"axiom" poems
191
The Skies can’t keep their secret!
They tell it to the Hills—
The Hills just tell the Orchards—
And they—the Daffodils!
A Bird—by chance—that goes that way—
Soft overhears the whole—
If I should bribe the little Bird—
Who knows but she would tell?
I think I won’t—however—
It’s finer—not to know—
If Summer were an Axiom—
What sorcery had Snow?
So keep your secret—Father!
I would not—if I could,
Know what the Sapphire Fellows, do,
In your new-fashioned world!
9.6k
Call it a good marriage -
For no one ever questioned
Her warmth, his masculinity,
Their interlocking views;
Except one stray graphologist
Who frowned in speculation
At her h's and her s's,
His p's and w's.
Though few would still subscribe
To the monogamic axiom
That strife below the hip-bones
Need not estrange the heart,
Call it a good marriage:
More drew those two together,
Despite a lack of children,
Than pulled them apart.
Call it a good marriage:
They never fought in public,
They acted circumspectly
And faced the world with pride;
Thus the hazards of their love-bed
Were none of our ****** business -
Till as jurymen we sat on
Two deaths by suicide.
6.9k
godspeed, dystopian mind.
alls well that ends well
in the war against self loathing.
call upon historic impulses
electrical? fanatical. transfixed. fatal.
groping,
whipser,
intention?
weakness.
axiom? blight. corruption. hunger.
intent? destruction. hopeless. death.
solution?
fellowship.
truth.
transparent.
godspeed, dystopian mind
and don't come back.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
As each day passes I hate myself more
Why does it seem like I’m always in the wrong?
“Know your place”, “you forgot your place” has become an axiom in my head,
I cannot help but think that I’m such a burden, inferior, useless, and shouldn’t live instead
I hate myself so much, everything is my fault no matter what I do
My character is criticised every single time, the shadows on the wall chiding me for being such a fool
My heart’s so pain, I can’t breathe
With every breath, the more I hate me
The shadows haunt me, criticising every part of me
I need to change my entire self, the more wrong in myself I see
I hate every inch of myself, I don’t deserve to live
Why is it so painful to be criticised continuously, staying positive while taking all these in is a myth
The light casts on the shadows, bringing much happiness into my life,
My heart is full of joy during these times, the sadness and hatred becomes a lie
But when the shadows form and haunt me around at times,
I’m trapped - hatred for myself and depression hides in my cry
“You’re weak and immature so you cry easily” was what I was told,
Weakness and immaturity adds on to my list - of the lowest lows
I can’t stop crying and wanting to self-harm, am I weak?
Or maybe those words has caused me to fail to accept any part of me
The shadows overwhelm me and engulf my sleep,
“You’re undeserving of anything”, is all the shadows have bestowed upon me
I always feel like I’m at fault even though I’ve tried, why is this so?
My character is questioned - I hate every part of my soul
I can’t help but wonder to myself…
Is the day that my tears dry,
Also the day that I die?
Nov 5, 2022
Nov 5, 2022 at 1:02 PM UTC
Axiom does not lie upon the
plush bed of the words I've said.
It doesn't flourish under influence of the
flowery texts I've written.
Axiom does not fully exist behind the
actions I've deliberately displayed.
It is ingrained within the subtle folds,
inexplicable nuances
and playful innuendos.
It is present in the lull you find in between
fleeting memories and faltering heartbeats.
It is scored into the unlyricised songs,
sung when our breaths do meet.
It's in the unplanned gazes that
stray into nothingness
only to be caught by yours.
It's evident in the void... The silence we've shared
without ever feeling awkward.
Axiom...
Is the fall that you had anticipated
only after having taken the leap.
It's that feeling of not knowing where the bottom is
but yet still certain that you are safe.
Axiom is...
My unseen heart as it beats hard
for none other than you.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
I feel for the children
indoctrinated into religion.
I feel for the kids that can't,
won't question faith.
I feel fortunate I wasn't brainwashed
like that.
I feel my thoughts are my own,
I feel the theists have had that
stolen from them.
but I am intact.
only
when I realise I can't love
a catholic girl with
my everything
and my chest seizes up
when I hear them say grace,
I see I'm not better off
than they are.
in the same way that they have
been tricked to believe in a
celestial monarchy,
and see satan in me
so have I been tricked to see
satan in them.
I hate the church.
I thought I could still love the people.
but you can't hate anything
and still love the people.
I
and we all
have been rendered incapable
of fully accepting the implicit, fundamental unity
that does not name.
our parents didn't do it,
their grandparents didn't do it.
it started forever ago and it's
never going away.
we could of all loved each other
but we ****** up the axiom.
it's the greatest sin of all,
and it's nobody's fault.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 9:22 AM UTC
Pretzel Logic
always counter intuitive
with a twisted sense of fate
explicitly constructed
how much longer will you wait
the axiom of choice
the scenario of doubt
with random intervention
how can you bring about
a clear and precise result
with no deviance in action
probability of predictions
spinning wheels with no traction
the answers so concise
in udder chaos results you find
without collaboration
such an eery creepy mind
a scavenger of darkness
deep down thoughts somewhat toxic
no wavering in directions
manipulative pretzel logic
Gomer Lepoet...
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
AN ATTACK ON BARBERCRAFT
[Dedicated to George Cecil Jones]
At last an end of all I hoped and feared!
Muttered the hermit through his elfin beard.
Then what art thou? the evil whisper whirred.
I doubt me soerly if the hermit heard.
To all God's questions never a word he said,
But simply shook his venerable head.
God sent all plagues; he laughed and heeded not,
Till people certified him insane.
But somehow all his fellow-luntaics
Began to imitate his silly ticks.
And stranger still, their prospects so enlarged
That one by one the patients were discharged.
God asked him by what right he interfered;
He only laughed and into his elfin beard.
When God revealed Himself to mortal prayer
He gave a fatal opening to Voltaire.
Our Hermi had dispensed with Sinai's thunder,
But on the other hand he made no blunder;
He knew ( no doubt) that any axiom
Would furnish bricks to build some Donkeydom.
But!-all who urged that hermit to confess
Caught the infection of his happiness.
I would it were my fate to dree his weird;
I think that I will grow an elfin beard.
2.3k
"…ours is not to reason why." that is the only fragment
of the light
brigade?
call the philosopher for a meme:
Ah, we need an axiom,
some hope for humanity,
Christmas isn't working as well as it did,
Chanuka and Kwansa are distant also rans,
Where is hope if the wise have all been infected with…
"The fact that an opinion has been widely
held is no evidence whatsoever that it is not utterly absurd."
that's the meme sir,
but nothing clicked.
Bertrand Russell
wait
Ah, more, eh,
a semi colon not a point of completion.
That's the secret in all symbols to sibyls, my boy,
know what you meant
when you imagined them meaning
anything
"The fact that an opinion has been widely
held is no evidence whatsoever
that it is not utterly absurd
; indeed in view of the silliness of the majority of mankind, a widely spread belief is more likely to be foolish than sensible.”
― Bertrand Russell, Marriage and Morals
From <https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/172166-the-fact-that-an-opinion-has-been-widely-held-is>
In the world you shall have tribulation
but be of good cheer,
it makes everything better.
Merry Christmas, may the messages you trust be true.
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
There's a man with no face
amongst an empire of apes
that spill blood like fine wine
made of concord grapes
I carry the worlds weight
with enemies pursuein
but the king of the jungle
won't stop til I'm ruined
Now you can call this my sedition with semantics
or satanics toward the nation
but let me advocate this adverse scope.
And holla at my brothers who's down
and salvage hope.
we neglect our abilities
to comence to be
masters of our destiny
we choose to stay tantalllized by the streets
get lock up stay wishin we was free.
Ballisitics takin' away all our family
these anomalies
got us lookin stupid
forgetting we're not aboriginies
of this land oh man
we can never bow to the man
Choosin to bang
instead of abstain
from this
belligerant babble
the system rattles your cage
with rage
we anhiliate
assimilate
the emotions it produces
abstract thinkin causeing back lash
abysmal thoughts of how to get that fast cash
when cats dash past
we take everything
even all their back stash
but we tend to abnegate
the zenith
to which we are
entitled
archaic ways are the axiom
so we need to absorb this alchemy
and abandom them
alliviate
this absentmindedness
and abtruse forces as our accomplices
There's a man with no face
amongst an empire of apes
that spill blood like fine wine
made of concord grapes
I carry the worlds weight
with enemies pursuein
but the king of the jungle
won't stop til I'm ruined
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 3:54 PM UTC
1770
Experiment escorts us last—
His pungent company
Will not allow an Axiom
An Opportunity
2k
Advocate of the nonexistant
You are all bends encircling
Circuts of truth verses lies is removed
When diagram of entrails is eviscerated
Attestation that hinders, lingers beyond
Concealing, subsisting, not we
Nothings are baseless, breathing is useless
Repudiate this knowing at once
Doctrines and concepts have derrived
Theories are growing while eras moved on
Delusions set in when axiom gone
Delusions are not when one dies
Attestation that hinders, lingers afar
Concealing, subsisting, not I
Everything's baseless, breathing is useless
Repudiate this knowing at once
Prostulate the higher is there
We all crave desolate space
Subside from afar a seperate reaps
Subside from afar there is none
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
Yes I saw the truth in the hillside freeway
In the grilled cheese sandwich
for sale on Ebay
With tortillas and butter they called me a ******
Because I saw the truth in the eyes of another
Who decided to feed me a line of such rapture
That captured my stature of pragmatic backed banter
Gathered the trappings disbanded, I could map out the standard
Wanting the pattern, the vibrancy frequented
Masking the latency, the reader obsequious
Addressing the nuance, ignoring complacency
Significance amplified, convinced of this elevated
Power to axiom, entropy celebrated
Wax to a fault with a message converted
While the layers of encryption serve to hold this position
A raw disposition, hoping to see beyond this decision
I can't see beyond the scope of the eye with conviction.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 5:35 AM UTC
He sat hunched in the chair,
A slightly shrunken version
Of the robust man I had known,
The Coach, the Teacher, the Mentor
Of my youth.
The man I came to Revere nearly as
much as my own father.
That hero of the war with the Axes Powers,
That mostly soft spoken man of tolerance
And patients that could command respect
And obedience with but a single look.
That leader I would have battered down
Walls with only my head if he had asked me to.
That man that gave me a sense of self-respect,
Taught me strong Life Lessons that I still
carry to this day. That I have passed on to my
own Son and Grandsons. This man that taught me
That I could do anything I sat my mind to do,
if only I persevered, if only I did not give up.
That just to try is to win.
That a Team is always stronger that a man alone.
That fellowship lights the darkness,
That pride is more than just a word.
That the axiom of “It’s not if you win or lose,
It’s how you play the game.” Is not merely
Some bit of rhetoric thought up to console
Losers, rather a phrase that is meant to convey
A message of a morally correct perception and
Human understanding of life itself.
He sat there frail, looking a little confused,
Yet the man, the Coach was still there in his eyes.
He weakly, yet firmly took my hand, not in just a
Greeting “Shake” but rather in an embrace of
Old Comrades and I told him in a few choked up
words what he had given me, of my affection for
him and we both fought back tears of the emotion
that comes from a knowledge older men understand
will be the last contact they will ever share.
I forced myself to be brief rather than fall apart,
To perhaps embarrass us both.
I wanted to embrace him, but did not, fearing,
No, knowing that I would certainly fall apart.
I shook his Grandsons hand and told that fine young
Man that he had a great man sitting next to him there,
But then I’m sure he already knew that.
My life is but one of thousands of young men
And women’s lives that were touched and inspired
By the “Coach”. That was his profession, his
“Calling” and he did it splendidly.
What I owe that man, I can never repay.
Thank you Don Brown, my dear friend just thank you.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
room for members only
inclusion to the party or left outside
for some reason, you’re not good enough - - - go away!
racks and rows of sorrowful pain come beating, like rain
in an endless circuit, it runs a spool
subtlety plays its wicked game of tug and pull, and horror is a resident in a dilapidated hostel
croakers dive into lucky packets, curing ails by tearing off layers of skin
these leechcrafters perfect the axiom, regurgitating sedatives to enact fever struck pattern
sawing bones into finest dust stream, disabling balm by wilting growth
only the knowers know what’s happening
keep the outsiders out
it’s a secret party - - - not all are welcomed
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
There ain't real salary, wages, or full time
only disgruntled currency and
spoiled company that left the
milk out after breakfast while flashing
Nike sneakers, Motorola phones, burying
a forgotten geometric axiom, bestowed
with several hammers, in the
place where angels fall from trees
when you shake up their limbs ,
threaten to pull their hair. Sleeping used
to be a victim-less crime until I left
you swinging all by your lonesome
even when dad was shaking me awake
at two after two. Noon. I
was up, down, in and backed out sideways
through a diagonal cave that
was flooded by Europeans
who lost their leather shoes
trying to find Truth by
shutting themselves inside out
Even if God turns out to
be dead or under a trance
because he found his true love
wearing ***** pants, folded backwards
and frayed at the shins, while
she's got holes on inside her
thighs and the final schema,
parallel to the referee
signalling for the bell that's
situated behind environmentally
friendly nuclear bombs that
Bin Laden used to get at a discounted
price and sold them to America
marked up 3 fold. They'll burn medicinal
plants besides the **** in your
backyard and feed us cancer while
selling us over-priced tickets to
watch over-paid men play with
***** while those on wall street
pull out their carving knives
on the turkey that was too dried
out that upon entry it burst
into a double helix of poisonous
rat-tails that fell off Zeus when they
shattered his lightening in the sand
and opened the glass to the forbidden
triangle of the man with ***** soiled
wrinkled hands, placing his spine out for all to see
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
[page 1] I already regret writing this to you. I already regret sharing this with you. I've already told you, before, but I'm bursting---I'm skidding, like my brakes are busted--- bottling-it-all, inside. And, a wise man once told me, "If it's eating you up, you should ink it, all-out." I just wish I could remember whose words those were.
Sometimes, when I'm searching the Rolodex, for the right-scene, you've been around, to remind me. [Almost-like, you'd read along.] You tell me, you assume "I'm always awake," and, I would only elaborate: with-fear, my dear, for falling asleep would draw you back, to my dreams.
See, and I've said this (to much poorer souls than yours), [page 2] before I allow my ambitions the axiom, certainty must surround the word "love" like an aura. My so-flawed system of authentication, of authority, in my own-hearted matters, starts and ends with my dreaming. Only three romances have recurred. Randomness is much more regular. Rarely do my dreams speak with structure, or in-a-story. That real random. [The reason I'm a poet?] Flying symbols, from "seven hells," heavens, or highways. If you left the top-down, or had a bad-day.
[Relax, Flagstaff]
sighs
[Ready, again?]
Ready.
...
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
creative destruction
too beautiful to fault until ashes
(and even then all I want is a different ending or none at all).
silent sunrise that you can’t hear but you can feeeEEEEL
elsewhere.
the hum of existence and how you always danced around it
and coincidently it never lined up for me.
self is such a strange concept that sometimes I forget
and other times it consumes and I am sorry so sorry.
what are you if you aren’t always discovering?
what is she when there is a cost?
what would she have been if rewind and stand outside to see truth
it’s like looking through a kaleidoscope
what is the magnitude?
axiom
this is called spring
and I’m through wasting it.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 4:48 PM UTC
for I work by day, but live by night
not an axiom, a formula, for success and wealth,
not a suggestion, not seeking a reaction,
it is a plain as night
fact,
still don't recommend it as a way of life
but if the shoe/life fits
wear it,
even as no sleeps. speeds up your arrival
at the Grand Central Terminal
in black eyed circles, endless pointless future worrying,
in bad poems writ after midnight after midnight
when the quiet
keeps you company - a friend that asks for nothing
(but an occasional mention in one of the poems born
in the delivery room of the dark)
but through the nighttime writing escapades
I am more than renewed,
a born again human
with a covenant, armed to the teeth,
drinking his dis-owned fluids and juices,,
spilling out as staccato words,
ha!
splitting his infinitudes
if you had foreseen this as my future fate,
a lonely human up all night,
with the night and words making his
holy triumvirate, I may have thought
there are worse ways to prepare
for the silence that comes after
the no more arrives
and we depart
ensemble,
ensemble
8/31/17
2:28am
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
The gallows swing in my gown
how my grievous allure
axiom, snares me down
an appellative of harrowing quintessence
wearing lilies like an aureole
-crowned in by anemone and asphodel
the paraded gait of my soul
absence of faithful apparitions
cogent til their demise by my own dolor
nihility is my dear conviction
to dwell on dreamless sleep once more
alas lucidity comes abrupt
falsehoods pellucid in the eyes of divinity
tainted now i cite apprehension
bear garlands of wormwood, for i am corrupt
still gallows shall swing in my gown
whether in repose or in waking
the gallows swing in my gown
in knots the Styx shall be waiting.
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
Buttresses flew
too close to the sun.
Icarus repeated.
Monuments based on Ideas.
Prophecies based on Conviction.
Trust in a stated Axiom.
Only last for
as long as
someone believes in them.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 10:08 AM UTC
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes
the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on
wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades
the purpose
economized
every axiom
americanized
and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range
cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility
closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression
blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake
gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration
dying to know
forget it.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
The season of beauty
Has finally come to stay,
But the wise sparrow
Said to me,
‘Don’t mention names’
Never has nature begotten
Such a pure sense of
An African beauty,
But the wise sparrow
Said to me,
‘Don’t mention names’,
Questioning thy true beauty
Has placed me on the known,
But the wise sparrow
Said to me,
‘Don’t mention names’,
Show me all
That thou can,
So I can perceive
And conceive thy
True seasonal countenance,
But the wise sparrow
Said to me,
‘Don’t mention names’
Oh no, the days of
My love life is
Blinking on a fast
Lane for thy taste,
But the wise sparrow
Said to me,
‘Don’t mention names’,
Is the length of my
Dying days untamable by
Thy faithful jewels?
But the wise sparrow
Said to me,
‘Don’t mention names’
Ah! The glorious sensitivity in
The moon-like eyeballs
Of thee, has imprisoned
My reasoning power,
But he wise sparrow
Said to me,
‘Don’t mention names’
I hope thou may fall
On my waiting lips,
Though I cannot have thee,
But the wise sparrow
Said to me,
‘Don’t mention names’,
My heart is bleeding in pain,
For posterity may not live to
Behold thy true beauty,
But the wise sparrow
Said to me,
‘Don’t mention names’
I do remember thy
Precious name very well,
But the wise sparrow
Said to me,
‘Don’t mention names’
Accepting the sophistry
Of thy symbolic hips
Under the Kente cloth
Has been an axiom,
But the wise sparrow
Said to me,
‘Don’t mention names’
Now I know, that
The echoes of the Gods
Do not tremble
Over thy beauty alone,
But the wise sparrow
Said to me,
‘Achimota’.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC