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Ted Blue Poems
What is truth, but a God's tooth, falling uncouth, when its loose,
Oh, Atlas, why burden your shoulders with such an unworthy weight, why laboriously uphold a planet whose twisted morals aren't straight, why do you maintain a pestilent creature's existence, why suffer soreness on behalf of those who only cause illness?
My mind is a palace without foundation - ambiguity. My thoughts lack needed definition - certainty. My feelings are fleeting, not wishing to stay - impetuosity.
From a Young Man's Window
The grass of the earth is always ever-green, regardless of the many seasons in-between. Leaves may float with a flutter from the trees, but bare, without occupants, they will never be.
Live By Faith
A ruler, who was both youthful and possessing, eagerly approached a prophet to ask, 'Teacher, how can I inherit a life without end, for I have done all that I know I can.'
I wonder if our shades of blue, Is the same piercing hue, That of-me and you?
Words- ambiguously defined. Words-powerfully sublime. Words-actions of the mind. Words-powers of mine.
We shed these orbs of regret-these tears, because we are suffering, in our own condition. Crying loudly, we hope the Lord most-high hears, as we make our sincere request, for divine restoration.
I am a seed, drifting with the wind, and your my destined end. I am a needing plant, you are fertile soil, and you nourish my thirsting roots.
My mind wanders as a swift vapor, thoughts elude me like a formless cloud. Concentration flees me, leaving instead mental stupor, determination shrivels under this villainous shroud.
Flames of My Inner-Self
Exhaling steam out of my flared nostrils, I try to bring myself peace, The coal of anger that I clench, steadfastly in my hand only burns me,
I wish to be the immortal Phoenix, To purge myself of my despairing ailments, And rise triumphantly from the ashes of my former self, To let my inner sorrows be ignited in the blaze,
Comments about Ted Blue
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
What is truth,
but a God's tooth,
when its loose,
seized by an imp,
like an immortal stamp.