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SE Reimer Feb 2018
~

fowl flock to a gathering,
exactly why? no one knows.
an unkindness of ravens,
a ****** of crows;
a siege of blue heron,
gather geese in a horde;
seem to come in their sadness,
but stay for the show.
see swan sail in wedges,
jay scoff in their scold;
assembly, their strength,
nom de plume from of old.

ask me why do they gather?
could it be they’re unhappy?
might we also feel slighted,
a disservice agreed;
if our strength were declared
our insufficiency?
why do finches and
hummingbirds meet in a charm?
penguins, get to huddle,
and in happiness, those larks?

the cranes come in dances,
in company those parrots;
to parliaments owls,
in wisdom who-hoo-ing;
flamingoes to stand,
for an eagle’s convocation?
no, a nye’s not unpleasant,
for a pheasant you see;
and benign is a bevy,
quail flush neath a tree.

but, ’tis a bit scary,
lurking turkey in gangs,
hawk’s shadowy cast;
and warblers in confusion,
with buzzards in wake;
a wisp full of snipe,
whisp’ring, “good night”;
yet glorious are pelicans,
a squadron in flight;

and nothing so stirring, as
a starling’s constellation,
while an asylum’s
assembly for loons,
and a quarrel of sparrows,
are entirely drowned out,
by a drumming of peckers,
the wood kind, that is!

while sticks and stones,
may break all one’s bones;
those labels and words, do
leave a sting and a hurt;
all human, one race,
can unkindness defer,
diffusing by choosing,
our union assert!
but slinging maligning,
and kicking of dirt,
by abusers and losers,
let's leave for the birds!

~

*post script.

numerous fellow poets far more skilled than i, have posted a variety of well-written pieces using fowl flocking terminology. this is intended to be an assembly of the sometimes-silly, often-absurd and mostly-always-humorous assignments of those flocking terms, used in an imagined treatise about the hurtful labels we humans use to judge one another; labels that vilify, rather than unify.  for would not a battle that hasn’t any "winner" be far better fought hand-in-hand, than hand-to-hand?

terms for flocking fowl in order of use
(a few fowl have two flocking terms, and some flocking terms are claimed by two fowls)

an unkindness (ravens)
a ****** (crows)
a siege (herons)
a horde (geese)
a wedge (swans)
a scold (jays)
a charm (hummingbird, finches)
a huddle (penguins)
a happiness (larks)
a dance (cranes)
a company (parrots)
a parliament (owls)
a stand (flamingos)
a convocation (eagles)
a nye (pheasants)
a bevy (quail)
a flush (also quail)
a cast (hawks)
a gang (turkeys)
a wisp (snipes)
a squadron (pelicans)
a confusion (warblers)
a wake (buzzards)
an asylum (loons)
a constellation (starlings)
a quarrel (sparrows)
a drumming (woodpeckers)

oh yes, there are many more.  i'd love to see your favorite(s) left in the comments.
Steve (:
berry Sep 2013
i am sitting in a cold and very much crowded room.
a sea of nameless faces, attached to 10,000 bodies, filling 10,000 seats.
a cacophony of voices and footsteps and shuffling figures, "pardon me."
small pieces of silence peeking through the static of hums and murmurs.
out of 10,000 - i catch myself looking for one face in particular: yours.
but all i can manage to pick out are not-quite's and hard-to-tell's.
in a room filled with 10,000 faces i'm looking for yours
(because it is all that i see when i close my eyes)
in a room filled with 10,000 faces your name is echoing in my chest.
each letter, ringing in my ears, crawling up the walls of my throat, desperate to escape my lips
and scream with every decibel i posses the power to create, "where are you?"
in a room filled with ten-*******-thousand faces - the only one that matters isn't there.

m.f.
The curtain on the
CPAC convocation rolls back,

as the revolution
in Tahrir Square boils.

America’s theater
of deadly political

absurdity commences;
to witness demagogues

recite holy scripture to
evangelize a religion of war.

A heavily invested
audience marvels

at the marionettes
pirouetting on strings

jigged along by hands
of invisible puppet-masters

donning dark masks of
clever 503C llcs

disguised in self serving
hues of red, white and blue.

This grand folly of masquers
conceals a fatal pantomime,

a cast of reactionary characters,
Neo-Conmen auditioning for

the leading role in a lurid play
of a deadly nation projecting
a dying imperial preeminence.

The martinets engage zero
sum games where the victor
belongs to the despoilers,

and the merchants of death
richly confer multimillion dollar
reasons for being, underwriting
the gilded egos of candidates

and their infatuation with the
vanity of feigned power.

These master rhetoricians
skillfully lather up the crowd

by pandering to basest
xenophobic nationalist
instincts and fantasies
of laissez-faire proclivities.  

Slathering on the partisan
pretense in layers so thick

a master chef, armed
with the sharpest Ginsu Knife

couldn't slice a hock tip
of blood red meat

hurled into the crowd of
gobbling Republicons

howling and yodeling
it’s derisive acclaim.

The rankled party line,
gibberish talking points

are hammer blows of
incessant propaganda,

so cocksure that any room for
doubt is crowded out by the

phantasmagorical McMansions
of hyperbole they ***** in

the pliant minds of their
gibbering minions.

The candidates preening for
president show off their

falangist affectations
in eager duels of oratorical

one upmanship; constantly
jockeying to outflank their

other Neo-Conmen opponents,
always concluding their brutish

diatribes with a solemn
denouement of a Republicon

psalm ending with a
Holy Hosanna Hallelujah

to the Ronald Reagan
Heavenly Buddha.

Punchline of the holy Amen
“what would Reagan do?”

to remind the faithful
to remain the faithful

bearers to the fiction
of dead Reaganism.

Evoking anything
Ron and Nancy

induces sanctioned
comportment of a

slow simmering
******* eubellence

providing a welcomed
relief of repressed
libidinal energy.

The mention of Goldwater
sends GOP acolytes to

pause in reverence,
envisioning Barry and

Ronnie looking down
from heaven upon the gathered,

inciting immediate ruminations
of falling dominos and

the viability of a
tactical nuke strike

against Ayatollah’s
underground
uranium factories.

The host of Neo-Conmen,
new age Falangist pitchmen

belch from the dais,
in ever increasing alacrity,

the stirring drum beats
and slick videos,

of glorious warriors
winning the battlefield

with the rippling glory
of the Stars and Stripes

flowing in a continual
loop behind them.

Romney,
Bachmann

Gingrich
take center stage,

goose stepping
to the roll of piercing timpanis.

Words slither
out of their mouths
like poisonous snakes.

Lies, hiss through
their teeth.

Open mouths
expose Black Mamba
fangs, dripping with venom.

Eyes squint
as their reptilian brains

implore the besieged
to flee from the
light of truth.

Seeking refuge in fear;
yet on the ready

to coil and strike;
while trembling

in ignorance,
exalting loathsomeness

worshiping violence;
they remain

poised to unleash
first strike armies;

boastfully evoking moral
platitudes of Bush Doctrine
prerogatives.

Trembling in ignorance
worshiping violence

exalting fear,
these dogs of war bay

to unleash armies
against the

Godless apostates
that threaten

to expose the
stasis of their

Capitalismo-Judeo-Christian
view of the world.

They have hijacked
the great faith traditions

to serve a narrow
political aim

and relish any
opportunity to

demonize Islam
in service to their lies.

Watch as they
they crouch down

on the dais to
open the nest

of vipers welling
deep within the
bowels of their souls.

They find relief
by excreting their

spawn of deadly asps
into the veins of

cable news networks;
scoring political points

with the terrorized
children of Faux News

capturing battalions
of straw men villains

to rise atop meaningless
straw polls.

They agitate for a second
American revolution

by injecting the venom
of fear and lies

into the body
politic.

Ron Paul
stands alone,

perplexed why
American's love

war as much as
they hate civil liberties?

Cheney and
Rumsfeld brood.

The people of
Iraq and Afghanistan

fail to embrace their armies
of liberation that run up

unfortunate collateral damage
body counts required to sustain
the American way of life.

Ever the defender of
democracy and liberty,

Gingrich slams Obama's
condemnation of Suleiman

"hes an able diplomat."
Gingrich  forgot to add

that Suleiman is a
skilled torturer and

an able tyrant any self
serving democracy would
be proud to call ally and friend.

Cheney and Rumsfeld
remain flummoxed.

Their armies of liberation bogged
down in the marshy Blackwaters

of intractability;  trying to solve
the conundrum of the diminished

equity returns of asymmetrical
warfare.  Spinning the math

to justify building aircraft carriers
to **** a gnat.

The families of dead soldiers
surround them and wave dime

store flags hoping the plastic
eagle remains fixed atop the pole.

Perpetually smiling
Michele Bachmann
raises the specter
of Muslim Brotherhoods
taking over Egypt.

The persecution of Christians
and the escalating war on

Christianity have the Crusaders
up on their seats waving Excalibur
once again.

Gingrich pink cheeks
flush with the cash

of a Zionist casino
entrepreneur

doubles down, stacks
his chips high.

“The Israeli Embassy
in Cairo was overrun
by angry mobs.”  

“Is this a precursor of
cancelling the peace treaty
signed with Sadat?”

“The pullout in Iraq hands the country to
radical Shiites effectively handing our
hard won victory to Iran.”

“Israel is threatened and will not
permit Iran to acquire nuclear

weapons. A nuclear empowered Iran
will not stand!”

“We mustn't let do nothing Obama
threaten the safety of our good ally
Israel.”

CPAC willingly holds the deadly asp
to the breast of a proud nation.

Urging, coaxing it to gently sink
its teeth into the sacred heart
of our dear republic...

John Lee ******
Crawlin King Snake

CPAC 2011

Matthew 23
Brood of Vipers


jbm
Oakland
2/10/11
Nota: man is the intelligence of his soil,
The sovereign ghost. As such, the Socrates
Of snails, musician of pears, principium
And lex. Sed quaeritur: is this same wig
Of things, this nincompated pedagogue,
Preceptor to the sea? Crispin at sea
Created, in his day, a touch of doubt.
An eye most apt in gelatines and jupes,
Berries of villages, a barber's eye,
An eye of land, of simple salad-beds,
Of honest quilts, the eye of Crispin, hung
On porpoises, instead of apricots,
And on silentious porpoises, whose snouts
Dibbled in waves that were mustachios,
Inscrutable hair in an inscrutable world.

One eats one pate, even of salt, quotha.
It was not so much the lost terrestrial,
The snug hibernal from that sea and salt,
That century of wind in a single puff.
What counted was mythology of self,
Blotched out beyond unblotching. Crispin,
The lutanist of fleas, the knave, the thane,
The ribboned stick, the bellowing breeches, cloak
Of China, cap of Spain, imperative haw
Of hum, inquisitorial botanist,
And general lexicographer of mute
And maidenly greenhorns, now beheld himself,
A skinny sailor peering in the sea-glass.
What word split up in clickering syllables
And storming under multitudinous tones
Was name for this short-shanks in all that brunt?
Crispin was washed away by magnitude.
The whole of life that still remained in him
Dwindled to one sound strumming in his ear,
Ubiquitous concussion, slap and sigh,
Polyphony beyond his baton's ******.

Could Crispin stem verboseness in the sea,
The old age of a watery realist,
Triton, dissolved in shifting diaphanes
Of blue and green? A wordy, watery age
That whispered to the sun's compassion, made
A convocation, nightly, of the sea-stars,
And on the cropping foot-ways of the moon
Lay grovelling. Triton incomplicate with that
Which made him Triton, nothing left of him,
Except in faint, memorial gesturings,
That were like arms and shoulders in the waves,
Here, something in the rise and fall of wind
That seemed hallucinating horn, and here,
A sunken voice, both of remembering
And of forgetfulness, in alternate strain.
Just so an ancient Crispin was dissolved.
The valet in the tempest was annulled.
Bordeaux to Yucatan, Havana next,
And then to Carolina. Simple jaunt.
Crispin, merest minuscule in the gates,
Dejected his manner to the turbulence.
The salt hung on his spirit like a frost,
The dead brine melted in him like a dew
Of winter, until nothing of himself
Remained, except some starker, barer self
In a starker, barer world, in which the sun
Was not the sun because it never shone
With bland complaisance on pale parasols,
Beetled, in chapels, on the chaste bouquets.
Against his pipping sounds a trumpet cried
Celestial sneering boisterously. Crispin
Became an introspective voyager.

Here was the veritable ding an sich, at last,
Crispin confronting it, a vocable thing,
But with a speech belched out of hoary darks
Noway resembling his, a visible thing,
And excepting negligible Triton, free
From the unavoidable shadow of himself
That lay elsewhere around him. Severance
Was clear. The last distortion of romance
Forsook the insatiable egotist. The sea
Severs not only lands but also selves.
Here was no help before reality.
Crispin beheld and Crispin was made new.
The imagination, here, could not evade,
In poems of plums, the strict austerity
Of one vast, subjugating, final tone.
The drenching of stale lives no more fell down.
What was this gaudy, gusty panoply?
Out of what swift destruction did it spring?
It was caparison of mind and cloud
And something given to make whole among
The ruses that were shattered by the large.
Michael Rucker Nov 2016
Another day on the job.
The typical 7 to 3 I work, day in and day out.

Expressions to all here on this morning,
composed of stone.
A break in time, where the sun has yet to rise,
and we all gather, to watch the sky.
Don Bouchard Apr 2013
Thrift Shop Confessional

Old carts squeak down re-sale aisles
"One of," "two of,"
Sometimes "three of" items
Tempting treasure-sifting shoppers,
Bargain-needing families,
Women seeking up-brand names at low-brand prices...
Our wives, followed by their husbands,
Acquiescent, but quiescently seeking
Seeking a thrift shop oasis.

A cast-off dining set beckons,
Sturdy enough, if a little battered,
To make us solemnly content to wait
Carted clothing trundling
Off to fitting rooms.


He shuffled up with a foolish grin.
"I think I'll join this convocation of
Waiting gentlemen.
My wife is a shopper...
She'll close the place down."

I moved a chair and gave some space;
Strangers become brothers in this place.

Five minutes on,
I knew he was a vet:
Army, Vietnam Nam...
"I don't like to think about it,"
Cleared his throat,
"Never can forget."

I turned to look at him.

"A little girl came running,
With her hand behind her back.
She only stood this high," he said,
And showed me with his palm her height,
"They carried grenades that way...
All of 'em...couldn't tell which ones...
Sergeant told us, 'Don't ever check...just shoot.'"

The voice trailed off....

I sat sweating in a thrift store,
Captive of my own politeness,
Half a century,
Half a planet,
Transported in his words
into a soldier's Hell.

"So I shot...
Nothing else to do."

Silence then.

A total stranger staggering
under the weight of having
Murdered his Albatross....
Of having carried this thing,
This memory,
Inside him all these years,
Of finding me,
The unsuspecting thrift shop guest
Who'd listen to his lonely tale,
Perhaps so he could earn some rest....

I, his unwitting Confessor,
Uncertain what to say,
Certain something must be said...
Certain nothing could be said...
Sat dumb, but understanding
The wisdom of confessional dividers,
The private comfort of two booths
Where prayerful exchanges
Intersperse uncertain silences,
Present in the overhanging need:
Demanding sorrowful returns,
Impending memories of sorrows...
And lonely trudgings home....



(Connections with Fr. Laurence's "Riddling confession finds but short shrift," in Romeo & Juliet, and Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner")
Shawn Jun 2012
i was raised in the suburbs,
that's where i learned my first words,
also where i learned to curb,
any notions of uniqueness,
this bleakness, was fostered,
in our fundraisers, door-to-door,
selling subscriptions, order more,
and don't ask what the money's for,
school spirit for sports, i never played,
go bears, no care, for my awkward phase,
my awkward ways, 2 buses and a subway,
to get downtown, to hear that sound,
of cars, of movement,
home i'd found,
i was homeward bound,
surrounded by people,
the streets became my easel,
the streets became my easel,
the streets became my easel.

the suburban nights i remember best
deserted street, our love confessed,
riding, trying to avoid attention,
fogged up windows, signs of affection,
what did we know? best of intentions,
you were the girl that i met in detention,
feelings fostered in parks
that were well maintained,
neighbourhood watch campaigns,
trimmed grass, cul-de-sacs
sterile sidewalks, no art attacks,
i'd take you out,
to avoid cafeteria fries,
the tears in your eyes,
echoing words of those you despised,
hallway acoustics, erased by a quick kiss,
love notes in lockers,
we swore, we'd come back and prove our validity,
that wasn't me, that isn't me,
i am more than you thought that i'd ever be
in hindsight, that goal was empty.
in hindsight, that goal was empty.
in hindsight, that goal was empty.

i rode this train in an attempt to arrive
at a destination thought mutually suitable,
mutually doable, the journey viewable,
and verified viewed in full,
but our paths differed along the way,
our grip withered from pursuits of gpa,
the sacrifices made for a number,
sweat and anxiety, tears and fear,
from what would occur, if not maintained
in the exact range, expected by academics
i'm a polemic, seen through these false idols,
graduates don't know a thing about survival,
vital signs drained to the point of oblivion,
questioning just isn't how you win, it isn't in,
they're sittin' in their leather chairs,
dismissin' receding hair,
in front of leather-bound books,
leather patches on their elbows,
their vacant look,
behind eyeglasses, so cold,
i tried to ace classes, to sit in the seats
of these empty elite,
to live up to expectation,
and after convocation,
i took my place in a chair
behind a plexiglass pane,
initials after my name on
my orange jumpsuit,
i only now realize the truth.
i have all that i sought,
but lost all that i had.
i have all that i sought,
but lost all that i had.
i have all that i sought,
but lost all that i had.
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
When Dorothy trod the paths of Oz
Her companions were deficient:
One lacked Courage,
One lacked brains,
One was heartless, but
Ax Proficient.

She was an illegal alien,
from Kansas, of all
places!
Imagine, when she and
Toto came-
the look on people’s faces.

Still that was seventy years ago.,
In another place and time-
Just before we went to war
against evil personified.

If Dorothy, today,appeared
with a similar convocation
The Wizard might mistake them
for a Congressional Delegation

For lack of brain and heart and spine
Our Congress is more than sufficient-
Some lack Courage, some lack brains
Some are heartless but
tax proficient
Inspired by a clever political cartoon in the New York Daily News picturing the quartet from the wizard of Oz movie and comparing them to the New York Congressional delegation.
I knew you’d be there without confirmation
I felt the tingle
I felt the sensation
I smelt your aftershave and
Without hesitation I condemned myself to damnation

I watched you stride down the nave
Watching you was a violation
A violation of my promise
To be faithful, honest and true
But, I can’t keep my pledge,not with you.

I quietly follow
Beyond the curtain I go
I sit and breathe deeply
You, Wood, and incense fill my heart
“Bless me Father for I have sinned. I'm in love with you”
© JLB
25/12/2017
00:12 GMT
Caytlin Rae Sep 2013
Walk into the auditorium just to see the band on stage…
I swallow my spit,
my nerves,
and my pride.

Oh, you are talented, dear,
Because I sit between two of my best friends, and yet,
I feel completely alone in this room full of people.

Because the only things I see are brown hair and a gray shirt.
Because all I am aware of is your goofy grin and saxophone, and
The way your lips part when you laugh still makes my heart shiver.

I’m begging just to see your face once.
To be reminded of the way that lights make your eyes
Look different every time,
Picking out the specks of blue, green, and gray
As if your irises were a kaleidoscope…  

My mind suddenly feels perceptive of every emotion,
And from across the stage and stadium seats,
I feel your eyes avoiding mine,
But I cannot break this cold stare of heartbreak
And the needles that caress my spine.

Although my brain is unwelcoming,
Memories are flooding my head…
Reminding me that once, you held me close,
Telling me things I shouldn’t have believed,
Holding my hand
Telling me I’m not damaged
Inviting me into your world
Reassuring me it was okay
And yanking it all out from under me.

And everyone stands for the convocation,
I’m thanking the stars for this opportunity,
Because right now it’s socially acceptable.
It’s okay that I stare at you and let my heart beat fast,
Because you are on stage,
And I’m just one in the crowd.

But I always was, wasn’t I?
Just another one in the crowd?
Another float in your parade of heartbreaks.
It’s okay, my heart is mended,
Please, just look my direction…

My mind is not sure of anything,
But everything else is,
Because we finally just made
Eye contact.
Eleete j Muir Jan 2014
"Every time I look into a mirror I see the eyes of the devil".
The perpetual flame of life
A new dawn, an enlightening dusk;
The translucent sun
The convection of eternity,
Abysmal adversary,
The convocation of co-eternal legions!
''Every time I cry I see the face of God".
Influencing twilights perfection,
Hells paradise devouring
The ardent fervour of the carmine flame
Piercing the atmosphere,
Constantly tantalising the air- fuelling.
The forests engulfed, bellowing from the apse shaped canopies
Violet blue threads of of ribbon;
Wofting unto nothingness
Vapourising smoke.
Natures delightful beauty, casting a shadow
The conflagration immanently consuming lands;
Raging across the earth
Dehydrated and scorched.
Baptismal tears vanquishing the fire,
Heavens standing ovation, applauding
A contained flame,
The sound of rain the fires lamentation.



1997 ELEETE J MUIR
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
the thermometer's rising red mercury,
a truest signal-fire of  the
approaching well-fated
army of summer days,
their inevitable return
prophesied and more accurately foretold by heated degree,
than any solitary red X penned,
marked upon an island's
dog-eared firehouse kitchen calendar

the imaginary sounds of their solacement
inside the heart beats louder
than any timekeeper's ticking clocking counts,
mechanical reminders of a return inevitable,
comforting but impoverished upon compare,
to the warming solace of hearty silent sun sounds
far louder in the mind, than that of measuring throbbing metal

for nigh, nigh the hour's of your carriage come hither
does near approach and laden heavy by
the long time distanced poet's exhausted hopes,
a labored long voyage, soon to be ended,
yet worthy-word laden,
promised peace, carried within it,
a steady straight forward rolling gait heard,
that, it's Paul Revered lanterned combined signaling,
one if by land, two, if by sea,
for I will come back, traversing both

"return, return poet
to where thy fellow musketeers,
wind, sun and sea
have impatiently waited,
we, your corporate grayed chair's guardians and protectors,
memorizer's of the poetry of our yellow scented,
electric conspiracy, rusted silent, now too many months,
your voice transmogrified
by sophisticate urban airs,
man's unnatural pollutions,
we woo and will you, make over"


Ah, that Adirondack throne,
my summer body's glove,
magical wooden carpet
flying the mind's eye
to places where unfriendly times,
give way to reworked words
in a refreshed world, that makes sense again,
the joy tears that layup on and in it imbedded,
know only of the comfort of a
nature's shelter never withheld

"the winter's pale thrashing has skinned
and stripped your voice of its true timbre,
you gaze only inward, obstacled your vision,
seeing only whitecap seas of internal distress


come hear the seagrasses waving windy welcome
listening rapt  to your summons of convocation,
and the celebration of your traditioned blessed evocation,
a combine of old poems, old tears, and fine oak memories,
new candles lit, new waves crashing but soul soothing,
let us cleanse the taunting taints that inhabit,
our duty to inhibit the unforgiving stale self-reproach
of winter's ugly poems and slushy fears


we are folk honest, your summer companions,
acknowledging that what haunts your interior,
to the task of cease and desist we are inferior,
but in your chair, by the bay, the old words refreshed,
and the new poems of hope and scents
of yet better days promised


of that, of that
we do not promise,
of that that we bonded guarantee
a pledge of mutual fealty


we smell you and taste you in every old recirculated breeze,
as you inhale us and exhale toiled tribulations,
we will be married-vow renewed,
a new peace of sorts imbued,
far far better, than no peace at all!
"
I write more and will post less,
but this weekend I hope to journey
my own one hundred miles, across three isles,
employing bridges and ferry,
to get back to where I write a different kind of poetry,
and the bad, the surface cracks within welded shut,
the winter's road ruts,
filled and sealed,
melded by nature's lighter than air cement

though the cracks within cannot be
filled or healed
by them alone,
a lush quietude invades
and does the best it can...
the photo my winter's hairy tale,
scissored and dispatched,
and an old memory restored, replaced,
my new island audience and followers,
who disapprove or approve of what I write,
by leaving, or honking OK!

if you care, search my old summer poems,
and discover the story's of the chair, the island, and it's unforgiving
demand to write...
Abel Araya May 2013
I grew into my youth without fearing dinosaurs,
Because I watched too many re-programmings of Jurassic Park.
I wasn't aware that my basketball skills could take me places.
I was born here, I ran through cornfields and tall shades of grass,
playing hooky with *******, hopscotch with ******,
yet still averaging 24.6ppg while playing only 20 minutes a game.
It seemed so easy and simple at first, doing these things.
My neighbor Craig down the street,
used to work at the children's hospital so he always had access to needles;
all he wanted from me was a stack of metal spoons
that I could steal from my grandmother's house so we could dissolve the ******.
“This ****'ll make you feel like you could never die”, he would always say.

It was the 3rd quarter of our high school opening game against Fullerton.
We played at the redeveloped convocation 20 miles south of town,
because our high school received a bomb threat earlier that week.
The court constructed with cheers and boos due to my low field goal percentage.
I stashed my lucky line inside of my practice shorts in the locker room,
so I could lie to my coaches about needing some air.

My nostrils captured the effects of this white powdery substance,
as my body started to fail and deteriorate.
I think I felt my heart stop beating when I came to the free throw line.
First shot...air ball.
Second shot...no shot, body falls to the hardwood.
My shoes squeaked like rabid mice without control,
my right leg became convulsive and spastic, my left moved none.
The floor below my body drenched in a bilinear merging of crimson red and **** yellow.
The last image that I witnessed before my eyes left this world
Were the faces of the opposing cheerleaders,
Their young eyes bleeding blue and yellow,
mascara and grief running down their pretty cheeks.
They knew this from the beginning, my parents did.
They thought I had changed and found a new sport to love.
As my body laid on the floor, my parents laid in the belly of the audience,
Incapable of shedding tears,
because their suffering overtook their ability to cry.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Sep 2020
We are they. All of us. 7.5 billion of us. But some of us do not want the rest of us to soar. They want us grounded, permanently, by hunger, by illiteracy, by homelessness, by hopelessness. The some of us to whom I refer are ruthless. They are corrupt officials worldwide at best;  at worst, they are autocrats, tyrants, dictators--all oppressors of the first order. But they have a surprise waiting for them. There will be a revolution of love sweeping over Earth that will free all of us from the inequities and iniquities that have in truth enslaved us for millennia. Earth itself has been enslaved. Ask our air, our rills and rivulets, our streams and rivers, all our oceans. They are dying, and with them, all of us, and Earth as well. Love that all of us will shortly embrace will break the chains of worldwide oppression. Then we shall soar like a convocation of eagles.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard hawks has been a poet, an essayist, a writer of aphorisms, a novelist, and a human-rights advocate his entire adult life
Sharina Saad Nov 2015
I figure
He'd miss this day
Just like he had before
During my most important days
Throughout my grow up days
My first day at school
My concert day
My speech day
My sports day
And other significant days..
But i wished he is here today
To witness this meaningful day
How I wish you are here daddy...
Somewhere in the crowd
Wearing your blazer and your ties
Like the way I used to see you
During my childhood days.....
I take a last glance at the audience
in the magnificent hall
I stand still
A pang of frustration
My anger boils
My name was announced
I am taking my step
Heavily
Very slowly...
Unbelievably.......
A proud figure standing tall
at a corner
The loudest clap I hear
A handsome smile on daddy's face
Daddy is finally here..........
‪#‎Convocation‬ I wish daddy's here
Convocation Day... Daddy where are you?
Prince of Spring Sep 2014
When he talks, I can hear it.
Every syllable, I can hear it.
Every time his tongue whips the back of his upper teeth I hear it.

When his lips are shooting arrows, slicing crimson haze I hear it,
hear the anguished rumble of Venus birthing stellar symphonies,
and when his vocal cords are trembling do I hear this convocation.
As the sun begins to cry, do I hear of merciful heavens.
When fiery lips blast melodies that stun my ears and sear my tongue,
do I hear the distant quell as nebulae shiver crack and burst.

He slaughters constellations with prose.
He ignites the universe with murmurs.
He pulls Andromeda in speech,
every astral breath and screech.
brandon nagley Aug 2015
i

Mount Malindang calleth me, it showeth me mine queen is there
She resteth up upon the greenery, picturesque perfect, I stare;
Inside the emulsion picture, her smile paint's the walls with red
Red for the love she engulf's me in, as roses align her sloped bed.

ii

Sketched on is her hairdo, beehive swathed, fairy tale written
Her wing's hath Baguette's, as tis the Baguette's art from heaven;
Comely she supplyeth, a king's every need's, as tis amour' we feed
Companied she warm's me, swarms me, ourn amare to all leak's.

iii

Concourse of the multitude, gathering beneathe ourn sloped hut
Ourn roof may be a little leaky, though ourn affection wilt fill up;
As tis we our a abode to ourselves, no straw mansion needed
A Convocation of cheribum watcher's, protect us in rainy season.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©,あある じぇえん
Mehak Feb 2018
I haven't learned how to to drive yet. And people keep wondering why. I am not skeptical about my ability to take the vehicle out and stride about with unknown companions on the road.  Companions; some who ridicule while I take quite some time and place to make a simple right hand turn , some who don't waste words rather blow horns which sound like a perfect coronach in chorus. And that fears me more and I tell mom that I would never go driving again. I will take a cab, ride a bike or walk to the destination but I 'll never really "drive". You see if I don't overcome this aversion, people would perhaps say more. People won't stop. Not when you're dead, not when you 're born, not on your convocation. Actually never.  So,  I went out again on the same road, at the same time. They are still staring and babbling. But this time I am slighlty relieved. I am mocking them too. One at time ,till I take a right hand turn.


And there my driving license was born.
Hamburgers and hot dogs ,
lemonade , fried sweet potato pies an scuppernongs
Saturday night revivals and county -
fairs
Convocation and worship in the
warm , sweet summer air
Copyright March 14 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Devon Brock Nov 2019
I ain't seen no crow do no killin',
never in a day.
****, they ain't even a squabble.
I seen a lot a' crows
on a lot a' roads,
courteous as squaredance,
bobbin' over ****, skunk,
whatever red,
always cool to clear the way
and wait fer a passin'.

I ain't seen no dead crow neither,
not a one.
I seen 'em harried though,
hammered like B-17's
swattin' one o nines.
But that ain't no nevermind.

Pigeons, yep. Lotsa pigeons.
Slapped a few sparra's on the grill.
Never took a pheasant
but I seen 'em,
all broke feather
and bonnet in the ditch.

Baldies?
Now that's a bird that's got one
helluva marketin' department.
Proud one that.
Eats the eyes and *** first.
Runs off the competition.
**** things don't know
bumpers from blimps.
But wha' d'ya do?

A con-vo-cation, yep,
that's what they call 'em -
hell, we almost snuffed 'em
clean out and now we call 'em
a convocation?
Seems a bit stilted to me.
But there you have it -
a convocation a'eagles
a ****** a' crows.
Just goes to show ya',
them namers don't know.
Ameliorate Dec 2020
Cigarette smoke tickles my lungs as I inhale the closest thing I ever got from you.
I don’t smoke but you did most of your life.
Truthfully, I smoked often after your death;
Feeling though if this was a way to feel your presence.  
Though it only irritates my lungs.
One night I drank 3 bottles of wine;
I don’t drink.
I burnt a hole in my couch singing “before you go”; hadn’t lit up anything other than marijuana since then.
Smoking wouldn’t bring my father back.
Wouldn’t repair the trauma he caused during my youth.  
31 years old doesn’t prepare you for the death of your father.
The three months you gained weight
Didn’t leave your bed
Pushed many of your friends away because rejection sensitivity.
And cried so hard you nearly threw up
3 months of worsening binge eating where you felt so full you couldn’t breathe
Severe depression
And oddly enough suicide ideation.
Misplaced guilt from abuse that wasn’t your fault.
Sweat soaked sheets from chaotically descriptive  nightmares
Unrelenting dissociation.
Even longer tangling with delicious self hatred, words your father used when he would belittle your body while you developed an eating disorder at his hand.
My thighs are getting bigger
-insert self loathing here-
I won’t repeat those abusive words;
As I’m trying to heal.
5 nights shy of 1 year.
I can say I finally like myself.
The other side of shutdown reared it’s caressing warmth;
The chrysalis of self discovery erupting like a volcanic convocation.
Complex post traumatic stress disorder.
I wear this diagnosis like a badge, proof of my experiences.
I miss you.
Though I am not unhappy you’re gone.
Descriptive piece on my fathers suicide. Tw: death. Eating disorder. Suicide.
She's waving goodbye at the gate ..
A pretty blue dreamscape , adorned with golden scarf across my Eastern gaze .. Our world is turning fast with dark hues and white house landscapes , busy homestead horizons and silver , gravel driveways ..
Forest green love for all Earths inhabitants , Venus has called her friends out to entertain , celestial orbs to inspire rhyme , to sing of love unrequited by warm fires ... To be free of mind and secured in the shelter of hope , latter day convocation and warm tomorrows ...
Copyright March 1 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Elijah Bowen Dec 2019
drag it

that way

across so much of me

in need of coming open.

that utensil is a convocation.

i have seen so much,

doing my undoing

in a matter of lines i draw

and draw and draw through it.

these, the transgressions of my body

assume sagging

just as simply

as more unbroken flesh.

my bathroom mirror

cannot bend nor mend itself

back into existence

as you or i do,

becoming human.
Trigger Warning: Self-Harm
Martin Lethe Feb 2017
The world has not gone unnoticed.
She has shown herself to me, seductively,
A burlesque of sunrises and rains,
A flash of open highway, the kick and spin
Of caves beneath the ocean and deserted plains,
I have heard her ****** ballads and her sea-shanties
Have seen the plunge of her falcon
and the depth of the infinite sky
I am certain I caught a glimpse of her *******
And a wink of her mischievous eye.

She has shown me power and life, inescapable.
She has opened her arms to give me all.
And for my part, I drank it all, insatiable.
Left to right, and north to south
I took it all in, through my eyes
And through my mouth, and absorbed through my skin.

She has molted glorious hide for glorious hide
Moment by moment, for time immemorial
And I am but a baby nursing:
I am swollen to the point of bursting.

Something else was in the air
I was captivated by a marching band,
By the pungent smell of a metaphor,
And with a cigarette in my left hand
Finally I could not contain any more;
Either tripped up, or lifted on the radio buzz
I became a song--without physical form
Radiating, reverberating through the buildings
Or the trees, or wherever I was.

It comes down to this, this transformation:
It is a trick I learned from the masters, oh,
And the neophytes of each generation
In a place deep down below
That I hollowed out, swallowed, and took part by part
All the stories, all the music that had been played
As they were gathered
Here into the ear of my heart.

And I was made.

A song has a shape, but not a limitation
I could travel whole from room to room
Join with others in a convocation
Earth myself with a mighty boom
Gleam imperious, a holy crown
High as a satellite, or soft as cotton

I cannot be tied down
Nor forgotten
Not when I am a song.

There was a time, either before now, or later
I cannot recall;
When the world was wreathed in gloom.
Dark night came and conquered all.
For every joy, two curses came.
Misfortunes stagger against our weight
But redouble and resume
To quench our dull and sputtering flame.
The car won’t start, we missed the bus;
The bills, unpaid, grow beards.
No one comes to rescue us.

This house groaned, old and aware
That its days were not long.
It lay upon me like Atlas,
Foretold its collapse,
Crumbled and mumbled
As I grieved and retrieved all the scraps.

But when it grew too great
Even for my sturdy form to bear
I became a song--weightless,
Unbreakable, and carried along
By heaven knows what
Into heaven knows where.
for S. J.
Maddii Lloyd May 2016
if i were to run
where would i go?
would you come with me..
would you stay?

if i were to change my identity..
who would i be?
would you still love me?
would you stay?

if i were to
how can  i say this..
if i didnt wake tomorrow
would you regret our
last convocation.
our last moments,
our last time together!
Philipp K J Mar 2019
Lady your service to the needy
You render with  devotion
And  surrender your body
And mind to the creation.
Just that notion may be shoddy
For the greedy convocation.

All couldn't believe that talent
Was offered to multiply
And trade in the gift god lent
To apply and amass wealth and supply.

But Hi beauty, you are a true devotee
To use the gift of almighty
To touch and heal a plenty
Of suffering hearts in this community.

Short though your presence among us
It's deep and long in a sense
The example that you profess
With simple acts and joy immense.

It's our wish you continue here
For some more time to be near
As your grace and peace are dear
To us that stand in constant fear.

Since you are a chosen one
We are blessed in your presence
And we all thank you for the lessons
That we'll sure follow in sequence.

We thank God for your sweet company
A bold humble erudite seer
with simple pure diet and cure
May God bless you with long life
Many happy peaceful one free of strife
Still to serve and instill the virtues
As offerings to return the talents due
To god in multiple folds we thank you
And in thanks your hands we hold.
Dear Lady may you fare well
All days are your day if you care you well.
Happy Woman's Day to all our dear ones!
Ken Pepiton May 19
Time spent, time used up, time invested
in fungible progressing thought conservation,
- a norm is a tool often called
- a carpenters square, it measures many things.

Time taken, per use, used to mean
the point upon which all stored tellings remain
hanging vivacious, lively, spirited

orthographic aches and pains
associable sayings held writ
as ritually chanted fourty days and forty nights
esoterically spelled enchanting mission statements
- chance you changed, by now
- since aim became destination
- only under public misperception
- of enormous advances in governing.
Forgoodness sakes alive,
what holds church
together, integral,
in the center, holding all
there, here, then and now, some how
made real, as if contemplation allows temples
of living stone and multiple minds across times.

Let this mind be in you,
let that which hinders be taken away,
read the writing never written, let be, left shown

artificially made sacred duty to learn, or burn.

That which lets our holy convocation function, lets
our weform in awe become the responding chorus.
Toy selves, all shined up for Sunday socialization rite.

U R, church, your chancery ifery wasery core,
what for, given as good as gotten,
take away and
make up a mind
to use the sense made
to make more.

Profitable for correction, orthoganal, upright
straight, squared away, totally normalized

within the compass of the builder's guilded norm.

Enormity of normal means
for making sense, at grammar's edge,
effectually fervently, in chorus, in response,
four billion breathing enourmous relief
four billion other breathers blowing hot air
constantly, in and out,
not right and wrong, just breathe
responsibly possibly exposing old science,
using ancient ways
to mean mean concepts,
points left to hold whole strains
of long thoughts, tested right uses
long gone
to seed, needful urges, will to learn awe
as new knowers lead to learn for ever's sake,
next comes to be logical instantly, indeed
to hold writ writtenness witnessed.
Wisdom knowing understood,
used, freely, by taken rights.
------------
Actuality reified known really
realizable, in response sponsored by:

The free will subset in the normal range
of the ruliad, whither no thought possible
is lost, indeed, thither on thinking  possible.
Twice. Once right now,
twice then when you look again.

On one point in time we shared,
one idea turned into two,
and thus knowledge
puffs up the clouding curiosities…

known to linger in sacred shadows
from mumbled Latin entrancements
reified, sniff the atmosphere, holy dread
coupled sensuously with incense,
to cover the stench of penitents
ineffectual repetitionings.

Tittles and jots, bits and pieces,
little here right there, little more
a little later,

Sunday is a day of rest.
Fine day to fish in forgetfullness,

flipping pages through past lives,
finding places clearly marked,

this is the way.
All squared away, to give peace a chance to stick a normal abnormal wrong idea exalting itself as holy war according to holy writ. To slay an enormity,
one uses enormous exageration of little bits and pieces. let become words.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 7
unbeknownst
to the human race,
every year the free trees,
those of the forest, the great gardens,
have an annual convocation, a solemn communion and a
delicate conversation

the gathering is attended by insects and avians,
for theirs is the heavy responsibility,
that which the trees cannot do,
they must do, i.e. move, be agents
of pollination

Trees gather, the sequoias officiate,
for they the elders, are wise in the
rings of history that tells of ritual,
sacred sayings, the reasoning,
the young ones don’t full  comprehend

“Who shall give aid and comfort to the human dead?”

Who shall give of their seed
that will be carried by our friends,
they may be scattered planted,
in the graveyards where
those that tended and
sheltered us,  
lie buried,
and the living
who tend to
their ancestral,
will adjoin, all
in need of shade and
comforting song?

there is great rustling of the wind,
the most honored,
query those attendees,
why must we choose?

let each of us contribute
according to their needs,
let the randomized
scattering by our winded
and flighted avian friends
best express our gratitude…

thus forests, parks, great gardens,
and yes, the cemeteries of mankind,
ALL
were seeded, deeded and refreshed,
and the world was cleansed,
commended, interdependented,
defended and extended…

Wed Aug 7 2024
even I write nonsense when no sense
is available
Ameliorate May 2021
You think I don’t see
But I see everything that’s presented to me
Tranquility
And convocation
Is your conviction
To your addictions
You don’t admit to
Reflecting
And avoiding
While playing the victim
I contemplate
How much I’ve changed
While you’re still the same
Even though you’re different
Disdained
While I took abuse for my inspirations
You were jealous
How life has changed since
I stared trying
Instead of crying
About why I didn’t
And I’m sorry
It’s retribution
If my words resonate within you
You just ask yourself why
Instead of
condemning
I’m a prophet.
-Rhetorical Curiosity 21.
KorbydAngyle Jul 2020
Troubled/ no or fair/ by the still golden waters cadence or refrain from the inclusion of an individual's own shackles/ which drum a constant clasp of the next intent based on the purity of the assessment/ schink shlank slap/
Cobbled were streets or hobbled we people/ their paths not just warriors but our own war with the weary looks of the discontent of gold without/ a mirror and resolved souls/
And so marks a facet to evoke endless return of magic's need for self preservation and the self that is legends own gold armour/ a victory we together pave/ Golden Stave...
If these are the truths we seek and/ the God or Gods to find answers/ then what anathema awaits or a convocation in place of that?... Of no less is our theory derived thus philosophy and deliverance interpose. Affine the nature of our path with a certain answer .. of only two choices... That which I am and that which I might convert
And we Christen this day with the memorialized self opacity - all persons but one in a mystic realm her story unfolds by the ancient altars bedlam...
What savvy morrows does clemency's graces trounce.. in upon as spiders/ no snakes assumed panderous/ a squander- no lions in a mane/ not lower but higher dragons by bane. Though the fury of deliverance quenching not a birth from dens of evil's title banned by ~gold~ and bones. In insipid shallows.. not a grievance shall I bequeath/ my final breath is upon the restless encounters sought by such velocity/.. of sallow's as any inner self. Such a contrast to presbyter zombies princesses and elves!
Why?!
I was in a dungeon in Hell being tortured by the devil.
Whence forth all stitches of sentient docile was challenging farther than the girth of the Lord's great ship. Reaching souls by way of coast to coast..
Lords and Ladies sorceresses and witches in for the storm of temper and bulwark. Each I speak of naught for turn of fortune is for one to resolve (she touts the Golden Stave). A lament on a basis to which no lives' have dragon for my soul and the gold which I seek not nither or nye but in severed tones to the justice I speak. Hear me this..
And a world/ and a lot of confused self folly. This is not the Lord.. These are not my reflections..
Aluft cloud or mezzanine protections and wrong impressions.
What chain of holy command can virtue make if the gift you hold was never yours to take.
It was not taken foolish old Priest. It was found as if by prophecy that I find the wellness of such pious virtues endured by the plethora's gauntlet for riches in Heavenly retributions, a constant hierarchy contrite yet arbitrary of obfuscation enough for my own liberation.
Your epicurean delight now fiddler to tunes of which the canon shouldn't find disingenuous reprieve to be certain..
But tis mine.. .. Flying monkeys/ fangs and claws. Though driven as prayer invocation the involuntary inveterate invertebrate doesn't stay for boundaries moxie shall soon be broken..
In arbitration the rapid deteriorations invective hastens a new anticipation of vile amelioration for disclaimed lay you/ lugubrious maiden.
Slayer slayer mox of nether! Light nor lotus prayer! Deliverance from which I ran. What soul pientous aster fiends by world and legend n tales run ragged as all else falls by the wayside. To what lays in my pretentious individuals land as my true own disquisition thus began!!
it's actually taken from a heavy metal and dance musical i wrote with the stage and characters removed to show the flow and poetic style
KV Srikanth Feb 2021
Moments make the day
Solitude or Isolate
Dusk brings closer
To meet your maker

Moments make the night
In the harmony of company
Dawn one dusk less
Already defined
Finite life

Dreadful in definition
war with your own skin
Constantly in Geometry
Peace in Symmetry

Moments make life
Fleeting  Glaring
Happy Gloomy
Lonely Conversly
War Peace
Strife Truce
Moments empty
Filled with these
Moments full
Filled with these

Contradiction in Similarity
That's life In its beauty
Teacher or Prescription
Lesson in definition
Living the moment
Cut the first turf
Pave the way
Nobel in Norway

Medley of Moments
Designated Experience
Vary to Many
Life's Graduation
Given without Convocation
Pay it forward
Lies the reward

Time Goes By
We go along
Alliance in Union
Discord in Division
Moments gone by
Time and I
Together swing by
Equal Partners
We are not
Travels till my destiny
Continues on it's own Journey

— The End —