They all seem to be one, and at each other. I keep moving between one and the other one, shifting, always shifting. The light is the same, it just...I find my mind in one sometimes and my body in the other...
Poetry
Poems, verse, poetry, odes, ballads
Poem: Poets Hospital
There's a hospital for poets...
ANGELA LOIJ: The Selk’nam Genocide
One gets overwhelmed with the news of the day. It all seems to be happening all at same time. And as the story gets old and over used, one looks to new ways of informing the ignorant of the importance of what we are going through as a planet. The psychopathic crowd are fully in control one could conclude, and the ponerology of the system that we live in, seems unbeatable and growing.
I have tried to publish this a number of times only to pull it back down again. It was originally written in 2015. I don't know how it truly makes me feel or how I should react to it. Its a terrible story; one of the hidden stories of our world. Known only to a few. But it does give a glimpse onto the mindset of those that are trying to conquer the world and make it theirs alone, and only their planet.
How many times has the following happened throughout history and prehistory? Untold numbers of the innocents gone from the history books and anonymously before any kind of writing was invented.
Lost, down that long road of humanity's past, lost forever to a abyss ...
WHAT NEXT…
Eight-carbon molecules in rivers of waste, and the sun in a sack cloth hauls itself up again into the sky. And looks down in disgust at what was…a good idea.
These mayfly lives, passing through and piling up, one upon the other as sediments on the basement of this world. Built up in that wake of seconds upon seconds. Relent.
Red cushion for a place to sit, amidst rancor. Nihilism for a heart, and reluctance. And crazed mystics still keep pushing shopping carts up hills of abuse...
THE END 1.0
Think how it wakes the seeds-
Woke once the clays of a cold star
Are limbs, so dear achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
-O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?
YELLOW FISH
I was painting ten paintings the other day. In the music studio and lost an idea among a pile of dead poems sitting on a shelf,
it was a good idea!
It was something about the sound a bird makes after a terrible storm;
for the world is stilled and made over completely in that single solitary second.
This is not the only world…by far...
IT’S NOT THAT COMPLICATED…
The versions of old stories took on a life of their own. The sheer amount of time involved, expressed itself as well. Like myths do. It began to no longer be a campfire tale, an interesting thing one speaks about on a long voyage. It seemed it became the most logical answer to that age-old problem -- well, wonder that is...many people tried to exploit it, they push mystery...
Poem: WHITE DOG
The white dog stops...
we breathe in for a minute and take in the universal breath.
It is dark out here...
it's black and darkly cold, out here.
The wind cuts the image from my eyes,
and I watch it fall frozen and split like glass into the snow.
This deep and unwritten thing -- waiting on edge,
for a free life to write it,
too large to see it all
deep back in there beyond my visions reach.
The starry dingle...I begin, and
now I see it,
I raise my head to take in all this...
don't worry you can change this later 
You must be logged in to post a comment.