladder we climb

Turns a saint into a sinner with his finger in crime

I'll break it down for you motherfuckers line by line

This is business economics in a nursery rhyme

She sells seashells on a seashore

But the value of these shells will fall

Due to the laws of supply and demand

No one wants to buy shells 'cause there's loads on the sand

Step 1, you must create a sense of scarcity

Shells will sell much better if the people think they're rare, you see

Bare with me, take as many shells as you can find and hide 'em on an island stockpile 'em high until they're rarer than a diamond

Step 2, you gotta make the people think that they want 'em

Really want 'em, really fuckin want 'em

Hit 'em like Bronson

Influencers, product placement, featured prime time entertainment

If you haven't got a shell then you're just a fucking waste man

Three, it's monopoly, invest inside some property, start a corporation, make a logo, do it properly

"Shells must sell", that will be your new philosophy

Swallow all your morals they're a poor man's quality

Four, expand, expand, expand, clear forest, make land, fresh blood on hand

Five, why just shells? Why limit yourself? She sells seashells, sell oil as well!

Six, guns, sell stocks, sell diamonds, sell rocks, sell water to a fish, sell the time to a clock

Seven, press on the gas, take your foot off the brakes,

Run to be the president of the United States

Eight, big smile mate, big wave that's great

Now the truth is overrated, tell lies out the gate

Nine, Polarize the people, controversy is the game

It don't matter if they hate you if they all say your name

Ten, the world is yours, step out on a stage to a round of applause

You're a liar, a cheat, a devil, a whore

And you sell seashells on the seashore

Ren, Ren, Ren, Ren

A storm, it comes our way

And those who rise through distorted lies

Poisoning the veins

But we like to point the blame, blame, blame, blame It's easier to blame

But point the mirror at ourselves

We're all part of this old money game

(This old money game)

(This old)

PART 3

Let me tell you a story about a boy named Jimmy

One years old and his first words were mine, mine gimme

Two years old, he was walking, three years old, walking quickly

Four years old, he was running around the pavements of his city

Five years old, and his daddy told him, listen here son, you've got to learn to be a man

A man he works for what he wants

Six years old, and he's reading, writing, top of the bunch

And when he's seven, his progression made him student number one

Eight years old and he's praised for unusual grades

Nine, his parents pay for private school to nurture the flame

10, 11, 12, 13, he ascends and ascends, his daddy tells him, son, money is the means to all ends

14 solving complex mathematic equations, at 15, IQ 150, still elevating

16 he develops complex software code that detects weaknesses in cyber security protocol

17, and he sells his vision, keeping the share, not yet an adult

But he's practically a millionaire

18, and his daddy tells him now you're a man the world don't give a damn about you

So take all that you can

19, he turns a profit, stocks and shares, invest in product

20, double down deposits 21, his income rockets

22, he learns that truth is just an obstacle to wealth

If you manipulate the data, then the lie will sell itself

23, a life of luxury Crystal and cocaine

24, he makes the Forbes list, they're applauding his name

25, and his daddy told him, listen here, son, while you're sitting in the palace

That don't mean that you won

26, his business shifts, he switches business to arms

He's 27, dealing nuclear shells in Iran

28, inside the Senate, money bought him a seat

He's 29, role of counsel in the president suite

And now he's 30, his daddy says, you're losing the race

You're just a servant to the king, not even in second place

31, a big maneuver for his daddy's approval

Moving imports over borders from the exports out of Cuba

32, moving grams, growing kilo to tons

He's 33, filling warehouses with powder and guns

34, turf war with nobody to stop it, blind eye from the Po Po inside of his pocket

35, he gets a call, I'm sorry, son, but it's your father, had a heart attack

I'm sorry, he's gone

36, getting pissed off abusing this product

37, eyes glazed, disposition demonic

38, with a prostitute, a moment of passion

Heating up the silver spoon and then chasing the dragon

39, getting reckless and hungry for power

Daddy's words still driving him to kill him and devour

He makes a move against the cartel, but the strategy's flawed

They retaliate and leave him in the hospital ward

A bullet buried in his vertebra, and one in his leg

The doctor sighs and says, I don't think you'll be walking again, fuck

Let me tell you a story about a boy named Jimmy

He was 40 and he cursed the words mine, mine gimme

41, he wasn't walking,

42, not walking quickly,

43, Never running round the pavements of his city

44 inside a palace with a mountain of gold

But those riches turn to rubble when perspective evolves

Weighing heavy on his conscience is the value of gold, Lamborghini for a life

Trading money for souls, Jimmy followed the code inside the land of the free

Put your hand inside the cookie jar, take more than you need

And his example is exaggerated versions of me, and it's a version of him

And it's a version of she, and it's a version of you

There's no escaping the blame, the way we live, it's parasitic

Fuck the money and fame, cut the music

This isn't entertainment, this is real life, the way we live is lunacy, community it declines

We're hyperpolarized, we're always fighting and we divide

Truth is less important than the money that we designed?

Money's an invention, politics from our invention, they all come from people's ideas

Did I mention, border's an invention

Law and order fuels the tension that leads to people killing each other

My solution?

Everything is subject to change

We could build utopias if individuals were taught to use their brains

But if we teach kids in schools to always be sheep and put themselves before the herd

If there's more money for meat

Then there's no future I see where the humans survive

We're parasites inside the Petri dish, with cannibal minds

Mold will grow upon the surface, then consumes 'til it dies

And our fate could be the same without this story to the wise

45, Jimmy comes home out of the rain, soaking wet upon a wheelchair

Drinking again, he has everything he wants, he has fortune and fame

Such a fortunate fool with an unfortunate fate with a 45 caliber aimed at his brain

45, a fitting number because his age is the same

Here's the words of his father, it's such a damn shame

Then he presses on the trigger of a money game

Quick Poem

You're a ghost

driving a meat-covered skeleton

made of star stuff,

hanging out on a rock

hurtling through spacetime.

Fear nothing.

--anon

A Poem

Elle Cordova

Found poetry

A Poem

THE TRUTH AND THE LIE

Samantha Stephens

The Lie said to the Truth, "Let's take a bath together, the water is very nice."
The Truth, still suspicious, tested the water and found out it really was nice.

So they got naked and bathed.

But suddenly, the Lie leapt out of the water and fled, wearing the clothes of the Truth.
The Truth, furious, raced out of the pond to get her clothes back.
But the World, upon seeing the naked Truth, looked away, with anger and contempt.

Poor Truth returned to the pond and disappeared forever, hiding her shame.
Since then, the Lie runs around the world, dressed as the Truth, and society is very happy -because the world has no desire to know the naked Truth.

A Song

And So Begins The Task --Stephen Stills with Judy Collins

And so begins the task
I have dreaded the coming of
For so long
I wait for the sun
To remind my body
It needs restin'

And I must learn to live without you now
I must learn to give only part some how

Camping on the edge
Of your city I wait
Hoping someday
You might
See
Beyond yourself

The shadows on the ceiling
Hard
But not real
Like the bars that cage
You within yourself

And I must learn to live without you now
I must learn to give only part some how
And I must learn to live without you now
As I cannot learn to give only part some how

All of these cages
Must
And shall be set aside
They will only
Keep
Us from the knowing

Actors
And stages
Now fall before the truth
As the love
Shared
Between us
Remains
Growing

And I must learn to live without you now
As I cannot learn to give only part some how

Imaging A Poem

Worth repeating.

Making Peace

Denise Levertov

A voice from the dark called out,

‘The poets must give us

imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar

imagination of disaster. 

Peace, not only

the absence of war.’

But peace, like a poem,

is not there ahead of itself,

can’t be imagined before it is made,

can’t be known except

in the words of its making,

grammar of justice,

syntax of mutual aid.

A feeling towards it,

dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have

until we begin to utter its metaphors,

learning them as we speak.

A line of peace might appear

if we restructured the sentence our lives are making,

revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,

questioned our needs, 

allowed long pauses . . .

A cadence of peace might balance its weight

on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,

an energy field more intense than war,

might pulse then,

stanza by stanza into the world,

each act of living

one of its words, each word

a vibration of light - facets

of the forming crystal.

Some Poetry

"The number one hardest thing we have to do as humans in this world is be subjected to the evil, and remain good despite the bullshit we go through."

For me this doesn't land as "Men's Rights Now!" or any of the other crapola coming from the toxic snowflakes who can't admit they've had it pretty fuckin' good for a long fuckin' time, and want us to believe that somehow men are being unfairly attacked (and "oppressed"- WTAF?) by those horrible feminists, and their evil woke incantations.

None of that. This guy is trying to tell us there are good reasons for all this hyper-macho bullshit, and we can address it early if we can figure out how to look honestly at each other - and ourselves - as men, as friends, as fathers, and as partners.

TSleeveless - "Teach a Boy to Cry"

Rhyming Out The Year

Today's Poem

Mary Oliver

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.

How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.

How two hands touch and the bonds will
never be broken.

How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,

and bow their heads.