"commensurate" poems
Francesco Bianco and his Wage-Stock Men,
In keeping current with their Rooting Age
Built his Charity on a Stone-House then
As Leisure played a better word for Rage
Not much for Surplus Capital enjoyed
At least for some Tips won by droplets fall
That petty, really. Plus some Papers browsed
For those Picklings shared by survey and toll
Yes, the Compliment of those Blue-Bloods past
Of only their Musk to commensurate
Eve bowed out; Abel only if Forecast
By Cain and his Friends allowed him too late.
You would wonder how such Time could afford
And invest your Years for such brisk Concord.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
My face tells me nothing. Not nothing but nothing useful,
the complications of ageing humorously but not how to avoid
injury.
Permanent injury is a now popular cliché. At this age any injury
could result in pneumonia, pain in bitterness for your peers,
your jury.
What a headache I have! And never forget injury provokes
at best only pity. Friends are merely friendly, they belong to the
majority.
They forget your name and so should you, who are you? Even you
don't know for sure. In relation to community, no change was noted in
the
registry.
Still, man's mercy, economy's ecology, there's some joy in being small,
some joy in staying strong, and keeping death before you without
perjury.
Unsafe to run the wind. A big stick might hit your head. Then
the hip and heart and head will hurt, all three. Un-
fortunately.
I like a strong wind. Dangerous to go out in. As a fire or flood.
I like the way we are at risk, not a risk-averse weasel. A carnivore,
very hungry.
Pay money, take chances. Yo's an elegant contraction of you.
Cool. Message from street to board: mongrels rule. Democracy or
tyranny.
Scared to die? Why? Take appropriate measures, descend through
meditation. Be empty, rest. And to your friends and sons be as
gravity.
Tired of death. It's what it is. Let's play sports, have *** kayak
to the huckleberries, fish for marvelous fish, live a wonderful life, give
generously.
Done blowing, O wild wind? Not yet? So be it. I lay my head
in your felt hands. The motion of the branches, evolutionary branches,
are my
guarantee.
That's all folks, 7:30. The sky is clear, the crows are out. The clouds
are with my mood commensurate. I should shout, having lived
prodigiously.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
How did I get to this place?
Desperately ask myself
As under the quilt in my lap
I point a 38 at
The man that I
Once thought was
The One-
That I don't take his life
Can only be
Grace
Shining on ME
Cuz my heart suddenly knows
It is not worth my soul
To hurry him
On his relentless journey to hell-
He will surely get there on his own
It is Grace
That saves us BOTH this day
Grace that he won't miss until it's gone
~~~
The old man across the street
Talks to his old wife
Like she's got bird ****
Smeared across her face-
I'm sure it didn't start out this way
I'm sure that once upon a day
She was shown a modicum of loving kindness
A sweetness commensurate with the Grace
With which she
Used to
Walk
But now with which she
Bears the never ending insult
That her life has become
Grace that the old man
Does not appreciate
Grace that he won't miss until it's gone
~~~
She leaves her baby in the car
While she steps into the bar
For just a minute-
Time not only flies
When you're having fun
But also when addiction lies
And sez you are-
So baby-girl
Waits
But it is Grace
That sends mom outside to *****
At the very moment
Mr. Predator
Spies’ baby-girl alone
It is Grace that mom won't, in her haze, even notice
Grace that she won't miss until it's gone
~~~
This old world can be a cold dark place
Would be darker still
Were it not for Grace
Someone once said
"T'was Grace that brought me safe and through..."
