"conferences" poems
Kashmir Delirium
Oh People Of Earth! Thankful are we,
For each act of benevolence shown to us.
Your gilded sweet words describing,
The beauty of Kasmir, land and people.
Mention in books and talks of it's riches,
Naming it the Sweet Paradise Of Earth.
The Lord has been bountiful to Kashmir,
Treasure of resources in every sphere.
To elevate each aspect, our wish for life,
As every acre of this land is worth millions.
Full of treasures and recreational value,
Forestry with grandeur and silvery rivers.
The outside world's view is so limited,
Simple folks living in the lap of rich bounty.
Mentioned in world forums and organizations,
But what of the goal of giving us freedom?
What has The UN established in our name?
To measure the pain and anguish we bear,
At the hands, of our supposed benefactors.
The saviours who has us fractured.
But in reality they train their enforcers,
In the art of creating oceans of tears.
The red blood now hidden in camouflage,
The spent shells now gathered and hidden.
The leaders we are told to elect in electoral shams,
Run publicity kiosks and swell friend lists.
Joint conferences to address personal interests
Dialogues that never address the root issues.
Just the formalities and no sympathy,
For the ones burnt in cruel sadistic reprisals.
The hypocrisy continues deliriously unabated,
More augmentation of the security forces.
For a first hand view of deep hypocrisy,
Walk this land, you know as beautiful.
Religious leaders will teach you political artistry,
Sermons full of ambiguity and guile.
Waywardness and narrow mindedness on display,
Political apologists give great lessons.
Religion and religious ethnicity are tools,
That keep minds and bodies in total check.
Gamesmanship by leaders is the rule of thumb,
As promises are forgotten once office is obtained.
When writing of this succulent beautiful land,
Write of the air, pregnant with sadistic practices.
This land is being stripped of worldly treasures,
And the greatest treasure is mistreated daily.
The best of nation is the inhabitants,
Ignored are the real gems of this beautiful paradise.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 6:44 AM UTC
belongingness: what does this word mean?
i would explain to my son that belongingness is something you can't touch but feel.
eden, my daughter, would get a kiss.
for many years i was looking for people i could belong to; i was on a quest. and this quest went along with fears and doubts. this quest was ******* the energy out of my mind and out of my soul...
how did this quest began, though? on a strange day, i was asked a very intimate question by a professor; a professor whose background i'm aware of; she asked me:
"do you have a religious or a political past?"
her question came out of nowhere. she blindsided me.
therefore, i wasn't prepared for an answer that could have satisfied her; regardless what my past really is about.
at this point of my life i wasn't aware about my ancestors; but the professor's questions caused me to become it.
"do you have a religious or a political past?"
i do know about my past now; but the answer i gave this lady was not sufficient for her. by the end of our conversation she said:
"i am sorry. can't shake your hand now. have to go toilet."
that was it. oh my, was i disappointed and frustrated; because this certain lady would have opened many doors for me; doors for which she administrated the keys.
you know, there are days in your life that want to you to be desperate. and yes: i was desperate. about being rejected. and that i wasn't able to have access to dorrs that lead to important conferences, meetings and to important people.
but you know what? it doesn't matter anymore.
because here, on hellopoetry, i have found a place of belogningness.
and what my real past is will remain hid: a secret in a purple-colored casket i have the key to.
hellopoetry is a place of belongingness. not just for me but for many many kind-hearted people. and i am not stating this from an opportunist's view: i can feel you guys here and sometimes i sense kindred spirits.
Dec 22, 2019
Dec 22, 2019 at 6:30 AM UTC
They hailed
and prostrated on the dust
as the monstrous jeeps passed.
Chants of praises
in loud native phrases
all for one man with deep pockets.
White man would look and say,
" Africans "
Black man would look, smile
and shake his head.
We say Nigeria is distressed
We say there is no money
We say all our leaders should face the firing squad
We say alot of things.
