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372 · Sep 2018
Consuming Love
poetryaccident Sep 2018
If you seek a remedy
outside the balm of oval pill
or a spoon of sour taint
beware the toil on substitutes
a mortal coil could give relief
redress what fate has abused
the broken strive to sustain
with the help of temporal prey

lingering wounds demand too much
beware the bill someone pays
when the check does not care
agony will remunerate
services rendered tap the weak
no pound of flesh is the price
instead the toil taps the heart
wringing emotions from tired stone

one subsists at the end
now the strong in contrast
to the frail forever lost
healer fallen with no net
the weak cannot be the cure
even as they may recline
on the alter as sacrifice
for the selfish consuming love.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180912.
The poem “Consuming Love” was inspired by a meme that stated “I am too weak to be your cure”.
372 · Apr 2017
To Live Again
poetryaccident Apr 2017
I found my Savior when he died
passed from life, yet to rise
surrounded by the ones who cared
ready to move him to a tomb.

Nature was the frame without
asking me to look within
where I've given up my sins
with knowledge that he'd rise again.

The garden held the station's crest
put upon a bright green wall
proceeded by twelve milestones
with best as last, praise the Lord.

Acceptance of the longest walk
a day that saved this humble soul
the stone showed the sacrifice
while spring's rebirth foretold more.

I'll stand here to declare his gift
the covenant of God to men
before I leave this gladed place
to live again as Jesus did.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170426.
The poem "To Live Again" was prompted by the All Poetry contest "2017 Winter Park Paint Out" (https://allpoetry.com/contest/2683165-THIS-WEEK--2017-Winter-Park-Paint-Out-Poetr). The inspiring painting, "Station of the Cross", was painted in oil by Charles Dickinson.
370 · Feb 2018
Diagnosis
poetryaccident Feb 2018
Diagnosis now confirmed
no need to worry anymore
all's that left is to exist
based on the verdict I can't dismiss

checkbox marked on the form
DSM stating the obvious
discerning the true verdict
from the wreckage of my life

now the path has been prescribed
in the book of consequence
unknown pages yet unturned
none or more before the cure

being broken is not enough
medicine must be consumed
if the diagnosis is made firm
the undoing is all that's left.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180202.
“Diagnosis” is about the other side of figuring out what is what.
366 · Oct 2018
Proof Condones
poetryaccident Oct 2018
Evidence becomes the coin
determining worth on the scales
already rigged from the start
with no measure to dissuade

when morality is the judge
of a world they’d like to purge
all will fall beneath their gaze
when the virtue is misplaced

evil witnessed outside a book
or experience of the self
both are seen as paradigm
to the ones that are assured

madness lays down those paths
even while hearts are pure
identifying outside the lines
the normative is put aside

deviants by their choice
that’s when nature is most pure
without deceit verbalized
even though the masses cry

normative becomes the chant
damning all that are unique
now proof condones everything
or lack thereof to place the hate.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181001.
The poem “Proof Condones” was inspired by the actions of people who demand evidence for the legitimately of the LGBTQ spectrum.  People from both binary ends are quick to exclaim that the middle does not really exist.  There seems to be a call to provide proof dating, intimate encounters, and chromosome level testing.  These calls are requested for the sake of evidence-based credentials.  Sadly this discredits what the spectrum knows is true for themselves.  Regardless of experience and appearance, the B, Q, and T of LGBTQ are in a position to KNOW who they truly are.  The need for proof, especially proof tied to supposed moral or purity standards, is both hateful and destructive.
360 · Apr 2017
In Restroom Stalls
poetryaccident Apr 2017
In the back of cars, in the restroom stalls
human nature draws contracts
with give and take as the norm
some for pleasure, some want control

the bond is there for the cash
where some connect for no bucks
transaction is the alternative
this for that, then separate

they say joy is had by all
this is far from the mark
survival is the claim of one
while the other seeks to control

power stems from the wallet
differential in power’s game
don’t forget the mastery
it’s held by the one who pays

in its wake the die is cast
contracts bleeding the two souls
leaving something there to die
in back of cars, in restroom stalls.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170424.
The poem “In Restroom Stalls” is based on an incomplete poem stub prompted by a competition about prostitution.   I finished it out, emphasizing the power differential and uneven spiritual nature of flesh for money trades.
357 · Feb 2019
The Sun Rose
poetryaccident Feb 2019
Once the sun rose in the south
like the fowl by the same name
regular enough to set a watch
this ascension of desire’s push
promising much as consequence
if the eye can be believed
even as the owner sleeps
still embraced by wanton dreams

then to wake against the day
asking rutting in payment
to witness god’s greatest gift
bequeathed to eager supplicants
to sate the fire that burns within
the showers pelt in response
by sparse cloud’s drizzling
or the tempest’s drowning fist

this revelry in dawn’s face
expected at daybreak’s light
is now left behind in the years
with only pain to end the night
the sun has set forever more
no longer rising like days of yore
and while the fowl may share the name
no crow is heard at first of day.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190203.
The poem “The Sun Rose” is a very metaphorical piece about the changes of time.
355 · Jul 2018
Moves a Groove
poetryaccident Jul 2018
The music is proper to the time
a pulse echoing within the soul
reminding all of their tasks
to move a groove deep inside

allegiance shown to task at hand
none should despair in consent
nothing more than conjoined bliss
rhythm felt and then expressed

that heartbeat pulsing in between
prompting contact few may dare
now inevitable by nature’s nod
quick response to the notes heard

the music varies every time
some recorded, some is live
sometimes only heard within
still the motion moves a groove.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180714.
The poem “Moves a Groove” is a poem about dance, specifically forms of social dance.
353 · Apr 2017
Excellence
poetryaccident Apr 2017
They asked for excellence in all things
money made for the masters’ purse
relying on sweat to show my worth
coffers filled by my work

put on the smile that radiates
a thousand watts of brilliance
happiness is the currency
of social norms all embrace

the bonding between one or more
is paragon for all involved
never with tears, avoiding the shouts
happiness found with these masks

never to sin is the goal
lest Lord Satan takes my soul
forever and ever in lakes of fire
rightness avoiding this awful Hell

model citizen that knows what’s best
balance of helping the unfortunate
while keeping the troubled in their place
Solomon smiles at my wisdom’s breath

refinement of manners and of speech
never a hair seen out of place
always the best said in its time
suave is only way they know

finally there’s beauty’s realm
seeking ****** to show my worth
pleasuring all by sight and by touch
creating a world with ******’s ******

these paragons are not my life
as ideal achievements escape my grasp
I was born to be real
not to be perfect in all things.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170428.
The poem “Excellence” was written for the contest prompt “I was born to be real, not to be perfect”.
343 · Sep 2019
Graphic Bliss
poetryaccident Sep 2019
Promises made behind the veil
the self-committed to the unsaid
are realized in graphic bliss
tempered by impermanence

those lurid dreams of the obscene
exist beyond morality
harbored in the inky depths
where restraints tempt the fates

chains cast aside in pursuit
of revelation deep within
no longer held by the norms
a celebration pressing flesh

the dull sanity of the dawn
asks too much in exchange
when a longing for escape
begs for sleep instead of wake.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190924.
The poem “Graphic Bliss” is about lurid dreams on the other side of sleep.
330 · Sep 2018
Best Version
poetryaccident Sep 2018
Consider if this is my best
the end result of life progressed
I’d deliver this short essay
to describe the tacit peak
a spiral is the best account
sometimes up, sometimes down
of the journey through the years
not yet ended if I’m here.

Declarations of made by ghosts
some still living in shared space
most have passed to the void
home of angels and devils both
this recital of the past
suborned by doubt of my own
locked in dungeons of the soul
still the light shines far above.

A moment like no other one
stating heights from which I’d fall
perhaps this fortune has occurred
I’ll find out by narrative
judgment passed to discern
the apex just out of reach
could this be the last tract
where I shine when ink scribes.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180922.
The poem “Best Version” was inspired by a two-part meme.  The first panel had one character telling another, “I want you to be the very best version of yourself that you can be.”.  The primary character responds with the statement, “What if this is my best version?”
328 · Apr 2017
Fiend Within
poetryaccident Apr 2017
How do I put aside the fiend
the monster within this skin
when society waits to judge
with their pitchforks stained with blood?

their voices scream so loud
from a thousand paper cuts
compliance asked by the norm
with erasure as their preference

who I am is disallowed
by the ones most alarmed
by existence on this earth
of a child with different thoughts

“it’s a phase, confusion’s reign”
I wonder at this refrain
when I’ve known for decade’s time
with passing privilege near at hand

those I respect fill me with fear
wondering how they’ll react
drop kind regard when they confront
to know the truth about the queer

the most strident will have their fear
could wreck my life, my happiness
as respect that used to be
is replaced by cruel intolerance

the only answer I have at hand
two in fact, the first is worse
is to hide, build up good will
and hope this forgives the fiend within.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170423.
Watching videos on YouTube videos, on the subject of bisexual erasure, prompted me to write the poem “Fiend Within”.   What is bisexual erasure?   Is is the pervasive problem in which the existence or legitimacy of bisexuality (either in general or in regard to an individual) is questioned or denied outright.  It is also a difficult place to be in a society with already judgmental attitudes towards people without straight gender attractions.  They may feel a betrayal, evoking the whole, “So, because you are lukewarm – neither hot nor cold – I am about to spit you out of my mouth”.   The only answer I’ve found is to present a human face to the larger society, and to let those who struggle know that they’re not alone.
325 · Sep 2018
This Surety
poetryaccident Sep 2018
The question springs to mind
is today the time to take my life?
look to the certain, it will arrive
the tick-tocks drifts on by

this surety comes with dread
that outcome none should indulge
even if this fated path
is the one that’s close to mind

anger feeds the fixed focus
co-conspirator with stalking fear
with no escape but to flee
into routes that are one-way

that plan kept in close reserve
safety chute with crossbones doors
don’t let the icon spoil the mood
the smile is there to reassure

no flowers last from kind delights
another waits to sprout instead
that poison seed in dank earth
blooming where the other fails

caring is the saddest jest
illusion smiling without hope
the curtain hiding nothing more
than the ugliness of mankind

the certitude is always there
remedy near at hand
if only life could be pursued
with the promise death ensures.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180910.
The poem “This Surety” is about the pain of ideation.
315 · Jan 2018
Fed The Deer
poetryaccident Jan 2018
She asked me if I fed the deer
scattering grain through the glade
seeking more than I possessed
by small gifts cast to ground
wisdom springs from seeds planted
in fertile soil of pensive souls
storms stir deep, out of sight
asking magic to be described.

There are villains in the woods
selfish imps that trust no one
holding captive the travelers
who sought passage to beyond
grace possessed by the trapped
turned inward by consequence
by fairy realms the fruits are masked
bending then to dogma’s clout.

The guardians of humanity
walk between the two realms
both the soft and the strong
held in hand to find the way
both the doe and the buck
walk the paths that lead out
revelations lead to the dawn
stripping chains from the oppressed.

On the trails from here to there
we are asked to find our way
by the magic of the guides
returning gifts cast to the ground
I’m still lost in the beyond
while she holds my hand to soothe
what’s been found has fed the deer
wishing more could be revealed.

2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180129.
“Fed The Deer” is a spiritual poem about captivity and exploration.
304 · Jun 2017
One Resolve
poetryaccident Jun 2017
When I wake up I plan the day
important matters on the mind
waiting patiently through the night
begging action after dreams

when the balm of sleep recedes
curtains opened, sun comes in
the moon has left the wide sky
now I’m roused to decide

I’ll declare life’s verdicts
resolutions to complete
when adulting challenges
determinations are declared

before my life is duly planned
decrees to judge the whole of life
there is one resolve before the rest
deciding where to lunch that day.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170623.
“One Resolve” is about a decision I must make each and every day!
300 · Oct 2017
On A Throne
poetryaccident Oct 2017
I'm the king of a distant land
adjacent to those of friends
with one difference I'll point out
it’s the spirits I embrace

filled with ghosts all can see
reality for the rest of them
yet they haunt my waking life
too visible yet still not there

hands extended and then felt
by my fellows and my chums
while only breezes touch my skin
when the same tries to caress

intangible to my dismay
tears more real than coddled love
when the veil becomes too sheer
ephemeral becomes the norm

this royalty sits on a throne
alone with only shadows held
phantoms hover close to mind
while the same is near at hand

perhaps in time I’ll step down
join my friends away from spooks
no longer will the visions haunt
enfold the world when spirits bolt.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20171019.
I was at a dance, feeling separated the other attendees.   A friend noticed my condition and asked if I was OK.  I begged off, saying I was tired.    “On A Throne” is about the experience.
296 · Oct 2017
Dancer’s Grace
poetryaccident Oct 2017
Static beauty has a place
model sitting for their shot
to my eyes this is too stale
a still image that won't entice

instead I look to action's heat
lighting struck to be captured
by one or two in their trance
a world evoked in camera's eye

don’t ask me not to catch the calm
a pale echo to motion's bliss
I'll instead implore the muse
to put before me jumping fools

skip and caper to music's lead
to be alive is to prance
this I’ll seize on film’s image
energy spent fill the gap

forego poor copy of dream’s splendor
doldrums are not what I want
perhaps the others spend their time
in hush repose to the dull show

my scene is formed in playful ways
happiness found in frolic’s glimpse
as the tunes twist and build
to accompany the dancer’s grace.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20171023.
There aren’t a lot of photographers that dedicate a majority of their efforts to capturing dance images.  I am happy to be one of them.  “Dancer’s Grace” is a lighthearted look at the polarities of model photography and dance photography.
291 · Apr 2017
I Was Queet
poetryaccident Apr 2017
They said I was ‘queet’
I’d understand if you question
perhaps this is special pet name
between them and me?

It's not the meaning from the urban tome
dictionary of slang's common terms
while I'd not object to this other gist
it's not the meaning they had in mind.

The explanation stems from origins
'mon amour, le seul que je chéris'
I'll speak the words in my tounge
'my love, the only one I cherish'.

Look south from the British Isles
west of the Italian boot
straight from the town of lights
that blessed land across the sea.

Now here in my arms, countries forgot
they stated how they saw me
'mignonne' would be homeland word
which meant naught to me, though now I know.

Have you guessed my appeal to this special one
expressed in a word beyond lexicons?
this I know with all my brimming heart
they are also cute, oh so queet, in my eyes.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170427.
I knew a French psychic, named Marie-Claire Wilson, when lived in Atlanta in the mid 90s. Apparently she is still in the biz now, some twenty years later. One of the enduring tings about Marie-Claire was her pronouncement of a particular word with the synonyms of “appealing” and “charming”. The poem “I Was Queet” is based on her delightful pronouncement of that word.
286 · Sep 2018
From the Void
poetryaccident Sep 2018
The after is far too late
that time for sharing thoughts
a truth that some will realize
on the far side of mirror’s face

relics stand in testimony
worthy of past saints departed
yet they're only debris disregarded
by a world that soon forgets

I've tried speaking from the void
that space beyond in-between
the mirror did not relent
only murmurs sent to those who care

burned in the eye of memory
the spark of what once was
few will see past that flare
fading in the retina

allowing voice to be delivered
with nothing in return
knocking on the mirror’s face
from the land of departed souls

surviving becomes a punishment
gift from an uncaring god
spoiled by the reticence
to extend the far dispatch.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180917.
The poem “From the Void” was inspired by a dream about dying and then trying to communicate with the people on the living side.  I could almost talk to them, there were hints of communication, but in the end, I was locked away.
281 · Nov 2017
Guardian Anointed
poetryaccident Nov 2017
The winged cherub stands by me
a flaming sword held at hand
a single purpose is its charge
you'll not pass these sacred gates

now the garden has been lost
fruitful tree removed from hand
succulents with no compare
hanging low, now out of reach

I was abandoned by Father Time
after the journey of a life
standing here at the portal
prisoner of a saintly guard

caring nothing of lost joy
veins of ice in that one
a higher good is forefront
than grace reduced in passion's fall

it points east as if to share
there I must travel before I sin
lest I taste forbidden fruit
a harvest passed down the line

now my chore is to exist
to accompany this angel until I die
or likely demon, it's all the same
guardian anointed in twilight years.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20171103.
The poem “Guardian Anointed” uses the archetype of the Cherubim, guardians of the sacred.
272 · Jul 2018
Beyond These Words
poetryaccident Jul 2018
First the letters
then the words
forming thoughts
of the absurd
put to page
formed in blood
an invitation
to hear my tale
asking nothing
for urgent pleas
wanting more
than I’ll accept
declaring less
than what’s true
omission's lie
is far more grim
inquire in person
to hear the rest
I’ll share my thoughts
beyond these words.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180721.
The poem “Beyond These Words”  is about the mix blessing and limitations of poetry.
272 · May 2018
Damning Sins
poetryaccident May 2018
I’m now driven to have a voice
turned to share with Kings and serfs
with the former in charge of change
ruling latter by force of will
while the common may share my pain
bent to meet their master’s fears
it’s to the Lords that I’ll submit
rhyming tomes of spoken verse

at first I put the words to page
quatrained statements in the wind
stating truth that few did read
when given choice to turn away
even when the ink was blood
sourced from wounds I sought to tell
these relics from a bygone age
were as feathers in gusting rain

a voice broke out into the void
first a whisper and then a roar
demanding hue from all around
especially those behind their walls
the verbal hammer molded iron
crafting tools that shattered realms
where the Nobles sat above
these unwilling are dragged to court

my pointed tongue condemns their lot
as truth is told through God’s true face
by their mouth the veil is ripped
tumbling Kings to their fates
this high claim may be too much
wishful boasting from a sad bard
still I’ll state the minds of serfs
while damning sins the Kings commit.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180514.
The poem “Damning Sins” is about the art and purpose of performed spoken word.
269 · Nov 2018
Denies the Bloom
poetryaccident Nov 2018
The greed for fruit denies the bloom
for what came before to produce
the product eaten as a food
proceeded by the floral wooing

though it’s fragile without compare
without the gift to satisfy
fulfillment will arrive in time
when the order is not denied

appetites that range afar
from the bland to hot desires
all must wait for the day
when bounty follows promised growth

hunger denies the stoic pace
first the love and then the taste
elders offer sagacity
beware what grows if cravings reign

the bounty found without regard
to the cycles that mark love
will produce the poisoned prize
a victory lap before the race

it’s not that carnal is disallowed
all is consumed in due time
when the flowers are pursued
to produce fruit that’s succulent.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181118.
The poem “Denies the Bloom” is a cautionary poem about the timing of romance.
268 · Mar 2019
The Youngest
poetryaccident Mar 2019
This is the youngest I’ll ever be
going forward in this day
with gifts that I’ve received
along with all the miseries

unframed years beckon on
without a promise of the count
marked against where I am
in the spotlight of the now

there is no turning back
except to forgive and then forget
put aside the chains of angst
to move forward without regret

time is a measure without regard
beyond the present winding down
at this mark of youth’s demise
pushing forward to my desires.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190316.
The poem “The Youngest” was prompted by a 1970 picture of Michael Caine.   I would have been five at the time.  He was in this prime as a maturing actor.  This melded with my reinventing myself at a point that is far from my prime.  Still, the present day is the best time to begin, as it is the only day you can truly begin.
264 · Jul 2018
Crimson Floods
poetryaccident Jul 2018
This plan evoked by demons’ prayers
assumed the worst of fellow men
condemned them by the stroke
of the dogma within a book
attributing falls before they occurred
explained as fate that must befall
with no recourse to a grace allowed
for the fallen ones with principle
these are condemned by ministry
cast aside as the defiled
while the tenets provide a path
for the flock to pardon’s glow

the magic wand would be waved
absolution for bloodied hands
a lifetime dismissed with a wink
patter forgiving what came before
they say the taint has been removed
still the stains hue the skin
while the victims are set loose
assured that Nick is at fault
this discharge is the start
as the imps rejoice with glee
now all acts are permissible
when holy talismans are held high

a gulf is fed from belief
permission given for crimson floods
damning the others to a worst fate
than imagined fires beyond the grave
the pit would be a relief
compared to torment then released
in the name of cult’s desires
to cleave the world with their love
in the end the demons laugh
their joke has run its full course
the innate good has become the bad
while the fiends may rule the world.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180715.
The poem “Crimson Floods” was written in a shorter time than most of my works.  I suspect the reason is that I am vehemently disappointed in the human side of religion.   Entire segments of the society are condemned only because they don’t believe in specific dogma.  The ability to have morality is only attributed to select group.  At the same time, individual from that group can be guilty of the darkest crimes against others, even as the same individuals are assumed to be released from all karmic responsibility because of they professed beliefs.  This becomes a game of rationalization in the eternal battle of “us vs. them”.  This war will never cease, but it sickens me to see spirituality, a required aspect of all lives, weaponized for partisan purposes.
260 · Mar 2019
The Fugist
poetryaccident Mar 2019
The dose must be consumed
says the criminal to themselves
judged guilty by desires
if only in their questing mind

that gateway to the beyond
one teaspoon at a time
or the shot finding flesh
injection made without regret

a need to shift the world
a bubble pushed to the left
underneath clasping glass
seeking freedom few will have

offering promises that are kept
unlike the prison of the world
arms wrapped to the back
dungeon of the normative

if the masters realize
the fugist found another life
slipped beyond to secret paths
the medicine would be denied

the end result becomes a cloak
hiding transgression beneath the cloth
squirming with a fervent life
that the accused must surely hide.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190320.
The poem “The Fugist” was inspired by another poet’s writing.  Their poem started with the line “I waited all morning for my oatmeal to talk” and ended with the line “I’m a fugist”.  The work was about transformation through medical therapy.  A fugist could be defined as a person who questions whether a choice should be pursued in the time allowed or that a choice will be grasped before it expires.
258 · Jun 2017
Found a Friend
poetryaccident Jun 2017
I found the friend I should keep
if Fate allows, that fickle fiend
introductions did not promise
joyous outcomes in future’s sight
the invitation is heartfelt
contrary to nature’s bent
where the strangers walk about
none see another, until now.

Fate led me to water’s edge
then asked me to drink too deep
I approached with my fear
knowing that my life could change
the depths dropped out of sight
where this led I could not say
so much unknown in the pledge
to stand beside a new ally
from the parched to the drowned
lips once cracked would be submerged
drinking in what was absent
swimming deep in liquid bliss.

Here is the rub, what I hinted
that future hides beyond our sight
in its hands, the good and bad
what’s chosen now will be revealed
a choice is put to both of us
Fate gives short warning in query
pledging nothing in return
I’ve found a friend, what do I do?

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170617.
Possible friends, of many depths, are introduced into our lives on an ongoing basis.  I have to say that I’ve not always done justice to those who approached me with the desire to know me better.  In that place I feel more disappointment than shame.  The silver lining is that there is still time to know them in this present moment, before time removes them from my life.  Why do I struggle though?  The poem, “Found a Friend”, speaks to the commitment requested by friendship.
255 · Oct 2017
Soiled Garments
poetryaccident Oct 2017
Hypocrisy is forced on me
gift of a larger world
no matter how I respond
it is mine to be embraced

pretending in the face of truth
this is the charge put to me
a criminal without recourse
when authority has its say

the lies are not my own
they are the gifts of other men
goodness is my quested grail
in each day I strive to realize

fallacy heaped as the result
judgment sewn as the soiled garments
I’ll not wear them if I can
“not your choice” comes the refrain

I am presented as the madman
unable to see my sin’s doom
even as I strive to be as pure
as my life would allow

society will speak from virtue’s place
state I pretend to be something else
than what I am, this is laugh
for the opposite is the consequence.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20171003.
A friend shared the Oscar Wilde quote, “I hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being good all the time. That would be hypocrisy.”.  I can’t attest to why my friend posted this, but I can share that they are a person that successfully walks the line between being dogmatically good and embracing the vibrancy of life.  The quote also resonated with me.  It reminded me the appearance of hypocrisy may occur when a person attempts to be good all the time, but society states they are instead wicked in the same.  The pretending is then on the part of the larger group.
255 · Sep 2018
Petard
poetryaccident Sep 2018
Lone monsters slip behind the veil
distributed the crimes among the crowd
a thousand faces or maybe more
guilt distributed with aplomb

now the fault is congealed
the largest target one could conceive
to accuse one would **** them all
hence the world is confused

too immense to fall from wounds
all are taken as a shield
while the monsters retain their place
the power granted cannot fail

repentance would be the path
for those who embrace their faults
though power will not accede
to humble itself in the fall

the master of lies laughs the best
as the holy are finally skewered
host with their own petards
against a judgment of their Lord.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180924.
The poem “Petard” was inspired by an apparent shift in the ****** assault disclaimer from “not all men” to “all men”.    The religious communities are willing to give up their men-folk as complicit in crimes against an entire gender.  This is done in an effort to gain political power, but at what loss to their souls?
253 · Jun 2017
Idle Chatter
poetryaccident Jun 2017
Don’t ask me to start idle chatter
what I’ve discovered in my walk
when I met the Man in Black
straight man to the Lord on High

The Devil whispered God’s little secret
asking me to hold my tongue
for if the world knew the mystery
they’d grin in unison to his joke

I could hint what’s been uttered
gossip from the Lord of Imps
stating how I’m meant to live
against the veil of darkest light

torture as a right of passage
endings coming all too soon
waking coffins giving shelter
one from another in their despair

silence will be my only option
no outside voice brought to bear
because the start would have no ending
murmur stretching to only screams

when I pass I’ll break my quiet
stand with the Highest in his glee
witness humor behind the horror
share the laughter at Heaven’s Gates.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170605.
The poem “Idle Chatter” was prompted by the refrain of "Blasphemous Rumours" by Depeche Mode (1984).   “I don't want to start/ Any blasphemous rumours/ But I think that God's/ Got a sick sense of humour/ And when I die/ I expect to find Him laughing.”
253 · Jan 2019
Hold the Sky
poetryaccident Jan 2019
Hold the sky lest it falls
when beauty pulls the clouds
crushing walls that project
to save the world from itself
allow light to pour within
with revelations few admit
still the brilliance will persist
as resistance is suppressed

two columns meant to preserve
decorum based on best intents
crumble when the comeliness
presses charms without regret
fay innocence displays a range
blue to pink with in-between
flow to violet as pillars fall
leaving want to mark the way

the sun and moon become one
androgyny is for the best
when the globes are conjoined
to see the grace at last combined
allow the sky to tumble down
beauty comes in many forms
denying walls that most may view
with pure desire as reverence.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181231.
The poem “Hold the Sky” is about the beauty of androgyny.
250 · Oct 2018
Mirages
poetryaccident Oct 2018
Illusion may have its way
bend reality with a friend
while allowing music’s lead
to orchestrate this short affair

the fallacy will be embraced
a blink of joy as consequence
not enough to cure the itch
still the balm is revered

the romantic may be teased
with a wink and nudge
first to stir and then to sleep
returning to the waiting depths

the partners speak in hushed tones
without saying a single word
allowing motion to relate
what’s allowed in fantasy

pretending there's something more
in the conjuring of the song
then return to boxes where
innocence will be restored

the lyric bard may not abuse
considerations beyond that realm
when all that’s granted by the dance
are mirages that soothe the soul.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181016.
The poem “Mirages” is about the transient joy of social dancing.
249 · Aug 2018
Smoke or Bullets
poetryaccident Aug 2018
Smoke or bullets both prevail
when applied to the slaves
seeking more than they have
still denied by master’s whim

changing minds with tempting lies
evangelism turned to Satan’s cause
leading most to their knees
worship granted to the lords

those not twisted will submit
to the force commanded there
dogma bent to pacify
demanding fealty or slow death

this shared foundation will result
in converts to the cause
once entranced they will stay
pledging witness to their fall.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180826.
The poem “Smoke or Bullets” is about the tools used by cult-like organizations.
249 · Dec 2018
Become a Poem
poetryaccident Dec 2018
I became a poem to realize
the hidden depths both good and bad
that dwell inside my twisted breast
both victim and so much worse

below a surface many see
lays a monster seeking peace
the die is cast by its own hand
along with wounds from other men

this sum that borrows from the soul
asking dues that none pay
with the rub that all must give
more than fairness would see fit

to those ends I press letters
like sad bodies of butterflies
against the page as if to blur
where I stand against the rest

hiding in the midst of prose
there is wisdom in what’s shared
if only the muse would point
to the parts that mean the most

perhaps some others will disclose
how these apply to my world
when the poet becomes the poem
they are lost within the words.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181228.
The poem “Become a Poem” was inspired by the quote by David Carradine: “If you can’t be a poet, be the poem.”    Poets who write A LOT will place themselves within the resulting poems.  To what end?  Sometimes they may even listen to the advice given.
247 · May 2017
The Other World
poetryaccident May 2017
Excuse me if my words cut deep
when the lines were meant to *****
the conscience sleeping down below
slumbering while a world drowned
I'll lean into the ****
asking for the next few minutes
long enough to read the text
a poem's reflection of your soul.

The slash draws red upon the skin
this is the color shared by all
reminder of the liquid shared
crimson base below gold threads
yet still the colors are confused
gold leads to silver, then to green
imagining reality where none should be
if caring is for the fellow man.

What is the measure for your charge
dictation of what comes before?
all things aligned, in their time done
something's first, the highest goal
expectations writ to book's pages
the clink of coin in a purse
comfort gained, never lost
these are the gild some have lost.

It's fine to stand on the tall hill
until the winds carries the screams
from the eddies below the perch
writhe the sinners of your mind
they are not lesser than your idols
specifically yourself in mirror's frame
blessed by a god you only see
perhaps it's your image you embrace.

Ivory towers with lone residents
fortunates seek the frosty air
with no taint by the lost
drifting up from hell's domain
the stench is scattered by money's breeze
the hurricane that lifts the boats
to a shore that few should see
shared disaster seen as reprieve.

When red is ocean's hue
my words seek to disabuse
those with skin too thick to feel
with images from the other world
when red is spilled at time's course
no matter how remote a life became
I hope my words found a place
to be considered before the end.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170512.
My poem, “The Other World”, was inspired by Benedict Smith’s quote “I asked her if she believed in love, and she smiled and said that it as her most elaborate method of self-hurt”.
244 · Dec 2019
Acceptance
poetryaccident Dec 2019
Acceptance by friends is most kind
given they don’t know my mind
even as the questions reign
traditions felt in harsh complaint

ill intent is not the goal
as reactions come and go
when the source defies a life
expectations become a lie

those deviations from the norm
presented to a perplexed world
are only measured in this way
while self verity defines my day

the combination may instruct
by actions lived the deal is struck
acceptance offered in the storm
revelation as worlds are turned.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20191205.
The poem “Acceptance” was inspired by friends and associates presenting acceptance of my alternative sides even as I sense that they struggle with frames of reference to truly understand.
242 · Jul 2017
Enough
poetryaccident Jul 2017
I wish I was enough for them
filling lives with luridness
at the same time falling short
with a lack they'll approve
alluring tease bereft of guile
an equal who knows their place
fair to eye to please the lust
still demure to reflect desire

maturity is confidence
blessed when life hits the ropes
an object for the pedestal
prized with a wisdom they proclaim
this is true, except when it's not
fateful youth fills the mind
no gender is safe in their age
when juicy fruit is what they're not

I'd be saint and the *****
which of these would they like?
one to sate a holy book
the other brings pleasure to the *****
both exist to fill this shell
available at a moment's whim
frightening those who realize
the same is found within their mind

strength is blessing for a time
with the source in life's realm
wisdom of a thousand days
attraction hung to tempt a world
sadly these are too much
enough blunt the simple mind
wanting all, demanding less
lest their state be then judged

conquest becomes the fashion
a prize to stalk and then to have
greatest thrill is the chase
anticipation of what comes next
until the quarry has been had
full in hand, revealing all
then the disgust arrives in full
a human being, not the dream

all of these evoke a rage
turned towards object that is craved
when contrary is called out
stating trickery has been found
or the crux is darker still
attempt to have the cake at hand?
power wants to have the ****
to eat the same while in command.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170713.
“Enough” was inspired by the maddening disconnect between what people say they want, what they really want, and how they act when they receive the latter.
240 · Sep 2017
The Fiend I’ll Be
poetryaccident Sep 2017
I start the morning with a mask
put on my face at dawn’s edge
it will stay until I sleep
in the lair of my retreat

the one chosen does depend
on the tasks near at hand
the high or low call my name
both are part of the divine

**** or saint, perhaps both
sides of a coin that may be flipped
while in the air both exist
the telling comes with experience

if you wink they that may change
first the holy and then the sin
each is satisfaction’s quest
feeding souls or damning them

it all depends on appetites
emotion’s draw to either side
feeding at the trough of life
satisfaction is the result

you’ll see the frown or the grin
etched on my mask to relay
how I wish for you to see
the day embraced, the fiend I’ll be.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170909.
“The Fiend I’ll Be” is about picking the appropriate face for a new day.
236 · May 2017
The Monster Vanished
poetryaccident May 2017
They wondered if the monster had vanished
vacated it's lair, slinked to another place
there are days when this seems to be the case
hope eternal in face of a peril not yet gone

others did not know of the creature's curse
so well hidden to the face of common folk
or perhaps their lives mattered more
than a soul possessed by a beast's desires

past sightings had alarmed the village
with omens that set the church bell ringing
doom promised when none had come to pass
a grateful sigh sprung to the collective lips

funeral pyres built on the green grass
coals readied for use to start the blaze
waiting for the match held by devil
the one that dwells within holy halls

the caring hearts have been moved to action
mounting campaigns to hold the beast at bay
so many battles fought with cold comfort
when the war extends beyond will to care

the trove of gold is still its to guard
with jealously that few would believe
a lifetime stacked behind the fiend
with intent to destroy with no regret

the monster is still in residence
sequestered until the end of times
prayers sent to God to hold its hand
longing to be set upon the world.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170501.
The poem “The Monster Vanished” is about a monster that stalks many people.
236 · Oct 2017
As Shackles Fall
poetryaccident Oct 2017
Grace enclosed by prison walls
with a brightness few may see
when the stones reflect back
the light doomed to remain within
where two trials are endured
before a rescue may occur
these I’ll share as a jail
binding tight the struggling soul

shackles with the lack of length
to engage bless beauty’s realm
denial says it’s not so
another try refutes the hope
nothing ventured is the same
when the outcome disappoints
contradiction of faith’s dream
that loveliness is at hand

these are embraced as second skin
soon the armor wraps around
first too heavy to walk upright
then embraced as consequence
protection was the old purpose
enclosing pain within cold steel
now like a mummy the binds pull
with a life gladly denied

from the outside comes a call
fingers working against the straps
removing stones in the walls
wanting to see what’s inside
now alien in the hole of time
too long submerged in the well
I hope the barrier may be dropped
as the shackles fall to the ground.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20171021.
“As Shackles Fall” is about the challenges facing too many lives.  While the world does not promise rescue is at hand, there are those willing to help their friends.
235 · May 2017
I Wasn't Real
poetryaccident May 2017
They said I wasn't real
because I hadn't slept a man
they said I was a fake
because a woman was not in my bed
proof conceived by a litmus test
they'd not apply their own kind
I mean the babies coming up
with desires aligned to the lateral.

They drew the lines in the air
rules applying to themselves
transferred by a thoughtless voice
seeking application to my soul
this I reject because I must
upsetting as it may be to them
I cannot lie about who I am
why is this difficult to comprehend?

Attraction was not real to them
when proof came from what they saw
my proof felt for decade's length
was transparent to the opinion's view
they judging the sum of intimacy
on only their applied anatomy
where the things plugged and played
became was the standard for totality.

If I found comfort in another's arms
the ****** switch from adam to eve
or visa-versa, this would be my way
this would not change my destiny
I'd still be real unto myself
regardless of what they have to say
I'd still find the beautiful
in my self-made reality.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170511.
The poem "I Wasn't Real" is about bi-****** invisibility and the challenge of non-acceptance by a larger LG community.  The poem was prompted by the theme “where do I belong?”.
235 · May 2017
The Most Fashionable
poetryaccident May 2017
It's off to the dance
this fashionable guy
to rock what others will not wear

no more jeans down below
I'll leave the dockers
mere pants are not enough

forget the artsy t
and the pola shirt
I'll find another top!

put me in my man-skirt
perhaps the elephant pants
I'll bend the masculine

my dance shoes won't go outside
fresh from their sacred box
even if they don't match

perhaps I'll go dapper
with jacket, vest, and top hat
never mind the cane, it's extraneous

even a one-piece may be worn
RompHim is the brand
pink with poka-dots

I'll share where I will not go
forget Borat, that fashion *****
a mankini will not grace my decor

now the dance has seen it all
I'm the most fashionable
rocking what others will not wear.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170517.
“The Most Fashionable” is a humorous tribute to my friends who do dress to impress on the dance floor. I just do the artsy t-shirts. One of these days I’ll ascend the fashion staircase.
234 · Oct 2017
Dear Jane or John
poetryaccident Oct 2017
I’d write a letter to the world
‘dear Jane and John’, all of you
relating the age-old sad tale
I’ve found another, now you’re out

it is normal to wonder who
replaced all of humanity
I’ll save that knowledge till the end
then reveal the answer there

first apologies to the people
stripped from my life by the words
I know you didn’t see it coming
kept to myself until I wrote

the relationship has ended
as love once flourished has been dimmed
in its place is a longing
for another far from here

if it’s asked about the feeling
I would admit that numbness calls
begging for another lover
clad in black, guiding the boat

when the wine turns too sour
vinegar is all I taste
it’s no wonder pen has chosen
to scribe the words that separate

the fairest have lost their charm
arguments fall flat with their facts
left to rot in my vision
when the eye take’s the dark path

this is where the shadow rests
the one for which I’ll take my leave
a letter left on the doorstep
as I leave with me to find some peace

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20171005.
A Dear John Letter is defined (via Wikipedia) as “a letter written to a man by his wife or romantic partner to inform him their relationship is over because she has found another lover. The man is often a soldier stationed overseas, although the letter may be used in other ways, including being left for him to discover when he returns from work to an emptied house.”
234 · May 2017
Candor’s Might
poetryaccident May 2017
With a poem I'll state my mind
looking back down the trail
to where I stand now with my angst
off to a future waiting there

I’m struggling, yes, that’s a fact
though introspection is a bless
putting plain the turmoil inside
making honest what tries to hide

depression grows in dark corners
the light of day shrinks the hurt
remedies move to the front
when pathologies are made precise

anxiety is mistreatment’s child
blossoming when left to cry
champions are called to help
my own mind, those of my kind

it’s a bubble that I desire
to seek the healing, to meet the minds
words put to page is just a start
to letting others know of my heart

friends are found through my poems
honesty through this shared light
I will heal with balm of love
pursuing both candor’s might.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170504.
“Candor’s Might” was written for prompt about how I cope when I struggle mentally.  One of the things I do is write poetry, seeing honesty and the companionship of others with similar struggles and life situations.
231 · Nov 2018
Comfort Found
poetryaccident Nov 2018
Somedays I choose the extreme
go beyond the edge of this dream
embrace the nightmare of the beyond
seek a shadow to dwell upon
I put on the jacket and cinch the shoes
tie the garrote around my neck
walk to the edge to plunge within
all these rules I must endure

now I'm the model of self-repose
normality set with the perfect taint
these goals I set for myself
exclude the spirit of sanity
grasping the ring made of brass
allows decorum to be the boss
a straitjacket to bring in the bucks
now life’s harmony is justly forced

this balance leaning toward the right
the rule of order becomes the crux
for noose set just right
against a neck offered to the crowd
the Hangman gives a nod
the job well done is for the best
comfort found in absolutes
sacrifice for the greater good.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181109.
The poem “Comfort Found” was inspired by thoughts about fitting into the larger world.
231 · Apr 2017
A Fool
poetryaccident Apr 2017
Thank the Lord for a fool
not the next ****** in our midst
though his followers would like this
the rest of us are too blessed
"return the whites to power's seat"
say the alts on the right
hoisting him on their shoulders
only to realize he is a hoax.

Religion could take the stage
center to all that's said
if money were not the crux
of that ego's need to rule the world
homage is paid to holy men
or those who would like to rule
by the staff of dogma's breath
that path is blocked by power's dupe.

To be right is all that counts
apologies are the loser's fall
instead his road is to the sun
Icarus warns of consequence
the one trick pony with his Justice
nothing more can come of this
when the stench of failure spreads
the tumble will shake the land.

Caution is for lesser men
art of the deal is his path
most will lose for one to win
pray the world pays due heed
in the end my hope is this
that the fool remains himself
wanting more than he will have
while the true power is denied.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170425.
The Planet P song "My Radio Talks To Me" prompted me to write the poem "A Fool".  The song features the voice of ****** berating his country to action.  I feel relief that our 45th has not (yet, hopefully never) realized the dreams of his alt-right supporters.  While a conservative Supreme Court Justice has been put in place, the dominionist longings of the uber-evangelical are doomed to failure (for now).  These sentiments are the focus of my poem.
231 · Jul 2017
Mirror, Mirror
poetryaccident Jul 2017
Mirror mirror on the wall
avert your gaze from this mortal
rescind judgment, look away
I'll have no part with you today
others may rebuff themselves
or even worse, in relative
these I'll look with different eye
gauge their beauty above the blot.

Then the monsters assert themselves
in form of mist inside my head
capturing vision to misuse
seeking wounds on psyche’s soul
taunting whispers, pointing paws
stating wrongness all too large
flaws are plain in their sight
best to turn in case they're right.

Others don’t see my flaws
or if they do, they play them down
mole hills where I see mountains
a little bump where I feel walls
the quickest glance is enough
please don't pause, look too long
lest the fears be then confirmed
by mirror, mirror on the wall.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170714.
“Mirror, Mirror” was written about my dislike of mirrors and my mild symptoms of BDD.
224 · Nov 2018
The Week
poetryaccident Nov 2018
The week has passed without respite
the hole made large by encounter’s lack
until at last the moment came
to once again step away
this rendezvous outside the lines
drawn on the map to console
uncaring souls who would condemn
congregating to dance anew

to these ends the time has comes
assignation to soothe the hearts
loneliness swept aside
as two gather to strut as one
a glance confirms the mutual
dual intents matched to meet a lack
no longer will the craving burn
when it’s fed for a song

the crowd of hundreds melts away
no longer present in the room
pushed by passion of the dalliance
to the realms beyond desire
stepping between the here and there
a tryst completed without remorse
what’s now sated will find repose
until the same time comes again.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181107.
The poem “The Week” was prompted by the request to write a poem about a rendezvous, meeting, tryst, encounter, or hideout.   The secret midnight assignation is made public by the poet’s hand.  I turned to the world of social dancing to document such an encounter.
224 · Jun 2017
I Was Nude
poetryaccident Jun 2017
Once again I was ****
within the confines of a dream
none who waked saw my form
would they want to? I don’t know

my body came from vision’s realm
I didn’t mind the fancied shape
stress came from lack of clothes
how did this happen? this I’ll tell

the garments were gone by my hand
one moment there, the next vanished
something pushed me to disrobe
what was the purpose?  you’ll never guess

I could breathe when in the buff
something gave when I was stressed
the raiment lost gave me hope
where did that leave me? let’s inspect

in the end I sought to cover
though I longed to walk naked
that was the plan, now find the clothes
why this dream?  the answer beckons

here I’m revealed as in dream
a poet’s words is bareness’ cousin
on each day I strip with words
with sleep’s sight as my passion

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170607.
The poem “I Was ****” is about sleep symbology that I experience from time to time.
221 · Jan 2019
Time For Punishment
poetryaccident Jan 2019
The time for punishment has arrived
line up the guilty for their trial
where the judgment is assumed
none shall refuse the stated sins
their lot is cast by consequence
all shall abide by the decree
the penalty shall match the crime
begin the grouping of the contrite

put the partisans in their groups
one on each side away from foes
with the worst in the front
holding weapons that drew blood
these hooligans will lead the pack
declaring statements all must condone
the brush is tarred to organize
one from another in their tribes

now put the shameful in their place
then state ‘mercy will be denied’
when the cries are exclaimed
to the gods now deaf by shame
the blood will flow in cleansing streams
evoking strength in witnesses
all shall declare that justice asked
for the censure of faithless ones

a final twist is now exposed
the sentence ****** just one trait
neutrality from the warring bands
no side selected among the crowds
this disinterest was their end
when only followers are held right
the unbiased are dubious
not holding creed with dogma's blight

once the lukewarm has been spat
from the mouth of pious folk
the hot and cold may battle on
with the assurance of sacred scripts
none will cry in the end
while the pundits lead their charge
all doubt is vanquished with the fall
of those who doubt conviction's charm.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190130.
The poem “Time For Punishment” is a wry look at who is ultimately punished for the ongoing “culture wars”.
221 · Sep 2017
Phosphorus Burning
poetryaccident Sep 2017
Matches stacked in neat rows
building blocks for the more complex
constructions begging God’s blind eye
while hoping Satan will play along

temptation spun to make a life
disregarding the consequence
as castle towers reach to the sky
built with desire in moment’s time

the long bodies have no danger
be they wood or paper made
same as a pencil or a spoon
myopic vision is the lure

given that the head still waits
explosion tucked in dormant sleep
always waiting for its time
to realize its aim in life

utility is the highest goal
ignoring tips that carry fire
when excitement seeks its own
rebuffing peril of future doom

when a spark becomes the end
bringing down the tallest dreams
ignition ceasing what came before
phosphorus burning before the rest.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170929.
The poem “Phosphorus Burning” was inspired by a Tumblr picture of a matchbook and lit matches.
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