"agitations" poems
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
16.7k
Thank Heaven! the crisis—
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called “Living”
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know,
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called “Living”
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst,
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:—
Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed—
For man never slept
In a different bed;
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now in my bed
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me.
Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
4.4k
It was a link like the one between bonds ,
Irreplaceable and impeccable.
Bestfriends , what they said they were.
When together , they gained a definite optimum.
Fancied by the crowd ,
But deep down pitied by all.
Hearts pumped with the same rhythms ,
The same hesitancy and same agitations.
Bestfriends , what they said they were .
A bit drowsy , a bit shattered
What to consider next ,
Was her only possible quest.
But sooner or later ,
She will perceive the certainty ,
That it was no more than a witless sanction ,
Bestfriends what they said they were.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 9:13 AM UTC
Shifting vistas
Freeing shackles
Playing it smart
Making it casual
Averting agitations
Eluding expectations
The finest tool to fight disillusionment
The smartest step to shun disenchantment
An act of precocity
An art of rationality
Avoidance.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
Look far beyond your nose
Imagine the wording prose your mind recites despite the fights between the lights;
Stand-back to back with your enemies
And believe that you are safe,
A mistake;
Craving knowledge of everything from your existence
To your beliefs
I believed I was falling down the trail
And all hail the misguided princess;
She's so misguided the North Pole becomes south
And the south;
Exiting from her mouth
With a flow; the beautiful candles of her heart.
The beautiful candles of her heart
Those that lit stormy fire inside mine
Those that lit up the dark pits of something I forgot about,
And all about my whereabouts
I see the signs of inconclusive doubts
Over my forehead, reflected upon people's faces;
And eyes look at me with non-empithetical sympathy
The symphony of eyelashes flapping over a lost identity.
I'm lost.
All those spiritual stoppages
Are causing my hands to shiver
All those figurative speech as she caresses her words
Preparing mine to stutter
Are making my eyes darken
And my faith to dismay;
I may,
Or may not be the person you want to find
But I find you the person I was never looking for
Yet I still crave the carves you carve on my hands.
The snapping bones of anger;
The cracking knuckles of regret;
The apprehensions preconceived with the threats;
The young man lost his track
The young man lost in the wild
With ideas even wilder
And actions that do not convey his messages
For the circles of bees become limits to his being;
For the frontiers of fighting lions
Become barriers to his block,
That upper corner in dying arteries; hidden
Way over the Mediterranean seas forgotten,
That young man is creating chaotic cancellations,
Phones typing messages of hesitation,
Brains articulating pieces of his own creation,
A salutation be upon my buddy
The young fellow who got lost facing everybody,
And everybody cheered as they watched;
His being stepped on, and heart being stabbed
The chats between the minds
Become cramps
The cramps in his existence become fatal agitation
The agitations in his life become psychiatric misinterpretation
For he got it all wrong
Everyone got it all wrong
But does that stop him?
Let alone
Does that stop all the fake men who built their empires upon forged pillars?
Killers,
Of characteristics;
Followers,
Disciples and students
To a dark lady
Typing her last words of goodbye
Over a phone that’s found in her palms
Yet lost,
In a young girl's heart.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
You're getting into my nerves
That I really observe
All the agitations I reserved
Which you do deserved
In the game, you're playing dominant
well, there's nothing constant
I must say you're cognizant
Yet undoubtedly arrogant
You're seeking so much attention
For your deeds you want recognition
We never like it to mention
Did you made a good impression?
All I want is a sorry
Don't make it long like a story
You got to be worry
If you don't want our friendship to be bury
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Race-baiting covers for agit-prop agents
splitting white hairs in their dark distress;
with name-calling, bullying, lunch money payments
and shifting the blame for their people’s mess.
Reparations are due for your boring screed
that you scrawled at the helm of the Black Star Liner.
You owe it to those who were forced to read
your obtuse agitations (you Afro-whiner).
Poisonous shout-outs to fallen comrades:
holy Saint Michael in reaper’s hood—
endless blathering racial tirades
poor comrade—your dreams are misunderstood.
You’re obsessed with injustice. That’s nothing new.
You’re a David anointed to overthrow Saul—
(as long as he’s white and less rabid than you,
oh prophet and scribe of the activist call…)
Stay mad at the system. Revile all your foes
with raving, with preaching, with bitter bad words.
Insult all your enemies; list all your woes
as you document stink on your turds.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 6:04 AM UTC
The only ship in the angle of my vision
seems to be still, as if cleverly painted above
the placid waves, that reject all agitations
near the shore I stand, a conspiracy perhaps!
No way I can tell if the ship moves away
or impatiently steers towards the port's embrace;
perhaps in keeping my spirit to espouse ambiguity.
Just a morning jogger from a planet far,
I am nobody to judge, still I am curious-
that vessel with an uncertain, navigational plan,
Isn't it me?Am I reaching anywhere, tell me.
I can see, none seems to expect it to come in
or go away and hide itself as a dot in distant horizon,
none who did bid it farewell, too is not to be seen.
Where have all gone, leaving no clue behind,
making it difficult for one to create dreams.
How so quickly time did erase all evidences,
which rendered goings and comings insignificant!
Is that static state, an illusion, a metaphor for life?
None is here to answer such questions as the world
has gone too far from there, to a space uncertain.
The port is busy as usual, any day it could be.
I wait for something to happen, will the ship
come to life astonishing me and move again?
I listen, the wind that blows from far horizon,
tells salty tales, tries in vain, again and again,
to recite the fish songs from deep sea blue down.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 1:33 PM UTC
*don't harangue my life with care for pity at woman's idiocy, not having adopted Caesarian birth as universally adequate and prospering her, to instil this barbaric guilt in me wondering why women, of all mammals had no natural anaesthetic produced when giving birth... **** your little guilt-trip argument! Caesarian or no argument!*
to be robbed of a glorious death, and be given an
inglorious birth, esp. when women were given an ease
with a Caesarian birth diplomacy... what's there to retain for man?
ardency in labour? old age? i too was robbed of what
Caesar described as the ideal death: the sudden one...
am i to wait for my sickbed...
if i only chanced the thrill of life
within one sunset and sought no night
to encompass my life as worthy compensation
of nothing.
a life lived to the bell-tone of a replaced
uvula, no care for charity asserted...
in that one momentary exception of all life prior,
to have lived it, and hence entombed,
readied for the element acquiring me to
further its signature... as sustainable...
i'd rather die a painful death that live
a comfortable life: pain is eased with its short-lived
establishing awareness when the glory prior is "prolonged"
ascribed to the fates akin to Achilles... and indeed pain is
merely pain with its prolonging on the sickbed...
counter heroism, so defeatist;
how many times am i to be robbed? to thus experience
such shallows of thieves with cheap constantly
expedient thievery? i've had enough to concede to a juggle
of fates and fortunes! one smooth stroke of the ace
rather than the many axe-hackings of the neck
of ****** Mary. bothersome agitations via pride, honour
and braveness, only if they do not happen,
and should they, they'd be undertaken, but to no quest
of celebratory non-enactment, i.e.: farting rather than ********
prior: to be given a wave of the standard acupuncture
of infantry: as guarantee of mythology; and a nobleman
on his horse without a stirrup prior to the *** intervention.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
Each mind has its own method.
You go to be teachers,
to become physicians, lawyers, divines.
Statesmen, naturalists, philanthropists.
I hope, some of you, to be the men of letters,
Those whose minds have not been subdued
by the drill of school education.
How wearisome the grammarian,
the phrenologist, the political or religious fanatic,
or indeed any possessed mortal.
The fears and agitations of men who watch the markets,
the crops, the plenty or scarcity of money,
or other superficial events, are not for him.
I wish him to live by his strength, not by his weakness.
Our people have this fear to offend,
do not wish to be misunderstood.
Do not wish, of all things, to be in the minority.
Rely on yourself.
Every thought is a prison.
The rare gift of poetry already sparkles, and may yet burn.
The world has a million writers,
But the constructive powers are rare,
it is given to few men to be poets.
The writer restores.
Speak, whether there be any who understand it or not.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 1:11 AM UTC
The outside.
is hot and humid..
sunlight
brings such sweat type bright.
I 'd like to rush to a welcoming blue watered pool.
From the the suns glow.
Realizing it brings out my inner temperature, don't want to show.
Sunlight why can't we be friends.
Show me how to bath in my own heated agitations.
Do You ever what to not be this heated fiery inferno.
Chase the wind ask it to be your chilled comforting pillow!
If you Turn down the flames..
Then you wouldn't be you.
Untouchable you.
I could learn some lessons from the sun.
And not chose to always run.
Think I can ever appreciate a summer time wink at it and rest and all be fine.
Summer I wouldn't say you were mine.
I'd be cheating on my winter time.
Coolness and breezes reaches my inner personality.
The way I like to warm up not cool down.
snuggle romantically under covers kiss and hide.
Enjoying heated coffee by tiny sips to comfort.
Winters My man.
With ear muffs and gloved hands. Tossing snow ***** as snow covers the land. Adoring the seasons.
That matches me for all types of different reasons.
Sun I appreciate when you take it easy!
at 50 to 60 degree temps.
Lessons I've learned from you.
The calmer side of you!
Sun hmm I do appreciate you.!
Sep 21, 2021
Sep 21, 2021 at 4:32 PM UTC
With all the delights that this day has pumped in me,
I shall exhale,evaluating.
Nothing frights me though,
Yet at times my humility easily goes.
A fearless vagabond that I have turned into,
Even the merciless,to look into my eyes, does not dare.
I am in no haste,
Even my trots have the power to leap and make a thud such that everybody fall off their steps.
Your stares that I descry,
No more make a difference to me.
For I am immune and have no envy,fear,agitations,trepidations or gluttonous desires.
It is no shame,those sights be such a common thing and all the same.
I have no back story and none coming forth,shortly or in this life,
I don't hestitate to yell what many of you cannot spell.
For all the stabs faced,
Birthed a scabbard and a sword in one frame.
The truth could be my lingua franca,
Forlorn be the brethren of my creed.
Repressed and silenced are my alarms of seize fire over the border,
Mollifying and tranquilizing be a part of my duty.
To stand the repercussion of my sins counts in my atonement,
For it is never an evanesce,too late.
I fear no hell or purgatory,
For I have witnessed worse in some eyes.
Victimization is a poor retreat,
To harangue them and present self with an ode is no feat.
Patience is my dagger to time,
And threatening each other we walk rakishly hand in hand.
To trail back,
Is not for me that fatal.
I emancipate the baited,
And buster am I of existing parasites.
Liberty is my boundary,
I would dare not to annihilate a choice.
But I do not condone either,
For I hate to feel withered and there is no way I may let go.
I am relentless,
I would not mind if you address me as a bovine.
I am cathartic and hysterical,most of all a contributor here,
An energy straight from plasma,unsimplified.
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC
*choc bulimic in Edinburgh; the Welsh index and middle finger tactic,
that way a dozen models were ******* out to mind an economy.*
the next cards you'll pull from the packet
are all jokers - i.e. wild-cards -
western society begot laziness
that begot psychiatry that begot
war on terror - that somehow begot
war on terror, that didn't begot
philosophy, but it did begot crosswords -
as a Frau will testify, aged 91,
prompted-by-excuse-by-her-age:
doing the pensioner's bit: a Koepcke (1928 - 1977)
(i bet you wish it was K'oh eh pck'e'; ya?!
oder Andreas Köpke? nicht wie?),
VANDAL GRAND-GRANNY COMPLETES
A CROSSWORD - a thousand chandeliers
with a a hundred grand pianos crashed with Newton's
apple that day - the day was advertised state memorandum -
Hanzel and Gretyl came along for the sweets parade
expecting salutes in Swedish - contra beetroot -
some said agitations from the blues, some said
agitations from the beets - or so rooted -
agriculturally purple blooded, minor urban dwellers
sniffed out the cabbage-heads -
major urban dwellers sniffed their own **** out -
beginning with St. Petersburg and Cairo -
contra former violence? *sprechen zungefeinde,
zumal falschsprechen*.
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
Oh old sport,
it crumbles around me.
The lights have dimmed
to a feeble moan,
my reveries like shirts
idly blowing in the air,
head heavy as morphine.
I feel my heart throb
like a defective clock
as cool fall rain slithers
down the windows.
Every set of eyes
has turned away;
now sad spheres
that gaze elsewhere.
Her voice was my wild tonic,
her figure an enchanting breeze.
We’d unravel as hanks of wool,
kisses that would leave
a tingle on our lips.
There are no pills for what is now.
Past moments entombed
behind frosted glass.
Agitations that turn me
into a sugar-rushed flea.
Look now Jay.
The water an awful, inky blue,
the pool a somnolent cavity.
I wish to fix it,
to slot the pieces into place,
the seconds flitting by
as if ash in the wind.
A pinprick of green
glimmers in the distance.
Old sport,
I swear I hear my bones cry.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
Are you regularly transcending your ego?
Is doubt interfering with your intentions?
Can you dream dreams and envision a future,
that are aligned with His plan of Salvation?
Will your dreams manifest into your reality?
Have you discussed your purpose with Him?
Can you claim that you’re making progress?
Are you imploding from events that are grim
and seeking to pull your soul downward again?
Are you applying Biblical principles often,
to your personal, family and professional lives?
Are you kind toward others, with a heart soften
by the joyous message of God’s abundant Love?
Are you involving yourself in high-energy levels
of appreciation, reverence, trust and optimism?
Or are you sacrificing at the feet of devils,
who have stolen your Life’s sacred, first Love?
In the midst of your brokenness, does Light shine?
Can the uninitiated and unsaved, see any evidence
in your behavior, whereby your life is a shrine
that proclaims the greatness and goodness of God?
From agitations and disruptions, do you find release?
Can you stay clear of commotions and hullabaloos?
Are you living… in turmoil or staying in peace?
.
.
.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Psa 24:1-10; Phil 4:8-10; 1 Cor 14:33;
Eph 4:4-14; Job 12:10
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
Tell the overture and underdeveloped maniac to be a carrier,
Of all of the sudden,
Flans' and such,
Gritted, girt, and push,
Keep in like with the ordinance,
Feel the poor drag,
Stem up your cellular brain
****** she wrote,
Tuesday devotee,
Wrapped in conformity and commitment,
Depraved sensual agitations,
For the alone inside
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
Stifled into servitude
infiltrated
***** pillaged
consumed
The papers piper
plays their tune
Thick as thieves
they lead you to their ruse
Pay into the fuse
lighting our inevitable doom
Fictitiously facing
agitations of their separation
Believe youre free
to serve a nation
which merely is
a corporation
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 8:53 PM UTC
In a long sofa
I lay briefly... outside the veranda next to my granny cozy cat
My thoughts wanders like a reincarnated soul
As I ponder...
Who am I?
I ask repeatedly
To what purpose do I deserve to be called among the humans?
As I lay myself down... Heaven hear me frown...
Neither could my thoughts stop pondering...
Who am I?
What is this tormentors agitations?
That rest on my hearts shoulder
And make me feel as if all had been a dream...
Was I to wake up in a moment?
Who am I?
I ponder still...
My spirit remains awakening
For the search of truth is beyond physical
And the person I am or I'll be
Determines how I set my pace
For the heart has reasons
That reasons itself cannot know...
After all,
I'm the master of my fate ....and the writer of my own destiny...
The weaver of the so called Carpet of fate...
And so are you.....
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
Life's not a cakewalk. There are trial's, tribulations.
Downtimes, agitations. Sweet lovin or imitations.
Life's not a cakewalk, life's a seed so let it grow.
Life is a plea of something bigger than us
Let life's seed flourish and grow.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 4:28 PM UTC
In your depreciating Cabral of the putrid collectives
where the poisonous oxygen sears your hackneyed minds
and the history of your undesirable stations colors your visions
painting thoughts in rediffusions of psychopathy tuning whimsical
casting the agitations and hysterics of your fractious diseased sights
Know this for nothing, he who dared show your malignancy
In stance laissez-faire, you erupted unfair troubles, chaos, strife
spurred by knaves, armoured by the green-eyed monster and deceit
boiling with historical wounds, none of my doing or from my habitat
In devious lying tongues you rout my knoll, my name, my heart et al
Now, know this, hate a'fore unknown to me, but not any more
despise will not do, detest and arbor not enough, loathe still not near
a man of peace I trouble you not but in raging madness you pillaged
You paid an army, you conned a town for the bravest it overwhelmed
Now you post your wenches and sell a fable of teasing and confusing
From this heart I do declare, this man can never turn in gay
but no ***** regardless fair or fetching who in your game, I see
that ceaseless passions burns and holds nowt but abominations for all
nurse my soul for pitiless, cruel wicked and witless snakes is too far
say what you may, pen what you will, I see you and all in contempt
I know of time and I know of age and I have known pleasures
but now I also know what hate can do and how evil blackens hearts
save your time and use your cancerous energy elsewhere as you do
to hold I want to share passions with your vacuous wenches untrue
Me see no beauty no more, only mindless effigies and sadist puppets in slime
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 3:44 AM UTC
comes on shore, from heated airs,
over a far away ocean,
steals in with quiet hands,
no thunderous clapping,
gently lifts, shakes, the
woman’s long tresses,
making them an
even bigger
tangled messes
the irises standing proud ‘n tall,
with their quiet applause, mm
at the unfolding playlet observing,
verdant spectacular every coloration,
the sky spinning clouds,
the lapping waves keeping rhythm,
that everyone
hears differently,
and all the discordant
cacophonous agitations
blends harmoniously
and everybody smiles,
everyone grins,
all knowing that the
all~knowing just
sneezed
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 9:14 AM UTC
From where I stand, I understand. What it feels like to feel something but not knowing what it is. It's just a feeling, but yet so compelling. It's somewhat disturbing, but I crave for this feeling.
This feeling is like a bird. It's there, perched on your mind, beautifully. The second you walked, closer, it flew away, and you don't get to choose your next meeting. It chooses you. So, you sat there, waiting. And waiting.
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 5:08 PM UTC