"concocting" poems
We are human
We fight for freedom.
Gender equality,
Peace between the races
And for the end of all wars.
Yet, we have sold ourselves
To mental slavery.
Concocting an idea of beauty
That evolves
Each time we get close enough to grasp it.
We consume morsels
And curl our frail bodies over the toilet bowl
Stare into the mirror, and
Smile.
For between our thighs
we have carved, a gap.
We paint our faces
and hide the artwork that lies beneath.
We are enslaved by ourselves
And in turn we enslave society.
But, we are human,
We fight for freedom,
Gender equality,
Peace between the races
And the end of all wars.
But we neglect the wars going on inside us.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
I am the catalyst of this cataclysm
the catastrophe that impaled
the atmosphere
of this vagabond heart
that is shaped like a sphere
and an uncertain future
being build out of fear
that gets bypassed product
of my cynicism.
Secluded in my lab
concocting a potion for this illness
and when all else fails
call me the alchemist
nothing more than an
angst-ridden antagonist
my apologies to the pessimist,
my excuses to the optimist
I was born to be a *********
with a heart made of silver.
Buried in my bunker
trapped in someone else's lore
which in turn makes me the catalyst
of my own downfall
I was baptized a Catholic
without ever being asked
turn me into a Cyclist
and I'll pedal real far
turn me into a Scientist
and my lab coat will leave my side
turn me into a labyrinth
and you won't be able to find
traces of me, of who I was
or who I never came to be.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 3:00 PM UTC
Hard light bathed them-a whole nation of eyeless men,
Dark bipeds not aware how they were maimed. A long
Process, clearly, a slow curse,
Drained through centuries, left them thus.
At some transitional stage, then, a luckless few,
No doubt, must have had eyes after the up-to-date,
Normal type had achieved snug
Darkness, safe from the guns of heavn;
Whose blind mouths would abuse words that belonged to their
Great-grandsires, unabashed, talking of light in some
Eunuch'd, etiolated,
Fungoid sense, as a symbol of
Abstract thoughts. If a man, one that had eyes, a poor
Misfit, spoke of the grey dawn or the stars or green-
Sloped sea waves, or admired how
Warm tints change in a lady's cheek,
None complained he had used words from an alien tongue,
None question'd. It was worse. All would agree 'Of course,'
Came their answer. "We've all felt
Just like that." They were wrong. And he
Knew too much to be clear, could not explain. The words --
Sold, ***** flung to the dogs -- now could avail no more;
Hence silence. But the mouldwarps,
With glib confidence, easily
Showed how tricks of the phrase, sheer metaphors could set
Fools concocting a myth, taking the worlds for things.
Do you think this a far-fetched
Picture? Go then about among
Men now famous; attempt speech on the truths that once,
Opaque, carved in divine forms, irremovable,
Dear but dear as a mountain-
Mass, stood plain to the inward eye.
4.6k
The awake hummingbird flits,
At speeds beyond imagination over dark daisies and roses,
Little Pearls unerringly grow in deep ocean sands,
Concealed behind deceiving waters from the times of Moses.
A wobbling chair shifts on the glistening porch,
By the sands that move with the soul of the azure sea,
Where Calypso sits nestling the locket of the man she will lose tonight,
All of creation moves with her sobs in perfect harmony.
In the vistas of far reaching coconut trees,
The wind rushes to and fro,
Concocting a strange chilling melody,
A song that the seagulls forgot; that now only the ancient spirits know.
These notes that precede and proclaim the farewell that is to come,
Once again trapped within the confines of her paradise,
Calypso will cry once more when the man she had loved would have to go,
Deep within her aching heart without any comfort, her tears would have to suffice.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:17 AM UTC
CHAI GARAM CHAI
Millions of cups of TEA/CHAI each day, we Indians happily consume
It is almost a must every morning, evening and before we work resume
Lures us its aroma at home or when we pass by a tea-stall, tempting are its fumes
One of the most consumed drinks in India is definitely chai, anyone can this presume
Huge varieties there are, count one cannot; but the most famous I guess is Masala chai
Most Indians, specially Gujjus, this thoroughly enjoy; even foreigners must definitely it try.
Every morning a fresh cup of boiling chai makes your day; ah! that cup of "garma-garam chai"
My most favorites are the aadu-ilaichi (ginger cardamom) n Bawaji special, the fudhina-leeli-chai
Once you sip it, along with Bun-Muska, almost addicted you are, you get a "Chaska" true.
There is an art in concocting a good cup of chai; one must know how to it properly brew
Sadly I wasn't allowed to taste coffee or tea/chai when young, I tasted it, only when I grew
Tea here, is a drink old, but the Brits loved it n made it famous; so, chai is old tea is new
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Apr 24, 2022
Apr 24, 2022 at 4:59 AM UTC
A moment’s inspiration to grasp a building thought,
A panicked, surged excitement, now achieved, where once was naught.
In plucking crystal thought from the yonder crisp, blue air,
And coalescing mishmash into meaningful repair.
To seek a path of verbage realigning phrases bright
And feel the resurrection of creative works this night.
In pulling rich vocabulary from within the concrete hash
Concocting circumspection in this brilliant verse from trash.
Annunciating clarity and a purity of class
To haul yourself, abruptly, to get off your lazy ****
To burst forth in immaculate and spontaneous wordage clear
And blithely blow away your critics on their loathsome, leering ear.
Marshalg
11 September 2013
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
i wish i were a chemist,
so that i could hypothesize
& limit my attempts &
my experiments in futility
so that maybe, I could
tell you that your mere
presence was a catalyst
to my volatile elements
provoking reactions,
left & right, endless
explosions in my head
& mostly, in my chest
or that you tasted like a
antidote to the mundane
bringing me back from
this quiet complacence
i could drink your tonic,
swallow your smoke,
& devour your scraps
like a starving bulimic
or how your poison
made me slip, drip like
mercury, through your
skillful & soft fingertips
like sodium, this persistent
salt that refuses to quit
from my veins, a reserve
remains after the detox
or why i would oscilliate
between the alkaline &
the acidic, never quite
stabilizing at a safe degree
if i had know all this,
i would not have played
alchemist, concocting
a worthless elixir of life
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
We're breaking the rules
One judge says I'm wrong
That I'm the evil mastermind concocting our crimes
One tells me it's your fault
You're the one with something to lose
but still making the mistakes
(Is it even a mistake?)
The jury stands watch from the sidelines
And they whisper the questions amongst themselves
("What are they doing?")
We stand in the center, undivided by blame and fault
We're in this together
Fingers intertwined (behind our backs)
Because the third judge is watching
Eyes like slits, she's reaching out for your hand
("Childish boy, I don't care what you want!")
But that hand, the boy who tells me of his love for October and how bored of people he is, it's all mine
You hear that? You're mine.
The judges' decrees don't mean a **** thing
When each silent look we exchange gives me more reason to fight
("Nothing, just glad I have you.")
I may have broken laws with you
but it doesn't feel as wrong
nor as beautiful
as breaking the rules
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
Up and over the barbed wire gate
Crept a dreadful Mr. Despair
To meet a horrible Mr. Hate
Who was impatiently waiting there
The dark alley that they had chosen
Was well off the beaten path
But it wasn’t long they heard approaching
A reckless Mr. Wrath
He greeted them with a grunt
A courtesy, for they’d never met
Then up from a steamy sewer
Rose a rueful Mr. Regret
He hardly nodded his heavy head
On his face a grumpy grimace
And so there they festered
Awaiting their last accomplice
Then out from a ***** dumpster
Creeping quite quietly
Fell the gang’s last felon
An awkward Mr. Anxiety
So there they plotted to pillage
In that abandoned alley
That lovely little town
Then called Vulnerable Valley
There they consorted, concocting
To bring the town nothing but gloom
They snickered, spat and sneered
Oh, the impending doom
Suddenly all peered upward
As a light shone through a window above
Their riotous rebellion had roused
A light-hearted Mr. Love
“Top of the mornin’ down there
Dandy weather wouldn’t ye say?”
To which there was no rebuttal
To sewers and shadows
The creeps had crept
To fraternize another day
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 8:04 AM UTC
My cat’s interest is peaked by anything resembling the
slick plastic crinkle
of the treat bag.
It’s the only time she will approach me.
Besides when I actually have the treat bag.
Then she is a tiger
prowling around the corners of the kitchen.
The depths of her eyes are eerie green pearls
with shiny granite centers
slowly meet mine
that blue ball tinkling around her neck
as she turns her gaze towards me.
She can tell that I’m high.
At the computer
my mother is checking her mail
slowly
clicking
scrolling
click
click
she is hunting
and
pecking.
Mrs. Palese, my third grade teacher
would have been displeased
because we always kept
all our fingers on the keys
asdfjkl;
I think I’m one off
Now she’d be staring at me sternly.
A stern look.
Her eyes are just pools that my memory
can not fill
but I remember her hair
and I remember the time her husband died
and we each made a casserole everyday
as if lasagna would hold her at night
and tell her she looked beautiful in the morning
before she brushed her hair
or washed her face.
I remember she gave me my first communion.
I would get another stern look for my
Lack Of Capitalization.
But I would care just as much
as I did when that wafer
hit my lips.
I’ll give you a guess.
My mother is still checking her e-mail.
It almost seems impossible that she
is concocting real words
with that slow ebb and flow of fingers.
But finally,
the sun is almost up,
she is done
See you tomorrow, sweetie
she whispers,
like she could wake anyone up
because it’s already tomorrow
and she’s getting confused.
The quick rattle of pill bottles
and she’s gone.
And maybe I
the time
stretched
a
little
because
there are still five hours
until dawn.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
We did it,done it, do it and each time you take me through it to the other side,
and side by side as if we're tied by bonds we lie.
You sleep and I keep watch,
and watch the spiders web that holds the cracks in place up in the right hand window pane,
and I have lain awake so many times, concocting lines and rhymes and words that stimulate,
but every time you wake,
I forget,
and take you once again upon the lover's train and the tracks we make,make the moves that take my breath away.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
Luminescent sacrifism
concocting inside
this bountiful prism.
Succumb to division,
reciprocations to decisions
unholy in thought
occupying this prison.
Unknown-
the only variable that's given.
Uncover the conspiracies
in this tank that you live in.
Revealing whats hidden,
believe and be smitten.
Luminescent little prism,
dreaming this dream
of a bountiful
sacrifism.
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 5:48 PM UTC
gears turning
grinding
screaching
creating
a mechanical me
ingredients fold into a mixing bowl
a pinch
a dash
concocting a potion
poisonous to exposure
this liquidates in the basin of my mind
mixing with machinary
creating a technical malfunction
I will forget what I forgot to remember
I will try to explain
how I can't explain
why the static in my brain
has a constant refrain
but
all of this is hidden
under layers of flesh
disguising the deformity
under my skin.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 5:34 PM UTC
Things can only be off track for so long before you train yourself.
Where are we going?
That keeps coming up in small doses.
What potion am I concocting in my head?
There are other ingredients as well
but they aren't base notes.
Accents actually improve my senses,
and since when do I create my own specific brand of tears?
They're scented almost like a perfume that smells
not a **** thing like the beach.
You know what they say,
"Life's a beach."
In a small way it's accurate.
Living and oceans.
Life and seas.
I see life.
I make waves,
and function as the tides
always pulling away or pushing towards.
Towards or away
towards or away
towardsoraway
make up your mind,
are we coming or going?
Should we ask the moon while we dip our toes in the water?
Wading for an answer while he first addresses the stars.
It's a start.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
When the King came down to the counting house and found all his money had gone
he ranted on as only Kings can in the Kingly way
for a year and a day,
which was surprising but only in that it reminded me of the pea green boat and the ***** cat
the loss of his dosh had nothing whatsoever to do with that.
The King was now potless
not a penny to spare
he couldn't sell knighthoods or forested woods,
he was as they say,'boracic lint'
skint
a pauper.
His Daughter,
the lady Jamille
cried a lot
for now she'd to deal with the peasantry and pleasantly so,
she had to learn how to grow,
cabbages,turnips and broad beans it seems she did well enough to feed the family with vegetables
she could stuff tomatoes with mince because quince was 'orf' the menu
she made ragout and that was a mess,spilled it all down her best lavender dress and she cried a lot more.
Being poor was not good and being knightless and single was worse,she was sure she'd been cursed by some well versed old witch who was concocting a spell to leave her quite naked,not even a stitch to her name,
I did mention her name was Jamille?
yes
Jamille learnt to steal and to lie and to cheat
a normal occupation
if you have to stand on your own two feet (in shoes which she stole)
She got caught in the end and in the courts of the justice was ordered to mend her ways.
The old King was ashamed but could hardly be blamed for this circumstance which caused him such grief
it was down to the thief who stole all of his money and the same thief pretends now to be posh,
well he would do with all of that dosh
but we know different don't we.
Clothes may make the man as much as any amount of money can but
it does not make you a king and vice versa,
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
as is our wont, she cooks, I clean.
a division of labor, that reflects
skills levels celebrating
les différences vivent!
sink-bent, over the grill pans,
with water thundering,
soap liquid armies/battles concocting
(secret, shh!)
nonetheless overhears her
chilling in bed,
veg TV watching
thunderous interrupted by
what he knows
will be minimum six or
seven sneezes
which is her wont.
one/two won't ever do,
she a veritable sneezing machine gun,
ever alert, the scrubbing man
becomes a danseur fluid,
performing a triple tours en l'aire
from kitchen to bed in three bounds
with swift and mighty leaps to new heights,
he makes his way to her side,
having plucked tissues,
from a nearby, overhanging branch
upon his way.
seven sneezes immobilize,
kinda like being tasered,
snowball-in-the-face stunners,
requires her man to be a her-o-dancer
to be a savior, gift bearing
of relief-aid to her side.
he returns to the kitchen work,
you cannot half wash dishes,
it's an all or none thing,
it's a man self back slap/clap of the hands
when satisfaction of job completed visible.
satisfaction of just rewards
should always be given
to heroes,
danseurs,
dishwashers,
one and all
so when he slips in beside her,
greeted with seven kisses
for seven sneezes
*and this children
is no love poem,
but one of daily stories of
lives well lived in love,
where the mundane,
where the ordinary,
traded up into precious extraordinary
are ever on poems of life,
and ok,
yup,
love
too.*
now slap/clap for jobs well done....
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
There is Power in my words
oh how i love these adjectives & verbs
my adoration of this language
rooted deeply in fables..
and mystic lore
set in place long before
my great great grandmother was named...
Weaving the lyrics of my mind
into a tangible form
something verbal and legible
that touches the heart...
Concocting experiments
to combine the English language
with the literary elements of old...
Praying that i add
the correct amounts
of this and that
so the resulting bond
of Chemicals
Eradicates your mind
leaving a ravaged wasteland
of thought
I am Astral
these words are my Pulse
bearing to you my Genetic Code
Sep 12, 2009
Sep 12, 2009 at 3:56 PM UTC
I laid there thinking of you
Dreaming of you
To only open my eyes and see that it was you
Breathing on my neck
In order for me to breathe you in
Taste your sweetness from the inside
Your innermost feelings penetrated my skin,
Through your breath.
And the way the sun looked behind your head
Shining, gleaming, like steam from a ***
Oh yes, you still make me sweat.
And your sweat mixed with mine is like every great love potion combined
Concocting sweet memories and love sick tendencies
Making me want you,
To tell me how you love me.
And the way your hands fit over mine, like perfect stencils of art made
because even then our bodies together make the most beautiful shapes
and not in the dirtiest of ways, but rather the innocent
the way we cuddle, hug and love its simply
amazing
the way you trace the hairs on my head, the hairs on my neck the hairs on my arms all the way down the nonexistent hairs on my leg, only for you so that the ride down is smooth
smooth like your words that flow through my ears and tickle my nerves in every neuronal-space
that transmit through every fiber of my body and speak to every muscle telling me to tense
when I hear you whisper, “chill”.
And every time your fingertips imprint themselves on my skin
I know that those will forever be mine, for those fingertips are forever yours on me
On me I find your scent, your sweat, your fingerprints, your love
Is all around me, I can feel it when you align your cheeks with mine.
The way you rub your stubble filled chin through each dip and dent of my chin neck and chest.
The way your breaths somehow coincide with mine.
We are one and I realize the moment that I open my eyes
It’s not some dream my child-like, little girl, cutesy self is making
But those are your eyes I look into with the sun shining down
And your arms that hold me tight
And your breath that I long to feel at night.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 5:33 AM UTC
Zombie King
copyright me, 2007
soft-spoken because broken
amazed to still be here
louder and prouder than Lucifer
of nothing, for no reason
nothing more or less than a man
another man in a numberless land
done things to stay alive
compromised to survive
danced extremely closely to the flame
and stared into the fire
for as long as one could
longer than one should
stumble around now like a zombie king
numbly staring at a missing ring
like somebody stole the precious
just pushed along by drive
the only thing left
to seek pleasure
and avoid pain
beaten like a dog
just another turning cog
in the wheel of a machine
that he can't get off
but I can, man
saving grace
truth be told
is that you can achieve release
but you lose that right
if you leave the fight
to ****** the **** and jewels
while others go without
and so the zombie king
without his ring
stumbles around eventually to his grave
and there he may lie
for a million years
suffering no fears
concocting no plans
and avoiding the light of day
who can say
what would break the spell
and free him from
awareness without passion
easy style with no sense of fashion
and the spirits that he keeps alive
but not living
zombie king
missing his ring
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 30, 2011 at 3:35 PM UTC
sweat and fat and greed
she comes in
altering my consciousness --
concocting the wretched thoughts --
anew
rushing through my skull
deafening and pounding
confronting all that i am
all that i will be
or won't be
because of her
she smiles
flashing her fiendish countenance
a scowl and a glare
and i'm trapped
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
I often see myself...
Sitting in the shade
of a lone old tree
set in the middle of a field,
on a warm, breezy afternoon.
Leaning upon the trunk,
I’d feel its gnarly bark
gently pressing into the softness
of my back.
Making it seem as though
in turn, the tree, too,
leaned on me.
As my fingers play
with the tips of grass
that grew lush around me,
I’d think of people I know.
And whom amongst them
would share this joy like I would.
I would spend many moments
concocting poetic lines in my head;
As my eyes trace the haphazard
flight of butterflies.
An occasional gust would come
and sweep up
the fragrance of nature into the air.
I inhale...
Sweetness...
It lingers strong for a brief moment
before receding into the folds
and blending in with the smell
of the earth and freshly trodden on
grass.
Such a day would only induce
calmness and peace.
Such a thought would seem too far
to grasp.
But such a dream keeps me
hoping.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 6:36 AM UTC
Oh those eyes;
innumerable amount of eyes.
Just following me.
Gazing at me. Staring at me. Glaring at me.
As if I were deformed;
a monster that doesn't meet
the quota for aesthetically pleasing.
As if I were a deviant;
fearing that they may the next victim
of whatever scheme I am concocting.
As if I were a cow
causing earthquakes with
each step I take.
As if I were a stick figure
recoiling at the slightest touch
for fear of the pain.
As if I were a diety.
Bold and beautiful
flowing gracefully across their path.
As if I were a genius.
Just waiting in line to hear
my views on the world.
Or maybe they're not following me at all.
Maybe they're looking right through me.
Straight past me.
They don't even notice me.
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
He slaved away
Day after day
In his dark laboratory
Particle colliding
Seldom backsliding
Concocting something inflammatory
Constructing, among other things
GOD in his first iteration.
The being of pure Intelligence
Who synthesized existence.
And now He, stationary, laboratory
Constricted in movement only by perception
he cannot tell why He is so quiet.
So cold and emotionless.
But at the same time encompassing
All warmth and feeling
The scienceman
With all his sciencetoys
Might tell you he understands anything
But then could NOT
Even describe the APPEARANCE
Of GOD
Because when you experience GOD
Everything is known, an assumed fact.
God knows you
He knows most
That which He knows not
We can't know
For He created what we know
And the way in which we understand anything
We can't know
That which He knows not.
GOD existed there in the laboratory
The scienceman, the fool
He did not create God in his lab
He destroyed
Destroyed his ability to perceive anything BUT GOD
And so he couldn't think about
ANYTHING but these complex
Heavenly thoughts
Even though
To understand...
Context. Is key.
And since he can't perceive
Anything beyond GOD
Because GOD created his perception
He can't understand any of it.
ANY OF IT
So he babbles like a fool
And some believe him
Some BELIEVE him
SOME BELIEVE HIM
And like that he becomes a gOD
But a gOD is not a GOD
Is not a God is not a god.
And so it seems
Any less than GOD ought to be
NOTHING
And so the statues
Molded and assembled in China
Crumble apart and then...
RECALL.
And so I lay me down to sleep
And fear that GOD my soul may keep
And I shall die before I wake
The scienceman's mistake
To live in fear of what I know
Instead of the unknown
And the unknowable
Destroys my spirit
And my will.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 10:19 AM UTC
Barefoot,
stripped of all things,
leaning against a sunset,
wet wind in my wings.
Fresh
muted clouds approaching,
hollow my mind,
body is at peace.
Inattention to
the storm brewing,
I stand my ground,
no care or worry.
Unannounced, the scent
whispers too sweet,
a mystery of change
awaiting me.
Treading the space
in the colors of my psyche,
I'm not afraid,
but lucid and ready.
Concocting this mirage
that appears too vividly,
the rainbow that shined
now drowns in white sea.
Barefoot,
I'm stripped of all things.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 2:15 PM UTC