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Terry O'Leary Sep 2015
1
Though still within our infancy,
we strive to thrive, but woefully
we flash and flaunt our 'primacy',
display our trophies pridefully.

Our terra firma ecstasy
destroys survival's harmony,
lays waste to life on land and sea.
Mankind, thy name is vanity!

By doubting Nature's regnancy,
defying laws with levity,
we strain our spheroid's symmetry
(perhaps a fatal fallacy?)

for, swallowed in the 'world of we',
we feed on vain insanity
with thoughts beyond eternity -
so strange when looked at mortally.

No use to seek a remedy
ensconced in ancient prophecy
for if not handled skillfully,
as clay we'll pay the penalty.

                              2
The Moguls rule with cruel decree,
control the crowds like puppetry,
pursuing greed addictively
with no accountability.

The wind, it reeks of Royalty
(awash in waves of perfidy)
while blowing ’cross the peasantry
(eclipsed in clouds of treachery).

The Queen, well steeped in snobbery,
sits, preening proud Her pedigree,
on throne of sculpted ebony
while sipping Sect immodestly;

to sate Her Regal Majesty,
a caviar clad canapé
is served with golden cutlery
by maidens bent submissively.

The King is bailed from bankruptcy
by Knaves who hoodwink artfully
the down-and-outer evictee
who wallows in their lenity.

Forsooth, the Money Monarchy
exalts the dollar dynasty
engaged in highway robbery
by Peacocks plumed in finery.

Yes, Jesters and the Fools agree
to truckle to duplicity
and laugh about it witlessly.
Long live the peon's penury!

                          3
To champion an oddity
(like two times twelve is fifty three)  
one reaches to theology
through paths of circularity.

In bygone trials of travesty
the doubters, draped in blasphemy,
endured the pain and agony
inflicted by the papacy.

Inspired by the Trinity
fanatics bent cosmology
in geocentric fantasy
while Bruno burned for heresy;

and aged women, randomly
accused of wicked witchery
by justice framed in infamy,
were racked and shown no clemency

That epoch of credulity
(when savants fostered sorcery
and practiced ancient alchemy)
arose in dark age quackery

as clerics dripping piety
(while raging, raving rabidly)
pervaded thralled society
with callous inhumanity;

'repent', they bellowed, 'verily,
forsake the world's iniquity,
live lives of want and chastity,
and give your gelt to God through me'.

                    4
The Masters make a mockery
of freedom and democracy
by holding down the uppity,
released from shackled slavery,

now fettered in a factory
else strewn across the Bowery,
still chained in bonds of bigotry,
immersed in seas of poverty.

And colliers, tapping balefully
in sunken-mine solemnity,
yet thrum a mournful monody
some call the digger's elegy.

To children, pale and raggedy
(behind a day of drudgery),
the boss man, oh so gallantly,
bestows a penny, niggardly;

though some are fed (belatedly),
their eyes recede in apathy
while bellies bulge, inflatedly,
with mothers watching, wretchedly.

When met with health adversity
or broken bone infirmity,
the pauper dangles helplessly
with no insurance policy;

and those engulfed in lunacy
are ailing blobs left floating free
in ******-dream obscurity -
a mired madhouse odyssey.

Ignoring mankind's unity,
the rich and poor dichotomy
breeds dismal doomed finality,
eventual nihility.

                        5
Renewing days of chivalry,
wild warriors fighting valiantly
bring freedom neath the gallows tree
while blending blood and burgundy

to toast the slaughtered enemy,
and so convince the colony
to cede with smile on bended knee
and yield her diamonds, silk and tea.

At first they call the cavalry
and then again the infantry,
so proudly primped in panoply,
with arms from finest armory

(embraced in hands so tenderly
bestow benign atrocity) -
and soon atomic weaponry
will extirpate posterity.

                          6
Misusing high technology
(to feed the face of gluttony)
depletes our Rock of energy,
now slowly dying thermally.

Our gadgets breathing CFC
fuel ozone holes' immensity
while cloud bursts, raining acidly,
wilt woods in their entirety,

and rivers, tainted chemically,
polluted biologically,
refill our cups methodically
and drown our souls organically.

Adjusting genes mechanically
may well blot out the bumble bee
annulling fruits' fecundity,
but brings big bucks reliably.

We wager perpetuity
to revel momentarily
in shadow-like obscurity
ignoring the futility,

but if we bet unknowingly
on fickle fate's contingency
and thereby act haphazardly
we're doomed to lose the lottery.

                 7
The modern day bureaucracy
abuses trust egregiously ,
embeds itself in obloquy
and offers no apology.

It paints the past in reverie
to camouflage the tendency
to strip away our privacy
which paves the path to tyranny.

With earlobes lurking furtively
that listen surreptitiously,
and eyeballs peering piercingly
we've lost cerebral sovereignty,

and those who dare to disagree
must hide away in secrecy
else crowd a black facility
(with water board anxiety).

                  8
Yes, sans responsibility,
our marble in this galaxy
will crumble in catastrophe
ere ever reaching puberty…
Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.
bouhaouel zeineb Jan 2015
I’m an angry feminist because women are told that their place is in the kitchen
I’m an angry feminist because walking by myself at night is never safe
I’m an angry feminist because men want 4 wives while they can't handle one properly
I’m an angry feminist because I was told to sit right and close my legs
I’m an angry feminist because she was asking for it is still an excuse
I’m an angry feminist because women are killed because they “betrayed” the family honor
I’m an angry feminist because we teach girls how not to get ***** but not boys not to ****
I'm an angry feminist because girls are sexually assaulted no matter how modestly or immodestly they are dressed
I’m an angry feminist because we are told to shut up when a man speaks
I’m an angry feminist because women are still beaten by their partners  
I’m an angry feminist because women are still judged by the appearance only
I’m an angry feminist because women are still faking *******
I'm an angry feminist because your sexist jokes are never funny
I’m an angry feminist because we should never say no to a man or he will feel offended...oooh i have pity on them.. poor creatures
I’m an angry feminist because people still don't know what a feminist means
Lesbians who hate men they say
abecedarian May 2015
Masters of the Universe,
three and some,
nearly four
months tween
me and you
that words
interchanged,
prayers,
asking for the answering job
which was handily God-to-Man
transferred, transfused
tween you and
me
a/k/a
Job...appropriately

you may recall
I was the bloke
who immodestly spoke,
asking any and all
circulating deities,
to tender
their resignations
post-haste,
immediately
for failure to do
the appointed rounds
well enough to this
human's satisfaction

now don't go high hopes expecting
a large confession
about how hard,
ya see it really is
tending the flock be...

nope
I ain't here to beg of you,
take this onerous
from my shoulders!

no, no, capitulation,
my track record
maybe not much better
than what went before,
but you know what I'm about to say,
cause you are perfect

well I still don't like
what satisfies your perfection definition
for my fellow humans,
so I'm keeping this job/Job,
for another few months,
cause I am.
Human
enough to know
that humans keep on trying
and you just gave up
and said let them do what they want
between human to human,
as long as they pay us obeisance

I put sins of
man to fellow man
as my número uno priority
and if the number of prayers diverted
back to you,
in your inbox receiving,
are just the
dues paying kind,
keep'em,
I got more important things to do...
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1020933/masters-of-the-universetender-me-thy-resignation/

Masters of the Universe,
tender me thy resignation,
if but for
a day,
a millennia,
no matter how measured,
any being,
you, purported supreme
or otherwise,
are tired in ways
hard to comprehend

*tender me
thy responsibilities and dilemmas,
have studied your resignations,
solutions that provide no resolution...

I can do better.

