"chaff" poems
I’m running in circles
I’ve got a scattered brain
Does this look normal?
Or have I gone insane?
I tired of the 9-5
Just look in my eyes
This job is draining me
Of my creativity
And happy vibes
I come home and I just wanna die
It doesn’t help that I live
In a lions den
Every morning I wake up
There’s a beautiful silence
And then
Noon comes around here comes
Big mama with a big ole frown
I thought I’d just chill on my day off
Rent is paid but it ain’t enough
I think I need some air
Maybe I should go to my moms house
And see if my family cares
Ha Ha
I needed that laugh
Look at me
I’ve begun to chaff
Anything to just break a smile
People swear I’m crude or ******* vile
Yet we got fools praising a dead man
A woman beater a native to gang land
I’m just trying to get my head straight
Don’t bother me now
No time to contemplate
Tummy’s hungry
And I’ve got an empty plate
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC
Father could reprogram all six billion of us
if He felt the need, anytime
In fact that's exactly what He did
at Babel when our dodgy one-accord
threatened to bring the end nearer
than the six millenniums of earthtime
He'd allocated for us to seek His truth
He even re-wired Balak for a minute
to hear his donkey speak
and think of the Assyrians that fled
when He caused four lepers to sound
like a mighty mercenary army
coming to rescue Jerusalem
YHWH is omnipotent, like it not
The reason He's not 'interfering' right now
is simply because His plan is dead on time
He intends to blow the chaff from His wheat
The true wheat, His remnant that stays faithful
(through Revelations and the mark)
will form a new constitution when Yeshua returns
for a thousand years of peace on earth
You may think "Oh I'll wait and see
if it's true, like, if the two witnesses
really die and then rise again in three days"
Problem with that approach is simple
You could be brainwashed before then
The neurophone is widely used today
Think of 911, why Bush isn't impeached
and read surveillanceissues.com
Those of us who really care
will continue to bug you and **** your spirit
Hopefully you'll make the right choice
and refuse the mark of the beast
Consider these things while there's time
'After me the storm' won't cut it
There are less than three short years to go
* Gen 6:3 And Jehovah said, My spirit shall not always strive with man, in his erring; he is flesh. Yet his days shall be a hundred and twenty years.
The 120 years referred to here in fact represent 120 jubilees, or 6000 years (2000 from Adam to the flood, 2000 from the flood to Yeshua and 2000 from Yeshua till 2017)
Jun 3, 2010
Jun 3, 2010 at 2:37 AM UTC
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
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The scarceness of truth and beauty of this life
has ****** me dry of breath
Its ugliness has risen to try our hearts,
filling us with a blackness too awful to utter.
Love and goodness have been banned along with God,
blown away like chaff in the wind.
How many cheeks to turn?
How many cheeks to turn?
Into my soul their blackness creeps
giving voice to the cry within.
Pack wolves wait for signs of weakness as scarlet billows
cloud the waters of small town America.
Have we forgotten kindness and humanity?
They’ve been flushed down the toilet of
public education.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 8:48 PM UTC
It's too soon to live in memories
I try to convince myself
Years don't change everything
I try to convince myself
This is no prison I'm living in
I have the keys, the locks are not broken
I try to convince myself I have a reason
For not using them
Grab a pen and some paper
Some of these are important
I just know they are
These are the things that made me what I am
Aren't they?
The sum total of all my experiences, right?
I need to chronicle and catalog
Separate the wheat from the chaff
This will set me straight
Or maybe not...could be a waste of time
Time takes them away, one by one
Teases, bringing some back
Then snatching them away again
Despite my best efforts
To hoard them
Years don't change everything
The cruel workings of time
Are eternal
Of this I am convinced
I've sacrificed freedom
To live in a cage
To settle for memories
For fear that hurt would break in
And make itself comfortable
Quick to remind me of the memories
It helped make
I'm convinced I have no reason
To break these chains
An empty house, alone
Is better than such bad company
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 8:26 AM UTC
my thoughts scattered like chaff in the wind
dandelion seeds in a spring breeze
when you first spoke to me
"deep in thought, are you?" you ask, smiling
the cafe was suddenly so loud
your eyes so bright
life so vibrant
i smile back, nervously hesitate
(is this happening!?)
then "you caught me
lost in the urban sprawl of my mind
it's nice to meet you, i'm sean"
but before we could touch
you disappeared down a side street
lit by neon signs; red, pink, blue
and i realized you were just my fantasy
a desire, too good to be true
Feb 8, 2023
Feb 8, 2023 at 2:30 AM UTC
Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater zest for me,
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I’m off to the Yards afresh.
