"assortment" poems
The diverse assortment of enrapturing conviction
Is but cacophony to most other than me,
Discord to the passionate,
Defending concepts they find true
Clamor to the indifferent,
Those value peace and human happiness
Above factual correctness
For years they’ve all, with incessant attempts
Given their utmost to indoctrinate me,
The most easily swayed of all—
But I’ve found in the rupturing of the fervent,
All ideology, ethic, doctrine,
And in the serenity of the agreeably pacific
I’ve found faith, hope—I’m sure that’s my own,
Art is by no means meaningless, I find,
Especially so when inherent by human ability
And ascribed to this lyrical poem I’ve crafted
Consisting of what I, by my means, find true
Diverse conviction is beautiful.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
eye did. As my prejudices expected, the odd assortment of "characters"were all present and not to be unaccounted for...a romantic comedy on a good Friday, attracts the believers, the well wishers, the ones who think if only the world was.. and I was not re or so tired of life, unemployed, lonely, damaged in some manner of being...
not too many young, just a few... theater darkness is a masque, with a risqué chance of oh no, I've been witnessed by the non-believers.
the infirm with their mobile caretakers and paraphernalia were there. Odd couples, were there. If there was one unifying common characteristic, I selected this one. We all needed haircuts. eye don't know why but it made me think about going to get one's haircut, and the rituals that requires....and it is and is not a bit like being in a almost totally private world inpublic, where you, the individual and some outside force majeure, hairdresser, movie screen engages and temporarily transforms you. That is why, I, went to the movies on a Friday afternoon, to be transformed and not reformed, in public, in private...
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
I moved a few years ago
To the upper state of Vermont
Although the place is beautiful
At times it can be one great big yawn
That's when we put our heads together
Me and my best friend Shawn
And came up with the great idea
To start a Hippie Farm
Our noggins were a knocking
Not sure how this could be done
Do Hippies come from packs of seeds
Or like flowers, in a bunch
And can you start them off by grafting
Like they do on Apple Farms
Where you get rows and rows of Hippies
From just a single one
That's when Shawn remembered this mail order magazine
That we took out and took a look inside
It came with an assortment of Hippies
From Raw to Roasted to Highly Deep Fried
So we sat and weighed all of our options
And ordered a bushel of Hippies alive
Then we set out cultivating the fields
Till the day our Hippies arrived
The package arrived a few days later
In an old beat up VW Bus
With psychedelic smoke pouring from the windows
Pretty sure they all came buzzed
Of course Hippies don't come with instructions
Only bell bottom jeans and old Jefferson Airplane tapes
Can't tell you how many Hippies we went through
Before we learned from our mistakes
Like don't plant a Hippie face first in the dirt
They need a bit of air to breath
And they don't like to be over watered
Just dust them off when you feel the need
Now that the farm is up and running
We seem to have come into our own
We've even come up with a way of branding
Some of the Hippies that we've grown
We started selling them in flavors
Like Ben and Jerry's down the street
From our Abbie Hoffman Radical Cherry
To our Hendrix Hazy Purple Berry Treat
But it's our Groovy Rainbow Roundup Hippie
Whose sales have never let us down
In fact I'd put that Hippie up against
Anybody else's Hippie in town
I've never been much of one to brag
But we're known on the East coast, up and down
We've had people as far away as Florida
Come and buy our Hippies by the pound
So next time your up in Vermont
Stop in and take a tour and watch us grow
Don't forget to stop by our gift shop
And purchase your very own Hippie to take home
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
The solid color of blue
An assortment of color with enhancement of tone
Seeing the true blue you have never known
Look straight up at the cloudless skies and observe the blue in how it’s shown
A background of blue in what it creates
Now add another shade to blue and see what it illustrates
You will see a totally different style
This was all during while
Blue staring you in the face
The contrast that you can’t erase
It’s the blue that illumines with might
The color blue being well seen in sight
It’s the same blue that stands out bright
Then with another added shade that will simply excite.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
I found an empty book, it's labelled biology- grade nine,
fake lines ran across the book, never any real content,
to feel content with what I read was an impossible matter,
scattered diagrams of human anatomy too far from realism
because realistic diagrams would include labels to hearts
with coloured charts stating that 'this may fall apart-
not by fat barricades, but to paraphrase a different place,
Neruda chases the stars and from afar as the cages of ribs
would rip and sometimes, just enough to have felt loved,
to feel enough with being held for just a night, a short time,
but life is built beyond a biology book.
It is so strange that I have learnt so much more about life
than ninth grade biology because being biologically correct
doesn't ***** the hairs on my back as an assortment of words
like an assortment of birds aren't really meant to be described
as assortments and a biology book isn't really meant to describe life.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 6:04 AM UTC
If all you want is an image
Just imagine this
A man to your liking
with features so striking
A man you can’t resist
If all you want is emotion
Just emote to me
And we’ll start pretending
That love’s never-ending
And happy we will be
Mold me into any shape you want
Hold me, roll me
Shuffle, cut and fold me
I’ll be yours for life
Slash me, bash me
Slice and dice and mash me
I’ll be the perfect man
For the perfect wife
Let me be your Frankenstein
Let me be the love you pine
I’ll be yours and you will be mine
Let me be your Frankenstein
Draw up a blueprint
Make out a plan
Tell me what you need
A groovy assortment
Of all the important
Things that you can’t see
A wizards brain
A heart of gold
A fiery touch
And I’ll be sold
So if you find him
Bring him here
I’ll pay to rent him
Every year
Don’t be jive
And don’t be bold
For every story
Ever told
Ends up somewhat
Not so clear
So if you find him
Bring him here!
Searching woman look no more
You have found your dream
I’m worth two plus three times four
Let me join your team
You can see that I’m the one
I’m just what you need
So I ask no fee save one
Let me, Let me be
Let me be your Frankenstein
Let me be the love you pine
I’ll be yours and you will be mine
Let me be your Frankenstein
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
He was never your daughter,
not since the day he was born.
He was an identical twin to his sister, sure,
but your daughter? No.
I am dating your daughter, sir.
He has an assortment of ways to please me.
I love him, and he knows it;
he orders his ***** online to please me.
He was never your daughter.
Couldn't you tell from the way he looked
awkward in dresses?
The way he always cut his hair short?
He was never your daughter;
I am dating your daughter, sir;
but he is not, never was, a sister
to the brother who just wanted a hug.
"She feels like she's wearing the wrong decoration;
how would you like it if I put you
in a dress and paraded you around
in front of your friends?"
He was never your daughter, ma'am,
but you knew it.
He is not a lesbian, he's something different.
He is not your daughter, any more.
Certainly we all know
he wears things to hide his *******
And while I know what's down there in his pants
he won't let me see it.
He was never your daughter,
but I knew that.
I knew when he said, "FtM,"
that he was something different,
something special.
"I want to be a pelican
and have a bag for a face."
"Baby, baby, baby."
"Where's my ****
I've spent a month with your daughter,
and he cannot wait to tell it to your face
that he's moving out.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 2:41 AM UTC
**Of all known phenomena
Birth is the most wondrous
And the most miraculous
In the assortment of life’s stunners
So you always are a miracle
One readily celebrated each year
As the sparkle of your smile
Dazzles the world
Like sunshine after a dark tunnel
And the fire in your eyes is a smelter
To melt iced hearts and smelt rock faces
So dance maestro dance
And never once forget the choreography
Of the poetry in your fervent heart
Where hopes and dreams are a lovely duet
Happy birthday mover of the spirit
You who creates joy in moments of magic
When configurations of rainbow futures coax your heart
To beat intricate rhythms from life’s score sheet
Happy birthday to you, child from eternal vistas
Let your dreams carry you forward to fruition
Till life is oozing and dripping with honeyed dew
And each early morning walk is capped with shower bliss
And that promise of tomorrow and the day after the feat
Of never giving up on the business of living, no matter what
Happy birthday to you; you of stardust and moon glow**
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
I recently had the great privilege of editing Mike Essig's latest poetry collection, THE BIOLOGY OF STRANGENESS, and I'm honoured to have been entrusted with such fantastic material. Putting together a book like this is every poetry geek's dream.
It's a beautifully textured assortment of poems, earthy yet lyrical, narrated by a voice that's uniquely grained with experience. There are pieces that will make you smile, think, wince; there are pieces that hit you in the gut out of nowhere; there are pieces that welcome you into them like old, worn-in shoes; there are pieces you will remember late some night when you're by yourself, and remembering them will make you feel less alone.
This collection of poetry makes you look at the banal and the everyday afresh; it finds magic and mystery in the mundane, and even Hawaiian shirts are poem-worthy when Mike Essig's writing about them.
The Kindle version is already available through Amazon.
A paperback edition is due out next month, and I can't wait to have a copy of this book on my shelf as well as on my e-reader.
Mike's previous poetry books, Never Forgotten and Huck Finn Is Dead are also available through Amazon and are excellent.
From his author profile on B Star Kitty Press:
"Mike Essig is a veteran of Vietnam and a retired English teacher. He’s also been recruited by the muse as a poet, like he hadn’t already been through enough."
Sample poems, links to sales pages and more info can be found at the B Star Kitty Press website. www(dot)bstarkittypress(dot)com.
Please do support this very talented indie author.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
the garbage truck didn't turn up to-day
and the neighborhood trash stunk all day
a gross smell drifted across the street
it was akin to a rotting pile of peat
the council have heard the odd gripe
they've been told that the ******* is ripe
the residential area is no perfumery
our quarter acre blocks are so stinky
we'll be forced to vacate the neighborhood
as uncollected garbage is far from good
the air is heady with stale fish and curry
vegetable matter and an assortment of slurry
it is hoped that a truck can soon be found
as we'll be decamping the area's bounds
our noses have had a harrowing time
inhaling a stench which isn't sublime
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
She's staring at her favorite scarf and weeping away at her life.
Mother doesn't love her,
Father doesn't understand her.
And the image of her scarf is constantly appearing in her mind.
She has come to the conclusion that she'd look best wearing it,
Hanging from one foot from her ceiling.
Funny how something meant to make someone so warm,
Can be used to make a body stone-cold.
Should she wear the scarf with butterflies on it?
Or the one her sister gave her for Christmas,
The day they stopped talking to each other altogether?
Should she wear the one she wore on her first date with him,
Or is that too much?
Mother is screaming at her,
Telling her that her room is too cluttered.
There are scarves laying everywhere on the ground,
The girl is comfortable with it.
But I wonder what she'd do when her mother sees her cluttered mind.
"Mom, how does this scarf look on me?"
The girl will ask from up above,
Or maybe down below.
But she won't care, because she's too preoccupied with the girls flaws.
Her room gets too explosive,
Shes not exactly like the mothers firstborn.
She hangs out with friends too often to avoid being home.
Scratch that, at her house, because a home is where the heart is,
But all I see are carbonated feelings being bottled up,
And shaken,
But the girl doesn't dare pop open the cap.
Now the mother is pushing the girl away
And throwing everything she has,
Both literally and figuratively,
And the mother officially wages a war against the girl.
The mother is armed with the girl's dear father,
And her words,
And all the girl has to offer are scarves.
She has an assortment of 13 exactly,
But she doesn't know which one to wear.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
I waved goodbye to the oak tree
And felt the cool breeze surround me
Looked up to the multicoloured sunset
And down to the assortment of sienna leaves
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 7:24 PM UTC
This can’t be what’s really going on now
Taking it in, slick grin, mixed in with the same scowl
None of it matters,
What’s done is done
I could’ve tried harder
I could have won
It’s time to save, or give away freely
It’s all insane, please stack it up neatly
I can be wrong, darlin’, I’m only one man
It’s borderline freezing
Come, take my hand
They swept you away, and let you down easy
To my dismay, repeating, exceeding
Every single day I live, gives away it’s true meaning
Left alone in my bed, could be self defeating
I raise up from my bed, tell us what you’re feeling
I’m in need of aid, to begin the healing
All that is important,
Under the stitching and the seems,
Is a vast, solemn assortment, of runaway dreams
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC
Here comes the shadow not looking where it is going,
And the whole night will fall; it is time.
Here comes the little wind which the hour
Drags with it everywhere like an empty wagon through leaves.
Here comes my ignorance shuffling after them
Asking them what they are doing.
Standing still, I can hear my footsteps
Come up behind me and go on
Ahead of me and come up behind me and
With different keys clinking in the pockets,
And still I do not move. Here comes
The white-haired thistle seed stumbling past through the branches
Like a paper lantern carried by a blind man.
I believe it is the lost wisdom of my grandfather
Whose ways were his own and who died before I could ask.
Forerunner, I would like to say, silent pilot,
Little dry death, future,
Your indirections are as strange to me
As my own. I know so little that anything
You might tell me would be a revelation.
Sir, I would like to say,
It is hard to think of the good woman
Presenting you with children, like cakes,
Standing in doorways, flinging after you
Little endearments, like rocks, or her silence
Like a whole Sunday of bells. Instead, tell me:
Which of my many incomprehensions
Did you bequeath me, and where did they take you? Standing
In the shoes of indecision, I hear them
Come up behind me and go on ahead of me
Wearing boots, on crutches, barefoot, they could never
Get together on any door-sill or destination-
The one with the assortment of smiles, the one
Jailed in himself like a forest, the one who comes
Back at evening drunk with despair and turns
Into the wrong night as though he owned it-oh small
Deaf disappearance in the dusk, in which of their shoes
Will I find myself tomorrow?
2.3k
Outer beauty is about 33% of the total package.
Unfortunately, it is the first thing people notice.
An obvious statement by me, a man.
From my perspective; maybe not so unique.
A woman's physical "perfection" may not be as desirable as one might imagine.
Physical Perfection can be intimidating, by men & women.
Physical Perfection can be resented, even though admired.
Physical Perfection can also attract some "unwanted" attention.
Physical Perfection can bring on mental frustration,
while dealing with the perverted assortment of attention.
Having said so, I am curious to know the personality of a physically perfect girl.
As, I can not get close enough to say anything more than Hi as we pass in the mall.
But, my physical self can not keep her attention, even for a minute.
The competition for her attention would be too great.
My cautious and shy personality would be left behind.
She would be whisked away from me.
Most likely by a younger more physically perfect guy.
I would prefer, the girl next door type.
She looks cute and is quite nice.
When she does her magic. She transforms into a very pretty and even **** girl.
Even with glasses and slightly crooked teeth.
Her most endearing qualities though is not physical perfection.
Rather, her beaming smile, sparkling eyes, self-confidence
outgoing personality and...
her get it done attitude.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
He's part artist, part alchemist,
but a full-on con, self-professed with post-
graduate degrees in mixology
and the god-given sense to know which
smoldering home remedies will catch fire
(give or take an occasional legal glitch).
His healing pitch is grifted on the easy
comparison of queasily lowered brows to
their indistinctly raised betters. You'll doff
the scoffing face as he pulls back a masking
caparison, and your fever gallops hotly
hoof-in-mouth with an uncontrollable itch.
Tinctures, colloids, salves and potions,
they all have twisty caps, blithe boxes
bubbling over with hypnotic patterns
fashioned to cure your urge to avoid
his futility. First'll come the ****** then
the crumple followed by purse strings loosening.
Don't consider it capitulation.
His assortment of fluid manipulations
bear a singular branding at 100 proof,
and after the recommended daily dosing
(two jiggers with each meal), you'll feel
you're **** erectus made sapient.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 8:15 PM UTC
Trapped inside this box of your brain
Just one way out ; crystal's key
Crush purest, whitest rock.
won't feel so foul
though careful now!
you'll waste your go
theres only bout a gram you know
translucent Blue cases and razor blades,
an assortment of bank cards and notes far and wide,
torn up notebook scrap dyed red - a meaningful sign
from the brutal nosebleeds marking the straws
The purest indication
of our devout dedication;
my love,
complete devotion to such godless acts
Hear cheers of charlie
speaking salacious acts
Sniff some magic snow for silence
the hankering soon be back
One in the kitchen starting his war,
One in the spre room - dead on the floor,
Two in the bed lost to their head,
And myself on the hunt
for half ins for more
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 10:32 PM UTC
It is not a mere assortment but a testament to the sentiment we share,
A bundle of heartfelt glee I present to you,
An array of colors crossing symbolism itself,
A gesture reigning classical to say the least,
A bouquet of roses for you my dearest,
My sincerest regards.
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 3:47 PM UTC
I was once accused of being the devil under a darkened moon on a foggy night
Now, I've met the devil and let me tell you
The devil once beat me with a curtain rack over my back until I bled
Only to pretend it was in the sport of the game
I've met the devil
In fact, the devil used to show my mom love from the end of a fist and in the sunrise after a long night of crying
Would convince her it was in the name of his love for her
I've befriended the devil
The Devil once taught me how to pick locks and marks minding their own business
And to prey on these people, nay,
Opportunities
Like my life depended on it
I've lived with the devil
The devil kept once locked me in a house-shaped-prison before flinging me into the world unprepared, and dazed
Only to blame me for not watching the outside close enough from my foggy window
I've loved the devil
And eagerly, I gutted myself in the devil's name each time she asked me to see my still beating heart
Only to be confused as to why she hated the mess that followed my orders
I've sacrificed to the devil
I've taken my own heart and soul, and impaled them on a blade made of pure jaded spite, only to lay them with all the other hearts I've stolen and pierced
Unknowingly, yet undoubtedly maliciously.
I've kissed the devil
And in that deal I sealed my fate a lifetime of servitude to a soul I helped created
And created a bond with the devil that was forbidden for good reason
I've lied to the devil
Only to have my mistakes return and slash me across the face like the blade that is the sun's beams shedding light on a long night of forgetting problems
No matter how justifiable he claimed I was
I've seen the devil
He watched me from the bottom of an orange tube only to switch his view finder to something he could swim in
And once more, even now,
As it dances on the end of my blunts
I've met the devil
And I've met the devil many times throughout my lifetime
I've met the devil enough times to identify it by smell, or hearing
Despite it coming with a new assortment of blends, a new chirp every time it appears, and a new look complete with me words
**** at one point, it was me
But I know this Now:
I am not (currently),
Nor will I be ever again,
The Devil.
Jul 16, 2020
Jul 16, 2020 at 1:11 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
We're either a nation of cowards
Or a nation of fools
When our kids shelter in place
Inside of their schools
And our president breaks
All of the rules
And locks children in cages
Which proves that he's cruel
We're either a nation of cowards
Or a nation of fools
When criminals are pardoned
As part of the tools
That the president uses
To protect his footstools
Which he bandies about
Like they were precious jewels
We're either a nation of cowards
Or a nation of fools
Who proceed blindly
Like a wagon train of mules
Who are being driven
By an assortment of ghouls
Who push our buttons
And change our molecules
We're either a nation of cowards
Or a nation of fools
Who resist climate change
And biofuels
Those who mention them
He simply overrules
With little resistance
From those he ridicules
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2019. All rights reserved.
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 10:52 PM UTC
After Henry Taylor
On a peaceful night just as the stars had
risen and the chilled dew was beginning
to form on the grass, a set of steel tracks
resting atop an ordinary hill
began to hum with warm vibrations as
a steam-powered engine came towards them,
pulling along an assortment of goods,
it came fast and came loud, breaking all of
the solitude by the hill, but perhaps
it was going too fast or maybe the
tracks were a little wet or it may be
that the train simply wanted to jump, but
just as it reached the turn atop the hill,
it leaned off its path and like a rubber
band; the rest followed, throwing to the air
everything held inside, tumbling down
the hill, splashing through the water droplets
until finally coming to a rest
at the bottom, where splintered lumber and
distorted steel had torn up earth to show
a mound of fresh dirt, riddled with gravel
and twigs, the hill became quiet once more,
just as the train whispered its final gasp
and the dew began to form on its wheels.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
She labors to smile,
irony draws lines
on her embittered face,
thick dark iron bars,
temporarily cage pain;
yet the risk
the two run is toxic.
soon they 'd have to face it,
unmistakable indications reveal,
her velvet voice over the phone,
conjured up an image,
drastically different,
a sadness now faintly asks
his permission to spread quickly,
confused he postpones, buying time.
guilt, a shaggy, smelly, hound
suspicion, its dominant trait,
lurks sniffing around,
the table they mutely sit,
like prisoners of unburied past
convoluting the plot,
by playing ***** tricks.
the air thickens
chocking both,
the haunt leers, licks its paws in glee
what is its intention?
"You look more or less
like him, my former lover-
I try to erase from memory
by every which way possible,
sorry about that, but i can't help it,
he traded in pain of many kinds
ingeniously, nothing else he did"
she shoots from the hip.
memory of an evil genius
was quickly resurrected by him
from the assortment of stereotypes,
vision of caravans transporting
gun powder kegs of bad memories, flashed
he had a match stick handy.
soon, everything exploded to culminate;
darkness devoured all, breaking limits.
caravans slog towards horizon, one after other still.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
I have been taken to someplace new, someplace with ample beauty,
Above me, pearly white clouds drift lazily on the clear blue sky,
Below me, luscious grass licks my ankles, blowing in the warm breeze,
Behind me, a clear river flows, its water clean enough to see the trees’ reflection,
In front of me, baby blue mountains pierce the sky in abundant numbers,
To my left, a thick forest of a seemingly endless assortment of trees flourishes,
To my right, a single snowy white dove sits perched on a very large evergreen tree.
The dove lives in harmony with me, alongside me, within me,
The tree on which it rests is the largest tree within my view,
As long as the tree exists, the dove exists; as long as the dove exists, I exist,
The dove and the tree tell a story of great friendship and harmony,
For without the dove, there is no tree; without the tree there is no dove,
I am its only audience, the only one who is listening, yet I listen with great attention,
Their story is that of life: what it was, what it is, what it will come to be.
The sun is rising, but something is different, something is not quite right,
The river exhibits a shade of ****** red; the forest reeks of damage,
The mountains sing a sorrowful tune; the clouds obliterate the sky,
The grass has hardened, now a gloomy gray; the breeze has turned frigid cold,
The dove has gone, its once green home reduced to a defeated ash,
The once great land has vanished, and with it, the feathered wing had vanished too,
For without the dove, there is no tree; without the tree there is no dove.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 12:32 PM UTC