~~~
For all the Lovely and the Good
There will be the Ugly and the Evil
But Ugly and Evil
Can NEVER do more
Than
Amazing Grace
Can do
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 2:42 PM UTC
Dark clouds shadow my world as coldness seeps through my frame
Nervous energy blooms inside
intertwined with thoughts of shame
My hands shake and my breathing is fast
There is no reason, this has nothing to do with the past
Heavily burdened with a bell jar of thick fractured glass
I've found myself beaten down, having discovered this will not pass
I watch fatigued by it all
the colors and sounds
the landscape
the rise and fall
Placing my hands on the frosted barrier
searching for a leak of warmth
a possible carrier forth
My hands fall in defeat
I sink farther down and blackness I solemnly greet
I close my eyes waiting for it wash over me again and again
to crash on my shore then retreat
Moon tide controlled in my mind, incessantly forever beat
I wish with rapid fire desire for the fall of the bell jars empire
My heart thuds
blood rushing sound in my ears
I stare straight ahead filled with a commensurate of fears
Darkness descends and I am captured in my bell jar yet again.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
1323
I never hear that one is dead
Without the chance of Life
Afresh annihilating me
That mightiest Belief,
Too mighty for the Daily mind
That tilling its abyss,
Had Madness, had it once or twice
The yawning Consciousness,
Beliefs are Bandaged, like the Tongue
When Terror were it told
In any Tone commensurate
Would strike us instant Dead
I do not know the man so bold
He dare in lonely Place
That awful stranger Consciousness
Deliberately face—
2.1k
Croydon was never the same
after 65
when it was sawn in half.
Wellesley underpass like
a strewn underbelly,
gave the Motor vehicle its commensurate order.
Whitgift middle schools playing fields uprooted south
making way for the,
Whitgift Centre, old before its time,
like Dorian Gray in reverse.
I recall Grants department store closing in 1980.
presiding over an omen, we could not afford a niche,
only for it to become an entertainment venue.
Standardization became our
inalienable right
with the soul of the centre dying
death by a thousand cuts,
not helped by the recent riots.
But Croydon will survive.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
A little poem to celebrate!
Alice Munro is so literate!
Accolades? There's no debate!
A Nobel Prize is commensurate!
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
To whom it may concern
The toils and burdens my soul upturns
Burns insipid valleys in her earthly world
I am the pronouced hate
Invigorating the vapid sensation
So plastically waiting to commensurate
Residing in the bowels of God my stitched fate
Defecates the defective path, one day we all must take
Smite the plight purging these devilish urges?
Or rage the plague until the roots of life are twisted with screeching decay?
Either way death always stares one dead in the face
And yet it is I who carries the torch to light your funeral dirge
Apr 25, 2010
Apr 25, 2010 at 5:48 PM UTC
As the sea is dolorous
My soul is untamable
As the moon perpetuate the sea
One can make me conclusive
But who can bottle that be?
The sea may reverberate
My affection may extravasate
The moon dispassion the waves
Of my life's precipitation
Who can prevail against me?
As deep as the sea
Is my love and my heart
As the moon faultless the sea
I need someone to quiescent me
Who can rival me?
The sea is so atramentous
As is my disposition
The moon luminosity it's light
Can someone genuinely love me
And make me whole?
I need a camaraderie
Like the moon and the sea
Commensurate and exhaustive
Come find me
If you dare
I'm lost at sea.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
an englishmans castle
is his last defence
against government forces
and their sole intent
to capture
to master
to demand his consent
to dominate him
to placate him
to have his will bent
into a shape more commensurate
to their nefarious ends
to perform all the tasks
on which their wealth depends
that it is disastrous
to the englishmans sense of self
is no matter to them
in their safe southern ensconcement
a civil war is in the offing
that we might not win
but if disaster is coming
then let battle commence
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
Master of inaction complete with heightened self inventory, daily beatings, and advanced proclivity.
Machine boots stuck in the mud and walking slowly. Tough trudged - trotting wounds toddling septicity and self inflicted brain damage with battery acid.
Living roach life - keep self image commensurate with meeting low expectations consistently.
Gradually melted down. That which overflows cools outside the cast. A shrunken face with blunt features reveals a repulsive bulk of damaged mass when the light hits it just right.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
Electricity to commence the lesson
Shall we start the heart of a selfish man?
For She is the flame that will spark the love of his heart
The match that will ignite the passion
Which already lies hidden within.
She longs to take his boreal love for the Moon
That bleak, frigid, misled, infatuation he deems love
And bring it to Her summery affection;
The southern ardor of Her passion.
Her heart beats a solo nocturnal anthem
to his fleeing step,
his narrowed eyes, and lashing tongue.
With hope of an aubade
to waken his affections with the dawn
Her heart sings on.
