"certitude" poems
Vous manquez tellement mauvais ce soir, mon bébé!
Vous souhaiter étaient là pour me tenir la main et de dire:
"Vous pouvez le faire, ma ... "
Pinaghiwalay tayo ng himpapawid
at ng layunin **** itawid ang kahulugan
ng iyong buhay sa ibayong kalupaan.
Dahil alam nating muling hahalik ang luha
sa ating mga pisngi sa oras na agawin ka na
ng bitbit **** mga bitbitin, saglit tayong
humimpil sa huling kumpisal ng ating
damdamin: "Hindi ito paglisan. Tayo ay
pipisan sa isang katiyakan na ang pag-ibig,
kailanman, 'di tayo iiwan." Sino nga ba sa atin
ang patungo saan, saang lupalop at hangganan?
Hangganan ngang maituturing ang sinambit ng
ating puso: "Ce n'est pas quitte. Nous allons rester
*dans la certitude que l'amour, pour toujours*,
ne nous quittera jamais."
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
Nothingness.
Imagine nothingness.
That nothingness which is nothing of the nothingness we are all familiar with:
Not that nothingness which is nothing but empty space and time
Like when you open an empty room.
No.
That nothingness where nothing truly exists:
Not space,
Not even time.
A singular point.
Imagine a singular point.
The ultimate singular point that contains all possible points
In the development of the universe
Come out and expand
From the birthing of time, the instance of The Big Bang,
(Which by the way is not a large explosion, as the words imply, but a silent rapid expansion)
Pushing the envelope
Where nothingness begins.
Chance.
Imagine chance.
The random occurrence of events:
Of fundamental particles colliding and uniting
Or annihilating each other,
Giving rise to protons, neutrons and electrons;
Giving rise to the periodic table,
To compounds, both organic and inorganic,
To macromolecules.
Billions of years.
Imagine billions of years
Gone by,
And billions of galaxies filling the sky:
Stars and quasars and pulsars
Planets and comets and meteors
***** nilly hurtling through
Dark matter and ever expanding space,
Yet inanimate still
,
A single cell.
Imagine a single cell
Form inexplicably so,
In a staggeringly highly improbable way
As carbon molecules combine,
Start to throb and pulsate:
Chance bringing forth life
In a barren and otherwise
Lifeless universe.
Consciousness
Imagine consciousness
Purposive, willful, deliberate
Feelings
Imagine feelings
Love, compassion, hatred
Imagine all in a universe that came out of itself from nothingness.
It is hard, of course,
For after all, we are creatures of somethingness!
But at this point
You must have seen the Point
Of all the ramblings and turns in the trajectory of my thought
Tracing the evolutionary course of the universe
From nothingness and that singular point
That without God
All things are
After all
Pointless!
.
And so,
Let us not deplore, as a great poet once did,
That this world “so various, so beautiful, so new
Hath no joy, nor love, nor light
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain…”
For what else should we expect
Of a cold, unfeeling universe?
What?
Give us some Novocain?
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 4:36 PM UTC
****** empowers those who flaunt
the shape imbued by deity
by wide degree that willingness
to express beauty’s form
empowerment becomes the goal
once a choice is expressed
by displaying more or less
skin’s gamut is then blessed
divestment of draped attire
spans the spectrum from slight to all
whether the ankle only shows
or lack of raiment is complete
that span is chosen by the self
society is asked to stand mute
don't suggest what should be
except to honor certitude
the superficial or complete
exhibition is the private trek
played out in public without remorse
rejoice for those who made their choice
skin as sanction to celebrate
costumes bent to serve a will
no longer hiding the natural
****** displaying love of self.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180907.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
I am watching you,
every step, every breath, every word and touch.
yet still I keep a sense of certitude -
that you may believe you have befriended me.
I am a television, a mirror, a frame in your home,
I am a friend you can trust.
I am a child playing swing,
I am the woman you sneak around with,
I am the unexpected friend you trust,
Yet I am the one who snitches on you when we part.
Trust me, you'll think we’ve never met.
Yet when we do, oh man , you’ll know it.
For in the oddest of times, well catch you, grab you,stop you still - Until you cry out, BIG BROTHER , I .. - ....Confess.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 3:10 AM UTC
~and for Harlan, who loved this one best~
*"for tandem is the ever-changing, graying color of their fierce attached tenacity"
waking/walking in
careful pacing regular lock steps,
like new cadets, counting cadence,
in perfect silent, almost motionless,
except for the minuscule quivering of
slightly parted moving lips
these two elders,
still now plebes,
freshmen
but of a latter, graduated stage,
demonstrating robustly
the slow shuffle-along,
a well practiced dance conjured
'in tandem'
her arm, crooked in his,
his other hand,
in protective custody of a
knight's armored chain glove
encasing hers,
he, shuffling just,
a precise, intended half-a-beat slower
lest she ever think
that she, ever be a drag upon him
hair, his,
threaded with daily,
new arriving grays,
proudly accepted
as the privilege of
graceful aging
hers,
disguised with periodic outings,
outings for the hidings of life's bookmarks,
conceding nothing ever to
time's lunatic desire to separate them
modest in dress,
styling hints of pasts' elegant,
the man's hat defiant,
daringly jaunty angled,
a small scarf to handbag knotted,
matching his Windsor knotted tie
the passers-by, all smile,
the signal charm of an
end game processional,
thinking so sweet,
yet mine eyes detect more,
something
hardy and radical
a fierce, fierce fierceness,
both fighters in the resistance,
armed with tandem tenacity,
ground given,
but only inches surrendered,
wounds resisted by
scar skin toughened
by the caress of ions bonding
under the pressure
of atomic level mutuality
worn out,
well past Purple Hearts,
no capitulation feared,
to the ever changing,
enemies' new disguises,
they,
a two person platoon,
each,
having the other's back
and I burst into tears on the street,
a train of out loud moans,
even groans emitted,
like a string of perfect pearls
breaking,
clattering on an asphalt terrain
weeping
not
from visions of the inevitable,
sighing
not
from the certitude of a
cycle's uptime ending*
but jealous furious by this reminder delightful,
angry at myself, for having lost so many wasted years,
mine, the loss greatest, for absent was the
fierce tenacity of tandem
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
Lady Winter
I.
When surly Winter sighs, her icy breath
Makes adults think of coming death,
Makes children think of falling snow,
Ice skates and sleds and away they go....
II.
Alone among her Sisters, Winter holds such power
To stop the World, to drift in Time, if only for her hour.
She puts the trees and fields to sleep,
Then covers lakes and land 'neath sheets,
And though she tucks them into bed,
Their sleeping form is of the dead.
III.
This Lady White whose frigid face
Turns from the sun with chilly grace
Has for herself a single duty:
The world to rest in icy beauty.
In the North, where'er she goes,
She dresses lands with icy snows.
In gowns of ermine stand the trees
White trains of down lie at their lees.
She sets the plain with crystal lakes,
And sugars hills with frosted flakes.
Where ever she in beauty goes,
The icy Queen her magic sows.
IV.
Strange sister of four Seasons,
Her face, at first, seems set in Death,
But we who walk out on her icy grounds,
Traverse a frozen pond or wander rounds
Deep into her forests fast asleep, know well,
We who stop to listen and to look can tell,
Life's certitude awaits the end of chilly Winter's icy fling.
(Congregation: "Even so come quickly, Lady Spring!")
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 10:14 AM UTC
Gold shed upon suckling gold,
The time of the bole blackens,
Of the dark mounted through dapple,
While in the sealed apple
The seed cradled toward cold.
A gold on gold spent,
Put by from an elm in its years
Now its gilded of days,
Over turf’s dishevelment;
Where all which is green sickens,
All the fresh shall be sere.
All which is green sickens,
And it is but for a time
Those embered veinings blaze
A year’s delirium;
Or neared of other space,
Unportioned azure shall close
One of more, and which is,
One which goes.
Let the little pupils that will,
Of vision, gaze for salt
To whet their gazing, wit
In one weather is high
From burrow and lair, by
Nether providences’ default
An all’s accrued.
And apposite, beyond
Such primer beholdings, has
Its long accounting known
The beetle’s morsel thus
Was rich, and the slug’s bed on
The oak’s generations, deep
Over the lark’s bones.
In slough of Edens fast
Wit in one weather shall stand,
While millennia nibble at
The sensual apple
Toppled it net,
Plenty in the palm of the hand,
And the fallen not fallen, not lost
From out its certitude—
For our unbeggaring
Has been gross. Few and late
To cherish an immoderate
Wish, hope’s calculus,
Love’s hope; few to miss,
From natural tally ******
In the lime-girdled space
Of choice, where alone
Man can abandon what
Is only his own;
And in cold and tarrying
Their rearisers sleep:
While to the granite cheek
Light’s purples bring
Infinite their ministering,
And past our finial
And ragged crests, to keep
Time’s ambient stood,
Propose horizons from
Their shadowy quarries; while,
In an unwandered wood,
Or under the indifferent foot,
Is let fall, let fall a fruit,
Through eternal leisures down,
For but time’s unravelling.
2.9k
Mary Seacole
Black nurse sculpture
Your determination points
To injustice. Your struggle
To serve, be accepted.
Why were you shamed and denied?
This is the broken land where we live.
Your courage, your stride
Takes me to our weakness
To the ache in my chest like a
broken blood vessel.
And trace the lines in my hand
To a bad rotting root.
How many wounds did your hand with compassion soothe?
Behind your certitude
I imagine pain.
Did your hurting
Search out injury and loss?
And as you nursed those violent lacerations,
Patiently waiting whilst the pathway beat its course,
Did you see as if through a veil,
Your own fractured self,
Fusing with your patient’s,
Both your Injuries restore back together
All the way towards their good health?
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 5:25 AM UTC
Senses willfully
accepting one's certitude
admits existence.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
The Hardest Forgiving Slant
<|>
9:19am Fri Sept 22 2023 ~ 8:02am Fri Sep 29 2023
commenced during the Ten Days of Awe
<|>
we debase our language daily,
robbing the spectacular majesty [example]
of awe with the common overusing
vernacular of “awesome”
especially forgiveness is degraded,
we utter “I’m sorry” trippingly,
costless, less than cheap, with even the
snap-on veneer (1) of sincerity discarded,
but move on to the next rudeness
but today I will not permit myself
an easy letting-off-the-hook, no shifting
of blame to anonymity, or fast forward to tomorrow,
when we can obfuscate our intrepid
dishonesty one more time…again
to forgive those who have injured us,
not that hard, or the judging deities,
who silently wink and nod, but offer
no certitude beyond trying, itself a
maybe, maybe not, truly tiring this
trying tacking the constant requests
so first an etymology explication on
the tension inherent that very word,
f o r g i v e
As a word, as a sensed,
intuitively-
it is a
Perfect Continuous Infinitive! (2)
to
forgive is
perfect,
to forgive is
continuous,,
to forgive is
infinite!
what a marvelous, perpetual
past, present and always futuristic
word (alas)
The Hardest Forgiving?
to forgive oneself
so nearer to impossible,
the first responders doing triage,
leave people like me for last,
as it a unconditional condition
with no cure that can be effected
indeed, by our very affect,
they instant diagnosis seeing our
very gestures, body language, or ****** expressions,
all reveal the hopelessness of
the never-to-be-given-grace,
among us
for a thousand years,
I have tried and failed to forgive myself
for the worst I’ve done,
and there is no sword or club,
blood-letting,
that can dispatch the onerous burden I carry
so I write poetry,
a salve that offers
temporary relief,
while I write,
imposed a
momentarily distracting,
a kind of dusting of self~spin,
that chills myself
just until
the, this!
poem is finished,
the slant is drawn
<§>
Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
BY EMILY DICKINSON
Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —
Sep 29, 2023
Sep 29, 2023 at 8:12 AM UTC
My heart - delicate,
and malleable
undulates
within two poles,
seamlessly juxtaposed -
beauty and affliction
capricious container-
truth and fiction;
the sheer surfeit
of choice
reverberates with
imperious diversion,
settled invitation-
loud and shiny things.
Hard to breathe,
I'm in exile
slave to my emotions,
obsequious and servile
barren, cold and mute
existence - the brute;
tilted reminiscence,
scars of loss
contrive frames
around moments -
footprints,
interminable -
being and time.
Infinite deity,
triune polyphony
artist of sublimity
smearing shades
of loneliness,
vestiges of faith,
to retrieve
hues of meaning;
oddly convivial
prophets
of reprieve.
Orpheus lost Eurydice
palpable discordancy
suffused in time
could not resolve
without verse
decidedly sonorous,
canvas showered pain,
splashed
Jackson Pollack stain
Love - onerous,
deep beneath
the veneer,
it's mercy severe.
Fiction from the first
Eden‘s fatal gift,
lucidity cursed
altered cosmos murmur,
parlance of
disordered elegance;
effusive language,
phrasing art nouveau
tacit script;
ensconced within
the fabric;
create a Thirst
torment - visceral
and immediate.
Ardor and innocence
once quenched,
render
pathos in proportion
to the pleasure,
conveyance of beatitude
The past absorbed
into the treasure,
Inscrutable Heart -
devotion and turpitude
desire, loathing and paucity
affinity in abundance,
fear and doubt
inhabit certitude.
©2009 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 11:19 AM UTC
The cello
mother of music
sings peacefully
from the eye of the storm
A peace purchased
at the price of certitude
Piano provides counterpoint
restrained
elegant
its curtains of sound
dream their own dreams
and a longing violin
makes love to
the air itself
We march deliberately
to this tempo
stepping in time
to the sweet
and terrifying strains
of our own mortality
The composer
died
at thirty one years.
Why - how
have I lived so long?
Perhaps
to hear this music as if for
the first time
and so share it
with the sky.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
deep and carefree among the stars
vast dark carpet of endless universes
amidst our sprinkles of humanity
we drift along in certitude in our destiny
our inner being even more vast
than that what we gaze upon in wonderment
fear and longing
is there more for us or more of us
motionless we feel still yet
we rocket through this spinning nothingness
filled with all the monuments and
epochs of histories and calamities,
spartan and over flooded with grandeur
limitless adoration for being and seeing
what we have wrought and brought
nations and people and prairies
and all of nature's fine doodles
makings in ever flowing ever growing
profundity and fantasy
so we can ask "how is your day going"
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
You are...
Everything
I ever wanted in a lover
The best friend I've ever had
The dream I've dreamt since childhood
The fantasy of perfection
Always and forever
Forever and always
Timeless
Ageless
Eternal
...and mine
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
***~ for my friend and fellow poet
Rebecca Askew~***
wherever that bench be,
I be
oxygen sweet, sharing mine,
preserving you, a necessary for me
for are you not
my very own Canadian
wild shorebird daughter,
my wailing
wild woman, kicking up dust trails,
driving across wide plains
with no-eye boundaries,
whose prayers and lamentations,
take me into mourning places,
and lift my eyes skyward
what is this,
the third, the fourth,
the nth,
poem you have extracted,
from oil drilled within me,
dug in my inky deeper places,
my tarred but oil rich sands
though our eyes have not yet crossed,
our embrace completely incomplete,
a millennia of words exchanged,
borders crossed oft,
no passport ever shown,
no visa needed,
when this will not sufficient prove,
I do not know
but with calm certitude
Michaelangelo finger extended,
when that last traverse
will be spent, at last at lasted,
the when or the wherever
this will be, a commencement ceremony,
I Know
that my spirit
you so well possess,
will come upon your request
bring your near,
no marble bench memorial markers here,
just life giving
empty Adirondack poet's chairs,
needing jams and jelly filling,
your name dedicated,
inscribed thereon, upon one,
be by my bay,
(forgive but forget cold, unforgiving Lake Michigan,)
by my bay, seagulls wail and squeak
airborne inspirations,
acting soully as watch-birds over poets-in-residence,
where words lap upon the simple shore,
for free-taking, warm lived life contained,
no talk of death, only cheating it...
This I know,
as well as the colors of
my blood, my guts, my words,
yours, the first words my eyes read this day,
this, my last belief, as my heart beats,
come summer,
we will write together side by side,
the windy invisible, indivisible
words composed,
be, that, our true benchmark,
of lives well lived,
forever preserved,
death defeating,
you,
help me to
see too well,
so laughing shouting,
fine woman-poet,
I know thyself
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
"The Pacific's the best
show on TV!
Best ... show ... ever,"
one lean teen blares,
wanting the whole train
to know it.
I don't know
how many shows
he's seen in his thin
decade of watching, but
that won't stop him
from its knowing.
I do envy
such certitude
compared to my fat
knack for lacking it, and
I bet he sleeps
well, tonight.
His mind's eased,
its hunger not baited.
Me, I'll be
restless and gorging
just to begin
the comparison.
Apr 25, 2010
Apr 25, 2010 at 6:03 PM UTC
Love has very many colors and very many shades
Which dominate,cover every sphere of human life
Beauty has its own wonderful sophisticated blades
Love remains on the altar , on sharp edge of knife
God Himself is an emblem of love spread streaks
On His verdict love and beauty were sent as beams
He himself is so beautiful and appreciates beauty
With His gracious graces and charms makes all free
When we worship God we praise beauty and love
It is certitude which makes our faith really strong
Follower of light is on right path from verdict above
We praise virtue ,which is love and beauty in song
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 2:49 AM UTC
Wearing Solomons seal as a garland
With crocotto eyes under the tongue
My cynosure and I actuate and
Much alike the conversation of
Simurgh and King Solomon exchange
A solipsistic lingering stare
Fraught with meaning;
Now like an Oozlum bird wearing
Luned's ring stuck in ones gizzards
I fly, no sooner than to be one flesh
Brandishing the tears and sweat of
Tiamut and Apsu with exhaustive
Philosophical certitude kindling
The fires of adulation.
Eleete j Muir.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
Blinded by iniquity
Being guided by unexplainable certitude
I can’t predict where the pieces will fall
But I will remember where they stood in the sky
They say I’m not at the point of grasping it all
Saying I’m a follower who needs to lead
I’m just attempting to find peace of mind
And a silent breeze of tranquility
I’ll still be there when the atmosphere fails
When widespread panicked screams break the barrier of sound
The cadence of the populations of hysterical cries match the racing beats of their hearts
I’ve tried hoisting my pressures and trouble over my head
And unburden myself of them
To put them in front of me instead
And dissect them all so I might comprehend
The hour glass goes against us
We have such ample time
So many paths we can walk
Full of laughs, pain and love, you take yours
I’ve found mine
-Tommy Johnson
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
As I sit and searched my feelings, my thoughts are filled with you.
I think of all the memories created sending a flood of emotions through.
You would always say when someone would leave it was their time, they had to go.
And with those words you had to go but in years I needed more.
You said to remember the things you taught, as you would not be here to ask.
So I put on a face of certitude, a facade in the mode of a mask.
As now, I must face the world without you, much more than one could ask.
We assured you that your job on earth as a mother, protector, plus more was felt.
That your guidance through our lives, was much bigger than just help.
The love I feel when I say your name will always be the same
As my grandchildren continue to grow, they will all know your name.
I will share my fondest memories and tell them how this life I live you saved
and how with little and such a big heart the bountifulness of love you gave.
I will teach them as you taught me, how Fords were designed and made tough
and I will always keep your loving memories as solace while times are rough.
Jul 15, 2022
Jul 15, 2022 at 10:07 PM UTC
Art transcends the hold of truth
no longer slave to certitude
regarding what is meant to be
or what’s viewed in critique
some would say that it’s a lie
travesty in dogma’s eye
the misuse of divine gifts
truth revisited by the profane
stating what’s not meant to be
still the eye is quickly pleased
by the bending of the norm
redefined to sate our wants
understanding follows form
the muse is counselor to the blind
opening eyes by showing forms
existing only in fantasy
now the new reality
becomes the master in the end
roles are turned in pursuit
of salvation beyond belief
escaping bonds tied to fact
the latter altered to comply
truthfulness in craft’s tall tale
transforms fiction to verity.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180810.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC
*Is it really any wonder
That we court the God of war ?
When a man offends in innocence
With imprudent comments poor,
When the slightest altercation
Leads to seeking of red blood,
And grudges borne with vehemence
Paste protagonists with mud.
Why is it that we tip toe
Through the fragileness of life ?
How is it that you rage
When he glances at your wife ?
What generates the jealousy
Of competitive bright flame
And activates the trigger
In the deadly baiting game ?
Why should we seek redemption
When the way is set in stone,
When antagonistic temperament
Is the customary way home,
When the flare of angry attitude
Leads the bearer to abyss
And inevitable conflict
Throws all reasoned thought amiss ?.
Reflect on how protracted
Is the winding road to love,
How long to place the building blocks
Of friendships’ hand in glove,
How gradual the process
Of steady cultivating trust
To the wondrous actuality
Of a brother bond that must.
Why does the God of war surmount
Mans best and dearest quest
To find a peace and harmony
Despite discords’ very best,
To live his days in certitude
Sidestepping risk of harm
To work toward tomorrows’ dawn,
And evening’s soothing charm.
Shatter prides absurdity
To dare to breach the norm,
To reach aloft for courage
And scale the unknown’s form.
To rail against mans’ enmity
To flail against his foe
To conquer human natures‘ worst
This beast of war must go!
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
21 June 2010*
Jun 20, 2010
Jun 20, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
It Must Be Done Lovingly -
this title comes easy,
leaps from screen,
jumps in between
my eyes,
where poems electric start,
starting line tween the
head and heart circuitry,
followed by a
thundering silence
of say what...
the notion, face smacks
a five fingered lighting bolt,
feeling the meaning, the ******
but the body, the text, not,
the explication, the purpose singular,
not so much
it's gonna make me work,
this entitled commandment
"it must be done lovingly,"
sure, words from heaven sent,
what does it mean precisely
it doesn't come with liner notes,
just empty sleeves,
no compact disc,
to explain it well
to your ill-written soul
brain pulsating images, lyrics, tunes,
mr. memories working overtime,
but no catalogue,
thematically a disaster,
blue lined paper
crawling with scrawlings,
notes from a blues guitar,
jumbled bojangling riffs discordant
whipped,
boy's locker room,
towel whipped
gonna give up,
exactly what
is the it
that must be done so,
with loving attention
crap cutting, beat the bush,
you know what's driving,
snap, crackle and pop,
it is arriving
with mega doses of
insatiable pain
you don't love her anymore
you knowing,
that she needs
the knowing,
deserves the certitude
of the bad news,
but cowardly lion
don't got
no idea
how to tell her
so the words
on the page
resonate,
with badass emotional clarity,
a guiding light,
do it lovingly
makes no perfect sense,
but it's sensible
and almost perfect
mr. memories speaks up
at last,
in a sad voice,
the old times flash,
drawing for you pictures,
lending strength,
and whatever else you gonna need,
from history and
tell her her lovingly,
you don't love her anymore
surrender your flag,
hand over your weapons,
you were good at loving her,
some long time ago,
but
No
don't say it with stale raisin bread reasons,
soiled explanations,
just hold her in a way,
the way you used to
that has grown dusty rusty
from lack of use
that will explain everything,
better,
by doing it
lovingly
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
Hypotheses abound, regarding the extinction
of the reptilian hordes, those base or of distinction.
Some aver, and others vow, things must have gone this way
and when I hear such lofty speech, I clear my throat and say:
“It seems to me that when we speak with such calm certitude
we miss the possibility of death by attitude.
For when I look upon these bones of prehistoric herds
I catch a glimpse of simpler times, and then I see the “birds”
For while the stegosaurus trod with stoic steps so slow
I perceive he may have been arraigned as one below
the wild heights of soaring things, with pointed, cackling heads
who mocked him at his every turn (which stegosauri dread)
And so as this terrestrial life was bound to suffer so
The pterodactyls found great fun to drive them all to woe
They drove them off, by day and night, until they were defunct,
the primal victims of a craft; the first to e’er be punk’d”
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
People have strong feelings about nonsense.
Unaware of the by-products
of fervent tenet.
The ardent flames burn hotter than
any dogmas of faith.
They are swathe in this magma.
Burning all those near,
churning deep-rooted fear.
Making it crystal clear for some,
but foggy glass for others.
Colourful grey matter yet mindlessly
They clutch on too much
to the senseless crux of the matter.
Somethings may be in flux
Places and faces among other things
but the same truth endures.
Those whose eyes are blinded
by creed, ensure that only casualties
and tragedies will arise
from their fallacious activities.
When will these attitudes changes?
A question I can not answer with any certitude.
Only hope a solution will come post-haste
as we are faced with too many ghosts.
Passer-bys erased simple because
people have strong feelings about nonsense.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC