"certainties" poems
The poor keep moving
as if relocation
could reframe the algebra.
They cannot see that repetition
traces patterns
in their life.
New beginnings become as hopeless
as stale finales
of debt and desperation.
Wishful thinking makes for certainties
gambling against the odds
of possibilities.
Whispered prayers and incantations
leaves no space
for reason’s compass to steady and settle.
If they stood still and mapped the moment
both sides of the equation
would simplify
and they might construct
a new geometry
of anger.
© M.L.Emmett
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
646
I think to Live—may be a Bliss
To those who dare to try—
Beyond my limit to conceive—
My lip—to testify—
I think the Heart I former wore
Could widen—till to me
The Other, like the little Bank
Appear—unto the Sea—
I think the Days—could every one
In Ordination stand—
And Majesty—be easier—
Than an inferior kind—
No numb alarm—lest Difference come—
No Goblin—on the Bloom—
No start in Apprehension’s Ear,
No Bankruptcy—no Doom—
But Certainties of Sun—
Midsummer—in the Mind—
A steadfast South—upon the Soul—
Her Polar time—behind—
The Vision—pondered long—
So plausible becomes
That I esteem the fiction—real—
The Real—fictitious seems—
How bountiful the Dream—
What Plenty—it would be—
Had all my Life but been Mistake
Just rectified—in Thee
3.7k
I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
3.1k
”against your will were you created,
against your will were you born,
against your will do you live,
against your will will you die, and
against your will will you stand in judgment before the
King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.”
Rabbi Elazar HaKappar (C.170 - C.200 CE)
(Ha Kappar: the one who made and gave atonement)
<§>
***in these, the years of my erosive declination,
when the noble prize, time for introspection,
once was a chore of delaying, now no longer can be off-put,
the certainties of Elazar, offer guidable satisfactions***
***the nighttime review, resurrecting my life, the gaps,
the untaken actions, those dream-schemes speak loudest,
memories of what should have been, are a litany of what ifs,
prosecutorial accusations of crass wastage***
***against my will, the charges brought,
against my will, plead guiltily my innocence,
against my will, knowingly, time’s erasure judgment,
secures my fate, all the granular cells causal dissipation***
***my warped willingness to be a coward,
it was my meditative, to natural be the lesser man,
choosing the safety premise, the road most oft trod,
the addition of my meager totality, willing given***
Even if all these land mine/roadblocks
and summary judgements are against my will,
willingly do I confess, in all innocence, my guilt,
“if it be my will”
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 2:45 PM UTC
1106
We do not know the time we lose—
The awful moment is
And takes its fundamental place
Among the certainties—
A firm appearance still inflates
The card—the chance—the friend—
The spectre of solidities
Whose substances are sand—
2.2k
Compounded complexity
flexible freedom.
This world we live in...
hold your tongue
let me speak
let me creep
on our country's beliefs.
Ideologies invented by power,
to tell us when to cower,
when to talk
how to walk.
I have a mouth I refuse to shut
My words can be daggers
confident in consequence,
and hence,
I write these rhymes
to challenge your mind.
Look at your empty beliefs
in policies with no relief.
They seize your right
to fight,
stand up and be proud of who you've become.
Who are they to judge
when they smudge equality
and slash justice,
twist the meaning.
The poor stay poor
the rich get richer.
Kids grow up in the gutters
and the government mutters,
"we tried our best,
done all we can."
When the money is spent
in genocide
of those on "the other side"
unaware civilians
mass ****** is our forte
across the ocean
or in our streets,
But you aren't exempt,
blame yourself,
stand up and scream.
I want to put the fight in your eyes,
take off your mask of false certainties.
You think you know how this world works
instead you should step back
and see what you're worth.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 5:11 PM UTC
I favour the deep, impenetrable truth of the jungle
Over the smooth ride over sleek black rubber;
The ***** disturbing, demented disorder;
The distortions of the lights we bathe on,
Over outward alignments and the staleness of systems.
I favour the cheap, rugged, bittersweet taste
Of a late night's substandard drink,
In the midst of true lights and shadows
And the uncertainty they cast upon us,
Over the orderly and satisfactory--
The dead pleasures and securities that
Exist nowhere but in feeble projections.
I favour the basic, primeval, animal grunt--
The dirt, the dizziness of true treading
Across the muddy shallows--,
Over the clattering of an overflowed,
Certain mind.
I favour doubt, earnest doubt,
Unpalatable doubt, inescapable doubt--
A smile in a pitch-black room,
A journey on a lukewarm air balloon,
A half-finished sentence in a half-serious gloom--,
Over hasty conclusions and tainted allusions.
I favour the endearing messiness of reality;
The chaos of light and dreams;
The mystery, so out of reach,
Of you and me and the space in-between;
The stained, torn, shattered, burnt,
Twisted texture we find ourselves upon,
Over the smooth, marble-white,
Sterile surface where false certainties
Slide, grinning, before they find themselves
On an impending collision with the infectious hesitation of the ground.
I favour the acknowledging look
Straight into the eye;
A ladder with one step;
A race with no competitors;
A contentment without resentment;
A bread on your table that's good enough,
That doesn't tease you and promise you more,
And more,
And more,
So that you forget what you should really care for,
What lies deep under your skin,
What stirs up the dormant contents of your guts--
You climb to the hilltop
Which finally allows you to have
A peek at the next one.
I favour uncertainty and risk,
And walking too close to the edge;
I favour barely enough,
And cutting it too close;
I favour throwing all excess over the board,
And lowering standards;
I favour the taste of imminent failure
And the adrenaline of a heart-wakening sprint;
I favour meagre means
And big dreams, free of currencies;
For they all remind me what the world
Really looks like,
Who I really am,
And what the winter-night winds
Really feel like.
I favour the ways of nature, often erratic,
***** ugly and convoluted,
Often dumbfounding,
Unintentionally intelligent and mysterious,
Over the ways of fear-ridden constructions,
For there is no such thing
As a straight line.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 2:31 PM UTC
Winds whipping certainties into,
Tiny hurricanes,
Spinning around every drop of thought she
Disowns, discounts.
This turmoil, the only survival she's ever known,
Keeps her in the air, suspended, ambiguous, beautiful or terrifying?
So she shakes and cries in fear,
Of the day she stops spinning.
Surrounded by biting cold fronts,
Pushed around by sparks of warm relief,
She's a hot mess, sticky, humid, and alive with electric charge.
Her pleas bellowed into thunder,
Static shock breaking her voice,
Into something massively engulfing.
The kind of sound that makes a grown man feel small.
You can feel her coming from miles away.
She knows the weight of her presence better than anyone.
So lonely and heavy is her grief,
So bright and menacing is her capability.
Ironically, just the right balance of
Hot,
And cold,
Positivity,
And negativity,
Swiftly reacting, turning, changing her,
Into this rain ridden,
Angst swollen,
Ferociously complex storm system,
Stealing the heat she can,
Clinging to any energy she once drew on.
Never releasing her festerings.
Standing above a world she cannot touch,
Without destroying.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
<quote>
...
This is a waist the spirit breaks its arm on.
The gods themselves, against you, struggle in vain.
This broad low strong-boned brow; these heavy eyes;
These calves, grown muscular with certainties;
This nose, three medium-size pink strawberries
...
</quote>
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
I am a child of truth
one not blinded by belief or whim
my vision is luminous with veracity
I am a daughter of science
the proven
there is pride in this
the authenticity of my perception
I see the world in all colors
not the black and white of sin and virtue
I judge the world on the confirmed and validated
my value is in the clarity of possibilities
and the assessment of the affirmed
but for however meritorious I may grant this view to be
is such sight of pure moral?
it burdens to recognize I am the only control in my world
there are none in my eyes with ultimate or immortal reign
the only fate I view is individual and collective ends
I wish I could have faith
perhaps the pain would ease
at the thought of another with power in control
knowing my actions are not my work
but the results of a larger set of hands
but how hideous is it of me to say such filth
to long to believe
but be supposedly unable to feel gods
I consider it disrespectful to those who do
so I keep to my facts
my deafening, blinding, muting visual certainties
but what if I am wrong?
after all, there are more colors in the universe
than those of which we see
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC
Teach your child
to plant a tree
than pluck one
that was never
her own entity
but its own
Teach your child
to make a painting
of a flower
as a gift
than give a bouquet
that will die soon
or instead
teach her to
give a sapling
that will grow
into a memory
which will hold
much power
Teach your child
to question
than cower
to vain rules
and illogic
that steal her
playful affection
and her artless frolic
Teach your child
to climb trees
before the
ladders to
supreme echelon
Teach her
that when she collapses
she must stand up
with grace and poise
like the shining sun
for after
the night
is done
laying its darkness
it rises again
the sun
Teach your child
the colors of mankind
Yellow or Orange
Red or Brown
Black or White
to accept each one
everyone
without the division
of vanity
of power
or a crown
Teach your child
to create
her own meaning
of Love
Teach her to
listen to the story
of every tear
that bears grief
and to
speak aloud
to bespeak
wisdom and virtue
in brief
Teach your child
about the freedom
in and of the mind
before she rebels
to venture outside
with people
who care less
about her kind
but more about
filling the space
on a car seat
Teach your child
to believe
in possibilities
and have faith
in the certainties
of unlocking mysteries
Teach her
to fuel
her curiosities
Teach your child
values that were not
taught to
the crowd
then you will
stand a mother
full and proud.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
Spoken: What is heard
The adornment, gospel truths the pious believers of your personal faith. The Heresy, the voice of those you’ve ******
Spoken: That which can not be taken back
Your frivolous certainties had no hold but now frame our reality because they are always in the peripheral only seeing what it allows you
Spoken: half truths
The victimized, the wronged, the offended just to validate unscrupulous act to those who have wronged you.
Spoken: White lies
The coddling which breeds an ignorance for the knowledge of decorum, decorations and vails to hid behind
Spoken: That which the universe asserts
That which the universe listens to, vibrations that it assimilates making it part of the whole without losing its agenda
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC
...3 am
and the road is a yellow
rainbow, drifting towards
a common dream of
the sleepless
Silence is the breeze that
brings so much
nostalgic sense
of humor and
makes one think how
fast the seconds go, how
life has been defined past twilight
changing existence into
memories you can't relive
Some will, in the days to
come, bring laughter
Perhaps even a single, meaningful
smile
Some will, as certain as
certainties, bring regrets and questions of
"what could have been if...?"
But for whatever shade
the moment brings, the
dawn is inevitable
and everything will be at the edge of
sunrise...
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
His brow spreads large and placid, and his eye
Is deep and bright, with steady looks that still.
Soft lines of tranquil thought his face fulfill--
His face at once benign and proud and shy.
If envy scout, if ignorance deny,
His faultless patience, his unyielding will,
Beautiful gentleness and splendid skill,
Innumerable gratitudes reply.
His wise, rare smile is sweet with certainties,
And seems in all his patients to compel
Such love and faith as failure cannot quell.
We hold him for another Herakles,
Battling with custom, prejudice, disease,
As once the son of Zeus with Death and Hell.
1.4k
I board a public bus
A graying bus driver is a woman and then morphs into a man
A normal experience within a dream
My eyes glaze over as I assume a state of aloofness
As I tend to do when surrounded by unfamiliar people
As some sort of defense mechanism
As if the otherworldly look in my eyes
Will thwart the formation of an ill intention forming in the mind of a stranger that occupies the bus with me
Just in case
Two older men are on the bus
I don't validate their existence
When I am aloof
It feels like I am the only person truly alive
Everything gradually grows dimmer
As my inner world roars as loudly as an amphitheater.
The bus drives for hours
I've never been on this bus before and I've never been to the town I am traveling to
I'm going there to check out a church
Even though I'm not a Christian
Hours pass...
I start falling asleep in my dream
The bus has no stops
Finally, the bus reaches the end of its route
I am dropped off in front of a CVS along with the other two male passengers
One scruffy old man leers at me and smiles at me
But I act as if I didn't see him
I have no idea how to get to the church
It's getting dark
All that is around is the CVS, the bus stop, and a road with an onslaught of cars driving in either direction
Why did I make this hours long trip if I didn't even know exactly where I was going?
If only I could cross the wide street to get to the other side where the bus stop for the bus back home is
But I can't
The cars were driving at fast speeds and their was a constant flow of them
So I stood in that nakedness of uncertainty and abounding possibility
Stuck and calculating
As the sun set over this foreign place I ended up in
All because I was seeking some purpose
And yet, it brought me so far away from home,
the comforts and luxuries and certainties of home
Yet, when I awoke, something deep and vital within me knew
That I will never find my purpose within the comfort of my home.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
Its hard to bare your reflection when your disturbed by the image it makes. As you stare into the mirror, your faced to deal with your mistakes.
The truth of the matter is you can lie to the world, and live the life of an actor. You can portray yourself in many ways, but when you look in the mirror, you view the truth that you cant escape.
Your just a pawn playing social chess just to be accepted, by interested impressionist. I stray far away and ignore getting ****** in, to associating with manican's that pretend to be your friends.
The social ladder is filled with actors, lies, and insecurities. So I judge alone by actions shown, and only trust my certainties.
Most people base their judgements by your appearance and your current status. I guess my designs unique, I base my judgements by your actions.
I stay true to myself, I'm not eager to be accepted. I view my friends as family and I'm willing to die for my investments.
For all the time that I've invested, I would give my life to provide protection. Because quality over quantity, is the "ONLY" acceptable method of friendship!
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
1/20/2015
every man i have taken
is dead to me.
They're dead in the back of the room and no smoking sidealleys, handing a bag of ****** like 'here,'
cigarette-in-mouth induced lisp
They're dead in my best friend's bed or at least used to be lying spent and of course not thinking of me to only say how they dislike.
Peculiarities like: I wish he'd grasped my hand as he pushed in and effort face and all had hurriedly torridly muttered "i hate you, babygirl" because I love to get my fortune told. What is the future?
Peculiar because the other one didn't talk while high and especially not then, I would love to inherit his estate of drugs and kissing my held hand walking home at 9pm.
I only cried for one of course and barely at that.
In this life,i am beginning to realize certainties.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
I would humbly put forth the idea, quite prostrate, that it would do us some good if we were to put aside, for a time, our epistemological certainties and archetypal savior fixations and, instead, opt for a more robust, ocher-hued ontological preeminence: putting the what before the why.
Only then can one, say, sip hot herbal tea from an old pink bone china teacup and, without thinking about all the things all the time, for once -just- feel the sun's warmth on your aged face as it begins its set over a half-eaten cotton candy sky that is epic af and reminds you of Peter Pan and then Robin Williams and then whywhywhy and then something random and weirrrd, and, in doing so, you can watch the lack of shittogetherness, of which duly occupies the very seat of your character like a bully usurper that hits you bc "he loves you," melt into a very (very) temporary oblivion and revel in what is before you without feeling paralyzing angst that is, usually, soo angst-y that you gotta pronounce that **** in German as if you were Schopenhauerly sitting at some non-descript desk in some non-descript room with your hand stroking your truly descript crazygeniusguy hair that is some kind of proto-Wolverine hairdo (and you wonder if Stan Lee was cryptically tipping his cap to S's philosophical pessimism with this peculiar gesture; consider googling it but don't because you've already googled too much sheeyt today), thinking (or brooding) about how much of a ******** Descartes is with his whole, yuhknow, theory about some ******* secret nanoputian angelic chemist that sits at the pearly gates of the Pineal Gland and performs the sacred transduction of the divine ghost, or whatever. Otherwise you are, like, consumed with analysis, which is a complete ******* bore and - let's face it - a thoroughly transparent attempt to sound smarter than you actually are.
This herbal tea I'm currently drinking has "rose hips" in it. Dear botany, that image is fun.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
so many long to have a golden king
for certainties amid the roil and noise
and yet won't listen when the sweet doves sing
in urgent times there is nothing to bring
that will secure against what most annoys
so many long to have a golden king
as being for now the most important thing
to guarantee the safety of their joys
and yet won't listen when the sweet doves sing
of better hours when they were on the wing
and deadly forces were not kept as toys
so many long to have a golden king
who do not wish their liberty to fling
so cavalierly with such little poise
and yet won't listen when the sweet doves sing
since all the world is trapped inside one ring
and none can tell just what the rest enjoys
so many long to have a golden king
and yet won't listen when the sweet doves sing
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:33 AM UTC
i’ve spent the last
six months of my life
dying to die
with no results.
and in that time i’ve
been walking
on a sidewalk that
is crooked and cracked
into some godforsaken
place. through my journeys
i’ve come to rely
on two certainties:
that i will go to bed
unsatisfied and hungry.
and every night is
a rainy one and cats eat
the fur and bones of dogs dead
in the flooded gutters. the grey
monoliths of the city
are always a step away, but
i don’t get any closer.
and if i could give back
all the cigarette ash and whiskey
i’ve drank i’d do it because
i’d be losing blank meaningless
memories, or at least
they mean nothing to me. i can’t
say the same about
those people in the memories.
and i passed the corner
where i sat drunk on the brick
with my friend, smoking
a cigarette and i remember
telling him that it was
going to be alright. i don’t
know if i was lying or if
i didn’t know the truth
but he left.
and i walked by the home
of my first love and the windows
were dark and the cars were
gone from the driveway.
and i found myself in front
of the house of the girl
i loved who didn’t love me
and the air was black, save
for the glare of a lighter through
the rain and i remembered
a dream i had.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
I love in entities
Absolutes, certainties
Without exception or question
Reservation or contemplation.
I'll love you in whole hearted hurricanes
Tongue tied tsunamis
Forest fires and floods
A thousand thunder storms
Eternal earthquakes
Volcanic eruptions
Days of droughts
And months of torrential rain
I'll love you in hail storms and heatwaves
Slowly, softly, subtly, in solar flares
I don't wear my heart on my sleeve
I tear it right from the centre of my chest and place it beating, bleeding in your hands.
I won't ever take it back.
I'll love you with my own reckless disregard.
I know no other way.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC
There are few absolutes.
Even less that speak as true,
To the golden hues of bygone ages
Or savage whirlpools of our youth.
We were born and we shall die
Shackled to these certainties
Eternal pirouettes of life.
Yet in the doubt we are alive,
A parable of the possible,
The probable or the just might.
Existence in the absence
Between two points of light.
In the uncertain we survive,
A ripple in the darkness,
A dream within the night.
Jan 16, 2024
Jan 16, 2024 at 10:35 AM UTC
Warm night stretches its silent breaths across these stagnant hours
They ripple like an unworldly ocean that tempts a sailor’s most strained reach
But my sails are torn through with a wanderer’s navigation
Upon this endless sea of patient hopes and horrors
And I close my eyes dream tight in sewn with such a fright
That upon their parted shutters I will still see nothing
Because your smile feints just over that intangible horizon so taunting
Smile into the day as I pull myself through the dark
So I took on the edge of the world, the edge of sanity
Clutching at the crags to pull myself out of this dull droned deep hell
Above the clouds into my florid reveries with fragile flight
Although I lost all names and labels of retold in folded certainties
I finally made it through the strong woven break
But who’s to tell me when I am to ever wake?
Definitely upon indefinite travel, this weary and constant sailor says
Not even you.
Jun 7, 2010
Jun 7, 2010 at 11:35 PM UTC