"curbing" poems
Pinto?
No, not the wild-spirited, color-splotched mare
with mane streaming like flames-thrown
behind in the wind
Taking desert inclines
with scuffing hooves on rock
catching her balance in mesquite
curbing?
The sage, dust
All
that nature throws in its pathway to knowledge
toward treachery of crosswalks?
“P-l-e-a-s-e don't slow down!
Stop signs--?
”No!
Just keep going!
Don't slow down now!”
“They'll hear us coming
3 blocks away!”
Pinto?
Clogged carburetor--?
No one much-mentioned
rear-end inferno reputation??
A mere twinge in my signature
Woman-without-a-clue
“Hey, it runs, right?
Gets where we're goin'?”
Kids duck in back seat
so as not to be seen
In the cloud of smoke
We make our approach
Hiss Spitter, Belch, Pop
and--
BANG!
--Like a gunshot
Kids take cover
on street, in backseat
duck down
so not to be noticed...
“Oh Ma!
MA!!!
Not right here!
Farther down!”
...so not to be seen
...by friends that matter...
in this ride
from hell!
Backfiring Beast--
“Friends”
skitter away
from what will emerge from the smoke and fumes
of high-risk-situation
Kids spill out through jammed door
to unexpected accolades
onto equality's curb
of laughter
Public school's
wake of exhaust and relief
I drive mercifully away
Start of another school day
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
A word for the peaceful muslim,
who has no stomach for violence,
no passion for conflict,
no appetite for blood,
Stop laying your job at my feet.
I know you're not all mad, or murderers,
And know good and well
that most of you just want
the same thing that we want.
To raise your families in peace.
Trouble is, you see, that the peaceful majority
has never been relevant
in the shadow of the violent minority.
They fly your flag, and they keep a ****** agenda.
Just ask the Germans of 1945.
So I thank you to stop making it my job
to change public opinion about your religion.
If yours is one of peace, then prove it.
You've a lot of history to overcome, but...
Start by curbing your savages.
Then start loving your enemies.
Then try becoming their friend.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
There is way, way to much confusion,
I can't get my head straight,
is this just another illusion,
I think it's getting late,
you know we talked about this before,
talked about curbing our emotions,
or did you forget,
I must admit
I can't get you out of my mind
I can't get you out of my mind
isn't this, isn't this September
I can hardly wait,
I hope, hope that you remember,
it's been a year since our first date,
we walked along underneath the moonlight,
holding hands, wishing on a star,
I won't say won't,
I'm hoping you don't
I can't get you out of my mind
I can't get you out of my mind
Birdman - March 2005
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
When first, descending from the moorlands,
I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide
Along a bare and open valley,
The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.
When last along its banks I wandered,
Through groves that had begun to shed
Their golden leaves upon the pathways,
My steps the Border-minstrel led.
The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer,
’Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;
And death upon the braes of Yarrow,
Has closed the Shepherd-poet’s eyes:
Nor has the rolling year twice measured,
From sign to sign, its stedfast course,
Since every mortal power of Coleridge
Was frozen at its marvellous source;
The rapt One, of the godlike forehead,
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth:
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle,
Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,
Or waves that own no curbing hand,
How fast has brother followed brother,
From sunshine to the sunless land!
Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber
Were earlier raised, remain to hear
A timid voice, that asks in whispers,
“Who next will drop and disappear?”
Our haughty life is crowned with darkness,
Like London with its own black wreath,
On which with thee, O Crabbe! forth-looking,
I gazed from Hampstead’s breezy heath.
As if but yesterday departed,
Thou too art gone before; but why,
O’er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered,
Should frail survivors heave a sigh?
Mourn rather for that holy Spirit,
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep;
For Her who, ere her summer faded,
Has sunk into a breathless sleep.
No more of old romantic sorrows,
For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid!
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten,
And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead.
2.3k
when i heard about it,
when i heard of “free art:”
i thought of free bread and wine,
and celtic sirens,
i laughed though... you made the earth
so ******* boring we all wanted to become astronauts.
when art became free we tried to moralise
drinking wine (as a portent of richness)
and eating bread (as a portent of the russian revulsion),
i bought my art.. and waited for the ones who
discouraged it complaining buying their bread “well fed.”
the celtic sirens hung on though, singing softer and softer
but more prone to the acid tongues dragging the democrats into
a hope of kings and village kindred elders,
but i still didn’t hope for free artistry that was akin to circus,
caged the gypsy have i?
i have, but i did not warrant free food or free aquas of variation,
i simplified freeing the demands with the demands freed into excess,
well... if i were kingly i’d still have provided free bread and wine
rather than music and the curbing the excesses of lyricists;
making music free just discouraged all originality, all creativity,
it just became a realism of a struggled acting -
i feel cheated having missed the antics of britannia in
the 1960's and '70's like it was greek and roman without
the epileptics of watching a documentary on trans-sexualisation
of brazilians and ******** disco to gag on an excess of flashy lights
just to sell lipstick... and have these quasi-epileptic shivers
without having an opposing opinion to counter the freely stated & fluxed.
i guess my convulsions were due to the fact that the men
didn’t call it either homosexuality nor trans-sexuality,
and that i was actually looking at two dodos talking, meaning
i was seeing the extinction of the human race through the ****
meaning i was watching the knights templar idol, baphomet,
realised 2000 years after the crucifixion in that crown of thorn dreams,
perfected in thailand... of all places;
that actually beats the identification of ibn saud as the dajjal,
moving further east of mecca than riyadh and
the assassination attempt within the framework of muhammad’s hadith of ‘no entry’ into mecca by the dajjal.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
You, photo sharing
pop-up rhymester
a one-day glory
for a full-time jester?
is that all you’ve got?
exulting in adulation
of ‘up thumb’ display
painstaking toil
for a chirpy convey
much bother for naught
go away from that evil
a rectangular cage
a duality so curbing
too daunting to assuage
surely, not asking a lot!
banter a bit, out of the cage
break her reckless grind
a cursed double-life
no cage to hide behind!
it wasn’t what she thought!
mother’s day isn’t just a day
it is your lifetime, borrowed
moment by moment
nourished and hallowed
a vicarious life – don’t let it rot!
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
Can't get you out of my mind
There is way, way to much confusion,
I can't get my head straight,
is this just another illusion,
I think it's getting late,
you know we talked about this before,
talked about curbing our emotions,
or did you forget,
I must admit
I can't get you out of my mind, no darlin,
I can't get you out of my mind, no no no
isn't this, isn't this September
I can hardly wait,
I hope, hope that you remember,
it's been a year since our first date,
we walked along underneath the moonlight,
holding hands, wishing on a star,
I won't say won't,
I'm hoping you don't
I can't get you out of my mind, no darlin,
I can't get you out of my mind, no no no
Gomer LePoet...
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Paths of cratered concrete, cracked
By morning frost and midnight freeze,
Wimpy weeds grow through the fissures.
Children fall and skin their knees.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Canvas for a budding Rembrandt,
Using colored chalk as paint,
Drawing flow’rs, and stick-man family,
Curbing not her young restraint.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Adults dare not let loose the leash,
As they exercise their dogs, and ease their own stress,
Must carry bags and tiny shovels,
To clear the concrete of the mess.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Scooters, skateboards, wagons, bikes,
Off the path, then on again
While yielding the right-of-way
To lovers walking hand in hand.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Collecting children at the corner,
A guard, with yellow vest and sign,
Moses parts the sea of traffic,
Cautiously keeps kids in line.
Through front yards, across drive-ways,
Toward bus stops, stores and schools,
Gathering mown grass, autumn leaves, and winter snow.
There are poems in small town sidewalks,
Imagination on the go.
Phil Lindsey 1/11/17
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
To millions, he was an intellectual guide
A source of unconditional love
Indeed Dr Cephas George Msipa was a cherished comrade
For the seekers, he was a treasurer
For those suffering, his words gave them solace and comfort
He was an inspiration
Gone but not forgotten
The nation learnt your departure with shock
To Zimbabwean, you were a social economic and political guide
Without you the nation is left poorer
He was a socioeconomic guru,
A source of unrestricted love
For multitudes he was a dear friend
A friend of unusual depth and innocence
For academic seekers, he was a fortune
For the suffering, he was compassionate
His words gave solace and comfort to several humanitarian organizations
A genuine glimpse of his precious wisdom
Is in the compilation of his academic assistance
In his superlative wisdom was a fountain of guidance,
In curbing violence, fear and anger
Without him,Zimbabwe is left pooer
Our tears may go dry but our memories will never
He was the Godfather of peace,
He is sadly missed along life’s ways,
Quietly remembered every now and then
He is no longer in our life to share realities of life
But in our hearts he is always there
Yes, he is gone but not forgotten
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 12:12 PM UTC
*the ones warring on the flag of defeat can't be called either troll or parasite... too noble such entitlements, they are the **** genus worthy of ignorance, that they are found roaring on the flag of defeat, when such publicity is allowed of public musing deeper than soft-spoken in one's own room, as transcript of thought made public, ironically without one's geographic coordinates... and what lack of honour to be warring with such circumstances being allowed.*
i shouldn't have written my words among poets,
too many simplicities surrounded them,
with the poets came made surrogates,
a stillbirth, if nothing more
9 months of **** as the new economics
that gave us appreciative homosexuality,
a curbing of the expeditions of population
we didn't blame on Chinese or Blue Indians
due to having inherited masochistic Christianity,
the last greek mythology, THE, LAST!
