Splashed With A Little Lemon
The slow process of leaking truth,
Has finally begun.
Sweetened lives,
Splashed with a little lemon...
Will leave those accustomed,
To munching their milk and cookies...
With less fun in the stunning days to come.
Those surviving on the streets,
Will just be more familiarized with them...
As they are sought to give tours,
To those shocked into reality.
And those deluded by their pretentions?
Are stuck in mindsets trying to convince,
Someone, anyone...their point of view makes sense.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
It Is Best to Leave This Mindset Alone
There will always be those,
Who attempt to match wits...
With those who comprehend
The advantages of understanding.
Some folks live within a box regarded as safe.
And from inside a point of view of outside events...
They choose to argue their findings,
Condensed...
From a state of mind that is comfortable,
But for those who have discovered 'reality'...
They know this makes no sense.
And to produce beneficial chit chat,
Does not induce a growth of thought.
When a sharing is lost with one who's mind is stuck...
Deluded in visions found too comfortable.
And eventually these folks others must give up!
A process attached to learning,
For some is a worthless yearning.
And for them a progress is created from isolation.
Where ignorance is encouraged to thrive and manifest.
It is best to leave this mindset,
Alone!
They perceive time sits to wait for them,
To be condoned!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Which Is Which
> To beware of the truth.
> Is truth...it, self?
> So, what is truth?
>
> Is truth, true love?
> Or...just a reality?
> To be a man...is that truth?
>
> A man...is reality.
> A woman...is reality.
> To be woman...is that truth?
>
> To have more then one partner
> Is a reality of the world.
>
> Which this world agrees.
> Truth is; in my point of view
> Is what one claims to be truth.
>
> But, the truth is whatever you
> Are doing as I speak.
> A woman is good for the soul.
>
> That truth is very bold.
> A man lives for his manhood
> So I am told.
>
> Is it truth or reality?
> Respect is in the middle of the spectrum.
> Male vs. Female
>
>
> That is truth.
> Man being woman
> A reality.
>
> Woman being man...
> She tries.
> Respect cover both the unreal and the wise.
>
> Truth or reality...we never really
> Give it much thought.
> Maybe it was the way we are taught.
>
> Truth or reality...
> Which is Which?
>
>
> whisperkwane
>
> [email protected]
>
>
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Collectively In Mindsets Dazed
Nothing regarding truth has been accepted.
Even as it stares them in the face,
It is rejected.
Programmed minds find reality absurd.
And refusing to deal with it...
They believe they show courage and nerve.
But the truth that surrounds them,
Will not be detoured.
And those crazed...
Are collectively in mindsets dazed,
And disturbed.
Like children,
Who will not eat their sugared cookies...
Without something,
Looking like milk...
To them is served!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Squeaking Heard Is Much Too Real
A rat shocked by light and caught in darkness...
Becomes frightened,
When an accustomed hole has been closed...
Or blocked from view.
It makes attempts to convince it is not a rat.
Even though all who sees it...
Can identify what it is.
But the rat will do anything,
To not be seen for what it is whether masked...
Or undercover.
Being a rat shocked by light and caught in darkness...
Makes it difficult to calm tensions,
When sneaking a snack in the kitchen creates such a scene.
And the squeaking heard is much too real!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Milk And Cookies
R.E.M.---Milk Cookies
[...Heavy applause.]
ANDY: Since you've all been such good boys and girls,
I would like to take everybody in this entire
audience out for milk and cookies! There are
busses outside! Everybody, follow me!!!
...
Don't worry, folks! There's enough milk and
cookies for everyone!
[Instrumental]
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Like Most Folks Stuck Floating On Stubborn Ego Trips
Someone has filled your head,
With their beliefs you accepted as reality.
This gave you a comfort you did not research.
And whatever it was that had been implanted,
You've been clinging onto it since your birth.
Evidence has proven your point of view to be deluded.
But you insist to enlist explanation to include with excuses.
A self examination would have corrected what has been done.
But you laugh this off as if to distance from the seriousness.
You've befriended insecurities and immaturity too.
And nurturing both has not been to your benefit.
Nor accusations made about others being cruel to you.
No!
A truth pursued has never been your priority.
And to know it now would only leave you deeper in conflict.
You're sick!
And the unfortunateness of this...
You seem to hang onto it as if it validates your existence.
Like most folks stuck floating on stubborn ego trips!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Relevance
It is much too big to contain it.
Relevance.
It connects to a point of view,
Making sense.
A pieced together relevance.
And changing it to convince,
An alternative provides more to give...
With a backing of defense.
For those accustomed to confusion,
Conflicts for them sit well.
But a relevance to what exists,
Clears the air where delusions...
Have been invited to dwell.
Bringing 'home' a relevance,
Invites communication.
And from that confusion is dispelled.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Free From A Deluded Need
Too serious I've become,
With a different point of view.
Too serious,
And...
Too complexed.
With my eyes free of clouds.
Following a Sun,
That has etched with clarity...
A connection that corrects.
I have no wish to satisfy,
Misunderstandings I have left.
I have no wish to revisit,
Repeated regrets.
Too serious I've become,
With a different point of view.
Too serious,
And...
Too complexed.
With my eyes free of clouds.
Following a Sun,
That has etched with clarity...
A connection that corrects.
And clarity is what I seek,
On a path to become...
The very best I can be!
And with clarity I am free,
From a deluded need...
To impress!
Free from a deluded need,
To address pretentions.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Accustomed To An Irrational Way Of Life
A common sense,
Directed to someone accustomed.
To an irrational way of life,
Deluded and fantasized.
By the existence of praising myths,
Will begin unending arguments.
Over expenditures that exist,
On the feeding of a feast on the ability.
To maintain one's credit standing.
Especially when one's standing,
On debts owed.
Requires one to pay up,
For an out of control feasting to be paid.
As a 'sensible' way to pay for it with 'cash'.
Something demanded that one does not have.
And to state with a dignified presence,
That those awaiting to be paid for those losses generated.
Should be the ones already suffering,
From those mistakes made by those who fed at the feast.
To leave it in shambles,
And the ones left starving and homeless.
Are responsible and accountable to pay for a mess,
While those greedy keep.
Not only what they have hoarded,
But also the resources stuffed in their overflowing pockets.
A common sense,
Directed to someone accustomed.
To an irrational way of life,
Deluded and fantasized.
By the existence of praising myths,
Will begin unending arguments.
Over expenditures that exist,
On the feeding of a feast on the ability.
To maintain one's credit standing.
And
They have no intention to pay a cent,
For what has been spent.
To sustain their lofty positions,
Because they have been hypnotized.
On rights of their entitlements.
A common sense,
Directed to someone accustomed.
To an irrational way of life,
Is like introducing a reality never known.
Nor will that reality expressed be accepted.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Smudging To Fudge Up
To convince one's presence,
Has become less influencial...
A smudging to fudge up the statistics occurs.
To entice those who may follow to listen,
But less encouraged by an expression of said words...
Deemed unsuitable to those who wish to present,
A point of view to confuse and not cement...
A comprehension some may discover makes much sense.
And having minds connected with common sense,
Isn't advantageous when some undercover wish to perfect...
A doing of their best to reduce and smother the existence of truth!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Slipping of Meet Notes
Accustomed to lies.
What does the truth really mean?
Accustomed to lies laying low on the scene!
Accustomed to tell them...
And protect when told.
Accustomed to lies,
Whether fresh released or old held on hold!
Accustomed to lies...
Without a bat of an eyelash moving!
Accustomed to lies.
Dishonesty is accepted and shown.
At the work place
Where the slipping of meet notes,
Does not provoke disdain.
Accustomed to lies...
And that's how our lives remain!
In heated sex away from home!
Regardless of who spies on another,
Both buffer their suffering by what's condoned.
Accustomed to lies...
And what is taught is always known!
Accustomed to lies.
Accustomed to holding on to them,
Until time flys!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Oh Those Cookies Made
You hooked me with your looks,
And also cooking, 'bay-bee'.
Your speciality is baking sugar cookies, 'bay-bee'.
And a tasting of your cookies,
Is my favorite crave...
I rush to get to savor.
Because the flavor makes them great...
I've lost my patience to wait.
Oh your cookies made,
Are the best I've ever savored.
Yes your cookies made.
Is a taste that can't get better.
Oh...
Those cookies made,
Are fun to munch in any weather.
Yes,
Those cookies made.
Your cookies made.
Oh...
Oh your cookies made,
Are the best I've ever savored.
Yes your cookies made.
Is a taste that can't get better.
Oh...
Oh those cookies made,
Are fun to munch in any weather.
Yes,
Those cookies made.
Your cookies made.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Point Of View
There is no right
There is no wrong
Tis all but a matter
Of point of view
No heavenly might
Nor demon strong
Whatever you'd rather
Believe…is truth to you
A lie to one is
Truth to another
What's seen, is what
One wants to view
For a razor edged line
Exists between love and hate
A paper thin partition between
Cold black, and cobalt blue
What's right, what's fair
What's here, what's there
What's love, what's lust
What's treachery, what's trust
What it tis in finality, that
Shapes for you reality
And is what makes
all things true to you
Sadly tis…
Not crimes of passion (or treason)
Nor kind acts of compassion (or reason)
But simply put and sadly true
It's one's own point of view
poem by David Whalen
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A Visitor Amongst The Unconscious
Maybe I am a bit more cynical.
With the same craving...
To taste forbidden truth.
On some days,
Yes...
That is exactly what it is I do.
I admit my insights,
Can be rather biting.
But I am not on a mission,
To identify pretentions.
There is nothing mysterious,
About them to be pursued.
They are all over the place!
Like...
Denial.
Decadence.
Thoughtle ssness and disrespect.
'Hey buddy?
Yeah you.
Watch your step!
There is a child in diapers,
Following you.
Don't you hear him calling you 'daddy' too? '
I marvel at the way,
Folks skip with a leap over reality.
To embrace with a welcoming,
Any sign of deceit that is greeted warmly.
With an ignoring of those hungry and homeless,
Surrounding them on the streets.
As if this pasttime entertains,
To become remembered as a bitterness...
Eventually endeared as sweet.
And pretend,
Most do...
As if this is part of the scenery.
I admit my insights,
Can be rather biting.
But I am not on a mission,
To identify pretentions.
There is nothing mysterious,
About them to be pursued.
They are as common as pigeons.
Or garbage on the streets...
People accept as signs of affection!
Maybe I am a bit more cynical.
With the same craving...
To taste forbidden truth.
On some days,
That is exactly what it is I do.
And feeling very much...
A visitor amongst the unconscious.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Being Dead
They came to her to tell her that she was dead-
passed away in her sleep.
But, ' she retorted, this must be a dream
and cannot be so-
I'm not dead-perhaps still asleep.'
'No', they said, 'dead and nothing to be done;
acceptance not denial is what is requiews here.'
She felt her arms and said 'See I am alive, still here.'
'Illusion.' they said The dead always try to keep the illusion of life
because that is all they know
life is gone from you now, the book is closed.
'This is absurd; ' she said 'let me out of here.
I am alive, not dead and gone'
'There is nothing to stop you leaving they said, ' he said 'you can always leave life you understand is but a tree with death as it final branch.
She got up and walked to what looked like a door paused opening it gingerly blinded by a briight white, so she shut it again turning to face again to her interlocutors.
'What is going on where am I? ' she said.
They ignored her whispering among themselves finally facing her, one of them saying;
'We can give special dispensation and perhaps...'
She interrupted him, 'Special dispensation, what is that? '
'Well' he said 'you can go, leave here if you like, but only for three days and if…'
If, if what.' she said.
'in those two days you can walk among the living but they will not be able to see or hear you
and if you can some how communicate with them,
make your self feel alive to them
and they want you to come back,
then you can perhaps go back, go back among the living,
That will be permanent until you die again,
understanding, of course, that in time
we all die.'
Convince them? How can I do that if they cannot hear or see me?
'Well you can go among them, ' one of them explained
'and even though they will not be able to hear or see you,
your spirit will be present and that will be the trigger among them
signaling their desire for your return,
then that might make your return possible.'
'Not see or hear me, ' she said 'but how then will I be able to convince them I am alive? This makes no sense.'
'Oh yes it does. You have to get them to conjure you in their memory, wish you were still alive, remember you fondly,
wish you were still with them after all this time.'
'All this time? ', she said.
How long have I been dead? '
'Well now they said 'it has been over five years now.'
'Five years! ' she said incredulously.
'Yes five years.' he said.
'I know people forget, even loved ones can forget
you after five years, and they go on with their lives.'
'Yes, our point exactly, ' he said, 'then you are not only dead but not remembered, and being not remembered is true death'
Do you want to go, go back
understanding that if you fail,
your death will then be death true final test? '
She paused thinking how hurtful it would be
if she could not get anyone to conjure her memory..
'What happens' she said 'if I succeed and some one remembers me and wants me back? '
'That is the point someone can remember you yourself may not want to come back. That part is important.'
'And, ' he said 'you may not want to go back. If you do go back there might be loved ones who have moved on with their lives.'
.
'What about my husband, has he moved on? ' she said?
They did not answer.
'We can tell you nothing. These things you will have to find out for yourself.
Some, ' he said 'find out and want to come back here. Each is different-take your time.
She stood thinking about what to do.
To be continued
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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What They 'See'...Is EZ
Some folks are just not cut out...
To do what they perceive,
To be as easy as they believe.
Or someone critiqued and discredited,
Who makes it look that way!
Isn't that what others have been known to say?
So they too 'conclude'...
From their point of view,
What they 'see'...IS
EZ.
'Would you like another piece of cake?
It took me hours to make it.
But you ate three pieces in ten minutes flat! '
~Each piece was so delicious.
Very tasty.
Ten minutes?
I didn't know that! ~
What appears on the surface,
And done with skill.
May seem so simple,
To those disconnected...
As to how that skill is applied and fulfilled.
And what it takes to communicate it.
Whip it into shape...
And bring it to 'life' to make it real!
Walking from A to B,
My be nothing for someone accustomed...
To walking.
And walking!
Then talking from C to Z.
But it may take another,
Who huffs and puffs...
A day to arrive at the corner store.
To announce by the end of the week.
What was done,
Can not be handled anymore.
The store stays 'crowded'.
All the time!
Standing in line is such a bore.
Everything on them hurts.
And their mind is sore.
From trying to make an impression...
To leave on someone,
They are hoping to convince,
What they've done makes sense.
And very soon will be done again.
Since it is much adored!
But before they do 'that'...
Other priorities they've ignore,
Must be further explored.
With a more determined focus given.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Placed On Pedestals High
Overbloated by boasted ideals.
And consumed by boosted images.
None of this is real but affects mindsets.
With immaculate pretensions.
Yet...
A collision resides,
Inside where truth is not invited.
In fact,
Neither is a comfort condoned...
In a place one calls 'home'.
In mind, body or spirit!
Although,
A perfectness is expected...
By those who have achieved notoriety!
And they are placed on pedestals high,
Closer to the worshipped heavens!
To maintain robotized lives.
Delighting those deluded and awed,
By human achievements that become idolized.
And rubbing elbows close,
Surviving one sees are their hypocrisies.
Almost as clear as the cracks appearing,
And barely hidden...
On foundations in much need,
Of updated restorations.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It's Very Rare That Cookies Would Leave Lips Unlicked
Desired wishes to keep things the way they are...
Is as foolish as an adult,
Putting dentures under a pillow...
And hoping the tooth fairy will leave,
At least twenty dollars for a row of false teeth.
To be deluded with disappointment,
Is hard to overcome when someone has this belief!
And this is the crisis...
Although exaggerated,
Some employing these devices face.
They have been abandoned to deal with unexpected realitlies,
Even though signs of them coming...
Had been quickly from their minds erased.
Leaving those with preferances...
With choices to dunk their cookies,
In fresh white milk!
Or secret wishes to dip into chocolate,
Day or night.
And no one to recommend which to dismiss.
And 'if' sins committed can be exposed for what they are,
From pulpits!
And such activities found delicious and admitted...
Whether or not consented and/or sneaked!
Then why must a thrusting done and covered up,
Can not be happily enjoyed under wet and heated sheets?
Without a guilt that comes to disturb one's sleep.
'I don't understand this at all! '
Cookies tasted in the dark...
Delivers a spark better enjoyed,
When the absence of light prevents a thorough examination.
It's very rare that cookies would leave lips unlicked,
And the beauty of mystery,
Is to let it sit until it finally disconnects from a mysteriousness...
If allowed to be left alone!
'Oh...
I see!
That is as clear as roasted pudding! '
Roasted pudding?
Ugh.
'Turn off the light.
Goodnight! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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See Me In The Mirror
Do you see me standing here,
locked up inside your mirror?
I watch you every day,
standing here inside your mirror.
Why can’t you look over here
at your mirror and see me floating,
waiting to be heard.
I talk to you for hours but
you never hear.
Your mirror keeps me bound
here, unable to touch, stuck in here.
I see you look around nervously,
as if you can sense my presence in here.
I shout, I stomp, I scream and yell.
You turn, quickly, to your mirror.
Your eyes widen with fear.
No! , I yell as you turn away.
Please don’t leave me alone in here.
It’s cold and lonely, please speak to me.
Your shoulders stiffen and
then relax outside your mirror.
Finally, you look at me and speak.
You ask me why I’m here and stay.
I tell you I don’t know.
I’m just stuck standing in your mirror.
You poor thing, you say, feeling sorry for me.
It’s alright, I say, you’ve kept me company all day.
You come closer and stand nearer to your mirror.
You raise your hand to the glass, and I raise mine.
A vibrant burst of beautiful light emanates from your mirror.
Real. I feel your hand touch mine.
I feel the roughness and the smoothness.
Free at last, I am finally real, to come and go as I feel.
To touch and be touched, and to give and take.
I kiss your cheeks and your mouth.
Thank you, I tell your shocked face.
Your rough hands cup my shocked face.
You return my hesitant kisses with your assured ones.
You are mine, girl in the mirror, you tell me.
I am yours, boy outside the mirror, I tell you.
Finally we are together.
poem by Brooke Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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So Shocking To Mourn
Can a tragedy expected,
Be one that's so shocking to mourn?
If signs and warnings go ignored,
To the point when its occurrence done...
Leave some numbed and forlorn.
When reality sits and it is scorned.
What is it that one must face,
To embrace truth for what it is?
What will it take for pretentions to stop.
With a chasing of a fakeness away.
A suffering done when it comes,
Should tire those parading their charades...
Everyday.
Can a tragedy expected,
Be one that's so shocking to mourn?
If signs and warnings go ignored,
To the point when its occurrence done...
Leave some numbed and forlorn.
When reality sits and it is scorned.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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