"adjudge" poems
he said/begged,
make love to me just like a woman!
kiss me toe to head, linger on my neck,
trace my waist, begin at my lips, pause at my hips,
quibbles intersperse, quips and licks on eyelids,
nibble me, near me, close and closer yet
unto the glorious victorious near death experience...
whisper me sweet everythings
before during after and over again,
when you must pause to exhale, blow all their warmth
upon thy fingers and bring that warmth inside
Columbus
me with tongue and eyes,
take me slow then again,
even slower, for thy pleasure,
than execute summary judgement upon me
falsely accept, then deny, deny, deny
my every appeal to
oh my god
for anyone's mercy!
adjudge me then guilty yet again,
and to the tower take me
to drown in mine own lashing lamentations,
thy incontrovertible evidence,
mine own uncensored revelations
execute me twice,
slowly, goodly with lengthy and lovely measures
*she said, and so I shall, eventually,
do what you beseech, what you most excellently seek
but you may recall, somewhat earlier, I called out
shotgun
so you must start my dear by following
all the precise driving instructions you just stated,
and bring your GPS^, and, oh yes,
I'm waiting...*
too wit and sod this!
he gruffingly huffingly, hurrumphingly, replied,
*all hell and damnation,
treat me like a woman just once pity-please!"
*can't can't can't -
she be-witchingly cackled!
then sang to me the lyrical words of a
Nobel Prize winner!*
"***You fake just like a woman
Yes you do, you make love like a woman
Yes you do, and then you ache just like a woman
But you break just like a little boy**"
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 6:09 PM UTC
For Helen
who wrote it first,
who wrote it better,
and in doing so,
makes me see more clearly
the why
~~~~~~~~~
no poem should ever be untitled-
every face needs a name-
every poem needs just
one read for completion
but more than that, it is
a orphan still,
deserving of the due,
the entitlement to be titled,
a parenting of sorts
what was the thought that born it-
what was the emotion that conceived it-
what was the sight that demanded sharing?
this is the age of summary and synthesis,
140 and not one more,
so give direction, enable me to make
snap judgements, with so much on my plate,
we must predigest your concepts,
my multi-tasking slowed to levels unacceptable,
so I can adjudge you,
you worker poet,
before or never reading
after all,
why read anything untitled?
more than this however,
for the few who chew
each morseled vowel,
ken each constant consonant,
celebrate stanzas that halt the breathing
and then,
god bless the whole child,
flaws and all,
they more than anyone deserve
your consideration in return
for the title is the essence spark
of you-
and all the more so,
of what you have chosen to share,
your essentials honored
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 6:33 AM UTC
What if this present were the world’s last night?
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell,
The picture of Christ crucified, and tell
Whether that countenance can thee affright,
Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light,
Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell.
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,
Which prayed forgiveness for his foes’ fierce spite?
No, no; but as in my idolatry
I said to all my profane mistresses,
Beauty, of pity, foulness only is
A sign of rigour: so I say to thee,
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned,
This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.
2.3k
**For Helen
who wrote it first,
who wrote it better,
and in doing so,
makes me see more clearly
the why**
~~~~~~~~~
no poem should ever be untitled
every face needs a name
every poem needs just
one read for completion,
but more than that, it is
a orphan still, deserving of,
due the
entitlement to be titled,
a parenting of sorts
what was the thought that born it
what was the emotion that conceived it
what was the sight that demanded sharing
this is the age of summary and synthesis,
140 and not one more,
so give direction, enable me to make
snap judgements, with so much on my plate,
we must predigest your concepts,
my multi-tasking slowed to levels unacceptable,
so I can adjudge you,
you worker poet,
before or never reading
after all,
why read anything untitled
more than this however,
for the few who chew
each morseled vowel,
ken each constant consonant,
celebrate stanzas that halt the breathing
and then,
god bless the whole child,
flaws and all,
they more than anyone deserve
your consideration in return
***for the title is the essence spark
of you
and all the more so
of what you have*** chosen ***to share
of your essentials****
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
your thoughts and prayers ****
highly ineffective,
bluntly,
they are defective
ain’t rendering no mo’ to god
and his good old timey thing,
righteous slaughtering of the innocents,
such fun for what does He care
what we got to do is do
something about on it earth,
time has come up,
the hurricane has begun,
and world is shaking from the movements in our bones,
for now is the hour
when we sail to the shore,
and until we are done,
the sun will not respect our faces
accept this introspective invective,
politely keep them guttural BS noises to yourself,
you know who’s the guilty ones,
that would be me and you
write to the congressmen,
who have been shot,
asking what ya got, forever protection,
the crazies know where you live,
state senators from places they don’t you represent,
all that we adjudged them lazy guilty, guilty of laziness,
and don’t forget to add a p.s.
we adjudge ourselves guilty as well,
too many knew in advance, the dangerous ones, who were
lurking, them waiting, us in desperation hoping,
it wouldn’t be happening then delaying one more time
all over again
*”Oh the foes will rise
With the sleep in their eyes
And they'll **** from their beds and think they're dreamin'
But they'll pinch themselves and squeal
And know that it's for real
The hour that the ship comes in.
Then they'll raise their hands
Sayin' we'll meet all your demands
But we'll shout from the bow your days are numbered
And like Pharaoh's tribe
They'll be drownded in the tide
And like Goliath, they'll be conquered.”* (Bob Dylan)
8/4/19 12:10
there is no shelter anywhere from madness for the madness
is ours, inside, and we have learnt to live with it’s reoccurring.
Why?
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 12:17 PM UTC
Look!
now they sleep bloodless warriors
pandemonium stilled agony slain tranquil
death sanctified in rigid cartesian rows
honored for their sacrifice and selfless valiance
laid to rest beneath mourning grasses
Ask!
where was the higher honor due them before war
are sacred vows to be profaned to be misemployed
Why!
do once verdurous lives lay cold and pulseless
as spatters of red petals tearfully fall
families breathing wistful flowers
distilling rue with lulling scents
Adjudge!
all men who enact lies
dishonoring crossed graves
greed calibrating scales of injustice
bodies tilted high by tonnages of gold
Aurelian kisses vaulting wars riches
Do Not!
dishonor a warrior’s willingness to die
for bravados mouth is a soldier’s tomb
do not forsake truth and honor our only faithful ally
ask ten-thousand whys before one soldier dies
before the bugler's breath sounds death's lamenting cries
Think!
Contemplate war’s fiery womb
hatred born inextinguishable
good & evil indistinguishable
Look, what stillborn bones lie locked in battle
this fleshless monster we mis-named peace
gv.2014
Matthew 6:13 . . . deliver us from “evil”
Evil as translated in 6:13 is "Poneros" A name also attributed to Satan
Which means: "he is not content unless drawing others into the same destruction as himself"
(From Lexicon to the New Testament by Spiros Zodhiates, TH.D
"Soon
the world
won’t have a rib intact.
And its soul will be pulled out."
A line from Vladimir Mayakovsky's 1917 poem , Call To Account
“They made a wasteland and called it peace” Publius Cornelius Tacitus
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC
His herd trudge in binary directions.
Faceless they march to their fraudulent feed
Opposing the one, their ransom, his seed.
False food disguised as noble inflections.
The truth shrouded from all inspections
With frivolity from who need pay heed.
To words of the one, through him that did bleed
As payment for the herd’s imperfections.
Not for them but for him, the one, the all,
For their actions would tarnish his clean name
Should his creation lay under a pall,
His perfection it would only defame.
When he takes a stand, upon him they call
It is written he’ll win the wicked game.
For many chasing jenny, a short shrift
For lack of atonement for losing tone,
Their restitution shan’t come from that throne.
Their heart’s reticence sends love far adrift.
Truth can mend Lucifer’s damage, the rift
In their hearts instilled by stealth from day one.
To hear the word, the onus is their own.
To hear the truth is to receive its gift.
With wisdom, utilise our time we must.
Escape the herd in their binary trudge.
Basing beliefs on knowledge we can trust
They know to do but continue the drudge.
Heads hung with disgust they’ll return to dust
To dust, they he will adjudge.
The canvas currently clean as satin,
Upon which, with their freedom, they may paint
That which their hearts desire, but not to taint
Or tarnish the words before that Latin.
A bastardisation was that Latin,
Wringing and wrangling till the truth grew faint.
Questions unasked as questioner’s constraint
Set in motion the persistent pattern.
Little with distance between are those eyes
Open and receptive to deviate.
Blindly open and blinkered by the lies
For their daily drudge down the wide road, fate.
No hope for what awaits beyond the fires
When they see will it all be but too late?
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC
Under the maple tree, where gold lays to waste;
ink on the page, her only escape.
Or putting on the paper, this pretty landscape.
Oh that bright bulb, it shone so bright,
but nothing lasts forever, not even her light.
It faded rather quick, and all went dark.
Now her bare feet brush along the bark.
Under the maple tree, where gold lays to waste;
nurtured by the tears that fell from from her face.
She gave up hope, thus the rope.
The future of her past gone away;
everything black, it fades today.
That soft blue soul has turned to gold;
Her mind, midas and unconsoled.
With the care that she always gave so much,
Her mind went blank, and her end adjudge
Under the maple tree, where gold lays to waste;
one more soul has been erased.
upon the sight of faded light,
she as well gave up her fight
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 9:36 PM UTC