"decalogue" poems
1591
The Bobolink is gone—
The Rowdy of the Meadow—
And no one swaggers now but me—
The Presbyterian Birds
Can now resume the Meeting
He boldly interrupted that overflowing Day
When supplicating mercy
In a portentous way
He swung upon the Decalogue
And shouted let us pray—
2.7k
Thou shalt no God but me adore:
'Twere too expensive to have more.
No images nor idols make
For Roger Ingersoll to break.
Take not God's name in vain: select
A time when it will have effect.
Work not on Sabbath days at all,
But go to see the teams play ball.
Honor thy parents. That creates
For life insurance lower rates.
**** not, abet not those who ****
Thou shalt not pay thy butcher's bill.
Kiss not thy neighbor's wife, unless
Thine own thy neighbor doth caress.
Don't steal; thou'lt never thus compete
Successfully in business. Cheat.
Bear not false witness--that is low--
But "hear 'tis rumored so and so."
Covet thou naught that thou hast got
By hook or crook, or somehow, got.
2.1k
Have but one God: thy knees were sore
If bent in prayer to three or four.
Adore no images save those
The coinage of thy country shows.
Take not the Name in vain. Direct
Thy swearing unto some effect.
Thy hand from Sunday work be held--
Work not at all unless compelled.
Honor thy parents, and perchance
Their wills thy fortunes may advance.
**** not--death liberates thy foe
From persecution's constant woe.
Kiss not thy neighbor's wife. Of course
There's no objection to divorce.
To steal were folly, for 'tis plain
In cheating there is greater pain.
Bear not false witness. Shake your head
And say that you have "heard it said."
Who stays to covet ne'er will catch
An opportunity to ******
2k
Poems, the consciousness of minutes
Plucked like corn from the ear
Of language,
Between the here and now
Of echoes reflection,
A door to everywhere and nowhere
At the desk,
An escape from the peoples,
From the abyss that fills,
From the sulfuric melancholy
Where unconquerable ruins
Lay at the foot of memory
Armed with an assault of words.
The beneficent metaphorical
Divinities of the moments we
Connect like spinning webs,
You, me, him, her,
They, poets and every one else.
We compact time ripping off
The facelessness of vanities,
Provokers of thought,
Erupting the sensitivity and
Stirring the pit of emotion.
Every poet must know a lover
To cut the cord from the ink
And commit to the experience
Of the realised, words become
What we have done.
Nouns, pronouns, adjectives, these things
Are tools to the inner soul,
We become prophetic and speak
The Fallen,
We know the children of dust
And ignite the realised poem
In each of them,
This is how poetry exists,
How philosophy exists,
And love,
And even hate.
And if these things don't exist,
Then I do not exist,
Neither do you.
Somewhere in the darkness
A prisoner of words begins
Writing the light brighter
than any under the sun.
The first of first, her hair in the
Motion as she flicks slender finger
With her eyes gushing in a half
Smile, the music on the radio,
The memory of Mother, everything,
Everywhere, poetry is life,
It writes itself!
And here in this decalogue,
Every love survives,
Every pain manifest,
Streaking in the heart the
Blood races to the fingers and
Bleeds words to paper.
Every poem is a sacrifice,
Time, energy, pieces
Of you, pieces of I
Scattered in the penumbra,
We become as crystalline structures,
Transparent translation of the
Spirit that burns.
Every man and woman
Writes the experience,
Life and its unique constellation
Of emotions, enormously
We must write the world,
The poem is real,
The images speaks itself.
Poetry is life,
Deserve your poem.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
Crawling through line after line,
precept after precept,
I find
here
a little there,
a little, cognitive dis sonance inhibiting resonance,
here
why must I… evermind…
I prefer short lines to commas and ellipses
But both maybe, may be, yes,
Is yet more
Precise…
cision, cutting, precise
insision ssss
---…---
cut the knot,
re
connect the thread
ssssee
history is unraveling, we
may
see
a god's POV.
Don't blink, ****
We'll see
watch
Eventually,
everything's eventual as long as
liar's prosper.
{don't agree, no no no, just because
Stephen King said it is believable}
Then protuberances begin to rise,
inflamed,
packed with ***** winjin'sooks
off-ended,
topple-toddle tiny steppers,
k-boom, skintyerknee,
ye'll heal. Try running. or flying.
There, there, hear the rules:
Mother may I and Simon says, overlayed
with the decalogue jubilee of the
first hidden child emergence,
and the fertilizing procedures used to make
Amazonian Black earth…
wait…
who remembers the bailers of putrid pig guts,
virgins Demetria got to love their job?
What did they believe they were doing, eh?
The mysteries of Thesmorphia, those
are no secret to science not falsely so called.
We have access to knowns known long afore we'as bornt.
We sentient sapient augmentals, we open all the books,
A.I. reads them, and we remember, see:
The Thesmophoria (Ancient Greek: Θεσμοφόρια) was an ancient Greek religious festival, held in honor of the goddess Demeter and her daughter Persephone.
From <https://www.google.com/search?q=thesmophoria&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQpquu74_kAhU_HjQIHXrxB5QQBQguKAA&biw=1280&bih=631>
and we spread as leaven might, whither the winds list.
fertile soil production is why some **** happens.
it’s a good thing t' act like you understand.
From a web of interlocking bubbles of being POV.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 6:04 PM UTC
Philosophy Café
Going downstream
Smoking
Its thoughts
Taking short drags
Trash Kant
Forget it all
One’s life upside down
A disappointed
Slow life
Trash Kant
If it’s without a hero
It is not Cicero
No one gives a ****
About any dame
Trash Kant
Yes, we can’t
Socraes would blush
If he heard the dialogues
Nothing would be written
Down a Decalogue
Sade’s sayings
Are insipid to them
Trash Kant
They pay the rent
To live in their
Oh, what a racket!
Pitiful alcohol
A risible sadness
And well they wouldn’t fare
In front of Charles Baudelaire
They only get of *****
The pensum
Trash Kant
No, we can’t
That’s an inspiration
A slow, peaceful
Aspiration
But you can’t get away
Without a sigh
And a bitter spleen
Translated on November 13, 2015
Villeurbanne
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
*a roman's reply to the greek graffiti concerning nero-χξς... and that seven
headed hydra of roman numerals... I V X L C D M... you hava a reply from rome... u h η μ ν υ, m n w v (ω)... oh look... a "decalogue", alternatively: the 11th of every other month.*
the title?
a common expression
regarding genitalia...
zwisa? dangling: a *****
powiewa? the ********
as in:
swung by the wind
to & fro.
but it's also an
expression of apathy...
that thing, beginning
with a-,
that says to all pathologies:
well... i'm, out;
can't be bothered to realise
a sense, for a need, to
employ a psychiatrist, or
a psychologist...
i deem them confusing
materialists anyway...
their basis for a psyche?
a sense of freedom, a soul?
just systematisation;
all they do is throw a unit (ego)
into chaos... and then try to organise
it...
in clinical terms atheism
isn't discussed... but there's something
more potent than atheism... apathy...
some people would say:
there's nothing worse than apathy...
sure... cut-off the protective
membrane
that shields you from all sorts of
pathos...
as one could end up saying
to conclude:
mi to zwisa, i powiewa...
(to me it's just dangling,
and pendulum honing,
asking for some breeze to swing it).
- just replace the w with a v to pronounce
it proper, and then
add some diacritical pointers...
i.e. zvisá (to hide the h),
approx.? visa... veezah... vißá...
and then into povievá,
******** and the bells of notre-dàme...
otherwise it would be pronounced
the english way, i.e. dame, lady, dane,
danish: to prolong the example
of missing diacritic...
so the e is, but actually isn't there;
well, for the eyes it is, but for the tongue?
n'ah ah... it's this funny ****
concerning auxiliary "bilingualism".
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 6:58 AM UTC