"debated" poems
Once it was garbage, refuse, trash.
A jumble of foul-smelling detritus hauled to the curb
And removed by sinewy men
Contributing a harder day's work
Than anyone else in the city.
Our energy now removes its entropy.
Sorted and classified into coloured bins,
We add order to our rejected matter.
Specialized trucks arrive to collect
The date-synchronized bins
Emptying them into functionally compatible mechanisms.
Most desolate is the black box of paper and cardboard.
Brochures and flyers, old magazines and letters.
Annual reports and cereal boxes.
Once these were enameled with crafted sentences,
Painstakingly typed, edited and debated,
On the monitors of copywriters.
Now they are just millions of words printed on flattened fibre substrates,
Jumbled into the bruised and scarred black box,
Entering into the recycling stream.
The nouns and adjectives,
Prepositions and gerunds,
All jumble together.
Fragments of precisely-crafted sentences and paragraphs
Are gradually broken, shredded and pulped.
Incomplete thoughts, broken phrases
Like those of a rejected stranger
In an lonely, unknown country.
Then words without context.
Then just disparate letters
Are all that remain.
Their M ea N inG
G r a Du all y
is re mov
e d
.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
People just don't understand that my scars are part of what make me who I am,
I may have created them out of foolishness,
but they were debated over agony in the purist.
You may look at me differently because of them,
and of course I understand that,
they are not what make me pretty, nor friendly.
But they remind me that I am not always correct about everything.
They remind me that pain is real.
That I can feel whatever I want to feel in this insane world,
and even though I did make them myself,
I can remember the pain that was felt that in fact inspired them.
and now late at night when the silence creeps in,
I cannot sleep because I remember back then.
and the pain that you dealt may have been done in secret,
but either way you knew that I would hear it, and I will not say a word of hate towards you,
because we were small people in the middle of the sea.
And when I look down I have a constant reminder of that,
but I am stonger now, because of all the tears you caused me to cry.
I will stand taller now, because of your cruelties towards me.
I'll know not to cry next time.
Because in that situation it made things worse.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
Pray so that you could never be hurt again
Speak so that you could never be debated again
Listen so that you could never be ambushed again
and if you will, friend
Die so that you could never be killed again
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
I had a gf that used to get called a feminazi,
but no one ever called me a feminanarchist;
I think what we really were is Feminihilists.
FFP opposed ***********
defined as the sexualized degradation,
********** humiliation, objectification,
subjugation, violation, psychological
annihilation, exploitation, & violence
against women as distinguished from
erotica based on the mutuality
of power and pleasure.
According to FFP's pioneering founder Page Mellish,
*********** provides the training for ******
assault & **** results in the objectification
of women; affects women's ability to get equal rights
& equal pay, & encourages men to associate
*** with violence; Page ultimately claimed
that _all_ feminist issues | [ , ], [ ]
are rooted in ***********
& in a 1986 letter to the editor of The Wall Street Journal,
she asserted that FFP is "not against love & not against ***
Page held that all men or women
who did not fight against ***********
were accountable for the violence
against women, claiming that women
who enjoy *********** or rough ***
had internalized the male [gaze] & |
male definitions of power
Page's positions on ***********
have been debated outside FFP,
including with respect to porn's agency
on crime & feminist & gay definitions of ****
Legislation alone was not a solution,
according to Page; it was also necessary to remove _"the need for ****
vehemently anti-censorship & pro-sex,
Page taught me to show everything from
all sides; my other feminista professors
were pro-monogamy [patriarchy] while
Page was a combat boot wearing girly-girl;
she had these cute little doe-eyed Q's following
her around carrying the placards [ ] for her
spontaneous demonstrations against underwear
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 5:54 AM UTC
The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,
And warmly debated the matter;
The Orthodox said that it came from the air,
And the Heretics said from the platter.
They argued it long and they argued it strong,
And I hear they are arguing now;
But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,
Not one of them thought of a cow.
4.8k
Life seldom grants us absolutes
Before the truth of reason
Comparison was treason
Ignoring the fact
That some have and some lack
Was common practice
Justice was lackluster
Politicians and business men
Were fluff and lots of bluster
But now with all the information we have
Reason and comparison should be elevated
Inequalities should be seriously debated
Not with flowery words which inform so little
But conceal so much, but with science
Because facts find hidden truths revealed
And there is seldom to much truth
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
1651
A Word made Flesh is seldom
And tremblingly partook
Nor then perhaps reported
But have I not mistook
Each one of us has tasted
With ecstasies of stealth
The very food debated
To our specific strength—
A Word that breathes distinctly
Has not the power to die
Cohesive as the Spirit
It may expire if He—
“Made Flesh and dwelt among us”
Could condescension be
Like this consent of Language
This loved Philology.
3.9k
A decision had to be made
it was sent away
debated by the members
a decision needed to made
Putting all in the open
each option open
which would do its job
to serve the falling apart
They debated and debated
till a truth hidden away
became clear and an earlier
decision came back into play
The debate is finally closing
The members voting
A storm is coming
unleashed by a lie
The decision is made
is it right? Only one will ever know
Change has surely come
Change has surely come.
1-8-11
almost a direct follow up to Hidden Truth
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 3:38 AM UTC
Your thunders roll,
The twin sets clash and tolls.
Unpleasant sounds toss and wake.
Even the whole earth seems to shake.
Why did this happen here?
What caused this conflict to begin here?
All knows that the gods have feuded and side.
Only wanting nothing more than status pride.
Rules debated and time standing come yet.
For these greedy, merciless gods take what they can get.
There will be a law said,
To avoid the call of family banishéd.
But what about you?
When tis your cue?
To speak freely against the gods
And demand fairness firm and strong as goldenrod?
Resist blindly following their pleas.
Because then the conflict will never ease.
Do not forever be misguided.
For you yourself is already undecided.
Choose well and wise.
The gods will soon see your open eyes.
Even if the thunders roar,
Your choice will be even more.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
the hens
have raised their fowl fists,
protested the pecking order,
debated the Cuckoo Clucks Clan,
and started a coup in the coop.
they have a bird's eye view from their fort,
truly an eggcelent perch to reside in while they gather resources and
duck when enemies fire.
joining is a nestcessary evil to end the corruption.
so, my dear,
please don't chicken out.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 1:29 AM UTC
He was the epitome of a loveless boy, and he knew it. In fact, that was what kept him restlessly awake most nights, especially on this particular evening. He glanced down at the dark mess of hair that was laid across his chest and listened to the soft emission of peaceful breathing slipping from the lips of the girl whose name he did not remember. For a second, he debated on searching the dark corners of his mind in an attempt to remember it, but he soon realized he never even bothered to ask. This disappointed him for one reason - it was another question mark that he had to add to the list of names that he kept pinned to the front of his brain. At the thought of this particular list, he felt sick, as though an ounce of regret had seeped into his stomach and spread like an infection and now threatened to rise like bile. He knew he needed to keep it down, so he leaned over his bed and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the glass bottle he kept hidden in the bed springs. He sat back up and slowly unscrewed the cap, his eyes mesmerized by the amber liquid that swirled around the bottom half like a whirlpool of gold. He brought the top to his lips and tipped it back, filling his mouth with the warmth of forgetfulness and feeling as it burned his throat like fire the entire way down. It instantly washed him clean of every bad memory he had done his best to forget for the past week. Every tear that every girl had shed on their knees in front of him, begging him to love them; every cigarette that he had chain-smoked on the rooftop of his apartment building in an effort to cloud these very memories (unsuccessfully); every streetlamp that he had found solace in as he walked the streets mindlessly at three am, searching for answers that never came to him. He closed his eyes and imagined the whiskey rising inside of him until it leaked into his lungs and filled them, drowning him. He held his breath, pondering how long it would take for him to go lifeless in this position. But the sudden stop in the rise and fall of his chest caused the female lying on it to stir in her sleep, draping her arm around him and pulling him even closer. He felt sick again so he took another sip. He knew that when he looked back on this evening, he wouldn't remember it, which was becoming a classic move on his part. In fact, his life had become nothing more than disconnected nights with nameless and faceless females and fire whiskey that filled all the empty space within him. And he wasn't sure how that had come to be, but he no longer cared enough to even attempt to figure it out.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
Could there be any truth in the prophecies
that the Mayans had written?
Over five thousand years ago about 2012
foretelling a spiritual awakening!
And the possibility of the end of mankind
is it fiction that's outlined?
Prophecies written have come and long gone
scholars say they've happened.
Were these disasters predicted as it was told
or how they were interpreted?
Whether vague and their meanings calculated
their accuracy debated!
Many are sceptical of those who say they foresee
from past times to present.
Though a lot of predictions of the natural type
what of mankind's folly?
If there's a way that the future can be seen
to know seems obscene!
Usually nothing can be done to prevent it
causing fear and uncertainty.
Prophecies of the past make no difference
those of the future no comfort!
Whether the Mayans is true it's a short wait
if not next year let's have a debate!
The Foureyd Poet.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
Fever-flushed children and
Broken bodies
Litter hospital halls like so much
Human refuse
….Wondering why
their need for care is treated so tepidly by a
Society which worships
Profits
Power and
Prestige
….Waiting while
they wallow in anguish as
Privacy
Paperwork and
Payment are
Debated by bureaucrats in cubicles
….Wanting to be refreshed and
restored to some measure of usefulness
….But
Free to Pursue Life on their terms in exchange for
Silence
Acceptance and
Despair
Huddling for warmth and in
Fear of discovery
they assemble in rag-tag formation
having scaled formidable fences
Seeking freedom from
Poverty and oppression
Searching for work of any sort
….No matter how
Humiliating or
Hard
….No matter the
Cost or
Conditions
Disparaged and despised they labor
in hope that their children will have a chance for success
instead of suffering a similar fate
…..But
Free to Pursue Liberty
in a land where their presence is
Ignored if not Denied
Unkempt in camouflage
One-legged and
Vacant-eyed
he rolls his rickety wheelchair along grassy median with muted effort
displaying cardboard sign
childishly scripted
in one weather-worn and gnarled hand
while clutching a decapitated jug in the other
Forgotten
Forlorn, and
Discarded veteran
Victimized far more by country than foe
….But
Free to Pursue Happiness while
Begging on street corners as
Upright citizens dispense
Unwelcome opinions or
Pocket change with equal
Self-righteousness
Life
Liberty and the
Pursuit of happiness….
Ideals that slowly incinerate on the
Altar of Capitalism
….Songs forever lost in the
Cacophony now
Played on the
Instrument of Politics
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
It wasn't a ****
Honest!
It was my shoe rubbing the floor,
I promise!
Ok,
So the noise can't be recreated,
I still don't want this debated.
I.
Didn't.
****
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 5:22 PM UTC
I'm not okay
Overcrowded in my mind
But I finally can say
I know I'm not okay
I debated being a martyr
Believed I wasn't strong
But I'm surviving
I've been fighting
Without realising
I know I'm not okay
Yet...
There's comfort in the anarchy
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
One to describe the light and how it illuminates the room
Two to capture the desperation to change a flickering bulb
Three to show the torment lived by the first three
Four who debated the philosophy of light
But in the end?
In the end no one cared to change the flickering light
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
If I were a planet, I would be as debated as Pluto.
Scientists eons away that have no business with me and probably never will discussing all of my qualities to pinpoint me into a label they've created to push me like a pinball machine into different slots of make believe self esteem.
If I were a planet, I would be the one whose moon is speculated to be made of cheese.
No one quite aware of what really lies out there but it's fun to dream up stories and ideas that we know will never be true.
No matter how damaging to this solemn planet's reputation in its universe these folk tales may be.
If I were a planet, my sun would have an oval shaped revolution, sometimes close and sometimes far, moving its inspiration along on its route and leaving just when my people need it the most.
If I were a planet, my living organisms would speak in tongues unknowing to even me.
Desperately searching every tick in them to see how they view their home, but always confusing me as I spin on my axis round and round.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
I write this from a library under the watchful gaze of Voltaire,
Having read that the future of Earth's water is being debated in Morocco.
Isn't there a Utilitarian part of us all that strives to save our home,
And rejects the notion that we must **** where we eat to make progress?
Gambling becomes dangerous when you begin to stake declining resources.
There is no turning back, and there is little optimism from Millennials who shall inherit the rotting infrastructure.
Nothing is dramatic or blown out of proportion when the President can't acknowledge that there's something seriously wrong with a giant hole in the ozone.
Herr Trump, where is the ice going?
Would you sell the penguins for profit?
Tell the Polish Brigade that legal workers will restore this country's ideal greatness.
Tell them sincerely.
Reagan spouted that it was Morning in America, and I imagine the Trumpites feel the same.
What is morning, anyway, when you can't see the sun for the smog?
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC
i still am trying to hold back my tears as i write this down. i thought about on my way home and debated with myself for a good 3 hours and decided that i have to write this, if not for people, for myself.
i visited the ward as a visitor today. it felt weird to be on the other side of the door. it felt weird to be on the other side of the glass, and it felt weird to look into the eyes of someone i once knew.
it hurt that as soon as i walked through the open doors, i hear the screams of a man speaking in a language i did not understand. it hurt to watch him being pinned down by 2 men almost twice his size. it hurt to watch his mental pain being temporarily stopped with physical pain.
it hurt as we started talking. it took almost every ounce of courage inside of me to hold my tears back, because i knew that me crying would dampen his spirits and affect his recovery. and i knew exactly what that feels like.
it hurt to sit back and watch him explain his illness in terms i knew far too well. it hurt to hear him say " stay here, you would understand this more than anybody else. " it hurt that i understood. it hurt that for that brief moment, i didn't want to understand. i didn't want to be in there. my legs were shaking but i listened anyway.
it hurt to hear him explain how the electricity worked and hurt his jaws. it hurt to tell him to be strong, because i knew how much it would take out of him to just try. it hurt that he cracked up jokes in the middle of our conversations, i didn't feel like laughing at all.
it hurt to watch so many people suffering from illnesses they never asked for, it hurt to watch so many of you suffering from the pain you don't deserve. it hurt to just sit there and not be able to do anything about it. it hurt.
but it hurt because it wasn't my place to feel hurt, it was yours. it was your place to scream and shout. it was your place to cry and break down into a million pieces.
but it hurt because you couldn't, because in your head you are fine. in your head, you're at work. in your head, none of this ever happened. in your head, 20 cops didn't restrain you. in your head, this is a perfect world.
but it didn't hurt because i knew deep in my heart that no matter what, the way i feel about you will never change. the strong, courageous, brave, joyful, kind, happy man that i grew up knowing will always have a place in my heart. no amount of ect's and antidepressants will take that away.
so thank you, for opening my eyes to all the pain in the world. thank you, for making me understand that there is greater suffering in the world. thank you, for teaching me the value of gratefulness. thank you, for educating me, even if it was through your suffering.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC
798
She staked her Feathers—Gained an Arc—
Debated—Rose again—
This time—beyond the estimate
Of Envy, or of Men—
And now, among Circumference—
Her steady Boat be seen—
At home—among the Billows—As
The Bough where she was born—
2.6k
President Reagan sat by himself in the White House
Trying to understand what had happened.
He heard his wife scream
What have you done with my husband?
I want the real Ronnie back!
He sighed.
This is what happens when you listen to experts.
Reagan had been in debates before.
From Kennedy to Brown to Buckley to Carter.
He did it his way.
He won his way.
Reagan always liked stories and humor.
Details and data, not so much.
He always thought that statistics don’t feed people.
Because people can’t eat an equation.
But the experts said that he should have more knowledge.
Reagan listened to them.
The thing was, it was too much knowledge.
And Reagan had to be president.
So when he debated, he was tired.
The youngest looking 73 year old man.
Just looked ancient at this point.
He held onto the podium
As if it had answers.
But the podium gave him nothing.
His actor’s instinct called up an old line.
There you go again.
It worked against Carter.
But Mondale neutralized it.
Mondale was good.
Not like Kennedy, who was more passionate.
He remembered Bobby very well.
He would have made a great president, if he had lived.
Or like Buckley, who had the scholarly instinct.
Because he read books when Reagan played football without a helmet.
Reagan defeated both of these men.
But he did not beat Mondale.
Because Mondale had answers for everything Reagan said.
Reagan pondered to himself.
I must have something for which Mondale does not have an answer.
I must make something that Mondale cannot answer.
But I cannot tell the experts.
They are nice people.
But they don’t know debate, I do.
So I can file it away.
It would be a break in case of emergency punchline.
The phone rang and it was Roger Ailes.
Ailes said, Mr. President you were not at your best.
But the sun will rise again.
Use a laugh line as your life line.
Rely on personal experiences, not dead data.
Remember Mr. President this is your re-election.
Reagan took that to heart.
And the second time around, Ronnie was back.
He grinned because this time it was fun.
But Mondale was still good.
And then the question came.
The question for which Ronnie was born.
It was about President Kennedy’s working hours during crisis.
And if Reagan had the stamina to match Kennedy.
Reagan smiled.
It was time to pull out the joke.
He said, I will not make age an issue in this campaign.
I will not exploit for political purposes my opponent’s youth and inexperience.
Reagan delivered it perfectly.
And suddenly, he heard laughter
Laughter from the questioners.
Laughter from the audience.
Even laughter from Mondale.
Tears of laughter.
Reagan drank his water and smiled.
The Gipper scored a touchdown again.
And hit it out of the park.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
He took all that I had from me,
So I dyed red streaks into my hair.
He left me less than before,
So I chopped waist length hair
Into a boy-short pixie cut.
And time and time again,
I shaved the sides,
And dyed my hair
Purple
Green
Pink
And Auburn.
And he destroyed me
On a day to day
Basis.
So I went from brown
To black
To blonde
To pink.
And when he finally released
His hold on me,
I debated dying my hair
Lilac or periwinkle.
But instead,
I decided I would let my hair
Grow.
My hair will be long
And beautiful
And feminine.
I will be beautiful
And feminine,
And nothing like
You've seen me
Before.
And I can only hope
That with you
I will have no burning desire
To cut my hair
Or change my color.
I hope
With you
My hair may grow,
Within the dark reds and dark browns
That it has.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
genuine
so many ordinary bees in our vocab hive,
workers, important, but rarely seen,
some never, or rarely trotted out,
no-fresh air, we just must be too too, too
busy, busy
had occasion to employ said titular
queen word recently, a love story
that strummed a chord of the
randomness of good love,
genuine slipped out unexpectedly,
this word, a crowning modifier to a
love poem herein written
truly a word not used too often,
perhaps because we live in a time
when it is a quality rare, though
much celebrated, like so much,
has becomes a debated talking point
but genuine is not hard to be
uncovered, it has a warmth heater
generator internal, a signal signal,
that is hard to be disguised or
mistaken
but our sensitivities are dulled,
easily misled, by the shouting and
the latent bitterness that runs through
the veins of our ordinary conversations,
making it more difficult to believe our
five sensory discernments, to what is,
and what is not,
but love, perhaps, is a genuine genetic,
at a cellular level quality that has evolved over millennia, so easier to spot, it’s heated hot, and awhy a love story should be the focus causation of my happiness, that it
yet thrives, and functions and supplies
we humans, a chance to see, to believe,
that genuine yet exists, inward and
unwarped, within we ordinaries
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 9:19 AM UTC
What's in a name?
Let me tell you a story,
Of how my life changed,
And how my name changed,
Every time it appeared on the newspaper.
Replaced by a pseudonym,
Something to do with courage,
I was namelessly admired, slandered, and debated over,
Media’s Exclusive Coverage!
The newspaper headline read in big block letters:
“14 YEAR OLD GIRL SAVES SIX KINDERGARTNERS”,
That made me smile.
Just maybe I thought we had come that extra mile.
But no for I noticed,
My name was changed,
And the Printing Department was not at fault.
That’s just how my country dealt with ****** assault.
I never asked them to hide my name,
They had presumed, of course, that I was ashamed,
Of saving lives. It took me a minute to remember,
I had called Jyoti Nirbhaya for years.
I wanted them to know who I was,
Hiding I thought was for criminals,
Until I realized that I WAS one when,
On returning from the hospital I saw,
Pain in my mother’s,
Anger in my father’s,
And disgust in my relatives’ eyes.
No idea why a part of me had come expecting pride.
In school my “friends” guiltily refrained from talking to me,
Neither were my teachers too happy to see,
That I had returned to the same school,
Bringing with me my painful story,
Which I had mistaken as one of glory.
And when I went to receive the “Bravery Award”,
Only the trophy didn’t read compensation award.
They looked at me with too kind eyes calling me a “hero”
Their smiles told me they meant violated.
As I received the award,
I saw they were trying really hard,
To not let it show,
That they wanted me to know,
The difference between:
Bullet marks on the chest to bite marks on the breast,
Blue around the eyes to blue around the thighs,
Scratches on the fists to cuts on the wrists,
Loud screams in the cold to muffled screams against the cold,
The red of the torn ligament to the red of the torn *****
The difference between a soldier’s and a victim’s blood.
And suddenly I felt as if I was,
The rescued,
Not the rescuer,
The maimed,
Not the fighter,
The oppressed,
Not the rebel,
The hostage,
Not the warrior,
I thought myself to be.
What’s in a name?
Apparently, a lot.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC