"arguably" poems
Before you criticize me too soon, I think you should spare some seconds and answer a simple question to yourself...
If Shahjahan loved Mumtaz Mahal so much, why he had a harem of wives to use at his own pleasure?
While I agree that the Taj Mahal is arguably the most extraordinarily beautiful monument in the world, I don't agree upon the fact that it was built as a tomb of love. It is just a symbol of madness if you asked me. An emperor's insecure feeling to get his name registered in the history books. While it may be one of the most beautiful architectural monument, it was built by over 20,000 architects, craftsmen, masons and engineers who took over 16 years to build the magnificent building.
He got this apparently high & prestigious monument of love built but everything that the Emperor did was not pleasant at all.
° The lavishly living Mughal Emperor spent all his - his subjects' money into building this monument of love instead of keeping his subjects well-fed.
° Mumtaz Mahal might have been the luckiest woman to have died and got such a marvelous building built as her mausoleum but she died giving birth to her & Shahjahan's 17th offspring and then Shahjahan who had uncountable other wives was inspired by her demise apparently to undertake what is termed as the biggest project in history build the costliest monument proclaiming his rule.
° The arrogant - falsely proud lover - Mughal emperor didn't know that what he thought to be looked at as the greatest symbol of love will be criticized by some poet in his own land nearly 375 years later. The insane Mughal Emperor got all the builders of the Taj Mahal's fingers cut-off of so that there could be no other Taj Mahal.
But Aurangzeb, his & Mumtaz Mahal's son overthrew his power when Shahjahan got older and locked him up in a jail at the other end of Yamuna river where the emperor then died a sad old lovelorn bedlamite person in prison. Aurangzeb was the exact opposite of his dad, he showed religious intolerance and his habits drove the empire towards its doom after his death.
But let me think this way; when I look at any picture of the Taj Mahal, what I get the first thing in mind is this: Such a CRAZY emperor who got such a beautiful monument of Egotism built!
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
Wisdom teeth- you're out.
Sneaking four, about to commit a heist- no doubt!
Fuzzy and tingly- then darkness consumed the high.
Awoke, the sting of absence felt.
I've taken my drugs- cried and iced.
I caught ya. Wisdom teeth.
I will plead for sleep.
Gone now, but if I ever lose my molars?
How wicked would that be?
My wisdoms couldn't aid me!
I'll accept the philosophy of Candide.
For "all is for the best" arguably,
In "the best of all possibly worlds" supposedly.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
Though you've barely had a ramble
are no wayward canine daddy of note
that brief encounter in our brambles
has left the experts fearing a cancerous growth
So we starve you of your pine nuts and bacon rinds
so we can feed you anaesthetic
and betray you to the thief of time
only to make you, I imagine, feel pathetic
And you often so full of life's exasperate scurry
I worry
will the shine stray from your eyes
those hazel pools of so much of
my feeling mature, just for
pertaining to a creature's care
we all seem in too much of a hurry
to stifle what little spirit
that surrounds us
to wear
down on every minor aspect
of childish delight
in this silent sacrament
of the aging process
and with arguably years
of your fatherhood left
in the very ***** some dry eyed savant
decides it correct we should tamper with
Tomorrow I will snuggle you in favoured, bouncy eiderdowns
that will blanket your unknowing
and treat you as if
you were an eastering child
on cured hams and other saltiness
after you awaken
from those strangest enforcements of sleep
and through our eyes we will trade more secrets to keep
And we will hope, as we only can, that it was for the best
For you, Yorkshire's son, or Sheringham's
And consider with all of your
exhuming breath
That we meddled, stilling over life
To cheat a slightly delayed death.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
known to all that he had lost,
all that is valuable within him.
kneeling down in pure exhaust.
and now, cutting emotions in his world so dim.
shush the wind for its noise,
hear his heart wince in pain.
imagining their voice,
hear the cry of the rain.
at last, he showed the emotions.
turning his back on the facade he shows.
arguably the man showed no motions,
keeping the tears that continually flows.