She covets the charm of the Moon
Whose commensurate beauty is looked upon by him
With more favor than a rose from eden
Or any part of Her own.
He thinks of the moon as he falls asleep
And each day he wakes,
Weeping to see another dimple upon the moon's teasing face.
Yet as he sleeps he dreams
And never recalls
Until the lightning shakes his house
And he wakes to thoughts of Her
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
Oftentimes we can be inanimate as an insentient being,
If not, then lost, torn, or broken,
Drifting off into a minimally-conscious stupor,
Responding only the the most prominent of stimuli,
Quite frankly, most of the time, we aren’t really alive.
And this--this is condemnable!
This is a pleasureless trick!
The human mind has incredible potential,
Yet it's hardly active,
And essentially quite thick
Still, such is forgivable
For when we originate the formidable,
Dreams come true,
Aspirations brought to place
Life is brought to life through inspiration!
Have you never experienced some urges?
Strong desires that can never be explained?
They rain down,
As a blessing,
Better use them--
They're quite shifting,
For the love of yourself and your species:
Respond to compulsions of ingenuity!
Out of all indecipherable anomalies,
Creativity is by far the strangest.
Yet, strange is commensurate to lovely,
If put into practice,
Creativity is quite comely.
Some might say said compulsions are
Granted by the influence of divine beings,
Yet I believe they manifest from the divinity IN us,
I could grant a rant,
An oration,
Or a panegyric about compulsions
But only under the circumstance
Of such an aforementioned trance
Oh Life!
Such compulsions are
The love of me!
My pillar of strength,
My foundation of truth,
Mainstay and
My hope!
My perceived ESSENCE
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
In Ulzana's Raid,
the Native- and European-American concepts of property
ownership and rights
are incompatible and irresolvable. McIntosh
had no illusions about that. He said hating Apaches for killing
whites
is like hating the desert for having no water.
I suspect the movie's not a good source of anthropological
data
and overlooks the commonalities among human communities
to focus on just a few bold characters
as all art must.
I consider McIntosh fortunate
to have died commensurate with the way he lived his life,
rolling a final cigarette, nothing between him and the desert,
and no gravediggers waiting, jesting, defecating. Also,
he is lucky to have had one last, dispassionate friend
to whom there is nothing left to say, the Chiracahua tracher
Kah-ti-nay.
Last night's performance of Beauty and the Beast
may have been the most victorious, ecstatic, cohesive
moment in our little school's history. Emily was Beauty, a
filament of energy
who doesn't like to be touched and has been known to punch
boys hard. She had memorized her lines until she was hardly
Emily but only Beauty in a blue dress unselfconsciously
hiking up her tights between the Beast's advances.
Is this done in every American town and the world
over so there's no need to feel lost or lonely
ever?
There is no context for a man
outside the platoon or raiding party, home or shop.
When violence comes to the neighborhood,
the hierarchy of communicants will hold or fold
it is then the peace work proves relevant. I noticed McIntosh,
grizzled as he was, accepted the given hierarchy, a raw
lieutenant's orders,
as he did the desert and Apaches, with a shrug and
foreknowledge
of the outcome.
If there's anywhere with no Emily or Beauty
we should bring them such blessings at the point of a
gun. But there is no place without Emily, not
the least-known prison in deepest space as long
as we do not hate or hurt or shun
the Beast.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC
In "The Shootist", J.B. Books is not feeling up to *****
He has cancer. What are the concerns
of a man dying.
To die
commensurate with the way he lived his life.
Books dies in a gunfight.
McIntosh dies in the desert, under a broken wagon,
fighting Indians.
Norman Thayer will die of heart failure
by the side of his wife, Ethel.
Two police officers
die investigating a stolen moped at a gas station
in the Bronx.
One buys it between the eyes, the other in the back.
The killer out on early parole
from a manslaughter rap.
The DA blames the judge, the judge blames the parole board,
and the board says the jails are overcrowded.
What should I be doing, old turtle.
Devote myself to re-order the world
or crawl off to a lonely spot and preserve myself.
We are trying
to educate everyone to their individual capacities
and see that all are fed, clothed and sheltered adequately.
Because the suffering of one citizen makes suffering
for another, the slow death of one sometimes makes
the sudden ****** of another.
There is this
black rock we live on and its lovely mantle of green.
It is all that is perfect. And everything of it is
perfect that respects its integrity. On the subway
I was amused to find, hidden in the confused
mass of anonymous, bleak graffiti, unseen
by the studied, expressionless passengers,
in pink, delicate script, vertically written,
the word *****
People are the element I live in.
The world is pushy, we are bone,
the numbers of us overwhelm.
It is going to be hot again soon
and the Bronx will actively resent it.
Books dies in Carson City,
only two or three people will miss him at all.
He died alone as he lived,
with his enemies.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
All souls that pray to Heaven in distress
Appeal to that realm's King to banish pain
For pity, peace and mercy and for bless
Find in love of him end of disdain
That hippy Lord, the shepherd boy divine
The sacred heart of Mary in thy chest
Is there beauty commensurate to thine
In all the world? I make of thee my nest
My rock, my passion, inspiration too
My muse, my altar, prophet love the child
Who tender in their sleep protect by you
With golden gentle aura ever mild
Angels song for thee exalts thy heart
Beget their alms of praise to honour thee
When on black day on hell's hill you depart
Hung upon a cross of misery
The masses weep in sorrow cry for days
Time condemns the crowd of braying brutes
Believe not thee but lies Barabus says
See Pontius Pilot in wicked cahoots
But thy compassion vindicates thy name
Jesus Christ the muse of divine souls
Indulge the joy of you without sin, shame
Your suffering? Their righteousness appalled
Let all the world all time praise thy sweet dreams
Of paradise for virtuous and kind
Who live as single heart one with no seam
And dwell in love: activity refined
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 6:13 AM UTC
The light is white
And life is a white
But there is a bite
In life there is kite
And also some elite
Hate to play the kite
feeling bighead, spite
They pretended sprite
Beneath have prostrate
As in the sky demonstrate
What will nature filtrate
If there's no commensurate
Or to take wing to propagate
The equality to generate
All genders accumulate
Waiting for oral translate
Nov 27, 2021
Nov 27, 2021 at 4:53 AM UTC
PART III: THE LOCKED DOOR
The straw that broke the camel’s back.
The lethal blow that made his resilience crack.
Think, analyse the commensurate reaction to his fate;
Paralysed and desperate, in his own words.
‘Asphyxiated’ seems like such a clean word;
‘He died of asphyxiation,’ that’s what the articles wrote.
What about dying of starvation? Let me elaborate on this note –
I meant, dying from being starved of hope.
I hardly think one ‘asphyxiating’ does this justice.
How about ‘a sense of debilitating hopelessness’, instead?
Or maybe ‘hopelessness that feels like all-encompassing dread?’
Because that’s what all of Gaza feels right now.
How? How the **** did we get here?
Year after year, Palestinians die and suffer.
Fear after fear, they come alive, one after the other.
‘We’re dead, already’ –
How does reading something like that not make you feel unsteady?
So, what do you do after suffering like that?
Nothing, except for lying down flat on your bed,
Crying, watching everybody around you dying.
And then, when you can’t cry anymore,
When you realise your entire country was treated like an eye sore,
When you can’t take it anymore,
That’s when you lock the ******* door.
That’s when Asma broke through that door,
To find her prodigal son dead, collapsed on the floor.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
"In a room where the truth naked, shining"
The body wishing to break
but cannot still in fragile pace
stringing defeat so sure in the air
and rising from salvaged metal
compressing everything to scrap;
Every single one mum as water in basin --
I am akin to all their silences.
What language could run its smoothness
if not the same voice relishing in the beginning,
drawing this reticence much more immense,
commensurate if not death in the afternoon?
From this room there is the disquiet
taking form, the symmetry of a knife,
crushed deep within my plight
of wanton need. The night's meaning reduced
to a stockpile of laundry soiled from yesterday's
scuffle, the same metronomic sound of
the world dropping from a high place,
my hands dreading the catch from the fall.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
Render moot your subtleties,
Transfixed on mental cutlery,
Bleeding down,
You crack a frown,
And settle on a memory
Falsehoods ebb the transitory,
Nature of morality,
"To punish deeds adjourned,
You craft commensurate realities"
Merely posing ponderings,
Can not solve your quandaries,
But knowing men,
We owe it then,
To limited capacity,
For cognitive disparity,
Between truth and sincerity
The plots on this chart,
Connect,
To the rhythms and the schisms,
In our hearts,
And dissect,
Variants in apathy,
For forming similarities,
In the molding of these spurnful patterns,
Befitting of your pedigree
My child of obsession,
The regression of progression,
Is an illusion of repression,
In distributing a just oppression,
Savor words, favor herds,
And foster your aggression,
As other ruminations,
Flood your mental acquisition,
Of cultural anatomy...
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 2:18 AM UTC
sorry I said
sorry—you were almost there
that night
and sorry—for the mess
my skin is woven
from straw
& therefore
prone to
slow splitting
& knives
in general
same you said
same that crowds
make you jumpy
& disappointment
wraps you often
like an afghan
of fresh pelts
home to flies
& putrid
& ******
& that
forebears a
partnership in
liquescence
sure we said
sure we can try
& see
if tandem is best
or single is for the
better because
happy alone
& happy
together are
commensurate
& equivalent
& sorry
I am so slow to
peer out a new
window at newly
spring'd trees
under a new blaze
of hot yellow light
& not
feel like a slug
in a salt bath
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 8:27 PM UTC
Platitudes, attitudes, just toe the party line.
Using platitudes and attitudes you'll find that all is fine.
Dress yourself in motley and pursue the soldier hotly,
Tell the Colonel that he's right no matter what.
Bellow, shout and bark, ensure that sergeants hark
So that what needs doing's done before it's dark.
The soldier doesn't matter, for he isn't worth the chatter
Of career making people just like you.
And whenever your in doubt hold a conference - what about?
Try the colour of WRAC buttons, that's for you.
And if it comes to warfare you can always step aside
Because you're ceremonial; rifle drills.
And you need feel no embarrassment disturbing you inside,
For you are passing on those most important skills.
Which are the use of platitudes; commensurate with the attitudes
With which good soldiers always do their bit - essentially your view.
And when you get your accolade one day whilst standing on parade
Know we'lł all know why you are getting it.
It will be for your brown nosing, and with the top brass posing,
And for soldiering. Mate, we can't compare with you.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:22 PM UTC
All great gifts,
accompanied by commensurate burden.
Education – confinement:
locked in a covert cage,
screams for change drowned by cacophony.
Power – greed:
prioritization of ego,
addicting, no rehab.
Love – pain:
relations binding ones heart,
only to pull apart.
Yet paralleling these agonies,
real terrors exist.
Death, deceit, despare,
prevalent in millions.
Yet these remain in the smog,
obscured by our own complaints.
However, humans possess unique strength:
the ability to instigate change.
First in our own small world,
and then in the one so large.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 12:58 AM UTC
A little shut eye
shut eyes,
but
eyes are watching
me
constantly.
I dream in a constant camera state
commensurate with my own state
which is no known state.
this is fukree or so my
yardie friends tell me
and no state to be in.
I think it's Saturday
I always did.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC
I write
Hoping someday my words are seen,
That my hobbies may bloom into something amazing,
And thence I write to make my dreams breathe.
I write
Not because I cannot speak,
But because my voice cannot reverb as deep,
And thence I write to pour my heart open.
I write
To calm the storm in my mind,
To keep the voices from devouring me whole,
And thence I write to save myself.
I write
So I can commensurate the thoughts I spill,
In ink, I see what I cannot elucidate in silence.
And thence I write to learn myself.
I write
To cast my old thoughts away,
Foster wisdom to a new life ahead,
And thence I write to revise my head.
I write
Because unlike people,
Paper never scorns what I have to say,
It listens, patient, unjudging. It understands me.
And thence I write because that is how I can reveal myself.
I write
Not because I am great at it,
But to remind myself I am at least trying,
Doing what so many are afraid to do,
And so I write to keep myself inspired.
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 12:13 AM UTC