"acquiescing" poems
every time we fall in love,
they call it trite,
a false fairy tale.
love is weak.
and weak ain't trending no more.
every time we speak our mind,
they tell us to shut up,
too young to have an opinion.
the youth is unreliable,
too many fresh hormones.
every time we stand up straight,
they cross us,
crucify us.
acquiescing is appropriate,
they gift certificates in frames for that.
every time we subscribe to a higher code of ethics,
they call us radical,
salivate, and spectate as we are torn asunder by lions.
love should never transcend national pride,
here it's guns, god, no homosexuals or mexicans all the time.
if i make a stand, and you make a stand,
and the dominoes begin to fall,
if i inspire a dozen, and you inspire a thousand,
the gears will grind, the tide will turn,
the lions will all be too full,
and
they surely will run out of nails,
before they've crossed every single one of us.
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 9:26 PM UTC
Morning Rainbow
Myriad prismatic crystals,
refract the morning sun-streams -
painting layers of spectral arches
across the misted horizon.
Eyes turned to the western skies,
we suspend our meteorological selves
acquiescing to miracles unveiled before us -
un-beckoned and scarcely earned,
proffering thanks for the radiant epistle
of healing, hope and promise,
artfully encoded in transfigured light.
Synthetic Refractions
A luminary ballet takes center stage
when synthetic refractors come to play:
crystal pendants bathe our foyers
with dazzling swaths of color.
Hazy coronas encircle streetlamps
discovered by headlights through the fog.
A science class prism slices light rays
into pre-ordered spectral strata.
If the sky denies us a rainbow,
we can always fashion one of our own
and we do!
Spectral Sound
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls
and the murmur of woodland streams
held us captive by their banks.
Soon we learned to sing and tint the air
With prisms of wood and wire and metal
and to color soundscapes in our spirits
With songs of wonder, joy and longing.
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls.
Robert Charles Howard, 2019
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 1:14 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Time goes by fast
But memories that last
Are like snap-shots of the past
That we view in contrast
To the here and now
And so we make a vow
To apply the breaks
And avoid our past mistakes
Time goes by fast
And nothing ever lasts
For those who are miscast
Or the errant iconoclast
In the rear view mirror
Things become much clearer
To the standard bearer
Who see them much nearer
Than they were before
When it was easier to ignore
The intricate designs
Of the various warning signs
Time goes by fast
And nothing ever lasts
For those who are miscast
Or the errant iconoclast
Seconds minutes hours
With all it’s magical powers
We observe like blooming flowers
That time finally devours
And as slowly we retreat
To our thoughts so bitter sweet
Not acquiescing to defeat
That occasionally we meet
So we long for yesteryear
Cuz we’re far away from there
And the veil is very shear
Between there and here
Time goes by fast
And nothing ever lasts
For those who are miscast
Or the errant iconoclast
Time goes by fast
But memories that last
Are like snap-shots of the past
That we view in contrast
To the here and now
And so we make a vow
To apply the breaks
And avoid our past mistakes
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:32 AM UTC
I heard someone whisper "he's such an arrogant ***** as I entered.
Those crooked sons of ******* don't have any idea,
I'm the kind you hardly ever come across except in winters,
when all the street rats are begging for heat.
I command attention at the head of the table,
I am the head of the table,
and sever the head to **** the municipal body.
The wigs and robes and gavels I accessorize command it too.
When I sign things I do it haughtily,
I carefully etch each and every ********* letter onto writs of demand.
I stand!
A hush lingers,
I catch the eyes of Walter Weiss, he lies with every breath
and did you know he is unfaithful to his wife? I heard.
the shudders are shut, my druthers. Oh, Walter!
notarize my forms of annexation, please.
and take down this:
To whom it may concern:
You have 7 days to remove yourself from the premises
as you are aware of the edict that preexists
and preempts your residence
and your squalor misrepresents
your laziness.
Signed: The holding powers, in eminence.
Oh Walter Weiss, address it to yourself!
I pride myself on tact.
And package with the writ this evidence form
sent to my office following a secret examination
conducted by the Department of Residential Safety and Heath.
Do not bother me with demoralizations, Walter!
Due to discourse with the Act of Discontinuation,
(which of course is subject to broad generalizations)
the lien sector of the Savings and Loan Association
have concluded you are found in violation of, through reasoning by generalization,
failing to pay duties on your mortgage issued by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation.
Oh, Walter, how distressing!
Don't falter, acquiescing
is always the way.
Just never, ever forget to pay.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 4:43 PM UTC
I am just a shell.
I don't have much life inside of me.
Well maybe a little sticky mess
that resembles the form of a snail
trying to squirm my way out.
I only need one foot for that.
That's a good thing because I severed the other
foot attempting to come out of my coffin from an early burial.
What happens when a snail realizes she is just a snail?
She says, "Ok, I'm a snail. I'll do what snails do."
Slow and steady wins the race...
So why do I feel like a red tailed hawk looking for an opening to soar through?
*Acquiescing to a snail's life
is the same as having my wings clipped.*
*I may be caged, jailed, grounded...but in my dreams I fly high towards the endless horizon.
Leaving that slimy shell prison in my dust.*
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 7:59 AM UTC
Our God is really excellent
At death and genocide.
How we love to celebrate
How many folks have died.
We always feel better about life
And the wonderful heavenly joy
When we’ve murdered some foreigner's wife.
Or when we put to death girls and boys.
It is so commendable of humans
To execute those who are different
Or if they commit the cardinal sin
Of being some kind of sick dissident
Who refuses to do what we want
Like maybe lying down and acquiescing
Or refusing to shut up and play along with
Our political posturing and window dressing.
And is is all sacred and very holy;
Every bit of it is hidden by claims
That all genocide and bigotry
Is committed in our God’s name,
Unless the genocide and prejudice
Is directed anywhere near us.
The we whip out our Bibles and cry
And make a self-righteous fuss.
The Golden Rule applies to all
Except heathens and non-Caucasians.
And then it’s a noose, SWAT team or
At least an *** for every occasion.
Because killing people is terrible;
It is simply not the proper way
To deal with all of life’s issues,
Unless we want to, then it’s okay.
And all of it is by The Good Book
If the right verses are selected.
The American Bible is written to insure
The right people are not neglected.
And everyone should worship
And join the Living God’s legions
And be exactly like he lived life:
A blond-haired, blue eyed Norwegian.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 6:42 AM UTC
.
I travelled the lands out to the West,
of all the cities I am most impressed,
with Melk, by mountains and sea it rests,
ruled by the Queen, Lyenna of Cressed.
Her beauty is famed throughout the land,
with many suitors for her vacant hand,
none of whom will ever understand,
she will marry only her own hearts plan.
I met Lyenna in her Palace of Green,
and my eyes saw beauty they had never seen,
so mysterious and delicate this foreign Queen,
seductive and distant with charms unseen.
Invited to an audience within the walls,
how could I not reply to this royal call,
these affairs tend towards a chaotic squall,
a chance to meet a Queen in her Great Hall.
“Lord Pagan of Poetica, I'm pleased to meet you,
its so nice for me to personally greet you”.
Her soft voice designed just to defeat you,
her ravishing beauty on show to unseat you.
With reddened cheeks I was able to say
“Its my pleasure indeed to meet you this day,
though the ground is cold and the sky is grey,
your presence brings the warm sun my way”.
My charm raised a blush and a smile,
she was happy to tarry with me awhile,
in the gardens we must have walked a mile,
her suitors barely concealing jealousy and bile.
Then Queen Lyenna whispered a secret to me,
she was waiting for a man from across the sea,
until he came she would hold on with assurity,
to her chastity, her love and her purity.
Her confidence in me was by no means assuaged,
but her secret I keep dear like an animal caged,
as deep within a raw and primal fire still raged,
I felt this moment could not have been better staged.
Her shy request to become my lover,
gifting to me what she would give no other,
my desire and lust I could no longer cover,
my heart was hers, no longer for another.
Disillusioned with the men in her land,
refusing them all she had made her stand,
not acquiescing to what her father planned,
the smile in her eyes said “I've got my man”.
From 'Selected Works'
by Lord Pagan of Poetica
© Pagan Paul (08/02/18)
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
antagonistically I am alive
Languish is a two laned road
Misogyny be my name and my role
Pride be my form
The sins of my brothers and my sisters
they be here no more
When my blood rises from the dead
Ebonics will overcome phonics And our lives will be spared
I am done playing politics
done being your diplomat
if you want the olive branch go get it yourself
I am done acquiescing to your decisions and demands
I am prepared to throw up my hands
All I want is to be left alone with my kin
All I want is for my diction to not define who I am
All I want is for peace not to be left a dream
We as a whole are taught that dreams can become reality
That america is a country created and shaped by our thoughts
Yet our reality is becoming nothing more than a nightmare
Someone tell me who thought of this?
How can we turn our reality from the nightmare it has become into our dreams
let us be honest it was never a place for my people
But since we are here can we not claw each others throats out and get back to the problem at hand?
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 1:05 PM UTC
you wrap your hands
around my ever growing waistline,
yet I am beautiful,
you told me so,
or was that a lie,
and where do the truth and your lies separate or are they the same now,
do you know the honesty you lack,
and maybe i find that attractive,
do I?
how could I not know you were incapable of truth telling,
bi personality,
a hybrid disease of acquiescing all that you seem,
and I've believed you,
what does that say of me?
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
they've taken over the shop
they're running central command
should you be acquiescing at their feet
to you they'll stretch out a friendly hand
those who aren't in the fold
the ones on the outer
shall never be given an entry
for only the top liners
shall obtain a front door key
it's plain
it's simple
it's a management decision
who will be in
either
the inclusion
or
exclusion
departments
of
the
store
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
Childish churning chickadees--
chastened
in the dark denim confines of the bulging pocket.
Chatting urgently only in touch,
when their bodies grind together
where two or more gather--
like prayers, like lips do like hands do--
Uncomfortable shape-shifting;
feeling tense as legs shake loose the bunched up mess--
digging into skin like silver teeth or a silver bullet
encroached within a werewolf's flesh--
Musically: creating new timbres accompanying
suddenly aggravated gaits--
Ching ka-ching ka-ching ka-ching--
Fumbling in the darkness.
Ka-ching ka-ching clawing incessantly,
as the forlorn children of burdensome currency.
Soon, their captors retire to worn couches
to engage in aggressive loafing--
growing sluggish and torpid,
legs slacken and jeans loosen--
their lips at the captor's hip bones
spilling out their shiny contents like dripping saliva--
and down, down the children go,
choking between the cracks of the worn cushions.
Bodies shift, aching for comfort,
the farther, farther down they go--
their cries drowned drowned
by pillows acquiescing to mushy bodies.
Those that survive the dreadful encounter--
clinging to their prisons--
feel once again the stifling hands of death
reaching grasping groping in their huddled fretful presence
to be tossed loosely carelessly onto bedside dressers;
for a fate unknown to themselves, nor the hands
that toss them absentmindedly.
It is rare that they are brought to the light of day again.
(It would have been better,
to have sunk acquiescently,
down into the bulbous stifling purgatory
alongside their unlucky kin.)
There is worse; for those who are left in their denim prisons
are thrown--cage and all--
into the jaws of Poseidon's mechanical canine,
who sits on its hind legs patiently and consumes ravenously.
They amass at the bottom of its belly,
until intense gurgling acids arise,
reaching higher and higher til
all are submerged.
They are tossed in voracious waters,
twisting and churning and gasping and drowning--
holding onto each other like prayers;
feeling pulled ****** into the vacuum--
cries lost in the gaping pores of the gargling volatile beast--
lost, lost, lost,
in the cries of forever longing.
Goodbyes: *Goodbye,
dear friends.*
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Time goes by fast
But memories that last
Are like snap-shots of the past
That we view in contrast
To the here and now
And so we make a vow
To apply the breaks
And avoid our past mistakes
Time goes by fast
And nothing ever lasts
For those who are miscast
Or the errant iconoclast
In the rear view mirror
Things become much clearer
To the standard bearer
Who sees them much nearer
Than they were before
When it was easier to ignore
The intricate designs
Of the various warning signs
Time goes by fast
And nothing ever lasts
For those who are miscast
Or the errant iconoclast
Seconds minutes hours
With all it’s magical powers
We observe like blooming flowers
That time finally devours
And as slowly we retreat
To our thoughts so bitter sweet
Not acquiescing to defeat
That occasionally we meet
So we long for yesteryear
Cuz we’re far away from there
And the veil is very shear
Between there and here
Time goes by fast
And nothing ever lasts
For those who are miscast
Or the errant iconoclast
Time goes by fast
But memories that last
Are like snap-shots of the past
That we view in contrast
To the here and now
And so we make a vow
To apply the breaks
And avoid our past mistakes
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
the song remains the same
short
frantic
fast
thirty seconds of
aggression and
distortion and
******** punk
radio pop follows a formula
where experiment is anathema
and the flavor is bland vanilla
even lines of simple rhymes
gently fragrant cadences
for inane entertainment
unlike crooning ballads that
meander through soundscapes
pondering existential enigmas
in time with rhythm and blues
the banjo strings accompanying a
shadow on horseback riding on towards
a sunset setting the world asunder
we are all concertos
symphonies of solemn symmetry
a myriad of harmonies acquiescing
to the meaningless tunes of the universe
whipped hither and yon by the whims of
chance and happenstance in this
tumultuous hurricane of existence
some songs have not yet reached their conclusion
one began the moment the galaxies were painted
in broad-strokes across a tapestry of vacant space
still more have lost a beat they can't repeat and remain
forever frozen in anthologies kept in some ancient
library in an extra-dimensional plane
presided over by Father Time
a blind watchmaker created by the words that
sprung forth from cracked and withered pages
containing endless evanescent anthems
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
This space is tender.
