"bedevils" poems
There is no Makers formula
This life depends on chance,
The way you play your given cards
Depicts your daily dance.
Oh dogma flows in utterance
From pulpits far and wide
From those who claim to understand
Eternity's vast hide.
From those who hold damnation
As a weapon from on high,
From those who claim a judgement
As their finger points to sky.
The good, the bad are absolute,
The right bedevils wrong,
Redeemed shall live eternally
The bad shall singe for long.
Old men stand in pulpits
Across this Sunday's land
To threaten with damnation
If you should cross God's hand.
"Belief" is now their catchword
Abomination's wrong
Is to seek to proffer proof of claim
....to Sing the Devil's Song.
So gather all ye faithfull
Go listen to your man,
Sing the Gospel loud and long
And pay your tithe, as planned.
...But should you find you're dying
From cancer's frozen claw
And the the Godly fail to sweep you
To eternity's gold door?
Remember my clear message
Your life depends on chance,
You live within your own good sphere
....There is no Maker's Dance.
Marshalg
After an overdose of Pulpit hogwash.
10 March 2013
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
There were
Valentine Days
when these
lovers
would clink
crystal
glasses
to toast
inebriating
love
now
she can't
live with him for
one more day
no longer
can she
suffer the
progression
of his
disease
the *****
just dropped
him through
yet another
trap door
in a long
succession
of trap doors
descending
rapidly in a
desperate
plunge to
a hard
bottom
one morning
she awoke
refusing to be
held hostage
by his raging
disease
not one
single day
more
the
excruciating
insanity, the
lurking
danger, the
lingering
threat the
parade of
pain needed
to end
she was sick
and tired
of being
sick and
tired
she wisely
kicked
his *** out
and returned
his engagement ring
he went back
to Service Merchandise
on Valentines Day
to get a refund
his plan was to
hock it for *****
the merchant
only offered to credit
his expired charge card
he would have to wait
to see the charge reversed
on a future months statement
no dough for *****
that day as the
automatic doors
swung open
he realized he
should have
pawned
the ring
we like to remember the days of wine of roses
we forget about the lousy days of shots and beers
the world of spirits bedevils us
do you still believe in love?
vaya con dios mi amigo
Frank Sinatra
The Days of Wine and Roses
Oakland
11/7/09
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
We feel ourselves rogue and peasant slaves -
In that is no disgust.
Collectively yet to have been stripped of
Our formalities, plunged into fiction, devoid of normality -
An undiscovered country, if you must.
We doze cosy in dreams of passion
Where space and silence nudges pens; they bleed.
Though liquidity stiffens
Flair and genius warm the air
Assuming a pleasing shape, indeed.
We weep under a broken voice
When seas of trouble rise to strike us down.
Remorseless - how can it pause to pick and choose?
Treacherous - anxiety bedevils our news
But temporary, false is its crown.
When we think or moan, twiddle thumbs or disengage,
There is nothing, not even tears, that dares to drown our stage.
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 4:29 PM UTC
Carefully crafted or reflexively cast
An exhibition of nonchalance,
He retreats
An unapologetic unbecoming,
The rooted waver in his wake.
Arid dust plumes as cliffs cleave and crumble
An avalanche of treachery,
A sandstorm of his consequence
The air thick with echoes of this final opus
Arrest his casual scream
The unseen bedevils fiercely and hovers victoriously,
A muted death knell, he weeps.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
There is no Makers formula
This life depends on chance,
The way you play your given cards
Depicts your daily dance.
Oh dogma flows in utterance
From pulpits far and wide
From those who claim to understand
Eternity's vast hide.
From those who hold damnation
As a weapon from on high,
From those who claim a judgement
As their finger points to sky.
The good, the bad are absolute,
The right bedevils wrong,
Redeemed shall live eternally
The bad shall singe for long.
Old men stand in pulpits
Across this Sunday's land
To threaten with damnation
If you should cross God's hand.
"Belief" is now their catchword
Abomination's wrong
Is to seek to proffer proof of claim
....to Sing the Devil's Song.
So gather all ye faithfull
Go listen to your man,
Sing the Gospel loud and long
And pay your tithe, as planned.
...But should you find you're dying
From cancer's frozen claw
And the the Godly fail to sweep you
To eternity's gold door?
Remember my clear message
Your life depends on chance,
You live within your own good sphere
....There is no Maker's Dance.
Marshalg
After an overdose of Pulpit hogwash.
10 March 2013
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
they don’t know.
they don’t know.
I tell myself over and over and over.
it’s impossible,
purely impossible,
for one to know my thoughts.
they cannot see me,
they cannot know,
so why is it I hesitate.
this feeling of paranoia,
so strong it drives me to insanity,
bedevils me even now.
I will myself to persuade my mind
that truly they do not know,
cannot know, will not know.
I tremble in the moment,
the ones that debilitate me,
leave me questioning my own reality.
it feels that they’re inside my head,
beckoning me...taunting me.
but I tell myself no, no,
no way in hell can they know.
for surely it is not possible,
for them to see me.
so why do these anxieties plague me,
over things I know they cannot know.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 11:12 PM UTC