973-Eht-Namuh-973.com The Oracle Forum

I like to write poetry myself and wrote constantly in high school. However, my recent passion for poetry and most things spiritual have died; I'm hoping that by trying to revitalize that part of me I may become back in-tune with it again.
To keep a long story short, my sister was violated as a child and I didn't learn about it until I was in middle school (after my entire family already knew and had coped with it). I had to deal with my anger but had no means of doing so peacefully unless through poetry. I had originally published this poem to my high school magazine in a binary image to keep it in secret from those that couldn't translate the binary. The poem is about my anger twoards that man at the time, and it has taken me awhile to learn to forgive him for the things he did to my sister.

Twelve Twenty-Four Ae Em
by: B

The night hums,
the voice in the back of my brain is
scratching, digging for it.

The meditation is not enough;
the deep breathing, the targeted
thoughts, not enough.
Not enough to satisfy the picking.

Digging for the hangnail that never
goes away, digging for the
satisfaction that will never be
enough.

Digging a hole for a body.
The digging in the back brain,
the scratching hangnail,
satisfaction.

It will never be enough.

The voice without a face,
the empty vocabulary,
the empty hole,
the empty body.

Do I imagine murder? I imagine a
old man whose time came. I imagine
that I was digging and he was
stiff and dead beside me. The digging,
I was digging.

Digging to dig,
scratching to scratch,
deeper to have it;
it will never be enough.

UNCERTAINTY
By C S Cisson

The future is the only thing
That makes for thought, the past is past:
It brought its presents, had its fling,
But what it flung could never last.

The future has not lasted yet
Even the second that it can
And so is good for any bet:
It is guessing makes the man.

Human uncertainty is all
That makes the human reason strong:
We never know until we fall
That every word we speak is wrong,

Simon Armitage-Poet Laureate

IN PRAISE OF AIR

I write in praise of air, I was six or five
when a conjurer opened my knotted fist
and I held my palm the whole of the sky.
I've carried it with me ever since.

Let air be a major God, it's being<
and touch, it's breast-milk always tilted
to the lips. Both Dragonfly and Boeing
dangle in its see-through nothingness..

Among the jumbled bric-a-brac I keep
a padlocked treasure-chest of empty space.
and on days when thoughts are fuddled with smog
or civilisation crosses the street

with a white handkerchief over its mouth
and cars blow kisses to our lips from theirs
I turn the key, throw back the lid, breathe deep.
My first word, everyone's first word, was air.







A climate change poem-LAST SNOWMAN

He drifted south
down an Artic seaway
on a plinth of ice, jelly tots

weeping lime Greenwood's tears
around both eyes,
a carrot for a nose

(some reported parsnip),
below which a clay pipe
drooped from a mouth

that was pure stroke-victim.
A red wooden scarf trailed
in the meltwater drool

at his base, and he slumped
to starboard, kinked,
gone at the pelvis.

From the buffet deck
of a passing cruise liner
stag and hen parties shied
Scotch eggs and Pink Ladies
as he rounded the stern.
He sailed on between banks

of camera lenses
and rubberneckers,
past islands vigorous

with sunflower and bog myrtle
into a bloodshot west,
singular and abominable,

A much loved and quoted poem, but in a sense an intellectually underrated work because it is often deemed to have been written for children, yet it has instigated considerable articulate literary debate over hidden meanings.

Undoubtedly, Victorian Britain and its creative arts community were much enamoured with opiates and perhaps Edward Lear was experimenting with avant-garde comedic double entendre by referring to narcotics i.e. substituting the Bong pipe courtesy of verse two in this ostensibly children's poem.

Lear was an accomplished ornithological artist and later landscape painter, he was also well travelled having spent 4 years in Italy, as well as periods in Greece, Malta, Egypt and Ceylon. A pianist, he also composed the only musical settings approved by the poet himself, for the works of Alfred Lord Tennyson. His musician's skills also extended to accordion, flute and guitar.

He was also an epileptic and most Victorian physicians prescribed literally gallons of heavily opiate laced concoctions as a calming agent for children and adult ailments alike, so it's likely Lear's Laudanum intake was quite high.

However in his defence, there is actually such a flora as a Bong tree. Nothaphoebe umbelliflora is evergreen tropical tree in the Lauraceae (Laurel) family. Its common name in English is the bong tree. It is also called the yang bong tree in Thailand), or gemor.

The bark from the bong tree contains gum, a useful adhesive agent, along with aromatic oils. When pulverised, the bark is used to make incense sticks for temples in South and Southeast Asia. It is also an ingredient of mosquito coils and glue for carton and particleboards like sandpaper. If mixed with soil, the bark can be moulded into statues and household items. I for one have always found incense mildly narcotic and incense was a common item in the art world.

Sadly the once-abundant bong tree is now on the endangered list in Laos as a result of huge swathes of forest clearance for rice cultivation. Therefore as a final message of saviour to the citizens of planet earth, it is incumbent upon us to replant as many trees as possible.

Oh and just in case you are windering what a runcible spoon is? I It is a fork curved like a spoon, with three broad prongs, one of which has a sharpened outer edge for cutting.



The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
BY EDWARD LEAR
I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

II
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

III
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

A clerihew is a whimsical, four-line biographical poem invented by Edmund Clerihes Bently.
The first line is the name of the poem's subject, usually a famous person put in an absurd light,
or revealing something unknown or spurious about them.

The rhyme scheme is AABB, and the rhymes are often forced.


EDMUND CLERIHEW BENTLEY

Lewis Carroll
Bought sumptuous apparel
And built and enormous palace
Out of the profits of Alice

Edgar Allen Poe
Was passionately fond of roe.
He always liked to chew some
When writing anything gruesome.

POEM BY MICHAELMAS TWIST

The Worm


A worm lives inside my brain
He twists and turns and causes pain
He eats my thoughts
My memories too

Things I like
and even who
soon there'll
Be no more of me.
The worm is who I'll really be,
This shell you see

This human form
with all itself
And memories gone
And all thats left
This image of...

A person here
And yet thats
Gone.

Those were the days my friend I thought they'd never end and they did.

It's only of late as I sit here alone and reflect on the passing of time,
that I feel the aging of flesh on the bone the greying of hair as a sign,
of a day that is long and now nearly o'er, and a night just about to begin,
of the working in man of God's holy law, of a time for the paying of sin.

Shall foot n'er again squelch soft on wet grass,
nor teeth on ripe apple to bite,
shall I never again drink beer from a glass.
wending slow on my way feeling tight.

And what of the friends to leave behind,
the people I've met on the way,
I wonder well do you think they'll mind
do you think they'll have ought to say?.

Now fear besets this once proud heart and ice in the marrow I feel,
at last so it seems, the time comes to part, tired soul from this body to steal.

Dimension 1968




The passing of time Ani Grimes 2019

So, chance had it that I had to write an ekphrastic poem for class. I chose to write about one of David Denison's works below:



Tendrils
or vines,
fiber of plant
or
flesh of mine

Violently, it shines;
the flower emits light
its soft petals
and warm glow
bursting with might

Yes, red radiance
A SIX, a NINE
strangling, yet
growing
with symmetry DIVINE

Amidst all the angst weighing heavy on our fading earthly home today: war, social hate, famine, pestilence, climate change and disastrous rape of the natural world, so the list grows, I thought to bring a little worded beauty back into our ever straining lives. With that worthy objective in mind, and having just read a thing of beauty for the first time, I would like to share it with you and so I have resurrected Poem Corner to the top of the agenda.

Poem Corner was created by one of the impeccably goodhearted souls associated with the work on the Oracle forum known as Hope, her full name was Suzanne Hope. She was a wonderfully kind and giving person, to such an extent that she truly did bring us all hope and faith in human nature. Sadly, she passed away suddenly, at a very young age in her very early sixties. So in a way, this is a also a tribute to her and her good works, for she too was an artist who made exquisitely designed, original knitwear that brightened many impoverished lives.

Anyway, hopefully, to play on the words of Poem Corner’s creator, this revival will serve to shed a little light amongst the present roiling, chaotic darkness we face on planet Earth.

Future contributions of a similarly beauteous nature from our Oracle community, will be most welcome, to add to the magnificent contributions already received of course.

Pax Vobiscum Redbeck


https://www.973-eht-namuh-973.com/Alche ... 20900.html






Flâneur by Hugo Williams

Something of the faded dandy

hangs about God’s moth-eaten evening coat,

his worn-out cloth-uppers.

He seems to be cruising lost time

in search of fellow flâneurs

who might remember him

from the good old days

before he dyed his hair. He holds out

a threadbare mauve suede glove

as if begging forgiveness

from the crowds of memories

pushing past him in the street.

Thinking I’ve seen him before somewhere

and feeling vaguely ashamed

of the white silk handkerchief

overflowing the pocket of my suit,

I slip him a few quid

to buy himself a coffee and a bed for the night.

A sudden violent shudder

passes through God’s frail form

as he turns himself into

a flowering magnolia tree.


Footnote: In Baudelaire’s description, “a passionate spectator”, others refer to "a wanderer," "saunterer" or even "a faded dandy," nevertheless the flâneur, may be viewed as a potential creator.

MERLIN THE MASTER SHAMAN 1969

Nilrem. The Shaman. Magician Extraordinaire.
Behold the skin
A frown past o’er the royal, loyal, sun kings sun’s face
Oh beam, sun beam
With kind old eyes, that watered meekly, bleekly, and weakly, in the sun
He sulked, and skulked behind dark clouds
Until of reigning in the rain, he’d had enough
His royal dignity was there for all to see
A smile was summoned, ordered, pass by me
And then, as if by will intended
In him the sun, a rainbow thought engendered
This shimmering coronet, of rainbow tears
This hovering, iridescent, quick silvered, dragon fly

The quintessential moment, time suspended

Then time restarted, a little late
A second perhaps, or maybe even two
The basking sun, basked on
The officer in custom pink, pulled through
This newly painted image of the mind
With entrance unannounced, it longed to make
To execute a bow, or maybe even two
He watched, entranced, transfixed
Merlin, the Master Shaman
Sole sorcerer, to Arthur once a king
This master of illusion with a wink
Directly to the eye, of he in pink
Gave lie to his existence

The crusty conjurer
A card sharp, card carrying member he
Would turn a trick, for pensioners and young kids
At half the price, but only half the tricks
His magic now a tawdry dull affair
Nights at Camelot, now too long gone
None, now have faith in magic anymore
He paused, he thought, he knew
I’m half the man, of half the man, I was before
Merlin, the man of tattered habits
The master shaman, standing whisky still, stock still
Deep in thought

Master of illusion, man of tattered habits ruefully ruminated.
Where now old man, the wisdom that you sought.
His journey a pilgrimage, a seeking of the self.
There was always something strange about my magic.
The wisdom that he thought, he'd had, he'd never had before.
Wise wisdom lost at sea, drowned in a sea of knowledge.
His blind and gelded senses had masked the way intended.
New age thoughtful thinkers now were all the rage.
They'd seen it all, wonder of wonders and they would not wonder.
Their vices it suffices were sensory devices.
Their aim to transmute base metals into gold.
Subatomic particles, articles of particles.
But pale reflections of the wizards skill.

He thrust a hand, in dirty habit clean
His many pocketed cloak, around thin shoulders draped

Without a glance, Merlin drew out, from within
The pocket, of his pock marked, many pocketed memory coat
His myriad, mirrored images, of glazed glassed eyes
A residue of demons, once his fiends
And cause now, only for a laugh
The shaman seer, a seance of the senses, would he make
Pull a trick, or maybe even two
Merlin, an incantation breathed