and no more from the greek tongue! no more!
then the second feat of the suffragettes
that became the surrogates...
and yet, i stilled braved to sing
for the escapist tongue of
brotherhood that the misty mountain's cold
encapsulated... in which i braved
the brotherhood, every, second, counter,
to marriage to a woman...
domestication is no adventure! it's no adventure!
there is no fear and sudden death in
domestication... it breeds cattle! readied for
death not ready! *two dungeons deep and caverns old...
the pines were roaring on the hight!
the winds were mourning in the night...
the fire was red it flamed and spread,
the trees like torches, blazed with light.*
this... this is my ideal afterlife! take your Koran
and terrorism and take a **** in the desert with
the cats for worth of knowing such "exquisiteness"
as it might be worth mining in the dunes of sand!
while the thirst of metalloid and abstract horse-tow
gives your false timing...
and when you take this anger written on the flag
of defeat, and turn to warring with it on your own
flag of defeat... you will be conquered,
slain and tortured, as is my promise, always
honourable.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
Flashbacks of a juvenile burning curiosity like the charm of a snake, outside looking in...And all the setbacks between the two sides luring the tediosity to take some straight on the side while school is in.
Big ups, the cotton wool is pulled over our eyes, how do you shape-shift between freedom and destruction?? I pick you up through the rotten like a fool even though I know inside I can't escape a stiff one, while you lead them down that path of destruction. The comfort of Noah being a drunk is naive, I delve in your chemical name called Spirits. That's why you're a demon drug like how Eve and Adam were beguiled into this subliminal game and lost the Sphinx. Master of inebriation, you're probably the cause of an Old Man's flaws or the reason why we lost our Love for...The Answer to Liberation, seeing Old Timers and Mentors slip and fall on odour tavern floors...
Excuse me and watch your step, tomorrow they might think I'm on drugs coz' of your transgressions. Exclude me and watch you're back, you never know...they might just think I'm a **** coz' of your aggression. Exorcise in solitude and stop disturbing the peace between families and friends. Our Sisters are now exercising fortitude in the fog, curbing their dreams by imbibing in fantasies and trends.
Pains to see Good Men possessed out of success and in denial...
But then again Real Men will profess out of such stress and be the Lion.
Hear that...craziness cunning hard for a kiss of ***
"You wanna forget your troubles?"
I say Cheers to that blaziness coming hard...you can kiss my ***
"Give me another double".
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC
You can't just dine; It's not time.
Sleep, lines the bottoms of her eyes.
The circles form overnight, deprivation, falsification.
So if her common sense neglected?
It's 'cause something bigger's detected.
She doesn't mind being left behind.
She would rather go slowly to watch the sunset, anyways.
No reason to look behind the smokescreen (there are some things that no one needs to find.)
Look on as she survives another attempt, kinetic in her learning. Pleading guilty in a non guilty crime.
Avoiding awkward by jumping the fence to turn and step.
Can't help the second nature, her reflexes from past experience stay quick-just to hate her.
They taught her well, as she sought to dip-set
(back to her speculum of normalcy.)
Walking down the street, curbing the beat.
Lights flicker in and out; shadow-boxing down the alleyways of her life.
Her eyes may have welled, only to dry; in the heat of the moment, regrettably she could only, sigh.
The one thing her mother taught her is to never believe in surprise. Collectively she will be waiting for the day and time when she gets hit from behind the lines, life flies by and she is not afraid to die.
"And she will bite her bottom lip all she wants."
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 8:59 PM UTC
it's called the Mt. Everest of cuisine
without food critics...
- so i gather the chinese are not
too keen on deserts, esp. chocolate?
that fake aphrodisiac of feminism's
excuses of eager beavers in early
age trying to find a dumb schmuck
later on in life and making him
docile, effectively curbing his
****** appetite, translated as
domestic violence after they went to *** parties
with rich boy sons of billionaires?
- well the chinese do like sweet & sour
and sweet & salty cuisine.
- indeed... quiet the deviation.
- and if it ain't sweet & sour or sweet & salty...
- compared with indian cuisine, it's quiet bland.
yes, today got cooking orange chicken,
what a playful, but a mysterious glutton dish...
the marinate was not like the marinate
i'm used to, it was so diluted...
orange juice, caster sugar, soya sauce,
malt vinegar, orange zest,
ginger and garlic paste,
finely grated onion - a bit of chicken,
half the marinate content soaking up
the chicken refrigerated for 1/2 an hour,
the rest heated to a boil, cornflour added
to thicken in...
then the marinated chicken taken
out of the marinate, dipped in egg
then cornflour and fried (mini schnitzels
of the east), in three batches...
then coated in the remaining marinate
of prior heated with cornflower,
a custard too thick that orange juice had to be
added, then evaporated so the essence
got soaked up... mm... a playful, but a mysterious
glutton dish... yummy.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
I'm terrible at times...
So,
I try and salvage what verve remains
after curbing the chaos of my thoughts
to make up for the atrocity
that is me.
Then, I'm not so terrible.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:48 AM UTC
In this world filled with hatred and lust
It is difficult to hold on to your principles and do what is just
If war doesn't **** you
Then intolerance must
We live in a world where everything we do is judged
Where the colours of peace are smudged
Where the poor continue to live in their misery
While the rich continue to be engaged in their revelry
We live in a world where governments are hell-bent on showing their might
Even it means curbing a citizen's right
The constitution today has become a joke
Dear policy makers...light it up..
...let everyone see the smoke
We live in a world where falsity and corruption walk hand in hand
Where the truth is stifled
And most are afraid to speak out and take a stand
We live in a world where the youth is consuming drugs
Where poverty and unemployment compels them to become thugs
Where each and every moment there is the threat of violence lurking
Where kids are forced to spend their childhood working
Everyone i meet keeps asking me..
...where is the love?
...where has it disappeared?
And just like the others..
...i simply don't have an answer
Love and peace it seems have become rare commodities now
We mostly find it in books and movies
I find it most in poetry
For unlike the world...poetry doesn't discriminate
Poetry is fair
It gives everyone a chance to shine
It knows no barrier
It knows no borders
It knows no boundaries
It knows no limitations
It aims to please
It aims to entertain
It aims to arouse
It aims to awaken
It aims to inspire
Poetry is what makes life so much more beautiful
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
Isolated I stand in our bizarre world
A dream I attempt to accomplish
This dream I try so hard for
Is something you'd call a death wish
I care to survive no more
I seek peace for my mind
I am being led by my peers
I am being led by the blind
Belong no where do I
Nor anything to call my own
Stripped of the ability to love
Impassive and detached I've grown
Cold hearted is my speech
Hostile are my gestures
This blend of psychotic acts
Is my favorite personality mixture
I display symptoms of insanity
Curbing the lunatic in my head
To silence this man forever
I am lying in my death bed
I've consumed my anxiety medication
Now drowning in my subconscious thoughts
Even that don't help me anymore
In its tedious cycle I'm caught
You'd think I am crazy
But all the best people are
With this last happy thought
I'll embrace my last hour
Death is my new dream
My only way out of grief
With this poem I'll bid this world goodbye
As with death I'll receive relief
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
The Creator is the creator of all things,
He's even the creator of false gods.
These gods come in myriad shapes,
We see them around and within us....
In celestial things, that astound us,
Or on Earth, in nature's creatures,
Or in stones, sculpted by hands,
Or in gold, whose lustre blinds,
Or in superstitions, just invented,
Or in some rituals, quite perverted,
Or in mere mortals; merely elevated,
Or in some cult; hypocrisy infested,
Or it may be our desire, always craving,
Or it may be our fear, always curbing,
Or It may be our ego; always exacting,
Or it may be our fancy, never ending.
Why do we seek these gods so false?
'Cause trust we lack, in Him who provides for all,
'Cause our destiny, we seek to control, above all.
Why did He create these gods so false?
'Cause of darkness, we learn to appreciate the light,
'Cause of falseness, we learn to appreciate His Might.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
Can't get you out of my mind
There is way, way to much confusion,
I can't get my head straight,
is this just another illusion,
I think it's getting late,
you know we talked about this before,
talked about curbing our emotions,
or did you forget,
I must admit
I can't get you out of my mind, no darlin,
I can't get you out of my mind, no no no
isn't this, isn't this September
I can hardly wait,
I hope, hope that you remember,
it's been a year since our first date,
we walked along underneath the moonlight,
holding hands, wishing on a star,
I won't say won't,
I'm hoping you don't
I can't get you out of my mind, no darlin,
I can't get you out of my mind, no no no
David Nelson..
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
'Eternal Return'? Why?
If things will keep recurring
why are we exerting so much?
Would I share a gleeful laugh and cry a passionate cry
Knowing the same happiness and sorrows will recur
again?
It took years to reach a summit, toiling and crawling,
A slight imbalance, and again we are hurled to the beginning.
Is, Sisyphus, only a mythical figure? If yes,
then, why I see him in me?
Take a handful of men of bygone days, and contrast with
Our time, drop the embellishments of each century,
And see the emerging pattern, ask them, what are the ways
That helps In curbing the pain, answer;
"Slowly the pain is eased but increased the suffering."
Are pain and suffering different?
When was the last time you loved someone?
Do you remember the days after they were gone? Yes?
Then, why are you in love again?
And most importantly, whom are you in love with?
The person or the suffering they bring?
If Everything recurs 'ad Infinitum',
Then can we avert the things already occurred
In past, from occurring again?
Or we have lost the aptitude for resemblances?
Invention demands an offering of natural ability,
Have we gained half of we lost?
What is the tipping point for this offering, this trade?
It's good I do not have to worry much,
For me, the world ends the day I die.
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 11:53 AM UTC
If the world folds in today,
I would be the first to plunge in straight...
In an otherwise gray canvas,
Doomsday, a crunchy cream hard to pass..
At least there would be some action,
Other than the empty, shallow existence.
Wish to see it in broad daylight,
When the life is gulped out of few worthless lives..
Waiting! It is already worse here,
Why nature, you curbing your fire?
Lash out and gobble us fast,
Do you fear, as we are contagious lot...
Trust me, not all of us are bad,
Not counting the rapists, terrorists, psychopaths out there....
Hoping that this narrow path,
Leads to the land of Gods.
Where clock doesn't race,
Men walk at leisurely pace..
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 8:00 AM UTC
In our world of clamorous wailing and insertions our entrails are left out on the curbing bloodied and useless.
If only we could fish ourselves out of our own wistful delusions.
Every creature has its role in our worlds tropic cascade, but our true delineated roles are being the cogs to catalyze our machine.
Never dethrone someone of this quality; Sometimes the seemingly most meek are the most mirthful and life changing.
Don't render yourself a graggled block in the machine due to your insecurities, love and love indelibly and you will be set free.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 12:48 AM UTC
Trying to lighten the press of years
curbing self-pitying tears
my grip on sanity tenuous
the act of smiling strenuous
for a while now I’ve wanted to leave
give my body a reprieve
my soul has long since left
my aching bones bereft
my kids visit begrudgingly
albeit acting lovingly
easy to sense when somethings not real
I send out a silent appeal
Persuade the doctors to let me go
my quality of life is gone, you know
the stroke has robbed me of many joys
much more than even I realise
I can no longer touch
I want to so much
not able to read or write
trapped, stolen, my sight
Ironically I can only communicate with my eyes
and their pleading for you to quicken my demise
an extra pill now and then
a wrong dose of medicine
I resent your care
the way my grandkids stare
this home is my cell
can’t you tell?
Let me fall into a deep sleep
you won’t hear a sound, not a peep
I’ll go knowing, I was wrong, your love was real
you finally heard my silent appeal
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
Blood On The Tracks
It spoke in rhythmic transgressions, lifted from the dotted line. It held. It fell.
Polka dots made up of tiny horizontal lines, intersecting with vertical peers.
Overindulging on the semblance of fact, just to seem like they’d grown up a bit.
Self-engrossing indoctrinations to be preached out and blown over…for the rabble it was.
“When something’s not right, it’s wrong.”
Wide-eyed on sleep craved incognizance. It had all gone on too long.
They tried to force their hand, critiquing structure through the veil of a cabaret roused in the liveliest of their rooms.
Stormy shores swept to sea lit calm as the doorframe shook.
Set for a strut, intent on curbing this freshly acquired sensationalism.
Gravity logs its presence through rain dropped conviction…a steam engine sounds off in the distance...finality.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
I wonder when
Trapped inside
The dragonfly feels
Every inch of the walls
Curbing her from the sky.
Does her path know destination?
Or does she wait for a gap to the wild blue
That will never come?
I know her fatigue
The steadfast despiration of
Looking for an out
False windows grant
A glimpse of a simplistic freedom
Where carving the air has become
A fading dream.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 9:15 AM UTC