I like poetry with really big themes to them....really big subject matter.

well, then here is a good poem for you, spirit man.




Slip away

"Such sweet haze drifts thru the skies...
As sounds and spirits drift thru my mind.
My eyes are closed, My being serene.
But my thoughts are open, aware of the unseen.

Wonder and wander as i kiss the stars...
I carress the heavens and penetrate the bizarre.
Rise up within my secession...
I've left my body behind.
For unto this place it cannot go,
here earthly eyes are blind.

My new sight lies now open,
and my being rests so sound.
Forget the things i thought i knew...
Let my soul break from these bounds.

No more fear, and no more pain,
No more guilt, and no more shame.
Let go of myself, and I shall be saved.

I've become one with the way,
how estranged it may be.
No more worrisome days,
I rest now in peace...
Here it is again,
My so familiar clairvoyance.
No longer so changed,
now only a nuance.

I Find comfort in knowing this has happened before.
Even though i've wasted my life with meaningless chores.
The circle soothes me its rhythm divine.
My spirit is free yet consequentially intertwined.

Im learning again, drifting away.
My spirit awaits, my reality changed.

I see it now,
My soul is sound."
-Nathan E. Smith

I picked a flower in a field.
Tried to use it as a sword, it would not wield.
I threw it away, the skies turned grey.
And then I went on about my day.

Ohhhhhh that is divine truly divine !!! So pure. Purity is very good thing. : )

I love your avatar by the way. It it pure as i love your name to by the way.

By the way .........of sight ......sound .....touch.....taste....hearing......knowing. That the soul path is the path to freedom. Take all the senses to the next level.


Mannnnnn that was a great and awesome poem "Natan E Smith" He is a very good writer. Grand ...simply grand.

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The sword and the flower ...yessss i can see that. I can see that very well. See as soon as a person tries to connect the small to the large with words it becomes beautiful. Thats the ticket to freedom and glory.

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------V-------

P.S- ever see the movie V for Vendetta. I love that movie so much. V was a poet. A very good one.

Thank you for such the kind words.


by the way, Nathan E. Smith is me.

961

that was brilliant...thanks!

i like that... it is kind of sad, yet still very uplifting

America
by Allen Ginsberg

America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
from Russia.

I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they're all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1935 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don're really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

Not poetry but close enough..

Mother and I Would Like to Know
by William S Burroughs

The uneasy spring of 1988. Under the pretext of drug control, suppressive police states have been set up throughout the Western world. The precise programming of thought, feeling, and apparent sensory impressions by the technology outlined in bulletin 2332 enables the police states to maintain a democratic façade from behind which they loudly denounce as criminal perverts and drug addicts anyone who opposes the control machine. Underground armies operate in the large cities, enturbulating the police with false information through anonymous phone calls and letters. Police with drawn guns erupt at the senator's dinner party, a very special dinner party too, that would tie up a sweet thing in surplus planes.

“We been tipped off a nude reefer party is going on here. Take the place apart, boys, and you folks keep your clothes on or I'll blow your filthy guts out.”

We put out false alarms on the police short wave directing patrol cars to nonexistent crimes and riots which enables us to strike somewhere else. Squads of false police search and beat the citizenry. False construction workers tear up streets, rupture water mains, cut power connections. Infra-sound installations set off every burglar alarm in the city. Our aim is total chaos.

Loft room, map of the city on the wall. Fifty boys with portable tape recorders record riots from TV. They are dressed in identical grey flannel suits. They strap on the recorders under gabardine topcoats and dust their clothes lightly with tear gas. They hit the rush hour in a flying wedge, riot recordings on full blast, police whistles, screams, breaking glass, crunch of night sticks, tear gas flapping from their clothes. They scatter, put on press cards, and come back to cover the action. Bearded Yippies rush down a street with hammers, breaking every window on both sides, leave a wake of screaming burglar alarms, strip off the beards, reverse collars, and they are fifty clean priests throwing gasoline bombs under every car - WHOOSH a block goes up behind them. In fireman uniforms, arrive with axes and hoses to finish the good work.

In Mexico, South and Central America, guerrilla units are forming an army of liberation to free the United States. In North Africa, from Tangier to Timbuktu, corresponding units prepare to liberate Western Europe and the United Kingdom. Despite disparate aims and personnel of its constituent members, the underground is agreed on basic objectives. We intend to march on the police machine everywhere. We intend to destroy the police machine and all its records. We intend to destroy all dogmatic verbal systems. The family unit and its cancerous expansion into tribes, countries, nations, we will eradicate at its vegetable roots. We don't want to hear any more family talk, mother talk, father talk, cop talk, priest talk, country talk or party talk. To put it country simple, we have heard enough bullshit.

I am on my way from London to Tangier. In North Africa I will contact the wild boy packs that range from the outskirts of Tangier to Timbuktu. Rotation and exchange is a keystone of the underground. I am bringing them modern weapons: laser guns, infrasound installations, Deadly Orgone Radiation. I will learn their specialized skills and transfer wild boy units to the Western cities. We know that the West will invade Africa and South America in an all-out attempt to crush the guerrilla units. Doktor Kurt Unruh von Steiplatz, in his four-volume treatise on the authority sickness, predicts these latter-day crusades. We will be ready to strike in their cities and to resist in the territories we now hold. Meanwhile we watch and train and wait.

I have a thousand faces and a thousand names. I am nobody I am everybody. I am me I am you. I am here there forward back in out. I stay everywhere I stay nowhere. I stay present I stay absent.

Disguise is not a false beard, dyed hair, and plastic surgery. Disguise is clothes and bearing and behavior that leaves no questions unanswered… American tourist with a wife he calls “Mother”… old queen on the make… dirty beatnik… marginal film producer… Every article of my luggage and clothing is carefully planned to create a certain impression. Behind this impression I can operate without interference for a time. Just so long, and long enough. So I walk down Boulevard Pasteur handing out money to guides and shoe-shine boys. And that is only one of the civic things I did. I bought one of those souvenir matchlocks clearly destined to hang over a false fireplace in West Palm Beach, Florida, and I carried it around wrapped in brown paper with the muzzle sticking out. I made inquiries at the Consulate:

“Now Mother and I would like to know.”

And “Mother and I would like to know” in American Express and the Minzah pulling wads of money out of my pocket “How much shall I give them?” I asked the vice-consul, for a horde of guides had followed me into the Consulate. “I wonder if you've met my congressman Joe Link?”

Nobody gets through my cover, I assure you. There is no better cover than a nuisance and a bore. When you see my cover you don't look further. You look the other way fast. For use on any foreign assignment there is nothing like the old reliable American tourist cameras and fight meters slung all over him.

“How much shall I give him, Mother?”

I can sidle up to any old bag, she nods and smiles it's all so familiar “must be that cute man we met on the plane over from Gibraltar Captain Clark welcomes you aboard and he says: 'Now what's this form? I don't read Arabic.' Then he turns to me and says 'Mother I need help.' And I show him how to fill out the form and after that he would come up to me on the street this cute man so helpless bobbing up everywhere.”

“What's he saying, Mother?”

“I think he wants money.”

“They all do.” He turns to an army of beggars, guides, shoe-shine boys, and whores of all sexes and makes an ineffectual gesture.

I got a few

I CANT SPELL

Chocolate stains on your designer jeans.. the cookie crumbles right in front of your eyes. Save face, try to find grace in a dullards eyes.

Show the world that you are strong, deep inside you know you are wrong. the cookie crumbles rigth aroud your lying eyes. Smear the stains of your pain on the ones who ever cared. Smear your lying soul all over this mateirlistic world.

Ignorance is bliss yet your head tick tocks tick tocks.. can't stand that fact that you are lost. Never belive me, I am jsut mentally ill. Mentally ill feels pretty good in your stupid fucking world.



Sunrise in suburbia

Early morning sunshine illuminates the cracks on the sidewalk. The spotlight shatters its way through the crooked blinds. The main attraction lays in a crumpled heap, half boozed up, half asleep... or is it awake? Swelled up eyes, black and blue insides, the pain once again creeps in with the daylight. Another day to do it all wrong again, another day closer to the end. Light a smoke, jerk off.. and think about the next drink. A beautiful painting to the people that think, sideways. A stumble and a mumble, dirty clothes. Starting the day as always. Sunrise in suburbia.

I wrote and dedicated this to Ron Paul...


Why must you vilify our heroes?

Why must you vilify our heroes, now more than ever before? Is it because the path to the hero is too hard? Are you so fed up with your own mediocrity that you must bring those with superior talent and drive down to the ground to grovel at your feet?

I can hear the collective cry in the streets and it’s not a new one. In years past we heard the trumpet roar, “Who is John Galt?” from a woman who saw all too quickly what the world was turning into.

My instinct instructs me to propel my children to greatness of any kind, but what I see around me tells me different. A society bent on the destruction of the human soul. How can I tell them to strive for the best, when the best are no longer admired; only beaten down and admonished by the inept masses.

STOP NOW, before they go away and all you have left is yourselves to destroy!

PEOPLE, listen to me! Change the collective cry to a mighty yawp that bellows…

“You will not destroy the hero in man!”

You mustn’t!
You mustn’t…

You mustn’t.

I love your name so much i have to write a poem about it.

Within the Flower.

Within the flower is a part of life

One i have endeavored and journeyed to spread

I was the bee with human senses

I had tools galore

I dreamed of being a creator with the invisible building blocks

And i see something Within a Flower i can create with

Made of dreams and ideas of places far away

And in a way of nature can be so close

Nature for people is what ?

As limitless as the stars above.

What other animal looks up to find home ?

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I love the guy in this poem/story. He sounds like my hero. Struggling yet surviving in a world of bullshit that he knows is coming to an end. Yea i can see that.

I guess he'll have his moment at the end to say "i told you so" And that is grand. It was worth the waiting.

Turned it into a waiting room with a bed.


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------V------

What other animal looks up to find home ?

What other star looks down to find a friend?

What other sees being as this?

And so we look into the sky, and we cry our tears of joy

And so the sky replies and the lights shine, the stars roll out and the night is defined.

There is the cosmos, gleaming in their power.

Little did we know...

It was all Within The Flower.

Why survive in a world you know is coming to an end ? Why not kill yourself ? Slice the wrist, hang yourself, blow your head off, drug overdoes. You know...that stuff. Why bother living at all ? Maybe ....just maybe....to see it all go down the toilet. BUT just before that moment of the big flush it would be nice to have a last word or few words....Lord knows you and i deserve it. And to offer one last way to salvation. lol That would be the kick to the ribs huh ? That would hurt really bad. To tell the folks that which their soul already knows but they are too prideful and afraid to admit to.

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Hello Spirit * Man. I would like to share some writings with you. If you like these I can post some more.



United We...........

The line to divide me and you
if not chosen by us in our blinkered state,
will get programmed into us,
as we unknowingly synchronize ourselves
to discordant wavelengths.

The real Me within is buried under flesh and ego,
As I am bombarded mercilessly in this slumbered state.
Cavalry after cavalry reinforce beliefs and attitudes,
And trample any seedlings of sovereign thoughts.

Indoctrinated en masse,
Then watch us all keep each other in check,
For even in the illusion of freedom
we refuse to exercise it fully,
And a person will do what it takes
to stay on the 'right' side of the line.

If life is like a box of chocolate
reality is a pick and choose confectionary,
Where we determine what is real and fake,
For we filter blinkered snapshots of infinity
to consolidate our finite narrow view.

Speculation becomes certainty,
Alleged becomes fact,
A lie becomes true,
And the poisoner behind is the taster in front.

This endearing trait of ours is known
and harnessed relentlessly;
As we are coupled to the chosen line.

It has been said
Divided we fall,
But to be grouped in this way;
United we fall together.




Author notes

“United we stand, divided we fall” Phrase from “The Four Oxen and the Lion” (Aesop’s Fables, 620-560 BC)

“Life is like a box of Chocolate” Phrase from movie: Forrest Gump (1994) Based on a novel by the same name (Groom W, 1986, Forrest Gump, Washington Square Press)




Shades of Rhythm

The journey starts when you’re born, Finite flesh, eternal soul,
Battle within, one of old, Light and dark, for you to hold.

Footsteps on this earthly land, Don’t forget it’s in your hands,
Choices made define your goal, Life’s deeds on your soul.

What you give, you will receive, What you emanate you will perceive,
What you cooked, one day you’ll eat, Crucified yourself, hands and feet.

All you got you did deserve, Perpetual victim perpetrators serve,
Your red hands, your misery, Look behind, your knife you’ll see.

Heaven, hell for you to make, Remember this imposter’s fake,
I told you once, I’ll tell you twice, Choice is yours, wrong or right.

Live in dark, live in light, Swim with sharks, blissful flight,
From where you run, from who you hide, Look within, yourself you’ll find.

Sub conscious program you must unhook, Here and now, soul must look,
Shadow self you must complete, Balance greets when opposites meet.

Thoughts alone don’t make it so, With actions and words in tandem go,
Self belief fuels the path you make, No one else your trail can take

Embrace hardship and the pain, Perception corrected footsteps gained,
Lessons learnt and now you know, That you were your greatest foe.

Illusions feint the mind on the outer, Reality within, soul is no doubter,
Your Light will shine for all to see, From the source of all you’ll be.

Are you who you are meant to be, Timelines, phase, duality,
Fractals, holograms, densities, Shades of rhythm, you and me.


My regards.

I die as the world dies. I live as the world lives. My life is in your hands and your life is in mine. Together we live or together we die.

It is not the acknowledgment of one....it is the fact of one. Truth.

*

-----V-----

Galactic Alignment
Is on Consignment
To get your Refinement
Get out of Confinement
Be aware
Of the next x flare
Don't be caught in
dirty underware

Wow you are an excellent writer. You attach the small and the large very well. Excellent : )

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-----V-----

Very good lol

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-----V-----

i dunno about everyone else, but i am very much enjoying this thread

WHy thank you

LOL ...i posted my oneness reply one minute after you posted the above. lol .....coincidence ? or just the simplicity of the truth.

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-----V-----

Oh yea . : ) It is touching on everything all at once in the most beautiful way.........poetry.

Think about it. There is no limit. We could keep writing till the end of the world LOL

And who knows what we can come up with for the next ? ; )

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------V------

But for now i have to do something lol

I will be back shortly.

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------V------

It can only WBY's....

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I turned to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

Hello Spirit * Man. Yeah I noticed your 'oneness' post and I did smile. I would also like to thank you for your kind words regarding what I posted. And it is an enjoyable thread Within The Flower. I shall post another, see if you like this one.



The Dancer


We want to change the steps,
but we are dancing to the discordant melody

We want to change what we hear,
but we are playing the cacophony.

This is our creation;
Reality is our painting.
Every one of us
has painted our own stroke on the canvas.
Yet we look at the results and see different things.

We want to change the painting, but how?

We can not change reality by
imposing anything on anybody else.
To do so means we sow the seeds of the fall of
any society that decrees it must change.
The words may carry the sweet scent
of peaceful summer meadows,
but rest assured in the winter of discontent
these will be Somme’s of the future.

The buildings of the future are built on the foundations of the past.
Each one of us has a brick, and it is up to us what we build.

But we change nothing by changing society.
For paradise is not something that changes us into good people,
we don’t go to heaven and then become good.
How can heaven even have people like me and you in it?

And if society is a building, a painting;
which makes it a physical manifestation of our thoughts,
beliefs, state of being;
then we are looking in the wrong direction.

The gates of heaven are not on the outside,
They are within.
What we build on the outside is a
reflection of the inner.

So...........that endless pointing finger of ours,
Should it not be pointed at the root of it all?

Should I not make the change that I so sorely want to see in this world,
by changing the only thing I have the right to change on my own;
by changing the only thing I can truly change on my own;
by changing the person who dances to the cacophony?

Me.


Author notes


The poet Sprite kindly pointed out where the phrase "Winter of Discontent" came from to me, as I didn't know. It is from the book "The Winter Of Our Discontent" (Steinbeck J., 2001,The Winter Of Our Discontent,Penguin Modern Classics).

The original source is actually Richard the Third Act 1, Scene 1, 1-4
"Richard:
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York;
And all the clouds that low'r'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried."

(Shakespeare W., 1623, Richard The Third)


My regards.

Written in the realization that it WAS, over.

Sunsets

Sunsets are a time for two,
The Masters work to share;
With pinks and blues, and purple hues,
His love He does declare.

Alas that I, but mortal be.
Love flows like blood, devoid of clot;
Adrift in time, my only crime,
In love with one, who loves me not !

Now shadows lengthen in my heart,
As your sunshine fades away;
Deprived of light, from blue eyes bright,
Warm were her kisses, yesterday.

As Earth from sun shall turn away,
Yet golden beams flood each new day;
So waits my love, like His above,
My heart is true, my feet are clay !


She married Roger. It still hurts.

Eagle

GLP is AWESOME,
it's where I love to be
they only time I leave it
is when I have to pee.

A little reluctant to do so as these a just some lyrics I cooked up for one of my tunes. Obviously being lyrics, some words are sung to fill the phrasing gaps. This is about a paranoid recluse (not me, I'm a social chameleon. I don't write personal songs as I believe there are far more important issues than 'me' in the world today).

Flies

Too many flies on the walls,
with their eyes revered.
Evolved manipulation,
of the five senses.
So lock the doors,
heed the calls,
from your world of fears.
Until the day arrives,
to ask the mortal question.

And you can dream of better times,
until the pain becomes ceaseless.
Your haunting consciousness won't find,
hope in time the pain ease's.

Secreting thoughts, you were taught,
would put you away.
Is that so different from your present situation?
Distract your thoughts with all the games,
that you use to play.
So now the world around is just imagination.

And maybe you have lost your mind,
but the world is so deceiving.
And although all life ends in time,
it doesn't stop them cheating.

And in here you can not make mistake's.
The world that stares you down can be escaped.
What difference would you make,
with all the horrors that take place?
Disintegrate, into,
a waste of space.

With a whole world you can see,
seductive in mystery.
your blind behind your four walls.
So if you could live again,
and ignore every incident.
Could you live a blissful stupor?