Why?

not obligated by parenthood,
rules of randomness superimposed,
all I got is human kindness
the eyesight that
colors life,
tolerates no injustice,
milky white light,
no longer recognize

"there for the grace of God
go you and I"

have no name,
but if you need one for me,
call me*
**human**
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2016
my Mumbai woman

~~~

to my Indian poets & friends
all be advised,

my piety, my muse,
has decamped me for weeks on end
to your
yon far and fair lands

the red dot beside her
electronic signature
a sign of her absence,
seemingly to have been
magically transferred
to her forehead

so perhaps my love poetry
will become absent, reticent,
quiescent

or perhaps

it will build brighter, effervescing
in my very own Taj Mahal,
an edifice built by great love past
and yet ever still present,
for I testify,
I have many times it,
seen imbued,
lovingly observed
between a certain
men and women here writ large,
who there permanent reside,
and in my heart as well

spend a minute many,
all my fingers and
toes employed
how many, so many,
Indian fellow travelers
on poetry lanes and yellow dust encrusted roads,
in cities unpronounceable
that this illiterate literary fool
has come to know and multi-arm entwine

to you,

I commend and command to you
her safety,
asking immodestly for
an imposition, an interference

pray to the local gods,
your heads of state and highest nature's,
that they be her
beside,
her unobserved
safe-keepers,
as she treks your country's
Northern pastures

let her skin glow from
your brighter rays,
eyes even wider~wiser opened
by the newness of your antiquity,
your glorious,
poetic place
in our world
of words
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
"Nothing is so healing as the human touch."


Started:    June 21, 2011
Finished:  August 14, 2011

"Nothing is so healing as the human touch."

Purportedly, the final words of Bobby Fischer, the reclusive, oft bizarre-acting Chess Grandmaster, whose life deserves your examination.  

I wasted decades of my life in a loveless, sexless, miserable marriage. I read his dying words, and the poem~notion was born, but the words had their own timetable and it made me crazy.

All the facts you need to read this old poem are now in your possession.
~-----------------------------------------------~
Mos­t poems used to just tumble out,
Sudoku words combos,
Gunslinger I was,
poetically licensed to shoot
from the hip (the lip?).

Then you go mute, until that second,
When once again,
machine gun stanzas fall like
Cheerios
spilling all over the kitchen floor,
as they always do at Two Am
when quietude is in high season,
And the whole house is sleeping.

Once in awhile,
the title~idea recorded,
but the poem unwrit,
just won't come.
*** but no ******.

The words smack you,
write me, I deserve it,
a challenged duel glove
goes kissy kissy on your face,
but the words,
the choice of weapons
eludes for weeks, months.  

So Bobby,
your challenge
long ago accepted,
but my reply imperfect,
has lain bound and gagged,
a poem-in-progress
hid in the trunk of my heart,
unable to escape, even when
escape attempted, unsuccessful.

From June till August moon,
your dying words have been
a cancer growing, within,  
hiding from my bullets
invented to radiate,
your final words, explicate,
Explode and expose.

Your life,
an essay on life in solitary,
anti-social would immodestly describe your life best.

How came you then to exclaim,
re the glories of human touch?


Ah a dying man's last regret,
a simple cri du couer,
nothing extraordinaire,
a basic 101 shoulda/woulda
of "I coulda done it better,"
what's the big deal?

Until this exact second,
Sunday rain jolted body from bed
do I instant understand my obsession,
the import to me,
the need to capture
the haunt of the healing
of your dying words.  

Life is small, miniaturized
when numbered in decades -
five, six, seven,
maybe,
eight nine or even ten.  

How came I to pass so many,
discarded whole decades,
of the few we garner
without the sustenance of
Human Touch?

How came I to allow this
disaster to pass?


How did I advance to the next grade/decade
when a failing grade was scarlet tattooed
In ****** scars upon my chest?

Would be easy to dismiss
as just another
whiney rant
that is no longer relevant
to you,
lies I told myself,
no longer resonate,
over, now.

Never.  

Everything matters.  

Summation.  Accumulation.

Day Counter Totals
reveal gaps of years
that cannot be refilled
so your accounting
must include a retelling of the
wasted days and acknowledge
with your dying breath,

Nothing is so healing
as the human touch.


Thank you my love.
Thank you, Mr. Fischer.
Two years old, in two days....
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2014
"Nothing is so healing as the human touch."


Started:    June 21, 2011
Finished:  August 14, 2011

"Nothing is so healing as the human touch."

Purportedly, the final words of Bobby Fischer, the reclusive, oft bizarre-acting Chess Grandmaster, whose life deserves your examination.  

I wasted decades of my life in a loveless, sexless, miserable marriage. I read his dying words, and the poem~notion was born, but the words had their own timetable and it made me crazy.

All the facts you need to read this old poem are now in your possession.
~-----------------------------------------------~
Mos­­t poems used to just tumble out,
Sudoku words combos,
Gunslinger I was,
poetically licensed to shoot
from the hip (the lip?).

Then you go mute, until that second,
When once again,
Machine gun stanzas fall like
Cheerios
Spilling all over the kitchen floor,
As they always do at Two Am
When quietude is in high season,
And the whole house is sleeping.

Once in awhile,
The title~idea recorded,
But the poem unwrit,
just won't come.
*** but no ******.

The words smack you,
Write me, I deserve it,
A challenged duel glove
Goes kissy kissy on your face,
But the words,
The choice of weapons
Eludes for weeks, months.  

So Bobby,
Your challenge
Long ago accepted,
But my reply imperfect,
Has lain bound and gagged,
A poem-in-progress
Hid in the trunk of my heart,
Unable to escape, even when
Escape attempted, unsuccessful.

From June till August moon,
Your dying words have been
A cancer growing, within,  
Hiding from my bullets
Invented to radiate,
Your final words, explicate,
Explode and expose.

Your life,
An essay on life in solitary,
Anti-social would immodestly describe your life best.

How came you then to exclaim,
Re the glories of human touch?

Ah a dying man's last regret,
A simple cri du couer,
Nothing extraordinaire,
A basic 101 shoulda/woulda
Of "I coulda done it better,"
What's the big deal?

Until this exact second,
Sunday rain jolted body from bed
Do I instant understand my obsession,
The import to me,
The need to capture
The haunt of the healing
Of your dying words.  

Life is small, miniaturized
When numbered in decades -
Five, six, seven,
Maybe,
Eight nine or even ten.  

How came I to pass so many,
Discarded whole decades,
Of the few we garner
Without the sustenance of
Human Touch?

How came I to allow this disaster to pass?

How did I advance to the next grade/decade,
When a failing grade was scarlet tattooed
In ****** scars upon my chest?

Would be easy to dismiss as just another whiney rant
That is no longer relevant to you,
Lies I told myself, no longer resonate, over, now.

Never.  

Everything matters.  

Summation.  Accumulation.

Day Counter Totals  reveal gaps of years
That cannot be refilled so your accounting
Must include a retelling of the
Wasted days and acknowledge with your dying breath,

Nothing is so healing as the human touch.
~~~~~~~
Happy 3rd Birthday poem.
Thank you my love
We aren’t, necessarily, up. Beat not

