Truth ignites indeed


There is no “I” in the beginning of a story
Yet truth ignites smoldering through content,
As varnish burns, the shelf’s not even worried
For otherwise he’d show his  visceral resent.

Now needs are present, to point the finger at
Those devilish impressions, diluted and confined
Is this a time to punish the naive, spoiled brat,
Now when the odds are severed and feelings unrefined?

I miss the times when stories all started with an “I”
So much that I…I wish I could forget,
Back when the kids and grown-ups still looked up to the sky
And used to aim the clouds all tucked in the same bed.

If there’s one chance not twenty, a flicker to imply
That kids and grown-ups will ever live as one,
Today I will be angry, tomorrow I would fly…
And soon the ageless war will just be waged for fun.

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Desire is so powerful that it cripples effortlessly



It tangles my gut, dragging my chest deep down into the soul.
Longing for a touch, or a gaze from whom I have yet to share the same plane.

At night I do dream, that in the twilight sky we see the same things.
The same moon, and stars… drawing pyramids and following maps to our lost past.

There can never be a ripe pair of two romantics.
Even Juliet did not care much for Romeo’s antics.

Yin-Yang and the Dao wont allow it;
to burn with unrequited desire is my cursed darkness.

If only you would stop delivering gifts,
fueling my agony with empty persistence.
I cannot confess the way I understand love is different than thou.
But I accept, any love of yours tis better than none.

But those three words dear,
Do cut deep.

I cannot confess the things I fantasize while in my bed.

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brilliant use of words

micky murder poems


Black lines of velvety ribbon pull

me backwards;

my puppet master taunts me with the thought of free will

I can stumble, but you will not let me fall.

you are in control of my life,

my movements, my words,

but only for now…

at least until i can find a way

to break free,

soon, i will be…

free to live my own life,

free to make my own decisions,

and free to fail, but then learn to get up again.

you will no longer choose the path i take.

i will stand proud alone.

these chains i break.

no longer will i move for you.

i look down at my legs-

there are two.

two to move and two to run

no longer will you define my fun,

no longer will you hold my strings.

i will show you i am capable of these things!

just wait, and…

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Sound rather like it hurt to write


I needed to love you more.
Spend longer hours caressing your curls,
Driven around in cosier comfort of colder climes,
Lost and discovered each in the shrubs of the tea estates,
Shopped in exclusive malls for rare perfumes,
Sat by the beaches, listening to the waves,
Drenched our unread sorrows in coffee houses,
Read Lawrence and Hardy in sips and turns,
Philosophized in admiration of silence,
Swayed on the hammock defying the sun,
Played the guitar , notes that touched deep,
Stepped in reams of dreams, in tango taps,
I hesitated the, I regret now,
This is but a retrospect.

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I’d settled on my porch today,
A book held languidly,
Watching the twilight approach,
Thoughts roaming aimlessly

When from nowhere a rustling came
A keening,painful sound,
And just ahead of where I sat
A bird fell to the ground.

I got up and I ran to her,
Poor wounded wee birdie,
As carefully I picked her up
Her eyelids closed gently.

I spoke to her in calming words,
And stroked her silky frill,
She blinked twice and trilled! Thank God!!
And then, then she was still.

I panicked and I hurried in,
Tried to revive her- no,
She would not drink, she would not stir,
Her life had ceased to flow..

I cradled her and yes, I wept,
Tho I didn’t quite know why,
Her passing had taken from me
Something unidentified…

Unwell met and too soon gone!
Acquaintance of merest sort..
Oh beautiful black…

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Beautifully written

The Eggplant Elephant

Ideally she’s an addict

But that isn’t the right word

That conveys the daze

Which challenges her lungs and energy.

I’m drawn to her emotions

A runaway locomotion of late

Dictating her next move

Or rather lack there of.

Puking her world onto a page

Colours acting saviors

A Sharp construction messiah

An insight instructional guide to who I am.

I’m critical and analytical

A cerebral libran

Caught in a square web

Confusing me

While she’s ballooning away from we

Waiting for a sigh that breathes freed

Not me

She’s got it all.

Wishing she could walk into a room

Dripping in gold

I wish I’d told her she already does.

Transcending power to scour friendships to admirers

Tiring to watch.

Trying to force each notch into a space it won’t fit

To discover later she’s got a full scripted skit

Of nothing satisfying.

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this is engaging, soul searching stuff

The thought that escaped

The beginning found as an end was sealed
Shaking my head to be sure it was real
Understanding once more what I seemed to forget
Love waits for no man or even respect
Each day to the next I walked in a dream
Falling without end for all I had seen
The secret we kept too smiles all were blind
Till without warning you announced you were mine
The future and past seemed to blend as one
I knew at last that love had come home
Nagging doubt dismissed but never quite gone
Ever in the darkness which it was from
poison seeped in but told no lie
Septic as the nature you could not deny
When I look back to the loves I have known
Scars from them all I happily show
But never before has my only regret
Been cursing the day that we ever met

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Life is a journey


In the heart of the flower Rose
may be the end of my journey,
the reason for poems and prose
is just waiting there to be found.

Why we live, and why we die,
what follows up when all is over,
the Rose must know and doesn’t lie,
she promises the secret truth.

Should I open up the Rose now
and find all answers lying there?
If I do, will it tell me how
I can make such a rose myself?

I’ll leave the Rose alone to grow,
her lovely petals stay intact.
I do not really want to know
the reasons. Let me wonder them.

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Inspirational indeed

The Bailey Daily





There are words out there

waiting to be thought

in a perfect sequence,

rushing forward like a train

from a spit of inspiration

slamming to a halt,

crashing headfirst into a

terrible stab of punctuation  .

It slices apart the thoughts

the inspirations

the waterfall of letters

tumbling down

to the stagnant paper and

flowing across the page

haphazardly, like the first draft of

Creation itself.



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Powerful poem

Clod & Pebble

So many different kinds,
yet only one vague word.
And the Eskimos
with twenty-six words for snow,

such a fine alertness
to what variously presses down.
Yesterday I saw lovers
hugging in the street,

making everyone around them
feel lonely, and the lovers themselves —
wasn’t a deferred loneliness
waiting for them?

There must be words

for what our aged mothers, removed
in those unchosen homes, keep inside,
and a separate word for us
who’ve sent them there, a word

for the secret loneliness of salesmen,
for how I feel touching you
when I’m out of touch.
The contorted, pocked, terribly ugly man

shopping in the 24-hour supermarket
at 3 A. M. — a word for him —
and something, please,
for this nameless ache here

in this nameless spot.
If we paid half as much attention
to our lives as Eskimos to snow …
Still, the little lies,


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“Her soul in division from itself”…… Nice line

Tiny Thought Revolution

THAT crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,

Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.

No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, ‘O sea-starved, hungry sea”
W.B. Yeats, The Collected Poems

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Powerful piece….. Few people really know who they are…


Labelled an extrovert by others,
Yet an introvert in my own head.
Unable to believe those who say
A bright future lies ahead.
Between a rock and a hard place,
Stuck with a job I’d rather avoid.
Incapable of pursuing my dreams,
Fearful of being unemployed.
And then there’s the elusive girl,
So clear in my mind’s eye.
Who fails to materialise,
And I can’t fathom why.
Confused by society’s rules,
And by why I’m losing the game.
When all I seek is happiness and love,
Not fickle fortune and fame.
Emotions fluctuating daily,
From hope to outright despair.
Hunting for my clothes,
Now that life has stripped me bare.

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This brings back pleasant memories to me

The unremitting loneliness of cities

When I was younger and my granddad’s
hand still fit snug
in mine,

I learnt that birds
fly south for the winter.

“That’s ridiculous,”
I said.
“How do they find each other
again when they get

He looked at me then,
tore his eyes away
from the ocean –
I thought it stretched on forever –
and told me;

“Someone wise once said
that home is where
the heart
and I suppose
that if they stay together
then they can’t get
far lost.”

I didn’t understand; home
was blackberries and
tea and the smell
of Sunday dinner
on Tuesday;

but later that night
as I walked
by the sea, I
saw footprints –

the sand was scarred

and etched with curling toes
and heels.

Two sets intertwined, and I
felt warm, as though
my mother had wrapped me in blankets
and set me
on her knee,

and I…

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one rarely sees works like this…. Impressive

an cruiskeen lawnmower blog

How are you, Mrs McVittie?

How are you and yours?

The girls they must be twenty now?

A pair of filthy whoors.


How are you, Mrs McVittie?

Is your Bertie still all right?

I’m concerned about his knuckles

Since the checkpoint, Friday night.


How are you, Mrs McVittie?

Will young Jimmy be home soon?

Eighteen months seems very harsh

For two revolvers in his room.


How are you, Mrs McVittie?

Did you get the roof replaced?

It’s a pity that your seven flags

Were Provisionally displaced.


How are you, Mrs McVittie?

Sure the news is always sad.

Don’t you hanker for the times before

When only dreams were bad?


How are you, Mr McVittie?

Do you like my little verse?

Did I see a woman looks like you

Spitting on the hearse?


What’s that you say, Mrs McVittie?

Is my mother back to health?

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Tempting enough


You hold in your hand
A golden orb
Heavy with promise
The sparks fly
As you tear the thick rind
And the rich perfume
Fills the air
One by one
Luscious segments
Are revealed
Finally you hold the fruit
To my awaiting lips
Sweet juice overwhelming
My senses
Surrendering completely
To the sensual pleasure
Of the orange
In your hand

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Would love to read the paper after this…..

Thoughts Out Loud

A poem I wrote as a preface to a paper for a presuppositional apologetics class.

The Myth of Neutrality

Common thought in coffee shops,

 Where cream is stirred, along with thoughts.

This notion of neutrality. 


The battle with truth rages,

Suppressed indeed, ne’er evaded.

The foolish soul is restless still.


Minds swim in a caffeine sea,

“I’m not biased, be more like me!”

This foolish common argument. 


This loud thrashing, drowning man,

Red-handed caught with contraband.

He’s never neutral, nor are we.

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made me smile too

Kurt Rees

She picks flowers
and puts them in a vase.
It happens every day.
The arrangement
is different
every time I see her.
She tells me of dreams
about her husband
that died
a long time ago.
She always sees him
dressed in white.
How he stands there
with their dogs
and cats
that have passed.
He smiles
to let her know
things are going well.

She looks at the vase again
while we talk.
She speaks of how when
he was alive he would
cut flowers
and put them in a vase.
It was an everyday ritual.
She starts to cry and says
that the current flowers
in the vase
kind of keeps him alive
on earth
and that it’s her way
of smiling back.

©Copyright 2007 by Kurt Rees.
All rights reserved.

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Celestial…..way up there with the real good ones

in parentheses

Darkened Moon

Amidst the whispers of the night,
all alone, the mournful moon wept
upon the deepened world of dreams.

The woodland tears quivered
with circles of colorful leaves,
dances of indigo nocturne imprint into dirt.

In wheat fields of golden grain,
when summer days grew longer,
we used to play along the brook as children.

Peppermint leaves we used to eat
grew beneath lilies, sunflowers, rosebuds,
as the grand willow tree breathed shadows.

Silent midnight within spirits of cottonwood
wore tortured hours of heavy raindrops.
Moments passed in the love of death.

Cursed Blessing

Monitor electric lines go flat,
silence overwhelms, steady pulse
whispers death into my sleepless eyes.

I prayed for three nights, crying into her nightgown,
the ER remained keeper of bad news.

Flowers and miniature trinkets lined the bed,
Get well soon, only nothing existed.
I counted my breaths, pushed back heavy tears
and guilt that…

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Quite the ride


One day you finally knew

what you had to do….and begun

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice –

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles

“Mend my life”

each voice cried

But you didn’t stop

you knew what you had to do

though the wind pried

with it’s stiff fingers

at the very foundations

though their melancholy

was terrible

It was already late

enough, and a wild night

and the road was full of fallen

branches and stones

But little by little

as you left the voices behind

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of cloud

and their was a new voice

which you slowly

recognised as your own

that kept you company

as you started deeper and deeper

determined to do

the only thing you could do –

determined to save

the only life…

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Our lives in the pictures we depict


If I can’t see, what I feel is real.
I have to make it reality.
Composite sketches depict my life very well.
I look and see the good, bad and tailwind effects and affects of my movements.
I know, I am the master of my domain.
I know, I have over lookers seeing my every move.
But, I know anything is possible.
I can push a botton and put a stop to distasteful circumstances.

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Ouch…… Why does too much chocolate have to be too bad for us?

Hope Nonsense


Whilst sat at my desk, the other day

A friend turned to me and said “Okay”!

“I have decided I’m giving up chocolate for lent.

You need to help me, I can’t repent!”

I said “Bitch, you be crazy, I’m not helping with that!

Dude I’d eat chocolate till I’m good and fat.

Now go back to the drawing bored and pick something silly,

Like aubergines, ebay or men with small willys!”

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Nice…… Quite nice

Maxim Sense


(I wrote this poem to commemorate and immortalize that first ever phone conversation with a very special friend who lives in far away foreign land yet I feel she is so close to me).

That voice over the phone
Was like any familiar tone
If not for the sweet bubbly hue
That sprang out of the blue

I was speechless
And motionless
The feeling I can’t apprise
By such a pleasant surprise

Oh, you came down like rain
That’s sprinkled on the plain
To give life and lush
To a green turned flush

That voice over the phone
Came out with undertone
Suggesting from my stupor
One I had always longed for

I was speechless
And motionless
You caught me tongue-tied
Right from where I hide

Oh, you came down like rain
That’s sprinkled on the plain
To give life and lush
To a green turned flush


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An engaging piece to enjoy



I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

– W.B. Yeats

Irish nationalism was an issue known to be very close to Yeats’ heart; its influence on his life was so great that it permeated both his work and love affairs as shown by the fact that he was used by Maud Gonne…

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Love the poem & the painting

dithyrambs & ditties

Tell me your tale,

decipher the lines

on your face’s frail


billowing backwards

into cumming’s curvaceous


When in spring,


his balloon

above your fenced senses

and sank


into the widespread lense

of your

smile ?


The above portrait of Marion Morehouse  by e e cummings I found here:

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well written piece


No more under the glare

Of an unrelenting island sun,

Where stark absolutes kept me

A blind stumbler among lotus eaters.

Where an implacable brightness subtracted mystery and possibility

From the air, and left me gasping.

I turn to this City

Perpetually at dawn,

Renewing itself.

My grey eyes and her grey skies

Infinitely mirroring.

Joy returns

In a cloud of grey moths,

Landing on my frame,

Every inch aflutter with dusty grey wings.

My feet lightening

Midstride on her grey sidewalks,

Passing her grey towers.

Each sole strike a playful lovers nudge:

Are you awake?

Listen to

Her sweet humming melody

Constant behind the noisy clamor,

Constant behind this loud show of the shades of life.

I embrace you

My soft grey shadow,

My beloved companion,

And breath deeply.

Content at last.

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The structure is marvelous

Jennigreenmiller's Blog

Moving through
what could be
then again
nothing seems…
And the truth within.
Outcomes and platitudes,
the world is not getting better.

Todays’ economy continues to plummet,
tomorrow will not be another day,
rather a future without a legacy.
Certainty without certainty.
Without hallmarks
we sit in silence of catastrophe.
Children dying.
Children lying.
Covet thou in praise we sing-
Yesterdays failure
is today again.

I am not.
I am.
I am not but could be.
I should…
I was…
Once again
I will

wish you all
a very merry,
a happy,
a new
And the American way;
cosmonauts and air-o-planes,
peanut butter and jam,
the wishing stone,
and another one bites the dust.

An old scale
runs through my veins
resting deftly
atop my heart.
Wondering when will it stop.
Hickory dickory dock.

A little girl atop a tree
asks, “Will you rescue me?”
The mouse…

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The Muscle are Worried only when the mind notices

Poesy plus Polemics



The hot tub lifts away stress

Pulled from my worried muscles

By pulsing polite fingers

I can see its quivered emanation

Drift up and away within

Curling vapors of steam

Or is that the rueful ghost

Of youth incompletely spent

Still possessed of some warmth

Fleeing these cold creaking bones

In search of some better host

Who might live it more fully

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This reminds me of a very similar prose I wrote; WHERE’S MY WOMAN


this is exactly
what i should be doing

splayed out on the grass soaking in the green
my toxic week leaks into mother earth
let the bitters dissolve
cajole with the underworld
and relieve the disturbances up here

mother earth sucks me hard against her bumpy surface
into her cosmic tendrils
like a sponge in a centrifuge
compost my sickness, Great Mother Gaia

pull this turmoil out of my cells and into your sacred vastness
hold me tight i surrender
i can feel your thirsty roots
wrap their lovely green arms around me

i am soaking up your green and your brown
your crystalline vibration
your wondrous gaia-ness

i surrender to you, Great Mother
my eyes drink in the green against blue
my skin against your skin

this is exactly
what i should be doing

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Illuminating in more ways than one….

A sentence you render
on yourself will not stand.

It’s not your responsibility,
or even your privilege

to punish yourself for the
crimes you’ve committed.

I’m not impressed and
neither will the jury be,
by your pre-emptive

Here stands a man.
Diminutive. Small.
Unsure and heavy,
weighted down by
imagined retribution.

But you don’t understand.
You’ve always loomed
large in my life.

The real trial won’t begin until
you have forgiven yourself.

We all come to judgement in the end.
Will you be strong enough to bear it?

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Beautiful…. It is more so because these are my exact feelings & thoughts.

Just some poetry

I want to write
and have words flow out of me onto paper
sculpting that dead tree into something
that’s so full of story it is rendered alive once more

I want to change lives
with the plots that intertwine with real life
like vines that help the reader to climb higher
so that they can achieve their wildest dreams

I want to be eloquent
making everything seem so easy as I concoct each sentence
allowing anyone who stumbles upon my words to get lost
and only be found when they so choose

I want to be an author
not for the fame or the fortune
but instead to build my life around an understanding and empathy
that can only be achieved through words

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