2 or 3 /or/ ANDYOULOOKMARVELOUS

jh1
the pale blue mist
settles over the once frozen landscape
like a small child
it makes my mind consider
the world below
the signs above raining down
a people grown
with eyes glazed over
conditioned for this condition
listening beyond forgiveness
for words or a melody
deeply scarred and grooved
seemingly alone
but in the middle, as it were
of the great multitude
humanity’s new found composure
ghastly and most lovely
all in one moment
which stretches endlessly
link by link contained
in that eternal moment
like fresh green grass
cut in early morning
a scent and sound weaved
in and out of memories
that make up a young mind
inside our wrinkled and gray head
as if today
began again the budding spring
we all longed for within that dream
those scattered thoughts
cutting the surface tension
beating oxygen exhaled from lungs
into peaks of a meringue
like smoke signal from the past
an only child
among a class of cousins
and sisters, aunts and grandmothers
lessons only a family learns
secrets held tightly
a bond among siblings
known only by members in strict sects
that mystery revealed
that longed for love
now, worn and displayed
waves in the bright day
a victory flag
whose design the population sees
but whose meaning
reserved and compact
only the band of initiates can see
can we ever know whose ramblings
a dusty road received
the past just left us wondering
this daydream
blistering thoughts
sung in harmony
green waves crashing
on the shore
foaming as the water rushes back
out to open sea
the squeaks of the seaweed
the smell of the salt breeze
all the pioneers of grace
we explore till our energy
expelled completely and publicly
grabs our past and future life
pulsing and pressing
that energy
death seems near
but life
alive with song and images
closer
colors cast shadows among us now
a rainbow of thinking arises
the bleak night has
at last receded
the seeds of tomorrow now sprouting
oh glorious freedom
sounds of hope
of a fortunate grace
an activated incomprehensible future
experienced now in living color
in happy notes and lyrics
in dances, in leaping, in joy
listen, yes listen
oh how wonderful
look, yes look
oh how marvelous
all the words
and all the pages
Joy,
yes Joy
can you feel it
Joy,
our journey complete
JOY
rfiloS63
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#folkwritingsfromthefuture
many thanks to all who have been sharing this journey with me, you keep me hanging oN.
check out more of my work at:
I have made over 2300 videos covering a lot of endtimes topics like:
Weather Modification Manipulation
Fukushima Disaster and Radiation
EndTimes Conspiracy
Jade Helm
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Earthquakes
Neumayer Station
The Sun and Space
Climate Change and Global Warming
Bible studies
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Continue reading 2 or 3 /or/ ANDYOULOOKMARVELOUS

A Wednesday poetry reading /or/ The Artful Blogger

santabarbara2
Guess they gotta good grip on me

Answer to my critics

This popular idea today of writing is something of a distraction. It is hard to escape it’s trappings. Form, style, punctuation, bow down to them and we will love you, publish you, sing your praises. But to write as art is different than all that. Telling you just where to stop and start, which words or syllables to emphasize would be like telling you what to see in a painting. Words have notes, and colors, and scents. They can be drum beats, or paintings, or melodies when put in a certain order. You can taste them, or smell them, even breath them. Sometimes they are sharp and loud and unsettling, other times smooth and flowing. Editors are looking for something that sells, the same ole same ole. I am looking for something that moves, that lives, or dies. Warhol didn’t need a canvas the size of the Sistine Chapel to reach into peoples soul, Jean-Michel Basquiat could intrigue an entire generation with a few letters on a wall, Patti Smith could move a whole city with just one set.  But what my writing means to me is of little importance, what it means to the reader is what counts. All I hope, is that when I am done with one of my works it hits you like the opening riffs to Sweet Jane, or Honky Tonk Women. Or like Kevin Blanch saying “they’ll be calling you a radical”. Now that moves me!.
Love is the answer!

1 Corinthians 13New International Version (NIV)

13 If I speak in the tongues[a] of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast,[b] but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, 10 but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. 11 When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. 12 For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

13 And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

A Saturday Poem

[ from afar I fell for you ]

from afar I fell for you
at a distance counted every freckle
the small scar above your pink lip
things that would fool a microscope
I followed from a telescope distance
that cute mole stuck on your shoulder
the sweet crease inside your elbow
the ever slight cowlick above your brow
and that auburn hint in your flowing hair
sights missed by the common uninitiated
I see as lighted billboards flashing constant
decades passed all traces erased
but still your beauty remains
and I fall for you again each day

A Short Love Poem on a Thursday

close breaths draw deep these colors

close breaths draw deep these colors
that shade cool the attraction growing
in sights small want builds it’s castle
where pecks evolve in melting moisture
on fallow ground star dust seedlings
share chilly bumps an intimate soothing

 

whitesands

A Sunday Evening Poem

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The Beating Rhythm Psychotic

swirling clockwise the sands surround my head
violently throwing up a black widow brain twister
sucking at the orphaned airborne chattering near by
a taste of green drops, and catches on tongues edge
spit up ascending the ladder of the dark mass growing

yellow woven turnstiles shade broken mirrors blushing
few castaways survive the blue sharp edged slivers
a cutting positioned high slicing multiple hard wares
shaved metal showers fire the gears to slow grinding
hot the forging casts an orange tint inside quick lightning

skull bobbing and nodding a whitish poultice oozes out
backwards talking carnies run this shaky festival booth
the show, a perpetually moving storm of three card Monte
red the queen traveling veins of this tornadic spun tempest
to fall in monster hail stones pounding out the beating rhythm

A Poem for a Sunday

Please check out my poem published today at Dissident Voice, and give it a like and share while there.

http://dissidentvoice.org/2017/06/my-white-privileged-poetry/

many blessings

Rob

 

nonukes1

 

Afternoon Poetry for Memorial Day 2017

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Have not been feeling well for a few weeks, here are a few to catch you up…. peace!

 

 

 

on the mantel I found your note

on the mantel I found your note
sitting, I read it by the fires light
drowning in the words you speak
arms flailing at ears flash pierced
woven inside I tasted the strings
stuck to the web of a silky trap
sniffing at branches in the dark
sprung loose cracking my teeth
die rolled lost in the floor boards
smoke or a vapor up the chimney
waking in the dark coffee chimes
drifting shale scents over fences
whiteness grows in sight reflected
blown ashes the glowing doth fade

There Is Only One Shade Of Black

cling hard the colors fading
under skin loosely hanging
hundreds of green sparks
showering the open garden
palettes of shades watering
the sky an ocean of blues
powdered hues cast subtly
of reds and yellows shining

distinctly separated bows
the horizon ever changing
glazing now these doughnuts
set in facial sockets aged
scents and sounds do reign
each note has it’s own ringing
yet as night settles here darkly
eclipsing the shadows dull light

in blindness I discover harshly
there is only one shade of black

perpetual the change that remains sweet

muffled giggles in blooming flowers
spark light the butterflies cool rise
yellows, oranges, and blacks scattered
in a blinking musical whirlwind ballet
lilies and crocuses spinning a melody
delicate antenna mimic a child’s wave
May shadows at noon disguise liquid
puddles skated smooth froze as ice
floral scents carried along spring winds
perpetual the change that remains sweet

[ in that barren, dark place ]

in that barren, dark place
only those who know, know
solitude commences loudly
enemies all who pass here
self the worst provocateur
humans scampering all earth
in a kaleidoscope of shadows
swords reach just shy a slice
but the echos of words ring on
swollen, a tribute to Vincent’s ear
they rattle the brain unconscious
oh how can loneliness be so busy

chasing rabbits breaking bones
a lie, a trap set, the fowler’s snare
sanity too high a price to chase now
looking through those looking through me
forgoten groceries laid at the doorstep
or the gas never pumped, the stares
the wind strikes without royal regard
while graveyards seem a quiet place
out beyond the bustling brainwaves
no you can’t feel it just a vapor passing
here though rides a desperate cowboy
breathing this dusty trail until it’s end

nonukes1

An Evening Poem

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her silken feathers gently brush

her silken feathers brush gently
swirling white shades above blue
glass reflections a doves whisper
soothing my beating breast steady
first touch of her angelic artistry
inhaled aura the scent of freshness
beauties breath held tightly and snug
clinging I a child to locks of honey
dripping golden pools of radiance
limbs quake beneath the warm shadow
it’s darkness the one light shinning
as galaxies fade upon her passing
casting a bow of colors skyward
tickling the universe with her toes
small and sweet her touches spark
a trail of bumps spreading quickly
covered now under wings of desire
transforming as the bold monarch
guided north by nectar’s strong call
lips tasting newness as seasons ebb
short fluttering strokes bring floating
of sticky orange pollen resting eyes
falling gentle on long brown lashes
bound once again to this lonely planet