Tremendous Fools
Why is it,
When a discovery is made...
The very ones disbelieving this,
Are the ones spending their time digging...
To seek for more salt to pour into open wounds.
Or dirt to dump on someone thought to be familiar.
But reveal themselves tremendous fools in the process.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Digging In The Dirt
Something in me, dark and sticky
All the time its getting strong
No way of dealing with this feeling
Cant go on like this too long
{chorus:}
This time youve gone too far [x3]
I told you [x4]
This time youve gone too far [x3]
I told you [x4]
Dont talk back
Just drive the car
Shut your mouth
I know what you are
Dont say nothing
Keep your hands on the wheel
Dont turn around
This is for real
Digging in the dirt
Stay with me, I need support
Im digging in the dirt
To find the places I got hurt
Open up the places I got hurt
The more I look, the more I find
As I close on in, I get so blind
I feel it in my head, I feel it in my toes
I feel it in my sex, thats the place it goes
[chorus]
Im digging in the dirt
Stay with me I need support
Im digging in the dirt
To find the places I got hurt
To open up the places I got hurt
Digging in the dirt
To find the places we got hurt
[x7]
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pitching Away Bales Of Daily Nonsense
My scars and wounds,
You will never see.
A pain to relive...
Is not for me.
And it is not that I heal quickly.
Sharing that process,
Is something I do not believe.
Why should I wear my heart on my sleeve?
To prove my life has not been struggle free.
My scars and wounds,
You will never see.
A pain to relive...
Is not for me.
There is no reason for you or me,
To validate something we both can agree...
No one familiar with digging out of ditches.
Or pitching away bales of daily nonsense,
Is going to be doing that without a bruise.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ch 08 On Rules For Conduct In Life - Maxim 72
Gold is obtained from a mine by digging it, but from a miser by digging the soul.
Vile men spend not, but preserve.
They say hope of spending is better than spending.
One day thou seest the wish of the foe fulfilled
The gold remaining and the vile man dead.
Of Those Who Do Speak The Truth
The amazing and wonderful thing about truth,
And its use is this...
Those familiar and accustomed with the telling of it,
Are often the ones disbelieved.
Very few are open and direct like that.
To leave those dishonest suspicious.
And the ones looking for dirt to uncover,
Of those who do speak the truth...
Find themselves digging deeper holes,
To expose their own deceits and ways they've cheated...
They can not climb out of the mud and slime they've created,
To enable those observing them...
Complaining as they confess of committing their own sins.
Even in the pouring rain people like this smell.
'Excuse me...
What is that you're wearing?
I've notice the people here,
Have picked that as their favorite scent.
What is it? '
~Stench.~
The amazing and wonderful thing about truth,
And its use is this...
Those familiar and accustomed with the telling of it,
Are often the ones disbelieved.
And yet...
Those who are honest with themselves,
Have no problem revealing their own dirt first.
And if you do know anyone who does speak with truth,
Do you ever think of them as being negative?
Many do.
And why is that?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My Backyard
He was digging deep into my back yard pages
using questions for a spade;
the over-turned soil started to pile high
deep dead flowers unearthed there
and who, and what phrases came from him in clumps
of queries
and gripped I was with how much
I can, could or should reveal.
'Was he your boyfriend.? How long were you two together? '
These kinds of soft queries come with hidden barbs and sharp edges
if the answers lead on to more spade queries and deeper digging into my
backyard history.
Each clunk! into that deep soil just might dig up memories long buried there with no time for censorship to dust off the dirt and clean them up and evaluate what he had found there.
I was not trying to hide but I was frozen by not being able to see in advance what lay there before I was presented with it and hesitant, had to instantly think about what to own and what to conceal.
How many backyard artifacts should each of us reveal to New Love who has no context to understand and thereby forces you to own or conceal.
I took each shovelful he presented me and simply smiled mysteriously saying 'Your questions bring up so many memories and I can't decide right now which to reveal and which to leave unsaid until I know how you deal with backyard memories; and that might take time, lots of time, for me to see, or guess why and what, you think this ecavation means.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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No single discovery from any of these fields denotes proof of evolution, but together they reveal that life evolved in a certain sequence by a particular process.
quote by Michael Shermer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Persuaded to Remember
Wouldn't it be a fantastic discovery,
If it was uncovered...
That the process of thought,
Was a natural occurrence.
And human beings could actually do this,
Independently.
To forget with a forgiveness!
And all bitterness,
Is dropped.
Without assistance to connect dots.
Or persuaded to remember,
Something in their minds to find...
With a need for recurring conflicts to stir,
Nonstop!
Wouldn't it be a fantastic discovery,
If it was uncovered...
That the process of thought,
Was a natural occurrence.
And human beings could actually do this,
Independently.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Hunger For More
How can anyone wish to go back inside?
After a discovery begins to connect,
Thoughts they could not get to think...
From an outside source,
Found that links...
Ideas,
Appearing that appeals.
And this process starts...
To clear with comprehension.
How can anyone wish,
To undo something like this?
How can anyone wish to return a gift?
One that begins to reveal an unveiling,
Of a thought that had not existed?
Or seek to reopen a door that has been closed?
To choose to refuse what has been exposed?
Knowing what one knows...
That allows a hunger for more.
For a darkening that stops a tease,
Baiting as it does...
The craving of a curiosity!
Who would want to leave 'that'...
If that was a possibility?
If one could,
Who really would desire...
To wish for less of an interest to digest?
Coming as it does to feed!
Who would choose not to adventure...
When the power of it,
From one does not leave!
How can anyone wish to go back inside?
Once bitten to probe a need.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Confused
I thought I knew
Thought I may have figured it out
But
Then
It became so confusing
And
Now
I'm just not so sure
Of
What I thought I understood
I thought I could be certain
Thought I was able to see
With
Some sort of certainty
Even though
How could I be
So
Confident
When, really
I didn't know
Anything
It's pieces of a puzzle
I'm trying to solve
With limited clues
Or
It could be
My overactive imagination
Playing tricks on me
Letting me see
What I want to see
So
I'm sitting
I'm waiting
I figure perhaps
Eventually
If something is
Then, something will
Reveal itself
Of it's own accord
And, reveal itself
With some clarity
Meanwhile
I'm stopping
With the assumptions I made
Because
I thought I figured it out
But
Now
I'm hesitating
I'm halting
I don't mean for it to impede any progress I've made
If I truly made any progress at all
I'm second guessing myself
But
I have to say
It's all because
I'm a bit confused.
poem by Rabia Minhas
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Looks Like We Made It
There you are
Lookin just the same as you did,
Last time I touched you
And, here I am
Close to gettin tangled up
Inside the thought of you
Do you love him
As much as I love her
And will that love be strong
When old feelings start to stir
Looks like we made it
Left each other on the way,
To another love
Looks like we made it
Or I thought so, till today
Until you were there everywhere
And all I could taste was love
The way we made it
Loves so strange
Playin hide and seek, with hearts
And always hurtin
And were the fools
Standin close enough to touch
Those burnin memories
And if I hold you
For the sake of all those times
Love made us lose our minds
Could I ever let you go
Oh, no...we made it
Left each other, on the way
To another love
Looks like we made it
Or I thought so, till today
Until you were there
Everywhere
And all I could taste was love
The way we made it
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Salt In Our Wounds
Here we are
In the maelstrom of love
Waiting for the calm
To soothe our hearts
Here we are
And dont know how to stop
Waiting for the war
To end it all
Love is insane and baby
We are too
Its our hearts little grave
And the salt in our wounds
Love is insane and baby
We are too
Its our hearts little grave
And the salt in our wounds
Here we are
Right back where we began
Waiting for sweet love
With open arms
Here we are
Just like before
Waiting for the warmth
Of that tender storm
Love is insane and baby
We are too
Its our hearts little grave
And the salt in our wounds
song performed by by H.i.m. (his Infernal Majesty)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You've Enjoyed
I thought you would stay as dumb as possible?
Where has this test failed?
There is no one else left,
To depict low life and ignorance AND incompetence,
Except...?
Well...
I thought you would stay as dumb as possible?
There is no where else to turn.
To seek a replacement.
Except...?
I thought you would stay as dumb as possible?
Everything to keep your intelligence unnoticed,
We thought had been done.
Tell me...
I mean 'us',
Tell us more embarrassing things about yourself.
Something tells me...
You have not been embarrassed at all.
Your eyes begin to 'twinkle'...
Each time you are sought to reveal some 'dirt'.
Have you done this on purpose?
Believing we would think you to be embarrassed?
In fact...
You've enjoyed every moment of being depicted like that!
Haven't you?
You have...
Haven't you?
Knowing we would find,
That the being embarrassed...
Does nothing to your cost of expense.
Does it?
Why don't you answer me?
'Oh!
So NOW you want to know what my thoughts are?
And who pays me for this admission?
You?
Or 'we'? ...or both? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Salt In Our Wounds
here we are
In the maelstrom of love
Waiting for the calm
To soothe our hearts
Here we are
And don't know how to stop
Waiting for the war
To end it all
Love is insane and baby
We are too
It's our hearts little grave
And the salt in our wounds
Love is insane and baby
We are too
It's our hearts little grave
And the salt in our wounds
Here we are
Right back where we began
Waiting for sweet love
With open arms
Here we are
Just like before
Waiting for the warmth
Of that tender storm
Love is insane and baby
We are too
It's our hearts little grave
And the salt in our wounds
song performed by by H.I.M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Finding of Dirt
Get over the notion,
That the finding of dirt...
On someone,
Will embarrass them.
Some create their own dirt,
Just to bring attention...
To something they've done,
That will stun and captivate...
Imaginations the world over.
One never knows,
What is in the mind of a genius.
And that dirt that has been found,
Had been planted for discovery.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unexpected Elegance for M lady Dee Daffodil
Once I met a well known poet.
He was dressed conservatively
I was surprised but did not show it.
He was not as I thought he would be.
Noted for eccentricity.
In his writing, Avant Garde.
I thought he’d dress outrageously
and I found it rather hard
to accept he was so clean and neat
and not all as I had thought.
A country gentleman complete.
Another lesson life has taught.
A plain exterior can conceal
a mind which thinks chaotically
that’s not reluctant to reveal
a hatred of normality.
Which he attacks with savagery
disregarding all the rules.
Stating unconcernedly
Conformings’s for unthinking fools.
I had expected flamboyance
but I was wrong as usual
his understated elegance.
He made appear quite natural
His mode of dress serves to conceal,
but then he states his point of view..
He sees no reason to reveal
himself until he chooses to
A more effective camouflage
which well conceals his anarchy
Which fools most people by and large.
I must confess that he fooled me..
4-Sep-08 http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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It's life that matters, nothing but life — the process of discovering, the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself, at all. But what's the use of talking! I suspect that all I'm saying now is so like the usual commonplaces that I shall certainly be taken for a lower-form schoolboy sending in his essay on "sunrise", or they'll say perhaps that I had something to say, but that I did not know how to "explain" it. But I'll add, that there is something at the bottom of every new human thought, every thought of genius, or even every earnest thought that springs up in any brain, which can never be communicated to others, even if one were to write volumes about it and were explaining one's idea for thirty-five years; there's something left which cannot be induced to emerge from your brain, and remains with you forever; and with it you will die, without communicating to anyone perhaps the most important of your ideas.
quote by Dostoyevsky
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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With A Keeping Of A Sweetness
Only when it has been made to them available,
Are people made aware of what they can access.
And those with a thought process,
That is familiar with research...
Are never surprised,
By what is hidden in the archives.
Left to go unaddressed,
To only feed that which sweetens.
Enabling the natives to peacefully rest,
With a keeping of a sweetness in full supply.
Ready to feast upon as when needed.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I don't think the process was successful and should be inspected closer. I am not afraid to say I am not familiar with the entire process, so before commenting further I would have to study the process more in depth.
quote by Vincent Frank
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little House Made Out Of Logs
I was raised in a little house
Made out of logs
Had a dirt chimney
Made from moss
Cut out windows
No glass at all
Little house
Made out of logs
Never swept any floor
Made out of dirt
You don't see any more
Kerosene lamps
Water from the spring
Makes me thirsty again
Raised on potatoes and cornbread
Wood stove was all we had
Never thought much about the holidays
Just a season for another time and place
Can't forget how I was raised
Makes you learn to appreciate
I could do the same in time
Little log house
On my mind
poem by Monette Paul
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My Mama Did Not Raise Any Fools
They wished to dig up dirt.
But I was the one,
To reveal that first.
I knew I was far too deep for them.
And while they dug a hole...
Seeking something dark untold,
I was producing an excellence unknown.
To surround and enclose them in!
My mama did not raise any fools.
Although I admit...
I enjoy the act of it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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