Life is gone.
Living things being gone,
Lifeless things are no longer
Lifeless.
There is no lifeless.
Lifeless is gone.

I am dead.
Being dead, I do not think.
I think no longer,
"This is life, and
That is lifeless."
I think no longer,
"This is right, and
That is wrong."

Right is gone
and wrong is gone.

He is gone,
it is gone,
flailing is gone,
concept is gone,
tumbled is gone,
query is gone,
and leaf is gone.

This is gone.

The rock, on waking, yawns
and thinks no longer:
"I am gone."

Hail Mary, full of grace,
how many times more will I say this?
In my heart I know this action--
this speaking of human words,
decreed sacred by human words,
prescribed by a mortal human man
to me as penance for my
mortal human sins--
is, in a way, arbitrary.

Holy Mary, mother of God,
since when do these words
in this order
in this language
this number of times
save the human soul
from torment in the Lake of Fire?

Hail Mary, full of grace,
what does it mean to be blessed?

This is my first post here as new member. So i guess i better share something as greeting. It's a poem i wrote during winter last year. Well, not like i ever meet a single snow drop in my life, but maybe i just follow the flow.


( Into the snowy dawn )
Do comment on this piece. >.

As I reflected this morning...

The beauty of Christmas and its gentle tenderness has the power to bring both joy and tears... and yet as I look out the window and see God's grace and the splendor of snow, I can only respond in awe, joy, and tears.

It's still snowing! ... depending on what part of the state, folks got 12-24 inches...and Yes, I love the snow!

i came home to find her
on the kitchen floor

tweezers
an eye dropper
and some glue in hand
putting an egg
back together

i turn to droplets of solid rain and fall upon the face of the wind.

Timur- a that Hop-o'-my-Thumb
--Did not trust in The Tangra- anger of Aggiyll-
--And Asparukh descendant Akhileos-
--and Anger such them-- Timur foresaw
-- But to meet Kristening peasants from them and Prince--

--It from Harvard or Prinston-
--And here arrived look-and
--The Tiger in a Zoo
--Inscription of Tigr-
--Taxists ithere here for the Street
--A Cat s steps Tcаis Yena-
--It looked in in his Glass-
--Not understood that its Head in in his Past'-
Timur in said tiy molodoy and in on Centimetres
8 Hands with Half

O GERMETISTE TRISMEGISTE MNE NE WSE ROWNO
hip hop

This is a whole poetry book, not long (so you can easily read it), but very very good.  I'm linking this book with permission; I thought I'd share it because GOOD poetry is hard to come by nowadays.  Please read and vote on this book of poems.  This is a very good writer trying to get back on her feet in the writer's world, and her work is truly good.

The book is called Unpainted Canvas.  It is a collection of verses.

( Click for links to more of Chanctetinyea's poetry )

a song I scribbled down this morning.

( Check it out )

I'm holding a hammer.
And there is blood on
the bathroom tiles.

Looking in the mirror,
staring at the deep scratches
across my face,

I know that something isn't right.

In the room next to me,
a 'Nurse with Wound' record plays.

The volume is up,
but not high enough to silence
the screaming girl.

I found her drunk in a park,
I dragged her home.
We dropped acid.

I put the record on.

We got naked,
she was junkie thin.
Wide-eyed and feral.

...then I hit her.
She must have fought back.
Or tried.

Because now,
I'm holding a hammer.
And there is blood on
the bathroom tiles.

My blood.

This time I went too far.

she dreams of fiery reckless heavens
underneath a patchwork cut-out sky,
contours in the dark amid worlds

(her laugh is brazen, it chimes true)

there are splinters of gold
in his inky eyes that hold the sea
speak of a puzzle that they weave

their languid dance batters against the dusk
with a quiet imperfection 
a bruised charisma 

(drinking of heroes and philosophers)

a butterfly brews the storm of ethereal kismet 

she knows them beneath her eyelashes
the arch of his wings
the elusive bones that curve wildly

but she dreams it better when-
there is such an elysian
intertwined between their fingertips.

this poem opens itself with a knife.
"
using the knife like a scalpel,
the body is split
"
open
"
bleeding all over
the guts are a tangle
and littered with vestigial bits:
"
this love is like no other;
a stone on the hill like the sun on the horizon;
light over water;
the bombs bursting in air;
zang tumb tuuum;
before the law;
Major Major Major Major;
and so on.
"
its origin must be lowly;
its designer must be feeble;
it must have been a blind watchmaker--
this results from hearing about Giants' shoulders,
their hands counting the seconds
while nothing has happened but the obsession with...
"
but it had come too late.
there was nothing it could do.

Um, I guess this poem has nihilistic themes... that may offend.

( ... )

The Neighbor

'Let's go next door'
but the Neighbor is looking over the hedges
August is the cruelest month
and when he sings the blues
he sings it to his dog
Maybe I should go round
'You have a nice voice, want to dance?'
but his catch phrase isn't that interesting
If I knew his name
Maybe I would drop by
and leave a note
his fence dips low, just enough to put my head off
Is that him behind the jasmine?
looking awkward
searching for an answer
to some question
singing a love song
that has no end
It just dribbles off his tongue
and falls flat
'Pick up that tempo'
Maybe there will time later
I think that is him now
knocking on my door
a cigarette falling off his lips
I don't think I will answer
cause when I hear him singing
I know he loves himself

As the Sun this morning rose, Mother woke:
Her thoughtflowers reverently praised Him, while
Her treefingers danced delightfully
To the songs of love-birds in play.

The wind she helped comb Mother's lush hair,
And on it planted pretty pearldewdrops
Then, effortlessly, swiftly,
Laced it with browngreen leafy bows.

As she puffed her face with scents of Spring
The earthworms uncreased her earthy skin.
When all ready, she blushed warmly, and
Spun around shyly to half-hide from Him her beauty.

As the Sun this morning rose, Man woke:
In grumbling groans set off to work.

there is no world
no universe

there is only 
the one room
with only 
the one window
and the one set of drapes
and the one breeze
blowing across your face

there are no memories
just the sense 
that everything already happened
and you missed it

you were in the bathtub
soaking in fear

you forgot to rejoice
you had no memory
you had only the want

you know this
but remember

the want always wants

and when you can no longer serve the want

you'll be left alone by want
in the one room
with the one window
and the one breeze
with no memories
just a sense 
that everything already happened
and you missed it