Slight silver spear, sliver of light
Sleight of hand, of mind, and sight

The august magi, belched twice
His plumbing turbulent
An island alone
Aloof, strange, silent
Reborn images appeared
Magic into image see
Magi the magic, blinks, thinks, winks
And pokes, sad embers of a dying brain
Light provoked, barely an echo
Of his once bright flame
He raised his hand, as if to bid adieu
His tired magic, look still works
A rag appeared, from out the air
It was old, and rough, and stained
In bleak despair, he turned to stare
And stare, and stare anew
Startled from his reverie, he rested
On the hard rock cafe, of his reality
The rag, meanwhile, had nested in his hand
He raised the mirror to his knees
And careful not to look
Gently began to wipe, and scrub
And scrub, and wipe, and rub
And rub, and rub, and rub
Lapsing again, into thoughtful mood mode
The busy bee of static, in his head, paused
Merlin, for that were he
Felt the creeping, stalking, numbness
Creeping, and stalking, stalking, and creeping
Within his brain, his skeletal brain
His skeletal, eletal brain
The anaesthetisation of his faculties
His memory, continued apace
Magic of a sort there
He thought, the illusion, of his illusion, was
Is
Was
Is
Was
Is
The delusion, of the illusion
This lay in mother sense
The womb of his creations
Herein the source of all his theatre
How skillfully, and clearly, cleverly, and dearly
Productions such as his, were hard to find
As long as the human race had existed
He had worn the raiment
Of his myriad names, with pride
He knew, this magus of magicians
That he, Merlin the magical
Sorcerer to kings
Was coming towards the end of his line
That he, confidence trickster of the senses
Working in many guises, and disguises, in many lands
Throughout all ages, the magician extraordinaire
Master of magic, trick, and illusion
Like his forebears, he knew all that had passed
And also of the future knew he too
This wizard of pantomime
This master of the five
Servants, ready to serve his every wish
I wish, I wish
When you wish upon a star
Oh how wonderful you are
The old magus, had continued all the while
Polishing his mirror
Without once glancing at it
When you wish upon a star
He ceased his task
The waning of his powers, coincided
As if by chance
By the knowledge, that had struck him
Like a lightning bolt of his own creation
Like a swift arrow of truth
Of sudden realization
Deep, in the heart, of the
Soft, full, fat, cheese, molasses of his brain
Its poisoned tip of truth
Had dealt the self, a mortal blow
This central character in his own magic
Knew at last the truth of his magic
He, was part of the magic, of something else
Something much greater
Something, of which he was but a piece
A piece of a jigsaw
A grain of sand, on all the oceans of the world
All the ages of his creations, had been an odyssey
The stars he wondered at on an evening
Were the same stars
That all existing, within this magical reality
That they also, were marvelling at
His journey, a pilgrimage
A seeking of the self
He had asked many questions
Experienced many things
There was alway something strange
About my magic
The wisdom, that he thought he had
He’d never had before
Wise wisdom, lost at sea
Drowned, in a sea of knowledge
His blinded, gelded senses
Had masked the way intended
New age, thoughtful thinkers
Now the rage
They’d seen it all
Wonder of wonders
And they would not wonder
There vices it suffices
Were sensory devices
Their aim, to transmute base metals into gold
Subatomic particles
Articles of particles
A techno-magic revolution
Changing, human evolution
Pale imitators, of the wizards craft
Suddenly, as was his custom
Offen in the past
A sunbeam thought
Impinged the polished mirror
Of his future past
And sped off into its own reality
In a wink of a blink
Thinking pink
The man that never was
With skin, that made the sun retreat in shame
Behind dull clouds
For fear of Mary Shellys skin
Merlin the magus
Spent his last trick
And he, who in error, terror paused
Became a pig-
A lily the pink pig
A fat, happy, joyful pig
This pig, happy, happy, as a pig in shit-
Merlin again ruefully ruminated
Those of today, those creating a great past
From a future yet to occur
They too still entangled
Hog tide and fixed
Fettered by the senses
A bigger magic
More powerful magic than his
None the less a magic
Which like his, had no basis in reality
This custom made, happy pig
Found a partner
Had lots of pigs
And lived, happy ever after
Merlin the magus
Raised, the mirror to his eyes
His old blind eyes
Eyes, he now realized, he had no need of
Looking at the mirror
He saw its early finery
Remembered, its beauteous clearness
He gave it the tenderist of wipes
As first he’d done
As at the dawn of human history
He’d practised his craft
From first aware of its perfection
It’s glorious perfection
And the clarity, clear, depth
Of the pool, of its sight
The pool, in which his senses had swum
For so long together
Before the corporeal nature, of his sight, caught the glass
He noticed, how old it had become
How tarnished, cracked and glazed, this glass
Finally, his eyes looked at the eyes
That were finally looking at him
Today Alice, did not look back
Saw, only through the mist
A spectre, of an apparition, of a spectre
He sought, with fingers cold
To rub away, the cold, hot mist of his breath
Only for an instant did he see
That, that, far away
That, that, was me
For a split second he realized all
He knew, I know
Someone, something, somewhere
An illustrious magician, pulled another trick
And, had there been a mirror
Surely it would have cracked
From side to side

I’m Denison from the I’m Denison Dimension--------




https://www.973-eht-namuh-973.com/Alche ... IVE973.htm







EYE OF HORUS




Dunblane massacre
13 March 1996
Description
The Dunblane massacre took place at Dunblane Primary School near Stirling, Scotland, on 13 March 1996, when Thomas Hamilton shot 16 children and one teacher dead and injured 15 others, before killing himself. It remains the deadliest mass shooting in British history.
Deaths: 18 (including the perpetrator)
Date: 13 March 1996
Perpetrator: Thomas Hamilton

Location: Dunblane
Total number of deaths: 18 (including the perpetrator)

Attack types: School shooting, Mass murder, Murder–suicide

One and one is two,
Two and two are four,
Four and four are eight,
Eight and eight are sixteen,
Sixteen and two.

John Donne, Anne Donne, undone

Think of a number, think of a number,

Five,
Think of a number, think of a number,

Six.

Come with me, ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross,
See a fine lady on a white horse.
Does everyone love me like you mother?
Does everyone love me like you father?
Well Wilf, I have a question.
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water
Jack fell down and broke his crown
And Jill came tumbling after.

When I got up this morning
I felt powerful, full of gods power.
This morning, for a few minutes
I thought I was god.
I wanted at last, to be recognised for what I am.
My life is barren.

Before I set off this morning
To do god's work
I sat in the chair
One, two, three, four
Looking at each one

One, two, three, four.
I stroked, and caressed each one.
Like my woman.
And yet they were hard and strong, virile, cold
The arbiter of death.
Sometimes, at such times, he visits me.
The man for whom I long.

My guilt will not altogether fit.
Yet, you who scorned me,
Have invited me,
Into each of your family homes.
I will always be present,
At Anniversaries, at Christmas.
At times meant to be enjoyed,
I shall be there, you're unwelcome guest.
Happy Days.

There were seventeen green bottles hanging on the wall,
Seventeen green bottles hanging on the wall,
And if seventeen green bottles should accidentally fall.
Then they'll be no green bottles hanging on the wall.

Thomas please, I grow old, I grow old
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled
In the room, the women, men, children, grandfathers, grandmothers
Nieces and nephews, cousins and brothers, brothers and sisters
Uncles, and aunts, friends and relations, come and go
Talking, always talking, of those that are gone
All of you do not forget us
Thomas would you, with the children please
Together then
I remember
I remember
The house where I was born

Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly
Blow the wind southerly, my bonny to see

Their energy was such
They were always displacing themselves
Fractured, yet healing, thereby to be the stronger
Laughing with a happy laugh
This noise, their noise, with life abounds
Such laughing
If only we'd known
Such tears
If only we'd known
We would have counted each of your tears
You are our little people
Full growe'd at five and six
Full growe'd ye who cared for them

Yes Mary, ah Mary's got a joke. Come on now, let's all listen. Yes Mary, yes, listen
What did Mary Shelley say to Frankenstein
Go on
Oh, I love you to bits
Very good Mary, I'll bet you got that off your mum and dad. I don't think it's your own joke is it. Perhaps it is.

Come on now children, altogether

This old man, he played one
He played nicK nack, on my drum
With a nicK naCk paddy wak, give a dog a bone
This old man comes rolling home

I checked my watch, it's almost time
God keep the barrel straight
Although tensed, although anguished within himself
He gave a nervous laugh
Atishoo, atishoo, all fall down

That morning, all the children had minded their P's and Q's
That morning, all had answered the register
Variously happy, and in piping voices
The Scottish pipers lament
The lament for young heroes
Old before their time
Facing the fear of all of us
Facing their fear together
Our teacher, our very own

And he, who took our lives

We are children, who forgive easily
Mother, and Father, your task is harder
At the going down of the sun
And in the morning, we shall remember them

There is but one child left
What mother and father, will claim this child
What sister, claim this brother
Where now the lover
Those of you, who pour contempt
Hell and damnation, upon my head
Here the slain, select one
That he become me

If you were the only girl in the world
And I was the only boy

It is afternoon, it is time again to take the toll, and yet this classroom is empty, not alas for the discerning eye.
Therein happiness, therein love, therein hope, therein our lives.

Settle down then children, answer the register
Robert, Robert Burns
Not present. No one seen him
Mary, Mary Shelley
Not present
Sylvia Plath
Gone away
William Shakespeare
Not present
Leonardo, has no one seen Leonardo
Michael Angelo
Not present
Elizabeth I Regina
Not present
Has anyone seen her sister Mary, Mary Queen of Scots
No, not present
What about David. Anyone seen David, David Livingstone
No, not present
Mary, Mary Curie
Albert, Albert Einstein
Albert, Albert Schweitzer
Not present
Where are they all
What of Christ, and Buddha, Mohammed
Not present. Not present. Not present
What of George, the baker's boy
Not present
And Lucy in the sky
Gone away
What of Nicola, and Matthew world travellers
What of Romany. What of Tom, Dick, and Harry
Gone away, all gone away
But what of Peg, and sister Meg
Bess, and Tess, and Rodney too
Gone away, all gone away
And what of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
Bless the bed that they lay on
One at their head, one at their feet
Two at their hearts
Their precious souls to keep

My children, dost thou know, that thy creator weeps today
In the beginning, is my end
And in the end, my beginning

When I died, did you hold me
As a child holds its doll mother
When I died, did you hold me
As you held your mother, father

What is thy name
My name, my name is death
My gift to plain Dunblane
Put not your curse upon me
If you cherish daughter life
You must love also her brother death

If I am called, if I am summoned
Then I have to comply
Understand I have to come
I came to do God's work

I also wept bitter tears
I have wept more tears than you
Bereaved, and beauteous souls
I am the teacher, these my children

Tell me brother death art thou evil

No my child, not so
I am at one with the creator
We are all of one blood, she and I
I am the great destroyer
She the great creator
Your children, are our children
When you were happy, we were happy
When you were sad, we were sad
Listen, for you too are our children.
We are but one
Everything is one
Know that the creative energy from which all spring, is indestructible
It is immortal
Your children's sacrifice is not in vain
Nor you my daughter, and you my son.
All that issue forth from me
They must return to me.
No life without death
No death without life.
The unchained cycle of change continues
They are not lost
You who listen
Or read these words are me
I am your mirror
They are not lost.

I’m Denison from the I’m Denison Dimension........




https://www.973-eht-namuh-973.com/Alche ... IVE973.htm







IN THE PADS 1978

Dear lioninter973,

Welcome to the Oracle forum community and thank you for your posts, you are obviously a person of numbers as well as a poetry fan. If you too write poetry, feel free to post.

As a lyricist and composer myself, I would say you may well be correct about DNSX's fine poem, you also have a keen eye for fitting song lyrics.


Kind Regards Redbeck



https://www.973-eht-namuh-973.com/Alche ... 20900.html






POETS CORNER, WESTMINSTER ABBEY, LONDON, UK

Thirteen Tolls (The Weeping Shadow: Life Behind the Wall Vol. III)


Time is not quite time at all, but a staircase of the mind; a mirror-maze reflecting colors ever sought to leave behind.
A downward spiral in a prison from which all our dreams are risen,
Reaching up to seize the day but disposition bars the way,
For Man is Man’s worst enemy ~ he trusts his chains to set him free,
Yet in his heart, he grips the key though blinds his eyes to never see.
We’re born with all the elements to reap for forging our demise; our closely-guarded armor is our downfall in a strong disguise.
These layers hide the truth we seek and for this truth, we ever roam but Foolish Man in all his folly never thinks to search his home.
So tolls the Bell for Foolish Man who cannot seem to understand,
He’s just as much to blame for falling as to blame upon his land.
The Bell first tolls for Foolish Man the day this Foolish Man is born ~ it is the invitation to bring honor t’ward the graveyard sworn.
Again the Bell tolls for this Man amidst his days of infancy in warning to enjoy these moments ~ harsher waters wait for he who sails his vessel in the clear complacent of the storm ahead; for now milk spilled brings on his tears but future prayers would see him dead…
Childhood hearkens Toll the Third for Youthful Man who still wails heedless, telling him with urgency that just for now his tears are needless: Worse awaits and Young Man is advised to suck it up, because reality awaits and Dog is far worse off than Pup.
Fourth Toll calls for Strong Young Man, his angst his greatest weakness; this toll comes to advise he simmer down and show some meekness.
But Young Man listens not and Trouble knocks at Young Man’s door: Sweet Karma stands with Trouble, come to even up the score.
A Fifth Toll sees Young Man all grown, yet still a feeble mind is sown; Origin or Sorrow’s Harvest from a farmer’s hand his own.
The seeds of Foolish Man’s disgrace in soil once well and arable will generate a bitter fruit that tastes just like a parable that might’ve been spake by a Jesus or a Buddha once upon a book penned by a Foolish Man who bore bad fruit and now is gone.
Six Tolls in we see Man dour, likely drunk and strongly sour; gambled all the spoils away and now he spends his every hour while awake day in, day out, struggling just to figure out where he went wrong but fails to see he’s all he needs to cry about.
Seven Tolls and here we are: The Foolish Man has come so far in shambling on in misery; a fading light beneath the stars; he could have shone above himself but he placed wisdom on the shelf to gather dust and spiderwebs, neglecting maintenance of his welfare in the long-run, now he seeks to point the finger, place the blame, but in the end it’s all the same: The Culprit knows and wears his name.
Eight Tolls down this lonesome road, the Weeping Shadow’s cold abode is occupied by misplaced hope in vagrant dreams, his cross the load he carries on his aching back; this Man a train without a track, his war within is faltering: He’s low-defense and no attack.
Three plus three plus three is Nine; Nine Times Tolled, the Bell is fine but Foolish Man is aging quickly; not so spry and getting sickly, torn asunder by the waves and still a bitter path he paves ~ he’s choking on the words he eats, indulgent on the rants he raves. His Karma is a table set, his plate is heaping with regret, his cup runs over with despair; he gambled hope and lost the bet.
But Ten Tolls tells it’s not too late to spare himself a dismal fate; it doesn’t have to end like this; he could transform his beaten slate into foundation for a rise, rebuild on this if he is wise and see his world through newborn eyes ~ become the truth against the lies.
Eleven Tolls of thunderous warning for the Man who bathes in mourning; mind gone wrong, he’s lost momentum as he spends Gray Life adorning crumbling walls of shattered being with tapestries of never-seeing; all hope lost in Karma Found at Old Man’s Gate with Truth Decreeing: “Eleven chances have ye had to change thy ways, ye foolish lad. Ye’ve one last chance; the Bell is Tolled: Shape up before the blood runs cold. Thy lot thus far is agony and only ye can set ye free. Learn thee from thy War Eternal: Seize the Light or die Infernal in the darkness of thy deeds; ye’ve one more try to plant the seeds…”
Who is the Foolish Man I write of in this dark and cryptic text?
Could be some guy, might be that woman, could be your Bell Tolling next.
You’ll likely gander this and praise the Puppet Master’s wordy skills, but I’d advise a taken moment to consider with some chills that Thirteen Tolls are all you get and Thirteen Tolls are coming fast. You may not even get Thirteen, so change: Next breath could be the last…

What an excellent piece of poetry, an epic masterwork. Thank you Crucible Rising, a fine contribution in memory of our dear departed Hope, who established the 'Poem Corner' topic in the first instance, taken from us far too young.

Warmest Regards Redbeck


https://www.973-eht-namuh-973.com/Alche ... IVE973.htm






Another view of POETS CORNER, WESTMINSTER ABBEY, LONDON, UK