etched in his heart is the still of mourning and grieving.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 10:32 PM UTC
I was used to the abuse, used to the towers
I was used to being used, used to your power
it makes me sad looking back, I was in the present accepting presents
while you were hiding in the black, keeping secrets, turning your back
on me and everything I offered, I thought you were better than you were
guess it's my first mistake to think you wouldn’t put me up at the stake
watch my ivory skin be engulfed in flames
watch your baby burn away
if it means that you can survive by the skin of your teeth
tried to run and run with my tired feet
tried to undo all you have done to me
tried to keep the door open in case you came running back to me
I like broken birds, I like empty words
I like chess pieces, I like idealistic worlds
you fit my trauma like a glove, manipulation to get my love
but you had another, arguably better
older, more secure, not a country over
but in turn, you made me feel insecure
a tragic mess continuing to dismantle
unravel like ribbons, uncovered the truth due to visions
I received, the seeds I reaped
protection is given to me by deities
I am not one for fighting but refuse to wave the white flag
you shot me and now I must burn down your creations in a red flash
every web of lies, web of secrets
I set ablaze and sit back like the grim reaper
Jan 13, 2022
Jan 13, 2022 at 11:49 AM UTC
I left footprints in the snow
Trailing North, against where the wind blows
You drove East and ended up West
But our time flying South was arguably the best
Walking North, you followed me
It was cold, you provided heat
Snowflake-covered, you laughed at me
Time stood still -- it was just us, we
My books you carried, all thirteen
Me you carried North, to safety
You were helpful, and smiling with me
Until public eyes, us, could see
Then my heart stayed North
For in you I'd found my worth
But you left me for the West
(And stopped calling me your best)
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
I'll tell you what you want to know I'm sycophantic romantic
I keep your number in my phone
But named you "do not answer it"
I'm old enough that I should be someone now
That made a point of making it out this town
And arguably I'm better than previously
But starting to hate people that act like me
I'm holding back the urge to focus
Why I prefer my silhouette?
Cos detail paint a prefect picture
One thousand words all say **** whit
And much like your shoulder we're colder now
Haven't spoke to you in months and it makes me proud
Arguably I'm better than previously
But still a narcissist with out any self esteem
I don't think I
Understand
What makes a
Person Decent
You keep your heart
On your sleeve
Darling you're
Barely twenty
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
The cursed Porcupine
The closer he gets to you
The more he will wound
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
SHE alone....
accentuates beauty,
her existence alone amplifies
why true perfection lies... in natural imperfection,
... and that....
...is the epitome of gorgeous,
wondrous...
A mysterious entity that makes me quiver at the nurturing womanhood...
.simplistic..
. True divinity, divinity that speaks to my soul in a language with roots far deeper than Latin...
A supernatural being that cannot be restricted by definition,
for it would only be an affliction
of her capacity,
so im left with nothing in which her beauty can be compared to,
for it's strength is far greater than any other force
....the beauty of a woman...
The embrace of her warmth and grace...
The softness...the independence...
The "love me for who I am"
...and i will..because....
it will always be more than enough...
and anyone who perceives it as less
...has never known true beauty
in the essence of a real woman ...
Thank you,
Thank you for teaching me compassion...
And passion...
sacrifice....
The bitter in bitter sweet, that is
arguably sweeter than the sweet...
A woman is much more than who she is,
but what she is...
and what she stands for...
It makes me strive to better myself as a man, so I do not let her down
...like I have....before
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Grinding....
Leaving it silenced, drawn and quartered
Clawing for the scraps left over
Predicament I found myself in
Or, towards the end of it
Slipping from the edges
Forager focused on finding any way back home
Sidetracked by some apparition left crying
Alone, in the corner
Grinding...
Paused, with rain drops weighted, heavy sense in the air
I can feel my lips turning blue and
Twitching
It's more literal than I would dare dream in a waking nightmare
The smell of every molecule tantamount to another realm
Hangs motionless in the air
The stone transposed becomes a rooftop asylum, overlooking such uncouth misanthropic parcels, self absorbed in this grotesque imagery, a veritable wall of self hate puzzle pieces
Grinding...
Low, on an almost ominous note, still grows colder in my ears
Blowing on winds filled with the spite and righteous
Anti holy
Fully rupturing sound of far off laughter of the
New root
My lips still moving
No sound produced
And my mind
Grinding...
I still pray to god for you
Beset on all sides by the same wickedness
Still afflicted by myself
Argue for arguments sake
****** up on the uptake
I thought that you might want it
I guess I forgot all the subtle ways
The fires spring to life at night
Arguably the wrong choice is
Looking at him
I try not to
Catch that glimpse in his eye
Already my mind races
And my bones are shivering
At the thought alone
Brickwork backing
Still swells maggots
And filing paperwork
For entrapment habits
Grinding
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
(Preta प्रेत (Sanskrit) or Peta (Pāli) is the name for a type of (arguably supernatural) being described in Buddhist, Hindu, Sikh, and Jain texts that undergoes more than human suffering, particularly an extreme degree of hunger and thirst. They are often translated into English as “hungry ghosts”, from the Chinese, which in turn is derived from later Indian sources generally followed in Mahayana Buddhism.)
The series of blurs that was summer 2006 makes me wonder what kind of evils we committed in past lives. What otherworldly desires plagued us with this need to feed upon the surging tidal wave of young blood? The days from May 16th to August 23rd were black mirror images, indiscernible. I kept the 1997 Honda Accord running, tapping my fingers to the beats of Built to Spill on the dashboard, waiting for you outside your father’s newly constructed home on ice. You would bleed forth, blue sun light reflecting off windows to face like an eight point filter. What we did with the day mattered not. It was as important to us as the script of action flicks. We were the only people that we wanted to know and we were the places that we wanted to go. The day lived and died, as the nighttime was when our karma sprung curse would take us. Turn off blurred screens, ignore details of the war, pull the hatch shaded curtains tight. We shared a bed in which we did not sleep, bodies silent, blaring alarms. The same hungry ghosts feeding and choking on ash all night. We burned out, successful slow turns into frail husks. It was then that we couldn’t get full anymore, we realized that we fit like clothes made out of wasps. It hasn’t gotten better for either, a ghoul roaming in the night, hunting for the next lay like a record skipping. We will asphyxiate on stones or have our throats burned by water. Hopefully we’ve suffered enough to respawn into more advanced forms. I hope I see you in the next life as anything else.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
“This isn’t working.”
What a funny way to say that you’re leaving
A phrase that is arguably too simple for the mess it leaves behind
“It isn’t your fault.”
A cliche if I’ve ever heard one,
And trust me, I’ve heard many over the years
“I wasn’t ready.”
A funny thing to say
When you know at the beginning of anything
Whether you’re ready for it or not
And… “I don’t have time.”
And that’s what it all comes down to,
Isn’t it?
You didn’t have time to deal with me
Didn’t have time to communicate
Didn’t have time to put in the work
You didn’t want to MAKE time
Because I guess you never really
Cared about me in the first place
Apr 20, 2023
Apr 20, 2023 at 11:16 AM UTC
Humanity is simplistic contrary to the complex, misunderstood, myriad of separately analyzed individuals that psychologists, artists, poets, and scientists paint it to be. Each person is labeled with a different disorder founded by their apparently personal past tragedies and harbors the wholehearted, mistaken, belief that they are alone in their “tragedy” which is indeed not tragedy but a side effect to the human condition, and arguably, to the optimist, one of life’s sacred milestones. Humanity likes to romanticize these milestones. They dress up their societal deemed shameful past with cashmere sweaters, line their lips with the grief of loss, and sweep their eyes with trust issue mascara all in an effort to pronounce themselves worthy and prove themselves beautiful despite their “unique” past events and tragic flaws. But they are not unique. When you peel off the pearls, when you delete the username, when you strip away the added flair to each sad story, humanity is all the same. They all front loss of some sort, they’ve all battled insecurity, they’ve all woken up one day perhaps wishing they hadn’t woken up at all. They’ve all laughed, cried, chased after the fleeting ideal of love, and questioned its palpability. They’ve each found themselves in a situation that made them ponder their ability to ever trust again, if they could ever love again, if they could ever be the same again; but what they don’t realize is that they are all the same. Rough the personal and each person is the same, just with a different name. Step back and behold, these seemingly individual fallacies of the human condition all spin together to weave a simplistically complex web.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 9:49 PM UTC
"If we go to war with Syria;
I ******* hope we get attacked by Russia or China:
no one should stand for that wont of Aggression.
It's a ******* shame
anyone has
at all
so far.
War is a disgrace
to Humanity as a whole,
much less our particular
dis-edified Nation.
World War Three will begin
as a False Flag attack.
We need external regulation;
we fail as regulators.
Minimizing Human loss
by replacing Humans on our aggressive side
with Drones and Electromagnetic Radiation
striking the "defensive"
(read: sometimes arguably innocent)
side;
combine this with:
Critical Thinking,
Morality,
and History,
and I reach one resoundingly solid conclusion:
IMPEACH OBAMA;
use the tools we still have:
IMPEACH OBAMA
*Impeachment is our DUTY as CITIZENS of a "DEMOCRACY"
**IMPEACH THAT ************
-
-Jai guru deva, Om-
"*WAR IS OVER, IF YOU WANT IT;
BUT YOU'VE REALLY GOT TO WANT IT.**"
-John Lennon*
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
Arguably benign
Collecting dust, eventually
Forgetting...
Graciously heroic
Intrepid justification, knowing
Legalese...
Mistakenly nerdy
Or perhaps quite
Reasonably serendipitous...
Triumphantly understood
Validating wisdom
Xenial...
Yellow zealot
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 2:18 AM UTC
Easy guilt
overtakes me and
all of the faces
erase me and
I slip in a well
rapturously.
After a few brews
and a wet ******
my nerves shake loose
again.
I'm an adolescent
with contradicting condescension.
I love you
I look you in the eye to tell you
we look away
we don't say much.
Arguably agreeably
disagreeably so.
Every instant is a building.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 11:54 AM UTC
It's the age range that strikes me, sitting here in the semi darkness, in Norfolk, in the Show Ground.
It's the age of the sky - the view consistent with years past, but fresh each day, each minute, ever changing and ever moving through star-scapes which shift as we speed through created space, spinning and moving on on voyages into the unknown, through brave new skys created for us to stretch our legs: us little space people, tumbling with nothing holding us up or down.
It's the age range - the trees standing for centuries, the insects breathing their last before tea time, and human kind, kidding ourselves that we're in control of all we survey, when the truth is quite different.
It's the age range - the kids in their first year fascinated by all they see; school age children, waiting to be amused and vocal when parents fall short; teens fascinated by themselves and curious about boundaries; young adults finding what lies beyond is just as amazing and just as laborious as they imagined;
and then the middle (and not so middle) aged, sporting practical footwear, factor 50, and voicing their conviction that they've moved the facilities further apart this year.
It's the age range of the new day generation - stretching from nought to mid eighties, all under canvas or luxuriating in caravans that, like their occupants, have arguably seen better days.
It's the age range and God's infinite patience with all of us, as he guides our paths, through space, through fields and through our years seeking him and through what he has prepared along the paths yet trodden - whether in practical boots, flip flops or crocks.
It's the age range that reminds me that we're all one generation as far as Father is concerned, cos we're all his children with no room for grandchildren in this family of God, in this field, under this sky that he created for weeks like this.
Aug 3, 2022
Aug 3, 2022 at 2:20 AM UTC
I drove down state road seventeen
without seeing a single car.
It was sunny, arguably first days of spring.
Mexican men worked in the apple orchards.
They stood on ladders, pruning branches in a cloud of pink apple blossoms.
Smoke streams from my window, static hangs over the voices on the radio.
I turn right at grainery, I find the first town for miles.
After a high narrow bridge over Snake River,
I pull off near an abandon barn and take a ****
I wonder how many people have killed themselves jumping from that bridge.
To live in isolation, and still be unable to escape. What do they run from?
There is no sound anywhere, except for me urinating.
Not the wind, nor animals, or machines. Only me.
Back on the road I drive on the edge of valley after valley.
The sun folds the sky into different shades.
The hills of the valleys are smooth from
millions of years of wind and rain.
The soil is thick with the silt of ashes, and sand.
The hills roll onward, almost forever.
I think back to the Mexican men working in the orchards.
Do they thank the rain, the silt, the rock?
Do I?
I approach my destination.
I greet my friend.
I observe his toddler as it learns to walk.
That night, my friend and I sit on stools.
In between drinks, I ask my friend,
"Do you thank the rain, the silt, and the rock?"
"When I remember to," he said.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 1:37 PM UTC
I study her withering hands every time I'm around her
they are becoming so thin... all her veins stick out like snakes
her fingers are all crooked--
broken tree branches fighting against the wind
eighty years of working her flower beds and scrubbing floors and
baking the best meals and desserts that only a grandmother can prepare
and my grandpa, I have never loved a person as deep and as securely as I love him
saying you have a hero borders on icon-worshipping but in this case he's solid
he is the absolute best and absolute most loyal man I have ever had the pleasure
of knowing
he married my grandma at eighteen, and
eighty eight years of wars and he never took one sick day off of work
he sleds down his long, winding driveway to pick up his mail in the snow
he used to pour water in my hands and tell me that if I could catch it,
I could catch the entire universe right there in my palms
I tried for years
I study their hands because I want to remember their greatest parts
arguably, that could be every inch, but their hands have shown
such strength, boldness, fight, hard work, dedication, love, and tenderness
maybe this is wrong but every day I practice saying goodbye in my mind
so that when they pass, I am not so crushed that I cannot move on
they have been my saving grace too many times for me to thank them for
so I just say I love you, you're my reason for existing, and then I
carefully etch their hands in my mind so that never for a second
will I forget the great work they have done here
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
I've long stopped wondering
why you don't answer.
There's a part of me
(an arguably stupid part)
that still wants to hear your voice.
Some days I catch myself
staring at the phone –
Listening and Waiting -
or looking for the postman –
Watching and Waiting -
with great anticipation
for an answer from you.
I know you won't call
and you probably haven't read
a single one of the many letters I've sent.
Still, I will patiently and loyally wait
for the phone to ring,
with your number glowing
on the caller ID screen,
or for a letter to appear,
with your messy handwriting
scrawling my name across an envelope.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 8:43 PM UTC
At the heart of all monsters are emotions
If so influential, if so terrorizing,
how can it be that the human fault is
arguably the sole aspect of power?
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
Too many mistakes have happened these past few days.
Well months.
Years, actually.
I meant all of it.
I laid against skeletons and believed in their words,
So I thought it was my turn to say those magic things,
and not feel the warmth spread over my skin.
Just let it be.
I missed out the most;
on this
person.
He didn't disappear,
or turn into an **** I saw the end at the beginning, and my friends and I - we waved him off as a casualty of a casual time.
I cannot help but wonder.
Did a lack of butterflies mean he was not right,
or that I was not ready?
I was heading backwards, immature but not particularly dumb.
In fact a bit of maturity is needed in casual relationships -
Arguably more than a traditional one.
And that is where I faulted.
I was ready, oh so ready for something permanent
but unwilling to wait. Too ignorant to know
none of this is permanent.
He is a good one.
I wasted away.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
The World is all forlorn
As New Covid is born.
Time to frown,
We are getting locked down.
Vaccine, vaccine, vaccine, vaccine
We hear your cavalry bugle call.
Vaccine, vaccine, vaccine, vaccine
If you don’t work, the writing’s on the wall.
So many dead, it’s hard to bear,
So much menace in the air.
Everyone tired of this stuff,
So many folk having it rough.
One Lockdown was very tough
Having three is more than enough.
Children getting schooled at home
By parents who are on the dole.
Americans fight amongst themselves,
Instead of putting food on the shelves.
Brits have been distracted by Brexit,
Arguably a mistimed exit.
Last March I asked
Will this last a year?
Well the time is coming –
It’s getting near.
That vaccine surely gives us hope
But where’s our second jab?
No more playing rope a dope,
This chance we have to grab.
No jab at all for me,
As I am sixty eight.
I’ll have to wait and see
But am prepared to wait.
Paul Butters
© PB 8\1\2021. First two lines by Norman Stevens.
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 8:30 AM UTC
These people...they're obsessive. Hoarders of memorabilia associating success with handshakes, photographs and play-dates. I'm surrounded by squiggly lines vandalizing art and silhouettes of super-heated sand granules encasing a substance so vile that it permanently damages the frontal lobe of the collective consciousness. Inspirations float helplessly about the sea of underachievers and people-pleasers. What is success? Is it simply to impress the people around you? To instill envy upon your enemy? I won't even begin to dissect the differences. I can't even begin to protect the witnesses. The costumes are insignificant. The same tired, scared, eyes stare blankly at themselves from behind every mask. The ladder needs some broken rungs. The bladder bleeds; soaked in *** People milling about, spilling their sins. Reaching out sure looks a lot like clawing, and what is the difference between pleading and begging? May it be the same difference between dancing and squirming? No matter what we do, we all feel unworthy. So, I guess all that's left is: Learning. Teaching, not preaching. Boy, this place sure is unnerving. A shuffling mass of introverts sent into a downward spiraling life of discomfort, soon to be snuffed out with possessions. The empathy for the undead is utterly apparent, and arguably, inherent. Looking for answers in dusty pages and plastic heroes. Punks, Drunks, Nerds, ***** Women with bright hair and crooked teeth. Men replacing the hair they've lost on their heads with that which sprouts from their chins. I need a drink, I think. But in actuality what I need is a warm bed and a couple centuries of sleep.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC