"chastising" poems
Often I wonder which is harder
'Singleness or Marriage'
How do we do it?
The struggles of being with someone and remain purified sexually
The focus we must attain in this manner
The mindset of suppressing lust and passion
Remaining without touch till the set time
Our partners how they seemingly accept the challenge but later deviate;
With talks like ‘am only human’.
How we look innocent but crave deep down for a tiny piece
The chain of celibacy a slavery we were made to follow
Or else anguish and chastising
Am broken and torn
The lessons I learnt I hold dearly
Corinthians stated worries
Oh my fate!
When whilst thou end, this status I cross around my neck
Wait! but don’t look waiting
The side talks and jest, the respect long lost
Yours will be the latest I know
Happen already!
Wait on God permanent anthems now
Smile and wave don’t show it
Or you are jealous.
Be happy and suppress
Be hopeful and pray
For how long!
Be patient, kind,
God’s time is the best
Oh when!
It’s been 3 decades and counting
No judging authority
I only want to be loved
Now I live for myself alone no deviation from love and service
I will do not just right but the right way
With God before me.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 6:47 AM UTC
I lived my half dictionary life before I could
comprehend compulsory compromises.
Collectors arise, disguises and devices beeping,
chastising my blindness.
Gather geography from Afghanistan and Myanmar
graciously growing gold gilded gift horses,
gleefully gloating about floating far away.
My hoof beats above concrete match my heart’s defeat
across borders and mountains
embroidering cardboard cut-outs
calling deserts, decorating front covers.
Exhaling handcrafted letters for my missing half,
half demanding highest caliber commanders and half commanding completion.
Jade jays joyfully lay arrays of bouquets
fragile flowers decay faraway
in jawbones and jail cells.
Begging farewells in a hotel’s lobby
began my hobby,
early morning coffee and carbon copies
concurringly cocky around his dead body.
Gang ciphers for cartels are
Christmas bells hissing at collars,
half dollars embellishing bar crawlers
godfathers hollering at car haulers.
Atrocities across cities attack,
attachable atrophies audibly ambush arthritic anthologies.
Anomalies begin apologies between apostrophes,
advancing autonomy arousing ancient animosities.
All eluding Antarctica,
giant frozen crests, multi-coloured ice
hidden in my illustrations
anxious for my distant half.
Friday cassettes and cigarettes
deliberately making bets following “M”.
Breaking bindings and finding “beta” in alphabet,
may feasibly end in debt.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
1204
Whatever it is—she has tried it—
Awful Father of Love—
Is not Ours the chastising—
Do not chastise the Dove—
Not for Ourselves, petition—
Nothing is left to pray—
When a subject is finished—
Words are handed away—
Only lest she be lonely
In thy beautiful House
Give her for her Transgression
License to think of us—
3.4k
I remember from my first memories with all senses humming waking up on Sunday mornings to the squealing seagulls. The smell of briney sea air was sharper
On most sunny sunday
mornings I would awken and lay in bed wake..dreaming for what seemed like hours.
The smells of grandma's rose and flower garden mingled with the smell of sunny Sundays.
The BBC wafted in through kitchen and bedroom windows.Mozart and Sinatra tag teamed against The Ink Spots and, Stan Getz. The Swallows flew back to Capistrano on yearning wings.
Then up and out on walk and sprint to the Caribbean sea, a gem coated shimmering twinkling dancing blanket of rising sun meets amniotic blue churning as froth and mist drifted in a sunday sermon from the water's deep and shallow.
A bubbling embrace as sprint turns to
Swan dive into the Sunday morning sea.
Seven day ritual baptism in the Sunday morning sea...at one with and free.
Now.
A sprint to the bobbing fishing boats that never drew fish from their restfull retreats of the morning Sea.
Breakfast
The sounds of tinkling teacups another ritual as granny stirred brown sugar and condensed milk into a carmel swirling with Johnny Cakes and coconut oil fried eggs waiting and wafting out
To the Sunday morning sea.
My Puppy and me then down through the flower garden.
Of we scampered with cares falling away and secrets to share while throwing stones into
The Sunday morning sea
My puppy named Ranger,barefeet and knee pants the hot sting on my ankle from a chastising fire ant rudly stabs at my reverie
As far as the horizon will let.
My imagination flees and unfetters to shores unknown that kiss and caresses my Sunday morning sea.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
Thundering voice
evoking fire, demons, eternal suffering.
Eyes burning holes in our souls
chastising, rebuking, shaming.
"Enlarge belief, says the Lord our God,
or be cast into the lake of fire."
Women wept, men trembled, children sobbed in terror.
Tonight's collection would be a dandy.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 2:02 AM UTC
Periodically I hide myself from the world
Chastising them
Punishing them with my absence
My opinions are like bricks before the throwing
With little compromise, I roll my eyes
Hating them
The ones oblivious
Diesel burners, peaceniks, consumers
Sitting contradictions
Simmering catastrophes, an embodiment of what they’re making me
Powerless, with no resort
My impression on this society will be forever minimal
And I bite my tongue with every syllable
I type
Holding judgment, holding on
To the world I was promised
The world I was conditioned for
A world with angels, untouched by violence, corruption or greed
A world we defiled, without animals
A world achieved
Where grass is preserved in museums
In compartments behind glass
I see my part in the reflection, I hate myself more
My impression of this society will be forever minimal
Jul 1, 2010
Jul 1, 2010 at 12:14 AM UTC
Coach,
I am not perfect.
I make silly, stupid errors but
chastising me for it will
make me dig an
even deeper hole for myself.
Improvement comes with encouragement.
Sincerely,
Wistful Wanderer
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
You're simply not here.
I stretch my mind to find you,
Bending around all the nooks,
Until I cannot bend, stretch, or flex
The depths any longer.
It's been a long time.
I remember our last engagement,
Rather clearly, might I add.
You were sticky, sweet, and satisfying,
Just like old times.
I remember why you left.
It was my fault, but we had an agreement.
Time wasn't on our side,
It deceived, manipulated, and warped
My mind and emotion.
It's been a long time.
I remember you told me many things,
Things I tried for years to forget.
You said I was selfish, despicable, and a *****
I believed you.
You're simply not here.
I don't search for you anymore.
What I've longed for for so long
Has finally enveloped, released, and replaced
My chastising memory of you.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 4:21 AM UTC
Evening hours of playing
peekaboo with the sun
And i lay down lavender words
loping and longing in my
journey to you
Crossing infinities of time
Chiding my days
And chastising my ways
For you to return
When you retreated like a soft
murmur
Like gentle untuned ripples
Like the melancholic wind that
blows and draws in through
my window
Addressing my pages and
leaving without reciting my
rhymes
Like the fumble fuming puff
hailing then slowly fading and
failing
Foamy and fluffy with the
froathy cream yet not
savouring the flavour
Calling yet not caressing
Rhyming yet not flowing
Leaving me like a vagabond
With a foramen self
Grappling ,gripping and then
giving the grave,
the soul you gave
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:43 AM UTC
A poem is like a naked person,
That needs redemption and mercy,
And every expression to impress,
And comitted like a press.
Every expressions are specious,
And rhythms ostentatious,
Poets with their dulcet lips,
Giving vulnerability to your hips
Poets use one's Achilles' heels as
Leverage,
With many diction and language,
Their words can't be insipid,
So they play the cupid.
Poets seems complaisant,
Tantalizing those counts,
She said poet are killers,
But they claim to be healers.
Poets take their hyperborical expression
To the peak,
Making all your bones weak,
She said Poets are liars,
Oh! Poets are murderers.
Poets will make your soul tremulous,
With those words, sounding mellifluous,
Poets take you to the imaginary world,
Perhaps with just a word.
But Poets change their environment,
Releasing the truth from its confinement,
Chastising the revolts and destroyers
With mere pen and paper.
But she wouldn't agree,
Not to any degree,
She said Poets are liars,
Oh! Poets are murderers!
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:47 AM UTC
According to William Shakespeare,
Poor Tom had wits
And was witless
All whilst in disguise
According to David Bowie,
Major Tom left our blue Earth
And got lost amongst the stars
Becoming the titular Space Oddity
According to Led Zeppelin
Poor Tom was the seventh son
He led a life of work and play
But killed his ***** wife
According to The Cab
Major Tom would sing along
Whilst chastising the dreamer
Or, perhaps, seeing himself in young love
According to all these men
This muse man named Poor Tom
This muse man named Major Tom
All suffered an ill fate
According to I,
Arrogant poetess,
I pose a pondering:
What if they were all the same person?
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 7:46 AM UTC
When I look down I know
one world apart
from when I look up.
A world below, more reality
than what I've known of reality
through living since my birth.
One earth, two worlds,
splitting hairs,
scrambling airs,
creating errors,
chastising errs
so much
that nothing's
learned.
Up/Down,
Living lies,
Blurring lines,
Up/Down --
It's not that I don't know
what's actually worth a ****
It's that I see worth as a curse,
and would, rather than peace,
see ecstasy return me
into the breeze
as dirt.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 1:13 AM UTC
One hundred years of solitude
and Marquez still couldn't shut you up,
your words tear down the walls of Macondo,
heckling the Buendías, poking fun at Aureliano
and his golden fishes. The circular history
spins to a halt, and I fold down
the corner of a page, as if closing the book
could save the city built on paper,
on the Formica tabletop
of an old café with a broken clock
A few chapters back,
you were chastising time,
saying one day you'd
crack your watch open,
rearrange the gears, twirl the dials
and steal back from the ticking hands
that steal so much from you. On page 178,
you committed abominations,
spooning sugar into espresso,
and declared your love for Dali because
the man melted time,
didn't care for anything
not molded to the back of a horse.
Cranberry scone finished,
you ruffle the newspaper,
bemoaning the stockbrokers
who grow fat and complacent
on the crumbs of seconds,
chewing chronological cud, you called it,
but you said nothing could ever pin you down,
much less some cheap Timex
on a nylon strap. Cast out of the fourth dimension,
Marquez scribbles graves for the Buendías,
in death, they've forgotten the original sin
and the Colonel forges fish
from the gold fastenings on his casket
ad infinitum.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
an intrepid image of consistency to living painlessly
floats aimlessly through an adjacent sea of complacency
that finds way to drift further from shore.
worries of capsizing and baptizing
in this ocean of social chastising
leaves me coming back for more.
descending the sail paints
images of pale
skys clouding progression,
shadowing the sun’s oppression
to shining through the cracks,
dreams reflect the water
of sailing to shore and
never coming back,
the table in cabin
covered with cigarettes butts
and empty bottles,
leaving stains of black
on the whispering floorboards
that sways with the current
that restores more
contentedness to being
lost at sea.
but, I wake up to reality
sea sick
MJB
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 7:47 PM UTC
I am,
just a surragate
the Universe chooses, at random,
to impregnate with
the ideas of time eternal.
This stick of lead, the narrow
birth canal through which these
words must pass
as I, with trembling palms
and sweated brow, force my hands
to shape the words as quickly as I pass them.
But my hands are clumsy things.
This paper is the birthing towel
on which these words breath first life.
And when I step to the mic to
speak these words,
release these words like one million birds
set free from cage
one butterfly break of cocoon,
each one set forth with their own intent
to heal or harm
to love or ****
I pray these words remember the time
I spent coddling and caressing
chastising and correcting,
shaping them into the
clicks and tones and dips and moans
you will recognize as poetry.
Simple words clothed in similes and metaphores.
But my words
are week.
They hold no power outside of intent
can't hold you captive without your consent.
For when I speak these words
into existence,
I send them off as dandelion seeds into the
wind to land where they may.
For I am merely
a surrogate the Universe chooses, at random,
to impregnate with the ideas of time eternal.
I am merely a poet.
Nothing more
and probably much less.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 9:13 PM UTC
Miles and miles of....
Space, stretched mouths, lips
Drawn apart, gums claiming their
Contents and the......
Famous uvula left dangling there
Tonsil twins, the septic sisters
Wore white adornments today
Salt stained specs sitting spitefully
Chastising for last night's overdose
Remarking about being off colour
Tombs stones stained on plaque
Patrol alert, tongue wearing a
Its stale white winter coat
Colour palette was off white today
With blue garland furnishings
Strategically placed under the
Black veil of last night's mascara
Nostrils dragged their contents
Into the daylight, sizing up and
Producing a contest for the
Incumbent tissue trail that slowly
Gave the receptacle in the corner
A purpose for the day...to see how
Sturdy it claimed to be before it
Regurgitated....spluttering and coughing
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 7:15 AM UTC
During the dark hours of cold night,
During the bright hours of unforgiving light,
I turn in sleep, restless and unbound to peace,
Edging away from a dream,
As Ships edge away from the safety of land into stormy seas.
And then it hits me, the mace of my memories,
The memory spike ravages, savages,
Pierces deep, deep down.
Crushes tears, and the crimson blood of my soul,
Is defiled by the salt of her tears.
Yet not today.
Today passion reigns deep in my marrow,
The f lames chastising all pain.
The heavenly fire seeps throughout each and every vein,
With each beat, my heart is once again ablaze.
It is feral and wild, the urge to create,
Which started even before the creation of time.
It rules my daily movements,
It dictates the terms.
Of my descent, of my descent into hell.
I am a mundane guy for this term I serve on earth,
A sucker for sunsets and sunrises, full moons, azure lakes, pretty beings of the fair *** and a lot many simple things.
If only anyone knew how much I love,
Cotton candy, pretty eyes, doughnuts and symmetry.
It seems for this tenure on earth,
Cupid is my fabled foe.
He sets me up for failure,
Polishes the mace of memories,
Again and again.
But it is like Krishna said.
Times of sorrow are forgotten in times of greater sorrow or joy.
I always get lost in fiery sensuous moments,
I taste raw-things making it harder not to succumb to lustful-whims.
I relish thoughts about carnal sin, dream about intimacy between intertwined-bodies,
Yet I am composed.
I can hide those intimate thoughts,
And smile a little smile which makes me die a little on the inside.
I dare not get too close.
For it is like Dante said.
There is no greater sorrow
Than to recall a happy time
When miserable.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 7:23 AM UTC
Two lovebirds snuggle
in the shade of a weeping willow,
oblivious to chastising honks
of Canadian geese.
Blushing buds begin to bloom,
swollen with anticipation
as the solstice draws near
and blood boils beneath the skin.
Weathered voyeurs train watchful eyes
on the short-lived marriage of the flesh,
scoffing at the consummation of seasons,
knowing the fickle nature of the sun.
When the geese fly south, so will he.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:30 PM UTC
Loving in axiom, and eager in Poetry heart to show, that she may reap some comfort of my pain: joy may animate her to read, which may allow her know, understanding may charity win, and charity beauty obtain, I sought right words to draw the darkest sight of woe, surveying devices fine, her thoughts to entertain: often tossing others' wits to check if then it's flow some new and healthy rains would come upon my desert brain. But words sprung stooping forth, needing devices stay, Device, a poet's young, escaped Knowledge's blows, and strangers feet seemed obstacles in my way. Thus great with kin to speak, and defenseless in my throes, gnawing my fugitive pen, chastising myself for spite, Twit, said my inspiration to me, peer into thine soul and write!
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
I don't know how this came to be
How I forgot myself in your eyes
Something happened after I left that day
That made all of the good things vanish
Or is this my illusion?
You said you cared and I believed
What is wrong with me?!
How could I forget who you really are
So fickle and indecisive
Unable to face up to what you feel
Though what it is I'm not entirely sure
That you even know
I listened to you, even after you were gone
I listened so hard that I changed
I understood things I hadn't before
I grew up
Every day I would hear your voice
Chastising, lecturing
And still you were right
About everything
So I changed, and I learned, and I listened.
Then you couldn't let me go
I was content to smile at you
To talk to you
To be friends once more
But then you kissed me
And all of that easy complacency
Was out the door
It was wild, and it was fun
And I'd never take it back
Because no matter what you say
I know how you feel
Even if you won't admit it
I listened to the words you said
And the ones that you didn't
I listened when you would start to speak
And I listened when there was silence
I have been listening to you
Because you asked me to
But I didn't change for you
I changed for me
To be happier, brighter, bubbly
To find myself again
To do it I had to listen
And you were right, all along
Why can't you see that?
I changed, and I learned, and I listened.
Didn't you hear me?
I LISTENED
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 1:40 PM UTC
I was made to believe I could always improve.
Of course I assumed that meant others could, too.
Because why would we want to remain stagnant?
We live each day like fragments we hope will attract like magnets
And piece into the picture-perfect paradox we call life.
We are driven by this horribly humane curiosity
Accelerating to increasing velocities,
Until we inhibit our ability to realize when enough is enough
Lost in the instilled thoughts that manipulate our emotions with their bluff,
That we should never settle.
But never say never.
As cliches turn into ever-present moments,
We learn that striving is only a component of who we are.
Because if we keep chasing a limit that keeps rising
We’re only chastising a perfectly acceptable being.
Like a cigarette pressed against wrinkled lips,
This vague mantra is a hidden temporary fix.
One that ignites so easily and makes sense to the brain
But never quite knows when to seize it’s reign.
Because no parent has ever told their child when to stop trying.
We fall under control of our own mentalities trying to push us further.
But when can we put the pressure on the back burner?
And try to accept who we are
Before we accidentally discard
A perfectly adequate being.
Sometimes a friendly reminder to advance is taken out of hand.
But my hands have been fidgeting with rings until I brand their bands with indents.
Ones that burn through my skin and leave the memories of closed fists.
The fear of loving where we are or who we’re with should not exist.
For when you’ve exhausted all your happiness and have wilted to your last petal,
I will be flourishing still, for I have learned to settle.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
Your heart is porcelain
You cradle it in the darkness
In the dust you run your fingers
Against the edges searching desperately
For cracks that appear
Chastising yourself when one is found
Filling the spaces with glue
Hoping nothing will escape it
Did you hear me knocking?
Did you hear me walking up the stairs?
*Creak
Creak*
Your bedroom door swings open
You lie on the bed made up perfectly
Running your fingers along
The chambers and honeycomb connecting
Tissue.
The room dim lit and dust
Ten million nerve endings connect and discharge on your skin where we touch
Rushing armies of red blood cells swim to satiate the need in your brain
For oxygen
You recoil at my touch at first
Understandable
So I pull the brittle dust covered rocking chair
From the corner
I pull up the blind to let the yellow afternoon sun pour in
Pupils adjusting from shadow
You detest the warmth and brightness for a moment.
Your eyes wide with fear as
I sit in the old chair
A strange statue I feel I have become
Watching you
Watching me
I read to you
From a dusty tome
Full of English poetry
"Would you come outside
And play with me?"
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
Plan on holding my hand
I’d endure the wrath of raspy snake tongues and burning bites so you
Can be a little happier today,
My darling
I’d take on every wild creature with yellow
Eyes
Poison on medusas finger
Inside of my brain
I’d shake and shake
Shake and shake
The sky a vibrating landscape of your
Emptiness and no phone calls back
I’d shake amongst the choreographed reeds
And die
Die for you
My darling
And if it isn’t enough
I’m sorry I made a bad estimate
Of what was in the jar
If it wasn’t enough
I’d find a way underneath the windowsill glued tight with the obstinate no’s and the moons idle hands moth cadavers and fits of frostbite blues
Inside of your room where no sound bold sunflowers pink sundresses the incessant chitter chatter of chastising chumps ever finds it’s way into your abode of sadness my
Darling
I’d brush the rectangular flesh that sits gracefully, sadly, atop your
Handsome cheek
and
I’d kiss you my darling until
Death discovers my sheets cold and
The devil flushes with purple rage
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
The loss of my father is infinitely painful.
Never again will I receive his love directly.
My father's love was unique.
My father loved me unconditionally.
He made everything okay, promising he'd be there.
Always.
It was how he loved unconditionally;
That's why I miss him so.
His attentive ear, watchful eyes, loving embrace.
His words: patient, yet firm, loving, yet chastising.
My worries lessened when he was present.
Always.
Every moment I breathe,
That's when I miss him.
When I'm smiling, laughing: in joy.
When I'm lonely, crying: in sadness.
In every emotion, in every life experience, I miss him.
Always.
How can I live without his loving presence?
For the rest of my time on Earth?
But he guides me, walks with me each day.
He holds me close, reminding me he hasn't truly left,
Because that's the nature of my father's love: he's with me.
Always.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
Fire and brimstone are nothing compared,
To the hell that I see, that I live, that I am.
You see, Hell is not a place where the ****** are condemned,
But a place in my head where Regret is the king.
It's a place where everything I wish I could've taken back,
Is played over and over and over again.
Torturing me and who I want to be,
With the image of who I was in the past.
Regret is the king, but Satan is me.
I am the accused, the shamed, the opposer.
The struggle is defining who I am today,
In the midst of the memories that I refuse to believe.
Demons are the memories that haunt me.
Beckoning me with false justification.
Chastising me with the whip of ignorance.
Killing me with the truth of my actions.
Hell is not the domain of evil.
Hell is not the source of all wrong.
Hell is a place inside of our heads.
Where we refuse to go and never want to be.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 6:59 AM UTC