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Awaken Poetry. Awareness Poetry. Geopolitical. Philosophical. Analysis. Music. Shared https://t.me/r Subscribe, Donate to help me continue my work, to make a difference in our world, toward genuine new Awareness for Humanity. Share to wake others.
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- 14:18The Luxury of Freedom Think of it, just sense the warm fragrant breeze, Nothing else brings the spirit more intense salvation, of a simple and priceless sensation of Freedom for all that has been, Our sense that we can all go anywhere, do anything and at anytime, is slipping.. To kill such a moment, then each time we die a little, Take note, take stock, pay attention, to the skies the earth and the seas, We walk a thin line, the space between, being only human but free and so ill at ease, but.. Remember the Luxury of Freedom please A beauty's whisper, effervescent in your ear, inextricably tied to scent and tranquil comfort always present and so near For flowers, the trees, And a house by the stream Did we really think it to be such an everlasting dream? If it is to be so, then consider these words Though perhaps at first - hard to accept, I'm not incidentally, so easily heard.. Remember the Luxury of Freedom please Curtailing speech and even our Thoughts.. who then really considered what our teachers had taught? Perhaps too little time for someone to blame Dystopian planning Centuries in the making this complicit Medical Tyranny subversive Plandemic faking a stepping stone to quiet, yet informal enforcement of their 'Year Zero'.. or God forbid any - 'New Normal' And it all amounts to exactly the same.. Throughout History different faces, facets and means, yet it still remains.. Totalitarianism - not quite incognito The criminal Cabaal, a not-so hidden enslavement, For as above, then so below For everything we always held so dear But for the sake of our loved ones, for all sentient beings then.. Remember the Luxury of Freedom please Kurt Hubbard-Beale kurttravellerhb@gmail.com June 4 th 2021 During covid 19 lockdown The PoetTree Awaken Poetry. Awareness Poetry. Geopolitical. Philosophical. Music. Shared https://t.me/PoetTree50,00%
- 03:47🚨 Will This Day Finally Come? 🔗 Follow & share @globaldissident50,00%
- 14:29без подписи33,33%
- 12:54If you had trusted the settled science of the day, here is how it would have gone. 1890s: you dose the baby with Bayer's new cough syrup, the non-addictive alternative to morphine, marketed for children. It was heroin. They named it after the German for heroic. 1900s: you rub calomel teething powder on your infant's gums. It is a mercury compound, and it leaves a generation with pink disease. Swollen, peeling hands and feet, screaming for months, and some of them died. 1910s: you cook in Crisco, launched by a soap and candle company, because cottonseed oil is modern and lard is what your mother used. The process that made it solid produced trans fat, banned outright a century later. 1920s: you drink Radithor, certified radioactive water, on prescription. Eben Byers took fourteen hundred bottles for his vitality. His jaw was removed in pieces and he was buried in a lead coffin. 1930s: a chemist dissolves a new sulfa drug in diethylene glycol, which is antifreeze. It kills 107 people, mostly children, and only then does America give the FDA power to demand safety testing. 1940s: your doctor lights a Camel in the surgery. More doctors smoke them than any other brand, and the advert runs in the Journal of the American Medical Association, which sold him the page. 1950s: DDT is sprayed over your kitchen, your garden and your children at school. The man who found its insecticidal properties has already been given a Nobel Prize. 1960s: your wife takes thalidomide for morning sickness because it is remarkably safe. More than ten thousand children are born with missing and shortened limbs. 1970s: the country puts down the butter and picks up the margarine, on the instruction of the American Heart Association. The fat everybody switched to was banned in 2015 as unsafe at any level. 1980s: the fat comes out of everything and sugar goes back in to make it edible. Obesity begins a climb it has never come off. 1990s: your father is prescribed OxyContin, because fewer than one per cent get addicted. The company later pleads guilty to criminal misbranding, and the overdose count runs into hundreds of thousands. 2000s: you take Vioxx for your knee. It is pulled in 2004, and the FDA's own safety officer estimates tens of thousands of excess heart attacks. Not one of those was fringe. Every one had a professional body, a literature and a man in a white coat standing behind it. Nobody who followed that advice was stupid. They were obedient, to the most qualified people available. Settled is a word about money. It means the questions stopped being funded, so they stopped being asked. So which of today's instructions will your grandchildren read out in disbelief. The oil washed in hexane and built into every cell you own. The statin that blocks the pathway making your hormones, to prevent one heart attack per hundred people. The injection where a third of the loss is muscle. The infant formula built out of vegetable oil. All settled. None of it funded to be otherwise. ~ Sam Hoole33,33%
- 02:38Man in Florida takes Flock camera down, pole and all. 🤣33,33%
- 15:19Charles Mingus - Goodbye Pork Pie Hat https://youtube.com/watch?v=sxz9eZ1Aons&si=lAJqGQSbSiTZJyLF0,00%
- 14:28Ode to Earth Traversing forests, deserts, and over plains, baked naked out in the sun, through warm dry winds mass consciousness appears to be calling, Forlorn, a child sobbing in the rain, or teardrops from heaven falling, Imagine just a moment, futility of time, scrutinise what balance left for self, for humanity In an age, a place where passion died, then we ought not to fail but, inexplicably blind - we do Like teardrops falling from heaven, where we played, where we cried It is not unending this fate, It is of our own undertaking, this given mortality The strangest lie ever conceived - for ourselves by ourselves Look for truth, push for truth, personal integrity cannot perish - ever Break the barriers of our lies. Love seemed to always be the answer, study, practice the middle path, so engage, indulge in life as best you can You have to give it, to receive it anyway, it is sufficient and just fine, Fill your heart, don't destroy another's, follow self, one's own instinct - is sufficient doctrine It's better by design Kurt Hubbard-Beale - 2003 kurttravellerhb@gmail.com The PoetTree Awaken Poetry. Awareness Poetry. Geopolitical. Philosophical. Music. Shared https://t.me/PoetTree0,00%
- 14:27Just a little extra context0,00%
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- 14:27Ode on a Grecian Urn THOU still unravish’d bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearièd, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell Why thou art desolate, can e’er return. O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’ – John Keats0,00%