"attests" poems
Preach poverty and patience to the poor,
When snarling winter packs hunt down the old;
Push them away and shun them from your door
Feed hungry souls with sermons and rapport,
Old shepherds, keep your flocks unto the fold;
Preach poverty and patience to the poor
When heaven's snow attests to hallowed floor
And beggars plead for mercy from the cold,
Push them away and shun them from your door
When hungry children cry 'a little more'
And clamour forth with rusted tins they hold,
Preach poverty and patience to the poor
When brothers, plague and famine, reach the shore,
The weak and dying seek to be consoled;
Push them away and shun them from your door
When paupers come with frosted feet to thaw,
And fill the hall to hear kind words unfold:
Preach poverty and patience to the poor,
Push them away and shun them from your door
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
like chicken in tomato soup lain still,
one arm protruding off the bathtub's edge,
red water steaming, still at edge, none spilled,
and 'neath her chin a pill-less bottle wedged,
her forehead, raven hair, an island forest,
in a sea of calmness sought and found,
a chaos turned to peace, its calm attests,
now what has sunk beneath will meet the ground,
and as the soup's released into the drain,
her paleness, wrist cut red, and kitchen knife,
exposed to all, her face relieved of pain,
yet not enjoyed, devoid of sensing life,
that torment, plagued her soul with agony,
now transferred to her grieving family
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 3:29 PM UTC
1666
I see thee clearer for the Grave
That took thy face between
No Mirror could illumine thee
Like that impassive stone—
I know thee better for the Act
That made thee first unknown
The stature of the empty nest
Attests the Bird that’s gone.
1.7k
I believe the highest hopes and aspirations of humankind to be divine,
and I believe the epitome of Divinity to be True Love — Love in Truth.
Yet, in that we so universally long for love that’s true and truth that’s loving,
while so rarely attaining or embodying them, attests to the fact that
they find their Source outside of ourselves. Similarly, our greatest potential —
the Ideal itself, the capacity to even conceive of it, the desire to strive for it,
and the motivation to do so, must also ALL have their Source outside of ourselves.
It follows that our longing for The Divine is due to Divinity longing for us first —
the True nature of Love being to share ‘Itself’ graciously and generously.
Thus, True Divinity can only be The God of Love, by both nature and definition.
To believe Divinity to be intrinsically Good is merely a matter of self-consistency:
And for God to have Goodwill toward Man is perfectly natural by logical extension.
To further acknowledge that a Truly Loving nature — consistent with Divinity —
does not permit so much as even intentions of an un-loving or an un-true nature,
affirms that God is inherently trustworthy. We can thereby be assured that an
attitude of trust and a disposition to believe in the Love of God is very reasonable:
To do so has proven to be our most promising hope of our highest aspirations.
Any seeming contradiction to the veracity of Divine Virtue —
in theory or in history— can only be reasonably attributed to
misinterpretation and/or misrepresentation of God’s nature and intention.
[“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only-begotten Son, so that whosoever believes in Him
should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn it,
but that the world may be saved through Him” Father-God wants all of His lost children to return!
And “Behold what level of love the Father has given us that we should be called the children of God.”
So, “For me there is only one God, the Father, from Whom all things came and for Whom I live;
and there is only one Lord, Jesus Christ, thru Whom all things came and thru Whom we live.”
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 3:22 PM UTC
But no
merchant of the seas is he,
plundering wide & wandering free.
harboured portside sweetly he's *******
with fingers so deft, a bountiful plucking
*pink diamond hearts locked in heaving chests;
emeralds and sapphires* ~to all~ he attests!
wrecking the ships, he doesn't keep,
taking their precious
secrets deep.
@
><
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 4:13 PM UTC
Another day of cloud and shadow,
has come to take up the stage.
Another sense of empty loneliness,
that so often fills my published page.
That feeling that there is no point,
no rhyme or reason to what I do.
Another day devoid of sunshine,
where dark shadow taints the view.
An ever present feeling of endings,
that assuredly a soul attests are near.
Desolation's discomfort behind my eyes,
seemingly compelled to fill with tear.
Mind now drawn from dreamless sleep,
to wakeful hours as empty as those dreams.
An empty world of loneliness and silence,
where thoughts become nightmare's screams.
Slow moving hands that count away the time,
days filled with shadow immune to every light.
Empty total vacuum unaffected by the hour,
despair, minds refuge in black deep as the night.
Somewhere in this world where darkness reigns,
all dream and hope took turn and lost its way.
So I close again my eyes to drift in dreamless sleep.
to hope that hope returns again some day.
Jul 4, 2021
Jul 4, 2021 at 10:46 PM UTC
Trained by a centaur the grandson of Zeus,
said to wield power in his colossal frame
1(lilium) an' a seven cowhides to shield
(The Bullwark of Thachaens.....or G(ee))
his on screen name,
Responsible for the deaths of (twenty-eight at Troy)
and so many unaccounted Trojan Lords....
Fights (to a draw) Hector as Homer cites
associated with death as his Lily attests
but eventually falls on (own) sword.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
Peace in emptiness
The pale scope this circle is,
Like a shawl draped tightly on my neck
The sky hangs with intimacy
And yet so distant and emotionally raw
Its biting breath attests
Confined to converse with a babbling stream
And speak so vapidly
One can see, so peacefully
Thin veins, they creep on water’s top
Its vitals miserably languid, slow
And the fish condemned to stop
The sounds, the scene consume in silence
And make the world one
Because I sit here in defiance
To its outside I am numb.
Is this Peace? Perhaps, perhaps.
If it’s all alone
Because this is kind of lovely peace
The world does bemoan
I wish its concrete impermanence
Their busy lives atone,
For subtle sanctuary and plot for one’s high throne
I say to you, that you can find
Here, with me, all alone.
The leaves can be our wallpaper
The grass, exquisite rug
These stones, china of antiquity
Carved in Orient fashion
The moss will be our bedding
The hills our occupation
The fields will be our sustenance
The pond, couples' libation
I’ll christen this house, and you my bride
With gems of pretty ether
We’ll be each other’s sole possession
My hand will rest beneath her
Love the world, our home, our home
You and I, our love outlasting
Here, at Peace, and all alone.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
I could care less how many hours you spend on the net or what you do when you're on. I have no clue who you are nor do I care to know you. You crossed the line in claiming one of my poems as your own.
Please be advised, It takes only a few minutes to upload electronically to the Library of Congress. Also, please be advised, certificates have been issued under the seal of the Copyright Office that attests the registration of all my poems on this site have been identified as being solely created and owned by me, Betty Ponder. There are stiff fines and penalties for attempting to take credit for works that are not your own.
Below you will find the link to the poem regarding Nelson Mandela I wrote and you get no credit for it being that I don't know you and we have never met or collaborated on anything.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/untitled-26927/
Betty Ponder
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
This breath
that carries these words
the exhalation
of language
trying to convey
the inhalation of experience
the life lived
that fashioned these words
trying to express
how much you mean to me
as each respiration attests.
this breath
that holds me
to the earth
this breath
unique in its experience
this breath
that each day
my heart earns
as each day
brings me the joy
of inhaling you.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
It's a film a steamy English romance,
hero and heroine in black and white
(the steam of ancient train's smoke),
give each other a sly furtive glance
no prospect of rapid ***** or poke;
he removing from her eye a speck,
they part the gent risks a little peck
*** Not in this Empire, oh no siree
Viewer imagine but you may not see.
In a French flick au contraire oui oui
Oh ** ** monochrome mais tres blue
A subtitle or two then "how do you do?"
Hairy hunk grabs at the buxom *****
Tips her over a bed or maybe a bench
Bare-chest nuzzles the actress's *******
****** achieved as their gasping attests
Post-coitus Gauloisy kisses get shared,
Anglo-Gallic brief encounters compared.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
I've done it in coffee shops.
I've done it on coffee breaks.
I've done it at the dentist's.
But the best place of all was and is a bus stop.
I sit on the bench ...
oh, wait!
Am I giving you the wrong idea?
About me... ah?
I take out my book and a writing implement, and
I wait,...
Until the bus comes along to the stop, and
I watch,...
the faces of the passengers, on board.
What a motley hoard!
My sitting still, causes discord.
The driver barks "Hey!" through the open door
I sit and I watch,...
Some people flip me the bird! My word!?
Then there are those
who look down their noses.
Others shout "move off" or that
they, "will call the cops"
As I see it, costs nothing for me, it is Free Writing.
A thousand faces go by in an hour. I was supposed,
to be home,
helping with dinner,and or walk the dog,
gather the garbage or remove recycling too,
But I like it here.
On the bench, my bench,
nothing to repair,
nothing to clean,
Shelter roof over my head,
Plug my ears to the obscene,
Converse with the impaired,
(just don't make eye contact or act scared)
As it gets dark, the lighting is fine, I will
write about writing, without fighting for,
space or
time, SO...,
I will write you a letter, but to mail it I may lose my spot,
rather, taped above my head where it rests is a poem that
attests, should you come look for me, here is a ten word
poem that sums it up perfectly:
where i am
is
where i will
be
writing free.
DWE 2013-04-04
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
My shadow passed me.
He pulled the thin laces
Attaching him to my feet,
and disintegrated
as curtly as he tugged.
It would be one thing
if he ran a little ahead
skipping merrily in view.
But, my shadow
being nothing
more than my own,
became smoke in the fog,
tickling my impatient cheeks
and joined sky's fireworks.
I should be alright in his absence.
After all whats the purpose of a shadow?
He is nothing more than earths black mirror
a natural reflection of action.
He is the other account which
attests as truthfully as I
to the lies of an evening,
a sunrise, and the dimly lit
greys of the night.
I have been long without him.
And he mails me chills sometimes,
like the static of a flannel nest
down my bare skinned spine,
because my colorless mimed companion
grew taller than my
monotonous motions,
provoking my dark puppet to
seek more than I can provide.
While I wander in the lights
searching for him.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
If the purpose of a song
is to make you feel
as if it were written about you,
then well done.
The melody dragged me down,
just as the words,
so finite and absurd,
in my muddled head spun.
Reiterate my helplessness.
There's no turning back,
fallen, broken, and right on track,
or so the band attests.
Nothing will ever be the same.
Nothing you can say
can make this pain dissipate
until I drain the last drop of blood from my veins.
All shriveled and pathetic,
dying for love unrequited,
how foolish and shortsighted.
How somewhat fitting. How poetic.
A handful of pills and a bottle of wine.
I'll leave the record spinning
so you'll know exactly what I was thinking
as I cried for the last time...
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 12:09 PM UTC
Freedom's abode was where sun rose.
Her desirous eyes saw where sun goes.
Rumours were unremittingly echoed;
That sun's path leads to lavish abode.
Freedom decided to follow the sun.
Leaving kinship behind resolved to run.
Duping father, brother, husband and kins;
She bartered her veil for strong wings.
Freedom left her culture with no regrets.
She reached the place where sunsets.
Exchanged some clothes with new culture.
Rest lifted in the name of art by vultures.
Now she started finding new husband.
Sadly available were only Boyfriends.
Property bemocked her and ran away.
Morality bled and outstretched it lay.
Freedom now looks with longing eyes;
Place which she left, where sun rise.
Now her mistake she knows and attests.
In the Middle of East was abode to rest.
Disappeared all enthusiasm and zest.
Naked Freedom is lost in streets of west.
Within broken societies now she roams;
Where there are houses but no homes.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
I contrived colors on the crevice of my alcove,
Painted thoughts in a piece of crumpled parchment.
Appalled with the reality I try to shove,
Slumber seems to be a far off achievement.
Daybreak's heralding attests tiring eyes,
Two roads that split-off cleaves my being.
Affliction caused by yielding and enduring,
By then velvet walls envelop truth and lies.
Seconds, minutes, and hours are noxious,
While weeks, months, and years seem lenient.
Chronos' eagerness to forget is harmonious
With Gaia's endeavor moving on excludes consent.
Engulfed by stars we swore to take,
An accord drenched with disregard weeps.
In dreams I'm fervent and awake,
While my body in truth fleets.
Memories are what's left of you
Haunting me to the brink of a precipice
Reveries without a clue
Leaves my soul as black as licorice.
Are you even aware of how I feel?
Does time still make wounds heal?
Days drag on the older I get.
Wondering if I'll get over it.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
Satan visits often,
He arrives at dead of night;
He counsels me
Where I should be,
He exhorts with all his might.
Satan visits often,
I find him in the dark;
Tine figured head,
Eyes fiery red,
A prong to make his mark.
Satan visits often,
Ghostly in his cloak;
My troth to break,
My soul to take,
My very faith to choke.
Satan visits often,
Expounding where I'm wrong;
He has his say
Till break of day,
He attests where I belong.
Satan visits often,
Bearing bread and wine;
I may not know
Which way I'll go...
Mayhaps with him I'll dine.
ASJ
Jul 3, 2020
Jul 3, 2020 at 7:53 AM UTC
You and I have shared words, shown the darkness, the light
and glimpses of bright coloured sky where the truth floats freely.
Though you can not see me, I have felt glimpses of your strength,
the length we've known each other has honestly been short
but thoughts to words, I have come to understand and learnt
that though the sun has burnt, there are moments where that star
wears a seared scar like any other thing that exists within this world.
The waves curl between the shores and the vast amount of water
and like an author you find ways to find words that fit perfectly.
There is certainty in my tone when I say that you will come to find
the gems and stones that blind those who chooses to wear a mask
like a buried flask filled with honesty and pure emotion.
I have been grateful in so many ways for your constant encouragement,
the words you flourish embeds itself into my mind as a constant reminder
to never give up writing like a spider that never gives up designing webs.
I've leapt in joy on numerous occasions to discover new poems of yours
and to learn behind closed doors what an amazing character you possess
only attests to how well you write. You've written diamonds in every line
like a diamond mine but with words.
It's a new year, happy new year.
The introduction of your story is up to how you choose to write it,
you're the writer, the painter, the artist behind the pathways you choose.
I encourage you to keep on writing, to never give up and to stay strong;
it's been a long journey and yet there is so much left unseen.
I've only been your friend for a short while, but I thank you for every moment.
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC
chin lightly nested atop
loosely peopled interlaced fingers
supported via multi purpose table
bent arms displayed elbows cocked
(approximately gabled
at ninety degree angle),
which pose frequently assumed
when pondering what to write,
an idea spawned when clothed left fingered limb
inadvertently roiled the so called "funny bone"
named because of funny feeling generated
when Ulnar nerve compression
triggers pseudo shock sensation
coursing one direction or another
traveling from neck down into hand
constricted in several places along the way
such as beneath collarbone
or at wrist
most common place for compression
(hands down)
behind inside part of elbow
medical terminology tagged
"cubital tunnel syndrome."
interestingly enough, this scribe attests
more frequent occurrences along
liberal democratic side
no matter I claim dominant right handedness
and reckon eyes that human body electric
eel silly not perfectly symmetric
also chiming in that such vulnerability
a very minor design flaw
extant within the amazing
**** Sapiens anatomy.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 12:40 PM UTC
Beauty hides from itself
seeking shelter from the doubts
even as the world attests
splendor stated in the flesh
goddess walking in plain sight
this glory is granted to the few
is bequeathed without regard
to acknowledgment repaid in turn
a waking dream of loveliness
enough to launch a thousand ships
disregarded by the one
directing fantasies of the heart
sham daydreams evoked by curves
lines conflating with desires
suppleness leads the urge
to recognize comeliness
ruby lips deny the claim
to the body that puts to shame
the vast majority of their kind
only fair in contrast
this belle exclaimed by the crowd
I’ll lend my voice to the cry
the reluctant may forget
perhaps they’ll recall through this poem.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180916.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
the self inflicted corporal punishment
often preceded by I am sorry to tell you
while bleeding from open raw sore
nerves suddenly exposed,
you say (like a politician losing) - "I understand"-
while every cell, molecule .... fibre is screaming.
"Yes , certainly, we can remain friends",
as you choke down bile, the spite, ***** words
and swallow them.
Well, I have done that. And after a good mental flogging,
(by myself inflicted) gone on to realize, I
was a gentleman. But, with my right hand I punched
an innocent wall, and the hole in the door attests,
two of my fingers blue and aching bent
forever-
'twas not easy
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
Psyche soaking wet with devout atheism,
this lifetime skeptic now tenuously
linkedin with Unitarianism
attests, said upbringing proffered,
mine credo, gestalt,
leitmotif, sans abstractionism
eludes elucidation, delineation, clarification...
some readers might
dismiss as absurdism
defying established dogma fixed absolutism
millenniums, would be hashtagged heretical,
and such cavalier blithe
apostasy, declared alarmism,
now - twenty first century
extant accursed as alcoholism
within various non
Western statecraft enclaves,
barely tolerating agnosticism
no fool to *********
proclamations antithetical opinionism
where condemnation to death
(I obediently, humbly, and gladly accept)
inadequate punishment,
cited on par relegated to alienism,
amoralism, antiestablishmentarianism...
never does this anachronism
loosely cabled with pioneerism,
(when ****** forests bedecked America),
a veritable wilderness, necessitated
quintessential self survivalism
knowhow long since forgot,
which dependence on consumerism
finds yours truly afflicted against capitalism
commercialism, conformism, cultism et cetera
more aligned with reliance on individualism
nearly an extinct species,
where anti materialism
betrays, cavils, and discourages ecocentrism,
versus profit motive maximization,
though of late environmental dynamism
aggressive representative thank you
Greta Ernman Thunberg regarding criticism,
nee opprobrious global ecological terrorism
mandating staunch defeatism
as stave bulwark
against criminal determinism
to wreak irrevocable traitorous dogmatism
predicated on tenets of egocentrism
brewed, steeped, and
galvanized in exceptionalism
of **** sapiens and expansionism
exclusive to said primate
that requires serious assessment,
asper bracketing craven
doctrinairism edified fundamentalism
granting humans unfettered expansionism!
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 3:52 PM UTC