Every inch, a ubiquitous sense of peace.
A gift, found under a bedrock of a beautiful smile.
A gift left over by the warmth of your hands.
I'll always remember the little things.
The steady acquiescing sound of your voice rippling through my spine during a midnight conference.
The simple, but warm vibrations of your childlike laughter.
Your nervous eyes seeking cover from my gaze.
Here's a list of my demands.
Here's a list of my emotions.
Finally, sanctuary under your soft lips.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 11:12 PM UTC
The boy who clicks off the light, reads on the couch, to let sleep consume me-- or who reads beside me, metal-frames dipping low
while his eyes pour over the page.
The boy who tucks me in, acquiescing the blanket softer than peach fuzz-- like the ambrosial peaches his grandmother gifted him in the winter and he shared sweet.
The boy who always makes sure to kiss me good-bye
and fills the room with jazzy notes-- because they represent me,
though he never liked jazz much at all before.
The boy who asked me to wake him if I go somewhere because he'd prefer me to remain beside him, but he understands I have things I need to do, so he cannot always wake beside me,
a weight he can handle.
It does not match the boy who told me he does not love me,
though he likes me, and I am haunted by hollow translations
that force me to delicately dance around a swear word in the
English language like "love".
It does not match the boy who said we wouldn't have much of a relationship without *** and I am haunted by uncertainties of my convenience that force me to stumble with the hope that our
past does not define our present.
How I feel about you, through my actions, through my words, are truer than any logic, but that might not matter
because the boy does not want to hear words that have
a weight greater than he can handle.
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 9:25 AM UTC
There is a glass dome given by father
enforcing an encephalon enclosure
citizens claw at the wall for freedom
testing the structure's durability
but they only scratch the surface
desperately covering all 360°
and the temperature only rises from there.
The citizens form an insurgency
against their flesh ruler
measuring their humanity
determining inadequacy.
The militia inside fights internally
arguing against acquiescing to aqueducts
barring bridges from being built
while legions fracture over stagnant water
until the entire nation contracts legionnaires' disease.
Bewildered beleaguerment brings bulky breathing
fogging up the inside of the glass
until the citizens can't see out of their own bubble
floating around—ready to pop.
The citizens bang on the glass
staring at their own reflection
the only way out is inside
a place they've come to despise.
Feb 7, 2022
Feb 7, 2022 at 2:39 PM UTC
I like to leave my mark on my books.
I've gotten into the habit, as of late, that when my books are tangible
With pages and dog-ears and tears,
And little coffee stains and broken bindings,
That they also hold something else of me.
When I stopped writing my story,
I started scrawling responses to theirs
Everyone else's
In my books
Novels and poetry
Are scribbled with underlines and little comments,
Agreeing or acquiescing,
Rebutting or rebuking
Some author or character to whom I feel a particular connection.
I like to leave a bit of myself in my books
So that they might be no one else's
Not ever.
Compelled by feeling,
I scrawl my heart on the pages of my books
And make us the same.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
Fitting perfection into imperfection; ****
Destiny’s paths in a fallen world; crooked
Sticking to the original script in spite of modification; stubbornness
Purpose contrary to the films of the soul; conflict
Bogus revelations from false prophets; false rights
Subject to the interpretation of the bearer; truth
Scripts that leave with a new feeling contrary to believing; doubt
Birth of belief and place of surrender; the heart
Authority to rule and reign; ‘Kings and pawns’
Set against enemies, an army; game of chess
‘Come with me I will lead you;’ submission
‘I will lead you to the light;’ enlightenment
Do without questions; acquiescing
Ability to choose but submitting; ‘Free will’
A path of morality and virtue; noble
Journey led and guided by a sage; life
Multiple paths and closed doors; labyrinth
Noble hearts and genuine allegiance; humanity
Unfeigned confidence; tried and proven
Result of weariness and exhaustion; stumbling feet
Inability to walk along due to doubt and disagreement; separation
A journey of backwardness; digression
An act that devalues; abasement
A sentence that is unjust and from a hot judge; wrath
Crooked paths lead to broken streets
Broken streets lead the soul into debasement
Debasement leads to corruption
Corruption leads to horrors that make a freak
A freak of nature
The result of lies, lies, lies.
A broken plot
A bogus belief.
P.S; written at 5am(16/04/14)
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
It used to be you and me
Separately, distinctively
Distinguished from others
More than sisters and brothers
More than fathers and mothers
A family of our own
Two of us alone
Facing a world ready
To tear us apart
Separate us
Denigrate us
For loving each other
Choosing one another
instead of acquiescing,
Bowing and scraping
To the rules laid out
By those with the clout
To call us names and scorn
Try to deny we were born
As the people we are.
But, it turns out, so far
We are stronger
And out love lasts longer
From when we had begun
Than those who feel none.
As our love moves along
We have become twice as strong.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC
Riding
The color
Wheel
From
Liftoff
To splashdown
Onyx
Eyelids
Heavy with rheum
Waking to
Laminated
Stick-ons
A vinyl ocean
Of unco adhesion
And snap vacuum
Jettisoned
Trinkets
Of youth
Soaring
Prophetically
Overhead
Acquiescing
As scenes
Of upended worlds
The simple playgrounds
Both remembered
And loved
Sep 3, 2020
Sep 3, 2020 at 10:56 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Uncomfortable days
And sleepless nights
He eats their souls
In tiny bites
While promoting the
Supremacy of whites
The kind of controversy
In which he delights
They find themselves
Acquiescing
To various things
That he’s addressing
It takes a while for them
To learn their lesson
After they’ve become
One of his possessions
In good time
No one denies
Everything he touches
Eventually dies
Or becomes someone
For him to despise
With reputations tattered
Otherwise
If he’s not Satan,
Who is he then?
A corrupter
Of women and of men
Who swallows their souls
Like only he can
Which his victims
Eventually understand
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019. All rights reserved.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 6:14 AM UTC
Moonshine full upon our seas
Evening breeze sweet beckoning
Reach below, within me deeply
Move me in movements deep tidal pools,
Acquiescing the air a kiss or two.
Inside where we’re wet with need,
Drown me in your love.
Jul 7, 2021
Jul 7, 2021 at 5:13 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2022.
What’s wrong
With the world today?
It’s really hard to say
If you’re asking me
Then I’d reply, we must have lost our way
Climate change has rearranged the seasons
And war’s declared everywhere
Without adequate reasons
What’s wrong with society
Are you really asking me?
The answer should be pain enough
For a blind man to see
And there’s only one conclusion
That I would postulate
The world as we now know it
Seems to be full of hate
What’s wrong with people
And their priorities
We appear to be acquiescing
To right wing minorities
We’ve abandoned long held principles
Held by our majorities
And we’ve made the far right
Our new authorities
What’s wrong
With the world today?
People we have
Feet of clay
And we let our vulnerabilities
Constantly get in our way
So consequently
There’s price that we’re forced to pay
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2022. All rights reserved.
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 12:06 PM UTC
April is the cruelest month, so some poet said,
Likely vexed to the breaking point by its coquettish nature,
Alternately promising and withdrawing
Sweetness of the warm sun, rustling green blankets of leaves,
The flirtatious, intoxicating perfume
Of the violet and lily of the valley.
For all its coy fluttering of eyelids,
April may delay but never denies,
Yielding its lover’s bounty and then some
To suitors ardent and otherwise.
Its forerunner of two moons prior promises no such delights,
No flora-and-fauna maidenhood as recompense for devotion;
It is the time of purification, of the purge,
A time where light is at a premium,
Often coveted but rarely apprehended, its fleeting manifestations Matters of obfuscation as opposed to illumination,
Soon to be supplanted by fierce meteorological harpies
Short on subtlety but long on effectiveness,
Carrying away those not equipped to resist its peculiar charms
(The too-early runt calf, the aged and nearly-blind collie
Trotting to an unfamiliar field or wood lot,
The newly-solo grandparent acquiescing to the song of the abyss),
The unfortunates consigned to some crypt
Or undisturbed corner of barn or basement,
Proper farewells set aside for some indeterminate time
When it is feasible to block out the knowledge
That the springtime is promised to no man or beast,
Especially at such an interval
Where so little seems to separate one from the other.
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC