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Sorry I did not update the blog yesterday, not a lot going on other than a lot of technical stuff with my computer. It took sometime to figure out things.


Did a little bit of work in my poems and poetry forum.


      Today, lot of cleaning again not in the computer but around me and shopping groceries. Just looked at some poems I laid away a while back and one interested me so I thought, it needed some modifications. If there is any major problems with the idea of the poem let me know.


      If you look into the poem, in subject there are two parts one what we think are the reasons for the social problems we are facing now, two what we did when we were given choices. I am not saying any solution here as that will be asking people how to live their lives which I am saying as one of the problems we are facing in the society.


Against.

All the time after birth,
All the feelings all through time,
No where are the favorable in life to be found,
So, why? How? are queries immaterial,
The chances of success were pruned,
By politics, language, color and beliefs,
By boundaries of counties,states, nations,
Countries and continents,
By the aging generation passing by,
Oh what a wonderful life we had,
Now live the mess for you we left,
Is the message in those smiles mocking,
In the pathos of the unforgiving we outlive them,
Not in success but in the survival of the fittest,
Mongrels they are who chased us away
Away from our own blood and conscience,
With philosophies they themselves never practiced,
And principles that corrupted their own minds,
Upon us like religious rules imposed,
Away from religion and freedom,
Made us all to a feeling of freedom addicted,
A feeling that bound us to mistrust and anger,
That leads us in this life of fear,
Where what we lost was freedom itself,
We are stunned in our own paranoia,
And hear the echoes of our own parents in pain,
The pain we now understand not,
But when as parents should not feel.

Our parents let us choose between;
The good, bad and the ugly,
And we just chose against,
Everything best suited us.

http://www.lonelypoet.com

18 Replies to “”

  1. Really? Cool! Yeah my older friend has one and said they last like 4ever! So that’s a plus..and see my nickname is Doodlebug, right? So it just kind of fits! LoL Yeah and I don’t want my brother’s old car because he beats on it, is a Chevy Cavillier…or however u spell that lol. So yeah I like the blue and the silver mr friend has the yellow, and it always seems so like WOW! I want something a little more suttle. Do you know the best place to look like online or ne where else 4 them??? Thanks!

    Lotz Of Love,

    ..:*:Katie:*:..

  2. Hey, it’s me again.  Sorry, I don’t have time to post more of my story right now.  (I’m supposed to be asleep in bed at the moment!)  Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for your compliment.  Compliments and reasurrances can help guide a person’s soul, you know.  Type you later!

    (Oh yeah, I really like your poem.  I look forward to reading your next one.  Unlike some poets, you actually lace sense and confusion together.  So many different emotions, and so many different truths, eh?)

  3. Hey, you’re story made me actually laugh out loud!  Oh, but I’ve got a story kind of similar to that.  (Well, not really, but it’s about car energy.) 

    When my parents first married they moved out to Germany because they were in the airforce and low and behold, that’s where they were sent.  Anyway, they bought a car, but it was pretty wonky so that had to get used to it.

    Well, don’t ask me how because my parents were too embarrassed to tell me exactly “how”, but they ended up leaving the car running for two days straight.  Yup, that’s why me and my brother aren’t grounded right now.  (So it’s kind of a miracle in disguise, right?)

    Anyway, I’ll put Chapter One on my next comment to you, okay?  Bye!

  4. Hello again.  Here’s my chapter one of the story.  Hope you enjoy it!  (It’s a tad bit depressing at the beginning, but I swear that it gets more up lifting.)

    Chapter One

    Thomas Brown was not the sort of man one would expect a great deal from. Even the very sound of his name was average. If one passed him on the street corner, one would be irresistibly reminded of an old hunting dog, not good for much, and not completely there.

    Mr. Brown’s suit was always…brown. His tie was never changing in it’s vivid shade of…brown. And his four pairs of shiny work shoes were…brown.

    Every morning, every day, and every night were always the same for Mr. Brown. He’d wake at six a.m., open his eyes, and see nothing but bleak grey walls. Now in fact, the room he shared with his wife was painted a horrid shade of olive green, thanks to the interior decorator that Mrs. Brown had hired several years back. (What she, or the decorator were thinking at the time, no one knows even to this day.)

    Mr. Brown’s grey walls were simply his own fears and doubts, built up around him. He had unwittingly constructed the walls himself, and they grew thicker and higher, every timeless day. No person, not even his wife could penetrate those walls. (Not that Mrs. Brown really tried, mind you. She actually helped build them.)

    These walls stayed with Mr. Brown, even after he left the house for work. The instant the soles of his shoes hit the sidewalk, a sort of record began to play in his mind. Go straight, turn left, go straight again, turn right…It was all so very pointless.

    Yes, pointless. The word constantly itched the basement of Brown’s mind. Who cared if he showed up at work? Who cared if he ceased to work in his tiny cubicle, pouring over people’s divorce papers? No one, no one would care.

    But he, Thomas Brown, had to keep food on the table. If he didn’t, who would? Certainly not his wife. All she did was drink sherry through pursed lips, and nag. Nagging seemed to be a favorite past time, if not rallying sport, for Mrs. Brown.

    Every night after her husband came home, she would nag him, until finally he’d turn to her with those empty eyes and say “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Anne.”

    Although he’d been married to Anne Brown for no less than five years, not once did his yearning ears ever hear the words, “I love you”, issue from her lips. The last time they’d kissed, had been at a New Year’s Eve party two years ago. And the only reason they’d married in the first place was…Why had they married in the first place? Neither could remember.

    Well, one night Mr. Brown found that he could take it no longer. Anne was nagging at him about how he wasn’t bringing enough money in…for the third time that week (and it was only Tuesday.)

    He simply exploded.

    “Will you ever think of anyone but yourself?!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “I work every day, and for what?! To come home to a dead marriage? To know that the next day, I’ll be doing the same thing all over again?! No Anne, I’m done!”

    Anne only stared at him, unblinking. “What do you mean by ‘done’, Thomas?” she asked.

    “I mean I’m through working in a cubicle where I’m smothered by my fellow employees. Where I read over papers ending dreams of love between once happy couples. I’m done!”

    And with that, Mr. Brown grabbed his coat and hat and stormed out the front door, not looking back. As he slammed the door behind him, however, one of his walls began to crumble. Mr. Brown continued to walk, thinking up a storm. As each new thought thundered in his ears, more and more of the wall was demolished.

    Each new perception of each new thought twisted and unfurled itself like the blooms of morning glories at dawn. Brown was feeling empty, hollow. Something had obviously left his life long ago. What ever happened to his happy boyhood when all that mattered were the stars at night and the grins of his mischievous friends? All he knew, was that something was missing, and that he desperately wanted it back.

    Thus, Mr. Thomas R. Brown, made his first few steps into the finding of Dewberry Lane. He was thinking, he was accepting the fact that something was missing, and most importantly of all, he was walking very fast indeed, yet with no purpose or set destination in mind.

    As Mr. Brown’s feet carried him farther and farther from home, he continued to probe his mind, deeper and deeper, until soon he seemed to be in the center of it. Answer less questions continued to spring up in his mind, quite like a jack in the box held in the hands of a hyperactive four year old.

    What did happiness mean to him? How long had it been since he was happy? It had been quite a long time, he was sure of that.

    But, how could he be happy again? That’s all that Mr. Brown thought of. Not the slightest part of him worried about the things most people would consider of dire importance. For example, what would he do when morning dawned bright and early? If he was indeed done with his old life, what did he intend to do instead?

    No, Mr. Brown continued to ponder about…happiness. So simple a thing, yet so complexly out of his reach. It was as if he was trying to rope the moon with a silver lasso and conceal it in a box. Poor Mr. Brown, to him happiness was only a vague memory, a silent reminder of the past.

    But what Mr. Brown found most puzzling, was how some families could have so much of this astounding emotion, and leave others with none at all. Perhaps, it all had to do with one’s out look on life. With the right mind set, perhaps happiness could be revived, embers growing into a merrily crackling inferno. Yes! It all made sense, now! But, how could he achieve happiness when his life was so…

    Suddenly with a loud crash, every one of Brown’s walls fell. Mr. Brown blinked once, twice. No longer was he cornered, caged. The world lay before him, but it certainly was not the world he’d been expecting to find.

    There were no towering skyscrapers, no bustling taxis, trains, or even cars. No longer was there a constant drumming and buzzing of life, passing him by. No, Mr. Brown was looking at a small winding dirt road. It continued on in the distance, a mere leather ribbon set on green hills of velvet.

    Speechless, Mr. Brown turned to look behind himself only to see a mirror reflection of the landscape ahead. No sight of life interrupted it’s complacently peaceful atmosphere.

    Although it was still night, Mr. Brown could see perfectly as if it were day. He looked up, half expecting some giant bulb with a long electrical cord to be plugged in above him. Instead, all that met his eyes were the countless stars and luminous moon. To think, he could see STARS! And the moon, it had never seemed so bright while in the city. Perhaps Mr. Brown had mistaken it for one of the lamps in his home. Thinking back, it wouldn’t surprise him at all.

    Slowly, he lifted his long fingers to his face so as to rub his eyes. Surely this was a dream. It simply had to be! How could he possibly be in the very heart of Chicago and end up suddenly on a small country road?!

    But just as Mr. Brown was deciding to turn back, a rumbling took up from beneath the earth. To his complete amazement, only a little ways ahead of him a wooden post broke through the soil. The post grew in size until it was even taller than Mr. Brown. An extra post grew out of it’s side, and as if an invisible hand was writing upon it, the words “Dewberry Lane” appeared in white paint.

    As if this wasn’t enough, the grassy hills on either side, began to roll. (Thankfully, the dirt road stayed steady which Mr. Brown was deeply grateful for.) Before his very eyes the hills exploded with color. First came the golden rods, shining every other foot like doubloons being poured from a treasure chest. Then came the daffodils and poppies, giving the illusion of a rippling fire.

    Next were the violets and snapdragons, varying from the darkest of purples to the purest of white, and every color in between. Then last were the forget-me-nots, daisies, and foxglove creating a thick carpet of the most intricate designs and patterns, more exquisite than the most expensive of Persian rugs.

    Finally the rolling ceased and instead, great tremors shook the ground. Mighty oaks sprang up, their branches reaching the sky and leafing out with thick green foliage.

    Mr. Brown simply did not know what to do. Turning desperately to look behind him, he watched wide eyed as the flowers continued to flourish eating up mile after mile, oaks sprinkling the horizon.

    But that horizon was suddenly disrupted. A young woman stepped onto the path, simply appearing out of midair. In fact, she almost walked right into the unsuspecting Mr. Brown. Instead, she stopped with a shudder and her wide green eyes snapped open.

    “Oh” she breathed. That was all she seemed to be able to say. “Oh!”

    Mr. Brown simply stood next to her, awkwardly might I add. He may not have known the woman’s name, but he did know that she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. She looked to be twenty three, only three years younger than our Thomas.

    She had long brown hair that reached just past her shoulders and had a small button nose which was now sniffing the air, inhaling the flowers’ glorious perfume.

    “Oh, hello, do you know where we are?” the woman asked, suddenly spotting Mr. Brown.

    “Er, I believe we’re at Dewberry Lane, Ms.” he said, pointing at the wooden sign post.

    “So we are” she said, raising her eyebrows.

    “Um, how did you”-

    “Get here?” Mr. Brown finished for her.

    “Yes, exactly” she said, breaking into a perfect smile.

    “Well, to tell you the honest truth, I have absolutely no idea. One moment, I was walking from my house and suddenly”-

    “You found yourself here” she finished for him.

    “Yes, exactly” Mr. Brown said quietly.

    “Same here” she said, tugging at a pretty lock of hair. “Do you think we can go back?” she asked thoughtfully turning round.

    Then for some unearthly reason, Mr. Brown heard himself say “Do you really want too?”

    The woman turned back to look at him, narrowing her eyes and biting her lip. Mr. Brown thought for sure he had offended her in some way. Why else was she scrutinizing him in such a manner? But to his surprise, she took a step closer, her hand outstretched.

    “I’m Emma, Emma Whitmore.”

    “I’m Thomas Brown” he answered, feeling the softness of her palm and fingers. “You can call me Tom.”

    She smiled, showing those dazzling pearly whites. “Well Tom, it’s nice meeting you. Do tell me about yourself, we have a ways to go after all.”

    Tom smiled. It’d been a long time since his mouth had worked itself into that position. It felt strange and new, very different compared with the grimace he usually wore.

    “Ladies first” he said, smiling politely. He was suddenly feeling quite light headed. He considered himself a new person. He was no longer Thomas Brown, married to Ann, Queen of the Naggers. He was a different person here. He could recreate himself. He could be happy. Yes, he’d like to be happy with Emma, and at the moment it seemed she wanted to be happy with him. That suited Tom just fine.

    Ironically neither of them wanted to talk about themselves, so they walked side by side through the moonlight, pointing out the different constellations, wishing they knew what they were named. Tom knew a few from his childhood, but not many. Emma didn’t mind. She seemed to be happy just walking and talking, as was Tom.

    Eventually, their chatter died into silence, but it was most certainly not awkward or unpleasant. It was simply a reflection upon the night, still, quiet, and vast. Surprisingly, neither Tom nor Emma ever grew tired. They only continued walking, meandering at a languid and lethargic pace, just enjoying the occasional breeze making the stalks of the flowers bow, and the branches of the trees creak and rustle.

    The companions continued on like this until the corners of the sky began to lighten, and the stars began to vanish, one by one. The flowers looked to be touched by Midas himself as the sun began to rise upon it’s stage of pink and gold tinted clouds. And a warmth enveloped Tom and Emma as if they had stepped into a warm spring, washing away their worries and doubts.

    “It’s so beautiful here” Emma sighed. “A part of me still thinks I must be dreaming. God, I hope not.”

    Tom didn’t know what to say to this, so he simply smiled at her and continued walking, one foot in front of the other.

    Only when the sky had turned a brilliant robin’s egg blue did Emma and Tom falter in their footsteps. Emma had been the first to see the little girl, picking flowers on one of the nearby hills. She was simply sitting, everything below her waist hidden by the floral rainbows.

    “Look Tom!” Emma pointed, lowering her voice.

    Apparently the child had not yet seen them, too busy linking her flowers (mainly daisies and violets) into delicate chains. Her head was haloed by golden curls, and as she looked up from her work, bright blue, heavily lashed eyes, stared surprisedly at Emma and Tom. She could indeed have been easily mistaken for a little girl’s doll, left behind in a park garden.

    “Visitors! There are visitors!” the little girl cried, spilling her chains from her lap. As if there were invisible springs attached to the girl’s feet, she sprinted over the hill, disappearing on the other side.

    “Who could she possibly be shouting to?” Emma asked quietly, her eyes widening.

    Tom ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.

    “Could be anyone, knowing this place. And that’s part of the problem. We DON’T know this place.”

    Emma nodded in agreement, “No, we don’t.”

    The two of them continued along the path more cautiously now. There was a bend in the road, just up ahead. Now Tom and Emma would both rather have died than admit it, but each were scared about what they may find once they reached that bend.

    Emma suddenly held up her hand between her and Tom. Tom looked at it and stopped, thinking she meant it as a sign of caution. She shook her head in silence and instead reached down and held Tom’s hand.

    “For moral support” Emma said as a false excuse.

    “Right” Tom answered, surprised by how much her hand helped to fuel his courage.

    Emma squeezed Tom’s hand slightly (you know, just “for moral support”) as they rounded the corner. What met their eyes next, neither had come close to expecting.

    A great vast forest went for at least a mile. The flowers had ended at the couples feet, and instead, weeds and brambles grew in thick coils, concealing the ground from sight. Huge massive trees were growing strategically out of these weeds, their branches sharp and long, like the fingers of some monstrous beast. And draped along the branches were vines with inch long thorns as if daring someone to come try and touch them.

    But the oddest thing about the place was that hanging from each of the limbs were…bird cages. Hundreds upon hundreds of bird cages. Each was a different size with a different color and a different style. But there was one similar factor among them. Each cage held a bird.

    There were finches and parakeets, toucans and chickadees, even macaws and doves! And on one of the highest branches, a huge emerald colored cage contained an illustrious peacock, it’s tail draped through the bars like a closed vain woman’s fan just waiting to spring open and show off it’s beauty.

    The instant Tom and Emma took a step onto the new terrain, a thousand pairs of black beady eyes and a hundred pairs of wide colored eyes suddenly stared down at them. Emma and Tom froze in mid step, not being able to overcome the feeling of such strong intimidation.

    “What is this place?” Emma asked Tom under her breath.

    “I don’t know, but it sure doesn’t look like the rest of Dewberry Lane, does it?”

    “No” she breathed.

    Tom looked over at her, quite surprised by the excitement Emma was displaying. Her eyes had gotten even bigger and brighter. She slowly began to shift from one foot to the other, not at all unlike a suppressed child.

    Turning her head so fast, to Tom it only appeared a blur, she said “This is wonderful. Think about it Tom. Adventure…”

    This last word rolled off Emma’s tongue in such a tempting manner that Tom found himself to be feeling excited too. (Another emotion he had not experienced in a while.) Still, those birds were quite disconcerting, no one in their right mind would deny it.

    “C’mon, what are we afraid of? They’re just a bunch of birds. They’re even caged up for God’s sakes!” Emma said, pulling at Tom’s hand persuadingly.

    So, Tom and Emma continued through the trees and birdcages, the entire time feeling those unrestrained eyes watching them with an almost urgent glimmer reflecting off their pupils and corneas. Then suddenly, Tom got the deepest feeling of forebodement he’d ever felt in his life.

    Emma must have felt it too because she suddenly turned, finding Tom looking down at her as well.

    “You felt it too, then?” Tom asked, his brow furrowed.

    “Yes, but it was probably nothing. Just a cold wind. C’mon, let’s keep going.”

    Tom did keep going with Emma, but he highly doubted that a cold wind could make his insides shrivel and freeze like that feeling just did. But then Tom noticed something that blew the temporary cold from his mind in an instant.

    “Emma, do we know where the path is?”

    “Of course we do, it’s…well it’s…” Emma halted so abruptly, that Tom’s hand and arm were jerked behind him.

    As the companions studied their surroundings, they found themselves to be…well, lost. Every patch of brambles, every overhanging thorny vine looked just the same as the one next to it. And there were so many birds, and some looked so similar, they could hardly be used as landmarks.

    Emma and Tom gripped the other’s hand tighter and tighter as silence pressed in on them from all around. It was so very eery how none of the birds made a sound. No cry rented the air, no sound of shuffling talons or rustling of wings could be heard either. It was as if every fowl was a colorful statue with inhuman eyes, watching…waiting…But for what?!

    “C’mon Tom, I suppose the only thing we can do is to keep walking.”

    “That’s as good an idea as any” Tom replied back, resuming his place next to Emma.

    After a while of walking blindly through the silent woods, Tom spoke aloud the thing he’d been turning over in his mind.

    “Who do you suppose put all these birds in their cages, Emma?”

    “Haven’t a clue” she sighed distractedly. “Oh Tom, this is all my fault. It’s always my fault. I’m so sorry” she burst out suddenly. She released Tom’s hand and started to walk backwards so as to be able to face him, stumbling over the brambles.

    “I could tell you didn’t really want to come in here. I’m so sorry I dragged you in here. It was a mistake, I really am sorry. I’ll be the death of us yet. I”- “What, what is it?”

    Tom was staring at Emma disbelievingly, hardly able to believe his ears. Was she actually saying it was her OWN fault, and not HIS??? Not once had Anne ever taken the blame. She was always so quick to reassure Tom that it was him who had done wrong. But here Emma was, blaming herself for everything.

    “No Emma” Tom said quickly. “It’s definitely not all your fault. I was there right along with you. We just have to figure a way out of here, that’s all. Oh Emma, don’t cry.”

    “I’m not crying, it’s just started to rain” she said hastily, rubbing at her eyes. “Oh God, I’m being so silly. Just look at me. I want adventure, and when the first obstacle comes, I break down completely!”

    “You think you’ve broken down completely Emma? Ha! Before I came here, I ended my relationship with my wife” Tom said bitterly, remembering how he had exploded on Anne and left the house in a raging fury.

    “I’m sorry” Emma said empathetically, but then taking a deep breath she continued.

    “You’re so nice Tom, but you don’t know anything about me” she said, shaking her head sadly. “You don’t know where I came from, who I know, or what I’ve done. I’m not a good person Tom. But you, just being with you for a few hours, has shown me you’re honest and open. There are very few people in the world like you, Tom, and don’t you ever forget that. But me…I hold secrets. Secrets that could ruin me if they were ever exposed…”

    Emma took a deep breath and looked hesitantly at Tom before continuing.

    “If I was to-to tell you my secrets, you wouldn’t tell anyone…would you?”

    “Emma, who would I tell?”

    “Well, if we were ever to get out of here, would you tell then?”

    Tom simply repeated his same answer. “Who would I tell?”

  5. Good Evening Mr Poetryman,

    Hope this note finds you rested and not bug-eyed from too much typing at your computer. Ahhh…I haven’t had time to read your poem more than once. Can’t tell yet what kind of poet you are. I think I will enjoy figuring you out. I write poems as well. They are for my enjoyment mostly. Sometimes for a certain person or place in my time. We’ll talk soon. Kimmie*

  6. Thank you for what you said on my site. I never thought of it like that.  I am sad but not devestated like I have been other times when he has left me.  But the real chalenge will be when he comes back (he always does), if I will be stronger enough to tell him no and keep going with my life without him.

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