beaten, we feast, and we will be. Come,
tell me, what information can’t be held in

our fatty acids? Immodestly, we’ve had both
the morsel modified and not. Its tiny bits mix
in us and with us, so it can inform us

forward with a digestibly new identity. We have
eaten more than this too, and it’s all in us,
with the knowledge of a world less well-preserved.
Less is on ice, but there’s more for us to taste,

and it’s the more and we’re the more. We
know of it, what it is that can’t get inside of us
if we don’t eat it. Let it, get inside, it won’t
eat at us. It won’t, it can’t shake us from

the unusual way we’ve wobbled through
a closely-measured firmament cold-packed
with these immeasurable clues. We’re no less

permanent there than this half-shell is here. Fixed
by a thin glaze, it awaits one sun, or the tide’s finding

its stomach again for mollusk, fine sand and pebbles.
brandon nagley May 2015
Oh beau
Didst thou giveth thy queen thine hand in marriage?
Or still seeketh thy holy sanctimony?

Belittled her thou did,
Gaveth her vinegar for water
And canker for bliss

What didst thou miss?

Didn't get on hands and knees,
Thou art no king,
A frog from devils thorn!!!

Thou lusted other babes
Thou ****** the milk of saddened parade
And gleathed at paramount illness..

Unwilling nit!!!!

Thou made a beast of her,
Thyself canst sleep for sure
For thine eyes will be ravaged from worldly apparel...

Dog of carols!!!!

Her optimism thou hath made pessimistic,
Thy mouth was shut, not all gifted
As her yen thou hath made a clown!!!

Eagerly loud...

Thy papyrus is now unmanaged
Thou art a glutton of ****** malice,
For thou hath despised her crying sheeks!!!

Thy perception is immodestly bleached!!!

                                      BOGUS CASSANOVA!!!!
Mike Essig Sep 2015
The fake blond
with low standards
sits on the bar stool
in a dress so short
it immodestly
screams take me home,
but I think she would
really rather have
a home of her own
and not have to hunt
a new man each night.
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Oh beau
Didst thou giveth thy queen thine hand in marriage?
Or still seeketh thy holy sanctimony?

Belittled her thou did,
Gaveth her vinegar for water
And canker for bliss

What didst thou miss?

Didn't get on hands and knees,
Thou art no king,
A frog from devils thorn!!!

Thou lusted other babes
Thou ****** the milk of saddened parade
And gleathed at paramount illness..

Unwilling nit!!!!

Thou made a beast of her,
Thyself canst sleep for sure
For thine eyes will be ravaged from worldly apparel...

Dog of carols!!!!

Her optimism thou hath made pessimistic,
Thy mouth was shut, not all gifted
As her yen thou hath made a clown!!!

Eagerly loud...

Thy papyrus is now unmanaged
Thou art a glutton of ****** malice,
For thou hath despised her crying sheeks!!!

Thy perception is immodestly bleached!!!

                                      BOGUS CASSANOVA!!!!
As prospective students
ably ready themselves to matriculate
and/or first set little feet
inside halls of learning,
I rebroadcast a poem crafted
at the height of Covid-19.

A couple years gone back educators
adaptation regarding coronavirus
severely impacted on the classroom,
which modifications necessitated school boards
to rejigger methodology teaching paradigm,  
quite herculean feat yours truly
(self tasked himself with assignment)
attempted to encapsulate difficulty courtesy

his handy dandy trademark poetic flair;
through arbitrarily chosen words,
nevertheless encompassed feeble effort
forthwith present authored outcome
read endeavor printed below,
which attempt barely hinted
at near insurmountable obstacles
pandemic loosed upon webbed wide world.

The following reasonable
already obsolete rhyme
verst animated mine
faux class (sic) lilting brogue
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19) rogue,
wrought approximate sixth month academic hiatus,
nevertheless September 1st, 2020
signaled resumption of school year
back in vogue.

Countless challenges abounded
as millions of students
(darting to and fro, hither and yon
analogous to flagellated spermatozoa)
did re:zoom
even fetus soon did kickstart
to get academic jumpstart while in utero
eventually nudged out of womb,
whence a new born babe
cradled in mother's arms
lulled to sleep listening to Mozart
while older siblings

awaited crossing guard signal
when one after another
bus came by... vroom,
whereby administrators established
virtual and/or actual room
adapted to delegate assignments
as reported by local newsroom
facilitated by unrenown,
unstoried, and untutored writer,
most likely a bonafide married,
and once former unbridled groom.

Though mind boggling, death defying,
and harrowing scenario daring to crisscross
(dangerous information
super highway road)
confronted those most qualified to teach
impressionable minds to overload,
nevertheless I envy those learning
courtesy high tech mode,
whereby inquiring inquisitive young students
taught abc's including
modus operandi how to code.

Virtual golden (gated) opportunity
spectacularly presented to bridge,
kickstart, and buttress children
immodestly excited and
amenable to learn online,
while one old googly eyed
aging pencil necked geek
made his poetic cameo appearance
crafting awareness about severe complication
hash-tagging those best equipped to instruct,

which alternatives pinterest me
linkedin, trumpeted nsync with
tried and true orthodox methodology
(think white/blackboard
with markers and/or chalk respectively),
who by the way never got chosen to
clap erasers outside,
neither folded flag ditto after said
emblematic sanctified cloth unfurled,
nor ever served as safety patrol.

Though born within baby boom generation,
I horrendously, nobly, royally struggled
to acquire cognitive consonance
invariably experiencing cognitive dissonance
who floundered like a fish out of water
forever barely achieving passable grade.

Bard of Perkiomen Valley
readily attests de facto failure
if hypothetically enrolled
in kindergarten today,
he would get demoted to preschool
(a slight bit of hyperbole),
thus laments abysmal track record,
whereby attending conventional
schools of hard knocks
situated within Lower Providence district
emotionally fractured psyche
until this very waking moment,
and moost likely mine
remaining tenure on Earth.

Concomitant to foster
misgivings of wretchedness,
I harbor jealousy
at young whip smart kids,
who already possess laudatory command
concerning salient technological knowhow,
me far beyond paternal parental stage
yet speculate how child raising
could allow, enable and provide
insight into latest
cutting edge binary wizardry.

Less impactful upon precocious
boys and girls hungry
as a caterpillar for knowledge
included protracted time eons ago,
when fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters
experienced opportunities to
relish countless hours whittled away
being tutored as son(s)
and/or daughter(s) for stereotypical roles.

Within realm of cyberspace
positive kudos extolled mentoring progeny
about rudimentary concepts
(plus edifying offspring
about all encompassing
social media platforms netiquette)
aided in turn with
sophisticated computer programs
(possibly created by little Einsteins)
invariably lovingly bonding (yeah right).
Arlene Corwin Jul 2019
I re-discovered this a day or two ago and, I must unashamedly admit was altogether and immodestly charmed by it.  So here it is - again.      

            Tipsy
The following reasonable obsolete rhyme
verst heard in my faux class (sic) lilting brogue
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19) rogue
wrought approximate sixth month academic hiatus
nevertheless September 1st, 2020
signals resumption of school year back in vogue.

Challenges abound as millions of students re:zoom
trudging off to..., yet another bus comes by... vroom,
whereby administrators establish
virtual and/or actual room
adapt to delegate assignments as reported by newsroom
facilitated by yours truly,
a bonafide married, yet unbridled groom.

Though mind boggling, death defying,
and harrowing scenario daring to crisscross
(dangerous information highway road)
will confront those most qualified to teach
impressionable minds to overload
nevertheless I envy those learning
courtesy high tech mode.

Golden (gated) opportunity
spectacularly presented to bridge,
kickstart, and buttress  young minds
immodestly excited and
amenable to learn online

one old googly eyed
aging pencil necked geek
makes his poetically cameo appearance
crafting awareness about severe complication
hash-tagging those best equipped to teach,

which alternatives pinterest me
linkedin, trumpeted nsync with
tried and true methodology
(think white/blackboard
with markers and/or chalk respectively),

who by the way never got chosen to
clap erasers outside,
fold flag ditto after said
emblematic sanctified cloth unfurled,
nor serve as safety patrol.

Though born within baby boom generation,
I horrendously (nobly) struggled
to acquire cognitive consonance
floundered like a fish out of water
forever barely achieving passable grade

He readily attests de facto failure
if hypothetically enrolled in kindergarten today,
I would get demoted to preschool
(a slight bit of hyperbole),
thus both laments abysmal track record,
whereby attending conventional

schools of hard knocks
(situated within Lower Providence district)
emotionally fracturing psyche
until this very waking moment,
and moost likely mine
remaining tenure on Earth.

Concomitant to foster
misgivings of wretchedness,
I harbor jealousy at young whip smart kids,
who already possess laudatory command

concerning salient technological knowhow,
far beyond paternal parental stage
yet speculate how child raising
could allow, enable and provide
insight into latest cutting edge binary wizardry.

Less impactful upon precocious
boys and girls hungry for knowledge
includes protracted time
fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters
experienced opportunities to
relish countless hours

tutoring son(s) and/or daughter(s)
patiently mentoring progeny
about rudimentary concepts
(plus edifying offspring
about all encompassing netiquette)

aided in turn with
sophisticated computer programs
(possibly created by little Einstein)
invariably lovingly bonding (yeah right).

— The End —