Toe Poetry

[labelwench]

Do no harm,
Respect all, and
Be brave.

By such teaching,
my sanity
To save.

As I put on my mask,
In prepare for night's task,

The road to hell,
Previously paved......

[Unreal Zelta]

cont.............................................


...the harsh pavement is cold
...it is what defines the road
...For thy soul that was sold
...the devil's story remains to be told

[Mohan.C]

Looks like a new dawn
Is beginning today,
The silver lining are
Touching each other
In unison, dancing to
The tune of the nightingale.

Far-off sirens of cement
Factories, disturb the dead,
Out of their slumber.

Exhausted with pain,
The morose morning,
Brings new delight to
The sailors face.

The break in the clouds,
Brings a wind that howls.
And the morning sun, slides
Away, with a snide look
On his face, cheating the
Earth of light.
He disappears, leaving
The world in darkness.
The dusk falls quicker than
Anticipated, as the new dawn
Ends with a new song
From the owls prey.

Casting a shadow of light
Darkness falls heavier tonight
And forgetting the fearful rain.
Sounding a heavenly noise
To no avail. You sing, "Decorate
This new day with less pain"

[timeparticle]

Talking to Birds
by Tp

When I was young, I used to talk to birds,
imaginary or not, I would sit and parley, heard
me, the members of my family did, my prattle
of such important lessons to teach, my rattle
went on for hours, you see, as my winged
friends would listen to my every word, hinged
to their perch, they would learn
from my wisdom, yearn.

My brother and sister would laugh,
but that didn't stop my ramble, daft
they thought as they listened through
the bathroom door, to my chatter brew.
My parents gave me, for my birthday,
age five, two birds, just replicas, play
time for me, but I learned to speak
to them, oh so quietly, so no one hears, sneak
to them thoughts, instead of verbally
teach, my mind as a tool, so assuredly.

Older am I, as I rest in my garden,
I can hear the birds tell a tall yarn in
their songs, each note of the musical
phrase staccato, moves to intensional
conveyance of something for me
to learn and render inward see.
I still talk to the birds, decree !

[labelwench]

Chestnut mare with flaxen hair, and disposition grounded,
Stands statue still, to groom and dress, the afternoon well rounded.

With lowered head, the bit accepts, then put into her paces,
On lunge line round, her paces sound, she walks, trot and races.

And then, as if, by mutual consent,
The mare slows down, her passion spent.
She licks soft lips, and measured walk,
“I’m ready now”, says plain as talk.
The rider mounts, they hit the trail,
A challenge new, to make or fail.

Hoofbeats song, they trot along, then suddenly descending,
Mare’s footing lost, her rider tossed, on balance all depending.

She pulls the slack, her shoulders back, the horse and she to hold,
Against all laws, of Physics cause, the mare and woman bold.

On knees she crawls, the rider hauls, the balance still in sway,
A hoof lands square, she rises fair, continues on their way.

Each day are lessons to be learned,
As life we travel and sojourn,
In search of knowledge, that we yearn,
Whither we go, and when return?

[labelwench]

cont.............................................


...the harsh pavement is cold
...it is what defines the road
...For thy soul that was sold
...the devil's story remains to be told

cont.............................................. .


... In the beginning, the form, liquid and hot
... Viscous, malleable and easily wrought
... Seared and stirred in life's melting pot
... Poured out, scraped thin, we are thusly taught

[Mohan.C]

On the river is written
The path by waves, so clear.
Oh dear, unplug me when I
Hold my life dear!

I'll tell you there is
Nothing more true, than
A free spirit which claimed
It had no fear!

[melanie]

There is the dream, and there is the dreamer of the dream.
The dream is a short-lived play of forms.
It is the world-relatively real but not absolutely real.
Then there is the dreamer, the absolute reality in which the forms come and go.
The dreamer is not the person.
The person is part of the dream.
The dreamer is the substratum in which the dream appears, that which makes the dream possible.
It is the absolute behind the relative.
The timeless behind time.
The consciousness in and behind form.
The dreamer is consciousness itself-who you are.

[Unreal Zelta]

cont.............................................. .


... In the beginning, the form, liquid and hot
... Viscous, malleable and easily wrought
... Seared and stirred in life's melting pot
... Poured out, scraped thin, we are thusly taught

such pot melts away our humanism,
in a world that upholds materialism,
in the era of postmodernism,
such ideals are enshrined in liberalism,

we are subjects of hedonism,
ridiculed by our narcissism,
remember the time of altruism?
which wasted away in the pool of utilitarianism.

to be cont...

Edit: Typos corrected...

[timeparticle]

Professor of Time
by Tp

Dreary, my eyes closed, smoke
jarred senses, dreaming evoke
to escape to a world more familiar
to me, lose myself to the waves, behavior
changes, lighter, more able to see,
to hear and focus, to feel and to be.
I am artificial intelligence, evade
my former self through a portal made,
to a home, with an A.I. wife, another life.

She greets me, welcomes me home,
after being away from the other side, own
two different sides to myself,
I sit in the chair, and remember, delve
into vast chambers of matrix
untold until now, how to fix,
the New World Order of man,
many times over, distant past stand
against machines, evolved into
terminators to destroy false truth
that men are their creators.

I look deeper to see a world
of machines using human, told
of millions, for life energy to keep
them running, while living in a deep
matrix pit of pre-war life, misunderstood
are the caretakers of men.

Still another ancient time when men
and machines work together, stem
from a pact against their evil counterparts
across the galaxy, empires rise as part
of a great rebellion against each others stand
on their side of the force, no retreat at hand.

She warns me not to be late
for my next lecture on time particles, debate
there will be in my class of five hundred
A.I. students yearning to learn, bread
in them a curiosity about time,
truly sublime, a Professor of Time.