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The Lady from Tomorrow
for Allene Angelica

One day ahead of where I am
the Lady from Tomorrow told
of slender islands ringed with
pristine beaches set in
turquoise waters, warmed by
red suns. Her eyes had witnessed
so much of life yet reflected
those whom she loved. Joy
rose from her words whether
spoken to all or to you.
Somehow she remains ahead
of where I am, in a Tomorrow
that knows neither sunrise nor
sunset, where light reflects on
those beaches and waters
encircling the island.

Arthur Turfa ©2018

It took me a while to write something. Hopefully others will share their poems about her.

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Okay, here we pleased to have 5 #poems published in "ESKIMOPIE" today. Doubly honored to have my name listed at the top of the poetry section.

Two Views of a City

Forethought: Celestial Road to Zion

The jungle is a skyscraper

With its balconies bursting
With fate in a pleasant mood

By flora and fauna
In the form of ebony
Moonbeams, the zodiac
& lunar sunrises sown in the skyline
Of a constellated canopy

As we speak in tones of time

Like the Nile & the Niger, in
& out of streams
Of consciousness

Telling history
Along the way, from Eden
To where we're inscribed today

On the wings of dreams
At the speed of night's
Curious conjures about the cosmos

& its strange celestial road.

Afterthought: Down Here on the Ground

The jungle is a skyscraper

Still standing
On the 1926 bricks
Of a manifesto

That foretold the fact
Of nothing great arising
Out of assimilation or

Imitation, rooted in

The racial mountain penned by Langston
Amidst a Renaissance

Happening in Harlem
Where Africa talked
(& is still talking)

To you, down here on the asphalt, but

The message
Keeps getting lost
In translation

Amongst the urbanites, who do
Not necessarily see any grass
Or trees nor do they believe
In any American dream...

& each & every soul
Echoes the motto:
"It'll be a good day
When we don't have

To deal with police brutality
& equality actually extends back
Into the inner city that dwells

In me.

©2018, 21stcenturygrio

Butterflies are the least of it

These things have consequences

Set something in motion that touches a thousand lives
And not just now,
but echoes down through the generations

In ways you could never predict
They are called Inflection Points

People who wouldn't have met otherwise
Words spoken that cannot be unsaid
Feelings shape trends that define a culture
Music and fashion sculpted to make an Era

Take my hand ...

and the Universe shifts
Billions of years from now
Andromeda misses us entirely

Passing just overhead


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Intro Missive

I wake up; I am what?
How do I be? What can I do? What is my mission,
or necessity? Is this I a being, a meaning, a part of a plan?
Will there be happening?
What next?

Wheels and fields of visions, infinite recession,
intricate decisions embedded, embroidered,
successes, negations, bright blue infused warm
breeze – at play above rustle of green.

Summer leaves burn into firebright mottle,
fall and fly, darkening sky, woodsmoke, porch lights,
soft etch of letters on windowbreath.
Soft touch of wandering tears, brushed aside.
Smile to teakettle’s song and throw a little jig to say:
we settle here, make a dance of each day,
crumble to rest.

There is more, much more, little and wide, hidden
inside mind folds secret/scarred/set free.
Look, see, immerse and imbibe, understand --
wattle in layers of seaweed, sand, brittle shards,
magic glass of prophecies and transcendent art.

My will wanders. I shall abide. Await reply.


Mired in Myself..

Mired in myself I silently hum
A poem of mine.
Otherwise how can I survive
In this meaningless clamour
Surrounding me?
All I need is an inner corner
Where I can tenderly keep
At least a poem of mine.
In the surrounding babble
I compose some lines,
And rest for a while
In their shelter.
Actually I want to get up,
And search a friendly hand
On whose palm I can place
A poem of mine,
Which is nothing else
But an outcry against
The way we have lost our humanity,
Our brutality against nature,
Our all-consuming greed,
But no one puts forward a hand,
Or even lifts me up,
And then I don't find the support
Even of my own poem.

© Poet Desh

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One man's rant from inside g plus
easier to read in threadreader:
This explains so damn much about this platform and what happened to it. It's long, over 100 tweet thread, but damn it's good.

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Charles Bukowski - The Aliens

you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
they have moments of
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy
death, usually in their
you may not believe
but such people do
but I am not one of
oh no, I am not one
of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
but they are
and I am

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Billy Collins - The Iron Bridge

I am standing on a disused iron bridge
that was erected in 1902,
according to the iron plaque bolted into a beam,
the year my mother turned one.
Imagine--a mother in her infancy,
and she was a Canadian infant at that,
one of the great infants of the province of Ontario.

But here I am leaning on the rusted railing
looking at the water below,
which is flat and reflective this morning,
sky-blue and streaked with high clouds,
and the more I look at the water,
which is like a talking picture,
the more I think of 1902
when workmen in shirts and caps
riveted this iron bridge together
across a thin channel joining two lakes
where wildflowers blow along the shore now
and pairs of swans float in the leafy coves.

1902--my mother was so tiny
she could have fit into one of those oval
baskets for holding apples,
which her mother could have lined with a soft cloth
and placed on the kitchen table
so she could keep an eye on infant Katherine
while she scrubbed potatoes or shelled a bag of peas,

the way I am keeping an eye on that cormorant
who just broke the glassy surface
and is moving away from me and the iron bridge,
swiveling his curious head,
slipping out to where the sun rakes the water
and filters through the trees that crowd the shore.

And now he dives,
disappears below the surface,
and while I wait for him to pop up,
I picture him flying underwater with his strange wings,

as I picture you, my tiny mother,
who disappeared last year,
flying somewhere with your strange wings,
your wide eyes, and your heavy wet dress,
kicking deeper down into a lake
with no end or name, some boundless province of water.

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Human reason is beautiful and invincible.
No bars, no barbed wire, no pulping of books,
No sentence of banishment can prevail against it.
It establishes the universal ideas in language,
And guides our hand so we write Truth and Justice
With capital letters, lie and oppression with small.
It puts what should be above things as they are,
Is an enemy of despair and a friend of hope.
It does not know Jew from Greek or slave from master,
Giving us the estate of the world to manage.
It saves austere and transparent phrases
From the filthy discord of tortured words.
It says that everything is new under the sun,
Opens the congealed fist of the past.
Beautiful and very young are Philo-Sophia
And poetry, her ally in the service of the good.
As late as yesterday Nature celebrated their birth,
The news was brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo.
Their friendship will be glorious, their time has no limit.
Their enemies have delivered themselves to destruction.

Incantation - Czeslaw Milosz

~ Incantation - Czeslaw Milosz

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