"affronts" poems
Alluring courage is complicated
The voices not wanting to circumvent,
And the people who aren't appeased
Makes the pressure even bigger and stronger
I need to burnish my confidence,
But the arboreal confidence is stuck on a vine
The affronts given to me, their expression is what's frightening
The archaic words I receive everytime when I go up, I don't wish for it to repeat
I just wish I was able to avert when I really needed to
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 1:29 AM UTC
229
A Burdock—clawed my Gown—
Not Burdock’s—blame—
But mine—
Who went too near
The Burdock’s Den—
A Bog—affronts my shoe—
What else have Bogs—to do—
The only Trade they know—
The splashing Men!
Ah, pity—then!
’Tis Minnows can despise!
The Elephant’s—calm eyes
Look further on!
4.7k
Come one, come all!
And welcome
To the shield shop!
Here, we supply anything
And everything
You need
For a custom made
Shield
Now, this isn’t your typical
Iron or bronze,
No,
the shields here are much
Sturdier
And not for physical
Affronts
We could provide you
A block of wood
For dense ness
Thoroughly not
Understanding
Social cues
Good,
For keeping away
Verbal bullies
Or,
Romantic attention
A shard of ice for coolness
Unaffected
Untouched
Abve the crowd
Keeping your cool to the point
That no one approaches you
No one reads you
Makes you seem impenetrable
A flame for blazing confidence
Attracts people
But also scares them away
So they,
Maintain a distance
From your
Vulnerabilities
Whose existence
They may not be aware of
A kitten for innocence
Either,
Giving others the desire
To protect you
Or they just pass you by
We have all these
And so much more!
So why don’t you come and
See
Which one works for
You!
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 8:14 PM UTC
"Me too, perchance, in future days,
The sculptured stone shall show,
With Paphian myrtle or with bays
Parnassian on my brow.
But I, or e'er that season come,
Escaped from every care,
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,
And sleep securely there."
So sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long
Ordained to grace his native isle
With her sublimest song.
Who then but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unblest,
Of wretches who have dared profane
His dread sepulchral rest?
Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones
Where Milton's ashes lay,
That trembled not to grasp his bones
And steal his dust away!
O ill-requited bard! neglect
Thy living worth repaid,
And blind idolatrous respect
As much affronts thee dead.
1.5k
***Autumn is icumen in,
With all its tricks,
Its treats and whims.***
I can't mourn
Summer's passing;
Those days
Of idle slumber.
Summer suns
And midnight moons,
The silhouettes of June;
Holiday highs,
Mad July;
The robust garden
Lust of August.
I won't.
Autumn air
Affronts my senses,
The Arctic cool
Dips and rules.
The moss has left
The trees;
Arthritic twigs
Let lose
The leaves.
Autumn is icumen in
Autumn,
With its foils
And foibles,
Rakes us in
With harlequin sins,
And all its
Wherewithal.
Embrace your fall.
Winter is icumen in
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
Oh ,tyrant king of Babylon
Have you come by any sense
Who wages war on sons of Zion
With inadequate air defense
Toy soldiers of the eagle
Will come as dogs of war
Their guise being benevolence
Their true gift blood and gore
So it seems your problem is oil
Not consummation of lnnocence
Go plant your people in thirsty soil
Then propagandize self defense
For you are the beast of Baghdad
Your very seed affronts Mann and his kind
Another American jackal gone bad
And oh, what a jackal did we find
Now we sit glued to a TV set
Watching the towers crumble and fall
When sleeping with despots ya get what you get
Just part of the cost when america stands tall. Hy
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 10:10 PM UTC
the birthing of a new day
brings good news, no matter what
the sun is bright with renewed hope...
for some, though,
a new day means only one thing,
which, to them, is so fulfilling---
as soon as there is light,
nothing could stop
the lashing of the tongue,
the mind, ever ready to strike.
a vanity mirror stands---
many reflections stare back
waits,
for the eyes that stare
the eyes that wander
through words
through spaces
searching for its prey
mouth brims with affronts
inflicts pain
mind gets busy
fire raging
too much envy...hatred... and grudge held within,
hands touch...slide on the keys
words glide away....then start
spinning double-edged knives
words that stab and slash
when read, and absorbed
flying in the air
while the innocent ones inhale,
victims, burned
by the flames spewed by the tongue
poisoned
by the venom of the spitfire.
purple skies of dawn don't matter
dark blue firmament could just stay that way
for, there is only black and red
while the spitfire is awake...
Sally
Copyright June 28, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
1228
So much of Heaven has gone from Earth
That there must be a Heaven
If only to enclose the Saints
To Affidavit given.
The Missionary to the Mole
Must prove there is a Sky
Location doubtless he would plead
But what excuse have I?
Too much of Proof affronts Belief
The Turtle will not try
Unless you leave him—then return
And he has hauled away.
1.4k
Under crisp and deathless winter mornings
Ensconced in hollows in ash-grey burrs
Wassail godhead de proprietate probanda;
Here I left your voice last
Supine
In fog.
A challenge; memory affronts in
Spirals, sifting the useless to the
Apron somewhere at the crown.
This, rather, is where I left you.
The rest is seasonal.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
*Autumn is icumen in,
With all its tricks,
Its treats and whims.*
I can't mourn
Summer's passing;
Those days
Of idle slumber.
Summer suns
And midnight moons,
The silhouettes of June;
Holiday highs,
Mad July;
The robust garden
Lust of August.
I won't.
Autumn air
Affronts my senses,
The Arctic cool
Dips and rules.
The moss has left
The trees;
Arthritic twigs
Let lose
The leafs.
Autumn is icumen in
Autumn,
With its foils
And foibles,
Rakes us in
With harlequin sins,
And all its
Wherewithal.
Embrace your fall.
Winter is icumen in
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
Sleep is my greatest misfortune,
sleep...? Is my aberrant torture
Never been consumed by something like this before
My body is at war, overwhelming gore
My eyelids are folding over my body
As I roll into my flesh bed
I'm forced into a slumber,
my eyes are obliged to unnaturally stay vexed
I dream... or am I graveled?
My intellect is gulled, it affronts,
it soars into my heart
This is infernal, am I dreaming, or am I awake?
A vulture took my brain and put it on a stake
I took the "dream" and buried it all around
As I come back from my excursion
I am hampered, not manumitted
I'm underground
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
Unspeakable acts have taken place
In the churches of so called grace
The clergy hide under their steeples
And deny these affronts to the people
The victims are left in a shattered state
And for justice long have to wait
A case in fact I'll relate to all of you here
About a girl so innocent and dear
She had the displeasure of a priest fondling her
In the vestry where God's eyes were turned away from her
On a recent sojourn back to our small country town
She refused to enter the church grounds
Memories of her shocking ****** abuse are etched in her head
And none of them will ever be properly put to bed
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
it is silent in the house, in the wee hours of black morning
no sound affronts my ears but the gentle tap tap tapping
of a few stray rain droplets who have made their escape
falling down
down
down the vault of the heavens
to fulfill their life purpose; like kamikazes
they bravely take the fatal plunge
into the abyss
the sky groans as an airliner cuts through
and I hear a new sound: or am I hearing it at all?
more than audible - it becomes tangible
the steady rising thump from my chest
a wild song of native tribe
pounds on the taut skin inside of me
beating
beating
beat - tap
beating
a cry, no louder than a whisper
is the melancholy melody
an infinitesimal sliver, like a keyhole
of rising Golden light
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
Dear Bukowski,
I can imagine my embellished rupturing fondest of your works makes you feel sludged with rancor. But I do assure that my adoration only spawns from your purity of disdain and fervor. All things rise together in epic sanctimonious swells. You are not the midwife to poetry nor is poetry the bolstering mother of your life. You are as impenetrably intertwined as the first fickle breath of life writes the verse to our poetic life. While this is true, you acknowledge the infallible doom that consumes our world as people search for definitive answers. As you tackle the affronts of our world you embodied your poetic sinew accepting the fact the world could readily eradicate you with slight cadence alteration of the wind. Bukowski I do not grovel to you, but I will endlessly cherish your paper encased testaments of life. You aren't afraid of painting the inner creasings of your mind you are the midwife and the executioner you are poetry you are life.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 10:22 PM UTC
A young mother cradles her broken child
Amid the fragments of her world, her soul.
Blood drips. Rain-sodden insulation drips.
Stillness between storms. The trees are all gone.
A dark Sargasso Sea of shattered wood,
Bricks, clothes, books, toys, rags, glass, papers, bodies.
In the gasping heat the rot begins now.
No houses. No lights. A helicopter
Floating valley boys with plastic boxes
Taking cruel pictures and O-My-Godding
For the telescreen (between soda ads).
And in fortresses of personal affronts
(Safely far away)
Keyboard commandos leap into inaction:
P*eople who choose to live there deserve it.
We told you that global warming is true.
We didn’t have these things ‘til they kicked Jesus
Out of these here schools. And paddling, by God.
It’s Obama’s fault. Or is it George Bush?
It’s the Republicans. Public schools. Gaia.
British Petroleum. Coal. SUVs.
Suburbs. Not reading the Bible. Comets.
You’re stupid. Well eff you back. Eff you more*.
While in the second lowering line of storms
A young mother cradles her broken child.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 3:25 PM UTC
Born hate-free, I was taught,
Caught up in a time when crimes
Against millions of people was fine
And the social genocide of bigotry
Was excused for me and practiced hourly
Then daily and yearly and nobody said no,
Oh no, don’t go there! Where was decency
When everybody could use names
Like flames to torch total strangers?
The danger is visible now, almost risible
But indivisible with no liberty or justice
Just issuing slams and slurs like a knife,
A way of life that helped nobody
And anybody that protested, complained
Were given their own names to suffer.
No, they didn’t stutter. ****** lover.
That’s what they called us if we shied,
Chose the wrong side, the side of freedom,.
Equality, morality, principles of Christianity.
Seemed invisible concepts to the likes of me.
Taught hypocrisy, I dissembled easily
Saying all men were equal when evil
Was universal at a “whites only” fountain,
The affronts to decency mounting, hurting,
Atrocities compounding, surrounding
Hanging, shooting, beating, killing
In a society willing to hang and ****
The Martin Luther Kings at will
For being willing to not sit still
And let the falsehood go on and on.
And then he was gone, but The South
Still pours honey from a mouth that claims
To be the right, the good, the family party.
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
This dimension of living is endlessly shrouded in mystery.
We are the midwives to our own platform of living and we have the authority to liquidate it and start upon a new tier at any moment.
I know but only what my eyes have unrobed to show me.
All around us isolated winsome lives of their own fabric and hemming are kerneled into the crust of our worlds existence.
We are so distinctly separate yet intrinsically connected.
We tend to weave our lives in a way to circumvent the albatross that is free-floating and searching for a host.
It is so simple to sector yourself away from the things that pose fluster to your character.
But we infallibly need each other, we must uncloak ourselves from the throttling labels.
Once you make peace with the construction of this world you are unfettered and free.
All of these sumptuous luminescent minds quarantined away serve no good. Live your life with decorum and ease and let this light scintillate to invigorate others. This revolution is not rooted in vociferous speeches and affronts, but by merely emitting your unadulterated authentic self. Excavate yourself of the toxic of society and you will become the voltaic entity.
Make haimish comfort with the idea of uncertainty and live life simplistically.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC
Last night I went to Africa. I spent a month there. I know this because I told you.This morning I am exhausted, turned over too many times in sleep and wakefulness as the day gloats over my body. Yesterday’s skyline made me dream of lavender forests. In the dreams I took stills of purple and blue bark, papery shadows. I wanted to capture the essence for morning. In the morning I knew I would forget, but the image, or the fleeting, trails in me. I spent a lot of time by a river. Grey mud grows on me. In the mud there is a struggle. At times I would touch myself and find blood. I am not afraid of the scarlet here. The colour is rare and important, but tomorrow will be lost on me. I will be left with the flash of an impression in your arms. When I woke up I wanted to tell you something. A why was stuck in the mud burrowed within me. A new cleft. When I open my mouth I create old wounds in silence. I will spend the next few days trying to cover them in dust. In the dream I walked many miles, and the stairs of a house burn in me. I felt the thoroughness in my legs. Before I woke I squatted in the schoolyard where I told you about it, inspecting the new firmness in my muscles. I realized that I didn’t long to impress you. There will be things we never know. There are roads I walked and can’t remember now. The earth will not discuss it. Today the light affronts me. I am lost somewhere in Africa where you are not. Today I will not wake up. I will keep remembering the blood. The lavender forest spreads within me. A man will protest it with forgetfulness. I will push against the morning and slide into it. I will always slide into it.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
My skin contains your every utterance.
Your malcontent,
Your affronts.
My failures.
It's a love so bitter.
I'm weak to it.
The scent,
It lingers.
I bleed through the bandages.
My hands,
Impossible to grasp.
You let me fall.
We hurt together.
Harmonious are the cries and whimpers.
While you tear yourself apart,
I pour myself into you.
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 3:31 PM UTC
TLACAELEL
Two hundred years have we known only strife,
Kept innocent of peace, to fortify
Huitzilopochtli, our grand god of conquest,
Who hoists aloft our death-denying sun
And handsomely escorts him through the east.
Such toil demands the selfless sustenance
Of that most precious sacrifice, our hearts;
Small, hot, red gems- we grant them gratefully.
Our god need not stand waiting for affronts
Or hissing disrespect to rattle arms.
No, rather let us seek convenient markets
Where our Blue Prince of war, when whimsy strikes,
Might carve downed captives to refresh his plate
And tie his bib with dead men’s winding-sheets,
As if he strolled through cheap tortilla stalls,
And clutched our legions for his currency.
To this emporium shall we caravan,
Procuring crocks of blood and priceless hearts
By bartering to swap our solvent lives.
Oh, let it be Tlaxcala, gentlemen!
For if we pitch this depot to the north,
The taxing hike to those unconquered tribes
Should prove an inconvenience to our troops.
Besides, the tough and stringy flesh of those
Bare-bottomed grunts, rock-knocking savages,
Must strike our god as stale as sandal-leather.
Then let Tlaxcalans be his board of fare:
Moist cutlets, fresh and steaming from the range,
Shall furnish forth his sanguinary feasts.
We must not waste these others totally,
But make a handy pantry of this foe,
For war- alone undying- must endure.
CUITLAHUAC
Bravo. I’ll side with you to storehouse them,
So that we hamstring their free trafficking,
And thus declaw our sole belligerent.
TLACAELEL
I’m pleased your verdicts are adaptable.
HUNGRY PRINCE
Either to weaken or to waste this threat,
You’ll have my armies at your hand.
TLACAELEL That's nice.
MOTECUHZOMA
Now, Hungry Prince, let’s brace for weighty words. . .
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
And when the world affronts me
with adventure and death
I'll be by the water
crooked smile laughing with life on my breath
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC