"abetting" poems
♦ ♦ ♦
She was an earnest devotée.
Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay
were globally diverse (read: white).
A liberal bark preceded bite.
Her crystal clearer than her vision;
she provoked bemused derision
as she breathed intolerance
toward all who would not dance her dance.
She swooned for distant pagan tribes,
attuned to their exotic vibes –
rapt in multi-culti piety
strangely deaf to her own society,
judged by her as abomination;
unredeemed. The background station
always stuck on N.P.R.
(the soundtrack of her culture war,
Pacifica News and Democracy Nows,
and other progressive holy cows)
Her motherland a shameful mystery:
guilty first, and void of history –
its origins defiled, corrupted…
while she enjoyed uninterrupted
freedom to pursue her whims:
misguided one-world global hymns.
The sisterhood of hu(man) kind
was foremost in her earnest mind –
even should that same sisterhood
be sealed by her well-meaning blood.
Out on a date with global death
she hoped to unify the earth
in solidarity with causes
led by killers, warlord bosses,
thugs she never knew existed
who, if she’d met she’d have resisted.
Her theory landed far from her praxis
spun, by default, on an evil axis.
Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed
quite certain she was well-informed,
at benefits, non-profit functions
rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons;
warm with righteous spite for Israel,
aiding and abetting Ishmael
with fellow-travelers, like-minded
similarly hateful, blinded,
rattling sabers, scimitars, axes…
(lunacy never wanes, but waxes
hotter with the passing years
as activists confront their fears).
She finally shilled for the Intifada
(stopping short of reciting Shahada),
reaching out to the terrorist
with righteous raised progressive fist…
offering thus her neck to blade:
collateral to be repaid
by murderers who couldn’t care less
about her open-mindedness.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
Ask Germany for they surely know
The tales of Heil ****** death and gray snow
As the blonde Fraulein's with blue eyes
Strolled the avenues inviting and slow.
Delicate flakes kissed the putrid air
Neath their feet lay the ashes of innocent souls
The ****** winds of approaching war and salvation would blow.
Oh Germany my liebchen
There is no denial
Mitt dear you were patriotically complacent
Turning your eyes away in shame
Pretending you could not face it
Sipping schnaps ignoring and abetting the genocide from afar
In warm cafes that closed its doors tightly shut
Smugly shunning the arm branded gold stars
6 million and counting were blindly lead to slaughter
There was no preference
Only Jews non human
Beneath their feet
It was of little matter.
Cast your eyes to the floor
For my lady you most surely did know
When the smell of fresh death filled your nostrils
Drifting down from tall stacks
The scent of pungent thick gray snow
Some would feign surprise
Others of course truly were
But those touched by evil
Denied ****** freely committed and known
Whence sprang the fire source
The smell of charred flesh
Into the sky ablaze the souls arose
So came the infamous days
Of falling gray snow.
Tammy M. Darby Jan. 17, 2018.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
A few strokes of bad luck
What else could it possibly be?
A ****** up coincidence?
Or lack of empathy
Fingernails grow like ice crystals
Lying by omission
Aiding and abetting
Vandalize all that's beautiful
In this world that's not worth living
Love letter in calligraphy
Doodle in the margins
Images
Of something that's just not me
We're just friends
Lies and and false emotions
Follow you like smoke follows beauty
I wanna hate you
It's not easy
We're just friends
It's not easy
To hate someone you love
I wanna hate you
Like I can hate myself
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 6:32 PM UTC
Oh Atlantis where art thou?
Deep within the abyss, far beyond the maze of madness,
bewildered in the wilderness, hungry 40 days.
Hidden from thine eyes are journeys unexplored
where life begins within.
How do I summarize what lies within the mind of your mankind,
being of a kind, man in kind.
Concealed in the center of your mental’s universe,
dictating life’s travesties and endeavors.
Stories unfold, as the ages pass unfolding reality, unraveling the mystery
of the conscious deep inside.
For what hath thou experienced?
And what doth thou have to give?
Wisdom forever disputes thine intellects irregularities.
Forewarning us
of the days to come
embracing the adventures that lie ahead.
Trial dare not stop us
hinder us
or beget us.
We must fight through the mystery of your history
overcoming adversity and demise,
triumphantly striving.
Many uncharted paths lie ahead
therefore unlock your iron gates, which gives us vision.
Bid us to come in.
Release what the pulse knows true.
Breakaway from the pain that has you chained, hiding beneath,
aiding and abetting prophesy,
so that those beyond will see…
Oh Atlantis…Where art thou?
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC
We’re tying our shoes-- as we think about the day's gifts
Holding strings-- curling ribbons with latent sweat
"I’'ve heard they’ll pull us through-- we tie around each box
eyelets, through tunnels and catacombs."-- a shimmering luster abetting
beyond the sky.
Today we mourn those drained sausage-limbs at noon-time
--(Sallow-cheeked mistresses and fortunes abounding
for those who have time for such things.)
With tears
--hiding the feelings of those who have none
slapping the ground.
We see
every unfurling light
combine with blots of pity
to fortify prairie grass.
And I remember an old gravel highway that separates my family and church from geologic
build-up which the wind is slowly chewing.
I can't be with them-- like the western, sandy steppes of Nebraska,
I can't hold water, and their loving nourishment sinks through me.
My arms won't be like ribbons, in an embrace of the
dead’s remitting tendrils.
As I lay outstretched on the Sand Hills, shielding my belly from the desert sun;
boring water trapped in caverns under neatly wound sweat-bows and boxes
I, one day, too, cry emaciated tears.
Surely, we are tethered firmly to the spool, dangling with
tensity on the tines of breath, shimmering, aloft-- but also, don’t forget:
We are fastened by a knot above our leather casing
holding the body in-piece and being manipulated at once.
We decorate the boxes, in which we are to lie
with wet, green ribbon, pulled through rocky soil by course, chapped hands.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:16 AM UTC
Snuggled in Downey, five-hundred thread county, creating,
in brushed cotton flannel she's sewn his panels, he's waiting
when down in the subway he sits on a nail
and jumping up, empties his cup on the rail
the coppers subdue him, and drag him to jail, parading.
Stripped to the drawers for a search they discovered the flannel
panel
when asked of the man who had frozen his can in the English
channel
he gave them the name of his seamstress and then
discovered that inside the panel was penned,
a note from the woman who goes by Sangwen de Lemanel:
"If you find this it means you have bust loose the seams of your winsulation
come back to my shack, I'll be happy to tack without hintsulation
of course, if by chance, you'd be wanting some scones
while I fix up your pants, you can warm up your bones
and I'll double the thickness and strength for your own consolation".
Though the note in the pants, at a glance, hardly worth the debating
somewhat cryptic in places, suggested the seamstress was dating
could it be that this maiden with needle and thread
was hiding an inmate who'd recently fled
it was suspect, her stitch-work, a cover: abetting and aiding.
Intent upon solving the case of the note in the panel
Sherlock Dannel rode down to the seamstress and brought her some flannel
"I've sewn quilts, without guilt, for the queen, rest her soul,
and the king wore my hats, though his head had a hole
but the rest of my work will attest to my innocence, Dannel".
And Sherlock, so taken with Sangwen, whose voice was sedating
missed the gist of her kiss, but the point of this pistol elating
"See I'm really quite good with a needle and thread
but in cases left traces of blood on the dead
when my needles were shed from drawers of the bores who were waiting."
The man was immersed, but well versed in the curse of the smitten
he saw that this seamstress was shrewd and her verses well written
and hiding her needles and notes could avail
in busting loose criminals down at the jail
and if he had his way, on this day, in the pen she'd be knittin'
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
apparently allegations amassed around
all alligators about acquiring amputated
arms, ascertaining algorithms and
abetting abhorred abolitionists.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
~~~
someday soon gonna reread
the four figures of my
poems over lifetime inked,
divvy them up by what each is about,
assemblage of
the themes of me
review the who what when and weird
of this guy through his own eyes
multiplying confessions
of graces and disgraces
particular to recover,
desirous of collecting those poems that:
*valorize society’s strugglers
and stragglers...humans doing the work of living*^
don't know how many will be uncovered,
but here's hoping there are plenty,
needy of recovery and uncovering the poet
and worthy of pointing too,
valuation markers of a
decent human
strugglers, stragglers,
those from all over this world
and lives that can only visualize
no-horizon-in-sight oceans
sailors, from ports unvisited,
some even, still undiscovered,
working ****** and women,
not those,
don't owners
of fancy dress whites,
topped of by jaunty angelic-angled caps
the ones I sought and seek,
grime and coal dust etched into
every ****** crevice, ink under fingernails,
in obscurity, toil in windowless engine rooms,
in the nooks in libraries hiding,
satisfied with
a moment of glory,
and a lasting
hand upon
their wracked minds
these are my mates,
sharing fates
of woeful countenances
of bruised bodies,
recipients of hardest blows repetitious,
comrades in open arms
the unflavored, unfavored of
sons and daughters,
unblessed with sobs and smacks,
who rare lift the head in hope
the sufferers of ignominy
of the
prison of their existence,
for those I write,
have, will, and willing
to do it till I see a
chin rising, white of eyes gleaming,
a hand delisted,
arms defused of black weights
come to me,
words, encouragement, perspective,
that this too shall pass
believing ain't easy,
take it from one who couldn't see
happy endings, but had no choice but
to choose to,
now prepped, ready
for my arms to do some serious uplifting,
shoulders heavy-loaded and wide of loads,
eager for honest work,
aiding and abetting
the stragglers and and stragglers...
humans doing the work of living,
deserving for valuation,
awaiting their salutation,
and relief, even if,
tiny and small,
a slim volume of poems,
that but one
poet
provided
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC
I see you look the other way
forbearing a feigned sigh
feeling the restrained ache
amidst
a myopic casual glance
from the corner
of your eyes
so beautiful ― oh so beautiful
so afraid the sun might
catch you crying
hearing the silent refrain echo
like hindsight in a box of tears
abetting an awkward growing distance
manifest
reality weighted
gravity
pushing down stronger
pacing the cage
door
swung open
with nowhere left to go
Its not just a dead end
crossroads
in the wake of some aftermath
a portal passed
through
long ago
where mazy shadows
linger like memories
of someone
you used to know
come rain or come shine
falling leaves
return to the roots
like teardrops return to your heart
love is stronger than death
and...,
there's no such thing as fair
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 1:14 PM UTC
This house we fool around in, beloved.
this crumbled, shattered, defiled old home
is one of memories I felt true love in.
And winds of change I fear it gone with old.
The sun with awful purpose is setting.
I beg, please stay, just a while longer.
The destructive rain seems to you, abetting
I remember when you looked at me much fonder.
Without that ruined, abandoned, white house
just how will I remember how this started?
All on that roof, you and I, friends about
I released my love for you, once guarded.
But now, you and your fickle heart forget me
and I still love you, and cry in memory.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
awesome apothecary addressed as Agamemnon
alleviates anxiety, and alimentary aggravation
anodyne appeasement arrests ailment
amphetamines acquaintanceship assuages
agonizing aches also advocates amorousness
assiduously activating admiration
aggressive attacks assault air afoul
affable affinity affects adumbration
anatomical accidental addiction attested as academic,
although afterward abnegation absolutely arduous,
affianced attired apparently as an anomaly
Ares and Abyssinian Astarte admixture
acquiescence affliction affected adroitly,
and abruptly abends accessible
altruistic alms axed
albeit admonishing, alluding,
and attributing authored
autonomous anonymous adroit arriviste agents
accompanying as accomplished accomplices
accredited ace advertisers
applaud ascendent assaults amidst agonizing appeals
acting all acrimoniously apropos
avowedly ardently, and antagonistically, agitating
appositely advocating ancillary assistance
addict adrift afloat anchors away
assails along, among, and an alias archenemy -
adorned abominable assassin alters ambition
adroitly, aggressively, absolutely
addict announces asseveration
against avid admonishment
alarmingly annulling authentic affiliation
anew anonymous ability acclaims alignment
aegis actually adversarial abetting attrition appetite
acceleration ascendent after aplenty anesthetization
additionally activating arced analogous arrow
advancing added abdominal and arterial agony
abject ambivalence arrests accomplishments attainable
any artistic avocation absconded
asper auditorial approbation, animadversion
artificial aggrandizement abrogates astuteness
appropriate adjudication affronted
alternative afforded amnesty about acing audioslave
as aerosmith ambition assumes arriviste affectation
already appalling alacrity awakens amendment
although Awol administration adamant
acrimonious affront agonizingly attributable
announces another afterworld
apparent ailing apparition
ardent allegiance asking anyone appreciable affix
apathy abounds attending apriorism allotment.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
Snuggled in Downey, five-hundred thread county, creating,
in brushed cotton flannel she'd sewn his panels, he's waiting
when down in the subway he sits on a nail
and jumping up, empties his cup on the rail
the coppers subdue him, and drag him to jail, parading.
Stripped to the drawers for a search they discovered the flannel
panel
when asked of the man who had frozen his can in the English
channel
he gave them the name of his seamstress and then
discovered that inside the panel was penned,
a note from the woman who goes by Sangwen de Lemanel:
"If you find this it means you have bust loose the seams of your insulation
come back to my shack and I'll cover the cost of my consultation
and then, if by chance, you'd be wanting some scones
while I fix up your pants, you can warm up your bones
and I'll double the thickness and strength for your own consolation".
Though the note in the pants, at a glance, hardly worth the debating
somewhat cryptic in places, suggested the seamstress was dating
could it be that this maiden with needle and thread
was hiding an inmate who'd recently fled
it was suspect, her stitch-work, a cover: abetting and aiding.
Intent upon solving the case of the note in the panel
Sherlock Dannel rode down to the seamstress and brought her some flannel
"I've sewn quilts, without guilt, for the queen, rest her soul,
and the king wore my hats, though his head had a hole
but the rest of my work will attest to my innocence, Dannel".
And Sherlock, so taken with Sangwen, whose voice was sedating
missed the gist of her kiss, but the point of this pistol elating
"See I'm really quite good with a needle and thread
but in cases left traces of blood on the dead
when my needles were shed from drawers of the bores who were waiting."
The man was immersed, but well versed in the curse of the smitten
he saw that this seamstress was shrewd and her verses well written
and hiding her needles and notes could avail
in busting loose criminals down at the jail
and if he had his way, on this day, in the pen she'd be knittin'.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
I feel
that it is not my pen
but Your's
that strikes these chords.
I feel
that Your's is the abetting
and the glory
of sanity on virginal paper.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 10:25 PM UTC
This food was bad. The grease dripped off the polystyrene into the bowl as if life itself was disgusting.
He sat in his flat, unable to write. How ironic that a writer with so much experience couldn’t write his own story. He was so good at observing everyone else.
Then the haze of dubstep pounded through his apartment walls and he imagined a ****** scene in which the cops would find his neighbours filleted on the floor and all over their filthy couches.
The blood spatter, the details in which their ears had been molested as he felt his were... what happened to real music?
He felt raw.
He felt injustice.
He felt motion in his fingertips and began to type.
Ferocious typing.
Typing to the beat, angrily aiding and abetting this criminal assault on his senses.
He stopped to take the last sip of his last warm beer. He smiled…
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
13th October, 2016
To all this will concern:
I sit alone.
I just sit.
When I breathe, I try not to stir the air
and make sails out of cobwebs.
When I breathe, I urge my chest
not to furrow my shirt.
When I breathe, I almost die
so that I'm barely breathing.
For who should want my breath
to be more than a whimper?
If I breathe,
butterflies can take the day off,
for my breaths will churn hurricanes.
They'll cause wars in the far reaches of the universe.
They'll make God sneeze.
"Oh, I'm sorry... bad breath."
If I breathe,
I'll be presumed alive.
I'll have to work.
I'll work for big tobacco,
or BP
or the mafia: whichever one.
My ecological footprint will be the bodies
of your loved ones.
I'll do this because, if I work at the grocery store,
who knows when I'll sell food to the local
serial killer.
I'll be aiding and abetting the 9 to 5 of Freddy down Elm street!
Who wants that?
No, no. Yes, I'm right, it's better this way.
And if you push me.
If you so much as touch me.
Millions, perhaps billions, of infinitesimally small parasites will swarm your body. You'll sneeze.
"I'm sorry. I haven't showered for thirty days because: the oceans, you know?"
Action has consequence and, after so many years of trying not to be a burden and, somehow, still being a bigger burden, I'm convinced its time to go.
I've decided to be a sack of compost... Grade A compost.
I'll mail myself to a respectable farm (non-GMO mind you).
I'll pray to all the gods and living, semi-living & unconscious entities beforehand to straighten things out that I'm signing up with Jesus: nothing personal, I just don't think the rest of you have good benefits (you have to be cordial. After all, I'm going to be something important one day. Grade A compost isn't cheap.)
The last step was to write this letter. Digital, of course. Don't want to waste paper mailing this to everyone. Yes, I'm not stupid. I paid all the different energy companies in the world the exact dollar amount per second it would cost someone to read this each time the page is accessed until... well, the end of this website. Have to be practical.
This is a strange suicide letter, I know, but bare with me.
My method of choice.
Well, I don't want to leave a mess, so I'll just wait until I'm dead.
How did you think this was going to end?
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
What is this mania of over the top
self-absorption that appears to be
running amok, this social dementia
annoying egotism, where it seems
everyone is constantly posing and
publicly auditioning for attention.
Cellphones and Social media two
of the abetting culprits, deluding
the populace that constant selfies
a star does make. Get a blog, be a
celebrity, go on TV? Self-promotion
and crass Exhibitionism has become
a vexing preoccupation. Striving for
LIKES and Followers sending and
Trending, seeking the adulations of
strangers out in the cloud that they
will never actually meet.
What happened to modesty, or
self-restraint? Have we all lost
our minds? When did being an
average normal well-adjusted
human become not enough.
When did humility become
undesirably passe? Are we all
truly that insecure?
May 21, 2024
May 21, 2024 at 4:35 PM UTC
Some stories are more true than others
This may be one of them
Or it may be another
Some bend the line
Between fiction and fact
I detract……
Believe it or not,
Back before the world began
Before you were you
And I was me
We created the world
The way
We wanted it to be
So don’t be so proud of all your degrees
Because you created you
The way I wanted you to be
You decided where you would live
What you would do
All the experiences you would go through
I’d tell you this is a fable
And that’s one reality
If you were only able
To understand
You’re under an umbrella
Of insanity
Or could that be me
Fear not, Sir Lancelot
Your truth lancer
Is just a fantasy dancer
She’s never coming for you
Is that what you want her to do
You should never believe a fantasy dancer
Did you ever hear the riddle
Or was it a conundrum
About the two brothers
One always told the truth
And one always told a lie
How to tell the difference
It really wasn’t necessary
I’ll tell you why
hmmm
I forget the point I was going to make
Something about what is true
And what is fake
Yes, I think that was it.
So while you were planning
To do everything right
I was escaping into the night
The streets were lit in incandescent light
Nocturnal prowlers of the twilight
We too were hoping to get it right
Living under the shroud of night
Rising as the sun is setting
Bed wetting
Corset letting
Underground abetting
Courter’s of midnight insights
But in the end
Even the darkness was so bright
One gets tired of the artificiality
Self-imposed marginality
And decides to come into the light.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 6:56 PM UTC