I never was very refined, you see,
(And it weighs on my brother’s mind, you see)
But there’s no reproach among swine, d’you see,
For being a bit of a swine.
So I’m off with wallet and staff to eat
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat,
But glory be!—there’s a laugh to it,
Which isn’t the case when we dine.
My father glooms and advises me,
My brother sulks and despises me,
And Mother catechises me
Till I want to go out and swear.
And, in spite of the butler’s gravity,
I know that the servants have it I
Am a monster of moral depravity,
And I’m ****** if I think it’s fair!
I wasted my substance, I know I did,
On riotous living, so I did,
But there’s nothing on record to show I did
Worse than my betters have done.
They talk of the money I spent out there—
They hint at the pace that I went out there—
But they all forget I was sent out there
Alone as a rich man’s son.
So I was a mark for plunder at once,
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once,
But I didn’t give up and knock under at once,
I worked in the Yards, for a spell,
Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs.
And shared their milk and maize with hogs,
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs
And—I have that knowledge to sell!
So back I go to my job again,
Not so easy to rob again,
Or quite so ready to sob again
On any neck that’s around.
I’m leaving, Pater. Good-bye to you!
God bless you, Mater! I’ll write to you!
I wouldn’t be impolite to you,
But, Brother, you are a hound!
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Poverty
This ailment clips my bare soul
My malady hides my ample sight
Penury loads my cognition. Watery hole
Shift not far my destination, yet too blight
It is corral, harvesting my living carcass
I don't egender chaff in the shining sun
this coop is an enclosure of my idleness
Like a jailbird my to be is limited and shun
*One day. My wandring ship will wheel
My fervor will ease and I'll scope my haven
My wounds and lesions will then heal
I will grab my revenue as in Heaven
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
Lines of life through gene transmission
When handed down through *****
Tho’ rugged, sound or sickly matched,
Are caste about like coins.
Luck ensures a robust chance
Of longevity and health
With intelligence or dolt hood
As a final gauge to wealth.
Traits of blue eyed, fair haired lovelies
Brown eyed, freckled, long of limb,
Temperaments across the spectrum
Placid fat to fiery slim.
Aptitude to run the long race
Good endurance, depth of heart,
Lady luck decrees their worth
Tho' the Priesthood may depart.
Frontal lobes of clear retention
Heightened rationale of thought,
Reasons through the problematic,
Resolutions made as ought.
Capacity to empathise
In tears of joy and sorrow spent,
Capacity for true belief
When wrong is righted with repent.
Goodness and black evil
Are caste about like chaff,
Depends upon the show of cards
Who laughs the final laugh.
Conscience can be virtuous
But then, so can be greed,
Depends upon the circumstance
And if approached at speed.
And finally indulgence
Plays a massive hand in this,
For love and lust determine
If a union is remiss.
And should that union founder,
Should Lady Luck throw in her hand
...You can blame it on the chromosomes
Which confounds the Makers stand!
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
14 June 2011
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
Autumn, like an Indian classical dancer, dressed up
Arrives with soft rhymes and quickening steps
She comes aglow, aglow with a rare beauty
Dancing to the bracelet's tinkling song
Her floating robe falls in deep folds around her feet
As she mesmerizes all with moves full of grace
Viewing the flaming colours in assorted display
We are apt to wonder if Nature carefully saved up
All that is best for the closing grand finale
Autumn tints look enchanting all through the land
With pervading green, offset by crimson, citrus yellow
Flaming red, lustrous gold and a faded russet
The air stays crisp and sweet in the ripening fields
While stray clouds ramble in flawless turquoise sky
When autumn is thus all agog like a frenzied dervish
It gives us morbid pictures of death and decay
The trees wrestle to free themselves of their worn cloaks
Causing a cascade of withering autumn leaves
Now they fall scattered in endless stream and lie in piles
Like charred carcasses after a fierce forest fire
The rustle of dry leaves blown by the wind
Falls in our ears with the gabble of migrating birds
Pale sunshine sifts through leafless trees of maple and oak
All those leaves once stayed regal in stations high
But now tossed out like worthless chaff
They come nose diving and fall several meters below
Spreading a hazel curtain over the moist earthen crust
When trampled mercilessly by careless feet
They silently mourn their thankless fate
Graying that comes at the end of each autumnal fall
Reminds us of the pall of gloom that awaits
It is disturbing like the parting song of birds
As they fly southward before the fall of winter
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
“you should watch for what’s good and say so, watch for what’s bad and say that,
and be afraid of neither observation.
If you lose your temper, lose it; if you find yourself unexpectedly moved, admit it.
Keep your tools, compass and gyroscope,
clean, dry and level.”
Peggy Noonan,
columnist, author
<•>
good
Christmas Eve advice
getting harder to find,
wheat from chaff, and all that,
what’s sensible,
what’s defensible,
and what actually feels
A~ok!
as in
perhaps, it actually could be,
pause to think,
correct?
and:or:heck,
even right
so if you read the above ,
take it from a couple of senior geezers,
you just got a holiday freebie!
yeah, yeah, keep your powder dry,
just ain’t the same, sorry…
we talking tools and fools here,
them that keep you
on a course
of your owned free choice,
with an assist,
to know your position & to
never to lose your balance
when everybody is
instantly
telling you what to think,
take that long pause,
use your tools,
to pick the problem up,
Rubik’s cube it,
twist and shout,
when the
solution emerges
‘tis the season for
preaching and overreaching,
but use this quietime pause,
look internal,
and keep your instinct and
inside tools oiled,
and mind open, clarified
wish you then, clear eyes, open ears & love;
wisdom, that’s up to you,
but, you’re a billionaire for sure,
use the grey cells you were given
thoughtfully & well,
and keep on looking for
‘what’s a good way,’
which is always an
everlasting work
nat lipstadt
Dec 23, 2024
Dec 23, 2024 at 11:24 AM UTC
I go dark
Blood pulsing
Foot falls fast
Furiously
Pounding the ground
Swimming before me
The night beckons
As it always does
I am not the wolf
But I howl
With centuries of fury
Angry
Lost
My tribe eons apart
My people
My truth
Bare skin broken
Like chords of history
Musical and painful
Thin and wiry
Spirit fiery
My ears thud
The wheat bends
Beneath my pace
I am the wind
Will not win
Nature’s race
But the chaff
Rises once more
Not separated
But part of the whole
I can fly
With no wings
I can soar
I am the drums
So I run
The poet
The child
The native
Burnt skin
To the edge of the world
Around then back again
Running
And running
Always running
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
1269
I worked for chaff and earning Wheat
Was haughty and betrayed.
What right had Fields to arbitrate
In matters ratified?
I tasted Wheat and hated Chaff
And thanked the ample friend—
Wisdom is more becoming viewed
At distance than at hand.
2.4k
The staff, who are stuffed full of paper,
stapled, on white,
are to be circulated with minutes,
full of minutiae,
but only the chosen staff will receive such chaff,
intricate, in triplicate,
and the others will have to wait for memoranda,
definitely not grander,
on subjection, objection and rejection
for the weary and unwary.
The brochure on staff conduct
will be grosser,
and superannuation won't be super.
There will be no more staff resolutions,
no revolutions,
so that managers can preserve the status quo
and hasten slow.
Talent is banned,
promotion is underhand,
ass-kissing is in,
no sin,
and perks,
no jerks,
are for the executive few.
***** you.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
Fortunately
you are not my muse
I've worn out muses
by the dozens
cast them aside
like chaff
and cherished the sorrow
that ensued
Sadness was my calling card
my tragic handshake
a testament to a life
gone wrong
Age improved me
I survived the madness
came back to life
gasping for air
And so to your door
to spin the wheel
of language
to glory in its intricacy
Two poets alive
in the same century
two restless souls
under one uneasy roof
We will survive our families yet
raise a toast
when the day comes
to the dear
and thankfully departed
We'll leave poetry
like confetti in our wake
and touch the holy stone
once or twice yet
in our lives
I pray it will be so.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 5:56 PM UTC
Who knows who would
'true valiant be'
when you can't see
beyond the end of your nose?
who knows?
It has to be Sunday some day
and today is some day for some
hymns and hers (towels in the bathroom)
down the stairs
toast and preserves in the conservatory
not mandatory
but it's Sunday.
God must be reeling in shock
wondering what he has done
Jesus is getting the backlash
it's always a Sunday for some.
I'm going to queue up for my
holy wine and wafer
it's
safer not to sit upon the fence
and where else can you find this
kind of entertainment
for a pound or even less,
for fifty
pence?
beyond when I pass into
poets corner
where the monks and Friars
sort wheat from the chaff
I shall laugh
I shall rhyme
have a ****** marvellous time
Who knows who
'..would true valiant be..'
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 1:38 AM UTC
Criminally minded politicians
acting saints
Evil doers getting praised
Innocent ones stuck in chains
The rich and ***** go scot-free
While the poor is severely punished
On the streets, cops ****
Skin color is still an issue
Several hundreds die 'cause of their religious beliefs
Drug overdose is on the increase
Gangbanging in the hoods still claiming lives
I hate guns
but a gun is not killer, humans are!
Genuine trust is as rare as the Unicorn
Maybe the beautiful souls are yet to be born or they are long gone
What of the epidemy of baby mama and baby dads
Kids raised with no father figure in their lives
They’ve got to find their way in a world so evil
They end up been taken advantage of and
Many becoming parents in their teens
We live in a society
Where getting money is rated higher
than living with integrity
Who cares if someone is getting hurt,
so far my pocket is getting fat
The thoughts of a self-centered heart
Even the environment is suffering
Global warming
Plastics in the oceans
Tons and tons of trees are fell
Our rivers and seas are polluted
At the end of the day,
We all face the consequences
Computers are helping a lot
But also taking people's jobs
A lot are depressed
From spending too much time on the internet
Tortured by other's fake online presence
I bet you, the list goes on and on...
It almost feels like a curse
How do we save ourselves from ourselves
How do we separate the chaff from the wheat?
How do we redeem the beasts in human skin?
I guess it all begins with you and me
Nothing but love can restore our sanity
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 6:47 AM UTC
1555
I groped for him before I knew
With solemn nameless need
All other bounty sudden chaff
For this foreshadowed Food
Which others taste and spurn and sneer—
Though I within suppose
That consecrated it could be
The only Food that grows
2.1k
Done into Verse, 1653.
Bless’d is the man who hath not walk’d astray
In counsel of the wicked, and ith’way
Of sinners hath not stood, and in the seat
Of scorners hath not sate. But in the great
Jehovahs Law is ever his delight,
And in his law he studies day and night.
He shall be as a tree which planted grows
By watry streams, and in his season knows
To yield his fruit, and his leaf shall not fall.
And what he takes in hand shall prosper all.
Not so the wicked, but as chaff which fann’d
The wind drives, so the wicked shall not stand
In judgment, or abide their tryal then
Nor sinners in th’assembly of just men.
For the Lord knows th’upright way of the just
And the way of bad men to ruine must.
1.9k
One writes, that "Other friends remain,"
That "Loss is common to the race"--
And common is the commonplace,
And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more.
Too common! Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.
O father, wheresoe'er thou be,
Who pledgest now thy gallant son,
A shot, ere half thy draught be done,
Hath still'd the life that beat from thee.
O mother, praying God will save
Thy sailor,--while thy head is bow'd,
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud
Drops in his vast and wandering grave.
Ye know no more than I who wrought
At that last hour to please him well;
Who mused on all I had to tell,
And something written, something thought;
Expecting still his advent home;
And ever met him on his way
With wishes, thinking, "here to-day,"
Or "here to-morrow will he come."
O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,
That sitteth ranging golden hair;
And glad to find thyself so fair,
Poor child, that waiteth for thy love!
For now her father's chimney glows
In expectation of a guest;
And thinking "this will please him best,"
She takes a riband or a rose;
For he will see them on to-night;
And with the thought her colour burns;
And, having left the glass, she turns
Once more to set a ringlet right;
And, even when she turn'd, the curse
Had fallen, and her future Lord
Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford,
Or kill'd in falling from his horse.
O what to her shall be the end?
And what to me remains of good?
To her, perpetual maidenhood,
And unto me no second friend.
1.8k
Mars, they say, is God of War
Venus Love...
But not no more.
Mars is red, an angry shade
With knuckles like
A sickle's blade
His right hook
has some might in store
He lays her on
The threshing floor
There he whacks
The chaff from wheat
She's just a dog
For him to beat...
Mars is red
Venus is blue
Black as well
A nasty hue
Her friends tell her
To up & leave
For all the beatings
She's recieved
But she knows
That if she leaves
He'd find... and ****
With none to grieve.
So she stays down
On knees to pray
That Mars would simply
Go away...
He will not
She's bound to lose
Red & blue...
A purple bruise.
Finally she'd had enough
Packed some food
And all her stuff
Before he could
Wake up to belt her
She went into a caring shelter
He searched and searched
But never found
His goddess was
Nowhere around
He drank and drank
His days away
Finally t'was
As she had prayed
Mars hit bars
With liquored breath
He finally drank
Himself to death.
Mars was red
And Venus blue
But now she's FREE
She could be YOU.
.
SøułSurvivør
4/20/2018
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 4:41 AM UTC
We miss you cuckoo, miss your song
At this time of year
Once, we heard you all day long
Now gone, for good I fear
But we have a substitute
Harbinger of spring
The humble little chiff-chaff
Proclaiming loud and clear
Truth to tell he always did
But now the cuckoo's gone
The little brown job got promoted
We're holding him more dear
Keep singing tiny chiff-chaff
Come back again next year
Escape the winter's chill in Africa
Come springtime, re-appear
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 3:41 PM UTC
we
mill the
wheat
and our bread
is
broken.
slack lung
sponge
anemone the cavitous
tide
po
ol
s.
we
chill complete stars
and oi ! our dead
are
tokens.
bad
nuns
expunged
eternally hap-hazardous.
blind
fo
ol
s.
we are not risen. we are unleavened.
our chevy glistens where the chrome clings to the rust bite.
the light tingles the rods and cones of Time's swipe across narrows,
it's arrow sings. it singes the rind of our fat lips
where it's teeth slide,
where our worlds kiss the pavement
from so much grinding
chaff
into gold.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
A Cornish sunrise
is spoiled by bleating tourists;
I enjoy the sunrise
with all but my eyes.
As sure as God is sifting out the chaff
and with mathematical certainty...
my listlessness is becoming an issue.
A fist is shaking at me again,
but I’ve stopped looking at faces.
I reach for a book, not to read,
but to straighten my posture,
by opening it in my lap.
I hear sailing boats
always, living here, the constant
boom swing and rattling of cheaply
made metal clips and whipping ropes.
I hear the negligence of novice sailors
and their secret wishes to accidentally
lose their family on the rocks.
I hear the sound of life jackets
hanging on their pegs whilst
skinny kids think that
the sea is just a big blue
bouncy castle.
I have observed how things
can go very wrong;
I was a lifeguard and then coast
guard working for the RNLI.
Now I try and enjoy the sunrise each
morning but the noisiest of tourists are
walking around in groups of
foghorn and sheep’s wool
and warning us of nothing
— so loudly.
They’ve closed the lighthouse
and the docks, ship don’t
come here anymore.
Just these novice sailors
who, with unerring instinct,
sink for the weight of their
masculinity
or lose a crew member
or be pinched painfully by a crab.
Their kids ask: How do boats float?
They ask that as their life jackets
swing on the peg
— the seas are not calm today.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
Gold or silver, every day,
Dies to gray.
There are knots in every skein.
Hours of work and hours of play
Fade away
Into one immense Inane.
Shadow and substance, chaff and grain,
Are as vain
As the foam or as the spray.
Life goes crooning, faint and fain,
One refrain:
'If it could be always May!'
Though the earth be green and gay,
Though, they say,
Man the cup of heaven may drain;
Though, his little world to sway,
He display
Hoard on hoard of pith and brain:
Autumn brings a mist and rain
That constrain
Him and his to know decay,
Where undimmed the lights that wane
Would remain,
If it could be always May.
Yea, alas, must turn to nay,
Flesh to clay.
Chance and Time are ever twain.
Men may scoff, and men may pray,
But they pay
Every pleasure with a pain.
Life may soar, and Fortune deign
To explain
Where her prizes hide and stay;
But we lack the ***** train
We should gain,
If it could be always May.
Envoy
Time, the pedagogue, his cane
Might retain,
But his charges all would stray
Truanting in every lane--
Jack with Jane--
If it could be always May.
1.7k