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A girl is on her back in a field of wheat. It is the gloaming hour. The sun, low in the sky, pushes its way through the blades of wheat, golden, breathtaking. Her chest rises and falls gently, slowly, as if in sleep. But her eyes are open. They stare at the late day sky with a steady gaze. She feels as if she had been born in that field of wheat, and the sky she sees above is the first sight of all to come. The white linen shirt pushes against her back from the strands of wheat that crowd in around her. The scent of fire reaches her nostrils; it smells of burning wood and meat. She breathes in deeply. A tear forms in her right eye and is caught by gravity to stay in the same eye in which it was formed.

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Ice in the desert

Across the icy tundra, beneath the flow of silk and dust grows an earthly figure.

Sprouting from adversity it stretches it's slender form through the light.

Forever searching upwards for an ever changing goal until it settles in your arms and is forgotten.

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Parallaxical by Richard Lynn Livesay

Avesta illuminates rumblings

as man murders man

extending nature’s existence into nothing


Creating thought in freedom’s choice

a bonded humanity breaks open

without purposeful truth

And yet, emotions dry

as we surrender to cerebral philosophies


Soon, the psycho-vested collective neurosis

of soul-sufferings spark images,

dreams and symbols of astro-consciousness

then fall into the shadows

of dream-time’s juxtaposition

aspiring to a soothing madness of consciousness


seeking atonement for our earthly falls

deluded in nightmares frail dreams 

we drown in memories

into nothingness,

traveling hills, interpreting transitory imaginings

we try enjoying silent nights of spatial brilliance



abandoning our psyches

to relay angst and frustration

infecting all larva-evolving meta-spell, flying muses


surviving insanity, I write,

then dance like a helicopter into Rumi’s moonlite sun

floating through eternity’s magic pond of silken neutrinos

then I rise as Lazaretto

and begin some poetic promises

past epiphanies enshrined evermore on higher links


crawling sideways across the page, hear echoes in my brain

channels open into ancient passages, revealing prophecies


then I release my human passion

and light the proper candles for heat

I recline to a Ferlinghetti diatribe,

Ginsberg howel and Eliot lecture.


In the kitchen of the last supper, I sip my wine,

I bless my bread pre-phonetically

as Sistine walls fall on the Pieta’

prolapsed with Papal paste and puns


secretly, I groom my goats

then remind myself of all the gypsies, artists and poets

leaving notes to me in libraries

engorged with pristine print; 

ovid oracles

vested villanelles

surreal sonnets

giving life its rhythm


then splashes of TV news  release rabid underdogs as Alice falls

and bloody black-watered scorpions attack dead babies

wings in the cradle smolder in vain

scratching, I claw dung- crumbs of burnt notes and smoke

from my psyche


…dejected and wounded, I remain

 in parallaxical universes and watch butterflies become blind

                                           and white doves become crippled

my latest poem becoming tear stained in sorrow, I light another candle


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Tri Mitagated Solar Flux…by richard lynn livesay


On grounds of tri-mitigated instabilities,

breathe out

spreading meta-splinters,

reversing star systems without

throughout  Jupiter’s dark nightgown.

Grabbing Ganymede

 We transcend beyond Earth’s simple dichotomies

to deliver promised philosophies of holy transparencies


Deep within,

does not abide in a solid faith of sequences

but as below

we see through a wine glass of dark illusions

to be sure there is a reason to rename our galaxy’s ascension

but will Andromeda dive into the ocean’s gleam

across the serpent’s belly,

leaving nothing  but the same blood turned to crimson wine


Crested below,

Neptune’s shadow passes above the shadowed waves

shaping singular quantum quarks,

encasing metaphoric rise,

inverting triangles of shame,

and behind the walls of human delight

are fires of greed and need,

nothing being as it seems,

the guiltless are invisible

But shameless,

dead skinned sapien-scales climb toward the sky, in limbo.


In time

the lowly will revolt through their poverty

and claim the throne

soon a shining vortex of radiation

 will beckon from afar,

become our twin star

We welcome the Water Dragon

Bringing eastern changes of fierce justice

sentencing indictments, tracking turmoil with a vengeance

and applying conditional forgiveness

but being slaves of the dead,

we will rise up and claim our inheritance



golden glimmers of inner beingness,

brightens the glow of ecstasy

focusing on thought,

realizing consciousness without fear

upheaval will be the natural change,

transitioning to a softer dimension


unpossessing possessions

of dogmatic and metaphysical entanglements

becoming real,

yet unreal as surreal as sanity in dreams of unreality

Morphing thoughts

On a changing journey

into light, patterned into the future


I touch you

and the feeling broadcasts exponentially into time and space

the butterfly in Brazil,

pollinates an orchid which is given to a queen

So fly,

with the butterfly,

expecting change to be divine metamorphosis.


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Snippet of Thought

For so long I've felt like my mind was a glass cage with no doors, only windows all around. I could only ever look on the world around me; the glass house was the only safe place, and the air in here was my air, completely separate from the outside air, which could look so poisonous through those windows. With time, the cage became a house, to shelter me from the darker weather of the world, but which I could always leave from time to time, to feel the sun on my skin, and to learn how to survive the world's wildernesses. I am free to leave when I wish, and free to enter, to let the air from inside refresh the air in my home, and to let the words I utter in my solitude float out on a gentle breeze.

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The Road to Truth

A god once stood, near-omnipotent but ill at ease.

He went first to his highest priest and bade him, "What troubles me?"

The priest answered with faith, "We are but men, but you will solve it." Furious, the god slew him.

Then he went until each of the kings that he'd uplifted. "What troubles me?" he asked tem.

The kings each answered, proudly. "We are but men, but we shall solve it." Offended, the god cut down each of their kingdoms, taking all that he had given. What he could not solve, how could they? They could not even stop the most petty of his impulses.

Then stood a girl-prince, sword in one hand, bloody crown in the other. "What troubles me?" asked the god.

"I care not," answered the girl. "Why should I? You are naught but a man with god's might! What troubles you? What troubles me? What troubles us all? Power, and what men do with it."

Humbled, the god cast off his own mantle and lay it on the girl's shoulders. The goddess rose.

The boy-prince walked the earth, raising fallen bricks back on their cousins.

Never done, but never troubled, no matter how the goddess knocked them down again.

(Prompt: via heronswing

Write a parable to illustrate this idea: a stranger holds the key to something we need in our life, but we won’t know that unless we take a risk and interact. )

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Paragon of the Pen Part 2

I wear a mask of paper, to hide my cuts and scrapes; my bruises, bumps and flaws are all hidden under the perfect. The god I have become through my pen. The honorable soldier I have become through my parchment. But there was no God so perfect as the what I am, no soldier so pure. Even the rebels, the ragamuffins the imperfect characters are perfectly imperfect. Loved whilst hated. Perfect. Me? I am human, nothing, dust and a pen. So far as you know there is nothing under the mask. I am a shell of perfection. My innards are corroding magnificently. There is no longer a set “reality” for one such as I. I have created many realities, scenarios, many friends. The man behind the mask is no longer a person, He or She no longer exists, the identity of this person means nothing. I have become my mask. A living pen.

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Paragon of the Pen

I have no shield only a carapace of words, no shining sword only a dull black pen. Each letter protects me each word builds upon my armor. I am no hero, nor am I a demon. I can not fight nor protect anyone, all I can do is write. Writing word upon word, losing myself in the letters, in veils of false identities written out. I have many faces and all of them are prettier than mine. On paper I can be a hero, on paper I can be a demon, I can even be a god. In reality I am nothing, on paper I am everything. Who would want to talk to the plain teenager when they can talk to the protector of worlds, the destroyer of universes, every whim easily achieved in a single sentence. So you ask who am I? I would disappoint you. You are much better off knowing the genius villain or the brave hero I am on paper. You are much happier talking to the paragon than the average person. So why don’t I stay a work of fantasy so you can stay happy?

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We leave those around us so why should we be surprised when they leave us too? We shed those around us like a snake, each skin an old friend or associate. We leave them, forsaken, dried up and forgotten midst the dew sodden grass as we progress with our lives not phased except for  a momentary shiver as they leave. Those once a part of us are gone an forgotten. Shed like a worthless skin. Replaced by a new skin that means no more.  

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When I Look Into The Mirror

I've thought of myself as everything a person can be and beyond what a person may be. I've thought of myself as a hero, a villain… as an annoyance or a worthless abomination not worthy of existence. I've pictured myself fighting the monster and as the monster itself. I've become these things. I've thought I was clever, I've also thought I was stupid. At times it seems we must remind ourselves of our humanity, of our flaws. I am reminded daily, but I am also reminded of what I can do, what I am good at, perhaps even that I may be loved. When I look into a mirror I see not myself, I see everything. Everything I could be, everything I should be, everything I aught not be and everything I couldn't possibly be.