#wrestle
Ducks wrestle doubly
Wet from rain and river flow;
As above…qua-a-ack…so below.
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 4:15 AM UTC
Call call callous
all wretched all broken all
hear the melody call
discordant heart
arrhythmic
choked, abysmal
abyss, abyss
while the clock still ticks
are we
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 6:31 PM UTC
who the **** knows how an alien would view us
terrified, at the awe inducing power
we've wrestled from the world
and the lack of respect we have for it
mortified, at the sheer opulence
we've dug out from the earth
and that the many shall never see
inside, we all know
that anything makes more sense
than a perspective that rung
even neutral
Jun 26, 2021
Jun 26, 2021 at 12:48 AM UTC
Adam's hand wrestled and bound:
unsubmitting, defiant, in anger, rages;
The Name of the upper hand is known,
but denied, and the Son of Man blasphemed.
May 14, 2020
May 14, 2020 at 10:16 PM UTC
Are you angry?
I was.
I was angry you didn't love me enough
And still chose to tell me
But now, with time, I'm grateful
It was good for me to recognize those feelings in myself
I needed to wrestle with whether or not
I wanted to leave my relationship
Or value it more because we loved each other so much
There are a lot of people that I can love a little
But few, if only one, I can love a lot
And I don't know if I would've known that if we hadn't been caught
So while I was angry you didn't love me more
I see now that it was enough
I will always be grateful for what it was
And I hope you hold onto it
For the both of us
Jan 6, 2020
Jan 6, 2020 at 1:41 PM UTC
Sometimes you are called too big for people.
Because the heart is too big
The dreams are too big
The expectations are too big
But I’ve learned what that means
Is that other people are too small for you
Maybe you burn too bright.
Maybe you DO feel too much
But in a dark world what people need is light
Shining hopes and glowing dreams
The glory of a valiant character
Maybe they will be brittle and broken and old
But at least you will have had them
Those pulsating memories of adrenaline and beauty
Effort is no foolish thing
You may put it into only certain things,
But the reason people like me burn out so quickly is because
We put so much into everything
That eventually we can’t put anything into everything but the thought of death
See, we glowing, shining, beautiful, people
We are the ones who see the glory in effort
The intelligence, the courage
We know that failing is only a small possibility
If you are already in motion
We shiny people are also the darkest people
But effort is beautiful and strong
And effort isn’t you
You don't get to be effort
Effort is me.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 8:48 PM UTC
Parkland: Oh My divine, We Wrestle Over What is Yours
and what is mine
***it took days for the after- shock and awe to arrive;
the bizarre tempo reversal, myself, out of order,
is my shame, after the mind’s pretense ennui of “yet another,”
had to slow seep away beneath the
firewall cutting off the pain of my the true self
and the I, of ordinary
how else, to keep the madness away?
it’s disguised in a well tended secured lockbox
chamber labeled, I, all about me,
deep hid in the rear, not too near the true self,
must keep the unseeing functioning, functioning
but bus-ted poet is triggered and the weep welling
in the eyes commencing that makes writing on a cell
on a moving vehicle an annoying frosting
on what is an inconsolable hell
everyone stares unawares that the shock,
is without awe, and the only awe is in awful awful awful awful
we sit at the Friday eve sabbath table to begin our negotiation;
but there is no negotiating though the excuses and the divine’s stumbling, flailing failings are pre-prepared,
we know this battle too well and the outcome as well,
it is mine true self’s to win, have me not
words and stanzas and music suffice
to convict the lord of the hosts, adonai
take all your seventy names in vain to crush the vanity of
omnipotence for your godliness degrades and your instant access to where the good in me resides is cutoff;
under My Contacts
you have been***
blocked
we shall meet as always on the Day of Atonement
but this year no repentance to be granted, the pardons shared
with my kind only, none left for the lonely gone-gods,
no longer seek yours for me, there are 17 extra to be given out***
the left foot and the falsehoods join in the denunciation,
though some suggest reprieve and only reproach
for isn’t atonement possible for even gods? No. not,
for a god who got human kindness installed in all his devices
but then never opened the app
my name was
onlylovepoetry;
but for now, till the culling of the agonies is done,
till the hollows are refilled and the curses fully final expended,
till the sudden eye tearing ceases to render me torn, messed,
you may call me nothing but this:
onlyreproachpoetry
should you come calling
there will be no beseeching,
just the stoic bearing witness of my silence,
my finger-pointing judgement,
and my angels presence
“May the angel Michael be at my right,
and the angel Gabriel be at my left;
and in front of me the angel Uriel,
and behind me the angel Raphael...”
and above me seventeen new protectors
whose names my true self will now memorize,
for now they are mine
~<•>~
2/16/18 4:34pm ~ 2/17/18 3:34am
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 8:43 AM UTC
my wriggling
dory in
nautical wine
that attested
my craw
with my
line high
now artistry
win a
bite-sized cling
that naturally
could sing
and dance
with the
air and
rhythm of
its strand
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC
I’m afraid to sleep on earth
for the fear of having to fight again
battling for rest
only against myself
Past the stratosphere
no one can hear you dream
like they were trying all along
And I can’t either
which is what made it so appealing
but you can only wrestle with nothing up there
for so long
until the sky comes down again
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
the muse of her daytime mind
cast in paper and plaster
burns in effigy of her wandering heart
directionless tones seep from beneath her lip
as her hot eyes scatter place to place
in the neatness of arranged stuffed animals
who neither claim or deny
just gather dust like a memorial to the passing ages
the 8th muse sits entwined
in the onslaught of the forest's burning desire
to grow unchecked by man's hand
to grow despite the sea of grey gripping the sky
her bland flesh
in pastel colors
just clings to the rain
running like makeup under tears
and the handcrafted sketches
of paper-thin smiles
are but a foretaste of masterpieces to come
she will find her own Sistine Chapel
for her soul to wrestle
she will find the word redemption
and know its meaning to the core of her soul
© 2018 mark john junor all rights reserved
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
within twenty first century promotion
sans scientific paradigm
dogmatically hefty, kinetically lofty,
and poetically thoroughly, xyz beliefs misalign
wherein mechanistic Ptolemaic,
static venerated yin yang benign
choreography describing elementary forces
governing heavens inviting jinxed, kooky,
loopy measures necessitating pacific rectification
to guarantee spatial objects remain in line
which notions trotted out
a cosmic deal with invisble ink
omnipresent, omniscient omnipotent
benevolent creator link
synonymously afffixed terrestrial
firmament (planet Earth) nsync
with bedrock of deified Gibraltor
until undisputed supposedly
figuratively hermetically sealed
fostered religious (church) fathers
to do more than blink
when inquisitive minds (undaunted
though invoked as heretical martyrs)
blaspheming solidly entrenched
blind faith functioning with charm
mingly quaint association with amulets, churinga,
equisite fetishisms guiding humanity
innumerable journeys kickstarting
legendary modus operandi initially harm
less lee sounding out,
what manifested into a schismatic alarm
regarding millennial questions
underming liturgical moorings
strong lance heaving arm
irrevocably toppled geocentric mindset,
nonetheless this oblate spheroid dance
sing with the stars redoubled
devout hangers-on fixed
with barnacle cleaving devotion stalwart stance
Page Number Two:
populace behooved (as would be expected),
when Douting Thomas' revolutionary screeds
threatened (prior to unending)
univeral schema just by chance
and despite proclamations pronounciations,
and provocations roiling status quo
hashtagged as evil rants
eventually zealous warfare between
growing heliocentric individuals
with sacrilegiously blatantly deranged
fiendishly gnarly heathens –
perhaps the Renaissance own Timothy Leary
the dawn of a quantifiable, explainable theory
(minus all those concentric embedded orbital paths)
diktat preachers eventually became weary
to challenge recalcitrant (purported hell raisers)
**** I would have fit right in as a rebel rouser)
whereby agents provocateurs spout vestigial claim
to Gaea remaining front and center of galaxy
on par clubbing with Mother Mary.
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
Struggle in the fight
With the words to life
Throw them to the mat
Wrestle them until still
And start to shine a light
© 2017 Jim Davis
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 1:21 PM UTC
**I was in a small crowd of roughly 300,
I was standing there watching the cloudy skies,
Near the beach. It was then that the spaceship landed,
Building speed, out of the blue, it found someone,
To take them away for their human life.
A battle broke out, it was almost like
A Transformer had just become the
Next alien spacecraft, and there was
Nothing like it, or so it seems.
I said "NO," seriously not liking the
Idea of this alien taking a poor human being,
But you know what the alien found?
Too much of a match, wrestling, he wound up
Losing control and the human won,
Walking back to the crowd. His friend gave him a
Cigarette and the right to look like a big space man
Had finally gone down...**
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
Some days
I wrestle with fear
of what might be
darkness
a snare
secretly waiting
to ruin my day
to captivate
so I remain
in a place I don't belong
Years have revealed
fear is nothing
has no life
no body
no form at all
Permission to live
is granted by me
the only life
it will ever know
rides on the scary avenue
of my stupid mind
I could open the door wide
invite it to stay
allow it to take shape
my shape
my eyes
grant it permission to be
my voice
lend it
my limbs
let it breathe
and move
and makes things happen
to live
a few short hours
as if it were me
and steal
so many of mine
I told it to leave
I want to be alone
not to be the best pal
of the wrong kind of company
I won't turn something
that is nothing
into my imaginary friend
I've rolled away the carpet
blocked the pathways
closed the door
and locked it real tight
Peace
be my company
embrace the inner me
and laughter will discover
it has legs to stand on
Peace
becoming
breathing
moving
and making things happen
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
She had wrestled with many a serpent that had wrapped its slinky body around hers, tightening its grip for death, squeezing every drop of life from her. And each time escape had appeared to her by a slim chance, luck was there in the moment. And there were wolves too, with voices oozing charm, dressed in style, in the woolly warmness of sheep, but hungry dogs, dribbling, waiting impatiently to devour a good meal. She had run from them all, breathless, wide-eyed, heart pounding within the chase.
They wanted life....her life, desiring those beautiful things. Needing to be full of all the good that was in her, to enable them to shine, as she did.
But things have changed, she scans the world with new eyes, in these untrustworthy days. And now the living dead can only afford to hiss and growl in the darkness. Not once will they get close enough, to lick the salt, and taste how delicious she is. Not close enough, to hold on and wring her dry, not any more.
She sees them coming now, even before the day dawns. She hears their mischievous desires, moan and rumble like distant thunder on a cool breeze. It is always the same, as each one approaches; a cheesy grin, the freak in disguise, with its deep inhale of breath, ready to spin the hallucinogenic tale of their lives.
Their blatant nakedness wants to make her break out in a girlie giggle. But she holds it in, stops it with a little finger against her lip. Shines a sophisticated womanly smile, and asks quietly, "Who are you?" Then turns her back, walks far away. Never looking behind, not even a thought of it. No fighting, no running. And her heart remains quiet within.
Three words....and they are nothing. Ignored, to complete disintegration. Those mutants who prowl, to destroy her beautiful world. Slain with a question they can never answer. For even they do not know who they are.
Her light shines, just a little brighter. Life goes on – life lives in her.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC