"adopts" poems
**Strange how the dank hand of disaster clarifies the thinking,
How all irrelevancies are scoured from the frontal lobe,
How, strangely, should you look into the morning sky, the blueness is of a brilliant, startling intensity.
How biting into a piece of fresh fruit reveals the new mouth watering, exquisiteness of clean sweet,flavour.
Strange how the dank hand of disaster allow us to consolidate our values.
Where suddenly, the drabness of yesterday becomes the brightly,beautiful now.
Where miserable mindedness adopts an abrupt re-evaluation, in that the sour faced neighbour is embraced with passion as being a fellow survivor.
Where the rich and the poor are thrown together to work willingly, cheek by jowel, for a common cause…Tomorrow!.
Strange how the dank hand of disaster brings out THE VERY BEST IN US …isn’t it ?**
Marshalg
A commonality observed In having survived many disasters over the years.
1 November 2012
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
My manner of thinking, so you say, cannot be approved.
Do you suppose I care? A poor fool indeed is he who adopts a manner of thinking for others! My manner of thinking stems straight from my considered reflections: it holds with my existence, with the way I am made. It is not in my power to alter it; and were it, I’d not do so. These manners of thinking you find fault with is my sole consolation in life; it alleviates all my sufferings in prison, it composes all my pleasures in the world outside; it is dearer to me than life itself. Not my manner of thinking but the manner of thinking of others has been the source of my unhappiness. The reasoning man who scorns the prejudices of simpletons necessarily becomes the enemy of simpletons; he must expect as much, and laugh at the inevitable. A traveler journeys along a fine road. It has been strewn with traps. He falls into one. Do you say it is the traveler's fault, or that of the scoundrel who lays the trap? If then, as you tell me are willing to restore my liberty if I am willing to pay for it by the sacrifice of my principles or my tastes, we may bid one another an eternal adieu, for rather than part with those, I would sacrifice a thousand lives and a thousand liberties, if I had them. These principals and these tastes, I am their fanatic adherent; and fanaticism in me is the product of persecutions I have endured from my tyrants. The longer they continue their vexations, the deeper they root my principles in my heart, and I openly declare that no one need talk to me of liberty if it is offered to me only in return for their destruction.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
(For S. A.)TO write one book in five years
or five books in one year,
to be the painter and the thing painted,
... where are we, bo?
Wait-get his number.
The barber shop handling is here
and the tweeds, the cheviot, the Scotch Mist,
and the flame orange scarf.
Yet there is more-he sleeps under bridges
with lonely crazy men; he sits in country
jails with bootleggers; he adopts the children
of broken-down burlesque actresses; he has
cried a heart of tears for Windy MacPherson's
father; he pencils wrists of lonely women.
Can a man sit at a desk in a skyscraper in Chicago
and be a harnessmaker in a corn town in Iowa
and feel the tall grass coming up in June
and the ache of the cottonwood trees
singing with the prairie wind?
2.1k
Gracefully over the squares, as a blonde or a brunette,
she makes moves that not even a queen can imitate.
Always active and taking the initiative,
she likes to fork.
She does it across the board,
taking with ease not only pawns, but also kings,
and a bad bishop or two.
Sometimes she feels like making
quiet moves,
at other times, she adopts romantic moods,
and makes great sacrifices.
But, being hers a zero-sum game,
she often forks just out of spite.
An expert at prophylaxis, she can be a swindler,
and utter threats,
skewering men to make some gains.
Playing with her risks a conundrum,
and also catching Kotov’s syndrome.
Nonetheless, despite having been trampled
by her strutting ways
my trust in her remains,
unwavering,
until the endgame.
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 1:37 PM UTC
human revelations in our sleep poses
she sleeps with both arms back, murmuring,
flung over her hearing head,
as if she is surrendering
nightly
me slip away for a few, only to find
her left hand ****** by her arm crook'd,
fit to her temple, as if to bear the weighty weight
of a heavy head plein des thoughts, dream-mares, tales and talks,
too dense to contemplate
without assistance,
armed support to hold on, hold up,
fighting/ accepting as a unwanted outcomes
or retrying old misdeeds
(no, no, oops, that’s me)
stirring,
she swift motions/crisscrosses her arms into an X,
a human parts tiara atop, on blond tresses, that fully messes
any remaining daytime efforts and her nighttime wild dancing^
no one reveals me,
none inform on me what positions
my containership adapts, adopts when my woke-guards
are dismissed/released and
lay unprepared to disguise my innermosts exposures
ow, early am resting comfortable with a six poem-pack of
slept hours on my tool belt,
so far this weekend one shot fired before the day officially
is belle rung and these poses thoughts
are upon what my eyes alight
can’t decide if knowing how I dance in the bed at night,
reflationary, deflationary, worth fact facing,
for this is no secret
*my sleep hours are colored,
admixture of moving pictures,
punctuated with
stills of past and future,
the poses
of how to greet, were greeted,
withstood upheld ran from wept, murdered,
faced up, faced down, go unrecorded
and the
poems residuals
and the
poem prophesying-
both!
fearful confessions for acts
committed and foretold*
Decision: I don’t want to know
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC
"call me spoons"
said "be giving you what you need,"
pause.
like a toddler, sat in high chair
mess face consisting mostly of chocolate pudding, eviscerated green beans, promises
promises
promises
promises "you are one of a kind."
a hand that can't win.
"you're special,"
the kitten no one adopts
"unique"
alone
"perfect"
can't be fixed
can't be fixed
can't be fixed
can't
be
fixed
broken boy sitting at dinner next to cracked mirror metaphor
mess face consisting mostly of bruises and that's it.
bag of frozen peas on the eye
green beans became useless after dad ran out
spoons across the dining room
no words; body language says enough
"i failed you."
said
"couldn't give you what you need."
"what you need."
what you need
what you need
what you need? you.
you need you.
you need you.
spoons at the end of a rope
black eyes toddler can't see
blind reach
spoons isn't there
spoons isn't there
no object permanence means that while spoons aren't around, baby can't get what it needs.
object permanence means in 1997 when you cheated again and she found out
that there was no running away this time that you in this state will exist in abject permanence.
she can never unsee
bent spoons stained with street glue
black tar lungs and inability to breathe
mess face consisting mostly of
i'm sorry
i'm sorry
i'm sorry
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 1:16 AM UTC
The skin of consumerism parades her promiscuity in desolate and sheath-like urban stratospheres.
Gaze upon the beauty of a hanging basket and understand that the flutes and trumpets are an orchestral force of nature.
But permit me to cut to the metaphorical chase, oh pilgrim, amidst this treacherous journey of socio-political asylum -
Propaganda is a scaly, oratory genius who wholeheartedly adopts her role in a manner which is not incompatible with the very last day in October.
And the spirit of the blues unashamedly casts her vulnerability to the masses with utmost integrity.
Therefore, I have to ask: do you balance on the brink of hilarity or calamity?
Turn up the heat, oh seductress of the ages, and watch those colors change.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
Orange orange everywhere
Orange orange in the air
I’m given an orange despair
By a man with orange hair
I see through his orange glare
To see nothing really there
A man became president
Promising to evict residents
His stupidity self evident
When he says nothing relevant
About all the topical elements
He just talks for the hell of it
He’s unfit to lead
Because he’s equipped with greed
And an unwillingness to read
Gaining success from his family tree
He lives the American dream
By making others scream
To indulge his team
And his bigotry
All it took for his courtship
Was a culture of celebrity worship
And idiots buying his horseshit
Of acting remorseless
The gullible are impressed
With how well he is dressed
So they think he’s the best
Putting him in a wing that is west
Because he has a lot of money
But without any capability
You better start running
Money let’s him **** willingly
He takes advantage of the stupid and racist
By pointing at people with brown faces
Saying they’re here to replace us
Like they’re working for Asus
And not mowing his lawn
He said they will **** us
To manipulate his pawns
He’s a megalomaniac
Who thinks he’s a brainiac
But it’s a brain he lacks
To understand the impact
Of his negative attacks
Still he thinks he’s a genius
Which justifies his meanness
So his cruelty is seamless
While he claims to redeem us
This is our most vulnerable hour
With a president compromised by foreign powers
Building ivory towers
By turning minorities sour
There’s a litany of reasons
Why he calls them heathens
But it all revolves around freedoms
Being stripped from those who need them
His constituents have their heads in the sand
So they blindly give in to his demands
Going after whoever he’s ******
In the name of this land
Other kinds are banned
You can tell the bad guys have won
When they start separating mothers from sons
At the end of a gun
So there’s nowhere to run
Away from the oppression
Of our downward descension
As he does nothing to lessen
The root of our depression
His concentration camps
Give a **** slant
To his lofty plans
Until no one can stand
Without a weapon
Because of his deception
Which was his intention
To win the election
He promised detention
Of the boogeyman mentioned
The red, white and blue
Adopts an orange hue
When the foreign lose
From the fascist bruise
Of an orange noose
May 1, 2019
May 1, 2019 at 9:47 PM UTC
some people have
really nice clothes
and
really nice cameras
to take pictures of themselves
in their clothes
with
and they
put them all over the internet
so they can say without saying
that they are better
than me
and i guess that's alright.
i don't have that kind of money for clothes
and even if i did
i hope i wouldn't be like them
plastering themselves on facebook
in edgy poses
painted with instagram filters
i hope i would be like i am now
a twenty year old girl
who buys new clothes twice a year
but adopts books like newborn babies
and can smile
genuinely
when the lord wills
a touch of
happiness
i guess what i'm trying to say
is
your designer jeans hurt my feelings
as does your expression
but i wouldn't want to
be you.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
Twisted light perforates the dust filled room and the pungent odour of history hangs in the air like stale bread and old forgotten pantomime costumes.
Yet somehow the smell recalls recollections of a jolly past. Transporting me back through the years, tumbling over and over in the rapids of time until I splash down and emerge as the keen eyed five year old I once was.
I can still hear the shrill screams of play bounce around my head and feel the boy in me longing to join them on the playground outside. I can feel the tight lace wrapped round my hand as I swing my unsurpassed conker to victory. I can still see the bouncing curly locks of the sweet little girls as they hop and skip to long forgotten nursery rhymes. I can still feel the dried mud caked on my palms sending shudders of discomfort all down my spine and the cold drafts of air through the green hole covered knees of my short nylon trousers.
Swinging the blackboard round to reveal the partially erased remnants of the very last lesson, my mind adopts that old familiar position. Arms folded, head in arms wishing that time would move on.
Sadly my wish came true. Sure it took its time but these days time flows by like a babbling weir stopping for nothing.
How I now long for that dripping tap like time once was. Those long summer breaks and endless days playing in the meadows where I lived. Even boredom is no longer as sweet. The kind of boredom where you aren't making excuses for not doing something. For these days there is always something that needs to be done.
Oh how I miss the innocence of youth that carefree era where ironically, what you desired, was everything you don’t want now.
Wiping a single tear from my cheek I left my old classroom, hopped over the fence and walked away from school one last time.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
*Death drives fast in stolen car
Pursued en mass by cops afar
Down motorway of he and she
Who drive in innocence, legally.
Colliding in cascading mess
Of debris, dust and huge distress.
Face down upon the tarmac now
Handcuffed with glock at bleeding brow.*
Whilst winding through a country glade
An opulence of deep, green shade,
A confluence of peace and quiet
Where nature’s art, in beauty, riot,
Where squirrels dart and rabbits munch
In turquoise grasses, lush, for lunch,
And sunspots sparkle in the shade
This place where poetry is made.
*Juxtaposed, the concrete hash
Where ranting politician’s clash,
Where each, determined to be right
Adopts inflexibility's fight,
To hold to ransom common sense
Whilst seated stoically on the fence,
Committing all to farce and pain
Whilst pointing to another’s blame.*
White waves wash the pristine sand
Where in Bermuda shorts, I stand,
Soaking up the tropic sun
In holiday, now just begun,
Far out I see a distant sail
Which tells a fascinating tale
Of opalescent crystal seas
Caressed by mystic scented breeze.
*Juxtaposed, is terrors threat
Caste worldwide through Islam’s net,
Despite the protestations made
By Clerics, genuine, dismayed,
Permeated far and wide
Through violent death’s perverted pride.
Causing misery obscene
Whilst rinsing hands in blood till clean.*
Hark, a lark on yonder hill
It’s song, so clear, enduring till
It ends in silence… so pristine,
That tears stream down my face, so lean
And gaunt, so filled with joy am I
With gift of lark song sung to sky,
A gift, so sweet and clean and pure
If juxtaposed, it will endure.
Marshalg
Portraiture of my yin & yan in this day.
4 October 2013
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
Attires of a closer regime,
Closed in on the muddling assets
of a light,
Flickering.
On a dead end street,
Through a meandering
There’s an eventful animus.
Past eleven,
P.M.
“To lobby is to redeem,
Apparently(!)
For I sin and repeatedly sin.”
Only by 1 and only through one
Single flock of wind-blown sediment,
man acknowledges life and
It’s dreadful stripe,
Laid upon a landscape;
Full of faux images of random schemes.
Well, there the ongoingness goes
Of moments that are no way chronologic
Where one plaster over another
Seems like a perfect match.
When the clock strikes to 3
A.M
Merely a sigh passes along,
Yet another minute,
On the cold street
The light knows no acuity at all.
It means for another tick,
Yet does not wait for the tock;
Tick-tock(!)
Tick-tock.
There lies 3 hour worth concurrence,
Confronted for each tock, for half a minute,
But only the seconds pass.
And with each skip that matters,
and only that matters nevertheless,
The clock goes back to
Eleven
P.M.
There(!) the gutter calls for another drink,
For another trace
On another strike.
However mournfully,
Escort of a humanly maze,
The muddling sort,
Births confusion.
The attires seem gone by now.
The heaves; quite impeccable,
The path adopts another protest,
For a much tackled breathing
Time overlaps,dreamily,
On a spectrum,
Laying as a single faceted imposture;
Mocking a postering of shed upon the pavement.
For another street that seemingly differs;
where the marching will always depend
(Regardless)
Solely on the counts of seconds
By the potency of motives
That merges as to defy
The years accounted
On the flesh and bone.
Now there goes another strike,
Audible over the plane
And
It carries on as
“To lobby is to redeem
For I sin
And sin
And sin
On a 3-hour worth strike,
Starting at 11
P.M,
Over another man’s bearing.”
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 1:51 PM UTC
The quiet numbness that takes over your life
Everyday becomes to feel like a slow record on repeat
Your bed becomes the only escape of it all
Days past where you can't feel anything and feel numb
You explore options to the ¨escape¨ of life
Only feel the guilt mound taking over that
The thought of people not caring if you live another day
Slowly adopts the reason of the ¨escape¨
You feel worthless and can't take the numbness anymore
The ¨escape¨ begins to be the only thing you think about
Slowly taking over your life bit by bit
The question of the ¨escape¨ working haunts your mind
The depression and numbness you indorse crushes your soul
You embrace the ¨escape¨
Uncaring or unknowing of the outcome of the escape from reality.
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 1:47 AM UTC
A "Tireless Impression" is nothing but pure nonsense, when you finally come to grips with what is mostly costly away from what makes up something that starts (as an impression), then abruptly transmits directly over towards the impression that gives good advice...that can't give good advice for itself.
The Tireless part, is the only remedy to an awakening that doesn't count for the (already built up nonsense) that can't keep it's own self away from such sudden shame... That it adopts a certain willpower that counts itself lucky enough...to literally become increasingly ill-tempered at the very lifestyle it chose, for the very direct impression... Of a Tireless will.
May 1, 2021
May 1, 2021 at 12:38 AM UTC
The emergence of a new born is announced by her cries in the cold
That very moment she leaves the warmth in which she was mould
But in reassuring arms,
She is comforted and grows calm.
Soon she realises there's more to life than candy and sweets,
And someday she would have to stand alone on her feet.
Was she prepared to face the world?
No, there were countless times she ran back in, and cried out to her Lord!
Her innocence and optimism
Is challenged by the world's depravity and pessimism
Every now and then, she's under pressure
To disregard virtues she's always treasured.
She knows she ought to be patient and ought not to worry
But that's really difficult in a world where everyone is in a hurry.
Eventually, she loses her peace
For the things her eyes sees.
Fearing she may be lagging behind
She adopts schemes that are truly not refined
Sadly, the more she craves and acquires
The more the vacuum in her heart requires
Her emptiness reveals her deeper need for something more than things
Regrettably, her lust has made her lose her love and regard for beings.
Oh No! this is not the sweet girl has parents had raised,
And the streets in which she grew praised.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
"...féileacán...féileacán! "
baby on one ******
butterfly on the other
your laughter
butterfly frolics
... amongst
your kimono butterflies
silken-stitch butterflies
play
with the cabbage white
autumn morning
butterfly sits
on a swing
two butterflies
chatting on a swing
waiting for a push
my hands create
shadow butterflies
that fly into daughter's mind
"Make hands
make butlerflies!"
she pleads
her first
real butterfly
sheer awe
her butlerflies
buttle
serving the flowers
butterflies
little bits of coloured thought
flit from mind to mind
she adopts
the butterflies
"My flying flowers!"
she chases them
in Irish
"...féileacán...féileacán! "
refusing to come in
until all the butterflies
have gone to bed
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC
Her brunette hair flows with the wind
Caught in the branches of fall
Pale as the tips of her nails
Her tongue prolonged with a drawl
She's beautiful
Even without the long locks in her face
No taste for cuisine
Her gloom adopts her taste
The wind supports her dainty feet
Delicately built out of glass
She's beautiful
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 10:12 PM UTC
the tulips bloomed!
my hair adopts
copper sunlight
i am going to sip on
spiced *** and ginger ale
this evening
i am not going to
feel bad about a
god ****** thing
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
In my memories I find you.
We are infinite at every point.
Midnight on still waters
with the kayak pointed towards the moon.
You kept yourself in your pocket all of those times you wanted me to stay
and didn't say a word.
Alas, a smile can still be drawn.
And we reminded each other that this is what we live for.
Laughter shakes us in the back of the class
While to each other we confess
about love that hurts
finally able to say it
in a world that we're told that gender rules the heart.
We smile together, share the secret of the truth.
And we reminded each other that this is what we live for.
A family adopts me and I learn I'm not alone.
My smiles made real, and bus rides become
enriching to my soul.
I ripped books, bit knee caps, cried on the floor
and you always opened the door to your home
with each creek of the swinging entrance, my heart opened that much more.
Chips, soda, 3 AM fast food, video games.
What doesn't **** you makes you stronger.
And we reminded each other that this is what we live for.
New apartment, new friends.
We sat at the train station, platform 4974.
we learned about inspiration, about how two people can feed
off of each other, and find more on their plates
than when they started.
Entheogenic adventures parked in cars, laughing in trees.
We have our moments that aren't our moments, something like being crazy.
But I never told you that I need you.
The explanation always turns sour, but that's the tragedy of the poet
So much lost between the moment and the word.
Yet a smile can still find us, and we know what happy tears are.
And we reminded each other that this is what we live for.
The truth is that this is timeless.
We points on this infinite ocean.
Probability says we would have never met.
Yet I know your eyes.
I just wanted to let you know,
that this is what I live for.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
The Breach Interpretation: Is a mild chemical defect, found on the losing side of painful guilt itself.
Making (or, causing) such troubling acts of kindness, the very rhythm (full of justifiable results...), on the biggest possible gimmick...that could ever be committed.
That's just a rough outline of the very interpretation (of "The Breach") itself.
But the Breach part, is truly insignificantly broken from the deep inside out....
The Breach itself however, fully adopts the very different struggles between both "what is right", and "what is wrong" (with one's own personal image, and their own personal struggles at large).
But that doesn't mean nothing should be any different, then when it came to how right that very someone's personal image was, and how awfully wrong their own personal struggles were...when they interpreted it into millions upon millions upon millions of different fragmented individual pieces, (of their own collection). (And that's just the tip of the iceberg, when you finally console the very dynamic realization, of eventually, coming to terms with the long acts of perspectives...) That then obviously shows that those millions upon millions upon millions of different fragmented pieces (with their very own different properties and meanings), because nothing is truly conclusive in ALL these specifics areas and points (of a system that has more to offer, then any other order of things which could tilt at ANY moment...) Revealing a mere simple reaction in their form upon an even simpler side-effect.
Which tips the balance of power...and creates the most unsteady order of chaos that could become either an unstable universe (that could hypothetically become "stable", anyways).
Or just another standard, simplistic, normal sense of self full of such logical wit, (or the smallest of components of each), could then finally define both each others strengths and weaknesses.
Once this happens, everything becomes much clearer, (of course with time).
And this very interpretation of ("The Breach"), can then become fully "self-established" towards just what truthfully surrounds this very Breach itself.
Nevertheless, things now become more founded upon.
(When once it was truthfully subjected towards an unfortunate one-sided enclosure that didn't know how to officially become as one.) Because it was simply missing its other half that was an entirely unknown placement that didn't know it even existed.
The Breach Interpretation is full of all sorts of unbreachable flaws!
But for how much is truly unbreachable...fully depends on the sorts of acts you commit towards.
That's entirely why, this very interpretation is fully masked by the intentions of either others, (or your very own, intentions).
Because in the end, intentions lie their way too victory!
And that's the start (not the finish), towards an act of serious possible violence...(that truthfully defies the very expectations...), of what The Breach...truly is!
Apr 30, 2021
Apr 30, 2021 at 10:24 PM UTC
Like a rampant plague
Destroying crops
Hate's as vague
As the mask it adopts
It comes and goes
In many forms
Like a morning frost
That kills at dawn
copyright/all rights reserved Joe Fogg 2011
Jul 26, 2011
Jul 26, 2011 at 11:41 AM UTC
A shadow cast across the room
Adopts a lonely size
Familiar, singular;
Belonging to a bride’s.
The turning of a curtain’s cord,
As the breeze blows by,
Rattles in an empty room
Which was occupied.
What good are words that can’t be heard
Or read by whom they’re for?
An open fist that grasps for wind
And memories from before.
She’s waiting in a wedding dress
Perhaps her groom is late?
But that is fine, she has the time;
Forever thirty-eight.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC
Not by the autographs they sign
not by the clothes worn fine
yet to them with deeds divine
true are these heroes as distant star shine
…
young be a boy helping a blind man
old be a lady lending water in a can
smart be a nurse cleaning a bed pan
even a dog for its dying master ran
rude maybe a teacher yet for the poor a fees he give
hard might be a butcher yet a meat free for poor to live
cruel can be a soilder yet blood he doth give
a hunter even adopts animal kids to live
not by the image heroes they are
not by courage heroes they are
yet by acts of love none see
heroes of time tough little their deeds be
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
When doubt and fear attack my heart
My world adopts a somber hue,
As the battle rages, I panic,
But then I find my peace in you
When I can no longer believe
That God's mercy will see me through,
You come to me, rewriting my faith,
And I find salvation in you
While the unending jolts of life
Keep me mindful of pain and rue,
I know wherein lies my remedy:
I find healing comfort in you
At times my sun sets too early
And the darkness obstructs my view;
My feet may wander dubious paths,
But I find forgiveness in you
O, keeper of my troubled heart,
With each day my hope you renew,
Please, never unclasp your hand from mine,
For I find my guidance in you
Though my words be inadequate
My dear one, know this to be true:
Whenever I'm lost in life's travails
I always find myself in you
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC