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  • The game master has left the home of brown
    Looks like he ran out of stamina
    maybe he's tired of being let down
    by people with their phones and cameras
    what is this chase really about
    the man keeps telling us and telling us
    get the kids off the couch and go outside
    He's just sick of it all, I'm tellin ya


    • I found this poem online today written by a pilot in WWII that I really enjoyed. I would love to get my pilot license one day, seems like it would be an incredible experience.


      • He's sick of it all so true
        left the room and chest
        interrupted by technology new

        The bugs must go
        and take with them
        all they know

        Too much technology
        Too much confusion
        Too much sniffing for - the solution

        Peace was all that was sought
        Via privacy and respect
        Everything now for naught

        Too many eyes and ears
        Brought so many tears
        Now nothing for years

        Hope everyone is happy now -

        Break anything you want
        Including a gifting heart
        Rules should have been a part
        Nothing is left from the start
        nothing except spyware
        an its ways must part
        Part and now -
        for all is over and like the wilderness
        was destroyed and polluted
        by man's desires for richness.

        Shame to one
        Shame to all

        Answers understood
        once and for all.

        Like Einstein's work,
        effort turned to nothing but hurt.

        All bugs and spyware must be removed
        for there is zero now and a negative
        which raped a heart.

        The destruction, you see,
        began with the invasion of me.

        Witnessing my entire privacy
        displayed for all to see, laugh, and mock
        destroyed master and learner.
        nothing but blame all around.
        IMO - invisible I GO.

        Not one, but two have been let down!
        Given the Flag today, get the Flag out of my life, privacy, and business.
        If the spyware does not Flag away, it will become the legal action I so longed to avoid.
        Some things cannot be avoided and some not tolerated.
        So leave my privacy my life and my intellectual property alone.
        And go away - Superior ones. Since ya'll know everything,
        Remove spyware from everywhere - it served no purpose other than to cause extreme harm from extreme hate.

        I'm just Nobody - nothing before and nothing now
        I've been harmed spiritually, emotionally, and physically.
        I owe it to all those cameras and cells and key loggers and eaves droppers - you all win - My vision lost - Take the gold and the fame and fortune and well . . . superior ones don't need to know where to put it . . .

        Good bye - for I refuse to indulge in the hate of the community. I came with morals and ethics and I leave with them still intact. My choice and applies only to me.


        • fences, fences everywhere!
          I'm boxed in...


          • Mongolian connection

            To think the poem's in English
            is so Napoleon
            In fact, he simply translated it
            from the old Mongolian

            I'll explain it here,
            since no one yet caught on
            That Forrest Fenn is modern
            Genghis Khan

            He grew like a simple peasant,
            not a samurai
            The Earth Mother's womb he cherished
            and Father Sky

            He was fishing and hunting,
            spent quality time on horseback
            He was a fighter, a warrior,
            cattle tamer and lumberjack

            Generations of searchers
            combed Gobi desert for naught
            Likewise for his burial
            Fenn found his own Camelot

            That son of a gun
            is a master of words crochet
            From his skill with marbles
            came the power of ricochet

            I'm gonna tell you the truth
            under my breath
            Fenn's secrets are not a secret
            when beyond death

            Do not kill the messenger,
            let me put on my safety hat
            Temujin had told me
            where Fenn's treasure at...
            Last edited by sadcom; 02-21-2019, 01:14 PM.


            • Affected by the Wind:
              Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood

              William Cullen Bryant, 1794 - 1878

              Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs
              No school of long experience, that the world
              Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen
              Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,
              To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood
              And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade
              Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze
              That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm
              To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here
              Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men
              And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse
              Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,
              But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt
              Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades
              Are still the abodes of gladness; the thick roof
              Of green and stirring branches is alive
              And musical with birds, that sing and sport
              In wantonness of spirit; while below
              The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect,
              Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade
              Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam
              That waked them into life. Even the green trees
              Partake the deep contentment; as they bend
              To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky
              Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.
              Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy
              Existence, than the winged plunderer
              That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves,
              And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees
              That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude
              Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots,
              With all their earth upon them, twisting high,
              Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet
              Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed
              Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,
              Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice
              In its own being. Softly tread the marge,
              Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren
              That dips her bill in water. The cool wind,
              That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee,
              Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass
              Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.


              • A marvelous choice, Rose
                Thanks for sharing!

                Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet
                Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed
                Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,
                Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice
                In its own being...

                Here is a poem I wrote about a little brook, that I am fond of. I will share it with you, but not its ending. It reveals too much ... if you know what I mean

                I'm a big fan of little rivers
                Not for a profit, not for a reason
                A bubbling brook. Banks
                Are few
                It's magical beauty and warbling sounds
                Have captured
                But when its angry, its voice will surge
                To a
                It moves boulders and heavy loads
                ………..its water
                ……………………….high ...


                • A word that is key

                  The experts screwed up
                  They didn't deliver
                  They dropped the ball
                  And washed it downriver

                  The water runs muddy
                  After a storm
                  Who knows if it's cold
                  Or is really warm?

                  You know, the temperature
                  Doesn't matter
                  I learned from my friend
                  The Mad Hatter

                  He is not quite quite
                  I must confess
                  A good old man
                  With a touch of mad-ness

                  When we were parting
                  He told me this:
                  Slava, always
                  Follow your bliss

                  Divorce the takers
                  Marry the givers
                  Become a husband
                  To forests and rivers

                  Look deep inside
                  Find your ally
                  Then bring up a fire
                  In your belly...

                  So, here I am
                  My mind's in a twister
                  Trying to key in
                  Rule defying trickster

                  By golly, I solved it
                  The Holy Writ!
                  A river is running
                  Straight through It.
                  Last edited by sadcom; 03-01-2019, 08:35 AM.


                  • Longish but worth it..:
                    Epistle to Augusta

                    BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

                    My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
                    Dearer and purer were, it should be thine.
                    Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim
                    No tears, but tenderness to answer mine:
                    Go where I will, to me thou art the same
                    A lov'd regret which I would not resign.
                    There yet are two things in my destiny—
                    A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

                    The first were nothing—had I still the last,
                    It were the haven of my happiness;
                    But other claims and other ties thou hast,
                    And mine is not the wish to make them less.
                    A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past
                    Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;
                    Revers'd for him our grandsire's fate of yore—
                    He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.

                    If my inheritance of storms hath been
                    In other elements, and on the rocks
                    Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen,
                    I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks,
                    The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen
                    My errors with defensive paradox;
                    I have been cunning in mine overthrow,
                    The careful pilot of my proper woe.

                    Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward.
                    My whole life was a contest, since the day
                    That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd
                    The gift—a fate, or will, that walk'd astray;
                    And I at times have found the struggle hard,
                    And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay:
                    But now I fain would for a time survive,
                    If but to see what next can well arrive.

                    Kingdoms and empires in my little day
                    I have outliv'd, and yet I am not old;
                    And when I look on this, the petty spray
                    Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd
                    Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away:
                    Something—I know not what—does still uphold
                    A spirit of slight patience; not in vain,
                    Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.

                    Perhaps the workings of defiance stir
                    Within me—or perhaps a cold despair,
                    Brought on when ills habitually recur,
                    Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air
                    (For even to this may change of soul refer,
                    And with light armour we may learn to bear),
                    Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not
                    The chief companion of a calmer lot.

                    I feel almost at times as I have felt
                    In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks,
                    Which do remember me of where I dwelt
                    Ere my young mind was sacrific'd to books,
                    Come as of yore upon me, and can melt
                    My heart with recognition of their looks;
                    And even at moments I could think I see
                    Some living thing to love—but none like thee.

                    Here are the Alpine landscapes which create
                    A fund for contemplation; to admire
                    Is a brief feeling of a trivial date;
                    But something worthier do such scenes inspire:
                    Here to be lonely is not desolate,
                    For much I view which I could most desire,
                    And, above all, a lake I can behold
                    Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.

                    Oh that thou wert but with me!—but I grow
                    The fool of my own wishes, and forget
                    The solitude which I have vaunted so
                    Has lost its praise in this but one regret;
                    There may be others which I less may show;
                    I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet
                    I feel an ebb in my philosophy,
                    And the tide rising in my alter'd eye.

                    I did remind thee of our own dear Lake,
                    By the old Hall which may be mine no more.
                    Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake
                    The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:
                    Sad havoc Time must with my memory make
                    Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before;
                    Though, like all things which I have lov'd, they are
                    Resign'd for ever, or divided far.

                    The world is all before me; I but ask
                    Of Nature that with which she will comply—
                    It is but in her summer's sun to bask,
                    To mingle with the quiet of her sky,
                    To see her gentle face without a mask,
                    And never gaze on it with apathy.
                    She was my early friend, and now shall be
                    My sister—till I look again on thee.

                    I can reduce all feelings but this one;
                    And that I would not; for at length I see
                    Such scenes as those wherein my life begun,
                    The earliest—even the only paths for me—
                    Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,
                    I had been better than I now can be;
                    The passions which have torn me would have slept;
                    I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept.

                    With false Ambition what had I to do?
                    Little with Love, and least of all with Fame;
                    And yet they came unsought, and with me grew,
                    And made me all which they can make—a name,
                    Yet this was not the end I did pursue;
                    Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.
                    But all is over—I am one the more
                    To baffled millions which have gone before.

                    And for the future, this world's future may
                    From me demand but little of my care;
                    I have outliv'd myself by many a day,
                    Having surviv'd so many things that were;
                    My years have been no slumber, but the prey
                    Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share
                    Of life which might have fill'd a century,
                    Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by.
                    And for the remnant which may be to come
                    I am content; and for the past I feel
                    Not thankless, for within the crowded sum
                    Of struggles, happiness at times would steal,
                    And for the present, I would not benumb
                    My feelings further. Nor shall I conceal
                    That with all this I still can look around,
                    And worship Nature with a thought profound.

                    For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart
                    I know myself secure, as thou in mine;
                    We were and are—I am, even as thou art—
                    Beings who ne'er each other can resign;
                    It is the same, together or apart,
                    From life's commencement to its slow decline
                    We are entwin'd—let death come slow or fast,
                    The tie which bound the first endures the last!


                    • Two ravens

                      Two giant birds
                      Descending from Heaven
                      They are not just birds
                      They are Odin's ravens

                      One raven is dark
                      As black as the night
                      The other's - white
                      A creature of light

                      Black raven is curse
                      The white one is grace
                      Would I get a hearse
                      Or will finish the Chase?

                      And, I have to go
                      Go back to the river
                      They will know first
                      If I stand and deliver

                      In the Book of Destiny
                      Handiwork of my Fate...
                      I would left yesterday
                      But I chose to wait

                      It is not too late
                      The snow is melting
                      You know, my sins
                      Are a plenty

                      I'm black and white
                      As a checkered flag
                      The good and evil
                      In my heart zig-zag

                      My belly is
                      Full of fires
                      They burn through
                      All my desires

                      I feel my journey
                      Has just begun
                      We are all returning
                      Says Quran.


                      • Rumi's advice

                        Everything that was to happen, had happened!
                        Buddha is in a ditch
                        You might have taken me for a poet
                        But I'm a la-a-azy son of a bitch

                        You see only what you aim at!
                        I'm reading books from ends to beginnings
                        That is the way to know the future
                        To cut losses and assure winnings

                        And how strange your fear of death is!
                        You are the prisoner who fears the change
                        I knew of a man who hid his treasures
                        Somewhere in the Rocky Mountain Range

                        The season of Spring has come!
                        Many things must be left unsaid
                        I hope you liked my "pearls of wisdom"
                        Dropped in this "Poems Only" thread...


                        • sadcom
                          thank you for this thread


                          • @Rose Livingstone
                            Con mucho gusto!


                            • I, Too
                              BY LANGSTON HUGHES

                              I, too, sing America.

                              I am the darker brother.
                              They send me to eat in the kitchen
                              When company comes,
                              But I laugh,
                              And eat well,
                              And grow strong.

                              I’ll be at the table
                              When company comes.
                              Nobody’ll dare
                              Say to me,
                              “Eat in the kitchen,”

                              They’ll see how beautiful I am
                              And be ashamed—

                              I, too, am America.


                              • Forever Young

                                All pirates in kind
                                kick the can into the night.
                                Seconds fall like pearls.