Churches are increasing,
Spiritual leaders are prophesizing,
Intellectuals are holding conferences,
Analylists are investigating,
Ministers are budjeting
and yet nothing is changed.
Still that black man on
the presidential seat wants
a second term.
Another term of nothingness.
I know everyone deserves
a second chance,
but ruling Nigeria
isnt a dice game.
We are in a state of nature
where every man is a danger
to the next.
Even body parts can not be guaranteed
to remain in one piece,
even in death
because of these ritual get-rich quick individuals.
Just like a mathematical equation,
Nigeria's solution
is " no solution ".
But, because there is no answer
doesnt mean it can not be solved at all.
I would not be the first to write about Nigeria
nor will i be the last,
but let history record
that at least i verbally cared.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC
The annual cycle of friends and family, meeting
An oil and water duty of circumstance, intersecting
At Christmases and global conferences, occasioning
Probable murders at Christmas in the families, mixing
Their duty to drink but live distant lives apart, loving
The comfortable satisfaction of the distance, living
Their lives with social media connections, liking
The comfort of ignoring without unfriending
Their oil and water friends and family.
So
I have supplanted this duty with desire, allowing
Me to unfriend these occasional friends, becoming
Myself at last with a vicarious pleasure of, enjoying
Being a stereotypical “Grumpy Old Man”, relaxing.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
Open Letter to My Parents; who didn’t believe in me,
I am so thankful for all that you do for me. You truly do everything you can to provide a home and food for me, that of which I am very grateful for. You raised me and bought me plenty of materialistic things, which I am also very very grateful for.
What I am not thankful for is the way you make me feel emotionally and even mentally. Just one time I would like to hear that you’re proud of me without having to ask; “Mom are you proud?” “Did you see that Dad?! Wasn’t it good?” Just one time I would like to come home from school and get asked how school was instead of being yelled at the second I walk in the door. Just one time I want to feel loved. I just want to know that my own parents actually care. Just one time I want you to ask me about my grades, about sports, about the music I listen to. Ask me anything.
But I also want to thank you. Thank you for teaching me that I only need myself to succeed, because you were never there for me, not a single time. I learned that I only needed to make myself happy, and that is exactly what I’m doing. I do not need you anymore, and that’s pretty sad, but you pushed me away. Congrats!
So to the parents who didn’t believe in me, who didn’t hear me crying myself to sleep, who didn’t notice all the weight I lost, who didn’t come support me at my sporting events, or show up to parent teacher conferences, thank you. Thank you for making a 17 year old hate life so much that all she wants is for it to end, all because you didn’t support and believe in her. Thank you.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
Be grateful. Be grateful
We say in situations of valor and tragedy
At dinner tables and kneeling rails
At hospital bedsides and parent teacher conferences
It could be worse
Or it might be great
Be grateful they all say
For the sun keeping us here
Here long enough to witness life
And death and violence with injustice and not fair
But grateful for the stars and for nights and winter seasons drenched in rain and icicles
When everything is frozen dangerously
Be grateful when things don’t work out—it could always be worse
At least it’s not raining, hailing, fire storming, apocalypse
They all say to be grateful for your friends
The ones you love, but also the pains and heartaches they cause
And the same for family, which causes so much hell in an already swirling environment
Be grateful for this protection by arms
But what about the cause?
Results not causes are what count in this time
And we never think of why, but only the surface
Be grateful for all you have
All? Including heartache and grief with stress and sin and chores topped with lies
Grateful
Is it knowing I am human?
I get to the point I’m saying thank you and don’t know why
But It could always be worse.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not
~for any grandparent-poet lurking about~
the osprey overflies, a regularity scheduled patrol over
our backyard emporium and all its hors d’oeuvre creatures,
***** has parental responsibilities, beaks to feed, PTA conferences,
the pilot, a wary watchful animal-his-rights guy, catalogues their still living existentialism, for though they are not fish, his diet of preference, but in a pinch a rodent or rabbit stew will do, if the fish are running too deep for no warming sun beckoning them to the surface.
Motel^ the baby rabbit, who lives with his parents,
(who doesn’t these days?) beneath the deck,
chews the clover overnight sprung, blissfully i g n o r a n t,
unawares or ignoring the poet be-laureating (him-her) but a mere
few feet above and away, pays no attention to the Poppy’s (grandfather) lecture about the rules of the animal kingdom,
who, eats whom, and to be more attentive to flying raptors.
thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon, severe say
the textured textual phone-netical all green messages, which
of course is a signal signal to the sun his job is done and can
leave the untanned poet in his state of original sin, soooo deliciously
white that he earns an appraising glance from eyes of the osprey,
a privilege he would happily tan away to promote equality ‘n stuff like peace on earth.
Motel, with his thermometer-humidity nasal instrumentation twitcher, decides, after chewing it over most carefully, time to go underneath where the white half naked people domicile, in order to avoid bathing, not his fav pastime, but making the osprey quitter le ciel, which is French for get out of Dodge, they got babies of their own to shelter and protect, even feed.
The Poppy, contented, thinks to himself, god couldn’t be everywhere,
so he invented grandpas to be “En Loco Parentis” which
Does Not Mean Instead of Crazy Parents,
but easily could,
for who else writes
poems like this?
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 1:08 PM UTC
cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air
slow and steady like time was waiting
for him to catch up
with weathered leather jacket and rough unshaven jaw
bright eyes that couldn't have been more
distant than ever
he's been gone since
bitter resentment
blind nostalgia for the old gal he used to have
she didn't know
commitments and conferences kept her away
her future secured with a pinch of surety
like a caterpillar in a cocoon
ready to bat its wings away
while he had his walking around aimlessly
struggling to find permanence in anything
convinced himself that he was free and footloose
but satisfaction all short-lived
mostly found late at night in rundown motels and crowded bars
it's hard to keep your eyes open
when missed opportunities close in on you
he's drowning in a sea of disappointment
or was it the liquor?
everyone calls him No-Hope and he thinks so too
but still he wouldn't let go
and be carried away in the current
like the rest of the faceless, countless No-Hopes like him
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 9:28 AM UTC
A smile and a wink, create an incredible magic, one gets floored
that's her, but not a day passes without a complaint-
about her uncomplaining nature, that seems to rub everyone
in a way wrong; without any prompt, interpretations start to pour
she definitely lacks seriousness, frivolous or an unfeeling brute?
By nature, she can't care about anything, may be the effect of the past,
tongues waged, observers increased, each one took notes,
voluntarily held conferences, and reached a conclusion, behind her back:
"Far too removed from reality, lives in cloud cuckoo land"
Strong judgments came one after the other, every one enthusiastically joined,
in demolishing, what they thought 'The myth of equanimous mind'
(irrespective of dealing with a string of troubles and continuing bad weather)
The one, only one, who kept silence, when this buzz was going on far too long,
just smiled at the end, the playful wink that followed ruffled all feathers,
now the gang has an added burden, the power of one more to deal with.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC
The people in the venues,
Having meetings and conferences.
they mix like a dry salad
drenched in vagueness and normality
it is
okay
to not be there
and feel not happy
but not sad
just not there
it is alright
in the sense that you do not hide
pains or fears
But when business is about,
You can't run.
so go ahead and stop
let these conflicts settle
and fall into dreams
escape momentarily
For now.
Apr 9, 2022
Apr 9, 2022 at 4:41 AM UTC
when in the world’s leading democracy
a new president starts his office with
making life more expensive for average home owners
signing orders threatening the health of millions
restricting the publications of researchers
denying global warming
encouraging coal and oil companies
forbidding federal employees to talk to the media
going on fantasy trips about “alternative facts"
to justify his ridiculous lies
blaming the media when asking questions and checking facts
barring leading media companies from press conferences
waffling about his Russian connections
refusing to release his tax returns
ordering to build walls to keep out all those aliens,
like the old Chinese did, to little avail
issuing poorly formulated presidential orders
causing confusion and harm and even deaths
banning even green card holders from entering the country
filling his cabinet with all the alligators from the swamps
he promised to clean during his campaign
people who know how to avoid paying taxes and beating the system
but have no clue how to govern now that they ARE the system
and think they can run the USA with its 350 million citizens
as Trump&Cronies;, USA, Inc.,
like their private family businesses, for profit
courting kings and monarchs & wannabe sultans in the near east
'democratic dictators' in the far southeast
and wannabe czars in russia
but hesitating to confirm ties to old allies
in Europe, NATO, and the Far East
suggesting that having undeclared secret meetings
is quite OK with his campaign team members
his son and son-in-law
[ctd. fron line 2...] it is high time to seriously ask
what concept
if any
of democracy he has in mind
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 5:11 PM UTC
See Found Poems but these are my favourite.
1. without some for you
and your music
and also had pasta
2. 7 mm,
one of the major cities,
you
3. search process
which look, it recognizes us
and what is the function ?
4. bread, espressos
:any
isolated
5. of all conferences
and finish eyes gazing
into Cancun East
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
The walls have managed to keep me well-aloof and apart
It was March just the other day
My prison cocoons me in the cool autumn wind
Not sure of what danger is out there
War, virus, riots and ****
It’s a crazy world, I am safe.
I question my safety now and then.
My sanity I question more often.
I twirled in front of my dresser
Posing for acquaintances
Smiling through the boredom
Of never-ending video conferences.
The strain is showing through
On threadbare patience
Straining at the slightest provocation.
The glaring screen tempts me
Into one last indiscretion
Of unreasonable outrage.
Elections, propaganda and
Undeserved praise
Who is worthy? You say.
Valid question.
The stench of my stale room
Reeks of carbon dioxide
The air around me
Threatening death
Inside outside
Masks always existed
Now they only cover more
Not just your intentions
And it is fine; Nightmares
Are better hidden
My prison cell comforts me
And I get accustomed
To the confinement
Of my own house
Months have passed
Days are passing
Minutes seem longer now
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 1:53 AM UTC
why did Shia LaBeouf cross the road? because he wasn’t a chicken, he was Shia LaBeouf. I want to worry. it is funny to me like Patton Oswalt and Lena Dunham being flabbergasted. I wrote once how suicides fight for position. suddenly everyone knows they were once Leroi Jones. some of course were and I want to be sorry. the original thought in my head was to be postdated in birth like a present. because of where his home is, Lars Von Trier is homeless. imagine I lived from the age of 18 to 23 and from the age of 24 to 29 I got paid to reenact those years previous. I will waste my time with yours and there will be a whirlwind of poverties speeding by and seemingly one. if the great performances of James Franco say again how the unknown soldier is the eater of fame I swear I’ll call you and your double out as Lynchian.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
watching purported heads of state
stage their pr shows on their national television
aired internationally
for very obvious purposes
makes you wonder
whether these so-called politicians
really believe they speak to total idiots
or have just lost the ground under their feet
in the end, though,
*** do I worry
the results are the same
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
She pines in vain desire
At reflections of herself
Longing for an explanation
Why her dreams are on the shelf
Made to serve another
Who has conferences with God
Walking in his shadow
Waiting for knowledge to come
Disembodied figurines
Giving orders to stay clean
All she wants is equality
So she longs for his reality
A gentle dumb expression
Is what she fell for
Conquered and seduced
By a child, nevermore
She just wants identity
To shed her naiveté
And gain some independence
From the one he calls God
So long to the innocence
The grace she once had
Now her every movement
Is an empty paper bag
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 9:09 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
If the leaks are real
But the news is fake
Because that’s what it takes
For the stories to break
Then what’s the average Joe
Suppose to make
Out of what he’s hearing
For heaven’s sake
If the leaks are real
But the news is fake
And the press conferences
Are considered cheesecake
And his Twitter account
He won’t forsake
You can even find him up
Tweeting at daybreak
If the leaks are real
But the news is fake
And all night long
He’s wide awake
Looking at TV like
Some kind of sponge cake
Hanging on to his cell phone
Like it's a keepsake
If the leaks are real
But the news is fake
And he’s striking back
Like a rattlesnake
See it’s a spectacle
In which we all partake
Though we should tell him
To jump in a lake
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 10:50 AM UTC
when in the world’s (supposedly) leading democracy
a new president starts his office with
making life more expensive for average home owners
signing orders threatening the health of millions
restricting the publications of researchers
denying global warming
encouraging coal and oil companies
forbidding federal employees to talk to the media
going on fantasy trips about “alternative facts"
to justify his ridiculous lies
blaming the media when asking questions and checking facts
barring leading media companies from press conferences
waffling about his Russian connections
refusing to release his tax returns
ordering to build walls to keep out all those aliens,
like the old Chinese did, to little avail
issuing poorly formulated presidential orders
causing confusion and harm and even deaths
banning even green card holders from entering the country
filling his cabinet with all the alligators from the swamps
he promised to clean during his campaign
people who know how to avoid paying taxes and beating the system
but have no clue how to govern now that they ARE the system
and think they can run the USA with its 350 million citizens
as Trump&Cronies;, USA, Inc.,
like their private family businesses, for profit
fraternizing with kings and monarchs & wannabe sultans in the near east
'democratic dictators' in the far southeast
and wannabe czars in russia
but hesitating to confirm ties to old allies
in Europe, NATO, and the Far East
suggesting that having undeclared secret meetings
is quite OK for his campaign team members
his son and son-in-law & cetera
nominating well-known union busters
into the Federal Office of Labor
and a billionairess widely unaware
of the existence of non-private schools
as Secretary of Eduction
banning grandparents. grandchildren
as well as aunts and uncles
of gratuitously selected countries
from joining their families in the USA
believing that the US president & his cronies
stand above the law
[ctd. fron line 2...] THEN
it is high time to seriously ask
what concept
if any
of democracy he has in mind
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
the venerable Plato would have shunned
the very title of this verse
for him philosophy and poetry
were as diverse as Spartans and Athenians
who fought each other in his time
yet later thinkers of the western world
as well as many teachings farther east and south
were much less adamant to so divide
philosophers, statesmen and politicians
from those who gave aesthetic shapes to life
made people gather in their public places
in theaters or just with friends next door
to listen to the words that offered powerful examples
of love and pain and happiness
of power treachery and greed
losses and victories and visions
of our origins and what the future might be like
and that to recognize and love the beauty of our world
leads us to understand the depths of life
so we may choose our paths accordingly
that was the time when beauty truth and good were
one
such words are difficult to find in our time
when three-word soundbites have replaced coherent speech
statesmen are few and politicians many
professionals claim expertise each in their fields
talk business only with their kind
philosophers speak to each other
at conferences and universities
poetics are not really on their mind
poets have found themselves part of the arts
whose function in the common understanding
is to embellish everybody’s everyday
with pleasant images and notions
mending the harm done by so many hurt emotions
Plato’s revenge it seems
has finally come home to roost
and the poetics of philosophy
is surely desperate to receive a major boost
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
Coming Apart
marketing value of brains
marketing worth of knowing
college sorting machine
Murray from the Bell Curve
Just yesterday Lex Fridman, and this guy
odd co-suggestion
- do you think we are evolving?
A shared culture,
shared tastes and prefer-
ences incessant conferences
2022, and a few, a rare few, seeing
bits in patterns of eight,
2-bits, et cetera
Samuel Johnson, obscure as can be,
practically kabalisticly mysteriousus,
sum mostus
firstus, fundus mentalis, serpent mind/
Marshall McLuhan 1967--
Buckminster Fuller
The Beatles, et al,
Acid, Grace Slick, Tallahachee Bridge,
Rick Ridenour Suicide
1970 - too late, too soon, take your time,
put it back into your head, your head, baby,
it was all real
it was all real at the time, so long
so long, since we found some body
to love, till the end
of time,
tipped and split into ever more, after
never before.
There was never such a time as this.
Oct 17, 2022
Oct 17, 2022 at 11:39 PM UTC
Sitting around a table,
Here we have your over thinkers,
Your impulsive thoughts,
I think depression's over there,
Sitting next to anxiety,
SOMEONE BE INTERESTING!
No ones talking!!!
Impulsive slides down in her chair,
Depression doodles on her arm,
Next to her scars,
Anxiety's leg bounces so fast,
Irritable claims it might fall off,
Then impulsive,
And anxiety,
Strike up conversation,
Irritable quickly joins,
And they come to quick agreement,
Humour, hugs coping mechanisms,
So that she will stop crying.
Irritable yells at depression:
"Stop sitting so near to me!"
Lonely walks in,
"I thought she was gone!"
Complained impulsive,
"I needed some company."
Shrugs depression.
They're sitting at a table,
In my brain,
Having conferences,
On how to get to me.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 2:15 PM UTC
At age 19, we talked about how we’d change the world.
We spoke of revolutions, of leading the masses, of burning everything to the ground.
At age 20, we talked about how we’d make it in the world.
We spoke of Bachelor’s degrees, of political discourse, of graduate school.
At age 21, we talked about how we’d survive in the world.
We spoke of refinancing our car loan, of apartments with utilities included, of budgets and personal finance.
At age 40, we’ll talk about how we can’t change the world.
We’ll speak of groceries, of laundry, of parent teacher conferences.
And it will be too late.
Maybe at age 19, our children will change the world.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
Most kids would dress their barbie dolls and have tea parties at the age of six.
I am a somber person.
At the age of six, I’d often lay in bed and think of ways my marriage would come to an end if I were to find a Prince Charming.
I learned from my mother; two divorces made an unhappy woman.
After three years of marriage,
I would still wake my husband at 3am and ask if he still loved me.
“Silly girl, of course I do.”
We’d go back to bed, his arms securely wrapped around my waist.
I felt utterly safe.
Now,
I can’t pinpoint when all these “late night shifts” started just how I can’t pinpoint when I first started being depressed.
Then came traveling frequently for “conferences” and with it my panic attacks.
I found “her” more than 6 months after it begun.
Now, I’d often stare at her Facebook page.
She had dimples and looked so jolly in every picture.
Me,
Eyebags and morbid.
Every time I looked at her, I would forgive you.
Sometimes, I’d “coincidentally” be at the coffee shops she goes to.
Then it was the clothing boutiques.
Before I knew it, I am wearing clothes she’d wear.
My makeup is done eerily similar to hers.
Today, marks five years of our marriage.
You said you’d come home for dinner.
That, I, cooked the best meals.
You’d bring a bottle of wine.
We’d dance to the first song we ever did to.
**** till dawn breaks.
11pm.
No show.
The food is cold.
The house is cold.
I am cold.
At this point, If I could, I was willing to strip out of my skin and wear hers.
12am and there is a creak of the door.
You come in, take me in to your arms, hands on my waist just like any night, two years ago.
I can’t really focus on the mantra of your apologies,
because
a) We both reeked of the same perfume
b) We both reeked of the same perfume
Perhaps, I have already started shredding my skin.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 10:25 AM UTC
Some old black and white footage
Of Stalin, Churchill, and FDR
Meeting at one of their conferences
If I knew nothing of these men
I can see one is different
His eyes
There is no light there
Even when he laughs or smiles
In the footage of him at Potsdam
He does not radiate light
He is evil
He committed evil deeds
He is not a man at all
But something much less
Look carefully
Look into the eyes
You can catch a glimpse
Of who that person is
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC