"confounding" poems
I send my voice into your mouth
You return the compliment
I am the Count of Cannizzaro
You are Her Royal Highness the Princess Augusta
I am the thaumaturgic chain
You hold the opera glass and cards
You become extemporaneous song
I am your tutor
You are my invisible seed
I am Timour the Tartar
You are my curious trick
I your enchanted caddy
I am your confounding doll
You my confounded dummy.
4.3k
Simplicity is so simple that
our mind are not well informed
in it's simple formation.
Simplicity is the ultimate
form of sophistication.
In it there are complexities
and it's quite interwoven.
Beautiful in its form.
It shows us the beauty of
creation telling its own stories
with peculiar history.
Nature is so deep and
captivatingly beautiful.
Intriguing in its own way
and profoundly awesome.
It's amazing how much of
it we really know.
Its so confounding how
many people really comprehends
the principle back of it.
In simplicity nature speaks.
Spirals of things visible are
so complex that it's configuration
and formulas are of simple nature,
only to be deciphered by a simple mind.
The mind of man is sophisticated
and complex but simple.
It's rhythm pulsates within the
intricate formation of the spirit behind it
making it one of the most simple
but not so understood things of nature.
Like a jigsaw puzzle it's sophisticated
complexity is made simple by a sound mind.
The mind has to be disciplined
to decode it's hidden ciphers.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 6:14 AM UTC
Resonate sounds
Confounding to my ears
Is it Phillip Glass?
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
Weighed down
by the world’s
burden
honest eyes only perceive hope of a better earth, beyond the infallible burning
Dwelling within a premature space
reality isn’t what it
seems
years upon years of confounding lies & schemes
Phantoms and apparitions of the fallen
the only thing piecing together the shattered earth that is
falling
How long will the fog of
falsehood
blind us to reconnecting as a
brother & sisterhood
How many of us have to
bleed
the same number of us who
screamed
when our reality came dropping down from where aloft we kept our dreams
Please, please, oh please
How long will it take us to see.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
Called Religion before Romanticism:
Darling Radha’s swing,
Pressing softly to her blue
Beloved Trickster’s skin.
Called dharma, grace, and savoir-faire
Confounding fated will,
Called freedom then for putting off
The destiny we fear.
From her swing I can believe
In good romantic faith-
While makers of a moment’s
Beauty, steal a tear away.
When I laid,
Bathing in the roaring spray
At the feet of the lower falls,
And wandered through soft blue
Volcanos guarding Atitlan,
When I watched,
Clouds burst from his fingertips
Cold war to choral glory,
Seid um schlungen Millionen!
An die Freiheit! An die Freude!
When I found,
A girl whose smile couldn’t hide her pain
Singing her song’s last echo,
At once the world was not the same, but...
How could I ever know
How could I ever know...
After the West was won with lies
One man said, "God is dead."
I mute the TV from her swing,
Smile, and bow my head.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
She was not interested in what was obvious
Her ego required nuance and sophistication
A life devoted to a cause will die with it
For what is achievement without a fragile peace?
Though the tide comes and goes, what lingers,
glistening post cards, confounding swimmer and
marine life alike, becomes the current and not
where the moon may ****** itself in the night
Applause in the middle of her dance of love
will not lift her spirits; to them, she has made
love to them and to her she has only found herself
for a brief moment while they became the ocean
She could never believe life was like that; art only
interested the patrons in this way, but her dancing
was not about what they would imagine was
perfect in her heart; only that it was not; it was not
The release of birds from the hands of those who
cried over their captivity was not of liberation, but
instead of shoes that required no hand or mind to
place them where nature intended them to be
She was unable to fixate upon comfort without pause
Life was anger and sadness that a smile knew too well
It was in her moment of triumph that tragedy met her eyes
And as her heart died she became the fantasy they paid for
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 10:15 PM UTC
The city tosses, turns, and finally rises,
Surrendering to daylight and giving itself over
to the bustling movements of its citizens.
At the crosswalk, an old codger in rags holds a panhandling sign,
And nearby a bearded hippy plays guitar.
The sound of beggars, musicians, bored businessmen,
And all the teaming masses drift through back alleys,
And float through the air like the heady perfume of car exhaust.
Each street, each block, each break in the never-ending flow of man’s own personal jungle.
Brings to mind stepping into a whole other world.
Here, in one such strange nexus, a building likened to a castle,
Stares across a narrow stretch of road at an abandoned building,
Cracked broken and peeling, tattooed with graffiti from a hundred vagabond artists.
It conjoins directly to a new building,
the fresh, well maintained walls of which offer striking contrast.
The confused, confounding nature of the true jungle is in this manmade facsimile
More well reflected than anywhere else in the world.
The muggy air rings with life, the heat is stifling,
And for all that it has a strong allure.
This city, and all cities.
For in every corner, at every street, life bleeds from a city.
It grows from the crack like a flowering ****
And in truth,
Is a flower born in the streets of a city, atop the stem of a dandelion
Any less a flower than a rose from the heart in the woodland?
To me, that a flower could be so brazen, so proudly out of place,
Makes it all the more a thing of beauty.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
Love and confusion confounding the illusion of trust in a systematic regime which they deny ever existed but constantly promise to improve upon. The hat's shape and color may change, but our inability to exchange their deranged platforms for a stabler form of expression exposes our disillusion with dispossession and our embracing being complacent in the face of our rulers' all-encompassing corruption.
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
I changed a few Christmas' back
From a grinch to a believer
I realized one special day
Santa Claus was not a deceiver
I was working at my job one day
Playing Santa for the staff
Confounding all the customers
And making children laugh
Not many knew that it was me
Dressed as Santa Claus that day
And it changed the way I acted
I had carte blanche to play
Wearing the suit is not a task
It's an honor to be sure
It brings out your inner Christmas
And it opens up a door
A door to something buried
Cynicism, of man's greed
Wear a Santa Suit and you
Will get all the faith you need
A child had been watching me
I'd been watching her some too
She came and said "I don't believe"
She said "It's because I am a Jew"
I must admit this startled me
So I got down on one knee
I said "You may not believe in Christmas"
"But, I'm sure you believe in me"
I gave the girl a candy cane
For, I knew she wanted that
And the suit brought out my Inner Claus
It pulled some magic from it's hat
I said "do you believe in what you see"
She said she did, I'd sealed the deal
I held my hand for her to touch
"And my hand, does it feel real?"
She smiled and she said it did
Then I laughed at her because
The look that spread across her face
said "You are, you are Santa Claus"
At this point her brother came
And said "It's just some one in a suit"
I must admit, I wanted to just
give this lad a boot
I gave the girl two candy canes
One for her and for her brother
I told her to say it's from me
When they checked out with their Mother
She hugged me, said "I know you're real"
And she gave me one hug more
And when she went to find her mum
I left through a secret door
I stood and watched the little girl
give the candy to her brother
She said it was from Santa Claus
To the consternation of her mother
He turned around to look for me
But, I was not around
I'd left you see, and was watching him
To him I'd not be found
The look I saw upon his face
When he noticed I was gone
Was confusion, for I'd not gone past
Christmas magic had been done
I wore the suit a few more times
And I must admit because
Once you wear the Santa Suit
You are always Santa Claus.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
Jonathan Anderson's collections walk a confounding tightrope between naïveté and decadence. Much of his new menswear looked like clothes for a futuristic, spiritual retreat (Anderson himself said he wanted something "laid-back, Zen-like"), but the buckled patent shoes were purest dancehall honky-tonk. The fitted leather jackets were pretty flashy, too, especially when contrasted with multi-pleated pants in plainest calico or denim.
"He took himself seriously," said the voice-over that launched Michel Gaubert's stirring soundtrack (a journey all in itself), but that felt like Anderson poking a little fun at his own expense—or at least anticipating reactions to his quirky rationale. He insisted his collection was actually like an imaginary world that a child might create for himself, akin to the tree houses he and his brother used to build. The preciousness that such a boy would bestow on things that are essentially valueless was reflected in the ordinary objects—keys, tools—that were transmuted into jewelry, the board game that mutated into a constructivist jacquard, and the calico or denim artfully constructed into the pants that made up the foundation of the collection. Some of the models were carrying a small metal frame on which curious little things were suspended, almost like charms to ward off who knows what.
That subtly occult tinge has become something of an Anderson signature, the way he disturbs the refined with the raw, for instance—a thin strand of bamboo or a bandage of calico nipping the waist, or a crude smear of paint across a tulle top so fine it is barely there, or even a white feather stuck to a shoulder. Such touches feel last-minute spontaneous, but also off-kilter, which is exactly where Anderson wants to keep us. But his work is now so consistent that off-kilter is proving a rather pleasant place to be.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
...You, dearest vagary, aplomb--were
brought to bear.
Vicissitude of memory which is the
dispersion of identity.
Of a time, and of a place--you, a
mellifluous bronze dusk poured upon
a meadow, a solitary immersion, a
moment that harnesses the whole of
the earth, as you are...dearest vagary.
You were afforded as by the citizenry
of the air, lent by an intercontinental
wind.
An undying eloquence featured for all
time--the swaying bud blown to bloom.
You...the beautification of possibility,
its matrices never left in want.
As in withstanding place the round is
made, and remade about you, the whole
of the earth.
Thus, you've no confounding words...
have you?
Thus, this sidelong expenditure that you may--
shall breach the earth you shall.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
The moon does seem to mirror my regret,
with light that fails to brighten skies to day,
it cannot blot those stars, so far away;
those jewels I could not reach and can't forget.
And as the weak one in heaven's duet;
that pale comparison, shining so grey,
without the strength to forge its own display,
those beams reflect resentment for my debt.
But should we ask the sun of jealousies
or failures through the years, when one's self-tasked;
I think we'll find regrets are not so rare,
when dreams to paint your face upon black seas
or glow with lovers on the nights they basked
are shattered by your own confounding glare.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
Extreme Poetry
Fights, fumes, resists, entices, twists, endures, seduces
Rhymes at times
Or so rarely you want it to explode, implode
Or just mellow out
But you don't stop reading
Unless it bores
Or you're just too tired
Ditties and sonnets
And ABAB and the like are all very well
But real men and women go for
The rough and tumble of truly free verse
Where words are the masonry
Spitting at you in spurts
Confounding, astounding
Welcome to consternation nation
Where assonance bucks up against alliteration
And the inevitable invasion of syllables and vowels
A perverse form of Password that traipses over diction when it wants
Because there are no rules in Extreme Poetry
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
Whether storms are all numbered, counted, and expelled from heaven's manufacture as sensational, furious strands of wind and rain, who can say? As they arrive, however, it is nonetheless clear that they arrive as effects to sets of circumstances.
I sat up straight as an arrow, freshly awakened from a stirring dream of madness as the latest one arrived, watching the black clouds like mighty arms, struggling and arguing against the trees outside my bedroom window. I had been torn by an invisible hand clutching me by the throat, snatching me from the murk of an ephemeral bedroom.
Engulfed in unsatiated fear, powerless to convulse even the tiniest flesh patch or creak a bone, my body was wrapped in only a gray silken **** cloth. As I lay awake, speechless, thunderbolts cracked.
As I was rendered helpless to petrification, I was surrounded by strike after strike, a confounding series of white bolts striking seven times in each place, following a path of concentric circles around my small bed.
I struggled to move, feeling a moving static across my body like jellyfish stings from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, as I felt the cold chill from each bolt setting my face into a freezing strangulation.
I was pulled away. I faded away from the smoking holes surrounding the bed, the sub-zero chill outside and the torturous heat of fear and arrhythmia pumping spews and spurts through my arteries inside, and I was left to wander in my own fantasia as I stared up to the ceiling above me in my real bed, daydreaming of its meaning in epistomological fashion.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Carved insanity,
Etched deep in the mind,
Darkness reigns.
Shattered tragedy,
Fragmented a thousand different ways,
Pain glistens.
But also,
Clarified simplicity,
Weaved intricately,
Beauty clings.
Confounding happiness,
Overshadowing all else,
Light illuminates.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
they're nothing but glorified bus drivers, said my father after i told him i wanted to become a pilot.
the opposite of love is not hate, but contempt.
what causes the kodachrome to fade little by little to grey? is it really bred of familiarity. the wear of gradually learning the truth about somebody. the minutiae of the everyday sanding away at the idealised, sculpural dream.
or is it triggered rather by the dull shock of an identifiable disappointment; the inevitable transformation towards sallow disgust justified by the devastation of slap-to-the-face betrayal or loss.
must we fulfill the dream simply to learn that it was only ever empty?
my father, a devoutly unspiritual pragmatist, had nevertheless as a young man fallen in love with the expansive embrace of the blue above. the son, grandson, and great-grandson of farmers, he worked his hands down to shredded red sores to put himself though flying school only to have his application for a commercial licence rejected due to a doctor's confounding eleventh hour diagnosis. colour blindness. an all-or-nothing man, my father never once returned to the enthralling blues, yellows and pinks offered up by the cockpit, and from that point forward became a farmer.
i gave up on the thought of becoming a pilot, and later, (much later), developed a fear of flying.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
Violent delights
Have violent ends so as
They kiss they consume
The sweetest loathsome honey
Confounding the appetite.
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 12:12 PM UTC
I don't want to seem like a barbecue **** but please won't you turn that meat!
If it wasn't bad enough you put it on early that chicken just won't stand the heat
Your confounding the issue by loading on bangers for the dripping fat's sure to ignite
With those flames getting higher and your steaks all on fire, you know you're not doing it right
Black on the outside and pink in the middle, is not how you're supposed to do chicken
And even revamped your bathroom's too cramped, for all of your guests to be sick in
"It's time" you declare, as you pull up a chair "is anyone ready for grub!?"
But with no contemplation, I'll ditch this cremation, I'm ******* off back down the pub!
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
Another sad soul to be opened up to the world, to add.
Only to be torn apart by that which is reality, and then pieced back together by a lovely pair of eyes time and time again.
How confounding are the eyes of someone who has truly seen you.
How accepting yours are.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 7:04 AM UTC
I trembled in darkness, ashamed and alone
My cold, loveless heart was as hard as a stone.
Too frightened to venture outside in the light
Yet hating each moment of this endless night
The demons were whispering lies in my ears
Confounding my doubts and confirming my fears.
I wanted to die and to end all the pain
But ‘twas then that I heard a voice calling my name
“Fear not” the voice said, and I looked all around
Trying vainly to discern the source of this sound
No one could I see, and I thought in despair
“I only imagined that someone was there.”
But again the voice boomed, and it lit a small spark
In my heart where so long there’d been nothing but dark
“Where are you?” I cried, still suspecting some trick
And I peered through the blackness that pressed in so thick
From deep in the shadows a figure came toward me
With kind eyes that knew me and saw who I could be
With a robe white as snow and a face pure and loving
He held out His hand to me, though I was nothing
Then the door opened wide and the light shone in brightly
But this wasn’t a choice that I could take lightly
“I’m too scared” I whispered, my face wet with tears
“Then trust me” He said “and be free of your fears.”
I took one step forward, my heart beating fast
Hope sprung up anew. Would I be free at last?
Bathed in sweet sunlight and breathing fresh air,
Knowing my Savior would always be there,
This was perfection, such sweet paradise
Freedom at last from fear’s cold, clinging vice
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
The universe confounding, plans of mice, and men
it's not confined to where, just events, of how, and when
Fate throws a monkey wrench, into all cogs, and gears
destroying the machinery, confirming doubts, and fears
Murphy was an optimist, I've hear that said before
offered up the obstacles, blocking all, and any open doors
The wreckage and destruction, will never be forgot
plans that yielded nothing, amount too, diddly-squat
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:04 AM UTC
*A facade of confounding manner
Veneered in credulous chatter
Are words of contemporary demeanour*
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
-maybe your over-thinking, maybe your depressed.
maybe its anxiety, maybe its stress.
maybe its sadness or maybe its a death.-
hes withdrawn, acting like hes dead.
his eyes see nothing but he numbly nods his head.
im tired of worry i want love instead.
this boy is trouble, broken and distant.
this boy is confounding though my feelings are insistent.
i don't want to feel. i don't want to care.
his eyes have stopped seeing through their stare.
hes sick, mind and soul.
i want to fix him but at what toll?
he's addicted. challenged by his mind.
and i'm still ignorantly by his side.
how much of this can i abide?
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
My desk is scattered with
notes, drafts, prototypes,
of my love letters to the world.
Ugly, thin spider-scrawls
of hieroglyphic ink,
pleading for my future self
to flesh the bone,
of the skeleton in my thoughts.
Beside them, the trusted red wine
to chase down the pressures
of the world, hold them in line.
Each sip, a godsend,
each bottle a promise
that love will never end.
The simple pleasure of a desk;
a confounding beauty,
the collage to your life
and all that preoccupies you.
Your personality is laid before you;
each picture, beer bottle, notebook,
a fragment of yourself.
My desk is scattered in
the loves, hates and frustrations
of my place within this world.
Ugly, thin spider-scrawls
of unintelligible ink,
pleading for some higher power
to flesh the bone,
of the skeleton that is myself.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
Dipped under the current
smoothed pebbles mud-slide
down the creak's entryway
into the lake.
Depositing into the soil
only to be tussled about by our waves.
We swim vigorously
reaching for stability
breathing deeply,
accepting black dirt
filling our mouth
and claiming our lungs.
Striking against my body
was a warrior in pain.
As if healing only meant
pushing others
far away.
Floating down the stream
of confounding affection,
tree branches, and silt
barricade the movement
of my recollection,
of the pebble to the lake,
how far we've swum without
claiming our state.
Looking the other way,
we allowed it.
Further and further out,
knowing we could only swim so far,
we kept our hearts under t
h
e
surface.
And our thoughts stranded at bay.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 12:52 AM UTC