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i was there with the locked up free
they stared straight through the bars at me
the gate was open
no one had to stay
they spoke of church in exchange for food
lights out with 50 smelly-*** bad moods
i saw it superseded rude
so, i walked down and ate the trash
i had no church
no shame
no cash
the garlic bread was free
the sweet rolls weren't for me
so, i walked back down to the dead-soul church
to find a name i could besmirch
with lust, debauch, an empty purse
she told me she had her own room and bath
we tried to pull one on the *****
said that we were legal hitched
she asked for proof and I.D.
we didn't have a thing
that ended our sad little fling
goody gumdrops ain't gonna get my ring
grab my gear as i walk i sing
i know the words to everything
if i happen to forget
i'll make up better ones you'll bet
raised my sign and i raised my thumb
hoped a car was gonna come
sat there in the Yakima heat
sign propped up next to my feet
a nice redneck stopped and said
"have a seat"
he was welfare office bound
i was just a broke road-hound
waited for him in the shade
told him jokes for smokes
he made a good trade
got dropped off at an angry sunning truck-stop
flew my sign
one eye out for cops
a white guy in a small red car
pulled up and said
"i'll go that far"
soon we broke down on the road
i was sure my luck would soon implode
instead we put our heads on think
we woulda fixed the kitchen sink
but waters last to beer when i drink
we got some bolts and ******* 'em on
before we knew it we were gone
he got a smile
i got this song
then we hit Seattle like a ****
nothins' right if ya don't know wrong
NOTHINS' RIGHT IF YA DON'T KNOW WRONG
This is a true story. About a road trip. I ended up at a rescue mission in the middle of nowhere. Hence the "church in exchange for food", etc. It was an eventful trip. This is just a ease of it.
Homage to the late poet; Kofi Owonor


By
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)


In one Sunday Nation article, Professor Ali A Mazrui analyzed the inter-politicality of The Jaramogi Odinga family and The Kennedy family by arriving at a difference that the Odinga’s have curse of long life but the Kennedy’s have a curse of early death through violent and untimely  mode of death .Mazrui made these analogies in reference to violent death of John F. Kennedy and the subsenguent Chappaquiddick bridge tragedy.Similarly,the salient difference between a European and American or a Japanese and African writer or African artist is that most of African writers die early in the mid of their lives through violent death but in contrast American and some European writers die peacefully and comfortably in their old age. Early and violent death is the dominant bane, fate and misfortune that now and then besmirch an African writer. This position is in recognition of a fact that my child-hood American popular literature writers in the name of Mario Puzzo author of the God Father and Robert Ludlum an author of several anti soviet spy series like; Borne dentity, Borne Ultimatum and Icarus Agenda plus very many others like The Matlock Paper had just to die recently in their late eighties. The most surprising of all is Phillip Roth whom I read at the age of twelve years while in my primary four.  Now I am forty years and this year 2013 Phillip Roth is still alive and active to the American literary civilization that he has been touted by the Ladbrokes as a probable candidate for Nobel Prize in literature. But sadly enough on 22 September 2013 in Nairobi the black angel of early  death has carried ahead its  foul duty by claiming the life of Africa’s most honorable literary scholar Professor Kofi Owonor during the helter-skelter of Alshabab terrorist lynch of the upscale West Gate Mall in Nairobi.
Actually this essay is meant to be a deep felt homage to the late Kofi Owonor, Killed by Islamic terrorists in Nairobi. However, the essay also goes ahead to decry the violent and early deaths of several other African writers. The deaths which have almost turned Africa into a literary dwarf if not a continent of artistic bovarism. Kofi Owonor, who peacefully and honorably came to attend Story Moja Literary festival to be held in Nairobi, was violently shot by the Islamic fundamentalist terror group known as Al shabab. Whose gunmen lynched the Mall in which was Kofi Owonor and his son. The terrorist were sending out the Muslim catchword on which if one fails to respond then he was known not to be a non- Muslim on to which he is shot or held hostage for ransom.Fatefull enough, Kofi Owonor was not muslim.He was an elder, an Africanist, a scholar, a poet, a realist, a rationalist, a Christian, a religious non-fundamentalist and a literary liberalist. He could not respond with any tincture of religious irrationalism to the question of the terrorist. He was shot dead and his son injured. Too sad. This is actually the time when Christian positivism goes beyond rigidity of other religious affectations in its classic assertiveness that the devil kills the flesh but not the soul. And indeed it is true the devilish terrorist killed Owonor’s flesh but not his literary soul. They are such and similar situations that made Amilcar Cabral to observe in his Unity and Struggle, in a section on Homage to Kwameh Nkrumah to rationalize that the sky is too enormous to be covered by the palm of a sadist nor to be vilified by the spitting of the filthy ones; Truly, like Nkrumah, Kofi Owonor was the sky of African intellect never to be covered by the brute of the cannon from the parrel of a Muslim terrorist.
Kofi Owonor is not alone neither are we alone. You, my dear reader and I  we are not in any historical nor literary solititude. In Africa God has blessed us with the opportunity of the dead relatives in the name of the living dead. We are not the first and the last to grief. Owonor is not the first and the last to dance with fate. Even Ali A. Mazrui in his literary expositions of 1974 otherwise published as the trial of Christopher Okigbo.A  novella in which Mazrui cursed ideology as an open window into the moving vehicle that let in  a very bad political accident to Nigeria in the name of Biafra war which claimed life of  Christopher Okigbo at the Nzukka battle front. This was one other sad moment at which Africa lost its young literary talent through violent death.
Reading of African literary biographies in all perspectives will not miss to make you attest to this testimony. Both in situ and in diaspora.Admirable African American writers like Malcolm X, and Dr Luther King all died through violent death. Even if in the recent past, the Daughter of Malcolm X revealed to Sahara Reporters, Nigerian Daily, that Louis Farrakhan was behind the assassination of her father, wisdom of the time commands us to know that it was evil politics of that time that made Malcolm X to die the way international politics of today in relation to crookedness which was entertained during the formation of the state of Israel that have made the son of Africa professor Kofi Owonor to die.
An in-depth analysis into the life and times of African writers and artists will show that the number of African cultural masters who die violently is more than the number of those who died normally in their old age. Some bit of listology will show help to adduce the pertinent facts; Patrice Lumumba, Steve Biko, Lucky Dube, Walter Rodney, Tom Mboya, J M Kariuki, Che que Vara, Ken Saro Wiwa, Anjella Chibalonza, and Jacob Luseno all but died through violent death. Lumumba died in a plane crash along with Darg Hammarskjöld only after penning some socialism guidelines. After writing I write what I want, a manifesto for black consciousness Steve Biko was arrested and tortured in the police cells during those days of apartheid in south Africa.Biko died violently while undergoing torture in police cells. Lucky Dube was fatefully shot by a confused ****. Walter Rodney who was persuaded by his student who is now the professor Isa Shivji at Dare salaam University not to go back to his country of Guyana, desisted this voice and went back only to be assassinated in the mid of the rabbles that domineered Guyanese politics those days of 1970’s. This happened when Rodney had written only two major books. How Europe Underdeveloped Africa, being one of them. Tom Mboya was shot by a hired gunman in down-town Nairobi, some one kilometer away from the West Gate Mall, at which Kofi Owonor has been shot. Mboya could have written a lot. Even more than Rudyard Kipling and Quisling. But fate or bad luck had him violently die after he had only written two books; Challenges to Nationhood as well as Freedom and After. Both of them are classically nice reads until today. He had also submitted sessional paper no. 10 to the Kenya government which was a classical thesis on Africanization of scientific socialism.
J M Kariuki, Che and Saro Wiwa are all known for how they violently died. Powers that be and terrorists that be, expedited violent death against these writers. Thus, brothers and sisters in the literary community of Africa and the world as we mourn Kofi Owonor we must also let Africa to unite in spiritual effort to rebuke away the evil spirit that often perpetrate terror of violent death which  especially  claim away lives of African writers.

References
Ali A. Mazrui; Trial of Christopher Okigbo
Amilcar Cabral; Unity and Struggle
I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets' tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.


                                   II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance's strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies' decimation.


                                   III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror's first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.


                                   IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.


                                   V
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men's placidity from his.


                                   VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever mourns in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears
(C) Wilfred Owen
Onoma Feb 2015
...Here a man stands accused--the pellucid jury
of his peers come to themselves in their life's arms
through him.
He wails upright...a shadow continent wedging
The Flood.
Timekeeping horseflies besmirch his chest cavity
with due kisses...par for par movements consume
time till the singular advocacy of he withstood.
The imperturbable essence captured itself, as so
at the height of its powers there's interplay.
Ease culled from tribulation...countenance slackened
by degrees...overwhelmed by awareness.
Kingdom come Kingdom--shoring space of grace
that is freedom.
As if Everything centering of itself, fawning over itself...
polar opposites in conjugal bliss.
Here a man stands accused...of being--fit for steely
juxtaposition...the murderous implement of will, or
salvation.
Envision him post-Flood, waist-deep, the living Face
of the Deep...look upon him!
Timekeeping horseflies besmirching his chest cavity
with due kisses...par for par movements consuming
time till the Singular advocacy of thee...look upon
him!
An encounter of pitless ramification: fear or love...be
it the last man upon the earth.
Look upon him--O jury of his peers boasting billions...
pellucid unto one another...look...The Hour is radiant!
Won't thee come to thine life's arms through him?
For he is Everyman.
Joseph Wynne Aug 2012
A leitmotif of your average smug ****, is a proverb here and there.
Spouting them off like the receptor has no care.
Their evidential naivety is blatant and almost impossible to bear.
As an audience member you can do nothing but hide your malevolence and stare.
******* in maxims that are apparently laced with benevolence and care.

You know the kind of oxygen waster I’m referring to.
The type of person that watches BBC 4 and likes tofu.
The kind that does the Financial Times So-*******-Do-Ku.

Look I’m just saying that clichés annoy me.
I’m not asking you to love me, give me a reach around or employ me.
In fact you don’t even have to enjoy me as I tell you of things that matter not.

Suture yourself hypothetically to a geographically different mind. That mind being mine, oh that maverick-esque mischievous mind of mine, looking at this from my perspective.
In my transcendental endeavours to rid the clichéd ridden world of the afore mentioned adjective.

In the opposite of anachronistic times, we might successfully, surreptitiously rid the world of moral coated rhymes.
We can do this; all it takes is a few. One of which needs to be you.
Break out from being solipsistic, even the blind, the meek, the autistic, those that besmirch the edge of coffee cups with their lipstick.
Yes, I mean you. Here is what to do…

The next time someone spouts off a cliché, punish them, make them listen to an album by “Hearsay.”
If someone says “An Apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Then simply say, Steve Jobs had thousands and the here’s the definite answer, that consumerism inducer still died of cancer.
If a woman says “When I say jump. You say how high!” Don’t even cogitate to pardon her.
If the grass is always greener on the other side – shoot your ******* gardener.  
Ashish Gupta Jan 2014
The dainty feathers all knew their perch,
As the leaves changed their hue, and again.
Until a fire, born of green lust, did besmirch,
The order of the forest held in timeless reign.

The delicate birds were all forced to flight,
Only some sought within, midst fiery storm,
For an uncharted course in misty sight,
Most of a feather banded together to a swarm.

But where does that feathery flock aim to go?
In the clasp of perfidious smoke quick to smother
Does every or any in that confident band know?
That absolutely everyone in a swarm follows another!
Copyright (c) 2014 Ashish Gupta
ConnectHook Apr 2016
…a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
(Ecclesiastes 4:12)


A pastoress once bore a name
which merits neither guilt nor shame;
Pentecosta Charismania
(biblical in megalomania).
Worthy of poetic fame,
a brilliant if unstable flame.
Sincere she was, yet volatile,
she brought it down, revival-style.
At altar calls, she could inspire
tongues of glossolalian fire.
The Devil she would oft rebuke
with lines from John, or Paul, or Luke;
a prophetess on holy crack
was Pentecosta on the attack…

Her nemesis was prudent, able
doctrinally dull—but stable:
Patriciana Presbyteria.
Less given to divine hysteria,
wisdom did adorn her table.
And her soul bore well the label.
No prophecies escaped her lips
nor prone to divinating slips;
this sensible reformed young maid
was made to have and have it made
Elect, correct in doctrine, wit
invested in no counterfeit
her pop’s portfolio lent her worth:
not less than heaven cashed on earth.

Mocking these unseemly heretics
swayed by neither sects nor politics
was Maria Della Romana
Faithful matron, primadonna,
loyal to her Papal rite,
she grieved her sisters by candlelight;
fingered furious rosaries
stormed the gates with St. Peter’s keys
beseeching Jesus that they turn
from devil’s doctrines fit to burn,
rejoin the holy Mother Church
rather than their souls besmirch
with further Antichristian sin.
(She genuflected fit to win.)

God is known in Trinity
but less through femininity:
His three adherents, flamed by One
like braided gold reflecting sun
are Christian fates: three tendencies
or triplicate analyses,
tripartite in judgemental grace
each one assumed, with zealous face
that the other two could not be saved
as sure as Heaven’s roads are paved
with wisdom’s gold and Christ’s pure light.
(They made a most amusing sight.)
Since threefold cords cannot be broken,
let my punchline rest, unspoken.

a  poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016
            ✿
www.connecthook.wordpress.com
            ☮
Alan McClure Nov 2012
For a modest subscription -
say, £100 a month -
you can receive my weekly newsletter
outlining the manner in which I undertake
to steal your jobs,
besmirch your womenfolk
(or menfolk, if you like),
impose my religion upon you,
undermine your financial system,
eat the swans in your local park,
raise/lower house prices (as your current need dictates),
contribute to a nameless sense of dread,
dilute your cherished national identity
and produce more illiterate children than the welfare state
can reasonably support.

I will do you this service
on the understanding
that you will stop attributing blame
to your undeserving neighbours
and get on with your life
like a decent human being.
Deliver me from the folly of jealous men . From the mirth of mischievous demons that long to traduce and besmirch , remove all thought of appeasement toward the rancorous and ill intended serpents that crawl the Earth . Shelter me from the disingenuous , the naysayers of good intent and those that portend lies as benefaction , seeking my friendship through groundless merit and frivolous actions ..
Guide my feet across the perilous river of treachery toward my fellow man , directing my ears to the benefits of silence , gravitate my persona into the light of Dharma ..
Bind my arms from receiving poisonous bounty , render my tongue stillborn to boastful atrocity ..
Sharpen my eyes in the confusion of night , grace the helm of life's vehicle with the Angelic aura of pure white light* ..
Copyright December 27 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Marina Rose Oct 2011
The dawn of October
stains my palms
how the nicotine stains your teeth.

The cinnamon leaves
storm about
raking your dusty lashes, like stalks of fruit.

Ocher crumbs and cocoa seeds
besmirch the damp soil,
clumsily.

You are defined with:
pulpy cider hues
my slow, chemical solstice.

A cornflower symphony
hummed by the trees, bare and trembling,
the fruitful pining of their inner bark,
the ****** that lines my pumpkin patch.

I squint at the flaxen sun
that drips golden beyond my shoulder,
where the sinuous maple tree, gnarled branches and all
will breathe your name.

Your body is a coal mine
me, an irrelevant dilettante
I cannot winnow you out like the flame of a match
or peel you from my sole.
Sofia Byrne Jun 2013
A flicker of sapphire gems,
A flash of pearls,
The gleaming ivory beckons me near.

The smooth touch sings sweet melodies,
softly whispering sweet nothings
as I am overtaken with adornment.

The crisp blue shines bright onto ***** skin,
teasing and prodding emotions,
pulling them from deep murky waters.

The pearls have disappeared now,
enclosed behind a faux cave,
trapped in darkness.

A tear dampens her cheek,
mistaken words had been uttered
with no way of retrieval.

All I do, I do for
the glistening of sapphires,
the glint of pearls, and to feel the immaculate ivory.

If I besmirch these precious gems,
If I cause them to be tarnished,
why live at all?
topaz oreilly Oct 2013
on cloudless days we besmirch the suns reign
the spirit hankers for Autumn
the baltic coast apposite
launches thy being by the northern skies,
a trinity of light  leds to the caucasus plains
to reveal Edens gardens
and locate cultivars of apple
and vine
to graft onto our dying seasons
g clair Mar 2015
"I think we try too hard, he said
we need to laugh much more instead"-
"I think we cry too much, she laughed
we're starved for love until we're fed."

"I think we spend too much he reasoned
need to save for rainy days"-
"I think we leave too much unseasoned
spice it up with mayonnaise!"

"I think we eat too much, he stated
we've got all this fat to shed"
:and I think walking's overrated
lets just ride our bikes instead."

"I think I'm talking to a wall
you cannot hear a word I say"-
"but I've responded to them all
just maybe not in your own way."

I think he thinks too much she pondered
I can't read his mind at all
and every time his eyes have wandered
spikes are sharp before the stall...

"I think I'm needing something more"
and she knows what he's thinking of
"Be my guest, don't let that door
besmirch your tender side, my love."

"I think I'm made for bigger things
than being saddled here with you"-
"but oh be sure those bigger butts
are gonna buck your system too!

She thinks "he has it way too easy,
thinks I want to hear this stuff!"
tells him that she's feeling queasy
"heard it all, enough's enough!"

She thinks it hurts too much to talk
about the things he puts her through
her tendency to shout and balk
has raised the foam up from the brew

and seeing clearer, painful truth
his disregard grew from that day
mistook the *** for love in youth
and clung to that which came her way

Daddy never knew his daughter
never built her up to know
how she was loved above the water
that he drank or his big toe.

It's sad the man that she admired
never knew how she'd be burned.
because the love from Dad required
words and  lessons never learned.

and to the wounding add some salt
the failure of the best to choose her
now she sees it's not her fault
she cannot tell the best from loser.

Mum was quite the same you see
a distance there but never spoken
always mediocrity
discontent, lines blurred and broken.

"I think I'll wait another year
before I set my course to sail"-
"why wait, just throw me off right here
this roller coaster's off it's rail"

to this He says, " You're here beside me
for the long haul as they say"
" I think it's best we keep on riding
tell me later, in the hay."

Lots of pain in barbed sarcasm
each has blocked the other's heart  
words in action killed the passion
boundaries blurred and torn apart.

Respect, protect your precious boundary
that which makes you who we are
love yourself and then each other
shining love and sparkling star.

When the boundary violator
makes you feel less than dirt
tell each other now, not later
how that word or action hurt.

I think we try too hard, he said
we need to laugh much more instead-
I think we cry too much, she laughed
we're starved for love until we're fed.

XO
Relational dysfunction, We are all products of some kind of brokenness which leads to our developing our own dysfunctional patterns. Choosing that which fits into our dysfunctional comfort zones, that which accepts our personal coping mechanisms. This poem illustrates from my own experience brokenness and blurred boundaries. Most important thing to do is forgive others and love yourself . If you can't love yourself , you will never be able to choose the right people to share your life with. http://youtu.be/7a5nmO1P5lo
Phil Lindsey May 2015
Saw Robert Zimmerman Again
After way too many years Now
Can’t stop my brain from singin’ But
It’s not what it appears See
I’ve always loved his poems And
The way he bends his words Into
Pictures I can see out loud, Illustrations
That I’ve heard.

Forgive me Mr. Zimmerman
If I besmirch your name
I’m not tryin’ to steal your songs from you
And I wouldn’t want your fame
I could never be your equal
Wouldn’t even want to try
Forgive me Mr. Zimmerman
Cross my heart and hope to die.

On the Day the Music died, Guess
That I had just turned five, Then
Five more years slid past me When
The Beatles sang on TV - LIVE.  And
Rock and Roll was pushing all the Folks
To center stage, Seems
Viet Nam and Woodstock Were
Currently the rage.

Somewhere we got sidetracked While
The Disco Ball was turnin’  But
I put on a Cowboy Hat, Helped
Johnny sing ‘bout burnin’.  So I
Been blowin’ in the wind for Over
Sixty years; Now I’m Tryin’
To write some Poems, ‘Bout my Life and
It appears  That my poems Sound
Like all the songs I’ve heard throughout
The Years.

Come and Listen to a Story
‘Bout a guy named Phil
Tried to grab some Glory
But I guess he never will.
For as he fired up his pencil
Over hot and blazing coals
Granny loaded up her shotgun
Shot his poems full of holes.
Good shot, Granny.  Right in the heart.  Make it Bleed girl.
Y’all Come Back Now, Y’Hear?
PwL  5/5/15
I have no idea..................
Megan Cruz Nov 2017
I am slowly learning to use my words—

allowing the ink to besmirch these immaculate fingers
as I weave out my sloppy cursives around feint rules
like hydrangeas climbing lattices in the early summer;

spelling out vulnerability with every bit of hope
left glistening in these swollen, tear-stained eyes,
and unfaltering love with all five letters of his name.

I am slowly learning to use my voice—

heaving out the dust that’s settled over things left unsaid,
and rolling out my tongue to intimately slip off naked truths
my throat has been choking on in the silence of fear;

drawing constellations between the kisses of my lips
to faithfully concede to the phonetics of needs and wants,
and articulate every syllable with the intonation of desire.

So read between the lines, and listen closely—

pick apart my words and unravel the candor in my stutter,
unzip and unbutton every unsent letter I’ve ever written,
and watch me strip down on these pages in poetry-laced lingerie.

I am no longer that bashful submissive sprawled across the bed,
softly moaning for the pleasure of attention and the pain of neglect
under the crippling fear of loss firmly taped over my mouth.

I am slowly learning to ask for what I still and have always wanted—
I'm sorry it took me so long.
Anderson Ritchie Dec 2012
What eerie Mists, and Mysterious frosts
lay waste to this lively heart, that all its aspects
beauteous they may be, subjected to the rigorous
threats and faults of sinful life. They hope to besmirch
this lively heart.

The stormy gales, the warm clear skied vales,
all apart of this world twisted routines,
"Good Cop, Bad Cop' as it were, flawed.
When it is ridden on this routine, it soared.

The winter has subsided, the Summer has blossomed,
and all this vale does is resemble the good nature of the heart.
No matter what it is subjected too, it shall eventually be returned
and all this world will not thrive till hate is removes from the heart.
g clair Jun 2014
"I think we try too hard, he said
we need to laugh much more instead"-
"I think we cry too much, she laughed
we're starved for love until we're fed."

"I think we spend too much he reasoned
need to save for rainy days"-
"I think we leave too much unseasoned
spice it up with mayonnaise!"

"I think we eat too much, he stated
we've got all this fat to shed" 
:and I think walking's overrated
lets just ride our bikes instead."

"I think I'm talking to a wall
you cannot hear a word I say"-
"but I've responded to them all
just maybe not in your own way."

I think he thinks too much she pondered
I can't read his mind at all
and every time his eyes have wandered
spikes are sharp before the stall...

"I think I'm needing something more"
and she knows what he's thinking of
"Be my guest, don't let that door
besmirch your tender side, my love."

"I think I'm made for bigger things
than being saddled here with you"-
"but oh be sure those bigger butts
are gonna buck your system too!

She thinks "he has it way too easy,
thinks I want to hear this stuff!"
tells him that she's feeling queasy
"heard it all, enough's enough!"

She thinks it hurts too much to talk
about the things he puts her through
her tendency to shout and balk
has raised the foam up from the brew

and seeing clearer, painful truth
his disregard grew from that day
mistook the *** for love in youth
and clung to that which came her way

Daddy never knew his daughter
never built her up to know
how she was loved above the water
that he drank or his big toe.

It's sad the man that she admired
never knew how she'd be burned.
because the love from Dad required
words and  lessons never learned.

and to the wounding add some salt
the failure of the best to choose her
now she sees it's not her fault
she cannot tell the best from loser.

Mum was quite the same you see
a distance there but never spoken
always mediocrity
discontent, lines blurred and broken.

"I think I'll wait another year
before I set my course to sail"-
"why wait, just throw me off right here
this roller coaster's off it's rail"

to this He says, " You're here beside me
for the long haul as they say"
" I think it's best we keep on riding
tell me later, in the hay."

Lots of pain in barbed sarcasm
each has blocked the other's heart  
words in action killed the passion
boundaries blurred and torn apart.

Respect, protect your precious boundary
that which makes you who we are
love yourself and then each other
shining love and sparkling star.

When the boundary violator
makes you feel less than dirt
tell each other now, not later
how that word or action hurt.

I think we try too hard, he said
we need to laugh much more instead-
I think we cry too much, she laughed
we're starved for love until we're fed.

XO
Relational dysfunction, We are all products of some kind of brokenness which leads to our developing our own dysfunctional patterns. Choosing that which fits into our dysfunctional comfort zones, that which accepts our personal coping mechanisms. This poem illustrates from my own experience brokenness and blurred boundaries. Most important thing to do is forgive others and love yourself . If you can't love yourself , you will never be able to choose the right people to share your life with. http://youtu.be/7a5nmO1P5lo
Rangzeb Hussain Sep 2010
"For the name of The Answer is...
Mercy.

His divine name is...
Love.

Say...
He
is the One,
the Forever
&
Eternal.

To Him
we will all
one day
forever return.

To love
Him
is to know
Him,
To know
Him
is to believe
Him,
and to believe
Him
is to know
Him.

This is the universal love
at the true beating
heart of
Salema:
Peace and Purity,
Submission and Obedience.

Rejoice in it,
Recite it,
Proclaim it,
Reclaim it
and free it from the
****** clawed talons
of
the evil cloaked ones,
These false prophets soaked in patriotic flags,
They dare to besmirch
the towering name
of the pure Almighty
across morning’s burning sky,
The name of Illustrious God hijacked
and daily attacked
by these fanatical suicidal firebrands.

Come my people,
You lost tribes of the world,
Let us all hold our hands
and lean towards
Al-’Islām’s pearled valley of the divine,
Let us all drink from this precious cup overflowing with
Love
&
Peace
&
Tranquillity,
Mercy too.

Listen to this,
My plea of
Compassion
&
Reason,
Let us to Eden once again
and there plant the rose tree
of our Beloved
Al-Karīm, Al-'Azīm, Al-Khāliq, Al-Mujīb."*



©Rangzeb Hussain
Robert C Ellis Mar 2016
S
Our alabaster skeletons,
our framework of ancient spires
arching to the heavens and
hung with multicolored glass
sunlight pours through as visitors gasp
and kneel and besmirch and knock over
Muscadine,
the Eucharist and Time.
jeffrey robin Sep 2013
Been reading these
Incredibly morbid
Love/hate "poems"

Written as if to ones

Corpse/lovers

And wondering why said poets think
Anyone would be interested

In listening into the
Meaningless ******-babble

Of this inane worship

Of mere form-without-substance
---
---

The in-your-face

Declaration

Of ones right to be miserable
Stupid
And
Unenlighted and uninformed
------

(Although
To be fair

Sometimes the rhyme schemes are okay)
---

I DONT FEEL GUILTY!

--

It's your life!

Degrade and besmirch it all you want!

---

If you'd rather be real

That
Too
Is possible
Olivia Kent Dec 2013
Is life just one long sick practical joke.
Angels seek the living.
Just to choke them with their holy smoke.
Get born.
Be reliant.
In growth so defiant.

Marriage is an institution.
Leads to mental institutions.
When as parent strict.
Raise them with rods of iron.
Or maybe kid gloves.
But abuse them not.

Financially amuse them!
You work to chuck them all your dosh.
As if you always have enough.
Then when your money.
That you earned.
You have the audacity to spend.
They make you feel floods of guilt.
You feel like you're not their friend.
In a lifetime game of let's pretend.

Start to ache as you grow old.
Besmirch your comments as you write.
Believing youth.
Gives them the right.
To laugh at she of poetry.
Who once bounced them upon her knee.
Now decried for gifted brains.
Jotted in eccentricity.

And then how dare she.
She goes and dies.
Oh well, save your tears.
As no-one cries!~
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
The joys of parenthood x LOL
Unity Drain Feb 2015
On the corner of Pine and Box
Stood a shop all dark and disheveled.
I peeked through the window,
Though covered in grime,
And saw an old man, Mr. Knox,
Twisted and bent over with time.

I pass through rusted hinges and faded teal wood,
To enter the shop where Mr. Knox stood.
Much to my pain, my shock, and my horror,
The scream of a young maiden
Rang through the store.
But no woman was present, save only memory,
And the scream was but the bell above the door.

I ventured still, past potted plants, long since death,
Through the cold corner store with steamed breath.

At once, a strange animal, four legged and fanged,
Ran past me, unknowing, and I was dismayed.
He aimed to besmirch, sat with a crooked smirk,
But the creature was only a statue.

Once again I saw the store a-stirring,
A child of five years waved weapons
But the youth was myth, sat in painting,
And had nothing to disarm me with.

Deep in the back, there was no returning,
I spotted a beast that contented my yearnings.
88 keys, no locks and no doors,
All of a sudden, I had found what I was looking for!

With further inspection, my eyes, pray did not deceive,
Saw 88 fingers as piano keys.
What a twisted contraption
And without further action,
I watched as the piano shifted.
From my feet I was lifted by
A crimson tongue through gnarled teeth,
I was swallowed whole before I could speak.

Mr. Knox approaches with a laugh on his lips,
He reaches for the skeleton keys, too far Gone from his wits.
And his melancholy melodies
Still ring from where he sits.
Carlo C Gomez Feb 2020
Caught red-handed,
You reach for the first thing
Your grubby metacarpus can find,
Be it a sabre or quill.

You ****** and parry away
In your journal,
All in the hopes you might
Besmirch me,
And strike it rich
At the same time.

But like Dido, Queen of Carthage,
Your bags of gold
Contain only sand.

This is your hapless undoing,
Mr. Hamilton,
Despicably so.
Don't use me as a crutch,
Fall on your own sword!

Talk about a fair amount
Of revisionist's history,
But we'll save that for
Another day...

Suffice to say:
History is in the eyes of the beholder.
No need to correct me, I'm well aware the Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton duel was with pistols, not swords. Just thought I would take a little poetic license.
Harry J Baxter Feb 2013
I can not call myself a poet
with any good faith
I respect it too much
the raw words which shred out of me
come from a place
which I don't know
I didn't put them there
and though you don't know it
I'm pretty sure
that you wrote all of my poems
it just so happens
that the pen was clutched in my hand
the keyboard just happened
to be within my reach
but you're more than a muse
transcending language
you are a well
of emotional explanations
my guardian angel
pulling my strings from behind the scenes
if my poems are beautiful
it is only because you are too
if they are ugly, pointless, obscene, *****
it is because that's how you make me feel
you are a cathedral
which I can't besmirch
I hesitate to attach my name to this
what's a name anyway?
you are a poet
and you don't know it
you wrote this
Dre Guthrie Oct 2013
We're reaching the top of the hill, you and I
but on opposite sides, unable to see where
either of us are, and so I start to cry
unbeknowst of you standing there.

I am not the courageous child
only soft-spoken and contained
hoping, wishing to be wild
in truth, still soft and tame.

Being the stronger one of two
you clamber to the top
wide-eyed nature opens to you
for a moment, the world stops.

Gleaming down from atop your perch
a grin answers my calls
without bad feelings to besmirch
the words echo without pause.

"Come on, silly! You're falling far behind.
The night is surely near.
If you reach the top, and grab my hand in time
you'll forever have me hear."

"So, pull your way up and reach the peak
and our shaking hands entwined
so, come on, silly, climb to what you seek
and you will forever be mine."
Willoughby Jul 2018
Maintenance man she's needing
     From her high-rise condo perch
          With its view of the lake.

I stood still as she's feeding
      insults to besmirch
          me without a break

"I shouldn't be pleading
     do you know what I'm worth
          for heaven sake"

Even in the Garden of Eden
    a paradise on earth
         lived the snake.
Classy J Aug 2016
Swain hearted, of lovers departed. Thwarted by indecent individuals that mean to marry them off to people they do not know. Forswear it I, if they don't try to get away and find each other once more. Flighty, and young, they are strong willed, petty be it for thou to separate true love. Wanting it to be no more than a lingering afterthought. How can one besmirch destiny? How can one take out another persons heart and crush it in front of them. Barbaric savagery, doth the story go of reality impeding onto something good. No breaks, no time to be, but be in monotony. Love is a anomaly, stirring us in a loop of endless depravity. Hope is but a milky way dream, nothing but delusional grandeur of a adolescent mind. Fighting for something, loving for someone, worlds apart, but yet intertwined in each others heart. Responsibility is overrated, dignity is a barren commodity, courage is frowned upon. Rebellion is not tolerated, revolution is scandalous. What one won't do for love. What one won't sacrifice. What one is willing to die for. That is something most people never get, nor find, but for the few who do find it; know why it is worth giving it everything they got.
Jake Hicks May 2015
The questions sit
Inside
Rattling about
Rocks in a can
Disturbing the peace
They have to come out

Doesn't matter who
Doesn't matter when
In front of who
The recklessness
Of your curiosity
Shakes the world

People walk by
They listen and shake their heads
The internet laughs
They point to the trolls
Corporations listen
Equal mixture curious and afraid
Governments listen
In abject terror
And besmirch your character

Doesn't matter who
Doesn't matter when
In front of who
The recklessness
Of your curiosity
Shakes the world

Rattle cages and
Rattle minds
Wonder at the imperfection
Of the world's so called sanity
Question it all
Always ask
Discomfort breeds truth
Truth makes things happen

Doesn't matter who
Doesn't matter when
In front of who
The recklessness
Of your curiosity
Changes the world
Based on a conversation with a dear friend of mine, he originally coined the line 'recklessness of your curiosity' and it stuck in me.
Shelly Bear Jul 2017
As the new dawn
glimpse over the rotten conurbation,
hope arises with auspicious smile

Rays of sunlight
beaming her serene countenance
right before the grimes and ashes
of her horrendous past makes its way;
Annihilating the permanent damage
the besmirch had caused.
Because one can never outslick
the twinge of affliction.

But,
'Today is a good day'.

— The End —