Guide Heart Murmurs: Poems

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Just with a mundane handful of earth Primed Sylhet's masterpiece begins to unfold. With the whole ball of wax keeping us onboard lo, before the face of the earth, it unveils the mirror! With the whole nine yards on her least hold Believe it or not, Sylhet is cherry-picked chosen by God! The subject matter is about a land possessing a deeply seeded truth. The prime significance of which is its scattered afar but matches the pivotal soil of the centre of the earth! Jasmin Nov Robert Ronnow Apr City of Hope. What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map.

We approached the city known as Dis, with its vast army and its burdened citizens. At last we reached the moats dug deep around the dismal city. What destroys the poetry of a city? Automobiles destroy it, and they destroy more than the poetry. Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers interested in god and what man has done to man to improvising primitive tools for survival. Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring in the nuclear fire — excellent — during the decline of western civilization.

Heart Murmur

One feels love and devotion even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense no matter how it turns out. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief. Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks. Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed.

Heart Sounds and Heart Murmurs, Animation.

The sorrow and the pity. Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth. When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands! When the laws are broken, what of the city then? We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope, where history has been abolished, and a City of History, where hope can be slipped in only as contraband. Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity.

That person, or city, is consciousness. Two ancient female poets are a revelation, the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city. Our enemy eventually becomes our brother, his misery lifted by coming to her city. Crow Sep Valsa George May A Stream in the Woods. PC classic Nov Writer's block. The words murmur behind my brain. I focus hard to make some sense of it all.


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KiraLili Aug Poured into a blue dress. Winery patio on an August afternoon The air is motionless and heat thick The grapes on the vine over the rail bulge You can smell the musk of pungent soil The floral bouquet of chilled white hangs on my pallete Sipping last years Chardonay as she walks in Her raven hair shines against her tan Looking through my wine glass I see her The only sound over the murmur is her black heels As the glass fills wine legs cling longingly to the side Her dark skin criss crossed by tan line straps glistens in the sun My glass at the same moment as she approaches is topped up She is poured through my glass into a little blue dress.

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Victor Ernest Osong Dec Dying Country. Nigeria, a Dying country, Her kinsmen will gather in war to share her sweat More troubles for the unborn and her growing heirs, The unfolding dread non-soldiers at heart like me. A vineyard in the days of her reckoning A different story after her great hair home coming. Just like how a river side tree dries, So does her firewood also cries. Her genuine red caps are nowhere to be found Her wind, her seed will have to make do with the feeble dust in character around.

Shaking is her government seat on the rock Still steady is her opposition in their secret walls. They keep killing her vision in disguise of trying to unlock While they battle to pluck away all her roses. The voiceless murmur and watch, Her pocket papers fly and run While a once great country keep dying on.


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Hussein Dekmak Nov Ash Jul True this could just be a lust phrase That will hit hard and leave me seeing stars True our physical chemistry isn't in question But lacing fingers in the dark,hot breaths on your neck Your murmur's "I know its to early but I really really more than like you"say more its like a euphoria drug injection to my heart. You are like this song in my head,I want to hear more of The whole song,the whole melody I want to figure out if this is a song with power Or one that will fade into history without leaving a mark.

All I know is I want more of this. Aniron Jul In search of a poem.. I abandon the path and mark my visit deep into natures greens and hidden groves how the beauty of everything intoxicates me, and consuming it all leaves me only with no sense: speechless and bewildered, like a baby.

Buckhorn Mountain. Mikaila May Thin, white wrists. Bone white Like china And just as brittle. They make that coarse, scraping sound when they touch one another. The kind of sound that delicate, expensive teacups make when stacked The wrong way. It makes me cringe. Little blue veins kiss the surface of them, Hissing and sizzling when the air gets Too close Like tiny snakes. These wrists Have made promises.

They have Borne loads. These wrists have snapped like twigs Under the weight of a heavy, Punishing love. But, pressed back together the way they'd been, They hardened oncemore Like stone And the cracks and fissures Sank inside again And smooth, unmarred, delicate white skin emerged To begin the process over.

At night the snakes whisper and murmur against my cheek in their sleep And sometimes, quite suddenly, They sink in their fangs And I awaken with a start, A sharp pain radiating out to my fingertips Like a shock.

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Last night I felt their strikes by the hour One, Two, Three, more. And this morning a strange Like the halls of a castle That has seen too much death And too many kings. I sank into myself For the first time And the ground felt heavily solid And I felt Only the hollow hiss Of little blue and green serpents Dreaming inside me And that Was something like certainty, Although of what I still don't Know.

Dawn of Lighten Feb Flight of the Phoenix. Course of history repeating itself, Like the flow of water meeting in the river of streams, But recycle through the clouds and back to the ground it flows. Are we so blinded by the glimmer of the mirage of oasis in the desert, We toast with sands of dune to quench our thirst of our plight, And all is but a fickling light ducktaped by words of unintelligible muddled murmur?

This is truly the flawed design of our time, When we no longer promote arts and crafts of philosophies, And religious cults of zealots condemned the science and Academia by berating it's achievement. Likes of ancient times of Agora and the height of it's human enlightenment, There are forces of deconstruction of society of choas ensued by hateful fear mongers, And systematic inward of national fevor of berserkers leveling progress. Maybe another dark age is inevitable, But little seed of hope I feel tangible, And sometimes event maybe a phoenix. Religion is all sense of purpose is a illumination of hope in human plights, But those who seek absolute power by controlling devotees, then it is no longer a religions but a cult of designed by vanity.

Terry O'Leary Aug The Evil Eye. The darkness, now descending, floods the city as it dies while shadows lurk in legions 'neath the looming Evil Eye. Its frozen stare envelops all, it penetrates and pries, denouncing loathed dissenters to the keepers in the sky.

Poems with Sonograms

The Eye peers down upon us now, to conquer and control, and mark our every movement, whether hiding in a hole or preening like a purple parrot perched upon a pole. Our welfare and our happiness? No, certainly not the goal. Murmur thus moves us through pages and pages of landscape and language with a sense of uncovering, revealing, peeling back of layers—to get to…? The body? A crime? A landscape? A culprit? A self? A tale with a clear outcome? In fact the book itself was slowly dissolving… Murmur , Mullen holds us in suspension, as if permanently, not just section to section, when the book ends mid-sentence pages after our investigation began with the phrase held open as if , in this paragraph:.

As this shows, part of what distinguishes these poetic prose crime books from traditional genre fiction is the multiplicity of potential intrigues, victims and perpetrators of a crime, as well as what is not uncovered. Where they leave us. At a moment of held open as if. In Subject , those are white, unseen unprinted lines, but here in Murmur they are lines pressed into a darker silence by the density of things keeping clarity at bay, the multiplicity of voices, sounds which interrupt each thought or clue in the moment of its emerging.