"abet" poems
the mushroom may
grow next to
other mushrooms
but not on top of them.
Two may decide
to grow along side
one another.
they may lean
so close that
it seems their
base is one,
but still each
stands level but
seperate on the
same ground.
look even closer
and the individual
mushroom is, itself,
a relationship of its own.
each mushroom,
from stem to cap,
is a population of
individual and free
single celled organisms
who bond together
for strength and structure,
to abet the survival of all.
really puts the
human condition
in perspective.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:59 AM UTC
Totalitarian menace
refined, tailored pants
bleed malignance and
fear.
What stalks the passage,
normally?
Tear off my clothes, with subordinate cruelty
and tortured fiefdom from the sun
invading damp alleyways
and musty cement corridors
abet you enthroned
on that sidewalk stump.
I curb,
the habit
blindly happenstances about
yore salty ruins
we yodel, indiscriminately.
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 2:22 PM UTC
Thou shalt no God but me adore:
'Twere too expensive to have more.
No images nor idols make
For Roger Ingersoll to break.
Take not God's name in vain: select
A time when it will have effect.
Work not on Sabbath days at all,
But go to see the teams play ball.
Honor thy parents. That creates
For life insurance lower rates.
**** not, abet not those who ****
Thou shalt not pay thy butcher's bill.
Kiss not thy neighbor's wife, unless
Thine own thy neighbor doth caress.
Don't steal; thou'lt never thus compete
Successfully in business. Cheat.
Bear not false witness--that is low--
But "hear 'tis rumored so and so."
Covet thou naught that thou hast got
By hook or crook, or somehow, got.
2.1k
Somethings false
somethings true
somethings are
too true
the elements looked inside my brain
said this man needs some storm rain wind
to aid and abet his pernicious melancholic
too true
worries list and complain ain't gonna do,
put when a revelation slips out
that touches the highest priority
pain points
writing poetry
can't help
even and especially if
too true
like to tell you I am happy to be alive
but that would be a lie
somewhere behind my forehead is
an amorphous ache that only goes quietude
but Cain marked never disappears.
you can't take it with you,
happiness seems to have a shelf life,
a half life, that cuts the time you get to get it
in half.
but the amorphous ache
you call depression
that I call
desperation
has no life,
it just never dies
Rain, flooding and wind advisories
come to mix and match
the desperation that is
pill-proof
they don't laugh at me,
cause they know
desperation is
too true.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
To my schitzophrenic mind,
You are all the same.
You are him and he is her,
She has more than one name.
Do not try to ever lie,
Or abet in the foolish game
In order to persuade me,
Or explain why you cannot flame.
I can see the forest for the trees.
The winds shakes their mighty lofts.
When the storm is raging,
Dieing things fall off.
What good is any word without a meaning?
Only those with tear-stained egos disagree.
Nobody wants to hear about your sacrifices.
You aren't the only ones who ever bleed.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 4:48 AM UTC
A CONFUSING DAY FOR CUCUMBER FISH
I’m not being able to escape this, in parts, either on the slip where the drifters weigh themselves against daily chores, or to the perch, where against the millions of suns striking into the cabinets where devoted criminal ****** *** offenders aid and abet their children:
flying kites, tossing bread crumbs to water fowl, playing tag, hide and go seek, or
Cooking food, drinking cold alcoholic beverage, and listening as a friend with a guitar sings about the child born in the mountains as a man, only to find the world as a legend.
Still there is no escape. There is only the peril of night stretching 99% of our brains across the tepid sky, only to wait for the light of those suns to fade, and then only have to worry about the dross and muck on every fingerprint of every man from this place or the next. These are fingerprints that ooze the familiar green devil whose face familiar ages our futures before they can even happen. Then we succumb to the bitterness of these years on the perch, the stoop, the step, wandering around the chollas in nothing but a pair of aquamarine boy’s briefs. This is not insanity. This is the product of insanity. This is not losing, this is the product of living under a government that has been taking what it could not afford, and who trades in what hurts rather than helps what ails rather than aids.
This is the ratcheting heard inside the bruised and frail hearts of many. The pain inside their backs and legs and arms and heads is real. It smells real. It sounds real. It feels real, but no one here has ever known what it is that is happening, therefore they do not understand the great costs being played with when these oozing poison-stricken fingertips start playing at the game of life, or they start playing at the game of their neighbor’s life. There is an outcome of sunset still yet to be seen, and that is the inescapability and uncertainty of millions of children being born today, tomorrow, and hereafter. The children tomorrow should not have to worry about washing someone’s fingerprints off of the skin they have yet to be born inside. Stretching across the dusty and quiet streets, if this Wild West is closing its wildness out and isn’t doing anything but wandering west, there isn’t a committee of sanity that will prevail. Especially as we choke through the gravely heavy metals meddling with the untold stories of tomorrow’s sons and daughters.
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 12:45 AM UTC
Morning abate
with hazelnut
spread on
toast that
surmount any
surprise with
lather that
only minutes
elongated tweezers
frequent inside
strand that
abet her
with hazing
particles for
extremes package
soon upon
her face
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 7:06 AM UTC
1: “could you not pick your nose in front of me?”
2: “I'm not picking, I'm scratching.”
And then, utter silence.
The hourly routine of the sitters.
Warm and clear or humid and foggy,
their day always manages to be bare and cold.
With their unpleasant sets of ashy, unwashed heels, broken through the years, the numbers untold.
Watching all that is theirs.
For a benchwarmer is a proprietor of anything that keeps abet, his deepest fears.
The greatest fear, failure, being the most aggressive,
jabs and hammers on his itchy, small, frictionless small back like an overturned adhesive.
For once upon a memory so distant ago that its credibility is askew,
Were men who had dreams and hopes, to awake to the feel of the morn’ dew.
Men who, have long since settled into their nichey existence.
Men who were once the go-to for persistent consistence.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 1:24 AM UTC
Artisan lay
concrete where
his craft
only bear
his strain
that seat
luxury subsequent
in his
leisure with
agent ring
that ready
abet culture
shock and
consort love
with ecstasy
ware peace
tomorrow bring
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 8:58 AM UTC
I wanted to speak of his powers
As King preached for liberty
The world seems to know of legends and Englishmen behind platforms
of heroes and villains on stages
and maybe of some med students explaining how unprotected *** leads to ***
But tongues have not yet spoken of his rampant ability
to be a beacon and a tempest
how he could raze and raise
abate and abet
I wanted to tell them
Why the soil recall his footsteps
And the leaves hiss as he exhales
But he dresses in polyester and he even walks unmasked
Everyone speaks of anarchism and GMOs
Then fetch a beer and watch the football game on live stream
I wonder if roses are cowards which embrace their raspy thorns
But then I remember how I would grasp you in a heartbeat
And I wanted to tell the world of your powers
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 8:03 PM UTC
Dear Mother did you know that you beget,
A flower in my Heart that doth my pain abet,
Watering it for life with loving rain,
Soothing it with lullaby refrains,
Tending to its stems and to its soils,
In which it is with Loves light deep embroiled,
A seemly sight are you with watering can,
More qualified and skilled than any man,
To nourish the ****** diamond of my Heart,
For thine affections the gift of gorgeous grace impart,
Such a daughter never wants for more,
But may in ignorance for more implore,
Yet grateful am I for transcendental blossom,
Kindled in my mind for all your wisdom,
Your perfect care and sweetest charity,
That stokes the gift of love and amity,
When the sky collapse, with thunder bolts,
That strike upon my heart and give it welts,
Dear mother from her bedside duly raise,
To tend to me, and so I offer praise,
In worthy, sanguine, devoted Psalms,
For you mother a million alms,
And a hundred million drams,
Knows Love cannot be count in grams,
Dutiful and diligent on her way,
Dear Mother you assuage my dismay,
Be forever aura sent to heal,
Dear Mother, hear my Love, earnest appeal.
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 9:38 PM UTC
I'm fighting grind-split tooth and peeled nail
Against all my selves I call other.
Veiling mortal wounds with gossamer,
I claim romantic identities
Falsely, with sinister abandon.
Coiling ever inward and away,
I withdraw me from poor reflections;
From glaring eyes betrayed and pooling
Tar melting down from scorched railroad ties
Strewn alongside deserted highways.
I run again home to a cold box:
Fluorescent orange light grating down eyes
To dull accessories, who abet
Escape to asylum in wombing
Safety of echoing monologue.
Reason rides to mind a snake oil savior
To colonize my nobler instincts.
Blood-choked and complacent, I'll deny
My proudest breaths were spent defending
Glass towers of an empty castle.
Rend all your erstwhile double-tongued pharaohs.
Cast out inner sycophantic slaves.
Lay civil barriers to ruin.
Surrender to grave knowledge of self.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
Today love is arcanely stool
this rhetoric still pain abet
though she descry a Chairman Mao
only an insight of her macaw
that her perpetual harmony's bound
and Alfred Tennyson barely there
but in cardigan to dress again.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
Springing forward this last Sunday,
A most confusing act;
For reasons clear no longer,
Our sleep we so impact.
Bodies still adjusting,
Long after clock's re-set;
A change that's so alarming,
'Tis trickery we can't abet.
They say that we'll get over it,
Our sleep won't always lack;
But by the time we're rested,
Sadly, we'll be falling back.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
It seems so far away
My youth preserved that precious little thread
Convinced a price I’d never pay
Convinced I’d never be dead
I thought my skin iron armor
A shield to all the shifting forces
The forces that nature threw at me
Until I saw life at its sources
And for lasting life, was my loudest plea
Never before
Have I seen so visceral a scene
Until I witnessed life escape, stripped to its very core
And on that pavement, so impressive a rouge sheen
Tears shed from my iris
Like I could change the horror
And shrieking like my efforts pious
Calling life, to my side I implore her
For him, I beg her company
For me, I’m no source of council
Though I cry, don’t trouble me
For I’m not the one that woman killed
I can’t express my grief
No petty conglomerate
Could afford me relief
For I’m not the one that woman killed
His blood was steaming
On that September road
By the sidewalk, dun and grey
Like life between its anti and node
I can only cry so much
Before it no longer matters
And it becomes another event, such and such
And its significance becomes a thought, to the floor it clatters.
Don’t cry for me, though I’m rife with ill
I don’t need it
I’m still alive
I’m not the one that woman killed
Think about that body rushed away
On determined heels
To the hospital, on precious time played
His fate, despite man, sealed
I’m not there, no fruit to give
My presence not by his dying side
Though he screams to the empty, futile air
My efforts can’t discourage his departure nigh
Though the sun may rise
Thougt the babe born
Though the shoot will rise
I will still morn
His loss, the rotting human soul
That sits in a wooden box, rested in the solemn hearse
Carried off by the bearer of palls
And buried deep beneath the earth
I’ll lament the loss, I’ve lost it
So very suddenly placed, without abet
This event so caustic
I’m face to face with death
But I’m not the one you should morn
Despite the tears streaming from my face
I’m not the one with the greatest of ills
I’m not the one you should be praying for
For, I’m not the one who that woman killed.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
Unseen,
destructive reaction
a branch quakes,
pines sway,
whiplash,
forces glide
millions of fingers,
through my hair
the original pompadour,
no adhesive necessary-
the original home wrecker,
no mistress necessary-
all natural,
one-hundred percent reusable
eye pulling,
lip smacking,
directionless,
brute force
Strong enough
to lift a house…
Delicate enough
to abet a butterfly…
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
A story at the End of The Road
Farewell, me ol' mate....me handsome rover
The night has grown darker
Long ago me youth was torn in tatters
Things i've done not ter flatter
I can not sing comforting ballads no more.
Nor can sons o' God whose songs are beautifully sung as o' yore.
Thus, ne'er ye seek fer enjoyment deeper than heart.
For i am ter find me way ter part
Nor are ye goin' back
As chances of glancin' we lack
At simple pleasures in our lives
Fer many have been torn by strives
A memory at the end of the road
We were born as the fair ones o' our generation.
Tales among our nations.
We are just another page o' their lives
Our role was ter overcome their fear so rife.
No angels could abet
No devils could mislead
A Memoir at the end of the road...
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 4:31 AM UTC
Perhaps you aggrandize
Those sacred manifestations
Lupine resonance
When the moon takes a cooler hue
Ebbing in the western sky
As I scurry
Furtive in the wake of wolves
Cavort under cover of shadows
The darkness lenient
Diana's placid orb obfuscates
Any deeper meaning
These solo notes from husky throats
The soul’s chronicle lost
Your hackled superstitions don’t abet me
Demure dogs shiver on silvered chains
With the acumen of stones
They throw themselves
Lick the hand of the master
Fawning malleable in your fettered life
You crave the panacea
Of stagnant water and stale kibble
Trade these wild cries for silence
Shrink from the eminent colossus
Freedom is the howling nemesis
Beyond your black and white vision
You never see
The multifarious color of coyote dreams
TL Boehm 070508
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
This is me,
Looking for you in a dimly lit bar
Only to find you
Forehead pressed to another nameless girl.
This is what love looks like to me.
To aid and abet,
To give you the freedom you crave
Which does not come with the restraints of commitment.
This is what love looks like to me.
Giving all that I possibly can
And trying not to take too much from you.
Letting you do and say what you like
Being your accomplice, your friend
And never judging you.
But you make it so difficult sometimes.
When you say that you'll look for me,
But instead you're dancing with another.
When you say you're excited to be with me,
Then you sleep next to someone else.
When you tell me you'd do anything for me,
But then you forget me and our plans
At the earliest convenience.
I love you.
I would and do give everything I can to you.
But this act, these consequences,
Your point of view.
It all has me skewed. Diluted. Drained.
Done.
And I'm not sure really where to go from here.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
abet
or
crime
thinking
smoke
drink
no
drag
dancing
away into the li
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 3:45 AM UTC
two grandkids, five pigs, six cows, 18 chickens, four cats, and a lonely male duck
~ for my friend, a gentle man who farms certain moments~
heard the word that a certain poet of the day
has a secret crew who aid and abet his perspective,
the precious precision to understand and retain
the flashes of color that need painting albeit in words
read that some animals develop regional dialects,
so it is with humans, we listen, like and learn subsets
of vision and that even every collective moment, nonetheless,
each speaks differently, but only the few, the very few,
have the mellifluous tongue to translate those private seconds into syllables so essential human and we learn that skill from careful listening to our heartbeat's singing response
to love and pain from all living creatures, great and small
6/24/17 5:06am
S.I.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 5:32 AM UTC
I saw him not in suavest suit
For he is coy at a disguise
And disguise is mastery in that place
Infested by swarms of spies
Those wretched parasites on haunch
Of Beauty who inspires lullabies
He sauntered 'mongst that drifting crowd
In worksmen's clothes and cap
A pair of aviators on
To beguile the crowd perhaps
He cocked his head and stared at me
My heart swooped soared and clapped
I never saw a man so sweet
As he, eyes' charm potent, intense
Gazed upon this pilgrim rapt
Her heart filled with awe immense
And with every step her Love increased
Put past to reason, sense
I chained myself in soul and body
To him, my kinship flame
And was wondering if so his malady
Would become less tender, tame
When I sensed his drudgery, demise
Was a baron's law, endgame
Oh Lord! The very glow of Love
Seemed then to wither, die
And a chasm opened in my Heart
As wide and deep as sky
My soul was barbed with thorns of Christ
To think of Him with earthworms lie
To think of that Heart hunted, hung
In tyrants grim steel net
Sullied my very own with pain
Not even sight of him could abet
Dolorous I sobbed and screamed
Till my cheeks were red and wet
To **** the man who loved the world
So much he staked his soul
To bring down tyrants castle
Whose oppression the mind appal
But his heart forever beatific, bright
Have pilgrims rapt in thrall
That he loves too much may be his sin
Some others too little, theirs
Their truths sell at an ugly rate
His for free he shares
Knowledge for the masses true
Not a tyrants wares
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 2:20 PM UTC
I am walking in the hot summer wind
But I am shaking because the flowing tears were chilled.
My heart is running fast
And my head is aghast.
Hands are not free but held in the tight fist
I am afraid of seeing my bleeding wrist.
I feel someone's hand on my forehead
“Wake up sweety it was just a bad dream.”
My head is covered with sweat
But the firm hand of my mum abet.
In The battle with inner me
Days after days she wins
but
Today is the golden day cause I win..
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
Why us?past years,days,weeks and month we never saw the signs but the sun was keen on enlighting showing us the bright side,dark clouds moving us from bad to carol songs by the melodius birds singing in the forest,we abet until our companionship ablazed like a toddler seeing its first sight of its mum,gods grace gave us glamour,we did not look behind until we saw the signs,when the summer comes,flowers blossom our hearts interact like a cable and a plastic,our feelings crushing,crashing and cracking up and down,but we ignored them,why us?as we cheerful as atmosphere,the twin butterflies lies on our bonds
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 2:25 AM UTC
a vitamin
no duet
soggy chanty
she gleefully
abet her
set in
bloom with
her trigger
hole fillet
in juice
now feverishly
the vamp
played this
orchestral piece
of mind
there with
her white
chaparral fleece
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 7:45 AM UTC